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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9191-8.txt b/9191-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..65a3a9f --- /dev/null +++ b/9191-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10253 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Stephen Archer and Other Tales, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: Stephen Archer and Other Tales + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9191] +This file was first posted on September 14, 2003 +Last updated: April 19, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Beth Trapaga and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES + +By George Macdonald + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +STEPHEN ARCHER + +THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST + +THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS + +THE BUTCHER'S BILLS + +POET IN A STORM + +IF I HAD A FATHER + + + + +STEPHEN ARCHER + + +Stephen Archer was a stationer, bookseller, and newsmonger in one of the +suburbs of London. The newspapers hung in a sort of rack at his door, as +if for the convenience of the public to help themselves in passing. On +his counter lay penny weeklies and books coming out in parts, amongst +which the _Family Herald_ was in force, and the _London Journal_ not +to be found. I had occasion once to try the extent of his stock, for I +required a good many copies of one of Shakspere's plays--at a penny, if +I could find such. He shook his head, and told me he could not encourage +the sale of such productions. This pleased me; for, although it was of +little consequence what he thought concerning Shakspere, it was of the +utmost import that he should prefer principle to pence. So I loitered +in the shop, looking for something to buy; but there was nothing in the +way of literature: his whole stock, as far as I could see, consisted of +little religious volumes of gay binding and inferior print; he had +nothing even from the Halifax press. He was a good-looking fellow, about +thirty, with dark eyes, overhanging brows that indicated thought, mouth +of character, and no smile. I was interested in him. + +I asked if he would mind getting the plays I wanted. He said he would +rather not. I bade him good morning. + +More than a year after, I saw him again. I had passed his shop many +times, but this morning, I forget why, I went in. I could hardly +recall the former appearance of the man, so was it swallowed up in a +new expression. His face was alive, and his behaviour courteous. A +similar change had passed upon his stock. There was _Punch_ and _Fun_ +amongst the papers, and tenpenny Shaksperes on the counter, printed on +straw-paper, with ugly wood-cuts. The former class of publications had +not vanished, but was mingled with cheap editions of some worthy of +being called books. + +"I see you have changed your mind since I saw you last," I said. + +"You have the advantage of me, sir," he returned. "I did not know you +were a customer." + +"Not much of that," I replied; "only in intention. I wanted you to get +me some penny Shaksperes, and you would not take the order." + +"Oh! I think I remember," he answered, with just a trace of confusion; +adding, with a smile, "I'm married now;" and I fancied I could read a +sort of triumph over his former self. + +I laughed, of course--the best expression of sympathy at hand--and, +after a little talk, left the shop, resolved to look in again soon. +Before a month was over, I had made the acquaintance of his wife too, +and between them learned so much of their history as to be able to +give the following particulars concerning it. + +Stephen Archer was one of the deacons, rather a young one perhaps, of +a dissenting congregation. The chapel was one of the oldest in the +neighbourhood, quite triumphant in ugliness, but possessed of a history +which gave it high rank with those who frequented it. The sacred odour +of the names of pastors who had occupied its pulpit, lingered about +its walls--names unknown beyond its precincts, but starry in the eyes +of those whose world lay within its tabernacle. People generally do +not know what a power some of these small _conventicles_ are in the +education of the world. If only as an outlet for the energies of men of +lowly education and position, who in connexion with most of the churches +of the Establishment would find no employment, they are of inestimable +value. + +To Stephen Archer, for instance, when I saw him first, his chapel was +the sole door out of the common world into the infinite. When he +entered, as certainly did the awe and the hush of the sacred place +overshadow his spirit as if it had been a gorgeous cathedral-house +borne aloft upon the joined palms of its Gothic arches. The Master is +truer than men think, and the power of His presence, as Browning has +so well set forth in his "Christmas Eve," is where two or three are +gathered in His name. And inasmuch as Stephen was not a man of +imagination, he had the greater need of the undefined influences of +the place. + +He had been chief in establishing a small mission amongst the poor in +the neighbourhood, with the working of which he occupied the greater +part of his spare time. I will not venture to assert that his mind was +pure from the ambition of gathering from these to swell the flock at +the little chapel; nay, I will not even assert that there never arose +a suggestion of the enemy that the pence of these rescued brands might +alleviate the burden upon the heads and shoulders of the poorly +prosperous caryatids of his church; but I do say that Stephen was an +honest man in the main, ever ready to grow honester: and who can +demand more? + +One evening, as he was putting up the shutters of his window, his +attention was arrested by a shuffling behind him. Glancing round, he +set down the shutter, and the next instant boxed a boy's ears, who ran +away howling and mildly excavating his eyeballs, while a young, +pale-faced woman, with the largest black eyes he had ever seen, +expostulated with him on the proceeding. + +"Oh, sir!" she said, "he wasn't troubling you." There was a touch of +indignation in the tone. + +"I'm sorry I can't return the compliment," said Stephen, rather +illogically. "If I'd ha' known you liked to have your shins kicked, I +might ha' let the young rascal alone. But you see I didn't know it." + +"He's my brother," said the young woman, conclusively. + +"The more shame to him," returned Stephen. "If he'd been your husband, +now, there might ha' been more harm than good in interferin', 'cause +he'd only give it you the worse after; but brothers! Well, I'm sure +it's a pity I interfered." + +"I don't see the difference," she retorted, still with offence. + +"I beg your pardon, then," said Stephen. "I promise you I won't +interfere next time." + +So saying, he turned, took up his shutter, and proceeded to close his +shop. The young woman walked on. + +Stephen gave an inward growl or two at the depravity of human nature, +and set out to make his usual visits; but before he reached the place, +he had begun to doubt whether the old Adam had not overcome him in the +matter of boxing the boy's ears; and the following interviews appeared +in consequence less satisfactory than usual. Disappointed with +himself, he could not be so hopeful about others. + +As he was descending a stair so narrow that it was only just possible +for two people to pass, he met the same young woman ascending. Glad of +the opportunity, he stepped aside with his best manners and said: + +"I am sorry I offended you this evening. I did not know that the boy +was your brother." + +"Oh, sir!" she returned--for to one in her position, Stephen Archer +was a gentleman: had he not a shop of his own?--"you didn't hurt him +much; only I'm so anxious to save him." + +"To be sure," returned Stephen, "that is the one thing needful." + +"Yes, sir," she rejoined. "I try hard, but boys will be boys." + +"There is but one way, you know," said Stephen, following the words +with a certain formula which I will not repeat. + +The girl stared. "I don't know about that," she said. "What I want is +to keep him out of prison. Sometimes I think I shan't be able long. +Oh, sir! if you be the gentleman that goes about here, couldn't you +help me? I can't get anything for him to do, and I can't be at home to +look after him." + +"What is he about all day, then?" + +"The streets," she answered. "I don't know as he's ever done anything +he oughtn't to, but he came home once in a fright, and that breathless +with running, that I thought he'd ha' fainted. If I only could get him +into a place!" + +"Do you live here?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir; I do." + +At the moment a half-bestial sound below, accompanied by uncertain +footsteps, announced the arrival of a drunken bricklayer. + +"There's Joe Bradley," she said, in some alarm. "Come into my room, +sir, till he's gone up; there's no harm in him when he's sober, but he +ain't been sober for a week now." + +Stephen obeyed; and she, taking a key from her pocket, and unlocking a +door on the landing, led him into a room to which his back-parlour was +a paradise. She offered him the only chair in the room, and took her +place on the edge of the bed, which showed a clean but much-worn +patchwork quilt. Charley slept on the bed, and she on a shake-down in +the corner. The room was not untidy, though the walls and floor were +not clean; indeed there were not in it articles enough to make it +untidy withal. + +"Where do you go on Sundays?" asked Stephen. + +"Nowheres. I ain't got nobody," she added, with a smile, "to take me +nowheres." + +"What do you do then?" + +"I've plenty to do mending of Charley's trousers. You see they're only +shoddy, and as fast as I patch 'em in one place they're out in +another." + +"But you oughtn't to work Sundays." + +"I have heard tell of people as say you oughtn't to work of a Sunday; +but where's the differ when you've got a brother to look after? He +ain't got no mother." + +"But you're breaking the fourth commandment; and you know where people +go that do that. You believe in hell, I suppose." + +"I always thought that was a bad word." + +"To be sure! But it's where you'll go if you break the Sabbath." + +"Oh, sir!" she said, bursting into tears, "I don't care what become of +me if I could only save that boy." + +"What do you mean by _saving_ him?" + +"Keep him out of prison, to be sure. I shouldn't mind the workus +myself, if I could get him into a place." + +_A place_ was her heaven, a prison her hell. Stephen looked at her +more attentively. No one who merely glanced at her could help seeing +her eyes first, and no one who regarded them could help thinking her +nice-looking at least, all in a shabby cotton dress and black shawl as +she was. It was only the "penury and pine" that kept her from being +beautiful. Her features were both regular and delicate, with an +anxious mystery about the thin tremulous lips, and a beseeching look, +like that of an animal, in her fine eyes, hazy with the trouble that +haunted her mouth. Stephen had the good sense not to press the Sabbath +question, and by degrees drew her story from her. + +Her father had been a watchmaker, but, giving way to drink, had been, +as far back as she could remember, entirely dependent on her mother, +who by charing and jobbing managed to keep the family alive. Sara was +then the only child, but, within a few months after her father's +death, her mother died in giving birth to the boy. With her last +breath she had commended him to his sister. Sara had brought him +up--how she hardly knew. He had been everything to her. The child that +her mother had given her was all her thought. Those who start with the +idea "that people with nought are naughty," whose eyes are offended by +rags, whose ears cannot distinguish between vulgarity and wickedness, +and who think the first duty is care for self, must be excused from +believing that Sara Coulter passed through all that had been _decreed_ +for her without losing her simplicity and purity. But God is in the +back slums as certainly as--perhaps to some eyes more evidently +than--in Belgravia. That which was the burden of her life--namely, the +care of her brother--was her salvation. After hearing her story, which +he had to draw from her, because she had no impulse to talk about +herself, Stephen went home to turn the matter over in his mind. + +The next Sunday, after he had had his dinner, he went out into the +same region, and found himself at Sara's door. She was busy over a +garment of Charley's, who was sitting on the bed with half a loaf in +his hand. When he recognized Stephen he jumped down, and would have +rushed from the room; but changing his mind, possibly because of the +condition of his lower limbs, he turned, and springing into the bed, +scrambled under the counterpane, and drew it over his head. + +"I am sorry to see you working on Sunday," Stephen said, with an +emphasis that referred to their previous conversation. + +"You would not have the boy go naked?" she returned, with again a +touch of indignation. She had been thinking how easily a man of +Stephen's social position could get him a place if he would. Then +recollecting her manners, she added, "I should get him better clothes +if he had a place. Wouldn't you like to get a place now, Charley?" + +"Yes," said Charley, from under the counterpane, and began to peep at +the visitor. + +He was not an ill-looking boy--only roguish to a degree. His eyes, as +black as his sister's, but only half as big, danced and twinkled with +mischief. Archer would have taken him off to his ragged class, but +even of rags he had not at the moment the complement necessary for +admittance. He left them, therefore, with a few commonplaces of +religious phrase, falling utterly meaningless. But he was not one to +confine his ministrations to words: he was an honest man. Before the +next Sunday it was clear to him that he could do nothing for the soul +of Sara until he had taken the weight of her brother off it. + +When he called the next Sunday the same vision precisely met his +view. She might have been sitting there ever since, with those +wonderfully-patched trousers in her hands, and the boy beside her, +gnawing at his lump of bread. But many a long seam had passed +through her fingers since then, for she worked at a clothes-shop all +the week with the sewing-machine, whence arose the possibility of +patching Charley's clothes, for the overseer granted her a cutting +or two now and then. + +After a little chat, Stephen put the question: + +"If I find a place for Charley, will you go to Providence Chapel next +Sunday?" + +"I will go _anywhere_ you please, Mr. Archer," she answered, looking +up quickly with a flushed face. She would have accompanied him to any +casino in London just as readily: her sole thought was to keep Charley +out of prison. Her father had been in prison once; to keep her +mother's child out of prison was the grand object of her life. + +"Well," he resumed, with some hesitation, for he had arrived at the +resolution through difficulties, whose fogs yet lingered about him, +"if he will be an honest, careful boy, I will take him myself." + +"Charley! Charley!" cried Sara, utterly neglectful of the source of +the benefaction; and rising, she went to the bed and hugged him. + +"Don't, Sara!" said Charley, petulantly. + +"I don't want girls to squash me. Leave go, I say. You mend my +trousers, and _I_ 'll take care of _my_self." + +"The little wretch!" thought Stephen. + +Sara returned to her seat, and her needle went almost as fast as her +sewing-machine. A glow had arisen now, and rested on her pale cheek: +Stephen found himself staring at a kind of transfiguration, back from +the ghostly to the human. His admiration extended itself to her deft +and slender fingers and there brooded until his conscience informed +him that he was actually admiring the breaking of the Sabbath; +whereupon he rose. But all the time he was about amongst the rest of +his people, his thoughts kept wandering back to the desolate room, the +thankless boy, and the ministering woman. Before leaving, however, he +had arranged with Sara that she should bring her brother to the shop +the next day. + +The awe with which she entered it was not shared by Charley, who was +never ripe for anything but frolic. Had not Stephen been influenced by +a desire to do good, and possibly by another feeling too embryonic for +detection, he would never have dreamed of making an errand boy of a +will-o'-the-wisp. As such, however, he was installed, and from that +moment an anxiety unknown before took possession of Stephen's bosom. +He was never at ease, for he never knew what the boy might be about. +He would have parted with him the first fortnight, but the idea of the +prison had passed from Sara's heart into his, and he saw that to turn +the boy away from his first place would be to accelerate his +gravitation thitherward. He had all the tricks of a newspaper boy +indigenous in him. Repeated were the complaints brought to the shop. +One time the paper was thrown down the area, and brought into the +breakfast-room defiled with wet. At another it was found on the +door-step, without the bell having been rung, which could hardly have +been from forgetfulness, for Charley's delight was to set the bell +ringing furiously, and then wait till the cook appeared, taking good +care however to leave space between them for a start. Sometimes the +paper was not delivered at all, and Stephen could not help suspecting +that he had sold it in the street. Yet both for his sake and Sara's he +endured, and did not even box his ears. The boy hardly seemed to be +wicked: the spirit that possessed him was rather a _polter-geist_, as +the Germans would call it, than a demon. + +Meantime, the Sunday after Charley's appointment, Archer, seated in +his pew, searched all the chapel for the fulfilment of Sara's part of +the agreement, namely, her presence. But he could see her nowhere. +The fact was, her promise was so easy that she had scarcely thought +of it after, not suspecting that Stephen laid any stress upon its +fulfilment, and, indeed, not knowing where the chapel was. She had +managed to buy a hit of something of the shoddy species, and while +Stephen was looking for her in the chapel, she was making a jacket for +Charley. Greatly disappointed, and chiefly, I do believe, that she had +not kept her word, Stephen went in the afternoon to call upon her. + +He found her working away as before, and saving time by taking her +dinner while she worked, for a piece of bread lay on the table by her +elbow, and beside it a little brown sugar to make the bread go down. +The sight went to Stephen's heart, for he had just made his dinner off +baked mutton and potatoes, washed down with his half-pint of stout. + +"Sara!" he said solemnly, "you promised to come to our chapel, and you +have not kept your word." He never thought that "our chapel" was not +the landmark of the region. + +"Oh, Mr. Archer," she answered, "I didn't know as you cared about it. +But," she went on, rising and pushing her bread on one side to make +room for her work, "I'll put on my bonnet directly." Then she checked +herself, and added, "Oh! I beg your pardon, sir--I'm so shabby! You +couldn't be seen with the likes of me." + +It touched Stephen's chivalry--and something deeper than chivalry. He +had had no intention of walking with her. + +"There's no chapel in the afternoon," he said; "but I'll come and +fetch you in the evening." + +Thus it came about that Sara was seated in Stephen's pew, next to +Stephen himself, and Stephen felt a strange pleasure unknown before, +like that of the shepherd who having brought the stray back to the +fold cares little that its wool is torn by the bushes, and it looks a +ragged and disreputable sheep. It was only Sara's wool that might seem +disreputable, for she was a very good-faced sheep. He found the hymns +for her, and they shared the same book. He did not know then that Sara +could not read a word of them. + +The gathered people, the stillness, the gaslights, the solemn ascent +of the minister into the pulpit, the hearty singing of the +congregation, doubtless had their effect upon Sara, for she had never +been to a chapel and hardly to any place of assembly before. From all +amusements, the burden of Charley and her own retiring nature had kept +her back. + +But she could make nothing of the sermon. She confessed afterwards +that she did not know she had anything to do with it. Like "the +Northern Farmer," she took it all for the clergyman's business, which +she amongst the rest had to see done. She did not even wonder why +Stephen should have wanted to bring her there. She sat when other +people sat, pretended to kneel when other people pretended to kneel, +and stood up when other people stood up--still brooding upon Charley's +jacket. + +But Archer's feelings were not those he had expected. He had brought +her, intending her to be done good to; but before the sermon was over +he wished he had not brought her. He resisted the feeling for a long +time, but at length yielded to it entirely; the object of his +solicitude all the while conscious only of the lighted stillness and +the new barrier between Charley and Newgate. The fact with regard to +Stephen was that a certain hard _pan_, occasioned by continual +ploughings to the same depth and no deeper, in the soil of his mind, +began this night to be broken up from within, and that through the +presence of a young woman who did not for herself put together two +words of the whole discourse. + +The pastor was preaching upon the saying of St. Paul, that he could +wish himself accursed from Christ for his brethren. Great part of his +sermon was an attempt to prove that he could not have meant what his +words implied. For the preacher's mind was so filled with the supposed +paramount duty of saving his own soul, that the enthusiasm of the +Apostle was simply incredible. Listening with that woman by his side, +Stephen for the first time grew doubtful of the wisdom of his pastor. +Nor could he endure that such should be the first doctrine Sara heard +from his lips. Thus was he already and grandly repaid for his +kindness; for the presence of a woman who without any conscious +religion was to herself a law of love, brought him so far into +sympathy with the mighty soul of St. Paul, that from that moment the +blessing of doubt was at work in his, undermining prison walls. + +He walked home with Sara almost in silence, for he found it impossible +to impress upon her those parts of the sermon with which he had no +fault to find, lest she should retort upon that one point. The arrows +which Sara escaped, however, could from her ignorance have struck her +only with their feather end. + +Things proceeded in much the same fashion for a while. Charley went +home at night to his sister's lodging, generally more than two hours +after leaving the shop, but gave her no new ground of complaint. Every +Sunday evening Sara went to the chapel, taking Charley with her when +she could persuade him to go; and, in obedience with the supposed wish +of Stephen, sat in his pew. He did not go home with her any more for a +while, and indeed visited her but seldom, anxious to avoid scandal, +more especially as he was a deacon. + +But now that Charley was so far safe, Sara's cheek began to generate a +little of that celestial rosy red which is the blossom of the +woman-plant, although after all it hardly equalled the heart of the +blush rose. She grew a little rounder in form too, for she lived +rather better now,--buying herself a rasher of bacon twice a week. +Hence she began to be in more danger, as any one acquainted with her +surroundings will easily comprehend. But what seemed at first the ruin +of her hopes dissipated this danger. + +One evening, when she returned from her work, she found Stephen in her +room. She made him the submissive grateful salutation, half courtesy, +half bow, with which she always greeted him, and awaited his will. + +"I am very sorry to have to tell you, Sara, that your brother--" + +She turned white as a shroud, and her great black eyes grew greater +and blacker as she stared in agonized expectancy while Stephen +hesitated in search of a better form of communication. Finding none, +he blurted out the fact-- + +"--has robbed me, and run away." + +"Don't send him to prison, Mr. Archer," shrieked Sara, and laid +herself on the floor at his feet with a grovelling motion, as if +striving with her mother earth for comfort. There was not a film of +art in this. She had never been to a theatre. The natural urging of +life gave the truest shape to her entreaty. Her posture was the result +of the same feeling which made the nations of old bring their +sacrifices to the altar of a deity who, possibly benevolent in the +main, had yet cause to be inimical to them. From the prostrate living +sacrifice arose the one prayer, "Don't send him to prison; don't send +him to prison!" + +Stephen gazed at her in bewildered admiration, half divine and all +human. A certain consciousness of power had, I confess, a part in his +silence, but the only definite shape this consciousness took was of +beneficence. Attributing his silence to unwillingness, Sara got +half-way from the ground--that is, to her knees--and lifted a face of +utter entreaty to the sight of Stephen. I will not say words fail me +to describe the intensity of its prayer, for words fail me to describe +the commonest phenomenon of nature: all I can is to say, that it made +Stephen's heart too large for its confining walls. "Mr. Archer," she +said, in a voice hollow with emotion, "I will do _anything_ you like. +I will be your slave. Don't send Charley to prison." + +The words were spoken with a certain strange dignity of +self-abnegation. It is not alone the country people of Cumberland or +of Scotland, who in their highest moments are capable of poetic +utterance. + +An indescribable thrill of conscious delight shot through the frame of +Stephen as the woman spoke the words. But the gentleman in him +triumphed. I would have said _the Christian_, for whatever there was +in Stephen of the _gentle_ was there in virtue of the _Christian_, +only he failed in one point: instead of saying at once, that he had no +intention of prosecuting the boy, he pretended, I believe from the +satanic delight in power that possesses every man of us, that he would +turn it over in his mind. It might have been more dangerous, but it +would have been more divine, if he had lifted the kneeling woman to +his heart, and told her that not for the wealth of an imagination +would he proceed against her brother. The divinity, however, was +taking its course, both rough-hewing and shaping the ends of the two. + +She rose from the ground, sat on the one chair, with her face to the +wall, and wept, helplessly, with the added sting, perhaps, of a faint +personal disappointment. Stephen failed to attract her notice, and +left the room. She started up when she heard the door close, and flew +to open it, but was only in time to hear the outer door. She sat down +and cried again. + +Stephen had gone to find the boy if he might, and bring him to his +sister. He ought to have said so, for to permit suffering for the sake +of a joyful surprise is not good. Going home first, he was hardly +seated in his room, to turn over not the matter but the means, when a +knock came to the shop-door, the sole entrance, and there were two +policemen bringing the deserter in a cab. He had been run over in the +very act of decamping with the contents of the till, had lain all but +insensible at the hospital while his broken leg was being set, but, as +soon as he came to himself, had gone into such a fury of determination +to return to his master, that the house-surgeon saw that the only +chance for the ungovernable creature was to yield. Perhaps he had some +dim idea of restoring the money ere his master should have discovered +its loss. As he was very little, they made a couch for him in the cab, +and so sent him. + +It would appear that the suffering and the faintness had given his +conscience a chance of being heard. The accident was to Charley what +the sight of the mountain-peak was to the boy Wordsworth. He was +delirious when he arrived, and instead of showing any contrition +towards his master, only testified an extravagant joy at finding him +again. Stephen had him taken into the back room, and laid upon his own +bed. One of the policemen fetched the charwoman, and when she arrived, +Stephen went to find Sara. + +She was sitting almost as he had left her, with a dull, hopeless look. + +"I am sorry to say Charley has had an accident," he said. + +She started up and clasped her hands. + +"He is not in prison?" she panted in a husky voice. + +"No; he is at my house. Come and see him. I don't think he is in any +danger, but his leg is broken." + +A gleam of joy crossed Sara's countenance. She did not mind the broken +leg, for he was safe from her terror. She put on her bonnet, tied the +strings with trembling hands, and went with Stephen. + +"You see God wants to keep him out of prison too," he said, as they +walked along the street. + +But to Sara this hardly conveyed an idea. She walked by his side in +silence. + +"Charley! Charley!" she cried, when she saw him white on the bed, +rolling his head from side to side. Charley ordered her away with +words awful to hear, but which from him meant no more than words of +ordinary temper in the mouth of the well-nurtured man or woman. She +had spoiled and indulged him all his life, and now for the first time +she was nothing to him, while the master who had lectured and +restrained him was everything. When the surgeon wanted to change his +dressings, he would not let him touch them till his master came. +Before he was able to leave his bed, he had developed for Stephen a +terrier-like attachment. But, after the first feverishness was over, +his sister waited upon him. + +Stephen got a lodging, and abandoned his back room to the brother and +sister. But he had to attend to his shop, and therefore saw much of +both of them. Finding then to his astonishment that Sara could not +read, he gave all his odd moments to her instruction, and her mind +being at rest about Charley so long as she had him in bed, her spirit +had leisure to think of other things. + +She learned rapidly. The lesson-book was of course the New Testament; +and Stephen soon discovered that Sara's questions, moving his pity at +first because of the ignorance they displayed, always left him +thinking about some point that had never occurred to him before; so +that at length he regarded Sara as a being of superior intelligence +waylaid and obstructed by unfriendly powers upon her path towards the +threshold of the kingdom, while she looked up to him as to one supreme +in knowledge as in goodness. But she never could understand the +pastor. This would have been a great trouble to Stephen, had not his +vanity been flattered by her understanding of himself. He did not +consider that growing love had enlightened his eyes to see into her +heart, and enabled him thus to use an ordinary human language for the +embodiment of common-sense ideas; whereas the speech of the pastor +contained such an admixture of technicalities as to be unintelligible +to the neophyte. + +Stephen was now distressed to find that whereas formerly he had +received everything without question that his minister spoke, he now +in general went home in a doubting, questioning mood, begotten of +asking himself what Sara would say. He feared at first that the old +Adam was beginning to get the upper hand of him, and that Satan was +laying snares for his soul. But when he found at the same time that +his conscience was growing more scrupulous concerning his business +affairs, his hope sprouted afresh. + +One day, after Charley had been out for the first time, Sara, with a +little tremor of voice and manner, addressed Stephen thus:-- + +"I shall take Charley home to-morrow, if you please, Mr. Archer." + +"You don't mean to say, Sara, you've been paying for those lodgings +all this time?" half-asked, half-exclaimed Stephen. + +"Yes, Mr. Archer. We, must have somewhere to go to. It ain't easy to +get a room at any moment, now them railways is everywheres." + +"But I hope as how you're comfortable where you are, Sara?" + +"Yes, Mr. Archer. But what am I to do for all your kindness?" + +"You can pay me all in a lump, if you like, Sara. Only you don't owe +me nothing." + +Her colour came and went. She was not used to men. She could not tell +what he would have her understand, and could not help trembling. + +"What do you mean, Mr. Archer?" she faltered out. + +"I mean you can give me yourself, Sara, and that'll clear all scores." + +"But, Mr. Archer--you've been a-teaching of me good things--You +_don't_ mean to marry me!" exclaimed Sara, bursting into tears. + +"Of course I do, Sara. Don't cry about it. I won't if you don't like." + +This is how Stephen came to change his mind about his stock in trade. + + + + +THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST. + + +CHAPTER I. + + +"My hearers, we grow old," said the preacher. "Be it summer or be it +spring with us now, autumn will soon settle down into winter, that +winter whose snow melts only in the grave. The wind of the world sets +for the tomb. Some of us rejoice to be swept along on its swift wings, +and hear it bellowing in the hollows of earth and sky; but it will +grow a terror to the man of trembling limb and withered brain, until +at length he will long for the shelter of the tomb to escape its +roaring and buffeting. Happy the man who shall then be able to believe +that old age itself, with its pitiable decays and sad dreams of youth, +is the chastening of the Lord, a sure sign of his love and his +fatherhood." + +It was the first Sunday in Advent; but "the chastening of the Lord" +came into almost every sermon that man preached. + +"Eloquent! But after all, _can_ this kind of thing be true?" said to +himself a man of about thirty, who sat decorously listening. For many +years he had thought he believed this kind of thing--but of late he +was not so sure. + +Beside him sat his wife, in her new winter bonnet, her pretty face +turned up toward the preacher; but her eyes--nothing else--revealed +that she was not listening. She was much younger than her +husband--hardly twenty, indeed. + +In the upper corner of the pew sat a pale-faced child about five, +sucking her thumb, and staring at the preacher. + +The sermon over, they walked home in proximity. The husband looked +gloomy, and his eyes sought the ground. The wife looked more smiling +than cheerful, and her pretty eyes went hither and thither. Behind +them walked the child--steadily, "with level-fronting eyelids." + +It was a late-built region of large, common-place houses, and at one +of them they stopped and entered. The door of the dining-room was +open, showing the table laid for their Sunday dinner. The gentleman +passed on to the library behind it, the lady went up to her bedroom, +and the child a stage higher to the nursery. + +It wanted half an hour to dinner. Mr. Greatorex sat down, drummed with +his fingers on the arm of his easy-chair, took up a book of arctic +exploration, threw it again on the table, got up, and went to the +smoking-room. He had built it for his wife's sake, but was often glad +of it for his own. Again he seated himself, took a cigar, and smoked +gloomily. + +Having reached her bedroom, Mrs. Greatorex took off her bonnet, and +stood for ten minutes turning it round and round. Earnestly she +regarded it--now gave a twist to the wire-stem of a flower, then +spread wider the loop of a bow. She was meditating what it lacked of +perfection rather than brooding over its merits: she was keen in +bonnets. + +Little Sophy--or, as she called herself by a transposition of +consonant sounds common with children, Phosy--found her nurse Alice in +the nursery. But she was lost in the pages of a certain London weekly, +which had found her in a mood open to its influences, and did not even +look up when the child entered. With some effort Phosy drew off her +gloves, and with more difficulty untied her hat. Then she took off her +jacket, smoothed her hair, and retreated to a corner. There a large +shabby doll lay upon her little chair: she took it up, disposed it +gently upon the bed, seated herself in its place, got a little book +from where she had left it under the chair, smoothed down her skirts, +and began simultaneously to read and suck her thumb. The book was an +unhealthy one, a cup filled to the brim with a poverty-stricken and +selfish religion: such are always breaking out like an eruption here +and there over the body of the Church, doing their part, doubtless, in +carrying off the evil humours generated by poverty of blood, or the +congestion of self-preservation. It is wonderful out of what spoiled +fruit some children will suck sweetness. + +But she did not read far: her thoughts went back to a phrase which had +haunted her ever since first she went to church: "Whom the Lord +loveth, he chasteneth." + +"I wish he would chasten me," she thought for the hundredth time. + +The small Christian had no suspicion that her whole life had been a +period of chastening--that few children indeed had to live in such a +sunless atmosphere as hers. + +Alice threw down the newspaper, gazed from the window into the +back-yard of the next house, saw nothing but an elderly man-servant +brushing a garment, and turned upon Sophy. + +"Why don't you hang up your jacket, miss?" she said, sharply. + +The little one rose, opened the wardrobe-door wide, carried a chair to +it, fetched her jacket from the bed, clambered up on the chair, and, +leaning far forward to reach a peg, tumbled right into the bottom of +the wardrobe. + +"You clumsy!" exclaimed the nurse angrily, and pulling her out by the +arm, shook her. + +Alice was not generally rough to her, but there were reasons to-day. + +Phosy crept back to her seat, pale, frightened, and a little hurt. +Alice hung up the jacket, closed the wardrobe, and, turning, +contemplated her own pretty face and neat figure in the glass +opposite. The dinner-bell rang. + +"There, I declare!" she cried, and wheeled round on Phosy. "And your +hair not brushed yet, miss! Will you ever learn to do a thing without +being told it? Thank goodness, I shan't be plagued with you long! But +I pity her as comes after me: I do!" + +"If the Lord would but chasten me!" said the child to herself, as she +rose and laid down her book with a sigh. + +The maid seized her roughly by the arm, and brushed her hair with an +angry haste that made the child's eyes water, and herself feel a +little ashamed at the sight of them. + +"How could anybody love such a troublesome chit?" she said, seeking +the comfort of justification from the child herself. + +Another sigh was the poor little damsel's only answer. She looked very +white and solemn as she entered the dining-room. + +Mr. Greatorex was a merchant in the City. But he was more of a man +than a merchant, which all merchants are not. Also, he was more +scrupulous in his dealings than some merchants in the same line of +business, who yet stood as well with the world as he; but, on the +other hand, he had the meanness to pride himself upon it as if it had +been something he might have done without and yet held up his head. + +Some six years before, he had married to please his parents; and a +year before, he had married to please himself. His first wife had +intellect, education, and heart, but little individuality--not enough +to reflect the individuality of her husband. The consequence was, he +found her uninteresting. He was kind and indulgent however, and not +even her best friend blamed him much for manifesting nothing beyond +the average devotion of husbands. But in truth his wife had great +capabilities, only they had never ripened, and when she died, a +fortnight after giving birth to Sophy, her husband had not a suspicion +of the large amount of undeveloped power that had passed away with +her. + +Her child was so like her both in countenance and manner that he was +too constantly reminded of her unlamented mother; and he loved neither +enough to discover that, in a sense as true as marvellous, the child +was the very flower-bud of her mother's nature, in which her retarded +blossom had yet a chance of being slowly carried to perfection. Love +alone gives insight, and the father took her merely for a miniature +edition of the volume which he seemed to have laid aside for ever in +the dust of the earth's lumber-room. Instead, therefore, of watering +the roots of his little human slip from the well of his affections, he +had scarcely as yet perceived more in relation to her than that he was +legally accountable for her existence, and bound to give her shelter +and food. If he had questioned himself on the matter, he would have +replied that love was not wanting, only waiting upon her growth, and +the development of something to interest him. + +Little right as he had had to expect anything from his first marriage, +he had yet cherished some hopes therein--tolerably vague, it is true, +yet hardly faint enough, it would seem, for he was disappointed in +them. When its bonds fell from him, however, he flattered himself that +he had not worn them in vain, but had through them arrived at a +knowledge of women as rare as profound. But whatever the reach of this +knowledge, it was not sufficient to prevent him from harbouring the +presumptuous hope of so choosing and so fashioning the heart and mind +of a woman that they should be as concave mirrors to his own. I do not +mean that he would have admitted the figure, but such was really the +end he blindly sought. I wonder how many of those who have been +disappointed in such an attempt have been thereby aroused to the +perception of what a frightful failure their success would have been +on both sides. It was bad enough that Augustus Greatorex's theories +had cramped his own development; it would have been ten-fold worse had +they been operative to the stunting of another soul. + +Letty Merewether was the daughter of a bishop _in partibus_. She had +been born tolerably innocent, had grown up more than tolerably pretty, +and was, when she came to England at the age of sixteen, as nearly a +genuine example of Locke's sheet of white paper as could well have +fallen to the hand of such an experimenter as Greatorex would fain +become. + +In his suit he had prospered--perhaps too easily. He loved the girl, +or at least loved the modified reflection of her in his own mind; +while she, thoroughly admiring the dignity, good looks, and +accomplishments of the man whose attentions flattered her +self-opinion, accorded him deference enough to encourage his vainest +hopes. Although she knew little, fluttering over the merest surfaces +of existence, she had sense enough to know that he talked sense to +her, and foolishness enough to put it down to her own credit, while +for the sense itself she cared little or nothing. And Greatorex, +without even knowing what she was rough-hewn for, would take upon him +to shape her ends!--an ambition the Divinity never permits to succeed: +he who fancies himself the carver finds himself but the chisel, or +indeed perhaps only the mallet, in the hand of the true workman. + +During the days of his courtship, then, Letty listened and smiled, or +answered with what he took for a spiritual response, when it was +merely a brain-echo. Looking down into the pond of her being, whose +surface was, not yet ruffled by any bubbling of springs from below, he +saw the reflection of himself and was satisfied. An able man on his +hobby looks a centaur of wisdom and folly; but if he be at all a wise +man, the beast will one day or other show him the jade's favour of +unseating him. Meantime Augustus Greatorex was fooled, not by poor +little Letty, who was not capable of fooling him, but by himself. +Letty had made no pretences; had been interested, and had shown her +interest; had understood, or seemed to understand, what he said to +her, and forgotten it the next moment--had no pocket to put it in, did +not know what to do with it, and let it drop into the Limbo of Vanity. +They had not been married many days before the scouts of advancing +disappointment were upon them. Augustus resisted manfully for a time. +But the truth was each of the two had to become a great deal more than +either was, before any approach to unity was possible. He tried to +interest her in one subject after another--tried her first, I am +ashamed to say, with political economy. In that instance, when he came +home to dinner he found that she had not got beyond the first page of +the book he had left with her. But she had the best of excuses, +namely, that of that page she had not understood a sentence. He saw +his mistake, and tried her with poetry. But Milton, with whom +unfortunately he commenced his approaches, was to her, if not equally +unintelligible, equally uninteresting. He tried her next with the +elements of science, but with no better success. He returned to +poetry, and read some of the Faerie Queene with her: she was, or +seemed to be, interested in all his talk about it, and inclined to go +on with it in his absence, but found the first stanza she tried more +than enough without him to give life to it. She could give it none, +and therefore it gave her none. I believe she read a chapter of the +Bible every day, but the only books she read with any real interest +were novels of a sort that Augustus despised. It never occurred to him +that he ought at once to have made friends of this Momus of +unrighteousness, for by them he might have found entrance to the +sealed chamber. He ought to have read with her the books she did like, +for by them only could he make her think, and from them alone could he +lead her to better. It is but from the very step upon which one stands +that one can move to the next. Besides these books, there was nothing +in her scheme of the universe but fashion, dress, calls, the park, +other-peopledom, concerts, plays, churchgoing--whatever could show +itself on the frosted glass of her _camera obscura_--make an interest +of motion and colour in her darkened chamber. Without these, her +bosom's mistress would have found life unendurable, for not yet had +she ascended her throne, but lay on the floor of her nursery, +surrounded with toys that imitated life. + +It was no wonder, therefore, that Augustus was at length compelled to +allow himself disappointed. That it was the fault of his +self-confidence made the thing no whit better. He was too much of a +man not to cherish a certain tenderness for her, but he soon found to +his dismay that it had begun to be mingled with a shadow of contempt. +Against this he struggled, but with fluctuating success. He stopped +later and later at business, and when he came home spent more and more +of his time in the smoking-room, where by and by he had bookshelves +put up. Occasionally he would accept an invitation to dinner and +accompany his wife, but he detested evening parties, and when Letty, +who never refused an invitation if she could help it, went to one, he +remained at home with his books. But his power of reading began to +diminish. He became restless and irritable. Something kept gnawing at +his heart. There was a sore spot in it. The spot grew larger and +larger, and by degrees the centre of his consciousness came to be a +soreness: his cherished idea had been fooled; he had taken a silly +girl for a woman of undeveloped wealth;--a bubble, a surface whereon +fair colours chased each other, for a hearted crystal. + +On her part, Letty too had her grief, which, unlike Augustus, she did +not keep to herself, receiving in return from more than one of her +friends the soothing assurance that Augustus was only like all other +men; that women were but their toys, which they cast away when weary +of them. Letty did not see that she was herself making a toy of her +life, or that Augustus was right in refusing to play with such a +costly and delicate thing. Neither did Augustus see that, having, by +his own blunder, married a mere child, he was bound to deal with her +as one, and not let the child suffer for his fault more than what +could not be helped. It is not by pressing our insights upon them, but +by bathing the sealed eyelids of the human kittens, that we can help +them. + +And all the time poor little Phosy was left to the care of Alice, a +clever, careless, good-hearted, self-satisfied damsel, who, although +seldom so rough in her behaviour as we have just seen her, abandoned +the child almost entirely to her own resources. It was often she sat +alone in the nursery, wishing the Lord would chasten her--because then +he would love her. + +The first course was nearly over ere Augustus had brought himself to +ask-- + +"What did you think of the sermon to-day, Letty?" + +"Not much," answered Letty. "I am not fond of finery. I prefer +simplicity." + +Augustus held his peace bitterly. For it was just finery in a sermon, +without knowing it, that Letty was fond of: what seemed to him a +flimsy syllabub of sacred things, beaten up with the whisk of +composition, was charming to Letty; while, on the contrary, if a man +such as they had been listening to was carried away by the thoughts +that struggled in him for utterance, the result, to her judgment, was +finery, and the object display. In excuse it must be remembered that +she had been used to her father's style, which no one could have +aspersed with lack of sobriety. Presently she spoke again. + +"Gus, dear, couldn't you make up your mind for once to go with me to +Lady Ashdaile's to-morrow? I am getting quite ashamed of appearing so +often without you." + +"There is another way of avoiding that unpleasantness," remarked her +husband drily. + +"You cruel creature!" returned Letty playfully. "But I must go this +once, for I promised Mrs. Holden." + +"You know, Letty," said her husband, after a little pause, "it gets of +more and more consequence that you should not fatigue yourself. By +keeping such late hours in such stifling rooms you are endangering two +lives--remember that, Letty. It you stay at home to-morrow, I will +come home early, and read to you all the evening." + +"Gussy, that _would_ be charming. You _know_ there is nothing in the +world I should enjoy so much. But this time I really mustn't." + +She launched into a list of all the great nobodies and small +somebodies who were to be there, and whom she positively must see: it +might be her only chance. + +Those last words quenched a sarcasm on Augustus' lips. He was kinder +than usual the rest of the evening, and read her to sleep with the +Pilgrim's Progress. + +Phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood. Or where she +misunderstood, it was an honest misunderstanding, which never does +much hurt. Neither father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her +good night. Neither saw the hungry heart under the mask of the still +face. The father never imagined her already fit for the modelling she +was better without, and the stepmother had to become a mother before +she could value her. + +Phosy went to bed to dream of the Valley of Humiliation. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +The next morning Alice gave her mistress warning. It was quite +unexpected, and she looked at her aghast. + +"Alice," she said at length, "you're never going to leave me at such a +time!" + +"I'm sorry it don't suit you, ma'am, but I must." + +"Why, Alice? What is the matter? Has Sophy been troublesome?" + +"No, ma'am; there's no harm in that child." + +"Then what can it be, Alice? Perhaps you are going to be married +sooner than you expected?" + +Alice gave her chin a little toss, pressed her lips together, and was +silent. + +"I have always been kind to you," resumed her mistress. + +"I'm sure, ma'am, I never made no complaints!" returned Alice, but as +she spoke she drew herself up straighter than before. + +"Then what is it?" said her mistress. + +"The fact is, ma'am," answered the girl, almost fiercely, "I _cannot_ +any longer endure a state of domestic slavery." + +"I don't understand you a bit better," said Mrs. Greatorex, trying, +but in vain, to smile, and therefore looking angrier than she was. + +"I mean, ma'am--an' I see no reason as I shouldn't say it, for it's +the truth--there's a worm at the root of society where one yuman bein' +'s got to do the dirty work of another. I don't mind sweepin' up my +own dust, but I won't sweep up nobody else's. I ain't a goin' to +demean myself no longer! There!" + +"Leave the room, Alice," said Mrs. Greatorex; and when, with a toss +and a flounce, the young woman had vanished, she burst into tears of +anger and annoyance. + +The day passed. The evening came. She dressed without Alice's usual +help, and went to Lady Ashdaile's with her friend. There a reaction +took place, and her spirits rose unnaturally. She even danced--to the +disgust of one or two quick-eyed matrons who sat by the wall. + +When she came home she found her husband sitting up for her. He said +next to nothing, and sat up an hour longer with his book. + +In the night she was taken ill. Her husband called Alice, and ran +himself to fetch the doctor. For some hours she seemed in danger, but +by noon was much better. Only the greatest care was necessary. + +As soon as she could speak, she told Augustus of Alice's warning, and +he sent for her to the library. + +She stood before him with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. + +"I understand, Alice, you have given your mistress warning," he said +gently. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Your mistress is very ill, Alice." + +"Yes, sir." + +"Don't you think it would be ungrateful of you to leave her in her +present condition? She's not likely to be strong for some time to +come." + +The use of the word "ungrateful" was an unfortunate one. Alice begged +to know what she had to be grateful for. Was her work worth nothing? +And her master, as every one must who claims that which can only be +freely given, found himself in the wrong. + +"Well, Alice," he said, "we won't dispute that point; and if you are +really determined on going, you must do the best you can for your +mistress for the rest of the month." + +Alice's sense of injury was soothed by her master's forbearance. She +had always rather approved of Mr. Greatorex, and she left the room +more softly than she had entered it. + +Letty had a fortnight in bed, during which she reflected a little. + +The very day on which she left her room, Alice sought an interview +with her master, and declared she could not stay out her month; she +must go home at once. + +She had been very attentive to her mistress during the fortnight: +there must be something to account for her strange behaviour. + +"Come now, Alice," said her master, "what's at the back of all this? +You have been a good, well-behaved, obliging girl till now, and I am +certain you would never be like this if there weren't something wrong +somewhere." + +"Something wrong, sir! No, indeed, sir! Except you call it wrong to +have an old uncle 's dies and leaves ever so much money--thousands on +thousands, the lawyers say." + +"And does it come to you then, Alice?" + +"I get my share, sir. He left it to be parted even between his nephews +and nieces." + +"Why, Alice, you are quite an heiress, then!" returned her master, +scarcely however believing the thing so grand as Alice would have it. +"But don't you think now it would be rather hard that your fortune +should be Mrs. Greatorex's misfortune?" + +"Well, I don't see as how it shouldn't," replied Alice. "It's +mis'ess's fortun' as 'as been my misfortun'--ain't it now, sir? An' +why shouldn't it be the other way next?" + +"I don't quite see how your mistress's fortune can be said to be your +misfortune, Alice." + +"Anybody would see that, sir, as wasn't blinded by class-prejudices." + +"Class-prejudices!" exclaimed Mr. Greatorex, in surprise at the word. + +"It's a term they use, I believe, sir! But it's plain enough that if +mis'ess hadn't 'a' been better off than me, she wouldn't ha' been able +to secure my services--as you calls it." + +"That is certainly plain enough," returned Mr. Greatorex. "But suppose +nobody had been able to secure your services, what would have become +of you?" + +"By that time the people'd have rose to assert their rights." + +"To what?--To fortunes like yours?" + +"To bread and cheese at least, sir," returned Alice, pertly. + +"Well, but you've had something better than bread and cheese." + +"I don't make no complaints as to the style of livin' in the house, +sir, but that's all one, so long as it's on the vile condition of +domestic slavery--which it's nothing can justify." + +"Then of course, although you are now a woman of property, you will +never dream of having any one to wait on you," said her master, amused +with the volume of human nature thus opened to him. + +"All I say, sir, is--it's my turn now; and I ain't goin' to be sit +upon by no one. I know my dooty to myself." + +"I didn't know there was such a duty, Alice," said her master. + +Something in his tone displeased her. + +"Then you know now, sir," she said, and bounced out of the room. + +The next moment, however, ashamed of her rudeness, she re-entered, +saying, + +"I don't want to be unkind, sir, but I must go home. I've got a +brother that's ill, too, and wants to see me. If you don't object to +me goin' home for a month, I promise you to come back and see mis'ess +through her trouble--as a friend, you know, sir." + +"But just listen to me first, Alice," said Mr. Greatorex. "I've had +something to do with wills in my time, and I can assure you it is not +likely to be less than a year before you can touch the money. You had +much better stay where you are till your uncle's affairs are settled. +You don't know what may happen. There's many a slip between cup and +lip, you know." + +"Oh! it's all right, sir. Everybody knows the money's left to his +nephews and nieces, and me and my brother's as good as any." + +"I don't doubt it: still, if you'll take my advice, you'll keep a +sound roof over your head till another's ready for you." + +Alice only threw her chin in the air, and said almost threateningly, + +"Am I to go for the month, sir?" + +"I'll talk to your mistress about it," answered Mr. Greatorex, not at +all sure that such an arrangement would be for his wife's comfort. + +But the next day Mrs. Greatorex had a long talk with Alice, and the +result was that on the following Monday she was to go home for a +month, and then return for two months more at least. What Mr. +Greatorex had said about the legacy, had had its effect, and, besides, +her mistress had spoken to her with pleasure in her good fortune. +About Sophy no one felt any anxiety: she was no trouble to any one, +and the housemaid would see to her. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +On the Sunday evening, Alice's lover, having heard, not from herself, +but by a side wind, that she was going home the next day, made his +appearance in Wimborne Square, somewhat perplexed--both at the move, +and at her leaving him in ignorance of the same. He was a +cabinet-maker in an honest shop in the neighbourhood, and in +education, faculty, and general worth, considerably Alice's +superior--a fact which had hitherto rather pleased her, but now gave +zest to the change which she imagined had subverted their former +relation. Full of the sense of her new superiority, she met him draped +in an indescribable strangeness. John Jephson felt, at the very first +word, as if her voice came from the other side of the English Channel. +He wondered what he had done, or rather what Alice could imagine he +had done or said, to put her in such tantrums. + +"Alice, my dear," he said--for John was a man to go straight at the +enemy, "what's amiss? What's come over you? You ain't altogether like +your own self to-night! And here I find you're goin' away, and ne'er a +word to me about it! What have I done?" + +Alice's chin alone made reply. She waited the fitting moment, with +splendour to astonish, and with grandeur to subdue her lover. To tell +the sad truth, she was no longer sure that it would be well to +encourage him on the old footing; was she not standing on tiptoe, her +skirts in her hand, on the brink of the brook that parted serfdom from +gentility, on the point of stepping daintily across, and leaving +domestic slavery, red hands, caps, and obedience behind her? How then +was she to marry a man that had black nails, and smelt of glue? It was +incumbent on her at least, for propriety's sake, to render him at once +aware that it was in condescension ineffable she took any notice of +him. + +"Alice, my girl!" began John again, in expostulatory tone. + +"Miss Cox, if you please, John Jephson," interposed Alice. + +"What on 'arth's come over you?" exclaimed John, with the first throb +of rousing indignation. "But if you ain't your own self no more, why, +Miss Cox be it. 'T seems to me 's if I warn't my own self no more--'s +if I'd got into some un else, or 't least hedn't got my own ears on m' +own head.--Never saw or heerd Alice like this afore!" he added, +turning in gloomy bewilderment to the housemaid for a word of human +sympathy. + +The movement did not altogether please Alice, and she felt she must +justify her behaviour. + +"You see, John," she said, with dignity, keeping her back towards him, +and pretending to dust the globe of a lamp, "there's things as no +woman can help, and therefore as no man has no right to complain of +them. It's not as if I'd gone an' done it, or changed myself, no more +'n if it 'ad took place in my cradle. What can I help it, if the world +goes and changes itself? Am _I_ to blame?--tell me that. It's not +that. I make no complaint, but I tell you it ain't me, it's +circumstances as is gone and changed theirselves, and bein' as +circumstances is changed, things ain't the same as they was, and Miss +is the properer term from you to me, John Jephson." + +"Dang it if I know what you're a drivin' at, Alice!--Miss Cox!--and I +beg yer pardon, miss, I'm sure.--Dang me if I do!" + +"Don't swear, John Jephson--leastways before a lady. It's not proper." + +"It seems to me, Miss Cox, as if the wind was a settin' from Bedlam, +or may be Colney Hatch," said John, who was considered a humourist +among his comrades. "I wouldn't take no liberties with a lady, Miss +Cox; but if I might be so bold as to arst the joke of the thing--" + +"Joke, indeed!" cried Alice. "Do you call a dead uncle and ten +thousand pounds a joke?" + +"God bless me!" said John. "You don't mean it, Alice?" + +"I do mean it, and that you'll find, John Jephson. I'm goin' to bid +you good-bye to-morrer." + +"Whoy, Alice!" exclaimed honest John, aghast. + +"It's truth I tell ye," said Alice. + +"And for how long?" gasped John, fore-feeling illimitable misfortune. + +"That depends," returned Alice, who did not care to lessen the effect +of her communication by mentioning her promised return for a season. +"--It ain't likely," she added, "as a heiress is a goin' to act the +nuss-maid much longer." + +"But Alice," said John, "you don't mean to say--it's not in your mind +now--it can't be, Alice--you're only jokin' with me--" + +"Indeed, and I'm not!" interjected Alice, with a sniff. + +"I don't mean that way, you know. What I mean is, you don't mean as +how this 'ere money--dang it all!--as how it's to be all over between +you and me?--You _can't_ mean that, Alice!" ended the poor fellow, +with a choking in his throat. + +It was very hard upon him! He must either look as if he wanted to +share her money, or else as if he were ready to give her up. + +"Arst yourself, John Jephson," answered Alice, "whether it's likely a +young lady of fortun' would be keepin' company with a young man as +didn't know how to take off his hat to her in the park?" + +Alice did not above half mean what she said: she wished mainly to +enhance her own importance. At the same time she did mean it half, and +that would have been enough for Jephson. He rose, grievously wounded. + +"Good-bye, Alice," he said, taking the hand she did not refuse. "Ye're +throwin' from ye what all yer money won't buy." + +She gave a scornful little laugh, and John walked out of the kitchen. + +At the door he turned with one lingering look; but in Alice there was +no sign of softening. She turned scornfully away, and no doubt enjoyed +her triumph to the full. + +The next morning she went away. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Mr. Greatorex had ceased to regard the advent of Christmas with much +interest. Naturally gifted with a strong religious tendency, he had, +since his first marriage, taken, not to denial, but to the side of +objection, spending much energy in contempt for the foolish opinions +of others, a self-indulgence which does less than little to further +the growth of one's own spirit in truth and righteousness. The only +person who stands excused--I do not say justified--in so doing, is the +man who, having been taught the same opinions, has found them a legion +of adversaries barring his way to the truth. But having got rid of +them for himself, it is, I suspect, worse than useless to attack them +again, save as the ally of those who are fighting their way through +the same ranks to the truth. Greatorex had been indulging his +intellect at the expense of his heart. A man may have light in the +brain and darkness in the heart. It were better to be an owl than a +strong-eyed apteryx. He was on the path which naturally ends in +blindness and unbelief. I fancy, if he had not been neglectful of his +child, she would ere this time have relighted his Christmas-candles +for him; but now his second disappointment in marriage had so dulled +his heart that he had begun to regard life as a stupid affair, in +which the most enviable fool was the man who could still expect to +realize an ideal. He had set out on a false track altogether, but had +not yet discovered that there had been an immoral element at work in +his mistake. + +For what right had he to desire the fashioning of any woman after his +ideas? did not the angel of her eternal Ideal for ever behold the face +of her Father in heaven? The best that can be said for him is, that, +notwithstanding his disappointment and her faults, yea, +notwithstanding his own faults, which were, with all his cultivation +and strength of character, yet more serious than hers, he was still +kind to her; yes, I may say for him, that, notwithstanding even her +silliness, which is a sickening fault, and one which no supremacy of +beauty can overshadow, he still loved her a little. Hence the care he +showed for her in respect of the coming sorrow was genuine; it did not +all belong to his desire for a son to whom he might be a father +indeed--after his own fancies, however. Letty, on her part, was as +full of expectation as the girl who has been promised a doll that can +shut and open its eyes, and cry when it is pinched; her carelessness +of its safe arrival came of ignorance and not indifference. + +It cannot but seem strange that such a man should have been so +careless of the child he had. But from the first she had painfully +reminded him of her mother, with whom in truth he had never +quarrelled, but with whom he had not found life the less irksome on +that account. Add to this that he had been growing fonder of +business,--a fact which indicated, in a man of his endowment and +development, an inclination downwards of the plane of his life. It was +some time since he had given up reading poetry. History had almost +followed: he now read little except politics, travels, and popular +expositions of scientific progress. + +That year Christmas Eve fell upon a Monday. The day before, Letty not +feeling very well, her husband thought it better not to leave her, and +gave up going to church. Phosy was utterly forgotten, but she dressed +herself, and at the usual hour appeared with her prayer-book in her +hand ready for church. When her father told her that he was not going, +she looked so blank that he took pity upon her, and accompanied her to +the church-door, promising to meet her as she came out. Phosy sighed +from relief as she entered, for she had a vague idea that by going to +church to pray for it she might move the Lord to chasten her. At least +he would see her there, and might think of it. She had never had such +an attention from her father before, never such dignity conferred upon +her as to be allowed to appear in church alone, sitting in the pew by +herself like a grown damsel. But I doubt if there was any pride in her +stately step, or any vanity in the smile--no, not smile, but +illuminated mist, the vapour of smiles, which haunted her sweet little +solemn church-window of a face, as she walked up the aisle. + +The preacher was one of whom she had never heard her father speak +slighting word, in whom her unbounded trust had never been shaken. +Also he was one who believed with his whole soul in the things that +make Christmas precious. To him the birth of the wonderful baby hinted +at hundreds of strange things in the economy of the planet. That a man +could so thoroughly persuade himself that, he believed the old fable, +was matter of marvel to some of his friends who held blind Nature the +eternal mother, and Night the everlasting grandmother of all things. +But the child Phosy, in her dreams or out of them, in church or +nursery, with her book or her doll, was never out of the region of +wonders, and would have believed, or tried to believe, anything that +did not involve a moral impossibility. + +What the preacher said I need not even partially repeat; it is enough +to mention a certain metamorphosed deposit from the stream of his +eloquence carried home in her mind by Phosy: from some of his sayings +about the birth of Jesus into the world, into the family, into the +individual human bosom, she had got it into her head that Christmas +Day was not a birthday like that she had herself last year, but that, +in some wonderful way, to her requiring no explanation, the baby Jesus +was born every Christmas Day afresh. What became of him afterwards she +did not know, and indeed she had never yet thought to ask how it was +that he could come to every house in London as well as No. 1, Wimborne +Square. Little of a home as another might think it, that house was yet +to her the centre of all houses, and the wonder had not yet widened +rippling beyond it: into that spot of the pool the eternal gift would +fall. + +Her father forgot the time over his book, but so entranced was her +heart with the expectation of the promised visit, now so near--the day +after to-morrow--that, if she did not altogether forget to look for +him as she stepped down the stair from the church door to the street, +his absence caused her no uneasiness; and when, just as she reached +it, he opened the house-door in tardy haste to redeem his promise, she +looked up at him with a solemn, smileless repose, born of spiritual +tension and speechless anticipation, upon her face, and walking past +him without change in the rhythm of her motion, marched stately up the +stairs to the nursery. I believe the centre of her hope was that when +the baby came she would beg him on her knees to ask the Lord to +chasten her. + +When dessert was over, her mother on the sofa in the drawing-room, and +her father in an easy-chair, with a bottle of his favourite wine by +his side, she crept out of the room and away again to the nursery. +There she reached up to her little bookshelf, and, full of the sermon +as spongy mists are full of the sunlight, took thence a volume of +stories from the German, the re-reading of one of which, narrating the +visit of the Christ-child, laden with gifts, to a certain household, +and what he gave to each and all therein, she had, although sorely +tempted, saved up until now, and sat down with it by the fire, the +only light she had. When the housemaid, suddenly remembering she must +put her to bed, and at the same time discovering it was a whole hour +past her usual time, hurried to the nursery, she found her fast asleep +in her little armchair, her book on her lap, and the fire +self-consumed into a dark cave with a sombre glow in its deepest +hollows. Dreams had doubtless come to deepen the impressions of sermon +and _mährchen_, for as she slowly yielded to the hands of Polly +putting her to bed, her lips, unconsciously moved of the slumbering +but not sleeping spirit, more than once murmured the words _Lord +loveth_ and _chasteneth_. Right blessedly would I enter the dreams of +such a child--revel in them, as a bee in the heavenly gulf of a +cactus-flower. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +On Christmas Eve the church bells were ringing through the murky air +of London, whose streets lay flaring and steaming below. The brightest +of their constellations were the butchers' shops, with their shows of +prize beef; around them, the eddies of the human tides were most +confused and knotted. But the toy-shops were brilliant also. To Phosy +they would have been the treasure-caves of the Christ-child--all +mysteries, all with insides to them--boxes, and desks, and windmills, +and dove-cots, and hens with chickens, and who could tell what all? In +every one of those shops her eyes would have searched for the +Christ-child, the giver of all their wealth. For to her he was +everywhere that night--ubiquitous as the luminous mist that brooded +all over London--of which, however, she saw nothing but the glow above +the mews. John Jephson was out in the middle of all the show, drifting +about in it: he saw nothing that had pleasure in it, his heart was so +heavy. He never thought once of the Christ-child, or even of the +Christ-man, as the giver of anything. Birth is the one standing +promise-hope for the race, but for poor John this Christmas held no +promise. With all his humour, he was one of those people, generally +dull and slow--God grant me and mine such dullness and such sloth--who +having once loved, cannot cease. During the fortnight he had scarce +had a moment's ease from the sting of his Alice's treatment. The +honest fellow's feelings were no study to himself; he knew nothing but +the pleasure and the pain of them; but, I believe it was not mainly +for himself that he was sorry. Like Othello, "the pity of it" haunted +him: he had taken Alice for a downright girl, about whom there was and +could be no mistake; and the first hot blast of prosperity had swept +her away like a hectic leaf. What were all the shops dressed out in +holly and mistletoe, what were all the rushing flaming gas-jets, what +the fattest of prize-pigs to John, who could never more imagine a +spare-rib on the table between Alice and him of a Sunday? His +imagination ran on seeing her pass in her carriage, and drop him a nod +of condescension as she swept noisily by him--trudging home weary from +his work to his loveless fireside. _He_ didn't want her money! +Honestly, he would rather have her without than with money, for he now +regarded it as an enemy, seeing what evil changes it could work. +"There be some devil in it, sure!" he said to himself. True, he had +never found any in his week's wages, but he did remember once finding +the devil in a month's wages received in the lump. + +As he was thus thinking with himself, a carriage came suddenly from a +side street into the crowd, and while he stared at it, thinking Alice +might be sitting inside it while he was tramping the pavement alone, +she passed him on the other side on foot--was actually pushed against +him: he looked round, and saw a young woman, carrying a small bag, +disappearing in the crowd. "There's an air of Alice about _her_" said +John to himself, seeing her back only. But of course it couldn't be +Alice; for her he must look in the carriages now! And what a fool he +was: every young woman reminded him of the one he had lost! Perhaps if +he was to call the next day--Polly was a good-natured creature--he +might hear some news of her. + +It had been a troubled fortnight with Mrs. Greatorex. She wished much +that she could have talked to her husband more freely, but she had not +learned to feel at home with him. Yet he had been kinder and more +attentive than usual all the time, so much so that Letty thought with +herself--if she gave him a boy, he would certainly return to his first +devotion. She said _boy_, because any one might see he cared little +for Phosy. She had never discovered that he was disappointed in +herself, but, since her disregard of his wishes had brought evil upon +her, she had begun to suspect that he had some ground for being +dissatisfied with her. She never dreamed of his kindness as the effort +of a conscientious nature to make the best of what could not now be +otherwise helped. Her own poverty of spirit and lack of worth +achieved, she knew as little of as she did of the riches of Michael +the archangel. One must have begun to gather wisdom before he can see +his own folly. + +That evening she was seated alone in the drawing-room, her husband +having left her to smoke his cigar, when the butler entered and +informed her that Alice had returned, but was behaving so oddly that +they did not know what to do with her. Asking wherein her oddness +consisted, and learning that it was mostly in silence and tears, she +was not sorry to gather that some disappointment had befallen her, and +felt considerable curiosity to know what it was. She therefore told +him to send her upstairs. + +Meantime Polly, the housemaid, seeing plainly enough from her return +in the middle of her holiday, and from her utter dejection, that +Alice's expectations had been frustrated, and cherishing no little +resentment against her because of her _uppishness_ on the first news +of her good fortune, had been ungenerous enough to take her revenge in +a way as stinging in effect as bitter in intention; for she loudly +protested that no amount of such luck as she pretended to suppose in +Alice's possession, would have induced _her_ to behave herself so that +a handsome honest fellow like John Jephson should be driven to despise +her, and take up with her betters. When her mistress's message came, +Alice was only too glad to find refuge from the kitchen in the +drawing-room. + +The moment she entered, she fell on her knees at the foot of the couch +on which her mistress lay, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed +grievously. + +Nor was the change more remarkable in her bearing than in her person. +She was pale and worn, and had a hunted look--was in fact a mere +shadow of what she had been. For a time her mistress found it +impossible to quiet her so as to draw from her her story: tears and +sobs combined with repugnance to hold her silent. + +"Oh, ma'am!" she burst out at length, wringing her hands, "how ever +_can_ I tell you? You will never speak to me again. Little did I think +such a disgrace was waiting me!" + +"It was no fault of yours if you were misinformed," said her mistress, +"or that your uncle was not the rich man you fancied." + +"Oh, ma'am, there was no mistake there! He was more than twice as rich +as I fancied. If he had only died a beggar, and left things as they +was!" + +"Then he didn't leave it to his nephews and nieces as they told +you?--Well, there's no disgrace in that." + +"Oh! but he did, ma'am: that was all right; no mistake there either, +ma'am.--And to think o' me behavin' as I did--to you and master as was +so good to me! Who'll ever take any more notice of me now, after what +has come out--as I'm sure I no more dreamed on than the child unborn!" + +An agonized burst of fresh weeping followed, and it was with prolonged +difficulty, and by incessant questioning, that Mrs. Greatorex at +length drew from her the following facts. + +Before Alice and her brother could receive the legacy to which they +laid claim, it was necessary to produce certain documents, the absence +of which, as of any proof to take their place, led to the unavoidable +publication of a fact previously known only to a living few--namely, +that the father and mother of Alice Hopwood had never been married, +which fact deprived them of the smallest claim on the legacy, and fell +like a millstone upon Alice and her pride. From the height of her +miserable arrogance she fell prone--not merely hurled back into the +lowly condition from which she had raised her head only to despise it +with base unrighteousness, and to adopt and reassert the principles +she had abhorred when they affected herself--not merely this, but, in +her own judgment at least, no longer the respectable member of society +she had hitherto been justified in supposing herself. The relation of +her father and mother she felt overshadow her with a disgrace +unfathomable--the more overwhelming that it cast her from the gates of +the Paradise she had seemed on the point of entering: her fall she +measured by the height of the social ambition she had cherished, and +had seemed on the point of attaining. But it is not an evil that the +devil's money, which this legacy had from the first proved to Alice, +should turn to a hot cinder in the hand. Rarely had a more haughty +spirit than hers gone before a fall, and rarely has the fall been more +sudden or more abject. And the consciousness of the behaviour into +which her false riches had seduced her, changed the whip of her +chastisement into scorpions. Worst of all, she had insulted her lover +as beneath her notice, and the next moment had found herself too vile +for his. Judging by herself, in the injustice of bitter humiliation +she imagined him scoffing with his mates at the base-born menial who +would set up for a fine lady. But had she been more worthy of honest +John, she would have understood him better. As it was, no really good +fortune could have befallen her but such as now seemed to her the +depth of evil fortune. Without humiliation to prepare the way for +humility, she must have become capable of more and more baseness, +until she lost all that makes life worth having. + +When Mrs. Greatorex had given her what consolation she found handy, +and at length dismissed her, the girl, unable to endure her own +company, sought the nursery, where she caught Sophy in her arms and +embraced her with fervour. Never in her life having been the object of +any such display of feeling, Phosy was much astonished: when Alice had +set her down and she had resumed her seat by the fireside, she went on +staring for a while--and then a strange sort of miming ensued. + +It was Phosy's habit--one less rare with children than may by most be +imagined--to do what she could to enter into any state of mind whose +shows were sufficiently marked for her observation. She sought to lay +hold of the feeling that produced the expression: less than the +reproduction of a similar condition in her own imaginative sensorium, +subject to her leisurely examination, would in no case satisfy the +little metaphysician. But what was indeed very odd was the means she +took for arriving at the sympathetic knowledge she desired. As if she +had been the most earnest student of dramatic expression through the +facial muscles, she would sit watching the countenance of the object +of her solicitude, all the time, with full consciousness, fashioning +her own as nearly as she could into the lines and forms of the other: +in proportion as she succeeded, the small psychologist imagined she +felt in herself the condition that produced the phenomenon she +observed--as if the shape of her face cast inward its shadow upon her +mind, and so revealed to it, through the two faces, what was moving +and shaping in the mind of the other. + +In the present instance, having at length, after modelling and +remodelling her face like that of a gutta-percha doll for some time, +composed it finally into the best correspondence she could effect, she +sat brooding for a while, with Alice's expression as it were frozen +upon it. Gradually the forms assumed melted away, and allowed her +still, solemn face to look out from behind them. The moment this +evanishment was complete, she rose and went to Alice, where she sat +staring into the fire, unconscious of the scrutiny she had been +undergoing, and, looking up in her face, took her thumb out of her +mouth, and said, + +"Is the Lord chastening Alice? I wish he would chasten Phosy." + +Her face was calm as that of the Sphinx; there was no mist in the +depth of her gray eyes, not a cloud on the wide heaven of her +forehead. + +Was the child crazed? What could the atom mean, with her big eyes +looking right into her? Alice never had understood her: it were indeed +strange if the less should comprehend the greater! She was not yet, +capable of recognising the word of the Lord in the mouth of babes and +sucklings. But there was a something in Phosy's face besides its +calmness and unintelligibility. What it was Alice could never have +told--yet it did her good. She lifted the child on her lap. There she +soon fell asleep. Alice undressed her, laid her in her crib, and went +to bed herself. + +But, weary as she was, she had to rise again before she got to sleep. +Her mistress was again taken ill. Doctor and nurse were sent for in +hot haste; hansom cabs came and went throughout the night, like noisy +moths to the one lighted house in the street; there were soft steps +within, and doors were gently opened and shut. The waters of Mara had +risen and filled the house. + +Towards morning they were ebbing slowly away. Letty did not know that +her husband was watching by her bedside. The street was quiet now. So +was the house. Most of its people had been up throughout the night, +but now they had all gone to bed except the strange nurse and Mr. +Greatorex. + +It was the morning of Christmas Day, and little Phosy knew it in every +cranny of her soul. She was not of those who had been up all night, +and now she was awake, early and wide, and the moment she awoke she +was speculating: He was coming to-day--_how_ would he come? Where +should she find the baby Jesus? And when would he come? In the +morning, or the afternoon, or in the evening? Could such a grief be in +store for her as that he would not appear until night, when she would +be again in bed? But she would not sleep till all hope was gone. Would +everybody be gathered to meet him, or would he show himself to one +after another, each alone? Then her turn would be last, and oh, if he +would come to the nursery! But perhaps he would not appear to her at +all!--for was she not one whom the Lord did not care to chasten? + +Expectation grew and wrought in her until she could lie in bed no +longer. Alice was fast asleep. It must be early, but whether it was +yet light or not she could not tell for the curtains. Anyhow she would +get up and dress, and then she would be ready for Jesus whenever he +should come. True, she was not able to dress herself very well, but he +would know, and would not mind. She made all the haste she could, +consistently with taking pains, and was soon attired after a fashion. + +She crept out of the room and down the stair. The house was very +still. What if Jesus should come and find nobody awake? Would he go +again and give them no presents? She couldn't expect any herself--but +might he not let her take theirs for the rest? Perhaps she ought to +wake them all, but she dared not without being sure. + +On the last landing above the first floor, she saw, by the low +gaslight at the end of the corridor, an unknown figure pass the foot +of the stair: could she have anything to do with the marvel of the +day? The woman looked up, and Phosy dropped the question. Yet she +might be a charwoman, whose assistance the expected advent rendered +necessary. When she reached the bottom of the stair she saw her +disappearing in her step-mother's room. That she did not like. It was +the one room into which she could not go. But, as the house was so +still, she would search everywhere else, and if she did not find him, +would then sit down in the hall and wait for him. + +The room next the foot of the stair, and opposite her step-mother's, was +the spare room, with which she associated ideas of state and grandeur: +where better could she begin than at the guest-chamber?--There!--Could +it be? Yes!--Through the chink of the scarce-closed door she saw light. +Either he was already there or there they were expecting him. From that +moment she felt as if lifted out of the body. Far exalted above all +dread, she peeped modestly in, and then entered. Beyond the foot of the +bed, a candle stood on a little low table, but nobody was to be seen. +There was a stool near the table: she would sit on it by the candle, +and wait for him. But ere she reached it, she caught sight of something +upon the bed that drew her thither. She stood entranced.--_Could_ it +be?--It _might_ be. Perhaps he had left it there while he went into her +mamma's room with something for her.--The loveliest of dolls ever +imagined! She drew nearer. The light was low, and the shadows were +many: she could not be sure what it was. But when she had gone close +up to it, she concluded with certainty that it was in very truth a +doll--perhaps intended for her--but beyond doubt the most exquisite +of dolls. She dragged a chair to the bed, got, up, pushed her little +arms softly under it, and drawing it gently to her, slid down with it. +When she felt her feet firm on the floor, filled with the solemn +composure of holy awe she carried the gift of the child Jesus to the +candle, that she might the better admire its beauty and know its +preciousness. But the light had no sooner fallen upon it than a strange +undefinable doubt awoke within her. Whatever it was, it was the very +essence of loveliness--the tiny darling with its alabaster face, and its +delicately modelled hands and fingers! A long night-gown covered all +the rest.--Was it possible?--Could it be?--Yes, indeed! it must be--it +could be nothing else than a _real_ baby! What a goose she had been! +Of course it was baby Jesus himself!--for was not this his very own +Christmas Day on which he was always born?--If she had felt awe of his +gift before, what a grandeur of adoring love, what a divine dignity +possessed her, holding in her arms the very child himself! One shudder +of bliss passed through her, and in an agony of possession she clasped +the baby to her great heart--then at once became still with the +satisfaction of eternity, with the peace of God. She sat down on the +stool, near the little table, with her back to the candle, that its +rays should not fall on the eyes of the sleeping Jesus and wake him: +there she sat, lost in the very majesty of bliss, at once the mother +and the slave of the Lord Jesus. + +She sat for a time still as marble waiting for marble to awake, +heedful as tenderest woman not to rouse him before his time, though +her heart was swelling with the eager petition that he would ask his +Father to be as good as chasten her. And as she sat, she began, after +her wont, to model her face to the likeness of his, that she might +understand his stillness--the absolute peace that dwelt on his +countenance. But as she did so, again a sudden doubt invaded her: +Jesus lay so very still--never moved, never opened his pale eye-lids! +And now set thinking, she noted that he did not breathe. She had seen +babies asleep, and their breath came and went--their little bosoms +heaved up and down, and sometimes they would smile, and sometimes they +would moan and sigh. But Jesus did none of all these things: was it +not strange? And then he was cold--oh, so cold! + +A blue silk coverlid lay on the bed: she half rose and dragged it off, +and contrived to wind it around herself and the baby. Sad at heart, +very sad, but undismayed, she sat and watched him on her lap. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +Meantime the morning of Christmas Day grew. The light came and filled +the house. The sleepers slept late, but at length they stirred. Alice +awoke last--from a troubled sleep, in which the events of the night +mingled with her own lost condition and destiny. After all Polly had +been kind, she thought, and got Sophy up without disturbing her. + +She had been but a few minutes down, when a strange and appalling +rumour made itself--I cannot say audible, but--somehow known through +the house, and every one hurried up in horrible dismay. + +The nurse had gone into the spare room, and missed the little dead +thing she had laid there. The bed was between her and Phosy, and she +never saw her. The doctor had been sharp with her about something the +night before: she now took her revenge in suspicion of him, and after +a hasty and fruitless visit of inquiry to the kitchen, hurried to Mr. +Greatorex. + +The servants crowded to the spare room, and when their master, +incredulous indeed, yet shocked at the tidings brought him, hastened +to the spot, he found them all in the room, gathered at the foot of +the bed. A little sunlight filtered through the red window-curtains, +and gave a strange pallid expression to the flame of the candle, which +had now burned very low. At first he saw nothing but the group of +servants, silent, motionless, with heads leaning forward, intently +gazing: he had come just in time: another moment and they would have +ruined the lovely sight. He stepped forward, and saw Phosy, half +shrouded in blue, the candle behind illuminating the hair she had +found too rebellious to the brush, and making of it a faint aureole +about her head and white face, whence cold and sorrow had driven all +the flush, rendering it colourless as that upon her arm which had +never seen the light. She had pored on the little face until she knew +death, and now she sat a speechless mother of sorrow, bending in the +dim light of the tomb over the body of her holy infant. + +How it was I cannot tell, but the moment her father saw her she looked +up, and the spell of her dumbness broke. + +"Jesus is dead," she said, slowly and sadly, but with perfect +calmness. "He is dead," she repeated. "He came too early, and there +was no one up to take care of him, and he's dead--dead--dead!" + +But as she spoke the last words, the frozen lump of agony gave way; +the well of her heart suddenly filled, swelled, overflowed; the last +word was half sob, half shriek of utter despair and loss. + +Alice darted forward and took the dead baby tenderly from her. The +same moment her father raised the little mother and clasped her to his +bosom. Her arms went round his neck, her head sank on his shoulder, +and sobbing in grievous misery, yet already a little comforted, he +bore her from the room. + +"No, no, Phosy!" they heard him say, "Jesus is not dead, thank God. It +is only your little brother that hadn't life enough, and is gone back +to God for more." + +Weeping the women went down the stairs. Alice's tears were still +flowing, when John Jephson entered. Her own troubles forgotten in the +emotion of the scene she had just witnessed, she ran to his arms and +wept on his bosom. + +John stood as one astonished. + +"O Lord! this _is_ a Christmas!" he sighed at last. + +"Oh John!" cried Alice, and tore herself from his embrace, "I forgot! +You'll never speak to me again, John! Don't do it, John." + +And with the words she gave a stifled cry, and fell a weeping again, +behind her two shielding hands. + +"Why, Alice!--you ain't married, are you?" gasped John, to whom that +was the only possible evil. + +"No, John, and never shall be: a respectable man like you would never +think of looking twice at a poor girl like me!" + +"Let's have one more look anyhow," said John, drawing her hands from +her face. "Tell me what's the matter, and if there's anything can be +done to right you, I'll work day and night to do it, Alice." + +"There's nothing _can_ be done, John," replied Alice, and would again +have floated out on the ocean of her misery, but in spite of wind and +tide, that is sobs and tears, she held on by the shore at his +entreaty, and told her tale, not even omitting the fact that when she +went to the eldest of the cousins, inheriting through the misfortune +of her and her brother so much more than their expected share, and +"demeaned herself" to beg a little help for her brother, who was dying +of consumption, he had all but ordered her out of the house, swearing +he had nothing to do with her or her brother, and saying she ought to +be ashamed to show her face. + +"And that when we used to make mud pies together!" concluded Alice +with indignation. "There, John! you have it all," she added. "--And +now?" + +With the word she gave a deep, humbly questioning look into his honest +eyes. + +"Is that all, Alice?" he asked. + +"Yes, John; ain't it enough?" she returned. + +"More'n enough," answered John. "I swear to you, Alice, you're worth +to me ten times what you would ha' been, even if you'd ha' had me, +with ten thousand pounds in your ridicule. Why, my woman, I never saw +you look one 'alf so 'an'some as you do now!" + +"But the disgrace of it, John!" said Alice, hanging her head, and so +hiding the pleasure that would dawn through all the mist of her +misery. + +"Let your father and mother settle that betwixt 'em, Alice. 'Tain't +none o' my business. Please God, we'll do different.--When shall it +be, my girl?" + +"When you like, John," answered Alice, without raising her head, +thoughtfully. + +When she had withdrawn herself from the too rigorous embrace with +which he received her consent, she remarked-- + +"I do believe, John, money ain't a good thing! Sure as I live, with +the very wind o' that money, the devil entered into me. Didn't you +hate me, John? Speak the truth now." + +"No, Alice. I did cry a bit over you, though. You _was_ possessed +like." + +"I _was_ possessed. I do believe if that money hadn't been took from +me, I'd never ha' had you, John. Ain't it awful to think on?" + +"Well, no. O' coorse! How could ye?" said Jephson--with reluctance. + +"Now, John, don't ye talk like that, for I won't stand it. Don't you +go for to set me up again with excusin' of me. I'm a nasty conceited +cat, I am--and all for nothing but mean pride." + +"Mind ye, ye're mine now, Alice; an' what's mine's mine, an' I won't +have it abused. I knows you twice the woman you was afore, and all the +world couldn't gi' me such another Christmas-box--no, not if it was +all gold watches and roast beef." + +When Mr. Greatorex returned to his wife's room, and thought to find +her asleep as he had left her, he was dismayed to hear sounds of soft +weeping from the bed. Some tone or stray word, never intended to reach +her ear, had been enough to reveal the truth concerning her baby. + +"Hush! hush!" he said, with more love in his heart than had moved +there for many months, and therefore more in his tone than she had +heard for as many;--"if you cry you will be ill. Hush, my dear!" + +In a moment, ere he could prevent her, she had flung her arms around +his neck as he stooped over her. + +"Husband! husband!" she cried, "is it my fault?" + +"You behaved perfectly," he returned. "No woman could have been +braver." + +"Ah, but I wouldn't stay at home when you wanted me." + +"Never mind that now, my child," he said. + +At the word she pulled his face down to hers. + +"I have _you_, and I don't care," he added. + +"_Do_ you care to have me?" she said, with a sob that ended in a loud +cry. "Oh! I don't deserve it. But I _will_ be good after this. I +promise you I will." + +"Then you must begin now, my darling. You must lie perfectly still, +and not cry a bit, or you will go after the baby, and I shall be left +alone." + +She looked up at him with such a light in her face as he had never +dreamed of there before. He had never seen her so lovely. Then she +withdrew her arms, repressed her tears, smiled, and turned her face +away. He put her hands under the clothes, and in a minute or two she +was again fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +That day, when Phosy and her father had sat down to their Christmas +dinner, he rose again, and taking her up as she sat, chair and all, +set her down close to him, on the other side of the corner of the +table. It was the first of a new covenant between them. The father's +eyes having been suddenly opened to her character and preciousness, as +well as to his own neglected duty in regard to her, it was as if a +well of life had burst forth at his feet. And every day, as he looked +in her face and talked to her, it was with more and more respect for +what he found in her, with growing tenderness for her predilections, +and reverence for the divine idea enclosed in her ignorance, for her +childish wisdom, and her calm seeking--until at length he would have +been horrified at the thought of training her up in _his_ way: had she +not a way of her own to go--following--not the dead Jesus, but Him +who liveth for evermore? In the endeavour to help her, he had to find +his own position towards the truth; and the results were weighty.--Nor +did the child's influence work forward merely. In his intercourse with +her he was so often reminded of his first wife, and that, with the +gloss or comment of a childish reproduction, that his memories of her +at length grew a little tender, and through the child he began to +understand the nature and worth of the mother. In her child she had +given him what she could not be herself. Unable to keep up with him, +she had handed him her baby, and dropped on the path. + +Nor was little Sophy his only comfort. Through their common loss and +her husband's tenderness, Letty began to grow a woman. And her growth +was the more rapid that, himself taught through Phosy, her husband no +longer desired to make her adopt his tastes, and judge with his +experiences, but, as became the elder and the tried, entered into her +tastes and experiences--became, as it were, a child again with her, +that, through the thing she was, he might help the thing she had to +be. + +As soon as she was able to bear it, he told her the story of the dead +Jesus, and with the tale came to her heart love for Phosy. She had +lost a son for a season, but she had gained a daughter for ever. + +Such were the gifts the Christ-child brought to one household that +Christmas. And the days of the mourning of that household were ended. + + + + +THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. + + +_A DAY AND NIGHT MÄHRCHEN_. + + +CHAPTER I. WATHO. + + +There was once a witch who desired to know everything. But the wiser a +witch is, the harder she knocks her head against the wall when she +comes to it. Her name was Watho, and she had a wolf in her mind. She +cared for nothing in itself--only for knowing it. She was not +naturally cruel, but the wolf had made her cruel. + +She was tall and graceful, with a white skin, red hair, and black +eyes, which had a red fire in them. She was straight and strong, but +now and then would fall bent together, shudder, and sit for a moment +with her head turned over her shoulder, as if the wolf had got out of +her mind on to her back. + + + + +CHAPTER II. AURORA. + + +This witch got two ladies to visit her. One of them belonged to the +court, and her husband had been sent on a far and difficult embassy. +The other was a young widow whose husband had lately died, and who had +since lost her sight, Watho lodged them in different parts of her +castle, and they did not know of each other's existence. + +The castle stood on the side of a hill sloping gently down into a +narrow valley, in which was a river, with a pebbly channel and a +continual song. The garden went down to the bank of the river, +enclosed by high walls, which crossed the river and there stopped. +Each wall had a double row of battlements, and between the rows was a +narrow walk. + +In the topmost story of the castle the Lady Aurora occupied a spacious +apartment of several large rooms looking southward. The windows +projected oriel-wise over the garden below, and there was a splendid +view from them both up and down and across the river. The opposite +side of the valley was steep, but not very high. Far away snow-peaks +were visible. These rooms Aurora seldom left, but their airy spaces, +the brilliant landscape and sky, the plentiful sunlight, the musical +instruments, books, pictures, curiosities, with the company of Watho +who made herself charming, precluded all dulness. She had venison and +feathered game to eat, milk and pale sunny sparkling wine to drink. + +She had hair of the yellow gold, waved and rippled; her skin was fair, +not white like Watho's, and her eyes were of the blue of the heavens +when bluest; her features were delicate but strong, her mouth large +and finely curved, and haunted with smiles. + + + + +CHAPTER III. VESPER. + + +Behind the castle the hill rose abruptly; the north-eastern tower, +indeed, was in contact with the rock, and communicated with the +interior of it. For in the rock was a series of chambers, known only +to Watho and the one servant whom she trusted, called Falca. Some +former owner had constructed these chambers after the tomb of an +Egyptian king, and probably with the same design, for in the centre of +one of them stood what could only be a sarcophagus, but that and +others were walled off. The sides and roofs of them were carved in low +relief, and curiously painted. Here the witch lodged the blind lady, +whose name was Vesper. Her eyes were black, with long black lashes; +her skin had a look of darkened silver, but was of purest tint and +grain; her hair was black and fine and straight-flowing; her features +were exquisitely formed, and if less beautiful yet more lovely from +sadness; she always looked as if she wanted to lie down and not rise +again. She did not know she was lodged in a tomb, though now and then +she wondered she never touched a window. There were many couches, +covered with richest silk, and soft as her own cheek, for her to lie +upon; and the carpets were so thick, she might have cast herself down +anywhere--as befitted a tomb. The place was dry and warm, and +cunningly pierced for air, so that it was always fresh, and lacked +only sunlight. There the witch fed her upon milk, and wine dark as a +carbuncle, and pomegranates, and purple grapes, and birds that dwell +in marshy places; and she played to her mournful tunes, and caused +wailful violins to attend her, and told her sad tales, thus holding +her ever in an atmosphere of sweet sorrow. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. PHOTOGEN. + + +Watho at length had her desire, for witches often get what they want: +a splendid boy was born to the fair Aurora. Just as the sun rose, he +opened his eyes. Watho carried him immediately to a distant part of +the castle, and persuaded the mother that he never cried but once, +dying the moment he was born. Overcome with grief, Aurora left the +castle as soon as she was able, and Watho never invited her again. + +And now the witch's care was, that the child should not know darkness. +Persistently she trained him until at last he never slept during the +day, and never woke during the night. She never let him see anything +black, and even kept all dull colours out of his way. Never, if she +could help it, would she let a shadow fall upon him, watching against +shadows as if they had been live things that would hurt him. All day +he basked in the full splendour of the sun, in the same large rooms +his mother had occupied. Watho used him to the sun, until he could +bear more of it than any dark-blooded African. In the hottest of every +day, she stript him and laid him in it, that he might ripen like a +peach; and the boy rejoiced in it, and would resist being dressed +again. She brought all her knowledge to bear on making his muscles +strong and elastic and swiftly responsive--that his soul, she said +laughing, might sit in every fibre, be all in every part, and awake +the moment of call. His hair was of the red gold, but his eyes grew +darker as he grew, until they were as black as Vesper's. He was the +merriest of creatures, always laughing, always loving, for a moment +raging, then laughing afresh. Watho called him Photogen. + + + + +CHAPTER V. NYCTERIS. + + +Five or six months after the birth of Photogen, the dark lady also +gave birth to a baby: in the windowless tomb of a blind mother, in the +dead of night, under the feeble rays of a lamp in an alabaster globe, +a girl came into the darkness with a wail. And just as she was born +for the first time, Vesper was born for the second, and passed into a +world as unknown to her as this was to her child--who would have to be +born yet again before she could see her mother. + +Watho called her Nycteris, and she grew as like Vesper as possible--in +all but one particular. She had the same dark skin, dark eyelashes and +brows, dark hair, and gentle sad look; but she had just the eyes of +Aurora, the mother of Photogen, and if they grew darker as she grew +older, it was only a darker blue. Watho, with the help of Falca, took +the greatest possible care of her--in every way consistent with her +plans, that is,--the main point in which was that she should never see +any light but what came from the lamp. Hence her optic nerves, and +indeed her whole apparatus for seeing, grew both larger and more +sensitive; her eyes, indeed, stopped short only of being too large. +Under her dark hair and forehead and eyebrows, they looked like two +breaks in a cloudy night-sky, through which peeped the heaven where +the stars and no clouds live. She was a sadly dainty little creature. +No one in the world except those two was aware of the being of the +little bat. Watho trained her to sleep during the day, and wake during +the night. She taught her music, in which she was herself a +proficient, and taught her scarcely anything else. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. HOW PHOTOGEN GREW. + + +The hollow in which the castle of Watho lay, was a cleft in a plain +rather than a valley among hills, for at the top of its steep sides, +both north and south, was a table-land, large and wide. It was covered +with rich grass and flowers, with here and there a wood, the outlying +colony of a great forest. These grassy plains were the finest hunting +grounds in the world. Great herds of small, but fierce cattle, with +humps and shaggy manes, roved about them, also antelopes and gnus, and +the tiny roedeer, while the woods were swarming with wild creatures. +The tables of the castle were mainly supplied from them. The chief of +Watho's huntsmen was a fine fellow, and when Photogen began to outgrow +the training she could give him, she handed him over to Fargu. He with +a will set about teaching him all he knew. He got him pony after pony, +larger and larger as he grew, every one less manageable than that +which had preceded it, and advanced him from pony to horse, and from +horse to horse, until he was equal to anything in that kind which the +country produced. In similar fashion he trained him to the use of bow +and arrow, substituting every three months a stronger bow and longer +arrows; and soon he became, even on horseback, a wonderful archer. He +was but fourteen when he killed his first bull, causing jubilation +among the huntsmen, and, indeed, through all the castle, for there too +he was the favourite. Every day, almost as soon as the sun was up, he +went out hunting, and would in general be out nearly the whole of the +day. But Watho had laid upon Fargu just one commandment, namely, that +Photogen should on no account, whatever the plea, be out until +sundown, or so near it as to wake in him the desire of seeing what was +going to happen; and this commandment Fargu was anxiously careful not +to break; for, although he would not have trembled had a whole herd of +bulls come down upon him, charging at full speed across the level, and +not an arrow left in his quiver, he was more than afraid of his +mistress. When she looked at him in a certain way, he felt, he said, +as if his heart turned to ashes in his breast, and what ran in his +veins was no longer blood, but milk and water. So that, ere long, as +Photogen grew older, Fargu began to tremble, for he found it steadily +growing harder to restrain him. So full of life was he, as Fargu said +to his mistress, much to her content, that he was more like a live +thunderbolt than a human being. He did not know what fear was, and +that not because he did not know danger; for he had had a severe +laceration from the razor-like tusk of a boar--whose spine, however, +he had severed with one blow of his hunting-knife, before Fargu could +reach him with defence. When he would spur his horse into the midst of +a herd of bulls, carrying only his bow and his short sword, or shoot +an arrow into a herd, and go after it as if to reclaim it for a +runaway shaft, arriving in time to follow it with a spear-thrust +before the wounded animal knew which way to charge, Fargu thought with +terror how it would be when he came to know the temptation of the +huddle-spot leopards, and the knife-clawed lynxes, with which the +forest was haunted. For the boy had been so steeped in the sun, from +childhood so saturated with his influence, that he looked upon every +danger from a sovereign height of courage. When, therefore, he was +approaching his sixteenth year, Fargu ventured to beg of Watho that +she would lay her commands upon the youth himself, and release him +from responsibility for him. One might as soon hold a tawny-maned lion +as Photogen, he said. Watho called the youth, and in the presence of +Fargu laid her command upon him never to be out when the rim of the +sun should touch the horizon, accompanying the prohibition with hints +of consequences, none the less awful that they were obscure. Photogen +listened respectfully, but, knowing neither the taste of fear nor the +temptation of the night, her words were but sounds to him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. HOW NYCTERIS GREW. + + +The little education she intended Nycteris to have, Watho gave her by +word of mouth. Not meaning she should have light enough to read by, to +leave other reasons unmentioned, she never put a book in her hands. +Nycteris, however, saw so much better than Watho imagined, that the +light she gave her was quite sufficient, and she managed to coax Falca +into teaching her the letters, after which she taught herself to read, +and Falca now and then brought her a child's book. But her chief +pleasure was in her instrument. Her very fingers loved it, and would +wander about over its keys like feeding sheep. She was not unhappy. +She knew nothing of the world except the tomb in which she dwelt, and +had some pleasure in everything she did. But she desired, +nevertheless, something more or different. She did not know what it +was, and the nearest she could come to expressing it to herself +was--that she wanted more room. Watho and Falca would go from her +beyond the shine of the lamp, and come again; therefore surely there +must be more room somewhere. As often as she was left alone, she would +fall to poring over the coloured bas-reliefs on the walls. These were +intended to represent various of the powers of Nature under +allegorical similitudes, and as nothing can be made that does not +belong to the general scheme, she could not fail at least to imagine a +flicker of relationship between some of them, and thus a shadow of the +reality of things found its way to her. + +There was one thing, however, which moved and taught her more than all +the rest--the lamp, namely, that hung from the ceiling, which she +always saw alight, though she never saw the flame, only the slight +condensation towards the centre of the alabaster globe. And besides +the operation of the light itself after its kind, the indefiniteness +of the globe, and the softness of the light, giving her the feeling as +if her eyes could go in and into its whiteness, were somehow also +associated with the idea of space and room. She would sit for an hour +together gazing up at the lamp, and her heart would swell as she +gazed. She would wonder what had hurt her, when she found her face wet +with tears, and then would wonder how she could have been hurt without +knowing it. She never looked thus at the lamp except when she was +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE LAMP. + + +Watho having given orders, took it for granted they were obeyed, and +that Falca was all night long with Nycteris, whose day it was. But +Falca could not get into the habit of sleeping through the day, and +would often leave her alone half the night. Then it seemed to Nycteris +that the white lamp was watching over her. As it was never permitted +to go out--while she was awake at least--Nycteris, except by shutting +her eyes, knew less about darkness than she did about light. Also, the +lamp being fixed high overhead, and in the centre of everything, she +did not know much about shadows either. The few there were fell almost +entirely on the floor, or kept like mice about the foot of the walls. + +Once, when she was thus alone, there came the noise of a far-off +rumbling: she had never before heard a sound of which she did not know +the origin, and here therefore was a new sign of something beyond +these chambers. Then came a trembling, then a shaking; the lamp +dropped from the ceiling to the floor with a great crash, and she felt +as if both her eyes were hard shut and both her hands over them. She +concluded that it was the darkness that had made the rumbling and the +shaking, and rushing into the room, had thrown down the lamp. She sat +trembling. The noise and the shaking ceased, but the light did not +return. The darkness had eaten it up! + +Her lamp gone, the desire at once awoke to get out of her prison. She +scarcely knew what _out_ meant; out of one room into another, where +there was not even a dividing door, only an open arch, was all she +knew of the world. But suddenly she remembered that she had heard +Falca speak of the lamp _going out_: this must be what she had meant? +And if the lamp had gone out, where had it gone? Surely where Falca +went, and like her it would come again. But she could not wait. The +desire to go out grew irresistible. She must follow her beautiful +lamp! She must find it! She must see what it was about! + +Now there was a curtain covering a recess in the wall, where some of +her toys and gymnastic things were kept; and from behind that curtain +Watho and Falca always appeared, and behind it they vanished. How they +came out of solid wall, she had not an idea, all up to the wall was +open space, and all beyond it seemed wall; but clearly the first and +only thing she could do, was to feel her way behind the curtain. It +was so dark that a cat could not have caught the largest of mice. +Nycteris could see better than any cat, but now her great eyes were +not of the smallest use to her. As she went she trod upon a piece of +the broken lamp. She had never worn shoes or stockings, and the +fragment, though, being of soft alabaster, it did not cut, yet hurt +her foot. She did not know what it was, but as it had not been there +before the darkness came, she suspected that it had to do with the +lamp. She kneeled therefore, and searched with her hands, and bringing +two large pieces together, recognized the shape of the lamp. Therewith +it flashed upon her that the lamp was dead, that this brokenness was +the death of which she had read without understanding, that the +darkness had killed the lamp. What then could Falca have meant when +she spoke of the lamp _going out_? There was the lamp--dead, indeed, +and so changed that she would never have taken it for a lamp but for +the shape! No, it was not the lamp any more now it was dead, for all +that made it a lamp was gone, namely, the bright shining of it. Then +it must be the shine, the light, that had gone out! That must be what +Falca meant--and it must be somewhere in the other place in the wall. +She started afresh after it, and groped her way to the curtain. + +Now she had never in her life tried to get out, and did not know how; +but instinctively she began to move her hands about over one of the +walls behind the curtain, half expecting them to go into it, as she +supposed Watho and Falca did. But the wall repelled her with +inexorable hardness, and she turned to the one opposite. In so doing, +she set her foot upon an ivory die, and as it met sharply the same +spot the broken alabaster had already hurt, she fell forward with her +outstretched hands against the wall. Something gave way, and she +tumbled out of the cavern. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. OUT. + + +But alas! _out_ was very much like _in_, for the same enemy, the +darkness, was here also. The next moment, however, came a great +gladness--a firefly, which had wandered in from the garden. She saw +the tiny spark in the distance. With slow pulsing ebb and throb of +light, it came pushing itself through the air, drawing nearer and +nearer, with that motion which more resembles swimming than flying, +and the light seemed the source of its own motion. + +"My lamp! my lamp!" cried Nycteris. "It is the shiningness of my lamp, +which the cruel darkness drove out. My good lamp has been waiting for +me here all the time! It knew I would come after it, and waited to +take me with it." + +She followed the firefly, which, like herself, was seeking the way +out. If it did not know the way, it was yet light; and, because all +light is one, any light may serve to guide to more light. If she was +mistaken in thinking it the spirit of her lamp, it was of the same +spirit as her lamp--and had wings. The gold-green jet-boat, driven by +light, went throbbing before her through a long narrow passage. +Suddenly it rose higher, and the same moment Nycteris fell upon an +ascending stair. She had never seen a stair before, and found going-up +a curious sensation. Just as she reached what seemed the top, the +firefly ceased to shine, and so disappeared. She was in utter darkness +once more. But when we are following the light, even its extinction is +a guide. If the firefly had gone on shining, Nycteris would have seen +the stair turn, and would have gone up to Watho's bedroom; whereas +now, feeling straight before her, she came to a latched door, which +after a good deal of trying she managed to open--and stood in a maze +of wondering perplexity, awe, and delight. What was it? Was it outside +of her, or something taking place in her head? Before her was a very +long and very narrow passage, broken up she could not tell how, and +spreading out above and on all sides to an infinite height and breadth +and distance--as if space itself were growing out of a trough. It was +brighter than her rooms had ever been--brighter than if six alabaster +lamps had been burning in them. There was a quantity of strange +streaking and mottling about it, very different from the shapes on her +walls. She was in a dream of pleasant perplexity, of delightful +bewilderment. She could not tell whether she was upon her feet or +drifting about like the firefly, driven by the pulses of an inward +bliss. But she knew little as yet of her inheritance. Unconsciously +she took one step forward from the threshold, and the girl who had +been from her very birth a troglodyte, stood in the ravishing glory of +a southern night, lit by a perfect moon--not the moon of our northern +clime, but a moon like silver glowing in a furnace--a moon one could +see to be a globe--not far off, a mere flat disc on the face of the +blue, but hanging down halfway, and looking as if one could see all +round it by a mere bending of the neck. + +"It is my lamp!" she said, and stood dumb with parted lips. She looked +and felt as if she had been standing there in silent ecstasy from the +beginning. + +"No, it is not my lamp," she said after a while; "it is the mother of +all the lamps." + +And with that she fell on her knees, and spread out her hands to the +moon. She could not in the least have told what was in her mind, but +the action was in reality just a begging of the moon to be what she +was--that precise incredible splendour hung in the far-off roof, that +very glory essential to the being of poor girls born and bred in +caverns. It was a resurrection--nay, a birth itself, to Nycteris. What +the vast blue sky, studded with tiny sparks like the heads of diamond +nails, could be; what the moon, looking so absolutely content with +light.--why, she knew less about them than you and I! but the greatest +of astronomers might envy the rapture of such a first impression at +the age of sixteen. Immeasurably imperfect it was, but false the +impression could not be, for she saw with the eyes made for seeing, +and saw indeed what many men are too wise to see. + +As she knelt, something softly flapped her, embraced her, stroked her, +fondled her. She rose to her feet, but saw nothing, did not know what +it was. It was likest a woman's breath. For she know nothing of the +air even, had never breathed the still newborn freshness of the world. +Her breath had come to her only through long passages and spirals in +the rock. Still less did she know of the air alive with motion--of +that thrice blessed thing, the wind of a summer night. It was like a +spiritual wine, filling her whole being with an intoxication of purest +joy. To breathe was a perfect existence. It seemed to her the light +itself she drew into her lungs. Possessed by the power of the gorgeous +night, she seemed at one and the same moment annihilated and +glorified. + +She was in the open passage or gallery that ran round the top of the +garden walls, between the cleft battlements, but she did not once look +down to see what lay beneath. Her soul was drawn to the vault above +her, with its lamp and its endless room. At last she burst into tears, +and her heart was relieved, as the night itself is relieved by its +lightning and rain. + +And now she grew thoughtful. She must hoard this splendour! What a +little ignorance her gaolers had made of her! Life was a mighty bliss, +and they had scraped hers to the bare bone! They must not know that +she knew. She must hide her knowledge--hide it even from her own eyes, +keeping it close in her bosom, content to know that she had it, even +when she could not brood on its presence, feasting her eyes with its +glory. She turned from the vision, therefore, with a sigh of utter +bliss, and with soft quiet steps and groping hands, stole back into +the darkness of the rock. What was darkness or the laziness of Time's +feet to one who had seen what she had that night seen? She was lifted +above all weariness--above all wrong. + +When Falca entered, she uttered a cry of terror. But Nycteris called +to her not to be afraid, and told her how there had come a rumbling +and a shaking, and the lamp had fallen. Then Falca went and told her +mistress, and within an hour a new globe hung in the place of the old +one. Nycteris thought it did not look so bright and clear as the +former, but she made no lamentation over the change; she was far too +rich to heed it. For now, prisoner as she knew herself, her heart was +full of glory and gladness; at times she had to hold herself from +jumping up, and going dancing and singing about the room. When she +slept, instead of dull dreams, she had splendid visions. There were +times, it is true, when she became restless, and impatient to look +upon her riches, but then she would reason with herself, saying, "What +does it matter if I sit here for ages with my poor pale lamp, when out +there a lump is burning at which ten thousand little lamps are glowing +with wonder?" + +She never doubted she had looked upon the day and the sun, of which +she had read; and always when she read of the day and the sun, she had +the night and the moon in her mind; and when she read of the night and +the moon, she thought only of the cave and the lamp that hung there. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE GREAT LAMP. + + +It was some time before she had a second opportunity of going out, for +Falca, since the fall of the lamp, had been a little more careful, and +seldom left her for long. But one night, having a little headache, +Nycteris lay down upon her bed, and was lying with her eyes closed, +when she heard Falca come to her, and felt she was bending over her. +Disinclined to talk, she did not open her eyes, and lay quite still. +Satisfied that she was asleep, Falca left her, moving so softly that +her very caution made Nycteris open her eyes and look after her--just +in time to see her vanish--through a picture, as it seemed, that hung +on the wall a long way from the usual place of issue. She jumped up, +her headache forgotten, and ran in the opposite direction; got out, +groped her way to the stair, climbed, and reached the top of the +wall.--Alas! the great room was not so light as the little one she had +left. Why?--Sorrow of sorrows! the great lamp was gone! Had its globe +fallen? and its lovely light gone out upon great wings, a resplendent +firefly, oaring itself through a yet grander and lovelier room? She +looked down to see if it lay anywhere broken to pieces on the carpet +below; but she could not even see the carpet. But surely nothing very +dreadful could have happened--no rumbling or shaking, for there were +all the little lamps shining brighter than before, not one of them +looking as if any unusual matter had befallen. What if each of those +little lamps was growing into a big lamp, and after being a big lamp +for a while, had to go out and grow a bigger lamp still--out there, +beyond this _out_?--Ah! here was the living thing that would not be +seen, come to her again--bigger to-night! with such loving kisses, and +such liquid strokings of her cheeks and forehead, gently tossing her +hair, and delicately toying with it! But it ceased, and all was still. +Had it gone out? What would happen next? Perhaps the little lamps had +not to grow great lamps, but to fall one by one and go out +first?--With that, came from below a sweet scent, then another, and +another. Ah, how delicious! Perhaps they were all coming to her only +on their way out after the great lamp!--Then came the music of the +river, which she had been too absorbed in the sky to note the first +time. What was it? Alas! alas! another sweet living thing on its way +out. They were all marching slowly out in long lovely file, one after +the other, each taking its leave of her as it passed! It must be so: +here were more and more sweet sounds, following and fading! The whole +of the _Out_ was going out again; it was all going after the great +lovely lamp! She would be left the only creature in the solitary day! +Was there nobody to hang up a new lamp for the old one, and keep the +creatures from going?--She crept back to her rock very sad. She tried +to comfort herself by saying that anyhow there would be room out +there; but as she said it she shuddered at the thought of _empty_ +room. + +When next she succeeded in getting out, a half-moon hung in the east: +a new lamp had come, she thought, and all would be well. + +It would be endless to describe the phases of feeling through which +Nycteris passed, more numerous and delicate than those of a thousand +changing moons. A fresh bliss bloomed in her soul with every varying +aspect of infinite nature. Ere long she began to suspect that the new +moon was the old moon, gone out and come in again like herself; also +that, unlike herself, it wasted and grew again; that it was indeed a +live thing, subject like herself to caverns, and keepers, and +solitudes, escaping and shining when it could. Was it a prison like +hers it was shut in? and did it grow dark when the lamp left it? Where +could be the way into it?--With that first she began to look below, as +well as above and around her; and then first noted the tops of the +trees between her and the floor. There were palms with their +red-fingered hands full of fruit; eucalyptus trees crowded with little +boxes of powder-puffs; oleanders with their half-caste roses; and +orange trees with their clouds of young silver stars, and their aged +balls of gold. Her eyes could see colours invisible to ours in the +moonlight, and all these she could distinguish well, though at first +she took them for the shapes and colours of the carpet of the great +room. She longed to get down among them, now she saw they were real +creatures, but she did not know how. She went along the whole length +of the wall to the end that crossed the river, but found no way of +going down. Above the river she stopped to gaze with awe upon the +rushing water. She knew nothing of water but from what she drank and +what she bathed in; and, as the moon shone on the dark, swift stream, +singing lustily as it flowed, she did not doubt the river was alive, a +swift rushing serpent of life, going--out?--whither? And then she +wondered if what was brought into her rooms had been killed that she +might drink it, and have her bath in it. + +Once when she stepped out upon the wall, it was into the midst of a +fierce wind. The trees were all roaring. Great clouds were rushing +along the skies, and tumbling over the little lamps: the great lamp +had not come yet. All was in tumult. The wind seized her garments and +hair, and shook them as if it would tear them from her. What could she +have done to make the gentle creature so angry? Or was this another +creature altogether--of the same kind, but hugely bigger, and of a +very different temper and behaviour? But the whole place was angry! Or +was it that the creatures dwelling in it, the wind, and the trees, and +the clouds, and the river, had all quarrelled, each with all the rest? +Would the whole come to confusion and disorder? But, as she gazed +wondering and disquieted, the moon, larger than ever she had seen her, +came lifting herself above the horizon to look, broad and red, as if +she, too, were swollen with anger that she had been roused from her +rest by their noise, and compelled to hurry up to see what her +children were about, thus rioting in her absence, lest they should +rack the whole frame of things. And as she rose, the loud wind grew +quieter and scolded less fiercely, the trees grew stiller and moaned +with a lower complaint, and the clouds hunted and hurled themselves +less wildly across the sky. And as if she were pleased that her +children obeyed her very presence, the moon grew smaller as she +ascended the heavenly stair; her puffed cheeks sank, her complexion +grew clearer, and a sweet smile spread over her countenance, as +peacefully she rose and rose. But there was treason and rebellion in +her court; for, ere she reached the top of her great stairs, the +clouds had assembled, forgetting their late wars, and very still they +were as they laid their heads together and conspired. Then combining, +and lying silently in wait until she came near, they threw themselves +upon her, and swallowed her up. Down from the roof came spots of wet, +faster and faster, and they wetted the cheeks of Nycteris; and what +could they be but the tears of the moon, crying because her children +were smothering her? Nycteris wept too, and not knowing what to think, +stole back in dismay to her room. + +The next time, she came out in fear and trembling. There was the moon +still! away in the west--poor, indeed, and old, and looking dreadfully +worn, as if all the wild beasts in the sky had been gnawing at +her--but there she was, alive still, and able to shine! + + + + +CHAPTER XI. THE SUNSET. + + +Knowing nothing of darkness, or stars, or moon, Photogen spent his +days in hunting. On a great white horse he swept over the grassy +plains, glorying in the sun, fighting the wind, and killing the +buffaloes. + +One morning, when he happened to be on the ground a little earlier +than usual, and before his attendants, he caught sight of an animal +unknown to him, stealing from a hollow into which the sunrays had not +yet reached. Like a swift shadow it sped over the grass, slinking +southward to the forest. He gave chase, noted the body of a buffalo it +had half eaten, and pursued it the harder. But with great leaps and +bounds the creature shot farther and farther ahead of him, and +vanished. Turning therefore defeated, he met Fargu, who had been +following him as fast as his horse could carry him. + +"What animal was that, Fargu?" he asked. "How he did run!" + +Fargu answered he might be a leopard, but he rather thought from his +pace and look that he was a young lion. + +"What a coward he must be!" said Photogen. + +"Don't be too sure of that," rejoined Fargu. "He is one of the +creatures the sun makes uncomfortable. As soon as the sun is down, he +will be brave enough." + +He had scarcely said it, when he repented nor did he regret it the +less when he found that Photogen made no reply. But alas! said was +said. + +"Then," said Photogen to himself, "that contemptible beast is one of +the terrors of sundown, of which Madam Watho spoke!" + +He hunted all day, but not with his usual spirit. He did not ride so +hard, and did not kill one buffalo. Fargu to his dismay observed also +that he took every pretext for moving farther south, nearer to the +forest. But all at once, the sun now sinking in the west, he seemed to +change his mind, for he turned his horse's head, and rode home so fast +that the rest could not keep him in sight. When they arrived, they +found his horse in the stable, and concluded that he had gone into the +castle. But he had in truth set out again by the back of it. Crossing +the river a good way up the valley, he reascended to the ground they +had left, and just before sunset reached the skirts of the forest. + +The level orb shone straight in between the bare stems, and saying to +himself he could not fail to find the beast, he rushed into the wood. +But even as he entered, he turned, and looked to the west. The rim of +the red was touching the horizon, all jagged with broken hills. "Now," +said Photogen, "we shall see;" but he said it in the face of a darkness +he had not proved. The moment the sun began to sink among the spikes +and saw-edges, with a kind of sudden flap at his heart a fear +inexplicable laid hold of the youth; and as he had never felt anything +of the kind before, the very fear itself terrified him. As the sun +sank, it rose like the shadow of the world, and grew deeper and +darker. He could not even think what it might be, so utterly did it +enfeeble him. When the last flaming scimitar-edge of the sun went out +like a lamp, his horror seemed to blossom into very madness. Like the +closing lids of an eye--for there was no twilight, and this night no +moon--the terror and the darkness rushed together, and he knew them +for one. He was no longer the man he had known, or rather thought +himself. The courage he had had was in no sense his own--he had only +had courage, not been courageous; it had left him, and he could +scarcely stand--certainly not stand straight, for not one of his +joints could he make stiff or keep from trembling. He was but a spark +of the sun, in himself nothing. + +The beast was behind him--stealing upon him! He turned. All was dark +in the wood, but to his fancy the darkness here and there broke into +pairs of green eyes, and he had not the power even to raise his +bow-hand from his side. In the strength of despair he strove to rouse +courage enough--not to fight--that he did not even desire--but to run. +Courage to flee home was all he could ever imagine, and it would not +come. But what he had not, was ignominiously given him. A cry in the +wood, half a screech, half a growl, sent him running like a +boar-wounded cur. It was not even himself that ran, it was the fear +that had come alive in his legs: he did not know that they moved. But +as he ran he grew able to run--gained courage at least to be a coward. +The stars gave a little light. Over the grass he sped, and nothing +followed him. "How fallen, how changed," from the youth who had +climbed the hill as the sun went down! A mere contempt to himself, the +self that contemned was a coward with the self it contemned! There lay +the shapeless black of a buffalo, humped upon the grass: he made a +wide circuit, and swept on like a shadow driven in the wind. For the +wind had arisen, and added to his terror: it blew from behind him. He +reached the brow of the valley, and shot down the steep descent like a +falling star. Instantly the whole upper country behind him arose and +pursued him! The wind came howling after him, filled with screams, +shrieks, yells, roars, laughter, and chattering, as if all the animals +of the forest were careering with it. In his ears was a trampling +rush, the thunder of the hoofs of the cattle, in career from every +quarter of the wide plains to the brow of the hill above him! He fled +straight for the castle, scarcely with breath enough to pant. + +As he reached the bottom of the valley, the moon peered up over its +edge. He had never seen the moon before--except in the daytime, when +he had taken her for a thin bright cloud. She was a fresh terror to +him--so ghostly! so ghastly! so gruesome!--so knowing as she looked +over the top of her garden-wall upon the world outside! That was the +night itself! the darkness alive--and after him! the horror of +horrors coming down the sky to curdle his blood, and turn his brain to +a cinder! He gave a sob, and made straight for the river, where it ran +between the two walls, at the bottom of the garden. He plunged in, +struggled through, clambered up the bank, and fell senseless on the +grass. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. THE GARDEN. + + +Although Nycteris took care not to stay out long at a time, and used +every precaution, she could hardly have escaped discovery so long, had +it not been that the strange attacks to which Watho was subject had +been more frequent of late, and had at last settled into an illness +which kept her to her bed. But whether from an access of caution or +from suspicion, Falca, having now to be much with her mistress both +day and night, took it at length into her head to fasten the door as +often as she went by her usual place of exit; so that one night, when +Nycteris pushed, she found, to her surprise and dismay, that the wall +pushed her again, and would not let her through; nor with all her +searching could she discover wherein lay the cause of the change. Then +first she felt the pressure of her prison-walls, and turning, half in +despair, groped her way to the picture where she had once seen Falca +disappear. There she soon found the spot by pressing upon which the +wall yielded. It let her through into a sort of cellar, where was a +glimmer of light from a sky whose blue was paled by the moon. From the +cellar she got into a long passage, into which the moon was shining, +and came to a door. She managed to open it, and, to her great joy, +found herself in _the other place_, not on the top of the wall, +however, but in the garden she had longed to enter. Noiseless as a +fluffy moth she flitted away into the covert of the trees and shrubs, +her bare feet welcomed by the softest of carpets, which, by the very +touch, her feet knew to be alive, whence it came that it was so sweet +and friendly to them. A soft little wind was out among the trees, +running now here, now there, like a child that had got its will. She +went dancing over the grass, looking behind her at her shadow, as she +went. At first she had taken it for a little black creature that made +game of her, but when she perceived that it was only where she kept +the moon away, and that every tree, however great and grand a +creature, had also one of these strange attendants, she soon learned +not to mind it, and by and by it became the source of as much +amusement to her, as to any kitten its tail. It was long before she +was quite at home with the trees, however. At one time they seemed to +disapprove of her; at another not even to know she was there, and to +be altogether taken up with their own business. Suddenly, as she went +from one to another of them, looking up with awe at the murmuring +mystery of their branches and leaves, she spied one a little way off, +which was very different from all the rest. It was white, and dark, +and sparkling, and spread like a palm--a small slender palm, without +much head; and it grew very fast, and sang as it grew. But it never +grew any bigger, for just as fast as she could see it growing, it kept +falling to pieces. When she got close to it, she discovered that it +was a water-tree--made of just such water as she washed with--only it +was alive of course, like the river--a different sort of water from +that, doubtless, seeing the one crept swiftly along the floor, and the +other shot straight up, and fell, and swallowed itself, and rose +again. She put her feet into the marble basin, which was the +flower-pot in which it grew. It was full of real water, living and +cool--so nice, for the night was hot! + +But the flowers! ah, the flowers! she was friends with them from the +very first. What wonderful creatures they were!--and so kind and +beautiful--always sending out such colours and such scents--red scent, +and white scent, and yellow scent--for the other creatures! The one +that was invisible and everywhere, took such a quantity of their +scents, and carried it away! yet they did not seem to mind. It was +their talk, to show they were alive, and not painted like those on the +walls of her rooms, and on the carpets. + +She wandered along down the garden until she reached the river. Unable +then to get any further--for she was a little afraid, and justly, of +the swift watery serpent--she dropped on the grassy bank, dipped her +feet in the water, and felt it running and pushing against them. For a +long time she sat thus, and her bliss seemed complete, as she gazed at +the river, and watched the broken picture of the great lamp overhead, +moving up one side of the roof, to go down the other. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. SOMETHING QUITE NEW. + + +A beautiful moth brushed across the great blue eyes of Nycteris. She +sprang to her feet to follow it--not in the spirit of the hunter, but +of the lover. Her heart--like every heart, if only its fallen sides +were cleared away--was an inexhaustible fountain of love: she loved +everything she saw. But as she followed the moth, she caught sight of +something lying on the bank of the river, and not yet having learned +to be afraid of anything, ran straight to see what it was. Reaching +it, she stood amazed. Another girl like herself! But what a +strange-looking girl!--so curiously dressed too!--and not able to +move! Was she dead? Filled suddenly with pity, she sat down, lifted +Photogen's head, laid it on her lap, and began stroking his face. Her +warm hands brought him to himself. He opened his black eyes, out of +which had gone all the fire, and looked up with a strange sound of +fear, half moan, half gasp. But when he saw her face, he drew a deep +breath, and lay motionless--gazing at her: those blue marvels above +him, like a better sky, seemed to side with courage and assuage his +terror. At length, in a trembling, awed voice, and a half whisper, he +said, "Who are you?" + +"I am Nycteris," she answered. + +"You are a creature of the darkness, and love the night," he said, his +fear beginning to move again. + +"I may be a creature of the darkness," she replied. "I hardly know +what you mean. But I do not love the night. I love the day--with all +my heart; and I sleep all the night long." + +"How can that be?" said Photogen, rising on his elbow, but dropping his +head on her lap again the moment he saw the moon; "--how can it be," +he repeated, "when I see your eyes there--wide awake?" + +She only smiled and stroked him, for she did not understand him, and +thought he did not know what he was saying. + +"Was it a dream then?" resumed Photogen, rubbing his eyes. But with +that his memory came clear, and he shuddered, and cried, "Oh horrible! +horrible! to be turned all at once into a coward! a shameful, +contemptible, disgraceful coward! I am ashamed--ashamed--and _so_ +frightened! It is all so frightful!" + +"What is so frightful?" asked Nycteris, with a smile like that of a +mother to her child waked from a bad dream. + +"All, all," he answered; "all this darkness and the roaring." + +"My dear," said Nycteris, "there is no roaring. How sensitive you must +be! What you hear is only the walking of the water, and the running +about of the sweetest of all the creatures. She is invisible, and I +call her Everywhere, for she goes through all the other creatures and +comforts them. Now she is amusing herself, and them too, with shaking +them and kissing them, and blowing in their faces. Listen: do you call +that roaring? You should hear her when she is rather angry though! I +don't know why, but she is sometimes, and then she does roar a +little." + +"It is so horribly dark!" said Photogen, who, listening while she +spoke, had satisfied himself that there was no roaring. + +"Dark!" she echoed. "You should be in my room when an earthquake has +killed my lamp. I do not understand. How _can_ you call this dark? Let +me see: yes, you have eyes, and big ones, bigger than Madam Watho's or +Falca's--not so big as mine, I fancy--only I never saw mine. But +then--oh yes!--I know now what is the matter! You can't see with them +because they are so black. Darkness can't see, of course. Never mind: +I will be your eyes, and teach you to see. Look here--at these lovely +white things in the grass, with red sharp points all folded together +into one. Oh, I love them so! I could sit looking at them all day, the +darlings!" + +Photogen looked close at the flowers, and thought he had seen +something like them before, but could not make them out. As Nycteris +had never seen an open daisy, so had he never seen a closed one. + +Thus instinctively Nycteris tried to turn him away from his fear; and +the beautiful creature's strange lovely talk helped not a little to +make him forget it. + +"You call it dark!" she said again, as if she could not get rid of the +absurdity of the idea; "why, I could count every blade of the green +hair--I suppose it is what the books call grass--within two yards of +me! And just look at the great lamp! It is brighter than usual to-day, +and I can't think why you should be frightened, or call it dark!" + +As she spoke, she went on stroking his cheeks and hair, and trying to +comfort him. But oh how miserable he was! and how plainly he looked +it! He was on the point of saying that her great lamp was dreadful to +him, looking like a witch, walking in the sleep of death; but he was +not so ignorant as Nycteris, and knew even in the moonlight that she +was a woman, though he had never seen one so young or so lovely +before; and while she comforted his fear, her presence made him the +more ashamed of it. Besides, not knowing her nature, he might annoy +her, and make her leave him to his misery. He lay still therefore, +hardly daring to move: all the little life he had seemed to come from +her, and if he were to move, she might move; and if she were to leave +him, he must weep like a child. + +"How did you come here?" asked Nycteris, taking his face between her +hands. + +"Down the hill," he answered. + +"Where do you sleep?" she asked. + +He signed in the direction of the house. She gave a little laugh of +delight. + +"When you have learned not to be frightened, you will always be +wanting to come out with me," she said. + +She thought with herself she would ask her presently, when she had +come to herself a little, how she had made her escape, for she must, +of course, like herself have got out of a cave, in which Watho and +Falca had been keeping her. + +"Look at the lovely colours," she went on, pointing to a rose-bush, on +which Photogen could not see a single flower. "They are far more +beautiful--are they not?--than any of the colours upon your walls. And +then they are alive, and smell so sweet!" + +He wished she would not make him keep opening his eyes to look at +things he could not see; and every other moment would start and grasp +tight hold of her, as some fresh pang of terror shot into him. + +"Come, come, dear!" said Nycteris; "you must not go on this way. You +must be a brave girl, and--" + +"A girl!" shouted Photogen, and started to his feet in wrath. "If you +were a man, I should kill you." + +"A man?" repeated Nycteris: "what is that? How could I be that? We are +both girls--are we not?" + +"No, I am not a girl," he answered; "--although," he added, changing +his tone, and casting himself on the ground at her feet, "I have given +you too good reason to call me one." + +"Oh, I see!" returned Nycteris. "No, of course! you can't be a girl: +girls are not afraid--without reason. I understand now: it is because +you are not a girl that you are so frightened." + +Photogen twisted and writhed upon the grass. + +"No, it is not," he said sulkily; "it is this horrible darkness that +creeps into me, goes all through me, into the very marrow of my +bones--that is what makes me behave like a girl. If only the sun would +rise!" + +"The sun! what is it?" cried Nycteris, now in her turn conceiving a +vague fear. + +Then Photogen broke into a rhapsody, in which he vainly sought to +forget his. + +"It is the soul, the life, the heart, the glory of the universe," he +said. "The worlds dance like motes in his beams. The heart of man is +strong and brave in his light, and when it departs his courage grows +from him--goes with the sun, and he becomes such as you see me now." + +"Then that is not the sun?" said Nycteris, thoughtfully, pointing up +to the moon. + +"That!" cried Photogen, with utter scorn; "I know nothing about +_that_, except that it is ugly and horrible. At best it can be only +the ghost of a dead sun. Yes, that is it! That is what makes it look +so frightful." + +"No," said Nycteris, after a long, thoughtful pause; "you must be +wrong there. I think the sun is the ghost of a dead moon, and that is +how he is so much more splendid as you say.--Is there, then, another +big room, where the sun lives in the roof?" + +"I do not know what you mean," replied Photogen. "But you mean to be +kind, I know, though you should not call a poor fellow in the dark a +girl. If you will let me lie here, with my head in your lap, I should +like to sleep. Will you watch me, and take care of me?" + +"Yes, that I will," answered Nycteris, forgetting all her own danger. + +So Photogen fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. THE SUN. + + +There Nycteris sat, and there the youth lay, all night long, in the +heart of the great cone-shadow of the earth, like two Pharaohs in one +pyramid. Photogen slept, and slept; and Nycteris sat motionless lest +she should wake him, and so betray him to his fear. + +The moon rode high in the blue eternity; it was a very triumph of +glorious night; the river ran babble-murmuring in deep soft syllables; +the fountain kept rushing moon-ward, and blossoming momently to a +great silvery flower, whose petals were for ever falling like snow, +but with a continuous musical clash, into the bed of its exhaustion +beneath; the wind woke, took a run among the trees, went to sleep, and +woke again; the daisies slept on their feet at hers, but she did not +know they slept; the roses might well seem awake, for their scent +filled the air, but in truth they slept also, and the odour was that +of their dreams; the oranges hung like gold lamps in the trees, and +their silvery flowers were the souls of their yet unembodied children; +the scent of the acacia blooms filled the air like the very odour of +the moon herself. + +At last, unused to the living air, and weary with sitting so still and +so long, Nycteris grew drowsy. The air began to grow cool. It was +getting near the time when she too was accustomed to sleep. She closed +her eyes just a moment, and nodded--opened them suddenly wide, for she +had promised to watch. + +In that moment a change had come. The moon had got round, and was +fronting her from the west, and she saw that her face was altered, +that she had grown pale, as if she too were wan with fear, and from +her lofty place espied a coming terror. The light seemed to be +dissolving out of her; she was dying--she was going out! And yet +everything around looked strangely clear--clearer than ever she had +seen anything before: how could the lamp be shedding more light when +she herself had less? Ah, that was just it! See how faint she looked! +It was because the light was forsaking her, and spreading itself over +the room, that she grew so thin and pale! She was giving up +everything! She was melting away from the roof like a bit of sugar in +water. + +Nycteris was fast growing afraid, and sought refuge with the face upon +her lap. How beautiful the creature was!--what to call it she could +not think, for it had been angry when she called it what Watho called +her. And, wonder upon wonder! now, even in the cold change that was +passing upon the great room, the colour as of a red rose was rising in +the wan cheek. What beautiful yellow hair it was that spread over her +lap! What great huge breaths the creature took! And what were those +curious things it carried? She had seen them on her walls, she was +sure. + +Thus she talked to herself while the lamp grew paler and paler, and +everything kept growing yet clearer. What could it mean? The lamp was +dying--going out into the other place of which the creature in her lap +had spoken, to be a sun! But why were the things growing clearer +before it was yet a sun? That was the point. Was it her growing into a +sun that did it? Yes! yes! it was coming death! She knew it, for it +was coming upon her also! She felt it coming! What was she about to +grow into? Something beautiful, like the creature in her lap? It might +be! Anyhow, it must be death; for all her strength was going out of +her, while all around her was growing so light she could not bear it! +She must be blind soon! Would she be blind or dead first? + +For the sun was rushing up behind her. Photogen woke, lifted his head +from her lap, and sprang to his feet. His face was one radiant smile. +His heart was full of daring--that of the hunter who will creep into +the tiger's den. Nycteris gave a cry, covered her face with her hands, +and pressed her eyelids close. Then blindly she stretched out her arms +to Photogen, crying, "Oh, I am so frightened! What is this? It must be +death! I don't wish to die yet. I love this room and the old lamp. I +do not want the other place! This is terrible. I want to hide. I want +to get into the sweet, soft, dark hands of all the other creatures. Ah +me! ah me!" + +"What is the matter with you, girl?" said Photogen, with the arrogance +of all male creatures until they have been taught by the other kind. +He stood looking down upon her over his bow, of which he was examining +the string. "There is no fear of anything now, child. It is day. The +sun is all but up. Look! he will be above the brow of yon hill in one +moment more! Good-bye. Thank you for my night's lodging. I'm off. +Don't be a goose. If ever I can do anything for you--and all that, you +know!" + +"Don't leave me; oh, don't leave me!" cried Nycteris. "I am dying! I +am dying! I cannot move. The light sucks all the strength out of me. +And oh, I am so frightened!" + +But already Photogen had splashed through the river, holding high his +bow that it might not get wet. He rushed across the level, and +strained up the opposing hill. Hearing no answer, Nycteris removed her +hands. Photogen had reached the top, and the same moment the sunrays +alighted upon him: the glory of the king of day crowded blazing upon +the golden-haired youth. Radiant as Apollo, he stood in mighty +strength, a flashing shape in the midst of flame. He fitted a glowing +arrow to a gleaming bow. The arrow parted with a keen musical twang of +the bowstring, and Photogen darting after it, vanished with a shout. +Up shot Apollo himself, and from his quiver scattered astonishment and +exultation. But the brain of poor Nycteris was pierced through and +through. She fell down in utter darkness. All around her was a flaming +furnace. In despair and feebleness and agony, she crept back, feeling +her way with doubt and difficulty and enforced persistence to her +cell. When at last the friendly darkness of her chamber folded her +about with its cooling and consoling arms, she threw herself on her +bed and fell fast asleep. And there she slept on, one alive in a tomb, +while Photogen, above in the sun-glory, pursued the buffaloes on the +lofty plain, thinking not once of her where she lay dark and forsaken, +whose presence had been his refuge, her eyes and her hands his +guardians through the night. He was in his glory and his pride; and +the darkness and its disgrace had vanished for a time. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE COWARD HERO. + + +But no sooner had the sun reached the noonstead, than Photogen began +to remember the past night in the shadow of that which was at hand, +and to remember it with shame. He had proved himself--and not to +himself only, but to a girl as well--a coward!--one bold in the +daylight, while there was nothing to fear, but trembling like any +slave when the night arrived. There was, there must be, something +unfair in it! A spell had been cast upon him! He had eaten, he had +drunk something that did not agree with courage! In any case he had +been taken unprepared! How was he to know what the going down of the +sun would be like? It was no wonder he should have been surprised into +terror, seeing it was what it was--in its very nature so terrible! +Also, one could not see where danger might be coming from! You might +be torn in pieces, carried off, or swallowed up, without even seeing +where to strike a blow! Every possible excuse he caught at, eager as a +self-lover to lighten his self-contempt. That day he astonished the +huntsmen--terrified them with his reckless darings--all to prove to +himself he was no coward. But nothing eased his shame. One thing only +had hope in it--the resolve to encounter the dark in solemn earnest, +now that he knew something of what it was. It was nobler to meet a +recognized danger than to rush contemptuously into what seemed +nothing--nobler still to encounter a nameless horror. He could conquer +fear and wipe out disgrace together. For a marksman and swordsman like +him, he said, one with his strength and courage, there was but danger. +Defeat there was not. He knew the darkness now, and when it came he +would meet it as fearless and cool as now he felt himself. And again +he said, "We shall see!" + +He stood under the boughs of a great beech as the sun was going down, +far away over the jagged hills: before it was half down, he was +trembling like one of the leaves behind him in the first sigh of the +night-wind. The moment the last of the glowing disc vanished, he +bounded away in terror to gain the valley, and his fear grew as he +ran. Down the side of the hill, an abject creature, he went bounding +and rolling and running; fell rather than plunged into the river, and +came to himself, as before, lying on the grassy bank in the garden. + +But when he opened his eyes, there were no girl-eyes looking down into +his; there were only the stars in the waste of the sunless Night--the +awful all-enemy he had again dared, but could not encounter. Perhaps +the girl was not yet come out of the water! He would try to sleep, for +he dared not move, and perhaps when he woke he would find his head on +her lap, and the beautiful dark face, with its deep blue eyes, bending +over him. But when he woke he found his head on the grass, and +although he sprang up with all his courage, such as it was, restored, +he did not set out for the chase with such an _elan_ as the day +before; and, despite the sun-glory in his heart and veins, his hunting +was this day less eager; he ate little, and from the first was +thoughtful even to sadness. A second time he was defeated and +disgraced! Was his courage nothing more than the play of the sunlight +on his brain? Was he a mere ball tossed between the light and the +dark? Then what a poor contemptible creature he was! But a third +chance lay before him. If he failed the third time, he dared not +foreshadow what he must then think of himself! It was bad enough +now--but then! + +Alas! it went no better. The moment the sun was down, he fled as if +from a legion of devils. + +Seven times in all, he tried to face the coming night in the strength +of the past day, and seven times he failed--failed with such increase +of failure, with such a growing sense of ignominy, overwhelming at +length all the sunny hours and joining night to night, that, what with +misery, self-accusation, and loss of confidence, his daylight courage +too began to fade, and at length, from exhaustion, from getting wet, +and then lying out of doors all night, and night after night,--worst +of all, from the consuming of the deathly fear, and the shame of +shame, his sleep forsook him, and on the seventh morning, instead of +going to the hunt, he crawled into the castle, and went to bed. The +grand health, over which the witch had taken such pains, had yielded, +and in an hour or two he was moaning and crying out in delirium. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. AN EVIL NURSE. + + +Watho was herself ill, as I have said, and was the worse tempered; +and, besides, it is a peculiarity of witches, that what works in +others to sympathy, works in them to repulsion. Also, Watho had a +poor, helpless, rudimentary spleen of a conscience left, just enough +to make her uncomfortable, and therefore more wicked. So, when she +heard that Photogen was ill, she was angry. Ill, indeed! after all she +had done to saturate him with the life of the system, with the solar +might itself! He was a wretched failure, the boy! And because he was +_her_ failure, she was annoyed with him, began to dislike him, grew to +hate him. She looked on him as a painter might upon a picture, or a +poet, upon a poem, which he had only succeeded in getting into an +irrecoverable mess. In the hearts of witches, love and hate lie close +together, and often tumble over each other. And whether it was that +her failure with Photogen foiled also her plans in regard to Nycteris, +or that her illness made her yet more of a devil's wife, certainly +Watho now got sick of the girl too, and hated to know her about the +castle. + +She was not too ill, however, to go to poor Photogen's room and +torment him. She told him she hated him like a serpent, and hissed +like one as she said it, looking very sharp in the nose and chin, and +flat in the forehead. Photogen thought she meant to kill him, and +hardly ventured to take anything brought him. She ordered every ray of +light to be shut out of his room; but by means of this he got a little +used to the darkness. She would take one of his arrows, and now tickle +him with the feather end of it, now prick him with the point till the +blood ran down. What she meant finally I cannot tell, but she brought +Photogen speedily to the determination of making his escape from the +castle: what he should do then he would think afterwards. Who could +tell but he might find his mother somewhere beyond the forest! If it +were not for the broad patches of darkness that divided day from day, +he would fear nothing! + +But now, as he lay helpless in the dark, ever and anon would come +dawning through it the face of the lovely creature who on that first +awful night nursed him so sweetly: was he never to see her again? If +she was, as he had concluded, the nymph of the river, why had she not +re-appeared? She might have taught him not to fear the night, for +plainly she had no fear of it herself! But then, when the day came, +she did seem frightened:--why was that, seeing there was nothing to be +afraid of then? Perhaps one so much at home in the darkness, was +correspondingly afraid of the light! Then his selfish joy at the +rising of the sun, blinding him to her condition, had made him behave +to her, in ill return for her kindness, as cruelly as Watho behaved to +him! How sweet and dear and lovely she was! If there were wild beasts +that came out only at night, and were afraid of the light, why should +there not be girls too, made the same way--who could not endure the +light, as he could not bear the darkness? If only he could find her +again! Ah, how differently he would behave to her! But alas! perhaps +the sun had killed her--melted her--burned her up!--dried her up--that +was it, if she was the nymph of the river! + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +WATHO'S WOLF. + + +From that dreadful morning Nycteris had never got to be herself again. +The sudden light had been almost death to her; and now she lay in the +dark with the memory of a terrific sharpness--a something she dared +scarcely recall, lest the very thought of it should sting her beyond +endurance. But this was as nothing to the pain which the recollection +of the rudeness of the shining creature whom she had nursed through +his fear caused her; for, the moment his suffering passed over to her, +and he was free, the first use he made of his returning strength had +been to scorn her! She wondered and wondered; it was all beyond her +comprehension. + +Before long, Watho was plotting evil against her. The witch was like a +sick child weary of his toy: she would pull her to pieces, and see how +she liked it. She would set her in the sun, and see her die, like a +jelly from the salt ocean cast out on a hot rock. It would be a sight +to soothe her wolf-pain. One day, therefore, a little before noon, +while Nycteris was in her deepest sleep, she had a darkened litter +brought to the door, and in that she made two of her men carry her to +the plain above. There they took her out, laid her on the grass, and +left her. + +Watho watched it all from the top of her high tower, through her +telescope; and scarcely was Nycteris left, when she saw her sit up, +and the same moment cast herself down again with her face to the +ground. + +"She'll have a sunstroke," said Watho, "and that'll be the end of +her." + +Presently, tormented by a fly, a huge-humped buffalo, with great +shaggy mane, came galloping along, straight for where she lay. At +sight of the thing on the grass, he started, swerved yards aside, +stopped dead, and then came slowly up, looking malicious. Nycteris lay +quite still, and never even saw the animal. + +"Now she'll be trodden to death!" said Watho. "That's the way those +creatures do." + +When the buffalo reached her, he sniffed at her all over, and went +away; then came back, and sniffed again; then all at once went off as +if a demon had him by the tail. + +Next came a gnu, a more dangerous animal still, and did much the same; +then a gaunt wild boar. But no creature hurt her, and Watho was angry +with the whole creation. + +At length, in the shade of her hair, the blue eyes of Nycteris began +to come to themselves a little, and the first thing they saw was a +comfort. I have told already how she knew the night-daisies, each a +sharp-pointed little cone with a red tip; and once she had parted the +rays of one of them, with trembling fingers, for she was afraid she +was dreadfully rude, and perhaps was hurting it; but she did want, she +said to herself, to see what secret it carried so carefully hidden; +and she found its golden heart. But now, right under her eyes, inside +the veil of her hair, in the sweet twilight of whose blackness she +could see it perfectly, stood a daisy with its red tip opened wide +into a carmine ring, displaying its heart of gold on a platter of +silver. She did not at first recognize it as one of those cones come +awake, but a moment's notice revealed what it was. Who then could have +been so cruel to the lovely little creature, as to force it open like +that, and spread it heart-bare to the terrible death-lamp? Whoever it +was, it must be the same that had thrown her out there to be burned to +death in its fire! But she had her hair, and could hang her head, and +make a small sweet night of her own about her! She tried to bend the +daisy down and away from the sun, and to make its petals hang about it +like her hair, but she could not. Alas! it was burned and dead +already! She did not know that it could not yield to her gentle force +because it was drinking life, with all the eagerness of life, from +what she called the death-lamp. Oh, how the lamp burned her! + +But she went on thinking--she did not know how; and by and by began to +reflect that, as there was no roof to the room except that in which +the great fire went rolling about, the little Red-tip must have seen +the lamp a thousand times, and must know it quite well! and it had not +killed it! Nay, thinking about farther, she began to ask the question +whether this, in which she now saw it, might not be its more perfect +condition. For not only now did the whole seem perfect, as indeed it +did before, but every part showed its own individual perfection as +well, which perfection made it capable of combining with the rest into +the higher perfection of a whole. The flower was a lamp itself! The +golden heart was the light, and the silver border was the alabaster +globe, skilfully broken, and spread wide to let out the glory. Yes; +the radiant shape was plainly its perfection! If, then, it was the +lamp which had opened it into that shape, the lamp could not be +unfriendly to it, but must be of its own kind, seeing it made it +perfect! And again, when she thought of it, there was clearly no +little resemblance between them. What if the flower then was the +little great-grandchild of the lamp, and he was loving it all the +time? And what if the lamp did not mean to hurt her, only could not +help it? The red lips looked as if the flower had some time or other +been hurt: what if the lamp was making the best it could of +her--opening her out somehow like the flower? She would bear it +patiently, and see. But how coarse the colour of the grass was! +Perhaps, however, her eyes not being made for the bright lamp, she did +not see them us they were! Then she remembered how different were the +eyes of the creature that was not a girl and was afraid of the +darkness! Ah, if the darkness would only come again, all arms, +friendly and soft everywhere about her! She would wait and wait, and +bear, and be patient. + +She lay so still that Watho did not doubt she had fainted. She was +pretty sure she would be dead before the night came to revive her. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. REFUGE. + + +Fixing her telescope on the motionless form, that she might see it at +once when the morning came, Watho went down from the tower to +Photogen's room. He was much better by this time, and before she left +him, he had resolved to leave the castle that very night. The darkness +was terrible indeed, but Watho was worse than even the darkness, and +he could not escape in the day. As soon, therefore, as the house +seemed still, he tightened his belt, hung to it his hunting-knife, put +a flask of wine and some bread in his pocket, and took his bow and +arrows. He got from the house, and made his way at once up to the +plain. But what with his illness, the terrors of the night, and his +dread of the wild beasts, when he got to the level he could not walk a +step further, and sat down, thinking it better to die than to live. In +spite of his fears, however, sleep contrived to overcome him, and he +fell at full length on the soft grass. + +He had not slept long when he woke with such a strange sense of +comfort and security, that he thought the dawn at least must have +arrived. But it was dark night about him. And the sky--no, it was not +the sky, but the blue eyes of his naiad looking down upon him! Once +more he lay with his head in her lap, and all was well, for plainly +the girl feared the darkness as little as he the day. + +"Thank you," he said. "You are like live armour to my heart; you keep +the fear off me. I have been very ill since then. Did you come up out +of the river when you saw me cross?" + +"I don't live in the water," she answered. "I live under the pale +lamp, and I die under the bright one." + +"Ah, yes! I understand now," he returned. "I would not have behaved as +I did last time if I had understood; but I thought you were mocking +me; and I am so made that I cannot help being frightened at the +darkness. I beg your pardon for leaving you as I did, for, as I say, I +did not understand. Now I believe you were really frightened. Were +you not?" + +"I was, indeed," answered Nycteris, "and shall be again. But why you +should be, I cannot in the least understand. You must know how gentle +and sweet the darkness is, how kind and friendly, how soft and +velvety! It holds you to its bosom and loves you. A little while ago, +I lay faint and dying under your hot lamp.--What is it you call it?" + +"The sun," murmured Photogen: "how I wish he would make haste!" + +"Ah! do not wish that. Do not, for my sake, hurry him. I can take care +of you from the darkness, but I have no one to take care of me from +the light.--As I was telling you, I lay dying in the sun. All at once +I drew a deep breath. A cool wind came and ran over my face. I looked +up. The torture was gone, for the death-lamp itself was gone. I hope +he does not die and grow brighter yet. My terrible headache was all +gone, and my sight was come back. I felt as if I were new made. But I +did not get up at once, for I was tired still. The grass grew cool +about me, and turned soft in colour. Something wet came upon it, and +it was now so pleasant to my feet, that I rose and ran about. And when +I had been running about a long time, all at once I found you lying, +just as I had been lying a little while before. So I sat down beside +you to take care of you, till your life--and my death--should come +again." + +"How good you are, you beautiful creature!--Why, you forgave me before +ever I asked you!" cried Photogen. + +Thus they fell a talking, and he told her what he knew of his history, +and she told him what she knew of hers, and they agreed they must get +away from Watho as far as ever they could. + +"And we must set out at once," said Nycteris. + +"The moment the morning comes," returned Photogen. + +"We must not wait for the morning," said Nycteris, "for then I shall +not be able to move, and what would you do the next night? Besides, +Watho sees best in the daytime. Indeed, you must come now, +Photogen.--You must." + +"I can not; I dare not," said Photogen. "I cannot move. If I but lift +my head from your lap, the very sickness of terror seizes me." + +"I shall be with you," said Nycteris soothingly. "I will take care of +you till your dreadful sun comes, and then you may leave me, and go +away as fast as you can. Only please put me in a dark place first, if +there is one to be found." + +"I will never leave you again, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "Only wait +till the sun comes, and brings me back my strength, and we will go +away together, and never, never part any more." + +"No, no," persisted Nycteris; "we must go now. And you must learn to +be strong in the dark as well as in the day, else you will always be +only half brave. I have begun already--not to fight your sun, but to +try to get at peace with him, and understand what he really is, and +what he means with me--whether to hurt me or to make the best of me. +You must do the same with my darkness." + +"But you don't know what mad animals there are away there towards the +south," said Photogen. "They have huge green eyes, and they would eat +you up like a bit of celery, you beautiful creature!" + +"Come, come! you must," said Nycteris, "or I shall have to pretend to +leave you, to make you come. I have seen the green eyes you speak of, +and I will take care of you from them." + +"You! How can you do that? If it were day now, I could take care of +you from the worst of them. But as it is, I can't even see them for +this abominable darkness. I could not see your lovely eyes but for the +light that is in them; that lets me see straight into heaven through +them. They are windows into the very heaven beyond the sky. I believe +they are the very place where the stars are made." + +"You come then, or I shall shut them," said Nycteris, "and you shan't +see them any more till you are good. Come. If you can't see the wild +beasts, I can." + +"You can! and you ask me to come!" cried Photogen. + +"Yes," answered Nycteris. "And more than that, I see them long before +they can see me, so that I am able to take care of you." + +"But how?" persisted Photogen. "You can't shoot with bow and arrow, or +stab with a hunting-knife." + +"No, but I can keep out of the way of them all. Why, just when I found +you, I was having a game with two or three of them at once. I see, and +scent them too, long before they are near me--long before they can see +or scent me." + +"You don't see or scent any now, do you?" said Photogen, uneasily, +rising on his elbow. + +"No--none at present. I will look," replied Nycteris, and sprang to +her feet. + +"Oh, oh! do not leave me--not for a moment," cried Photogen, straining +his eyes to keep her face in sight through the darkness. + +"Be quiet, or they will hear you," she returned. "The wind is from the +south, and they cannot scent us. I have found out all about that. Ever +since the dear dark came, I have been amusing myself with them, +getting every now and then just into the edge of the wind, and letting +one have a sniff of me." + +"Oh, horrible!" cried Photogen. "I hope you will not insist on doing +so any more. What was the consequence?" + +"Always, the very instant, he turned with flashing eyes, and hounded +towards me--only he could not see me, you must remember. But my eyes +being so much better than his, I could see him perfectly well, and +would run away round him until I scented him, and then I knew he could +not find me anyhow. If the wind were to turn, and run the other way +now, there might be a whole army of them down upon us, leaving no room +to keep out of their way. You had better come." + +She took him by the hand. He yielded and rose, and she led him away. +But his steps were feeble, and as the night went on, he seemed more +and more ready to sink. + +"Oh dear! I am so tired! and so frightened!" he would say. + +"Lean on me," Nycteris would return, putting her arm round him, or +patting his cheek. "Take a few steps more. Every step away from the +castle is clear gain. Lean harder on me. I am quite strong and well +now." + +So they went on. The piercing night-eyes of Nycteris descried not a +few pairs of green ones gleaming like holes in the darkness, and many +a round she made to keep far out of their way; but she never said to +Photogen she saw them. Carefully she kept him off the uneven places, +and on the softest and smoothest of the grass, talking to him gently +all the way as they went--of the lovely flowers and the stars--how +comfortable the flowers looked, down in their green beds, and how +happy the stars up in their blue beds! + +When the morning began to come, he began to grow better, but was +dreadfully tired with walking instead of sleeping, especially after +being so long ill. Nycteris too, what with supporting him, what with +growing fear of the light which was beginning to ooze out of the east, +was very tired. At length, both equally exhausted, neither was able to +help the other. As if by consent they stopped. Embracing each the +other, they stood in the midst of the wide grassy land, neither of +them able to move a step, each supported only by the leaning weakness +of the other, each ready to fall if the other should move. But while +the one grew weaker still, the other had begun to grow stronger. When +the tide of the night began to ebb, the tide of the day began to flow; +and now the sun was rushing to the horizon, borne upon its foaming +billows. And ever as he came, Photogen revived. At last the sun shot +up into the air, like a bird from the hand of the Father of Lights. +Nycteris gave a cry of pain, and hid her face in her hands. + +"Oh me!" she sighed; "I am _so_ frightened! The terrible light stings +so!" + +But the same instant, through her blindness, she heard Photogen give a +low exultant laugh, and the next felt herself caught up: she who all +night long had tended and protected him like a child, was now in his +arms, borne along like a baby, with her head lying on his shoulder. +But she was the greater, for, suffering more, she feared nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. THE WEREWOLF. + + +At the very moment when Photogen caught up Nycteris, the telescope of +Watho was angrily sweeping the table-land. She swung it from her in +rage, and running to her room, shut herself up. There she anointed +herself from top to toe with a certain ointment; shook down her long +red hair, and tied it round her waist; then began to dance, whirling +round and round faster and faster, growing angrier and angrier, until +she was foaming at the mouth with fury. When Falca went looking for +her, she could not find her anywhere. + +As the sun rose, the wind slowly changed and went round, until it blew +straight from the north. Photogen and Nycteris were drawing near the +edge of the forest, Photogen still carrying Nycteris, when she moved a +little on his shoulder uneasily, and murmured in his ear, + +"I smell a wild beast--that way, the way the wind is coming." + +Photogen turned, looked back towards the castle, and saw a dark speck +on the plain. As he looked, it grew larger: it was coming across the +grass with the speed of the wind. It came nearer and nearer. It looked +long and low, but that might be because it was running at a great +stretch. He set Nycteris down under a tree, in the black shadow of its +bole, strung his bow, and picked out his heaviest, longest, sharpest +arrow. Just as he set the notch on the string, he saw that the +creature was a tremendous wolf, rushing straight at him. He loosened +his knife in its sheath, drew another arrow half-way from the quiver, +lest the first should fail, and took his aim--at a good distance, to +leave time for a second chance. He shot. The arrow rose, flew +straight, descended, struck the beast, and started again into the air, +doubled like a letter V. Quickly Photogen snatched the other, shot, +cast his bow from him, and drew his knife. But the arrow was in the +brute's chest, up to the feather; it tumbled heels over head with a +great thud of its back on the earth, gave a groan, made a struggle or +two, and lay stretched out motionless. + +"I've killed it, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "It is a great red wolf." + +"Oh, thank you!" answered Nycteris feebly from behind the tree. "I was +sure you would. I was not a bit afraid." + +Photogen went up to the wolf. It _was_ a monster! But he was vexed +that his first arrow had behaved so badly, and was the less willing to +lose the one that had done him such good service: with a long and a +strong pull, he drew it from the brute's chest. Could he believe his +eyes? There lay--no wolf, but Watho, with her hair tied round her +waist! The foolish witch had made herself invulnerable, as she +supposed, but had forgotten that, to torment Photogen therewith, she +had handled one of his arrows. He ran back to Nycteris and told her. + +She shuddered and wept, and would not look. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. ALL IS WELL. + + +There was now no occasion to fly a step farther. Neither of them +feared any one but Watho. They left her there, and went back. A great +cloud came over the sun, and rain began to fall heavily, and Nycteris +was much refreshed, grew able to see a little, and with Photogen's +help walked gently over the cool wet grass. + +They had not gone far before they met Fargu and the other huntsmen. +Photogen told them he had killed a great red wolf, and it was Madam +Watho. The huntsmen looked grave, but gladness shone through. + +"Then," said Fargu, "I will go and bury my mistress." + +But when they reached the place, they found she was already buried--in +the maws of sundry birds and beasts which had made their breakfast of +her. + +Then Fargu, overtaking them, would, very wisely, have Photogen go to +the king, and tell him the whole story. But Photogen, yet wiser than +Fargu, would not set out until he had married Nycteris; "for then," he +said, "the king himself can't part us; and if ever two people couldn't +do the one without the other, those two are Nycteris and I. She has +got to teach me to be a brave man in the dark, and I have got to look +after her until she can bear the heat of the sun, and he helps her to +see, instead of blinding her." + +They were married that very day. And the next day they went together +to the king, and told him the whole story. But whom should they find +at the court but the father and mother of Photogen, both in high +favour with the king and queen. Aurora nearly died for joy, and told +them all how Watho had lied, and made her believe her child was dead. + +No one knew anything of the father or mother of Nycteris; but when +Aurora, saw in the lovely girl her own azure eyes shining through +night and its clouds, it made her think strange things, and wonder how +even the wicked themselves may be a link to join together the good. +Through Watho, the mothers, who had never seen each other, had changed +eyes in their children. + +The king gave them the castle and lands of Watho, and there they lived +and taught each other for many years that were not long. But hardly +had one of them passed, before Nycteris had come to love the day best, +because it was the clothing and crown of Photogen, and she saw that +the day was greater than the night, and the sun more lordly than the +moon; and Photogen had come to love the night best, because it was the +mother and home of Nycteris. + +"But who knows," Nycteris would say to Photogen, "that, when we go +out, we shall not go into a day as much greater than your day as your +day is greater than my night?" + + + + +THE BUTCHER'S BILLS. + + +CHAPTER I. HUSBAND AND WIFE. + + +I am going to tell a story of married life. My title will prepare the +reader for something hardly heroic; but I trust it will not be found +lacking in the one genuine and worthy interest a tale ought to +have--namely, that it presents a door through which we may walk into +one region or another of the human heart, and there find ourselves not +altogether unacquainted or from home. + +There was a law among the Jews which forbade the yoking together of +certain animals, either because, being unequal in size or strength, +one of them must be oppressed, or for the sake of some lesson thus +embodied to the Eastern mind--possibly for both reasons. Half the +tragedy would be taken out of social life if this law could be applied +to human beings in their various relations. I do not say that this +would be well, or that we could afford to lose the result of the +tragedy thus occasioned. Neither do I believe that there are so many +instances of unequal yoking as the misprising judgments of men by men +and women by women might lead us to imagine. Not every one declared by +the wisdom of acquaintance to have thrown himself or herself away must +therefore be set down as unequally yoked. Or it may even be that the +inequality is there, but the loss on the other side. How some people +could ever have come together must always be a puzzle until one knows +the history of the affair; but not a few whom most of us would judge +quite unsuited to each other do yet get on pretty well from, the +first, and better and better the longer they are together, and that +with mutual advantage, improvement, and development. Essential +humanity is deeper than the accidents of individuality; the common is +more powerful than the peculiar; and the honest heart will always be +learning to act more and more in accordance with the laws of its +being. It must be of much more consequence to any lady that her +husband should be a man on whose word she can depend than that he +should be of a gracious presence. But if instead of coming nearer to a +true understanding of each other, the two should from the first keep +falling asunder, then something tragic may almost be looked for. + +Duncan and Lucy Dempster were a couple the very mention of whose +Christian names together would have seemed amusing to the friends who +had long ceased to talk of their unfitness. Indeed, I doubt if in +their innermost privacy they ever addressed each other except as Mr. +and Mrs. Dempster. For the first time to see them together, no one +could help wondering how the conjunction could have been effected. +Dempster was of Scotch descent, but the hereditary high cheek-bone +seemed to have got into his nose, which was too heavy a pendant for +the low forehead from which it hung. About an inch from the end it +took a swift and unexpected curve downwards, and was a curious and +abnormal nose, which could not properly be assorted with any known +class of noses. A long upper lip, a large, firm, and not quite ugly +mouth, with a chin both long and square, completed a face which, with +its low forehead, being yet longer than usual, had a particularly +equine look. He was rather under the middle height, slender, and well +enough made--altogether an ordinary mortal, known on 'Change as an +able, keen, and laborious man of business. What his special business +was I do not know. He went to the city by the eight o'clock omnibus +every morning, dived into a court, entered a little square, rushed up +two flights of stairs to a couple of rooms, and sat down in the back +one before an office table on a hair-seated chair. It was a dingy +place--not so dirty as it looked, I daresay. Even the windows, being +of bad glass, did, I believe, look dirtier than they were. It was a +place where, so far as the eye of an outsider could tell, much or +nothing might be doing. Its occupant always wore his hat in it, and +his hat always looked shabby. Some people said he was rich, others +that he would be one day. Some said he was a responsible man, whatever +the epithet may have been intended to mean. I believe he was quite as +honest as the recognized laws of his trade demanded--and for how many +could I say more? Nobody said he was avaricious--but then he moved +amongst men whose very notion was first to make money, after that to +be religious, or to enjoy themselves, as the case might be. And no one +either ever said of him that he was a good man, or a generous. He was +about forty years of age, looking somehow as if he had never been +younger. He had had a fair education--better than is generally +considered necessary for mercantile purposes--but it would have been +hard to discover any signs of it in the spending of his leisure. On +Sunday mornings he went with his wife to church, and when he came home +had a good dinner, of which now and then a friend took his share. If +no stranger was present he took his wine by himself, and went to sleep +in his easy chair of marone-coloured leather, while his wife sat on +the other side of the fire if it was winter, or a little way off by +the open window if it was summer, gently yawned now and then, and +looked at him with eyes a little troubled. Then he went off again by +the eight o'clock omnibus on Monday morning, and not an idea more or +less had he in his head, not a hair's-breadth of difference was there +in his conduct or pursuits, that he had been to church and had spent +the day out of business. That may, however, for anything I know, have +been as much the clergyman's fault as his. He was the sort of man you +might call machine-made, one in whom humanity, if in no wise +caricatured, was yet in no wise ennobled. + +His wife was ten years younger than he--hardly less than +beautiful--only that over her countenance seemed to have gathered a +kind of haze of commonness. At first sight, notwithstanding, one could +not help perceiving that she was china and he was delft. She was +graceful as she sat, long-necked, slope-shouldered, and quite as tall +as her husband, with a marked daintiness about her in the absence of +the extremes of the fashion, in the quality of the lace she wore on +her black silk dress, and in the wide white sleeves of fine cambric +that covered her arms from the shoulder to the wrist. She had a +morally delicate air, a look of scrupulous nicety and lavender-stored +linen. She had long dark lashes; and when they rose, the eyelids +revealed eyes of uncommon beauty. She had good features, good teeth, +and a good complexion. The main feeling she produced and left was of +ladyhood--little more. + +Sunday afternoon came fifty-two times in the year. I mention this +because then always, and nearly then only, could one calculate on +seeing them together. It came to them in a surburb of London, and the +look of it was dull. Doubtless Mr. Dempster's dinner and his repose +after it were interesting to him, but I cannot help thinking his wife +found it dreary. She had, however, got used to it. The house was a +good old one, of red brick, much larger than they required, but not +expensive, and had a general look of the refinement of its mistress. +In the summer the windows of the dining-room would generally be open, +for they looked into a really lovely garden behind the house, and the +scent of the jasmine that crept all around them would come in +plentifully. I wonder what the scent of jasmine did in Duncan +Dempster's world. Perhaps it never got farther than the general +ante-chamber of the sensorium. It often made his wife sad--she could +not tell why. To him I daresay it smelt agreeable, but I can hardly +believe it ever woke in him that dreamy sensation it gave her--of +something she had not had enough of, she could not say what. When the +heat was gone off a little he would walk out on the lawn, which was +well kept and well watered, with many flowering shrubs about it. Why +he did so, I cannot tell. He looked at nothing in particular, only +walked about for a few minutes, no doubt derived some pleasure of a +mild nature from something, and walked in again to tea. One might have +expected he would have cultivated the acquaintance of his garden a +little, if it were only for the pleasure the contrast would give him +when he got back to his loved office, for a greater contrast could not +well have been found than between his dingy dreary haunt on +weekdays--a place which nothing but duty could have made other than +repugnant to any free soul--and this nest of greenery and light and +odour. Sweet scents floated in clouds invisible about the place; +flower eyes and stars and bells and bunches shone and glowed and +lurked all around; his very feet might have learned a lesson of that +which is beyond the sense from the turf he trod; but all the time, if +he were not exactly seeing in his mind's eye the walls and tables of +his office in the City square, his thoughts were not the less brooding +over such business as he there transacted. For Mr. Dempster's was not +a free soul. How could it be when all his energies were given to +making money? This he counted his _calling_--and I believe actually +contrived to associate some feeling of duty with the notion of leaving +behind him a plump round sum of money, as if money in accumulation and +following flood, instead of money in peaceful current, were the good +thing for the world! Hence the whole realm of real life, the universe +of thought and growth, was a high-hedged park to him, within which he +never even tried to look--not even knowing that he was shut out from +it, for the hedge was of his own growing. What shall ever wake such a +man to a sense of indwelling poverty, or make him begin to hunger +after any lowliest expansion? Does a reader retort, "The man was +comfortable, and why should he be troubled?" If the end of being, I +answer, is only comfort in self, I yield. But what if there should be +at the heart of the universe a Thought to which the being of such men +is distasteful? What if to that Thought they look blots in light, ugly +things? May there not lie in that direction some possible reason why +they should bethink themselves? Dempster, however, was not yet a +clinker out of which all the life was burned, however much he looked +like one. There was in him that which might yet burn--and give light +and heat. + +On the Sunday evenings Mrs. Dempster would have gladly gone to church +again, if only--though to herself she never allowed this for one of +her reasons--to slip from under the weight of her husband's presence. +He seldom spoke to her more than a sentence at a time, but he did like +to have her near him, and I suppose held, through the bare presence, +some kind of dull one-sided communication with her; what did a woman +know about business? and what did he know about except business? It is +true he had a rudimentary pleasure in music--and would sometimes ask +her to play to him, when he would listen, and after his fashion enjoy. +But although here was a gift that might be developed until his soul +could echo the music of the spheres, the embodied souls of Handel or +Mendelssohn were to him but clouds of sound wrapped about kernels--let +me say of stock or bonds. + +For a year or so after their marriage it had been the custom that, the +first thing after breakfast on Monday morning, she should bring him +her account-book, that they might together go over her week's +expenses. She must cultivate the business habits in which, he said, he +found her more than deficient. How could he endure in a wife what +would have been preposterous in a clerk, and would have led to his +immediate dismissal? It was in his eyes necessary that the same strict +record of receipt and expenditure should be kept in the household as +in the office; how else was one to know in what direction things were +going? he said. He required of his wife, therefore, that every +individual thing that cost money, even to what she spent upon her own +person, should be entered in her book. She had no money of her own, +neither did he allow her any special sum for her private needs; but he +made her a tolerably liberal weekly allowance, from which she had to +pay everything except house-rent and taxes, an arrangement which I +cannot believe a good one, as it will inevitably lead some +conscientious wives to self-denial severer than necessary, and on the +other hand will tempt the vulgar nature to make a purse for herself by +mean savings off everybody else. It was especially distasteful to Mrs. +Dempster to have to set down every little article of personal +requirement that she bought. It would probably have seemed to her but +a trifle had they both been young when they married, and had there +been that tenderness of love between them which so soon sets +everything more than right; but as it was, she could never get over +the feeling that the man was strange to her. As it was she would have +got over this. But there was in her a certain constitutional lack of +precision, combined with a want of energy and a weakness of will, that +rendered her more than careless where her liking was not interested. +Hence, while she would have been horrified at playing a wrong note or +singing out of tune, she not only had no anxiety, for the thing's own +sake, to have her accounts correct, but shrunk from every effort in +that direction. Now I can perfectly understand her recoil from the +whole affair, with her added dislike to the smallness of the thing +required of her; but seeing she did begin with doing it after a +fashion, it is not so easy to understand why, doing it, she should not +make a consolation of doing it with absolute exactness. Not even her +dread of her husband's dissatisfaction--which was by no means +small--could prevail to make her, instead of still trusting a memory +that constantly played her false, put down a thing at once, nor +postpone it to a far less convenient season. Hence it came that her +accounts, though never much out, never balanced; and the weekly audit, +while it grew more and more irksome to the one, grew more and more +unsatisfactory to the other. For to Mr. Dempster's dusty eyes +exactitude wore the robe of rectitude, and before long, precisely and +merely from the continued unsatisfactory condition of her accounts, he +began, in a hidden corner of his righteous soul, to reflect on the +moral condition of his wife herself as unsatisfactory. Now such it +certainly was, but he was not the man to judge it correctly, or to +perceive the true significance of her failing. In business, while +scrupulous as to the requirements of custom and recognized right, he +nevertheless did things from which her soul would have recoiled like +"the tender horns of cockled snails;" yet it was to him not merely a +strange and inexplicable fact that she should _never_ be able to show +to a penny, nay, often not to a shilling or eighteenpence, how the +week's allowance went, but a painful one as indicating something +beyond perversity. And truly it was no very hard task he required of +her, for, seeing they had no children, only three servants, and saw +little company, her housekeeping could not be a very heavy or involved +affair. Perhaps if it had been more difficult she would have done it +better, but anyhow she hated the whole thing, procrastinated, and +setting down several things together, was _sure_ to forget some +article or mistake some price; yet not one atom more would she +distrust her memory the next time she was tempted. But it was a small +fault at worst, and if her husband had loved her enough to understand +the bearings of it in relation to her mental and moral condition he +would have tried to content himself that at least she did not exceed +her allowance; and would of all things have avoided making such a +matter a burden upon the consciousness of one so differently educated, +if not constituted, from himself. It is but fair to add on the other +side that, if she had loved him after anything like a wifely ideal, +which I confess was not yet possible to her, it would not have been +many weeks before she had a first correct account to show him. +Convinced, at length, that accuracy was not to be had from her, and +satisfying himself with dissatisfaction, he one morning threw from him +the little ruled book, and declared, in a wrath which he sought to +smother into dignified but hopeless rebuke, that he would trouble +himself with her no further. She burst into tears, took up the book, +left the room, cried a little, resolved to astonish him the next +Monday, and never set down another item. When it came, and breakfast +was over, he gave her the usual cheque, and left at once for town. Nor +had the accounts ever again been alluded to between them. + +Now this might have been very well, or at least not very ill, if both +had done tolerably well thereafter--that is, if the one had continued +to attend to her expenditure as well as before, and the other, when he +threw away the account-book, had dismissed from his mind the whole +matter. But Dempster was one of those dangerous men--more dangerous, +however, to themselves than to others--who never forget, that is, get +over, an offence or disappointment. They respect themselves so much, +and, out of their respect for themselves, build so much upon success, +set so much by never being defeated but always gaining their point, +that when they are driven to confess themselves foiled, the confession +is made from the "poor dumb mouth" of a wound that cannot be healed. +It is there for ever--will be there at least until they find another +God to worship than their own paltry selves. Hence it came that the +bourn between the two spiritual estates yawned a little wider at one +point, and a mist of dissatisfaction would not unfrequently rise from +a certain stagnant pool in its hollow. The cause was paltry in one +sense, but nothing to which belongs the name of _Cause_ can fail to +mingle the element of awfulness even with its paltriness. Its worst +effect was that it hindered approximation in other parts of their +marching natures. + +And as to Mrs. Dempster, I am sorry for the apparent justification +which what I have to confess concerning her must give to the severe +whims of such husbands as hers: from that very Monday morning she +began to grow a little careless about her expenditure--which she had +never been before. By degrees bill after bill was allowed to filch +from the provision of the following week, and when that was devoured, +then from that of the week after. It was not that she was in the least +more expensive upon herself, or that she consciously wasted anything; +but, altogether averse to housekeeping, she ceased to exercise the +same outlook upon the expenditure of the house, did not keep her +horses together, left the management more and more to her cook; while +the consciousness that she was not doing her duty made her more and +more uncomfortable, and the knowledge that things were going farther +and farther wrong, made her hate the idea of accounts worse and worse, +until she came at length to regard them with such a loathing as might +have fitted some extreme of moral evil. The bills which were supposed +by her husband to be regularly settled every week were at last months +behind, and the week's money spent in meeting the most pressing of its +demands, while what it could no longer cover was cast upon the growing +heap of evil for the time to come. + +I must say this for her, however, that there was a small sum of money +she expected on the death of a crazy aunt, which, if she could but lay +hold of it without her husband's knowledge, she meant to devote to the +clearing off of everything, when she vowed to herself to do better in +the time to come. + +The worst thing in it all was that her fear of her husband kept +increasing, and that she felt more and more uncomfortable in his +presence. Hence that troubled look in her eye, always more marked when +her husband sat dozing in his chair of a Sunday afternoon. + +It was natural, too, that, although they never quarrelled, their +intercourse should not grow of a more tender character. Seldom was +there a salient point in their few scattered sentences of +conversation, except, indeed, it were some piece of news either had to +communicate. Occasionally the wife read something from the newspaper, +but never except at her husband's request. In general he enjoyed his +newspaper over a chop at his office. Two or three times since their +marriage--now eight years--he had made a transient resolve pointing at +the improvement of her mind, and to that end had taken from his great +glass-armoured bookcase some _standard_ work--invariably, I believe, +upon party-politics--from which he had made her read him a chapter. +But, unhappily, she had always got to the end of it without gaining +the slightest glimmer of a true notion of what the author was driving +at. + +It almost moves me to pity to think of the vagueness of that +rudimentary humanity in Mr. Dempster which made him dream of doing +something to improve his wife's mind. What did he ever do to improve +his own? It is hard to understand how horses find themselves so +comfortable in their stables that, be the day ever so fine, the +country ever so lovely, the air ever so exhilarating, they are always +rejoiced to get back into their dull twilight: it is harder to me to +understand how Mr. Dempster could be so comfortable in his own mind +that he never wanted to get out of it, even at the risk of being +beside himself; but no doubt the dimness of its twilight had a good +deal to do with his content. And then there is that in every human +mind which no man's neighbour, nay, no man himself, can understand. My +neighbour may in his turn be regarding my mind as a gloomy place to +live in, while I find it no undesirable residence--though chiefly +because of the number of windows it affords me for looking out of it. +Still, if Dempster's dingy office in the City was not altogether a +sufficing type of the mind that used it, I consider it a very fairly +good one. + +But wherein was Mrs. Dempster so very different from her husband as I +rudely fancy some of my readers imagining her? Whatever may have been +her reasons for marrying him--one would suppose they must have been +weighty--to do so she must have been in a very undeveloped condition, +and in that condition she still remained. I do not mean that she was +less developed than ninety-nine out of the hundred: most women affect +me only as valuable crude material out of which precious things are +making. How much they might be, must be, shall be! For now they stand +like so many Lot's-wives--so many rough-hewn marble blocks, rather, of +which a Divinity is shaping the ends. Mrs. Dempster had all the making +of a lovely woman, but notwithstanding her grace, her beauty, her +sweetness, her lark-like ballading too, she was a very ordinary woman +in that region of her which knew what she meant when she said "I." Of +this fact she had hardly a suspicion, however; for until aspiration +brings humility, people are generally pretty well satisfied with +themselves, having no idea what poor creatures they are. She saw in +her mirror a superior woman, regarded herself as one of the finer +works of creation. The worst was that from the first she had counted +herself superior to her husband, and in marrying him had felt not +merely that she was conferring a favour, which every husband would +allow, but that she was lowering herself without elevating him. Now it +is true that she was pleasanter to look at, that her manners were +sweeter, and her notions of the becoming far less easily satisfied +than his; also that she was a little less deficient in vague reverence +for certain forms of the higher than he. But I know of nothing in her +to determine her classification as of greater value than he, except +indeed that she was on the whole rather more honest. She read novels +and he did not; she passed shallow judgment, where he scorned to +judge; she read all the middling poetry that came in her way, and +copied books full of it; but she could no more have appreciated one of +Milton's or Shakspere's smallest poems than she could have laughed +over a page of Chinese. She liked to hear this and that popular +preacher, and when her husband called his sermons humbug, she heard it +with a shocked countenance; but was she better or worse than her +husband when, admiring them as she did, she permitted them to have no +more influence upon her conduct than if they had been the merest +humbug ever uttered by ambitious demagogue? In truth, I cannot see +that in the matter of worth there was much as yet to choose between +them. + +It is hardly necessary, then, to say that there was little appreciable +approximation of any kind going on between them. If only they would +have read Dickens together! Who knows what might have come of it! But +this dull close animal proximity, without the smallest conscious +nearness of heart or mind or soul--and so little chance, from very +lack of wants, for showing each other kindnesses--surely it is a +killing sort of thing! And yet, and yet, there is always a +something--call it habit, or any poorest name you please--grows up +between two who are much together, at least when they neither quarrel +nor thwart each other's designs, which, tending with its roots towards +the deeper human, blossoms into--a wretched little flower indeed, yet +afar off partaking of the nature of love. The Something seldom reveals +its existence until they are parted. I suspect that with not a few, +Death is the love-messenger at the stroke of whose dart the stream of +love first begins to flow in the selfish bosom. + +It is now necessary to mention a little break in the monotony of Mrs. +Dempster's life, which, but for what came afterwards, could claim no +record. One morning her page announced Major Strong, and possibly she +received the gentleman who entered with a brighter face than she had +ever shown her husband. The major had just arrived from India. He had +been much at her father's house while she was yet a mere girl, being +then engaged to one of her sisters, who died after he went abroad, and +before he could return to marry her. He was now a widower, a +fine-looking, frank, manly fellow. The expression of his countenance +was little altered, and the sight of him revived in the memory of Mrs. +Dempster many recollections of a happy girlhood, when the prospect of +such a life as she now led with tolerable content would have seemed +simply unendurable. When her husband came home she told him as much as +he cared to hear of the visitor she had had, and he made no objection +to her asking him to dine the next Sunday. When he arrived Mr. +Dempster saw a man of his own age, bronzed and big, with not much +waist left, but a good carriage and pleasant face. He made himself +agreeable at dinner, appreciated his host's wine, and told good +stories that pleased the business man as showing that he knew "what +was what." He accorded him his more particular approval, speaking to +his wife, on the ground that he was a man of the world, with none of +the army slang about him. Mr. Dempster was not aware that he had +himself more business peculiarities than any officer in her majesty's +service had military ones. + +After this Major Strong frequently called upon Mrs. Dempster. They +were good friends, and did each other no harm whatever, and the +husband neither showed nor felt the least jealousy. They sang +together, occasionally went out shopping, and three or four times went +together to the play. Mr. Dempster, so long as he had his usual +comforts, did not pine in his wife's absence, but did show a little +more pleasure when she came home to him than usually when he came home +to her. This lasted for a few months. Then the major went back to +India, and for a time the lady missed him a good deal, which, +considering the dulness of her life, was not very surprising or +reprehensible. + + + + +CHAPTER II. AN ASTONISHMENT. + + +Now comes the strange part of my story. + +One evening the housemaid opened the door to Mr. Dempster on his +return from the city; and perhaps the fact that it was the maid, and +not the page as usual, roused his observation, which, except in +business matters, was not remarkably operative. He glanced at the +young woman, when an eye far less keen than his could not have failed +to remark a strangely excited expression on her countenance. + +"Where is the boy?" he asked. + +"Just run to the doctor's, sir," she answered. + +Then first he remembered that when he left in the morning his wife had +not been feeling altogether well, but he had never thought of her +since. + +"How is your mistress?" he said. + +"She's rather poorly, sir, but--but--she's as well as could be +expected." + +"What does the fool mean?" said Dempster to himself, and very nearly +said it aloud, for he was not over polite to any in his service. But +he did not say it aloud. He advanced into the hall with deliberation, +and made for the stair. + +"Oh, please sir," the maid cried in a tone of perturbation, when, +turning from shutting the door, she saw his intention, "you can't go +up to mis'ess's room just at this minute, sir. Please go in the +dining-room, sir." + +"What do you mean?" he asked, turning angrily upon the girl, for of +all things he hated mystery. + +Like every one else in the house, and office both, she stood in awe of +him, and his look frightened her. + +"Please go in the dining-room," she gasped entreatingly. + +"What!" he said and did turn towards the dining-room, "is your +mistress so ill she can't see me?" + +"Oh, no, sir!--at least I don't know exactly. Cook's with her, sir. +She's over the worst, anyhow." + +"What on earth do you mean, girl? Speak out, will you? What is the +matter with your mistress?" + +As he spoke he stepped into the room, the maid following him. The same +moment he spied a whitish bundle of something on the rug in front of +the fire. + +"What do you mean by leaving things like that in the dining-room?" he +went on more angrily still. + +"Please, sir," answered the girl, going and lifting the bundle +carefully, "it's the baby!" + +"The baby!" shouted Mr. Dempster, and looked at her from head to foot. +"What baby?" Then bethinking himself that it must belong to some +visitor in the drawing-room with his wife, he moderated his tone. +"Make haste; take it away!" he said. "I don't want babies here! +There's a time and a place for everything!--What _are_ you about?" + +For, instead of obeying her master and taking it away, the maid was +carefully looking in the blanket for the baby. Having found it and +turned aside the covering from its face, she came nearer, and holding +up the little vision, about the size and colour of a roll of red wax +taper, said:-- + +"Look at it, sir! It's your own, and worth looking at." + +Never before had she dared speak to him so! + +I will not venture to assert that Mr. Dempster turned white, but his +countenance changed, and he dropped into the chair behind him, feeling +less of a business man than had been his consciousness for the last +twenty years. He was hit hard. The absolutely Incredible had hit him. +Babies might be born in a day, but surely not without previous +preparation on the part of nature at least, if not on that of the +mother; and in this case if the mother had prepared herself, certainly +she had not prepared him for the event. It was as if the treasure of +Nature's germens were tumbling all together. His head swam. He could +not speak a word. + +"Yes, sir," the maid went on, relieved of her trepidation in +perceiving that her master too was mortal, and that her word had such +power over him--proud also of knowing more of his concerns than he did +himself, "she was took about an hour and a half ago. We've kep' +sendin' an' sendin' after the doctor, but he ain't never been yet; +only cook, she knows a deal an' she says she's been very bad, sir. But +the young gentleman come at last, bless him! and now she's doin' as +well as could be expected, sir--cook says." + +"God bless me!" said the astonished father, and relapsed into the +silence of bewilderment. + +Eight years married with never a glimmer of offspring--and now, all at +once, and without a whisper of warning, the father of a "young +gentleman!" How could it be other than perplexing--discomposing, +indeed!--yet it was right pleasant too. Only it would have been more +pleasant if experience could have justified the affair! Nature--no, +not Nature--or, if Nature, then Nature sure in some unnatural mood, +had stolen a march upon him, had gone contrary to all that had ever +been revealed of her doings before! and why had she pitched on +him--just him, Duncan Dempster, to exercise one of her more grotesque +and wayward moods upon?--to play at hide-and-seek with after this +fashion? She had not treated him with exactly proper respect, he +thought, or, rather vaguely felt. + +"Business is business," he remarked, under his breath, "and this +cannot be called proper business behaviour. What is there about me to +make game of? Really, my wife ought--" + +What his wife ought or ought not to have done, however, had not yet +made itself clear to him, and his endeavour to excogitate being in +that direction broken off, gave way to the pleasure of knowing himself +a father, or perhaps more truly of having an heir. In the strength of +it he rose, went to the cellaret, and poured himself out a glass of +his favourite port, which he sat down to drink in silence and +meditation. He was rather a picture just then and there, though not a +very lovely one, seated, with his hat still on his head, in the middle +of the room, upon a chair half-way between the dining-table and the +sideboard, with his glass of wine in his hand. He was pondering partly +the pleasure, but still mainly the peculiarity of his position. A +bishop once told me that, shortly after he had been raised to the +episcopal dignity, a friend's horses, whose driver had tumbled off the +box drunk, ran away with him, and upset the carriage. He crept out of +the window over his head, and the first thought that came to him as he +sat perched on the side of the carriage, while it was jumbled along by +the maddened horses, was, "What do bishops do in such circumstances?" +Equally perplexing was the question Dempster had to ask himself: how +husbands who, after being married eight years, suddenly and +unexpectedly received the gift of a first-born, were in the habit of +comporting themselves! He poured himself out another glass, and with +it came the reflection, both amusing and consoling, that his brother, +who was confidently expecting his tidy five figures to crown the +earthly bliss of one or more of his large family some day, would be +equally but less agreeably surprised. "Serve him right!" he said to +himself. "What business have they to be looking out for my death?" And +for a moment the heavens appeared a little more just than he was +ordinarily in the habit of regarding them. He said to himself he would +work harder than ever now. There would now be some good in making +money! He had never given his mind to it yet, he said: now the world +should see what he could do when he did give his mind to it! + +Hitherto gathering had been his main pleasure, but with the thought of +his money would now not seldom be mingled the thought of the little +thing in the blanket! He began to find himself strangely happy. I use +the wrong phrase--for the fact is, he had never yet found himself at +all; he knew nothing of the person except a self-painted and immensely +flattered portrait that hung in the innermost chamber of his heart--I +mean the innermost chamber he knew anything of: there were many +chambers there of which he did not even know the doors. Yet a few +minutes as he sat there, and he was actually cherishing a little pride +in the wife who had done so much better for him than he had at length +come to expect. If not a good accountant, she was at least a good +wife, and a very fair housekeeper: he had no doubt she would prove a +good mother. He would gladly have gone to her at once, to let her know +how much he was pleased with her behaviour. As for that little bit of +red clay--"terra cotta," he called it to himself, as he looked round +with a smile at the blanket, which the housemaid had replaced on the +rug before the fire--who could imagine him a potentate upon +'Change--perhaps in time a director of European affairs! He was not in +the way of joking--of all things about money; the very thought, of +business filled him from top to toe with seriousness; but he did make +that small joke, and accompany it with a grim smile. + +He was startled from his musing by the entrance of the doctor, who had +in the meantime arrived and seen the lady, and now came to look at the +baby. He congratulated Mr. Dempster on having at length a son and +heir, but warned him that his wife was far from being beyond danger +yet. The whole thing was entirely out of the common, he said, and she +must be taken the greatest possible care of. The words woke a gentle +pity in the heart of the man, for by nature all men have some +tenderness for women in such circumstances, but they did not trouble +him greatly--for such dangers belonged to their calling, their +_business_ in life, and, doubtless, if she had attended to that +business earlier she would have found it easier. + +"Did you ever know such a thing before, doctor?" he asked, with the +importance of one honoured by a personal visit from the Marvellous. + +"Never in my own practice," answered the doctor, whom the cook had +instructed in the wonders of the case, "but I have read of such a +thing." And Mr. Dempster swelled like a turkey-cock. + +It was several days before he was allowed to see the mother. Perhaps +had she expressed a strong desire to see him, it might have been +risked sooner, but she had neither expressed nor manifested any. He +kissed her, spoke a few stupid words in a kind tone, asking her how +she did, but paying no heed to her answer, and turned aside to look, +at the baby. + +Mrs. Dempster recovered but slowly, and not very satisfactorily. She +did not seem to care much about the child. She tried to nurse him, but +was not very successful. She took him when the nurse brought him, and +yielded him again with the same indifference, showing neither pleasure +to receive nor unwillingness to part with him. The nurse did not fail +to observe it and remark upon it: _she_ had never seen a mother care +so little for her child! there was little of the mother in _her_ any +way! it was no wonder she was so long about it. It troubled the father +a little that she should not care for his child: some slight +fermentation had commenced in the seemingly dead mass of human +affection that had lain so long neglected in his being, and it seemed +strange to him that, while he was living for the child in the City, +she should be so indifferent to him at home. For already he had begun +to keep his vow, already his greater keenness in business was remarked +in the City. But it boded little good for either that the gift of God +should stir up in him the worship of Mammon. More sons are damned by +their fathers' money than by anything else whatever outside of +themselves. + +There was the excuse to be made for Mrs. Dempster that she continued +far from strong--and her husband made it: he would have made it more +heartily if he had himself ever in his life known what it was to be +ill. By degrees she grew stronger, however, until, to persons who had +not known her before, she would have seemed in tolerable health. For a +week or two after she was again going about the house, she continued +to nurse the baby, but after that she became unable to do so, and +therewith began to neglect him entirely. She never asked to see him, +and when the nurse brought him would turn her head aside, and tell her +to take it away. So far from his being a pleasure to her, the very +sight of the child brought the hot dew upon her forehead. Her husband +frowned and wondered, but, unaccustomed to open his mind either to her +or to any one else, not unwisely sought to understand the thing before +speaking of it, and in the meantime commenced a genuine attempt to +make up to the baby for his mother's neglect. Almost without a notion +how even to take him in his arms, he would now send for him the moment +he had had his tea, and after a fashion, ludicrous in the eyes of the +nurse, would dandle and caress him, and strut about with him before +his wife, glancing up at her every now and then, to point the lesson +that such was the manner in which a parent ought to behave to a child. +In his presence she never made any active show of her dislike, but her +look seemed all the time fixed on something far away, as if she had +nothing to do with the affair. + + + + +CHAPTER III. ANOTHER ASTONISHMENT. + + +But a second and very different astonishment awaited Mr. Dempster. +Again one evening, on his return from the City, he saw a strange look +on the face of the girl who opened the door--but this time it was a +look of fear. + +"Well?" he said, in a tone at once alarmed and peremptory. + +She made no answer, but turned whiter than before. + +"Where is your mistress?" he demanded. + +"Nobody knows, sir," she answered. + +"Nobody knows! What would you have me understand by such an answer?" + +"It's the bare truth, sir. Nobody knows where she is." + +"God bless me!" cried the husband. "What does it all mean?" + +And again he sunk down upon a chair--this time in the hall, and stared +at the girl as if waiting further enlightenment. + +But there was little enough to be had. Only one point was clear: his +wife was nowhere to be found. He sent for every one in the house, and +cross-questioned each to discover the last occasion on which she had +been seen. It was some time since she had been missed; how long before +that she had been seen there was no certainty to be had. He ran to the +doctor, then from one to another of her acquaintance, then to her +mother, who lived on the opposite side of London. She, like the rest, +could tell him nothing. In her anxiety she would have gone back with +him, but he was surly, and would not allow her. It was getting towards +morning before he reached home, but no relieving news awaited him. +What to think was as much a perplexity to him as what to do. He was +not in the agony in which a man would have been who thoroughly loved +his wife, but he cared enough about her to feel uncomfortable; and the +cries of the child, who was suffering from some ailment, made him +miserable: in his perplexity and dull sense of helplessness he +wondered whether she might not have given the baby poison before she +went. Then the thing would make such a talk! and, of all things, +Duncan Dempster hated being talked about. How busy people's brains +would be with all his affairs! How many explanations of the mystery +would be suggested on 'Change! Some would say, "What business had a +man like him with a fine lady for a wife? one so much younger than +himself too!" He could remember making the same remark of another, +before he was married. "Served him right!" they would say. And with +that the first movement of suspicion awoke in him--purely and solely +from his own mind's reflection of the imagined minds of others. While +in his mind's ear he heard them talking, almost before he knew what +they meant the words came to him: "There was that Major Strong, you +know!" + +"She's gone to him!" he cried aloud, and, springing from the bed on +which he had thrown himself, he paced the chamber in a fury. He had no +word for it but hers that he was now in India! They had only been +waiting till--By heaven, that child was none of his! And therewith +rushed into his mind the conviction that everything was thus +explained. No man ever yet entertained an unhappy suspicion, but +straightway an army of proofs positive came crowding to the service of +the lie. It is astounding with what manifest probability everything +will fall in to prove that a fact which has no foundation whatever! +There is no end to the perfection with which a man may fool himself +while taking absolute precautions against being fooled by others. +Every fact, being a living fact, has endless sides and relations; but +of all these, the man whose being hangs upon one thought, will see +only those sides and relations which fall in with that thought. +Dempster even recalled the words of the maid, "It's mis'ess's," as +embodying the girl's belief that it was not master's. Where a man, +whether by nature jealous or not, is in a jealous condition, there is +no need of an Iago to parade before him the proofs of his wrong. It +was because Shakespere would neither have Desdemona less than perfect, +nor Othello other than the most trusting and least suspicious of men, +that he had to invent an all but incredible villain to effect the +needful catastrophe. + +But why should a man, who has cared so little for his wife, become +instantly, upon the bare suspicion, so utter a prey to consuming +misery? There was a character in his suffering which could not be +attributed to any degree of anger, shame, or dread of ridicule. The +truth was, there lay in his being a possibility of love to his wife +far beyond anything his miserably stunted consciousness had an idea +of; and the conviction of her faithlessness now wrought upon him in +the office of Death, to let him know what he had lost. It magnified +her beauty in his eyes, her gentleness, her grace; and he thought with +a pang how little he had made of her or it. + +But the next moment wrath at the idea of another man's child being +imposed upon him as his, with the consequent loss of his precious +money, swept every other feeling before it. For by law the child was +his, whoever might be the father of it. During a whole minute he felt +on the point of tying a stone about its neck, carrying it out, and +throwing it into the river Lea. Then, with the laugh of a hyena, he +set about arranging in his mind the proofs of her guilt. First came +eight childless years with himself; next the concealment of her +condition, and the absurd pretence that she had known nothing of it; +then the trouble of mind into which she had fallen; then her strange +unnatural aversion to her own child; and now, last of all, conclusive +of a guilty conscience, her flight from his house. He would give +himself no trouble to find her; why should he search after his own +shame! He would neither attempt to conceal nor to explain the fact +that she had left him--people might say what they pleased--try him for +murder if they liked! As to the child she had so kindly left to +console him for her absence, he would not drown him, neither would he +bring him up in his house; he would give him an ordinary education, +and apprentice him to a trade. For his money, he would leave it to a +hospital--a rich one, able to defend his will if disputed. For what +was the child? A monster--a creature that had no right to existence! + +Not one of those who knew him best would have believed him capable of +being so moved, nor did one of them now know it, for he hid his +suffering with the success of a man not unaccustomed to make a mask of +his face. There are not a few men who, except something of the nature +of a catastrophe befall them, will pass through life without having or +affording a suspicion of what is in them. Everything hitherto had +tended to suppress the live elements of Duncan Dempster; but now, like +the fire of a volcano in a land of ice, the vitality in him had begun +to show itself. + +Sheer weariness drove him, as the morning began to break, to lie down +again; but he neither undressed nor slept, and rose at his usual hour. +When he entered the dining-room, where breakfast was laid as +usual--only for one instead of two--he found by his plate, among +letters addressed to his wife, a packet directed to himself. It had +not been through the post, and the address was in his wife's hand. He +opened it. A sheet of paper was wrapped around a roll of unpaid +butcher's bills, amounting to something like eighty pounds, and a note +from the butcher craving immediate settlement. On the sheet of paper +was written, also in his wife's hand, these words: "I am quite +unworthy of being your wife any longer;" that was all. + +Now here, to a man who had loved her enough to understand her, was a +clue to the whole--to Dempster it was the strongest possible +confirmation of what he had already concluded. To him it appeared as +certain as anything he called truth, that for years, while keeping a +fair face to her husband--a man who had never refused her anything--he +did not recall the fact that almost never had she asked or he offered +anything--she had been deceiving him, spending money she would not +account for, pretending to pay everything when she had been ruining +his credit with the neighbourhood, making him, a far richer man than +any but himself knew, appear to be living beyond his means, when he +was every month investing far more than he spent. It was injury upon +injury! Then, as a last mark of her contempt, she had taken pains that +these beggarly butcher's bills should reach him from her own hand! He +would trouble himself about such a woman not a moment longer! + +He went from breakfast to his omnibus as usual, walked straight to his +office, and spent the day according to custom. I need hardly say that +the first thing he did was to write a cheque for the butcher. He made +no further inquiry after her whatever, nor was any made of him there, +for scarcely one of the people with whom he did business had been to +his house, or had even seen his wife. + +In the suburb where he lived it was different; but he paid no heed to +any inquiry, beyond saying he knew nothing about her. To her relatives +he said that if they wanted her they might find her for themselves. +She had gone to please herself, and he was not going to ruin himself +by running about the world after her. + +Night after night he came home to his desolate house; took no comfort +from his child; made no confession that he stood in need of comfort. +But he had a dull sensation as if the sun had forsaken the world, and +an endless night had begun. The simile, of course, is mine--the +sensation only was his; _he_ could never have expressed anything that +went on in the region wherein men suffer. + +A few days made a marked difference in his appearance. He was a hard +man; but not so hard as people had thought him; and besides, _no_ man +can rule his own spirit except he has the spirit of right on his side; +neither is any man proof against the inroads of good. Even Lady +Macbeth was defeated by the imagination she had braved. Add to this, +that no man can, even by those who understand him best, be labelled as +a box containing such and such elements, for the humanity in him is +deeper than any individuality, and may manifest itself at some crisis +in a way altogether beside expectation. + +His feeling was not at first of an elevated kind. After the grinding +wrath had abated, self-pity came largely to the surface--not by any +means a grand emotion, though very dear to boys and girls in their +first consciousness of self, and in them pardonable enough. On the +same ground it must be pardoned in a man who, with all his experience +of the world, was more ignorant of the region of emotion, and more +undeveloped morally, than multitudes of children: in him it was an +indication that the shell was beginning to break. He said to himself +that he was old beside her, and that she had begun to weary of him, +and despise him. Gradually upon this, however, supervened at intervals +a faint shadow of pity for her who could not have been happy or she +would not have left him. + +Days and weeks passed, and there was no sign of Mrs. Dempster. The +child was not sent out to nurse, and throve well enough. His father +never took the least notice of him. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. WHAT IT MEANT. + + +Some of my readers, perhaps all of them, will have concluded that Mrs. +Dempster was a little out of her mind. Such, indeed, was the fact, and +one not greatly to be wondered at, after such a peculiar experience as +she had had. Some small degree of congestion, and the consequent +pressure on some portion of the brain, had sent certain faculties to +sleep, and, perhaps, roused others into morbid activity. That it is +impossible to tell where sanity ends and insanity begins, is a trite +remark indeed; but like many things which it is useless to say, it has +the more need to be thought of. If I yield to an impulse of which I +know I shall be ashamed, is it not the act of a madman? And may not +the act lead to a habit, and at length to a despised, perhaps feared +and hated, old age, twisting at the ragged ends of a miserable life? + +However certain it is that mental disorder had to do with Mrs. +Dempster's departure from her home, it is almost as certain she would +never have gone had it not been for the unpaid bills haunting her +consciousness, a combination of demon and ghost. The misery had all +the time been growing upon her, and must have had no small share in +the subversion of her microcosm. When that was effected, the evil +thing that lay at the root of it all rose and pounced upon her. Wrong +is its own avenger. She had been doing wrong, and knowingly for years, +and now the plant of evil was blossoming towards its fruit. If one say +the evil was but a trifle, I take her judgment, not his, upon that. +She had been lazy towards duty, had persistently turned aside from +what she knew to be her business, until she dared not even look at it. +And now that the crisis was at hand, as omened by that letter from the +butcher, with the sense of her wrong-doing was mingled the terror of +her husband. What would he think, say, and do? Not yet had she, after +all these years, any deep insight into his character; else perhaps she +might have read there that, much as he loved money, the pleasure of +seeing signal failure follow the neglect of his instructions would +quite compensate him for the loss. What the bills amounted to, she had +not an idea. Not until she had made up her mind to leave her home +could she muster the courage to get them together. Then she even +counted up the total and set down the sum in her memory--which sum +thereafter haunted her like the name of her devil. + +As to the making up of her mind--she could remember very little of +that process--or indeed of the turning of her resolve into action. She +left the house in the plainest dress her wardrobe could afford her, +and with just one half-crown in her pocket. Her design was to seek a +situation, as a refuge from her husband and his wrath. It was a +curious thing, that, while it gave her no trouble to leave her baby, +whom indeed she had not that day seen, and to whom for some time she +had ceased to be necessary, her only notion was to get a place as +nurse. + +At that time, I presume, there were few or no such offices for +engaging servants as are now common; at all events, the plan Mrs. +Dempster took, when she had reached a part of London she judged +sufficiently distant for her purpose, was to go from shop to shop +inquiring after a situation. But she met with no prospect of success, +and at last, greatly in need of rest and refreshment, went into a +small coffee shop. The woman who kept it was taken by her appearance, +her manners, and her evident trouble, and, happening to have heard of +a lady who wanted a nurse, gave her the address. She went at once, and +applied for the place. The lady was much pleased with her, and agreed +to take her, provided she received a satisfactory character of her. +For such a demand Mrs. Dempster was unprepared; she had never thought +what reference she could give, and, her resources for deception easily +exhausted, gave, driven to extremity, the name and address of her +mother. So met the extremes of loss and salvation! She returned to the +coffee shop, and the lady wrote at once to the address of the young +woman's late mistress, as she supposed. + +The kindness of her new friend was not exhausted; she gave her a share +of her own bed that night. Mrs. Dempster had now but two shillings, +which she offered her, promising to pay her the rest out of the first +wages she received. But the good woman would take no more than one of +them, and that in full payment of what she owed her, and Mrs. Dempster +left the shop in tears, to linger about the neighbourhood until the +hour should arrive at which the lady had told her to call again. +Apparently she must have cherished the hope that her mother, divining +her extremity, would give her the character she could honestly claim. +But as she drew near the door which she hoped would prove a refuge, +her mother was approaching it also, and at the turning of a corner +they ran into each other's arms. The elderly lady had a hackney coach +waiting for her in the next street, and Mrs. Dempster, too tired to +resist, got into it at once at her mother's desire. Ere they reached +the mother's house, which, as I have said, was a long way from Mr. +Dempster's, the daughter told everything, and the mother had perceived +more than the daughter could tell: her eyes had revealed that all was +not right behind them. She soothed her as none but a mother can, +easily persuading her she would make everything right, and undertaking +herself to pay the money owing to the butcher. But it was soon evident +that for the present there must be no suggestion of her going back to +her husband; for, imagining from something, that her mother was taking +her to him, she jumped up and had all but opened the door of the cab +when her mother succeeded in mastering her. As soon as she was +persuaded that such had never been the intention, she was quiet. When +they reached the house she was easily induced to go to bed at once. + +Her mother lived in a very humble way, with one servant, a trustworthy +woman. To her she confided the whole story, and with her consulted as +to what had better be done. Between them they resolved to keep her, +for a while at least, in retirement and silence. To this conclusion +they came on the following grounds: First, the daughter's terror and +the mother's own fear of Mr. Dempster; next, it must be confessed, the +resentment of both mistress and servant because of his rudeness when +he came to inquire after her; third, the evident condition of the poor +creature's mind; and last, the longing of the two women to have her to +themselves, that they might nurse and cosset her to their hearts' +content. + +They were to have more of this indulgence, however, than, for her +sake, they would have desired, for before morning she was very ill. +She had brain fever, in fact, and they had their hands full, +especially as they desired to take every precaution to prevent the +neighbourhood from knowing there was any one but themselves in the +house. + +It was a severe attack, but she passed the crisis favourably, and +began to recover. One morning, after a quieter night than usual, she +called her mother, and told her she had had a strange dream--that she +had a baby somewhere, but could not find him, and was wandering about +looking for him. + +"Wasn't it a curious dream, mamma?" she said. "I wish it were a true +one. I knew exactly what my baby was like, and went into house after +house full of children, sure that I could pick him out of thousands. I +was just going up to the door of the Foundling Hospital to look for +him there when I woke." + +As she ceased, a strange trouble passed like a cloud over her forehead +and eyes, and her hand, worn almost transparent by the fever followed +it over forehead and eyes. She seemed trying to recall something +forgotten. But her mother thought it better to say nothing. + +Each of the two nights following she had the same dream. + +"Three times, mother," she said. "I am not superstitious, as you know, +but I can't help feeling as if it must mean something. I don't know +what to make of it else--except it be that I haven't got over the +fever yet. And, indeed, I am afraid my head is not quite right, for I +can't be sure sometimes, such a hold has my dream of me, that I +haven't got a baby somewhere about the world. Give me your hand, +mother, and sing to me." + +Still her mother thought it more prudent to say nothing, and do what +she could to divert her thoughts; for she judged it must be better to +let her brain come right, as it were, of itself. + +In the middle of the next night she woke her with a cry. + +"O, mother, mother! I know it all now. I am not out of my mind any +more. How I came here I cannot tell--but I know I have a husband and a +baby at Hackney--and--oh, such a horrible roll of butcher's bills!" + +"Yes, yes, my dear! I know all about it," answered her mother. "But +never mind; you can pay them all yourself now, for I heard only +yesterday that your aunt Lucy is dead, and has left you the hundred +pounds she promised you twenty years ago." + +"Oh, bless her!" cried Mrs. Dempster, springing out of bed, much to +the dismay of her mother, who boded a return of the fever. "I must go +home to my baby at once. But tell me all about it, mamma. How did I +come here? I seem to remember being in a carriage with you, and that +is the last I know." + +Then, upon condition that she got into bed at once, and promised not +to move until she gave her leave, her mother consented to tell her all +she knew. She listened in silence, with face flushed and eyes glowing, +but drank a cooling draught, lay down again, and at daybreak was fast +asleep. When she awoke she was herself again. + + + + +CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME OF IT. + + +Meantime, things were going, as they should, in rather a dull fashion +with Duncan Dempster. His chariot wheels were gone, and he drove +heavily. The weather was good; he seldom failed of the box-seat on the +omnibus; a ray of light, the first he had ever seen there, visited his +table, reflected from a new window on the opposite side of a court +into the heart of his dismal back office; and best of all, business +was better than usual. Yet was Dempster not cheerful. He was not, +indeed, a man an acquaintance would ever have thought of calling +cheerful; but in grays there are gradations; and however differently a +man's barometer may be set from those of other people, it has its ups +and downs, its fair weather and foul. But not yet had he an idea how +much his mental equilibrium had been dependent upon the dim +consciousness of having that quiet uninterested wife in the +comfortable house at Hackney. It had been stronger than it seemed, the +spidery, invisible line connecting that office and that house, along +which had run twice a day the hard dumpling that dwelt in Mr. +Dempster's bosom. Vaguely connected with that home after all must have +been that endless careful gathering of treasure in the city; for now, +though he could no more stop making money than he could stop +breathing, it had not the same interest as formerly. Indeed, he had +less interest than before in keeping his lungs themselves going. But +he kept on doing everything as usual. + +Not one of the men he met ever said a word to him about his wife. The +general impression was that she had left him for preferable society, +and no one wondered at her throwing aside such "a dry old stick," whom +even the devoted slaves of business contemned as having nothing in him +but business. + +A further change was, however, in progress within him. The first sign +of it was that he began to doubt whether his wife had indeed been +false to him--had forsaken him in any other company than that of +Death. But there was one great difficulty in the way of the +conclusion. It was impossible for him to imagine suicide as proceeding +from any cause but insanity, and what could have produced the disorder +in one who had no cares or anxieties, everything she wanted, and +nothing to trouble her, a devoted husband, and a happy home? Yet the +mere idea made him think more pitifully, and so more tenderly of her +than before. It had not yet occurred to him to consider whether he +might not have had something to do with her conduct or condition. +Blame was a thing he had never made acquaintance with--least of all in +the form of self-blame. To himself he was simply all right--the poised +centre of things capable of righteous judgment on every one else. But +it must not be forgotten how little he knew about his own affairs at +all; his was a very different condition from that of one who had +closed his eyes and hardened his heart to suspicions concerning +himself. His eyes had never yet been opened to anything but the order +of things in the money world--its laws, its penalties, its +rewards--those he did understand. But apparently he was worth +troubling. A slow dissatisfaction was now preying upon him--a sense of +want--of not having something he once had, a vague discomfort, growing +restless. This feeling was no doubt the worse that the birth of the +child had brought such a sudden rush of fresh interest into his +occupation, which doubt concerning that birth had again so suddenly +checked; but even if the child should prove after all his own, a +supposition he was now willing to admit as possibly a true one, he +could never without his mother feel any enthusiasm about him, even +such enthusiasm as might be allowed to a man who knew money from +moonshine, and common sense from hysterics. Yet once and again, about +this time, the nurse coming into the room after a few minutes' +absence, found him bending over the sleeping infant, and, as she +described him, "looking as if he would have cried if he had only known +how." + +One frosty evening in late autumn the forsaken husband came from +London--I doubt if he would now have said "home"--as usual, on the top +of the omnibus. His was a tough nature physically, as well as morally, +and if he had found himself inside an omnibus he would have thought he +was going to die. The sun was down. A green hue rose from the horizon +half-way to the zenith, but a pale yellow lingered over the vanished +sun, like the gold at the bottom of a chrysolite. The stars were +twinkling small and sharp in the azure overhead. A cold wind blew in +little gusts, now from this side, now from that, as they went steadily +along. The horses' hoofs rang loud on the hard road. The night got +hold of him: it was at this season, and on nights like these, that he +had haunted the house of Lucy's father, doing his best to persuade her +to make him, as he said, a happy man. It now seemed as if then, and +then only, he had been a happy man. Certainly, of all his life, it was +the time when he came nearest to having a peep out of the upper +windows of the house of life. He had been a dweller in the lower +regions, a hewer of wood to the god of the cellar; and after his +marriage, he had gone straight down again to the temple of the earthy +god--to a worship whose god and temple and treasure caves will one day +drop suddenly from under the votary's feet, and leave him dangling in +the air without even a pocket about him--without even his banker's +book to show for his respectability. + +The night, I say, recalled the lovely season of his courtship, and +again, in the mirror of loss, he caught a glimpse of things beyond +him. Ah, if only that time and its hopes had remained with him! How +different things would have been now! If Lucy had proved what he +thought her!--remained what she seemed--the gentle, complaisant, +yielding lady he imagined her, promising him a life of bliss! Alas, +she would not even keep account of five pounds a week to please him! +He never thought whether he, on his part, might not have, in some +measure, come short of her expectations in a husband; whether she, the +more lovely in inward design and outward fashion, might not have +indulged yet more exquisite dreams of bliss which, by devotion to his +ideal of life, he had done his part in disappointing. He only thought +what a foolishness it all was; that thus it would go on to the end of +the book; that youth after youth would have his turn of such a wooing, +and such a disappointment. Sunsets, indeed! The suns of man's +happiness never did anything but set! Out of money even--and who could +say there was any poetry in that?--there was not half the satisfaction +to be got that one expected. It was all a mess of expectations and +disappointments mashed up together--nothing more. That was the +world--on a fair judgment. + +Such were his reflections till the driver pulled up for him to get +down at his own gate. As he got down the said driver glanced up +curiously at the row of windows on the first floor, and as soon as Mr. +Dempster's back was turned, pointed to them with the butt-end of his +whip, and nodded queerly to the gentleman who sat on his other side. + +"That's more'n I've seen this six weeks," he said. "There's something +more'n common up this evenin', sir." + +There was light in the drawing-room--that was all the wonder; but at +those windows Mr. Dempster himself looked so fixedly that he had +nearly stumbled up his own door-steps. + +He carried a latch-key now, for he did not care to stand at the door +till the boy answered the bell; people's eyes, as they passed, seemed +to burn holes in the back of his coat. + +He opened the street door quietly, and went straight up the stair to +the drawing-room. Perhaps he thought to detect some liberty taken by +his servants. He was a little earlier than usual. He opened that door, +took two steps into the room, and stood arrested, motionless. With his +shabby hat on his head, his shabby greatcoat on his back--for he +grudged every penny spent on his clothes--his arms hanging down by his +sides, and his knees bent, ready to tremble, he looked not a little +out of keeping in the soft-lighted, dainty, delicate-hued +drawing-room. Could he believe his eyes? The light of a large lamp was +centred upon a gracious figure in white--his wife, just as he used to +see her before he married her! That was the way her hair would break +loose as she ran down the stair to meet him!--only then there was no +baby in her lap for it to full over like a torrent of unlighted water +over a white stone! It was a lovely sight. + +He had stood but a moment when she looked up and saw him. She started, +but gave no cry louder than a little moan. Instantly she rose. +Turning, she laid the baby on the sofa, and flitted to him like a +wraith. Arrived where he stood yet motionless, she fell upon her knees +and clasped his. He was far too bewildered now to ask himself what +husbands did in such circumstances, and stood like a block. + +"Husband! husband!" she cried, "forgive me." With one hand she hid her +face, although it was bent to the ground, and with the other held up +to him a bit of paper. He took it from the thin white fingers; it +might explain something--help him out of this bewilderment, half +nightmare, half heavenly vision. He opened it. Nothing but a +hundred-pound note! The familiar sight of bank paper, however, seemed +to restore his speech. + +"What does this mean, Lucy? Upon my word! Permit me to say--" + +He was growing angry. + +"It is to pay the butcher," she said, with a faltering voice. + +"Damn the butcher!" he cried. "I hope you've got something else to say +to me! Where have you been all this time?" + +"At my mother's. I've had a brain fever, and been out of my mind. It +was all about the butcher's bill." + +Dempster stared. Perhaps he could not understand how a woman who would +not keep accounts should be to such a degree troubled at the result of +her neglect. + +"Look at me, if you don't believe me," she cried, and as she spoke she +rose and lifted her face to his. + +He gazed at it for a moment--pale, thin, and worn; and out of it shone +the beautiful eyes, larger than before, but shimmering uncertain like +the stars of a humid night, although they looked straight into his. + +Something queer was suddenly the matter with his throat--something +he had never felt before--a constriction such as, had he been +superstitious, he might have taken for the prologue to a rope. Then +the thought came--what a brute he must be that his wife should have +been afraid to tell him her trouble! Thereupon he tried to speak, but +his throat was irresponsive to his will. Eve's apple kept sliding up +and down in it, and would not let the words out. He had never been so +served by members of his own body in his life before! It was positive +rebellion, and would get him into trouble with his wife. There it was! +Didn't he say so? + +"Can't you forgive me, Mr. Dempster?" she said, and the voice was so +sweet and so sad! "It is my own money. Aunt Lucy is dead, and left it +me. I think it will be enough to pay all my debts; and I promise +you--I do promise you that I will set down every halfpenny after this. +Do try me once again--for baby's sake." + +This last was a sudden thought. She turned and ran to the sofa. +Dempster stood where he was, fighting the strange uncomfortable +feeling in his throat. It would not yield a jot. Was he going to die +suddenly of choking? Was it a judgment upon him? Diphtheria, perhaps! +It was much about in the City! + +She was back, and holding up to him their sleeping child. + +The poor fellow was not half the brute he looked--only he could _not_ +tell what to do with that confounded lump in his throat! He dared not +try to speak, for it only choked him the more. He put his arms round +them both, and pressed them to his bosom. Then, the lump in his throat +melted and ran out at his eyes, and all doubt vanished like a mist +before the sun. But he never knew that he had wept. His wife did, and +that was enough. + +The next morning, for the first time in his life, he lost the eight +o'clock omnibus. + +The following Monday morning she brought her week's account to him. He +turned from it testily, but she insisted on his going over it. There +was not the mistake of a halfpenny. He went to town with a smile in +his heart, and that night brought her home a cheque for ten pounds +instead of five. + +One day, in the middle of the same week, he came upon her sitting over +the little blue-and-red-ruled book with a troubled countenance. She +took no notice of his entrance. + +"Do leave those accounts," he said, "and attend to me." + +She shook her head impatiently, and made him no other answer. One +moment more, however, and she started up, threw her arms about his +neck, and cried triumphantly, + +"It's buttons!--fourpence-halfpenny I paid for buttons!" + + + + +PORT IN A STORM + + +"Papa," said my sister Effie, one evening as we all sat about the +drawing-room fire. One after another, as nothing followed, we turned +our eyes upon her. There she sat, still silent, embroidering the +corner of a cambric hand-kerchief, apparently unaware that she had +spoken. + +It was a very cold night in the beginning of winter. My father had +come home early, and we had dined early that we might have a long +evening together, for it was my father's and mother's wedding-day, and +we always kept it as the homeliest of holidays. My father was seated +in an easy-chair by the chimney corner, with a jug of Burgundy near +him, and my mother sat by his side, now and then taking a sip out of +his glass. + +Effie was now nearly nineteen; the rest of us were younger. What she +was thinking about we did not know then, though we could all guess +now. Suddenly she looked up, and seeing all eyes fixed upon her, +became either aware or suspicious, and blushed rosy red. + +"You spoke to me, Effie. What was it, my dear?" + +"O yes, papa. I wanted to ask you whether you wouldn't tell us, +to-night, the story about how you--" + +"Well, my love?" + +"--About how you--" + +"I am listening, my dear." + +"I mean, about mamma and you." + +"Yes, yes. About how I got your mamma for a mother to you. Yes. I paid +a dozen of port for her." + +We all and each exclaimed _Papa_! and my mother laughed. + +"Tell us all about it," was the general cry. + +"Well, I will," answered my father. "I must begin at the beginning, +though." + +And, filling his glass with Burgundy, he began. + +"As far back as I can remember, I lived with my father in an old +manor-house in the country. It did not belong to my father, but to an +elder brother of his, who at that time was captain of a seventy-four. +He loved the sea more than his life; and, as yet apparently, had loved +his ship better than any woman. At least he was not married. + +"My mother had been dead for some years, and my father was now in very +delicate health. He had never been strong, and since my mother's +death, I believe, though I was too young to notice it, he had pined +away. I am not going to tell you anything about him just now, because +it does not belong to my story. When I was about five years old, as +nearly as I can judge, the doctors advised him to leave England. The +house was put into the hands of an agent to let--at least, so I +suppose; and he took me with him to Madeira, where he died. I was +brought home by his servant, and by my uncle's directions, sent to a +boarding-school; from there to Eton, and from there to Oxford. + +"Before I had finished my studies, my uncle had been an admiral for +some time. The year before I left Oxford, he married Lady Georgiana +Thornbury, a widow lady, with one daughter. Thereupon he bade farewell +to the sea, though I dare say he did not like the parting, and retired +with his bride to the house where he was born--the same house I told +you I was born in, which had been in the family for many generations, +and which your cousin now lives in. + +"It was late in the autumn when they arrived at Culverwood. They were +no sooner settled than my uncle wrote to me, inviting me to spend +Christmas-tide with them at the old place. And here you may see that +my story has arrived at its beginning. + +"It was with strange feelings that I entered the house. It looked so +old-fashioned, and stately, and grand, to eyes which had been +accustomed to all the modern commonplaces! Yet the shadowy +recollections which hung about it gave an air of homeliness to the +place, which, along with the grandeur, occasioned a sense of rare +delight. For what can be better than to feel that you are in stately +company, and at the same time perfectly at home in it? I am grateful +to this day for the lesson I had from the sense of which I have +spoken--that of mingled awe and tenderness in the aspect of the old +hall as I entered it for the first time after fifteen years, having +left it a mere child. + +"I was cordially received by my old uncle and my new aunt. But the +moment Kate Thornbury entered I lost my heart, and have never found it +again to this day. I get on wonderfully well without it, though, for I +have got the loan of a far better one till I find my own, which, +therefore, I hope I never shall." + +My father glanced at my mother as he said this, and she returned his +look in a way which I can now interpret as a quiet satisfied +confidence. But the tears came in Effie's eyes. She had trouble before +long, poor girl! But it is not her story I have to tell.--My father +went on: + +"Your mother was prettier then than she is now, but not so beautiful; +beautiful enough, though, to make me think there never had been or +could again be anything so beautiful. She met me kindly, and I met her +awkwardly." + +"You made me feel that I had no business there," said my mother, +speaking for the first time in the course of the story. + +"See there, girls," said my father. "You are always so confident in +first impressions, and instinctive judgment! I was awkward because, as +I said, I fell in love with your mother the moment I saw her; and she +thought I regarded her as an intruder into the old family precincts. + +"I will not follow the story of the days. I was very happy, except +when I felt too keenly how unworthy I was of Kate Thornbury; not that +she meant to make me feel it, for she was never other than kind; but +she was such that I could not help feeling it. I gathered courage, +however, and before three days were over, I began to tell her all my +slowly reviving memories of the place, with my childish adventures +associated with this and that room or outhouse or spot in the grounds; +for the longer I was in the place the more my old associations with it +revived, till I was quite astonished to find how much of my history in +connection with Culverwood had been thoroughly imprinted on my memory. +She never showed, at least, that she was weary of my stories; which, +however interesting to me, must have been tiresome to any one who did +not sympathize with what I felt towards my old nest. From room to room +we rambled, talking or silent; and nothing could have given me a +better chance, I believe, with a heart like your mother's. I think it +was not long before she began to like me, at least, and liking had +every opportunity of growing into something stronger, if only she too +did not come to the conclusion that I was unworthy of her. + +"My uncle received me like the jolly old tar that he was--welcomed me +to the old ship--hoped we should make many a voyage together--and that +I would take the run of the craft--all but in one thing. + +"'You see, my boy,' he said, 'I married above my station, and I don't +want my wife's friends to say that I laid alongside of her to get hold +of her daughter's fortune. No, no, my boy; your old uncle has too much +salt water in him to do a dog's trick like that. So you take care of +yourself--that's all. She might turn the head of a wiser man than ever +came out of our family.' + +"I did not tell my uncle that his advice was already too late; for +that, though it was not an hour since I had first seen her, my head +was so far turned already, that the only way to get it right again, +was to go on turning it in the same direction; though, no doubt, there +was a danger of overhauling the screw. The old gentleman never +referred to the matter again, nor took any notice of our increasing +intimacy; so that I sometimes doubt even now if he could have been in +earnest in the very simple warning he gave me. Fortunately, Lady +Georgiana liked me--at least I thought she did, and that gave me +courage. + +"That's all nonsense, my dear," said my mother. "Mamma was nearly as +fond of you as I was; but you never wanted courage." + +"I knew better than to show my cowardice, I dare say," returned my +father. "But," he continued, "things grew worse and worse, till I was +certain I should kill myself, or go straight out of my mind, if your +mother would not have me. So it went on for a few days, and Christmas +was at hand. + +"The admiral had invited several old friends to come and spend the +Christmas week with him. Now you must remember that, although you look +on me as an old-fashioned fogie--" + +"Oh, papa!" we all interrupted; but he went on. + +"Yet my old uncle was an older-fashioned fogie, and his friends were +much the same as himself. Now, I am fond of a glass of port, though I +dare not take it, and must content myself with Burgundy. Uncle Bob +would have called Burgundy pig-wash. He could not do without his port, +though he was a moderate enough man, as customs were. Fancy, then, his +dismay when, on questioning his butler, an old coxen of his own, and +after going down to inspect in person, he found that there was +scarcely more than a dozen of port in the wine-cellar. He turned white +with dismay, and, till he had brought the blood back to his +countenance by swearing, he was something awful to behold in the dim +light of the tallow candle old Jacob held in his tattooed fist. I will +not repeat the words he used; fortunately, they are out of fashion +amongst gentlemen, although ladies, I understand, are beginning to +revive the custom, now old, and always ugly. Jacob reminded his honour +that he would not have more put down till he had got a proper cellar +built, for the one there was, he had said, was not fit to put anything +but dead men in. Thereupon, after abusing Jacob for not reminding him +of the necessities of the coming season, he turned to me, and began, +certainly not to swear at his own father, but to expostulate sideways +with the absent shade for not having provided a decent cellar before +his departure from this world of dinners and wine, hinting that it was +somewhat selfish, and very inconsiderate of the welfare of those who +were to come after him. Having a little exhausted his indignation, he +came up, and wrote the most peremptory order to his wine-merchant, in +Liverpool, to let him have thirty dozen of port before Christmas Day, +even if he had to send it by post-chaise. I took the letter to the +post myself, for the old man would trust nobody but me, and indeed +would have preferred taking it himself; but in winter he was always +lame from the effects of a bruise he had received from a falling spar +in the battle of Aboukir. + +"That night I remember well. I lay in bed wondering whether I might +venture to say a word, or even to give a hint to your mother that +there was a word that pined to be said if it might. All at once I +heard a whine of the wind in the old chimney. How well I knew that +whine! For my kind aunt had taken the trouble to find out from me what +room I had occupied as a boy, and, by the third night I spent there, +she had got it ready for me. I jumped out of bed, and found that the +snow was falling fast and thick. I jumped into bed again, and began +wondering what my uncle would do if the port did not arrive. And then +I thought that, if the snow went on falling as it did, and if the wind +rose any higher, it might turn out that the roads through the hilly +part of Yorkshire in which Culverwood lay, might very well be blocked +up. + + "The north wind doth blow, + And we shall have snow, +And what will my uncle do then, poor thing? + He'll run for his port, + But he will run short, +And have too much water to drink, poor thing! + +"With the influences of the chamber of my childhood crowding upon me, +I kept repenting the travestied rhyme to myself, till I fell asleep. + +"Now, boys and girls, if I were writing a novel, I should like to make +you, somehow or other, put together the facts--that I was in the room +I have mentioned; that I had been in the cellar with my uncle for the +first time that evening; that I had seen my uncle's distress, and +heard his reflections upon his father. I may add that I was not +myself, even then, so indifferent to the merits of a good glass of +port as to be unable to enter into my uncle's dismay, and that of his +guests at last, if they should find that the snow-storm had actually +closed up the sweet approaches of the expected port. If I was +personally indifferent to the matter, I fear it is to be attributed to +your mother, and not to myself." + +"Nonsense!" interposed my mother once more. "I never knew such a man +for making little of himself and much of other people. You never drank +a glass too much port in your life." + +"That's why I'm so fond of it, my dear," returned my father. "I +declare you make me quite discontented with my pig-wash here. + +"That night I had a dream. + +"The next day the visitors began to arrive. Before the evening after, +they had all come. There were five of them--three tars and two +land-crabs, as they called each other when they got jolly, which, +by-the-way, they would not have done long without me. + +"My uncle's anxiety visibly increased. Each guest, as he came down to +breakfast, received each morning a more constrained greeting.--I beg +your pardon, ladies; I forgot to mention that my aunt had +lady-visitors, of course. But the fact is, it is only the +port-drinking visitors in whom my story is interested, always excepted +your mother. + +"These ladies my admiral uncle greeted with something even approaching +to servility. I understood him well enough. He instinctively sought to +make a party to protect him when the awful secret of his cellar should +be found out. But for two preliminary days or so, his resources would +serve; for he had plenty of excellent claret and Madeira--stuff I +don't know much about--and both Jacob and himself condescended to +manoeuvre a little. + +"The wine did not arrive. But the morning of Christmas Eve did. I was +sitting in my room, trying to write a song for Kate--that's your +mother, my dears--" + +"I know, papa," said Effie, as if she were very knowing to know that. + +"--when my uncle came into the room, looking like Sintram with Death +and the Other One after him--that's the nonsense you read to me the +other day, isn't it; Effie?" + +"Not nonsense, dear papa," remonstrated Effie; and I loved her for +saying it, for surely _that_ is not nonsense. + +"I didn't mean it," said my father; and turning to my mother, added: +"It must be your fault, my dear, that my children are so serious that +they always take a joke for earnest. However, it was no joke with my +uncle. If he didn't look like Sintram he looked like t'other one. + +"'The roads are frozen--I mean snowed up,' he said. 'There's just one +bottle of port left, and what Captain Calker will say--I dare say I +know, but I'd rather not. Damn this weather!--God forgive me!--that's +not right--but it is trying--ain't it, my boy?' + +"'What will you give me for a dozen of port, uncle?' was all my +answer. + +"'Give you? I'll give you Culverwood, you rogue.' + +"'Done,' I cried. + +"'That is,' stammered my uncle, 'that is,' and he reddened like the +funnel of one of his hated steamers, 'that is, you know, always +provided, you know. It wouldn't be fair to Lady Georgiana, now, would +it? I put it to yourself--if she took the trouble, you know. You +understand me, my boy?' + +"'That's of course, uncle,' I said. + +"'Ah! I see you're a gentleman like your father, not to trip a man +when he stumbles,' said my uncle. For such was the dear old man's +sense of honour, that he was actually uncomfortable about the hasty +promise he had made without first specifying the exception. The +exception, you know, has Culverwood at the present hour, and right +welcome he is. + +"'Of course, uncle,' I said--'between gentlemen, you know. Still, I +want my joke out, too. What will you give me for a dozen of port to +tide you over Christmas Day?' + +"'Give you, my boy? I'll give you--' + +"But here he checked himself, as one that had been burned already. + +"'Bah!' he said, turning his back, and going towards the door; 'what's +the use of joking about serious affairs like this?' + +"And so he left the room. And I let him go. For I had heard that the +road from Liverpool was impassable, the wind and snow having continued +every day since that night of which I told you. Meantime, I had never +been able to summon the courage to say one word to your mother--I beg +her pardon, I mean Miss Thornbury. + +"Christmas Day arrived. My uncle was awful to behold. His friends were +evidently anxious about him. They thought he was ill. There was such a +hesitation about him, like a shark with a bait, and such a flurry, +like a whale in his last agonies. He had a horrible secret which he +dared not tell, and which yet _would_ come out of its grave at the +appointed hour. + +"Down in the kitchen the roast beef and turkey were meeting their deserts. +Up in the store-room--for Lady Georgiana was not above housekeeping, any +more than her daughter--the ladies of the house were doing their part; +and I was oscillating between my uncle and his niece, making myself +amazingly useful now to one and now to the other. The turkey and the beef +were on the table, nay, they had been well eaten, before I felt that my +moment was come. Outside, the wind was howling, and driving the snow with +soft pats against the window-panes. Eager-eyed I watched General +Fortescue, who despised sherry or Madeira even during dinner, and would +no more touch champagne than he would _eau sucrée_, but drank port after +fish or with cheese indiscriminately--with eager eyes I watched how the +last bottle dwindled out its fading life in the clear decanter. Glass +after glass was supplied to General Fortescue by the fearless cockswain, +who, if he might have had his choice, would rather have boarded a +Frenchman than waited for what was to follow. My uncle scarcely ate at +all, and the only thing that stopped his face from growing longer with +the removal of every dish was that nothing but death could have made it +longer than it was already. It was my interest to let matters go as far +as they might up to a certain point, beyond which it was not my interest +to let them go, if I could help it. At the same time I was curious to +know how my uncle would announce--confess the terrible fact that in his +house, on Christmas Day, having invited his oldest friends to share with +him the festivities of the season, there was not one bottle more of port +to be had. + +"I waited till the last moment--till I fancied the admiral was opening +his mouth; like a fish in despair, to make his confession. He had not +even dared to make a confidante of his wife in such an awful dilemma. +Then I pretended to have dropped my table-napkin behind my chair, and +rising to seek it, stole round behind my uncle, and whispered in his +ear: + +"'What will you give me for a dozen of port now, uncle?' + +"'Bah!' he said, 'I'm at the gratings; don't torture me.' + +"'I'm in earnest, uncle.' + +"He looked round at me with a sudden flash of bewildered hope in his +eye. In the last agony he was capable of believing in a miracle. But +he made me no reply. He only stared. + +"'Will you give me Kate? I want Kate,' I whispered. + +"'I will, my boy. That is, if she'll have you. That is, I mean to say, +if you produce the true tawny.' + +"'Of course, uncle; honour bright--as port in a storm,' I answered, +trembling in my shoes and everything else I had on, for I was not more +than three parts confident in the result. + +"The gentlemen beside Kate happening at the moment to be occupied, +each with the lady on his other side, I went behind her, and whispered +to her as I had whispered to my uncle, though not exactly in the same +terms. Perhaps I had got a little courage from the champagne I had +drunk; perhaps the presence of the company gave me a kind of mesmeric +strength; perhaps the excitement of the whole venture kept me up; +perhaps Kate herself gave me courage, like a goddess of old, in some +way I did not understand. At all events I said to her: + +"'Kate,'--we had got so far even then--'my uncle hasn't another bottle +of port in his cellar. Consider what a state General Fortescue will be +in soon. He'll be tipsy for want of it. Will you come and help me to +find a bottle or two?' + +"She rose at once, with a white-rose blush--so delicate I don't +believe any one saw it but myself. But the shadow of a stray ringlet +could not fall on her cheek without my seeing it. + +"When we got into the hall, the wind was roaring loud, and the few +lights were flickering and waving gustily with alternate light and +shade across the old portraits which I had known so well as a +child--for I used to think what each would say first, if he or she +came down out of the frame and spoke to me. + +"I stopped, and taking Kate's hand, I said-- + +"'I daren't let you come farther, Kate, before I tell you another +thing: my uncle has promised, if I find him a dozen of port--you must +have seen what a state the poor man is in--to let me say something to +you--I suppose he meant your mamma, but I prefer saying it to you, if +you will let me. Will you come and help me to find the port?' + +"She said nothing, but took up a candle that was on a table in the +hall, and stood waiting. I ventured to look at her. Her face was now +celestial rosy red, and I could not doubt that she had understood me. +She looked so beautiful that I stood staring at her without moving. +What the servants could have been about that not one of them crossed +the hall, I can't think. + +"At last Kate laughed and said--'Well?' I started, and I dare say took +my turn at blushing. At least I did not know what to say. I had +forgotten all about the guests inside. 'Where's the port?' said Kate. +I caught hold of her hand again and kissed it." + +"You needn't be quite so minute in your account, my dear," said my +mother, smiling. + +"I will be more careful in future, my love," returned my father. + +"'What do you want me to do?' said Kate. + +"'Only to hold the candle for me,' I answered, restored to my seven +senses at last; and, taking it from her, I led the way, and she +followed, till we had passed through the kitchen and reached the +cellar-stairs. These were steep and awkward, and she let me help her +down." + +"Now, Edward!" said my mother. + +"Yes, yes, my love, I understand," returned my father. + +"Up to this time your mother had asked no questions; but when we stood +in a vast, low cellar, which we had made several turns to reach, and I +gave her the candle, and took up a great crowbar which lay on the +floor, she said at last-- + +"'Edward, are you going to bury me alive? or what _are_ you going to +do?' + +"'I'm going to dig you out,' I said, for I was nearly beside myself +with joy, as I struck the crowbar like a battering-ram into the wall. +You can fancy, John, that I didn't work the worse that Kate was +holding the candle for me. + +"Very soon, though with great effort, I had dislodged a brick, and the +next blow I gave into the hole sent back a dull echo. I was right! + +"I worked now like a madman, and, in a very few minutes more, I had +dislodged the whole of the brick-thick wall which filled up an archway +of stone and curtained an ancient door in the lock of which the key +now showed itself. It had been well greased, and I turned it without +much difficulty. + +"I took the candle from Kate, and led her into a spacious region of +sawdust, cobweb, and wine-fungus. + +"'There, Kate!' I cried, in delight. + +"'But,' said Kate, 'will the wine be good?' + +"'General Fortescue will answer you that,' I returned, exultantly. +'Now come, and hold the light again while I find the port-bin.' + +"I soon found not one, but several well-filled port-bins. Which to +choose I could not tell. I must chance that. Kate carried a bottle and +the candle, and I carried two bottles very carefully. We put them down +in the kitchen with orders they should not be touched. We had soon +carried the dozen to the hall-table by the dining-room door. + +"When at length, with Jacob chuckling and rubbing his hands behind us, +we entered the dining-room, Kate and I, for Kate would not part with +her share in the joyful business, loaded with a level bottle in each +hand, which we carefully erected on the sideboard, I presume, from the +stare of the company, that we presented a rather remarkable +appearance--Kate in her white muslin, and I in my best clothes, +covered with brick-dust, and cobwebs, and lime. But we could not be +half so amusing to them as they were to us. There they sat with the +dessert before them but no wine-decanters forthcoming. How long they +had sat thus, I have no idea. If you think your mamma has, you may ask +her. Captain Calker and General Fortescue looked positively white +about the gills. My uncle, clinging to the last hope, despairingly, +had sat still and said nothing, and the guests could not understand +the awful delay. Even Lady Georgiana had begun to fear a mutiny in the +kitchen, or something equally awful. But to see the flash that passed +across my uncle's face, when he saw us appear with _ported arms_! He +immediately began to pretend that nothing had been the matter. + +"'What the deuce has kept you, Ned, my boy?' he said. 'Fair Hebe,' he +went on, 'I beg your pardon. Jacob, you can go on decanting. It was +very careless of you to forget it. Meantime, Hebe, bring that bottle +to General Jupiter, there. He's got a corkscrew in the tail of his +robe, or I'm mistaken.' + +"Out came General Fortescue's corkscrew. I was trembling once more +with anxiety. The cork gave the genuine plop; the bottle was lowered; +glug, glug, glug, came from its beneficent throat, and out flowed +something tawny as a lion's mane. The general lifted it lazily to his +lips, saluting his nose on the way. + +"'Fifteen! by Gyeove!' he cried. 'Well, Admiral, this _was_ worth +waiting for! Take care how you decant that, Jacob--on peril of your +life.' + +"My uncle was triumphant. He winked hard at me not to tell. Kate and I +retired, she to change her dress, I to get mine well brushed, and my +hands washed. By the time I returned to the dining-room, no one had +any questions to ask. For Kate, the ladies had gone to the +drawing-room before she was ready, and I believe she had some +difficulty in keeping my uncle's counsel. But she did.--Need I say +that was the happiest Christmas I ever spent?" + +"But how did you find the cellar, papa?" asked Effie. + +"Where are your brains, Effie? Don't you remember I told you that I +had a dream?" + +"Yes. But you don't mean to say the existence of that wine-cellar was +revealed to you in a dream?" + +"But I do, indeed. I had seen the wine-cellar built up just before we +left for Madeira. It was my father's plan for securing the wine when +the house was let. And very well it turned out for the wine, and me +too. I had forgotten all about it. Everything had conspired to bring +it to my memory, but had just failed of success. I had fallen asleep +under all the influences I told you of--influences from the region of +my childhood. They operated still when I was asleep, and, all other +distracting influences being removed, at length roused in my sleeping +brain the memory of what I had seen. In the morning I remembered not +my dream only, but the event of which my dream was a reproduction. +Still, I was under considerable doubt about the place, and in this I +followed the dream only, as near as I could judge. + +"The admiral kept his word, and interposed no difficulties between +Kate and me. Not that, to tell the truth, I was ever very anxious +about that rock ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidious +honour or pride might have occasioned a considerable interference with +our happiness for a time. As it turned out, he could not leave me +Culverwood, and I regretted the fact as little as he did himself. His +gratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming occasionally +ludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. I do not believe he could have +been more grateful if I had saved his ship and its whole crew. For his +hospitality was at stake. Kind old man!" + +Here ended my father's story, with a light sigh, a gaze into the +bright coals, a kiss of my mother's hand which he held in his, and +another glass of Burgundy. + + + + +IF I HAD A FATHER. + +A DRAMA. + + +ACT I. + +SCENE.--_A Sculptor's studio_. ARTHUR GERVAISE _working at a clay +figure and humming a tune. A knock_. + + +_Ger._ Come in. (_Throws a wet cloth over the clay. Enter_ WARREN _by +the door communicating with the house_.) Ah, Warren! How do you do? + +_War._ How are you, Gervaise? I'm delighted to see you once more. I +have but just heard of your return. + +_Ger._ I've been home but a fortnight. I was just thinking of you. + +_War._ I was certain I should find you at work. + +_Ger._ You see my work can go on by any light. It is more independent +than yours. + +_War._ I wish it weren't, then. + +_Ger._ Why? + +_War._ Because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your +den sometimes. + +_Ger._ Like any other wild beast when the dark falls--eh? + +_War._ Just so. + +_Ger._ And where the good? + +_War._ Why shouldn't you roar a little now and then like other honest +lions? + +_Ger._ I doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond roaring. + +_War._ And I doubt whether the lion that won't even whisk his tail, +will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his +while to keep a cage in London. + +_Ger._ I certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work. + +_War._ What is it now? + +_Ger._ Oh, nothing!--only a little fancy of my own. + +_War._ There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw the +sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working +at--"Oh--a little fancy of my own!" + +_Ger._ I couldn't tell it was you coming. + +_War._ Let me see what you've been doing, then. + +_Ger._ Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet! + +_War._ (_approaching the figure_). Of course, of course! I understand +all that. + +_Ger._ (_laying his hand on his arm_). Excuse me: I would rather not +show it. + +_War._ I beg your pardon.--I couldn't believe you really meant it. + +_Ger._ I'll show you the mould if you like. + +_War._ I don't know what you mean by that: you would never throw a wet +sheet over a cast! (GER. _lifts a painting from the floor and sets it +on an easel_. WAR. _regards it for a few moments in silence_.) Ah! by +Jove, Gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to +have been a painter. What a sky! And what a sea! Those blues and +greens--rich as a peacock's feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night! +The dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of +blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie like gems in the mineshaft +of the darkness! + +_Ger._ _You_ seem to have taken the wrong turn, Warren! _You_ ought to +have been a poet. + +_War._ Such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow's bend. + +_Ger._ I'm glad you like it. I do myself, though it falls short of my +intent sadly enough. + +_War._ But I don't for the life of me see what _this_ has to do with +_that_. You said something about a mould. + +_Ger._ I will tell you what I meant. Every individual aspect of nature +looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying that +of which itself only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in my +eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of the summer dawn; that +Aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my +Psyche. + +_War._ Under the sheet there? + +_Ger._ Yes. You shall see her some day; but to show your work too +soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner. + +_War._ Well, you've spoiled my picture. I shall go home and scrape my +canvas to the bone. + +_Ger._ On second thoughts, I will show you my Psyche. (_Uncovers the +clay_. WAR. _stands in admiration. Enter_ WATERFIELD _by same door_.) + +_Wat_. Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr. Gervaise, I hope I see +you well. + +_War._ Mr. Waterfield--an old friend of yours, Gervaise, I believe. + +_Ger._ I cannot appropriate the honour. + +_Wat_. I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it's six months ago, +Mr. Gervaise. Ha! (_using his eye-glass_) What a charming figure! A +Psyche! Wings suggested by--Very skilful! Contour lovely! Altogether +antique in pose and expression!--Is she a commission? + +_Ger._ No. + +_Wat_. Then I beg you will consider her one. + +_Ger._ Excuse me; I never work on commission--at least never in this +kind. A bust or two I have done. + +_Wat_. By Jove!--I _should_ like to see your model!--This is perfect. +Are you going to carve her? + +_Ger._ Possibly. + +_Wat_. Uncommissioned? + +_Ger._ If at all. + +_Wat_. Well, I can't call it running any risk. What lines!--You will +let me drop in some day when you've got your model here? + +_Ger._ Impossible. + +_Wat_. You don't mean--? + +_Ger._ I had no model. + +_Wat_. No model? Ha! ha!--You must excuse me! (GER. _takes up the wet +sheet_.) I understand. Reasons. A little mystery enhances--eh?--is +convenient too--balks intrusion--throws the drapery over the +mignonette. I understand. (GER. _covers the clay_.) Oh! pray don't +carry out my figure. That _is_ a damper now! + +_Ger._ I am not fond of acting the showman. You must excuse me: I am +busy. + +_Wat_. Ah well!--some other time--when you've got on with her a bit. +Good morning. Ta, ta, Warren. + +_Ger._ Good morning. This way, if you please. (_Shows him out by the +door to the street_.) How did the fellow find his way here? + +_War._ I am the culprit, I'm sorry to say. He asked me for your +address, and I gave it him. + +_Ger._ How long have you known him? + +_War._ A month or two. + +_Ger._ Don't bring him here again. + +_War._ Don't say I _brought_ him. I didn't do that. But I'm afraid +you've not seen the last of him. + +_Ger._ Oh yes, I have! Old Martha would let in anybody, but I've got a +man now.--William! + + _Enter_ COL. GERVAISE _dressed as a servant_. + +You didn't see the gentleman just gone, I'm afraid, William? + +_Col. G._ No, sir. + +_Ger._ Don't let in any one calling himself _Waterfield_. + +_Col. G._ No, sir. + +_Ger._ I'm going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be back shortly. + +_Col. G._ Very well, sir. _Exit into the house_. + +_Ger._ (_to_ WAR.) I can't touch clay again till I get that fellow out +of my head. + +_War._ Come along, then. + + _Exeunt_ GER. _and_ WAR. + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. _polishing a boot. Regards it with + dissatisfaction_. + +_Col. G._ Confound the thing! I wish it were a scabbard. When I think +I'm getting it all right--one rub more and it's gone dull again! + + _The house-door opens slowly, and_ THOMAS _peeps cautiously in_. + +_Th._ What sort of a plaze be this, maister? + +_Col. G._ You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in? + +_Th._ By th' dur-hole. Iv yo leave th' dur oppen, th' dogs'll coom in. + +_Col. G._ I must speak to Martha again. She _will_ leave the +street-door open!--Well, you needn't look so frightened. It ain't a +robbers' cave. + +_Th._ That be more'n aw knaw--not for sartin sure, maister. Nobory mun +keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a gentleman +axes mo into his heawse, aw'm noan beawn to be afeard. Aw'll coom in, +for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak +here? + +_Col. G._ What would you think now? + +_Th._ It looks to mo like a mason's shed--a greight one. + +_Col. G._ You're not so far wrong. + +_Th._ (_advancing_). It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure +abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin'. Aw'll bother +noan. (_Sits down on the dais and wipes his face_.) Well, aw be a'most +weary. + +_Col. G._ Is there anything I can do for you? + +_Th._ Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw +dunnot think aw'll coom to th' end in haste. Aw're a lookin' for +summut aw've lost, mou. + +_Col. G._ Did you come all the way from Lancashire to look for it? + +_Th._ Eh, lad! aw thowt thae'rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro! + +_Col. G._ Anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. I mean no +offence. + +_Th._ (_looking disappointed_). Well, noan's ta'en. But thae dunnot +say thae's ne'er been to Lancashire thisel'? + +_Col. G._ No, I don't say that: I've been to Lancashire several times. + +_Th._ Wheer to? + +_Col. G._ Why, Manchester. + +_Th._ That's noan ov it. + +_Col. G._ And Lancaster. + +_Th._ Tut! tut! That's noan of it, nayther. + +_Col. G._ And Liverpool. I was once there for a whole week. + +_Th._ Nay, nay. Noather o' those plazes. Fur away off 'em. + +_Col. G._ But what does it matter where I have or haven't been? + +_Th._ Mun aw tell tho again? Aw've lost summut, aw tell tho. Didsto +ne'er hear tell ov th' owd woman 'at lost her shillin'? Hoo couldn't +sit her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon's me. (_Hides his face in his +hands_.) + +_Col. G._ Ah! now I begin to guess! (_aside_).--You don't mean you've +lost your-- + +_Th._ (_starting up and grasping his stick with both hands_). Aw _do_ +mane aw've lost mo yung lass; and aw dunnot say thae's feawnd her, but +aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then! + +_Col. G._ What on earth makes you think that? I don't know what you're +after. + +_Th._ Thae knows well enough. Thae knowed what aw'd lost afoor aw +tou'd tho yo' be deny in' your own name. Thae knows. Aw'll tay tho +afore the police, beout thou gie her oop. Aw wull. + +_Col. G._ What story have you to tell the police then? They'll want to +know. + +_Th._ Story saysto? The dule's i' th' mon! Didn't aw seigh th' mon 'at +stealed her away goo into this heawse not mich over hauve an hour +ago?--Aw seigh him wi' mo own eighes. + +_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to him? + +_Th._ He poppit in at th' same dur, and there aw've been a-watching +ever since. Aw've not took my eighes off ov it. He's somewheeres now +in this same heawse. + +_Col. G._ He _may_ have been out in the morning (_aside_).--But you +see there are more doors than one to the place. There is a back door; +and there is a door out into the street. + +_Th._ Eigh! eigh! Th' t'one has to do wi' th' t'other--have it? Three +dur-holes to one shed! That looks bad! + +_Col. G._ He's not here, whoever it was. There's not a man but myself +in the place. + +_Th._ Hea am aw to know yo're not playin' a marlock wi' mo? He'll be +oop i' th' heawse theer. Aw mun go look (_going_). + +_Col. G._ (_preventing him_). And how am _I_ to know you're not a +housebreaker? + +_Th._ Dun yo think an owd mon like mosel' would be of mich use for +sich wark as that, mon? + +_Col. G._ The more fit for a spy, though, to see what might be made of +it. + +_Th._ Eh, mon! Dun they do sich things as you? But aw'm seechin' +nothin', man nor meawse, that donnot belung me. Aw tell yo true. Gie +mo mo Mattie, and aw'll trouble yo no moor. Aw winnot--if yo'll give +mo back mo Mattie. (_Comes close up to him and lays his hand on his +arm_.) Be yo a feyther, mon? + +_Col. G._ Yes. + +_Th._ Ov a pratty yung lass? + +_Col. G._ Well, no. I have but a son. + +_Th._ Then thae winnot help mo? + +_Col. G._ I shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how. + +_Th._ Tell yor maister 'at Mattie's owd feyther's coom a' the gait fro +Rachda to fot her whoam, and aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll +let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam: +hoo's but poorly. Tell yor maister that. + +_Col. G._ But I don't believe my master knows anything about her. + +_Th._ Aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into this heawse but a +feow minutes agoo? + +_Col. G._ You've mistaken somebody for him. + +_Th._ Well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre days ago, aw seigh +mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur--aw mane th' heawsedur, yon. + +_Col. G._ Are you sure of that? + +_Th._ Sure as death. Aw seigh her back. + +_Col. G._ Her back! Who could be sure of a back? + +_Th._ By th' maskins! dosto think I dunnot know mo Mattie's back? I +seign her coom eawt o' that dur, aw tell tho! + +_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to her? + +_Th._ Aw co'd. + +_Col. G._ And she didn't answer? + +_Th._ Aw didn't co' leawd. Aw're not willin' to have ony mak ov a din. + +_Col. G._ But you followed her surely? + +_Th._ Aw did; but aw're noan so good at walkin' as aw wur when aw +coom; th' stwons ha' blistered mo fet. An it're the edge o' dark like. +Aw connot seigh weel at neet, wi o' th' lamps; an afoor aw geet oop +wi' her, hoo's reawnd th' nook, and gwon fro mo seet. + +_Col. G._ There are ten thousands girls in London you might take for +your own under such circumstances--not seeing more than the backs of +them. + +_Th._ Ten theawsand girls like mo Mattie, saysto?--wi'her greight +eighes and her lung yure?--Puh! + +_Col. G._ But you've just said you didn't see her face! + +_Th._ Dunnot aw know what th' face ov mo chylt be like, beout seein' ov +it? Aw'm noan ov a lump-yed. Nobory as seigh her once wouldn't know +her again. + +_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's a lunatic!--I don't see what I can do for +you, old fellow. + +_Th._ (_rising_). And aw met ha' known it beout axin'! O'reet! Aw're a +greight foo'! But aw're beawn to coom in: aw lung'd to goo through th' +same dur wi' mo Mattie. Good day, sir. It be like maister, like mon! +God's curse upon o' sich! (_Turns his back. After a moment turns +again_.) Noa. Aw winnot say that; for mo Mattie's sake aw winnot say +that. God forgie you! (_going by the house_). + +_Col. G._ This way, please! (_opening the street-door_). + +_Th._ Aw see. Aw'm not to have a chance ov seein' oather Mattie or th' +mon. _Exit_. + + Col. G. _resumes his boot absently. Re-enter_ THOMAS, _shaking his + fist_. + +_Th._ But aw tell tho, aw'll stick to th' place day and neet, aw wull. +Aw wull. Aw wull. + +_Col. G._ Come back to-morrow. + +_Th._ Coom back, saysto? Aw'll not goo away (_growing fierce_). Wilto +gie mo mo Mattie? Aw'm noan beawn to ston here so mich lunger. Wilto +gie mo mo Mattie? + +_Col. G._ I cannot give you what I haven't got. + +_Th._ Aw'll break thi yed, thou villain! (_threatening him with his +stick_). Eh, Mattie! Mattie! to loe sich a mon's maister more'n me! I +would dey fur thee, Mattie. _Exit_. + +_Col. G._ It's all a mistake, of course. There are plenty of young +men--but my Arthur's none of such. I cannot believe it of him. The +daughter! If I could find _her, she_ would settle the question. (_It +begins to grow dark_.) I must help the old man to find her. He's sure +to come back. Arthur does _not_ look the least like it. +But--(_polishes vigorously_). I can_not_ get this boot to look like a +gentleman's. I wish I had taken a lesson or two first. I'll get hold +of a shoeblack, and make him come for a morning or two. No, he does +_not_ look like it. There he comes. (_Goes on polishing_.) + + _Enter_ GER. + +_Ger._ William! + +_Col. G._ (_turning_). Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Light the gas. Any one called? + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Who? + +_Col. G._ I don't know, sir. (_Lighting the gas_.) + +_Ger._ You should have asked his name. (_Stands before the clay, +contemplating it_.) + +_Col. G._ I'm sorry I forgot, sir. It was only an old man from the +country--after his daughter, he said. + +_Ger._ Came to offer his daughter, or himself perhaps. (_Begins to +work at the figure_.) + +_Col. G._ (_watching him stealthily_). He looked a respectable old +party--from Lancashire, he said. + +_Ger._ I dare say. You will have many such callers. Take the address. +Models, you know. + +_Col. G._ If he calls again, sir? + +_Ger._ Ask him to leave his address, I say. + +_Col. G._ But he told me you knew her. + +_Ger._ Possibly. I had a good many models before I left. But it's of +no consequence; I don't want any at present. + +_Col. G._ He seemed in a great way, sir--and swore. I couldn't make +him out. + +_Ger._ Ah! hm! + +_Col. G._ He says he saw her come out of the house. + +_Ger. Has_ there been any girl here? Have you seen any about? + +_Col. G._ No, sir. + +_Ger._ My aunt had a dressmaker to meet her here the other evening. I +have had no model since I came back. + +_Col. G._ The man was in a sad taking about her, sir. I didn't know +what to make of it. There seemed some truth--something suspicious. + +_Ger._ Perhaps my aunt can throw some light upon it. (COL. G. +_lingers_.) That will do. (_Exit_ COL. G.) How oddly the man behaves! +A sun-stroke in India, perhaps. Or he may have had a knock on the +head. I must keep my eye on him. (_Stops working, steps backward, and +gazes at the Psyche_.) She is growing very like some one! Who can it +be? She knows she is puzzling me, the beauty! See how she is keeping +back a smile! She knows if she lets one smile out, her whole face will +follow it through the clay. How strange the half-lights of memory are! +You know and you don't know--both at once. Like a bat in the twilight +you are sure of it, and the same moment it is nowhere. Who _is_ my +Psyche like?--The forehead above the eyebrow, and round by the temple? +The half-playful, half-sorrowful curve of the lip? The hope in the +lifted eyelid? There is more there than ever I put there. Some power +has been shaping my ends. By heaven, I have it!--No--yes--it is--it is +Constance--momently dawning out of the clay! What _does_ this mean? +_She_ never gave me a sitting--at least, she has not done so for the +last ten years--yet here she is--she, and no other! I never thought +she was beautiful. When she came with my aunt the other day though, I +did fancy I saw a new soul dawning through the lovely face. Here it +is--the same soul breaking through the clay of my Psyche!--I will give +just one touch to the corner of the mouth. + + _Gives a few touches, then steps back again and contemplates the + figure. Turns away and walks up and down. The light darkens to slow + plaintive music, which lasts for a minute. Then the morning begins + to dawn, gleaming blue upon the statues and casts, and revealing_ + GER. _seated before his Psyche, gazing at her. He rises, and exit. + Enter_ COL. G. _and looks about_. + +_Col. G._ I don't know what to make of it! Or rather I'm afraid I do +know what to make of it! It looks bad. He's not been in bed all night. +But it shows he has some conscience left--and that's a comfort. + + _Enter_ Mrs. CLIFFORD, _peeping round cautiously_. + +_Col. G._ What, Clara! you here so early! + +_Mrs. C._ Well, you know, brother, you're so fond of mystery! + +_Col. G._ It's very kind of you to come! But we must be very careful; +I can't tell when my master may be home. + +_Mrs. C._ Has he been out all night, then? + +_Col. G._ Oh no; he's just gone. + +_Mrs. C._ I never knew him such an early bird. I made sure he was safe +in bed for a couple of hours yet. But I do trust, Walter, you have had +enough of this fooling, and are prepared to act like a rational man +and a gentleman. + +_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, with my usual obstinacy, I am more +determined than ever that my boy shall not know me, until, as I told +you, I have rendered him such service as may prove me not altogether +unworthy to be his father. Twenty years of neglect will be hard to +surmount. + +_Mrs. C._ But mere menial service cannot discharge the least portion +of your obligations. As his father alone can you really serve him. + +_Col. G._ You persist in misunderstanding me. This is not the service +I mean. I scorn the fancy. This is only the means, as I told you +plainly before, of finding out _how_ I may serve him--of learning what +he really needs--or most desires. If I fail in discovering how to +recommend myself to him, I shall go back to India, and content myself +with leaving him a tolerable fortune. + +_Mrs. C._ How ever a hair-brained fellow like you, Walter, could have +made such a soldier!--Why don't you tell your boy you love him, and +have done with it? + +_Col. G._ I will, as soon as I have proof to back the assertion. + +_Mrs. C._ I tell you it is rank pride. + +_Col. G._ It may be pride, sister; but it is the pride of a repentant +thief who puts off his confession until he has the money in his hand +to prove the genuineness of his sorrow. + +_Mrs. C._ It never _was_ of any use to argue with _you_, Walter; you +know that, or at least I know it. So I give up.--I trust you have got +over your prejudice against his profession. It is not my fault. + +_Col. G._ In truth, I had forgotten the profession--as you call it--in +watching the professor. + +_Mrs. C._ And has it not once occurred to you to ask how he may take +such watching? + +_Col. G._ By the time he is aware of it, he will be ready to +understand it. + +_Mrs. C._ But suppose he should discover you before you have thus +established your position? + +_Col. G._ I must run the risk. + +_Mrs. C._ Suppose then you should thus find out something he would not +have you know? + +_Col. G._ (_hurriedly_). Do you imagine his servant might know a thing +he would hide from his father? + +_Mrs. C._ I do not, Walter. I can trust him. But he might well resent +the espionage of even his father. You cannot get rid of the vile look +of the thing. + +_Col. G._ Again I say, my boy shall be my judge, and my love shall be +my plea. In any case I shall have to ask his forgiveness. But there is +his key in the lock! Run into the house. + + _Exit_ MRS. C. _Enter_ GER., _and goes straight to the Psyche_. + +_Col. G._ Breakfast is waiting, sir. + +_Ger._ By and by, William. + +_Col. G._ You haven't been in bed, sir! + +_Ger._ Well? What of that? + +_Col. G._ I hope you're not ill, sir. + +_Ger._ Not in the least: I work all night sometimes.--You can go. +(COL. G. _lingers, with a searching gaze at the Psyche_.)--I don't +want anything. + +_Col. G._ Pardon me, sir, but I am sure you are ill. You've done no +work since last night. + +_Ger._ (_with displeasure_). I am quite well, and wish to be alone. + +_Col. G._ Mayn't I go and fetch a doctor, sir? It is better to take +things in time. + +_Ger._ You are troublesome. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--What can the fellow +mean? He looked at me so strangely too! He's officious--that's all, I +dare say. A good sort of man, I do think! William!--What is it in the +man's face?--(_Enter_ Col G.) Is the breakfast ready? + +_Col. G._ Quite ready, sir. + +_Ger._ I'm sorry I spoke to you so hastily. The fact is-- + +_Col. G._ Don't mention it, sir. Speak as you will to me; I shan't +mind it. When there's anything on a man's conscience--I--I--I mean on +a man's mind-- + +_Ger._ What _do_ you mean? + +_Col. G._ I mean, when there is anything there, he can't well help his +temper, sir. + +_Ger._ I don't understand you; but, anyhow, you--go too far, William. + +_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir: I forgot myself. I do humbly beg +your pardon. Shall I make some fresh coffee, sir? It's not cold--only +it's stood too long. + +_Ger._ The coffee will do well enough. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--Is she so +beautiful? (_turning to the Psyche_)--Is there a likeness?--I see +it.--Nonsense! A mere chance confluence of the ideal and the +actual.--Even then the chance must mean something. Such a _mere_ +chance would indeed be a strange one! + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. + +Oh, my heart! here she comes! my Psyche herself!--Well, Constance! + +_Con._ Oh, Arthur, I am _so_ glad I've found you! I want to talk to +you about something. I know you don't care much about me now, but I +_must_ tell you, for it would be wrong not. + +_Ger._ (_aside_). How beautiful she is! What _can_ she have to tell me +about? It cannot be--it _shall_ not be--. Sit down, won't you? +(_offering her a chair_.) + +_Con._ No. _You_ sit there (_pointing to the dais_), and I will sit +here (_placing herself on the lower step_). It was here I used to sit +so often when I was a little girl. Why can't one keep little? I was +always with you then! (_Sighs_.) + +_Ger._ It is not my fault, Constance. + +_Con._ Oh no! I suppose it can't be. Only I don't see why. Oh, Arthur, +where should I be but for you! I saw the old place yesterday. How +dreadful and yet how dear it was! + +_Ger._ Who took you there? + +_Con._ Nobody. I went alone. + +_Ger._ It was hardly safe.--I don't like your going out alone, Constance. + +_Con._ Why, Arthur! I used to know every court and alley about Shoreditch +better than I know Berkeley Square now! + +_Ger._ But what made you go there? + +_Con._ I went to find a dressmaker who has been working for my aunt, +and lost my way. And--would you believe it?--I was actually +frightened! + +_Ger._ No wonder! There are rough people about there. + +_Con._ I never used to think them rough when I lived among them with +my father and mother. There must be just as good people there as +anywhere else. Yet I could not help shuddering at the thought of +living there again!--How strange it made me feel! You have been my +angel, Arthur. What would have become of me if you hadn't taken me, I +dare not think. + +_Ger._ I have had my reward, Constance: you are happy. + +_Con._ Not quite. There's something I want to tell you. + +_Ger._ Tell on, child. + +_Con._ Oh, thank you!--that is how you used to talk to me. +(_Hesitates_.) + +_Ger._ (_with foreboding_) Well, what is it? + +_Con._ (_pulling the fingers of her gloves_) A gentleman--you know +him--has been--calling upon aunt--and me. We have seen a good deal of +him. + +_Ger._ Who is he? + +_Con._ Mr. Waterfield. (_Keeps her eyes on the floor_.) + +_Ger._ Well? + +_Con._ He says--he--he--he wants me to marry him.--Aunt likes him. + +_Ger._ And you? + +_Con._ I like him too. I don't think I like him enough--I dare say I +shall. It is _so_ good of him to take poor me! He is _very_ rich, they +say. + +_Ger._ Have you accepted him? + +_Con._ I am afraid he thinks so.--Ye--e--s.--I hardly know. + +_Ger._ Haven't you--been rather--in a hurry--Constance? + +_Con._ No, indeed! I haven't been in a hurry at all. He has been a long +time trying to make me like him. I have been too long a burden to Mrs. +Clifford. + +_Ger._ So! it is her doing, then! + +_Con._ You were away, you know. + +_Ger._ (_bitterly_) Yes; too far--chipping stones and making mud-pies! + +_Con._ I don't know what you mean by that, Arthur. + +_Ger._ Oh--nothing. I mean that--that--Of course if you are engaged to +him, then-- + +_Con._ I'm afraid I've done very wrong, Arthur. If I had thought you +would care!--I knew aunt would be pleased!--she wanted me to have him, +I knew.--I ought to do what I can to please her,--ought I not? I have +no right to-- + +_Ger._ Surely, surely. Yes, yes; I understand. It was not your fault. +Only you mustn't marry him, if you--. Thank you for telling me. + +_Con._ I ought to have told you before--before I let him speak to me +again. But I didn't think you would care--not much. + +_Ger._ Yes, yes. + +_Con._ (_looking up with anxiety_) Ah! you _are_ vexed with me, +Arthur! I see how wrong it was now. I never saw you look like that. I +am very, very sorry. (_Bursts into tears_.) + +_Ger._ No, no, child! Only it is rather sudden, and I want to think +about it. Shall I send William home with you? + +_Con._ No, thank you. I have a cab waiting. You're not angry with your +little beggar, Arthur? + +_Ger._ What is there to be angry about, child? + +_Con._ That I--did anything without asking you first. + +_Ger._ Nonsense! You couldn't help it. _You_'re not to blame one bit. + +_Con._ Oh, yes, I am! I ought to have asked you first. But indeed I +did not know you would care. Good-bye.--Shall I go at once? + +_Ger._ Good-bye. (_Exit_ CON., _looking back troubled_.) Come at last! +Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her at last!--and too late! For +three years I haven't seen her--have not once written to her! Since I +came back I've seen her just twice,--and now in the very hell of love! +The ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there in that +corner! If it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And to +such a fellow as that!--not even a gentleman! How _could_ she take him +for one! That does perplex me! Ah, well! I suppose men _have_ borne +such things before, and men will bear them again! I must work! Nothing +but work will save me. (_Approaches the Psyche, but turns from it with +a look of despair and disgust_.) What a fool I have been!--Constance! +Constance!--A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in +heaven! It will drive me mad. (_Rushes out, leaving the door open_.) + + _Enter_ COL. GERVAISE. + +_Col. G._ Gone again! and without his breakfast! My poor boy! There's +something very wrong with you! It's that girl! It must be! But there's +conscience in him yet!--It is all my fault. If I had been a father to +him, this would never have happened.--If he were to marry the girl +now?--Only, who can tell but _she_ led _him_ astray? I have known such +a thing. (_Sits down and buries his face in his hands_.) + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Wat_. Is Mr. Gervaise in? + +_Col. G._ (_rising_) No, sir. + +_Wat_. Tell him I called, will you? [_Exit_.] + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir.--Forgot again. Young man;--gentleman or cad?--don't +know; think the latter. + + _Enter_ THOMAS. + +_Th._ Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir? + +_Col. G._ (_starting up_). In the name of God, I know nothing of your +child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds--in +golden sovereigns. + +_Th._ Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir? + +_Col. G._ That's your business. Bring her, and there will be your +money. + +_Th._ Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' Bank ov +England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for +mo lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther--ov the +feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo +sorry for't? I' hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo +whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait +till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us. + +_Col. G._ For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring +her here, I say, and I will make you happy. + +_Th._ Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy +then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be +a coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be +gooin', aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!--aw'm noan sich a greight foo +as yo tak mo for. + + _Exit._ COL. G. _follows him. Enter._ GER. _Sits down before the + Psyche, but without looking at her_. + +_Ger._ Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my +heart! I _will_ conquer it. But I _will_ love her. The spear shall +fill its own wound. To draw it out and die, would be no victory. "I'll +but lie down and bleed awhile, and then I'll rise and fight again." +Brave old Sir Andrew! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir--a young man called while you were +out. + +_Ger._ (_listlessly_). Very well, William. + +_Col. G._ Is there any message, if he calls again, sir? He said he +would. + +_Ger._ No. (COL. G. _lingers_.) You can go. + +_Col. G._ I hope you feel better, sir? + +_Ger._ Quite well. + +_Col. G._ Can I get you anything, sir? + +_Ger._ No, thank you; I want nothing.--Why do you stay? + +_Col. G._ Can't you think of something I can do for you, sir? + +_Ger._ Fetch that red cloth. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Throw it over that-- + +_Col. G._ This, sir? + +_Ger._ No, no--the clay there. Thank you. (_A knock at the door_.) See +who that is. + +_Col. G._ Are you at home, sir? + +_Ger._ That depends. Not to Mr. Waterfield. Oh, my head! my head! +[_Exit_ COL. G. + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. GER. _starts, but keeps his head leaning on his + hand_. + +_Con._ I forgot to say to you, Arthur,--. But you are ill! What is the +matter, dear Arthur? + +_Ger._ (_without looking up_) Nothing--only a headache. + +_Con._ Do come home with me, and let aunt and me nurse you. Don't be +vexed with me any more. I will do whatever you like. I couldn't go +home without seeing you again. And now I find you ill! + +_Ger._ Not a bit. I am only dreadfully busy. I must go out of town. I +am so busy! I can't stay in it a moment longer. I have so many things +to do. + +_Con._ Mayn't I come and see you while you work? I never used to +interrupt you. I want so to sit once more in my old place. (_Draws a +stool towards him_.) + +_Ger._ No, no--not--not there! Constance used to sit there. William! + +_Con._ You frighten me, Arthur! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Ger._ Bring a chair, William. + + _Constance sits down like a chidden child. Exit_ COL. G. + +_Con._ I must have offended you more than I thought, Arthur! What +_can_ I say? It is so stupid to be always saying _I am sorry_. + +_Ger._ No, no. But some one may call. + +_Con._ You mean more than that. Will you not let me understand? + +_Ger._ Your friend Mr. Waterfield called a few minutes ago. He will be +here again presently, I dare say. + +_Con._ (_indifferently_). Indeed! + +_Ger._ I suppose you appointed--expected--to meet him here. + +_Con._ Arthur! Do you think I would come to you to meet _him_? I saw +him this morning; I don't want to see him again. I wish you knew him. + +_Ger._ Why should you want me to know him? + +_Con._ Because you would do him good. + +_Ger._ What good does he want done him? + +_Con._ He has got beautiful things in him--talks well--in bits--arms +and feet and faces--never anything like--(_turning to the Psyche_) Why +have you--? Has _she_ been naughty too? + +_Ger._ Is it _only_ naughty things that must be put out of sight, +Constance? + +_Con._ Dear Arthur! you spoke like your own self then. + +_Ger._ (_rising hurriedly_). Excuse me. I must go. It is very rude, +but--William! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Fetch a hansom directly. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. _Exit_. + +_Con._ You do frighten me, Arthur! I am sure you are ill. + +_Ger._ Not at all. I have an engagement. + +_Con._ I must go then--must I? + +_Ger._ Do not think me unkind? + +_Con._ I will not think anything you would not have me think. + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ The cab is at the door, sir. + +_Ger._ Thank you. Then show Miss Lacordère out. Stay. I will open the +door for her myself. _Exeunt_ GER. _and_ CON. + +_Col. G._ He speaks like one in despair, forcing every word! If he +should die! Oh, my God! + + _Re-enter_ GER. _Walks up and down the room_. + +_Col. G._ Ain't you going, sir? + +_Ger._ No. I have sent the lady in the cab. + +_Col. G._ Then hadn't you better lie down, sir? + +_Ger._ Lie down! What do you mean? I'm not in the way of lying down +except to sleep. + +_Col. G._ And let me go for the doctor, sir? + +_Ger._ The doctor! Ha! ha ha!--You are a soldier, you say? + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Right. We're all soldiers--or ought to be. I will put you to +your catechism. What is a soldier's first duty? + +_Col. G._ Obedience, sir. + + [GER. _sits down and leans his head on his hands_. COL. G. _watches + him_.] + +_Ger._ Ah! obedience, is it? Then turn those women out. They will hurt +you--may kill you; but you must not mind that. They burn, they +blister, and they blast, for as white as they look! The hottest is the +white fire. But duty, old soldier!--obedience, you know!--Ha! ha! Oh, +my head! my head! I believe I am losing my senses, William. I was in a +bad part of the town this morning. I went to see a place I knew long +ago. It had gone to hell--but the black edges of it were left. There +was a smell--and I can't get it out of me. Oh, William! William! take +hold of me. Don't let them come near me. Psyche is laughing at me. I +told you to throw the red cloth over her. + +_Col. G._ My poor boy! + +_Ger._ Don't fancy you're my father, though! I wish you were. But I +cannot allow that.--Why the devil didn't you throw the red cloth over +that butterfly? She's sucking the blood from my heart. + +_Col. G._ You said the Psyche, sir! The red cloth _is_ over the +Psyche, sir. Look. + +_Ger._ Yes. Yes. I beg your pardon. Take it off. It is too red. It +will scorch her wings. It burns my brain. Take it off, I say! (COL. G. +_uncovers the Psyche_.) There! I told you! She's laughing at me! +Ungrateful child! _I_'m not her Cupid. Cover her up. Not the red cloth +again. It's too hot, I say. I won't torture _her_. I am a man and I +can bear it. She's a woman and she shan't bear it. + +_Sinks back in his chair_. COL. G. _lays him on the dais, and sits +down beside him_. + +_Col. G._ His heart's all right! And when a fellow's miserable over +his faults, there must be some way out of them.--But the +consequences?--Ah! there's the rub. + +_Ger._ What's the matter? Where am I? + +_Col. G._ I must fetch a doctor, sir. You've been in a faint. + +_Ger._ Why couldn't I keep in it? It was very nice: you know nothing--and +that's the nicest thing of all. Why is it we can't stop, William? + +_Col. G._ I don't understand you, sir. + +_Ger._ Stop living, I mean. It's no use killing yourself, for you +don't stop then. At least they say you go on living all the same. If +I thought it did mean stopping, William-- + +_Col. C._ Do come to your room, sir. + +_Ger._ I won't. I'll stop here. How hot it is! Don't let anybody in. + + _Stretches out his hand_. COL. G. _holds it. He falls asleep_. + +_Col. G._ What _shall_ I do? If he married her, he'd be miserable, and +make her miserable too. I'll take her away somewhere. I'll be a father +to her; I'll tend her as if she were his widow. But what confusions +would follow! Alas! alas! one crime is the mother of a thousand +miseries! And now he's in for a fever--typhus, perhaps!--I _must_ find +this girl!--What a sweet creature that Miss Lacordère is! If only he +might have _her_! I don't care what she was. + +_Ger._ Don't let them near me, William! They will drive me mad. They +think I shall love them. I _will_ not. If she comes one step nearer, I +shall strike her. You Diana! Hecate! Hell-cat!--Fire-hearted Chaos is +burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some water, William! + +_Col. G._ Here it is, sir. + +_Ger._ But just look to Psyche there. Ah, she's off! There she goes! +melting away in the blue, like a dissolving vapour. Bring me my +field-glass, William. I may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste. + +_Col. G._ Pray don't talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or you will make +yourself very ill. Think what will become of me if-- + +_Ger._ What worse would _you_ be, William? You are a soldier. I must +talk. You are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet (_holding his head +with both hands_). I should go raving mad else (_wildly_). Give me +some water. (_He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the room_.) +Now they _are_ gone, and I do believe they won't come again! I see +everything--and your face, William. You are very good to me--very +patient! I should die if it weren't for you. + +_Col. G._ I would die for you, sir. + +_Ger._ Would you? But perhaps you don't care much for your life. +Anybody might have _my_ life for the asking. I dare say it's just as +good to be dead.--Ah! there is a toad--a toad with a tail! No; it's a +toad with a slow-worm after him. Take them away, William!--Thank +you.--I used to think life pleasant, but now--somehow there's nothing +in it. She told me the truth about it--Constance did. Don't let those +women come back. What if I _should_ love them, William!--love and hate +them both at once! William! William! (_A knock at the door_.) See who +that is. Mind you don't let _them_ in. + +_Col. G._ Martha is there, sir. + +_Ger._ She's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. They would +walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look. +You'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't +let them in, for the love of God, William! Real women have irises to +their eyes: those have none--those frightful snowy beauties.--And yet +snow is very nice! And I'm so hot! _There_ they come again! _Exit_ +COL. G. + + _Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Ger._ Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come! + +_Mrs. C._ What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt you. I am here. I +will take care of you. + +_Ger._ Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you +know them, aunt? I'll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and +Venus.--They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white +women--only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are +purple--and inside their lips, when they smile--and in the hollows of +their eyes--ugh! They want me to love them; and they say you are +all--all of you women--no better than they are. I _know_ that is a +lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes. + +_Mrs. C._ Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you, +and drive them away? + +_Ger._ No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain. + +_Mrs. C._ How long have you had this headache? (_laying her hand on +his forehead_.) + +_Ger._ Only a year or two--since the white woman came--that woman +(_pointing to the Psyche_). She's been buried for ages, and won't grow +brown. + +_Mrs. C._ There's no woman there, Arthur. + +_Ger._ Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my +head! my head!--There's my father standing behind the door and won't +come in!--_He_ could help me now, if he would. William! show my father +in. But he isn't in the story--so he can't. + +_Mrs. C._ Do try to keep yourself quiet, Arthur. The doctor will be +here in a few minutes. + +_Ger._ He shan't come here! He would put the white woman out. She does +smell earthy, but I won't part with her. (_A knock_.) What a devil of +a noise! Why don't they use the knocker? What's the use of taking a +sledge-hammer? + +_Mrs. C._ It's that stupid James! + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. MRS. C. _goes to meet her_. + +_Mrs. C._ Constance, you go and hurry the doctor. I will stay with +Arthur. + +_Con._ Is he _very_ ill, aunt? + +_Mrs. C._ I'm afraid he is. + +_Ger._ (_sitting up_). Constance! Constance! + +_Con._ Here I am! (_running to him_). + +_Ger._ Oh, my head! I wish I could find somewhere to lay it!--Sit by +me, Constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder--for one +minute--only one minute. It aches so! (_She sits down by him. His head +sinks on her shoulder_. MRS. C. _looks annoyed, and exit_.) + +_Con._ Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (_sobbing_). You used to +like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You _have_ forgiven me? +Dear head! + + _He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music_. + +_Ger._ (_half waking_). I can't read. When I get to the bottom of the +page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to Garibaldi! +and if I don't, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that +one line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her by the lily-white +hand."--I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they +_will_ come!--I _won't_ go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and +never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. I will +_not_ go mad! I will die like a man. + +_Con._ Arthur! Arthur! + +_Ger._ God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind +her!--Psyche! Psyche! Don't speak to those women! Come alone, and I +will tear my heart out and give it you.--It is Psyche herself now, and +the rest are gone! Psyche--listen. + +_Con._ It's only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would +but let me stay and nurse you! But I don't know what's come to her: +she's not like herself at all. + +_Ger._ Who's that behind you? + +_Con._ Behind me? (_looking round_). There's nobody behind me. + +_Ger._ I thought there was somebody behind you. William!--What can +have become of William? + +_Con._ I dare say aunt has sent him somewhere. + +_Ger._ Then he's gone! he's gone! + +_Con._ You're not afraid of being left alone with me, Arthur? + +_Ger._ Oh no! of course not?--What can have become of William? Don't +you know they sent him--not those women, but the dead people--to look +after me? He's a good fellow. He said he would die for me. Ha! ha! ha! +Not much in that--is there? + +_Con._ Don't laugh so, dear Arthur. + +_Ger._ Well, I won't. I have something to tell you, Constance. I will +try to keep my senses till I've told you. + +_Con._ Do tell me. I hope I haven't done anything more to vex you. +Indeed I am sorry. I won't speak to that man again, if you like. I +would rather not--if you wish it. + +_Ger._ What right have I to dictate to you, my child? + +_Con._ Every right. I am yours. I belong to you. Nobody owned me when +you took me. + +_Ger._ Don't talk like that; you will drive me mad. + +_Con._ Arthur! Arthur! + +_Ger._ Listen to me, Constance. I am going to Garibaldi. He wants +soldiers. I must not live an idle life any longer.--We must part, +Constance.--Good-bye, my darling! + +_Con._ No, no; not yet; we'll talk about it by-and-by. You see I shall +have ever so many things to make for you before you can go! +(_smiling_). + +_Ger._ Garibaldi can't wait, Constance--and _I_ can't wait. I shall +die if I stop here. + +_Con._ Oh, Arthur, you are in some trouble, and you won't tell me what +it is, so I can't help you! + +_Ger._ I shall be killed, I know. I mean to be. Will you think of me +sometimes? Give me one kiss. I may have a last kiss. + +_Con._ (_weeping_.) My heart will break if you talk like that, Arthur. +I will do anything you please. There's something wrong, dreadfully +wrong! And it must be my fault!--Oh! there's that man! (_starting +up_.) He shall _not_ come here. + + [_Runs to the house-door, and stands listening, with her hand on + the key_.] + +END OF ACT I. + + + + +ACT II. + +SCENE.--_A street in Mayfair_. MRS. CLIFFORD'S _house. A pastrycook's +shop. Boys looking in at the window_. + + +_Bill._ I say, Jim, ain't it a lot o' grub? If I wos a pig now,-- + +_Jack._ I likes to hear Bill a supposin' of hisself. Go it, Bill!--There +ain't nothink _he_ can't suppose hisself, Jim.--Bein' as you ain't a pig. +Bill, you've got yer own trotters, an' yer own tater-trap. + +_Bill._ Vereupon blue Bobby eccosts me with the remark, "I wants you, +Bill;" and seein' me too parerlyzed to bolt, he pops me in that 'ere +jug vithout e'er a handle. + +_Jack._ Mother kep' a pig once. + +_Jim._ What was he like, Jack? + +_Jack._ As like any other pig as ever he could look; accep' that where +other pigs is black he wor white, an' where other pigs is white he wor +black. + +_Jim._ Did you have the milk in your tea, Jack? + +_Jack._ Pigs ain't got no milk, Jim, you stupe! + +_Bill._ Pigs _has_ milk, Jack, only they don't give it to coves.--I +wish I wos the Lord Mayor! + +_Jack._ Go it again, Bill. He ought ha' been a beak, Bill ought. What +'ud you do, Bill, supposin' as how you wos the Lord Mayor? + +_Bill._ I'd take all the beaks, an' all the peelers, an' put their own +bracelets on 'em, an' feed 'em once a day on scraps o' wittles to +bring out the hunger: a cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all. + +_Jim._ He gets what mother calls the squeamishes. + +_Jack._ Well, Bill? + +_Bill._ Well, the worry moment their bellies was as long an' as loose +as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin', I'd bring 'em all up to this +'ere winder, five or six at a time--with the darbies on, mind ye-- + +_Jim._ And I'm to be there to see, Bill--ain't I? + +_Bill._ If you're good, Jim, an' don't forget yer prayers. + +_Jack._ My eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! Go it, Bill. + +_Bill._ Then I up an' addresses 'em: "My Lords an' Gen'lemen, 'cos as +how ye're all good boys, an' goes to church, an' don't eat _too_ many +wittles, an' don't take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you +shall obswerve me eat." + +_Jim._ Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill. + +_Bill._ No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a 'ungry gift, as +the cock said when he bolted the pebbles. Let's sojourn the meetin'. + +_Jack_. Yes; come along. 'Tain't a comfable corner this yere: the wind +cuts round uncommon sharp. Them pies ain't good--leastways not to +look at. + +_Bill_. They ain't disgestible. But look ye here, Jack and +Jim--hearkee, my kids. (_Puts an arm round the neck of each, and +whispers first to one and then to the other_.) + + _Enter_ MATTIE _and_ SUSAN. + +_Sus_. Now, Mattie, we're close to the house, an' I don't want to be +seen with you, for she's mad at _me_. + +_Mat_. You must have made her mad, then, Sue. + +_Sus_. She madded me first: what else when she wouldn't believe a word +I said? She'd ha' sworn on the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the +spout. But she'll believe _you_, an' give you something, and then +we'll have a chop! + +_Mat_. How can you expect that, Sue, when the work's lost? + +_Sus_. Never mind; you go and see. + +_Mat_. I shan't take it, Susan. I couldn't. + +_Sus_. Stuff and nonsense! I'll wait you round the corner: I don't +like the smell o' them pastry things. + + _Exit_. MATTIE _walks past the window_. + +_Mat_. I don't like going. It makes me feel a thief to be suspected. + +_Bill_. Lor! it's our Mattie! There's our Mattie!--Mattie! Mattie! + +_Mat_. Ah, Bill! you're there--are you? + +_Bill_. Yes, Mattie. It's a tart-show. You walks up and takes yer +chice;--leastways, you makes it: somebody else takes it. + +_Mat_. Wouldn't you like to _take_ your choice sometimes, Bill? + +_Bill_. In course I would. + +_Mat_. Then why don't you work, and better yourself a bit? + +_Bill_. Bless you, Mattie! myself is werry comf'able. He never +complains. + +_Mat_. You're hungry sometimes,--ain't you? + +_Bill_. Most remarkable 'ungry, Mattie--this werry moment. Odd you +should ask now--ain't it? + +_Mat_. You would get plenty to eat if you would work. + +_Bill_. Thank you--I'd rayther not. Them as ain't 'ungry never enj'ys +their damaged tarts. If I'm 'appy, vere's the odds? as the cat said to +the mouse as wanted to be let off the engagement. Why should I work +more'n any other gen'leman? + +_Mat_. A gentleman that don't work is a curse to his neighbours, Bill. + +_Bill_. Bless you, Mattie! I ain't a curse--nohow to nobody. I don't +see as you've got any call to say that, Mattie. I don't go fakin' +clies, or crackin' cribs--nothin' o' the sort. An' I don't mind doin' +of a odd job, if it _is_ a odd one. Don't go for to say that again, +Mattie. + +_Mat_. I won't, then, Bill. But just look at yourself!--You're all in +rags. + +_Bill_. Rags is the hairier, as the Skye terrier said to the +black-an'-tan.--I shouldn't object to a new pair of old trousers, +though. + +_Mat_. Why don't you have a pair of real new ones? If you would only +sweep a crossing-- + +_Bill_. There ain't, a crossin' but what's took. Besides, my legs +ain't put together for one place all day long. It ain't to be done, +Mattie. They can't do it. + +_Mat_. There's the shoe-black business, then. + +_Bill_. That ain't so bad, acause you can shoulder your box and +trudge. But if it's all the same to you, Mattie, I'd rayther enj'y +life: they say it's short. + +_Mat_. But it ain't the same to me. It's so bad for you to be idle, +Bill! + +_Bill_. Not as I knows on. I'm tollable jolly, so long's I gets the +browns for my bed. + +_Mat_. Wouldn't you like a bed with a blanket to it? + +_Bill_. Well, yes--if it was guv to me. But I don't go in for knocking +of yourself about, to sleep warm. + +_Mat_. Well, look here, Bill. It's all Susan and I can do to pay for +our room, and get a bit of bread and a cup of tea. It ain't +enough.--If you were to earn a few pence now-- + +_Bill_. Oh golly! I never thought o' that. What a hass I wur, to be +sure! I'll go a shoe-blackin' to-morror--I will. + +_Mat_. Did you ever black a shoe, Bill? + +_Bill_. I tried a boot oncet--when Jim wor a blackin' for a day or +two. But I made nothink on it--nothink worth mentionin'. The blackin' +or som'at was wrong. The gen'leman said it wur coal-dust, an he'd slog +me, an' adwised me to go an' learn my trade. + +_Mat_. And what did you say to that? + +_Bill_. Holler'd out "Shine yer boots!" as loud as I could holler. + +_Mat_. You must try my boots next time you come. + +_Bill_. This wery night, Mattie. I'll make 'em shine like plate +glass--see then if I don't. But where'll I get a box and brushes? + +_Mat_. You shall have our brushes and my footstool. + +_Bill_. I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and +carry it by one leg--as drunken Moll does her kid.--Here you are, sir! +Black your boots, sir?--Shine your trotters, sir? (_bawling_.) + +_Mat_. That'll do; that'll do, Bill! Famous! You needn't do it again +(_holding her ears_). Would you like a tart? + +_Bill_. Just wouldn't I, then!--Shine your boooooots! + +_Mat_. (_laughing_). Do hold your tongue, Bill. There's a penny for a +tart. + +_Bill_. Thank you, Mattie. Thank you. + + _Exit into the shop_. + +_Jack and Jim_ (_touching their supposed caps_). Please, ma'am! Please, +ma'am! I likes 'em too. I likes 'em more 'n Bill. + +_Mat_. I'm very sorry, but--(_feeling in her pocket_) I've got a +ha'penny, I believe. No--there's a penny! You must share it, you +know. (_Gives it to Jack. Knocks at Mrs. Clifford's door._) + +_Jack and Jim_. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. + + _Exit_ MATTIE _into_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S. + +_Jim_. Now, Jack, what's it to be? + +_Jack_. I believe I shall spend it in St. Martin's Lane. + +_Jim_. A ha'p'orth on it's mine, you know, Jack. + +_Jack_. Well, you do put the stunners on me! + +_Jim_. She said we wos to divide it--she did. + +_Jack_. 'Taint possible. It beats my ivories. (_He pretends to bite +it_. JIM _flies at him in a rage_.) + + _Re-enter_ BILL, _with his mouth full_. + +_Bill_. Now what are you two a squabblin' over? Oh! Jack's got a +yennep, and Jim's iookin' shirty. + +_Jim_. She told him to divide it, and he won't. + +_Bill_. Who told him? + +_Jim_. Mattie. + +_Bill_. You dare, Jack? Hand over. + +_Jack_. Be hanged if I do. + +_Bill_. Then do and be hanged. (_A struggle_.) There, Jim! Now you go +and buy what you like. + +_Jim_. Am I to give Jack the half? + +_Bill_. Yes, if our Mattie said it. + +_Jim_. All right, Bill. (_Goes into the shop_.) + +_Jack_. I owe you one for that, Bill. + +_Bill_. Owe it me then, Jack. I do like fair play--always did +(_eating_). + +_Jack_. You ain't a sharin' of _your_ yennep, Bill. + +_Bill_. Mattie didn't say I was to. She knowed one wouldn't break up +into three nohow. 'Tain't in natur', Jack. + +_Jack_. You might ha' guv me a bite, anyhow, Bill. + +_Bill_. It ain't desirable, Jack--size o' trap dooly considered. Here +comes your share. + + _Re-enter_ JIM. _Gives a bun to_ JACK. + +_Jim_. I tell you what, Bill--she ain't _your_ Mattie. She ain't +nobody's Mattie; she's a hangel. + +_Bill_. No, Jim, she ain't a hangel; she 'ain't got no wings, +leastways outside her clo'es, and she 'ain't got clo'es enough to hide +'em. I wish I wos a hangel! + +_Jack_. At it again, Bill! I _do_ like to hear Bill a wishin' of +hisself! Why, Bill? + +_Bill_. Acause they're never 'ungry. + +_Jack_. How do you know they ain't? + +_Bill_. You never sees 'em loafin' about nowheres. + +_Jim_. Is Mattie your sister, Bill? + +_Bill_. No, Jim; I ain't good 'nough to have a sister like she. + +_Jack_. Your sweetheart, Bill? Ha! ha! ha! + +_Bill_. Dry up, Jack. + +_Jim_. Tell me about her, Bill. _I_ didn't jaw you. + +_Bill_. She lives in our court, Jim. Makes shirts and things. + +_Jack_. Oh! ho! + + BILL _hits_ JACK. JACK _doubles himself up_. + +_Bill_. Jim, our Mattie ain't like other gals; I never see her out +afore this blessed day--upon my word and honour, Jim, never! + +_Jack_. (_wiping his nose with his sleeve_). You don't know a joke +from a jemmy, Bill. + +_Bill_. I'll joke you!--A hangel tips you a tart, and you plucks her +feathers! Get on t'other side of the way, you little dirty devil, or +I'll give you another smeller--cheap too. Off with you! + +_Jack_. No, Bill; no, please. I'm wery sorry. I ain't so bad's all +that comes to. + +_Bill_. If you wants to go with Jim and me, then behave like a +gen'leman. + +_Jim_. I calls our Mattie a brick! + +_Bill_. None o' _your_ jaw, Jim! She ain't _your_ Mattie. + + Enter THOMAS. + +_Tho._ Childer, dun yo know th' way to Paradise--Row, or Road, or +summat? + +_Bill_. Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school. + +_Tho._ Wheer's th' Sunday-school, chylt? + +_Bill_. Second door round the corner, sir. + +_Tho._ Second dur reawnd th' corner! Which corner, my man? + +_Bill_. Round _any_ corner. Second door's all-ways Sunday-school. +(_Takes a sight. Exeunt boys_.) + + THOMAS _sits down on a door-step_. + +_Tho._ Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th' Lord dunnot be a forsakin' +ov mo. There's that abeawt th' lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th' angels +keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an' +they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful +plaze! What has th' shepherd o' th' sheep himsel' to do, God bless +him! but go look for th' lost ones and carry 'em whoam! O Lord! gie mo +mo Mattie. Aw'm a silly ship mosel, a sarchin' for mo lost lamb. +(_Boys begin to gather and stare_.) She's o' the world to me. O Lord, +hear mo, and gie mo mo Mattie. Nea, aw'll geet oop, and go look again. +(_Rises_.) + +_First Boy_. Ain't he a cricket, Tommy? + +_Second Boy_. Spry, ain't he? Prod him, and see him jump. (_General +insult_.) + +_Tho._ Why, childer, what have aw done, that yo cry after mo like a +thief? + +_First Boy_. Daddy Longlegs! Daddy Longlegs! + + _They hustle and crowd him. Re-enter_ BILL. THOMAS _makes a rush. + They run. He seizes_ BILL. _They gather again_. + +_Tho._ Han yo getten a mother, lad? + +_Bill_. No, thank ye. 'Ain't got no mother. Come of a haunt, I do. + +_First Boy_. Game!--ain't he? + +_Tho._ Well, aw'll tak yo whoam to yor aunt--aw wull. + +_Bill_. Will you now, old chap? Wery well. (_Squats_.) + +_Tho._ (_holding him up by the collar, and shaking his stick over +him_). Tell mo wheer's por aunt, or aw'll breyk every bone i' yor +body. + +_Bill_ (_wriggling and howling and rubbing his eyes with alternate +sleeves_). Let me go, I say. Let me go and I'll tell ye. I will +indeed, sir. + +_Tho._ (_letting go_) Wheer then, mo lad? + +_Bill_ (_starting up_). I' the church-cellar, sir--first bin over the +left--feeds musty, and smells strong. Ho! ho! ho! (_Takes a sight_.) + + THOMAS _makes a dart_. BILL _dodges him_. + +_First Boy_. Ain't he a cricket _now_, Tommy? + +_Second Boy_. Got one leg too many for a cricket, Sam. + +_Third Boy_. That's what he jerks hisself with, Tommy. + +_Tho._ Boys, I want to be freens wi' yo. Here's a penny. + + _One of the boys knocks it out of his hand. A scramble_. + +_Tho._ Now, boys, dun yo know wheer's a young woman bi th' name ov +Mattie--somewheer abeawt Paradise Row? + +_First Boy_. Yes, old un. + +_Second Boy_. Lots on 'em. + +_Third Boy_. Which on em' do you want, Mr. Cricket? + +_Fourth Boy_. You ain't peticlar, I s'pose, old corner-bones? + +_First Boy_. Don't you fret, old stilts. We'll find you a Mattie. +There's plenty on 'em--all nice gals. + +_Tho._ I want mo own Mattie. + +_First Boy_. Why, you'd never tell one from t'other on 'em! + +_Third Boy_. All on 'em wery glad to see old Daddy Longlegs! + +_Tho._ Oh dear! Oh dear! What an awful plaze this Lon'on do be! To +see the childer so bad! + +_Second Boy_. Don't cry, gran'pa. _She'_d chaff you worser 'n us! +We're only poor little innocent boys. We don't know nothink, bless +you! Oh no! + +_First Boy_. You'd better let her alone, arter all, bag o' nails. + +_Second Boy_. She'll have it out on you now, for woppin' of her when +she wor a kid. + +_First Boy_. She's a wopper herself now. + +_Third Boy_. Mighty fine, with your shirt for a great-coat. He! he! +he! + +_Fourth Boy_. Mattie never kicks us poor innocent boys--cos we 'ain't +got no mothers to take our parts. Boo hoo! + + _Enter_ JACK--_his hands in his pockets_. + +_Jack_. What's the row, Bill? + +_Bill_. Dunnow, Jack. Old chap collared me when I wasn't alludin' to +him. He's after some Mattie or other. It can't be our Mattie. _She_ +wouldn't never have such a blazin' old parient as that. + +_Jack_. Supposin' it was your Mattie, Bill, would you split, and let +Scull-and-cross-bones nab her? + +_Bill_. Would I? Would I 'and over our Mattie to her natural enemy? +Did you ax it, Jack? + +_Jack_. Natural enemy! My eye, Bill! what words you fakes! + +_Bill_. Ain't he her natural enemy, then? Ain't it yer father as bumps +yer 'ed, an' cusses ye, an' lets ye see him eat? Afore he gets our +Mattie, I'll bite! + +_Tho._ Poor lad! poor lad! Dunnot say that! Her feyther's th' best +freen' hoo's getten. Th' moor's th' pity, for it's not mich he can do +for her. But he would dee for her--he would. + +_Boys (all together)_. Go along, Daddy-devil! Pick yer own bones, an' +ha' done. + + Bag-raker! + Skin-cat! + Bag o' nails! + Scull-an'-cross-bones! + + Old Daddy Longlegs wouldn't say his prayers-- + Take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs. + + Go along! Go to hell! + _We_'ll skin you. + Melt ye down for taller, we will. + Only he 'ain't got none, the red herrin'! + + _They throw things at him. He sits down on the door-step, and covers + his head with his arms. Enter_ COL. G. _Boys run off_. + +_Tho._ Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie! + +_Col. G._ Poor old fellow! Are you hurt? + +_Tho._ Eh! _yo_ be a followin' ov mo too! + +_Col. G._ What are you doing here? + +_Tho._ What am aw doin' yere! Thee knows well enough what aw're a +doin' yere. It 're o' thy fau't, mon. + +_Col. G._ Why, you've got a blow! Your head is cut! Poor old fellow! + +_Tho._ Never yo mind mo yed. + +_Col. G._ You must go home. + +_Tho._ Goo whoam, says to! Aw goo no-wheers but to th' grave afoor +aw've feawnd mo chylt. + +_Col. G._ Come along with me; I will do all I can to find her. Perhaps +I can help you after all. + +_Tho._ Aw mak nea deawbt o' that, mon. And thae seems a gradely chap. +Aw'm a'most spent. An' aw'm sick, sick! Dunnot let th' boys shove mo +abeawt again. + +_Col. G._ I will not. They shan't come near you. Take my arm. Poor old +fellow! If you would but trust me! Hey! Cab there! + + _Exeunt_. + + _Enter_ SUSAN, _peeping_. + +_Sus_. I wonder whatever's come to Mattie! It's long time she was out +again. + + _Enter_ MATTIE, _hurriedly_. + +_Mat_. Oh, Susan! Susan! (_Falls_.) + +_Sus_. Mattie! Mattie! (_Kneels beside her, and undoes her bonnet_.) + + _Enter_ POLICEMAN. + +_Pol_. What ails her? (_Goes to lift her_.) + +_Sus_. Leave her alone, will you? Let her head down. Get some water. + +_Pol_. Drunk--is she? + +_Sus_. Hold your tongue, you brute! If she'd a satin frock on, i'stead +o' this here poor cotton gownd, you'd ha' showed her t'other side o' +your manners! Get away with you. You're too ugly to look at.--Mattie! +Mattie! Look up, child. + +_Pol_. She mustn't lie there. + +_Mat_. Susan! + +_Pol_. Come, my girl. + +_Sus_. You keep off, I tell you! Don't touch her. She's none o' your +sort. Come, Mattie, dear.--Why don't you make 'em move on? + +_Pol_. You'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, young woman. + +_Sus_. You live lobster! + +_Pol_. I'll have to lock you up, I see. One violent. T'other +incapable. + +_Sus_. You're another. Mattie, my dear, come along home. + +_Pol_. That's right; be off with you. + + MATTIE _rises_. + +_Mat_. Let's go. Sue! Let's get farther off. + +_Sus_. You can't walk, child. If I hadn't been so short o' wittles for +a week, I could ha' carried you. But it's only a step to the +cook-shop. + +_Mat_. No money, Sue. (_Tries to walk_.) + +_Sus_. O Lord! What _shall_ I do! And that blue-bottle there a buzzin' +an' a starin' at us like a dead codfish!--Boh! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_. Our Mattie! Gracious! what's the row, Susan? + +_Sus_. She ain't well. Take her other arm, Bill, and help her out o' +this. We ain't in no Christian country. Pluck up, Mattie, dear. + +_Bill_. Come into the tart-shop. I'm a customer. + + _They go towards the shop. Exit_ POLICEMAN. + +_Mat_. No, no, Sukey! I can't abide the smell of it. Let me sit on the +kerb for a minute. (_Sits down_.) Oh, father! father! + +_Bill_. Never you mind, Mattie! If he wor twenty fathers, he shan't +come near ye. + +_Mat_. Oh, Bill! if you could find him for me! He would take me home. + +_Bill_. Now who'd ha' thought o' that? Axially wantin' her own father! +I'd run far enough out o' the way o' mine--an' farther if he wur +a-axin' arter me. + +_Mat_. Oh me! my side! + +_Sus_. It's hunger, poor dear! (_Sits down beside her_.) + +_Bill_ (_aside_). This won't do, Bill! I'm a shamed o' _you_, Bill! +_Exit_. + +_Mat_. No, Susan, it's not hunger. It's the old story, Sue. + +_Sus_. Mattie! I never! You don't mean to go for to tell me you're a +breakin' of your precious heart about _him_? It's not your gentleman +sure_ly_! It's not _him_ ye're turnin' sick about, this time o' day? + + MATTIE _nods her head listlessly_. + +_Sus_. What's up fresh, then? You was pretty bobbish when you left me. +It's little he thinks of _you_, I'll be bound. + +_Mat_. That's true enough. It's little he ever thought of me. He _did_ +say he loved me, though. It's fifty times he did! + +_Sus_. Lies, lies, Mattie--all lies! + +_Mat_. No, Susan; it wasn't lies. He meant it--at the time. That's +what made it look all right. Oh dear! Oh dear! + +_Sus_. But what's come to you now, Mattie? What's fresh in it? You're +not turned like this all at once for nothink! + +_Mat_. I've seen him! + +_Sus_. Seen him! Oh, my! I wish it had been me. _I_'d ha' seen him! +I'd ha' torn his ugly eyes out. + +_Mat_. They ain't ugly eyes. They're big and blue, and they sparkle so +when he talks to her! + +_Sus_. And who's _her_? Ye didn't mention a _her_. Some brazen-faced +imperence! + +_Mat_. No. The young lady at Mrs. Clifford's. + +_Sus_. Oho! See if I do a stitch for her!--Shan't I leave a needle in +_her_ shimmy, just! + +_Mat_. What _shall_ I do! All the good's gone out of me! And such a +pain here! + +_Sus_. Keep in yer breath a minute, an' push yer ribs out. It's one on +'em's got a top o' the other. + +_Mat_. Such a grand creature! And her colour coming and going like the +shadows on the corn! It's no wonder he forgot poor me. But it'll burn +itself out afore long. + +_Sus_. Don't ye talk like that, Mattie; I can't abear it. + +_Mat_. If I was dressed like her, though, and could get my colour +back! But laws! I'm such a washed out piece o' goods beside her! + +_Sus_. That's as I say, Matilda! It's the dress makes the differ. + +_Mat_. No, Susan, it ain't. It's the free look of them--and the head +up--and the white hands--and the taper fingers. They're stronger than +us, and they're that trained like, that all their body goes in one, +like the music at a concert. _I_ couldn't pick up a needle without +going down on my knees after it. It's the pain in my side, Sue.--Yes, +it's a fine thing to be born a lady. It's _not_ the clothes, Sue. If +we was dressed ever so, we couldn't come near them. It's that look,--I +don't know what. + +_Sus_. Speak for yerself, Mattie; _I_'m not a goin' to think such +small beer of _my_self, _I_ can tell you! I believe if I'd been took +in time-- + +_Mat_. It's a big _if_ that though, Sue.--And then she looked _so_ good! +You'd hardly think it of me,--perhaps it's because I'm dying--but for +one minute I could ha' kissed her very shoes. Oh, my side! + +_Sus_. (_putting her arm tight round her waist_). Does that help it +Mattie, dear?--a little teeny bit? + +_Mat_. Yes, Sukey. It holds it together a bit. Will he break her heart +too, I wonder? + +_Sus_. No fear o' that! Ladies takes care o' theirselves. They're +brought up to it. + +_Mat_. It's only poor girls gentlemen don't mind hurting, I suppose. + +_Sus_. It's the ladies' fathers and brothers, Mattie! We've got nobody +to look after us. + +_Mat_. They may break their hearts, though, for all that. + +_Sus_. They won't forgive them like you, then, Mattie! + +_Mat_. I dare say they're much the same as we are when it comes to +that, Sue. + +_Sus_. Don't say _me_, Mattie. _I_ wouldn't forgive him--no, not if +I was to die for it. But what came of it, child? + +_Mat_. I made some noise, I suppose, and the lady started. + +_Sus_. And then you up and spoke? + +_Mat_. I turned sick, and fell down. + +_Sus_. Poor dear! + +_Mat_. She got me a glass of wine, but I couldn't swallow it, and got +up and crawled out. + +_Sus_. Did he see you? + +_Mat_. I think he did. + +_Sus_. You'll tell her, in course? + +_Mat_. No, Sue; he'd hate me, and I couldn't bear that. Oh me! my +side! It's so bad! + +_Sus_. Let's try for home, Mattie. It's a long way, and there's +nothing to eat when you're there; but you can lie down, and that's +everything to them as can't sit up. + +_Mat_. (_rising_). I keep fancying I'm going to meet my father. + +_Sus_. Let's fancy it then every turn all the way home, an' that'll +get us along. There, take my arm. There!--Come along. _Exeunt_. + + _Slow music. Twilight_. + + _Enter_ BILL _with a three-legged stool, brushes, etc._ + +_Bill_. Come! it's blackin' all over! When gents can't no longer see +their boots, 'tain't much use offerin' to shine 'em. But if I can get +a penny, I will. I _must_ take a tart to Mattie, or this here damaged +one (_laying his hand on his stomach_) won't go to sleep this night. + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Bill_. Black your boots for a party, sir? + +_Wat_. (_aside_) The very rascal I saw her speaking to! But wasn't she +a brick not to split! That's what I call devotion now! There _are_ +some of them capable of it. I'll set her up for life. I'd give a cool +thousand it hadn't happened, though. I saw her father too hanging +about Gervaise's yesterday. + +_Bill_. Clean your boots, sir? Shine 'em till they grin like a +Cheshire cat eatin' cheese! + +_Wat_. Shine away, you beggar. + +_Bill_ (_turning up his trousers_). I ain't no beggar, sir. Shine for +a shiner's fair play. + +_Wat_. Do you live in this neighbourhood? + +_Bill_. No, sir. + +_Wat_. Where, then? + +_Bill_ (_feeling where a pocket should be_). I don't appear to 'ave a +card about me, sir, but my address is Lamb's Court, Camomile +Street--leastways I do my sleepin' not far off of it. I've lived +there, what livin' I _have_ done, sin' ever I wor anywheres as I knows +on. + +_Wat_. Do you happen to know a girl of the name of Pearson? + +_Bill_. No, sir. I can't say as how I rec'lect the name. Is she a old +girl or a young un? + +_Wat_. You young liar! I saw you talking to her not two hours ago! + +_Bill_. Did ye now, sir? That's odd, ain't it? Bless you! I talks to +everybody. I ain't proud, sir. + +_Wat_. Well, do you see this? (_holding up a sovereign_). + +_Bill_. That's one o' them tilings what don't require much seein', +sir. There! Bright as a butterfly! T'other twin, sir! + +_Wat_. I'll give you this, if you'll do something for me--and another +to that when the thing's done. + +_Bill_. 'Tain't stealin', sir? + +_Wat_. No. + +_Bill_. Cos, you see, Mattie-- + +_Wat_. Who did you say? + +_Bill_. Old Madge as lets the beds at tuppence a short night. 'Tain't +stealin', you say, sir? + +_Wat_. What do you take me for? I want you to find out for me where +the girl Pearson lives--that's all. + +_Bill_ (_snatching the sovereign and putting it in his mouth_). Now +then, sir!--What's the young woman like? + +_Wat_. Rather tall--thin--dark hair--large dark eyes--and long white +hands. Her name's Matilda--Mattie Pearson--the girl you were talking +to, I tell you, on this very spot an hour or two ago. + +_Bill_ (_dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it_). Golly! it +_is_ our Mattie! + +_Wat_. Shall you know her again? + +_Bill_. Any boy as wasn't a hass would know his own grandmother by +them spots. Besides, I remember sich a gal addressin' of me this +mornin'. If you say her it was, I'll detect her for ye. + +_Wat_. There's a good boy! What's your name? + +_Bill_. Timothy, sir. + +_Wat_. What else? + +_Bill_. Never had no other--leastways as I knows on. + +_Wat_. Well, Timothy--there's the other sov.--and it's yours the +moment you take me to her. Look at it. + +_Bill_. My eye!--Is she a square Moll, sir? + +_Wat_. What do you mean by that? + +_Bill_. Green you are, to be sure!--She ain't one as steals, or-- + +_Wat_. Not she. She's a sempstress--a needlewoman, or something of the +sort. + +_Bill_. And where shall I find _you_, sir? + +_Wat_. Let me see:--to-morrow night--on the steps of St. Martin's +Church--ten o'clock. + +_Bill_. But if I don't find her? It may be a week--or a month--or-- + +_Wat_. Come whether you find her or not, and let me know. + +_Bill_. All serene, sir! There you are, sir! Brush your trousers, sir? + +_Wat_. No; leave 'em.--Don't forget now. + +_Bill_. Honour bright, sir! Not if I knows it, sir! + +_Wat_. There's that other skid, you know. + +_Bill_. All right, sir! Anything more, sir? + +_Wat_. Damn your impudence! Get along. + + _Exit_. BILL _watches him into_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S. + +_Bill_. Now by all the 'ungry gums of Arabiar, 'ere's a swell arter +our Mattie!--A right rig'lar swell! I knows 'em--soverings an' red +socks. What's come to our Mattie? 'Ere's Daddy Longlegs arter her, +vith his penny and his blessin'! an' 'ere's this 'ere mighty swell +vith his soverings--an' his red socks! An' she's 'ungry, poor +gal!--This 'ere yellow-boy?--I 'ain't got no faith in swells--no more +'n in Daddy Longlegses--I 'ain't!--S'posin' he wants to marry +her?--Not if I knows it. He ain't half good 'nough for _her_. Too many +quids--goin' a flingin' on 'em about like buttons! He's been a +crackin' o' cribs--_he_ has. I ain't a goin' to interduce our Mattie +to no sich blokes as him. No fathers or lovyers for me--says I!--But +this here pebble o' Paradise!--What's to be done wi' the cherub? I +can't tell _her_ a lie about it, an' who'll break it up for a cove +like me, lookin' jes' as if I'd been an' tarred myself and crep' +through a rag-bag! They'd jug me. An' what 'ud Mattie say then? I wish +I 'adn't 'a' touched it. I'm blowed if I don't toss it over a +bridge!--Then the gent 'ain't got the weight on his dunop out o' me. O +Lord! what _shall_ I do with it? I wish I'd skied it in his face! I +don't believe it's a good un; I don't! (_Bites it_.) It do taste wery +nasty. It's nothin' better 'n a gilt fardin'! Jes' what a cove might +look for from sich a swell! (_Goes to a street lamp and examines it_.) +Lor! there's a bobby! (_Exit. Re-enter to the lamp_.) I wish the +gen'leman 'ad guv me a penny. I can't do nothin' wi' this 'ere quid. +Vere am I to put it? I 'ain't got no pocket, an' if I was to stow it +in my 'tato-trap, I couldn't wag my red rag--an' Mother Madge 'ud soon +have me by the chops. Nor I've got noveres to plant it.--O Lor! it's +all I've got, an' Madge lets nobody go to bed without the tuppence. +It's all up with Bill--_for_ the night!--Where's the odds!--there's a +first-class hotel by the river--The Adelphi Arches, they calls +it--where they'll take me in fast enough, and I can go to sleep with +it in my cheek. Coves is past talkin' to you there. Nobody as sees me +in that 'ere 'aunt of luxury, 'ill take me for a millionaire vith a +skid in his mouth. 'Tain't a bit cold to-night neither (_going_).--Vy +do they say a _aunt_ of luxury? I s'pose acause she's wife to my +uncle. _Exit_. + + _Slow music. The night passes. A policeman crosses twice_. THOMAS + _crosses between. Dawn_. + + _Re-enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_. I'm hanged if this here blasted quid ain't a burnin' of me +like a red-hot fardin'! I'm blest if I've slep' more 'n half the +night. I woke up oncet, with it a slippin' down red lane. I wish I had +swallered it. Then nobody 'd 'a' ast me vere I got it. I don't wonder +as rich coves turn out sich a bad lot. I believe the devil's in this +'ere! + + _Knocks at_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S door. JAMES _opens. Is shutting it + again_. BILL _shoves in his stool_. + +_Bill_. Hillo, Blazes! where's your manners? Is that the way you +behaves to callers on your gov'nor's business? + +_James (half opening the door_). Get about your own business, you +imperent boy! + +_Bill_. I'm about it now, young man. I wants to see your gov'nor. + +_James_. _You_'ve got business with _him_, have you, eh? + +_Bill_. Amazin' precoxity! You've hit it! I _have_ got business with _him_, +Door-post--not in the wery smallest with _you_, Door-post!--essep' the +knife-boy's been and neglected of your feet-bags this mornin'. (JAMES +_would slam the door_. BILL _shoves in his stool_.) Don't you try that +'ere little game again, young man! for if I loses my temper and takes +to hollerin', you'll wish yourself farther. + +_James_. A humbug you are! I 'ain't got no gov'nor, boy. The master as +belongs to me is a mis'ess. + +_Bill_. Then that 'ere gen'lemen as comes an' goes, ain't your +master--eh? + +_James_. What gen'leman, stoopid? + +_Bill_. Oh! it don't matter. + +_James_. What _have--you--got_ to say to _him_? + +_Bill_. Some'at pickled: it'll keep. + +_James_. I'll give him a message, if you like. + +_Bill_. Well, you may tell him the bargain's hoff, and if he wants his +money, it's a waitin' of him round the corner. + +_James_. You little blackguard! Do you suppose a gen'leman's a goin' +to deliver sich a message as that! Be off, you himp! (_Makes a dart at +him_.) + +_Bill_ (_dodging him_). How d'e do, Clumsy? Don't touch me; I ain't +nice. Why, what was you made for, Parrot? Is them calves your own +rearin' now? Is that a quid or a fardin? Have a shot, now, Shins. + +_James_. None o' your imperence, young blackie! 'And me over the +money, and I'll give it to the gen'leman. + +_Bill_. Do you see anything peticlar green in my eye, Rainbow? + + JAMES _makes a rush_. BILL _gets down before him_. JAMES _tumbles + over him_. BILL _blacks his face with his brush_. + +_Bill_ (_running a little way_). Ha! ha! ha! Bill Shoeblack--his mark! +Who's blackie now? You owes me a penny--twopence--'twor sich a ugly +job! Ain't shiny? I'll come back and shine ye for another penny. Good +mornin', Jim Crow! Take my adwice, and don't on no account apply your +winegar afore you've opened your hoyster. Likeways: Butter don't melt +on a cold tater. _Exit_. + + _Exit_ JAMES _into the house, banging the door_. + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD, _followed by BILL_. + +_Bill_. Please, sir, I been a watchin' for you. + +_Wat_. Go to the devil! + +_Bill_. I'd rayther not. So there's your suv'ring! + +_Wat_. Go along. Meet me where I told you. + +_Bill_. I won't. There's yer skid. + +_Wat_. Be off, or I'll give you in charge. Hey! Policeman! _Exit_. + +_Bill_. Well, I'm blowed! This quid '11 be the hangin' o' me! _Damn +you_! (_Throws it fiercely on the ground and stamps on it_.) Serves +me right for chaffin' the old un! He didn't look a bad sort--_for_ +a gov'nor.--Now I reflexes, I heerd Mattie spoony on some father or +other, afore. O Lord! I'll get Jim and Jack to help me look out for +him. (_Enter_ THOMAS.) Lor' ha' mussy!--talk o' the old un!--I'm wery +peticlar glad as I found you, daddy. I been a lookin' for ye--leastways +I was a goin' to look for ye this wery moment as you turns up. I chaffed +you like a zorologicle monkey yesterday, daddy, an' I'm wery sorry. But +you see fathers ain't nice i' this 'ere part o' the continent. (_Enter_ +JAMES, _in plain clothes, watching them_.) They ain't no good nohow to +nobody. If _I_ wos a husband and a father, I don't know as how I should +be A One, myself. P'r'aps I might think it wur my turn to break arms and +legs. I knowed more 'n one father as did. It's no wonder the boys is a +plaguy lot, daddy. + +_Tho._ Goo away, boy. Dosto yer, aw've seen so mich wickedness sin' aw +coom to Lon'on, that aw dunnot knaw whether to breighk thi yed, or to +goo wi' tho? There be thieves and there be robbers. + +_Bill_. Never fear, daddy. You ain't worth robbin' of, I don't think. + +_Tho._ How dosto knaw that? Aw've moore 'n I want to lose abeawt mo. + +_Bill_. Then Mattie 'ill have som'at to eat--will she, daddy? + +_Tho._ Som'at to eight, boy! Be mo Mattie hungry--dun yo think? + +_Bill_. Many and many's the time, daddy. + +_Tho._ Yigh--afore her dinner! + +_Bill_. And after it too, daddy. + +_Tho._ O Lord!--And what does hoo do when hoo 's hungry? + +_Bill_. Grins and bears it. Come and see her, daddy? + +_Tho._ O Lord! Mo Mattie, an' nothin' to eight! Goo on, boy. Aw'm beawn +to follow yo. Tak mo wheer yo like. Aw'll goo. + +_Bill_. Come along then, daddy. + +_James (collaring him_). Hullo, young un! You're the rascal as stole the +suvering: _I_ saw you! + +_Bill_. Dunno what you're up to. I never stole nothink. + +_James_. Oh no! of course not! What's that in yer fist now? (_Catches_ +BILL'S _hand, and forces it open_.) There! + + BILL _drops his stool on_ JAMES'S _foot, throws up the coin, catches + it with his other hand, and puts it in his mouth_. + +_Tho._ Theighur! Theighur! The like ov that! Aw're agooin wi' a +thief--aw wur! + +_Bill_. Never you mind, daddy. It wur guv to me. + +_James_. That's what they allus says, sir.--You come along.--I'd be +obliged to you, sir, if you would come too, and say you saw him. + +_Tho._ Nay! aw connot say aw seigh him steyle it. + +_James_. You saw it in his hand. + +_Tho._ Yigh! aw did. + +_Bill_. It wis guv to me, I tell ye. + +_James_. Honest boy, this one! Looks like it, don't he, sir? What do you +think of yourself, you young devil, a decoying of a grey-haired old +gen'leman like this? Why, sir, him an' his pals 'ud ha' taken every +penny you had about you! Murdered you, they might--I've knowed as much. +It's a good thing I 'appened on the spot.--Come along, you bad boy! + +_Bill_. I didn't, take it. And I won't go. + +_James_. Come along. They'll change it for you at the lock-up. + +_Bill_. You didn't see me steal it! You ain't never a goin' to gi' me in +charge? + +_James_. Wrong again, young un! That's? percisely what I am a goin' to +do! + +_Bill_. Oh, sir! please, sir! I'm a honest boy. It's the Bible-truth. +I'll kiss twenty books on it. + +_James_. I won't ax you.--Why, sir, he ain't even one o' the +shoe-brigade. He 'ain't got a red coat. Bless my soul! he 'ain't even +got a box--nothin' but a scrubby pair o' brushes as I'm alive! He ain't +no shoeblack. He's a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks +pockets. + +_Bill_. You're a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life. + +_James_. Bad language, you see! What more would you have? + +_Tho._ Who'd iver lia' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that! + +_Bill_. I ain't a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae +made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a +deevil--yo did. + +_James_. He's one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of the +very worst boys in all London. + +_Bill (aside_). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rainbow, by Peter and +Paul!--Look y'e here, old gen'leman! This 'ere's a bad cove as is takin' +adwantage o' your woolliness. _I_ knows him. His master guv me the +suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was. + +_James_. Don't you fancy you're g' in' to take in an experienced old +gen'leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say. +Hey! Police! + +_Bill_. Here you are! _(Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry on +his jacket, and offers it._) I don't want it. Give it to old Hunx +there.--He shan't never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter +all. + +_James (taking the coin_). Now look here, Timothy. I'm a detective +hofficer. But I won't never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest +livin'. So you be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to +go to. + + BILL _moves two paces, and takes a sight at him_. + +_Tho._ The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then? + +_James_. It's the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in +his beat. + +_Bill_. My eye! there's a oner! + +_Tho._ Tak mo to her, sir, an' aw'll pray for yo. + +_James_. I will.--If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I'll give you in +charge at oncet. + +_Bill (bolting five yards_). He's a humbug, daddy! but he'll serve you +right. He'll melt you down for taller. He ain't no 'tective. I know him. + +_Tho._ Goo away. + +_Bill_. Good-bye, daddy! He don't know your Mattie. Good-bye, +skelington! _Exit_. + +_Tho._ Eh! sech a boy! + +_James_. Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie? + +_Tho._ Aw do, sir. + +_James_. The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent? + +_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her. + +_James_. Then there's Mattie Winchfield? + +_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her. + +_James_. Then there's Mattie Pearson? + +_Tho._ Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer? + +_James_. Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll call +a cab, and we'll go comfortable. + +_Tho._ But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab--as yo co it. + +_James_. You don't suppose I'm a goin' to put an honest man like you to +expense! + +_Tho._ It's but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best. + +_James_. Hey! Cab there! _Exeunt_. + + _Re-enter_ BILL, _following them_. + +_Bill_. I'll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the +yellow-boy--he's his master! Poor old codger! He'll believe any cove +but the one as tells him the truth! + + _Exit_. + + _Enter from the house_ MRS. CLIFFORD. _Enter from opposite side_ + COL. G. + +_Col. G._ I was just coming to see you, Clara. + +_Mrs. C._ And I was going to see you. How's Arthur to-day? I thought you +would have come yesterday. + +_Col. G._ My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were _not_ his +father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning. + +_Mrs. C._ Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter. + +_Col. G._ Or something better than fortune. + +_Mrs. C._ You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the farce +when you please, and in triumph. + +_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an anticlimax +to end what you are pleased to call _the farce_ now. As if I could make +a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black servant. I wish I +had him here. + +_Mrs. C._ You would like to double the watch--would you? + +_Col. G._ Something has vexed you, Clara. + +_Mrs. C._ I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day. + +_Col. G._ I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I wish +you would come and see him a little oftener. + +_Mrs. C._ He doesn't want me. You are everything now. Besides, I can't +come alone. + +_Col G._ Why not? + +_Mrs. C._ Constance would fancy I did not want to take her. + +_Col. G._ Then why not take her? + +_Mrs. C._ I have my reasons. + +_Col. G._ What are they? + +_Mrs. C._ Never mind. + +_Col. G._ I insist upon knowing them. + +_Mrs. C._ It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I +_will_ if you use such an expression. + +_Col. G._ But why shouldn't you bring Miss Lacordère with you? + +_Mrs. C._ He's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head. + +_Col. G._ She's a fine girl. You make a friend of her. + +_Mrs. C._ She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but I don't want to +meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last +_my_ time. + +_Col. G._ Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride _be_ a Christian virtue. + +_Mrs. C._ I see! You'll be a radical before long. _Every_thing is going +that way. + +_Col. G._ I don't care what I am, so I do what's right. I'm sick of all +that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory as +yet, but I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice lay on +that side.--If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he marry +her? + +_Mrs. C._ She may be unfit for him. + +_Col. G._ How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don't fall in +love with birds. + +_Mrs. C._ It's a risk--a great risk. + +_Col. G._ None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more +worth taking. I wish my poor boy-- + +_Mrs. C._ Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in +pleasing you, brother! + +_Col. G. (aside_). She _knows_ something.--I must go and see about his +dinner. Good-bye, sister. + +_Mrs. C._ Good-bye, then. You will have your own way! + +_Col. G._ This once, Clara. _Exeunt severally_. + +END OF ACT II. + + + + +ACT III. + +SCENE.--_A garret-room_. MATTIE. SUSAN. + + +_Mat_. At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know but +hunger may be as easy a way as another. + +_Sus_. I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would +choose. + +_Mat_. There are worse ways. + +_Sus_. Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'. + +_Mat_. There's that button-hole done. (_Lays down her work with a +sigh, and leans back in her chair_.) + +_Sus_. I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's +wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up. + +_Mat_. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content +with bread, I think. + +_Sus_. Bread, indeed! + +_Mat_. Well, it's something to eat. + +_Sus_. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone? + +_Mat_. Bread's very good with a cup of tea. + +_Sus_. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!--If you'd +mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now! + +_Mat_. I never tasted lobster-salad. + +_Sus_. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't care +about your wittles: _I_ do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable. + +_Mat_. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard. + +_Sus_. I _can't_ eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' of +'unger. It's only I'm peckish. _Very_ peckish, though. I could eat--let +me see what I _could_ eat:--I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen +oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken--if it +was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it--and a Bath-bun, and a +sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just that +crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of +champagne. + +_Mat_. I don't know what one of those things tastes like--scarce one; +and I don't believe you do either. + +_Sus_. Don't I?--I never did taste champagne, but I've seen them eating +lobster-salad many a time;--girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me, +Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I _am_ so +hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to +you as if you was fit to talk to--not like them Jew-tailors, as tosses +your work about as if it dirtied their fingers--and them none so clean +for all their fine rings! + +_Mat_. I saw Nathan's Joseph in a pastrycook's last Saturday, and a very +pretty girl with him, poor thing! + +_Sus_. Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her! + +_Mat_. I suppose she was hungry. + +_Sus_. I'd die before I let a snob like that treat _me_. No, Mattie! I +spoke of a _real_ gentleman. + +_Mat_. Are you sure you wouldn't take Nathan's Joseph for a gentleman if +he was civil to you? + +_Sus_. Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the moment I +set eyes on him. + +_Mat_. What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan? + +_Sus_. A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl. + +_Mat_. But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a +lady, but only till she's left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes +fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back. +Sue, dear, don't have a word to say to one of them--if he speaks ever so +soft. + +_Sus_. Lawks, Mattie! they ain't all one sort. + +_Mat_. You won't have more than one sort to choose from. They may be +rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they're all the same in this, +that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a +horse--no--nor half a quarter so much. Don't for God's sake have a word +to say to one of them. If I die, Susan-- + +_Sus_. If you do, Matilda--if you go and do that thing, I'll take to +gin--that's what I'll do. Don't say I didn't act fair, and tell you +beforehand. + +_Mat_. How can I help dying, Susan? + +_Sus_. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if you do. Don't do +it, Matilda--La! there's that lumping Bill again--_al_ways a comin' up +the stair when you don't want him! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Mat_. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on? + +_Bill_. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so. (_Holds out his +stool_.) It ain't respectable. + +_Mat_. What ain't respectable? Everything's respectable that's honest. + +_Bill_. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a +three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It ain't the thing. The rig'lars +chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does--only there's too +many on 'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a +feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a +joey! There! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny. + +_Sus_. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us! + +_Bill_. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the right word in +the right place--as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him +up for purfane swearin'.--When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I +axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin' +of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. _Some_ +on 'em throws down the 'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.--But I +say, Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you--do you now? + +_Mat_. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill. + +_Bill_. You don't want a father--do you now? Do she, Susan? + +_Sus_. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You 'ain't seen one +about, have you? + +_Bill_. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow. + +_Mat_. What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig'lar swell--I repeats it--a +astin' arter a young woman by the name o' Mattie. + +_Sus_. (_pulling him aside_). Hold your tongue, Bill! You'll kill her! +You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I'll twist your neck. Don't you +see how white she is? + +_Mat_. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill. + +_Bill_. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with +a hivory 'andle. + +_Sus_. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide him. If you tell him +where she is, she'll never speak to you again. + +_Mat_. Oh, Susan! what _shall_ I do? Don't bring him here, Bill. I shall +have to run away again; and I can't, for we owe a week's rent. + +_Sus_. There, Bill! + +_Bill_. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch you. Nor the old +one neither. + +_Mat_. There wasn't an old man with him?--not an old man with a long +stick? + +_Bill_. Not with _him_. Daddy was on his own hook? + +_Mat_. It must have been my father, Susan. (_Sinks back on her chair_.) + +_Sus_. 'Tain't the least likely.--There, Bill! I always said you was no +good! You've killed her. + +_Bill_. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you was. + +_Mat_. (_reviving_). Run and fetch him, Bill--there's a dear! Oh! how +proud I've been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn't mean it--not +for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him. + +_Bill_. Mattie, I was a fetchin' of him, but he wouldn't trust me. And +didn't he cut up crusty, and collar me tight! He's a game old cock--he +is, Mattie. + +_Mat_. (_getting up and pacing about the room_). Oh, Susan! my heart'll +break. To think he's somewhere near and I can't get to him! Oh my side! +_Don't_ you know where he is, Bill? + +_Bill_. He's someveres about, and blow me if I don't, find him!--a +respectable old party in a white pinny, an' 'peared as if he'd go on a +walkin' till he walked hisself up staudin'. A scrumptious old party! + +_Mat_. Had he a stick, Bill? + +_Bill_. Yes--a knobby stick--leastways a stick wi' knobs all over it. + +_Mat_. That's him, Susan! + +_Bill_. I could swear to the stick. I was too near gittin' at the taste +on it not to know it again. + +_Mat_. When was it you saw him, Bill? + +_Bill_. Yesterday, Mattie--jest arter you give me the tart. I sawr him +again this mornin', but he wouldn't place no confidence in me. + +_Mat_. Oh dear! Why didn't you come straight to me, Bill? + +_Bill_. If I'd only ha' known as you wanted him! But that was sech a +_un_likely thing! It's werry perwokin'! I uses my judgment, an' puts +my hoof in it! I _am_ sorry, Mattie. But I didn't know no better +(_crying_). + +_Mat_. Don't cry, Bill. You'll find him for me yet--won't you? + +_Bill_. I'm off this indentical minute. But you see-- + +_Sus_. There! there!--now you mizzle. _I_ don't want no fathers +here--goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to hers, and +she'll die if she don't get him. Run now--there's a good boy! (_Exit_ +BILL.) You 'ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie? + +_Mat_. No, indeed. + +_Sus_. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give her a bit of my +mind. + +_Mat_. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That sort of thing never +does any good. + +_Sus_. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' _yes, ma'am_, +an' _no, ma'am_? Not if I knows it, Matilda! + +_Mat_. You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of +us. + +_Sus_. An' what's that to me? + +_Mat_. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. Clifford +has been kind to us. + +_Sus_. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan. + +_Mat_. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home +his slops? + +_Sus_. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in +kingdom-come. + +_Mat_. You're unfair, Susan. + +_Sus_. Well, it's little fairness I get. + +_Mat_. And to set that right you're unfair yourself! What you call +speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old +Nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers. + +_Sus_. Very well, Miss Matilda! (_rising and snatching her bonnet_). The +sooner we part the better! You stick by your fine friends! I don't care +_that_ for them! (_snapping her fingers_)--and you may tell 'em so! I +can make a livin' without them or you either. Goodness gracious knows it +ain't much of a livin' I've made sin' I come across _you_, Miss! _Exit_. + +_Mat_ (_trying to rise_). Susan! Susan! (_Lays her head on the table_). + + _A tap at the door, and enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD, _with_ JAMES _behind_. + MATTIE _rises_. + +_Mrs. C._ Wait on the landing, James. + +_James_. Yes, ma'am. + + _Exit_ JAMES, _leaving the door a little ajar_. + +_Mrs. C._ Well, Miss Pearson! (_Mattie offers a chair_.) No, thank you. +That person is still with you, I see! + +_Mat_. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl. + +_Mrs. C._ She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise you +to get rid of her. + +_Mat_. Was she rude on the stair, ma'am? + +_Mrs. C._ Rude! Vulgar--quite vulgar! Insulting! + +_Mat_. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest girl, +and never pawned that work. It was done--every stitch of it; and the +loss of the money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did lose the +parcel. + +_Mrs. C._ You have only her word for it. If you don't give _her_ up, I +give _you_ up. + +_Mat_. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways if I did. + +_Mrs. C._ She can't well get into worse. Her language! You would do ever +so much better without her. + +_Mat_. I daren't, ma'am. I should never get it off my conscience. + +_Mrs. C._ Your conscience indeed! (_rising_). I wish you a good morning, +Miss Pearson.--(_Sound of a blow, followed by scuffling_.)--What is +that? I fear I have got into an improper place. + + SUSAN _bursts in_. + +_Sus_. Yes, ma'am, and that you have! It's a _wery_ improper place for +the likes o' you, ma'am--as believes all sorts o' wicked things of +people as is poor. Who are you to bring your low flunkies a-listenin' +at honest girls' doors! (_Turning to James in the doorway_.) Get out, +will you? Let me catch you here again, and I'll mark you that the devil +wouldn't know his own! You dirty Paul Pry--you! (_Falls on her knees to +Mattie_.) Mattie, you angel! + +_Mat_. (_trying to make her get up_) Never mind. It's all right between +you and me, Susan. + +_Mrs. C._ I see! I thought as much! + +_Sus_. (_starting up_) As much as what, then, my lady? Oh, _I_ know you +and your sort--well enough! We're the dirt under your feet--lucky if we +stick to your shoes! But this room's mine. + +_Mrs. C._ That linen was mine, young woman, I believe. + +_Sus_. An' it's for that miserable parcel you come a-talkin', an' +abusin' as no lady ought to! How dare you look that angel in the face +there an' say she stole it--which you're not fit to lace her boots for +her! There! + +_Mat_. Susan! Susan! do be quiet. + +_Sus_. It's all very well for the likes o' me (_courtesying +spitefully_)--which I'm no better'n I should be, and a great deal worse, +if I'm on my oath to your ladyship--that's neither here nor there!--but +_she's_ better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other +people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer flunkies! +_I_ know ye! I _do_! + +_Mat_. Don't, Susan. + +_Sus_. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye +good manners? I been better brought up myself. + +_Mrs. C._ I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter +over to the police. + +_Sus_. The perlice, indeed!--You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll make +you!--you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in +the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with +your--_insolence_--that's your word! + + _Exit_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Mat_. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us? + +_Sus_. She daren't do it--the old scrooge! But just let her try it on! +See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work my +fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me. +I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger, +which it's as true as gospel. + +_Mat_. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey. + +_Sus_. There _must_ be some good people somewheres, Mattie. + +_Mat_. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey. + +_Sus_. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it afore. +It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out--and they +shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher +'n I shall--barrin' the beard, and _that_ don't go for much now-a-days. + +_Mat_. And what should I do without you, Susan? + +_Sus_. Do you care to have me, then? + +_Mat_. That I do, indeed. But you shouldn't have talked like that to +Mrs. Clifford. Ladies ain't used to such words. They sound worse than +they are--quite dreadful, to them. She don't know your kind heart as I +do. Besides, the _look_ of things is against us. Ain't it now? Say +yourself. + +_Sus_. (_starting up_) I'll go and beg her pardon. I'll go direckly--I +will. I swear I will. I can't abear her, but I'll do it. I believe +hunger has nigh drove me mad. + +_Mat_. It takes all the madness out of me.--No, Susan; we must bear it +now. Come along. We can be miserable just as well working. There's your +sleeve. I'll thread your needle for you. Don't cry--there's a dear! + +_Sus_. I _will_ cry. It's all I ever could do to my own mind, and it's +all as is left me. But if I could get my claws on that lovyer o' yours, +I wouldn't cry then. He's at the bottom of it! I don't see myself what's +the use of fallin' in love. One man's as much of a fool as another to +me. But you must go to bed. You ain't fit. You'll be easier when you've +got your frock off. There! Why, child, you're all of a tremble!--And no +wonder, wi' nothing on her blessed body but her frock and her shimmy! + +_Mat_. Don't take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work. + +_Sus_. Lie down a bit, anyhow. I'll lie at your back, and you'll soon be +as warm's a toast. (MAT. _lies down_.) O Lord! she's dead! Her heart's +stopped beatin'. (_Runs out of the room_.) + + _A moment of silence. A tap at the door_. + + CONSTANCE _peeps in, then enters, with a basket_. + +_Con_. Miss Pearson!--She's asleep. (_Goes near_.) Good heavens! +(_Lays her hand on her_.) No. (_Takes a bottle from her basket, finds +a cup, and pours into it_.) Take this, Miss Pearson; it will do you +good. There now! You'll find something else in the basket. + +_Mat_. I don't want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you +bring me back? + +_Con_. Life is good! + +_Mat_. It is _not_ good. How dare you do it? Why keep a miserable +creature alive? Life ain't to us what it is to you. The grave is the +only place _we_ have any right to. + +_Con_. If I could make your life worth something to you-- + +_Mat_. You make my life worth to me! You don't know what you're saying, +miss. (_Sitting up_.) + +_Con_. I think I do. + +_Mat_. I will _not_ owe my life to you. I _could_ love you, though--your +hands are so white, and your look so brave. That's what comes of being +born a lady. We never have a chance. + +_Con_. Miss Pearson--Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn't be +offended-- + +_Mat_. Me offended, miss!--I've not got life enough for it. I only want +my father and my mother, and a long sleep.--If I had been born rich-- + +_Con_. You might have been miserable all the same. Listen, Mattie. I +will tell you _my_ story--I was once as badly off as you--worse in some +ways--ran about the streets without shoes to my feet, and hardly a frock +to cover me. + +_Mat_. La, miss! you don't say so! It's not possible! Look at you! + +_Con_. Indeed, I tell you the truth. I know what hunger is too--well +enough. My father was a silkweaver in Spitalfields. When he died, I +didn't know where to go. But a gentleman-- + +_Mat_. Oh! a gentleman!--(_Fiercely_.) Why couldn't you be content with +_one_, then? + +_Con_. I don't understand you. + +_Mat_. I dare say not! There! take your basket. I'll die afore a morsel +passes _my_ lips. There! Go away, miss. + +_Con_. (_aside_). Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask William to +fetch a doctor. _Exit_. + +_Mat_. I wish my hands were as white as hers. + + _Enter_ SUSAN, _followed by_ COL. G. CONSTANCE _behind_. + +_Sus_. Mattie! dear Mattie! this gentleman--don't be vexed--I couldn't +help him bein' a gentleman; I was cryin' that bad, and I didn't see no +one come up to me, and when he spoke to me, it made me jump, and I +couldn't help answerin' of him--he spoke so civil and soft like, and +me nigh mad! I thought you was dead, Mattie. He says he'll see us +righted, Mattie. + +_Col. G._ I'll do what I can, if you will tell me what's amiss. + +_Sus_. Oh, everything's amiss--everything!--Who was that went out, +Mattie--this minute--as we come in? + +_Mat_. Miss Lacordère. + +_Sus_. Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her. + +_Mat_. She's an angel, Susan. There's her basket. I told her to take +it away, but she would leave it. + +_Sus_. (_peeping into the basket_). Oh, my! Ain't this nice? You +_must_ have a bit, Mattie. + +_Mat_. Not one mouthful. You wouldn't have me, Susan! + +_Sus_. _I_ ain't so peticlar (_eating a great mouthful_). You really +must, Mattie. (_Goes on eating_.) + +_Col. G._ Don't tease her. We'll get something for her presently. And +don't you eat too much--all at once. + +_Sus_. I think she'd like a chop, sir.--There's that boy, Bill, +again!--Always when he ain't wanted! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_ (_aside to Susan_). What's the row? What's that 'ere gent up +to? I've been an' had enough o' gents. They're a bad lot. I been too +much for one on 'em, though. I ha' run _him_ down.--And, Mattie, I've +found the old gen'leman. + +_Mat_. My father, Bill? + +_Bill_. That's it percisely! Right as a trivet--he is! + +_Mat_. Susan! take hold of me. My heart's going again. + +_Bill_. Lord! what's up wi' Mattie? She do look dreadful. + +_Sus_. You been an' upset her, you clumsy boy! Here--run and fetch a +sausage or two, and a-- + +_Col. G._ No, no! That will never do. + +_Sus_. Them's for Bill and me, sir. I was a goin' on, sir.--And, Bill, +a chop--a nice chop. But Lord! how are we to cook it, with never a +fryin'-pan, or a bit o' fire to set it on! + +_Col. G._ You'd never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the +frying-pan? + +_Sus_. Certainly not, sir--we 'ain't got one. Everything's up the +spout an' over the top. Run, Bill. A bit of cold chicken, and two +pints o' bottled stout. There's the money the gen'leman give me.--'T +'ain't no Miss Lackodare's, Mattie. + +_Bill_. I'll trouble no gen'leman to perwide for _my_ family--obleeged +all the same, sir. Mattie never wos a dub at dewourin', but I'll get +her some'at toothsome. I favours grub myself. + +_Col. G._ I'll go with you, Bill. I want to talk to you. + +_Bill_. Well, I 'ain't no objection--so be you wants to talk friendly, +sir. + +_Col. G._ Good night. I'll come and see you to-morrow. + +_Sus_. God bless you, sir. You've saved both on our lives. I _was_ a +goin' to drown myself, Mattie--I really was this time. Wasn't I, sir? + +_Col. G._ Well, you looked like it--that is all I can say. You shall +do it next time--so far as I'm concerned. + +_Sus_. I won't never no more again, sir--not if Mattie don't drive me +to it. + +_Con_. (_to_ COL. G.). Come back for me in a little while. + +_Col. G._ Yes, miss. Come, Bill. _Exit_. + +_Bill_. All right, sir. I'm a follerin', as the cat said to the +pigeon. _Exit_. + +_Sus_. I'll just go and get you a cup o' tea. Mrs. Jones's kettle's +sure to be a bilin'. That's what you would like. + + _Exit_. _Constance steps aside, and Susan passes without seeing her_. + +_Mat_. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! But it'll soon be +over now. + + CONSTANCE _comes forward_. + +_Con_. I hope you're a little better now? + +_Mat_. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to +you as I did. + +_Con_. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite know what you were +saying. I'm in trouble myself. I don't know how soon I may be worse +off than you. + +_Mat_. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married! + +_Con_. No, I am not. + +_Mat_. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never going to play _you_ +false--is he? + +_Con_. I don't mean ever to speak to him again? + +_Mat_. What has he done to offend you, miss? + +_Con_. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him. To tell you the +truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman. + +_Mat_. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so? + +_Con_. Do _you_ know anything about him? Did you ever see him? + +_Mat_. Yes. + +_Con_. Where? + +_Mat_. Once at your house. + +_Con_. Oh! I remember--that time! I begin to--It couldn't be at the +sight of him you fainted, Mattie?--You knew him? Tell me! tell me! +Make me sure of it. + +_Mat_. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean spite to say he ain't +a gentleman. + +_Con_. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a +gentleman. + +_Mat_. Very likely. + +_Con_. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean to hurt you. + +_Mat_. Oh! I dare say! + +_Con_. If you talk to me like that, I must go. + +_Mat_. I never asked you to come. + +_Con_. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn't hurt you +for the world. + +_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) I beg your pardon, miss. I'm behaving +like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking. + +_Con_. Poor dear! (_kissing her_) So is mine almost. Let us be +friends. Where's Susan gone? + +_Mat_. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back directly. + +_Con_. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear them. I think it's +because I was so used to them once--in the streets, I mean--not at +home--never at home. + +_Mat_. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted creature. It's only +when hunger makes her cross. She don't like to be hungry. + +_Con_. I should think not, poor girl! + +_Mat_. Don't mind what she says, please. If you say nothing, she'll +come all right. When she's spoken her mind, she feels better. Here she +comes! + + _Re-enter_ SUSAN. _It begins to grow dark_. + +_Sus_. Well, and who have we got here? + +_Mat_. Miss Lacordère, Sukey. + +_Sus_. There's no lack o' dare about _her_, to come here! + +_Mat_. It's very kind of her to come, Susan. + +_Sus_. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. It _was_ stole, +miss!--stole from me--an' that angel there a dyin' in the street! + +_Con_. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else. + +_Sus_. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!--I'm very sorry. But, +bless you! (_lighting a candle_)--with all _your_ fine clothes--! My! +you look like a theayter-queen--you do, miss! If you was to send +_them_ up the spout now!--My! what a lot they'd let you have on that +silk! + +_Con_. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It's an Indian +one--all needlework. + +_Sus_. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just shouldn't I like to +wear a frock like that! I _should_ be hard up before I pledged _that_! +But the shawl! If I was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up +before that!--things inside, you know, miss--where it don't matter so +much. + +_Con_. (_laughing_) The shawl would be the first thing I should part +with. I would rather be nice inside than out. + +_Sus_. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs +now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It must be one o' the differs! + +_Con_. What differs? I don't understand you. + +_Sus_. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies--girls like me an' real +ladies like you. + +_Con_. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What can be keeping +William? I must go at once, or what will my aunt say! Would you mind +going with me a little bit, Susan? + +_Sus_. I'll go with pleasure, miss. + +_Con_. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. You +couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you? + +_Sus_. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand up in--'cep' it +be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you. + +_Con_. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this. + +_Sus_. You've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss. + +_Con_. (_drawing up her skirt_) I never thought of that! + +_Sus_. Well, I never! + +_Con_. What's the matter? + +_Sus_. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss. +It ain't no use turnin' of _it_ up: you'll look like a lady whatever +you do to hide it. But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as +you don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There you are--fit +for a play! Come along; I'll take care of you. Lawks! I'm as good as a +man--_I_ am! + +_Con_. Good-bye then, Mattie. + +_Mat_. Good-bye, miss. God bless you. + + _Exeunt_. + +END OF ACT III. + + + + +ACT IV. + +SCENE.--_The Studio_. + + + _Enter_ COL. G. _Walks about restless and eager_. + +_Col. G._ Thank heaven! If Bill has found Mr. Warren now,--_Exit_. + + _Enter_ WARREN. + +_War_. What can the fellow be up to? There's something odd about +him--something I don't like--but it can't mean mischief when he sends +for me. Where could Gervaise have picked him up?--Nobody here? + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. _and hurries to him with outstretched hand_. + +_Col. G._ My dear sir! I am greatly obliged to you. This is very kind. + +_War_. (_stepping back_) Excuse me.--I do not understand. + +_Col. G._ I beg your pardon. I ought to have explained. + +_War_. I believe something of the sort _is_ necessary. + +_Col. G._ You are my master's friend. + +_War_. I should be proud of the honour. Can I be of any service to +him? + +_Col. G._ I believe I can trust you. I _will_ trust you--I am his +father. + +_War_. Whose father? Belzebub's? + +_Col. G._ Arthur's--your friend Gervaise's. I am Sir Walter Gervaise. +You must help me to help him. + + WARREN _regards him for a moment_. + +_War_. (_stiffly_) Sir Walter, I owe your son much--you nothing yet. I +am _his_ friend. + +_Col. G._ There is not a moment to lose. Listen. An old man came about +the place a few weeks ago, looking for his daughter. He has been got +out of the way, but I have learned where he is: I want you to bring +him. + +_War_. I would serve your son blindfold: _you_ must excuse me if I +wish to understand first. + +_Col. G._ Arthur is in trouble. He has a secret.--God forgive me!--I +feared it was a bad one. + +_War_. You don't know him as I do! + +_Col. G._ I know him now--and can help him. Only I can't _prove_ +anything yet. I must have the old man. I've found his daughter, and +suspect the villain: if I can bring the three together, all will come +out, sure enough. The boy I sent for you will take you to the father. +He will trust you, and come. (_Bell rings_.) I must go to Arthur now. +_Exit_. + +_War_. What a strange old fellow! An officer--and disguise himself! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_. Here you are, sir! + +_War_. No vast amount of information in that statement, my boy! + +_Bill_. Well, sir--here _I_ are, sir. + +_War_. That _is_ a trifle more to the point, though scarcely requiring +mention. + +_Bill_. Then, here _we_ are, sir. + +_War_. That'll do--if you know what comes next? + +_Bill_. I do, sir. + +_War_. Go on, then. + +_Bill_. Here goes! Come along, sir. You'll have to take a bobby, +though. + +_War_. We'll see about that. You go on. + + _Exeunt_. + + _Enter_ GERVAISE, followed by COL. G. + +_Ger._ What a time you have been, William! + +_Col. G._ I'm sorry, sir. Did you want anything? + +_Ger._ No. But I don't like to be left. You are the only friend I +have. + +_Col. G._ Thank you, sir. A man _must_ do his duty, but it's a comfort +when his colonel takes notice of it. + +_Ger._ Is it _all_ from duty, William? Yet why should I look for more? +There was a little girl I tried to do my duty by once--My head's +rather queer still, William. + +_Col. G._ Is there nothing to be done, sir? + +_Ger._ No; it's here--(_putting his hand to his head_)--inside. + +_Col. G._ I meant about the little girl, sir.--I can keep dark as well +as another.--When there's anything on a man's mind, sir--good _or_ +bad--it's a relief to mention it. If you could trust me--(_A pause_.) +Men _have_ trusted their servants and not repented it. + +_Ger._ No doubt--no doubt. But there is no help for me. + +_Col. G._ You cannot be sure of that, sir. + +_Ger._ You would help me if you could, I believe. + +_Col. G._ God knows I would, sir--to the last drop of my blood. + +_Ger._ That's saying much, William. A son couldn't say more--no, nor a +father either. + +_Col. G._ Oh! yes, he could, sir. + +_Ger._ And mean it? + +_Col. G._ Yes. + +_Ger._ If I had a father, William, I would tell him all about it. I +was but two years old when he left me. + +_Col. G._ Then you don't remember him, sir? + +_Ger._ I often dream about him, and then I seem to remember him. + +_Col. G._ What is he like, sir?--in your dreams, I mean. + +_Ger._ I never see him distinctly: I try hard sometimes, but it's no +use. If he would but come home! I feel as if I could bear anything +then.--But I'm talking like a girl! + +_Col. G._ Where is your father, sir? + +_Ger._ In India. + +_Col. G._ A soldier, sir? + +_Ger._ Yes. Colonel Gervaise--you must have heard of him. Sir Walter +he is now. + +_Col. G._ I've heard of _him_, sir--away in the north parts he's been, +mostly. + +_Ger._ Yes. How I wish he would come home! I would do everything to +please him. I have it, William! I'll go to India. I did think of going +to Garibaldi--but I won't--I'll go to India. I _must_ find my father. +Will you go with me? + +_Col. G._ Willingly, sir. + +_Ger._ Is there any fighting there now? + +_Col. G._ Not at present, I believe. + +_Ger._ That's a pity. I would have listed in my father's regiment, and +then--that is, by the time he found me out--he wouldn't be ashamed of +me. I've done nothing yet. I'm nobody yet, and what could he do with a +son that was nobody--a great man like him! A fine son _I_ should be! A +son ought to be worthy of his father. Don't you think so, William? + +_Col. G._ That wouldn't be difficult, sir!--I mean with most fathers. + +_Ger._ Ah! but _mine_, you know, William!--Are you good at the cut and +thrust? + +_Col G._ Pretty good, sir, I believe. + +_Ger._ Then we'll have a bout or two. I've got rusty.--Have I said +anything odd--or--or--I mean since I've been ill? + +_Col. G._ Nothing you need mind, sir. + +_Ger._ I'm glad of that.--I feel as if--(_putting his hand to his +head_). William! what could you do for a man--if he was your +friend?--no, I mean, if he was your enemy? + +_Col. G._ I daren't say, sir. + +_Ger._ Is the sun shining? + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. It's a lovely day. + +_Ger._ What a desert the sky is!--so dreary and wide and waste!--Ah! +if I might but creep into a hole in a tree, and feel it closing about +me! How comfortable those toads must feel! + +_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's getting light-headed again! I must send for +the doctor. _Exit_. + +_Ger._ But the tree would rot, and the walls grow thin, and the light +come through. It is crumbling now! And I shall have to meet _her_! +And then the wedding! Oh my God! (_Starts up and paces about the +room_.)--It _is_ the only way! My pistols, I think--yes.--(_Goes to +a table, finds his keys, and unlocks a case_.)--There they are! I may +as well have a passport at hand! (_Loading one_.)--The delicate +thunder-tube! (_Turns it over lovingly_.) Solitude and silence! One +roar and then rest! No--no rest!--still the demon to fight! But no +eyes to meet and brave!--Who is that in the street?--She is at the +door--with him! + + _Enter_ COL. G. _and seizes his arm_. + +_Ger._ (_with a cry_). You've killed my Psyche! (_Goes to the clay, +and lifts the cloth_.) There's the bullet-hole through her heart! + +_Col. G._ It might have been worse, sir. + +_Ger._ Worse! I've killed her! See where she flies! She's gone! She's +gone! (_Bursts into tears_. COL. G. _leads him to the couch_.) Thank +you, William. I couldn't help it. _That_ man was with her. I meant it +for myself. + +_Col. G._ Who did you say was with her? + +_Ger._ You mustn't heed what I say. I am mad. (_A knock. He starts +up_.) Don't let them in, William. I shall rave if you do. + + COL. G. _catches up the pistols and exit hurriedly_. GER. _throws + himself on the couch_. + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ (_aside_). He is in love with her! Everything proves it. My +boy! My boy! + +_Ger._ Father! father!--Oh, William! I was dreaming, and took you for +my father! I _must_ die, William--somehow. There must be some way out +of this! The doors can't _all_ be locked. + +_Col. G._ There's generally a chance to be had, sir. There's always a +right and a wrong fighting it out somewhere. There's Garibaldi in the +field again! Die by the hand of an enemy--if you _will_ die, sir. + +_Ger._ (_smiling_) That I couldn't, William: the man that killed me +would be my best friend.--Yes--Garibaldi!--I don't deserve it, though: +he fights for his country; I should fight but for death. Only a man +doesn't stop when he dies--does he, William? + +_Col. G._ I trust not, sir. But he may hope to be quieter--that is, if +he dies honestly. It's grand for a soldier! He sweeps on the roaring +billows of war into a soundless haven! Think of that, sir! + +_Ger._ Why, William! how you talk!--Yes! it would be grand! On the +crest of the war-cataract--heading a cavalry charge!--Tomorrow, +William. I shall be getting stronger all the way. We'll start +to-morrow. + +_Col. G._ Where for, sir? + +_Ger._ For Italy--for Garibaldi. You'll go with me? + +_Col. G._ To the death, sir. + +_Ger._ Yes; that's it--that's where I'm going. But not to-day. Look at +my arm: it wouldn't kill a rat!--You saved my life, but I'm not +grateful. If I was dead, I might be watching her--out of the lovely +silence!--My poor Psyche! + +_Col. G._ She's none the worse, sir. The pistol didn't go off. + +_Ger._ Ah!--She ought to have fallen to pieces--long ago! You've been +seeking to keep her shroud wet. But it's no matter. Let her go. Earth +to earth, and dust to dust!--the law of Nature--and Art too. + + _Exit into the house_. + +_Col. G._ (_following him_) I mustn't lose sight of him.--Here he +comes again, thank God! + + _Catches up a coat, and begins brushing it_. + + _Re-enter_ GER. + +_Ger._ I don't like to see you doing that. + +_Col. G._ Why shouldn't I serve my own--superior, sir? Anything's +better than serving yourself. And that's what every one does who won't +serve other people. + +_Ger._ You are right. And it's so cheap. + +_Col. G._ And so nasty! + +_Ger._ Right again, William!--Right indeed!--You're a gentleman! If +there's anything I could help you in--anything gone wrong,--any +friends offended--I'm not altogether without influence. + +_Col. G._ (_aside_) He will vanquish me with my own weapons! + +_Ger._ But you _will_ go to Garibaldi with me? + +_Col. G._ I will, sir. + +_Ger._ And ride by my side? + +_Col. G._ Of course. + +_Ger._ If you ride by me, you will have to ride far. + +_Col. G._ I know, sir. But if you would be fit for fighting, you must +come and have something to eat and drink. + +_Ger._ All right. A soldier must obey: I shall begin by obeying you. +Only mind you keep up with me. _Exit, leaning on_ COL. G. + + _Enter_ THOMAS. + +_Tho._ Th' dule a mon be yere! Aw're main troubled to get shut ov +they reyvers! Aw'm olez i' trouble! Mine's a gradely yed! it +be!--Hoy!--Nobory yere! 'T seems to me, honest men be scarce i' +Lonnon. Aw'm beawn to believe nobory but mo own heighes, and mo own +oud lass. _Exit_. + + _Re-enter_ GERVAISE, _followed by_ COL. G. + +_Ger._ No, William; I won't lie down. I feel much better. Let's have a +bout with the foils. + +_Col. G._ Very well, sir. (_Aside_.) A little of that will go far, I +know. (_Gets down the foils_.) + +_Ger._ And, William, you must set a block up here. I shall have a cut +or two at it to-morrow. There's a good cavalry weapon up there--next +that cast of Davis's arm. + +_Col. G._ Suppose your father were to arrive just after you had +started! + +_Ger._ I shouldn't mind. I don't want to see him yet. I'm such a poor +creature! The heart seems to have gone out of me. You see, William-- + + _Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Ger._ Ah! How do you do, aunt? + +_Mrs. C._ What's this nonsense about Garibaldi, Arthur? + +_Ger._ Who told you? + +_Mrs. C._ You don't mean it's true? + +_Ger._ Quite true, aunt. + +_Mrs. C._ Really, Arthur, you are more of a scatterbrain than I +took you for! + +_Ger._ Don't say that, aunt. I only take after my father. + +_Mrs. C._ Don't talk to me of your father! I have no patience with +him. A careless hard-hearted fellow--not worthy the name of a father! +(_She glares at_ SIR WALTER.) + +_Ger._ You may go, William. (COL. G. _retires slowly_.) + +_Ger._ Aunt, you have been a mother to me; but were you really my +mother, I must not listen to such words of my father. He has good +reasons for what he does, though I admit there is something in it we +don't understand. (_Aside_.) If I could but understand how Constance-- + +_Mrs. C._ What do you say? What was that about Constance? + +_Ger._ Oh, nothing, aunt. I was only thinking how difficult it is to +understand people. + +_Mrs. C._ If you mean Constance, I agree with you. She is a most +provoking girl. + +_Ger._ (_smiling_) I am sorry to hear that, aunt. + +_Mrs. C._ I'm very glad you were never so silly as take a fancy to the +girl. She would have led you a pretty dance! If you saw how she treats +that unfortunate Waterfield! But what's bred in the bone won't out of +the flesh. + +_Ger._ There's nothing bred in her I would have out, aunt. + +_Mrs. C._ Perhaps she originated her vulgarity. That is a shade worse. + +_Ger. Vulgarity_, aunt! I cannot remember the meaning of the word when +I think of _her_. + +_Mrs. C._ If you choose to insult me, Arthur-- + + _Exit_. + +_Ger._ It is high time I were gone! If I should be called in now to +settle matters between--William! William!--William! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Ger._ To-morrow, William. Not a word. If you will go with me, I shall +be glad. If you will not, I shall go without you. + + _Exit_. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir.--I wish Warren were here with the old man. I don't +know what to do till he comes. + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. + +_Con._ I thought my aunt was here, William. + +_Col. G._ No, miss. She was here, but she's gone again. + +_Con._ Could I see Mr. Gervaise for a moment? + +_Col. G._ Certainly, miss. I'll tell him. + +_Con._ Is he still determined on going, William? + +_Col. G._ Yes, miss;--to-morrow, he says. + +_Con._ To-morrow! + +_Col. G._ Yes, miss. I think he means to start for Dover in the +morning. + +_Con._ What am I to do? + +_Col. G._ What's the matter, miss? + +_Con._ What _can_ I do? I know he is angry with me. I don't quite know +why. I wish I had never--I can't help it now. My heart will break. +(_Weeps_.) + +_Col. G._ Don't let him go to Dover to-morrow, miss. + +_Con._ He would have listened to me once. He won't now. It's all so +different! Everything has gone wrong somehow. + +_Col. G._ Do try to keep him from going, miss. + +_Con._ He would but think me forward. I could bear anything better +than have him think ill of me. + +_Col. G._ No fear of that, miss. The danger is all the other way. + +_Con._ What other way, William? + +_Col. G._ He thinks you don't care a bit about him. + + _Exit_. CONSTANCE _drops on the dais, nearly under the veiled Psyche_. + + _Enter_ GER. _and stands a moment regarding her_. + +_Ger._ Constance. + +_Con._ (_starting up, and flying to him with her hands clasped_) +Arthur! Arthur! don't go. I can't bear you to go. It's all my fault, +but do forgive me! Oh, do, do--_dear_ Arthur! Don't go to-morrow. I +shall be miserable if you do. + +_Ger._ But why, my--why, Constance? + +_Con._ I _was_ your Constance once. + +_Ger._ But why should I not go? Nobody wants me here. + +_Con._ Oh, Arthur! how can you be so cruel? Can it be that--? Do say +something. If you won't say anything, how can I know what you are +thinking--what you wish? Perhaps you don't like--I would--I have--I +won't--Oh, Arthur! do say something. + +_Ger._ I have nothing to say, Constance. + +_Con._ Then I _have_ lost you--altogether! I dare say I deserve it. I +hardly know. God help me! What can I have done so very wicked? Oh! why +did you take me out of the streets? I should have been used to them by +this time! They are terrible to me now. No, no, Arthur! I thank +you--thank you--with my very soul! What might I not have been by this +time! But I used to lie in that corner, and I daren't now! + + _Enter_ COL. G. _behind_. + +It was a happy time, for I had not offended you then. Good-bye. Won't +you say one word to me?--You will never see me again. + + _She pauses a moment; then exit weeping--by the back door, behind + the Psyche_. COL. G. _follows her_. + +_Ger._ How _could_ she love that fellow? (_Looking up_.) Gone? gone! +My Constance! My Psyche! I've driven her into the wild street! +O my God! William! William! Constance! Which door? I won't go, +Constance--I won't. I will do anything you ask me. What was that she +said?--_Good-bye_! God in heaven!--William! you idiot! where are you? +William! + + _He rushes out by the front door. Re-enter_ COL. G. _by the back + door_. + +_Col. G._ It was lucky I met Bill! He's after her like the wind. That +message will bring her back, I think. I could trust that boy with +anything! But where is he? (_Enter_ THOMAS.) What, friend! here at +last! Thank God! Just sit down a moment, will you? (_Peeps into the +room off the study_.) He's not there! I heard him calling this moment! +Perhaps he's in the house.--Did _you_ leave the door open, sir? + +_Tho._ Nay. Th' dur wur oppen. Aw seigh sombory run eawt as aw coom +oop. + +_Col. G._ My boy! my boy! It will kill him!--Stop here till I come +back. (_Rushes out_.) + +_Tho._ Aw connot stop. Aw'm tired enough, God knows, to stop +anywheeres; mo yed goes reawnd and reawnd, an' aw'd fain lie mo deawn. +But aw mun be gooin'. Nobory can tell what may be coomin to mo Mattie. +Aw mun go look, go look! Ha! ha! they couldn't keep mo, owd mon as aw +wur! But aw wish aw hed a word wi' th' mon first. + + _Enter_ WARREN. + +_War._ (_aside_) This must be the old fellow himself! Here he is after +all! (_Peeps into the room_.) + +_Tho._ Theer be nobory theer, sir. Th' maister's run eawt, and th' mon +after him. + +_War._ Run out! + +_Tho._ Aw niver says what aw donnot mane. An' aw'm glad yo're theer, +sir; for William he towd mo to stay till he coom back; but aw've not +geet so mich time to spare; and so be's yo're a friend ov th' +maister's, yo'll mebbe mind th' shop a smo' bit. Aw mun goo (_going_). + +_War._ I say, old man--your name's Thomas Pearson--ain't it? + +_Tho._ Yigh. Aw yer. But hea cooms to to knaw mo name? + +_War._ I know all about you. + +_Tho._ Ivvery body knaws ivvery body yere! Aw connot stur a fut fur +folks as knaws mo, and knaws mo name, and knaws what aw be after. +Lonnon is a dreedfu' plaze. Aw mun geet mo lass to whoam. Yo'll mind +th' shop till th' maister cooms back. Good neet (_going_). + +_War._ (_stopping him_) They want you here a bit. You'd better stop. +The man will be back directly. You're too suspicious. + +_Tho._ Nea, maister, thae'rt wrung theer. Aw've trusted too mich--a +theawsand times too mich. + +_War._ You trusted the wrong people, then. + +_Tho._ It taks no mak o' a warlock to tell mo that, maister. It's smo' +comfort, noather. + +_War._ Well now, you give me a turn, and hear what I've got to say. + +_Tho._ Yo're o' tarred wi' th' same stick. Ivvery body maks gam ov th' +poor owd mon! Let me goo, maister. Aw want mo chylt, mo Mattie! + +_War._ You must wait till Mr. Gervaise's man comes back. + +_Tho._ (_despairingly_) O Lord. Th' peack ov sunbrunt lies they ha' +been tellin' me sin' aw coom yere!--childer an o'! + +_War._ Have patience, man. You won't repent it. + +_Tho._ What mun be, mun. Aw connot ha' patience, but aw con stop. Aw'd +rayther goo, though. Aw'm noan sorry to rest noather. (_Sits down on +the dais_.) + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_War._ Here, boy! Don't let the old man go till some one comes. +_Exit_. + +_Bill_. All right, sir! Hillo, daddy! There you are! Thank God! + +_Tho._ What fur, boy? Wull he gie mo mo Mattie again--dosto think? + +_Bill_. That he will, daddy! You come along, an' you'll know a honest +boy next time.--I can't till I see Mr. William, though. + +_Tho._ Iv thae manes th' maister's mon yere, he's run eawt. An' aw +connot goo witho. Aw'm keepin' th' shop till he coom back. An' aw +dunnot mich care to goo witho. Aw dunnot mich trust tho. Th' Lord have +a care ov mo! Aw dimnot knaw which to trust, and which not to trust. +But aw _mun_ wait for maister William, as yo co' him. + +_Bill_. All right, daddy!--Don't you stir from here till I come +back--not for nobody--no, not for Joseph! + +_Tho._ Aw dunnot knaw no Joseph. + +_Bill_. I'll soon let you see I'm a honest boy! As you can't go to +Mattie, I'll bring Mattie to you: see if I don't! An' if she ain't the +right un, I'll take her back, and charge ye nuffin for carriage. Can't +say fairer than that, daddy! + +_Tho._ Bless tho, mo boy! Dosto mane it true? + +_Bill_. Yes--an' that you'll see, afore you're an 'alf an hour older, +daddy. When Mr. William comes, you say to him, "Bill's been.--All +right." + +_Tho._ Aw dunnot like secrets, lad. What don yo mane? Ivvery body +seems to mane something, and nobory to say it. + +_Bill._ Never you mind, daddy! "Bill's been.--All right." That's your +ticket. I'm off. _Exit_. + + THOMAS _gets up, and walks about, murmuring to himself. A knock + at the door_. + +_Tho._ Somebory after mo again! Aw'll geet eawt ov th' way. (_Goes +behind the Psyche_.) + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Wat_. Nobody here! I _am_ unlucky. "Not at home," said the +rascal,--and grinned, by Jove! I'll be at the bottom of this. There's +no harm in Gervaise. He's a decent fellow. (_Knocks at the door of_ +GER.'S _room_.) I won't leave the place till I've set things +right--not if I've got to give him a post-obit for five thousand--I +won't!--Nobody there? (_Looks in_.) No. Then I'll go in and wait. +_Exit_. + +_Tho._ (_peeping from behind the Psyche_). That's the villain! Lord o' +mercy! that's the villain! If aw're as strung as aw'm owd, aw'd +scrunch his yed--aw would! Aw'm sure it's th' mon. He kep eawt ov mo +way--but aw seigh him once. O Lord, keep mo hands off ov him. Aw met +kill him. Aw'm sartin sure ov him when aw see him. Aw'll not goo nigh +him till somebory cooms--cep' he roons away. Aw'm noan fleyed ov him, +but aw met not be able to keep mo howd ov him. Oh, mo Mattie! mo +Mattie! to leave thi owd faither for sich a mak ov a mon as yon! But +yere cooms somebory moor. (_Goes behind the Psyche_.) + + _Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Mrs. C._ No one here? She can never be in his room with him! (_Opens +the door_.) Oh! Mr. Waterfield! You're here--are you? + +_Wat_. (_coming to the door_). Mrs. Clifford! This is indeed an +unexpected pleasure! + +_Mrs. C._ Have you got Constance with you there? + +_Wat_. I've no such good fortune. + +_Mrs. C._ Where is she, then? + +_Wat_. At home, I presume. + +_Mrs. C._ Indeed she is not. I must speak to Arthur. + +_Wat_. He's not here. + +_Mrs. C._ Where's my--his man, then? + +_Wat_. Taken himself off to the public-house, I suppose. There's +nobody about. Odd--ain't it? + +_Mrs. C._ I'll go and see. _Exit into the house_. + +_Wat_. What can be the row! there is some row. _Exit into the room_. + + _Enter_ GER., _supported by_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ Thank God! Thank God! + +_Ger._ But where is she? I shall go mad if you've told me a lie. + +_Col. G._ I saw her, and sent a messenger after her. We shall have +news of her presently. Do have a little patience, sir. + +_Get._ How can I have patience? I'm a brute--a mean, selfish devil! If +that fellow Waterfield was to horse-whip me--I should let him. + +_Tho._ (_coming forward_). Theer wur that yung chap yere a while agoo, +and he said aw wur to say to Maister William--what wur it aw're to +say?--Yigh--it wur--"Bill's been. O'reet." + +_Col. G._ There, sir! I told you so. Do sit down. I'll go after her. + +_Ger._ I will. I will. Only make haste. (_Stands staring at the +Psyche_.) + +_Tho._ Th' boy said he'd be yere direckly. + +_Col. G._ You sit down. I'll be with you presently. + +_Tho._ (_retiring behind the Psyche_). Aw're noan likely to goo, +maister. + + _Enter_ MRS. C. _Crosses to room door. Enter_ WATERFIELD. _They + talk_. + +_Ger._ William! I don't want them. (_Retreats towards the Psyche_.) + +_Col. G._ Sit here one moment, sir. (_Leads him to the dais. Advances +to_ MRS. C.) + +_Mrs. C._ (_trying to pass him_). Arthur, what can--? + +_Col. G._ (_intercepting her_). Let him rest a bit, ma'am, if you +please. He's been out for the first time. + +_Mrs. C._ At night! and in a fog! A pretty nurse you are! Poor boy! + +_Col. G._ Mr. Waterfield, sir, would you mind stepping into the room +again for a moment? (_Exit_ WAT.) Mrs. Clifford, ma'am, would you +please get a glass of wine for master? _Exit_ MRS. C. _into the +house_. + +_Ger._ William! William! + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Send him away. Don't let him stop there. I have nothing to say +to him. + +_Col. G._ He shan't trouble you, sir. I'll take care of that. (_Goes +behind the Psyche to_ THOMAS, _but keeps watching the door of the +room_.)--Did you see the man that went in there just now? + +_Tho._ (_with anxiety_). He winnot joomp eawt ov th' window, dosto +thenk, lad? + + _Re-enter_ MRS. C. _with wine_. GER. _drinks_. + +_Col. G._ Why should he do that? Do you know anything about him? + +_Tho._ Aw do. + +_Col. G._ Has he seen you here? + +_Tho._ No. Aw're afeard he'd roon away, and aw keepet snoog. + +_Col. G._ I needn't ask who it is, then? + +_Tho._ Yo needn't, lad. + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Tho._ Mo conscience! he'll pike eawt afoor aw geet howd on him! +(_Rushes out and seizes_ WAT.) + + _Enter_ MATTIE _and_ BILL. + +_Tho._ Thae'rt a domned villain! Wheer's mo Mattie? + + WATERFIELD _knocks_ THOMAS _down_. + +_Bill._ O Lord! the swell's murdered old daddy! + + _All but_ GER. _rush together_. COLONEL GERVAISE _seizes_ + WATERFIELD. MATTIE _throws herself on her knees beside_ THOMAS + _and lifts his head_. + +_Mat_. Father! father! Look at me! It's Mattie!--your own wicked +Mattie! Look at her once, father dear! (_Lays down his head in +despair, and rises_.) Who struck the good old man? + +_Bill._ He did--the swell as give me the gold sov. + +_Mat_. Mr. Watkins!-- + +_Wat_. I haven't the honour of the gentleman's acquaintance. I'm not +Mr. Watkins. Am I now? (_to_ COL. G.). Ha! ha!--Let go, I say. I'm not +the man. It's all a mistake, you see. + +_Col. G._ In good time. I might make a worse. Watkins mayn't be your +name, but Watkins is your nature. + +_Wat_. Damn your insolence! Let me go, I tell you! (_Struggles +threatening_.) + +_Col. G._ Gently, gently, young man!--If I give your neckcloth a twist +now--! + +_Mat_. Yes, there _is_ a mistake--and a sad one for me! A wretch that +would strike an old man! Indeed you are not what I took you for. + +_Wat_. You hear the young woman! She says it's all a mistake.--My good +girl, I'm sorry for the old gentleman; but he oughtn't to behave like +a ruffian. Really, now, you know, a fellow can't stand that sort of +thing! A downright assault! I'm sorry I struck him, though--devilish +sorry! I'll pay the damage with pleasure. (_Puts his hand in his +pocket_.) + +_Mat_. (_turning away_) And not a gentleman! (_Kneels by_ THOMAS _and +weeps_.) + +_Tho._ (_feebly_.) Dunnot greight, Mattie, mo chylt. Aw'm o' reet. Let +th' mon goo. What's _he_ to tho or mo?--By th' mass! aw'm strung +enough to lick him yet (_trying to rise, but falling back_). Eigh! +eigh! mo owd boans 'ud rayther not. It's noan blame sure to an owd mon +to fo' tired o' feightin! + +_Mat_. (_taking' his head on her lap_). Father! father! forgive me! +I'm all yours.--I'll go home with you, and work for you till I drop. O +father! how could I leave you for him? I don't care one bit for him +now--I don't indeed. You'll forgive me--won't you, father? (_Sobs_.) + +_Tho._ Aw wull, aw do, mo Mattie. Coom whoam--coom whoam. + +_Mat_. Will mother forgive me, father? + +_Tho._ Thi mother, chylt? Hoo's forgiven tho lung afoor--ivver so lung +agoo, chylt! Thi mother may talk leawd, but her heart is as soft as +parritch.--Thae knows it, Mattie. + +_Wat_. All this is very interesting,--only you see it's the wrong man, +and I can't say he enjoys it. Take your hand off my collar--will you? +I'm not the man, I tell you! + +_Bill._ All I says is--it's the same swell as guv me the skid to find +her. I'll kiss the book on that! + +_Ger._ (_coming forward_). Mr. Waterfield, on your honour, do you know +this girl? + +_Wat_. Come! you ain't goin' to put me to my catechism! + +_Ger._ You must allow appearances are against you. + +_Wat_. Damn your appearances! What do I care? + +_Ger._ If you will not answer my question, I must beg you to leave the +place. + +_Wat_. My own desire! Will you oblige me by ordering this bull-dog of +yours to take his paws off me? What the devil is he keeping me here +for? + +_Col. G._ I've a great mind to give you in charge. + +_Wat_. The old codger assaulted me first. + +_Col. G._ True; but the whole affair would come to light. That's what +I would have. Miss Pearson, what am I to do with this man? + + _Enter_ SUSAN _at the back door. Behind her,_ CONSTANCE _peeps in_. + +_Mat_. Let him go.--Father! Father! _(Kisses him_.) + +_Sus_. That can never be Mattie's gentleman, sure-ly! Hm! I don't +think much of _him_. I knew he had ugly eyes! I told you so, Mattie! +I wouldn't break my heart for _him_--no, nor for twenty of him--I +wouldn't! He looks like a drowned cat. + +_Wat_. What the devil have _you_ got to do with it? + +_Sus. Nothing_. You shut up. + +_Wat_. Well, I'm damned if I know whether I'm on my head or my heels. + +_Sus_. 'Tain't no count which. + +_Bill_ (_aside to_ COL. G.). She's at the back door, Mr. William. + +_Col. G._ Who is, Bill? Miss Lacordère? + +_Bill._ Right you air! + + COL. G. _hastens to the door_. CON. _peeps in and draws back_. + COL. G. _follows her._ WATERFIELD _approaches_ MATTIE. + +_Wat_. Miss Pearson, if that's-- + +_Mat_. I don't know you--don't even know your name. + +_Wat_. (_looking round_). You hear her say it! She don't know me! + +_Mat_. Could you try and rise, father? I want to get out of this. +There's a lady here says I'm a thief! + +_Tho._ Nea, that she connot say, Mattie! Thae cooms ov honest folk. +Aw'll geet oop direckly. (_Attempts to rise_.) Eigh! eigh! aw connot! +aw connot! + +_Mrs. C._ If I have been unjust to you, Miss Pearson, I shall not fail +to make amends. + +_Sus_. It's time you did then, ma'am. You've murdered her, and all but +murdered me. That's how your little bill stands. + +_Ger._ (_to_ WAT.) Leave the place, Mr. Waterfield. + +_Wat_. You shall answer for this, Gervaise. + +_Ger._ Leave the study at once. + +_Wat_. Tut! tut! I'll make it up to them. A bank note's a good +plaster. + +_Bill_. Pleasir, shall I run and fetch a bobby? I likes to see a swell +wanted. + +_Ger._ You hold your tongue. (_Retires to the dais and sits down._ +MRS. C. _follows him_.) + +_Wat_. (_taking out his pocket-book, and approaching_ MATTIE). I +didn't think you'd have served me so, Mattie! Indeed I didn't! It's +not kind after what's been between you and me. (MATTIE _rises and +stands staring at him_.) You've ruined my prospects--you have! But I +don't want to bear malice: take that.--Old times, you know!--Take it. +You're welcome. (_Forces the note on her. She steps back. It drops_.) + +_Mat_. This is a humiliation! Will nobody take him away? + +_Sus_. (_rushing at him_). You be off! An' them goggle eyes o' yours, +or _I_'ll goggle 'em! I can't bear the sight on 'em. _I_ should never +ha' taken you for a gentleman. You don't look it. You slope, I say! +(_Hustles him_.) + + WATERFIELD _picks up the note, and exit_. + +_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) Father! father! don't hate me; don't +despise me. + + THOMAS _tries to get up, but falls back_. + +_Bill_. Don't be in no hurry, Daddy. There's none but friends here +now--'cep' the old lady;--she do look glum. + +_Sus_. I'll soon settle her hash! + +_Mat_. Susie! Susie! Don't--there's a dear! + +_Sus_. What business has she here then! She's not a doin' of nothink. + +_Mat_. Don't you see she's looking after the poor gentleman there? + +_Ger._ William!--William!--Gone again! What a fellow he is! The best +servant in the world, but always vanishing! Call your James--will you, +aunt? We must have the old man put to bed. But the poor girl looks the +worse of the two! She can have the spare room, and William can sleep +on the sofa in mine. + +_Mrs. C._ I'll see to it. + + _Exit_. GER. _goes towards_ THOMAS. + +_Tho._ Coom whoam--coom whoam, Mattie! Thi mother, hoo's cryin' her +eighes eawt to whoam. + +_Mat_. I'll run for a doctor first, father. + +_Tho._ No, no, chylt! Aw're only a bit stonned, like. Aw'll be o' reet +in a smo' bit. Aw dunnot want no doctor. Aw'm a coomin' reawnd. + +_Ger._ Neither of you shall stir to-night. Your rooms will be ready in +a few minutes. + +_Mat_. Thank you, sir! I don't know what I should have done with +him.--Susan, you wouldn't mind going home without me? You know Miss +Lacordère-- + +_Ger._ Miss Lacordère! What do you know of her? + +_Mat_. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I oughtn't to have mentioned her. But my +poor head!-- + +_Ger._ What of Miss Lacordère? For God's sake, tell me. + + _Enter_ MRS. C. _with_ JAMES. + +_Sus_. Oh, nothing, sir! nothing at all! Only Miss Lacordère has been +good to us--which it's more than can be said for everybody! (_Scowls +at_ MRS. C. JAMES _proceeds to lift_ THOMAS. _She flies at him_.) Put +the old gentleman down, you sneakin' reptile! How many doors have you +been a hearkenin' at since mornin'--eh, putty-lump? You touch the old +man again, and I'll mark you! Here, Bill! I'll take his head--you take +his feet. We'll carry him between us like a feather. + +_Mat_. O Susan! do hold your tongue. + +_Sus_. It's my only weapon, my dear. If I was a man--see if I'd talk +then. + +_James_. It's a providence you ain't a man, young woman! + +_Sus_. Right you are! Them's my werry motives. I ain't a makin' of no +complaint on that score, young Plush! I wouldn't be a man for--no, not +for--not even for sich a pair o' calves as yourn! + + SUS. _and_ BILL _carry_ THO. _out_. MAT. _follows_. GER. _is going + after them_. + +_Mrs. C._ Don't you go, Arthur. They can manage quite well. I will go +if you like. + +_Ger._ They know something about Constance. + +_Mrs. C._ Pray give yourself no anxiety about her. + +_Ger._ What do you mean, aunt? + +_Mrs. C._ I will be responsible for her. + +_Ger._ Where is she then? (_Exit_ MRS. C.) William!--If he doesn't +come in one minute more, I'll go after her myself. Those girls know +where she is. I am as strong as a giant.--O God! All but married to +that infamous fellow!--That he should ever have touched the tip of one +of her fingers! What a sunrise of hope! Psyche may yet fold her wings +to my prayer! William! William!--Where _can_ the fellow be? + + _Enter_ COL. G. _in uniform and star, leading_ CONSTANCE. + +_Ger._ (_hurrying to meet them_). Constance! Constance! forgive me. Oh +my God! You will when you know all. + +_Col. G._ She knows enough for that already, my boy, or she wouldn't +be here. Take her--and me for her sake. + +_Ger._ What! who--? Constance!--What does it all mean?--It must +be--can it be--my father?--William--It _is_ William!--William my +father!--O father! father! (_throwing his arms about him_) it _was_ +you all the time then! + +_Col. G._ My boy! my boy! There!--take Constance, and let me go. I did +want to do something for you--but--There! I'm too much ashamed to look +at you in my own person. + +_Ger._ (_kneeling_). Father! father! don't talk like that! O father! +_my_ father! + +_Col. G._ (_raising him_). My boy! my boy! I wanted to do something +for you--tried hard--and was foiled.--I doubly deserved it. I doubted +as well as neglected you. But God is good. He has shamed me, and saved +you. + +_Ger._ By your hand, father. + +_Col. G._ No--by his own. It would all have come right without me. I +was unworthy of the honour, my boy. But I was allowed to try; and for +that I am grateful.--Arthur, I come to you empty-handed--a beggar for +your love. + +_Ger._ How dare you say that, father?--Empty-handed--bringing me her +and your-self--all I ever longed for!--my father and my Psyche! +Father, _thank_ you. The poor word must do its best. I thank you with +my very soul.--How _shall_ I bear my happiness!--Constance, it was my +father all the time! Did you know it? Serving me like a +slave!--humouring all my whims!--watching me night and day!--and then +bringing me-- + +_Con._ Your own little girl, Arthur. But why did you not tell me? + +_Ger._ Tell you what, darling? + +_Con._ That--that--that you--Oh! you know what, Arthur! + +_Ger._ How could I, my child, with that--!--Shall I tell you now? + +_Con._ No, no! I am too happy to listen--even to you, Arthur! But +_he_ should never have--I did find him out at last. If I had but known +you did not like him! (_hiding her face_.) + +_Ger._ (_embracing his father_) Father! father! I cannot hold my +happiness! And it is _all_ your doing! + +_Col. G. No_, I tell you, my boy! I was but a straw on the tide of +things. I will serve you yet though. I will be your father yet. + +_Bill_ (_aside_). Fathers ain't _all_ bad coves! Here's two on +'em--good sort of old Jacobs--both on 'em. Shouldn't mind much if I +had a father o' my own arter all! + + GERVAISE _turns to_ CONSTANCE--_then glances at the Psyche_. COL. + GERVAISE _removes the sheet_. GERVAISE _leads_ CONSTANCE _to the + chair on the dais--turns from her to the Psyche, and begins to work + on the clay, glancing from the one to the other--the next moment + leaves the Psyche, and seats himself on the dais at_ CONSTANCE'S + _feet, looking up in her face._ COL. GERVAISE _stands regarding + them fixedly. Slow distant music._ BILL _is stealing away_. + + _Curtain falls._ + + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Stephen Archer and Other Tales, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES *** + +***** This file should be named 9191-8.txt or 9191-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/9/9191/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Beth Trapaga and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. 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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 + + +Title: Stephen Archer and Other Tales + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9191] +This file was first posted on September 14, 2003 +Last updated: April 19, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES *** + + + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Beth Trapaga and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES + </h1> + <h2> + By George Macdonald + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>STEPHEN ARCHER</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> <b>THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER I. WATHO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER II. AURORA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER III. VESPER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER IV. PHOTOGEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER V. NYCTERIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER VI. HOW PHOTOGEN GREW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER VII. HOW NYCTERIS GREW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER VIII. THE LAMP. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER IX. OUT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER X. THE GREAT LAMP. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XI. THE SUNSET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XII. THE GARDEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XIII. SOMETHING QUITE NEW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XIV. THE SUN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XV. THE COWARD HERO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XVI. AN EVIL NURSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XVIII. REFUGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XIX. THE WEREWOLF. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XX. ALL IS WELL. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> <b>THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER I. HUSBAND AND WIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER II. AN ASTONISHMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER III. ANOTHER ASTONISHMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER IV. WHAT IT MEANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME OF IT. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> <b>PORT IN A STORM</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> <b>IF I HAD A FATHER.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> ACT II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> ACT III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> ACT IV. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STEPHEN ARCHER + </h2> + <p> + Stephen Archer was a stationer, bookseller, and newsmonger in one of the + suburbs of London. The newspapers hung in a sort of rack at his door, as + if for the convenience of the public to help themselves in passing. On his + counter lay penny weeklies and books coming out in parts, amongst which + the <i>Family Herald</i> was in force, and the <i>London Journal</i> not + to be found. I had occasion once to try the extent of his stock, for I + required a good many copies of one of Shakspere's plays—at a penny, + if I could find such. He shook his head, and told me he could not + encourage the sale of such productions. This pleased me; for, although it + was of little consequence what he thought concerning Shakspere, it was of + the utmost import that he should prefer principle to pence. So I loitered + in the shop, looking for something to buy; but there was nothing in the + way of literature: his whole stock, as far as I could see, consisted of + little religious volumes of gay binding and inferior print; he had nothing + even from the Halifax press. He was a good-looking fellow, about thirty, + with dark eyes, overhanging brows that indicated thought, mouth of + character, and no smile. I was interested in him. + </p> + <p> + I asked if he would mind getting the plays I wanted. He said he would + rather not. I bade him good morning. + </p> + <p> + More than a year after, I saw him again. I had passed his shop many times, + but this morning, I forget why, I went in. I could hardly recall the + former appearance of the man, so was it swallowed up in a new expression. + His face was alive, and his behaviour courteous. A similar change had + passed upon his stock. There was <i>Punch</i> and <i>Fun</i> amongst the + papers, and tenpenny Shaksperes on the counter, printed on straw-paper, + with ugly wood-cuts. The former class of publications had not vanished, + but was mingled with cheap editions of some worthy of being called books. + </p> + <p> + "I see you have changed your mind since I saw you last," I said. + </p> + <p> + "You have the advantage of me, sir," he returned. "I did not know you were + a customer." + </p> + <p> + "Not much of that," I replied; "only in intention. I wanted you to get me + some penny Shaksperes, and you would not take the order." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! I think I remember," he answered, with just a trace of confusion; + adding, with a smile, "I'm married now;" and I fancied I could read a sort + of triumph over his former self. + </p> + <p> + I laughed, of course—the best expression of sympathy at hand—and, + after a little talk, left the shop, resolved to look in again soon. Before + a month was over, I had made the acquaintance of his wife too, and between + them learned so much of their history as to be able to give the following + particulars concerning it. + </p> + <p> + Stephen Archer was one of the deacons, rather a young one perhaps, of a + dissenting congregation. The chapel was one of the oldest in the + neighbourhood, quite triumphant in ugliness, but possessed of a history + which gave it high rank with those who frequented it. The sacred odour of + the names of pastors who had occupied its pulpit, lingered about its walls—names + unknown beyond its precincts, but starry in the eyes of those whose world + lay within its tabernacle. People generally do not know what a power some + of these small <i>conventicles</i> are in the education of the world. If + only as an outlet for the energies of men of lowly education and position, + who in connexion with most of the churches of the Establishment would find + no employment, they are of inestimable value. + </p> + <p> + To Stephen Archer, for instance, when I saw him first, his chapel was the + sole door out of the common world into the infinite. When he entered, as + certainly did the awe and the hush of the sacred place overshadow his + spirit as if it had been a gorgeous cathedral-house borne aloft upon the + joined palms of its Gothic arches. The Master is truer than men think, and + the power of His presence, as Browning has so well set forth in his + "Christmas Eve," is where two or three are gathered in His name. And + inasmuch as Stephen was not a man of imagination, he had the greater need + of the undefined influences of the place. + </p> + <p> + He had been chief in establishing a small mission amongst the poor in the + neighbourhood, with the working of which he occupied the greater part of + his spare time. I will not venture to assert that his mind was pure from + the ambition of gathering from these to swell the flock at the little + chapel; nay, I will not even assert that there never arose a suggestion of + the enemy that the pence of these rescued brands might alleviate the + burden upon the heads and shoulders of the poorly prosperous caryatids of + his church; but I do say that Stephen was an honest man in the main, ever + ready to grow honester: and who can demand more? + </p> + <p> + One evening, as he was putting up the shutters of his window, his + attention was arrested by a shuffling behind him. Glancing round, he set + down the shutter, and the next instant boxed a boy's ears, who ran away + howling and mildly excavating his eyeballs, while a young, pale-faced + woman, with the largest black eyes he had ever seen, expostulated with him + on the proceeding. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, sir!" she said, "he wasn't troubling you." There was a touch of + indignation in the tone. + </p> + <p> + "I'm sorry I can't return the compliment," said Stephen, rather + illogically. "If I'd ha' known you liked to have your shins kicked, I + might ha' let the young rascal alone. But you see I didn't know it." + </p> + <p> + "He's my brother," said the young woman, conclusively. + </p> + <p> + "The more shame to him," returned Stephen. "If he'd been your husband, + now, there might ha' been more harm than good in interferin', 'cause he'd + only give it you the worse after; but brothers! Well, I'm sure it's a pity + I interfered." + </p> + <p> + "I don't see the difference," she retorted, still with offence. + </p> + <p> + "I beg your pardon, then," said Stephen. "I promise you I won't interfere + next time." + </p> + <p> + So saying, he turned, took up his shutter, and proceeded to close his + shop. The young woman walked on. + </p> + <p> + Stephen gave an inward growl or two at the depravity of human nature, and + set out to make his usual visits; but before he reached the place, he had + begun to doubt whether the old Adam had not overcome him in the matter of + boxing the boy's ears; and the following interviews appeared in + consequence less satisfactory than usual. Disappointed with himself, he + could not be so hopeful about others. + </p> + <p> + As he was descending a stair so narrow that it was only just possible for + two people to pass, he met the same young woman ascending. Glad of the + opportunity, he stepped aside with his best manners and said: + </p> + <p> + "I am sorry I offended you this evening. I did not know that the boy was + your brother." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, sir!" she returned—for to one in her position, Stephen Archer + was a gentleman: had he not a shop of his own?—"you didn't hurt him + much; only I'm so anxious to save him." + </p> + <p> + "To be sure," returned Stephen, "that is the one thing needful." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir," she rejoined. "I try hard, but boys will be boys." + </p> + <p> + "There is but one way, you know," said Stephen, following the words with a + certain formula which I will not repeat. + </p> + <p> + The girl stared. "I don't know about that," she said. "What I want is to + keep him out of prison. Sometimes I think I shan't be able long. Oh, sir! + if you be the gentleman that goes about here, couldn't you help me? I + can't get anything for him to do, and I can't be at home to look after + him." + </p> + <p> + "What is he about all day, then?" + </p> + <p> + "The streets," she answered. "I don't know as he's ever done anything he + oughtn't to, but he came home once in a fright, and that breathless with + running, that I thought he'd ha' fainted. If I only could get him into a + place!" + </p> + <p> + "Do you live here?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir; I do." + </p> + <p> + At the moment a half-bestial sound below, accompanied by uncertain + footsteps, announced the arrival of a drunken bricklayer. + </p> + <p> + "There's Joe Bradley," she said, in some alarm. "Come into my room, sir, + till he's gone up; there's no harm in him when he's sober, but he ain't + been sober for a week now." + </p> + <p> + Stephen obeyed; and she, taking a key from her pocket, and unlocking a + door on the landing, led him into a room to which his back-parlour was a + paradise. She offered him the only chair in the room, and took her place + on the edge of the bed, which showed a clean but much-worn patchwork + quilt. Charley slept on the bed, and she on a shake-down in the corner. + The room was not untidy, though the walls and floor were not clean; indeed + there were not in it articles enough to make it untidy withal. + </p> + <p> + "Where do you go on Sundays?" asked Stephen. + </p> + <p> + "Nowheres. I ain't got nobody," she added, with a smile, "to take me + nowheres." + </p> + <p> + "What do you do then?" + </p> + <p> + "I've plenty to do mending of Charley's trousers. You see they're only + shoddy, and as fast as I patch 'em in one place they're out in another." + </p> + <p> + "But you oughtn't to work Sundays." + </p> + <p> + "I have heard tell of people as say you oughtn't to work of a Sunday; but + where's the differ when you've got a brother to look after? He ain't got + no mother." + </p> + <p> + "But you're breaking the fourth commandment; and you know where people go + that do that. You believe in hell, I suppose." + </p> + <p> + "I always thought that was a bad word." + </p> + <p> + "To be sure! But it's where you'll go if you break the Sabbath." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, sir!" she said, bursting into tears, "I don't care what become of me + if I could only save that boy." + </p> + <p> + "What do you mean by <i>saving</i> him?" + </p> + <p> + "Keep him out of prison, to be sure. I shouldn't mind the workus myself, + if I could get him into a place." + </p> + <p> + <i>A place</i> was her heaven, a prison her hell. Stephen looked at her + more attentively. No one who merely glanced at her could help seeing her + eyes first, and no one who regarded them could help thinking her + nice-looking at least, all in a shabby cotton dress and black shawl as she + was. It was only the "penury and pine" that kept her from being beautiful. + Her features were both regular and delicate, with an anxious mystery about + the thin tremulous lips, and a beseeching look, like that of an animal, in + her fine eyes, hazy with the trouble that haunted her mouth. Stephen had + the good sense not to press the Sabbath question, and by degrees drew her + story from her. + </p> + <p> + Her father had been a watchmaker, but, giving way to drink, had been, as + far back as she could remember, entirely dependent on her mother, who by + charing and jobbing managed to keep the family alive. Sara was then the + only child, but, within a few months after her father's death, her mother + died in giving birth to the boy. With her last breath she had commended + him to his sister. Sara had brought him up—how she hardly knew. He + had been everything to her. The child that her mother had given her was + all her thought. Those who start with the idea "that people with nought + are naughty," whose eyes are offended by rags, whose ears cannot + distinguish between vulgarity and wickedness, and who think the first duty + is care for self, must be excused from believing that Sara Coulter passed + through all that had been <i>decreed</i> for her without losing her + simplicity and purity. But God is in the back slums as certainly as—perhaps + to some eyes more evidently than—in Belgravia. That which was the + burden of her life—namely, the care of her brother—was her + salvation. After hearing her story, which he had to draw from her, because + she had no impulse to talk about herself, Stephen went home to turn the + matter over in his mind. + </p> + <p> + The next Sunday, after he had had his dinner, he went out into the same + region, and found himself at Sara's door. She was busy over a garment of + Charley's, who was sitting on the bed with half a loaf in his hand. When + he recognized Stephen he jumped down, and would have rushed from the room; + but changing his mind, possibly because of the condition of his lower + limbs, he turned, and springing into the bed, scrambled under the + counterpane, and drew it over his head. + </p> + <p> + "I am sorry to see you working on Sunday," Stephen said, with an emphasis + that referred to their previous conversation. + </p> + <p> + "You would not have the boy go naked?" she returned, with again a touch of + indignation. She had been thinking how easily a man of Stephen's social + position could get him a place if he would. Then recollecting her manners, + she added, "I should get him better clothes if he had a place. Wouldn't + you like to get a place now, Charley?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Charley, from under the counterpane, and began to peep at the + visitor. + </p> + <p> + He was not an ill-looking boy—only roguish to a degree. His eyes, as + black as his sister's, but only half as big, danced and twinkled with + mischief. Archer would have taken him off to his ragged class, but even of + rags he had not at the moment the complement necessary for admittance. He + left them, therefore, with a few commonplaces of religious phrase, falling + utterly meaningless. But he was not one to confine his ministrations to + words: he was an honest man. Before the next Sunday it was clear to him + that he could do nothing for the soul of Sara until he had taken the + weight of her brother off it. + </p> + <p> + When he called the next Sunday the same vision precisely met his view. She + might have been sitting there ever since, with those wonderfully-patched + trousers in her hands, and the boy beside her, gnawing at his lump of + bread. But many a long seam had passed through her fingers since then, for + she worked at a clothes-shop all the week with the sewing-machine, whence + arose the possibility of patching Charley's clothes, for the overseer + granted her a cutting or two now and then. + </p> + <p> + After a little chat, Stephen put the question: + </p> + <p> + "If I find a place for Charley, will you go to Providence Chapel next + Sunday?" + </p> + <p> + "I will go <i>anywhere</i> you please, Mr. Archer," she answered, looking + up quickly with a flushed face. She would have accompanied him to any + casino in London just as readily: her sole thought was to keep Charley out + of prison. Her father had been in prison once; to keep her mother's child + out of prison was the grand object of her life. + </p> + <p> + "Well," he resumed, with some hesitation, for he had arrived at the + resolution through difficulties, whose fogs yet lingered about him, "if he + will be an honest, careful boy, I will take him myself." + </p> + <p> + "Charley! Charley!" cried Sara, utterly neglectful of the source of the + benefaction; and rising, she went to the bed and hugged him. + </p> + <p> + "Don't, Sara!" said Charley, petulantly. + </p> + <p> + "I don't want girls to squash me. Leave go, I say. You mend my trousers, + and <i>I</i> 'll take care of <i>my</i>self." + </p> + <p> + "The little wretch!" thought Stephen. + </p> + <p> + Sara returned to her seat, and her needle went almost as fast as her + sewing-machine. A glow had arisen now, and rested on her pale cheek: + Stephen found himself staring at a kind of transfiguration, back from the + ghostly to the human. His admiration extended itself to her deft and + slender fingers and there brooded until his conscience informed him that + he was actually admiring the breaking of the Sabbath; whereupon he rose. + But all the time he was about amongst the rest of his people, his thoughts + kept wandering back to the desolate room, the thankless boy, and the + ministering woman. Before leaving, however, he had arranged with Sara that + she should bring her brother to the shop the next day. + </p> + <p> + The awe with which she entered it was not shared by Charley, who was never + ripe for anything but frolic. Had not Stephen been influenced by a desire + to do good, and possibly by another feeling too embryonic for detection, + he would never have dreamed of making an errand boy of a will-o'-the-wisp. + As such, however, he was installed, and from that moment an anxiety + unknown before took possession of Stephen's bosom. He was never at ease, + for he never knew what the boy might be about. He would have parted with + him the first fortnight, but the idea of the prison had passed from Sara's + heart into his, and he saw that to turn the boy away from his first place + would be to accelerate his gravitation thitherward. He had all the tricks + of a newspaper boy indigenous in him. Repeated were the complaints brought + to the shop. One time the paper was thrown down the area, and brought into + the breakfast-room defiled with wet. At another it was found on the + door-step, without the bell having been rung, which could hardly have been + from forgetfulness, for Charley's delight was to set the bell ringing + furiously, and then wait till the cook appeared, taking good care however + to leave space between them for a start. Sometimes the paper was not + delivered at all, and Stephen could not help suspecting that he had sold + it in the street. Yet both for his sake and Sara's he endured, and did not + even box his ears. The boy hardly seemed to be wicked: the spirit that + possessed him was rather a <i>polter-geist</i>, as the Germans would call + it, than a demon. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, the Sunday after Charley's appointment, Archer, seated in his + pew, searched all the chapel for the fulfilment of Sara's part of the + agreement, namely, her presence. But he could see her nowhere. The fact + was, her promise was so easy that she had scarcely thought of it after, + not suspecting that Stephen laid any stress upon its fulfilment, and, + indeed, not knowing where the chapel was. She had managed to buy a hit of + something of the shoddy species, and while Stephen was looking for her in + the chapel, she was making a jacket for Charley. Greatly disappointed, and + chiefly, I do believe, that she had not kept her word, Stephen went in the + afternoon to call upon her. + </p> + <p> + He found her working away as before, and saving time by taking her dinner + while she worked, for a piece of bread lay on the table by her elbow, and + beside it a little brown sugar to make the bread go down. The sight went + to Stephen's heart, for he had just made his dinner off baked mutton and + potatoes, washed down with his half-pint of stout. + </p> + <p> + "Sara!" he said solemnly, "you promised to come to our chapel, and you + have not kept your word." He never thought that "our chapel" was not the + landmark of the region. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, Mr. Archer," she answered, "I didn't know as you cared about it. + But," she went on, rising and pushing her bread on one side to make room + for her work, "I'll put on my bonnet directly." Then she checked herself, + and added, "Oh! I beg your pardon, sir—I'm so shabby! You couldn't + be seen with the likes of me." + </p> + <p> + It touched Stephen's chivalry—and something deeper than chivalry. He + had had no intention of walking with her. + </p> + <p> + "There's no chapel in the afternoon," he said; "but I'll come and fetch + you in the evening." + </p> + <p> + Thus it came about that Sara was seated in Stephen's pew, next to Stephen + himself, and Stephen felt a strange pleasure unknown before, like that of + the shepherd who having brought the stray back to the fold cares little + that its wool is torn by the bushes, and it looks a ragged and + disreputable sheep. It was only Sara's wool that might seem disreputable, + for she was a very good-faced sheep. He found the hymns for her, and they + shared the same book. He did not know then that Sara could not read a word + of them. + </p> + <p> + The gathered people, the stillness, the gaslights, the solemn ascent of + the minister into the pulpit, the hearty singing of the congregation, + doubtless had their effect upon Sara, for she had never been to a chapel + and hardly to any place of assembly before. From all amusements, the + burden of Charley and her own retiring nature had kept her back. + </p> + <p> + But she could make nothing of the sermon. She confessed afterwards that + she did not know she had anything to do with it. Like "the Northern + Farmer," she took it all for the clergyman's business, which she amongst + the rest had to see done. She did not even wonder why Stephen should have + wanted to bring her there. She sat when other people sat, pretended to + kneel when other people pretended to kneel, and stood up when other people + stood up—still brooding upon Charley's jacket. + </p> + <p> + But Archer's feelings were not those he had expected. He had brought her, + intending her to be done good to; but before the sermon was over he wished + he had not brought her. He resisted the feeling for a long time, but at + length yielded to it entirely; the object of his solicitude all the while + conscious only of the lighted stillness and the new barrier between + Charley and Newgate. The fact with regard to Stephen was that a certain + hard <i>pan</i>, occasioned by continual ploughings to the same depth and + no deeper, in the soil of his mind, began this night to be broken up from + within, and that through the presence of a young woman who did not for + herself put together two words of the whole discourse. + </p> + <p> + The pastor was preaching upon the saying of St. Paul, that he could wish + himself accursed from Christ for his brethren. Great part of his sermon + was an attempt to prove that he could not have meant what his words + implied. For the preacher's mind was so filled with the supposed paramount + duty of saving his own soul, that the enthusiasm of the Apostle was simply + incredible. Listening with that woman by his side, Stephen for the first + time grew doubtful of the wisdom of his pastor. Nor could he endure that + such should be the first doctrine Sara heard from his lips. Thus was he + already and grandly repaid for his kindness; for the presence of a woman + who without any conscious religion was to herself a law of love, brought + him so far into sympathy with the mighty soul of St. Paul, that from that + moment the blessing of doubt was at work in his, undermining prison walls. + </p> + <p> + He walked home with Sara almost in silence, for he found it impossible to + impress upon her those parts of the sermon with which he had no fault to + find, lest she should retort upon that one point. The arrows which Sara + escaped, however, could from her ignorance have struck her only with their + feather end. + </p> + <p> + Things proceeded in much the same fashion for a while. Charley went home + at night to his sister's lodging, generally more than two hours after + leaving the shop, but gave her no new ground of complaint. Every Sunday + evening Sara went to the chapel, taking Charley with her when she could + persuade him to go; and, in obedience with the supposed wish of Stephen, + sat in his pew. He did not go home with her any more for a while, and + indeed visited her but seldom, anxious to avoid scandal, more especially + as he was a deacon. + </p> + <p> + But now that Charley was so far safe, Sara's cheek began to generate a + little of that celestial rosy red which is the blossom of the woman-plant, + although after all it hardly equalled the heart of the blush rose. She + grew a little rounder in form too, for she lived rather better now,—buying + herself a rasher of bacon twice a week. Hence she began to be in more + danger, as any one acquainted with her surroundings will easily + comprehend. But what seemed at first the ruin of her hopes dissipated this + danger. + </p> + <p> + One evening, when she returned from her work, she found Stephen in her + room. She made him the submissive grateful salutation, half courtesy, half + bow, with which she always greeted him, and awaited his will. + </p> + <p> + "I am very sorry to have to tell you, Sara, that your brother—" + </p> + <p> + She turned white as a shroud, and her great black eyes grew greater and + blacker as she stared in agonized expectancy while Stephen hesitated in + search of a better form of communication. Finding none, he blurted out the + fact— + </p> + <p> + "—has robbed me, and run away." + </p> + <p> + "Don't send him to prison, Mr. Archer," shrieked Sara, and laid herself on + the floor at his feet with a grovelling motion, as if striving with her + mother earth for comfort. There was not a film of art in this. She had + never been to a theatre. The natural urging of life gave the truest shape + to her entreaty. Her posture was the result of the same feeling which made + the nations of old bring their sacrifices to the altar of a deity who, + possibly benevolent in the main, had yet cause to be inimical to them. + From the prostrate living sacrifice arose the one prayer, "Don't send him + to prison; don't send him to prison!" + </p> + <p> + Stephen gazed at her in bewildered admiration, half divine and all human. + A certain consciousness of power had, I confess, a part in his silence, + but the only definite shape this consciousness took was of beneficence. + Attributing his silence to unwillingness, Sara got half-way from the + ground—that is, to her knees—and lifted a face of utter + entreaty to the sight of Stephen. I will not say words fail me to describe + the intensity of its prayer, for words fail me to describe the commonest + phenomenon of nature: all I can is to say, that it made Stephen's heart + too large for its confining walls. "Mr. Archer," she said, in a voice + hollow with emotion, "I will do <i>anything</i> you like. I will be your + slave. Don't send Charley to prison." + </p> + <p> + The words were spoken with a certain strange dignity of self-abnegation. + It is not alone the country people of Cumberland or of Scotland, who in + their highest moments are capable of poetic utterance. + </p> + <p> + An indescribable thrill of conscious delight shot through the frame of + Stephen as the woman spoke the words. But the gentleman in him triumphed. + I would have said <i>the Christian</i>, for whatever there was in Stephen + of the <i>gentle</i> was there in virtue of the <i>Christian</i>, only he + failed in one point: instead of saying at once, that he had no intention + of prosecuting the boy, he pretended, I believe from the satanic delight + in power that possesses every man of us, that he would turn it over in his + mind. It might have been more dangerous, but it would have been more + divine, if he had lifted the kneeling woman to his heart, and told her + that not for the wealth of an imagination would he proceed against her + brother. The divinity, however, was taking its course, both rough-hewing + and shaping the ends of the two. + </p> + <p> + She rose from the ground, sat on the one chair, with her face to the wall, + and wept, helplessly, with the added sting, perhaps, of a faint personal + disappointment. Stephen failed to attract her notice, and left the room. + She started up when she heard the door close, and flew to open it, but was + only in time to hear the outer door. She sat down and cried again. + </p> + <p> + Stephen had gone to find the boy if he might, and bring him to his sister. + He ought to have said so, for to permit suffering for the sake of a joyful + surprise is not good. Going home first, he was hardly seated in his room, + to turn over not the matter but the means, when a knock came to the + shop-door, the sole entrance, and there were two policemen bringing the + deserter in a cab. He had been run over in the very act of decamping with + the contents of the till, had lain all but insensible at the hospital + while his broken leg was being set, but, as soon as he came to himself, + had gone into such a fury of determination to return to his master, that + the house-surgeon saw that the only chance for the ungovernable creature + was to yield. Perhaps he had some dim idea of restoring the money ere his + master should have discovered its loss. As he was very little, they made a + couch for him in the cab, and so sent him. + </p> + <p> + It would appear that the suffering and the faintness had given his + conscience a chance of being heard. The accident was to Charley what the + sight of the mountain-peak was to the boy Wordsworth. He was delirious + when he arrived, and instead of showing any contrition towards his master, + only testified an extravagant joy at finding him again. Stephen had him + taken into the back room, and laid upon his own bed. One of the policemen + fetched the charwoman, and when she arrived, Stephen went to find Sara. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting almost as he had left her, with a dull, hopeless look. + </p> + <p> + "I am sorry to say Charley has had an accident," he said. + </p> + <p> + She started up and clasped her hands. + </p> + <p> + "He is not in prison?" she panted in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + "No; he is at my house. Come and see him. I don't think he is in any + danger, but his leg is broken." + </p> + <p> + A gleam of joy crossed Sara's countenance. She did not mind the broken + leg, for he was safe from her terror. She put on her bonnet, tied the + strings with trembling hands, and went with Stephen. + </p> + <p> + "You see God wants to keep him out of prison too," he said, as they walked + along the street. + </p> + <p> + But to Sara this hardly conveyed an idea. She walked by his side in + silence. + </p> + <p> + "Charley! Charley!" she cried, when she saw him white on the bed, rolling + his head from side to side. Charley ordered her away with words awful to + hear, but which from him meant no more than words of ordinary temper in + the mouth of the well-nurtured man or woman. She had spoiled and indulged + him all his life, and now for the first time she was nothing to him, while + the master who had lectured and restrained him was everything. When the + surgeon wanted to change his dressings, he would not let him touch them + till his master came. Before he was able to leave his bed, he had + developed for Stephen a terrier-like attachment. But, after the first + feverishness was over, his sister waited upon him. + </p> + <p> + Stephen got a lodging, and abandoned his back room to the brother and + sister. But he had to attend to his shop, and therefore saw much of both + of them. Finding then to his astonishment that Sara could not read, he + gave all his odd moments to her instruction, and her mind being at rest + about Charley so long as she had him in bed, her spirit had leisure to + think of other things. + </p> + <p> + She learned rapidly. The lesson-book was of course the New Testament; and + Stephen soon discovered that Sara's questions, moving his pity at first + because of the ignorance they displayed, always left him thinking about + some point that had never occurred to him before; so that at length he + regarded Sara as a being of superior intelligence waylaid and obstructed + by unfriendly powers upon her path towards the threshold of the kingdom, + while she looked up to him as to one supreme in knowledge as in goodness. + But she never could understand the pastor. This would have been a great + trouble to Stephen, had not his vanity been flattered by her understanding + of himself. He did not consider that growing love had enlightened his eyes + to see into her heart, and enabled him thus to use an ordinary human + language for the embodiment of common-sense ideas; whereas the speech of + the pastor contained such an admixture of technicalities as to be + unintelligible to the neophyte. + </p> + <p> + Stephen was now distressed to find that whereas formerly he had received + everything without question that his minister spoke, he now in general + went home in a doubting, questioning mood, begotten of asking himself what + Sara would say. He feared at first that the old Adam was beginning to get + the upper hand of him, and that Satan was laying snares for his soul. But + when he found at the same time that his conscience was growing more + scrupulous concerning his business affairs, his hope sprouted afresh. + </p> + <p> + One day, after Charley had been out for the first time, Sara, with a + little tremor of voice and manner, addressed Stephen thus:— + </p> + <p> + "I shall take Charley home to-morrow, if you please, Mr. Archer." + </p> + <p> + "You don't mean to say, Sara, you've been paying for those lodgings all + this time?" half-asked, half-exclaimed Stephen. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, Mr. Archer. We, must have somewhere to go to. It ain't easy to get a + room at any moment, now them railways is everywheres." + </p> + <p> + "But I hope as how you're comfortable where you are, Sara?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, Mr. Archer. But what am I to do for all your kindness?" + </p> + <p> + "You can pay me all in a lump, if you like, Sara. Only you don't owe me + nothing." + </p> + <p> + Her colour came and went. She was not used to men. She could not tell what + he would have her understand, and could not help trembling. + </p> + <p> + "What do you mean, Mr. Archer?" she faltered out. + </p> + <p> + "I mean you can give me yourself, Sara, and that'll clear all scores." + </p> + <p> + "But, Mr. Archer—you've been a-teaching of me good things—You + <i>don't</i> mean to marry me!" exclaimed Sara, bursting into tears. + </p> + <p> + "Of course I do, Sara. Don't cry about it. I won't if you don't like." + </p> + <p> + This is how Stephen came to change his mind about his stock in trade. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + "My hearers, we grow old," said the preacher. "Be it summer or be it + spring with us now, autumn will soon settle down into winter, that winter + whose snow melts only in the grave. The wind of the world sets for the + tomb. Some of us rejoice to be swept along on its swift wings, and hear it + bellowing in the hollows of earth and sky; but it will grow a terror to + the man of trembling limb and withered brain, until at length he will long + for the shelter of the tomb to escape its roaring and buffeting. Happy the + man who shall then be able to believe that old age itself, with its + pitiable decays and sad dreams of youth, is the chastening of the Lord, a + sure sign of his love and his fatherhood." + </p> + <p> + It was the first Sunday in Advent; but "the chastening of the Lord" came + into almost every sermon that man preached. + </p> + <p> + "Eloquent! But after all, <i>can</i> this kind of thing be true?" said to + himself a man of about thirty, who sat decorously listening. For many + years he had thought he believed this kind of thing—but of late he + was not so sure. + </p> + <p> + Beside him sat his wife, in her new winter bonnet, her pretty face turned + up toward the preacher; but her eyes—nothing else—revealed + that she was not listening. She was much younger than her husband—hardly + twenty, indeed. + </p> + <p> + In the upper corner of the pew sat a pale-faced child about five, sucking + her thumb, and staring at the preacher. + </p> + <p> + The sermon over, they walked home in proximity. The husband looked gloomy, + and his eyes sought the ground. The wife looked more smiling than + cheerful, and her pretty eyes went hither and thither. Behind them walked + the child—steadily, "with level-fronting eyelids." + </p> + <p> + It was a late-built region of large, common-place houses, and at one of + them they stopped and entered. The door of the dining-room was open, + showing the table laid for their Sunday dinner. The gentleman passed on to + the library behind it, the lady went up to her bedroom, and the child a + stage higher to the nursery. + </p> + <p> + It wanted half an hour to dinner. Mr. Greatorex sat down, drummed with his + fingers on the arm of his easy-chair, took up a book of arctic + exploration, threw it again on the table, got up, and went to the + smoking-room. He had built it for his wife's sake, but was often glad of + it for his own. Again he seated himself, took a cigar, and smoked + gloomily. + </p> + <p> + Having reached her bedroom, Mrs. Greatorex took off her bonnet, and stood + for ten minutes turning it round and round. Earnestly she regarded it—now + gave a twist to the wire-stem of a flower, then spread wider the loop of a + bow. She was meditating what it lacked of perfection rather than brooding + over its merits: she was keen in bonnets. + </p> + <p> + Little Sophy—or, as she called herself by a transposition of + consonant sounds common with children, Phosy—found her nurse Alice + in the nursery. But she was lost in the pages of a certain London weekly, + which had found her in a mood open to its influences, and did not even + look up when the child entered. With some effort Phosy drew off her + gloves, and with more difficulty untied her hat. Then she took off her + jacket, smoothed her hair, and retreated to a corner. There a large shabby + doll lay upon her little chair: she took it up, disposed it gently upon + the bed, seated herself in its place, got a little book from where she had + left it under the chair, smoothed down her skirts, and began + simultaneously to read and suck her thumb. The book was an unhealthy one, + a cup filled to the brim with a poverty-stricken and selfish religion: + such are always breaking out like an eruption here and there over the body + of the Church, doing their part, doubtless, in carrying off the evil + humours generated by poverty of blood, or the congestion of + self-preservation. It is wonderful out of what spoiled fruit some children + will suck sweetness. + </p> + <p> + But she did not read far: her thoughts went back to a phrase which had + haunted her ever since first she went to church: "Whom the Lord loveth, he + chasteneth." + </p> + <p> + "I wish he would chasten me," she thought for the hundredth time. + </p> + <p> + The small Christian had no suspicion that her whole life had been a period + of chastening—that few children indeed had to live in such a sunless + atmosphere as hers. + </p> + <p> + Alice threw down the newspaper, gazed from the window into the back-yard + of the next house, saw nothing but an elderly man-servant brushing a + garment, and turned upon Sophy. + </p> + <p> + "Why don't you hang up your jacket, miss?" she said, sharply. + </p> + <p> + The little one rose, opened the wardrobe-door wide, carried a chair to it, + fetched her jacket from the bed, clambered up on the chair, and, leaning + far forward to reach a peg, tumbled right into the bottom of the wardrobe. + </p> + <p> + "You clumsy!" exclaimed the nurse angrily, and pulling her out by the arm, + shook her. + </p> + <p> + Alice was not generally rough to her, but there were reasons to-day. + </p> + <p> + Phosy crept back to her seat, pale, frightened, and a little hurt. Alice + hung up the jacket, closed the wardrobe, and, turning, contemplated her + own pretty face and neat figure in the glass opposite. The dinner-bell + rang. + </p> + <p> + "There, I declare!" she cried, and wheeled round on Phosy. "And your hair + not brushed yet, miss! Will you ever learn to do a thing without being + told it? Thank goodness, I shan't be plagued with you long! But I pity her + as comes after me: I do!" + </p> + <p> + "If the Lord would but chasten me!" said the child to herself, as she rose + and laid down her book with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + The maid seized her roughly by the arm, and brushed her hair with an angry + haste that made the child's eyes water, and herself feel a little ashamed + at the sight of them. + </p> + <p> + "How could anybody love such a troublesome chit?" she said, seeking the + comfort of justification from the child herself. + </p> + <p> + Another sigh was the poor little damsel's only answer. She looked very + white and solemn as she entered the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Greatorex was a merchant in the City. But he was more of a man than a + merchant, which all merchants are not. Also, he was more scrupulous in his + dealings than some merchants in the same line of business, who yet stood + as well with the world as he; but, on the other hand, he had the meanness + to pride himself upon it as if it had been something he might have done + without and yet held up his head. + </p> + <p> + Some six years before, he had married to please his parents; and a year + before, he had married to please himself. His first wife had intellect, + education, and heart, but little individuality—not enough to reflect + the individuality of her husband. The consequence was, he found her + uninteresting. He was kind and indulgent however, and not even her best + friend blamed him much for manifesting nothing beyond the average devotion + of husbands. But in truth his wife had great capabilities, only they had + never ripened, and when she died, a fortnight after giving birth to Sophy, + her husband had not a suspicion of the large amount of undeveloped power + that had passed away with her. + </p> + <p> + Her child was so like her both in countenance and manner that he was too + constantly reminded of her unlamented mother; and he loved neither enough + to discover that, in a sense as true as marvellous, the child was the very + flower-bud of her mother's nature, in which her retarded blossom had yet a + chance of being slowly carried to perfection. Love alone gives insight, + and the father took her merely for a miniature edition of the volume which + he seemed to have laid aside for ever in the dust of the earth's + lumber-room. Instead, therefore, of watering the roots of his little human + slip from the well of his affections, he had scarcely as yet perceived + more in relation to her than that he was legally accountable for her + existence, and bound to give her shelter and food. If he had questioned + himself on the matter, he would have replied that love was not wanting, + only waiting upon her growth, and the development of something to interest + him. + </p> + <p> + Little right as he had had to expect anything from his first marriage, he + had yet cherished some hopes therein—tolerably vague, it is true, + yet hardly faint enough, it would seem, for he was disappointed in them. + When its bonds fell from him, however, he flattered himself that he had + not worn them in vain, but had through them arrived at a knowledge of + women as rare as profound. But whatever the reach of this knowledge, it + was not sufficient to prevent him from harbouring the presumptuous hope of + so choosing and so fashioning the heart and mind of a woman that they + should be as concave mirrors to his own. I do not mean that he would have + admitted the figure, but such was really the end he blindly sought. I + wonder how many of those who have been disappointed in such an attempt + have been thereby aroused to the perception of what a frightful failure + their success would have been on both sides. It was bad enough that + Augustus Greatorex's theories had cramped his own development; it would + have been ten-fold worse had they been operative to the stunting of + another soul. + </p> + <p> + Letty Merewether was the daughter of a bishop <i>in partibus</i>. She had + been born tolerably innocent, had grown up more than tolerably pretty, and + was, when she came to England at the age of sixteen, as nearly a genuine + example of Locke's sheet of white paper as could well have fallen to the + hand of such an experimenter as Greatorex would fain become. + </p> + <p> + In his suit he had prospered—perhaps too easily. He loved the girl, + or at least loved the modified reflection of her in his own mind; while + she, thoroughly admiring the dignity, good looks, and accomplishments of + the man whose attentions flattered her self-opinion, accorded him + deference enough to encourage his vainest hopes. Although she knew little, + fluttering over the merest surfaces of existence, she had sense enough to + know that he talked sense to her, and foolishness enough to put it down to + her own credit, while for the sense itself she cared little or nothing. + And Greatorex, without even knowing what she was rough-hewn for, would + take upon him to shape her ends!—an ambition the Divinity never + permits to succeed: he who fancies himself the carver finds himself but + the chisel, or indeed perhaps only the mallet, in the hand of the true + workman. + </p> + <p> + During the days of his courtship, then, Letty listened and smiled, or + answered with what he took for a spiritual response, when it was merely a + brain-echo. Looking down into the pond of her being, whose surface was, + not yet ruffled by any bubbling of springs from below, he saw the + reflection of himself and was satisfied. An able man on his hobby looks a + centaur of wisdom and folly; but if he be at all a wise man, the beast + will one day or other show him the jade's favour of unseating him. + Meantime Augustus Greatorex was fooled, not by poor little Letty, who was + not capable of fooling him, but by himself. Letty had made no pretences; + had been interested, and had shown her interest; had understood, or seemed + to understand, what he said to her, and forgotten it the next moment—had + no pocket to put it in, did not know what to do with it, and let it drop + into the Limbo of Vanity. They had not been married many days before the + scouts of advancing disappointment were upon them. Augustus resisted + manfully for a time. But the truth was each of the two had to become a + great deal more than either was, before any approach to unity was + possible. He tried to interest her in one subject after another—tried + her first, I am ashamed to say, with political economy. In that instance, + when he came home to dinner he found that she had not got beyond the first + page of the book he had left with her. But she had the best of excuses, + namely, that of that page she had not understood a sentence. He saw his + mistake, and tried her with poetry. But Milton, with whom unfortunately he + commenced his approaches, was to her, if not equally unintelligible, + equally uninteresting. He tried her next with the elements of science, but + with no better success. He returned to poetry, and read some of the Faerie + Queene with her: she was, or seemed to be, interested in all his talk + about it, and inclined to go on with it in his absence, but found the + first stanza she tried more than enough without him to give life to it. + She could give it none, and therefore it gave her none. I believe she read + a chapter of the Bible every day, but the only books she read with any + real interest were novels of a sort that Augustus despised. It never + occurred to him that he ought at once to have made friends of this Momus + of unrighteousness, for by them he might have found entrance to the sealed + chamber. He ought to have read with her the books she did like, for by + them only could he make her think, and from them alone could he lead her + to better. It is but from the very step upon which one stands that one can + move to the next. Besides these books, there was nothing in her scheme of + the universe but fashion, dress, calls, the park, other-peopledom, + concerts, plays, churchgoing—whatever could show itself on the + frosted glass of her <i>camera obscura</i>—make an interest of + motion and colour in her darkened chamber. Without these, her bosom's + mistress would have found life unendurable, for not yet had she ascended + her throne, but lay on the floor of her nursery, surrounded with toys that + imitated life. + </p> + <p> + It was no wonder, therefore, that Augustus was at length compelled to + allow himself disappointed. That it was the fault of his self-confidence + made the thing no whit better. He was too much of a man not to cherish a + certain tenderness for her, but he soon found to his dismay that it had + begun to be mingled with a shadow of contempt. Against this he struggled, + but with fluctuating success. He stopped later and later at business, and + when he came home spent more and more of his time in the smoking-room, + where by and by he had bookshelves put up. Occasionally he would accept an + invitation to dinner and accompany his wife, but he detested evening + parties, and when Letty, who never refused an invitation if she could help + it, went to one, he remained at home with his books. But his power of + reading began to diminish. He became restless and irritable. Something + kept gnawing at his heart. There was a sore spot in it. The spot grew + larger and larger, and by degrees the centre of his consciousness came to + be a soreness: his cherished idea had been fooled; he had taken a silly + girl for a woman of undeveloped wealth;—a bubble, a surface whereon + fair colours chased each other, for a hearted crystal. + </p> + <p> + On her part, Letty too had her grief, which, unlike Augustus, she did not + keep to herself, receiving in return from more than one of her friends the + soothing assurance that Augustus was only like all other men; that women + were but their toys, which they cast away when weary of them. Letty did + not see that she was herself making a toy of her life, or that Augustus + was right in refusing to play with such a costly and delicate thing. + Neither did Augustus see that, having, by his own blunder, married a mere + child, he was bound to deal with her as one, and not let the child suffer + for his fault more than what could not be helped. It is not by pressing + our insights upon them, but by bathing the sealed eyelids of the human + kittens, that we can help them. + </p> + <p> + And all the time poor little Phosy was left to the care of Alice, a + clever, careless, good-hearted, self-satisfied damsel, who, although + seldom so rough in her behaviour as we have just seen her, abandoned the + child almost entirely to her own resources. It was often she sat alone in + the nursery, wishing the Lord would chasten her—because then he + would love her. + </p> + <p> + The first course was nearly over ere Augustus had brought himself to ask— + </p> + <p> + "What did you think of the sermon to-day, Letty?" + </p> + <p> + "Not much," answered Letty. "I am not fond of finery. I prefer + simplicity." + </p> + <p> + Augustus held his peace bitterly. For it was just finery in a sermon, + without knowing it, that Letty was fond of: what seemed to him a flimsy + syllabub of sacred things, beaten up with the whisk of composition, was + charming to Letty; while, on the contrary, if a man such as they had been + listening to was carried away by the thoughts that struggled in him for + utterance, the result, to her judgment, was finery, and the object + display. In excuse it must be remembered that she had been used to her + father's style, which no one could have aspersed with lack of sobriety. + Presently she spoke again. + </p> + <p> + "Gus, dear, couldn't you make up your mind for once to go with me to Lady + Ashdaile's to-morrow? I am getting quite ashamed of appearing so often + without you." + </p> + <p> + "There is another way of avoiding that unpleasantness," remarked her + husband drily. + </p> + <p> + "You cruel creature!" returned Letty playfully. "But I must go this once, + for I promised Mrs. Holden." + </p> + <p> + "You know, Letty," said her husband, after a little pause, "it gets of + more and more consequence that you should not fatigue yourself. By keeping + such late hours in such stifling rooms you are endangering two lives—remember + that, Letty. It you stay at home to-morrow, I will come home early, and + read to you all the evening." + </p> + <p> + "Gussy, that <i>would</i> be charming. You <i>know</i> there is nothing in + the world I should enjoy so much. But this time I really mustn't." + </p> + <p> + She launched into a list of all the great nobodies and small somebodies + who were to be there, and whom she positively must see: it might be her + only chance. + </p> + <p> + Those last words quenched a sarcasm on Augustus' lips. He was kinder than + usual the rest of the evening, and read her to sleep with the Pilgrim's + Progress. + </p> + <p> + Phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood. Or where she + misunderstood, it was an honest misunderstanding, which never does much + hurt. Neither father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her good + night. Neither saw the hungry heart under the mask of the still face. The + father never imagined her already fit for the modelling she was better + without, and the stepmother had to become a mother before she could value + her. + </p> + <p> + Phosy went to bed to dream of the Valley of Humiliation. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning Alice gave her mistress warning. It was quite unexpected, + and she looked at her aghast. + </p> + <p> + "Alice," she said at length, "you're never going to leave me at such a + time!" + </p> + <p> + "I'm sorry it don't suit you, ma'am, but I must." + </p> + <p> + "Why, Alice? What is the matter? Has Sophy been troublesome?" + </p> + <p> + "No, ma'am; there's no harm in that child." + </p> + <p> + "Then what can it be, Alice? Perhaps you are going to be married sooner + than you expected?" + </p> + <p> + Alice gave her chin a little toss, pressed her lips together, and was + silent. + </p> + <p> + "I have always been kind to you," resumed her mistress. + </p> + <p> + "I'm sure, ma'am, I never made no complaints!" returned Alice, but as she + spoke she drew herself up straighter than before. + </p> + <p> + "Then what is it?" said her mistress. + </p> + <p> + "The fact is, ma'am," answered the girl, almost fiercely, "I <i>cannot</i> + any longer endure a state of domestic slavery." + </p> + <p> + "I don't understand you a bit better," said Mrs. Greatorex, trying, but in + vain, to smile, and therefore looking angrier than she was. + </p> + <p> + "I mean, ma'am—an' I see no reason as I shouldn't say it, for it's + the truth—there's a worm at the root of society where one yuman + bein' 's got to do the dirty work of another. I don't mind sweepin' up my + own dust, but I won't sweep up nobody else's. I ain't a goin' to demean + myself no longer! There!" + </p> + <p> + "Leave the room, Alice," said Mrs. Greatorex; and when, with a toss and a + flounce, the young woman had vanished, she burst into tears of anger and + annoyance. + </p> + <p> + The day passed. The evening came. She dressed without Alice's usual help, + and went to Lady Ashdaile's with her friend. There a reaction took place, + and her spirits rose unnaturally. She even danced—to the disgust of + one or two quick-eyed matrons who sat by the wall. + </p> + <p> + When she came home she found her husband sitting up for her. He said next + to nothing, and sat up an hour longer with his book. + </p> + <p> + In the night she was taken ill. Her husband called Alice, and ran himself + to fetch the doctor. For some hours she seemed in danger, but by noon was + much better. Only the greatest care was necessary. + </p> + <p> + As soon as she could speak, she told Augustus of Alice's warning, and he + sent for her to the library. + </p> + <p> + She stood before him with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. + </p> + <p> + "I understand, Alice, you have given your mistress warning," he said + gently. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir." + </p> + <p> + "Your mistress is very ill, Alice." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir." + </p> + <p> + "Don't you think it would be ungrateful of you to leave her in her present + condition? She's not likely to be strong for some time to come." + </p> + <p> + The use of the word "ungrateful" was an unfortunate one. Alice begged to + know what she had to be grateful for. Was her work worth nothing? And her + master, as every one must who claims that which can only be freely given, + found himself in the wrong. + </p> + <p> + "Well, Alice," he said, "we won't dispute that point; and if you are + really determined on going, you must do the best you can for your mistress + for the rest of the month." + </p> + <p> + Alice's sense of injury was soothed by her master's forbearance. She had + always rather approved of Mr. Greatorex, and she left the room more softly + than she had entered it. + </p> + <p> + Letty had a fortnight in bed, during which she reflected a little. + </p> + <p> + The very day on which she left her room, Alice sought an interview with + her master, and declared she could not stay out her month; she must go + home at once. + </p> + <p> + She had been very attentive to her mistress during the fortnight: there + must be something to account for her strange behaviour. + </p> + <p> + "Come now, Alice," said her master, "what's at the back of all this? You + have been a good, well-behaved, obliging girl till now, and I am certain + you would never be like this if there weren't something wrong somewhere." + </p> + <p> + "Something wrong, sir! No, indeed, sir! Except you call it wrong to have + an old uncle 's dies and leaves ever so much money—thousands on + thousands, the lawyers say." + </p> + <p> + "And does it come to you then, Alice?" + </p> + <p> + "I get my share, sir. He left it to be parted even between his nephews and + nieces." + </p> + <p> + "Why, Alice, you are quite an heiress, then!" returned her master, + scarcely however believing the thing so grand as Alice would have it. "But + don't you think now it would be rather hard that your fortune should be + Mrs. Greatorex's misfortune?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, I don't see as how it shouldn't," replied Alice. "It's mis'ess's + fortun' as 'as been my misfortun'—ain't it now, sir? An' why + shouldn't it be the other way next?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't quite see how your mistress's fortune can be said to be your + misfortune, Alice." + </p> + <p> + "Anybody would see that, sir, as wasn't blinded by class-prejudices." + </p> + <p> + "Class-prejudices!" exclaimed Mr. Greatorex, in surprise at the word. + </p> + <p> + "It's a term they use, I believe, sir! But it's plain enough that if + mis'ess hadn't 'a' been better off than me, she wouldn't ha' been able to + secure my services—as you calls it." + </p> + <p> + "That is certainly plain enough," returned Mr. Greatorex. "But suppose + nobody had been able to secure your services, what would have become of + you?" + </p> + <p> + "By that time the people'd have rose to assert their rights." + </p> + <p> + "To what?—To fortunes like yours?" + </p> + <p> + "To bread and cheese at least, sir," returned Alice, pertly. + </p> + <p> + "Well, but you've had something better than bread and cheese." + </p> + <p> + "I don't make no complaints as to the style of livin' in the house, sir, + but that's all one, so long as it's on the vile condition of domestic + slavery—which it's nothing can justify." + </p> + <p> + "Then of course, although you are now a woman of property, you will never + dream of having any one to wait on you," said her master, amused with the + volume of human nature thus opened to him. + </p> + <p> + "All I say, sir, is—it's my turn now; and I ain't goin' to be sit + upon by no one. I know my dooty to myself." + </p> + <p> + "I didn't know there was such a duty, Alice," said her master. + </p> + <p> + Something in his tone displeased her. + </p> + <p> + "Then you know now, sir," she said, and bounced out of the room. + </p> + <p> + The next moment, however, ashamed of her rudeness, she re-entered, saying, + </p> + <p> + "I don't want to be unkind, sir, but I must go home. I've got a brother + that's ill, too, and wants to see me. If you don't object to me goin' home + for a month, I promise you to come back and see mis'ess through her + trouble—as a friend, you know, sir." + </p> + <p> + "But just listen to me first, Alice," said Mr. Greatorex. "I've had + something to do with wills in my time, and I can assure you it is not + likely to be less than a year before you can touch the money. You had much + better stay where you are till your uncle's affairs are settled. You don't + know what may happen. There's many a slip between cup and lip, you know." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! it's all right, sir. Everybody knows the money's left to his nephews + and nieces, and me and my brother's as good as any." + </p> + <p> + "I don't doubt it: still, if you'll take my advice, you'll keep a sound + roof over your head till another's ready for you." + </p> + <p> + Alice only threw her chin in the air, and said almost threateningly, + </p> + <p> + "Am I to go for the month, sir?" + </p> + <p> + "I'll talk to your mistress about it," answered Mr. Greatorex, not at all + sure that such an arrangement would be for his wife's comfort. + </p> + <p> + But the next day Mrs. Greatorex had a long talk with Alice, and the result + was that on the following Monday she was to go home for a month, and then + return for two months more at least. What Mr. Greatorex had said about the + legacy, had had its effect, and, besides, her mistress had spoken to her + with pleasure in her good fortune. About Sophy no one felt any anxiety: + she was no trouble to any one, and the housemaid would see to her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <p> + On the Sunday evening, Alice's lover, having heard, not from herself, but + by a side wind, that she was going home the next day, made his appearance + in Wimborne Square, somewhat perplexed—both at the move, and at her + leaving him in ignorance of the same. He was a cabinet-maker in an honest + shop in the neighbourhood, and in education, faculty, and general worth, + considerably Alice's superior—a fact which had hitherto rather + pleased her, but now gave zest to the change which she imagined had + subverted their former relation. Full of the sense of her new superiority, + she met him draped in an indescribable strangeness. John Jephson felt, at + the very first word, as if her voice came from the other side of the + English Channel. He wondered what he had done, or rather what Alice could + imagine he had done or said, to put her in such tantrums. + </p> + <p> + "Alice, my dear," he said—for John was a man to go straight at the + enemy, "what's amiss? What's come over you? You ain't altogether like your + own self to-night! And here I find you're goin' away, and ne'er a word to + me about it! What have I done?" + </p> + <p> + Alice's chin alone made reply. She waited the fitting moment, with + splendour to astonish, and with grandeur to subdue her lover. To tell the + sad truth, she was no longer sure that it would be well to encourage him + on the old footing; was she not standing on tiptoe, her skirts in her + hand, on the brink of the brook that parted serfdom from gentility, on the + point of stepping daintily across, and leaving domestic slavery, red + hands, caps, and obedience behind her? How then was she to marry a man + that had black nails, and smelt of glue? It was incumbent on her at least, + for propriety's sake, to render him at once aware that it was in + condescension ineffable she took any notice of him. + </p> + <p> + "Alice, my girl!" began John again, in expostulatory tone. + </p> + <p> + "Miss Cox, if you please, John Jephson," interposed Alice. + </p> + <p> + "What on 'arth's come over you?" exclaimed John, with the first throb of + rousing indignation. "But if you ain't your own self no more, why, Miss + Cox be it. 'T seems to me 's if I warn't my own self no more—'s if + I'd got into some un else, or 't least hedn't got my own ears on m' own + head.—Never saw or heerd Alice like this afore!" he added, turning + in gloomy bewilderment to the housemaid for a word of human sympathy. + </p> + <p> + The movement did not altogether please Alice, and she felt she must + justify her behaviour. + </p> + <p> + "You see, John," she said, with dignity, keeping her back towards him, and + pretending to dust the globe of a lamp, "there's things as no woman can + help, and therefore as no man has no right to complain of them. It's not + as if I'd gone an' done it, or changed myself, no more 'n if it 'ad took + place in my cradle. What can I help it, if the world goes and changes + itself? Am <i>I</i> to blame?—tell me that. It's not that. I make no + complaint, but I tell you it ain't me, it's circumstances as is gone and + changed theirselves, and bein' as circumstances is changed, things ain't + the same as they was, and Miss is the properer term from you to me, John + Jephson." + </p> + <p> + "Dang it if I know what you're a drivin' at, Alice!—Miss Cox!—and + I beg yer pardon, miss, I'm sure.—Dang me if I do!" + </p> + <p> + "Don't swear, John Jephson—leastways before a lady. It's not + proper." + </p> + <p> + "It seems to me, Miss Cox, as if the wind was a settin' from Bedlam, or + may be Colney Hatch," said John, who was considered a humourist among his + comrades. "I wouldn't take no liberties with a lady, Miss Cox; but if I + might be so bold as to arst the joke of the thing—" + </p> + <p> + "Joke, indeed!" cried Alice. "Do you call a dead uncle and ten thousand + pounds a joke?" + </p> + <p> + "God bless me!" said John. "You don't mean it, Alice?" + </p> + <p> + "I do mean it, and that you'll find, John Jephson. I'm goin' to bid you + good-bye to-morrer." + </p> + <p> + "Whoy, Alice!" exclaimed honest John, aghast. + </p> + <p> + "It's truth I tell ye," said Alice. + </p> + <p> + "And for how long?" gasped John, fore-feeling illimitable misfortune. + </p> + <p> + "That depends," returned Alice, who did not care to lessen the effect of + her communication by mentioning her promised return for a season. "—It + ain't likely," she added, "as a heiress is a goin' to act the nuss-maid + much longer." + </p> + <p> + "But Alice," said John, "you don't mean to say—it's not in your mind + now—it can't be, Alice—you're only jokin' with me—" + </p> + <p> + "Indeed, and I'm not!" interjected Alice, with a sniff. + </p> + <p> + "I don't mean that way, you know. What I mean is, you don't mean as how + this 'ere money—dang it all!—as how it's to be all over + between you and me?—You <i>can't</i> mean that, Alice!" ended the + poor fellow, with a choking in his throat. + </p> + <p> + It was very hard upon him! He must either look as if he wanted to share + her money, or else as if he were ready to give her up. + </p> + <p> + "Arst yourself, John Jephson," answered Alice, "whether it's likely a + young lady of fortun' would be keepin' company with a young man as didn't + know how to take off his hat to her in the park?" + </p> + <p> + Alice did not above half mean what she said: she wished mainly to enhance + her own importance. At the same time she did mean it half, and that would + have been enough for Jephson. He rose, grievously wounded. + </p> + <p> + "Good-bye, Alice," he said, taking the hand she did not refuse. "Ye're + throwin' from ye what all yer money won't buy." + </p> + <p> + She gave a scornful little laugh, and John walked out of the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + At the door he turned with one lingering look; but in Alice there was no + sign of softening. She turned scornfully away, and no doubt enjoyed her + triumph to the full. + </p> + <p> + The next morning she went away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Greatorex had ceased to regard the advent of Christmas with much + interest. Naturally gifted with a strong religious tendency, he had, since + his first marriage, taken, not to denial, but to the side of objection, + spending much energy in contempt for the foolish opinions of others, a + self-indulgence which does less than little to further the growth of one's + own spirit in truth and righteousness. The only person who stands excused—I + do not say justified—in so doing, is the man who, having been taught + the same opinions, has found them a legion of adversaries barring his way + to the truth. But having got rid of them for himself, it is, I suspect, + worse than useless to attack them again, save as the ally of those who are + fighting their way through the same ranks to the truth. Greatorex had been + indulging his intellect at the expense of his heart. A man may have light + in the brain and darkness in the heart. It were better to be an owl than a + strong-eyed apteryx. He was on the path which naturally ends in blindness + and unbelief. I fancy, if he had not been neglectful of his child, she + would ere this time have relighted his Christmas-candles for him; but now + his second disappointment in marriage had so dulled his heart that he had + begun to regard life as a stupid affair, in which the most enviable fool + was the man who could still expect to realize an ideal. He had set out on + a false track altogether, but had not yet discovered that there had been + an immoral element at work in his mistake. + </p> + <p> + For what right had he to desire the fashioning of any woman after his + ideas? did not the angel of her eternal Ideal for ever behold the face of + her Father in heaven? The best that can be said for him is, that, + notwithstanding his disappointment and her faults, yea, notwithstanding + his own faults, which were, with all his cultivation and strength of + character, yet more serious than hers, he was still kind to her; yes, I + may say for him, that, notwithstanding even her silliness, which is a + sickening fault, and one which no supremacy of beauty can overshadow, he + still loved her a little. Hence the care he showed for her in respect of + the coming sorrow was genuine; it did not all belong to his desire for a + son to whom he might be a father indeed—after his own fancies, + however. Letty, on her part, was as full of expectation as the girl who + has been promised a doll that can shut and open its eyes, and cry when it + is pinched; her carelessness of its safe arrival came of ignorance and not + indifference. + </p> + <p> + It cannot but seem strange that such a man should have been so careless of + the child he had. But from the first she had painfully reminded him of her + mother, with whom in truth he had never quarrelled, but with whom he had + not found life the less irksome on that account. Add to this that he had + been growing fonder of business,—a fact which indicated, in a man of + his endowment and development, an inclination downwards of the plane of + his life. It was some time since he had given up reading poetry. History + had almost followed: he now read little except politics, travels, and + popular expositions of scientific progress. + </p> + <p> + That year Christmas Eve fell upon a Monday. The day before, Letty not + feeling very well, her husband thought it better not to leave her, and + gave up going to church. Phosy was utterly forgotten, but she dressed + herself, and at the usual hour appeared with her prayer-book in her hand + ready for church. When her father told her that he was not going, she + looked so blank that he took pity upon her, and accompanied her to the + church-door, promising to meet her as she came out. Phosy sighed from + relief as she entered, for she had a vague idea that by going to church to + pray for it she might move the Lord to chasten her. At least he would see + her there, and might think of it. She had never had such an attention from + her father before, never such dignity conferred upon her as to be allowed + to appear in church alone, sitting in the pew by herself like a grown + damsel. But I doubt if there was any pride in her stately step, or any + vanity in the smile—no, not smile, but illuminated mist, the vapour + of smiles, which haunted her sweet little solemn church-window of a face, + as she walked up the aisle. + </p> + <p> + The preacher was one of whom she had never heard her father speak + slighting word, in whom her unbounded trust had never been shaken. Also he + was one who believed with his whole soul in the things that make Christmas + precious. To him the birth of the wonderful baby hinted at hundreds of + strange things in the economy of the planet. That a man could so + thoroughly persuade himself that, he believed the old fable, was matter of + marvel to some of his friends who held blind Nature the eternal mother, + and Night the everlasting grandmother of all things. But the child Phosy, + in her dreams or out of them, in church or nursery, with her book or her + doll, was never out of the region of wonders, and would have believed, or + tried to believe, anything that did not involve a moral impossibility. + </p> + <p> + What the preacher said I need not even partially repeat; it is enough to + mention a certain metamorphosed deposit from the stream of his eloquence + carried home in her mind by Phosy: from some of his sayings about the + birth of Jesus into the world, into the family, into the individual human + bosom, she had got it into her head that Christmas Day was not a birthday + like that she had herself last year, but that, in some wonderful way, to + her requiring no explanation, the baby Jesus was born every Christmas Day + afresh. What became of him afterwards she did not know, and indeed she had + never yet thought to ask how it was that he could come to every house in + London as well as No. 1, Wimborne Square. Little of a home as another + might think it, that house was yet to her the centre of all houses, and + the wonder had not yet widened rippling beyond it: into that spot of the + pool the eternal gift would fall. + </p> + <p> + Her father forgot the time over his book, but so entranced was her heart + with the expectation of the promised visit, now so near—the day + after to-morrow—that, if she did not altogether forget to look for + him as she stepped down the stair from the church door to the street, his + absence caused her no uneasiness; and when, just as she reached it, he + opened the house-door in tardy haste to redeem his promise, she looked up + at him with a solemn, smileless repose, born of spiritual tension and + speechless anticipation, upon her face, and walking past him without + change in the rhythm of her motion, marched stately up the stairs to the + nursery. I believe the centre of her hope was that when the baby came she + would beg him on her knees to ask the Lord to chasten her. + </p> + <p> + When dessert was over, her mother on the sofa in the drawing-room, and her + father in an easy-chair, with a bottle of his favourite wine by his side, + she crept out of the room and away again to the nursery. There she reached + up to her little bookshelf, and, full of the sermon as spongy mists are + full of the sunlight, took thence a volume of stories from the German, the + re-reading of one of which, narrating the visit of the Christ-child, laden + with gifts, to a certain household, and what he gave to each and all + therein, she had, although sorely tempted, saved up until now, and sat + down with it by the fire, the only light she had. When the housemaid, + suddenly remembering she must put her to bed, and at the same time + discovering it was a whole hour past her usual time, hurried to the + nursery, she found her fast asleep in her little armchair, her book on her + lap, and the fire self-consumed into a dark cave with a sombre glow in its + deepest hollows. Dreams had doubtless come to deepen the impressions of + sermon and <i>mährchen</i>, for as she slowly yielded to the hands of + Polly putting her to bed, her lips, unconsciously moved of the slumbering + but not sleeping spirit, more than once murmured the words <i>Lord loveth</i> + and <i>chasteneth</i>. Right blessedly would I enter the dreams of such a + child—revel in them, as a bee in the heavenly gulf of a + cactus-flower. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <p> + On Christmas Eve the church bells were ringing through the murky air of + London, whose streets lay flaring and steaming below. The brightest of + their constellations were the butchers' shops, with their shows of prize + beef; around them, the eddies of the human tides were most confused and + knotted. But the toy-shops were brilliant also. To Phosy they would have + been the treasure-caves of the Christ-child—all mysteries, all with + insides to them—boxes, and desks, and windmills, and dove-cots, and + hens with chickens, and who could tell what all? In every one of those + shops her eyes would have searched for the Christ-child, the giver of all + their wealth. For to her he was everywhere that night—ubiquitous as + the luminous mist that brooded all over London—of which, however, + she saw nothing but the glow above the mews. John Jephson was out in the + middle of all the show, drifting about in it: he saw nothing that had + pleasure in it, his heart was so heavy. He never thought once of the + Christ-child, or even of the Christ-man, as the giver of anything. Birth + is the one standing promise-hope for the race, but for poor John this + Christmas held no promise. With all his humour, he was one of those + people, generally dull and slow—God grant me and mine such dullness + and such sloth—who having once loved, cannot cease. During the + fortnight he had scarce had a moment's ease from the sting of his Alice's + treatment. The honest fellow's feelings were no study to himself; he knew + nothing but the pleasure and the pain of them; but, I believe it was not + mainly for himself that he was sorry. Like Othello, "the pity of it" + haunted him: he had taken Alice for a downright girl, about whom there was + and could be no mistake; and the first hot blast of prosperity had swept + her away like a hectic leaf. What were all the shops dressed out in holly + and mistletoe, what were all the rushing flaming gas-jets, what the + fattest of prize-pigs to John, who could never more imagine a spare-rib on + the table between Alice and him of a Sunday? His imagination ran on seeing + her pass in her carriage, and drop him a nod of condescension as she swept + noisily by him—trudging home weary from his work to his loveless + fireside. <i>He</i> didn't want her money! Honestly, he would rather have + her without than with money, for he now regarded it as an enemy, seeing + what evil changes it could work. "There be some devil in it, sure!" he + said to himself. True, he had never found any in his week's wages, but he + did remember once finding the devil in a month's wages received in the + lump. + </p> + <p> + As he was thus thinking with himself, a carriage came suddenly from a side + street into the crowd, and while he stared at it, thinking Alice might be + sitting inside it while he was tramping the pavement alone, she passed him + on the other side on foot—was actually pushed against him: he looked + round, and saw a young woman, carrying a small bag, disappearing in the + crowd. "There's an air of Alice about <i>her</i>" said John to himself, + seeing her back only. But of course it couldn't be Alice; for her he must + look in the carriages now! And what a fool he was: every young woman + reminded him of the one he had lost! Perhaps if he was to call the next + day—Polly was a good-natured creature—he might hear some news + of her. + </p> + <p> + It had been a troubled fortnight with Mrs. Greatorex. She wished much that + she could have talked to her husband more freely, but she had not learned + to feel at home with him. Yet he had been kinder and more attentive than + usual all the time, so much so that Letty thought with herself—if + she gave him a boy, he would certainly return to his first devotion. She + said <i>boy</i>, because any one might see he cared little for Phosy. She + had never discovered that he was disappointed in herself, but, since her + disregard of his wishes had brought evil upon her, she had begun to + suspect that he had some ground for being dissatisfied with her. She never + dreamed of his kindness as the effort of a conscientious nature to make + the best of what could not now be otherwise helped. Her own poverty of + spirit and lack of worth achieved, she knew as little of as she did of the + riches of Michael the archangel. One must have begun to gather wisdom + before he can see his own folly. + </p> + <p> + That evening she was seated alone in the drawing-room, her husband having + left her to smoke his cigar, when the butler entered and informed her that + Alice had returned, but was behaving so oddly that they did not know what + to do with her. Asking wherein her oddness consisted, and learning that it + was mostly in silence and tears, she was not sorry to gather that some + disappointment had befallen her, and felt considerable curiosity to know + what it was. She therefore told him to send her upstairs. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Polly, the housemaid, seeing plainly enough from her return in + the middle of her holiday, and from her utter dejection, that Alice's + expectations had been frustrated, and cherishing no little resentment + against her because of her <i>uppishness</i> on the first news of her good + fortune, had been ungenerous enough to take her revenge in a way as + stinging in effect as bitter in intention; for she loudly protested that + no amount of such luck as she pretended to suppose in Alice's possession, + would have induced <i>her</i> to behave herself so that a handsome honest + fellow like John Jephson should be driven to despise her, and take up with + her betters. When her mistress's message came, Alice was only too glad to + find refuge from the kitchen in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + The moment she entered, she fell on her knees at the foot of the couch on + which her mistress lay, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed + grievously. + </p> + <p> + Nor was the change more remarkable in her bearing than in her person. She + was pale and worn, and had a hunted look—was in fact a mere shadow + of what she had been. For a time her mistress found it impossible to quiet + her so as to draw from her her story: tears and sobs combined with + repugnance to hold her silent. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, ma'am!" she burst out at length, wringing her hands, "how ever <i>can</i> + I tell you? You will never speak to me again. Little did I think such a + disgrace was waiting me!" + </p> + <p> + "It was no fault of yours if you were misinformed," said her mistress, "or + that your uncle was not the rich man you fancied." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, ma'am, there was no mistake there! He was more than twice as rich as + I fancied. If he had only died a beggar, and left things as they was!" + </p> + <p> + "Then he didn't leave it to his nephews and nieces as they told you?—Well, + there's no disgrace in that." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! but he did, ma'am: that was all right; no mistake there either, + ma'am.—And to think o' me behavin' as I did—to you and master + as was so good to me! Who'll ever take any more notice of me now, after + what has come out—as I'm sure I no more dreamed on than the child + unborn!" + </p> + <p> + An agonized burst of fresh weeping followed, and it was with prolonged + difficulty, and by incessant questioning, that Mrs. Greatorex at length + drew from her the following facts. + </p> + <p> + Before Alice and her brother could receive the legacy to which they laid + claim, it was necessary to produce certain documents, the absence of + which, as of any proof to take their place, led to the unavoidable + publication of a fact previously known only to a living few—namely, + that the father and mother of Alice Hopwood had never been married, which + fact deprived them of the smallest claim on the legacy, and fell like a + millstone upon Alice and her pride. From the height of her miserable + arrogance she fell prone—not merely hurled back into the lowly + condition from which she had raised her head only to despise it with base + unrighteousness, and to adopt and reassert the principles she had abhorred + when they affected herself—not merely this, but, in her own judgment + at least, no longer the respectable member of society she had hitherto + been justified in supposing herself. The relation of her father and mother + she felt overshadow her with a disgrace unfathomable—the more + overwhelming that it cast her from the gates of the Paradise she had + seemed on the point of entering: her fall she measured by the height of + the social ambition she had cherished, and had seemed on the point of + attaining. But it is not an evil that the devil's money, which this legacy + had from the first proved to Alice, should turn to a hot cinder in the + hand. Rarely had a more haughty spirit than hers gone before a fall, and + rarely has the fall been more sudden or more abject. And the consciousness + of the behaviour into which her false riches had seduced her, changed the + whip of her chastisement into scorpions. Worst of all, she had insulted + her lover as beneath her notice, and the next moment had found herself too + vile for his. Judging by herself, in the injustice of bitter humiliation + she imagined him scoffing with his mates at the base-born menial who would + set up for a fine lady. But had she been more worthy of honest John, she + would have understood him better. As it was, no really good fortune could + have befallen her but such as now seemed to her the depth of evil fortune. + Without humiliation to prepare the way for humility, she must have become + capable of more and more baseness, until she lost all that makes life + worth having. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. Greatorex had given her what consolation she found handy, and at + length dismissed her, the girl, unable to endure her own company, sought + the nursery, where she caught Sophy in her arms and embraced her with + fervour. Never in her life having been the object of any such display of + feeling, Phosy was much astonished: when Alice had set her down and she + had resumed her seat by the fireside, she went on staring for a while—and + then a strange sort of miming ensued. + </p> + <p> + It was Phosy's habit—one less rare with children than may by most be + imagined—to do what she could to enter into any state of mind whose + shows were sufficiently marked for her observation. She sought to lay hold + of the feeling that produced the expression: less than the reproduction of + a similar condition in her own imaginative sensorium, subject to her + leisurely examination, would in no case satisfy the little metaphysician. + But what was indeed very odd was the means she took for arriving at the + sympathetic knowledge she desired. As if she had been the most earnest + student of dramatic expression through the facial muscles, she would sit + watching the countenance of the object of her solicitude, all the time, + with full consciousness, fashioning her own as nearly as she could into + the lines and forms of the other: in proportion as she succeeded, the + small psychologist imagined she felt in herself the condition that + produced the phenomenon she observed—as if the shape of her face + cast inward its shadow upon her mind, and so revealed to it, through the + two faces, what was moving and shaping in the mind of the other. + </p> + <p> + In the present instance, having at length, after modelling and remodelling + her face like that of a gutta-percha doll for some time, composed it + finally into the best correspondence she could effect, she sat brooding + for a while, with Alice's expression as it were frozen upon it. Gradually + the forms assumed melted away, and allowed her still, solemn face to look + out from behind them. The moment this evanishment was complete, she rose + and went to Alice, where she sat staring into the fire, unconscious of the + scrutiny she had been undergoing, and, looking up in her face, took her + thumb out of her mouth, and said, + </p> + <p> + "Is the Lord chastening Alice? I wish he would chasten Phosy." + </p> + <p> + Her face was calm as that of the Sphinx; there was no mist in the depth of + her gray eyes, not a cloud on the wide heaven of her forehead. + </p> + <p> + Was the child crazed? What could the atom mean, with her big eyes looking + right into her? Alice never had understood her: it were indeed strange if + the less should comprehend the greater! She was not yet, capable of + recognising the word of the Lord in the mouth of babes and sucklings. But + there was a something in Phosy's face besides its calmness and + unintelligibility. What it was Alice could never have told—yet it + did her good. She lifted the child on her lap. There she soon fell asleep. + Alice undressed her, laid her in her crib, and went to bed herself. + </p> + <p> + But, weary as she was, she had to rise again before she got to sleep. Her + mistress was again taken ill. Doctor and nurse were sent for in hot haste; + hansom cabs came and went throughout the night, like noisy moths to the + one lighted house in the street; there were soft steps within, and doors + were gently opened and shut. The waters of Mara had risen and filled the + house. + </p> + <p> + Towards morning they were ebbing slowly away. Letty did not know that her + husband was watching by her bedside. The street was quiet now. So was the + house. Most of its people had been up throughout the night, but now they + had all gone to bed except the strange nurse and Mr. Greatorex. + </p> + <p> + It was the morning of Christmas Day, and little Phosy knew it in every + cranny of her soul. She was not of those who had been up all night, and + now she was awake, early and wide, and the moment she awoke she was + speculating: He was coming to-day—<i>how</i> would he come? Where + should she find the baby Jesus? And when would he come? In the morning, or + the afternoon, or in the evening? Could such a grief be in store for her + as that he would not appear until night, when she would be again in bed? + But she would not sleep till all hope was gone. Would everybody be + gathered to meet him, or would he show himself to one after another, each + alone? Then her turn would be last, and oh, if he would come to the + nursery! But perhaps he would not appear to her at all!—for was she + not one whom the Lord did not care to chasten? + </p> + <p> + Expectation grew and wrought in her until she could lie in bed no longer. + Alice was fast asleep. It must be early, but whether it was yet light or + not she could not tell for the curtains. Anyhow she would get up and + dress, and then she would be ready for Jesus whenever he should come. + True, she was not able to dress herself very well, but he would know, and + would not mind. She made all the haste she could, consistently with taking + pains, and was soon attired after a fashion. + </p> + <p> + She crept out of the room and down the stair. The house was very still. + What if Jesus should come and find nobody awake? Would he go again and + give them no presents? She couldn't expect any herself—but might he + not let her take theirs for the rest? Perhaps she ought to wake them all, + but she dared not without being sure. + </p> + <p> + On the last landing above the first floor, she saw, by the low gaslight at + the end of the corridor, an unknown figure pass the foot of the stair: + could she have anything to do with the marvel of the day? The woman looked + up, and Phosy dropped the question. Yet she might be a charwoman, whose + assistance the expected advent rendered necessary. When she reached the + bottom of the stair she saw her disappearing in her step-mother's room. + That she did not like. It was the one room into which she could not go. + But, as the house was so still, she would search everywhere else, and if + she did not find him, would then sit down in the hall and wait for him. + </p> + <p> + The room next the foot of the stair, and opposite her step-mother's, was + the spare room, with which she associated ideas of state and grandeur: + where better could she begin than at the guest-chamber?—There!—Could + it be? Yes!—Through the chink of the scarce-closed door she saw + light. Either he was already there or there they were expecting him. From + that moment she felt as if lifted out of the body. Far exalted above all + dread, she peeped modestly in, and then entered. Beyond the foot of the + bed, a candle stood on a little low table, but nobody was to be seen. + There was a stool near the table: she would sit on it by the candle, and + wait for him. But ere she reached it, she caught sight of something upon + the bed that drew her thither. She stood entranced.—<i>Could</i> it + be?—It <i>might</i> be. Perhaps he had left it there while he went + into her mamma's room with something for her.—The loveliest of dolls + ever imagined! She drew nearer. The light was low, and the shadows were + many: she could not be sure what it was. But when she had gone close up to + it, she concluded with certainty that it was in very truth a doll—perhaps + intended for her—but beyond doubt the most exquisite of dolls. She + dragged a chair to the bed, got, up, pushed her little arms softly under + it, and drawing it gently to her, slid down with it. When she felt her + feet firm on the floor, filled with the solemn composure of holy awe she + carried the gift of the child Jesus to the candle, that she might the + better admire its beauty and know its preciousness. But the light had no + sooner fallen upon it than a strange undefinable doubt awoke within her. + Whatever it was, it was the very essence of loveliness—the tiny + darling with its alabaster face, and its delicately modelled hands and + fingers! A long night-gown covered all the rest.—Was it possible?—Could + it be?—Yes, indeed! it must be—it could be nothing else than a + <i>real</i> baby! What a goose she had been! Of course it was baby Jesus + himself!—for was not this his very own Christmas Day on which he was + always born?—If she had felt awe of his gift before, what a grandeur + of adoring love, what a divine dignity possessed her, holding in her arms + the very child himself! One shudder of bliss passed through her, and in an + agony of possession she clasped the baby to her great heart—then at + once became still with the satisfaction of eternity, with the peace of + God. She sat down on the stool, near the little table, with her back to + the candle, that its rays should not fall on the eyes of the sleeping + Jesus and wake him: there she sat, lost in the very majesty of bliss, at + once the mother and the slave of the Lord Jesus. + </p> + <p> + She sat for a time still as marble waiting for marble to awake, heedful as + tenderest woman not to rouse him before his time, though her heart was + swelling with the eager petition that he would ask his Father to be as + good as chasten her. And as she sat, she began, after her wont, to model + her face to the likeness of his, that she might understand his stillness—the + absolute peace that dwelt on his countenance. But as she did so, again a + sudden doubt invaded her: Jesus lay so very still—never moved, never + opened his pale eye-lids! And now set thinking, she noted that he did not + breathe. She had seen babies asleep, and their breath came and went—their + little bosoms heaved up and down, and sometimes they would smile, and + sometimes they would moan and sigh. But Jesus did none of all these + things: was it not strange? And then he was cold—oh, so cold! + </p> + <p> + A blue silk coverlid lay on the bed: she half rose and dragged it off, and + contrived to wind it around herself and the baby. Sad at heart, very sad, + but undismayed, she sat and watched him on her lap. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + Meantime the morning of Christmas Day grew. The light came and filled the + house. The sleepers slept late, but at length they stirred. Alice awoke + last—from a troubled sleep, in which the events of the night mingled + with her own lost condition and destiny. After all Polly had been kind, + she thought, and got Sophy up without disturbing her. + </p> + <p> + She had been but a few minutes down, when a strange and appalling rumour + made itself—I cannot say audible, but—somehow known through + the house, and every one hurried up in horrible dismay. + </p> + <p> + The nurse had gone into the spare room, and missed the little dead thing + she had laid there. The bed was between her and Phosy, and she never saw + her. The doctor had been sharp with her about something the night before: + she now took her revenge in suspicion of him, and after a hasty and + fruitless visit of inquiry to the kitchen, hurried to Mr. Greatorex. + </p> + <p> + The servants crowded to the spare room, and when their master, incredulous + indeed, yet shocked at the tidings brought him, hastened to the spot, he + found them all in the room, gathered at the foot of the bed. A little + sunlight filtered through the red window-curtains, and gave a strange + pallid expression to the flame of the candle, which had now burned very + low. At first he saw nothing but the group of servants, silent, + motionless, with heads leaning forward, intently gazing: he had come just + in time: another moment and they would have ruined the lovely sight. He + stepped forward, and saw Phosy, half shrouded in blue, the candle behind + illuminating the hair she had found too rebellious to the brush, and + making of it a faint aureole about her head and white face, whence cold + and sorrow had driven all the flush, rendering it colourless as that upon + her arm which had never seen the light. She had pored on the little face + until she knew death, and now she sat a speechless mother of sorrow, + bending in the dim light of the tomb over the body of her holy infant. + </p> + <p> + How it was I cannot tell, but the moment her father saw her she looked up, + and the spell of her dumbness broke. + </p> + <p> + "Jesus is dead," she said, slowly and sadly, but with perfect calmness. + "He is dead," she repeated. "He came too early, and there was no one up to + take care of him, and he's dead—dead—dead!" + </p> + <p> + But as she spoke the last words, the frozen lump of agony gave way; the + well of her heart suddenly filled, swelled, overflowed; the last word was + half sob, half shriek of utter despair and loss. + </p> + <p> + Alice darted forward and took the dead baby tenderly from her. The same + moment her father raised the little mother and clasped her to his bosom. + Her arms went round his neck, her head sank on his shoulder, and sobbing + in grievous misery, yet already a little comforted, he bore her from the + room. + </p> + <p> + "No, no, Phosy!" they heard him say, "Jesus is not dead, thank God. It is + only your little brother that hadn't life enough, and is gone back to God + for more." + </p> + <p> + Weeping the women went down the stairs. Alice's tears were still flowing, + when John Jephson entered. Her own troubles forgotten in the emotion of + the scene she had just witnessed, she ran to his arms and wept on his + bosom. + </p> + <p> + John stood as one astonished. + </p> + <p> + "O Lord! this <i>is</i> a Christmas!" he sighed at last. + </p> + <p> + "Oh John!" cried Alice, and tore herself from his embrace, "I forgot! + You'll never speak to me again, John! Don't do it, John." + </p> + <p> + And with the words she gave a stifled cry, and fell a weeping again, + behind her two shielding hands. + </p> + <p> + "Why, Alice!—you ain't married, are you?" gasped John, to whom that + was the only possible evil. + </p> + <p> + "No, John, and never shall be: a respectable man like you would never + think of looking twice at a poor girl like me!" + </p> + <p> + "Let's have one more look anyhow," said John, drawing her hands from her + face. "Tell me what's the matter, and if there's anything can be done to + right you, I'll work day and night to do it, Alice." + </p> + <p> + "There's nothing <i>can</i> be done, John," replied Alice, and would again + have floated out on the ocean of her misery, but in spite of wind and + tide, that is sobs and tears, she held on by the shore at his entreaty, + and told her tale, not even omitting the fact that when she went to the + eldest of the cousins, inheriting through the misfortune of her and her + brother so much more than their expected share, and "demeaned herself" to + beg a little help for her brother, who was dying of consumption, he had + all but ordered her out of the house, swearing he had nothing to do with + her or her brother, and saying she ought to be ashamed to show her face. + </p> + <p> + "And that when we used to make mud pies together!" concluded Alice with + indignation. "There, John! you have it all," she added. "—And now?" + </p> + <p> + With the word she gave a deep, humbly questioning look into his honest + eyes. + </p> + <p> + "Is that all, Alice?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, John; ain't it enough?" she returned. + </p> + <p> + "More'n enough," answered John. "I swear to you, Alice, you're worth to me + ten times what you would ha' been, even if you'd ha' had me, with ten + thousand pounds in your ridicule. Why, my woman, I never saw you look one + 'alf so 'an'some as you do now!" + </p> + <p> + "But the disgrace of it, John!" said Alice, hanging her head, and so + hiding the pleasure that would dawn through all the mist of her misery. + </p> + <p> + "Let your father and mother settle that betwixt 'em, Alice. 'Tain't none + o' my business. Please God, we'll do different.—When shall it be, my + girl?" + </p> + <p> + "When you like, John," answered Alice, without raising her head, + thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + When she had withdrawn herself from the too rigorous embrace with which he + received her consent, she remarked— + </p> + <p> + "I do believe, John, money ain't a good thing! Sure as I live, with the + very wind o' that money, the devil entered into me. Didn't you hate me, + John? Speak the truth now." + </p> + <p> + "No, Alice. I did cry a bit over you, though. You <i>was</i> possessed + like." + </p> + <p> + "I <i>was</i> possessed. I do believe if that money hadn't been took from + me, I'd never ha' had you, John. Ain't it awful to think on?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, no. O' coorse! How could ye?" said Jephson—with reluctance. + </p> + <p> + "Now, John, don't ye talk like that, for I won't stand it. Don't you go + for to set me up again with excusin' of me. I'm a nasty conceited cat, I + am—and all for nothing but mean pride." + </p> + <p> + "Mind ye, ye're mine now, Alice; an' what's mine's mine, an' I won't have + it abused. I knows you twice the woman you was afore, and all the world + couldn't gi' me such another Christmas-box—no, not if it was all + gold watches and roast beef." + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Greatorex returned to his wife's room, and thought to find her + asleep as he had left her, he was dismayed to hear sounds of soft weeping + from the bed. Some tone or stray word, never intended to reach her ear, + had been enough to reveal the truth concerning her baby. + </p> + <p> + "Hush! hush!" he said, with more love in his heart than had moved there + for many months, and therefore more in his tone than she had heard for as + many;—"if you cry you will be ill. Hush, my dear!" + </p> + <p> + In a moment, ere he could prevent her, she had flung her arms around his + neck as he stooped over her. + </p> + <p> + "Husband! husband!" she cried, "is it my fault?" + </p> + <p> + "You behaved perfectly," he returned. "No woman could have been braver." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, but I wouldn't stay at home when you wanted me." + </p> + <p> + "Never mind that now, my child," he said. + </p> + <p> + At the word she pulled his face down to hers. + </p> + <p> + "I have <i>you</i>, and I don't care," he added. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Do</i> you care to have me?" she said, with a sob that ended in a loud + cry. "Oh! I don't deserve it. But I <i>will</i> be good after this. I + promise you I will." + </p> + <p> + "Then you must begin now, my darling. You must lie perfectly still, and + not cry a bit, or you will go after the baby, and I shall be left alone." + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him with such a light in her face as he had never dreamed + of there before. He had never seen her so lovely. Then she withdrew her + arms, repressed her tears, smiled, and turned her face away. He put her + hands under the clothes, and in a minute or two she was again fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + That day, when Phosy and her father had sat down to their Christmas + dinner, he rose again, and taking her up as she sat, chair and all, set + her down close to him, on the other side of the corner of the table. It + was the first of a new covenant between them. The father's eyes having + been suddenly opened to her character and preciousness, as well as to his + own neglected duty in regard to her, it was as if a well of life had burst + forth at his feet. And every day, as he looked in her face and talked to + her, it was with more and more respect for what he found in her, with + growing tenderness for her predilections, and reverence for the divine + idea enclosed in her ignorance, for her childish wisdom, and her calm + seeking—until at length he would have been horrified at the thought + of training her up in <i>his</i> way: had she not a way of her own to go—following—not + the dead Jesus, but Him who liveth for evermore? In the endeavour to help + her, he had to find his own position towards the truth; and the results + were weighty.—Nor did the child's influence work forward merely. In + his intercourse with her he was so often reminded of his first wife, and + that, with the gloss or comment of a childish reproduction, that his + memories of her at length grew a little tender, and through the child he + began to understand the nature and worth of the mother. In her child she + had given him what she could not be herself. Unable to keep up with him, + she had handed him her baby, and dropped on the path. + </p> + <p> + Nor was little Sophy his only comfort. Through their common loss and her + husband's tenderness, Letty began to grow a woman. And her growth was the + more rapid that, himself taught through Phosy, her husband no longer + desired to make her adopt his tastes, and judge with his experiences, but, + as became the elder and the tried, entered into her tastes and experiences—became, + as it were, a child again with her, that, through the thing she was, he + might help the thing she had to be. + </p> + <p> + As soon as she was able to bear it, he told her the story of the dead + Jesus, and with the tale came to her heart love for Phosy. She had lost a + son for a season, but she had gained a daughter for ever. + </p> + <p> + Such were the gifts the Christ-child brought to one household that + Christmas. And the days of the mourning of that household were ended. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. + </h2> + <p> + <i>A DAY AND NIGHT MÄHRCHEN</i>. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. WATHO. + </h2> + <p> + There was once a witch who desired to know everything. But the wiser a + witch is, the harder she knocks her head against the wall when she comes + to it. Her name was Watho, and she had a wolf in her mind. She cared for + nothing in itself—only for knowing it. She was not naturally cruel, + but the wolf had made her cruel. + </p> + <p> + She was tall and graceful, with a white skin, red hair, and black eyes, + which had a red fire in them. She was straight and strong, but now and + then would fall bent together, shudder, and sit for a moment with her head + turned over her shoulder, as if the wolf had got out of her mind on to her + back. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. AURORA. + </h2> + <p> + This witch got two ladies to visit her. One of them belonged to the court, + and her husband had been sent on a far and difficult embassy. The other + was a young widow whose husband had lately died, and who had since lost + her sight, Watho lodged them in different parts of her castle, and they + did not know of each other's existence. + </p> + <p> + The castle stood on the side of a hill sloping gently down into a narrow + valley, in which was a river, with a pebbly channel and a continual song. + The garden went down to the bank of the river, enclosed by high walls, + which crossed the river and there stopped. Each wall had a double row of + battlements, and between the rows was a narrow walk. + </p> + <p> + In the topmost story of the castle the Lady Aurora occupied a spacious + apartment of several large rooms looking southward. The windows projected + oriel-wise over the garden below, and there was a splendid view from them + both up and down and across the river. The opposite side of the valley was + steep, but not very high. Far away snow-peaks were visible. These rooms + Aurora seldom left, but their airy spaces, the brilliant landscape and + sky, the plentiful sunlight, the musical instruments, books, pictures, + curiosities, with the company of Watho who made herself charming, + precluded all dulness. She had venison and feathered game to eat, milk and + pale sunny sparkling wine to drink. + </p> + <p> + She had hair of the yellow gold, waved and rippled; her skin was fair, not + white like Watho's, and her eyes were of the blue of the heavens when + bluest; her features were delicate but strong, her mouth large and finely + curved, and haunted with smiles. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. VESPER. + </h2> + <p> + Behind the castle the hill rose abruptly; the north-eastern tower, indeed, + was in contact with the rock, and communicated with the interior of it. + For in the rock was a series of chambers, known only to Watho and the one + servant whom she trusted, called Falca. Some former owner had constructed + these chambers after the tomb of an Egyptian king, and probably with the + same design, for in the centre of one of them stood what could only be a + sarcophagus, but that and others were walled off. The sides and roofs of + them were carved in low relief, and curiously painted. Here the witch + lodged the blind lady, whose name was Vesper. Her eyes were black, with + long black lashes; her skin had a look of darkened silver, but was of + purest tint and grain; her hair was black and fine and straight-flowing; + her features were exquisitely formed, and if less beautiful yet more + lovely from sadness; she always looked as if she wanted to lie down and + not rise again. She did not know she was lodged in a tomb, though now and + then she wondered she never touched a window. There were many couches, + covered with richest silk, and soft as her own cheek, for her to lie upon; + and the carpets were so thick, she might have cast herself down anywhere—as + befitted a tomb. The place was dry and warm, and cunningly pierced for + air, so that it was always fresh, and lacked only sunlight. There the + witch fed her upon milk, and wine dark as a carbuncle, and pomegranates, + and purple grapes, and birds that dwell in marshy places; and she played + to her mournful tunes, and caused wailful violins to attend her, and told + her sad tales, thus holding her ever in an atmosphere of sweet sorrow. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. PHOTOGEN. + </h2> + <p> + Watho at length had her desire, for witches often get what they want: a + splendid boy was born to the fair Aurora. Just as the sun rose, he opened + his eyes. Watho carried him immediately to a distant part of the castle, + and persuaded the mother that he never cried but once, dying the moment he + was born. Overcome with grief, Aurora left the castle as soon as she was + able, and Watho never invited her again. + </p> + <p> + And now the witch's care was, that the child should not know darkness. + Persistently she trained him until at last he never slept during the day, + and never woke during the night. She never let him see anything black, and + even kept all dull colours out of his way. Never, if she could help it, + would she let a shadow fall upon him, watching against shadows as if they + had been live things that would hurt him. All day he basked in the full + splendour of the sun, in the same large rooms his mother had occupied. + Watho used him to the sun, until he could bear more of it than any + dark-blooded African. In the hottest of every day, she stript him and laid + him in it, that he might ripen like a peach; and the boy rejoiced in it, + and would resist being dressed again. She brought all her knowledge to + bear on making his muscles strong and elastic and swiftly responsive—that + his soul, she said laughing, might sit in every fibre, be all in every + part, and awake the moment of call. His hair was of the red gold, but his + eyes grew darker as he grew, until they were as black as Vesper's. He was + the merriest of creatures, always laughing, always loving, for a moment + raging, then laughing afresh. Watho called him Photogen. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. NYCTERIS. + </h2> + <p> + Five or six months after the birth of Photogen, the dark lady also gave + birth to a baby: in the windowless tomb of a blind mother, in the dead of + night, under the feeble rays of a lamp in an alabaster globe, a girl came + into the darkness with a wail. And just as she was born for the first + time, Vesper was born for the second, and passed into a world as unknown + to her as this was to her child—who would have to be born yet again + before she could see her mother. + </p> + <p> + Watho called her Nycteris, and she grew as like Vesper as possible—in + all but one particular. She had the same dark skin, dark eyelashes and + brows, dark hair, and gentle sad look; but she had just the eyes of + Aurora, the mother of Photogen, and if they grew darker as she grew older, + it was only a darker blue. Watho, with the help of Falca, took the + greatest possible care of her—in every way consistent with her + plans, that is,—the main point in which was that she should never + see any light but what came from the lamp. Hence her optic nerves, and + indeed her whole apparatus for seeing, grew both larger and more + sensitive; her eyes, indeed, stopped short only of being too large. Under + her dark hair and forehead and eyebrows, they looked like two breaks in a + cloudy night-sky, through which peeped the heaven where the stars and no + clouds live. She was a sadly dainty little creature. No one in the world + except those two was aware of the being of the little bat. Watho trained + her to sleep during the day, and wake during the night. She taught her + music, in which she was herself a proficient, and taught her scarcely + anything else. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. HOW PHOTOGEN GREW. + </h2> + <p> + The hollow in which the castle of Watho lay, was a cleft in a plain rather + than a valley among hills, for at the top of its steep sides, both north + and south, was a table-land, large and wide. It was covered with rich + grass and flowers, with here and there a wood, the outlying colony of a + great forest. These grassy plains were the finest hunting grounds in the + world. Great herds of small, but fierce cattle, with humps and shaggy + manes, roved about them, also antelopes and gnus, and the tiny roedeer, + while the woods were swarming with wild creatures. The tables of the + castle were mainly supplied from them. The chief of Watho's huntsmen was a + fine fellow, and when Photogen began to outgrow the training she could + give him, she handed him over to Fargu. He with a will set about teaching + him all he knew. He got him pony after pony, larger and larger as he grew, + every one less manageable than that which had preceded it, and advanced + him from pony to horse, and from horse to horse, until he was equal to + anything in that kind which the country produced. In similar fashion he + trained him to the use of bow and arrow, substituting every three months a + stronger bow and longer arrows; and soon he became, even on horseback, a + wonderful archer. He was but fourteen when he killed his first bull, + causing jubilation among the huntsmen, and, indeed, through all the + castle, for there too he was the favourite. Every day, almost as soon as + the sun was up, he went out hunting, and would in general be out nearly + the whole of the day. But Watho had laid upon Fargu just one commandment, + namely, that Photogen should on no account, whatever the plea, be out + until sundown, or so near it as to wake in him the desire of seeing what + was going to happen; and this commandment Fargu was anxiously careful not + to break; for, although he would not have trembled had a whole herd of + bulls come down upon him, charging at full speed across the level, and not + an arrow left in his quiver, he was more than afraid of his mistress. When + she looked at him in a certain way, he felt, he said, as if his heart + turned to ashes in his breast, and what ran in his veins was no longer + blood, but milk and water. So that, ere long, as Photogen grew older, + Fargu began to tremble, for he found it steadily growing harder to + restrain him. So full of life was he, as Fargu said to his mistress, much + to her content, that he was more like a live thunderbolt than a human + being. He did not know what fear was, and that not because he did not know + danger; for he had had a severe laceration from the razor-like tusk of a + boar—whose spine, however, he had severed with one blow of his + hunting-knife, before Fargu could reach him with defence. When he would + spur his horse into the midst of a herd of bulls, carrying only his bow + and his short sword, or shoot an arrow into a herd, and go after it as if + to reclaim it for a runaway shaft, arriving in time to follow it with a + spear-thrust before the wounded animal knew which way to charge, Fargu + thought with terror how it would be when he came to know the temptation of + the huddle-spot leopards, and the knife-clawed lynxes, with which the + forest was haunted. For the boy had been so steeped in the sun, from + childhood so saturated with his influence, that he looked upon every + danger from a sovereign height of courage. When, therefore, he was + approaching his sixteenth year, Fargu ventured to beg of Watho that she + would lay her commands upon the youth himself, and release him from + responsibility for him. One might as soon hold a tawny-maned lion as + Photogen, he said. Watho called the youth, and in the presence of Fargu + laid her command upon him never to be out when the rim of the sun should + touch the horizon, accompanying the prohibition with hints of + consequences, none the less awful that they were obscure. Photogen + listened respectfully, but, knowing neither the taste of fear nor the + temptation of the night, her words were but sounds to him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. HOW NYCTERIS GREW. + </h2> + <p> + The little education she intended Nycteris to have, Watho gave her by word + of mouth. Not meaning she should have light enough to read by, to leave + other reasons unmentioned, she never put a book in her hands. Nycteris, + however, saw so much better than Watho imagined, that the light she gave + her was quite sufficient, and she managed to coax Falca into teaching her + the letters, after which she taught herself to read, and Falca now and + then brought her a child's book. But her chief pleasure was in her + instrument. Her very fingers loved it, and would wander about over its + keys like feeding sheep. She was not unhappy. She knew nothing of the + world except the tomb in which she dwelt, and had some pleasure in + everything she did. But she desired, nevertheless, something more or + different. She did not know what it was, and the nearest she could come to + expressing it to herself was—that she wanted more room. Watho and + Falca would go from her beyond the shine of the lamp, and come again; + therefore surely there must be more room somewhere. As often as she was + left alone, she would fall to poring over the coloured bas-reliefs on the + walls. These were intended to represent various of the powers of Nature + under allegorical similitudes, and as nothing can be made that does not + belong to the general scheme, she could not fail at least to imagine a + flicker of relationship between some of them, and thus a shadow of the + reality of things found its way to her. + </p> + <p> + There was one thing, however, which moved and taught her more than all the + rest—the lamp, namely, that hung from the ceiling, which she always + saw alight, though she never saw the flame, only the slight condensation + towards the centre of the alabaster globe. And besides the operation of + the light itself after its kind, the indefiniteness of the globe, and the + softness of the light, giving her the feeling as if her eyes could go in + and into its whiteness, were somehow also associated with the idea of + space and room. She would sit for an hour together gazing up at the lamp, + and her heart would swell as she gazed. She would wonder what had hurt + her, when she found her face wet with tears, and then would wonder how she + could have been hurt without knowing it. She never looked thus at the lamp + except when she was alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE LAMP. + </h2> + <p> + Watho having given orders, took it for granted they were obeyed, and that + Falca was all night long with Nycteris, whose day it was. But Falca could + not get into the habit of sleeping through the day, and would often leave + her alone half the night. Then it seemed to Nycteris that the white lamp + was watching over her. As it was never permitted to go out—while she + was awake at least—Nycteris, except by shutting her eyes, knew less + about darkness than she did about light. Also, the lamp being fixed high + overhead, and in the centre of everything, she did not know much about + shadows either. The few there were fell almost entirely on the floor, or + kept like mice about the foot of the walls. + </p> + <p> + Once, when she was thus alone, there came the noise of a far-off rumbling: + she had never before heard a sound of which she did not know the origin, + and here therefore was a new sign of something beyond these chambers. Then + came a trembling, then a shaking; the lamp dropped from the ceiling to the + floor with a great crash, and she felt as if both her eyes were hard shut + and both her hands over them. She concluded that it was the darkness that + had made the rumbling and the shaking, and rushing into the room, had + thrown down the lamp. She sat trembling. The noise and the shaking ceased, + but the light did not return. The darkness had eaten it up! + </p> + <p> + Her lamp gone, the desire at once awoke to get out of her prison. She + scarcely knew what <i>out</i> meant; out of one room into another, where + there was not even a dividing door, only an open arch, was all she knew of + the world. But suddenly she remembered that she had heard Falca speak of + the lamp <i>going out</i>: this must be what she had meant? And if the + lamp had gone out, where had it gone? Surely where Falca went, and like + her it would come again. But she could not wait. The desire to go out grew + irresistible. She must follow her beautiful lamp! She must find it! She + must see what it was about! + </p> + <p> + Now there was a curtain covering a recess in the wall, where some of her + toys and gymnastic things were kept; and from behind that curtain Watho + and Falca always appeared, and behind it they vanished. How they came out + of solid wall, she had not an idea, all up to the wall was open space, and + all beyond it seemed wall; but clearly the first and only thing she could + do, was to feel her way behind the curtain. It was so dark that a cat + could not have caught the largest of mice. Nycteris could see better than + any cat, but now her great eyes were not of the smallest use to her. As + she went she trod upon a piece of the broken lamp. She had never worn + shoes or stockings, and the fragment, though, being of soft alabaster, it + did not cut, yet hurt her foot. She did not know what it was, but as it + had not been there before the darkness came, she suspected that it had to + do with the lamp. She kneeled therefore, and searched with her hands, and + bringing two large pieces together, recognized the shape of the lamp. + Therewith it flashed upon her that the lamp was dead, that this brokenness + was the death of which she had read without understanding, that the + darkness had killed the lamp. What then could Falca have meant when she + spoke of the lamp <i>going out</i>? There was the lamp—dead, indeed, + and so changed that she would never have taken it for a lamp but for the + shape! No, it was not the lamp any more now it was dead, for all that made + it a lamp was gone, namely, the bright shining of it. Then it must be the + shine, the light, that had gone out! That must be what Falca meant—and + it must be somewhere in the other place in the wall. She started afresh + after it, and groped her way to the curtain. + </p> + <p> + Now she had never in her life tried to get out, and did not know how; but + instinctively she began to move her hands about over one of the walls + behind the curtain, half expecting them to go into it, as she supposed + Watho and Falca did. But the wall repelled her with inexorable hardness, + and she turned to the one opposite. In so doing, she set her foot upon an + ivory die, and as it met sharply the same spot the broken alabaster had + already hurt, she fell forward with her outstretched hands against the + wall. Something gave way, and she tumbled out of the cavern. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. OUT. + </h2> + <p> + But alas! <i>out</i> was very much like <i>in</i>, for the same enemy, the + darkness, was here also. The next moment, however, came a great gladness—a + firefly, which had wandered in from the garden. She saw the tiny spark in + the distance. With slow pulsing ebb and throb of light, it came pushing + itself through the air, drawing nearer and nearer, with that motion which + more resembles swimming than flying, and the light seemed the source of + its own motion. + </p> + <p> + "My lamp! my lamp!" cried Nycteris. "It is the shiningness of my lamp, + which the cruel darkness drove out. My good lamp has been waiting for me + here all the time! It knew I would come after it, and waited to take me + with it." + </p> + <p> + She followed the firefly, which, like herself, was seeking the way out. If + it did not know the way, it was yet light; and, because all light is one, + any light may serve to guide to more light. If she was mistaken in + thinking it the spirit of her lamp, it was of the same spirit as her lamp—and + had wings. The gold-green jet-boat, driven by light, went throbbing before + her through a long narrow passage. Suddenly it rose higher, and the same + moment Nycteris fell upon an ascending stair. She had never seen a stair + before, and found going-up a curious sensation. Just as she reached what + seemed the top, the firefly ceased to shine, and so disappeared. She was + in utter darkness once more. But when we are following the light, even its + extinction is a guide. If the firefly had gone on shining, Nycteris would + have seen the stair turn, and would have gone up to Watho's bedroom; + whereas now, feeling straight before her, she came to a latched door, + which after a good deal of trying she managed to open—and stood in a + maze of wondering perplexity, awe, and delight. What was it? Was it + outside of her, or something taking place in her head? Before her was a + very long and very narrow passage, broken up she could not tell how, and + spreading out above and on all sides to an infinite height and breadth and + distance—as if space itself were growing out of a trough. It was + brighter than her rooms had ever been—brighter than if six alabaster + lamps had been burning in them. There was a quantity of strange streaking + and mottling about it, very different from the shapes on her walls. She + was in a dream of pleasant perplexity, of delightful bewilderment. She + could not tell whether she was upon her feet or drifting about like the + firefly, driven by the pulses of an inward bliss. But she knew little as + yet of her inheritance. Unconsciously she took one step forward from the + threshold, and the girl who had been from her very birth a troglodyte, + stood in the ravishing glory of a southern night, lit by a perfect moon—not + the moon of our northern clime, but a moon like silver glowing in a + furnace—a moon one could see to be a globe—not far off, a mere + flat disc on the face of the blue, but hanging down halfway, and looking + as if one could see all round it by a mere bending of the neck. + </p> + <p> + "It is my lamp!" she said, and stood dumb with parted lips. She looked and + felt as if she had been standing there in silent ecstasy from the + beginning. + </p> + <p> + "No, it is not my lamp," she said after a while; "it is the mother of all + the lamps." + </p> + <p> + And with that she fell on her knees, and spread out her hands to the moon. + She could not in the least have told what was in her mind, but the action + was in reality just a begging of the moon to be what she was—that + precise incredible splendour hung in the far-off roof, that very glory + essential to the being of poor girls born and bred in caverns. It was a + resurrection—nay, a birth itself, to Nycteris. What the vast blue + sky, studded with tiny sparks like the heads of diamond nails, could be; + what the moon, looking so absolutely content with light.—why, she + knew less about them than you and I! but the greatest of astronomers might + envy the rapture of such a first impression at the age of sixteen. + Immeasurably imperfect it was, but false the impression could not be, for + she saw with the eyes made for seeing, and saw indeed what many men are + too wise to see. + </p> + <p> + As she knelt, something softly flapped her, embraced her, stroked her, + fondled her. She rose to her feet, but saw nothing, did not know what it + was. It was likest a woman's breath. For she know nothing of the air even, + had never breathed the still newborn freshness of the world. Her breath + had come to her only through long passages and spirals in the rock. Still + less did she know of the air alive with motion—of that thrice + blessed thing, the wind of a summer night. It was like a spiritual wine, + filling her whole being with an intoxication of purest joy. To breathe was + a perfect existence. It seemed to her the light itself she drew into her + lungs. Possessed by the power of the gorgeous night, she seemed at one and + the same moment annihilated and glorified. + </p> + <p> + She was in the open passage or gallery that ran round the top of the + garden walls, between the cleft battlements, but she did not once look + down to see what lay beneath. Her soul was drawn to the vault above her, + with its lamp and its endless room. At last she burst into tears, and her + heart was relieved, as the night itself is relieved by its lightning and + rain. + </p> + <p> + And now she grew thoughtful. She must hoard this splendour! What a little + ignorance her gaolers had made of her! Life was a mighty bliss, and they + had scraped hers to the bare bone! They must not know that she knew. She + must hide her knowledge—hide it even from her own eyes, keeping it + close in her bosom, content to know that she had it, even when she could + not brood on its presence, feasting her eyes with its glory. She turned + from the vision, therefore, with a sigh of utter bliss, and with soft + quiet steps and groping hands, stole back into the darkness of the rock. + What was darkness or the laziness of Time's feet to one who had seen what + she had that night seen? She was lifted above all weariness—above + all wrong. + </p> + <p> + When Falca entered, she uttered a cry of terror. But Nycteris called to + her not to be afraid, and told her how there had come a rumbling and a + shaking, and the lamp had fallen. Then Falca went and told her mistress, + and within an hour a new globe hung in the place of the old one. Nycteris + thought it did not look so bright and clear as the former, but she made no + lamentation over the change; she was far too rich to heed it. For now, + prisoner as she knew herself, her heart was full of glory and gladness; at + times she had to hold herself from jumping up, and going dancing and + singing about the room. When she slept, instead of dull dreams, she had + splendid visions. There were times, it is true, when she became restless, + and impatient to look upon her riches, but then she would reason with + herself, saying, "What does it matter if I sit here for ages with my poor + pale lamp, when out there a lump is burning at which ten thousand little + lamps are glowing with wonder?" + </p> + <p> + She never doubted she had looked upon the day and the sun, of which she + had read; and always when she read of the day and the sun, she had the + night and the moon in her mind; and when she read of the night and the + moon, she thought only of the cave and the lamp that hung there. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE GREAT LAMP. + </h2> + <p> + It was some time before she had a second opportunity of going out, for + Falca, since the fall of the lamp, had been a little more careful, and + seldom left her for long. But one night, having a little headache, + Nycteris lay down upon her bed, and was lying with her eyes closed, when + she heard Falca come to her, and felt she was bending over her. + Disinclined to talk, she did not open her eyes, and lay quite still. + Satisfied that she was asleep, Falca left her, moving so softly that her + very caution made Nycteris open her eyes and look after her—just in + time to see her vanish—through a picture, as it seemed, that hung on + the wall a long way from the usual place of issue. She jumped up, her + headache forgotten, and ran in the opposite direction; got out, groped her + way to the stair, climbed, and reached the top of the wall.—Alas! + the great room was not so light as the little one she had left. Why?—Sorrow + of sorrows! the great lamp was gone! Had its globe fallen? and its lovely + light gone out upon great wings, a resplendent firefly, oaring itself + through a yet grander and lovelier room? She looked down to see if it lay + anywhere broken to pieces on the carpet below; but she could not even see + the carpet. But surely nothing very dreadful could have happened—no + rumbling or shaking, for there were all the little lamps shining brighter + than before, not one of them looking as if any unusual matter had + befallen. What if each of those little lamps was growing into a big lamp, + and after being a big lamp for a while, had to go out and grow a bigger + lamp still—out there, beyond this <i>out</i>?—Ah! here was the + living thing that would not be seen, come to her again—bigger + to-night! with such loving kisses, and such liquid strokings of her cheeks + and forehead, gently tossing her hair, and delicately toying with it! But + it ceased, and all was still. Had it gone out? What would happen next? + Perhaps the little lamps had not to grow great lamps, but to fall one by + one and go out first?—With that, came from below a sweet scent, then + another, and another. Ah, how delicious! Perhaps they were all coming to + her only on their way out after the great lamp!—Then came the music + of the river, which she had been too absorbed in the sky to note the first + time. What was it? Alas! alas! another sweet living thing on its way out. + They were all marching slowly out in long lovely file, one after the + other, each taking its leave of her as it passed! It must be so: here were + more and more sweet sounds, following and fading! The whole of the <i>Out</i> + was going out again; it was all going after the great lovely lamp! She + would be left the only creature in the solitary day! Was there nobody to + hang up a new lamp for the old one, and keep the creatures from going?—She + crept back to her rock very sad. She tried to comfort herself by saying + that anyhow there would be room out there; but as she said it she + shuddered at the thought of <i>empty</i> room. + </p> + <p> + When next she succeeded in getting out, a half-moon hung in the east: a + new lamp had come, she thought, and all would be well. + </p> + <p> + It would be endless to describe the phases of feeling through which + Nycteris passed, more numerous and delicate than those of a thousand + changing moons. A fresh bliss bloomed in her soul with every varying + aspect of infinite nature. Ere long she began to suspect that the new moon + was the old moon, gone out and come in again like herself; also that, + unlike herself, it wasted and grew again; that it was indeed a live thing, + subject like herself to caverns, and keepers, and solitudes, escaping and + shining when it could. Was it a prison like hers it was shut in? and did + it grow dark when the lamp left it? Where could be the way into it?—With + that first she began to look below, as well as above and around her; and + then first noted the tops of the trees between her and the floor. There + were palms with their red-fingered hands full of fruit; eucalyptus trees + crowded with little boxes of powder-puffs; oleanders with their half-caste + roses; and orange trees with their clouds of young silver stars, and their + aged balls of gold. Her eyes could see colours invisible to ours in the + moonlight, and all these she could distinguish well, though at first she + took them for the shapes and colours of the carpet of the great room. She + longed to get down among them, now she saw they were real creatures, but + she did not know how. She went along the whole length of the wall to the + end that crossed the river, but found no way of going down. Above the + river she stopped to gaze with awe upon the rushing water. She knew + nothing of water but from what she drank and what she bathed in; and, as + the moon shone on the dark, swift stream, singing lustily as it flowed, + she did not doubt the river was alive, a swift rushing serpent of life, + going—out?—whither? And then she wondered if what was brought + into her rooms had been killed that she might drink it, and have her bath + in it. + </p> + <p> + Once when she stepped out upon the wall, it was into the midst of a fierce + wind. The trees were all roaring. Great clouds were rushing along the + skies, and tumbling over the little lamps: the great lamp had not come + yet. All was in tumult. The wind seized her garments and hair, and shook + them as if it would tear them from her. What could she have done to make + the gentle creature so angry? Or was this another creature altogether—of + the same kind, but hugely bigger, and of a very different temper and + behaviour? But the whole place was angry! Or was it that the creatures + dwelling in it, the wind, and the trees, and the clouds, and the river, + had all quarrelled, each with all the rest? Would the whole come to + confusion and disorder? But, as she gazed wondering and disquieted, the + moon, larger than ever she had seen her, came lifting herself above the + horizon to look, broad and red, as if she, too, were swollen with anger + that she had been roused from her rest by their noise, and compelled to + hurry up to see what her children were about, thus rioting in her absence, + lest they should rack the whole frame of things. And as she rose, the loud + wind grew quieter and scolded less fiercely, the trees grew stiller and + moaned with a lower complaint, and the clouds hunted and hurled themselves + less wildly across the sky. And as if she were pleased that her children + obeyed her very presence, the moon grew smaller as she ascended the + heavenly stair; her puffed cheeks sank, her complexion grew clearer, and a + sweet smile spread over her countenance, as peacefully she rose and rose. + But there was treason and rebellion in her court; for, ere she reached the + top of her great stairs, the clouds had assembled, forgetting their late + wars, and very still they were as they laid their heads together and + conspired. Then combining, and lying silently in wait until she came near, + they threw themselves upon her, and swallowed her up. Down from the roof + came spots of wet, faster and faster, and they wetted the cheeks of + Nycteris; and what could they be but the tears of the moon, crying because + her children were smothering her? Nycteris wept too, and not knowing what + to think, stole back in dismay to her room. + </p> + <p> + The next time, she came out in fear and trembling. There was the moon + still! away in the west—poor, indeed, and old, and looking + dreadfully worn, as if all the wild beasts in the sky had been gnawing at + her—but there she was, alive still, and able to shine! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. THE SUNSET. + </h2> + <p> + Knowing nothing of darkness, or stars, or moon, Photogen spent his days in + hunting. On a great white horse he swept over the grassy plains, glorying + in the sun, fighting the wind, and killing the buffaloes. + </p> + <p> + One morning, when he happened to be on the ground a little earlier than + usual, and before his attendants, he caught sight of an animal unknown to + him, stealing from a hollow into which the sunrays had not yet reached. + Like a swift shadow it sped over the grass, slinking southward to the + forest. He gave chase, noted the body of a buffalo it had half eaten, and + pursued it the harder. But with great leaps and bounds the creature shot + farther and farther ahead of him, and vanished. Turning therefore + defeated, he met Fargu, who had been following him as fast as his horse + could carry him. + </p> + <p> + "What animal was that, Fargu?" he asked. "How he did run!" + </p> + <p> + Fargu answered he might be a leopard, but he rather thought from his pace + and look that he was a young lion. + </p> + <p> + "What a coward he must be!" said Photogen. + </p> + <p> + "Don't be too sure of that," rejoined Fargu. "He is one of the creatures + the sun makes uncomfortable. As soon as the sun is down, he will be brave + enough." + </p> + <p> + He had scarcely said it, when he repented nor did he regret it the less + when he found that Photogen made no reply. But alas! said was said. + </p> + <p> + "Then," said Photogen to himself, "that contemptible beast is one of the + terrors of sundown, of which Madam Watho spoke!" + </p> + <p> + He hunted all day, but not with his usual spirit. He did not ride so hard, + and did not kill one buffalo. Fargu to his dismay observed also that he + took every pretext for moving farther south, nearer to the forest. But all + at once, the sun now sinking in the west, he seemed to change his mind, + for he turned his horse's head, and rode home so fast that the rest could + not keep him in sight. When they arrived, they found his horse in the + stable, and concluded that he had gone into the castle. But he had in + truth set out again by the back of it. Crossing the river a good way up + the valley, he reascended to the ground they had left, and just before + sunset reached the skirts of the forest. + </p> + <p> + The level orb shone straight in between the bare stems, and saying to + himself he could not fail to find the beast, he rushed into the wood. But + even as he entered, he turned, and looked to the west. The rim of the red + was touching the horizon, all jagged with broken hills. "Now," said + Photogen, "we shall see;" but he said it in the face of a darkness he had + not proved. The moment the sun began to sink among the spikes and + saw-edges, with a kind of sudden flap at his heart a fear inexplicable + laid hold of the youth; and as he had never felt anything of the kind + before, the very fear itself terrified him. As the sun sank, it rose like + the shadow of the world, and grew deeper and darker. He could not even + think what it might be, so utterly did it enfeeble him. When the last + flaming scimitar-edge of the sun went out like a lamp, his horror seemed + to blossom into very madness. Like the closing lids of an eye—for + there was no twilight, and this night no moon—the terror and the + darkness rushed together, and he knew them for one. He was no longer the + man he had known, or rather thought himself. The courage he had had was in + no sense his own—he had only had courage, not been courageous; it + had left him, and he could scarcely stand—certainly not stand + straight, for not one of his joints could he make stiff or keep from + trembling. He was but a spark of the sun, in himself nothing. + </p> + <p> + The beast was behind him—stealing upon him! He turned. All was dark + in the wood, but to his fancy the darkness here and there broke into pairs + of green eyes, and he had not the power even to raise his bow-hand from + his side. In the strength of despair he strove to rouse courage enough—not + to fight—that he did not even desire—but to run. Courage to + flee home was all he could ever imagine, and it would not come. But what + he had not, was ignominiously given him. A cry in the wood, half a + screech, half a growl, sent him running like a boar-wounded cur. It was + not even himself that ran, it was the fear that had come alive in his + legs: he did not know that they moved. But as he ran he grew able to run—gained + courage at least to be a coward. The stars gave a little light. Over the + grass he sped, and nothing followed him. "How fallen, how changed," from + the youth who had climbed the hill as the sun went down! A mere contempt + to himself, the self that contemned was a coward with the self it + contemned! There lay the shapeless black of a buffalo, humped upon the + grass: he made a wide circuit, and swept on like a shadow driven in the + wind. For the wind had arisen, and added to his terror: it blew from + behind him. He reached the brow of the valley, and shot down the steep + descent like a falling star. Instantly the whole upper country behind him + arose and pursued him! The wind came howling after him, filled with + screams, shrieks, yells, roars, laughter, and chattering, as if all the + animals of the forest were careering with it. In his ears was a trampling + rush, the thunder of the hoofs of the cattle, in career from every quarter + of the wide plains to the brow of the hill above him! He fled straight for + the castle, scarcely with breath enough to pant. + </p> + <p> + As he reached the bottom of the valley, the moon peered up over its edge. + He had never seen the moon before—except in the daytime, when he had + taken her for a thin bright cloud. She was a fresh terror to him—so + ghostly! so ghastly! so gruesome!—so knowing as she looked over the + top of her garden-wall upon the world outside! That was the night itself! + the darkness alive—and after him! the horror of horrors coming down + the sky to curdle his blood, and turn his brain to a cinder! He gave a + sob, and made straight for the river, where it ran between the two walls, + at the bottom of the garden. He plunged in, struggled through, clambered + up the bank, and fell senseless on the grass. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE GARDEN. + </h2> + <p> + Although Nycteris took care not to stay out long at a time, and used every + precaution, she could hardly have escaped discovery so long, had it not + been that the strange attacks to which Watho was subject had been more + frequent of late, and had at last settled into an illness which kept her + to her bed. But whether from an access of caution or from suspicion, + Falca, having now to be much with her mistress both day and night, took it + at length into her head to fasten the door as often as she went by her + usual place of exit; so that one night, when Nycteris pushed, she found, + to her surprise and dismay, that the wall pushed her again, and would not + let her through; nor with all her searching could she discover wherein lay + the cause of the change. Then first she felt the pressure of her + prison-walls, and turning, half in despair, groped her way to the picture + where she had once seen Falca disappear. There she soon found the spot by + pressing upon which the wall yielded. It let her through into a sort of + cellar, where was a glimmer of light from a sky whose blue was paled by + the moon. From the cellar she got into a long passage, into which the moon + was shining, and came to a door. She managed to open it, and, to her great + joy, found herself in <i>the other place</i>, not on the top of the wall, + however, but in the garden she had longed to enter. Noiseless as a fluffy + moth she flitted away into the covert of the trees and shrubs, her bare + feet welcomed by the softest of carpets, which, by the very touch, her + feet knew to be alive, whence it came that it was so sweet and friendly to + them. A soft little wind was out among the trees, running now here, now + there, like a child that had got its will. She went dancing over the + grass, looking behind her at her shadow, as she went. At first she had + taken it for a little black creature that made game of her, but when she + perceived that it was only where she kept the moon away, and that every + tree, however great and grand a creature, had also one of these strange + attendants, she soon learned not to mind it, and by and by it became the + source of as much amusement to her, as to any kitten its tail. It was long + before she was quite at home with the trees, however. At one time they + seemed to disapprove of her; at another not even to know she was there, + and to be altogether taken up with their own business. Suddenly, as she + went from one to another of them, looking up with awe at the murmuring + mystery of their branches and leaves, she spied one a little way off, + which was very different from all the rest. It was white, and dark, and + sparkling, and spread like a palm—a small slender palm, without much + head; and it grew very fast, and sang as it grew. But it never grew any + bigger, for just as fast as she could see it growing, it kept falling to + pieces. When she got close to it, she discovered that it was a water-tree—made + of just such water as she washed with—only it was alive of course, + like the river—a different sort of water from that, doubtless, + seeing the one crept swiftly along the floor, and the other shot straight + up, and fell, and swallowed itself, and rose again. She put her feet into + the marble basin, which was the flower-pot in which it grew. It was full + of real water, living and cool—so nice, for the night was hot! + </p> + <p> + But the flowers! ah, the flowers! she was friends with them from the very + first. What wonderful creatures they were!—and so kind and beautiful—always + sending out such colours and such scents—red scent, and white scent, + and yellow scent—for the other creatures! The one that was invisible + and everywhere, took such a quantity of their scents, and carried it away! + yet they did not seem to mind. It was their talk, to show they were alive, + and not painted like those on the walls of her rooms, and on the carpets. + </p> + <p> + She wandered along down the garden until she reached the river. Unable + then to get any further—for she was a little afraid, and justly, of + the swift watery serpent—she dropped on the grassy bank, dipped her + feet in the water, and felt it running and pushing against them. For a + long time she sat thus, and her bliss seemed complete, as she gazed at the + river, and watched the broken picture of the great lamp overhead, moving + up one side of the roof, to go down the other. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. SOMETHING QUITE NEW. + </h2> + <p> + A beautiful moth brushed across the great blue eyes of Nycteris. She + sprang to her feet to follow it—not in the spirit of the hunter, but + of the lover. Her heart—like every heart, if only its fallen sides + were cleared away—was an inexhaustible fountain of love: she loved + everything she saw. But as she followed the moth, she caught sight of + something lying on the bank of the river, and not yet having learned to be + afraid of anything, ran straight to see what it was. Reaching it, she + stood amazed. Another girl like herself! But what a strange-looking girl!—so + curiously dressed too!—and not able to move! Was she dead? Filled + suddenly with pity, she sat down, lifted Photogen's head, laid it on her + lap, and began stroking his face. Her warm hands brought him to himself. + He opened his black eyes, out of which had gone all the fire, and looked + up with a strange sound of fear, half moan, half gasp. But when he saw her + face, he drew a deep breath, and lay motionless—gazing at her: those + blue marvels above him, like a better sky, seemed to side with courage and + assuage his terror. At length, in a trembling, awed voice, and a half + whisper, he said, "Who are you?" + </p> + <p> + "I am Nycteris," she answered. + </p> + <p> + "You are a creature of the darkness, and love the night," he said, his + fear beginning to move again. + </p> + <p> + "I may be a creature of the darkness," she replied. "I hardly know what + you mean. But I do not love the night. I love the day—with all my + heart; and I sleep all the night long." + </p> + <p> + "How can that be?" said Photogen, rising on his elbow, but dropping his + head on her lap again the moment he saw the moon; "—how can it be," + he repeated, "when I see your eyes there—wide awake?" + </p> + <p> + She only smiled and stroked him, for she did not understand him, and + thought he did not know what he was saying. + </p> + <p> + "Was it a dream then?" resumed Photogen, rubbing his eyes. But with that + his memory came clear, and he shuddered, and cried, "Oh horrible! + horrible! to be turned all at once into a coward! a shameful, + contemptible, disgraceful coward! I am ashamed—ashamed—and <i>so</i> + frightened! It is all so frightful!" + </p> + <p> + "What is so frightful?" asked Nycteris, with a smile like that of a mother + to her child waked from a bad dream. + </p> + <p> + "All, all," he answered; "all this darkness and the roaring." + </p> + <p> + "My dear," said Nycteris, "there is no roaring. How sensitive you must be! + What you hear is only the walking of the water, and the running about of + the sweetest of all the creatures. She is invisible, and I call her + Everywhere, for she goes through all the other creatures and comforts + them. Now she is amusing herself, and them too, with shaking them and + kissing them, and blowing in their faces. Listen: do you call that + roaring? You should hear her when she is rather angry though! I don't know + why, but she is sometimes, and then she does roar a little." + </p> + <p> + "It is so horribly dark!" said Photogen, who, listening while she spoke, + had satisfied himself that there was no roaring. + </p> + <p> + "Dark!" she echoed. "You should be in my room when an earthquake has + killed my lamp. I do not understand. How <i>can</i> you call this dark? + Let me see: yes, you have eyes, and big ones, bigger than Madam Watho's or + Falca's—not so big as mine, I fancy—only I never saw mine. But + then—oh yes!—I know now what is the matter! You can't see with + them because they are so black. Darkness can't see, of course. Never mind: + I will be your eyes, and teach you to see. Look here—at these lovely + white things in the grass, with red sharp points all folded together into + one. Oh, I love them so! I could sit looking at them all day, the + darlings!" + </p> + <p> + Photogen looked close at the flowers, and thought he had seen something + like them before, but could not make them out. As Nycteris had never seen + an open daisy, so had he never seen a closed one. + </p> + <p> + Thus instinctively Nycteris tried to turn him away from his fear; and the + beautiful creature's strange lovely talk helped not a little to make him + forget it. + </p> + <p> + "You call it dark!" she said again, as if she could not get rid of the + absurdity of the idea; "why, I could count every blade of the green hair—I + suppose it is what the books call grass—within two yards of me! And + just look at the great lamp! It is brighter than usual to-day, and I can't + think why you should be frightened, or call it dark!" + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, she went on stroking his cheeks and hair, and trying to + comfort him. But oh how miserable he was! and how plainly he looked it! He + was on the point of saying that her great lamp was dreadful to him, + looking like a witch, walking in the sleep of death; but he was not so + ignorant as Nycteris, and knew even in the moonlight that she was a woman, + though he had never seen one so young or so lovely before; and while she + comforted his fear, her presence made him the more ashamed of it. Besides, + not knowing her nature, he might annoy her, and make her leave him to his + misery. He lay still therefore, hardly daring to move: all the little life + he had seemed to come from her, and if he were to move, she might move; + and if she were to leave him, he must weep like a child. + </p> + <p> + "How did you come here?" asked Nycteris, taking his face between her + hands. + </p> + <p> + "Down the hill," he answered. + </p> + <p> + "Where do you sleep?" she asked. + </p> + <p> + He signed in the direction of the house. She gave a little laugh of + delight. + </p> + <p> + "When you have learned not to be frightened, you will always be wanting to + come out with me," she said. + </p> + <p> + She thought with herself she would ask her presently, when she had come to + herself a little, how she had made her escape, for she must, of course, + like herself have got out of a cave, in which Watho and Falca had been + keeping her. + </p> + <p> + "Look at the lovely colours," she went on, pointing to a rose-bush, on + which Photogen could not see a single flower. "They are far more beautiful—are + they not?—than any of the colours upon your walls. And then they are + alive, and smell so sweet!" + </p> + <p> + He wished she would not make him keep opening his eyes to look at things + he could not see; and every other moment would start and grasp tight hold + of her, as some fresh pang of terror shot into him. + </p> + <p> + "Come, come, dear!" said Nycteris; "you must not go on this way. You must + be a brave girl, and—" + </p> + <p> + "A girl!" shouted Photogen, and started to his feet in wrath. "If you were + a man, I should kill you." + </p> + <p> + "A man?" repeated Nycteris: "what is that? How could I be that? We are + both girls—are we not?" + </p> + <p> + "No, I am not a girl," he answered; "—although," he added, changing + his tone, and casting himself on the ground at her feet, "I have given you + too good reason to call me one." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I see!" returned Nycteris. "No, of course! you can't be a girl: girls + are not afraid—without reason. I understand now: it is because you + are not a girl that you are so frightened." + </p> + <p> + Photogen twisted and writhed upon the grass. + </p> + <p> + "No, it is not," he said sulkily; "it is this horrible darkness that + creeps into me, goes all through me, into the very marrow of my bones—that + is what makes me behave like a girl. If only the sun would rise!" + </p> + <p> + "The sun! what is it?" cried Nycteris, now in her turn conceiving a vague + fear. + </p> + <p> + Then Photogen broke into a rhapsody, in which he vainly sought to forget + his. + </p> + <p> + "It is the soul, the life, the heart, the glory of the universe," he said. + "The worlds dance like motes in his beams. The heart of man is strong and + brave in his light, and when it departs his courage grows from him—goes + with the sun, and he becomes such as you see me now." + </p> + <p> + "Then that is not the sun?" said Nycteris, thoughtfully, pointing up to + the moon. + </p> + <p> + "That!" cried Photogen, with utter scorn; "I know nothing about <i>that</i>, + except that it is ugly and horrible. At best it can be only the ghost of a + dead sun. Yes, that is it! That is what makes it look so frightful." + </p> + <p> + "No," said Nycteris, after a long, thoughtful pause; "you must be wrong + there. I think the sun is the ghost of a dead moon, and that is how he is + so much more splendid as you say.—Is there, then, another big room, + where the sun lives in the roof?" + </p> + <p> + "I do not know what you mean," replied Photogen. "But you mean to be kind, + I know, though you should not call a poor fellow in the dark a girl. If + you will let me lie here, with my head in your lap, I should like to + sleep. Will you watch me, and take care of me?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, that I will," answered Nycteris, forgetting all her own danger. + </p> + <p> + So Photogen fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. THE SUN. + </h2> + <p> + There Nycteris sat, and there the youth lay, all night long, in the heart + of the great cone-shadow of the earth, like two Pharaohs in one pyramid. + Photogen slept, and slept; and Nycteris sat motionless lest she should + wake him, and so betray him to his fear. + </p> + <p> + The moon rode high in the blue eternity; it was a very triumph of glorious + night; the river ran babble-murmuring in deep soft syllables; the fountain + kept rushing moon-ward, and blossoming momently to a great silvery flower, + whose petals were for ever falling like snow, but with a continuous + musical clash, into the bed of its exhaustion beneath; the wind woke, took + a run among the trees, went to sleep, and woke again; the daisies slept on + their feet at hers, but she did not know they slept; the roses might well + seem awake, for their scent filled the air, but in truth they slept also, + and the odour was that of their dreams; the oranges hung like gold lamps + in the trees, and their silvery flowers were the souls of their yet + unembodied children; the scent of the acacia blooms filled the air like + the very odour of the moon herself. + </p> + <p> + At last, unused to the living air, and weary with sitting so still and so + long, Nycteris grew drowsy. The air began to grow cool. It was getting + near the time when she too was accustomed to sleep. She closed her eyes + just a moment, and nodded—opened them suddenly wide, for she had + promised to watch. + </p> + <p> + In that moment a change had come. The moon had got round, and was fronting + her from the west, and she saw that her face was altered, that she had + grown pale, as if she too were wan with fear, and from her lofty place + espied a coming terror. The light seemed to be dissolving out of her; she + was dying—she was going out! And yet everything around looked + strangely clear—clearer than ever she had seen anything before: how + could the lamp be shedding more light when she herself had less? Ah, that + was just it! See how faint she looked! It was because the light was + forsaking her, and spreading itself over the room, that she grew so thin + and pale! She was giving up everything! She was melting away from the roof + like a bit of sugar in water. + </p> + <p> + Nycteris was fast growing afraid, and sought refuge with the face upon her + lap. How beautiful the creature was!—what to call it she could not + think, for it had been angry when she called it what Watho called her. + And, wonder upon wonder! now, even in the cold change that was passing + upon the great room, the colour as of a red rose was rising in the wan + cheek. What beautiful yellow hair it was that spread over her lap! What + great huge breaths the creature took! And what were those curious things + it carried? She had seen them on her walls, she was sure. + </p> + <p> + Thus she talked to herself while the lamp grew paler and paler, and + everything kept growing yet clearer. What could it mean? The lamp was + dying—going out into the other place of which the creature in her + lap had spoken, to be a sun! But why were the things growing clearer + before it was yet a sun? That was the point. Was it her growing into a sun + that did it? Yes! yes! it was coming death! She knew it, for it was coming + upon her also! She felt it coming! What was she about to grow into? + Something beautiful, like the creature in her lap? It might be! Anyhow, it + must be death; for all her strength was going out of her, while all around + her was growing so light she could not bear it! She must be blind soon! + Would she be blind or dead first? + </p> + <p> + For the sun was rushing up behind her. Photogen woke, lifted his head from + her lap, and sprang to his feet. His face was one radiant smile. His heart + was full of daring—that of the hunter who will creep into the + tiger's den. Nycteris gave a cry, covered her face with her hands, and + pressed her eyelids close. Then blindly she stretched out her arms to + Photogen, crying, "Oh, I am so frightened! What is this? It must be death! + I don't wish to die yet. I love this room and the old lamp. I do not want + the other place! This is terrible. I want to hide. I want to get into the + sweet, soft, dark hands of all the other creatures. Ah me! ah me!" + </p> + <p> + "What is the matter with you, girl?" said Photogen, with the arrogance of + all male creatures until they have been taught by the other kind. He stood + looking down upon her over his bow, of which he was examining the string. + "There is no fear of anything now, child. It is day. The sun is all but + up. Look! he will be above the brow of yon hill in one moment more! + Good-bye. Thank you for my night's lodging. I'm off. Don't be a goose. If + ever I can do anything for you—and all that, you know!" + </p> + <p> + "Don't leave me; oh, don't leave me!" cried Nycteris. "I am dying! I am + dying! I cannot move. The light sucks all the strength out of me. And oh, + I am so frightened!" + </p> + <p> + But already Photogen had splashed through the river, holding high his bow + that it might not get wet. He rushed across the level, and strained up the + opposing hill. Hearing no answer, Nycteris removed her hands. Photogen had + reached the top, and the same moment the sunrays alighted upon him: the + glory of the king of day crowded blazing upon the golden-haired youth. + Radiant as Apollo, he stood in mighty strength, a flashing shape in the + midst of flame. He fitted a glowing arrow to a gleaming bow. The arrow + parted with a keen musical twang of the bowstring, and Photogen darting + after it, vanished with a shout. Up shot Apollo himself, and from his + quiver scattered astonishment and exultation. But the brain of poor + Nycteris was pierced through and through. She fell down in utter darkness. + All around her was a flaming furnace. In despair and feebleness and agony, + she crept back, feeling her way with doubt and difficulty and enforced + persistence to her cell. When at last the friendly darkness of her chamber + folded her about with its cooling and consoling arms, she threw herself on + her bed and fell fast asleep. And there she slept on, one alive in a tomb, + while Photogen, above in the sun-glory, pursued the buffaloes on the lofty + plain, thinking not once of her where she lay dark and forsaken, whose + presence had been his refuge, her eyes and her hands his guardians through + the night. He was in his glory and his pride; and the darkness and its + disgrace had vanished for a time. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. THE COWARD HERO. + </h2> + <p> + But no sooner had the sun reached the noonstead, than Photogen began to + remember the past night in the shadow of that which was at hand, and to + remember it with shame. He had proved himself—and not to himself + only, but to a girl as well—a coward!—one bold in the + daylight, while there was nothing to fear, but trembling like any slave + when the night arrived. There was, there must be, something unfair in it! + A spell had been cast upon him! He had eaten, he had drunk something that + did not agree with courage! In any case he had been taken unprepared! How + was he to know what the going down of the sun would be like? It was no + wonder he should have been surprised into terror, seeing it was what it + was—in its very nature so terrible! Also, one could not see where + danger might be coming from! You might be torn in pieces, carried off, or + swallowed up, without even seeing where to strike a blow! Every possible + excuse he caught at, eager as a self-lover to lighten his self-contempt. + That day he astonished the huntsmen—terrified them with his reckless + darings—all to prove to himself he was no coward. But nothing eased + his shame. One thing only had hope in it—the resolve to encounter + the dark in solemn earnest, now that he knew something of what it was. It + was nobler to meet a recognized danger than to rush contemptuously into + what seemed nothing—nobler still to encounter a nameless horror. He + could conquer fear and wipe out disgrace together. For a marksman and + swordsman like him, he said, one with his strength and courage, there was + but danger. Defeat there was not. He knew the darkness now, and when it + came he would meet it as fearless and cool as now he felt himself. And + again he said, "We shall see!" + </p> + <p> + He stood under the boughs of a great beech as the sun was going down, far + away over the jagged hills: before it was half down, he was trembling like + one of the leaves behind him in the first sigh of the night-wind. The + moment the last of the glowing disc vanished, he bounded away in terror to + gain the valley, and his fear grew as he ran. Down the side of the hill, + an abject creature, he went bounding and rolling and running; fell rather + than plunged into the river, and came to himself, as before, lying on the + grassy bank in the garden. + </p> + <p> + But when he opened his eyes, there were no girl-eyes looking down into + his; there were only the stars in the waste of the sunless Night—the + awful all-enemy he had again dared, but could not encounter. Perhaps the + girl was not yet come out of the water! He would try to sleep, for he + dared not move, and perhaps when he woke he would find his head on her + lap, and the beautiful dark face, with its deep blue eyes, bending over + him. But when he woke he found his head on the grass, and although he + sprang up with all his courage, such as it was, restored, he did not set + out for the chase with such an <i>elan</i> as the day before; and, despite + the sun-glory in his heart and veins, his hunting was this day less eager; + he ate little, and from the first was thoughtful even to sadness. A second + time he was defeated and disgraced! Was his courage nothing more than the + play of the sunlight on his brain? Was he a mere ball tossed between the + light and the dark? Then what a poor contemptible creature he was! But a + third chance lay before him. If he failed the third time, he dared not + foreshadow what he must then think of himself! It was bad enough now—but + then! + </p> + <p> + Alas! it went no better. The moment the sun was down, he fled as if from a + legion of devils. + </p> + <p> + Seven times in all, he tried to face the coming night in the strength of + the past day, and seven times he failed—failed with such increase of + failure, with such a growing sense of ignominy, overwhelming at length all + the sunny hours and joining night to night, that, what with misery, + self-accusation, and loss of confidence, his daylight courage too began to + fade, and at length, from exhaustion, from getting wet, and then lying out + of doors all night, and night after night,—worst of all, from the + consuming of the deathly fear, and the shame of shame, his sleep forsook + him, and on the seventh morning, instead of going to the hunt, he crawled + into the castle, and went to bed. The grand health, over which the witch + had taken such pains, had yielded, and in an hour or two he was moaning + and crying out in delirium. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. AN EVIL NURSE. + </h2> + <p> + Watho was herself ill, as I have said, and was the worse tempered; and, + besides, it is a peculiarity of witches, that what works in others to + sympathy, works in them to repulsion. Also, Watho had a poor, helpless, + rudimentary spleen of a conscience left, just enough to make her + uncomfortable, and therefore more wicked. So, when she heard that Photogen + was ill, she was angry. Ill, indeed! after all she had done to saturate + him with the life of the system, with the solar might itself! He was a + wretched failure, the boy! And because he was <i>her</i> failure, she was + annoyed with him, began to dislike him, grew to hate him. She looked on + him as a painter might upon a picture, or a poet, upon a poem, which he + had only succeeded in getting into an irrecoverable mess. In the hearts of + witches, love and hate lie close together, and often tumble over each + other. And whether it was that her failure with Photogen foiled also her + plans in regard to Nycteris, or that her illness made her yet more of a + devil's wife, certainly Watho now got sick of the girl too, and hated to + know her about the castle. + </p> + <p> + She was not too ill, however, to go to poor Photogen's room and torment + him. She told him she hated him like a serpent, and hissed like one as she + said it, looking very sharp in the nose and chin, and flat in the + forehead. Photogen thought she meant to kill him, and hardly ventured to + take anything brought him. She ordered every ray of light to be shut out + of his room; but by means of this he got a little used to the darkness. + She would take one of his arrows, and now tickle him with the feather end + of it, now prick him with the point till the blood ran down. What she + meant finally I cannot tell, but she brought Photogen speedily to the + determination of making his escape from the castle: what he should do then + he would think afterwards. Who could tell but he might find his mother + somewhere beyond the forest! If it were not for the broad patches of + darkness that divided day from day, he would fear nothing! + </p> + <p> + But now, as he lay helpless in the dark, ever and anon would come dawning + through it the face of the lovely creature who on that first awful night + nursed him so sweetly: was he never to see her again? If she was, as he + had concluded, the nymph of the river, why had she not re-appeared? She + might have taught him not to fear the night, for plainly she had no fear + of it herself! But then, when the day came, she did seem frightened:—why + was that, seeing there was nothing to be afraid of then? Perhaps one so + much at home in the darkness, was correspondingly afraid of the light! + Then his selfish joy at the rising of the sun, blinding him to her + condition, had made him behave to her, in ill return for her kindness, as + cruelly as Watho behaved to him! How sweet and dear and lovely she was! If + there were wild beasts that came out only at night, and were afraid of the + light, why should there not be girls too, made the same way—who + could not endure the light, as he could not bear the darkness? If only he + could find her again! Ah, how differently he would behave to her! But + alas! perhaps the sun had killed her—melted her—burned her up!—dried + her up—that was it, if she was the nymph of the river! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <h3> + WATHO'S WOLF. + </h3> + <p> + From that dreadful morning Nycteris had never got to be herself again. The + sudden light had been almost death to her; and now she lay in the dark + with the memory of a terrific sharpness—a something she dared + scarcely recall, lest the very thought of it should sting her beyond + endurance. But this was as nothing to the pain which the recollection of + the rudeness of the shining creature whom she had nursed through his fear + caused her; for, the moment his suffering passed over to her, and he was + free, the first use he made of his returning strength had been to scorn + her! She wondered and wondered; it was all beyond her comprehension. + </p> + <p> + Before long, Watho was plotting evil against her. The witch was like a + sick child weary of his toy: she would pull her to pieces, and see how she + liked it. She would set her in the sun, and see her die, like a jelly from + the salt ocean cast out on a hot rock. It would be a sight to soothe her + wolf-pain. One day, therefore, a little before noon, while Nycteris was in + her deepest sleep, she had a darkened litter brought to the door, and in + that she made two of her men carry her to the plain above. There they took + her out, laid her on the grass, and left her. + </p> + <p> + Watho watched it all from the top of her high tower, through her + telescope; and scarcely was Nycteris left, when she saw her sit up, and + the same moment cast herself down again with her face to the ground. + </p> + <p> + "She'll have a sunstroke," said Watho, "and that'll be the end of her." + </p> + <p> + Presently, tormented by a fly, a huge-humped buffalo, with great shaggy + mane, came galloping along, straight for where she lay. At sight of the + thing on the grass, he started, swerved yards aside, stopped dead, and + then came slowly up, looking malicious. Nycteris lay quite still, and + never even saw the animal. + </p> + <p> + "Now she'll be trodden to death!" said Watho. "That's the way those + creatures do." + </p> + <p> + When the buffalo reached her, he sniffed at her all over, and went away; + then came back, and sniffed again; then all at once went off as if a demon + had him by the tail. + </p> + <p> + Next came a gnu, a more dangerous animal still, and did much the same; + then a gaunt wild boar. But no creature hurt her, and Watho was angry with + the whole creation. + </p> + <p> + At length, in the shade of her hair, the blue eyes of Nycteris began to + come to themselves a little, and the first thing they saw was a comfort. I + have told already how she knew the night-daisies, each a sharp-pointed + little cone with a red tip; and once she had parted the rays of one of + them, with trembling fingers, for she was afraid she was dreadfully rude, + and perhaps was hurting it; but she did want, she said to herself, to see + what secret it carried so carefully hidden; and she found its golden + heart. But now, right under her eyes, inside the veil of her hair, in the + sweet twilight of whose blackness she could see it perfectly, stood a + daisy with its red tip opened wide into a carmine ring, displaying its + heart of gold on a platter of silver. She did not at first recognize it as + one of those cones come awake, but a moment's notice revealed what it was. + Who then could have been so cruel to the lovely little creature, as to + force it open like that, and spread it heart-bare to the terrible + death-lamp? Whoever it was, it must be the same that had thrown her out + there to be burned to death in its fire! But she had her hair, and could + hang her head, and make a small sweet night of her own about her! She + tried to bend the daisy down and away from the sun, and to make its petals + hang about it like her hair, but she could not. Alas! it was burned and + dead already! She did not know that it could not yield to her gentle force + because it was drinking life, with all the eagerness of life, from what + she called the death-lamp. Oh, how the lamp burned her! + </p> + <p> + But she went on thinking—she did not know how; and by and by began + to reflect that, as there was no roof to the room except that in which the + great fire went rolling about, the little Red-tip must have seen the lamp + a thousand times, and must know it quite well! and it had not killed it! + Nay, thinking about farther, she began to ask the question whether this, + in which she now saw it, might not be its more perfect condition. For not + only now did the whole seem perfect, as indeed it did before, but every + part showed its own individual perfection as well, which perfection made + it capable of combining with the rest into the higher perfection of a + whole. The flower was a lamp itself! The golden heart was the light, and + the silver border was the alabaster globe, skilfully broken, and spread + wide to let out the glory. Yes; the radiant shape was plainly its + perfection! If, then, it was the lamp which had opened it into that shape, + the lamp could not be unfriendly to it, but must be of its own kind, + seeing it made it perfect! And again, when she thought of it, there was + clearly no little resemblance between them. What if the flower then was + the little great-grandchild of the lamp, and he was loving it all the + time? And what if the lamp did not mean to hurt her, only could not help + it? The red lips looked as if the flower had some time or other been hurt: + what if the lamp was making the best it could of her—opening her out + somehow like the flower? She would bear it patiently, and see. But how + coarse the colour of the grass was! Perhaps, however, her eyes not being + made for the bright lamp, she did not see them us they were! Then she + remembered how different were the eyes of the creature that was not a girl + and was afraid of the darkness! Ah, if the darkness would only come again, + all arms, friendly and soft everywhere about her! She would wait and wait, + and bear, and be patient. + </p> + <p> + She lay so still that Watho did not doubt she had fainted. She was pretty + sure she would be dead before the night came to revive her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. REFUGE. + </h2> + <p> + Fixing her telescope on the motionless form, that she might see it at once + when the morning came, Watho went down from the tower to Photogen's room. + He was much better by this time, and before she left him, he had resolved + to leave the castle that very night. The darkness was terrible indeed, but + Watho was worse than even the darkness, and he could not escape in the + day. As soon, therefore, as the house seemed still, he tightened his belt, + hung to it his hunting-knife, put a flask of wine and some bread in his + pocket, and took his bow and arrows. He got from the house, and made his + way at once up to the plain. But what with his illness, the terrors of the + night, and his dread of the wild beasts, when he got to the level he could + not walk a step further, and sat down, thinking it better to die than to + live. In spite of his fears, however, sleep contrived to overcome him, and + he fell at full length on the soft grass. + </p> + <p> + He had not slept long when he woke with such a strange sense of comfort + and security, that he thought the dawn at least must have arrived. But it + was dark night about him. And the sky—no, it was not the sky, but + the blue eyes of his naiad looking down upon him! Once more he lay with + his head in her lap, and all was well, for plainly the girl feared the + darkness as little as he the day. + </p> + <p> + "Thank you," he said. "You are like live armour to my heart; you keep the + fear off me. I have been very ill since then. Did you come up out of the + river when you saw me cross?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't live in the water," she answered. "I live under the pale lamp, + and I die under the bright one." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, yes! I understand now," he returned. "I would not have behaved as I + did last time if I had understood; but I thought you were mocking me; and + I am so made that I cannot help being frightened at the darkness. I beg + your pardon for leaving you as I did, for, as I say, I did not understand. + Now I believe you were really frightened. Were you not?" + </p> + <p> + "I was, indeed," answered Nycteris, "and shall be again. But why you + should be, I cannot in the least understand. You must know how gentle and + sweet the darkness is, how kind and friendly, how soft and velvety! It + holds you to its bosom and loves you. A little while ago, I lay faint and + dying under your hot lamp.—What is it you call it?" + </p> + <p> + "The sun," murmured Photogen: "how I wish he would make haste!" + </p> + <p> + "Ah! do not wish that. Do not, for my sake, hurry him. I can take care of + you from the darkness, but I have no one to take care of me from the + light.—As I was telling you, I lay dying in the sun. All at once I + drew a deep breath. A cool wind came and ran over my face. I looked up. + The torture was gone, for the death-lamp itself was gone. I hope he does + not die and grow brighter yet. My terrible headache was all gone, and my + sight was come back. I felt as if I were new made. But I did not get up at + once, for I was tired still. The grass grew cool about me, and turned soft + in colour. Something wet came upon it, and it was now so pleasant to my + feet, that I rose and ran about. And when I had been running about a long + time, all at once I found you lying, just as I had been lying a little + while before. So I sat down beside you to take care of you, till your life—and + my death—should come again." + </p> + <p> + "How good you are, you beautiful creature!—Why, you forgave me + before ever I asked you!" cried Photogen. + </p> + <p> + Thus they fell a talking, and he told her what he knew of his history, and + she told him what she knew of hers, and they agreed they must get away + from Watho as far as ever they could. + </p> + <p> + "And we must set out at once," said Nycteris. + </p> + <p> + "The moment the morning comes," returned Photogen. + </p> + <p> + "We must not wait for the morning," said Nycteris, "for then I shall not + be able to move, and what would you do the next night? Besides, Watho sees + best in the daytime. Indeed, you must come now, Photogen.—You must." + </p> + <p> + "I can not; I dare not," said Photogen. "I cannot move. If I but lift my + head from your lap, the very sickness of terror seizes me." + </p> + <p> + "I shall be with you," said Nycteris soothingly. "I will take care of you + till your dreadful sun comes, and then you may leave me, and go away as + fast as you can. Only please put me in a dark place first, if there is one + to be found." + </p> + <p> + "I will never leave you again, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "Only wait till + the sun comes, and brings me back my strength, and we will go away + together, and never, never part any more." + </p> + <p> + "No, no," persisted Nycteris; "we must go now. And you must learn to be + strong in the dark as well as in the day, else you will always be only + half brave. I have begun already—not to fight your sun, but to try + to get at peace with him, and understand what he really is, and what he + means with me—whether to hurt me or to make the best of me. You must + do the same with my darkness." + </p> + <p> + "But you don't know what mad animals there are away there towards the + south," said Photogen. "They have huge green eyes, and they would eat you + up like a bit of celery, you beautiful creature!" + </p> + <p> + "Come, come! you must," said Nycteris, "or I shall have to pretend to + leave you, to make you come. I have seen the green eyes you speak of, and + I will take care of you from them." + </p> + <p> + "You! How can you do that? If it were day now, I could take care of you + from the worst of them. But as it is, I can't even see them for this + abominable darkness. I could not see your lovely eyes but for the light + that is in them; that lets me see straight into heaven through them. They + are windows into the very heaven beyond the sky. I believe they are the + very place where the stars are made." + </p> + <p> + "You come then, or I shall shut them," said Nycteris, "and you shan't see + them any more till you are good. Come. If you can't see the wild beasts, I + can." + </p> + <p> + "You can! and you ask me to come!" cried Photogen. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," answered Nycteris. "And more than that, I see them long before they + can see me, so that I am able to take care of you." + </p> + <p> + "But how?" persisted Photogen. "You can't shoot with bow and arrow, or + stab with a hunting-knife." + </p> + <p> + "No, but I can keep out of the way of them all. Why, just when I found + you, I was having a game with two or three of them at once. I see, and + scent them too, long before they are near me—long before they can + see or scent me." + </p> + <p> + "You don't see or scent any now, do you?" said Photogen, uneasily, rising + on his elbow. + </p> + <p> + "No—none at present. I will look," replied Nycteris, and sprang to + her feet. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, oh! do not leave me—not for a moment," cried Photogen, + straining his eyes to keep her face in sight through the darkness. + </p> + <p> + "Be quiet, or they will hear you," she returned. "The wind is from the + south, and they cannot scent us. I have found out all about that. Ever + since the dear dark came, I have been amusing myself with them, getting + every now and then just into the edge of the wind, and letting one have a + sniff of me." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, horrible!" cried Photogen. "I hope you will not insist on doing so + any more. What was the consequence?" + </p> + <p> + "Always, the very instant, he turned with flashing eyes, and hounded + towards me—only he could not see me, you must remember. But my eyes + being so much better than his, I could see him perfectly well, and would + run away round him until I scented him, and then I knew he could not find + me anyhow. If the wind were to turn, and run the other way now, there + might be a whole army of them down upon us, leaving no room to keep out of + their way. You had better come." + </p> + <p> + She took him by the hand. He yielded and rose, and she led him away. But + his steps were feeble, and as the night went on, he seemed more and more + ready to sink. + </p> + <p> + "Oh dear! I am so tired! and so frightened!" he would say. + </p> + <p> + "Lean on me," Nycteris would return, putting her arm round him, or patting + his cheek. "Take a few steps more. Every step away from the castle is + clear gain. Lean harder on me. I am quite strong and well now." + </p> + <p> + So they went on. The piercing night-eyes of Nycteris descried not a few + pairs of green ones gleaming like holes in the darkness, and many a round + she made to keep far out of their way; but she never said to Photogen she + saw them. Carefully she kept him off the uneven places, and on the softest + and smoothest of the grass, talking to him gently all the way as they went—of + the lovely flowers and the stars—how comfortable the flowers looked, + down in their green beds, and how happy the stars up in their blue beds! + </p> + <p> + When the morning began to come, he began to grow better, but was + dreadfully tired with walking instead of sleeping, especially after being + so long ill. Nycteris too, what with supporting him, what with growing + fear of the light which was beginning to ooze out of the east, was very + tired. At length, both equally exhausted, neither was able to help the + other. As if by consent they stopped. Embracing each the other, they stood + in the midst of the wide grassy land, neither of them able to move a step, + each supported only by the leaning weakness of the other, each ready to + fall if the other should move. But while the one grew weaker still, the + other had begun to grow stronger. When the tide of the night began to ebb, + the tide of the day began to flow; and now the sun was rushing to the + horizon, borne upon its foaming billows. And ever as he came, Photogen + revived. At last the sun shot up into the air, like a bird from the hand + of the Father of Lights. Nycteris gave a cry of pain, and hid her face in + her hands. + </p> + <p> + "Oh me!" she sighed; "I am <i>so</i> frightened! The terrible light stings + so!" + </p> + <p> + But the same instant, through her blindness, she heard Photogen give a low + exultant laugh, and the next felt herself caught up: she who all night + long had tended and protected him like a child, was now in his arms, borne + along like a baby, with her head lying on his shoulder. But she was the + greater, for, suffering more, she feared nothing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. THE WEREWOLF. + </h2> + <p> + At the very moment when Photogen caught up Nycteris, the telescope of + Watho was angrily sweeping the table-land. She swung it from her in rage, + and running to her room, shut herself up. There she anointed herself from + top to toe with a certain ointment; shook down her long red hair, and tied + it round her waist; then began to dance, whirling round and round faster + and faster, growing angrier and angrier, until she was foaming at the + mouth with fury. When Falca went looking for her, she could not find her + anywhere. + </p> + <p> + As the sun rose, the wind slowly changed and went round, until it blew + straight from the north. Photogen and Nycteris were drawing near the edge + of the forest, Photogen still carrying Nycteris, when she moved a little + on his shoulder uneasily, and murmured in his ear, + </p> + <p> + "I smell a wild beast—that way, the way the wind is coming." + </p> + <p> + Photogen turned, looked back towards the castle, and saw a dark speck on + the plain. As he looked, it grew larger: it was coming across the grass + with the speed of the wind. It came nearer and nearer. It looked long and + low, but that might be because it was running at a great stretch. He set + Nycteris down under a tree, in the black shadow of its bole, strung his + bow, and picked out his heaviest, longest, sharpest arrow. Just as he set + the notch on the string, he saw that the creature was a tremendous wolf, + rushing straight at him. He loosened his knife in its sheath, drew another + arrow half-way from the quiver, lest the first should fail, and took his + aim—at a good distance, to leave time for a second chance. He shot. + The arrow rose, flew straight, descended, struck the beast, and started + again into the air, doubled like a letter V. Quickly Photogen snatched the + other, shot, cast his bow from him, and drew his knife. But the arrow was + in the brute's chest, up to the feather; it tumbled heels over head with a + great thud of its back on the earth, gave a groan, made a struggle or two, + and lay stretched out motionless. + </p> + <p> + "I've killed it, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "It is a great red wolf." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, thank you!" answered Nycteris feebly from behind the tree. "I was + sure you would. I was not a bit afraid." + </p> + <p> + Photogen went up to the wolf. It <i>was</i> a monster! But he was vexed + that his first arrow had behaved so badly, and was the less willing to + lose the one that had done him such good service: with a long and a strong + pull, he drew it from the brute's chest. Could he believe his eyes? There + lay—no wolf, but Watho, with her hair tied round her waist! The + foolish witch had made herself invulnerable, as she supposed, but had + forgotten that, to torment Photogen therewith, she had handled one of his + arrows. He ran back to Nycteris and told her. + </p> + <p> + She shuddered and wept, and would not look. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. ALL IS WELL. + </h2> + <p> + There was now no occasion to fly a step farther. Neither of them feared + any one but Watho. They left her there, and went back. A great cloud came + over the sun, and rain began to fall heavily, and Nycteris was much + refreshed, grew able to see a little, and with Photogen's help walked + gently over the cool wet grass. + </p> + <p> + They had not gone far before they met Fargu and the other huntsmen. + Photogen told them he had killed a great red wolf, and it was Madam Watho. + The huntsmen looked grave, but gladness shone through. + </p> + <p> + "Then," said Fargu, "I will go and bury my mistress." + </p> + <p> + But when they reached the place, they found she was already buried—in + the maws of sundry birds and beasts which had made their breakfast of her. + </p> + <p> + Then Fargu, overtaking them, would, very wisely, have Photogen go to the + king, and tell him the whole story. But Photogen, yet wiser than Fargu, + would not set out until he had married Nycteris; "for then," he said, "the + king himself can't part us; and if ever two people couldn't do the one + without the other, those two are Nycteris and I. She has got to teach me + to be a brave man in the dark, and I have got to look after her until she + can bear the heat of the sun, and he helps her to see, instead of blinding + her." + </p> + <p> + They were married that very day. And the next day they went together to + the king, and told him the whole story. But whom should they find at the + court but the father and mother of Photogen, both in high favour with the + king and queen. Aurora nearly died for joy, and told them all how Watho + had lied, and made her believe her child was dead. + </p> + <p> + No one knew anything of the father or mother of Nycteris; but when Aurora, + saw in the lovely girl her own azure eyes shining through night and its + clouds, it made her think strange things, and wonder how even the wicked + themselves may be a link to join together the good. Through Watho, the + mothers, who had never seen each other, had changed eyes in their + children. + </p> + <p> + The king gave them the castle and lands of Watho, and there they lived and + taught each other for many years that were not long. But hardly had one of + them passed, before Nycteris had come to love the day best, because it was + the clothing and crown of Photogen, and she saw that the day was greater + than the night, and the sun more lordly than the moon; and Photogen had + come to love the night best, because it was the mother and home of + Nycteris. + </p> + <p> + "But who knows," Nycteris would say to Photogen, "that, when we go out, we + shall not go into a day as much greater than your day as your day is + greater than my night?" + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BUTCHER'S BILLS. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. HUSBAND AND WIFE. + </h2> + <p> + I am going to tell a story of married life. My title will prepare the + reader for something hardly heroic; but I trust it will not be found + lacking in the one genuine and worthy interest a tale ought to have—namely, + that it presents a door through which we may walk into one region or + another of the human heart, and there find ourselves not altogether + unacquainted or from home. + </p> + <p> + There was a law among the Jews which forbade the yoking together of + certain animals, either because, being unequal in size or strength, one of + them must be oppressed, or for the sake of some lesson thus embodied to + the Eastern mind—possibly for both reasons. Half the tragedy would + be taken out of social life if this law could be applied to human beings + in their various relations. I do not say that this would be well, or that + we could afford to lose the result of the tragedy thus occasioned. Neither + do I believe that there are so many instances of unequal yoking as the + misprising judgments of men by men and women by women might lead us to + imagine. Not every one declared by the wisdom of acquaintance to have + thrown himself or herself away must therefore be set down as unequally + yoked. Or it may even be that the inequality is there, but the loss on the + other side. How some people could ever have come together must always be a + puzzle until one knows the history of the affair; but not a few whom most + of us would judge quite unsuited to each other do yet get on pretty well + from, the first, and better and better the longer they are together, and + that with mutual advantage, improvement, and development. Essential + humanity is deeper than the accidents of individuality; the common is more + powerful than the peculiar; and the honest heart will always be learning + to act more and more in accordance with the laws of its being. It must be + of much more consequence to any lady that her husband should be a man on + whose word she can depend than that he should be of a gracious presence. + But if instead of coming nearer to a true understanding of each other, the + two should from the first keep falling asunder, then something tragic may + almost be looked for. + </p> + <p> + Duncan and Lucy Dempster were a couple the very mention of whose Christian + names together would have seemed amusing to the friends who had long + ceased to talk of their unfitness. Indeed, I doubt if in their innermost + privacy they ever addressed each other except as Mr. and Mrs. Dempster. + For the first time to see them together, no one could help wondering how + the conjunction could have been effected. Dempster was of Scotch descent, + but the hereditary high cheek-bone seemed to have got into his nose, which + was too heavy a pendant for the low forehead from which it hung. About an + inch from the end it took a swift and unexpected curve downwards, and was + a curious and abnormal nose, which could not properly be assorted with any + known class of noses. A long upper lip, a large, firm, and not quite ugly + mouth, with a chin both long and square, completed a face which, with its + low forehead, being yet longer than usual, had a particularly equine look. + He was rather under the middle height, slender, and well enough made—altogether + an ordinary mortal, known on 'Change as an able, keen, and laborious man + of business. What his special business was I do not know. He went to the + city by the eight o'clock omnibus every morning, dived into a court, + entered a little square, rushed up two flights of stairs to a couple of + rooms, and sat down in the back one before an office table on a + hair-seated chair. It was a dingy place—not so dirty as it looked, I + daresay. Even the windows, being of bad glass, did, I believe, look + dirtier than they were. It was a place where, so far as the eye of an + outsider could tell, much or nothing might be doing. Its occupant always + wore his hat in it, and his hat always looked shabby. Some people said he + was rich, others that he would be one day. Some said he was a responsible + man, whatever the epithet may have been intended to mean. I believe he was + quite as honest as the recognized laws of his trade demanded—and for + how many could I say more? Nobody said he was avaricious—but then he + moved amongst men whose very notion was first to make money, after that to + be religious, or to enjoy themselves, as the case might be. And no one + either ever said of him that he was a good man, or a generous. He was + about forty years of age, looking somehow as if he had never been younger. + He had had a fair education—better than is generally considered + necessary for mercantile purposes—but it would have been hard to + discover any signs of it in the spending of his leisure. On Sunday + mornings he went with his wife to church, and when he came home had a good + dinner, of which now and then a friend took his share. If no stranger was + present he took his wine by himself, and went to sleep in his easy chair + of marone-coloured leather, while his wife sat on the other side of the + fire if it was winter, or a little way off by the open window if it was + summer, gently yawned now and then, and looked at him with eyes a little + troubled. Then he went off again by the eight o'clock omnibus on Monday + morning, and not an idea more or less had he in his head, not a + hair's-breadth of difference was there in his conduct or pursuits, that he + had been to church and had spent the day out of business. That may, + however, for anything I know, have been as much the clergyman's fault as + his. He was the sort of man you might call machine-made, one in whom + humanity, if in no wise caricatured, was yet in no wise ennobled. + </p> + <p> + His wife was ten years younger than he—hardly less than beautiful—only + that over her countenance seemed to have gathered a kind of haze of + commonness. At first sight, notwithstanding, one could not help perceiving + that she was china and he was delft. She was graceful as she sat, + long-necked, slope-shouldered, and quite as tall as her husband, with a + marked daintiness about her in the absence of the extremes of the fashion, + in the quality of the lace she wore on her black silk dress, and in the + wide white sleeves of fine cambric that covered her arms from the shoulder + to the wrist. She had a morally delicate air, a look of scrupulous nicety + and lavender-stored linen. She had long dark lashes; and when they rose, + the eyelids revealed eyes of uncommon beauty. She had good features, good + teeth, and a good complexion. The main feeling she produced and left was + of ladyhood—little more. + </p> + <p> + Sunday afternoon came fifty-two times in the year. I mention this because + then always, and nearly then only, could one calculate on seeing them + together. It came to them in a surburb of London, and the look of it was + dull. Doubtless Mr. Dempster's dinner and his repose after it were + interesting to him, but I cannot help thinking his wife found it dreary. + She had, however, got used to it. The house was a good old one, of red + brick, much larger than they required, but not expensive, and had a + general look of the refinement of its mistress. In the summer the windows + of the dining-room would generally be open, for they looked into a really + lovely garden behind the house, and the scent of the jasmine that crept + all around them would come in plentifully. I wonder what the scent of + jasmine did in Duncan Dempster's world. Perhaps it never got farther than + the general ante-chamber of the sensorium. It often made his wife sad—she + could not tell why. To him I daresay it smelt agreeable, but I can hardly + believe it ever woke in him that dreamy sensation it gave her—of + something she had not had enough of, she could not say what. When the heat + was gone off a little he would walk out on the lawn, which was well kept + and well watered, with many flowering shrubs about it. Why he did so, I + cannot tell. He looked at nothing in particular, only walked about for a + few minutes, no doubt derived some pleasure of a mild nature from + something, and walked in again to tea. One might have expected he would + have cultivated the acquaintance of his garden a little, if it were only + for the pleasure the contrast would give him when he got back to his loved + office, for a greater contrast could not well have been found than between + his dingy dreary haunt on weekdays—a place which nothing but duty + could have made other than repugnant to any free soul—and this nest + of greenery and light and odour. Sweet scents floated in clouds invisible + about the place; flower eyes and stars and bells and bunches shone and + glowed and lurked all around; his very feet might have learned a lesson of + that which is beyond the sense from the turf he trod; but all the time, if + he were not exactly seeing in his mind's eye the walls and tables of his + office in the City square, his thoughts were not the less brooding over + such business as he there transacted. For Mr. Dempster's was not a free + soul. How could it be when all his energies were given to making money? + This he counted his <i>calling</i>—and I believe actually contrived + to associate some feeling of duty with the notion of leaving behind him a + plump round sum of money, as if money in accumulation and following flood, + instead of money in peaceful current, were the good thing for the world! + Hence the whole realm of real life, the universe of thought and growth, + was a high-hedged park to him, within which he never even tried to look—not + even knowing that he was shut out from it, for the hedge was of his own + growing. What shall ever wake such a man to a sense of indwelling poverty, + or make him begin to hunger after any lowliest expansion? Does a reader + retort, "The man was comfortable, and why should he be troubled?" If the + end of being, I answer, is only comfort in self, I yield. But what if + there should be at the heart of the universe a Thought to which the being + of such men is distasteful? What if to that Thought they look blots in + light, ugly things? May there not lie in that direction some possible + reason why they should bethink themselves? Dempster, however, was not yet + a clinker out of which all the life was burned, however much he looked + like one. There was in him that which might yet burn—and give light + and heat. + </p> + <p> + On the Sunday evenings Mrs. Dempster would have gladly gone to church + again, if only—though to herself she never allowed this for one of + her reasons—to slip from under the weight of her husband's presence. + He seldom spoke to her more than a sentence at a time, but he did like to + have her near him, and I suppose held, through the bare presence, some + kind of dull one-sided communication with her; what did a woman know about + business? and what did he know about except business? It is true he had a + rudimentary pleasure in music—and would sometimes ask her to play to + him, when he would listen, and after his fashion enjoy. But although here + was a gift that might be developed until his soul could echo the music of + the spheres, the embodied souls of Handel or Mendelssohn were to him but + clouds of sound wrapped about kernels—let me say of stock or bonds. + </p> + <p> + For a year or so after their marriage it had been the custom that, the + first thing after breakfast on Monday morning, she should bring him her + account-book, that they might together go over her week's expenses. She + must cultivate the business habits in which, he said, he found her more + than deficient. How could he endure in a wife what would have been + preposterous in a clerk, and would have led to his immediate dismissal? It + was in his eyes necessary that the same strict record of receipt and + expenditure should be kept in the household as in the office; how else was + one to know in what direction things were going? he said. He required of + his wife, therefore, that every individual thing that cost money, even to + what she spent upon her own person, should be entered in her book. She had + no money of her own, neither did he allow her any special sum for her + private needs; but he made her a tolerably liberal weekly allowance, from + which she had to pay everything except house-rent and taxes, an + arrangement which I cannot believe a good one, as it will inevitably lead + some conscientious wives to self-denial severer than necessary, and on the + other hand will tempt the vulgar nature to make a purse for herself by + mean savings off everybody else. It was especially distasteful to Mrs. + Dempster to have to set down every little article of personal requirement + that she bought. It would probably have seemed to her but a trifle had + they both been young when they married, and had there been that tenderness + of love between them which so soon sets everything more than right; but as + it was, she could never get over the feeling that the man was strange to + her. As it was she would have got over this. But there was in her a + certain constitutional lack of precision, combined with a want of energy + and a weakness of will, that rendered her more than careless where her + liking was not interested. Hence, while she would have been horrified at + playing a wrong note or singing out of tune, she not only had no anxiety, + for the thing's own sake, to have her accounts correct, but shrunk from + every effort in that direction. Now I can perfectly understand her recoil + from the whole affair, with her added dislike to the smallness of the + thing required of her; but seeing she did begin with doing it after a + fashion, it is not so easy to understand why, doing it, she should not + make a consolation of doing it with absolute exactness. Not even her dread + of her husband's dissatisfaction—which was by no means small—could + prevail to make her, instead of still trusting a memory that constantly + played her false, put down a thing at once, nor postpone it to a far less + convenient season. Hence it came that her accounts, though never much out, + never balanced; and the weekly audit, while it grew more and more irksome + to the one, grew more and more unsatisfactory to the other. For to Mr. + Dempster's dusty eyes exactitude wore the robe of rectitude, and before + long, precisely and merely from the continued unsatisfactory condition of + her accounts, he began, in a hidden corner of his righteous soul, to + reflect on the moral condition of his wife herself as unsatisfactory. Now + such it certainly was, but he was not the man to judge it correctly, or to + perceive the true significance of her failing. In business, while + scrupulous as to the requirements of custom and recognized right, he + nevertheless did things from which her soul would have recoiled like "the + tender horns of cockled snails;" yet it was to him not merely a strange + and inexplicable fact that she should <i>never</i> be able to show to a + penny, nay, often not to a shilling or eighteenpence, how the week's + allowance went, but a painful one as indicating something beyond + perversity. And truly it was no very hard task he required of her, for, + seeing they had no children, only three servants, and saw little company, + her housekeeping could not be a very heavy or involved affair. Perhaps if + it had been more difficult she would have done it better, but anyhow she + hated the whole thing, procrastinated, and setting down several things + together, was <i>sure</i> to forget some article or mistake some price; + yet not one atom more would she distrust her memory the next time she was + tempted. But it was a small fault at worst, and if her husband had loved + her enough to understand the bearings of it in relation to her mental and + moral condition he would have tried to content himself that at least she + did not exceed her allowance; and would of all things have avoided making + such a matter a burden upon the consciousness of one so differently + educated, if not constituted, from himself. It is but fair to add on the + other side that, if she had loved him after anything like a wifely ideal, + which I confess was not yet possible to her, it would not have been many + weeks before she had a first correct account to show him. Convinced, at + length, that accuracy was not to be had from her, and satisfying himself + with dissatisfaction, he one morning threw from him the little ruled book, + and declared, in a wrath which he sought to smother into dignified but + hopeless rebuke, that he would trouble himself with her no further. She + burst into tears, took up the book, left the room, cried a little, + resolved to astonish him the next Monday, and never set down another item. + When it came, and breakfast was over, he gave her the usual cheque, and + left at once for town. Nor had the accounts ever again been alluded to + between them. + </p> + <p> + Now this might have been very well, or at least not very ill, if both had + done tolerably well thereafter—that is, if the one had continued to + attend to her expenditure as well as before, and the other, when he threw + away the account-book, had dismissed from his mind the whole matter. But + Dempster was one of those dangerous men—more dangerous, however, to + themselves than to others—who never forget, that is, get over, an + offence or disappointment. They respect themselves so much, and, out of + their respect for themselves, build so much upon success, set so much by + never being defeated but always gaining their point, that when they are + driven to confess themselves foiled, the confession is made from the "poor + dumb mouth" of a wound that cannot be healed. It is there for ever—will + be there at least until they find another God to worship than their own + paltry selves. Hence it came that the bourn between the two spiritual + estates yawned a little wider at one point, and a mist of dissatisfaction + would not unfrequently rise from a certain stagnant pool in its hollow. + The cause was paltry in one sense, but nothing to which belongs the name + of <i>Cause</i> can fail to mingle the element of awfulness even with its + paltriness. Its worst effect was that it hindered approximation in other + parts of their marching natures. + </p> + <p> + And as to Mrs. Dempster, I am sorry for the apparent justification which + what I have to confess concerning her must give to the severe whims of + such husbands as hers: from that very Monday morning she began to grow a + little careless about her expenditure—which she had never been + before. By degrees bill after bill was allowed to filch from the provision + of the following week, and when that was devoured, then from that of the + week after. It was not that she was in the least more expensive upon + herself, or that she consciously wasted anything; but, altogether averse + to housekeeping, she ceased to exercise the same outlook upon the + expenditure of the house, did not keep her horses together, left the + management more and more to her cook; while the consciousness that she was + not doing her duty made her more and more uncomfortable, and the knowledge + that things were going farther and farther wrong, made her hate the idea + of accounts worse and worse, until she came at length to regard them with + such a loathing as might have fitted some extreme of moral evil. The bills + which were supposed by her husband to be regularly settled every week were + at last months behind, and the week's money spent in meeting the most + pressing of its demands, while what it could no longer cover was cast upon + the growing heap of evil for the time to come. + </p> + <p> + I must say this for her, however, that there was a small sum of money she + expected on the death of a crazy aunt, which, if she could but lay hold of + it without her husband's knowledge, she meant to devote to the clearing + off of everything, when she vowed to herself to do better in the time to + come. + </p> + <p> + The worst thing in it all was that her fear of her husband kept + increasing, and that she felt more and more uncomfortable in his presence. + Hence that troubled look in her eye, always more marked when her husband + sat dozing in his chair of a Sunday afternoon. + </p> + <p> + It was natural, too, that, although they never quarrelled, their + intercourse should not grow of a more tender character. Seldom was there a + salient point in their few scattered sentences of conversation, except, + indeed, it were some piece of news either had to communicate. Occasionally + the wife read something from the newspaper, but never except at her + husband's request. In general he enjoyed his newspaper over a chop at his + office. Two or three times since their marriage—now eight years—he + had made a transient resolve pointing at the improvement of her mind, and + to that end had taken from his great glass-armoured bookcase some <i>standard</i> + work—invariably, I believe, upon party-politics—from which he + had made her read him a chapter. But, unhappily, she had always got to the + end of it without gaining the slightest glimmer of a true notion of what + the author was driving at. + </p> + <p> + It almost moves me to pity to think of the vagueness of that rudimentary + humanity in Mr. Dempster which made him dream of doing something to + improve his wife's mind. What did he ever do to improve his own? It is + hard to understand how horses find themselves so comfortable in their + stables that, be the day ever so fine, the country ever so lovely, the air + ever so exhilarating, they are always rejoiced to get back into their dull + twilight: it is harder to me to understand how Mr. Dempster could be so + comfortable in his own mind that he never wanted to get out of it, even at + the risk of being beside himself; but no doubt the dimness of its twilight + had a good deal to do with his content. And then there is that in every + human mind which no man's neighbour, nay, no man himself, can understand. + My neighbour may in his turn be regarding my mind as a gloomy place to + live in, while I find it no undesirable residence—though chiefly + because of the number of windows it affords me for looking out of it. + Still, if Dempster's dingy office in the City was not altogether a + sufficing type of the mind that used it, I consider it a very fairly good + one. + </p> + <p> + But wherein was Mrs. Dempster so very different from her husband as I + rudely fancy some of my readers imagining her? Whatever may have been her + reasons for marrying him—one would suppose they must have been + weighty—to do so she must have been in a very undeveloped condition, + and in that condition she still remained. I do not mean that she was less + developed than ninety-nine out of the hundred: most women affect me only + as valuable crude material out of which precious things are making. How + much they might be, must be, shall be! For now they stand like so many + Lot's-wives—so many rough-hewn marble blocks, rather, of which a + Divinity is shaping the ends. Mrs. Dempster had all the making of a lovely + woman, but notwithstanding her grace, her beauty, her sweetness, her + lark-like ballading too, she was a very ordinary woman in that region of + her which knew what she meant when she said "I." Of this fact she had + hardly a suspicion, however; for until aspiration brings humility, people + are generally pretty well satisfied with themselves, having no idea what + poor creatures they are. She saw in her mirror a superior woman, regarded + herself as one of the finer works of creation. The worst was that from the + first she had counted herself superior to her husband, and in marrying him + had felt not merely that she was conferring a favour, which every husband + would allow, but that she was lowering herself without elevating him. Now + it is true that she was pleasanter to look at, that her manners were + sweeter, and her notions of the becoming far less easily satisfied than + his; also that she was a little less deficient in vague reverence for + certain forms of the higher than he. But I know of nothing in her to + determine her classification as of greater value than he, except indeed + that she was on the whole rather more honest. She read novels and he did + not; she passed shallow judgment, where he scorned to judge; she read all + the middling poetry that came in her way, and copied books full of it; but + she could no more have appreciated one of Milton's or Shakspere's smallest + poems than she could have laughed over a page of Chinese. She liked to + hear this and that popular preacher, and when her husband called his + sermons humbug, she heard it with a shocked countenance; but was she + better or worse than her husband when, admiring them as she did, she + permitted them to have no more influence upon her conduct than if they had + been the merest humbug ever uttered by ambitious demagogue? In truth, I + cannot see that in the matter of worth there was much as yet to choose + between them. + </p> + <p> + It is hardly necessary, then, to say that there was little appreciable + approximation of any kind going on between them. If only they would have + read Dickens together! Who knows what might have come of it! But this dull + close animal proximity, without the smallest conscious nearness of heart + or mind or soul—and so little chance, from very lack of wants, for + showing each other kindnesses—surely it is a killing sort of thing! + And yet, and yet, there is always a something—call it habit, or any + poorest name you please—grows up between two who are much together, + at least when they neither quarrel nor thwart each other's designs, which, + tending with its roots towards the deeper human, blossoms into—a + wretched little flower indeed, yet afar off partaking of the nature of + love. The Something seldom reveals its existence until they are parted. I + suspect that with not a few, Death is the love-messenger at the stroke of + whose dart the stream of love first begins to flow in the selfish bosom. + </p> + <p> + It is now necessary to mention a little break in the monotony of Mrs. + Dempster's life, which, but for what came afterwards, could claim no + record. One morning her page announced Major Strong, and possibly she + received the gentleman who entered with a brighter face than she had ever + shown her husband. The major had just arrived from India. He had been much + at her father's house while she was yet a mere girl, being then engaged to + one of her sisters, who died after he went abroad, and before he could + return to marry her. He was now a widower, a fine-looking, frank, manly + fellow. The expression of his countenance was little altered, and the + sight of him revived in the memory of Mrs. Dempster many recollections of + a happy girlhood, when the prospect of such a life as she now led with + tolerable content would have seemed simply unendurable. When her husband + came home she told him as much as he cared to hear of the visitor she had + had, and he made no objection to her asking him to dine the next Sunday. + When he arrived Mr. Dempster saw a man of his own age, bronzed and big, + with not much waist left, but a good carriage and pleasant face. He made + himself agreeable at dinner, appreciated his host's wine, and told good + stories that pleased the business man as showing that he knew "what was + what." He accorded him his more particular approval, speaking to his wife, + on the ground that he was a man of the world, with none of the army slang + about him. Mr. Dempster was not aware that he had himself more business + peculiarities than any officer in her majesty's service had military ones. + </p> + <p> + After this Major Strong frequently called upon Mrs. Dempster. They were + good friends, and did each other no harm whatever, and the husband neither + showed nor felt the least jealousy. They sang together, occasionally went + out shopping, and three or four times went together to the play. Mr. + Dempster, so long as he had his usual comforts, did not pine in his wife's + absence, but did show a little more pleasure when she came home to him + than usually when he came home to her. This lasted for a few months. Then + the major went back to India, and for a time the lady missed him a good + deal, which, considering the dulness of her life, was not very surprising + or reprehensible. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. AN ASTONISHMENT. + </h2> + <p> + Now comes the strange part of my story. + </p> + <p> + One evening the housemaid opened the door to Mr. Dempster on his return + from the city; and perhaps the fact that it was the maid, and not the page + as usual, roused his observation, which, except in business matters, was + not remarkably operative. He glanced at the young woman, when an eye far + less keen than his could not have failed to remark a strangely excited + expression on her countenance. + </p> + <p> + "Where is the boy?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Just run to the doctor's, sir," she answered. + </p> + <p> + Then first he remembered that when he left in the morning his wife had not + been feeling altogether well, but he had never thought of her since. + </p> + <p> + "How is your mistress?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "She's rather poorly, sir, but—but—she's as well as could be + expected." + </p> + <p> + "What does the fool mean?" said Dempster to himself, and very nearly said + it aloud, for he was not over polite to any in his service. But he did not + say it aloud. He advanced into the hall with deliberation, and made for + the stair. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, please sir," the maid cried in a tone of perturbation, when, turning + from shutting the door, she saw his intention, "you can't go up to + mis'ess's room just at this minute, sir. Please go in the dining-room, + sir." + </p> + <p> + "What do you mean?" he asked, turning angrily upon the girl, for of all + things he hated mystery. + </p> + <p> + Like every one else in the house, and office both, she stood in awe of + him, and his look frightened her. + </p> + <p> + "Please go in the dining-room," she gasped entreatingly. + </p> + <p> + "What!" he said and did turn towards the dining-room, "is your mistress so + ill she can't see me?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no, sir!—at least I don't know exactly. Cook's with her, sir. + She's over the worst, anyhow." + </p> + <p> + "What on earth do you mean, girl? Speak out, will you? What is the matter + with your mistress?" + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he stepped into the room, the maid following him. The same + moment he spied a whitish bundle of something on the rug in front of the + fire. + </p> + <p> + "What do you mean by leaving things like that in the dining-room?" he went + on more angrily still. + </p> + <p> + "Please, sir," answered the girl, going and lifting the bundle carefully, + "it's the baby!" + </p> + <p> + "The baby!" shouted Mr. Dempster, and looked at her from head to foot. + "What baby?" Then bethinking himself that it must belong to some visitor + in the drawing-room with his wife, he moderated his tone. "Make haste; + take it away!" he said. "I don't want babies here! There's a time and a + place for everything!—What <i>are</i> you about?" + </p> + <p> + For, instead of obeying her master and taking it away, the maid was + carefully looking in the blanket for the baby. Having found it and turned + aside the covering from its face, she came nearer, and holding up the + little vision, about the size and colour of a roll of red wax taper, said:— + </p> + <p> + "Look at it, sir! It's your own, and worth looking at." + </p> + <p> + Never before had she dared speak to him so! + </p> + <p> + I will not venture to assert that Mr. Dempster turned white, but his + countenance changed, and he dropped into the chair behind him, feeling + less of a business man than had been his consciousness for the last twenty + years. He was hit hard. The absolutely Incredible had hit him. Babies + might be born in a day, but surely not without previous preparation on the + part of nature at least, if not on that of the mother; and in this case if + the mother had prepared herself, certainly she had not prepared him for + the event. It was as if the treasure of Nature's germens were tumbling all + together. His head swam. He could not speak a word. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir," the maid went on, relieved of her trepidation in perceiving + that her master too was mortal, and that her word had such power over him—proud + also of knowing more of his concerns than he did himself, "she was took + about an hour and a half ago. We've kep' sendin' an' sendin' after the + doctor, but he ain't never been yet; only cook, she knows a deal an' she + says she's been very bad, sir. But the young gentleman come at last, bless + him! and now she's doin' as well as could be expected, sir—cook + says." + </p> + <p> + "God bless me!" said the astonished father, and relapsed into the silence + of bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + Eight years married with never a glimmer of offspring—and now, all + at once, and without a whisper of warning, the father of a "young + gentleman!" How could it be other than perplexing—discomposing, + indeed!—yet it was right pleasant too. Only it would have been more + pleasant if experience could have justified the affair! Nature—no, + not Nature—or, if Nature, then Nature sure in some unnatural mood, + had stolen a march upon him, had gone contrary to all that had ever been + revealed of her doings before! and why had she pitched on him—just + him, Duncan Dempster, to exercise one of her more grotesque and wayward + moods upon?—to play at hide-and-seek with after this fashion? She + had not treated him with exactly proper respect, he thought, or, rather + vaguely felt. + </p> + <p> + "Business is business," he remarked, under his breath, "and this cannot be + called proper business behaviour. What is there about me to make game of? + Really, my wife ought—" + </p> + <p> + What his wife ought or ought not to have done, however, had not yet made + itself clear to him, and his endeavour to excogitate being in that + direction broken off, gave way to the pleasure of knowing himself a + father, or perhaps more truly of having an heir. In the strength of it he + rose, went to the cellaret, and poured himself out a glass of his + favourite port, which he sat down to drink in silence and meditation. He + was rather a picture just then and there, though not a very lovely one, + seated, with his hat still on his head, in the middle of the room, upon a + chair half-way between the dining-table and the sideboard, with his glass + of wine in his hand. He was pondering partly the pleasure, but still + mainly the peculiarity of his position. A bishop once told me that, + shortly after he had been raised to the episcopal dignity, a friend's + horses, whose driver had tumbled off the box drunk, ran away with him, and + upset the carriage. He crept out of the window over his head, and the + first thought that came to him as he sat perched on the side of the + carriage, while it was jumbled along by the maddened horses, was, "What do + bishops do in such circumstances?" Equally perplexing was the question + Dempster had to ask himself: how husbands who, after being married eight + years, suddenly and unexpectedly received the gift of a first-born, were + in the habit of comporting themselves! He poured himself out another + glass, and with it came the reflection, both amusing and consoling, that + his brother, who was confidently expecting his tidy five figures to crown + the earthly bliss of one or more of his large family some day, would be + equally but less agreeably surprised. "Serve him right!" he said to + himself. "What business have they to be looking out for my death?" And for + a moment the heavens appeared a little more just than he was ordinarily in + the habit of regarding them. He said to himself he would work harder than + ever now. There would now be some good in making money! He had never given + his mind to it yet, he said: now the world should see what he could do + when he did give his mind to it! + </p> + <p> + Hitherto gathering had been his main pleasure, but with the thought of his + money would now not seldom be mingled the thought of the little thing in + the blanket! He began to find himself strangely happy. I use the wrong + phrase—for the fact is, he had never yet found himself at all; he + knew nothing of the person except a self-painted and immensely flattered + portrait that hung in the innermost chamber of his heart—I mean the + innermost chamber he knew anything of: there were many chambers there of + which he did not even know the doors. Yet a few minutes as he sat there, + and he was actually cherishing a little pride in the wife who had done so + much better for him than he had at length come to expect. If not a good + accountant, she was at least a good wife, and a very fair housekeeper: he + had no doubt she would prove a good mother. He would gladly have gone to + her at once, to let her know how much he was pleased with her behaviour. + As for that little bit of red clay—"terra cotta," he called it to + himself, as he looked round with a smile at the blanket, which the + housemaid had replaced on the rug before the fire—who could imagine + him a potentate upon 'Change—perhaps in time a director of European + affairs! He was not in the way of joking—of all things about money; + the very thought, of business filled him from top to toe with seriousness; + but he did make that small joke, and accompany it with a grim smile. + </p> + <p> + He was startled from his musing by the entrance of the doctor, who had in + the meantime arrived and seen the lady, and now came to look at the baby. + He congratulated Mr. Dempster on having at length a son and heir, but + warned him that his wife was far from being beyond danger yet. The whole + thing was entirely out of the common, he said, and she must be taken the + greatest possible care of. The words woke a gentle pity in the heart of + the man, for by nature all men have some tenderness for women in such + circumstances, but they did not trouble him greatly—for such dangers + belonged to their calling, their <i>business</i> in life, and, doubtless, + if she had attended to that business earlier she would have found it + easier. + </p> + <p> + "Did you ever know such a thing before, doctor?" he asked, with the + importance of one honoured by a personal visit from the Marvellous. + </p> + <p> + "Never in my own practice," answered the doctor, whom the cook had + instructed in the wonders of the case, "but I have read of such a thing." + And Mr. Dempster swelled like a turkey-cock. + </p> + <p> + It was several days before he was allowed to see the mother. Perhaps had + she expressed a strong desire to see him, it might have been risked + sooner, but she had neither expressed nor manifested any. He kissed her, + spoke a few stupid words in a kind tone, asking her how she did, but + paying no heed to her answer, and turned aside to look, at the baby. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dempster recovered but slowly, and not very satisfactorily. She did + not seem to care much about the child. She tried to nurse him, but was not + very successful. She took him when the nurse brought him, and yielded him + again with the same indifference, showing neither pleasure to receive nor + unwillingness to part with him. The nurse did not fail to observe it and + remark upon it: <i>she</i> had never seen a mother care so little for her + child! there was little of the mother in <i>her</i> any way! it was no + wonder she was so long about it. It troubled the father a little that she + should not care for his child: some slight fermentation had commenced in + the seemingly dead mass of human affection that had lain so long neglected + in his being, and it seemed strange to him that, while he was living for + the child in the City, she should be so indifferent to him at home. For + already he had begun to keep his vow, already his greater keenness in + business was remarked in the City. But it boded little good for either + that the gift of God should stir up in him the worship of Mammon. More + sons are damned by their fathers' money than by anything else whatever + outside of themselves. + </p> + <p> + There was the excuse to be made for Mrs. Dempster that she continued far + from strong—and her husband made it: he would have made it more + heartily if he had himself ever in his life known what it was to be ill. + By degrees she grew stronger, however, until, to persons who had not known + her before, she would have seemed in tolerable health. For a week or two + after she was again going about the house, she continued to nurse the + baby, but after that she became unable to do so, and therewith began to + neglect him entirely. She never asked to see him, and when the nurse + brought him would turn her head aside, and tell her to take it away. So + far from his being a pleasure to her, the very sight of the child brought + the hot dew upon her forehead. Her husband frowned and wondered, but, + unaccustomed to open his mind either to her or to any one else, not + unwisely sought to understand the thing before speaking of it, and in the + meantime commenced a genuine attempt to make up to the baby for his + mother's neglect. Almost without a notion how even to take him in his + arms, he would now send for him the moment he had had his tea, and after a + fashion, ludicrous in the eyes of the nurse, would dandle and caress him, + and strut about with him before his wife, glancing up at her every now and + then, to point the lesson that such was the manner in which a parent ought + to behave to a child. In his presence she never made any active show of + her dislike, but her look seemed all the time fixed on something far away, + as if she had nothing to do with the affair. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. ANOTHER ASTONISHMENT. + </h2> + <p> + But a second and very different astonishment awaited Mr. Dempster. Again + one evening, on his return from the City, he saw a strange look on the + face of the girl who opened the door—but this time it was a look of + fear. + </p> + <p> + "Well?" he said, in a tone at once alarmed and peremptory. + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, but turned whiter than before. + </p> + <p> + "Where is your mistress?" he demanded. + </p> + <p> + "Nobody knows, sir," she answered. + </p> + <p> + "Nobody knows! What would you have me understand by such an answer?" + </p> + <p> + "It's the bare truth, sir. Nobody knows where she is." + </p> + <p> + "God bless me!" cried the husband. "What does it all mean?" + </p> + <p> + And again he sunk down upon a chair—this time in the hall, and + stared at the girl as if waiting further enlightenment. + </p> + <p> + But there was little enough to be had. Only one point was clear: his wife + was nowhere to be found. He sent for every one in the house, and + cross-questioned each to discover the last occasion on which she had been + seen. It was some time since she had been missed; how long before that she + had been seen there was no certainty to be had. He ran to the doctor, then + from one to another of her acquaintance, then to her mother, who lived on + the opposite side of London. She, like the rest, could tell him nothing. + In her anxiety she would have gone back with him, but he was surly, and + would not allow her. It was getting towards morning before he reached + home, but no relieving news awaited him. What to think was as much a + perplexity to him as what to do. He was not in the agony in which a man + would have been who thoroughly loved his wife, but he cared enough about + her to feel uncomfortable; and the cries of the child, who was suffering + from some ailment, made him miserable: in his perplexity and dull sense of + helplessness he wondered whether she might not have given the baby poison + before she went. Then the thing would make such a talk! and, of all + things, Duncan Dempster hated being talked about. How busy people's brains + would be with all his affairs! How many explanations of the mystery would + be suggested on 'Change! Some would say, "What business had a man like him + with a fine lady for a wife? one so much younger than himself too!" He + could remember making the same remark of another, before he was married. + "Served him right!" they would say. And with that the first movement of + suspicion awoke in him—purely and solely from his own mind's + reflection of the imagined minds of others. While in his mind's ear he + heard them talking, almost before he knew what they meant the words came + to him: "There was that Major Strong, you know!" + </p> + <p> + "She's gone to him!" he cried aloud, and, springing from the bed on which + he had thrown himself, he paced the chamber in a fury. He had no word for + it but hers that he was now in India! They had only been waiting till—By + heaven, that child was none of his! And therewith rushed into his mind the + conviction that everything was thus explained. No man ever yet entertained + an unhappy suspicion, but straightway an army of proofs positive came + crowding to the service of the lie. It is astounding with what manifest + probability everything will fall in to prove that a fact which has no + foundation whatever! There is no end to the perfection with which a man + may fool himself while taking absolute precautions against being fooled by + others. Every fact, being a living fact, has endless sides and relations; + but of all these, the man whose being hangs upon one thought, will see + only those sides and relations which fall in with that thought. Dempster + even recalled the words of the maid, "It's mis'ess's," as embodying the + girl's belief that it was not master's. Where a man, whether by nature + jealous or not, is in a jealous condition, there is no need of an Iago to + parade before him the proofs of his wrong. It was because Shakespere would + neither have Desdemona less than perfect, nor Othello other than the most + trusting and least suspicious of men, that he had to invent an all but + incredible villain to effect the needful catastrophe. + </p> + <p> + But why should a man, who has cared so little for his wife, become + instantly, upon the bare suspicion, so utter a prey to consuming misery? + There was a character in his suffering which could not be attributed to + any degree of anger, shame, or dread of ridicule. The truth was, there lay + in his being a possibility of love to his wife far beyond anything his + miserably stunted consciousness had an idea of; and the conviction of her + faithlessness now wrought upon him in the office of Death, to let him know + what he had lost. It magnified her beauty in his eyes, her gentleness, her + grace; and he thought with a pang how little he had made of her or it. + </p> + <p> + But the next moment wrath at the idea of another man's child being imposed + upon him as his, with the consequent loss of his precious money, swept + every other feeling before it. For by law the child was his, whoever might + be the father of it. During a whole minute he felt on the point of tying a + stone about its neck, carrying it out, and throwing it into the river Lea. + Then, with the laugh of a hyena, he set about arranging in his mind the + proofs of her guilt. First came eight childless years with himself; next + the concealment of her condition, and the absurd pretence that she had + known nothing of it; then the trouble of mind into which she had fallen; + then her strange unnatural aversion to her own child; and now, last of + all, conclusive of a guilty conscience, her flight from his house. He + would give himself no trouble to find her; why should he search after his + own shame! He would neither attempt to conceal nor to explain the fact + that she had left him—people might say what they pleased—try + him for murder if they liked! As to the child she had so kindly left to + console him for her absence, he would not drown him, neither would he + bring him up in his house; he would give him an ordinary education, and + apprentice him to a trade. For his money, he would leave it to a hospital—a + rich one, able to defend his will if disputed. For what was the child? A + monster—a creature that had no right to existence! + </p> + <p> + Not one of those who knew him best would have believed him capable of + being so moved, nor did one of them now know it, for he hid his suffering + with the success of a man not unaccustomed to make a mask of his face. + There are not a few men who, except something of the nature of a + catastrophe befall them, will pass through life without having or + affording a suspicion of what is in them. Everything hitherto had tended + to suppress the live elements of Duncan Dempster; but now, like the fire + of a volcano in a land of ice, the vitality in him had begun to show + itself. + </p> + <p> + Sheer weariness drove him, as the morning began to break, to lie down + again; but he neither undressed nor slept, and rose at his usual hour. + When he entered the dining-room, where breakfast was laid as usual—only + for one instead of two—he found by his plate, among letters + addressed to his wife, a packet directed to himself. It had not been + through the post, and the address was in his wife's hand. He opened it. A + sheet of paper was wrapped around a roll of unpaid butcher's bills, + amounting to something like eighty pounds, and a note from the butcher + craving immediate settlement. On the sheet of paper was written, also in + his wife's hand, these words: "I am quite unworthy of being your wife any + longer;" that was all. + </p> + <p> + Now here, to a man who had loved her enough to understand her, was a clue + to the whole—to Dempster it was the strongest possible confirmation + of what he had already concluded. To him it appeared as certain as + anything he called truth, that for years, while keeping a fair face to her + husband—a man who had never refused her anything—he did not + recall the fact that almost never had she asked or he offered anything—she + had been deceiving him, spending money she would not account for, + pretending to pay everything when she had been ruining his credit with the + neighbourhood, making him, a far richer man than any but himself knew, + appear to be living beyond his means, when he was every month investing + far more than he spent. It was injury upon injury! Then, as a last mark of + her contempt, she had taken pains that these beggarly butcher's bills + should reach him from her own hand! He would trouble himself about such a + woman not a moment longer! + </p> + <p> + He went from breakfast to his omnibus as usual, walked straight to his + office, and spent the day according to custom. I need hardly say that the + first thing he did was to write a cheque for the butcher. He made no + further inquiry after her whatever, nor was any made of him there, for + scarcely one of the people with whom he did business had been to his + house, or had even seen his wife. + </p> + <p> + In the suburb where he lived it was different; but he paid no heed to any + inquiry, beyond saying he knew nothing about her. To her relatives he said + that if they wanted her they might find her for themselves. She had gone + to please herself, and he was not going to ruin himself by running about + the world after her. + </p> + <p> + Night after night he came home to his desolate house; took no comfort from + his child; made no confession that he stood in need of comfort. But he had + a dull sensation as if the sun had forsaken the world, and an endless + night had begun. The simile, of course, is mine—the sensation only + was his; <i>he</i> could never have expressed anything that went on in the + region wherein men suffer. + </p> + <p> + A few days made a marked difference in his appearance. He was a hard man; + but not so hard as people had thought him; and besides, <i>no</i> man can + rule his own spirit except he has the spirit of right on his side; neither + is any man proof against the inroads of good. Even Lady Macbeth was + defeated by the imagination she had braved. Add to this, that no man can, + even by those who understand him best, be labelled as a box containing + such and such elements, for the humanity in him is deeper than any + individuality, and may manifest itself at some crisis in a way altogether + beside expectation. + </p> + <p> + His feeling was not at first of an elevated kind. After the grinding wrath + had abated, self-pity came largely to the surface—not by any means a + grand emotion, though very dear to boys and girls in their first + consciousness of self, and in them pardonable enough. On the same ground + it must be pardoned in a man who, with all his experience of the world, + was more ignorant of the region of emotion, and more undeveloped morally, + than multitudes of children: in him it was an indication that the shell + was beginning to break. He said to himself that he was old beside her, and + that she had begun to weary of him, and despise him. Gradually upon this, + however, supervened at intervals a faint shadow of pity for her who could + not have been happy or she would not have left him. + </p> + <p> + Days and weeks passed, and there was no sign of Mrs. Dempster. The child + was not sent out to nurse, and throve well enough. His father never took + the least notice of him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. WHAT IT MEANT. + </h2> + <p> + Some of my readers, perhaps all of them, will have concluded that Mrs. + Dempster was a little out of her mind. Such, indeed, was the fact, and one + not greatly to be wondered at, after such a peculiar experience as she had + had. Some small degree of congestion, and the consequent pressure on some + portion of the brain, had sent certain faculties to sleep, and, perhaps, + roused others into morbid activity. That it is impossible to tell where + sanity ends and insanity begins, is a trite remark indeed; but like many + things which it is useless to say, it has the more need to be thought of. + If I yield to an impulse of which I know I shall be ashamed, is it not the + act of a madman? And may not the act lead to a habit, and at length to a + despised, perhaps feared and hated, old age, twisting at the ragged ends + of a miserable life? + </p> + <p> + However certain it is that mental disorder had to do with Mrs. Dempster's + departure from her home, it is almost as certain she would never have gone + had it not been for the unpaid bills haunting her consciousness, a + combination of demon and ghost. The misery had all the time been growing + upon her, and must have had no small share in the subversion of her + microcosm. When that was effected, the evil thing that lay at the root of + it all rose and pounced upon her. Wrong is its own avenger. She had been + doing wrong, and knowingly for years, and now the plant of evil was + blossoming towards its fruit. If one say the evil was but a trifle, I take + her judgment, not his, upon that. She had been lazy towards duty, had + persistently turned aside from what she knew to be her business, until she + dared not even look at it. And now that the crisis was at hand, as omened + by that letter from the butcher, with the sense of her wrong-doing was + mingled the terror of her husband. What would he think, say, and do? Not + yet had she, after all these years, any deep insight into his character; + else perhaps she might have read there that, much as he loved money, the + pleasure of seeing signal failure follow the neglect of his instructions + would quite compensate him for the loss. What the bills amounted to, she + had not an idea. Not until she had made up her mind to leave her home + could she muster the courage to get them together. Then she even counted + up the total and set down the sum in her memory—which sum thereafter + haunted her like the name of her devil. + </p> + <p> + As to the making up of her mind—she could remember very little of + that process—or indeed of the turning of her resolve into action. + She left the house in the plainest dress her wardrobe could afford her, + and with just one half-crown in her pocket. Her design was to seek a + situation, as a refuge from her husband and his wrath. It was a curious + thing, that, while it gave her no trouble to leave her baby, whom indeed + she had not that day seen, and to whom for some time she had ceased to be + necessary, her only notion was to get a place as nurse. + </p> + <p> + At that time, I presume, there were few or no such offices for engaging + servants as are now common; at all events, the plan Mrs. Dempster took, + when she had reached a part of London she judged sufficiently distant for + her purpose, was to go from shop to shop inquiring after a situation. But + she met with no prospect of success, and at last, greatly in need of rest + and refreshment, went into a small coffee shop. The woman who kept it was + taken by her appearance, her manners, and her evident trouble, and, + happening to have heard of a lady who wanted a nurse, gave her the + address. She went at once, and applied for the place. The lady was much + pleased with her, and agreed to take her, provided she received a + satisfactory character of her. For such a demand Mrs. Dempster was + unprepared; she had never thought what reference she could give, and, her + resources for deception easily exhausted, gave, driven to extremity, the + name and address of her mother. So met the extremes of loss and salvation! + She returned to the coffee shop, and the lady wrote at once to the address + of the young woman's late mistress, as she supposed. + </p> + <p> + The kindness of her new friend was not exhausted; she gave her a share of + her own bed that night. Mrs. Dempster had now but two shillings, which she + offered her, promising to pay her the rest out of the first wages she + received. But the good woman would take no more than one of them, and that + in full payment of what she owed her, and Mrs. Dempster left the shop in + tears, to linger about the neighbourhood until the hour should arrive at + which the lady had told her to call again. Apparently she must have + cherished the hope that her mother, divining her extremity, would give her + the character she could honestly claim. But as she drew near the door + which she hoped would prove a refuge, her mother was approaching it also, + and at the turning of a corner they ran into each other's arms. The + elderly lady had a hackney coach waiting for her in the next street, and + Mrs. Dempster, too tired to resist, got into it at once at her mother's + desire. Ere they reached the mother's house, which, as I have said, was a + long way from Mr. Dempster's, the daughter told everything, and the mother + had perceived more than the daughter could tell: her eyes had revealed + that all was not right behind them. She soothed her as none but a mother + can, easily persuading her she would make everything right, and + undertaking herself to pay the money owing to the butcher. But it was soon + evident that for the present there must be no suggestion of her going back + to her husband; for, imagining from something, that her mother was taking + her to him, she jumped up and had all but opened the door of the cab when + her mother succeeded in mastering her. As soon as she was persuaded that + such had never been the intention, she was quiet. When they reached the + house she was easily induced to go to bed at once. + </p> + <p> + Her mother lived in a very humble way, with one servant, a trustworthy + woman. To her she confided the whole story, and with her consulted as to + what had better be done. Between them they resolved to keep her, for a + while at least, in retirement and silence. To this conclusion they came on + the following grounds: First, the daughter's terror and the mother's own + fear of Mr. Dempster; next, it must be confessed, the resentment of both + mistress and servant because of his rudeness when he came to inquire after + her; third, the evident condition of the poor creature's mind; and last, + the longing of the two women to have her to themselves, that they might + nurse and cosset her to their hearts' content. + </p> + <p> + They were to have more of this indulgence, however, than, for her sake, + they would have desired, for before morning she was very ill. She had + brain fever, in fact, and they had their hands full, especially as they + desired to take every precaution to prevent the neighbourhood from knowing + there was any one but themselves in the house. + </p> + <p> + It was a severe attack, but she passed the crisis favourably, and began to + recover. One morning, after a quieter night than usual, she called her + mother, and told her she had had a strange dream—that she had a baby + somewhere, but could not find him, and was wandering about looking for + him. + </p> + <p> + "Wasn't it a curious dream, mamma?" she said. "I wish it were a true one. + I knew exactly what my baby was like, and went into house after house full + of children, sure that I could pick him out of thousands. I was just going + up to the door of the Foundling Hospital to look for him there when I + woke." + </p> + <p> + As she ceased, a strange trouble passed like a cloud over her forehead and + eyes, and her hand, worn almost transparent by the fever followed it over + forehead and eyes. She seemed trying to recall something forgotten. But + her mother thought it better to say nothing. + </p> + <p> + Each of the two nights following she had the same dream. + </p> + <p> + "Three times, mother," she said. "I am not superstitious, as you know, but + I can't help feeling as if it must mean something. I don't know what to + make of it else—except it be that I haven't got over the fever yet. + And, indeed, I am afraid my head is not quite right, for I can't be sure + sometimes, such a hold has my dream of me, that I haven't got a baby + somewhere about the world. Give me your hand, mother, and sing to me." + </p> + <p> + Still her mother thought it more prudent to say nothing, and do what she + could to divert her thoughts; for she judged it must be better to let her + brain come right, as it were, of itself. + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the next night she woke her with a cry. + </p> + <p> + "O, mother, mother! I know it all now. I am not out of my mind any more. + How I came here I cannot tell—but I know I have a husband and a baby + at Hackney—and—oh, such a horrible roll of butcher's bills!" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes, my dear! I know all about it," answered her mother. "But never + mind; you can pay them all yourself now, for I heard only yesterday that + your aunt Lucy is dead, and has left you the hundred pounds she promised + you twenty years ago." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, bless her!" cried Mrs. Dempster, springing out of bed, much to the + dismay of her mother, who boded a return of the fever. "I must go home to + my baby at once. But tell me all about it, mamma. How did I come here? I + seem to remember being in a carriage with you, and that is the last I + know." + </p> + <p> + Then, upon condition that she got into bed at once, and promised not to + move until she gave her leave, her mother consented to tell her all she + knew. She listened in silence, with face flushed and eyes glowing, but + drank a cooling draught, lay down again, and at daybreak was fast asleep. + When she awoke she was herself again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME OF IT. + </h2> + <p> + Meantime, things were going, as they should, in rather a dull fashion with + Duncan Dempster. His chariot wheels were gone, and he drove heavily. The + weather was good; he seldom failed of the box-seat on the omnibus; a ray + of light, the first he had ever seen there, visited his table, reflected + from a new window on the opposite side of a court into the heart of his + dismal back office; and best of all, business was better than usual. Yet + was Dempster not cheerful. He was not, indeed, a man an acquaintance would + ever have thought of calling cheerful; but in grays there are gradations; + and however differently a man's barometer may be set from those of other + people, it has its ups and downs, its fair weather and foul. But not yet + had he an idea how much his mental equilibrium had been dependent upon the + dim consciousness of having that quiet uninterested wife in the + comfortable house at Hackney. It had been stronger than it seemed, the + spidery, invisible line connecting that office and that house, along which + had run twice a day the hard dumpling that dwelt in Mr. Dempster's bosom. + Vaguely connected with that home after all must have been that endless + careful gathering of treasure in the city; for now, though he could no + more stop making money than he could stop breathing, it had not the same + interest as formerly. Indeed, he had less interest than before in keeping + his lungs themselves going. But he kept on doing everything as usual. + </p> + <p> + Not one of the men he met ever said a word to him about his wife. The + general impression was that she had left him for preferable society, and + no one wondered at her throwing aside such "a dry old stick," whom even + the devoted slaves of business contemned as having nothing in him but + business. + </p> + <p> + A further change was, however, in progress within him. The first sign of + it was that he began to doubt whether his wife had indeed been false to + him—had forsaken him in any other company than that of Death. But + there was one great difficulty in the way of the conclusion. It was + impossible for him to imagine suicide as proceeding from any cause but + insanity, and what could have produced the disorder in one who had no + cares or anxieties, everything she wanted, and nothing to trouble her, a + devoted husband, and a happy home? Yet the mere idea made him think more + pitifully, and so more tenderly of her than before. It had not yet + occurred to him to consider whether he might not have had something to do + with her conduct or condition. Blame was a thing he had never made + acquaintance with—least of all in the form of self-blame. To himself + he was simply all right—the poised centre of things capable of + righteous judgment on every one else. But it must not be forgotten how + little he knew about his own affairs at all; his was a very different + condition from that of one who had closed his eyes and hardened his heart + to suspicions concerning himself. His eyes had never yet been opened to + anything but the order of things in the money world—its laws, its + penalties, its rewards—those he did understand. But apparently he + was worth troubling. A slow dissatisfaction was now preying upon him—a + sense of want—of not having something he once had, a vague + discomfort, growing restless. This feeling was no doubt the worse that the + birth of the child had brought such a sudden rush of fresh interest into + his occupation, which doubt concerning that birth had again so suddenly + checked; but even if the child should prove after all his own, a + supposition he was now willing to admit as possibly a true one, he could + never without his mother feel any enthusiasm about him, even such + enthusiasm as might be allowed to a man who knew money from moonshine, and + common sense from hysterics. Yet once and again, about this time, the + nurse coming into the room after a few minutes' absence, found him bending + over the sleeping infant, and, as she described him, "looking as if he + would have cried if he had only known how." + </p> + <p> + One frosty evening in late autumn the forsaken husband came from London—I + doubt if he would now have said "home"—as usual, on the top of the + omnibus. His was a tough nature physically, as well as morally, and if he + had found himself inside an omnibus he would have thought he was going to + die. The sun was down. A green hue rose from the horizon half-way to the + zenith, but a pale yellow lingered over the vanished sun, like the gold at + the bottom of a chrysolite. The stars were twinkling small and sharp in + the azure overhead. A cold wind blew in little gusts, now from this side, + now from that, as they went steadily along. The horses' hoofs rang loud on + the hard road. The night got hold of him: it was at this season, and on + nights like these, that he had haunted the house of Lucy's father, doing + his best to persuade her to make him, as he said, a happy man. It now + seemed as if then, and then only, he had been a happy man. Certainly, of + all his life, it was the time when he came nearest to having a peep out of + the upper windows of the house of life. He had been a dweller in the lower + regions, a hewer of wood to the god of the cellar; and after his marriage, + he had gone straight down again to the temple of the earthy god—to a + worship whose god and temple and treasure caves will one day drop suddenly + from under the votary's feet, and leave him dangling in the air without + even a pocket about him—without even his banker's book to show for + his respectability. + </p> + <p> + The night, I say, recalled the lovely season of his courtship, and again, + in the mirror of loss, he caught a glimpse of things beyond him. Ah, if + only that time and its hopes had remained with him! How different things + would have been now! If Lucy had proved what he thought her!—remained + what she seemed—the gentle, complaisant, yielding lady he imagined + her, promising him a life of bliss! Alas, she would not even keep account + of five pounds a week to please him! He never thought whether he, on his + part, might not have, in some measure, come short of her expectations in a + husband; whether she, the more lovely in inward design and outward + fashion, might not have indulged yet more exquisite dreams of bliss which, + by devotion to his ideal of life, he had done his part in disappointing. + He only thought what a foolishness it all was; that thus it would go on to + the end of the book; that youth after youth would have his turn of such a + wooing, and such a disappointment. Sunsets, indeed! The suns of man's + happiness never did anything but set! Out of money even—and who + could say there was any poetry in that?—there was not half the + satisfaction to be got that one expected. It was all a mess of + expectations and disappointments mashed up together—nothing more. + That was the world—on a fair judgment. + </p> + <p> + Such were his reflections till the driver pulled up for him to get down at + his own gate. As he got down the said driver glanced up curiously at the + row of windows on the first floor, and as soon as Mr. Dempster's back was + turned, pointed to them with the butt-end of his whip, and nodded queerly + to the gentleman who sat on his other side. + </p> + <p> + "That's more'n I've seen this six weeks," he said. "There's something + more'n common up this evenin', sir." + </p> + <p> + There was light in the drawing-room—that was all the wonder; but at + those windows Mr. Dempster himself looked so fixedly that he had nearly + stumbled up his own door-steps. + </p> + <p> + He carried a latch-key now, for he did not care to stand at the door till + the boy answered the bell; people's eyes, as they passed, seemed to burn + holes in the back of his coat. + </p> + <p> + He opened the street door quietly, and went straight up the stair to the + drawing-room. Perhaps he thought to detect some liberty taken by his + servants. He was a little earlier than usual. He opened that door, took + two steps into the room, and stood arrested, motionless. With his shabby + hat on his head, his shabby greatcoat on his back—for he grudged + every penny spent on his clothes—his arms hanging down by his sides, + and his knees bent, ready to tremble, he looked not a little out of + keeping in the soft-lighted, dainty, delicate-hued drawing-room. Could he + believe his eyes? The light of a large lamp was centred upon a gracious + figure in white—his wife, just as he used to see her before he + married her! That was the way her hair would break loose as she ran down + the stair to meet him!—only then there was no baby in her lap for it + to full over like a torrent of unlighted water over a white stone! It was + a lovely sight. + </p> + <p> + He had stood but a moment when she looked up and saw him. She started, but + gave no cry louder than a little moan. Instantly she rose. Turning, she + laid the baby on the sofa, and flitted to him like a wraith. Arrived where + he stood yet motionless, she fell upon her knees and clasped his. He was + far too bewildered now to ask himself what husbands did in such + circumstances, and stood like a block. + </p> + <p> + "Husband! husband!" she cried, "forgive me." With one hand she hid her + face, although it was bent to the ground, and with the other held up to + him a bit of paper. He took it from the thin white fingers; it might + explain something—help him out of this bewilderment, half nightmare, + half heavenly vision. He opened it. Nothing but a hundred-pound note! The + familiar sight of bank paper, however, seemed to restore his speech. + </p> + <p> + "What does this mean, Lucy? Upon my word! Permit me to say—" + </p> + <p> + He was growing angry. + </p> + <p> + "It is to pay the butcher," she said, with a faltering voice. + </p> + <p> + "Damn the butcher!" he cried. "I hope you've got something else to say to + me! Where have you been all this time?" + </p> + <p> + "At my mother's. I've had a brain fever, and been out of my mind. It was + all about the butcher's bill." + </p> + <p> + Dempster stared. Perhaps he could not understand how a woman who would not + keep accounts should be to such a degree troubled at the result of her + neglect. + </p> + <p> + "Look at me, if you don't believe me," she cried, and as she spoke she + rose and lifted her face to his. + </p> + <p> + He gazed at it for a moment—pale, thin, and worn; and out of it + shone the beautiful eyes, larger than before, but shimmering uncertain + like the stars of a humid night, although they looked straight into his. + </p> + <p> + Something queer was suddenly the matter with his throat—something he + had never felt before—a constriction such as, had he been + superstitious, he might have taken for the prologue to a rope. Then the + thought came—what a brute he must be that his wife should have been + afraid to tell him her trouble! Thereupon he tried to speak, but his + throat was irresponsive to his will. Eve's apple kept sliding up and down + in it, and would not let the words out. He had never been so served by + members of his own body in his life before! It was positive rebellion, and + would get him into trouble with his wife. There it was! Didn't he say so? + </p> + <p> + "Can't you forgive me, Mr. Dempster?" she said, and the voice was so sweet + and so sad! "It is my own money. Aunt Lucy is dead, and left it me. I + think it will be enough to pay all my debts; and I promise you—I do + promise you that I will set down every halfpenny after this. Do try me + once again—for baby's sake." + </p> + <p> + This last was a sudden thought. She turned and ran to the sofa. Dempster + stood where he was, fighting the strange uncomfortable feeling in his + throat. It would not yield a jot. Was he going to die suddenly of choking? + Was it a judgment upon him? Diphtheria, perhaps! It was much about in the + City! + </p> + <p> + She was back, and holding up to him their sleeping child. + </p> + <p> + The poor fellow was not half the brute he looked—only he could <i>not</i> + tell what to do with that confounded lump in his throat! He dared not try + to speak, for it only choked him the more. He put his arms round them + both, and pressed them to his bosom. Then, the lump in his throat melted + and ran out at his eyes, and all doubt vanished like a mist before the + sun. But he never knew that he had wept. His wife did, and that was + enough. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, for the first time in his life, he lost the eight + o'clock omnibus. + </p> + <p> + The following Monday morning she brought her week's account to him. He + turned from it testily, but she insisted on his going over it. There was + not the mistake of a halfpenny. He went to town with a smile in his heart, + and that night brought her home a cheque for ten pounds instead of five. + </p> + <p> + One day, in the middle of the same week, he came upon her sitting over the + little blue-and-red-ruled book with a troubled countenance. She took no + notice of his entrance. + </p> + <p> + "Do leave those accounts," he said, "and attend to me." + </p> + <p> + She shook her head impatiently, and made him no other answer. One moment + more, however, and she started up, threw her arms about his neck, and + cried triumphantly, + </p> + <p> + "It's buttons!—fourpence-halfpenny I paid for buttons!" + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PORT IN A STORM + </h2> + <p> + "Papa," said my sister Effie, one evening as we all sat about the + drawing-room fire. One after another, as nothing followed, we turned our + eyes upon her. There she sat, still silent, embroidering the corner of a + cambric hand-kerchief, apparently unaware that she had spoken. + </p> + <p> + It was a very cold night in the beginning of winter. My father had come + home early, and we had dined early that we might have a long evening + together, for it was my father's and mother's wedding-day, and we always + kept it as the homeliest of holidays. My father was seated in an + easy-chair by the chimney corner, with a jug of Burgundy near him, and my + mother sat by his side, now and then taking a sip out of his glass. + </p> + <p> + Effie was now nearly nineteen; the rest of us were younger. What she was + thinking about we did not know then, though we could all guess now. + Suddenly she looked up, and seeing all eyes fixed upon her, became either + aware or suspicious, and blushed rosy red. + </p> + <p> + "You spoke to me, Effie. What was it, my dear?" + </p> + <p> + "O yes, papa. I wanted to ask you whether you wouldn't tell us, to-night, + the story about how you—" + </p> + <p> + "Well, my love?" + </p> + <p> + "—About how you—" + </p> + <p> + "I am listening, my dear." + </p> + <p> + "I mean, about mamma and you." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes. About how I got your mamma for a mother to you. Yes. I paid a + dozen of port for her." + </p> + <p> + We all and each exclaimed <i>Papa</i>! and my mother laughed. + </p> + <p> + "Tell us all about it," was the general cry. + </p> + <p> + "Well, I will," answered my father. "I must begin at the beginning, + though." + </p> + <p> + And, filling his glass with Burgundy, he began. + </p> + <p> + "As far back as I can remember, I lived with my father in an old + manor-house in the country. It did not belong to my father, but to an + elder brother of his, who at that time was captain of a seventy-four. He + loved the sea more than his life; and, as yet apparently, had loved his + ship better than any woman. At least he was not married. + </p> + <p> + "My mother had been dead for some years, and my father was now in very + delicate health. He had never been strong, and since my mother's death, I + believe, though I was too young to notice it, he had pined away. I am not + going to tell you anything about him just now, because it does not belong + to my story. When I was about five years old, as nearly as I can judge, + the doctors advised him to leave England. The house was put into the hands + of an agent to let—at least, so I suppose; and he took me with him + to Madeira, where he died. I was brought home by his servant, and by my + uncle's directions, sent to a boarding-school; from there to Eton, and + from there to Oxford. + </p> + <p> + "Before I had finished my studies, my uncle had been an admiral for some + time. The year before I left Oxford, he married Lady Georgiana Thornbury, + a widow lady, with one daughter. Thereupon he bade farewell to the sea, + though I dare say he did not like the parting, and retired with his bride + to the house where he was born—the same house I told you I was born + in, which had been in the family for many generations, and which your + cousin now lives in. + </p> + <p> + "It was late in the autumn when they arrived at Culverwood. They were no + sooner settled than my uncle wrote to me, inviting me to spend + Christmas-tide with them at the old place. And here you may see that my + story has arrived at its beginning. + </p> + <p> + "It was with strange feelings that I entered the house. It looked so + old-fashioned, and stately, and grand, to eyes which had been accustomed + to all the modern commonplaces! Yet the shadowy recollections which hung + about it gave an air of homeliness to the place, which, along with the + grandeur, occasioned a sense of rare delight. For what can be better than + to feel that you are in stately company, and at the same time perfectly at + home in it? I am grateful to this day for the lesson I had from the sense + of which I have spoken—that of mingled awe and tenderness in the + aspect of the old hall as I entered it for the first time after fifteen + years, having left it a mere child. + </p> + <p> + "I was cordially received by my old uncle and my new aunt. But the moment + Kate Thornbury entered I lost my heart, and have never found it again to + this day. I get on wonderfully well without it, though, for I have got the + loan of a far better one till I find my own, which, therefore, I hope I + never shall." + </p> + <p> + My father glanced at my mother as he said this, and she returned his look + in a way which I can now interpret as a quiet satisfied confidence. But + the tears came in Effie's eyes. She had trouble before long, poor girl! + But it is not her story I have to tell.—My father went on: + </p> + <p> + "Your mother was prettier then than she is now, but not so beautiful; + beautiful enough, though, to make me think there never had been or could + again be anything so beautiful. She met me kindly, and I met her + awkwardly." + </p> + <p> + "You made me feel that I had no business there," said my mother, speaking + for the first time in the course of the story. + </p> + <p> + "See there, girls," said my father. "You are always so confident in first + impressions, and instinctive judgment! I was awkward because, as I said, I + fell in love with your mother the moment I saw her; and she thought I + regarded her as an intruder into the old family precincts. + </p> + <p> + "I will not follow the story of the days. I was very happy, except when I + felt too keenly how unworthy I was of Kate Thornbury; not that she meant + to make me feel it, for she was never other than kind; but she was such + that I could not help feeling it. I gathered courage, however, and before + three days were over, I began to tell her all my slowly reviving memories + of the place, with my childish adventures associated with this and that + room or outhouse or spot in the grounds; for the longer I was in the place + the more my old associations with it revived, till I was quite astonished + to find how much of my history in connection with Culverwood had been + thoroughly imprinted on my memory. She never showed, at least, that she + was weary of my stories; which, however interesting to me, must have been + tiresome to any one who did not sympathize with what I felt towards my old + nest. From room to room we rambled, talking or silent; and nothing could + have given me a better chance, I believe, with a heart like your mother's. + I think it was not long before she began to like me, at least, and liking + had every opportunity of growing into something stronger, if only she too + did not come to the conclusion that I was unworthy of her. + </p> + <p> + "My uncle received me like the jolly old tar that he was—welcomed me + to the old ship—hoped we should make many a voyage together—and + that I would take the run of the craft—all but in one thing. + </p> + <p> + "'You see, my boy,' he said, 'I married above my station, and I don't want + my wife's friends to say that I laid alongside of her to get hold of her + daughter's fortune. No, no, my boy; your old uncle has too much salt water + in him to do a dog's trick like that. So you take care of yourself—that's + all. She might turn the head of a wiser man than ever came out of our + family.' + </p> + <p> + "I did not tell my uncle that his advice was already too late; for that, + though it was not an hour since I had first seen her, my head was so far + turned already, that the only way to get it right again, was to go on + turning it in the same direction; though, no doubt, there was a danger of + overhauling the screw. The old gentleman never referred to the matter + again, nor took any notice of our increasing intimacy; so that I sometimes + doubt even now if he could have been in earnest in the very simple warning + he gave me. Fortunately, Lady Georgiana liked me—at least I thought + she did, and that gave me courage. + </p> + <p> + "That's all nonsense, my dear," said my mother. "Mamma was nearly as fond + of you as I was; but you never wanted courage." + </p> + <p> + "I knew better than to show my cowardice, I dare say," returned my father. + "But," he continued, "things grew worse and worse, till I was certain I + should kill myself, or go straight out of my mind, if your mother would + not have me. So it went on for a few days, and Christmas was at hand. + </p> + <p> + "The admiral had invited several old friends to come and spend the + Christmas week with him. Now you must remember that, although you look on + me as an old-fashioned fogie—" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, papa!" we all interrupted; but he went on. + </p> + <p> + "Yet my old uncle was an older-fashioned fogie, and his friends were much + the same as himself. Now, I am fond of a glass of port, though I dare not + take it, and must content myself with Burgundy. Uncle Bob would have + called Burgundy pig-wash. He could not do without his port, though he was + a moderate enough man, as customs were. Fancy, then, his dismay when, on + questioning his butler, an old coxen of his own, and after going down to + inspect in person, he found that there was scarcely more than a dozen of + port in the wine-cellar. He turned white with dismay, and, till he had + brought the blood back to his countenance by swearing, he was something + awful to behold in the dim light of the tallow candle old Jacob held in + his tattooed fist. I will not repeat the words he used; fortunately, they + are out of fashion amongst gentlemen, although ladies, I understand, are + beginning to revive the custom, now old, and always ugly. Jacob reminded + his honour that he would not have more put down till he had got a proper + cellar built, for the one there was, he had said, was not fit to put + anything but dead men in. Thereupon, after abusing Jacob for not reminding + him of the necessities of the coming season, he turned to me, and began, + certainly not to swear at his own father, but to expostulate sideways with + the absent shade for not having provided a decent cellar before his + departure from this world of dinners and wine, hinting that it was + somewhat selfish, and very inconsiderate of the welfare of those who were + to come after him. Having a little exhausted his indignation, he came up, + and wrote the most peremptory order to his wine-merchant, in Liverpool, to + let him have thirty dozen of port before Christmas Day, even if he had to + send it by post-chaise. I took the letter to the post myself, for the old + man would trust nobody but me, and indeed would have preferred taking it + himself; but in winter he was always lame from the effects of a bruise he + had received from a falling spar in the battle of Aboukir. + </p> + <p> + "That night I remember well. I lay in bed wondering whether I might + venture to say a word, or even to give a hint to your mother that there + was a word that pined to be said if it might. All at once I heard a whine + of the wind in the old chimney. How well I knew that whine! For my kind + aunt had taken the trouble to find out from me what room I had occupied as + a boy, and, by the third night I spent there, she had got it ready for me. + I jumped out of bed, and found that the snow was falling fast and thick. I + jumped into bed again, and began wondering what my uncle would do if the + port did not arrive. And then I thought that, if the snow went on falling + as it did, and if the wind rose any higher, it might turn out that the + roads through the hilly part of Yorkshire in which Culverwood lay, might + very well be blocked up. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "The north wind doth blow, + And we shall have snow, +And what will my uncle do then, poor thing? + He'll run for his port, + But he will run short, +And have too much water to drink, poor thing! +</pre> + <p> + "With the influences of the chamber of my childhood crowding upon me, I + kept repenting the travestied rhyme to myself, till I fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + "Now, boys and girls, if I were writing a novel, I should like to make + you, somehow or other, put together the facts—that I was in the room + I have mentioned; that I had been in the cellar with my uncle for the + first time that evening; that I had seen my uncle's distress, and heard + his reflections upon his father. I may add that I was not myself, even + then, so indifferent to the merits of a good glass of port as to be unable + to enter into my uncle's dismay, and that of his guests at last, if they + should find that the snow-storm had actually closed up the sweet + approaches of the expected port. If I was personally indifferent to the + matter, I fear it is to be attributed to your mother, and not to myself." + </p> + <p> + "Nonsense!" interposed my mother once more. "I never knew such a man for + making little of himself and much of other people. You never drank a glass + too much port in your life." + </p> + <p> + "That's why I'm so fond of it, my dear," returned my father. "I declare + you make me quite discontented with my pig-wash here. + </p> + <p> + "That night I had a dream. + </p> + <p> + "The next day the visitors began to arrive. Before the evening after, they + had all come. There were five of them—three tars and two land-crabs, + as they called each other when they got jolly, which, by-the-way, they + would not have done long without me. + </p> + <p> + "My uncle's anxiety visibly increased. Each guest, as he came down to + breakfast, received each morning a more constrained greeting.—I beg + your pardon, ladies; I forgot to mention that my aunt had lady-visitors, + of course. But the fact is, it is only the port-drinking visitors in whom + my story is interested, always excepted your mother. + </p> + <p> + "These ladies my admiral uncle greeted with something even approaching to + servility. I understood him well enough. He instinctively sought to make a + party to protect him when the awful secret of his cellar should be found + out. But for two preliminary days or so, his resources would serve; for he + had plenty of excellent claret and Madeira—stuff I don't know much + about—and both Jacob and himself condescended to manoeuvre a little. + </p> + <p> + "The wine did not arrive. But the morning of Christmas Eve did. I was + sitting in my room, trying to write a song for Kate—that's your + mother, my dears—" + </p> + <p> + "I know, papa," said Effie, as if she were very knowing to know that. + </p> + <p> + "—when my uncle came into the room, looking like Sintram with Death + and the Other One after him—that's the nonsense you read to me the + other day, isn't it; Effie?" + </p> + <p> + "Not nonsense, dear papa," remonstrated Effie; and I loved her for saying + it, for surely <i>that</i> is not nonsense. + </p> + <p> + "I didn't mean it," said my father; and turning to my mother, added: "It + must be your fault, my dear, that my children are so serious that they + always take a joke for earnest. However, it was no joke with my uncle. If + he didn't look like Sintram he looked like t'other one. + </p> + <p> + "'The roads are frozen—I mean snowed up,' he said. 'There's just one + bottle of port left, and what Captain Calker will say—I dare say I + know, but I'd rather not. Damn this weather!—God forgive me!—that's + not right—but it is trying—ain't it, my boy?' + </p> + <p> + "'What will you give me for a dozen of port, uncle?' was all my answer. + </p> + <p> + "'Give you? I'll give you Culverwood, you rogue.' + </p> + <p> + "'Done,' I cried. + </p> + <p> + "'That is,' stammered my uncle, 'that is,' and he reddened like the funnel + of one of his hated steamers, 'that is, you know, always provided, you + know. It wouldn't be fair to Lady Georgiana, now, would it? I put it to + yourself—if she took the trouble, you know. You understand me, my + boy?' + </p> + <p> + "'That's of course, uncle,' I said. + </p> + <p> + "'Ah! I see you're a gentleman like your father, not to trip a man when he + stumbles,' said my uncle. For such was the dear old man's sense of honour, + that he was actually uncomfortable about the hasty promise he had made + without first specifying the exception. The exception, you know, has + Culverwood at the present hour, and right welcome he is. + </p> + <p> + "'Of course, uncle,' I said—'between gentlemen, you know. Still, I + want my joke out, too. What will you give me for a dozen of port to tide + you over Christmas Day?' + </p> + <p> + "'Give you, my boy? I'll give you—' + </p> + <p> + "But here he checked himself, as one that had been burned already. + </p> + <p> + "'Bah!' he said, turning his back, and going towards the door; 'what's the + use of joking about serious affairs like this?' + </p> + <p> + "And so he left the room. And I let him go. For I had heard that the road + from Liverpool was impassable, the wind and snow having continued every + day since that night of which I told you. Meantime, I had never been able + to summon the courage to say one word to your mother—I beg her + pardon, I mean Miss Thornbury. + </p> + <p> + "Christmas Day arrived. My uncle was awful to behold. His friends were + evidently anxious about him. They thought he was ill. There was such a + hesitation about him, like a shark with a bait, and such a flurry, like a + whale in his last agonies. He had a horrible secret which he dared not + tell, and which yet <i>would</i> come out of its grave at the appointed + hour. + </p> + <p> + "Down in the kitchen the roast beef and turkey were meeting their deserts. + Up in the store-room—for Lady Georgiana was not above housekeeping, + any more than her daughter—the ladies of the house were doing their + part; and I was oscillating between my uncle and his niece, making myself + amazingly useful now to one and now to the other. The turkey and the beef + were on the table, nay, they had been well eaten, before I felt that my + moment was come. Outside, the wind was howling, and driving the snow with + soft pats against the window-panes. Eager-eyed I watched General + Fortescue, who despised sherry or Madeira even during dinner, and would no + more touch champagne than he would <i>eau sucrée</i>, but drank port after + fish or with cheese indiscriminately—with eager eyes I watched how + the last bottle dwindled out its fading life in the clear decanter. Glass + after glass was supplied to General Fortescue by the fearless cockswain, + who, if he might have had his choice, would rather have boarded a + Frenchman than waited for what was to follow. My uncle scarcely ate at + all, and the only thing that stopped his face from growing longer with the + removal of every dish was that nothing but death could have made it longer + than it was already. It was my interest to let matters go as far as they + might up to a certain point, beyond which it was not my interest to let + them go, if I could help it. At the same time I was curious to know how my + uncle would announce—confess the terrible fact that in his house, on + Christmas Day, having invited his oldest friends to share with him the + festivities of the season, there was not one bottle more of port to be + had. + </p> + <p> + "I waited till the last moment—till I fancied the admiral was + opening his mouth; like a fish in despair, to make his confession. He had + not even dared to make a confidante of his wife in such an awful dilemma. + Then I pretended to have dropped my table-napkin behind my chair, and + rising to seek it, stole round behind my uncle, and whispered in his ear: + </p> + <p> + "'What will you give me for a dozen of port now, uncle?' + </p> + <p> + "'Bah!' he said, 'I'm at the gratings; don't torture me.' + </p> + <p> + "'I'm in earnest, uncle.' + </p> + <p> + "He looked round at me with a sudden flash of bewildered hope in his eye. + In the last agony he was capable of believing in a miracle. But he made me + no reply. He only stared. + </p> + <p> + "'Will you give me Kate? I want Kate,' I whispered. + </p> + <p> + "'I will, my boy. That is, if she'll have you. That is, I mean to say, if + you produce the true tawny.' + </p> + <p> + "'Of course, uncle; honour bright—as port in a storm,' I answered, + trembling in my shoes and everything else I had on, for I was not more + than three parts confident in the result. + </p> + <p> + "The gentlemen beside Kate happening at the moment to be occupied, each + with the lady on his other side, I went behind her, and whispered to her + as I had whispered to my uncle, though not exactly in the same terms. + Perhaps I had got a little courage from the champagne I had drunk; perhaps + the presence of the company gave me a kind of mesmeric strength; perhaps + the excitement of the whole venture kept me up; perhaps Kate herself gave + me courage, like a goddess of old, in some way I did not understand. At + all events I said to her: + </p> + <p> + "'Kate,'—we had got so far even then—'my uncle hasn't another + bottle of port in his cellar. Consider what a state General Fortescue will + be in soon. He'll be tipsy for want of it. Will you come and help me to + find a bottle or two?' + </p> + <p> + "She rose at once, with a white-rose blush—so delicate I don't + believe any one saw it but myself. But the shadow of a stray ringlet could + not fall on her cheek without my seeing it. + </p> + <p> + "When we got into the hall, the wind was roaring loud, and the few lights + were flickering and waving gustily with alternate light and shade across + the old portraits which I had known so well as a child—for I used to + think what each would say first, if he or she came down out of the frame + and spoke to me. + </p> + <p> + "I stopped, and taking Kate's hand, I said— + </p> + <p> + "'I daren't let you come farther, Kate, before I tell you another thing: + my uncle has promised, if I find him a dozen of port—you must have + seen what a state the poor man is in—to let me say something to you—I + suppose he meant your mamma, but I prefer saying it to you, if you will + let me. Will you come and help me to find the port?' + </p> + <p> + "She said nothing, but took up a candle that was on a table in the hall, + and stood waiting. I ventured to look at her. Her face was now celestial + rosy red, and I could not doubt that she had understood me. She looked so + beautiful that I stood staring at her without moving. What the servants + could have been about that not one of them crossed the hall, I can't + think. + </p> + <p> + "At last Kate laughed and said—'Well?' I started, and I dare say + took my turn at blushing. At least I did not know what to say. I had + forgotten all about the guests inside. 'Where's the port?' said Kate. I + caught hold of her hand again and kissed it." + </p> + <p> + "You needn't be quite so minute in your account, my dear," said my mother, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + "I will be more careful in future, my love," returned my father. + </p> + <p> + "'What do you want me to do?' said Kate. + </p> + <p> + "'Only to hold the candle for me,' I answered, restored to my seven senses + at last; and, taking it from her, I led the way, and she followed, till we + had passed through the kitchen and reached the cellar-stairs. These were + steep and awkward, and she let me help her down." + </p> + <p> + "Now, Edward!" said my mother. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes, my love, I understand," returned my father. + </p> + <p> + "Up to this time your mother had asked no questions; but when we stood in + a vast, low cellar, which we had made several turns to reach, and I gave + her the candle, and took up a great crowbar which lay on the floor, she + said at last— + </p> + <p> + "'Edward, are you going to bury me alive? or what <i>are</i> you going to + do?' + </p> + <p> + "'I'm going to dig you out,' I said, for I was nearly beside myself with + joy, as I struck the crowbar like a battering-ram into the wall. You can + fancy, John, that I didn't work the worse that Kate was holding the candle + for me. + </p> + <p> + "Very soon, though with great effort, I had dislodged a brick, and the + next blow I gave into the hole sent back a dull echo. I was right! + </p> + <p> + "I worked now like a madman, and, in a very few minutes more, I had + dislodged the whole of the brick-thick wall which filled up an archway of + stone and curtained an ancient door in the lock of which the key now + showed itself. It had been well greased, and I turned it without much + difficulty. + </p> + <p> + "I took the candle from Kate, and led her into a spacious region of + sawdust, cobweb, and wine-fungus. + </p> + <p> + "'There, Kate!' I cried, in delight. + </p> + <p> + "'But,' said Kate, 'will the wine be good?' + </p> + <p> + "'General Fortescue will answer you that,' I returned, exultantly. 'Now + come, and hold the light again while I find the port-bin.' + </p> + <p> + "I soon found not one, but several well-filled port-bins. Which to choose + I could not tell. I must chance that. Kate carried a bottle and the + candle, and I carried two bottles very carefully. We put them down in the + kitchen with orders they should not be touched. We had soon carried the + dozen to the hall-table by the dining-room door. + </p> + <p> + "When at length, with Jacob chuckling and rubbing his hands behind us, we + entered the dining-room, Kate and I, for Kate would not part with her + share in the joyful business, loaded with a level bottle in each hand, + which we carefully erected on the sideboard, I presume, from the stare of + the company, that we presented a rather remarkable appearance—Kate + in her white muslin, and I in my best clothes, covered with brick-dust, + and cobwebs, and lime. But we could not be half so amusing to them as they + were to us. There they sat with the dessert before them but no + wine-decanters forthcoming. How long they had sat thus, I have no idea. If + you think your mamma has, you may ask her. Captain Calker and General + Fortescue looked positively white about the gills. My uncle, clinging to + the last hope, despairingly, had sat still and said nothing, and the + guests could not understand the awful delay. Even Lady Georgiana had begun + to fear a mutiny in the kitchen, or something equally awful. But to see + the flash that passed across my uncle's face, when he saw us appear with + <i>ported arms</i>! He immediately began to pretend that nothing had been + the matter. + </p> + <p> + "'What the deuce has kept you, Ned, my boy?' he said. 'Fair Hebe,' he went + on, 'I beg your pardon. Jacob, you can go on decanting. It was very + careless of you to forget it. Meantime, Hebe, bring that bottle to General + Jupiter, there. He's got a corkscrew in the tail of his robe, or I'm + mistaken.' + </p> + <p> + "Out came General Fortescue's corkscrew. I was trembling once more with + anxiety. The cork gave the genuine plop; the bottle was lowered; glug, + glug, glug, came from its beneficent throat, and out flowed something + tawny as a lion's mane. The general lifted it lazily to his lips, saluting + his nose on the way. + </p> + <p> + "'Fifteen! by Gyeove!' he cried. 'Well, Admiral, this <i>was</i> worth + waiting for! Take care how you decant that, Jacob—on peril of your + life.' + </p> + <p> + "My uncle was triumphant. He winked hard at me not to tell. Kate and I + retired, she to change her dress, I to get mine well brushed, and my hands + washed. By the time I returned to the dining-room, no one had any + questions to ask. For Kate, the ladies had gone to the drawing-room before + she was ready, and I believe she had some difficulty in keeping my uncle's + counsel. But she did.—Need I say that was the happiest Christmas I + ever spent?" + </p> + <p> + "But how did you find the cellar, papa?" asked Effie. + </p> + <p> + "Where are your brains, Effie? Don't you remember I told you that I had a + dream?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes. But you don't mean to say the existence of that wine-cellar was + revealed to you in a dream?" + </p> + <p> + "But I do, indeed. I had seen the wine-cellar built up just before we left + for Madeira. It was my father's plan for securing the wine when the house + was let. And very well it turned out for the wine, and me too. I had + forgotten all about it. Everything had conspired to bring it to my memory, + but had just failed of success. I had fallen asleep under all the + influences I told you of—influences from the region of my childhood. + They operated still when I was asleep, and, all other distracting + influences being removed, at length roused in my sleeping brain the memory + of what I had seen. In the morning I remembered not my dream only, but the + event of which my dream was a reproduction. Still, I was under + considerable doubt about the place, and in this I followed the dream only, + as near as I could judge. + </p> + <p> + "The admiral kept his word, and interposed no difficulties between Kate + and me. Not that, to tell the truth, I was ever very anxious about that + rock ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidious honour or pride + might have occasioned a considerable interference with our happiness for a + time. As it turned out, he could not leave me Culverwood, and I regretted + the fact as little as he did himself. His gratitude to me was, however, + excessive, assuming occasionally ludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. I do + not believe he could have been more grateful if I had saved his ship and + its whole crew. For his hospitality was at stake. Kind old man!" + </p> + <p> + Here ended my father's story, with a light sigh, a gaze into the bright + coals, a kiss of my mother's hand which he held in his, and another glass + of Burgundy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IF I HAD A FATHER. + </h2> + <h3> + A DRAMA. + </h3> + <p> + ACT I. + </p> + <p> + SCENE.—<i>A Sculptor's studio</i>. ARTHUR GERVAISE <i>working at a + clay figure and humming a tune. A knock</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Come in. (<i>Throws a wet cloth over the clay. Enter</i> + WARREN <i>by the door communicating with the house</i>.) Ah, Warren! How + do you do? + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> How are you, Gervaise? I'm delighted to see you once more. I + have but just heard of your return. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I've been home but a fortnight. I was just thinking of you. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> I was certain I should find you at work. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You see my work can go on by any light. It is more independent + than yours. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> I wish it weren't, then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Why? + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your + den sometimes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Like any other wild beast when the dark falls—eh? + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Just so. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> And where the good? + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Why shouldn't you roar a little now and then like other honest + lions? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond roaring. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> And I doubt whether the lion that won't even whisk his tail, + will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his while to + keep a cage in London. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> What is it now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh, nothing!—only a little fancy of my own. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw + the sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working at—"Oh—a + little fancy of my own!" + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I couldn't tell it was you coming. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Let me see what you've been doing, then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet! + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> (<i>approaching the figure</i>). Of course, of course! I + understand all that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>laying his hand on his arm</i>). Excuse me: I would rather + not show it. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> I beg your pardon.—I couldn't believe you really meant + it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I'll show you the mould if you like. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> I don't know what you mean by that: you would never throw a + wet sheet over a cast! (GER. <i>lifts a painting from the floor and sets + it on an easel</i>. WAR. <i>regards it for a few moments in silence</i>.) + Ah! by Jove, Gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to + have been a painter. What a sky! And what a sea! Those blues and greens—rich + as a peacock's feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night! The dolphin at its + last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of blue, at the bottom of + which the stars lie like gems in the mineshaft of the darkness! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> <i>You</i> seem to have taken the wrong turn, Warren! <i>You</i> + ought to have been a poet. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow's bend. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I'm glad you like it. I do myself, though it falls short of my + intent sadly enough. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> But I don't for the life of me see what <i>this</i> has to do + with <i>that</i>. You said something about a mould. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I will tell you what I meant. Every individual aspect of + nature looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying + that of which itself only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in my + eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of the summer dawn; that + Aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my + Psyche. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Under the sheet there? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Yes. You shall see her some day; but to show your work too + soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Well, you've spoiled my picture. I shall go home and scrape my + canvas to the bone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> On second thoughts, I will show you my Psyche. (<i>Uncovers + the clay</i>. WAR. <i>stands in admiration. Enter</i> WATERFIELD <i>by + same door</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr. Gervaise, I hope I see + you well. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Mr. Waterfield—an old friend of yours, Gervaise, I + believe. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I cannot appropriate the honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it's six months ago, + Mr. Gervaise. Ha! (<i>using his eye-glass</i>) What a charming figure! A + Psyche! Wings suggested by—Very skilful! Contour lovely! Altogether + antique in pose and expression!—Is she a commission? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Then I beg you will consider her one. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Excuse me; I never work on commission—at least never in + this kind. A bust or two I have done. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. By Jove!—I <i>should</i> like to see your model!—This + is perfect. Are you going to carve her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Possibly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Uncommissioned? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> If at all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Well, I can't call it running any risk. What lines!—You + will let me drop in some day when you've got your model here? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Impossible. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. You don't mean—? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I had no model. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. No model? Ha! ha!—You must excuse me! (GER. <i>takes up + the wet sheet</i>.) I understand. Reasons. A little mystery enhances—eh?—is + convenient too—balks intrusion—throws the drapery over the + mignonette. I understand. (GER. <i>covers the clay</i>.) Oh! pray don't + carry out my figure. That <i>is</i> a damper now! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I am not fond of acting the showman. You must excuse me: I am + busy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Ah well!—some other time—when you've got on with + her a bit. Good morning. Ta, ta, Warren. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Good morning. This way, if you please. (<i>Shows him out by + the door to the street</i>.) How did the fellow find his way here? + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> I am the culprit, I'm sorry to say. He asked me for your + address, and I gave it him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> How long have you known him? + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> A month or two. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Don't bring him here again. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Don't say I <i>brought</i> him. I didn't do that. But I'm + afraid you've not seen the last of him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh yes, I have! Old Martha would let in anybody, but I've got + a man now.—William! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. GERVAISE <i>dressed as a servant</i>. +</pre> + <p> + You didn't see the gentleman just gone, I'm afraid, William? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Don't let in any one calling himself <i>Waterfield</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I'm going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be back shortly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Very well, sir. <i>Exit into the house</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>to</i> WAR.) I can't touch clay again till I get that + fellow out of my head. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Come along, then. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exeunt</i> GER. <i>and</i> WAR. + + <i>Re-enter</i> COL. G. <i>polishing a boot. Regards it with + dissatisfaction</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Confound the thing! I wish it were a scabbard. When I think + I'm getting it all right—one rub more and it's gone dull again! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>The house-door opens slowly, and</i> THOMAS <i>peeps cautiously in</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> What sort of a plaze be this, maister? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> By th' dur-hole. Iv yo leave th' dur oppen, th' dogs'll coom + in. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I must speak to Martha again. She <i>will</i> leave the + street-door open!—Well, you needn't look so frightened. It ain't a + robbers' cave. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> That be more'n aw knaw—not for sartin sure, maister. + Nobory mun keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a + gentleman axes mo into his heawse, aw'm noan beawn to be afeard. Aw'll + coom in, for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak + here? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What would you think now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> It looks to mo like a mason's shed—a greight one. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You're not so far wrong. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> (<i>advancing</i>). It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so + sure abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin'. Aw'll bother + noan. (<i>Sits down on the dais and wipes his face</i>.) Well, aw be + a'most weary. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Is there anything I can do for you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw + dunnot think aw'll coom to th' end in haste. Aw're a lookin' for summut + aw've lost, mou. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Did you come all the way from Lancashire to look for it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Eh, lad! aw thowt thae'rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. I mean + no offence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> (<i>looking disappointed</i>). Well, noan's ta'en. But thae + dunnot say thae's ne'er been to Lancashire thisel'? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No, I don't say that: I've been to Lancashire several + times. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Wheer to? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Why, Manchester. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> That's noan ov it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> And Lancaster. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Tut! tut! That's noan of it, nayther. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> And Liverpool. I was once there for a whole week. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Nay, nay. Noather o' those plazes. Fur away off 'em. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> But what does it matter where I have or haven't been? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Mun aw tell tho again? Aw've lost summut, aw tell tho. Didsto + ne'er hear tell ov th' owd woman 'at lost her shillin'? Hoo couldn't sit + her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon's me. (<i>Hides his face in his hands</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Ah! now I begin to guess! (<i>aside</i>).—You don't + mean you've lost your— + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> (<i>starting up and grasping his stick with both hands</i>). Aw + <i>do</i> mane aw've lost mo yung lass; and aw dunnot say thae's feawnd + her, but aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What on earth makes you think that? I don't know what + you're after. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Thae knows well enough. Thae knowed what aw'd lost afoor aw + tou'd tho yo' be deny in' your own name. Thae knows. Aw'll tay tho afore + the police, beout thou gie her oop. Aw wull. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What story have you to tell the police then? They'll want + to know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Story saysto? The dule's i' th' mon! Didn't aw seigh th' mon + 'at stealed her away goo into this heawse not mich over hauve an hour ago?—Aw + seigh him wi' mo own eighes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Why didn't you speak to him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> He poppit in at th' same dur, and there aw've been a-watching + ever since. Aw've not took my eighes off ov it. He's somewheeres now in + this same heawse. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> He <i>may</i> have been out in the morning (<i>aside</i>).—But + you see there are more doors than one to the place. There is a back door; + and there is a door out into the street. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Eigh! eigh! Th' t'one has to do wi' th' t'other—have it? + Three dur-holes to one shed! That looks bad! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> He's not here, whoever it was. There's not a man but myself + in the place. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Hea am aw to know yo're not playin' a marlock wi' mo? He'll be + oop i' th' heawse theer. Aw mun go look (<i>going</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>preventing him</i>). And how am <i>I</i> to know you're + not a housebreaker? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Dun yo think an owd mon like mosel' would be of mich use for + sich wark as that, mon? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> The more fit for a spy, though, to see what might be made + of it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Eh, mon! Dun they do sich things as you? But aw'm seechin' + nothin', man nor meawse, that donnot belung me. Aw tell yo true. Gie mo mo + Mattie, and aw'll trouble yo no moor. Aw winnot—if yo'll give mo + back mo Mattie. (<i>Comes close up to him and lays his hand on his arm</i>.) + Be yo a feyther, mon? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Ov a pratty yung lass? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Well, no. I have but a son. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Then thae winnot help mo? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Tell yor maister 'at Mattie's owd feyther's coom a' the gait + fro Rachda to fot her whoam, and aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll + let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam: hoo's + but poorly. Tell yor maister that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> But I don't believe my master knows anything about her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into this heawse but a + feow minutes agoo? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You've mistaken somebody for him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre days ago, aw seigh + mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur—aw mane th' heawsedur, yon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Are you sure of that? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Sure as death. Aw seigh her back. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Her back! Who could be sure of a back? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> By th' maskins! dosto think I dunnot know mo Mattie's back? I + seign her coom eawt o' that dur, aw tell tho! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Why didn't you speak to her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Aw co'd. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> And she didn't answer? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Aw didn't co' leawd. Aw're not willin' to have ony mak ov a + din. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> But you followed her surely? + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Aw did; but aw're noan so good at walkin' as aw wur when aw + coom; th' stwons ha' blistered mo fet. An it're the edge o' dark like. Aw + connot seigh weel at neet, wi o' th' lamps; an afoor aw geet oop wi' her, + hoo's reawnd th' nook, and gwon fro mo seet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> There are ten thousands girls in London you might take for + your own under such circumstances—not seeing more than the backs of + them. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Ten theawsand girls like mo Mattie, saysto?—wi'her + greight eighes and her lung yure?—Puh! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> But you've just said you didn't see her face! + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Dunnot aw know what th' face ov mo chylt be like, beout seein' + ov it? Aw'm noan ov a lump-yed. Nobory as seigh her once wouldn't know her + again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>aside</i>). He's a lunatic!—I don't see what I + can do for you, old fellow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> (<i>rising</i>). And aw met ha' known it beout axin'! O'reet! + Aw're a greight foo'! But aw're beawn to coom in: aw lung'd to goo through + th' same dur wi' mo Mattie. Good day, sir. It be like maister, like mon! + God's curse upon o' sich! (<i>Turns his back. After a moment turns again</i>.) + Noa. Aw winnot say that; for mo Mattie's sake aw winnot say that. God + forgie you! (<i>going by the house</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> This way, please! (<i>opening the street-door</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Aw see. Aw'm not to have a chance ov seein' oather Mattie or + th' mon. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Col. G. <i>resumes his boot absently. Re-enter</i> THOMAS, <i>shaking his + fist</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> But aw tell tho, aw'll stick to th' place day and neet, aw + wull. Aw wull. Aw wull. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Come back to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Coom back, saysto? Aw'll not goo away (<i>growing fierce</i>). + Wilto gie mo mo Mattie? Aw'm noan beawn to ston here so mich lunger. Wilto + gie mo mo Mattie? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I cannot give you what I haven't got. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Aw'll break thi yed, thou villain! (<i>threatening him with his + stick</i>). Eh, Mattie! Mattie! to loe sich a mon's maister more'n me! I + would dey fur thee, Mattie. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> It's all a mistake, of course. There are plenty of young + men—but my Arthur's none of such. I cannot believe it of him. The + daughter! If I could find <i>her, she</i> would settle the question. (<i>It + begins to grow dark</i>.) I must help the old man to find her. He's sure + to come back. Arthur does <i>not</i> look the least like it. But—(<i>polishes + vigorously</i>). I can<i>not</i> get this boot to look like a gentleman's. + I wish I had taken a lesson or two first. I'll get hold of a shoeblack, + and make him come for a morning or two. No, he does <i>not</i> look like + it. There he comes. (<i>Goes on polishing</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> GER. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> William! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>turning</i>). Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Light the gas. Any one called? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Who? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I don't know, sir. (<i>Lighting the gas</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You should have asked his name. (<i>Stands before the clay, + contemplating it</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I'm sorry I forgot, sir. It was only an old man from the + country—after his daughter, he said. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Came to offer his daughter, or himself perhaps. (<i>Begins to + work at the figure</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>watching him stealthily</i>). He looked a respectable + old party—from Lancashire, he said. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I dare say. You will have many such callers. Take the address. + Models, you know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> If he calls again, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Ask him to leave his address, I say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> But he told me you knew her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Possibly. I had a good many models before I left. But it's of + no consequence; I don't want any at present. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> He seemed in a great way, sir—and swore. I couldn't + make him out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Ah! hm! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> He says he saw her come out of the house. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger. Has</i> there been any girl here? Have you seen any about? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> My aunt had a dressmaker to meet her here the other evening. I + have had no model since I came back. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> The man was in a sad taking about her, sir. I didn't know + what to make of it. There seemed some truth—something suspicious. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Perhaps my aunt can throw some light upon it. (COL. G. <i>lingers</i>.) + That will do. (<i>Exit</i> COL. G.) How oddly the man behaves! A + sun-stroke in India, perhaps. Or he may have had a knock on the head. I + must keep my eye on him. (<i>Stops working, steps backward, and gazes at + the Psyche</i>.) She is growing very like some one! Who can it be? She + knows she is puzzling me, the beauty! See how she is keeping back a smile! + She knows if she lets one smile out, her whole face will follow it through + the clay. How strange the half-lights of memory are! You know and you + don't know—both at once. Like a bat in the twilight you are sure of + it, and the same moment it is nowhere. Who <i>is</i> my Psyche like?—The + forehead above the eyebrow, and round by the temple? The half-playful, + half-sorrowful curve of the lip? The hope in the lifted eyelid? There is + more there than ever I put there. Some power has been shaping my ends. By + heaven, I have it!—No—yes—it is—it is Constance—momently + dawning out of the clay! What <i>does</i> this mean? <i>She</i> never gave + me a sitting—at least, she has not done so for the last ten years—yet + here she is—she, and no other! I never thought she was beautiful. + When she came with my aunt the other day though, I did fancy I saw a new + soul dawning through the lovely face. Here it is—the same soul + breaking through the clay of my Psyche!—I will give just one touch + to the corner of the mouth. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Gives a few touches, then steps back again and contemplates the + figure. Turns away and walks up and down. The light darkens to slow + plaintive music, which lasts for a minute. Then the morning begins + to dawn, gleaming blue upon the statues and casts, and revealing</i> + GER. <i>seated before his Psyche, gazing at her. He rises, and exit. + Enter</i> COL. G. <i>and looks about</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I don't know what to make of it! Or rather I'm afraid I do + know what to make of it! It looks bad. He's not been in bed all night. But + it shows he has some conscience left—and that's a comfort. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> Mrs. CLIFFORD, <i>peeping round cautiously</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What, Clara! you here so early! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Well, you know, brother, you're so fond of mystery! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> It's very kind of you to come! But we must be very careful; + I can't tell when my master may be home. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Has he been out all night, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Oh no; he's just gone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I never knew him such an early bird. I made sure he was + safe in bed for a couple of hours yet. But I do trust, Walter, you have + had enough of this fooling, and are prepared to act like a rational man + and a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> On the contrary, Clara, with my usual obstinacy, I am more + determined than ever that my boy shall not know me, until, as I told you, + I have rendered him such service as may prove me not altogether unworthy + to be his father. Twenty years of neglect will be hard to surmount. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> But mere menial service cannot discharge the least portion + of your obligations. As his father alone can you really serve him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You persist in misunderstanding me. This is not the service + I mean. I scorn the fancy. This is only the means, as I told you plainly + before, of finding out <i>how</i> I may serve him—of learning what + he really needs—or most desires. If I fail in discovering how to + recommend myself to him, I shall go back to India, and content myself with + leaving him a tolerable fortune. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> How ever a hair-brained fellow like you, Walter, could have + made such a soldier!—Why don't you tell your boy you love him, and + have done with it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I will, as soon as I have proof to back the assertion. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I tell you it is rank pride. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> It may be pride, sister; but it is the pride of a repentant + thief who puts off his confession until he has the money in his hand to + prove the genuineness of his sorrow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> It never <i>was</i> of any use to argue with <i>you</i>, + Walter; you know that, or at least I know it. So I give up.—I trust + you have got over your prejudice against his profession. It is not my + fault. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> In truth, I had forgotten the profession—as you call + it—in watching the professor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> And has it not once occurred to you to ask how he may take + such watching? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> By the time he is aware of it, he will be ready to + understand it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> But suppose he should discover you before you have thus + established your position? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I must run the risk. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Suppose then you should thus find out something he would + not have you know? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>hurriedly</i>). Do you imagine his servant might know a + thing he would hide from his father? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I do not, Walter. I can trust him. But he might well resent + the espionage of even his father. You cannot get rid of the vile look of + the thing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Again I say, my boy shall be my judge, and my love shall be + my plea. In any case I shall have to ask his forgiveness. But there is his + key in the lock! Run into the house. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i> MRS. C. <i>Enter</i> GER., <i>and goes straight to the Psyche</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Breakfast is waiting, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> By and by, William. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You haven't been in bed, sir! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Well? What of that? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I hope you're not ill, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Not in the least: I work all night sometimes.—You can + go. (COL. G. <i>lingers, with a searching gaze at the Psyche</i>.)—I + don't want anything. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Pardon me, sir, but I am sure you are ill. You've done no + work since last night. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>with displeasure</i>). I am quite well, and wish to be + alone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Mayn't I go and fetch a doctor, sir? It is better to take + things in time. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You are troublesome. (<i>Exit</i> COL. G.)—What can the + fellow mean? He looked at me so strangely too! He's officious—that's + all, I dare say. A good sort of man, I do think! William!—What is it + in the man's face?—(<i>Enter</i> Col G.) Is the breakfast ready? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Quite ready, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I'm sorry I spoke to you so hastily. The fact is— + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Don't mention it, sir. Speak as you will to me; I shan't + mind it. When there's anything on a man's conscience—I—I—I + mean on a man's mind— + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What <i>do</i> you mean? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I mean, when there is anything there, he can't well help + his temper, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I don't understand you; but, anyhow, you—go too far, + William. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I beg your pardon, sir: I forgot myself. I do humbly beg + your pardon. Shall I make some fresh coffee, sir? It's not cold—only + it's stood too long. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> The coffee will do well enough. (<i>Exit</i> COL. G.)—Is + she so beautiful? (<i>turning to the Psyche</i>)—Is there a + likeness?—I see it.—Nonsense! A mere chance confluence of the + ideal and the actual.—Even then the chance must mean something. Such + a <i>mere</i> chance would indeed be a strange one! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> CONSTANCE. +</pre> + <p> + Oh, my heart! here she comes! my Psyche herself!—Well, Constance! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Oh, Arthur, I am <i>so</i> glad I've found you! I want to talk + to you about something. I know you don't care much about me now, but I <i>must</i> + tell you, for it would be wrong not. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>aside</i>). How beautiful she is! What <i>can</i> she have + to tell me about? It cannot be—it <i>shall</i> not be—. Sit + down, won't you? (<i>offering her a chair</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> No. <i>You</i> sit there (<i>pointing to the dais</i>), and I + will sit here (<i>placing herself on the lower step</i>). It was here I + used to sit so often when I was a little girl. Why can't one keep little? + I was always with you then! (<i>Sighs</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> It is not my fault, Constance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Oh no! I suppose it can't be. Only I don't see why. Oh, + Arthur, where should I be but for you! I saw the old place yesterday. How + dreadful and yet how dear it was! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Who took you there? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Nobody. I went alone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> It was hardly safe.—I don't like your going out alone, + Constance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Why, Arthur! I used to know every court and alley about + Shoreditch better than I know Berkeley Square now! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> But what made you go there? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I went to find a dressmaker who has been working for my aunt, + and lost my way. And—would you believe it?—I was actually + frightened! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No wonder! There are rough people about there. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I never used to think them rough when I lived among them with + my father and mother. There must be just as good people there as anywhere + else. Yet I could not help shuddering at the thought of living there + again!—How strange it made me feel! You have been my angel, Arthur. + What would have become of me if you hadn't taken me, I dare not think. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I have had my reward, Constance: you are happy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Not quite. There's something I want to tell you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Tell on, child. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Oh, thank you!—that is how you used to talk to me. (<i>Hesitates</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>with foreboding</i>) Well, what is it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> (<i>pulling the fingers of her gloves</i>) A gentleman—you + know him—has been—calling upon aunt—and me. We have seen + a good deal of him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Who is he? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Mr. Waterfield. (<i>Keeps her eyes on the floor</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Well? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> He says—he—he—he wants me to marry him.—Aunt + likes him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> And you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I like him too. I don't think I like him enough—I dare + say I shall. It is <i>so</i> good of him to take poor me! He is <i>very</i> + rich, they say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Have you accepted him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I am afraid he thinks so.—Ye—e—s.—I + hardly know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Haven't you—been rather—in a hurry—Constance? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> No, indeed! I haven't been in a hurry at all. He has been a + long time trying to make me like him. I have been too long a burden to + Mrs. Clifford. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> So! it is her doing, then! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> You were away, you know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>bitterly</i>) Yes; too far—chipping stones and + making mud-pies! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I don't know what you mean by that, Arthur. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh—nothing. I mean that—that—Of course if + you are engaged to him, then— + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I'm afraid I've done very wrong, Arthur. If I had thought you + would care!—I knew aunt would be pleased!—she wanted me to + have him, I knew.—I ought to do what I can to please her,—ought + I not? I have no right to— + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Surely, surely. Yes, yes; I understand. It was not your fault. + Only you mustn't marry him, if you—. Thank you for telling me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I ought to have told you before—before I let him speak + to me again. But I didn't think you would care—not much. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Yes, yes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> (<i>looking up with anxiety</i>) Ah! you <i>are</i> vexed with + me, Arthur! I see how wrong it was now. I never saw you look like that. I + am very, very sorry. (<i>Bursts into tears</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No, no, child! Only it is rather sudden, and I want to think + about it. Shall I send William home with you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> No, thank you. I have a cab waiting. You're not angry with + your little beggar, Arthur? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What is there to be angry about, child? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> That I—did anything without asking you first. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Nonsense! You couldn't help it. <i>You</i>'re not to blame one + bit. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Oh, yes, I am! I ought to have asked you first. But indeed I + did not know you would care. Good-bye.—Shall I go at once? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Good-bye. (<i>Exit</i> CON., <i>looking back troubled</i>.) + Come at last! Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her at last!—and too + late! For three years I haven't seen her—have not once written to + her! Since I came back I've seen her just twice,—and now in the very + hell of love! The ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there + in that corner! If it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And + to such a fellow as that!—not even a gentleman! How <i>could</i> she + take him for one! That does perplex me! Ah, well! I suppose men <i>have</i> + borne such things before, and men will bear them again! I must work! + Nothing but work will save me. (<i>Approaches the Psyche, but turns from + it with a look of despair and disgust</i>.) What a fool I have been!—Constance! + Constance!—A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in + heaven! It will drive me mad. (<i>Rushes out, leaving the door open</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. GERVAISE. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Gone again! and without his breakfast! My poor boy! There's + something very wrong with you! It's that girl! It must be! But there's + conscience in him yet!—It is all my fault. If I had been a father to + him, this would never have happened.—If he were to marry the girl + now?—Only, who can tell but <i>she</i> led <i>him</i> astray? I have + known such a thing. (<i>Sits down and buries his face in his hands</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> WATERFIELD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Is Mr. Gervaise in? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>rising</i>) No, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Tell him I called, will you? [<i>Exit</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir.—Forgot again. Young man;—gentleman or + cad?—don't know; think the latter. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> THOMAS. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>starting up</i>). In the name of God, I know nothing of + your child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds—in + golden sovereigns. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, + sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> That's your business. Bring her, and there will be your + money. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' Bank ov + England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for mo + lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther—ov the feyther + ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo sorry + for't? I' hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo whoam again, + for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait till we goo to + her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring + her here, I say, and I will make you happy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Th.</i> Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy + then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be a + coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be gooin', + aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!—aw'm noan sich a greight foo as yo + tak mo for. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit.</i> COL. G. <i>follows him. Enter.</i> GER. <i>Sits down before the + Psyche, but without looking at her</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my + heart! I <i>will</i> conquer it. But I <i>will</i> love her. The spear + shall fill its own wound. To draw it out and die, would be no victory. + "I'll but lie down and bleed awhile, and then I'll rise and fight again." + Brave old Sir Andrew! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I beg your pardon, sir—a young man called while you + were out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>listlessly</i>). Very well, William. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Is there any message, if he calls again, sir? He said he + would. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No. (COL. G. <i>lingers</i>.) You can go. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I hope you feel better, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Quite well. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Can I get you anything, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No, thank you; I want nothing.—Why do you stay? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Can't you think of something I can do for you, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Fetch that red cloth. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Throw it over that— + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> This, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No, no—the clay there. Thank you. (<i>A knock at the + door</i>.) See who that is. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Are you at home, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> That depends. Not to Mr. Waterfield. Oh, my head! my head! [<i>Exit</i> + COL. G. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> CONSTANCE. GER. <i>starts, but keeps his head leaning on his + hand</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I forgot to say to you, Arthur,—. But you are ill! What + is the matter, dear Arthur? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>without looking up</i>) Nothing—only a headache. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Do come home with me, and let aunt and me nurse you. Don't be + vexed with me any more. I will do whatever you like. I couldn't go home + without seeing you again. And now I find you ill! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Not a bit. I am only dreadfully busy. I must go out of town. I + am so busy! I can't stay in it a moment longer. I have so many things to + do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Mayn't I come and see you while you work? I never used to + interrupt you. I want so to sit once more in my old place. (<i>Draws a + stool towards him</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No, no—not—not there! Constance used to sit there. + William! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> You frighten me, Arthur! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Bring a chair, William. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Constance sits down like a chidden child. Exit</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I must have offended you more than I thought, Arthur! What <i>can</i> + I say? It is so stupid to be always saying <i>I am sorry</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No, no. But some one may call. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> You mean more than that. Will you not let me understand? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Your friend Mr. Waterfield called a few minutes ago. He will + be here again presently, I dare say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> (<i>indifferently</i>). Indeed! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I suppose you appointed—expected—to meet him here. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Arthur! Do you think I would come to you to meet <i>him</i>? I + saw him this morning; I don't want to see him again. I wish you knew him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Why should you want me to know him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Because you would do him good. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What good does he want done him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> He has got beautiful things in him—talks well—in + bits—arms and feet and faces—never anything like—(<i>turning + to the Psyche</i>) Why have you—? Has <i>she</i> been naughty too? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Is it <i>only</i> naughty things that must be put out of + sight, Constance? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Dear Arthur! you spoke like your own self then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>rising hurriedly</i>). Excuse me. I must go. It is very + rude, but—William! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Fetch a hansom directly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> You do frighten me, Arthur! I am sure you are ill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Not at all. I have an engagement. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I must go then—must I? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Do not think me unkind? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I will not think anything you would not have me think. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> The cab is at the door, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Thank you. Then show Miss Lacordère out. Stay. I will open the + door for her myself. <i>Exeunt</i> GER. <i>and</i> CON. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> He speaks like one in despair, forcing every word! If he + should die! Oh, my God! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> GER. <i>Walks up and down the room</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Ain't you going, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No. I have sent the lady in the cab. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Then hadn't you better lie down, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Lie down! What do you mean? I'm not in the way of lying down + except to sleep. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> And let me go for the doctor, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> The doctor! Ha! ha ha!—You are a soldier, you say? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Right. We're all soldiers—or ought to be. I will put you + to your catechism. What is a soldier's first duty? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Obedience, sir. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [GER. <i>sits down and leans his head on his hands</i>. COL. G. <i>watches + him</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Ah! obedience, is it? Then turn those women out. They will + hurt you—may kill you; but you must not mind that. They burn, they + blister, and they blast, for as white as they look! The hottest is the + white fire. But duty, old soldier!—obedience, you know!—Ha! + ha! Oh, my head! my head! I believe I am losing my senses, William. I was + in a bad part of the town this morning. I went to see a place I knew long + ago. It had gone to hell—but the black edges of it were left. There + was a smell—and I can't get it out of me. Oh, William! William! take + hold of me. Don't let them come near me. Psyche is laughing at me. I told + you to throw the red cloth over her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> My poor boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Don't fancy you're my father, though! I wish you were. But I + cannot allow that.—Why the devil didn't you throw the red cloth over + that butterfly? She's sucking the blood from my heart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You said the Psyche, sir! The red cloth <i>is</i> over the + Psyche, sir. Look. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Yes. Yes. I beg your pardon. Take it off. It is too red. It + will scorch her wings. It burns my brain. Take it off, I say! (COL. G. <i>uncovers + the Psyche</i>.) There! I told you! She's laughing at me! Ungrateful + child! <i>I</i>'m not her Cupid. Cover her up. Not the red cloth again. + It's too hot, I say. I won't torture <i>her</i>. I am a man and I can bear + it. She's a woman and she shan't bear it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sinks back in his chair</i>. COL. G. <i>lays him on the dais, and sits + down beside him</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> His heart's all right! And when a fellow's miserable over + his faults, there must be some way out of them.—But the + consequences?—Ah! there's the rub. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What's the matter? Where am I? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I must fetch a doctor, sir. You've been in a faint. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Why couldn't I keep in it? It was very nice: you know nothing—and + that's the nicest thing of all. Why is it we can't stop, William? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I don't understand you, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Stop living, I mean. It's no use killing yourself, for you + don't stop then. At least they say you go on living all the same. If I + thought it did mean stopping, William— + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. C.</i> Do come to your room, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I won't. I'll stop here. How hot it is! Don't let anybody in. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Stretches out his hand</i>. COL. G. <i>holds it. He falls asleep</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What <i>shall</i> I do? If he married her, he'd be + miserable, and make her miserable too. I'll take her away somewhere. I'll + be a father to her; I'll tend her as if she were his widow. But what + confusions would follow! Alas! alas! one crime is the mother of a thousand + miseries! And now he's in for a fever—typhus, perhaps!—I <i>must</i> + find this girl!—What a sweet creature that Miss Lacordère is! If + only he might have <i>her</i>! I don't care what she was. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Don't let them near me, William! They will drive me mad. They + think I shall love them. I <i>will</i> not. If she comes one step nearer, + I shall strike her. You Diana! Hecate! Hell-cat!—Fire-hearted Chaos + is burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some water, William! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Here it is, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> But just look to Psyche there. Ah, she's off! There she goes! + melting away in the blue, like a dissolving vapour. Bring me my + field-glass, William. I may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Pray don't talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or you will make + yourself very ill. Think what will become of me if— + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What worse would <i>you</i> be, William? You are a soldier. I + must talk. You are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet (<i>holding his + head with both hands</i>). I should go raving mad else (<i>wildly</i>). + Give me some water. (<i>He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the + room</i>.) Now they <i>are</i> gone, and I do believe they won't come + again! I see everything—and your face, William. You are very good to + me—very patient! I should die if it weren't for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I would die for you, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Would you? But perhaps you don't care much for your life. + Anybody might have <i>my</i> life for the asking. I dare say it's just as + good to be dead.—Ah! there is a toad—a toad with a tail! No; + it's a toad with a slow-worm after him. Take them away, William!—Thank + you.—I used to think life pleasant, but now—somehow there's + nothing in it. She told me the truth about it—Constance did. Don't + let those women come back. What if I <i>should</i> love them, William!—love + and hate them both at once! William! William! (<i>A knock at the door</i>.) + See who that is. Mind you don't let <i>them</i> in. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Martha is there, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> She's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. They would + walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look. + You'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't let + them in, for the love of God, William! Real women have irises to their + eyes: those have none—those frightful snowy beauties.—And yet + snow is very nice! And I'm so hot! <i>There</i> they come again! <i>Exit</i> + COL. G. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MRS. CLIFFORD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt you. I am here. I + will take care of you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you + know them, aunt? I'll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and + Venus.—They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white + women—only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are + purple—and inside their lips, when they smile—and in the + hollows of their eyes—ugh! They want me to love them; and they say + you are all—all of you women—no better than they are. I <i>know</i> + that is a lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you, + and drive them away? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> How long have you had this headache? (<i>laying her hand on + his forehead</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Only a year or two—since the white woman came—that + woman (<i>pointing to the Psyche</i>). She's been buried for ages, and + won't grow brown. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> There's no woman there, Arthur. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my + head! my head!—There's my father standing behind the door and won't + come in!—<i>He</i> could help me now, if he would. William! show my + father in. But he isn't in the story—so he can't. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Do try to keep yourself quiet, Arthur. The doctor will be + here in a few minutes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> He shan't come here! He would put the white woman out. She + does smell earthy, but I won't part with her. (<i>A knock</i>.) What a + devil of a noise! Why don't they use the knocker? What's the use of taking + a sledge-hammer? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> It's that stupid James! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> CONSTANCE. MRS. C. <i>goes to meet her</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Constance, you go and hurry the doctor. I will stay with + Arthur. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Is he <i>very</i> ill, aunt? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I'm afraid he is. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>sitting up</i>). Constance! Constance! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Here I am! (<i>running to him</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh, my head! I wish I could find somewhere to lay it!—Sit + by me, Constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder—for one + minute—only one minute. It aches so! (<i>She sits down by him. His + head sinks on her shoulder</i>. MRS. C. <i>looks annoyed, and exit</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (<i>sobbing</i>). You used + to like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You <i>have</i> forgiven + me? Dear head! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>half waking</i>). I can't read. When I get to the bottom + of the page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to + Garibaldi! and if I don't, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep + that one line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her by the lily-white + hand."—I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they + <i>will</i> come!—I <i>won't</i> go mad. I should never get to + Garibaldi, and never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my + heart. I will <i>not</i> go mad! I will die like a man. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Arthur! Arthur! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind her!—Psyche! + Psyche! Don't speak to those women! Come alone, and I will tear my heart + out and give it you.—It is Psyche herself now, and the rest are + gone! Psyche—listen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> It's only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would + but let me stay and nurse you! But I don't know what's come to her: she's + not like herself at all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Who's that behind you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Behind me? (<i>looking round</i>). There's nobody behind me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I thought there was somebody behind you. William!—What + can have become of William? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I dare say aunt has sent him somewhere. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Then he's gone! he's gone! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> You're not afraid of being left alone with me, Arthur? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh no! of course not?—What can have become of William? + Don't you know they sent him—not those women, but the dead people—to + look after me? He's a good fellow. He said he would die for me. Ha! ha! + ha! Not much in that—is there? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Don't laugh so, dear Arthur. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Well, I won't. I have something to tell you, Constance. I will + try to keep my senses till I've told you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Do tell me. I hope I haven't done anything more to vex you. + Indeed I am sorry. I won't speak to that man again, if you like. I would + rather not—if you wish it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What right have I to dictate to you, my child? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Every right. I am yours. I belong to you. Nobody owned me when + you took me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Don't talk like that; you will drive me mad. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Arthur! Arthur! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Listen to me, Constance. I am going to Garibaldi. He wants + soldiers. I must not live an idle life any longer.—We must part, + Constance.—Good-bye, my darling! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> No, no; not yet; we'll talk about it by-and-by. You see I + shall have ever so many things to make for you before you can go! (<i>smiling</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Garibaldi can't wait, Constance—and <i>I</i> can't wait. + I shall die if I stop here. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Oh, Arthur, you are in some trouble, and you won't tell me + what it is, so I can't help you! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I shall be killed, I know. I mean to be. Will you think of me + sometimes? Give me one kiss. I may have a last kiss. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> (<i>weeping</i>.) My heart will break if you talk like that, + Arthur. I will do anything you please. There's something wrong, dreadfully + wrong! And it must be my fault!—Oh! there's that man! (<i>starting + up</i>.) He shall <i>not</i> come here. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [<i>Runs to the house-door, and stands listening, with her hand on + the key</i>.] +</pre> + <p> + END OF ACT I. <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II. + </h2> + <p> + SCENE.—<i>A street in Mayfair</i>. MRS. CLIFFORD'S <i>house. A + pastrycook's shop. Boys looking in at the window</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> I say, Jim, ain't it a lot o' grub? If I wos a pig now,— + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack.</i> I likes to hear Bill a supposin' of hisself. Go it, Bill!—There + ain't nothink <i>he</i> can't suppose hisself, Jim.—Bein' as you + ain't a pig. Bill, you've got yer own trotters, an' yer own tater-trap. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> Vereupon blue Bobby eccosts me with the remark, "I wants you, + Bill;" and seein' me too parerlyzed to bolt, he pops me in that 'ere jug + vithout e'er a handle. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack.</i> Mother kep' a pig once. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim.</i> What was he like, Jack? + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack.</i> As like any other pig as ever he could look; accep' that + where other pigs is black he wor white, an' where other pigs is white he + wor black. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim.</i> Did you have the milk in your tea, Jack? + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack.</i> Pigs ain't got no milk, Jim, you stupe! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> Pigs <i>has</i> milk, Jack, only they don't give it to coves.—I + wish I wos the Lord Mayor! + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack.</i> Go it again, Bill. He ought ha' been a beak, Bill ought. What + 'ud you do, Bill, supposin' as how you wos the Lord Mayor? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> I'd take all the beaks, an' all the peelers, an' put their + own bracelets on 'em, an' feed 'em once a day on scraps o' wittles to + bring out the hunger: a cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim.</i> He gets what mother calls the squeamishes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack.</i> Well, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> Well, the worry moment their bellies was as long an' as loose + as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin', I'd bring 'em all up to this 'ere + winder, five or six at a time—with the darbies on, mind ye— + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim.</i> And I'm to be there to see, Bill—ain't I? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> If you're good, Jim, an' don't forget yer prayers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack.</i> My eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! Go it, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> Then I up an' addresses 'em: "My Lords an' Gen'lemen, 'cos as + how ye're all good boys, an' goes to church, an' don't eat <i>too</i> many + wittles, an' don't take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you shall + obswerve me eat." + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim.</i> Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a 'ungry gift, as + the cock said when he bolted the pebbles. Let's sojourn the meetin'. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. Yes; come along. 'Tain't a comfable corner this yere: the + wind cuts round uncommon sharp. Them pies ain't good—leastways not + to look at. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. They ain't disgestible. But look ye here, Jack and Jim—hearkee, + my kids. (<i>Puts an arm round the neck of each, and whispers first to one + and then to the other</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MATTIE <i>and</i> SUSAN. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Now, Mattie, we're close to the house, an' I don't want to be + seen with you, for she's mad at <i>me</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You must have made her mad, then, Sue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. She madded me first: what else when she wouldn't believe a + word I said? She'd ha' sworn on the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the + spout. But she'll believe <i>you</i>, an' give you something, and then + we'll have a chop! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. How can you expect that, Sue, when the work's lost? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Never mind; you go and see. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I shan't take it, Susan. I couldn't. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Stuff and nonsense! I'll wait you round the corner: I don't + like the smell o' them pastry things. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. MATTIE <i>walks past the window</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I don't like going. It makes me feel a thief to be suspected. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Lor! it's our Mattie! There's our Mattie!—Mattie! + Mattie! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Ah, Bill! you're there—are you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Yes, Mattie. It's a tart-show. You walks up and takes yer + chice;—leastways, you makes it: somebody else takes it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Wouldn't you like to <i>take</i> your choice sometimes, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. In course I would. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Then why don't you work, and better yourself a bit? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Bless you, Mattie! myself is werry comf'able. He never + complains. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You're hungry sometimes,—ain't you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Most remarkable 'ungry, Mattie—this werry moment. Odd + you should ask now—ain't it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You would get plenty to eat if you would work. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Thank you—I'd rayther not. Them as ain't 'ungry never + enj'ys their damaged tarts. If I'm 'appy, vere's the odds? as the cat said + to the mouse as wanted to be let off the engagement. Why should I work + more'n any other gen'leman? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. A gentleman that don't work is a curse to his neighbours, + Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Bless you, Mattie! I ain't a curse—nohow to nobody. I + don't see as you've got any call to say that, Mattie. I don't go fakin' + clies, or crackin' cribs—nothin' o' the sort. An' I don't mind doin' + of a odd job, if it <i>is</i> a odd one. Don't go for to say that again, + Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I won't, then, Bill. But just look at yourself!—You're + all in rags. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Rags is the hairier, as the Skye terrier said to the + black-an'-tan.—I shouldn't object to a new pair of old trousers, + though. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Why don't you have a pair of real new ones? If you would only + sweep a crossing— + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. There ain't, a crossin' but what's took. Besides, my legs + ain't put together for one place all day long. It ain't to be done, + Mattie. They can't do it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. There's the shoe-black business, then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. That ain't so bad, acause you can shoulder your box and + trudge. But if it's all the same to you, Mattie, I'd rayther enj'y life: + they say it's short. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. But it ain't the same to me. It's so bad for you to be idle, + Bill! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Not as I knows on. I'm tollable jolly, so long's I gets the + browns for my bed. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Wouldn't you like a bed with a blanket to it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Well, yes—if it was guv to me. But I don't go in for + knocking of yourself about, to sleep warm. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Well, look here, Bill. It's all Susan and I can do to pay for + our room, and get a bit of bread and a cup of tea. It ain't enough.—If + you were to earn a few pence now— + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Oh golly! I never thought o' that. What a hass I wur, to be + sure! I'll go a shoe-blackin' to-morror—I will. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Did you ever black a shoe, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I tried a boot oncet—when Jim wor a blackin' for a day + or two. But I made nothink on it—nothink worth mentionin'. The + blackin' or som'at was wrong. The gen'leman said it wur coal-dust, an he'd + slog me, an' adwised me to go an' learn my trade. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. And what did you say to that? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Holler'd out "Shine yer boots!" as loud as I could holler. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You must try my boots next time you come. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. This wery night, Mattie. I'll make 'em shine like plate glass—see + then if I don't. But where'll I get a box and brushes? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You shall have our brushes and my footstool. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and + carry it by one leg—as drunken Moll does her kid.—Here you + are, sir! Black your boots, sir?—Shine your trotters, sir? (<i>bawling</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. That'll do; that'll do, Bill! Famous! You needn't do it again + (<i>holding her ears</i>). Would you like a tart? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Just wouldn't I, then!—Shine your boooooots! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>laughing</i>). Do hold your tongue, Bill. There's a penny + for a tart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Thank you, Mattie. Thank you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit into the shop</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Jack and Jim</i> (<i>touching their supposed caps</i>). Please, ma'am! + Please, ma'am! I likes 'em too. I likes 'em more 'n Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I'm very sorry, but—(<i>feeling in her pocket</i>) I've + got a ha'penny, I believe. No—there's a penny! You must share it, + you know. (<i>Gives it to Jack. Knocks at Mrs. Clifford's door.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack and Jim</i>. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i> MATTIE <i>into</i> MRS. CLIFFORD'S. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. Now, Jack, what's it to be? + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. I believe I shall spend it in St. Martin's Lane. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. A ha'p'orth on it's mine, you know, Jack. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. Well, you do put the stunners on me! + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. She said we wos to divide it—she did. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. 'Taint possible. It beats my ivories. (<i>He pretends to bite + it</i>. JIM <i>flies at him in a rage</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> BILL, <i>with his mouth full</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Now what are you two a squabblin' over? Oh! Jack's got a + yennep, and Jim's iookin' shirty. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. She told him to divide it, and he won't. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Who told him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. You dare, Jack? Hand over. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. Be hanged if I do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Then do and be hanged. (<i>A struggle</i>.) There, Jim! Now + you go and buy what you like. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. Am I to give Jack the half? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Yes, if our Mattie said it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. All right, Bill. (<i>Goes into the shop</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. I owe you one for that, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Owe it me then, Jack. I do like fair play—always did (<i>eating</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. You ain't a sharin' of <i>your</i> yennep, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Mattie didn't say I was to. She knowed one wouldn't break up + into three nohow. 'Tain't in natur', Jack. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. You might ha' guv me a bite, anyhow, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. It ain't desirable, Jack—size o' trap dooly considered. + Here comes your share. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> JIM. <i>Gives a bun to</i> JACK. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. I tell you what, Bill—she ain't <i>your</i> Mattie. She + ain't nobody's Mattie; she's a hangel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. No, Jim, she ain't a hangel; she 'ain't got no wings, + leastways outside her clo'es, and she 'ain't got clo'es enough to hide + 'em. I wish I wos a hangel! + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. At it again, Bill! I <i>do</i> like to hear Bill a wishin' of + hisself! Why, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Acause they're never 'ungry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. How do you know they ain't? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. You never sees 'em loafin' about nowheres. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. Is Mattie your sister, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. No, Jim; I ain't good 'nough to have a sister like she. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. Your sweetheart, Bill? Ha! ha! ha! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Dry up, Jack. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. Tell me about her, Bill. <i>I</i> didn't jaw you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. She lives in our court, Jim. Makes shirts and things. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. Oh! ho! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BILL <i>hits</i> JACK. JACK <i>doubles himself up</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Jim, our Mattie ain't like other gals; I never see her out + afore this blessed day—upon my word and honour, Jim, never! + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. (<i>wiping his nose with his sleeve</i>). You don't know a + joke from a jemmy, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'll joke you!—A hangel tips you a tart, and you plucks + her feathers! Get on t'other side of the way, you little dirty devil, or + I'll give you another smeller—cheap too. Off with you! + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. No, Bill; no, please. I'm wery sorry. I ain't so bad's all + that comes to. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. If you wants to go with Jim and me, then behave like a + gen'leman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jim</i>. I calls our Mattie a brick! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. None o' <i>your</i> jaw, Jim! She ain't <i>your</i> Mattie. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Enter THOMAS. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Childer, dun yo know th' way to Paradise—Row, or Road, + or summat? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Wheer's th' Sunday-school, chylt? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Second door round the corner, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Second dur reawnd th' corner! Which corner, my man? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Round <i>any</i> corner. Second door's all-ways + Sunday-school. (<i>Takes a sight. Exeunt boys</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THOMAS <i>sits down on a door-step</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th' Lord dunnot be a + forsakin' ov mo. There's that abeawt th' lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th' + angels keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, + an' they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful + plaze! What has th' shepherd o' th' sheep himsel' to do, God bless him! + but go look for th' lost ones and carry 'em whoam! O Lord! gie mo mo + Mattie. Aw'm a silly ship mosel, a sarchin' for mo lost lamb. (<i>Boys + begin to gather and stare</i>.) She's o' the world to me. O Lord, hear mo, + and gie mo mo Mattie. Nea, aw'll geet oop, and go look again. (<i>Rises</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. Ain't he a cricket, Tommy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Second Boy</i>. Spry, ain't he? Prod him, and see him jump. (<i>General + insult</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Why, childer, what have aw done, that yo cry after mo like a + thief? + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. Daddy Longlegs! Daddy Longlegs! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>They hustle and crowd him. Re-enter</i> BILL. THOMAS <i>makes a rush. + They run. He seizes</i> BILL. <i>They gather again</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Han yo getten a mother, lad? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. No, thank ye. 'Ain't got no mother. Come of a haunt, I do. + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. Game!—ain't he? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Well, aw'll tak yo whoam to yor aunt—aw wull. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Will you now, old chap? Wery well. (<i>Squats</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>holding him up by the collar, and shaking his stick over + him</i>). Tell mo wheer's por aunt, or aw'll breyk every bone i' yor body. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>wriggling and howling and rubbing his eyes with alternate + sleeves</i>). Let me go, I say. Let me go and I'll tell ye. I will indeed, + sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>letting go</i>) Wheer then, mo lad? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>starting up</i>). I' the church-cellar, sir—first + bin over the left—feeds musty, and smells strong. Ho! ho! ho! (<i>Takes + a sight</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THOMAS <i>makes a dart</i>. BILL <i>dodges him</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. Ain't he a cricket <i>now</i>, Tommy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Second Boy</i>. Got one leg too many for a cricket, Sam. + </p> + <p> + <i>Third Boy</i>. That's what he jerks hisself with, Tommy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Boys, I want to be freens wi' yo. Here's a penny. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>One of the boys knocks it out of his hand. A scramble</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Now, boys, dun yo know wheer's a young woman bi th' name ov + Mattie—somewheer abeawt Paradise Row? + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. Yes, old un. + </p> + <p> + <i>Second Boy</i>. Lots on 'em. + </p> + <p> + <i>Third Boy</i>. Which on em' do you want, Mr. Cricket? + </p> + <p> + <i>Fourth Boy</i>. You ain't peticlar, I s'pose, old corner-bones? + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. Don't you fret, old stilts. We'll find you a Mattie. + There's plenty on 'em—all nice gals. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> I want mo own Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. Why, you'd never tell one from t'other on 'em! + </p> + <p> + <i>Third Boy</i>. All on 'em wery glad to see old Daddy Longlegs! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Oh dear! Oh dear! What an awful plaze this Lon'on do be! To + see the childer so bad! + </p> + <p> + <i>Second Boy</i>. Don't cry, gran'pa. <i>She'</i>d chaff you worser 'n + us! We're only poor little innocent boys. We don't know nothink, bless + you! Oh no! + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. You'd better let her alone, arter all, bag o' nails. + </p> + <p> + <i>Second Boy</i>. She'll have it out on you now, for woppin' of her when + she wor a kid. + </p> + <p> + <i>First Boy</i>. She's a wopper herself now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Third Boy</i>. Mighty fine, with your shirt for a great-coat. He! he! + he! + </p> + <p> + <i>Fourth Boy</i>. Mattie never kicks us poor innocent boys—cos we + 'ain't got no mothers to take our parts. Boo hoo! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> JACK—<i>his hands in his pockets</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. What's the row, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Dunnow, Jack. Old chap collared me when I wasn't alludin' to + him. He's after some Mattie or other. It can't be our Mattie. <i>She</i> + wouldn't never have such a blazin' old parient as that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. Supposin' it was your Mattie, Bill, would you split, and let + Scull-and-cross-bones nab her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Would I? Would I 'and over our Mattie to her natural enemy? + Did you ax it, Jack? + </p> + <p> + <i>Jack</i>. Natural enemy! My eye, Bill! what words you fakes! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Ain't he her natural enemy, then? Ain't it yer father as + bumps yer 'ed, an' cusses ye, an' lets ye see him eat? Afore he gets our + Mattie, I'll bite! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Poor lad! poor lad! Dunnot say that! Her feyther's th' best + freen' hoo's getten. Th' moor's th' pity, for it's not mich he can do for + her. But he would dee for her—he would. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +<i>Boys (all together)</i>. Go along, Daddy-devil! Pick yer own bones, an' +ha' done. + + Bag-raker! + Skin-cat! + Bag o' nails! + Scull-an'-cross-bones! + + Old Daddy Longlegs wouldn't say his prayers— + Take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs. + + Go along! Go to hell! + <i>We</i>'ll skin you. + Melt ye down for taller, we will. + Only he 'ain't got none, the red herrin'! + + <i>They throw things at him. He sits down on the door-step, and covers + his head with his arms. Enter</i> COL. G. <i>Boys run off</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Poor old fellow! Are you hurt? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Eh! <i>yo</i> be a followin' ov mo too! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What are you doing here? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> What am aw doin' yere! Thee knows well enough what aw're a + doin' yere. It 're o' thy fau't, mon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Why, you've got a blow! Your head is cut! Poor old fellow! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Never yo mind mo yed. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You must go home. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Goo whoam, says to! Aw goo no-wheers but to th' grave afoor + aw've feawnd mo chylt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Come along with me; I will do all I can to find her. + Perhaps I can help you after all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw mak nea deawbt o' that, mon. And thae seems a gradely chap. + Aw'm a'most spent. An' aw'm sick, sick! Dunnot let th' boys shove mo + abeawt again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I will not. They shan't come near you. Take my arm. Poor + old fellow! If you would but trust me! Hey! Cab there! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exeunt</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> SUSAN, <i>peeping</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I wonder whatever's come to Mattie! It's long time she was out + again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MATTIE, <i>hurriedly</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh, Susan! Susan! (<i>Falls</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Mattie! Mattie! (<i>Kneels beside her, and undoes her bonnet</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> POLICEMAN. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Pol</i>. What ails her? (<i>Goes to lift her</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Leave her alone, will you? Let her head down. Get some water. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pol</i>. Drunk—is she? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Hold your tongue, you brute! If she'd a satin frock on, + i'stead o' this here poor cotton gownd, you'd ha' showed her t'other side + o' your manners! Get away with you. You're too ugly to look at.—Mattie! + Mattie! Look up, child. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pol</i>. She mustn't lie there. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Susan! + </p> + <p> + <i>Pol</i>. Come, my girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. You keep off, I tell you! Don't touch her. She's none o' your + sort. Come, Mattie, dear.—Why don't you make 'em move on? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pol</i>. You'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, young woman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. You live lobster! + </p> + <p> + <i>Pol</i>. I'll have to lock you up, I see. One violent. T'other + incapable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. You're another. Mattie, my dear, come along home. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pol</i>. That's right; be off with you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MATTIE <i>rises</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Let's go. Sue! Let's get farther off. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. You can't walk, child. If I hadn't been so short o' wittles + for a week, I could ha' carried you. But it's only a step to the + cook-shop. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No money, Sue. (<i>Tries to walk</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. O Lord! What <i>shall</i> I do! And that blue-bottle there a + buzzin' an' a starin' at us like a dead codfish!—Boh! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> BILL. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Our Mattie! Gracious! what's the row, Susan? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. She ain't well. Take her other arm, Bill, and help her out o' + this. We ain't in no Christian country. Pluck up, Mattie, dear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Come into the tart-shop. I'm a customer. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>They go towards the shop. Exit</i> POLICEMAN. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No, no, Sukey! I can't abide the smell of it. Let me sit on + the kerb for a minute. (<i>Sits down</i>.) Oh, father! father! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Never you mind, Mattie! If he wor twenty fathers, he shan't + come near ye. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh, Bill! if you could find him for me! He would take me home. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Now who'd ha' thought o' that? Axially wantin' her own + father! I'd run far enough out o' the way o' mine—an' farther if he + wur a-axin' arter me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh me! my side! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. It's hunger, poor dear! (<i>Sits down beside her</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>aside</i>). This won't do, Bill! I'm a shamed o' <i>you</i>, + Bill! <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No, Susan, it's not hunger. It's the old story, Sue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Mattie! I never! You don't mean to go for to tell me you're a + breakin' of your precious heart about <i>him</i>? It's not your gentleman + sure<i>ly</i>! It's not <i>him</i> ye're turnin' sick about, this time o' + day? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MATTIE <i>nods her head listlessly</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. What's up fresh, then? You was pretty bobbish when you left + me. It's little he thinks of <i>you</i>, I'll be bound. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. That's true enough. It's little he ever thought of me. He <i>did</i> + say he loved me, though. It's fifty times he did! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Lies, lies, Mattie—all lies! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No, Susan; it wasn't lies. He meant it—at the time. + That's what made it look all right. Oh dear! Oh dear! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. But what's come to you now, Mattie? What's fresh in it? You're + not turned like this all at once for nothink! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I've seen him! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Seen him! Oh, my! I wish it had been me. <i>I</i>'d ha' seen + him! I'd ha' torn his ugly eyes out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. They ain't ugly eyes. They're big and blue, and they sparkle + so when he talks to her! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. And who's <i>her</i>? Ye didn't mention a <i>her</i>. Some + brazen-faced imperence! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No. The young lady at Mrs. Clifford's. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Oho! See if I do a stitch for her!—Shan't I leave a + needle in <i>her</i> shimmy, just! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. What <i>shall</i> I do! All the good's gone out of me! And + such a pain here! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Keep in yer breath a minute, an' push yer ribs out. It's one + on 'em's got a top o' the other. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Such a grand creature! And her colour coming and going like + the shadows on the corn! It's no wonder he forgot poor me. But it'll burn + itself out afore long. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Don't ye talk like that, Mattie; I can't abear it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. If I was dressed like her, though, and could get my colour + back! But laws! I'm such a washed out piece o' goods beside her! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. That's as I say, Matilda! It's the dress makes the differ. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No, Susan, it ain't. It's the free look of them—and the + head up—and the white hands—and the taper fingers. They're + stronger than us, and they're that trained like, that all their body goes + in one, like the music at a concert. <i>I</i> couldn't pick up a needle + without going down on my knees after it. It's the pain in my side, Sue.—Yes, + it's a fine thing to be born a lady. It's <i>not</i> the clothes, Sue. If + we was dressed ever so, we couldn't come near them. It's that look,—I + don't know what. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Speak for yerself, Mattie; <i>I</i>'m not a goin' to think + such small beer of <i>my</i>self, <i>I</i> can tell you! I believe if I'd + been took in time— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. It's a big <i>if</i> that though, Sue.—And then she + looked <i>so</i> good! You'd hardly think it of me,—perhaps it's + because I'm dying—but for one minute I could ha' kissed her very + shoes. Oh, my side! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. (<i>putting her arm tight round her waist</i>). Does that help + it Mattie, dear?—a little teeny bit? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Yes, Sukey. It holds it together a bit. Will he break her + heart too, I wonder? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. No fear o' that! Ladies takes care o' theirselves. They're + brought up to it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. It's only poor girls gentlemen don't mind hurting, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. It's the ladies' fathers and brothers, Mattie! We've got + nobody to look after us. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. They may break their hearts, though, for all that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. They won't forgive them like you, then, Mattie! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I dare say they're much the same as we are when it comes to + that, Sue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Don't say <i>me</i>, Mattie. <i>I</i> wouldn't forgive him—no, + not if I was to die for it. But what came of it, child? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I made some noise, I suppose, and the lady started. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. And then you up and spoke? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I turned sick, and fell down. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Poor dear! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. She got me a glass of wine, but I couldn't swallow it, and got + up and crawled out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Did he see you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I think he did. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. You'll tell her, in course? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No, Sue; he'd hate me, and I couldn't bear that. Oh me! my + side! It's so bad! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Let's try for home, Mattie. It's a long way, and there's + nothing to eat when you're there; but you can lie down, and that's + everything to them as can't sit up. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>rising</i>). I keep fancying I'm going to meet my father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Let's fancy it then every turn all the way home, an' that'll + get us along. There, take my arm. There!—Come along. <i>Exeunt</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Slow music. Twilight</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> BILL <i>with a three-legged stool, brushes, etc.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Come! it's blackin' all over! When gents can't no longer see + their boots, 'tain't much use offerin' to shine 'em. But if I can get a + penny, I will. I <i>must</i> take a tart to Mattie, or this here damaged + one (<i>laying his hand on his stomach</i>) won't go to sleep this night. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> WATERFIELD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Black your boots for a party, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. (<i>aside</i>) The very rascal I saw her speaking to! But + wasn't she a brick not to split! That's what I call devotion now! There <i>are</i> + some of them capable of it. I'll set her up for life. I'd give a cool + thousand it hadn't happened, though. I saw her father too hanging about + Gervaise's yesterday. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Clean your boots, sir? Shine 'em till they grin like a + Cheshire cat eatin' cheese! + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Shine away, you beggar. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>turning up his trousers</i>). I ain't no beggar, sir. + Shine for a shiner's fair play. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Do you live in this neighbourhood? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. No, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Where, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>feeling where a pocket should be</i>). I don't appear to + 'ave a card about me, sir, but my address is Lamb's Court, Camomile Street—leastways + I do my sleepin' not far off of it. I've lived there, what livin' I <i>have</i> + done, sin' ever I wor anywheres as I knows on. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Do you happen to know a girl of the name of Pearson? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. No, sir. I can't say as how I rec'lect the name. Is she a old + girl or a young un? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. You young liar! I saw you talking to her not two hours ago! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Did ye now, sir? That's odd, ain't it? Bless you! I talks to + everybody. I ain't proud, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Well, do you see this? (<i>holding up a sovereign</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. That's one o' them tilings what don't require much seein', + sir. There! Bright as a butterfly! T'other twin, sir! + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. I'll give you this, if you'll do something for me—and + another to that when the thing's done. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. 'Tain't stealin', sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. No. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Cos, you see, Mattie— + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Who did you say? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Old Madge as lets the beds at tuppence a short night. 'Tain't + stealin', you say, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. What do you take me for? I want you to find out for me where + the girl Pearson lives—that's all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>snatching the sovereign and putting it in his mouth</i>). + Now then, sir!—What's the young woman like? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Rather tall—thin—dark hair—large dark eyes—and + long white hands. Her name's Matilda—Mattie Pearson—the girl + you were talking to, I tell you, on this very spot an hour or two ago. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it</i>). + Golly! it <i>is</i> our Mattie! + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Shall you know her again? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Any boy as wasn't a hass would know his own grandmother by + them spots. Besides, I remember sich a gal addressin' of me this mornin'. + If you say her it was, I'll detect her for ye. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. There's a good boy! What's your name? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Timothy, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. What else? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Never had no other—leastways as I knows on. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Well, Timothy—there's the other sov.—and it's + yours the moment you take me to her. Look at it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. My eye!—Is she a square Moll, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. What do you mean by that? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Green you are, to be sure!—She ain't one as steals, or— + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Not she. She's a sempstress—a needlewoman, or something + of the sort. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. And where shall I find <i>you</i>, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Let me see:—to-morrow night—on the steps of St. + Martin's Church—ten o'clock. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. But if I don't find her? It may be a week—or a month—or— + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Come whether you find her or not, and let me know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. All serene, sir! There you are, sir! Brush your trousers, + sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. No; leave 'em.—Don't forget now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Honour bright, sir! Not if I knows it, sir! + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. There's that other skid, you know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. All right, sir! Anything more, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Damn your impudence! Get along. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. BILL <i>watches him into</i> MRS. CLIFFORD'S. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Now by all the 'ungry gums of Arabiar, 'ere's a swell arter + our Mattie!—A right rig'lar swell! I knows 'em—soverings an' + red socks. What's come to our Mattie? 'Ere's Daddy Longlegs arter her, + vith his penny and his blessin'! an' 'ere's this 'ere mighty swell vith + his soverings—an' his red socks! An' she's 'ungry, poor gal!—This + 'ere yellow-boy?—I 'ain't got no faith in swells—no more 'n in + Daddy Longlegses—I 'ain't!—S'posin' he wants to marry her?—Not + if I knows it. He ain't half good 'nough for <i>her</i>. Too many quids—goin' + a flingin' on 'em about like buttons! He's been a crackin' o' cribs—<i>he</i> + has. I ain't a goin' to interduce our Mattie to no sich blokes as him. No + fathers or lovyers for me—says I!—But this here pebble o' + Paradise!—What's to be done wi' the cherub? I can't tell <i>her</i> + a lie about it, an' who'll break it up for a cove like me, lookin' jes' as + if I'd been an' tarred myself and crep' through a rag-bag! They'd jug me. + An' what 'ud Mattie say then? I wish I 'adn't 'a' touched it. I'm blowed + if I don't toss it over a bridge!—Then the gent 'ain't got the + weight on his dunop out o' me. O Lord! what <i>shall</i> I do with it? I + wish I'd skied it in his face! I don't believe it's a good un; I don't! (<i>Bites + it</i>.) It do taste wery nasty. It's nothin' better 'n a gilt fardin'! + Jes' what a cove might look for from sich a swell! (<i>Goes to a street + lamp and examines it</i>.) Lor! there's a bobby! (<i>Exit. Re-enter to the + lamp</i>.) I wish the gen'leman 'ad guv me a penny. I can't do nothin' wi' + this 'ere quid. Vere am I to put it? I 'ain't got no pocket, an' if I was + to stow it in my 'tato-trap, I couldn't wag my red rag—an' Mother + Madge 'ud soon have me by the chops. Nor I've got noveres to plant it.—O + Lor! it's all I've got, an' Madge lets nobody go to bed without the + tuppence. It's all up with Bill—<i>for</i> the night!—Where's + the odds!—there's a first-class hotel by the river—The Adelphi + Arches, they calls it—where they'll take me in fast enough, and I + can go to sleep with it in my cheek. Coves is past talkin' to you there. + Nobody as sees me in that 'ere 'aunt of luxury, 'ill take me for a + millionaire vith a skid in his mouth. 'Tain't a bit cold to-night neither + (<i>going</i>).—Vy do they say a <i>aunt</i> of luxury? I s'pose + acause she's wife to my uncle. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Slow music. The night passes. A policeman crosses twice</i>. THOMAS + <i>crosses between. Dawn</i>. + + <i>Re-enter</i> BILL. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'm hanged if this here blasted quid ain't a burnin' of me + like a red-hot fardin'! I'm blest if I've slep' more 'n half the night. I + woke up oncet, with it a slippin' down red lane. I wish I had swallered + it. Then nobody 'd 'a' ast me vere I got it. I don't wonder as rich coves + turn out sich a bad lot. I believe the devil's in this 'ere! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Knocks at</i> MRS. CLIFFORD'S door. JAMES <i>opens. Is shutting it + again</i>. BILL <i>shoves in his stool</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Hillo, Blazes! where's your manners? Is that the way you + behaves to callers on your gov'nor's business? + </p> + <p> + <i>James (half opening the door</i>). Get about your own business, you + imperent boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'm about it now, young man. I wants to see your gov'nor. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. <i>You</i>'ve got business with <i>him</i>, have you, eh? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Amazin' precoxity! You've hit it! I <i>have</i> got business + with <i>him</i>, Door-post—not in the wery smallest with <i>you</i>, + Door-post!—essep' the knife-boy's been and neglected of your + feet-bags this mornin'. (JAMES <i>would slam the door</i>. BILL <i>shoves + in his stool</i>.) Don't you try that 'ere little game again, young man! + for if I loses my temper and takes to hollerin', you'll wish yourself + farther. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. A humbug you are! I 'ain't got no gov'nor, boy. The master + as belongs to me is a mis'ess. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Then that 'ere gen'lemen as comes an' goes, ain't your master—eh? + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. What gen'leman, stoopid? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Oh! it don't matter. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. What <i>have—you—got</i> to say to <i>him</i>? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Some'at pickled: it'll keep. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. I'll give him a message, if you like. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Well, you may tell him the bargain's hoff, and if he wants + his money, it's a waitin' of him round the corner. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. You little blackguard! Do you suppose a gen'leman's a goin' + to deliver sich a message as that! Be off, you himp! (<i>Makes a dart at + him</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>dodging him</i>). How d'e do, Clumsy? Don't touch me; I + ain't nice. Why, what was you made for, Parrot? Is them calves your own + rearin' now? Is that a quid or a fardin? Have a shot, now, Shins. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. None o' your imperence, young blackie! 'And me over the + money, and I'll give it to the gen'leman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Do you see anything peticlar green in my eye, Rainbow? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JAMES <i>makes a rush</i>. BILL <i>gets down before him</i>. JAMES <i>tumbles + over him</i>. BILL <i>blacks his face with his brush</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>running a little way</i>). Ha! ha! ha! Bill Shoeblack—his + mark! Who's blackie now? You owes me a penny—twopence—'twor + sich a ugly job! Ain't shiny? I'll come back and shine ye for another + penny. Good mornin', Jim Crow! Take my adwice, and don't on no account + apply your winegar afore you've opened your hoyster. Likeways: Butter + don't melt on a cold tater. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i> JAMES <i>into the house, banging the door</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> WATERFIELD, <i>followed by BILL</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Please, sir, I been a watchin' for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Go to the devil! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'd rayther not. So there's your suv'ring! + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Go along. Meet me where I told you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I won't. There's yer skid. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Be off, or I'll give you in charge. Hey! Policeman! <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Well, I'm blowed! This quid '11 be the hangin' o' me! <i>Damn + you</i>! (<i>Throws it fiercely on the ground and stamps on it</i>.) + Serves me right for chaffin' the old un! He didn't look a bad sort—<i>for</i> + a gov'nor.—Now I reflexes, I heerd Mattie spoony on some father or + other, afore. O Lord! I'll get Jim and Jack to help me look out for him. (<i>Enter</i> + THOMAS.) Lor' ha' mussy!—talk o' the old un!—I'm wery peticlar + glad as I found you, daddy. I been a lookin' for ye—leastways I was + a goin' to look for ye this wery moment as you turns up. I chaffed you + like a zorologicle monkey yesterday, daddy, an' I'm wery sorry. But you + see fathers ain't nice i' this 'ere part o' the continent. (<i>Enter</i> + JAMES, <i>in plain clothes, watching them</i>.) They ain't no good nohow + to nobody. If <i>I</i> wos a husband and a father, I don't know as how I + should be A One, myself. P'r'aps I might think it wur my turn to break + arms and legs. I knowed more 'n one father as did. It's no wonder the boys + is a plaguy lot, daddy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Goo away, boy. Dosto yer, aw've seen so mich wickedness sin' + aw coom to Lon'on, that aw dunnot knaw whether to breighk thi yed, or to + goo wi' tho? There be thieves and there be robbers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Never fear, daddy. You ain't worth robbin' of, I don't think. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> How dosto knaw that? Aw've moore 'n I want to lose abeawt mo. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Then Mattie 'ill have som'at to eat—will she, daddy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Som'at to eight, boy! Be mo Mattie hungry—dun yo think? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Many and many's the time, daddy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Yigh—afore her dinner! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. And after it too, daddy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> O Lord!—And what does hoo do when hoo 's hungry? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Grins and bears it. Come and see her, daddy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> O Lord! Mo Mattie, an' nothin' to eight! Goo on, boy. Aw'm + beawn to follow yo. Tak mo wheer yo like. Aw'll goo. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Come along then, daddy. + </p> + <p> + <i>James (collaring him</i>). Hullo, young un! You're the rascal as stole + the suvering: <i>I</i> saw you! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Dunno what you're up to. I never stole nothink. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Oh no! of course not! What's that in yer fist now? (<i>Catches</i> + BILL'S <i>hand, and forces it open</i>.) There! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BILL <i>drops his stool on</i> JAMES'S <i>foot, throws up the coin, catches + it with his other hand, and puts it in his mouth</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Theighur! Theighur! The like ov that! Aw're agooin wi' a thief—aw + wur! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Never you mind, daddy. It wur guv to me. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. That's what they allus says, sir.—You come along.—I'd + be obliged to you, sir, if you would come too, and say you saw him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Nay! aw connot say aw seigh him steyle it. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. You saw it in his hand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Yigh! aw did. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. It wis guv to me, I tell ye. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Honest boy, this one! Looks like it, don't he, sir? What do + you think of yourself, you young devil, a decoying of a grey-haired old + gen'leman like this? Why, sir, him an' his pals 'ud ha' taken every penny + you had about you! Murdered you, they might—I've knowed as much. + It's a good thing I 'appened on the spot.—Come along, you bad boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I didn't, take it. And I won't go. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Come along. They'll change it for you at the lock-up. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. You didn't see me steal it! You ain't never a goin' to gi' me + in charge? + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Wrong again, young un! That's? percisely what I am a goin' + to do! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Oh, sir! please, sir! I'm a honest boy. It's the Bible-truth. + I'll kiss twenty books on it. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. I won't ax you.—Why, sir, he ain't even one o' the + shoe-brigade. He 'ain't got a red coat. Bless my soul! he 'ain't even got + a box—nothin' but a scrubby pair o' brushes as I'm alive! He ain't + no shoeblack. He's a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks pockets. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. You're a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Bad language, you see! What more would you have? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Who'd iver lia' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I ain't a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae + made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a + deevil—yo did. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. He's one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of + the very worst boys in all London. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill (aside</i>). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rainbow, by Peter and + Paul!—Look y'e here, old gen'leman! This 'ere's a bad cove as is + takin' adwantage o' your woolliness. <i>I</i> knows him. His master guv me + the suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Don't you fancy you're g' in' to take in an experienced old + gen'leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say. + Hey! Police! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Here you are! <i>(Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry + on his jacket, and offers it.</i>) I don't want it. Give it to old Hunx + there.—He shan't never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, + arter all. + </p> + <p> + <i>James (taking the coin</i>). Now look here, Timothy. I'm a detective + hofficer. But I won't never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest + livin'. So you be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to go + to. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BILL <i>moves two paces, and takes a sight at him</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then? + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. It's the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in + his beat. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. My eye! there's a oner! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Tak mo to her, sir, an' aw'll pray for yo. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. I will.—If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I'll give + you in charge at oncet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill (bolting five yards</i>). He's a humbug, daddy! but he'll serve + you right. He'll melt you down for taller. He ain't no 'tective. I know + him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Goo away. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Good-bye, daddy! He don't know your Mattie. Good-bye, + skelington! <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Eh! sech a boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw do, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Nay; it's noan o' her. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Then there's Mattie Winchfield? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Nay; it's noan o' her. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Then there's Mattie Pearson? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer? + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll + call a cab, and we'll go comfortable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab—as yo co it. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. You don't suppose I'm a goin' to put an honest man like you + to expense! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> It's but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Hey! Cab there! <i>Exeunt</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> BILL, <i>following them</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the + yellow-boy—he's his master! Poor old codger! He'll believe any cove + but the one as tells him the truth! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. + + <i>Enter from the house</i> MRS. CLIFFORD. <i>Enter from opposite side</i> + COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I was just coming to see you, Clara. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> And I was going to see you. How's Arthur to-day? I thought + you would have come yesterday. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were <i>not</i> + his father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Or something better than fortune. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the + farce when you please, and in triumph. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an + anticlimax to end what you are pleased to call <i>the farce</i> now. As if + I could make a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black + servant. I wish I had him here. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> You would like to double the watch—would you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Something has vexed you, Clara. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I + wish you would come and see him a little oftener. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> He doesn't want me. You are everything now. Besides, I + can't come alone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col G.</i> Why not? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Constance would fancy I did not want to take her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Then why not take her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I have my reasons. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What are they? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Never mind. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I insist upon knowing them. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I + <i>will</i> if you use such an expression. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> But why shouldn't you bring Miss Lacordère with you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> He's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> She's a fine girl. You make a friend of her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but I don't want + to meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last + <i>my</i> time. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride <i>be</i> a Christian + virtue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I see! You'll be a radical before long. <i>Every</i>thing + is going that way. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I don't care what I am, so I do what's right. I'm sick of + all that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory + as yet, but I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice lay on + that side.—If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he + marry her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> She may be unfit for him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don't fall + in love with birds. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> It's a risk—a great risk. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more + worth taking. I wish my poor boy— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in + pleasing you, brother! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G. (aside</i>). She <i>knows</i> something.—I must go and + see about his dinner. Good-bye, sister. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Good-bye, then. You will have your own way! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> This once, Clara. <i>Exeunt severally</i>. + </p> + <p> + END OF ACT II. <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III. + </h2> + <h3> + SCENE.—<i>A garret-room</i>. MATTIE. SUSAN. + </h3> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know + but hunger may be as easy a way as another. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would + choose. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. There are worse ways. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. There's that button-hole done. (<i>Lays down her work with a + sigh, and leans back in her chair</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's + wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content + with bread, I think. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Bread, indeed! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Well, it's something to eat. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Bread's very good with a cup of tea. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!—If + you'd mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I never tasted lobster-salad. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't + care about your wittles: <i>I</i> do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all + comfortable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I <i>can't</i> eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' + of 'unger. It's only I'm peckish. <i>Very</i> peckish, though. I could eat—let + me see what I <i>could</i> eat:—I could eat a lobster-salad, and two + dozen oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken—if + it was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it—and a Bath-bun, + and a sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just + that crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle + of champagne. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I don't know what one of those things tastes like—scarce + one; and I don't believe you do either. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Don't I?—I never did taste champagne, but I've seen them + eating lobster-salad many a time;—girls not half so good-lookin' as + you or me, Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I <i>am</i> + so hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to + you as if you was fit to talk to—not like them Jew-tailors, as + tosses your work about as if it dirtied their fingers—and them none + so clean for all their fine rings! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I saw Nathan's Joseph in a pastrycook's last Saturday, and a + very pretty girl with him, poor thing! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I suppose she was hungry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I'd die before I let a snob like that treat <i>me</i>. No, + Mattie! I spoke of a <i>real</i> gentleman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Are you sure you wouldn't take Nathan's Joseph for a gentleman + if he was civil to you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the + moment I set eyes on him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a + lady, but only till she's left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes + fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back. + Sue, dear, don't have a word to say to one of them—if he speaks ever + so soft. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Lawks, Mattie! they ain't all one sort. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You won't have more than one sort to choose from. They may be + rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they're all the same in this, + that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a horse—no—nor + half a quarter so much. Don't for God's sake have a word to say to one of + them. If I die, Susan— + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. If you do, Matilda—if you go and do that thing, I'll + take to gin—that's what I'll do. Don't say I didn't act fair, and + tell you beforehand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. How can I help dying, Susan? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if you do. Don't + do it, Matilda—La! there's that lumping Bill again—<i>al</i>ways + a comin' up the stair when you don't want him! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> BILL. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so. (<i>Holds out + his stool</i>.) It ain't respectable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. What ain't respectable? Everything's respectable that's + honest. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a + three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It ain't the thing. The rig'lars + chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does—only there's too + many on 'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a + feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a joey! + There! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the right word in + the right place—as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him + up for purfane swearin'.—When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I + axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin' of + it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. <i>Some</i> on + 'em throws down the 'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.—But I + say, Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you—do you now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. You don't want a father—do you now? Do she, Susan? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You 'ain't seen one + about, have you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig'lar swell—I repeats + it—a astin' arter a young woman by the name o' Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. (<i>pulling him aside</i>). Hold your tongue, Bill! You'll + kill her! You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I'll twist your neck. + Don't you see how white she is? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane + with a hivory 'andle. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide him. If you tell + him where she is, she'll never speak to you again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh, Susan! what <i>shall</i> I do? Don't bring him here, Bill. + I shall have to run away again; and I can't, for we owe a week's rent. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. There, Bill! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch you. Nor the old + one neither. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. There wasn't an old man with him?—not an old man with a + long stick? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Not with <i>him</i>. Daddy was on his own hook? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. It must have been my father, Susan. (<i>Sinks back on her + chair</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. 'Tain't the least likely.—There, Bill! I always said you + was no good! You've killed her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you was. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>reviving</i>). Run and fetch him, Bill—there's a + dear! Oh! how proud I've been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn't + mean it—not for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Mattie, I was a fetchin' of him, but he wouldn't trust me. + And didn't he cut up crusty, and collar me tight! He's a game old cock—he + is, Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>getting up and pacing about the room</i>). Oh, Susan! my + heart'll break. To think he's somewhere near and I can't get to him! Oh my + side! <i>Don't</i> you know where he is, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. He's someveres about, and blow me if I don't, find him!—a + respectable old party in a white pinny, an' 'peared as if he'd go on a + walkin' till he walked hisself up staudin'. A scrumptious old party! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Had he a stick, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Yes—a knobby stick—leastways a stick wi' knobs + all over it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. That's him, Susan! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I could swear to the stick. I was too near gittin' at the + taste on it not to know it again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. When was it you saw him, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Yesterday, Mattie—jest arter you give me the tart. I + sawr him again this mornin', but he wouldn't place no confidence in me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh dear! Why didn't you come straight to me, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. If I'd only ha' known as you wanted him! But that was sech a + <i>un</i>likely thing! It's werry perwokin'! I uses my judgment, an' puts + my hoof in it! I <i>am</i> sorry, Mattie. But I didn't know no better (<i>crying</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Don't cry, Bill. You'll find him for me yet—won't you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'm off this indentical minute. But you see— + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. There! there!—now you mizzle. <i>I</i> don't want no + fathers here—goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to + hers, and she'll die if she don't get him. Run now—there's a good + boy! (<i>Exit</i> BILL.) You 'ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. No, indeed. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give her a bit of + my mind. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That sort of thing + never does any good. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' <i>yes, + ma'am</i>, an' <i>no, ma'am</i>? Not if I knows it, Matilda! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of + us. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. An' what's that to me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. + Clifford has been kind to us. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took + home his slops? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in + kingdom-come. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You're unfair, Susan. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Well, it's little fairness I get. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. And to set that right you're unfair yourself! What you call + speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old + Nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Very well, Miss Matilda! (<i>rising and snatching her bonnet</i>). + The sooner we part the better! You stick by your fine friends! I don't + care <i>that</i> for them! (<i>snapping her fingers</i>)—and you may + tell 'em so! I can make a livin' without them or you either. Goodness + gracious knows it ain't much of a livin' I've made sin' I come across <i>you</i>, + Miss! <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i> (<i>trying to rise</i>). Susan! Susan! (<i>Lays her head on the + table</i>). + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>A tap at the door, and enter</i> MRS. CLIFFORD, <i>with</i> JAMES <i>behind</i>. + MATTIE <i>rises</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Wait on the landing, James. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. Yes, ma'am. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i> JAMES, <i>leaving the door a little ajar</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Well, Miss Pearson! (<i>Mattie offers a chair</i>.) No, + thank you. That person is still with you, I see! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise + you to get rid of her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Was she rude on the stair, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Rude! Vulgar—quite vulgar! Insulting! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest + girl, and never pawned that work. It was done—every stitch of it; + and the loss of the money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did lose + the parcel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> You have only her word for it. If you don't give <i>her</i> + up, I give <i>you</i> up. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways if I did. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> She can't well get into worse. Her language! You would do + ever so much better without her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I daren't, ma'am. I should never get it off my conscience. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Your conscience indeed! (<i>rising</i>). I wish you a good + morning, Miss Pearson.—(<i>Sound of a blow, followed by scuffling</i>.)—What + is that? I fear I have got into an improper place. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SUSAN <i>bursts in</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Yes, ma'am, and that you have! It's a <i>wery</i> improper + place for the likes o' you, ma'am—as believes all sorts o' wicked + things of people as is poor. Who are you to bring your low flunkies + a-listenin' at honest girls' doors! (<i>Turning to James in the doorway</i>.) + Get out, will you? Let me catch you here again, and I'll mark you that the + devil wouldn't know his own! You dirty Paul Pry—you! (<i>Falls on + her knees to Mattie</i>.) Mattie, you angel! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>trying to make her get up</i>) Never mind. It's all right + between you and me, Susan. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I see! I thought as much! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. (<i>starting up</i>) As much as what, then, my lady? Oh, <i>I</i> + know you and your sort—well enough! We're the dirt under your feet—lucky + if we stick to your shoes! But this room's mine. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> That linen was mine, young woman, I believe. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. An' it's for that miserable parcel you come a-talkin', an' + abusin' as no lady ought to! How dare you look that angel in the face + there an' say she stole it—which you're not fit to lace her boots + for her! There! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Susan! Susan! do be quiet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. It's all very well for the likes o' me (<i>courtesying + spitefully</i>)—which I'm no better'n I should be, and a great deal + worse, if I'm on my oath to your ladyship—that's neither here nor + there!—but <i>she's</i> better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, + pryin' into other people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' + yer flunkies! <i>I</i> know ye! I <i>do</i>! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Don't, Susan. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn + ye good manners? I been better brought up myself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the + matter over to the police. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. The perlice, indeed!—You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll + make you!—you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look + me in the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with your—<i>insolence</i>—that's + your word! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i> MRS. CLIFFORD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. She daren't do it—the old scrooge! But just let her try + it on! See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work + my fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me. + I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger, + which it's as true as gospel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. There <i>must</i> be some good people somewheres, Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, + Sukey. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it + afore. It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out—and + they shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher + 'n I shall—barrin' the beard, and <i>that</i> don't go for much + now-a-days. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. And what should I do without you, Susan? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Do you care to have me, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. That I do, indeed. But you shouldn't have talked like that to + Mrs. Clifford. Ladies ain't used to such words. They sound worse than they + are—quite dreadful, to them. She don't know your kind heart as I do. + Besides, the <i>look</i> of things is against us. Ain't it now? Say + yourself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. (<i>starting up</i>) I'll go and beg her pardon. I'll go + direckly—I will. I swear I will. I can't abear her, but I'll do it. + I believe hunger has nigh drove me mad. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. It takes all the madness out of me.—No, Susan; we must + bear it now. Come along. We can be miserable just as well working. There's + your sleeve. I'll thread your needle for you. Don't cry—there's a + dear! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I <i>will</i> cry. It's all I ever could do to my own mind, + and it's all as is left me. But if I could get my claws on that lovyer o' + yours, I wouldn't cry then. He's at the bottom of it! I don't see myself + what's the use of fallin' in love. One man's as much of a fool as another + to me. But you must go to bed. You ain't fit. You'll be easier when you've + got your frock off. There! Why, child, you're all of a tremble!—And + no wonder, wi' nothing on her blessed body but her frock and her shimmy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Don't take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Lie down a bit, anyhow. I'll lie at your back, and you'll soon + be as warm's a toast. (MAT. <i>lies down</i>.) O Lord! she's dead! Her + heart's stopped beatin'. (<i>Runs out of the room</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>A moment of silence. A tap at the door</i>. + + CONSTANCE <i>peeps in, then enters, with a basket</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Miss Pearson!—She's asleep. (<i>Goes near</i>.) Good + heavens! (<i>Lays her hand on her</i>.) No. (<i>Takes a bottle from her + basket, finds a cup, and pours into it</i>.) Take this, Miss Pearson; it + will do you good. There now! You'll find something else in the basket. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I don't want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you + bring me back? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Life is good! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. It is <i>not</i> good. How dare you do it? Why keep a + miserable creature alive? Life ain't to us what it is to you. The grave is + the only place <i>we</i> have any right to. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. If I could make your life worth something to you— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You make my life worth to me! You don't know what you're + saying, miss. (<i>Sitting up</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. I think I do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I will <i>not</i> owe my life to you. I <i>could</i> love you, + though—your hands are so white, and your look so brave. That's what + comes of being born a lady. We never have a chance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Miss Pearson—Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn't + be offended— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Me offended, miss!—I've not got life enough for it. I + only want my father and my mother, and a long sleep.—If I had been + born rich— + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. You might have been miserable all the same. Listen, Mattie. I + will tell you <i>my</i> story—I was once as badly off as you—worse + in some ways—ran about the streets without shoes to my feet, and + hardly a frock to cover me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. La, miss! you don't say so! It's not possible! Look at you! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Indeed, I tell you the truth. I know what hunger is too—well + enough. My father was a silkweaver in Spitalfields. When he died, I didn't + know where to go. But a gentleman— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh! a gentleman!—(<i>Fiercely</i>.) Why couldn't you be + content with <i>one</i>, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. I don't understand you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I dare say not! There! take your basket. I'll die afore a + morsel passes <i>my</i> lips. There! Go away, miss. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. (<i>aside</i>). Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask + William to fetch a doctor. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I wish my hands were as white as hers. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> SUSAN, <i>followed by</i> COL. G. CONSTANCE <i>behind</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Mattie! dear Mattie! this gentleman—don't be vexed—I + couldn't help him bein' a gentleman; I was cryin' that bad, and I didn't + see no one come up to me, and when he spoke to me, it made me jump, and I + couldn't help answerin' of him—he spoke so civil and soft like, and + me nigh mad! I thought you was dead, Mattie. He says he'll see us righted, + Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I'll do what I can, if you will tell me what's amiss. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Oh, everything's amiss—everything!—Who was that + went out, Mattie—this minute—as we come in? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Miss Lacordère. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. She's an angel, Susan. There's her basket. I told her to take + it away, but she would leave it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. (<i>peeping into the basket</i>). Oh, my! Ain't this nice? You + <i>must</i> have a bit, Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Not one mouthful. You wouldn't have me, Susan! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. <i>I</i> ain't so peticlar (<i>eating a great mouthful</i>). + You really must, Mattie. (<i>Goes on eating</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Don't tease her. We'll get something for her presently. And + don't you eat too much—all at once. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I think she'd like a chop, sir.—There's that boy, Bill, + again!—Always when he ain't wanted! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> BILL. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>aside to Susan</i>). What's the row? What's that 'ere gent + up to? I've been an' had enough o' gents. They're a bad lot. I been too + much for one on 'em, though. I ha' run <i>him</i> down.—And, Mattie, + I've found the old gen'leman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. My father, Bill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. That's it percisely! Right as a trivet—he is! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Susan! take hold of me. My heart's going again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Lord! what's up wi' Mattie? She do look dreadful. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. You been an' upset her, you clumsy boy! Here—run and + fetch a sausage or two, and a— + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No, no! That will never do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Them's for Bill and me, sir. I was a goin' on, sir.—And, + Bill, a chop—a nice chop. But Lord! how are we to cook it, with + never a fryin'-pan, or a bit o' fire to set it on! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You'd never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the + frying-pan? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Certainly not, sir—we 'ain't got one. Everything's up + the spout an' over the top. Run, Bill. A bit of cold chicken, and two + pints o' bottled stout. There's the money the gen'leman give me.—'T + 'ain't no Miss Lackodare's, Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'll trouble no gen'leman to perwide for <i>my</i> family—obleeged + all the same, sir. Mattie never wos a dub at dewourin', but I'll get her + some'at toothsome. I favours grub myself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I'll go with you, Bill. I want to talk to you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Well, I 'ain't no objection—so be you wants to talk + friendly, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Good night. I'll come and see you to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. God bless you, sir. You've saved both on our lives. I <i>was</i> + a goin' to drown myself, Mattie—I really was this time. Wasn't I, + sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Well, you looked like it—that is all I can say. You + shall do it next time—so far as I'm concerned. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I won't never no more again, sir—not if Mattie don't + drive me to it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. (<i>to</i> COL. G.). Come back for me in a little while. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, miss. Come, Bill. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. All right, sir. I'm a follerin', as the cat said to the + pigeon. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I'll just go and get you a cup o' tea. Mrs. Jones's kettle's + sure to be a bilin'. That's what you would like. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. <i>Constance steps aside, and Susan passes without seeing her</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! But it'll soon be + over now. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CONSTANCE <i>comes forward</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. I hope you're a little better now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to + you as I did. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite know what you were + saying. I'm in trouble myself. I don't know how soon I may be worse off + than you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. No, I am not. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never going to play <i>you</i> + false—is he? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. I don't mean ever to speak to him again? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. What has he done to offend you, miss? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him. To tell you the + truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Do <i>you</i> know anything about him? Did you ever see him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Yes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Where? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Once at your house. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Oh! I remember—that time! I begin to—It couldn't + be at the sight of him you fainted, Mattie?—You knew him? Tell me! + tell me! Make me sure of it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean spite to say he + ain't a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a + gentleman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Very likely. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean to hurt you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh! I dare say! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. If you talk to me like that, I must go. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I never asked you to come. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn't hurt you + for the world. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>bursting into tears</i>) I beg your pardon, miss. I'm + behaving like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Poor dear! (<i>kissing her</i>) So is mine almost. Let us be + friends. Where's Susan gone? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back directly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear them. I think it's + because I was so used to them once—in the streets, I mean—not + at home—never at home. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted creature. It's + only when hunger makes her cross. She don't like to be hungry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. I should think not, poor girl! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Don't mind what she says, please. If you say nothing, she'll + come all right. When she's spoken her mind, she feels better. Here she + comes! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> SUSAN. <i>It begins to grow dark</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Well, and who have we got here? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Miss Lacordère, Sukey. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. There's no lack o' dare about <i>her</i>, to come here! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. It's very kind of her to come, Susan. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. It <i>was</i> + stole, miss!—stole from me—an' that angel there a dyin' in the + street! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!—I'm very sorry. + But, bless you! (<i>lighting a candle</i>)—with all <i>your</i> fine + clothes—! My! you look like a theayter-queen—you do, miss! If + you was to send <i>them</i> up the spout now!—My! what a lot they'd + let you have on that silk! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It's an Indian one—all + needlework. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just shouldn't I like to + wear a frock like that! I <i>should</i> be hard up before I pledged <i>that</i>! + But the shawl! If I was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up before + that!—things inside, you know, miss—where it don't matter so + much. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. (<i>laughing</i>) The shawl would be the first thing I should + part with. I would rather be nice inside than out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs + now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It must be one o' the differs! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. What differs? I don't understand you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies—girls like me an' + real ladies like you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What can be keeping + William? I must go at once, or what will my aunt say! Would you mind going + with me a little bit, Susan? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I'll go with pleasure, miss. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. + You couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand up in—'cep' + it be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. You've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. (<i>drawing up her skirt</i>) I never thought of that! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Well, I never! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. What's the matter? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss. + It ain't no use turnin' of <i>it</i> up: you'll look like a lady whatever + you do to hide it. But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as you + don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There you are—fit + for a play! Come along; I'll take care of you. Lawks! I'm as good as a man—<i>I</i> + am! + </p> + <p> + <i>Con</i>. Good-bye then, Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Good-bye, miss. God bless you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> + <p> + END OF ACT III. <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT IV. + </h2> + <h3> + SCENE.—<i>The Studio</i>. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. <i>Walks about restless and eager</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Thank heaven! If Bill has found Mr. Warren now,—<i>Exit</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> WARREN. +</pre> + <p> + <i>War</i>. What can the fellow be up to? There's something odd about him—something + I don't like—but it can't mean mischief when he sends for me. Where + could Gervaise have picked him up?—Nobody here? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> COL. G. <i>and hurries to him with outstretched hand</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> My dear sir! I am greatly obliged to you. This is very + kind. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. (<i>stepping back</i>) Excuse me.—I do not understand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I beg your pardon. I ought to have explained. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. I believe something of the sort <i>is</i> necessary. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You are my master's friend. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. I should be proud of the honour. Can I be of any service to + him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I believe I can trust you. I <i>will</i> trust you—I + am his father. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. Whose father? Belzebub's? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Arthur's—your friend Gervaise's. I am Sir Walter + Gervaise. You must help me to help him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WARREN <i>regards him for a moment</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>War</i>. (<i>stiffly</i>) Sir Walter, I owe your son much—you + nothing yet. I am <i>his</i> friend. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> There is not a moment to lose. Listen. An old man came + about the place a few weeks ago, looking for his daughter. He has been got + out of the way, but I have learned where he is: I want you to bring him. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. I would serve your son blindfold: <i>you</i> must excuse me if + I wish to understand first. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Arthur is in trouble. He has a secret.—God forgive + me!—I feared it was a bad one. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. You don't know him as I do! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I know him now—and can help him. Only I can't <i>prove</i> + anything yet. I must have the old man. I've found his daughter, and + suspect the villain: if I can bring the three together, all will come out, + sure enough. The boy I sent for you will take you to the father. He will + trust you, and come. (<i>Bell rings</i>.) I must go to Arthur now. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. What a strange old fellow! An officer—and disguise + himself! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> BILL. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Here you are, sir! + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. No vast amount of information in that statement, my boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Well, sir—here <i>I</i> are, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. That <i>is</i> a trifle more to the point, though scarcely + requiring mention. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Then, here <i>we</i> are, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. That'll do—if you know what comes next? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I do, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. Go on, then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Here goes! Come along, sir. You'll have to take a bobby, + though. + </p> + <p> + <i>War</i>. We'll see about that. You go on. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exeunt</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> GERVAISE, followed by COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What a time you have been, William! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I'm sorry, sir. Did you want anything? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No. But I don't like to be left. You are the only friend I + have. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Thank you, sir. A man <i>must</i> do his duty, but it's a + comfort when his colonel takes notice of it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Is it <i>all</i> from duty, William? Yet why should I look for + more? There was a little girl I tried to do my duty by once—My + head's rather queer still, William. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Is there nothing to be done, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No; it's here—(<i>putting his hand to his head</i>)—inside. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I meant about the little girl, sir.—I can keep dark + as well as another.—When there's anything on a man's mind, sir—good + <i>or</i> bad—it's a relief to mention it. If you could trust me—(<i>A + pause</i>.) Men <i>have</i> trusted their servants and not repented it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No doubt—no doubt. But there is no help for me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You cannot be sure of that, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You would help me if you could, I believe. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> God knows I would, sir—to the last drop of my blood. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> That's saying much, William. A son couldn't say more—no, + nor a father either. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Oh! yes, he could, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> And mean it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> If I had a father, William, I would tell him all about it. I + was but two years old when he left me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Then you don't remember him, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I often dream about him, and then I seem to remember him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What is he like, sir?—in your dreams, I mean. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I never see him distinctly: I try hard sometimes, but it's no + use. If he would but come home! I feel as if I could bear anything then.—But + I'm talking like a girl! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Where is your father, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> In India. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> A soldier, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Yes. Colonel Gervaise—you must have heard of him. Sir + Walter he is now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I've heard of <i>him</i>, sir—away in the north parts + he's been, mostly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Yes. How I wish he would come home! I would do everything to + please him. I have it, William! I'll go to India. I did think of going to + Garibaldi—but I won't—I'll go to India. I <i>must</i> find my + father. Will you go with me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Willingly, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Is there any fighting there now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Not at present, I believe. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> That's a pity. I would have listed in my father's regiment, + and then—that is, by the time he found me out—he wouldn't be + ashamed of me. I've done nothing yet. I'm nobody yet, and what could he do + with a son that was nobody—a great man like him! A fine son <i>I</i> + should be! A son ought to be worthy of his father. Don't you think so, + William? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> That wouldn't be difficult, sir!—I mean with most + fathers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Ah! but <i>mine</i>, you know, William!—Are you good at + the cut and thrust? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col G.</i> Pretty good, sir, I believe. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Then we'll have a bout or two. I've got rusty.—Have I + said anything odd—or—or—I mean since I've been ill? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Nothing you need mind, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I'm glad of that.—I feel as if—(<i>putting his + hand to his head</i>). William! what could you do for a man—if he + was your friend?—no, I mean, if he was your enemy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I daren't say, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Is the sun shining? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir. It's a lovely day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What a desert the sky is!—so dreary and wide and waste!—Ah! + if I might but creep into a hole in a tree, and feel it closing about me! + How comfortable those toads must feel! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>aside</i>). He's getting light-headed again! I must + send for the doctor. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> But the tree would rot, and the walls grow thin, and the light + come through. It is crumbling now! And I shall have to meet <i>her</i>! + And then the wedding! Oh my God! (<i>Starts up and paces about the room</i>.)—It + <i>is</i> the only way! My pistols, I think—yes.—(<i>Goes to a + table, finds his keys, and unlocks a case</i>.)—There they are! I + may as well have a passport at hand! (<i>Loading one</i>.)—The + delicate thunder-tube! (<i>Turns it over lovingly</i>.) Solitude and + silence! One roar and then rest! No—no rest!—still the demon + to fight! But no eyes to meet and brave!—Who is that in the street?—She + is at the door—with him! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. <i>and seizes his arm</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>with a cry</i>). You've killed my Psyche! (<i>Goes to the + clay, and lifts the cloth</i>.) There's the bullet-hole through her heart! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> It might have been worse, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Worse! I've killed her! See where she flies! She's gone! She's + gone! (<i>Bursts into tears</i>. COL. G. <i>leads him to the couch</i>.) + Thank you, William. I couldn't help it. <i>That</i> man was with her. I + meant it for myself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Who did you say was with her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You mustn't heed what I say. I am mad. (<i>A knock. He starts + up</i>.) Don't let them in, William. I shall rave if you do. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COL. G. <i>catches up the pistols and exit hurriedly</i>. GER. <i>throws + himself on the couch</i>. + + <i>Re-enter</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>aside</i>). He is in love with her! Everything proves + it. My boy! My boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Father! father!—Oh, William! I was dreaming, and took + you for my father! I <i>must</i> die, William—somehow. There must be + some way out of this! The doors can't <i>all</i> be locked. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> There's generally a chance to be had, sir. There's always a + right and a wrong fighting it out somewhere. There's Garibaldi in the + field again! Die by the hand of an enemy—if you <i>will</i> die, + sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>smiling</i>) That I couldn't, William: the man that killed + me would be my best friend.—Yes—Garibaldi!—I don't + deserve it, though: he fights for his country; I should fight but for + death. Only a man doesn't stop when he dies—does he, William? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I trust not, sir. But he may hope to be quieter—that + is, if he dies honestly. It's grand for a soldier! He sweeps on the + roaring billows of war into a soundless haven! Think of that, sir! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Why, William! how you talk!—Yes! it would be grand! On + the crest of the war-cataract—heading a cavalry charge!—Tomorrow, + William. I shall be getting stronger all the way. We'll start to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Where for, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> For Italy—for Garibaldi. You'll go with me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> To the death, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Yes; that's it—that's where I'm going. But not to-day. + Look at my arm: it wouldn't kill a rat!—You saved my life, but I'm + not grateful. If I was dead, I might be watching her—out of the + lovely silence!—My poor Psyche! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> She's none the worse, sir. The pistol didn't go off. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Ah!—She ought to have fallen to pieces—long ago! + You've been seeking to keep her shroud wet. But it's no matter. Let her + go. Earth to earth, and dust to dust!—the law of Nature—and + Art too. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit into the house</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>following him</i>) I mustn't lose sight of him.—Here + he comes again, thank God! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Catches up a coat, and begins brushing it</i>. + + <i>Re-enter</i> GER. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I don't like to see you doing that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Why shouldn't I serve my own—superior, sir? + Anything's better than serving yourself. And that's what every one does + who won't serve other people. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You are right. And it's so cheap. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> And so nasty! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Right again, William!—Right indeed!—You're a + gentleman! If there's anything I could help you in—anything gone + wrong,—any friends offended—I'm not altogether without + influence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>aside</i>) He will vanquish me with my own weapons! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> But you <i>will</i> go to Garibaldi with me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I will, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> And ride by my side? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Of course. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> If you ride by me, you will have to ride far. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I know, sir. But if you would be fit for fighting, you must + come and have something to eat and drink. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> All right. A soldier must obey: I shall begin by obeying you. + Only mind you keep up with me. <i>Exit, leaning on</i> COL. G. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> THOMAS. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Th' dule a mon be yere! Aw're main troubled to get shut ov + they reyvers! Aw'm olez i' trouble! Mine's a gradely yed! it be!—Hoy!—Nobory + yere! 'T seems to me, honest men be scarce i' Lonnon. Aw'm beawn to + believe nobory but mo own heighes, and mo own oud lass. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> GERVAISE, <i>followed by</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> No, William; I won't lie down. I feel much better. Let's have + a bout with the foils. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Very well, sir. (<i>Aside</i>.) A little of that will go + far, I know. (<i>Gets down the foils</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> And, William, you must set a block up here. I shall have a cut + or two at it to-morrow. There's a good cavalry weapon up there—next + that cast of Davis's arm. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Suppose your father were to arrive just after you had + started! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I shouldn't mind. I don't want to see him yet. I'm such a poor + creature! The heart seems to have gone out of me. You see, William— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MRS. CLIFFORD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Ah! How do you do, aunt? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> What's this nonsense about Garibaldi, Arthur? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Who told you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> You don't mean it's true? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Quite true, aunt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Really, Arthur, you are more of a scatterbrain than I took + you for! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Don't say that, aunt. I only take after my father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Don't talk to me of your father! I have no patience with + him. A careless hard-hearted fellow—not worthy the name of a father! + (<i>She glares at</i> SIR WALTER.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You may go, William. (COL. G. <i>retires slowly</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Aunt, you have been a mother to me; but were you really my + mother, I must not listen to such words of my father. He has good reasons + for what he does, though I admit there is something in it we don't + understand. (<i>Aside</i>.) If I could but understand how Constance— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> What do you say? What was that about Constance? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Oh, nothing, aunt. I was only thinking how difficult it is to + understand people. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> If you mean Constance, I agree with you. She is a most + provoking girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>smiling</i>) I am sorry to hear that, aunt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I'm very glad you were never so silly as take a fancy to + the girl. She would have led you a pretty dance! If you saw how she treats + that unfortunate Waterfield! But what's bred in the bone won't out of the + flesh. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> There's nothing bred in her I would have out, aunt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Perhaps she originated her vulgarity. That is a shade + worse. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger. Vulgarity</i>, aunt! I cannot remember the meaning of the word + when I think of <i>her</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> If you choose to insult me, Arthur— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> It is high time I were gone! If I should be called in now to + settle matters between—William! William!—William! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> To-morrow, William. Not a word. If you will go with me, I + shall be glad. If you will not, I shall go without you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir.—I wish Warren were here with the old man. I + don't know what to do till he comes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> CONSTANCE. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I thought my aunt was here, William. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No, miss. She was here, but she's gone again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Could I see Mr. Gervaise for a moment? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Certainly, miss. I'll tell him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Is he still determined on going, William? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, miss;—to-morrow, he says. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> To-morrow! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, miss. I think he means to start for Dover in the + morning. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> What am I to do? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> What's the matter, miss? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> What <i>can</i> I do? I know he is angry with me. I don't + quite know why. I wish I had never—I can't help it now. My heart + will break. (<i>Weeps</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Don't let him go to Dover to-morrow, miss. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> He would have listened to me once. He won't now. It's all so + different! Everything has gone wrong somehow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Do try to keep him from going, miss. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> He would but think me forward. I could bear anything better + than have him think ill of me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No fear of that, miss. The danger is all the other way. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> What other way, William? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> He thinks you don't care a bit about him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. CONSTANCE <i>drops on the dais, nearly under the veiled Psyche</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> GER. <i>and stands a moment regarding her</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Constance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> (<i>starting up, and flying to him with her hands clasped</i>) + Arthur! Arthur! don't go. I can't bear you to go. It's all my fault, but + do forgive me! Oh, do, do—<i>dear</i> Arthur! Don't go to-morrow. I + shall be miserable if you do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> But why, my—why, Constance? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> I <i>was</i> your Constance once. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> But why should I not go? Nobody wants me here. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Oh, Arthur! how can you be so cruel? Can it be that—? Do + say something. If you won't say anything, how can I know what you are + thinking—what you wish? Perhaps you don't like—I would—I + have—I won't—Oh, Arthur! do say something. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I have nothing to say, Constance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Then I <i>have</i> lost you—altogether! I dare say I + deserve it. I hardly know. God help me! What can I have done so very + wicked? Oh! why did you take me out of the streets? I should have been + used to them by this time! They are terrible to me now. No, no, Arthur! I + thank you—thank you—with my very soul! What might I not have + been by this time! But I used to lie in that corner, and I daren't now! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. <i>behind</i>. +</pre> + <p> + It was a happy time, for I had not offended you then. Good-bye. Won't you + say one word to me?—You will never see me again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>She pauses a moment; then exit weeping—by the back door, behind + the Psyche</i>. COL. G. <i>follows her</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> How <i>could</i> she love that fellow? (<i>Looking up</i>.) + Gone? gone! My Constance! My Psyche! I've driven her into the wild street! + O my God! William! William! Constance! Which door? I won't go, Constance—I + won't. I will do anything you ask me. What was that she said?—<i>Good-bye</i>! + God in heaven!—William! you idiot! where are you? William! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>He rushes out by the front door. Re-enter</i> COL. G. <i>by the back + door</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> It was lucky I met Bill! He's after her like the wind. That + message will bring her back, I think. I could trust that boy with + anything! But where is he? (<i>Enter</i> THOMAS.) What, friend! here at + last! Thank God! Just sit down a moment, will you? (<i>Peeps into the room + off the study</i>.) He's not there! I heard him calling this moment! + Perhaps he's in the house.—Did <i>you</i> leave the door open, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Nay. Th' dur wur oppen. Aw seigh sombory run eawt as aw coom + oop. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> My boy! my boy! It will kill him!—Stop here till I + come back. (<i>Rushes out</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw connot stop. Aw'm tired enough, God knows, to stop + anywheeres; mo yed goes reawnd and reawnd, an' aw'd fain lie mo deawn. But + aw mun be gooin'. Nobory can tell what may be coomin to mo Mattie. Aw mun + go look, go look! Ha! ha! they couldn't keep mo, owd mon as aw wur! But aw + wish aw hed a word wi' th' mon first. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> WARREN. +</pre> + <p> + <i>War.</i> (<i>aside</i>) This must be the old fellow himself! Here he is + after all! (<i>Peeps into the room</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Theer be nobory theer, sir. Th' maister's run eawt, and th' + mon after him. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Run out! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw niver says what aw donnot mane. An' aw'm glad yo're theer, + sir; for William he towd mo to stay till he coom back; but aw've not geet + so mich time to spare; and so be's yo're a friend ov th' maister's, yo'll + mebbe mind th' shop a smo' bit. Aw mun goo (<i>going</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> I say, old man—your name's Thomas Pearson—ain't + it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Yigh. Aw yer. But hea cooms to to knaw mo name? + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> I know all about you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Ivvery body knaws ivvery body yere! Aw connot stur a fut fur + folks as knaws mo, and knaws mo name, and knaws what aw be after. Lonnon + is a dreedfu' plaze. Aw mun geet mo lass to whoam. Yo'll mind th' shop + till th' maister cooms back. Good neet (<i>going</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> (<i>stopping him</i>) They want you here a bit. You'd better + stop. The man will be back directly. You're too suspicious. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Nea, maister, thae'rt wrung theer. Aw've trusted too mich—a + theawsand times too mich. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> You trusted the wrong people, then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> It taks no mak o' a warlock to tell mo that, maister. It's + smo' comfort, noather. + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Well now, you give me a turn, and hear what I've got to say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Yo're o' tarred wi' th' same stick. Ivvery body maks gam ov + th' poor owd mon! Let me goo, maister. Aw want mo chylt, mo Mattie! + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> You must wait till Mr. Gervaise's man comes back. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>despairingly</i>) O Lord. Th' peack ov sunbrunt lies they + ha' been tellin' me sin' aw coom yere!—childer an o'! + </p> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Have patience, man. You won't repent it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> What mun be, mun. Aw connot ha' patience, but aw con stop. + Aw'd rayther goo, though. Aw'm noan sorry to rest noather. (<i>Sits down + on the dais</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> BILL. +</pre> + <p> + <i>War.</i> Here, boy! Don't let the old man go till some one comes. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. All right, sir! Hillo, daddy! There you are! Thank God! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> What fur, boy? Wull he gie mo mo Mattie again—dosto + think? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. That he will, daddy! You come along, an' you'll know a honest + boy next time.—I can't till I see Mr. William, though. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Iv thae manes th' maister's mon yere, he's run eawt. An' aw + connot goo witho. Aw'm keepin' th' shop till he coom back. An' aw dunnot + mich care to goo witho. Aw dunnot mich trust tho. Th' Lord have a care ov + mo! Aw dimnot knaw which to trust, and which not to trust. But aw <i>mun</i> + wait for maister William, as yo co' him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. All right, daddy!—Don't you stir from here till I come + back—not for nobody—no, not for Joseph! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw dunnot knaw no Joseph. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. I'll soon let you see I'm a honest boy! As you can't go to + Mattie, I'll bring Mattie to you: see if I don't! An' if she ain't the + right un, I'll take her back, and charge ye nuffin for carriage. Can't say + fairer than that, daddy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Bless tho, mo boy! Dosto mane it true? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Yes—an' that you'll see, afore you're an 'alf an hour + older, daddy. When Mr. William comes, you say to him, "Bill's been.—All + right." + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw dunnot like secrets, lad. What don yo mane? Ivvery body + seems to mane something, and nobory to say it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> Never you mind, daddy! "Bill's been.—All right." That's + your ticket. I'm off. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THOMAS <i>gets up, and walks about, murmuring to himself. A knock + at the door</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Somebory after mo again! Aw'll geet eawt ov th' way. (<i>Goes + behind the Psyche</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> WATERFIELD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Nobody here! I <i>am</i> unlucky. "Not at home," said the + rascal,—and grinned, by Jove! I'll be at the bottom of this. There's + no harm in Gervaise. He's a decent fellow. (<i>Knocks at the door of</i> + GER.'S <i>room</i>.) I won't leave the place till I've set things right—not + if I've got to give him a post-obit for five thousand—I won't!—Nobody + there? (<i>Looks in</i>.) No. Then I'll go in and wait. <i>Exit</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>peeping from behind the Psyche</i>). That's the villain! + Lord o' mercy! that's the villain! If aw're as strung as aw'm owd, aw'd + scrunch his yed—aw would! Aw'm sure it's th' mon. He kep eawt ov mo + way—but aw seigh him once. O Lord, keep mo hands off ov him. Aw met + kill him. Aw'm sartin sure ov him when aw see him. Aw'll not goo nigh him + till somebory cooms—cep' he roons away. Aw'm noan fleyed ov him, but + aw met not be able to keep mo howd ov him. Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie! to + leave thi owd faither for sich a mak ov a mon as yon! But yere cooms + somebory moor. (<i>Goes behind the Psyche</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MRS. CLIFFORD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> No one here? She can never be in his room with him! (<i>Opens + the door</i>.) Oh! Mr. Waterfield! You're here—are you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. (<i>coming to the door</i>). Mrs. Clifford! This is indeed an + unexpected pleasure! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Have you got Constance with you there? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. I've no such good fortune. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Where is she, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. At home, I presume. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Indeed she is not. I must speak to Arthur. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. He's not here. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Where's my—his man, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Taken himself off to the public-house, I suppose. There's + nobody about. Odd—ain't it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I'll go and see. <i>Exit into the house</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. What can be the row! there is some row. <i>Exit into the room</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> GER., <i>supported by</i> COL. G. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Thank God! Thank God! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> But where is she? I shall go mad if you've told me a lie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I saw her, and sent a messenger after her. We shall have + news of her presently. Do have a little patience, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Get.</i> How can I have patience? I'm a brute—a mean, selfish + devil! If that fellow Waterfield was to horse-whip me—I should let + him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>coming forward</i>). Theer wur that yung chap yere a while + agoo, and he said aw wur to say to Maister William—what wur it aw're + to say?—Yigh—it wur—"Bill's been. O'reet." + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> There, sir! I told you so. Do sit down. I'll go after her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> I will. I will. Only make haste. (<i>Stands staring at the + Psyche</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Th' boy said he'd be yere direckly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> You sit down. I'll be with you presently. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>retiring behind the Psyche</i>). Aw're noan likely to goo, + maister. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MRS. C. <i>Crosses to room door. Enter</i> WATERFIELD. <i>They + talk</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> William! I don't want them. (<i>Retreats towards the Psyche</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Sit here one moment, sir. (<i>Leads him to the dais. + Advances to</i> MRS. C.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> (<i>trying to pass him</i>). Arthur, what can—? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>intercepting her</i>). Let him rest a bit, ma'am, if + you please. He's been out for the first time. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> At night! and in a fog! A pretty nurse you are! Poor boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Mr. Waterfield, sir, would you mind stepping into the room + again for a moment? (<i>Exit</i> WAT.) Mrs. Clifford, ma'am, would you + please get a glass of wine for master? <i>Exit</i> MRS. C. <i>into the + house</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> William! William! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Send him away. Don't let him stop there. I have nothing to say + to him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> He shan't trouble you, sir. I'll take care of that. (<i>Goes + behind the Psyche to</i> THOMAS, <i>but keeps watching the door of the + room</i>.)—Did you see the man that went in there just now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>with anxiety</i>). He winnot joomp eawt ov th' window, + dosto thenk, lad? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Re-enter</i> MRS. C. <i>with wine</i>. GER. <i>drinks</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Why should he do that? Do you know anything about him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Has he seen you here? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> No. Aw're afeard he'd roon away, and aw keepet snoog. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I needn't ask who it is, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Yo needn't, lad. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> WATERFIELD. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Mo conscience! he'll pike eawt afoor aw geet howd on him! (<i>Rushes + out and seizes</i> WAT.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MATTIE <i>and</i> BILL. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Thae'rt a domned villain! Wheer's mo Mattie? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WATERFIELD <i>knocks</i> THOMAS <i>down</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> O Lord! the swell's murdered old daddy! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>All but</i> GER. <i>rush together</i>. COLONEL GERVAISE <i>seizes</i> + WATERFIELD. MATTIE <i>throws herself on her knees beside</i> THOMAS + <i>and lifts his head</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Father! father! Look at me! It's Mattie!—your own wicked + Mattie! Look at her once, father dear! (<i>Lays down his head in despair, + and rises</i>.) Who struck the good old man? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> He did—the swell as give me the gold sov. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Mr. Watkins!— + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. I haven't the honour of the gentleman's acquaintance. I'm not + Mr. Watkins. Am I now? (<i>to</i> COL. G.). Ha! ha!—Let go, I say. + I'm not the man. It's all a mistake, you see. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> In good time. I might make a worse. Watkins mayn't be your + name, but Watkins is your nature. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Damn your insolence! Let me go, I tell you! (<i>Struggles + threatening</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Gently, gently, young man!—If I give your neckcloth a + twist now—! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Yes, there <i>is</i> a mistake—and a sad one for me! A + wretch that would strike an old man! Indeed you are not what I took you + for. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. You hear the young woman! She says it's all a mistake.—My + good girl, I'm sorry for the old gentleman; but he oughtn't to behave like + a ruffian. Really, now, you know, a fellow can't stand that sort of thing! + A downright assault! I'm sorry I struck him, though—devilish sorry! + I'll pay the damage with pleasure. (<i>Puts his hand in his pocket</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>turning away</i>) And not a gentleman! (<i>Kneels by</i> + THOMAS <i>and weeps</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> (<i>feebly</i>.) Dunnot greight, Mattie, mo chylt. Aw'm o' + reet. Let th' mon goo. What's <i>he</i> to tho or mo?—By th' mass! + aw'm strung enough to lick him yet (<i>trying to rise, but falling back</i>). + Eigh! eigh! mo owd boans 'ud rayther not. It's noan blame sure to an owd + mon to fo' tired o' feightin! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>taking' his head on her lap</i>). Father! father! forgive + me! I'm all yours.—I'll go home with you, and work for you till I + drop. O father! how could I leave you for him? I don't care one bit for + him now—I don't indeed. You'll forgive me—won't you, father? (<i>Sobs</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Aw wull, aw do, mo Mattie. Coom whoam—coom whoam. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Will mother forgive me, father? + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Thi mother, chylt? Hoo's forgiven tho lung afoor—ivver + so lung agoo, chylt! Thi mother may talk leawd, but her heart is as soft + as parritch.—Thae knows it, Mattie. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. All this is very interesting,—only you see it's the + wrong man, and I can't say he enjoys it. Take your hand off my collar—will + you? I'm not the man, I tell you! + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> All I says is—it's the same swell as guv me the skid to + find her. I'll kiss the book on that! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>coming forward</i>). Mr. Waterfield, on your honour, do + you know this girl? + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Come! you ain't goin' to put me to my catechism! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You must allow appearances are against you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Damn your appearances! What do I care? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> If you will not answer my question, I must beg you to leave + the place. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. My own desire! Will you oblige me by ordering this bull-dog of + yours to take his paws off me? What the devil is he keeping me here for? + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> I've a great mind to give you in charge. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. The old codger assaulted me first. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> True; but the whole affair would come to light. That's what + I would have. Miss Pearson, what am I to do with this man? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> SUSAN <i>at the back door. Behind her,</i> CONSTANCE <i>peeps in</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Let him go.—Father! Father! <i>(Kisses him</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. That can never be Mattie's gentleman, sure-ly! Hm! I don't + think much of <i>him</i>. I knew he had ugly eyes! I told you so, Mattie! + I wouldn't break my heart for <i>him</i>—no, nor for twenty of him—I + wouldn't! He looks like a drowned cat. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. What the devil have <i>you</i> got to do with it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus. Nothing</i>. You shut up. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Well, I'm damned if I know whether I'm on my head or my heels. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. 'Tain't no count which. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>aside to</i> COL. G.). She's at the back door, Mr. + William. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> Who is, Bill? Miss Lacordère? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill.</i> Right you air! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COL. G. <i>hastens to the door</i>. CON. <i>peeps in and draws back</i>. + COL. G. <i>follows her.</i> WATERFIELD <i>approaches</i> MATTIE. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Miss Pearson, if that's— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I don't know you—don't even know your name. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. (<i>looking round</i>). You hear her say it! She don't know + me! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Could you try and rise, father? I want to get out of this. + There's a lady here says I'm a thief! + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Nea, that she connot say, Mattie! Thae cooms ov honest folk. + Aw'll geet oop direckly. (<i>Attempts to rise</i>.) Eigh! eigh! aw connot! + aw connot! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> If I have been unjust to you, Miss Pearson, I shall not + fail to make amends. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. It's time you did then, ma'am. You've murdered her, and all + but murdered me. That's how your little bill stands. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>to</i> WAT.) Leave the place, Mr. Waterfield. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. You shall answer for this, Gervaise. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Leave the study at once. + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. Tut! tut! I'll make it up to them. A bank note's a good + plaster. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Pleasir, shall I run and fetch a bobby? I likes to see a + swell wanted. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> You hold your tongue. (<i>Retires to the dais and sits down.</i> + MRS. C. <i>follows him</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Wat</i>. (<i>taking out his pocket-book, and approaching</i> MATTIE). I + didn't think you'd have served me so, Mattie! Indeed I didn't! It's not + kind after what's been between you and me. (MATTIE <i>rises and stands + staring at him</i>.) You've ruined my prospects—you have! But I + don't want to bear malice: take that.—Old times, you know!—Take + it. You're welcome. (<i>Forces the note on her. She steps back. It drops</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. This is a humiliation! Will nobody take him away? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. (<i>rushing at him</i>). You be off! An' them goggle eyes o' + yours, or <i>I</i>'ll goggle 'em! I can't bear the sight on 'em. <i>I</i> + should never ha' taken you for a gentleman. You don't look it. You slope, + I say! (<i>Hustles him</i>.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WATERFIELD <i>picks up the note, and exit</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. (<i>bursting into tears</i>) Father! father! don't hate me; + don't despise me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THOMAS <i>tries to get up, but falls back</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Bill</i>. Don't be in no hurry, Daddy. There's none but friends here + now—'cep' the old lady;—she do look glum. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. I'll soon settle her hash! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Susie! Susie! Don't—there's a dear! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. What business has she here then! She's not a doin' of nothink. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Don't you see she's looking after the poor gentleman there? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> William!—William!—Gone again! What a fellow he is! + The best servant in the world, but always vanishing! Call your James—will + you, aunt? We must have the old man put to bed. But the poor girl looks + the worse of the two! She can have the spare room, and William can sleep + on the sofa in mine. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I'll see to it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Exit</i>. GER. <i>goes towards</i> THOMAS. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> Coom whoam—coom whoam, Mattie! Thi mother, hoo's cryin' + her eighes eawt to whoam. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. I'll run for a doctor first, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Tho.</i> No, no, chylt! Aw're only a bit stonned, like. Aw'll be o' + reet in a smo' bit. Aw dunnot want no doctor. Aw'm a coomin' reawnd. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Neither of you shall stir to-night. Your rooms will be ready + in a few minutes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Thank you, sir! I don't know what I should have done with him.—Susan, + you wouldn't mind going home without me? You know Miss Lacordère— + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Miss Lacordère! What do you know of her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I oughtn't to have mentioned her. But my + poor head!— + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What of Miss Lacordère? For God's sake, tell me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> MRS. C. <i>with</i> JAMES. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Oh, nothing, sir! nothing at all! Only Miss Lacordère has been + good to us—which it's more than can be said for everybody! (<i>Scowls + at</i> MRS. C. JAMES <i>proceeds to lift</i> THOMAS. <i>She flies at him</i>.) + Put the old gentleman down, you sneakin' reptile! How many doors have you + been a hearkenin' at since mornin'—eh, putty-lump? You touch the old + man again, and I'll mark you! Here, Bill! I'll take his head—you + take his feet. We'll carry him between us like a feather. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mat</i>. O Susan! do hold your tongue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. It's my only weapon, my dear. If I was a man—see if I'd + talk then. + </p> + <p> + <i>James</i>. It's a providence you ain't a man, young woman! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sus</i>. Right you are! Them's my werry motives. I ain't a makin' of no + complaint on that score, young Plush! I wouldn't be a man for—no, + not for—not even for sich a pair o' calves as yourn! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SUS. <i>and</i> BILL <i>carry</i> THO. <i>out</i>. MAT. <i>follows</i>. GER. <i>is going + after them</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Don't you go, Arthur. They can manage quite well. I will go + if you like. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> They know something about Constance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> Pray give yourself no anxiety about her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What do you mean, aunt? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. C.</i> I will be responsible for her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Where is she then? (<i>Exit</i> MRS. C.) William!—If he + doesn't come in one minute more, I'll go after her myself. Those girls + know where she is. I am as strong as a giant.—O God! All but married + to that infamous fellow!—That he should ever have touched the tip of + one of her fingers! What a sunrise of hope! Psyche may yet fold her wings + to my prayer! William! William!—Where <i>can</i> the fellow be? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> COL. G. <i>in uniform and star, leading</i> CONSTANCE. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>hurrying to meet them</i>). Constance! Constance! forgive + me. Oh my God! You will when you know all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> She knows enough for that already, my boy, or she wouldn't + be here. Take her—and me for her sake. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> What! who—? Constance!—What does it all mean?—It + must be—can it be—my father?—William—It <i>is</i> + William!—William my father!—O father! father! (<i>throwing his + arms about him</i>) it <i>was</i> you all the time then! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> My boy! my boy! There!—take Constance, and let me go. + I did want to do something for you—but—There! I'm too much + ashamed to look at you in my own person. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>kneeling</i>). Father! father! don't talk like that! O + father! <i>my</i> father! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> (<i>raising him</i>). My boy! my boy! I wanted to do + something for you—tried hard—and was foiled.—I doubly + deserved it. I doubted as well as neglected you. But God is good. He has + shamed me, and saved you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> By your hand, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G.</i> No—by his own. It would all have come right without + me. I was unworthy of the honour, my boy. But I was allowed to try; and + for that I am grateful.—Arthur, I come to you empty-handed—a + beggar for your love. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> How dare you say that, father?—Empty-handed—bringing + me her and your-self—all I ever longed for!—my father and my + Psyche! Father, <i>thank</i> you. The poor word must do its best. I thank + you with my very soul.—How <i>shall</i> I bear my happiness!—Constance, + it was my father all the time! Did you know it? Serving me like a slave!—humouring + all my whims!—watching me night and day!—and then bringing me— + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> Your own little girl, Arthur. But why did you not tell me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> Tell you what, darling? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> That—that—that you—Oh! you know what, + Arthur! + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> How could I, my child, with that—!—Shall I tell + you now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Con.</i> No, no! I am too happy to listen—even to you, Arthur! + But <i>he</i> should never have—I did find him out at last. If I had + but known you did not like him! (<i>hiding her face</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Ger.</i> (<i>embracing his father</i>) Father! father! I cannot hold my + happiness! And it is <i>all</i> your doing! + </p> + <p> + <i>Col. G. No</i>, I tell you, my boy! I was but a straw on the tide of + things. I will serve you yet though. I will be your father yet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bill</i> (<i>aside</i>). Fathers ain't <i>all</i> bad coves! Here's two + on 'em—good sort of old Jacobs—both on 'em. Shouldn't mind + much if I had a father o' my own arter all! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GERVAISE <i>turns to</i> CONSTANCE—<i>then glances at the Psyche</i>. COL. + GERVAISE <i>removes the sheet</i>. GERVAISE <i>leads</i> CONSTANCE <i>to the + chair on the dais—turns from her to the Psyche, and begins to work + on the clay, glancing from the one to the other—the next moment + leaves the Psyche, and seats himself on the dais at</i> CONSTANCE'S + <i>feet, looking up in her face.</i> COL. GERVAISE <i>stands regarding + them fixedly. Slow distant music.</i> BILL <i>is stealing away</i>. + + <i>Curtain falls.</i> +</pre> + <p> + THE END. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Stephen Archer and Other Tales, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES *** + +***** This file should be named 9191-h.htm or 9191-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/9/9191/ + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Beth Trapaga and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. 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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 + + +Title: Stephen Archer and Other Tales + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9191] +This file was first posted on September 14, 2003 +Last updated: April 19, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Beth Trapaga and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES + +By George Macdonald + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +STEPHEN ARCHER + +THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST + +THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS + +THE BUTCHER'S BILLS + +POET IN A STORM + +IF I HAD A FATHER + + + + +STEPHEN ARCHER + + +Stephen Archer was a stationer, bookseller, and newsmonger in one of the +suburbs of London. The newspapers hung in a sort of rack at his door, as +if for the convenience of the public to help themselves in passing. On +his counter lay penny weeklies and books coming out in parts, amongst +which the _Family Herald_ was in force, and the _London Journal_ not +to be found. I had occasion once to try the extent of his stock, for I +required a good many copies of one of Shakspere's plays--at a penny, if +I could find such. He shook his head, and told me he could not encourage +the sale of such productions. This pleased me; for, although it was of +little consequence what he thought concerning Shakspere, it was of the +utmost import that he should prefer principle to pence. So I loitered +in the shop, looking for something to buy; but there was nothing in the +way of literature: his whole stock, as far as I could see, consisted of +little religious volumes of gay binding and inferior print; he had +nothing even from the Halifax press. He was a good-looking fellow, about +thirty, with dark eyes, overhanging brows that indicated thought, mouth +of character, and no smile. I was interested in him. + +I asked if he would mind getting the plays I wanted. He said he would +rather not. I bade him good morning. + +More than a year after, I saw him again. I had passed his shop many +times, but this morning, I forget why, I went in. I could hardly +recall the former appearance of the man, so was it swallowed up in a +new expression. His face was alive, and his behaviour courteous. A +similar change had passed upon his stock. There was _Punch_ and _Fun_ +amongst the papers, and tenpenny Shaksperes on the counter, printed on +straw-paper, with ugly wood-cuts. The former class of publications had +not vanished, but was mingled with cheap editions of some worthy of +being called books. + +"I see you have changed your mind since I saw you last," I said. + +"You have the advantage of me, sir," he returned. "I did not know you +were a customer." + +"Not much of that," I replied; "only in intention. I wanted you to get +me some penny Shaksperes, and you would not take the order." + +"Oh! I think I remember," he answered, with just a trace of confusion; +adding, with a smile, "I'm married now;" and I fancied I could read a +sort of triumph over his former self. + +I laughed, of course--the best expression of sympathy at hand--and, +after a little talk, left the shop, resolved to look in again soon. +Before a month was over, I had made the acquaintance of his wife too, +and between them learned so much of their history as to be able to +give the following particulars concerning it. + +Stephen Archer was one of the deacons, rather a young one perhaps, of +a dissenting congregation. The chapel was one of the oldest in the +neighbourhood, quite triumphant in ugliness, but possessed of a history +which gave it high rank with those who frequented it. The sacred odour +of the names of pastors who had occupied its pulpit, lingered about +its walls--names unknown beyond its precincts, but starry in the eyes +of those whose world lay within its tabernacle. People generally do +not know what a power some of these small _conventicles_ are in the +education of the world. If only as an outlet for the energies of men of +lowly education and position, who in connexion with most of the churches +of the Establishment would find no employment, they are of inestimable +value. + +To Stephen Archer, for instance, when I saw him first, his chapel was +the sole door out of the common world into the infinite. When he +entered, as certainly did the awe and the hush of the sacred place +overshadow his spirit as if it had been a gorgeous cathedral-house +borne aloft upon the joined palms of its Gothic arches. The Master is +truer than men think, and the power of His presence, as Browning has +so well set forth in his "Christmas Eve," is where two or three are +gathered in His name. And inasmuch as Stephen was not a man of +imagination, he had the greater need of the undefined influences of +the place. + +He had been chief in establishing a small mission amongst the poor in +the neighbourhood, with the working of which he occupied the greater +part of his spare time. I will not venture to assert that his mind was +pure from the ambition of gathering from these to swell the flock at +the little chapel; nay, I will not even assert that there never arose +a suggestion of the enemy that the pence of these rescued brands might +alleviate the burden upon the heads and shoulders of the poorly +prosperous caryatids of his church; but I do say that Stephen was an +honest man in the main, ever ready to grow honester: and who can +demand more? + +One evening, as he was putting up the shutters of his window, his +attention was arrested by a shuffling behind him. Glancing round, he +set down the shutter, and the next instant boxed a boy's ears, who ran +away howling and mildly excavating his eyeballs, while a young, +pale-faced woman, with the largest black eyes he had ever seen, +expostulated with him on the proceeding. + +"Oh, sir!" she said, "he wasn't troubling you." There was a touch of +indignation in the tone. + +"I'm sorry I can't return the compliment," said Stephen, rather +illogically. "If I'd ha' known you liked to have your shins kicked, I +might ha' let the young rascal alone. But you see I didn't know it." + +"He's my brother," said the young woman, conclusively. + +"The more shame to him," returned Stephen. "If he'd been your husband, +now, there might ha' been more harm than good in interferin', 'cause +he'd only give it you the worse after; but brothers! Well, I'm sure +it's a pity I interfered." + +"I don't see the difference," she retorted, still with offence. + +"I beg your pardon, then," said Stephen. "I promise you I won't +interfere next time." + +So saying, he turned, took up his shutter, and proceeded to close his +shop. The young woman walked on. + +Stephen gave an inward growl or two at the depravity of human nature, +and set out to make his usual visits; but before he reached the place, +he had begun to doubt whether the old Adam had not overcome him in the +matter of boxing the boy's ears; and the following interviews appeared +in consequence less satisfactory than usual. Disappointed with +himself, he could not be so hopeful about others. + +As he was descending a stair so narrow that it was only just possible +for two people to pass, he met the same young woman ascending. Glad of +the opportunity, he stepped aside with his best manners and said: + +"I am sorry I offended you this evening. I did not know that the boy +was your brother." + +"Oh, sir!" she returned--for to one in her position, Stephen Archer +was a gentleman: had he not a shop of his own?--"you didn't hurt him +much; only I'm so anxious to save him." + +"To be sure," returned Stephen, "that is the one thing needful." + +"Yes, sir," she rejoined. "I try hard, but boys will be boys." + +"There is but one way, you know," said Stephen, following the words +with a certain formula which I will not repeat. + +The girl stared. "I don't know about that," she said. "What I want is +to keep him out of prison. Sometimes I think I shan't be able long. +Oh, sir! if you be the gentleman that goes about here, couldn't you +help me? I can't get anything for him to do, and I can't be at home to +look after him." + +"What is he about all day, then?" + +"The streets," she answered. "I don't know as he's ever done anything +he oughtn't to, but he came home once in a fright, and that breathless +with running, that I thought he'd ha' fainted. If I only could get him +into a place!" + +"Do you live here?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir; I do." + +At the moment a half-bestial sound below, accompanied by uncertain +footsteps, announced the arrival of a drunken bricklayer. + +"There's Joe Bradley," she said, in some alarm. "Come into my room, +sir, till he's gone up; there's no harm in him when he's sober, but he +ain't been sober for a week now." + +Stephen obeyed; and she, taking a key from her pocket, and unlocking a +door on the landing, led him into a room to which his back-parlour was +a paradise. She offered him the only chair in the room, and took her +place on the edge of the bed, which showed a clean but much-worn +patchwork quilt. Charley slept on the bed, and she on a shake-down in +the corner. The room was not untidy, though the walls and floor were +not clean; indeed there were not in it articles enough to make it +untidy withal. + +"Where do you go on Sundays?" asked Stephen. + +"Nowheres. I ain't got nobody," she added, with a smile, "to take me +nowheres." + +"What do you do then?" + +"I've plenty to do mending of Charley's trousers. You see they're only +shoddy, and as fast as I patch 'em in one place they're out in +another." + +"But you oughtn't to work Sundays." + +"I have heard tell of people as say you oughtn't to work of a Sunday; +but where's the differ when you've got a brother to look after? He +ain't got no mother." + +"But you're breaking the fourth commandment; and you know where people +go that do that. You believe in hell, I suppose." + +"I always thought that was a bad word." + +"To be sure! But it's where you'll go if you break the Sabbath." + +"Oh, sir!" she said, bursting into tears, "I don't care what become of +me if I could only save that boy." + +"What do you mean by _saving_ him?" + +"Keep him out of prison, to be sure. I shouldn't mind the workus +myself, if I could get him into a place." + +_A place_ was her heaven, a prison her hell. Stephen looked at her +more attentively. No one who merely glanced at her could help seeing +her eyes first, and no one who regarded them could help thinking her +nice-looking at least, all in a shabby cotton dress and black shawl as +she was. It was only the "penury and pine" that kept her from being +beautiful. Her features were both regular and delicate, with an +anxious mystery about the thin tremulous lips, and a beseeching look, +like that of an animal, in her fine eyes, hazy with the trouble that +haunted her mouth. Stephen had the good sense not to press the Sabbath +question, and by degrees drew her story from her. + +Her father had been a watchmaker, but, giving way to drink, had been, +as far back as she could remember, entirely dependent on her mother, +who by charing and jobbing managed to keep the family alive. Sara was +then the only child, but, within a few months after her father's +death, her mother died in giving birth to the boy. With her last +breath she had commended him to his sister. Sara had brought him +up--how she hardly knew. He had been everything to her. The child that +her mother had given her was all her thought. Those who start with the +idea "that people with nought are naughty," whose eyes are offended by +rags, whose ears cannot distinguish between vulgarity and wickedness, +and who think the first duty is care for self, must be excused from +believing that Sara Coulter passed through all that had been _decreed_ +for her without losing her simplicity and purity. But God is in the +back slums as certainly as--perhaps to some eyes more evidently +than--in Belgravia. That which was the burden of her life--namely, the +care of her brother--was her salvation. After hearing her story, which +he had to draw from her, because she had no impulse to talk about +herself, Stephen went home to turn the matter over in his mind. + +The next Sunday, after he had had his dinner, he went out into the +same region, and found himself at Sara's door. She was busy over a +garment of Charley's, who was sitting on the bed with half a loaf in +his hand. When he recognized Stephen he jumped down, and would have +rushed from the room; but changing his mind, possibly because of the +condition of his lower limbs, he turned, and springing into the bed, +scrambled under the counterpane, and drew it over his head. + +"I am sorry to see you working on Sunday," Stephen said, with an +emphasis that referred to their previous conversation. + +"You would not have the boy go naked?" she returned, with again a +touch of indignation. She had been thinking how easily a man of +Stephen's social position could get him a place if he would. Then +recollecting her manners, she added, "I should get him better clothes +if he had a place. Wouldn't you like to get a place now, Charley?" + +"Yes," said Charley, from under the counterpane, and began to peep at +the visitor. + +He was not an ill-looking boy--only roguish to a degree. His eyes, as +black as his sister's, but only half as big, danced and twinkled with +mischief. Archer would have taken him off to his ragged class, but +even of rags he had not at the moment the complement necessary for +admittance. He left them, therefore, with a few commonplaces of +religious phrase, falling utterly meaningless. But he was not one to +confine his ministrations to words: he was an honest man. Before the +next Sunday it was clear to him that he could do nothing for the soul +of Sara until he had taken the weight of her brother off it. + +When he called the next Sunday the same vision precisely met his +view. She might have been sitting there ever since, with those +wonderfully-patched trousers in her hands, and the boy beside her, +gnawing at his lump of bread. But many a long seam had passed +through her fingers since then, for she worked at a clothes-shop all +the week with the sewing-machine, whence arose the possibility of +patching Charley's clothes, for the overseer granted her a cutting +or two now and then. + +After a little chat, Stephen put the question: + +"If I find a place for Charley, will you go to Providence Chapel next +Sunday?" + +"I will go _anywhere_ you please, Mr. Archer," she answered, looking +up quickly with a flushed face. She would have accompanied him to any +casino in London just as readily: her sole thought was to keep Charley +out of prison. Her father had been in prison once; to keep her +mother's child out of prison was the grand object of her life. + +"Well," he resumed, with some hesitation, for he had arrived at the +resolution through difficulties, whose fogs yet lingered about him, +"if he will be an honest, careful boy, I will take him myself." + +"Charley! Charley!" cried Sara, utterly neglectful of the source of +the benefaction; and rising, she went to the bed and hugged him. + +"Don't, Sara!" said Charley, petulantly. + +"I don't want girls to squash me. Leave go, I say. You mend my +trousers, and _I_ 'll take care of _my_self." + +"The little wretch!" thought Stephen. + +Sara returned to her seat, and her needle went almost as fast as her +sewing-machine. A glow had arisen now, and rested on her pale cheek: +Stephen found himself staring at a kind of transfiguration, back from +the ghostly to the human. His admiration extended itself to her deft +and slender fingers and there brooded until his conscience informed +him that he was actually admiring the breaking of the Sabbath; +whereupon he rose. But all the time he was about amongst the rest of +his people, his thoughts kept wandering back to the desolate room, the +thankless boy, and the ministering woman. Before leaving, however, he +had arranged with Sara that she should bring her brother to the shop +the next day. + +The awe with which she entered it was not shared by Charley, who was +never ripe for anything but frolic. Had not Stephen been influenced by +a desire to do good, and possibly by another feeling too embryonic for +detection, he would never have dreamed of making an errand boy of a +will-o'-the-wisp. As such, however, he was installed, and from that +moment an anxiety unknown before took possession of Stephen's bosom. +He was never at ease, for he never knew what the boy might be about. +He would have parted with him the first fortnight, but the idea of the +prison had passed from Sara's heart into his, and he saw that to turn +the boy away from his first place would be to accelerate his +gravitation thitherward. He had all the tricks of a newspaper boy +indigenous in him. Repeated were the complaints brought to the shop. +One time the paper was thrown down the area, and brought into the +breakfast-room defiled with wet. At another it was found on the +door-step, without the bell having been rung, which could hardly have +been from forgetfulness, for Charley's delight was to set the bell +ringing furiously, and then wait till the cook appeared, taking good +care however to leave space between them for a start. Sometimes the +paper was not delivered at all, and Stephen could not help suspecting +that he had sold it in the street. Yet both for his sake and Sara's he +endured, and did not even box his ears. The boy hardly seemed to be +wicked: the spirit that possessed him was rather a _polter-geist_, as +the Germans would call it, than a demon. + +Meantime, the Sunday after Charley's appointment, Archer, seated in +his pew, searched all the chapel for the fulfilment of Sara's part of +the agreement, namely, her presence. But he could see her nowhere. +The fact was, her promise was so easy that she had scarcely thought +of it after, not suspecting that Stephen laid any stress upon its +fulfilment, and, indeed, not knowing where the chapel was. She had +managed to buy a hit of something of the shoddy species, and while +Stephen was looking for her in the chapel, she was making a jacket for +Charley. Greatly disappointed, and chiefly, I do believe, that she had +not kept her word, Stephen went in the afternoon to call upon her. + +He found her working away as before, and saving time by taking her +dinner while she worked, for a piece of bread lay on the table by her +elbow, and beside it a little brown sugar to make the bread go down. +The sight went to Stephen's heart, for he had just made his dinner off +baked mutton and potatoes, washed down with his half-pint of stout. + +"Sara!" he said solemnly, "you promised to come to our chapel, and you +have not kept your word." He never thought that "our chapel" was not +the landmark of the region. + +"Oh, Mr. Archer," she answered, "I didn't know as you cared about it. +But," she went on, rising and pushing her bread on one side to make +room for her work, "I'll put on my bonnet directly." Then she checked +herself, and added, "Oh! I beg your pardon, sir--I'm so shabby! You +couldn't be seen with the likes of me." + +It touched Stephen's chivalry--and something deeper than chivalry. He +had had no intention of walking with her. + +"There's no chapel in the afternoon," he said; "but I'll come and +fetch you in the evening." + +Thus it came about that Sara was seated in Stephen's pew, next to +Stephen himself, and Stephen felt a strange pleasure unknown before, +like that of the shepherd who having brought the stray back to the +fold cares little that its wool is torn by the bushes, and it looks a +ragged and disreputable sheep. It was only Sara's wool that might seem +disreputable, for she was a very good-faced sheep. He found the hymns +for her, and they shared the same book. He did not know then that Sara +could not read a word of them. + +The gathered people, the stillness, the gaslights, the solemn ascent +of the minister into the pulpit, the hearty singing of the +congregation, doubtless had their effect upon Sara, for she had never +been to a chapel and hardly to any place of assembly before. From all +amusements, the burden of Charley and her own retiring nature had kept +her back. + +But she could make nothing of the sermon. She confessed afterwards +that she did not know she had anything to do with it. Like "the +Northern Farmer," she took it all for the clergyman's business, which +she amongst the rest had to see done. She did not even wonder why +Stephen should have wanted to bring her there. She sat when other +people sat, pretended to kneel when other people pretended to kneel, +and stood up when other people stood up--still brooding upon Charley's +jacket. + +But Archer's feelings were not those he had expected. He had brought +her, intending her to be done good to; but before the sermon was over +he wished he had not brought her. He resisted the feeling for a long +time, but at length yielded to it entirely; the object of his +solicitude all the while conscious only of the lighted stillness and +the new barrier between Charley and Newgate. The fact with regard to +Stephen was that a certain hard _pan_, occasioned by continual +ploughings to the same depth and no deeper, in the soil of his mind, +began this night to be broken up from within, and that through the +presence of a young woman who did not for herself put together two +words of the whole discourse. + +The pastor was preaching upon the saying of St. Paul, that he could +wish himself accursed from Christ for his brethren. Great part of his +sermon was an attempt to prove that he could not have meant what his +words implied. For the preacher's mind was so filled with the supposed +paramount duty of saving his own soul, that the enthusiasm of the +Apostle was simply incredible. Listening with that woman by his side, +Stephen for the first time grew doubtful of the wisdom of his pastor. +Nor could he endure that such should be the first doctrine Sara heard +from his lips. Thus was he already and grandly repaid for his +kindness; for the presence of a woman who without any conscious +religion was to herself a law of love, brought him so far into +sympathy with the mighty soul of St. Paul, that from that moment the +blessing of doubt was at work in his, undermining prison walls. + +He walked home with Sara almost in silence, for he found it impossible +to impress upon her those parts of the sermon with which he had no +fault to find, lest she should retort upon that one point. The arrows +which Sara escaped, however, could from her ignorance have struck her +only with their feather end. + +Things proceeded in much the same fashion for a while. Charley went +home at night to his sister's lodging, generally more than two hours +after leaving the shop, but gave her no new ground of complaint. Every +Sunday evening Sara went to the chapel, taking Charley with her when +she could persuade him to go; and, in obedience with the supposed wish +of Stephen, sat in his pew. He did not go home with her any more for a +while, and indeed visited her but seldom, anxious to avoid scandal, +more especially as he was a deacon. + +But now that Charley was so far safe, Sara's cheek began to generate a +little of that celestial rosy red which is the blossom of the +woman-plant, although after all it hardly equalled the heart of the +blush rose. She grew a little rounder in form too, for she lived +rather better now,--buying herself a rasher of bacon twice a week. +Hence she began to be in more danger, as any one acquainted with her +surroundings will easily comprehend. But what seemed at first the ruin +of her hopes dissipated this danger. + +One evening, when she returned from her work, she found Stephen in her +room. She made him the submissive grateful salutation, half courtesy, +half bow, with which she always greeted him, and awaited his will. + +"I am very sorry to have to tell you, Sara, that your brother--" + +She turned white as a shroud, and her great black eyes grew greater +and blacker as she stared in agonized expectancy while Stephen +hesitated in search of a better form of communication. Finding none, +he blurted out the fact-- + +"--has robbed me, and run away." + +"Don't send him to prison, Mr. Archer," shrieked Sara, and laid +herself on the floor at his feet with a grovelling motion, as if +striving with her mother earth for comfort. There was not a film of +art in this. She had never been to a theatre. The natural urging of +life gave the truest shape to her entreaty. Her posture was the result +of the same feeling which made the nations of old bring their +sacrifices to the altar of a deity who, possibly benevolent in the +main, had yet cause to be inimical to them. From the prostrate living +sacrifice arose the one prayer, "Don't send him to prison; don't send +him to prison!" + +Stephen gazed at her in bewildered admiration, half divine and all +human. A certain consciousness of power had, I confess, a part in his +silence, but the only definite shape this consciousness took was of +beneficence. Attributing his silence to unwillingness, Sara got +half-way from the ground--that is, to her knees--and lifted a face of +utter entreaty to the sight of Stephen. I will not say words fail me +to describe the intensity of its prayer, for words fail me to describe +the commonest phenomenon of nature: all I can is to say, that it made +Stephen's heart too large for its confining walls. "Mr. Archer," she +said, in a voice hollow with emotion, "I will do _anything_ you like. +I will be your slave. Don't send Charley to prison." + +The words were spoken with a certain strange dignity of +self-abnegation. It is not alone the country people of Cumberland or +of Scotland, who in their highest moments are capable of poetic +utterance. + +An indescribable thrill of conscious delight shot through the frame of +Stephen as the woman spoke the words. But the gentleman in him +triumphed. I would have said _the Christian_, for whatever there was +in Stephen of the _gentle_ was there in virtue of the _Christian_, +only he failed in one point: instead of saying at once, that he had no +intention of prosecuting the boy, he pretended, I believe from the +satanic delight in power that possesses every man of us, that he would +turn it over in his mind. It might have been more dangerous, but it +would have been more divine, if he had lifted the kneeling woman to +his heart, and told her that not for the wealth of an imagination +would he proceed against her brother. The divinity, however, was +taking its course, both rough-hewing and shaping the ends of the two. + +She rose from the ground, sat on the one chair, with her face to the +wall, and wept, helplessly, with the added sting, perhaps, of a faint +personal disappointment. Stephen failed to attract her notice, and +left the room. She started up when she heard the door close, and flew +to open it, but was only in time to hear the outer door. She sat down +and cried again. + +Stephen had gone to find the boy if he might, and bring him to his +sister. He ought to have said so, for to permit suffering for the sake +of a joyful surprise is not good. Going home first, he was hardly +seated in his room, to turn over not the matter but the means, when a +knock came to the shop-door, the sole entrance, and there were two +policemen bringing the deserter in a cab. He had been run over in the +very act of decamping with the contents of the till, had lain all but +insensible at the hospital while his broken leg was being set, but, as +soon as he came to himself, had gone into such a fury of determination +to return to his master, that the house-surgeon saw that the only +chance for the ungovernable creature was to yield. Perhaps he had some +dim idea of restoring the money ere his master should have discovered +its loss. As he was very little, they made a couch for him in the cab, +and so sent him. + +It would appear that the suffering and the faintness had given his +conscience a chance of being heard. The accident was to Charley what +the sight of the mountain-peak was to the boy Wordsworth. He was +delirious when he arrived, and instead of showing any contrition +towards his master, only testified an extravagant joy at finding him +again. Stephen had him taken into the back room, and laid upon his own +bed. One of the policemen fetched the charwoman, and when she arrived, +Stephen went to find Sara. + +She was sitting almost as he had left her, with a dull, hopeless look. + +"I am sorry to say Charley has had an accident," he said. + +She started up and clasped her hands. + +"He is not in prison?" she panted in a husky voice. + +"No; he is at my house. Come and see him. I don't think he is in any +danger, but his leg is broken." + +A gleam of joy crossed Sara's countenance. She did not mind the broken +leg, for he was safe from her terror. She put on her bonnet, tied the +strings with trembling hands, and went with Stephen. + +"You see God wants to keep him out of prison too," he said, as they +walked along the street. + +But to Sara this hardly conveyed an idea. She walked by his side in +silence. + +"Charley! Charley!" she cried, when she saw him white on the bed, +rolling his head from side to side. Charley ordered her away with +words awful to hear, but which from him meant no more than words of +ordinary temper in the mouth of the well-nurtured man or woman. She +had spoiled and indulged him all his life, and now for the first time +she was nothing to him, while the master who had lectured and +restrained him was everything. When the surgeon wanted to change his +dressings, he would not let him touch them till his master came. +Before he was able to leave his bed, he had developed for Stephen a +terrier-like attachment. But, after the first feverishness was over, +his sister waited upon him. + +Stephen got a lodging, and abandoned his back room to the brother and +sister. But he had to attend to his shop, and therefore saw much of +both of them. Finding then to his astonishment that Sara could not +read, he gave all his odd moments to her instruction, and her mind +being at rest about Charley so long as she had him in bed, her spirit +had leisure to think of other things. + +She learned rapidly. The lesson-book was of course the New Testament; +and Stephen soon discovered that Sara's questions, moving his pity at +first because of the ignorance they displayed, always left him +thinking about some point that had never occurred to him before; so +that at length he regarded Sara as a being of superior intelligence +waylaid and obstructed by unfriendly powers upon her path towards the +threshold of the kingdom, while she looked up to him as to one supreme +in knowledge as in goodness. But she never could understand the +pastor. This would have been a great trouble to Stephen, had not his +vanity been flattered by her understanding of himself. He did not +consider that growing love had enlightened his eyes to see into her +heart, and enabled him thus to use an ordinary human language for the +embodiment of common-sense ideas; whereas the speech of the pastor +contained such an admixture of technicalities as to be unintelligible +to the neophyte. + +Stephen was now distressed to find that whereas formerly he had +received everything without question that his minister spoke, he now +in general went home in a doubting, questioning mood, begotten of +asking himself what Sara would say. He feared at first that the old +Adam was beginning to get the upper hand of him, and that Satan was +laying snares for his soul. But when he found at the same time that +his conscience was growing more scrupulous concerning his business +affairs, his hope sprouted afresh. + +One day, after Charley had been out for the first time, Sara, with a +little tremor of voice and manner, addressed Stephen thus:-- + +"I shall take Charley home to-morrow, if you please, Mr. Archer." + +"You don't mean to say, Sara, you've been paying for those lodgings +all this time?" half-asked, half-exclaimed Stephen. + +"Yes, Mr. Archer. We, must have somewhere to go to. It ain't easy to +get a room at any moment, now them railways is everywheres." + +"But I hope as how you're comfortable where you are, Sara?" + +"Yes, Mr. Archer. But what am I to do for all your kindness?" + +"You can pay me all in a lump, if you like, Sara. Only you don't owe +me nothing." + +Her colour came and went. She was not used to men. She could not tell +what he would have her understand, and could not help trembling. + +"What do you mean, Mr. Archer?" she faltered out. + +"I mean you can give me yourself, Sara, and that'll clear all scores." + +"But, Mr. Archer--you've been a-teaching of me good things--You +_don't_ mean to marry me!" exclaimed Sara, bursting into tears. + +"Of course I do, Sara. Don't cry about it. I won't if you don't like." + +This is how Stephen came to change his mind about his stock in trade. + + + + +THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST. + + +CHAPTER I. + + +"My hearers, we grow old," said the preacher. "Be it summer or be it +spring with us now, autumn will soon settle down into winter, that +winter whose snow melts only in the grave. The wind of the world sets +for the tomb. Some of us rejoice to be swept along on its swift wings, +and hear it bellowing in the hollows of earth and sky; but it will +grow a terror to the man of trembling limb and withered brain, until +at length he will long for the shelter of the tomb to escape its +roaring and buffeting. Happy the man who shall then be able to believe +that old age itself, with its pitiable decays and sad dreams of youth, +is the chastening of the Lord, a sure sign of his love and his +fatherhood." + +It was the first Sunday in Advent; but "the chastening of the Lord" +came into almost every sermon that man preached. + +"Eloquent! But after all, _can_ this kind of thing be true?" said to +himself a man of about thirty, who sat decorously listening. For many +years he had thought he believed this kind of thing--but of late he +was not so sure. + +Beside him sat his wife, in her new winter bonnet, her pretty face +turned up toward the preacher; but her eyes--nothing else--revealed +that she was not listening. She was much younger than her +husband--hardly twenty, indeed. + +In the upper corner of the pew sat a pale-faced child about five, +sucking her thumb, and staring at the preacher. + +The sermon over, they walked home in proximity. The husband looked +gloomy, and his eyes sought the ground. The wife looked more smiling +than cheerful, and her pretty eyes went hither and thither. Behind +them walked the child--steadily, "with level-fronting eyelids." + +It was a late-built region of large, common-place houses, and at one +of them they stopped and entered. The door of the dining-room was +open, showing the table laid for their Sunday dinner. The gentleman +passed on to the library behind it, the lady went up to her bedroom, +and the child a stage higher to the nursery. + +It wanted half an hour to dinner. Mr. Greatorex sat down, drummed with +his fingers on the arm of his easy-chair, took up a book of arctic +exploration, threw it again on the table, got up, and went to the +smoking-room. He had built it for his wife's sake, but was often glad +of it for his own. Again he seated himself, took a cigar, and smoked +gloomily. + +Having reached her bedroom, Mrs. Greatorex took off her bonnet, and +stood for ten minutes turning it round and round. Earnestly she +regarded it--now gave a twist to the wire-stem of a flower, then +spread wider the loop of a bow. She was meditating what it lacked of +perfection rather than brooding over its merits: she was keen in +bonnets. + +Little Sophy--or, as she called herself by a transposition of +consonant sounds common with children, Phosy--found her nurse Alice in +the nursery. But she was lost in the pages of a certain London weekly, +which had found her in a mood open to its influences, and did not even +look up when the child entered. With some effort Phosy drew off her +gloves, and with more difficulty untied her hat. Then she took off her +jacket, smoothed her hair, and retreated to a corner. There a large +shabby doll lay upon her little chair: she took it up, disposed it +gently upon the bed, seated herself in its place, got a little book +from where she had left it under the chair, smoothed down her skirts, +and began simultaneously to read and suck her thumb. The book was an +unhealthy one, a cup filled to the brim with a poverty-stricken and +selfish religion: such are always breaking out like an eruption here +and there over the body of the Church, doing their part, doubtless, in +carrying off the evil humours generated by poverty of blood, or the +congestion of self-preservation. It is wonderful out of what spoiled +fruit some children will suck sweetness. + +But she did not read far: her thoughts went back to a phrase which had +haunted her ever since first she went to church: "Whom the Lord +loveth, he chasteneth." + +"I wish he would chasten me," she thought for the hundredth time. + +The small Christian had no suspicion that her whole life had been a +period of chastening--that few children indeed had to live in such a +sunless atmosphere as hers. + +Alice threw down the newspaper, gazed from the window into the +back-yard of the next house, saw nothing but an elderly man-servant +brushing a garment, and turned upon Sophy. + +"Why don't you hang up your jacket, miss?" she said, sharply. + +The little one rose, opened the wardrobe-door wide, carried a chair to +it, fetched her jacket from the bed, clambered up on the chair, and, +leaning far forward to reach a peg, tumbled right into the bottom of +the wardrobe. + +"You clumsy!" exclaimed the nurse angrily, and pulling her out by the +arm, shook her. + +Alice was not generally rough to her, but there were reasons to-day. + +Phosy crept back to her seat, pale, frightened, and a little hurt. +Alice hung up the jacket, closed the wardrobe, and, turning, +contemplated her own pretty face and neat figure in the glass +opposite. The dinner-bell rang. + +"There, I declare!" she cried, and wheeled round on Phosy. "And your +hair not brushed yet, miss! Will you ever learn to do a thing without +being told it? Thank goodness, I shan't be plagued with you long! But +I pity her as comes after me: I do!" + +"If the Lord would but chasten me!" said the child to herself, as she +rose and laid down her book with a sigh. + +The maid seized her roughly by the arm, and brushed her hair with an +angry haste that made the child's eyes water, and herself feel a +little ashamed at the sight of them. + +"How could anybody love such a troublesome chit?" she said, seeking +the comfort of justification from the child herself. + +Another sigh was the poor little damsel's only answer. She looked very +white and solemn as she entered the dining-room. + +Mr. Greatorex was a merchant in the City. But he was more of a man +than a merchant, which all merchants are not. Also, he was more +scrupulous in his dealings than some merchants in the same line of +business, who yet stood as well with the world as he; but, on the +other hand, he had the meanness to pride himself upon it as if it had +been something he might have done without and yet held up his head. + +Some six years before, he had married to please his parents; and a +year before, he had married to please himself. His first wife had +intellect, education, and heart, but little individuality--not enough +to reflect the individuality of her husband. The consequence was, he +found her uninteresting. He was kind and indulgent however, and not +even her best friend blamed him much for manifesting nothing beyond +the average devotion of husbands. But in truth his wife had great +capabilities, only they had never ripened, and when she died, a +fortnight after giving birth to Sophy, her husband had not a suspicion +of the large amount of undeveloped power that had passed away with +her. + +Her child was so like her both in countenance and manner that he was +too constantly reminded of her unlamented mother; and he loved neither +enough to discover that, in a sense as true as marvellous, the child +was the very flower-bud of her mother's nature, in which her retarded +blossom had yet a chance of being slowly carried to perfection. Love +alone gives insight, and the father took her merely for a miniature +edition of the volume which he seemed to have laid aside for ever in +the dust of the earth's lumber-room. Instead, therefore, of watering +the roots of his little human slip from the well of his affections, he +had scarcely as yet perceived more in relation to her than that he was +legally accountable for her existence, and bound to give her shelter +and food. If he had questioned himself on the matter, he would have +replied that love was not wanting, only waiting upon her growth, and +the development of something to interest him. + +Little right as he had had to expect anything from his first marriage, +he had yet cherished some hopes therein--tolerably vague, it is true, +yet hardly faint enough, it would seem, for he was disappointed in +them. When its bonds fell from him, however, he flattered himself that +he had not worn them in vain, but had through them arrived at a +knowledge of women as rare as profound. But whatever the reach of this +knowledge, it was not sufficient to prevent him from harbouring the +presumptuous hope of so choosing and so fashioning the heart and mind +of a woman that they should be as concave mirrors to his own. I do not +mean that he would have admitted the figure, but such was really the +end he blindly sought. I wonder how many of those who have been +disappointed in such an attempt have been thereby aroused to the +perception of what a frightful failure their success would have been +on both sides. It was bad enough that Augustus Greatorex's theories +had cramped his own development; it would have been ten-fold worse had +they been operative to the stunting of another soul. + +Letty Merewether was the daughter of a bishop _in partibus_. She had +been born tolerably innocent, had grown up more than tolerably pretty, +and was, when she came to England at the age of sixteen, as nearly a +genuine example of Locke's sheet of white paper as could well have +fallen to the hand of such an experimenter as Greatorex would fain +become. + +In his suit he had prospered--perhaps too easily. He loved the girl, +or at least loved the modified reflection of her in his own mind; +while she, thoroughly admiring the dignity, good looks, and +accomplishments of the man whose attentions flattered her +self-opinion, accorded him deference enough to encourage his vainest +hopes. Although she knew little, fluttering over the merest surfaces +of existence, she had sense enough to know that he talked sense to +her, and foolishness enough to put it down to her own credit, while +for the sense itself she cared little or nothing. And Greatorex, +without even knowing what she was rough-hewn for, would take upon him +to shape her ends!--an ambition the Divinity never permits to succeed: +he who fancies himself the carver finds himself but the chisel, or +indeed perhaps only the mallet, in the hand of the true workman. + +During the days of his courtship, then, Letty listened and smiled, or +answered with what he took for a spiritual response, when it was +merely a brain-echo. Looking down into the pond of her being, whose +surface was, not yet ruffled by any bubbling of springs from below, he +saw the reflection of himself and was satisfied. An able man on his +hobby looks a centaur of wisdom and folly; but if he be at all a wise +man, the beast will one day or other show him the jade's favour of +unseating him. Meantime Augustus Greatorex was fooled, not by poor +little Letty, who was not capable of fooling him, but by himself. +Letty had made no pretences; had been interested, and had shown her +interest; had understood, or seemed to understand, what he said to +her, and forgotten it the next moment--had no pocket to put it in, did +not know what to do with it, and let it drop into the Limbo of Vanity. +They had not been married many days before the scouts of advancing +disappointment were upon them. Augustus resisted manfully for a time. +But the truth was each of the two had to become a great deal more than +either was, before any approach to unity was possible. He tried to +interest her in one subject after another--tried her first, I am +ashamed to say, with political economy. In that instance, when he came +home to dinner he found that she had not got beyond the first page of +the book he had left with her. But she had the best of excuses, +namely, that of that page she had not understood a sentence. He saw +his mistake, and tried her with poetry. But Milton, with whom +unfortunately he commenced his approaches, was to her, if not equally +unintelligible, equally uninteresting. He tried her next with the +elements of science, but with no better success. He returned to +poetry, and read some of the Faerie Queene with her: she was, or +seemed to be, interested in all his talk about it, and inclined to go +on with it in his absence, but found the first stanza she tried more +than enough without him to give life to it. She could give it none, +and therefore it gave her none. I believe she read a chapter of the +Bible every day, but the only books she read with any real interest +were novels of a sort that Augustus despised. It never occurred to him +that he ought at once to have made friends of this Momus of +unrighteousness, for by them he might have found entrance to the +sealed chamber. He ought to have read with her the books she did like, +for by them only could he make her think, and from them alone could he +lead her to better. It is but from the very step upon which one stands +that one can move to the next. Besides these books, there was nothing +in her scheme of the universe but fashion, dress, calls, the park, +other-peopledom, concerts, plays, churchgoing--whatever could show +itself on the frosted glass of her _camera obscura_--make an interest +of motion and colour in her darkened chamber. Without these, her +bosom's mistress would have found life unendurable, for not yet had +she ascended her throne, but lay on the floor of her nursery, +surrounded with toys that imitated life. + +It was no wonder, therefore, that Augustus was at length compelled to +allow himself disappointed. That it was the fault of his +self-confidence made the thing no whit better. He was too much of a +man not to cherish a certain tenderness for her, but he soon found to +his dismay that it had begun to be mingled with a shadow of contempt. +Against this he struggled, but with fluctuating success. He stopped +later and later at business, and when he came home spent more and more +of his time in the smoking-room, where by and by he had bookshelves +put up. Occasionally he would accept an invitation to dinner and +accompany his wife, but he detested evening parties, and when Letty, +who never refused an invitation if she could help it, went to one, he +remained at home with his books. But his power of reading began to +diminish. He became restless and irritable. Something kept gnawing at +his heart. There was a sore spot in it. The spot grew larger and +larger, and by degrees the centre of his consciousness came to be a +soreness: his cherished idea had been fooled; he had taken a silly +girl for a woman of undeveloped wealth;--a bubble, a surface whereon +fair colours chased each other, for a hearted crystal. + +On her part, Letty too had her grief, which, unlike Augustus, she did +not keep to herself, receiving in return from more than one of her +friends the soothing assurance that Augustus was only like all other +men; that women were but their toys, which they cast away when weary +of them. Letty did not see that she was herself making a toy of her +life, or that Augustus was right in refusing to play with such a +costly and delicate thing. Neither did Augustus see that, having, by +his own blunder, married a mere child, he was bound to deal with her +as one, and not let the child suffer for his fault more than what +could not be helped. It is not by pressing our insights upon them, but +by bathing the sealed eyelids of the human kittens, that we can help +them. + +And all the time poor little Phosy was left to the care of Alice, a +clever, careless, good-hearted, self-satisfied damsel, who, although +seldom so rough in her behaviour as we have just seen her, abandoned +the child almost entirely to her own resources. It was often she sat +alone in the nursery, wishing the Lord would chasten her--because then +he would love her. + +The first course was nearly over ere Augustus had brought himself to +ask-- + +"What did you think of the sermon to-day, Letty?" + +"Not much," answered Letty. "I am not fond of finery. I prefer +simplicity." + +Augustus held his peace bitterly. For it was just finery in a sermon, +without knowing it, that Letty was fond of: what seemed to him a +flimsy syllabub of sacred things, beaten up with the whisk of +composition, was charming to Letty; while, on the contrary, if a man +such as they had been listening to was carried away by the thoughts +that struggled in him for utterance, the result, to her judgment, was +finery, and the object display. In excuse it must be remembered that +she had been used to her father's style, which no one could have +aspersed with lack of sobriety. Presently she spoke again. + +"Gus, dear, couldn't you make up your mind for once to go with me to +Lady Ashdaile's to-morrow? I am getting quite ashamed of appearing so +often without you." + +"There is another way of avoiding that unpleasantness," remarked her +husband drily. + +"You cruel creature!" returned Letty playfully. "But I must go this +once, for I promised Mrs. Holden." + +"You know, Letty," said her husband, after a little pause, "it gets of +more and more consequence that you should not fatigue yourself. By +keeping such late hours in such stifling rooms you are endangering two +lives--remember that, Letty. It you stay at home to-morrow, I will +come home early, and read to you all the evening." + +"Gussy, that _would_ be charming. You _know_ there is nothing in the +world I should enjoy so much. But this time I really mustn't." + +She launched into a list of all the great nobodies and small +somebodies who were to be there, and whom she positively must see: it +might be her only chance. + +Those last words quenched a sarcasm on Augustus' lips. He was kinder +than usual the rest of the evening, and read her to sleep with the +Pilgrim's Progress. + +Phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood. Or where she +misunderstood, it was an honest misunderstanding, which never does +much hurt. Neither father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her +good night. Neither saw the hungry heart under the mask of the still +face. The father never imagined her already fit for the modelling she +was better without, and the stepmother had to become a mother before +she could value her. + +Phosy went to bed to dream of the Valley of Humiliation. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +The next morning Alice gave her mistress warning. It was quite +unexpected, and she looked at her aghast. + +"Alice," she said at length, "you're never going to leave me at such a +time!" + +"I'm sorry it don't suit you, ma'am, but I must." + +"Why, Alice? What is the matter? Has Sophy been troublesome?" + +"No, ma'am; there's no harm in that child." + +"Then what can it be, Alice? Perhaps you are going to be married +sooner than you expected?" + +Alice gave her chin a little toss, pressed her lips together, and was +silent. + +"I have always been kind to you," resumed her mistress. + +"I'm sure, ma'am, I never made no complaints!" returned Alice, but as +she spoke she drew herself up straighter than before. + +"Then what is it?" said her mistress. + +"The fact is, ma'am," answered the girl, almost fiercely, "I _cannot_ +any longer endure a state of domestic slavery." + +"I don't understand you a bit better," said Mrs. Greatorex, trying, +but in vain, to smile, and therefore looking angrier than she was. + +"I mean, ma'am--an' I see no reason as I shouldn't say it, for it's +the truth--there's a worm at the root of society where one yuman bein' +'s got to do the dirty work of another. I don't mind sweepin' up my +own dust, but I won't sweep up nobody else's. I ain't a goin' to +demean myself no longer! There!" + +"Leave the room, Alice," said Mrs. Greatorex; and when, with a toss +and a flounce, the young woman had vanished, she burst into tears of +anger and annoyance. + +The day passed. The evening came. She dressed without Alice's usual +help, and went to Lady Ashdaile's with her friend. There a reaction +took place, and her spirits rose unnaturally. She even danced--to the +disgust of one or two quick-eyed matrons who sat by the wall. + +When she came home she found her husband sitting up for her. He said +next to nothing, and sat up an hour longer with his book. + +In the night she was taken ill. Her husband called Alice, and ran +himself to fetch the doctor. For some hours she seemed in danger, but +by noon was much better. Only the greatest care was necessary. + +As soon as she could speak, she told Augustus of Alice's warning, and +he sent for her to the library. + +She stood before him with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. + +"I understand, Alice, you have given your mistress warning," he said +gently. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Your mistress is very ill, Alice." + +"Yes, sir." + +"Don't you think it would be ungrateful of you to leave her in her +present condition? She's not likely to be strong for some time to +come." + +The use of the word "ungrateful" was an unfortunate one. Alice begged +to know what she had to be grateful for. Was her work worth nothing? +And her master, as every one must who claims that which can only be +freely given, found himself in the wrong. + +"Well, Alice," he said, "we won't dispute that point; and if you are +really determined on going, you must do the best you can for your +mistress for the rest of the month." + +Alice's sense of injury was soothed by her master's forbearance. She +had always rather approved of Mr. Greatorex, and she left the room +more softly than she had entered it. + +Letty had a fortnight in bed, during which she reflected a little. + +The very day on which she left her room, Alice sought an interview +with her master, and declared she could not stay out her month; she +must go home at once. + +She had been very attentive to her mistress during the fortnight: +there must be something to account for her strange behaviour. + +"Come now, Alice," said her master, "what's at the back of all this? +You have been a good, well-behaved, obliging girl till now, and I am +certain you would never be like this if there weren't something wrong +somewhere." + +"Something wrong, sir! No, indeed, sir! Except you call it wrong to +have an old uncle 's dies and leaves ever so much money--thousands on +thousands, the lawyers say." + +"And does it come to you then, Alice?" + +"I get my share, sir. He left it to be parted even between his nephews +and nieces." + +"Why, Alice, you are quite an heiress, then!" returned her master, +scarcely however believing the thing so grand as Alice would have it. +"But don't you think now it would be rather hard that your fortune +should be Mrs. Greatorex's misfortune?" + +"Well, I don't see as how it shouldn't," replied Alice. "It's +mis'ess's fortun' as 'as been my misfortun'--ain't it now, sir? An' +why shouldn't it be the other way next?" + +"I don't quite see how your mistress's fortune can be said to be your +misfortune, Alice." + +"Anybody would see that, sir, as wasn't blinded by class-prejudices." + +"Class-prejudices!" exclaimed Mr. Greatorex, in surprise at the word. + +"It's a term they use, I believe, sir! But it's plain enough that if +mis'ess hadn't 'a' been better off than me, she wouldn't ha' been able +to secure my services--as you calls it." + +"That is certainly plain enough," returned Mr. Greatorex. "But suppose +nobody had been able to secure your services, what would have become +of you?" + +"By that time the people'd have rose to assert their rights." + +"To what?--To fortunes like yours?" + +"To bread and cheese at least, sir," returned Alice, pertly. + +"Well, but you've had something better than bread and cheese." + +"I don't make no complaints as to the style of livin' in the house, +sir, but that's all one, so long as it's on the vile condition of +domestic slavery--which it's nothing can justify." + +"Then of course, although you are now a woman of property, you will +never dream of having any one to wait on you," said her master, amused +with the volume of human nature thus opened to him. + +"All I say, sir, is--it's my turn now; and I ain't goin' to be sit +upon by no one. I know my dooty to myself." + +"I didn't know there was such a duty, Alice," said her master. + +Something in his tone displeased her. + +"Then you know now, sir," she said, and bounced out of the room. + +The next moment, however, ashamed of her rudeness, she re-entered, +saying, + +"I don't want to be unkind, sir, but I must go home. I've got a +brother that's ill, too, and wants to see me. If you don't object to +me goin' home for a month, I promise you to come back and see mis'ess +through her trouble--as a friend, you know, sir." + +"But just listen to me first, Alice," said Mr. Greatorex. "I've had +something to do with wills in my time, and I can assure you it is not +likely to be less than a year before you can touch the money. You had +much better stay where you are till your uncle's affairs are settled. +You don't know what may happen. There's many a slip between cup and +lip, you know." + +"Oh! it's all right, sir. Everybody knows the money's left to his +nephews and nieces, and me and my brother's as good as any." + +"I don't doubt it: still, if you'll take my advice, you'll keep a +sound roof over your head till another's ready for you." + +Alice only threw her chin in the air, and said almost threateningly, + +"Am I to go for the month, sir?" + +"I'll talk to your mistress about it," answered Mr. Greatorex, not at +all sure that such an arrangement would be for his wife's comfort. + +But the next day Mrs. Greatorex had a long talk with Alice, and the +result was that on the following Monday she was to go home for a +month, and then return for two months more at least. What Mr. +Greatorex had said about the legacy, had had its effect, and, besides, +her mistress had spoken to her with pleasure in her good fortune. +About Sophy no one felt any anxiety: she was no trouble to any one, +and the housemaid would see to her. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +On the Sunday evening, Alice's lover, having heard, not from herself, +but by a side wind, that she was going home the next day, made his +appearance in Wimborne Square, somewhat perplexed--both at the move, +and at her leaving him in ignorance of the same. He was a +cabinet-maker in an honest shop in the neighbourhood, and in +education, faculty, and general worth, considerably Alice's +superior--a fact which had hitherto rather pleased her, but now gave +zest to the change which she imagined had subverted their former +relation. Full of the sense of her new superiority, she met him draped +in an indescribable strangeness. John Jephson felt, at the very first +word, as if her voice came from the other side of the English Channel. +He wondered what he had done, or rather what Alice could imagine he +had done or said, to put her in such tantrums. + +"Alice, my dear," he said--for John was a man to go straight at the +enemy, "what's amiss? What's come over you? You ain't altogether like +your own self to-night! And here I find you're goin' away, and ne'er a +word to me about it! What have I done?" + +Alice's chin alone made reply. She waited the fitting moment, with +splendour to astonish, and with grandeur to subdue her lover. To tell +the sad truth, she was no longer sure that it would be well to +encourage him on the old footing; was she not standing on tiptoe, her +skirts in her hand, on the brink of the brook that parted serfdom from +gentility, on the point of stepping daintily across, and leaving +domestic slavery, red hands, caps, and obedience behind her? How then +was she to marry a man that had black nails, and smelt of glue? It was +incumbent on her at least, for propriety's sake, to render him at once +aware that it was in condescension ineffable she took any notice of +him. + +"Alice, my girl!" began John again, in expostulatory tone. + +"Miss Cox, if you please, John Jephson," interposed Alice. + +"What on 'arth's come over you?" exclaimed John, with the first throb +of rousing indignation. "But if you ain't your own self no more, why, +Miss Cox be it. 'T seems to me 's if I warn't my own self no more--'s +if I'd got into some un else, or 't least hedn't got my own ears on m' +own head.--Never saw or heerd Alice like this afore!" he added, +turning in gloomy bewilderment to the housemaid for a word of human +sympathy. + +The movement did not altogether please Alice, and she felt she must +justify her behaviour. + +"You see, John," she said, with dignity, keeping her back towards him, +and pretending to dust the globe of a lamp, "there's things as no +woman can help, and therefore as no man has no right to complain of +them. It's not as if I'd gone an' done it, or changed myself, no more +'n if it 'ad took place in my cradle. What can I help it, if the world +goes and changes itself? Am _I_ to blame?--tell me that. It's not +that. I make no complaint, but I tell you it ain't me, it's +circumstances as is gone and changed theirselves, and bein' as +circumstances is changed, things ain't the same as they was, and Miss +is the properer term from you to me, John Jephson." + +"Dang it if I know what you're a drivin' at, Alice!--Miss Cox!--and I +beg yer pardon, miss, I'm sure.--Dang me if I do!" + +"Don't swear, John Jephson--leastways before a lady. It's not proper." + +"It seems to me, Miss Cox, as if the wind was a settin' from Bedlam, +or may be Colney Hatch," said John, who was considered a humourist +among his comrades. "I wouldn't take no liberties with a lady, Miss +Cox; but if I might be so bold as to arst the joke of the thing--" + +"Joke, indeed!" cried Alice. "Do you call a dead uncle and ten +thousand pounds a joke?" + +"God bless me!" said John. "You don't mean it, Alice?" + +"I do mean it, and that you'll find, John Jephson. I'm goin' to bid +you good-bye to-morrer." + +"Whoy, Alice!" exclaimed honest John, aghast. + +"It's truth I tell ye," said Alice. + +"And for how long?" gasped John, fore-feeling illimitable misfortune. + +"That depends," returned Alice, who did not care to lessen the effect +of her communication by mentioning her promised return for a season. +"--It ain't likely," she added, "as a heiress is a goin' to act the +nuss-maid much longer." + +"But Alice," said John, "you don't mean to say--it's not in your mind +now--it can't be, Alice--you're only jokin' with me--" + +"Indeed, and I'm not!" interjected Alice, with a sniff. + +"I don't mean that way, you know. What I mean is, you don't mean as +how this 'ere money--dang it all!--as how it's to be all over between +you and me?--You _can't_ mean that, Alice!" ended the poor fellow, +with a choking in his throat. + +It was very hard upon him! He must either look as if he wanted to +share her money, or else as if he were ready to give her up. + +"Arst yourself, John Jephson," answered Alice, "whether it's likely a +young lady of fortun' would be keepin' company with a young man as +didn't know how to take off his hat to her in the park?" + +Alice did not above half mean what she said: she wished mainly to +enhance her own importance. At the same time she did mean it half, and +that would have been enough for Jephson. He rose, grievously wounded. + +"Good-bye, Alice," he said, taking the hand she did not refuse. "Ye're +throwin' from ye what all yer money won't buy." + +She gave a scornful little laugh, and John walked out of the kitchen. + +At the door he turned with one lingering look; but in Alice there was +no sign of softening. She turned scornfully away, and no doubt enjoyed +her triumph to the full. + +The next morning she went away. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Mr. Greatorex had ceased to regard the advent of Christmas with much +interest. Naturally gifted with a strong religious tendency, he had, +since his first marriage, taken, not to denial, but to the side of +objection, spending much energy in contempt for the foolish opinions +of others, a self-indulgence which does less than little to further +the growth of one's own spirit in truth and righteousness. The only +person who stands excused--I do not say justified--in so doing, is the +man who, having been taught the same opinions, has found them a legion +of adversaries barring his way to the truth. But having got rid of +them for himself, it is, I suspect, worse than useless to attack them +again, save as the ally of those who are fighting their way through +the same ranks to the truth. Greatorex had been indulging his +intellect at the expense of his heart. A man may have light in the +brain and darkness in the heart. It were better to be an owl than a +strong-eyed apteryx. He was on the path which naturally ends in +blindness and unbelief. I fancy, if he had not been neglectful of his +child, she would ere this time have relighted his Christmas-candles +for him; but now his second disappointment in marriage had so dulled +his heart that he had begun to regard life as a stupid affair, in +which the most enviable fool was the man who could still expect to +realize an ideal. He had set out on a false track altogether, but had +not yet discovered that there had been an immoral element at work in +his mistake. + +For what right had he to desire the fashioning of any woman after his +ideas? did not the angel of her eternal Ideal for ever behold the face +of her Father in heaven? The best that can be said for him is, that, +notwithstanding his disappointment and her faults, yea, +notwithstanding his own faults, which were, with all his cultivation +and strength of character, yet more serious than hers, he was still +kind to her; yes, I may say for him, that, notwithstanding even her +silliness, which is a sickening fault, and one which no supremacy of +beauty can overshadow, he still loved her a little. Hence the care he +showed for her in respect of the coming sorrow was genuine; it did not +all belong to his desire for a son to whom he might be a father +indeed--after his own fancies, however. Letty, on her part, was as +full of expectation as the girl who has been promised a doll that can +shut and open its eyes, and cry when it is pinched; her carelessness +of its safe arrival came of ignorance and not indifference. + +It cannot but seem strange that such a man should have been so +careless of the child he had. But from the first she had painfully +reminded him of her mother, with whom in truth he had never +quarrelled, but with whom he had not found life the less irksome on +that account. Add to this that he had been growing fonder of +business,--a fact which indicated, in a man of his endowment and +development, an inclination downwards of the plane of his life. It was +some time since he had given up reading poetry. History had almost +followed: he now read little except politics, travels, and popular +expositions of scientific progress. + +That year Christmas Eve fell upon a Monday. The day before, Letty not +feeling very well, her husband thought it better not to leave her, and +gave up going to church. Phosy was utterly forgotten, but she dressed +herself, and at the usual hour appeared with her prayer-book in her +hand ready for church. When her father told her that he was not going, +she looked so blank that he took pity upon her, and accompanied her to +the church-door, promising to meet her as she came out. Phosy sighed +from relief as she entered, for she had a vague idea that by going to +church to pray for it she might move the Lord to chasten her. At least +he would see her there, and might think of it. She had never had such +an attention from her father before, never such dignity conferred upon +her as to be allowed to appear in church alone, sitting in the pew by +herself like a grown damsel. But I doubt if there was any pride in her +stately step, or any vanity in the smile--no, not smile, but +illuminated mist, the vapour of smiles, which haunted her sweet little +solemn church-window of a face, as she walked up the aisle. + +The preacher was one of whom she had never heard her father speak +slighting word, in whom her unbounded trust had never been shaken. +Also he was one who believed with his whole soul in the things that +make Christmas precious. To him the birth of the wonderful baby hinted +at hundreds of strange things in the economy of the planet. That a man +could so thoroughly persuade himself that, he believed the old fable, +was matter of marvel to some of his friends who held blind Nature the +eternal mother, and Night the everlasting grandmother of all things. +But the child Phosy, in her dreams or out of them, in church or +nursery, with her book or her doll, was never out of the region of +wonders, and would have believed, or tried to believe, anything that +did not involve a moral impossibility. + +What the preacher said I need not even partially repeat; it is enough +to mention a certain metamorphosed deposit from the stream of his +eloquence carried home in her mind by Phosy: from some of his sayings +about the birth of Jesus into the world, into the family, into the +individual human bosom, she had got it into her head that Christmas +Day was not a birthday like that she had herself last year, but that, +in some wonderful way, to her requiring no explanation, the baby Jesus +was born every Christmas Day afresh. What became of him afterwards she +did not know, and indeed she had never yet thought to ask how it was +that he could come to every house in London as well as No. 1, Wimborne +Square. Little of a home as another might think it, that house was yet +to her the centre of all houses, and the wonder had not yet widened +rippling beyond it: into that spot of the pool the eternal gift would +fall. + +Her father forgot the time over his book, but so entranced was her +heart with the expectation of the promised visit, now so near--the day +after to-morrow--that, if she did not altogether forget to look for +him as she stepped down the stair from the church door to the street, +his absence caused her no uneasiness; and when, just as she reached +it, he opened the house-door in tardy haste to redeem his promise, she +looked up at him with a solemn, smileless repose, born of spiritual +tension and speechless anticipation, upon her face, and walking past +him without change in the rhythm of her motion, marched stately up the +stairs to the nursery. I believe the centre of her hope was that when +the baby came she would beg him on her knees to ask the Lord to +chasten her. + +When dessert was over, her mother on the sofa in the drawing-room, and +her father in an easy-chair, with a bottle of his favourite wine by +his side, she crept out of the room and away again to the nursery. +There she reached up to her little bookshelf, and, full of the sermon +as spongy mists are full of the sunlight, took thence a volume of +stories from the German, the re-reading of one of which, narrating the +visit of the Christ-child, laden with gifts, to a certain household, +and what he gave to each and all therein, she had, although sorely +tempted, saved up until now, and sat down with it by the fire, the +only light she had. When the housemaid, suddenly remembering she must +put her to bed, and at the same time discovering it was a whole hour +past her usual time, hurried to the nursery, she found her fast asleep +in her little armchair, her book on her lap, and the fire +self-consumed into a dark cave with a sombre glow in its deepest +hollows. Dreams had doubtless come to deepen the impressions of sermon +and _maehrchen_, for as she slowly yielded to the hands of Polly +putting her to bed, her lips, unconsciously moved of the slumbering +but not sleeping spirit, more than once murmured the words _Lord +loveth_ and _chasteneth_. Right blessedly would I enter the dreams of +such a child--revel in them, as a bee in the heavenly gulf of a +cactus-flower. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +On Christmas Eve the church bells were ringing through the murky air +of London, whose streets lay flaring and steaming below. The brightest +of their constellations were the butchers' shops, with their shows of +prize beef; around them, the eddies of the human tides were most +confused and knotted. But the toy-shops were brilliant also. To Phosy +they would have been the treasure-caves of the Christ-child--all +mysteries, all with insides to them--boxes, and desks, and windmills, +and dove-cots, and hens with chickens, and who could tell what all? In +every one of those shops her eyes would have searched for the +Christ-child, the giver of all their wealth. For to her he was +everywhere that night--ubiquitous as the luminous mist that brooded +all over London--of which, however, she saw nothing but the glow above +the mews. John Jephson was out in the middle of all the show, drifting +about in it: he saw nothing that had pleasure in it, his heart was so +heavy. He never thought once of the Christ-child, or even of the +Christ-man, as the giver of anything. Birth is the one standing +promise-hope for the race, but for poor John this Christmas held no +promise. With all his humour, he was one of those people, generally +dull and slow--God grant me and mine such dullness and such sloth--who +having once loved, cannot cease. During the fortnight he had scarce +had a moment's ease from the sting of his Alice's treatment. The +honest fellow's feelings were no study to himself; he knew nothing but +the pleasure and the pain of them; but, I believe it was not mainly +for himself that he was sorry. Like Othello, "the pity of it" haunted +him: he had taken Alice for a downright girl, about whom there was and +could be no mistake; and the first hot blast of prosperity had swept +her away like a hectic leaf. What were all the shops dressed out in +holly and mistletoe, what were all the rushing flaming gas-jets, what +the fattest of prize-pigs to John, who could never more imagine a +spare-rib on the table between Alice and him of a Sunday? His +imagination ran on seeing her pass in her carriage, and drop him a nod +of condescension as she swept noisily by him--trudging home weary from +his work to his loveless fireside. _He_ didn't want her money! +Honestly, he would rather have her without than with money, for he now +regarded it as an enemy, seeing what evil changes it could work. +"There be some devil in it, sure!" he said to himself. True, he had +never found any in his week's wages, but he did remember once finding +the devil in a month's wages received in the lump. + +As he was thus thinking with himself, a carriage came suddenly from a +side street into the crowd, and while he stared at it, thinking Alice +might be sitting inside it while he was tramping the pavement alone, +she passed him on the other side on foot--was actually pushed against +him: he looked round, and saw a young woman, carrying a small bag, +disappearing in the crowd. "There's an air of Alice about _her_" said +John to himself, seeing her back only. But of course it couldn't be +Alice; for her he must look in the carriages now! And what a fool he +was: every young woman reminded him of the one he had lost! Perhaps if +he was to call the next day--Polly was a good-natured creature--he +might hear some news of her. + +It had been a troubled fortnight with Mrs. Greatorex. She wished much +that she could have talked to her husband more freely, but she had not +learned to feel at home with him. Yet he had been kinder and more +attentive than usual all the time, so much so that Letty thought with +herself--if she gave him a boy, he would certainly return to his first +devotion. She said _boy_, because any one might see he cared little +for Phosy. She had never discovered that he was disappointed in +herself, but, since her disregard of his wishes had brought evil upon +her, she had begun to suspect that he had some ground for being +dissatisfied with her. She never dreamed of his kindness as the effort +of a conscientious nature to make the best of what could not now be +otherwise helped. Her own poverty of spirit and lack of worth +achieved, she knew as little of as she did of the riches of Michael +the archangel. One must have begun to gather wisdom before he can see +his own folly. + +That evening she was seated alone in the drawing-room, her husband +having left her to smoke his cigar, when the butler entered and +informed her that Alice had returned, but was behaving so oddly that +they did not know what to do with her. Asking wherein her oddness +consisted, and learning that it was mostly in silence and tears, she +was not sorry to gather that some disappointment had befallen her, and +felt considerable curiosity to know what it was. She therefore told +him to send her upstairs. + +Meantime Polly, the housemaid, seeing plainly enough from her return +in the middle of her holiday, and from her utter dejection, that +Alice's expectations had been frustrated, and cherishing no little +resentment against her because of her _uppishness_ on the first news +of her good fortune, had been ungenerous enough to take her revenge in +a way as stinging in effect as bitter in intention; for she loudly +protested that no amount of such luck as she pretended to suppose in +Alice's possession, would have induced _her_ to behave herself so that +a handsome honest fellow like John Jephson should be driven to despise +her, and take up with her betters. When her mistress's message came, +Alice was only too glad to find refuge from the kitchen in the +drawing-room. + +The moment she entered, she fell on her knees at the foot of the couch +on which her mistress lay, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed +grievously. + +Nor was the change more remarkable in her bearing than in her person. +She was pale and worn, and had a hunted look--was in fact a mere +shadow of what she had been. For a time her mistress found it +impossible to quiet her so as to draw from her her story: tears and +sobs combined with repugnance to hold her silent. + +"Oh, ma'am!" she burst out at length, wringing her hands, "how ever +_can_ I tell you? You will never speak to me again. Little did I think +such a disgrace was waiting me!" + +"It was no fault of yours if you were misinformed," said her mistress, +"or that your uncle was not the rich man you fancied." + +"Oh, ma'am, there was no mistake there! He was more than twice as rich +as I fancied. If he had only died a beggar, and left things as they +was!" + +"Then he didn't leave it to his nephews and nieces as they told +you?--Well, there's no disgrace in that." + +"Oh! but he did, ma'am: that was all right; no mistake there either, +ma'am.--And to think o' me behavin' as I did--to you and master as was +so good to me! Who'll ever take any more notice of me now, after what +has come out--as I'm sure I no more dreamed on than the child unborn!" + +An agonized burst of fresh weeping followed, and it was with prolonged +difficulty, and by incessant questioning, that Mrs. Greatorex at +length drew from her the following facts. + +Before Alice and her brother could receive the legacy to which they +laid claim, it was necessary to produce certain documents, the absence +of which, as of any proof to take their place, led to the unavoidable +publication of a fact previously known only to a living few--namely, +that the father and mother of Alice Hopwood had never been married, +which fact deprived them of the smallest claim on the legacy, and fell +like a millstone upon Alice and her pride. From the height of her +miserable arrogance she fell prone--not merely hurled back into the +lowly condition from which she had raised her head only to despise it +with base unrighteousness, and to adopt and reassert the principles +she had abhorred when they affected herself--not merely this, but, in +her own judgment at least, no longer the respectable member of society +she had hitherto been justified in supposing herself. The relation of +her father and mother she felt overshadow her with a disgrace +unfathomable--the more overwhelming that it cast her from the gates of +the Paradise she had seemed on the point of entering: her fall she +measured by the height of the social ambition she had cherished, and +had seemed on the point of attaining. But it is not an evil that the +devil's money, which this legacy had from the first proved to Alice, +should turn to a hot cinder in the hand. Rarely had a more haughty +spirit than hers gone before a fall, and rarely has the fall been more +sudden or more abject. And the consciousness of the behaviour into +which her false riches had seduced her, changed the whip of her +chastisement into scorpions. Worst of all, she had insulted her lover +as beneath her notice, and the next moment had found herself too vile +for his. Judging by herself, in the injustice of bitter humiliation +she imagined him scoffing with his mates at the base-born menial who +would set up for a fine lady. But had she been more worthy of honest +John, she would have understood him better. As it was, no really good +fortune could have befallen her but such as now seemed to her the +depth of evil fortune. Without humiliation to prepare the way for +humility, she must have become capable of more and more baseness, +until she lost all that makes life worth having. + +When Mrs. Greatorex had given her what consolation she found handy, +and at length dismissed her, the girl, unable to endure her own +company, sought the nursery, where she caught Sophy in her arms and +embraced her with fervour. Never in her life having been the object of +any such display of feeling, Phosy was much astonished: when Alice had +set her down and she had resumed her seat by the fireside, she went on +staring for a while--and then a strange sort of miming ensued. + +It was Phosy's habit--one less rare with children than may by most be +imagined--to do what she could to enter into any state of mind whose +shows were sufficiently marked for her observation. She sought to lay +hold of the feeling that produced the expression: less than the +reproduction of a similar condition in her own imaginative sensorium, +subject to her leisurely examination, would in no case satisfy the +little metaphysician. But what was indeed very odd was the means she +took for arriving at the sympathetic knowledge she desired. As if she +had been the most earnest student of dramatic expression through the +facial muscles, she would sit watching the countenance of the object +of her solicitude, all the time, with full consciousness, fashioning +her own as nearly as she could into the lines and forms of the other: +in proportion as she succeeded, the small psychologist imagined she +felt in herself the condition that produced the phenomenon she +observed--as if the shape of her face cast inward its shadow upon her +mind, and so revealed to it, through the two faces, what was moving +and shaping in the mind of the other. + +In the present instance, having at length, after modelling and +remodelling her face like that of a gutta-percha doll for some time, +composed it finally into the best correspondence she could effect, she +sat brooding for a while, with Alice's expression as it were frozen +upon it. Gradually the forms assumed melted away, and allowed her +still, solemn face to look out from behind them. The moment this +evanishment was complete, she rose and went to Alice, where she sat +staring into the fire, unconscious of the scrutiny she had been +undergoing, and, looking up in her face, took her thumb out of her +mouth, and said, + +"Is the Lord chastening Alice? I wish he would chasten Phosy." + +Her face was calm as that of the Sphinx; there was no mist in the +depth of her gray eyes, not a cloud on the wide heaven of her +forehead. + +Was the child crazed? What could the atom mean, with her big eyes +looking right into her? Alice never had understood her: it were indeed +strange if the less should comprehend the greater! She was not yet, +capable of recognising the word of the Lord in the mouth of babes and +sucklings. But there was a something in Phosy's face besides its +calmness and unintelligibility. What it was Alice could never have +told--yet it did her good. She lifted the child on her lap. There she +soon fell asleep. Alice undressed her, laid her in her crib, and went +to bed herself. + +But, weary as she was, she had to rise again before she got to sleep. +Her mistress was again taken ill. Doctor and nurse were sent for in +hot haste; hansom cabs came and went throughout the night, like noisy +moths to the one lighted house in the street; there were soft steps +within, and doors were gently opened and shut. The waters of Mara had +risen and filled the house. + +Towards morning they were ebbing slowly away. Letty did not know that +her husband was watching by her bedside. The street was quiet now. So +was the house. Most of its people had been up throughout the night, +but now they had all gone to bed except the strange nurse and Mr. +Greatorex. + +It was the morning of Christmas Day, and little Phosy knew it in every +cranny of her soul. She was not of those who had been up all night, +and now she was awake, early and wide, and the moment she awoke she +was speculating: He was coming to-day--_how_ would he come? Where +should she find the baby Jesus? And when would he come? In the +morning, or the afternoon, or in the evening? Could such a grief be in +store for her as that he would not appear until night, when she would +be again in bed? But she would not sleep till all hope was gone. Would +everybody be gathered to meet him, or would he show himself to one +after another, each alone? Then her turn would be last, and oh, if he +would come to the nursery! But perhaps he would not appear to her at +all!--for was she not one whom the Lord did not care to chasten? + +Expectation grew and wrought in her until she could lie in bed no +longer. Alice was fast asleep. It must be early, but whether it was +yet light or not she could not tell for the curtains. Anyhow she would +get up and dress, and then she would be ready for Jesus whenever he +should come. True, she was not able to dress herself very well, but he +would know, and would not mind. She made all the haste she could, +consistently with taking pains, and was soon attired after a fashion. + +She crept out of the room and down the stair. The house was very +still. What if Jesus should come and find nobody awake? Would he go +again and give them no presents? She couldn't expect any herself--but +might he not let her take theirs for the rest? Perhaps she ought to +wake them all, but she dared not without being sure. + +On the last landing above the first floor, she saw, by the low +gaslight at the end of the corridor, an unknown figure pass the foot +of the stair: could she have anything to do with the marvel of the +day? The woman looked up, and Phosy dropped the question. Yet she +might be a charwoman, whose assistance the expected advent rendered +necessary. When she reached the bottom of the stair she saw her +disappearing in her step-mother's room. That she did not like. It was +the one room into which she could not go. But, as the house was so +still, she would search everywhere else, and if she did not find him, +would then sit down in the hall and wait for him. + +The room next the foot of the stair, and opposite her step-mother's, was +the spare room, with which she associated ideas of state and grandeur: +where better could she begin than at the guest-chamber?--There!--Could +it be? Yes!--Through the chink of the scarce-closed door she saw light. +Either he was already there or there they were expecting him. From that +moment she felt as if lifted out of the body. Far exalted above all +dread, she peeped modestly in, and then entered. Beyond the foot of the +bed, a candle stood on a little low table, but nobody was to be seen. +There was a stool near the table: she would sit on it by the candle, +and wait for him. But ere she reached it, she caught sight of something +upon the bed that drew her thither. She stood entranced.--_Could_ it +be?--It _might_ be. Perhaps he had left it there while he went into her +mamma's room with something for her.--The loveliest of dolls ever +imagined! She drew nearer. The light was low, and the shadows were +many: she could not be sure what it was. But when she had gone close +up to it, she concluded with certainty that it was in very truth a +doll--perhaps intended for her--but beyond doubt the most exquisite +of dolls. She dragged a chair to the bed, got, up, pushed her little +arms softly under it, and drawing it gently to her, slid down with it. +When she felt her feet firm on the floor, filled with the solemn +composure of holy awe she carried the gift of the child Jesus to the +candle, that she might the better admire its beauty and know its +preciousness. But the light had no sooner fallen upon it than a strange +undefinable doubt awoke within her. Whatever it was, it was the very +essence of loveliness--the tiny darling with its alabaster face, and its +delicately modelled hands and fingers! A long night-gown covered all +the rest.--Was it possible?--Could it be?--Yes, indeed! it must be--it +could be nothing else than a _real_ baby! What a goose she had been! +Of course it was baby Jesus himself!--for was not this his very own +Christmas Day on which he was always born?--If she had felt awe of his +gift before, what a grandeur of adoring love, what a divine dignity +possessed her, holding in her arms the very child himself! One shudder +of bliss passed through her, and in an agony of possession she clasped +the baby to her great heart--then at once became still with the +satisfaction of eternity, with the peace of God. She sat down on the +stool, near the little table, with her back to the candle, that its +rays should not fall on the eyes of the sleeping Jesus and wake him: +there she sat, lost in the very majesty of bliss, at once the mother +and the slave of the Lord Jesus. + +She sat for a time still as marble waiting for marble to awake, +heedful as tenderest woman not to rouse him before his time, though +her heart was swelling with the eager petition that he would ask his +Father to be as good as chasten her. And as she sat, she began, after +her wont, to model her face to the likeness of his, that she might +understand his stillness--the absolute peace that dwelt on his +countenance. But as she did so, again a sudden doubt invaded her: +Jesus lay so very still--never moved, never opened his pale eye-lids! +And now set thinking, she noted that he did not breathe. She had seen +babies asleep, and their breath came and went--their little bosoms +heaved up and down, and sometimes they would smile, and sometimes they +would moan and sigh. But Jesus did none of all these things: was it +not strange? And then he was cold--oh, so cold! + +A blue silk coverlid lay on the bed: she half rose and dragged it off, +and contrived to wind it around herself and the baby. Sad at heart, +very sad, but undismayed, she sat and watched him on her lap. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +Meantime the morning of Christmas Day grew. The light came and filled +the house. The sleepers slept late, but at length they stirred. Alice +awoke last--from a troubled sleep, in which the events of the night +mingled with her own lost condition and destiny. After all Polly had +been kind, she thought, and got Sophy up without disturbing her. + +She had been but a few minutes down, when a strange and appalling +rumour made itself--I cannot say audible, but--somehow known through +the house, and every one hurried up in horrible dismay. + +The nurse had gone into the spare room, and missed the little dead +thing she had laid there. The bed was between her and Phosy, and she +never saw her. The doctor had been sharp with her about something the +night before: she now took her revenge in suspicion of him, and after +a hasty and fruitless visit of inquiry to the kitchen, hurried to Mr. +Greatorex. + +The servants crowded to the spare room, and when their master, +incredulous indeed, yet shocked at the tidings brought him, hastened +to the spot, he found them all in the room, gathered at the foot of +the bed. A little sunlight filtered through the red window-curtains, +and gave a strange pallid expression to the flame of the candle, which +had now burned very low. At first he saw nothing but the group of +servants, silent, motionless, with heads leaning forward, intently +gazing: he had come just in time: another moment and they would have +ruined the lovely sight. He stepped forward, and saw Phosy, half +shrouded in blue, the candle behind illuminating the hair she had +found too rebellious to the brush, and making of it a faint aureole +about her head and white face, whence cold and sorrow had driven all +the flush, rendering it colourless as that upon her arm which had +never seen the light. She had pored on the little face until she knew +death, and now she sat a speechless mother of sorrow, bending in the +dim light of the tomb over the body of her holy infant. + +How it was I cannot tell, but the moment her father saw her she looked +up, and the spell of her dumbness broke. + +"Jesus is dead," she said, slowly and sadly, but with perfect +calmness. "He is dead," she repeated. "He came too early, and there +was no one up to take care of him, and he's dead--dead--dead!" + +But as she spoke the last words, the frozen lump of agony gave way; +the well of her heart suddenly filled, swelled, overflowed; the last +word was half sob, half shriek of utter despair and loss. + +Alice darted forward and took the dead baby tenderly from her. The +same moment her father raised the little mother and clasped her to his +bosom. Her arms went round his neck, her head sank on his shoulder, +and sobbing in grievous misery, yet already a little comforted, he +bore her from the room. + +"No, no, Phosy!" they heard him say, "Jesus is not dead, thank God. It +is only your little brother that hadn't life enough, and is gone back +to God for more." + +Weeping the women went down the stairs. Alice's tears were still +flowing, when John Jephson entered. Her own troubles forgotten in the +emotion of the scene she had just witnessed, she ran to his arms and +wept on his bosom. + +John stood as one astonished. + +"O Lord! this _is_ a Christmas!" he sighed at last. + +"Oh John!" cried Alice, and tore herself from his embrace, "I forgot! +You'll never speak to me again, John! Don't do it, John." + +And with the words she gave a stifled cry, and fell a weeping again, +behind her two shielding hands. + +"Why, Alice!--you ain't married, are you?" gasped John, to whom that +was the only possible evil. + +"No, John, and never shall be: a respectable man like you would never +think of looking twice at a poor girl like me!" + +"Let's have one more look anyhow," said John, drawing her hands from +her face. "Tell me what's the matter, and if there's anything can be +done to right you, I'll work day and night to do it, Alice." + +"There's nothing _can_ be done, John," replied Alice, and would again +have floated out on the ocean of her misery, but in spite of wind and +tide, that is sobs and tears, she held on by the shore at his +entreaty, and told her tale, not even omitting the fact that when she +went to the eldest of the cousins, inheriting through the misfortune +of her and her brother so much more than their expected share, and +"demeaned herself" to beg a little help for her brother, who was dying +of consumption, he had all but ordered her out of the house, swearing +he had nothing to do with her or her brother, and saying she ought to +be ashamed to show her face. + +"And that when we used to make mud pies together!" concluded Alice +with indignation. "There, John! you have it all," she added. "--And +now?" + +With the word she gave a deep, humbly questioning look into his honest +eyes. + +"Is that all, Alice?" he asked. + +"Yes, John; ain't it enough?" she returned. + +"More'n enough," answered John. "I swear to you, Alice, you're worth +to me ten times what you would ha' been, even if you'd ha' had me, +with ten thousand pounds in your ridicule. Why, my woman, I never saw +you look one 'alf so 'an'some as you do now!" + +"But the disgrace of it, John!" said Alice, hanging her head, and so +hiding the pleasure that would dawn through all the mist of her +misery. + +"Let your father and mother settle that betwixt 'em, Alice. 'Tain't +none o' my business. Please God, we'll do different.--When shall it +be, my girl?" + +"When you like, John," answered Alice, without raising her head, +thoughtfully. + +When she had withdrawn herself from the too rigorous embrace with +which he received her consent, she remarked-- + +"I do believe, John, money ain't a good thing! Sure as I live, with +the very wind o' that money, the devil entered into me. Didn't you +hate me, John? Speak the truth now." + +"No, Alice. I did cry a bit over you, though. You _was_ possessed +like." + +"I _was_ possessed. I do believe if that money hadn't been took from +me, I'd never ha' had you, John. Ain't it awful to think on?" + +"Well, no. O' coorse! How could ye?" said Jephson--with reluctance. + +"Now, John, don't ye talk like that, for I won't stand it. Don't you +go for to set me up again with excusin' of me. I'm a nasty conceited +cat, I am--and all for nothing but mean pride." + +"Mind ye, ye're mine now, Alice; an' what's mine's mine, an' I won't +have it abused. I knows you twice the woman you was afore, and all the +world couldn't gi' me such another Christmas-box--no, not if it was +all gold watches and roast beef." + +When Mr. Greatorex returned to his wife's room, and thought to find +her asleep as he had left her, he was dismayed to hear sounds of soft +weeping from the bed. Some tone or stray word, never intended to reach +her ear, had been enough to reveal the truth concerning her baby. + +"Hush! hush!" he said, with more love in his heart than had moved +there for many months, and therefore more in his tone than she had +heard for as many;--"if you cry you will be ill. Hush, my dear!" + +In a moment, ere he could prevent her, she had flung her arms around +his neck as he stooped over her. + +"Husband! husband!" she cried, "is it my fault?" + +"You behaved perfectly," he returned. "No woman could have been +braver." + +"Ah, but I wouldn't stay at home when you wanted me." + +"Never mind that now, my child," he said. + +At the word she pulled his face down to hers. + +"I have _you_, and I don't care," he added. + +"_Do_ you care to have me?" she said, with a sob that ended in a loud +cry. "Oh! I don't deserve it. But I _will_ be good after this. I +promise you I will." + +"Then you must begin now, my darling. You must lie perfectly still, +and not cry a bit, or you will go after the baby, and I shall be left +alone." + +She looked up at him with such a light in her face as he had never +dreamed of there before. He had never seen her so lovely. Then she +withdrew her arms, repressed her tears, smiled, and turned her face +away. He put her hands under the clothes, and in a minute or two she +was again fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +That day, when Phosy and her father had sat down to their Christmas +dinner, he rose again, and taking her up as she sat, chair and all, +set her down close to him, on the other side of the corner of the +table. It was the first of a new covenant between them. The father's +eyes having been suddenly opened to her character and preciousness, as +well as to his own neglected duty in regard to her, it was as if a +well of life had burst forth at his feet. And every day, as he looked +in her face and talked to her, it was with more and more respect for +what he found in her, with growing tenderness for her predilections, +and reverence for the divine idea enclosed in her ignorance, for her +childish wisdom, and her calm seeking--until at length he would have +been horrified at the thought of training her up in _his_ way: had she +not a way of her own to go--following--not the dead Jesus, but Him +who liveth for evermore? In the endeavour to help her, he had to find +his own position towards the truth; and the results were weighty.--Nor +did the child's influence work forward merely. In his intercourse with +her he was so often reminded of his first wife, and that, with the +gloss or comment of a childish reproduction, that his memories of her +at length grew a little tender, and through the child he began to +understand the nature and worth of the mother. In her child she had +given him what she could not be herself. Unable to keep up with him, +she had handed him her baby, and dropped on the path. + +Nor was little Sophy his only comfort. Through their common loss and +her husband's tenderness, Letty began to grow a woman. And her growth +was the more rapid that, himself taught through Phosy, her husband no +longer desired to make her adopt his tastes, and judge with his +experiences, but, as became the elder and the tried, entered into her +tastes and experiences--became, as it were, a child again with her, +that, through the thing she was, he might help the thing she had to +be. + +As soon as she was able to bear it, he told her the story of the dead +Jesus, and with the tale came to her heart love for Phosy. She had +lost a son for a season, but she had gained a daughter for ever. + +Such were the gifts the Christ-child brought to one household that +Christmas. And the days of the mourning of that household were ended. + + + + +THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. + + +_A DAY AND NIGHT MAeHRCHEN_. + + +CHAPTER I. WATHO. + + +There was once a witch who desired to know everything. But the wiser a +witch is, the harder she knocks her head against the wall when she +comes to it. Her name was Watho, and she had a wolf in her mind. She +cared for nothing in itself--only for knowing it. She was not +naturally cruel, but the wolf had made her cruel. + +She was tall and graceful, with a white skin, red hair, and black +eyes, which had a red fire in them. She was straight and strong, but +now and then would fall bent together, shudder, and sit for a moment +with her head turned over her shoulder, as if the wolf had got out of +her mind on to her back. + + + + +CHAPTER II. AURORA. + + +This witch got two ladies to visit her. One of them belonged to the +court, and her husband had been sent on a far and difficult embassy. +The other was a young widow whose husband had lately died, and who had +since lost her sight, Watho lodged them in different parts of her +castle, and they did not know of each other's existence. + +The castle stood on the side of a hill sloping gently down into a +narrow valley, in which was a river, with a pebbly channel and a +continual song. The garden went down to the bank of the river, +enclosed by high walls, which crossed the river and there stopped. +Each wall had a double row of battlements, and between the rows was a +narrow walk. + +In the topmost story of the castle the Lady Aurora occupied a spacious +apartment of several large rooms looking southward. The windows +projected oriel-wise over the garden below, and there was a splendid +view from them both up and down and across the river. The opposite +side of the valley was steep, but not very high. Far away snow-peaks +were visible. These rooms Aurora seldom left, but their airy spaces, +the brilliant landscape and sky, the plentiful sunlight, the musical +instruments, books, pictures, curiosities, with the company of Watho +who made herself charming, precluded all dulness. She had venison and +feathered game to eat, milk and pale sunny sparkling wine to drink. + +She had hair of the yellow gold, waved and rippled; her skin was fair, +not white like Watho's, and her eyes were of the blue of the heavens +when bluest; her features were delicate but strong, her mouth large +and finely curved, and haunted with smiles. + + + + +CHAPTER III. VESPER. + + +Behind the castle the hill rose abruptly; the north-eastern tower, +indeed, was in contact with the rock, and communicated with the +interior of it. For in the rock was a series of chambers, known only +to Watho and the one servant whom she trusted, called Falca. Some +former owner had constructed these chambers after the tomb of an +Egyptian king, and probably with the same design, for in the centre of +one of them stood what could only be a sarcophagus, but that and +others were walled off. The sides and roofs of them were carved in low +relief, and curiously painted. Here the witch lodged the blind lady, +whose name was Vesper. Her eyes were black, with long black lashes; +her skin had a look of darkened silver, but was of purest tint and +grain; her hair was black and fine and straight-flowing; her features +were exquisitely formed, and if less beautiful yet more lovely from +sadness; she always looked as if she wanted to lie down and not rise +again. She did not know she was lodged in a tomb, though now and then +she wondered she never touched a window. There were many couches, +covered with richest silk, and soft as her own cheek, for her to lie +upon; and the carpets were so thick, she might have cast herself down +anywhere--as befitted a tomb. The place was dry and warm, and +cunningly pierced for air, so that it was always fresh, and lacked +only sunlight. There the witch fed her upon milk, and wine dark as a +carbuncle, and pomegranates, and purple grapes, and birds that dwell +in marshy places; and she played to her mournful tunes, and caused +wailful violins to attend her, and told her sad tales, thus holding +her ever in an atmosphere of sweet sorrow. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. PHOTOGEN. + + +Watho at length had her desire, for witches often get what they want: +a splendid boy was born to the fair Aurora. Just as the sun rose, he +opened his eyes. Watho carried him immediately to a distant part of +the castle, and persuaded the mother that he never cried but once, +dying the moment he was born. Overcome with grief, Aurora left the +castle as soon as she was able, and Watho never invited her again. + +And now the witch's care was, that the child should not know darkness. +Persistently she trained him until at last he never slept during the +day, and never woke during the night. She never let him see anything +black, and even kept all dull colours out of his way. Never, if she +could help it, would she let a shadow fall upon him, watching against +shadows as if they had been live things that would hurt him. All day +he basked in the full splendour of the sun, in the same large rooms +his mother had occupied. Watho used him to the sun, until he could +bear more of it than any dark-blooded African. In the hottest of every +day, she stript him and laid him in it, that he might ripen like a +peach; and the boy rejoiced in it, and would resist being dressed +again. She brought all her knowledge to bear on making his muscles +strong and elastic and swiftly responsive--that his soul, she said +laughing, might sit in every fibre, be all in every part, and awake +the moment of call. His hair was of the red gold, but his eyes grew +darker as he grew, until they were as black as Vesper's. He was the +merriest of creatures, always laughing, always loving, for a moment +raging, then laughing afresh. Watho called him Photogen. + + + + +CHAPTER V. NYCTERIS. + + +Five or six months after the birth of Photogen, the dark lady also +gave birth to a baby: in the windowless tomb of a blind mother, in the +dead of night, under the feeble rays of a lamp in an alabaster globe, +a girl came into the darkness with a wail. And just as she was born +for the first time, Vesper was born for the second, and passed into a +world as unknown to her as this was to her child--who would have to be +born yet again before she could see her mother. + +Watho called her Nycteris, and she grew as like Vesper as possible--in +all but one particular. She had the same dark skin, dark eyelashes and +brows, dark hair, and gentle sad look; but she had just the eyes of +Aurora, the mother of Photogen, and if they grew darker as she grew +older, it was only a darker blue. Watho, with the help of Falca, took +the greatest possible care of her--in every way consistent with her +plans, that is,--the main point in which was that she should never see +any light but what came from the lamp. Hence her optic nerves, and +indeed her whole apparatus for seeing, grew both larger and more +sensitive; her eyes, indeed, stopped short only of being too large. +Under her dark hair and forehead and eyebrows, they looked like two +breaks in a cloudy night-sky, through which peeped the heaven where +the stars and no clouds live. She was a sadly dainty little creature. +No one in the world except those two was aware of the being of the +little bat. Watho trained her to sleep during the day, and wake during +the night. She taught her music, in which she was herself a +proficient, and taught her scarcely anything else. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. HOW PHOTOGEN GREW. + + +The hollow in which the castle of Watho lay, was a cleft in a plain +rather than a valley among hills, for at the top of its steep sides, +both north and south, was a table-land, large and wide. It was covered +with rich grass and flowers, with here and there a wood, the outlying +colony of a great forest. These grassy plains were the finest hunting +grounds in the world. Great herds of small, but fierce cattle, with +humps and shaggy manes, roved about them, also antelopes and gnus, and +the tiny roedeer, while the woods were swarming with wild creatures. +The tables of the castle were mainly supplied from them. The chief of +Watho's huntsmen was a fine fellow, and when Photogen began to outgrow +the training she could give him, she handed him over to Fargu. He with +a will set about teaching him all he knew. He got him pony after pony, +larger and larger as he grew, every one less manageable than that +which had preceded it, and advanced him from pony to horse, and from +horse to horse, until he was equal to anything in that kind which the +country produced. In similar fashion he trained him to the use of bow +and arrow, substituting every three months a stronger bow and longer +arrows; and soon he became, even on horseback, a wonderful archer. He +was but fourteen when he killed his first bull, causing jubilation +among the huntsmen, and, indeed, through all the castle, for there too +he was the favourite. Every day, almost as soon as the sun was up, he +went out hunting, and would in general be out nearly the whole of the +day. But Watho had laid upon Fargu just one commandment, namely, that +Photogen should on no account, whatever the plea, be out until +sundown, or so near it as to wake in him the desire of seeing what was +going to happen; and this commandment Fargu was anxiously careful not +to break; for, although he would not have trembled had a whole herd of +bulls come down upon him, charging at full speed across the level, and +not an arrow left in his quiver, he was more than afraid of his +mistress. When she looked at him in a certain way, he felt, he said, +as if his heart turned to ashes in his breast, and what ran in his +veins was no longer blood, but milk and water. So that, ere long, as +Photogen grew older, Fargu began to tremble, for he found it steadily +growing harder to restrain him. So full of life was he, as Fargu said +to his mistress, much to her content, that he was more like a live +thunderbolt than a human being. He did not know what fear was, and +that not because he did not know danger; for he had had a severe +laceration from the razor-like tusk of a boar--whose spine, however, +he had severed with one blow of his hunting-knife, before Fargu could +reach him with defence. When he would spur his horse into the midst of +a herd of bulls, carrying only his bow and his short sword, or shoot +an arrow into a herd, and go after it as if to reclaim it for a +runaway shaft, arriving in time to follow it with a spear-thrust +before the wounded animal knew which way to charge, Fargu thought with +terror how it would be when he came to know the temptation of the +huddle-spot leopards, and the knife-clawed lynxes, with which the +forest was haunted. For the boy had been so steeped in the sun, from +childhood so saturated with his influence, that he looked upon every +danger from a sovereign height of courage. When, therefore, he was +approaching his sixteenth year, Fargu ventured to beg of Watho that +she would lay her commands upon the youth himself, and release him +from responsibility for him. One might as soon hold a tawny-maned lion +as Photogen, he said. Watho called the youth, and in the presence of +Fargu laid her command upon him never to be out when the rim of the +sun should touch the horizon, accompanying the prohibition with hints +of consequences, none the less awful that they were obscure. Photogen +listened respectfully, but, knowing neither the taste of fear nor the +temptation of the night, her words were but sounds to him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. HOW NYCTERIS GREW. + + +The little education she intended Nycteris to have, Watho gave her by +word of mouth. Not meaning she should have light enough to read by, to +leave other reasons unmentioned, she never put a book in her hands. +Nycteris, however, saw so much better than Watho imagined, that the +light she gave her was quite sufficient, and she managed to coax Falca +into teaching her the letters, after which she taught herself to read, +and Falca now and then brought her a child's book. But her chief +pleasure was in her instrument. Her very fingers loved it, and would +wander about over its keys like feeding sheep. She was not unhappy. +She knew nothing of the world except the tomb in which she dwelt, and +had some pleasure in everything she did. But she desired, +nevertheless, something more or different. She did not know what it +was, and the nearest she could come to expressing it to herself +was--that she wanted more room. Watho and Falca would go from her +beyond the shine of the lamp, and come again; therefore surely there +must be more room somewhere. As often as she was left alone, she would +fall to poring over the coloured bas-reliefs on the walls. These were +intended to represent various of the powers of Nature under +allegorical similitudes, and as nothing can be made that does not +belong to the general scheme, she could not fail at least to imagine a +flicker of relationship between some of them, and thus a shadow of the +reality of things found its way to her. + +There was one thing, however, which moved and taught her more than all +the rest--the lamp, namely, that hung from the ceiling, which she +always saw alight, though she never saw the flame, only the slight +condensation towards the centre of the alabaster globe. And besides +the operation of the light itself after its kind, the indefiniteness +of the globe, and the softness of the light, giving her the feeling as +if her eyes could go in and into its whiteness, were somehow also +associated with the idea of space and room. She would sit for an hour +together gazing up at the lamp, and her heart would swell as she +gazed. She would wonder what had hurt her, when she found her face wet +with tears, and then would wonder how she could have been hurt without +knowing it. She never looked thus at the lamp except when she was +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. THE LAMP. + + +Watho having given orders, took it for granted they were obeyed, and +that Falca was all night long with Nycteris, whose day it was. But +Falca could not get into the habit of sleeping through the day, and +would often leave her alone half the night. Then it seemed to Nycteris +that the white lamp was watching over her. As it was never permitted +to go out--while she was awake at least--Nycteris, except by shutting +her eyes, knew less about darkness than she did about light. Also, the +lamp being fixed high overhead, and in the centre of everything, she +did not know much about shadows either. The few there were fell almost +entirely on the floor, or kept like mice about the foot of the walls. + +Once, when she was thus alone, there came the noise of a far-off +rumbling: she had never before heard a sound of which she did not know +the origin, and here therefore was a new sign of something beyond +these chambers. Then came a trembling, then a shaking; the lamp +dropped from the ceiling to the floor with a great crash, and she felt +as if both her eyes were hard shut and both her hands over them. She +concluded that it was the darkness that had made the rumbling and the +shaking, and rushing into the room, had thrown down the lamp. She sat +trembling. The noise and the shaking ceased, but the light did not +return. The darkness had eaten it up! + +Her lamp gone, the desire at once awoke to get out of her prison. She +scarcely knew what _out_ meant; out of one room into another, where +there was not even a dividing door, only an open arch, was all she +knew of the world. But suddenly she remembered that she had heard +Falca speak of the lamp _going out_: this must be what she had meant? +And if the lamp had gone out, where had it gone? Surely where Falca +went, and like her it would come again. But she could not wait. The +desire to go out grew irresistible. She must follow her beautiful +lamp! She must find it! She must see what it was about! + +Now there was a curtain covering a recess in the wall, where some of +her toys and gymnastic things were kept; and from behind that curtain +Watho and Falca always appeared, and behind it they vanished. How they +came out of solid wall, she had not an idea, all up to the wall was +open space, and all beyond it seemed wall; but clearly the first and +only thing she could do, was to feel her way behind the curtain. It +was so dark that a cat could not have caught the largest of mice. +Nycteris could see better than any cat, but now her great eyes were +not of the smallest use to her. As she went she trod upon a piece of +the broken lamp. She had never worn shoes or stockings, and the +fragment, though, being of soft alabaster, it did not cut, yet hurt +her foot. She did not know what it was, but as it had not been there +before the darkness came, she suspected that it had to do with the +lamp. She kneeled therefore, and searched with her hands, and bringing +two large pieces together, recognized the shape of the lamp. Therewith +it flashed upon her that the lamp was dead, that this brokenness was +the death of which she had read without understanding, that the +darkness had killed the lamp. What then could Falca have meant when +she spoke of the lamp _going out_? There was the lamp--dead, indeed, +and so changed that she would never have taken it for a lamp but for +the shape! No, it was not the lamp any more now it was dead, for all +that made it a lamp was gone, namely, the bright shining of it. Then +it must be the shine, the light, that had gone out! That must be what +Falca meant--and it must be somewhere in the other place in the wall. +She started afresh after it, and groped her way to the curtain. + +Now she had never in her life tried to get out, and did not know how; +but instinctively she began to move her hands about over one of the +walls behind the curtain, half expecting them to go into it, as she +supposed Watho and Falca did. But the wall repelled her with +inexorable hardness, and she turned to the one opposite. In so doing, +she set her foot upon an ivory die, and as it met sharply the same +spot the broken alabaster had already hurt, she fell forward with her +outstretched hands against the wall. Something gave way, and she +tumbled out of the cavern. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. OUT. + + +But alas! _out_ was very much like _in_, for the same enemy, the +darkness, was here also. The next moment, however, came a great +gladness--a firefly, which had wandered in from the garden. She saw +the tiny spark in the distance. With slow pulsing ebb and throb of +light, it came pushing itself through the air, drawing nearer and +nearer, with that motion which more resembles swimming than flying, +and the light seemed the source of its own motion. + +"My lamp! my lamp!" cried Nycteris. "It is the shiningness of my lamp, +which the cruel darkness drove out. My good lamp has been waiting for +me here all the time! It knew I would come after it, and waited to +take me with it." + +She followed the firefly, which, like herself, was seeking the way +out. If it did not know the way, it was yet light; and, because all +light is one, any light may serve to guide to more light. If she was +mistaken in thinking it the spirit of her lamp, it was of the same +spirit as her lamp--and had wings. The gold-green jet-boat, driven by +light, went throbbing before her through a long narrow passage. +Suddenly it rose higher, and the same moment Nycteris fell upon an +ascending stair. She had never seen a stair before, and found going-up +a curious sensation. Just as she reached what seemed the top, the +firefly ceased to shine, and so disappeared. She was in utter darkness +once more. But when we are following the light, even its extinction is +a guide. If the firefly had gone on shining, Nycteris would have seen +the stair turn, and would have gone up to Watho's bedroom; whereas +now, feeling straight before her, she came to a latched door, which +after a good deal of trying she managed to open--and stood in a maze +of wondering perplexity, awe, and delight. What was it? Was it outside +of her, or something taking place in her head? Before her was a very +long and very narrow passage, broken up she could not tell how, and +spreading out above and on all sides to an infinite height and breadth +and distance--as if space itself were growing out of a trough. It was +brighter than her rooms had ever been--brighter than if six alabaster +lamps had been burning in them. There was a quantity of strange +streaking and mottling about it, very different from the shapes on her +walls. She was in a dream of pleasant perplexity, of delightful +bewilderment. She could not tell whether she was upon her feet or +drifting about like the firefly, driven by the pulses of an inward +bliss. But she knew little as yet of her inheritance. Unconsciously +she took one step forward from the threshold, and the girl who had +been from her very birth a troglodyte, stood in the ravishing glory of +a southern night, lit by a perfect moon--not the moon of our northern +clime, but a moon like silver glowing in a furnace--a moon one could +see to be a globe--not far off, a mere flat disc on the face of the +blue, but hanging down halfway, and looking as if one could see all +round it by a mere bending of the neck. + +"It is my lamp!" she said, and stood dumb with parted lips. She looked +and felt as if she had been standing there in silent ecstasy from the +beginning. + +"No, it is not my lamp," she said after a while; "it is the mother of +all the lamps." + +And with that she fell on her knees, and spread out her hands to the +moon. She could not in the least have told what was in her mind, but +the action was in reality just a begging of the moon to be what she +was--that precise incredible splendour hung in the far-off roof, that +very glory essential to the being of poor girls born and bred in +caverns. It was a resurrection--nay, a birth itself, to Nycteris. What +the vast blue sky, studded with tiny sparks like the heads of diamond +nails, could be; what the moon, looking so absolutely content with +light.--why, she knew less about them than you and I! but the greatest +of astronomers might envy the rapture of such a first impression at +the age of sixteen. Immeasurably imperfect it was, but false the +impression could not be, for she saw with the eyes made for seeing, +and saw indeed what many men are too wise to see. + +As she knelt, something softly flapped her, embraced her, stroked her, +fondled her. She rose to her feet, but saw nothing, did not know what +it was. It was likest a woman's breath. For she know nothing of the +air even, had never breathed the still newborn freshness of the world. +Her breath had come to her only through long passages and spirals in +the rock. Still less did she know of the air alive with motion--of +that thrice blessed thing, the wind of a summer night. It was like a +spiritual wine, filling her whole being with an intoxication of purest +joy. To breathe was a perfect existence. It seemed to her the light +itself she drew into her lungs. Possessed by the power of the gorgeous +night, she seemed at one and the same moment annihilated and +glorified. + +She was in the open passage or gallery that ran round the top of the +garden walls, between the cleft battlements, but she did not once look +down to see what lay beneath. Her soul was drawn to the vault above +her, with its lamp and its endless room. At last she burst into tears, +and her heart was relieved, as the night itself is relieved by its +lightning and rain. + +And now she grew thoughtful. She must hoard this splendour! What a +little ignorance her gaolers had made of her! Life was a mighty bliss, +and they had scraped hers to the bare bone! They must not know that +she knew. She must hide her knowledge--hide it even from her own eyes, +keeping it close in her bosom, content to know that she had it, even +when she could not brood on its presence, feasting her eyes with its +glory. She turned from the vision, therefore, with a sigh of utter +bliss, and with soft quiet steps and groping hands, stole back into +the darkness of the rock. What was darkness or the laziness of Time's +feet to one who had seen what she had that night seen? She was lifted +above all weariness--above all wrong. + +When Falca entered, she uttered a cry of terror. But Nycteris called +to her not to be afraid, and told her how there had come a rumbling +and a shaking, and the lamp had fallen. Then Falca went and told her +mistress, and within an hour a new globe hung in the place of the old +one. Nycteris thought it did not look so bright and clear as the +former, but she made no lamentation over the change; she was far too +rich to heed it. For now, prisoner as she knew herself, her heart was +full of glory and gladness; at times she had to hold herself from +jumping up, and going dancing and singing about the room. When she +slept, instead of dull dreams, she had splendid visions. There were +times, it is true, when she became restless, and impatient to look +upon her riches, but then she would reason with herself, saying, "What +does it matter if I sit here for ages with my poor pale lamp, when out +there a lump is burning at which ten thousand little lamps are glowing +with wonder?" + +She never doubted she had looked upon the day and the sun, of which +she had read; and always when she read of the day and the sun, she had +the night and the moon in her mind; and when she read of the night and +the moon, she thought only of the cave and the lamp that hung there. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE GREAT LAMP. + + +It was some time before she had a second opportunity of going out, for +Falca, since the fall of the lamp, had been a little more careful, and +seldom left her for long. But one night, having a little headache, +Nycteris lay down upon her bed, and was lying with her eyes closed, +when she heard Falca come to her, and felt she was bending over her. +Disinclined to talk, she did not open her eyes, and lay quite still. +Satisfied that she was asleep, Falca left her, moving so softly that +her very caution made Nycteris open her eyes and look after her--just +in time to see her vanish--through a picture, as it seemed, that hung +on the wall a long way from the usual place of issue. She jumped up, +her headache forgotten, and ran in the opposite direction; got out, +groped her way to the stair, climbed, and reached the top of the +wall.--Alas! the great room was not so light as the little one she had +left. Why?--Sorrow of sorrows! the great lamp was gone! Had its globe +fallen? and its lovely light gone out upon great wings, a resplendent +firefly, oaring itself through a yet grander and lovelier room? She +looked down to see if it lay anywhere broken to pieces on the carpet +below; but she could not even see the carpet. But surely nothing very +dreadful could have happened--no rumbling or shaking, for there were +all the little lamps shining brighter than before, not one of them +looking as if any unusual matter had befallen. What if each of those +little lamps was growing into a big lamp, and after being a big lamp +for a while, had to go out and grow a bigger lamp still--out there, +beyond this _out_?--Ah! here was the living thing that would not be +seen, come to her again--bigger to-night! with such loving kisses, and +such liquid strokings of her cheeks and forehead, gently tossing her +hair, and delicately toying with it! But it ceased, and all was still. +Had it gone out? What would happen next? Perhaps the little lamps had +not to grow great lamps, but to fall one by one and go out +first?--With that, came from below a sweet scent, then another, and +another. Ah, how delicious! Perhaps they were all coming to her only +on their way out after the great lamp!--Then came the music of the +river, which she had been too absorbed in the sky to note the first +time. What was it? Alas! alas! another sweet living thing on its way +out. They were all marching slowly out in long lovely file, one after +the other, each taking its leave of her as it passed! It must be so: +here were more and more sweet sounds, following and fading! The whole +of the _Out_ was going out again; it was all going after the great +lovely lamp! She would be left the only creature in the solitary day! +Was there nobody to hang up a new lamp for the old one, and keep the +creatures from going?--She crept back to her rock very sad. She tried +to comfort herself by saying that anyhow there would be room out +there; but as she said it she shuddered at the thought of _empty_ +room. + +When next she succeeded in getting out, a half-moon hung in the east: +a new lamp had come, she thought, and all would be well. + +It would be endless to describe the phases of feeling through which +Nycteris passed, more numerous and delicate than those of a thousand +changing moons. A fresh bliss bloomed in her soul with every varying +aspect of infinite nature. Ere long she began to suspect that the new +moon was the old moon, gone out and come in again like herself; also +that, unlike herself, it wasted and grew again; that it was indeed a +live thing, subject like herself to caverns, and keepers, and +solitudes, escaping and shining when it could. Was it a prison like +hers it was shut in? and did it grow dark when the lamp left it? Where +could be the way into it?--With that first she began to look below, as +well as above and around her; and then first noted the tops of the +trees between her and the floor. There were palms with their +red-fingered hands full of fruit; eucalyptus trees crowded with little +boxes of powder-puffs; oleanders with their half-caste roses; and +orange trees with their clouds of young silver stars, and their aged +balls of gold. Her eyes could see colours invisible to ours in the +moonlight, and all these she could distinguish well, though at first +she took them for the shapes and colours of the carpet of the great +room. She longed to get down among them, now she saw they were real +creatures, but she did not know how. She went along the whole length +of the wall to the end that crossed the river, but found no way of +going down. Above the river she stopped to gaze with awe upon the +rushing water. She knew nothing of water but from what she drank and +what she bathed in; and, as the moon shone on the dark, swift stream, +singing lustily as it flowed, she did not doubt the river was alive, a +swift rushing serpent of life, going--out?--whither? And then she +wondered if what was brought into her rooms had been killed that she +might drink it, and have her bath in it. + +Once when she stepped out upon the wall, it was into the midst of a +fierce wind. The trees were all roaring. Great clouds were rushing +along the skies, and tumbling over the little lamps: the great lamp +had not come yet. All was in tumult. The wind seized her garments and +hair, and shook them as if it would tear them from her. What could she +have done to make the gentle creature so angry? Or was this another +creature altogether--of the same kind, but hugely bigger, and of a +very different temper and behaviour? But the whole place was angry! Or +was it that the creatures dwelling in it, the wind, and the trees, and +the clouds, and the river, had all quarrelled, each with all the rest? +Would the whole come to confusion and disorder? But, as she gazed +wondering and disquieted, the moon, larger than ever she had seen her, +came lifting herself above the horizon to look, broad and red, as if +she, too, were swollen with anger that she had been roused from her +rest by their noise, and compelled to hurry up to see what her +children were about, thus rioting in her absence, lest they should +rack the whole frame of things. And as she rose, the loud wind grew +quieter and scolded less fiercely, the trees grew stiller and moaned +with a lower complaint, and the clouds hunted and hurled themselves +less wildly across the sky. And as if she were pleased that her +children obeyed her very presence, the moon grew smaller as she +ascended the heavenly stair; her puffed cheeks sank, her complexion +grew clearer, and a sweet smile spread over her countenance, as +peacefully she rose and rose. But there was treason and rebellion in +her court; for, ere she reached the top of her great stairs, the +clouds had assembled, forgetting their late wars, and very still they +were as they laid their heads together and conspired. Then combining, +and lying silently in wait until she came near, they threw themselves +upon her, and swallowed her up. Down from the roof came spots of wet, +faster and faster, and they wetted the cheeks of Nycteris; and what +could they be but the tears of the moon, crying because her children +were smothering her? Nycteris wept too, and not knowing what to think, +stole back in dismay to her room. + +The next time, she came out in fear and trembling. There was the moon +still! away in the west--poor, indeed, and old, and looking dreadfully +worn, as if all the wild beasts in the sky had been gnawing at +her--but there she was, alive still, and able to shine! + + + + +CHAPTER XI. THE SUNSET. + + +Knowing nothing of darkness, or stars, or moon, Photogen spent his +days in hunting. On a great white horse he swept over the grassy +plains, glorying in the sun, fighting the wind, and killing the +buffaloes. + +One morning, when he happened to be on the ground a little earlier +than usual, and before his attendants, he caught sight of an animal +unknown to him, stealing from a hollow into which the sunrays had not +yet reached. Like a swift shadow it sped over the grass, slinking +southward to the forest. He gave chase, noted the body of a buffalo it +had half eaten, and pursued it the harder. But with great leaps and +bounds the creature shot farther and farther ahead of him, and +vanished. Turning therefore defeated, he met Fargu, who had been +following him as fast as his horse could carry him. + +"What animal was that, Fargu?" he asked. "How he did run!" + +Fargu answered he might be a leopard, but he rather thought from his +pace and look that he was a young lion. + +"What a coward he must be!" said Photogen. + +"Don't be too sure of that," rejoined Fargu. "He is one of the +creatures the sun makes uncomfortable. As soon as the sun is down, he +will be brave enough." + +He had scarcely said it, when he repented nor did he regret it the +less when he found that Photogen made no reply. But alas! said was +said. + +"Then," said Photogen to himself, "that contemptible beast is one of +the terrors of sundown, of which Madam Watho spoke!" + +He hunted all day, but not with his usual spirit. He did not ride so +hard, and did not kill one buffalo. Fargu to his dismay observed also +that he took every pretext for moving farther south, nearer to the +forest. But all at once, the sun now sinking in the west, he seemed to +change his mind, for he turned his horse's head, and rode home so fast +that the rest could not keep him in sight. When they arrived, they +found his horse in the stable, and concluded that he had gone into the +castle. But he had in truth set out again by the back of it. Crossing +the river a good way up the valley, he reascended to the ground they +had left, and just before sunset reached the skirts of the forest. + +The level orb shone straight in between the bare stems, and saying to +himself he could not fail to find the beast, he rushed into the wood. +But even as he entered, he turned, and looked to the west. The rim of +the red was touching the horizon, all jagged with broken hills. "Now," +said Photogen, "we shall see;" but he said it in the face of a darkness +he had not proved. The moment the sun began to sink among the spikes +and saw-edges, with a kind of sudden flap at his heart a fear +inexplicable laid hold of the youth; and as he had never felt anything +of the kind before, the very fear itself terrified him. As the sun +sank, it rose like the shadow of the world, and grew deeper and +darker. He could not even think what it might be, so utterly did it +enfeeble him. When the last flaming scimitar-edge of the sun went out +like a lamp, his horror seemed to blossom into very madness. Like the +closing lids of an eye--for there was no twilight, and this night no +moon--the terror and the darkness rushed together, and he knew them +for one. He was no longer the man he had known, or rather thought +himself. The courage he had had was in no sense his own--he had only +had courage, not been courageous; it had left him, and he could +scarcely stand--certainly not stand straight, for not one of his +joints could he make stiff or keep from trembling. He was but a spark +of the sun, in himself nothing. + +The beast was behind him--stealing upon him! He turned. All was dark +in the wood, but to his fancy the darkness here and there broke into +pairs of green eyes, and he had not the power even to raise his +bow-hand from his side. In the strength of despair he strove to rouse +courage enough--not to fight--that he did not even desire--but to run. +Courage to flee home was all he could ever imagine, and it would not +come. But what he had not, was ignominiously given him. A cry in the +wood, half a screech, half a growl, sent him running like a +boar-wounded cur. It was not even himself that ran, it was the fear +that had come alive in his legs: he did not know that they moved. But +as he ran he grew able to run--gained courage at least to be a coward. +The stars gave a little light. Over the grass he sped, and nothing +followed him. "How fallen, how changed," from the youth who had +climbed the hill as the sun went down! A mere contempt to himself, the +self that contemned was a coward with the self it contemned! There lay +the shapeless black of a buffalo, humped upon the grass: he made a +wide circuit, and swept on like a shadow driven in the wind. For the +wind had arisen, and added to his terror: it blew from behind him. He +reached the brow of the valley, and shot down the steep descent like a +falling star. Instantly the whole upper country behind him arose and +pursued him! The wind came howling after him, filled with screams, +shrieks, yells, roars, laughter, and chattering, as if all the animals +of the forest were careering with it. In his ears was a trampling +rush, the thunder of the hoofs of the cattle, in career from every +quarter of the wide plains to the brow of the hill above him! He fled +straight for the castle, scarcely with breath enough to pant. + +As he reached the bottom of the valley, the moon peered up over its +edge. He had never seen the moon before--except in the daytime, when +he had taken her for a thin bright cloud. She was a fresh terror to +him--so ghostly! so ghastly! so gruesome!--so knowing as she looked +over the top of her garden-wall upon the world outside! That was the +night itself! the darkness alive--and after him! the horror of +horrors coming down the sky to curdle his blood, and turn his brain to +a cinder! He gave a sob, and made straight for the river, where it ran +between the two walls, at the bottom of the garden. He plunged in, +struggled through, clambered up the bank, and fell senseless on the +grass. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. THE GARDEN. + + +Although Nycteris took care not to stay out long at a time, and used +every precaution, she could hardly have escaped discovery so long, had +it not been that the strange attacks to which Watho was subject had +been more frequent of late, and had at last settled into an illness +which kept her to her bed. But whether from an access of caution or +from suspicion, Falca, having now to be much with her mistress both +day and night, took it at length into her head to fasten the door as +often as she went by her usual place of exit; so that one night, when +Nycteris pushed, she found, to her surprise and dismay, that the wall +pushed her again, and would not let her through; nor with all her +searching could she discover wherein lay the cause of the change. Then +first she felt the pressure of her prison-walls, and turning, half in +despair, groped her way to the picture where she had once seen Falca +disappear. There she soon found the spot by pressing upon which the +wall yielded. It let her through into a sort of cellar, where was a +glimmer of light from a sky whose blue was paled by the moon. From the +cellar she got into a long passage, into which the moon was shining, +and came to a door. She managed to open it, and, to her great joy, +found herself in _the other place_, not on the top of the wall, +however, but in the garden she had longed to enter. Noiseless as a +fluffy moth she flitted away into the covert of the trees and shrubs, +her bare feet welcomed by the softest of carpets, which, by the very +touch, her feet knew to be alive, whence it came that it was so sweet +and friendly to them. A soft little wind was out among the trees, +running now here, now there, like a child that had got its will. She +went dancing over the grass, looking behind her at her shadow, as she +went. At first she had taken it for a little black creature that made +game of her, but when she perceived that it was only where she kept +the moon away, and that every tree, however great and grand a +creature, had also one of these strange attendants, she soon learned +not to mind it, and by and by it became the source of as much +amusement to her, as to any kitten its tail. It was long before she +was quite at home with the trees, however. At one time they seemed to +disapprove of her; at another not even to know she was there, and to +be altogether taken up with their own business. Suddenly, as she went +from one to another of them, looking up with awe at the murmuring +mystery of their branches and leaves, she spied one a little way off, +which was very different from all the rest. It was white, and dark, +and sparkling, and spread like a palm--a small slender palm, without +much head; and it grew very fast, and sang as it grew. But it never +grew any bigger, for just as fast as she could see it growing, it kept +falling to pieces. When she got close to it, she discovered that it +was a water-tree--made of just such water as she washed with--only it +was alive of course, like the river--a different sort of water from +that, doubtless, seeing the one crept swiftly along the floor, and the +other shot straight up, and fell, and swallowed itself, and rose +again. She put her feet into the marble basin, which was the +flower-pot in which it grew. It was full of real water, living and +cool--so nice, for the night was hot! + +But the flowers! ah, the flowers! she was friends with them from the +very first. What wonderful creatures they were!--and so kind and +beautiful--always sending out such colours and such scents--red scent, +and white scent, and yellow scent--for the other creatures! The one +that was invisible and everywhere, took such a quantity of their +scents, and carried it away! yet they did not seem to mind. It was +their talk, to show they were alive, and not painted like those on the +walls of her rooms, and on the carpets. + +She wandered along down the garden until she reached the river. Unable +then to get any further--for she was a little afraid, and justly, of +the swift watery serpent--she dropped on the grassy bank, dipped her +feet in the water, and felt it running and pushing against them. For a +long time she sat thus, and her bliss seemed complete, as she gazed at +the river, and watched the broken picture of the great lamp overhead, +moving up one side of the roof, to go down the other. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. SOMETHING QUITE NEW. + + +A beautiful moth brushed across the great blue eyes of Nycteris. She +sprang to her feet to follow it--not in the spirit of the hunter, but +of the lover. Her heart--like every heart, if only its fallen sides +were cleared away--was an inexhaustible fountain of love: she loved +everything she saw. But as she followed the moth, she caught sight of +something lying on the bank of the river, and not yet having learned +to be afraid of anything, ran straight to see what it was. Reaching +it, she stood amazed. Another girl like herself! But what a +strange-looking girl!--so curiously dressed too!--and not able to +move! Was she dead? Filled suddenly with pity, she sat down, lifted +Photogen's head, laid it on her lap, and began stroking his face. Her +warm hands brought him to himself. He opened his black eyes, out of +which had gone all the fire, and looked up with a strange sound of +fear, half moan, half gasp. But when he saw her face, he drew a deep +breath, and lay motionless--gazing at her: those blue marvels above +him, like a better sky, seemed to side with courage and assuage his +terror. At length, in a trembling, awed voice, and a half whisper, he +said, "Who are you?" + +"I am Nycteris," she answered. + +"You are a creature of the darkness, and love the night," he said, his +fear beginning to move again. + +"I may be a creature of the darkness," she replied. "I hardly know +what you mean. But I do not love the night. I love the day--with all +my heart; and I sleep all the night long." + +"How can that be?" said Photogen, rising on his elbow, but dropping his +head on her lap again the moment he saw the moon; "--how can it be," +he repeated, "when I see your eyes there--wide awake?" + +She only smiled and stroked him, for she did not understand him, and +thought he did not know what he was saying. + +"Was it a dream then?" resumed Photogen, rubbing his eyes. But with +that his memory came clear, and he shuddered, and cried, "Oh horrible! +horrible! to be turned all at once into a coward! a shameful, +contemptible, disgraceful coward! I am ashamed--ashamed--and _so_ +frightened! It is all so frightful!" + +"What is so frightful?" asked Nycteris, with a smile like that of a +mother to her child waked from a bad dream. + +"All, all," he answered; "all this darkness and the roaring." + +"My dear," said Nycteris, "there is no roaring. How sensitive you must +be! What you hear is only the walking of the water, and the running +about of the sweetest of all the creatures. She is invisible, and I +call her Everywhere, for she goes through all the other creatures and +comforts them. Now she is amusing herself, and them too, with shaking +them and kissing them, and blowing in their faces. Listen: do you call +that roaring? You should hear her when she is rather angry though! I +don't know why, but she is sometimes, and then she does roar a +little." + +"It is so horribly dark!" said Photogen, who, listening while she +spoke, had satisfied himself that there was no roaring. + +"Dark!" she echoed. "You should be in my room when an earthquake has +killed my lamp. I do not understand. How _can_ you call this dark? Let +me see: yes, you have eyes, and big ones, bigger than Madam Watho's or +Falca's--not so big as mine, I fancy--only I never saw mine. But +then--oh yes!--I know now what is the matter! You can't see with them +because they are so black. Darkness can't see, of course. Never mind: +I will be your eyes, and teach you to see. Look here--at these lovely +white things in the grass, with red sharp points all folded together +into one. Oh, I love them so! I could sit looking at them all day, the +darlings!" + +Photogen looked close at the flowers, and thought he had seen +something like them before, but could not make them out. As Nycteris +had never seen an open daisy, so had he never seen a closed one. + +Thus instinctively Nycteris tried to turn him away from his fear; and +the beautiful creature's strange lovely talk helped not a little to +make him forget it. + +"You call it dark!" she said again, as if she could not get rid of the +absurdity of the idea; "why, I could count every blade of the green +hair--I suppose it is what the books call grass--within two yards of +me! And just look at the great lamp! It is brighter than usual to-day, +and I can't think why you should be frightened, or call it dark!" + +As she spoke, she went on stroking his cheeks and hair, and trying to +comfort him. But oh how miserable he was! and how plainly he looked +it! He was on the point of saying that her great lamp was dreadful to +him, looking like a witch, walking in the sleep of death; but he was +not so ignorant as Nycteris, and knew even in the moonlight that she +was a woman, though he had never seen one so young or so lovely +before; and while she comforted his fear, her presence made him the +more ashamed of it. Besides, not knowing her nature, he might annoy +her, and make her leave him to his misery. He lay still therefore, +hardly daring to move: all the little life he had seemed to come from +her, and if he were to move, she might move; and if she were to leave +him, he must weep like a child. + +"How did you come here?" asked Nycteris, taking his face between her +hands. + +"Down the hill," he answered. + +"Where do you sleep?" she asked. + +He signed in the direction of the house. She gave a little laugh of +delight. + +"When you have learned not to be frightened, you will always be +wanting to come out with me," she said. + +She thought with herself she would ask her presently, when she had +come to herself a little, how she had made her escape, for she must, +of course, like herself have got out of a cave, in which Watho and +Falca had been keeping her. + +"Look at the lovely colours," she went on, pointing to a rose-bush, on +which Photogen could not see a single flower. "They are far more +beautiful--are they not?--than any of the colours upon your walls. And +then they are alive, and smell so sweet!" + +He wished she would not make him keep opening his eyes to look at +things he could not see; and every other moment would start and grasp +tight hold of her, as some fresh pang of terror shot into him. + +"Come, come, dear!" said Nycteris; "you must not go on this way. You +must be a brave girl, and--" + +"A girl!" shouted Photogen, and started to his feet in wrath. "If you +were a man, I should kill you." + +"A man?" repeated Nycteris: "what is that? How could I be that? We are +both girls--are we not?" + +"No, I am not a girl," he answered; "--although," he added, changing +his tone, and casting himself on the ground at her feet, "I have given +you too good reason to call me one." + +"Oh, I see!" returned Nycteris. "No, of course! you can't be a girl: +girls are not afraid--without reason. I understand now: it is because +you are not a girl that you are so frightened." + +Photogen twisted and writhed upon the grass. + +"No, it is not," he said sulkily; "it is this horrible darkness that +creeps into me, goes all through me, into the very marrow of my +bones--that is what makes me behave like a girl. If only the sun would +rise!" + +"The sun! what is it?" cried Nycteris, now in her turn conceiving a +vague fear. + +Then Photogen broke into a rhapsody, in which he vainly sought to +forget his. + +"It is the soul, the life, the heart, the glory of the universe," he +said. "The worlds dance like motes in his beams. The heart of man is +strong and brave in his light, and when it departs his courage grows +from him--goes with the sun, and he becomes such as you see me now." + +"Then that is not the sun?" said Nycteris, thoughtfully, pointing up +to the moon. + +"That!" cried Photogen, with utter scorn; "I know nothing about +_that_, except that it is ugly and horrible. At best it can be only +the ghost of a dead sun. Yes, that is it! That is what makes it look +so frightful." + +"No," said Nycteris, after a long, thoughtful pause; "you must be +wrong there. I think the sun is the ghost of a dead moon, and that is +how he is so much more splendid as you say.--Is there, then, another +big room, where the sun lives in the roof?" + +"I do not know what you mean," replied Photogen. "But you mean to be +kind, I know, though you should not call a poor fellow in the dark a +girl. If you will let me lie here, with my head in your lap, I should +like to sleep. Will you watch me, and take care of me?" + +"Yes, that I will," answered Nycteris, forgetting all her own danger. + +So Photogen fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. THE SUN. + + +There Nycteris sat, and there the youth lay, all night long, in the +heart of the great cone-shadow of the earth, like two Pharaohs in one +pyramid. Photogen slept, and slept; and Nycteris sat motionless lest +she should wake him, and so betray him to his fear. + +The moon rode high in the blue eternity; it was a very triumph of +glorious night; the river ran babble-murmuring in deep soft syllables; +the fountain kept rushing moon-ward, and blossoming momently to a +great silvery flower, whose petals were for ever falling like snow, +but with a continuous musical clash, into the bed of its exhaustion +beneath; the wind woke, took a run among the trees, went to sleep, and +woke again; the daisies slept on their feet at hers, but she did not +know they slept; the roses might well seem awake, for their scent +filled the air, but in truth they slept also, and the odour was that +of their dreams; the oranges hung like gold lamps in the trees, and +their silvery flowers were the souls of their yet unembodied children; +the scent of the acacia blooms filled the air like the very odour of +the moon herself. + +At last, unused to the living air, and weary with sitting so still and +so long, Nycteris grew drowsy. The air began to grow cool. It was +getting near the time when she too was accustomed to sleep. She closed +her eyes just a moment, and nodded--opened them suddenly wide, for she +had promised to watch. + +In that moment a change had come. The moon had got round, and was +fronting her from the west, and she saw that her face was altered, +that she had grown pale, as if she too were wan with fear, and from +her lofty place espied a coming terror. The light seemed to be +dissolving out of her; she was dying--she was going out! And yet +everything around looked strangely clear--clearer than ever she had +seen anything before: how could the lamp be shedding more light when +she herself had less? Ah, that was just it! See how faint she looked! +It was because the light was forsaking her, and spreading itself over +the room, that she grew so thin and pale! She was giving up +everything! She was melting away from the roof like a bit of sugar in +water. + +Nycteris was fast growing afraid, and sought refuge with the face upon +her lap. How beautiful the creature was!--what to call it she could +not think, for it had been angry when she called it what Watho called +her. And, wonder upon wonder! now, even in the cold change that was +passing upon the great room, the colour as of a red rose was rising in +the wan cheek. What beautiful yellow hair it was that spread over her +lap! What great huge breaths the creature took! And what were those +curious things it carried? She had seen them on her walls, she was +sure. + +Thus she talked to herself while the lamp grew paler and paler, and +everything kept growing yet clearer. What could it mean? The lamp was +dying--going out into the other place of which the creature in her lap +had spoken, to be a sun! But why were the things growing clearer +before it was yet a sun? That was the point. Was it her growing into a +sun that did it? Yes! yes! it was coming death! She knew it, for it +was coming upon her also! She felt it coming! What was she about to +grow into? Something beautiful, like the creature in her lap? It might +be! Anyhow, it must be death; for all her strength was going out of +her, while all around her was growing so light she could not bear it! +She must be blind soon! Would she be blind or dead first? + +For the sun was rushing up behind her. Photogen woke, lifted his head +from her lap, and sprang to his feet. His face was one radiant smile. +His heart was full of daring--that of the hunter who will creep into +the tiger's den. Nycteris gave a cry, covered her face with her hands, +and pressed her eyelids close. Then blindly she stretched out her arms +to Photogen, crying, "Oh, I am so frightened! What is this? It must be +death! I don't wish to die yet. I love this room and the old lamp. I +do not want the other place! This is terrible. I want to hide. I want +to get into the sweet, soft, dark hands of all the other creatures. Ah +me! ah me!" + +"What is the matter with you, girl?" said Photogen, with the arrogance +of all male creatures until they have been taught by the other kind. +He stood looking down upon her over his bow, of which he was examining +the string. "There is no fear of anything now, child. It is day. The +sun is all but up. Look! he will be above the brow of yon hill in one +moment more! Good-bye. Thank you for my night's lodging. I'm off. +Don't be a goose. If ever I can do anything for you--and all that, you +know!" + +"Don't leave me; oh, don't leave me!" cried Nycteris. "I am dying! I +am dying! I cannot move. The light sucks all the strength out of me. +And oh, I am so frightened!" + +But already Photogen had splashed through the river, holding high his +bow that it might not get wet. He rushed across the level, and +strained up the opposing hill. Hearing no answer, Nycteris removed her +hands. Photogen had reached the top, and the same moment the sunrays +alighted upon him: the glory of the king of day crowded blazing upon +the golden-haired youth. Radiant as Apollo, he stood in mighty +strength, a flashing shape in the midst of flame. He fitted a glowing +arrow to a gleaming bow. The arrow parted with a keen musical twang of +the bowstring, and Photogen darting after it, vanished with a shout. +Up shot Apollo himself, and from his quiver scattered astonishment and +exultation. But the brain of poor Nycteris was pierced through and +through. She fell down in utter darkness. All around her was a flaming +furnace. In despair and feebleness and agony, she crept back, feeling +her way with doubt and difficulty and enforced persistence to her +cell. When at last the friendly darkness of her chamber folded her +about with its cooling and consoling arms, she threw herself on her +bed and fell fast asleep. And there she slept on, one alive in a tomb, +while Photogen, above in the sun-glory, pursued the buffaloes on the +lofty plain, thinking not once of her where she lay dark and forsaken, +whose presence had been his refuge, her eyes and her hands his +guardians through the night. He was in his glory and his pride; and +the darkness and its disgrace had vanished for a time. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE COWARD HERO. + + +But no sooner had the sun reached the noonstead, than Photogen began +to remember the past night in the shadow of that which was at hand, +and to remember it with shame. He had proved himself--and not to +himself only, but to a girl as well--a coward!--one bold in the +daylight, while there was nothing to fear, but trembling like any +slave when the night arrived. There was, there must be, something +unfair in it! A spell had been cast upon him! He had eaten, he had +drunk something that did not agree with courage! In any case he had +been taken unprepared! How was he to know what the going down of the +sun would be like? It was no wonder he should have been surprised into +terror, seeing it was what it was--in its very nature so terrible! +Also, one could not see where danger might be coming from! You might +be torn in pieces, carried off, or swallowed up, without even seeing +where to strike a blow! Every possible excuse he caught at, eager as a +self-lover to lighten his self-contempt. That day he astonished the +huntsmen--terrified them with his reckless darings--all to prove to +himself he was no coward. But nothing eased his shame. One thing only +had hope in it--the resolve to encounter the dark in solemn earnest, +now that he knew something of what it was. It was nobler to meet a +recognized danger than to rush contemptuously into what seemed +nothing--nobler still to encounter a nameless horror. He could conquer +fear and wipe out disgrace together. For a marksman and swordsman like +him, he said, one with his strength and courage, there was but danger. +Defeat there was not. He knew the darkness now, and when it came he +would meet it as fearless and cool as now he felt himself. And again +he said, "We shall see!" + +He stood under the boughs of a great beech as the sun was going down, +far away over the jagged hills: before it was half down, he was +trembling like one of the leaves behind him in the first sigh of the +night-wind. The moment the last of the glowing disc vanished, he +bounded away in terror to gain the valley, and his fear grew as he +ran. Down the side of the hill, an abject creature, he went bounding +and rolling and running; fell rather than plunged into the river, and +came to himself, as before, lying on the grassy bank in the garden. + +But when he opened his eyes, there were no girl-eyes looking down into +his; there were only the stars in the waste of the sunless Night--the +awful all-enemy he had again dared, but could not encounter. Perhaps +the girl was not yet come out of the water! He would try to sleep, for +he dared not move, and perhaps when he woke he would find his head on +her lap, and the beautiful dark face, with its deep blue eyes, bending +over him. But when he woke he found his head on the grass, and +although he sprang up with all his courage, such as it was, restored, +he did not set out for the chase with such an _elan_ as the day +before; and, despite the sun-glory in his heart and veins, his hunting +was this day less eager; he ate little, and from the first was +thoughtful even to sadness. A second time he was defeated and +disgraced! Was his courage nothing more than the play of the sunlight +on his brain? Was he a mere ball tossed between the light and the +dark? Then what a poor contemptible creature he was! But a third +chance lay before him. If he failed the third time, he dared not +foreshadow what he must then think of himself! It was bad enough +now--but then! + +Alas! it went no better. The moment the sun was down, he fled as if +from a legion of devils. + +Seven times in all, he tried to face the coming night in the strength +of the past day, and seven times he failed--failed with such increase +of failure, with such a growing sense of ignominy, overwhelming at +length all the sunny hours and joining night to night, that, what with +misery, self-accusation, and loss of confidence, his daylight courage +too began to fade, and at length, from exhaustion, from getting wet, +and then lying out of doors all night, and night after night,--worst +of all, from the consuming of the deathly fear, and the shame of +shame, his sleep forsook him, and on the seventh morning, instead of +going to the hunt, he crawled into the castle, and went to bed. The +grand health, over which the witch had taken such pains, had yielded, +and in an hour or two he was moaning and crying out in delirium. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. AN EVIL NURSE. + + +Watho was herself ill, as I have said, and was the worse tempered; +and, besides, it is a peculiarity of witches, that what works in +others to sympathy, works in them to repulsion. Also, Watho had a +poor, helpless, rudimentary spleen of a conscience left, just enough +to make her uncomfortable, and therefore more wicked. So, when she +heard that Photogen was ill, she was angry. Ill, indeed! after all she +had done to saturate him with the life of the system, with the solar +might itself! He was a wretched failure, the boy! And because he was +_her_ failure, she was annoyed with him, began to dislike him, grew to +hate him. She looked on him as a painter might upon a picture, or a +poet, upon a poem, which he had only succeeded in getting into an +irrecoverable mess. In the hearts of witches, love and hate lie close +together, and often tumble over each other. And whether it was that +her failure with Photogen foiled also her plans in regard to Nycteris, +or that her illness made her yet more of a devil's wife, certainly +Watho now got sick of the girl too, and hated to know her about the +castle. + +She was not too ill, however, to go to poor Photogen's room and +torment him. She told him she hated him like a serpent, and hissed +like one as she said it, looking very sharp in the nose and chin, and +flat in the forehead. Photogen thought she meant to kill him, and +hardly ventured to take anything brought him. She ordered every ray of +light to be shut out of his room; but by means of this he got a little +used to the darkness. She would take one of his arrows, and now tickle +him with the feather end of it, now prick him with the point till the +blood ran down. What she meant finally I cannot tell, but she brought +Photogen speedily to the determination of making his escape from the +castle: what he should do then he would think afterwards. Who could +tell but he might find his mother somewhere beyond the forest! If it +were not for the broad patches of darkness that divided day from day, +he would fear nothing! + +But now, as he lay helpless in the dark, ever and anon would come +dawning through it the face of the lovely creature who on that first +awful night nursed him so sweetly: was he never to see her again? If +she was, as he had concluded, the nymph of the river, why had she not +re-appeared? She might have taught him not to fear the night, for +plainly she had no fear of it herself! But then, when the day came, +she did seem frightened:--why was that, seeing there was nothing to be +afraid of then? Perhaps one so much at home in the darkness, was +correspondingly afraid of the light! Then his selfish joy at the +rising of the sun, blinding him to her condition, had made him behave +to her, in ill return for her kindness, as cruelly as Watho behaved to +him! How sweet and dear and lovely she was! If there were wild beasts +that came out only at night, and were afraid of the light, why should +there not be girls too, made the same way--who could not endure the +light, as he could not bear the darkness? If only he could find her +again! Ah, how differently he would behave to her! But alas! perhaps +the sun had killed her--melted her--burned her up!--dried her up--that +was it, if she was the nymph of the river! + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +WATHO'S WOLF. + + +From that dreadful morning Nycteris had never got to be herself again. +The sudden light had been almost death to her; and now she lay in the +dark with the memory of a terrific sharpness--a something she dared +scarcely recall, lest the very thought of it should sting her beyond +endurance. But this was as nothing to the pain which the recollection +of the rudeness of the shining creature whom she had nursed through +his fear caused her; for, the moment his suffering passed over to her, +and he was free, the first use he made of his returning strength had +been to scorn her! She wondered and wondered; it was all beyond her +comprehension. + +Before long, Watho was plotting evil against her. The witch was like a +sick child weary of his toy: she would pull her to pieces, and see how +she liked it. She would set her in the sun, and see her die, like a +jelly from the salt ocean cast out on a hot rock. It would be a sight +to soothe her wolf-pain. One day, therefore, a little before noon, +while Nycteris was in her deepest sleep, she had a darkened litter +brought to the door, and in that she made two of her men carry her to +the plain above. There they took her out, laid her on the grass, and +left her. + +Watho watched it all from the top of her high tower, through her +telescope; and scarcely was Nycteris left, when she saw her sit up, +and the same moment cast herself down again with her face to the +ground. + +"She'll have a sunstroke," said Watho, "and that'll be the end of +her." + +Presently, tormented by a fly, a huge-humped buffalo, with great +shaggy mane, came galloping along, straight for where she lay. At +sight of the thing on the grass, he started, swerved yards aside, +stopped dead, and then came slowly up, looking malicious. Nycteris lay +quite still, and never even saw the animal. + +"Now she'll be trodden to death!" said Watho. "That's the way those +creatures do." + +When the buffalo reached her, he sniffed at her all over, and went +away; then came back, and sniffed again; then all at once went off as +if a demon had him by the tail. + +Next came a gnu, a more dangerous animal still, and did much the same; +then a gaunt wild boar. But no creature hurt her, and Watho was angry +with the whole creation. + +At length, in the shade of her hair, the blue eyes of Nycteris began +to come to themselves a little, and the first thing they saw was a +comfort. I have told already how she knew the night-daisies, each a +sharp-pointed little cone with a red tip; and once she had parted the +rays of one of them, with trembling fingers, for she was afraid she +was dreadfully rude, and perhaps was hurting it; but she did want, she +said to herself, to see what secret it carried so carefully hidden; +and she found its golden heart. But now, right under her eyes, inside +the veil of her hair, in the sweet twilight of whose blackness she +could see it perfectly, stood a daisy with its red tip opened wide +into a carmine ring, displaying its heart of gold on a platter of +silver. She did not at first recognize it as one of those cones come +awake, but a moment's notice revealed what it was. Who then could have +been so cruel to the lovely little creature, as to force it open like +that, and spread it heart-bare to the terrible death-lamp? Whoever it +was, it must be the same that had thrown her out there to be burned to +death in its fire! But she had her hair, and could hang her head, and +make a small sweet night of her own about her! She tried to bend the +daisy down and away from the sun, and to make its petals hang about it +like her hair, but she could not. Alas! it was burned and dead +already! She did not know that it could not yield to her gentle force +because it was drinking life, with all the eagerness of life, from +what she called the death-lamp. Oh, how the lamp burned her! + +But she went on thinking--she did not know how; and by and by began to +reflect that, as there was no roof to the room except that in which +the great fire went rolling about, the little Red-tip must have seen +the lamp a thousand times, and must know it quite well! and it had not +killed it! Nay, thinking about farther, she began to ask the question +whether this, in which she now saw it, might not be its more perfect +condition. For not only now did the whole seem perfect, as indeed it +did before, but every part showed its own individual perfection as +well, which perfection made it capable of combining with the rest into +the higher perfection of a whole. The flower was a lamp itself! The +golden heart was the light, and the silver border was the alabaster +globe, skilfully broken, and spread wide to let out the glory. Yes; +the radiant shape was plainly its perfection! If, then, it was the +lamp which had opened it into that shape, the lamp could not be +unfriendly to it, but must be of its own kind, seeing it made it +perfect! And again, when she thought of it, there was clearly no +little resemblance between them. What if the flower then was the +little great-grandchild of the lamp, and he was loving it all the +time? And what if the lamp did not mean to hurt her, only could not +help it? The red lips looked as if the flower had some time or other +been hurt: what if the lamp was making the best it could of +her--opening her out somehow like the flower? She would bear it +patiently, and see. But how coarse the colour of the grass was! +Perhaps, however, her eyes not being made for the bright lamp, she did +not see them us they were! Then she remembered how different were the +eyes of the creature that was not a girl and was afraid of the +darkness! Ah, if the darkness would only come again, all arms, +friendly and soft everywhere about her! She would wait and wait, and +bear, and be patient. + +She lay so still that Watho did not doubt she had fainted. She was +pretty sure she would be dead before the night came to revive her. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. REFUGE. + + +Fixing her telescope on the motionless form, that she might see it at +once when the morning came, Watho went down from the tower to +Photogen's room. He was much better by this time, and before she left +him, he had resolved to leave the castle that very night. The darkness +was terrible indeed, but Watho was worse than even the darkness, and +he could not escape in the day. As soon, therefore, as the house +seemed still, he tightened his belt, hung to it his hunting-knife, put +a flask of wine and some bread in his pocket, and took his bow and +arrows. He got from the house, and made his way at once up to the +plain. But what with his illness, the terrors of the night, and his +dread of the wild beasts, when he got to the level he could not walk a +step further, and sat down, thinking it better to die than to live. In +spite of his fears, however, sleep contrived to overcome him, and he +fell at full length on the soft grass. + +He had not slept long when he woke with such a strange sense of +comfort and security, that he thought the dawn at least must have +arrived. But it was dark night about him. And the sky--no, it was not +the sky, but the blue eyes of his naiad looking down upon him! Once +more he lay with his head in her lap, and all was well, for plainly +the girl feared the darkness as little as he the day. + +"Thank you," he said. "You are like live armour to my heart; you keep +the fear off me. I have been very ill since then. Did you come up out +of the river when you saw me cross?" + +"I don't live in the water," she answered. "I live under the pale +lamp, and I die under the bright one." + +"Ah, yes! I understand now," he returned. "I would not have behaved as +I did last time if I had understood; but I thought you were mocking +me; and I am so made that I cannot help being frightened at the +darkness. I beg your pardon for leaving you as I did, for, as I say, I +did not understand. Now I believe you were really frightened. Were +you not?" + +"I was, indeed," answered Nycteris, "and shall be again. But why you +should be, I cannot in the least understand. You must know how gentle +and sweet the darkness is, how kind and friendly, how soft and +velvety! It holds you to its bosom and loves you. A little while ago, +I lay faint and dying under your hot lamp.--What is it you call it?" + +"The sun," murmured Photogen: "how I wish he would make haste!" + +"Ah! do not wish that. Do not, for my sake, hurry him. I can take care +of you from the darkness, but I have no one to take care of me from +the light.--As I was telling you, I lay dying in the sun. All at once +I drew a deep breath. A cool wind came and ran over my face. I looked +up. The torture was gone, for the death-lamp itself was gone. I hope +he does not die and grow brighter yet. My terrible headache was all +gone, and my sight was come back. I felt as if I were new made. But I +did not get up at once, for I was tired still. The grass grew cool +about me, and turned soft in colour. Something wet came upon it, and +it was now so pleasant to my feet, that I rose and ran about. And when +I had been running about a long time, all at once I found you lying, +just as I had been lying a little while before. So I sat down beside +you to take care of you, till your life--and my death--should come +again." + +"How good you are, you beautiful creature!--Why, you forgave me before +ever I asked you!" cried Photogen. + +Thus they fell a talking, and he told her what he knew of his history, +and she told him what she knew of hers, and they agreed they must get +away from Watho as far as ever they could. + +"And we must set out at once," said Nycteris. + +"The moment the morning comes," returned Photogen. + +"We must not wait for the morning," said Nycteris, "for then I shall +not be able to move, and what would you do the next night? Besides, +Watho sees best in the daytime. Indeed, you must come now, +Photogen.--You must." + +"I can not; I dare not," said Photogen. "I cannot move. If I but lift +my head from your lap, the very sickness of terror seizes me." + +"I shall be with you," said Nycteris soothingly. "I will take care of +you till your dreadful sun comes, and then you may leave me, and go +away as fast as you can. Only please put me in a dark place first, if +there is one to be found." + +"I will never leave you again, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "Only wait +till the sun comes, and brings me back my strength, and we will go +away together, and never, never part any more." + +"No, no," persisted Nycteris; "we must go now. And you must learn to +be strong in the dark as well as in the day, else you will always be +only half brave. I have begun already--not to fight your sun, but to +try to get at peace with him, and understand what he really is, and +what he means with me--whether to hurt me or to make the best of me. +You must do the same with my darkness." + +"But you don't know what mad animals there are away there towards the +south," said Photogen. "They have huge green eyes, and they would eat +you up like a bit of celery, you beautiful creature!" + +"Come, come! you must," said Nycteris, "or I shall have to pretend to +leave you, to make you come. I have seen the green eyes you speak of, +and I will take care of you from them." + +"You! How can you do that? If it were day now, I could take care of +you from the worst of them. But as it is, I can't even see them for +this abominable darkness. I could not see your lovely eyes but for the +light that is in them; that lets me see straight into heaven through +them. They are windows into the very heaven beyond the sky. I believe +they are the very place where the stars are made." + +"You come then, or I shall shut them," said Nycteris, "and you shan't +see them any more till you are good. Come. If you can't see the wild +beasts, I can." + +"You can! and you ask me to come!" cried Photogen. + +"Yes," answered Nycteris. "And more than that, I see them long before +they can see me, so that I am able to take care of you." + +"But how?" persisted Photogen. "You can't shoot with bow and arrow, or +stab with a hunting-knife." + +"No, but I can keep out of the way of them all. Why, just when I found +you, I was having a game with two or three of them at once. I see, and +scent them too, long before they are near me--long before they can see +or scent me." + +"You don't see or scent any now, do you?" said Photogen, uneasily, +rising on his elbow. + +"No--none at present. I will look," replied Nycteris, and sprang to +her feet. + +"Oh, oh! do not leave me--not for a moment," cried Photogen, straining +his eyes to keep her face in sight through the darkness. + +"Be quiet, or they will hear you," she returned. "The wind is from the +south, and they cannot scent us. I have found out all about that. Ever +since the dear dark came, I have been amusing myself with them, +getting every now and then just into the edge of the wind, and letting +one have a sniff of me." + +"Oh, horrible!" cried Photogen. "I hope you will not insist on doing +so any more. What was the consequence?" + +"Always, the very instant, he turned with flashing eyes, and hounded +towards me--only he could not see me, you must remember. But my eyes +being so much better than his, I could see him perfectly well, and +would run away round him until I scented him, and then I knew he could +not find me anyhow. If the wind were to turn, and run the other way +now, there might be a whole army of them down upon us, leaving no room +to keep out of their way. You had better come." + +She took him by the hand. He yielded and rose, and she led him away. +But his steps were feeble, and as the night went on, he seemed more +and more ready to sink. + +"Oh dear! I am so tired! and so frightened!" he would say. + +"Lean on me," Nycteris would return, putting her arm round him, or +patting his cheek. "Take a few steps more. Every step away from the +castle is clear gain. Lean harder on me. I am quite strong and well +now." + +So they went on. The piercing night-eyes of Nycteris descried not a +few pairs of green ones gleaming like holes in the darkness, and many +a round she made to keep far out of their way; but she never said to +Photogen she saw them. Carefully she kept him off the uneven places, +and on the softest and smoothest of the grass, talking to him gently +all the way as they went--of the lovely flowers and the stars--how +comfortable the flowers looked, down in their green beds, and how +happy the stars up in their blue beds! + +When the morning began to come, he began to grow better, but was +dreadfully tired with walking instead of sleeping, especially after +being so long ill. Nycteris too, what with supporting him, what with +growing fear of the light which was beginning to ooze out of the east, +was very tired. At length, both equally exhausted, neither was able to +help the other. As if by consent they stopped. Embracing each the +other, they stood in the midst of the wide grassy land, neither of +them able to move a step, each supported only by the leaning weakness +of the other, each ready to fall if the other should move. But while +the one grew weaker still, the other had begun to grow stronger. When +the tide of the night began to ebb, the tide of the day began to flow; +and now the sun was rushing to the horizon, borne upon its foaming +billows. And ever as he came, Photogen revived. At last the sun shot +up into the air, like a bird from the hand of the Father of Lights. +Nycteris gave a cry of pain, and hid her face in her hands. + +"Oh me!" she sighed; "I am _so_ frightened! The terrible light stings +so!" + +But the same instant, through her blindness, she heard Photogen give a +low exultant laugh, and the next felt herself caught up: she who all +night long had tended and protected him like a child, was now in his +arms, borne along like a baby, with her head lying on his shoulder. +But she was the greater, for, suffering more, she feared nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. THE WEREWOLF. + + +At the very moment when Photogen caught up Nycteris, the telescope of +Watho was angrily sweeping the table-land. She swung it from her in +rage, and running to her room, shut herself up. There she anointed +herself from top to toe with a certain ointment; shook down her long +red hair, and tied it round her waist; then began to dance, whirling +round and round faster and faster, growing angrier and angrier, until +she was foaming at the mouth with fury. When Falca went looking for +her, she could not find her anywhere. + +As the sun rose, the wind slowly changed and went round, until it blew +straight from the north. Photogen and Nycteris were drawing near the +edge of the forest, Photogen still carrying Nycteris, when she moved a +little on his shoulder uneasily, and murmured in his ear, + +"I smell a wild beast--that way, the way the wind is coming." + +Photogen turned, looked back towards the castle, and saw a dark speck +on the plain. As he looked, it grew larger: it was coming across the +grass with the speed of the wind. It came nearer and nearer. It looked +long and low, but that might be because it was running at a great +stretch. He set Nycteris down under a tree, in the black shadow of its +bole, strung his bow, and picked out his heaviest, longest, sharpest +arrow. Just as he set the notch on the string, he saw that the +creature was a tremendous wolf, rushing straight at him. He loosened +his knife in its sheath, drew another arrow half-way from the quiver, +lest the first should fail, and took his aim--at a good distance, to +leave time for a second chance. He shot. The arrow rose, flew +straight, descended, struck the beast, and started again into the air, +doubled like a letter V. Quickly Photogen snatched the other, shot, +cast his bow from him, and drew his knife. But the arrow was in the +brute's chest, up to the feather; it tumbled heels over head with a +great thud of its back on the earth, gave a groan, made a struggle or +two, and lay stretched out motionless. + +"I've killed it, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "It is a great red wolf." + +"Oh, thank you!" answered Nycteris feebly from behind the tree. "I was +sure you would. I was not a bit afraid." + +Photogen went up to the wolf. It _was_ a monster! But he was vexed +that his first arrow had behaved so badly, and was the less willing to +lose the one that had done him such good service: with a long and a +strong pull, he drew it from the brute's chest. Could he believe his +eyes? There lay--no wolf, but Watho, with her hair tied round her +waist! The foolish witch had made herself invulnerable, as she +supposed, but had forgotten that, to torment Photogen therewith, she +had handled one of his arrows. He ran back to Nycteris and told her. + +She shuddered and wept, and would not look. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. ALL IS WELL. + + +There was now no occasion to fly a step farther. Neither of them +feared any one but Watho. They left her there, and went back. A great +cloud came over the sun, and rain began to fall heavily, and Nycteris +was much refreshed, grew able to see a little, and with Photogen's +help walked gently over the cool wet grass. + +They had not gone far before they met Fargu and the other huntsmen. +Photogen told them he had killed a great red wolf, and it was Madam +Watho. The huntsmen looked grave, but gladness shone through. + +"Then," said Fargu, "I will go and bury my mistress." + +But when they reached the place, they found she was already buried--in +the maws of sundry birds and beasts which had made their breakfast of +her. + +Then Fargu, overtaking them, would, very wisely, have Photogen go to +the king, and tell him the whole story. But Photogen, yet wiser than +Fargu, would not set out until he had married Nycteris; "for then," he +said, "the king himself can't part us; and if ever two people couldn't +do the one without the other, those two are Nycteris and I. She has +got to teach me to be a brave man in the dark, and I have got to look +after her until she can bear the heat of the sun, and he helps her to +see, instead of blinding her." + +They were married that very day. And the next day they went together +to the king, and told him the whole story. But whom should they find +at the court but the father and mother of Photogen, both in high +favour with the king and queen. Aurora nearly died for joy, and told +them all how Watho had lied, and made her believe her child was dead. + +No one knew anything of the father or mother of Nycteris; but when +Aurora, saw in the lovely girl her own azure eyes shining through +night and its clouds, it made her think strange things, and wonder how +even the wicked themselves may be a link to join together the good. +Through Watho, the mothers, who had never seen each other, had changed +eyes in their children. + +The king gave them the castle and lands of Watho, and there they lived +and taught each other for many years that were not long. But hardly +had one of them passed, before Nycteris had come to love the day best, +because it was the clothing and crown of Photogen, and she saw that +the day was greater than the night, and the sun more lordly than the +moon; and Photogen had come to love the night best, because it was the +mother and home of Nycteris. + +"But who knows," Nycteris would say to Photogen, "that, when we go +out, we shall not go into a day as much greater than your day as your +day is greater than my night?" + + + + +THE BUTCHER'S BILLS. + + +CHAPTER I. HUSBAND AND WIFE. + + +I am going to tell a story of married life. My title will prepare the +reader for something hardly heroic; but I trust it will not be found +lacking in the one genuine and worthy interest a tale ought to +have--namely, that it presents a door through which we may walk into +one region or another of the human heart, and there find ourselves not +altogether unacquainted or from home. + +There was a law among the Jews which forbade the yoking together of +certain animals, either because, being unequal in size or strength, +one of them must be oppressed, or for the sake of some lesson thus +embodied to the Eastern mind--possibly for both reasons. Half the +tragedy would be taken out of social life if this law could be applied +to human beings in their various relations. I do not say that this +would be well, or that we could afford to lose the result of the +tragedy thus occasioned. Neither do I believe that there are so many +instances of unequal yoking as the misprising judgments of men by men +and women by women might lead us to imagine. Not every one declared by +the wisdom of acquaintance to have thrown himself or herself away must +therefore be set down as unequally yoked. Or it may even be that the +inequality is there, but the loss on the other side. How some people +could ever have come together must always be a puzzle until one knows +the history of the affair; but not a few whom most of us would judge +quite unsuited to each other do yet get on pretty well from, the +first, and better and better the longer they are together, and that +with mutual advantage, improvement, and development. Essential +humanity is deeper than the accidents of individuality; the common is +more powerful than the peculiar; and the honest heart will always be +learning to act more and more in accordance with the laws of its +being. It must be of much more consequence to any lady that her +husband should be a man on whose word she can depend than that he +should be of a gracious presence. But if instead of coming nearer to a +true understanding of each other, the two should from the first keep +falling asunder, then something tragic may almost be looked for. + +Duncan and Lucy Dempster were a couple the very mention of whose +Christian names together would have seemed amusing to the friends who +had long ceased to talk of their unfitness. Indeed, I doubt if in +their innermost privacy they ever addressed each other except as Mr. +and Mrs. Dempster. For the first time to see them together, no one +could help wondering how the conjunction could have been effected. +Dempster was of Scotch descent, but the hereditary high cheek-bone +seemed to have got into his nose, which was too heavy a pendant for +the low forehead from which it hung. About an inch from the end it +took a swift and unexpected curve downwards, and was a curious and +abnormal nose, which could not properly be assorted with any known +class of noses. A long upper lip, a large, firm, and not quite ugly +mouth, with a chin both long and square, completed a face which, with +its low forehead, being yet longer than usual, had a particularly +equine look. He was rather under the middle height, slender, and well +enough made--altogether an ordinary mortal, known on 'Change as an +able, keen, and laborious man of business. What his special business +was I do not know. He went to the city by the eight o'clock omnibus +every morning, dived into a court, entered a little square, rushed up +two flights of stairs to a couple of rooms, and sat down in the back +one before an office table on a hair-seated chair. It was a dingy +place--not so dirty as it looked, I daresay. Even the windows, being +of bad glass, did, I believe, look dirtier than they were. It was a +place where, so far as the eye of an outsider could tell, much or +nothing might be doing. Its occupant always wore his hat in it, and +his hat always looked shabby. Some people said he was rich, others +that he would be one day. Some said he was a responsible man, whatever +the epithet may have been intended to mean. I believe he was quite as +honest as the recognized laws of his trade demanded--and for how many +could I say more? Nobody said he was avaricious--but then he moved +amongst men whose very notion was first to make money, after that to +be religious, or to enjoy themselves, as the case might be. And no one +either ever said of him that he was a good man, or a generous. He was +about forty years of age, looking somehow as if he had never been +younger. He had had a fair education--better than is generally +considered necessary for mercantile purposes--but it would have been +hard to discover any signs of it in the spending of his leisure. On +Sunday mornings he went with his wife to church, and when he came home +had a good dinner, of which now and then a friend took his share. If +no stranger was present he took his wine by himself, and went to sleep +in his easy chair of marone-coloured leather, while his wife sat on +the other side of the fire if it was winter, or a little way off by +the open window if it was summer, gently yawned now and then, and +looked at him with eyes a little troubled. Then he went off again by +the eight o'clock omnibus on Monday morning, and not an idea more or +less had he in his head, not a hair's-breadth of difference was there +in his conduct or pursuits, that he had been to church and had spent +the day out of business. That may, however, for anything I know, have +been as much the clergyman's fault as his. He was the sort of man you +might call machine-made, one in whom humanity, if in no wise +caricatured, was yet in no wise ennobled. + +His wife was ten years younger than he--hardly less than +beautiful--only that over her countenance seemed to have gathered a +kind of haze of commonness. At first sight, notwithstanding, one could +not help perceiving that she was china and he was delft. She was +graceful as she sat, long-necked, slope-shouldered, and quite as tall +as her husband, with a marked daintiness about her in the absence of +the extremes of the fashion, in the quality of the lace she wore on +her black silk dress, and in the wide white sleeves of fine cambric +that covered her arms from the shoulder to the wrist. She had a +morally delicate air, a look of scrupulous nicety and lavender-stored +linen. She had long dark lashes; and when they rose, the eyelids +revealed eyes of uncommon beauty. She had good features, good teeth, +and a good complexion. The main feeling she produced and left was of +ladyhood--little more. + +Sunday afternoon came fifty-two times in the year. I mention this +because then always, and nearly then only, could one calculate on +seeing them together. It came to them in a surburb of London, and the +look of it was dull. Doubtless Mr. Dempster's dinner and his repose +after it were interesting to him, but I cannot help thinking his wife +found it dreary. She had, however, got used to it. The house was a +good old one, of red brick, much larger than they required, but not +expensive, and had a general look of the refinement of its mistress. +In the summer the windows of the dining-room would generally be open, +for they looked into a really lovely garden behind the house, and the +scent of the jasmine that crept all around them would come in +plentifully. I wonder what the scent of jasmine did in Duncan +Dempster's world. Perhaps it never got farther than the general +ante-chamber of the sensorium. It often made his wife sad--she could +not tell why. To him I daresay it smelt agreeable, but I can hardly +believe it ever woke in him that dreamy sensation it gave her--of +something she had not had enough of, she could not say what. When the +heat was gone off a little he would walk out on the lawn, which was +well kept and well watered, with many flowering shrubs about it. Why +he did so, I cannot tell. He looked at nothing in particular, only +walked about for a few minutes, no doubt derived some pleasure of a +mild nature from something, and walked in again to tea. One might have +expected he would have cultivated the acquaintance of his garden a +little, if it were only for the pleasure the contrast would give him +when he got back to his loved office, for a greater contrast could not +well have been found than between his dingy dreary haunt on +weekdays--a place which nothing but duty could have made other than +repugnant to any free soul--and this nest of greenery and light and +odour. Sweet scents floated in clouds invisible about the place; +flower eyes and stars and bells and bunches shone and glowed and +lurked all around; his very feet might have learned a lesson of that +which is beyond the sense from the turf he trod; but all the time, if +he were not exactly seeing in his mind's eye the walls and tables of +his office in the City square, his thoughts were not the less brooding +over such business as he there transacted. For Mr. Dempster's was not +a free soul. How could it be when all his energies were given to +making money? This he counted his _calling_--and I believe actually +contrived to associate some feeling of duty with the notion of leaving +behind him a plump round sum of money, as if money in accumulation and +following flood, instead of money in peaceful current, were the good +thing for the world! Hence the whole realm of real life, the universe +of thought and growth, was a high-hedged park to him, within which he +never even tried to look--not even knowing that he was shut out from +it, for the hedge was of his own growing. What shall ever wake such a +man to a sense of indwelling poverty, or make him begin to hunger +after any lowliest expansion? Does a reader retort, "The man was +comfortable, and why should he be troubled?" If the end of being, I +answer, is only comfort in self, I yield. But what if there should be +at the heart of the universe a Thought to which the being of such men +is distasteful? What if to that Thought they look blots in light, ugly +things? May there not lie in that direction some possible reason why +they should bethink themselves? Dempster, however, was not yet a +clinker out of which all the life was burned, however much he looked +like one. There was in him that which might yet burn--and give light +and heat. + +On the Sunday evenings Mrs. Dempster would have gladly gone to church +again, if only--though to herself she never allowed this for one of +her reasons--to slip from under the weight of her husband's presence. +He seldom spoke to her more than a sentence at a time, but he did like +to have her near him, and I suppose held, through the bare presence, +some kind of dull one-sided communication with her; what did a woman +know about business? and what did he know about except business? It is +true he had a rudimentary pleasure in music--and would sometimes ask +her to play to him, when he would listen, and after his fashion enjoy. +But although here was a gift that might be developed until his soul +could echo the music of the spheres, the embodied souls of Handel or +Mendelssohn were to him but clouds of sound wrapped about kernels--let +me say of stock or bonds. + +For a year or so after their marriage it had been the custom that, the +first thing after breakfast on Monday morning, she should bring him +her account-book, that they might together go over her week's +expenses. She must cultivate the business habits in which, he said, he +found her more than deficient. How could he endure in a wife what +would have been preposterous in a clerk, and would have led to his +immediate dismissal? It was in his eyes necessary that the same strict +record of receipt and expenditure should be kept in the household as +in the office; how else was one to know in what direction things were +going? he said. He required of his wife, therefore, that every +individual thing that cost money, even to what she spent upon her own +person, should be entered in her book. She had no money of her own, +neither did he allow her any special sum for her private needs; but he +made her a tolerably liberal weekly allowance, from which she had to +pay everything except house-rent and taxes, an arrangement which I +cannot believe a good one, as it will inevitably lead some +conscientious wives to self-denial severer than necessary, and on the +other hand will tempt the vulgar nature to make a purse for herself by +mean savings off everybody else. It was especially distasteful to Mrs. +Dempster to have to set down every little article of personal +requirement that she bought. It would probably have seemed to her but +a trifle had they both been young when they married, and had there +been that tenderness of love between them which so soon sets +everything more than right; but as it was, she could never get over +the feeling that the man was strange to her. As it was she would have +got over this. But there was in her a certain constitutional lack of +precision, combined with a want of energy and a weakness of will, that +rendered her more than careless where her liking was not interested. +Hence, while she would have been horrified at playing a wrong note or +singing out of tune, she not only had no anxiety, for the thing's own +sake, to have her accounts correct, but shrunk from every effort in +that direction. Now I can perfectly understand her recoil from the +whole affair, with her added dislike to the smallness of the thing +required of her; but seeing she did begin with doing it after a +fashion, it is not so easy to understand why, doing it, she should not +make a consolation of doing it with absolute exactness. Not even her +dread of her husband's dissatisfaction--which was by no means +small--could prevail to make her, instead of still trusting a memory +that constantly played her false, put down a thing at once, nor +postpone it to a far less convenient season. Hence it came that her +accounts, though never much out, never balanced; and the weekly audit, +while it grew more and more irksome to the one, grew more and more +unsatisfactory to the other. For to Mr. Dempster's dusty eyes +exactitude wore the robe of rectitude, and before long, precisely and +merely from the continued unsatisfactory condition of her accounts, he +began, in a hidden corner of his righteous soul, to reflect on the +moral condition of his wife herself as unsatisfactory. Now such it +certainly was, but he was not the man to judge it correctly, or to +perceive the true significance of her failing. In business, while +scrupulous as to the requirements of custom and recognized right, he +nevertheless did things from which her soul would have recoiled like +"the tender horns of cockled snails;" yet it was to him not merely a +strange and inexplicable fact that she should _never_ be able to show +to a penny, nay, often not to a shilling or eighteenpence, how the +week's allowance went, but a painful one as indicating something +beyond perversity. And truly it was no very hard task he required of +her, for, seeing they had no children, only three servants, and saw +little company, her housekeeping could not be a very heavy or involved +affair. Perhaps if it had been more difficult she would have done it +better, but anyhow she hated the whole thing, procrastinated, and +setting down several things together, was _sure_ to forget some +article or mistake some price; yet not one atom more would she +distrust her memory the next time she was tempted. But it was a small +fault at worst, and if her husband had loved her enough to understand +the bearings of it in relation to her mental and moral condition he +would have tried to content himself that at least she did not exceed +her allowance; and would of all things have avoided making such a +matter a burden upon the consciousness of one so differently educated, +if not constituted, from himself. It is but fair to add on the other +side that, if she had loved him after anything like a wifely ideal, +which I confess was not yet possible to her, it would not have been +many weeks before she had a first correct account to show him. +Convinced, at length, that accuracy was not to be had from her, and +satisfying himself with dissatisfaction, he one morning threw from him +the little ruled book, and declared, in a wrath which he sought to +smother into dignified but hopeless rebuke, that he would trouble +himself with her no further. She burst into tears, took up the book, +left the room, cried a little, resolved to astonish him the next +Monday, and never set down another item. When it came, and breakfast +was over, he gave her the usual cheque, and left at once for town. Nor +had the accounts ever again been alluded to between them. + +Now this might have been very well, or at least not very ill, if both +had done tolerably well thereafter--that is, if the one had continued +to attend to her expenditure as well as before, and the other, when he +threw away the account-book, had dismissed from his mind the whole +matter. But Dempster was one of those dangerous men--more dangerous, +however, to themselves than to others--who never forget, that is, get +over, an offence or disappointment. They respect themselves so much, +and, out of their respect for themselves, build so much upon success, +set so much by never being defeated but always gaining their point, +that when they are driven to confess themselves foiled, the confession +is made from the "poor dumb mouth" of a wound that cannot be healed. +It is there for ever--will be there at least until they find another +God to worship than their own paltry selves. Hence it came that the +bourn between the two spiritual estates yawned a little wider at one +point, and a mist of dissatisfaction would not unfrequently rise from +a certain stagnant pool in its hollow. The cause was paltry in one +sense, but nothing to which belongs the name of _Cause_ can fail to +mingle the element of awfulness even with its paltriness. Its worst +effect was that it hindered approximation in other parts of their +marching natures. + +And as to Mrs. Dempster, I am sorry for the apparent justification +which what I have to confess concerning her must give to the severe +whims of such husbands as hers: from that very Monday morning she +began to grow a little careless about her expenditure--which she had +never been before. By degrees bill after bill was allowed to filch +from the provision of the following week, and when that was devoured, +then from that of the week after. It was not that she was in the least +more expensive upon herself, or that she consciously wasted anything; +but, altogether averse to housekeeping, she ceased to exercise the +same outlook upon the expenditure of the house, did not keep her +horses together, left the management more and more to her cook; while +the consciousness that she was not doing her duty made her more and +more uncomfortable, and the knowledge that things were going farther +and farther wrong, made her hate the idea of accounts worse and worse, +until she came at length to regard them with such a loathing as might +have fitted some extreme of moral evil. The bills which were supposed +by her husband to be regularly settled every week were at last months +behind, and the week's money spent in meeting the most pressing of its +demands, while what it could no longer cover was cast upon the growing +heap of evil for the time to come. + +I must say this for her, however, that there was a small sum of money +she expected on the death of a crazy aunt, which, if she could but lay +hold of it without her husband's knowledge, she meant to devote to the +clearing off of everything, when she vowed to herself to do better in +the time to come. + +The worst thing in it all was that her fear of her husband kept +increasing, and that she felt more and more uncomfortable in his +presence. Hence that troubled look in her eye, always more marked when +her husband sat dozing in his chair of a Sunday afternoon. + +It was natural, too, that, although they never quarrelled, their +intercourse should not grow of a more tender character. Seldom was +there a salient point in their few scattered sentences of +conversation, except, indeed, it were some piece of news either had to +communicate. Occasionally the wife read something from the newspaper, +but never except at her husband's request. In general he enjoyed his +newspaper over a chop at his office. Two or three times since their +marriage--now eight years--he had made a transient resolve pointing at +the improvement of her mind, and to that end had taken from his great +glass-armoured bookcase some _standard_ work--invariably, I believe, +upon party-politics--from which he had made her read him a chapter. +But, unhappily, she had always got to the end of it without gaining +the slightest glimmer of a true notion of what the author was driving +at. + +It almost moves me to pity to think of the vagueness of that +rudimentary humanity in Mr. Dempster which made him dream of doing +something to improve his wife's mind. What did he ever do to improve +his own? It is hard to understand how horses find themselves so +comfortable in their stables that, be the day ever so fine, the +country ever so lovely, the air ever so exhilarating, they are always +rejoiced to get back into their dull twilight: it is harder to me to +understand how Mr. Dempster could be so comfortable in his own mind +that he never wanted to get out of it, even at the risk of being +beside himself; but no doubt the dimness of its twilight had a good +deal to do with his content. And then there is that in every human +mind which no man's neighbour, nay, no man himself, can understand. My +neighbour may in his turn be regarding my mind as a gloomy place to +live in, while I find it no undesirable residence--though chiefly +because of the number of windows it affords me for looking out of it. +Still, if Dempster's dingy office in the City was not altogether a +sufficing type of the mind that used it, I consider it a very fairly +good one. + +But wherein was Mrs. Dempster so very different from her husband as I +rudely fancy some of my readers imagining her? Whatever may have been +her reasons for marrying him--one would suppose they must have been +weighty--to do so she must have been in a very undeveloped condition, +and in that condition she still remained. I do not mean that she was +less developed than ninety-nine out of the hundred: most women affect +me only as valuable crude material out of which precious things are +making. How much they might be, must be, shall be! For now they stand +like so many Lot's-wives--so many rough-hewn marble blocks, rather, of +which a Divinity is shaping the ends. Mrs. Dempster had all the making +of a lovely woman, but notwithstanding her grace, her beauty, her +sweetness, her lark-like ballading too, she was a very ordinary woman +in that region of her which knew what she meant when she said "I." Of +this fact she had hardly a suspicion, however; for until aspiration +brings humility, people are generally pretty well satisfied with +themselves, having no idea what poor creatures they are. She saw in +her mirror a superior woman, regarded herself as one of the finer +works of creation. The worst was that from the first she had counted +herself superior to her husband, and in marrying him had felt not +merely that she was conferring a favour, which every husband would +allow, but that she was lowering herself without elevating him. Now it +is true that she was pleasanter to look at, that her manners were +sweeter, and her notions of the becoming far less easily satisfied +than his; also that she was a little less deficient in vague reverence +for certain forms of the higher than he. But I know of nothing in her +to determine her classification as of greater value than he, except +indeed that she was on the whole rather more honest. She read novels +and he did not; she passed shallow judgment, where he scorned to +judge; she read all the middling poetry that came in her way, and +copied books full of it; but she could no more have appreciated one of +Milton's or Shakspere's smallest poems than she could have laughed +over a page of Chinese. She liked to hear this and that popular +preacher, and when her husband called his sermons humbug, she heard it +with a shocked countenance; but was she better or worse than her +husband when, admiring them as she did, she permitted them to have no +more influence upon her conduct than if they had been the merest +humbug ever uttered by ambitious demagogue? In truth, I cannot see +that in the matter of worth there was much as yet to choose between +them. + +It is hardly necessary, then, to say that there was little appreciable +approximation of any kind going on between them. If only they would +have read Dickens together! Who knows what might have come of it! But +this dull close animal proximity, without the smallest conscious +nearness of heart or mind or soul--and so little chance, from very +lack of wants, for showing each other kindnesses--surely it is a +killing sort of thing! And yet, and yet, there is always a +something--call it habit, or any poorest name you please--grows up +between two who are much together, at least when they neither quarrel +nor thwart each other's designs, which, tending with its roots towards +the deeper human, blossoms into--a wretched little flower indeed, yet +afar off partaking of the nature of love. The Something seldom reveals +its existence until they are parted. I suspect that with not a few, +Death is the love-messenger at the stroke of whose dart the stream of +love first begins to flow in the selfish bosom. + +It is now necessary to mention a little break in the monotony of Mrs. +Dempster's life, which, but for what came afterwards, could claim no +record. One morning her page announced Major Strong, and possibly she +received the gentleman who entered with a brighter face than she had +ever shown her husband. The major had just arrived from India. He had +been much at her father's house while she was yet a mere girl, being +then engaged to one of her sisters, who died after he went abroad, and +before he could return to marry her. He was now a widower, a +fine-looking, frank, manly fellow. The expression of his countenance +was little altered, and the sight of him revived in the memory of Mrs. +Dempster many recollections of a happy girlhood, when the prospect of +such a life as she now led with tolerable content would have seemed +simply unendurable. When her husband came home she told him as much as +he cared to hear of the visitor she had had, and he made no objection +to her asking him to dine the next Sunday. When he arrived Mr. +Dempster saw a man of his own age, bronzed and big, with not much +waist left, but a good carriage and pleasant face. He made himself +agreeable at dinner, appreciated his host's wine, and told good +stories that pleased the business man as showing that he knew "what +was what." He accorded him his more particular approval, speaking to +his wife, on the ground that he was a man of the world, with none of +the army slang about him. Mr. Dempster was not aware that he had +himself more business peculiarities than any officer in her majesty's +service had military ones. + +After this Major Strong frequently called upon Mrs. Dempster. They +were good friends, and did each other no harm whatever, and the +husband neither showed nor felt the least jealousy. They sang +together, occasionally went out shopping, and three or four times went +together to the play. Mr. Dempster, so long as he had his usual +comforts, did not pine in his wife's absence, but did show a little +more pleasure when she came home to him than usually when he came home +to her. This lasted for a few months. Then the major went back to +India, and for a time the lady missed him a good deal, which, +considering the dulness of her life, was not very surprising or +reprehensible. + + + + +CHAPTER II. AN ASTONISHMENT. + + +Now comes the strange part of my story. + +One evening the housemaid opened the door to Mr. Dempster on his +return from the city; and perhaps the fact that it was the maid, and +not the page as usual, roused his observation, which, except in +business matters, was not remarkably operative. He glanced at the +young woman, when an eye far less keen than his could not have failed +to remark a strangely excited expression on her countenance. + +"Where is the boy?" he asked. + +"Just run to the doctor's, sir," she answered. + +Then first he remembered that when he left in the morning his wife had +not been feeling altogether well, but he had never thought of her +since. + +"How is your mistress?" he said. + +"She's rather poorly, sir, but--but--she's as well as could be +expected." + +"What does the fool mean?" said Dempster to himself, and very nearly +said it aloud, for he was not over polite to any in his service. But +he did not say it aloud. He advanced into the hall with deliberation, +and made for the stair. + +"Oh, please sir," the maid cried in a tone of perturbation, when, +turning from shutting the door, she saw his intention, "you can't go +up to mis'ess's room just at this minute, sir. Please go in the +dining-room, sir." + +"What do you mean?" he asked, turning angrily upon the girl, for of +all things he hated mystery. + +Like every one else in the house, and office both, she stood in awe of +him, and his look frightened her. + +"Please go in the dining-room," she gasped entreatingly. + +"What!" he said and did turn towards the dining-room, "is your +mistress so ill she can't see me?" + +"Oh, no, sir!--at least I don't know exactly. Cook's with her, sir. +She's over the worst, anyhow." + +"What on earth do you mean, girl? Speak out, will you? What is the +matter with your mistress?" + +As he spoke he stepped into the room, the maid following him. The same +moment he spied a whitish bundle of something on the rug in front of +the fire. + +"What do you mean by leaving things like that in the dining-room?" he +went on more angrily still. + +"Please, sir," answered the girl, going and lifting the bundle +carefully, "it's the baby!" + +"The baby!" shouted Mr. Dempster, and looked at her from head to foot. +"What baby?" Then bethinking himself that it must belong to some +visitor in the drawing-room with his wife, he moderated his tone. +"Make haste; take it away!" he said. "I don't want babies here! +There's a time and a place for everything!--What _are_ you about?" + +For, instead of obeying her master and taking it away, the maid was +carefully looking in the blanket for the baby. Having found it and +turned aside the covering from its face, she came nearer, and holding +up the little vision, about the size and colour of a roll of red wax +taper, said:-- + +"Look at it, sir! It's your own, and worth looking at." + +Never before had she dared speak to him so! + +I will not venture to assert that Mr. Dempster turned white, but his +countenance changed, and he dropped into the chair behind him, feeling +less of a business man than had been his consciousness for the last +twenty years. He was hit hard. The absolutely Incredible had hit him. +Babies might be born in a day, but surely not without previous +preparation on the part of nature at least, if not on that of the +mother; and in this case if the mother had prepared herself, certainly +she had not prepared him for the event. It was as if the treasure of +Nature's germens were tumbling all together. His head swam. He could +not speak a word. + +"Yes, sir," the maid went on, relieved of her trepidation in +perceiving that her master too was mortal, and that her word had such +power over him--proud also of knowing more of his concerns than he did +himself, "she was took about an hour and a half ago. We've kep' +sendin' an' sendin' after the doctor, but he ain't never been yet; +only cook, she knows a deal an' she says she's been very bad, sir. But +the young gentleman come at last, bless him! and now she's doin' as +well as could be expected, sir--cook says." + +"God bless me!" said the astonished father, and relapsed into the +silence of bewilderment. + +Eight years married with never a glimmer of offspring--and now, all at +once, and without a whisper of warning, the father of a "young +gentleman!" How could it be other than perplexing--discomposing, +indeed!--yet it was right pleasant too. Only it would have been more +pleasant if experience could have justified the affair! Nature--no, +not Nature--or, if Nature, then Nature sure in some unnatural mood, +had stolen a march upon him, had gone contrary to all that had ever +been revealed of her doings before! and why had she pitched on +him--just him, Duncan Dempster, to exercise one of her more grotesque +and wayward moods upon?--to play at hide-and-seek with after this +fashion? She had not treated him with exactly proper respect, he +thought, or, rather vaguely felt. + +"Business is business," he remarked, under his breath, "and this +cannot be called proper business behaviour. What is there about me to +make game of? Really, my wife ought--" + +What his wife ought or ought not to have done, however, had not yet +made itself clear to him, and his endeavour to excogitate being in +that direction broken off, gave way to the pleasure of knowing himself +a father, or perhaps more truly of having an heir. In the strength of +it he rose, went to the cellaret, and poured himself out a glass of +his favourite port, which he sat down to drink in silence and +meditation. He was rather a picture just then and there, though not a +very lovely one, seated, with his hat still on his head, in the middle +of the room, upon a chair half-way between the dining-table and the +sideboard, with his glass of wine in his hand. He was pondering partly +the pleasure, but still mainly the peculiarity of his position. A +bishop once told me that, shortly after he had been raised to the +episcopal dignity, a friend's horses, whose driver had tumbled off the +box drunk, ran away with him, and upset the carriage. He crept out of +the window over his head, and the first thought that came to him as he +sat perched on the side of the carriage, while it was jumbled along by +the maddened horses, was, "What do bishops do in such circumstances?" +Equally perplexing was the question Dempster had to ask himself: how +husbands who, after being married eight years, suddenly and +unexpectedly received the gift of a first-born, were in the habit of +comporting themselves! He poured himself out another glass, and with +it came the reflection, both amusing and consoling, that his brother, +who was confidently expecting his tidy five figures to crown the +earthly bliss of one or more of his large family some day, would be +equally but less agreeably surprised. "Serve him right!" he said to +himself. "What business have they to be looking out for my death?" And +for a moment the heavens appeared a little more just than he was +ordinarily in the habit of regarding them. He said to himself he would +work harder than ever now. There would now be some good in making +money! He had never given his mind to it yet, he said: now the world +should see what he could do when he did give his mind to it! + +Hitherto gathering had been his main pleasure, but with the thought of +his money would now not seldom be mingled the thought of the little +thing in the blanket! He began to find himself strangely happy. I use +the wrong phrase--for the fact is, he had never yet found himself at +all; he knew nothing of the person except a self-painted and immensely +flattered portrait that hung in the innermost chamber of his heart--I +mean the innermost chamber he knew anything of: there were many +chambers there of which he did not even know the doors. Yet a few +minutes as he sat there, and he was actually cherishing a little pride +in the wife who had done so much better for him than he had at length +come to expect. If not a good accountant, she was at least a good +wife, and a very fair housekeeper: he had no doubt she would prove a +good mother. He would gladly have gone to her at once, to let her know +how much he was pleased with her behaviour. As for that little bit of +red clay--"terra cotta," he called it to himself, as he looked round +with a smile at the blanket, which the housemaid had replaced on the +rug before the fire--who could imagine him a potentate upon +'Change--perhaps in time a director of European affairs! He was not in +the way of joking--of all things about money; the very thought, of +business filled him from top to toe with seriousness; but he did make +that small joke, and accompany it with a grim smile. + +He was startled from his musing by the entrance of the doctor, who had +in the meantime arrived and seen the lady, and now came to look at the +baby. He congratulated Mr. Dempster on having at length a son and +heir, but warned him that his wife was far from being beyond danger +yet. The whole thing was entirely out of the common, he said, and she +must be taken the greatest possible care of. The words woke a gentle +pity in the heart of the man, for by nature all men have some +tenderness for women in such circumstances, but they did not trouble +him greatly--for such dangers belonged to their calling, their +_business_ in life, and, doubtless, if she had attended to that +business earlier she would have found it easier. + +"Did you ever know such a thing before, doctor?" he asked, with the +importance of one honoured by a personal visit from the Marvellous. + +"Never in my own practice," answered the doctor, whom the cook had +instructed in the wonders of the case, "but I have read of such a +thing." And Mr. Dempster swelled like a turkey-cock. + +It was several days before he was allowed to see the mother. Perhaps +had she expressed a strong desire to see him, it might have been +risked sooner, but she had neither expressed nor manifested any. He +kissed her, spoke a few stupid words in a kind tone, asking her how +she did, but paying no heed to her answer, and turned aside to look, +at the baby. + +Mrs. Dempster recovered but slowly, and not very satisfactorily. She +did not seem to care much about the child. She tried to nurse him, but +was not very successful. She took him when the nurse brought him, and +yielded him again with the same indifference, showing neither pleasure +to receive nor unwillingness to part with him. The nurse did not fail +to observe it and remark upon it: _she_ had never seen a mother care +so little for her child! there was little of the mother in _her_ any +way! it was no wonder she was so long about it. It troubled the father +a little that she should not care for his child: some slight +fermentation had commenced in the seemingly dead mass of human +affection that had lain so long neglected in his being, and it seemed +strange to him that, while he was living for the child in the City, +she should be so indifferent to him at home. For already he had begun +to keep his vow, already his greater keenness in business was remarked +in the City. But it boded little good for either that the gift of God +should stir up in him the worship of Mammon. More sons are damned by +their fathers' money than by anything else whatever outside of +themselves. + +There was the excuse to be made for Mrs. Dempster that she continued +far from strong--and her husband made it: he would have made it more +heartily if he had himself ever in his life known what it was to be +ill. By degrees she grew stronger, however, until, to persons who had +not known her before, she would have seemed in tolerable health. For a +week or two after she was again going about the house, she continued +to nurse the baby, but after that she became unable to do so, and +therewith began to neglect him entirely. She never asked to see him, +and when the nurse brought him would turn her head aside, and tell her +to take it away. So far from his being a pleasure to her, the very +sight of the child brought the hot dew upon her forehead. Her husband +frowned and wondered, but, unaccustomed to open his mind either to her +or to any one else, not unwisely sought to understand the thing before +speaking of it, and in the meantime commenced a genuine attempt to +make up to the baby for his mother's neglect. Almost without a notion +how even to take him in his arms, he would now send for him the moment +he had had his tea, and after a fashion, ludicrous in the eyes of the +nurse, would dandle and caress him, and strut about with him before +his wife, glancing up at her every now and then, to point the lesson +that such was the manner in which a parent ought to behave to a child. +In his presence she never made any active show of her dislike, but her +look seemed all the time fixed on something far away, as if she had +nothing to do with the affair. + + + + +CHAPTER III. ANOTHER ASTONISHMENT. + + +But a second and very different astonishment awaited Mr. Dempster. +Again one evening, on his return from the City, he saw a strange look +on the face of the girl who opened the door--but this time it was a +look of fear. + +"Well?" he said, in a tone at once alarmed and peremptory. + +She made no answer, but turned whiter than before. + +"Where is your mistress?" he demanded. + +"Nobody knows, sir," she answered. + +"Nobody knows! What would you have me understand by such an answer?" + +"It's the bare truth, sir. Nobody knows where she is." + +"God bless me!" cried the husband. "What does it all mean?" + +And again he sunk down upon a chair--this time in the hall, and stared +at the girl as if waiting further enlightenment. + +But there was little enough to be had. Only one point was clear: his +wife was nowhere to be found. He sent for every one in the house, and +cross-questioned each to discover the last occasion on which she had +been seen. It was some time since she had been missed; how long before +that she had been seen there was no certainty to be had. He ran to the +doctor, then from one to another of her acquaintance, then to her +mother, who lived on the opposite side of London. She, like the rest, +could tell him nothing. In her anxiety she would have gone back with +him, but he was surly, and would not allow her. It was getting towards +morning before he reached home, but no relieving news awaited him. +What to think was as much a perplexity to him as what to do. He was +not in the agony in which a man would have been who thoroughly loved +his wife, but he cared enough about her to feel uncomfortable; and the +cries of the child, who was suffering from some ailment, made him +miserable: in his perplexity and dull sense of helplessness he +wondered whether she might not have given the baby poison before she +went. Then the thing would make such a talk! and, of all things, +Duncan Dempster hated being talked about. How busy people's brains +would be with all his affairs! How many explanations of the mystery +would be suggested on 'Change! Some would say, "What business had a +man like him with a fine lady for a wife? one so much younger than +himself too!" He could remember making the same remark of another, +before he was married. "Served him right!" they would say. And with +that the first movement of suspicion awoke in him--purely and solely +from his own mind's reflection of the imagined minds of others. While +in his mind's ear he heard them talking, almost before he knew what +they meant the words came to him: "There was that Major Strong, you +know!" + +"She's gone to him!" he cried aloud, and, springing from the bed on +which he had thrown himself, he paced the chamber in a fury. He had no +word for it but hers that he was now in India! They had only been +waiting till--By heaven, that child was none of his! And therewith +rushed into his mind the conviction that everything was thus +explained. No man ever yet entertained an unhappy suspicion, but +straightway an army of proofs positive came crowding to the service of +the lie. It is astounding with what manifest probability everything +will fall in to prove that a fact which has no foundation whatever! +There is no end to the perfection with which a man may fool himself +while taking absolute precautions against being fooled by others. +Every fact, being a living fact, has endless sides and relations; but +of all these, the man whose being hangs upon one thought, will see +only those sides and relations which fall in with that thought. +Dempster even recalled the words of the maid, "It's mis'ess's," as +embodying the girl's belief that it was not master's. Where a man, +whether by nature jealous or not, is in a jealous condition, there is +no need of an Iago to parade before him the proofs of his wrong. It +was because Shakespere would neither have Desdemona less than perfect, +nor Othello other than the most trusting and least suspicious of men, +that he had to invent an all but incredible villain to effect the +needful catastrophe. + +But why should a man, who has cared so little for his wife, become +instantly, upon the bare suspicion, so utter a prey to consuming +misery? There was a character in his suffering which could not be +attributed to any degree of anger, shame, or dread of ridicule. The +truth was, there lay in his being a possibility of love to his wife +far beyond anything his miserably stunted consciousness had an idea +of; and the conviction of her faithlessness now wrought upon him in +the office of Death, to let him know what he had lost. It magnified +her beauty in his eyes, her gentleness, her grace; and he thought with +a pang how little he had made of her or it. + +But the next moment wrath at the idea of another man's child being +imposed upon him as his, with the consequent loss of his precious +money, swept every other feeling before it. For by law the child was +his, whoever might be the father of it. During a whole minute he felt +on the point of tying a stone about its neck, carrying it out, and +throwing it into the river Lea. Then, with the laugh of a hyena, he +set about arranging in his mind the proofs of her guilt. First came +eight childless years with himself; next the concealment of her +condition, and the absurd pretence that she had known nothing of it; +then the trouble of mind into which she had fallen; then her strange +unnatural aversion to her own child; and now, last of all, conclusive +of a guilty conscience, her flight from his house. He would give +himself no trouble to find her; why should he search after his own +shame! He would neither attempt to conceal nor to explain the fact +that she had left him--people might say what they pleased--try him for +murder if they liked! As to the child she had so kindly left to +console him for her absence, he would not drown him, neither would he +bring him up in his house; he would give him an ordinary education, +and apprentice him to a trade. For his money, he would leave it to a +hospital--a rich one, able to defend his will if disputed. For what +was the child? A monster--a creature that had no right to existence! + +Not one of those who knew him best would have believed him capable of +being so moved, nor did one of them now know it, for he hid his +suffering with the success of a man not unaccustomed to make a mask of +his face. There are not a few men who, except something of the nature +of a catastrophe befall them, will pass through life without having or +affording a suspicion of what is in them. Everything hitherto had +tended to suppress the live elements of Duncan Dempster; but now, like +the fire of a volcano in a land of ice, the vitality in him had begun +to show itself. + +Sheer weariness drove him, as the morning began to break, to lie down +again; but he neither undressed nor slept, and rose at his usual hour. +When he entered the dining-room, where breakfast was laid as +usual--only for one instead of two--he found by his plate, among +letters addressed to his wife, a packet directed to himself. It had +not been through the post, and the address was in his wife's hand. He +opened it. A sheet of paper was wrapped around a roll of unpaid +butcher's bills, amounting to something like eighty pounds, and a note +from the butcher craving immediate settlement. On the sheet of paper +was written, also in his wife's hand, these words: "I am quite +unworthy of being your wife any longer;" that was all. + +Now here, to a man who had loved her enough to understand her, was a +clue to the whole--to Dempster it was the strongest possible +confirmation of what he had already concluded. To him it appeared as +certain as anything he called truth, that for years, while keeping a +fair face to her husband--a man who had never refused her anything--he +did not recall the fact that almost never had she asked or he offered +anything--she had been deceiving him, spending money she would not +account for, pretending to pay everything when she had been ruining +his credit with the neighbourhood, making him, a far richer man than +any but himself knew, appear to be living beyond his means, when he +was every month investing far more than he spent. It was injury upon +injury! Then, as a last mark of her contempt, she had taken pains that +these beggarly butcher's bills should reach him from her own hand! He +would trouble himself about such a woman not a moment longer! + +He went from breakfast to his omnibus as usual, walked straight to his +office, and spent the day according to custom. I need hardly say that +the first thing he did was to write a cheque for the butcher. He made +no further inquiry after her whatever, nor was any made of him there, +for scarcely one of the people with whom he did business had been to +his house, or had even seen his wife. + +In the suburb where he lived it was different; but he paid no heed to +any inquiry, beyond saying he knew nothing about her. To her relatives +he said that if they wanted her they might find her for themselves. +She had gone to please herself, and he was not going to ruin himself +by running about the world after her. + +Night after night he came home to his desolate house; took no comfort +from his child; made no confession that he stood in need of comfort. +But he had a dull sensation as if the sun had forsaken the world, and +an endless night had begun. The simile, of course, is mine--the +sensation only was his; _he_ could never have expressed anything that +went on in the region wherein men suffer. + +A few days made a marked difference in his appearance. He was a hard +man; but not so hard as people had thought him; and besides, _no_ man +can rule his own spirit except he has the spirit of right on his side; +neither is any man proof against the inroads of good. Even Lady +Macbeth was defeated by the imagination she had braved. Add to this, +that no man can, even by those who understand him best, be labelled as +a box containing such and such elements, for the humanity in him is +deeper than any individuality, and may manifest itself at some crisis +in a way altogether beside expectation. + +His feeling was not at first of an elevated kind. After the grinding +wrath had abated, self-pity came largely to the surface--not by any +means a grand emotion, though very dear to boys and girls in their +first consciousness of self, and in them pardonable enough. On the +same ground it must be pardoned in a man who, with all his experience +of the world, was more ignorant of the region of emotion, and more +undeveloped morally, than multitudes of children: in him it was an +indication that the shell was beginning to break. He said to himself +that he was old beside her, and that she had begun to weary of him, +and despise him. Gradually upon this, however, supervened at intervals +a faint shadow of pity for her who could not have been happy or she +would not have left him. + +Days and weeks passed, and there was no sign of Mrs. Dempster. The +child was not sent out to nurse, and throve well enough. His father +never took the least notice of him. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. WHAT IT MEANT. + + +Some of my readers, perhaps all of them, will have concluded that Mrs. +Dempster was a little out of her mind. Such, indeed, was the fact, and +one not greatly to be wondered at, after such a peculiar experience as +she had had. Some small degree of congestion, and the consequent +pressure on some portion of the brain, had sent certain faculties to +sleep, and, perhaps, roused others into morbid activity. That it is +impossible to tell where sanity ends and insanity begins, is a trite +remark indeed; but like many things which it is useless to say, it has +the more need to be thought of. If I yield to an impulse of which I +know I shall be ashamed, is it not the act of a madman? And may not +the act lead to a habit, and at length to a despised, perhaps feared +and hated, old age, twisting at the ragged ends of a miserable life? + +However certain it is that mental disorder had to do with Mrs. +Dempster's departure from her home, it is almost as certain she would +never have gone had it not been for the unpaid bills haunting her +consciousness, a combination of demon and ghost. The misery had all +the time been growing upon her, and must have had no small share in +the subversion of her microcosm. When that was effected, the evil +thing that lay at the root of it all rose and pounced upon her. Wrong +is its own avenger. She had been doing wrong, and knowingly for years, +and now the plant of evil was blossoming towards its fruit. If one say +the evil was but a trifle, I take her judgment, not his, upon that. +She had been lazy towards duty, had persistently turned aside from +what she knew to be her business, until she dared not even look at it. +And now that the crisis was at hand, as omened by that letter from the +butcher, with the sense of her wrong-doing was mingled the terror of +her husband. What would he think, say, and do? Not yet had she, after +all these years, any deep insight into his character; else perhaps she +might have read there that, much as he loved money, the pleasure of +seeing signal failure follow the neglect of his instructions would +quite compensate him for the loss. What the bills amounted to, she had +not an idea. Not until she had made up her mind to leave her home +could she muster the courage to get them together. Then she even +counted up the total and set down the sum in her memory--which sum +thereafter haunted her like the name of her devil. + +As to the making up of her mind--she could remember very little of +that process--or indeed of the turning of her resolve into action. She +left the house in the plainest dress her wardrobe could afford her, +and with just one half-crown in her pocket. Her design was to seek a +situation, as a refuge from her husband and his wrath. It was a +curious thing, that, while it gave her no trouble to leave her baby, +whom indeed she had not that day seen, and to whom for some time she +had ceased to be necessary, her only notion was to get a place as +nurse. + +At that time, I presume, there were few or no such offices for +engaging servants as are now common; at all events, the plan Mrs. +Dempster took, when she had reached a part of London she judged +sufficiently distant for her purpose, was to go from shop to shop +inquiring after a situation. But she met with no prospect of success, +and at last, greatly in need of rest and refreshment, went into a +small coffee shop. The woman who kept it was taken by her appearance, +her manners, and her evident trouble, and, happening to have heard of +a lady who wanted a nurse, gave her the address. She went at once, and +applied for the place. The lady was much pleased with her, and agreed +to take her, provided she received a satisfactory character of her. +For such a demand Mrs. Dempster was unprepared; she had never thought +what reference she could give, and, her resources for deception easily +exhausted, gave, driven to extremity, the name and address of her +mother. So met the extremes of loss and salvation! She returned to the +coffee shop, and the lady wrote at once to the address of the young +woman's late mistress, as she supposed. + +The kindness of her new friend was not exhausted; she gave her a share +of her own bed that night. Mrs. Dempster had now but two shillings, +which she offered her, promising to pay her the rest out of the first +wages she received. But the good woman would take no more than one of +them, and that in full payment of what she owed her, and Mrs. Dempster +left the shop in tears, to linger about the neighbourhood until the +hour should arrive at which the lady had told her to call again. +Apparently she must have cherished the hope that her mother, divining +her extremity, would give her the character she could honestly claim. +But as she drew near the door which she hoped would prove a refuge, +her mother was approaching it also, and at the turning of a corner +they ran into each other's arms. The elderly lady had a hackney coach +waiting for her in the next street, and Mrs. Dempster, too tired to +resist, got into it at once at her mother's desire. Ere they reached +the mother's house, which, as I have said, was a long way from Mr. +Dempster's, the daughter told everything, and the mother had perceived +more than the daughter could tell: her eyes had revealed that all was +not right behind them. She soothed her as none but a mother can, +easily persuading her she would make everything right, and undertaking +herself to pay the money owing to the butcher. But it was soon evident +that for the present there must be no suggestion of her going back to +her husband; for, imagining from something, that her mother was taking +her to him, she jumped up and had all but opened the door of the cab +when her mother succeeded in mastering her. As soon as she was +persuaded that such had never been the intention, she was quiet. When +they reached the house she was easily induced to go to bed at once. + +Her mother lived in a very humble way, with one servant, a trustworthy +woman. To her she confided the whole story, and with her consulted as +to what had better be done. Between them they resolved to keep her, +for a while at least, in retirement and silence. To this conclusion +they came on the following grounds: First, the daughter's terror and +the mother's own fear of Mr. Dempster; next, it must be confessed, the +resentment of both mistress and servant because of his rudeness when +he came to inquire after her; third, the evident condition of the poor +creature's mind; and last, the longing of the two women to have her to +themselves, that they might nurse and cosset her to their hearts' +content. + +They were to have more of this indulgence, however, than, for her +sake, they would have desired, for before morning she was very ill. +She had brain fever, in fact, and they had their hands full, +especially as they desired to take every precaution to prevent the +neighbourhood from knowing there was any one but themselves in the +house. + +It was a severe attack, but she passed the crisis favourably, and +began to recover. One morning, after a quieter night than usual, she +called her mother, and told her she had had a strange dream--that she +had a baby somewhere, but could not find him, and was wandering about +looking for him. + +"Wasn't it a curious dream, mamma?" she said. "I wish it were a true +one. I knew exactly what my baby was like, and went into house after +house full of children, sure that I could pick him out of thousands. I +was just going up to the door of the Foundling Hospital to look for +him there when I woke." + +As she ceased, a strange trouble passed like a cloud over her forehead +and eyes, and her hand, worn almost transparent by the fever followed +it over forehead and eyes. She seemed trying to recall something +forgotten. But her mother thought it better to say nothing. + +Each of the two nights following she had the same dream. + +"Three times, mother," she said. "I am not superstitious, as you know, +but I can't help feeling as if it must mean something. I don't know +what to make of it else--except it be that I haven't got over the +fever yet. And, indeed, I am afraid my head is not quite right, for I +can't be sure sometimes, such a hold has my dream of me, that I +haven't got a baby somewhere about the world. Give me your hand, +mother, and sing to me." + +Still her mother thought it more prudent to say nothing, and do what +she could to divert her thoughts; for she judged it must be better to +let her brain come right, as it were, of itself. + +In the middle of the next night she woke her with a cry. + +"O, mother, mother! I know it all now. I am not out of my mind any +more. How I came here I cannot tell--but I know I have a husband and a +baby at Hackney--and--oh, such a horrible roll of butcher's bills!" + +"Yes, yes, my dear! I know all about it," answered her mother. "But +never mind; you can pay them all yourself now, for I heard only +yesterday that your aunt Lucy is dead, and has left you the hundred +pounds she promised you twenty years ago." + +"Oh, bless her!" cried Mrs. Dempster, springing out of bed, much to +the dismay of her mother, who boded a return of the fever. "I must go +home to my baby at once. But tell me all about it, mamma. How did I +come here? I seem to remember being in a carriage with you, and that +is the last I know." + +Then, upon condition that she got into bed at once, and promised not +to move until she gave her leave, her mother consented to tell her all +she knew. She listened in silence, with face flushed and eyes glowing, +but drank a cooling draught, lay down again, and at daybreak was fast +asleep. When she awoke she was herself again. + + + + +CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME OF IT. + + +Meantime, things were going, as they should, in rather a dull fashion +with Duncan Dempster. His chariot wheels were gone, and he drove +heavily. The weather was good; he seldom failed of the box-seat on the +omnibus; a ray of light, the first he had ever seen there, visited his +table, reflected from a new window on the opposite side of a court +into the heart of his dismal back office; and best of all, business +was better than usual. Yet was Dempster not cheerful. He was not, +indeed, a man an acquaintance would ever have thought of calling +cheerful; but in grays there are gradations; and however differently a +man's barometer may be set from those of other people, it has its ups +and downs, its fair weather and foul. But not yet had he an idea how +much his mental equilibrium had been dependent upon the dim +consciousness of having that quiet uninterested wife in the +comfortable house at Hackney. It had been stronger than it seemed, the +spidery, invisible line connecting that office and that house, along +which had run twice a day the hard dumpling that dwelt in Mr. +Dempster's bosom. Vaguely connected with that home after all must have +been that endless careful gathering of treasure in the city; for now, +though he could no more stop making money than he could stop +breathing, it had not the same interest as formerly. Indeed, he had +less interest than before in keeping his lungs themselves going. But +he kept on doing everything as usual. + +Not one of the men he met ever said a word to him about his wife. The +general impression was that she had left him for preferable society, +and no one wondered at her throwing aside such "a dry old stick," whom +even the devoted slaves of business contemned as having nothing in him +but business. + +A further change was, however, in progress within him. The first sign +of it was that he began to doubt whether his wife had indeed been +false to him--had forsaken him in any other company than that of +Death. But there was one great difficulty in the way of the +conclusion. It was impossible for him to imagine suicide as proceeding +from any cause but insanity, and what could have produced the disorder +in one who had no cares or anxieties, everything she wanted, and +nothing to trouble her, a devoted husband, and a happy home? Yet the +mere idea made him think more pitifully, and so more tenderly of her +than before. It had not yet occurred to him to consider whether he +might not have had something to do with her conduct or condition. +Blame was a thing he had never made acquaintance with--least of all in +the form of self-blame. To himself he was simply all right--the poised +centre of things capable of righteous judgment on every one else. But +it must not be forgotten how little he knew about his own affairs at +all; his was a very different condition from that of one who had +closed his eyes and hardened his heart to suspicions concerning +himself. His eyes had never yet been opened to anything but the order +of things in the money world--its laws, its penalties, its +rewards--those he did understand. But apparently he was worth +troubling. A slow dissatisfaction was now preying upon him--a sense of +want--of not having something he once had, a vague discomfort, growing +restless. This feeling was no doubt the worse that the birth of the +child had brought such a sudden rush of fresh interest into his +occupation, which doubt concerning that birth had again so suddenly +checked; but even if the child should prove after all his own, a +supposition he was now willing to admit as possibly a true one, he +could never without his mother feel any enthusiasm about him, even +such enthusiasm as might be allowed to a man who knew money from +moonshine, and common sense from hysterics. Yet once and again, about +this time, the nurse coming into the room after a few minutes' +absence, found him bending over the sleeping infant, and, as she +described him, "looking as if he would have cried if he had only known +how." + +One frosty evening in late autumn the forsaken husband came from +London--I doubt if he would now have said "home"--as usual, on the top +of the omnibus. His was a tough nature physically, as well as morally, +and if he had found himself inside an omnibus he would have thought he +was going to die. The sun was down. A green hue rose from the horizon +half-way to the zenith, but a pale yellow lingered over the vanished +sun, like the gold at the bottom of a chrysolite. The stars were +twinkling small and sharp in the azure overhead. A cold wind blew in +little gusts, now from this side, now from that, as they went steadily +along. The horses' hoofs rang loud on the hard road. The night got +hold of him: it was at this season, and on nights like these, that he +had haunted the house of Lucy's father, doing his best to persuade her +to make him, as he said, a happy man. It now seemed as if then, and +then only, he had been a happy man. Certainly, of all his life, it was +the time when he came nearest to having a peep out of the upper +windows of the house of life. He had been a dweller in the lower +regions, a hewer of wood to the god of the cellar; and after his +marriage, he had gone straight down again to the temple of the earthy +god--to a worship whose god and temple and treasure caves will one day +drop suddenly from under the votary's feet, and leave him dangling in +the air without even a pocket about him--without even his banker's +book to show for his respectability. + +The night, I say, recalled the lovely season of his courtship, and +again, in the mirror of loss, he caught a glimpse of things beyond +him. Ah, if only that time and its hopes had remained with him! How +different things would have been now! If Lucy had proved what he +thought her!--remained what she seemed--the gentle, complaisant, +yielding lady he imagined her, promising him a life of bliss! Alas, +she would not even keep account of five pounds a week to please him! +He never thought whether he, on his part, might not have, in some +measure, come short of her expectations in a husband; whether she, the +more lovely in inward design and outward fashion, might not have +indulged yet more exquisite dreams of bliss which, by devotion to his +ideal of life, he had done his part in disappointing. He only thought +what a foolishness it all was; that thus it would go on to the end of +the book; that youth after youth would have his turn of such a wooing, +and such a disappointment. Sunsets, indeed! The suns of man's +happiness never did anything but set! Out of money even--and who could +say there was any poetry in that?--there was not half the satisfaction +to be got that one expected. It was all a mess of expectations and +disappointments mashed up together--nothing more. That was the +world--on a fair judgment. + +Such were his reflections till the driver pulled up for him to get +down at his own gate. As he got down the said driver glanced up +curiously at the row of windows on the first floor, and as soon as Mr. +Dempster's back was turned, pointed to them with the butt-end of his +whip, and nodded queerly to the gentleman who sat on his other side. + +"That's more'n I've seen this six weeks," he said. "There's something +more'n common up this evenin', sir." + +There was light in the drawing-room--that was all the wonder; but at +those windows Mr. Dempster himself looked so fixedly that he had +nearly stumbled up his own door-steps. + +He carried a latch-key now, for he did not care to stand at the door +till the boy answered the bell; people's eyes, as they passed, seemed +to burn holes in the back of his coat. + +He opened the street door quietly, and went straight up the stair to +the drawing-room. Perhaps he thought to detect some liberty taken by +his servants. He was a little earlier than usual. He opened that door, +took two steps into the room, and stood arrested, motionless. With his +shabby hat on his head, his shabby greatcoat on his back--for he +grudged every penny spent on his clothes--his arms hanging down by his +sides, and his knees bent, ready to tremble, he looked not a little +out of keeping in the soft-lighted, dainty, delicate-hued +drawing-room. Could he believe his eyes? The light of a large lamp was +centred upon a gracious figure in white--his wife, just as he used to +see her before he married her! That was the way her hair would break +loose as she ran down the stair to meet him!--only then there was no +baby in her lap for it to full over like a torrent of unlighted water +over a white stone! It was a lovely sight. + +He had stood but a moment when she looked up and saw him. She started, +but gave no cry louder than a little moan. Instantly she rose. +Turning, she laid the baby on the sofa, and flitted to him like a +wraith. Arrived where he stood yet motionless, she fell upon her knees +and clasped his. He was far too bewildered now to ask himself what +husbands did in such circumstances, and stood like a block. + +"Husband! husband!" she cried, "forgive me." With one hand she hid her +face, although it was bent to the ground, and with the other held up +to him a bit of paper. He took it from the thin white fingers; it +might explain something--help him out of this bewilderment, half +nightmare, half heavenly vision. He opened it. Nothing but a +hundred-pound note! The familiar sight of bank paper, however, seemed +to restore his speech. + +"What does this mean, Lucy? Upon my word! Permit me to say--" + +He was growing angry. + +"It is to pay the butcher," she said, with a faltering voice. + +"Damn the butcher!" he cried. "I hope you've got something else to say +to me! Where have you been all this time?" + +"At my mother's. I've had a brain fever, and been out of my mind. It +was all about the butcher's bill." + +Dempster stared. Perhaps he could not understand how a woman who would +not keep accounts should be to such a degree troubled at the result of +her neglect. + +"Look at me, if you don't believe me," she cried, and as she spoke she +rose and lifted her face to his. + +He gazed at it for a moment--pale, thin, and worn; and out of it shone +the beautiful eyes, larger than before, but shimmering uncertain like +the stars of a humid night, although they looked straight into his. + +Something queer was suddenly the matter with his throat--something +he had never felt before--a constriction such as, had he been +superstitious, he might have taken for the prologue to a rope. Then +the thought came--what a brute he must be that his wife should have +been afraid to tell him her trouble! Thereupon he tried to speak, but +his throat was irresponsive to his will. Eve's apple kept sliding up +and down in it, and would not let the words out. He had never been so +served by members of his own body in his life before! It was positive +rebellion, and would get him into trouble with his wife. There it was! +Didn't he say so? + +"Can't you forgive me, Mr. Dempster?" she said, and the voice was so +sweet and so sad! "It is my own money. Aunt Lucy is dead, and left it +me. I think it will be enough to pay all my debts; and I promise +you--I do promise you that I will set down every halfpenny after this. +Do try me once again--for baby's sake." + +This last was a sudden thought. She turned and ran to the sofa. +Dempster stood where he was, fighting the strange uncomfortable +feeling in his throat. It would not yield a jot. Was he going to die +suddenly of choking? Was it a judgment upon him? Diphtheria, perhaps! +It was much about in the City! + +She was back, and holding up to him their sleeping child. + +The poor fellow was not half the brute he looked--only he could _not_ +tell what to do with that confounded lump in his throat! He dared not +try to speak, for it only choked him the more. He put his arms round +them both, and pressed them to his bosom. Then, the lump in his throat +melted and ran out at his eyes, and all doubt vanished like a mist +before the sun. But he never knew that he had wept. His wife did, and +that was enough. + +The next morning, for the first time in his life, he lost the eight +o'clock omnibus. + +The following Monday morning she brought her week's account to him. He +turned from it testily, but she insisted on his going over it. There +was not the mistake of a halfpenny. He went to town with a smile in +his heart, and that night brought her home a cheque for ten pounds +instead of five. + +One day, in the middle of the same week, he came upon her sitting over +the little blue-and-red-ruled book with a troubled countenance. She +took no notice of his entrance. + +"Do leave those accounts," he said, "and attend to me." + +She shook her head impatiently, and made him no other answer. One +moment more, however, and she started up, threw her arms about his +neck, and cried triumphantly, + +"It's buttons!--fourpence-halfpenny I paid for buttons!" + + + + +PORT IN A STORM + + +"Papa," said my sister Effie, one evening as we all sat about the +drawing-room fire. One after another, as nothing followed, we turned +our eyes upon her. There she sat, still silent, embroidering the +corner of a cambric hand-kerchief, apparently unaware that she had +spoken. + +It was a very cold night in the beginning of winter. My father had +come home early, and we had dined early that we might have a long +evening together, for it was my father's and mother's wedding-day, and +we always kept it as the homeliest of holidays. My father was seated +in an easy-chair by the chimney corner, with a jug of Burgundy near +him, and my mother sat by his side, now and then taking a sip out of +his glass. + +Effie was now nearly nineteen; the rest of us were younger. What she +was thinking about we did not know then, though we could all guess +now. Suddenly she looked up, and seeing all eyes fixed upon her, +became either aware or suspicious, and blushed rosy red. + +"You spoke to me, Effie. What was it, my dear?" + +"O yes, papa. I wanted to ask you whether you wouldn't tell us, +to-night, the story about how you--" + +"Well, my love?" + +"--About how you--" + +"I am listening, my dear." + +"I mean, about mamma and you." + +"Yes, yes. About how I got your mamma for a mother to you. Yes. I paid +a dozen of port for her." + +We all and each exclaimed _Papa_! and my mother laughed. + +"Tell us all about it," was the general cry. + +"Well, I will," answered my father. "I must begin at the beginning, +though." + +And, filling his glass with Burgundy, he began. + +"As far back as I can remember, I lived with my father in an old +manor-house in the country. It did not belong to my father, but to an +elder brother of his, who at that time was captain of a seventy-four. +He loved the sea more than his life; and, as yet apparently, had loved +his ship better than any woman. At least he was not married. + +"My mother had been dead for some years, and my father was now in very +delicate health. He had never been strong, and since my mother's +death, I believe, though I was too young to notice it, he had pined +away. I am not going to tell you anything about him just now, because +it does not belong to my story. When I was about five years old, as +nearly as I can judge, the doctors advised him to leave England. The +house was put into the hands of an agent to let--at least, so I +suppose; and he took me with him to Madeira, where he died. I was +brought home by his servant, and by my uncle's directions, sent to a +boarding-school; from there to Eton, and from there to Oxford. + +"Before I had finished my studies, my uncle had been an admiral for +some time. The year before I left Oxford, he married Lady Georgiana +Thornbury, a widow lady, with one daughter. Thereupon he bade farewell +to the sea, though I dare say he did not like the parting, and retired +with his bride to the house where he was born--the same house I told +you I was born in, which had been in the family for many generations, +and which your cousin now lives in. + +"It was late in the autumn when they arrived at Culverwood. They were +no sooner settled than my uncle wrote to me, inviting me to spend +Christmas-tide with them at the old place. And here you may see that +my story has arrived at its beginning. + +"It was with strange feelings that I entered the house. It looked so +old-fashioned, and stately, and grand, to eyes which had been +accustomed to all the modern commonplaces! Yet the shadowy +recollections which hung about it gave an air of homeliness to the +place, which, along with the grandeur, occasioned a sense of rare +delight. For what can be better than to feel that you are in stately +company, and at the same time perfectly at home in it? I am grateful +to this day for the lesson I had from the sense of which I have +spoken--that of mingled awe and tenderness in the aspect of the old +hall as I entered it for the first time after fifteen years, having +left it a mere child. + +"I was cordially received by my old uncle and my new aunt. But the +moment Kate Thornbury entered I lost my heart, and have never found it +again to this day. I get on wonderfully well without it, though, for I +have got the loan of a far better one till I find my own, which, +therefore, I hope I never shall." + +My father glanced at my mother as he said this, and she returned his +look in a way which I can now interpret as a quiet satisfied +confidence. But the tears came in Effie's eyes. She had trouble before +long, poor girl! But it is not her story I have to tell.--My father +went on: + +"Your mother was prettier then than she is now, but not so beautiful; +beautiful enough, though, to make me think there never had been or +could again be anything so beautiful. She met me kindly, and I met her +awkwardly." + +"You made me feel that I had no business there," said my mother, +speaking for the first time in the course of the story. + +"See there, girls," said my father. "You are always so confident in +first impressions, and instinctive judgment! I was awkward because, as +I said, I fell in love with your mother the moment I saw her; and she +thought I regarded her as an intruder into the old family precincts. + +"I will not follow the story of the days. I was very happy, except +when I felt too keenly how unworthy I was of Kate Thornbury; not that +she meant to make me feel it, for she was never other than kind; but +she was such that I could not help feeling it. I gathered courage, +however, and before three days were over, I began to tell her all my +slowly reviving memories of the place, with my childish adventures +associated with this and that room or outhouse or spot in the grounds; +for the longer I was in the place the more my old associations with it +revived, till I was quite astonished to find how much of my history in +connection with Culverwood had been thoroughly imprinted on my memory. +She never showed, at least, that she was weary of my stories; which, +however interesting to me, must have been tiresome to any one who did +not sympathize with what I felt towards my old nest. From room to room +we rambled, talking or silent; and nothing could have given me a +better chance, I believe, with a heart like your mother's. I think it +was not long before she began to like me, at least, and liking had +every opportunity of growing into something stronger, if only she too +did not come to the conclusion that I was unworthy of her. + +"My uncle received me like the jolly old tar that he was--welcomed me +to the old ship--hoped we should make many a voyage together--and that +I would take the run of the craft--all but in one thing. + +"'You see, my boy,' he said, 'I married above my station, and I don't +want my wife's friends to say that I laid alongside of her to get hold +of her daughter's fortune. No, no, my boy; your old uncle has too much +salt water in him to do a dog's trick like that. So you take care of +yourself--that's all. She might turn the head of a wiser man than ever +came out of our family.' + +"I did not tell my uncle that his advice was already too late; for +that, though it was not an hour since I had first seen her, my head +was so far turned already, that the only way to get it right again, +was to go on turning it in the same direction; though, no doubt, there +was a danger of overhauling the screw. The old gentleman never +referred to the matter again, nor took any notice of our increasing +intimacy; so that I sometimes doubt even now if he could have been in +earnest in the very simple warning he gave me. Fortunately, Lady +Georgiana liked me--at least I thought she did, and that gave me +courage. + +"That's all nonsense, my dear," said my mother. "Mamma was nearly as +fond of you as I was; but you never wanted courage." + +"I knew better than to show my cowardice, I dare say," returned my +father. "But," he continued, "things grew worse and worse, till I was +certain I should kill myself, or go straight out of my mind, if your +mother would not have me. So it went on for a few days, and Christmas +was at hand. + +"The admiral had invited several old friends to come and spend the +Christmas week with him. Now you must remember that, although you look +on me as an old-fashioned fogie--" + +"Oh, papa!" we all interrupted; but he went on. + +"Yet my old uncle was an older-fashioned fogie, and his friends were +much the same as himself. Now, I am fond of a glass of port, though I +dare not take it, and must content myself with Burgundy. Uncle Bob +would have called Burgundy pig-wash. He could not do without his port, +though he was a moderate enough man, as customs were. Fancy, then, his +dismay when, on questioning his butler, an old coxen of his own, and +after going down to inspect in person, he found that there was +scarcely more than a dozen of port in the wine-cellar. He turned white +with dismay, and, till he had brought the blood back to his +countenance by swearing, he was something awful to behold in the dim +light of the tallow candle old Jacob held in his tattooed fist. I will +not repeat the words he used; fortunately, they are out of fashion +amongst gentlemen, although ladies, I understand, are beginning to +revive the custom, now old, and always ugly. Jacob reminded his honour +that he would not have more put down till he had got a proper cellar +built, for the one there was, he had said, was not fit to put anything +but dead men in. Thereupon, after abusing Jacob for not reminding him +of the necessities of the coming season, he turned to me, and began, +certainly not to swear at his own father, but to expostulate sideways +with the absent shade for not having provided a decent cellar before +his departure from this world of dinners and wine, hinting that it was +somewhat selfish, and very inconsiderate of the welfare of those who +were to come after him. Having a little exhausted his indignation, he +came up, and wrote the most peremptory order to his wine-merchant, in +Liverpool, to let him have thirty dozen of port before Christmas Day, +even if he had to send it by post-chaise. I took the letter to the +post myself, for the old man would trust nobody but me, and indeed +would have preferred taking it himself; but in winter he was always +lame from the effects of a bruise he had received from a falling spar +in the battle of Aboukir. + +"That night I remember well. I lay in bed wondering whether I might +venture to say a word, or even to give a hint to your mother that +there was a word that pined to be said if it might. All at once I +heard a whine of the wind in the old chimney. How well I knew that +whine! For my kind aunt had taken the trouble to find out from me what +room I had occupied as a boy, and, by the third night I spent there, +she had got it ready for me. I jumped out of bed, and found that the +snow was falling fast and thick. I jumped into bed again, and began +wondering what my uncle would do if the port did not arrive. And then +I thought that, if the snow went on falling as it did, and if the wind +rose any higher, it might turn out that the roads through the hilly +part of Yorkshire in which Culverwood lay, might very well be blocked +up. + + "The north wind doth blow, + And we shall have snow, +And what will my uncle do then, poor thing? + He'll run for his port, + But he will run short, +And have too much water to drink, poor thing! + +"With the influences of the chamber of my childhood crowding upon me, +I kept repenting the travestied rhyme to myself, till I fell asleep. + +"Now, boys and girls, if I were writing a novel, I should like to make +you, somehow or other, put together the facts--that I was in the room +I have mentioned; that I had been in the cellar with my uncle for the +first time that evening; that I had seen my uncle's distress, and +heard his reflections upon his father. I may add that I was not +myself, even then, so indifferent to the merits of a good glass of +port as to be unable to enter into my uncle's dismay, and that of his +guests at last, if they should find that the snow-storm had actually +closed up the sweet approaches of the expected port. If I was +personally indifferent to the matter, I fear it is to be attributed to +your mother, and not to myself." + +"Nonsense!" interposed my mother once more. "I never knew such a man +for making little of himself and much of other people. You never drank +a glass too much port in your life." + +"That's why I'm so fond of it, my dear," returned my father. "I +declare you make me quite discontented with my pig-wash here. + +"That night I had a dream. + +"The next day the visitors began to arrive. Before the evening after, +they had all come. There were five of them--three tars and two +land-crabs, as they called each other when they got jolly, which, +by-the-way, they would not have done long without me. + +"My uncle's anxiety visibly increased. Each guest, as he came down to +breakfast, received each morning a more constrained greeting.--I beg +your pardon, ladies; I forgot to mention that my aunt had +lady-visitors, of course. But the fact is, it is only the +port-drinking visitors in whom my story is interested, always excepted +your mother. + +"These ladies my admiral uncle greeted with something even approaching +to servility. I understood him well enough. He instinctively sought to +make a party to protect him when the awful secret of his cellar should +be found out. But for two preliminary days or so, his resources would +serve; for he had plenty of excellent claret and Madeira--stuff I +don't know much about--and both Jacob and himself condescended to +manoeuvre a little. + +"The wine did not arrive. But the morning of Christmas Eve did. I was +sitting in my room, trying to write a song for Kate--that's your +mother, my dears--" + +"I know, papa," said Effie, as if she were very knowing to know that. + +"--when my uncle came into the room, looking like Sintram with Death +and the Other One after him--that's the nonsense you read to me the +other day, isn't it; Effie?" + +"Not nonsense, dear papa," remonstrated Effie; and I loved her for +saying it, for surely _that_ is not nonsense. + +"I didn't mean it," said my father; and turning to my mother, added: +"It must be your fault, my dear, that my children are so serious that +they always take a joke for earnest. However, it was no joke with my +uncle. If he didn't look like Sintram he looked like t'other one. + +"'The roads are frozen--I mean snowed up,' he said. 'There's just one +bottle of port left, and what Captain Calker will say--I dare say I +know, but I'd rather not. Damn this weather!--God forgive me!--that's +not right--but it is trying--ain't it, my boy?' + +"'What will you give me for a dozen of port, uncle?' was all my +answer. + +"'Give you? I'll give you Culverwood, you rogue.' + +"'Done,' I cried. + +"'That is,' stammered my uncle, 'that is,' and he reddened like the +funnel of one of his hated steamers, 'that is, you know, always +provided, you know. It wouldn't be fair to Lady Georgiana, now, would +it? I put it to yourself--if she took the trouble, you know. You +understand me, my boy?' + +"'That's of course, uncle,' I said. + +"'Ah! I see you're a gentleman like your father, not to trip a man +when he stumbles,' said my uncle. For such was the dear old man's +sense of honour, that he was actually uncomfortable about the hasty +promise he had made without first specifying the exception. The +exception, you know, has Culverwood at the present hour, and right +welcome he is. + +"'Of course, uncle,' I said--'between gentlemen, you know. Still, I +want my joke out, too. What will you give me for a dozen of port to +tide you over Christmas Day?' + +"'Give you, my boy? I'll give you--' + +"But here he checked himself, as one that had been burned already. + +"'Bah!' he said, turning his back, and going towards the door; 'what's +the use of joking about serious affairs like this?' + +"And so he left the room. And I let him go. For I had heard that the +road from Liverpool was impassable, the wind and snow having continued +every day since that night of which I told you. Meantime, I had never +been able to summon the courage to say one word to your mother--I beg +her pardon, I mean Miss Thornbury. + +"Christmas Day arrived. My uncle was awful to behold. His friends were +evidently anxious about him. They thought he was ill. There was such a +hesitation about him, like a shark with a bait, and such a flurry, +like a whale in his last agonies. He had a horrible secret which he +dared not tell, and which yet _would_ come out of its grave at the +appointed hour. + +"Down in the kitchen the roast beef and turkey were meeting their deserts. +Up in the store-room--for Lady Georgiana was not above housekeeping, any +more than her daughter--the ladies of the house were doing their part; +and I was oscillating between my uncle and his niece, making myself +amazingly useful now to one and now to the other. The turkey and the beef +were on the table, nay, they had been well eaten, before I felt that my +moment was come. Outside, the wind was howling, and driving the snow with +soft pats against the window-panes. Eager-eyed I watched General +Fortescue, who despised sherry or Madeira even during dinner, and would +no more touch champagne than he would _eau sucree_, but drank port after +fish or with cheese indiscriminately--with eager eyes I watched how the +last bottle dwindled out its fading life in the clear decanter. Glass +after glass was supplied to General Fortescue by the fearless cockswain, +who, if he might have had his choice, would rather have boarded a +Frenchman than waited for what was to follow. My uncle scarcely ate at +all, and the only thing that stopped his face from growing longer with +the removal of every dish was that nothing but death could have made it +longer than it was already. It was my interest to let matters go as far +as they might up to a certain point, beyond which it was not my interest +to let them go, if I could help it. At the same time I was curious to +know how my uncle would announce--confess the terrible fact that in his +house, on Christmas Day, having invited his oldest friends to share with +him the festivities of the season, there was not one bottle more of port +to be had. + +"I waited till the last moment--till I fancied the admiral was opening +his mouth; like a fish in despair, to make his confession. He had not +even dared to make a confidante of his wife in such an awful dilemma. +Then I pretended to have dropped my table-napkin behind my chair, and +rising to seek it, stole round behind my uncle, and whispered in his +ear: + +"'What will you give me for a dozen of port now, uncle?' + +"'Bah!' he said, 'I'm at the gratings; don't torture me.' + +"'I'm in earnest, uncle.' + +"He looked round at me with a sudden flash of bewildered hope in his +eye. In the last agony he was capable of believing in a miracle. But +he made me no reply. He only stared. + +"'Will you give me Kate? I want Kate,' I whispered. + +"'I will, my boy. That is, if she'll have you. That is, I mean to say, +if you produce the true tawny.' + +"'Of course, uncle; honour bright--as port in a storm,' I answered, +trembling in my shoes and everything else I had on, for I was not more +than three parts confident in the result. + +"The gentlemen beside Kate happening at the moment to be occupied, +each with the lady on his other side, I went behind her, and whispered +to her as I had whispered to my uncle, though not exactly in the same +terms. Perhaps I had got a little courage from the champagne I had +drunk; perhaps the presence of the company gave me a kind of mesmeric +strength; perhaps the excitement of the whole venture kept me up; +perhaps Kate herself gave me courage, like a goddess of old, in some +way I did not understand. At all events I said to her: + +"'Kate,'--we had got so far even then--'my uncle hasn't another bottle +of port in his cellar. Consider what a state General Fortescue will be +in soon. He'll be tipsy for want of it. Will you come and help me to +find a bottle or two?' + +"She rose at once, with a white-rose blush--so delicate I don't +believe any one saw it but myself. But the shadow of a stray ringlet +could not fall on her cheek without my seeing it. + +"When we got into the hall, the wind was roaring loud, and the few +lights were flickering and waving gustily with alternate light and +shade across the old portraits which I had known so well as a +child--for I used to think what each would say first, if he or she +came down out of the frame and spoke to me. + +"I stopped, and taking Kate's hand, I said-- + +"'I daren't let you come farther, Kate, before I tell you another +thing: my uncle has promised, if I find him a dozen of port--you must +have seen what a state the poor man is in--to let me say something to +you--I suppose he meant your mamma, but I prefer saying it to you, if +you will let me. Will you come and help me to find the port?' + +"She said nothing, but took up a candle that was on a table in the +hall, and stood waiting. I ventured to look at her. Her face was now +celestial rosy red, and I could not doubt that she had understood me. +She looked so beautiful that I stood staring at her without moving. +What the servants could have been about that not one of them crossed +the hall, I can't think. + +"At last Kate laughed and said--'Well?' I started, and I dare say took +my turn at blushing. At least I did not know what to say. I had +forgotten all about the guests inside. 'Where's the port?' said Kate. +I caught hold of her hand again and kissed it." + +"You needn't be quite so minute in your account, my dear," said my +mother, smiling. + +"I will be more careful in future, my love," returned my father. + +"'What do you want me to do?' said Kate. + +"'Only to hold the candle for me,' I answered, restored to my seven +senses at last; and, taking it from her, I led the way, and she +followed, till we had passed through the kitchen and reached the +cellar-stairs. These were steep and awkward, and she let me help her +down." + +"Now, Edward!" said my mother. + +"Yes, yes, my love, I understand," returned my father. + +"Up to this time your mother had asked no questions; but when we stood +in a vast, low cellar, which we had made several turns to reach, and I +gave her the candle, and took up a great crowbar which lay on the +floor, she said at last-- + +"'Edward, are you going to bury me alive? or what _are_ you going to +do?' + +"'I'm going to dig you out,' I said, for I was nearly beside myself +with joy, as I struck the crowbar like a battering-ram into the wall. +You can fancy, John, that I didn't work the worse that Kate was +holding the candle for me. + +"Very soon, though with great effort, I had dislodged a brick, and the +next blow I gave into the hole sent back a dull echo. I was right! + +"I worked now like a madman, and, in a very few minutes more, I had +dislodged the whole of the brick-thick wall which filled up an archway +of stone and curtained an ancient door in the lock of which the key +now showed itself. It had been well greased, and I turned it without +much difficulty. + +"I took the candle from Kate, and led her into a spacious region of +sawdust, cobweb, and wine-fungus. + +"'There, Kate!' I cried, in delight. + +"'But,' said Kate, 'will the wine be good?' + +"'General Fortescue will answer you that,' I returned, exultantly. +'Now come, and hold the light again while I find the port-bin.' + +"I soon found not one, but several well-filled port-bins. Which to +choose I could not tell. I must chance that. Kate carried a bottle and +the candle, and I carried two bottles very carefully. We put them down +in the kitchen with orders they should not be touched. We had soon +carried the dozen to the hall-table by the dining-room door. + +"When at length, with Jacob chuckling and rubbing his hands behind us, +we entered the dining-room, Kate and I, for Kate would not part with +her share in the joyful business, loaded with a level bottle in each +hand, which we carefully erected on the sideboard, I presume, from the +stare of the company, that we presented a rather remarkable +appearance--Kate in her white muslin, and I in my best clothes, +covered with brick-dust, and cobwebs, and lime. But we could not be +half so amusing to them as they were to us. There they sat with the +dessert before them but no wine-decanters forthcoming. How long they +had sat thus, I have no idea. If you think your mamma has, you may ask +her. Captain Calker and General Fortescue looked positively white +about the gills. My uncle, clinging to the last hope, despairingly, +had sat still and said nothing, and the guests could not understand +the awful delay. Even Lady Georgiana had begun to fear a mutiny in the +kitchen, or something equally awful. But to see the flash that passed +across my uncle's face, when he saw us appear with _ported arms_! He +immediately began to pretend that nothing had been the matter. + +"'What the deuce has kept you, Ned, my boy?' he said. 'Fair Hebe,' he +went on, 'I beg your pardon. Jacob, you can go on decanting. It was +very careless of you to forget it. Meantime, Hebe, bring that bottle +to General Jupiter, there. He's got a corkscrew in the tail of his +robe, or I'm mistaken.' + +"Out came General Fortescue's corkscrew. I was trembling once more +with anxiety. The cork gave the genuine plop; the bottle was lowered; +glug, glug, glug, came from its beneficent throat, and out flowed +something tawny as a lion's mane. The general lifted it lazily to his +lips, saluting his nose on the way. + +"'Fifteen! by Gyeove!' he cried. 'Well, Admiral, this _was_ worth +waiting for! Take care how you decant that, Jacob--on peril of your +life.' + +"My uncle was triumphant. He winked hard at me not to tell. Kate and I +retired, she to change her dress, I to get mine well brushed, and my +hands washed. By the time I returned to the dining-room, no one had +any questions to ask. For Kate, the ladies had gone to the +drawing-room before she was ready, and I believe she had some +difficulty in keeping my uncle's counsel. But she did.--Need I say +that was the happiest Christmas I ever spent?" + +"But how did you find the cellar, papa?" asked Effie. + +"Where are your brains, Effie? Don't you remember I told you that I +had a dream?" + +"Yes. But you don't mean to say the existence of that wine-cellar was +revealed to you in a dream?" + +"But I do, indeed. I had seen the wine-cellar built up just before we +left for Madeira. It was my father's plan for securing the wine when +the house was let. And very well it turned out for the wine, and me +too. I had forgotten all about it. Everything had conspired to bring +it to my memory, but had just failed of success. I had fallen asleep +under all the influences I told you of--influences from the region of +my childhood. They operated still when I was asleep, and, all other +distracting influences being removed, at length roused in my sleeping +brain the memory of what I had seen. In the morning I remembered not +my dream only, but the event of which my dream was a reproduction. +Still, I was under considerable doubt about the place, and in this I +followed the dream only, as near as I could judge. + +"The admiral kept his word, and interposed no difficulties between +Kate and me. Not that, to tell the truth, I was ever very anxious +about that rock ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidious +honour or pride might have occasioned a considerable interference with +our happiness for a time. As it turned out, he could not leave me +Culverwood, and I regretted the fact as little as he did himself. His +gratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming occasionally +ludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. I do not believe he could have +been more grateful if I had saved his ship and its whole crew. For his +hospitality was at stake. Kind old man!" + +Here ended my father's story, with a light sigh, a gaze into the +bright coals, a kiss of my mother's hand which he held in his, and +another glass of Burgundy. + + + + +IF I HAD A FATHER. + +A DRAMA. + + +ACT I. + +SCENE.--_A Sculptor's studio_. ARTHUR GERVAISE _working at a clay +figure and humming a tune. A knock_. + + +_Ger._ Come in. (_Throws a wet cloth over the clay. Enter_ WARREN _by +the door communicating with the house_.) Ah, Warren! How do you do? + +_War._ How are you, Gervaise? I'm delighted to see you once more. I +have but just heard of your return. + +_Ger._ I've been home but a fortnight. I was just thinking of you. + +_War._ I was certain I should find you at work. + +_Ger._ You see my work can go on by any light. It is more independent +than yours. + +_War._ I wish it weren't, then. + +_Ger._ Why? + +_War._ Because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your +den sometimes. + +_Ger._ Like any other wild beast when the dark falls--eh? + +_War._ Just so. + +_Ger._ And where the good? + +_War._ Why shouldn't you roar a little now and then like other honest +lions? + +_Ger._ I doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond roaring. + +_War._ And I doubt whether the lion that won't even whisk his tail, +will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his +while to keep a cage in London. + +_Ger._ I certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work. + +_War._ What is it now? + +_Ger._ Oh, nothing!--only a little fancy of my own. + +_War._ There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw the +sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working +at--"Oh--a little fancy of my own!" + +_Ger._ I couldn't tell it was you coming. + +_War._ Let me see what you've been doing, then. + +_Ger._ Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet! + +_War._ (_approaching the figure_). Of course, of course! I understand +all that. + +_Ger._ (_laying his hand on his arm_). Excuse me: I would rather not +show it. + +_War._ I beg your pardon.--I couldn't believe you really meant it. + +_Ger._ I'll show you the mould if you like. + +_War._ I don't know what you mean by that: you would never throw a wet +sheet over a cast! (GER. _lifts a painting from the floor and sets it +on an easel_. WAR. _regards it for a few moments in silence_.) Ah! by +Jove, Gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to +have been a painter. What a sky! And what a sea! Those blues and +greens--rich as a peacock's feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night! +The dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of +blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie like gems in the mineshaft +of the darkness! + +_Ger._ _You_ seem to have taken the wrong turn, Warren! _You_ ought to +have been a poet. + +_War._ Such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow's bend. + +_Ger._ I'm glad you like it. I do myself, though it falls short of my +intent sadly enough. + +_War._ But I don't for the life of me see what _this_ has to do with +_that_. You said something about a mould. + +_Ger._ I will tell you what I meant. Every individual aspect of nature +looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying that +of which itself only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in my +eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of the summer dawn; that +Aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my +Psyche. + +_War._ Under the sheet there? + +_Ger._ Yes. You shall see her some day; but to show your work too +soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner. + +_War._ Well, you've spoiled my picture. I shall go home and scrape my +canvas to the bone. + +_Ger._ On second thoughts, I will show you my Psyche. (_Uncovers the +clay_. WAR. _stands in admiration. Enter_ WATERFIELD _by same door_.) + +_Wat_. Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr. Gervaise, I hope I see +you well. + +_War._ Mr. Waterfield--an old friend of yours, Gervaise, I believe. + +_Ger._ I cannot appropriate the honour. + +_Wat_. I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it's six months ago, +Mr. Gervaise. Ha! (_using his eye-glass_) What a charming figure! A +Psyche! Wings suggested by--Very skilful! Contour lovely! Altogether +antique in pose and expression!--Is she a commission? + +_Ger._ No. + +_Wat_. Then I beg you will consider her one. + +_Ger._ Excuse me; I never work on commission--at least never in this +kind. A bust or two I have done. + +_Wat_. By Jove!--I _should_ like to see your model!--This is perfect. +Are you going to carve her? + +_Ger._ Possibly. + +_Wat_. Uncommissioned? + +_Ger._ If at all. + +_Wat_. Well, I can't call it running any risk. What lines!--You will +let me drop in some day when you've got your model here? + +_Ger._ Impossible. + +_Wat_. You don't mean--? + +_Ger._ I had no model. + +_Wat_. No model? Ha! ha!--You must excuse me! (GER. _takes up the wet +sheet_.) I understand. Reasons. A little mystery enhances--eh?--is +convenient too--balks intrusion--throws the drapery over the +mignonette. I understand. (GER. _covers the clay_.) Oh! pray don't +carry out my figure. That _is_ a damper now! + +_Ger._ I am not fond of acting the showman. You must excuse me: I am +busy. + +_Wat_. Ah well!--some other time--when you've got on with her a bit. +Good morning. Ta, ta, Warren. + +_Ger._ Good morning. This way, if you please. (_Shows him out by the +door to the street_.) How did the fellow find his way here? + +_War._ I am the culprit, I'm sorry to say. He asked me for your +address, and I gave it him. + +_Ger._ How long have you known him? + +_War._ A month or two. + +_Ger._ Don't bring him here again. + +_War._ Don't say I _brought_ him. I didn't do that. But I'm afraid +you've not seen the last of him. + +_Ger._ Oh yes, I have! Old Martha would let in anybody, but I've got a +man now.--William! + + _Enter_ COL. GERVAISE _dressed as a servant_. + +You didn't see the gentleman just gone, I'm afraid, William? + +_Col. G._ No, sir. + +_Ger._ Don't let in any one calling himself _Waterfield_. + +_Col. G._ No, sir. + +_Ger._ I'm going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be back shortly. + +_Col. G._ Very well, sir. _Exit into the house_. + +_Ger._ (_to_ WAR.) I can't touch clay again till I get that fellow out +of my head. + +_War._ Come along, then. + + _Exeunt_ GER. _and_ WAR. + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. _polishing a boot. Regards it with + dissatisfaction_. + +_Col. G._ Confound the thing! I wish it were a scabbard. When I think +I'm getting it all right--one rub more and it's gone dull again! + + _The house-door opens slowly, and_ THOMAS _peeps cautiously in_. + +_Th._ What sort of a plaze be this, maister? + +_Col. G._ You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in? + +_Th._ By th' dur-hole. Iv yo leave th' dur oppen, th' dogs'll coom in. + +_Col. G._ I must speak to Martha again. She _will_ leave the +street-door open!--Well, you needn't look so frightened. It ain't a +robbers' cave. + +_Th._ That be more'n aw knaw--not for sartin sure, maister. Nobory mun +keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a gentleman +axes mo into his heawse, aw'm noan beawn to be afeard. Aw'll coom in, +for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak +here? + +_Col. G._ What would you think now? + +_Th._ It looks to mo like a mason's shed--a greight one. + +_Col. G._ You're not so far wrong. + +_Th._ (_advancing_). It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure +abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin'. Aw'll bother +noan. (_Sits down on the dais and wipes his face_.) Well, aw be a'most +weary. + +_Col. G._ Is there anything I can do for you? + +_Th._ Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw +dunnot think aw'll coom to th' end in haste. Aw're a lookin' for +summut aw've lost, mou. + +_Col. G._ Did you come all the way from Lancashire to look for it? + +_Th._ Eh, lad! aw thowt thae'rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro! + +_Col. G._ Anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. I mean no +offence. + +_Th._ (_looking disappointed_). Well, noan's ta'en. But thae dunnot +say thae's ne'er been to Lancashire thisel'? + +_Col. G._ No, I don't say that: I've been to Lancashire several times. + +_Th._ Wheer to? + +_Col. G._ Why, Manchester. + +_Th._ That's noan ov it. + +_Col. G._ And Lancaster. + +_Th._ Tut! tut! That's noan of it, nayther. + +_Col. G._ And Liverpool. I was once there for a whole week. + +_Th._ Nay, nay. Noather o' those plazes. Fur away off 'em. + +_Col. G._ But what does it matter where I have or haven't been? + +_Th._ Mun aw tell tho again? Aw've lost summut, aw tell tho. Didsto +ne'er hear tell ov th' owd woman 'at lost her shillin'? Hoo couldn't +sit her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon's me. (_Hides his face in his +hands_.) + +_Col. G._ Ah! now I begin to guess! (_aside_).--You don't mean you've +lost your-- + +_Th._ (_starting up and grasping his stick with both hands_). Aw _do_ +mane aw've lost mo yung lass; and aw dunnot say thae's feawnd her, but +aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then! + +_Col. G._ What on earth makes you think that? I don't know what you're +after. + +_Th._ Thae knows well enough. Thae knowed what aw'd lost afoor aw +tou'd tho yo' be deny in' your own name. Thae knows. Aw'll tay tho +afore the police, beout thou gie her oop. Aw wull. + +_Col. G._ What story have you to tell the police then? They'll want to +know. + +_Th._ Story saysto? The dule's i' th' mon! Didn't aw seigh th' mon 'at +stealed her away goo into this heawse not mich over hauve an hour +ago?--Aw seigh him wi' mo own eighes. + +_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to him? + +_Th._ He poppit in at th' same dur, and there aw've been a-watching +ever since. Aw've not took my eighes off ov it. He's somewheeres now +in this same heawse. + +_Col. G._ He _may_ have been out in the morning (_aside_).--But you +see there are more doors than one to the place. There is a back door; +and there is a door out into the street. + +_Th._ Eigh! eigh! Th' t'one has to do wi' th' t'other--have it? Three +dur-holes to one shed! That looks bad! + +_Col. G._ He's not here, whoever it was. There's not a man but myself +in the place. + +_Th._ Hea am aw to know yo're not playin' a marlock wi' mo? He'll be +oop i' th' heawse theer. Aw mun go look (_going_). + +_Col. G._ (_preventing him_). And how am _I_ to know you're not a +housebreaker? + +_Th._ Dun yo think an owd mon like mosel' would be of mich use for +sich wark as that, mon? + +_Col. G._ The more fit for a spy, though, to see what might be made of +it. + +_Th._ Eh, mon! Dun they do sich things as you? But aw'm seechin' +nothin', man nor meawse, that donnot belung me. Aw tell yo true. Gie +mo mo Mattie, and aw'll trouble yo no moor. Aw winnot--if yo'll give +mo back mo Mattie. (_Comes close up to him and lays his hand on his +arm_.) Be yo a feyther, mon? + +_Col. G._ Yes. + +_Th._ Ov a pratty yung lass? + +_Col. G._ Well, no. I have but a son. + +_Th._ Then thae winnot help mo? + +_Col. G._ I shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how. + +_Th._ Tell yor maister 'at Mattie's owd feyther's coom a' the gait fro +Rachda to fot her whoam, and aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll +let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam: +hoo's but poorly. Tell yor maister that. + +_Col. G._ But I don't believe my master knows anything about her. + +_Th._ Aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into this heawse but a +feow minutes agoo? + +_Col. G._ You've mistaken somebody for him. + +_Th._ Well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre days ago, aw seigh +mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur--aw mane th' heawsedur, yon. + +_Col. G._ Are you sure of that? + +_Th._ Sure as death. Aw seigh her back. + +_Col. G._ Her back! Who could be sure of a back? + +_Th._ By th' maskins! dosto think I dunnot know mo Mattie's back? I +seign her coom eawt o' that dur, aw tell tho! + +_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to her? + +_Th._ Aw co'd. + +_Col. G._ And she didn't answer? + +_Th._ Aw didn't co' leawd. Aw're not willin' to have ony mak ov a din. + +_Col. G._ But you followed her surely? + +_Th._ Aw did; but aw're noan so good at walkin' as aw wur when aw +coom; th' stwons ha' blistered mo fet. An it're the edge o' dark like. +Aw connot seigh weel at neet, wi o' th' lamps; an afoor aw geet oop +wi' her, hoo's reawnd th' nook, and gwon fro mo seet. + +_Col. G._ There are ten thousands girls in London you might take for +your own under such circumstances--not seeing more than the backs of +them. + +_Th._ Ten theawsand girls like mo Mattie, saysto?--wi'her greight +eighes and her lung yure?--Puh! + +_Col. G._ But you've just said you didn't see her face! + +_Th._ Dunnot aw know what th' face ov mo chylt be like, beout seein' ov +it? Aw'm noan ov a lump-yed. Nobory as seigh her once wouldn't know +her again. + +_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's a lunatic!--I don't see what I can do for +you, old fellow. + +_Th._ (_rising_). And aw met ha' known it beout axin'! O'reet! Aw're a +greight foo'! But aw're beawn to coom in: aw lung'd to goo through th' +same dur wi' mo Mattie. Good day, sir. It be like maister, like mon! +God's curse upon o' sich! (_Turns his back. After a moment turns +again_.) Noa. Aw winnot say that; for mo Mattie's sake aw winnot say +that. God forgie you! (_going by the house_). + +_Col. G._ This way, please! (_opening the street-door_). + +_Th._ Aw see. Aw'm not to have a chance ov seein' oather Mattie or th' +mon. _Exit_. + + Col. G. _resumes his boot absently. Re-enter_ THOMAS, _shaking his + fist_. + +_Th._ But aw tell tho, aw'll stick to th' place day and neet, aw wull. +Aw wull. Aw wull. + +_Col. G._ Come back to-morrow. + +_Th._ Coom back, saysto? Aw'll not goo away (_growing fierce_). Wilto +gie mo mo Mattie? Aw'm noan beawn to ston here so mich lunger. Wilto +gie mo mo Mattie? + +_Col. G._ I cannot give you what I haven't got. + +_Th._ Aw'll break thi yed, thou villain! (_threatening him with his +stick_). Eh, Mattie! Mattie! to loe sich a mon's maister more'n me! I +would dey fur thee, Mattie. _Exit_. + +_Col. G._ It's all a mistake, of course. There are plenty of young +men--but my Arthur's none of such. I cannot believe it of him. The +daughter! If I could find _her, she_ would settle the question. (_It +begins to grow dark_.) I must help the old man to find her. He's sure +to come back. Arthur does _not_ look the least like it. +But--(_polishes vigorously_). I can_not_ get this boot to look like a +gentleman's. I wish I had taken a lesson or two first. I'll get hold +of a shoeblack, and make him come for a morning or two. No, he does +_not_ look like it. There he comes. (_Goes on polishing_.) + + _Enter_ GER. + +_Ger._ William! + +_Col. G._ (_turning_). Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Light the gas. Any one called? + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Who? + +_Col. G._ I don't know, sir. (_Lighting the gas_.) + +_Ger._ You should have asked his name. (_Stands before the clay, +contemplating it_.) + +_Col. G._ I'm sorry I forgot, sir. It was only an old man from the +country--after his daughter, he said. + +_Ger._ Came to offer his daughter, or himself perhaps. (_Begins to +work at the figure_.) + +_Col. G._ (_watching him stealthily_). He looked a respectable old +party--from Lancashire, he said. + +_Ger._ I dare say. You will have many such callers. Take the address. +Models, you know. + +_Col. G._ If he calls again, sir? + +_Ger._ Ask him to leave his address, I say. + +_Col. G._ But he told me you knew her. + +_Ger._ Possibly. I had a good many models before I left. But it's of +no consequence; I don't want any at present. + +_Col. G._ He seemed in a great way, sir--and swore. I couldn't make +him out. + +_Ger._ Ah! hm! + +_Col. G._ He says he saw her come out of the house. + +_Ger. Has_ there been any girl here? Have you seen any about? + +_Col. G._ No, sir. + +_Ger._ My aunt had a dressmaker to meet her here the other evening. I +have had no model since I came back. + +_Col. G._ The man was in a sad taking about her, sir. I didn't know +what to make of it. There seemed some truth--something suspicious. + +_Ger._ Perhaps my aunt can throw some light upon it. (COL. G. +_lingers_.) That will do. (_Exit_ COL. G.) How oddly the man behaves! +A sun-stroke in India, perhaps. Or he may have had a knock on the +head. I must keep my eye on him. (_Stops working, steps backward, and +gazes at the Psyche_.) She is growing very like some one! Who can it +be? She knows she is puzzling me, the beauty! See how she is keeping +back a smile! She knows if she lets one smile out, her whole face will +follow it through the clay. How strange the half-lights of memory are! +You know and you don't know--both at once. Like a bat in the twilight +you are sure of it, and the same moment it is nowhere. Who _is_ my +Psyche like?--The forehead above the eyebrow, and round by the temple? +The half-playful, half-sorrowful curve of the lip? The hope in the +lifted eyelid? There is more there than ever I put there. Some power +has been shaping my ends. By heaven, I have it!--No--yes--it is--it is +Constance--momently dawning out of the clay! What _does_ this mean? +_She_ never gave me a sitting--at least, she has not done so for the +last ten years--yet here she is--she, and no other! I never thought +she was beautiful. When she came with my aunt the other day though, I +did fancy I saw a new soul dawning through the lovely face. Here it +is--the same soul breaking through the clay of my Psyche!--I will give +just one touch to the corner of the mouth. + + _Gives a few touches, then steps back again and contemplates the + figure. Turns away and walks up and down. The light darkens to slow + plaintive music, which lasts for a minute. Then the morning begins + to dawn, gleaming blue upon the statues and casts, and revealing_ + GER. _seated before his Psyche, gazing at her. He rises, and exit. + Enter_ COL. G. _and looks about_. + +_Col. G._ I don't know what to make of it! Or rather I'm afraid I do +know what to make of it! It looks bad. He's not been in bed all night. +But it shows he has some conscience left--and that's a comfort. + + _Enter_ Mrs. CLIFFORD, _peeping round cautiously_. + +_Col. G._ What, Clara! you here so early! + +_Mrs. C._ Well, you know, brother, you're so fond of mystery! + +_Col. G._ It's very kind of you to come! But we must be very careful; +I can't tell when my master may be home. + +_Mrs. C._ Has he been out all night, then? + +_Col. G._ Oh no; he's just gone. + +_Mrs. C._ I never knew him such an early bird. I made sure he was safe +in bed for a couple of hours yet. But I do trust, Walter, you have had +enough of this fooling, and are prepared to act like a rational man +and a gentleman. + +_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, with my usual obstinacy, I am more +determined than ever that my boy shall not know me, until, as I told +you, I have rendered him such service as may prove me not altogether +unworthy to be his father. Twenty years of neglect will be hard to +surmount. + +_Mrs. C._ But mere menial service cannot discharge the least portion +of your obligations. As his father alone can you really serve him. + +_Col. G._ You persist in misunderstanding me. This is not the service +I mean. I scorn the fancy. This is only the means, as I told you +plainly before, of finding out _how_ I may serve him--of learning what +he really needs--or most desires. If I fail in discovering how to +recommend myself to him, I shall go back to India, and content myself +with leaving him a tolerable fortune. + +_Mrs. C._ How ever a hair-brained fellow like you, Walter, could have +made such a soldier!--Why don't you tell your boy you love him, and +have done with it? + +_Col. G._ I will, as soon as I have proof to back the assertion. + +_Mrs. C._ I tell you it is rank pride. + +_Col. G._ It may be pride, sister; but it is the pride of a repentant +thief who puts off his confession until he has the money in his hand +to prove the genuineness of his sorrow. + +_Mrs. C._ It never _was_ of any use to argue with _you_, Walter; you +know that, or at least I know it. So I give up.--I trust you have got +over your prejudice against his profession. It is not my fault. + +_Col. G._ In truth, I had forgotten the profession--as you call it--in +watching the professor. + +_Mrs. C._ And has it not once occurred to you to ask how he may take +such watching? + +_Col. G._ By the time he is aware of it, he will be ready to +understand it. + +_Mrs. C._ But suppose he should discover you before you have thus +established your position? + +_Col. G._ I must run the risk. + +_Mrs. C._ Suppose then you should thus find out something he would not +have you know? + +_Col. G._ (_hurriedly_). Do you imagine his servant might know a thing +he would hide from his father? + +_Mrs. C._ I do not, Walter. I can trust him. But he might well resent +the espionage of even his father. You cannot get rid of the vile look +of the thing. + +_Col. G._ Again I say, my boy shall be my judge, and my love shall be +my plea. In any case I shall have to ask his forgiveness. But there is +his key in the lock! Run into the house. + + _Exit_ MRS. C. _Enter_ GER., _and goes straight to the Psyche_. + +_Col. G._ Breakfast is waiting, sir. + +_Ger._ By and by, William. + +_Col. G._ You haven't been in bed, sir! + +_Ger._ Well? What of that? + +_Col. G._ I hope you're not ill, sir. + +_Ger._ Not in the least: I work all night sometimes.--You can go. +(COL. G. _lingers, with a searching gaze at the Psyche_.)--I don't +want anything. + +_Col. G._ Pardon me, sir, but I am sure you are ill. You've done no +work since last night. + +_Ger._ (_with displeasure_). I am quite well, and wish to be alone. + +_Col. G._ Mayn't I go and fetch a doctor, sir? It is better to take +things in time. + +_Ger._ You are troublesome. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--What can the fellow +mean? He looked at me so strangely too! He's officious--that's all, I +dare say. A good sort of man, I do think! William!--What is it in the +man's face?--(_Enter_ Col G.) Is the breakfast ready? + +_Col. G._ Quite ready, sir. + +_Ger._ I'm sorry I spoke to you so hastily. The fact is-- + +_Col. G._ Don't mention it, sir. Speak as you will to me; I shan't +mind it. When there's anything on a man's conscience--I--I--I mean on +a man's mind-- + +_Ger._ What _do_ you mean? + +_Col. G._ I mean, when there is anything there, he can't well help his +temper, sir. + +_Ger._ I don't understand you; but, anyhow, you--go too far, William. + +_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir: I forgot myself. I do humbly beg +your pardon. Shall I make some fresh coffee, sir? It's not cold--only +it's stood too long. + +_Ger._ The coffee will do well enough. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--Is she so +beautiful? (_turning to the Psyche_)--Is there a likeness?--I see +it.--Nonsense! A mere chance confluence of the ideal and the +actual.--Even then the chance must mean something. Such a _mere_ +chance would indeed be a strange one! + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. + +Oh, my heart! here she comes! my Psyche herself!--Well, Constance! + +_Con._ Oh, Arthur, I am _so_ glad I've found you! I want to talk to +you about something. I know you don't care much about me now, but I +_must_ tell you, for it would be wrong not. + +_Ger._ (_aside_). How beautiful she is! What _can_ she have to tell me +about? It cannot be--it _shall_ not be--. Sit down, won't you? +(_offering her a chair_.) + +_Con._ No. _You_ sit there (_pointing to the dais_), and I will sit +here (_placing herself on the lower step_). It was here I used to sit +so often when I was a little girl. Why can't one keep little? I was +always with you then! (_Sighs_.) + +_Ger._ It is not my fault, Constance. + +_Con._ Oh no! I suppose it can't be. Only I don't see why. Oh, Arthur, +where should I be but for you! I saw the old place yesterday. How +dreadful and yet how dear it was! + +_Ger._ Who took you there? + +_Con._ Nobody. I went alone. + +_Ger._ It was hardly safe.--I don't like your going out alone, Constance. + +_Con._ Why, Arthur! I used to know every court and alley about Shoreditch +better than I know Berkeley Square now! + +_Ger._ But what made you go there? + +_Con._ I went to find a dressmaker who has been working for my aunt, +and lost my way. And--would you believe it?--I was actually +frightened! + +_Ger._ No wonder! There are rough people about there. + +_Con._ I never used to think them rough when I lived among them with +my father and mother. There must be just as good people there as +anywhere else. Yet I could not help shuddering at the thought of +living there again!--How strange it made me feel! You have been my +angel, Arthur. What would have become of me if you hadn't taken me, I +dare not think. + +_Ger._ I have had my reward, Constance: you are happy. + +_Con._ Not quite. There's something I want to tell you. + +_Ger._ Tell on, child. + +_Con._ Oh, thank you!--that is how you used to talk to me. +(_Hesitates_.) + +_Ger._ (_with foreboding_) Well, what is it? + +_Con._ (_pulling the fingers of her gloves_) A gentleman--you know +him--has been--calling upon aunt--and me. We have seen a good deal of +him. + +_Ger._ Who is he? + +_Con._ Mr. Waterfield. (_Keeps her eyes on the floor_.) + +_Ger._ Well? + +_Con._ He says--he--he--he wants me to marry him.--Aunt likes him. + +_Ger._ And you? + +_Con._ I like him too. I don't think I like him enough--I dare say I +shall. It is _so_ good of him to take poor me! He is _very_ rich, they +say. + +_Ger._ Have you accepted him? + +_Con._ I am afraid he thinks so.--Ye--e--s.--I hardly know. + +_Ger._ Haven't you--been rather--in a hurry--Constance? + +_Con._ No, indeed! I haven't been in a hurry at all. He has been a long +time trying to make me like him. I have been too long a burden to Mrs. +Clifford. + +_Ger._ So! it is her doing, then! + +_Con._ You were away, you know. + +_Ger._ (_bitterly_) Yes; too far--chipping stones and making mud-pies! + +_Con._ I don't know what you mean by that, Arthur. + +_Ger._ Oh--nothing. I mean that--that--Of course if you are engaged to +him, then-- + +_Con._ I'm afraid I've done very wrong, Arthur. If I had thought you +would care!--I knew aunt would be pleased!--she wanted me to have him, +I knew.--I ought to do what I can to please her,--ought I not? I have +no right to-- + +_Ger._ Surely, surely. Yes, yes; I understand. It was not your fault. +Only you mustn't marry him, if you--. Thank you for telling me. + +_Con._ I ought to have told you before--before I let him speak to me +again. But I didn't think you would care--not much. + +_Ger._ Yes, yes. + +_Con._ (_looking up with anxiety_) Ah! you _are_ vexed with me, +Arthur! I see how wrong it was now. I never saw you look like that. I +am very, very sorry. (_Bursts into tears_.) + +_Ger._ No, no, child! Only it is rather sudden, and I want to think +about it. Shall I send William home with you? + +_Con._ No, thank you. I have a cab waiting. You're not angry with your +little beggar, Arthur? + +_Ger._ What is there to be angry about, child? + +_Con._ That I--did anything without asking you first. + +_Ger._ Nonsense! You couldn't help it. _You_'re not to blame one bit. + +_Con._ Oh, yes, I am! I ought to have asked you first. But indeed I +did not know you would care. Good-bye.--Shall I go at once? + +_Ger._ Good-bye. (_Exit_ CON., _looking back troubled_.) Come at last! +Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her at last!--and too late! For +three years I haven't seen her--have not once written to her! Since I +came back I've seen her just twice,--and now in the very hell of love! +The ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there in that +corner! If it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And to +such a fellow as that!--not even a gentleman! How _could_ she take him +for one! That does perplex me! Ah, well! I suppose men _have_ borne +such things before, and men will bear them again! I must work! Nothing +but work will save me. (_Approaches the Psyche, but turns from it with +a look of despair and disgust_.) What a fool I have been!--Constance! +Constance!--A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in +heaven! It will drive me mad. (_Rushes out, leaving the door open_.) + + _Enter_ COL. GERVAISE. + +_Col. G._ Gone again! and without his breakfast! My poor boy! There's +something very wrong with you! It's that girl! It must be! But there's +conscience in him yet!--It is all my fault. If I had been a father to +him, this would never have happened.--If he were to marry the girl +now?--Only, who can tell but _she_ led _him_ astray? I have known such +a thing. (_Sits down and buries his face in his hands_.) + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Wat_. Is Mr. Gervaise in? + +_Col. G._ (_rising_) No, sir. + +_Wat_. Tell him I called, will you? [_Exit_.] + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir.--Forgot again. Young man;--gentleman or cad?--don't +know; think the latter. + + _Enter_ THOMAS. + +_Th._ Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir? + +_Col. G._ (_starting up_). In the name of God, I know nothing of your +child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds--in +golden sovereigns. + +_Th._ Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir? + +_Col. G._ That's your business. Bring her, and there will be your +money. + +_Th._ Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' Bank ov +England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for +mo lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther--ov the +feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo +sorry for't? I' hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo +whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait +till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us. + +_Col. G._ For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring +her here, I say, and I will make you happy. + +_Th._ Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy +then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be +a coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be +gooin', aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!--aw'm noan sich a greight foo +as yo tak mo for. + + _Exit._ COL. G. _follows him. Enter._ GER. _Sits down before the + Psyche, but without looking at her_. + +_Ger._ Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my +heart! I _will_ conquer it. But I _will_ love her. The spear shall +fill its own wound. To draw it out and die, would be no victory. "I'll +but lie down and bleed awhile, and then I'll rise and fight again." +Brave old Sir Andrew! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir--a young man called while you were +out. + +_Ger._ (_listlessly_). Very well, William. + +_Col. G._ Is there any message, if he calls again, sir? He said he +would. + +_Ger._ No. (COL. G. _lingers_.) You can go. + +_Col. G._ I hope you feel better, sir? + +_Ger._ Quite well. + +_Col. G._ Can I get you anything, sir? + +_Ger._ No, thank you; I want nothing.--Why do you stay? + +_Col. G._ Can't you think of something I can do for you, sir? + +_Ger._ Fetch that red cloth. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Throw it over that-- + +_Col. G._ This, sir? + +_Ger._ No, no--the clay there. Thank you. (_A knock at the door_.) See +who that is. + +_Col. G._ Are you at home, sir? + +_Ger._ That depends. Not to Mr. Waterfield. Oh, my head! my head! +[_Exit_ COL. G. + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. GER. _starts, but keeps his head leaning on his + hand_. + +_Con._ I forgot to say to you, Arthur,--. But you are ill! What is the +matter, dear Arthur? + +_Ger._ (_without looking up_) Nothing--only a headache. + +_Con._ Do come home with me, and let aunt and me nurse you. Don't be +vexed with me any more. I will do whatever you like. I couldn't go +home without seeing you again. And now I find you ill! + +_Ger._ Not a bit. I am only dreadfully busy. I must go out of town. I +am so busy! I can't stay in it a moment longer. I have so many things +to do. + +_Con._ Mayn't I come and see you while you work? I never used to +interrupt you. I want so to sit once more in my old place. (_Draws a +stool towards him_.) + +_Ger._ No, no--not--not there! Constance used to sit there. William! + +_Con._ You frighten me, Arthur! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Ger._ Bring a chair, William. + + _Constance sits down like a chidden child. Exit_ COL. G. + +_Con._ I must have offended you more than I thought, Arthur! What +_can_ I say? It is so stupid to be always saying _I am sorry_. + +_Ger._ No, no. But some one may call. + +_Con._ You mean more than that. Will you not let me understand? + +_Ger._ Your friend Mr. Waterfield called a few minutes ago. He will be +here again presently, I dare say. + +_Con._ (_indifferently_). Indeed! + +_Ger._ I suppose you appointed--expected--to meet him here. + +_Con._ Arthur! Do you think I would come to you to meet _him_? I saw +him this morning; I don't want to see him again. I wish you knew him. + +_Ger._ Why should you want me to know him? + +_Con._ Because you would do him good. + +_Ger._ What good does he want done him? + +_Con._ He has got beautiful things in him--talks well--in bits--arms +and feet and faces--never anything like--(_turning to the Psyche_) Why +have you--? Has _she_ been naughty too? + +_Ger._ Is it _only_ naughty things that must be put out of sight, +Constance? + +_Con._ Dear Arthur! you spoke like your own self then. + +_Ger._ (_rising hurriedly_). Excuse me. I must go. It is very rude, +but--William! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Fetch a hansom directly. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. _Exit_. + +_Con._ You do frighten me, Arthur! I am sure you are ill. + +_Ger._ Not at all. I have an engagement. + +_Con._ I must go then--must I? + +_Ger._ Do not think me unkind? + +_Con._ I will not think anything you would not have me think. + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ The cab is at the door, sir. + +_Ger._ Thank you. Then show Miss Lacordere out. Stay. I will open the +door for her myself. _Exeunt_ GER. _and_ CON. + +_Col. G._ He speaks like one in despair, forcing every word! If he +should die! Oh, my God! + + _Re-enter_ GER. _Walks up and down the room_. + +_Col. G._ Ain't you going, sir? + +_Ger._ No. I have sent the lady in the cab. + +_Col. G._ Then hadn't you better lie down, sir? + +_Ger._ Lie down! What do you mean? I'm not in the way of lying down +except to sleep. + +_Col. G._ And let me go for the doctor, sir? + +_Ger._ The doctor! Ha! ha ha!--You are a soldier, you say? + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Right. We're all soldiers--or ought to be. I will put you to +your catechism. What is a soldier's first duty? + +_Col. G._ Obedience, sir. + + [GER. _sits down and leans his head on his hands_. COL. G. _watches + him_.] + +_Ger._ Ah! obedience, is it? Then turn those women out. They will hurt +you--may kill you; but you must not mind that. They burn, they +blister, and they blast, for as white as they look! The hottest is the +white fire. But duty, old soldier!--obedience, you know!--Ha! ha! Oh, +my head! my head! I believe I am losing my senses, William. I was in a +bad part of the town this morning. I went to see a place I knew long +ago. It had gone to hell--but the black edges of it were left. There +was a smell--and I can't get it out of me. Oh, William! William! take +hold of me. Don't let them come near me. Psyche is laughing at me. I +told you to throw the red cloth over her. + +_Col. G._ My poor boy! + +_Ger._ Don't fancy you're my father, though! I wish you were. But I +cannot allow that.--Why the devil didn't you throw the red cloth over +that butterfly? She's sucking the blood from my heart. + +_Col. G._ You said the Psyche, sir! The red cloth _is_ over the +Psyche, sir. Look. + +_Ger._ Yes. Yes. I beg your pardon. Take it off. It is too red. It +will scorch her wings. It burns my brain. Take it off, I say! (COL. G. +_uncovers the Psyche_.) There! I told you! She's laughing at me! +Ungrateful child! _I_'m not her Cupid. Cover her up. Not the red cloth +again. It's too hot, I say. I won't torture _her_. I am a man and I +can bear it. She's a woman and she shan't bear it. + +_Sinks back in his chair_. COL. G. _lays him on the dais, and sits +down beside him_. + +_Col. G._ His heart's all right! And when a fellow's miserable over +his faults, there must be some way out of them.--But the +consequences?--Ah! there's the rub. + +_Ger._ What's the matter? Where am I? + +_Col. G._ I must fetch a doctor, sir. You've been in a faint. + +_Ger._ Why couldn't I keep in it? It was very nice: you know nothing--and +that's the nicest thing of all. Why is it we can't stop, William? + +_Col. G._ I don't understand you, sir. + +_Ger._ Stop living, I mean. It's no use killing yourself, for you +don't stop then. At least they say you go on living all the same. If +I thought it did mean stopping, William-- + +_Col. C._ Do come to your room, sir. + +_Ger._ I won't. I'll stop here. How hot it is! Don't let anybody in. + + _Stretches out his hand_. COL. G. _holds it. He falls asleep_. + +_Col. G._ What _shall_ I do? If he married her, he'd be miserable, and +make her miserable too. I'll take her away somewhere. I'll be a father +to her; I'll tend her as if she were his widow. But what confusions +would follow! Alas! alas! one crime is the mother of a thousand +miseries! And now he's in for a fever--typhus, perhaps!--I _must_ find +this girl!--What a sweet creature that Miss Lacordere is! If only he +might have _her_! I don't care what she was. + +_Ger._ Don't let them near me, William! They will drive me mad. They +think I shall love them. I _will_ not. If she comes one step nearer, I +shall strike her. You Diana! Hecate! Hell-cat!--Fire-hearted Chaos is +burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some water, William! + +_Col. G._ Here it is, sir. + +_Ger._ But just look to Psyche there. Ah, she's off! There she goes! +melting away in the blue, like a dissolving vapour. Bring me my +field-glass, William. I may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste. + +_Col. G._ Pray don't talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or you will make +yourself very ill. Think what will become of me if-- + +_Ger._ What worse would _you_ be, William? You are a soldier. I must +talk. You are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet (_holding his head +with both hands_). I should go raving mad else (_wildly_). Give me +some water. (_He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the room_.) +Now they _are_ gone, and I do believe they won't come again! I see +everything--and your face, William. You are very good to me--very +patient! I should die if it weren't for you. + +_Col. G._ I would die for you, sir. + +_Ger._ Would you? But perhaps you don't care much for your life. +Anybody might have _my_ life for the asking. I dare say it's just as +good to be dead.--Ah! there is a toad--a toad with a tail! No; it's a +toad with a slow-worm after him. Take them away, William!--Thank +you.--I used to think life pleasant, but now--somehow there's nothing +in it. She told me the truth about it--Constance did. Don't let those +women come back. What if I _should_ love them, William!--love and hate +them both at once! William! William! (_A knock at the door_.) See who +that is. Mind you don't let _them_ in. + +_Col. G._ Martha is there, sir. + +_Ger._ She's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. They would +walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look. +You'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't +let them in, for the love of God, William! Real women have irises to +their eyes: those have none--those frightful snowy beauties.--And yet +snow is very nice! And I'm so hot! _There_ they come again! _Exit_ +COL. G. + + _Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Ger._ Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come! + +_Mrs. C._ What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt you. I am here. I +will take care of you. + +_Ger._ Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you +know them, aunt? I'll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and +Venus.--They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white +women--only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are +purple--and inside their lips, when they smile--and in the hollows of +their eyes--ugh! They want me to love them; and they say you are +all--all of you women--no better than they are. I _know_ that is a +lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes. + +_Mrs. C._ Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you, +and drive them away? + +_Ger._ No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain. + +_Mrs. C._ How long have you had this headache? (_laying her hand on +his forehead_.) + +_Ger._ Only a year or two--since the white woman came--that woman +(_pointing to the Psyche_). She's been buried for ages, and won't grow +brown. + +_Mrs. C._ There's no woman there, Arthur. + +_Ger._ Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my +head! my head!--There's my father standing behind the door and won't +come in!--_He_ could help me now, if he would. William! show my father +in. But he isn't in the story--so he can't. + +_Mrs. C._ Do try to keep yourself quiet, Arthur. The doctor will be +here in a few minutes. + +_Ger._ He shan't come here! He would put the white woman out. She does +smell earthy, but I won't part with her. (_A knock_.) What a devil of +a noise! Why don't they use the knocker? What's the use of taking a +sledge-hammer? + +_Mrs. C._ It's that stupid James! + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. MRS. C. _goes to meet her_. + +_Mrs. C._ Constance, you go and hurry the doctor. I will stay with +Arthur. + +_Con._ Is he _very_ ill, aunt? + +_Mrs. C._ I'm afraid he is. + +_Ger._ (_sitting up_). Constance! Constance! + +_Con._ Here I am! (_running to him_). + +_Ger._ Oh, my head! I wish I could find somewhere to lay it!--Sit by +me, Constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder--for one +minute--only one minute. It aches so! (_She sits down by him. His head +sinks on her shoulder_. MRS. C. _looks annoyed, and exit_.) + +_Con._ Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (_sobbing_). You used to +like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You _have_ forgiven me? +Dear head! + + _He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music_. + +_Ger._ (_half waking_). I can't read. When I get to the bottom of the +page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to Garibaldi! +and if I don't, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that +one line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her by the lily-white +hand."--I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they +_will_ come!--I _won't_ go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and +never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. I will +_not_ go mad! I will die like a man. + +_Con._ Arthur! Arthur! + +_Ger._ God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind +her!--Psyche! Psyche! Don't speak to those women! Come alone, and I +will tear my heart out and give it you.--It is Psyche herself now, and +the rest are gone! Psyche--listen. + +_Con._ It's only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would +but let me stay and nurse you! But I don't know what's come to her: +she's not like herself at all. + +_Ger._ Who's that behind you? + +_Con._ Behind me? (_looking round_). There's nobody behind me. + +_Ger._ I thought there was somebody behind you. William!--What can +have become of William? + +_Con._ I dare say aunt has sent him somewhere. + +_Ger._ Then he's gone! he's gone! + +_Con._ You're not afraid of being left alone with me, Arthur? + +_Ger._ Oh no! of course not?--What can have become of William? Don't +you know they sent him--not those women, but the dead people--to look +after me? He's a good fellow. He said he would die for me. Ha! ha! ha! +Not much in that--is there? + +_Con._ Don't laugh so, dear Arthur. + +_Ger._ Well, I won't. I have something to tell you, Constance. I will +try to keep my senses till I've told you. + +_Con._ Do tell me. I hope I haven't done anything more to vex you. +Indeed I am sorry. I won't speak to that man again, if you like. I +would rather not--if you wish it. + +_Ger._ What right have I to dictate to you, my child? + +_Con._ Every right. I am yours. I belong to you. Nobody owned me when +you took me. + +_Ger._ Don't talk like that; you will drive me mad. + +_Con._ Arthur! Arthur! + +_Ger._ Listen to me, Constance. I am going to Garibaldi. He wants +soldiers. I must not live an idle life any longer.--We must part, +Constance.--Good-bye, my darling! + +_Con._ No, no; not yet; we'll talk about it by-and-by. You see I shall +have ever so many things to make for you before you can go! +(_smiling_). + +_Ger._ Garibaldi can't wait, Constance--and _I_ can't wait. I shall +die if I stop here. + +_Con._ Oh, Arthur, you are in some trouble, and you won't tell me what +it is, so I can't help you! + +_Ger._ I shall be killed, I know. I mean to be. Will you think of me +sometimes? Give me one kiss. I may have a last kiss. + +_Con._ (_weeping_.) My heart will break if you talk like that, Arthur. +I will do anything you please. There's something wrong, dreadfully +wrong! And it must be my fault!--Oh! there's that man! (_starting +up_.) He shall _not_ come here. + + [_Runs to the house-door, and stands listening, with her hand on + the key_.] + +END OF ACT I. + + + + +ACT II. + +SCENE.--_A street in Mayfair_. MRS. CLIFFORD'S _house. A pastrycook's +shop. Boys looking in at the window_. + + +_Bill._ I say, Jim, ain't it a lot o' grub? If I wos a pig now,-- + +_Jack._ I likes to hear Bill a supposin' of hisself. Go it, Bill!--There +ain't nothink _he_ can't suppose hisself, Jim.--Bein' as you ain't a pig. +Bill, you've got yer own trotters, an' yer own tater-trap. + +_Bill._ Vereupon blue Bobby eccosts me with the remark, "I wants you, +Bill;" and seein' me too parerlyzed to bolt, he pops me in that 'ere +jug vithout e'er a handle. + +_Jack._ Mother kep' a pig once. + +_Jim._ What was he like, Jack? + +_Jack._ As like any other pig as ever he could look; accep' that where +other pigs is black he wor white, an' where other pigs is white he wor +black. + +_Jim._ Did you have the milk in your tea, Jack? + +_Jack._ Pigs ain't got no milk, Jim, you stupe! + +_Bill._ Pigs _has_ milk, Jack, only they don't give it to coves.--I +wish I wos the Lord Mayor! + +_Jack._ Go it again, Bill. He ought ha' been a beak, Bill ought. What +'ud you do, Bill, supposin' as how you wos the Lord Mayor? + +_Bill._ I'd take all the beaks, an' all the peelers, an' put their own +bracelets on 'em, an' feed 'em once a day on scraps o' wittles to +bring out the hunger: a cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all. + +_Jim._ He gets what mother calls the squeamishes. + +_Jack._ Well, Bill? + +_Bill._ Well, the worry moment their bellies was as long an' as loose +as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin', I'd bring 'em all up to this +'ere winder, five or six at a time--with the darbies on, mind ye-- + +_Jim._ And I'm to be there to see, Bill--ain't I? + +_Bill._ If you're good, Jim, an' don't forget yer prayers. + +_Jack._ My eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! Go it, Bill. + +_Bill._ Then I up an' addresses 'em: "My Lords an' Gen'lemen, 'cos as +how ye're all good boys, an' goes to church, an' don't eat _too_ many +wittles, an' don't take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you +shall obswerve me eat." + +_Jim._ Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill. + +_Bill._ No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a 'ungry gift, as +the cock said when he bolted the pebbles. Let's sojourn the meetin'. + +_Jack_. Yes; come along. 'Tain't a comfable corner this yere: the wind +cuts round uncommon sharp. Them pies ain't good--leastways not to +look at. + +_Bill_. They ain't disgestible. But look ye here, Jack and +Jim--hearkee, my kids. (_Puts an arm round the neck of each, and +whispers first to one and then to the other_.) + + _Enter_ MATTIE _and_ SUSAN. + +_Sus_. Now, Mattie, we're close to the house, an' I don't want to be +seen with you, for she's mad at _me_. + +_Mat_. You must have made her mad, then, Sue. + +_Sus_. She madded me first: what else when she wouldn't believe a word +I said? She'd ha' sworn on the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the +spout. But she'll believe _you_, an' give you something, and then +we'll have a chop! + +_Mat_. How can you expect that, Sue, when the work's lost? + +_Sus_. Never mind; you go and see. + +_Mat_. I shan't take it, Susan. I couldn't. + +_Sus_. Stuff and nonsense! I'll wait you round the corner: I don't +like the smell o' them pastry things. + + _Exit_. MATTIE _walks past the window_. + +_Mat_. I don't like going. It makes me feel a thief to be suspected. + +_Bill_. Lor! it's our Mattie! There's our Mattie!--Mattie! Mattie! + +_Mat_. Ah, Bill! you're there--are you? + +_Bill_. Yes, Mattie. It's a tart-show. You walks up and takes yer +chice;--leastways, you makes it: somebody else takes it. + +_Mat_. Wouldn't you like to _take_ your choice sometimes, Bill? + +_Bill_. In course I would. + +_Mat_. Then why don't you work, and better yourself a bit? + +_Bill_. Bless you, Mattie! myself is werry comf'able. He never +complains. + +_Mat_. You're hungry sometimes,--ain't you? + +_Bill_. Most remarkable 'ungry, Mattie--this werry moment. Odd you +should ask now--ain't it? + +_Mat_. You would get plenty to eat if you would work. + +_Bill_. Thank you--I'd rayther not. Them as ain't 'ungry never enj'ys +their damaged tarts. If I'm 'appy, vere's the odds? as the cat said to +the mouse as wanted to be let off the engagement. Why should I work +more'n any other gen'leman? + +_Mat_. A gentleman that don't work is a curse to his neighbours, Bill. + +_Bill_. Bless you, Mattie! I ain't a curse--nohow to nobody. I don't +see as you've got any call to say that, Mattie. I don't go fakin' +clies, or crackin' cribs--nothin' o' the sort. An' I don't mind doin' +of a odd job, if it _is_ a odd one. Don't go for to say that again, +Mattie. + +_Mat_. I won't, then, Bill. But just look at yourself!--You're all in +rags. + +_Bill_. Rags is the hairier, as the Skye terrier said to the +black-an'-tan.--I shouldn't object to a new pair of old trousers, +though. + +_Mat_. Why don't you have a pair of real new ones? If you would only +sweep a crossing-- + +_Bill_. There ain't, a crossin' but what's took. Besides, my legs +ain't put together for one place all day long. It ain't to be done, +Mattie. They can't do it. + +_Mat_. There's the shoe-black business, then. + +_Bill_. That ain't so bad, acause you can shoulder your box and +trudge. But if it's all the same to you, Mattie, I'd rayther enj'y +life: they say it's short. + +_Mat_. But it ain't the same to me. It's so bad for you to be idle, +Bill! + +_Bill_. Not as I knows on. I'm tollable jolly, so long's I gets the +browns for my bed. + +_Mat_. Wouldn't you like a bed with a blanket to it? + +_Bill_. Well, yes--if it was guv to me. But I don't go in for knocking +of yourself about, to sleep warm. + +_Mat_. Well, look here, Bill. It's all Susan and I can do to pay for +our room, and get a bit of bread and a cup of tea. It ain't +enough.--If you were to earn a few pence now-- + +_Bill_. Oh golly! I never thought o' that. What a hass I wur, to be +sure! I'll go a shoe-blackin' to-morror--I will. + +_Mat_. Did you ever black a shoe, Bill? + +_Bill_. I tried a boot oncet--when Jim wor a blackin' for a day or +two. But I made nothink on it--nothink worth mentionin'. The blackin' +or som'at was wrong. The gen'leman said it wur coal-dust, an he'd slog +me, an' adwised me to go an' learn my trade. + +_Mat_. And what did you say to that? + +_Bill_. Holler'd out "Shine yer boots!" as loud as I could holler. + +_Mat_. You must try my boots next time you come. + +_Bill_. This wery night, Mattie. I'll make 'em shine like plate +glass--see then if I don't. But where'll I get a box and brushes? + +_Mat_. You shall have our brushes and my footstool. + +_Bill_. I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and +carry it by one leg--as drunken Moll does her kid.--Here you are, sir! +Black your boots, sir?--Shine your trotters, sir? (_bawling_.) + +_Mat_. That'll do; that'll do, Bill! Famous! You needn't do it again +(_holding her ears_). Would you like a tart? + +_Bill_. Just wouldn't I, then!--Shine your boooooots! + +_Mat_. (_laughing_). Do hold your tongue, Bill. There's a penny for a +tart. + +_Bill_. Thank you, Mattie. Thank you. + + _Exit into the shop_. + +_Jack and Jim_ (_touching their supposed caps_). Please, ma'am! Please, +ma'am! I likes 'em too. I likes 'em more 'n Bill. + +_Mat_. I'm very sorry, but--(_feeling in her pocket_) I've got a +ha'penny, I believe. No--there's a penny! You must share it, you +know. (_Gives it to Jack. Knocks at Mrs. Clifford's door._) + +_Jack and Jim_. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. + + _Exit_ MATTIE _into_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S. + +_Jim_. Now, Jack, what's it to be? + +_Jack_. I believe I shall spend it in St. Martin's Lane. + +_Jim_. A ha'p'orth on it's mine, you know, Jack. + +_Jack_. Well, you do put the stunners on me! + +_Jim_. She said we wos to divide it--she did. + +_Jack_. 'Taint possible. It beats my ivories. (_He pretends to bite +it_. JIM _flies at him in a rage_.) + + _Re-enter_ BILL, _with his mouth full_. + +_Bill_. Now what are you two a squabblin' over? Oh! Jack's got a +yennep, and Jim's iookin' shirty. + +_Jim_. She told him to divide it, and he won't. + +_Bill_. Who told him? + +_Jim_. Mattie. + +_Bill_. You dare, Jack? Hand over. + +_Jack_. Be hanged if I do. + +_Bill_. Then do and be hanged. (_A struggle_.) There, Jim! Now you go +and buy what you like. + +_Jim_. Am I to give Jack the half? + +_Bill_. Yes, if our Mattie said it. + +_Jim_. All right, Bill. (_Goes into the shop_.) + +_Jack_. I owe you one for that, Bill. + +_Bill_. Owe it me then, Jack. I do like fair play--always did +(_eating_). + +_Jack_. You ain't a sharin' of _your_ yennep, Bill. + +_Bill_. Mattie didn't say I was to. She knowed one wouldn't break up +into three nohow. 'Tain't in natur', Jack. + +_Jack_. You might ha' guv me a bite, anyhow, Bill. + +_Bill_. It ain't desirable, Jack--size o' trap dooly considered. Here +comes your share. + + _Re-enter_ JIM. _Gives a bun to_ JACK. + +_Jim_. I tell you what, Bill--she ain't _your_ Mattie. She ain't +nobody's Mattie; she's a hangel. + +_Bill_. No, Jim, she ain't a hangel; she 'ain't got no wings, +leastways outside her clo'es, and she 'ain't got clo'es enough to hide +'em. I wish I wos a hangel! + +_Jack_. At it again, Bill! I _do_ like to hear Bill a wishin' of +hisself! Why, Bill? + +_Bill_. Acause they're never 'ungry. + +_Jack_. How do you know they ain't? + +_Bill_. You never sees 'em loafin' about nowheres. + +_Jim_. Is Mattie your sister, Bill? + +_Bill_. No, Jim; I ain't good 'nough to have a sister like she. + +_Jack_. Your sweetheart, Bill? Ha! ha! ha! + +_Bill_. Dry up, Jack. + +_Jim_. Tell me about her, Bill. _I_ didn't jaw you. + +_Bill_. She lives in our court, Jim. Makes shirts and things. + +_Jack_. Oh! ho! + + BILL _hits_ JACK. JACK _doubles himself up_. + +_Bill_. Jim, our Mattie ain't like other gals; I never see her out +afore this blessed day--upon my word and honour, Jim, never! + +_Jack_. (_wiping his nose with his sleeve_). You don't know a joke +from a jemmy, Bill. + +_Bill_. I'll joke you!--A hangel tips you a tart, and you plucks her +feathers! Get on t'other side of the way, you little dirty devil, or +I'll give you another smeller--cheap too. Off with you! + +_Jack_. No, Bill; no, please. I'm wery sorry. I ain't so bad's all +that comes to. + +_Bill_. If you wants to go with Jim and me, then behave like a +gen'leman. + +_Jim_. I calls our Mattie a brick! + +_Bill_. None o' _your_ jaw, Jim! She ain't _your_ Mattie. + + Enter THOMAS. + +_Tho._ Childer, dun yo know th' way to Paradise--Row, or Road, or +summat? + +_Bill_. Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school. + +_Tho._ Wheer's th' Sunday-school, chylt? + +_Bill_. Second door round the corner, sir. + +_Tho._ Second dur reawnd th' corner! Which corner, my man? + +_Bill_. Round _any_ corner. Second door's all-ways Sunday-school. +(_Takes a sight. Exeunt boys_.) + + THOMAS _sits down on a door-step_. + +_Tho._ Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th' Lord dunnot be a forsakin' +ov mo. There's that abeawt th' lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th' angels +keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an' +they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful +plaze! What has th' shepherd o' th' sheep himsel' to do, God bless +him! but go look for th' lost ones and carry 'em whoam! O Lord! gie mo +mo Mattie. Aw'm a silly ship mosel, a sarchin' for mo lost lamb. +(_Boys begin to gather and stare_.) She's o' the world to me. O Lord, +hear mo, and gie mo mo Mattie. Nea, aw'll geet oop, and go look again. +(_Rises_.) + +_First Boy_. Ain't he a cricket, Tommy? + +_Second Boy_. Spry, ain't he? Prod him, and see him jump. (_General +insult_.) + +_Tho._ Why, childer, what have aw done, that yo cry after mo like a +thief? + +_First Boy_. Daddy Longlegs! Daddy Longlegs! + + _They hustle and crowd him. Re-enter_ BILL. THOMAS _makes a rush. + They run. He seizes_ BILL. _They gather again_. + +_Tho._ Han yo getten a mother, lad? + +_Bill_. No, thank ye. 'Ain't got no mother. Come of a haunt, I do. + +_First Boy_. Game!--ain't he? + +_Tho._ Well, aw'll tak yo whoam to yor aunt--aw wull. + +_Bill_. Will you now, old chap? Wery well. (_Squats_.) + +_Tho._ (_holding him up by the collar, and shaking his stick over +him_). Tell mo wheer's por aunt, or aw'll breyk every bone i' yor +body. + +_Bill_ (_wriggling and howling and rubbing his eyes with alternate +sleeves_). Let me go, I say. Let me go and I'll tell ye. I will +indeed, sir. + +_Tho._ (_letting go_) Wheer then, mo lad? + +_Bill_ (_starting up_). I' the church-cellar, sir--first bin over the +left--feeds musty, and smells strong. Ho! ho! ho! (_Takes a sight_.) + + THOMAS _makes a dart_. BILL _dodges him_. + +_First Boy_. Ain't he a cricket _now_, Tommy? + +_Second Boy_. Got one leg too many for a cricket, Sam. + +_Third Boy_. That's what he jerks hisself with, Tommy. + +_Tho._ Boys, I want to be freens wi' yo. Here's a penny. + + _One of the boys knocks it out of his hand. A scramble_. + +_Tho._ Now, boys, dun yo know wheer's a young woman bi th' name ov +Mattie--somewheer abeawt Paradise Row? + +_First Boy_. Yes, old un. + +_Second Boy_. Lots on 'em. + +_Third Boy_. Which on em' do you want, Mr. Cricket? + +_Fourth Boy_. You ain't peticlar, I s'pose, old corner-bones? + +_First Boy_. Don't you fret, old stilts. We'll find you a Mattie. +There's plenty on 'em--all nice gals. + +_Tho._ I want mo own Mattie. + +_First Boy_. Why, you'd never tell one from t'other on 'em! + +_Third Boy_. All on 'em wery glad to see old Daddy Longlegs! + +_Tho._ Oh dear! Oh dear! What an awful plaze this Lon'on do be! To +see the childer so bad! + +_Second Boy_. Don't cry, gran'pa. _She'_d chaff you worser 'n us! +We're only poor little innocent boys. We don't know nothink, bless +you! Oh no! + +_First Boy_. You'd better let her alone, arter all, bag o' nails. + +_Second Boy_. She'll have it out on you now, for woppin' of her when +she wor a kid. + +_First Boy_. She's a wopper herself now. + +_Third Boy_. Mighty fine, with your shirt for a great-coat. He! he! +he! + +_Fourth Boy_. Mattie never kicks us poor innocent boys--cos we 'ain't +got no mothers to take our parts. Boo hoo! + + _Enter_ JACK--_his hands in his pockets_. + +_Jack_. What's the row, Bill? + +_Bill_. Dunnow, Jack. Old chap collared me when I wasn't alludin' to +him. He's after some Mattie or other. It can't be our Mattie. _She_ +wouldn't never have such a blazin' old parient as that. + +_Jack_. Supposin' it was your Mattie, Bill, would you split, and let +Scull-and-cross-bones nab her? + +_Bill_. Would I? Would I 'and over our Mattie to her natural enemy? +Did you ax it, Jack? + +_Jack_. Natural enemy! My eye, Bill! what words you fakes! + +_Bill_. Ain't he her natural enemy, then? Ain't it yer father as bumps +yer 'ed, an' cusses ye, an' lets ye see him eat? Afore he gets our +Mattie, I'll bite! + +_Tho._ Poor lad! poor lad! Dunnot say that! Her feyther's th' best +freen' hoo's getten. Th' moor's th' pity, for it's not mich he can do +for her. But he would dee for her--he would. + +_Boys (all together)_. Go along, Daddy-devil! Pick yer own bones, an' +ha' done. + + Bag-raker! + Skin-cat! + Bag o' nails! + Scull-an'-cross-bones! + + Old Daddy Longlegs wouldn't say his prayers-- + Take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs. + + Go along! Go to hell! + _We_'ll skin you. + Melt ye down for taller, we will. + Only he 'ain't got none, the red herrin'! + + _They throw things at him. He sits down on the door-step, and covers + his head with his arms. Enter_ COL. G. _Boys run off_. + +_Tho._ Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie! + +_Col. G._ Poor old fellow! Are you hurt? + +_Tho._ Eh! _yo_ be a followin' ov mo too! + +_Col. G._ What are you doing here? + +_Tho._ What am aw doin' yere! Thee knows well enough what aw're a +doin' yere. It 're o' thy fau't, mon. + +_Col. G._ Why, you've got a blow! Your head is cut! Poor old fellow! + +_Tho._ Never yo mind mo yed. + +_Col. G._ You must go home. + +_Tho._ Goo whoam, says to! Aw goo no-wheers but to th' grave afoor +aw've feawnd mo chylt. + +_Col. G._ Come along with me; I will do all I can to find her. Perhaps +I can help you after all. + +_Tho._ Aw mak nea deawbt o' that, mon. And thae seems a gradely chap. +Aw'm a'most spent. An' aw'm sick, sick! Dunnot let th' boys shove mo +abeawt again. + +_Col. G._ I will not. They shan't come near you. Take my arm. Poor old +fellow! If you would but trust me! Hey! Cab there! + + _Exeunt_. + + _Enter_ SUSAN, _peeping_. + +_Sus_. I wonder whatever's come to Mattie! It's long time she was out +again. + + _Enter_ MATTIE, _hurriedly_. + +_Mat_. Oh, Susan! Susan! (_Falls_.) + +_Sus_. Mattie! Mattie! (_Kneels beside her, and undoes her bonnet_.) + + _Enter_ POLICEMAN. + +_Pol_. What ails her? (_Goes to lift her_.) + +_Sus_. Leave her alone, will you? Let her head down. Get some water. + +_Pol_. Drunk--is she? + +_Sus_. Hold your tongue, you brute! If she'd a satin frock on, i'stead +o' this here poor cotton gownd, you'd ha' showed her t'other side o' +your manners! Get away with you. You're too ugly to look at.--Mattie! +Mattie! Look up, child. + +_Pol_. She mustn't lie there. + +_Mat_. Susan! + +_Pol_. Come, my girl. + +_Sus_. You keep off, I tell you! Don't touch her. She's none o' your +sort. Come, Mattie, dear.--Why don't you make 'em move on? + +_Pol_. You'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, young woman. + +_Sus_. You live lobster! + +_Pol_. I'll have to lock you up, I see. One violent. T'other +incapable. + +_Sus_. You're another. Mattie, my dear, come along home. + +_Pol_. That's right; be off with you. + + MATTIE _rises_. + +_Mat_. Let's go. Sue! Let's get farther off. + +_Sus_. You can't walk, child. If I hadn't been so short o' wittles for +a week, I could ha' carried you. But it's only a step to the +cook-shop. + +_Mat_. No money, Sue. (_Tries to walk_.) + +_Sus_. O Lord! What _shall_ I do! And that blue-bottle there a buzzin' +an' a starin' at us like a dead codfish!--Boh! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_. Our Mattie! Gracious! what's the row, Susan? + +_Sus_. She ain't well. Take her other arm, Bill, and help her out o' +this. We ain't in no Christian country. Pluck up, Mattie, dear. + +_Bill_. Come into the tart-shop. I'm a customer. + + _They go towards the shop. Exit_ POLICEMAN. + +_Mat_. No, no, Sukey! I can't abide the smell of it. Let me sit on the +kerb for a minute. (_Sits down_.) Oh, father! father! + +_Bill_. Never you mind, Mattie! If he wor twenty fathers, he shan't +come near ye. + +_Mat_. Oh, Bill! if you could find him for me! He would take me home. + +_Bill_. Now who'd ha' thought o' that? Axially wantin' her own father! +I'd run far enough out o' the way o' mine--an' farther if he wur +a-axin' arter me. + +_Mat_. Oh me! my side! + +_Sus_. It's hunger, poor dear! (_Sits down beside her_.) + +_Bill_ (_aside_). This won't do, Bill! I'm a shamed o' _you_, Bill! +_Exit_. + +_Mat_. No, Susan, it's not hunger. It's the old story, Sue. + +_Sus_. Mattie! I never! You don't mean to go for to tell me you're a +breakin' of your precious heart about _him_? It's not your gentleman +sure_ly_! It's not _him_ ye're turnin' sick about, this time o' day? + + MATTIE _nods her head listlessly_. + +_Sus_. What's up fresh, then? You was pretty bobbish when you left me. +It's little he thinks of _you_, I'll be bound. + +_Mat_. That's true enough. It's little he ever thought of me. He _did_ +say he loved me, though. It's fifty times he did! + +_Sus_. Lies, lies, Mattie--all lies! + +_Mat_. No, Susan; it wasn't lies. He meant it--at the time. That's +what made it look all right. Oh dear! Oh dear! + +_Sus_. But what's come to you now, Mattie? What's fresh in it? You're +not turned like this all at once for nothink! + +_Mat_. I've seen him! + +_Sus_. Seen him! Oh, my! I wish it had been me. _I_'d ha' seen him! +I'd ha' torn his ugly eyes out. + +_Mat_. They ain't ugly eyes. They're big and blue, and they sparkle so +when he talks to her! + +_Sus_. And who's _her_? Ye didn't mention a _her_. Some brazen-faced +imperence! + +_Mat_. No. The young lady at Mrs. Clifford's. + +_Sus_. Oho! See if I do a stitch for her!--Shan't I leave a needle in +_her_ shimmy, just! + +_Mat_. What _shall_ I do! All the good's gone out of me! And such a +pain here! + +_Sus_. Keep in yer breath a minute, an' push yer ribs out. It's one on +'em's got a top o' the other. + +_Mat_. Such a grand creature! And her colour coming and going like the +shadows on the corn! It's no wonder he forgot poor me. But it'll burn +itself out afore long. + +_Sus_. Don't ye talk like that, Mattie; I can't abear it. + +_Mat_. If I was dressed like her, though, and could get my colour +back! But laws! I'm such a washed out piece o' goods beside her! + +_Sus_. That's as I say, Matilda! It's the dress makes the differ. + +_Mat_. No, Susan, it ain't. It's the free look of them--and the head +up--and the white hands--and the taper fingers. They're stronger than +us, and they're that trained like, that all their body goes in one, +like the music at a concert. _I_ couldn't pick up a needle without +going down on my knees after it. It's the pain in my side, Sue.--Yes, +it's a fine thing to be born a lady. It's _not_ the clothes, Sue. If +we was dressed ever so, we couldn't come near them. It's that look,--I +don't know what. + +_Sus_. Speak for yerself, Mattie; _I_'m not a goin' to think such +small beer of _my_self, _I_ can tell you! I believe if I'd been took +in time-- + +_Mat_. It's a big _if_ that though, Sue.--And then she looked _so_ good! +You'd hardly think it of me,--perhaps it's because I'm dying--but for +one minute I could ha' kissed her very shoes. Oh, my side! + +_Sus_. (_putting her arm tight round her waist_). Does that help it +Mattie, dear?--a little teeny bit? + +_Mat_. Yes, Sukey. It holds it together a bit. Will he break her heart +too, I wonder? + +_Sus_. No fear o' that! Ladies takes care o' theirselves. They're +brought up to it. + +_Mat_. It's only poor girls gentlemen don't mind hurting, I suppose. + +_Sus_. It's the ladies' fathers and brothers, Mattie! We've got nobody +to look after us. + +_Mat_. They may break their hearts, though, for all that. + +_Sus_. They won't forgive them like you, then, Mattie! + +_Mat_. I dare say they're much the same as we are when it comes to +that, Sue. + +_Sus_. Don't say _me_, Mattie. _I_ wouldn't forgive him--no, not if +I was to die for it. But what came of it, child? + +_Mat_. I made some noise, I suppose, and the lady started. + +_Sus_. And then you up and spoke? + +_Mat_. I turned sick, and fell down. + +_Sus_. Poor dear! + +_Mat_. She got me a glass of wine, but I couldn't swallow it, and got +up and crawled out. + +_Sus_. Did he see you? + +_Mat_. I think he did. + +_Sus_. You'll tell her, in course? + +_Mat_. No, Sue; he'd hate me, and I couldn't bear that. Oh me! my +side! It's so bad! + +_Sus_. Let's try for home, Mattie. It's a long way, and there's +nothing to eat when you're there; but you can lie down, and that's +everything to them as can't sit up. + +_Mat_. (_rising_). I keep fancying I'm going to meet my father. + +_Sus_. Let's fancy it then every turn all the way home, an' that'll +get us along. There, take my arm. There!--Come along. _Exeunt_. + + _Slow music. Twilight_. + + _Enter_ BILL _with a three-legged stool, brushes, etc._ + +_Bill_. Come! it's blackin' all over! When gents can't no longer see +their boots, 'tain't much use offerin' to shine 'em. But if I can get +a penny, I will. I _must_ take a tart to Mattie, or this here damaged +one (_laying his hand on his stomach_) won't go to sleep this night. + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Bill_. Black your boots for a party, sir? + +_Wat_. (_aside_) The very rascal I saw her speaking to! But wasn't she +a brick not to split! That's what I call devotion now! There _are_ +some of them capable of it. I'll set her up for life. I'd give a cool +thousand it hadn't happened, though. I saw her father too hanging +about Gervaise's yesterday. + +_Bill_. Clean your boots, sir? Shine 'em till they grin like a +Cheshire cat eatin' cheese! + +_Wat_. Shine away, you beggar. + +_Bill_ (_turning up his trousers_). I ain't no beggar, sir. Shine for +a shiner's fair play. + +_Wat_. Do you live in this neighbourhood? + +_Bill_. No, sir. + +_Wat_. Where, then? + +_Bill_ (_feeling where a pocket should be_). I don't appear to 'ave a +card about me, sir, but my address is Lamb's Court, Camomile +Street--leastways I do my sleepin' not far off of it. I've lived +there, what livin' I _have_ done, sin' ever I wor anywheres as I knows +on. + +_Wat_. Do you happen to know a girl of the name of Pearson? + +_Bill_. No, sir. I can't say as how I rec'lect the name. Is she a old +girl or a young un? + +_Wat_. You young liar! I saw you talking to her not two hours ago! + +_Bill_. Did ye now, sir? That's odd, ain't it? Bless you! I talks to +everybody. I ain't proud, sir. + +_Wat_. Well, do you see this? (_holding up a sovereign_). + +_Bill_. That's one o' them tilings what don't require much seein', +sir. There! Bright as a butterfly! T'other twin, sir! + +_Wat_. I'll give you this, if you'll do something for me--and another +to that when the thing's done. + +_Bill_. 'Tain't stealin', sir? + +_Wat_. No. + +_Bill_. Cos, you see, Mattie-- + +_Wat_. Who did you say? + +_Bill_. Old Madge as lets the beds at tuppence a short night. 'Tain't +stealin', you say, sir? + +_Wat_. What do you take me for? I want you to find out for me where +the girl Pearson lives--that's all. + +_Bill_ (_snatching the sovereign and putting it in his mouth_). Now +then, sir!--What's the young woman like? + +_Wat_. Rather tall--thin--dark hair--large dark eyes--and long white +hands. Her name's Matilda--Mattie Pearson--the girl you were talking +to, I tell you, on this very spot an hour or two ago. + +_Bill_ (_dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it_). Golly! it +_is_ our Mattie! + +_Wat_. Shall you know her again? + +_Bill_. Any boy as wasn't a hass would know his own grandmother by +them spots. Besides, I remember sich a gal addressin' of me this +mornin'. If you say her it was, I'll detect her for ye. + +_Wat_. There's a good boy! What's your name? + +_Bill_. Timothy, sir. + +_Wat_. What else? + +_Bill_. Never had no other--leastways as I knows on. + +_Wat_. Well, Timothy--there's the other sov.--and it's yours the +moment you take me to her. Look at it. + +_Bill_. My eye!--Is she a square Moll, sir? + +_Wat_. What do you mean by that? + +_Bill_. Green you are, to be sure!--She ain't one as steals, or-- + +_Wat_. Not she. She's a sempstress--a needlewoman, or something of the +sort. + +_Bill_. And where shall I find _you_, sir? + +_Wat_. Let me see:--to-morrow night--on the steps of St. Martin's +Church--ten o'clock. + +_Bill_. But if I don't find her? It may be a week--or a month--or-- + +_Wat_. Come whether you find her or not, and let me know. + +_Bill_. All serene, sir! There you are, sir! Brush your trousers, sir? + +_Wat_. No; leave 'em.--Don't forget now. + +_Bill_. Honour bright, sir! Not if I knows it, sir! + +_Wat_. There's that other skid, you know. + +_Bill_. All right, sir! Anything more, sir? + +_Wat_. Damn your impudence! Get along. + + _Exit_. BILL _watches him into_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S. + +_Bill_. Now by all the 'ungry gums of Arabiar, 'ere's a swell arter +our Mattie!--A right rig'lar swell! I knows 'em--soverings an' red +socks. What's come to our Mattie? 'Ere's Daddy Longlegs arter her, +vith his penny and his blessin'! an' 'ere's this 'ere mighty swell +vith his soverings--an' his red socks! An' she's 'ungry, poor +gal!--This 'ere yellow-boy?--I 'ain't got no faith in swells--no more +'n in Daddy Longlegses--I 'ain't!--S'posin' he wants to marry +her?--Not if I knows it. He ain't half good 'nough for _her_. Too many +quids--goin' a flingin' on 'em about like buttons! He's been a +crackin' o' cribs--_he_ has. I ain't a goin' to interduce our Mattie +to no sich blokes as him. No fathers or lovyers for me--says I!--But +this here pebble o' Paradise!--What's to be done wi' the cherub? I +can't tell _her_ a lie about it, an' who'll break it up for a cove +like me, lookin' jes' as if I'd been an' tarred myself and crep' +through a rag-bag! They'd jug me. An' what 'ud Mattie say then? I wish +I 'adn't 'a' touched it. I'm blowed if I don't toss it over a +bridge!--Then the gent 'ain't got the weight on his dunop out o' me. O +Lord! what _shall_ I do with it? I wish I'd skied it in his face! I +don't believe it's a good un; I don't! (_Bites it_.) It do taste wery +nasty. It's nothin' better 'n a gilt fardin'! Jes' what a cove might +look for from sich a swell! (_Goes to a street lamp and examines it_.) +Lor! there's a bobby! (_Exit. Re-enter to the lamp_.) I wish the +gen'leman 'ad guv me a penny. I can't do nothin' wi' this 'ere quid. +Vere am I to put it? I 'ain't got no pocket, an' if I was to stow it +in my 'tato-trap, I couldn't wag my red rag--an' Mother Madge 'ud soon +have me by the chops. Nor I've got noveres to plant it.--O Lor! it's +all I've got, an' Madge lets nobody go to bed without the tuppence. +It's all up with Bill--_for_ the night!--Where's the odds!--there's a +first-class hotel by the river--The Adelphi Arches, they calls +it--where they'll take me in fast enough, and I can go to sleep with +it in my cheek. Coves is past talkin' to you there. Nobody as sees me +in that 'ere 'aunt of luxury, 'ill take me for a millionaire vith a +skid in his mouth. 'Tain't a bit cold to-night neither (_going_).--Vy +do they say a _aunt_ of luxury? I s'pose acause she's wife to my +uncle. _Exit_. + + _Slow music. The night passes. A policeman crosses twice_. THOMAS + _crosses between. Dawn_. + + _Re-enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_. I'm hanged if this here blasted quid ain't a burnin' of me +like a red-hot fardin'! I'm blest if I've slep' more 'n half the +night. I woke up oncet, with it a slippin' down red lane. I wish I had +swallered it. Then nobody 'd 'a' ast me vere I got it. I don't wonder +as rich coves turn out sich a bad lot. I believe the devil's in this +'ere! + + _Knocks at_ MRS. CLIFFORD'S door. JAMES _opens. Is shutting it + again_. BILL _shoves in his stool_. + +_Bill_. Hillo, Blazes! where's your manners? Is that the way you +behaves to callers on your gov'nor's business? + +_James (half opening the door_). Get about your own business, you +imperent boy! + +_Bill_. I'm about it now, young man. I wants to see your gov'nor. + +_James_. _You_'ve got business with _him_, have you, eh? + +_Bill_. Amazin' precoxity! You've hit it! I _have_ got business with _him_, +Door-post--not in the wery smallest with _you_, Door-post!--essep' the +knife-boy's been and neglected of your feet-bags this mornin'. (JAMES +_would slam the door_. BILL _shoves in his stool_.) Don't you try that +'ere little game again, young man! for if I loses my temper and takes +to hollerin', you'll wish yourself farther. + +_James_. A humbug you are! I 'ain't got no gov'nor, boy. The master as +belongs to me is a mis'ess. + +_Bill_. Then that 'ere gen'lemen as comes an' goes, ain't your +master--eh? + +_James_. What gen'leman, stoopid? + +_Bill_. Oh! it don't matter. + +_James_. What _have--you--got_ to say to _him_? + +_Bill_. Some'at pickled: it'll keep. + +_James_. I'll give him a message, if you like. + +_Bill_. Well, you may tell him the bargain's hoff, and if he wants his +money, it's a waitin' of him round the corner. + +_James_. You little blackguard! Do you suppose a gen'leman's a goin' +to deliver sich a message as that! Be off, you himp! (_Makes a dart at +him_.) + +_Bill_ (_dodging him_). How d'e do, Clumsy? Don't touch me; I ain't +nice. Why, what was you made for, Parrot? Is them calves your own +rearin' now? Is that a quid or a fardin? Have a shot, now, Shins. + +_James_. None o' your imperence, young blackie! 'And me over the +money, and I'll give it to the gen'leman. + +_Bill_. Do you see anything peticlar green in my eye, Rainbow? + + JAMES _makes a rush_. BILL _gets down before him_. JAMES _tumbles + over him_. BILL _blacks his face with his brush_. + +_Bill_ (_running a little way_). Ha! ha! ha! Bill Shoeblack--his mark! +Who's blackie now? You owes me a penny--twopence--'twor sich a ugly +job! Ain't shiny? I'll come back and shine ye for another penny. Good +mornin', Jim Crow! Take my adwice, and don't on no account apply your +winegar afore you've opened your hoyster. Likeways: Butter don't melt +on a cold tater. _Exit_. + + _Exit_ JAMES _into the house, banging the door_. + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD, _followed by BILL_. + +_Bill_. Please, sir, I been a watchin' for you. + +_Wat_. Go to the devil! + +_Bill_. I'd rayther not. So there's your suv'ring! + +_Wat_. Go along. Meet me where I told you. + +_Bill_. I won't. There's yer skid. + +_Wat_. Be off, or I'll give you in charge. Hey! Policeman! _Exit_. + +_Bill_. Well, I'm blowed! This quid '11 be the hangin' o' me! _Damn +you_! (_Throws it fiercely on the ground and stamps on it_.) Serves +me right for chaffin' the old un! He didn't look a bad sort--_for_ +a gov'nor.--Now I reflexes, I heerd Mattie spoony on some father or +other, afore. O Lord! I'll get Jim and Jack to help me look out for +him. (_Enter_ THOMAS.) Lor' ha' mussy!--talk o' the old un!--I'm wery +peticlar glad as I found you, daddy. I been a lookin' for ye--leastways +I was a goin' to look for ye this wery moment as you turns up. I chaffed +you like a zorologicle monkey yesterday, daddy, an' I'm wery sorry. But +you see fathers ain't nice i' this 'ere part o' the continent. (_Enter_ +JAMES, _in plain clothes, watching them_.) They ain't no good nohow to +nobody. If _I_ wos a husband and a father, I don't know as how I should +be A One, myself. P'r'aps I might think it wur my turn to break arms and +legs. I knowed more 'n one father as did. It's no wonder the boys is a +plaguy lot, daddy. + +_Tho._ Goo away, boy. Dosto yer, aw've seen so mich wickedness sin' aw +coom to Lon'on, that aw dunnot knaw whether to breighk thi yed, or to +goo wi' tho? There be thieves and there be robbers. + +_Bill_. Never fear, daddy. You ain't worth robbin' of, I don't think. + +_Tho._ How dosto knaw that? Aw've moore 'n I want to lose abeawt mo. + +_Bill_. Then Mattie 'ill have som'at to eat--will she, daddy? + +_Tho._ Som'at to eight, boy! Be mo Mattie hungry--dun yo think? + +_Bill_. Many and many's the time, daddy. + +_Tho._ Yigh--afore her dinner! + +_Bill_. And after it too, daddy. + +_Tho._ O Lord!--And what does hoo do when hoo 's hungry? + +_Bill_. Grins and bears it. Come and see her, daddy? + +_Tho._ O Lord! Mo Mattie, an' nothin' to eight! Goo on, boy. Aw'm beawn +to follow yo. Tak mo wheer yo like. Aw'll goo. + +_Bill_. Come along then, daddy. + +_James (collaring him_). Hullo, young un! You're the rascal as stole the +suvering: _I_ saw you! + +_Bill_. Dunno what you're up to. I never stole nothink. + +_James_. Oh no! of course not! What's that in yer fist now? (_Catches_ +BILL'S _hand, and forces it open_.) There! + + BILL _drops his stool on_ JAMES'S _foot, throws up the coin, catches + it with his other hand, and puts it in his mouth_. + +_Tho._ Theighur! Theighur! The like ov that! Aw're agooin wi' a +thief--aw wur! + +_Bill_. Never you mind, daddy. It wur guv to me. + +_James_. That's what they allus says, sir.--You come along.--I'd be +obliged to you, sir, if you would come too, and say you saw him. + +_Tho._ Nay! aw connot say aw seigh him steyle it. + +_James_. You saw it in his hand. + +_Tho._ Yigh! aw did. + +_Bill_. It wis guv to me, I tell ye. + +_James_. Honest boy, this one! Looks like it, don't he, sir? What do you +think of yourself, you young devil, a decoying of a grey-haired old +gen'leman like this? Why, sir, him an' his pals 'ud ha' taken every +penny you had about you! Murdered you, they might--I've knowed as much. +It's a good thing I 'appened on the spot.--Come along, you bad boy! + +_Bill_. I didn't, take it. And I won't go. + +_James_. Come along. They'll change it for you at the lock-up. + +_Bill_. You didn't see me steal it! You ain't never a goin' to gi' me in +charge? + +_James_. Wrong again, young un! That's? percisely what I am a goin' to +do! + +_Bill_. Oh, sir! please, sir! I'm a honest boy. It's the Bible-truth. +I'll kiss twenty books on it. + +_James_. I won't ax you.--Why, sir, he ain't even one o' the +shoe-brigade. He 'ain't got a red coat. Bless my soul! he 'ain't even +got a box--nothin' but a scrubby pair o' brushes as I'm alive! He ain't +no shoeblack. He's a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks +pockets. + +_Bill_. You're a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life. + +_James_. Bad language, you see! What more would you have? + +_Tho._ Who'd iver lia' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that! + +_Bill_. I ain't a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae +made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a +deevil--yo did. + +_James_. He's one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of the +very worst boys in all London. + +_Bill (aside_). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rainbow, by Peter and +Paul!--Look y'e here, old gen'leman! This 'ere's a bad cove as is takin' +adwantage o' your woolliness. _I_ knows him. His master guv me the +suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was. + +_James_. Don't you fancy you're g' in' to take in an experienced old +gen'leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say. +Hey! Police! + +_Bill_. Here you are! _(Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry on +his jacket, and offers it._) I don't want it. Give it to old Hunx +there.--He shan't never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter +all. + +_James (taking the coin_). Now look here, Timothy. I'm a detective +hofficer. But I won't never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest +livin'. So you be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to +go to. + + BILL _moves two paces, and takes a sight at him_. + +_Tho._ The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then? + +_James_. It's the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in +his beat. + +_Bill_. My eye! there's a oner! + +_Tho._ Tak mo to her, sir, an' aw'll pray for yo. + +_James_. I will.--If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I'll give you in +charge at oncet. + +_Bill (bolting five yards_). He's a humbug, daddy! but he'll serve you +right. He'll melt you down for taller. He ain't no 'tective. I know him. + +_Tho._ Goo away. + +_Bill_. Good-bye, daddy! He don't know your Mattie. Good-bye, +skelington! _Exit_. + +_Tho._ Eh! sech a boy! + +_James_. Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie? + +_Tho._ Aw do, sir. + +_James_. The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent? + +_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her. + +_James_. Then there's Mattie Winchfield? + +_Tho._ Nay; it's noan o' her. + +_James_. Then there's Mattie Pearson? + +_Tho._ Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer? + +_James_. Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll call +a cab, and we'll go comfortable. + +_Tho._ But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab--as yo co it. + +_James_. You don't suppose I'm a goin' to put an honest man like you to +expense! + +_Tho._ It's but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best. + +_James_. Hey! Cab there! _Exeunt_. + + _Re-enter_ BILL, _following them_. + +_Bill_. I'll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the +yellow-boy--he's his master! Poor old codger! He'll believe any cove +but the one as tells him the truth! + + _Exit_. + + _Enter from the house_ MRS. CLIFFORD. _Enter from opposite side_ + COL. G. + +_Col. G._ I was just coming to see you, Clara. + +_Mrs. C._ And I was going to see you. How's Arthur to-day? I thought you +would have come yesterday. + +_Col. G._ My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were _not_ his +father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning. + +_Mrs. C._ Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter. + +_Col. G._ Or something better than fortune. + +_Mrs. C._ You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the farce +when you please, and in triumph. + +_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an anticlimax +to end what you are pleased to call _the farce_ now. As if I could make +a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black servant. I wish I +had him here. + +_Mrs. C._ You would like to double the watch--would you? + +_Col. G._ Something has vexed you, Clara. + +_Mrs. C._ I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day. + +_Col. G._ I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I wish +you would come and see him a little oftener. + +_Mrs. C._ He doesn't want me. You are everything now. Besides, I can't +come alone. + +_Col G._ Why not? + +_Mrs. C._ Constance would fancy I did not want to take her. + +_Col. G._ Then why not take her? + +_Mrs. C._ I have my reasons. + +_Col. G._ What are they? + +_Mrs. C._ Never mind. + +_Col. G._ I insist upon knowing them. + +_Mrs. C._ It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I +_will_ if you use such an expression. + +_Col. G._ But why shouldn't you bring Miss Lacordere with you? + +_Mrs. C._ He's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head. + +_Col. G._ She's a fine girl. You make a friend of her. + +_Mrs. C._ She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but I don't want to +meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last +_my_ time. + +_Col. G._ Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride _be_ a Christian virtue. + +_Mrs. C._ I see! You'll be a radical before long. _Every_thing is going +that way. + +_Col. G._ I don't care what I am, so I do what's right. I'm sick of all +that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory as +yet, but I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice lay on +that side.--If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he marry +her? + +_Mrs. C._ She may be unfit for him. + +_Col. G._ How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don't fall in +love with birds. + +_Mrs. C._ It's a risk--a great risk. + +_Col. G._ None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more +worth taking. I wish my poor boy-- + +_Mrs. C._ Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in +pleasing you, brother! + +_Col. G. (aside_). She _knows_ something.--I must go and see about his +dinner. Good-bye, sister. + +_Mrs. C._ Good-bye, then. You will have your own way! + +_Col. G._ This once, Clara. _Exeunt severally_. + +END OF ACT II. + + + + +ACT III. + +SCENE.--_A garret-room_. MATTIE. SUSAN. + + +_Mat_. At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know but +hunger may be as easy a way as another. + +_Sus_. I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would +choose. + +_Mat_. There are worse ways. + +_Sus_. Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'. + +_Mat_. There's that button-hole done. (_Lays down her work with a +sigh, and leans back in her chair_.) + +_Sus_. I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's +wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up. + +_Mat_. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content +with bread, I think. + +_Sus_. Bread, indeed! + +_Mat_. Well, it's something to eat. + +_Sus_. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone? + +_Mat_. Bread's very good with a cup of tea. + +_Sus_. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!--If you'd +mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now! + +_Mat_. I never tasted lobster-salad. + +_Sus_. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't care +about your wittles: _I_ do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable. + +_Mat_. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard. + +_Sus_. I _can't_ eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' of +'unger. It's only I'm peckish. _Very_ peckish, though. I could eat--let +me see what I _could_ eat:--I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen +oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken--if it +was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it--and a Bath-bun, and a +sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just that +crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of +champagne. + +_Mat_. I don't know what one of those things tastes like--scarce one; +and I don't believe you do either. + +_Sus_. Don't I?--I never did taste champagne, but I've seen them eating +lobster-salad many a time;--girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me, +Mattie, and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I _am_ so +hungry! Think of having your supper with a real gentleman as talks to +you as if you was fit to talk to--not like them Jew-tailors, as tosses +your work about as if it dirtied their fingers--and them none so clean +for all their fine rings! + +_Mat_. I saw Nathan's Joseph in a pastrycook's last Saturday, and a very +pretty girl with him, poor thing! + +_Sus_. Oh the hussy to let that beast pay for her! + +_Mat_. I suppose she was hungry. + +_Sus_. I'd die before I let a snob like that treat _me_. No, Mattie! I +spoke of a _real_ gentleman. + +_Mat_. Are you sure you wouldn't take Nathan's Joseph for a gentleman if +he was civil to you? + +_Sus_. Thank you, miss! I know a sham from a real gentleman the moment I +set eyes on him. + +_Mat_. What do you mean by a real gentleman, Susan? + +_Sus_. A gentleman as makes a lady of his girl. + +_Mat_. But what sort of lady, Sue? The poor girl may fancy herself a +lady, but only till she's left in the dirt. That sort of gentleman makes +fine speeches to your face, and calls you horrid names behind your back. +Sue, dear, don't have a word to say to one of them--if he speaks ever so +soft. + +_Sus_. Lawks, Mattie! they ain't all one sort. + +_Mat_. You won't have more than one sort to choose from. They may be +rough or civil, good-natured or bad, but they're all the same in this, +that not one of them cares a pin more for you than if you was a +horse--no--nor half a quarter so much. Don't for God's sake have a word +to say to one of them. If I die, Susan-- + +_Sus_. If you do, Matilda--if you go and do that thing, I'll take to +gin--that's what I'll do. Don't say I didn't act fair, and tell you +beforehand. + +_Mat_. How can I help dying, Susan? + +_Sus_. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if you do. Don't do +it, Matilda--La! there's that lumping Bill again--_al_ways a comin' up +the stair when you don't want him! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Mat_. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on? + +_Bill_. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so. (_Holds out his +stool_.) It ain't respectable. + +_Mat_. What ain't respectable? Everything's respectable that's honest. + +_Bill_. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin' about with a +three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It ain't the thing. The rig'lars +chaffs me fit to throw it at their 'eads, they does--only there's too +many on 'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have, or a +feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One bob, one tanner, and a +joey! There! that's what comes of never condescending to an 'a'penny. + +_Sus_. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got a waitin' on us! + +_Bill_. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the right word in +the right place--as the coster said to the devil-dodger as blowed him +up for purfane swearin'.--When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I +axes him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige me by givin' +of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the good fort'n to meet. _Some_ +on 'em throws down the 'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.--But I +say, Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you--do you now? + +_Mat_. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill. + +_Bill_. You don't want a father--do you now? Do she, Susan? + +_Sus_. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You 'ain't seen one +about, have you? + +_Bill_. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow. + +_Mat_. What do you mean, Bill? Bill. A rig'lar swell--I repeats it--a +astin' arter a young woman by the name o' Mattie. + +_Sus_. (_pulling him aside_). Hold your tongue, Bill! You'll kill her! +You young viper! Hold your tongue, or I'll twist your neck. Don't you +see how white she is? + +_Mat_. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill. + +_Bill_. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain, and a cane with +a hivory 'andle. + +_Sus_. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide him. If you tell him +where she is, she'll never speak to you again. + +_Mat_. Oh, Susan! what _shall_ I do? Don't bring him here, Bill. I shall +have to run away again; and I can't, for we owe a week's rent. + +_Sus_. There, Bill! + +_Bill_. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch you. Nor the old +one neither. + +_Mat_. There wasn't an old man with him?--not an old man with a long +stick? + +_Bill_. Not with _him_. Daddy was on his own hook? + +_Mat_. It must have been my father, Susan. (_Sinks back on her chair_.) + +_Sus_. 'Tain't the least likely.--There, Bill! I always said you was no +good! You've killed her. + +_Bill_. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you was. + +_Mat_. (_reviving_). Run and fetch him, Bill--there's a dear! Oh! how +proud I've been! If mother did say a hard word, she didn't mean it--not +for long. Run, Bill, run and fetch him. + +_Bill_. Mattie, I was a fetchin' of him, but he wouldn't trust me. And +didn't he cut up crusty, and collar me tight! He's a game old cock--he +is, Mattie. + +_Mat_. (_getting up and pacing about the room_). Oh, Susan! my heart'll +break. To think he's somewhere near and I can't get to him! Oh my side! +_Don't_ you know where he is, Bill? + +_Bill_. He's someveres about, and blow me if I don't, find him!--a +respectable old party in a white pinny, an' 'peared as if he'd go on a +walkin' till he walked hisself up staudin'. A scrumptious old party! + +_Mat_. Had he a stick, Bill? + +_Bill_. Yes--a knobby stick--leastways a stick wi' knobs all over it. + +_Mat_. That's him, Susan! + +_Bill_. I could swear to the stick. I was too near gittin' at the taste +on it not to know it again. + +_Mat_. When was it you saw him, Bill? + +_Bill_. Yesterday, Mattie--jest arter you give me the tart. I sawr him +again this mornin', but he wouldn't place no confidence in me. + +_Mat_. Oh dear! Why didn't you come straight to me, Bill? + +_Bill_. If I'd only ha' known as you wanted him! But that was sech a +_un_likely thing! It's werry perwokin'! I uses my judgment, an' puts +my hoof in it! I _am_ sorry, Mattie. But I didn't know no better +(_crying_). + +_Mat_. Don't cry, Bill. You'll find him for me yet--won't you? + +_Bill_. I'm off this indentical minute. But you see-- + +_Sus_. There! there!--now you mizzle. _I_ don't want no fathers +here--goodness knows; but the poor girl's took a fancy to hers, and +she'll die if she don't get him. Run now--there's a good boy! (_Exit_ +BILL.) You 'ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie? + +_Mat_. No, indeed. + +_Sus_. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give her a bit of my +mind. + +_Mat_. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That sort of thing never +does any good. + +_Sus_. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs, and sayin' _yes, ma'am_, +an' _no, ma'am_? Not if I knows it, Matilda! + +_Mat_. You will only make her the more positive in her ill opinion of +us. + +_Sus_. An' what's that to me? + +_Mat_. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Besides, Mrs. Clifford +has been kind to us. + +_Sus_. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan. + +_Mat_. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of wine when you took home +his slops? + +_Sus_. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she takes it out in +kingdom-come. + +_Mat_. You're unfair, Susan. + +_Sus_. Well, it's little fairness I get. + +_Mat_. And to set that right you're unfair yourself! What you call +speaking your mind, is as cheap, and as nasty, as the worst shoddy old +Nathan ever got gobble-stitched into coats and trousers. + +_Sus_. Very well, Miss Matilda! (_rising and snatching her bonnet_). The +sooner we part the better! You stick by your fine friends! I don't care +_that_ for them! (_snapping her fingers_)--and you may tell 'em so! I +can make a livin' without them or you either. Goodness gracious knows it +ain't much of a livin' I've made sin' I come across _you_, Miss! _Exit_. + +_Mat_ (_trying to rise_). Susan! Susan! (_Lays her head on the table_). + + _A tap at the door, and enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD, _with_ JAMES _behind_. + MATTIE _rises_. + +_Mrs. C._ Wait on the landing, James. + +_James_. Yes, ma'am. + + _Exit_ JAMES, _leaving the door a little ajar_. + +_Mrs. C._ Well, Miss Pearson! (_Mattie offers a chair_.) No, thank you. +That person is still with you, I see! + +_Mat_. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl. + +_Mrs. C._ She is a low creature, and capable of anything. I advise you +to get rid of her. + +_Mat_. Was she rude on the stair, ma'am? + +_Mrs. C._ Rude! Vulgar--quite vulgar! Insulting! + +_Mat_. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am, she is an honest girl, +and never pawned that work. It was done--every stitch of it; and the +loss of the money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did lose the +parcel. + +_Mrs. C._ You have only her word for it. If you don't give _her_ up, I +give _you_ up. + +_Mat_. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways if I did. + +_Mrs. C._ She can't well get into worse. Her language! You would do ever +so much better without her. + +_Mat_. I daren't, ma'am. I should never get it off my conscience. + +_Mrs. C._ Your conscience indeed! (_rising_). I wish you a good morning, +Miss Pearson.--(_Sound of a blow, followed by scuffling_.)--What is +that? I fear I have got into an improper place. + + SUSAN _bursts in_. + +_Sus_. Yes, ma'am, and that you have! It's a _wery_ improper place for +the likes o' you, ma'am--as believes all sorts o' wicked things of +people as is poor. Who are you to bring your low flunkies a-listenin' +at honest girls' doors! (_Turning to James in the doorway_.) Get out, +will you? Let me catch you here again, and I'll mark you that the devil +wouldn't know his own! You dirty Paul Pry--you! (_Falls on her knees to +Mattie_.) Mattie, you angel! + +_Mat_. (_trying to make her get up_) Never mind. It's all right between +you and me, Susan. + +_Mrs. C._ I see! I thought as much! + +_Sus_. (_starting up_) As much as what, then, my lady? Oh, _I_ know you +and your sort--well enough! We're the dirt under your feet--lucky if we +stick to your shoes! But this room's mine. + +_Mrs. C._ That linen was mine, young woman, I believe. + +_Sus_. An' it's for that miserable parcel you come a-talkin', an' +abusin' as no lady ought to! How dare you look that angel in the face +there an' say she stole it--which you're not fit to lace her boots for +her! There! + +_Mat_. Susan! Susan! do be quiet. + +_Sus_. It's all very well for the likes o' me (_courtesying +spitefully_)--which I'm no better'n I should be, and a great deal worse, +if I'm on my oath to your ladyship--that's neither here nor there!--but +_she's_ better'n a van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other +people's houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer flunkies! +_I_ know ye! I _do_! + +_Mat_. Don't, Susan. + +_Sus_. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye +good manners? I been better brought up myself. + +_Mrs. C._ I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter +over to the police. + +_Sus_. The perlice, indeed!--You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll make +you!--you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in +the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with +your--_insolence_--that's your word! + + _Exit_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Mat_. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us? + +_Sus_. She daren't do it--the old scrooge! But just let her try it on! +See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work my +fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me. +I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger, +which it's as true as gospel. + +_Mat_. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey. + +_Sus_. There _must_ be some good people somewheres, Mattie. + +_Mat_. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey. + +_Sus_. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it afore. +It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out--and they +shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher +'n I shall--barrin' the beard, and _that_ don't go for much now-a-days. + +_Mat_. And what should I do without you, Susan? + +_Sus_. Do you care to have me, then? + +_Mat_. That I do, indeed. But you shouldn't have talked like that to +Mrs. Clifford. Ladies ain't used to such words. They sound worse than +they are--quite dreadful, to them. She don't know your kind heart as I +do. Besides, the _look_ of things is against us. Ain't it now? Say +yourself. + +_Sus_. (_starting up_) I'll go and beg her pardon. I'll go direckly--I +will. I swear I will. I can't abear her, but I'll do it. I believe +hunger has nigh drove me mad. + +_Mat_. It takes all the madness out of me.--No, Susan; we must bear it +now. Come along. We can be miserable just as well working. There's your +sleeve. I'll thread your needle for you. Don't cry--there's a dear! + +_Sus_. I _will_ cry. It's all I ever could do to my own mind, and it's +all as is left me. But if I could get my claws on that lovyer o' yours, +I wouldn't cry then. He's at the bottom of it! I don't see myself what's +the use of fallin' in love. One man's as much of a fool as another to +me. But you must go to bed. You ain't fit. You'll be easier when you've +got your frock off. There! Why, child, you're all of a tremble!--And no +wonder, wi' nothing on her blessed body but her frock and her shimmy! + +_Mat_. Don't take off my frock, Sue. I must get on with my work. + +_Sus_. Lie down a bit, anyhow. I'll lie at your back, and you'll soon be +as warm's a toast. (MAT. _lies down_.) O Lord! she's dead! Her heart's +stopped beatin'. (_Runs out of the room_.) + + _A moment of silence. A tap at the door_. + + CONSTANCE _peeps in, then enters, with a basket_. + +_Con_. Miss Pearson!--She's asleep. (_Goes near_.) Good heavens! +(_Lays her hand on her_.) No. (_Takes a bottle from her basket, finds +a cup, and pours into it_.) Take this, Miss Pearson; it will do you +good. There now! You'll find something else in the basket. + +_Mat_. I don't want anything. I had so nearly got away! Why did you +bring me back? + +_Con_. Life is good! + +_Mat_. It is _not_ good. How dare you do it? Why keep a miserable +creature alive? Life ain't to us what it is to you. The grave is the +only place _we_ have any right to. + +_Con_. If I could make your life worth something to you-- + +_Mat_. You make my life worth to me! You don't know what you're saying, +miss. (_Sitting up_.) + +_Con_. I think I do. + +_Mat_. I will _not_ owe my life to you. I _could_ love you, though--your +hands are so white, and your look so brave. That's what comes of being +born a lady. We never have a chance. + +_Con_. Miss Pearson--Mattie, I would call you, if you wouldn't be +offended-- + +_Mat_. Me offended, miss!--I've not got life enough for it. I only want +my father and my mother, and a long sleep.--If I had been born rich-- + +_Con_. You might have been miserable all the same. Listen, Mattie. I +will tell you _my_ story--I was once as badly off as you--worse in some +ways--ran about the streets without shoes to my feet, and hardly a frock +to cover me. + +_Mat_. La, miss! you don't say so! It's not possible! Look at you! + +_Con_. Indeed, I tell you the truth. I know what hunger is too--well +enough. My father was a silkweaver in Spitalfields. When he died, I +didn't know where to go. But a gentleman-- + +_Mat_. Oh! a gentleman!--(_Fiercely_.) Why couldn't you be content with +_one_, then? + +_Con_. I don't understand you. + +_Mat_. I dare say not! There! take your basket. I'll die afore a morsel +passes _my_ lips. There! Go away, miss. + +_Con_. (_aside_). Poor girl! she is delirious. I must ask William to +fetch a doctor. _Exit_. + +_Mat_. I wish my hands were as white as hers. + + _Enter_ SUSAN, _followed by_ COL. G. CONSTANCE _behind_. + +_Sus_. Mattie! dear Mattie! this gentleman--don't be vexed--I couldn't +help him bein' a gentleman; I was cryin' that bad, and I didn't see no +one come up to me, and when he spoke to me, it made me jump, and I +couldn't help answerin' of him--he spoke so civil and soft like, and +me nigh mad! I thought you was dead, Mattie. He says he'll see us +righted, Mattie. + +_Col. G._ I'll do what I can, if you will tell me what's amiss. + +_Sus_. Oh, everything's amiss--everything!--Who was that went out, +Mattie--this minute--as we come in? + +_Mat_. Miss Lacordere. + +_Sus_. Her imperence! Well! I should die of shame if I was her. + +_Mat_. She's an angel, Susan. There's her basket. I told her to take +it away, but she would leave it. + +_Sus_. (_peeping into the basket_). Oh, my! Ain't this nice? You +_must_ have a bit, Mattie. + +_Mat_. Not one mouthful. You wouldn't have me, Susan! + +_Sus_. _I_ ain't so peticlar (_eating a great mouthful_). You really +must, Mattie. (_Goes on eating_.) + +_Col. G._ Don't tease her. We'll get something for her presently. And +don't you eat too much--all at once. + +_Sus_. I think she'd like a chop, sir.--There's that boy, Bill, +again!--Always when he ain't wanted! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_ (_aside to Susan_). What's the row? What's that 'ere gent up +to? I've been an' had enough o' gents. They're a bad lot. I been too +much for one on 'em, though. I ha' run _him_ down.--And, Mattie, I've +found the old gen'leman. + +_Mat_. My father, Bill? + +_Bill_. That's it percisely! Right as a trivet--he is! + +_Mat_. Susan! take hold of me. My heart's going again. + +_Bill_. Lord! what's up wi' Mattie? She do look dreadful. + +_Sus_. You been an' upset her, you clumsy boy! Here--run and fetch a +sausage or two, and a-- + +_Col. G._ No, no! That will never do. + +_Sus_. Them's for Bill and me, sir. I was a goin' on, sir.--And, Bill, +a chop--a nice chop. But Lord! how are we to cook it, with never a +fryin'-pan, or a bit o' fire to set it on! + +_Col. G._ You'd never think of doing a chop for an invalid in the +frying-pan? + +_Sus_. Certainly not, sir--we 'ain't got one. Everything's up the +spout an' over the top. Run, Bill. A bit of cold chicken, and two +pints o' bottled stout. There's the money the gen'leman give me.--'T +'ain't no Miss Lackodare's, Mattie. + +_Bill_. I'll trouble no gen'leman to perwide for _my_ family--obleeged +all the same, sir. Mattie never wos a dub at dewourin', but I'll get +her some'at toothsome. I favours grub myself. + +_Col. G._ I'll go with you, Bill. I want to talk to you. + +_Bill_. Well, I 'ain't no objection--so be you wants to talk friendly, +sir. + +_Col. G._ Good night. I'll come and see you to-morrow. + +_Sus_. God bless you, sir. You've saved both on our lives. I _was_ a +goin' to drown myself, Mattie--I really was this time. Wasn't I, sir? + +_Col. G._ Well, you looked like it--that is all I can say. You shall +do it next time--so far as I'm concerned. + +_Sus_. I won't never no more again, sir--not if Mattie don't drive me +to it. + +_Con_. (_to_ COL. G.). Come back for me in a little while. + +_Col. G._ Yes, miss. Come, Bill. _Exit_. + +_Bill_. All right, sir. I'm a follerin', as the cat said to the +pigeon. _Exit_. + +_Sus_. I'll just go and get you a cup o' tea. Mrs. Jones's kettle's +sure to be a bilin'. That's what you would like. + + _Exit_. _Constance steps aside, and Susan passes without seeing her_. + +_Mat_. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's arms! But it'll soon be +over now. + + CONSTANCE _comes forward_. + +_Con_. I hope you're a little better now? + +_Mat_. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon for speaking to +you as I did. + +_Con_. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite know what you were +saying. I'm in trouble myself. I don't know how soon I may be worse +off than you. + +_Mat_. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be married! + +_Con_. No, I am not. + +_Mat_. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never going to play _you_ +false--is he? + +_Con_. I don't mean ever to speak to him again? + +_Mat_. What has he done to offend you, miss? + +_Con_. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him. To tell you the +truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman. + +_Mat_. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so? + +_Con_. Do _you_ know anything about him? Did you ever see him? + +_Mat_. Yes. + +_Con_. Where? + +_Mat_. Once at your house. + +_Con_. Oh! I remember--that time! I begin to--It couldn't be at the +sight of him you fainted, Mattie?--You knew him? Tell me! tell me! +Make me sure of it. + +_Mat_. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean spite to say he ain't +a gentleman. + +_Con_. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of what goes to make a +gentleman. + +_Mat_. Very likely. + +_Con_. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean to hurt you. + +_Mat_. Oh! I dare say! + +_Con_. If you talk to me like that, I must go. + +_Mat_. I never asked you to come. + +_Con_. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I wouldn't hurt you +for the world. + +_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) I beg your pardon, miss. I'm behaving +like a brute. But you must forgive me; my heart is breaking. + +_Con_. Poor dear! (_kissing her_) So is mine almost. Let us be +friends. Where's Susan gone? + +_Mat_. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back directly. + +_Con_. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear them. I think it's +because I was so used to them once--in the streets, I mean--not at +home--never at home. + +_Mat_. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted creature. It's only +when hunger makes her cross. She don't like to be hungry. + +_Con_. I should think not, poor girl! + +_Mat_. Don't mind what she says, please. If you say nothing, she'll +come all right. When she's spoken her mind, she feels better. Here she +comes! + + _Re-enter_ SUSAN. _It begins to grow dark_. + +_Sus_. Well, and who have we got here? + +_Mat_. Miss Lacordere, Sukey. + +_Sus_. There's no lack o' dare about _her_, to come here! + +_Mat_. It's very kind of her to come, Susan. + +_Sus_. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole. It _was_ stole, +miss!--stole from me--an' that angel there a dyin' in the street! + +_Con_. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought anything else. + +_Sus_. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!--I'm very sorry. But, +bless you! (_lighting a candle_)--with all _your_ fine clothes--! My! +you look like a theayter-queen--you do, miss! If you was to send +_them_ up the spout now!--My! what a lot they'd let you have on that +silk! + +_Con_. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe. It's an Indian +one--all needlework. + +_Sus_. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just shouldn't I like to +wear a frock like that! I _should_ be hard up before I pledged _that_! +But the shawl! If I was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up +before that!--things inside, you know, miss--where it don't matter so +much. + +_Con_. (_laughing_) The shawl would be the first thing I should part +with. I would rather be nice inside than out. + +_Sus_. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was one of the differs +now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It must be one o' the differs! + +_Con_. What differs? I don't understand you. + +_Sus_. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies--girls like me an' real +ladies like you. + +_Con_. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What can be keeping +William? I must go at once, or what will my aunt say! Would you mind +going with me a little bit, Susan? + +_Sus_. I'll go with pleasure, miss. + +_Con_. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the wide streets. You +couldn't lend me an old cloak, could you? + +_Sus_. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand up in--'cep' it +be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you. + +_Con_. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this. + +_Sus_. You've only got to turn up your skirt over your head, miss. + +_Con_. (_drawing up her skirt_) I never thought of that! + +_Sus_. Well, I never! + +_Con_. What's the matter? + +_Sus_. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my breath away, miss. +It ain't no use turnin' of _it_ up: you'll look like a lady whatever +you do to hide it. But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as +you don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There you are--fit +for a play! Come along; I'll take care of you. Lawks! I'm as good as a +man--_I_ am! + +_Con_. Good-bye then, Mattie. + +_Mat_. Good-bye, miss. God bless you. + + _Exeunt_. + +END OF ACT III. + + + + +ACT IV. + +SCENE.--_The Studio_. + + + _Enter_ COL. G. _Walks about restless and eager_. + +_Col. G._ Thank heaven! If Bill has found Mr. Warren now,--_Exit_. + + _Enter_ WARREN. + +_War_. What can the fellow be up to? There's something odd about +him--something I don't like--but it can't mean mischief when he sends +for me. Where could Gervaise have picked him up?--Nobody here? + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. _and hurries to him with outstretched hand_. + +_Col. G._ My dear sir! I am greatly obliged to you. This is very kind. + +_War_. (_stepping back_) Excuse me.--I do not understand. + +_Col. G._ I beg your pardon. I ought to have explained. + +_War_. I believe something of the sort _is_ necessary. + +_Col. G._ You are my master's friend. + +_War_. I should be proud of the honour. Can I be of any service to +him? + +_Col. G._ I believe I can trust you. I _will_ trust you--I am his +father. + +_War_. Whose father? Belzebub's? + +_Col. G._ Arthur's--your friend Gervaise's. I am Sir Walter Gervaise. +You must help me to help him. + + WARREN _regards him for a moment_. + +_War_. (_stiffly_) Sir Walter, I owe your son much--you nothing yet. I +am _his_ friend. + +_Col. G._ There is not a moment to lose. Listen. An old man came about +the place a few weeks ago, looking for his daughter. He has been got +out of the way, but I have learned where he is: I want you to bring +him. + +_War_. I would serve your son blindfold: _you_ must excuse me if I +wish to understand first. + +_Col. G._ Arthur is in trouble. He has a secret.--God forgive me!--I +feared it was a bad one. + +_War_. You don't know him as I do! + +_Col. G._ I know him now--and can help him. Only I can't _prove_ +anything yet. I must have the old man. I've found his daughter, and +suspect the villain: if I can bring the three together, all will come +out, sure enough. The boy I sent for you will take you to the father. +He will trust you, and come. (_Bell rings_.) I must go to Arthur now. +_Exit_. + +_War_. What a strange old fellow! An officer--and disguise himself! + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_Bill_. Here you are, sir! + +_War_. No vast amount of information in that statement, my boy! + +_Bill_. Well, sir--here _I_ are, sir. + +_War_. That _is_ a trifle more to the point, though scarcely requiring +mention. + +_Bill_. Then, here _we_ are, sir. + +_War_. That'll do--if you know what comes next? + +_Bill_. I do, sir. + +_War_. Go on, then. + +_Bill_. Here goes! Come along, sir. You'll have to take a bobby, +though. + +_War_. We'll see about that. You go on. + + _Exeunt_. + + _Enter_ GERVAISE, followed by COL. G. + +_Ger._ What a time you have been, William! + +_Col. G._ I'm sorry, sir. Did you want anything? + +_Ger._ No. But I don't like to be left. You are the only friend I +have. + +_Col. G._ Thank you, sir. A man _must_ do his duty, but it's a comfort +when his colonel takes notice of it. + +_Ger._ Is it _all_ from duty, William? Yet why should I look for more? +There was a little girl I tried to do my duty by once--My head's +rather queer still, William. + +_Col. G._ Is there nothing to be done, sir? + +_Ger._ No; it's here--(_putting his hand to his head_)--inside. + +_Col. G._ I meant about the little girl, sir.--I can keep dark as well +as another.--When there's anything on a man's mind, sir--good _or_ +bad--it's a relief to mention it. If you could trust me--(_A pause_.) +Men _have_ trusted their servants and not repented it. + +_Ger._ No doubt--no doubt. But there is no help for me. + +_Col. G._ You cannot be sure of that, sir. + +_Ger._ You would help me if you could, I believe. + +_Col. G._ God knows I would, sir--to the last drop of my blood. + +_Ger._ That's saying much, William. A son couldn't say more--no, nor a +father either. + +_Col. G._ Oh! yes, he could, sir. + +_Ger._ And mean it? + +_Col. G._ Yes. + +_Ger._ If I had a father, William, I would tell him all about it. I +was but two years old when he left me. + +_Col. G._ Then you don't remember him, sir? + +_Ger._ I often dream about him, and then I seem to remember him. + +_Col. G._ What is he like, sir?--in your dreams, I mean. + +_Ger._ I never see him distinctly: I try hard sometimes, but it's no +use. If he would but come home! I feel as if I could bear anything +then.--But I'm talking like a girl! + +_Col. G._ Where is your father, sir? + +_Ger._ In India. + +_Col. G._ A soldier, sir? + +_Ger._ Yes. Colonel Gervaise--you must have heard of him. Sir Walter +he is now. + +_Col. G._ I've heard of _him_, sir--away in the north parts he's been, +mostly. + +_Ger._ Yes. How I wish he would come home! I would do everything to +please him. I have it, William! I'll go to India. I did think of going +to Garibaldi--but I won't--I'll go to India. I _must_ find my father. +Will you go with me? + +_Col. G._ Willingly, sir. + +_Ger._ Is there any fighting there now? + +_Col. G._ Not at present, I believe. + +_Ger._ That's a pity. I would have listed in my father's regiment, and +then--that is, by the time he found me out--he wouldn't be ashamed of +me. I've done nothing yet. I'm nobody yet, and what could he do with a +son that was nobody--a great man like him! A fine son _I_ should be! A +son ought to be worthy of his father. Don't you think so, William? + +_Col. G._ That wouldn't be difficult, sir!--I mean with most fathers. + +_Ger._ Ah! but _mine_, you know, William!--Are you good at the cut and +thrust? + +_Col G._ Pretty good, sir, I believe. + +_Ger._ Then we'll have a bout or two. I've got rusty.--Have I said +anything odd--or--or--I mean since I've been ill? + +_Col. G._ Nothing you need mind, sir. + +_Ger._ I'm glad of that.--I feel as if--(_putting his hand to his +head_). William! what could you do for a man--if he was your +friend?--no, I mean, if he was your enemy? + +_Col. G._ I daren't say, sir. + +_Ger._ Is the sun shining? + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. It's a lovely day. + +_Ger._ What a desert the sky is!--so dreary and wide and waste!--Ah! +if I might but creep into a hole in a tree, and feel it closing about +me! How comfortable those toads must feel! + +_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's getting light-headed again! I must send for +the doctor. _Exit_. + +_Ger._ But the tree would rot, and the walls grow thin, and the light +come through. It is crumbling now! And I shall have to meet _her_! +And then the wedding! Oh my God! (_Starts up and paces about the +room_.)--It _is_ the only way! My pistols, I think--yes.--(_Goes to +a table, finds his keys, and unlocks a case_.)--There they are! I may +as well have a passport at hand! (_Loading one_.)--The delicate +thunder-tube! (_Turns it over lovingly_.) Solitude and silence! One +roar and then rest! No--no rest!--still the demon to fight! But no +eyes to meet and brave!--Who is that in the street?--She is at the +door--with him! + + _Enter_ COL. G. _and seizes his arm_. + +_Ger._ (_with a cry_). You've killed my Psyche! (_Goes to the clay, +and lifts the cloth_.) There's the bullet-hole through her heart! + +_Col. G._ It might have been worse, sir. + +_Ger._ Worse! I've killed her! See where she flies! She's gone! She's +gone! (_Bursts into tears_. COL. G. _leads him to the couch_.) Thank +you, William. I couldn't help it. _That_ man was with her. I meant it +for myself. + +_Col. G._ Who did you say was with her? + +_Ger._ You mustn't heed what I say. I am mad. (_A knock. He starts +up_.) Don't let them in, William. I shall rave if you do. + + COL. G. _catches up the pistols and exit hurriedly_. GER. _throws + himself on the couch_. + + _Re-enter_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ (_aside_). He is in love with her! Everything proves it. My +boy! My boy! + +_Ger._ Father! father!--Oh, William! I was dreaming, and took you for +my father! I _must_ die, William--somehow. There must be some way out +of this! The doors can't _all_ be locked. + +_Col. G._ There's generally a chance to be had, sir. There's always a +right and a wrong fighting it out somewhere. There's Garibaldi in the +field again! Die by the hand of an enemy--if you _will_ die, sir. + +_Ger._ (_smiling_) That I couldn't, William: the man that killed me +would be my best friend.--Yes--Garibaldi!--I don't deserve it, though: +he fights for his country; I should fight but for death. Only a man +doesn't stop when he dies--does he, William? + +_Col. G._ I trust not, sir. But he may hope to be quieter--that is, if +he dies honestly. It's grand for a soldier! He sweeps on the roaring +billows of war into a soundless haven! Think of that, sir! + +_Ger._ Why, William! how you talk!--Yes! it would be grand! On the +crest of the war-cataract--heading a cavalry charge!--Tomorrow, +William. I shall be getting stronger all the way. We'll start +to-morrow. + +_Col. G._ Where for, sir? + +_Ger._ For Italy--for Garibaldi. You'll go with me? + +_Col. G._ To the death, sir. + +_Ger._ Yes; that's it--that's where I'm going. But not to-day. Look at +my arm: it wouldn't kill a rat!--You saved my life, but I'm not +grateful. If I was dead, I might be watching her--out of the lovely +silence!--My poor Psyche! + +_Col. G._ She's none the worse, sir. The pistol didn't go off. + +_Ger._ Ah!--She ought to have fallen to pieces--long ago! You've been +seeking to keep her shroud wet. But it's no matter. Let her go. Earth +to earth, and dust to dust!--the law of Nature--and Art too. + + _Exit into the house_. + +_Col. G._ (_following him_) I mustn't lose sight of him.--Here he +comes again, thank God! + + _Catches up a coat, and begins brushing it_. + + _Re-enter_ GER. + +_Ger._ I don't like to see you doing that. + +_Col. G._ Why shouldn't I serve my own--superior, sir? Anything's +better than serving yourself. And that's what every one does who won't +serve other people. + +_Ger._ You are right. And it's so cheap. + +_Col. G._ And so nasty! + +_Ger._ Right again, William!--Right indeed!--You're a gentleman! If +there's anything I could help you in--anything gone wrong,--any +friends offended--I'm not altogether without influence. + +_Col. G._ (_aside_) He will vanquish me with my own weapons! + +_Ger._ But you _will_ go to Garibaldi with me? + +_Col. G._ I will, sir. + +_Ger._ And ride by my side? + +_Col. G._ Of course. + +_Ger._ If you ride by me, you will have to ride far. + +_Col. G._ I know, sir. But if you would be fit for fighting, you must +come and have something to eat and drink. + +_Ger._ All right. A soldier must obey: I shall begin by obeying you. +Only mind you keep up with me. _Exit, leaning on_ COL. G. + + _Enter_ THOMAS. + +_Tho._ Th' dule a mon be yere! Aw're main troubled to get shut ov +they reyvers! Aw'm olez i' trouble! Mine's a gradely yed! it +be!--Hoy!--Nobory yere! 'T seems to me, honest men be scarce i' +Lonnon. Aw'm beawn to believe nobory but mo own heighes, and mo own +oud lass. _Exit_. + + _Re-enter_ GERVAISE, _followed by_ COL. G. + +_Ger._ No, William; I won't lie down. I feel much better. Let's have a +bout with the foils. + +_Col. G._ Very well, sir. (_Aside_.) A little of that will go far, I +know. (_Gets down the foils_.) + +_Ger._ And, William, you must set a block up here. I shall have a cut +or two at it to-morrow. There's a good cavalry weapon up there--next +that cast of Davis's arm. + +_Col. G._ Suppose your father were to arrive just after you had +started! + +_Ger._ I shouldn't mind. I don't want to see him yet. I'm such a poor +creature! The heart seems to have gone out of me. You see, William-- + + _Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Ger._ Ah! How do you do, aunt? + +_Mrs. C._ What's this nonsense about Garibaldi, Arthur? + +_Ger._ Who told you? + +_Mrs. C._ You don't mean it's true? + +_Ger._ Quite true, aunt. + +_Mrs. C._ Really, Arthur, you are more of a scatterbrain than I +took you for! + +_Ger._ Don't say that, aunt. I only take after my father. + +_Mrs. C._ Don't talk to me of your father! I have no patience with +him. A careless hard-hearted fellow--not worthy the name of a father! +(_She glares at_ SIR WALTER.) + +_Ger._ You may go, William. (COL. G. _retires slowly_.) + +_Ger._ Aunt, you have been a mother to me; but were you really my +mother, I must not listen to such words of my father. He has good +reasons for what he does, though I admit there is something in it we +don't understand. (_Aside_.) If I could but understand how Constance-- + +_Mrs. C._ What do you say? What was that about Constance? + +_Ger._ Oh, nothing, aunt. I was only thinking how difficult it is to +understand people. + +_Mrs. C._ If you mean Constance, I agree with you. She is a most +provoking girl. + +_Ger._ (_smiling_) I am sorry to hear that, aunt. + +_Mrs. C._ I'm very glad you were never so silly as take a fancy to the +girl. She would have led you a pretty dance! If you saw how she treats +that unfortunate Waterfield! But what's bred in the bone won't out of +the flesh. + +_Ger._ There's nothing bred in her I would have out, aunt. + +_Mrs. C._ Perhaps she originated her vulgarity. That is a shade worse. + +_Ger. Vulgarity_, aunt! I cannot remember the meaning of the word when +I think of _her_. + +_Mrs. C._ If you choose to insult me, Arthur-- + + _Exit_. + +_Ger._ It is high time I were gone! If I should be called in now to +settle matters between--William! William!--William! + + _Enter_ COL. G. + +_Ger._ To-morrow, William. Not a word. If you will go with me, I shall +be glad. If you will not, I shall go without you. + + _Exit_. + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir.--I wish Warren were here with the old man. I don't +know what to do till he comes. + + _Enter_ CONSTANCE. + +_Con._ I thought my aunt was here, William. + +_Col. G._ No, miss. She was here, but she's gone again. + +_Con._ Could I see Mr. Gervaise for a moment? + +_Col. G._ Certainly, miss. I'll tell him. + +_Con._ Is he still determined on going, William? + +_Col. G._ Yes, miss;--to-morrow, he says. + +_Con._ To-morrow! + +_Col. G._ Yes, miss. I think he means to start for Dover in the +morning. + +_Con._ What am I to do? + +_Col. G._ What's the matter, miss? + +_Con._ What _can_ I do? I know he is angry with me. I don't quite know +why. I wish I had never--I can't help it now. My heart will break. +(_Weeps_.) + +_Col. G._ Don't let him go to Dover to-morrow, miss. + +_Con._ He would have listened to me once. He won't now. It's all so +different! Everything has gone wrong somehow. + +_Col. G._ Do try to keep him from going, miss. + +_Con._ He would but think me forward. I could bear anything better +than have him think ill of me. + +_Col. G._ No fear of that, miss. The danger is all the other way. + +_Con._ What other way, William? + +_Col. G._ He thinks you don't care a bit about him. + + _Exit_. CONSTANCE _drops on the dais, nearly under the veiled Psyche_. + + _Enter_ GER. _and stands a moment regarding her_. + +_Ger._ Constance. + +_Con._ (_starting up, and flying to him with her hands clasped_) +Arthur! Arthur! don't go. I can't bear you to go. It's all my fault, +but do forgive me! Oh, do, do--_dear_ Arthur! Don't go to-morrow. I +shall be miserable if you do. + +_Ger._ But why, my--why, Constance? + +_Con._ I _was_ your Constance once. + +_Ger._ But why should I not go? Nobody wants me here. + +_Con._ Oh, Arthur! how can you be so cruel? Can it be that--? Do say +something. If you won't say anything, how can I know what you are +thinking--what you wish? Perhaps you don't like--I would--I have--I +won't--Oh, Arthur! do say something. + +_Ger._ I have nothing to say, Constance. + +_Con._ Then I _have_ lost you--altogether! I dare say I deserve it. I +hardly know. God help me! What can I have done so very wicked? Oh! why +did you take me out of the streets? I should have been used to them by +this time! They are terrible to me now. No, no, Arthur! I thank +you--thank you--with my very soul! What might I not have been by this +time! But I used to lie in that corner, and I daren't now! + + _Enter_ COL. G. _behind_. + +It was a happy time, for I had not offended you then. Good-bye. Won't +you say one word to me?--You will never see me again. + + _She pauses a moment; then exit weeping--by the back door, behind + the Psyche_. COL. G. _follows her_. + +_Ger._ How _could_ she love that fellow? (_Looking up_.) Gone? gone! +My Constance! My Psyche! I've driven her into the wild street! +O my God! William! William! Constance! Which door? I won't go, +Constance--I won't. I will do anything you ask me. What was that she +said?--_Good-bye_! God in heaven!--William! you idiot! where are you? +William! + + _He rushes out by the front door. Re-enter_ COL. G. _by the back + door_. + +_Col. G._ It was lucky I met Bill! He's after her like the wind. That +message will bring her back, I think. I could trust that boy with +anything! But where is he? (_Enter_ THOMAS.) What, friend! here at +last! Thank God! Just sit down a moment, will you? (_Peeps into the +room off the study_.) He's not there! I heard him calling this moment! +Perhaps he's in the house.--Did _you_ leave the door open, sir? + +_Tho._ Nay. Th' dur wur oppen. Aw seigh sombory run eawt as aw coom +oop. + +_Col. G._ My boy! my boy! It will kill him!--Stop here till I come +back. (_Rushes out_.) + +_Tho._ Aw connot stop. Aw'm tired enough, God knows, to stop +anywheeres; mo yed goes reawnd and reawnd, an' aw'd fain lie mo deawn. +But aw mun be gooin'. Nobory can tell what may be coomin to mo Mattie. +Aw mun go look, go look! Ha! ha! they couldn't keep mo, owd mon as aw +wur! But aw wish aw hed a word wi' th' mon first. + + _Enter_ WARREN. + +_War._ (_aside_) This must be the old fellow himself! Here he is after +all! (_Peeps into the room_.) + +_Tho._ Theer be nobory theer, sir. Th' maister's run eawt, and th' mon +after him. + +_War._ Run out! + +_Tho._ Aw niver says what aw donnot mane. An' aw'm glad yo're theer, +sir; for William he towd mo to stay till he coom back; but aw've not +geet so mich time to spare; and so be's yo're a friend ov th' +maister's, yo'll mebbe mind th' shop a smo' bit. Aw mun goo (_going_). + +_War._ I say, old man--your name's Thomas Pearson--ain't it? + +_Tho._ Yigh. Aw yer. But hea cooms to to knaw mo name? + +_War._ I know all about you. + +_Tho._ Ivvery body knaws ivvery body yere! Aw connot stur a fut fur +folks as knaws mo, and knaws mo name, and knaws what aw be after. +Lonnon is a dreedfu' plaze. Aw mun geet mo lass to whoam. Yo'll mind +th' shop till th' maister cooms back. Good neet (_going_). + +_War._ (_stopping him_) They want you here a bit. You'd better stop. +The man will be back directly. You're too suspicious. + +_Tho._ Nea, maister, thae'rt wrung theer. Aw've trusted too mich--a +theawsand times too mich. + +_War._ You trusted the wrong people, then. + +_Tho._ It taks no mak o' a warlock to tell mo that, maister. It's smo' +comfort, noather. + +_War._ Well now, you give me a turn, and hear what I've got to say. + +_Tho._ Yo're o' tarred wi' th' same stick. Ivvery body maks gam ov th' +poor owd mon! Let me goo, maister. Aw want mo chylt, mo Mattie! + +_War._ You must wait till Mr. Gervaise's man comes back. + +_Tho._ (_despairingly_) O Lord. Th' peack ov sunbrunt lies they ha' +been tellin' me sin' aw coom yere!--childer an o'! + +_War._ Have patience, man. You won't repent it. + +_Tho._ What mun be, mun. Aw connot ha' patience, but aw con stop. Aw'd +rayther goo, though. Aw'm noan sorry to rest noather. (_Sits down on +the dais_.) + + _Enter_ BILL. + +_War._ Here, boy! Don't let the old man go till some one comes. +_Exit_. + +_Bill_. All right, sir! Hillo, daddy! There you are! Thank God! + +_Tho._ What fur, boy? Wull he gie mo mo Mattie again--dosto think? + +_Bill_. That he will, daddy! You come along, an' you'll know a honest +boy next time.--I can't till I see Mr. William, though. + +_Tho._ Iv thae manes th' maister's mon yere, he's run eawt. An' aw +connot goo witho. Aw'm keepin' th' shop till he coom back. An' aw +dunnot mich care to goo witho. Aw dunnot mich trust tho. Th' Lord have +a care ov mo! Aw dimnot knaw which to trust, and which not to trust. +But aw _mun_ wait for maister William, as yo co' him. + +_Bill_. All right, daddy!--Don't you stir from here till I come +back--not for nobody--no, not for Joseph! + +_Tho._ Aw dunnot knaw no Joseph. + +_Bill_. I'll soon let you see I'm a honest boy! As you can't go to +Mattie, I'll bring Mattie to you: see if I don't! An' if she ain't the +right un, I'll take her back, and charge ye nuffin for carriage. Can't +say fairer than that, daddy! + +_Tho._ Bless tho, mo boy! Dosto mane it true? + +_Bill_. Yes--an' that you'll see, afore you're an 'alf an hour older, +daddy. When Mr. William comes, you say to him, "Bill's been.--All +right." + +_Tho._ Aw dunnot like secrets, lad. What don yo mane? Ivvery body +seems to mane something, and nobory to say it. + +_Bill._ Never you mind, daddy! "Bill's been.--All right." That's your +ticket. I'm off. _Exit_. + + THOMAS _gets up, and walks about, murmuring to himself. A knock + at the door_. + +_Tho._ Somebory after mo again! Aw'll geet eawt ov th' way. (_Goes +behind the Psyche_.) + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Wat_. Nobody here! I _am_ unlucky. "Not at home," said the +rascal,--and grinned, by Jove! I'll be at the bottom of this. There's +no harm in Gervaise. He's a decent fellow. (_Knocks at the door of_ +GER.'S _room_.) I won't leave the place till I've set things +right--not if I've got to give him a post-obit for five thousand--I +won't!--Nobody there? (_Looks in_.) No. Then I'll go in and wait. +_Exit_. + +_Tho._ (_peeping from behind the Psyche_). That's the villain! Lord o' +mercy! that's the villain! If aw're as strung as aw'm owd, aw'd +scrunch his yed--aw would! Aw'm sure it's th' mon. He kep eawt ov mo +way--but aw seigh him once. O Lord, keep mo hands off ov him. Aw met +kill him. Aw'm sartin sure ov him when aw see him. Aw'll not goo nigh +him till somebory cooms--cep' he roons away. Aw'm noan fleyed ov him, +but aw met not be able to keep mo howd ov him. Oh, mo Mattie! mo +Mattie! to leave thi owd faither for sich a mak ov a mon as yon! But +yere cooms somebory moor. (_Goes behind the Psyche_.) + + _Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD. + +_Mrs. C._ No one here? She can never be in his room with him! (_Opens +the door_.) Oh! Mr. Waterfield! You're here--are you? + +_Wat_. (_coming to the door_). Mrs. Clifford! This is indeed an +unexpected pleasure! + +_Mrs. C._ Have you got Constance with you there? + +_Wat_. I've no such good fortune. + +_Mrs. C._ Where is she, then? + +_Wat_. At home, I presume. + +_Mrs. C._ Indeed she is not. I must speak to Arthur. + +_Wat_. He's not here. + +_Mrs. C._ Where's my--his man, then? + +_Wat_. Taken himself off to the public-house, I suppose. There's +nobody about. Odd--ain't it? + +_Mrs. C._ I'll go and see. _Exit into the house_. + +_Wat_. What can be the row! there is some row. _Exit into the room_. + + _Enter_ GER., _supported by_ COL. G. + +_Col. G._ Thank God! Thank God! + +_Ger._ But where is she? I shall go mad if you've told me a lie. + +_Col. G._ I saw her, and sent a messenger after her. We shall have +news of her presently. Do have a little patience, sir. + +_Get._ How can I have patience? I'm a brute--a mean, selfish devil! If +that fellow Waterfield was to horse-whip me--I should let him. + +_Tho._ (_coming forward_). Theer wur that yung chap yere a while agoo, +and he said aw wur to say to Maister William--what wur it aw're to +say?--Yigh--it wur--"Bill's been. O'reet." + +_Col. G._ There, sir! I told you so. Do sit down. I'll go after her. + +_Ger._ I will. I will. Only make haste. (_Stands staring at the +Psyche_.) + +_Tho._ Th' boy said he'd be yere direckly. + +_Col. G._ You sit down. I'll be with you presently. + +_Tho._ (_retiring behind the Psyche_). Aw're noan likely to goo, +maister. + + _Enter_ MRS. C. _Crosses to room door. Enter_ WATERFIELD. _They + talk_. + +_Ger._ William! I don't want them. (_Retreats towards the Psyche_.) + +_Col. G._ Sit here one moment, sir. (_Leads him to the dais. Advances +to_ MRS. C.) + +_Mrs. C._ (_trying to pass him_). Arthur, what can--? + +_Col. G._ (_intercepting her_). Let him rest a bit, ma'am, if you +please. He's been out for the first time. + +_Mrs. C._ At night! and in a fog! A pretty nurse you are! Poor boy! + +_Col. G._ Mr. Waterfield, sir, would you mind stepping into the room +again for a moment? (_Exit_ WAT.) Mrs. Clifford, ma'am, would you +please get a glass of wine for master? _Exit_ MRS. C. _into the +house_. + +_Ger._ William! William! + +_Col. G._ Yes, sir. + +_Ger._ Send him away. Don't let him stop there. I have nothing to say +to him. + +_Col. G._ He shan't trouble you, sir. I'll take care of that. (_Goes +behind the Psyche to_ THOMAS, _but keeps watching the door of the +room_.)--Did you see the man that went in there just now? + +_Tho._ (_with anxiety_). He winnot joomp eawt ov th' window, dosto +thenk, lad? + + _Re-enter_ MRS. C. _with wine_. GER. _drinks_. + +_Col. G._ Why should he do that? Do you know anything about him? + +_Tho._ Aw do. + +_Col. G._ Has he seen you here? + +_Tho._ No. Aw're afeard he'd roon away, and aw keepet snoog. + +_Col. G._ I needn't ask who it is, then? + +_Tho._ Yo needn't, lad. + + _Enter_ WATERFIELD. + +_Tho._ Mo conscience! he'll pike eawt afoor aw geet howd on him! +(_Rushes out and seizes_ WAT.) + + _Enter_ MATTIE _and_ BILL. + +_Tho._ Thae'rt a domned villain! Wheer's mo Mattie? + + WATERFIELD _knocks_ THOMAS _down_. + +_Bill._ O Lord! the swell's murdered old daddy! + + _All but_ GER. _rush together_. COLONEL GERVAISE _seizes_ + WATERFIELD. MATTIE _throws herself on her knees beside_ THOMAS + _and lifts his head_. + +_Mat_. Father! father! Look at me! It's Mattie!--your own wicked +Mattie! Look at her once, father dear! (_Lays down his head in +despair, and rises_.) Who struck the good old man? + +_Bill._ He did--the swell as give me the gold sov. + +_Mat_. Mr. Watkins!-- + +_Wat_. I haven't the honour of the gentleman's acquaintance. I'm not +Mr. Watkins. Am I now? (_to_ COL. G.). Ha! ha!--Let go, I say. I'm not +the man. It's all a mistake, you see. + +_Col. G._ In good time. I might make a worse. Watkins mayn't be your +name, but Watkins is your nature. + +_Wat_. Damn your insolence! Let me go, I tell you! (_Struggles +threatening_.) + +_Col. G._ Gently, gently, young man!--If I give your neckcloth a twist +now--! + +_Mat_. Yes, there _is_ a mistake--and a sad one for me! A wretch that +would strike an old man! Indeed you are not what I took you for. + +_Wat_. You hear the young woman! She says it's all a mistake.--My good +girl, I'm sorry for the old gentleman; but he oughtn't to behave like +a ruffian. Really, now, you know, a fellow can't stand that sort of +thing! A downright assault! I'm sorry I struck him, though--devilish +sorry! I'll pay the damage with pleasure. (_Puts his hand in his +pocket_.) + +_Mat_. (_turning away_) And not a gentleman! (_Kneels by_ THOMAS _and +weeps_.) + +_Tho._ (_feebly_.) Dunnot greight, Mattie, mo chylt. Aw'm o' reet. Let +th' mon goo. What's _he_ to tho or mo?--By th' mass! aw'm strung +enough to lick him yet (_trying to rise, but falling back_). Eigh! +eigh! mo owd boans 'ud rayther not. It's noan blame sure to an owd mon +to fo' tired o' feightin! + +_Mat_. (_taking' his head on her lap_). Father! father! forgive me! +I'm all yours.--I'll go home with you, and work for you till I drop. O +father! how could I leave you for him? I don't care one bit for him +now--I don't indeed. You'll forgive me--won't you, father? (_Sobs_.) + +_Tho._ Aw wull, aw do, mo Mattie. Coom whoam--coom whoam. + +_Mat_. Will mother forgive me, father? + +_Tho._ Thi mother, chylt? Hoo's forgiven tho lung afoor--ivver so lung +agoo, chylt! Thi mother may talk leawd, but her heart is as soft as +parritch.--Thae knows it, Mattie. + +_Wat_. All this is very interesting,--only you see it's the wrong man, +and I can't say he enjoys it. Take your hand off my collar--will you? +I'm not the man, I tell you! + +_Bill._ All I says is--it's the same swell as guv me the skid to find +her. I'll kiss the book on that! + +_Ger._ (_coming forward_). Mr. Waterfield, on your honour, do you know +this girl? + +_Wat_. Come! you ain't goin' to put me to my catechism! + +_Ger._ You must allow appearances are against you. + +_Wat_. Damn your appearances! What do I care? + +_Ger._ If you will not answer my question, I must beg you to leave the +place. + +_Wat_. My own desire! Will you oblige me by ordering this bull-dog of +yours to take his paws off me? What the devil is he keeping me here +for? + +_Col. G._ I've a great mind to give you in charge. + +_Wat_. The old codger assaulted me first. + +_Col. G._ True; but the whole affair would come to light. That's what +I would have. Miss Pearson, what am I to do with this man? + + _Enter_ SUSAN _at the back door. Behind her,_ CONSTANCE _peeps in_. + +_Mat_. Let him go.--Father! Father! _(Kisses him_.) + +_Sus_. That can never be Mattie's gentleman, sure-ly! Hm! I don't +think much of _him_. I knew he had ugly eyes! I told you so, Mattie! +I wouldn't break my heart for _him_--no, nor for twenty of him--I +wouldn't! He looks like a drowned cat. + +_Wat_. What the devil have _you_ got to do with it? + +_Sus. Nothing_. You shut up. + +_Wat_. Well, I'm damned if I know whether I'm on my head or my heels. + +_Sus_. 'Tain't no count which. + +_Bill_ (_aside to_ COL. G.). She's at the back door, Mr. William. + +_Col. G._ Who is, Bill? Miss Lacordere? + +_Bill._ Right you air! + + COL. G. _hastens to the door_. CON. _peeps in and draws back_. + COL. G. _follows her._ WATERFIELD _approaches_ MATTIE. + +_Wat_. Miss Pearson, if that's-- + +_Mat_. I don't know you--don't even know your name. + +_Wat_. (_looking round_). You hear her say it! She don't know me! + +_Mat_. Could you try and rise, father? I want to get out of this. +There's a lady here says I'm a thief! + +_Tho._ Nea, that she connot say, Mattie! Thae cooms ov honest folk. +Aw'll geet oop direckly. (_Attempts to rise_.) Eigh! eigh! aw connot! +aw connot! + +_Mrs. C._ If I have been unjust to you, Miss Pearson, I shall not fail +to make amends. + +_Sus_. It's time you did then, ma'am. You've murdered her, and all but +murdered me. That's how your little bill stands. + +_Ger._ (_to_ WAT.) Leave the place, Mr. Waterfield. + +_Wat_. You shall answer for this, Gervaise. + +_Ger._ Leave the study at once. + +_Wat_. Tut! tut! I'll make it up to them. A bank note's a good +plaster. + +_Bill_. Pleasir, shall I run and fetch a bobby? I likes to see a swell +wanted. + +_Ger._ You hold your tongue. (_Retires to the dais and sits down._ +MRS. C. _follows him_.) + +_Wat_. (_taking out his pocket-book, and approaching_ MATTIE). I +didn't think you'd have served me so, Mattie! Indeed I didn't! It's +not kind after what's been between you and me. (MATTIE _rises and +stands staring at him_.) You've ruined my prospects--you have! But I +don't want to bear malice: take that.--Old times, you know!--Take it. +You're welcome. (_Forces the note on her. She steps back. It drops_.) + +_Mat_. This is a humiliation! Will nobody take him away? + +_Sus_. (_rushing at him_). You be off! An' them goggle eyes o' yours, +or _I_'ll goggle 'em! I can't bear the sight on 'em. _I_ should never +ha' taken you for a gentleman. You don't look it. You slope, I say! +(_Hustles him_.) + + WATERFIELD _picks up the note, and exit_. + +_Mat_. (_bursting into tears_) Father! father! don't hate me; don't +despise me. + + THOMAS _tries to get up, but falls back_. + +_Bill_. Don't be in no hurry, Daddy. There's none but friends here +now--'cep' the old lady;--she do look glum. + +_Sus_. I'll soon settle her hash! + +_Mat_. Susie! Susie! Don't--there's a dear! + +_Sus_. What business has she here then! She's not a doin' of nothink. + +_Mat_. Don't you see she's looking after the poor gentleman there? + +_Ger._ William!--William!--Gone again! What a fellow he is! The best +servant in the world, but always vanishing! Call your James--will you, +aunt? We must have the old man put to bed. But the poor girl looks the +worse of the two! She can have the spare room, and William can sleep +on the sofa in mine. + +_Mrs. C._ I'll see to it. + + _Exit_. GER. _goes towards_ THOMAS. + +_Tho._ Coom whoam--coom whoam, Mattie! Thi mother, hoo's cryin' her +eighes eawt to whoam. + +_Mat_. I'll run for a doctor first, father. + +_Tho._ No, no, chylt! Aw're only a bit stonned, like. Aw'll be o' reet +in a smo' bit. Aw dunnot want no doctor. Aw'm a coomin' reawnd. + +_Ger._ Neither of you shall stir to-night. Your rooms will be ready in +a few minutes. + +_Mat_. Thank you, sir! I don't know what I should have done with +him.--Susan, you wouldn't mind going home without me? You know Miss +Lacordere-- + +_Ger._ Miss Lacordere! What do you know of her? + +_Mat_. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I oughtn't to have mentioned her. But my +poor head!-- + +_Ger._ What of Miss Lacordere? For God's sake, tell me. + + _Enter_ MRS. C. _with_ JAMES. + +_Sus_. Oh, nothing, sir! nothing at all! Only Miss Lacordere has been +good to us--which it's more than can be said for everybody! (_Scowls +at_ MRS. C. JAMES _proceeds to lift_ THOMAS. _She flies at him_.) Put +the old gentleman down, you sneakin' reptile! How many doors have you +been a hearkenin' at since mornin'--eh, putty-lump? You touch the old +man again, and I'll mark you! Here, Bill! I'll take his head--you take +his feet. We'll carry him between us like a feather. + +_Mat_. O Susan! do hold your tongue. + +_Sus_. It's my only weapon, my dear. If I was a man--see if I'd talk +then. + +_James_. It's a providence you ain't a man, young woman! + +_Sus_. Right you are! Them's my werry motives. I ain't a makin' of no +complaint on that score, young Plush! I wouldn't be a man for--no, not +for--not even for sich a pair o' calves as yourn! + + SUS. _and_ BILL _carry_ THO. _out_. MAT. _follows_. GER. _is going + after them_. + +_Mrs. C._ Don't you go, Arthur. They can manage quite well. I will go +if you like. + +_Ger._ They know something about Constance. + +_Mrs. C._ Pray give yourself no anxiety about her. + +_Ger._ What do you mean, aunt? + +_Mrs. C._ I will be responsible for her. + +_Ger._ Where is she then? (_Exit_ MRS. C.) William!--If he doesn't +come in one minute more, I'll go after her myself. Those girls know +where she is. I am as strong as a giant.--O God! All but married to +that infamous fellow!--That he should ever have touched the tip of one +of her fingers! What a sunrise of hope! Psyche may yet fold her wings +to my prayer! William! William!--Where _can_ the fellow be? + + _Enter_ COL. G. _in uniform and star, leading_ CONSTANCE. + +_Ger._ (_hurrying to meet them_). Constance! Constance! forgive me. Oh +my God! You will when you know all. + +_Col. G._ She knows enough for that already, my boy, or she wouldn't +be here. Take her--and me for her sake. + +_Ger._ What! who--? Constance!--What does it all mean?--It must +be--can it be--my father?--William--It _is_ William!--William my +father!--O father! father! (_throwing his arms about him_) it _was_ +you all the time then! + +_Col. G._ My boy! my boy! There!--take Constance, and let me go. I did +want to do something for you--but--There! I'm too much ashamed to look +at you in my own person. + +_Ger._ (_kneeling_). Father! father! don't talk like that! O father! +_my_ father! + +_Col. G._ (_raising him_). My boy! my boy! I wanted to do something +for you--tried hard--and was foiled.--I doubly deserved it. I doubted +as well as neglected you. But God is good. He has shamed me, and saved +you. + +_Ger._ By your hand, father. + +_Col. G._ No--by his own. It would all have come right without me. I +was unworthy of the honour, my boy. But I was allowed to try; and for +that I am grateful.--Arthur, I come to you empty-handed--a beggar for +your love. + +_Ger._ How dare you say that, father?--Empty-handed--bringing me her +and your-self--all I ever longed for!--my father and my Psyche! +Father, _thank_ you. The poor word must do its best. I thank you with +my very soul.--How _shall_ I bear my happiness!--Constance, it was my +father all the time! Did you know it? Serving me like a +slave!--humouring all my whims!--watching me night and day!--and then +bringing me-- + +_Con._ Your own little girl, Arthur. But why did you not tell me? + +_Ger._ Tell you what, darling? + +_Con._ That--that--that you--Oh! you know what, Arthur! + +_Ger._ How could I, my child, with that--!--Shall I tell you now? + +_Con._ No, no! I am too happy to listen--even to you, Arthur! But +_he_ should never have--I did find him out at last. If I had but known +you did not like him! (_hiding her face_.) + +_Ger._ (_embracing his father_) Father! father! I cannot hold my +happiness! And it is _all_ your doing! + +_Col. G. No_, I tell you, my boy! I was but a straw on the tide of +things. I will serve you yet though. I will be your father yet. + +_Bill_ (_aside_). Fathers ain't _all_ bad coves! Here's two on +'em--good sort of old Jacobs--both on 'em. Shouldn't mind much if I +had a father o' my own arter all! + + GERVAISE _turns to_ CONSTANCE--_then glances at the Psyche_. COL. + GERVAISE _removes the sheet_. GERVAISE _leads_ CONSTANCE _to the + chair on the dais--turns from her to the Psyche, and begins to work + on the clay, glancing from the one to the other--the next moment + leaves the Psyche, and seats himself on the dais at_ CONSTANCE'S + _feet, looking up in her face._ COL. GERVAISE _stands regarding + them fixedly. Slow distant music._ BILL _is stealing away_. + + _Curtain falls._ + + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Stephen Archer and Other Tales, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPHEN ARCHER AND OTHER TALES *** + +***** This file should be named 9191.txt or 9191.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/9/9191/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Beth Trapaga and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. 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