I ILLINOIS

Production Note

Digital Rare Book Collections
Rare Book & Manuscript Library
University of Illinois Library at
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2019
 
 

 

 

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JUST PUBLISHED:

 

iThe most remarkable Book ever published in America!

 

Comprising Original Stories, Poems, and Essays, by

MARK TWAIN,
WILKIE COLLINS,
ALFRED TENNYSON,
PETROLEUM v. NASBY,
WHITELAW REID,
JOHN BROUGHAM,
JOHN HAY,

And other Prominent Writers.

No collection of entirely original articles, by such a powerful combination of authors, has
ever previously been published in America.

The superb illustrations, including Fifteen Full Page Illustrations, and Thirty-five
maller Illustrations, were designed expressly for the book by such artists as
ELFRED FREDERICKS,
JOHN LAFARGE,
ARTHUR LUMLEYa and
GILBERT BURLING,

 

AND
Engraved. by W. J. Linton, A. Bobbett, and John Andrew 6; Son.

There are, in addition to the illustrations, 9. series of elegantly designed initials. .opening

 

    
  
 

. e several chapters. The covers are of unique and ornamental design, and the printing has been
done in the finest style by the University Press of Welch, Bigelow & Co., at Cambridge. 0

“ Lotos Leaves ” is issued 1n one Quarto volume.

urkey Morocco, gilt 0r antique, ......... . ........ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .......... 12 00

 
       

Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton’s Review of the Advance Sheets of
”Lotos Leaves,” in the New York Tribune.

————o-9—+—————-

Among the most interesting volumes of the fall will be “Lotos Leaves,” to which I have
before alluded as soon to be published by Wm. F. Gill & Co. Externally the book Will be smgularly
attractive; as indeed it ought, since the publishers gave carte blanche to designers, engravers, and
printers. It will be a triumph of the book-maker’s art in its paper, printing, and binding, as well as
in its illustrations. These last will be an especially noticeable feature. They have been made fmm
drawings by Alfred Fredericks, John La FargeuArthur Lumley, and Gilbert Burling. And there
will be as many as fifteen full-page pictures, bestdes a large number of smaller ones. . Some of the
designs are singularly graceful and appropriate. In short, the Simplest possrhle edition of “Lotos
Leaves ” will be an edition de luxe. _ ‘ .

As for the literary contents, when thirty gentlemen belonging to a Club, which is the haunt
of artists, and journalists, and men of letters, combine to contribute, each one an essay, tale, 01-
poem, to make up thus an original book, it should be something unusual and entertaining; and so it
is. All the articles were written for this use; and all are by members, with the sole exception that
Tennyson’s noble poem, “The Lotos Eaters,” is reprinted, by way of compliment to_ him, and in
return for his gracious acceptance of the dedication. His letter of acceptance is published in fac-
simtle. The opening paper is “ Some Southern Reminiscences," by Whitelaw Reid, the President
of the Club. These Reminiscences are of the author‘s lotos-eating days, when, just after the close
of the war, he passed a year or two in the Southern States, mostly in Louisiana and Alabama cotton-

lantations. . . . . . .
p Of course there is nothing in the book half so funny as Mark Twain’s “Encounter with an
Interviewer,” because there is no one left in the world so funny as Mark Twain. It took some
preparation to get Mr. Twain’s mind in a condition to be interviewed; he didn’t take to. it naturally,
though he was extremely willing. At last, however, the interviewer got Mark’s wandering attention
fixed, and at it they went in good earnest.
e

How old are you?
Nineteen, in June.
Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?
In Missouri.
When did you begin to write?
In 1836.
Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?
I don’t know. It does seem curious, somehow.
It does, indeed. Who do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?
Aaron Burr.
But you never could have met Aaron Burr if you are only 19 years —
Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?
Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?
Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to make less noise, and‘
. But, good heavens! if you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and if he was
dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?

A I don’t know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

csesesesssessse

J

This was but the beginning; before that interview was over, there must have been one, at
least, of the race of inquirers who had his curiosity satisfied.

Very good, also, is “The Truthful Resolver,” by that other funny man, D. R. Locke; or, let
us give him his honors, the Rev. Petroleum V. Nasby. Nasby’s humor is of a different kind from ,
Twain’s. It lacks that delicious atmosphere of bewilderment-—the-lost-child-seeking—information‘
style of which Twain is master—but it is hugely funny, in a different way.

“ Lotos Leaves ” contains a number of very good stories. The most distinguished contributor
in this line is, of course, Wilkie Collins, who became a Lotos Leaf when he was in this country, and
has sent his contribution with the others, like a good fellow, as he is. His story, “ The Fatal FOP
tune,” has a purposeklike‘ most of his stories, and is a vigorous assault on the evils of the system
known in England as Commissions in Lunacy. Noah Brooks tells a thrilling tale, entitled “111
Echo Canon,” in which the effects and possibilities of Lynch law are powerfully exhibited. “ Fair]
Gold” is a. capital Irish sketch, by John Brougham.

Take it all in all, “ Lotos Leaves ” is a very entertaining volume ;. and it is certainly a literati
- L. C

curiosity, and likely to have more than a passing interest. - .

 
 
       

      

 

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ALICIA WARLOOK

(A MYSTER 17,)

AND

OTHER ST@RIES.

BY

WILKIE COLLINS.

AUTHOR OF "THE WOMAN IN WHITE,” “NO NAME,” “THE FROZEN DEEP,”
“THE LAW AND THE LADY,” ETC.

BOSTON:
WILLIAM F. GILL & COMPANY,
309 WASHINGTON STREET.
1875.

 
 

 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1375, by
WILLWI F. GILL 8: COMPANY, '

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

[INTRODUCTORY NOTE. -—- The original version of this story was
published, many years ago, in “ Household Words.” In the present ver-
sion new characters and new incidents are introduced ; and anew begin-
ning and endinghave been written. Indeed, the whole complexion of
the narrative differs s0 essentially from the older and shorter version,
as to justify me in believing that the reader will find in these pages
what is, to all practical intents and purposes, a new story. -——VV. 0.]

ROCKWELL s: CHURCHILL,
Punter: and Stereotype”, Bouton.
ALICIA” WARLOOK.

A. MYSTERY.

PERSONS OF THE MYSTERY.

FRANCIS RAVEN ......................... (Ostler)
MRS. RAVEN ...................... ,.(His Mother)
MRS. CHANCE. .................. ' ...... ( His Aunt)

figfiC’E‘ffiggfgng } ..(His Master and Mistress)

JOSEPH RIGOBERT. . . . .(His Fellow-servants)
ALICIA VVARLOCK .................... (His Wife)

 

PERIOD-THD PRESENT TIME.
SCENE—PARCELS? IN ENGLAND, PARTLY IN FRANCE.

 

THE FIRST NARRATIVE.

INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS.
BY PERCY FAIRBANK.
I.
“Hullo, there! Ostlerl Hullo-o-ol”
“My dear, why don’t you look for the
bell? ”
“ I have looked—there is no bell.”

“And nobody in the yard. How very-

extraordinary! Call again, dear.”
“Ostlerl Hullo, therel Ostler r-rl”
My second call echoes through empty
space, and rouses nobody—produces, in
short, no visible result. I am at the end
of my resources—I don’t know what to
say or what to do next. Here I stand in
the solitary inn yard of a strange town,
with two horses to hold and a lady to
take care of. By way of adding to my
responsibilities, it so happens that one
of the horses is dead lame. and that the
lady is my wife.
Who am I? —-you will ask. _.
There is plenty of time to answer the
question. Nothing happens; and no-

 

body appears to receive us. Let me in-
troduce myself and my wife.
I am Percy Fairbank, English gentle-

, man, age (let us say) forty, no profes-

sion, moderate politics, middle height,
fair complexion, easy character, plenty
of money.

My wife is a French lady. She was
Mlle. Clotilde Delorge, when I was first
presented to her at her father’s house in
France. I fell in love with her; I really
don’t know why. It might have been
because I was perfectly idle, and had
Or it
might have been because all my friends

nothing else to do at the time.

said she was the very last woman I
ought to think of marrying. On the
surface, I must own, there is nothing in
common between Mrs. Fairbank and me.
She is tall; she is dark; she is nervous,
excitable, romantic; in all her opinions
she proceeds to extremes. What could
such a woman see in me? What could I
see in her? I know no more than you
do. In some mysterious manner, we
exactly suit each other. We have been
man and wife for ten years, and our only
regret is that we have no children. I
don’t know what you may think; I call
that (upon the whole) a happy marraige.

So much for ourselves.
tion is, What has brought us into the inn
yard, and why am I obliged to turn
groom, and hold the horses?

The next Glues-

o

 
 

We live for the most part in France,
at the country house in which my wife
and I first met. Occasionally, by way of
variety, we pay visits to my friends in
England. We are paying one of those
visits now. Our host is an old college
friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate
in Somersetshire, and we have arrived
at his house—called Farleigh Hall—
towards the close of the hunting season.

On the day of which I am now writing
—-destined to be a memorable day in our
calendar—the hounds meet at Farleigh
Hall. Mrs Fairbank and I are mounted
on two of the best horses in my friend’s
We are quite unworthy of that

distinction, for we know nothing, and
care nothing, about hunting. On the
other hand, we delight in riding, and we
enjoy the breezy spring morning and
the fair and fertile English landscape
surrounding us on every side. While
the hunt prospers we follow the hunt.
But when a check occurs—when time
passes and patience is sorely tried;
, when the bewildered dogs run hitherand
thither, and strong language falls from

stables.

the lips of exasperated sportsmen—we
fail to take any further interest in the
proceedings. We turn our horses’ heads
in the direction of a grassy lane, delight~
fully shaded by trees. We trot merrily
along the lane, and find ourselves on
an open common. We gallop across
the common and follow the windings
of a second lane. We cross a brook,
we pass through a village, we emerge
into pastorial solitude among the hills.
The horses toss their heads and neigh
to each other, and enjoy it as much
as we do. The hunt is forgotten. We
are as happy as a couple of children;
we are actually singing a French song
when, in one moment, our merriment

comes to an end. My wife’s horse&
‘5'

:muc'

‘1.
{Mann

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

sets one of his fore-feet on a loose
stone and stumbles. His rider’s ready
hand saves him from falling. But, at
the first attempt he makes to go on, the
sad truth shows itself—a tendon
strained; the horse is lame.

What is to be done? We are strangers
in a lonely part of the country. Look
where we may, we see no signs of a
human habitation. There is nothing
for it but to take the bridle-road up
the hill, and try what we can dis—
cover on the other side. I transfer
the saddles, and mount my Wife on
my own horse. He is not used to carry
a lady; he misses the familiar pressure
of a man’s legs on either side of him;
he fidgets and starts and kicks up the
dust. I follow on feet, at a respectful
distance from his heels, leading the
lame horse. Is there a more miserable
object on the face of creation than a.
lame horse? I have seen lame men
and lame dogs who were cheerful
creatures—but I never yet saw a lame
horse who didn’t look heartbroken over
his own misfortune.

For half an hour my wife capers and
curvets sideways along the bridle-road.
I trudge on behind her: and the heart—
broken horse halts behind me. Hard by .
the top of the hill, our melanchololy pro-
cession passes a Somersetshire peasant
at work in a field. I summon the man to
approach us; and the man looks at me
stolidly, from the middle of the field,
without stirring a step. I ask at the top ‘
of my voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall.
The Somersetshire peasant answers at
the top of his voice:

"Vourteen mile.
zyder.”’

I translate, for my wife’s benefit, from
the Somersetshire language into the

JEnglish language. We are fourteen
1»

is

Gri’ oi a drap o’
A MYSTERY.

miles from Farleigh Hall,‘ and our friend
in the field desires to be rewarded, for
giving us that information, with a drop
of cider. There is the peasant, painted
by himself. Quite a bit of character,
my dear! Quite a bit of character!

Mrs. Fairbank doesn’t view the study
of agricultural human nature with my
relish. Her fidgety horse will not allow
her a moment’s repose; she is beginning
to lose her temper.
~ “We can’t go fourteen miles in this
way,” she says. “ Where is the nearest
inn? Ask that brute in the field! ”

I take a shilling from my pocket and
hold it up in the sun. The shilling exer—
cises magnetic virtues. The shilling
draws the peasant slowly towards me
from the middle of the field. I inform
him that we want to put up the horses
and to hire a carriage to take us back to
Farleigh Hall. Where can ‘we do that?
The peasant answers, with his eye on
the shilling:

“At Oonderbridge, to be zure.
Underbridge, to be sure.)

“Is it far to Underbridge? ”

The peasant repeats, “Var to Oonder—
bridge?”~—and laughs at the question.
“Hoo-hoo-hool” (Underbridge is evi—
dently close by—if we could only find
it.) “Will you show us the way, my
man? ” “Will . you gi’ oi a drap 0’
zyder?” I courteously bend my head,
and point to the shilling. The agricul-
tural intelligence exerts itself. The
peasant joins our melancholy procession.
My wife is a fine woman, but he never
once looks at my wife—and,more extraor-
dinary still, he never even looks at the
horses. His eyes are with his mind—and
his mind is on the shilling.

We reach the top of the hill——and,
behold, on the other side, nestling in a
valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the

(At

 

‘1

town of Underbridge. Here our guide
claims his shilling, and leaves us to find
out the inn for ourselves. I am consti-
tutionally a polite man. I say “Good
morning” at parting. The guide looks
at me with the shilling between his teeth
to make sure that it is a good one.
“Marninl ” he says, savagely—and turns
his back on us, as if we had offended
him. A curious product, this, of the
growth of civilization. If I didn’t see
a church spire at Underbridge, I might
suppose that we had 10st ourselves on a
savage island,

II.

Arriving at the town, we ha-Ve no
difiiculty in finding the The
town is composed, of one desolate
street, and midway in that street
stands the inn—an ancient stone build-
ing sadly out'of repair. The painting
on the signboard is obliterated. The
shutters over the long range of front
windows are all closed. A cock and his
hens are the only living creatures at the
door. Plainly, thisis one of the 01d inns
of the stage-coach period, ruined by the
railway. We pass through the open
arched doorway, and find no one to wel—
come us. We advance into the stable-
yard behind; I assist my wife to dis-
mount—and there we are in the position
already disclosed to View, at the opening
of this narrative. No bell to ring. No
human creature to answer WhenI call.
I siand helpless, with the bridles of the
horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank
saunters gracefully down the length
ofthe yard, and does—what all women
do, when they find themselves
in a strange place. She opens every
door as she passes it and peeps in. On
my side, I have just recovered my
breath; I am on the point of shoutngi

inn.

 
 

 

8 o

for the ostler for the third and last time,
when I hear Mrs. Fairbank suddenly
call to me.

“Percy, come here!”

Her v01ce 1s eager and agitated. She
has opened a last door at the end of the
yard, and has started back from some
sight which has suddenly met her View.
I hitch the horse’s bridle on a rusty nail
in the wall near me and join my wife.
She has turned pale and catches me
nervously by the arm. V

“Good heavens 1” she cries, “look at
that!”

I look, and what do I see ?

I see a dingy little stable, containing
two stalls. In one stall,a horse is munch-
ing his corn. In the other,a man is lying
asleep on the litter.

A worn, Withered, woe—begone man In
an ostler’s dress. His hollow, wrinkled

cheeks, his scanty, grizzled hair,.his dry,
yellow skin, tell their own tale of past
sorrow or suffering. There is an omi—
nous frownon his eyebrows—there is a
painful nervous contraction on one side
of his ‘mouth. I' hear him breathing
convulsively when I first look in; he
shudders and sighs in his sleep. It is not
a pleasant sight to see, and I turn round
instinctively to the bright sunlight in
the yard. My wife turns me back again
in the direction of the stable door.

“Waiti” she says. “Wait! He may do
it again.”

“Do what again ‘3”

“He was talking in his sleep, Percy,
when I first looked in. He was dream-
ing some dreadful dream. Hush! he’s
beginning again.

I look and listen. The man stirs on

. his miserable bed. The man speaks, in

a quick, fierce whiSper, through his

clenched teeth. “ Wake up! Wake up,
‘ there! Murder!”

 

 

 

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

There is an interval of silence. He
moves one lean arm slowly until it rests
over his throat; he shudders, and turns
on his straw; he raises his arm from his
throat, and feebly stretches it out; his
hand clutches at the straw on the side
towards which he has turned; he seems
to fancy that hs is grasping at the edge
of something; I see his lips being to
move again; I step softly into the stable;
my wife follows me, with her hand
fast clasped in mine. We both bend
over him. He is talking once more in
his sleep—strange talk, mad talk, this
time. -

“Light gray eyes” (we hear him say)
“and a droop in the left eyelid—flaxen
hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it—all
right, mother! Fair white arms with a.
down on them—little, lady’s hand, with
a reddish look round the finger—nails—
the knife—ethe cursed knife-first on
one side, then on the other—aha, you
she-devil! where is the knife'? ”

He stops and grows restless on a sud-
den. We see him writhing on the straw.
He throws up both his hands and gasps
hysterically for breath. His eyes open
suddenly. For a moment they look at
nothing, with a vacant glitter in them;
then they close again in deeper sleep.
Is be dreaming still? Yes; but the
dream seems to have taken a new course.
When he speaks next the tone is altered,
the words are few, sadly and imploringly
repeated over and over again: “ Say you
love me l I am so fond of you. Say you
love me ! Say you love me !” He sinks
into deeper and deeper sleep, faintly
repeating those words. They die away
on his lips. He speaks no more.

By this time, Mrs. Fairbank has got
over her terror. She is devoured with
curiosity now. The miserable creature
on the straw has appealed to the imagi-
 

native side of her character. Her illim-
itable appetite for romance hungers and
thirsts for more. She shakes me im-
patiently by the arm. “Do you hear?
There is a woman at the bottom of it,
Percy! There is love and murder in it,
Percy! Where are the people of the
inn? Go into the yard and call to them
again.”

My wife belongs, on her mother’s side,
to the South of France. The South of
France breeds fine women with hot tem-
pers. I say no more. Married men will
understand my position. Single men
may need to be told that there are occa-
sions when we must not only love and
honor—we must also obey our wives.

I turn to the stable door to obey

my wife, and find myself con-
fronting a stranger who stands
watching us. The stranger is a

tiny, sleepy, rosy old man, with a vacant
pudding-face, anda shining bald head.
He wears drab breeches and gaiters, and
a respectable square-tailed ancient black
coat. I feel instinctively that here is
the landlord of the inn.“ ‘

" Good morning, sir,” says the rosy old
man. “ I’m a little hard of hearing
Was it you that was a~calling just now
in the yard?”

Before I can answer, my wife
interposes. She insists (in a shrill voice,
adapted to our host’s hardness of hear-
ing) on knowing who that unfortunate
person is sleeping on the straw? “ Where
does he come from? -Why does he say
such dreadful things in his sleep? lshe
married or single? Did he ever fall in
love with a murderess? What sort of a
looking woman was she? Did she really
stab him or not? In short, dear Mr.
Landlord, tell us the whole storyl”

Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily
until Mrs. Fairbank has quite done—

A MYSTERY.

 

then delivers himself of his reply, as
follows:

“His name’s Francis Raven. He’s an
Independent Methodist. He was forty-
five year old last birthday. And he’smy
0stler. That’s his story.”

My wife’s hot Southern temper finds
its way to her foot, and expresses itself
by a stamp on the stable-yard.

The‘landlord turns himself sleepily
round, and looks at the horses. “A fine
pair of horses, them two in the yard.
Do you want to put ’em up in my sta-
bles ‘i” I reply in the affirmative by‘
a nod. The landlord, bent on making
himself agreeable to my wife, addresses
her once more. “I’m a-going to wake
Francis Raven. He’s an Independent
Methodist. He was forty-five year old
last birthday. And he’s my ostler.
That’s his story.”

Having issued this second edition of
his interesting narrative, the landlord
enters the stable. We follow him to see
how he will wake Francis Raven, and
Wh at will happen upon that. The stable-
broom stands in a corner; the landlord
takes it—advances towards the sleeping
ostler—and coolly stirs the man up with
the broom as if he was a wild beast in a
cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet
with a cry of terror—looks at us wildly,
with a horrid glare of suspicion in
his eyes—recovers himself the next mo-
ment—and suddenly changes into a de-
cent, quiet, respectable servrng man.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I beg
your pardon, sir.”

The tone and manner in which he
makes his apologies are both above his
apparent station in life. I begin to
catch the infection of Mrs. Fairbank’s
interest in this man. We both follow
him out into the yard, to see what he
will do with the horses. The manner in

 
 

10

which he lifts the injured leg of the
lame horse tells me at once that he un—
derstands his business. Quickly and
quietly, he leads the animals into an
empty stable; quickly and quietly, he
gets a bucket of hot water, and puts the
lame horse’s leg into it. “The warm
water will reduce the swelling. sir. I
will bandage the leg afteiwards.” All
that he does is done intelligently; all
that he says, he says to the purpose.
Nothing wild, nothing strange about
him, now. Is this the same man whom
we heard talking in his sleep? the same
man who woke with that cry of terror
and that horrid suspicion in his eyes?
I determine to try him with one or two
questions.

III.

“Not much to do here,” I say to the
ostler.

“Very little to do, sir,” the ostler re-
plies.

"Anybody staying in the house?”

“The house is quite empty, sir.”

“I thought you were all dead. I could
make nobody hear me.”

“The landlord is very deaf,
the waiter is out on an errand.”

“Yes—and you were fast asleep in the
stable. Do you often take a nap in the
day-time?”

The worn face of the ostler faintly
flushes. His eyes look away from my
eyes for the first time. Mrs. Fairbank
furtively pinches my arm. Are we on
the eve of a discovery at last ? I repeat
my question. The man has no civil al-
ternative but to give me an answer. The
answer is given in these words:

“I was tired out, sir. You wouldn’t
have found me asleep in the day-time
but for that.”

sir, and

 

 

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

“Tired out, eh ‘P You had been hard
at Work, I suppose ‘P ”

“No, si1.’

“What was it. then?”

He hesitates again, andanswers un.
willingly; “I was up all night.”

“Up all night? Anything going on in
the town?” '

“Nothing going on, sin”.

“Anybody ill ?”

“Nobody ill, sir.”

That reply is the last. Try as I may, I
can extract nothing more from him. He
turns away and busies himself in attend-
ing to the horse’s leg. I leave the sta-
ble, to speak to the landlord about the
carriage which is to take us back to
Farleigh Hall. Mrs. Fairbank remains
with the ostler, and favors me with a
look at parting. The look says, plainly:
“I mean to find out why he was up all
night. Leave him to me.”

The ordering of the carriage is easily
accomplished. The inn possesses one
horse and one chaise. The landlord has
a story to tell of the horse, and a story
to tell of the chaise. They resemble the
story of Francis Raven—with this excep—
tion, that the horse and chaise belong
to no religious persuasion. “The horse
will be nine year old next birthday. I’ve
had the shay for four and twenty year.
Mr.1 Max of Underbridge, he bred the
horse; and Mr. Pooley of Yeovil, he
built the shay. It’s my horse and my
shay. And that’s their storyl” Having
relieved his mind of these details, the
landlord proceeds to put the harness on
the horse. By way of assisting him, I
drag the chaise into the yard. Just as
our preparations are completed, Mrs.

Fairbank appears. A moment or two
later, the ostler follows her out. He

has bandaged the horse’s leg and is
now ready to drive us to Farleigh Hall.
A

I observe signs of agitation in his face
and manner, which suggest that my
wife has found her way into his con-
fidence. I put the question to her
privately in a corner of the yard.
“Well? Have you found out why
Francis Itaven was up all night?”

Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic
effect. Instead of answering plainly,
Yes or No. she suspends the interest
and excites the audience by putting a
question on her side.

' “What is the day of the month,
dear?”

“The day of the month is the 1st of
March. .

“The 1st of March, Percy, is Francis
Raven's birthday.”

I try to look as if I was interested—
and don’t succeed.

“Francis was born,” Mrs. Fairbank
proceeds, gravely, “at 2 o’clock in the
morning.”

I begin to wonder whether my wife’s
intellect is going the way of the land-
lord’s intellect. “Is that all ‘3” I ask.

“It is not all,’-’ Mrs. Fairbank answers.
“Francis Raven sits up on the morning
of his birthday, because he is afraid to
go to bed.”

“And why is he afraid to go to bed?”

“Because he is in peril of his life.”

“On his bIrthday ‘9”

“On his birthday. At 2 o’clock in
the morning. As regularly as the birth-
day comes round.”

There she stops. Has she discovered
no more than that? N o more thus far.
I begin to feel really interested by this
time. I ask eagerly what it means?
Mrs. Fairbank points mysteriously to
the chaise—With Francis Raven (hither-
to our ostler, now our coachman) waiting
for us to get in. The chaise has a seat
for two in front—and a. seat for one be,-

MYSTERY.

 

11

hind. My wife casts another warning
look at me, and places herself on the
seat in front.

The necessary consequence of this ar-
rangement is, that Mrs. Fairbank sits by
the side of the driver, during a jour-
ney of two hours and more. Need I
state the result? It would be an insult to
your intelligence to state the result?
Let me oifer you my place in the chaise.
And let Francis Raven tell his terrible
story to you, as he told it to us, in his
own words.

THE SECOND NARRATIVE.
THE OSTLER’S sromz. TOLD BY HIMSELF.
IV.

It is now ten years ago, since I got my
first warning of the great trouble of my
life, in the Vision of a Dream.

I shall be better able to tell you about
it if you will please suppose yourselves
to be drinking tea, along with us, in our
little cottage in Cambridgeshire, ten
years ago.

The time was the close of day, and
there were three of us at the table,
namely, my mother, myself, and my
mother’s sister, Mrs. Chance. These
two were Scotchwomen by birth, and
both were widows. There was no other
resemblance between them, that I can
call to mind. My mother had lived all
her life in England, and had no more of
the Scotch brogue on her tongue than I
have. My Aunt Chance had never been
out of Scotland until she came to keep
house with my mother. after her hus-
band’s death. And when she opened
her lips you heard broad Scotch, I can
tell you. if ever you heard it yet.

As it fell out, there was a matter of
some consequence in debate among us.
that evening. It was this: Whether I

 

 

 
 

 

12

should do well or not to take' a long
journey on foot, the next morning.

_ Now. the next morning happened to
be the day before my birthday; and the
purpose of the journey was to offer my-
self for a situation as groom, at a great
house in the neighboring county to ours.
rIl‘he place was reported as likely to fall
vacant in about three weeks’ time. I
was as well fitted to fill- it as any other
man. In the prosperous days of our
family, my father had been manager of
atraining-stable; and he had kept me
employed among the horses from my
boyhood upward. Please to excuse my
troubling you with these small matters.
They all fit into my story farther on, as
you will soon find out.

My poor mother was dead again st my
leaving home on the morrow.

“You can never walk all the way there
and all the way back again by tomor-
row night,” she says. “The end of it
will be that you will sleep away from
home on yourbirthday. You have never
done that yet, Francis,
father’s death. I don’t like your doing
it now. Wait a day longer, my son—
only one day.”

For my own part, I was weary of be-
ing idle; and I couldn’t abide the notion
of delay. Even one day might make all
the difference. Some other man might
take time by the forelock and get the
place.

“Consider how long I have been out
of work,” I says—“and don’t ask me to
put off the journey. I won’t fail you,
mother. I’ll get back by tomorrow
night, if I have to pay my last sixpence
for a lift in a cart.”

My mother shook her head. “I don’t

' like it, Francis—I don’t like it! ” There
was no moving her from that view. We
argued and argued, until we were both

since your

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

at a dead-lock. It ended in our agree-
ing to refer the difference between us to
my mother’s sister, Mrs. Chance.

While we were trying hard to con-
Vince each other,my Aunt Chance sat as
dumb as a fish, stirring her tea and
thinking her own thoughts. When we
made our appeal to her, she seemed, as
it were, to wake up. “Ye baith refer it
to my puir judgment?” she says, in her
broad Scotch. We both answered yes.
Upon that my aunt Chance first cleared
the tea-table, and then pulled out
from the pocket of her gown a pack of
cards.

Don’t run away, if you please, with
the notion that this was done lightly,
with aview to amuse my mother and.
me. MyAunt Chance seriously believed
that she could look into the future by
telling fortunes on the cards. She did
nothing herself without first consulting
the cards; and she could give no more
serious proof of her interest in my
welfare than the proof which she
was offering now. I don’t say it
profanely; I only mention the fact—the
cards had, in some incomprehensible
way, got themselves jumbled up together
with her religious convictions. You
meet with people nowadays who believe
in spirits working by way of tables and
chairs. On the same principle (if there
is any principle in it) my Aunt Chance
believed in Providence working by way
of the cards.

“Whether you are right, Franms, or
your mither—whether ye will do weel or
ill. the morrow, to go or stay—the cairds
will tell it. We are a’ in the hands of
Proavidence. The cairds will tell it.”

Hearing this, my mother turned her
head aside, with something of a sour
look in her face. Her sister’s notions
about the cards were little better
A
,
than flat blasphemy, to her
mind. .But she kept her opin-

ion to herself. My Aunt Chance,
to own the truth, had inherited, through
her late husband, a pension of £30 a
year. This was an important contribu-
tion to our housekeeping—and we poor
relations were bound to treat her with a
certain respect. As for myself—if my
poor faiher never did anything else for
me before he fell into difficulties—he
gave me a good education, and raisedme
(thank God) above superstitions of all
sorts. However, a ver'ylittle amused me
in those days; and I waited to have my
fortune told, as patiently as if I believed
in it too!

My aunt began her hocus-pocus by
throwmg out. all the cards in the
pack under seven. She shuffled the
rest, with her left hand, for luck;
and then she gave them to me to cut.
“ Wi’ yer left hand, Francie. Mind that!
Pet yer trust in Proavidence—but dinna
forget that yer luck’s in yer left hand!”
A long and roundabout shifting of the
cards followed, reducing them in num-
ber, until there were just fifteen of them
left, laid out neatly before my aunt in a
half circle. The card which happened
to lay outermost, at' the right-hand end
of the circle, was, according to rule in
such cases, the card chosen to represent
me. By way of being appropriate to my
situation as a poor groom out of work,
the card was—the King,r of Diamonds.

“I tak’ up the King 0’ Diamants,”
says my aunt. “ I count seven
cairds fra’ right to left; and I humbly
ask a blessing \on what follows.” My
aunt shut her eyes as if she was saying
grace before meat, and held up to me
the seventh card. I called the seventh
card—the Queen of Spades. My aunt
opened her eyes again in a hurry. and

MYSTERY.

 

13

cast a sly look my way. “The Queen 0’
Spades means a dairk woman. Ye’ll be
thinking, in secret, Francie, of a dairk
woman?”

When a man has been out of place for
more than three months, his mind isn’t
troubled much with thinking of women
——light or dark. I was thinking of the
groom’s place at the great house; and I
tried to say so. My Aunt Chance
wouldn’t listen. She treated my inter-
ruption with contempt. “Hoot-toot!
there’s the caird in your hand!
no thinking of her, today, ye’ll be
thinking of her, tomorrow. Where’s the
harm of thinking of a dairk woman? I
was aince a dairk woman myself, be-
fore my hair was gray. Hand yerpeace,
Franeie—and watch the cairds.”

I watched the cards as I was told.
There were seven left on the table.
My aunt removed two from one end
of the row, and two from the other—
and desired me to call the two outermost
of the three cards now left on the table.
I called the Ace of Clubs ‘and the Ten
My Aunt Chance lifted
her eyes to the ceiling with a look of
devout gratitude which sorely tried my
mother’s patience. The Ace of Clubs
and the Ten of Diamonds, taken to.
gether, signified—first, good news (evi-
dently the news of thé" grOOm’s place!)
secondly, a journey that lay before me
(pointing plainly to my journey, to-
morrow l); thirdly and lastly, a sum
of money (probably the groom’s
wages!) waiting to find its way into my
pockets, Having told my fortune in
these encouraging terms, my aunt de-
clined to carry the experiment any'far-
ther. “Eh, lad! it’s a clean tempting of
Proavidence to ask mair o’ the cairds
then the cairds have tauld us noo. Gae
yer ways tomorrow to the great hoose.

If ye’re

of Diamonds.

 
 

 

 

A dairk woman will meet ye at the gate;
and she’ll have a hand in getting ye the
groom’s place, wi’ a’ the graitifications
and pairquisites appertaining to the
same. And, mebbe, when yer poaket’s
full 0’ money, ye’ll no’ he forgettin yer
Aunt Chance, maintaining her ain un-
bleemished widowhood —— wi’
deuce assistin’—-on thrattyépunds ayear l”

Proavi-

I ‘promised to remember my Aunt
Chance (who had the defect, by way, of
being a terribly greedy person after
money) on the next happy occasion
when my poor empty pockets were to be
filled at last. This done, I looked at my
mother. She had agreed to take her sis-
ter for umpire between us—-and her sis-
ter had given it in my favor. She raised
no more objections. Silently, she got on
her feet and” kissed me and sighed bit—
terlya-and so left the room. My Aunt
Chance shook her head. “I doubt,
Francie, yer puir mither has but a
heathen notion of the vairtue of the
cairdsl”

By daylight, the next morning, I set
forth I looked
back at the cottage as I opened the gar-
den gate. At one window, was my
mother, with her handkerchief to her
eyes. . At the other. stood my Aunt
Chance, holding up the Queen of Spades
by way of encouraging me at starting.
Iwaved my hand to both of them in
token of farewell, and stepped out brisk-
1y into the road. It was then the last
day of February. Be pleased to remem—
ber, in connection with this, that the
first. of March was the day, and 2 o’clock
in the morning the hour of my birth.

on my journey. I

V.
Now you know how I" came to leave
home. The next thing to tell is what
happened on the journey.

 

‘ 14 ALICIA WARLOCK:

I reached the great house in reason-
ably good time considering the distance.
At the very first trial of it the prophecy
of the cards turned out to be wrong. The
person who met me at the lodge gate
was not a dark woman; in fact, nota
He directed
me on the way to the servants’ offices, and
there, again, the cards were all wrong.
I encountered not one woman, but three,
and not one of the three was dark. I
have stated that I am not superstitious
and I have told the truth. But I must
own that Idid feel a certain fluttering at
the heart when I made my bow to the
steward and told him what business had
brought me to the house. His ansWer
completed the discomfiture of Aunt
My ill-luck
still pursued me. That very morning,
another man had applied for the groom’s
place, and had got it.

I swallowed my disappointment as
well as I could—and thanked the stew-
ard—and went to the inn in the village

woman at all, but aboy.

Chance’s fortune-telling.

to get the rest and food which I sorely
needed by this time.

Before starting on my homeward
walk, I made some inquiries at the inn,
and found out that I might save a few
miles on my return, by following a neW
road. Furnished with full instructions,
several times repeated, as to the various
turnings I was to take, I set forth, and
walked bn till the evening with only one
stoppage for bread and cheese. Just as
it was getting towards dark, the rain
came on and the wind began to rise; and
1 found myself, to make matters worse,
in a part of the country with which I was
entirely unacquainted, though I guessed
myself to be some fifteen miles from
home. The first house I found to in-
quire at, was a lonely roadside inn,
standing on the outskirts of a thick
A MYSTERY.

wood. Solitary as the place looked, it
was welcome to a lost man who was also
hungry, thirsty, footsore and wet. The
landlord was civil and respectable-look-
ing, and the price he asked forabed
was resonable enough. I was grieved
to disappoint my mother. But there
was no conveyance to be had, and I
could go no farther afoot that night.
My wearness fairly forced me to stop
at the inn.

I may say for myself that I am a tem~
perate man. My supper simply con-
sisted of some rashers of bacon, a slice
of home—made bread, and a pint of ale.
I did not go to bed immediately after this
moderate meal.but sat up with the land-
lord, talking about my bad prospects
and my long run of ill—luck, and diverg-
ing from these topics to the subjects of
horse-flesh and racing. Nothing was
said either by myself, my host, or the
few laborers who strayed into the tap—
room, which could, in the slightest de-
gree, excite my mind or set my fancy—
which is only a small fancy at the best
of time—playing tricks with my com-
mon sense.

At a little after 11, the house was
closed. I went round with the landlord
and held the candle while the doors and
lower windows were being secured. I
noticed, with surprise, the strength of
the bolts, bars and iron-sheathed shut—
ters.

“You see, we are rather lonely here,”
says the landlord“ “ We ncyer have had
any attempts to break in yet, but it’s
always as well to be on the safe side.
When nobody is sleeping here I am the
only man in the house. My wife and
daughter are timid, and the servant girl
takes after her missuses. Another glass
of ale before you turn in? No! Well,
how such asober man as you comes to be

 

15

out of place is more than I can under-
stand, for one. Here’s where you are to
sleep. You’re the only lodger, tonight,
andI think you’ll say my missus has
done her best to make you cemfortable.
You’re quite sure you won’t have an-
other glass of ale? Very well. Good
night. I

It was half-past 11 by the ‘clock in
the passage as we went up-stairs to the
bedroom. The window looked out on
the road at the back of the house.

I locked my door, set my, candle on the
chest of drawers, and} wearin got me
ready for bed. The bleak Wind was
still blowing, and the solemn surging
mean of it in the wood was very dreary
to hear through the night silence. I felt
strangely wakeful. I resolved to keep
the candle alight until I began to grow
sleepy. The truth is, I was not quite
myself. I was depressed in mind by my
disappointment of the morning; and I
was worn out in body by my long walk.
Between the two, I own I couldn’t face
the prospect of lying awake in the dark-
ness, listening to the dismal mean of the
wind in the wood.

Sleep stole on me before I was aware
of it; my eyes closed, and I fell off to
rest, without having so much as thought
of extinguishing the candle.

The next thing that I remember was
afaint shivering that ran through me
from head to foot, and a dreadful sink-
ing pain at my heart, such as I had
never felt before. The shivering only dis-
turbed my slumbers—the pain woke me
instantly. In one moment I passed from
a state of sleep to a state of wakeful-
ness—my eyes Wide open—my mind
clear on a sudden as if by a miracle.

The candle had burnt down nearly to
the last morsel of tallow, but the un
snuffed wick had just fallen off, and the

 
 

 

 

16 A L I o I A
light was, for the moment, fair and
full.

Between the foot of the bed and the
closed door, I saw a person in my room.
The person was a woman, standing look-
ing at me, with a knife in her hand.

It does no credit to my courage to con-
fess it—but the truth is the truth. I
was struck speechless with terror. There
I lay with my eyes on the woman; there
the woman stood (with her knife in her
hand) with her eyes on me.

She said not a word as we stared each
other in the face; but she moved after a
little—moved slowly toward the left-
hand side of the bed.

The light fell full on her face. A fair,
fine woman, with yellowish flaxen hair,
and light gray eyes with a droop in the
left eyelid. I noticed these things and
fixed them in my mind, before she was
quite round at the side of the bed. VVith-
out saying a word; without any change
in the stony stillness of her face; without
any noise following her footfall, she
came closer and closer; stopped at the
bed—head, and lifted the knife to stab
me. I laid my arm over my throat to
save it; but, asI saw the blow coming,
I threw my hand across the bed to the
right side, and jerked my body over that
way, just as the knife came down like
lightning on the mattress within a hairs—
breadth of my shoulder. I

VL

My eyes fixed on her arm and her
handwshe gave me time to look at them
as she slowly drew her knife out of the'
bed. A white, well-shaped arm, with a
pretty down lying lightly over the-fair
skin; a delicate lady’s hand, with a pink
fi'ush round the finger-nails.

She drew the knife out, and passed
back again slowly to the foot of the bed;

 

WARLOCK:

she stopped there for a moment, looking
at me; then she came on without saying
a word, without any change in the stony
stillness of her face, without any noise
following her footfall—came onto the
side of the bed where I now lay.
Getting near me, she lifted the knife
again, and I drew myself away to
the left She be-
fore, right into the mattress, with a
swift downward action of her arm; and
she missed me as before by a hairs—
breadth. This, time my eyes wandered
It waslike the
large clasp-knives which laboring men
use to cut their bread and bacon with.
Her delicate little fingers did not hide
more than two-thirds of the handle; I
noticed that it was made of buckhorn,
clean and shining as the blade was, and
looking like new. ..
Forthe second time she drew the knife '
out of the bed, and suddenly hid it away
in the wide sleeve of her gown. That
done, she stopped by the bedside, watch-
in g me.

side. struck, as

from her to the knife.

For an instant I saw her stand-
ing in that position—then the wick
of the spent candle fell over into the‘
The flame. dwindled to a little
blue point, and‘the room grew dark.

A moment, or less, if possible, passed
so—and then the wick
smokily, for the last time. My eyes

socket.

flam ed up,

were still looking for her over the right-

hand side of the bed when the last flash
of light came. Look as I might, I could
see nothing. The woman with the knife
was gone.

Ibegan to get back to myself again.
I could feel my heart beating; I could
hear the woful moaning of the wind in
the wood; I could leap up in bed, and
give the alarm before she escaped from
the house. “Murder! Wake up there!
Murder!”
A MYSTERY.

Nobody answered to the alarm. I rose
and groped my way through the dark—
ness to the door of the room. By that
way she must have got in. By that way

she must have gone out.

The door of the room was fast locked,
exactly as I had left it on going to bed!
I looked at the window. The window

’ was fast looked, too.

For a moment I stood lost in amaze-

ment. Then, hearing a voice outside, I

'opened the door. There was the land-
lord. coming toward me along the pas-
sage, with his burning candle in one
hand, and his gun in'the other.

“that is it?” he says, looking at me
in no very friendly way.

I could only answer him in a whisper.
“A woman, witha knife in her hand.
In my room. A fair, yellow-haired
woman. She jobbed at me with the
knife, twice over.”

He lifted his candle, and looked at me
steadily from head to foot. _

“She seems to have missed you twice
over.”

“I dodged the knife as it came down.
It struck the bed each time. Go in and
see.”

The landlord took his candle into the
bed-room immediately. In less than a
minute he came out again into the pas-
sage in a violent passion.

“The devil fly away with you and
your woman with the knife! There
isn’t a mark in the bed-clothes any-
where. What do you mean by coming
into a man’s place and frightening his
family out of their wits by a dream? ”

A dream? The woman who had tried
to stab me, not a living human being
like myself? I began to shake and
shiver. The horrors got hold of me at
the bare thought of it.

“I’ll leave the house,” I said. “Bet-

 

17

ter out on the road in the rain and dark
than back again in that room, after what
I’ve seen in it. Lend me the light to get
my clothes by, and tell me what I’m to

11

pay.
The landlord led the way back
with his light into the bed-room.

“Pay?” says he. “You’ll find your
slate when you go
I wouldn’t have taken

score on the
down-stairs.
you in for all the money you’ve
got about you, if I had known your
dreaming, screeching Ways beforehand.
Look at the bed. Where’s the cut of a
knife in it? Look at the window— is the
lock bursted? Look at the door (which I
heard you fasten yourself)—is it broke
in ‘r‘ A murdering woman with a knife in
my house! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself!”

My eyes followed his hand as it point-
ed first to the bed—then to the window
—— then to the door.
saying it. The bed sheet was as sound
as on the day it was made.
was fast. The door hung on its hinges
as steady as ever. I huddled my clothes
on without speaking. We went down
stairs together. I looked at the clock in
the bar room. The time ,was twenty
minutes past two in the morning. I paid
my bill; and the landlord let me out.
The rain had ceased; but the night was
dark, and the wind was bleaker than ev-
er. Little did the darkness, or the cold,
or the doubt about the way home imat-
ter to me. My mind was away from all
these things. My mind was fixed on the
vision in the bed-room. What had I seen
trying to murder me? The creature of a
dream? Or that other creature from the
world beyond the grave, whom men call
ghost? I could make nothing of it as
I walked along inthe night. I had made
nothing of it by mid-day — when I stood

There was no gain-

The window

 
 

 

 

 

18 ALICIA WARLOCK:

at last, after many times missing my
road, on the doorstep of home.

VII.

My mother came out alone to welcome
me back. There were no secrets between
us two. I told her all that had happened
—-just as I have told it to you.

She kept silence tillI had done. And
then she put a question to me.

“ What time was it, Francis, when you
saw the woman in your dream? ”

I had looked at the clock when I left
the inn, and had noticed that the hands
pointed to twenty mimutes past two.
Allowing for the time consumed in speak-
ing to the landlord, and in getting on my
clothes, I answered that I must first have
seen the woman at two o’clock in the
morning. In other words, I had not only
seen h er on my birthday ——but at the
hour of my birth.

My mother still kept silence. Lost in
her own thoughts, she took me by the
hand. and led me into the parlor. Her
writing desk was on the table by the fire-
place. She opened it. and signed to me
to take a chair by her side.

“My soul your memory is a bad one
Tell me
again what the woman looked like. I
want her to be as well-known to both of
us, years hence, as she is now.”

I obeyed; wondering what strange
fancy might be working in her mind. I
spoke; and she wrote the words as they
fell from my lips :

“Light gray eyes, with a droop in the
left eyelid. Flaxen hair, with a gold-
yellow streak in it. White arms, with a
down upon them. Little, lady’s hands.
with a rosy-red look about the finger-
nails.” , ‘

“Did you notice how she was dressed
Francis ‘3”

—-and mine is fast failing me.

 

“N0, mother.”

“Did you notice the knife ?”

“Yes. A large clasp-knife, with a
buck-horn handle as good as new.”

My mother added the description of
the knife. Also the year, mon th, day of
the week, and hour of the day when the
dream-woman appeared to me at the
inn. That done, she looked up the
paper in her desk.

“Not a. word, Francis, to your aunt.
Not a word to any living soul. Keep
your Dream a secret between you and
me.”

The weeks passed, and the months
passed. My mother never returned to
the subject again.
which wears out all things, wore out my
remembrance of the Dream. Little by
little, the image of the Woman grew
dimmer and dimmer. ' Little by little,
she faded out of my mind.

As for me, time

VIII:

The story of the warning is now told.
Judge for yourselves if it was a true war-
ning or a false, when you hear what
happened to me on my next birthday.

In the summer time of the year, the
Wheel of Fortune turned the right way
for me at last.
one day, near an old stone-quarry at the

I was smoking my plpe

entrance to our village, when a carriage
accident happened, which gave a new
turn, as it were, to my lot in life. It was
an accident of the commonest kind—~not
worth mentioning at any length. A lady
driving herself; a runaway horse; a
cowardly man servant in attendance,
frightened out of his wits; and the stone-
quarry too near to be agreeable— that is
What I saw, all in a few moments, be-
tween two whiffs of my pipe. I stopped
the horse at the edge of the quarry, and
got myself a little hurt by the shaft of
A MYSTERY. .‘

the chaise. But that didn’t matter. The
lady declared I had saved her life; and
her husband, coming with her to our cot:
tage, the next day, took me into his ser-
vice then and there. The lady happened
to be of a dark complexion; arid it may
amuse you to hear that my Aunt Chance
instantly pitched on that circumstance
as a means of saving the credit of the
cards. Here was the promise of the
Queen of Spades performed to the very
letter, by means of “a dark woman,”
just as my aunt had told me! “In the
time to come, Francie, beware 0’ pettin’
yer ain blinded intairpretation on the
cairds. Ye’re ower ready, I trow, to
murmur under dispensations of proavi-
dence that ye canna fathom—like the
Eesraelites of auld. I’ll say nae mair to
ye. Mebbe when the money’s powering
into yer poackets, ye’ll no forget yer Aunt
Chance, left like a sparrow on the house-
‘top, wi’ a sma’ annuitee 0’ thratty punds
a. year.”

I remained in my situation (at the
West-end of London) until the spring of
the New Year.

About that time, my master’s health
failed; the doctors ordered him away to
foreign parts. and the establishment was
broken up. But the turn in my luck still
held good. “Then I left my place, I left
it —thanks to the generosity of my kind
master—with a yearly allowance grant—
ed to me, in remembrance of the day
when I had saved my mistress’s life.
For the future I could go back to service
or not as I pleased; my little income
was enough to support my mother and
myself. I

My master and mistress left England
towards the end of February. Certain
matters of business to do for them de-
tained me in London until the last day

of the month. I was only able to leave

 

19

for our village by the evening train, to
keep my birthday with my mother as
usual. It was bed—time whenI got to
the cottage; and I was sorry to find that
she was far from well. To make mat-
ters worse, she had finished her bottle
of medicine on the previous day, and
had omitted to get it replenished as the
doctor had strictly directed. He dis-
pensed his own medicines, and I offered
to go and knock him up. She refused to
let me do this; and after giving me my
supper, sent me away to my bed.

I fell asleep for a little, and woke
again. My mother’s bed chamber was
next to mine. I heard my Aunt Chance’s
heavy footsteps going to and fro in the
room, and suspecting something wrong,
knocked at the door. My mother’s pains
had returned upon her; there was a
serious necessity for relieving her suffer-
ings as speedly as possible. I put on my
clothes, and ran off with the medicine-
bottle in my hand, to the other end of
the village where the doctor lived. The
church—clock chimed the quarter to two
on my birthday just as I reached his
house. One ring at the night—bell
brought 'him to his bed—room window to
speak to me. He told me to wait, and
he would let me in at the surgery door.
I noticed, while I was waiting, that the.
night was wonderfully fair and warm
for the time of the year. The old stone-
quarry where the Carriage accident had
happened was within View. The moon
in the clear heavens lit it up almost as
bright as day. V V

In a minute or two, the doctor let me
into the surgery. I closed the door,
noticing that he had left his room very
lightly clad. He kindly pardoned my
mother’s neglect of his directions, and
set to work at once at cbmpounding the
medicine. We were both intent on the \

 
 

 

 

20

bottle; he filling it and I holding the
light ——when we heard the surgery door
suddenly opened from the street.

IX.

Who could possibly be up and about
in our quiet village at that dark hour of
the morning?

The person who had opened the door
appeared within range of the light of‘the
candle. To complete our amazement,
the person proved to be a woman!

She walke d up to the counter, and
standing side-by-side with me, lifted her
veil. At the moment when she showed
her face, I heard the church clock strike
She was a stranger to me, and a
She was also,
beyond all comparison, the most beau-
tiful woman I have ever seen in my life.

“ I saw the light under the door,” she

twou
stranger to the doctor.

said. “ I want some medicine.”

She spoke quite composedly—as if
there was nothing at all extraordinary
in her being out in the village at two in
the morning, and following me into the
surgery to ask for medicine! The
doctor stared at her as if he suspected
his own eyes of deceiving him. “ Who
are you?” he asked. “How do you
come to be wandering about at this time
in the morning? ”

She paid no heed to his questions.
She only told him in the coolest manner
what she wanted.

“ I have got a bad toothache.
a bottle of laudanum.”

The doctor recovered himself when
she asked for the laudanum.

He was on his own ground as it were
when it game to a matter of laudanum,
and he spoke to her, smartly enough

I want

this time.
“ Oh, you have got the toothache, have
you? Let me look at the tooth.”

side.

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

She shook her head, and laid a two-
shillmg piece on the counter.

“I won’t trouble you to look at the
tooth,” she said. “There is the money.
Let ‘me have the laudanum, if you
please.”

The doctor put the two-shilling piece
back again in her hand.

“ I don’t sell laudanum to strangers,”
he answered. “If you are in any‘ dis—
tress of body or mind, that is another
I shall be glad to help you.”
She put the money back in her pocket.

matter.

“You can’t help me,” she said, as
quietly as ever.

With that, she opened the surgery
door to go out again into the street.

“ Good morning.”

So far, I had not spoken a word on my
I had stood with the candle in my
hand (not knowmg I was holding it)~—
with my eyes fixed on her—like a man
bewitehed.
more plainly than her words, her reso-

Her looks betrayed, even

lution in one way or another, to destroy
herself. When she opened the door, in
my alarm at what might happen I found
the use of my tongue.

“ Stop! ” I cried out. “Wait for me.
I want to speak to you before you go
away.”

She lifted her eyebrows with a look of
careless surprise, and a mocking smile
on her lips.

“ What can you have to say to me? ”
She stopped, and laughed to herself.
“Why not?” she says. “I have got
nothing to do, and nowhere to go.” She
turned back a step, and nodded to me.
“You’re a strange man —I think I’ll
The
She

humor you ——I’ll wait outside.”
door of the surgery closed on her.
was gone.

I am ashamed to own what happened
next. The only excuse for me is that I
was really and truly a man bewrtched.
A 'MYSTERY.

I turned me round to
without once thinking

follow her out,
of my mother.
The doctor stopped me. -
“Don’t forget the medicine,” he said:
“And, if you will take my advice,
don’t trouble yourself about that wom-
It’s his
business to look after her—not yours.”
I held out my hand for the medicine
in silence; I was afraid I should fail in

an. Rouse up the constable.

respect if I trusted myself to answer

him. He must have seen, as I saw, that.

she wanted the laudanum to poison her-
He had, to my mind, taken a very
I just
thanked him when he gave me the medi—
cine— and went out.

She was waiting for me as she had

self.
heartless View. of the matter.

promised; walking slowly to and fro, a
tall,‘ graceful, solitary figure in the
bright moonbeams. They shed over her
fair complexion, her bright golden hair,
her large gray eyes, just the light that
She looked hardly
mortal, when she first turned to speak

suited them best.

_ of me.

“Well? ” she said. “And what do you
want? ”

In spite of my pride, or my shyness,
or my better sense —Whichever it might
be — all my heart went out to her in a

I caught hold of her by the
hands, and owned what was in my
thoughts, as freely as if I had known
her-for half a lifetime.

“You mean to‘ destroy yourself,”

moment.

said. “andI mean to prevent you from
If I follow you about all night,
I’ll preventyou from doing it.”

She laughed. “You saw iburself that
he wouldn’t sell me the laudanum.
Do you really care whether I live or
die? ”

as she put the question; her eyes search-

doing it.

She squeezed my hands gently

ed mine with a languid lingering look in

 

21
them that ran through me like fire. My
voice died away on my lips; I couldn’t
answer her. .
She understood, without myranswer—

ing. “You have given me a fancy for

5,

living, by speaking kindly to me, she

said. “Kindness has a wonderful effect
on women and dogs and other domestic
animals. It is only men who are supe-
rior to kindness. Make your mind easy
—— I promise to take as much care of my—
self as if I was the happiest woman liv-
ing! Don’t let me keep you here, out of
your bed. Vhieh way are you going? ”

Miserable wretch that I was, I had
again forgotten my mother—with the
medicine in my hand!

“I am going home,” I said. “Where
are you staying? At the inn? ”

She laughed herbitterlaugh, and point-
ed to the stone-quarry. “ There is my
inn forte-night,” she said. “When I
got tired of walking about, I rested
there. "

“To walked on together, on my way
home. I took the liberty of asking if she
had any friends.

"I thought I had one friend left,” she
said, “or you would never have met me
in this place. It turns out I was wrong.
My friend’s door was closed in my face
some hours since; my friend’s servant’s
I had

nowhere else to go, after trying my luck

threatened me with the police.

in your neighborhood; and nothing-J,r left
but my two—shilling piece and these rage
on my back.
keeper would take me into his house 1’ I

What respectable inn-

walked about, wondering how I could
find my way out of the world— without
disfiguring myself, and without suffering
much pain. You have no river in these
parts.
world, till I heard you ringingr -at the

I didn’t see my way out of the

doctor’s house. I got a glimpse at the

 
 

 

 

22 A L I o I A
bottles in the surgery, when he let you
in -— and I thought of the laudanum di-

What were you doing there?
is that medicine for? Your

rectly.
Who
wife?”

“I am not married.”

She laughed again. “Not married!
If I was a little better dressed there
might a chance for ME. Where do you
live? Here?”

We had arrived, by this time, at my
my mother’s door. She held out her
hand to say good-by. Houseless and
homeless as she was, she never asked me
to give her a shelter for the night. It
was my proposal that she should rest
under my roof —unknown to my moth er
and my aunt. Our kitchen was built out
at the back of the cottage; she might re-
main there unseen and unheard until
. the household was astir in the morning.
I led her into the kitchen, and set a
chair for her by the dying embers of the
fire. I dare say I was to blame—shame-
fully to blame, if you like. I only wonder
what you would have done in my place.
On your word of honor as a man, would
you have let that beautiful creature
wander back to the shelter of the stone—
quarry like a stray dog? God help the
woman who is foolish enough to trust
and love you—if you would have done
that.

I left her by the fire, and went to my
mother’s room.

X

If you have ever felt the heart-ache,
you will know what I suffered in secret
when my mother took my hand, and
said, “I am sorry, Francis, that your
night’s rest has been disturbed through
me.” I gave her the medicine; and I
waited by her till the pains abated. My

 

 

 

WARLOCK:

my mother and I were left alone. I no-
ticed that her writing desk, moved from
its customary place, was on the bed by
her side. She saw me looking at it.
“This is your birthday, Francis,” she
said. “Have you anything to tell me?”
I had so completely forgotten my Dream,
that I had no notion of what was pass-
ng in her mind when she said those
words. For a moment there was a guilty
fear in me that she suspected something,
I turned away my face and said, “ N0,
She
signed to me to stoop down over the pil-
“God bless you, my
she said, “and many happy re-

mother, I have nothing to tell.”

low and kiss her.
love,
turns of the day.” She patted my hand,
and closed her weary eyes, and, little by
little, fell off peaceably into sleep.

I stole down stairs again. I think the
good influence of my mother must have
followed me down. At any rate, this is
true: I stopped with my hand on the
closed kitchen door, and said to myself,
“Suppose I leave the house, and leave
the village, without seeing her or speak-

”

ing to her more?”

Should I really have fled from temp-
tation in this way, if I had been left to
myself to decide? rWho can tell? As
things were, I was not .left to decide.
While my doubt was in my mind, she
heard me, and opened the kitchen door.
My eyes and her eyes met. That ended
it.

We were together, unsuspected and
undisturbed, for the next two hours.
Time enough for her to reveal the secret
of her wasted life. Time enough for her
to take possession of me as her own, to
do with me as she-liked.’ It is needless
to dwell here on the misfortunes which
had brought her low; they are misfor-
tunes too common to interest anybody.

Aunt Chance went back to her bed; and[ Her name was Alicia Warlock. She
A MYSTERY.

had been born and bred a lady. She
had lost her station, her character, and
her friends. Virtue shuddered at the
sight of her: and Vlce had got her for
the rest of her days.

common, as I told you.
difference to me.
—I say it again —— I was a man bewitch-
ed.
ful in that? Just remember who I was.

Shocking, and
It made no
I have said it already

Is there anything so very wonder-

_ Among the honest women in my own
station in life, where could I have found
the like of her? Could they walk as she
walked? and look as she looked? When
they gave me a kiss,'did their lips linger
over it as hers did? Had they her skin,
her laugh, her foot, her hand, her touch?
She never had a speck of dirt on her. I
tell you her flesh was a perfume. When
she embraced me, her arms folded round
me like the wings of angels; and her
smile covered me softly with its light
like the sun in Heaven. I leave you to
laugh at me, or to cry over me, just as
your temper may incline. I am not try-
ing to excuse myself— I am trying to
explain. You are gentlefolks; what
dazzled and maddened me, is every-day
experiencelo you. Fallen or not, angel or
devil, it came to this—she was a lady,
and I was a groom.

Before the house was a stir, I got her
away (by the work-men’s train) to a large
manufacturing town in our parts.

I-Iere - with my savings in money to
help her— she could get her outfit of
decent clothes, and her lodging among
strangers who asked no questions so long
as they,r were paid.
pretence and nowon another—I could

.V visit her, and we could both plan to—
gether what our future lives were to be.
I need not tell you that I stood pledged
to make her my Wife. A man in my

Here —now on one

23

station always marries a moman of her
sort.

Do you wonder if I was happy at this
time? I should have been perfectly
happy, but for one little drawback. It
was this: I was never quite at my ease in
the presence of my promised wife. ‘

I don’t mean that I was shy with her
or suspicious of her, or-ashamed of her.
The uneasmess I am speaking of was
caused by a faint doubt in my mind,
whether I had not seen her somewhere,
before the morning when we met at the
doctor shouse. Over and over again, I
found myself wondering whether her
face did not remind me of some other
face— what other I never could tell.
This strange feeling, this one question
that could never be answered, vexed me
to a degree that you would hardly credit.
It came between us at the strangest
times—oftenest, however, at night, when

“the candles were lit. You have known
What it is to try and remember a for-
gotten name— and to fail, search as you
may, to find it in your mind. That was
my case. I falled to find my lost face,
just as you failed to find your lost name.

In three weeks, we had talked matters
over, and had arranged how I was to
make a clean breast of it at home. By
Alicia’s advice, I was to describe her as
having been one of my fellow-servants,
during the time when I was employed
under my kind master and mistress in
London. There was no fear now of my
mother taking any harm from the shock

Her health had im-
proved during the three weeks’ interval.
011 the first evening when she was able
to take her old place at tea-time, I sum-
moned my courage, and told her I was
going to be married. The poor soul flung

of a great surprise.

 

her arms round my neck, and burst out

 
 

 

 

24

I
crying for joy. “Oh, Francis!” she
says, “I am so glad you will have some-
body to comfort you and care for you
As for my Aunt
Chance, you can anticipate whats/w did,
without being told. Ah me! If there
had really been any prophetic virtue in
the cards, what a terrible warning they

when I am gone!”

might have given us that night!

It was arranged that I was to bring my
promised wife to dinner at the cottage,
the next day.

XI.

I own I was proud of Alicia when I led
her into our little parlor at the appoint-
ed time. She had never, to my mind,
looked so beautiful as she looked that
day. I never noticed any bther woman’s
dress; I noticed hers as carefully as if I
had been a woman myself! She Were a
black silk gown, with plain collar and
cuffs and a modest lavender-colored bon-

' net, with one white rose in it placed at

the side. My mother dressed in her
Sunday best, rose up, all in a flutter, to
welcome her daughter-in—law that was to
be. She walked forward a. few steps,
half smiling, half in tears— she looked
AliCia full in the face—and suddenly
stood still.
an instant; her eyes stared in horror;
her hands dropped helplessly at her
She staggered back—and fell
into the arms of my aunt, standing be-
hind her.
her senses.

Her cheeks turned white in

sides.

It was no swoon; she kept
Her eyes turned slowly
from Alicia to me. “ Francis,” she said,
‘does that woman’s face remind you of
nothing? ”

Before I could answer, she pointed to
her writing desk on the table at the fire—
side. “Bring it!” she cried, “Bring
it!”

At the same moment. I felt Alicia’s

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

hand laid on my shoulder, and saw
Alicia’s face red with anger-and no
wonder!

she asked.
“Does your mother want to insult

“ What does this mean?”

me? ”

I said a few words to quiet her, what
they were 1 don’t remember— I was so,
confused and astonished at the time.
Before I had done, I heard my mother
behind me.

My aunt had fetched her desk. She
had opened it; she had taken apaper
Step by step, helping herself
along by the wall, she came nearer and
nearer— with the paper in her had.
She looked at the paper —- she looked in

from it.

Alicia’s face~she lifted the long, loose
sleeve of her gown — and examined her
hand and arm. I saw fear suddenly
take the place of anger in Alicia’s eyes.
She shook herself free of my mother’s
“Mad!” she said to herself,
With

these words she ran out of the room.

grasp.
“and Francis never told me.”

I was hastening out after her, when my
mother signed me to stop. She read the
words written on the paper. While they
fell; slowly, one by one, from her' lips,
she pointed towards the open door. '

“ Light gray eyes, with a droop in the
left eyelid. Flaxen hair, with a gold-
yellow streak in it. White arms, with a
down upon them. Little, lady’s hand,
with a rosy-red look about the finger—
The Dream—W'oman, Francis!

l”

nails.
The Dream-Worn an

Something darkened the parlor win-
dow, as those words were spoken. I
looked sidelong at the shadow. ' Alicia
Warlock had comeback! She was peer -‘
ing in at us over the low window—blind,
There was the fatal face which had first
looked at me in the bed-room of the
lonely inn! There, resting on the win-
A MYSTERY.

dow—blind, was the lovely little hand
which had held the murderous knife.
I had seen her before we met in the Vil-
ilage. The Dream-Woman! The Dream—
Woman!

XI.

I expect nobody to approve of what
I have next to tell of myself.

In three weeks from the day when my
mother had identified her with the
Woman of the Dream, I took Alicia
Warlock to Church, and made her my
wife. I was a man bewitched. Again
and again I say it, I was a man be-
witchedl

During the interval before my mar-
riage, our little household at the cottage
‘was broken up. My mother and .my
aunt quarrelled. My mother, believing
in the Dream, entreated me to break off
~ my engagement. My aunt, believing in
the cards, urged me to marry. .

This difference of opinion produced
a dispute between them, in the course
of which my Aunt Chance—quite uncon-
scious of having any superstitiOus feel—
ings of her owns—actually set out the
cards which prophesied happiness to me
in my married life, and asked 'my
mother whether anybody but “ a blind—
ed heathen could be fule enough after

those cairds to believe in a
1” This was, naturally, too much

seeing
dream
for my mother’s patience; hard words
“followed on either side; Mrs. Chance
treturned in dudgeon to her friends in
Scotland. She left mea written state-
ment of my future prospects, as revealed
by the cards- and with it an address at
whichaPost Office order would reach
her. “The day was no that far off,”
she remarked, “when Francie might re-
member what he owed to his Aunt
Chance. maintaining her ain unbleem-

 

25

ished Widowhood on thratty punds a
year.”

Having refused to give her sanction
to my marriage, my mother also refused
to be present at the wedding, or to visit
Alicia afterwards. There was no anger
at the bottom of this conduct on her
part. Believing as she didin the Dream,
she was simply in mortal fear of my
wife. I understood this—and I made
allowances for her. Not a cross word
passed between us. My one happy re—
membrance now—though I did disobey
her in the matter of my marriage—is
this: I loved and respected my good
mother to the last. .

As for my wife, she expressed no re-
gret at the estrangement between her
mother-in-law and herself. By common
consent, we never spoke on that subject.
We settled in the manufacturing town
which I have already mentioned; and
we kept a lodging house. My kind mas-
ter, at my request, granted me alump
sum in place of my annuity. This put
us into a good house, decently furnished.
Fora while, things went well enough.
I may describe myself at this time of
my life as a happy man.

My misfortunes began With a return
of the complaint from which my mother
had already suffered. The doctor con-
fessed, when I asked him the question,
that there was danger to be dreaded,
Naturally, after hearing this,
I was a good deal away at the cottage.
Naturally also, I left the business of
looking after our house in my absence,
to my wife. Little by little, I found her
beginning to' ' alter towards
While my back was turned, she formed
acquaintances with people of the doubt-
ful and diss1pated sort. One day, I ob-
served something in her manner which
forced the suspicion on me that she had

this time.

me.

 
 

 

26

been drinking. Before the week was
out, my suspicion wasacertainty. From
keeping company With drunkards, she
had grown to be a drunkard herself.

I did all a man could do to reclaim
her. Quite useless 1 She had never
really returned the love I felt for
her; I had no influence; I could do
nothing. My mother, hearing of this
last worst trouble, resolved to try what
her influence could do. Ill as she was,
I found her one day dressed to go-out. ,

“I am not long for this world, Fran—
cis,” she said. “I shall not feel easy on my
death-bed, unless I have done my best
tothe last to make you happy. I mean to
put my own fears and my own feelings
out of the question, and to go With you
to your wife, and try what I can do to
reclaim her. Take me home with you,
Francis. Let me do all I can to help my
son, before it’s too late.”

How could I disobey her? We took
the railway to the town; it was only
By one o’clock in
the afternoon we reached my house. It
was our dinner hour, and Alicia was in
the kitchen. I was able to take my
mother quietly into the parlor, and
then prepare my wife for the visit. She
had drunk but little at that early hour,
and luckily the devil in her was tamed
for the time.

She followed me into the parlor, and
the meeting passed off better than I had
ventured to forecast, with this one draW»
back, that my mother—though she tried
hard to control herself—shrank from
looking my wife in the face when she
spoke to her. It wasa relief to me when
Alicia began to prepare the table for
dinner.

She laid the cloth, brought in the
bread—tray. and cut some slices for us
from the loaf. Then she returned to the

half an hour’s ride.

 

ALICIA ‘VARLOCK:

kitchen. At that moment, while I was
still anxiously watching my mother, I
was startled byseeing the same ghastly
change pass over her face which had al-
tered it on the morning when Alicia and
she first met. Before I could say a .
word, she started up with a look of
horror.

“Take me back l—home, home again,
Francis 1 Come with me, and never go
back more I ”

I was afraid to ask for an explanation;
I could only sign to her to be silent, and
help her quickly to the door. As we.
passed the bread-tray on the table, she
stopped and pointed to it.

“Did you see what your wife cut your
bread with ?” she asked.

“ N 0, mother; I was not noticing.
What was it? ”

“ Look l”

I did look. A new clasp-knife, with
a buckhorn handle, lay with the loaf in
the bread-tray. I stretched out my
hand to possess myself of it. At the
same moment, there was a noise in the
kitchen, and my mother caught me by
the arm. _

“The knife of the dream! Francis,
I’m faint with fear—take me away be-
fore she comes back!"

I couldn’t speak, to comfort or even
to answer her. Superior as I was to su-
perstition, the discovery of the knife
staggered me. In silence, I helped my
mother out of the house and took her ?,
home.

I held out my hand to say good-by.
She tried to stop me.

“Don’t go back, Francis 1
back !”

“I must get the knife mother.
go back by the next train."

I held to that resolution. By the next
train I went back.

don’t go

I must
 

A MYSETRY.

XII.

My wife had, of course, discovered
our secret departure from the house.
She had been drinking. She was in a
fury of passion. The dinner in the
kitchen was flung under the grate; the
cloth was off the parlor table. Where
was the knife?

I was foolish enough to ask for it.
She refused to give it to me. In the
course of the dispute between us which
followed, I discovered that there was a
horrible story attached to the knife. It
had been used in a murder—years since
—and had been so skilfully hidden that
the authorities had been unable to pro—
duce it at the trial. By help of some of
her disreputable friends, my wife had
been enabled to purchase this relic of a
bygone crime. Her perverted nature
set some horrid unacknowledged value
on the knife. Seeing there was no hope
of getting it by fair means, I deter-
mined to search for it later in the day,
in secret. The search was unsuccessful.
Night came on, and I left the house to
walk about the streets. You will under-
stand what a broken man I was by this
time, when I tell you Iwas afraid to
sleep in the same room with her 1

Three weeks passed. Still she refused
to give up the knife; and still that fear
of sleeping in the same room with her
possessed me. I walked about at night
or dozed in the parlor, or sat watching
by my mother’s bedside. Before the
.end of the first week in the new month,
the worst misfortune of all befell me~
my mothcr died. It wanted then but a
short time of my birthday. She had
longed to live till that day.
ent at her death. Her last words in this
world were addressed to me:

“Don’t go back, my- son—don’t go
back!"

I was pres-

 

27

I was obliged to go back, if it was only
to watch my wife. In the last days of
my mother’s illness she had spitefully
added a sting to my grief by declaring
that she would assert her right to attend
the funeral. In spite of all that I could
do or say, she held to her word. On the
day appointed for the burial she forced
herself—inflamed and shameless with
drink—into my presence, and swore she
would walk in the funeral procession to
my mother’s grave.

This last insult—after 3111 had gone
through already—was more than I could
endure. It maddened me. Try to make
allowances for a man beside himself.
I struck her.

The instant the blow was dealt, I re-
pented it. She crouched down, silent,
in a corner. of the room, and eyed me
steadily. It was alook that cooled my
hot blood in an instant. There was no
time now to think of making atonement.
I could only risk the worst, and make
sure of her till the funeral was over. I
looked her into her bed-room.

When I came back, after laying my
mother in the grave, I found her sitting
by the bedside, very much altered in look
and bearing, with a bundle on her lap.
She faced me quietly; she spoke with a
curious stillnes in her voice—strangely
and unnaturally composed in look and
manner.

“No man has ever struck me yet,”
she said. “My husband shall have no
second opportunity. Set the door open
and let me go.”

She passed me, and left the room. I
saw her walk away up the street.

W'as she gone for good?

All that night I watched and waited.
The
next night, overcome by fatigue, I lay'
down in bed in my clothes, with the

No foot-step came near the house.

 
 

 

 

 

28'

door locked, the key on the table, and
the candle burning. My slumber was
not disturbed. The third night, the
fourth, the fifth, the sixth, passed, and
nothing happened. Ilav‘down on the
seventh night—still suspicious of some-
thing happening; still in my clothes;
still with the door locked, the key on the
table, and the candle burning.

My rest was disturbed. I woke twice,
without any sensation of uneasiness.
The third time, that horrid shivering of
the night at the lonely inn, that awful
sinking pain at the heart, came back
again and roused me in an instant.

My eyes opened toward the lefthand
side of the bed. And there stood, look—
ing at nae—~—

Tlie Dream-Woman again? No X My
Wife. The living woman, with the face
of the Dream—in the attitude of the
the knife

clasped in the delicate white hand.

I sprang upon her on the instant; but
not quickly enough to stop her from
hiding the knife. IVithout a word from
me without a. cry from her, I pin-
ioncd her in a chair. With one hand
Ifelt up her sleeve; and there, where
the Dream-Woman had hidden the
knife, my wife had hidden it—the knife
with the buckhorn handle, that looked
like new.

I’Vhat I felt when I made that discov-
ery I could not realize at the time, and I
can’t describe now. Itook one steady
look at her with the knife in my hand.

“You meant to kill me? ” I said.

“Yes,” she'answered, “I meant to kill
you.” She crossed her arms over her
bosom, and stared me coolly in the face.
“I shall do it yet,” she said. “With

, that knife.”

I don’t know what possessed me—I

Dream—the fair arm up;

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

swear to you I am no coward; and yet I
acted like a coward. The horrors got
hold of me. I couldn’t look at her—-
I couldn’t speak to her. I left her (with
the knife in my hand), and went out in-
to the night.

There msa bleak wind abroad, and
the smell of rain was in the air. The
church clocks chimed the quarter as I
walked beyond the last houses in the
town. I asked the first policeman I met
what hour that was, of which the quar-
ter-past had just struck.

The man looked at his watch, and an-
swered, “Two o’clock.” Two in the
morning. What day of the month was
this day that had just begun ? I reck-
oned it up from the date of my mother’s
funeral. The horrid parallel between
the dream and the reality was complete
——1t was my birthday!

Had I escaped themortal peril which
the dream foretold? or had I only re-
ceived a second warning ‘2 _

As that doubt crossed my mind I
stopped on my way out of the town.
The air had revived me—I felt in some
After a
little thinking, I began to see plainly the
mistake I had made in leaving my wife
free to go where she liked and to do as
she pleased.

degree like my own self again.

I turned instantly“ and made my way
back to the house.

It was still dark. I had left the candle
When I
looked up to the window of the room
now, there was no light in it. I advanced
to the house door.

burning in the bed-chamber.

On going away I re-
membered to have closed it; on trying
it now, I found it open.

I waited outside, never losing sight of
the house till daylight. Then I ventured
1n-doors—listened and heard nothing—-

 
 

A MYSTERY.

looked into kitchen, ,scullery,’ par—
lor; and found nothing—went ‘ up at
last into the bed—room. It was empty.
A pick-lock lay on the floor, which
told me how she had gained entrance in
the night. And that was the one trace
I could find of the Dream-“roman.

XIII.

I waited in the house till the town was
astir for the day—and then I went to
In the confused state
of my mind at the time, I had one clear
notion of what I meant to do: I was de-
termined to sell my house and leave the
neighborhood. There were obstacles in
the way which I had not counted on. I
was told I had creditors to satisfy before
I could leave—I, who had given my wife
the money to pay my bills regularly
Inquiry showed that she

consult a lawyer.

every week!
had embezzled every farthing of the
money that I had entrusted to'her. I
had no choice but to pay over again.

Placed in this awkard posrtion, my
first duty was to set things right, with
the help of my lawyer. During my
forced sojourn in the town I did two
foolish things.
that followed, Iheard once more, and
heard for the last time,'of my wife.

In the first place, having got posses-
sion of the knife, I-was rash enough to
keep it in my pocket. In the second
place, having something of importance

And, as a consequence

to say to the lawyer, at a late hour of the
evening, I went to his house after dark
—alone and on foot. I got there safely
enough. Returning I was seized on
from behind by two men; dragged down
a dark passage, and robbed—not only of
the little money I had about me,
but also of the knife. It was the lawyer’s
opinion (as it was mine) that the thieves
were among the disreputable acquaint-

possession.

 

29

ances formed by my wife, and that they
had attacked me at_her instigation. To
conffim this View I received a letter the
next day. with out date or address, written
in Alicia’s hand. The first line informed
me that the knife was back again in her
The second line reminded
me of the day when I had stuck her. The
third line warned me that she would
wash out the stain of that blow in my
blood, and repeated the words,“I shall
do it with the knife!”

These things happened, a year ago.
The law laid hands on the men who had
robbed me—but from that time to this
the law has failed completely to find a
trace of my wife. .

My story is told. VVhenI had paid
the creditors and paid the legal expenses,
I had barely five pounds left 0ut~of the
sale of my house; and I’had the world to
begin over again. Some months since
—-driftng here and there—I found my
way to Underbridge. The landlord at
the inn had known something of my
father’s family in times past. He gave
me (all he had to give) my food, and shel-
ter in the yard. Except on marketdays,
there is nothing to do. In the coming
winter the inn is to be shut up, and I
shall have to shift for myself. My old
master would help me if I applied to
him—but I‘ don’t like to apply; he has
done more fonme already than I deserve.
Besides, in another year who knows but
my troubles may all be at an end? Next
winter will bring me nigh to my next
birthday—~and my next birthday may be
the day of my death. Yes! it’s trueI
sat up all last night; and I heard two in
the morning strike; and nothing hap-
pened.
come is a time I don’t trust.

till, allowing for that, time to
My wife
has got the knife—my wife is looking for
me. I am above superstition, mind! I

 
 

 

 

 

 

30

don’t say I believein dreams; I only say,
Alicia Warlock is looking for me. It is
possible I may be wrong. It is possible
I may be right. Who can tell?

XIV.
' We took leave of Francis Raven at the
door of Farleigh Hall, with the under-
standing that he might expect to hear
from us again.

The same night, Mrs. Fairbank and I
had a discussion in the sanctuary of our
own room. The topic was the “Ostler’s
Story; ” and the question in dispute be-
tween us turned on the measure of char-
itable duty that we owed to the Ostler
himself.

The view Itook of the man’s narra-
tive was of the purely matter-of-iact
kind. Francis Raven had, in my opinion,
brooded over the misty connection be-
tween his strange dream and his vile
wife, until his mind was in a state of
I was
quite willing to help him with a trifle of
money, and to recommend him to the
kindness of my lawyer, if he was really
in any danger and wanted advice. There,
my idea of my duty towards this af-
flicted person began and ended.

Confronted with this sensible view of
the matter, Mrs. Fairbank’s romantic

partial delusion on that subject.

temperament rushed as usual into ex—
tremes. “I should no more think of
losmg sight of Francis Raven when his
next birthday comes round,” says my
wife, “than I should think of laying
down a good story with the last chapters
unread. I am positively determined,
Percy, to take hlll‘l back with us. when
we return to France, in the capacity of
groom. What- does one man more or less
among the horses matter to people as
rich'as we are?”
partner of my joys and sorrows ran on;

In this strain the

 

ALICIA WARLOOK:

perfectly impenetrable to everythingI
could say on the, side of common-sense.
Need I tell my married brethren. how it
ended? Of course I allowed my wife ,
to irritate me, and spoke to her sharp-
ly. Of course, my wife turned her
face away indignantly on the conjugal
pillow and burst into tears. Of: course,
upon that, “Mr.” made his excuses, and
“Mrs.” had her own way.

Before the week was out we rode over
to Underbridge, and duly offered to
Francis Raven a place in our service as
supernumerary groom.

At first the poor fellow seemed hardly
able to realize his own extraordinary
good fortune. Recovering himself, he
expressed his gratitude modestly and
becomiugly. Mrs. Fairbank’s ready
sympathies overflowed as usual at her
lips. She talked to him about our home
in France, as if the worn, gray-headed
ostler had been a child. “Such a dear
old house, Francise, and such pretty gar-
dens! Stables ten times as big as your
stables here; quite a'choice of roooms
for you. You must learn the name of
our house—it is called Maison Rouge.
Our nearest town is Metz. We are'
within a walk of the beautiful river
Moselle. And when we want a change
we have only to take the railway to the
frontier, and find ourselvesin Germany.”

Listening, so far, With a very bewil-
dered face, Francis started and changed
color, when my wife reached the end of
her last sentence.

“Germany? ” he repeated.

“ Yes. Does Germany remind you of
anythmg?”

The ostler’s eyes looked down sadly on
the ground. “Germany reminds me of
my wife,” he replied.

“Indeed? How?”

“She once told me she had lived in
A MYSTERY.

Germany—long before I knew her—in
the time when she-wasa young gir .”

“ Was she living with relations or
friends?” '

“ She was living as governess in a for
eign family.”

“In what part of Germany? ”

“I don’t remember, ma’am. I doubt
if she told me.”

“Did she tell you the name of the
family ? ”
It was a foreign name,
and it has slipped my memory long
'since. The head of the family was a
wine-grower in a large way of business—
I remember that.”

“Did you hear what sort of wine he
grew?

“ Yes, ma’am.

There are wine-growers in our

neighborhood. Was it Moselle wine?”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am. I doubt if I
ever heard.”

There the conversation dropped. We
engaged to communicate with Francis
Raven before we left England, and took
our leave.

I had made my arrangements to. pay .

our round of visits to English friends,
and to return to Maison Rouge in the
summer. On the eve of departure, cer-
tain difficulties in connection with the
management of somelanded property of
mine in Ireland obliged us to alter our
Instead of getting back to our
house in France in the summer, we only
returned a week or two before Christ-
mas.

plans.

Francis Raven accompanied us,
and was duly established, in the nominal
capacity of stableihelper, among the
servants at Maison Rouge.

Before long some of the objections to
taking him into our employment, which
I had foreseen and had vainly mentioned
to my wife, forced themselves on our at-
tention in no very agreeable form.

Francis Raven failed (as I had feared

 

31

he would) to get on smoothly with his
fellow-servants. They were all French;
and not one of them understood Eng-
lish. .

Francis, on his side, was equally igno-
rant of French. His reserved manners,
his melancholytemperament, his solitary
ways—all told agalnst him. Our servants
called 111m “the English Bear.” He grew
Widely known in the neighborhood un-
Quarrels took place,
ending once or twice in blows. It became
plain, even to Mrs. Fairbank herself,
that some wise change must be made.

der his nick-name.

While we were still considering what
the change was to be, the unfortunate
ostler was thrown on our hands, for some
tlme to come, by an accrdent in the
stables. Still pursued by his proverbvial
ill—luck, the poor wretch’s leg was broken
by a kick from a horse.

He was attended to by ourown surgeon,
in 111s comfortable bed-room at the sta-
bles. As the date of his birthday drew -
near he was still confined to his bed.

Physically speaking, he was doing very
Morally speaking, the surgeon
was not satisfied. Francis Raven was
suffering under some unacknowledged
mental disturbance, which interfered
seriously with his rest at night. Hearing
this, I thought it my duty to tell the med- '
lcal attendant what was preying on the
patient’s mind. As a practical man, he
shared my opinion that the ostler was in
a state of delusion on the subject of his ~
Wife and his Dream. “ Curable delusion,
in my opinion,” the surgeon added, “if

well.

the experiment could be fairly tried.”
“How can it be tried? ” I asked.
Instead of replying, the surgeon put a
question to me on his side.
“Do you happen to know,” he said,
“that this year is Leap Year? ”
. “Mrs. Fairbank reminded me of it;

 
 

32 ALICIA

yesterday,” I answered. “Otherwise I
might not have known it.”

“Do you think Francis RaVen knows
that this year is Leap Year? ”

(I began to see dimly what my friend
was drivmg at.) ‘

“It depends,” I answered, “on wheth-
er he has. got an English almanac . Sup-
pose he has not got the almanac—what
then ? ”

“ In that case,” pursued the surgeon,
“Francis Raven is innocent of all suspi—
cion that there is a twenty-ninth day in
February this year. As a necessary con-
He will an-
ticipate the appearance of the Woman
with the Knife at 2 in the morning on
the twenty-ninth day of February, in-
stead of the first of March Let him
suffer all his superstitious terrors on the
wrong day. Leave him on the day that
is really his birthday, to pass a perfectly
quiet night,and to be as sound asleep as
other people at 2 in the morning. 'And
then,when he wakes comfortably in time
for his breakfast, shame him out of his
delusion by telling him the truth.”

I_ agree to try the experiment. Leav-
ing the surgeon to caution Mrs. Fairbank
on the subject of Leap Year, I went to
the stables to see Francis Raven.

sequence—what will he do ?

XV.

The poor fellow was full of forebodings
of the fate in store for him on the om-
inous first of March. He eagerly en-
treated me to order one of the men-ser-
vants to sit up with him on the birthday
morning. In granting his request, I asked
him to tell me on which day of the week
his birthday fell. He reckoned the days
on his fingers; and proved his innocence
of all suspicion that it was Leap Year
by fixing on the twenty-ninth of Febru-
ary, in the full persuasion that it was

 

VVARLOCK:

the first of March Pledged to try the
surgeon’s experimental left his error
uncorrected, of course. him doing, I
took my first step blindfold towards the
last act in the drama of the Ostler’s
Dream.

The nextday brought with it a little
domestic difi‘iculty, which indirectly and
strangely associated itself with the com-
ing end.

My wife received a letter, inviting us
to assist in celebrating the “ Silver Wed-
ding” of two worthy German neighbors
of ours—Mr. and Mrs. Beldheimer. Mr.
Beldheimer was a large wine-grower on
the banks of the Moselle. His house
was situated on the frontierline of France
and Germany; and the distance from
our house was sufficiently considerable
to make it neccessary for us to sleep un-
der our host’s roof. Under these circum-
stances, if we accepted the invitation, a
comparison of dates showed that we ’
should be away from home on the morn-
ing of the first of March. Mrs. Fair-
bank—holding to her absurd resolution
to see with her oWn eyes what might, or
might not, happen to Francis Raven on
his. birthday—flatly declined to leave
Maison Rouge. “It’s easy to send an
excuse,” she said, in her off-hand man-
net.

I failed, for my part to see any easy
way out of the difficulty. The celebra-
tion of a “ Silver Wedding” in Germay
is the celebration of twenty—five years
of happy married life; and the host’s
claim upon the consideration of his
friends on such an occasion is something
in the nature of a Royal “ command.”
After considerable discussion, finding
my Wife’s obstinacy invincible, and feel-
ing that the absence of both of us from
the festival would certainly offend our
friends, I left Mrs. Fairbank to make
A MYSTERY.

her excuses for herself; and directed her
to accept the invitation as far as I was
concerned. In so doing, I took my
seCOnd step, blindfold, toward the last
act in the drama of the Ostler’s Dream.

A week elapsed; the last days of Feb-
ruary were at hand. Another domestic
difficulty happened; and, again, this
event also proved to be strangely associ-
ated with the coming end,

My head groom at the stables was one
Joseph Rigobert. He was an ill-con—
ditioned fellow, inordinately vain of his

personal appearance, and by no measu

scrupulous in his conduct with women.
His one virtue consisted in his fondness
for horses, and in the'care he took of the
animals under his charge. In a word, he
was too good a groom to be easily re-
placed, or he would have quitted my ser-
vice 1ong since. On the occasion of
which I am now writing, he was reported
to me by my steward as growing , idle
and disorderly in his habits. The prin—
cipal offence alleged against him was
that he had been seen that day in the
city of Metz, in the company of a wom-
an (supposed to be an Englishwoman),
whom he was‘eutertaining at a tavern,
when he ought to have been on his way
back to Maison Rouge. The man’s de-
fence was that “the lady” (as he called
her) was an English stranger, unacquaint.

ed with the ways of the place, and.

that he had only shown her Where she
could obtain some refreshment, at her
own request. I administered the neces-
sary reprimand—Without troubling my—
self to inquire further into the matter.
In failing to do this, I took my third
step, blindfold, towards the last act in
the drama of the Ostler’s Dream.

On the evening of the twenty-eighth,
I informed the servants at the stables
that one of them must watch through

 

33

the night by the Englishman’s bedside.
Joseph Rigobert immediately volunteer-
ed for the duty—as a means no doubt of
winning his way back to my favor. I
accepted his proposal.

That day, the surgeon dined with us.
Towards midnight he and I left the
smoking-room, and repaired to Francis
Raven’s bedside. Rigobert was at his
post—with no very agreeable expression
on his face. The Frenchman and the
Englishman had evidently not got on
well together, so far. Franc1s Raven
lay helpless‘on his bed, waiting silently
for2 1n the morning, and the Dream
Woman.

“I have come, Francis, to bid you
good-night,” I said, cheerfully. “ To-
morrow morning I shall look in at break-
fast time, before I leave home on a
journey.”

“ Thank you for all your kindness, sir.
You will not see me alive, tomorrow
morning. She will find me, this time.
Mark my wordsw—she will find me, this
time.”

“My good fellowl she couldn’t find
you in England. How in the world is she
to find you in France?”

“It’s borne in on my mind, sir, that
she will find me here. At 2 in the mor-
ning on my birthday I shall see her
again, and see her for the last time.”

“ Do you mean that she w111 kill
you?”

“Imean that, sir.
with the knife.”

“ And with Rigobert in the room to

She will kill me—

protect you? ”

“ I am a doomed man. Fifty Rigoberts
couldn’t protect me.”

“ And yet you wanted somebody to
sit up with you? ”

“Mere weakness, sir. I dont like to
be left alone on my death—bed.”

 
 

34

I looked at the surgeon. If he had en-
couraged me, I should certainly, out of
sheer compassion have confessed to
Francis Raven the trick that we were
playing him. The surgeon held to his
experiment; the surgeon's face plainly
said—“No.”

The next day (the twenty-ninth of'

February) was the day of the Silver
lVedding. The first thing in the morn
ing, I went to Francis Raven’s room.
Rigobert'met me at the door.

“How has he passed the night?” I
asked. *

“Saying his prayers, and looking for
ghosts,” Rigobert answered. “A luna-
tic asylum is the only proper place for
him.”

I approached the bedside. “Well,
Francis, here you are, safe and sound.
in spite of what you said to me, last
night. ”

His eyes rested on mine with a vacant,
Wondering look.

“I don’t understand it,” he said.

“Did you see anything of your wife
when the clock struck 2? ”

“No, sir.’

“ Did anything happen?’

“Nothing happened, sir.”

“Doesn’t this satisfy you
were wrong? ”

His eyes still kept their vacant, wou-
dering look. He only repeated the words
he had spoken already:

“I don’t understand it.”

I made a last attempt to cheer him,
“Come, come, Francis! keep a good
heart. You will be out of bed in a
fortnight.”

He shook his head on the pillow.
“There’s somethihg wrong,” he said.
“I don’t expect you to belleve me, sir.
I only say, there's something wrong—
and time will show it. ”

that you

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

I left the room. Half an hour later I
started for Mr. Beldheimer’s house;
leaving the arrangements for the morn-
ing of the first of March. in the hands of
the doctor and my wife.

XVI.

The one thing which principally struck
me when I joined the guests at the
Silver Wedding is also the one thing
which it is necessary to mention here.
On this joyful occasion anoticeable lady
present was out of spirits. That lady
was no other than the heroine of the
festival, the mistress of the house!

In the course of the evening, Ispoke to
Mr. Beldheimer’s eldest son on the sub-
ject of his mother. As an old friend of
the family, I had a claim on his confi-
dence which the young man willingly
recognized.

“We have had a very disagreeable
and my
mother has not recovered the painful

matter to deal with,” he said; “

impression left on her mind. Many,
years since, when my sisters were chil-
dren, we had an English governess 1n the
house.
stood, to be married. We heard no more
of her until a week or ten days since——

She left us, as we then under- ‘

when my mother received a letter in
which our eX—governess described herself
as being in a condition of great poverty
and distress. After much hesitation she
had ventured—at the suggestion of a
lady who had been kind to her—to write
to her former employers, and to appeal
to their remembrance of old times.
You know my mother; she is not only
the most klndhearted, but the most in-
nocent of women—it is impossible to
persuade her of the wicxedness that
there is in the world. She replied by
return of post, inviting the governess to
come here and see her, and enclosing the
A MYSTERY.

money for her travelling expenses.
when my father came home, and heard
What had been done, he wrote at once to
his agent in London to make inquiries——
enclosing the address on the governess’s
letter.
agent’s reply the governess arrived. She
produced the worst possible impression
on his mind. The agent’s letter, reach-
ing us a few days later, confirmed his
suspicions. Since we had lost sight of
her, the woman had led a most disrep-
utable life. My father spoke to her
privately; he ofiered—on condition of

Before he could receive the

her leavmg the house—a sum of money
to take her back to England. If she re-
fused, the alternative would be an
appeal to the authorities and a public
scandal. She accepted the money, and
left the house. On her way back to En-
gland, she appears to have stopped at
Metz. You will understand what sort
of woman she is, when I tell you that
she was seen, the other day, in a tavern
with your handsome groom, Joseph
Rigobert.”

While my informant was relating these
circumstances, my memory was at work.
I recalled what Francis Raven had
vaguely told us of his wife’s experience
in former days, as governess in a German
family. m
denly flashed across my mind.

“What was the woman’s name?” I
asked.

Mr. Beldheimer’s son answered:

“ Alicia Warlock.”

I had but one idea when I heard that
reply—to get back to my house without
a moment’s needless delay. It was then
10 o’clock at night—the last train to
Metz had left long since.
with my young friend—after duly in—

Asuspicion of the truth sad-

I arranged

forming him of the circumstances—that
I should’go by the first train in the morn-

.With the English accent.)

 

V35

ing, instead of staying to breakfast with
the other guests Who slept in the
house.

At intervals during the night I won-
dered uneasily howthings were going on
at Maison Rouge. Again and again,the
same question occurred to me, on my

journey home in the early morning—the

morning of the first. of March. As the
event proved, but one person in ‘ my
house knew what really happened at the
stables, on Francis Raven’s birthday.
Let Joseph Rigobert take my place as
narrator, and tell the story of the end to
you—~as he told it, in times past, to his
lawyer and to me.

 

FOURTH (AND LAST) NARRATIVE.

THE STATEMENT OF JOSEPH RIGOBERT;
ADDRESSED TO THE. BARRISTER WHO
DEFENDED HIM AT HIS TRIAL.
REsPECTED SIR: On the twenty-

seventh of February, I was sent, on

business connected With the stables at

Maison Rouge, to the city of Metz. On

the public promenade I met a magnifi-

cent woman. Complexion blonde.

Nationality, English. We mutually ad-

mired each other; we fell into conver-

sation. ‘(She spoke French perfectly—

I offered

refreshment; my proposal was accepted.

We had a long and interesting interview

—we discovered that we Were made for

each other.
Is it my fault thatoI am a handsome

manwuniversally agreeable as such to
the fair sex? Is it a criminal offence to
he accessible to the amiable weakness of
love? I ask again, who isto blame?

Clearly, Nature. Not the beautiful lady

-—not my humble self.

To resume. The most hard—hearted
person living will understand that two

So far, who is to blame?

 
 

 

 

36

beings made for each other could not
possibly‘part without an appointment to
meet again.

Imade arrangements for the accom-
modation of the lady in the village near
Maison Rouge. She’consented to honor
me with her company at supper. in my
apartment at the stables, on the night
of thet wenty—ninth. The time fixed on
was the time when the other servants
were accustomed to retire—11 o’clook.

Among the grooms attached to the
stables was an Englishman, laid up with
abroken leg. His name was Francis.
His manners were repulsive; he was
ignorant of the French language. In the
kitchen he went by the nick-name of
“The English Bear.” Strange to say,
he was a great favorite with my master
and my mistress. They even humored
certain superstitious terrors to which
this repulsive person was subject-ter-
rors into the nature of which I, as an
advanced free-thinker, never thought it
worth my While to inquire.

On the evening of the twenty-eighth,
the Englishman, being a. prey to the
terrors which I have mentioned, re-
quested that one of his fellow-servants
might sit up with him for that night
only. The wish that he expressed was
backed by Mr. Fairbank’s authority,
Having already incurred my master’s
displeasure—in what way, aproper sense
of my own dignity forbids me to relate
—-I volunteered to watch by the bedside
of the English Bear. My object was to

satisfy Mr. Fairbank that I bore no
malice, on my side, after what had oc-
curred between us. The wretched
Englishman passed a night of delirium.
Not understanding his barbarous lan-
guage, I could only gather from his
gestures that he was in deadly fear of
some fancied apparition at his bedside.

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

From time to time, when this madman
disturbed my slumbers, I quieted him by
swearing at him. This is the shortest
and best way of dealing with persons in
his condition.

On the morning of the twenty-ninth,
Mr. Fairbank left us on a journey.

Later in the day, to my unspeakable
disgust, I [found that I had not done
In Mr. Fair-
bank’s absence, Mrs. Fairbank took an
incomprehensible interest in the ques-
tion of my delirious fellow-servant’s

with the Englishman yet.

repose at night. Again, one or other of
us was to watch by his bedside, and to
report it, if anything happened. EX-
pecting my fair friend to supper, it was
necessary to make sure that the other
servants at the stables would be
safe in their beds that night. Accord-
ingly, I volunteered once more to bethe

man who kept watch; Mrs. Fairbank

complimented me on my humanity. I

possess great command over my feel-
ings. I accepted the compliment with-
out a blush.

Twice, after nightfall, my mistress and
the dector (this last staying in the house,
in Mr. Fairbank’s absence) came to make
inquiries. Once, before the arrival of my
On the
second occasion (my apartment being
next door to the Englishman’s) I was
obliged to hide my charming guest in
the harness room. She consented, with
angelic resignation. to immolate her
dignity to the servile necessities of my
position. A more amiable woman (so
far) I never met with.

After the second Visit I was left free.
It was then. close on midnight. Up to
that time, there was nothing in the be-
havior of the mad Englishman to reward
Mrs. Fairbank and the doctor for pre-
senting themselves at his bedside. He

fair friend—and once after.

\
A MYSETRY.

lay, half awake, half asleep, with an odd
wondering kind of look in his face. My
mistress at parting warned me to be par—
ticularly watchful of him towards 2 in
the morning. The doctor ( in case any-
thing happened) left me a large hand-
bell to ring, which could easily be
heard at the house.

Restored to the scolety of my fair
friend, I spread the supper-table. A
pate, a sausage, and a few bottles of
generous Moselle wine, composed our
simple meal. When persons adore each

other, the intoxicating illusion 0f love

transforms the simplest meal into a ban—‘

quet. With immeasurable capacities
for enjoyment, we sat down to table.
At the very moment when I placed my
fascinating companion in a chair—the
infamous Englishman in the next room
took that occasion of all others to be—
come restless and noisy, once more. He
struck with his stick on the floor; he
cried out in a delirious access of terror,
“Rigobertl Rigobertl ”

The sound of that lamentable voice,
suddenly assailing our ears, terrified my
fair friend. She lost all her charming
color in an instant. “Good heavens!”
she exclaimed. “Who is that in the
next room? ”

“A mad Englishman.” .

“An Englishman? ” ‘

“Compose yourself, my angel.
quiet him.”

The lamentable voice called out on me
again, “ Rigobert! Rigobertl ”

My fair friend caught me by the arm.
“ Who is he? What is his name?”

Something in her face struck me as she
put that question. A spasm of jealousy
shook me to the soul. “You know
him?” I said.

“His name? ” she vehemently repeat-
ed; “his name?”

I will

 

37

’ “Francis,” I answered. i

“ Francis—what? ” ,
could
neither remember nor pronounce the

I shrugged my shoulders. I

barbarous English surname. I could only
tell her it began with an “R.”

She dropped back into the chair. Was
she going to faint? No; she recovered,
and more than recovered, her lost color.
Her eyes flashed superbly. What did it
mean ? Profoundly as I understand
women in general, I was puzzled by this
woman!

“You know him? ” I repeated.

She laughed at me. “ W'hat nonsensei
How should I know him? Go and quiet
the wretch.”

My looking-glass was near. One
glance at it satisfied me that no woman
in her senses could prefer the English-
man to me. I recovered my self-respect.
I hastened to the Englishman’s bedside.

The moment I appeared he pointed
eagerly towards my room. He over-
whelmed me with a torrent of words in
his own language. I made out, from his
gestures and his looks, that he had, in
some incomprehensible manner, discover-
ed the presence of my guest—and, strang—
er still, that he was scared by theidea of a
person in my room. I endeavored to
to compose him on the system which I
have already mentioned—that is to say,
The re-
sult not proving satisfactory, I shook my
fist in his face—«and left the bed—cham-
ber.

Returning to my fair friend, I found
her walking backwards and forwards in
a state of excitement wonderful to be-
hold. She had not waited for me to fill
her glass—she had begun the generous
Moselle in my absence. I prevailed on
her with difliculty to place herself at the
table. Nothing would induce her to eat.

I swore at him in my language.

 
 

 

 

38

"My appetiteis gone,” she said. “ Give
me wine.” '
The generous Moselle deserves its
name—delicate on the palate, with pro-
digious “body.” The strength of this
fine wine produced no stupefying effect
on my remarkable guest. It appeared to
strengthen and exhilarate her—nothing
more. She always spoke in the same low
tone, and always, turn the conversation
as I might, brought it back with the
same dexterity to the subject of the En-
In any
other woman thispersistency would have
ofiended me. My lovely guest was irre-
sistible; I answered her questions with
the docility of a child. She possessed all
the amusing eccentriCIty of her nation.
When I told her of the accident which
confined the Englishman to his bed, she
sprang to her feet. An extraordinary
smile irradiated her countenance. She
said, “ Show me the horse who broke his
leg! I must, and will, see the h orsel” I
took her down to the stables. She kissed
the horse—on my word of honor, she
kissed the horsel That struck me. I
said, “ You do know the man; and he has

glishman in the next room.

wronged you in some way.” Nol she
would not admit it, even then. “I kiss

all beautiful animals,” she said. “Haven’t
I kissed you?” With that charming eX-
plauation of her conduct, she ran back
up the stairs.
to lock the stable door again. \Vhen I
rejoined her, I made a startling dis-
covery. I cought her coming out of the
Englishman s room.

“I was just going down stairs to call
you,”
getting noisy, once more.”

The mad Englishman’s voice assailed
our ears again.

“Rigobei‘tl Rigobertl ”

He wasafrightful object to look at
when I saw him this time. His eyes

she said. “The man in there is

 

 

Ionly remained behind .

 

ALICIA WARLO.CK:

were staring wildly; the perspiration was
pouring over his face. In a panic of'
terror he clasped his hands; he pointed
up to Heaven. By every sign and ges-
ture that a man can make, he entreated
me not to leave him again. I really
could not help smiling. The idea of my
staying with him, and leaving my fair
friend by herself in the next room!

I turned to the door. When the mad
wretch saw me leaving him he burst out
into a screech of despair—so shrill that
I feared it might awaken the sleeping
servants.

,My presence of mind in emergencies
is proverbial among those who know me.
I tore open the cupboard in which he
kept his lmen—seizeda handful of his
handkerchiefs—gagged him with one Of
them, and secured hlS hands with the
others. There was now no danger of his
alarming the servants. After tying the
last knot, I looked up.

The door between the Englishman’s
room and mine was open. My fair friend
was standing on the thresholdawatch—
ing. him as he lay helpless on the bed;
watching me as I tied the last knot.

“ What are you doing there ‘9 ” I asked.
“Why did you open the door? ”

She stepped up to me, and whispered
her answer in my earl—with her eyes all
the time upon the man in the bed.

“I heard him Scream.”

“ Well?” . '

“ I thought you had killed him.”

I drew back from her in horror. The
suspicion of me which her words im-
plied was suflfiicientlydetestablein itself.
But her manner when she uttered the
words was more revolting still. It so
powerfully affected me that I started
back from that beautiful creature, as I
might have recoiled from a reptile crawl-
ing over my flesh.

Before I had recovered myself sufficient-
A MYSTERY.

1y to reply, my nerves were assailed by
another shock. I suddenly heard my
mistress’s voice, calling to me from the
stable yard.

There was no time to think—there was
only time to act. The onething needful
was to keep Mrs. Fairbank from ascend-
ing the stairs, and discovering—not my
lady guest only—but the Englishman
also, gagged and bound, on his bed. I
instantly hurried to the yard. As I ran
down the stairs I heard the stable clock
strike the quarter to 2 in the morning.

My mistress was eager and agitated.
The doctor (in attendance on her) was
smiling to himself, like a man amused at
his own thoughts-

“Is Francis awake or asleep?” Mrs.
Fairbank inquired. ‘

“He has been a little restless, madam.
But he is now quiet again. If he is not
disturbed” (I added these words to pre-
vent her from ascending the stairs) “he
will soon fall off into a quiet sleep.”

“ Has nothing happend since I was
here last? ”

“Nothing, madam.”

The doctor lifted his eyebrows with a
comical look of distress.

“Alas, alas, Mrs. Fairbank,” he said;
“ nothing has happened! The days of
romance are overl”

“It is not 2 o’clock yet,” my mistress
answered, a little irritably.

The smell of the stables was strong on
the morning air. She put her handker-
chief to her nose and led the way out of
the yard, by the north entrance—the
entrance communicating with the gard-
ens and the house. I was ordered to
follow her, along with the doctor. Once
out of smell of the stables, she began to
question me again. She was unwilling
to believe that nothing had occurred in

her absence. I invented the best an-

 

39

swers I could think of on the spur of the.
moment; and the doctor stood by, laugh-
ing. So the minutes passed, till the
clock struck 2. Upon that, Mrs. Fair-
bank announced her intention of person—
ally visiting the Englishman in his room.
To my great relief, the doctor interfered
to stop her from doing this.

“ You have heard that Francis is just
falling asleep,” he said. “If you enter
his room you may disturb him. It is
essential to the success of my experi-
ment that he should have a good night’s
rest, and that he should own it himself,
before I tell him the truth.
quest, medically, madam, that you Will
not disturb the man.”

My mistress was unwilling to yield.

I must re-

For the next five minutes, at least, there
was a warm discussion between the two.
In the end, Mrs. Fair-bank was obliged to
give way—for the time. “ In half an
hour,” she said, “Francis will either be
sound asleep, or awake again. In half
an hour, I shall come back.” She took
the doctor’s arm. They returned to-
gether to the house. \

Left by myself, with half an hour be-
fore me, I resolved to take the English-
woman back to the village—then; return-
ing to the stables, to remove the gag and
the bindings from Francis, and to let
him screech to his heart’s content. What
would his alarming the whole establish-
ment matter to mc—after I had got rid of
the compromising presence of my guest?

Returning to the ~ yard, I heard a
sound like the creaking of an open door
on its hinges. The gate of the north
entrance I had just closed with my own
hand. I went round to the west en-
trance at the back of the stables. It
opened on a field crossed by two foot-
paths, in Mr. Fairbank’s grounds. The
nearest footpath led to the village. The

 
 

 

 

40

ALICIA WARLOCK:

other led to the high road and the the bare ideaofacrime. Besides,Ihad

river.

Arriving at the west entrance, I found
the door open—swinging to and fro in
the fresh morning breeze. I had myself
locked and bolted that door after admit—
A
vague dread of something wrong stole
its way into my mind. I hurried back
to the stables.

I looked into my own room.
empty. I went to the harness room.
Not a sign of the woman was there. I
returned to my room, and approached
the déor of the Englishman’s bedcham-
ber. Was it possible that she had re-
mained there during my absence? An
unaccountable reluctance to open the

ting my fair friend at 11 o’clock.

It was

door made me hesitate, with my hand
on the lock. I listened. There was not
a sound inside. I called softly. There
was no answer. I drew back a step, still
hesitating, I noticed something dark,
, moving slowly in the crevice between
the bottom of the door and the boarded
floor. Snatching up the candle from the
table, I held it low, and looked. The
dark, slowly moving object was a stream
of bloodl

That horrid sight roused me.
ed the door.

The Englishman lay on his bed—alone
in “the room. He was stabbed in two
places—in the throat and in the heart.
The weapon was left in the second wound.
It was a knife of English manufacture,
with a handle of buckhorn as good as
new.

I instantly gave the alarm. Witness
can speak to what followed.
strous to suppose that I am guilty of the
murder; I admit that I am capable of
committing follies—but I shrink from

I open-

It is mon-

 

no motive for killing the man. The
woman murdered him, in my absence.
The woman escaped by the west entrance
while I was talking to my mistress.
l have no more to say. .I swear to you
What I have here written is a true state-
ment of all that happened on the morn-
ing of the let of March.

Accept, sir, the assurance of my senti-
ments of profound gratitude and respect.

JOSEPH RIGOBERT.

 

LAST LINES.
ADDED BY PERCY FAIRBANK.

Tried for the murder of Francis
Raven, Joseph Rigobert was found Not
Guilty; the papers of the assassinated
man presenting ample evidence of the
deadly animosity felt towards him by his
wife.

The investigations pursued on the
morning when the crime was committed
showed that the murderess, after leaving
the stable, had takenthe footpath which
led to the river.
—-without result.

The river was dragged
It remains doubtful

’ to this day whether she died by drown-

ing or not. The one thing certain is—
that Alicia Warlock was never seen
again.
Sodbeginning in mystery, ending in
Dream Woman passes
Ghost; demon; or liv-
ing human creature—say for yourselves
which she is. 01', knowing what unfath-
omed wonders are around you, what un-

mystery—th e
from your View.

fathomed wonders are in you, let the
wise words of the greatest of all poets
be explanation enough:

“ We are such stuff

As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a. sleep.”
A SANE MADMAN.

 

ONE fine morning more than three
months since, you were riding with
your brother, Miss Anstell, in Hyde
Park. It was a hot day; and you had
allowed your horses to fall into a walk-
ing pace. As you passed the railing on
the right—hand side, near the eastern ex-
tremity of the lake in the Park, neither
you nor your brother noticed a solitary
woman loitering on the footpath to look
at’the riders as they went by.

The solitary woman was my old nurse,
And these were the
words she heard exchanged between you

Nancy Connell.

and your brother, as you slowly passed
her : —

Your brother said, “Is it really true
that Mary Brading and her husband

'have gone to America?” ~

You laughed (as if the question
amused you) and answered, “ Quite
true I ”

“ How long will they be away? ” your
brother asked next.

“ As long" as they live,” you replied,
with another laugh.

By this time you had passed beyond
Nancy Connell’s hearing. Shc owns to
having followed your horses a few steps,
to hear what was said next. She looked

exception to the rule.

 

He took
your reply seriously: he seemed to be

particularly at your brother.

quite astonished by it.

“ Leave England, and settle in
America I” he exclaimed. “ Why should
they do that?”

“ Who can tell why? ” you answered.
“ Mary Brading’s husband is mad, —
and Mary Bradingr herself is not much
better.”

You touched your horse with the whip,
and, in a moment more, you and your
brother were out of my old nurse’s hear-
ing. She wrote and told me, what I
here tell you, by a recent mail. I have
been thinking of those last words of
yours in my leisure hours, more
seriously than you would suppose. The
end of it is that I take up my pen, on
behalf of my husband and myself, to
tell you the story of our marriage, and
the reason for our emigration to the
United States of America.

It matters little or nothing, to him or
to me, whether our friends in England
think us both mad or not.

ions, hostile or favorable, are of no sort

Their Opin-

of importance to us. But you are an

In bygone days

at school we were fast and firm friends ;
41

 
 

 

42

and —— what weighs with me even more
than this — you were heartily loved and
admired by my dear mother. She spoke
of you tenderly on her death-bed.
Events have separated us of late years.
But I cannot forget the old times ; and
I cannot feel indifferent to your opinion
of me and my husband,—though an
. ocean does separate us, and though we
are never likely to look on one another
again.
say, to take seriously to heart what you
said in One of your thoughtless moments.
I can only plead in excuse, that I have
gone through a great deal of suffering,

It is very foolish of me, I dare

and that IWVas always (as you may re-
member) a person of sensitive tempera-
ment, easily excited and easily de-
pressed. .
Enough of this!
favor I shall ever ask of you.

Do me the last
Read
what follows, and judge for yourself
whether my husband and I are quite as
mad as you were disposed to think us,
when Nancy Connell heard you talking
to your brother in Hyde Park.

II.

‘IT is now more than a year since I
went to Eastbourne, on the coast of
, Sussex, with my father and my brother
James.

My brother had then, as we hoped,
recovered from the effects of a fall in
the hunting-field. He complained, how-
ever, at times of pain in his head ; and
the doctors advised us to try the sea air.
We removed to Eastbourne, without a
suspicion of the serious nature of the
injury that he had received. For a few
We liked the
place; the air agreed with us; and we

days all went well.

 

ALICIA VVARLOOK:

determined to prolong our residence for
some weeks to come. '

_ On our sixth day at the seaside, —— a
memorable day to me, for reasons which
you have still to learn, —myn brother
complained again of the old pain in his
head. He and I went out together to
try what exercise would do towards re-
lieving him. We walked through the
town to the fort at one end of it, and
then followed a footpath running by the
side of the sea, over a dreary waste of
shingle, bounded at its inland extremity
by the road to Hastings and by the
marshy country beyond. I

We had left the fort at some little dis-
tance behind us. I was walking in
front, and James was following me.
He was talking as quietly as usual, when
he suddenly stopped in the middle of a
sentence. I turned round in surprise,
and discovered my brother prostrate on
the path, in convulsions terrible to see.

It was the first epileptic fit I had ever
Witnessed. My presence of mind en-
tirely deserted me. I could only wring
my hands5 in horror, and scream for
help. No one appeared, either from the
direction of the fort or of the high road.
I was too far off, I Suppose, to make
myself heard. Looking ahead of me,
along the path, I discerned, to my infi-
nite relief, the figure of a man running
towards me. As he came nearer, I saw
that he was unmistakably a gentle-
man, ———young, and eager to be of ser-
vice to me.

“Pray compose yourself I” he said,
after a look at my brother. “ It is very
dreadful to see ; butit is not dangerous.
We must wait until the convulsions are
over, and then. I can help you.”
A SANE

He seemed to know so much about it
that I thought he might be a medical
man. I put the question to him plainly.

He colored, and looked a little eon-
fused. , . \ '

“I am not a doctor,” he said. “I
happen to have seen persons afflicted
with epilepsy ; and I have heard medical
men say that it is useless to interfere
See I ”
he added, “your brother is quieter

already.

until the fit has worn itself out.

He will soon feel a sense of
relief which will more than compensate
him for what he has suffered. I will
help him to get to the fort; and, once
there, we can send for a carriage to take
him home.”

In five'minutes more we were on our
way to the fort; the stranger support-
ing my brother as attentively and ten-
derly as if he had been an old friend.
When the carriage arrived he insisted
on accompanying us to our own door,
on the chance that his services might
still be of some use. He left us, asking
permission to call and inquire after
J ames’s health the next day. A more
gentle and unassuming person I never
met with. He not only excited my warm-
est gratitque—he really interested me
at my first meeting with him.

I lay some stress on the impression
whiclf this young man produced upon
me, __ why, you will soon find out.

' The next day the stranger paid his
promised visit of inquiry. His card,
which he sent upstairs, informed us
that his name was Roland Cameron.
My father —— who is not’easily pleased ——

took a liking to him at once. His visit
was prolonged, at our request. In the

course of conversation, he said just

MADMAN. 43

enough about himself to satisfy "us that
we. were receiving a person who was at
least of equal rank with ourselves.
Born in England, of a Scotch family, he
had lost both his parents. Not long
since he had inherited a fortune from
It struck us as a.
little strange that he spoke of this for-
tune with a marked change to melan-

one of his uncles.

choly in his voice and his manner. The
subject was, for some inconceivable
reason, ' evidently distasteful to him.
Rich as he was, he acknowledged that he
led a simple and solitary life: He had
little taste for society, and no sympathies
in common with the average young men
But he had his own
harmless pleasures and occupations ;

of his own age.

and past sorrow and suffering had
taught him not to expect too much from
life. All this was said modestly, With
a winning charm of look and voice
which indescribably attracted me.” His
personal appearance aided the favorable
impression which his manner and his
conversation produced. ' He was of the
middle height, lightly and firmly built;
his complexion pale ; his hands and feet
small and finely shaped ; his brown hair
curling naturally; his eyes large and
dark, with an occasional indecision in
their expression which was far from
being an objection to them, to my taste.
It seemed to harmonize with an ocea-
sional indecision in his talk; proceed-
ing, as I was inclined to think, from
some passing confusion in his thoughts
which it always cost him a little eifort
Does it
surprise you to find how closely I ob-

to discipline and overcome.

served a man who was only a chance

 

acquaintance, at my first interview with

 
 

 

 

44

him?
you, and do you say to yourself, She
has fallen in love with Mr. Roland
Cameron at first sight? ‘ I may plead, in

Or do your suspicious enlighten

my own defence, that I was not quite
romantic enough to go that length. But
I own I waited for his next visit
with an impatience which was new to'
me in my experience of my sober self.
And worse still, when the day came, I
changed my dress three times, before
my newly developed vanity was satisfied
with the picture which the looking-glass
presented to me of myself!

In a fortnight more my father and
my brother began to look on the daily
companionship of our new friend as one
of the settled institutions of their lives.
In a fortnight more Mr. Roland Cam-
eron and I—though we neither of us
ventured to acknowledge it—were as
devotedly in love with each other as two
young people could well be. Ah, what
a delightful time it was i and how
cruelly soon our happiness came to an
end I ‘

During the brief interval which I
have just described I observed certain
peculiarities in Roland Cameron’s con-
duct which perplexed and troubled me,
when my mind was busy with him in my
lonely moments.

For instance, he was subject to the
strangest lapses into silence when he
and I were talking together. They
seized him suddenly, in the most capri-
cious manner; sometimes when he was
speaking, sometimes when I was speak-
ing. At these times, his eyes assumed
a weary, absent look, and his mind
seemed to wander away, —— far from the
conversation and far from me. He was

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

perfectly unaware of his own infirmity :
he fell into it unconsciously, and came
out of it unconsciously. If I noticed
that he had not ‘been attending to me,
or if I asked why he had been silent, he
was completely at a loss to comprehend
What he was thinking
of in these pauses of silence it was im-

what I meant.
possible to guess. His face, at other
times singularity mobile and expressive,
became almost a perfect blank. Had he
suffered some terrible shock, at some
past period of his life? and had his
mind never V quite recovered it?‘ I
longed to ask him the question, and yet
I shrank from doing it, —-I was so
sadly afraid of distressing him; or, to
put it in plainer words, I was so truly
and so tenderly fond of him.

Then, again, though he was ordinarily
the most gentle and most lovable of men,
there were occasions when he would sur-
prise me by violent outbreaks of temper,
excited bythe meresttrifles. A dog bark-
ing suddenly at his heels, or aboy throw-
ing stones in the road, or an importunate
shop-keeper trying to make him pur-
chase something that he did not want,
would throw him into a frenzy of rage
which was, without exaggeration, really
alarming to see. He always apologized
for these outbreaks, in terms which
showed that he was sincerely ashamed
But he could never
succeed in controlling himself. The

of his own violence.

lapses into passion, like the lapses into
silence, took him into their own pos-
session, and did with him, for the time
being, just what they pleased.

One more example of Roland’s pecu-
liarities, and I have done. The strange-

ness of his conduct, in this case, was
A SANE

noticed by my father and my brother as
well as by me. .

When Roland was with us in the
evening, whether he came to dinner or
to tea, he invariably left us exactly at
nine o’clock. Try as we might to per-
suade him to stay longer, he always
politely but positively refused. Even I
had no influence over him in this mat-
ter.
though it cost him an effort, —he still
persisted in retiring exactly as the clock

When I pressed him to remain, ——

struck nine.
strange proceeding; he only said that
it was a habit of his, and begged us to
indulge him, without asking for any
further explanation. My father and my
brother (being men) succeeded in con-

He gave no reason for this

trolling their curiosity. For my part
(being a woman), every day that passed
only made me more and more eager to
penetrate the mystery. I privately re-
solved to choose my time, when Roland
was in a particularly accessible humor,
and then to appeal to him for the ex-
planation which he had hitherto refused,
as a special favor granted to myself.

In two days more I found my oppor—
tunity.

Some friends of ours, who had joined
us at Eastbourne, proposed a picnic
party to the famous neighboring cliff
called Beachy Head. We accepted the
invitation. The day was lovely, and
the gypsy dinner was, as usual, infinitely
preferable (for once in a way) to a for-
mal dinner in-doors. Towards the even-
ing our little assembly separated into
parties of two and three, to explore the
neighborhood. Roland and I found
ourselves together, as a matter of course.
We were happy, and we were alone.

MADMAN. 45

Was it the right or the wrong time. to
ask the fatal question? I am not able
to decide, ——I only know that I asked
it.

III.

“MR. CAMEnON,” I said, “will you
make allowances for a weak woman?
And will you tell me something that I
am dying to know? ” ‘

He walked straight into the trap, ——
with that entire absence of ready wit,
or small suspicion (I leave you to choose
the right phrase), which is so like men,
and so little like women.

“ Of course I will 1” he answered.

“-Then tell me,” I asked, “why do
you always insist on leaving us at nine
o’clock ? ”

He started, and looked at me, so sad-
ly, s0 reproachfully, that I would have
given everything I possessed to recall
the rash words that had just passed my
lips.

“ If I consent to tell you,” he replied,
after a momentary struggle with him—
self, “ will you let me put a question to
you first? and will you promise to an-
swer it? ”

I gave him my promise, and waited
eagerly for what was coming next.

“Miss Brading,” he said, “tell me
honestly, do you think I am mad?”

It was impossible to laugh at him ; he
spoke those strange words seriously,
sternly I might almost say.

“ N 0 such thought ever. entered my
mind,” I answered.

He looked at me very earnestly.

“ You say that, on your word of
honor?”

 

“ On my word of honor.”

 
 

 

 

46

I answered with perfect sincerity;
and I evidently satisfied. him that I had
spoken the truth. He took my hand,
and lifted it gratefully to his lips.

“ Thank you,” he said simply. “ You
encourage me to tell you a very sad
story.”

“Your own story! ” I asked.

“My own story. Let me begin by
telling you why I persist in leaving your
house always at the same early hour.
Whenever I go out, I am bound by a
promise to the person with whom I am
living here, to return at a quarter past
nine o’clock.”

“ The person with Whom you are
living?” I repeated. “ You are living
at a boarding-house, are you not?”

“I am living, Miss Brading, under
the care of a doctor who keeps an asy-
lum for the insane. He has taken a
house for some of his wealthier patients
at the seaside; and he allows me my
liberty in the daytime, on the condition
that I faithfully perform my promise at
night. It is a quarter of an hdur’s walk
from your house to the doctor’s ; and it
is a rule that the patients retire at half-
past nine o’clock.”

Here was the mystery, which had so
sorely perplexed Inc, revealed at last!
The
speechless.

disclosure literally struck me
Unconsciously and instinc-
tively I drew back from him a few steps.
He fixed his sad eyes on me with a
touching look of entreaty.

“ Don’t shrink away from me I” he
“ You don’t think I am mad?”

I was too confused and distressed to

said.

know what to say; and, at the same
time, I was too fond of him not to an-
swer that appeal. I took his hand and

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

He turned his
I thought I
saw a tear on his check; I felt his hand

pressed it in silence.
head aside for a moment.
close tremblingly on mine. He mas- .
tered himself with surprising resolution ;
he spoke with perfect composure when
he looked at me again. ..

“ Do you care to hear my story,” he
asked, “ after what I have just told
you?”

“ I am eager to hear it,” I answered.
“You do not know how I feel for you! ‘
I am too distressed to be able to express
myself in words.”

“You are the kindest and dearest
of-womeni ” he said, with the utmost
fervor and at the same time with the
utmost respect.

We sat down together in a grassy
hollow of the cliff, with our faces to-
wards the grand gray sea. Theday-
light was beginning to fade, as I heard
the story which made me Roland Cam-
eron’s wife.

IV.
“MY mother died when I was an
4‘ My
father, from my earliest to my latest

infant in arms,” he began.

recollections, was always hard towards
me. I have been told that I was an
odd child, with strange ways of my
own. My father detested anything that
was strongly marked, anything out of
the ordinary way, in the characters and
habits of the persons about him. He
himself lived (as the phrase is) by line
and rule; and he determined to make
I was
subjected to severe discipline at school,

his son follow his example.

and I was carefully watched afterwards

at college. Looking back on my early
A SANE

life, I can see no traces of happiness, I
can find no tokens of sympathy. Sad
submission to a hard destiny, weary
wayfaring over unfriendly roads, —
such is the story of my life, from ten
years old to twenty.

“Ipassed ,one autumn vacation at
the Lakes ; and there I met by accident
With a young French lady. The result
of that meeting decided my whole after-
life.

“She, filled the humble position of
nursery—governess in the .house of a
I had frequent
Her life
We
took an innocent pleasure in each other’s
Her little experience of life

wealthy Englishman.
opportunities of seeing her.
had been a hard one, like mine.

society.
was strangely like mine: there was a
perfect sympathy of thought and feel-
V‘Ve loved, or thought
we loved. I was not twenty-one, and

ing between us.

she was not eighteen, when I asked her
to be my wife.

“ I can understand my folly now, and
can laugh at it or lament over it, as the
And ‘ yet, I can’t
help pitying myself, when I look back

humor moves me.

at myself at that time, -— I was so
young, so hungry for a little sympathy,
so weary of my empty, friendless life!
Well, everything is comparative in this
world. I was soon to regret, bitterly to
regret, that fricndless life, wretched as
it was.

“ The poor girl’s employer found out
our attachment, through his wife. He
at once communicated to my father.

“ My father had but one word to
say, ——he insisted on my going abroad,
and leaving it to him to release me from
my absurd engagement, in my absence.

 

MADMAN. 47

x

I answered him that I should be of age
in a few months, and that I was
determined to marry the girl. He gave
me three days to'reconsider my resolu-
tion. I held to my resolution. . In a
week afterwards, I was declared insane
by two medical men, and I was placed
by my father in a lunatic asylum.

“ IVas it an act of insanity for the son
of a gentleman, with great expectations
before him, to propose marriage to a
I declare, as God
is my witness, I know of no other act

nursery—governess ?

of mine which could justify my father,
and justify the doctors, in placing me
under restraint.

“I was three years in the asylum.
It was officially reported that the air did
not agree with me. Iwas removed, for
two years more, to another asylum, in
a remote part of England” For the five
best years of my life I have been herded
with madmen, — and my reason has
survived it. The impression I produce
on you, on your father, on your brother,
on all our friends at this picnic, is that
I am as reasonable as the rest of my
fellow—creatures. Am I rushing to a
hasty conclusion, when I assert myself
to be now, and always to have been, a
sane man?

“At the end of my five years of arbi-
trary imprisonment in a free country,
happily for me, —I am ashamed to say
it, but I must speak the truth, -—-happi—
1y for me, my merciless father died.
His trustees, to whom I was now con-
signed, felt some pity for me. They
could not take the responsibility of
granting me my freedom. But they
placed me under the care of a surgeon,
who received me into his private resi-

 
 

 

 

48

dence, and who allowed me free exercise
in the open air. 4

“ A year’s trial in this new mode of
life satisfied the surgeon, and satisfied
every one else who took the smallest
interest in me, that I was perfectly fit
to enjoy my liberty. I was freed from
all restraint, and was permitted to reside
with a near relative of mine, in that
very Lake country which had been the
scene of my fatal meeting with the
French girl, six years since.

“ In this retirement I lived happily,
satisfied with the ordinary pleasures
and pursuits of a country gentleman.
Time had long since cured me of my
boyish infatuation for the nursery-
governess. I could revisit with perfect
composure the paths along which we
had walked, the lake on which we had
sailed together. Hearing by chance
that she was married in her own coun-
try, I could wish her all possible happi-
ness, with the sober kindness of a dis-
interested friend. ‘What a strange
thread of irony runs through the texture
of the simplest human life! The early
love, for which I had sacrificed and
suffered so much, was now revealed to
me, in its, true colors, as a boy’s pass-
ing fancy, —— nothing more !

“ Three years of peaceful freedom
passed ; freedom which, on the uncontra-
dicted testimony of respectable wit-
nesses, I never abused. Well, that
long and happy interval, like all inter-
vals, came to its end; and then the
great misfortune of my life fell upon me.
One of my uncles died and left me inher-
itor of his whole fortune. I alone, to
the exclusion of all the other heirs, now
received, not only the large income

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

derived from his estates, but seventy
thousand pounds in ready money as
well.

“ The vile calumny which had assert~
ed me to be mad was now revived by
the wretches interested in stepping be-
tween me and my inheritance. A year
ago, I was sent back again to the asy-
lum in which I had been last imprisoned.
The pretence for confining me was found
in an act of violence (as it was called)
which I had committed in a momentary
outbreak of anger, and which it was
acknowledged had led to no serious
results. Having got meinto the asy-
lum, the conspirators proceeded to com—
plete their work. A commission in
It was
held by one commissioner, without a

Lunacy was issued against me.

jury, and without the presence of a
lawyer to assert my interests. By one
man’s decision, I was declared to be of
unsound mind. The custody of my
person, and the management of my
estates, was confided to men chosen
from among the conspirators who had
declared me to be mad. I am here
through the favor of the proprietor of
the asylum, who has given me my holi-
day at the seaside, and who humanely
trusts me with my liberty, as you see.
At barely thirty years old I am refused
the free use of my money and the free
At barely
thirty years old I am officially declared
to be a lunatic for life.”

management of my affairs.

V.
HE paused; his head sank on his
breast; his story was told.
I have repeated his words as nearly
as I can remember them; but I can
 
 

"I DON’T KNOW HOW IT HAPPENED. I FOUND MYSELF IN HIS ARMS, AND
I ANSWERED HIM WITH A KIss.”-Page 51.

 

 

 
A SANE

give no idea of the modest and touch-
ing resignation with which he spoke.
To say that I pitied him with my whole
I loved him
with my whole heart, —— and I may ac-
knowledge it now i

“ 0 Mr. Cameron,” I said, as soon

heart, is to say nothing.

as I could trust myself to speak, “ can

nothing be clone to help you? Is there
no hope?” .
“There is always hope,” he an-

‘4 I
have to thank you, Miss Brading, for
teaching me that.”

“ To thank me? ” I repeated.

swered, without raising his head.

“ How
have I taught you to hope?”

“ You have brightened my dreary
life.
ter remembrances leave me.

When I am with you, all my bit-
I am a
happy man again; and a happy man
can always hope. I dream now of find-
ing, what I have never yet had, a dear
and devoted friend, who will rouse the
energy that has sunk in me under the
Why
do I submit to the loss of my rights

martyrdom that I have endured.

andmy liberty, without an effort to re-
cover them? I was alone in the world,
until I met with you; I had no kind
hand to raise me, no kind voice to
Shall I ever find the

hand? Shall I ever hear the voice?

encourage me.

When I am with you, the hope that you
When
the old despair comes

have taught me answers, Yes.
I am by myself,
back, and answers, No.”

He lifted his head for the first time.
If I had not understood what his words
meant, his look would have enlightened
me. The tears came into my eyes ; my
heart heaved and fluttered wildly; my

hands mechanically tore up and seat-

MADMAN.

51
tered the grass around me. The silence
became unendurable; I spoke, hardly
knowing what I was saying; tearing
faster and faster the poor harmless
grass, as if my whole business in life
was to pull up the greatest quantity in
the shortest possible space of time.

“ We have only known each other a
little while,” I said.
is but a weak ally in such a terrible
But useless as I may

“ And a woman

position as yours.
be, count on me now and always as
your friend —- ”

He moved close to me before I could
say more, and took my hand. He
murmured in my ear, —-

“ May I count on you, one day, as the
Will

you forgive me, Mary, if I own that I

nearest and dearest friend of all?
love you? You have taught me to love,
It is
in your power to lighten my hard lot.

as you have taught me to hope.

You can recompense me for all that I
have suffered; you can rouse me to
struggle for my freedom and my rights.
Forgive
me, love me, rescue me,———be my

Be the good angel of my life.

wife 1 ”
I
found myself in his arms, andI answered

I don’t know how it happened.
him in a kiss. Taking all the circum-
stances into consideration, I 'daresay I
was guilty, in accepting him, of the
rashest act that ever a woman com-
mitted. Very well. I didn’t care then ;
I don’t care now. I was then, and I am
now, the happiest woman living 1

V1.

IT was necessary that either he or I
should tell my father of what had passed

 

between us. On reflection,1 thought

 

 
 

' treaties.

 

 

 

 

52

it best that I should make the disclo-
sure. The day after the picnic I re-
peated to my father Roland’s melan-
choly narrative, as a necessary preface
to the announcement that I had promised
to be Roland’s wife.

My father saw the obvious objections
to the marriage. He warned me of the
imprudence which I contemplated com-
Our

prospect of happiness, if we married, in

mitting, in the strongest terms.

our present position, would depend
entirely on our capacity to legally
supersede the proceedings of the Lunacy
Commission. Success in this arduous
undertaking was, to say the least of it,
uncertain. The commonest prudence
pointed to the propriety'of delaying our
marriage until the doubtful experiment
had been put to the proof.

It

was, nevertheless, completely thrown

This reason was unanswerable.

When did a woman in
I believe

away upon me.
love ever listen to reason?
there is no instance of it on record.
My father’s wise words of caution had
no chance against Roland’s fervent en-
The days of his residence at
Eastbourne were drawing to a close.
If I let him return to the asylum an
unmarried man, months, years perhaps,
might pass before our union could take
place. Could I expect him, could I
expect any man, to endure that cruel
separation, that unrelieved suspense?
His mind had been sorely tried already ;
his mind might give way under it.
These were the arguments that carried
weight with them, in my judgment. I
was of age, and free to act as I pleased.
You are welcome, if you like, to consider
me the most foolish and the most obsti-

 

ALICIA WAR’LOCK:

nate of women. In sixteen days from
the date of the picnic, Roland and I
were privately married at Eastbourne.
My father ——more grieved than angry,
poor man I -—- declined to be present at
the ceremony, in justice to himself.
My brother gave me away at the altar.
Roland and I spent the afternoon of
the wedding-day and the earlier part of
the evening together. At nine o’clock,
he returned to the doctor’s house, exact-
ly as usual ; having previously explained
to me that he was in the power of the
Court of Chancery, and that until we
succeeded in setting aside the proceed-
ings of the Lunacy Commission, there
was a serious necessity for keeping the
My husband
and I kissed, and said good-by till to-
morrow, as the clock struck the hour.
I little thought, while I looked after him
from the street door, that months on

marriage strictly secret.

months were to pass before I saw
Roland again.

A hurried note from my husband
Our
marriage had been discovered (we .

reached me the next morning.

never could tell by whom), and we had
been betrayed to the doctor. Roland
was then on his way back to the asy-
lum. He had been warned that force
would be used if he resisted. Know-
ing that resistance would be interpreted,
in his case, as a new outbreak of mad-
“ I

have made the sacrifice,” the letter con-

ness, he had wisely submitted.

eluded, “It is now for you to help me.
Attack the Commission in Lunacy, and
be quick about it.”

We lost no time in preparing for the
attack. On the day when I received

the news of our misfortune, we left
A SANE MADMAN.

Eastbourne for London, and at once
took measures to obtain the best legal
advice.

My dear father— though I was far
from deserving his kindness ——entered
In due
course of time we presented a petition
to the Lord Chancellor, praying that
the decision of the Lunacy Commission

into the matter heart and soul.

might be set aside.

We supported our petition by citing
the evidence of Roland’s friends and
neighbors, during his three years’ resi-
dence in the Lake country as a free
man. These worthy people had one
and all agreed that he was, as to their
judgment and experience, perfectly
quiet, harmless and sane. Many of
them had gone out shooting with him.
Others had often accompanied him in
Do
people trust a madman with a gun, and
with the management of a boat? As

to the “ act of violence,” which the

sailing excursions on the lake.

heirs at law and the next of kin had
made the means of imprisoning Roland
in the mad-house, it had amounted to
this.
knocked a man down who had offended
him. Very wrong, no doubt; but if

He had lost his temper, and had

that is a proof of madness, what thou-
sands of lunatics are still at large!
Another instance produced to prove his
insanity was still more absurd. It was
solemnly declared that he put an image
of the Virgin Mary in his boat when
he went out on his sailing excursions l
I have seen the image, —— it was a very
Was Roland

mad to admire it, and take it with him?

beautiful work of art.

His religious convictions leaned towards

Catholicism. If he betrayed insanity

 

53

in adorning his boat with an image of
the Virgin Mary, what is the mental
condition of most of the ladies in
Christendom, who wear the Cross as an
ornament round their necks? We ad-
vanced these arguments in our petition,
after quoting the evidence of the wit-
And, more than this, we even
went the length of admitting, as an act

nesses.

of respect to the Court, that my poor
husband might be eccentric in some of
his opinions and habits. But we put
it to the authorities whether better re-
sults might not be expected from plac-
ing him under the care of a wife who
loved him, and whom he loved, than
from shutting him up in an asylum,
among incurable madmen as his com-
panions for life.

Such was our petition, so far as I am
able to describe it.

The decision rested with the Lords
Justices. They decided against us.

Turning a deaf ear to our witnesses
and our arguments, these merciless
lawyers declared that the doctor’s in-
dividual assertion of my husband’s
insanity was enough for them. They‘
considered Roland’s comfort to be suffi-
ciently provided for in the asylum, with
an allowance of seven hundred pounds a
year; and to the asylum they consigned
him for the rest of his days.

So far as I was concerned, the result
of this infamous judgment was to de-
prive me of the position of Roland’s
wife; no lunatic being capable of con-
tracting marriage by law. So far as
my husband was concerned, the result
may be best stated in the language of
a popular newspaper which published
an article on the case. “ It is possible,”

 

 

 

 
 

 

54.

(said the article, —I wish I could per-
sonally thank the man who wrote it!)
“for the Court 'of Chancery to take a
man who has a large fortune, and is in
the prime of life, but is a little touched
in the head, and make a monk of him,
and then report to itself that the com-
fort and happiness of the lunatic have
been effectually provided for at the ex-
penditure of seven hundred pounds a
year.” ‘

Roland was determined, however,
that they should not make a monk of
him; and, you may rely upon it, so
was I !

But one alternative was left to us.
The authority of the Court of Chancery
(within its jurisdiction) is the most des-
potic authority on the face of the earth.
Our one hope was in taking to flight.
The price of our liberty, as citizens of
England, was exile from our native
country, and the entire abandonment of
Roland’s fortune. We accepted those
hard conditions. Hospitable America
offered us a refuge, beyond the reach of
To
hospitable America our hearts turned

mad-doctors and Lords Justices.
as to our second country. The serious
question was,—how were we to get
there?

We had attempted to correspond, and
had failed. Our letters had been dis-
covered and seized by the proprietor of
the asylum. Fortunately, we had
taken the precaution of writing in a
“ cipher ” of Roland’s invention, which
he had taught me before our marriage.
Though our letters were illegible, our
purpose was suspected, as a matter of
course; and a watch was kept on my
husband, night and day.

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

Foiled in our first effort at making
arrangements secretly for our flight,
we continued our correspondence (still
in cipher), by means of advertisements
I This second at-
Ro-
land was refused permission to subscribe

in the newspapers.
tempt was discovered in its turn.

to the newspapers, and was forbidden
to enter the reading—room at the asylum.

These tyrannical prohibitions came
too late. Our plans had already been
communicated: we understood each
other, and we had now only to bide our
“7e had arranged that my

brother, and a friend of his, on whose

time.

discretion we could thoroughly rely,
should take it in turns to watch every
evening, for a given time, at an appointed
meeting-place, three miles distant from
the asylum. The spot had been care-
fully chosen. It was on the bank of a
lonely stream, and close to the out-
skirts of a thick wood. A water-proof
knapsack, containing a change of
clothes, a false beard and a wig, and
some biscuits and preserved meat, was
hidden in a hollow tree. My brother
and his friend always took their fishing-
rods with them, and presented them-
selves as engaged in the innocent
occupation of angling, to any chance
strangers who might pass within sight
of them. On one occasion the propri-
etor of the asylum himself rode by them,
on the opposite bank of the stream, and
asked politely if they had had good
sport! _-

For a fortnight these stanch allies
of ours relieved each other regularly on
their watch, and no signs of the fugi-
tive appeared. On the fifteenth even-
ing, just as the twilight was changing
A SANE

into night, and just as my brother
(whose turn it Was) had decided on
leaving the place, Roland suddenly
joined him on the bank'of the stream.

Without wasting a moment in words,
the two at once entered the wood, and
took the knapsack from its place of
shelter in the hollow tree. In ten min—
utes more, my husband was dressed in
a suit of workman’s clothes, and was
further disguised in the wig and beard.
The two then set forth down the course
of the stream, keeping in the shadow
of the wood until the night had fallen
and the darkness hid them. The night
Af-
ter walking two miles, or a little more,

was cloudy; there was no moon.

they altered their course, and made
boldly for the high road to Manchester ;
entering on it at a point some thirty
miles distant from the city.

On their way from the wood, Roland
described the manner in which he had
efl'ected his escape.

He
had assumed to be suffering from ner—

The story was simple enough.

vous illness, and had requested to have
his meals in his own room. For the
first fortnight, the two men appointed
to Wait upon him in succession, week
by week, were both more than his
match in strength. The third man em-
ployed, at the beginning of the third
week, was, physically, a less formi-
dable person than his predecessors.
Seeing this, Roland decided, when
evening came, on committing another
“act of violence.” In plain words,
he sprang upon the keeper, waiting on
him in his room, and gagged and
bound the man. This done, he laid
the unlucky keeper (face to the wall)

on his own bed, covered with his own

 

MADMAN. 55

cloak, so that any one entering the
room might suppose that he was lying

down to rest. He had previously taken v,

the precaution to remove the sheets
from the bed ; and he had now only to

tie them together to escape by the win-

dow of his room, situated on the upper
floor of the house. The sun was set-
ting, and the inmates of the asylum
were at tea. After narrowly missing
discovery by one of the laborers em—
ployed in the grounds, he had climbed
the garden enclosure, and had dropped
on the other side, a free man!

Arrived on the high road to Man-
chester, my husband and my brother
parted.

Roland,
walker, set forth on his way to Man-
He had food in his,
knapsack, and he proposed to walk

who was an excellent

chester on foot.

some twelve or fifteen miles on the road
to the city, before he stopped at any
My brother,
who was physically incapable of accom—

town or village to rest.

panying him, returned to the place in
which I was then residing, to tell me
the good news.

By the first train the next morning I
travelled to Manchester, and took a
lodging in a suburb of the city well
known to my husband. A prim, smoky
little square was in the immediate
neighborhood; and we had arranged
that whichever" of‘ us first arrived in
Manchester should walk round that
square, between twelve and one in the
afternoon, and between six and seven
in the evening. In the evening I kept
my appointment. A dusty, footsore
man, in shabby clothes, with a hideous
beard, and aknapsack on his back, met

me at my first walk round. He smiled

 
 

 

 

56

as I looked at him. Ah! I knew that
smile through all disguises ! In spite
of the Court of Chancery and the
Lords Justices, I was in my husband’s
arms once more.

We lived quietly in our retreat for a
month.

During that time (as I heard by let-
ters from my brother) nothing that mon-
ey and cunning could do, towards dis-
covering Roland, was left untried by the
proprietor of the asylum and by the per-
sons acting with him. But where is the
cunning which can trace a man, who,
escaping at night in disguise, has not
trustedhimself to a railway or a carriage,
and who takes refuge in a great city in
At the end of
one month in Manchester, we travelled

which he has no friends?

northward; crossed the channel to Ire-
land, and passed a pleasant fortnight in
Dublin.
our way to Cork and Queenstown, and
embarked from that latter place, taking

Leaving this again, we made

steerage passage in a steamship bound
for America.

My story is told. I am writing these
lines from a farm in the west of the
United States. Our neighbors may be
homely enough, but the roughest of them
is kinder to us than a mad-doctor or a
Lord Justice. Roland is happy in those
agricultural pursuits which have always
been favorite pursuits with him; and I
am happy with Roland. Our sole re-

sources consist of my humble little for:

tune, inherited from my dear mother.
After deducting our travelling expenses,
the sum total amounts to between seven
and eight hundred pounds ; and this, as
we find, is amply sufficient to start us in
We
expect my father and my brother to pay

the new life‘that we have chosen.

 

ALICIA WARLOGK:

us a visit next summer; and I think it
just possible that they may find our
family circle increased by the presence
Are
there no compensations here, for exile
from England and the loss of a fortune?
W’e think there are. But then, my dear
Miss Anstell, “ Mary Brading’s husband
is mad ; and Mary Brading herself is not
much better.”

of a new member in long clothes.

If you feel inclined to alter this opin-
ion, and if you remember our old days
at school as tenderly as I remember
Your letter
will be forwarded, if you send it to the

them, write and tell me so.
enclosed address at New York.

In the mean time, the moral of our
story seems to be worthy of serious con-
sideration. A certain Englishman le-
At the

time of his inheritance he has been liv-

gally inherits a large fortune.

ing as a free man for three years, with-
out once abusing his freedom, and with
the express sanction of 'the medical
superintendent who has had experience
and charge of him. His next of kin
and heirs at law (who are left out of the
fortune) look with covetous eyes at the
money, and determine to get the man-
agement and the ultimate possession of
it.
and capacity must be taken on trust,

Assisted by a doctor, whose honesty

these interested persons, in this nine-
teenth century of progress, can lawfully
imprison their relative for life, in a
country which calls itself free, and which
declares that its justice is equally ad-
ministered to all alike.

 

Norm—The reader is informed that this
story is founded, in all essential particulars,
on a case which actually occurred in England,

eight years since. W C
‘0

THE FATAL CRADLE:

OTHERWISE,

. THE HEART—BEN DING STORY OF MR. HEAVYSIDES.

 

THERE has never yet been discovered
a man with a grievance, who objected to
I am no exception to this
general human rule. I have got a
grievance, and I don’t object to men-
tion it.

mention it.

Compose your spirits to hear
a pathetic story, and kindly picture me
in your own mind as a baby five minutes
old.

Do I understand you to say that I
am too big and too heavy to be pictured
in anybody’s mind as a baby? Perhaps
I may be — but don’t mention my
if you please. My
weight has been the grand misfortune

weight again,

of my life.
(as you will presently hear) before I

It spoiled all my prospects

was two days old.

My story begins thirty ~one years
ago, at eleven o’clock in the forenoon,
and starts with the great mistake of my
first appearance in this world, at sea,
on board the merchant ship Adventure,
Captain Gillop, five hundred tons bur-
den, coppcrcd, and carrymg an experi-
enced surgeon.

In presenting myself to you (which
I am now about to do) at that eventful
period of my life when I was from five
to ten minutes old, and in withdrawing

 

myself again from your notice (so as
not to trouble you with more than a
short story) before the time when I cut
my first tooth, I need not hesitate to
admit that I speak on hearsay knowl-
edge only. It is knowledge, however,
that may be relied on, for all that. My
information comes from Captain Gillop,
commander of the Adventure (who sent
it to me in the form of a letter) ; from
Mr. Jolly, experienced surgeon of the
Adventure (who wrote it for me — most
unfeelingly, as I think—in the shape .
of a humorous narrative); and from
Mrs. Drabble, stewardess of the Ad-
venture (who told it me by word of
mouth). Those three persons were, in
various degrees, spectators—I may
say astonished spectators —— of the
events which I have now to relate.

The Adventure, at the time I speak
of, was bound out from London to
Australia.
out my telling you that thirty years
ago was long before the time of the

I suppose you know with-

gold-finding and the famous clipper
ships.
sheep—farming far up inland were the

Building in the new colony and

two main cmployments of those days,
and the passengers on board our vessel

 
 

 

 

 

58

were consequently builders or sheep-
farmers, almost to a man.

A ship of five hundred tons, well
loaded with cargo, doesn’t offer first-
rate accommodations to a large number
Not that the gentle-
folks in the cabin had any great reason

of passengers.

to complain. There the passage-money,
which was a good, round sum, kept
One or two
berths in this part of the ship were

them what you call select.

even empty and going a—begging, in
consequence of there being only four
These are their
names and descriptions : ~—

cabin passengers.

Mr. Sims, a middle-aged man, going
out on a building speculation; Mr.
Purling, a weakly young gentleman,
sent on a long sea—voyage, for the ben—
efit of his health; and Mr. and Mrs.
Smallchild, a young married couple,
with a little independence, which Mr.
Smallchild proposed to make a large
one by sheep-farming.

This gentleman was reported to the
captain as being very good company
But the sea altered
When Mr.
Smallchild was not sick, he was eating

when on shore.
him to a certain extent.

and drinking; and when he was not
eating and drinkingbhe was fast asleep.
He was perfectly patient and good-
humored, and wonderfully nimble at
running into his cabin when the qualms
took him on a sudden; but, as for his
being good company, nobody heard him
say ten words together all through the
voyage. And no wonder. A man
can’t talk in the qualms; a man can’t
talk while he is eating and drinking;
and a man can’t talk when he is asleep.

 

And that was Mr. Smallchild’s life.

.r

ALICIA WARLOCK:

As for Mrs. Smallchild, she kept her
cabin from first to last. But you will
hear more of her presently. .

These four cabin passengers, as I
have already remarked, were well
enough off for their accommodation.
But the miserable people in the steerage
——a poor place at the best of times on
board the Adventure—were all hud-
dled together, men and women and
children, higgledy-piggledy, like sheep
in a pen, except that they hadn’t got
the same quantity of fine fresh air to
blow over them. They were artisans
and farm-laborers, who couldn’t make
it' out in the Old Country.
information either of their exact num-
It doesn’t

matter; there was only one family _

I have no
bcrs or of their names.

among them which need be mentioned
particularly—namely, the family of
the To wit,
Heavysides, intelligent and well—edu-

Heavysides. Simon

cated, a carpenter by trade; Susan

Heavysides, his wife; and seven little

Heavysides, their unfortunate offspring. .
My father and mother and brothers and

sisters, did I understand you to say?

Don’t be in a hurry! I recommend you

to wait a little before you make quite

sure of that circumstance.

Though I myself had not, perhaps,
strictly speaking, come on board when
the vessel left London, my ill luck, as I
firmly believe, had shipped in the Adven-
ture to wait for me— and decided the
nature of the voyage accordingly.

Never was such a miserable time
known. Stormy weather came down
on us from all points of the compass,
with intervals of light, baffling winds or

dead calms. By the time the Adventure
THE FATAL CRADLE.

had been three months out, Captain
Gillop’s naturally sweet temper began to
get soured. I leave you to say whether
itwas likely to be much improved by a
piece of news which reached him from
the region of the cabin on the morning
of the ninety-first day. , It had fallen to
a dead calm again: and the ship was
rolling about helpless, with her head all
’round the compass, when Mr. Jolly
(from whose facetious narrative I repeat
all conversations exactly as they passed)
came on deck to the captain, and ad-
dressed him in these words : ——
“ I have got some news that will
rather surprise you,” said Mr. Jolly,
(Al-
though the experienced surgeon has not

smiling and rubbing his hands.

shown much sympathy for my troubles,

I won’t deny that his disposition was as

good as his name. To this day no
amount of bad weather or hard work can
upset Mr. J olly’s temper.)

“ If it’s news of a fair wind coming,”
grumbled the captain, “ that would sur-

' prise me on board this ship, I can prom—
ise you I ”

“ It’s not exactly a Wind coming,”
said Mr. Jolly.
passenger.”

The captain looked round at the empty
sea, with the land thousands of miles
away, and with not a ship in sight—-
turned sharply on the experienced sur-
geon ——- eyed him hard —— changed color
suddenly — and asked what he meant.

“. I mean there’s a fifth cabin passen-
ger coming on board,” persisted Mr.
Jolly, grinning from ear to ear, ——"‘ in-
troduced by Mrs. Smallchild —— likely to
join us, I should say, toward evening ———
size, nothing to speak of— sex, not

“It’s another cabin ,

 

59

known at present—manners and cus-
toms, probably squally.”

“ Do you really mean it?” asked the
captain, backing away, and turning .
paler and paler.

“ Yes, I do,” answered Mr. Jolly,
nodding hard at him.

“ Then I’ll tell you what,” cried Cap-
tain Gillop, suddenly flying into a vio-
lent passion, “ I won’t have it i the infer~
nal weather has worried me out of my
life and soul already — and I won’t have
it! Put it off, Jolly, ——tell her there
isn’t room enough for that sort of thing
What does she
mean by taking .us all in in this way?
Shameful! Shameful I ”

“ No I no 1 ” rc’monstrated Mr. Jolly.
“Don’t look at it in that light. It’s
How should
she know? Give her a little more expe-

on board my vessel.

her first child, poor thing.

rience, and I dare say —”

“ VVh ere’s her husband? ” broke in the
“ I’ll
speak my mind to her husband, at any
rate.”

captain, with a threatening look.

Mr. Jolly consulted his watch before
he answered.

“Half-past eleven,” he said. “Let
It’s Mr. Small-
child’s regular time just now for squar-

me consider a little.

ing accounts with the sea. He’ll have
done in a quarter of an hour. In five
minutes more he’ll be fast asleep. At
one o’clock he’ll eat a hearty lunch, and
At half-past two
he’ll square accounts as before — and so
on till night.

go to sleep again.

You’ll make nothing out
of Mr. Smallchild, captain. Extraordi-
nary man—wastes tissue, and repairs
it again perpetually, in the most aston-

ishing manner. If we are another

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

60

month at sea, I believe we shall bring
him into port totally comatose. — Hal-
VVhat do you want?”

The steward’s mate had approached
the quarter-deck while the doctor was

100 !

speaking. Was it a curious coinci-
dence? This man also was grinning
from ear to ear, exactly like Mr. Jolly.

“ You’re wanted in the steerage, sir,”
said the stewards mate to the doctor.
“ A woman taken bad, name of Heavy-

sides.”

“Nonsensel” cried Mr. Jolly.
“Ha, ha, ha! You don’t mean—
eh?”

“That’s it, sir, sure enoug ,” said
the steward’s mate, in the most p0sitive
manner.

Captain Gillop looked all around him
in silent desperation; lost his sea-legs
for the first time these twenty years;
staggered back till he was brought all
standing by the side of his own vessel;
dashed his fist on the bulwark, and
found language to express himself in,
at the same moment.

“This ship is bewitched,” said the
“ Stop 1” he called out,
recovering himself a little as the doctor
hustled away to the steerage. “ Stop X
If it’s true, Jolly, send her husband
here aft to me. Damme, I’ll have it
out with one of the husbands l ” said the
captain, shaking his fist viciously at
the empty air. '

captain wildly.

Ten minutes passed; and then there
came staggering toward the captain,
tottering this way and that with the
rolling of the becalmed vessel, a long,
lean, melancholy, light-haired man, with
a Roman nose, a watery blue. eye, and a
complexion profusely spotted with large

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

brown freckles. This was Simon Heavy-
sides, the intelligent carpenter, with the
wife and the family of seven small chil— '
dren on board.

“ Oh l you’re the man, are you? ”said
the captain.

The ship lurched heavily; and Simon
Heavysides staggered away with a run
to the opposite side of the deck, as if he
preferred going straight overboard into
the sea to answering the captain’s ques-
tion.

“ You’re the man— are you?” re-
peated the captain, following him, seiz-
ing him by the collar, and pinning him
“ It’s
your wife —— is it? You infernal rascal !

up fiercely against the bulwark.

what, do you mean by turning my ship
into’ a lying-in hospital? You have
committed an act of mutiny; or, if it
isn’t mutiny, it’s next door to it. I’ve
put a man in irons for less I I’ve more
than half a mind to put you in irons!
What

do you mean by bringing passengers I

Hold up, you slippery lubber!

don’t bargain for on board my vessel?
What have you got to say for yourself,
before I clap the irons on you?”

“ Nothing,

Heavysides, accepting the captain’s

sir,” answered Simon
strong language without a word of
protest. “ As for the punishment you
mentioned just now, sir,” continued
Simon, “ I wish to say —having seven
children more than I know how to pro-
vide for, and an eighth coming to make
things worse—I respectfully wish to
say, sir, that my mind is in irons al-
ready; and I don’t know as it will
make much difference if you put my
body in irons along with it.”

The captain mechanically let go of
 

THE FATAL CRADLE.

the carpenter’s collar; the mild despair
of the man melted him in spite of him-
self.

“Why did you come to sea? 'Why
didn’t you wait ashore till it was all
over?” asked the captain, as sternly as
he could.

“ It’s no use waiting, sir,” remarked
“In our line of life, as soon
There’s
said

Simon.
as it’s over it begins again.
no end to it that I can see,”
the miserable carpenter, after a mo-
ment’s meek consideration —- “ except
the grave.”

“Who’s talking about the grave?”
cried Mr. Jolly, coming up at that mo-
ment. “It’s births we’ve got to do
with on board this vessel ——not burials.
Captain Gillop, this woman, Mrs.
Heavysides, can’t be left in your
crowded steerage in her present con-
dition.
one of the empty berths—and the
sooner the better, I can tell you.”

The captain began to look savage

She must be moved off into

again. A steerage passenger in one
of his “state-rooms” was a nautical
anomaly subversive of all discipline.
He eyed the carpenter once more, as if
he was mentally measuring him for a
set of irons.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Simon re-
marked, politely, —— “very sorry that
any inadvertence of mine or Mrs.
Heavysides —-— ”

I “Take your long carcass and your
long tongue forward!” thundered the
“When talking will mend
Give
your own orders, Jolly,” he went on,

captain.
matters, I’ll send for you again.

resignedly, as Simon staggered ofi.

 

61

“ Turn the ship into a nursery as soon
as you like I ”

Five minutes later— so expeditious
was Mr. J Olly—Mrs. Heavysides ap-
peared horizontally on deck, shrouded
in blankets, and supported by three
men. When this interesting procession
passed the captain, he shrank aside
from it with as vivid an appearance
of horror as if a wild bull was being
carried by him instead of a 'British
matron. '

The sleeping—berths below opened
on either side out of the main cabin.
On the left—hand side (looking toward
the ship’s bowsprit) was Mrs. Small-
child. On the right-hand side, opposite
to her, the doctor established Mrs.
Heavysides. A partition of canvas
was next run up, entirely across the
The smaller of the two
temporary rooms thus made lay nearest
the stairs leading on deck, and was left
free to the public.

main cabin.

The larger was
kept sacred to the doctor and his mys-
When an old clothes-basket,

cleaned,

teries.
emptied, and comfortably
lined with blankets (to serve for a
make—shift cradle), had, been in due-
course of time carried into the inner
cabin, and had been placed midway
between the two sleeping—berths, so as
to be easily producible when wanted,
the outward and visible preparations
of Mr. Jolly were complete; the male
passengers had all taken refuge on
deck; and the doctor and the stew-
ardess were left in undisturbed posses-
sion of the lower regions.

While it was still early in the after-
noon the weather changed for the

 
 

 

 

 

62

better. For once in a way, the wind
came from a fair quarter, and the Ad-
venture bowled along pleasantly before
it almost on an even keel. Captain
Gillop mixed with the little group of
male passengers on the quarter-deck,
restored to his sweetest temper; and
set them his customary example, after
dinner, of smoking .a cigar.

“ If this fine weather lasts, gentle-
men,” he said, “we shall make out
very well with our meals up here, and
we shall have our two small extra cabin
passengers christened on dry land in a
week’s time, if their mothers approve
of it.
sir, about your good lady?”

How do you feel in your mind,

Mr. Smallchild (to whom the inquiry
was addressed) had his points of ex-
ternal personal resemblance to Simon
He was neither so tall
nor so lean, certainly; but he, too,

Heavysides.

had a Roman nose, and light hair, and

With careful refer-
ence to his peculiar habits at sea, he

watery blue eyes.

had been placed conveniently close to
the bulwark, and had been raised on a
heap of old sails and cushions, so that
he could easily get his head over the
ship’s side when occasion required.
The food and drink which assisted in
“restoring his tissue,” when he was
not asleep and not “squaring accounts
with the sea,” lay close to his hand.
It was then a little after three o’clock ;
and the snore with which Mr. Small-
child answered the captain’s inquiry
showed that he had got round again,
with the regularity of clock-work, to
the period of the day when he recruited
himself with sleep. .
“What an insensible blockhead that

 

d
ALICIA WARLOOK:

man is l ” said Mr. Sims, the middle-
aged passenger, looking across the
deck contemptuously at Mr. Small-
child. . '

“If the sea had the same effect on
you that it has on him,” retorted the
invalid passenger, Mr. Purling, “you
would just be as insensible yourself.”

Mr. Purling (who was a man of senti-
ment) disagreed with Mr. Sims (who
was a man of business) On every con-
ceivable subject, all through the voyage.
Before, however, they could continue the
dispute about Mr. Smallchild, the doctor
surprised them by appearing from the
cabin.

“Any news from below, Jolly? ”
asked the captain, anxiously.

“ None whatever,” answered the doc-
tOr. “ I’ve come to idle the afternoon
away up here, along with the rest of
you.”

As events turned out, Mr. Jolly idled

away an hour and a half exactly. At

the end of that time Mrs. Drabble, the
stewardess, appeared with a face of
mystery, and whispered, nervously, to
the doctor : ~—

I“ Please to step below directly, sir.”

“Which of them is it?” asked Mr.
Jolly.

“Both of them,”
Drabble, emphatically.

The doctor looked grave; the~stew-
ardess looked frightened. The two
immediately disappeared together.

answered Mrs.

“I suppose, gentlemen,” said Cap-
tain Gillop, addressing Mr. Purling,
Mr. Sims, and the first mate, who had
just joined the party, —“ I suppose it’s
only fit and proper, in the turn things
have taken, to shake up Mr. Small-
THE FATAL

child? And I don’t doubt but what
we ought to have the other husband

handy, as a sort of polite attention un-'

der the circumstances. Pass the word
forward there, for Simon Heavysides.
Mr. Smallchild, sir! rouse up!
your good lady —— Hang me, gentlemen,
if I know exactly how to put it to him.”

“Yes. Thank you,” I said Mr.

Smallehild, opening his eyes drowsily.

Here’s

“Biscuit and cold bacon, as usual—
when I’m ready. I’m not ready yet.
Thank ‘you. Good-afternoon.” Mr.
Smallchild closed his eyes again, and
became, in the doctor’s phrase, “ totally
comatose.”

Before Captain Gillop could hit on
any new plan for rousing this impertur-
bable passenger, Simon Heavysides
once more approached the quarter-deck.

“ I spoke a little sharp to you, just
now, my man,” said the captain, “ being
worried in my mind by what’s going on
But I’ll make it
Here’s your

onboard this vessel.
up to you, never fear.
wife in what they call an interesting
situation. It’s only right you should
be within easy hail of her. I look upon
you, Heavysides, as a steerage passen-
ger in difficulties ; and I freely give you
leave to stop here along with us till it’s
all over.”

“You are very good, sir,” said Si-
mon; “ and I am indeed thankful to
you and to these gentlemen. But please
to remember, I have seven children al-
ready in the steerage —- and there’s
My
wife has got over it uncommonly well,

nobody left to mind ’em but me.

sir, on seven previous occasions — and
I don’t doubt but what she’ll conduct
herself in a similar manner on the eighth.

 

CRADLE. 63

It will be a satisfaction to her mind,
Captain Gillop and gentlemen, if she
knows I’m out of the way, and minding
the children.
speetfully take my leave.”

For which reason, I re-
VVith these
words Simon made his bow, and re-
turned to his family.

“ Well, gentlemen, these two hus-
bands take it easy enough, at any rate I ”
said the captain. “ One of them is used
to it, to be sure ; and the other is —”

Here a banging of cabin doors below,
and a hurrying of footsteps, startled the
speaker and his audience into moment-
ary silence and attention.

“ Ease her with the helm, William-
son! ” said Captain Gillop, addressing
the man who was steering the vessel.-
“ In my opinion, gentlemen, the less
the ship pitches the better, in the turn
things are taking new.”

The afternoon wore on into evening,
and evening into night.

Mr. Smallchild performed the daily
ceremonies of his nautical existence as
punctually as usual. He was aroused
to a sense of Mrs. Smallchild’s situation
when he took his biscuit and bacon ; lest
the sense again when the time came
round for “ squaring his accounts ; ” re—
covered it in the interval which ensued

‘ before he went to sleep; lost it again,

as a matter of course, when his eyes
closed once more—and so on through
the evening and early night. Simon '
Heavysides received messages occasion-
ally (through the captain’s care) , telling
him to keep his mind easy; returned
messages mentioning that his mind was
easy, and that the children were pretty
quiet, but never approached the deck in

his own person. Mr. Jolly now and

 
 

 

 

64

then showed himself; said "‘ All right[

—- no news ; ” took a little light refresh-
ment, and disappeared again as cheerful
The fair breeze still held ; the
captain’s temper remained unruffled ;

as CVGY.

the man at the helm eased the vessel,
from time to time, with the most anxious
consideration. Ten o’clock came; the
moon rose and shone superbly ; the
nightly grog made its appearance on the
quarter-clock; the captain gave the pas—
sengers the benefit of his company ; and
still nothing happened. Twenty minutes
more of suspense slowly succeeded each
other— and then, at last, Mr. Jolly was
seen suddenly to ascend the cabin stairs.

To the amazement of the little group
on the quarter-deck, the doctor held
Mrs. Drabble, the stewardess, fast by
the arm, and, without taking the slight-
est notice of the captain or the passen-
gers, placed her on the nearest seat he
could find. As he did this his face be-
came visible in the moonlight, and dis-
played to the startled spectators an ex-
pression of blank consternation.

“ Compose yourself, Mrs. Drabble,”
said the doctor, in tones of unmistaka-
“Keep quiet, and let the
air blow over you.

ble alarm.
' Collect yourself,
ma’a1n———for Heaven’s sake, collect
yourself ! ”

She
beat her hands vacantly on her knees,

and stared straight before her, like a

Mrs. Drabble made no answer.

' woman panic-stricken:

“ What’s wrong?” asked the cap-
tain, setting down his glass of grog in
“ Anything amiss with those
two unfortunate women? ”

“ Nothing,” said the doctor. “ Both
doing admirably well.”

dismay.

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

“ Anything queer with their babies?”
A “ Are there
more than you bargained for, Jolly?
Twins, for instance? ”

continued the captain.

“ No! no!” replied Mr. Jolly, im-
“A baby apiece—both
boys—both in first-rate

patiently.
condition.
Judge for yourselves,” added the doc-
tor, as the two new cabin passengers
tried their lungs below for the first
time, and found that they answered their
purpose in the most satisfactory manner.

“What the devil’s amiss, then, with
you and Mrs. Drabble ? ” persisted the
captain, beginning to lose his temper
again.

, “Mrs. Drabble and I are two inno-
cent people, and we have got into the
most dreadful scrape that ever you heard
of I ” was Mr. J Olly’s startling answer.

The captain, followed by Mr. Pur-
ling and Mr. Sims, approached the‘
Even the
man at the wheel stretched himself over
what
The only uninter-

doctor with looks of horror.

it as far as he could to hear
was coming next.
ested person present was Mr. Small-
child.
going to sleep again, and he was snor-

His time had come round for

ing peacefully, with his biscuit and
bacon close beside him.

“ Let’s hear the worst of it at once,
Jolly,” said the captain, a little im-
patiently.

The doctor paid no heed to his
request. His whole attention was
absorbedby Mrs. Drabble. “ Are you
better now, ma’am?” he asked anx-
iously. , .

“ No better in my mind,” answered
Mrs. Drabble, beginning to beat her

knees again. “ Worse if anything.”
THE FATAL CRADLE.

f‘ Listen to me,” said Mr. Jolly,
coaxingly. “I’ll put the whole case
over again to you, in a few plain ques-
tions. You’ll find it all come back to
your memory, if you only follow me at-
tentively, and if you take time to think
and collect yourself before you attempt
to answer.”

Mrs. Drabble bowed her head in
speechless submission —- and listened.
Everybody else on the quarter-deck
listened, except the impenetrable Mr.
Smallchild.

“Now, ma’aml” said the doctor.
“Our troubles began in Mrs. Heavy-
side’s cabin, which is situated on the
starboard side of the ship?”

“ They did, sir,” replied Mrs. Drab-
ble.

“ Good!
forward, an infinite number of times,

We went backward and

between Mrs. Heavysides\(starboard)
and Mrs. Smallchild (larboard) ——but
we found that Mrs. Heavysides, having
got the start, kept it——-and when I
called out, ‘Mrs. Drabblel here’s a
chopping boy for you; come and take
him l_’—I called out starboard, didn’t
I?”

“ Starboard, sir—.a—I’ll take my oath
of it,” said Mrs. Drabble.

“,Good again! ‘Here’s a chopping
boy,’ I said. ‘Take him, ma’am, and
make him comfortable in the cradle.’
And you took him7 and made him com-
fortable in the cradle. accordingly. Now
where was the cradle?"

“ In the main cabin, sir,” replied
Mrs. Drabble.

“ Just so! In the main cabin, be-
cause we hadn’t got room for it in either

of the sleeping-cabins. You put the

 

65

starboard baby (otherwise Heavysides)
in the clothes~basket cradle in the main
cabin. Good once more. How was
the cradle placed?” ‘

“ Crosswise to the ship, sir,” said
Mrs. Drabble.

“ Crosswise to the ship? That is to
say, with one side longwise toward the
stern of the vessel, and one side long-
wise toward the bows. Bear that in
mind —— and now follow me a little fur-
ther.
your head’s in a whirl.

No ! no I don’t say you can‘t, and
My next ques-
tion will steady it. Carry your mind
on half an hour, Mrs. Drabble. At the
end of half an hour you heard my voice
again ; and my voice called out, .‘ Mrs.
Drabble! here’s another chopping boy
for you; come and take him!’——and
you came and took him larboard, didn’t
you ? ” .

“ Larboard, sir, I don’t deny it,”
answered Mrs. Drabble.

“Better and better!
other chopping boy,’ I said. ‘ Take him,
ma’am, and make him comfortable in the
And
you took the larboard baby (otherwise
Smallchild), and made him comfortable
in the cradle along with the starboard

‘ Here is an-

cradle, along with number one.’

baby (otherwise Heavysides), accord-
ingly? NOW what happened after
that ? ”

“ Don’t ask me, sir ! ” exclaimed Mrs.
Drabble, losing her self-control, and
wringing her hands desperately.

“ Steady, ma’am I I’ll put it to you
as plain as print. Steady! and listen to
me. Just as you had made the larboard
baby comfortable I had occasion to send
you into the starboard (or Heavysides)
cabin to fetch something which I wanted

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

66

in the larboard (or Smallchild) cabin;
I kept you there a little while along with
me ; I left you and went into the Heavy-
sides cabin, and called to‘you to bring
me something Iwanted out of the Small-
child cabin, but before you got half-way
across the. main cabin I said, ‘ No ;
stop where you are, and I’ll come to
you ; ’ immediately after which Mrs.
Smallchild alarmed you, and you came
across to me of your own accord; and
thereupon I stopped you in the main
.cabin, and said, ‘Mrs. Drabble, your
mind’s getting confused; sit down and
collect your scattered intellects ;’ and
you sat down and tried to collect them
(“ And couldn’t, sir,”
Mrs. Drabble, parenthetically.
my head, my head I ”)

interposed
u 011’

— “And tried to collect your scat-
tered intellects, and couldn’t?” con-
tinued the doctor. “And the conse-
quence 'was, when I came out from
the Smallchild cabin to see how you
were getting on, I found you with the
clothes—basket cradle hoisted up on the
cabin table, staring down at the babies
inside, with your mouth dropped open,
and both your hands twisted in your
And when I said, ‘ Anything
wrong with either of those two fine
boys, Mrs. Drabble?’ you caught me
by the coat-collar, and whispered in my
right ear these words, ‘ Lord save us
and help us, Mr. Jolly, I’ve confused
the two babies in my mind, and I don’t
know which is which I ”

“And I don’t know now!”
Mrs. Drabble, hysterically.
head! my head !
now!” i

“ Captain Grillop and gentlemen,”

hair.

cried
“Oh, my
I don’t know

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

said Mr. Jolly, wheeling round and
addressing his audience with the com-
posure of sheer despair, “that is the
Scrapej—and, if you ever heard of a
worse one, I’ll trouble you to compose
this miserable woman by mentioning it
immediately.”

Captain Gillop looked at Mr. Purling
and Mr. Sims. Mr. Purling and Mr.
Sims looked at Captain Grillop. They
were all three -thunderstruck——and no
wonder.

“ Can’t you throw any light on it,
Jolly? ” inquired the captain, who was
the first to recover himself.

“If you knew ,what I have had to
do below, you wouldn’t ask me such a
question as that,” replied the doctor.
“ Remember that I have had the lives
of two women and two children to an—
swer for; remember that I have been
cramped up in two small sleeping-
cabins, with hardly room to turn round
in, and just light enough from two mis-
erable little lamps to see my hand be:
fore me; remember the professional
difficulties of the situation, the ship
rolling about under me all the while,
and the stewardess to compose into the
bargain; bear all that in mind, will
you, and then tell me, how much spare
time I had on my hands for comparing
two boys together inch by inch— two
boys born at night, within half an hour
of each other, on board a ship at sea.
Ha, ha! I only wonder the mothers
and the boys and the doctor are all five
of them alive to tell the story i ”

“ No marks on one or other of them
that happened to catch your eye?”
asked Mr. Sims.

“ They must have been strongish
THE FATAL CRADLE.

marks to catch my eye in the light I
had to work by, and in the professional
difficulties I had to grapple with,” said
the doctor. “ I saw; they were both
straight, well-formed 9 children .,__ and
that’s all I saw.”

“ Are their infant features suffi-
ciently developed to indicate a family
likeness ? ” Purling.
“ Should you say they took after their
fathers or their mothers? ”

“Both of them have light eyes, and
light li’air —— such as it is,” replied Mr.

inquired Mr.

Jolly, doggedly. “Judge for; your-
self.”

“ Mr. Smallchild has light eyes and
. light hair,” remarked Mr. Sims.

“And Simon Heavysides has light
eyes and light hair,” rejoined Mr.
Purling. '

“I should recommend waking Mr.
Smallchild, and sending for Heavy-
sides, and letting the two fathers toss
up for it,” suggested Mr. Sims.

“The parental feeling is not to be
trifled with in that heartless manner,”
retorted Mr. “I should
recommend trying the Voice of Na-

Purhng.

ture.”

“What may that be, sir?” inquired
Captain Gallop, with great curiosity.

“ The maternal instinct,” replied Mr.
Purling. “ The
knowledge of her own child.”

“ Ay, ay! ” said the captain. “ Well
thought of. What do you say,'Jolly,
to the Voice of Nature?”

The doctor held up his hand impa-

mother’s intuitive

tiently. He was engaged in resuming
the effort to rouse Mrs. Drabble’s mem-
ory by a system of amateur cross-ex-

amination, with the unsatisfactory re-

 

67

sult of confusing her more hopelessly
than ever.

Could she put the cradle back, in her
own mind, into its original position?
No. Could she remember whether she
laid the starboard baby (otherwise
Heavysides) on the side of the cradle
nearest the stern'of the ship, ornearest
the bows? No.
any better about the larboard baby
(otherwise Smallchild)? No. IVhy did
she move the cradle on to the cabin
table, and so bewilder herself addition-

Could she remember

ally, when she was puzzled already?
Because it came over her, on a sudden,
that she had forgotten, in the dread-
ful confusion of the time, which was
which; and of course she wanted to
look closer at them, and see; and she
couldn’t see ; and to her dying day she
should never forgive herself; and let
them throw her overboard, for a miser-
able wretch, if they liked —- and so on,
till the persevering doctor was wearied
out at last,and gave up Mrs. Drabble,
and gave up, with her, the whole case.

“ I see nothing for it but the Voice
of Nature,” said the captain, holding
fast to Mr. Purling’s idea. “ Try it,
J olly— you can but try it.”

“ Something must be done,” said the
doctor. “ I can’t leave the women
alone any longer, and the moment I get
below they will both ask for their ba-
bies. Wait here till you’re fit to be
seen, Mrs. Drabbleg and then follow
me. Voice of Nature! ” added Mr.
Jolly, contemptuously, as he descended
“ Oh, yes, I’ll try it
—— much good the Voice of Nature will
do us, gentlemen. You shall judge for
yourselves.” ‘

the cabin stairs.

 
 

 

 

 

 

68

Favored by the night, Mr. Jolly cun-
ningly turned down the dim lamps in
the sleeping-cabins to a-mere glimmer,
on the pretext that the light was bad
He then took
up the first of the two. unlucky babies
that came to hand, marked the clothes
in which it was wrapped with a blot of
ink, and carried it in to Mrs. Small—

for his patients’ eyes.

child, choosing her cabin merely be—
cause he happened to be nearest to it.
The second baby (distinguished by
having no mark) was taken by Mrs.
Drabble to Mrs. Heavysides.
certain time the two mothers and the
They
were then separated again by medical

For a
two babies were left together.

order; and were afterward reunited,
with the difference that the marked
baby went on this occasion to Mrs.
Heavysides, and the unmarked baby
to Mrs. Smallchild—the result, in
the obscurity of the sleeping—cabins,
proving to be that one baby did just as
well as the other, and that the Voice of
Nature was (as Mr. Jolly had pre-
dicted) totally incompetent to settle the
existing difficulty.

“While night serves us, Captain
Gillop, we shall do very well,” said
the doctor, after he had duly reported
the failure of Mr. Purling’s suggested
“But when morning
comes, and daylight shows the differ-

experiment.

ence between the children, we must be
prepared with a course of some kind.
If the two mothers below get the
slightest suspicion of the case as it
stands, the nervous shock of the dis-
do dreadful mischief.
They must be kept deceived, in the
We

eovery may

interests of their own health.

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

must choose a baby for each of them
when to-morrow comes, and then hold
to the choice till the mothers are well
and up again. The question is, who’s
to take the responsibility? I don’t usu-
ally stick at trifles—but'I candidly
admit that I’m afraid of it.”

“I decline meddling in the matter,
on the ground that I am a perfect
stranger,” said Mr. Sims.

“And I object to interfere, from
precisely similar motives,” added Mr.
Purling, agreeing for the first time with
a proposition that emanated from his
natural enemy all through the voyage.

“Wiait a minute, gentlemen,” said
“I’ve got this diffi-
cult matter, as I think, in its right
bearings. lVe must make a clean
breast of it to the husbands, and let
them take the responsibility.”

Captain Gillop.

“ I believe they won’t accept it,” ob-
served Mr. Sims.

“And I believe they will,” asserted
Mr. Purling, relapsing into his old
habits. '

“ If they won’t,” said the captain,
firmly, “ I’m master on board this ship
-— and, as sure as my name is Thomas
Gillop, I’ll take the responsibility I ”

This courageous declaration settled
all difliculties for the time being; and
a council was held to decide on future
proceedings. It was resolved to re-
remain passive until the next morning,
on the last faint chance that a few
hours’ sleep might compose Mrs. Drab-
The babies
were to be moved into the main casbin

ble’s bewildered memory.

before the daylight grew bright— or,
in other words, before Mrs. Smallchild
or'Mrs. Heavysides could identify the
THE

infant who had passed the night with
her.
to be assisted by Mr. Purling, Mr.

The doctor and the captain were

Sims, and the first mate, in the capacity
of witnesses; and the assembly so
constituted was to meet,- in considera-
'tion of the emergency of the case, at
six o’clock in the morning, punctually.

At six o’clock, accordingly, with the
weather fine, and the wind‘ still fair,
For the last
time Mr. Jolly cross-examined Mrs.
Drabble, assisted by the captain, and
supervised by the Witnesses.

the proceedings began.

Nothing
whatever was elicited from the unfor-
tunate stewardess. The doctor pro-
nounced her confusion to be chronic,
and the captain and the witnesses unan-
imously agreed with him.

The next experiment tried was the
revelation of the true state of the case
to the husbands.

Mr. Smallchild happened, on this
occasion, to be “squaring his ac-
counts ” for the morning; and the first
articulate words which escaped him in
reply to the disclosure were, “ Deviled
Further
perseverance merely elicited an impa-
tient request that they would “pitch
him overboard at once, and the two
babies along with him.”

biscuit and anchovy paste.”

Serious re-
monstrance was tried next, with no
better efi'ect. “ Settle it how you'like,”
said Mr. Smallchild, faintly. “ Do
you leave it to me, sir, as commander
of this vessel?” asked Captain Gillop.
(No answer.) ‘ “Nod your head, sir,
Mr. Smallchild
nodded his head roundwise on his pil-
“ Does that
count for leave to me to act?” asked

if you can’t speak.”

low—and fell asleep.

FATAL CRADLE.

 

69

Captain Gillop of the witnesses. And
the witnesses answered, decidedly, Yes.

The ceremony was then repeated
with Simon Heavysides, who responded,
as became so intelligent a man, with a ’
proposal of his own for solving the
difiiculty.

“ Captain Gillop and gentlemen,”
said the carpenter, with fluent and mel-
ancholy politeness, “I should wish to
consider Mr. Smallchild before myself
in this matter. I am quite willing to part
with my baby (whichever he is) ; and I
respectfully propose that Mr. Small-
child should take both the children, and
so make quite sure that he has really
got possession of his own son.”

The only immediate objection to this
ingenious proposition was started by
the doctor, who sarcastically inquired of
Simon, “ what he thought Mrs. Heavy-
sides would say to. it?” The carpen-
ter confessed that this consideration had
escaped him, and that Mrs. Heavysides
was only too likely to be an irremovable
obstacle in the way of the proposed ar-
The witnesses all thought
so too; and Heavysides and his idea
were dismissed together, after Simon
had first gratefully expressed his entire
readiness to leave it all to the captain.

rangement.

“ Very well, gentlemen,” said Captain
Gillop. “As commander on board, I
reckon next after the husbands in the
matter of responsibility. I have con-
sidered this difficulty in all its bearings,
and I’m prepared to deal with it. The
Voice of Nature (which you proposed,
Mr. Purling) has been found to fail.
The tossing up for it (which you pro-
posed, Mr. Sims) doesn’t square alto-
gether with my notions of what’s right

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

70
in a very serious business. No, sir!
I’ve got my own plan; and I'm now
about to try it. Follow me below, gen-
' tlemen, to the steward’s pantry.”

The witnesses looked round on one
another in the profoundest astonish-
ment — and followed.

‘ ‘ Pickerel,” said the captain, address-
ing the steward, “ bring out the scales.”

The scales were of the ordinary kitch-
en sort. with a tin tray on one side to
hold the commodity to be weighed, and
a stout iron slab on the other to support
the weights. Pickerel placed these
scales upon a neat little ‘pantry table,
fitted on the ball-and-socket principle,
so as to save the breaking of crockery
by swinging with the motion of the
ship.

“Put a clean cluster in the tray,”
“Doctor,” he con-
tinued, when this had been done, “ shut
the doors of the sleeping-berths (for fear
of the women hearing anything), and
oblige me by bringing those two babies
in here.”

“ O sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Drabble,
who had been peeping guiltily into the
pantry— “ oh, don’t hurt the little
dears ! If anybody suffers, let it be me I ”

“ Hold your tongue, if you please,
ma’am,” said the captain. “ And keep
the secret of these proceedings, if you
If the ladies
ask for their children, say they will have
them in ten minutes’ time.” i

said the captain.

wish to keep your place.

The doctor came in, and set down the
clothes-basket cradle on the pantry
floor. Captain Gillop immediately put
on his spectacles, and closely examined
the two- unconscious innocents who lay
beneath him.

 

 

AL’ICIA WARLooK:

“ Six of one and half a dozen of the
other,” said the captain. “I don’t see
any difference between-them. Wait a
bit, though! Yes, I do. One’s a bald
baby. Very good. We’ll begin with
that one. Doctor, strip the bald baby,
and put him in the scales.”

The bald baby protested ——in his
own language—but in vain. In two
minutes he was flat on his back in the tin
tray, with the clean duster under him
to take the chill ofi".

“ Weigh him accurately, Pickerel,”
“ Weigh him,
if necessary, to an eighth of an ounce.

continued the captain.

Gentlemen I watch this proceeding close-
ly ; it’s a very important one.”

‘Vhile the steward was weighing
and the witnesses were watching, Cap.
tain Gillop asked his first mate for the
log-book of the ship, and for pen and
ink. '

“ How much, Pickerel?” asked the
captain, opening the book. ‘

“ Seven pounds one ounce and a quar-
ter,” answered the steward.

“ Right, gentlemen?” pursued the
captain.

“ Quite right,” said the witnesses.

“ Bald child — distinguished as Num-
ber One ~— weight, seven pounds one
ounce and a. quarter (avoirdupois),” re-
peated the captain, writing down the en—
try in the log-book. “ Very good. We’ll
put the bald baby back now, doctor, and
try the hairy one next.”

The hairy one protested— also in his
own language -—— and also in vain.

“ How much, Pickerel? ” asked the
captain.

“ Six pounds fourteen ounces and
three-quarters,” replied the steward.
THE FATAL CRAbLE.

“ Right, gentlemen?” inquired the

captain. ‘

“ Quite right,” answered the wit-
nesses.

“ Hairy child —— distinguished as

Number Two —— weight six pounds four-
teen ounces and three-quarters (avoir-
dupois),” repeated and wrote the cap-
tain. “Much obliged to you, J Olly—
that will do. Whenyou have got the
other baby back in the cradle, tell Mrs.
‘ Drabble neither of them must be taken
out of it till further orders ; and then be
so good as to join me and these gentle-
men on deck. If anything of a discus-
sion rises up among us, we won’t run
the risk of being heard in the sleeping-
berths.” With these words Captain
Grillop led the way on deck, and the first
mate followed with the log-book and the
pen and ink.

“ Now, gentlemen,” began the cap-
tain, when the doctorhad joined the as-
sembly, “ my first mate will open these
proceedings by reading from the log a
statement which I have written myself,
respecting this business, from beginning
' to end. If you find it all equally correct
with the statement of what the two chil-
dren weigh, I’ll trouble you to sign it,
in your quality of Witnesses, on the
spot.”

The first mate read the narrative, and
the witnesses signed it, as perfectly cor-
rect. Captain Grillop then cleared his
throat, and addressed his expectant
audience in these words:—

“ You’ll all agree with me,’ gentle-
men, that justice is justice, and that
like must to like. Here’s my ship of
five hundred tons, fitted with her spars

accordingly. Say she’s a schooner of

 

71

a hundred and fifty tons, the veriest
landsman among you, in that case,
wouldn’t put such masts as these into
her. Say, on the other hand, she’s an
Indiaman of a thousand tons, would
our spars (excellent good sticks as they.
are, gentlemen) be suitable for a vessel
A

schooner’s spars to a schooner, and a

of that capacity? Certainly not.
ship’s spars to a ship, in fit and fair
proportion.”

Here the captain paused to let the
opening of his speech sink well into
The audi-
ence encouraged him with the par-

the minds of the audience.

liamentary cry of “ Hear! hear I ” The
captain went on : — '

“ In the serious difficulty which now
besets us, gentlemen, I take my stand
on the principle which I have just
stated to you.
follows: Let us give the heaviest of
the two babies to the heaviest of the
two women; and let the lightest then

And my decision is as

fall, as a matter of course, to the other.
In a week’s time, if this weather holds,
we shall all (please God) be in port;
and if there’s a better way out of this
mess than my way, the parsons and
lawyers ashore may find it, and wel-
come.”

With these words the captain closed
his oration; and the assembled. council
immediately sanctioned the proposal
submitted to them, with all the una-
nimity of men who had no idea of their
own to set up in opposition.

Mr. Jolly was next requested (as
the only available authority) to settle
the question of weight between Mrs.
Smallchild and Mrs. Heavysides, and
decided it without a moment’s hesita-

 
 

 

 

72

tion, in favor of the carpenter’s wife,
on the indisputable ground that she
was the tallest and stoutest woman of
the two. Thereupon the bald baby,
“distinguished as Number One,” was
taken into Mrs. Heavysides’s cabin;
and the hairy baby, “ distinguished
as Number Two,” was accorded to
Mrs. Smallchild; the Voice of Nature,
neither in the one case nor in the other,
raising the slightest objection to the
captain’s principle of distribution. Be-
fore seven o’clock Mr. Jolly reported
that the mothers and sons, larboard
and starboard, were as happy and com-
fortable as any four people on board
ship could possibly wish to be ; and the
captain thereupon dismissed the council
with these parting remarks : —

“ VVe’ll get the studding-sails on the
ship now, gentlemen, and make the
best of our way to port. Breakfast,
Pickerel, in half an hour, and plenty
of it! I doubt if that unfortunate
Mrs. ‘Drabble has heard the last of this
We must all lend a
hand, gentlemen, and pull her through

business yet.
if we can. In other respects the job’s
over, so far as we are concerned; and
the parsons and lawyers must settle it
ashore.”

The parsons and the lawyers did
nothing of the sort, for the plain reason
that nothing was to be done. In ten
days the ship was in port, and the news
was broken toAthe two mothers. Each
one of the two adored her baby, after
ten days’ experience of it— and each
one of the two was in Mrs. Drabble’s
condition of not knOWing which was

which.

 

 

AL‘ICIA WARLOOK:

Every test was tried. First, the test
by the doctor, who only repeated what
he had told the captain. Secondly, the
test by personal resemblance; which
failed in consequence of the light hair,
blue eyes, and Roman noses shared in
common by the fathers, and the light
hair, blue eyes, and no noses worth
mentioning shared in common by the
children. Thirdly, the test of Mrs.
Drabble, which began and ended in
fierce talking on one side and floods of
Fourthly, the test
by legal decision, which broke down

tears on the other.

through the total absence of any
instructions for the law to act on.
Fifthly, and lastly, the test by appeal
to the husbands, which fell to the
ground in consequence of the husbands
knowing nothing about the matter in
hand. The captain’s barbarous test
by weight remained the test still—and
here am I, a man of the lower order,
without a penny to bless myself with,
in consequence. . '

Yes! the bald baby of
that memorable period. My excess in
The
fathers and mothers on either side kept

I was
weight settled my destiny in life.

the babies according to the captain’s
principle of distribution, in despair of
knowing what else to do. Mr. Small-
child, who was sharp enough when not
seasick, made his fortune. Simon
Heavysides persisted in increasing his
family, and died in the work-house.
Judge for yourself (as Mr. Jolly
might say) how the two boys born at
sea fared in after-life. I, the bald
baby, have seen nothing of the hairy
baby for years past. He may be short,

like Mr. Smallchild —— but I happen to
THE FATAL CRADLE.

know that he is wonderfully like Heavy-
sides, deceased, in the face.
tall, like the carpenter— but I have
the Smallchild eyes, hair, and expres-
Make what you

I may be

sion, notwithstanding.
can of that! You will find it come, in
the end, to the same thing. Small-

73

because he weighed six pounds, four-
teen ounces and three-quarters. Heavy-
sides, junior, fails in the world, be-
cause he weighed seven pounds one
Such is destiny,
I’ll never forgive my

ounce and a quarter.
and such is life.

destiny as long as I live. There is my

child, junior, prospers in the world, grievance. Iwish you good-morning.

 
 

 

 

 

 

“BLOW

UP WITH THE BRIG!”

A SAILOR’S STORY.

 

I HAVE. got an alarming confession to
make. I am haunted by a Ghost.

If you were to guess for a hundred
years, yOu‘would never guess what my
ghostis. I shall make you laugh to be-
gin with—and afterward I shall make
your flesh creep. My Ghost is the ghost
of a Bedroom Candlestick.

Yes, a bedroom candlestick and can-
dle, or a flat candlestick and candle —-
put it in which way you like — that is
what haunts me. I wish it was some-
thing pleasanter and more out of the
common way ; a beautiful lady, or a mine
of gold and silver, or a cellar of wine and
But,
being What it is, I must take it for what
it is, and make the best of it; and I
shall thank you kindly if you will help

a coach and horses, and such like.

me out by doing the same.

I am not a scholar myself, but I make
bold to believe that the haunting of any
man with anything under the sun begins
with the frightening of him. At any
rate, the haunting of me with a bedroom
candlestick and candle began with the
frightening of me with a bedroom candle-
stick and candle -— the frightening of me
half out of my life ; and, for the time
being, the frightening of me altogether
out of my wits. That is not a very

 

pleasant thing to confess before stating
the particulars ; but perhaps you will be
the readier to believe that I am not a
downright coward, because you find me ’
bold enough to make a clean breast of

it already, to my own great disadvantage

so far.

Here are the particulars, as well as I
can put them : ——

I was apprenticed to the sea when I
was about as tall as my own walking-
stick; and I made good enough use of
my time to be fit for a mate’s berth at
the age of twenty-five years.

It was in the year eighteen hundred
and eighteen, or nineteen, I am not quite
certain which, that I reached the before-
You will

please to excuse my memory not being

mentioned age of twenty-five.

very good for dates, names, numbers,
places, and such like. No fear, though,
about the particulars I have undertaken
to tell you of ; I have got them all ship-
shape in my recollection ; I can see them,
at this moment, as clear as noonday in
my own mind. But there is a mist over
what went before, and, for the matter
of that, a mist likewise over much that
came after— and it’s not very likely to
lift at my time of life, is it?

Well, in eighteen hundred and eigh-
“BLOW UP WITH THE BRIG!”

teen, or nineteen, when there was peace
in our part of the world ~— and not be-
fore it was wanted, you will say —- there
was fighting, of a certain scampering,
scrambling kind, going on in, that old
battle-field which we
know by the name of the Spanish Main.

seafaring men

The possessions that belonged to the
Spaniards in South America had broken
into open mutiny and declared forthem-
selves years before. There was plenty
of bloodshed between the new govern-
ment and the old ; but the new had got
the best of it, for the most part, under
one General Bolivar—a famous man
in his time, though he seems to have
dropped out of people’s memories
now. Englishmen and Irishmen with a
turn for fighting, and nothing particular
to do at home, joined Bolivar as
volunteers ; and some of our merchants
here found it a good venture to send
supplies across the ocean to the popular
side. There was risk enough, of course,
in doing this ; but where one speculation
of the kind succeeded, it made up for
two, at the least, that failed. And that’s
the true principle of trade, wherever I
have met with it, all the world over.

Among the Englishmen who were
concerned in this Spanish-American
business, I, your humble servant, hap-
pened in a small way to be one.

I was then mate of a brig belonging
to a certain firm in the city, which drove
a sort of general trade, mostly in queer
out-of-the-way places, as far from home
as possible ; and which freighted the
brig, in the year I am speaking of, with
a cargo of gunpowder for General Boli-
Nobody knew
anything about our instructions, when

var and his volunteers.

 

75

we sailed, except the captain; and he
didn’t half seem to like them. I can’t ,
rightly say how many barrels of powder
we had on board, or how much each
barrel held—I only know we had no
other cargo. The name of the brig was
the Good Intent —-— a queer name enough,
you will tell me, for a vessel laden with
gunpowder, and sent to help a revolu-
tion. And as far as this particular
voyage was concerned, so it was. I
mean that for a joke, and I hope you
will encourage me by laughing at it.

The Good Intent was the craziest 01d
tub of a vessel I ever went to sea in,
and the worst found in all respects. She
was two hundred and thirty, or two hun-
dred and eighty, tons burden, I forget
which; and she had a crew of eight, all
told —— nothing like as many as we ought
by rights to have had to work the brig.
However, we were well and honestly
paid our wages ; and weflhad to set that
against the chance of foundering at sea,
and, on this occasion, likewise the
chance of being blown up into the
bargain.

In consideration of the nature of our
cargo, we were harassed with new
regulations, which we didn’t at all like,
relative to smoking our pipes and light-
ing our lanterns ; and, as usual in such
cases, the captain, who made the regu-
preached what he didn’t

Not a man of us was
allowed to have a bit of lighted candle '
in his hand when he went below— ex-
cept the skipper; and he used his light,
when he turned in, or when he looked
over his charts on the cabin-table, just
as usual.

lations ,
practise .

This light was a common kitchen

 
 

 

 

 

 

76

candle or “ dip,” and it stood in an old
battered flat candlestick, with all the
japan worn and melted off, and all the
It would have
been more seaman-like and suitable in
every respect if he had had a lamp or
a lantern ; but he stuck to his old candle-
stick; and that same old candlestick
That’s
another joke, if you please, and a bet-

tin showing through.

has ever afterward stuck to me.

ter one than the first, in my opinion.
Well (I said “well” before, but it’s
a word that helps a man on like), we
sailed in the brig, and shaped our course,
first, for the Virgin Islands, in the
West Indies ; and, after sighting them,
we made for the Leeward Islands next,
and then stood on due south, till the look-
out at the mast-head hailed the deck and
said he saw land. That land was the
coast of South America. We had had
We had
lost none of our spars or sails, and not

a wonderful voyage so far.

a man of us had been harassed to
death at the pumps. It wasn’t often
the Good Intent made such a voyage as
that, I can tell you.

I was sent aloft to make sure about
the land, and I did make sure of it.

\Vhen I reported the same to the
skipper, he went below, and had a look
at his letter of instruction, and the
chart. When he came on deck again,
be altered our course a trifle to the
eastward—I forget the point on the
compass, but that don’t matter. What
I do remember is, that it was dark
before we closed in with the land. We
kept the lead going, and hove the brig
to in from four to five fathoms water, or
it might be six—I can’t say for cer-

tain. I kept a sharp eye to the drift of

 

‘ALICIA WARLOCK:

the vessel, none of us knowing how the
We all
wondered why the skipper didn’t anchor ;
but he said No, he must first show alight
at the foretopmast-head, and wait for an
answering light on shore. We did wait,

currents ran on that coast.

and nothing of the sort appeared. It
was starlight and calm. What little
wind there was came in puffs off the
land. I suppose we waited, drifting a
little to the westward, as I made it out,
the best part of an hour before anything
happenedfl-and then, instead of seeing
the light on shore, we saw a boat com-
ing toward us, rowed by two men
only.

We hailed them, and they answered
“ Friends 1 ” and hailed us by our name.
They came on board. One of them was
an Irishman, and the other was a coffee-
colored native pilot, who jabbered a
little English.

The Irishman handed a note to our
It in-
formed us that the part of the coast we

skipper, who showed it to me.

were off was not oversafe for discharg-
ing our cargo, seeing that spies of the
enemy (that is to say, of the old
government) had been taken and shot
in the neighborhood the day before.
We might trust the brig to the native
pilot; and he had his instructions to
take us to another part of the coast.
The note was signed by the proper
parties ; so we let the Irishman go back
alone in the boat, and allowed the pilot
to exercise his lawful authority over the
brig. He kept us stretching off from
the land till noon the next day—his
instructions, seemingly, ordering him
to keep us well out of sight of the shore.
We only altered our course in the after-
“BLOW UP WITH THE BRIGl”

noon, so as to close in with the land
again a little before midnight.

This same pilot was about as ill-
looking a vagabond as ever I saw; a
skinny, cowardly, quarrelsome mongrel,
who swore at the men in the vilest
broken English, till they were every
one of them ready to pitch him over-
board. The skipper kept them quiet,
and I kept them quiet; for the pilot
being given us by our instructions, we
were bound to make the best of him.
Near night-fall, however, with the best
will in the world to avoid it, I was un-
lucky enough to quarrel with him.

He wanted to go below with his pipe,
and I stopped him, of course, because
it was contrary to orders. Upon that
he tried to hustle by me, and I put him
away with my hand. I never meant to
push him down; but somehow I did.
He picked himself up as quick as light-
ning, and pulled out, his knife. I
snatched it out of his hand, slapped his
murderous face for him, and threw his
weapon overboard. He gave me one
ugly look, and walked aft. I didn’t
think much of the. look then, but I re-
membered it a little too well afterward.

We were close in with the land again,
just as the wind failed us, between
eleven and twelve that night, and
dropped our anchor by the pilot’s
directions.

It was pitch-dark, and a dead, airless
The skipper was on deck, with
The
rest were below, except the pilot, who

calm.
two of our best men for watch.

coiled himself up, more like a snake
than a man, on the forecastle. It was
not my watch till four in the morning.

But I didn’t like the look of the night,

 

77

or the pilot, orthe state of things gen-
erally, and I shook myself down on
deck to get my nap there, and be ready‘
for any thing at a moment’s notice. The
last I remember was the skipper whisper-
ing to me that he didn’t like the look of
things either, and that he would go be-
low and consult his instructions again.
That is the last I remember, before the
slow, heavy, regular roll of theold brig
on the groundswell rocked me off to
sleep.

I was awoke by a scuffle on the fore-
castle and a gag in my month. There
was a man on my breast and a man on
my legs, and I was bound hand and
foot in ‘half a minute. L

The brig was in the hands of the

They were swarming all
I heard six heavy splashes
in the water, one after another. I saw
the captain stabbed to the heart as he
came running up the companion, and I

Spaniards .
over her.

heard a seventh splash in the water.
Except myself, every soul of us on
board had been murdered and thrown
into the sea. Why I was left, I couldn’t
think, till I saw the pilot stoop over me
with a lantern and look, to make sure
of who I was. There was a devilish
grin on his face, and he nodded his
head at me, as much as to say, You
were the man who hustled me down and
slapped my face, and I mean to play
the game of cat and mouse with you in
return for it !

I could neither move nor speak, but
I could see the Spaniards take off the
main hatch and rig the purchases for
getting up the cargo. A quarter of an
hour afterward I heard the sweeps of a
schooner, or other small vessel, in the

 
 

 

 

 

 

78

water. The strange craft was laid
alongside of us, and the Spaniards set
to work to discharge our cargo into her.
They all worked hard except the pilot;
and he came from time to time, with
his lantern, to have another look at me,
i and to grin and nod always in the same
devilish way. I am old enough now
not to be ashamed of confessing the
truth, and I don’t mind acknowledging
that the pilot frightened me.

The fright, and the bonds, and the
gag, and the not being able to stir hand
or foot, had pretty nigh worn me out
by the time the Spaniards gave over
work. This was just as the dawn
They had shifted a good part

of our cargo on board their vessel, but

broke.

nothing like all of it, and they were
sharp enough to be off with what they
had got before daylight.

I need hardly say that I had made
up my mind by this time to the worst I
could think of. The pilot, it was clear
enough, was one of the spies of the
enemy, who had wormed himself into
the confidence of our consignees with—
out being suspected. He, or more
likely his employers, had got knowl-
edge enough of us to suspect what our
cargo was; we had been anchored for
the night in the safest berth for them
to surprise us in ; and we had paid the
penalty of having a small crew, and
consequently an insufficient watch. All
this 'was clear enough—but what did
the pilot mean to do with me?

On the word of a man, it makes my
flesh creep now only to tell you what
he did with me.

After all the rest of them were out
of the brig, except the pilot and two

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

Spanish seamen, these last took me up,
bound and gagged as I was; lowered
me into the hold of the vessel, and laid
me along on the floor, lashing me to it
with ropes’ ends, so that I could just
turn from one side to the other, but
could not roll myself fairly over, so as
They then left
Both of them were the worse for
liquor; but the devil of a pilot was
sober— mind that l —— as sober as I am
at the present moment.

I lay in the dark for a little while,
with my heart thumping as if it was

to change my place.
me.

going to jump out of me. I lay about
five minutes or so when the pilot came
down into the hold alone.

He had the captain’s cursed flat can-
dlestick and a carpenter’s awl in one
hand, and a long, thin twist of cotton-
yarn, well oiled, in the other. He put
the candlestick, with a new “ dip”
candle lighted in it, down on the floor
about two feet from my face, and close
The

light was feeble enough; but it was

against the side of the vessel.

sufficient to show a dozen barrels of
gunpowder or more left all round me
in the hold of the brig. I began to
suspect what he was after the moment
I noticed the barrels. The horrors
laid hold of me from head to foot, and
the sweat poured ofi' my face like
water.

I saw him go next to one of the bar
rels of powder standing against the
side of the vessel in a line with the
candle, and about three feet, or rather
better, away from it. He bored a hole
in the side of the barrel with his awl,
and the horrid powder came trickling
out, as black as hell, and dripped into
3!
“BLOW UP WITH THE BRIG!”

the hollow of his hand, which he: held
to catch it. “Then he had got a good
handful, he stopped up the hole by
jamming one end of his oiled twist of
cotton- 'arn fast into it and he then
rubbed the powder into the whole
length of the yarn till he had blackened
every hair-breadth of it.

The. next thing he did—-—- as true as I
sit here, as true as the heaven above
us all—the next thing he did was
to carry the free end of his long,
lean, black, frightful slow-match to the
lighted candle alongside my face. He
tied it (the bloody-minded villain I) in
several folds round the tallow dip,
about a third of the distance down,
measuring from the flame of the wick
to the lip of the candlestick. He did
that; he looked to see that my lashings
were all safe; and then he put his face
close to mine, and whispered in my
ear, “ Blow up with the brig ! ”

He was on deck again the moment
after, and he and the two others shoved
the hatch on over me. At the farthest
end from where I lay they had not
fitted it down quite true, and I saw a
blink of daylight glimmering in when I
looked in that direction. I heard the
sweeps of the schooner fall into the
water—splash! splash! fainter and
fainter, as they swept the vessel out in
the dead calm, to be ready for the wind
in the offing. Fainter and fainter,
splash, splash! for a quarter of an
hour or more.

While those sounds were in my ears,
my eyes were fixed on the candle.

It had been freshly lighted. If left
to itself, it would burn for between six

and seven hours. The slow-match was

 

79

twisted round it about a third of the
way down, and therefore the flame
would be about two hours reaching it.
There I lay, gagged, bound, lashed to
the floor; seeing my own life burning
down with the candle by my side—
there I lay, alone on the sea, doomed
to be blown to atoms, and to see that
doom drawing on, nearer and nearer
with every fresh second of time, through
nigh on two hours to come ; powerless
to help myself, and speechless to call
for help to others. The wonder to me
is that I didn’t cheat the flame, the slow-
match, and the powder, and die of the
horror of my situation before my first
half-hour was out in the hold of the brig.

I can’t exactly~say how long I kept
the command of my senses after I had
ceased to hear the splash of the schoon-
er’s sweeps in the water. I can trace
back everything I did and everything
I thought, up to a certain point; but,
once past that, I get all abroad, and
lose myself in my memory now, much
as I lost myself in my own feelings .at
the time.

The moment the hatch was covered
over me, I began, as every other man
would have begun in my place, with a
frantic effort to free my hands. In the
mad panic I was in, I cut my flesh with
the lashings as if they had been knife- ,
blades, but I never started them. There
was less chance still of freeing my legs,
or of tearing myself from the fastenings
that held me to the floor. I gave in
when I was all but suffocated for want
of breath. The gag, you will please to
remember, was a terrible enemy to me ;‘
I could only breathe freely through my
nose—and that is but a poor vent

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

80

when a man is straining his strength as
far as ever it will go.

I gave in and lay quiet, and got my
breath again, my eyes glaring and
straining at the candle all the time.

While I. was staring at it, the notion
struck me of trying to blow out the
flame by pumping a long breath at it
suddenly through my nostrils. It was
too high above me, and too far away
from me, to be reached in that fashion.
I tried, and tried, and tried ; and then I
gave in again, and lay quiet again,
always with my eyes glaring at the
candle, and the candle glaring at me.
The splash of the schooner’s sweeps
I could
only just hear them in the morning still-

was very faint by this time.
ness. Splash! splash l —fainter and
fainter —-— splash I splash I

Without exactly feeling my mind
going, I began to feel it getting queer
The snuff of the
candle was growing taller and taller,
and the length of tallow between the
flame and the slow-match, which was
the length of my life, was getting shorter
I calculated that I had
rather less than an hour and a half to

as early as this.

and shorter.

live.

An hour and a half ! Was there a
chance in that time of a boat pulling off
to the brig, from shore? Whether the
land near which the vessel was an-
- chored was in possession of our side, or
in possession of the enemy’s side, I
made out that they must, sooner or
later, send to hail the brig merely
because she was a stranger in those
parts. The question for me was, how
soon? The sun had not risen yet, as I
could tell by looking through the chink

 

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

in the hatch.
village near us, as we all knew, before

There was no coast

the brig was seized, by seeing no lights
on shore. There was no wind, as I
could tell by listening, to bring any
If I had had six

hours to live, there might have been a

strange vessel near.

chance for me, reckoning from sunrise
But with an hour and a half,
which had dwindled to an hour and a

to noon.

quarter by this time -— or in other
words, with the earliness of the morn-
ing, the uninhabited coast, and the
dead calm all against me—there was
not the ghost of a chance. As I felt
that, I had another struggle— the last
-— with my bonds, and only out myself
the deeper for my pains.

I gave in once more, and lay quiet,
and listened for the splash of the
sweeps.

Gone 1 Not a sound could I hear but
the blowing of the fish now and then on
the surface of the sea, and the creak of
the brig’s crazy old spars, as she rolled
gently from side to side with the little
swell there was on the quiet water.

The wick
grew terribly as the quarter slipped

An hour and a quarter.

away, and the charred top of it began
to thicken and spread out mushroom-
shape. It would fall off soon. W'ould
it fall off red-hot, and would the swing
of the brig cant it over the side of the
candle and let it down on the slow-
match? If it would I had about ten ‘
minutes to live instead of an hour. ‘

This discovery set my mind for a
minute on a new tack altogether. I
began to ponder with myself what sort
of a death blowing up might be. Pain-
ful! Well, it would be, surely, too
“BLOW UP WITH THE BRIG!”

sudden for that. Perhaps just one crash
inside me, or outside me, or both; and
nothing more 1 Perhaps not even a crash ;
that and death and the scattering of this
living body of mine into millions of
fiery sparks, might all happen in the
same instant! I couldn’t make it out;
I couldn’t settle how it would be. The
minute of calmness in my mind left it
before I had half done thinking; and I
got all abroad again.

When I came back to my thoughts,
or when they came back to me (I can’t
say which), the wick was awfully tall,
the flame was burning with a smoke
above it, the charred top was broad and
red, and heavily spreading out to its fall.

My despair and horror at seeing it
took me in a new way, which was good
and right, at any rate, for my poor soul.
I tried to pray — in my own heart, you
will understand, for the gag put all lip-
praying out of my power. I tried, but
the candle seemed to burn it up in me.
I struggled hard to force my eyes from
the slow, murdering flame, and to look
up through the chink in the hatch
at the blessed daylight. I tried once,
tried twice ; and gave it up.
tried only to shut my eyes, and keep
them shut—— once ——twice — and the
second time I did it. “ God bless old
mother, and sister Lizzie I God keep
them both, and forgive me ! ” That was

. all I had time to say, in my own heart,
before my eyes opened again, in spite
of me, and the flame of the candle flew
into them, flew all over me, and burned
up the rest of my thoughts in an instant.

I couldn’t hear the fish blowing now ;
I couldn’t hear the creak of the spars;
I couldn’t think; I couldn’t feel the

I next

 

81

sweat of my own death agony on my
face —I could only look at the heavy,
charred top of the wick. It swelled,
tottered, bent over to one side, dropped
—red-hot at the moment of its fall——
black and harmless, even before the
swing of the brig had canted it over
into the bottom of the candlestick.

I caught myself laughing.

Yes llaughing at the safe fall of the bit
of wick. But for the gag, I should have ‘
screamed with laughing. As it was, I
shock with it inside me — shook till the
blood was in my head, and I was all
but suffocated for want of breath. I
had just sense enough left to feel that
my own horrid laughter at that awful
moment was a sign of my brain going
at last. I had just sense enough left to
make another struggle before my mind
broke loose like a frightened h0rse,'and
ran away with me.

One comforting look at the blink of
daylight through the hatch was what I
The fight to force
my eyes from the candle and to get that
one look at the daylight was the hardest
I had had yet ; and I lost the fight. The
flame had hold of my eyes as fast as the '
lashings had hold of my hands. I

tried for once more.

couldn’t look away from it. I couldn’t
even shut my eyes, when I tried that
next, for the second time. There was
the wick growing tall once more. There
was the space of unburned candle be-
tween the light and the slow-match
shortened to an inch or less.

How much life (lid that inch leave
Three-quarters of an hour? Half

Fifty minutes ?

me?
an hour? Twenty
minutes? Steady! an inch of tallow-

candle would burn longer than twenty

 
 

 

 

 

 

82

An inch of tallow! the

notion of a man’s body and soul being

minutes.

kept together by an inch of tallow!
Wonderful I

that sits on a throne can’t keep a man’s

\Vhy, the greatest king

body and soul together; and here’s an
inch of tallow that can do what the
king can’t! There’s something to tell
mother when I get home, which will sur-
prise her more than all the rest of my
voyages put together.
wardly again at the thought of that,

I laughed in-

and shook and swelled and suffocated
myself, till the light of the candle
leaped in through my eyes, and licked
up the laughter, and burned it out of
me, and made me all empty and cold
and quiet once more.

Mother and Lizzie. I don’t know
when they came back; but they did
come back—not, as it seemed to me,
into my mind this time, but right down
bodily before me, in the hold of the brig.

Yes; sure enough, there was Lizzie,
just as light-hearted as usual, laughing
at me. Well, why not?
Who is to blame Lizzie for thinking I’m

Laughing ?

lying on my back, drunk in the cellar,
with the beer-barrels all around me?
Steady! she’s crying now— spinning
round and round in a fiery mist, wring-
ing her hands, screeching out for help ——
fainter and fainter, like the splash of
the schooner’s sweeps. Gone -— burned
Mist? fire? no;
neither one nor the other. It’s mother

up in the fiery mist!

makes the light —-— mother knitting, with
ten flaming points at the ends of her
fingers and thumbs, and slow-matches
hanging in bunches all round her face
instead of her own gray hair. Mother
in her old arm-chair, and the pilot’s long

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

skinny hands hanging over the back of
the chair, dripping with gunpowder.
No! chair, no
mother—nothing but the pilot’s face,

no gunpowder, no
shining red-hot, like a sun, in the fiery

mist; turning upside down in the fiery
mist; running backward and forward

along the slow-match, in the fiery mist;

spinning millions of miles in a minute,

in the fiery mist ——4 spinning itself .
smaller and smaller into one tiny point,

and that point darting on a sudden

straight into my head — and then, all

fire and all mist—no hearing, no see-

ing, no thinking, no feeling—the brig,

the sea, my own self, the whole world,

all gone together!

After what I’ve just told you, I
know nothing and remember nothing,
it seemed to
me) in a comfortable bed, with two‘

till I woke up (as

rough-and-ready men like myself sit-
ting on each side of my pillow, and
a gentleman standing watching me
at the foot of the bed.
about seven in the morning. My sleep

It was

(or what seemed like my sleep to me)
had lasted better than eight months —
I was among my own countrymen in the
island of Trinidad—the men at each
side of my pillow were my keepers,
turn and turn about— and the gentle-
man standing at the foot of the bed was
What I said and did in
those eight months, I have never known,

the doctor.
and never shall. I woke out of it as if
it had been one long sleep—that's all
I know. I

It was another two months or more
before the doctor thought it safe to
answer the questions I. asked him.
“BLOW UP WITH THE BRIG!”

' The brig had been anchored, just as
I had supposed, off a part of the coast
which was lonely enough to make the
Spaniards pretty sure of no interruption,
so long as they managed their mur-
derous work quietly under cover of
night.

My life had not been saved from the
shore, but from the sea. An American
vessel, becalmed in the offing, had made
out the brig as the sun rose; and the
captain, having his time on his hands in
consequence of the calm, and seeing a
vessel anchored where no vessel had
any reason to be, had manned one of
his boats, and sent his mate with it, to
look a little closer into the matter, and
bring back a report of what he saw.

What he saw, when he and his men
found the brig deserted and boarded
her, was a gleam of candle-light through
the chink in the hatchway. The flame
was within about a thread’s breadth of
the slow-match when he lowered him—
self into the hold; and if he had not
had the sense and coolness to cut the
match in two with his knife before he

 

83

touched the candle, he and his men
might have been blown up along with
The match
caught, and turned into spluttering red
fire, in the very act of putting the

the brig as well as me.

candle out; and if the communication
with the powder-barrel had not been
cut off, the Lord only knows what
might have happenedr

What became of the Spanish schooner
and the pilot, I have never heard from
that day to this.

As for the brig, the Yankees took
her, as they took me, to Trinidad, and
claimed their salvage, and got it, I
hope, for their own sakes. I was
landed just in the same state as when
they rescued me from the brig— that is
But

please to remember, it was a long time

to say, clean out of my senses.

ago; and, take my word for it, I was
discharged cured, as I have told you.
Bless your hearts, I’m all right now, as
you may see. I’m a little shaken by
telling the story, as is only natural—
a little shaken, my good friends, that’s
all.

 
 

 

 

 

 

'THE QUEEN’S REVENGE.

 

THE name of Gustavus Adolphus,
the faithful Protestant, the great gen-
eral, and the good king of Sweden,
has been long since rendered familiar
'We
all know how this renowned warrior

to English readers of history.

and nionarch was beloved by his sol—
diers and subjects, how successfully he
fought through a long and terrible war,
and how nobly he died on the field of
battle. With his death, however, the
interest of the English
Swedish affairs seems to terminate.

reader in

Those who have followed the narrative
of his life carefully to the end, may
remember that he left behind him an
only child, a daughter named Christina.
But of the character of this child, and
of her extraordinary adventures after
she grew to womanhood, the public in
England is, for the most part, entirely
ignorant. In the popular historical and
romantic literature of France, Queen
In
the literature of this country she has,

Christina is a notorious character.

hitherto, been allowed but little chance
of making her way to the notice of the
world at large.

And yet the life of this woman was
in itself a romance. At six years old
she was Queen of Sweden, with the

famous Oxenstiern for guardian. This

 

great and good man governed the king-
dom in her name until she had lived
through her minority; Four years after
her coronation she, of her own accord,
abdicated her rights in favor of her
cousin, Charles Gustavus. Young and
beautiful, the most learned and most
accomplished woman of her time, she
resolutely turned her back on the throne
of her inheritance, and set forth to
wander through civilized Europe in‘ the
character of an independent traveller
who was resolved to see all varieties
of men and manners, to collect all the
knowledge which the widest experience
could give her, and to measure her mind
boldly against the greatest minds of the
age. ‘

So far, the interest excited by her
character and her adventures is of
the most picturesqucly attractive kind.
There is something strikingly new in
the spectacle of a young queen who
prefers the pursuit of knowledge to
the possession of a throne, and who
barters a royal birthright for the privi-
lege of being free. Unhappily, the
portrait of Christina cannot be painted
It
must be recorded to her disgrace that,

throughout in bright colors only.

when her travels brought her to Rome,
she abandoned the religion for which
THE QUEEN’S REVENGE.

her father fought and died. And it
must be admitted in the interests of
truth, that she freed herself from other
restraints beside the restraint of roy-
alty. Mentally distinguished by her
capacities, she was morally degraded by
her vices and her crimes.

The events in the strange life of
Christina, especially those connected
with her actions in the character of
a Queen-Errant, present ample mate-
rials for a biography, which might be
regarded in England as a new contribu-
One
among the many extraordinary adven-

tion to our historical literature.

tures which marked the Queen’s wan-
dering career, may be related in these
pages as an episode in the history of
her life which is complete in itself.
The events of which the narrative is
composed, throw light, in many ways,
on the manners, habits and opinions
of a past age ; and they can, moreover,
be presented in the remarkable words
of an eye-witness who beheld them two
centuries ago.

The scene is the palace of Fontaine-
bleau ; the time is the close of the year
sixteen hundred and fifthseven; the
persons are the wandering Queen
Christina; her grand equerry the Mar-
quis Monaldeschi; and Father Le Bel
of the convent of Fontainebleau, the
witness whose testimony we are shortly
about to cite.

Monaldeschi, as his name implies,
was an Italian by birth. He was a
handsome, accomplished man, refined
in his manners, supple in his disposi-
tion, and possessed of the art of mak-

ing himself eminently agreeable in the

 

85

society of women. -With these per-
sonal recommendations, he soon won
his way to the favor of Queen Chris-
Out of the long list of her
lovers, not one of the many whom she

tina.

encouraged caught so long and firm a
hold of her capricious fancy as Monal-
deschi.
probably took its rise, on her side at

The intimacy between them

least, in as deep a sincerity of affec—
tion as it was in Christina’s nature to
feel. On the side of the Italian, the
connection was prompted solely by
ambition. As soon as he had reaped
all the advantages of the position of

’chief favorite in the Queen’s court, he

wearied of his royal mistress, and ad-
dressed his attentions secretly to a
young Roman lady, whose youth and
beauty powerfully attracted him, and
whose fatal influence over his actions
ultimately led to his ruin and his
death. ,

After endeavoring to ingratiate him-
self with the Roman lady, in various
Monaldeschi found that the
surest means of winning her favor lay '

ways ,

in satisfying her malicious curiosity on
the subject of the secret frailties of
Queen Christina. He was not a man
to be troubled by any scrupulous feel-
ings of honor when the interests of his
own intrigues happened to be con-
cerned; and he shamelessly. took ad—
vantage of the position that he held
towards Christina, to commit breaches
of confidence of the most meanly in-
famous kind. Not contented with plac-
ing in the possession of the Roman
lady the series of the Queen’s letters to
himself, containing secrets that she
had revealed to him in the fullest con-

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

86

fidence of his worthiness to be trusted,
he wrote letters of his own to the new
object of his addresses, in which he
ridiculed Christina’s fondness for him,
and sarcastically described her smallest
personal defects with a heartless ef-
frontery which the most patient of
women would have found it impossible
to forgive. While he was thus pri-
vately betraying the confidence that
had been reposed in him, he was pub-
licly affecting the most unalterable
attachment and the most sincere re-
spect for the Queen.

For some time this disgraceful decep-
tion proceeded. successfully. But the
hour of the discovery was at hand, and
the instrument of effecting it was a cer-
tain cardinal who Was desirous of sup-
planting Monaldeschi in the Queen’s
favor. The priest contrived to get
possession of the whole correspondence,
which had been privately confided to
the Roman lady, including, besides
Christina’s letters, the letters which
Monaldeschi had written in ridicule of
The whole collec-
tion of documents was enclosed by the

his royal mistress.

cardinal in one packet, and was pre-
sented by him, at a private audience, to
the Queen.

It is at this critical point of the story
that the testimony of the eye-witness
whom we propose to quote, begins.
Father Le Bel was present at the terri-
ble execution of the Queen’s vengeance
on Monaldeschi, and was furnished
with copies of the whole correspondence
which had been abstracted from the
Roman lady. Having been trusted
with the secret, he is wisely and honor-
ably silent throughout his narrative on

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

the subject of Monaldeschi’s ofi'ence.’
Such particulars of the Italian’s base—
ness and ingratitude as have been pre-
sented here have been gathered from
the contradictory reports which were
current at the time, and which have
been preserved by the old French col-
The
details of the extraordinary punishment

lectors of historical anecdotes.

of Menaldeschi’s offence, which are now
to follow, may be given in the words
of Father Le Bel himself. The reader
will understand that his narrative
begins immediately after Christina’s
discovery of the perfidy of her favorite.

The sixth of November, sixteen hun-
dred and fifty—seven (writes Father Le
Bel), at a quarter past nine in the
morning, Queen Christina of Sweden,
being at that time lodged in the royal
palace of Fontainebleau, sent one of her
men-servants to my convent, to obtain
an interview with me. The messenger,
on being admitted to my presence, in-
quired if I was the superior of the con-
vent, and when I replied in the
affirmative, informed me thatl was ex—
pected to present myself immediately
before the Queen of Sweden.

Fearful of keeping her majesty wait—
ing, I followed the man at once to the
palace, without waiting to take any of
my brethren from the convent with
me.

After a little delay in the antechamber,
I was shown into the Queen’s room.
She was alone; and I saw by the ex-
pression of her face, as I respectfully
begged to be favored with her com-
mands, that something was wrong.
She hesitated for a moment; and then

 
THE QUEEN%

told me, rather sharply, to follow her to
a place where she might speak with the
certainty of not being overheard. She
led me into the Galerie des Cerfs, and,
turning round on me suddenly, asked if
we had ever met before. I informed
her Majesty that I had once had the
honor of presenting my respects to her;
that she had received me graciously,
and that there the interview hadlended.
She nodded her head and looked about
her a little ; then said, very abruptly,
that I wore a dress (referring to my
convent costume) which encouraged
her to put perfect faith in my honor;
and she desired me to promise before-
hand that I would keep the secret with
which she was about to entrust me as
strictly. as if I had heard it in the con-
fessional. I answered, respectfully,
that it was part of my sacred profession
to be trusted with secrets; that I had
never betrayed the private affairs of any
one; and that I could answer for my-
self as worthy to be honored by the con-
fidence of a queen.

Upon this, her Majesty handed me
a packet of papers, sealed in three
places, but having no superscription of
any sort. She ordered me to keep it
under lock and key, and to be prepared
to give it her back again before any per-
son in whose presence she might see fit
to ask me for it. She, further, charged
me to remember the day, the hour,
and the place in which she had given
me the packet ; and with that last piece
I left
her alone in the gallery, walking slowly

of advice she dismissed me.

away from me, with her head drooping
on her bosom, and her mind, as well

 

REVENGE. 87
as I could presume to judge, per-
turbed by anxious thoughtsfi"

On Saturday, the tenth of November,
at one o’clock in the afternoon, I was
sent for to the palace again. I took
the packet out of my private cabinet,
feeling that I might be asked for it ; and
then followed the messenger as before.
This time he led me at once to the
Galerie des Cerfs. The moment I en-
tered it, he shut the door behind me
with such extraordinary haste and
violence, that I felt a little startled.
As soon as I recovered myself, I saw
her Majesty standing in the middle of
the gallery, talking to one of the gen-
tlemen of her court, who was generally
known by the name of The Marquis,
and whom I soon ascertained to be the
Marquis Monaldeschi, Grand Equerry
of the Queen of Sweden.
her Majesty and made my bow—then
stood before her, waiting until she

I approached

should think proper to address me.

With a stern look on her face, and
with a loud, clear, steady voice, she
asked me, before the Marquis and be-
fore three other men who were also in
the gallery, for the packet which she
had confided to my care.

As she made that demand, two of the
three men moved back a few paces;
while the third, the captain of her guard,
advanced rather nearer to her. I
handed her back the packet. She
looked at it thoughtfully for a little

 

* Although Father Le Bel discreetly abstains
from mentioning the fact, it seems clear from
the context that he was permitted to read, and
that he did read, the papers contained in the
packet.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

88

while ; then opened it, and took out the
letters and written papers which it con-
tained, handing them to the Marquis
Monaldeschi, and insisting on his read-
VVhen he had obeyed, she
asked him, with the same stern look
and the same steady voice, whether he
had any knowledge of the documents
which he had just been reading. The
Marquis turned deadly pale, and an-

ing them.

swered that he had now read the papers
referred to for the first time.

“ Do you deny all knowledge of
them ? ” said the Queen.

me plainly, sir.

“ Answer
Yes or no ? ”

‘4 I
deny all knowledge of them,” he said,

The Marquis turned paler still.

in faint tones, with his eyes on the
ground.

“ Do you deny all knowledge of
these too?” said the Queen, suddenly
producing a second packet of manu-
script from under her dress, and
thrusting it in the Marquis’s face.

He started, drew back a little, and
answered not a word. The packet
which the Queen had given to me con-
tained copies only. The original pa-
pers were those she had just thrust in
the Marquis’s face.

“ Do you deny your own seal and
your own handwriting?” she asked.

He murmured a few words, acknowl-
edging both the seal and the hand-
writing to be his own, and added some
phrases of excuse, in which he en-
deavored to cast the blame that attached
to the writing of the letters on the
While he
was speaking, the three men in attend-
ance on the Queen silently closed
around him.

shoulders of other persons.

 

- ALICIA WARLOCK:

Her Majesty heard him to the end.
“ You are a traitor,” she said, and
turned her back on him.

The three men, as she spoke these
words, drew their swords. .

The Marquis heard the clash of the
blades against the scabbards,
looking quickly round, saw the drawn
He caught the
Queen by the arm immediately, and
drew her away with him, first into one
corner of the gallery, then into an-
other,

and ,

swords behind him.

entreating her in the most
moving terms to listen to him, and to
believe in the sincerity of his repent~
ance. The Queen let him go on talk—
ing without showing the least sign of
anger or impatience. Her color never
changed; the stern look never left
her countenance. There was some-
thing awful in the clear, cold, deadly
resolution which her eyes expressed
while they rested on the Marquis’s
face.

At last she shook herself free from
his grasp, still without betraying the
The three men

with the drawn swords, who had fol-

slightest irritation.

lowed the Marquis silently, as he led
the Queen from corner to corner of the
gallery, now closed-round him again,
as soon as he was left standing alone.

There was perfect silence for a min-
Then the Queen ad-
dressed herself to me.

“ Father le Bel,” “I
charge you to bear witness that I treat

ute or more.
she said,

this man with the strictest impar—
tiality.” She pointed, while she spoke,
to the Marquis Monaldeschi with a
little ebony riding-whip that she car-
ried in her hand. “I offer that worth-
THE QUEEN% REVENGE.

less traitor all the time he requires—
more time than he has any right to
ask for— to justify himself if he
can.”

The Marquis, hearing these words,
took some letters from a place of . con-
cealment in his dress, and gave them
to the Queen, along with a small bunch
of keys. He snatched these last from
his pocket so quickly, that he drew out
with them a few small silver coins
which fell to the floor. As he ad-
dressed himself to the Queen again,
she made a sign with her ebony rid-
ing-whip to the men with the drawn
swords; and they retired toward one
of the windows of the gallery. I, on
my side, withdrew out of hearing.
The conference which ensued between
the Queen and the Marquis lasted
nearly an hour. When it was over,
her Majesty beckoned the men back
again with the whip, and then ap-
proached the place where I was stand-
ing.

“Father le Bel,” she said, in her
clear, ringing, resolute tones, “there
is no need for me to remain here any
’ longer. I leave that man,” she pointed
to the Marquis again, “to your care.
Do all that you can for the good of his
He has failed to justify himself,

and I doom him to die.”

soul.

If I had heard sentence pronounced
against myself, I could hardly have
been more terrified than I was when
the Queen uttered these last words.
The Marquis heard them where he was
standing, and flung himself at her feet.
I dropped on my knees by his side, and
entreated her to pardon him, or, at
least, to visit his offence with some

 

89

milder punishment than the punishment
of death.

“I have said the words,” she an-
swered, addressing herself only to me;
“and no power under Heaven shall
make me unsay them. Many a man
has been broken alive on the wheel for
offences which were innocence itself
compared with the offence which this
perjured traitor has committed against
me. I have trusted him as I might
have trusted a brother; he has in-
famously betrayed that trust; and I
exercise my royal rights over the life
of a traitor. Say no more to me. I
tell you again, he is doomed to die.”

I’Vith those words the Queen quitted
the gallery, and left me alone with
Monaldeschi and the three execution-
ers, who were waiting to kill him.

The unhappy man dropped on his
knees at my feet, imploring me to
follow the Queen, and make one more
Before I
could answer a word, the three men
surrounded him, held the points of

effort to obtain his pardon.

their swords to his sides—without,
however, actually touching him—and
angrily recommended him to make his
confession to me, without wasting any
I entreated them, with the
tears in my eyes, to wait as long as

more time.

they could, so as to give the Queen
time to reflect, and, perhaps, to falter
in her deadly intentions toward the
Marquis. I succeeded in producing
such an impression 011 the chief of the
three men, that he left us, to obtain an
interview with the Queen, and to ascer-
tain if there was any change in her
purpose. After a very short absence

he came back, shaking his head.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9O

“ There is no hope for you,” he
“Make
Prepare

said, addressing Monaldeschi.
your peace with Heaven.
yourself to die I ”

“ Go to the Queen! ” cried the Mar-
quis, kneeling before me with clasped
hands.
make one more effort to save me.

“Go to the Queen yourself;
0
Father 1e Bel, run one more risk—
venture one last entreaty —- before you
leave me to die l ” ‘

“ Will you wait till I come back? ”
I said to the three men.

“ We will wait,” they answered, and
lowered their sword-points to the
ground.

I found the Queen alone in her room,
without the slightest appearance of
agitation in her face or her manner.
Nothing that I could say had the
slightest effect on her. I adjured her
by all that religion holds most sacred,
to remember that the noblest privi-
lege of any sovereign is the privilege
of granting mercy; that the first of
Christian duties is the duty of for-
giving.
Seeing that entreaties were thrown

She heard me unmoved.

away, I ventured, at my own proper
hazard, on reminding her that she was
not living now in her own kingdom
of Sweden, but that she was the guest
of the vKing of France, and lodged
in one of his own palaces; and I
boldly asked her if she had calculated
thepossible consequence of authoriz-
ing the killing of one of her attendants
inside the walls of Fontainebleau, with-
out any preliminary form of trial, or any
official notification of the offence that
he had committed. She answered me
coldly, that it was enough that she knew

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

the unpardonable nature of the offence
of which Monaldeschi had been guilty;
that she stood in a perfectly inde-
pendent position toward the King of
France; that she was absolute mis-
tress of her own actions, at all times
and in all places; and that she was
accountable to nobody under Heaven
for her conduct toward her subjects
and servants, over whose lives and
liberties she possessed sovereign rights,
which no consideration whatever should
induce her to resign.

Fearful, as I was, of irritating her,
I still ventured on reiterating my re-
She cut them short by
hastily signing to me to leave her.

As she dismissed me, I thought I
saw a slight change pass over her face ;

monstrances.

and it occurred to me that she might
not have been indisposed at that mo-'
ment to grant some respite, if she
could have done so without appearing
to falter in her resolution, and without
running the risk of letting Monaldeschi
Before I passed the door,
I attempted to take advantage of the
disposition to relent which I fancied I

escape her.

had perceived in her; but she angrily
reiterated the gesture of dismissal be-
fore I had spoken half-a-dozen words.
With a heavy heart, I yielded to neces-
sity, and left her.

Oh returning to the gallery, I found
the three men standing round the Mar-
quis, with their sword-points on the
floor, exactly as I had left them.

“Is he to live or to die?” they
asked when I came in.

There was no need for me to reply
in words; my face answered the ques-

tion. The Marquis groaned heavily,
THE QUEEN@ REVENGE.

but said nothing. I sat myself down
on a stool, and beckoned to him to
come to. me, and begged him, as well as
my terror and wretchedness would let
me, to think of repentance, and to pre-
pare for another world. He began his
confession kneeling at my feet, with
his head on my knees. After continu-
ing it for some time, he suddenly start-
ed to his feet With a. scream of terror.
I contrived to quiet him, and to fix his
thoughts again on heavenly things.
He completed his confession, speaking
1n

sometimes sometimes

French, sometimes in Italian, accord-

in Latin,

ing as he could best explain himself in
_the agitation which now possessed
him.
Just as he had concluded, the Queen’s
Without
waiting to receive absolution, the un-

chaplain entered the gallery.

happy Marquis rushed away from me
to the chaplain, and, still clinging des-
perately to the hope of life, besought
him to intercede with the Queen. The
two talked together in low tones, hold-
ing each other by the hand. When
their conference was over, the chaplain
left the gallery again, taking with him
the chief of the three executioners who
were appointed to carry out the Queen’s
deadly purpose. After a short absence,
this man returned without the chaplain.
“ Get your absolution,” he said briefly
to the Marquis, “and make up your
mind to die.”

Saying these words, he seized Mo-
naldeschi; pressed him back against
the wall at the end of the gallery,
just under the picture of Saint Ger-
main; and, before I could interfere,

 

 

or even turn aside from the sight,

91

struck at the Marquis’s right side with
his sword. Monaldeschi caught the
blade with his hand, cutting three of
V At the same
moment, the point touched his side and
glanced off. Upon this, the man who
had struck at him exclaimed, “ He has

his fingers in the act.

armor under his clothes,” and, at the
same moment, stabbed Monaldeschi in
the face. As he received the wound,
he turned round toward me, and cried
out loudly, “Father le Bel! Father le
Bel ! ”

I advanced toward him immediately.
As I did so, the man who had wounded
him ‘retired a little, and signed to his
two companions to withdraw also. The ,
Marquis, with one knee on the ground,
asked pardon of God, and said certain
last words in my ear. I immediately
gave him absolution, telling him that
he must atone for his sins by suffering
death, and that he must pardon those
who were about to kill him. Having
heard my words, he flung himself for—
While he was fall-
ing, one of the three executioners who

ward on the floor.

had not assailed him as yet, struck at
his head, and wounded him on the sur-
face of the skull.

, The Marquis sank on his face; then
raised himself-a little, and signed to
the men to kill him outright, by strik-
ing him on the neck. The same man
who had last wounded him, obeyed by
cutting two or three times at his neck,
without, however, doing him any great
injury. For it was indeed true that he
wore armor under his clothes, which
armor consisted of a shirt of mail,
weighing nine or ten pounds, and ris-
ing so high round his neck, inside his

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

92

collar, as to defend it successfully from
any chance blow with a sword.

Seeing this, I came forward to ex-
hort the Marquis to bear his sufferings
with patience, 'for the remission of his
sins. While I was speaking, the chief
of the three executioners advanced,
and asked me if I did not think it was
time to give Monaldesehi the finishing
stroke. I pushed [the man violently
away from me, saying that I had no
advice to offer on the matter, and tell-
ing him that if I had any orders to
give, they would be for the sparing of
the Marquis’s life, and not for the has-
tening of his’death. Hearng me speak
in those terms, the man asked my par-
don, and confessed that he had done
wrong in addressing me on the subject
at all.

He had hardly finished making his
excuses to me, when'the door of the
gallery opened. The unhappy Mar-
quis, hearing the sound, raised himself
from the floor, and, seeing that the
person who entered was the Queen’s
chaplain, dragged himself along the
gallery, holding on by the tapestry
that hung from the walls, until he
reached the feet of the holy man.
There he whispered a few words (as
if he was confessing) to the chaplain,
who, after first asking my permission,
gave him absolution, and then returned
to the Queen.

As the chaplain closed the door, the
man who had struck the Marquis on
the neck, stabbed him adroitly with
a long, narrow sword in the throat,
just above the edge of the shirt of
mail. Monaldesehi sank on his right
‘side, and spoke no more. For a quar-

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

ter of an hour longer he still breathed,
during which time I prayed by him,
and exhorted him as I best could;
When the bleeding from this last wound
It was
then a quarter to four o’clock. The
death agony of the miserable man had
lasted, from the time [of the Queen’s

ceased, his life ceased with it.

first pronouncing sentence on him, for
nearly three hours.

I said the De Profundis over his
body. While I was praying, the three
men sheathed their swords, and the
chief of them rifled the Marquis’s
pockets. Finding nothing on him but
a prayer—book and a small knife, the
chief beckoned to his companions, and
they all three marched to the door in
silence, went out, and left me alone
with the corpse.

A few minutes afterward I followed
them to go and report what had hap?
pened to the Queen. '

I thought her color changed a little
when I told her that Monaldesehi was
dead; but those cold, clear eyes of
hers never softened, and her voice was
still as steady and firm as when I first
heard its tones on entering the gallery
that day.
saying to herself, “ He is dead, and he

She spoke very little, only

deserved to die!”
me, she added, “Father, Ileave the
care of burying him to you; and, for

Then, turning to

my own part, I will charge myself
with the expense of having masses
enough said for the repose of his
50111.”. I ordered the body to be placed
in a coffin, which I instructed the
bearers to remove to the church-yard
on a tumbril, in consequence of the
great weight of the corpse, of the
THE QUEENW

misty rain that was falling, and of the
bad state of the roads. On Monday,
the twelfth of November, at a quarter
to six in the evening, the Marquis was
buried in the parish church of Avon,
The next
day, the Queen sent one hundred livres,
by two of her servants, for masses for

near the font of holy water.

the repose of his soul.

Thus ends the extraordinary narra-
tive of Father Le Bel. It is satisfac-
tory to record, as some evidence of the
progress of humanity,_ that this bar-
barous murder, which would have
passed unnoticed in the feudal times,
as an ordinary and legitimate exercise
of a sovereign’s authority over avas-
sal, excited, in the middle of the sev-
enteenth century, the utmost disgust
and horror throughout ‘Paris. The
prime minister at that period, Cardinal
Mazarin (by no means an over-scrupu-
lous man, as all readers of French his-
tory know), wrote officially to Chris-
tina, informing her that “a crime so
atrocious as that which had just been
committed under her sanction, in the
Palace of Fontainebleau, must be con—
sidered as a sufficient cause for banish-
ing the Queen of Sweden from the court
and dominions of his sovereign, who,
in common with every honest man in
the kingdom, felt horrified at the law-
less outrage which had just been com-
mitted on the soil of France."

To this letter Queen Christina sent
the following answer, which, as a
specimen of spiteful efl‘rontery, has
probably never been matched : —

“ MONSIEUR MAZARIN, — Those who

 

REVENGE. 93

have communicated to you the details
of the death of my equerry, Monald-
eschi, knew nothing at all about it. I
think it highly absurd that you should
have compromised so many people for
the sake of informing yourself about
one simple fact. Such a proceeding
on your part, ridiculous as it is, does
not, however, much astonish me. What
I am amazed at is, that you and the
king, your master, should have dared
to express disapproval of what I have
done.

“Understand, all of you— servants
and masters, little people and great ——
that it was my sovereign pleasure to
act as I did.
der, an account of my actions to any

I neither owe, nor ren-r

one—least of all to a bully like you.
9% 9* -JK- alt- fit- *-

“It maybe well for you to know,
and to report to any one whom you
can get to listen to you, that Christina
cares little for your court, and less still
for you. When I want to revenge
myself, I have no need of your formi-
My honor
obliged me to act as I did; my will is
my law, and you ought to know how to
Understand, if you please, ,
that wherever I choose to live, there I

dable power to help me.

respect it.

am Queen ; and. that the men about me,
rascals as they may be, are better than
you and the ragamuflins whom you keep
in your service.
as are a as «It as

“ Take my advice, Mazarin, and
behave yourself for the future so as to
you cannot, for your
own sake, be too anxious to deserve it.

merit my favor ;

Heaven preserve you from venturing
on any more disparaging remarks about

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

94

my conduct! I shall hear of them, if
I am at the other end of the world, for
I have friends and followers in my ser-
vice who are as unscrupulous and as
vigilant as any in yours, though it is
probable enough that they are not quite
so heavily bribed.”

After replying to the prime minister
of France in these terms, Christina was
wise enough to leave the kingdom im-
mediately.

For three years more ‘she pursued
her travels. At the expiration of that
time her cousin, the King of Sweden,
in whose favor she had abdicated, died.
She returned at once to her own .coun-
try, with the object of possessing her-
self once more of the royal power.
Here the punishment of the merciless
crime that she had sanctioned overtook
her at last. The brave and honest
people of Sweden refused to be gov-

 

ALICIA WARLOCK.

erned by the woman who had ordered
the murder of Monaldesehi, and who had
forsaken the national religion for which
her father had died. Threatened with
the loss of her revenues as well as the
loss of her sovereignty, if she remained
in Sweden, the proud and merciless
Christina yielded for the first time in
her life.
right and title to the royal dignity, and

She resigned once more all

left her native country for the last time.
The final place of her retirement is
Rome. She died there in the year six-
Even
in the epitaph which she ordered to be

placed on her tomb, the strange and

teen hundred and eighty-nine.

daring character of the woman breaks
The whole record of that wild and
wicked existence was summoned up

out.
with stern brevity in this one line: -- '

CHRISTINA LIVED SEVENTY—TWO
YEARS.
ERAGMENTS OF PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.

 

MY BLACK MIRROR.

 

HAS everybody heard of Doctor Dee,
the magician, and of the black specu-
lum or mirror of cannel-coal, in which
he could see at will everything in the
Wide world, and many things beyond
it? If so, I may introduce myself to
my readers in the easiest manner pos-
sible. Although I cannot claim tobe
a descendant of Doctor Dee, I profess
the occult art to the extent of keeping a
black mirror, made exactly after the
model of that possessed by the old as-
trologer. My speculum, like his, is con-
structed of an oval piece of cannel-coal,
highly polished, and set on a wooden
back, with a handle to hold it by.
Nothing can be simpler than its appear-
ance ; nothing more marvellous than its
capacities—provided always that the
person using it be a true adept. Any man
who disbelieves nothing is a true adept.
Let him get a piece of cannel-eoal, polish
it highly, clean it before use with a white
cambrie handkerchief, retire to a private
sitting-room, invoke the name of Doctor
Dee, shut both eyes for a moment, and
open them again suddenly on the black
mirror. If he does not see anything
he likes, after that—past, present, or
future —— then let him depend on it there

 

is some speck or flaw of incredulity in
his nature ; and the sad termination of
his career may be considered certain.
Sooner or later he will end in being
nothing but a rational man.

I, who have not one morsel of ration-
ality about me; I, who am as true an
adept as if I had lived in the good old
times (“ the Ages of Faith,” as another
adept has very properly called them),
find unceasing interest and occupation
in my black mirror. For everything I
want to know, and for everything I want
to do, I consult it. . This very day, for
instance (being in the position of most
of the other inhabitants of London at
the present season), I am thinking of
soon going out of town. My time for
being away is so limited, and my wan-
derings have extended, at home and
abroad, in so many directions, that I
can hardly hope to Visit any really beau—
tiful scenes, or gather any really inter-
esting experiences that are absolutely,
new to me. I must go to some place
that I have visited before ; and I must,
in common regard to my own holiday
interests, take care that it is a place
where I have already thoroughly enjoyed
myself, without a single drawback to

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

96 A L I o I A
my pleasure that is worth mention-
ing.

Under these circumstances, if I were
a mere rational man,what should I do?
Weary my memory to help me to decide
on a destination, by giving me my past
travelling recollections in one long pan-
orama—although I can tell by expe-
rience that of all my faculties memory
is the least serviceable at the very time
As a
true adept, I know better than to give

when I most want to employ it.

myself any useless trouble of this sort.
I retire to my private sitting-room, take
up my black mirror, mention what I
want,-— and, behold! on the surface of
the cannel-coal the image of my former
travels passes before me, in succession
of dream—scenes. I revive my past ex-
periences, and I make my present choice
' out of them, by the evidence of my own
eyes; and I may add, by that of my
own cars also—for the figures in my
magic landscapes move and speak.
Shall I go on the Continent again?
Yes. To what part of it? Suppose I
revisit Austrian Italy, for the sake of
renewing my familiarity with certain
views, buildings, and pictures which
But let me first
ascertain whether I had any serious

once delighted me?

drawbacks to complain of on making
acquaintance with that part of the world.
Black mirror! show me my first even-
ing in Austrian Italy.

A cloud rises on the magic surface——
rests on it a little while —~slowly dis—
appears. My eyes are fixed on the
I see nothing, hear noth-
The first
of the magic scenes grows visible. I be-
hold it, as in a dream. Away with

cannel-coal.
ing, of the world about me.

 

VVARLOCK:

the ignorant Present! I am in Italy
again.

The darkness is just coming on. I
see myself looking out of the side win-
The hollow roll of
the wheels has changed to a sharp

dow of a carriage.

rattle, and we have entered a town.
We cross a vast square, illuminated by
two lamps and a glimmer of reflected
light from a coffee—shop window. We
get on into a long street, with heavy
stone arcades for foot-passengers to
walk under. Everything looks dark
and confused; grim visions of cloaked
men flit by, all smoking; shrill female
voices rise above the clatter of our
wheels, and then subside again in a
We stop. The bells on the
horses’ necks ring their last tiny peal
for the night.
the carriage door, and helps me down

moment.
A greasy hand opens
the steps. I am under an archway,
with blank darkness before me, with a
smiling man holding a flaming tallow-
candle by my side, with street spec-
tators silently looking on behind me.
They wear high-crowned hats and
brown cloaks, mysteriously mufliing
them up to the chin.
dently.
able man, and I don’t like the suspicion

Brigands, evi-
Pass, Scene! I am a peace-
of a stiletto, even in a dream.

Where
did I dine, and how, on my first even-

Show me my sitting-room.

ing in Austrian Italy?

I am in the presence of two cheerful
One
is lighting lamps; the other is setting

waiters, with two flaring candles.

brush-wood and logs in a blaze in a.
perfect cavern of ahearth. “There am
I, now that there is plenty of light to

see by? Apparently in a banqueting-
MY BLACK MIRROR.

hall, fifty feet long by forty wide.
This is my private sitting-room, and I
am to eat my little bit of dinner in it
all alone. Let me look about observ-
antly while the meal is preparing.
Above me is an» arched painted ceiling,
all alive with Cupids rolling about on
clouds, and scattering perpetual roses
on the heads of travellers beneath.
Around me are classical landscapes of
the school which treats the spectator
to umbrella-shaped trees, calm green
oceans, and foregrounds rampant with
dancing goddesses. Beneath me is
something elastic to tread upon, smells
ing very like old straw, which indeed
it is, covered with a thin drugget.
This is humanely intended to protect
me against the cold of the stone or
brick floor, and is a concession to Eng-
lish prejudices on the subject of com-
fort. May I be grateful for it, and take
no unfriendly notice of the fleas, though
they are crawling up my legs from the
straw and the drugget already!

\Vhat do I see next? Dinner on
table. Drab-colored soup, which will
take a great deal of thickening with
grated Parmesan cheese, and five dishes
all around it. Trout fried in oil, rolled
beef steeped in succulent brown gravy,
roast chicken with water-cresses, square
pastry cakes with mince-meat inside
them, fried potatoes—all excellent.
This is really good Italian cookery; it
is more fanciful than the English, and
more solid than the French. It is not
greasy, and none of the fried dishes
taste in the slightest degree of lamp-

oil. The wine is good, too—effer-

 

97

bottle. The second course more than
sustains the character of the first.
Small browned birds that look like
larks, their plump breasts clothed suc-
culently with a counterpane of fat ba-
con, their tender backs reposing on
beds of savory toast—stewed pigeon
sponge-cake pudding —— baked
IVhere» could one find a better

—— a
pears.
dinner or a pleasanter waiter to serve
at table?
familiar, and is always ready to occupy

He is neither servile nor

any superfluous attention I have to
spare with all the small—talk that is in
him. He has, in fact, but one fault,
and that consists in his very vexatious
and unaccountable manner of varying
the language in which he communicates
with me. ~

I speak French and Italian, and he
can speak French also as well as his
own tongue. I naturally, however,
choose Italian on first addressing him,
He
understands what I say to him per-
fectly, but he answers me in French.
I bcthink myself, upon this, that he may
be wishing, like the rest of us, to show

because it is his native language.

off any little morsel of learning he has
picked up, or that he may fancy I un-
derstand French better than I do Ital-
ian, and may be politely anxious to
make our colloquy as easy as possible
to me. Accordingly I humor him, and
change to French when I next speak.
No sooner are the words out of my
mouth than, with inexplicable pervers-
ity, he answers me in Italian. All
through the dinner I try hard to make
him talk the same' language that I do,

vescent, smacking of the Muscatellyet, excepting now and then a few in-

grape, and only eighteen-pence

a l

l

significant phrases, I never suecced.

 
 

 

 

 

a

98 A L I c I A
What is the meaning of his playing
this game of philological seesaw with
me? Do the people here actually carry
the national politeness so far as to flat-
ter the stranger by according him an
undisturbed monopoly of the language
in which he chooses to talk to them?
I can not explain it, and dessert sur-
prises me in the midst of my perplex-
ities. Four dishes again! Parmesan
cheese, macaroons, pears, and green
With these and another bottle of

the effervescent wine, how brightly the

figs.

evening will pass away by the blazing
wood-fire! Surely I can do no better
than to go to Austrian Italy again,
after having met with such a first wel-
Shall I

put down the cannel-coal, and deter-

come to the country as this.

mine without any more ado on paying
a second visit to the land that is cheered
by my comfortable inn?
hastily.
or two more scenes from my past trav-

No, not too
Let me try the effect of one

elling experience in this particular di-
vision of the Italian peninsula before I
decide.

Black Mirror ! how did I end my
evening at the comfortable inn?

The cloud passes again, heavily and
thickly this time, over the surface of
the mirror—clears away slowly —
shows me myself dozing luxuriously by
the red embers with an empty bottle at
my side. A suddenly opening door
wakes me up; the landlord of the inn

» approaches, places a long, official-look-

ing book on the table, and hands me
pen and ink. I inquire peevishly what
I am wanted to write at that time of
night, when I am just digesting my

dinner. The landlord answers respect-

' that is my nation?

 

WVARLOCK:

fully that I am required to give the
police a full, true, and particular ac-
count of myself. I approach the table,
thinking this demand rather absurd, for
my passport is already in the hands of
the authorities. However, as I am in
a despotic country, I keep my thoughts
to myself open a blank page in the
oflieial-looking book, see that it is
divided into columns, with printed
headings, and find that I no more un-
derstand what they mean than I under-
stand an assessed tax-paper at home, to
which, by-the-by, the blank page bears
The
headings are technical ofiicial words,

a striking general resemblance.

which I now meet with as parts of Italian
speech for the first time. I am obliged
to appeal to the polite landlord, and,
by his assistance, I get gradually to
understand what it is the Austrian
police want of me.

The police require to know, before
they will let me go on peaceably t0-
morrow, first, What is my name in full?
(Answered easily enough.) Second,
(British, and de-
lighted to cast it in the teeth of con-
tinental tyrants.) Third, Where was
I born? - (In London—parish of Ma-
rylebone — and I wish my native vestry
knew how the Austrian authorities
were using me.) Fourth, \Vhore do I
live? (I11 London, again—« and I have
half a mind to write to the Times
about-this nuisance before I go to bed.)
Fifth, How old am I? (My age is
what it has been for the last seven
years, and What it will remain till
further notice—twenty-five exactly.)
“That next? By all that is inquisitive,
here are the police wanting to know
MY BLACK MIRROR.

(Sixth) Whether I am married or single l
Landlord, what is the Italian for Bach-
elor? “Write Nubile, signer.” N u-
biie? That means Marriageble. Per-
mit me to remark, my good sir, that
this is a woman’s definition of a bach-
elor, not a man’s. No matter, let it
pass. What next? (Oh, distrustful
despots! what next ?) Seventh, What
is my condition? (First-rate condition,
to be sure, — full ofrolled beef, toasted
larks, and effervescent wine. Condi-
VVhat do they mean by that?
Profession, is it? I have not got one.
“That shall I write? “ IVrite Proprie-
tor, signor.” Very well; but I don’t
know that I am proprietor of anything
except the clothes I stand up in ; even

tion I

my trunk was borrowed from a friend.)
Eighth, Where do I come from? Ninth,
‘vVhere am I going to? Tenth, \Vhen
did I get my passport? Eleventh,
Where did I get my passport? Twelfth,
Was

there ever such a monstrous string of

Who gave me my passport?

questions to address to a harmless, idle
man, who only wants to potter about
Italy quietly in a post-chaise? Do they
catch Mazzini, landlord, with all these
, precautions? No ; they only catch me.
There! there! take your Travellers’
Book back to the police.
unfounded distrust of my character as

Surely, such

the production of that volume at my din~
her—table implies, forms a serious draw—
back to the pleasure of travelling in
Austrian Italy. Shall I give up at once
all idea of going there in my own inno-
cent character, again? No; let me be
deliberate at arriving at a decision ; let
me patiently try the experiment of
looking at one more scene from the past.

 

99

Black Mirror! how did I travel in
Austrian Italy after I had paid my bill
in the morning, and had left my com-
fortable inn?

The new dream-scene shows me
evenng again. I have joined another
English traveller in taking a vehicle
that they called a caleche. It is a
frowzy kind of sedan-chair on wheels,
with greasy leather curtains and cush-
ions. In the days of its prosperity and
youth it might have been a state coach,
and might have carried Sir Robert W'al-
pole to court, or the Abbe Dubois to a
It is
driven by a tall, cadaverous, rufiianly

supper with the Regent Orleans.

postiiion, with his clothes all in rags,
and without a spark of mercy for his
It smells badly,
looks badly, goes badly; and jerks, and

miserable horses.

cracks, and totters as if it would break
down altogether —— when it is suddenly
stopped on a rough stone pavement in
front of a lonely post—house, just as the
sun is sinking and the night is setting

)4.

n.

The postmaster comes out to super-
intend the harnessing of fresh horses.
He is tipsy, familiar, and confidential;
he first apostrophizes the caléche with
contemptuous curses, then takes me
mysteriously aside, and declares that
the whole high-road onward to our
swarms with-
It seems, then, that the Aus-
trian police reserve all their vigilance

morning’s destination

thieves.

for innocent travellers, and leave local
I make.
this reflection, and ask the postmaster
what he recommends us to do for the

rogues entirely unmolested.

protection of our portmanteaus, which

are tied on the roof of the caleche. He

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

100

answers that, unless we take special
precautions, the thieves will get up be-
hind, on our.crazy foot-board, and will
cut the trunks off the top of our frowzy
travelling-carriage, under cover of the
night, while we are quietly seated in-
side, seeing and expecting nothing.
We instantly express out readiness to
take any precautions that any one may
The post—
master winks, lays his finger archly on

be kind enough to suggest.

the side of his nose, and gives an unin—
telligible order in the patois of the dis-
trict. Before I have time to ask what
he is going to do, every idler about the
post-house who can climb scales the
summit of the caleche, and every idler
who cannot stands rearing and gestieu—
lating below with a lighted candle in
his hand.

While the hubbub is at its loudest, a
rival travelling-carriage suddenly drives
into the midst of us, in the shape of a
huge barrel-organ on wheels, and bursts
out awfully in the darkness with the
grand march in “ Semiramide,” played
with the utmost fury of the drum,
cymbal, and trumpet-stops. The noise
is so bewildering that my travelling
companion and I take refuge inside our
carriage, and shut our eyes, and stop
our ears, and abandon ourselves to de-
spair. After a time, our elbows are
jogged, and a string apiece is given to
us through each window. We are in-
formed in shouts, accompanied fiercly
by the grand march, that the strings are
fastened to our portmanteaus above;
that we are to keep the loose ends round
our forefingers all night, and the mo-
ment we feel a tug, we may be quite
certain the thieves are at work, and may

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

feel justified in stopping the carriage
and fighting for ourbaggage without
any more ado. Under these agreeable
auspices, we start again, with our
strings round our forefingers. \Ve feel
like men about to ring the bell — or like
men engaged in deep-sea fishing—0r
like men on the point of pulling the
string of a shower-bath. Fifty times
at least, during the next stage, each of
us is certain that he feels a tug, and
pops his head agitatedly out of the win-
dow, and sees absolutely nothing, and
falls back again exhausted with excite-
All

through the night this wear and tear of

ment in a corner of the caleche.

our nerves goes on ; and all through the
night (thanks, probably, to the ceaseless
popping of our heads out of the win-
dows) not the ghost of a thief comes
near us. We begin, at last, almost to
feel that it would be a relief to be robbed
—~ almost to doubt the policy of resisting
any mercifully larcenous hands stretched
forth to rescue us from the incubus of
our own baggage. The morning dawn
finds us languid and haggard, with the
aceursed portmanteau strings dangling
unregarded in the bottom of the caleche.
This
is an incident of travel in Austrian
Italy! Faithful Black Mirror, accept
my thanks. The warning of the two

And this is taking our pleasure !

last dream-scenes that you have shown
Whatever
other direction I may take, when I go

me shall not be disregarded.

out of town for the present season, one
road at least‘I know that I shall avoid
— the road that leads to Austrian Italy.

Shall I keep on the northern side of
the Alps, and travel a little, let us say,
in German Switzerland? Black Mir-
MY BLACK

ror! how did I get on when I was last
in that country? Did I like my intro-
ductory experience at my first inn?
The vision changes, and takes me
again to the outside of a house of public
entertainment; a great white, clean,
smooth-fronted, opulent-looking hotel,
—— a very different building from my
dingy, cavernous Italian inn. At the
street door stands the landlord. He is
a little, lean, rosy man, dressed all in
black, and looking like a master-under-
taker.
forward nor smiles when I get out of the
He
gives me the shortest possible answer,

I observe that he neither steps
carriage and ask for a bedroom.

growls guttural instructions to a waiter,
then looks out into the street again,
and, before I have so much as turned
my back on him, forgets my existence
immediately. The vision changes again,
and takes me inside the hotel. I am
following a waiter upstairs; the man
In

the bedroom corridor we find a chamber-

looks unaffectedly sorry to see me.

maid asleep, with her head on a table.
She is woke up; opens a door with a
groan, and scowls at me reproachfully
when I say that the room will do. I
descend to dinner. Two waiters attend
on me, under protest, and look as if
they were on the point of giving warn-
ing every time I require them to change
my plate. At the second course the
landlord comes in, and stands and stares
at me intently and silently with his
hands in his pockets. This may be his
way of seeing that my dinner is well
served ; but it looks much more like his
way of seeing that I do not abstract any

spoons from his table. I become irri-

 

tated by the boorish staring and frown-

MIRROR. 101

ing of everybody about me, and ex-
press myself strongly on the subject of
my reception at the hotel to an English
traveller dining near me.

The English traveller is one of those
exasperating men who are always ready
to put up with injuries, and he coolly
accounts for the behavior of which I
complain, by telling me that it is the
result of the blunt honesty of the na-
tives, who cannot pretend to take an
interest in me which they do not really
feel. What do I care about the feelings
of the stolid landlord and the sulky
waiters? I require the comforting out- ,
ward show from them, —-the inward
substance is not of the smallest conse-
quence to me. When I travel in civil-
ized countries, I want such a reception
at my inn as shall genially amuse and
gently tickle all the region round about
my organ of self-esteem. Blunt hon-
esty, which is too offensively truthful to
pretend to be glad to see me, shows no
corresponding integrity — as my own
experience informs me at this very
hotel — about the capacities of its wine-
bottles, but gives me a pint and charges
me for a quart 1n the bill, like the rest
of the world. Blunt honesty, although
it is too brutally sincere to look civilly
distressed and sympathetic when I say
that I am tired after my journey, does
not hesitate to warm up, and present
before me as newly dressed, a Methuse—
lah of a duck that has been cooked sev-
eral times over, several days ago, and
paid for, though not eaten, by my trav-
Blunt
fleeces me according to every established

elling predecessors. honesty

predatory law of the landlord’s code, yet
shrinks from the amiable duplicity of

 
 

102

fawning affectionately before me all the
way upstairs when I first present my—
' self to be swindled. Away with such
detestable sincerity as this! Away
with the honesty which brutalizes a
landlord’s manners without reforming
his bottles or his bills !

German—Swiss hotel, and the extortion-

Away with my

ate cynic who keeps it l Let others pay
tribute if they will to that beer in inn-
keeper’s clothing, the color of my money
he shall never see again.

Suppose I avoid German Switzerland,
and try Switzerland Proper? Mirrorl
how did I travel when I last found my-
self on the Swiss. side of the Alps?

The new ivision removes me even
from the most distant view of a hotel of
any kind, and places me in a wild
mountain country where the end of a
rough road is lost in the dry bed of a
torrent. I am seated in a queer little
box on wheels, called a Char, drawn by
a mule and a mare, and driven by a
jovial coachman in a blue blouse. I
have hardly time to look down alarm—
edly at the dry bed of the torrent, be-
fore the Char plunges into it. Rapidly
and. recklessly we thump along over
rocks and stones, acclivities and de-
elivities that would shake down the
stoutest English travelling-carriage,
knock up the best—bred English horses,
nonplus the most knowing English
coachman. J ovial Blue Blouse, singing
like a nightingale, drives ahead regard—
less of every obstacle; the mule and
mare tear along as if the journey was
the great enjoyment of the day to them;
the Char cracks, rends, sways, bumps,
and totters, but seems, as becomes a
hardy little mountain vehicle, to over-

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

turn or come to pieces. When we are
not among the rocks we are rolling and
heaving in sloughs of black mud and
sand, like a Dutch herring—boat in a
groundswell. It is all one to 'Blue
Blouse and the mule and mare. They are
just as ready to drag through sloughs
as to jolt over rocks; and when we do
come occasionally to a bit of unen—
cumbered ground, they always indemnify
themselves for past hardship and fatigue
by galloping like mad. As for my own
sensations in the character of passenger
in the Char, they are not, physically
speaking, of the pleasantest possible
kind. I can only keep myself inside
my vehicle by dint of holding tight with
both hands by anything I can find to
grasp at; and I am so shaken through-
out my whole anatomy that my very
jaws clatter again, and my feet play a
perpetual tattoo on the bottom of the
Char.

elling more composed and deliberate

Did I hit on no method of trav-

than this, I wonder, when I was last in
Switzerland? Must I make up my
mind to be half shaken to pieces if I
am bold enough to venture on going
there again?

l The surface of the Black Mirror is
once more clouded over. It clears,
and the vision is now of a path along
the side of a precipice. A mule is fol-
lowing the path, and I am the adven-
turous traveller who is astride on the
beast’s back. The first observation
that occurs to me in my new position is,
that mules thoroughly deserve their
reputation for obstinacy, and that, in
regard to the particular animal on which
I am riding, the less I interfere with

him, and the more I conduct myself as
MY BLACK MIRROR.

if I was a pack-saddle on his back, the
better we are sure to get on together.
Carrying pack-saddles is his main
business in life ; and though he saw me
get on his back, he persists in treating
me as if I was bale of goods, by walk-
ing on the extreme edge of the preci-
pice, so as not to run any risk of rub-
bing his load against the safe, or
mountain, side of the path. In this
and in other things I find that he is the
victim of routine, and the slave of
habit.
short, placing himself in a slanting

He has a way of stopping

position, and falling into a profound
meditation at some of the most awkward
turns in the wild mountain roads. I
imagine at first that he may be halting
in this abrupt and inconvenient manner
to take breath ; but then he never exerts
himself so as to tax his lungs in the
smallest degree, and he stops on the
most unreasonable, irregular principles,
sometimes twice ' in ten minutes —
sometimes not more than twice in two
hours, — evidently just as his new ideas
happen to absorb his attention or not.
It is part of his exasperating character
at these times always to become im-
mersed in reflection where the muleteer’s
staff has not room to reach him with the
smallest effect; and where, loading him
with blows being out of the question,
loading him with abusive language is
the only other available process for get-
ting him on. I find that he generally
turns out to be susceptible to the in—
fluence of injurious epithets after he has
heard himself insulted five or six times.
Once his obduratc nature gives way,
even at the third appeal. He has just
stopped with me on his back, to amuse

 

103

himself, at a dangerous part of the road,
with a little hard thinking in a steeply
slanting position; and it becomes,
therefore, urgently necessary to abuse
him into proceeding forthwith. First,
the muleteer calls him a Serpent, —— he
never stirs an inch. Secondly, the
muleteer calls him Frog, — he goes on,
imperturbably, with his meditation.
Thirdly, the muleteer roars out indig-
nantly, Ah Butor!
(which, interpreted by the help of my
Anglo-French dictionary, means appar-
ently, Ah, sacred name of a Muddle-
head l) ; and at this
adjuration the beast instantly jerks up
his nose, shakes his ears, and goes on

I Q
sacre 720m dun

extraordinary

his way indignantly.

Mule-riding, under these circum-
stances, is certainly an adventurous
and amusing method of travelling, and
well worth trying for once in a way;
but Iam not at all sure that I should
enjoy a second experience of it, and I
have my doubts on this account, ——to
say nothing of my dread of a second
jolting journey in a Char, — about the
propriety of undertaking another jour-
ney to Switzerland during the present
sultry season. It will be wisest, per-
haps, to try the effect of a new scene
from the past, representing some former
visit to some other locality, before I
venture on arriving at a decision. I
have rejected Austrian Italy and Ger-
man Switzerland, and I am doubtful
about Switzerland Proper. Suppose I
do my duty as a patriot, and give the
attractions of my own country a fair
chance of appealing to any past influ-
ences of the agreeable kind which they

may have exercised over me? Black

 
 

 

 

104

Mirror! when I was last a tourist at
home, how did I travel about from place
to place ?

The cloud on the magic surface rises
slowly and grandly, like the lifting of a
fog at sea, and discloses a tiny draw-
ing-room, with a sky-light window, and
a rose-colored curtain drawn over it to
A bright book-shelf
runs all round this little fairy chamber,

keep out the sun.

just below the ceiling, where the cor-
Sofas
extend along the wall on either side,

nice would be in loftier rooms.

and mahogany cupboards full of good
things ensconce themselves snugly in
The table is bright-
ened with nosegays; the mantel-shelf

the four corners.

has a smart railing all round it; and
the looking-glass above is just large
enough to reflect becomingly the face
and shoulders of any lady who will
give herself the trouble of looking into
it. The present inhabitants of the
room are three gentlemen with novels
and newspapers in their hands, taking
their case in blouses, dressing-gowns,
and slippers. They are reposing on
the sofas, with fruit and wine within
easy reach; and one of the party looks
to me very much like the enviable
They
exhibit a spectacle of luxury which

possessor of the Black Mirror.

would make an ancient Spartan shud-
der with disgust; and, in an adjoining
apartment, their band is attending on
them, in the shape of a musical box,
which is just now playing the last
scene in “ Lucia di Lammermoorf
Hark! what sounds are those minv
gling with the notes of Donizetti’s lovely
music—now rising over it sublimely,
now dying away under it, gently and

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

more gently still? Our, sweet opera
air shall come to its close, our music _
shall play for its short destined time,
and then be silent again; but those
more glorious sounds shall go on with
us day and night, shall still swell and
sink inexhaustibly, long after we and
all who know and love and remember
us have passed from this earth forever.
It is the wash of the waves that now
travels along with us grandly wherever
we go. \Ve are at sea in a schooner-
yacht, and are taking our pleasure
along the southern shores of the English
coast.

Yes, this to every man who can be
certain of his own stomach, this is the
true luxury of travelling, the true
secret for thoroughly enjoying all the
attractions of moving about from place
to place. \Vherever we now go, we
carry our elegant and comfortable home
along with us. We can stop where we
like, see what we like, and always
come back to our favorite corner on
the sofa, always carry on our favorite
occupations and amusements, and still
be travelling, still be getting forward to
new scenes all the time. Here is no
hurrying to accommodate yourself to
other’s people’s hours for starting, no
scrambling for places, no wearisome

watchfulness over barmao'e. Here are

DC 23
no anxieties about strange beds,-— for
have we not each of us our own sweet
little cabin to nestle in at night?-—no ,
agitating dependence at the dinner-
hour upon the vagaries of strange
cooks,— for have we not our own
sumptuous larder always to return to,
our own accomplished and faithful
culinary artist always waiting to minis-
MY BLACK MIRROR.

ter to our special tastes? We can
walk and sleep, stand up or lie down,
I just as we please, in our floating travel-
ling-carriage. We can make our own
road, and trespass nowhere. The bores
we dread, the letters we don’t want to
answer, cannot follow and annoy us.
We are the freest travellers under
heaven; and we find something to in-
terest and attract us through every
hour of the day. The ships we meet,
the trimming of our sails, the varying
of the weather, the everlasting innu-
merable changes of the ocean, afford
constant occupation for eye and ear.
Sick, indeed, must that libellous trav-
eller have been who first called the sea
monotonous—sick to death, and, per-
haps, born brother also to that other

 

105

traveller, of evil renown, the first man
who journeyed from Dan to Beersheba,
and found all barren.

Rest, then, a while unemployed, my
faithful Black Mirror! The last scene
you have shown me is sufficient to
answer the purpose for which I took
you up. Toward what point of the
compass I may turn after leaving Lon-
don is more than I can tell; but this I
know, that my next post-horses shall
be the winds, my next stages coast
towns, my next road over the open
waves. I will be a sea traveller once
more, and will put off resuming my
land journeyings until the arrival of
that most obliging of all convenient
periods of time — a future oppor-
tunity.

 

 
 

 

 

SKETCHES’ OF

CHARACTER—I.

 

MES. BAD GERY.

[Drawn from the Life.

By a Gentleman with no Sensibilities.]

 

Is there any law in England which
Will protect me from Mrs. Badgery?

I am a bachelor, and Mrs. Badgery is
a widow. Don’t suppose she wants to
marry me! She wants nothing of the
sort. She has not attempted to marry
me; she would not think of marrying
me, even if I asked her. Understand,
if you please, at the outset, that my
grievance in relation to this widow lady
is a grievance of an entirely new kind.

Let me begin again. I am a bachelor
of a certain age. I have a large circle
of acquaintance ; but I solemnly declare
that the late Mr. Badgery was never
numbered on the list of my friends. I
never heard of him in my life ; I never
knew that he had left a relict ;

set eyes on Mrs. Badgery until one fatal

I never

morning when I went to see if the fix-
tures were all right in my new house.

My new house is in the suburbs of
London. I looked at it, liked it, took
it. Three times I visited it before I
sent my furniture in. Once with a friend,
once with a surveyor, once by myself,
to throw a sharp eye, as I have already
intimated, over the fixtures. The third

 

visit marked the fatal occasion on which
I first saw Mrs. Badgery. A deep inter-
est attaches to this event, and I shall
go into details in describing it.

I rang at the bell of the garden door.
The old woman appointed to keep the
house answered it. I directly saw some-
thing strange and confused in her face
and manner. Some men would have
pondered a little and questioned her. I
am by nature impetuous and a rusher at
conclusions. “Drunk,” I said to my-
self, and walked» on into the house per-
fectly satisfied.

I looked into the front parlor. Grate
all' right, curtain-pole all right, gas
chandelier all right. I looked into the
back parlor—4 ditto, ditto, ditto, as we
men of business say. I mounted the
stairs. Blind on back window right?
Yes; blind on back window right.
I opened the door of the front draw-
ing-room— and there, sitting in the
middle of the bare floor, was a large
She

was dressed in the deepest mourn-

woman on a little camp-stool!

ing; her face was hidden by the thickest
crape veil ever I saw; and she was
MRS.

groaning softly to herself inthe desolate
solitude of my new unfurnished house.

What did I do? Do i I bounced back
into the landing. as if I had been shot,
uttering the national exclamation of
terror and astonishment, “'Hullo I ”
(And here I particularly beg, in paren-
thesis, that the printer will follow my
spelling of the word, and not put Hillo
or Halloo instead, both of which are
senseless compromises which represent
no sound that ever yet issued from an
Englishman’s lips.) I said, “ Hullo !”
and then I turned round fiercely upon
the old woman who kept the house, and
said “ Hullo I ” again.

She understood the irresistible ap-
peal that I had made to her feelings,
and courtesied, and looked toward the
drawing-room, and humbly hoped that
I asked
who the craps-covered woman on the

I was not startled or put out.

camp-stool was, and what she wanted
there.
answer, the soft groaning in the draw-

Before the old woman could

ing-room ceased, and a muflied voice,
speaking from behind the crape veil ad-
dressed me reproachfully, and said : —

“ I am the widow of the late Mr.
Badgery.” L

What do you think I said in answer?
Exactly the Words which I flatter, myself
any other sensible man in my situation
would have said. ‘And what words were
they? These two : —

“ Oh, indeed?”

“Mr. Badgery and myself were the
last tenants who inhabited this house,”
“ Mr.
The voice ceased,

continued the muffled voice.
Badgery died here.’-’
and the soft groans began again.

It was perhaps unnecessary to answer

BADGERY.

 

107

this ; but I did answer it.
words again: ~—

‘ ‘ Did he? ”

“ Our house has been long empty,”
resumed the voice, choked by sob’s.

How l in two

“ Our establishment has been broken
up. Being left in reduced circumstances,
I now live in a cottage near; but it is
not home to me. This is home. How-
ever long I live, wherever I go, whatever
changes may happen to this beloved
house, nothing can ever prevent me
from looking on it as my home. I came
here, sir, with Mr. Badgery after our
All the brief happiness

of my life was once contained within

honeymoon.
these four walls. Every dear remem-
brance that I fondly cherish is shut up
in these sacred rooms.”

Again the voice ceased, and again
the soft groans echoed round my empty
walls, and oozed out past me down my
uncarpeted staircase.

I reflected.
and dear

Mrs. Badgery’s brief
happiness remembrances
were not included in the list of fixtures.
Why could she not take them away with
her? \Vhy should she leave them lit-
tered about in the way of my furniture?

I was just thinking how I could put
this view of the case strongly to Mrs.
Badgery, when she suddenly left off
groaning and addressed me once
more.

“ While this house has been empty,”
she said, “ I have been in the habit of
looking in from time to time, and re-
newing my tender associations with the
place. I have lived, as it were, in the
sacred memories of Mr. Badger-y and of
the past, which these dear, these price-

less rooms call up, dismantled and

 
 

 

 

 

 

108

dusty as they are at the present moment.
It has been my practice to give a remu-
neration to the attendant for any slight
trouble that I might occasion—”

“ Only Sixpence, sir,” whispered the
old woman, close at my ear.

‘5 And to ask nothing in return,”
continued Mrs. Badgery, “ but the per-
mission to bring my camp-stool with
me, and to meditate on Mr. Badgery in
the empty rooms, with every one of
which some happy thought, or eloquent
word, or tender action of his, is ever-
lastingly associated. I came here on
my usual errand to-day. I am discov-
ered, I presume, by the new proprietor
of the house, — discovered, I am quite
ready to admit, as an intruder. I am
willing to go, if you wish it after hear-
My heart is full,
sir ; I am quite incapable of contending
with you. You would hardly think it,
but I am sitting on the spot once occu-
pied by our ottoman.

ing my explanation.

I am looking
toward the window in which my flower-
stand once stood. In this very place
Mr. Badgery first sat down and clasped
me to his heart, when we came back
‘Matilda,’
he said, ‘your drawing-room has been
expensivelypapered, carpeted, and fur-
nished for a month; but it has only
been adorned, love, since you entered

from our honeymoon trip.

it.” If you have no sympathy, sir, for
such remembrances as these ; if you see
nothing pitiable in my position, taken
in connection with my presence here;
if you cannot enter into my feelings,
and thoroughly understand that this is
not a house, but a Shrine — you have
only to say so, and I am quite willing
~to go.”

 

ALICIA WARLOCK.

She spoke with the air of a martyr,
— a martyr to my insensibility. If she
had been the proprietor and I had been
the intruder, she could not have been
All
this time, too, she has never raised
her veil—she never has raised it,
in my presence, from that time to

more mournfully magnanimous.

this. I have no idea whether she is
young or old, dark or fair, handsome
or ugly; my impression is, that she is
in every respect a finished and perfect
Gorgon ; but I have no basis of fact on
which I can support that horrible idea.
A moving mass of crape and a muffled
voice, —that, if you drive me to it, is
all I know, in a personal point of view,
of Mrs. Badgery.

“ Ever since my irreparable loss, this
has been the shrine of my pilgrimage,
and the altar of my worship,” pro-
ceeded the voice. “ One man may call
himself a landlord, and say that he will
let it; another man may call himself a
tenant, and say that he will take it. I
don’t blame either of those two men; I
don’t wish to intrude on either of those
two men; I only tell them that this is
my home; that my heart is still in
possession, and that no mortal laws,
landlords, or tenants can ever turn it
out. If you don’t understand this,
sir; if the holiest feelings that do
honor to our common nature have no
particular sanctity in your estimation,
pray do not scruple to say so; pray
tell me to go.”

“I don’t wish to do anything un-
civil, ma’am,” said I. “But I am a
single man, and I am not sentimental.”
(Mrs. Badgery groaned.) “ Nobody
told me I was coming into a Shrine
MRS. BADGERY.

when I took this house ; nobody warned
me, when Ifirst went over it, that there
was a Heart in possession. I regret to
have disturbed your meditations, and I
am sorry to hear that Mr. Badgery is
dead. That is all I have to say about
it; and now, witthour kind permis-
sion, I will do myself the honor of
wishing you good-morning, and will go
upstairs to look after the fixtures on the
second floor.”

Could I have given a gentler hint
than this? Could I have spoken more
compassionately to a woman whom I
sincerely believe to be old and ugly?
Where is the man to be found who can
lay his hand on his heart and honestly
say that he ever really pitied the sor-
rows of a Gorgon? Search through the
whole surface of the globe, and you
will'diseover human phenomena of all
sorts ; but you will’not find that man.

To resume. I made her a bow, and
left her on the camp-stool in the middle
of the drawing-room floor, exactly as I
had found her. I ascended to the sec-
ond floor, walked into the back room
first, and inspected the grate. It ap-
peared to be a little out of repair, so I
stooped down to look at it closer.
While I was kneeling over the bars, I
was violently startled by the fall of one
large drop of warm water, from a great
height, exactly in the middle of a bald
place, which has been widening a great
deal of late years on the top of my
:. head. I turned on my knees, and
looked round. Heaven and earth! the
crape-eovered woman had followed me
upstairs—the source from which the
drop of warm water had fallen was Mrs.

Badgery’s eye !

 

109

“ I wish you could contrive not to cry
over the top of my head, ma’am,” I re-
marked. My patience was becoming
exhausted, and I spoke with considera-
ble asperity. The curly-headed youth
of the present age may not be able to
sympathize with my feelings on this oc—
casion; but my bald brethren know as
well as I do that the most unpardonable
of all liberties is a liberty taken with
the unguarded top of the human head.

Mrs. Badgery did not seem to hear
me. When she had dropped the tear,
she was standing exactly over me, look-
ing down at the grate; and she never
stirred an inch after I had spoken.
“ Don’t cry over my head, ma’am,” I
repeated, more irritably than before.

“ This was his dressing-room,” said
Mrs. Badgery, indulging in muffled
soliloquy. “He was singularly par-
ticular about his shaving—water. He
always liked to have it in a little tin
pot, and he invariably desired that it
might be placed on this hob.” She
groaned again, and tapped one side of
the grate with the leg of her camp-
stool.

If I had been a woman, or if Mrs.
Badgery had been a man, I should now
have proceeded to extremities, and
should have vindicated my right to my
own house by an appeal to physical
force. ~ Under existing circumstances,
all that I could do was to express my
indignation by a glance. The glance
produced not the slightest result— and
no wonder. Who can look at a woman
with any effect through a crape veil?

I retreated into the second-floor front
room, and instantly shut the door after

me. The next moment I heard the

 

 
 

 

‘ 110

rustling of the crape garments outside,
and the muffled voice of Mrs. Badgery
poured lamentably through the key-
hole.

“Do you’x mean to make that your
bedroom?” asked the voice on the other
side of the door. “Oh, don’t, don’t
make that your bedroom I I am going
away directly— but, oh pray, pray let
that one room be sacred! Don’t sleep
there! If you can possibly help it,
don’t sleep there I ”

I opened the window, and looked up
and down the road. If I had'seen a
policeman within hail I should certainly
have called him in. No such person
was visible. I shut the window again,
and warned Mrs. Badgery, through the
door, in my sternest tones, not to inter-
fere with my domestic arrangements.

“ I mean to have my own iron bedstead

“And what is
And what
is more, I mean to snore here I” Se-

put up here,” I said.
more, I mean to sleep here.

vere, I think, that last sentence? It
completely crushed Mrs. Badgery for
the moment. I heard the crape gar-
ments rustling away from the door; I
heard the muffled groans going slowly
and solemnly down the stairs again.

In due course of time I also de—
scended to the ground—floor. IIad Mrs.
Badgery really left the premises? I
looked into the front parlor—empty.
Back parlor — empty. Any other room
on the ground-floor? Yes _; a long room
The door
I opened it cautiously,
and peepcd in.

at the end of the passage.
was closed.
A faint scream, and a
of two

smack distractedly clasped

hands saluted my appearance. There

she was, again on the camp-stool,

 

ALICIA W'ARLOCK:

again sitting exactly in the middle of
the floor.

“ Don’t, don’t look in, in that way I ”
cried Mrs. Badgery, wringing her hands. ‘
“ I could bear it in any other room, but
I can’t bear it in this. Every Monday
morning I looked out the things for the
wash in this room. He was difficult to
please about his linen’ ; the washer-
woman never put starch enough into his
collars to satisfy him. Oh, how often
and often has he popped his head in
here, as you popped yours just now, and
said, in his amusing way, ‘ More starch l ’
Oh, how droll he always was —-—how
very, very‘droll in this dear little back
room I ”

The situation had
I stood with
the door in my hand, looking down the

I said nothing.
now got beyond words.

passage toward the garden, and waiting
doggedly for Mrs.‘ Badgery to go out.
My plan succeeded. She rose, sighed,
shut up. the camp-stool, stalked along
the passage, paused on the hall mat,
said to herself, “ Sweet, sweet spot I ”
descended the steps, groaned along the
gravel-walk, and disappeared from view
at last through the garden door.

“ Let her in again at your peril! "’
said I to the woman who kept the house.
She courtesied and trembled. I left the
premises, satisfied with my own conduct
under very trying circumstances ; delu-
sively convinced also that I had done
with Mrs. Badgery.

The next day I sent in the furniture.
The most unprotected object on the face
of this earth is a house when the furni—
ture is going in. The doors must be
kept open ; and, employ as manyservants
as you may, nobody can be depended on
MRS.

as a domestic sentry so long as the van
is at the gate. The confusion of “ mov-
ing in ” demoralizes the steadiest dispo-
sition, and there is no such thing as a
properly guarded post from the top of
the house to the bottom. How the inva-
sion was managed, how the surprise was
effected, I know not; but it is certainly
the fact that, when my furniture went
in, the inevitable Mrs. Badgery went in
along with it.

I have some very choice engravings,
after the old masters; and I was first
awakened to a consciousness of Mrs.
Badgery’s presence in the house while I
was hanging up my proof impression
of Titian’s Venus over the front-parlor
“ Not there ! ” cried the
muffled voice, imploringly. “ 1163 por-
trait used to hang there. Oh, what a
print — what a dreadful, dreadful print
to put where his dear portrait used to
be I ”

I turned round in a fury.

fire-place.

There she
was, still muffled up in crape, still
carrying her abominable camp-stool.
Before I could say a. word in remon-
strance, six men in green baize aprons
staggered in with my sideboard, and
Mrs. Badgery suddenly disappeared.
Had they trampled her under foot, or
Though
not an inhuman man by nature, I asked

crushed her in the door-way?

myself those questions quite compos-
edly. No very long time elapsed before
they were practically answered in the
negative by the reappearance of Mrs.
Badgery herself, in a perfectly unruflied
condition of chronic grief. In the
course of the day I had my toes trodden
on, I was knocked about by my own
furniture, the six men in baize aprons

BADGERY.

 

111/

dropped all sorts of small articles over
me in going up and down stairs; but
Mrs. Badgery escaped unscathed. Every»
time I thought she had been turned out.
of the house she proved, on the con-
trary, to be groaning close behind me.
She wept over Mr. Badgery’s memory
in every room, perfectly undisturbed to
the last by the chaotic confusion of
I am not sure, but I think
she brought a tin box of sandwiches

moving in.

with her, and celebrated a tearful picnic
of her otvn in the groves of my front
garden. I say I am not sure of this;
but I am positively certain, that I never
entirely got rid of her all day; and I
know to my cost that she insisted on
making me as well acquainted with Mr.
Badgery’s favorite notions and habits as
I am with my own. It may interest
the reader if I report that my taste in
carpets is not equal to Mr. Badgery’s;
that my ideas on the subject of ser-
vants’ wages are not so generous as Mr.
Badgery’s; and that I ignorantly per-
sisted in placing a sofa in the position
which Mr. Badgery, in his time, con-
sidered to be particularly fitted for an
arm-chair. I could go nowhere, look
nowhere, do nothing, say nothing, all
that day, without bringing the widowed
incubus in the crape garments down
upon me immediately. I tried civil
remonstrances, I tried rude speeches, I
tried sulky silence—nothing had the
least effect on her. The memory of
Mr. Badgery was the shield of proof
with which she warded off my fiercest
Not till the last article of

furniture had been moved in did I lose

attacks.

sight of her; and even then she had
not really left the house. One of my

 
 

 

 

 

 

112

six men in green baize aprons routed
her out of the back—garden area, where
she was telling my servants, with floods
of tears, of Mr. Badgery’s virtuous
strictness with his house-maid in the
matter of followers. My admirable
man in green baize courageously saw
her out, and'shut the garden door after
her.

spot ; and if anything happens to him,

I gave him half a crown on the

I am ready to make the future pros-
perity of his fatherless family my own
peculiar care.

The next day was Sunday, and I at-
tended morning service at my new
parish church.

A popular preacher had been an-
nounced, and the building was crowded.
I advanced a little way up the nave, and
looked to my right, and saw no room.
Before I could look to my left, I felt a
hand laid persuasively on my arm. I
turned round —— and there was Mrs.
Badgery, with her pew door open,
solemnly beckoning me in. The crowd
had closed up behind me ; the eyes of a
I dozen members of the congregation, at
least, were fixed on me. I had no
choice but to save appearances, and ac—
cept the dreadful invitation. There was
a vacant place next to the door of the
pew. I tried to dropinto it, but Mrs.
“ His seat,” she
whispered, and signed to me to place
It is
unnecessary to say that I had to climb

Badgcry stopped me.
myself on the other side of her.

over a hassock, and that I knocked
down all Mrs. Badgery’s devotional
books before I succeeded in passing be-
tween her and the front of the pew.
She cried uninterruptedly through the
service; composed herself when it was

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

over; and began to tell me what Mr.
Badgery’s opinions had been on points
of abstract theology. Fortunately there
was great confusion and crowding at the
door of the church; and I escaped,’at
the hazard of my life, by running round
the back of the carriages. I passed the
interval between the services alone in
the fields, being deterred from going
home by the fear that Mrs. Badgery
might have got there before me.

Monday came. I positively ordered
my servants to let n0 lady in deep
mourning pass inside the garden door
without first consulting me. After that,
feeling tolerably secure, I occupied my-
self in arranging my booksand prints.

I had not pursued this employment
much more than an hour, when one of
the servants burst excitely into the room
and informed me that a lady in deep
mourning had been taken faint just out-
side my door, and had requested leave
to come in and sit down for a few
moments. I ran down the garden path
to bolt the door, and arrived just in time
to see it violently pushed open by an
officious and sympathizing crowd. They
drew away on either side as they saw
me. There she was; leaning on the
grocer’s shoulder, with the butcher’s
boy in attendance, carrying her camp-
stool 1 Leaving my servants to do what
they liked with her, I ran back and
locked myselt’up in my bedroom. When
she evacuated the premises, some hours
afterwards, I received a message of
apology, informing me that this partic-
ular Monday was the sad anniversary
of her wedding-day, and that she had
been taken faint, in consequence, at the
sight of her 10st husband’s house.
MRS.

Tuesday forenoon passed away hap-
pily, without any new invasion. After
lunch I thought I would go out and take
a walk. My garden door has a sort of
peep-hole in in it, covered with a wire
grating. As I got close to this grating,
I thought I saW something myste-
riously dark on the outer side of it. I
bent my head down to look through,
and instantly found myself face to face
with the crape veil. “ Sweet, sweet
spot!” said the muffled voice, speak-
ing straight into my eyes through the
grating. The usual groans followed, and
the name of Mr. Badgery was plain-
tively pronounced before I could recover
myself sufiiciently to retreat to the house.

Wednesday is the day on which I
am writing this narrative. It is not
twelve o’clock yet, and there is every
probability that .some new form of sen-
timental persecution is in store for me
before the evening. Thus far, these
lines contain a perfectly true statement
of MrsdBadgery’s conduct toward me
since I entered on the possession of my
house and her, shrine. What am I to
Clo—that is the point I wish to insist
on—what am I to do? How am I to
get away from the memory of Mr.
Badgery, and the unappeasable grief

BADGERY.

 

113

of his disconsolate widow? Any other
species of invasion it is possible to re-
sist; but how is a man placed in my
unhappy and unparalleled circumstances
to defend himself?
ready to fly at Mrs. Badgery.

I can’t keep a dog

charge her at a police court with being
oppressively fond of the house in which
her husband died. I can’t set man—traps
for a woman, or prosecute a weeping
widow as a trespasser and a nuisance.
I am helplessly involved in the unre~
laxing folds of Mrs. Badgery’s crape
veil. Surely there was no exaggeration
in my language when I said that I was
a sufi'erer under a perfectly new griev-
ance I Has
anybody had even the remotest experi-
ence of the peculiar form of persecution
If nobody

has, is there any legal gentleman in the

Can anybody advise me?

which I am now enduring?

United Kingdom who can answer the
all-important question which appears at
the head of this narrative? I began by
asking that question because it was
uppermost in my mind. It is uppermost
in my mind still, and'I therefore beg
leave to conclude appropriately by ask-
ing it again : — '

Is there any law in England which
will protect me from Mrs. Badgery?

I can’t .

 
 

 

 

A CASE WORTH LOOKING. AT.

 

MEMOIRS OF AN

ADOPTED SON.*

 

r.—— CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH PRECEDED
HIS BIRTH.

TOWARD the beginning of the eigh~
teenth century, there stood on a rock
in the sea, near a fishing village on the
coast of Brittany, a ruined tower With
a very bad reputation. No mortal was
known to have inhabited it within the
memory of living man. The one
tenant whom Tradition associated with
the occupation of the place at a remote
period had moved into it from the in-
fernal regions nobody knew why— had
lived in it nobody knew how long——
and had quitted possession nobody
knew when. Under such circumstances,
nothing was more natural than that
this unearthly Individual should give a
name to his residence; for which
reason, the building was thereafter
known to all the neighborhood round

as Satanstower.

 

* The curious legend connected with the
birth of this “Adopted Son,” and the facts
relating to his extraordinary career in after-
life, are derived from the “Records” of the
French Police of the period. In this instance,
and in the instances of those other papers in
the present collection, which deal with foreign
incidents and characters, while the facts of
each narrative exist in print, the form in

 

Early in the year seventeen hundred,
the inhabitants of the village were
startled one night by seeing the red
gleam of a fire in the tower, and by
smelling, in the same direction, a pre-
ternaturally strong odor of fried fish.
The next morning, the fishermen who
passed by the building‘ in their boats
were amazed to find a stranger had
taken up his abode in it. Judging of
him at a distance, he seemed to be
fine, tall, stout fellow: he was dressed
in fisherman’s costume, and he had a.
new boat of his own, moored com-
fortably in acleft of the rock. If he
had inhabited a place of decent repu-
tation, his neighbors would have im-
mediately made his acquaintance ; but,
as things were, all they could venture
to do was to watch him in silence.

The first day passed,”and, though it
was fine weather, he made no use of

 

which the narrative is cast is of my own
If these facts had been readily
accessible to readers in general, the papers in

devising.

question would not have been reprinted. But
the scarce and curious books from which my
materials are derived have been long since
out of print, and are, in all human probability,
never likely to be published again.
MEMORIES OF AN ADOPTED SON. 115

his boat.
with a continuance of the fine weather,

The second day followed,

and still he was as idle as before. On
the third day, when a violent storm
kept all the boats of the village on the
beach, ——-on the third day, in the midst
of the tempest, away went the man of
the tower to make his first fishing
experiment in strange waters! He
and his boat came back safe and sound,
in a lull of the storm ; and the villagers
watching on the cliff above saw him
carrying the fish up, by great basket-
fuls, to his tower. No such haul had
ever fallen to the lot of any one of
them, and the stranger had taken it in
a wild gale of wind.

Upon this the inhabitants of the
village called‘a council. The lead in
the debate was assumed by a smart
young fellow, a fisherman, named Pou-
lailler, who stoutly declared that the
stranger at the tower was of infernal
origin. “The rest of you may call
him what you like,” said Poulailler;
“ I call him The Fiend-Fisherman I ”

The opinion thus expressed proved
to be the opinion of the entire audience
—with the one exception of the village

The priest said, “ Gently, my
Don’t make sure about the man
Wait

priest.
sons.
of the tower before Sunday.
and see if he comes to church.”

“And if he doesn’t come to church?”
asked all the fishermen, in a breath.

“In that case,” replied the priest,
“ I will excommunicate him ; and then,
- my children, you may call him what you
like.” .

Sunday came, and no sign of the
stranger darkened the church doors.
He was excommunicated accordingly.

 

The whole village forthwith adopted
Poulailler’s idea, and called the man of
the tower by the name which Poulailler
had given him—“ The Fiend-Fisher-
man.”

These strong proceedings produced
not the slightest apparent effect on the
diabolical personage who had occasioned
them. He persisted in remaining idle
when the weather was fine, in going out
to fish when no other boat in the place
dare put to sea, and in coming back
again to his solitary dwelling-place
with his nets full, his boat uninjured,
and himself alive and hearty. He
made no attempt to buy and sell with
anybody, he kept steadily away from
the village, he lived on fish of his own
preternaturally strong frying, and he
never spoke to a living soul, with the
solitary exception of Poulailler himself.
One fine evening, when the young man
was rowing home past the tower, the
Fiend-Fisherman darted out on to the
rock, said, “ Thank you, Poulailler, for
giving me a name,” bowed politely, and
darted in again. The young fisherman
felt the words run cold dowu the mar-
row of his back ; and whenever he was
at sea again, he gave the tower a wide
berth from that day forth.

Time went on, and an important
event occurred in Poulailler’s life. He
was engaged to be married. On the
day when his betrothal was publicly
made known, his friends clustered
noisily about him on the fishing—jetty of
the village to offer their congratulations.
While they were all in full cry, a
strange voice suddenly made itself
heard through the confusion, which
silenced everybody in an instant. The

9‘33”. .g,

gagwj .

l
!

E?
i
.i

 
 

116

crowd fell back, and disclosed the
Fiend-Fisherman sauntering up the
It. was the first time he had
ever set foot — cloven foot — within the

jetty.

precincts of the village.

“ Gentlemen,” said the Fiend-Fish-
erman, “where is my friend Pou-
lailler?” ,I-Ie put the question with
perfect politeness; he looked remark-
ably well in his fisherman’s costume ; he
exhaled a relishing odor of fried fish;
he had a cordial nod for the men, and a
sweet smile for the women; but, with
all these personal advantages, every-
body fell back from him, and nobody
The coldness
of the popular reception, however, did
He looked
about for Poulailler with searching

answered his question.
not in any way abash him.

eyes, discovered the place in which he
was standing, and addressed him in the
friendliest manner.

“ So you are going to be married?”
remarked the Fiend-Fisherman.

“ VVhat’s that to you?” said Pou-
lailler. He was inwardly terrified, but
outwardly gruff— not an uncommon
combination of circumstances with men
of his class in his mental situation.

“ My friend,” pursued the Fiend-
Fisherman, “ I have not forgotten your
polite attention in giving me a name,
You
will have a family, Poulailler, and your
first child will be a boy. I propose to
make that boy my adopted son.”

and I come here to requite it.

The marrow of Poulailler’s back be-

came awfully cold; but he grew
gruffer than ever, in spite ‘of his
back.

“ You won’t do anything of the sort,”

he replied. “If I have the largest

 

ALICIA .WARLOCK:

family in France, no child of mine shall
ever go near you.”

“ I shall adopt your first-born for all
that,” persisted the Fiend-Fisherman.
“ Poulailler, I wish you good-morning. ,
Ladies and gentlemen, the same to all
of you.”

With those words he withdrew from
the jutty, and the marrow of Poulailler’s
back recovered its temperature.

The next morning Was stormy, and
all the village expected to see the boat
from the tower put out, as usual, to sea.
Not a sign of it appeared. Later _in the
day the rock on which the building
stood was examined from a distance.
Neither boat nor nets were in their
At night the red
gleam of the fire was missed for the first

customary places.
time. The Fiend-Fisherman had gone !
He had announced his intentions on the
jetty, and'had disappeared. What did
Nobody knew.

On Poulailler’s wedding-day, a por-

this mean?

tentous circumstance recalled the mem-
ory of the diabolical stranger, and, as
a matter of course, seriously discom-
At the
moment when the marriage ceremony

posed the bridegroom’s back.

was complete, a relishing odor of fried
fish stole into the nostrils of the com-
pany, and a voice from invisible lips
said, ‘ ‘ Keep up your spirits, Poulailler ;
I have not forgotten my promise I ”

A year later Madame Poulailler was
in the hands of the midwife of the dis—
trict, and a repetition of the portentous
circumstance [took place. I’oulailler
was waiting in the kitchen to hear how
matters ended upstairs. The nurse
“ Which is it? ”
asked the happy father; “ girl or boy?”

came in with a baby.
MEMORIES OF AN ADOPTED SON.

Before the nurse could answer, an odor
of supernaturally fried fish filled the
kitchen, and a voice from invisible
lips replied, “A boy, Poulailler, and
I ’ee got him ! ”

Such were the circumstances under
which the subject of this memoir was
introduced to the joys and sorrows of
mortal existence.

IL—HIS BOYHOOD AND EARLY LIFE.

When a boy is born under auspices
which lead his parents to suppose that,
while the bodily part of him is safe at
home, the spiritual part is subjected to
a course of infernal tuition elsewhere,
what are his father and mother to do
They must do the best they
can,—- which was exactly what Poulailler
and his wife did with the hero of these
pages.

In the first place, they had him
It was observed

with him?

‘christened instantly.
with horror that his infant face was dis—
torted with grimaces, and that his in—
fant voice roared with a preternatural
lustiness of tone the moment the priest
touched him. The first thing he asked
for, when he learned to speak, was
“fried fish;” and the first place he
wanted to go to, when he learned to
walk, was the diabolical tower on the
rock. “ He won’t learn anything,” said
the master, when he was old enough to
go to school. “Thrash him,” said
Poulailler; and the master thrashed
“ He won’t come to his first com-
“ Thrash

said Poulailler; and the priest

him.
munion,” said the priest.
him,”
thrashed him. The farmers’ orchards
'werc robbed; the neighboring rabbit-

Warrens were depopulated; linen was

 

117

stolen from the gardens. and nets were
torn on the beach. “The deuce take
Poulailler’s boy,” was the general cry.
“The deuce has got him,” was Pou-
lailler’s answer. “ And yet he is a nice-
looking boy,” said Madame Poulailler.
And he was,———as tall, as strong, as
handsome a young fellow as could be
“ Let us pray for
“Let
us thrash him,” said her husband.
“ Our son has been thrashed till all the
sticks in the neighborhood are broken,”
“ We will try him
with the rope’s—end next,” retorted his

Seen in all France,
him,” said Madame Poulailler.

pleaded his mother.

father; “he shall go to sea, and live in
an atmosphere of thrashing. Our son

J

shall be a cabin-boy.’ It was all one
to Poulailler Junior; he knew who had
adopted him, as well as his father; he
had been instinctively conscious from
infancy of the Fiend-Fisherman’s in-
terest in his welfare; he cared for no
earthly discipline; and a cabin-boy he
became at ten years old.

After two years of the rope’s-end
(applied quite inefi'ectually) , the subject
of this memoir robbed his captain, and
ran away in an English port. London
became the next scene of his adventures.
At twelve years old he persuaded so-
ciety in the metropolis that he was the
forsaken natural son of a French duke.
British benevolence, after blindly pro-
viding for him for four years, opened
its eyes and found him out at the age
of sixteen; upon which he returned to
France, and entered the army in the
capacity of drummer. At eighteen he
deserted, and had a turn with the gyp-
sies. He told fortunes, he conjured, he

danced on the tight-rope, he acted, he

 

 
 

113

sold quack medicines, he altered his
mind again, and returned to the army.
Here he fell in love with the vivandiere
of his new regiment. The sergeant-
major of the company, touched by the
same amiable weakness, naturally re-
sented his attentions to the lady. Pou-
lailler (perhaps unjustifiably) asserted
himself by boxing his oflicer’s ears. Out
flashed the swords on both sides, and in
went Poulailler’s blade through and
through the tender heart of the sergeant-
major. The frontier was close at hand.
Poulailler wiped his sword, and crossed
. it.

Sentence of death was recorded
When

society has condemned us to die, if we

against him in his absence.

are men of any spirit how are we to
return the compliment? By condemn-
ing society to keep us alive—or, in
other words, by robbing right and left
for a living. Poulailler’s destiny was
now accomplished. He was picked out
to be the greatest thief of his age ; and
when Fate summoned him to his place
in the world, he stepped forward and
took it. His life hitherto had been
merely the life of a young scamp; he
was now to do justice to the diabolical
father who had adopted him, and to
expand to the proportions of a full-
grown robber.

His first exploits were performed in
Germany. They showed such novelty
of combination, such daring, such dex-
terity, and, even in his most homicidal
moments,,such irresistible gayety and
good humor, that a band of congenial
spirits gathered about him in no time.
As commander-in-chief of the thieves’
army, his popularity never wavered.

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

His weaknesses—and what illustrious
man is without them? -—— were three in
number. First weakness: he was ex-
travagantly susceptible to the charms
of the fair sex. Second weakness: he

was perilously fond of practical jokes.

Third weakness (inherited from his

adopted parent) : his appetite was in-

satiable in the matter of fried fish. As

for the merits to set against these de- .
fects some have been noticed already,

and others will appear immediately.

Let it merely be premised in this place

that he was one of the handsomest men

of his time, that he dressed superbly,

and that he was capable of the most

exalted acts of generosity wherever a

handsome woman was concerned; let

this be understood, to begin with; and

let us now enter on the narrative of his

last exploit in Germany before he re-

turned to France. This adventure is
something more than a mere specimen
of his method of workmanship; it
proved, in the future, to be the fatal
event of his life.

On a Monday in the week he had
stopped on the highway, andirobbed of
all his valuables and all his papers an
Italian nobleman—the Marquis Pe-
trucci, of Sienna. On Tuesday he was
ready for another stroke of business.
Posted on the top of a steep hill, he
watched the road which wound up to
the summit on one side, while his fol-
lowers were ensconced on the road
which led down from it on the other.
The prize expected in this case was the
travelling-carriage (with a large sum
of money inside) of the Baron De
Kirbergen.

Before long Poulailler discerned the
MEMORIES OF AN ADOPTED

carriage afar off at the bottom of the
hill, and in advance of it, ascending
the eminence, two ladies on foot. They
were the Baron’s daughters—VVilhel-
mina, a fair beauty; Frederica, a bru-
nette -——-b0th lovely, both accomplished,
both susceptible, both young. Poulail-
ler sauntered down the hill to meet the
fascinating travellers. He looked,
bowed, introduced himself, and fell in
love with Wilhelmina on the spot.
Both the charming girls acknowledged
in the most artless manner that con-
finement to the carriage had given them
the fidgets, and that they were walking
up the hill to try the remedy of
gentle exercise. Poulailler’s heart was
touched, and Poulailler’s generosity
to the sex was roused in the nick of
time. With a polite apology to the
young ladies, he ran back, by a short
cut, to the ambush on the other side of
the hill in which his men- were posted.
“ Gentlemen!” cried the generous
thief, “in the charming name of Wil-
helmina de Kirbergen, I charge you
all, let the Baron’s carriage pass free.”
The band was not susceptible; the
band demurred. Poulailler knew them.
He had appealed to their hearts in
vain ; he now appealed to their pockets.
“Gentlemen!” he resumed, “excuse
my momentary misconception of your
sentiments. Here is my one-half share
of the Marquis Petrucci’s property. If
I divide it among you, will you let the
carriage pass free?” The band knew
the value of money, and accepted the
terms. Poulailler rushed back up the
hill, and arrived at the top just in time
to hand the young ladies into the

carriage. “ Charming man ! ” said the

 

s‘o N. ‘119
white Whilhelmina to the brown Fred-
erica, as they drove ofl'. Innocent
soul! what would she have said if she
had known that her personal attractions
had saved her father’s property? Was
she ever to see the charming man
again? Yes; she was to see him the
next day—and, more than that, Fate
was hereafter to link her fast to the
robber’s life and the robber’s doom.
' Confiding the direction of the band
to his first lieutenant, Poulailler fol-
lowed the carriage on horseback, and
ascertained the place of the Baron’s
residence that night.

The next morning, a superbly-dressed
“ What
name, sir?” said the servant. “The
Marquis Petrueci, of Sienna,” replied
Poulailler. “ How are the young ladies
after their journey?” The Marquis

stranger knocked at the door.

was shown in, and introduced to the
Baron. The Baron was naturally de-
lighted to receive a brother nobleman;
Miss Wilhelmina was modestly happy
to see the charming man again; Miss
Frederica was affectionately pleased on
her sister’s account. Not being of a
disposition to lose time where his affec-
tions were concerned, Poulailler ex-
pressed his sentiments to the beloved
object that evening. The next morn-
ing he had an interview with the
Baron, at which he produced the papers
which proved' him to be the Marquis.
Nothing could be more satisfactory to
the mind of the most anxious parent—
the two noblemen embraced. They
were still in each other’s arms, when a
second stranger knocked at the door.
“'“That name, sir?” said the servant.
“ The Marquis Petrucci, of Sienna,”

 
 

 

120 ’
replied the stranger. “ Impossible i”
said the servant; “ his lordship is now
in the house.” ——- “ Show me in, scoun-
drel!” cried the visitor. The servant
submitted,

stood face to face.

and the two Marquises
Poulailler’s com-
posure was not shaken in the least; he
had come first to the house, and he had
got the papers. “ You are the villain
who robbed me!” cried the true
Petrucci.
an impostor,” retorted the false Pe-

“Send to Florence, where I

“You are drunk, mad, or

trucci.
am known,” exclaimed one of the
Marquises, apostrophizing the Baron.
“ Send to Florence by all means,”
echoed the other, addressing himself to
the Baron also. “ Gentlemen," replied
the noble Kirbergen, “ I will do myself
the honor of taking your advice ”—
and he sent to" Florence accordingly.
Before the messenger had advanced
ten miles on his journey, Poulailler
had said two words in private to the
susceptible Wilhelmina, and the pair
eloped from the baronial residence that
night. Once more the subject of this
memoir crossed the frontier, and re-
Indifi'erent to the
attractions of rural life, he forthwith
established himself with the beloved
Wilhelmina in Paris. In that fine city he

entered France.

met with his strangest adventures, per-
formed his boldest achievements, com-
mitted his most prodigious robberies,
and, in a word, did himself and his
infernal patron the fullest justice in
the character of the Fiend-Fisherman’s
adopted son.

IlI.-—HIS CAREER IN PARIS.

Once established in the French me-

 

ALICIA WARLOCK.

tropolis, Poulailler planned and executed
that vast system of perpetual robbery
and occasional homicide which made him
the terror and astonishment of all Paris.
In-doors as well as out his good fortune
befriended him. No domestic anxieties
harassed his mind, and diverted him
from the pursuit of his distinguished
The attachment of the
charming creature with whom he had

public career.

eloped from Germany survived the dis—
covery that the Marquis Petrucci was
Poulailler the robber. True to the man
of her choice, the devoted Wilhelmina
shared his fortunes, and kept his house.
And why not, if she loved him—in the
all-conquering name of Cupid, why
not?

Joined by picked men from his Ger-
man followers, and by new recruits
gathered together in Paris, Poulailler
now set society and its safeguards at
flat defiance.

his inferior in audacity and cunning.

Cartouche himself was

In course of time, the whole city was
panic-stricken by the new robber and
his band—~the very boulevards were
deserted after night-fall.
Hérault, lieutenant of police of the

Monsieur

period, in despair of laying hands on
Poulailler by any other means, at last
offered a reward of a hundred pistoles
and a place in his office worth two
thousand livres a year to any one who
would apprehend the robber alive. The
bills were posted all over Paris, and the
next morning they produced the very last
result in the world which the lieutenant
of police could possibly have anticipated.

While Monsieur ,Hérault was at
breakfast in his study, the Count De
Villeneuve was announced as wishing
M E M o R r E s
to speak to him. Knowing the Count
by name only, as belonging to an
ancient family in Provence or in Lan-
guedoe, Monsieur Herault ordered him
to be shown in. A perfect gentleman
appeared, dressed with an admirable
mixture of magnificence and good
taste.

private ear, sir,” said the Count. “ Will

“I have something for your

you give orders that no one must be
allowed to disturb us? ”

Monsieur IIérault gave the orders.

“May I inquire, Count, what your
business is?” he asked, when the door
was closed.

“ To earn the reward you ofi"er for
taking Poulailler,’

9

answered the Count.
“ I am Poulailler.” .
Before Monsieur Hérault could open
his lips, the robber produced a pretty
little dagger and some rose-colored silk
“ The point of this little dagger
is poisoned,” he observed ; “ and one

cord

scratch of it, my dear sir, would be
the death of you.” “With these words
Poulailler gagged the lieutenant of
police, bound him to his chair with the
rose-colored cord, and lightened his
writing-desk of one thousand pistoles.

“ I’ll take money, instead of taking the
place in the office which you kindly
“ Don’t trouble
Good-

offer,3’ said Poulailler.
yourself to see me to the door.
morning.”

A few weeks later, while Monsieur
Hérault was still the popular subject of
ridicule throughout Paris, business took
Poulailler on the road to Lille and Cam-
brai.
coach besides himself was the venerable
Dean Potter, of Brussels. They fell
into talk on the one interesting subject

The only inside passenger in the

OF AN ADOPTED SON.

 

121

of the time, — not the weather, but
Poulailler. ’

“ It’s a disgrace, sir, to the police,”
said the Dean, “ that such a miscreant
I shall be returning
to Paris by this road in ten days’ time,
and I shall call on Monsieur Hérault to

is still at large.

suggest a plan of my own for catching
the scoundrel.”

“ May I ask what it is ?” said Pou-
lailler.

“ Excuse me,” replied the Dean;
“ you are a stranger, sir, and moreover
I wish to keep the merit of suggesting
the plan to myself.”

“ Do you think the lieutenant of
police will see you?” asked Poulailler;
“ he is not accessible to strangers, since
the miscreant you speak of played him
that trick at his own breakfast-table.”

“ He will see Dean Potter, of Brus
sels,” was the reply, delivered with the
slightest possible tinge of offended dig
nity.

“ Oh, unquestionably

1 ” said Pou-

lailler; “ pray pardon me.”

“ VVillingly, sir,” said the Dean ; and
the conversation flowed into other
channels.

Nine days later the wounded pride
of Monsieur Hérault was soothed by a
very remarkable letter. It was signed -
by one of Poulailler’s band, who oifered
himself as king’s evidence, in the hope
of obtaining a pardon. The letter stated
that the venerable Dean Potter had been
waylaid and murdered by Poulailler,
and that the robber, with his customary
audacity, was about to re-enter Paris by
the Lisle coach the next day, disguised
in the Dean’s own clothes, and furnished,
with the Dean’s own papers. Monsieur

 
 

122

Hérault took his precautions without
losing a moment. Picked men Were
stationed, with their orders, at the bar-
rier through which the coach must pass
to enter Paris, while the lieutenant of"
police waited at his office, in the com-
pany of two French gentlemen who
could speak to the Dean’s identity, in
the event of Poulailler’s impudently
persisting in the assumption of his vic-
tim’s name. '

At the appointed hour the coach ap—
peared, and 'out of it got a man in the
Dean’s costume. .He was arrested in
spite of his protestations ; the papers of
the murdered Potter were found on him,
and he was dragged off to the police-
ofiice in triumph. The door opened,
and the posse comitutus entered with the
prisoner. Instantly the two witnesses
burst out with a‘ cry of recognition, and
turned indignantly on the lieutenant of
police. “Gracious Heaven, sir, what
have you done?” they exclaimed in
horror; “this is not Poulailler—here
is our venerable friend ; here is the Dean
himself I ” At the same moment a ser-
vant entered with the letter: “Dean
Potter. To the care of Monsieur I-Iérault,
The letter was
“ Venerable

Sir, —— Profit by the lesson I have given

Lieutenant of Police.”
expressed in these words :
you. Be a Christian for the future, and
never again try to injure a man unless
he tries to injure you.
-— Poulailler.”

Entirely yours

These feats of cool audacity were
matched by others, in which his gener-
osity to the sex asserted itself as mag-
nanimously as ever. ‘

Hearing one day that large sums of
money were kept in the house of a great

 

ALICIA WARLoenz'

lady, one Madame De Brienne, whose
door was guarded, in anticipation of a
visit from the famous thief, by a porter
of approved trustworthiness and cour-
age, Poulailler undertook to rob her in
spite of her precautions, and succeeded.
VVitha stout pair of leather straps and
buckles in his pocket, and with two of
his band disguised as a coachman and a
footman, he followed Madame ‘De Bri-
Just
before the close of the performance, the

enne one night to the theatre.

lady’s coachinan and footman were
tempted away for five minutes by Pou-
lailler’s disguised subordinates to have a .
glass of wine. No attempt was made
to detain them, or to drug their liquor.
But in their absence Poulailler had
slipped under the carriage, had hung his
leather straps round the pole—'— one to
hold by, and one to support his feet —
and, with these simple preparations,
was now ready to wait for events.
Madame De Brienne entered the car-
riage—the footman got up behind—-
Poulailler hung himself horizontally
under the pole, and was driven home
with them under those singular circum-
stanCcs. He was strong enough to keep
his position after the carriage had been
taken into the coach-house, and he only
left it when the doors were locked for
the night. Provided with food before-
hand, he waited patiently, hidden in the
coach—house, for two days and nights,
watching his opportunity of getting into
Madame De Brienne’s boudoir.

On the third night the lady went to a
grand ball ; the servants relaxed in their
vigilance while her back was turned, and
Poulailler slipped into the room. He
found two thousand louisd’ors, which
MEMORIES OF AN ADOPTED SON.

was nothing like the sum he expected,
and a pocket-book, which he took away
. with him to open at home. It contained
some stock warrants for a comparatively
trifling amount. Poulailler was far too
; well off to care about taking them, and
far too polite, where a lady was con-
cerned, not to send them back again,
Accord-

ingly, Madame de Brienne received her

under those circumstances.

warrants, with a note of apolog rfrom
the polite thief.

“ Pray excuse my visit to your charm-
ing boudoir,” wrote Poulailler, “ in con-
sideration of the false reports of your
wealth, which alone induced me to enter
it. If I had known what your pecuniary
circumstances really were, on the honor
of a gentleman, madame, I should have
been incapable of robbing you. I can-
not return your two thousand louis-
d’ors by post, as I return your warrants.
But if you are at all pressed for money
in future, I shall be proud to assist so
distinguished a lady by lending her,
from my own ample resources, double
the sum of which I regret to have de—
prived her on the present occasion."
This letter was shown to royalty at Ver-
sailles. It excited the highest admira-
tion of the court —- especially of the
ladies. Whenever the robber’s name
was mentioned, they indulgently re—
ferred to him as the Chevalier de
Ah! that was the age of
politeness, when good-breeding was
Under
similar circumstances, who would recog-

Poulailler.
recognized, even in a thief.
nize it now? 0 tempera! O mores!

On another occasion Poulailler was

out one night taking the air, and watch»
ing his opportunities on the roofs of the

 

123

houses, a member of the band being _
posted in the street below to assist him
While in this
position, sobs and groans' proceeding

in case of necessity.

from an open back-garret window caught
his ear. A parapet rose before the
window, which enabled him to climb
down and look in. Starving children
surrounding a helpless mother, and
clamoring for food, was the picture that
met his eye. The mother was young
and beautiful, and Poul-ailler’s hand im-
pulsively clutched his purse, as a neces-
sary consequence. Before the charitable
thief could enter by the window, a man
rushed in by the door with a face of
horror, and cast a handful of gold into
the lovely mother’s lap. “ My honor is
gone,” he cried, “ but our children are
saved ! Listen to the circumstances. I
met a man in thestreet below; he was
tall and thin'; he had a green patch
over one eye ; he was looking up suspi-
ciously at this house, apparently waiting
for somebody. I thought of you — I
thought of the children— I seized the
Ter~
spot.

‘Take my watch, my money, and my

suspicious stranger by the collar.
ror overwhelmed him on the

two valuable gold snuff—boxes,’ he said,
‘ but spare my life.’ I took them.” —
‘ ‘ Noble-hearted man I ” cried Poulailler,
The husband
started ; the wife screamed ; the chil-

appearing at the window.
dren hid themselves. “Let me entreat
you to be composed,” continued Pou-
lailler. “ Sir! I enter on the scene for
the purpose of soothing your uneasy
conscience. From your vivid descrip-
tion, I recognize the man whose prop-
Resume

You have

erty is now in your wife’s lap.
your mental tranquillity.

 
 

124

robbed a robber — in other words vin-
dicated society.
lations on your restored innocence.

Accept my congratu-

The miserable coward whose collar you
seized is one of Poulailler’s band. He
has lost his stolen property as the fit
punishment for his disgraceful want of
spirit.”

‘f Who are you? ” exclaimed the bus-
band.

‘I I am Poulailler,” replied the illus-
trious man, with the simplicity of an
ancient hero. “ Take this purse, and
set up in business with the contents.
There is a prejudice, sir, in favor of
honesty. Give that prejudice a chance.
‘There was a time when I felt it myself;
Under all
varieties of misfortune, an honest man
has his consolation still left. Where is
it left? Here I ” He struck his heart, and
the family fell on their knees before him.

I regret to feel it no longer.

“Benefactor of ' your species I” cried
the husband ; “ how can I show my
gratitude ? ”

“ You can permit me to kiss the hand
of madame,” answered Poulailler. fl

Madame started to her feet, and em-
“ What
more can I do?” exclaimed this lovely

braced the generous stranger.

woman, eagerly; “ 0 heavens! what
more?”

“ You can beg your husband to light
me downstairs,” replied Poulailler.
He spoke, pressed their hands, dropped
a generous tear, and departed. At
that touching moment his own adopted
father would not have known him.

This last anecdote closes the record
The
lighter and more agreeable aspects of
that career have hitherto been design-

of Poula‘iller’s career in Paris.

 

ALICIA WARLOCK:

edly presented, indiscreet remembrance
of the contrast which the tragic side of
the picture must now present. Comedy
and Sentiment, twin sisters of French
extraction, farewell! Horror enters
next on the stage, and enters welcome,
in the name of the Fiend-Fisherman’s

adopted son.

IV.——HIS EXIT FROM THE SCENE.
The nature of Poulailler’s more se-
rious achievements in the art of robbery
may be realized by reference to one
terrible fact.
the period, more than one hundred and

In the police records of

fifty men and women are reckoned up
as having met their deaths at the hands
of Poulailler and his band. It was not
the practice of this formidable robber
to take life as well as prOperty, unless
life happened to stand directly in his
way——in which case he immediately
swept off the obstacle without hesita-
His deadly
determination to rob, which was thus

tion and without remorse.

felt by the population in general, was
matched by his deadly determination
to be obeyed, which was felt by his fol-
One of their
number, for example, having withdrawn

lowers in particular.

from his allegiance, and having after-
ward attempted to betray his leader,
was tracked to his hiding-place in a
cellar, and was there walled up alive in
Poulailler’s presence, the robber com-
posing the unfortunate wretch’s epi-
taph, and scratching it on the wet
plaster with his own hand. Years af-
terward the inscription was noticed
when the house fell into the possession
of a new tenant, and was supposed to
be nothing more than one of the many
MEMORIES OF AN ADOPTED SON.

jests which the famous robber had
practised in'his time. When the plas-
ter was removed, the skeleton fell out,
and testified that Poulailler was in
earnest.

To attempt the arrest of such a man
as this by tampering with his followers
was practically impossible. N0
of money that could be offered would
induce any one of the members of his
band to risk the fatal chance of his
vengeance. Other means of getting
possession of him had been tried, and
Five times over the

sum

tried in vain.
police had succeeded in tracking him
to different hiding—places; and on all
five occasions, the women —- who adored
him for his gallantry, his generosity,
and his good looks—had helped him
to escape. If he had not unconsciously
paved the way to his own capture, first
by eloping with Mademoiselle Wilhel-
mina de Kirbergen, and secondly by
maltreating her, it is more than doubt-
ful whether the long arm of the law
would ever have reached far enough to
fasten its grasp on him. As it was,
the extremes of love and hatred met at
last in the bosom of the devoted VVil-
helmina, and the vengeance of a neg-
lected woman accomplished what the
whole police force of Paris had been
powerless to achieve.

the
constancy of his had
wearied, at an early period, of the com-
panion of his flight from Germany; but
Wilhelmina was one of those women
whose affections, once aroused, will not
She persisted

never famous for

attachments,

Poulailler,

take No for an answer.
in attaching herself to a man who had
ceased to love her. . Poulailler’s patience

 

125

became exhausted; he tried twice to
rid himself of his unhappy mistress—
once by the knife,~and once by poison —
and failed on both occasions. For the
third and last time, by way of attempt-
ing an experiment of another kind, he
established a rival, to drive the German
From that
moment his fate was sealed. Mad-

woman out of the house.

dened by jealous rage, Wilhelmina cast
the last fragments of her fondness to
the winds.
with the police, and Poulailler met his

She secretly communicated

doom.

A night was appointed with the
authorities, and the robber was invited
by his discarded mistress to a farewell
interview. His contemptuous confi-
dence in her fidelity rendered him care-
He

accepted the appointment, and the two

less of his customary precautions.

supped together, on the understanding
that they were henceforth to be friends
and nothing more. Toward the close
of the meal Poulailler was startled by a
ghastly change in the face of his com-
panion.

“What is wrong with you?” he
asked.

“ A mere trifle,” she answered, look-
“ I can’t help
loving you still, badly as you have

ing at her glass of wine.
treated me. You are a dead man,
Poulailler, and I shall not survive
you.”

The robber started to his feet, and
seized a knife on the table.

“You have poisoned me!” be ex-
claimed.

“ No,” she replied.
vengeance on myself; and not my ven-

“ Poison is my

geance on you. You will rise from this

 
 

 

126

table as you sat down to it. But your
evening will be finished in prison, and
your life will be ended on the wheel.”

As 'she spoke the words, the door
was burst open by the police and Pou-
lailler was secured. The same night
the poison did its fatal work, and his
mistress made atonement with her life

for the first, last act of treachery which

.had revenged her on the man she loved.

Once safely lodged in the hands of
justice, the robber tried to gain time to
escape in, by promising to make im~
portant disclosures. The manoeuvre
availed him nothing. In those days
the Laws of the Land had not yet made
acquaintance with the Laws of Human-
ity. Poulailler was put to the torture
——was sufl‘ered to recover—was pub-
licly broken on the wheel—and was
taken off it alive, to be cast into a
blazing fire. By those murderous
means Society rid itself of a murder-
ous man, and the idlers on the' Boule—
vards took their evening stroll again in
recovered security.

THE

ALIC IA W'ARLOCK:

a 4% ar- ah'ah ate

Paris had seen the execution of Pou—
lailler ;' but if legends are to be trusted,
our old friends, the people of the fishing
village in Brittany, saw the end of him
afterward. On the day and hour when
he perished, the heavens darkened, and,
a terrible storm arose. Once more,
and for a moment only, the gleam of
the unearthly fire reddened the windows
of the old tower.
struck the building into fragments.

Thunder pealed, and

Lightning flashed incessantly over the
ruins ; and, in the scorching glare of it,
the boat which, in former years, had
put off to sea whenever the storm rose
highest, was seen to shoot out into the
raging ocean from the cleft in the rock,
and was discovered on this final occa-
sion to be doubly manned. The Fiend-
Fisherman sat at the helm ; his adopted
son tugged at the oars; and a clamor
of diabolical voices, roaring loudly and
awfully through the
the pair of them
voyage.

storm, wished
a. prosperous

 

END.