diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/63308-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/63308-0.txt | 3653 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 3653 deletions
diff --git a/old/63308-0.txt b/old/63308-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f8351ae..0000000 --- a/old/63308-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3653 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ronald and I, by Alfred Pretor - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Ronald and I - or Studies from Life - - -Author: Alfred Pretor - - - -Release Date: September 26, 2020 [eBook #63308] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RONALD AND I*** - - -Transcribed from the 1899 Deighton Bell & Co. edition by David Price. - - - - - - RONALD AND I - - - OR - - Studies from Life - - * * * * * - - BY - - ALFRED PRETOR - - * * * * * - - CAMBRIDGE - - DEIGHTON BELL & CO. - - LONDON GEORGE BELL & SONS - - 1899 - - * * * * * - - CAMBRIDGE - PRINTED BY JONATHAN PALMER - ALEXANDRA STREET - - - - -PREFACE - - -Several of the following sketches have appeared already in the _Cambridge -Review_ and the _Cantab_. Perhaps the friends who welcomed them then may -welcome them now, on their reappearance in another and more permanent -form. - -The story of “Our Rector” has been received in episcopal quarters with -polite incredulity. It may be that episcopal supervision was less -far-reaching in those days than now. At any rate, the things I have -narrated, and things stranger still, _did_ occur in our village, and in -all essential details, including the postprandial cigar, the story of -“Our Rector” is a literal “study from life.” - -I would forget, if I could, that the “Cruel, Crawling Foam” is also a -record of fact. - - A. P. - -CAMBRIDGE, - -_May_, 1899. - - * * * * * - - _To Mrs. Thomas Hardy_ - _who suggested and_ - _encouraged the writing_ - _of these tales_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - - - PAGE -RONALD AND I: - Broadwater: a Shadow from the Past 1 - On the Race Course at Bayview 25 - On the Sands 31 - Our Rector 41 - Echoes from an Organ Loft 55 - Fighting the Cholera 67 - Ronald’s Courtship 79 - Judy, or Retrieved 99 - The Professor 117 - The Cruel, Crawling Foam 133 - Our Queen 143 -BINDO: a Sketch 155 -‘DECLINED WITH THANKS’: a Postscript 181 - -Ronald and I - - -Broadwater -A SHADOW FROM THE PAST - - -I - - -TURN your steps westward, and about four miles beyond Bayview you will -come to a rising ground where three ways meet. - -One—the road to the right—trends northward, following with occasional -deviations the coast line of Dead Man’s Bay, a replica in miniature of -the Bay of Biscay, and one which claims, almost as regularly, its tithe -of life and wreckage. - -The path on the left hand enters a lodge gate, and begins to fall gently -but without intermission towards the sea. A curious impression that you -are reaching the end of all things is followed by the feeling that your -next step will be planted in the sea—and then you come to Broadwater. - -The huge square-set building stands on a level plateau, guarded by a -semicircle of hills from every wind that blows, excepting the south-west. -The architecture is neither impressive in itself nor characteristic of -any particular period. Yet, looking down upon it from the hills above, -the eye will find ample satisfaction in the colouring of the roof, for -lichens have painted the crumbling tiles with every conceivable hue of -vermilion and gold. - -A stranger, journeying for the first time along the road, would complain -of the lack of trees. And trees in the open there are none. Nothing -less cringing than gorse and heather can show front against the -brine-laden winds of the Atlantic. The south-west wind is jealous of its -prerogatives, and denudes a neighbourhood of isolated growth almost as -surely as does the poison-steeped atmosphere of the midlands. - -Yet, if you trouble to make nearer acquaintance with Broadwater, you will -find that every ravine and gully is crowded with trees—“groves” the -villagers call them—whose tops lie level with the ground on either side, -so that a slight divergence from the recognised track might land the -unwary traveller among their foliage, almost without a change in his -plane of elevation. - -The grand old house stands, as I have said, on a plateau, protected from -the north and east by the hills, down which the road winds in and out -like a white ribbon. On the west it faces the Atlantic, and the lawn, -merging in the park, falls rapidly seawards till it meets the natural -barrier of the beach. As a rule the barrier stands well; yet times there -are when the sea will no longer “harrow the valleys, or be bound with a -band in the furrow,” but, laughing at the puny obstruction, lays its -tribute of drift and wreckage and human life almost on the very door-step -of the house. - -Whether you love the scene or not, will depend on your age and -temperament, and something, too, on the circumstances under which you -view it. Steeped in the quiet twilight of an autumn evening, its perfect -stillness and repose appeal irresistibly to a heart that yearns for rest, -and many such have coveted it. But let a Londoner come upon it when a -furious south-wester is raging, and the double windows are veiled with an -impermeable film of brine, and you can feel the chimneys rocking -overhead—and the chances are he will hurry from it as from the -abomination of desolation. - -After our uncle’s death, Ronald, it was well known, was to reign in his -stead—supplanting myself, albeit the son of an elder brother and the -natural heir. But my father had been unlucky enough to marry the woman -of old Heyward’s choice, and the sin of the father was to be visited upon -the son. Our uncle (to do him justice) never made a pretence of equity -in the matter. “I should turn in my grave,” he said, “if I thought that -son of his was to follow in my room.” And there the matter ended. Short -of this, he was fond of me in his own undemonstrative way. Only lately -he had settled me at Bayview with a handsome allowance, where I was to -make acquaintance with the rudiments of the law till it was time for me -to enter at Cambridge. - -Honestly I can say that I never grudged Ronald his inheritance. He and I -were brothers rather than cousins, and I cannot remember the time when -the sturdy little Viking was not dear to my heart. Perhaps it was I who -gave the most, and he who took it. But that is only as it should be, -provided he who gives and he who takes are equally nothing loth. - -The house was an ideal home for us, so long as we shared it in common. -When we were separated, it became unutterably dull for the one who was -left companionless. Ghosts it must have had in plenty. There certainly -was an “impluvium,” which in these days is rarer than a ghost. I mean -that the whole centre of the house was open to the winds of heaven, for -the purpose of collecting the rain water which fell into a huge reservoir -at the basement. - -The ghosts, if any, never showed themselves—frightened in all probability -by the antagonism of Ronald’s temperament. But we discovered what was -next best to the real article—the equipments and paraphernalia of one. -In a disused coach-house we came one day on an old travelling carriage of -the fashion in use sixty years ago, when paterfamilias took himself and -his family for a progress round the country. Rumble it had, and -imperial, and a chest of most unearthly pattern, accommodated to the -space under the back seat. - -But the glass was broken in the frames, and the hangings were mouldy. -The very woodwork was so worm-eaten that at a touch you would expect it -to crumble into dust, like one of the Pharaohs when he is disencumbered -of his trappings. It was painted—or rather had been painted—a sable -black, but the colour had deteriorated with time to the hue of rusty -crêpe. - -Our first impression suggested that it was some time-honoured memorial of -the past—the carriage, it might be, in which a bride and bridegroom had -made their home-coming under auspices of exceptional promise. But a -second glance through the broken semicircular skylight told rather of -intentional neglect or indifference. The plaster of the coach-house, -where it still clung to the lath, had broken out into patches of -mouldiness, defiant of the first principles of cleanliness, while an army -of spiders, who must have worked unmolested for years, had tied the -carriage to the walls and floor with a net-work of dirt-begrimed strands. - -“What on earth is it? and why is it kept here?” asked Ronald of the -groom. “I shall get the uncle to have it broken up and burned: it’s only -filling the place with moths and insects.” - -“Don’t you do nought of the kind, Master Ronald,” said the coachman, -lowering his voice to a whisper. “That carriage has been driven up to -these very doors by old Nick himself, or one or other of his coachmen. -Aye, you may laugh. But it’s true enough, and not so long ago neither. -They’d forgotten—had your aunt and uncle—that it was here in the stable -at all: it must have been here years before they bought the place—till -_he_ came and drove it round to the front door one night, all mouldy and -ramshackled just as you see it now.” - -“Do tell us, Frampton, about it. I’ll promise not to laugh.” - -“Well, ’twas the night before we were starting for the South of France, -and I was going with them to look after the horses they were to hire in -Paris. The house had been full of visitors for Christmas, but most of -them had gone the day before, and the rest of them were to leave along -with us. - -“It was in the middle of the night, though they never noticed the true -time, when they heard, both of them, a carriage drive up to the front -door. - -“They were fairly puzzled what it could mean, as they expected no -visitors, least of all at that time of night. Your aunt got up first and -then called your uncle. And there, full in the moonlight, stood that -identical carriage, and the coachman was a skellington—dressed in black -and weepers, for all the world like an undertaker at a funeral. He -turned his eyes—or what should have been his eyes—full upon them both. -And then your aunt went faint, and I believe your uncle did no better. -Anyhow, when they came back to their senses, carriage and coachman were -gone.” - -“And what did it mean, Frampton?” - -“Well, that’s more than I can tell you, Master Ronald. It’s fairly -puzzled all of us. I’m sure I’ve bothered my head times over to try and -piece it together, seeing it meant no harm to them, but only to a lot of -folk they’d never seen or heard of.” - -“How did that come about?” - -“When we got to Paris, we put up at one of them big hotels—I forget the -name of it. And one day he and she were going up to their rooms in the -lift. Just as they were stepping aboard of it, they looked chanceways at -the man who managed it, and I’m blessed if it wasn’t the same coachman as -had driven that there carriage up to the door at Broadwater. They were -that frightened that they stepped back, and the lift went up without -them. And well it was they did so, for something or other went wrong -with the hauling gear, and every soul on board of it was killed. - -“And now you know, Master Ronald, why your uncle won’t have that carriage -never touched. He’s got it into his head, and you won’t get it out -again, that it was sent to save his life. All I can say is that, if -that’s what it did mean, old Nick carries on his business in a queer, -roundabout kind of way.” - - -II - - -Not many days after Frampton had imparted to us his sensational story, we -were told to expect a visit from the family lawyer. Ronald and I always -hailed his visits with delight. He was one of those cheery individuals -whom boys can chum with. In age he must have been nearly seventy-five, -but hale and hearty still: entering into our amusements, never minding -our noise, and tipping us when he left with a liberality that appalled -our uncle. Ronald and I would have put him down for fifty. But boys do -not recognise the gradations of age. To them a man seems definitely old -at fifty, and live as long as he may after that, years will add nothing -to the mystery of his age, if only he keeps young in heart and interests. -At sixty, seventy, or even eighty, he will in their eyes be fifty still. - -As a matter of course Ronald and I were told to put in an appearance on -the day of his arrival. The unvarying order of the programme was that, -after he had had a few words with our uncle, we two should form his -escort in a progress round the park and outlying farms. - -“So your uncle still cherishes the old Crofton coach,” he said, as we -passed the outhouse tenanted by the family ghost. “I wonder he cares to -keep it,”—almost Ronald’s own words to Frampton, the coachman—from which -it was clear he had never heard of our uncle’s visitant, nor did we -venture to enlighten him. - -“Do you know anything about it, Sir?” asked Ronald, in the eager tone of -one who had by no means lost hope of solving the mystery. - -“My boy, I’ve _ridden in it_.” - -Ronald’s face was a study. “Ridden in it? actually _ridden_ in that -coach? And did you, Sir, _did_ you see the devil?” he continued -anxiously. “Frampton says he always drives it.” - -“Not exactly, Ronald. And, by the way, my lad, I wouldn’t, if I were -you, introduce his name quite so familiarly into your conversation. -Frampton must be cautioned, Fred, as to what he tells the boy.” - -“Well, he didn’t exactly say that, Sir,” continued Ronald, willing to -justify his friend. “He called him old Nick.” - -“That’s a trifle better. Anyhow, I didn’t see him, though I can’t say -honestly that my ride was a pleasant one. I’d been staying here with old -Crofton, just before he sold the place to your uncle, and I had business -too to transact with Thorpe of Thorpe Hill. As luck would have it, all -the carriages here were in use but this one. It wasn’t in the state it -is now, but it was out of date and uncomfortable even then. However, it -took me there all right. It was on the way back that I had my adventure. - -“I had barely composed myself to sleep with the consciousness of having -dined too well—Thorpe never stinted his guests—when I was roused by an -uneasy feeling that I was not the sole occupant of the carriage. The -interior was lit up by a weird, fantastic light that came and went, rose -and fell, like the glow that throbs over a brick-kiln or a blast furnace. -After all, it may have been only the reflection of my own cigar which I -had instinctively kept alight during my short nap. From out the -border-land which separates sleep from waking, I saw two figures on the -opposite seat. For a time I studied them with hardly more interest than -I should the figures in a pantomime, till it was forced upon me by their -wild gesticulation that this was no pantomime enacting for my benefit, -but a veritable tragedy of life and death. The one figure shrank -cowering in a corner of the carriage; the other stood over it with -uplifted hand. But no voice or sound proceeded from them. Only on the -hand of one, the figure that crouched and trembled, I recognised the -famous Thorpe emerald—as the family lawyer I knew it well—while the other -that stormed and threatened might have passed for old Crofton himself, in -so far as youth of twenty can anticipate the form and lineaments of -seventy-five. - -“The details had hardly had time to shape themselves within my brain, -when the light died out. I heard—or fancied I heard—a short, sharp gasp, -an inarticulate cry for mercy, and the carriage drew up before the gate -of Broadwater.” - -That night after dinner we were subjected to a close cross-examination by -our uncle. - -“The boys have told me your surprising story, Mr. Roberts. May I ask how -it is I never heard it from you before?” - -“Why, to tell you the truth, Mr. Heyward, you wouldn’t have heard it now -if my little friend Ronald hadn’t rushed me into telling it by his burst -of eagerness. You might have said I’d been dining too well—as indeed I -had—and that isn’t exactly the thing to recommend a family lawyer. So -you’ve got my reputation at your mercy, young gentlemen. For, of course, -it _was_ the dinner—a nightmare of some kind, no doubt. Though I’m bound -to say I never had a nightmare, either before or afterwards, that was -half so vivid and real. It was quite the worst quarter of an hour I ever -passed in my life.” - -“Perhaps not so much of a nightmare as you suppose,” rejoined the uncle, -and then proceeded to narrate his own experiences. I remember thinking -how much better Frampton told the story than he did, in spite of his -rather unorthodox language. - -“Phew! that alters the whole question. Corroborative evidence with a -vengeance—evidence that one might almost take into court. For even if -_you_ had been dining not wisely, your sister hadn’t, I know. Anyhow, we -three staid gentlefolk could create a pretty sensation with our three -independent testimonies. To think that a belief in ghosts should be -forced upon me at my age! Why I shall be dragged next into believing the -village legend.” - -“What is it? I never even heard of it.” - -“That Ronald’s old carriage is somehow mixed up with the quarrel between -Thorpe and Broadwater—that it stands in the way of their family union. -So you see, young gentlemen, where you’ve got to look for a wife as soon -as the carriage is gone. But it doesn’t look like it yet. Old Thorpe’s -dead, and the house shut up, and the only survivor of the family is on -the point, they tell me, of marrying her cousin. Above all, you guard -the old carriage, Heyward, as if it were a priceless heirloom. But -perhaps you are right; it isn’t your business to get rid of it.” - - -III - - -So the old carriage mouldered on in the coach-house, and its net-work of -cobwebs grew grimier each day. - -How the spiders maintained themselves was a mystery, for no fly could -have run the blockade of the window, even if the inducement had been -greater. At last Ronald and I wove a legend around them in our turn, -which terrified us more than did the carriage itself. We decided that, -after long years of mutual slaughter, the victory had rested in the end -with two or three hoary monsters, who had ensconced themselves within the -framework of the ruined carriage, from which they looked out upon the -solitude they were creating. Little by little the uncanny idea grew upon -us till, regardless of all probability, we fancied we could see their -eyes peering out of the darkness. - -More than once we made illicit expeditions at midnight in the hope that -we might find the ghostly coachman cleaning and repairing his equipage -for another sortie. But we could see nothing. If either of us had gone -alone, the result might have been different; we should have seen, or -pretended to see, many matters of interest. - -November was, as a rule, our month of storms at Broadwater, though -February often ran it close; and, in the year that followed upon -Frampton’s story, a gale broke upon us on the third of the month that -beat the record of our times for violence. We had not been without -warning of its coming. The sea had been “crying out” at intervals—sure -token that the storm had paused to gather breath, bidding the sea take -forward its message to the shore. - -Not when the gale is at its height—at any rate along our coast—can you -best realise the grandeur of the sea. Study it rather on one of these -quiet days of warning, when you can trace a wave almost from its -inception, till it curls over at your feet with a dull roar, regular as -the boom of a minute gun, and audible for miles inland. - -Lashed into foam, and its voice drowned by the wind, it parts with much -of its majesty, and becomes merely a symbol of turmoil and unrest. What -it gains in wildness, it loses in self-control, like the seething rapids -of Niagara before they compose themselves into dignity prior to the final -plunge. - -Then came another and a final warning. It was one of those rare sunsets -which leave an imprint on the memory for life. Not a sunset in which -conflicting colours are fused into each other by soft and subtle -gradations—these we see often and soon forget—but one of war and discord; -when colours, the most antagonistic, meet without blending, and produce -effects that would be called crude and coarse upon a painter’s canvas. - -On a background of unvarying crimson, black and purple clouds were -projected, clean cut in outline, and solid, to all appearance, as the -hull of an Atlantic liner that was cleaving her way across the sea -beneath them. The sea itself borrowed its colours from the sky, but -jealously guarded them from encroaching on the beach beyond, which shone -white as silver in the unnatural glow. Beyond it still, the valleys and -hills that rose behind Broadwater were painted a dark and luminous green, -on which a few scattered homesteads stood out in clear and startling -relief. For the moment distance was annihilated, and a step or two, or -so it seemed, might have compassed the mile of space that separated us -from our own house door. - -A sunset like this, following upon a “crying” sea, can never be misread -by the dwellers on our coast. It warns every fisherman that he must haul -his lerret to the very summit of the ridge, and every Coastguard station -along the dreaded Bay that it behoves them to be awake and watching. But -it was not till midnight that the storm broke upon us. - -Our faith in the old house was strong. It had outlived so many storms, -and the gale of ’24 must have been worse than this, or so we kept saying -for mutual encouragement. But it was hard to believe it, and the comfort -was quickly followed by a disquieting thought that each year, as it -passed, left the chimneys older and less capable of resisting the -pressure. We were disquieted, too, for others; we knew well by -experience what a night like this might bring us from the sea. Times -upon times, in similar gales, we had been hurried to the beach by signals -of distress, and had helped the Coastguard, sometimes in saving life, -oftener in furthering that painful recall to life which is more agonizing -to witness than death itself. - -Happily there came to-night no appealing cry. Even if it had pierced its -way through wind and rain, those whom it summoned could only have watched -and waited for one of those strange freaks by which the sea now and again -elects to spare a human life. At the height of the gale, when gust upon -gust followed each other with ever increasing fury, we were still seated -in the drawing-room under various pretences. Ronald and I said openly -that we were afraid of venturing our lives in the upper rooms, just under -the chimneys. Our uncle jeered at our cowardice, but stayed where he -was. “The noise would prevent my sleeping,” he said, “but, as for -danger, I’d as lief sleep in the garrets as anywhere; only the servants’ -beds ain’t as comfortable as my own. The old house’ll last our time -yet.” - -As if in answer to his boast, the gale made another defiant howl. It was -answered by a dull crash, followed by a continuous roar of falling -materials—followed again by a dead silence that was audible above the -rush of wind and rain. It took us only a few minutes to satisfy -ourselves that the fabric of the house was safe. It was a chimney -stablewards that had gone, crashing through a hay loft and lumber room -right down on the top of our ghostly carriage, and clearing Broadwater of -spiders for the period of our lives. Even the uncle himself could find -no plea for extending his protection to a mass of shivered fragments. If -the powers of darkness had destroyed their own handiwork, or failed in -ability to protect it, there was no reason to suppose that the hand of -man would be more successful. So the fiat went forth—not, I believe, -without great searching of heart on the part of our uncle—and carriage -and cobwebs, and even the stable itself were swept away, and, as Bunyan -says, I saw them no more. - -“Well, I’m glad that it’s gone,” said a quiet, sweet voice at my elbow, -as Ronald and I were watching the departure of the last load of -materials. And, turning, I saw before me the woman who was to be the -guiding star of Ronald’s life, yes, and my own life too. She was little -more than a girl then—only a few years older than Ronald himself—with a -great calm truthfulness in her eyes, and the air of one who had already -known sorrow, and been refined, not hardened, by the experience. - -“Yes,” she repeated, “I am glad it’s gone. And now we can be friends. -It has been so lonely for me at Thorpe ever since my father died, and I -have so wanted to make friends with you; only that old carriage stood in -the way. It was silly, no doubt, to be so much afraid, but then I am -Scotch—and the Scotch you know are very superstitious,” she added with a -smile. “Besides, ever since I can remember anything, I’ve been told that -the old carriage meant mischief and trouble between Thorpe and -Broadwater. It is true, no doubt, that an ancestor of mine did die in -it, and that all sorts of ghastly rumours were current as to how he met -his death. But nothing ever came of them, and it was commonly assumed -that he died of heart disease; he had certainly been ailing for years -before. Thank heaven! the very scene of the crime—if such it were—has -been swept away at last. And it is pleasant, isn’t it? to recommence our -life’s friendship here where it was wrecked. Though I fear we shan’t -meet often as yet, for my husband that is to be lives abroad, till I can -persuade him to give up his post and settle down with me for good in the -dear old home. But you _will_ be my friends, won’t you, for always?” - -She held out her hand in pledge of her friendship. And we shall be -friends, I think, “for always.” I like the old-fashioned phrase. - -Besides, it was her own. - - - -On the Racecourse at Bayview - - -IT was Ronald’s birthday, and the day fixed for the Races at Bayview—an -unlucky coincidence, for he always showed a keen spirit of enterprise on -that particular morning. He was now fourteen, and looked a trifle older -owing to his splendid physique. Even in the nursery visitors had -christened him the “Infant Hercules.” A Viking he was in miniature, with -clear blue eyes and short, crisp hair, carrying with him an atmosphere of -suppressed fun that, dangerous as it might prove, was a certain guarantee -against dulness or want of spirit. He had behaved himself beautifully -for an entire month. But I distrusted him to-day. He had never seen the -races, and had constantly signified his intention of doing so. So when -his uncle said to him at breakfast, “You are not to go to the races; they -are destructive of morality, especially to a boy of your age,” and Ronald -winked at me across the table, I felt sure he intended to go. - -“No sir,” he said respectfully—“and I suppose you won’t go either. Of -course they can’t do you any harm at your age; but they can’t do you any -good.” - -“As it happens, Ronald, I shall go—just to make sure that you don’t. -Besides, I think it a good principle that elderly people should be seen -doing things which they forbid to their youngsters. Unquestioning -obedience is a fine thing. It doesn’t follow that because I allow myself -a cigar to quiet my nerves, therefore you should smoke who don’t know -what a nerve means.” - -“No sir: of course it doesn’t”—and he winked again. - -For myself, I distinctly intended to go to the races, seeing that I was -past the age at which my uncle feared their contagion; though neither was -I old enough to plead the principle which he had so astutely paraded on -his own account. And so I went. - -Ronald had left the house soon after breakfast—for a ride (he said)—and, -as I saw nothing of him on the racecourse, I was comfortable in the -belief that for once he had obeyed orders. When the races were nearly -over, a little stable boy came up to me and touched his cap: - -“Hold your horse, sir?” - -By Jove, it was Ronald. He had borrowed Dick the groom’s livery, and had -had a fine time of it, he told me, in that unconventional attire. - -Just then our uncle rode up. “Now stand away, Fred, and don’t be seen -talking to me, and I’ll show you some rare sport.” - -“Hold your horse, sir?”—this to our uncle. - -“Well, I don’t mind if you do, and I’ll have a stroll with Fred here till -it’s time to go home.” - -After a lounge along the course, chatting with friends and criticising -the horses, we came back to where we left Ronald. “Thanks,” said the -uncle, as he re-mounted, “here’s a shilling for you. A lucky dog you -are, too, for it’s got a hole in it, I see. Good-day.” - -When dinner was over that evening, the uncle waxed genial over a bottle -of ’75 Margaux. “We’d a capital day’s racing, Ronald. I’m almost sorry -you weren’t with us. Next year, all well, my boy, I’ll take you myself.” - -“Thanks, sir”—and he winked the third time. “By the way, you haven’t -lost a shilling, sir, have you? I picked up this one while you were at -the races. You’re a lucky dog, sir, if it does belong to you, for it’s -got a hole in it?” - -Verdict: _Acquitted_, _but don’t do it again_. - - - -On the Sands - - -BROADWATER was fearfully dull on a Sunday, so I came over from Bayview -where I was staying, that Ronald and I might help each other in getting -through the day. - -It was a blazing afternoon in August, and the park, shut in by hills, -shimmered in a haze of heat. “I can’t stand this,” said Ronald. “Air I -must get somehow, and, as it’s not to be got nearer than the sea, we’ll -walk to the shore in search of it. It’s rather hard on you, to be sure, -who’ve done the walk once already. But it’s better than lounging about -here, where it’s too hot to speak or think; and, at any rate, we shall -see the trippers.” - -It happened, most unluckily, that just as we reached the pier, an open -air service had begun. Of course they had chosen the hottest corner -possible for it; a nook sheltered by the masonry of the pier, which -carefully excluded every breath of wind that might be travelling to us -from the sea. But, despite the heat, it was a temptation to mild -excitement that Ronald found it impossible to resist. - -“Not so good as the nigger minstrels, but better than nothing,” he said. -So we joined the throng of listeners. It was the usual audience, the -devotees (mainly women) forming the inner circle, in close proximity to -the preacher and the harmonium. Next came the half-hearted, weaker -vessels, who separated the former as by a wall from the irreverent throng -of idlers who laughed and talked and smoked on the outside fringe. The -preacher was a man of the ordinary type, only a little stouter, a little -more flaccid and even more illiterate than usual. Where do they come -from, these preachers? Are they men who think they have a call or a -gift? and are they accepted for the office on their own valuation? -Certainly they are not chosen for any capability that can approve itself -to the impartial hearer. - -The present representative of the school was enlarging, when we came up, -upon the demerits of the publican. Ronald, after a few minutes, began to -fume and fret. But he behaved for a while excellently well, though I -could hear him muttering words in an undertone distinctly uncomplimentary -to the preacher. - -“And it is publicans like these—the scum and refuse of Jerusalem—that are -represented in this town to-day by the inn-keepers, barmen, and pot-boys, -who an hour or two hence will be serving many of their fellow -creatures—many, I fear, of this audience—with drink, to the ruin of their -lives here and of their hopes of salvation hereafter.” - -“Nothing of the sort,” shouted Ronald, “he wasn’t an innkeeper at all; he -was a tax-gatherer. Every schoolboy knows that.” - -The silence that followed was awful; every eye was turned upon the boy, -and it was a strain upon my loyalty to remain at his side, and not then -and there renounce his acquaintance. - -“Oh, he wasn’t, wasn’t he, young man?” said the preacher. “Well, as you -seems to know more about the Bible than I do, perhaps you’ll step up here -and take my place. Kindly tell us, if _you_ please, out of _your_ -superior knowledge, what he was, and why he was called a publican if he -was a tax-collector; and why a poor collector of rates, who only did his -duty, is held up to our scorn and reprobation; yes, our _reprobation_.” -(This word he regarded as a crushing climax.) - -To my complete and indescribable confusion, Ronald, nothing loth, -accepted the challenge with delight, and the next moment was standing on -the platform addressing an appreciative audience. What a sermon he gave -them!—lasting without a pause or break for exactly half-an-hour; every -thought reasoned out, and closing with a peroration of consummate -eloquence. By a clever feint he had diverted the text of the preacher to -one on the Pharisee and the Publican, making a scathing attack on the -Pharisaism of the day, which went to church, and gave its alms openly and -never in secret; which paid its way and kept the conventional -commandments, and neglected (as of little count) the weightier things of -unselfishness and love. “A day is coming when it will matter nothing -where we lived, nor in what occupations, nor amidst what circumstances, -but only how we wrought, and in what spirit we suffered. Be the thing -you say; be unselfish, in your own poor way, to your friends and to your -home, and to the world about you; that is worth ten thousand sermons and -a hundred thousand Articles of Religion.” A dead silence followed as he -stepped down from the platform; he had left a charm upon us that it -seemed sacrilege to break. Then came a word or two. “What a wonderful -boy!—a second Spurgeon; with all his eloquence and none of his -irreverence.” - -“Summat worth hearin’, I calls it; how he did pitch into they bloomin’ -aristocrats. I’ll come and hear ye, young master, whensomdever you holds -forth agin.” - -“Well—I never!” It was with this ungrammatical aposiopesis that I -started, so soon as I could find breath to start at all. “Where on -earth, Ronald, did you get it all from?” The boy had come back to me -looking as cool as a cucumber, and highly delighted with the sensation he -had created. - -“Don’t tell, Fred,” he answered, “but it was a sermon of Vaughan’s. We -are made to analyse his sermons at school, and say them afterwards for -repetition lessons. So when that old donkey fell foul of the publican, I -had one handy you see, on that very subject, and I thought it a pity not -to fire it off.” - -Surely, I thought, he’ll be satisfied now, and I tried to draw him away -from the crowd, who were becoming a trifle too much interested in our -name and identity. But no; not a bit of it. The excitement was full -upon him still. So up he went to the harmonium (they had now started a -hymn), and looking over the shoulder of the performer (she was a pretty -girl of eighteen) he began to sing as lustily as the best of them. By -degrees his arm, I saw, began to steal about her waist, and, fuss and -fidget as she might, she was powerless to help herself. Her hands were -occupied with the keyboard, and her feet with the blower, and with her -voice she had to lead the singing. So he had her at his mercy, and -hugged her disgracefully, while she, poor girl, was powerless to resist. -The audience all thought she was his sister, and highly commended him, it -was clear, for the countenance and support he was giving her. - -While the last line of the last verse was being sung, the temptation -became too strong for resistance, and Ronald stooped down and kissed -her—an action which touched still further the sympathetic heart of the -audience. - -“A dear, good young feller that, as ever I see’d”—said an old lady in my -immediate neighbourhood. “I only wish as how he were a son of mine; a -preachin’ that fine, for all the world like the Bishop, and a’ lookin’ -arter his sister so prettily—and a nice young girl she is too.” - -After this exploit he slipped across the circle and joined me, and a -minute later—with hot and blazing cheeks—I was thankful to find myself -round the corner, and well on the way home before the throng of listeners -had begun to disperse. I felt, indeed, as must that Bishop, who, to -oblige a small girl younger in years than in experience, condescended to -ring at a street door, and was rewarded with the advice, “Run! _run_ for -yer life! they’ll knock the ’ead off yer shoulders if they catches ye.” -I wonder what he elected to do? pocket his dignity and run? or rely upon -his clerical attire to see him through? In any case our anxiety would be -more protracted. What if the escapade should reach our uncle’s ears? -However I was spared this climax. The story of it got wind in the -servants’ hall, as all stories do; but the servants were far too loyal to -Master Ronald to betray him, and so it never made its way up stairs to -the drawing room. - - * * * * * - -But the career of that preacher was ended—in Bayview. - - - -Our Rector - - -WE had two, if not three, celebrities in our village. The Rector is -dead; the Clerk is dead; the Professor still lives. But, independently -of this claim to our respect, let us give precedence to the Church. - -Less than fifty years ago the services in a parish not ten miles from one -of our well-known watering places were done—or left undone—by surely the -queerest cleric of his time. - -A grand old man he was in person—tall, and venerable as Bede himself, -with the most benevolent of faces and the most silver of silver hair. -Fit to be an archbishop, so far as appearances went, but most unfit to -have the charge of the hundred souls—there were no more of them—committed -to his trust. - -To these he ministered, or (as I have said) failed to minister, on Sunday -mornings; for often as not the services, stipulated for at the price of -£75 per annum, were left unperformed on the shallowest of pretexts. It -might be the weather; it might be that he was indisposed; often, I fear, -it was from sheer disinclination. - -To the hamlet that clustered close round the church it was a matter of -comparative indifference. They never believed by anticipation in the -service till the bell was actually sounding; and his henchman (clerk, -sexton, choirmaster and gravedigger in one) had strict orders to withhold -this summons till the Rector himself was actually in view. But to our -party, who lived two miles away, the question of service or no service -was a serious one. It meant hesitation in starting, and reluctance to -risk the chance—provocation, too, even to my long-suffering father, when -he found the church door barred, and a south-wester brewing, in the teeth -of which we had to struggle home over a barren down, unsupported by the -nutriment, mental and moral, on which we had calculated. But the -service, when it did take place, was a queerer experience by far than the -service foregone. The orchestra would have been the despair of -Nebuchadnezzar. It consisted of a single flageolet, blown by the wheezy -old sexton—one Joseph Edwards by name. We did not even boast of a -serpent—instrument immortalised by Mr. Hardy for its volume of tone in -supplementing deficiencies. Now the flageolet is a pet aversion of mine, -and I can forgive Nebuchadnezzar many of his iniquities for having (so -far as we know) excluded it from his band. Indeed, musicians themselves -would seem to be ashamed of it, for they have re-christened it, I am -told, by a humbler name. But I was careful not to betray my feelings to -my friend Joseph, and listened patiently while he enlarged on the -capabilities and melodiousness of his pet instrument. “Not but what I’m -getting a bit wheezy (he’d often say to me), and can’t make the -flourishes as onst I could. But ’tis may be better as it is. They -quieter tunes are belike more godly. Anyhow the choir—poor souls—got -right puzzled among my turns and quavers, coming in here, there and no -how at the finish.” - -But, praise it as he might, the flageolet is the worst instrument -possible to constitute an orchestra; especially when played as Joseph -played it. It gave out a series of squeaks and -counter-squeaks—punctuated and accentuated by his wheezes rather than by -the requirements of the tune. Indeed, a boy learning the bugle, or a -Punch and Judy panpipe, would have discoursed more decorous music. To me -the panpipe and the flageolet seem nearly akin; only the flageolet is the -more powerful instrument of the two, and Punch is more exacting than we -were in the choice of an executant. - -Once, as a special favour, I was invited by Joseph to attend a choir -practice. It was before his hand or, I should say, his breath had lost -its cunning; and it took place on this wise. An hour before service -(which on this occasion was actually realised) Joseph took his stand in -the reading desk, flageolet in hand, while a group of apple-cheeked -cottagers—fishermen mainly, and plough-boys—grouped themselves in my -father’s pew below. In one point at any rate Joseph had anticipated the -ritual of later days; he repudiated all women from his choir. “’Taint no -place for ’em,” he’d say; “I wonder what ’postle Paul ’d think, if he -could ha’ heard they two women at S. Matthew’s screechin’ out ‘O ’twas a -joyful sound to hear’—and none of us, let alone the choir, privileged to -put in a joyful sound along wi ’em. If women baint allowed to preach in -Church, stands to reason that they baint allowed to sing.” - -“Now boys, turn to ‘Aurelia,’ and go for to remember that we sing the -whole on’t right through this time. Last time as ever we did it some on -you took to skipping and one sang one verse and t’other the next, whereby -I had to blow myself nigh faint to hide your discordance. And mind ye -too, sing ’en slow, not as if you wanted to get shot on’t.” - -All went well at the first rehearsal, for Joseph played the air -distinctly and without disturbing flourishes—only with an intolerable -drawl, mindful in all probability of “passon’s” injunctions; of which -more anon. - -“Well sung,” says he; “you be a good choir when you be so minded; and -well instructed, too, though I says it as didn’t ought to. Now then, -we’ll see what ye can do when I puts in the flourishes.” - -This was a change for the worse, and what had been a melancholy dirge -became a haphazard scramble for notes, each boy seizing on the one that -he could detect among the enveloping flourishes, regardless whether it -was the same note that had found favour with his neighbour. In the end -the hymn became a sacrilegious fugue, devoid of time, harmony or -sequence. Yet Joseph was never disquieted at the result. On the -contrary, he regarded it as a tribute to his skill, addressing his choir -at the finish as a general might address his discomfited troops: “You’ve -done your best, and none of us can’t do no more. Better luck at -church-time, and this I do say, that ’tis few players can overlay a -melody as I can wi’ flourishes and expect them as sings it to pick out -the tune.” - -But to return to our Rector. The fun began (I write, remember, as a boy -of ten) with the First Lesson. When the time for it approached, great -preparations were seen to be in progress. Our benevolent Archbishop -retired into the recesses of the reading desk (a high, square pew, -scarcely to be differentiated from our own) and disposed his lunch in -orderly array upon the sill overhanging my father’s head. And, to give -time for its consumption, a boy was summoned from the -congregation—usually it was his own son, a curly-pated lad of thirteen—to -discourse the Lesson. Manfully he grappled with the difficulties and -hard names of the Old Testament—sticking and halting at nothing, and -making a record of false quantities and mispronunciations that I have -never heard beaten during a twenty years’ experience of the average -undergraduate. Meanwhile his father lunched peacefully, careless what -havoc he made with the Kings of Israel and Judah. But woe betide the boy -if ever he tried to skip a name. A guttural rebuke issued from the -depths of the reading desk: “None of that, Jack; go back, my lad, and try -it again.” - -But his greatest delight of all was to hear Jack struggling with the -genealogy in St. Luke. A series of chuckles issued from the corner where -the old man lay ensconced, that gathered in volume with every fresh fall; -and when the boy, hot and discomfited, retired from the fray, there was a -pause in the proceedings till the old man had recovered himself -sufficiently to resume his functions. His luncheon meanwhile had been -progressing steadily, not without the gurgling sound of something -comforting to facilitate digestion. It puzzled me for years to discover -the _raison d’ être_ of this extraordinary meal, knowing as I did that an -hour later he would be dining with one of his cottagers, after careful -preliminary enquiry as to which house could offer the most attractive -fare. Only quite lately, long after the idea of luncheon had been -stereotyped upon my brain, I found out that the so-called luncheon was, -after all, no luncheon at all, but only a retarded breakfast. Our Rector -being a late riser, and having a five-mile walk before him, could find no -opportunity of taking it in comfort till he had reached the haven of the -parish reading desk. - -A cigar was the indispensable accompaniment of the second Lesson, during -which period its fumes could be seen ascending like “curling incense” to -the blackened rafters of the roof. Indeed, the only thing that ever -really shattered my father’s equanimity was the sight of its reeking end, -projected over his head from the sill of the reading desk, where the -Rector had reluctantly placed it while he applied himself to the -requirements of the “Benedictus.” - -When the flageolet sounded the key note of the first hymn, the Rector -regarded it as the signal of a temporary relaxation. He was for a time -off duty, and the cigar was again in requisition. But in fine and balmy -weather, he found the atmosphere of the church too close for its -enjoyment. It “gathered sweetness from the open air.” So, attired in -surplice, stole and bands, our Rector strolled out into the -churchyard—giving us pleasant little vista-views of his enjoyment as he -passed and re-passed the windows of the aisles. That it might be enjoyed -in perfection and unto the end, the hymns selected were inordinately -long. But, if fate was against him, and the wind light, and the cigar -drew slowly, he had no false shame in appearing on the chancel steps to -announce with all the dignity of a formal notice that the last two verses -of the hymn would be repeated. After which he disappeared into the -churchyard again. - -The sermon was to me, as a boy, full of the most delightful interest. It -had an infinity of anticipation. No one knew what was coming—least of -all the Rector himself. We felt stimulated by the chance of any and -every possibility. A clergyman of the strictest sect of the -Evangelicals, he always preached in a surplice. (It was in the days, -remember, when the Geneva gown was the badge of that school, and the sign -of a high church cleric was barely appearing above the horizon). - -But I sadly fear that our Rector was influenced by no question of -principle or non-principle; I cannot, I think, be wronging him if I infer -that his preference for the surplice was due to sheer indifference or -indolence. - -Then came the always exciting task of moving the immense Bible from the -reading desk to the pulpit. He regarded it, I think, almost in the light -of a fetish, and certainly, so long as I knew him, would never have -attempted a sermon with any smaller and less trustworthy guide. He -balanced the enormous volume in his right hand, and, with his left hand -on the rails, steadied himself as he made the painful and perilous -ascent. The hope, I fear, of us boys was that the book would one day -slip from his hand and imperil the head of the clerk beneath, who was now -no longer choirmaster, but, like a Roman flute player, had crossed over -to his proper seat and resumed his duties beneath the pulpit. But the -hope was never realised, and I have felt ever since that my life has -lacked something in consequence. - -The choice of his text was the longest part of his sermon. The Bible was -opened haphazard, as though he intended to execute a sort of _sors -Vergiliana_. But so casual a method was quite unsuited to the dignity of -our Rector. The pages were turned and re-turned; whole chapters were -read and carefully studied, and, after a quarter of an hour of this -preliminary investigation, a text was given out, that for glaring -irrelevance and disconnection with everything else could never have been -surpassed if he had taken it at sight. A name out of a genealogy—the -Christian name Mary—Tophet—the daubed wall—pillows for all armholes—are -among the subjects that I distinctly remember were selected for our -edification. But of the treatment alas! I remember nothing—nothing then, -and certainly nothing now, when I would give £50 to trace the exact -process of his reasoning. - -The last sermon I ever heard him deliver was on the text, “And there -shall be no more sea”—an unwise and disquieting subject for a -congregation, most of whom came of a race of fishermen, and gained their -living from the element which he so confidently annihilated. - -“If there baint no sea, then ’tis no place for I,” I heard a man say to -his neighbour as he passed out of church; “and sakes alive, where be ’en -going to get their fish from?” - -Such was our Rector. Not reverent or discreet, you will say, in his -capacity of priest. No, but a kindly, genial old man; devoted to his -parishioners, if not to his duties; clever too, and companionable in -society, and inexhaustible to the boys of the parish in the matter of -marbles and gingerbread. - -It is with affection that I recall him, for, in spite of his -eccentricities, and perhaps because of them, I loved him well.—_R.I.P._ - - - -Echoes from an Organ Loft - - - “Pale fingers moved upon the keys, - The ghost hands of past centuries.” - -From Joseph’s flageolet to one of the finest organs in England—from the -scene of “our Rector’s” ministrations to a building that could have -swallowed up his church and his school room and all the house property in -his parish—was a startling transition for a boy of fourteen. - -I wonder how often, during my first experience of a cathedral service, my -thoughts travelled back to the tiny hamlet in the west, with its ruined -chancel on which the Atlantic had spent its rage, and its few cottages -straggling on and up behind an avenue of elms, to where the new church, -safe in a sheltered paradise of its own, looks down compassionately upon -the wreckage of the past. - -In times to come I got to know every nook and corner of the great organ -loft at K. It was built in those large minded days before architects had -conceived the fatal idea of economising space. Ascending by a broad -staircase that rose with the dignity of an inclined plane, you came out -upon a plateau, roomier and more comfortable than many a London flat. -The sanctum of the organist—indeed, the huge instrument itself—were -little more than incidents of the loft. There was a chamber for the wife -of the dean, and another chamber for the wife of the organist, together -with a library for the Church music; and still there was room in it for -blind man’s buff—when the choristers could get the chance. - -The organ itself might have been a mile away—so little did you hear of -it. In this respect the loft resembled the deck of a battleship, where -the men who work the guns hear least of the explosion. Only a few -muttered growls from the big pipes that lined the walls on either side, -or burrowed in the caverns underneath, suggested the proximity of sound. -The crash of the full organ was delivered at a point far above your head, -somewhere among the shadowy outlines of the roof. - -The space allotted to the dean’s wife on the other side of the organ was -less comfortable than ours, but far more interesting. The floor outside -her enclosure was broken by yawning chasms to give the great pipes -breathing room; and though they were of wood, and spoke, as wooden pipes -should speak, in hollow muffled tones, they must, I fancy, have confused -her devotions and raised a small hurricane about the nape of her neck. - -Linking the present to the past were the names of by-gone choristers, -carved in schoolboy fashion upon the old oak panels, who had sung their -last note a hundred years ago—it might be in this very gallery. It was -easy to picture them passing and re-passing still through the trap door -which opened at our feet—a white robed procession of the voiceless dead. - -An organ loft is a delightfully irresponsible place from which to take -part in a service, especially when the instrument is a large one, well -removed from the congregation on the top of a screen—above all, when you -do not happen to be the organist. - -I would not for an instant be understood to imply that the sense of -aloofness necessarily engenders irreverence. On the contrary, many of -the most solemn hours of my life were passed within the recesses of the -great organ at K., and my friend the organist might have been a pattern -to the congregation in true devotional spirit. But the necessities -imposed by a choral service afforded him little opportunity for a -devotional attitude, while he would have been more, or less, than human -if he had not utilised our isolation to impart to me pleasant little -details regarding the progress of the service. These would be -interrupted at intervals by parenthetical instructions whenever he wanted -help in the management of his stops. - -A reminiscence of an organ-loft monologue would read something as -follows: “_Draw the Gamba_, _please_. How flat that boy Robinson’s -singing; and oh! those _h_’s of his! _Principal_, _please_, _and now the -mixtures_. Green’s getting shaky in his top notes; he only looked at -that upper G. _Take care_; _you put in that coupler before I had -finished the bar_. What a nuisance it is! I shall never get a boy like -him . . . The finest hymn written, don’t you think? (They were singing -Stainer’s ‘Saints of God’) . . . and ‘Aurelia’ is the second best. (Well -done! Joseph, I thought; you’re in it after all.) Get me Wely’s -Offertoire in G, will you? It’s poor stuff, but the people will have it. -_The Oboe_, _please_, _for the air_ . . . And now for the scramble . . . -_Turn over in good time_; _I can see ahead of me_, _but I can’t see -through the page_.” And he dashed into the finale at the hurricane pace -that alone makes the thing endurable. Even he couldn’t talk till it was -done. - -Sometimes we were interested in events that were proceeding in the world -beneath us. “What on earth’s the man reading the fifteenth for? it’s the -sixteenth that’s the lesson for the day.” “Oh, it’s Henderson,” would be -my reply. “He always chooses a fine chapter to show off his voice and -elocution. If he’s hauled up for it, he’ll say he did it by mistake.” - -On one occasion we were favoured by a reader, fresh from the study of -Aristophanes, with the startling announcement that the First Lesson for -the day was taken from the Book of _Ecclesiazusae_. - -One day I heard voices in the choir beneath. I knew, before I saw the -speakers reflected from the mirror in front of me, that they were two -limp figures in blue serge and coal-scuttle bonnets. The strident tones -were unmistakeable, the product, in so far as the human throat can -compass it, of a long and careful assimilation of the clash of the -cymbals. - -“A rare fine buildin’, this,” said one, “and what a hinstrument! I only -wish we ’ad it in our place; draw a sight better than drums and cymbals, -wouldn’t it? And a deal noisier.” - -“You’re right,” answered the other, “but, for all that, I wouldn’t -exchange with that lot to get it. They deans and chapters and canons, -and heaven knows what they calls theirselves, aye, and the bisshup -hisself, is that sunk in ignorance and self-conceit that they can’t see -the right way; no, nor never will.” - -Occasionally, but very rarely, matters went wrong in our own department. -The water that fed the hydraulic gear failed, or was cut off at the main, -and the organ “went out” in the middle of an anthem. One afternoon in -November it clouded over so suddenly that we could hardly see our faces -in the organ loft. Worse luck still, the matches were damp, and till I -could be back with some more, Dr. H. had to guess at the anthem as best -he could. I am not musician enough to know how he surmounted the -difficulty, but I suspect that the choir that day must have been treated -to an amount of improvisation to which they were wholly unaccustomed from -an organist who, as a rule, played what he had to play, and rarely -indulged in vagaries. - -But our worst disaster was of earlier date. Bildad the Shuhite blew the -organ. He had received that name because he cleaned shoes in a corner of -the Close. It was in prehistoric days before hydraulic gear was dreamed -of in connexion with the organ. As luck would have it, Bildad fell sick, -and had to supply a deputy at the last moment. Dr. H. studied the man -carefully, mistrusting, I think, his intelligence. But his answers were -satisfactory, though I thought with the Doctor that he protested too -much. Anyhow, the service was due, and we had no time to waste on our -fears. The singing began, but the organ was irresponsive, and, hurrying -to the back of the loft, I found our deputy-blower contemplating with -blank stolidity the mechanism at his command, and pleading with an -injured air, “Sir, I am a’ waitin’ for you to begin!” - -One day I was laboriously extracting discords from the great instrument -with Dr. H. at my elbow, when a gentle voice at our side asked for -permission to try the instrument. What a delight it was, after the -horrors I had been perpetrating, to see the long fingers charm out the -melody, till they drifted at last into the chords of Chopin’s great -march. Surely, I thought, the composer must hear and welcome such a -perfect realisation of his wondrous dream. - -“Charrlie, me boy, thry the pey-dals,” came a voice from below, with the -raciest and most captivating of brogues. It was my first introduction to -Ireland’s great musician—Sir Robert Stewart—and his still greater pupil, -composer in prospective of the _Requiem_ and _Revenge_. - -At our next interview the Professor of the future gave me a friendly -lecture on Wagner, emphasising his teaching the while by illustrative -passages, which he played, I remember, in thick woollen gloves, of which -he hadn’t troubled to divest himself, being pressed for time and the -organ loft none too warm. The mechanism of the organ, I am bound to add, -was old and antiquated—not as it is in these days, when the notes speak -if a fly sits upon them, or you venture to sneeze in their neighbourhood. - -I have made acquaintance with strange scenes in an organ loft—an organist -of surpassing ability playing through a service when he was drunk, but -certainly not incapable. Yet a deputy sat by him, ready to take his -place in case he should prove unequal to retaining his seat at the -instrument. I have seen a fight between two choristers who had been sent -to fetch music for the choir. It began on this wise. “I can lick you -’ead over ’eels in ’oly ’oly ’oly,” said one. The taunt was not to be -endured by a chorister of spirit, so “Come on!” said the other; and they -had fought it out to the bitter end at the back of the organ before ever -Dr. H. was aware that the battle was in progress. I have seen courtship -too—ending, as all courtship should do, in matrimony—while the organist -played unsuspiciously a soft and dreamy accompaniment. And I have seen -heroism too—grand as any displayed upon a field of battle—when my friend -came from his sick bed and played through a service magnificently while -the death dew gathered on his face. And I coveted, as I never coveted -before or since, the divine gift of music, which would have enabled me to -spare him his long and patient hour of martyrdom. - -And, at the end, he played the Dead March, never knowing that it was for -himself he played it, while a furious thunder-storm raged over head, and -the roll of the thirty-two-foot pipes was drowned by reverberating peals. -As the final chords came crashing from his hands, he said to me, “Handel -must have written it, I think, to an accompaniment like this. And yet -the modern school of organists would have us leave out the drums! I -shall never care to play it again.” - -And three weeks afterwards he was dead. - - - -Fighting the Cholera - - -WAS it an escapade, I wonder? or was it something greater and grander? -There are, I suppose, escapades good and bad; heroic and unheroic. - -One evening I was tidying up Ronald’s room at Cambridge. We were both of -us in residence now: I as an M.A., while he had just entered as an -undergraduate. He was as studiously untidy as I was the reverse, and, -but for me, his room, artistic as it was, would always have looked like a -boudoir that had been used over-night for a tap-room. Pipes, tobacco, -and matches met the eye everywhere, scattered among vases of flowers and -ferns; no two sheets of the _Times_ were together in one place; “Esmond” -lay cheek by jowl with “Tom Jones” (the former, I was glad to see, the -better worn), while there was more than a suspicion that his surplice was -in use as a bed for a litter of kittens. - -Ronald himself lay at his ease upon the sofa, watching—I cannot say with -interest, but at any rate without prejudice—my improvements for the -worse. But I roused him at last. In replacing a small box of Italian -olive wood I knocked off the lid, and an aggregation of articles -unimaginable were scattered on the floor. - -“Hullo! stop that, old man,” he said. “You’ll be losing or breaking some -of my most cherished possessions.” - -“What on earth are they, Ronald? Here’s a small crucifix and a missal -(you haven’t turned Roman Catholic, have you?) and any amount of -rings—most of them brass—and, by Jove, a lock of hair! Is the last a -love token? It looks uncommonly like the relic of another escapade. Did -it belong to the girl who played the harmonium on the beach at Bayview? -I didn’t know you’d got so far as that. Besides, her hair was light, if -I remember. Out with it, old man, and clear your conscience by -confession.” - -“Have done with your jokes, Fred; you’re the last fellow to chaff like -that if you knew the rights of it. And, if I must tell you, I must. But -I didn’t want you to know of the matter; it looks too much like boasting. -However, you find out everything I do; so I may as well tell you all -about this, before you hunt it up for yourself in some underhand way, or -make a tale out of it that isn’t the true one. You know Richards, Fred; -the man my uncle made me travel with last autumn—to see the world, as he -called it. I never liked the fellow, and always thought him a cad; but I -didn’t know till then that he was a coward as well as a cad.” - -“I always thought him both,” was my reply. - -“Taormina in Sicily was one of the places we stopped at: the loveliest -spot that you could dream of, if you dreamed your hardest. You’ve never -been there, have you? Well: the town itself is a fair day’s walk up hill -from the sea, and Mola’s another day’s walk above that; by which time -you’ve nearly reached the clouds—only, as it happens, Sicily doesn’t -boast of any. But you needn’t go higher than Taormina for the loveliest -view on earth. They may talk of seeing Madrid, Seville, Naples, and a -hundred other places, and then dying contented—why, there’s none of them -that’s a patch on Taormina. Sit down in the proscenium of the old -theatre, facing Etna, with the Straits of Messina and the foot of Italy -laid out like a map on your left: and you can do without another view for -the rest of your natural life. The only objection we found to it was -that in September of last year it was most awfully hot, and Taormina is -pestiferous enough to be a Turkish settlement. It is worse, I think, -than the old town of Granada, which is perhaps the filthiest place that I -know in Europe. The cholera, too, was about last year, especially in -Italy; and, if it _did_ cross the Straits, Taormina was ripe and handy -for it. - -“After we’d been there for a week or so it _did_ come with a vengeance. -First a suspicious case or two, then a case that was not suspicious at -all, and then it fell like a thunderbolt on the town. Richards was off -directly, and with him everyone in the place who could afford to go; so -the poorer people, with their old priest, who stuck to his work like a -man, had it all to themselves. - -“Now it looks like boasting, but I didn’t like to run. Besides, I had -come there for a fortnight, and I was fond of the place and the view and -the old theatre—so why go? Anyhow I didn’t budge, and did what I could -to help the old man in his difficulty—it was little enough. However, I -had heaps of money, and they wanted that more than anything. And he -taught me something about medicine—what little he knew of it; though, -after all, nothing but stimulants at one stage and opium at another -seemed to do them the slightest good. - -“What a time it was! I pray that I may never stand face to face with -cholera again. Overhead, a sky like brass, and, veiling the town, a -dusky, steel-blue haze, almost as palpable as gauze: the distinctive -colour (I’ve been told) of a cholera atmosphere. They died like flies, -crowded in their close, evil-smelling dwellings, though we lighted fires -in the streets to clear the air; an idea I borrowed, I believe, from ‘Old -St. Paul’s.’ - -“Late one evening I hurried from a sick room to get a breath of air in -the theatre below. My friend, the old priest, was there before me. This -was an unusual coincidence, as he scarcely ever gave himself a moment’s -rest. Yet he might have done so now, for in ten days’ time the disease -abated as rapidly as it had begun. And besides, he had organised a band -of fairly efficient helpers. - -“‘Good evening, signor,’ he said. ‘You see me in my church; for I find -in it the same relief that my brethren in the cities find within the -walls of a cathedral. To me it would seem a poor exchange—for what -cathedral built by man could match this view?’ As he spoke he pointed -through the ruined arches to where Etna towered in the distance. Surely -the noblest drop-scene ever fashioned by the hand of nature, and not -unworthily framed by the artist who had designed the theatre. Between -the ruined columns on the left a steamer, environed by a little group of -feluccas, made a series of dissolving views as it overtook and passed -them on the sea below. But I saw he had some trouble on his mind over -and above his care for his patients. - -“‘Take courage, padre mio. The worst is over. That shroud of steel-blue -mist is lifting day by day. I should like to know what causes it. I -believe if we had had the power of gauging it, its changes would have -made no bad register of the death-rate in the town.’ - -“‘You are right, my son; the worst _is_ past; and, thanks mainly to you, -I have been enabled to do my duty while it lasted. Without you I could -have done little. Take an old man’s thanks, signor, on behalf of those -who are left and those who are gone. Neither the one nor the other will -ever forget you, here or in the world that holds them now. Yet I could -almost wish that you had never come.’ - -“‘Why so?’ I asked. - -“‘I wish, at any rate’ (speaking with more vehemence than his wont), -‘that you had not brought with you that false-hearted friend of yours.’ - -“‘You mean Richards. Yes, he is a coward to run away like that.’ - -“‘Worse, far worse. You know little Ninetta well, who lives at your -lodgings up the hill—the prettiest girl in Taormina they call her, and I -fancy they are right. She is down with the cholera—didn’t you know it? -Taken this morning, and, unless I am wrong in my judgment, it is one of -the worst cases we have had—hopeless, I should say, from the very first.’ - -“‘Poor little Ninetta! It does seem hard; taken, too, just when the -disease was dying out. But what has Richards to do with it?’ - -“‘The confessional is sacred, my friend. But it may be that, in this one -case, the cholera has struck in kindliness. Though I am sorry he should -be away when he might have made her end more peaceful. Even when I left -her to come and find you, she was perpetually calling for him. Put her -off with excuses; it won’t be for long. Don’t let her think him a coward -as well as a villain. If you weren’t a heretic, I would absolve you -beforehand for any necessary evasion.’ - -“‘You may be sure I’ll do my best. The evasions won’t lie heavy upon my -conscience. Goodnight.’ - -“There was no hope for her, as he had said. During the early stage of -her illness she was always asking for him—wondering why he stayed -away—for I obeyed the priest’s injunctions, and never told her he’d been -coward enough to run. As she got worse, she began to wander, and, from -having seen us so often together, she would confuse him with me; and, at -the last, was perfectly happy so long as I was with her; calling me by -his name, and thanking him, as she imagined, for all his care and -kindness to her. The lock of hair that puzzled you is hers. She gave it -to me just before she died (she had nothing else to give, poor girl) in -the belief she was giving it to Richards. And then, quite quietly, still -in the belief that he was with her, and that it was his hand and not mine -that she was holding, she died. - -“There you have the story, Fred, such as it is. All the other things -were given me by the villagers—the few of them, that is, who lived—all -except the missal, which came from my old friend the priest. It was his -most cherished possession; given, I believe, in the hope of converting -me. Well, if conversion would make me another such as he was, I wouldn’t -say no to it. - -“Shall I ever see him again, I wonder? Some day, Fred, you and I will go -and hunt him up.” - - - -Ronald’s Courtship - - -I - - -I HAVE been looking through all my old letters to-night. It is a strange -sensation in these days, when the shuttle spins so fast, to re-read the -letters between childhood and manhood. All details seem softened, viewed -through the haze of time. Human nature was (or so it seems to one) so -much kindlier then than now. What pleasant ghosts are raised by these -old letters; what touches that one missed in them in the hurried, -feverish days when they were written! In so very many cases, too, the -hands that penned them are still. I have come upon one from Ronald, -written when he was just twenty-five. It is singularly devoid of -romance, compared with many of the others, and has “brisked me up” -considerably, when I was verging on melancholia. - - “DEAR FRED (it runs), - - “I shall want you for a wedding a month hence. Guess the name of the - happy lady. No more escapades from—Yours respectably, - - “RONALD.” - -Who was she? and how had he managed it? were the questions I asked myself -at the time. Somehow or other, I couldn’t imagine Ronald proposing to -his lady-love in a conventional, Christianlike way. True, time had -sobered him considerably. He was now a handsome young fellow, living -quietly and sedately with his uncle at Broadwater; not easy to recognise -as the lad who had discomfited an itinerant preacher, and played the -stable-boy on the race-course at Bayview. But the spirit of Bohemianism -dies hard, and I was possessed with the idea that, even in the act of -“placing himself” for life, Ronald would make opportunity for a final -fling. He was having a really bad time of it with his uncle, and, in -spite of occasional outbursts, when the Viking blood got the better of -him, had been fairly amenable to discipline. The old man, I know, must -have been a constant thorn in his flesh; very selfish, and very dogmatic -on all points, especially politics. If he could have reasoned logically -himself, or have listened to reason in others, he would have been less -objectionable. But he formed his opinions on grounds as strictly -illogical as does the average woman, and, to do him justice, never -abandoned them. For example: - -“What a grand speech that was of Gladstone’s yesterday, Ronald!” - -“Do you think so, sir? It seemed a trifle commonplace to me in -comparison with Dizzy’s reply.” - -“Pshaw! Dizzy’s no speaker at all compared with him.” - -“Did you ever hear him, sir?” - -“Never—and don’t want to.” - -“Then you have read his speeches, sir?” - -“Never—and I hope I never may.” - -This was his recognised line of argument (Heaven save the mark!) on all -topics. Yet to differ from any of his conclusions was a most serious -offence, which Ronald in time learned how to avoid. His own part in a -conversation became limited to a series of characterless phrases—“Yes, -sir,” “No, sir,” “Of course, sir”—which passed muster as entirely -satisfactory. Occasionally, it is true, they were flavoured with a salt -of sarcasm, but as this only rebounded harmlessly, without piercing his -uncle’s pachydermatous hide, the peace was seldom broken between them. -Outsiders were less merciful. - -“Growing a trifle dogmatical is Heyward, isn’t he?”—one club member would -say to another—when a theory, accepted obediently by my uncle’s -household, had been thrust a little prematurely down a stranger’s throat. -“But there: he’s getting on in years—sixty, I should say, if he’s a -day—and we shall all of us like our own way then. Indeed, youngsters -like it too, as a Master of Trinity found with his junior Fellows. ‘Not -one of us is infallible,’ he said to them, ‘not even the youngest.’” - -It was a gentlemanly face, was old Heyward’s, though, if you happened to -be a judge of faces, you would probably have added “a weak one.” Yes, -and—No. Not strong, certainly, in intellect or knowledge, though the -features are scored with deep-cut lines, that might be mistaken by the -casual observer for traces of reflective thought. But lines traced by -the hand of intellect ennoble and brighten the face, even in the act of -carving it; these had only soured and embittered it. Such strength as -they show is the strength of a dogged persistency, which clings to an -opinion, right or wrong, because it admits no counter argument, and -always carries its point by a process of blank obstructiveness. But each -victory thus gained is of the nature of a defeat, narrowing and confining -the soul still more within its self-imposed limits, deafening it to the -interests of an outer world, and to the joys and sorrows of humanity at -large. - -His sister was a tall, angular woman, with thin, compressed lips and a -cold, grey eye, betokening a far more active and aggressive will. But -probably no two people were ever more entirely in harmony, till Ronald -sowed dissension between them. Even dissimilarities, in their case, -became points of agreement. For instance, the uncle read much and forgot -all that he read, while she read nothing and had consequently nothing to -forget. Then again, they were united in their devotion to comfort, for -which each required the other. Wider forms of attachment they ignored -and dispensed with, as unprofitable for the furtherance of the main -issue. Friends, servants, animals, who were found detrimental, simply -disappeared without comment, as unobtrusively as did the obnoxious -teachers in Madame Beck’s famous _pensionnat_ in the Rue Fossette. - -In the art of “nagging” our uncle was supreme, bearing out Sarah Grand’s -theory that women are nowhere in this province, which has been reckoned -peculiarly their own. Curling himself up gracefully in his favourite -armchair, and lighting a cigar, he would prepare himself to enjoy it. -Sometimes the attack would be sudden and wanting in delicacy. - -“Ronald, I wish you could manage to be down in time for dinner.” Ronald, -be it observed, had been five minutes late, but yet five minutes prior to -its announcement by the butler. - -“My tie was so infern—intolerably hard to fasten, sir. I must get a -_Jemima_.” - -“A _Jemima_!” shouted the uncle—scandalised at the idea of Ronald -contemplating the introduction of some rustic handmaid—“What on earth do -you mean?” - -“A hand-made tie, sir.” (The pun is yours, old man, not mine. Besides, -the uncle wouldn’t have seen it, even if he’d given me the chance.—R.) - -A mollified pause of ten minutes. The next time he would preface his -thrust with a feint, to throw Ronald off his guard. - -“What a wonderfully nice young fellow Carter is. Gets himself up as if -he were living in town. I _do_ like to see a fellow wear a tall hat on -Sunday; it’s far and away more respectable than a round one.” - -Ronald was incorrigible in this respect, and became as the deaf adder. - -Five minutes’ grace. - -“How that fellow Stanton did talk at dinner; one couldn’t get a word in -edgeways. By-the-by, I think _you_ talk a little too freely, Ronald, to -men older and wiser than yourself.” - -“_Semper ego auditor tantum_?” muttered Ronald. - -“What is it you are saying, Ronald? I do wish you would speak up.” - -“I said I would only listen in future, sir. _Nunquamne reponam_?” (the -latter _sotto voce_). - -“There you are—muttering again.” - -“I was only saying I wished I could write a book, sir.” - -Miss Heyward couldn’t hold a candle to her brother in this particular -department. She lacked altogether the delicacy of “finesse” which is -essential to its development, and, strange to say, possessed in a high -degree by people of feeble intelligence. But she seconded him bravely in -cases where temper and determination would serve its purpose. Here it -was to advocate stronger measures, and hers was the master mind. She was -not without a suspicion that time and reiteration had blunted the edge of -her brother’s innuendo. When therefore she was called in for -consultation, Ronald knew that it betokened a definite and concerted -campaign. He would be sent to Coventry, or fed on roast pork, and -specialities that his soul abhorred, or (but for his age) have been -whipped. Finally, and in the last resort, his pocket money would be -docked—a punishment that was known to be effective. Spending little upon -himself, he had always a band of pensioners who were dependent on him for -assistance. So it was through them that he could most surely be reached. -“Seething the kid in the mother’s milk,” as we are told in ‘Kenilworth,’ -is an occupation that offers a wide field to the ingenuity of the -inventive. - -“Two’s company and three’s none,” muttered Ronald, when, on entering a -room suddenly, he found an animated conversation drop suddenly into -silence, while an echo of his own escapades and iniquities lingered in -the air. - - -II - - -A strange and melancholy life it was for a lad of Ronald’s temperament; a -strange and incongruous fellowship: - - “For East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet” - -Yet it had in it one redeeming feature. Only a mile from Broadwater, in -the white house that nestles in the heart of the valley, just visible to -us over a depression in the lulls, lived a young widow of -twenty-eight—Ronald’s dearest friend, and his comforter and consoler -whenever the monotony of existence seemed almost intolerable to the lad -just entering on manhood. - -The coalition between Ronald and Mrs. Thorpe was regarded with extreme -disfavour by the uncle. “Making a milksop of the lad,” he called it -sneeringly. But the villagers, one and all of them, were emphatic in -their praise. “A nice couple they’d make,” said old widow Denvers. “I -only hope it may come off, and that I may be alive to see it. And love -each other they do already, unless my old eyes deceive me. See how he -follers her about and well nigh wusshups the ground she treads on. Why -he’d be at Thorpe Hill all day, if only that old aunt of his didn’t watch -him like a cat. Drat her!” - -A feeling of companionship had steadily grown up between them. The -almost daily meetings and constant interchange of ideas had produced -their natural result, and the companionship that had at first been a -pleasure had long become a necessity. Yet, strange to say, neither had -recognised the fact. Ronald himself would have scouted the idea. -Possessed of not a penny in his own rights, and dependent only on what -his uncle allowed him, he would have ridiculed the notion of asking the -richest woman in the county to become his wife. Indeed it was the -deterrent influence of their relative positions that had excluded the -possibility from finding a place among the contingencies of his life. -Yet she it was, however unwittingly, who was the cause of Ronald’s last -escapade. - -The idea had frequently occurred to him that she had inspired his uncle -with the nearest approximation to love of which his nature was capable. -Not according to the accepted traditions of lovemaking, nor exhibited in -a manner that would be patent to the world at large. But he showed her -attentions that he withheld from all other women. He would enquire -solicitously after her health, and the health of her dogs, in huge -Grandisonian phrases; above all, he would vacate for her his favourite -armchair, and waive her into it with a bow of old-world politeness. (To -his sister, who ruled his household, the chair in question was rigorously -debarred). Then again, she was a Liberal in politics. Not that this -counted for much, because he maintained that women should be allowed no -politics at all, beyond presenting a feeble reflex of the man who was -nearest or dearest to them. Much as he hated Conservatism, he would -sooner have seen the wife of his friend Jacobs pose as the rankest of -Tories, than at variance with her husband in a way so subversive of the -relation of the sexes. - -“What a blessing it is to get across here for a change of air,” said -Ronald, flinging himself down on a chair in Mrs. Thorpe’s drawing-room, -where she was arranging her flowers for the day. - -“Well, what’s the matter now? Is it the aunt or the uncle who has -ruffled you this morning?” - -“Not so much the people as the atmosphere. The air seems laden with -small trivialities. I feel like the man in ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ who -lived in a cloud of dust that he was constantly raising. Whereas life -ought to be lived on a breezy upland, with your face to the sea.” - -“I think I understand what you mean, though your reminiscences of Bunyan -are a trifle mixed. And perhaps the dust is better for you.” - -“Not a bit of it, when it’s of one’s own making. Now _you_ haven’t a -scrap of dust in your house.” - -“I’m not so sure. Look at that piano. Anyhow, you didn’t come all this -way so early in the morning to treat me to a revised version of Bunyan’s -allegory. What’s the matter, Ronald?” - -“I believe the old man’s jealous of me. He says I’m over here too -often—that people are beginning to talk, and all manner of rot. I’m -almost sure he wants to marry you himself.” - -“My dear boy, you’re dreaming. Do you think that I would abandon my -independence, and all my advanced theories on women, to adopt your -uncle’s musty, antediluvian ideas? Not a bit of it. Why I’d sooner -marry _you_, if the worst came to the worst, though even that wouldn’t -suit me either.” - -“It would suit _me_,” muttered Ronald, “just down to the ground.” - -The uncle’s sight had of late been failing him, owing to some weakness or -lesion of the nerve that no spectacles could remedy. Under these -circumstances, his favourite amanuensis was Ronald; for, though I regret -to say it, his sister’s spelling was occasionally defective, and his -uncle was particular above all things that his correspondence should be -strictly orthographic. Not that this characteristic could be imputed to -Miss Heyward as a fault, especially in these days, when even Peeresses (I -am told) have adopted phonetic spelling, and orthography has been -relegated to our village schools as the symbol of a lower and less -intellectual class. But the uncle was conservative in everything but -politics, and regarded the innovation as a forecast of the nation’s -decadence. - -One morning he called Ronald into his study, with a thoughtful, -pre-occupied air that betokened business of more than average importance. - -“Ronald, I’m thinking of marrying—and who do you suppose is my choice? A -great friend of yours by the way, Mrs. Thorpe. I like her amazingly; a -most well-bred woman, who will look famously at the head of my table. -Then again, she’s got money, though it’s true I don’t want it. And her -property marches with mine; and we’ll enclose it all in a ring fence, and -have the finest estate in the county. She’s got a few crotchets, I know, -but they’ll soon be ousted when she’s found a sensible man to advise her. -I grant I’m a trifle old for her, but people think nothing of that in -these days when the fault is on the right side. What do you say to it? a -good idea, isn’t it?” - -“Very good indeed, sir,” said Ronald—demurely, but doubtingly. - -“You ain’t very hearty about it, Ronald. I expected you to jump at the -suggestion. Indeed, I thought you were a little gone on her yourself, -and would have welcomed her warmly for your aunt. You’re across at her -house pretty well every day.” - -“Yes, sir, I am; and I do like her very much. Indeed, I wouldn’t have -minded marrying her myself.” - -“Good Lord! if that doesn’t beat everything! A mere boy like you, -without a penny in the world except what you get from me—and I’m not dead -yet by a long way, Ronald—_you_ to be in love with the richest woman in -the county! God bless me! What are the boys coming to? But there—it’s -nonsense. Put it out of your head, my lad, and sit down and write what I -tell you.” - -The letter, when it was forwarded, ran thus: - - “DEAR MRS. THORPE, - - “I write on a subject that touches very nearly the happiness of my - future life (‘it touches mine, R.’) You must have seen, I imagine, - how much I have admired and loved you (‘my sentiments exactly R.’); - nor can you be blind to the fact that no other woman occupies the - place in my esteem which has been wholly given to you (‘couldn’t have - expressed myself better, R.’) I now offer you my hand and heart - (‘savours of the complete letter writer, but true notwithstanding, - R.’), together with all my worldly possessions (‘£50, all included, - R.’) You know, I fancy, my ways and habits as no other woman can - know them (‘too well by half, R.’) My temper is equable, and I am, I - think, companionable (‘query? R.’) My nephew Ronald will continue to - live with us; you know him well (‘I should just think so, R.’) He is - a really good-hearted, well-meaning lad (‘thanks, old man, R.’), but - a little uppish at times, and thinks he knows everything, like all - the boys of the present day (‘I retract my thanks, R.’) But I fancy - that you and he will get on together (‘admirably, R.’) - - “I shall await your answer with impatience, and anxiously hope it may - be favourable (‘to me, R.’) - - “I remain, - - “Your sincere admirer, - - “A. HEYWARD.” - (‘Your loving friend, R.’) - -The answer came next day, and was a crushing blow to my uncle’s hopes. -She thanked him gratefully for the offer, and regretted the -disappointment her answer would cause him. But her affections, she said, -had long been bestowed on his nephew, and she had lately had _reason to -believe_ (italics at Ronald’s request) that the feeling was reciprocated. -She was in a position, she added, to disregard monetary considerations in -the choice of a husband. - - * * * * - -There was strife within the gates of Broadwater on the announcement of -Ronald’s engagement. The uncle was furious at being supplanted this -second time, and, to make matters worse, the offender in this case was -the nephew of his choice. So wroth was he that he nearly made me his -heir out of spite, and, for two or three days, my price rose considerably -on the matrimonial market. But, on giving tongue to his wrath, he found -himself without a supporter. “A servile war had broken out” (to quote -from ‘Cometh up,’—sweetest of all love stories, but, Great _Dionysius_! -what Greek!) and his sister was in a state of open rebellion. It was she -who headed the rising, and with her went all the servants, which left our -uncle in a minority of one. She was, naturally enough, well pleased at -the progress of events, and anticipated with satisfaction the continuance -of her reign. - -Ronald, so soon as his month’s probation was ended, was thankful to be -received out of the fray into the sanctuary of Thorpe. Not that he was -at peace, even there. His conscience gave him twinges, and I had a word -to say to him on the subject, and his wife had a word or two more. But -it was all for his good, and he had brought it upon himself by treating -matrimony (of all estates in the world) in a spirit of graceless levity. - - * * * * * - -And what of myself? Well, reader, I had lost my chance, or, perhaps, -willingly foregone it. All Ronald’s pet schemes had been safe in my -hands, and I was little likely to oppose the present one, when, almost -from the first, I had pictured its realisation, and seen how necessary it -was to the happiness and stability of his life. My unselfishness—call it -passivity if you will—carried with it its own reward, for neither of the -two was happy without me, and Thorpe Hill practically became my home. - - - -Judy, or Retrieved - - -RONALD became her ‘fidus Achates’ and Lord High Almoner in all her acts -of charity. Occasionally, it is true, he misunderstood or exceeded his -instructions, as, for instance, when he went round with a parcel of -physic to a sick cottager. - -“How be I to take ’m? did she tell ’e?” - -“No: she didn’t, but she meant all, I suppose, unless it’s written -inside.” - -This was a large order, as the parcel contained castor oil, a black -draught, and six blue pills. - -“And which be I to take fust? She must ha’ told ’e that.” - -Again Ronald was at fault. - -“Much, I allow, as the gentry do their vittles—solids fust, and drinks -atterwards.” - -The prescriptions, whatever the order observed in their administration, -answered to perfection, and Ronald’s fame was greatly magnified by the -result. His drugs were in high request everywhere, and were reported to -be “powerfully fine.” - -One day his wife said to him, “Ronald, would you like to hear a project I -have in hand for reclaiming a pet drunkard?” - -“Very much: what is it?” - -“I shall give him a dog.” - -“Good Lord! how will that help him? It reminds one of a story in the -‘Arabian Nights,’ where somebody with a crack-jaw name gives to somebody -else—a porter, I think it was—a lump of lead, promising it will make his -fortune. But he wisely declined to specify by what particular method the -charm would work. I think the man weighted a fish-line with it, and -caught a salmon with a diamond in its mouth. But you can hardly expect -your scheme to work like that.” - -“Wait and see, Ronald. I read in a German story book the other day how a -dog had turned a man into an early riser (I shall give you one, Ronald), -and made him charitable, and religious, and all the rest of it. Surely I -can trust my dog to reclaim a man from one single failing.” - -“I should like to see how he’s going to do it,” said Ronald -incredulously. “The chances are your _protégé_ will take his dog the -first day to the nearest public-house. And, if he gets biscuits there, -as a nice dog is sure to do, he’ll want no coaxing to take his master -there every day. And the last state of that man will be worse than the -first.” - -“I am afraid there is no worse possible in this case. At any rate I have -faith in my dog.” - -The next day a ragged little hound, called “Judy,” was selected from the -kennels at Thorpe Hill, and despatched to the _protégé_ in question. -Pure white she was, and so small, that, at a shift, you could hold her in -the hollow of your hand. A veritable little mongrel, of course, if ever -there was one. Indeed, nothing but a mongrel would have had the capacity -for so delicate a mission. For, as we all know, it is to the mongrel -that we look for intelligence and originality. The consciousness of -inherited merit is fatal to intellectual progress in an animal of -pedigree. Partiality—but only the most prejudiced—might have called Judy -a rough Irish terrier. Only her ears didn’t lop, but were carried erect -like a donkey’s, and her legs were too long, and her tail had an ugly -“kinck” in it. - -Having abused her sufficiently for her personal appearance, let me add -that she had the sweetest and most winning of faces—chiefly composed of -eyes, which were so large in comparison with the rest of her features -that they seemed to swallow them up, giving to the face, as a whole, the -thin, troubled look of premature age, which is so pathetic in any sick -animal. But Judy was far from being delicate, and enjoyed to the full -the zest and sparkle of life. With her head on one side, and her ears -pricked up, and attention bestowed on the curl of her tail, a matter in -which she was often negligent, she would have matched the best of them as -a study of arrested life. - -The two—the dog and the young reprobate she was expected to reform—took -to each other with all their hearts, and soon became inseparable. But at -first Ronald’s pessimistic prophecy seemed likely to be realised. True -to his natural instinct, her master took Judy at once to the nearest -public-house, and, as the biscuits due to an intelligent dog were always -forthcoming, Judy fell in entirely with her master’s view as to the -direction their daily walk should take. Ronald triumphed maliciously but -prematurely. For Judy was to be recalled to her duty by a stern -dispensation. - -It happened one day, that, as she and her master were starting, a troop -of bicyclists came scorching down the hill, and Judy, caught off her -guard and losing her head, was run over, and taken up for dead. After -long days of anxious nursing she was called slowly back to life, at least -to a measure of life. But the little dog’s nerve was gone. From that -day forward no persuasion could tempt her to follow her master along the -public road. Warned by experience, she dreaded bicyclists at every -turning. Just so far as the garden gate, and no further, she would -follow him, and, with a thin little feeble whine, plead almost in words -for a change of route. But the master’s heart was steeled. It was to be -a conflict of will between them. And which was to conquer? the dog or -the man? For days and weeks the result trembled in the scale. But the -walk grew dreary apart from his companion, and, going and returning, he -was haunted by the piteous whine. Then at last he succumbed. The day’s -walk along the high road was exchanged for a run in the nearest field or -common, and Judy’s heart rejoiced, and her spirit came again to her, and -she became—almost, but never quite—her natural self again. - -Thenceforth the sympathy between these two was complete. When Judy was -ill again, almost to death, she was restful nowhere but in her master’s -presence. When he left the room, her eyes would languidly follow him; -when he came back, they kindled to life again, breathed into by a new -spirit; and when he took her in his arms, all pain and disquiet ceased, -and she lay neither shivering nor moaning—lost to all feeling but the -satisfied assurance of his love. - -“Well, Ronald, and how about my experiment?” - -“You’ve beaten me,” was the reply. “What a wonderful woman you are!” - - -II - - - “In quo tam similem videbis Issam - Ut sit tam similis sibi nec ipsa.” - - MARTIAL. - -She was a very little dog with a very large soul, and all her soul looked -out of her eyes. No one whom she loved could doubt her love, when once -her eyes had assumed their final expression. “I am your friend for -life,” they said, “and for death—and perhaps beyond it.” - -In the frivolous days of her youth she had snapped at the knickerbockers -of a chubby errand boy, and been promptly handed over for punishment. -But she broke from the executioner under the indignity of the first -stroke, and fled for refuge to her master’s bedroom, from which no -efforts could dislodge her. So, making the best of a bad business, he -took to his bed too for company’s sake. Judy was deeply touched by this -practical sympathy, and it formed, I believe, the historic ground-work of -their life-long friendship. - -Her pedigree was mixed. Her father was a white English terrier of -unimpeachable breed, who lived a sober, self-contained existence, with no -friend but the postman, whom he followed conscientiously on all his -rounds of delivery. Her mother was the daughter of a “King Charles,” who -had been woo’d and won by a fox. Fair and frail, she was careless of the -duties of life, and passed her time in eating and sleeping, sleeping and -eating—she is sleeping and eating still, the latter with an ever -increasing appetite as the time at her disposal grows less. - -Judy repudiated _in toto_ her maternal parentage, and reproduced all the -best characteristics of her father, combined with a brilliant -intelligence, and a far wider appreciation of the sympathies of life. -Her minor peculiarities were borrowed from those of a cat. She sat like -a cat, pounced like a cat, and washed her face like a cat, using either -or both of her paws with a truly feline indifference. She could climb -bushes, too, hanging on by her teeth, to the detriment of any unwary -fledgling who presumed over confidently upon the limitation of natural -gifts. - -Judy often came on a visit to Thorpe Hill, where she regularly spent an -hour after dinner in digging at the root of a favourite beech tree, with -the energy of a dog that is close on a prize. From which I inferred that -she was a truffle-terrier in disguise, who would make all our fortunes, -and set Matthew to dig in her place till he blasphemed against Judy and -the truffles and me. But Matthew didn’t put his heart into his work, or -realise the fact that Judy’s credit was at stake. And I always believed -in her more than I did in him. Later on she justified my confidence—not, -I admit, by a discovery of truffles, but (better still) of a full-grown -Roman or Anglo-Saxon, crouching among his household divinities. Judy was -complacently proud of him as a very superior find, in spite of Matthew’s -sneer, “Tweren’t triffles, _I_ knowed,” and forthwith transferred her -attentions to a neighbouring tree, under which, for all I know, others of -his family may still be reposing. - -It is humbling to admit that she was wholly devoid of tricks, properly so -called: partly because no one had troubled to teach her any, and partly, -I think, because she accounted it a waste of time to try and acquire -them. No one who studied her thoughtful little face could doubt that she -held higher and more recondite theories of the responsibilities of life. - -It was probably the same reason that led her to pass her days in silence. -Few objects she thought were worth the trouble involved of setting in -motion the harsh and cumbrous method by which alone a dog -converses—certainly not meat and drink, and therefore she declined to ask -for them. The prospect of a walk, or the sight of a blackbird deriding -her from a twig, formed the only exceptions and proved the rule. -Otherwise Judy would have been a canine Trappist. And her reticence was -the more remarkable, seeing that her mother passed her time in futile and -vociferous talking. Probable Judy regarded her as an object lesson and a -warning. She was certainly disdainful of her noise. - -But she had two natural gifts: you may call them tricks if you will. She -took her meals like a Christian, seated, or rather kneeling, at table -beside her master, with her paws doubled under her knees. From this post -of vantage she would watch the whole proceedings of dinner with the -curiosity of an epicure. But dining on her own account offered little -attraction. The position of her paws, it is true, suggested an attitude -of devotion and gained for her the reputation of saying grace before -meat. But her own diet was strictly limited to morsels of bread and -biscuit, which she received with indifference, and apparently without -gratitude. It may be that she dined in the night-time, as Amina did with -the ghoul. If so, I hope she selected more desirable company. - -She had one other peculiarity. I cannot call it an accomplishment, -though it found her a number of admirers. After studying you intently -with eyes that looked you through and through, as though she were -appraising carefully your capacity for friendship, she would raise a -delicate fur-capped paw, and lay it gently upon your nose—never anywhere -else. It was a favour accorded to no stranger, never indeed till she had -known you for months. For it was an oath of allegiance, emblematic as -the solemn transfusion of blood, and renewable on occasion, if you cared -to elicit it by staring her well out of countenance. Yet it was trying -to be reminded of the fact when you were kneeling at prayers in full view -of the servants, simply because Judy regarded your attitude and -surroundings as a ceremonial specially designed for the re-enactment of -her vow. - -Being a good friend, Judy was, by consequence, an equally good nurse. -The attributes of the two are indeed strangely akin, if the latter be not -a natural development of the former. For in sickness, as in sorrow, -there are times when a sympathetic silence is a better restorative than -more obtrusive remedies. Her master found it so when Judy nursed him for -four months at a stretch, sacrificing without a whine the most brilliant -summer on record. Cleverer than many a nurse or doctor, she inferred his -condition from certain changes of face and expression, unappreciable by -their less intuitive faculties. Satisfied by a careful inspection that -he was for the moment improving, she would fall back on the pillow with a -sigh of satisfaction, till he was restless again, or till the time -came—she knew it as well as did the nurse—when he had to be roused for -his medicine. - -Judy was sorry, I fancy, on her own account when the days of her nursing -were ended by her master’s recovery. For she never disguised her real -sentiments, whether creditable or the reverse, differing therein from the -race of men, at whose feelings and motives one can only hazard a -bewildered guess. - -Judy taught her master many things: among them how to win the love of her -community. Jealousy, it seems, is the family failing. It is idle, she -told him, to imagine that a few scraps of half-hearted affection can -claim the devotion of a life. Careless, casual attentions may gratify an -unexacting dog; they can never win his heart’s love. It is not for -pity’s sake, as some will tell you, that the mongrel of the streets is -attracted by preference to the vagabond and outcast, who is as lonely as -himself; rather, because he feels that here at any rate is a field -unoccupied, a mine of sympathy that will royally repay for working. - -But let the master of his affection form other and more engrossing ties, -and the love that he has given he will infallibly withdraw—not hastily, -capriciously, or for the moment, but slowly, deliberately, and for -ever—at what cost to himself is happily not ours to fathom. - - -III - - - “They sin who tell as love can die.” - - SOUTHEY. - -Retrieved by Judy from a life of shame, her master had become a -respectable character, and the year afterwards found work as a carpenter -in an adjoining town, which compelled him to migrate from our village. - -How to dispose of his dog was the question. His lodgings were situated -in a crowded street, through which a continuous stream of the vehicles -most dreaded by Judy, bicycles included, was passing literally by night -and day. Garden he had none—only a small paved court-yard, tenanted in -the main by children and cats, Judy’s natural enemies, while the nearest -field was two miles off. It was clearly impossible to transfer her to -such surroundings. Her future was settled thus. She was left in his old -rooms under special charge of the landlady, and every evening when his -day’s work was done, wet or fine, winter or summer, her master walked out -to console her for the long hours of his absence. - -Such affection might have satisfied a reasonable dog. But Judy was -distinctly unreasonable. She remembered—none better—how in former times -she was with him all the day, and sometimes, when she willed to have it -so, all the night as well. _Now_ she was left to her own devices, and -only caught a hurried glimpse of him in the evening when she was too -sleepy to enjoy it. Besides, when he left her at the garden gate, she -was strictly enjoined not to follow him—a prohibition which, while it -whetted her curiosity, was also regarded as a direct insult, viewed in -the light of former days, and the unrestricted licence that had been -accorded to her then. - -So Judy put on her considering cap. “He can’t go far,” she said, “else -he could never leave me so late and get home in time for bed. And I’m -sure he doesn’t drive or travel by train, else his boots would never be -so muddy when he comes here at seven. So it’s clear that he walks. And, -in that case, a dog of the feeblest intelligence can follow in his -track.” - -Accordingly, on a wet and windy evening, when bicyclists were not likely -to be abroad, a little wistful-eyed face peered out into the road, -growing bolder and bolder as her master receded from view, but ever and -again hurriedly withdrawn whenever he turned upon her with a threatening -hand. Then he vanished behind a hill, and Judy felt that her opportunity -was come. But a mob of children ran by with sticks in their hands, and -Judy slunk back in alarm. As soon as these had passed, she made another -attempt. But horror of horrors! a bicyclist scorched by, and back she -shrank again into the friendly shade. At last the road was empty and -silent. The most careful inspection to the right hand and to the left -could find no sign of life, and the keenest ears with which ever dog was -gifted failed to detect a sound. - -“Now or never,” said Judy, and with tail erect, and her tiny snub nose -well to ground on the scent, she rushed out into the night. - - * * * * * - -An hour later a man was sitting down to his supper in the adjoining town, -cursing the noise of the street in which he lived, with its wrangling -women and screaming children, and cabs and drays coming home for the -night, when a little dog whined and scraped at his door, and Judy rushed -in, mud-stained and panting and panic-stricken with fear. - -It was probably the fright that killed her; it may have been some injury. -Her master never knew. - -Only a brief friendship, measured by the standard of time. But perhaps -what Southey says is true, and “love is indestructible”—even the love -that bound these two. - - - -Our Professor - - -NO: he was no Professor in the recognised sense of the term; not a bit of -it. Neither can I tell you how he acquired the title, unless it were in -recognition of his original wit. He was simply my factotum or Man -Friday, ready for shooting, fishing, game-keeping, or gardening, as the -emergency of the moment required. He could neither read nor write. But -what are trifling details like these in comparison with ’cuteness. -Institute a Tripos for originality and native wit, and Matthew would even -now, at the age of seventy, pass with high honours. But the examination -must be strictly _viva voce_, and not allowed to wander into the region -of conventional knowledge. - -“Matthew,” I said, “this isn’t work,” as I bestowed a kick upon an object -that lay prone upon the lawn, when it ought to have been digging at our -garden border. - -“No, sir; but it’s _preparin_’ for it,” was the prompt reply. For -myself, I was knocked out of time, though I felt I was clearly within my -rights. Fancy a man, roused from a peaceful siesta, being ready with a -retort of such preternatural smartness! - -Unhappily Matthew had two failings, by which his career was handicapped. -He was always lazy, and sometimes inebriate. Of the former he never -repented so long as I knew him; the latter he was always repenting of and -always repeating. And the stage of repentance was the more acute and the -more grievous, at any rate to his neighbours. After a bout of drinking -he would wander through the house with his hands on the pit of his -stomach—as if the seat of his iniquity lay there—moaning in a dreary, -exasperating way, “The Lord forgie I; I’ll never be drunk agin.” “How -can you _expect_ him to?” said his wife, in a tone of the bitterest -sarcasm. - -Every time he repented he took the pledge anew. The consequence was, his -bosom was garnished with blue ribbons—his “decorations” he called -them—for he never cast off one when he assumed another, but regarded them -as an old soldier does his medals, traces of many a scar and many a -conflict, in which, unhappily, he always fell. - -“Decorations!” said his wife, “fine decorations! Call ’em rather -sign-posts along the road to perdition. If you stick to ’em all when -you’re buried, they’ll have no trouble in fixing _your_ whereabouts.” - -Sometimes, when he was particularly exasperating, she would take the law -in her own hands. “My head’s swimmin’ like a tee-total,” Matthew would -say pathetically. “The very last thing it ought to swim like,” retorted -his wife, a woman with a ready wit, “but I’ll soon make it do so.” And -with that she would take him in her strong arms and give him a twist, as -boys do when they give its first impetus to a top, after which she would -wait patiently for the result. The result was, of course, collapse as -soon as the primary impulse had run down; whereupon she would catch him -up when he was on the point of falling, and bear him off to repentance -and bed. - -Matthew’s dialect was unique. I question whether a specialist could have -reproduced it in its integrity, if only because it never reached -finality, but was always in process of development. For myself, I had -studied it for years, and could never get any nearer towards the -discovery of its principles. Every day he was startling you with some -new combination, as a rule strictly ungrammatical, but often a reversion -to some lost or more accurate phraseology. For example: “Let I go,” -“Would you like I to do it”?—the latter a reproduction, as near as may -be, of the Latin formula _visne ego faciam_? A still more perplexing -characteristic in his speech was that he used many of his words in a -variety of senses. - -“Cuss they nigglin’ weeds,” he’d say, and “Cuss my nigglin’ -toothache”—phrases in which the adjective (or participle) carried an -appreciable meaning, even when he didn’t add the word “darn’d” as an -explanatory gloss. But when he transferred the phrase a minute -afterwards to a splendid crop of potatoes, in which my inexperienced eye -could detect no possible fault, I was all at sea again, and had to ask -him to explain himself. - -“I means they’m small,” he answered, with a contemptuous sniff at my -ignorance. - -“But, Matthew, you told me just now that ‘nigglin’’ meant ‘darn’d.’” - -“And so it do—darn’d small;” looking at me as if he thought the epithet -suited me as much as the potatoes. - -When Matthew had pneumonia and lay _in extremis_, his friends came round -to console him with the assurance that he would die at the turn of the -tide. - -“What time, Matthew, do ’en begin to turn?” they said. - -“At seven o’clock, ezzactly,” whispered the inveterate old humorist. And -it was not till the next morning they discovered that he had defrauded -them of one whole hour of pleasant anticipation. - -In his sober moments Matthew was a brilliant story-teller (in both -senses, I fear); though his brilliancy now is limited to occasional -flashes of wit. The following is one of his best reminiscences. I have -selected it out of many because I have since discovered that it was -founded on fact. Not only was it authenticated by a clergyman in whose -neighbourhood it was enacted, but it was told and re-told by one of the -actors in the tragedy, though he had passed to a land from which no -testimony is available long before I heard the story at second-hand from -Matthew. - -“’Twas in December, 1824, that it happened. So Joseph told I.” (This, -at any rate, was Matthew’s recognised formula.) “’Tis true he were a -great liar, and I didn’t take no count o’ the main o’ his tales; for he’d -tell you most anything, he would; ’specially if he see’d the price of a -glass of fourpenny for tellin’ it. But, in proof ’tis true, they’d tell -it to the childer at night time, when they was obstrepulous and wouldn’t -go to bed—just for a joke like, to fright ’em to sleep. - -“’Twas in December, 1824; and not likely he were to forget it. For ’twas -the year of the great gale (the ‘Outrage’ they calls it hereabouts), when -the sea broke clean over Rudge and washed away th’ old church, all but -the chancel. Joseph never took kindly-like to the new church they built -for ’en higher up i’ the valley, out o’ reach o’ the sea. ’Twas too -spick and span, he said, to suit he—all white and glitterin’ like -chalk—though ’twere built of the best Portland stone, and a sight -prettier to my thinkin’ than the tumble down old barn that’s all that’s -left o’ th’ old un. But the visitors and gentry, they takes after -Joseph, and for one what goes to see the new church there’s hundreds ’ll -bring their vittles and sit and peant th’ old ’un—studyin’ all the -tombstones, and what’s writ on ’em—mostly shipwrecks it be, for I doubt -if there’s half-a-dozen stones in th’ old grave-yard but what tells of -someone or t’other who was drownded at sea. In that one gale of ’24 -’twas thousands that perished, and all that was found on ’em Joseph -buried there, when the sea gived back her dead, and he could get at his -grave-yard. Though, to be sure, nought was left but the chancel, so you -could scarce say as how, poor souls, they got a decent buryin’. - -“Anyhow ’twas in that very month, just arter the ‘Outrage,’ that one -Price—a farmer he called hisself—was livin’ high up yonder among they -hills that you can see faint-like in the distance, nigh agin they ricks. -A bleak and dreary place it were at the best o’ times, and a job to get -at it at all when a strong so’wester were blowin’. And most every -November it _do_ blow cruel strong along they high downs, wi’ no cover to -speak on’t ’cept scraps of fuz and heather, and a small thorn tree, may -be, now and agin, wi’ ’is branches all leanin’ to the nor’-east, as -though ’twas an old man a holdin’ out his arms for shelter. And the road -to Price’s farm were no better nor a sheep run. A godless man Price -were, as you’d expect wi’ a man who lived so far from all we decent -folks. And he never com’d nigh no church. Passon, he said, didn’t suit -he, and he weren’t a goin’ to trapeze over hill and dale—not he—when -chance ’twas he’d find no passon and no service at t’other end. And if -passon went to he—as he did now and agin—he’d find the door shut in his -face. And for vittles—not a bite nor a sup of anything did he offer ’en, -though passon was a rare ’un at that kind of work. Sunday after Sunday -he’d look in reg’lar nigh about dinner time, and savour by his nose, he -would, where there was a chance for ’en of summat enticin’. Not but what -’twere bad for the childer where he _did_ settle hisself, for ’twas -little of the pudden was left for they when he’d a’ had his turn on’t. - -“Howsomever, ’twas there Price lived, wi’ hisself for his company. So no -wonder strange tales got abroad about ’m. ’Twas said, though Joseph -never gived no heed to ’t, that three wives had entered his doors, and -never one of ’em had come out agin—no, not for buryin’. And Joseph must -have known on’t if so be they had, seein’ he were clerk and sexton and -grave-digger, let alone the head o’ the choir. ’Twas thought that he’d -buried ’em in another parish, more nigher to the house he lived in, and -wi’ a better road ’long which to carry ’em. But, Lord save us! tweren’t -nothin’ of the kind. - -“One morning, early in December, ’twas nine o’ the clock, may be, or -thereabouts—for Joseph had just been out to pen the sheep in the -church-yard—a tall fine old genelman called at the door, and he knowed by -his dress ’twere the Bishop. Not that he’d cast eyes on ’en before, for -our youngsters are confirmed a way off; there baint enough of them to -claim a Bishop for theirselves. But he knowed ’twere the Bishop, what -wi’ his gaiters, fittin’ as though they’d grow’d to his legs, and his -broad hat as shiny as if you’d smoothed it wi’ a flat iron. - -“‘Good morning to you,’ says he, as pleasant as anyone could say it. -‘You be clerk of the parish, baint you?’ ‘True, your wusshup,’ he -replied. ‘And sexton too’ says he. ‘Right you be; and grave-digger and -choir leader as well,’ for he thought it no sin to make the most to ’m of -his preferments. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I want you for a buryin’—this night -at eight o’clock.’ ‘A buryin’, your wusshup,’ says he, ‘and at night?’ -‘Yes, and three on ’em,’ says he, ‘all in one grave.’ ‘Well, it _do_ -sound mortial strange, your wusshup, but ’tis you that says it, and not -I.’ ‘You’d better go at once,’ he says, ‘and begin the grave, for you -won’t have none too much time to spare on’t, ’specially as I want it done -on the quiet, so to speak, and you mustn’t take no hand to help you, and -meet me punctually as ever is at eight o’clock at Farmer Price’s, up -along the hill, and bring a lantern and the parish hand-bier ’long wi’ -’e.’ - -“He hadn’t much time to ponder on it, as you may suppose, with that grave -to dig, and no one to gi’ ’m a helpin’ hand. And mortial hard work he -found it, too, for the frost set in early that year, and the ground that -hard that, young and lusty as he were, he found it a job to get the -pick-axe into ’en. - -“Howsomever he did get ’en done, and at eight o’clock he was at Farmer -Price’s door, and ’twas opened to ’en by the Bishop hisself. And so, -hand in hand as you may say, he and the Bishop, they went into the -kitchen. And there right facin’ ’em—packed up agin the wall like so many -old grandfeyther clocks—stood three coffins, with a piece of glass let in -’em to show the face, and a dead woman in each! - -“Close handy they were to ’m when he took his meals, or smoked his pipe; -and when he felt a bit lonesome (so he told Joseph) he’d go up to ’em and -ask ’em how they did, and if they felt comferable. And fresh as peant -they were, too: only a bit shrivelled, like as ’twere an apple in April. -Perhaps ’twas the heat of the kitchen, or may be some stuff he’d put in -along wi’ ’em; anyhow you could see their faces right enough and tell -they was women. - -“‘Take ’em down,’ says the Bishop; ‘Farmer Price’ll lend ’e a helpin’ -hand: and we’ve none too much time to get ’em back to the churchyard and -bury ’em.’ Joseph hisself could scarce do nought but stare at ’em. To -think that that godless man had kep’ ’em there—one on ’em for nigh on ten -years—never thinkin’, not he, that he was keepin’ ’em tied hand and foot -to this world, with never no chance of a resurrection till he took it -into his wicked head to let ’em go. And there they’d a’ been for ten -years longer—for just so long he lived—if Bishop hisself hadn’t got wind -on’t and come down right away to bury ’em. - -“Anyhow they _did_ get decent burial—the three on ’em—at last. For they -had Bishop, and Joseph and Farmer Price; though I don’t take no count o’ -he, ’cept that he helped to lower ’em and fill in the grave. - -“But Joseph were right glad, he were—and so he told I—to see the rare tug -he had in draggin’ they three dead women up hill and down hill ’cross to -the church-yard. For Joseph never gived ’en no helpin’ hand—you may take -your oath on’t—though he did make a show of pushin’ at the bier -whensomever the Bishop looked his way. - -“Didn’t no one never hear on’t? Yes, they did. But they didn’t take no -count on’t. Our people baint over wise about religion, and things were -done in those days that’d make a rare potheration now. Besides, you see, -Bishop were there, and he made a sight o’ difference. ’Twas a rare fine -buryin’, people thought, wi’ a Bishop to put you unnerground; though ’tis -true he hadn’t his fine gran’ toggery on, and his girt white sleeves.” - - * * * * * - -The actors in our humble drama are dead and gone. The Bishop and Price -and Joseph have, each in his turn, been followed to the grave, only with -less eccentric rites. But the story of the farmer’s “Happy Family” still -lingers in the village, and is told and re-told round many a cottage -hearth under the quaint but significant title of “Price’s Menagerie.” - - * * * * * - -P.S. The “Professor” himself came round to-day—“for a pipe of baccy, -Sir, if you have such a thing about you”—so I have utilised him to -correct his own proof sheets. “There baint nothin’ wrong in ’em, -_Master_ Fred (this to a man of sixty!), so fur as I sees. Only you says -‘gived’ where I says ‘gi’ed.’ But taint no odds. Like enough they’ll -guess what you means whatsomever you writes down.” Thanks, Matthew, for -your tribute to my clearness of expression. - - - -The Cruel Crawling Foam - - -IT was a touch of the old wilfulness in Ronald, which cost him dear, and -saddened all his future life. - -A windy storm-swept sky, though the wind was only playing with the sea as -yet. Still, it met us, as we went down to the shore, with a drift of -sand that stung the face like pin-pricks—trying, one might easily fancy, -to warn us back from our foolhardy enterprise. - -A painter would have needed only his blends of grey to paint the scene, -till we came upon it, and added, I suppose, a patch of colour. Wiser -people than ourselves kept quietly indoors; and the sand, the sea, the -gulls, and the hurrying scud could all have been rendered in varying -shades of grey. It is, to me, the most fascinating hue that the -changeful sea can wear. One great artist, whose sketches are the glory -of Girton College, knew it well. With an unerring eye for this sad unity -of tone, she admits no faintest touch of colour into her cold grey wastes -of sea and sky. - -It was a risky and foolhardy attempt on the part of Ronald, and one that -he has bitterly repented of, to launch a boat that afternoon. I can -never quite forgive him for the sorrow it was to bring on us. But his -wife would have it so. It was her greatest enjoyment to put out to sea -on such a day. A calm aimless drift, in life or on the sea, was out of -harmony with her bright and nerve-wrought soul. - -Where Ronald was still more at fault was in the choice of our third hand. -True, we had a fair amount of experience between us. But, with a strong -south-wester to fight against, weight and strength are the two things -needed, and will often win through a gale when experience is powerless. -Ronald, however, was in one of his obstinate moods. He would take Oswald -or no one, and his wife said ditto. Now Oswald was a lad of eighteen: a -good seaman, I grant, but quite unequal to the work we had in view. -However, he was the son of Ronald’s favourite gardener, and had been his -wife’s pet scholar at her Sunday school, since which time he had been her -devoted slave, making himself useful about the house, and looking after -her specialities in the garden and conservatory. - -“Isn’t that boat too big for us, Oswald? Remember, there are only two of -us to handle it, for Ronald’s ill, and can’t be reckoned on for much. -Unless I’m mistaken, it intends to blow harder than this before it’s -done.” - -“Yes, sir. You’re right in a way. But we’ve got the winch to lower and -haul her up with. And once at sea she’ll be a deal safer and stauncher -than that one,” pointing to a lean, wall-sided thing that was our only -alternative. “Besides, we’ll set very little canvas; indeed, to all -appearance we shan’t want much.” - -What a sail we had that afternoon! I think that I, who had countenanced -it least, enjoyed it most. For Ronald was only just recovering from -influenza, and certainly not up to a rough and tumble experience of this -sort. And Oswald, too, for a lad of his spirits, was strangely -depressed. “Never felt like it before,” he said, “and I shall be -thankful when we’re safe on shore again. Our old people at home would -say that I was walking over my grave, or some folly of the kind. But -that can’t be out here,” he added, with a poor attempt to laugh it off. - -First of all we took her along under the lee of the shore, where we were -able to carry a fair amount of sail, and when we had worked her well -round the bay we put her head straight for the south-east, and, with the -wind on our beam, raced out into the open sea. - -It was a longer and heavier business to work her back again, with the -wind right in our teeth, and freshening steadily as the evening wore on. -Fortunately for us it had only blown fitfully, and without much weight in -it till now. It was still “making up its mind,” as sailors say, whether -it would blow or not. But as we were beaching her in a deep sandy cove -it had finished apparently with indecision, and began to blow in earnest. - -Just as we had landed, and Oswald was preparing to follow us, a terrific -squall burst full upon the boat, which lay beam on to it. Relieved of -her last weight, as Oswald stepped on shore, she yielded to the pressure, -and, heeling over on her side, pinned him to the ground. In a moment the -horror of it broke upon us. What could we do, the two of us, even if -Ronald hadn’t been shorn of half his strength? It would have taken ten -men to pull her over in the face of the gale that was blowing. And the -tide was rising rapidly. It was idle to look for help. We had beached -her in a quiet sequestered cove, used only by ourselves. But it was -closer to Thorpe Hill than the regular landing stage, and, after a hard -day’s work, saved us a tedious beat along the coast when the wind was -blowing from its present quarter. The high land above us was private -property, with no right of way, and on a day like this, for it was -beginning to rain, would be lonely as a desert. - -Our first thought was of the winch. We had had one fitted up under the -cliff in order to save labour in launching and beaching the boat. But, -even if it were possible, we had no time nor knowledge how to alter the -gear so as to utilise the leverage for righting her. No doubt the -incoming tide would help us later on, but its help, when it did come, -would come too late. Yet to do anything was better than to do nothing. -So we took the balers out of the boat, and, kneeling down beside Oswald, -attempted the hopeless task of freeing him by scooping out the sand on -either side, till he begged us to desist, as the boat only fell over more -heavily, and imprisoned him still deeper in the yielding sand. - -And all the time that we were working, Kingsley’s “cruel, crawling foam” -beat persistently upon my brain, maddening me with its ghastly congruity. -And yet “cruel and crawling” it was not. Quicker it could scarcely have -been, and its quickest was (I saw) its kindliest. Already it was playing -with the lad’s hair, though his mistress, careless of the risk she ran, -knelt down beside him and supported his head in her arms. - -“Pray for me,” he said. - -She whispered the words in his ear, though if she had shouted them with -all her strength they would not have reached us on the other side of the -boat, where, with a hope that was hopeless now, we were straining -ourselves to no purpose in the attempt to right her. - -But Oswald was satisfied. A look of repose and even comfort settled upon -his face before the last words came. - -“Thank you,” he said, “you have made death easy for me. And you have -done so at the risk of your own life. Tell them at home I was not -afraid.” - -She bent down and kissed his forehead. - -“And now—cover my face.” - - - -Our Queen - - - “And the stars—they shall fall, and the Angels go weeping, - Ere I cease to love her, my Queen, my Queen.” - - - -I - - -“OUR Queen” she was to me and Ronald, ever since we first met her at -Broadwater, and Ronald had dared to love her. And now that she is gone -from us there is little fear that her title will ever be questioned. -Neither he nor I need any coarser picture of her than that engraved by -memory. But for others—for those who knew her little, or less well—let -me try to call her back in clearer and less shadowy outline. - -A woman this, to whom you gave your confidence with your first greeting, -and never afterwards withdrew it. - -Not the face to tempt an artist by its regularity of feature or beauty of -colouring. Madonna-like some would call it, and so it was in sweet and -loving trustfulness, but far too mobile and human, too full of interest -and human sympathy to suggest the reposeful placidity of conventional -art. Instinct, rather, with the life and animation that inspires the -best work of Gainsborough and Reynolds, and frank with a simplicity that -is careless of its surroundings, and therefore conquers them. The centre -of her interest was home; thence it radiated outwards. From her family -to her friends, from friends to neighbours, her influence passed in ever -widening circles like a ripple that, stirred in the centre of some pool, -travels to the extremest edge. - -Nature creates not many such. Happy the man who has known and honoured -one. - -Over and over again I have tried to unravel the secret of her -inexplicable charm. Seating myself in some sequestered nook, where -Ronald himself would find it hard to discover me, it has been my -pleasure, through a long evening’s entertainment, to watch her in every -graceful word and greeting that she exchanged with her friends. It was a -satisfaction even to see her walk across the room—a lost art (they tell -us) in these hurried and inartistic days. I tried to learn the mystery -from her conversation. The words told nothing, but the tone was less -secretive; and, after all, how much more the tone always does tell of the -spirit of the speaker than the conventional coinage we have devised in -words. - -“And how’s that sweet little bairn of yours, Mrs. Macpherson?” (She was -half Scotch by birth, and now and again her descent betrayed itself in a -pretty mannerism of word and accent.) “I lost my heart to her, I did, -when I met her yesterday on the Parade with her nurse.” A greeting old -as time can make it, but new, entirely new, in the sympathy she threw -into it right from the depths of her heart. No one could hear her and -not believe; and Mrs. Macpherson was won. Sometimes, almost awestruck, I -asked myself, Is there, _can_ there be a human nature so nearly -approximating to the divine as to possess the verity of universal -sympathy? And, knowing this woman so nearly and so closely as I knew -her, it was impossible, I found, to answer the question with a negative. - -“If you are in doubt, play trumps” used to be the rule in whist, and “If -you are in doubt, wear black” would be my advice to a lady in difficulty -about her dress. And Ronald’s wife suggested it. - -To-night she was looking her best—in black, and silver and diamonds. She -and Ronald were giving their largest ball of the season, due regularly at -this period of the year, and every family of standing for miles round had -sent its representative. For a wonder I hadn’t been watching her that -evening, and was surprised to feel her gentle touch on my arm. - -“Come with me, Fred,” she said, “I want you for a few minutes upstairs. -Poor old nurse is dying. We’ve been expecting it, you know, at any -moment for some weeks past. But I wish it hadn’t come to-night. It -looks so heartless to have all these people about us; and yet I know she -wouldn’t have had the ball put off. She was the last person ever to -think of self. Still it _does_ look unfeeling to go to her straight from -all this light and merriment. Yet I feel it less than most would. Life -and death seem to me so closely mixed, that wherever one is there you may -expect the other.” - -“Of course I’ll come. But oughtn’t Ronald to be there too?” - -“Yes; but, you see, we cannot both be spared. He must be here to make -excuses for me if I am missed. I don’t want to spoil the pleasure of all -these young things during their one great evening of the year.” - -“But you’ll change your dress?” I said aghast. - -“No, I think not. If death is always so very near to us, it hardly seems -worth while to change one’s dress to meet him. Besides, I have a special -reason in this case. All her life long dear old nurse has liked to see -me in my ball-room dress, and I’m sure she will to-night. She said it -gave her an idea of what the angels were like better than did her Bible. -And if it could give her one comforting thought to help her, I’d have -dressed on purpose as I am.” - -There was little need for Ronald to make excuses for our absence. The -old woman was dying when they called us. But her eyes opened and -brightened as she saw her mistress. - -“What! an angel?” she cried. “No, but my own dear mistress, the best -angel of them all, and dressed as I would have her—not yet in her robe of -white—not yet.” And, with her mistress’ face pressed close to hers, and -the diamonds and silver rippling and shimmering about her pillow, our old -nurse died as she would have chosen. Half-an-hour later “Our Queen” was -back in the ball-room: bright, and, to all appearance, cheerful as the -rest. None that saw her would have guessed the scene from which she had -come back to them. “Heartless” they would have said, and will say so -still. But Ronald and I knew better. Her heart was in the nursery up -stairs. - -She wears her white robe now. But, in reverence be it written, I would -fain see her come to welcome me, clothed, as she was clothed that night, -in black and silver and diamonds. - - -II - - -When her own time came, as it did soon after, she met death with the same -fearless, friendly courage. Her thoughts were wholly for those who were -to stay, and she was even playful in urging upon me never to leave Ronald -and the children, but learn to “take her place.” I own I was troubled at -times by what seemed almost levity in the face of death, till I began by -degrees to realise her point of view. - -“I think it will be a very short distance,” she said, “perhaps into -another room, perhaps not even so far as that; and the time (to me, at -any rate) will certainly seem short—no longer than the night of sleep -which separates us from our loved ones till the morning.” And of the -future she had no fear. “Nothing,” she said, “could persuade me that the -light which has been fanned and quickened here will be extinguished for -ever by the incident we call death. The jest would be too horribly, -inconceivably malicious. Yet our choice lies between this and the -crowning impossibility of a self-created world.” - -Not thoughtlessly, but in the hope of finding a standing ground for -myself, I would ask her sometimes if she had no misgivings regarding the -re-existence of the body, and mutual recognition, and the endless -difficulties that centre round the subject. - -“None,” she answered, “none. Why should I? Look at the natural world. -I know that space must be either limited or limitless; but can I form a -conception of either alternative? Yet the problem may be simplicity -itself to some larger mind than ours. So why trouble myself about -difficulties which may be easier of solution still to those who hold the -key? And you think it hard, I know—you have often said so—that many -should die, as we know they must, without a friend on earth to whom they -can look forward for a welcome when they reach the further shore. To me, -I confess, it seems quite the contrary. Surely the burst of welcome will -be greater in their ears than in ours, who have lived surrounded by -friends, and never known the dearth of sympathy.” - -And every difficulty, as I raised it, she met with the same calm, -unquestioning certainty. - -She died, as she had lived, in ministering to others. Oswald’s death was -the first blow. From the exposure and the physical effects she soon -recovered—sooner than we expected, considering her frail and uncertain -hold on life. But the horror of it was always with her, especially the -feeling that it was she who had suggested the fatal experiment. Ever and -again, as the subject was referred to, I could see her shuddering at the -reminiscence, blaming herself with what was surely the only reproach that -can have harassed her bright and blameless conscience. And the -remembrance was still upon her when her two children sickened with the -scarlet fever. Considering her weak state, and consequent liability to -infection, the doctor had strictly forbidden her to enter their room. “I -can make no promises,” she said; “if they want me I must go. Till then I -will obey your orders. We are told to give up father and mother, and -perhaps oneself for one’s husband, but our children, I think, have a -prior claim to all.” And so she watched and waited at their door, -stealing along the corridor in her robe of white at all hours of the -night, listening and listening to hear if a summons came. - -One night, unhappily, it came—a summons she was powerless to resist. The -elder child was delirious, and she heard it moaning piteously, “Mother, -mother, why don’t you come to me?” Without a moment’s hesitation she had -entered the room, signing her own death-warrant in the act. - -She did not linger long in dying; lingering was little in her way. On a -grey morning in October, just ten days after she was taken ill, the gun -which welcomes sunrise from the signal-station on the pier echoed like a -call. She opened her eyes to greet us, and with the diamonds flickering -again about her head—only they were sunbeams now—she passed to that -“larger life” of which she, if anyone, held the key. - - “Lest we forget.” - - * * * * * - - - - -Bindo A Sketch - - -I - - -THE last notes of “Jerusalem, Jerusalem!”—sung as no other boy on earth -could sing it—had just died away in a storm of applause. Now and again -the surge of voices reached the green-room in a muffled roar, where Eric -was protesting to the Manager that nothing would induce him to sing -another note that night. “They’ve had four songs,” he said, “what on -earth do they want more? As it is, I shall break my voice some day in -that confounded hall. It was never meant for a boy to sing in—all wood -and iron and glass—with nothing to help you or carry the voice. No! I -_won’t_ sing, that’s flat; tell them I’m ill, or my mother’s come for me, -or anything you like. Sing again, I _won’t_.” “Yes, I’ll tell them your -mother’s come for you,” said the Manager with a laugh, “but, remember, -they’ll be clamouring for ‘A boy’s best friend is his mother’ if I do.” - -As if to confirm Eric in his determination there came a knock at the -door, and a boyish face peeped _in_. “Sorry, Hudson, if I’ve interrupted -business, but they told me the show was over, and I want Eric for supper. -By the way, you can come too, if you like. Andrews and Thorne are there -already, and have finished supper by this time, I expect. But there’ll -be some champagne and lobster-salad left for us.” - -“Thanks, Lord Eastonville, I’ll come with pleasure, but I must first go -and quiet these lunatics. They’re roaring for Eric like a lioness robbed -of her cub.” - -Ten minutes later the three were entering a room in Hope Square, so rich -in its decorations of china, tapestries, and antique bronzes that it -might have been transported by a slave of the lamp direct from Aladdin’s -palace, or have done duty for a catalogue of Roman luxury: “The -merchandise of gold and silver and precious stones and of pearls and fine -linen and silk and scarlet and all manner of vessels of most precious -wood and of brass and iron and marble and frankincense, and souls of -men.” - -By the fire (for it was early in May) stood an oval table, covered with -old glass and silver in pleasant confusion. The fruit—a distinctive -feature—piled artistically in a ribbed basket of the Queen Anne period, -not disposed at the rate of four apples here, flanked by four oranges -there, after the fashion dear to the soul of the British householder when -he calls his neighbours to a feast. - -The three new comers were greeted with a round of applause as hearty in -spirit as the cheer which had followed them from the hall. - -“Why, Bindo, you’ve the very boy we’ve been longing for. We’ve finished -supper and used up our talk, and it’s too late for a theatre and too -early for bed. Singing will just fill the interval before cards.” - -“Not a note from me, Thorne, till I’ve had some supper. I must clear my -throat from the dust of the hall with champagne first. Why you’re as bad -as the audience, who think that songs can be pumped out of one as easily -as you can get squeaks out of a gutta-percha doll.” - -While Eric is better employed we can introduce the party. - -Lord Eastonville, who owns the rooms, is a thorough gentleman of the -well-bred English type, with brains enough to carry him safely through -life—good-looking, generous, easy-going to a fault, and twenty-five. Too -fond, it may be, of taking his ease, as all well-to-do Englishmen are -now-a-days, but a man who could fight for his country, as in the old -Crimean times, when war galvanised our lethargy into life. War is no -unmixed evil; it carries with it a blessing in disguise. It is the scare -and shadow of war that is the curse without the blessing. - -Thorne, as a minute in his company would prove to you, is a hard-headed -journalist; witty, and an excellent talker; facile, of course, with his -pen, and ready to turn out a new theology as easily as he could write an -article on the last discovered butterfly or grub. - -Andrews is a graduate of London University, spending with Eastonville the -remnant of a holiday. Fairly humorous and incorrigibly deaf—never more -so (his friends say) than when a subject bores him—he is himself a trifle -of a bore to-night. In his latest translation of Vergil “ploughed with a -team” has become in the hands of the printers “ploughed with steam,” an -anachronism that pleases him mightily. - -He is also sorely exercised over the term “Prolegomena,” used in -connexion with our classical editions. “Either the word’s bad Greek,” he -says, “or else it’s rank nonsense. ‘Things that are being said before’ -means just nothing at all. What they want is a Perfect, ‘things that -have been said beforehand,’ which is not only more grammatical, but also -(he adds with a chuckle) much more descriptive of prefaces in general.” - -“Well, I don’t understand Greek and Latin,” said Thorne, “so suppose we -talk English. I have been studying you carefully, Bindo, and have come -to the conclusion that you look highly picturesque among all that fruit -and flowers. I wonder what made you so good looking; was your father -particularly lovely?” - -“Neither my father nor my mother, Thorne, though she _has_ contrived to -marry again; and the consequence is I’m not so well looked after as I -ought to have been, else I shouldn’t be here to-night. Fate, I think, -must have made a judicious blend of the best points in his face with the -best features of hers. And the result is me.” - -“First class grammar, Bindo. She must have sent you to a good school at -any rate.” - -“Anything else to ask, old man? You seem to be in an inquisitive mood -to-night.” - -“Yes; who taught you to sing?” - -“Le bon Dieu, I suppose, as Patti said. I had only the training of a -country choir boy. By the by, my master’s name was Thorne, a matter full -of interest to you. I believe I sang by intuition.” - -“A Hamiltonian philosopher,” muttered Andrews, “only he has developed -theory into practice.” - -“Anyhow, when your voice goes I shall put on mourning,” said Eastonville, -“not black, for I don’t believe in it. Purple’s the farthest I can go.” - -“You may put on white or canary yellow, like a heathen Chinee, for all I -care.” - -“Don’t lose your temper, Bindo.” - -And Eric, _alias_ Bindo, how shall I describe him? A fair boy, delicate -looking, but with lungs that can fill the biggest concert room in London, -with wavy golden hair flung back on his forehead, and the long dreamy -eyes so dear to the soul of Raphael. In fact, it was Raphael’s picture -of Bindo Altoviti (long supposed to be a portrait of the painter) that -had won him his name. Framed in the cabin window of a Bournemouth -steamer (excursion boats in these days do not condescend to port holes), -his arms resting on the sill, the resemblance had struck me irresistibly. -From that day he became “Bindo” to all of us, and would scarcely have -recognised an appeal to him as “Eric,” if we had lighted on the name by -accident. His hair perhaps was one of his most telling points. It -reflected under strong lights brilliant flakes of gold, isolated like the -motes that are suspended in certain liqueurs. - -But after all it was his manner that took so much with all his friends. -He had the timid deprecating caress of a half-tamed animal, like -Hawthorne’s Donatello before he had won himself a soul. Alas! poor Bindo -was hardly allowed time to win it. - -“And what was the show like to-night, Bindo?” asked Eastonville. - -“Oh, the same old game. Nothing would suit them out of sixty songs but -‘Jerusalem,’ ‘Rags and Tatters,’ and ‘Home, sweet Home.’ They don’t mind -‘A boy’s best friend’ for an encore when they are in a strictly domestic -mood. But anything really worth singing they won’t look at.” - -“Well, we’ll follow their better mood and have ‘Jerusalem.’ You’ve got -back your voice by now, old chap, and we’ve been waiting for you -patiently this last half-hour or more.” - -Once again that night the glorious voice rang out into the thin air, -startling the silent square. Windows were hastily flung up, and the word -“Bindo” was passed from sill to sill. Even a drowsy canary was -stimulated to try a note or two in emulation of a method more attractive -than its own. And through the open window came, for an accompaniment, -the voice of London, soft as the murmur of a far-off sea. - -With the end of the song a sharp rattle of applause ran round the square, -marked by distinctive intervals, like the volley at a soldier’s funeral. - -“Bravo, Bindo,” said Eastonville, “it would pay you to send the hat round -to-night. Here’s a fiver, young ’un, to open the bank with, though why I -should give it you passes my comprehension. A boy who can earn ten -pounds a night at sixteen is a sight better off than I am. If you lose -it, you’ll have to try the others. I’m pretty well cleared out. After -all you’re detestable, Bindo. Just when we want you most, your voice -will be gone, and you’ll have spoiled us for all other singing, precisely -as the great Sarah has spoiled us for any acting but her own. If we -could only forget and start fresh with each week, how nice and pleasant -everything would be. I believe Nelly is right in ‘Cometh up,’ when she -says that memory is often a cruel gift. No one would choose to remember -a feeble show, or to spoil his enjoyment of average singing by a -recollection of the best. Why are ‘Jack Sheppard’ and ‘Geneviève de -Brabant’ practically withdrawn from the London stage? Because elderly -playgoers cannot forget the days when Mrs. Keeley played ‘Jack,’ or when -Emily Soldene and the Dolaro drew all Mayfair to Islington by the -witchery of a serenade. But now for ‘A boy’s best friend’—we’re all in a -domestic mood to-night—and then cards.” - - - -II - - -Bindo was very docile as a rule, especially in the hands of those who -loved and cared for him. But on some points he was obdurate as steel. -For instance, I could never persuade him, try what I would, to invest his -salary, nor could anything induce him to learn a profession against the -day when his voice should fail him. Singing, he said, had come naturally -to him; a good voice, a good ear, and a little training had done the -trick; and he thought, or pretended to think, that the evil day, when it -did come, would bring with it its own resource. “Sufficient unto the day -is the _good_ thereof” was Bindo’s motto throughout. - -And it was impossible to teach him the value of money. He spent it -royally on others, lavishly on himself. “Where have you been, Bindo?” I -said to him one Monday, when he hadn’t turned up as usual on the previous -afternoon. “Oh, I took Harry out of town. He’s been seedy, you know, -and wanted change. So we went to Brighton.” “And you travelled -first-class, and put up at the Bedford, and lost money to him at cards in -the evening?” “You have hit it _exactly_, old man,” was the reply. - -I believe that most of his money went on Quixotic kindnesses of this -sort. One night when I was with him at the Queen’s Hall (he liked to run -round to me between his “turns” and criticise the show from the front) -his salary for two nights went before it was earned to the first violin, -a blind little snuff-powdered man, but Bindo’s very particular friend, -because he had stumbled in getting down from the stage and damaged his -instrument. - -When the end did come, it came suddenly. His voice cracked on an upper -G—sudden and short like the string of a violin—in the very hall he had so -emphatically abused for its acoustic deficiencies. Of course he came to -me, if it can be said that he came to me, when he had always been with me -for most of his time. But the life bored him. I had my own work to do -in the evenings, and couldn’t go with him to restaurants, theatres, and -concerts, the excitement of which had become a second nature to Bindo. -And so we drifted, little by little, but still very surely, farther and -farther apart. - -It was about this time that his friend Harry, the same whom he had -entertained so royally at Brighton, fell ill. Bindo had been anxious -about him for a long while, and never passed a day without seeing him. -But it was only quite lately that the doctors had begun to suspect a -rapid form of consumption. Bindo was full of trouble. I think he liked -Harry best of all his friends, perhaps excepting me. - -One day he burst into my room, with something more akin to tears in his -eyes than I had ever seen in them before. “What _is_ to be done, -Charlie? They’ve given Harry the sack at his office because he’s too ill -to do his work properly. They won’t even keep it open for him for a week -or two on the chance. What brutes they are! And, poor old chap, he’s -got nothing. If it were only this time last year, and I had my voice -again, we could do famously. I wish I’d taken your advice, old man, and -saved my pile while I had the chance. By the way: happy thought! I have -a heap of rings and pins and watches at home that the swells gave me last -year for singing at their matinees and concerts—enough of them to stock a -pawnshop. By Jove! they _shall_ help to stock Attenborough’s; and we’ll -live on the proceeds, at any rate till things look more rosy.” He was -off then and there, and for the next six months, till Harry died, I -scarcely saw him. One excitement in his case had cast out the others, -and while Harry lived he hardly cared to be outside his room. Brother -and nurse in one he was to him—with him night and day—and, whatever money -or love could do, Bindo did for him. - -Afterwards he came back to me, looking a trifle older, a trifle more -depressed; but improved, or so it seemed to me, by the experience he had -undergone. I forgot that there are natures receptive of vigorous and -even intense impressions, but absolutely incapable of retaining them. So -soon as one predominant idea has passed from the brain, its place must be -occupied by another, for good or else for evil. Which of the two it may -be, seems almost a matter of indifference; it is the law, so to speak, of -their being that it _should_ be indifferent. - -I almost wished in those days that I could fall ill myself. Five or six -months of nursing under Bindo’s hand would have been a lazy delight to -me, and (selfish as it may seem) better far for him than the life he was -leading. Unhappily I never felt fitter, much too fit and too -self-occupied to be interesting to Bindo, and so he left me for others, -more at liberty and likely to be more amusing. - -All this time he was (to quote his own words) “looking about for -something”—the Micawber-like expression that does duty for an idle life. -Whatever Bindo’s interpretation may have been, I know it made him very -late in coming home of an evening. Yet he never asked me for money. His -resources seemed boundless, and the stock of rings and watches -inexhaustible. But, portable and useful property as they are, you must -have a good supply of them in hand to live upon it for a year in the -style Bindo was doing. Besides, it occurred to me as strange that I had -never had a sight of them; in old days I had always had the first view of -any present that was made him. On another point, too, he was inflexible -as ever. Advice and help towards securing permanent employment he -absolutely and positively refused. “Better that, old boy,” he said, -“than do what most people do—bother their friends all round for an -opinion when they’ve decided all along to follow their own.” - -Your practical and steady-going individual—the one, for example, who can -“see nothing” in _Alice in Wonderland_—never admits into his reckoning -the influence of excitement. It disturbs and disarranges his equilibrium -of life. Yet, disparage it as you may, it is one of the most important -factors in shaping life and character, and perhaps the very strongest -lever that operates for the development of vice. Fortunately, a fair -number of mankind can do with a small and weak modicum of this dangerous -stimulant. Individuals like Bindo, who ask for more, are classed among -the eccentricities of nature, for whom it is impossible to prescribe. -Yet, think what it means for a boy of sixteen, without discipline or -experience to steady him, to drop, literally in a moment, from notoriety -to neglect, activity to stagnation; almost from life to death. - -No wonder Bindo pined and drooped. I knew the alternative that lay -before him: life and death—not in metaphor this time, but in sober -earnest. Yet I let him go, for he had taught me himself, if I had wanted -the knowledge, that no man can cage a human will. So from the very -moment I had become more hopeful about him, the gulf widened between us. -But only in companionship; never in spirit— - - “For, till the thunder in the trumpet be, - Soul may divide from body, but not we, - One from the other.” - -Meanwhile he had retained all his old friends—no one who had known Bindo -was in a hurry to part company with him—but he had made other and less -reputable ones. The strange and (to me) disquieting element in the -situation was that he never, even now, seemed to be in want of money. -Yet Harry’s illness alone must have cost him a fortune. All his old -luxuries were resumed. Dinners to his friends, at which Bindo was always -paymaster, with periodical trips to Brighton and Bournemouth for change, -succeeded one another with the same regularity as when the boy was -earning £10 a night. “Where _does_ the money come from?” I asked myself -again and again. Alas! the knowledge was to come soon. - -Late one evening, as I was finishing an article for the editor who -employed me, Thorne and Eastonville called at my rooms. That they had -come on no pleasant errand was written on their faces. “Charlie,” said -Thorne, “we are here on a disagreeable business. I hope it may prove -less disagreeable than it looks. The fact is we’ve been losing a lot of -things for some time past; at least we’ve tried our level best to _think_ -we’ve lost them. But it won’t do. The thing is far too systematic to be -accidental. Sometimes it has been money—a sovereign or two at a time; -then it was a diamond ring of Eastonville’s that went, and then some -valuable scarf-pins of mine. So the thing must be stopped. But who has -done it? I may as well out with it at once, though it burns my throat to -tell it. We can’t help fancying it’s Bindo. No one but he has had -access to our rooms at all hours, and you know how suspicious he has made -us all by the pile of money he’s been spending.” - -“Yes: it _is_ Bindo, Thorne.” - -What was the good of attempting to deny it, when it flashed across me in -a moment where all his jewellery had come from? No, not all perhaps. -Probably—for I never asked him—he had started with articles that were -legitimately his own, and then, when these had failed him, had been -tempted to supplement them less creditably in the time of Harry’s need. - -Of course we found the things, as I anticipated, at Attenborough’s; all -of them, that is, but one. Bindo was not the boy to try and hide his -work, as an expert would have done, by distributing the articles at -different shops, or even by signing under an assumed name. On the -contrary, there was a contemptuous candour in his method of dealing that -actually surprised and puzzled us for a moment at starting. - -I would allow no one but myself to liquidate on behalf of Bindo. But I -as steadily refused to be the bearer to him of the discovery we had made. -None of the others volunteered for the office, or showed the faintest -ambition to be the one selected for the murder of a friendship. So we -cast lots for the office, whose it should be, in true melodramatic style, -and the lot fell upon me. - -“Cheer up, old fellow,” said Eastonville. “Bindo’s a deal fonder of you -than he is of the rest of us, and won’t take it so hardly if it comes -through you. The fact is we’ve spoiled him; all of us, that is, but you. -And he knew it too, and I believe he liked the preaching you gave him -better than all my five-pound notes; not that he showed any objection to -the notes, I’m bound to say. Now, don’t look so savage, old man. I’m -bound to try and laugh over it, because, if I didn’t, I feel sure I -should do the other thing. And after all this business may be the making -of Bindo.” - -But he didn’t know Bindo as I did. The boy came to me with outstretched -hand, and with the old frank look in his eyes. But I could not trust -myself to return it. What I did, must, I felt, be done quickly. If I -waited for words in which to break the news to him; above all, if I gave -him the chance of speaking first, I knew it was all up with me. So I -just put the things on the table in front of him—how I hated the sight of -them!—and said, “These things have come into my hands, no matter by what -means.” He looked at them, and the faintest flush imaginable crept over -his face. “Before you leave me to-night we will do them up for the post, -and you will address them to the respective owners and leave them in my -hands.” I did not dare to look at him, but turned away to another table, -making up the parcels one by one and handing them to him where he stood -behind my back. He addressed each parcel as he received it, never -betraying by a word or sign what I knew the effort must have cost him. - -“And now, Eric, you and I part company.” I saw him wince at the name; -almost as if he had received a blow. No doubt it implied to him, far -more plainly than I had intended, that the Bindo of the past was lost -beyond recall. It was not said in heedlessness, still less in -heartlessness; it was simply loss of self-control. The old familiar name -_could_ not be forced past my lips. In a moment I saw what I had done, -and would have given worlds to repair it. “Bindo,” I cried impulsively, -“come back.” But it was too late; the mischief was done. I had lost my -last chance by that one word. - -“Good-bye,” he answered, and was gone. - - - -III - - -The characters we meet with in this world are composite, all of them—not -saint or sinner; not this or else that, but something betwixt and -between; the good in them not permanent, the bad in them not hopeless; -and Bindo’s short life had exemplified the fact with startling clearness. - -From that day forward my influence over him was gone. He must have kept -studiously out of my path—an easy thing for him to do, as he knew all my -habits and places of resort. I used to try and persuade myself that I -was guiltless of the result, whatever it might be; that “unstable as -water” his character was past all guidance, and would in any case have -drifted to the end that seemed to be in view. Yet it was hard to feel -all the while that a strong, kind word from me that night might have -nerved him to fresh energy. - -“And what about Bindo?” I asked of Eastonville one day. - -“Going to the dogs, and pretty rapidly, too, I’m afraid. The last time I -saw him, he was with Hutchinson and all that crew. You know what comes -of mixing with loafers like that. He wouldn’t look at me, though I tried -hard to get a talk with him. He’d had more to drink, too, than a boy of -seventeen can carry. The pity of it all. What a voice he had, and what -a good fellow, too, at heart! How he nursed poor Harry! Few Samaritans -of the present day would have given up six months of their time to spend -them in a sick room. But I’m afraid it’s all up with him.” - -“Can’t Thorne do anything?” - -“No; Bindo fights shy of us all, and no wonder either. I am sure I -should do the same in his place. If _you_ could only have got hold of -him, and made him feel that we were rather glad than otherwise that our -useless belongings had gone towards nursing Harry, he’d have got back his -self-respect and been less shy of us. But our last hope went when _you_ -failed. What the plague made you call him Eric instead of Bindo?” - -“Heaven only knows,” I answered, “or its Antipodes.” - -I told Thorne one day of Eastonville’s report, and asked him what he -thought of it. - -“Just nothing at all,” he said. “He knows no more of what Bindo’s doing -than all the rest of us. For myself, I believe he’s got work of some -kind. I grant he’s seen sometimes at shady music halls with shady -companions; and that’s what Eastonville means. But, after all, a fellow -must have some one to speak to in the evening, especially if he’s at work -all day; and if he’s lost his old friends he must fill up their places -with the best he can. Besides, it’s quite possible that Bindo has grown -wise enough by this time to make sure they do him no harm.” - -A few months later Thorne dropped in again. “Now you’ll be happy, I -suppose; at least I am. Bindo starts to-morrow for Brazil in the -_Magdalena_. We came across him to-day. He’s had work on hand all the -year, though he kept it quietly to himself; and now he’ll be quit of all -his old associations and be able to make another, and, I hope, a better -start.” - -I made up my mind, of course, that I must see him before he sailed. But -how to do it? Fortunately I knew the name of the boat he was to travel -by, unless he had wilfully put Thorne off the scent. But it was too late -to get a train that night, and, as the boat I knew sailed at two o’clock, -it gave me none too much time to hunt him up at Southampton. - -When a letter came to me next morning by the early post, requiring an -article at once for the afternoon papers, it was only what I expected. -Fate had come between me and Bindo every time I had wished to help him, -and she was at her old games again. So I sat down and wrote off my -article—doggedly rather than savagely—in the spirit of one who gives up -the game against chance, yet knowing, all the time I was writing, that I -was losing my train, and that it was doubtful whether the next one would -catch the _Magdalena_ at all. The official at the Dock entrance told me -that she was already throwing off from the quay wall, and it would be -quite impossible to get on board. “Far and away your best chance,” he -added, “is to run round this way to the Dock gates. You’ll be there -before she is, for it takes a lot of time to back and turn her. Then if -you want to say good-bye to anyone _very_ particularly (and he smiled), -you’ll get a word with her perhaps. For the vessel’s loaded deep, and -her portholes won’t stand very high above the quay wall. Besides, she’ll -only creep through the gates, but you’ve no time to lose.” - -I hardly stopped to thank him _then_. On my way back he got, not only -thanks, but, to his great astonishment, a five-shilling piece. “Well; he -must have wanted to see her badly,” I heard him whisper to his mate. - -The preliminaries of throwing off, backing, warping, were all over by the -time I reached the gates, and the big vessel was beginning to make a move -under her own steam. I looked eagerly for Bindo among the passengers. -Fate had been kind to me, and given me yet another chance. What if I -missed it like the last? But she favoured me this time. He was leaning -over the deck-rail, watching the leave-takings as the great vessel swept -slowly past the wall. His cap was thrown back and his hair blown off his -forehead. What a boy he looked to be starting a new life in a new world, -without a friend and with worse than failure for the past! - -Just then he caught sight of me. For a moment he hesitated—I could _see_ -him hesitate; then he left the deck and re-appeared at a port-hole in the -aft part of the ship, framed once more (and it was my last picture of -him) as the very Bindo of old. “Good-bye,” he said, “old man; it was -good of you to come, after the way I’ve treated you. Thanks again, most -faithful of friends, and good-bye. Forgive and forget. This time, -believe me, I’ll go straight. By the way,” he added, “just give this -parcel for me to Fred—naming one of his chums—I had intended it for the -pilot, but it will be safer in your hands.” - -A wave of the hand, as the ship headed for the open water, was the last I -saw of Bindo. But a load was off my mind as I walked back to the -station. I could look forward hopefully now and patiently to our next -meeting. - -Glancing at the parcel he had given me, I found it was addressed to -myself. It contained a small diamond ring without word or comment. At -the time when we found the jewellery at Attenborough’s, this ring had -been missing, and, as it belonged to me, I had said nothing to the others -about it. I might easily have lost it, and at any rate I gladly gave -Bindo the benefit of the doubt. He had pledged it apparently at a -different shop; perhaps because it was mine, and he did not wish it to be -discovered with the rest; perhaps to remind him more vividly of the task -he had set himself during the year to come. Till this ring could be -redeemed, he must wait and work in London, and though all his hopes were -centred in life abroad, it must not be thought of till this one act of -reparation had been done. I never saw or heard from him directly again. - -Two years later he died of yellow fever in hospital at Rio; and his last -act, while he still had strength to hold a pen, was to write me a loving -letter of farewell, enclosing a cheque that covered the sums I had -expended on his account. The letter was forwarded to me by the nurse who -attended him. - - “Is it well with the lad? It is well.” - - * * * * * - - - - -‘Declined with Thanks’ -A Postscript - - -“READ and rejected” would be a more satisfying formula. But the Oracle -is discreetly vague, and condescends not to particulars. Editorial -reticence is surely a queer anomaly in these days when a reason is -required for everything. When my own effusions have come back to me with -the trite ascription, I could have welcomed enthusiastically the -scantiest information, the liveliest abuse, in exchange for that -exasperating commonplace. - -Sometimes even this amount of formal recognition was deferred. At first -I augured hopefully from the delay, till experience taught me otherwise. -Once, when an editor had kept my MS kicking about in this way, I actually -wrote him my mind in free and unorthodox language. “Unwise, most -unwise,” you will say. “Yes, but oh! _so_ satisfactory.” Add to which, -my letter effected its purpose. He made up his mind then and there on -the merits of my article and “declined it _with thanks_.” (The italics -are his own.) - -But the mystery remains a mystery. He did not reveal it to me, in spite -of his gratitude for my contribution, and I still hold to my opinion that -such delay is discourteous to a male contributor, and ungallant to a -lady. Besides, what is the reason? Is it that the editor waits to see -what space he has got left at the finish, and then accepts an article, -not for its merits, but for its length, on much the same principle as a -lady will ask you at breakfast for _just_ the amount of bread that will -suit a remnant of butter, or _vice versa_? If so, Aristophanes had -anticipated the process, or one very nearly resembling it—“Man, man,” he -says, “they are weighing my tragedy as if it were a pound of beef!” - -By the way, why shouldn’t the editorial chair be thrown open to -competition? It is thus we elect our Professors, or some of them, at -Cambridge. Let a candidate for the office be required to compose an -“Exercise”—say a complete story for the magazine he aspires to conduct. -So should we respect an editor more, or (possibly) fear him less. At any -rate, no order of men, least of all one which examines others, should be -debarred now-a-days from the privilege of being examined in its turn. - -The fear is that, if my suggestion were acted upon, it would empty the -Universities of their Professors. Who could resist the attraction of a -post which limits the bulk of its correspondence to one conventional -formula? Besides, to a tired Tripos examiner, the duty of looking over a -few hundred magazine articles per month would be a frolic—a light and -airy holiday task. But he’d think the rules of the competition a trifle -rough on the candidates, and might be tempted to violate decorum by an -occasional word of encouragement and help. - -Apart from the suspense they inflicted upon me, due no doubt to the care -they bestowed on the investigation, I think the editors were not far out -in their judgment of my work. It always looked so heavy, even to a -partial critic like myself, on the morning after I had written it. Once, -in despair, I showed an article to a great novelist, who is happily also -a great friend. “What _is_ the reason,” I asked him, “that it always -looks so lumpy and devoid of wit and smartness?” - -I wonder he had patience to read it through. Perhaps it was my presence -that inspired him. Then he said, “Not so bad in sense, but, as you say, -terribly cumbrous in form. Let’s see what’s the matter with it. Why, -it’s description, description, description, instead of action, action, -action, as Demosthenes recommended in a kindred art. It’s an essay—good -enough so far as the matter goes—but wearisome and heavy almost beyond -_my_ endurance.” - -“Well, what’s to be done with it?” - -“Break it up,” was the reply, “and make them talk. See, here’s a man -called Fred. Make him talk to the first woman he meets—Susan, I see, -you’ve called her—let him ask her how she is, and where she’s going, and -whether it’s a fine day. Do this with every proper name you can find, -and you’ll soon see the mass disintegrate and look promising for the -printer’s hands.” - -I followed his advice, and (triumph of triumphs) the article was -accepted. But I felt unhappy and disquieted even in my hour of success. -The fact is, the plot of my story was a dream. Yes; it came straight to -me at midnight from the god Oneiros himself, complete to the very -smallest detail, and where was I to look for another? I very seldom -dream at all, and never, before or afterwards, a complete story; and, as -I can never originate a plot, my chances for the future are the reverse -of promising. Yet I labour on with a persistency beyond all praise, and -always during the night—a detrimental practice, involving great -expenditure of candles and tissue. By daylight my ideas entirely -evaporate, and I have abandoned the attempt as hopeless. The sight, too, -of a fair blank sheet of paper makes my thoughts take wing on the -instant. They can only be arrested on scraps of waste paper or (best of -all) on the pages of a novel. - -It is said that the criticisms on Corelli are literally “given to the -dogs.” But my revenge upon a dull novel is, I flatter myself, more -recondite still. I punish a poor story by using it as the palimpsest for -a poorer one. Hence the highest tribute I can pay to my heroes in -literature is an unspoken (I mean an unwritten) one. I leave their pages -immaculate. My mind might be teeming at midnight with the noblest of -thoughts, yet I could not bring myself to record them, even in thought, -upon the pages of “Quentin Durward,” “Esmond,” “Silas Marner,” the -“Return of the Native,” or “Wuthering Heights.” - -Judging it for power alone—power that never flags from the first page to -the last—I know of nothing that approaches “Wuthering Heights,” except -the preface Charlotte Bronte wrote for it. Yet I never read the book -without compassionating the authoress. The creation of a character like -Heathcliff must have been one long struggle against herself, to be faced -without flinching, as one of the penalties of genius. What her own -choice would have been is shown by the relief with which she flings -behind her the nightmare of the past to picture the hope and happiness of -Earnshaw’s love. Her second book, if she had lived to write it, would -certainly have been more genial; it could scarcely have been so great. - - * * * * * - - THE END - - * * * * * - - CAMBRIDGE - PRINTED BY JONATHAN PALMER - ALEXANDRA STREET - - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RONALD AND I*** - - -******* This file should be named 63308-0.txt or 63308-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/3/0/63308 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you - are located before using this ebook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - |