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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) AURIOL
OR
THE ELIXIR OF LIFE
BY W. HARRISON AINSWORTH
AUTHOR OF "THE TOWER OF LONDON"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. K. BROWNE
_AUTHOR'S COPYRIGHT EDITION_
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LIMITED
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
1898
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
[Illustration: The mysterious interview in Hyde Park]
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE--1599--
DR. LAMB
BOOK THE FIRST--EBBA--
I. THE RUINED HOUSE IN THE VAUXHALL ROAD
II. THE DOG-FANCIER
III. THE HAND AND THE CLOAK
IV. THE IRON-MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER
V. THE MEETING NEAR THE STATUE
VI. THE CHARLES THE SECOND SPANIEL
VII. THE HAND AGAIN! VIII. THE BARBER OF LONDON
IX. THE MOON IN THE FIRST QUARTER
X. THE STATUE AT CHARING CROSS
XI. PREPARATIONS
XII. THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERY
INTERMEAN--1800--
I. THE TOMB OF THE ROSICRUCIAN
II. THE COMPACT
III. IRRESOLUTION
IV. EDITH TALBOT
V. THE SEVENTH NIGHT
BOOK THE SECOND--CYPRIAN ROUGEMONT--
I. THE CELL
II. THE ENCHANTED CHAIRS
III. GERARD PASTON
IV. THE PIT
V. NEW PERPLEXITIES
VI. DR. LAMB AGAIN
THE OLD LONDON MERCHANT
A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE IN ROME--
I. SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE
II. THE MARCHESA
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE MYSTERIOUS INTERVIEW IN HYDE PARK
THE ELIXIR OF LONG LIFE
THE RUINED HOUSE IN THE VAUXHALL ROAD
THE DOG-FANCIER
THE HAND AND THE CLOAK
THE IRON-MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER
THE BARBER OF LONDON
SEIZURE OF EBBA
THE ANTIQUARIES
THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERY
THE TOMB OF THE ROSICRUCIAN
THE COMPACT
THE SIGNIFICANT WHISPER
THE ENCHANTED CHAIRS
ROUGEMONT'S DEVICE TO PERPLEX AURIOL
PROLOGUE
1599
_DR. LAMB_
The Sixteenth Century drew to a close. It was the last day of the last
year, and two hours only were wanting to the birth of another year and
of another century. The night was solemn and beautiful. Myriads of stars paved the deep
vault of heaven; the crescent moon hung like a silver lamp in the midst
of them; a stream of rosy and quivering light, issuing from the north,
traversed the sky, like the tail of some stupendous comet; while from
its point of effluence broke forth, ever and anon, coruscations
rivalling in splendour and variety of hue the most brilliant discharge
of fireworks. A sharp frost prevailed; but the atmosphere was clear and dry, and
neither wind nor snow aggravated the wholesome rigour of the season. The
water lay in thick congealed masses around the conduits and wells, and
the buckets were frozen on their stands. The thoroughfares were sheeted
with ice, and dangerous to horsemen and vehicles; but the footways were
firm and pleasant to the tread. Here and there, a fire was lighted in the streets, round which ragged
urchins and mendicants were collected, roasting fragments of meat stuck
upon iron prongs, or quaffing deep draughts of metheglin and ale out of
leathern cups. Crowds were collected in the open places, watching the
wonders in the heavens, and drawing auguries from them, chiefly
sinister, for most of the beholders thought the signs portended the
speedy death of the queen, and the advent of a new monarch from the
north--a safe and easy interpretation, considering the advanced age and
declining health of the illustrious Elizabeth, together with the known
appointment of her successor, James of Scotland. Notwithstanding the early habits of the times, few persons had retired
to rest, an universal wish prevailing among the citizens to see the new
year in, and welcome the century accompanying it. Lights glimmered in
most windows, revealing the holly-sprigs and laurel-leaves stuck thickly
in their diamond panes; while, whenever a door was opened, a ruddy gleam
burst across the street, and a glance inside the dwelling showed its
inmates either gathered round the glowing hearth, occupied in mirthful
sports--fox-i'-th'-hole, blind-man's buff, or shoe-the-mare--or seated
at the ample board groaning with Christmas cheer. Music and singing were heard at every corner, and bands of comely
damsels, escorted by their sweethearts, went from house to house,
bearing huge brown bowls dressed with ribands and rosemary, and filled
with a drink called "lamb's-wool," composed of sturdy ale, sweetened
with sugar, spiced with nutmeg, and having toasts and burnt crabs
floating within it--a draught from which seldom brought its pretty
bearers less than a groat, and occasionally a more valuable coin. Such was the vigil of the year sixteen hundred. On this night, and at the tenth hour, a man of striking and venerable
appearance was seen to emerge upon a small wooden balcony, projecting
from a bay-window near the top of a picturesque structure situated at
the southern extremity of London Bridge. The old man's beard and hair were as white as snow--the former
descending almost to his girdle; so were the thick, overhanging brows
that shaded his still piercing eyes. His forehead was high, bald, and
ploughed by innumerable wrinkles. His countenance, despite its
death-like paleness, had a noble and majestic cast; and his figure,
though worn to the bone by a life of the severest study, and bent by the
weight of years, must have been once lofty and commanding. His dress
consisted of a doublet and hose of sad-coloured cloth, over which he
wore a loose gown of black silk. His head was covered by a square black
cap, from beneath which his silver locks strayed over his shoulders. Known by the name of Doctor Lamb, and addicted to alchemical and
philosophical pursuits, this venerable personage was esteemed by the
vulgar as little better than a wizard. Strange tales were reported and
believed of him. Amongst others, it was said that he possessed a
familiar, because he chanced to employ a deformed, crack-brained dwarf,
who assisted him in his operations, and whom he appropriately enough
denominated Flapdragon. Doctor Lamb's gaze was fixed intently upon the heavens, and he seamed
to be noting the position of the moon with reference to some particular
star. After remaining in this posture for a few minutes, he was about to
retire, when a loud crash arrested him, and he turned to see whence it
proceeded. Immediately before him stood the Southwark Gateway--a square stone
building, with a round, embattled turret at each corner, and a flat
leaden roof, planted with a forest of poles, fifteen or sixteen feet
high, garnished with human heads. To his surprise, the doctor perceived
that two of these poles had just been overthrown by a tall man, who was
in the act of stripping them of their grisly burdens. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Having accomplished his object, the mysterious plunderer thrust his
spoil into a leathern bag with which he was provided, tied its mouth,
and was about to take his departure by means of a rope-ladder attached
to the battlements, when his retreat was suddenly cut off by the
gatekeeper, armed with a halberd, and bearing a lantern, who issued from
a door opening upon the leads. The baffled marauder looked round, and remarking the open window at
which Doctor Lamb was stationed, hurled the sack and its contents
through it. He then tried to gain the ladder, but was intercepted by the
gatekeeper, who dealt him a severe blow on the head with his halberd. The plunderer uttered a loud cry, and attempted to draw his sword; but
before he could do so, he received a thrust in the side from his
opponent. He then fell, and the gatekeeper would have repeated the blow,
if the doctor had not called to him to desist. "Do not kill him, good Baldred," he cried. "The attempt may not be so
criminal as it appears. Doubtless, the mutilated remains which the poor
wretch has attempted to carry off are those of his kindred, and horror
at their exposure must have led him to commit the offence." "It may be, doctor," replied Baldred; "and if so I shall be sorry I have
hurt him. But I am responsible for the safe custody of these traitorous
relics, and it is as much as my own head is worth to permit their
removal." "I know it," replied Doctor Lamb; "and you are fully justified in what
you have done. It may throw some light upon the matter, to know whose
miserable remains have been disturbed." "They were the heads of two rank papists," replied Baldred, "who were
decapitated on Tower Hill, on Saint Nicholas's Day, three weeks ago, for
conspiring against the queen." "But their names?" demanded the doctor. "How were they called?" "They were father and son," replied Baldred--"Sir Simon Darcy and Master
Reginald Darcy. Perchance they were known to your worship?" "Too well--too well!" replied Doctor Lamb, in a voice of emotion that
startled his hearer. "They were near kinsmen of mine own. What is he
like who has made this strange attempt?" "Of a verity, a fair youth," replied Baldred, holding down the lantern. "Heaven grant I have not wounded him to the death! No, his heart still
beats. Ha! here are his tablets," he added, taking a small book from
his doublet; "these may give the information you seek. You were right
in your conjecture, doctor. The name herein inscribed is the same as
that borne by the others--Auriol Darcy." "I see it all," cried Lamb. "It was a pious and praiseworthy deed. Bring
the unfortunate youth to my dwelling, Baldred, and you shall be well
rewarded. Use despatch, I pray you." As the gatekeeper essayed to comply, the wounded man groaned deeply, as
if in great pain. "Fling me the weapon with which you smote him," cried Doctor Lamb, in
accents of commiseration, "and I will anoint it with the powder of
sympathy. His anguish will be speedily abated." "I know your worship can accomplish wonders," cried Baldred, throwing
the halberd into the balcony. "I will do my part as gently as I can." And as the alchemist took up the weapon, and disappeared through the
window, the gatekeeper lifted the wounded man by the shoulders, and
conveyed him down a narrow, winding staircase to a lower chamber. Though
he proceeded carefully, the sufferer was put to excruciating pain; and
when Baldred placed him on a wooden bench, and held a lamp towards him,
he perceived that his features were darkened and distorted. "I fear it's all over with him," murmured the gatekeeper; "I shall have
a dead body to take to Doctor Lamb. It would be a charity to knock him
on the head, rather than let him suffer thus. The doctor passes for a
cunning man, but if he can cure this poor youth without seeing him, by
the help of his sympathetic ointment, I shall begin to believe, what
some folks avouch, that he has relations with the devil." While Baldred was ruminating in this manner, a sudden and extraordinary
change took place in the sufferer. As if by magic, the contraction of
the muscles subsided; the features assumed a wholesome hue, and the
respiration was no longer laborious. Baldred stared as if a miracle had
been wrought. Now that the countenance of the youth had regained its original
expression, the gatekeeper could not help being struck by its extreme
beauty. The face was a perfect oval, with regular and delicate features. A short silken moustache covered the upper lip, which was short and
proud, and a pointed beard terminated the chin. The hair was black,
glossy, and cut short, so as to disclose a highly intellectual expanse
of brow. The youth's figure was slight, but admirably proportioned. His attire
consisted of a black satin doublet, slashed with white, hose of black
silk, and a short velvet mantle. His eyes were still closed, and it was
difficult to say what effect they might give to the face when they
lighted it up; but notwithstanding its beauty, it was impossible not to
admit that a strange, sinister, and almost demoniacal expression
pervaded the countenance. All at once, and with as much suddenness as his cure had been effected,
the young man started, uttering a piercing cry, and placed his hand to
his side. "Caitiff!" he cried, fixing his blazing eyes on the gatekeeper, "why do
you torture me thus? Finish me at once--Oh!" And overcome by anguish, he sank back again. "I have not touched you, sir," replied Baldred. "I brought you here to
succour you. You will be easier anon. Doctor Lamb must have wiped the
halberd," he added to himself. Another sudden change. The pain fled from the sufferer's countenance,
and he became easy as before. "What have you done to me?" he asked, with a look of gratitude; "the
torture of my wound has suddenly ceased, and I feel as if a balm had
been dropped into it. Let me remain in this state if you have any
pity--or despatch me, for my late agony was almost insupportable." "You are cared for by one who has greater skill than any chirurgeon in
London," replied Baldred. "If I can manage to transport you to his
lodgings, he will speedily heal your wounds." "Do not delay, then," replied Auriol faintly; "for though I am free from
pain, I feel that my life is ebbing fast away." "Press this handkerchief to your side, and lean on me," said Baldred. "Doctor Lamb's dwelling is but a step from the gateway--in fact, the
first house on the bridge. By the way, the doctor declares he is your
kinsman." "It is the first I ever heard of him," replied Auriol faintly; "but take
me to him quickly, or it will be too late." In another moment they were at the doctor's door. Baldred tapped against
it, and the summons was instantly answered by a diminutive personage,
clad in a jerkin of coarse grey serge, and having a leathern apron tied
round his waist. This was Flapdragon. Blear-eyed, smoke-begrimed, lantern-jawed, the poor dwarf seemed as if
his whole life had been spent over the furnace. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
And so, in fact, it had
been. He had become little better than a pair of human bellows. In his
hand he held the halberd with which Auriol had been wounded. "So you have been playing the leech, Flapdragon, eh?" cried Baldred. "Ay, marry have I," replied the dwarf, with a wild grin, and displaying
a wolfish set of teeth. "My master ordered me to smear the halberd with
the sympathetic ointment. I obeyed him: rubbed the steel point, first on
one side, then on the other; next wiped it; and then smeared it again." "Whereby you put the patient to exquisite pain," replied Baldred; "but
help me to transport him to the laboratory." "I know not if the doctor will care to be disturbed," said Flapdragon. "He is busily engaged on a grand operation." "I will take the risk on myself," said Baldred. "The youth will die if
he remains here. See, he has fainted already!" Thus urged, the dwarf laid down the halberd, and between the two, Auriol
was speedily conveyed up a wide oaken staircase to the laboratory. Doctor Lamb was plying the bellows at the furnace, on which a large
alembic was placed, and he was so engrossed by his task that he scarcely
noticed the entrance of the others. "Place the youth on the ground, and rear his head against the chair," he
cried, hastily, to the dwarf. "Bathe his brows with the decoction in
that crucible. I will attend to him anon. Come to me on the morrow,
Baldred, and I will repay thee for thy trouble. I am busy now." "These relics, doctor," cried the gatekeeper, glancing at the bag, which
was lying on the ground, and from which a bald head protruded--"I ought
to take them back with me." "Heed them not--they will be safe in my keeping," cried Doctor Lamb
impatiently; "to-morrow--to-morrow." Casting a furtive glance round the laboratory, and shrugging his
shoulders, Baldred departed; and Flapdragon having bathed the sufferer's
temples with the decoction, in obedience to his master's injunctions,
turned to inquire what he should do next. "Begone!" cried the doctor, so fiercely that the dwarf darted out of the
room, clapping the door after him. Doctor Lamb then applied himself to his task with renewed ardour, and in
a few seconds became wholly insensible of the presence of a stranger. Revived by the stimulant, Auriol presently opened his eyes, and gazing
round the room, thought he must be dreaming, so strange and fantastical
did all appear. The floor was covered with the implements used by the
adept--bolt-heads, crucibles, cucurbites, and retorts, scattered about
without any attempt at arrangement. In one corner was a large
terrestrial sphere: near it was an astrolabe, and near that a
heap of disused glass vessels. On the other side lay a black,
mysterious-looking book, fastened with brazen clasps. Around it were a
ram's horn, a pair of forceps, a roll of parchment, a pestle and mortar,
and a large plate of copper, graven with the mysterious symbols of the
Isaical table. Near this was the leathern bag containing the two
decapitated heads, one of which had burst forth. On a table at the
farther end of the room, stood a large open volume, with parchment
leaves, covered with cabalistical characters, referring to the names of
spirits. Near it were two parchment scrolls, written in letters,
respectively denominated by the Chaldaic sages, "the Malachim," and "the
Passing of the River." One of these scrolls was kept in its place by a
skull. An ancient and grotesque-looking brass lamp, with two
snake-headed burners, lighted the room. From the ceiling depended a huge
scaly sea-monster, with outspread fins, open jaws garnished with
tremendous teeth, and great goggling eyes. Near it hung a celestial
sphere. The chimney-piece, which was curiously carved, and projected far
into the room, was laden with various implements of hermetic science. Above it were hung dried bats and flitter-mice, interspersed with the
skulls of birds and apes. Attached to the chimney-piece was a horary,
sculptured in stone, near which hung a large starfish. The fireplace was
occupied by the furnace, on which, as has been stated, was placed an
alembic, communicating by means of a long serpentine pipe with a
receiver. Within the room were two skeletons, one of which, placed
behind a curtain in the deep embrasure of the window, where its polished
bones glistened in the white moonlight, had a horrible effect. The
other enjoyed more comfortable quarters near the chimney, its fleshless
feet dangling down in the smoke arising from the furnace. Doctor Lamb, meanwhile, steadily pursued his task, though he ever and
anon paused, to fling certain roots and drugs upon the charcoal. As he
did this, various-coloured flames broke forth--now blue, now green, now
blood-red. Tinged by these fires, the different objects in the chamber seemed to
take other forms, and to become instinct with animation. The
gourd-shaped cucurbites were transformed into great bloated toads
bursting with venom; the long-necked bolt-heads became monstrous
serpents; the worm-like pipes turned into adders; the alembics looked
like plumed helmets; the characters on the Isaical table, and those on
the parchments, seemed traced in fire, and to be ever changing; the
sea-monster bellowed and roared, and, flapping his fins, tried to burst
from his hook; the skeletons wagged their jaws, and raised their
fleshless fingers in mockery, while blue lights burnt in their eyeless
sockets; the bellows became a prodigious bat fanning the fire with its
wings; and the old alchemist assumed the appearance of the archfiend
presiding over a witches' sabbath. Auriol's brain reeled, and he pressed his hand to his eyes, to exclude
these phantasms from his sight. But even thus they pursued him; and he
imagined he could hear the infernal riot going on around him. Suddenly, he was roused by a loud joyful cry, and, uncovering his eyes,
he beheld Doctor Lamb pouring the contents of the matrass--a bright,
transparent liquid--into a small phial. Having carefully secured the
bottle with a glass stopper, the old man held it towards the light, and
gazed at it with rapture. "At length," he exclaimed aloud--"at length, the great work is achieved. With the birth of the century now expiring I first saw light, and the
draught I hold in my hand shall enable me to see the opening of
centuries and centuries to come. Composed of the lunar stones, the solar
stones, and the mercurial stones--prepared according to the instructions
of the Rabbi Ben Lucca--namely, by the separation of the pure from the
impure, the volatilisation of the fixed, and the fixing of the
volatile--this elixir shall renew my youth, like that of the eagle, and
give me length of days greater than any patriarch ever enjoyed." While thus speaking, he held up the sparkling liquid, and gazed at it
like a Persian worshipping the sun. "To live for ever!" he cried, after a pause--"to escape the jaws of
death just when they are opening to devour me!--to be free from all
accidents!--'tis a glorious thought! Ha! | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
I bethink me, the rabbi said
there was _one_ peril against which the elixir could not guard me--_one_
vulnerable point, by which, like the heel of Achilles, death might reach
me! What is it!--where can it lie?" And he relapsed into deep thought. "This uncertainty will poison all my happiness," he continued; "I shall
live in constant dread, as of an invisible enemy. But no matter! Perpetual life!--perpetual youth!--what more need be desired?" "What more, indeed!" cried Auriol. "Ha!" exclaimed the doctor, suddenly recollecting the wounded man, and
concealing the phial beneath his gown. "Your caution is vain, doctor," said Auriol. "I have heard what you have
uttered. You fancy you have discovered the _elixir vitæ_." "Fancy I have discovered it!" cried Doctor Lamb. "The matter is past all
doubt. I am the possessor of the wondrous secret, which the greatest
philosophers of all ages have sought to discover--the miraculous
preservative of the body against decay." "The man who brought me hither told me you were my kinsman," said
Auriol. "Is it so?" "It is," replied the doctor, "and you shall now learn the connection
that subsists between us. Look at that ghastly relic," he added,
pointing to the head protruding from the bag: "that was once my son
Simon. His son's head is within the sack--your father's head--so that
four generations are brought together." "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, raising himself on his
elbow. "You, then, are my great-grandsire. My father supposed you had
died in his infancy. An old tale runs in the family that you were
charged with sorcery, and fled to avoid the stake." "It is true that I fled, and took the name I bear at present," replied
the old man, "but I need scarcely say that the charge brought against me
was false. I have devoted myself to abstrusest science, have held
commune with the stars, and have wrested the most hidden secrets from
Nature--but that is all. Two crimes alone have stained my soul; but
both, I trust, have been expiated by repentance." "Were they deeds of blood?" asked Auriol. "One was so," replied Darcy, with a shudder. "It was a cowardly and
treacherous deed, aggravated by the basest ingratitude. Listen, and you
shall hear how it chanced. A Roman rabbi, named Ben Lucca, skilled in
hermetic science, came to this city. His fame reached me, and I sought
him out, offering myself as his disciple. For months, I remained with
him in his laboratory--working at the furnace, and poring over mystic
lore. One night he showed me that volume, and, pointing to a page within
it, said: 'Those characters contain the secret of confecting the elixir
of life. I will now explain them to you, and afterwards we will proceed
to the operation.' With this, he unfolded the mystery; but he bade me
observe, that the menstruum was defective on one point. Wherefore, he
said, 'there will still be peril from some hidden cause.' Oh, with what
greediness I drank in his words! How I gazed at the mystic characters,
as he explained their import! What visions floated before me of
perpetual youth and enjoyment. At that moment a demon whispered in my
ear, 'This secret must be thine own. No one else must possess it.'" "Ha!" exclaimed Auriol, starting. "The evil thought was no sooner conceived than acted upon," pursued
Darcy. "Instantly drawing my poniard, I plunged it to the rabbi's heart. But mark what followed. His blood fell upon the book, and obliterated
the characters; nor could I by any effort of memory recall the
composition of the elixir." "When did you regain the secret?" asked Auriol curiously. "To-night," replied Darcy--"within this hour. For nigh fifty years after
that fatal night I have been making fruitless experiments. A film of
blood has obscured my mental sight. I have proceeded by calcitration,
solution, putrefaction--have produced the oils which will fix crude
mercury, and convert all bodies into sol and luna; but I have ever
failed in fermenting the stone into the true elixir. To-night, it came
into my head to wash the blood-stained page containing the secret with a
subtle liquid. I did so; and doubting the efficacy of the experiment,
left it to work, while I went forth to breathe the air at my window. My
eyes were cast upwards, and I was struck with the malignant aspect of my
star. How to reconcile this with the good fortune which has just
befallen me, I know not--but so it was. At this juncture, your rash but
pious attempt occurred. Having discovered our relationship, and enjoined
the gatekeeper to bring you hither, I returned to my old laboratory. On
glancing towards the mystic volume, what was my surprise to see the page
free from blood!" Auriol uttered a slight exclamation, and gazed at the book with
superstitious awe. "The sight was so surprising that I dropped the sack I had brought with
me," pursued Darcy. "Fearful of again losing the secret, I nerved myself
to the task, and placing fuel on the fire, dismissed my attendant with
brief injunctions relative to you. I then set to work. How I have
succeeded, you perceive. I hold in my hand the treasure I have so long
sought--so eagerly coveted. The whole world's wealth should not purchase
it from me." Auriol gazed earnestly at his aged relative, but he said nothing. "In a few moments I shall be as full of vigour and activity as
yourself," continued Darcy. "We shall be no longer the great-grandsire
and his descendant, but friends--companions--equals,--equals in age,
strength, activity, beauty, fortune--for youth _is_ fortune--ha! ha! Methinks I am already young again!" "You spoke of two crimes with which your conscience was burdened,"
remarked Auriol. "You have mentioned but one." "The other was not so foul as that I have described," replied Darcy, in
an altered tone, "inasmuch as it was unintentional, and occasioned by no
base motive. My wife, your ancestress, was a most lovely woman, and so
passionately was I enamoured of her, that I tried by every art to
heighten and preserve her beauty. I fed her upon the flesh of capons,
nourished with vipers; caused her to steep her lovely limbs in baths
distilled from roses and violets; and had recourse to the most potent
cosmetics. At last I prepared a draught from poisons--yes,
_poisons_--the effect of which, I imagined, would be wondrous. She drank
it, and expired horribly disfigured. Conceive my despair at beholding
the fair image of my idolatry destroyed--defaced by my hand. In my
frenzy I should have laid violent hands upon myself, if I had not been
restrained. Love may again rule my heart--beauty may again dazzle my
eyes, but I shall never more feel the passion I entertained for my lost
Amice--never more behold charms equal to hers." And he pressed his hand to his face. "The mistake you then committed should serve as a warning," said Auriol. "What if it be poison you have now confected? Try a few drops of it on
some animal." "No--no; it is the true elixir," replied Darcy. "Not a drop must be
wasted. You will witness its effect anon. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Like the snake, I shall cast
my slough, and come forth younger than I was at twenty." "Meantime, I beseech you to render me some assistance," groaned Auriol,
"or, while you are preparing for immortality, I shall expire before your
eyes." "Be not afraid," replied Darcy; "you shall take no harm. I will care for
you presently; and I understand leechcraft so well, that I will answer
for your speedy and perfect recovery." "Drink, then, to it!" cried Auriol. "I know not what stays my hand," said the old man, raising the phial;
"but now that immortality is in my reach, I dare not grasp it." "Give me the potion, then," cried Auriol. "Not for worlds," rejoined Darcy, hugging the phial to his breast. "No;
I will be young again--rich--happy. I will go forth into the world--I
will bask in the smiles of beauty--I will feast, revel, sing--life shall
be one perpetual round of enjoyment. Now for the trial--ha!" and, as he
raised the potion towards his lips, a sudden pang shot across his heart. "What is this?" he cried, staggering. "Can death assail me when I am
just about to enter upon perpetual life? Help me, good grandson! Place
the phial to my lips. Pour its contents down my throat--quick! quick!" [Illustration: The Elixir of Long Life.] "I am too weak to stir," groaned Auriol. "You have delayed it too long." "Oh, heavens! we shall both perish," shrieked Darcy, vainly endeavouring
to raise his palsied arm,--"perish with the blissful shore in view." And he sank backwards, and would have fallen to the ground if he had not
caught at the terrestrial sphere for support. "Help me--help me!" he screamed, fixing a glance of unutterable anguish
on his relative. "It is worth the struggle," cried Auriol. And, by a great effort, he
raised himself, and staggered towards the old man. "Saved--saved!" shrieked Darcy. "Pour it down my throat. An instant, and
all will be well." "Think you I have done this for you?" cried Auriol, snatching the
potion; "no--no." And, supporting himself against the furnace, he placed the phial to his
lips, and eagerly drained its contents. The old man seemed paralysed by the action, but kept his eye fixed upon
the youth till he had drained the elixir to the last drop. He then
uttered a piercing cry, threw up his arms, and fell heavily backwards. Dead--dead! Flashes of light passed before Auriol's eyes, and strange noises smote
his ears. For a moment he was bewildered as with wine, and laughed and
sang discordantly like a madman. Every object reeled and danced around
him. The glass vessels and jars clashed their brittle sides together,
yet remained uninjured; the furnace breathed forth flames and mephitic
vapours; the spiral worm of the alembic became red hot, and seemed
filled with molten lead; the pipe of the bolt-head ran blood; the sphere
of the earth rolled along the floor, and rebounded from the wall as if
impelled by a giant hand; the skeletons grinned and gibbered; so did the
death's-head on the table; so did the skulls against the chimney; the
monstrous sea-fish belched forth fire and smoke; the bald, decapitated
head opened its eyes, and fixed them, with a stony glare, on the young
man; while the dead alchemist shook his hand menacingly at him. Unable to bear these accumulated horrors, Auriol became, for a short
space, insensible. On recovering, all was still. The lights within the
lamp had expired; but the bright moonlight, streaming through the
window, fell upon the rigid features of the unfortunate alchemist, and
on the cabalistic characters of the open volume beside him. Eager to test the effect of the elixir, Auriol put his hand to his side. All traces of the wound were gone; nor did he experience the slightest
pain in any other part of his body. On the contrary, he seemed endowed
with preternatural strength. His breast dilated with rapture, and he
longed to expand his joy in active motion. Striding over the body of his aged relative, he threw open the window. As he did so, joyous peals burst from surrounding churches, announcing
the arrival of the new year. While listening to this clamour, Auriol gazed at the populous and
picturesque city stretched out before him, and bathed in the moonlight. "A hundred years hence," he thought, "and scarcely one soul of the
thousands within those houses will be living, save myself. A hundred
years after that, and their children's children will be gone to the
grave. But I shall live on--shall live through all changes--all
customs--all time. What revelations I shall then have to make, if I
should dare to disclose them!" As he ruminated thus, the skeleton hanging near him was swayed by the
wind, and its bony fingers came in contact with his cheek. A dread idea
was suggested by the occurrence. "There is one peril to be avoided," he thought; "ONE PERIL!--what is it? Pshaw! I will think no more of it. It may never arise. I will be gone. This place fevers me." With this, he left the laboratory, and hastily descending the stairs, at
the foot of which he found Flapdragon, passed out of the house. BOOK THE FIRST
_EBBA_
CHAPTER I
THE RUINED HOUSE IN THE VAUXHALL ROAD
Late one night, in the spring of 1830, two men issued from a low,
obscurely situated public-house, near Millbank, and shaped their course
apparently in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge. Avoiding the footpath
near the river, they moved stealthily along the farther side of the
road, where the open ground offered them an easy means of flight, in
case such a course should be found expedient. So far as it could be
discerned by the glimpses of the moon, which occasionally shone forth
from a rack of heavy clouds, the appearance of these personages was not
much in their favour. Haggard features, stamped deeply with the
characters of crime and debauchery; fierce, restless eyes; beards of
several days' growth; wild, unkempt heads of hair, formed their chief
personal characteristics; while sordid and ragged clothes, shoes without
soles, and old hats without crowns, constituted the sum of their
apparel. One of them was tall and gaunt, with large hands and feet; but despite
his meagreness, he evidently possessed great strength: the other was
considerably shorter, but broad-shouldered, bow-legged, long-armed, and
altogether a most formidable ruffian. This fellow had high cheek-bones,
a long aquiline nose, and a coarse mouth and chin, in which the animal
greatly predominated. He had a stubby red beard, with sandy hair, white
brows and eyelashes. The countenance of the other was dark and
repulsive, and covered with blotches, the result of habitual
intemperance. His eyes had a leering and malignant look. A handkerchief
spotted with blood, and tied across his brow, contrasted strongly with
his matted black hair, and increased his natural appearance of ferocity. The shorter ruffian carried a mallet upon his shoulder, and his
companion concealed something beneath the breast of his coat, which
afterwards proved to be a dark lantern. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Not a word passed between them; but keeping a vigilant look-out, they
trudged on with quick, shambling steps. A few sounds arose from the
banks of the river, and there was now and then a plash in the water, or
a distant cry, betokening some passing craft; but generally all was
profoundly still. The quaint, Dutch-looking structures on the opposite
bank, the line of coal-barges and lighters moored to the strand, the
great timber-yards and coal-yards, the brewhouses, gasworks, and
waterworks, could only be imperfectly discerned; but the moonlight fell
clear upon the ancient towers of Lambeth Palace, and on the neighbouring
church. The same glimmer also ran like a silver belt across the stream,
and revealed the great, stern, fortress-like pile of the
Penitentiary--perhaps the most dismal-looking structure in the whole
metropolis. The world of habitations beyond this melancholy prison was
buried in darkness. The two men, however, thought nothing of these
things, and saw nothing of them; but, on arriving within a couple of
hundred yards of the bridge, suddenly, as if by previous concert,
quitted the road, and, leaping a rail, ran across a field, and plunged
into a hollow formed by a dried pit, where they came to a momentary
halt. "You ain't a-been a-gammonin' me in this matter, Tinker?" observed the
shorter individual. "The cove's sure to come?" "Why, you can't expect me to answer for another as I can for myself,
Sandman," replied the other; "but if his own word's to be taken for it,
he's sartin to be there. I heerd him say, as plainly as I'm a speakin'
to you--'I'll be here to-morrow night--at the same hour----'"
"And that wos one o'clock?" said the Sandman. "Thereabouts," replied the other. "And who did he say that to?" demanded the Sandman. "To hisself, I s'pose," answered the Tinker; "for, as I told you afore,
I could see no one vith him." "Do you think he's one of our perfession?" inquired the Sandman. "Bless you! no--that he ain't," returned the Tinker. "He's a reg'lar
slap-up svell." "That's no reason at all," said the Sandman. "Many a first-rate svell
practises in our line. But he can't be in his right mind to come to such
a ken as that, and go on as you mentions." "As to that I can't say," replied the Tinker; "and it don't much matter,
as far as ve're consarned." "Devil a bit," rejoined the Sandman, "except--you're sure it worn't a
sperrit, Tinker. I've heerd say that this crib is haanted, and though I
don't fear no livin' man, a ghost's a different sort of customer." "Vell, you'll find our svell raal flesh and blood, you may depend upon
it," replied the Tinker. "So come along, and don't let's be frightenin'
ourselves vith ould vimen's tales." With this they emerged from the pit, crossed the lower part of the
field, and entered a narrow thoroughfare, skirted by a few detached
houses, which brought them into the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Here they kept on the side of the street most in shadow, and crossed
over whenever they came to a lamp. By-and-by, two watchmen were seen
advancing from Belvoir Terrace, and, as the guardians of the night drew
near, the ruffians crept into an alley to let them pass. As soon as the
coast was clear, they ventured forth, and quickening their pace, came to
a row of deserted and dilapidated houses. This was their destination. The range of habitations in question, more than a dozen in number, were,
in all probability, what is vulgarly called "in Chancery," and shared
the fate of most property similarly circumstanced. They were in a sad
ruinous state--unroofed, without windows and floors. The bare walls were
alone left standing, and these were in a very tumble-down condition. These neglected dwellings served as receptacles for old iron, blocks of
stone and wood, and other ponderous matters. The aspect of the whole
place was so dismal and suspicious, that it was generally avoided by
passengers after nightfall. Skulking along the blank and dreary walls, the Tinker, who was now a
little in advance, stopped before a door, and pushing it open, entered
the dwelling. His companion followed him. The extraordinary and incongruous assemblage of objects which met the
gaze of the Sandman, coupled with the deserted appearance of the place,
produced an effect upon his hardy but superstitious nature. Looking round, he beheld huge mill-stones, enormous water-wheels,
boilers of steam-engines, iron vats, cylinders, cranes, iron pumps of
the strangest fashion, a gigantic pair of wooden scales, old iron safes,
old boilers, old gas-pipes, old water-pipes, cracked old bells, old
bird-cages, old plates of iron, old pulleys, ropes, and rusty chains,
huddled and heaped together in the most fantastic disorder. In the midst
of the chaotic mass frowned the bearded and colossal head of Neptune,
which had once decorated the forepart of a man-of-war. Above it, on a
sort of framework, lay the prostrate statue of a nymph, together with a
bust of Fox, the nose of the latter being partly demolished, and the
eyes knocked in. Above these, three garden divinities laid their heads
amicably together. On the left stood a tall Grecian warrior, minus the
head and right hand. The whole was surmounted by an immense ventilator,
stuck on the end of an iron rod, ascending, like a lightning-conductor,
from the steam-engine pump. Seen by the transient light of the moon, the various objects above
enumerated produced a strange effect upon the beholder's imagination. There was a mixture of the grotesque and terrible about them. Nor was
the building itself devoid of a certain influence upon his mind. The
ragged brickwork, overgrown with weeds, took with him the semblance of a
human face, and seemed to keep a wary eye on what was going forward
below. A means of crossing from one side of the building to the other, without
descending into the vault beneath, was afforded by a couple of planks;
though as the wall on the farther side was some feet higher than that
near at hand, and the planks were considerably bent, the passage
appeared hazardous. Glancing round for a moment, the Tinker leaped into the cellar, and,
unmasking his lantern, showed a sort of hiding-place, between a bulk of
timber and a boiler, to which he invited his companion. The Sandman jumped down. "The ale I drank at the 'Two Fighting Cocks' has made me feel drowsy,
Tinker," he remarked, stretching himself on the bulk; "I'll just take a
snooze. Vake me up if I snore--or ven our sperrit appears." The Tinker replied in the affirmative; and the other had just become
lost to consciousness, when he received a nudge in the side, and his
companion whispered--"He's here!" "Vhere--vhere?" demanded the Sandman, in some trepidation. "Look up, and you'll see him," replied the other. Slightly altering his position, the Sandman caught sight of a figure
standing upon the planks above them. It was that of a young man. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
His hat
was off, and his features, exposed to the full radiance of the moon,
looked deathly pale, and though handsome, had a strange sinister
expression. He was tall, slight, and well-proportioned; and the general
cut of his attire, the tightly-buttoned, single-breasted coat, together
with the moustache upon his lip, gave him a military air. "He seems a-valkin' in his sleep," muttered the Sandman. "He's
a-speakin' to some von unwisible." "Hush--hush!" whispered the other. "Let's hear wot he's a-sayin'." "Why have you brought me here?" cried the young man, in a voice so
hollow that it thrilled his auditors. "What is to be done?" "It makes my blood run cold to hear him," whispered the Sandman. "Vot
d'ye think he sees?" "Why do you not speak to me?" cried the young man--"why do you beckon me
forward? Well, I obey. I will follow you." And he moved slowly across the plank. "See, he's a-goin' through that door," cried the Tinker. "Let's foller
him." "I don't half like it," replied the Sandman, his teeth chattering with
apprehension. "We shall see summat as'll take avay our senses." "Tut!" cried the Tinker; "it's only a sleepy-valker. Wot are you afeerd
on?" With this he vaulted upon the planks, and peeping cautiously out of the
open door to which they led, saw the object of his scrutiny enter the
adjoining house through a broken window. Making a sign to the Sandman, who was close at his heels, the Tinker
crept forward on all fours, and, on reaching the window, raised himself
just sufficiently to command the interior of the dwelling. Unfortunately
for him, the moon was at this moment obscured, and he could distinguish
nothing except the dusky outline of the various objects with which the
place was filled, and which were nearly of the same kind as those of the
neighbouring habitation. He listened intently, but not the slightest
sound reached his ears. After some time spent in this way, he began to fear the young man must
have departed, when all at once a piercing scream resounded through the
dwelling. Some heavy matter was dislodged, with a thundering crash, and
footsteps were heard approaching the window. Hastily retreating to their former hiding-place, the Tinker and his
companion had scarcely regained it, when the young man again appeared on
the plank. His demeanour had undergone a fearful change. He staggered
rather than walked, and his countenance was even paler than before. Having crossed the plank, he took his way along the top of the broken
wall towards the door. "Now, then, Sandman!" cried the Tinker; "now's your time!" The other nodded, and, grasping his mallet with a deadly and determined
purpose, sprang noiselessly upon the wall, and overtook his intended
victim just before he gained the door. Hearing a sound behind him, the young man turned, and only just became
conscious of the presence of the Sandman, when the mallet descended upon
his head, and he fell crushed and senseless to the ground. [Illustration: The Ruined house in the Vauxhall Road]
"The vork's done!" cried the Sandman to his companion, who instantly
came up with the dark lantern; "let's take him below, and strip him." "Agreed," replied the Tinker; "but first let's see wot he has got in his
pockets." "Vith all my 'art," replied the Sandman, searching the clothes of the
victim. "A reader!--I hope it's well lined. Ve'll examine it below. The
body 'ud tell awkvard tales if any von should chance to peep in." "Shall we strip him here?" said the Tinker. "Now the darkey shines on
'em, you see what famous togs the cull has on." "Do you vant to have us scragged, fool?" cried the Sandman, springing
into the vault. "Hoist him down here." With this, he placed the wounded man's legs over his own shoulders, and,
aided by his comrade, was in the act of heaving down the body, when the
street-door suddenly flew open, and a stout individual, attended by a
couple of watchmen, appeared at it. "There the villains are!" shouted the new-comer. "They have been
murderin' a gentleman. Seize 'em--seize 'em!" And, as he spoke, he discharged a pistol, the ball from which whistled
past the ears of the Tinker. Without waiting for another salute of the same kind, which might
possibly be nearer its mark, the ruffian kicked the lantern into the
vault, and sprang after the Sandman, who had already disappeared. Acquainted with the intricacies of the place, the Tinker guided his
companion through a hole into an adjoining vault, whence they scaled a
wall, got into the next house, and passing through an open window, made
good their retreat, while the watchmen were vainly searching for them
under every bulk and piece of iron. "Here, watchmen!" cried the stout individual, who had acted as leader;
"never mind the villains just now, but help me to convey this poor young
gentleman to my house, where proper assistance can be rendered him. He
still breathes; but he has received a terrible blow on the head. I hope
his skull ain't broken." "It is to be hoped it ain't, Mr. Thorneycroft," replied the foremost
watchman; "but them was two desperate characters as ever I see, and
capable of any hatterosity." "What a frightful scream I heard to be sure!" cried Mr. Thorneycroft. "I
was certain somethin' dreadful was goin' on. It was fortunate I wasn't
gone to bed; and still more fortunate you happened to be comin' up at
the time. But we mustn't stand chatterin' here. Bring the poor young
gentleman along." Preceded by Mr. Thorneycroft, the watchmen carried the wounded man
across the road towards a small house, the door of which was held open
by a female servant, with a candle in her hand. The poor woman uttered a
cry of horror as the body was brought in. "Don't be cryin' out in that way, Peggy," cried Mr. Thorneycroft, "but
go and get me some brandy. Here, watchmen, lay the poor young gentleman
down on the sofa--there, gently, gently. And now, one of you run to
Wheeler Street, and fetch Mr. Howell, the surgeon. Less noise,
Peggy--less noise, or you'll waken Miss Ebba, and I wouldn't have her
disturbed for the world." With this, he snatched the bottle of brandy from the maid, filled a
wine-glass with the spirit, and poured it down the throat of the wounded
man. A stifling sound followed, and after struggling violently for
respiration for a few seconds, the patient opened his eyes. CHAPTER II
THE DOG-FANCIER
The Rookery! Who that has passed Saint Giles's, on the way to the city,
or coming from it, but has caught a glimpse, through some narrow
opening, of its squalid habitations, and wretched and ruffianly
occupants! Who but must have been struck with amazement, that such a
huge receptacle of vice and crime should be allowed to exist in the very
heart of the metropolis, like an ulcerated spot, capable of tainting the
whole system! Of late, the progress of improvement has caused its
removal; but whether any less cogent motive would have abated the
nuisance may be questioned. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
For years the evil was felt and complained
of, but no effort was made to remedy it, or to cleanse these worse than
Augean stables. As the place is now partially, if not altogether, swept
away, and a wide and airy street passes through the midst of its foul
recesses, a slight sketch may be given of its former appearance. Entering a narrow street, guarded by posts and cross-bars, a few steps
from the crowded thoroughfare brought you into a frightful region, the
refuge, it was easy to perceive, of half the lawless characters
infesting the metropolis. The coarsest ribaldry assailed your ears, and
noisome odours afflicted your sense of smell. As you advanced, picking
your way through kennels flowing with filth, or over putrescent heaps of
rubbish and oyster-shells, all the repulsive and hideous features of the
place were displayed before you. There was something savagely
picturesque in the aspect of the place, but its features were too
loathsome to be regarded with any other feeling than disgust. The houses
looked as sordid, and as thickly crusted with the leprosy of vice, as
their tenants. Horrible habitations they were, in truth. Many of them
were without windows, and where the frames were left, brown paper or tin
supplied the place of glass; some even wanted doors, and no effort was
made to conceal the squalor within. On the contrary, it seemed to be
intruded on observation. Miserable rooms, almost destitute of furniture;
floors and walls caked with dirt, or decked with coarse flaring prints;
shameless and abandoned-looking women; children without shoes and
stockings, and with scarcely a rag to their backs: these were the chief
objects that met the view. Of men, few were visible--the majority being
out on business, it is to be presumed; but where a solitary straggler
was seen, his sinister looks and mean attire were in perfect keeping
with the spot. So thickly inhabited were these wretched dwellings, that
every chamber, from garret to cellar, swarmed with inmates. As to the
cellars, they looked like dismal caverns, which a wild beast would shun. Clothes-lines were hung from house to house, festooned with every kind
of garment. Out of the main street branched several alleys and passages,
all displaying the same degree of misery, or, if possible, worse, and
teeming with occupants. Personal security, however, forbade any attempt
to track these labyrinths; but imagination, after the specimen afforded,
could easily picture them. It was impossible to move a step without
insult or annoyance. Every human being seemed brutalised and degraded;
and the women appeared utterly lost to decency, and made the street ring
with their cries, their quarrels, and their imprecations. It was a
positive relief to escape from this hotbed of crime to the world
without, and breathe a purer atmosphere. Such being the aspect of the Rookery in the daytime, what must it have
been when crowded with its denizens at night! Yet at such an hour it
will now be necessary to enter its penetralia. After escaping from the ruined house in the Vauxhall Road, the two
ruffians shaped their course towards Saint Giles's, running the greater
part of the way, and reaching the Broadway just as the church clock
struck two. Darting into a narrow alley, and heedless of any
obstructions they encountered in their path, they entered a somewhat
wider cross-street, which they pursued for a short distance, and then
struck into an entry, at the bottom of which was a swing-door that
admitted them into a small court, where they found a dwarfish person
wrapped in a tattered watchman's greatcoat, seated on a stool with a
horn lantern in his hand and a cutty in his mouth, the glow of which
lighted up his hard, withered features. This was the deputy-porter of
the lodging-house they were about to enter. Addressing him by the name
of Old Parr, the ruffians passed on, and lifting the latch of another
door, entered a sort of kitchen, at the farther end of which blazed a
cheerful fire, with a large copper kettle boiling upon it. On one side
of the room was a deal table, round which several men of sinister aspect
and sordid attire were collected, playing, at cards. A smaller table of
the same material stood near the fire, and opposite it was a staircase
leading to the upper rooms. The place was dingy and dirty in the
extreme, the floors could not have been scoured for years, and the walls
were begrimed with filth. In one corner, with his head resting on a heap
of coals and coke, lay a boy almost as black as a chimney-sweep, fast
asleep. He was the waiter. The principal light was afforded by a candle
stuck against the wall, with a tin reflector behind it. Before the fire,
with his back turned towards it, stood a noticeable individual, clad in
a velveteen jacket with ivory buttons, a striped waistcoat, drab knees,
a faded black silk neckcloth tied in a great bow, and a pair of ancient
Wellingtons ascending half-way up his legs, which looked
disproportionately thin when compared with the upper part of his square,
robustious, and somewhat pursy frame. His face was broad, jolly, and
good-humoured, with a bottle-shaped nose, fleshy lips, and light grey
eyes, glistening with cunning and roguery. His hair, which dangled in
long flakes over his ears and neck, was of a dunnish red, as were also
his whiskers and beard. A superannuated white castor, with a black
hat-band round it, was cocked knowingly on one side of his head, and
gave him a flashy and sporting look. His particular vocation was made
manifest by the number of dogs he had about him. A beautiful
black-and-tan spaniel, of Charles the Second's breed, popped its short
snubby nose and long silken ears out of each coat-pocket. A pug was
thrust into his breast, and he carried an exquisite Blenheim under
either arm. At his feet reposed an Isle of Skye terrier, and a partly
cropped French poodle, of snowy whiteness, with a red worsted riband
round his throat. This person, it need scarcely be said, was a
dog-fancier, or, in other words, a dealer in, and a stealer of, dogs, as
well as a practiser of all the tricks connected with that nefarious
trade. His self-satisfied air made it evident he thought himself a
smart, clever fellow,--and adroit and knavish he was, no doubt,--while
his droll, plausible, and rather winning manners helped him materially
to impose upon his customers. His real name was Taylor, but he was known
among his companions by the appellation of Ginger. On the entrance of
the Sandman and the Tinker, he nodded familiarly to them, and with a sly
look inquired--"Vell, my 'arties--wot luck?" "Oh, pretty middlin'," replied the Sandman gruffly. And seating himself at the table, near the fire, he kicked up the lad,
who was lying fast asleep on the coals, and bade him fetch a pot of
half-and-half. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
The Tinker took a place beside him, and they waited in
silence the arrival of the liquor, which, when it came, was disposed of
at a couple of pulls; while Mr. Ginger, seeing they were engaged,
sauntered towards the card-table, attended by his four-footed
companions. "And now," said the Sandman, unable to control his curiosity longer, and
taking out his pocket-book, "we'll see what fortun' has given us." [Illustration: The Dog-fancier.] So saying, he unclasped the pocket-book, while the Tinker bent over
him in eager curiosity. But their search for money was fruitless. Not a
single bank-note was forthcoming. There were several memoranda and slips
of paper, a few cards, and an almanac for the year--that was all. It was
a great disappointment. "So we've had all this trouble for nuffin', and nearly got shot into the
bargain," cried the Sandman, slapping down the book on the table with an
oath. "I vish I'd never undertaken the job." "Don't let's give it up in sich an 'urry," replied the Tinker; "summat
may be made on it yet. Let's look over them papers." "Look 'em over yourself," rejoined the Sandman, pushing the book towards
him. "I've done wi' 'em. Here, lazy-bones, bring two glasses o'
rum-and-water--stiff, d'ye hear?" While the sleepy youth bestirred himself to obey these injunctions, the
Tinker read over every memorandum in the pocket-book, and then proceeded
carefully to examine the different scraps of paper with which it was
filled. Not content with one perusal, he looked them all over again, and
then began to rub his hands with great glee. "Wot's the matter?" cried the Sandman, who had lighted a cutty, and was
quietly smoking it. "Wot's the row, eh?" "Vy, this is it," replied the Tinker, unable to contain his
satisfaction; "there's secrets contained in this here pocket-book as'll
be worth a hundred pound and better to us. We ha'n't had our trouble for
nuffin'." "Glad to hear it!" said the Sandman, looking hard at him. "Wot kind o'
secrets are they?" "Vy, _hangin' secrets_," replied the Tinker, with mysterious emphasis. "He seems to be a terrible chap, and to have committed murder
wholesale." "Wholesale!" echoed the Sandman, removing the pipe from his lips. "That
sounds awful. But what a precious donkey he must be to register his
crimes i' that way." "He didn't expect the pocket-book to fall into our hands," said the
Tinker. "Werry likely not," replied the Sandman; "but somebody else might see
it. I repeat, he must be a fool. S'pose we wos to make a entry of
everythin' we does. Wot a nice balance there'd be agin us ven our
accounts comed to be wound up!" "Ourn is a different bus'ness altogether," replied the Tinker. "This
seems a werry mysterious sort o' person. Wot age should you take him to
be?" "Vy, five-an'-twenty at the outside," replied the Sandman. "Five-an'-sixty 'ud be nearer the mark," replied the Tinker. "There's
dates as far back as that." "Five-an'-sixty devils!" cried the Sandman; "there must be some mistake
i' the reckonin' there." "No, it's all clear an' reg'lar," rejoined the other; "and that doesn't
seem to be the end of it neither. I looked over the papers twice, and
one, dated 1780, refers to some other dokiments." "They must relate to his granddad, then," said the Sandman; "it's
impossible they can refer to him." "But I tell 'ee they _do_ refer to him," said the Tinker, somewhat
angrily, at having his assertion denied; "at least, if his own word's to
be taken. Anyhow, these papers is waluable to us. If no one else
believes in 'em, it's clear he believes in 'em hisself, and will be glad
to buy 'em from us." "That's a view o' the case worthy of an Old Bailey lawyer," replied the
Sandman. "Wot's the gemman's name?" "The name on the card is AURIOL DARCY," replied the Tinker. "Any address?" asked the Sandman. The Tinker shook his head. "That's unlucky agin," said the Sandman. "Ain't there no sort o' clue?" "None votiver, as I can perceive," said the Tinker. "Vy, zounds, then, ve're jist vere ve started from," cried the Sandman. "But it don't matter. There's not much chance o' makin' a bargin vith
him. The crack o' the skull I gave him has done his bus'ness." "Nuffin' o' the kind," replied the Tinker. "He alvays recovers from
every kind of accident." "Alvays recovers!" exclaimed the Sandman, in amazement. "Wot a
constitootion he must have!" "Surprisin'!" replied the Tinker; "he never suffers from injuries--at
least, not much; never grows old; and never expects to die; for he
mentions wot he intends doin' a hundred years hence." "Oh, he's a lu-nattic!" exclaimed the Sandman, "a downright lu-nattic;
and that accounts for his wisitin' that 'ere ruined house, and
a-fancyin' he heerd some one talk to him. He's mad, depend upon it. That
is, if I ain't cured him." "I'm of a different opinion," said the Tinker. "And so am I," said Mr. Ginger, who had approached unobserved, and
overheard the greater part of their discourse. "Vy, vot can you know about it, Ginger?" said the Sandman, looking up,
evidently rather annoyed. "I only know this," replied Ginger, "that you've got a good case, and if
you'll let me into it, I'll engage to make summat of it." "Vell, I'm agreeable," said the Sandman. "And so am I," added the Tinker. "Not that I pays much regard to wot you've bin a readin' in his papers,"
purused Ginger; "the gemman's evidently half-cracked, if he ain't
cracked altogether--but he's jist the person to work upon. He fancies
hisself immortal--eh?" "Exactly so," replied the Tinker. "And he also fancies he's committed a lot o' murders?" perused Ginger. "A desperate lot," replied the Tinker. "Then he'll be glad to buy those papers at any price," said Ginger. "Ve'll deal vith him in regard to the pocket-book, as I deals vith
regard to a dog--ask a price for its restitootion." "We must find him out first," said the Sandman. "There's no difficulty in that," rejoined Ginger. "You must be
constantly on the look-out. You're sure to meet him some time or other." "That's true," replied the Sandman; "and there's no fear of his knowin'
us, for the werry moment he looked round I knocked him on the head." "Arter all," said the Tinker, "there's no branch o' the perfession so
safe as yours, Ginger. The law is favourable to you, and the beaks is
afeerd to touch you. I think I shall turn dog-fancier myself." "It's a good business," replied Ginger, "but it requires a hedication. As I wos sayin', we gets a high price sometimes for restorin' a
favourite, especially ven ve've a soft-hearted lady to deal vith. There's some vimen as fond o' dogs as o' their own childer, and ven ve
gets one o' their precious pets, ve makes 'em ransom it as the brigands
you see at the Adelphi or the Surrey sarves their prisoners, threatenin'
to send first an ear, and then a paw, or a tail, and so on. I'll tell
you wot happened t'other day. There wos a lady--a Miss Vite--as was
desperate fond of her dog. It wos a ugly warmint, but no matter for
that--the creater had gained her heart. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Vell, she lost it; and, somehow
or other, I found it. She vos in great trouble, and a friend o' mine
calls to say she can have the dog agin, but she must pay eight pound for
it. She thinks this dear, and a friend o' her own adwises her to wait,
sayin' better terms will be offered; so I sends vord by my friend that
if she don't come down at once the poor animal's throat vill be cut that
werry night." "Ha!--ha!--ha!" laughed the others. "Vell, she sent four pound, and I put up with it," pursued Ginger; "but
about a month arterwards she loses her favourite agin, and, strange to
say, I finds it. The same game is played over agin, and she comes down
with another four pound. But she takes care this time that I shan't
repeat the trick; for no sooner does she obtain persession of her
favourite than she embarks in the steamer for France, in the hope of
keeping her dog safe there." "Oh! Miss Bailey, unfortinate Miss
Bailey!--Fol-de-riddle-tol-ol-lol--unfortinate Miss Bailey!" sang the
Tinker. "But there's dog-fanciers in France, ain't there?" asked the Sandman. "Lor' bless 'ee, yes," replied Ginger; "there's as many fanciers i'
France as here. Vy, ve drives a smartish trade wi' them through them
foreign steamers. There's scarcely a steamer as leaves the port o'
London but takes out a cargo o' dogs. Ve sells 'em to the stewards,
stokers, and sailors--cheap--and no questins asked. They goes to Ostend,
Antverp, Rotterdam, Hamburg, and sometimes to Havre. There's a Mounseer
Coqquilu as comes over to buy dogs, and ve takes 'em to him at a house
near Billinsgit market." "Then you're alvays sure o' a ready market somehow," observed the
Sandman. "Sartin," replied Ginger, "cos the law's so kind to us. Vy, bless you, a
perliceman can't detain us, even if he knows ve've a stolen dog in our
persession, and ve svears it's our own; and yet he'd stop you in a
minnit if he seed you with a suspicious-lookin' bundle under your arm. Now, jist to show you the difference atwixt the two perfessions:--I
steals a dog--walue, maybe, fifty pound, or p'raps more. Even if I'm
catched i' the fact I may get fined twenty pound, or have six months'
imprisonment; vile, if you steals an old fogle, walue three fardens,
you'll get seven years abroad, to a dead certainty." "That seems hard on us," observed the Sandman reflectively. "It's the _law_!" exclaimed Ginger triumphantly. "Now, ve generally
escapes by payin' the fine, 'cos our pals goes and steals more dogs to
raise the money. Ve alvays stands by each other. There's a reg'lar
horganisation among us; so ve can alvays bring vitnesses to svear vot ve
likes, and ve so puzzles the beaks, that the case gets dismissed, and
the constable says, 'Vich party shall I give the dog to, your vorship?' Upon vich, the beak replies, a-shakin' of his vise noddle, 'Give it to
the person in whose persession it was found. I have nuffin' more to do
vith it.' In course the dog is delivered up to us." "The law seems made for dog-fanciers," remarked the Tinker. "Wot d'ye think o' this?" pursued Ginger. "I wos a-standin' at the
corner o' Gray's Inn Lane vith some o' my pals near a coach-stand, ven a
lady passes by vith this here dog--an' a beauty it is, a real long-eared
Charley--a follerin' of her. Vell, the moment I spies it, I unties my
apron, whips up the dog, and covers it up in a trice. Vell, the lady
sees me, an' gives me in charge to a perliceman. But that si'nifies
nuffin'. I brings six vitnesses to svear the dog vos mine, and I
actually had it since it vos a blind little puppy; and, wot's more, I
brings its _mother_, and that settles the pint. So in course I'm
discharged; the dog is given up to me; and the lady goes avay lamentin'. I then plays the amiable, an' offers to sell it her for twenty guineas,
seein' as how she had taken a fancy to it; but she von't bite. So if I
don't sell it next week, I shall send it to Mounseer Coqquilu. The only
vay you can go wrong is to steal a dog wi' a collar on, for if you do,
you may get seven years' transportation for a bit o' leather and a brass
plate vorth a shillin', vile the animal, though vorth a hundred pound,
can't hurt you. There's _law_ again--ha, ha!" "Dog-fancier's law!" laughed the Sandman. "Some of the Fancy is given to cruelty," pursued Ginger, "and crops a
dog's ears, or pulls out his teeth to disguise him; but I'm too fond o'
the animal for that. I may frighten old ladies sometimes, as I told you
afore, but I never seriously hurts their pets. Nor did I ever kill a dog
for his skin, as some on 'em does." "And you're always sure o' gettin' a dog, if you vants it, I s'pose?" inquired the Tinker. "Alvays," replied Ginger. "No man's dog is safe. I don't care how he's
kept, ve're sure to have him at last. Ve feels our vay with the
sarvents, and finds out from them the walley the master or missis sets
on the dog, and soon after that the animal's gone. Vith a bit o' liver,
prepared in my partic'lar vay, I can tame the fiercest dog as ever
barked, take him off his chain, an' bring him arter me at a gallop." "And do respectable parties ever buy dogs knowin' they're stolen?" inquired the Tinker. "Ay, to be sure," replied Ginger; "sometimes first-rate nobs. They put
us up to it themselves; they'll say, 'I've jist left my Lord
So-and-So's, and there I seed a couple o' the finest pointers I ever
clapped eyes on. I vant you to get me _jist sich another couple_.' Vell, ve understands in a minnit, an' in doo time the identicle dogs
finds their vay to our customer." "Oh! that's how it's done?" remarked the Sandman. "Yes, that's the vay," replied Ginger. "Sometimes a party'll vant a
couple o' dogs for the shootin' season; and then ve asks, 'Vich vay are
you a-goin'--into Surrey or Kent?' And accordin' as the answer is given
ve arranges our plans." "Vell, yourn appears a profitable and safe employment, I must say,"
remarked the Sandman. "Perfectly so," replied Ginger. "Nothin' can touch us till dogs is
declared by statute to be property, and stealin' 'em a misdemeanour. And
that won't occur in my time." "Let's hope not," rejoined the other two. "To come back to the pint from vich we started," said the Tinker; "our
gemman's case is not so surprisin' as it at first appears. There are
some persons as believe they never will die--and I myself am of the same
opinion. There's our old deputy here--him as ve calls Old Parr--vy, he
declares he lived in Queen Bess's time, recollects King Charles bein'
beheaded perfectly vell, and remembers the Great Fire o' London, as if
it only occurred yesterday." "Walker!" exclaimed Ginger, putting his finger to his nose. "You may larf, but it's true," replied the Tinker. "I recollect an old
man tellin' me that he knew the deputy sixty years ago, and he looked
jist the same then as now,--neither older nor younger." "Humph!" exclaimed Ginger. "He don't look so old now." "That's the cur'ousest part of it," said the Tinker. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"He don't like to
talk of his age unless you can get him i' the humour; but he once told
me he didn't know why he lived so long, unless it were owin' to a potion
he'd swallowed, vich his master, who was a great conjurer in Queen
Bess's days, had brew'd." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Ginger. "I thought you too knowin' a cove, Tinker, to
be gulled by such an old vife's story as that." "Let's have the old fellow in and talk to him," replied the Tinker. "Here, lazy-bones," he added, rousing the sleeping youth, "go an' tell
Old Parr ve vants his company over a glass o' rum-an'-vater." CHAPTER III
THE HAND AND THE CLOAK
A furious barking from Mr. Ginger's dogs, shortly after the departure of
the drowsy youth, announced the approach of a grotesque-looking little
personage, whose shoulders barely reached to a level with the top of the
table. This was Old Parr. The dwarfs head was much too large for his
body, as is mostly the case with undersized persons, and was covered
with a forest of rusty black hair, protected by a strangely shaped
seal-skin cap. His hands and feet were equally disproportioned to his
frame, and his arms were so long that he could touch his ankles while
standing upright. His spine was crookened, and his head appeared buried
in his breast. The general character of his face seemed to appertain to
the middle period of life; but a closer inspection enabled the beholder
to detect in it marks of extreme old age. The nose was broad and flat,
like that of an ourang-outang; the resemblance to which animal was
heightened by a very long upper lip, projecting jaws, almost total
absence of chin, and a retreating forehead. The little old man's
complexion was dull and swarthy, but his eyes were keen and sparkling. His attire was as singular as his person. Having recently served as
double to a famous demon-dwarf at the Surrey Theatre, he had become
possessed of a cast-off pair of tawny tights, an elastic shirt of the
same material and complexion, to the arms of which little green bat-like
wings were attached, while a blood-red tunic with vandyke points was
girded round his waist. In this strange apparel his diminutive limbs
were encased, while additional warmth was afforded by the greatcoat
already mentioned, the tails of which swept the floor after him like a
train. Having silenced his dogs with some difficulty, Mr. Ginger burst into a
roar of laughter, excited by the little old man's grotesque appearance,
in which he was joined by the Tinker; but the Sandman never relaxed a
muscle of his sullen countenance. Their hilarity, however, was suddenly checked by an inquiry from the
dwarf, in a shrill, odd tone, "Whether they had sent for him only to
laugh at him?" "Sartainly not, deputy," replied the Tinker. "Here, lazy-bones, glasses
o' rum-an'-vater, all round." The drowsy youth bestirred himself to execute the command. The spirit
was brought; water was procured from the boiling copper; and the Tinker
handed his guest a smoking rummer, accompanied with a polite request to
make himself comfortable. Opposite the table at which the party were seated, it has been said, was
a staircase--old and crazy, and but imperfectly protected by a broken
hand-rail. Midway up it stood a door equally dilapidated, but secured by
a chain and lock, of which Old Parr, as deputy-chamberlain, kept the
key. Beyond this point the staircase branched off on the right, and a
row of stout wooden banisters, ranged like the feet of so many cattle,
was visible from beneath. Ultimately, the staircase reached a small
gallery, if such a name can be applied to a narrow passage communicating
with the bedrooms, the doors of which, as a matter of needful
precaution, were locked outside; and as the windows were grated, no one
could leave his chamber without the knowledge of the landlord or his
representative. No lights were allowed in the bedrooms, nor in the
passage adjoining them. Conciliated by the Tinker's offering, Old Parr mounted the staircase,
and planting himself near the door, took off his greatcoat, and sat down
upon it. His impish garb being thus more fully displayed, he looked so
unearthly and extraordinary that the dogs began to howl fearfully, and
Ginger had enough to do to quiet them. Silence being at length restored, the Tinker, winking slyly at his
companions, opened the conversation. "I say, deputy," he observed, "ve've bin havin' a bit o' a dispute vich
you can settle for us." "Well, let's see," squeaked the dwarf. "What is it?" "Vy, it's relative to your age," rejoined the Tinker. "Ven wos you
born?" "It's so long ago, I can't recollect," returned Old Parr rather sulkily. "You must ha' seen some changes in your time?" resumed the Tinker,
waiting till the little old man had made some progress with his grog. "I rayther think I have--a few," replied Old Parr, whose tongue the
generous liquid had loosened. "I've seen this great city of London
pulled down, and built up again--if that's anything. I've seen it grow,
and grow, till it has reached its present size. You'll scarcely believe
me, when I tell you, that I recollect this Rookery of ours--this foul
vagabond neighbourhood--an open country field, with hedges round it, and
trees. And a lovely spot it was. Broad Saint Giles's, at the time I
speak of, was a little country village, consisting of a few straggling
houses standing by the roadside, and there wasn't a single habitation
between it and Convent Garden (for so the present market was once
called); while that garden, which was fenced round with pales, like a
park, extended from Saint Martin's Lane to Drury House, a great mansion
situated on the easterly side of Drury Lane, amid a grove of beautiful
timber." "My eyes!" cried Ginger, with a prolonged whistle; "the place must be
preciously transmogrified indeed!" "If I were to describe the changes that have taken place in London since
I've known it, I might go on talking for a month," pursued Old Parr. "The whole aspect of the place is altered. The Thames itself is unlike
the Thames of old. Its waters were once as clear and bright above London
Bridge as they are now at Kew or Richmond; and its banks, from
Whitefriars to Scotland Yard, were edged with gardens. And then the
thousand gay wherries and gilded barges that covered its bosom--all are
gone--all are gone!" "Those must ha' been nice times for the jolly young vatermen vich at
Black friars wos used for to ply," chanted the Tinker; "but the steamers
has put their noses out o' joint." "True," replied Old Parr; "and I, for one, am sorry for it. Remembering,
as I do, what the river used to be when enlightened by gay craft and
merry company, I can't help wishing its waters less muddy, and those
ugly coal-barges, lighters, and steamers away. London is a mighty city,
wonderful to behold and examine, inexhaustible in its wealth and power;
but in point of beauty it is not to be compared with the city of Queen
Bess's days. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
You should have seen the Strand then--a line of noblemen's
houses--and as to Lombard Street and Gracechurch Street, with their
wealthy goldsmiths' shops--but I don't like to think of 'em." "Vell, I'm content vith Lunnun as it is," replied the Tinker,
"'specially as there ain't much chance o' the ould city bein' rewived." "Not much," replied the dwarf, finishing his glass, which was
replenished at a sign from the Tinker. "I s'pose, my wenerable, you've seen the king as bequeathed his name to
these pretty creaters," said Ginger, raising his coat-pockets, so as to
exhibit the heads of the two little black-and-tan spaniels. "What! old Rowley?" cried the dwarf--"often. I was page to his favourite
mistress, the Duchess of Cleveland, and I have seen him a hundred times
with a pack of dogs of that description at his heels." "Old Rowley wos a king arter my own 'art," said Ginger, rising and
lighting a pipe at the fire. "He loved the femi-_nine_ specious as well
as the ca-_nine_ specious. Can you tell us anythin' more about him?" "Not now," replied Old Parr. "I've seen so much, and heard so much, that
my brain is quite addled. My memory sometimes deserts me altogether,
and my past life appears like a dream. Imagine what my feelings must be,
to walk through streets, still called by the old names, but in other
respects wholly changed. Oh! if you could but have a glimpse of Old
London, you would not be able to endure the modern city. The very
atmosphere was different from that which we now breathe, charged with
the smoke of myriads of sea-coal fires; and the old picturesque houses
had a charm about them, which the present habitations, however
commodious, altogether want." "You talk like one o' them smart chaps they calls, and werry properly,
penny-a-liars," observed Ginger. "But you make me long to ha' lived i'
those times." "If you _had_ lived in them, you would have belonged to Paris Garden, or
the bull-baiting and bear-baiting houses in Southwark," replied Old
Parr. "I've seen fellows just like you at each of those places. Strange,
though times and fashions change, men continue the same. I often meet a
face that I can remember in James the First's time. But the old places
are gone--clean gone!" "Accordin' to your own showin', my wenerable friend, you must ha' lived
uppards o' two hundred and seventy year," said Ginger, assuming a
consequential manner. "Now, doorin' all that time, have you never felt
inclined to kick the bucket?" "Not the least," replied Old Parr. "My bodily health has been excellent. But, as I have just said, my intellects are a little impaired." "Not a little, I should think," replied Ginger, hemming significantly. "I don't know vether you're a deceivin' of us or yourself, my wenerable;
but von thing's quite clear--you _can't_ have lived all that time. It's
not in nater." "Very well, then--I haven't," said Old Parr. And he finished his rum-and-water, and set down the glass, which was
instantly filled again by the drowsy youth. "You've seen some picters o' Old Lunnon, and they've haanted you in your
dreams, till you've begun to fancy you lived in those times," said
Ginger. "Very likely," replied Old Parr--"very likely." There was something, however, in his manner calculated to pique the
dog-fancier's curiosity. "How comes it," he said, stretching out his legs, and arranging his
neckcloth,--"how comes it, if you've lived so long, that you ain't
higher up in the stirrups--better off, as folks say?" The dwarf made no reply, but covering his face with his hands, seemed a
prey to deep emotion. After a few moments' pause, Ginger repeated the
question. "If you won't believe what I tell you, it's useless to give an answer,"
said Old Parr, somewhat gruffly. "Oh yes, _I_ believe you, deputy," observed the Tinker, "and so does the
Sandman." "Well, then," replied the dwarf, "I'll tell you how it comes to pass. Fate has been against me. I've had plenty of chances, but I never could
get on. I've been in a hundred different walks of life, but they always
led down hill. It's my destiny." "That's hard," rejoined the Tinker--"werry hard. But how d'ye account
for livin' so long?" he added, winking as he spoke to the others. "I've already given you an explanation," replied the dwarf. "Av, but it's a cur'ous story, and I vants my friends to hear it," said
the Tinker, in a coaxing tone. "Well then, to oblige you, I'll go through it again," rejoined the
dwarf. "You must know I was for some time servant to Doctor Lamb, an old
alchemist, who lived during the reign of good Queen Bess, and who used
to pass all his time in trying to find out the secret of changing lead
and copper into gold." "I've known several indiwiduals as has found out that secret,
wenerable," observed Ginger. "And ve calls 'em smashers, nowadays--not
halchemists." "Doctor Lamb's object was actually to turn base metal into gold,"
rejoined Old Parr, in a tone of slight contempt. "But his chief aim was
to produce the elixir of long life. Night and day he worked at the
operation;--night and day I laboured with him, until at last we were
both brought to the verge of the grave in our search after immortality. One night--I remember it well,--it was the last night of the sixteenth
century,--a young man, severely wounded, was brought to my master's
dwelling on London Bridge. I helped to convey him to the laboratory,
where I left him with the doctor, who was busy with his experiments. My
curiosity being aroused, I listened at the door, and though I could not
distinguish much that passed inside, I heard sufficient to convince me
that Doctor Lamb had made the grand discovery, and succeeded in
distilling the elixir. Having learnt this, I went down-stairs,
wondering what would next ensue. Half-an-hour elapsed, and while the
bells were ringing in the new year joyfully, the young man whom I had
assisted to carry up-stairs, and whom I supposed at death's door,
marched down as firmly as if nothing had happened, passed by me, and
disappeared, before I could shake off my astonishment. I saw at once he
had drunk the elixir." "Ah!--ah!" exclaimed the Tinker, with a knowing glance at his
companions, who returned it with gestures of equal significance. "As soon as he was gone," pursued the dwarf, "I flew to the laboratory,
and there, extended on the floor, I found the dead body of Doctor Lamb. I debated with myself what to do--whether to pursue his murderer, for
such I accounted the young man; but, on reflection, I thought the course
useless. I next looked round to see whether the precious elixir was
gone. On the table stood a phial, from which a strong spirituous odour
exhaled; but it was empty. I then turned my attention to a receiver,
connected by a worm with an alembic on the furnace. On examining it, I
found it contained a small quantity of a bright transparent liquid,
which, poured forth into a glass, emitted precisely the same odour as
the phial. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Persuaded this must be the draught of immortality, I raised
it to my lips; but apprehension lest it might be poison stayed my hand. Reassured, however, by the thought of the young man's miraculous
recovery, I quaffed the potion. It was as if I had swallowed fire, and
at first I thought all was over with me. I shrieked out; but there was
no one to heed my cries, unless it were my dead master, and two or
three skeletons with which the walls were garnished. And these, in
truth, did seem to hear me; for the dead corpse opened its glassy orbs,
and eyed me reproachfully; the skeletons shook their fleshless arms and
gibbered; and the various strange objects, with which the chamber was
filled, seemed to deride and menace me. The terror occasioned by these
fantasies, combined with the potency of the draught, took away my
senses. When I recovered, I found all tranquil. Doctor Lamb was lying
stark and stiff at my feet, with an expression of reproach on his fixed
countenance; and the skeletons were hanging quietly in their places. Convinced that I was proof against death, I went forth. _But a curse
went with me!_ From that day to this I have lived, but it has been in
such poverty and distress, that I had better far have died. Besides, I
am constantly haunted by visions of my old master. He seems to hold
converse with me--to lead me into strange places." "Exactly the case with the t'other," whispered the Tinker to the
Sandman. "Have you ever, in the coorse o' your long life, met the young
man as drank the 'lixir?" he inquired of the dwarf. "Never." "Do you happen to rekilect his name?" "No; it has quite escaped my memory," answered Old Parr. "Should you rekilect it, if you heerd it?" asked the Tinker. "Perhaps I might," returned the dwarf; "but I can't say." "Wos it Auriol Darcy?" demanded the other. "That _was_ the name," cried Old Parr, starting up in extreme surprise. "I heard Doctor Lamb call him so. But how, in the name of wonder, do you
come to know it?" "Ve've got summat, at last," said the Tinker, with a self-applauding
glance at his friends. "How do you come to know it, I say?" repeated the dwarf, in extreme
agitation. "Never mind," rejoined the Tinker, with a cunning look; "you see I does
know some cur'ous matters as veil as you, my old file. Yo'll be good
evidence, in case ve vishes to prove the fact agin him." "Prove what?--and against whom?" cried the dwarf. "One more questin, and I've done," pursued the Tinker. "Should you know
this young man agin, in case you chanced to come across him?" "No doubt of it," replied Old Parr; "his figure often flits before me in
dreams." "Shall ve let him into it?" said the Tinker, consulting his companions
in a low tone. "Ay--ay," replied the Sandman. "Better vait a bit," remarked Ginger, shaking his head dubiously. "There's no hurry." "No; ve must decide at vonce," said the Tinker. "Jist examine them
papers," he added, handing the pocket-book to Old Parr, "and favour us
vith your opinion on 'em." The dwarf was about to unclasp the book committed to his charge, when a
hand was suddenly thrust through the banisters of the upper part of the
staircase, which, as has been already stated, was divided from the
lower by the door. A piece of heavy black drapery next descended like a
cloud, concealing all behind it except the hand, with which the dwarf
was suddenly seized by the nape of the neck, lifted up in the air, and,
notwithstanding his shrieks and struggles, carried clean off. Great confusion attended his disappearance. The dogs set up a prodigious
barking, and flew to the rescue--one of the largest of them passing over
the body of the drowsy waiter, who had sought his customary couch upon
the coals, and rousing him from his slumbers; while the Tinker, uttering
a fierce imprecation, upset his chair in his haste to catch hold of the
dwarf's legs; but the latter was already out of reach, and the next
moment had vanished entirely. "My eyes! here's a pretty go!" cried Ginger, who, with his back to the
fire, had witnessed the occurrence in open-mouthed astonishment. "Vy,
curse it! if the wenerable ain't a-taken the pocket-book with him! It's
my opinion the devil has flown avay with the old feller. His time wos
nearer at 'and than he expected." "Devil or not, I'll have him back agin, or at all events the
pocket-book!" cried the Tinker. And, dashing up the stairs, he caught
hold of the railing above, and swinging himself up by a powerful effort,
passed through an opening, occasioned by the removal of one of the
banisters. [Illustration: The Hand and the Cloak.] Groping along the gallery, which was buried in profound darkness, he
shouted to the dwarf, but received no answer to his vociferations;
neither could he discover any one, though he felt on either side of the
passage with outstretched hands. The occupants of the different
chambers, alarmed by the noise, called out to know what was going
forward; but being locked in their rooms, they could render no
assistance. While the Tinker was thus pursuing his search in the dark, venting his
rage and disappointment in the most dreadful imprecations, the staircase
door was opened by the landlord, who had found the key in the greatcoat
left behind by the dwarf. With the landlord came the Sandman and Ginger,
the latter of whom was attended by all his dogs, still barking
furiously; while the rear of the party was brought up by the drowsy
waiter, now wide awake with fright, and carrying a candle. But though every nook and corner of the place was visited--though the
attics were searched, and all the windows examined--not a trace of the
dwarf could be discovered, nor any clue to his mysterious disappearance
detected. Astonishment and alarm sat on every countenance. "What the devil can have become of him?" cried the landlord, with a look
of dismay. "Ay, that's the questin!" rejoined the Tinker. "I begin to be of
Ginger's opinion, that the devil himself must have flown avay vith him. No von else could ha' taken a fancy to him." "I only saw a hand and a black cloak," said the Sandman. "I thought I seed a pair o' hoofs," cried the waiter; "and I'm quite
sure I seed a pair o' great glitterin' eyes," he added, opening his own
lacklustre orbs to their widest extent. "It's a strange affair," observed the landlord gravely. "It's certain
that no one has entered the house wearing a cloak such as you describe;
nor could any of the lodgers, to my knowledge, get out of their rooms. It was Old Parr's business, as you know, to lock 'em up carefully for
the night." "Vell, all's over vith him now," said the Tinker; "and vith our affair,
too, I'm afeerd." "Don't say die jist yet," rejoined Ginger. "The wenerable's gone, to be
sure; and the only thing he has left behind him, barrin' his topcoat, is
this here bit o' paper vich dropped out o' the pocket-book as he wos
a-takin' flight, and vich I picked from the floor. It may be o' some use
to us. But come, let's go down-stairs. There's no good in stayin' here
any longer." | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Concurring in which sentiment, they all descended to the lower room. CHAPTER IV
THE IRON-MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER
A week had elapsed since Auriol Darcy was conveyed to the
iron-merchant's dwelling, after the attack made upon him by the ruffians
in the ruined house; and though almost recovered from the serious
injuries he had received, he still remained the guest of his preserver. It was a bright spring morning, when a door leading to the yard in front
of the house opened, and a young girl, bright and fresh as the morning's
self, issued from it. A lovelier creature than Ebba Thorneycroft cannot be imagined. Her
figure was perfection--slight, tall, and ravishingly proportioned, with
a slender waist, little limbs, and fairy feet that would have made the
fortune of an opera-dancer. Her features were almost angelic in
expression, with an outline of the utmost delicacy and precision--not
cold, classical regularity--but that softer and incomparably more lovely
mould peculiar to our own clime. Ebba's countenance was a type of Saxon
beauty. Her complexion was pure white, tinged with a slight bloom. Her
eyes were of a serene summer blue, arched over by brows some shades
darker than the radiant tresses that fell on either cheek, and were
parted over a brow smoother than alabaster. Her attire was simple but
tasteful, and by its dark colour threw into relief the exceeding
fairness of her skin. Ebba's first care was to feed her favourite linnet, placed in a cage
over the door. Having next patted the head of a huge bulldog who came
out of his kennel to greet her, and exchanged a few words with two men
employed at a forge in the inner part of the building on the right, she
advanced farther into the yard. This part of the premises, being strewn with ironwork of every possible
shape, presented a very singular appearance, and may merit some
description. There were heaps of rusty iron chains flung together like
fishermen's nets, old iron area-guards, iron kitchen-fenders, old
grates, safes, piles of old iron bowls, a large assortment of old iron
pans and dishes, a ditto of old ovens, kettles without number,
sledge-hammers, anvils, braziers, chimney-cowls, and smoke-jacks. Stout upright posts, supporting cross-beams on the top, were placed at
intervals on either side of the yard, and these were decorated, in the
most artistic style, with rat-traps, man-traps, iron lanterns, pulleys,
padlocks, chains, trivets, triangles, iron rods, disused street lamps,
dismounted cannon, and anchors. Attached to hooks in the cross-beam
nearest the house hung a row of old horse-shoes, while from the centre
depended a large rusty bell. Near the dog's kennel was a tool-box,
likewise garnished with horse-shoes, and containing pincers, files,
hammers, and other implements proper to the smith. Beyond this was an
open doorway leading to the workshop, where the two men before mentioned
were busy at the forge. Though it was still early, the road was astir with passengers; and many
waggons and carts, laden with hay, straw, and vegetables, were passing. Ebba, however, had been solely drawn forth by the beauty of the morning,
and she stopped for a moment at the street gate, to breathe the balmy
air. As she inhaled the gentle breeze, and felt the warm sunshine upon
her cheek, her thoughts wandered away into the green meadows in which
she had strayed as a child, and she longed to ramble amid them again. Perhaps she scarcely desired a solitary stroll; but however this might
be, she was too much engrossed by the reverie to notice a tall man,
wrapped in a long black cloak, who regarded her with the most fixed
attention, as he passed on the opposite side of the road. Proceeding to a short distance, this personage crossed over, and
returned slowly towards the iron-merchant's dwelling. Ebba then, for the
first time, remarked him, and was startled by his strange, sinister
appearance. His features were handsome, but so malignant and fierce in
expression, that they inspired only aversion. A sardonic grin curled his
thin lips, and his short, crisply curled hair, raven-black in hue,
contrasted forcibly and disagreeably with his cadaverous complexion. An
attraction like that of the snake seemed to reside in his dark blazing
eyes, for Ebba trembled like a bird beneath their influence, and could
not remove her gaze from them. A vague presentiment of coming ill smote
her, and she dreaded lest the mysterious being before her might be
connected in some inexplicable way with her future destiny. On his part, the stranger was not insensible to the impression he had
produced, and suddenly halting, he kept his eyes riveted on those of
the girl, who, after remaining spell-bound, as it were, for a few
moments, precipitately retreated towards the house. Just as she reached the door, and was about to pass through it, Auriol
came forth. He was pale, as if from recent suffering, and bore his left
arm in a sling. "You look agitated," he said, noticing Ebba's uneasiness. "What has
happened?" "Not much," she replied, a deep blush mantling her cheeks. "But I have
been somewhat alarmed by the person near the gate." "Indeed!" cried Auriol, darting forward. "Where is he? I see no one." "Not a tall man, wrapped in a long black cloak?" rejoined Ebba,
following him cautiously. "Ha!" cried Auriol. "Has he been here?" "Then you know the person I allude to?" she rejoined. "I know some one answering his description," he replied, with a forced
smile. "Once beheld, the man I mean is not to be forgotten," said Ebba. "He has
a countenance such as I never saw before. If I could believe in the
'evil eye,' I should be sure he possessed it." "'Tis he, there can be no doubt," rejoined Auriol, in a sombre tone. "Who and what is he, then?" demanded Ebba. "He is a messenger of ill," replied Auriol, "and I am thankful he is
gone." [Illustration: The Iron-merchant's Daughter.] "Are you quite sure of it?" she asked, glancing timorously up and down
the road. But the mysterious individual could no longer be seen. "And so, after exciting my curiosity in this manner, you will not
satisfy it?" she said. "I cannot," rejoined Auriol, somewhat sternly. "Nay, then, since you are so ungracious, I shall go and prepare
breakfast," she replied. "My father must be down by this time." "Stay!" cried Auriol, arresting her, as she was about to pass through
the door. "I wish to have a word with you." Ebba stopped, and the bloom suddenly forsook her cheeks. But Auriol seemed unable to proceed. Neither dared to regard the other;
and a profound silence prevailed between them for a few moments. "Ebba," said Auriol at length, "I am about to leave your father's house
to-day." "Why so soon?" she exclaimed, looking up into his face. "You are not
entirely recovered yet." "I dare not stay longer," he said. "Dare not!" cried Ebba. And she again cast down her eyes; but Auriol
made no reply. Fortunately the silence was broken by the clinking of the smiths'
hammers upon the anvil. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"If you must really go," said Ebba, looking up, after a long pause, "I
hope we shall see you again?" "Most assuredly," replied Auriol. "I owe your worthy father a deep debt
of gratitude--a debt which, I fear, I shall never be able to repay." "My father is more than repaid in saving your life," she replied. "I am
sure he will be sorry to learn you are going so soon." "I have been here a week," said Auriol. "If I remained longer, I might
not be able to go at all." There was another pause, during which a stout old fellow in the workshop
quitted the anvil for a moment, and, catching a glimpse of the young
couple, muttered to his helpmate--
"I say, Ned, I'm a-thinkin' our master'll soon have a son-in-law. There's pretty plain signs on it at yonder door." "So there be, John," replied Ned, peeping round. "He's a good-lookin'
young feller that. I wish ve could hear their discoorse." "No, that ain't fair," replied John, raking some small coal upon the
fire, and working away at the bellows. "I would not for the world ask a disagreeable question," said Ebba,
again raising her eyes, "but since you are about to quit us, I must
confess I should like to know something of your history." "Forgive me if I decline to comply with your desire," replied Auriol. "You would not believe me, were I to relate my history. But this I may
say, that it is stranger and wilder than any you ever heard. The
prisoner in his cell is not restrained by more terrible fetters than
those which bind me to silence." Ebba gazed at him as if she feared his reasoning were wandering. "You think me mad," said Auriol; "would I were so! But I shall never
lose the clear perception of my woes. Hear me, Ebba! Fate has brought me
into this house. I have seen you, and experienced your gentle ministry;
and it is impossible, so circumstanced, to be blind to your
attractions. I have only been too sensible to them--but I will not dwell
on that theme, nor run the risk of exciting a passion which must destroy
you. I will ask you to hate me--to regard me as a monster whom you ought
to shun rather than as a being for whom you should entertain the
slightest sympathy." "You have some motive in saying this to me," cried the terrified girl. "My motive is to warn you," said Auriol. "If you love me, you are
lost--utterly lost!" She was so startled, that she could make no reply, but burst into tears. Auriol took her hand, which she unresistingly yielded. "A terrible fatality attaches to me, in which you must have no share,"
he said, in a solemn tone. "Would you had never come to my father's house!" she exclaimed, in a
voice of anguish. "Is it, then, too late?" cried Auriol despairingly. "It is--if to love you be fatal," she rejoined. "Ha!" exclaimed Auriol, striking his forehead with his clenched hand. "Recall your words--Ebba--recall them--but no, once uttered--it is
impossible. You are bound to me for ever. I must fulfil my destiny." At this juncture a low growl broke from the dog, and, guided by the
sound, the youthful couple beheld, standing near the gate, the tall dark
man in the black cloak. A fiendish smile sat upon his countenance. "That is the man who frightened me!" cried Ebba. "It is the person I supposed!" ejaculated Auriol. "I must speak to him. Leave me, Ebba. I will join you presently." And as the girl, half sinking with apprehension, withdrew, he advanced
quickly towards the intruder. "I have sought you for some days," said the tall man, in a stern,
commanding voice. "You have not kept your appointment with me." "I could not," replied Auriol--"an accident has befallen me." "I know it," rejoined the other. "I am aware you were assailed by
ruffians in the ruined house over the way. But you are recovered now,
and can go forth. You ought to have communicated with me." "It was my intention to do so," said Auriol. "Our meeting cannot be delayed much longer," pursued the stranger. "I
will give you three more days. On the evening of the last day, at the
hour of seven, I shall look for you at the foot of the statue in Hyde
Park." "I will be there," replied Auriol. "That girl must be the next victim," said the stranger, with a grim
smile. "Peace!" thundered Auriol. "Nay, I need not remind you of the tenure by which you maintain your
power," rejoined the stranger. "But I will not trouble you further now." And, wrapping his cloak more closely round him, he disappeared. "Fate has once more involved me in its net," cried Auriol bitterly. "But
I will save Ebba, whatever it may cost me. I will see her no more." And instead of returning to the house, he hurried away in the opposite
direction of the stranger. CHAPTER V
THE MEETING NEAR THE STATUE
The evening of the third day arrived, and Auriol entered Hyde Park by
Stanhope Gate. Glancing at his watch, and finding it wanted nearly
three-quarters of an hour of the time appointed for his meeting with the
mysterious stranger, he struck across the park, in the direction of the
Serpentine River. Apparently he was now perfectly recovered, for his arm
was without the support of the sling, and he walked with great
swiftness. But his countenance was deathly pale, and his looks were so
wild and disordered, that the few persons he encountered shrank from him
aghast. A few minutes' rapid walking brought him to the eastern extremity of the
Serpentine, and advancing close to the edge of the embankment, he gazed
at the waters beneath his feet. "I would plunge into them, if I could find repose," he murmured. "But it
would avail nothing. I should only add to my sufferings. No; I must
continue to endure the weight of a life burdened by crime and remorse,
till I can find out the means of freeing myself from it. Once I dreaded
this unknown danger, but now I seek for it in vain." The current of his thoughts was here interrupted by the sudden
appearance of a dark object on the surface of the water, which he at
first took to be a huge fish, with a pair of green fins springing from
its back; but after watching it more closely for a few moments, he
became convinced that it was a human being, tricked out in some
masquerade attire, while the slight struggles which it made proved that
life was not entirely extinct. Though, the moment before, he had contemplated self-destruction, and had
only been restrained from the attempt by the certainty of failing in his
purpose, instinct prompted him to rescue the perishing creature before
him. Without hesitation, therefore, and without tarrying to divest
himself of his clothes, he dashed into the water, and striking out,
instantly reached the object of his quest, which still continued to
float, and turning it over, for the face was downwards, he perceived it
was an old man, of exceedingly small size, habited in a pantomimic garb. He also remarked that a rope was twisted round the neck of the
unfortunate being, making it evident that some violent attempt had been
made upon his life. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Without pausing for further investigation, he took firm hold of the
leathern wings of the dwarf, and with his disengaged hand propelled
himself towards the shore, dragging the other after him. The next
instant he reached the bank, clambered up the low brickwork, and placed
his burden in safety. The noise of the plunge had attracted attention, and several persons now
hurried to the spot. On coming up, and finding Auriol bending over a
water-sprite--for such, at first sight, the dwarf appeared--they could
not repress their astonishment. Wholly insensible to the presence of
those around him, Auriol endeavoured to recall where he had seen the
dwarf before. All at once, the recollection flashed upon him, and he
cried aloud, "Why, it is my poor murdered grandfather's attendant,
Flapdragon! But no! no!--he must be dead ages ago! Yet the resemblance
is singularly striking!" Auriol's exclamations, coupled with his wild demeanour, surprised the
bystanders, and they came to the conclusion that he must be a travelling
showman, who had attempted to drown his dwarf--the grotesque, impish
garb of the latter convincing them that he had been exhibited at a
booth. They made signs, therefore, to each other not to let Auriol
escape, and one of them, raising the dwarf's head on his knee, produced
a flask, and poured some brandy from it down his throat, while others
chafed his hands. These efforts were attended with much speedier success
than might have been anticipated. After a struggle or two for
respiration, the dwarf opened his eyes, and gazed at the group around
him. "It must be Flapdragon!" exclaimed Auriol. "Ah! who calls me?" cried the dwarf. "I!" rejoined Auriol. "Do you not recollect me?" "To be sure!" exclaimed the dwarf, gazing at him fixedly; "you are----"
and he stopped. "You have been thrown into the water, Master Flapdragon?" cried a
bystander, noticing the cord round the dwarf's throat. "I have," replied the little old man. "By your governor--that is, by this person?" cried another, laying hold
of Auriol. "By him--no," said the dwarf; "I have not seen that gentleman for nearly
three centuries." "Three centuries, my little patriarch?" said the man who had given him
the brandy. "That's a long time. Think again." "It's perfectly true, nevertheless," replied the dwarf. "His wits have been washed away by the water," said the first speaker. "Give him a drop more brandy." "Not a bit of it," rejoined the dwarf; "my senses were never clearer
than at this moment. At last we have met," he continued, addressing
Auriol, "and I hope we shall not speedily part again. We hold life by
the same tie." "How came you in the desperate condition in which I found you?" demanded
Auriol evasively. "I was thrown into the canal with a stone to my neck, like a dog about
to be drowned," replied the dwarf. "But, as you are aware, I'm not so
easily disposed of." Again the bystanders exchanged significant looks. "By whom was the attempt made?" inquired Auriol. "I don't know the villain's name," rejoined the dwarf, "but he's a very
tall, dark man, and is generally wrapped in a long black cloak." "Ha!" exclaimed Auriol. "When was it done?" "Some nights ago, I should fancy," replied the dwarf, "for I've been a
terrible long time under water. I have only just managed to shake off
the stone." At this speech there was a titter of incredulity among the bystanders. "You may laugh, but it's true!" cried the dwarf angrily. "We must speak of this anon," said Auriol. "Will you convey him to the
nearest tavern?" he added, placing money in the hands of the man who
held the dwarf in his arms. "Willingly, sir," replied the man. "I'll take him to the Life Guardsman,
near the barracks--that's the nearest public." "I'll join him there in an hour," replied Auriol, moving away. And as he disappeared, the man took up his little burden, and bent his
steps towards the barracks. Utterly disregarding the dripping state of his habiliments, Auriol
proceeded quickly to the place of rendezvous. Arrived there, he looked
around, and not seeing any one, flung himself upon a bench at the foot
of the gentle eminence on which the gigantic statue of Achilles is
placed. It was becoming rapidly dark, and heavy clouds, portending speedy rain,
increased the gloom. Auriol's thoughts were sombre as the weather and
the hour, and he fell into a deep fit of abstraction, from which he was
roused by a hand laid on his shoulder. Recoiling at the touch, he raised his eyes, and beheld the stranger
leaning over him, and gazing at him with a look of diabolical
exultation. The cloak was thrown partly aside, so as to display the
tall, gaunt figure of its wearer; while the large collar of sable fur
with which it was decorated stood out like the wings of a demon. The
stranger's hat was off, and his high broad forehead, white as marble,
was fully revealed. "Our meeting must be brief," he said. "Are you prepared to fulfil the
compact?" "What do you require?" replied Auriol. "Possession of the girl I saw three days ago," said the other; "the
iron-merchant's daughter, Ebba. She must be mine." "Never!" cried Auriol firmly--"never!" "Beware how you tempt me to exert my power," said the stranger; "she
_must_ be mine--or----"
"I defy you!" rejoined Auriol; "I will never consent." "Fool!" cried the other, seizing him by the arm, and fixing a withering
glance upon him. "Bring her to me ere the week be out, or dread my
vengeance!" And, enveloping himself in his cloak, he retreated behind the statue,
and was lost to view. As he disappeared, a moaning wind arose, and heavy rain descended. Still
Auriol did not quit the bench. CHAPTER VI
THE CHARLES THE SECOND SPANIEL
It was about two o'clock, on a charming spring day, that a stout
middle-aged man, accompanied by a young person of extraordinary beauty,
took up his station in front of Langham Church. Just as the clock struck
the hour, a young man issued at a quick pace from a cross-street, and
came upon the couple before he was aware of it. He was evidently greatly
embarrassed, and would have beaten a retreat, but that was impossible. His embarrassment was in some degree shared by the young lady; she
blushed deeply, but could not conceal her satisfaction at the encounter. The elder individual, who did not appear to notice the confusion of
either party, immediately extended his hand to the young man, and
exclaimed:
"What! Mr. Darcy, is it you? Why, we thought we had lost you, sir! What
took you off so suddenly? We have been expecting you these four days,
and were now walking about to try and find you. My daughter has been
terribly uneasy. Haven't you, Ebba?" The young lady made no answer to this appeal, but cast down her eyes. "It was my intention to call, and give you an explanation of my strange
conduct, to-day," replied Auriol. "I hope you received my letter,
stating that my sudden departure was unavoidable." "To be sure; and I also received the valuable snuffbox you were so good
as to send me," replied Mr. Thorneycroft. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"But you neglected to tell me
how to acknowledge the gift." "I could not give an address at the moment," said Auriol. "Well, I am glad to find you have got the use of your arm again,"
observed the iron-merchant; "but I can't say you look so well as when
you left us. You seem paler--eh? what do you think, Ebba?" "Mr. Darcy looks as if he were suffering from mental anxiety rather than
from bodily ailment," she replied timidly. "I am so," replied Auriol, regarding her fixedly. "A very disastrous
circumstance has happened to me. But answer me one question: Has the
mysterious person in the black cloak troubled you again?" "What mysterious person?" demanded Mr. Thorneycroft, opening his eyes. "Never mind, father," replied Ebba. "I saw him last night," she added to
Auriol. "I was sitting in the back room alone, wondering what had become
of you, when I heard a tap against the window, which was partly open,
and, looking up, I beheld the tall stranger. It was nearly dark, but the
light of the fire revealed his malignant countenance. I don't
exaggerate, when I say his eyes gleamed like those of a tiger. I was
terribly frightened, but something prevented me from crying out. After
gazing at me for a few moments, with a look that seemed to fascinate
while it frightened me, he said--'You desire to see Auriol Darcy. I have
just quitted him. Go to Langham Place to-morrow, and, as the clock
strikes two, you will behold him.' Without waiting for any reply on my
part, he disappeared." "Ah, you never told me this, you little rogue!" cried Mr. Thorneycroft. "You persuaded me to come out with you, in the hope of meeting Mr.
Darcy; but you did not say you were sure to find him. So you sent this
mysterious gentleman to her, eh?" he added to Auriol. "No, I did not," replied the other gloomily. "Indeed!" exclaimed the iron-merchant, with a puzzled look. "Oh, then I suppose he thought it might relieve her anxiety. However,
since we have met, I hope you'll walk home and dine with us." Auriol was about to decline the invitation, but Ebba glanced at him
entreatingly. "I have an engagement, but I will forego it," he said, offering his arm
to her. And they walked along towards Oxford Street, while Mr. Thorneycroft
followed, a few paces behind them. "This is very kind of you, Mr. Darcy," said Ebba. "Oh, I have been so
wretched!" "I grieve to hear it," he rejoined. "I hoped you had forgotten me." "I am sure you did not think so," she cried. As she spoke, she felt a shudder pass through Auriol's frame. "What ails you?" she anxiously inquired. "I would have shunned you, if I could, Ebba," he replied; "but a fate,
against which it is vain to contend, has brought us together again." "I am glad of it," she replied; "because, ever since our last interview,
I have been reflecting on what you then said to me, and am persuaded you
are labouring under some strange delusion, occasioned by your recent
accident." "Be not deceived, Ebba," cried Auriol. "I am under a terrible influence. I need not remind you of the mysterious individual who tapped at your
window last night." "What of him?" demanded Ebba, with a thrill of apprehension. "He it is who controls my destiny," replied Auriol. "But what has he to do with me?" asked Ebba. "Much, much," he replied, with a perceptible shudder. "You terrify me, Auriol," she rejoined. "Tell me what you mean--in pity,
tell me?" Before Auriol could reply, Mr. Thorneycroft stepped forward, and turned
the conversation into another channel. Soon after this, they reached the Quadrant, and were passing beneath the
eastern colonnade, when Ebba's attention was attracted towards a man who
was leading a couple of dogs by a string, while he had others under his
arm, others again in his pocket, and another in his breast. It was Mr.
Ginger. "What a pretty little dog!" cried Ebba, remarking the Charles the Second
spaniel. "Allow me to present you with it?" said Auriol. "You know I should value it, as coming from you," she replied, blushing
deeply; "but I cannot accept it; so I will not look at it again, for
fear I should be tempted." The dog-fancier, however, noticing Ebba's admiration, held forward the
spaniel, and said, "Do jist look at the pretty little creater, miss. It
han't its equil for beauty. Don't be afeerd on it, miss. It's as gentle
as a lamb." "Oh you little darling!" Ebba said, patting its sleek head and long
silken ears, while it fixed its large black eyes upon her, as if
entreating her to become its purchaser. "Fairy seems to have taken quite a fancy to you, miss," observed Ginger;
"and she ain't i' the habit o' fallin' i' love at first sight. I don't
wonder at it, though, for my part. I should do jist the same, if I wos
in her place. Vell, now, miss, as she seems to like you, and you seem to
like her, I won't copy the manners o' them 'ere fathers as has stony
'arts, and part two true lovyers. You shall have her a bargin." "What do you call a bargain, my good man?" inquired Ebba, smiling. "I wish I could afford to give her to you, miss," replied Ginger; "you
should have her, and welcome. But I must airn a livelihood, and Fairy is
the most wallerable part o' my stock. I'll tell you wot I give for her
myself, and you shall have her at a trifle beyond it. I'd scorn to take
adwantage o' the likes o' you." "I hope you didn't give too much, then, friend," replied Ebba. "I didn't give hayf her wally--not hayf," said Ginger; "and if so be you
don't like her in a month's time, I'll buy her back again from you. You'll alvays find me here--alvays. Everybody knows Mr. Ginger--that's
my name, miss. I'm the only honest man in the dog-fancyin' line. Ask Mr.
Bishop, the great gunmaker o' Bond Street, about me--him as the nobs
calls the Bishop o' Bond Street--an' he'll tell you." "But you haven't answered the lady's question," said Auriol. "What do
you ask for the dog?" "Do you want it for yourself, sir, or for her?" inquired Ginger. "What does it matter?" cried Auriol angrily. "A great deal, sir," replied Ginger; "it'll make a mater'al difference
in the price. To you she'll be five-an'-twenty guineas. To the young
lady, twenty." "But suppose I buy her for the young lady?" said Auriol. "Oh, then, in coorse, you'll get her at the lower figure!" replied
Ginger. "I hope you don't mean to buy the dog?" interposed Mr. Thorneycroft. "The price is monstrous--preposterous." "It may appear so to you, sir," said Ginger, "because you're ignorant o'
the wally of sich a hanimal; but I can tell you, it's cheap--dirt cheap. Vy, his Excellency the Prooshan Ambassador bought a Charley from me,
t'other week, to present to a certain duchess of his acquaintance, and
wot d'ye think he give for it?" "I don't know, and I don't want to know," replied Mr. Thorneycroft
gruffly. "Eighty guineas," said Ginger. "Eighty guineas, as I'm a livin' man, and
made no bones about it neither. The dog I sold him warn't to be compared
wi' Fairy." "Stuff--stuff!" cried Mr. Thorneycroft; "I ain't to be gammoned in that
way." | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"It's no gammon," said Ginger. "Look at them ears, miss--vy, they're as
long as your own ringlets--and them pads--an' I'm sure you von't say
she's dear at twenty pound." "She's a lovely little creature, indeed," returned Ebba, again patting
the animal's head. While this was passing, two men of very suspicious mien, ensconced
behind a pillar adjoining the group, were reconnoitring Auriol. "It's him!" whispered the taller and darker of the two to his
companion--"it's the young man ve've been lookin' for--Auriol Darcy." "It seems like him," said the other, edging round the pillar as far as
he could without exposure. "I vish he'd turn his face a leetle more this
vay." "It's him, I tell you, Sandman," said the Tinker. "Ve must give the
signal to our comrade." "Vell, I'll tell you wot it is, miss," said Ginger coaxingly, "your
sveet'art--I'm sure he's your sveet'art--I can tell these things in a
minnit--your sveet'art, I say, shall give me fifteen pound, and the
dog's yourn. I shall lose five pound by the transaction; but I don't
mind it for sich a customer as you. Fairy desarves a kind missus." Auriol, who had fallen into a fit of abstraction, here remarked:
"What's that you are saying, fellow?" "I vos a-sayin', sir, the young lady shall have the dog for fifteen
pound, and a precious bargin it is," replied Ginger. "Well, then, I close with you. Here's the money," said Auriol, taking
out his purse. "On no account, Auriol," cried Ebba quickly. "It's too much." "A great deal too much, Mr. Darcy," said Thorneycroft. "Auriol and Darcy!" muttered Ginger. "Can this be the gemman ve're
a-lookin' for. Vere's my two pals, I vonder? Oh, it's all right!" he
added, receiving a signal from behind the pillar. "They're on the
look-out, I see." "Give the lady the dog, and take the money, man," said Auriol sharply. "Beg pardon, sir," said Ginger, "but hadn't I better carry the dog home
for the young lady? It might meet vith some accident in the vay." "Accident!--stuff and nonsense!" cried Mr. Thorneycroft. "The rascal
only wants to follow you home, that he may know where you live, and
steal the dog back again. Take my advice, Mr. Darcy, and don't buy it." "The bargain's concluded," said Ginger, delivering the dog to Ebba, and
taking the money from Auriol, which, having counted, he thrust into his
capacious breeches pocket. "How shall I thank you for this treasure, Auriol?" exclaimed Ebba, in an
ecstasy of delight. "By transferring to it all regard you may entertain for me," he replied,
in a low tone. "That is impossible," she answered. "Well, I vote we drive away at once," said Mr. Thorneycroft. "Halloa! jarvey!" he cried, hailing a coach that was passing; adding, as the
vehicle stopped, "Now get in, Ebba. By this means we shall avoid being
followed by the rascal." So saying, he got into the coach. As Auriol was about to follow him, he
felt a slight touch on his arm, and, turning, beheld a tall and very
forbidding man by his side. "Beg pardin, sir," said the fellow, touching his hat, "but ain't your
name Mr. Auriol Darcy?" "It is," replied Auriol, regarding him fixedly. "Why do you ask?" "I vants a vord or two vith you in private--that's all, sir," replied
the Tinker. "Say what you have to say at once," rejoined Auriol. "I know nothing of
you." "You'll know me better by-and-by, sir," said the Tinker, in a
significant tone. "I _must_ speak to you, and alone." "If you don't go about your business, fellow, instantly, I'll give you
in charge of the police," cried Auriol. "No, you von't, sir--no, you von't," replied the Tinker, shaking his
head. And then, lowering his voice, he added, "You'll be glad to
purchase my silence ven you larns wot secrets o' yourn has come to my
knowledge." "Won't you get in, Mr. Darcy?" cried Thorneycroft, whose back was
towards the Tinker. "I must speak to this man," replied Auriol. "I'll come to you in the
evening. Till then, farewell, Ebba." And, as the coach drove away, he
added to the Tinker, "Now, rascal, what have you to say?" "Step this vay, sir," replied the Tinker. "There's two friends o' mine
as vishes to be present at our conference. Ve'd better valk into a back
street." CHAPTER VII
THE HAND AGAIN! Followed by Auriol, who, in his turn, was followed by Ginger and the
Sandman, the Tinker directed his steps to Great Windmill Street, where
he entered a public-house, called the Black Lion. Leaving his
four-footed attendants with the landlord, with whom he was acquainted,
Ginger caused the party to be shown into a private room, and, on
entering it, Auriol flung himself into a chair, while the dog-fancier
stationed himself near the door. "Now, what do you want with me?" demanded Auriol. "You shall learn presently," replied the Tinker; "but first, it may be
as vell to state, that a certain pocket-book has been found." "Ah!" exclaimed Auriol. "You are the villains who beset me in the ruined
house in the Vauxhall Road." "Your pocket-book has been found, I tell you," replied the Tinker, "and
from it ve have made the most awful diskiveries. Our werry 'air stood on
end ven ve first read the shockin' particulars. What a bloodthirsty
ruffian you must be! Vy, ve finds you've been i' the habit o' makin'
avay with a young ooman vonce every ten years. Your last wictim wos in
1820--the last but one, in 1810--and the one before her, in 1800." "Hangin's too good for you!" cried the Sandman; "but if ve peaches
you're sartin to sving." "I hope that pretty creater I jist see ain't to be the next wictim?" said Ginger. "Peace!" thundered Auriol. "What do you require?" "A hundred pound each'll buy our silence," replied the Tinker. "Ve ought to have double that," said the Sandman, "for screenin' sich
atterocious crimes as he has parpetrated. Ve're not werry partic'lar
ourselves, but ve don't commit murder wholesale." "Ve don't commit murder at all," said Ginger. "You may fancy," pursued the Tinker, "that ve ain't perfectly acvainted
with your history, but to prove that ve are, I'll just rub up your
memory. Did you ever hear tell of a gemman as murdered Doctor Lamb, the
famous halchemist o' Queen Bess's time, and, havin' drank the 'lixir
vich the doctor had made for hisself, has lived ever since? Did you ever
hear tell of such a person, I say?" Auriol gazed at him in astonishment. "What idle tale are you inventing?" he said at length. "It is no idle tale," replied the Tinker boldly. "Ve can bring a vitness
as'll prove the fact--a livin' vitness." "What witness?" cried Auriol. "Don't you reckilect the dwarf as used to serve Doctor Lamb?" rejoined
the Tinker. "He's alive still; and ve calls him Old Parr, on account of
his great age." "Where is he?--what has become of him?" demanded Auriol. "Oh, ve'll perduce him in doo time," replied the Tinker cunningly. "But tell me where the poor fellow is?" cried Auriol. "Have you seen him
since last night? I sent him to a public-house at Kensington, but he has
disappeared from it, and I can discover no traces of him." | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"He'll turn up somewhere--never fear," rejoined the Tinker. "But now,
sir, that ve fairly understands each other, are you agreeable to our
terms? You shall give us an order for the money, and ve'll undertake, on
our parts, not to mislest you more." "The pocket-book must be delivered up to me if I assent," said Auriol,
"and the poor dwarf must be found." "Vy, as to that, I can scarcely promise," replied the Tinker; "there's a
difficulty in the case, you see. But the pocket-book'll never be brought
aginst you--you may rest assured o' that." "I must have it, or you get nothing from me," cried Auriol. "Here's a bit o' paper as come from the pocket-book," said Ginger. "Would you like to hear wot's written upon it? Here are the words: 'How
many crimes have I to reproach myself with! How many innocents have I
destroyed! And all owing to my fatal compact with----'"
"Give me that paper," cried Auriol, rising, and attempting to snatch it
from the dog-fancier. Just as this moment, and while Ginger retreated from Auriol, the door
behind him was noiselessly opened--a hand was thrust through the
chink--and the paper was snatched from his grasp. Before Ginger could
turn round, the door was closed again. "Halloa! What's that?" he cried. "The paper's gone!" "The hand again!" cried the Sandman, in alarm. "See who's in the
passage--open the door--quick!" Ginger cautiously complied, and, peeping forth, said--
"There's no one there. It must be the devil. I'll have nuffin' more to
do wi' the matter." "Poh! poh! don't be so chicken-'arted!" cried the Tinker. "But come what
may, the gemman shan't stir till he undertakes to pay us three hundred
pounds." "You seek to frighten me in vain, villain," cried Auriol, upon whom the
recent occurrence had not been lost. "I have but to stamp my foot, and I
can instantly bring assistance that shall overpower you." "Don't provoke him," whispered Ginger, plucking the Tinker's sleeve. "For my part, I shan't stay any longer. I wouldn't take his money." And
he quitted the room. "I'll go and see wot's the matter wi' Ginger," said the Sandman,
slinking after him. The Tinker looked nervously round. He was not proof against his
superstitious fears. "Here, take this purse, and trouble me no more!" cried Auriol. The Tinker's hands clutched the purse mechanically, but he instantly
laid it down again. "I'm bad enough--but I won't sell myself to the devil," he said. And he followed his companions. Left alone, Auriol groaned aloud, and covered his face with his hands. When he looked up, he found the tall man in the black cloak standing
beside him. A demoniacal smile played upon his features. "You here?" cried Auriol. "Of course," replied the stranger. "I came to watch over your safety. You were in danger from those men. But you need not concern yourself
more about them. I have your pocket-book, and the slip of paper that
dropped from it. Here are both. Now let us talk on other matters. You
have just parted from Ebba, and will see her again this evening." "Perchance," replied Auriol. "You will," rejoined the stranger peremptorily. "Remember, your ten
years' limit draws to a close. In a few days it will be at an end; and
if you renew it not, you will incur the penalty, and you know it to be
terrible. With the means of renewal in your hands, why hesitate?" "Because I will not sacrifice the girl," replied Auriol. "You cannot help yourself," cried the stranger scornfully. "I command
you to bring her to me." "I persist in my refusal," replied Auriol. "It is useless to brave my power," said the stranger. "A moon is just
born. When it has attained its first quarter, Ebba shall be mine. Till
then, farewell." And as the words were uttered, he passed through the door. CHAPTER VIII
THE BARBER OF LONDON
Who has not heard of the Barber of London? His dwelling is in the
neighbourhood of Lincoln's Inn. It is needless to particularise the
street, for everybody knows the shop; that is to say, every member of
the legal profession, high or low. All, to the very judges themselves,
have their hair cut, or their wigs dressed, by him. A pleasant fellow is
Mr. Tuffnell Trigge--Figaro himself not pleasanter--and if you do not
shave yourself--if you want a becoming flow imparted to your stubborn
locks, or if you require a wig, I recommend you to the care of Mr.
Tuffnell Trigge. Not only will he treat you well, but he will regale you
with all the gossip of the court; he will give you the last funny thing
of Mr. Serjeant Larkins; he will tell you how many briefs the great Mr.
Skinner Fyne receives--what the Vice-Chancellor is doing; and you will
own, on rising, that you have never spent a five minutes more agreeably. Besides, you are likely to see some noticeable characters, for Mr.
Trigge's shop is quite a lounge. Perhaps you may find a young barrister
who has just been "called," ordering his "first wig," and you may hear
the prognostications of Mr. Trigge as to his future distinction. "Ah,
sir," he will say, glancing at the stolid features of the young man,
"you have quite the face of the Chief Justice--quite the face of the
chief--I don't recollect him ordering his first wig--that was a little
before my time; but I hope to live to see you chief, sir. Quite within
your reach, if you choose to apply. Sure of it, sir--quite sure." Or you
may see him attending to some grave master in Chancery, and listening
with profound attention to his remarks; or screaming with laughter at
the jokes of some smart special pleader; or talking of the theatres, the
actors and actresses, to some young attorneys, or pupils in
conveyancers' chambers; for those are the sort of customers in whom Mr.
Trigge chiefly delights; with them, indeed, he _is_ great, for it is by
them he has been dubbed the Barber of London. His shop is also
frequented by managing clerks, barristers' clerks, engrossing clerks,
and others; but these are, for the most part, his private friends. Mr. Trigge's shop is none of your spruce West End hair-cutting
establishments, with magnificent mirrors on every side, in which you may
see the back of your head, the front, and the side, all at once, with
walls bedizened with glazed French paper, and with an ante-room full of
bears'-grease, oils, creams, tooth-powders, and cut glass. No, it is a
real barber's and hairdresser's shop, of the good old stamp, where you
may get cut and curled for a shilling, and shaved for half the price. True, the floor is not covered with a carpet. But what of that? It bears
the imprint of innumerable customers, and is scattered over with their
hair. In the window, there is an assortment of busts moulded in wax,
exhibiting the triumphs of Mr. Trigge's art; and above these are
several specimens of legal wigs. On the little counter behind the
window, amid large pots of pomade and bears'-grease, and the irons and
brushes in constant use by the barber, are other bustos, done to the
life, and for ever glancing amiably into the room. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
On the block is a
judge's wig, which Mr. Trigge has just been dressing, and a little
farther, on a higher block, is that of a counsel. On either side of the
fireplace are portraits of Lord Eldon and Lord Lyndhurst. Some other
portraits of pretty actresses are likewise to be seen. Against the
counter rests a board, displaying the playbill of the evening; and near
it is a large piece of emblematical crockery, indicating that
bears'-grease may be had on the premises. Amongst Mr. Trigge's
live-stock may be enumerated his favourite magpie, placed in a wicker
cage in the window, which chatters incessantly, and knows everything,
its master avouches, "as well as a Christian." And now as to Mr. Tuffnell Trigge himself. He is very tall and very
thin, and holds himself so upright that he loses not an inch of his
stature. His head is large and his face long, with marked, if not very
striking features, charged, it must be admitted, with a very
self-satisfied expression. One cannot earn the appellation of the Barber
of London without talent; and it is the consciousness of this talent
that lends to Mr. Trigge's features their apparently conceited
expression. A fringe of black whisker adorns his cheek and chin, and his
black bristly hair is brushed back, so as to exhibit the prodigious
expanse of his forehead. His eyebrows are elevated, as if in constant
scorn. The attire in which Mr. Trigge is ordinarily seen, consists of a black
velvet waistcoat, and tight black continuations. These are protected by
a white apron tied round his waist, with pockets to hold his scissors
and combs; over all, he wears a short nankeen jacket, into the pockets
of which his hands are constantly thrust when not otherwise employed. A
black satin stock with a large bow encircles his throat, and his shirt
is fastened by black enamel studs. Such is Mr. Tuffnell Trigge, yclept
the Barber of London. At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Trigge had just
advertised for an assistant, his present young man, Rutherford Watts,
being about to leave him, and set up for himself in Canterbury. It was
about two o'clock, and Mr. Trigge had just withdrawn into an inner room
to take some refection, when, on returning, he found Watts occupied in
cutting the hair of a middle-aged, sour-looking gentleman, who was
seated before the fire. Mr. Trigge bowed to the sour-looking gentleman,
and appeared ready to enter into conversation with him, but no notice
being taken of his advances, he went and talked to his magpie. While he was chattering to it, the sagacious bird screamed forth:
"Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" "Ah! what's that? Who is it?" cried Trigge. "Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" reiterated the magpie. Upon this, Trigge looked around, and saw a very singular little man
enter the shop. He had somewhat the appearance of a groom, being clothed
in a long grey coat, drab knees, and small top-boots. He had a large and
remarkably projecting mouth, like that of a baboon, and a great shock
head of black hair. "Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" screamed the magpie. "I see nothing pretty about him," thought Mr. Trigge. "What a strange
little fellow! It would puzzle the Lord Chancellor himself to say what
his age might be." The little man took off his hat, and making a profound bow to the
barber, unfolded the _Times_ newspaper, which he carried under his arm,
and held it up to Trigge. "What do you want, my little friend, eh?" said the barber. "High wages!--high wages!" screamed the magpie. "Is this yours, sir?" replied the little man, pointing to an
advertisement in the newspaper. "Yes, yes, that's my advertisement, friend," replied Mr. Trigge. "But
what of it?" Before the little man could answer, a slight interruption occurred. While eyeing the new-comer, Watts neglected to draw forth the hot
curling-irons, in consequence of which he burnt the sour-looking
gentleman's forehead, and singed his hair. "Take care, sir!" cried the gentleman furiously. "What the devil are you
about?" "Yes! take care, sir, as Judge Learmouth observes to a saucy witness,"
cried Trigge--"'take care, or I'll commit you!'" "D--n Judge Learmouth!" cried the gentleman angrily. "If I were a judge,
I'd hang such a careless fellow." "Sarve him right!" screamed Mag--"sarve him right!" [Illustration: The Barber of London.] "Beg pardon, sir," cried Watts. "I'll rectify you in a minute." "Well, my little friend," observed Trigge, "and what may be your object
in coming to me? as the great conveyancer, Mr. Plodwell, observes to his
clients--what may be your object?" "You want an assistant, don't you, sir?" rejoined the little man humbly. "Do you apply on your own account, or on behalf of a friend?" asked
Trigge. "On my own," replied the little man. "What are your qualifications?" demanded Trigge--"what are your
qualifications?" "I fancy I understand something of the business," replied the little
man. "I was a perruquier myself, when wigs were more in fashion than
they are now." "Ha! indeed!" said Trigge, laughing. "That must have been in the last
century--in Queen Anne's time--eh?" "You have hit it exactly, sir," replied the little man. "It _was_ in
Queen Anne's time." "Perhaps you recollect when wigs were first worn, my little Nestor?" cried Mr. Trigge. "Perfectly," replied the little man. "French periwigs were first worn in
Charles the Second's time." "You saw 'em, of course?" cried the barber, with a sneer. "I did," replied the little man quietly. "Oh, he must be out of his mind," cried Trigge. "We shall have a
commission _de lunatico_ to issue here, as the Master of the Rolls would
observe." "I hope I may suit you, sir," said the little man. "I don't think you will, my friend," replied Mr. Trigge; "I don't think
you will. You don't seem to have a hand for hairdressing. Are you aware
of the talent the art requires? Are you aware what it has cost me to
earn the enviable title of the Barber of London? I'm as proud of that
title as if I were----"
"Lord Chancellor!--Lord Chancellor!" screamed Mag. "Precisely, Mag," said Mr. Trigge; "as if I were Lord Chancellor." "Well, I'm sorry for it," said the little man disconsolately. "Pretty dear!" screamed Mag; "pretty dear!" "What a wonderful bird you have got!" said the sour-looking gentleman,
rising and paying Mr. Trigge. "I declare its answers are quite
appropriate." "Ah! Mag is a clever creature, sir--that she is," replied the barber. "I
gave a good deal for her." "Little or nothing!" screamed Mag--"little or nothing!" "What is your name, friend?" said the gentleman, addressing the little
man, who still lingered in the shop. "Why, sir, I've had many names in my time," he replied. "At one time I
was called Flapdragon--at another, Old Parr--but my real name, I
believe, is Morse--Gregory Morse." "An Old Bailey answer," cried Mr. Trigge, shaking his head. "Flapdragon,
alias Old Parr--alias Gregory Morse--alias----"
"Pretty dear!" screamed Mag. "And you want a place?" demanded the sour-looking gentleman, eyeing him
narrowly. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"Sadly," replied Morse. "Well, then, follow me," said the gentleman, "and I'll see what can be
done for you." And they left the shop together. CHAPTER IX
THE MOON IN THE FIRST QUARTER
In spite of his resolution to the contrary, Auriol found it impossible
to resist the fascination of Ebba's society, and became a daily visitor
at her father's house. Mr. Thorneycroft noticed the growing attachment
between them with satisfaction. His great wish was to see his daughter
united to the husband of her choice, and in the hope of smoothing the
way, he let Auriol understand that he should give her a considerable
marriage portion. For the last few days a wonderful alteration had taken place in Auriol's
manner, and he seemed to have shaken off altogether the cloud that had
hitherto sat upon his spirits. Enchanted by the change, Ebba indulged in
the most blissful anticipations of the future. One evening they walked forth together, and almost unconsciously
directed their steps towards the river. Lingering on its banks, they
gazed on the full tide, admired the glorious sunset, and breathed over
and over again those tender nothings so eloquent in lovers' ears. "Oh! how different you are from what you were a week ago," said Ebba
playfully. "Promise me not to indulge in any more of those gloomy
fancies." "I will not indulge in them if I can help it, rest assured, sweet Ebba,"
he replied. "But my spirits are not always under my control. I am
surprised at my own cheerfulness this evening." "I never felt so happy," she replied; "and the whole scene is in unison
with my feelings. How soothing is the calm river flowing at our
feet!--how tender is the warm sky, still flushed with red, though the
sun has set!--And see, yonder hangs the crescent moon. She is in her
first quarter." "The moon in her first quarter!" cried Auriol, in a tone of anguish. "All then is over." "What means this sudden change?" cried Ebba, frightened by his looks. "Oh, Ebba," he replied, "I must leave you. I have allowed myself to
dream of happiness too long. I am an accursed being, doomed only to
bring misery upon those who love me. I warned you on the onset, but you
would not believe me. Let me go, and perhaps it may not yet be too late
to save you." "Oh no, do not leave me!" cried Ebba. "I have no fear while you are with
me." "But you do not know the terrible fate I am linked to," he said. "This
is the night when it will be accomplished." "Your moody fancies do not alarm me as they used to do, dear Auriol,"
she rejoined, "because I know them to be the fruit of a diseased
imagination. Come, let us continue our walk," she added, taking his arm
kindly. "Ebba," he cried, "I implore you to let me go! I have not the power to
tear myself away unless you aid me." "I'm glad to hear it," she rejoined, "for then I shall hold you fast." "You know not what you do!" cried Auriol. "Release me! oh, release me!" "In a few moments the fit will be passed," she rejoined. "Let us walk
towards the abbey." "It is in vain to struggle against fate," ejaculated Auriol
despairingly. And he suffered himself to be led in the direction proposed. Ebba continued to talk, but her discourse fell upon a deaf ear, and at
last she became silent too. In this way they proceeded along Millbank
Street and Abingdon Street, until, turning off on the right, they found
themselves before an old and partly-demolished building. By this time it
had become quite dark, for the moon was hidden behind a rack of clouds,
but a light was seen in the upper storey of the structure, occasioned,
no doubt, by a fire within it, which gave a very picturesque effect to
the broken outline of the walls. Pausing for a moment to contemplate the ruin, Ebba expressed a wish to
enter it. Auriol offered no opposition, and passing through an arched
doorway, and ascending a short, spiral, stone staircase, they presently
arrived at a roofless chamber, which it was evident, from the implements
and rubbish lying about, was about to be razed to the ground. On one
side there was a large arch, partly bricked up, through which opened a
narrow doorway, though at some height from the ground. With this a
plank communicated, while beneath it lay a great heap of stones, amongst
which were some grotesque carved heads. In the centre of the chamber was
a large square opening, like the mouth of a trap-door, from which the
top of a ladder projected, and near it stood a flaming brazier, which
had cast forth the glare seen from below. Over the ruinous walls on the
right hung the crescent moon, now emerged from the cloud, and shedding a
ghostly glimmer on the scene. "What a strange place!" cried Ebba, gazing around with some
apprehension. "It looks like a spot one reads of in romance. I wonder
where that trap leads to?" "Into the vault beneath, no doubt," replied Auriol. "But why did we come
hither?" As he spoke, there was a sound like mocking laughter, but whence arising
it was difficult to say. "Did you hear that sound?" cried Auriol. "It was nothing but the echo of laughter from the street," she replied. "You alarm yourself without reason, Auriol." "No, not without reason," he cried. "I am in the power of a terrible
being, who seeks to destroy you, and I know that he is at hand. Listen
to me, Ebba, and however strange my recital may appear, do not suppose
it the ravings of a madman, but be assured it is the truth." "Beware!" cried a deep voice, issuing apparently from the depths of the
vault. "Some one spoke," cried Ebba. "I begin to share your apprehensions. Let
us quit this place." "Come, then," said Auriol. "Not so fast," cried a deep voice. And they beheld the mysterious owner of the black cloak barring their
passage out. "Ebba, you are mine," cried the stranger. "Auriol has brought you to
me." "It is false!" cried Auriol. "I never will yield her to you." "Remember your compact," rejoined the stranger, with a mocking laugh. "Oh, Auriol!" cried Ebba, "I fear for your soul. You have not made a
compact with this fiend?" "He has," replied the stranger; "and by that compact you are surrendered
to me." And, as he spoke, he advanced towards her, and enveloping her in his
cloak, her cries were instantly stifled. "You shall not go!" cried Auriol, seizing him. "Release her, or I
renounce you wholly." "Fool!" cried the stranger, "since you provoke my wrath, take your
doom." And he stamped on the ground. At this signal an arm was thrust from the
trap-door, and Auriol's hand was seized with an iron grasp. While this took place, the stranger bore his lovely burden swiftly up
the plank leading to the narrow doorway in the wall, and just as he was
passing through it he pointed towards the sky, and shouted with a
mocking smile to Auriol--"Behold! the moon is in her first quarter. My
words are fulfilled!" And he disappeared. Auriol tried to disengage himself from the grasp imposed upon him in
vain. Uttering ejaculations of rage and despair, he was dragged forcibly
backwards into the vault. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
[Illustration: Seizure of Ebba.] CHAPTER X
THE STATUE AT CHARING CROSS
One morning, two persons took their way along Parliament Street and
Whitehall, and, chatting as they walked, turned into the entrance of
Spring Gardens, for the purpose of looking at the statue at Charing
Cross. One of them was remarkable for his dwarfish stature and strange
withered features. The other was a man of middle size, thin, rather
elderly, and with a sharp countenance, the sourness of which was
redeemed by a strong expression of benevolence. He was clad in a black
coat, rather rusty, but well brushed, buttoned up to the chin, black
tights, short drab gaiters, and wore a white neckcloth and spectacles. Mr. Loftus (for so he was called) was a retired merchant, of moderate
fortune, and lived in Abingdon Street. He was a bachelor, and therefore
pleased himself; and being a bit of an antiquary, rambled about all day
long in search of some object of interest. His walk, on the present
occasion, was taken with that view. "By Jove! what a noble statue that is, Morse!" cried Loftus, gazing at
it. "The horse is magnificent--positively magnificent." "I recollect when the spot was occupied by a gibbet, and when, in lieu
of a statue, an effigy of the martyred monarch was placed there,"
replied Morse. "That was in the time of the Protectorate." "You cannot get those dreams out of your head, Morse," said Loftus,
smiling. "I wish I could persuade myself I had lived for two centuries
and a half." "Would you could have seen the ancient cross, which once stood there,
erected by Edward the First to his beloved wife, 'Eleanor of Castile'!" said Morse, heedless of the other's remark. "It was much mutilated when
I remember it; some of the pinnacles were broken, and the foliage
defaced, but the statues of the queen were still standing in the
recesses; and altogether the effect was beautiful." "It must have been charming," observed Loftus, rubbing his hands; "and,
though I like the statue, I would much rather have had the old Gothic
cross. But how fortunate the former escaped destruction in Oliver
Cromwell's time!" "I can tell you how that came to pass, sir," replied Morse, "for I was
assistant to John Rivers, the brazier, to whom the statue was sold." "Ah! indeed!" exclaimed Loftus. "I have heard something of the story,
but should like to have full particulars." "You shall hear them, then," replied Morse. "Yon statue, which, as you
know, was cast by Hubert le Sueur, in 1633, was ordered by Parliament to
be sold and broken to pieces. Well, my master, John Rivers, being a
stanch Royalist, though he did not dare to avow his principles,
determined to preserve it from destruction. Accordingly, he offered a
good round sum for it, and was declared the purchaser. But how to
dispose of it was the difficulty? He could trust none of his men but me,
whom he knew to be as hearty a hater of the Roundheads, and as loyal to
the memory of our slaughtered sovereign, as himself. Well, we digged a
great pit, secretly, in the cellar, whither the statue had been
conveyed, and buried it. The job occupied us nearly a month; and during
that time, my master collected together all the pieces of old brass he
could procure. These he afterwards produced, and declared they were the
fragments of the statue. But the cream of the jest was to come. He began
to cast handles of knives and forks in brass, giving it out that they
were made from the metal of the statue. And plenty of 'em he sold too,
for the Cavaliers bought 'em as memorials of their martyred monarch, and
the Roundheads as evidences of his fall. In this way he soon got back
his outlay." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Loftus. "Well, in due season came the Restoration," pursued Morse; "and my
master made known to King Charles the Second the treasure he had kept
concealed for him. It was digged forth, placed in its old position--but
I forget whether the brazier was rewarded. I rather think not." "No matter," cried Loftus; "he was sufficiently rewarded by the
consciousness of having done a noble action. But let us go and examine
the sculpture on the pedestal more closely." With this he crossed over the road; and, taking off his hat, thrust his
head through the iron railing surrounding the pedestal, while Morse, in
order to point out the beauties of the sculpture with greater
convenience, mounted upon a stump beside him. "You are aware that this is the work of Grinling Gibbons, sir?" cried
the dwarf. "To be sure I am," replied Loftus--"to be sure. What fancy and gusto is
displayed in the treatment of these trophies!" "The execution of the royal arms is equally admirable," cried Morse. "Never saw anything finer," rejoined Loftus--"never, upon my life." Every one knows how easily a crowd is collected in London, and it cannot
be supposed that our two antiquaries would be allowed to pursue their
investigations unmolested. Several ragged urchins got round them, and
tried to discover what they were looking at, at the same time cutting
their jokes upon them. These were speedily joined by a street-sweeper,
rather young in the profession, a ticket-porter, a butcher's apprentice,
an old Israelitish clothes-man, a coalheaver, and a couple of
charity-boys. "My eyes!" cried the street-sweeper, "only twig these coves. If they
ain't green 'uns, I'm done." "Old Spectacles thinks he has found it all out," remarked the porter;
"ve shall hear wot it all means by-and-by." "Plesh ma 'art," cried the Jew, "vat two funny old genelmen. I vonder
vat they thinks they sees?" "I'll tell 'ee, master," rejoined the butcher's apprentice; "they're a
tryin' vich on 'em can see farthest into a millstone." [Illustration: Antiquaries.] "Only think of living all my life in London, and never examining this
admirable work of art before!" cried Loftus, quite unconscious that he
had become the object of general curiosity. "Look closer at it, old gem'man," cried the porter. "The nearer you get,
the more you'll admire it." "Quite true," replied Loftus, fancying Morse had spoken; "it'll bear the
closest inspection." "I say, Ned," observed one of the charity-boys to the other, "do you get
over the railin'; they must ha' dropped summat inside. See what it is." "I'm afraid o' spikin' myself, Joe," replied the other; "but just give
us a lift, and I'll try." "Wot are you arter there, you young rascals?" cried the coalheaver;
"come down, or I'll send the perlice to you." "Wot two precious guys these is!" cried a ragamuffin lad, accompanied by
a bulldog. "I've a good mind to chuck the little 'un off the post, and
set Tartar at him. Here, boy, here!" "That 'ud be famous fun, indeed, Spicer!" cried another rapscallion
behind him. "Arrah! let 'em alone, will you there, you young divils!" cried an Irish
bricklayer; "don't you see they're only two paiceable antiquaries." "Oh, they're antiquaries, are they?" screamed the little street-sweeper. "Vell, I never see the likes on 'em afore; did you, Sam?" "Never," replied the porter. "Och, murther in Irish! | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
ye're upsettin' me, an' all the fruits of my
industry," cried an applewoman, against whom the bricklayer had run his
barrow. "Divil seize you for a careless wagabone! Why don't you look
where ye're goin', and not dhrive into people in that way?" "Axes pardon, Molly," said the bricklayer; "but I was so inter_est_ed in
them antiquaries, that I didn't obsarve ye." "Antiquaries be hanged! what's such warmint to me?" cried the applewoman
furiously. "You've destroyed my day's market, and bad luck to ye!" "Well, never heed, Molly," cried the good-natured bricklayer; "I'll make
it up t'ye. Pick up your apples, and you shall have a dhrop of the
craiter if you'll come along wid me." While this was passing, a stout gentleman came from the farther side of
the statue, and perceiving Loftus, cried--"Why, brother-in-law, is that
you?" But Loftus was too much engrossed to notice him, and continued to
expiate upon the beauty of the trophies. "What are you talking about, brother?" cried the stout gentleman. "Grinling Gibbons," replied Loftus, without turning round. "Horace
Walpole said that no one before him could give to wood the airy
lightness of a flower, and here he has given it to a stone." "This may be all very fine, my good fellow," said the stout gentleman,
seizing him by the shoulder; "but don't you see the crowd you're
collecting round you? You'll be mobbed presently." "Why, how the devil did you come here, brother Thorneycroft?" cried
Loftus, at last recognising him. "Come along, and I'll tell you," replied the iron-merchant, dragging him
away, while Morse followed closely behind them. "I'm so glad to have met
you," pursued Thorneycroft, as soon as they were clear of the mob;
"you'll be shocked to hear what has happened to your niece, Ebba." "Why, what _has_ happened to her?" demanded Loftus. "You alarm me. Out
with it at once. I hate to be kept in suspense." "She has left me," replied Thorneycroft--"left her old indulgent
father--run away." "Run away!" exclaimed Loftus. "Impossible! I'll not believe it--even
from your lips." "Would it were not so!--but it is, alas! too true," replied Thorneycroft
mournfully. "And the thing was so unnecessary, for I would gladly have
given her to the young man. My sole hope is that she has not utterly
disgraced herself." "No, she is too high principled for that," cried Loftus. "Rest easy on
that score. But with whom has she run away?" "With a young man named Auriol Darcy," replied Thorneycroft. "He was
brought to my house under peculiar circumstances." "I never heard of him," said Loftus. "But I have," interposed Morse. "I've known him these two hundred
years." "Eh day! who's this?" cried Thorneycroft. "A crack-brained little fellow, whom I've engaged as valet," replied
Loftus. "He fancies he was born in Queen Elizabeth's time." "It's no fancy," cried Morse. "I am perfectly acquainted with Auriol
Darcy's history. He drank of the same elixir as myself." "If you know him, can you give us a clue to find him?" asked
Thorneycroft. "I am sorry I cannot," replied Morse. "I only saw him for a few minutes
the other night, after I had been thrown into the Serpentine by the tall
man in the black cloak." "What's that you say?" cried Thorneycroft quickly. "I have heard Ebba
speak of a tall man in a black cloak having some mysterious connection
with Auriol. I hope that person has nothing to do with her
disappearance." "I shouldn't wonder if he had," replied Morse. "I believe that black
gentleman to be----"
"What!--who?" demanded Thorneycroft. "Neither more nor less than the devil," replied Morse mysteriously. "Pshaw! poh!" cried Loftus. "I told you the poor fellow was half
cracked." At this moment, a roguish-looking fellow, with red whiskers and hair,
and clad in a velveteen jacket with ivory buttons, who had been watching
the iron-merchant at some distance, came up, and touching his hat, said,
"Mr. Thorneycroft, I believe?" "My name is Thorneycroft, fellow!" cried the iron-merchant, eyeing him
askance. "And your name, I fancy, is Ginger?" "Exactly, sir," replied the dog-fancier, again touching his hat,
"ex-actly. I didn't think you would rekilect me, sir. I bring you some
news of your darter." "Of Ebba!" exclaimed Thorneycroft, in a tone of deep emotion. "I hope
your news is good." "I wish it wos better, for her sake as well as yours, sir," replied the
dog-fancier gravely; "but I'm afeerd she's in werry bad hands." "That she is, if she's in the hands o' the black gentleman," observed
Morse. "Vy, Old Parr, that ain't you?" cried Ginger, gazing at him in
astonishment. "Vy, 'ow you are transmogrified, to be sure!" "But what of my daughter?" cried Thorneycroft; "where is she? Take me to
her, and you shall be well rewarded." "I'll do my best to take you to her, and without any reward, sir,"
replied Ginger, "for my heart bleeds for the poor young creater. As I
said afore, she's in dreadful bad hands." "Do you allude to Mr. Auriol Darcy?" cried Thorneycroft. "No, he's as much a wictim of this infernal plot as your darter,"
replied Ginger; "I thought him quite different at first--but I've
altered my mind entirely since some matters has come to my knowledge." "You alarm me greatly by these dark hints," cried Thorneycroft. "What is
to be done?" "I shall know in a few hours," replied Ginger. "I ain't got the exact
clue yet. But come to me at eleven o'clock to-night, at the Turk's Head,
at the back o' Shoreditch Church, and I'll put you on the right scent. You must come alone." "I should wish this gentleman, my brother-in-law, to accompany me," said
Thorneycroft. "He couldn't help you," replied Ginger. "I'll take care to have plenty
of assistance. It's a dangerous bus'ness, and can only be managed in a
sartin way, and by a sartin person, and he'd object to any von but you. To-night, at eleven! Good-bye, Old Parr. Ve shall meet again ere long." And without a word more, he hurried away. CHAPTER XI
PREPARATIONS
On that same night, at the appointed hour, Mr. Thorneycroft repaired to
Shoreditch, and entering a narrow street behind the church, speedily
discovered the Turk's Head, at the door of which a hackney-coach was
standing. He was shown by the landlord into a small back room, in which
three men were seated at a small table, smoking, and drinking gin and
water, while a fourth was standing near the fire, with his back towards
the door. The latter was a tall, powerfully built man, wrapped in a
rough greatcoat, and did not turn round on the iron-merchant's entrance. "You are punctual, Mr. Thorneycroft," said Ginger, who was one of the
trio at the table; "and I'm happy to say, I've arranged everythin' for
you, sir. My friends are ready to undertake the job. Only they von't do
it on quite sich easy terms as mine." The Tinker and the Sandman coughed slightly, to intimate their entire
concurrence in Mr. Ginger's remark. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"As I said to you this mornin', Mr. Thorneycroft," pursued Ginger, "this
is a difficult and a dangerous bus'ness, and there's no knowin' wot may
come on it. But it's your only chance o' recoverin' your darter." "Yes, it's your only chance," echoed the Tinker. "Ve're about to risk our precious lives for you, sir," said the Sandman;
"so, in coorse, ve expects a perportionate revard." "If you enable me to regain my daughter, you shall not find me
ungrateful," rejoined the iron-merchant. "I must have a hundred pounds," said the Tinker--"that's my lowest." "And mine, too," said the Sandman. "I shall take nuffin' but the glory, as I said afore," remarked Ginger. "I'm sworn champion o' poor distressed young damsils; but my friends
must make their own bargins." "Well, I assent," returned Mr. Thorneycroft; "and the sooner we set out
the better." "Are you armed?" asked Ginger. "I have a brace of pistols in my pocket," replied Thorneycroft. "All right, then--ve've all got pops and cutlashes," said Ginger. "So
let's be off." As he spoke, the Tinker and Sandman arose; and the man in the rough
greatcoat, who had hitherto remained with his back to them, turned
round. To the iron-merchant's surprise, he perceived that the face of
this individual was covered with a piece of black crape. "Who is this?" he demanded with some misgiving. "A friend," replied Ginger. "Vithout him ve could do nuffin'. His name
is Reeks, and he is the chief man in our enterprise." "He claims a reward too, I suppose?" said Thorneycroft. "I will tell you what reward I claim, Mr. Thorneycroft," rejoined Reeks,
in a deep stern tone, "when all is over. Meantime, give me your solemn
pledge, that whatever you may behold to-night, you will not divulge it." "I give it," replied the iron-merchant, "provided always----"
"No provision, sir," interrupted the other quickly. "You must swear to
keep silence unconditionally, or I will not move a footstep with you;
and I alone can guide you where your daughter is detained." "Svear, sir; it is your only chance," whispered Ginger. "Well, if it must be, I do swear to keep silence," rejoined Mr.
Thorneycroft; "but your proceedings appear very mysterious." "The whole affair is mysterious," replied Reeks. "You must also consent
to have a bandage passed over your eyes when you get into the coach." "Anything more?" asked the iron-merchant. "You must engage to obey my orders, without questioning, when we arrive
at our destination," rejoined Reeks. "Otherwise, there is no chance of
success." "Be it as you will," returned Thorneycroft, "I must perforce agree." "All then is clearly understood," said Reeks, "and we can now set out." Upon this, Ginger conducted Mr. Thorneycroft to the coach, and as soon
as the latter got into it, tied a handkerchief tightly over his eyes. In
this state Mr. Thorneycroft heard the Tinker and the Sandman take their
places near him, but not remarking the voice of Reeks, concluded that he
must have got outside. The next moment, the coach was put in motion, and rattled over the
stones at a rapid pace. It made many turns; but at length proceeded
steadily onwards, while from the profound silence around, and the
greater freshness of the air, Mr. Thorneycroft began to fancy they had
gained the country. Not a word was spoken by any one during the ride. After a while, the coach stopped, the door was opened, and Mr.
Thorneycroft was helped out. The iron-merchant expected his bandage
would now be removed, but he was mistaken, for Reeks, taking his arm,
drew him along at a quick pace. As they advanced, the iron-merchant's
conductor whispered him to be cautious, and, at the same time, made him
keep close to a wall. A door was presently opened, and as soon as the
party had passed through, it closed. The bandage was then removed from Thorneycroft's eyes, and he found
himself in a large and apparently neglected garden. Though the sky was
cloudy, there was light enough to enable him to distinguish that they
were near an old dilapidated mansion. "We are now arrived," said Reeks to the iron-merchant, "and you will
have need of all your resolution." "I will deliver her, or perish in the attempt," said Thorneycroft,
taking out his pistols. The others drew their cutlasses. "Now then, follow me," said Reeks, "and act as I direct." With this he struck into an alley formed by thick hedges of privet,
which brought them to the back part of the house. Passing through a
door, he entered the yard, and creeping cautiously along the wall,
reached a low window, which he contrived to open without noise. He then
passed through it, and was followed by the others. CHAPTER XII
THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERY
We shall now return to the night of Ebba's seizure by the mysterious
stranger. Though almost deprived of consciousness by terror, the poor
girl could distinguish, from the movements of her captor, that she was
borne down a flight of steps, or some steep descent, and then for a
considerable distance along level ground. She was next placed in a
carriage, which was driven with great swiftness, and though it was
impossible to conjecture in what direction she was conveyed, it seemed
to her terrified imagination as if she were hurried down a precipice,
and she expected every moment to be dashed in pieces. At length the
vehicle stopped, and she was lifted out of it, and carried along a
winding passage; after which, the creaking of hinges announced that a
door was opened. Having passed through it, she was deposited on a bench,
when, fright overmastering her, her senses completely forsook her. On recovering, she found herself seated on a fauteuil covered with black
velvet, in the midst of a gloomy chamber of vast extent, while beside
her, and supporting her from falling, stood the mysterious and terrible
stranger. He held a large goblet filled with some potent liquid to her
lips, and compelled her to swallow a portion of it. The powerful
stimulant revived her, but, at the same time, produced a strange
excitement, against which she struggled with all her power. Her
persecutor again held the goblet towards her, while a sardonic smile
played upon his features. "Drink!" he cried; "it will restore you, and you have much to go
through." Ebba mechanically took the cup, and raised it to her lips, but noticing
the stranger's glance of exultation, dashed it to the ground. "You have acted foolishly," he said sternly; "the potion would have done
you good." Withdrawing her eyes from his gaze, which she felt exercised an
irresistible influence over her, Ebba gazed fearfully round the chamber. It was vast and gloomy, and seemed like the interior of a sepulchre--the
walls and ceiling being formed of black marble, while the floor was
paved with the same material. Not far from where she sat, on an estrade,
approached by a couple of steps, stood a table covered with black
velvet, on which was placed an immense lamp, fashioned like an imp
supporting a caldron on his outstretched wings. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
In this lamp were
several burners, which cast a lurid light throughout the chamber. Over
it hung a cap equally fantastically fashioned. A dagger, with a richly
wrought hilt, was stuck into the table; and beside it lay a strangely
shaped mask, an open book, an antique inkstand, and a piece of
parchment, on which some characters were inscribed. Opposite these stood
a curiously carved ebony chair. At the lower end of the room, which was slightly elevated above the
rest, hung a large black curtain; and on the step, in the front of it,
were placed two vases of jet. "What is behind that curtain?" shudderingly demanded Ebba of her
companion. "You will see anon," he replied. "Meanwhile, seat yourself on that
chair, and glance at the writing on the scroll." Ebba did not move, but the stranger took her hand, and drew her to the
seat. "Read what is written on that paper," he cried imperiously. Ebba glanced at the document, and a shudder passed over her frame. "By
this," she cried, "I surrender myself, soul and body, to you?" "You do," replied the stranger. "I have committed no crime that can place me within the power of the
Fiend," cried Ebba, falling upon her knees. "I call upon Heaven for
protection! Avaunt!" As the words were uttered, the cap suddenly fell upon the lamp, and the
chamber was buried in profound darkness. Mocking laughter rang in her
ears, succeeded by wailing cries inexpressibly dreadful to hear. Ebba continued to pray fervently for her own deliverance, and for that
of Auriol. In the midst of her supplications she was aroused by strains
of music of the most exquisite sweetness, proceeding apparently from
behind the curtain, and while listening to these sounds she was startled
by a deafening crash as if a large gong had been stricken. The cover of
the lamp was then slowly raised, and the burners blazed forth as before,
while from the two vases in front of the curtain arose clouds of
incense, filling the chamber with stupefying fragrance. Again the gong was stricken, and Ebba looked round towards the curtain. Above each vase towered a gigantic figure, wrapped in a long black
cloak, the lower part of which was concealed by the thick vapour. Hoods,
like the cowls of monks, were drawn over the heads of these grim and
motionless figures; mufflers enveloped their chins, and they wore masks,
from the holes of which gleamed eyes of unearthly brightness. Their
hands were crossed upon their breasts. Between them squatted two other
spectral forms, similarly cloaked, hooded, and masked, with their
gleaming eyes fixed upon her, and their skinny fingers pointed
derisively at her. Behind the curtain was placed a strong light, which showed a wide
staircase of black marble, leading to some upper chamber, and at the
same time threw the reflection of a gigantic figure upon the drapery,
while a hand, the finger of which pointed towards her, was thrust from
an opening between its folds. Forcibly averting her gaze, Ebba covered her eyes with her hands, but
looking up again after a brief space, beheld an ebon door at the side
revolve upon its hinges, and give entrance to three female figures,
robed in black, hooded and veiled, and having their hands folded, in a
melancholy manner, across their breasts. Slowly and noiselessly
advancing, they halted within a few paces of her. "Who and what are ye?" she cried, wild with terror. "The victims of Auriol!" replied the figure on the right. "As we are,
such will you be ere long." "What crime have you committed?" demanded Ebba. "We have loved him," replied the second figure. [Illustration: The Chamber of Mystery.] "Is that a crime?" cried Ebba. "If so, I am equally culpable with you." "You will share our doom," replied the third figure. "Heaven have mercy upon me!" exclaimed the agonised girl, dropping upon
her knees. At this moment a terrible voice from behind the curtain exclaimed,
"Sign, or Auriol is lost for ever." "I cannot yield my soul, even to save him," cried Ebba distractedly. "Witness his chastisement, then," cried the voice. And as the words were uttered, a side door was opened on the opposite
side, and Auriol was dragged forth from it by two masked personages, who
looked like familiars of the Inquisition. "Do not yield to the demands of this fiend, Ebba!" cried Auriol, gazing
at her distractedly. "Will you save him before he is cast, living, into the tomb?" cried the
voice. And at the words, a heavy slab of marble rose slowly from the floor near
where Ebba sat, and disclosed a dark pit beneath. Ebba gazed into the abyss with indescribable terror. "There he will be immured, unless you sign," cried the voice; "and, as
he is immortal, he will endure an eternity of torture." "I cannot save him so, but I may precede him," cried Ebba. And throwing
her hands aloft, she flung herself into the pit. A fearful cry resounded through the chamber. It broke from Auriol, who
vainly strove to burst from those who held him, and precipitate himself
after Ebba. Soon after this, and while Auriol was gazing into the abyss, a tongue of
blue flame arose from it, danced for a moment in the air, and then
vanished. No sooner was it gone than a figure, shrouded in black
habiliments, and hooded and muffled up like the three other female
forms, slowly ascended from the vault, apparently without support, and
remained motionless at its brink. "Ebba!" exclaimed Auriol, in a voice of despair. "Is it you?" The figure bowed its head, but spoke not. "Sign!" thundered the voice. "Your attempt at self-destruction has
placed you wholly in my power. Sign!" At this injunction, the figure moved slowly towards the table, and to
his unspeakable horror, Auriol beheld it take up the pen and write upon
the parchment. He bent forward, and saw that the name inscribed thereon
was EBBA THORNEYCROFT. The groan to which he gave utterance was echoed by a roar of diabolical
laughter. The figure then moved slowly away, and ranged itself with the other
veiled forms. "All is accomplished," cried the voice. "Away with him!" On this, a terrible clangour was heard; the lights were extinguished;
and Auriol was dragged through the doorway from which he had been
brought forth. END OF THE FIRST BOOK
INTERMEAN
1800
CHAPTER I
THE TOMB OF THE ROSICRUCIAN
On the night of the 1st of March 1800, and at a late hour, a man,
wrapped in a large horseman's cloak, and of strange and sinister
appearance, entered an old deserted house in the neighbourhood of
Stepney Green. He was tall, carried himself very erect, and seemed in
the full vigour of early manhood; but his features had a worn and
ghastly look, as if bearing the stamp of long-indulged and frightful
excesses, while his dark gleaming eyes gave him an expression almost
diabolical. This person had gained the house from a garden behind it, and now stood
in a large dismantled hall, from which a broad oaken staircase, with
curiously-carved banisters, led to a gallery, and thence to the upper
chambers of the habitation. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Nothing could be more dreary than the aspect
of the place. The richly-moulded ceiling was festooned with spiders'
webs, and in some places had fallen in heaps upon the floor; the glories
of the tapestry upon the walls were obliterated by damps; the squares of
black and white marble, with which the hall was paved, were loosened,
and quaked beneath the footsteps; the wide and empty fireplace yawned
like the mouth of a cavern; the bolts of the closed windows were rusted
in their sockets; and the heaps of dust before the outer door proved
that long years had elapsed since any one had passed through it. Taking a dark lantern from beneath his cloak, the individual in question
gazed for a moment around him, and then, with a sardonic smile playing
upon his features, directed his steps towards a room on the right, the
door of which stood open. This chamber, which was large and cased with oak, was wholly
unfurnished, like the hall, and in an equally dilapidated condition. The
only decoration remaining on its walls was the portrait of a venerable
personage in the cap and gown of Henry the Eighth's time, painted
against a panel--a circumstance which had probably saved it from
destruction--and beneath it, fixed in another panel, a plate of brass,
covered with mystical characters and symbols, and inscribed with the
name "Cyprianus de Rougemont, Fra. R.C." The same name likewise appeared
upon a label beneath the portrait, with the date 1550. Pausing before the portrait, the young man threw the light of the
lantern full upon it, and revealed features somewhat resembling his own
in form, but of a severe and philosophic cast. In the eyes alone could
be discerned the peculiar and terrible glimmer which distinguished his
own glances. After regarding the portrait for some time fixedly, he thus addressed
it:
"Dost hear me, old ancestor?" he cried. "I, thy descendant, Cyprian de
Rougemont, call upon thee to point out where thy gold is hidden? I know
that thou wert a brother of the Rosy Cross--one of the illuminati--and
didst penetrate the mysteries of nature, and enter the region of light. I know, also, that thou wert buried in this house with a vast treasure;
but though I have made diligent search for it, and others have searched
before me, thy grave has never yet been discovered! Listen to me! Methought Satan appeared to me in a dream last night, and bade me come
hither, and I should find what I sought. The conditions he proposed
were, that I should either give him my own soul, or win him that of
Auriol Darcy. I assented. I am here. Where is thy treasure?" After a pause, he struck the portrait with his clenched hand, exclaiming
in a loud voice:
"Dost hear me, I say, old ancestor? I call on thee to give me thy
treasure. Dost hear, I say?" And he repeated the blow with greater violence. Disturbed by the shock, the brass plate beneath the picture started from
its place, and fell to the ground. "What is this?" cried Rougemont, gazing into the aperture left by the
plate. "Ha!--my invocation has been heard!" And, snatching up the lantern, he discovered, at the bottom of a little
recess, about two feet deep, a stone, with an iron ring in the centre of
it. Uttering a joyful cry, he seized the ring, and drew the stone
forward without difficulty, disclosing an open space beyond it. "This, then, is the entrance to my ancestor's tomb," cried Rougemont;
"there can be no doubt of it. The old Rosicrucian has kept his secret
well; but the devil has helped me to wrest it from him. And now to
procure the necessary implements, in case, as is not unlikely, I should
experience further difficulty." With this he hastily quitted the room, but returned almost immediately
with a mallet, a lever, and a pitchfork; armed with which and the
lantern, he crept through the aperture. This done, he found himself at
the head of a stone staircase, which he descended, and came to the
arched entrance of a vault. The door, which was of stout oak, was
locked, but holding up the light towards it, he read the following
inscription:
"POST C.C.L. ANNOS PATEBO, 1550." "In two hundred and fifty years I shall open!" cried Rougemont, "and the
date 1550--why, the exact time is arrived. Old Cyprian must have
foreseen what would happen, and evidently intended to make me his heir. There was no occasion for the devil's interference. And see, the key is
in the lock. So!" And he turned it, and pushing against the door with
some force, the rusty hinges gave way, and it fell inwards. [Illustration: The Tomb of the Rosicrucian.] From the aperture left by the fallen door, a soft and silvery light
streamed forth, and, stepping forward, Rougemont found himself in a
spacious vault, from the ceiling of which hung a large globe of crystal,
containing in its heart a little flame, which diffused a radiance,
gentle as that of the moon, around. This, then, was the ever-burning
lamp of the Rosicrucians, and Rougemont gazed at it with astonishment. Two hundred and fifty years had elapsed since that wondrous flame had
been lighted, and yet it burnt on brightly as ever. Hooped round the
globe was a serpent with its tail in its mouth--an emblem of
eternity--wrought in purest gold; while above it were a pair of silver
wings, in allusion to the soul. Massive chains of the more costly metal,
fashioned like twisted snakes, served as suspenders to the lamp. But Rougemont's astonishment at this marvel quickly gave way to other
feelings, and he gazed around the vault with greedy eyes. It was a septilateral chamber, about eight feet high, built of stone,
and supported by beautifully groined arches. The surface of the masonry
was as smooth and fresh as if the chisel had only just left it. In six of the corners were placed large chests, ornamented with ironwork
of the most exquisite workmanship, and these Rougemont's imagination
pictured as filled with inexhaustible treasure; while in the seventh
corner, near the door, was a beautiful little piece of monumental
sculpture in white marble, representing two kneeling and hooded figures,
holding a veil between them, which partly concealed the entrance to a
small recess. On one of the chests opposite the monument just described
stood a strangely-formed bottle and a cup of antique workmanship, both
encrusted with gems. The walls were covered with circles, squares, and diagrams, and in some
places were ornamented with grotesque carvings. In the centre of the
vault was a round altar, of black marble, covered with a plate of gold,
on which Rougemont read the following inscription:
"Hoc universi compendium unius mihi sepulcrum feci." "Here, then, old Cyprian lies," he cried. And, prompted by some irresistible impulse, he seized the altar by the
upper rim, and overthrew it. The heavy mass of marble fell with a
thundering crash, breaking asunder the flag beneath it. It might be the
reverberation of the vaulted roof, but a deep groan seemed to reproach
the young man for his sacrilege. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Undeterred, however, by this warning,
Rougemont placed the point of the lever between the interstices of the
broken stone, and, exerting all his strength, speedily raised the
fragments, and laid open the grave. Within it, in the garb he wore in life, with his white beard streaming
to his waist, lay the uncoffined body of his ancestor, Cyprian de
Rougemont. The corpse had evidently been carefully embalmed, and the
features were unchanged by decay. Upon the breast, with the hands placed
over it, lay a large book, bound in black vellum, and fastened with
brazen clasps. Instantly possessing himself of this mysterious-looking
volume, Rougemont knelt upon the nearest chest, and opened it. But he
was disappointed in his expectation. All the pages he examined were
filled with cabalistic characters, which he was totally unable to
decipher. At length, however, he chanced upon one page the import of which he
comprehended, and he remained for some time absorbed in its
contemplation, while an almost fiendish smile played upon his features. "Aha!" he exclaimed, closing the volume, "I see now the cause of my
extraordinary dream. My ancestor's wondrous power was of infernal
origin--the result, in fact, of a compact with the Prince of Darkness. But what care I for that? Give me wealth--no matter what source it comes
from!--ha! ha!" And seizing the lever, he broke open the chest beside him. It was filled
with bars of silver. The next he visited in the same way was full of
gold. The third was laden with pearls and precious stones; and the rest
contained treasure to an incalculable amount. Rougemont gazed at them in
transports of joy. "At length I have my wish," he cried. "Boundless wealth, and therefore
boundless power, is mine. I can riot in pleasure--riot in vengeance. As
to my soul, I will run the risk of its perdition; but it shall go hard
if I destroy not that of Auriol. His love of play and his passion for
Edith Talbot shall be the means by which I will work. But I must not
neglect another agent which is offered me. That bottle, I have learnt
from yon volume, contains an infernal potion, which, without destroying
life, shatters the brain, and creates maddening fancies. It will well
serve my purpose; and I thank thee, Satan, for the gift." CHAPTER II
THE COMPACT
About two months after this occurrence, and near midnight, a young man
was hurrying along Pall Mall, with a look of the wildest despair, when
his headlong course was suddenly arrested by a strong grasp, while a
familiar voice sounded in his ear. "It is useless to meditate self-destruction, Auriol Darcy," cried the
person who had checked him. "If you find life a burden, I can make it
tolerable to you." Turning round at the appeal, Auriol beheld a tall man, wrapped in a long
black cloak, whose sinister features were well known to him. "Leave me, Rougemont!" he cried fiercely. "I want no society--above all,
not yours. You know very well that you have ruined me, and that nothing
more is to be got from me. Leave me, I say, or I may do you a mischief." "Tut, tut, Auriol, I am your friend!" replied Rougemont. "I purpose to
relieve your distress." "Will you give me back the money you have won from me?" cried Auriol. "Will you pay my inexorable creditors? Will you save me from a prison?" "I will do all this, and more," replied Rougemont. "I will make you one
of the richest men in London." "Spare your insulting jests, sir," cried Auriol. "I am in no mood to
bear them." "I am not jesting," rejoined Rougemont. "Come with me, and you shall be
convinced of my sincerity." Auriol at length assented, and they turned into Saint James's Square,
and paused before a magnificent house. Rougemont ascended the steps. Auriol, who had accompanied him almost mechanically, gazed at him with
astonishment. "Do you live here?" he inquired. "Ask no questions," replied Rougemont, knocking at the door, which was
instantly opened by a hall porter, while other servants in rich liveries
appeared at a distance. Rougemont addressed a few words in an undertone
to them, and they instantly bowed respectfully to Auriol, while the
foremost of them led the way up a magnificent staircase. All this was a mystery to the young man, but he followed his conductor
without a word, and was presently ushered into a gorgeously-furnished
and brilliantly-illuminated apartment. The servant then left them; and as soon as he was gone Auriol exclaimed,
"Is it to mock me that you have brought me hither?" "To mock you--no," replied Rougemont. "I have told you that I mean to
make you rich. But you look greatly exhausted. A glass of wine will
revive you." And as he spoke, he stepped towards a small cabinet, and took from it a
curiously-shaped bottle and a goblet. "Taste this wine--it has been long in our family," he added, filling the
cup. "It is a strange, bewildering drink," cried Auriol, setting down the
empty goblet, and passing his hand before his eyes. "You have taken it upon an empty stomach--that is all," said Rougemont. "You will be better anon." "I feel as if I were going mad," cried Auriol. "It is some damnable
potion you have given me." "Ha! ha!" laughed Rougemont. "It reminds you of the elixir you once
quaffed--eh?" "A truce to this raillery!" cried Auriol angrily. "I have said I am in
no mood to bear it." "Pshaw! I mean no offence," rejoined the other, changing his manner. "What think you of this house?" "That it is magnificent," replied Auriol, gazing around. "I envy you its
possession." "It shall be yours, if you please," replied Rougemont. "Mine! you are mocking me again." "Not in the least. You shall buy it from me, if you please." "At what price?" asked Auriol bitterly. "At a price you can easily pay," replied the other. "Come this way, and
we will conclude the bargain." Proceeding towards the farther end of the room, they entered a small
exquisitely-furnished chamber, surrounded with sofas of the most
luxurious description. In the midst was a table, on which writing
materials were placed. "It were a fruitless boon to give you this house without the means of
living in it," said Rougemont, carefully closing the door. "This
pocket-book will furnish you with them." [Illustration: The Compact.] "Notes to an immense amount!" cried Auriol, opening the pocket-book, and
glancing at its contents. "They are yours, together with the house," cried Rougemont, "if you will
but sign a compact with me." "A compact!" cried Auriol, regarding him with a look of undefinable
terror. "Who and what are you?" "Some men would call me the devil!" replied Rougemont carelessly. "But
you know me too well to suppose that I merit such a designation. I offer
you wealth. What more could you require?" "But upon what terms?" demanded Auriol. "The easiest imaginable," replied the other. "You shall judge for
yourself." And as he spoke, he opened a writing-desk upon the table, and took from
it a parchment. "Sit down," he added, "and read this." | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Auriol complied, and as he scanned the writing he became transfixed with
fear and astonishment, while the pocket-book dropped from his grasp. After a while he looked up at Rougemont, who was leaning over his
shoulder, and whose features were wrinkled with a derisive smile. "Then you _are_ the Fiend?" he cried. "If you will have it so--certainly," replied the other. "You are Satan in the form of the man I once knew," cried Auriol. "Avaunt! I will have no dealings with you." "I thought you wiser than to indulge in such idle fears, Darcy,"
rejoined the other. "Granting even your silly notion of me to be
correct, why need you be alarmed? You are immortal." "True," rejoined Auriol thoughtfully; "but yet----"
"Pshaw!" rejoined the other, "sign, and have done with the matter." "By this compact I am bound to deliver a victim--a female
victim--whenever you shall require it," cried Auriol. "Precisely," replied the other; "you can have no difficulty in
fulfilling that condition." "But if I fail in doing so, I am doomed----"
"But you will _not_ fail," interrupted the other, lighting a taper and
sealing the parchment. "Now sign it." Auriol mechanically took the pen, and gazed fixedly on the document. "I shall bring eternal destruction on myself if I sign it," he muttered. "A stroke of the pen will rescue you from utter ruin," said Rougemont,
leaning over his shoulder. "Riches and happiness are yours. You will not
have such another chance." "Tempter!" cried Auriol, hastily attaching his signature to the paper. But he instantly started back aghast at the fiendish laugh that rang in
his ears. "I repent--give it me back!" he cried, endeavouring to snatch the
parchment, which Rougemont thrust into his bosom. "It is too late!" cried the latter, in a triumphant tone. "You are
mine--irredeemably mine." "Ha!" exclaimed Auriol, sinking back on the couch. "I leave you in possession of your house," pursued Rougemont; "but I
shall return in a week, when I shall require my first victim." "Your first victim! oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Auriol. "Ay, and my choice falls on Edith Talbot!" replied Rougemont. "Edith Talbot!" exclaimed Auriol; "she your victim! Think you I would
resign her I love better than life to you?" "It is because she loves you that I have chosen her," rejoined
Rougemont, with a bitter laugh. "And such will ever be the case with
you. Seek not to love again, for your passion will be fatal to the
object of it. When the week has elapsed, I shall require Edith at your
hands. Till then, farewell!" "Stay!" cried Auriol. "I break the bargain with thee, fiend. I will have
none of it. I abjure thee." And he rushed wildly after Rougemont, who had already gained the larger
chamber; but, ere he could reach him, the mysterious individual had
passed through the outer door, and when Auriol emerged upon the gallery,
he was nowhere to be seen. Several servants immediately answered the frantic shouts of the young
man, and informed him that Mr. Rougemont had quitted the house some
moments ago, telling them that their master was perfectly satisfied with
the arrangements he had made for him. "And we hope nothing has occurred to alter your opinion, sir?" said the
hall porter. "You are sure Mr. Rougemont is gone?" cried Auriol. "Oh, quite sure, sir," cried the hall porter. "I helped him on with his
cloak myself. He said he should return this day week." "If he comes I will not see him," cried Auriol sharply; "mind that. Deny
me to him; and on no account whatever let him enter the house." "Your orders shall be strictly obeyed," replied the porter, staring with
surprise. "Now leave me," cried Auriol. And as they quitted him, he added, in a tone and with a gesture of the
deepest despair, "All precautions are useless. I am indeed lost!" CHAPTER III
IRRESOLUTION
On returning to the cabinet, where his fatal compact with Rougemont had
been signed, Auriol perceived the pocket-book lying on the floor near
the table, and, taking it up, he was about to deposit it in the
writing-desk, when an irresistible impulse prompted him once more to
examine its contents. Unfolding the roll of notes, he counted them, and
found they amounted to more than a hundred thousand pounds. The sight of
so much wealth, and the thought of the pleasure and the power it would
procure him, gradually dispelled his fears, and arising in a transport
of delight, he exclaimed--"Yes, yes--all obstacles are now removed! When
Mr. Talbot finds I am become thus wealthy, he will no longer refuse me
his daughter. But I am mad," he added, suddenly checking himself--"worse
than mad, to indulge such hopes. If it be indeed the Fiend to whom I
have sold myself, I have no help from perdition! If it be man, I am
scarcely less terribly fettered. In either case, I will not remain here
longer; nor will I avail myself of this accursed money, which has
tempted me to my undoing." And, hurling the pocket-book to the farther end of the room, he was
about to pass through the door, when a mocking laugh arrested him. He
looked round with astonishment and dread, but could see no one. After a
while, he again moved forward, but a voice, which he recognised as that
of Rougemont, called upon him to stay. "It will be in vain to fly," said the unseen speaker. "You cannot escape
me. Whether you remain here or not--whether you use the wealth I have
given you, or leave it behind you--you cannot annul your bargain. With
this knowledge, you are at liberty to go. But remember, on the seventh
night from this I shall require Edith Talbot from you!" "Where are you, fiend?" demanded Auriol, gazing around furiously. "Show
yourself, that I may confront you." A mocking laugh was the only response deigned to this injunction. "Give me back the compact," cried Auriol imploringly. "It was signed in
ignorance. I knew not the price I was to pay for your assistance. Wealth
is of no value to me without Edith." "Without wealth you could not obtain her," replied the voice. "You are
only, therefore, where you were. But you will think better of the
bargain to-morrow. Meanwhile, I counsel you to place the money you have
so unwisely cast from you safely under lock and key, and to seek repose. You will awaken with very different thoughts in the morning." "How am I to account for my sudden accession of wealth?" inquired
Auriol, after a pause. "You a gambler, and ask that question!" returned the unseen stranger,
with a bitter laugh. "But I will make your mind easy on that score. As
regards the house, you will find a regular conveyance of it within that
writing-desk, while the note lying on the table, which bears your
address, comes from me, and announces the payment of a hundred and
twenty thousand pounds to you, as a debt of honour. You see I have
provided against every difficulty. And now, farewell!" The voice was then hushed; and though Auriol addressed several other
questions to the unseen speaker, no answer was returned him. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
After some moments of irresolution, Auriol once more took up the
pocket-book, and deposited it in the writing-desk, in which he found, as
he had been led to expect, a deed conveying the house to him. He then
opened the note lying upon the table, and found its contents accorded
with what had just been told him. Placing it with the pocket-book, he
locked the writing-desk, exclaiming, "It is useless to struggle
further--I must yield to fate!" This done, he went into the adjoining room, and, casting his eyes about,
remarked the antique bottle and flagon. The latter was filled to the
brim--how or with what, Auriol paused not to examine; but seizing the
cup with desperation, he placed it to his lips, and emptied it at a
draught. A species of intoxication, but pleasing as that produced by opium,
presently succeeded. All his fears left him, and in their place the
gentlest and most delicious fancies arose. Surrendering himself
delightedly to their influence, he sank upon a couch, and for some time
was wrapped in a dreamy elysium, imagining himself wandering with Edith
Talbot in a lovely garden, redolent of sweets, and vocal with the melody
of birds. Their path led through a grove, in the midst of which was a
fountain; and they were hastening towards its marble brink, when all at
once Edith uttered a scream, and, starting back, pointed to a large
black snake lying before her, and upon which she would have trodden the
next moment. Auriol sprang forward and tried to crush the reptile with
his heel; but, avoiding the blow, it coiled around his leg, and plunged
its venom teeth into his flesh. The anguish occasioned by the imaginary
wound roused him from his slumber, and looking up, he perceived that a
servant was in attendance. Bowing obsequiously, the man inquired whether he had occasion for
anything. "Show me to my bedroom--that is all I require," replied Auriol, scarcely
able to shake off the effect of the vision. And, getting up, he followed the man, almost mechanically, out of the
room. CHAPTER IV
EDITH TALBOT
It was late when Auriol arose on the following morning. At first,
finding himself in a large and most luxuriantly-furnished chamber, he
was at a loss to conceive how he came there, and it was some time before
he could fully recall the mysterious events of the previous night. As
had been foretold, however, by Rougemont, his position did not cause him
so much anxiety as before. After attiring himself, he descended to the lower apartments, in one of
which a sumptuous breakfast awaited him; and having partaken of it, he
took a complete survey of the house, and found it larger and more
magnificent even than he had supposed it. He next supplied himself from
the pocket-book with a certain sum, for which he fancied he might have
occasion in the course of the day, and sallied forth. His first business
was to procure a splendid carriage and horses, and to order some new and
rich habiliments to be made with the utmost expedition. He then proceeded towards May Fair, and knocked at the door of a large
house at the upper end of Curzon Street. His heart beat violently as he
was shown into an elegant drawing-room, and his trepidation momentarily
increased, until the servant reappeared and expressed his regret that
he had misinformed him in stating that Miss Talbot was at home. Both she
and Mr. Talbot, he said, had gone out about half-an-hour ago. Auriol
looked incredulous, but without making any remark, departed. Hurrying
home, he wrote a few lines to Mr. Talbot, announcing the sudden and
extraordinary change in his fortune, and formally demanding the hand of
Edith. He was about to despatch this letter, when a note was brought him
by his servant. It was from Edith. Having ascertained his new address
from his card, she wrote to assure him of her constant attachment. Transported by this proof of her affection, Auriol half devoured the
note with kisses, and instantly sent off his own letter to her
father--merely adding a few words to say that he would call for an
answer on the morrow. But he had not to wait thus long for a reply. Ere
an hour had elapsed, Mr. Talbot brought it in person. Mr. Talbot was a man of about sixty--tall, thin, and gentlemanlike in
deportment, with grey hair, and black eyebrows, which lent considerable
expression to the orbs beneath them. His complexion was a bilious brown,
and he possessed none of the good looks which in his daughter had so
captivated Auriol, and which it is to be presumed, therefore, she
inherited from her mother. A thorough man of the world, though not an unamiable person, Mr. Talbot
was entirely influenced by selfish considerations. He had hitherto
looked with an unfavourable eye upon Auriol's attentions to his
daughter, from a notion that the connection would be very undesirable in
a pecuniary point of view; but the magnificence of the house in Saint
James's Square, which fully bore out Auriol's account of his
newly-acquired wealth, wrought a complete change in his opinions, and he
soon gave the young man to understand that he should be delighted to
have him for a son-in-law. Finding him so favourably disposed, Auriol
entreated him to let the marriage take place--within three days, if
possible. Mr. Talbot was greatly grieved that he could not comply with his young
friend's request, but he was obliged to start the next morning for
Nottingham, and could not possibly return under three days. "But we can be married before you go?" cried Auriol. "Scarcely, I fear," replied Mr. Talbot, smiling blandly. "You must
control your impatience, my dear young friend. On the sixth day from
this--that is, on Wednesday in next week--we are now at Friday--you
shall be made happy." The coincidence between this appointment, and the time fixed by
Rougemont for the delivery of his victim, struck Auriol forcibly. His
emotion, however, escaped Mr. Talbot, who soon after departed, having
engaged his future son-in-law to dine with him at seven o'clock. Auriol, it need scarcely be said, was punctual to the hour, or, rather,
he anticipated it. He found Edith alone in the drawing-room, and seated
near the window, which was filled with choicest flowers. On seeing him,
she uttered an exclamation of joy, and sprang to meet him. The young man
pressed his lips fervently to the little hand extended to him. Edith Talbot was a lovely brunette. Her features were regular, and her
eyes, which were perfectly splendid, were dark, almond-shaped, and of
almost Oriental languor. Her hair, which she wore braided over her brow
and gathered behind in a massive roll, was black and glossy as a raven's
wing. Her cheeks were dimpled, her lips of velvet softness, and her
teeth like ranges of pearls. Perfect grace accompanied all her
movements, and one only wondered that feet so small as those she
possessed should have the power of sustaining a form which, though
lightsome, was yet rounded in its proportions. "You have heard, dear Edith, that your father has consented to our
union?" | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
said Auriol, after gazing at her for a few moments in silent
admiration. Edith murmured an affirmative, and blushed deeply. "He has fixed Wednesday next," pursued Auriol; "but I wish an earlier
day could have been named. I have a presentiment that if our marriage is
so long delayed, it will not take place at all." "You are full of misgivings, Auriol," she replied. "I confess it," he said; "and my apprehensions have risen to such a
point, that I feel disposed to urge you to a private marriage, during
your father's absence." "Oh no, Auriol; much as I love you, I could never consent to such a
step," she cried. "You cannot urge me to it. I would not abuse my dear
father's trusting love. I have never deceived him, and that is the best
assurance I can give you that I shall never deceive you." Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Talbot, who
held out both his hands to Auriol, and professed the greatest delight to
see him. And no doubt he was sincere. The dinner passed off most
pleasantly, and so did the evening; for the old gentleman was in high
spirits, and his hilarity was communicated to the young couple. When
Auriol and Mr. Talbot went up-stairs to tea, they found that Edith's
aunt, Mrs. Maitland, had arrived to take charge of her during her
father's absence. This lady had always exhibited a partiality for
Auriol, and had encouraged his suit to her niece; consequently she was
well satisfied with the turn affairs had taken. It was near midnight
before Auriol could tear himself away; and when he rose to depart, Mr.
Talbot, who had yawned frequently, but fruitlessly, to give him a hint,
told him he might depend upon seeing him back on the evening of the
third day, and in the meantime he committed him to the care of Mrs.
Maitland and Edith. Three days flew by rapidly and delightfully; and on the evening of the
last, just as the little party were assembled in the drawing-room, after
dinner, Mr. Talbot returned from this journey. "Well, here I am!" he cried, clasping Edith to his bosom, "without
having encountered any misadventure. On the contrary, I have completed
my business to my entire satisfaction." "Oh, how delighted I am to see you, dear papa!" exclaimed Edith. "Now,
Auriol, you can have no more apprehensions." "Apprehensions of what?" cried Mr. Talbot. "Of some accident befalling you, which might have interfered with our
happiness, sir," replied Auriol. "Oh, lovers are full of idle fears!" cried Mr. Talbot. "They are
unreasonable beings. However, here I am, as I said before, safe and
sound. To-morrow we will finish all preliminary arrangements, and the
day after you shall be made happy--ha! ha!" "Do you know, papa, Auriol intends to give a grand ball on our
wedding-day, and has invited all his acquaintance to it?" remarked
Edith. "I hope you have not invited Cyprian Rougemont?" said Mr. Talbot,
regarding him fixedly. "I have not, sir," replied Auriol, turning pale. "But why do you
particularise him?" "Because I have heard some things of him not much to his credit,"
replied Mr. Talbot. "What--what have you heard, sir?" demanded Auriol. "Why, one shouldn't believe all the ill one hears of a man; and, indeed,
I _cannot_ believe all I have heard of Cyprian Rougemont," replied Mr.
Talbot; "but I should be glad if you dropped his acquaintance
altogether. And now let us change the subject." Mr. Talbot seated himself beside Mrs. Maitland, and began to give her
some account of his journey, which appeared to have been as pleasant as
it had been rapid. Unable to shake off the gloom which had stolen over him, Auriol took his
leave, promising to meet Mr. Talbot at his lawyer's in Lincoln's Inn, at
noon on the following day. He was there at the time appointed, and, to
Mr. Talbot's great delight, and the no small surprise of the lawyer,
paid over a hundred thousand pounds, to be settled on his future wife. "You are a perfect man of honour, Auriol," said Mr. Talbot, clapping him
on the shoulder, "and I hope Edith will make you an excellent wife. Indeed, I have no doubt of it." "Nor I,--if I ever possess her," mentally ejaculated Auriol. The morning passed in other preparations. In the evening the lovers met
as usual, and separated with the full persuasion, on Edith's part at
least, that the next day would make them happy. Since the night of the
compact, Auriol had neither seen Rougemont, nor heard from him, and he
neglected no precaution to prevent his intrusion. CHAPTER V
THE SEVENTH NIGHT
It was a delicious morning in May, and the sun shone brightly on
Auriol's gorgeous equipage, as he drove to St. George's, Hanover Square,
where he was united to Edith. Thus far all seemed auspicious, and he
thought he could now bill defiance to fate. With the object of his love
close beside him, and linked to him by the strongest and holiest ties,
it seemed impossible she could be snatched from him. Nothing occurred
during the morning to give him uneasiness, and he gave orders that a
carriage and four should be ready an hour before midnight, to convey him
and his bride to Richmond, where they were to spend their honeymoon. Night came, and with it began to arrive the guests who were bidden to
the ball. No expense had been spared by Auriol to give splendour to his
fete. It was in all respects magnificent. The amusements of the evening
commenced with a concert, which was performed by the first singers from
the Italian Opera; after which, the ball was opened by Auriol and his
lovely bride. As soon as the dance was over, Auriol made a sign to an
attendant, who instantly disappeared. "Are you prepared to quit this gay scene with me, Edith?" he asked, with
a heart swelling with rapture. [Illustration: The significant whisper.] "Quite so," she replied, gazing at him with tenderness; "I long to be
alone with you." "Come, then," said Auriol. Edith arose, and passing her arm under that of her husband, they quitted
the ball-room, but in place of descending the principal staircase, they
took a more private course. The hall, which they were obliged to cross,
and which they entered from a side-door, was spacious and beautifully
proportioned, and adorned with numerous statues on pedestals. The
ceiling was decorated with fresco paintings, and supported by two
stately scagliola pillars. From between these, a broad staircase of
white marble ascended to the upper room. As Auriol had foreseen, the
staircase was thronged with guests ascending to the ball-room, the doors
of which being open, afforded glimpses of the dancers, and gave forth
strains of liveliest music. Anxious to avoid a newly-arrived party in
the hall, Auriol and his bride lingered for a moment near a pillar. "Ha! who is this?" cried Edith, as a tall man, with a sinister
countenance, and habited entirely in black, moved from the farther side
of the pillar, and planted himself in their path, with his back partly
towards them. A thrill of apprehension passed through Auriol's frame. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
He looked up and
beheld Rougemont, who, glancing over his shoulder, fixed his malignant
gaze upon him. Retreat was now impossible. "You thought to delude me," said Rougemont, in a deep whisper, audible
only to Auriol; "but you counted without your host. I am come to claim
my victim." "What is the matter with you, that you tremble so, dear Auriol?" cried
Edith. "Who is this strange person?" But her husband returned no answer. Terror had taken away his power of
utterance. "Your carriage waits for you at the door, madam--all is prepared," said
Rougemont, advancing towards her, and taking her hand. "You are coming, Auriol?" cried Edith, who scarcely knew whether to draw
back or go forward. "Yes--yes," cried Auriol, who fancied he saw a means of escape. "This is
my friend, Mr. Rougemont--go with him." "Mr. Rougemont!" cried Edith. "You told my father he would not be here." "Your husband did not invite me, madam," said Rougemont, with sarcastic
emphasis; "but knowing I should be welcome, I came unasked. But let us
avoid those persons." In another moment they were at the door. The carriage was there with its
four horses, and a man-servant, in travelling attire, stood beside the
steps. Reassured by the sight, Auriol recovered his courage, and
suffered Rougemont to throw a cloak over Edith's shoulders. The next
moment she tripped up the steps of the carriage, and was ensconced
within it. Auriol was about to follow her, when he received a violent
blow on the chest, which stretched him on the pavement. Before he could
regain his feet, Rougemont had sprung into the carriage. The steps were
instantly put up by the man-servant, who mounted the box with the utmost
celerity, while the postillions, plunging spurs into their horses,
dashed off with lightning speed. As the carriage turned the corner of
King Street, Auriol, who had just arisen, beheld, by the light of a
lamp, Rougemont's face at the window of the carriage, charged with an
expression of the most fiendish triumph. "What is the matter?" cried Mr. Talbot, who had approached Auriol, "I
came to bid you good-bye. Why do I find you here alone? Where is the
carriage?--what has become of Edith?" "She is in the power of the Fiend, and I have sold her to him," replied
Auriol gloomily. "What mean you, wretch?" cried Mr. Talbot, in a voice of distraction. "I
heard that Cyprian Rougemont was here. Can it be he that has gone off
with her?" "You have hit the truth," replied Auriol. "He bought her with the money
I gave you. I have sold her and myself to perdition!" "Horror!" exclaimed the old man, falling backwards. "Ay, breathe your last--breathe your last!" cried Auriol wildly. "Would
I could yield up my life, likewise!" And he hurried away, utterly unconscious whither he went. END OF THE INTERMEAN
BOOK THE SECOND
_CYPRIAN ROUGEMONT_
CHAPTER I
THE CELL
Mr. Thorneycroft and his companions had scarcely gained a passage in the
deserted house, which they had entered in the manner described in a
previous chapter, when they were alarmed by the sudden and furious
ringing of a bell overhead. The noise brought them instantly to a halt,
and each man grasped his arms in expectation of an attack, but the peal
ceasing in a few moments, and all continuing quiet, they moved on as
before, and presently reached a large hall with a lofty window over the
door, which, being without shutters, afforded light enough to reveal the
dilapidated condition of the mansion. From this hall four side doors opened, apparently communicating with
different chambers, three of which were cautiously tried by Reeks, but
they proved to be fastened. The fourth, however, yielded to his touch,
and admitted them to a chamber, which seemed to have been recently
occupied, for a lamp was burning within it. The walls were panelled with
dusky oak, and hung at the lower end with tapestry, representing the
Assyrian monarch Ninus, and his captive Zoroaster, King of the
Bactrians. The chief furniture consisted of three large high-backed and
grotesquely-carved arm-chairs, near one of which stood a powerful
electrical machine. Squares and circles were traced upon the floor, and
here and there were scattered cups and balls, and other matters
apparently belonging to a conjuring apparatus. The room might be the retreat of a man of science, or it might be the
repository of a juggler. But whoever its occupant was, and whatsoever
his pursuits, the good things of the world were not altogether neglected
by him, as was proved by a table spread with viands, and furnished with
glasses, together with a couple of taper-necked bottles. While glancing upwards, Mr. Thorneycroft remarked that just above each
chair the ceiling was pierced with a round hole, the meaning of which he
could not at the time comprehend, though after circumstances
sufficiently explained it to him. "A singular room," he observed to Reeks, on concluding his survey. "Did
you expect to find any one here?" "I hardly know," replied the other. "That bell may have given the alarm. But I will soon ascertain the point. Remain here till I return." "You are not going to leave us?" rejoined Mr. Thorneycroft uneasily. "Only for a moment," said Reeks. "Keep quiet, and no harm will befall
you. Whatever you may hear without, do not stir." "What are we likely to hear?" asked Thorneycroft with increasing
trepidation. "That's impossible to say," answered Reeks; "but I warn you not to cry
out unnecessarily, as such an imprudence would endanger our safety." "You are quite sure you don't mean to abandon us?" persisted
Thorneycroft. "Make yourself easy; I have no such intention," rejoined Reeks sternly. "Oh! ve'll take care on you, don't be afeerd, old gent," said Ginger. "Yes, ve'll take care on you," added the Tinker and the Sandman. "You may depend upon them as upon me, sir," said Reeks. "Before we
explore the subterranean apartments, I wish to see whether any one is
up-stairs." "Wot's that you say about subterranean apartments, Mr. Reeks?" interposed Ginger. "Ve ain't a-goin' below, eh?" But without paying any attention to the inquiry, Reeks quitted the room,
and closed the door carefully after him. He next crossed the hall, and
cautiously ascending a staircase at the farther end of it, reached the
landing-place. Beyond it was a gallery, from which several chambers
opened. Advancing a few paces, he listened intently, and hearing a slight sound
in an apartment to the right, he stepped softly towards it, and placing
his eye to the keyhole, beheld a tall man, dressed in black, pacing to
and fro with rapid strides, while three other persons, wrapped in sable
gowns, and disguised with hideous masks, stood silent and motionless at
a little distance from him. In the tall man he recognised Cyprian
Rougemont. Upon a table in the middle of the room was laid a large open
volume, bound in black vellum. Near it stood a lamp, which served to
illumine the scene. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Suddenly, Rougemont stopped, and turning over several leaves of the
book, which were covered with cabalistic characters, appeared in search
of some magic formula. Before he could find it, however, a startling
interruption occurred. An alarum-bell, fixed against the wall, began to
ring, and at the same moment the doors of a cabinet flew open, and a
large ape (for such it seemed to Reeks), clothed in a woollen shirt and
drawers, sprang forth, and bounding upon the table beside Rougemont,
placed its mouth to his ear. The communication thus strangely made
seemed highly displeasing to Rougemont, who knitted his brows, and
delivered some instructions in an undertone to the monkey. The animal
nodded its head in token of obedience, jumped off the table, and bounded
back to the cabinet, the doors of which closed as before. Rougemont next
took up the lamp, with the evident intention of quitting the room,
seeing which, Reeks hastily retreated to an adjoining chamber, the door
of which was fortunately open, and had scarcely gained its shelter when
the four mysterious personages appeared on the gallery. Reeks heard
their footsteps descending the staircase, and then, creeping cautiously
after them, watched them across the hall, and pause before the chamber
containing Mr. Thorneycroft and his companions. After a moment's
deliberation, Rougemont noiselessly locked the door, took out the key,
and leaving two of his attendants on guard, returned with the third
towards the staircase. Without tarrying to confront them, Reeks started back, and hurried along
the gallery till he came to a back staircase, which conducted him, by
various descents, to the basement floor, where, after traversing one or
two vaults, he entered a subterranean passage, arched overhead, and
having several openings at the sides, apparently communicating with
other passages. It was lighted at intervals by lamps, which emitted a
feeble radiance. By the light of one of these, Reeks discovered the door of a cell. It
was of iron, and as he struck it with his hand, returned a hollow
clangour. On repeating the blow, a hoarse voice from within cried,
"Leave me in peace!" "Is it Auriol Darcy who speaks?" demanded Reeks. "It is," replied the prisoner. "Who are you that put the question?" "A friend," replied Reeks. "I have no friend here," said Auriol. "You are mistaken," rejoined Reeks. "I have come with Mr. Thorneycroft
to deliver you." "Mr. Thorneycroft has come too late. He has lost his daughter," replied
Auriol. "What has happened to her?" demanded Reeks. "She is in the power of the Fiend," replied Auriol. "I know she is detained by Cyprian Rougemont," said Reeks. "But what has
befallen her?" "She has become like his other victims--like _my_ victims!" cried Auriol
distractedly. "Do not despair," rejoined Reeks. "She may yet be saved." "Saved! how?" cried Auriol. "All is over." "So it may seem to you," rejoined Reeks; "but you are the victim of
delusion." "Oh that I could think so!" exclaimed Auriol. "But no--I saw her fall
into the pit. I beheld her veiled figure rise from it. I witnessed her
signature to the fatal scroll. There could be no illusion in what I then
beheld." "Despite all this, you will see her again," said Reeks. "Who are you who give me this promise?" asked Auriol. "As I have already declared, a friend," replied Reeks. "Are you human?" "As yourself." "Then you seek in vain to struggle with the powers of darkness," said
Auriol. "I have no fear of Cyprian Rougemont," rejoined Reeks, with a laugh. "Your voice seems familiar to me," said Auriol. "Tell me who you are?" "You shall know anon," replied Reeks. "But, hist!--we are interrupted. Some one approaches." CHAPTER II
THE ENCHANTED CHAIRS
More than ten minutes had elapsed since Reeks' departure, and Mr.
Thorneycroft, who had hitherto had some difficulty in repressing his
anger, now began to give vent to it in muttered threats and complaints. His impatience was shared by the Tinker, who, stepping up to Ginger,
said--
"Wot the devil can Mr. Reeks be about? I hope nuffin' has happened to
him." "Don't mention a certain gent's name here," remarked Ginger; "or if you
do, treat it vith proper respect." "Pshaw!" exclaimed the Tinker impatiently; "I don't like a man stayin'
avay in this manner. It looks suspicious. I wotes ve goes and sees arter
him. Ve can leave the old gent to take a keviet nap by himself. Don't
disturb yourself, sir. Ve'll only jist giv' a look about us, and then
come back." "Stay where you are, rascal!" cried Thorneycroft angrily. "I won't be
left. Stay where you are, I command you!" "Vell, ve've got a noo captain, I'm a-thinkin'," said the Tinker,
winking at the others. "Ve've no vish to disobleege you, sir. I'll only
jist peep out into the hall, and see if Mr. Reeks is anyvhere
thereabouts. Vy, zounds!" he added, as he tried the door, "it's
locked!" "What's locked?" cried Thorneycroft in dismay. "The door, to be sure," replied the Tinker. "Ve're prisoners." "O Lord, you don't say so!" cried the iron-merchant in an agony of
fright. "What will become of us?" A roar of laughter from the others converted his terror into fury. "I see how it is," he cried. "You have entrapped me, ruffians. It's all
a trick. You mean to murder me. But I'll sell my life dearly. The first
who approaches shall have his brains blown out." And as he spoke, he
levelled a pistol at the Tinker's head. "Holloa! wot are you arter, sir?" cried that individual, sheltering his
head with his hands. "You're a-labourin' under a mistake--a complete
mistake. If it is a trap, ve're catched in it as vell as yourself." "To be sure ve is," added the Sandman. "Sit down, and vait a bit. I
dessay Mr. Reeks'll come back, and it von't do no good gettin' into a
passion." "Well, well, I must resign myself, I suppose," groaned Thorneycroft,
sinking into a chair. "It's a terrible situation to be placed in--shut
up in a haunted house." "I've been in many much vurser sitivations," observed Ginger, "and I
alvays found the best vay to get out on 'em wos to take things quietly." "Besides, there's no help for it," said the Tinker, seating himself. "That remains to be seen," observed the Sandman, taking the chair
opposite Thorneycroft. "If Reeks don't come back soon, I'll bust open
the door." "Plenty o' time for that," said Ginger, sauntering towards the table on
which the provisions were spread; "wot do you say to a mouthful o'
wittles?" "I wouldn't touch 'em for the world," replied the Sandman. "Nor I," added the Tinker; "they may be pisoned." "Pisoned--nonsense!" cried Ginger; "don't you see some von has been
a-takin' his supper here? I'll jist finish it for him." "Vith all my 'art," said the Tinker. "Don't touch it on any account," cried Mr. Thorneycroft. "I agree with
your companions, it may be poisoned." "Oh! I ain't afeerd," cried Ginger, helping himself to a dish before
him. "As good a pigeon-pie as ever I tasted. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Your health, Mr.
Thorneycroft," he added, filling a goblet from one of the bottles. "My
service to you, gents. Famous tipple, by Jove!" drawing a long breath
after the draught, and smacking his lips with amazing satisfaction. "Never tasted sich a glass o' wine in all my born days," he continued,
replenishing the goblet: "I wonder wot it's called?" "Prussic acid," replied Mr. Thorneycroft gruffly. "Proossic fiddlestick!" cried Ginger; "more likely Tokay. I shall finish
the bottle, and never be the vorse for it!" "He's gettin' svipy," said the Tinker. "I vonder vether it's really
Tokay?" "No such thing," cried Thorneycroft; "let him alone." "I must taste it," said the Tinker, unable to resist the temptation. "Here, give us a glass, Ginger!" "Vith pleasure," replied Ginger, filling a goblet to the brim, and
handing it to him. "You'd better be perwailed upon, Sandy." "Vell, I s'pose I must," replied the Sandman, taking the goblet
proffered him. "Here's the beaks' healths!" cried Ginger. "I gives that toast 'cos
they're alvays so kind to us dog-fanciers." "Dog-fanciers--say, rather, dog-stealers; for that's the name such
vagabonds deserve to be known by," said Mr. Thorneycroft with some
asperity. "Vell, ve von't quarrel about names," replied Ginger, laughing, "but
I'll relate a circumstance to you as'll prove that wotever your opinion
of our wocation may be, the beaks upholds it." "There can be but one opinion as to your nefarious profession," said Mr.
Thorneycroft, "and that is, that it's as bad as horse-stealing and
sheep-stealing, and should be punished as those offences are punished." "So I think, sir," said Ginger, winking at the others; "but to my story,
and don't interrupt me, or I can't get through vith it properly. There's
a gent livin' not a hundred miles from Pall Mall, as the noospapers
says, as had a favourite Scotch terrier, not worth more nor half-a-crown
to any one but hisself, but highly wallerable to him, 'cos it wos a
favourite. Vell, the dog is lost. A pal of mine gets hold on it, and the
gent soon offers a reward for its recovery. This don't bring it back
quite so soon as he expects, 'cos he don't offer enough; so he goes to
an agent, Mr. Simpkins, in the Edger Road, and Mr. Simpkins says to
him--says he, 'How are you, sir? I expected you some days ago. You've
com'd about that ere Scotch terrier. You've got a wallable greyhound, I
understand. A man told me he'd have that afore long.' Seein' the gent
stare, Mr. S. adds, 'Vel, I'll tell you wot you must give for your dog. The party von't take less than six guineas. He knows it ain't vorth six
shillin', but it's a great favourite, and has given him a precious sight
o' trouble in gettin' it.' 'Give _him_ trouble!' cries the gent
angrily--'and what has it given me? I hope to see the rascal hanged! I
shall pay no such money.' 'Werry vell,' replies Mr. Simpkins coolly,
'then your dog'll be bled to death, as the nobleman's wos, and thrown
down a breathless carkis afore your door.'" "You don't mean to say that such a horrid circumstance as that really
took place?" cried Thorneycroft, who was much interested in the
relation. "Only t'other day, I assure you," replied Ginger. "I'd shoot the ruffian who treated a dog of mine so, if I caught him!" cried Mr. Thorneycroft indignantly. "And sarve him right, too," said Ginger. "I discourages all cruelty to
hanimals. But don't interrupt me again. Arter a bit more chafferin' vith
Mr. Simpkins, the gent offers three pound for his dog, and then goes
avay. Next day he reads a report i' the _Times_ noospaper that a man has
been taken up for dog-stealin', and that a lot o' dogs is shut up in the
green-yard behind the police-office in Bow Street. So he goes there in
search o' his favourite, and sure enough he finds it, but the inspector
von't give it up to him, 'cos the superintendent is out o' the vay." "Shameful!" cried Mr. Thorneycroft. "Shameful, indeed, sir," echoed Ginger, laughing. "Thinkin' his dog safe
enough in the hands o' the police, the gent sleeps soundly that night,
but ven he goes back next mornin' he finds it has disappeared. The
green-yard has been broken into overnight, and all the dogs stolen from
it." "Under the noses of the police?" cried Thorneycroft. "Under their werry noses," replied Ginger. "But now comes the cream o'
the jest. You shall hear wot the beak says to him ven the gent craves
his assistance. 'I can't interfere in the matter,' says he, a-bendin' of
his brows in a majestic manner. 'Parties don't ought to come here vith
complaints of vhich I can't take notice. This place ain't an advertisin'
office, and I sha'n't suffer it to be made von. I von't listen to
statements affectin' the characters of absent parties.' Statements
affectin' _our_ characters,--do you tvig that, sir?" "I do, indeed," said Thorneycroft, sighing; "and I am sorry to think
such a remark should have dropped from the bench." "You're right to say dropped from it, sir," laughed Ginger. "I told you
the beaks vos our best friends; they alvays takes our parts. Ven the
gent urges that it was a subject of ser'ous importance to all
dog-owners, the magistrit angrily interrupts him, sayin'--'Then let
there be a meetin' of dog-owners to discuss their grievances. Don't come
to me. I can't help you.' And he vouldn't if he could, 'cos he's the
dog-fancier's friend." "It looks like it, I must own," replied Thorneycroft. "Such
reprehensible indifference gives encouragement to people of your
profession. Government itself is to blame. As all persons who keep dogs
pay a tax for them, their property ought to be protected." "I'm quite satisfied vith the present state of the law," said Ginger;
"here's the vorthy beak! I'll drink his health a second time." "Halloa! wot's that?" cried the Tinker; "I thought I heerd a noise." "So did I," rejoined the Sandman; "a strange sort o' rumblin' sound
overhead." "There it goes again!" cried Ginger; "wot an awful din!" "Now it's underneath," said Mr. Thorneycroft, turning pale, and
trembling. "It sounds as if some hidden machinery were at work." The noise, which up to this moment had borne an indistinct resemblance
to the creaking of wheels and pulleys, now increased to a violent
clatter, while the house was shaken as if by the explosion of a mine
beneath it. At the same time, the occupants of the chairs received a sharp
electrical shock, that agitated every limb, and caused Mr. Thorneycroft
to let fall his pistol, which went off as it reached the ground. At the
same time, the Sandman dropped his goblet, and the Tinker relinquished
his grasp of the cutlass. Before they could recover from the shock, all
three were caught by stout wooden hooks, which, detaching themselves
from the back of the chairs, pinioned their arms, while their legs were
restrained by fetters, which sprang from the ground and clasped round
their ankles. Thus fixed, they struggled vainly to get free. The chairs
seemed nailed to the ground, so that all efforts to move them proved
futile. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
But the worst was to come. From the holes in the ceiling already alluded
to, descended three heavy bell-shaped helmets, fashioned like those worn
by divers at the bottom of the sea, and having round eyelet-holes of
glass. It was evident, from the manner of their descent, that these
helmets must drop on the heads of the sitters--a conviction that filled
them with inexpressible terror. They shouted, and swore frightfully; but
their vociferations availed them nothing. Down came the helmets, and the
same moment the monkey, which had been seen by Reeks, issued from a
cupboard at the top of a cabinet, and grinned and gibbered at them. Down came the first helmet, and covered the Tinker to the shoulders. His
appearance was at once ludicrous and terrible, and his roaring within
the casque sounded like the bellowing of a baited bull. Down came the second helmet, though rather more slowly, and the Sandman
was eclipsed in the same manner as the Tinker, and roared as loudly. [Illustration: The Enchanted Chairs.] In both these instances the helmets had dropped without guidance, but in
the case of Mr. Thorneycroft, a hand, thrust out of the hole in the
ceiling, held the helmet suspended over his head, like the sword of
Damocles. While the poor iron-merchant momentarily expected the same
doom as his companions, his attention was attracted towards the monkey,
which, clinging with one hand to the side of the cabinet, extended
the other skinny arm towards him, and exclaimed--"Will you swear to go
hence if you are spared?" "No, I will not," replied the iron-merchant. He had scarcely spoken,
when the helmet fell with a jerk, and extinguished him like the others. Ginger alone remained. During the whole of this strange scene, he had
stood with the bottle in hand, transfixed with terror and astonishment,
and wholly unable to move or cry out. A climax was put to his fright, by
the descent of the three chairs, with their occupants, through the floor
into a vault beneath; and as the helmets were whisked up again to the
ceiling, and the trap-doors closed upon the chairs, he dropped the
bottle, and fell with his face upon the table. He was, however, soon
roused by a pull at his hair, while a shrill voice called him by his
name. "Who is it?" groaned the dog-fancier. "Look up!" cried the speaker, again plucking his hair. Ginger complied, and beheld the monkey seated beside him. "Vy, it can't be, sure_ly_," he cried. "And yet I could almost svear it
was Old Parr." "You're near the mark," replied the other, with a shrill laugh. "It is
your venerable friend." "Vot the deuce are you doing here, and in this dress, or rayther
undress?" inquired Ginger. "Ven I see you this mornin', you wos in the
serwice of Mr. Loftus." "I've got a new master since then," replied the dwarf. "I'm sorry to hear it," said Ginger, shaking his head. "You haven't sold
yourself, like Doctor Forster--eh?" "Faustus, my dear Ginger--not Forster," corrected Old Parr. "No, no,
I've made no bargain. And to be plain with you, I've no desire to remain
long in my present master's service." "I don't like to ask the question too directly, wenerable," said
Ginger, in a deprecatory tone--"but is your master--hem!--is
he--hem!--the--the----"
"The devil, you would say," supplied Old Parr. "Between ourselves, I'm
afraid there's no denying it." "La! wot a horrible idea!" exclaimed Ginger, with a shudder; "it makes
the flesh creep on one's bones. Then we're in your master's power?" "Very like it," replied Old Parr. "And there ain't no chance o' deliverance?" "None that occurs to me." "O Lord! O Lord!" groaned Ginger; "I'll repent. I'll become a reformed
character. I'll never steal dogs no more." "In that case, there may be some chance for you," said Old Parr. "I
think I could help you to escape. Come with me, and I'll try and get you
out." "But wot is to become of the others?" demanded Ginger. "Oh, leave them to their fate," replied Old Parr. "No, that'll never do," cried Ginger. "Ve're all in the same boat, and
must row out together the best vay ve can. I tell you wot it is,
wenerable," he added, seizing him by the throat--"your master may be
the devil, but you're mortal; and if you don't help me to deliver my
companions, I'll squeege your windpipe for you." "That's not the way to induce me to help you," said Old Parr, twisting
himself like an eel out of the other's gripe. "Now get out, if you can." "Don't be angry," cried Ginger, seeing the mistake he had committed, and
trying to conciliate him; "I only meant to frighten you a bit. Can you
tell me if Mr. Auriol Darcy is here?" "Yes, he is, and a close prisoner," replied Old Parr. "And the girl--Miss Ebber, wot of her?" "I can't say," rejoined Old Parr. "I can only speak to the living." "Then she's dead!" cried Ginger, with a look of horror. "That's a secret," replied the dwarf mysteriously; "and I'm bound by a
terrible oath not to disclose it." "I'll have it out of you notvithstandin'," muttered Ginger. "I vish you
would lend me a knock on the head, old feller. I can't help thinkin'
I've got a terrible fit o' the nightmare." "Let this waken you, then," said Old Parr, giving him a sound buffet on
the ear. "Holloa, wenerable! not so hard!" cried Ginger. "Ha! ha! ha!" screamed the dwarf. "You know what you're about now." "Not exactly," said Ginger. "I vish I wos fairly out o' this cursed
place!" "You shouldn't have ventured into the lion's den," said Old Parr, in a
taunting tone. "But come with me, and perhaps I may be able to do
something towards your liberation." So saying, he drew aside the tapestry, and opened a panel behind it,
through which he passed, and beckoned Ginger to follow him. Taking a
pistol from his pocket, the latter complied. CHAPTER III
GERARD PASTON
Before the chair, in which Mr. Thorneycroft was fixed, reached the
ground, terror had taken away his senses. A bottle of salts, placed to
his nose, revived him after a time; but he had nearly relapsed into
insensibility on seeing two strange figures, in hideous masks and sable
cloaks, standing on either side of him, while at a little distance was a
third, who carried a strangely-fashioned lantern. He looked round for
his companions in misfortune, but, though the chairs were there, they
were unoccupied. The masked attendants paid no attention to the iron-merchant's cries and
entreaties; but as soon as they thought him able to move, they touched a
spring, which freed his arms and legs from their bondage, and raising
him, dragged him out of the vault, and along a narrow passage, till they
came to a large sepulchral-looking chamber, cased with black marble, in
the midst of which, on a velvet fauteuil of the same hue as the walls,
sat Cyprian Rougemont. It was, in fact, the chamber where Ebba had been
subject to her terrible trial. Bewildered with terror, the poor iron-merchant threw himself at the feet
of Rougemont, who, eyeing him with a look of malignant triumph, cried--
"You have come to seek your daughter. Behold her!" | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
And at the words, the large black curtains at the farther end of the
room were suddenly withdrawn, and discovered the figure of Ebba
Thorneycroft standing at the foot of the marble staircase. Her features
were as pale as death; her limbs rigid and motionless; but her eyes
blazed with preternatural light. On beholding her, Mr. Thorneycroft
uttered a loud cry, and, springing to his feet, would have rushed
towards her, but he was held back by the two masked attendants, who
seized each arm, and detained him by main force. "Ebba!" he cried--"Ebba!" But she appeared wholly insensible to his cries, and remained in the
same attitude, with her eyes turned away from him. "What ails her?" cried the agonised father. "Ebba! Ebba!" "Call louder," said Rougemont, with a jeering laugh. "Do you not know me? do you not hear me?" shrieked Mr. Thorneycroft. Still the figure remained immovable. "I told you you should see her," replied Rougemont, in a taunting tone;
"but she is beyond your reach." "Not so, not so!" cried Thorneycroft. "Come to me, Ebba!--come to your
father. O Heaven! she hears me not! she heeds me not! Her senses are
gone." "She is fast bound by a spell," said Rougemont. "Take a last look of
her. You will see her no more." And, stretching out his hand, the curtains slowly descended, and
shrouded the figure from view. Thorneycroft groaned aloud. "Are you not content?" cried Rougemont. "Will you depart in peace, and
swear never to come here more? If so, I will liberate you and your
companions." "So far from complying with your request, I swear never to rest till I
have rescued my child from you, accursed being!" cried Thorneycroft
energetically. "You have sealed your doom, then," replied Rougemont. "But before you
are yourself immured, you shall see how Auriol Darcy is circumstanced. Bring him along." And, followed by the attendants, who dragged Mr. Thorneycroft after him,
he plunged into an opening on the right. A few steps brought him to the
entrance of the cell. Touching the heavy iron door, it instantly swung
open, and disclosed Auriol chained to a stone at the farther corner of
the narrow chamber. Not a word was spoken for some minutes, but the captives regarded each
other piteously. "Oh, Mr. Thorneycroft," cried Auriol, at length, "I beseech you forgive
me. I have destroyed your daughter." "You!" exclaimed the iron-merchant in astonishment. "It is true," said Rougemont. "I would have saved her if it had been possible!" cried Auriol. "I
warned her that to love me would be fatal to her. I told her I was
linked to an inexorable destiny, which would involve her in its
meshes--but in vain." "Oh!" ejaculated Thorneycroft. "You see you ought to blame him, not me," said Rougemont, with a
derisive laugh. "I would have given my life, my soul, to preserve her, had it been
possible!" cried Auriol. "Horrors crowd so thick upon me that my brain reels," cried
Thorneycroft. "Merciless wretch!" he added, to Rougemont,
"fiend--whatever you are, complete your work of ruin by my destruction. I have nothing left to tie me to life." "I would have the miserable live," said Rougemont, with a diabolical
laugh. "It is only the happy I seek to destroy. But you have to thank
your own obstinacy for your present distress. Bid a lasting farewell to
Auriol. You will see him no more." "Hold!" exclaimed Auriol. "A word before we part." "Ay, hold!" echoed a loud and imperious voice from the depths of the
passage. "Ha!--who speaks?" demanded Rougemont, a shade passing over his
countenance. "I, Gerard Paston!" exclaimed Reeks, stepping forward. The crape was gone from his brow, and in its place was seen the handsome
and resolute features of a man of middle life. He held a pistol in
either hand. "Is it you, Gerard Paston?" cried Auriol, regarding him; "the brother of
Clara, my second victim!" "It is," replied the other. "Your deliverance is at hand, Auriol." "And you have dared to penetrate here, Gerard?" cried Rougemont,
stamping the ground with rage. "Recollect, you are bound to me by the
same ties as Auriol, and you shall share his fate." "I am not to be intimidated by threats," replied Paston, with a scornful
laugh. "You have employed your arts too long. Deliver up Auriol and this
gentleman at once, or----" And he levelled the pistols at him. "Fire!" cried Rougemont, drawing himself up to his towering height. "No
earthly bullets can injure me." "Ve'll try that!" cried Ginger, coming up at the moment behind Paston. And he discharged a pistol, with a deliberate aim, at the breast of
Rougemont. The latter remained erect, and apparently uninjured. "You see how ineffectual your weapons are," said Rougemont, with a
derisive laugh. "It must be the devil!" cried Ginger, running off. "I will try mine," said Paston. But before he could draw the triggers, the pistols were wrested from his
grasp by the two attendants, who had quitted Thorneycroft, and stolen
upon him unperceived, and who next pinioned his arms. CHAPTER IV
THE PIT
So bewildered was the poor iron-merchant by the strange and terrible
events that had befallen him, that, though released by the two masked
attendants, who left him, as before related, to seize Gerard Paston, he
felt utterly incapable of exertion, and would probably have made no
effort to regain his freedom, if his coat had not been vigorously
plucked behind, while a low voice urged him to fly. Glancing in the
direction of the friendly speaker, he could just discern a diminutive
object standing within the entrance of a side-passage, and reared up
against the wall so as to be out of sight of Rougemont and his
attendants. It was the monkey--or rather Old Parr--who, continuing to
tug violently at his coat, at last succeeded in drawing him backwards
into the passage, and then grasping his hand tightly, hurried him along
it. The passage was wholly unlighted, but Mr. Thorneycroft could
perceive that it was exceedingly circuitous, and winded round like a
maze. "Where are you taking me?" he inquired, attempting to stop. "Ask no questions," rejoined the dwarf, pulling him along. "Do you want
to be captured, and shut up in a cell for the rest of your life?" "Certainly not," replied Thorneycroft, accelerating his movements; "I
hope there's no chance of it." "There's every chance of it," rejoined Old Parr. "If you're taken,
you'll share Auriol's fate." "O Lord! I hope not," groaned the iron-merchant. "I declare, you
frighten me so much that you take away all power of movement. I shall
drop in a minute." "Come along, I say," screamed the dwarf. "I hear them close behind us." And as he spoke, shouts, and the noise of rapidly-approaching footsteps,
resounded along the passage. "I can't stir another step," gasped the iron-merchant. "I'm completely
done. Better yield at once." "What, without a struggle?" cried the dwarf tauntingly. "Think of your
daughter, and let the thought of her nerve your heart. She is lost for
ever, if you don't get out of this accursed place." | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"She is lost for ever as it is," cried the iron-merchant despairingly. "No--she may yet be saved," rejoined the dwarf. "Come on--come on--they
are close behind us." And it was evident, from the increased clamour, that their pursuers were
upon them. Roused by the imminence of the danger, and by the hope of rescuing his
daughter, Mr. Thorneycroft exerted all his energies, and sprang forward. A little farther on, they were stopped by a door. It was closed; and
venting his disappointment in a scream, the dwarf searched for the
handle, but could not find it. "We are entrapped--we shall be caught," he cried, "and then woe to both
of us. Fool that I was to attempt your preservation. Better I had left
you to rot in a dungeon than have incurred Rougemont's displeasure." The iron-merchant replied by a groan. "It's all over with me," he said. "I give it up--I'll die here!" "No--we are saved," cried the dwarf, as the light, now flashing strongly
upon the door, revealed a small iron button within it,--"saved--saved!" As he spoke, he pressed against the button, which moved a spring, and
the door flew open. Just as they passed through it, the two masked
attendants came in sight. The dwarf instantly shut the door, and finding
a bolt on the side next him, shot it into the socket. Scarcely had he
accomplished this, when the pursuers came up, and dashed themselves
against the door; but finding it bolted, presently ceased their efforts,
and apparently withdrew. "They are gone by some other way to intercept us," cried Old Parr, who
had paused for a moment to listen; "come on, Mr. Thorneycroft." "I'll try," replied the iron-merchant, with a subdued groan, "but I'm
completely spent. Oh that I ever ventured into this place!" "It's too late to think of that now; besides, you came here to rescue
your daughter," rejoined Old Parr. "Take care and keep near me. I wonder
where this passage leads to?" "Don't you know?" inquired the iron-merchant. "Not in the least," returned the dwarf. "This is the first time I've
been here--and it shall be the last, if I'm allowed any choice in the
matter." "You haven't told me how you came here at all," observed Thorneycroft. "I hardly know myself," replied the dwarf; "but I find it more difficult
to get out than I did to get in. How this passage twists about! I
declare we seem to be returning to the point we started from." "I think we are turning round ourselves," cried Thorneycroft, in an
agony of fright. "My head is going. Oh dear! oh dear!" "Why, it does seem very strange, I must say," remarked the dwarf, coming
to a halt. "I could almost fancy that the solid stone walls were moving
around us." "They _are_ moving," cried Thorneycroft, stretching out his hand. "I
feel 'em. Lord have mercy upon us, and deliver us from the power of the
Evil One!" "The place seems on fire," cried the dwarf. "A thick smoke fills the
passage. Don't you perceive it, Mr. Thorneycroft?" "Don't I!--to be sure I do," cried the iron-merchant, coughing and
sneezing. "I feel as if I were in a room with a smoky chimney, and no
window open. Oh!--oh!--I'm choking!" "Don't mind it," cried the dwarf, who seemed quite at his ease. "We
shall soon be out of the smoke." "I can't stand it," cried Mr. Thorneycroft; "I shall die. Oh! poah--pish--puff!" "Come on, I tell you--you'll get some fresh air in a minute," rejoined
Old Parr. "Halloa! how's this? No outlet. We're come to a dead stop." "Dead stop, indeed!" echoed the iron-merchant. "We've come to that long
ago. But what new difficulty has arisen?" "Merely that the road's blocked up by a solid wall--that's all," replied
Old Parr. "Blocked up!" exclaimed Thorneycroft. "Then we're entombed alive." "_I_ am," said the dwarf, with affected nonchalance. "As to you, you've
the comfort of knowing it'll soon be over with you. But for me, nothing
can harm me." "Don't be too sure of that," cried a voice above them. "Did you speak, Mr. Thorneycroft?" asked the dwarf. "N-o-o--not I," gasped the iron-merchant. "I'm suffocating--help to drag
me out." "Get out if you can," cried the voice that had just spoken. "It's Rougemont himself," cried the dwarf in alarm. "Then there's no
escape." "None whatever, rascal," replied the unseen speaker. "I want you. I have
more work for you to do." "I won't leave Mr. Thorneycroft," cried the dwarf resolutely. "I've
promised to preserve him, and I'll keep my word." "Fool!" cried the other. "You must obey when I command." And as the words were uttered, a hand was thrust down from above, which,
grasping the dwarf by the nape of the neck, drew him upwards. "Lay hold of me, Mr. Thorneycroft," screamed Old Parr. "I'm going up
again--lay hold of me--pull me down." Well-nigh stifled by the thickening and pungent vapour, the poor
iron-merchant found compliance impossible. Before he could reach the
dwarf, the little fellow was carried off. Left to himself, Mr.
Thorneycroft staggered along the passage, expecting every moment to
drop, until at length a current of fresh air blew in his face, and
enabled him to breathe more freely. Somewhat revived, he went on, but
with great deliberation, and it was well he did so, for he suddenly
arrived at the brink of a pit about eight feet in depth, into which, if
he had approached it incautiously, he must infallibly have stumbled, and
in all probability have broken his neck. This pit evidently communicated
with a lower range of chambers, as was shown by a brazen lamp burning
under an archway. A ladder was planted at one side, and by this Mr.
Thorneycroft descended, but scarcely had he set foot on the ground, than
he felt himself rudely grasped by a man who stepped from under the
archway. The next moment, however, he was released, while the familiar
voice of the Tinker exclaimed--
"Vy, bless my 'art, if it ain't Mister Thorneycroft." "Yes, it's me, certainly, Mr. Tinker," replied the iron-merchant. "Who's
that you've got with you?" "Vy, who should it be but the Sandman," rejoined the other gruffly. "Ve've set ourselves free at last, and have made some nice diskiveries
into the bargin." "Yes, ve've found it all out," added the Tinker. "What have you discovered--what have you found out?" cried the
iron-merchant breathlessly. "Have you found my daughter? Where is she? Take me to her." "Not so fast, old gent, not so fast," rejoined the Tinker. "Ve ain't
sure as 'ow ve've found your darter, but ve've catched a peep of a nice
young 'ooman." "Oh! it must be her--no doubt of it," cried the iron-merchant. "Where is
she? Take me to her without a moment's delay." "But ve can't get to her, I tell 'ee," replied the Tinker. "Ve knows the
place vere she's a-shut up,--that's all." "Take me to it," cried Mr. Thorneycroft eagerly. "Vell, if you must go, step this vay, then," rejoined the Tinker,
proceeding towards the archway. "Halloa, Sandy, did you shut the door
arter you?" "Not I," replied the other; "open it." "Easily said," rejoined the Tinker, "but not quevite so easily done. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Vy,
zounds, it's shut of itself and bolted itself on t'other side!" "Some one must have followed you," groaned Thorneycroft. "We're watched
on all sides." "Ay, and from above, too," cried the Sandman. "Look up there!" he added,
in accents of alarm. "What's the matter? What new danger is at hand?" inquired the
iron-merchant. "Look up, I say," cried the Sandman. "Don't ye see, Tinker?" "Ay, ay, I see," replied the other. "The roof's a-comin' in upon us. Let's get out o' this as fast as ve can." And he kicked and pushed
against the door, but all his efforts were unavailing to burst it open. At the same time the Sandman rushed towards the ladder, but before he
could mount it all egress by that means was cut off. An immense iron
cover worked in a groove was pushed by some unseen machinery over the
top of the pit, and enclosed them in it. CHAPTER V
NEW PERPLEXITIES
For several hours deep sleep, occasioned by some potent medicaments, had
bound up the senses of Auriol. On awaking, he found himself within a
cell, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of which were of solid stone
masonry. In the midst of this chamber, and supporting the ponderous
roof, stood a massive granite pillar, the capital of which was
grotesquely ornamented with death's-heads and cross-bones, and against
this pillar leaned Auriol, with his left arm chained by heavy links of
iron to a ring in the adjoining wall. Beside him stood a pitcher of
water, and near him lay an antique-looking book, bound in black vellum. The dungeon in which he was confined was circular in form, with a coved
roof, sustained by the pillar before mentioned, and was approached by a
steep flight of steps rising from a doorway, placed some six feet below
the level of the chamber, and surmounted by a pointed arch. A stream of
light, descending from a narrow aperture in the roof, fell upon his
wasted and haggard features. His dark-brown hair hung about his face in
elf-locks, his beard was untrimmed, and a fixed and stony glare like
that of insanity sat in his eye. He was seated on the ground--neither
bench nor stool being allowed him--with his hand supporting his chin. His gaze was fixed upon vacancy--if that can he called vacancy which to
him was filled with vivid images. His garb was not that of modern times,
but consisted of a doublet and hose of rich material, wrought in the
fashion of Elizabeth's days. After remaining for some time in this musing attitude, Auriol opened the
old tome before him, and began to turn over its leaves. It was full of
magical disquisitions and mysterious characters, and he found inscribed
on one of its earlier pages a name which instantly riveted his
attention. Having vainly sought some explanation of this name in the
after contents of the book, he laid it aside, and became lost in
meditation. His reverie ended, he heaved a deep sigh, and turned again
to the open volume lying before him, and in doing so his eye rested for
the first time on his habiliments. On beholding them he started, and
held out his arm to examine his sleeve more narrowly. Satisfied that he
was not deceived, he arose and examined himself from head to foot. He
found himself, as has been stated, attired in the garb of a gentleman of
Elizabeth's time. "What can this mean?" he cried. "Have I endured a long and troubled
dream, during which I have fancied myself living through more than two
centuries? O Heaven, that it may be so! Oh that the fearful crimes I
suppose I have committed have only been enacted in a dream! Oh that my
victims are imaginary! Oh that Ebba should only prove a lovely phantom
of the night! And yet, I could almost wish the rest were real--so that
she might exist. I cannot bear to think that she is nothing more than a
vision. But it must be so--I have been dreaming--and what a dream it has
been!--what strange glimpses it has afforded me into futurity! Methought
I lived in the reigns of many sovereigns--beheld one of them carried to
the block--saw revolutions convulse the kingdom--old dynasties shaken
down, and new ones spring up. Fashions seem to me to have so changed,
that I had clean forgotten the old ones; while my fellow-men scarcely
appeared the same as heretofore. Can I be the same myself? Is this the
dress I once wore? Let me seek for some proof." And thrusting his hand into his doublet, he drew forth some tablets, and
hastily examined them. They bore his name, and contained some writing,
and he exclaimed aloud with joy, "This is proof enough--I have been
dreaming all this while." "The scheme works to a miracle," muttered a personage stationed at the
foot of the steps springing from the doorway, and who, though concealed
from view himself, was watching the prisoner with a malignant and
exulting gaze. "And yet, why am I here?" pursued Auriol, looking around. "Ah! I see how
it is," he added, with a shudder; "I have been mad--perhaps am mad
still. That will account for the strange delusion under which I have
laboured." "I will act upon that hint," muttered the listener. "Of what use is memory," continued Auriol musingly, "if things that are
not, seem as if they were? If joys and sorrows which we have never
endured are stamped upon the brain--if visions of scenes, and faces and
events which we have never witnessed, never known, haunt us, as if they
had once been familiar? But I am mad--mad!" The listener laughed to himself. "How else, if I were not mad, could I have believed that I had swallowed
the fabled elixir vitæ? And yet, is it a fable? for I am puzzled still. Methinks I am old--old--old--though I feel young, and look young. All
this is madness. Yet how clear and distinct it seems! I can call to mind
events in Charles the Second's time. Ha!--who told me of Charles the
Second? How know I there was such a king? The reigning sovereign should
be James, and yet I fancy it is George the Fourth. Oh! I am mad--clean
mad!" There was another pause, during which the listener indulged in a
suppressed fit of laughter. "Would I could look forth from this dungeon," pursued Auriol, again
breaking silence, "and satisfy myself of the truth or falsehood of my
doubts by a view of the external world, for I am so perplexed in mind,
that if I were not distracted already, they would be enough to drive me
so. What dismal, terrible fancies have possessed me, and weigh upon me
still--the compact with Rougemont--ha!" "Now it comes," cried the listener. "Oh, that I could shake off the conviction that this were not so--that
my soul, though heavily laden, might still be saved! Oh, that I dared to
hope this!" "I must interrupt him if he pursues this strain," said the listener. [Illustration: Rougemont's device to perplex Auriol.] | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"Whether my crimes are real or imaginary--whether I snatched the cup of
immortality from my grandsire's dying lips--whether I signed a compact
with the Fiend, and delivered him a victim on each tenth year--I cannot
now know; but if it is so, I deeply, bitterly regret them, and would
expiate my offences by a life of penance." At this moment Rougemont, attired in a dress similar to that of the
prisoner, marched up the steps, and cried, "What ho, Auriol!--Auriol
Darcy!" "Who speaks?" demanded Auriol. "Ah! is it you, Fiend?" "What, you are still in your old fancies," rejoined Rougemont. "I
thought the draught I gave you last night would have amended you." "Tell me who and what I am," cried Auriol, stupefied with astonishment;
"in what age I am living; and whether I am in my right mind or not?" "For the first, you are called Auriol Darcy," replied Rougemont; "for
the second, you are living in the reign of his most Catholic Majesty
James I. of England, and Sixth of Scotland; and for the third, I trust
you will soon recover your reason." "Amazement!" cried Auriol, striking his brow with his clenched hand. "Then I _am_ mad." "It's plain your reason is returning, since you are conscious of your
condition," replied Rougemont; "but calm yourself, you have been subject
to raging frenzies." "And I have been shut up here for safety?" demanded Auriol. "Precisely," observed the other. "And you are----"
"Your keeper," replied Rougemont. "My God! what a brain mine must be!" cried Auriol. "Answer me one
question--Is there such a person as Ebba Thorneycroft?" "You have often raved about her," replied Rougemont. "But she is a mere
creature of the imagination." Auriol groaned, and sank against the wall. "Since you have become so reasonable, you shall again go forth into the
world," said Rougemont; "but the first essay must be made at night, for
fear of attracting observation. I will come to you again a few hours
hence. Farewell for the present." And casting a sinister glance at his captive, he turned upon his heel,
descended the steps, and quitted the cell. CHAPTER VI
DOCTOR LAMB AGAIN
Night came, and the cell grew profoundly dark. Auriol became impatient
for the appearance of his keeper, but hour after hour passed and he did
not arrive. Worn out, at length, with doubt and bewildering
speculations, the miserable captive was beset with the desire to put an
end to his torments by suicide, and he determined to execute his fell
purpose without delay. An evil chance seemed also to befriend him, for
scarcely was the idea formed, than his foot encountered something on the
ground, the rattling of which attracted his attention, and stooping to
take it up, he grasped the bare blade of a knife. "This will, at all events, solve my doubts," he cried aloud. "I will
sheathe this weapon in my heart, and, if I am mortal, my woes will be
ended." As he spoke, he placed the point to his breast with the full intent to
strike, but before he could inflict the slightest wound, his arm was
forcibly arrested. "Would you destroy yourself, madman?" roared a voice. "I thought your
violence was abated, and that you might go forth in safety. But I find
you are worse than ever." Auriol uttered a groan and let the knife fall to the ground. The
new-comer kicked it to a distance with his foot. "You shall be removed to another chamber," he pursued, "where you can be
more strictly watched." "Take me forth--oh! take me forth," cried Auriol. "It was a mere impulse
of desperation, which I now repent." "I dare not trust you. You will commit some act of insane fury, for
which I myself shall have to bear the blame. When I yielded to your
entreaties on a former occasion, and took you forth, I narrowly
prevented you from doing all we met a mischief." "I have no recollection of any such circumstance," returned Auriol
mournfully. "But it may be true, nevertheless. And if so, it only proves
the lamentable condition to which I am reduced--memory and reason gone!" "Ay, both gone," cried the other, with an irrepressible chuckle. "Ha!" exclaimed Auriol, starting. "I am not so mad but I recognise in
you the Evil Being who tempted me. I am not so oblivious as to forget
our terrible interviews." "What, you are in your lunes again!" cried Rougemont fiercely. "Nay,
then I must call my assistants, and bind you." "Let me be--let me be!" implored Auriol, "and I will offend you no more. Whatever thoughts may arise within me, I will not give utterance to
them. Only take me forth." "I came for that purpose," said Rougemont; "but I repeat, I dare not. You are not sufficiently master of yourself." "Try me," said Auriol. "Well," rejoined the other, "I will see what I can do to calm you." So saying, he disappeared for a few moments, and then returning with a
torch, placed it on the ground, and producing a phial, handed it to the
captive. "Drink!" he said. Without a moment's hesitation Auriol complied. "It seems to me rather a stimulant than a soothing potion," he remarked,
after emptying the phial. "You are in no condition to judge," rejoined the other. And he proceeded to unfasten Auriol's chain. "Now then, come with me," he said, "and do not make any attempt at
evasion, or you will rue it." Like one in a dream, Auriol followed his conductor down the flight of
stone steps leading from the dungeon, and along a narrow passage. As he
proceeded, he thought he heard stealthy footsteps behind him; but he
never turned his head, to see whether he was really followed. In this
way they reached a short steep staircase, and mounting it, entered a
vault, in which Rougemont paused, and placed the torch he had brought
with him upon the floor. Its lurid glimmer partially illumined the
chamber, and showed that it was built of stone. Rude benches of antique
form were set about the vault, and motioning Auriol to be seated upon
one of them, Rougemont sounded a silver whistle. The summons was shortly
afterwards answered by the dwarf, in whose attire a new change had
taken place. He was now clothed in a jerkin of grey serge, fashioned
like the garments worn by the common people in Elizabeth's reign, and
wore a trencher-cap on his head. Auriol watched him as he timidly
advanced towards Rougemont, and had an indistinct recollection of having
seen him before; but could not call to mind how or where. "Is your master a-bed?" demanded Rougemont. "A-bed! Good lack, sir!" exclaimed the dwarf, "little of sleep knows
Doctor Lamb. He will toil at the furnace till the stars have set." "Doctor Lamb!" repeated Auriol. "Surely I have heard that name before?" "Very likely," replied Rougemont, "for it is the name borne by your
nearest kinsman." "How is the poor young gentleman?" asked the dwarf, glancing
commiseratingly at Auriol. "My master often makes inquiries after his
grandson, and grieves that the state of his mind should render it
necessary to confine him." "His grandson! I--Doctor Lamb's grandson!" cried Auriol. "In sooth are you, young sir," returned the dwarf. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"Were you in your
reason, you would be aware that my master's name is the same as your
own--Darcy--Reginald Darcy. He assumes the name of Doctor Lamb to delude
the multitude. He told you as much yourself, sweet sir, if your poor
wits would enable you to recollect it." "Am I in a dream, good fellow, tell me that?" cried Auriol, lost in
amazement. "Alack, no, sir," replied the dwarf; "to my thinking, you are wide
awake. But you know, sir," he added, touching his forehead, "you have
been a little wrong here, and your memory and reason are not of the
clearest." "Where does my grandsire dwell?" asked Auriol. "Why here, sir," replied the dwarf; "and for the matter of locality, the
house is situated on the south end of London Bridge." "_On_ the bridge--did you say _on_ the bridge, friend?" cried Auriol. "Ay, _on_ the bridge--where else should it be? You would not have your
grandsire live under the river?" rejoined the dwarf; "though, for ought
I know, some of these vaults may go under it. They are damp enough." Auriol was lost in reflection, and did not observe a sign that passed
between the dwarf and Rougemont. "Will it disturb Doctor Lamb if his grandson goes up to him?" said the
latter, after a brief pause. "My master does not like to be interrupted in his operations, as you
know, sir," replied the dwarf, "and seldom suffers any one, except
myself, to enter his laboratory; but I will make so bold as to introduce
Master Auriol, if he desires it." "You will confer the greatest favour on me by doing so," cried Auriol,
rising. "Sit down--sit down!" said Rougemont authoritatively. "You cannot go up
till the doctor has been apprised. Remain here, while Flapdragon and I
ascertain his wishes." So saying, he quitted the chamber by a farther
outlet with the dwarf. During the short time that Auriol was left alone, he found it vain to
attempt to settle his thoughts, or to convince himself that he was not
labouring under some strange delusion. He was aroused at length by the dwarf, who returned alone. "Your grandsire will see you," said the mannikin. "One word before we go," cried Auriol, seizing his arm. "Saints! how you frighten me!" exclaimed the dwarf. "You must keep
composed, or I dare not take you to my master." "Pardon me," replied Auriol; "I meant not to alarm you. Where is the
person who brought me hither?" "What, your keeper?" said the dwarf. "Oh, he is within call. He will
come to you anon. Now follow me." And taking up the torch, he led the way out of the chamber. Mounting a
spiral staircase, apparently within a turret, they came to a door, which
being opened by Flapdragon, disclosed a scene that well-nigh stupefied
Auriol. It was the laboratory precisely as he had seen it above two centuries
ago. The floor was strewn with alchemical implements--the table was
covered with mystic parchments inscribed with cabalistic characters--the
furnace stood in the corner--crucibles and cucurbites decorated the
chimney-board--the sphere and brazen lamp hung from the ceiling--the
skeletons grinned from behind the chimney-corner--all was there as he
had seen it before! There also was Doctor Lamb, in his loose gown of
sable silk, with a square black cap upon his venerable head, and his
snowy beard streaming to his girdle. The old man's gaze was fixed upon a crucible placed upon the furnace,
and he was occupied in working the bellows. He moved his head as Auriol
entered the chamber, and the features became visible. It was a face
never to be forgotten. "Come in, grandson," said the old man kindly. "Come in, and close the
door after you. The draught affects the furnace--my Athanor, as we
adepts term it. So you are better, your keeper tells me--much better." "Are you indeed living?" cried Auriol, rushing wildly towards him, and
attempting to take his hand. "Off--off!" cried the old man, drawing back as if alarmed. "You disturb
my operations. Keep him calm, Flapdragon, or take him hence. He may do
me a mischief." "I have no such intention, sir," said Auriol; "indeed I have not. I only
wish to be assured that you are my aged relative." "To be sure he is, young sir," interposed the dwarf. "Why should you
doubt it?" "O sir," cried Auriol, throwing himself at the old man's feet, "pity me
if I am mad; but offer me some explanation, which may tend to restore me
to my senses. My reason seems gone, yet I appear capable of receiving
impressions from external objects. I see you, and appear to know you. I
see this chamber--these alchemical implements--that furnace--these
different objects--and I appear to recognise them. Am I deceived, or is
this real?" "You are not deceived, my son," replied the old man. "You have been in
this room before, and you have seen me before. It would be useless to
explain to you now how you have suffered from fever, and what visions
your delirium has produced. When you are perfectly restored, we will
talk the matter over." And, as he said this, he began to blow the fire anew, and watched with
great apparent interest the changing colours of the liquid in the
cucurbite placed on the furnace. Auriol looked at him earnestly, but could not catch another glance, so
intently was the old man occupied. At length he ventured to break the
silence. "I should feel perfectly convinced, if I might look forth from that
window," he said. "Convinced of what?" rejoined the old man somewhat sharply. "That I am what I seem," replied Auriol. "Look forth, then," said the old man. "But do not disturb me by idle
talk. There is the rosy colour in the projection for which I have been
so long waiting." Auriol then walked to the window and gazed through the tinted panes. It
was very dark, and objects could only be imperfectly distinguished. Still he fancied he could detect the gleam of the river beneath him, and
what seemed a long line of houses on the bridge. He also fancied he
discerned other buildings, with the high roofs, the gables, and the
other architectural peculiarities of the structures of Elizabeth's
time. He persuaded himself, also, that he could distinguish through the
gloom the venerable Gothic pile of Saint Paul's Cathedral on the other
side of the water, and, as if to satisfy him that he was right, a deep
solemn bell tolled forth the hour of two. After a while he returned from
the window, and said to his supposed grandsire, "I am satisfied. I have
lived centuries in a few nights." | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
THE OLD LONDON MERCHANT
_A SKETCH_
Flos Mercatorum.--_Epitaph on Whittington_
At that festive season, when the days are at the shortest, and the
nights at the longest, and when, consequently, it is the invariable
practice of all sensible people to turn night into day; when the state
of the odds between business and pleasure is decidedly in favour of the
latter; when high carnival is held in London, and everything betokens
the prevalence and influence of good cheer; when pastrycooks are in
their glory, and green trays in requisition; when porters groan beneath
hampers of game, and huge tubs of Canterbury brawn; when trains arriving
from the eastern counties are heavy laden with turkeys and hares; when
agents in town send barrels of oysters to correspondents in the country;
when Christmas-box claimants disturb one's equanimity by day, and Waits
(those licensed nuisances, to which even our reverence for good old
customs cannot reconcile us) break one's first slumber at night; when
surly Christians "awake," and salute the band of little carollers with
jugs of cold water; when their opposite neighbour, who has poked his
nightcapped head from his window, retires with a satisfactory chuckle;
when the meat at Mr. Giblett's in Bond Street, which, for the last six
weeks, has announced the approach of Christmas by its daily-increasing
layers of fat, as correctly as the almanack, has reached the
ne-plus-ultra of adiposity; when wondering crowds are collected before
the aforesaid Giblett's to gaze upon the yellow carcass of that
leviathan prize ox--the fat being rendered more intensely yellow by its
contrast with the green holly with which it is garnished--as well as to
admire the snowy cakes of suet with which the sides of that
Leicestershire sheep are loaded; when the grocer's trade is "in
request," and nothing is heard upon his counter but the jingling of
scales and the snapping of twine; when the vendor of sweetmeats, as he
deals forth his citron and sultanas in the due minced-meat proportions
to that pretty housemaid, whispers something in a soft and sugared tone
about the misletoe; when "coming Twelfth Nights cast their shadows
before," and Mr. Gunter feels doubly important; when pantomimes are
about to unfold all their magic charms, and the holidays have fairly
commenced; when the meteorological prophet predicts that Thursday the
1st will be fair and frosty, and it turns out to be drizzling rain and a
sudden thaw; when intelligence is brought that the ice "bears," the
intelligence being confirmed by the appearance of sundry donkey-carts,
containing ice an inch thick, and rendered indisputable by the discharge
of their crystal loads upon the pavement before Mr. Grove's, the
fishmonger's; when crack performers in paletots, or Mackintoshes, with
skates in their hands, cigars in their mouths, and tights and
fur-topped boots on their lower limbs, are seen hastening up Baker
Street in the direction of the Regent's Park; when a marquee is pitched
upon the banks of the Serpentine, and a quadrille executed by the
before-mentioned crack skaters in tights and fur-topped boots upon its
frozen waters; when the functionaries of the Humane Society begin to
find some employment for their ropes and punt; when Old Father Thames,
who, for a couple of months, appears to have been undecided about the
colours of his livery--now inclining to a cloak of greyish dun, now to a
mantle of orange tawny--has finally adopted a white transparent robe
with facings of silver; when, as you pass down Harley Street, the lights
in the drawing-room windows of every third house, the shadows on the
blinds, and, above all, the enlivening sound of the harp and piano,
satisfy you that its fair inmate is "at home"; when
House-quakes, street-thunders, and door-batteries
are heard from "midnight until morn"; when the knocker at No. 22 Park
Street responds to the knocker at No. 25; when a barrel-organ and a
popular melody salute your ear as you enter Oxford Street; when the
doors of the gin-palaces seem to be always opening to let people _in_,
but never to let them _out_, and the roar of boisterous revelry is heard
from the bar; when various vociferations arise from various courts and
passages; when policemen are less on the alert, though their
interference is more requisite than usual; when uproarious jollity
prevails; when "universal London getteth drunk"; and, in short, when
Christmas is come, and everybody is disposed to enjoy himself in his
own way. At this period of wassail and rejoicing it was that a social
party, to which I am now about to introduce the reader, was assembled in
a snug little dining-room of a snug little house, situated in that snug
little pile of building denominated the Sanctuary in Westminster. When a man has any peculiarity of character, his house is sure to
partake of it. The room which he constantly inhabits reflects his image
as faithfully as a mirror; nay, more so, for it reflects his mind as
well as his person. A glance at No. 22 St. James's Place would satisfy
you its owner was a poet. We can judge of the human, as of the brute
lion, by the aspect of his den. The room marks the man. Visit it in his
absence, and you may paint his portrait better than the limner who has
placed his "breathing canvas" on the walls. From that well-worn
elbow-chair and the slippers at its feet (the slippers of an old man are
never to be mistaken), you can compute his age; from that faded brocade
dressing-gown and green velvet cap, you can shape out his figure; from
the multiplicity of looking-glasses you at once infer that he has not
entirely lost his vanity or his good looks; that gold-headed cane gives
you his carriage--it is not a crutch-handled stick, but a cane to
flourish jauntily; that shagreen spectacle-case, that chased silver
snuffbox with the Jupiter and Leda richly and somewhat luxuriously
wrought upon its lid, that fine Sèvres porcelain, that gorgeous
Berlin-ware, those rare bronzes half consumed by the true hoary green
ærugo, those little Egyptian images, that lachrymatory, that cinerary
urn, that brick from the Colosseum, that tesselated pavement from
Pompeii, looking like a heap of various-coloured dice, and a world of
other rarities, furnish unerring indications of his tastes and habits,
and proclaim him a member of the Archæological Society; while that open
volume of Sir Thomas Urquhart's "Rabelais" (published by the Abbotsford
Club) gives you his course of study; the _Morning Post_ his politics;
that flute and those musical notes attest the state of his lungs; and
that well-blotted copy of verses, of which the ink is scarcely dry,
proclaims his train of thought. The door opens, and an old gentleman
enters exactly corresponding to your preconceived notions. You require
no introduction. You have made his acquaintance half-an-hour ago. The apartment to which we are about to repair was a complete index to
the mind and character of its possessor, Sir Lionel Flamstead. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
I have
called it a dining-room, from its ordinary application to the purposes
of refection and festivity; but it had much more the air of a library,
or study. It was a small comfortable chamber, just large enough to
contain half-a-dozen people, though by management double that number had
been occasionally squeezed into its narrow limits. The walls were
decorated with curious old prints, maps and plans, set in old black
worm-eaten frames, and representing divers personages, places, and
structures connected with London and its history. Over the mantelpiece was stretched Vertue's copy of Ralph Aggas's famous
survey of our "great metropolis," made about the beginning of
Elizabeth's reign, or perhaps a little earlier, when it was scarcely so
great a metropolis as at the present time, and when novelists, gentlemen
of the press, cabmen, omnibus cads, and other illustrious personages
were unborn and undreamed of; when St. Giles's, in lieu of its
mysterious and Dædalian Seven Dials (which should have for their motto
Wordsworth's title, "We are Seven"), consisted of a little cluster of
country houses, surrounded by a grove of elms; when a turreted wall
girded in the City, from Aldgate to Grey Friars; when a pack of
staghounds was kept in Finsbury Fields, and archers and cross-bowmen
haunted the purlieus of the Spital; when he who strolled westward from
Charing Cross (then no misnomer) beheld neither Opera House nor
club-house, but a rustic lane, with a barn at one end, and a goodly
assortment of hay-carts and hay-stacks at the other; when the Thames was
crossed by a single bridge, and that bridge looked like a street, and
the street itself like a row of palaces. On the right of this plan hung
a sketch of Will Somers, jester to Henry VIII., after the picture by
Holbein; on the left an engraving of Geoffrey Hudson, the diminutive
attendant of Henrietta Maria. This niche was devoted to portraits of the
bluff king before mentioned, and his six spouses; that to the melancholy
Charles and his family. Here, the Great Fire of 1666, with its black
profiles of houses, relieved by a sheet of "bloody and malicious" flame,
formed a pleasant contrast to the icy wonders of the Frost Fair, held on
the Thames in 1684, when carriages were driven through the lines of
tents, and an ox was roasted on the water, to the infinite delectation
of the citizens. There Old Saint Paul's (in the words of Victor Hugo,
"one of those Gothic monuments so admirable and so irreparable"), and
which is but ill replaced by the modern "bastard counterpart" of the
glorious fane of St. Peter at Rome, reared its venerable tower (not
dome) and lofty spire to the sky. Next to St. Paul's came the reverend
Abbey of Westminster, taken before it had been disfigured by the towers
added by Wren; and next to the abbey opened the long and raftered vista
of its magnificent neighbouring hall. Several plans and prospects of the
Tower of London, as it appeared at different epochs, occupied a corner
to themselves: then came a long array of taverns, from the Tabard in
Southwark, the Boar's Head in Eastcheap, and the Devil near Temple Bar,
embalmed in the odour of poesy, to the Nag's Head in Cheapside,
notorious for its legend of the consecration of the Protestant bishops
in 1559; there also might you see--
----in Billinsgate the Salutation. And the Boar's Head near London Stone,
The Swan at Dowgate, a tavern well known;
The Mitre in Cheap, and then the Bull's Head,
And many like places that make noses red;
The Boar's Head in Old Fish Street; Three Crowns in the Vintry;
And, now, of late, Saint Martin's in the Seutree;
The Windmill in Lothbury; the Ship at th' Exchange;
King's Head in New Fish Street, where roysters do range;
The Mermaid in Cornhill; Red Lion in the Strand;
Three Tuns in Newgate Market; in Old Fish Street the Swan. [1]
[Footnote 1: News from Bartholomew Faire.] Adjoining these places of entertainment were others of a different
description, to wit, the Globe, as it stood when Shakspeare (how
insufferable is Mr. Knight's orthography of this reverend
name--Shaks_pere_!) trod the stage; the king's play-house in Charles
the Second's time; the Bear Garden, with its flag streaming to the wind;
and the Folly, as it once floated in the river, opposite old Somerset
House. Then came the Halls, beginning with Guildhall and ending with Old
Skinner's. Next, the Crosses, from Paul's to Charing; then, the
churches, gateways, hospitals, colleges, prisons, asylums, inns of
court,--in short, for it is needless to particularise further, London
and its thousand recollections rose before you, as you gazed around. Scarcely an old edifice, to which an historical tradition could be
attached (and what old London edifice is destitute of such traditions? ),
was wanting. Nor were the great of old--the spirits, who gave interest
and endurance to these decayed, or decaying structures, wanting. But I
shall not pause to enumerate their portraits, or make out a catalogue as
long as the list of Homer's ships, or the gallery of Mr. Lodge. Sufficient has been said, I trust, to give the reader an idea of the
physiology of the room. Yet stay! I must not omit to point out the
contents of those groaning shelves. In the goodly folios crowded there
are contained the chronicles of Holinshed and Hall; of Grafton, Fabian,
and Stow; of Matthew of Paris, and his namesake of Westminster. Let him
not be terrified at the ponderous size of these admirable old
historians, nor be deterred by the black letter, if he should chance to
open a volume. Their freshness and picturesque details will surprise as
much as they will delight him. From this wealthy mine Shakspeare drew
some of his purest ore. The shelves are crowned by a solitary bust. It
is that of a modern. It is that of a lover of London, and a character
of London. It is DOCTOR JOHNSON. Having completed the survey of the apartment, I shall now proceed to its
occupants. These were five in number--jolly fellows all--seated round a
circular dining-table covered with glasses and decanters, amidst which a
portly magnum of claret, and a deep and capacious china punch-bowl, must
not pass unmentioned. They were in the full flow of fun and
conviviality; enjoying themselves as good fellows always enjoy
themselves at "the season of the year." The port was delectable--old as
Saint Paul's, I was going to say--not quite, however--but just "old
enough"; the claret was nectar, or what is better, it was Lafitte; the
punch was drink for the gods. The jokes of this party would have split
your sides--their laughter would have had the same effect on your ears. Never were heard peals of merriment so hearty and prolonged. You only
wondered how they found time to drink, so quick did each roar follow on
the heels of its predecessor. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
That they _did_ drink, however, was clear;
that they _had_ drunk was equally certain; and that they intended to
continue drinking seemed to come within the limits of probability. Sir Lionel Flamstead was a retired merchant--one of those high-souled,
high-principled traders, of whom our City was once so justly proud, and
of whom so few, in these days of railway bubbles, and other harebrained
speculations, can be found. His word was his bond--once passed, it was
sufficient; his acceptances were accounted safe as the Bank of England. Had Sir Thomas Gresham descended from his niche he could not have been
treated with greater consideration than attended Sir Lionel's appearance
on 'Change. All eyes followed the movements of his tall and stately
figure--all hats were raised to his courteous but ceremonious
salutation. Affable, yet precise, and tinctured with something of the
punctiliousness of the old school, his manners won him universal respect
and regard, even from those unknown to him. By his intimates he was
revered. His habits were as regular as clockwork, and the glass of cold
punch at Tom's, or the basin of soup at Birch's, wound him up for the
day. His attire was as formal as his manners, being a slight
modification of the prevalent costume of some five-and-thirty years ago. He had consented, not without extreme reluctance, to clothe his nether
limbs in the unmentionable garment of recent introduction; but he
resolutely adhered to the pigtail. There is something, by-the-bye, in a
pigtail, to which old gentlemen cling in spite of all remonstrance, with
lover-like pertinacity. Only hint the propriety of cutting it off to
your great-uncle or your grandfather, and you may rely on being cut off
with a shilling yourself. Be this as it may, Sir Lionel gathered his
locks, once sable as the riband that bound them, but now thickly strewn
with the silver "blossoms of the grave," into a knot, and suffered them
to dangle a few inches below his collar. His shoes shone with a lustre
beyond French polish, and his hat was brushed till not a wind dared to
approach it. Sir Lionel wore a white, unstarched cravat, with a thick
pad in it, sported a frill over his waistcoat, carried a black ebony
cane in his hand, and was generally followed by a pet pug-dog, one of
the most sagacious and disagreeable specimens of his species. Sir Lionel
Flamstead, I have said, was tall--I might have said he was very
tall--somewhat narrower across the shoulders than about the hips--a
circumstance which did not materially conduce to his symmetry--with
grey, benevolent eyes, shaded by bushy, intelligent brows--a lofty,
expansive forehead, in which, in the jargon of phrenology, the organs of
locality and ideality were strongly developed, and which was rendered
the more remarkable from the flesh having fallen in on either side of
the temples--with a nose which had been considered handsome and well
proportioned in his youth, but to which good living had imparted a
bottle form and a bottle tint--and cheeks from which all encroachment of
whiskers was sedulously removed, in order, we conclude, that his rosy
complexion might be traced from its point of concentration, upon the
prominent feature before mentioned, to its final disappearance behind
his ears. Such was Sir Lionel Flamstead. A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE IN ROME
CHAPTER I
SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE
The Pope was saying the high, high mass,
All on Saint Peter's day;
With the power to him given by the saints in heaven
To wash men's sins away. The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And the people kneel'd around;
And from each man's soul his sins did pass,
As he kissed the holy ground. --_The Grey Brother._
Chancing to be in Rome in the August of 1830, I visited the gorgeous
church of Santa Maria Maggiore during the celebration of the anniversary
of the Holy Assumption. It was a glorious sight to one unaccustomed to the imposing religious
ceremonials of the Romish Church, to witness all the pomp and splendour
displayed at this high solemnity--to gaze down that glittering pile, and
mark the various ecclesiastical dignitaries, each in their peculiar and
characteristic costume, employed in the ministration of their sacred
functions, and surrounded by a wide semicircle of the papal guards, so
stationed to keep back the crowd, and who, with their showy scarlet
attire and tall halberds, looked like the martial figures we see in the
sketches of Callot. Nor was the brilliant effect of this picture
diminished by the sumptuous framework in which it was set. Overhead
flamed a roof resplendent with burnished gold; before me rose a canopy
supported by pillars of porphyry, and shining with many-coloured stones;
while on either hand were chapels devoted to some noble house, and
boasting each the marble memorial of a pope. Melodious masses proper to
the service were ever and anon chanted by the papal choir, and
overpowering perfume was diffused around by a hundred censers. Subdued by the odours, the music, and the spectacle, I sank into a state
of dreamy enthusiasm, during a continuance of which I almost fancied
myself a convert to the faith of Rome, and surrendered myself
unreflectingly to an admiration of its errors. As I gazed among the
surrounding crowd, the sight of so many prostrate figures, all in
attitudes of deepest devotion, satisfied me of the profound religious
impression of the ceremonial. As elsewhere, this feeling was not
universal; and, as elsewhere, likewise, more zeal was exhibited by the
lower than the higher classes of society; and I occasionally noted
amongst the latter the glitter of an eye or the flutter of a bosom, not
altogether agitated, I suspect, by holy aspirations. Yet methought, on
the whole, I had never seen such abandonment of soul, such prostration
of spirit, in my own colder clime, and during the exercise of my own
more chastened creed, as that which in several instances I now beheld;
and I almost envied the poor maiden near me, who, abject upon the earth,
had washed away her sorrows, and perhaps her sins, in contrite tears. As such thoughts swept through my mind, I felt a pleasure in singling
out particular figures and groups which interested me, from their
peculiarity of costume, or from their devotional fervour. Amongst
others, a little to my left, I remarked a band of mountaineers from
Calabria, for such I judged them to be from their wild and picturesque
garb. Deeply was every individual of this little knot of peasantry
impressed by the ceremonial. Every eye was humbly cast down; every knee
bent; every hand was either occupied in grasping the little crucifix
suspended from its owner's neck, in telling the beads of his rosary, or
fervently crossed upon his bare and swarthy breast. While gazing upon this group, I chanced upon an individual whom I had
not hitherto noticed, and who now irresistibly attracted my attention. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Though a little removed from the Calabrian mountaineers, and reclining
against the marble walls of the church, he evidently belonged to the
same company; at least, so his attire seemed to indicate, though the
noble cast of his countenance was far superior to that of his comrades. He was an old man, with a face of the fine antique Roman stamp--a bold
outline of prominent nose, rugged and imperious brow, and proudly-cut
chin. His head and chin, as well as his naked breast, were frosted over
with the snowy honours of many winters, and their hoar appearance
contrasted strikingly with the tawny hue of a skin almost as dark and as
lustrous as polished oak. Peasant as he was, there was something of
grandeur and majesty in this old man's demeanour and physiognomy. His
head declined backwards, so as completely to expose his long and
muscular throat. His arms hung listlessly by his side; one hand drooped
upon the pavement, the other was placed within his breast: his eyes were
closed. The old man's garb was of the coarsest fabric; he wore little
beyond a shirt, a loose vest, a sort of sheep-skin cloak, and canvas
leggings bound around with leathern thongs. His appearance, however, was
above his condition; he became his rags as proudly as a prince would
have become his ermined robe. The more I scrutinised the rigid lines of this old man's countenance,
the more I became satisfied that many singular, and perhaps not wholly
guiltless, events were connected with his history. The rosary was in his
hand--the cross upon his breast--the beads were untold--the crucifix
unclasped--no breath of prayer passed his lips. His face was turned
heavenward, but his eyes were closed,--he dared not open them. Why did
he come thither, if he did not venture to pray? Why did he assume a
penitential attitude, if he felt no penitence? So absorbed was I in the perusal of the workings of this old man's
countenance, as to be scarcely conscious that the service of high mass
was concluded, and the crowd within the holy pile fast dispersing. The
music was hushed, the robed prelates and their train had disappeared,
joyous dames were hastening along the marble aisles to their equipages;
all, save a few kneeling figures near the chapels, were departing; and
the old man, aware, from the stir and hum prevailing around, that the
ceremonial was at an end, arose, stretched out his arm to one of his
comrades, a youth who had joined him, and prepared to follow the
concourse. Was he really blind? Assuredly not. Besides, he did not walk like as one
habituated to the direst calamity that can befall our nature. He
staggered in his gait, and reeled to and fro. Yet wherefore did he not
venture to unclose his eyes within the temple of the Most High? What
would I not have given to be made acquainted with his history! For I
felt that it must be a singular one. I might satisfy my curiosity at once. He was moving slowly forward,
guided by his comrade. In a few seconds it would be too late--he would
have vanished from my sight. With hasty footsteps I followed him down
the church, and laid my hand, with some violence, upon his shoulder. The old man started at the touch, and turned. Now, indeed, his eyes were
opened wide, and flashing full upon me,--and such eyes! Heretofore I had
only dreamed of such. Age had not quenched their lightning, and I
quailed beneath the fierce glances which he threw upon me. But if I was,
at first, surprised at the display of anger which I had called forth in
him, how much more was I astonished to behold the whole expression of
his countenance suddenly change. His eyes continued fixed upon mine as
if I had been a basilisk. Apparently he could not avert them; while his
whole frame shivered with emotion. I advanced towards him; he shrank
backwards, and, but for the timely aid of his companion, would have
fallen upon the pavement. At a loss to conceive in what way I could have occasioned him so much
alarm, I rushed forward to the assistance of the old man, when his
son--for such it subsequently appeared he was--rudely repelled me, and
thrust his hand into his girdle, as if to seek for means to prevent
further interference. Meanwhile the group had been increased by the arrival of a third party,
attracted by the cry the old man had uttered in falling. The new-comer
was an Italian gentleman, somewhat stricken in years; of stern and
stately deportment, and with something sinister and forbidding in his
aspect. He was hastening towards the old man, but he suddenly stopped,
and was about to retire when he encountered my gaze. As our eyes met he
started; and a terror, as sudden and lively as that exhibited by the old
man, was at once depicted in his features. My surprise was now beyond all bounds, and I continued for some moments
speechless with astonishment. Not a little of the inexplicable awe which
affected the old man and the stranger was communicated to myself. Altogether, we formed a mysterious and terrible triangle, of which each
side bore some strange and unintelligible relation to the other. The new-comer first recovered his composure, though not without an
effort. Coldly turning his heel upon me, he walked towards the old man,
and shook him forcibly. The latter shrank from his grasp, and
endeavoured to avoid him; but it was impossible. The stranger whispered
a few words in his ear, of which, from his gestures being directed
towards myself, I could guess the import. The old man replied. His
action in doing so was that of supplication and despair. The stranger
retorted in a wild and vehement manner, and even stamped upon the
ground; but the old man still continued to cling to the knees of his
superior. "Weak, superstitious fool!" at length exclaimed the stranger, "I will
waste no more words upon thee. Do, or say, what thou wilt; but beware!" And spurning him haughtily back with his foot, he strode away. The old man's reverend head struck against the marble floor. His temple
was cut open by the fall, and blood gushed in torrents from the wound. Recovering himself, he started to his feet--a knife was instantly in his
hand, and he would have pursued and doubtless slain his aggressor, if he
had not been forcibly withheld by his son, and by a priest who had
joined them. "_Maledizione!_" exclaimed the old man--"a blow from _him_--from _that_
hand! I will stab him, though he were at the altar's foot; though he had
a thousand lives, each should pay for it. Release me, Paolo! release me! for, by Heaven, he dies!" "Peace, father!" cried the son, still struggling with him. "Thou art not _my_ son, to hinder my revenge!" shouted the enraged
father. "Dost not see this blood--_my_ blood--thy father's blood?--and
thou holdest me back! Thou shouldst have struck him to the earth for the
deed--but he was a noble, and thou daredst not lift thy hand against
him!" "Wouldst thou have had me slay him in this holy place?" exclaimed Paolo,
reddening with anger and suppressed emotion. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"No, no," returned the old man, in an altered voice; "not here, not
_here_, though 'twere but just retribution. But I will find other means
of vengeance. I will denounce him--I will betray all, though it cost me
my own life! He shall die by the hands of the common executioner;--there
is one shall testify for me!" And he pointed to me. Again I advanced towards him. "If thou hast aught to disclose pertaining to the Holy Church, I am
ready to listen to thee, my son," said the priest; "but reflect well ere
thou bringest any charge thou mayest not be able to substantiate against
one who stands so high in her esteem as him thou wouldst accuse." The son gave his father a meaning look, and whispered somewhat in his
ear. The old man became suddenly still. "Right, right," said he; "I have bethought me. 'Twas but a blow. He is
wealthy, I am poor; there is no justice for the poor in Rome." "My purse is at your service," said I, interfering; "you shall have my
aid." "Your aid!" echoed the old man, staring at me; "will _you_ assist me,
signor?" "I will." "Enough. I may claim fulfilment of your promise." "Stop, old man," I said; "answer me one question ere you depart. Whence
arose your recent terrors?" "You shall know hereafter, signor," he said; "I must now begone. We
shall meet again. Follow me not," he continued, seeing I was bent upon
obtaining further explanation of the mystery. "You will learn nothing
now, and only endanger my safety. _Addio, signor._" And with hasty steps
he quitted the church, accompanied by his son. "Who is that old man?" I demanded of the priest. "I am as ignorant as yourself," he replied, "but he must be looked to;
he talks threateningly." And he beckoned to an attendant. "Who was he who struck him?" was my next inquiry. "One of our wealthiest nobles," he replied, "and an assured friend of
the Church. We could ill spare him. Do not lose sight of them," he added
to the attendant, "and let the _sbirri_ track them to their haunts. They
must not be suffered to go forth to-night. A few hours' restraint will
cool their hot Calabrian blood." "But the name of the noble, father?" I said, renewing my inquiries. "I must decline further questioning," returned the priest coldly. "I
have other occupation; and meanwhile it will be well to have these
stains effaced, which may else bring scandal on these holy walls. You
will excuse me, my son." So saying, he bowed and retired. I made fruitless inquiries for the old man at the door of the church. He
was gone; none of the bystanders who had seen him go forth knew whither. Stung by curiosity, I wandered amid the most unfrequented quarters of
Rome throughout the day, in the hope of meeting with the old Calabrian,
but in vain. As, however, I entered the courtyard of my hotel, I fancied
I discovered, amongst the lounging assemblage gathered round the door,
the dark eyes of the younger mountaineer. In this I might have been
mistaken. No one answering to his description had been seen near the
house. CHAPTER II
THE MARCHESA
Une chose ténébreuse fait par des hommes ténébreux. --_Lucrece Borgia._
On the same night I bent my steps towards the Colosseum; and, full of my
adventure of the morning, found myself, not without apprehension,
involved within its labyrinthine passages. Accompanied by a monk, who,
with a small horn lantern in his hand, acted as my guide, I fancied
that, by its uncertain light, I could discover stealthy figures lurking
within the shades of the ruin. Whatever suspicions I might entertain, I pursued my course in silence. Emerging from the _vomitorio_, we stood upon the steps of the colossal
amphitheatre. The huge pile was bathed in rosy moonlight, and reared
itself in serene majesty before my view. While indulging in a thousand speculations, occasioned by the hour and
the spot, I suddenly perceived a figure on a point of the ruin
immediately above me. Nothing but the head was visible; but that was
placed in bold relief against the beaming sky of night, and I recognised
it at once. No nobler Roman head had ever graced the circus when Rome
was in her zenith. I shouted to the old Calabrian, for he it was I
beheld. Almost ere the sound had left my lips, he had disappeared. I
made known what I had seen to the monk. He was alarmed--urged our
instant departure, and advised me to seek the assistance of the sentinel
stationed at the entrance to the pile. To this proposal I assented; and,
having descended the vasty steps and crossed the open arena, we arrived,
without molestation, at the doorway. The sentinel had allowed no one to pass him. He returned with me to the
circus; and, after an ineffectual search amongst the ruins, volunteered
his services to accompany me homewards through the Forum. I declined his
offer, and shaped my course towards a lonesome _vicolo_ on the right. This was courting danger; but I cared not, and walked slowly forward
through the deserted place. Scarcely had I proceeded many paces, when I heard footsteps swiftly
approaching; and, ere I could turn round, my arms were seized from
behind, and a bandage was passed across my eyes. All my efforts at
liberation were unavailing; and, after a brief struggle, I remained
passive. "Make no noise," said a voice which I knew to be that of the old man,
"and no harm shall befall you. You must come with us. Ask no questions,
but follow." I suffered myself to be led, without further opposition, whithersoever
they listed. We walked for it might be half-an-hour, much beyond the
walls of Rome. I had to scramble through many ruins, and frequently
stumbled over inequalities of ground. I now felt the fresh breeze of
night blowing over the wide campagna, and my conductors moved swiftly
onwards as we trod on its elastic turf. At length they came to a halt. My bandage was removed, and I beheld
myself beneath the arch of an aqueduct, which spanned the moonlit plain. A fire was kindled beneath the arch, and the ruddy flame licked its
walls. Around the blaze were grouped the little band of peasantry I had
beheld within the church, in various and picturesque attitudes. They
greeted my conductors on their arrival, and glanced inquisitively at me,
but did not speak to me. The elder Calabrian, whom they addressed as
Cristofano, asked for a glass of _aqua vitæ_, which he handed
respectfully to me. I declined the offer, but he pressed it upon me. "You will need it, signor," he said; "you have much to do to-night. You
fear, perhaps, it is drugged. Behold!" And he drank it off. I could not, after this, refuse his pledge. "And now, signor," said the
old man, removing to a little distance from the group, "may I crave a
word with you--your name?" As I had no reason for withholding it, I told him how I was called. "Hum! Had you no relation of the name of ----?" "None whatever." And I sighed, for I thought of my desolate condition. "Strange!" he muttered; adding, with a grim smile, "but, however,
likenesses are easily accounted for." "What likenesses?" I asked. "Whom do I resemble? | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
and what is the motive
of your inexplicable conduct?" "You shall hear," he replied, frowning gloomily. "Step aside, and let us
get within the shade of these arches, out of the reach of yonder
listeners. The tale I have to tell is for your ears alone." I obeyed him; and we stood beneath the shadow of the aqueduct. "Years ago," began the old man, "an Englishman, in all respects
resembling yourself, equally well favoured in person, and equally young,
came to Rome, and took up his abode within the eternal city. He was of
high rank in his own country, and was treated with the distinction due
to his exalted station here. At that time I dwelt with the Marchese
di ----. I was his confidential servant--his adviser--his friend. I had
lived with his father--carried him as an infant--sported with him as a
boy--loved and served him as a man. Loved him, I say; for, despite his
treatment of me, I loved him then as much as I abhor him now. Well,
signor, to my story. If his youth had been profligate, his manhood was
not less depraved; it was devoted to cold, calculating libertinism. Soon
after he succeeded to the estates and title of his father, he married. That he loved his bride, I can scarcely believe; for, though he was
wildly jealous of her, he was himself unfaithful, and she knew it. In
Italy, revenge, in such cases, is easily within a woman's power; and,
for aught I know, the marchesa might have meditated retaliation. My
lord, however, took the alarm, and thought fit to retire to his villa
without the city, and for a time remained secluded within its walls. It
was at this crisis that the Englishman I have before mentioned arrived
in Rome. My lady, who mingled little with the gaieties of the city, had
not beheld him; but she could not have been unacquainted with him by
report, as every tongue was loud in his praises. A rumour of his
successes with other dames had reached my lord; nay, I have reason to
believe that he had been thwarted by the handsome Englishman in some
other quarter, and he sedulously prevented their meeting. An interview,
however, _did_ take place between them, and in an unexpected manner. It
was the custom then, as now, upon particular occasions, to drive, during
the heats of summer, within the Piazza Navona, which is flooded with
water. One evening the marchesa drove thither: she was unattended,
except by myself. Our carriage happened to be stationed near that of the
young Englishman." "The marchesa was beautiful, no doubt?" I said, interrupting him. "Most beautiful!" he replied; "and so your countryman seemed to think,
for he was lost in admiration of her. I am not much versed in the
language of the eyes, but his were too eloquent and expressive not to be
understood. I watched my mistress narrowly. It was evident from her
glowing cheek, though her eyes were cast down, that she was not
insensible to his regards. She turned to play with her dog, a lovely
little greyhound, which was in the carriage beside her, and patted it
carelessly with the glove which she held in her hand. The animal
snatched the glove from her grasp, and, as he bounded backwards, fell
over the carriage side. My lady uttered a scream at the sight, and I was
preparing to extricate the struggling dog, when the Englishman plunged
into the water. In an instant he had restored her favourite to the
marchesa, and received her warmest acknowledgments. From that moment an
intimacy commenced, which was destined to produce the most fatal
consequences to both parties." "Did you betray them?" I asked, somewhat impatiently. "I was then the blind tool of the marchese. I did so," replied the old
man. "I told him all particulars of the interview. He heard me in
silence, but grew ashy pale with suppressed rage. Bidding me redouble my
vigilance, he left me. My lady was now scarcely ever out of my sight;
when one evening, a few days after what had occurred, she walked forth
alone upon the garden-terrace of the villa. Her guitar was in her hand,
and her favourite dog by her side. I was at a little distance, but
wholly unperceived. She struck a few plaintive chords upon her
instrument, and then, resting her chin upon her white and rounded arm,
seemed lost in tender reverie. Would you had seen her, signor, as I
beheld her then, or as one other beheld her! you would acknowledge that
you had never met with her equal in beauty. Her raven hair fell in thick
tresses over shoulders of dazzling whiteness and the most perfect
proportion. Her deep dark eyes were thrown languidly on the ground, and
her radiant features were charged with an expression of profound and
pensive passion. "In this musing attitude she continued for some minutes, when she was
aroused by the gambols of her dog, who bore in his mouth a glove which
he had found. As she took it from him, a letter dropped upon the floor. Had a serpent glided from its folds, it could not have startled her
more. She gazed upon the paper, offended, but irresolute. Yes, she was
_irresolute_; and you may conjecture the rest. She paused, and by that
pause was lost. With a shrinking grasp she stooped to raise the letter. Her cheeks, which had grown deathly pale, again kindled with blushes as
she perused it. She hesitated--cast a bewildering look towards the
mansion--placed the note within her bosom--and plunged into the
orange-bower." "Her lover awaited her there?" "He did. I saw them meet. I heard his frenzied words--his passionate
entreaties. He urged her to fly--she resisted. He grew more urgent--more
impassioned. She uttered a faint cry, and I stood before them. The
Englishman's hand was at my throat, and his sword at my breast, with the
swiftness of thought; and but for the screams of my mistress, that
instant must have been my last. At her desire he relinquished his hold
of me; but her cries had reached other ears, and the marchese arrived to
avenge his injured honour. He paused not to inquire the nature of the
offence, but, sword in hand, assailed the Englishman, bidding me remove
his lady. The clash of their steel was drowned by her shrieks as I bore
her away; but I knew the strife was desperate. Before I gained the house
my lady had fainted; and committing her to the charge of other
attendants, I returned to the terrace. I met my master slowly walking
homewards. His sword was gone--his brow was bent--he shunned my sight. I
knew what had happened, and did not approach him. He sought his wife. What passed in that interview was never disclosed, but it may be guessed
at from its result. That night the marchesa left her husband's
halls--never to return. Next morn I visited the terrace where she had
received the token. The glove was still upon the ground. I picked it up
and carried it to the marchese, detailing the whole occurrence to him. He took it, and vowed as he took it that his vengeance should never rest
satisfied till that glove had been steeped in her blood." "And he kept his vow?" I asked, shuddering. "Many months elapsed ere its accomplishment. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
Italian vengeance is slow,
but sure. To all outward appearance, he had forgotten his faithless
wife. He had even formed a friendship with her lover, which he did the
more effectually to blind his ultimate designs. Meanwhile, time rolled
on, and the marchesa gave birth to a child--the offspring of her
seducer." "Great God!" I exclaimed, "was that child a boy?" "It was--but listen to me. My tale draws to a close. One night, during
the absence of the Englishman, by secret means we entered the palazzo
where the marchesa resided. We wandered from room to room till we came
to her chamber. She was sleeping, with her infant by her side. The sight
maddened the marchese. He would have stricken the child, but I held back
his hand. He relented. He bade me make fast the door. He approached the
bed. I heard a rustle--a scream. A white figure sprang from out the
couch. In an instant the light was extinguished--there was a
blow--another--and all was over. I threw open the door. The marchese
came forth. The corridor in which we stood was flooded with moonlight. A
glove was in his hand--it was dripping with blood. His oath was
fulfilled--his vengeance complete--no, not complete, for the Englishman
yet lived." "What became of him?" I inquired. "Ask me not," replied the old man; "you were at the Chiesa Santa Maria
Maggiore this morning. If those stones could speak, they might tell a
fearful story." "And that was the reason you did not dare to unclose your eyes within
those holy precincts?--a film of blood floated between you and heaven." The old man shuddered, but replied not. "And the child?" I asked, after a pause; "what of their wretched
offspring?" "It was conveyed to England by a friend of its dead father. If he were
alive, that boy would be about your age, signor." "Indeed!" I said; a horrible suspicion flashing across my mind. "After the Englishman's death," continued Cristofano, "my master began
to treat me with a coldness and suspicion which increased daily. I was a
burden to him, and he was resolved to rid himself of me. I spared him
the trouble--quitted Rome--sought the mountains of the Abruzzi--and
thence wandered to the fastnesses of Calabria, and became--no matter
what. Here I am. Heaven's appointed minister of vengeance. The marchese
dies to-night!" "To-night! old man," I echoed, horror-stricken. "Add not crime to crime. If he has indeed been guilty of the foul offence you have named, let him
be dealt with according to the offended laws of the country. Do not
pervert the purposes of justice." "Justice!" echoed Cristofano scornfully. "Ay, justice. You are poor and powerless, but means may be found to aid
you. I will assist the rightful course of vengeance." "You _shall_ assist it. I have sworn he shall die before dawn, and the
hand to strike the blow shall be yours." "Mine! never!" "Your own life will be the penalty of your obstinacy, if you refuse; nor
will your refusal save him. By the Mother of Heaven, he dies! and by
your hand. You saw how he was struck by your resemblance to the young
Englishman this morning in the chiesa. It is wonderful! I know not who
or what you are; but to me you are an instrument of vengeance, and as
such I shall use you. The blow dealt by you will seem the work of
retribution; and I care not if you strike twice, and make my heart your
second mark." Ere I could reply he called to his comrades, and in a few moments we
were speeding across the campagna. We arrived at a high wall:--the old man conducted us to a postern-gate,
which he opened. We entered a garden filled with orange-trees, the
perfume of which loaded the midnight air. We heard the splash of a
fountain at a distance, and the thrilling notes of a nightingale amongst
some taller trees. The moon hung like a lamp over the belvidere of the
proud villa. We strode along a wide terrace edged by a marble
balustrade. The old man pointed to an open summer-house terminating the
walk, and gave me a significant look, but he spoke not. A window thrown
open admitted us to the house. We were within a hall crowded with
statues, and traversed noiselessly its marble floors. Passing through
several chambers, we then mounted to a corridor, and entered an
apartment which formed the ante-room to another beyond it. Placing his
finger upon his lips, and making a sign to his comrades, Cristofano
opened a door and disappeared. There was a breathless pause for a few
minutes, during which I listened intently, but caught only a faint sound
as of the snapping of a lock. Presently the old man returned. "He sleeps," he said, in a low deep tone to me; "sleeps as his victim
slept--sleeps without a dream of remorse; and he shall awaken, as she
awoke, to despair. Come into his chamber!" We obeyed. The door was made fast within side. The curtains of the couch were withdrawn, and the moonlight streamed
full upon the face of the sleeper. He was hushed in profound repose. No
visions seemed to haunt his peaceful slumbers. Could guilt sleep so
soundly? I half doubted the old man's story. Placing us within the shadow of the canopy, Cristofano approached the
bed. A stiletto glittered in his hand. "Awake!" he cried, in a voice of
thunder. The sleeper started at the summons. I watched his countenance. He read Cristofano's errand in his eye. But
he quailed not. "Cowardly assassin!" he cried, "you have well consulted your own safety
in stealing on my sleep." "And who taught me the lesson?" fiercely interrupted the old man. "Am I
the first that have stolen on midnight slumber? Gaze upon this? When and
how did it acquire its dye?" And he held forth a glove, which looked
blackened and stained in the moonlight. The marchese groaned aloud. "My cabinet broken open!" at length he exclaimed--"villain! how dare you
do this? But why do I rave? I know with whom I have to deal." Uttering
these words he sprung from his couch with the intention of grappling
with the old man; but Cristofano retreated, and at that instant the
brigands, who rushed to his aid, thrust me forward. I was face to face
with the marchese. The apparition of the murdered man could not have staggered him more. His limbs were stiffened by the shock, and he remained in an attitude of
freezing terror. "Is he come for vengeance?" he ejaculated. "He is!" cried Cristofano. "Give him the weapon!" And a stiletto was thrust into my hand. But I heeded not the steel. I
tore open my bosom--a small diamond cross was within the folds. "Do you recollect this?" I demanded of the marchese. "It was my wife's!" he shrieked in amazement. "It was upon the infant's bosom as he slept by her side on that fatal
night," said Cristofano. "I saw it sparkle there." "That infant was myself--that wife my mother!" I cried. "The murderer stands before you! Strike!" exclaimed Cristofano. I raised the dagger. The marchese stirred not. I could not strike. "Do you hesitate?" angrily exclaimed Cristofano. "He has not the courage," returned the younger Calabrian. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
"You
reproached me this morning with want of filial duty. Behold how a son
can avenge his father!" And he plunged his stiletto within the bosom of
the marchese. "_Your_ father is not yet avenged, young man!" cried Cristofano, in a
terrible tone. "You alone can avenge him!" Ere I could withdraw its point the old man had rushed upon the dagger
which I held extended in my grasp. He fell without a single groan. | Ainsworth, William Harrison - Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life |
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). THE BECKONING HAND ETC. * * * * *
_STORIES BY GRANT ALLEN._
STRANGE STORIES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with a Frontispiece by George Du Maurier, 6_s_. ;
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found. In short, the novel is one to delight every one of good
taste."--SCOTSMAN. "Nora Dupuy is a true, brave, eminently lovable woman, and stands
out in the pages of 'In all Shades' as an eminently charming as
well as characteristic figure.... On the whole, this is a story of
unusual excellence." --PALL MALL GAZETTE. LONDON: CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY. * * * * *
[Illustration: "I'M SO GLAD YOU BROUGHT NELLIE HOLT A FLOWER." See p. 134.] THE BECKONING HAND AND OTHER STORIES
by
GRANT ALLEN
Author of "Strange Stories," "In All Shades," "Philistia," etc. [Illustration]
With a Frontispiece by Townley Green
London
Chatto and Windus, Piccadilly
1887
PREFACE. Of the thirteen stories included in this volume, "The Gold Wulfric,"
"The Two Carnegies," and "John Cann's Treasure" originally appeared in
the pages of the _Cornhill_; "The Third Time" and "The Search Party's
Find" are from _Longman's Magazine_; "Harry's Inheritance" first saw the
light in the _English Illustrated_; and "Lucretia," "My Uncle's Will,"
"Olga Davidoff's Husband," "Isaline and I," "Professor Milliter's
Dilemma," and "In Strict Confidence," obtained hospitable shelter
between the friendly covers of _Belgravia_. My title-piece, "The
Beckoning Hand," is practically new, having only been published before
as the Christmas supplement of a provincial newspaper. My thanks are due
to Messrs. Smith and Elder, Longmans, Macmillan, and Chatto and Windus
for kind permission to reprint most of the stories here. If anybody
reads them and likes them, let me take this opportunity (as an
unprejudiced person) of recommending to him my other volume of "Strange
Stories," which I consider every bit as gruesome as this one. Should I
succeed in attaining the pious ambition of the Fat Boy, and "making your
flesh creep," then, as somebody once remarked before, "this work will
not have been written in vain." G. A. THE NOOK, DORKING,
_Christmas Day_, 1886. CONTENTS. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
THE BECKONING HAND 1
LUCRETIA 33
THE THIRD TIME 53
THE GOLD WULFRIC 74
MY UNCLE'S WILL 112
THE TWO CARNEGIES 128
OLGA DAVIDOFF'S HUSBAND 164
JOHN CANN'S TREASURE 188
ISALINE AND I 225
PROFESSOR MILLITER'S DILEMMA 245
IN STRICT CONFIDENCE 278
THE SEARCH PARTY'S FIND 299
HARRY'S INHERITANCE 318
_THE BECKONING HAND._
I.
I first met Césarine Vivian in the stalls at the Ambiguities Theatre. I had promised to take Mrs. Latham and Irene to see the French plays
which were then being acted by Marie Leroux's celebrated Palais Royal
company. I wasn't at the time exactly engaged to poor Irene: it has
always been a comfort to me that I wasn't engaged to her, though I knew
Irene herself considered it practically equivalent to an understood
engagement. We had known one another intimately from childhood upward,
for the Lathams were a sort of second cousins of ours, three times
removed: and we had always called one another by our Christian names,
and been very fond of one another in a simple girlish and boyish fashion
as long as we could either of us remember. Still, I maintain, there was
no definite understanding between us; and if Mrs. Latham thought I had
been paying Irene attentions, she must have known that a young man of
two and twenty, with a decent fortune and a nice estate down in
Devonshire, was likely to look about him for a while before he thought
of settling down and marrying quietly. I had brought the yacht up to London Bridge, and was living on board in
picnic style, and running about town casually, when I took Irene and
her mother to see "Faustine," at the Ambiguities. As soon as we had got
in and taken our places, Irene whispered to me, touching my hand lightly
with her fan, "Just look at the very dark girl on the other side of you,
Harry! Did you ever in your life see anybody so perfectly beautiful?" It has always been a great comfort to me, too, that Irene herself was
the first person to call my attention to Césarine Vivian's extraordinary
beauty. I turned round, as if by accident, and gave a passing glance, where
Irene waved her fan, at the girl beside me. She was beautiful,
certainly, in a terrible, grand, statuesque style of beauty; and I saw
at a glimpse that she had Southern blood in her veins, perhaps Negro,
perhaps Moorish, perhaps only Spanish, or Italian, or Provençal. Her
features were proud and somewhat Jewish-looking; her eyes large, dark,
and haughty; her black hair waved slightly in sinuous undulations as it
passed across her high, broad forehead; her complexion, though a dusky
olive in tone, was clear and rich, and daintily transparent; and her
lips were thin and very slightly curled at the delicate corners, with a
peculiarly imperious and almost scornful expression of fixed disdain. I
had never before beheld anywhere such a magnificently repellent specimen
of womanhood. For a second or so, as I looked, her eyes met mine with a
defiant inquiry, and I was conscious that moment of some strange and
weird fascination in her glance that seemed to draw me irresistibly
towards her, at the same time that I hardly dared to fix my gaze
steadily upon the piercing eyes that looked through and through me with
their keen penetration. "She's very beautiful, no doubt," I whispered back to Irene in a low
undertone, "though I must confess I don't exactly like the look of her. She's a trifle too much of a tragedy queen for my taste: a Lady Macbeth,
or a Beatrice Cenci, or a Clytemnestra. I prefer our simple little
English prettiness to this southern splendour. It's more to our English
liking than these tall and stately Italian enchantresses. Besides, I
fancy the girl looks as if she had a drop or two of black blood
somewhere about her." "Oh, no," Irene cried warmly. "Impossible, Harry. She's exquisite:
exquisite. Italian, you know, or something of that sort. Italian girls
have always got that peculiar gipsy-like type of beauty." Low as we spoke, the girl seemed to know by instinct we were talking
about her; for she drew away the ends of her light wrap coldly, in a
significant fashion, and turned with her opera-glass in the opposite
direction, as if on purpose to avoid looking towards us. A minute later the curtain rose, and the first act of Halévy's
"Faustine" distracted my attention for the moment from the beautiful
stranger. Marie Leroux took the part of the great empress. She was grand, stately,
imposing, no doubt, but somehow it seemed to me she didn't come up quite
so well as usual that evening to one's ideal picture of the terrible,
audacious, superb Roman woman. I leant over and murmured so to Irene. "Don't you know why?" Irene whispered back to me with a faint movement
of the play-bill toward the beautiful stranger. "No," I answered; "I haven't really the slightest conception." "Why," she whispered, smiling; "just look beside you. Could anybody bear
comparison for a moment as a Faustine with that splendid creature in the
stall next to you?" I stole a glance sideways as she spoke. It was quite true. The girl by
my side was the real Faustine, the exact embodiment of the dramatist's
creation; and Marie Leroux, with her stagey effects and her actress's
pretences, could not in any way stand the contrast with the genuine
empress who sat there eagerly watching her. The girl saw me glance quickly from her towards the actress and from
the actress back to her, and shrank aside, not with coquettish timidity,
but half angrily and half as if flattered and pleased at the implied
compliment. "Papa," she said to the very English-looking gentleman who
sat beyond her, "ce monsieur-ci...." I couldn't catch the end of the
sentence. She was French, then, not Italian or Spanish; yet a more perfect
Englishman than the man she called "papa" it would be difficult to
discover on a long summer's day in all London. "My dear," her father whispered back in English, "if I were you...." and
the rest of that sentence also was quite inaudible to me. My interest was now fully roused in the beautiful stranger, who sat
evidently with her father and sister, and drank in every word of the
play as it proceeded with the intensest interest. As for me, I hardly
cared to look at the actors, so absorbed was I in my queenly neighbour. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
I made a bare pretence of watching the stage every five minutes, and
saying a few words now and again to Irene or her mother; but my real
attention was all the time furtively directed to the girl beside me. Not
that I was taken with her; quite the contrary; she distinctly repelled
me; but she seemed to exercise over me for all that the same strange and
indescribable fascination which is often possessed by some horrible
sight that you would give worlds to avoid, and yet cannot for your life
help intently gazing upon. Between the third and fourth acts Irene whispered to me again, "I can't
keep my eyes off her, Harry. She's wonderfully beautiful. Confess now:
aren't you over head and ears in love with her?" I looked at Irene's sweet little peaceful English face, and I answered
truthfully, "No, Irene. If I wanted to fall in love, I should find
somebody----"
"Nonsense, Harry," Irene cried, blushing a little, and holding up her
fan before her nervously. "She's a thousand times prettier and handsomer
in every way----"
"Prettier?" "Than I am." At that moment the curtain rose, and Marie Leroux came forward once more
with her imperial diadem, in the very act of defying and bearding the
enraged emperor. It was a great scene. The whole theatre hung upon her words for twenty
minutes. The effect was sublime. Even I myself felt my interest aroused
at last in the consummate spectacle. I glanced round to observe my
neighbour. She sat there, straining her gaze upon the stage, and heaving
her bosom with suppressed emotion. In a second, the spell was broken
again. Beside that tall, dark southern girl, in her queenly beauty, with
her flashing eyes and quivering nostrils, intensely moved by the passion
of the play, the mere actress who mouthed and gesticulated before us by
the footlights was as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. My companion
in the stalls was the genuine Faustine: the player on the stage was but
a false pretender. As I looked a cry arose from the wings: a hushed cry at first, a buzz or
hum; rising louder and ever louder still, as a red glare burst upon the
scene from the background. Then a voice from the side boxes rang out
suddenly above the confused murmur and the ranting of the actors "Fire! Fire!" Almost before I knew what had happened, the mob in the stalls, like the
mob in the gallery, was surging and swaying wildly towards the exits, in
a general struggle for life of the fierce old selfish barbaric pattern. Dense clouds of smoke rolled from the stage and filled the length and
breadth of the auditorium; tongues of flame licked up the pasteboard
scenes and hangings, like so much paper; women screamed, and fought, and
fainted; men pushed one another aside and hustled and elbowed, in one
wild effort to make for the doors at all hazards to the lives of their
neighbours. Never before had I so vividly realized how near the savage
lies to the surface in our best and highest civilized society. I had to
realize it still more vividly and more terribly afterwards. One person alone I observed calm and erect, resisting quietly all pushes
and thrusts, and moving with slow deliberateness to the door, as if
wholly unconcerned at the universal noise and hubbub and tumult around
her. It was the dark girl from the stalls beside me. For myself, my one thought of course was for poor Irene and Mrs. Latham. Fortunately, I am a strong and well-built man, and by keeping the two
women in front of me, and thrusting hard with my elbows on either side
to keep off the crush, I managed to make a tolerably clear road for them
down the central row of stalls and out on to the big external staircase. The dark girl, now separated from her father and sister by the rush, was
close in front of me. By a careful side movement, I managed to include
her also in our party. She looked up to me gratefully with her big eyes,
and her mouth broke into a charming smile as she turned and said in
perfect English, "I am much obliged to you for your kind assistance." Irene's cheek was pale as death; but through the strange young lady's
olive skin the bright blood still burned and glowed amid that frantic
panic as calmly as ever. We had reached the bottom of the steps, and were out into the front,
when suddenly the strange lady turned around and gave a little cry of
disappointment. "Mes lorgnettes! Mes lorgnettes!" she said. Then
glancing round carelessly to me she went on in English: "I have left my
opera-glasses inside on the vacant seat. I think, if you will excuse me,
I'll go back and fetch them." "It's impossible," I cried, "my dear madam. Utterly impossible. They'll
crush you underfoot. They'll tear you to pieces." She smiled a strange haughty smile, as if amused at the idea, but merely
answered, "I think not," and tried to pass lightly by me. I held her arm. I didn't know then she was as strong as I was. "Don't
go," I said imploringly. "They will certainly kill you. It would be
impossible to stem a mob like this one." She smiled again, and darted back in silence before I could stop her. Irene and Mrs. Latham were now fairly out of all danger. "Go on, Irene,"
I said loosing her arm. "Policeman, get these ladies safely out. I must
go back and take care of that mad woman." "Go, go quick," Irene cried. "If you don't go, she'll be killed, Harry." I rushed back wildly after her, battling as well as I was able against
the frantic rush of panic-stricken fugitives, and found my companion
struggling still upon the main staircase. I helped her to make her way
back into the burning theatre, and she ran lightly through the dense
smoke to the stall she had occupied, and took the opera-glasses from the
vacant place. Then she turned to me once more with a smile of triumph. "People lose their heads so," she said, "in all these crushes. I came
back on purpose to show papa I wasn't going to be frightened into
leaving my opera-glasses. I should have been eternally ashamed of myself
if I had come away and left them in the theatre." "Quick," I answered, gasping for breath. "If you don't make haste, we
shall be choked to death, or the roof itself will fall in upon us and
crush us!" She looked up where I pointed with a hasty glance, and then made her way
back again quickly to the staircase. As we hurried out, the timbers of
the stage were beginning to fall in, and the engines were already
playing fiercely upon the raging flames. I took her hand and almost
dragged her out into the open. When we reached the Strand, we were both
wet through, and terribly blackened with smoke and ashes. Pushing our
way through the dense crowd, I called a hansom. She jumped in lightly. "Thank you so much," she said, quite carelessly. "Will you kindly tell
him where to drive? Twenty-seven, Seymour Crescent." "I'll see you home, if you'll allow me," I answered. "Under these
circumstances, I trust I may be permitted." "As you like," she said, smiling enchantingly. "You are very good. My
name is Césarine Vivian. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Papa will be very much obliged to you for your
kind assistance." I drove round to the Lathams' after dropping Miss Vivian at her father's
door, to assure myself of Irene's safety, and to let them know of my own
return unhurt from my perilous adventure. Irene met me on the doorstep,
pale as death still. "Thank heaven," she cried, "Harry, you're safe back
again! And that poor girl? What has become of her?" "I left her," I said, "at Seymour Crescent." Irene burst into a flood of tears. "Oh, Harry," she cried, "I thought
she would have been killed there. It was brave of you, indeed, to help
her through with it." II. Next day, Mr. Vivian called on me at the Oxford and Cambridge, the
address on the card I had given his daughter. I was in the club when he
called, and I found him a pleasant, good-natured Cornishman, with very
little that was strange or romantic in any way about him. He thanked me
heartily, but not too effusively, for the care I had taken of Miss
Vivian overnight; and he was not so overcome with parental emotion as
not to smoke a very good Havana, or to refuse my offer of a brandy and
seltzer. We got on very well together, and I soon gathered from what my
new acquaintance said that, though he belonged to one of the best
families in Cornwall, he had been an English merchant in Haiti, and had
made his money chiefly in the coffee trade. He was a widower, I learned
incidentally, and his daughters had been brought up for some years in
England, though at their mother's request they had also passed part of
their lives in convent schools in Paris and Rouen. "Mrs. Vivian was a
Haitian, you know," he said casually: "Catholic of course. The girls are
Catholics. They're good girls, though they're my own daughters; and
Césarine, your friend of last night, is supposed to be clever. I'm no
judge myself: I don't know about it. Oh, by the way, Césarine said she
hadn't thanked you half enough herself yesterday, and I was to be sure
and bring you round this afternoon to a cup of tea with us at Seymour
Crescent." In spite of the impression Mdlle. Césarine had made upon me the night
before, I somehow didn't feel at all desirous of meeting her again. I
was impressed, it is true, but not favourably. There seemed to me
something uncanny and weird about her which made me shrink from seeing
anything more of her if I could possibly avoid it. And as it happened, I
was luckily engaged that very afternoon to tea at Irene's. I made the
excuse, and added somewhat pointedly--on purpose that it might be
repeated to Mdlle. Césarine--"Miss Latham is a very old and particular
friend of mine--a friend whom I couldn't for worlds think of
disappointing." Mr. Vivian laughed the matter off. "I shall catch it from Césarine," he
said good-humouredly, "for not bringing her cavalier to receive her
formal thanks in person. Our West-Indian born girls, you know, are very
imperious. But if you can't, you can't, of course, so there's an end of
it, and it's no use talking any more about it." I can't say why, but at that moment, in spite of my intense desire not
to meet Césarine again, I felt I would have given whole worlds if he
would have pressed me to come in spite of myself. But, as it happened,
he didn't. At five o'clock, I drove round in a hansom as arranged, to Irene's,
having almost made up my mind, if I found her alone, to come to a
definite understanding with her and call it an engagement. She wasn't
alone, however. As I entered the drawing-room, I saw a tall and graceful
lady sitting opposite her, holding a cup of tea, and with her back
towards me. The lady rose, moved round, and bowed. To my immense
surprise, I found it was Césarine. I noted to myself at the moment, too, that in my heart, though I had
seen her but once before, I thought of her already simply as Césarine. And I was pleased to see her: fascinated: spell-bound. Césarine smiled at my evident surprise. "Papa and I met Miss Latham this
afternoon in Bond Street," she said gaily, in answer to my mute inquiry,
"and we stopped and spoke to one another, of course, about last night;
and papa said you couldn't come round to tea with us in the Crescent,
because you were engaged already to Miss Latham. And Miss Latham very
kindly asked me to drive over and take tea with her, as I was so anxious
to thank you once more for your great kindness to me yesterday." "And Miss Vivian was good enough to waive all ceremony," Irene put in,
"and come round to us as you see, without further introduction." I stopped and talked all the time I was there to Irene; but, somehow,
whatever I said, Césarine managed to intercept it, and I caught myself
quite guiltily looking at her from time to time, with an inexpressible
attraction that I could not account for. By-and-by, Mr. Vivian's carriage called for Césarine, and I was left a
few minutes alone with Irene. "Well, what do you think of her?" Irene asked me simply. I turned my eyes away: I dare not meet hers. "I think she's very
handsome," I replied evasively. "Handsome! I should think so. She's wonderful. She's splendid. And
doesn't she talk magnificently, too, Harry?" "She's clever, certainly," I answered shuffling. "But I don't know why,
I mistrust her, Irene." I rose and stood by the door with my hat in my hand, hesitating and
trembling. I felt as if I had something to say to Irene, and yet I was
half afraid to venture upon saying it. My fingers quivered, a thing very
unusual with me. At last I came closer to her, after a long pause, and
said, "Irene." Irene started, and the colour flushed suddenly into her cheeks. "Yes,
Harry," she answered tremulously. I don't know why, but I couldn't utter it. It was but to say "I love
you," yet I hadn't the courage. I stood there like a fool, looking at
her irresolutely, and then--
The door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Latham entered and interrupted us. III. I didn't speak again to Irene. The reason was that three days later I
received a little note of invitation to lunch at Seymour Crescent from
Césarine Vivian. I didn't want to accept it, and yet I didn't know how to help myself. I
went, determined beforehand as soon as ever lunch was over to take away
the yacht to the Scotch islands, and leave Césarine and all her
enchantments for ever behind me. I was afraid of her, that's the fact,
positively afraid of her. I couldn't look her in the face without
feeling at once that she exerted a terrible influence over me. The lunch went off quietly enough, however. We talked about Haiti and
the West Indies; about the beautiful foliage and the lovely flowers;
about the moonlight nights and the tropical sunsets; and Césarine grew
quite enthusiastic over them all. "You should take your yacht out there
some day, Mr. Tristram," she said softly. "There is no place on earth so
wild and glorious as our own beautiful neglected Haiti." She lifted her eyes full upon me as she spoke. I stammered out, like one
spell-bound, "I must certainly go, on your recommendation, Mdlle. Césarine." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"Why Mademoiselle?" she asked quickly. Then, perceiving I misunderstood
her by the start I gave, she added with a blush, "I mean, why not 'Miss
Vivian' in plain English?" "Because you aren't English," I said confusedly. "You're Haitian, in
reality. Nobody could ever for a moment take you for a mere
Englishwoman." I meant it for a compliment, but Césarine frowned. I saw I had hurt her,
and why; but I did not apologize. Yet I was conscious of having done
something very wrong, and I knew I must try my best at once to regain my
lost favour with her. "You will take some coffee after lunch?" Césarine said, as the dishes
were removed. "Oh, certainly, my dear," her father put in. "You must show Mr. Tristram
how we make coffee in the West Indian fashion." Césarine smiled, and poured it out--black coffee, very strong, and into
each cup she poured a little glass of excellent pale neat cognac. It
seemed to me that she poured the cognac like a conjuror's trick; but
everything about her was so strange and lurid that I took very little
notice of the matter at that particular moment. It certainly was
delicious coffee: I never tasted anything like it. After lunch, we went into the drawing-room, and thence Césarine took me
alone into the pretty conservatory. She wanted to show me some of her
beautiful Haitian orchids, she said; she had brought the orchids herself
years ago from Haiti. How long we stood there I could never tell. I
seemed as if intoxicated with her presence. I had forgotten now all
about my distrust of her: I had forgotten all about Irene and what I
wished to say to her: I was conscious only of Césarine's great dark
eyes, looking through and through me with their piercing glance, and
Césarine's figure, tall and stately, but very voluptuous, standing close
beside me, and heaving regularly as we looked at the orchids. She talked
to me in a low and dreamy voice; and whether the Château Larose at lunch
had got into my head, or whatever it might be, I felt only dimly and
faintly aware of what was passing around me. I was unmanned with love, I
suppose: but, however it may have been, I certainly moved and spoke that
afternoon like a man in a trance from which he cannot by any effort of
his own possibly awake himself. "Yes, yes," I overheard Césarine saying at last, as through a mist of
emotion, "you must go some day and see our beautiful mountainous Haiti. I must go myself. I long to go again. I don't care for this gloomy,
dull, sunless England. A hand seems always to be beckoning me there. I
shall obey it some day, for Haiti--our lovely Haiti, is too beautiful." Her voice was low and marvellously musical. "Mademoiselle Césarine," I
began timidly. She pouted and looked at me. "Mademoiselle again," she said in a pettish
way. "I told you not to call me so, didn't I?" "Well, then, Césarine," I went on boldly. She laughed low, a little
laugh of triumph, but did not correct or check me in any way. "Césarine," I continued, lingering I know not why over the syllables of
the name, "I will go, as you say. I shall see Haiti. Why should we not
both go together?" She looked up at me eagerly with a sudden look of hushed inquiry. "You
mean it?" she asked, trembling visibly. "You mean it, Mr. Tristram? You
know what you are saying?" "Césarine," I answered, "I mean it. I know it. I cannot go away from you
and leave you. Something seems to tie me. I am not my own master....
Césarine, I love you." My head whirled as I said the words, but I meant them at the time, and
heaven knows I tried ever after to live up to them. She clutched my arm convulsively for a moment. Her face was aglow with a
wonderful light, and her eyes burned like a pair of diamonds. "But the
other girl!" she cried. "Her! Miss Latham! The one you call Irene! You
are ... in love with her! Are you not? Tell me!" "I have never proposed to Irene," I replied slowly. "I have never asked
any other woman but you to marry me, Césarine." She answered me nothing, but my face was very near hers, and I bent
forward and kissed her suddenly. To my immense surprise, instead of
struggling or drawing away, she kissed me back a fervent kiss, with lips
hard pressed to mine, and the tears trickled slowly down her cheeks in a
strange fashion. "You are mine," she cried. "Mine for ever. I have won
you. She shall not have you. I knew you were mine the moment I looked
upon you. The hand beckoned me. I knew I should get you." "Come up into my den, Mr. Tristram, and have a smoke," my host
interrupted in his bluff voice, putting his head in unexpectedly at the
conservatory door. "I think I can offer you a capital Manilla." The sound woke me as if from some terrible dream, and I followed him
still in a sort of stupor up to the smoking room. IV. That very evening I went to see Irene. My brain was whirling even yet,
and I hardly knew what I was doing; but the cool air revived me a
little, and by the time I reached the Lathams' I almost felt myself
again. Irene came down to the drawing-room to see me alone. I saw what she
expected, and the shame of my duplicity overcame me utterly. I took both her hands in mine and stood opposite her, ashamed to look
her in the face, and with the terrible confession weighing me down like
a burden of guilt. "Irene," I blurted out, without preface or comment,
"I have just proposed to Césarine Vivian." Irene drew back a moment and took a long breath. Then she said, with a
tremor in her voice, but without a tear or a cry, "I expected it, Harry. I thought you meant it. I saw you were terribly, horribly in love with
her." "Irene," I cried, passionately and remorsefully flinging myself upon the
sofa in an agony of repentance, "I do not love her. I have never cared
for her. I'm afraid of her, fascinated by her. I love you, Irene, you
and you only. The moment I'm away from her, I hate her, I hate her. For
heaven's sake, tell me what am I to do! I do not love her. I hate her,
Irene." Irene came up to me and soothed my hair tenderly with her hand. "Don't,
Harry," she said, with sisterly kindliness. "Don't speak so. Don't give
way to it. I know what you feel. I know what you think. But I am not
angry with you. You mustn't talk like that. If she has accepted you, you
must go and marry her. I have nothing to reproach you with: nothing,
nothing. Never say such words to me again. Let us be as we have always
been, friends only." "Irene," I cried, lifting up my head and looking at her wildly, "it is
the truth: I do not love her, except when I am with her: and then, some
strange enchantment seems to come over me. I don't know what it is, but
I can't escape it. In my heart, Irene, in my heart of hearts, I love
you, and you only. I can never love her as I love you, Irene. My
darling, my darling, tell me how to get myself away from her." "Hush," Irene said, laying her hand on mine persuasively. "You're
excited to-night, Harry. You are flushed and feverish. You don't know
what you're saying. You mustn't talk so. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
If you do, you'll make me hate
you and despise you. You must keep your word now, and marry Miss
Vivian." V.
The next six weeks seem to me still like a vague dream: everything
happened so hastily and strangely. I got a note next day from Irene. It
was very short. "Dearest Harry,--Mamma and I think, under the
circumstances, it would be best for us to leave London for a few weeks. I am not angry with you. With best love, ever yours affectionately,
Irene." I was wild when I received it. I couldn't bear to part so with Irene. I
would find out where they were going and follow them immediately. I
would write a note and break off my mad engagement with Césarine. I must
have been drunk or insane when I made it. I couldn't imagine what I
could have been doing. On my way round to inquire at the Latham's, a carriage came suddenly
upon me at a sharp corner. A lady bowed to me from it. It was Césarine
with her father. They pulled up and spoke to me. From that moment my
doom was sealed. The old fascination came back at once, and I followed
Césarine blindly home to her house to luncheon, her accepted lover. In six weeks more we were really married. The first seven or eight months of our married life passed away happily
enough. As soon as I was actually married to Césarine, that strange
feeling I had at first experienced about her slowly wore off in the
closer, commonplace, daily intercourse of married life. I almost smiled
at myself for ever having felt it. Césarine was so beautiful and so
queenly a person, that when I took her down home to Devonshire, and
introduced her to the old manor, I really found myself immensely proud
of her. Everybody at Teignbury was delighted and struck with her; and,
what was a great deal more to the point, I began to discover that I was
positively in love with her myself, into the bargain. She softened and
melted immensely on nearer acquaintance; the Faustina air faded slowly
away, when one saw her in her own home among her own occupations; and I
came to look on her as a beautiful, simple, innocent girl, delighted
with all our country pleasures, fond of a breezy canter on the slopes of
Dartmoor, and taking an affectionate interest in the ducks and chickens,
which I could hardly ever have conceived even as possible when I first
saw her in Seymour Crescent. The imperious, mysterious, terrible
Césarine disappeared entirely, and I found in her place, to my immense
relief, that I had married a graceful, gentle, tender-hearted English
girl, with just a pleasant occasional touch of southern fire and
impetuosity. As winter came round again, however, Césarine's cheeks began to look a
little thinner than usual, and she had such a constant, troublesome
cough, that I began to be a trifle alarmed at her strange symptoms. Césarine herself laughed off my fears. "It's nothing, Harry," she would
say; "nothing at all, I assure you, dear. A few good rides on the moor
will set me right again. It's all the result of that horrid London. I'm
a country-born girl, and I hate big towns. I never want to live in town
again, Harry." I called in our best Exeter doctor, and he largely confirmed Césarine's
own simple view of the situation. "There's nothing organically wrong
with Mrs. Tristram's constitution," he said confidently. "No weakness of
the lungs or heart in any way. She has merely run down--outlived her
strength a little. A winter in some warm, genial climate would set her
up again, I haven't the least hesitation in saying." "Let us go to Algeria with the yacht, Reeney," I suggested, much
reassured. "Why Algeria?" Césarine replied, with brightening eyes. "Oh, Harry, why
not dear old Haiti? You said once you would go there with me--you
remember when, darling; why not keep your promise now, and go there? I
want to go there, Harry: I'm longing to go there." And she held out her
delicately moulded hand in front of her, as if beckoning me, and drawing
me on to Haiti after her. "Ah, yes; why not the West Indies?" the Exeter doctor answered
meditatively. "I think I understood you that Mrs. Tristram is West
Indian born. Quite so. Quite so. Her native air. Depend upon it, that's
the best place for her. By all means, I should say, try Haiti." I don't know why, but the notion for some reason displeased me
immensely. There was something about Césarine's eyes, somehow, when she
beckoned with her hand in that strange fashion, which reminded me
exactly of the weird, uncanny, indescribable impression she had made
upon me when I first knew her. Still I was very fond of Césarine, and if
she and the doctor were both agreed that Haiti would be the very best
place for her, it would be foolish and wrong for me to interfere with
their joint wisdom. Depend upon it, a woman often knows what is the
matter with her better than any man, even her husband, can possibly tell
her. The end of it all was, that in less than a month from that day, we were
out in the yacht on the broad Atlantic, with the cliffs of Falmouth and
the Lizard Point fading slowly behind us in the distance, and the white
spray dashing in front of us, like fingers beckoning us on to Haiti. VI. The bay of Port-au-Prince is hot and simmering, a deep basin enclosed in
a ringing semicircle of mountains, with scarce a breath blowing on the
harbour, and with tall cocoa-nut palms rising unmoved into the still air
above on the low sand-spits that close it in to seaward. The town itself
is wretched, squalid, and hopelessly ramshackled, a despondent
collection of tumbledown wooden houses, interspersed with indescribable
negro huts, mere human rabbit-hutches, where parents and children herd
together, in one higgledy-piggledy, tropical confusion. I had never in
my days seen anything more painfully desolate and dreary, and I feared
that Césarine, who had not been here since she was a girl of fourteen,
would be somewhat depressed at the horrid actuality, after her exalted
fanciful ideals of the remembered Haiti. But, to my immense surprise, as
it turned out, Césarine did not appear at all shocked or taken aback at
the squalor and wretchedness all around her. On the contrary, the very
air of the place seemed to inspire her from the first with fresh vigour;
her cough disappeared at once as if by magic; and the colour returned
forthwith to her cheeks, almost as soon as we had fairly cast anchor in
Haitian waters. The very first day we arrived at Port-au-Prince, Césarine said to me,
with more shyness than I had ever yet seen her exhibit, "If you
wouldn't mind it, Harry, I should like to go at once, this morning--and
see my grandmother." I started with astonishment. "Your grandmother, Césarine!" I cried
incredulously. "My darling! I didn't know you had a grandmother living." "Yes, I have," she answered, with some slight hesitation, "and I think
if you wouldn't object to it, Harry, I'd rather go and see her alone,
the first time at least, please dearest." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
In a moment, the obvious truth, which I had always known in a vague sort
of fashion, but never thoroughly realized, flashed across my mind in its
full vividness, and I merely bowed my head in silence. It was natural
she should not wish me to see her meeting with her Haitian grandmother. She went alone through the streets of Port-au-Prince, without inquiry,
like one who knew them familiarly of old, and I dogged her footsteps at
a distance unperceived, impelled by the same strange fascination which
had so often driven me to follow Césarine wherever she led me. After a
few hundred yards, she turned out of the chief business place, and down
a tumbledown alley of scattered negro cottages, till she came at last to
a rather better house that stood by itself in a little dusty garden of
guava-trees and cocoa-nuts. A rude paling, built negro-wise of broken
barrel-staves, nailed rudely together, separated the garden from the
compound next to it. I slipped into the compound before Césarine
observed me, beckoned the lazy negro from the door of the hut, with one
finger placed as a token of silence upon my lips, dropped a dollar into
his open palm, and stood behind the paling, looking out into the garden
beside me through a hole made by a knot in one of the barrel staves. Césarine knocked with her hand at the door, and in a moment was answered
by an old negress, tall and bony, dressed in a loose sack-like gown of
coarse cotton print, with a big red bandanna tied around her short grey
hair, and a huge silver cross dangling carelessly upon her bare and
wrinkled black neck. She wore no sleeves, and bracelets of strange beads
hung loosely around her shrunken and skinny wrists. A more hideous old
hag I had never in my life beheld before; and yet I saw, without waiting
to observe it, that she had Césarine's great dark eyes and even white
teeth, and something of Césarine's figure lingered still in her lithe
and sinuous yet erect carriage. "Grand'mère!" Césarine said convulsively, flinging her arms with wild
delight around that grim and withered gaunt black woman. It seemed to me
she had never since our marriage embraced me with half the fervour she
bestowed upon this hideous old African witch creature. "Hé, Césarine, it is thee, then, my little one," the old negress cried
out suddenly, in her thin high voice and her muffled Haitian _patois_. "I did not expect thee so soon, my cabbage. Thou hast come early. Be the
welcome one, my granddaughter." I reeled with horror as I saw the wrinkled and haggard African kissing
once more my beautiful Césarine. It seemed to me a horrible desecration. I had always known, of course, since Césarine was a quadroon, that her
grandmother on one side must necessarily have been a full-blooded
negress, but I had never yet suspected the reality could be so hideous,
so terrible as this. I crouched down speechless against the paling in my disgust and
astonishment, and motioned with my hand to the negro in the hut to
remain perfectly quiet. The door of the house closed, and Césarine
disappeared: but I waited there, as if chained to the spot, under a hot
and burning tropical sun, for fully an hour, unconscious of anything in
heaven or earth, save the shock and surprise of that unexpected
disclosure. At last the door opened again, and Césarine apparently came out once
more into the neighbouring garden. The gaunt negress followed her close,
with one arm thrown caressingly about her beautiful neck and shoulders. In London, Césarine would not have permitted anybody but a great lady to
take such a liberty with her; but here in Haiti, she submitted to the
old negress's horrid embraces with perfect calmness. Why should she not,
indeed! It was her own grandmother. They came close up to the spot where I was crouching in the thick
drifted dust behind the low fence, and then I heard rather than saw that
Césarine had flung herself passionately down upon her knees on the
ground, and was pouring forth a muttered prayer, in a tongue unknown to
me, and full of harsh and uncouth gutturals. It was not Latin; it was
not even the coarse Creole French, the negro _patois_ in which I heard
the people jabbering to one another loudly in the streets around me: it
was some still more hideous and barbaric language, a mass of clicks and
inarticulate noises, such as I could never have believed might possibly
proceed from Césarine's thin and scornful lips. At last she finished, and I heard her speaking again to her grandmother
in the Creole dialect. "Grandmother, you will pray and get me one. You
will not forget me. A boy. A pretty one; an heir to my husband!" It was
said wistfully, with an infinite longing. I knew then why she had grown
so pale and thin and haggard before we sailed away from England. The old hag answered in the same tongue, but in her shrill withered
note, "You will bring him up to the religion, my little one, will you?" Césarine seemed to bow her head. "I will," she said. "He shall follow
the religion. Mr. Tristram shall never know anything about it." They went back once more into the house, and I crept away, afraid of
being discovered, and returned to the yacht, sick at heart, not knowing
how I should ever venture again to meet Césarine. But when I got back, and had helped myself to a glass of sherry to
steady my nerves, from the little flask on Césarine's dressing-table, I
thought to myself, hideous as it all seemed, it was very natural
Césarine should wish to see her grandmother. After all, was it not
better, that proud and haughty as she was, she should not disown her own
flesh and blood? And yet, the memory of my beautiful Césarine wrapped in
that hideous old black woman's arms made the blood curdle in my very
veins. As soon as Césarine returned, however, gayer and brighter than I had
ever seen her, the old fascination overcame me once more, and I
determined in my heart to stifle the horror I could not possibly help
feeling. And that evening, as I sat alone in the cabin with my wife, I
said to her, "Césarine, we have never spoken about the religious
question before: but if it should be ordained we are ever to have any
little ones of our own, I should wish them to be brought up in their
mother's creed. You could make them better Catholics, I take it, than I
could ever make them Christians of any sort." Césarine answered never a word, but to my intense surprise she burst
suddenly into a flood of tears, and flung herself sobbing on the cabin
floor at my feet in an agony of tempestuous cries and writhings. VII. A few days later, when we had settled down for a three months' stay at a
little bungalow on the green hills behind Port-au-Prince, Césarine said
to me early in the day, "I want to go away to-day, Harry, up into the
mountains, to the chapel of Notre Dame de Bon Secours." I bowed my head in acquiescence. "I can guess why you want to go,
Reeney," I answered gently. "You want to pray there about something
that's troubling you. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
And if I'm not mistaken, it's the same thing that
made you cry the other evening when I spoke to you down yonder in the
cabin." The tears rose hastily once more into Césarine's eyes, and she cried in
a low distressed voice, "Harry, Harry, don't talk to me so. You are too
good to me. You will kill me. You will kill me." I lifted her head from the table, where she had buried it in her arms,
and kissed her tenderly. "Reeney," I said, "I know how you feel, and I
hope Notre Dame will listen to your prayers, and send you what you ask
of her. But if not, you need never be afraid that I shall love you any
the less than I do at present." Césarine burst into a fresh flood of tears. "No, Harry," she said, "you
don't know about it. You can't imagine it. To us, you know, who have the
blood of Africa running in our veins, it is not a mere matter of fancy. It is an eternal disgrace for any woman of our race and descent not to
be a mother. I cannot help it. It is the instinct of my people. We are
all born so: we cannot feel otherwise." It was the only time either of us ever alluded in speaking with one
another to the sinister half of Césarine's pedigree. "You will let me go with you to the mountains, Reeney?" I asked,
ignoring her remark. "You mustn't go so far by yourself, darling." "No, Harry, you can't come with me. It would make my prayers
ineffectual, dearest. You are a heretic, you know, Harry. You are not
Catholic. Notre Dame won't listen to my prayer if I take you with me on
my pilgrimage, my darling." I saw her mind was set upon it, and I didn't interfere. She would be
away all night, she said. There was a rest-house for pilgrims attached
to the chapel, and she would be back again at Maisonette (our bungalow)
the morning after. That afternoon she started on her way on a mountain pony I had just
bought for her, accompanied only by a negro maid. I couldn't let her go
quite unattended through those lawless paths, beset by cottages of half
savage Africans; so I followed at a distance, aided by a black groom,
and tracked her road along the endless hill-sides up to a fork in the
way where the narrow bridle-path divided into two, one of which bore
away to leftward, leading, my guide told me, to the chapel of Notre Dame
de Bon Secours. At that point the guide halted. He peered with hand across his eyebrows
among the tangled brake of tree-ferns with a terrified look; then he
shook his woolly black head ominously. "I can't go on, Monsieur," he
said, turning to me with an unfeigned shudder. "Madame has not taken the
path of Our Lady. She has gone to the left along the other road, which
leads at last to the Vaudoux temple." I looked at him incredulously. I had heard before of Vaudoux. It is the
hideous African canibalistic witchcraft of the relapsing half-heathen
Haitian negroes. But Césarine a Vaudoux worshipper! It was too
ridiculous. The man must be mistaken: or else Césarine had taken the
wrong road by some slight accident. Next moment, a horrible unspeakable doubt seized upon me irresistibly. What was the unknown shrine in her grandmother's garden at which
Césarine had prayed in those awful gutturals? Whatever it was, I would
probe this mystery to the very bottom. I would know the truth, come what
might of it. "Go, you coward!" I said to the negro. "I have no further need of you. I
will make my way alone to the Vaudoux temple." "Monsieur," the man cried, trembling visibly in every limb, "they will
tear you to pieces. If they ever discover you near the temple, they will
offer you up as a victim to the Vaudoux." "Pooh," I answered, contemptuous of the fellow's slavish terror. "Where
Madame, a woman, dares to go, I, her husband, am certainly not afraid to
follow her." "Monsieur," he replied, throwing himself submissively in the dust on the
path before me, "Madame is Creole; she has the blood of the Vaudoux
worshippers flowing in her veins. Nobody will hurt her. She is free of
the craft. But Monsieur is a pure white and uninitiated.... If the
Vaudoux people catch him at their rites, they will rend him in pieces,
and offer his blood as an expiation to the Unspeakable One." "Go," I said, with a smile, turning my horse's head up the right-hand
path toward the Vaudoux temple. "I am not afraid. I will come back again
to Maisonette to-morrow." I followed the path through a tortuous maze, beset with prickly cactus,
agave, and fern-brake, till I came at last to a spur of the hill, where
a white wooden building gleamed in front of me, in the full slanting
rays of tropical sunset. A skull was fastened to the lintel of the door. I knew at once it was the Vaudoux temple. I dismounted at once, and led my horse aside into the brake, though I
tore his legs and my own as I went with the spines of the cactus plants;
and tying him by the bridle to a mountain cabbage palm, in a spot where
the thick underbrush completely hid us from view, I lay down and waited
patiently for the shades of evening. It was a moonless night, according to the Vaudoux fashion; and I knew
from what I had already read in West Indian books that the orgies would
not commence till midnight. From time to time, I rubbed a fusee against my hand without lighting
it, and by the faint glimmer of the phosphorus on my palm, I was able to
read the figures of my watch dial without exciting the attention of the
neighbouring Vaudoux worshippers. Hour after hour went slowly by, and I crouched there still unseen among
the agave thicket. At last, as the hands of the watch reached together
the point of twelve, I heard a low but deep rumbling noise coming
ominously from the Vaudoux temple. I recognized at once the familiar
sound. It was the note of the bull-roarer, that mystic instrument of
pointed wood, whirled by a string round the head of the hierophant, by
whose aid savages in their secret rites summon to their shrines their
gods and spirits. I had often made one myself for a toy when I was a boy
in England. I crept out through the tangled brake, and cautiously approached the
back of the building. A sentinel was standing by the door in front, a
powerful negro, armed with revolver and cutlas. I skulked round
noiselessly to the rear, and lifting myself by my hands to the level of
the one tiny window, I peered in through a slight scratch on the white
paint, with which the glass was covered internally. I only saw the sight within for a second. Then my brain reeled, and my
fingers refused any longer to hold me. But in that second, I had read
the whole terrible, incredible truth: I knew what sort of a woman she
really was whom I had blindly taken as the wife of my bosom. Before a rude stone altar covered with stuffed alligator skins, human
bones, live snakes, and hideous sorts of African superstition, a tall
and withered black woman stood erect, naked as she came from her
mother's womb, one skinny arm raised aloft, and the other holding below
some dark object, that writhed and struggled awfully in her hand on the
slab of the altar, even as she held it. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
I saw in a flash of the torches
behind it was the black hag I had watched before at the Port-au-Prince
cottage. Beside her, whiter of skin, and faultless of figure, stood a younger
woman, beautiful to behold, imperious and haughty still, like a Greek
statue, unmoved before that surging horrid background of naked black and
cringing savages. Her head was bent, and her hand pressed convulsively
against the swollen veins in her throbbing brow; and I saw at once it
was my own wife--a Vaudoux worshipper--Césarine Tristram. In another flash, I knew the black woman had a sharp flint knife in her
uplifted hand; and the dark object in the other hand I recognized with a
thrill of unspeakable horror as a negro girl of four years old or
thereabouts, gagged and bound, and lying on the altar. Before I could see the sharp flint descend upon the naked breast of the
writhing victim, my fingers in mercy refused to bear me, and I fell half
fainting on the ground below, too shocked and unmanned even to crawl
away at once out of reach of the awful unrealizable horror. But by the sounds within, I knew they had completed their hideous
sacrifice, and that they were smearing over Césarine--my own wife--the
woman of my choice--with the warm blood of the human victim. Sick and faint, I crept away slowly through the tangled underbrush,
tearing my skin as I went with the piercing cactus spines; untied my
horse from the spot where I had fastened him; and rode him down without
drawing rein, cantering round sharp angles and down horrible ledges,
till he stood at last, white with foam, by the grey dawn, in front of
the little piazza at Maisonette. VIII. That night, the thunder roared and the lightning played with tropical
fierceness round the tall hilltops away in the direction of the Vaudoux
temple. The rain came down in fearful sheets, and the torrents roared
and foamed in cataracts, and tore away great gaps in the rough paths on
the steep hill-sides. But at eight o'clock in the morning Césarine
returned, drenched with wet, and with a strange frown upon her haughty
forehead. I did not know how to look at her or how to meet her. "My prayers are useless," she muttered angrily as she entered. "Some
heretic must have followed me unseen to the chapel of Notre Dame de Bon
Secours. The pilgrimage is a failure." "You are wet," I said, trembling. "Change your things, Césarine." I
could not pretend to speak gently to her. She turned upon me with a fierce look in her big black eyes. Her
instinct showed her at once I had discovered her secret. "Tell them, and
hang me," she cried fiercely. It was what the law required me to do. I was otherwise the accomplice of
murder and cannibalism. But I could not do it. Profoundly as I loathed
her and hated her presence, now, I couldn't find it in my heart to give
her up to justice, as I knew I ought to do. I turned away and answered nothing. Presently, she came out again from her bedroom, with her wet things
still dripping around her. "Smoke that," she said, handing me a tiny
cigarette rolled round in a leaf of fresh tobacco. "I will not," I answered with a vague surmise, taking it from her
fingers. "I know the smell. It is manchineal. You cannot any longer
deceive me." She went back to her bedroom once more. I sat, dazed and stupefied, in
the bamboo chair on the front piazza. What to do, I knew not, and cared
not. I was tied to her for life, and there was no help for it, save by
denouncing her to the rude Haitian justice. In an hour or more, our English maid came out to speak to me. "I'm
afraid, sir," she said, "Mrs. Tristram is getting delirious. She seems
to be in a high fever. Shall I ask one of these poor black bodies to go
out and get the English doctor?" I went into my wife's bedroom. Césarine lay moaning piteously on the
bed, in her wet clothes still; her cheeks were hot, and her pulse was
high and thin and feverish. I knew without asking what was the matter
with her. It was yellow fever. The night's exposure in that terrible climate, and the ghastly scene she
had gone through so intrepidly, had broken down even Césarine's iron
constitution. I sent for the doctor and had her put to bed immediately. The black
nurse and I undressed her between us. We found next her bosom, tied by a
small red silken thread, a tiny bone, fresh and ruddy-looking. I knew
what it was, and so did the negress. It was a human finger-bone--the
last joint of a small child's fourth finger. The negress shuddered and
hid her head. "It is Vaudoux, Monsieur!" she said. "I have seen it on
others. Madame has been paying a visit, I suppose, to her grandmother." For six long endless days and nights I watched and nursed that doomed
criminal, doing everything for her that skill could direct or care could
suggest to me: yet all the time fearing and dreading that she might yet
recover, and not knowing in my heart what either of our lives could ever
be like if she did live through it. A merciful Providence willed it otherwise. On the sixth day, the fatal _vomito negro_ set in--the symptom of the
last incurable stage of yellow fever--and I knew for certain that
Césarine would die. She had brought her own punishment upon her. At
midnight that evening she died delirious. Thank God, she had left no child of mine behind her to inherit the curse
her mother's blood had handed down to her! IX. On my return to London, whither I went by mail direct, leaving the yacht
to follow after me, I drove straight to the Lathams' from Waterloo
Station. Mrs. Latham was out, the servant said, but Miss Irene was in
the drawing-room. Irene was sitting at the window by herself, working quietly at a piece
of crewel work. She rose to meet me with her sweet simple little English
smile. I took her hand and pressed it like a brother. "I got your telegram," she said simply. "Harry, I know she is dead; but
I know something terrible besides has happened. Tell me all. Don't be
afraid to speak of it before me. I am not afraid, for my part, to
listen." I sat down on the sofa beside her, and told her all, without one word of
excuse or concealment, from our last parting to the day of Césarine's
death in Haiti: and she held my hand and listened all the while with
breathless wonderment to my strange story. At the end I said, "Irene, it has all come and gone between us like a
hideous nightmare. I cannot imagine even now how that terrible woman,
with all her power, could ever for one moment have bewitched me away
from you, my beloved, my queen, my own heart's darling." Irene did not try to hush me or to stop me in any way. She merely sat
and looked at me steadily, and said nothing. "It was fascination," I cried. "Infatuation, madness, delirium,
enchantment." "It was worse than that, Harry," Irene answered, rising quietly. "It was
poison; it was witchcraft; it was sheer African devilry." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
In a flash of thought, I remembered the cup of coffee at Seymour
Crescent, the curious sherry at Port-au-Prince, the cigarette with the
manchineal she had given me on the mountains, and I saw forthwith that
Irene with her woman's quickness had divined rightly. It was more than
infatuation; it was intoxication with African charms and West Indian
poisons. "What a man does in such a woman's hands is not his own doing," Irene
said slowly. "He has no more control of himself in such circumstances
than if she had drugged him with chloroform or opium." "Then you forgive me, Irene?" "I have nothing to forgive, Harry. I am grieved for you. I am
frightened." Then bursting into tears, "My darling, my darling; I love
you, I love you!" _LUCRETIA._
I will acknowledge that I was certainly a very young man in the year
'67; indeed, I was only just turned of twenty, and was inordinately
proud of a slight downy fringe on my upper lip, which I was pleased to
speak of as my moustache. Still, I was a sturdy young fellow enough, in
spite of my consumptive tendencies, and not given to groundless fears in
a general way; but I must allow that I was decidedly frightened by my
adventure in the Richmond Hotel on the Christmas Eve of that aforesaid
year of grace. It may be a foolish reminiscence, yet I dare say you
won't mind listening to it. When I say the Richmond Hotel, you must not understand me to speak of
the Star and Garter in the town of that ilk situated in the county of
Surrey, England. The Richmond where I passed my uncomfortable Christmas
Eve stands on the banks of the pretty St. Francis River in Lower Canada. I had gone out to the colony in the autumn of that year, to look after a
small property of my mother's near Kamouraska; and I originally intended
to spend the winter in Quebec. But as November and December wore away,
and the snow grew deeper and deeper upon the plains of Abraham, I became
gradually aware that a Canadian winter was not the best adapted tonic in
the world for a hearty young man with a slight hereditary
predisposition to consumption. I had seen enough of Arctic life in
Quebec during those two initial months to give me a good idea of its
pleasures and its drawbacks. I had steered by taboggan down the ice-cone
at the Falls of Montmorenci; I had driven a sleigh, _tête-à-tête_ with a
French Canadian belle, to a surprise picnic in a house at Sainte Anne; I
had skated, snow-shoed, and curled to my heart's content; and I had
caught my death of cold on the frozen St. Lawrence, not to mention such
minor misfortunes as getting my nose, ears, and feet frostbitten during
a driving party up the banks of the Chaudière. So a few days before
Christmas, I determined to strike south. I would go for a tour through
Virginia and the Carolinas, to escape the cold weather, waiting for the
return of the summer sun to catch a glimpse of Niagara and the great
lakes. For this purpose I must first go to Montreal; and, that being the case,
what could be more convenient than to spend Christmas Day itself with
the rector at Richmond, to whom I had letters of introduction, his wife
being in fact a first cousin of my mother's? Richmond lies half-way on
the Grand Trunk line between Quebec and Montreal, and it would be more
pleasant, by breaking my journey there, to eat my turkey and
plum-pudding in a friend's family than in that somewhat cheerless hotel,
the Dominion Hall. So off I started from the Point Levy station, at four
o'clock on the twenty-fourth of December, hoping to arrive at my
journey's end about one o'clock on Christmas morning. Now, those were the days, just after the great American civil war, when
gold was almost unknown either in the States or Canada, and everybody
used greasy dollar notes of uncertain and purely local value. Hence I
was compelled to take the money for expenses on my projected tour in the
only form of specie which was available, that of solid silver. A hundred
and fifty pounds in silver dollars amounts to a larger bulk and a
heavier weight than you would suppose; and I thought it safer to carry
the sum in my own hands, loosely bundled into a large leather reticule. _Hinc illoe lacrimoe_:--that was the real cause of my night's
adventure and of the present story. When I got into the long open American railway-carriage, with its
comfortable stove and warm foot-bricks, I found only one seat vacant,
and that was a red velvet sofa, opposite to another occupied by a girl
of singular beauty. I can remember to this day exactly how she was
dressed. I dare say my lady readers will think it horribly old-fashioned
at the present time, but it was the very latest and most enchanting
style in the year '67. On her head was a coquettish little cheese-plate
bonnet, bound round with one of those warm, soft, fleecy woollen veils
or head-wraps which Canadian girls know as Nubias. Her dress was a short
winter walking costume of the period, trimmed with fur, and vandyked at
the bottom so as to show a glimpse of the quilted down petticoat
underneath. Her little high-heeled boots, displayed by the short
costume, were buttoned far above the ankle, and bound with fur to match
the dress; while a tiny tassel at the side added just a suspicion of
Parisian coquetry. Her cloak was lined with sable, or what seemed so to
my undiscriminating eyes; and her rug was a splendid piece of wolverine
skins. As to her eyes, her lips, her figure, I had rather not attempt
them. I can manage clothes, but not goddesses. Altogether, quite a dream
of Canadian beauty, not devoid of that indefinable grace which goes only
with the French blood. I was not bold in '67, and I would have preferred to take any other seat
rather than face this divine apparition; but there was no help for it,
since all the others were filled: so I sat down a little sheepishly, I
dare say. Almost before we were well out of the station we had got into
a conversation, and it was she who began it. "You are an Englishman, I think?" she said, looking at me with a frank
and pleasant smile. "Yes," I answered, colouring, though why I should have been ashamed of
my nationality for that solitary moment of my life I cannot
imagine,--unless, perhaps, because _she_ was a Canadian; "but how on
earth did you discover it?" "You would have been more warmly wrapped up if you had lived long in
Canada," she replied. "In spite of our stoves and hot bricks, you'll
find yourself very cold before you get to your journey's end." "Yes," I said; "I suppose it's rather chilly late at night in these big
cars." "Dreadfully; oh, quite terribly. You ought to have a rug, you really
ought. Won't you let me lend you one? I have another under the seat
here." "But you brought that for yourself," I interposed. "You will want it
by-and-by, when it gets a little colder." "Oh no, I shan't. This is warm enough for me; it's wolverine. You have a
mother?" What an extraordinary question, I thought, and what an unusually
friendly girl! | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Was she really quite as simple-minded as she seemed, or
could she be the "designing woman" of the novels? Yes, I admitted to her
cautiously that I possessed a maternal parent, who was at that moment
safely drinking her tea in a terrace at South Kensington. "_I_ have none," she said, with an emphasis on the personal pronoun, and
a sort of appealing look in her big eyes. "But you should take care of
yourself, for her sake. You really _must_ take my rug. _Hundreds_, oh,
_thousands_ of young Englishmen come out here, and kill themselves their
first winter by imprudence." Thus adjured, I accepted the rug with many thanks and apologies, and
wrapped myself warmly up in the corner, with a splendid view of my
_vis-à-vis_. Exactly at that moment, the ticket collector came round upon his
official tour. Now, on American and Canadian railways, you do not take
your ticket beforehand, but pay your fare to the collector, who walks up
and down through the open cars from end to end, between every station. I
lifted up my bag of silver, which lay on the seat beside me, and
imprudently opened it to take out a few dollars full in sight of my
enchanting neighbour. I saw her look with unaffected curiosity at the
heap of coin within, and I was proud at being able to give such an
unequivocal proof of my high respectability--for what better guarantee
of all the noblest moral qualities can any man produce all the world
over than a bag of dollars? "What a lot of money!" she said, as the collector passed on. "What can
you want with it all in coin?" "I'm going on a tour in the Southern States," I confided in reply, "and
I thought it better to take specie." (I was very proud ten or twelve
years ago of that word _specie_.) "And I suppose those are your initials on the reticule? What a pretty
monogram! Your mother gave you that for a birthday present." "You must be a conjurer or a clairvoyant," I said, smiling. "So she
did;" and I added that the initials represented my humble patronymic and
baptismal designations. "My name's Lucretia," said my neighbour artlessly, as a child might have
said it, without a word as to surname or qualifying circumstances; and
from that moment she became to me simply Lucretia. I think of her as
Lucretia to the present day. As she spoke, she pointed to the word
engraved in tiny letters on her pretty silver locket. I suppose she thought my confidence required a little more confidence in
return, for after a slight pause she repeated once more, "My name's
Lucretia, and I live at Richmond." "Richmond!" I cried. "Why, that's just where I'm going. Do you know the
rector?" "Mr. Pritchard? Oh yes, intimately. He's our greatest friend. Are you
going to stop with him?" "For a day or two at least, on my way to Montreal. Mrs. Pritchard is my
mother's cousin." "How delightful! Then we may consider ourselves acquaintances. But you
don't mean to knock them up to-night? They'll all be in bed long before
one o'clock." "No, I haven't even written to tell them I was coming," I answered. "They gave me a general invitation, and said I might drop in whenever I
pleased." "Then you must stop at the hotel to-night. I'm going there myself. My
people keep the hotel." Was it possible! I was thunderstruck. I had pictured Lucretia to myself
as at least a countess of the _ancien régime_, a few of whom still
linger on in Montreal and elsewhere. Her locket, her rugs, her eyes, her
chiselled features, all of them seemed to me redolent of the old French
_noblesse_. And here it turned out that this living angel was only the
daughter of an inn-keeper! But in that primitive and pleasant Canadian
society such things, I thought, can easily be. No doubt she is the
petted child of the house, the one heiress of the old man's savings; and
after spending a winter holiday among the gaieties of Quebec, she is now
returning to pass the Christmas season with her own family. I will not
conceal the fact that I had already fallen over head and ears in love
with Lucretia at first sight, and that frank avowal made me love her all
the more. Besides, these Canadian hotel-keepers are often very rich; and
was not her manner perfect, and was she not an intimate friend of the
rector and his wife? All these things showed at least that she was
accustomed to refined society. I caught myself already speculating as to
what my mother would think of such a match. In five minutes it was all arranged about the hotel, and I had got into
the midst of a swimming conversation with Lucretia. She told me about
herself and her past; how she had been educated at a convent in
Montreal, and loved the nuns, oh so dearly, though she was a Protestant
herself, and only French on her mother's side. (This, I thought, was
well, as a safeguard against parental prejudice.) She told me all the
gossip of Richmond, and whom I should meet at the rector's, and what a
dull little town it was. But Quebec was delightful, and Montreal--oh, if
she could only live in Montreal, it would be perfect bliss. And so I
thought myself, if only Lucretia would live there with me; but I
prudently refrained from saying so, as I thought it rather premature. Or
perhaps I blushed and stammered too much to get the words out. "Had she
ever been in Europe?" No, never, but she would so like it. "Ah, it would
be delightful to spend a month or two in Paris," I suggested, with
internal pictures of a honeymoon floating through my brain. "Yes, that
would be most enjoyable," she answered. Altogether, Lucretia and I kept
chatting uninterruptedly the whole way to Richmond, and the other
passengers must have voted us most unconscionable bores; for they
evidently could not sleep by reason of our incessant talking. _We_ did
not sleep, nor wish to sleep. And I am bound to say that a more frankly
enchanting or seemingly guileless girl than Lucretia I have never met
from that day to this. At last we reached Richmond Depôt (as the Canadians call the stations),
very cold and tired externally, but lively enough as regards the
internal fires. We got out, and looked after our luggage. A sleepy
porter promised to bring it next morning to the hotel. There were no
sleighs in waiting--Richmond is too much of a country station for
that--so I took my reticule in my hand, threw Lucretia's rug across her
shoulders, and proceeded to walk with her to the hotel. Now, the "Depôt" is in a suburb known as Melbourne, while Richmond
itself lies on the other side of the river St. Francis, here crossed by
a long covered bridge, a sort of rough wooden counterpart of the famous
one at Lucerne. As we passed out into the cold night, it was snowing
heavily, and the frost was very bitter. Lucretia took my arm without a
word of prelude, as naturally as if she were my sister, and guided me
through the snow-covered path to the bridge. When we got under the
shelter of the wooden covering, we had to pass through the long dark
gallery, as black as night, heading only for the dim square of moonlight
at the other end. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
But Lucretia walked and chatted on as unconcernedly as
if she had always been in the habit of traversing that lonely
tunnel-like bridge with a total stranger every evening of her life. I
confess I was surprised. I fancied a prim English girl in a similar
situation, and I began to wonder whether all this artlessness was really
as genuine as it looked. At the opposite end of the bridge we emerged upon a street of wooden
frame houses. In one of them only was there a light. "That's the hotel!" said Lucretia, nodding towards it, and again I suffered a thrill of
disappointment. I had pictured to myself a great solid building like the
St. Lawrence Hall at Montreal, forgetting that Richmond was a mere
country village; and here I found a bit of a frame cottage as the whole
domain of Lucretia's supposed father. It was too awful! We reached the door and entered. Fresh surprises were in store for me. The passage led into a bar, where half-a-dozen French Canadians were
sitting with bottles and glasses, playing some game of cards. One rather
rough-looking young man jumped up in astonishment as we entered, and
exclaimed, "Why, Lucretia, we didn't expect you for another hour. I
meant to take the sleigh for you." I could have knocked him down for
calling her by her Christian name, but the conviction flashed upon me
that this was Lucretia's brother. He glanced up at the big Yankee clock
on the mantelpiece, which pointed to a quarter past twelve, then pulled
out his watch and whistled. "Stopped three quarters of an hour ago, by
Jingo," was his comment. "Why, I forgot to wind it up. Upon my word,
Lucretia, I'm awfully sorry. But who is the gentleman?" "A friend of the Pritchards, Tom dear, who wants a bed here to-night. I
couldn't imagine why the sleigh didn't come for me. It's so unlike you
not to remember it." And she gave him a look to melt adamant. Tom was profuse in his apologies, and made it quite clear that his
intentions at least had been most excellent; besides, he kissed Lucretia
with so much brotherly tenderness that I relented of my desire to knock
him down. Then brother and sister retired for a while, apparently to see
after my bedroom, and I was left alone in the bar. I cannot say I liked the look of it. The men were drinking whiskey and
playing _écarté_--two bad things, I thought in my twenty-year-old
propriety. My dear mother hated gambling, which hatred she had instilled
into my youthful mind, and this was evidently a backwoods
gambling-house. Moreover, I carried a bag of silver coin, quite large
enough to make it well worth while, to rob me. The appearances were
clearly against Lucretia's home; but surely Lucretia herself was a
guarantee for anything. Presently Tom returned, and told me my room was ready. I followed him up
the stairs with a beating heart and a heavy reticule. At the top of the
landing Lucretia stood smiling, my candle in her hand, and showed me
into the room. Tom and she looked around to see that all was
comfortable, and then they both shook hands with me, which certainly
seemed a curious thing for an inn-keeper and his sister. As soon as they
were gone, I began to look about me and consider the situation. The room
had two doors, but the key was gone from both. I opened one towards the
passage, but found no key outside; the other, which probably
communicated with a neighbouring bedroom, was locked from the opposite
side. Moreover, there had once been a common bolt on this second door,
but it had been removed. I looked close at the screw-holes, and was sure
they were quite fresh. Could the bolt have been taken off while I was
waiting in the bar? All at once it flashed upon my mind that I had been
imprudently confiding in my disclosures to Lucretia. I had told her that
I carried a hundred and fifty pounds in coin, an easy thing to rob and a
difficult thing to identify. She had heard that nobody was aware of my
presence in Richmond, except herself and her brother. I had not written
to tell the Pritchards I was coming, and she knew that I had not told
any one of my whereabouts, because I did not decide where I should go
until I talked with her about the matter. No one in Canada would miss
me. If these people chose to murder me for my money (and inn-keepers
often murder their guests, I thought), nobody would think of inquiring
or know where to inquire for me. Weeks would elapse before my mother
wrote from England to ask my whereabouts, and by that time all traces
might well be lost. I left Quebec only telling the people at my hotel
that I was going to Montreal. Then I thought of Lucretia's eagerness to
get into conversation, her observation about my money, her suggestion
that I should come to the Richmond Hotel. And how could she, a small
inn-keeper's daughter, afford to get all those fine furs and lockets by
fair means? Did she really know the Pritchards, or was it likely,
considering her position? All these things came across me in a moment. What a fool I had been ever to think of trusting such a girl! I got up and walked about the room. It was evidently Lucretia's own
bedroom; "part of the decoy," said I to myself sapiently. But could so
beautiful a girl really hurt one? A piece of music was lying on the
dressing-table. I took it up and looked at it casually. Gracious
heavens! it was a song from "Lucrezia Borgia!" Her very name betrayed
her! She too was a Lucretia. I walked over to the mantelpiece. A little
ivory miniature hung above the centre: I gave it a glance as I passed. Incredible! It was the Beatrice Cenci! Talk of beautiful women! Why,
they poison one, they stab one, they burn one alive, with a smile on
their lips. Lucretia must have a taste for murderesses. Evidently she is
a connoisseur. At least, thought I, I shall sell my life dearly. I could not go to bed;
but I pulled the bedstead over against one of the doors--the locked
one--and I laid the mattress down in front of the other. Then I lay down
on the mattress, my money-bag under my head, and put the poker
conveniently by my side. If they came to rob and murder me, they should
at least have a broken head to account for next day. But I soon got
tired of this defensive attitude, and reflected that, if I must lie
awake all night, I might as well have something to read. So I went over
to the little book-case and took down the first book which came to hand. It bore on the outside the title "OEuvres de Victor Hugo. Tome I'er. Théâtre." "This, at any rate," said I to myself, "will be light and
interesting." I returned to my mattress, opened the volume, and began to
read _Le Roi s'amuse_. I had never before dipped into that terrible drama, and I devoured it
with a horrid avidity. I read how Triboulet bribed the gipsy to murder
the king; how the gipsy's sister beguiled him into the hut; how the plot
was matured; and how the sack containing the corpse was delivered over
to Triboulet. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
It was an awful play to read on such a night and in such a
place, with the wind howling round the corners and the snow gathering
deeply upon the window-panes. I was in a considerable state of fright
when I began it: I was in an agony of terror before I had got half-way
through. Now and then I heard footsteps on the stairs: again I could
distinguish two voices, one a woman's, whispering outside the door; a
little later, the other door was very slightly opened and then pushed
back again stealthily by a man's hand. Still I read on. At last, just as
I reached the point where Triboulet is about to throw the corpse into
the river, my candle, a mere end, began to sputter in its socket, and
after a few ineffectual flickers suddenly went out, leaving me in the
dark till morning. I lay down once more, trembling but wearied out. A few minutes later the
voices came again. The further door was opened a second time, and I saw
dimly a pair of eyes (_not_, I felt sure, Lucretia's) peering in the
gloom, and reflecting the light from the snow on the window. A man's
voice said huskily in an undertone, "It's all right now;" and then there
was a silence. I knew they were coming to murder me. I clutched the
poker firmly, stood on guard over the dollars, and waited the assault. The moment that intervened seemed like a lifetime. A minute. Five minutes. A quarter of an hour. They are evidently trying
to take me off my guard. Perhaps they saw the poker; in any case, they
must have felt the bedstead against the door. That would show them that
I expected them. I held my watch to my ear and counted the seconds, then
the minutes, then the hours. When the candle went out it was three
o'clock. I counted up till about half-past five. After that I must have fallen asleep from very weariness. My head glided
back upon the reticule, and I dozed uneasily until morning. Every now
and then I started in my sleep, but the murderers hung back. When I
awoke it was eight o'clock, and the dollars were still safe under my
head. I rose wearily, washed myself, and arranged the tumbled clothes in
which I had slept, for my portmanteau had not yet arrived from the
Depôt. Next, I put back the bed and mattress, and then I took the
dollars and went downstairs to the bar, hardly knowing whether to laugh
at my last night's terror, or to congratulate myself on my lucky escape
from a den of robbers. At the foot of the stairs, whom should I come
across but Lucretia herself! In a moment the doubt was gone. She was enchanting. Quite a different
style of dress, but equally lovely and suitable. A long figured gown of
some fine woollen material, giving very nearly the effect of a plain
neat print, and made quite simply to fit her perfect little figure. A
plain linen collar, and a quiet silver brooch. Hair tied in a single
broad knot above the head, instead of yesterday's chignon and
cheese-plate. Altogether, a model winter morning costume for a cold
climate. And as she advanced frankly, holding out her hand with a smile,
I could have cut my own throat with a pocket-knife as a merited
punishment for daring to distrust her. Such is human nature at the ripe
age of twenty! "We were so afraid you didn't sleep, Tom and I," she said with a little
tone of anxiety; "we saw a light in your room till so very late, and Tom
opened the door a wee bit once or twice to see if you were sleeping; but
he said you seemed to have pulled the mattress on the floor. I _do_ hope
you weren't ill."
What on earth could I answer? Dare I tell this angel how I had suspected
her? Impossible! "Well," I stammered out, colouring up to my eyes, "I
_was_ rather over-tired, and couldn't get to rest, so I put the candle
on a chair, took a book, and lay on the floor so as to have a light to
read by. But I slept very well after the candle went out, thank you." "There were none but French books in the room, though," she said
quickly: "perhaps you read French?" "I read _Le Roi s'amuse_, or part of it," said I. "Oh, what a dreadful play to read on Christmas Eve!" cried Lucretia,
with a little deprecating gesture. "But you must come and have your
breakfast." I followed her into the dining-room, a pretty little bright-looking
room behind the bar. Frightened as I was during the night, I could not
fail to notice how tastefully the bedroom was furnished; but this little
_salle-à-manger_ was far prettier. The paper, the carpet, the furniture,
were all models of what cheap and simple cottage decorations ought to
be. They breathed of Lucretia. The Montreal nuns had evidently taught
her what "art at home" meant. The table was laid, and the white
table-cloth, with its bright silver and sprays of evergreen in the vase,
looked delightfully appetising. I began to think I might manage a
breakfast after all. "How pretty all your things are!" I said to Lucretia. "Do you think so?" she answered. "I chose them, and I laid the table." I looked surprised; but in a moment more I was fairly overwhelmed when
Lucretia left the room for a minute, and then returned carrying a tray
covered with dishes. These she rapidly and dexterously placed upon the
table, and then asked me to take my seat. "But," said I, hesitating, "am I to understand.... You don't mean to
say.... Are you ... going ... to _wait upon me_?" Lucretia's face was one smile of innocent amusement from her white
little forehead to her chiselled little chin. "Why, yes," she answered,
laughing, "of course I am. I always wait upon our guests when I'm at
home. And I cooked these salmon cutlets, which I'm sure you'll find nice
if you only try them while they're hot." With which recommendation she
uncovered all the dishes, and displayed a breakfast that might have
tempted St. Anthony. Not being St. Anthony, I can do Lucretia's
breakfast the justice to say that I ate it with unfeigned heartiness. So my princess was, after all, the domestic manager and assistant cook
of a small country inn! Not a countess, not even a murderess (which is
at least romantic), but only a prosaic housekeeper! Yet she _was_ a
princess for all that. Did she not read Victor Hugo, and play "Lucrezia
Borgia," and spread her own refinement over the village tavern? In no
other country could you find such a strange mixture of culture and
simplicity; but it was new, it was interesting, and it was piquant. Lucretia in her morning dress officiously insisting upon offering me the
buckwheat pancakes with her own white hands was Lucretia still, and I
fell deeper in love than ever. After breakfast came a serious difficulty. I must go to the Pritchards,
but before I went, I must pay. Yet, how was I to ask for my bill? I
_couldn't_ demand it of Lucretia. So I sat a while ruminating, and at
last I said, "I wonder how people do when they want to leave this
house." "Why," said Lucretia, promptly, "they order the sleigh." "Yes," I answered sheepishly, "no doubt. But how do they manage about
paying?" Lucretia smiled. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
She was so absolutely transparent, and so accustomed to
her simple way of doing business, that I suppose she did not comprehend
my difficulty. "They ask _me_, of course, and I tell them what they owe. You owe us half-a-dollar." Half-a-dollar--two shillings sterling--for a night of romance and
terror, a bed and bedroom, a regal breakfast, and--Lucretia to wait upon
one! It was _too_ ridiculous. And these were the good simple Canadian
villagers whom I had suspected of wishing to rob and murder me! I never
felt so ashamed of my own stupidity in the whole course of my life. I must pay it somehow, I supposed, but I could not bear to hand over two
shilling pieces into Lucretia's outstretched palm. It was desecration,
it was sheer sacrilege. But Lucretia took the half-dollar with the
utmost calmness, and went out to order the sleigh. I drove to the rector's, after saying good-bye to Lucretia, with a
clear determination that before I left Richmond she should have
consented to become my wife. Of course there were social differences,
but those would be forgotten in South Kensington, and nobody need ever
know what Lucretia had been in Canada. Besides, she was fit to shine in
the society of duchesses--a society into which I cannot honestly pretend
that I habitually penetrate. The rector and his wife gave me a hearty welcome, and I found Mrs.
Pritchard a good motherly sort of body--just the right woman for helping
on a romantic love-match. So, in the course of the morning, as we walked
back from church, I managed to mention to her casually that a very nice
young woman had come down in the train with me from Quebec. "You don't mean Lucretia?" cried good Mrs. Pritchard. "Lucretia," I answered in a cold sort of way, "I think that _was_ her
name. In fact, I remember she told me so." "Oh yes, everybody calls her Lucretia--indeed, she's hardly got any
other name. She's the dearest creature in the world, as simple as a
child, yet the most engaging and kind-hearted girl you ever met. She was
brought up by some nuns at Montreal, and being a very clever girl, with
a great deal of taste, she was their favourite pupil, and has turned out
a most cultivated person." "Does she paint?" I asked, thinking of the Beatrice. "Oh, beautifully. Her ivory miniatures always take prizes at the Toronto
Exhibition. And she plays and sings charmingly." "Are they well off?" "Very, for Canadians. Lucretia has money of her own, and they have a
good farm besides the hotel." "She said she knew you very well," I ventured to suggest. "Oh yes; in fact, she's coming here this evening. We have an early
dinner--you know our simple Canadian habits--and a few friends will drop
in to high tea after evening service. She and Tom will be among
them--you met Tom, of course?" "I had the pleasure of making Tom's acquaintance at one o'clock this
morning," I answered. "But, excuse my asking it, isn't it a little odd
for you to mix with people in their position?" The rector smiled and put in his word. "This is a democratic country,"
he said; "a mere farmer community, after all. We have little society in
Richmond, and are very glad to know such pleasant intelligent people as
Tom and Lucretia." "But then, the _convenances_," I urged, secretly desiring to have my own
position strengthened. "When I got to the hotel last night, or rather
this morning, there were a lot of rough-looking hulking fellows drinking
whiskey and playing cards." "Ah, I dare say. Old Picard, and young Le Patourel from Melbourne, and
the Post Office people sitting over a quiet game of _écarté_ while they
waited for the last train. The English mail was in last night. As for
the whiskey, that's the custom of the country. We Canadians do nothing
without whiskey. A single glass of Morton's proof does nobody any harm." And these were my robbers and gamblers? A party of peaceable farmers and
sleepy Post officials, sitting up with a sober glass of toddy and
beguiling the time with _écarté_ for love, in expectation of Her
Majesty's mails. I shall never again go to bed with a poker by my side
as long as I live. About seven o'clock our friends came in. Lucretia was once more
charming; this time in a long evening dress, a peach-coloured silk with
square-cut boddice, and a little lace cap on her black hair. I dare say
I saw almost the full extent of her wardrobe in those three changes; but
the impression she produced upon me was still that of boundless wealth. However, as she had money of her own, I no longer wondered at the
richness of her toilette, and I reflected that a comfortable little
settlement might help to outweigh any possible prejudice on my mother's
part. Lucretia was the soul of the evening. She talked, she flirted innocently
with every man in the room (myself included), she played divinely, and
she sang that very song from "Lucrezia Borgia" in a rich contralto
voice. As she rose at last from the piano, I could contain myself no
longer. I must find some opportunity of proposing to her there and then. I edged my way to the little group where she was standing, flushed with
the compliments on her song, talking to our hostess near the piano. As I
approached from behind, I could hear that they were speaking about me,
and I caught a few words distinctly. I paused to listen. It was very
wrong, but twenty is an impulsive age. "Oh, a very nice young man indeed," Lucretia was saying; "and we had a
most enjoyable journey down. He talked so simply, and seemed such an
innocent boy, so I took quite a fancy to him." (My heart beat about two
hundred pulsations to the minute.) "Such a clever, intelligent talker
too, full of wide English views and interests, so different from our
narrow provincial Canadian lads." (Oh, Lucretia, I feel sure of you now. Love at first sight on both sides, evidently!) "And then he spoke to me
so nicely about his mother. I was quite grieved to think he should be
travelling alone on Christmas Eve, and so pleased when I heard he was to
spend his Christmas with you, dear. I thought what I should have felt
if----"
I listened with all my ears. What could Lucretia be going to say? "If _one of my own dear boys was grown up_, and passing his Christmas
alone in a strange land." I reeled. The room swam before me. It was too awful. So all that
Lucretia had ever felt was a mere motherly interest in me as a solitary
English boy away from his domestic turkey on the twenty-fifth of
December! Terrible, hideous, blighting fact! Lucretia was married! The rector's refreshments in the adjoining dining-room only went to the
length of sponge-cake and weak claret-cup. I managed to get away from
the piano without fainting, and swallowed about a quart of the
intoxicating beverage by tumblerfuls. When I had recovered sufficiently
from the shock to trust my tongue, I ventured back into the
drawing-room. It struck me then that I had never yet heard Lucretia's
surname. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
When she and her brother arrived in the early part of the
evening, Mrs. Pritchard had simply introduced them to me by saying, "I
think you know Tom and Lucretia already." Colonial manners are so
unceremonious. I joined the fatal group once more. "Do you know," I said, addressing
Lucretia with as little tremor in my voice as I could easily manage,
"it's very curious, but I have never heard your surname yet." "Dear me," cried Lucretia, "I quite forgot. Our name is Arundel." "And which is Mr. Arundel?" I continued. "I should like to make his
acquaintance." "Why," answered Lucretia with a puzzled expression of face, "you've met
him already. Here he is!" And she took a neighbouring young man in
unimpeachable evening dress gently by the arm. He turned round. It
required a moment's consideration to recognize in that tall and
gentlemanly young fellow with the plain gold studs and turndown collar
my rough acquaintance of last night, Tom himself! I saw it in a flash. What a fool I had been! I might have known they
were husband and wife. Nothing but a pure piece of infatuated
preconception could ever have made me take them for brother and sister. But I had so fully determined in my own mind to win Lucretia for myself
that the notion of any other fellow having already secured the prize had
never struck me. It was all the fault of that incomprehensible Canadian society, with its
foolish removal of the natural barriers between classes. My mother was
quite right. I should henceforth be a high-and-dry conservative in all
matters matrimonial, return home in the spring with heart completely
healed, and after passing correctly through a London season, marry the
daughter of a general or a Warwickshire squire, with the full consent of
all the high contracting parties, at St. George's, Hanover Square. With
this noble and moral resolution firmly planted in my bosom, I made my
excuses to the rector and his good little wife, and left Richmond for
ever the very next morning, without even seeing Lucretia once again. But, somehow, I have never quite forgotten that journey from Quebec on
Christmas Eve; and though I have passed through several London seasons
since that date, and undergone increasingly active sieges from mammas
and daughters, as my briefs on the Oxford Circuit grow more and more
numerous, I still remain a bachelor, with solitary chambers in St.
James's. I sometimes fancy it might have been otherwise if I could only
once have met a second paragon exactly like Lucretia. _THE THIRD TIME._
I. If Harry Lewin had never come to Stoke Peveril, Edie Meredith would
certainly have married her cousin Evan. For Evan Meredith was the sort of man that any girl of Edie's
temperament might very easily fall in love with. Tall, handsome, with
delicate, clear-cut Celtic face, piercing yet pensive black Welsh eyes,
and the true Cymric gifts of music and poetry, Evan Meredith had long
been his pretty cousin's prime favourite among all the young men of all
Herefordshire. She had danced with him over and over again at every
county ball; she had talked with him incessantly at every lawn-tennis
match and garden-party; she had whispered to him quietly on the sofa in
the far corner while distinguished amateurs were hammering away
conscientiously at the grand piano; and all the world of Herefordshire
took it for granted that young Mr. Meredith and his second cousin were,
in the delightfully vague slang of society, "almost engaged." Suddenly, like a flaming meteor across the quiet evening skies, Harry
Lewin burst in all his dashing splendour upon the peaceful and limited
Herefordshire horizon. He came from that land of golden possibilities,
Australia; but he was Irish by descent, and his father had sent him
young to Eton and Oxford, where he picked up the acquaintance of
everybody worth knowing, and a sufficient knowledge of things in general
to pass with brilliant success in English society. In his vacations,
having no home of his own to go to, he had loitered about half the
capitals and spas of Europe, so that Vichy and Carlsbad, Monte Carlo and
Spezzia, Berlin and St. Petersburg, were almost as familiar to him as
London and Scarborough. Nobody knew exactly what his father had been:
some said a convict, some a gold-miner, some a bush-ranger; but whatever
he was, he was at least exceedingly rich, and money covers a multitude
of sins quite as well and as effectually as charity. When Harry Lewin
came into his splendid property at his father's death, and purchased the
insolvent Lord Tintern's old estate at Stoke Peveril, half the girls and
all the mothers in the whole of Herefordshire rose at once to a fever of
anxiety in their desire to know upon which of the marriageable young
women of the county the wealthy new-comer would finally bestow himself
in holy matrimony. There was only one girl in the Stoke district who never appeared in the
slightest degree flattered or fluttered by Harry Lewin's polite
attentions, and that girl was Edie Meredith. Though she was only the
country doctor's daughter--"hardly in our set at all, you know," the
county people said depreciatingly--she had no desire to be the mistress
of Peveril Court, and she let Harry Lewin see pretty clearly that she
didn't care the least in the world for that distinguished honour. It was at a garden party at Stoke Peveril Rectory that Edie Meredith met
one afternoon her cousin Evan and the rich young Irish-Australian. Harry
Lewin had stood talking to her with his easy jaunty manner, so perfectly
self-possessed, so full of Irish courtesy and Etonian readiness, when
Evan Meredith, watching them half angrily out of his dark Welsh eyes
from the corner by the laburnum tree, walked slowly over to interrupt
their _tête-à-tête_ of set purpose. He chose certainly an awkward
moment: for his earnest serious face and figure showed to ill advantage
just then and there beside the light-hearted cheery young Oxonian's. Edie fancied as he strolled up to her that she had never seen her cousin
Evan look so awkward, so countrified, and so awfully Welsh. (On the
border counties, to look like a Welshman is of course almost criminal.) She wondered she had overlooked till now the fact that his was
distinctly a local and rustic sort of handsomeness. He looked like a
Herefordshire squireen gentleman, while Harry Lewin, with his Irish
chivalry and his Oxford confidence, looked like a cosmopolitan and a man
of society. As Evan came up, glancing blackly at him from under his dark eyebrows,
Harry Lewin moved away carelessly, raising his hat and strolling off as
if quite unconcerned, to make way for the new-comer. Evan nodded to him
a distant nod, and then turned to his cousin Edie. "You've been talking a great deal with that fellow Lewin," he said
sharply, almost angrily, glancing straight at her with his big black
eyes. Edie was annoyed at the apparent assumption of a right to criticise her. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"Mr. Lewin's a very agreeable man," she answered quietly, without taking
the least notice of his angry tone. "I always like to have a chat with
him, Evan. He's been everywhere and knows all about everything--Paris
and Vienna, and I don't know where. So very different, of course, from
our Stoke young men, who've never been anywhere in their whole lives
beyond Bristol or Hereford." "Bristol and Hereford are much better places, I've no doubt, for a man
to be brought up in than Paris or Vienna," Evan Meredith retorted
hastily, the hot blood flushing up at once into his dusky cheek. "But as
you seem to be so very much taken up with your new admirer, Edie, I'm
sure I'm very sorry I happened at such an unpropitious moment to break
in upon your conversation." "So am I," Edie answered, quietly and with emphasis. She hardly meant it, though she was vexed with Evan; but Evan took her
immediately at her word. Without another syllable he raised his hat,
turned upon his heel, and left her standing there alone, at some little
distance from her mother, by the edge of the oval grass-plot. It was an
awkward position for a girl to be left in--for everybody would have seen
that Evan had retired in high dudgeon--had not Harry Lewin promptly
perceived it, and with quiet tact managed to return quite casually to
her side, and walk back with her to her mother's protection, so as to
hide at once her confusion and her blushes. As for Evan, he wandered off
moodily by himself among the lilacs and arbutus bushes of the lower
shrubbery. He had been pacing up and down there alone for half an hour or more,
nursing his wrath and jealousy in his angry heart, when he saw between
the lilac branches on the upper walk the flash of Edie's pretty white
dress, followed behind at a discreet distance by the rustle of Mrs.
Meredith's black satin. Edie was walking in front with Harry Lewin, and
Mrs. Meredith, attempting vainly to affect a becoming interest in the
rector's conversation, was doing the proprieties at twenty paces. As they passed, Evan Meredith heard Harry Lewin's voice murmuring
something in a soft, gentle, persuasive flow, not a word of which he
could catch individually, though the general accent and intonation
showed him at once that Harry was pleading earnestly with his cousin
Edie. Evan could have written her verses--pretty enough verses, too--by
the foolscap ream; but though he had the Welsh gift of rhyme, he hadn't
the Irish gift of fluency and eloquence; and he knew in his own heart
that he could never have poured forth to any woman such a steady, long,
impassioned flood of earnest solicitation as Harry Lewin was that
moment evidently pouring forth to his cousin Edie. He held his breath in
silent expectation, and waited ten whole endless seconds--a long
eternity--to catch the tone of Edie's answer. Instead of the mere tone, he caught distinctly the very words of that
low soft musical reply. Edie murmured after a slight pause: "No, no, Mr.
Lewin, I must not--I cannot. I do not love you." Evan Meredith waited for no more. He knew partly from that short but
ominous pause, and still more from the half-hearted, hesitating way in
which the nominal refusal was faintly spoken, that his cousin Edie would
sooner or later accept his rival. He walked away, fiercely indignant,
and going home, sat down to his desk, and wrote at white-heat an angry
letter, beginning simply "Edith Meredith," in which he released her
formally and unconditionally from the engagement which both of them
declared had never existed. Whether his letter expedited Harry Lewin's wooing or not, it is at least
certain that in the end Evan Meredith's judgment was approved by the
result; and before the next Christmas came round again, Edie was married
to Harry Lewin, and duly installed as mistress of Peveril Court. II. The first three months of Edie Lewin's married life passed away happily
and pleasantly. Harry was always kindness itself to her; and as she saw
more of him, she found in him what she had not anticipated, an
unsuspected depth and earnestness of purpose. She had thought him at
first a brilliant, dashing, clever Irishman; she discovered upon nearer
view that he had something more within him than mere showy external
qualities. He was deeply in love with her: he respected and admired her:
and in the midst of all his manly chivalry of demeanour towards his
wife there was a certain indefinable air of self-restraint and constant
watchfulness over his own actions which Edie noticed with some little
wifely pride and pleasure. She had not married a mere handsome rich
young fellow; she had married a man of character and determination. About three months after their marriage, Harry Lewin was called away for
the first time to leave his bride. An unexpected letter from his lawyer
in London--immediate business--those bothering Australian shares and
companies! Would Edie forgive him? He would run up for the day only,
starting early and getting back late the same night. It's a long run
from Stoke to London, but you can just manage it if you fit your trains
with dexterous ingenuity. So Harry went, and Edie was left alone, for
the first time in her life, in the big rooms of Peveril Court for a
whole day. That very afternoon Evan Meredith and his father happened to call. It
was Evan's first visit to the bride, for he couldn't somehow make up his
mind to see her earlier. He was subdued, silent, constrained, regretful,
but he said nothing in allusion to the past--nothing but praise of the
Peveril Court grounds, the beauty of the house, the charm of the
surroundings, the magnificence of the old Romneys and Sir Joshuas. "You have a lovely place, Edie," he said, hesitating a second before he
spoke the old familiar name, but bringing it out quite naturally at
last. "And your husband? I hope I may have the--the pleasure of seeing
him again." Edie coloured. "He has gone up to town to-day," she answered simply. "By himself?" "By himself, Evan." Evan Meredith coughed uneasily, and looked at her with a silent look
which said more plainly than words could have said it, "Already!" "He will be back this evening," Edie went on apologetically, answering
aloud his unspoken thought. "I--I'm sorry he isn't here to see you,
Evan." "I'm sorry too, very sorry," Evan answered with a half-stifled sigh. He
didn't mean to let her see the ideas that were passing through his mind;
but his quick, irrepressible Celtic nature allowed the internal emotions
to peep out at once through the thin cloak of that conventionally polite
expression of regret. Edie knew he meant he was very sorry that Harry
should have gone away so soon and left her. That evening, about ten o'clock, as Edie, sitting alone in the blue
drawing-room, was beginning to wonder when Harry's dogcart would be
heard rolling briskly up the front avenue, there came a sudden double
rap at the front door, and the servant brought in a sealed telegram. Edie tore it open with some misgiving. It was not from Harry. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
She read
it hastily: "From Proprietor, Norton's Hotel, Jermyn Street, London, to
Mrs. Lewin, Peveril Court, Stoke Peveril, Herefordshire. Mr. Lewin
unfortunately detained in town by urgent business. He will not be able
to return before to-morrow." Edie laid down the telegram with a sinking heart. In itself there was
nothing so very strange in Harry's being detained by business; men are
always being detained by business; she knew it was a way they had, a
masculine peculiarity. But why had not Harry telegraphed himself? Why
had he left the proprietor of Norton's Hotel to telegraph for him? Why
was he at Norton's Hotel at all? And if he really was there, why could
he not have written the telegram himself? It was very mysterious,
perplexing, and inexplicable. Tears came into Edie's eyes, and she sat
long looking at the flimsy pink Government paper, as if the mere
inspection of the hateful message would help her to make out the meaning
of the enclosed mystery. Soon the question began to occur to her, what should she do for the
night's arrangements? Peveril Court was so big and lonely; she hated the
idea of stopping there alone. Should she have out the carriage and drive
round to spend the night as of old at her mother's? But no; it was late,
and the servants would think it so very odd of her. People would talk
about it; they would say Harry had stopped away from her unexpectedly,
and that she had gone back in a pique to her own home. Young wives, she
knew, are always doing those foolish things, and always regretting them
afterwards when they find the whole county magnifying the molehill into
a veritable mountain. Much as she dreaded it, she must spend the night
alone in that big bedroom--the haunted bedroom where the last of the
Peverils died. Poor little Edie! with her simple, small, village ways,
she hated that great rambling house, and all its halls and staircases
and corridors! But there was no help for it. She went tearfully up to
her own room, and flung herself without undressing on the great bed with
the heavy crimson tapestry hangings. There she lay all night, tossing and turning, crying and wondering,
dozing off at times and starting up again fitfully, but never putting
out the candles on the dressing-table, which had burned away deep in the
sockets by the time morning began to peep through the grey Venetians of
the east window. III. Next morning Evan Meredith heard accidentally that Harry Lewin had
stopped for the night in London, and had telegraphed unexpectedly to
Edie that he had been detained in town on business. Evan shook his head with an ominous look. "Poor child," he said to
himself pityingly; "she _would_ marry a man who had been brought up in
Paris and Vienna!" And when Harry came back that evening by the late train, Evan Meredith
was loitering casually by the big iron gates of Peveril Court to see
whether Edie's husband was really returning. There was a very grave and serious look on Harry's face that surprised
and somewhat disconcerted Evan. He somehow felt that Harry's expression
was not that of a careless, dissipated fellow, and he said to himself,
this time a little less confidently: "Perhaps after all I may have been
misjudging him." Edie was standing to welcome her husband on the big stone steps of the
old manor house. He stepped from the dogcart, not lightly with a spring
as was his usual wont, but slowly and almost remorsefully, like a man
who has some evil tidings to break to those he loves dearest. But he
kissed Edie as tenderly as ever--even more tenderly, she somehow
imagined; and he looked at her with such a genuine look of love that
Edie thought it was well worth while for him to go away for the sake of
such a delightful meeting. "Well, darling," she asked, as she went with him into the great
dining-room, "why didn't you come back to the little wifie, as you
promised yesterday?" Harry looked her full in the face, not evasively or furtively, but with
a frank, open glance, and answered in a very quiet voice, "I was
detained on business, Edie." "What business?" Edie asked, a little piqued at the indefiniteness of
the answer. "Business that absolutely prevented me from returning," Harry replied,
with a short air of perfect determination. Edie tried in vain to get any further detail out of him. To all her
questions Harry only answered with the one set and unaltered formula, "I
was detained on important business." But when she had asked him for the fiftieth time in the drawing-room
that evening, he said at last, not at all angrily, but very seriously,
"It was business, Edie, closely connected with your own happiness. If I
had returned last night, you would have been sorry for it, sooner or
later. I stayed away for your own sake, darling. Please ask me no more
about it." Edie couldn't imagine what he meant; but he spoke so seriously, and
smoothed her hand with such a tender, loving gesture, that she kissed
him fervently, and brushed away the tears from her swimming eyes without
letting him see them. As for Harry, he sat long looking at the embers in
the smouldering fire, and holding his pretty little wife's hand tight in
his without uttering a single syllable. At last, just as they were
rising to go upstairs, he laid his hand upon the mantelpiece as if to
steady himself, and said very earnestly, "Edie, with God's help, I hope
it shall never occur again." "What, Harry darling? What do you mean? What will never occur again?" He paused a moment. "That I should be compelled to stop a night away
from you unexpectedly," he answered then very slowly. And when he had said it he took up the candle from the little side table
and walked away, with two tears standing in his eyes, to his own
dressing-room. From that day forth Edie Lewin noticed two things. First, that her
husband seemed to love her even more tenderly and deeply than ever. And
second, that his strange gravity and self-restraint seemed to increase
daily upon him. And Evan Meredith, watching closely his cousin and her husband, thought
to himself with a glow of satisfaction--for he was too generous and too
true in his heart to wish ill to his rival--"After all, he loves her
truly; he is really in love with her. Edie will be rich now, and will
have a good husband. What could I ever have given her compared to what
Harry Lewin can give her? It is better so. I must not regret it." IV. For five or six months more, life passed as usual at Peveril Court, or
at Harry Lewin's new town house in Curzon Street, Mayfair. The season
came and went pleasantly enough, with its round of dances, theatres, and
dinners; and in the autumn Edie Lewin found herself once more back for
the shooting in dear old Herefordshire. Harry was always by her side,
the most attentive and inseparable of husbands; he seemed somehow to
cling to her passionately, as if he could not bear to be out of her
sight for a single moment. Edie noticed it, and felt grateful for his
love. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Evan Meredith noticed it too, and reproached himself bitterly more
than once that he should ever so unworthily have distrusted the man who
had been brought up in Paris and Vienna. One day, however, Harry had ridden from Stoke to Hereford, for the
exercise alone, and Edie expected him back to dinner. But at half-past
seven, just as the gong in the hall was burrr-ing loudly, a telegram
arrived once more for Mrs. Lewin, which Edie tore open with trembling
fingers. It was almost exactly the same mystifying message over again,
only this time it was sent by Harry himself, not by an unknown
hotel-keeping deputy. "I have been suddenly detained here by unexpected
business. Do not expect me home before to-morrow. Shall return as early
as possible. God bless you!" Those last words, so singular in a telegram, roused and accentuated all
Edie's womanly terrors. "God bless you!" --what on earth could Harry mean
by that solemn adjuration under such strange and mysterious
circumstances? There was something very serious the matter, Edie felt
sure; but what it could be she could not even picture to herself. Her
instinctive fears did not take that vulgarly mistrustful form that they
might have taken with many a woman of lower and more suspicious nature;
she knew and trusted Harry far too well for that; she was too absolutely
certain of his whole unshaken love and tenderness; but the very
vagueness and indefiniteness of the fears she felt made them all the
harder and more terrible to bear. When you don't know what it is you
dread, your fancy can dress up its terrors afresh every moment in some
still more painful and distressing disguise. If Harry had let her know where he was stopping, she would have ordered
the carriage then and there, and driven over to Hereford, not to spy him
out, but to be with him in his trouble or difficulty. That, however, was
clearly impossible, for Harry had merely sent his telegram as from "H.
Lewin, Hereford;" and to go about from hotel to hotel through the county
town, inquiring whether her husband was staying there, would of course
have been open to the most ridiculous misinterpretation. Everybody would
have said she was indeed keeping a tight hand upon him! So with many
bitter tears brushed hastily away, Edie went down in solemn and solitary
state to dinner, hating herself for crying so foolishly, and burning hot
with the unpleasant consciousness that the butler and footman were
closely observing her face and demeanour. If she could have dined quite
alone in her own boudoir very furtively it wouldn't have been quite so
dreadful; but to keep up appearances with a sinking heart before those
two eminently respectable and officious men-servants--it was really
enough to choke one. That night again Edie Lewin never slept for more than a few troubled
minutes together; and whenever she awoke, it was with a start and a
scream, and a vague consciousness of some impending evil. When Harry came again next day he didn't laugh it off carelessly and
lightly; he didn't soothe her fears and uneasiness with ready kisses and
prompt excuses; he didn't get angry with her and tell her not to ask
him too many questions about his own business: he met her as gravely and
earnestly as before, with the same tender, loving, half self-reproachful
tone, and yet with the same evident desire and intention to love and
cherish her more fondly than ever. Edie was relieved, but she was by no
means satisfied. She knew Harry loved her tenderly, devotedly; but she
knew also there was some sort of shadow or secret looming ominously
between them. Another wife, supposed dead? He would have trusted her and told her. Another love? Oh, no: she could trust him; it was impossible. And so the weeks wore away, and Edie wondered all to no purpose. At
last, by dint of constant wondering, she almost wore out the faculty of
wonder, and half ceased to think about it any longer. But she noticed that from day to day the old bright, brilliant Irish
character was slowly fading out of Harry's nature, and that in its place
there was growing up a settled, noble, not unbecoming earnestness. He
seemed perhaps a trifle less striking and attractive than formerly, but
a great deal worthier of any true woman's enduring love and admiration. Evan Meredith noticed the change as well. He and Harry had grown now
into real friends. Harry saw and recognized the genuine depth of Evan's
nature. Evan had made amends and apologies to Harry for a single passing
rudeness or two. Both liked the other better for the momentary rivalry
and for the way he had soon forgotten it. "He's a good fellow," Evan
said to his father often, "and Edie, with her quiet, simple English
nature, has made quite another man of him--given him the ballast and the
even steadiness he once wanted." V.
Spring came, and then summer; and with summer, the annual visitation of
garden parties. The Trenches at Malbury Manor were going to give a
garden party, and Harry and Edie drove across to it. Edie took her
husband over in the pony-carriage with the two little greys she loved so
well to drive herself: the very prettiest and best-matched ponies,
everybody said, in the whole county of Hereford. As they walked about on the lawn together, they met Edie's father and
mother. Somehow, Edie happened to fasten herself accidentally upon her
mother, while Harry strolled away alone, and stood talking with
something of his old brilliancy to one group or another of loungers
independently. For awhile, Edie missed him; he had gone off to look at
the conservatories or something. Then, she saw him chatting with Canon
Wilmington and his daughters over by one of the refreshment tables, and
handing them champagne cup and ices, while he talked with unusual
volubility and laughter. Presently he came up to her again, and to her
great surprise said, with a yawn, "Edie, this is getting dreadfully
slow. I can't stand it any longer. I think I shall just slip away
quietly and walk home; you can come after me whenever you like with the
ponies! Good-bye till dinner. God bless you, darling!" It wasn't a usual form of address with him, and Edie vaguely noted it in
passing, but thought nothing more about the matter after the first
moment. "Good-bye, Harry," she said laughingly. "Perhaps Evan will see
me home. Good-bye." Harry smiled rather sadly. "Evan has ridden over on one of my cobs," he
answered quietly, "and so I suppose he'll have to ride back again." "He's the best fellow that ever lived," Evan said, as Harry turned away
with a friendly nod. "Upon my word, I'm quite ashamed of the use I make
of your husband's stables, Edie." "Nonsense, Evan; we're always both delighted when you will use anything
of ours as if it were your own." At six o'clock the ponies were stopping the way, and Edie prepared to
drive home alone. She took the bye-road at the back of the grounds in
preference to the turnpike, because it wouldn't be so crowded or so
dusty for her to drive upon. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
They had gone about a mile from the house, and had passed the Beehive,
where a group of half-tipsy fellows was loitering upon the road outside
the tavern, when a few hundred yards further Edie suddenly checked the
greys for no immediately apparent reason. "Got a stone in his hoof, ma'am?" the groom asked, looking down
curiously at the off horse, and preparing to alight for the expected
emergency. "No," Edie answered with a sudden shake of her head. "Look there,
William! On the road in front of us! What a disgusting brute. I nearly
ran over him." The groom looked in the direction where Edie pointed with her whip, and
saw lying on the ground, straight before the horses' heads, a drunken
man, asleep and helpless, with a small pocket flask clasped in his hand,
quite empty. "Pick him up!" Edie said in a tone of disgust. "Carry him over and lay
him on the side of the road there, will you, William?" The man went off to do as he was directed. At that moment, Evan
Meredith, coming up from behind on Harry's cob, called out lightly, "Can
I help you, Edie? What's the matter? Ho! One of those beastly fellows
from the Beehive yonder. Hold a minute, William, you've got a regular
job there--more than an armful. Drunken men are heavy to carry. Wait a
bit, and I'll come and help you." Ho rode forward, to the groom's side just as the groom raised in his
arms the drunkard's head and exposed to view his down-turned face. Then,
with a sudden cry of horror and pity, Evan Meredith, not faltering for a
moment, drove his heel into his horse's flank, and rode off, speechless
with conflicting emotions, leaving Edie there alone, face to face with
her fallen husband. It was Harry Lewin. Apoplexy? Epilepsy? An accident? A sunstroke? No, no. Edie could comfort
herself with none of those instantaneous flashes of conjecture, for his
face and his breath would alone have told the whole story, even if the
empty flask in his drunken hand had not at once confirmed the truth of
her first apprehension. She sat down beside him on the green roadside,
buried her poor face in her trembling hands, and cried silently,
silently, silently, for twenty minutes. The groom, standing motionless officially beside her, let her tears have
free vent, and knew not what to say or do under such extraordinary and
unprecedented circumstances. One thing only Edie thought once or twice in the midst of that awful
blinding discovery. Thank God that Evan Meredith had not stopped there
to see her misery and degradation. An Englishman might have remained
like a fool, with the clumsy notion of assisting her in her trouble, and
getting him safely home to Peveril Court for her. Evan, with his quick
Welsh perception, had seen in a second that the only possible thing for
her own equals to do on such an occasion was to leave her alone with her
unspeakable wretchedness. After a while, she came to a little, by dint of crying and pure
exhaustion, and began to think that something must at least be done to
hide this terrible disgrace from the prying eyes of all Herefordshire. She rose mechanically, without a word, and motioning the groom to take
the feet, she lifted Harry's head--her own husband's head--that drunken
wretch's head--great heavens, which was it? and helped to lay him
silently on the floor of the pony carriage. He was helpless and
motionless as a baby. Her eyes were dry now, and she hardly even
shuddered. She got into the carriage again, covered over the breathing
mass of insensible humanity at the bottom with her light woollen
wrapper, and drove on in perfect silence till she reached Peveril Court. As she drew up in front of the door, the evening was beginning to close
in rapidly. The groom, still silent, jumped from the carriage, and ran
up the steps with his usual drilled accuracy to ring the bell. Edie
beckoned to him imperiously with her hand to stop and come back to her. He paused, and turned down the steps again to hear what she wished. Edie's lips were dry; she couldn't utter a word: but she pointed mutely
to her husband's prostrate form, and the groom understood at once that
she wished him to lift Harry out of the carriage. Hastily and furtively
they carried him in at the library door--the first room inside the
house--and there they laid him out upon the sofa, Edie putting one white
finger passionately on her lip to enjoin silence. As soon as that was
done, she sat down to the table with marvellous resolution, and wrote
out a cheque for twenty pounds from her own cheque-book. Then at last
she found speech with difficulty. "William," she said, her dry husky
throat almost choking with the effort, "take that, instead of notice. Go
away at once--I'll drive you to the station--go to London, and never say
a single word of this to any one." William touched his hat in silence, and walked back slowly to the
carriage. Edie, now flushed and feverish, but dry of lips and erect of
mien, turned the key haughtily in the door, and stalked out to the greys
once more. Silently still she drove to the station, and saw William take
the London train. "You shall have a character," she said, very quietly;
"write to me for it. But never say a word of this for your life to
anybody." William touched his hat once more, and went away, meaning
conscientiously in his own soul to keep this strange and unexpected
compact. Then Edie drove herself back to Peveril Court, feeling that only Evan
Meredith knew besides; and she could surely count at least on Evan's
honour. But to-morrow! to-morrow! what could she ever do to-morrow? Hot and tearless still, she rang the drawing-room bell. "Mr. Lewin will
not be home to-night," she said, with no further word of explanation. "I
shall not dine. Tell Watkins to bring me a cup of tea in my own
bedroom." The maid brought it, and Edie drank it. It moistened her lips and broke
the fever. Then she flung herself passionately upon the bed, and cried,
and cried, and cried, wildly, till late in the evening. Eleven o'clock came. Twelve o'clock. One. She heard them tolling out
from the old clock-tower, clanging loudly from the church steeple,
clinking and tinkling from all the timepieces in all the rooms of
Peveril Court. But still she lay there, and wept, and sobbed, and
thought of nothing. She didn't even figure it or picture it to herself;
her grief and shame and utter abasement were too profound for mind to
fathom. She only felt in a dim, vague, half-unconscious fashion that
Harry--the Harry she had loved and worshipped--was gone from her for
ever and ever. In his place, there had come that irrational, speechless, helpless Thing
that lay below, breathing heavily in its drunken sleep, down on the
library sofa. VI. By half-past one the lights had long been out in all the rooms, and
perfect silence reigned throughout the household. Impelled by a wild
desire to see him once more, even though she loathed him, Edie took a
bedroom candle in her hand, and stole slowly down the big staircase. Loathed him? | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Loved him--ay, loved him even so. Loved him, and the more
she loved him, the more utterly loathed him. If it had been any lesser or lower man, she might have forgiven him. But
_him_--Harry--it was too unspeakable. Creeping along the passage to the library door, she paused and listened. Inside, there was a noise of footsteps, pacing up and down the room
hurriedly. He had come to himself, then! He had slept off his drunken
helplessness! She paused and listened again to hear further. Harry was stalking to and fro across the floor with fiery eagerness,
sobbing bitterly to himself, and pausing every now and then with a sort
of sudden spasmodic hesitation. From time to time she heard him mutter
aloud, "She must have seen me! She must have seen me! They will tell
her, they will tell her! Oh, God! they will tell her!" Should she unlock the door, and fling herself wildly into his arms? Her
instinct told her to do it, but she faltered and hesitated. A drunkard! a drunkard! Oh no! she could not. The evil genius conquered the good,
and she checked the impulse that alone could have saved her. She crept up again, with heart standing still and failing within her,
and flung herself once more upon her own bed. Two o'clock. Three. Half-past three. A quarter to four. How long the night seems when you are watching and weeping! Suddenly, at the quarter-hour just gone, a sharp ring at a bell
disturbed her lethargy--a ring two or three times repeated, which waked
the butler from his sound slumber. Edie walked out cautiously to the top of the stairs and listened. The
butler stood at the library door and knocked in vain. Edie heard a
letter pushed under the door, and in a muffled voice heard Harry saying,
"Give that letter to your mistress, Hardy--to-morrow morning." A vague foreboding of evil overcame her. She stole down the stairs in
the blank dark and took the letter without a word from the half-dressed
and wondering butler. Then she glided back to her own room, sat down
eagerly by the dressing-table, and began to read it. "EDIE,
"This is the third time, and I determined with myself that the
third time should be the last one. Once in London; once at
Hereford; once now. I can stand it no longer. My father died a
drunkard. My mother died a drunkard. I cannot resist the
temptation. It is better I should not stop here. I have tried hard,
but I am beaten in the struggle. I loved you dearly: I love you
still far too much to burden your life by my miserable presence. I
have left you everything. Evan will make you happier than I could. Forgive me. "HARRY." She dropped the letter with a scream, and almost would have fainted. But even before the faintness could wholly overcome her, another sound
rang out sharper and clearer far from the room below her. It brought her
back to herself immediately. It was the report of a pistol. Edie and the butler hurried back in breathless suspense to the library
door. It was locked still. Edie took the key from her pocket and turned
it quickly. When they entered, the candles on the mantelpiece were
burning brightly, and Harry Lewin's body, shot through the heart, lay in
a pool of gurgling blood right across the spattered hearthrug. _THE GOLD WULFRIC._
PART I.
I. There are only two gold coins of Wulfric of Mercia in existence
anywhere. One of them is in the British Museum, and the other one is in
my possession. The most terrible incident in the whole course of my career is
intimately connected with my first discovery of that gold Wulfric. It is
not too much to say that my entire life has been deeply coloured by it,
and I shall make no apology therefore for narrating the story in some
little detail. I was stopping down at Lichfield for my summer holiday in
July, 1879, when I happened one day accidentally to meet an old
ploughman who told me he had got a lot of coins at home that he had
ploughed up on what he called the "field of battle," a place I had
already recognized as the site of the Mercian kings' wooden palace. I went home with him at once in high glee, for I have been a collector
of old English gold and silver coinage for several years, and I was in
hopes that my friendly ploughman's find might contain something good in
the way of Anglo-Saxon pennies or shillings, considering the very
promising place in which he had unearthed it. As it turned out, I was not mistaken. The little hoard, concealed within
a rude piece of Anglo-Saxon pottery (now No. 127 in case LIX. at the
South Kensington Museum), comprised a large number of common Frankish
Merovingian coins (I beg Mr. Freeman's pardon for not calling them
Merwings), together with two or three Kentish pennies of some rarity
from the mints of Ethelbert at Canterbury and Dover. Amongst these minor
treasures, however, my eye at once fell upon a single gold piece,
obviously imitated from the imperial Roman aureus of the pretender
Carausius, which I saw immediately must be an almost unique bit of money
of the very greatest numismatic interest. I took it up and examined it
carefully. A minute's inspection fully satisfied me that it was indeed a
genuine mintage of Wulfric of Mercia, the like of which I had never
before to my knowledge set eyes upon. I immediately offered the old man five pounds down for the whole
collection. He closed with the offer forthwith in the most contented
fashion, and I bought them and paid for them all upon the spot without
further parley. When I got back to my lodgings that evening I could do nothing but look
at my gold Wulfric. I was charmed and delighted at the actual possession
of so great a treasure, and was burning to take it up at once to the
British Museum to see whether even in the national collection they had
got another like it. So being by nature of an enthusiastic and impulsive
disposition, I determined to go up to town the very next day, and try to
track down the history of my Wulfric. "It'll be a good opportunity," I
said to myself, "to kill two birds with one stone. Emily's people
haven't gone out of town yet. I can call there in the morning, arrange
to go to the theatre with them at night, and then drive at once to the
Museum and see how much my find is worth." Next morning I was off to town by an early train, and before one o'clock
I had got to Emily's. "Why, Harold," she cried, running down to meet me and kiss me in the
passage (for she had seen me get out of my hansom from the drawing-room
window), "how on earth is it that you're up in town to-day? I thought
you were down at Lichfield still with your Oxford reading party." "So I am," I answered, "officially at Lichfield; but I've come up to-day
partly to see you, and partly on a piece of business about a new coin
I've just got hold of." "A coin!" Emily answered, pretending to pout. "Me and a coin! That's how
you link us together mentally, is it? I declare, Harold, I shall be
getting jealous of those coins of yours some day, I'm certain. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
You can't
even come up to see me for a day, it seems, unless you've got some
matter of a coin as well to bring you to London. Moral: never get
engaged to a man with a fancy for collecting coins and medals." "Oh, but this is really such a beauty, Emily," I cried enthusiastically. "Just look at it, now. Isn't it lovely? Do you notice the
inscription--'Wulfric Rex!' I've never yet seen one anywhere else at all
like it." Emily took it in her hands carelessly. "I don't see any points about
that coin in particular," she answered in her bantering fashion, "more
than about any other old coin that you'd pick up anywhere." That was all we said then about the matter. Subsequent events engrained
the very words of that short conversation into the inmost substance of
my brain with indelible fidelity. I shall never forget them to my dying
moment. I stopped about an hour altogether at Emily's, had lunch, and arranged
that she and her mother should accompany me that evening to the Lyceum. Then I drove off to the British Museum, and asked for leave to examine
the Anglo-Saxon coins of the Mercian period. The superintendent, who knew me well enough by sight and repute as a
responsible amateur collector, readily gave me permission to look at a
drawerful of the earliest Mercian gold and silver coinage. I had brought
one or two numismatic books with me, and I sat down to have a good look
at those delightful cases. After thoroughly examining the entire series and the documentary
evidence, I came to the conclusion that there was just one other gold
Wulfric in existence besides the one I kept in my pocket, and that was
the beautiful and well-preserved example in the case before me. It was
described in the last edition of Sir Theophilus Wraxton's "Northumbrian
and Mercian Numismatist" as an absolutely unique gold coin of Wulfric of
Mercia, in imitation of the well-known aureus of the false emperor
Carausius. I turned to the catalogue to see the price at which it had
been purchased by the nation. To my intense surprise I saw it entered at
a hundred and fifty pounds. I was perfectly delighted at my magnificent acquisition. On comparing the two examples, however, I observed that, though both
struck from the same die and apparently at the same mint (to judge by
the letter), they differed slightly from one another in two minute
accidental particulars. My coin, being of course merely stamped with a
hammer and then cut to shape, after the fashion of the time, was rather
more closely clipped round the edge than the Museum specimen; and it had
also a slight dent on the obverse side, just below the W of Wulfric. In
all other respects the two examples were of necessity absolutely
identical. I stood for a long time gazing at the case and examining the two
duplicates with the deepest interest, while the Museum keeper (a man of
the name of Mactavish, whom I had often seen before on previous visits)
walked about within sight, as is the rule on all such occasions, and
kept a sharp look-out that I did not attempt to meddle with any of the
remaining coins or cases. Unfortunately, as it turned out, I had not mentioned to the
superintendent my own possession of a duplicate Wulfric; nor had I
called Mactavish's attention to the fact that I had pulled a coin of my
own for purposes of comparison out of my waistcoat pocket. To say the
truth, I was inclined to be a little secretive as yet about my gold
Wulfric, because until I had found out all that was known about it I did
not want anybody else to be told of my discovery. At last I had fully satisfied all my curiosity, and was just about to
return the Museum Wulfric to its little round compartment in the neat
case (having already replaced my own duplicate in my waistcoat pocket),
when all at once, I can't say how, I gave a sudden start, and dropped
the coin with a jerk unexpectedly upon the floor of the museum. It rolled away out of sight in a second, and I stood appalled in an
agony of distress and terror in the midst of the gallery. Next moment I had hastily called Mactavish to my side, and got him to
lock up the open drawer while we two went down on hands and knees and
hunted through the length and breadth of the gallery for the lost
Wulfric. It was absolutely hopeless. Plain sailing as the thing seemed, we could
see no trace of the missing coin from one end of the room to the other. At last I leaned in a cold perspiration against the edge of one of the
glass cabinets, and gave it up in despair with a sinking heart. "It's no
use, Mactavish," I murmured desperately; "the thing's lost, and we shall
never find it." Mactavish looked me quietly in the face. "In that case, sir," he
answered firmly, "by the rules of the Museum I must call the
superintendent." He put his hand, with no undue violence, but in a
strictly official manner, upon my right shoulder. Then he blew a
whistle. "I'm sorry to be rude to you, sir," he went on, apologetically,
"but by the rules of the Museum I can't take my hand off you till the
superintendent gives me leave to release you." Another keeper answered the whistle. "Send the superintendent,"
Mactavish said quietly. "A coin missing." In a minute the superintendent was upon the spot. When Mactavish told
him I had dropped the gold Wulfric of Mercia he shook his head very
ominously. "This is a bad business, Mr. Tait," he said gloomily. "A
unique coin, as you know, and one of the most valuable in the whole of
our large Anglo-Saxon collection." "Is there a mouse-hole anywhere," I cried in agony; "any place where it
might have rolled down and got mislaid or concealed for the moment?" The superintendent went down instantly on his own hands and knees,
pulled up every piece of the cocoa-nut matting with minute deliberation,
searched the whole place thoroughly from end to end, but found nothing. He spent nearly an hour on that thorough search; meanwhile Mactavish
never for a moment relaxed his hold upon me. At last the superintendent desisted from the search as quite hopeless,
and approached me very politely. "I'm extremely sorry, Mr. Tait," he said in the most courteous possible
manner, "but by the rules of the Museum I am absolutely compelled either
to search you for the coin or to give you into custody. It may, you
know, have got caught somewhere about your person. No doubt you would
prefer, of the two, that I should look in all your pockets and the folds
of your clothing." The position was terrible. I could stand it no longer. "Mr. Harbourne," I said, breaking out once more from head to foot into a
cold sweat, "I must tell you the truth. I have brought a duplicate gold
Wulfric here to-day to compare with the Museum specimen, and I have got
it this very moment in my waistcoat pocket." The superintendent gazed back at me with a mingled look of incredulity
and pity. "My dear sir," he answered very gently, "this is altogether a most
unfortunate business, but I'm afraid I must ask you to let me look at
the duplicate you speak of." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
I took it, trembling, out of my waistcoat pocket and handed it across to
him without a word. The superintendent gazed at it for a moment in
silence; then, in a tone of the profoundest commiseration, he said
slowly, "Mr. Tait, I grieve to be obliged to contradict you. This is our
own specimen of the gold Wulfric!" The whole Museum whirled round me violently, and before I knew anything
more I fainted. II. When I came to I found myself seated in the superintendent's room, with
a policeman standing quietly in the background. As soon as I had fully recovered consciousness, the superintendent
motioned the policeman out of the room for a while, and then gently
forced me to swallow a brandy and soda. "Mr. Tait," he said compassionately, after an awkward pause, "you are a
very young man indeed, and, I believe, hitherto of blameless character. Now, I should be very sorry to have to proceed to extremities against
you. I know to what lengths, in a moment of weakness, the desire to
possess a rare coin will often lead a connoisseur, under stress of
exceptional temptation. I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind
that you did really accidentally drop this coin; that you went down on
your knees honestly intending to find it; that the accident suggested to
you the ease with which you might pick it up and proceed to pocket it;
that you yielded temporarily to that unfortunate impulse; and that by
the time I arrived upon the scene you were already overcome with remorse
and horror. I saw as much immediately in your very countenance. Nevertheless, I determined to give you the benefit of the doubt, and I
searched over the whole place in the most thorough and conscientious
manner.... As you know, I found nothing.... Mr. Tait, I cannot bear to
have to deal harshly with you. I recognize the temptation and the agony
of repentance that instantly followed it. Sir, I give you one chance. If
you will retract the obviously false story that you just now told me,
and confess that the coin I found in your pocket was in fact, as I know
it to be, the Museum specimen, I will forthwith dismiss the constable,
and will never say another word to any one about the whole matter. I
don't want to ruin you, but I can't, of course, be put off with a
falsehood. Think the matter carefully over with yourself. Do you or do
you not still adhere to that very improbable and incredible story?" Horrified and terror-stricken as I was, I couldn't avoid feeling
grateful to the superintendent for the evident kindness with which he
was treating me. The tears rose at once into my eyes. "Mr. Harbourne," I cried passionately, "you are very good, very
generous. But you quite mistake the whole position. The story I told you
was true, every word of it. I bought that gold Wulfric from a ploughman
at Lichfield, and it is not absolutely identical with the Museum
specimen which I dropped upon the floor. It is closer clipped round the
edges, and it has a distinct dent upon the obverse side, just below the
W of Wulfric." The superintendent paused a second, and scanned my face very closely. "Have you a knife or a file in your pocket?" he asked in a much sterner
and more official tone. "No," I replied, "neither--neither." "You are sure?" "Certain." "Shall I search you myself, or shall I give you in custody?" "Search me yourself," I answered confidently. He put his hand quietly into my left-hand breast pocket, and to my utter
horror and dismay drew forth, what I had up to that moment utterly
forgotten, a pair of folding pocket nail-scissors, in a leather case, of
course with a little file on either side. My heart stood still within me. "That is quite sufficient, Mr. Tait," the superintendent went on,
severely. "Had you alleged that the Museum coin was smaller than your
own imaginary one you might have been able to put in the facts as good
evidence. But I see the exact contrary is the case. You have stooped to
a disgraceful and unworthy subterfuge. This base deception aggravates
your guilt. You have deliberately defaced a valuable specimen in order
if possible to destroy its identity." What could I say in return? I stammered and hesitated. "Mr. Harbourne," I cried piteously, "the circumstances seem to look
terribly against me. But, nevertheless, you are quite mistaken. Tho
missing Wulfric will come to light sooner or later and prove me
innocent." He walked up and down the room once or twice irresolutely, and then he
turned round to me with a very fixed and determined aspect which fairly
terrified me. "Mr. Tait," he said, "I am straining every point possible to save you,
but you make it very difficult for me by your continued falsehood. I am
doing quite wrong in being so lenient to you; I am proposing, in short,
to compound a felony. But I cannot bear, without letting you have just
one more chance, to give you in charge for a common robbery. I will let
you have ten minutes to consider the matter; and I beseech you, I beg of
you, I implore you to retract this absurd and despicable lie before it
is too late for ever. Just consider that if you refuse I shall have to
hand you over to the constable out there, and that the whole truth must
come out in court, and must be blazoned forth to the entire world in
every newspaper. The policeman is standing here by the door. I will
leave you alone with your own thoughts for ten minutes." As he spoke he walked out gravely, and shut the door solemnly behind
him. The clock on the chimney-piece pointed with its hands to twenty
minutes past three. It was an awful dilemma. I hardly knew how to act under it. On the one
hand, if I admitted for the moment that I had tried to steal the coin, I
could avoid all immediate unpleasant circumstances; and as it would be
sure to turn up again in cleaning the Museum, I should be able at last
to prove my innocence to Mr. Harbourne's complete satisfaction. But, on
the other hand, the lie--for it _was_ a lie--stuck in my throat; I could
not humble myself to say I had committed a mean and dirty action which I
loathed with all the force and energy of my nature. No, no! come what
would of it, I must stick by the truth, and trust to that to clear up
everything. But if the superintendent really insisted on giving me in charge, how
very awkward to have to telegraph about it to Emily! Fancy saying to the
girl you are in love with, "I can't go with you to the theatre this
evening, because I have been taken off to gaol on a charge of stealing a
valuable coin from the British Museum." It was too terrible! Yet, after all, I thought to myself, if the worst comes to the worst,
Emily will have faith enough in me to know it is ridiculous; and,
indeed, the imputation could in any case only be temporary. As soon as
the thing gets into court I could bring up the Lichfield ploughman to
prove my possession of a gold Wulfric; and I could bring up Emily to
prove that I had shown it to her that very morning. How lucky that I had
happened to take it out and let her look at it! | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
My case was, happily, as
plain as a pikestaff. It was only momentarily that the weight of the
evidence seemed so perversely to go against me. Turning over all these various considerations in my mind with anxious
hesitancy, the ten minutes managed to pass away almost before I had
thoroughly realized the deep gravity of the situation. As the clock on the chimney-piece pointed to the half-hour, the door
opened once more, and the superintendent entered solemnly. "Well, Mr.
Tait," he said in an anxious voice, "have you made up your mind to make
a clean breast of it? Do you now admit, after full deliberation, that
you have endeavoured to steal and clip the gold Wulfric?" "No," I answered firmly, "I do not admit it; and I will willingly go
before a jury of my countrymen to prove my innocence." "Then God help you, poor boy," the superintendent cried despondently. "I
have done my best to save you, and you will not let me. Policeman, this
is your prisoner. I give him in custody on a charge of stealing a gold
coin, the property of the trustees of this Museum, valued at a hundred
and seventy-five pounds sterling." The policeman laid his hand upon my wrist. "You will have to go along
with me to the station, sir," he said quietly. Terrified and stunned as I was by the awfulness of the accusation, I
could not forget or overlook the superintendent's evident reluctance and
kindness. "Mr. Harbourne," I cried, "you have tried to do your best for
me. I am grateful to you for it, in spite of your terrible mistake, and
I shall yet be able to show you that I am innocent." He shook his head gloomily. "I have done my duty," he said with a
shudder. "I have never before had a more painful one. Policeman, I must
ask you now to do yours." III. The police are always considerate to respectable-looking prisoners, and
I had no difficulty in getting the sergeant in charge of the lock-up to
telegraph for me to Emily, to say that I was detained by important
business, which would prevent me taking her and her mother to the
theatre that evening. But when I explained to him that my detention was
merely temporary, and that I should be able to disprove the whole story
as soon as I went before the magistrates, he winked most unpleasantly at
the constable who had brought me in, and observed in a tone of vulgar
sarcasm, "We have a good many gentlemen here who says the same,
sir--don't we, Jim? but they don't always find it so easy as they
expected when they stands up afore the beak to prove their statements." I began to reflect that even a temporary prison is far from being a
pleasant place for a man to stop in. Next morning they took me up before the magistrate; and as the Museum
authorities of course proved a _primâ facie_ case against me, and as my
solicitor advised me to reserve my defence, owing to the difficulty of
getting up my witness from Lichfield in reasonable time, I was duly
committed for trial at the next sessions of the Central Criminal Court. I had often read before that people had been committed for trial, but
till that moment I had no idea what a very unpleasant sensation it
really is. However, as I was a person of hitherto unblemished character, and wore a
good coat made by a fashionable tailor, the magistrate decided to admit
me to bail, if two sureties in five hundred pounds each were promptly
forthcoming for the purpose. Luckily, I had no difficulty in finding
friends who believed in my story; and as I felt sure the lost Wulfric
would soon be found in cleaning the museum, I suffered perhaps a little
less acutely than I might otherwise have done, owing to my profound
confidence in the final triumph of the truth. Nevertheless, as the case would be fully reported next morning in all
the papers, I saw at once that I must go straight off and explain the
matter without delay to Emily. I will not dwell upon that painful interview. I will only say that Emily
behaved as I of course knew she would behave. She was horrified and
indignant at the dreadful accusation; and, woman like, she was very
angry with the superintendent. "He ought to have taken your word for it,
naturally, Harold," she cried through her tears. "But what a good thing,
anyhow, that you happened to show the coin to me. I should recognize it
anywhere among ten thousand." "That's well, darling," I said, trying to kiss away her tears and cheer
her up a little. "I haven't the slightest doubt that when the trial
comes we shall be able triumphantly to vindicate me from this terrible,
groundless accusation." IV. When the trial did actually come on, the Museum authorities began by
proving their case against me in what seemed the most horribly damning
fashion. The superintendent proved that on such and such a day, in such
and such a case, he had seen a gold coin of Wulfric of Mercia, the
property of the Museum. He and Mactavish detailed the circumstances
under which the coin was lost. The superintendent explained how he had
asked me to submit to a search, and how, to avoid that indignity, I had
myself produced from my waistcoat-pocket a gold coin of Wulfric of
Mercia, which I asserted to be a duplicate specimen, and my own
property. The counsel for the Crown proceeded thus with the
examination:--
"Do you recognize the coin I now hand you?" "I do." "What is it?" "The unique gold coin of Wulfric of Mercia, belonging to the Museum." "You have absolutely no doubt as to its identity?" "Absolutely none whatsoever." "Does it differ in any respect from the same coin as you previously saw
it?" "Yes. It has been clipped round the edge with a sharp instrument, and a
slight dent has been made by pressure on the obverse side, just below
the W of Wulfric." "Did you suspect the prisoner at the bar of having mutilated it?" "I did, and I asked him whether he had a knife in his possession. He
answered no. I then asked him whether he would submit to be searched for
a knife. He consented, and on my looking in his pocket I found the pair
of nail-scissors I now produce, with a small file on either side." "Do you believe the coin might have been clipped with those scissors?" "I do. The gold is very soft, having little alloy in its composition;
and it could easily be cut by a strong-wristed man with a knife or
scissors." As I listened, I didn't wonder that the jury looked as if they already
considered me guilty: but I smiled to myself when I thought how utterly
Emily's and the ploughman's evidence would rebut this unworthy
suspicion. The next witness was the Museum cleaner. His evidence at first produced
nothing fresh, but just at last, counsel set before him a paper,
containing a few scraps of yellow metal, and asked him triumphantly
whether he recognized them. He answered yes. There was a profound silence. The court was interested and curious. I
couldn't quite understand it all, but I felt a terrible sinking. "What are they?" asked the hostile barrister. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"They are some fragments of gold which I found in shaking the cocoa-nut
matting on the floor of gallery 27 the Saturday after the attempted
theft." I felt as if a mine had unexpectedly been sprung beneath me. How on
earth those fragments of soft gold could ever have got there I couldn't
imagine; but I saw the damaging nature of this extraordinary and
inexplicable coincidence in half a second. My counsel cross-examined all the witnesses for the prosecution, but
failed to elicit anything of any value from any one of them. On the
contrary, his questions put to the metallurgist of the Mint, who was
called to prove the quality of the gold, only brought out a very strong
opinion to the effect that the clippings were essentially similar in
character to the metal composing the clipped Wulfric. No wonder the jury seemed to think the case was going decidedly against
me. Then my counsel called his witnesses. I listened in the profoundest
suspense and expectation. The first witness was the ploughman from Lichfield. He was a
well-meaning but very puzzle-headed old man, and he was evidently
frightened at being confronted by so many clever wig-wearing barristers. Nevertheless, my counsel managed to get the true story out of him at
last with infinite patience, dexterity, and skill. The old man told us
finally how he had found the coins and sold them to me for five pounds;
and how one of them was of gold, with a queer head and goggle eyes
pointed full face upon its surface. When he had finished, the counsel for the Crown began his
cross-examination. He handed the ploughman a gold coin. "Did you ever
see that before?" he asked quietly. "To be sure I did," the man answered, looking at it open-mouthed. "What is it?" "It's the bit I sold Mr. Tait there--the bit as I got out o' the old
basin." Counsel turned triumphantly to the judge. "My lord," he said, "this
thing to which the witness swears is a gold piece of Ethelwulf of
Wessex, by far the commonest and cheapest gold coin of the whole
Anglo-Saxon period." It was handed to the jury side by side with the Wulfric of Mercia; and
the difference, as I knew myself, was in fact extremely noticeable. All
that the old man could have observed in common between them must have
been merely the archaic Anglo-Saxon character of the coinage. As I heard that, I began to feel that it was really all over. My counsel tried on the re-examination to shake the old man's faith in
his identification, and to make him transfer his story to the Wulfric
which he had actually sold me. But it was all in vain. The ploughman had
clearly the dread of perjury for ever before his eyes, and wouldn't go
back for any consideration upon his first sworn statement. "No, no,
mister," he said over and over again in reply to my counsel's bland
suggestion, "you ain't going to make me forswear myself for all your
cleverness." The next witness was Emily. She went into the box pale and red-eyed, but
very confident. My counsel examined her admirably; and she stuck to her
point with womanly persistence, that she had herself seen the clipped
Wulfric, and no other coin, on the morning of the supposed theft. She
knew it was so, because she distinctly remembered the inscription,
"Wulfric Rex," and the peculiar way the staring open eyes were
represented with barbaric puerility. Counsel for the Crown would only trouble the young lady with two
questions. The first was a painful one, but it must be asked in the
interests of justice. Were she and the prisoner at the bar engaged to be
married to one another? The answer came, slowly and timidly, "Yes." Counsel drew a long breath, and looked her hard in the face. Could she
read the inscription on that coin now produced?--handing her the
Ethelwulf. Great heavens! I saw at once the plot to disconcert her, but was utterly
powerless to warn her against it. Emily looked at it long and steadily. "No," she said at last, growing
deadly pale and grasping the woodwork of the witness-box convulsively;
"I don't know the character in which it is written." Of course not: for the inscription was in the peculiar semi-runic
Anglo-Saxon letters! She had never read the words "Wulfric Rex" either. I had read them to her, and she had carried them away vaguely in her
mind, imagining no doubt that she herself had actually deciphered them. There was a slight pause, and I felt my blood growing cold within me. Then the counsel for the Crown handed her again the genuine Wulfric, and
asked her whether the letters upon it which she professed to have read
were or were not similar to those of the Ethelwulf. Instead of answering, Emily bent down her head between her hands, and
burst suddenly into tears. I was so much distressed at her terrible agitation that I forgot
altogether for the moment my own perilous position, and I cried aloud,
"My lord, my lord, will you not interpose to spare her any further
questions?" "I think," the judge said to the counsel for the Crown, "you might now
permit the witness to stand down." "I wish to re-examine, my lord," my counsel put in hastily. "No," I said in his ear, "no. Whatever comes of it, not another
question. I had far rather go to prison than let her suffer this
inexpressible torture for a single minute longer." Emily was led down, still crying bitterly, into the body of the court,
and the rest of the proceedings went on uninterrupted. The theory of the prosecution was a simple and plausible one. I had
bought a common Anglo-Saxon coin, probably an Ethelwulf, valued at about
twenty-two shillings, from the old Lichfield ploughman. I had thereupon
conceived the fraudulent idea of pretending that I had a duplicate of
the rare Wulfric. I had shown the Ethelwulf, clipped in a particular
fashion, to the lady whom I was engaged to marry. I had then defaced and
altered the genuine Wulfric at the Museum into the same shape with the
aid of my pocket nail-scissors. And I had finally made believe to drop
the coin accidentally upon the floor, while I had really secreted it in
my waistcoat pocket. The theory for the defence had broken down utterly. And then there was the damning fact of the gold scrapings found in the
cocoa-nut matting of the British Museum, which was to me the one great
inexplicable mystery in the whole otherwise comprehensible
mystification. I felt myself that the case did indeed look very black against me. But
would a jury venture to convict me on such very doubtful evidence? The jury retired to consider their verdict. I stood in suspense in the
dock, with my heart loudly beating. Emily remained in the body of the
court below, looking up at me tearfully and penitently. After twenty minutes the jury retired. "Guilty or not guilty?" The foreman answered aloud, "Guilty." There was a piercing cry in the body of the court, and in a moment Emily
was carried out half fainting and half hysterical. The judge then calmly proceeded to pass sentence. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
He dwelt upon the
enormity of my crime in one so well connected and so far removed from
the dangers of mere vulgar temptations. He dwelt also upon the vandalism
of which I had been guilty--myself a collector--in clipping and defacing
a valuable and unique memorial of antiquity, the property of the nation. He did not wish to be severe upon a young man of hitherto blameless
character; but the national collection must be secured against such a
peculiarly insidious and cunning form of depredation. The sentence of
the court was that I should be kept in--
Five years' penal servitude. Crushed and annihilated as I was, I had still strength to utter a single
final word. "My lord," I cried, "the missing Wulfric will yet be found,
and will hereafter prove my perfect innocence." "Remove the prisoner," said the judge, coldly. They took me down to the courtyard unresisting, where the prison van was
standing in waiting. On the steps I saw Emily and her mother, both crying bitterly. They had
been told the sentence already, and were waiting to take a last farewell
of me. "Oh, Harold!" Emily cried, flinging her arms around me wildly, "it's all
my fault! It's my fault only! By my foolish stupidity I've lost your
case. I've sent you to prison. Oh, Harold, I can never forgive myself. I've sent you to prison. I've sent you to prison." "Dearest," I said, "it won't be for long. I shall soon be free again. They'll find the Wulfric sooner or later, and then of course they'll let
me out again." "Harold," she cried, "oh, Harold, Harold, don't you see? Don't you
understand? This is a plot against you. It isn't lost. It isn't lost. That would be nothing. It's stolen; it's stolen!" A light burst in upon me suddenly, and I saw in a moment the full depth
of the peril that surrounded me. PART II. I. It was some time before I could sufficiently accustom myself to my new
life in the Isle of Portland to be able to think clearly and distinctly
about the terrible blow that had fallen upon me. In the midst of all the
petty troubles and discomforts of prison existence, I had no leisure at
first fully to realize the fact that I was a convicted felon with
scarcely a hope--not of release; for that I cared little--but of
rehabilitation. Slowly, however, I began to grow habituated to the new hard life imposed
upon me, and to think in my cell of the web of circumstance which had
woven itself so irresistibly around me. I had only one hope. Emily knew I was innocent. Emily suspected, like
me, that the Wulfric had been stolen. Emily would do her best, I felt
certain, to heap together fresh evidence, and unravel this mystery to
its very bottom. Meanwhile, I thanked Heaven for the hard mechanical daily toil of
cutting stone in Portland prison. I was a strong athletic young fellow
enough. I was glad now that I had always loved the river at Oxford; my
arms were stout and muscular. I was able to take my part in the regular
work of the gang to which I belonged. Had it been otherwise--had I been
set down to some quiet sedentary occupation, as first-class
misdemeanants often are, I should have worn my heart out soon with
thinking perpetually of poor Emily's terrible trouble. When I first came, the Deputy-Governor, knowing my case well (had there
not been leaders about me in all the papers? ), very kindly asked me
whether I would wish to be given work in the book-keeping department,
where many educated convicts were employed as clerks and assistants. But
I begged particularly to be put into an outdoor gang, where I might have
to use my limbs constantly, and so keep my mind from eating itself up
with perpetual thinking. The Deputy-Governor immediately consented, and
gave me work in a quarrying gang, at the west end of the island, near
Deadman's Bay on the edge of the Chesil. For three months I worked hard at learning the trade of a quarryman, and
succeeded far better than any of the other new hands who were set to
learn at the same time with me. Their heart was not in it; mine was. Anything to escape that gnawing agony. The other men in the gang were not agreeable or congenial companions. They taught me their established modes of intercommunication, and told
me several facts about themselves, which did not tend to endear them to
me. One of them, 1247, was put in for the manslaughter of his wife by
kicking; he was a low-browed, brutal London drayman, and he occupied the
next cell to mine, where he disturbed me much in my sleepless nights by
his loud snoring. Another, a much slighter and more intelligent-looking
man, was a skilled burglar, sentenced to fourteen years for "cracking a
crib" in the neighbourhood of Hampstead. A third was a sailor, convicted
of gross cruelty to a defenceless Lascar. They all told me the nature of
their crimes with a brutal frankness which fairly surprised me; but when
I explained to them in return that I had been put in upon a false
accusation, they treated my remarks with a galling contempt that was
absolutely unsupportable. After a short time I ceased to communicate
with my fellow-prisoners in any way, and remained shut up with my own
thoughts in utter isolation. By-and-by I found that the other men in the same gang were beginning to
dislike me strongly, and that some among them actually whispered to one
another--what they seemed to consider a very strong point indeed against
me--that I must really have been convicted by mistake, and that I was a
regular stuck-up sneaking Methodist. They complained that I worked a
great deal too hard, and so made the other felons seem lazy by
comparison; and they also objected to my prompt obedience to our
warder's commands, as tending to set up an exaggerated and impossible
standard of discipline. Between this warder and myself, on the other hand, there soon sprang up
a feeling which I might almost describe as one of friendship. Though by
the rules of the establishment we could not communicate with one another
except upon matters of business, I liked him for his uniform courtesy,
kindliness, and forbearance; while I could easily see that he liked me
in return, by contrast with the other men who were under his charge. He
was one of those persons whom some experience of prisons then and since
has led me to believe less rare than most people would imagine--men in
whom the dreary life of a prison warder, instead of engendering hardness
of heart and cold unsympathetic sternness, has engendered a certain
profound tenderness and melancholy of spirit. I grew quite fond of that
one honest warder, among so many coarse and criminal faces; and I found,
on the other hand, that my fellow-prisoners hated me all the more
because, as they expressed it in their own disgusting jargon, I was
sucking up to that confounded dog of a barker. It happened once, when I
was left for a few minutes alone with the warder, that he made an
attempt for a moment, contrary to regulations, to hold a little private
conversation with me. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"1430," he said in a low voice, hardly moving his lips, for fear of
being overlooked, "what is your outside name?" I answered quietly, without turning to look at him, "Harold Tait." He gave a little involuntary start. "What!" he cried. "Not him that took
a coin from the British Museum?" I bridled up angrily. "I did not take it," I cried with all my soul. "I
am innocent, and have been put in here by some terrible error." He was silent for half a second. Then he said musingly, "Sir, I believe
you. You are speaking the truth. I will do all I can to make things easy
for you." That was all he said then. But from that day forth he always spoke to me
in private as "Sir," and never again as "1430." An incident arose at last out of this condition of things which had a
very important effect upon my future position. One day, about three months after I was committed to prison, we were all
told off as usual to work in a small quarry on the cliff-side
overhanging the long expanse of pebbly beach known as the Chesil. I had
reason to believe afterwards that a large open fishing boat lying upon
the beach below at the moment had been placed there as part of a
concerted scheme by the friends of the Hampstead burglar; and that it
contained ordinary clothing for all the men in our gang, except myself
only. The idea was evidently that the gang should overpower the warder,
seize the boat, change their clothes instantly, taking turns about
meanwhile with the navigation, and make straight off for the shore at
Lulworth, where they could easily disperse without much chance of being
recaptured. But of all this I was of course quite ignorant at the time,
for they had not thought well to intrust their secret to the ears of the
sneaking virtuous Methodist. A few minutes after we arrived at the quarry, I was working with two
other men at putting a blast in, when I happened to look round quite
accidentally, and to my great horror, saw 1247, the brutal wife-kicker,
standing behind with a huge block of stone in his hands, poised just
above the warder's head, in a threatening attitude. The other men stood
around waiting and watching. I had only just time to cry out in a tone
of alarm, "Take care, warder, he'll murder you!" when the stone
descended upon the warder's head, and he fell at once, bleeding and half
senseless, upon the ground beside me. In a second, while he shrieked and
struggled, the whole gang was pressing savagely and angrily around him. There was no time to think or hesitate. Before I knew almost what I was
doing, I had seized his gun and ammunition, and, standing over his
prostrate body, I held the men at bay for a single moment. Then 1247
advanced threateningly, and tried to put his foot upon the fallen
warder. I didn't wait or reflect one solitary second. I drew the trigger, and
fired full upon him. The bang sounded fiercely in my ears, and for a
moment I could see nothing through the smoke of the rifle. With a terrible shriek he fell in front of me, not dead, but seriously
wounded. "The boat, the boat," the others cried loudly. "Knock him down! Kill
him! Take the boat, all of you." At that moment the report of my shot had brought another warder hastily
to the top of the quarry. "Help, help!" I cried. "Come quick, and save us. These brutes are trying
to murder our warder!" The man rushed back to call for aid; but the way down the zigzag path
was steep and tortuous, and it was some time before they could manage to
get down and succour us. Meanwhile the other convicts pressed savagely around us, trying to jump
upon the warder's body and force their way past to the beach beneath us. I fired again, for the rifle was double-barrelled; but it was impossible
to reload in such a tumult, so, after the next shot, which hit no one,
I laid about me fiercely with the butt end of the gun, and succeeded in
knocking down four of the savages, one after another. By that time the
warders from above had safely reached us, and formed a circle of fixed
bayonets around the rebellious prisoners. "Thank God!" I cried, flinging down the rifle, and rushing up to the
prostrate warder. "He is still alive. He is breathing! He is breathing!" "Yes," he murmured in a faint voice, "I am alive, and I thank you for
it. But for you, sir, these fellows here would certainly have murdered
me." "You are badly wounded yourself, 1430," one of the other warders said to
me, as the rebels were rapidly secured and marched off sullenly back to
prison. "Look, your own arm is bleeding fiercely." Then for the first time I was aware that I was one mass of wounds from
head to foot, and that I was growing faint from loss of blood. In
defending the fallen warder I had got punched and pummelled on every
side, just the same as one used to get long ago in a bully at football
when I was a boy at Rugby, only much more seriously. The warders brought down seven stretchers: one for me; one for the
wounded warder; one for 1247, whom I had shot; and four for the convicts
whom I had knocked over with the butt end of the rifle. They carried us
up on them, strongly guarded, in a long procession. At the door of the infirmary the Governor met us. "1430," he said to me,
in a very kind voice, "you have behaved most admirably. I saw you myself
quite distinctly from my drawing-room windows. Your bravery and
intrepidity are well deserving of the highest recognition." "Sir," I answered, "I have only tried to do my duty. I couldn't stand by
and see an innocent man murdered by such a pack of bloodthirsty
ruffians." The Governor turned aside a little surprised. "Who is 1430?" he asked
quietly. A subordinate, consulting a book, whispered my name and supposed crime
to him confidentially. The Governor nodded twice, and seemed to be
satisfied. "Sir," the wounded warder said faintly from his stretcher, "1430 is an
innocent man unjustly condemned, if ever there was one." II. On the Thursday week following, when my wounds were all getting well,
the whole body of convicts was duly paraded at half-past eleven in front
of the Governor's house. The Governor came out, holding an official-looking paper in his right
hand. "No. 1430," he said in a loud voice, "stand forward." And I stood
forward. "No. 1430, I have the pleasant duty of informing you, in face of all
your fellow-prisoners, that your heroism and self-devotion in saving the
life of Warder James Woollacott, when he was attacked and almost
overpowered on the twentieth of this month by a gang of rebellious
convicts, has been reported to Her Majesty's Secretary of State for the
Home Department; and that on his recommendation Her Majesty has been
graciously pleased to grant you a Free Pardon for the remainder of the
time during which you were sentenced to penal servitude." For a moment I felt quite stunned and speechless. I reeled on my feet so
much that two of the warders jumped forward to support me. It was a
great thing to have at least one's freedom. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
But in another minute the
real meaning of the thing came clearer upon me, and I recoiled from the
bare sound of those horrid words, a free pardon. I didn't want to be
pardoned like a convicted felon: I wanted to have my innocence proved
before the eyes of all England. For my own sake, and still more for
Emily's sake, rehabilitation was all I cared for. "Sir," I said, touching my cap respectfully, and saluting the Governor
according to our wonted prison discipline, "I am very greatly obliged to
you for your kindness in having made this representation to the Home
Secretary; but I feel compelled to say I cannot accept a free pardon. I
am wholly guiltless of the crime of which I have been convicted; and I
wish that instead of pardoning me the Home Secretary would give
instructions to the detective police to make a thorough investigation of
the case, with the object of proving my complete innocence. Till that is
done, I prefer to remain an inmate of Portland Prison. What I wish is
not pardon, but to be restored as an honest man to the society of my
equals." The Governor paused for a moment, and consulted quietly in an undertone
with one or two of his subordinates. Then he turned to me with great
kindness, and said in a loud voice, "No. 1430, I have no power any
longer to detain you in this prison, even if I wished to do so, after
you have once obtained Her Majesty's free pardon. My duty is to dismiss
you at once, in accordance with the terms of this document. However, I
will communicate the substance of your request to the Home Secretary,
with whom such a petition, so made, will doubtless have the full weight
that may rightly attach to it. You must now go with these warders, who
will restore you your own clothes, and then formally set you at liberty. But if there is anything further you would wish to speak to me about,
you can do so afterward in your private capacity as a free man at two
o'clock in my own office." I thanked him quietly and then withdrew. At two o'clock I duly presented
myself in ordinary clothes at the Governor's office. We had a long and confidential interview, in the course of which I was
able to narrate to the Governor at full length all the facts of my
strange story exactly as I have here detailed them. He listened to me
with the greatest interest, checking and confirming my statements at
length by reference to the file of papers brought to him by a clerk. When I had finished my whole story, he said to me quite simply, "Mr.
Tait, it may be imprudent of me in my position and under such peculiar
circumstances to say so, but I fully and unreservedly believe your
statement. If anything that I can say or do can be of any assistance to
you in proving your innocence, I shall be very happy indeed to exert all
my influence in your favour." I thanked him warmly with tears in my eyes. "And there is one point in your story," he went on, "to which I, who
have seen a good deal of such doubtful cases, attach the very highest
importance. You say that gold clippings, pronounced to be similar in
character to the gold Wulfric, were found shortly after by a cleaner at
the Museum on the cocoa-nut matting of the floor where the coin was
examined by you?" I nodded, blushing crimson. "That," I said, "seems to me the strangest
and most damning circumstance against me in the whole story." "Precisely," the Governor answered quietly. "And if what you say is the
truth (as I believe it to be), it is also the circumstance which best
gives us a clue to use against the real culprit. The person who stole
the coin was too clever by half, or else not quite clever enough for his
own protection. In manufacturing that last fatal piece of evidence
against you he was also giving you a certain clue to his own identity." "How so?" I asked, breathless. "Why, don't you see? The thief must in all probability have been
somebody connected with the Museum. He must have seen you comparing the
Wulfric with your own coin. He must have picked it up and carried it
off secretly at the moment you dropped it. He must have clipped the
coin to manufacture further hostile evidence. And he must have dropped
the clippings afterwards on the cocoa-nut matting in the same gallery on
purpose in order to heighten the suspicion against you." "You are right," I cried, brightening up at the luminous
suggestion--"you are right, obviously. And there is only one man who
could have seen and heard enough to carry out this abominable
plot--Mactavish!" "Well, find him out and prove the case against him, Mr. Tait," the
Governor said warmly, "and if you send him here to us I can promise you
that he will be well taken care of." I bowed and thanked him, and was about to withdraw, but he held out his
hand to me with perfect frankness. "Mr. Tait," he said, "I can't let you go away so. Let me have your hand
in token that you bear us no grudge for the way we have treated you
during your unfortunate imprisonment, and that I, for my part, am
absolutely satisfied of the truth of your statement." III. The moment I arrived in London I drove straight off without delay to
Emily's. I had telegraphed beforehand that I had been granted a free
pardon, but had not stopped to tell her why or under what conditions. Emily met me in tears in the passage. "Harold! Harold!" she cried,
flinging her arms wildly around me. "Oh, my darling! my darling! how can
I ever say it to you? Mamma says she won't allow me to see you here any
longer." It was a terrible blow, but I was not unprepared for it. How could I
expect that poor, conventional, commonplace old lady to have any faith
in me after all she had read about me in the newspapers? "Emily," I said, kissing her over and over again tenderly, "you must
come out with me, then, this very minute, for I want to talk with you
over matters of importance. Whether your mother wishes it or not, you
must come out with me this very minute." Emily put on her bonnet hastily and walked out with me into the streets
of London. It was growing dark, and the neighbourhood was a very quiet
one; or else perhaps even my own Emily would have felt a little ashamed
of walking about the streets of London with a man whose hair was still
cropped short around his head like a common felon's. I told her all the story of my release, and Emily listened to it in
profound silence. "Harold!" she cried, "my darling Harold!" (when I told her the tale of
my desperate battle over the fallen warder), "you are the bravest and
best of men. I knew you would vindicate yourself sooner or later. What
we have to do now is to show that Mactavish stole the Wulfric. I know he
stole it; I read it at the trial in his clean-shaven villain's face. I
shall prove it still, and then you will be justified in the eyes of
everybody." "But how can we manage to communicate meanwhile, darling?" I cried
eagerly. "If your mother won't allow you to see me, how are we ever to
meet and consult about it?" | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"There's only one way, Harold--only one way; and as things now stand you
mustn't think it strange of me to propose it. Harold, you must marry me
immediately, whether mamma will let us or not!" "Emily!" I cried, "my own darling! your confidence and trust in me makes
me I can't tell you how proud and happy. That you should be willing to
marry me even while I am under such a cloud as this gives me a greater
proof of your love than anything else you could possibly do for me. But,
darling, I am too proud to take you at your word. For your sake, Emily,
I will never marry you until all the world has been compelled
unreservedly to admit my innocence." Emily blushed and cried a little. "As you will, Harold, dearest," she
answered, trembling, "I can afford to wait for you. I know that in the
end the truth will be established." IV. A week or two later I was astonished one morning at receiving a visit in
my London lodgings from the warder Woollacott, whose life I had been
happily instrumental in saving at Portland Prison. "Well, sir," he said, grasping my hand warmly and gratefully, "you see I
haven't yet entirely recovered from that terrible morning. I shall bear
the marks of it about me for the remainder of my lifetime. The Governor
says I shall never again be fit for duty, so they've pensioned me off
very honourable." I told him how pleased I was that he should have been liberally treated,
and then we fell into conversation about myself and the means of
re-establishing my perfect innocence. "Sir," said he, "I shall have plenty of leisure, and shall be
comfortably off now. If there's anything that I can do to be of service
to you in the matter, I shall gladly do it. My time is entirely at your
disposal." I thanked him warmly, but told him that the affair was already in the
hands of the regular detectives, who had been set to work upon it by the
Governor's influence with the Home Secretary. By-and-by I happened to mention confidentially to him my suspicions of
the man Mactavish. An idea seemed to occur to the warder suddenly; but
he said not a word to me about it at the time. A few days later,
however, he came back to me quietly and said, in a confidential tone of
voice, "Well, sir, I think we may still manage to square him." "Square who, Mr. Woollacott? I don't understand you." "Why, Mactavish, sir. I found out he had a small house near the Museum,
and his wife lets a lodging there for a single man. I've gone and taken
the lodging, and I shall see whether in the course of time something or
other doesn't come out of it." I smiled and thanked him for his enthusiasm in my cause; but I confess I
didn't see how anything on earth of any use to me was likely to arise
from this strange proceeding on his part. V.
It was that same week, I believe, that I received two other unexpected
visitors. They came together. One of them was the Superintendent of
Coins at the British Museum; the other was the well-known antiquary and
great authority upon the Anglo-Saxon coinage, Sir Theophilus Wraxton. "Mr. Tait," the superintendent began, not without some touch of natural
shamefacedness in his voice and manner, "I have reason to believe that I
may possibly have been mistaken in my positive identification of the
coin you showed me that day at the Museum as our own specimen of the
gold Wulfric. If I _was_ mistaken, then I have unintentionally done you
a most grievous wrong; and for that wrong, should my suspicions turn out
ill-founded, I shall owe you the deepest and most heartfelt apologies. But the only reparation I can possibly make you is the one I am doing
to-day by bringing here my friend Sir Theophilus Wraxton. He has a
communication of some importance to make to you; and if he is right, I
can only beg your pardon most humbly for the error I have committed in
what I believed to be the discharge of my duties." "Sir," I answered, "I saw at the time you were the victim of a mistake,
as I was the victim of a most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances;
and I bear you no grudge whatsoever for the part you bore in subjecting
me to what is really in itself a most unjust and unfounded suspicion. You only did what you believed to be your plain duty; and you did it
with marked reluctance, and with every desire to leave me every possible
loophole of escape from what you conceived as a momentary yielding to a
vile temptation. But what is it that Sir Theophilus Wraxton wishes to
tell me?" "Well, my dear sir," the old gentleman began, warmly, "I haven't the
slightest doubt in the world myself that you have been quite
unwarrantably disbelieved about a plain matter of fact that ought at
once to have been immediately apparent to anybody who knew anything in
the world about the gold Anglo-Saxon coinage. No reflection in the world
upon you, Harbourne, my dear friend--no reflection in the world upon you
in the matter; but you must admit that you've been pig-headedly hasty in
jumping to a conclusion, and ignorantly determined in sticking to it
against better evidence. My dear sir, I haven't the very slightest doubt
in the world that the coin now in the British Museum is _not_ the one
which I have seen there previously, and which I have figured in the
third volume of my 'Early Northumbrian and Mercian Numismatist!' Quite
otherwise; quite otherwise, I assure you." "How do you recognize that it is different, sir?" I cried excitedly. "The two coins were struck at just the same mint from the same die, and
I examined them closely together, and saw absolutely no difference
between them, except the dent and the amount of the clipping." "Quite true, quite true," the old gentleman replied with great
deliberation. "But look here, sir. Here is the drawing I took of the
Museum Wulfric fourteen years ago, for the third volume of my
'Northumbrian Numismatist.' That drawing was made with the aid of
careful measurements, which you will find detailed in the text at page
230. Now, here again is the duplicate Wulfric--permit me to call it
_your_ Wulfric; and if you will compare the two you'll find, I think,
that though your Wulfric is a great deal smaller than the original one,
taken as a whole, yet on one diameter, the diameter from the letter U in
Wulfric to the letter R in Rex, it is nearly an eighth of an inch
broader than the specimen I have there figured. Well, sir, you may cut
as much as you like off a coin, and make it smaller; but hang me if by
cutting away at it for all your lifetime you can make it an eighth of an
inch broader anyhow, in any direction." I looked immediately at the coin, the drawing, and the measurements in
the book, and saw at a glance that Sir Theophilus was right. "How on earth did you find it out?" I asked the bland old gentleman,
breathlessly. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"Why, my dear sir, I remembered the old coin perfectly, having been so
very particular in my drawing and measurement; and the moment I clapped
eyes on the other one yesterday, I said to my good friend Harbourne,
here: 'Harbourne,' said I, 'somebody's been changing your Wulfric in the
case over yonder for another specimen.' 'Changing it!' said Harbourne:
'not a bit of it; clipping it, you mean.' 'No, no, my good fellow,' said
I: 'do you suppose I don't know the same coin again when I see it, and
at my time of life too? This is another coin, not the same one clipped. It's bigger across than the old one from there to there.' 'No, it
isn't,' says he. 'But it is,' I answer. 'Just you look in my
"Northumbrian and Mercian" and see if it isn't so.' 'You must be
mistaken,' says Harbourne. 'If I am, I'll eat my head,' says I. Well,
we get down the 'Numismatist' from the bookshelf then and there; and
sure enough, it turns out just as I told him. Harbourne turned as white
as a ghost, I can tell you, as soon as he discovered it. 'Why,' says he,
'I've sent a poor young fellow off to Portland Prison, only three or
four months ago, for stealing that very Wulfric.' And then he told me
all the story. 'Very well,' said I, 'then the only thing you've got to
do is just to go and call on him to-morrow, and let him know that you've
had it proved to you, fairly proved to you, that this is not the
original Wulfric.'" "Sir Theophilus," I said, "I'm much obliged to you. What you point out
is by far the most important piece of evidence I've yet had to offer. Mr. Harbourne, have you kept the gold clippings that were found that
morning on the cocoa-nut matting?" "I have, Mr. Tait," the superintendent answered anxiously. "And Sir
Theophilus and I have been trying to fit them upon the coin in the
Museum shelves; and I am bound to admit I quite agree with him that they
must have been cut off a specimen decidedly larger in one diameter and
smaller in another than the existing one--in short, that they do not fit
the clipped Wulfric now in the Museum." VI. It was just a fortnight later that I received quite unexpectedly a
telegram from Rome directed to me at my London lodgings. I tore it open
hastily; it was signed by Emily, and contained only these few words: "We
have found the Museum Wulfric. The superintendent is coming over to
identify and reclaim it. Can you manage to run across immediately with
him?" For a moment I was lost in astonishment, delight, and fear. How and why
had Emily gone over to Rome? Who could she have with her to take care
of her and assist her? How on earth had she tracked the missing coin to
its distant hiding-place? It was all a profound mystery to me; and after
my first outburst of joy and gratitude, I began to be afraid that Emily
might have been misled by her eagerness and anxiety into following up
the traces of the wrong coin. However, I had no choice but to go to Rome and see the matter ended; and
I went alone, wearing out my soul through that long journey with
suspense and fear; for I had not managed to hit upon the superintendent,
who, through his telegram being delivered a little the sooner, had
caught a train six hours earlier than the one I went by. As I arrived at the Central Station at Rome, I was met, to my surprise,
by a perfect crowd of familiar faces. First, Emily herself rushed to me,
kissed me, and assured me a hundred times over that it was all right,
and that the missing coin was undoubtedly recovered. Then, the
superintendent, more shamefaced than ever, and very grave, but with a
certain moisture in his eyes, confirmed her statement by saying that he
had got the real Museum Wulfric undoubtedly in his pocket. Then Sir
Theophilus, who had actually come across with Lady Wraxton on purpose to
take care of Emily, added his assurances and congratulations. Last of
all, Woollacott, the warder, stepped up to me and said simply, "I'm
glad, sir, that it was through me as it all came out so right and even." "Tell me how it all happened," I cried, almost faint with joy, and still
wondering whether my innocence had really been proved beyond all fear of
cavil. Then Woollacott began, and told me briefly the whole story. He had
consulted with the superintendent and Sir Theophilus, without saying a
word to me about it, and had kept a close watch upon all the letters
that came for Mactavish. A rare Anglo-Saxon coin is not a chattel that
one can easily get rid of every day; and Woollacott shrewdly gathered
from what Sir Theophilus had told him that Mactavish (or whoever else
had stolen the coin) would be likely to try to dispose of it as far away
from England as possible, especially after all the comments that had
been made on this particular Wulfric in the English newspapers. So he
took every opportunity of intercepting the postman at the front door,
and looking out for envelopes with foreign postage stamps. At last one
day a letter arrived for Mactavish with an Italian stamp and a
cardinal's red hat stamped like a crest on the flap of the envelope. Woollacott was certain that things of that sort didn't come to Mactavish
every day about his ordinary business. Braving the penalties for
appropriating a letter, he took the liberty to open this suspicious
communication, and found it was a note from Cardinal Trevelyan, the
Pope's Chamberlain, and a well-known collector of antiquities referring
to early Church history in England, and that it was in reply to an offer
of Mactavish's to send the Cardinal for inspection a rare gold coin not
otherwise specified. The Cardinal expressed his readiness to see the
coin, and to pay a hundred and fifty pounds for it, if it proved to be
rare and genuine as described. Woollacott felt certain that this
communication must refer to the gold Wulfric. He therefore handed the
letter to Mrs. Mactavish when the postman next came his rounds, and
waited to see whether Mactavish any day afterwards went to the post to
register a small box or packet. Meanwhile he communicated with Emily and
the superintendent, being unwilling to buoy me up with a doubtful hope
until he was quite sure that their plan had succeeded. The
superintendent wrote immediately to the Cardinal, mentioning his
suspicions, and received a reply to the effect that he expected a coin
of Wulfric to be sent him shortly. Sir Theophilus, who had been greatly
interested in the question of the coin, kindly offered to take Emily
over to Rome, in order to get the criminating piece, as soon as it
arrived, from Cardinal Trevelyan. That was, in turn, the story that they
all told me, piece by piece, in the Central Station at Rome that
eventful morning. "And Mactavish?" I asked of the superintendent eagerly. "Is in custody in London already," he answered somewhat sternly. "I had
a warrant out against him before I left town on this journey." At the trial the whole case was very clearly proved against him, and my
innocence was fully established before the face of all my
fellow-countrymen. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
A fortnight later my wife and I were among the rocks
and woods at Ambleside; and when I returned to London, it was to take a
place in the department of coins at the British Museum, which the
superintendent begged of me to accept as some further proof in the eyes
of everybody that the suspicion he had formed in the matter of the
Wulfric was a most unfounded and wholly erroneous one. The coin itself I
kept as a memento of a terrible experience; but I have given up
collecting on my own account entirely, and am quite content nowadays to
bear my share in guarding the national collection from other depredators
of the class of Mactavish. _MY UNCLE'S WILL._
I. "My dear Mr. Payne," said my deceased uncle's lawyer with an emphatic
wag of his forefinger, "I assure you there's no help for it. The
language of the will is perfectly simple and explicit. Either you must
do as your late uncle desired, or you must let the property go to the
representative of his deceased wife's family." "But surely, Blenkinsopp," I said deprecatingly, "we might get the Court
of Chancery to set it aside, as being contrary to public policy, or
something of that sort. I know you can get the Court of Chancery to
affirm almost anything you ask them, especially if it's something a
little abstruse and out of the common; it gratifies the Court's opinion
of its own acumen. Now, clearly, it's contrary to public policy that a
man should go and make his own nephew ridiculous by his last will and
testament, isn't it?" Mr. Blenkinsopp shook his head vigorously. "Bless my soul, Mr. Payne,"
he answered, helping himself to a comprehensive pinch from his snuff-box
(an odious habit, confined, I believe, at the present day to family
solicitors), "bless my soul, my dear sir, the thing's simply impossible. Here's your uncle, the late Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased, a person
of sound mind and an adult male above the age of twenty-one years--to be
quite accurate, _oetatis suoe_, seventy-eight--makes his will, and
duly attests the same in the presence of two witnesses; everything quite
in order: not a single point open to exception in any way. Well, he
gives and bequeaths to his nephew, Theodore Payne, gentleman--that's
you--after a few unimportant legacies, the bulk of his real and personal
estate, provided only that you adopt the surname of Aikin, prefixed
before and in addition to your own surname of Payne. But,--and this is
very important,--if you don't choose to adopt and use the said surname
of Aikin, in the manner hereinbefore recited, then and in that case, my
dear sir--why, then and in that case, as clear as currant jelly, the
whole said residue of his real and personal estate is to go to the heir
or heirs-at-law of the late Amelia Maria Susannah Aikin, wife of the
said Anthony Aikin, Esquire, deceased. Nothing could be simpler or
plainer in any way, and there's really nothing on earth for you to do
except to choose between the two alternatives so clearly set before you
by your deceased uncle." "But look here, you know, Blenkinsopp," I said appealingly, "no fellow
can really be expected to go and call himself Aikin-Payne, now can he? It's positively too ridiculous. Mightn't I stick the Payne before the
Aikin, and call myself Payne-Aikin, eh? That wouldn't be quite so
absurdly suggestive of a perpetual toothache. But Aikin-Payne! Why, the
comic papers would take it up immediately. Every footman in London would
grin audibly when he announced me. I fancy I hear the fellows this very
moment: flinging open the door with a violent attempt at seriousness,
and shouting out, 'Mr. Haching-Pain, ha, ha, ha!' with a loud guffaw
behind the lintel. It would be simply unendurable!" "My dear sir," answered the unsympathetic Blenkinsopp (most
unsympathetic profession, an attorney's, really), "the law doesn't take
into consideration the question of the probable conduct of footmen. It
must be Aikin-Payne or nothing. I admit the collocation does sound a
little ridiculous, to be sure; but your uncle's will is perfectly
unequivocal upon the subject--in fact, ahem! I drew it up myself, to say
the truth; and unless you call yourself Aikin-Payne, 'in the manner
hereinbefore recited,' then and in that case, observe (there's no
deception), then and in that case the heir or heirs-at-law of the late
Amelia Maria Susannah aforesaid will be entitled to benefit under the
will as fully in every respect as if the property was bequeathed
directly to him, her, or them, by name, and to no other person." "And who the dickens are these heirs-at-law, Blenkinsopp?" I ventured to
ask after a moment's pause, during which the lawyer had refreshed
himself with another prodigious sniff from his snuff-box. "Who the dickens are they, Mr. Payne? I should say Mr. Aikin-Payne,
ahem--why, how the dickens should I know, sir? You don't suppose I keep
a genealogical table and full pedigree of all the second cousins of all
my clients hung up conspicuously in some spare corner of my brain, do
you, eh? Upon my soul I really haven't the slightest notion. All I know
about them is that the late Mrs. Amelia Maria Susannah Aikin, deceased,
had one sister, who married somebody or other somewhere, against Mr.
Anthony Aikin's wishes, and that he never had anything further to say to
her at any time. 'But where she's gone and how she fares, nobody knows
and nobody cares,' sir, as the poet justly remarks." I was not previously acquainted with the poet's striking observation on
this matter, but I didn't stop to ask Mr. Blenkinsopp in what author's
work these stirring lines had originally appeared. I was too much
occupied with other thoughts at that moment to pursue my investigations
into their authorship and authenticity. "Upon my word, Blenkinsopp," I
said, "I've really half a mind to shy the thing up and go on with my
schoolmastering." Mr. Blenkinsopp shrugged his shoulders. "Believe me, my dear young
friend," he said sententiously, "twelve hundred a year is not to be
sneezed at. Without inquiring too precisely into the exact state of your
existing finances, I should be inclined to say your present engagement
can't be worth to you more than three hundred a year." I nodded acquiescence. "The exact figure," I murmured. "And your private means are?" "Non-existent," I answered frankly. "Then, my dear sir, excuse such plainness of speech in a man of my
profession; but if you throw it up you will be a perfect fool, sir; a
perfect fool, I assure you." "But perhaps, Blenkinsopp, the next-of-kin won't step in to claim it!" "Doesn't matter a bit, my dear fellow. Executors are bound to satisfy
themselves before paying you over your legacy that you have assumed and
will use the name of Aikin before and in addition to your own name of
Payne, in the manner hereinbefore recited. There's no getting over that
in any way." I sighed aloud. "Twelve hundred a year is certainly very comfortable," I
said. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"But it's a confounded bore that one should have a condition
tacked on to it which will make one a laughing-stock for life to all the
buffoons and idiots of one's acquaintance." Blenkinsopp nodded in modified assent. "After all," he answered, "I
wouldn't mind taking it on the same terms myself." "Well," said I, "_che sara sara_. If it must be, it must be; and you may
put an advertisement into the _Times_ accordingly. Tell the executors
that I accept the condition." II. "I won't stop in town," said I to myself, "to be chaffed by all the
fellows at the club and in the master's room at St. Martin's. I'll run
over on the Continent until the wags (confound them) have forgotten all
about it. I'm a sensitive man, and if there's anything on earth I hate
it's cheap and easy joking and punning on a name or a personal
peculiarity which lays itself open obviously to stupid buffoonery. Of
course I shall chuck up the schoolmastering now;--it's an odious trade
at any time--and I may as well take a pleasant holiday while I'm about
it. Let me see--Nice or Cannes or Florence would be the best thing at
this time of year. Escape the November fogs and January frosts. Let's
make it Cannes, then, and try the first effect of my new name upon the
_corpus vile_ of the Cannois." So I packed up my portmanteau hurriedly, took the 7.45 to Paris, and
that same evening found myself comfortably ensconced in a _wagon lit_,
making my way as fast as the Lyons line would carry me _en route_ for
the blue Mediterranean. The Hôtel du Paradis at Cannes is a very pleasant and well managed
place, where I succeeded in making myself perfectly at home. I gave my
full name to the _concierge_ boldly. "Thank Heaven," I thought,
"Aikin-Payne will sound to her just as good a label to one's back as
Howard or Cholmondely. She won't see the absurdity of the combination." She was a fat Vaudoise Swiss by origin, and she took it without moving a
muscle. But she answered me in very tolerable English--me, who thought
my Parisian accent unimpeachable! "Vary well, sirr, your lettares shall
be sent to your apartments." I saw there was the faintest twinkle of a
smile about the corner of her mouth, and I felt that even she, a mere
foreigner, a Swiss _concierge_, perceived at once the incongruity of
the two surnames. Incongruity! that's the worst of it! Would that they
were incongruous! But it's their fatal and obvious congruity with one
another that makes their juxtaposition so ridiculous. Call a man Payne,
and I venture to say, though I was to the manner born, and it's me that
says it as oughtn't to say it, you couldn't find a neater or more
respectable surname in all England: call him plain Aikin, and though
that perhaps is less aristocratic, it's redeemed by all the associations
of childhood with the earliest literature we imbibed through the
innocuous pages of "Evenings at Home:" but join the two together, in the
order of alphabetical precedence, and you get an Aikin-Payne, which is a
thing to make a sensitive man, compelled to bear it for a lifetime, turn
permanently red like a boiled lobster. My uncle must have done it on
purpose, in order to inflict a deadly blow on what he would doubtless
have called my confounded self-conceit! However, I changed my tourist suit for a black cutaway, and made my way
down to the _salle-à-manger_. The dinner was good in itself, and was
enlivened for me by the presence of an extremely pretty girl of, say
nineteen, who sat just opposite, and whose natural protector I soon
managed to draw casually into a general conversation. I say her natural
protector, because, though I took him at the time for her father, I
discovered afterwards that he was really her uncle. Experience has
taught me that when you sit opposite a pretty girl at an hotel, you
ought not to open fire by directing your observations to herself in
person; you should begin diplomatically by gaining the confidence of her
male relations through the wisdom or the orthodoxy of your political and
social opinions. Mr. Shackleford--that, I found afterwards, was the
uncle's name--happened to be a fiery Tory, while I have the personal
misfortune to be an equally rabid Radical: but on this occasion I
successfully dissembled, acquiescing with vague generality in his
denunciation of my dearest private convictions; and by the end of dinner
we had struck up quite an acquaintance with one another. "Ruby," said the aunt to the pretty girl, as soon as dinner was over,
"shall we take a stroll out in the gardens?" Ruby! what a charming name really. I wonder, now, what is her surname? And what a beautiful graceful figure, as she rises from the table, and
throws her little pale blue Indian silk scarf around her pretty
shoulders! Clearly, Ruby is a person whose acquaintance I ought to
cultivate. "Uncle won't come, of course," said Ruby, with a pleasant smile (what
teeth!). "The evening air would be too much for him. You know," she
added, looking across to me, "almost everybody at Cannes is in the
invalid line, and mustn't stir out after sunset. Aunt and I are
unfashionable enough to be quite strong, and to go in for a stroll by
moonlight." "I happen to be equally out of the Cannes fashion," I said, directing my
observation, with great strategic skill, rather to the aunt than to Miss
Ruby in person; "and if you will allow me I should be very glad to
accompany you." So we turned out on the terrace of the Paradis, and walked among the
date-palms and prickly pears that fill the pretty tropical garden. It
was a lovely moonlight evening in October; and October is still almost a
summer month in the Riviera. The feathery branches of the palms stood
out in clear-cut outline against the pale moonlit sky; the white houses
of Cannes gleamed with that peculiarly soft greenish Mediterranean tint
in the middle distance; and the sea reflected the tremulous shimmer in
the background, between the jagged sierra of the craggy Esterel and the
long low outline of the Ile Ste. Marguerite. Altogether, it was an
ideal poet's evening, the very evening to stroll for the first time with
a beautiful girl through the charmed alleys of a Provençal garden! Ruby Estcourt--she gave me her name before long--was quite as pleasant
to talk to as she was beautiful and graceful to behold. Fortunately, her
aunt was not one of the race of talkative old ladies, and she left the
mass of the conversation entirely to Ruby and myself. In the course of
half an hour or so spent in pacing up and down that lovely terrace, I
had picked out, bit by bit, all that I most wanted to know about Ruby
Estcourt. She was an orphan, without brothers or sisters, and evidently
without any large share of this world's goods; and she lived with her
aunt and uncle, who were childless people, and who usually spent the
summer in Switzerland, retiring to the Riviera every winter for the
benefit of Mr. Shackleford's remaining lung. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Quite simple and unaffected
Ruby seemed, though she had passed most of her lifetime in the
too-knowing atmosphere of Continental hotels, among that cosmopolitan
public which is so very sharp-sighted that it fancies it can see
entirely through such arrant humbug as honour in men and maidenly
reserve in women. Still, from that world Ruby Estcourt had somehow
managed to keep herself quite unspotted; and a simpler, prettier, more
natural little fairy you wouldn't find anywhere in the English villages
of half a dozen counties. It was all so fresh and delightful to me--the palms, the Mediterranean,
the balmy evening air, the gleaming white town, and pretty Ruby
Estcourt--that I walked up and down on the terrace as long as they would
let me; and I was really sorry when good Mrs. Shackleford at last
suggested that it was surely getting time for uncle's game of cribbage. As they turned to go, Ruby said good evening, and then, hesitating for a
moment as to my name, said quite simply and naturally, "Why, you haven't
yet told us who you are, have you?" I coloured a little--happily invisible by moonlight--as I answered,
"That was an omission on my part, certainly. When you told me you were
Miss Estcourt, I ought to have mentioned in return that my own name was
Aikin-Payne, Theodore Aikin-Payne, if you please: may I give you a
card?" "Aching Pain!" Ruby said, with a smile. "Did I hear you right? Aching
Pain, is it? Oh, what a very funny name!" I drew myself up as stiffly as I was able. "Not Aching Pain," I said,
with a doleful misgiving in my heart--it was clear everybody would put
that odd misinterpretation upon it for the rest of my days. "Not Aching
Pain, but Aikin-Payne, Miss Estcourt. A-i-k-i-n, Aikin, the Aikins of
Staffordshire; P-a-y-n-e, Payne, the Paynes of Surrey. My original
surname was Payne, a surname that I venture to say I'm a little proud
of; but my uncle, Mr. Aikin, from whom I inherit property," I thought
that was rather a good way of putting it, "wished me to adopt his family
name in addition to my own--in fact, made it a condition, _sine quâ
non_, of my receiving the property." "Payne--Aikin," Ruby said, turning the names over to herself slowly. "Ah, yes, I see. Excuse my misapprehension, Mr.--Mr. Aikin-Payne. It was
very foolish of me; but really, you know, it _does_ sound so very
ludicrous, doesn't it now?" I bit my lip, and tried to smile back again. Absurd that a man should be
made miserable about such a trifle; and yet I will freely confess that
at that moment, in spite of my uncle's twelve hundred a year, I felt
utterly wretched. I bowed to pretty little Ruby as well as I was able,
and took a couple more turns by myself hurriedly around the terrace. Was it only fancy, or did I really detect, as Ruby Estcourt said the two
names over to herself just now, that she seemed to find the combination
a familiar one? I really didn't feel sure about it; but it certainly
did sound as if she had once known something about the Paynes or the
Aikins. Ah, well! there are lots of Paynes and Aikins in the world, no
doubt; but alas! there is only one of them doomed to go through life
with the absurd label of an Aikin-Payne fastened upon his unwilling
shoulders. III. "Good morning, Mr.--Mr. Aikin-Payne," said Ruby Estcourt, stumbling
timidly over the name, as we met in the _salle-à-manger_ at breakfast
next day. "I hope you don't feel any the worse for the chilly air last
evening." I bowed slightly. "You seem to have some difficulty in remembering my
full name, Miss Estcourt," I said suggestively. "Suppose you call me
simply Mr. Payne. I've been accustomed to it till quite lately, and to
tell you the truth, I don't altogether relish the new addition." "I should think not, indeed," Ruby answered frankly. "I never heard such
a ridiculous combination in all my life before. I'm sure your uncle must
have been a perfect old bear to impose it upon you." "It was certainly rather cruel of him," I replied, as carelessly as I
could, "or at least rather thoughtless. I dare say, though, the
absurdity of the two names put together never struck him. What are you
going to do with yourselves to-day, Mr. Shackleford? Everybody at Cannes
has nothing to do but to amuse themselves, I suppose?" Mr. Shackleford answered that they were going to drive over in the
morning to Vallauris, and that if I cared to share a carriage with them,
he would be happy to let me accompany his party. Nothing could have
suited my book better. I was alone, I wanted society and amusement, and
I had never seen a prettier girl than Ruby Estcourt. Here was the very
thing I needed, ready cut out to my hand by propitious fortune. I found
out as time went on that Mr. Shackleford, being a person of limited
income, and a bad walker, had only one desire in life, which was to get
somebody else to pay half his carriage fares for him by arrangement. We
went to a great many places together, and he always divided the expenses
equally between us, although I ought only to have paid a quarter, as his
party consisted of three people, while I was one solitary bachelor. This
apparent anomaly he got over on the ingenious ground that if I had taken
a carriage by myself it would have cost me just twice as much. However,
as I was already decidedly anxious for pretty little Ruby Estcourt's
society, this question of financial detail did not weigh heavily upon
me. Besides, a man who has just come into twelve hundred a year can
afford to be generous in the matter of hackney carriages. We had a delightful drive along the shore of that beautiful blue gulf to
Vallauris, and another delightful drive back again over the hills to the
Paradis. True, old Mr. Shackleford proved rather a bore through his
anxiety to instruct me in the history and technical nature of keramic
ware in general, and of the Vallauris pottery in particular, when I
wanted rather to be admiring the glimpses of Bordighera and the Cap St.
Martin and the snow-clad summits of the Maritime Alps with Ruby
Estcourt. But in spite of all drawbacks--and old Mr. Shackleford with
his universal information really _was_ a serious drawback--I thoroughly
enjoyed that first morning by the lovely Mediterranean. Ruby herself was
absolutely charming. Such a light, bright, fairy-like little person,
moving among the priceless vases and tazzas at Clément Massier's as if
she were an embodied zephyr, too gentle even to knock them over with a
whiff of her little Rampoor shawl--but there, I can't describe her, and
I won't attempt it. Ruby, looking over my shoulder at this moment, says
I always was an old stupid: so that, you see, closes the question. An old stupid I certainly was for the next fortnight. Old Mr.
Shackleford, only too glad to have got hold of a willing victim in the
carriage-sharing fraud, dragged me about the country to every available
point of view or object of curiosity within ten miles of the Square
Brougham. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Ruby usually accompanied us; and as the two old people
naturally occupied the seat of honour at the back of the carriage, why,
of course Ruby and I had to sit together with our backs to the horses--a
mode of progression which I had never before known to be so agreeable. Every evening, Ruby and I walked out on the terrace in the moonlight;
and I need hardly say that the moon, in spite of her pretended coldness,
is really the most romantic and sentimental satellite in the whole solar
system. To cut a long story short, by the end of the fortnight I was
very distinctly in love with Ruby; and if you won't think the avowal a
conceited one, I venture to judge by the sequel that Ruby was almost
equally in love with me. One afternoon, towards the close of my second week at Cannes, Ruby and I
were sitting together on the retired seat in the grounds beside the pond
with the goldfish. It was a delicious sunny afternoon, with the last
touch of southern summer in the air, and Ruby was looking even prettier
than usual, in her brocade pattern print dress, and her little straw hat
with the scarlet poppies. (Ruby always dressed--I may say dresses--in
the very simplest yet most charming fashion). There was something in the
time and place that moved me to make a confession I had for some time
been meditating; so I looked straight in her face, and not being given
to long speeches, I said to her just this, "Ruby, you are the sweetest
girl I ever saw in my life. Will you marry me?" Ruby only looked at me with a face full of merriment, and burst out
laughing. "Why, Mr. Payne," she said (she had dropped that hideous
prefix long ago), "you've hardly known me yet a fortnight, and here you
come to me with a regular declaration. How can I have had time to think
about my answer to such a point-blank question?" "If you like, Ruby," I answered, "we can leave it open for a little; but
it occurs to me you might as well say 'yes' at once: for if we leave it
open, common sense teaches me that you probably mean to say yes in the
long-run." And to clench the matter outright, I thought it best to stoop
across and kiss Ruby just once, by way of earnest. Ruby took the kiss
calmly and sedately; so then I knew the matter was practically settled. "But there's one thing, Mr. Payne, I must really insist upon," Ruby said
very quietly; "and that is that I mustn't be called Mrs. Aikin-Payne. If
I marry you at all, I must marry you as plain Mr. Payne without any
Aikin. So that's clearly understood between us." Here was a terrible condition indeed! I reasoned with Ruby, I explained
to Ruby, I told Ruby that if she positively insisted upon it I must go
back to my three hundred a year and my paltry schoolmastership, and must
give up my uncle Aikin's money. Ruby would hear of no refusal. "You have always the alternative of marrying somebody else, you know,
Mr. Payne," she said with her most provoking and bewitching smile; "but
if you really do want to marry me, you know the conditions." "But, Ruby, you would never care to live upon a miserable pittance of
three hundred a year! I hate the name as much as you do, but I think I
should try to bear it for the sake of twelve hundred a year and perfect
comfort." No, Ruby was inexorable. "Take me or leave me," she said with provoking
calmness, "but if you take me, give up your uncle's ridiculous
suggestion. You can have three days to make your mind up. Till then, let
us hear no more about the subject." IV. During those three days I kept up a brisk fire of telegrams with old
Blenkinsopp in Chancery Lane; and at the end of them I came mournfully
to the conclusion that I must either give up Ruby or give up the twelve
hundred a year. If I had been a hero of romance I should have had no
difficulty at all in deciding the matter: I would have nobly refused the
money off-hand, counting it as mere dross compared with the loving heart
of a beautiful maiden. But unfortunately I am not a hero of romance; I
am only an ordinary graduate of an English university. Under these
circumstances, it did seem to me very hard that I must throw away twelve
hundred a year for a mere sentimental fancy. And yet, on the other hand,
not only did I hate the name myself, but I couldn't bear to impose it on
Ruby; and as to telling Ruby that I wouldn't have her, because I
preferred the money, that was clearly quite impossible. The more I
looked the thing in the face, the more certain it appeared that I must
relinquish my dream of wealth and go back (with Ruby) to my
schoolmastering and my paltry three hundred. After all, lots of other
fellows marry on that sum; and to say the truth, I positively shrank
myself from going through life under the ridiculous guise of an
Aikin-Payne. The upshot of it all was that at the end of the three days, I took Ruby
a little walk alone among the olive gardens behind the shrubbery. "Ruby," I said to her, falteringly, "you're the most fantastic,
self-willed, imperious little person I ever met with, and I want to make
just one more appeal to you. Won't you reconsider your decision, and
take me in spite of the surname?" Ruby grubbed up a little weed with the point of her parasol, and looked
away from me steadfastly as she answered with her immovable and annoying
calmness, "No, Mr. Payne, I really can't reconsider the matter in any
way. It was you who took three days to make your mind up. Have you made
it up yet or not, pray?" "I _have_ made it up, Ruby." "And you mean----?" she said interrogatively, with a faint little tremor
in her voice which I had never before noticed, and which thrilled
through me with the ecstasy of a first discovery. "And I mean," I answered, "to marry you, Ruby, if you will condescend to
take me, and let my Uncle Aikin's money go to Halifax. Can you manage,
Ruby, to be happy, as a poor schoolmaster's wife in a very tiny
cottage?" To my joy and surprise, Ruby suddenly seized both my hands in hers,
kissed me twice of her own accord, and began to cry as if nothing could
stop her. "Then you do really and truly love me," she said through her
tears, holding fast to my hands all the time; "then you're really
willing to make this great sacrifice for me!" "Ruby," I said, "my darling, don't excite yourself so. And indeed it
isn't a very great sacrifice either, for I hate the name so much I
hardly know whether I could ever have endured to bear it." "You shan't bear it," Ruby cried, eagerly, now laughing and clapping her
hands above me. "You shan't bear it, and yet you shall have your Uncle
Aikin's money all the same for all that." "Why, what on earth do you mean, Ruby?" I asked in amazement. "Surely,
my darling, you can't understand how strict the terms of the will
actually are. I'm afraid you have been deluding yourself into a belief
in some impossible compromise. But you must make your mind up to one
thing at once, that unless I call myself Aikin-Payne, you'll have to
live the rest of your life as a poor schoolmaster's wife. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
The
next-of-kin will be sharp enough in coming down upon the money." Ruby looked at me and laughed and clapped her hands again. "But what
would you say, Mr. Payne," she said with a smile that dried up all her
tears, "what would you say if you heard that the next-of-kin was--who do
you think?--why me, sir, me, Ruby Estcourt?" I could hardly believe my ears. "You, Ruby?" I cried in my astonishment. "You! How do you know? Are you really sure of it?" Ruby put a lawyer's letter into my hand, signed by a famous firm in the
city. "Read that," she said simply. I read it through, and saw in a
moment that what Ruby said was the plain truth of it. "So you want to do your future husband out of the twelve hundred a
year!" I said, smiling and kissing her. "No," Ruby answered, as she pressed my hand gently. "It shall be settled
on you, since I know you were ready to give it up for my sake. And there
shall be no more Aikin-Paynes henceforth and for ever." There was never a prettier or more blushing bride than dear little Ruby
that day six weeks. _THE TWO CARNEGIES._
I. "Harold," said Ernest Carnegie to his twin-brother at breakfast one
morning, "have you got a tooth aching slightly to-day?" "Yes, by Jove, I have!" Harold answered, laying down the _Times_, and
looking across the table with interest to his brother; "which one was
yours?" "The third from the canine on the upper left side," Ernest replied
quickly. "And yours?" "Let me see. This is the canine, isn't it? One, two, three; yes. The
same, of course. It's really a very singular coincidence. How about the
time? Was that as usual?" "I'll tell you in a minute. Mine came on the day of the Guthries' hop. I
was down at Brighton that morning. What date? Let me think; why, the
9th, I'm certain. To-day's what, mother?" "The 23rd," said Harold, glancing for confirmation at the paper. "The
law works itself out once more as regularly as if by machinery. I'm just
a fortnight later than you, Ernest, as always." Ernest drummed upon the table with his finger for a minute. "I'm afraid
you'll have it rather badly to-day, Harold," he said, after a pause. "Mine got unbearable towards midday, and if I hadn't had it looked to
in the afternoon, I couldn't have danced a single dance to save my life
that evening. I advise you to go round to the dentist's immediately, and
try to get it stopped before it goes any further." Harold finished his cup of coffee, and looked out of the window blankly
at the fog outside. "It's an awful thought," he said at last, "this
living, as we two do, by clockwork! Everybody else lives exactly the
same way, but they don't have their attention called to it, as we do. Just to think that from the day you and I were born, Ernest, it was
written in the very fabric of our constitutions that when we were
twenty-three years and five months old, the third molar in our upper
left jaws should begin to fail us! It's really appalling in its
unanswerable physical fatalism, when ones comes to think upon it." "So I said to myself at the Guthries', the morning it began to give me a
twinge," said Ernest, in the self-same tone. "It seemed to me such a
terrible idea that in a fortnight's time, as certain as the sun, the
very same tooth in your head would begin to go, as the one that was
going in mine. It's too appalling, really." "But do you actually mean to say," asked pretty little Nellie Holt, the
visitor, newly come the day before from Cheshire, "that whenever one of
you gets a toothache, the other one gets a toothache in the same tooth a
fortnight later?" "Not a toothache only," Ernest answered--he was studying for his degree
as a physician, and took this department upon himself as by right--"but
every other disease or ailment whatsoever. We're like two clocks wound
up to strike at fixed moments; only, we're not wound up to strike
exactly together. I'm fourteen days in advance of Harold, so to speak,
and whatever happens to me to-day will happen to him, in all
probability, exactly a fortnight later." "How very extraordinary!" said Nellie, looking quickly, from one
handsome clear-cut face to its exact counterpart in the other. "And yet
not so extraordinary, after all,--when one comes to think how very much
alike you both are." "Ah, that's not all," said Ernest, slowly; "it's something that goes a
good deal deeper than that, Miss Holt. Consider that every one of us is
born with a certain fixed and recognizable constitution, which we
inherit from our fathers and mothers. In us, from our birth upward, are
the seeds of certain diseases, the possibilities of certain actions and
achievements. One man is born with hereditary consumption; another man
with hereditary scrofula; a third with hereditary genius or hereditary
drunkenness, each equally innate in the very threads and strands of his
system. And it's all bound to come out, sooner or later, in its own due
and appointed time. Here's a fellow whose father had gout at forty: he's
born with such a constitution that, as the hands on his life-dial reach
forty, out comes the gout in his feet, wherever he may be, as certain as
fate. It's horrible to think of, but it's the truth, and there's no good
in disguising it." Nellie Holt shuddered slightly. "What a dreadful materialistic creed,
Mr. Carnegie," she said, looking at him with a half-frightened air. "It's almost as bad as Mohammedan fatalism." "No, not so bad as that," Ernest Carnegie answered; "not nearly so bad
as that. The Oriental belief holds that powers above you compel your
life against your will: we modern scientific thinkers only hold that
your own inborn constitution determines your whole life for you, will
included. But whether we like it or dislike it, Miss Holt, there are the
facts, and nobody can deny them. If you'd lived with a twin-sister, as
Harold and I have lived together for twenty-three years, you'd see that
the clocks go as they are set, with fixed and predestined regularity. Twins, you know, are almost exactly alike in all things, and in the
absolute coincidence of their constitutions you can see the inexorable
march of disease, and the inexorable unfolding of the predetermined
life-history far better than in any other conceivable case. I'm a
scientific man myself, you see, and I have such an opportunity of
watching it all as no other man ever yet had before me." "My dear," said Mrs. Carnegie, the mother, from the head of the table,
"you've no idea how curiously their two lives have always resembled one
other. When they were babies, they were so much alike that we had to tie
red and blue ribbons round their necks to distinguish them. Ernest was
red and Harold blue--no, Ernest was blue and Harold red: at least, I'm
not quite certain which way it was, but I know we have a note of it in
the family Bible, for Mr. Carnegie made it at the time for fear we
should get confused between them when we were bathing them. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
So we put
the ribbons on the moment they were christened, and never took them both
off together for a second, even to bathe them, so as to prevent
accidents. Well, do you know, dear, from the time they were babies, they
were always alike in everything; but Ernest was always a fortnight
before Harold. He said "Mamma" one day, and just a fortnight later
Harold said the very same word. Then Ernest said "sugar," and so did
Harold in another fortnight. Ernest began to toddle a fortnight the
earliest. They took the whooping cough and the measles in the same
order; and they cut all their teeth so, too, the same teeth first on
each side, and just at a fortnight's distance from one another. It's
really quite an extraordinary coincidence." "The real difficulty would be," said Harold, "to find anything in which
we didn't exactly resemble one another. Well, now I must be off to this
horrid office with the Pater. Are you ready, Pater? I'll call in at
Estwood's in the course of the morning, Ernest, and tell him to look
after my teeth. I don't want to miss the Balfours' party this evening. Curious that we should be going to a party this evening too. _That_
isn't fated in our constitutions, anyhow, is it, Ernest? Good morning,
Miss Holt; the first waltz, remember. Come along, Pater." And he went
out, followed immediately by his father. "I must be going too," said Ernest, looking at his watch; "I have an
appointment with Dowson at Guy's at half-past ten--a very interesting
case: hereditary cataract; three brothers, all of them get it, each as
he reaches twelve years old, and Dowson has performed the operation on
two, and is going to perform it on the other this very day. Good
morning, Miss Holt; the second waltz for me; you won't forget, will
you?" "How awfully alike they really are, Mrs. Carnegie," said Nellie, as they
were left alone. "I'm sure I shall never be able to tell them apart. I
don't even know their names yet. The one that has just gone out, the one
that's going to be a doctor--that's Mr. Harold, isn't it?" "Oh no, dear," Mrs. Carnegie answered, putting her arm round Nellie's
waist affectionately, "that's Ernest. Harold's the lawyer. You'll soon
learn the difference between them. You can tell Ernest easily, because
he usually wears a horrid thing for a scarf-pin, an ivory skull and
cross-bones: he wears it, he says, just to distinguish him
professionally from Harold. Indeed, that was partly why Mr. Carnegie was
so anxious that Harold should go into his own office; so as to make a
distinction of profession between them. If Harold had followed his own
bent, he would have been a doctor too; they're both full of what they
call physiological ideas--dreadful things, I think them. But Mr.
Carnegie thought as they were so very much alike already we ought to do
something to give them some individuality, as he says: for if they were
both to be doctors or both solicitors, you know, there'd really be no
knowing them apart, even for ourselves; and I assure you, my dear, as
it is now even they're exactly like one person." "Are they as alike in character, then, as they are in face?" asked
Nellie. "Alike in character! My dear, they're absolutely identical. Whatever the
one thinks, or says, or does, the other thinks, says, and does at the
same time, independently. Why, once Ernest went over to Paris for a
week's holiday, while Harold went on some law business of his father's
to Brussels. Would you believe it, when they came back they'd each got a
present for the other. Ernest had seen a particular Indian silver
cigar-case in a shop on the Boulevards, and he brought it home as a
surprise for Harold. Well, Harold had bought an exactly similar one in
the Montagne de la Cour, and brought it home as a surprise for Ernest. And what was odder still, each of them had had the other's initials
engraved upon the back in some sort of heathenish Oriental characters." "How very queer," said Nellie. "And yet they seem very fond of one
another. As a rule, one's always told that people who are exactly alike
in character somehow don't get on together." "My dear child, they're absolutely inseparable. Their devotion to one
another's quite unlimited. You see they've been brought up together,
played together, sympathized with one another in all their troubles and
ailments, and are sure of a response from each other about everything. It was the greatest trouble of their lives when Mr. Carnegie decided
that Harold must become a solicitor for the sake of the practice. They
couldn't bear at first to be separated all day; and when they got home
in the evening, Ernest from the hospital and Harold from the office,
they met almost like a pair of lovers. They've talked together about
their work so much that Harold knows almost as much medicine now as
Ernest, while Ernest's quite at home, his father declares, in 'Benjamin
on Sales,' and 'Chitty on Contract.' It's quite delightful to see how
fond they are of one another." At five o'clock Ernest Carnegie returned from his hospital. He brought
two little bunches of flowers with him--some lilies of the valley and a
carnation--and he handed them with a smile, one to his sister and one to
pretty little Nellie. "I thought you'd like them for this evening, Miss
Holt," he said. "I chose a carnation on purpose, because I fancied it
would suit your hair." "Oh, Ernest," said his sister, "you ought to have got a red camelia. That's the proper thing for a brunette like Nellie." "Nonsense, Edie," Ernest answered, "I hate camelias. Ugliest flowers
out: so stiff and artificial. One might as well wear a starchy gauze
thing from the milliner's." "I'm so glad you brought Nellie Holt a flower. She's a sweet girl,
Ernest, isn't she?" said Mrs. Carnegie a minute or two later, as Edie
and Nelly ran upstairs. "I wish either of you two boys could take a
fancy to a nice girl like her, now." "My dear mother," Ernest answered, turning up his eyes appealingly. "A
little empty-headed, pink-and-white thing like that! I don't know what
Harold thinks, but she'd never do for me, at any rate. Very pretty to
look at, very timid to talk to, very nice and shrinking, and all that
kind of thing, I grant you; but nothing in her. Whenever I marry, I
shall marry a real live woman, not a dainty piece of delicate empty
drapery." At six o'clock, Mr. Carnegie and Harold came in from the office. Harold
carried in his hand two little button-hole bouquets, of a few white
lilies and a carnation. "Miss Holt," he said, as he entered the
drawing-room, "I've brought you and Edie a flower to wear at the
Balfours' this evening. This is for you, Edie, with the pale pink; the
dark will suit Miss Holt's hair best." Edie looked at Ernest, and smiled significantly. "Why didn't you get us
camelias, Harold?" she asked, with a faint touch of mischief in her
tone. "Camelias! My dear girl, what a question! I gave Miss Holt credit for
better taste than liking camelias. Beastly things, as stiff and
conventional as dahlias or sunflowers. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
You might just as well have a wax
rose from an artificial flower-maker while you are about it." Edie laughed and looked at Nellie. "See here," she said, taking up
Ernest's bunches from the little specimen vases where she had put them
to keep them fresh in water, "somebody else has thought of the flowers
already." Harold laughed, too, a little uneasily. "Aha," he said, "I see Ernest
has been beforehand with me as usual. I'm always a day too late. It
seems to me I'm the Esau of this duet, and Ernest's the Jacob. Well,
Miss Holt, you must take the will for the deed; and after all, one will
do for your dress and the other for your hair, won't they?" "Harold," said his father, as they went upstairs together to dress for
dinner, "Nellie Holt's a very nice girl, and I've reason to believe--you
know I don't judge these matters without documentary evidence--I have
reason to believe that she'll come into the greater part of old Stanley
Holt's money. She's his favourite niece, and she benefits largely, as I
happen to know, under his will. _Verbum sap._, my dear boy; she's a
pretty girl, and has sweet manners. In my opinion, she'd make----"
"My dear Pater," Harold exclaimed, interrupting him, "for Heaven's sake
don't say so. Pretty enough, I grant you; and no doubt old Stanley
Holt's money would be a very nice thing in its way; but just seriously
consider now, if you were a young man yourself, what on earth could you
see in Nellie Holt to attract your love or admiration? Why, she shrinks
and blushes every time she speaks to you. No, no, whenever I marry I
should like to marry a girl of some presence and some character." "Well, well," said his father, pausing a second at his bedroom door,
"perhaps if she don't suit you, Harold, she'll suit Ernest." "I should have thought, Pater, you knew us two better than that by this
time." "But, my dear Harold, you can't both marry the same woman!" "No, we can't, Pater, but it's my opinion we shall both fall unanimously
in love with her, at any rate, whenever we happen to see her." II. The Balfours were very rich people--city people; "something in the
stockbroking or bankruptcy line, I believe," Ernest Carnegie told Nelly
Holt succinctly as they drove round in the brougham with his sister; and
their dance was of the finest modern moneyed fashion. "Positively reeks
with Peruvian bonds and Deferred Egyptians, doesn't it?" said Harold, as
they went up the big open staircase and through the choice exotic
flowers on the landing. "Old Balfour has so much money, they say, that
if he tries his hardest he can't spend his day's income in the
twenty-four hours. He had a good hard try at it once. Prince of Wales or
somebody came to a concert for some sort of public purpose--hospital, or
something--and old B. got the whole thing up on the tallest possible
scale of expenditure. Spent a week in preparation. Had in dozens of
powdered footmen; ordered palms and orange-trees in boxes from Nice;
hung electric lights all over the drawing-room; offered Pattalini and
Goldoni three times as much for their services as the total receipts for
the charity were worth; and at the end of it all he called in a crack
accountant to reckon up the cost of the entertainment. Well, he found,
with all his efforts, he'd positively lived fifty pounds within his
week's income. Extraordinary, isn't it?" "Very extraordinary indeed," said Nellie, "if it's quite true, you
know." "You owe me the first waltz," Harold said, without noticing the
reservation. "Don't forget it, please, Miss Holt." "I say, Balfour," Ernest Carnegie observed to the son of the house,
shortly after they had entered the ballroom, "who's that beautiful tall
dark girl over there? No, not the pink one, that other girl behind her
in the deep red satin." "She? oh, she's nothing in particular," Harry Balfour answered
carelessly (the girl in pink was worth eighty thousand, and her figure
cast into the shade all her neighbours in Harry Balfour's arithmetical
eyes). "Her name's Walters, Isabel Walters, daughter of a lawyer
fellow--no offence meant to your profession, Carnegie. Let me see: you
_are_ the lawyer, aren't you? No knowing you two fellows apart, you
know, especially when you've got white ties on." "No, I'm not the lawyer fellow," Ernest answered quietly; "I'm the
doctor fellow. But it doesn't at all matter; we're used to it. Would you
mind introducing me to Miss Walters?" "Certainly not. Come along. I believe she's a very nice girl in her way,
you know, and dances capitally; but not exactly in our set, you see; not
exactly in our set." "I should have guessed as much to look at her," Ernest answered, with a
faint undertone of sarcasm in his voice that was quite thrown away upon
Harry Balfour. And he walked across the room after his host to ask
Isabel Walters for the first waltz. "Tall," he thought to himself as he looked at her: "dark, fine face,
beautiful figure, large eyes; makes her own dresses; strange sort of
person to meet at the Balfours' dances." Isabel Walters danced admirably. Isabel Walters talked cleverly. Isabel
Walters had a character and an individuality of her own. In five minutes
she had told Ernest Carnegie that she was the Poor Relation, and in that
quality she was asked once yearly to one of the Balfours' Less
Distinguished dances. "This is a Less Distinguished," she said quickly;
"but I suppose you go to the More Distinguished too?" "On the contrary," Ernest answered, laughing; "though I didn't know the
nature of the difference before, I've no doubt that I have to thank the
fact of my being Less Distinguished myself for the pleasure of meeting
you here this evening." Isabel smiled quietly. "It's a family distinction only," she said. "Of
course the Balfours wouldn't like the people they ask to know it. But we
always notice the difference ourselves. My mother, you know, was the
first Mrs. Balfour's half-sister. But in those days, I need hardly tell
you, Mr. Balfour hadn't begun to do great things in Grand Trunk
Preferences. Do you know anything about Grand Trunk Preferences?" "Absolutely nothing," Ernest replied. "But, to come down to a more
practical question: Are you engaged for the next Lancers?" "A square dance. Oh, why a square dance? I hate square dances." "I like them," said Ernest. "You can talk better." "And yet you waltz capitally. As a rule, I notice the men who like
square dances are the sticks who can't waltz without upsetting one. No,
I'm not engaged for the next Lancers. Yes, with pleasure." Ernest went off to claim little Nellie Holt from his brother. "By Jove, Ernest," Harold said, as he met him again a little later in
the evening, "that's a lovely girl you were dancing with just now. Who
is she?" "A Miss Walters," Ernest answered drily. "I'll go and get introduced to her," Harold went on, looking at his
brother with a searching glance. "She's the finest girl in the room, and
I should like to dance with her." "You think so?" said Ernest. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
And he turned away a little coldly to join
a group of loungers by the doorway. "This is not _our_ Lancers yet, Mr. Carnegie," Isabel said, as Harold
stalked up to her with her cousin by his side. "Ours is number seven." "I'm not the same Mr. Carnegie," Harold said, smiling, "though I see I
need no introduction now. I'm number seven's brother, and I've come to
ask whether I may have the pleasure of dancing number six with you." Isabel looked up at him in doubt. "You are joking, surely," she said. "You danced with me just now, the first waltz." "You see my brother over by the door," Harold answered. "But we're quite
accustomed to be taken for one another. Pray don't apologize; we're used
to it." Before the end of the evening Isabel Walters had danced three times with
Ernest Carnegie, and twice with Harold. Before the end of the evening,
too, Ernest and Harold were both at once deeply in love with her. She
was not perhaps what most men would call a lovable girl; but she was
handsome, clever, dashing, and decidedly original. Now, to both the
Carnegies alike, there was no quality in a woman so admirable as
individuality. Perhaps it was their own absolute identity of tastes and
emotions that made them prize the possession of a distinct personality
by others so highly; but in any case, there was no denying the fact that
they were both head over ears in love with Isabel Walters. "She's a splendid girl, Edie," said Harold, as he went down with his
sister to the cab in which he was to take her home; "a splendid girl;
just the sort of girl I should like to marry." "Not so nice by half as Nellie Holt," said Edie simply. "But there,
brothers never do marry the girls their sisters want them to." "Very unreasonable of the brothers, no doubt," Harold replied, with a
slight curl of his lip: "but possibly explicable upon the ground that a
man prefers choosing a wife who'll suit himself to choosing one who'll
suit his sisters." "Mother," said Ernest, as he took her down to the brougham, with little
Nellie Holt on his other arm, "that's a splendid girl, that Isabel
Walters. I haven't met such a nice girl as that for a long time." "I know a great many nicer," his mother answered, glancing half
unconsciously towards Nellie, "but boys never do marry as their parents
would wish them." "They do not, mother dear," said Ernest quietly. "It's a strange fact,
but I dare say it's partly dependent upon the general principle that a
man is more anxious to live happily with his own wife than to provide a
model daughter-in-law for his father and mother." "Isabel," Mrs. Walters said to her daughter, as they took their seats in
the cab that was waiting for them at the door, "what on earth did you
mean by dancing five times in one evening with that young man with the
light moustache? And who on earth is he, tell me?" "He's two people, mamma," Isabel answered seriously; "and I danced three
times with one of him, and twice with the other, I believe; at least so
he told me. His name's Carnegie, and half of him's called Ernest and the
other half Harold, though which I danced with which time I'm sure I
can't tell you. He's a pair of twins, in fact, one a doctor and one a
lawyer; and he talks just the same sort of talk in either case, and is
an extremely nice young man altogether. I really like him immensely." "Carnegie!" said Mrs. Walters, turning the name over carefully. "Two
young Carnegies! How very remarkable! I remember somebody was speaking
to me about them, and saying they were absolutely indistinguishable. Not sons of Mr. Carnegie, your uncle's solicitor, are they?" "Yes; so Harry Balfour told me." "Then, Isabel, they're very well off, I understand. I hope people won't
think you danced five times in the evening with only one of them. They
ought to wear some distinctive coat or something to prevent
misapprehensions. Which do you like best, the lawyer or the doctor?" "I like them both exactly the same, mamma. There isn't any difference at
all between them, to like one of them better than the other for. They
both seem very pleasant and very clever. And as I haven't yet discovered
which is which, and didn't know from one time to another which I was
dancing with, I can't possibly tell you which I prefer of two
identicals. And as to coats, mamma, you know you couldn't expect one of
them to wear a grey tweed suit in a ballroom, just to show he isn't the
other one." In the passage at the Carnegies', Ernest and Harold stopped one moment,
candle in hand, to compare notes with one another before turning into
their bedrooms. There was an odd constraint about their manner to each
other that they had never felt before during their twenty-three years of
life together. "Well?" said Ernest, inquiringly, looking in a hesitating way at his
brother. "Well?" Harold echoed, in the same tone. "What did you think of it all, Harold?" "I think, Ernest, I shall propose to Miss Walters." There was a moment's silence, and a black look gathered slowly on Ernest
Carnegie's brow. Then he said very deliberately, "You are in a great
hurry coming to conclusions, Harold. You've seen very little of her yet;
and remember, it was I who first discovered her!" Harold glanced at him angrily and half contemptuously. "_You_ discovered her first!" he said. "Yes, and you are always
beforehand with me; but you shall not be beforehand with me this time. I
shall propose to her at once, to prevent your anticipating me. So now
you know my intentions plainly, and you can govern yourself
accordingly." Ernest looked back at him with a long look from head to foot. "It is war then," he said, "Harold; war, you will have it? We are
rivals?" "Yes, rivals," Harold answered; "and war to the knife if so you wish
it." "War?" "War!" "Good night, Harold." "Good night, Ernest." And they turned in to their bedrooms, in anger with one another, for the
first time since they had quarrelled in boyish fashion over tops and
marbles years ago together. III. That night the two Carnegies slept very little. They were both in love,
very seriously in love; and anybody who has ever been in the same
condition must have noticed that the symptoms, which may have been very
moderate or undecided during the course of the evening, become rapidly
more pronounced and violent as you lie awake in the solitude of your
chamber through the night watches. But more than that, they had both
begun to feel simultaneously the stab of jealousy. Each of them had been
very much taken indeed by Isabel Walters; still, if they had seen no
chance of a rival looming in the distance, they might have been content
to wait a little, to see a little more of her, to make quite sure of
their own affection before plunging headlong into a declaration. After
all, it's very absurd to ask a girl to be your companion for life on the
strength of an acquaintanceship which has extended over the time
occupied by three dances in a single evening. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
But then, thought each,
there was the chance of Ernest's proposing to her, or of Harold's
proposing to her, before I do. That idea made precipitancy positively
imperative; and by the next morning each of the young men had fully made
up his mind to take the first opportunity of asking Isabella Walters to
be his wife. Breakfast passed off very silently, neither of the twins speaking much
to one another; but nobody noticed their reticence much; for the morning
after the occasional orgy or dance is apt to prove a very limp affair
indeed in professional homes, where dances are not of nightly
occurrence. After breakfast, Harold went off quickly to the office, and
Ernest, having bespoken a holiday at the hospital, joined his sister and
Nellie Holt in the library. "Do you know, Ernest," Edie said to him, mindful of her last night's
conversation with her other brother, "I really believe Harold has fallen
desperately in love at first sight with that tall Miss Walters." "I can easily believe it," Ernest answered testily; "she's very handsome
and very clever." Edie raised her eyebrows a little. "But it's awfully foolish, Ernest, to
fall in love blindfold in that way, isn't it now?" she said, with a
searching look at her brother. "He can't possibly know what sort of a
girl she really is from half an hour's conversation in a ballroom." "For my part, I don't at all agree with you, Edie," said Ernest, in his
coldest manner. "I don't believe there's any right way of falling in
love except at first sight. If a girl is going to please you, she ought
to please you instantaneously and instinctively; at least, so I think. It isn't a thing to be thought about and reasoned about, but a thing to
be felt and apprehended intuitively. I couldn't reason myself into
marrying a girl, and what's more, I don't want to." He sat down to the table, took out a sheet or two of initialed
notepaper, and began writing a couple of letters. One of them, which he
marked "Private" in the corner, ran as follows:--
"MY DEAR MISS WALTERS,
"Perhaps you will think it very odd of me to venture upon writing
to you on the strength of such a very brief and casual acquaintance
as that begun last night; but I have a particular reason for doing
so, which I think I can justify to you when I see you. You
mentioned to me that you were asked to the Montagus' steam-launch
expedition up the river from Surbiton to-morrow; but I understood
you to say you did not intend to accept the invitation. I write now
to beg of you to be there, as I am going, and I am particularly
anxious to meet you and have a little conversation with you on a
subject of importance. I know you are not a very conventional
person, and therefore I think you will excuse me for asking this
favour of you. Please don't take the trouble to write in reply; but
answer by going to the Montagus', and I shall then be able to
explain this very queer letter. In haste,
"Yours very truly,
"ERNEST CARNEGIE." He read this note two or three times over to himself, looking not very
well satisfied with its contents; and then at last, with the air of a
man who determines to plunge and stake all upon a single venture, he
folded it up and put it in its envelope. "It'll mystify her a little, no
doubt," he thought to himself; "and being a woman, she'll be naturally
anxious to unravel the mystery. But of course she'll know I mean to make
her an offer, and perhaps she'll think me a perfect idiot for not doing
it outright, instead of beating about the bush in this incomprehensible
fashion. However, it's too cold-blooded, proposing to a girl on paper; I
very much prefer the _vivâ voce_ system. It's only till to-morrow; and I
doubt if Harold will manage to be beforehand with me in that time. He'll
be deep in business all morning, and have no leisure to think about her. Anyhow, all's fair in love and war; he said it should be war; and I'll
try to steal a march upon him, for all his lawyer's quibbles and
quiddits." He took another sheet from his blotting-book, and wrote a second note,
much more rapidly than the first one. It ran after this fashion--
"DEAR MRS. MONTAGU,--
"Will you think it very rude of me if I ask you to let me be one of
your party on your expedition up the river to-morrow? I heard of it
from your son Algernon last night at the Balfours', and I happen to
be _very_ anxious to meet one of the ladies you have invited. Now,
I know you're kindness itself to all your young friends in all
these little matters, and I'm sure you won't be angry with me for
so coolly inviting myself. If I hadn't felt perfect confidence in
your invariable goodness, I wouldn't have ventured to do so. Please
don't answer unless you've no room for me, but expect me to turn up
at half-past two. "Yours very sincerely,
"ERNEST CARNEGIE. "P.S.--We might call at Lady Portlebury's lawn, and look over the
conservatories." "Now, that's bold, but judicious," Ernest said to himself, admiringly,
as he held the letter at arm's-length, after blotting it. "She might
have been angry at my inviting myself, though I don't think she would
be; but I'm sure she'll be only too delighted if I offer to take her
guests over Aunt Portlebury's conservatories. The postscript's a stroke
of genius. What a fuss these people will make, even over the widow of a
stupid old cavalry officer, because her husband happens to have been
knighted. It's all the better that she's a widow, indeed. The delicious
vagueness of the title 'Lady' is certainly one of its chief
recommendations. Sir Antony being out of the way, Mrs. Montagu's guests
can't really tell but that poor dear old Aunt Portlebury may be a real
live Countess." And he folded his second letter up with the full
satisfaction of an approving conscience. When Isabel Walters received Ernest Carnegie's mysterious note, she was
certainly mystified by it as he had expected, and also not a little
gratified. He meant to propose to her, that was certain; and there was
never a woman in the whole world who was not flattered by a handsome
young man's marked attentions. It was a very queer letter, no doubt; but
it had been written skilfully enough to suit the particular personality
of Isabel Walters: for Ernest Carnegie was a keen judge of character,
and he flattered himself that he knew how to adapt his correspondence to
the particular temperament of the persons he happened to be addressing. And though Isabel had no very distinct idea of what the two Carnegies
were severally like (it could hardly have been much more distinct if she
had known them both intimately), she felt they were two very
good-looking, agreeable young men, and she was not particularly averse
to the attentions of either. After all, upon what straws we all usually
hang our love-making! | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
We see one another once or twice under
exceptionally deceptive circumstances; we are struck at first sight with
something that attracts us on either side; we find the attraction is
mutual; we flounder at once into a declaration of undying attachment; we
get married, and on the whole we generally find we were right after all,
in spite of our precipitancy, and we live happily ever afterwards. So
it was not really very surprising that Isabel Walters, getting such a
note from one of the two handsome young Mr. Carnegies, should have been
in some doubt which of the two identicals it actually was, and yet
should have felt indefinitely pleased and flattered at the implied
attention. Which was Ernest and which Harold could only mean to her,
when she came to think on it, which was the one she danced with first
last night, and which the one she danced with second. She decided in her
own mind that it would be better for her to go to the Montagus' picnic
to-morrow, but to say nothing about it to her mother. "Mamma wouldn't
understand the letter," she said to herself complacently; "she's so
conventional; and when I come back to-morrow I can tell her one of the
young Carnegies was there, and that he proposed to me. She need never
know there was any appointment." IV. At six o'clock, Harold Carnegie returned from the office. He, too, had
been thinking all day of Isabel Walters, and the moment he got home he
went into the library to write a short note to her, before Ernest had,
as usual, forestalled him. As he did so he happened to see a few words
dimly transferred to the paper in the blotting-book. They were in
Ernest's handwriting, and he was quite sure the four first words read,
"My dear Miss Walters." Then Ernest had already been beforehand with
him, after all! But not by a fortnight: that was one good point; not
this time by a fortnight! He would be even with him yet; he would catch
up this anticipatory twin-brother of his, by force or fraud, rather than
let him steal away Isabel Walters from him once and for ever. "All's
fair in love and war," he muttered to himself, taking up the
blotting-book carefully, and tearing out the tell-tale leaf in a
furtive fashion. "Thank Heaven, Ernest writes a thick black hand, the
same as I do; and I shall probably be able to read it by holding it up
to the light." In his own soul Harold Carnegie loathed himself for such
an act of petty meanness; but he did it; with love and jealousy goading
him on, and the fear of his own twin-brother stinging him madly, he did
it; remorsefully and shamefacedly, but still did it. He took the page up to his own bedroom, and held it up to the
window-pane. Blurred and indistinct, the words nevertheless came out
legibly in patches here and there, so that with a little patient
deciphering Harold could spell out the sense of both letters, though
they crossed one another obliquely at a slight angle. "Very brief and
casual acquaintance ... Montagus' steam-launch expedition up the river
from Surbiton to-morrow ... am going and am particularly anxious to meet
you ... this favour of you...." "So that's his plan, is it?" Harold said
to himself. "Softly, softly, Mr. Ernest, I think I can checkmate you! What's this in the one to Mrs. Montagu? 'Expect me to turn up at
half-past two.' Aha, I thought so! Checkmate, Mr. Ernest, checkmate: a
scholar's mate for you! He'll be at the hospital till half-past one;
then he'll take the train to Clapham Junction, expecting to catch the
South-Western at 2.10. But to-morrow's the first of the month; the new
time-tables come into force; I've got one and looked it out already. The
South-Western now leaves at 2.4, three minutes before Mr. Ernest's train
arrives at Clapham Junction. I have him now, I have him now, depend upon
it. I'll go down instead of him. I'll get the party under way at once. I'll monopolize Isabel, pretty Isabel. I'll find my opportunity at Aunt
Portlebury's, and Ernest won't get down to Surbiton till the 2.50 train. Then he'll find his bird flown already. Aha! that'll make him angry. Checkmate, my young friend, checkmate. You said it should be war, and
war you shall have it. I thank thee, friend, for teaching me that word. Rivals now, you said; yes, rivals. 'Dolus an virtus, quis in hoste
requirat?' Why, that comes out of the passage about Androgeos! An omen,
a good omen. There's nothing like war for quickening the intelligence. I
haven't looked at a Virgil since I was in the sixth form; and yet the
line comes back to me now, after five years, as pat as the Catechism." Chuckling to himself at the fraud to stifle conscience (for he had a
conscience), Harold Carnegie dressed hastily for dinner, and went down
quickly in a state of feverish excitement. Dinner passed off grimly
enough. He knew Ernest had written to Isabel; and Ernest guessed from
the other's excited, triumphant manner (though he tried hard to
dissemble the note of triumph in it) that Harold must have written
too--perhaps forestalling him by a direct proposal. In a dim way Mrs.
Carnegie guessed vaguely that some coldness had arisen between her two
boys, the first time for many years; and so she held her peace for the
most part, or talked in asides to Nellie Holt and her daughter. The
conversation was therefore chiefly delegated to Mr. Carnegie himself,
who discoursed with much animation about the iniquitous nature of the
new act for reducing costs in actions for the recovery of small debts--a
subject calculated to arouse the keenest interest in the minds of Nellie
and Edie. Next morning, Harold Carnegie started for the office with prospective
victory elate in his very step, and yet with the consciousness of his
own mean action grinding him down to the pavement as he walked along it. What a dirty, petty, dishonourable subterfuge! and still he would go
through with it. What a self-degrading bit of treachery! and yet he
would carry it out. "Pater," he said, as he walked along, "I mean to
take a holiday this afternoon. I'm going to the Montagus' water-party." "Very inconvenient, Harold, my boy; 'Wilkins _versus_ the Great Northern
Railway Company' coming on for hearing; and, besides, Ernest's going
there too. They won't want a pair of you, will they?" "Can't help it, Pater," Harold answered. "I have particular business at
Surbiton, much more important to me than 'Wilkins versus the Great
Northern Railway Company.'" His father looked at him keenly. "Ha!" he said, "a lady in the case, is
there? Very well, my boy, if you must you must, and that's the end of
it. A young man in love never does make an efficient lawyer. Get it over
quickly, pray; get it over quickly, that's all I beg of you." "I shall get it over, I promise you," Harold answered, "this very
afternoon." The father whistled. "Whew," he said, "that's sharp work, too, Harold,
isn't it? You haven't even told me her name yet. This is really very
sudden." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
But as Harold volunteered no further information, Mr. Carnegie,
who was a shrewd man of the world, held it good policy to ask him
nothing more about it for the present; and so they walked on the rest of
the way to the father's office in unbroken silence. At one o'clock, Harold shut up his desk at the office and ran down to
Surbiton. At Clapham Junction he kept a sharp look-out for Ernest, but
Ernest was not there. Clearly, as Harold anticipated, he hadn't learnt
the alteration in the time-tables, and wouldn't reach Clapham Junction
till the train for Surbiton had started. At Surbiton, Harold pushed on arrangements as quickly as possible, and
managed to get the party off before Ernest arrived upon the scene. Mrs.
Montagu, seeing "one of the young Carnegies" duly to hand, and never
having attempted to discriminate between them in any way, was perfectly
happy at the prospect of getting landed at Lady Portlebury's without
any minute investigation of the intricate question of Christian names. The Montagus were _nouveaux riches_ in the very act of pushing
themselves into fashionable society; and a chance of invading the
Portlebury lawn was extremely welcome to them upon any terms whatsoever. Isabel Walters was looking charming. A light morning dress became her
even better than the dark red satin of the night before last; and she
smiled at Harold with the smile of a mutual confidence when she took his
hand, in a way that made his heart throb fast within him. From that
moment forward, he forgot Ernest and the unworthy trick he was playing,
and thought wholly and solely of Isabel Walters. What a handsome young man he was, really, and how cleverly and
brilliantly he talked all the way up to Portlebury Lodge! Everybody
listened to him; he was the life and soul of the party. Isabel felt more
flattered than ever at his marked attention. He was the doctor, wasn't
he? No, the lawyer. Well, really, how impossible it was to distinguish
and remember them. And so well connected, too. If he were to propose to
her, now, she could afford to be so condescending to Amy Balfour. At Lady Portlebury's lawn the steam-launch halted, and Harold managed to
get Isabel alone among the walks, while his aunt escorted the main body
of visitors thus thrust upon her hands over the conservatories. Eager
and hasty, now, he lost no time in making the best of the situation. "I guessed as much, of course, from your letter, Mr. Carnegie," Isabel
said, playing with her fan with downcast eyes, as he pressed his offer
upon her; "and I really didn't know whether it was right of me to come
here without showing it to mamma and asking her advice about it. But I'm
quite sure I oughtn't to give you an answer at once, because I've seen
so very little of you. Let us leave the question open for a little. It's asking so much to ask one for a definite reply on such a very short
acquaintance." "No, no, Miss Walters," Harold said quickly. "For Heaven's sake, give me
an answer now, I beg of you--I implore you. I must have an answer at
once, immediately. If you can't love me at first sight, for my own
sake--as I loved you the moment I saw you--you can never, never, never
love me! Doubt and hesitation are impossible in true love. Now, or
refuse me for ever! Surely you must know in your own heart whether you
can love me or not; if your heart tells you that you can, then trust
it--trust it--don't argue and reason with it, but say at once you will
make me happy for ever." "Mr. Carnegie," Isabel said, lifting her eyes for a moment, "I do think,
perhaps--I don't know--but perhaps, after a little while, I could love
you. I like you very much; won't that do for the present? Why are you in
such a hurry for an answer? Why can't you give me a week or two to
decide in?" "Because," said Harold, desperately, "if I give you a week my brother
will ask you, and perhaps you will marry him instead of me. He's always
before me in everything, and I'm afraid he'll be before me in this. Say
you'll have me, Miss Walters--oh, do say you'll have me, and save me
from the misery of a week's suspense!" "But, Mr. Carnegie, how can I say anything when I haven't yet made up my
own mind about it? Why, I hardly know you yet from your brother." "Ah, that's just it," Harold cried, in a voice of positive pain. "You
won't find any difference at all between us, if you come to know us; and
then perhaps you'll be induced to marry my brother. But you know this
much already, that here am I, begging and pleading before you this very
minute, and surely you won't send me away with my prayer unanswered!" There was such a look of genuine anguish and passion in his face that
Isabel Walters, already strongly prepossessed in his favour, could
resist no longer. She bent her head a little, and whispered very softly,
"I will promise, Mr. Carnegie; I will promise." Harold seized her hand eagerly, and covered it with kisses. "Isabel," he
cried in a fever of joy, "you have promised. You are mine--mine--mine. You are mine, now and for ever!" Isabel bowed her head, and felt a tear standing dimly in her eye, though
she brushed it away hastily. "Yes," she said gently; "I will be yours. I
think--I think--I feel sure I can love you." Harold took her ungloved hand tenderly in his, and drew a ring off her
finger. "Before I give you mine," he said, "you will let me take this
one? I want it for a keepsake and a memorial." Isabel whispered, "Yes." Harold drew another ring from his pocket and slipped it softly on her
third finger. Isabel saw by the glitter that there was a diamond in it. Harold had bought it the day before for that very purpose. Then he took
from a small box a plain gold locket, with the letter H raised on it. "I
want you to wear this," he said, "as a keepsake for me." "But why H?" Isabel asked him, looking a little puzzled. "Your name's
Ernest, isn't it?" Harold smiled as well as he was able. "How absurd it is!" he said, with
an effort at gaiety. "This ridiculous similarity pursues us everywhere. No, my name's Harold." Isabel stood for a moment surprised and hesitating. She really hardly
knew for the second which brother she ought to consider herself engaged
to. "Then it wasn't you who wrote to me?" she said, with a tone of some
surprise and a little start of astonishment. "No, I certainly didn't write to you; but I came here to-day expecting
to see you, and meaning to ask you to be my wife. I learned from my
brother ("there can be no falsehood in putting it that way," he thought
vainly to himself) that you were to be here; and I determined to seize
the opportunity. Ernest meant to have come, too, but I believe he must
have lost the train at Clapham Junction." That was all literally true,
and yet it sounded simple and plausible enough. Isabel looked at him with a puzzled look, and felt almost compelled to
laugh, the situation was so supremely ridiculous. It took a moment to
think it all out rationally. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Yet, after all, though the letter came from
the other brother, Ernest, it was this particular brother, Harold, she
had been talking to and admiring all the day; it was this particular
brother, Harold, who had gained her consent, and whom she had promised
to love and to marry. And at that moment it would have been doing Isabel
Walters an injustice not to admit that in her own soul she did then and
there really love Harold Carnegie. "Harold," she said slowly, as she took the locket and hung it round her
neck, "Harold. Yes, now I know. Then, Harold Carnegie, I shall take your
locket and wear it always as a keepsake from you." And she looked up at
him with a smile in which there was something more than mere passing
coquettish fancy. You see, he was really terribly in earnest; and the
very fact that he should have been so anxious to anticipate his brother,
and should have anticipated him successfully, made her woman's heart go
forth toward him instinctively. As Harold himself said, he was there
bodily present before her; while Ernest, the writer of the mysterious
letter, was nothing more to her in reality than a name and a shadow. Harold had asked her, and won her; and she was ready to love and cleave
to Harold from that day forth for that very reason. What woman of them
all has a better reason to give in the last resort for the faith that is
in her? V.
Meanwhile, at Clapham Junction, Ernest Carnegie had arrived three
minutes too late for the Surbiton train, and had been forced to wait for
the 2.40. Of that he thought little: they would wait for him, he knew,
if they waited an hour; for Mrs. Montagu would not for worlds have
missed the chance of showing her guests round Lady Portlebury's gardens. So he settled himself down comfortably in the snug corner of his
first-class carriage, and ran down by the later train in perfect
confidence that he would find the steam launch waiting. "No, sir, they've gone up the river in the launch, sir," said the man
who opened the door for him; "and, I beg pardon, sir, but I thought you
were one of the party." In a moment Ernest's fancy, quickened by his jealousy, jumped
instinctively at the true meaning of the man's mistake. "What," he said,
"was there a gentleman very like me, in a grey coat and straw hat--same
ribbon as this one?" "Yes, sir. Exactly, sir. Well, indeed, I should have said it was
yourself, sir; but I suppose it was the other Mr. Carnegie." "It was!" Ernest answered between his clenched teeth, almost
inarticulate with anger. "It was he. Not a doubt of it. Harold! I see it
all. The treachery--the base treachery! How long have they been gone, I
say? How long, eh?" "About half an hour, sir; they went up towards Henley, sir." Ernest Carnegie turned aside, reeling with wrath and indignation. That his brother, his own familiar twin-brother, should have played
him this abominable, disgraceful trick! The meanness of it! The deceit
of it! The petty spying and letter-opening of it! For somehow or
other--inconceivable how--Harold must have opened his brother's letters. And then, quick as lightning, for those two brains jumped together, the
thought of the blotting-book flashed across Ernest's mind. Why, he had
noticed this morning that a page was gone out of it. He must have read
the letters. And then the trains! Harold always got a time-table on the
first of each month, with his cursed methodical lawyer ways. And he had
never told him about the change of service. The dirty low trick! The
mean trick! Even to think of it made Ernest Carnegie sick at heart and
bitterly indignant. In a minute he saw it all and thought it all out. Why did he--how did
he? Why, he knew as clearly as if he could read Harold's thoughts,
exactly how the whole vile plot had first risen upon him, and worked
itself out within his traitorous brain. How? Ah, how? That was the
bitterest, the most horrible, the deadliest part of it all. Ernest
Carnegie knew, because he felt in his own inmost soul that, had he been
put in the same circumstances, he would himself have done exactly as
Harold had done. Yes, exactly in every respect. Harold must have seen the words in the
blotting-book, "My dear Miss Walters"--Ernest remembered how thickly and
blackly he had written--must have seen those words; and in their present
condition, either of the twins, jealous, angry, suspicious, half driven
by envy of one another out of their moral senses, would have torn out
the page then and there and read it all. He, too, would have kept
silence about the train; he would have gone down to Surbiton; he would
have proposed to Isabel Walters; he would have done in everything
exactly as he knew Harold must have done it; but that did not make his
anger and loathing for his brother any the weaker. On the contrary, it
only made them all the more terrible. His consciousness of his own equal
potential meanness roused his rage against Harold to a white heat. He
would have done the same himself, no doubt; yes; but Harold, the mean,
successful, actually accomplishing villain--Harold had really gone down
and done it all in positive fact and reality. Flushing scarlet and blanching white alternately with the fierceness of
his anger, Ernest Carnegie turned down, all on fire, to the river's
edge. Should he take a boat and row up after them to prevent the
supplanter at least from proposing to Isabel unopposed? That would at
any rate give him something to do--muscular work for his arms, if
nothing else, to counteract the fire within him; but on second thoughts,
no, it would be quite useless. The steam launch had had a good start of
him, and no oarsman could catch up with it now by any possibility. So he
walked about up and down near the river, chafing in soul and nursing his
wrath against Harold for three long weary hours. And all that time
Harold, false-hearted, fair-spoken, mean-spirited Harold, was enjoying
himself and playing the gallant to Isabel Walters! Minute by minute the hours wore away, and with every minute Ernest's
indignation grew deeper and deeper. At last he heard the snort of the
steam-launch ploughing its way lustily down the river, and he stood on
the bank waiting for the guilty Harold to disembark. As Harold stepped from the launch, and gave his hand to Isabel, he saw
the white and bloodless face of his brother looking up at him
contemptuously and coldly from beside the landing. Harold passed ashore
and close by him, but Ernest never spoke a word. He only looked a moment
at Isabel, and said to her with enforced calmness, "You got my letter,
Miss Walters?" Isabel, hardly comprehending the real solemnity of the occasion,
answered with a light smile, "I did, Mr. Carnegie, but you didn't keep
your appointment. Your brother came, and he has been beforehand with
you." And she touched his hand lightly and went on to join her hostess. Still Ernest Carnegie said nothing, but walked on, as black as night,
beside his brother. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Neither spoke a word; but after the shaking of hands
and farewells were over, both turned together to the railway station. The carriage was crowded, and so Ernest still held his tongue. At last, when they reached home and stood in the passage together,
Ernest looked at his brother with a look of withering scorn, and, livid
with anger, found his voice at last. "Harold Carnegie," he said, in a low husky tone, "you are a mean
intercepter of other men's letters; a sneaking supplanter of other men's
appointments; a cur and a traitor whom I don't wish any longer to
associate with. I know what you have done, and I know how you have done
it. You have kept my engagement with Isabel Walters by reading the
impression of my notes on the blotting-book. You are unfit for a
gentleman to speak to, and I cast you off, now and for ever." Harold looked at him defiantly, but said never a word. "Harold Carnegie," Ernest said again, "I could hardly believe your
treachery until it was forced upon me. This is the last time I shall
ever speak to you." Harold looked at him again, this time perhaps with a tinge of remorse in
his expression, and said nothing but, "Oh, Ernest." Ernest made a gesture with his hands as though he would repel him. "Don't come near me," he said; "Harold Carnegie, don't touch me! Don't
call me by my name! I will have nothing more to say or do with you." Harold turned away in dead silence, and went to his own room, trembling
with conscious humiliation and self-reproach. But he did not attempt to
make the only atonement in his power by giving up Isabel Walters. That
would have been too much for human nature. VI. When Harold Carnegie was finally married to Isabel Walters, Ernest
stopped away from the wedding, and would have nothing whatever to say
either to bride or bridegroom. He would leave his unnatural brother, he
said, solely and entirely to the punishment of his own guilty
conscience. Still, he couldn't rest quiet in his father's house after Harold was
gone, so he took himself small rooms near the hospital, and there he
lived his lonely life entirely by himself, a solitary man, brooding
miserably over his own wrongs and Harold's treachery. There was only one
single woman in the world, he said, with whom he could ever have been
really happy--Isabel Walters: and Harold had stolen Isabel Walters away
from him by the basest treason. Once he could have loved Isabel, and her
only; now, because she was Harold's wife, he bitterly hated her. Yes,
hated her! With a deadly hatred he hated both of them. Months went by slowly for Ernest Carnegie, in the dull drudgery of his
hopeless professional life, for he cared nothing now for ambition or
advancement; he lived wholly in the past, nursing his wrath, and
devouring his own soul in angry regretfulness. Months went by, and at
last Harold's wife gave birth to a baby--a boy, the exact image of his
father and his uncle. Harold looked at the child in the nurse's arms,
and said remorsefully, "We will call him Ernest. It is all we can do
now, Isabel. We will call him Ernest, after my dear lost brother." So
they called him Ernest, in the faint hope that his uncle's heart might
relent a little; and Harold wrote a letter full of deep and bitter
penitence to his brother, piteously begging his forgiveness for the
grievous wrong he had wickedly and deliberately done him. But Ernest
still nursed his righteous wrath silently in his own bosom, and tore up
the letter into a thousand fragments, unanswered. When the baby was five months old, Edie Carnegie came round hurriedly
one morning to Ernest's lodgings near the hospital. "Ernest, Ernest,"
she cried, running up the stairs in great haste, "we want you to come
round and see Harold. We're afraid he's very ill. Don't say you won't
come and see him!" Ernest Carnegie listened and smiled grimly. "Very ill," he muttered,
with a dreadful gleam in his eyes. "Very ill, is he? and I have had
nothing the matter with me! How curious! Very ill! I ought to have had
the same illness a fortnight ago. Ha, ha! The cycle is broken! The
clocks have ceased to strike together! His marriage has altered the run
of his constitution--mine remains the same steady striker as ever. I
thought it would! I thought it would! Perhaps he'll die, now, the mean,
miserable traitor!" Edie Carnegie looked at him in undisguised horror. "Oh, Ernest," she
cried, with the utmost dismay; "your own brother! Your own brother! Surely you'll come and see him, and tell us what's the matter." "Yes, I'll come and see him," Ernest answered, unmoved, taking up his
hat. "I'll come and see him, and find out what's the matter." But there
was an awful air of malicious triumph in his tone, which perfectly
horrified his trembling sister. When Ernest reached his brother's house, he went at once to Harold's
bedside, and without a word of introduction or recognition he began
inquiring into the nature of his symptoms, exactly as he would have done
with any unknown and ordinary patient. Harold told him them all, simply
and straightforwardly, without any more preface than he would have used
with any other doctor. When Ernest had finished his diagnosis, he leaned
back carelessly in his easy chair, folded his arms sternly, and said in
a perfectly cold, clear, remorseless voice, "Ah, I thought so; yes, yes,
I thought so. It's a serious functional disorder of the heart; and
there's very little hope indeed that you'll ever recover from it. No
hope at all, I may say; no hope at all, I'm certain. The thing has been
creeping upon you, creeping upon you, evidently, for a year past, and it
has gone too far now to leave the faintest hope of ultimate recovery." Isabel burst into tears at the words--calmly spoken as though they were
perfectly indifferent to both speaker and hearers; but Harold only rose
up fiercely in the bed, and cried in a tone of the most imploring agony,
"Oh, Ernest, Ernest, if I must die, for Heaven's sake, before I die, say
you forgive me, do say, do say you forgive me. Oh, Ernest, dear Ernest,
dear brother Ernest, for the sake of our long, happy friendship, for the
sake of the days when we loved one another with a love passing the love
of women, do, do say you will at last forgive me." Ernest rose and fumbled nervously for a second with the edge of his hat. "Harold Carnegie," he said at last, in a voice trembling with
excitement, "I can never forgive you. You acted a mean, dirty part, and
I can never forgive you. Heaven may, perhaps it will; but as for me, I
can never, never, never forgive you!" Harold fell back feebly and wearily upon the pillows. "Ernest, Ernest,"
he cried, gasping, "you might forgive me! you ought to forgive me! you
must forgive me! and I'll tell you why. I didn't want to say it, but now
you force me. I know it as well as if I'd seen you do it. In my place, I
know to a certainty, Ernest, you'd have done exactly as I did. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Ernest
Carnegie, you can't look me straight in the face and tell me that you
wouldn't have acted exactly as I did." That terrible unspoken truth, long known, but never confessed, even to
himself, struck like a knife on Ernest's heart. He raised his hat
blindly, and walked with unsteady steps out of the sick-room. At that
moment, his own conscience smote him with awful vividness. Looking into
the inmost recesses of his angry heart, he felt with a shudder that
Harold had spoken the simple truth, and he dared not lie by
contradicting him. In Harold's place he would have done exactly as
Harold did! And that was just what made his deathless anger burn all the
more fiercely and fervidly against his brother! Groping his way down the stairs alone in a stunned and dazzled fashion,
Ernest Carnegie went home in his agony to his lonely lodgings, and sat
there solitary with his own tempestuous thoughts for the next
eight-and-forty hours. He did not undress or lie down to sleep, though
he dozed a little at times uneasily in his big arm-chair; he did not eat
or drink much; he merely paced up and down his room feverishly, and sent
his boy round at intervals of an hour or two to know how the doctor
thought Mr. Harold Carnegie was getting on. The boy returned every time
with uniformly worse and worse reports. Ernest rubbed his hands in
horrid exultation: "Ah," he said to himself, eagerly, "he will die! he
will die! he will pay the penalty of his dirty treachery! He has brought
it all upon himself by marrying that wicked woman! He deserves it every
bit for his mean conduct." On the third morning, Edie came round again, this time with her mother. Both had tears in their eyes, and they implored Ernest with sobs and
entreaties to come round and see Harold once more before he died. Harold
was raving and crying for him in his weakness and delirium. But Ernest
was like adamant. He would not go to see him, he said, not if they went
down bodily on their knees before him. At midday, the boy went again, and stayed a little longer than usual. When he returned, he brought back word that Mr. Harold Carnegie had died
just as the clock was striking the hour. Ernest listened with a look of
terror and dismay, and then broke down into a terrible fit of sobbing
and weeping. When Edie came round a little later to tell him that all
was over, she found him crying like a child in his own easy chair, and
muttering to himself in a broken fashion how dearly he and Harold had
loved one another years ago, when they were both happy children
together. Edie took him round to his brother's house, and there, over the deaf and
blind face that lay cold upon the pillows, he cried the cry that he
would not cry over his living, imploring brother. "Oh, Harold, Harold,"
he groaned in his broken agony, "I forgive you, I forgive you. I too
sinned as you did. What you would do, I would do. It was bound up in
both our natures. In your place I would have done as you did. But now
the curse of Cain is upon me! A worse curse than Cain's is upon me! I
have more than killed my brother!" For a day or two Ernest went back, heart-broken, to his father's house,
and slept once more in the old room where he used to sleep so long, next
door to Harold's. At the end of three days, he woke once from one of his
short snatches of sleep with a strange fluttering feeling in his left
side. He knew in a moment what it was. It was the same disease that
Harold had died of. "Thank Heaven!" he said to himself eagerly, "thank Heaven, thank Heaven
for that! Then I didn't wholly kill him! His blood isn't all upon my
poor unhappy head. After all, his marriage didn't quite upset the
harmony of the two clocks; it only made the slower one catch up for a
while and pass the faster. I'm a fortnight later in striking than Harold
this time; that's all. In three days more the clock will run down, and I
shall die as he did." And, true to time, in three days more, as the clock struck twelve,
Ernest Carnegie died as his brother Harold had done before him, with the
agonized cry for forgiveness trembling on his fevered lips--who knows
whether answered or unanswered? _OLGA DAVIDOFF'S HUSBAND._
I.
Tobolsk, though a Siberian metropolis, is really a very pleasant place
to pass a winter in. Like the western American cities, where everybody
has made his money easily and spends it easily, it positively bubbles
over with bad champagne, cheap culture, advanced thought, French
romances, and all the other most recent products of human industry and
ingenuity. Everybody eats _pâté de foie gras_, quotes Hartmann and
Herbert Spencer, uses electric bells, believes in woman's rights,
possesses profound views about the future of Asia, and had a grandfather
who was a savage Samoyede or an ignorant Buriat. Society is extremely
cultivated, and if you scratch it ever so little, you see the Tartar. Nevertheless, it considers itself the only really polite and enlightened
community on the whole face of this evolving terrestrial planet. The Davidoffs, however, who belonged to the most advanced section of
mercantile society in all Tobolsk, were not originally Siberians, or
even Russians, by birth or nationality. Old Mr. Davidoff, the
grandfather, who founded the fortunes of the family in St. Petersburg,
was a Welsh Davids; and he had altered his name by the timely addition
of a Slavonic suffix in order to conciliate the national
susceptibilities of Orthodox Russia. His son, Dimitri, whom for the
same reason he had christened in honour of a Russian saint, removed the
Russian branch of the house to Tobolsk (they were in the Siberian
fur-trade), and there marrying a German lady of the name of Freytag, had
one daughter and heiress, Olga Davidoff, the acknowledged belle of
Tobolskan society. It was generally understood in Tobolsk that the
Davidoffs were descended from Welsh princes (as may very likely have
been the case--though one would really like to know what has become of
all the descendants of Welsh subjects), if indeed they were not even
remotely connected with the Prince of Wales himself in person. The winter of 1873 (as everybody will remember) was a very cold one
throughout Siberia. The rivers froze unusually early, and troikas had
entirely superseded torosses on all the roads as early as the very
beginning of October. Still, Tobolsk was exceedingly gay for all that;
in the warm houses of the great merchants, with their tropical plants
kept at summer heat by stoves and flues all the year round, nobody
noticed the exceptional rigour of that severe season. Balls and dances
followed one another in quick succession, and Olga Davidoff, just
twenty, enjoyed herself as she had never before done in all her
lifetime. It was such a change to come to the concentrated gaities and
delights of Tobolsk after six years of old Miss Waterlow's Establishment
for Young Ladies, at The Laurels, Clapham. That winter, for the first time, Baron Niaz, the Buriat, came to
Tobolsk. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Exquisitely polished in manners, and very handsome in face and bearing,
there was nothing of the Tartar anywhere visible about Baron Niaz. He
had been brought up in Paris, at a fashionable Lycée, and he spoke
French with perfect fluency, as well as with some native sparkle and
genuine cleverness. His taste in music was unimpeachable: even Madame
Davidoff, _née_ Freytag, candidly admitted that his performances upon
the violin were singularly brilliant, profound, and appreciative. Moreover, though a Buriat chief, he was a most undoubted nobleman: at
the Governor's parties he took rank, by patent of the Emperor Nicholas,
as a real Russian baron of the first water. To be sure, he was nominally
a Tartar; but what of that? His mother and his grandmother, he declared,
had both been Russian ladies; and you had only to look at him to see
that there was scarcely a drop of Tartar blood still remaining anywhere
in him. If the half-caste negro is a brown mulatto, the quarter-caste a
light quadroon, and the next remove a practically white octoroon, surely
Baron Niaz, in spite of his remote Buriat great-grandfathers, might well
pass for an ordinary everyday civilized Russian. Olga Davidoff was fairly fascinated by the accomplished young baron. She
met him everywhere, and he paid her always the most marked and
flattering attention. He was a Buriat, to be sure: but at Tobolsk, you
know----. Well, one mustn't be too particular about these little
questions of origin in an Asiatic city. It was at the Governor's dance, just before Christmas, that the Baron
got his first good chance of talking with her for ten minutes alone
among the fan palms and yuccas in the big conservatory. There was a seat
in the far corner beside the flowering oleander, where the Baron led her
after the fourth waltz, and leant over her respectfully as she played
with her Chinese fan, half trembling at the declaration she knew he was
on the point of making to her. "Mademoiselle Davidoff," the Baron began in French, with a lingering
cadence as he pronounced her name, and a faint tremor in his voice that
thrilled responsively through her inmost being; "Mademoiselle Davidoff,
I have been waiting long for this opportunity of speaking to you alone,
because I have something of some importance--to me at least,
mademoiselle--about which I wish to confer with you. Mademoiselle, will
you do me the honour to listen to me patiently a minute or two? The
matter about which I wish to speak to you is one that may concern
yourself, too, more closely than you at first imagine." What a funny way to begin proposing to one! Olga Davidoff's heart beat
violently as she answered as unconcernedly as possible, "I shall be
glad, M. le Baron, I'm sure, to listen to any communication that you may
wish to make to me." "Mademoiselle," the young man went on almost timidly--how handsome he
looked as he stood there bending over her in his semi-barbaric Tartar
uniform!--"mademoiselle, the village where I live in our own country is
a lonely one among the high mountains. You do not know the Buriat
country--it is wild, savage, rugged, pine-clad, snow-clad, solitary,
inaccessible, but very beautiful. Even the Russians do not love it; but
we love it, we others, who are to the manner born. We breathe there the
air of liberty, and we prefer our own brawling streams and sheer
precipices to all the artificial stifling civilization of Paris and St. Petersburg." Olga looked at him and smiled quietly. She saw at once how he wished to
break it to her, and held her peace like a wise maiden. "Yes, mademoiselle," the young man went on, flooding her each moment
with the flashing light from his great luminous eyes; "my village in the
Buriat country lies high up beside the eternal snows. But though we live
alone there, so far from civilization that we seldom see even a passing
traveller, our life is not devoid of its own delights and its own
interests. I have my own people all around me; I live in my village as a
little prince among his own subjects. My people are few, but they are
very faithful. Mademoiselle has been educated in England, I believe?" "Yes," Olga answered. "In London, M. le Baron. I am of English
parentage, and my father sent me there to keep up the connection with
his old fatherland, where one branch of our House is still established." "Then, mademoiselle, you will doubtless have read the tales of Walter
Scott?" Olga smiled curiously. "Yes," she said, amused at his _naïveté_, "I have
certainly read them." She began to think that after all the handsome
young Buriat couldn't mean really to propose to her. "Well, you know, in that case, what was the life of a Highland chieftain
in Scotland, when the Highland chieftains were still practically all but
independent. That, mademoiselle, is exactly the life of a modern Buriat
nobleman under the Russian empire. He has his own little territory and
his own little people; he lives among them in his own little antiquated
fortress; he acknowledges nominally the sovereignty of the most orthodox
Czar, and even perhaps exchanges for a Russian title the Tartar
chieftainship handed down to him in unbroken succession from his
earliest forefathers. But in all the rest he still remains essentially
independent. He rules over a little principality of his own, and cares
not a fig in his own heart for czar, or governor, or general, or
minister." "This is rather treasonable talk for the Governor's palace," Olga put
in, smiling quietly. "If we were not already in Tobolsk we might both,
perhaps, imagine we should be sent to Siberia." The Baron laughed, and showed his two rows of pearly white teeth to the
best advantage. "They might send me to the mines," he said, "for aught I
care, mademoiselle. I could get away easily enough from village to
village to my own country; and once there, it would be easier for the
Czar to take Constantinople and Bagdad and Calcutta than to track and
dislodge Alexander Niaz in his mountain fortress." Alexander Niaz! Olga noted the name to herself hurriedly. He was
converted then! he was an orthodox Christian! That at least was a good
thing, for so many of these Buriats are still nothing more than the most
degraded Schamanists and heathens! "But, mademoiselle," the young man went on again, playing more nervously
now than ever with the jewelled hilt of his dress sword, "there is one
thing still wanting to my happiness among our beautiful Siberian
mountains. I have no lovely châtelaine to help me guard my little feudal
castle. Mademoiselle, the Buriat women are not fit allies for a man who
has been brought up among the civilization and the learning of the great
Western cities. He needs a companion who can sympathize with his higher
tastes: who can speak with him of books, of life, of art, of music. Our
Buriat women are mere household drudges; to marry one of them would be
utterly impossible. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Mademoiselle, my father and my grandfather came away
from their native wilds to seek a lady who would condescend to love
them, in the polite society of Tobolsk. I have gone farther afield: I
have sought in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, St. Petersburg. But I saw no lady
to whose heart my heart responded, till I came back once more to old
Tobolsk. There, mademoiselle, there I saw one whom I recognized at once
as fashioned for me by heaven. Mademoiselle Davidoff,--I tremble to ask
you, but--I love you,--will you share my exile?" Olga looked at the handsome young man with unconcealed joy and
admiration. "Your exile!" she murmured softly, to gain time for a
moment. "And why your exile, M. le Baron?" "Mademoiselle," the young Buriat continued very earnestly, "I do not
wish to woo or wed you under false pretences. Before you give me an
answer, you must understand to what sort of life it is that I venture to
invite you. Our mountains are very lonely: to live there would be
indeed an exile to you, accustomed to the gaieties and the vortex of
London." (Olga smiled quietly to herself, as she thought for a second of
the little drawing-room at The Laurels, Clapham.) "But if you can
consent to live in it with me, I will do my best to make it as easy for
you as possible. You shall have music, books, papers, amusements--but
not society--during the six months of summer which we must necessarily
pass at my mountain village; you shall visit Tobolsk, Moscow,
Petersburg, London--which you will--during the six months of holiday in
winter; above all, you shall have the undying love and devotion of one
who has never loved another woman--Alexander Niaz.... Mademoiselle, you
see the conditions. Can you accept them? Can you condescend of your
goodness to love me--to marry me?" Olga Davidoff lifted her fan with an effort and answered faintly, "M. le
Baron, you are very flattering. I--I will try my best to deserve your
goodness." Niaz took her pretty little hand in his with old-fashioned politeness,
and raised it chivalrously to his trembling lips. "Mademoiselle," he
said, "you have made me eternally happy. My life shall be passed in
trying to prove my gratitude to you for this condescension." "I think," Olga answered, shaking from head to foot, "I think, M. le
Baron, you had better take me back into the next room to my mother." II. Olga Davidoff's wedding was one of the most brilliant social successes
of that Tobolsk season. Davidoff père surpassed himself in the
costliness of his exotics, the magnificence of his presents, the
reckless abundance of his Veuve Clicquot. Madame Davidoff successfully
caught the Governor and the General, and the English traveller from
India _viâ_ the Himalayas. The Baron looked as gorgeous as he was
handsome in his half Russian, half Tartar uniform and his Oriental
display of pearls and diamonds. Olga herself was the prettiest and most
blushing bride ever seen in Tobolsk, a simple English girl, fresh from
the proprieties of The Laurels at Clapham, among all that curious mixed
cosmopolitan society of semi-civilized Siberians, Catholic Poles, and
orthodox Russians. As soon as the wedding was fairly over, the bride and bridegroom started
off by toross to make their way across the southern plateau to the
Baron's village. It was a long and dreary drive, that wedding tour, in a jolting carriage
over Siberian roads, resting at wayside posting-houses, bad enough while
they were still on the main line of the Imperial mails, but degenerating
into true Central-Asian caravanserais when once they had got off the
beaten track into the wild neighbourhood of the Baron's village. Nevertheless, Olga Davidoff bore up against the troubles and discomforts
of the journey with a brave heart, for was not the Baron always by her
side? and who could be kinder, or gentler, or more thoughtful than her
Buriat husband? Yes, it was a long and hard journey, up among those
border mountains of the Chinese and Tibetan frontier; but Olga felt at
home at last when, after three weeks of incessant jolting, they arrived
at the Buriat mountain stronghold, under cover of the night; and Niaz
led her straightway to her own pretty little European boudoir, which he
had prepared for her beforehand at immense expense and trouble in his
upland village. The moment they entered, Olga saw a pretty little room, papered and
carpeted in English fashion, with a small piano over in the corner, a
lamp burning brightly on the tiny side-table, and a roaring fire of logs
blazing and crackling upon the simple stone hearth. A book or two lay
upon the shelf at the side: she glanced casually at their titles as she
passed, and saw that they were some of Tourgénieff's latest novels, a
paper-covered Zola fresh from Paris, a volume each of Tennyson,
Browning, Carlyle, and Swinburne, a Demidoff, an Emile Augier, a _Revue
des Deux Mondes_, and a late number of an English magazine. She valued
these things at once for their own sakes, but still more because she
felt instinctively that Niaz had taken the trouble to get them there for
her beforehand in this remote and uncivilized corner. She turned to the
piano: a light piece by Sullivan lay open before her, and a number of
airs from Chopin, Schubert, and Mendelssohn were scattered loosely on
the top one above the other. Her heart was too full to utter a word, but
she went straight up to her husband, threw her arms tenderly around his
neck, and kissed him with the utmost fervour. Niaz smoothed her wavy
fair hair gently with his hand, and his eyes sparkled with conscious
pleasure as he returned her caress and kissed her forehead. After a while, they went into the next room to dinner--a small hall,
somewhat barbaric in type, but not ill-furnished; and Olga noticed that
the two or three servants were very fierce and savage-looking Buriats of
the most pronounced Tartar type. The dinner was a plain one, plainly
served, of rough country hospitality; but the appointments were all
European, and, though simple, good and sufficient. Niaz had said so much
to her of the discomforts of his mountain stronghold that Olga was quite
delighted to find things on the whole so comparatively civilized, clean,
and European. A few days' sojourn in the fort--it was rather that than a castle or a
village--showed Olga pretty clearly what sort of life she was henceforth
to expect. Her husband's subjects numbered about a hundred and fifty
(with as many more women and children); they rendered him the most
implicit obedience, and they evidently looked upon him entirely as a
superior being. They were trained to a military discipline, and
regularly drilled every morning by Niaz in the queer old semi-Chinese
courtyard of the mouldering castle. Olga was so accustomed to a Russian
military _régime_ that this circumstance never struck her as being
anything extraordinary; she regarded it only as part of the Baron's
ancestral habits as a practically independent Tartar chieftain. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
Week after week rolled away at the fort, and though Olga had absolutely
no one to whom she could speak except her own husband (for the Buriats
knew no Russian save the word of command), she didn't find time hang
heavily on her hands in the quaint, old-fashioned village. The walks and
rides about were really delightful; the scenery was grand and beautiful
to the last degree; the Chinese-looking houses and Tartar dress were odd
and picturesque, like a scene in a theatre. It was all so absurdly
romantic. After all, Olga said to herself with a smile more than once,
it isn't half bad being married to a Tartar chieftain up in the border
mountains, when you actually come to try it. Only, she confessed in her
own heart that she would probably always be very glad when the winter
came again, and she got back from these mountain solitudes to the
congenial gaiety of Tobolsk or Petersburg. And Niaz--well, Niaz loved her distractedly. No husband on earth could
possibly love a woman better. Still, Olga could never understand why he sometimes had to leave her for
three or four days together, and why during his absence, when she was
left all alone at night in the solitary fort with those dreadful
Buriats, they kept watch and ward so carefully all the time, and seemed
so relieved when Niaz came back again. But whenever she asked him about
it, Niaz only looked grave and anxious, and replied with a would-be
careless wave of the hand that part of his duty was to guard the
frontier, and that the Czar had not conferred a title and an order upon
him for nothing. Olga felt frightened and disquieted on all such
occasions, but somehow felt, from Niaz's manner, that she must not
question him further upon the matter. One day, after one of these occasional excursions, Niaz came back in
high spirits, and kissed her more tenderly and affectionately than ever. After dinner, he read to her out of a book of French poems a grand piece
of Victor Hugo's, and then made her sit down to the piano and play him
his favourite air from _Der Freischütz_ twice over. When she had
finished, he leant back in his chair and murmured quietly in French
(which they always spoke together), "And this is in the mountains of
Tartary! One would say a soirée of St. Petersburg or of Paris." Olga turned and looked at him softly. "What is the time, dearest Niaz?" she said with a smile. "Shall I be able to play you still that dance of
Pinsuti's?" Niaz pulled out his watch and answered quickly, "Only ten o'clock,
darling. You have plenty of time still." Something in the look of the watch he held in his hand struck Olga as
queer and unfamiliar. She glanced at it sideways, and noticed hurriedly
that Niaz was trying to replace it unobserved in his waistcoat pocket. "I haven't seen that watch before," she said suddenly; "let me look at
it, dear, will you?" Niaz drew it out and handed it to her with affected nonchalance; but in
the undercurrent of his expression Olga caught a glimpse of a hang-dog
look she had never before observed in it. She turned over the watch and
looked on the back. To her immense surprise, it bore the initials "F. de
K." engraved upon the cover. "These letters don't belong to you, Niaz," she said, scanning it
curiously. Niaz moved uneasily in his chair. "No," he answered, "not to me, Olga. It's--it's an old family relic--an heirloom, in fact. It belonged to my
mother's mother. She was--a Mademoiselle de Kérouac, I believe, from
Morbihan, in Brittany." Olga's eyes looked him through and through with a strange new-born
suspicion. What could it all mean? She knew he was telling her a
falsehood. Had the watch belonged--to some other lady? What was the
meaning of his continued absences? Could he----but no. It was a man's
watch, not a lady's. And if so--why, if so, then Niaz had clearly told
her a falsehood in that too, and must be trying to conceal something
about it. That night, for the first time, Olga Davidoff began to distrust her
Buriat husband. Next morning, getting up a little early and walking on the parapet of
the queer old fortress, she saw Niaz in the court below, jumping and
stamping in a furious temper upon something on the ground. To her
horror, she saw that his face was all hideously distorted by anger, and
that as he raged and stamped the Tartar cast in his features, never
before visible, came out quite clearly and distinctly. Olga looked on,
and trembled violently, but dared not speak to him. A few minutes later Niaz came in to breakfast, gay as usual, with a
fresh flower stuck prettily in the button-hole of his undress coat and a
smile playing unconcernedly around the clear-cut corners of his handsome
thin-lipped mouth. "Niaz," his wife said to him anxiously, "where is the watch you showed
me last night?" His face never altered for a moment as he replied, with the same bland
and innocent smile as ever, "My darling, I have broken it all to little
pieces. I saw it annoyed you in some way when I showed it to you
yesterday, and this morning I took it out accidentally in the lower
courtyard. The sight of it put me in a violent temper. 'Cursed thing,' I
said, 'you shall never again step in so cruelly between me and my
darling. There, take that, and that, and that, rascal!' and I stamped
it to pieces underfoot in the courtyard." Olga turned pale, and looked at him horrified. He smiled again, and took
her wee hand tenderly in his. "Little one," he said, "you needn't be
afraid; it's only our quick Buriat fashion. We lose our tempers
sometimes, but it is soon over. It is nothing. A little whirlwind--and,
pouf, it passes." "But, Niaz, you said it was a family heirloom!" "Well, darling, and for your sake I ground it to powder. Voilà, tout! Come, no more about it; it isn't worth the trouble. Let us go to
breakfast." III. Some days later Niaz went on an expedition again, "on the Czar's service
for the protection of the frontier," and took more than half his
able-bodied Tartars on the journey with him. Olga had never felt so
lonely before, surrounded now by doubt and mystery in that awful
solitary stronghold. The broken watch weighed gloomily upon her
frightened spirits. Niaz was gone for three days, as often happened, and on the fourth
night, after she had retired to her lonely bedroom, she felt sure she
heard his voice speaking low somewhere in the courtyard. At the sound she sprang from her bed and went to the window. Yes, there,
down in the far corner of the yard, without lights or noise, and
treading cautiously, she saw Niaz and his men filing quietly in through
the dim gloom, and bringing with them a number of boxes. Her heart beat fast. Could it be some kind of smuggling? They lay so
near the passes into Turkestan and China, and she knew that the merchant
track from Yarkand to Semi-palatinsk crossed the frontier not far from
Niaz's village. Huddling on her dress hastily, she issued out alone and terrified, into
the dark courtyard, and sought over the whole place in the black night
for sight of Niaz. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
She could find him nowhere. At last she mounted the staircase to the mouldering rampart. Generally
the Tartar guards kept watch there constantly, but to-night the whole
place seemed somehow utterly deserted. She groped her way along till she
reached the far corner by a patch of ground which Niaz had told her was
the Tartar burial-place. There she came suddenly upon a great crowd of men below on the plain,
running about and shouting wildly, with links and torches. Niaz stood in
the midst, erect and military, with his Russian uniform gleaming
fitfully in the flickering torchlight. In front of him six Turcoman
merchants, with their hands bound behind their backs, knelt upon the
ground, and beside him two Tartars held by either arm a man in European
dress, whom Olga recognized at once as the English traveller from India
by way of the Himalayas. Her heart stood still within her with terror,
and she hung there, mute and unseen, upon the rampart above, wondering
what in Heaven's name this extraordinary scene was going to end in. What
could it mean? What could Niaz be doing in it? Great God, it was too
horrible! A Tartar came forward quietly from the crowd with a curved sword. At a
word from Niaz he raised the sword aloft in the air. One second it
glanced bright in the torchlight; the next second a Turcoman's head lay
rolling in the dust, and a little torrent of blood spurted suddenly from
the still kneeling corpse. Olga opened her mouth to scream at the horrid
sight, but happily her voice at once forsook her as in a dream, and she
stood fixed to the spot in a perfect fascination of awe and terror. Then the Tartar moved on, obedient to a word and a nod from Niaz, and
raised his sword again above the second Turcoman. In a moment, the
second head too rolled down quietly beside the other. Without a
minute's delay, as though it formed part of his everyday business, the
practised headsman went on quietly to the next in order, and did not
stop till all six heads lay grim and ghastly scattered about unheeded in
the dust together. Olga shut her eyes, sickening, but still could not
scream for very horror. Next, Niaz turned to the English traveller, and said something to him in
his politest manner. Olga couldn't catch the words themselves because of
the distance, but she saw from his gestures that he was apologizing to
the Englishman for his rough treatment. The Englishman in reply drew out
and handed to Niaz a small canvas bag, a purse, and a watch. Niaz took
them, bowing politely. "Hands off," he cried to the Tartars in Russian,
and they loosed their prisoner. Then he made a sign, and the Englishman
knelt. In a minute more his head lay rolling in the dust below, and
Niaz, with a placid smile upon his handsome face, turned to give orders
to the surrounding Tartars. Olga could stand it no more. She dared not scream or let herself be
seen; but she turned round, sick at heart, and groped her way, half
paralyzed by fear, along the mouldering rampart, and then turned in at
last to her own bedroom, where she flung herself upon the bed in her
clothes, and lay, tearless but terrified, the whole night through in
blinding misery. She did not need to have it all explained to her. Niaz was nothing more,
after all, than a savage Buriat robber chieftain. IV. What a terribly long hypocrisy and suspense those six weeks of dreary
waiting, before an answer to her letter could come from Tobolsk, and the
Governor could send a detachment of the military to rescue her from this
nest of murderous banditti! How Olga hated herself for still pretending to keep on terms with Niaz! How she loathed and detested the man with whom she must yet live as wife
for that endless time till the day of her delivery! And Niaz couldn't help seeing that her manner was changed towards him,
though he flattered himself that she had as yet only a bare suspicion,
and no real knowledge of the horrible truth. What a sad thing that she
should ever even have suspected it! What a pity if he could not keep her
here to soothe and lighten his winter solitude!--for he loved her: yes,
he really loved her, and he needed sympathy and companionship in all the
best and highest instincts of his inner nature. These Buriats, what were
they? a miserable set of brutal savages: mere hard-working robbers and
murderers, good enough for the practical rough work of everyday life
(such as knocking Turcoman merchants on the head), but utterly incapable
of appreciating or sympathizing with the better tastes of civilized
humanity. It was a hard calling, that of chieftain to these Tartar
wretches, especially for a man of musical culture brought up in Paris;
and he had hoped that Olga might have helped him through with it by her
friendly companionship. Not, of course, that he ever expected to be able
to tell her the whole truth: women will be women; and coming to a rough
country, they can't understand the necessities laid upon one for rough
dealing. No, he could never have expected her to relish the full details
of a borderer's profession, but he was vexed that she should already
begin to suspect its nature on so very short an acquaintance. He had
told her he was like a Highland chieftain of the old times: did she
suppose that the Rob Roys and Roderick Dhus of real life used to treat
their Lowland captives with rose-water and chivalry? After all, women
have really no idea of how things must be managed in the stern realities
of actual existence. So the six weeks passed slowly away, and Olga waited and watched, with
smiles on her lips, in mute terror. At last, one day, in broad daylight, without a moment's warning, or a
single premonitory symptom, Olga saw the courtyard suddenly filled with
men in Russian uniforms, and a friend of hers, a major of infantry at
Tobolsk, rushing in at the head of his soldiers upon the Tartar barrack. In one second, as if by magic, the courtyard had changed into a roaring
battlefield, the Cossacks were firing at the Tartars, and the Tartars
were firing at the Cossacks. There was a din of guns and a smoke of
gunpowder; and high above all, in the Buriat language, she heard the
voice of Niaz, frantically encouraging his men to action, and shouting
to them with wild energy in incomprehensible gutturals. The surprise had been so complete that almost before Olga realized the
situation the firing began to die away. The fort was carried, and Niaz
and his men stood, disarmed and sullen, with bleeding faces, in the
midst of a hastily formed square of stout Cossacks, among the dead and
dying strewn upon the ground. Handsome as ever, but how she hated him! His arm was wounded; and the Russian surgeon led him aside to bind it
up. To Olga's amazement, while the surgeon was actually engaged in
binding it, Niaz turned upon him like a savage dog, and bit his arm till
the teeth met fiercely in the very middle. She shut her eyes, and half
fainted with disgust and horror. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
The surgeon shook him off, with an oath; and two Cossacks, coming up
hastily, bound his hands behind his back, and tied his legs, quite
regardless of his wounded condition. Meanwhile, the Russian major had sought out Olga, "Madame la Baronne,"
he said respectfully, "I congratulate you upon your safety and your
recovered freedom. Your father is with us; he will soon be here. Your
letter reached him safely, in spite of its roundabout direction; and the
Governor of Tobolsk despatched us at once upon this errand of release. Baron Niaz had long been suspected: your letter removed all doubts upon
the subject." A minute or two later, the Cossacks marched their prisoners out of the
courtyard, two and two, into the great hall of the stronghold. "I wish to bid farewell to my wife," Niaz cried to the major, in a loud
voice. "I shall be sent to the mines, I suppose, and I shall never see
her again in this world most probably." The major allowed him to come near within speaking distance, under guard
of two Cossacks. "Madame la Baronne," he hissed out between his clenched teeth, "this is
your hand. It was your hand that you gave me in marriage; it was your
hand that wrote to betray me. Believe me, madame, come what may, your
hand shall pay the penalty." So much he said, passionately indeed, but with the offended dignity of a
civilized being. Then the Tartar in him broke through the thin veneer of
European culture, and he lolled his tongue out at her in savage
derision, with a hideous menacing leer like an untamed barbarian. Till
that moment, in spite of the horrible massacre she had seen with her own
eyes, Olga had never suspected what profound depths of vulgar savagery
lay unperceived beneath Alexander Niaz's handsome and aristocratic
European features. One more word he uttered coarsely: a word of foul reproach unfit to be
repeated, which made Olga's cheek turn crimson with wrath and
indignation even in that supreme moment of conflicting passions. She
buried her face between her two hands wildly, and burst into a sudden
flood of uncontrollable tears. "March him away," cried the major in a stern voice. And they marched him
away, still mocking, with the other prisoners. That was the last Olga Davidoff then saw of her Buriat husband. V.
After Niaz had been tried and condemned for robbery and murder, and sent
with the usual Russian clemency to the mines of Oukboul, Olga Davidoff
could not bear any longer to live at Tobolsk. It was partly terror,
partly shame, partly pride; but Tobolsk or even St. Petersburg she felt
to be henceforth utterly impossible for her. So she determined to go back to her kinsfolk in that dear old quiet
England, where there are no Nihilists, and no Tartars, and no exiles,
and where everybody lived so placidly and demurely. She looked back now
upon The Laurels, Clapham, as the ideal home of repose and happiness. It was not at Clapham, however, that Madame Niaz (as she still called
herself) settled down, but in a quiet little Kentish village, where the
London branch of the Davids family had retired to spend their Russian
money. Frank Davids, the son of the house, was Olga's second cousin; and when
Olga had taken the pretty little rose-covered cottage at the end of the
village, Frank Davids found few things more pleasant in life than to
drop in of an afternoon and have a chat with his Russian kinswoman. Olga
lived there alone with her companion, and in spite of the terrible
scenes she had so lately gone through, she was still a girl, very young,
very attractive, and very pretty. What a wonderfully different life, the lawn-tennis with Frank and the
curate and the Davids girls up at the big house, from the terror and
isolation of the Buriat stronghold! Under the soothing influence of
that placid existence, Olga Davidoff began at last almost to outlive the
lasting effects of that one great horror. Stamped as it was into the
very fabric of her being, she felt it now less poignantly than of old,
and sometimes for an hour or two she even ventured to be careless and
happy. Yet all the time the awful spectre of that robber and murderer Niaz, who
was nevertheless still her wedded husband, rose up before her, day and
night, to prevent her happiness from being ever more than momentary. And Frank, too, was such a nice, good fellow! Frank had heard from
Madame Davidoff all her story (for madame had come over to see Olga
fairly settled), and he pitied her for her sad romance in such a kind,
brotherly fashion. Once, and once only, Frank said a word to her that was not exactly
brotherly. They were walking together down the footpath by the mill, and
Olga had been talking to him about that great terror, when Frank asked
her, in a quiet voice, "Olga, why don't you try to get a divorce from
that horrible Niaz?" Olga looked at him in blank astonishment, and asked in return, "Why,
Frank, what would be the use of that? It would never blot out the memory
of the past, or make that wretch any the less my wedded husband." "But, Olga, you need a protector sorely. You need somebody to soothe and
remove your lasting terror. And I think I know some one, Olga,--I know
some one who would give his whole life to save you, dearest, from a
single day's fear or unhappiness." Olga looked up at him like a startled child. "Frank," she cried, "dear,
dear Frank, you good cousin, never say again another word like that, or
you will make me afraid to walk with you or talk with you any longer. You are the one friend I have whom I can trust and confide in: don't
drive me away by talking to me of what is so impossible. I hate the
man: I loathe and abhor him with all my heart; but I can never forget
that he is still my husband. I have made my choice, and I must abide by
it. Frank, Frank, promise me,--promise me, that you will never again
speak upon the subject." Frank's face grew saddened in a moment with a terrible sadness; but he
said in a firm voice, "I promise," and he never broke his word from that
day onward. VI. Three years passed away quietly in the Kentish village, and every day
Olga's unreasoning terror of Niaz grew gradually fainter and fainter. If
she had known that Niaz had escaped from the mines, after eight months'
imprisonment, and made his way by means of his Tartar friends across the
passes to Tibet and Calcutta, she would not have allowed the sense of
security to grow so strong upon her. Meanwhile Frank, often in London, had picked up the acquaintance of a
certain M. de Vouillemont, a French gentleman much about at the clubs,
of whose delightful manners and wide acquaintance with the world and men
he was never tired of talking to Olga. "A most charming man, indeed, De
Vouillemont, and very anxious to come down here and see Hazelhurst. Besides, Olga, he has been even in Russia, and he knows how to talk
admirably about everybody and everything. I've asked him down for Friday
evening. Now, do, like a good girl, break your rule for once, and come
and dine with us, although there's to be a stranger. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
It's only one, you
know, and the girls would be so delighted if you'd help entertain him,
for he speaks hardly any English, and their French, poor things, is
horribly insular and boarding-schooly." At last, with much reluctance, Olga consented, and on the Friday she
went up to the big house at eight punctually. Mrs. Davids and the girls were not yet in the drawing-room when she
arrived; but M. de Vouillemont had dressed early, and was standing with
his back to the room, looking intently at some pictures on the wall, as
Olga entered. As she came in, and the servant shut the door behind her, the stranger
turned slowly. In a moment she recognized him. His complexion was
disguised, so as to make him look darker than before; his black
moustache was shaved off; his hair was differently cut and dressed; but
still, as he looked her in the face, she knew him at once. It was
Alexander Niaz! Petrified with fear, she could neither fly nor scream. She stood still
in the middle of the drawing-room, and stared at him fixedly in an agony
of terror. Niaz had evidently tracked her down, and come prepared for his horrid
revenge. Without a moment's delay, his face underwent a hideous change,
and from the cultivated European gentleman in evening clothes that he
looked when she entered, he was transformed as if by magic into a
grinning, gibbering Tartar savage, with his tongue lolling out once
more, as of old in Siberia, in hateful derision of her speechless
terror. Seizing her roughly by the arm, he dragged her after him, not so much
unresisting as rigid with horror, to the open fireplace. A marble fender
ran around the tiled hearth. Laying her down upon the rug as if she were
dead, he placed her small right hand with savage glee upon that
ready-made block, and then proceeded deliberately to take out a small
steel hatchet from inside his evening coat. Olga was too terrified even
to withdraw her hand. He raised the axe on high--it flashed a second in
the air--a smart throb of pain--a dreadful crunching of bone and
sinew--and Olga's hand fell white and lifeless upon the tiled
hearthplace. Without stopping to look at her for a second, he took it
up brutally in his own, and flung it with a horrible oath into the
blazing fire. At that moment, the door opened, and Frank entered. Olga, lying faint and bleeding on the hearth rug, was just able to look
up at him imploringly and utter in a sharp cry of alarm the one word
"Niaz." Frank sprang upon him like an angry lion. "I told her her hand should pay the penalty," the Tartar cried, with a
horrible joy bursting wildly from his livid features; "and now it burns
in the fire over yonder, as she herself shall burn next minute for ever
and ever in fire and brimstone." As he spoke he drew a pistol from his pocket, and pointed it at her with
his finger on the trigger. Next moment, before he could fire, Frank had seized his hand, flung the
pistol to the farther end of the drawing-room, and forced the Tartar
down upon the floor in a terrible life-and-death struggle. Niaz's face, already livid, grew purpler and purpler as they wrestled
with one another on the carpet in that deadly effort. His wrath and
vindictiveness gave a mad energy to his limbs and muscles. Should he be
baulked of his fair revenge at last? Should the woman who had betrayed
him escape scot-free with just the loss of a hand, and he himself merely
exchange a Siberian for an English prison? No, no, never! by St.
Nicholas, never! Ha, madame! I will murder you both! The pistol! the
pistol! A thousand devils! let me go! I will kill you yet! I will kill
you! I will kill you! Then he gasped, and grew blacker and
purpler--blacker and purpler--blacker--blacker--blacker--ever blacker. Presently he gasped again. Frank's hand was now upon his mumbling
throat. They rolled over and over in their frantic struggles. Then a
long, slow inspiration. After that, his muscles relaxed. Frank loosed
him a little, but knelt upon his breast heavily still, lest he should
rise again in another paroxysm. But no: he lay quite motionless--quite
motionless, and never stirred a single finger. Frank felt his heart--no movement; his pulse--quite quiet; his lips--not
a breath perceptible! Then he rose, faint and staggoring, and rang for
the servants. When the doctor came hurriedly from the village to bandage up the
Russian lady's arm, he immediately pronounced that M. de Vouillemont was
dead--stone dead--not a doubt about it. Probably apoplexy under stress
of violent emotion. The inquest was a good deal hushed up, owing to the exceedingly painful
circumstances of the case; and to this day very few people about Torquay
(where she now lives) know how Mrs. Frank Davids, the quiet lady who
dresses herself always in black, and has such a beautiful softened
half-frightened expression, came to lose her right hand. But everybody
knows that Mr. Davids is tenderness itself to her, and that she loves
him in return with the most absolute and childlike devotion. It was worth cutting off her right hand, after all, to be rid of that
awful spectre of Niaz, and to have gained the peaceful love of Frank
Davids. _JOHN CANN'S TREASURE._
Cecil Mitford sat at a desk in the Record Office with a stained and
tattered sheet of dark dirty-brown antique paper spread before him in
triumph, and with an eager air of anxious inquiry speaking forth from
every line in his white face and every convulsive twitch at the
irrepressible corners of his firm pallid mouth. Yes, there was no doubt
at all about it; the piece of torn and greasy paper which he had at last
discovered was nothing more or less than John Cann's missing letter. For
two years Cecil Mitford had given up all his spare time, day and night,
to the search for that lost fragment of crabbed seventeenth-century
handwriting; and now at length, after so many disappointments and so
much fruitless anxious hunting, the clue to the secret of John Cann's
treasure was lying there positively before him. The young man's hand
trembled violently as he held the paper fast unopened in his feverish
grasp, and read upon its back the autograph endorsement of Charles the
Second's Secretary of State--"Letter in cypher from Io. Cann, the noted
Buccaneer, to his brother Will'm, intercepted at Port Royal by his
Ma'ties command, and despatched by General Ed. D'Oyley, his Ma'ties
Captain-Gen'l and Governor-in-Chief of the Island of Jamaica, to me,
H. NICHOLAS." That was it, beyond the shadow of a doubt; and though
Cecil Mitford had still to apply to the cypher John Cann's own written
key, and to find out the precise import of the directions it contained,
he felt at that moment that the secret was now at last virtually
discovered, and that John Cann's untold thousands of buried wealth were
potentially his very own already. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
He was only a clerk in the Colonial Office, was Cecil Mitford, on a
beggarly income of a hundred and eighty a year--how small it seemed now,
when John Cann's money was actually floating before his mind's eye; but
he had brains and industry and enterprise after a fitful adventurous
fashion of his own; and he had made up his mind years before that he
would find out the secret of John Cann's buried treasure, if he had to
spend half a lifetime on the almost hopeless quest. As a boy, Cecil
Mitford had been brought up at his father's rectory on the slopes of
Dartmoor, and there he had played from his babyhood upward among the
rugged granite boulders of John Cann's rocks, and had heard from the
farm labourers and the other children around the romantic but perfectly
historical legend of John Cann's treasure. Unknown and incredible sums
in Mexican doubloons and Spanish dollars lay guarded by a strong oaken
chest in a cavern on the hilltop, long since filled up with flints and
mould from the neighbouring summits. To that secure hiding-place the
great buccaneer had committed the hoard gathered in his numberless
piratical expeditions, burying all together under the shadow of a petty
porphyritic tor that overhangs the green valley of Bovey Tracy. Beside
the bare rocks that mark the site, a perfectly distinct pathway is worn
by footsteps into the granite platform underfoot; and that path, little
Cecil Mitford had heard with childish awe and wonder, was cut out by the
pacing up and down of old John Cann himself, mounting guard in the
darkness and solitude over the countless treasure that he had hidden
away in the recesses of the pixies' hole beneath. As young Mitford grew up to man's estate, this story of John Cann's
treasure haunted his quick imagination for many years with wonderful
vividness. When he first came up to London, after his father's death,
and took his paltry clerkship in the Colonial Office--how he hated the
place, with its monotonous drudgery, while John Cann's wealth was only
waiting for him to take it and floating visibly before his prophetic
eyes!--the story began for a while to fade out under the disillusioning
realities of respectable poverty and a petty Government post. But before
he had been many months in the West India department (he had a small
room on the third floor, overlooking Downing Street) a casual discovery
made in overhauling the archives of the office suddenly revived the
boyish dream with all the added realism and cool intensity of maturer
years. He came across a letter from John Cann himself to the Protector
Oliver, detailing the particulars of a fierce irregular engagement with
a Spanish privateer, in which the Spaniard had been captured with much
booty, and his vessel duly sold to the highest bidder in Port Royal
harbour. This curious coincidence gave a great shock of surprise to
young Mitford. John Cann, then, was no mythical prehistoric hero, no
fairy-king or pixy or barrow-haunter of the popular fancy, but an actual
genuine historical figure, who corresponded about his daring exploits
with no less a personage than Oliver himself! From that moment forth,
Cecil Mitford gave himself up almost entirely to tracing out the
forgotten history of the old buccaneer. He allowed no peace to the
learned person who took care of the State Papers of the Commonwealth at
the Record Office, and he established private relations, by letter, with
two or three clerks in the Colonial Secretary's Office at Kingston,
Jamaica, whom he induced to help him in reconstructing the lost story of
John Cann's life. Bit by bit Cecil Mitford had slowly pieced together a wonderful mass of
information, buried under piles of ragged manuscript and weary reams of
dusty documents, about the days and doings of that ancient terror of the
Spanish Main. John Cann was a Devonshire lad, of the rollicking, roving
seventeenth century, born and bred at Bovey Tracy, on the flanks of
Dartmoor, the last survivor of those sea-dogs of Devon who had sallied
forth to conquer and explore a new Continent under the guidance of
Drake, and Raleigh, and Frobisher, and Hawkins. As a boy, he had sailed
with his father in a ship that bore the Queen's letters of marque and
reprisal against the Spanish galleons; in his middle life, he had lived
a strange roaming existence--half pirate and half privateer, intent upon
securing the Protestant religion and punishing the King's enemies by
robbing wealthy Spanish skippers and cutting off the recusant noses of
vile Papistical Cuban slave traders; in his latter days, the fierce,
half-savage old mariner had relapsed into sheer robbery, and had been
hunted down as a public enemy by the Lord Protector's servants, or later
still by the Captains-General and Governors-in-Chief of his Most Sacred
Majesty's Dominions in the West Indies. For what was legitimate warfare
in the spacious days of great Elizabeth, had come to be regarded in the
degenerate reign of Charles II. as rank piracy. One other thing Cecil Mitford had discovered, with absolute certainty;
and that was that in the summer of 1660, "the year of his Ma'tie's
most happy restoration," as John Cann himself phrased it, the persecuted
and much misunderstood old buccaneer had paid a secret visit to England,
and had brought with him the whole hoard which he had accumulated during
sixty years of lawful or unlawful piracy in the West Indies and the
Spanish Main. Concerning this hoard, which he had concealed somewhere in
Devonshire, he kept up a brisk vernacular correspondence in cypher with
his brother William, at Tavistock; and the key to that cypher, marked
outside "A clew to my Bro. John's secret writing," Cecil Mitford had
been fortunate enough to unearth among the undigested masses of the
Record Office. But one letter, the last and most important of the whole
series, containing as he believed the actual statement of the
hiding-place, had long evaded all his research: and that was the letter
which, now at last, after months and months of patient inquiry, lay
unfolded before his dazzled eyes on the little desk in his accustomed
corner. It had somehow been folded up by mistake in the papers relating
to the charge against Cyriack Skinner, of complicity in the Rye House
Plot. How it got there nobody knows, and probably nobody but Cecil
Mitford himself could ever have succeeded in solving the mystery. As he gazed, trembling, at the precious piece of dusty much-creased
paper, scribbled over in the unlettered schoolboy hand of the wild old
sea-dog, Cecil Mitford could hardly restrain himself for a moment from
uttering a cry. Untold wealth swam before his eyes: he could marry Ethel
now, and let her drive in her own carriage! Ah, what he would give if he
might only shout in his triumph. He couldn't even read the words, he was
so excited. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
But after a minute or two, he recovered his composure
sufficiently to begin deciphering the crabbed writing, which constant
practice and familiarity with the system enabled him to do immediately,
without even referring to the key. And this was what, with a few
minutes' inspection, Cecil Mitford slowly spelled out of the dirty
manuscript:--
"From Jamaica. This 23rd day of Jan'y,
"in the Yeare of our Lord 1663. "My deare Bro.,--I did not think to have written you againe, after
the scurvie Trick you have played me in disclosing my Affairs to
that meddlesome Knight that calls himself the King's Secretary: but
in truth your last Letter hath so moved me by your Vileness that I
must needs reply thereto with all Expedicion. These are to assure
you, then, that let you pray how you may, or gloze over your base
treatment with fine cozening Words and fair Promises, you shall
have neither lot nor scot in my Threasure, which is indeed as you
surmise hidden away in England, but the Secret whereof I shall
impart neither to you nor to no man. I have give commands,
therefore that the Paper whereunto I have committed the place of
its hiding shall be buried with my own Body (when God please) in
the grave-yarde at Port Royal in this Island: so that you shall
never be bettered one Penny by your most Damnable Treachery and
Double-facedness. For I know you, my deare Bro., in very truth for
a prating Coxcomb, a scurvie cowardlie Knave, and a lying Thief of
other Men's Reputations. Therefore, no more herewith from your very
humble Ser'vt., and Loving Bro.,
"IOHN CANN, Capt'n"
Cecil Mitford laid the paper down as he finished reading it with a face
even whiter and paler than before, and with the muscles of his mouth
trembling violently with suppressed emotion. At the exact second when he
felt sure he had discovered the momentous secret, it had slipped
mysteriously through his very fingers, and seemed now to float away into
the remote distance, almost as far from his eager grasp as ever. Even
there, in the musty Record Office, before all the clerks and scholars
who were sitting about working carelessly at their desks at mere
dilettante historical problems--the stupid prigs, how he hated them!--he
could hardly restrain the expression of his pent-up feelings at that
bitter disappointment in the very hour of his fancied triumph. Jamaica! How absolutely distant and unapproachable it sounded! How hopeless the
attempt to follow up the clue! How utterly his day-dream had been dashed
to the ground in those three minutes of silent deciphering! He felt as
if the solid earth was reeling beneath him, and he would have given the
whole world if he could have put his face between his two hands on the
desk and cried like a woman before the whole Record Office. For half an hour by the clock he sat there dazed and motionless, gazing
in a blank disappointed fashion at the sheet of coffee-coloured paper in
front of him. It was late, and workers were dropping away one after
another from the scantily peopled desks. But Cecil Mitford took no
notice of them: he merely sat with his arms folded, and gazed
abstractedly at that disappointing, disheartening, irretrievable piece
of crabbed writing. At last an assistant came up and gently touched his
arm. "We're going to close now, sir," he said in his unfeeling official
tone--just as if it were a mere bit of historical inquiry he was
after--"and I shall be obliged if you'll put back the manuscripts you've
been consulting into F. 27." Cecil Mitford rose mechanically and sorted
out the Cyriack Skinner papers into their proper places. Then he laid
them quietly on the shelf, and walked out into the streets of London,
for the moment a broken-hearted man. But as he walked home alone that clear warm summer evening, and felt the
cool breeze blowing against his forehead, he began to reflect to himself
that, after all, all was not lost; that in fact things really stood
better with him now than they had stood that very morning, before he
lighted upon John Cann's last letter. He had not discovered the actual
hiding-place of the hoard, to be sure, but he now knew on John Cann's
own indisputable authority, first, that there really was a hidden
treasure; second, that the hiding-place was really in England; and
third, that full particulars as to the spot where it was buried might be
found in John Cann's own coffin at Port Royal, Jamaica. It was a risky
and difficult thing to open a coffin, no doubt; but it was not
impossible. No, not impossible. On the whole, putting one thing with
another, in spite of his terrible galling disappointment, he was really
nearer to the recovery of the treasure now than he had ever been in his
life before. Till to-day, the final clue was missing; to-day, it had
been found. It was a difficult and dangerous clue to follow, but still
it had been found. And yet, setting aside the question of desecrating a grave, how all but
impossible it was for him to get to Jamaica! His small funds had long
ago been exhausted in prosecuting the research, and he had nothing on
earth to live upon now but his wretched salary. Even if he could get
three or six months' leave from the Colonial Office, which was highly
improbable, how could he ever raise the necessary money for his passage
out and home, as well as for the delicate and doubtful operation of
searching for documents in John Cann's coffin? It was tantalising, it
was horrible, it was unendurable; but here, with the secret actually
luring him on to discover it, he was to be foiled and baffled at the
last moment by a mere paltry, petty, foolish consideration of two
hundred pounds! Two hundred pounds! How utterly ludicrous! Why, John
Cann's treasure would make him a man of fabulous wealth for a whole
lifetime, and he was to be prevented from realizing it by a wretched
matter of two hundred pounds! He would do anything to get it--for a
loan, a mere loan; to be repaid with cent. per cent. interest; but where
in the world, where in the world, was he ever to get it from? And then, quick as lightning, the true solution of the whole difficulty
flashed at once across his excited brain. He could borrow all the money
if he chose from Ethel! Poor little Ethel; she hadn't much of her own;
but she had just enough to live very quietly upon with her Aunt Emily;
and, thank Heaven, it wasn't tied up with any of those bothering,
meddling three-per-cent.-loving trustees! She had her little all at her
own disposal, and he could surely get two or three hundred pounds from
her to secure for them both the boundless buried wealth of John Cann's
treasure. Should he make her a confidante outright, and tell her what it was that
he wanted the money for? | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
No, that would be impossible, for though she
had heard all about John Cann over and over again, she had not faith
enough in the treasure--women are so unpractical--to hazard her little
scrap of money on it; of that he felt certain. She would go and ask old
Mr. Cartwright's opinion; and old Mr. Cartwright was one of those
penny-wise, purblind, unimaginative old gentlemen who will never believe
in anything until they've seen it. Yet here was John Cann's money going
a-begging, so to speak, and only waiting for him and Ethel to come and
enjoy it. Cecil had no patience with those stupid, stick-in-the-mud,
timid people who can see no further than their own noses. For Ethel's
own sake he would borrow two or three hundred pounds from her, one way
or another, and she would easily forgive him the harmless little
deception when he paid her back a hundredfold out of John Cann's
boundless treasure. II. That very evening, without a minute's delay, Cecil determined to go
round and have a talk with Ethel Sunderland. "Strike while the iron's
hot," he said to himself. "There isn't a minute to be lost; for who
knows but somebody else may find John Cann's treasure before I do?" Ethel opened the door to him herself; theirs was an old engagement of
long standing, after the usual Government clerk's fashion; and Aunt
Emily didn't stand out so stiffly as many old maids do for the regular
proprieties. Very pretty Ethel looked with her pale face and the red
ribbon in her hair; very pretty, but Cecil feared, as he looked into
her dark hazel eyes, a little wearied and worn-out, for it was her
music-lesson day, as he well remembered. Her music-lesson day! Ethel
Sutherland to give music-lessons to some wretched squealing children at
the West-end, when all John Cann's wealth was lying there, uncounted,
only waiting for him and her to take it and enjoy it! The bare thought
was a perfect purgatory to him. He must get that two hundred pounds
to-night, or give up the enterprise altogether. "Well, Ethel darling," he said tenderly, taking her pretty little hand
in his; "you look tired, dearest. Those horrid children have been
bothering you again. How I wish we were married, and you were well out
of it!" Ethel smiled a quiet smile of resignation. "They _are_ rather trying,
Cecil," she said gently, "especially on days when one has got a
headache; but, after all, I'm very glad to have the work to do; it helps
such a lot to eke out our little income. We have so _very_ little, you
know, even for two lonely women to live upon in simple little lodgings
like these, that I'm thankful I can do something to help dear Aunt
Emily, who's really goodness itself. You see, after all, I get very well
paid indeed for the lessons." "Ethel," Cecil Mitford said suddenly, thinking it better to dash at once
into the midst of business; "I've come round this evening to talk with
you about a means by which you can add a great deal with perfect safety
to your little income. Not by lessons, Ethel darling; not by lessons. I
can't bear to see you working away the pretty tips off those dear little
fingers of yours with strumming scales on the piano for a lot of stupid,
gawky school-girls; it's by a much simpler way than that; I know of a
perfectly safe investment for that three hundred that you've got in New
Zealand Four per Cents. Can you not have heard that New Zealand
securities are in a very shaky way just at present?" "Very shaky, Cecil?" Ethel answered in surprise. "Why, Mr. Cartwright
told me only a week ago they were as safe as the Bank of England!" "Mr. Cartwright's an ignorant old martinet," Cecil replied vigorously. "He thinks because the stock's inscribed and the dividends are payable
in Threadneedle Street that the colony of New Zealand's perfectly
solvent. Now, I'm in the Colonial Office, and I know a great deal better
than that. New Zealand has over-borrowed, I assure you; quite
over-borrowed; and a serious fall is certain to come sooner or later. Mark my words, Ethel darling; if you don't sell out those New Zealand
Fours, you'll find your three hundred has sunk to a hundred and fifty in
rather less than half no time!" Ethel hesitated, and looked at him in astonishment. "That's very queer,"
she said, "for Mr. Cartwright wants me to sell out my little bit of
Midland and put it all into the same New Zealands. He says they're so
safe and pay so well." "Mr. Cartwright indeed!" Cecil cried contemptuously. "What means on
earth has he of knowing? Didn't he advise you to buy nothing but three
per cents., and then let you get some Portuguese Threes at fifty, which
are really sixes, and exceedingly doubtful securities? What's the use of
trusting a man like that, I should like to know? No, Ethel, if you'll be
guided by me--and I have special opportunities of knowing about these
things at the Colonial Office--you'll sell out your New Zealands, and
put them into a much better investment that I can tell you about. And if
I were you, I'd say nothing about it to Mr. Cartwright." "But, Cecil, I never did anything in business before without consulting
him! I should be afraid of going quite wrong." Cecil took her hand in his with real tenderness. Though he was trying to
deceive her--for her own good--he loved her dearly in his heart of
hearts, and hated himself for the deception he was remorsefully
practising upon her. Yet, for her sake, he would go through with it. "You must get accustomed to trusting me instead of him, darling," he
said softly. "When you are mine for ever, as I hope you will be soon,
you will take my advice, of course, in all such matters, won't you? And
you may as well begin by taking it now. I have great hopes, Ethel, that
before very long my circumstances will be so much improved that I shall
be able to marry you--I hardly know how quickly; perhaps even before
next Christmas. But meanwhile, darling, I have something to break to you
that I dare say will grieve you a little for the moment, though it's for
your ultimate good, birdie--for your ultimate good. The Colonial Office
people have selected me to go to Jamaica on some confidential Government
business, which may keep me there for three months or so. It's a
dreadful thing to be away from you so long, Ethel; but if I manage the
business successfully--and I shall, I know--I shall get promoted when I
come back, well promoted, perhaps to the chief clerkship in the
Department; and then we could marry comfortably almost at once." "To Jamaica! Oh, Cecil! How awfully far! And suppose you were to get
yellow fever or something." "But I won't, Ethel; I promise you I won't, and I'll guarantee it with a
kiss, birdie; so now, that's settled. And then, consider the promotion! Only three months, probably, and when I come back, we can be actually
married. It's a wonderful stroke of luck, and I only heard of it this
morning. I couldn't rest till I came and told you." Ethel wiped a tear away silently, and only answered, "If you're glad,
Cecil dearest, I'm glad too." | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |
"Well now, Ethel," Cecil Mitford went on as gaily as he could, "that
brings me up to the second point. I want you to sell out these wretched
New Zealands, so as to take the money with me to invest on good
mortgages in Jamaica. My experience in West Indian matters--after three
years in the Department--will enable me to lay it out for you at nine
per cent.--nine per cent., observe, Ethel,--on absolute security of
landed property. Planters want money to improve their estates, and can't
get it at less than that rate. Your three hundred would bring you in
twenty-seven pounds, Ethel; twenty-seven pounds is a lot of money!" What could poor Ethel do? In his plausible, affectionate manner--and all
for her own good, too--Cecil talked her over quickly between love and
business experience, coaxing kisses and nine per cent. interest,
endearing names and knowledge of West Indian affairs, till helpless
little Ethel willingly promised to give up her poor little three
hundred, and even arranged to meet Cecil secretly on Thursday at the
Bank of England, about Colonial Office dinner-hour, to effect the
transfer on her own account, without saying a single word about it to
Aunt Emily or Mr. Cartwright. Cecil's conscience--for he _had_ a
conscience, though he did his best to stifle it--gave him a bitter
twinge every now and then, as one question after another drove him time
after time into a fresh bit of deceit; but he tried to smile and smile
and be a villain as unconcernedly and lightly as possible. Once only
towards the end of the evening, when everything was settled, and Cecil
had talked about his passage, and the important business with which he
was entrusted, at full length, a gleam of suspicion seemed to flash for
a single second across poor Ethel's deluded little brains. Jamaica--promotion--three hundred pounds--it was all so sudden and so
connected; could Cecil himself be trying to deceive her, and using her
money for his wild treasure hunt? The doubt was horrible, degrading,
unworthy of her or him; and yet somehow for a single moment she could
not help half-unconsciously entertaining it. "Cecil," she said, hesitating, and looking into the very depths of his
truthful blue eyes; "you're not concealing anything from me, are you? It's not some journey connected with John Cann?" Cecil coughed and cleared his throat uneasily, but by a great effort he
kept his truthful blue eyes still fixed steadily on hers. (He would have
given the world if he might have turned them away, but that would have
been to throw up the game incontinently.) "My darling Ethel," he said
evasively, "how on earth could the Colonial Office have anything to do
with John Cann?" "Answer me 'yes' or 'no,' Cecil. Do please answer me 'yes' or 'no.'" Cecil kept his eyes still fixed immovably on hers, and without a
moment's hesitation answered quickly "no." It was an awful wrench, and
his lips could hardly frame the horrid falsehood, but for Ethel's sake
he answered "no." "Then I know I can trust you, Cecil," she said, laying her head for
forgiveness on his shoulder. "Oh, how wrong it was of me to doubt you
for a second!" Cecil sighed uneasily, and kissed her white forehead without a single
word. "After all," he thought to himself, as he walked back to his lonely
lodgings late that evening, "I need never tell her anything about it. I
can pretend, when I've actually got John Cann's treasure, that I came
across the clue accidently while I was in Jamaica; and I can lay out
three hundred of it there in mortgages; and she need never know a single
word about my innocent little deception. But indeed in the pride and
delight of so much money, all our own, she'll probably never think at
all of her poor little paltry three hundred." III. It was an awfully long time, that eighteen days at sea, on the Royal
Mail Steamship _Don_, bound for Kingston, Jamaica, with John Cann's
secret for ever on one's mind, and nothing to do all day, by way of
outlet for one's burning energy, but to look, hour after hour, at the
monotonous face of the seething water. But at last the journey was over;
and before Cecil Mitford had been twenty-four hours at Date Tree Hall,
the chief hotel in Kingston, he had already hired a boat and sailed
across the baking hot harbour to Port Royal, to look in the dreary,
sandy cemetery for any sign or token of John Cann's grave. An old grey-haired negro, digging at a fresh grave, had charge of the
cemetery, and to him Cecil Mitford at once addressed himself, to find
out whether any tombstone about the place bore the name of John Cann. The old man turned the name over carefully in his stolid brains, and
then shook his heavy grey head with a decided negative. "Massa John
Cann, sah," he said dubiously, "Massa John Cann; it don't nobody buried
here by de name ob Massa John Cann. I sartin, sah, becase I's sexton in
dis here cemetry dese fifty year, an' I know de grabe ob ebbery buckra
gentleman dat ebber buried here since I fuss came." Cecil Mitford tossed his head angrily. "Since _you_ first came, my good
man," he said with deep contempt. "Since you first came! Why, John Cann
was buried here ages and ages before you yourself were ever born or
thought of." The old negro looked up at him inquiringly. There is nothing a negro
hates like contempt; and he answered back with a disdainful tone, "Den I
can find out if him ebber was buried here at all, as well as you, sah. We has register here, we don't ignorant heathen. I has register in de
church ob every pusson dat ebber buried in dis cemetry from de berry
beginnin--from de year ob de great earthquake itself. What year dis
Massa John Cann him die, now? What year him die?" Cecil pricked up his ears at the mention of the register, and answered
eagerly, "In the year 1669." The old negro sat down quietly on a flat tomb, and answered with a smile
of malicious triumph, "Den you is ignorant know-nuffin pusson for a
buckra gentleman, for true, sah, if you tink you will find him grabe in
dis here cemetry. Don't you nebber read your history book, dat all Port
Royal drowned in de great earthquake ob de year 1692? We has register
here for ebbery year, from de year 1692 downward; but de grabes, and de
cemetry, and de register, from de year 1692 upward, him all swallowed up
entirely in de great earthquake, bress de Lord!" Cecil Mitford felt the earth shivering beneath him at that moment, as
verily as the Port Royal folk had felt it shiver in 1692. He clutched at
the headstone to keep him from falling, and sat down hazily on the flat
tomb, beside the grey-headed old negro, like one unmanned and utterly
disheartened. It was all only too true. With his intimate knowledge of
John Cann's life, and of West Indian affairs generally, how on earth
could he ever have overlooked it? John Cann's grave lay buried five
fathoms deep, no doubt, under the blue waters of the Caribbean. | Allen, Grant - The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories |