The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Merry Men, by Robert Louis Stevenson


This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org





Title: The Merry Men
       and Other Tales and Fables


Author: Robert Louis Stevenson



Release Date: February 28, 2007  [eBook #344]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY MEN***




Transcribed from the 1904 edition Chatto & Windus edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org





THE MERRY MEN
AND
Other Tales and Fables


BY
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

TENTH EDITION

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1904

Three of the following Tales have appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_;
one in _Longman's_; one in Mr. Henry Norman's Christmas Annual; and one
in the _Court and Society Review_.  The Author desires to make proper
acknowledgements to the Publishers concerned.




Dedication


_MY DEAR LADY TAYLOR_,

_To your name_, _if I wrote on brass_, _I could add nothing_; _it has
been already written higher than I could dream to reach_, _by a strong
and dear hand_; _and if I now dedicate to you these tales_, _it is not as
the writer who brings you his work_, _but as the friend who would remind
you of his affection_.

_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON_

SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH.




Contents


The Merry Men

    i.    Eilean Aros

    ii.   What the wreck had brought to Aros

    iii.  Land and sea in Sandag Bay

    iv.   The gale

    v.    A man out of the sea

Will o' the Mill

Markheim

Thrawn Janet

Olalla

The Treasure of Franchard

    i.    By the dying Mountebank

    ii.   Morning tale

    iii.  The adoption

    iv.   The education of the philosopher

    v.    Treasure trove

    vi.   A criminal investigation, in two parts

    vii.  The fall of the House of Desprez

    viii. The wages of philosophy




THE MERRY MEN


CHAPTER I.  EILEAN AROS.


It was a beautiful morning in the late July when I set forth on foot for
the last time for Aros.  A boat had put me ashore the night before at
Grisapol; I had such breakfast as the little inn afforded, and, leaving
all my baggage till I had an occasion to come round for it by sea, struck
right across the promontory with a cheerful heart.

I was far from being a native of these parts, springing, as I did, from
an unmixed lowland stock.  But an uncle of mine, Gordon Darnaway, after a
poor, rough youth, and some years at sea, had married a young wife in the
islands; Mary Maclean she was called, the last of her family; and when
she died in giving birth to a daughter, Aros, the sea-girt farm, had
remained in his possession.  It brought him in nothing but the means of
life, as I was well aware; but he was a man whom ill-fortune had pursued;
he feared, cumbered as he was with the young child, to make a fresh
adventure upon life; and remained in Aros, biting his nails at destiny.
Years passed over his head in that isolation, and brought neither help
nor contentment.  Meantime our family was dying out in the lowlands;
there is little luck for any of that race; and perhaps my father was the
luckiest of all, for not only was he one of the last to die, but he left
a son to his name and a little money to support it.  I was a student of
Edinburgh University, living well enough at my own charges, but without
kith or kin; when some news of me found its way to Uncle Gordon on the
Ross of Grisapol; and he, as he was a man who held blood thicker than
water, wrote to me the day he heard of my existence, and taught me to
count Aros as my home.  Thus it was that I came to spend my vacations in
that part of the country, so far from all society and comfort, between
the codfish and the moorcocks; and thus it was that now, when I had done
with my classes, I was returning thither with so light a heart that July
day.

The Ross, as we call it, is a promontory neither wide nor high, but as
rough as God made it to this day; the deep sea on either hand of it, full
of rugged isles and reefs most perilous to seamen--all overlooked from
the eastward by some very high cliffs and the great peals of Ben Kyaw.
_The Mountain of the Mist_, they say the words signify in the Gaelic
tongue; and it is well named.  For that hill-top, which is more than
three thousand feet in height, catches all the clouds that come blowing
from the seaward; and, indeed, I used often to think that it must make
them for itself; since when all heaven was clear to the sea level, there
would ever be a streamer on Ben Kyaw.  It brought water, too, and was
mossy {5} to the top in consequence.  I have seen us sitting in broad
sunshine on the Ross, and the rain falling black like crape upon the
mountain.  But the wetness of it made it often appear more beautiful to
my eyes; for when the sun struck upon the hill sides, there were many wet
rocks and watercourses that shone like jewels even as far as Aros,
fifteen miles away.

The road that I followed was a cattle-track.  It twisted so as nearly to
double the length of my journey; it went over rough boulders so that a
man had to leap from one to another, and through soft bottoms where the
moss came nearly to the knee.  There was no cultivation anywhere, and not
one house in the ten miles from Grisapol to Aros.  Houses of course there
were--three at least; but they lay so far on the one side or the other
that no stranger could have found them from the track.  A large part of
the Ross is covered with big granite rocks, some of them larger than a
two-roomed house, one beside another, with fern and deep heather in
between them where the vipers breed.  Anyway the wind was, it was always
sea air, as salt as on a ship; the gulls were as free as moorfowl over
all the Ross; and whenever the way rose a little, your eye would kindle
with the brightness of the sea.  From the very midst of the land, on a
day of wind and a high spring, I have heard the Roost roaring, like a
battle where it runs by Aros, and the great and fearful voices of the
breakers that we call the Merry Men.

Aros itself--Aros Jay, I have heard the natives call it, and they say it
means _the House of God_--Aros itself was not properly a piece of the
Ross, nor was it quite an islet.  It formed the south-west corner of the
land, fitted close to it, and was in one place only separated from the
coast by a little gut of the sea, not forty feet across the narrowest.
When the tide was full, this was clear and still, like a pool on a land
river; only there was a difference in the weeds and fishes, and the water
itself was green instead of brown; but when the tide went out, in the
bottom of the ebb, there was a day or two in every month when you could
pass dryshod from Aros to the mainland.  There was some good pasture,
where my uncle fed the sheep he lived on; perhaps the feed was better
because the ground rose higher on the islet than the main level of the
Ross, but this I am not skilled enough to settle.  The house was a good
one for that country, two storeys high.  It looked westward over a bay,
with a pier hard by for a boat, and from the door you could watch the
vapours blowing on Ben Kyaw.

On all this part of the coast, and especially near Aros, these great
granite rocks that I have spoken of go down together in troops into the
sea, like cattle on a summer's day.  There they stand, for all the world
like their neighbours ashore; only the salt water sobbing between them
instead of the quiet earth, and clots of sea-pink blooming on their sides
instead of heather; and the great sea conger to wreathe about the base of
them instead of the poisonous viper of the land.  On calm days you can go
wandering between them in a boat for hours, echoes following you about
the labyrinth; but when the sea is up, Heaven help the man that hears
that cauldron boiling.

Off the south-west end of Aros these blocks are very many, and much
greater in size.  Indeed, they must grow monstrously bigger out to sea,
for there must be ten sea miles of open water sown with them as thick as
a country place with houses, some standing thirty feet above the tides,
some covered, but all perilous to ships; so that on a clear, westerly
blowing day, I have counted, from the top of Aros, the great rollers
breaking white and heavy over as many as six-and-forty buried reefs.  But
it is nearer in shore that the danger is worst; for the tide, here
running like a mill race, makes a long belt of broken water--a _Roost_ we
call it--at the tail of the land.  I have often been out there in a dead
calm at the slack of the tide; and a strange place it is, with the sea
swirling and combing up and boiling like the cauldrons of a linn, and now
and again a little dancing mutter of sound as though the _Roost_ were
talking to itself.  But when the tide begins to run again, and above all
in heavy weather, there is no man could take a boat within half a mile of
it, nor a ship afloat that could either steer or live in such a place.
You can hear the roaring of it six miles away.  At the seaward end there
comes the strongest of the bubble; and it's here that these big breakers
dance together--the dance of death, it may be called--that have got the
name, in these parts, of the Merry Men.  I have heard it said that they
run fifty feet high; but that must be the green water only, for the spray
runs twice as high as that.  Whether they got the name from their
movements, which are swift and antic, or from the shouting they make
about the turn of the tide, so that all Aros shakes with it, is more than
I can tell.

The truth is, that in a south-westerly wind, that part of our archipelago
is no better than a trap.  If a ship got through the reefs, and weathered
the Merry Men, it would be to come ashore on the south coast of Aros, in
Sandag Bay, where so many dismal things befell our family, as I propose
to tell.  The thought of all these dangers, in the place I knew so long,
makes me particularly welcome the works now going forward to set lights
upon the headlands and buoys along the channels of our iron-bound,
inhospitable islands.

The country people had many a story about Aros, as I used to hear from my
uncle's man, Rorie, an old servant of the Macleans, who had transferred
his services without afterthought on the occasion of the marriage.  There
was some tale of an unlucky creature, a sea-kelpie, that dwelt and did
business in some fearful manner of his own among the boiling breakers of
the Roost.  A mermaid had once met a piper on Sandag beach, and there
sang to him a long, bright midsummer's night, so that in the morning he
was found stricken crazy, and from thenceforward, till the day he died,
said only one form of words; what they were in the original Gaelic I
cannot tell, but they were thus translated: 'Ah, the sweet singing out of
the sea.'  Seals that haunted on that coast have been known to speak to
man in his own tongue, presaging great disasters.  It was here that a
certain saint first landed on his voyage out of Ireland to convert the
Hebrideans.  And, indeed, I think he had some claim to be called saint;
for, with the boats of that past age, to make so rough a passage, and
land on such a ticklish coast, was surely not far short of the
miraculous.  It was to him, or to some of his monkish underlings who had
a cell there, that the islet owes its holy and beautiful name, the House
of God.

Among these old wives' stories there was one which I was inclined to hear
with more credulity.  As I was told, in that tempest which scattered the
ships of the Invincible Armada over all the north and west of Scotland,
one great vessel came ashore on Aros, and before the eyes of some
solitary people on a hill-top, went down in a moment with all hands, her
colours flying even as she sank.  There was some likelihood in this tale;
for another of that fleet lay sunk on the north side, twenty miles from
Grisapol.  It was told, I thought, with more detail and gravity than its
companion stories, and there was one particularity which went far to
convince me of its truth: the name, that is, of the ship was still
remembered, and sounded, in my ears, Spanishly.  The _Espirito Santo_
they called it, a great ship of many decks of guns, laden with treasure
and grandees of Spain, and fierce soldadoes, that now lay fathom deep to
all eternity, done with her wars and voyages, in Sandag bay, upon the
west of Aros.  No more salvos of ordnance for that tall ship, the 'Holy
Spirit,' no more fair winds or happy ventures; only to rot there deep in
the sea-tangle and hear the shoutings of the Merry Men as the tide ran
high about the island.  It was a strange thought to me first and last,
and only grew stranger as I learned the more of Spain, from which she had
set sail with so proud a company, and King Philip, the wealthy king, that
sent her on that voyage.

And now I must tell you, as I walked from Grisapol that day, the
_Espirito Santo_ was very much in my reflections.  I had been favourably
remarked by our then Principal in Edinburgh College, that famous writer,
Dr. Robertson, and by him had been set to work on some papers of an
ancient date to rearrange and sift of what was worthless; and in one of
these, to my great wonder, I found a note of this very ship, the
_Espirito Santo_, with her captain's name, and how she carried a great
part of the Spaniard's treasure, and had been lost upon the Ross of
Grisapol; but in what particular spot, the wild tribes of that place and
period would give no information to the king's inquiries.  Putting one
thing with another, and taking our island tradition together with this
note of old King Jamie's perquisitions after wealth, it had come strongly
on my mind that the spot for which he sought in vain could be no other
than the small bay of Sandag on my uncle's land; and being a fellow of a
mechanical turn, I had ever since been plotting how to weigh that good
ship up again with all her ingots, ounces, and doubloons, and bring back
our house of Darnaway to its long-forgotten dignity and wealth.

This was a design of which I soon had reason to repent.  My mind was
sharply turned on different reflections; and since I became the witness
of a strange judgment of God's, the thought of dead men's treasures has
been intolerable to my conscience.  But even at that time I must acquit
myself of sordid greed; for if I desired riches, it was not for their own
sake, but for the sake of a person who was dear to my heart--my uncle's
daughter, Mary Ellen.  She had been educated well, and had been a time to
school upon the mainland; which, poor girl, she would have been happier
without.  For Aros was no place for her, with old Rorie the servant, and
her father, who was one of the unhappiest men in Scotland, plainly bred
up in a country place among Cameronians, long a skipper sailing out of
the Clyde about the islands, and now, with infinite discontent, managing
his sheep and a little 'long shore fishing for the necessary bread.  If
it was sometimes weariful to me, who was there but a month or two, you
may fancy what it was to her who dwelt in that same desert all the year
round, with the sheep and flying sea-gulls, and the Merry Men singing and
dancing in the Roost!



CHAPTER II.  WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS.


It was half-flood when I got the length of Aros; and there was nothing
for it but to stand on the far shore and whistle for Rorie with the boat.
I had no need to repeat the signal.  At the first sound, Mary was at the
door flying a handkerchief by way of answer, and the old long-legged
serving-man was shambling down the gravel to the pier.  For all his
hurry, it took him a long while to pull across the bay; and I observed
him several times to pause, go into the stern, and look over curiously
into the wake.  As he came nearer, he seemed to me aged and haggard, and
I thought he avoided my eye.  The coble had been repaired, with two new
thwarts and several patches of some rare and beautiful foreign wood, the
name of it unknown to me.

'Why, Rorie,' said I, as we began the return voyage, 'this is fine wood.
How came you by that?'

'It will be hard to cheesel,' Rorie opined reluctantly; and just then,
dropping the oars, he made another of those dives into the stern which I
had remarked as he came across to fetch me, and, leaning his hand on my
shoulder, stared with an awful look into the waters of the bay.

'What is wrong?' I asked, a good deal startled.

'It will be a great feesh,' said the old man, returning to his oars; and
nothing more could I get out of him, but strange glances and an ominous
nodding of the head.  In spite of myself, I was infected with a measure
of uneasiness; I turned also, and studied the wake.  The water was still
and transparent, but, out here in the middle of the bay, exceeding deep.
For some time I could see naught; but at last it did seem to me as if
something dark--a great fish, or perhaps only a shadow--followed
studiously in the track of the moving coble.  And then I remembered one
of Rorie's superstitions: how in a ferry in Morven, in some great,
exterminating feud among the clans; a fish, the like of it unknown in all
our waters, followed for some years the passage of the ferry-boat, until
no man dared to make the crossing.

'He will be waiting for the right man,' said Rorie.

Mary met me on the beach, and led me up the brae and into the house of
Aros.  Outside and inside there were many changes.  The garden was fenced
with the same wood that I had noted in the boat; there were chairs in the
kitchen covered with strange brocade; curtains of brocade hung from the
window; a clock stood silent on the dresser; a lamp of brass was swinging
from the roof; the table was set for dinner with the finest of linen and
silver; and all these new riches were displayed in the plain old kitchen
that I knew so well, with the high-backed settle, and the stools, and the
closet bed for Rorie; with the wide chimney the sun shone into, and the
clear-smouldering peats; with the pipes on the mantelshelf and the three-
cornered spittoons, filled with sea-shells instead of sand, on the floor;
with the bare stone walls and the bare wooden floor, and the three
patchwork rugs that were of yore its sole adornment--poor man's
patchwork, the like of it unknown in cities, woven with homespun, and
Sunday black, and sea-cloth polished on the bench of rowing.  The room,
like the house, had been a sort of wonder in that country-side, it was so
neat and habitable; and to see it now, shamed by these incongruous
additions, filled me with indignation and a kind of anger.  In view of
the errand I had come upon to Aros, the feeling was baseless and unjust;
but it burned high, at the first moment, in my heart.

'Mary, girl,' said I, 'this is the place I had learned to call my home,
and I do not know it.'

'It is my home by nature, not by the learning,' she replied; 'the place I
was born and the place I'm like to die in; and I neither like these
changes, nor the way they came, nor that which came with them.  I would
have liked better, under God's pleasure, they had gone down into the sea,
and the Merry Men were dancing on them now.'

Mary was always serious; it was perhaps the only trait that she shared
with her father; but the tone with which she uttered these words was even
graver than of custom.

'Ay,' said I, 'I feared it came by wreck, and that's by death; yet when
my father died, I took his goods without remorse.'

'Your father died a clean strae death, as the folk say,' said Mary.

'True,' I returned; 'and a wreck is like a judgment.  What was she
called?'

'They ca'd her the _Christ-Anna_,' said a voice behind me; and, turning
round, I saw my uncle standing in the doorway.

He was a sour, small, bilious man, with a long face and very dark eyes;
fifty-six years old, sound and active in body, and with an air somewhat
between that of a shepherd and that of a man following the sea.  He never
laughed, that I heard; read long at the Bible; prayed much, like the
Cameronians he had been brought up among; and indeed, in many ways, used
to remind me of one of the hill-preachers in the killing times before the
Revolution.  But he never got much comfort, nor even, as I used to think,
much guidance, by his piety.  He had his black fits when he was afraid of
hell; but he had led a rough life, to which he would look back with envy,
and was still a rough, cold, gloomy man.

As he came in at the door out of the sunlight, with his bonnet on his
head and a pipe hanging in his button-hole, he seemed, like Rorie, to
have grown older and paler, the lines were deeplier ploughed upon his
face, and the whites of his eyes were yellow, like old stained ivory, or
the bones of the dead.

'Ay' he repeated, dwelling upon the first part of the word, 'the _Christ-
Anna_.  It's an awfu' name.'

I made him my salutations, and complimented him upon his look of health;
for I feared he had perhaps been ill.

'I'm in the body,' he replied, ungraciously enough; 'aye in the body and
the sins of the body, like yoursel'.  Denner,' he said abruptly to Mary,
and then ran on to me: 'They're grand braws, thir that we hae gotten, are
they no?  Yon's a bonny knock {15}, but it'll no gang; and the napery's
by ordnar.  Bonny, bairnly braws; it's for the like o' them folk sells
the peace of God that passeth understanding; it's for the like o' them,
an' maybe no even sae muckle worth, folk daunton God to His face and burn
in muckle hell; and it's for that reason the Scripture ca's them, as I
read the passage, the accursed thing.  Mary, ye girzie,' he interrupted
himself to cry with some asperity, 'what for hae ye no put out the twa
candlesticks?'

'Why should we need them at high noon?' she asked.

But my uncle was not to be turned from his idea.  'We'll bruik {16} them
while we may,' he said; and so two massive candlesticks of wrought silver
were added to the table equipage, already so unsuited to that rough sea-
side farm.

'She cam' ashore Februar' 10, about ten at nicht,' he went on to me.
'There was nae wind, and a sair run o' sea; and she was in the sook o'
the Roost, as I jaloose.  We had seen her a' day, Rorie and me, beating
to the wind.  She wasnae a handy craft, I'm thinking, that _Christ-Anna_;
for she would neither steer nor stey wi' them.  A sair day they had of
it; their hands was never aff the sheets, and it perishin' cauld--ower
cauld to snaw; and aye they would get a bit nip o' wind, and awa' again,
to pit the emp'y hope into them.  Eh, man! but they had a sair day for
the last o't!  He would have had a prood, prood heart that won ashore
upon the back o' that.'

'And were all lost?' I cried.  'God held them!'

'Wheesht!' he said sternly.  'Nane shall pray for the deid on my hearth-
stane.'

I disclaimed a Popish sense for my ejaculation; and he seemed to accept
my disclaimer with unusual facility, and ran on once more upon what had
evidently become a favourite subject.

'We fand her in Sandag Bay, Rorie an' me, and a' thae braws in the inside
of her.  There's a kittle bit, ye see, about Sandag; whiles the sook rins
strong for the Merry Men; an' whiles again, when the tide's makin' hard
an' ye can hear the Roost blawin' at the far-end of Aros, there comes a
back-spang of current straucht into Sandag Bay.  Weel, there's the thing
that got the grip on the _Christ-Anna_.  She but to have come in ram-stam
an' stern forrit; for the bows of her are aften under, and the back-side
of her is clear at hie-water o' neaps.  But, man! the dunt that she cam
doon wi' when she struck!  Lord save us a'! but it's an unco life to be a
sailor--a cauld, wanchancy life.  Mony's the gliff I got mysel' in the
great deep; and why the Lord should hae made yon unco water is mair than
ever I could win to understand.  He made the vales and the pastures, the
bonny green yaird, the halesome, canty land--

   And now they shout and sing to Thee,
   For Thou hast made them glad,

as the Psalms say in the metrical version.  No that I would preen my
faith to that clink neither; but it's bonny, and easier to mind.  "Who go
to sea in ships," they hae't again--

            And in
      Great waters trading be,
   Within the deep these men God's works
      And His great wonders see.

Weel, it's easy sayin' sae.  Maybe Dauvit wasnae very weel acquant wi'
the sea.  But, troth, if it wasnae prentit in the Bible, I wad whiles be
temp'it to think it wasnae the Lord, but the muckle, black deil that made
the sea.  There's naething good comes oot o't but the fish; an' the
spentacle o' God riding on the tempest, to be shure, whilk would be what
Dauvit was likely ettling at.  But, man, they were sair wonders that God
showed to the _Christ-Anna_--wonders, do I ca' them?  Judgments, rather:
judgments in the mirk nicht among the draygons o' the deep.  And their
souls--to think o' that--their souls, man, maybe no prepared!  The sea--a
muckle yett to hell!'

I observed, as my uncle spoke, that his voice was unnaturally moved and
his manner unwontedly demonstrative.  He leaned forward at these last
words, for example, and touched me on the knee with his spread fingers,
looking up into my face with a certain pallor, and I could see that his
eyes shone with a deep-seated fire, and that the lines about his mouth
were drawn and tremulous.

Even the entrance of Rorie, and the beginning of our meal, did not detach
him from his train of thought beyond a moment.  He condescended, indeed,
to ask me some questions as to my success at college, but I thought it
was with half his mind; and even in his extempore grace, which was, as
usual, long and wandering, I could find the trace of his preoccupation,
praying, as he did, that God would 'remember in mercy fower puir,
feckless, fiddling, sinful creatures here by their lee-lane beside the
great and dowie waters.'

Soon there came an interchange of speeches between him and Rorie.

'Was it there?' asked my uncle.

'Ou, ay!' said Rorie.

I observed that they both spoke in a manner of aside, and with some show
of embarrassment, and that Mary herself appeared to colour, and looked
down on her plate.  Partly to show my knowledge, and so relieve the party
from an awkward strain, partly because I was curious, I pursued the
subject.

'You mean the fish?' I asked.

'Whatten fish?' cried my uncle.  'Fish, quo' he!  Fish!  Your een are fu'
o' fatness, man; your heid dozened wi' carnal leir.  Fish! it's a bogle!'

He spoke with great vehemence, as though angry; and perhaps I was not
very willing to be put down so shortly, for young men are disputatious.
At least I remember I retorted hotly, crying out upon childish
superstitions.

'And ye come frae the College!' sneered Uncle Gordon.  'Gude kens what
they learn folk there; it's no muckle service onyway.  Do ye think, man,
that there's naething in a' yon saut wilderness o' a world oot wast
there, wi' the sea grasses growin', an' the sea beasts fechtin', an' the
sun glintin' down into it, day by day?  Na; the sea's like the land, but
fearsomer.  If there's folk ashore, there's folk in the sea--deid they
may be, but they're folk whatever; and as for deils, there's nane that's
like the sea deils.  There's no sae muckle harm in the land deils, when
a's said and done.  Lang syne, when I was a callant in the south country,
I mind there was an auld, bald bogle in the Peewie Moss.  I got a glisk
o' him mysel', sittin' on his hunkers in a hag, as gray's a tombstane.
An', troth, he was a fearsome-like taed.  But he steered naebody.  Nae
doobt, if ane that was a reprobate, ane the Lord hated, had gane by there
wi' his sin still upon his stamach, nae doobt the creature would hae
lowped upo' the likes o' him.  But there's deils in the deep sea would
yoke on a communicant!  Eh, sirs, if ye had gane doon wi' the puir lads
in the _Christ-Anna_, ye would ken by now the mercy o' the seas.  If ye
had sailed it for as lang as me, ye would hate the thocht of it as I do.
If ye had but used the een God gave ye, ye would hae learned the
wickedness o' that fause, saut, cauld, bullering creature, and of a'
that's in it by the Lord's permission: labsters an' partans, an' sic
like, howking in the deid; muckle, gutsy, blawing whales; an' fish--the
hale clan o' them--cauld-wamed, blind-eed uncanny ferlies.  O, sirs,' he
cried, 'the horror--the horror o' the sea!'

We were all somewhat staggered by this outburst; and the speaker himself,
after that last hoarse apostrophe, appeared to sink gloomily into his own
thoughts.  But Rorie, who was greedy of superstitious lore, recalled him
to the subject by a question.

'You will not ever have seen a teevil of the sea?' he asked.

'No clearly,' replied the other.  'I misdoobt if a mere man could see ane
clearly and conteenue in the body.  I hae sailed wi' a lad--they ca'd him
Sandy Gabart; he saw ane, shure eneueh, an' shure eneueh it was the end
of him.  We were seeven days oot frae the Clyde--a sair wark we had
had--gaun north wi' seeds an' braws an' things for the Macleod.  We had
got in ower near under the Cutchull'ns, an' had just gane about by soa,
an' were off on a lang tack, we thocht would maybe hauld as far's
Copnahow.  I mind the nicht weel; a mune smoored wi' mist; a fine gaun
breeze upon the water, but no steedy; an'--what nane o' us likit to
hear--anither wund gurlin' owerheid, amang thae fearsome, auld stane
craigs o' the Cutchull'ns.  Weel, Sandy was forrit wi' the jib sheet; we
couldnae see him for the mains'l, that had just begude to draw, when a'
at ance he gied a skirl.  I luffed for my life, for I thocht we were ower
near Soa; but na, it wasnae that, it was puir Sandy Gabart's deid
skreigh, or near hand, for he was deid in half an hour.  A't he could
tell was that a sea deil, or sea bogle, or sea spenster, or sic-like, had
clum up by the bowsprit, an' gi'en him ae cauld, uncanny look.  An', or
the life was oot o' Sandy's body, we kent weel what the thing betokened,
and why the wund gurled in the taps o' the Cutchull'ns; for doon it
cam'--a wund do I ca' it! it was the wund o' the Lord's anger--an' a'
that nicht we foucht like men dementit, and the niest that we kenned we
were ashore in Loch Uskevagh, an' the cocks were crawin' in Benbecula.'

'It will have been a merman,' Rorie said.

'A merman!' screamed my uncle with immeasurable scorn.  'Auld wives'
clavers!  There's nae sic things as mermen.'

'But what was the creature like?' I asked.

'What like was it?  Gude forbid that we suld ken what like it was!  It
had a kind of a heid upon it--man could say nae mair.'

Then Rorie, smarting under the affront, told several tales of mermen,
mermaids, and sea-horses that had come ashore upon the islands and
attacked the crews of boats upon the sea; and my uncle, in spite of his
incredulity, listened with uneasy interest.

'Aweel, aweel,' he said, 'it may be sae; I may be wrang; but I find nae
word o' mermen in the Scriptures.'

'And you will find nae word of Aros Roost, maybe,' objected Rorie, and
his argument appeared to carry weight.

When dinner was over, my uncle carried me forth with him to a bank behind
the house.  It was a very hot and quiet afternoon; scarce a ripple
anywhere upon the sea, nor any voice but the familiar voice of sheep and
gulls; and perhaps in consequence of this repose in nature, my kinsman
showed himself more rational and tranquil than before.  He spoke evenly
and almost cheerfully of my career, with every now and then a reference
to the lost ship or the treasures it had brought to Aros.  For my part, I
listened to him in a sort of trance, gazing with all my heart on that
remembered scene, and drinking gladly the sea-air and the smoke of peats
that had been lit by Mary.

Perhaps an hour had passed when my uncle, who had all the while been
covertly gazing on the surface of the little bay, rose to his feet and
bade me follow his example.  Now I should say that the great run of tide
at the south-west end of Aros exercises a perturbing influence round all
the coast.  In Sandag Bay, to the south, a strong current runs at certain
periods of the flood and ebb respectively; but in this northern bay--Aros
Bay, as it is called--where the house stands and on which my uncle was
now gazing, the only sign of disturbance is towards the end of the ebb,
and even then it is too slight to be remarkable.  When there is any
swell, nothing can be seen at all; but when it is calm, as it often is,
there appear certain strange, undecipherable marks--sea-runes, as we may
name them--on the glassy surface of the bay.  The like is common in a
thousand places on the coast; and many a boy must have amused himself as
I did, seeking to read in them some reference to himself or those he
loved.  It was to these marks that my uncle now directed my attention,
struggling, as he did so, with an evident reluctance.

'Do ye see yon scart upo' the water?' he inquired; 'yon ane wast the gray
stane?  Ay?  Weel, it'll no be like a letter, wull it?'

'Certainly it is,' I replied.  'I have often remarked it.  It is like a
C.'

He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with my answer, and then
added below his breath: 'Ay, for the _Christ-Anna_.'

'I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself,' said I; 'for my name is
Charles.'

'And so ye saw't afore?', he ran on, not heeding my remark.  'Weel, weel,
but that's unco strange.  Maybe, it's been there waitin', as a man wad
say, through a' the weary ages.  Man, but that's awfu'.'  And then,
breaking off: 'Ye'll no see anither, will ye?' he asked.

'Yes,' said I.  'I see another very plainly, near the Ross side, where
the road comes down--an M.'

'An M,' he repeated very low; and then, again after another pause: 'An'
what wad ye make o' that?' he inquired.

'I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir,' I answered, growing somewhat
red, convinced as I was in my own mind that I was on the threshold of a
decisive explanation.

But we were each following his own train of thought to the exclusion of
the other's.  My uncle once more paid no attention to my words; only hung
his head and held his peace; and I might have been led to fancy that he
had not heard me, if his next speech had not contained a kind of echo
from my own.

'I would say naething o' thae clavers to Mary,' he observed, and began to
walk forward.

There is a belt of turf along the side of Aros Bay, where walking is
easy; and it was along this that I silently followed my silent kinsman.  I
was perhaps a little disappointed at having lost so good an opportunity
to declare my love; but I was at the same time far more deeply exercised
at the change that had befallen my uncle.  He was never an ordinary,
never, in the strict sense, an amiable, man; but there was nothing in
even the worst that I had known of him before, to prepare me for so
strange a transformation.  It was impossible to close the eyes against
one fact; that he had, as the saying goes, something on his mind; and as
I mentally ran over the different words which might be represented by the
letter M--misery, mercy, marriage, money, and the like--I was arrested
with a sort of start by the word murder.  I was still considering the
ugly sound and fatal meaning of the word, when the direction of our walk
brought us to a point from which a view was to be had to either side,
back towards Aros Bay and homestead, and forward on the ocean, dotted to
the north with isles, and lying to the southward blue and open to the
sky.  There my guide came to a halt, and stood staring for awhile on that
expanse.  Then he turned to me and laid a hand on my arm.

'Ye think there's naething there?' he said, pointing with his pipe; and
then cried out aloud, with a kind of exultation: 'I'll tell ye, man!  The
deid are down there--thick like rattons!'

He turned at once, and, without another word, we retraced our steps to
the house of Aros.

I was eager to be alone with Mary; yet it was not till after supper, and
then but for a short while, that I could have a word with her.  I lost no
time beating about the bush, but spoke out plainly what was on my mind.

'Mary,' I said, 'I have not come to Aros without a hope.  If that should
prove well founded, we may all leave and go somewhere else, secure of
daily bread and comfort; secure, perhaps, of something far beyond that,
which it would seem extravagant in me to promise.  But there's a hope
that lies nearer to my heart than money.'  And at that I paused.  'You
can guess fine what that is, Mary,' I said.  She looked away from me in
silence, and that was small encouragement, but I was not to be put off.
'All my days I have thought the world of you,' I continued; 'the time
goes on and I think always the more of you; I could not think to be happy
or hearty in my life without you: you are the apple of my eye.'  Still
she looked away, and said never a word; but I thought I saw that her
hands shook.  'Mary,' I cried in fear, 'do ye no like me?'

'O, Charlie man,' she said, 'is this a time to speak of it?  Let me be, a
while; let me be the way I am; it'll not be you that loses by the
waiting!'

I made out by her voice that she was nearly weeping, and this put me out
of any thought but to compose her.  'Mary Ellen,' I said, 'say no more; I
did not come to trouble you: your way shall be mine, and your time too;
and you have told me all I wanted.  Only just this one thing more: what
ails you?'

She owned it was her father, but would enter into no particulars, only
shook her head, and said he was not well and not like himself, and it was
a great pity.  She knew nothing of the wreck.  'I havenae been near it,'
said she.  'What for would I go near it, Charlie lad?  The poor souls are
gone to their account long syne; and I would just have wished they had
ta'en their gear with them--poor souls!'

This was scarcely any great encouragement for me to tell her of the
_Espirito Santo_; yet I did so, and at the very first word she cried out
in surprise.  'There was a man at Grisapol,' she said, 'in the month of
May--a little, yellow, black-avised body, they tell me, with gold rings
upon his fingers, and a beard; and he was speiring high and low for that
same ship.'

It was towards the end of April that I had been given these papers to
sort out by Dr. Robertson: and it came suddenly back upon my mind that
they were thus prepared for a Spanish historian, or a man calling himself
such, who had come with high recommendations to the Principal, on a
mission of inquiry as to the dispersion of the great Armada.  Putting one
thing with another, I fancied that the visitor 'with the gold rings upon
his fingers' might be the same with Dr. Robertson's historian from
Madrid.  If that were so, he would be more likely after treasure for
himself than information for a learned society.  I made up my mind, I
should lose no time over my undertaking; and if the ship lay sunk in
Sandag Bay, as perhaps both he and I supposed, it should not be for the
advantage of this ringed adventurer, but for Mary and myself, and for the
good, old, honest, kindly family of the Darnaways.



CHAPTER III.  LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY.


I was early afoot next morning; and as soon as I had a bite to eat, set
forth upon a tour of exploration.  Something in my heart distinctly told
me that I should find the ship of the Armada; and although I did not give
way entirely to such hopeful thoughts, I was still very light in spirits
and walked upon air.  Aros is a very rough islet, its surface strewn with
great rocks and shaggy with fernland heather; and my way lay almost north
and south across the highest knoll; and though the whole distance was
inside of two miles it took more time and exertion than four upon a level
road.  Upon the summit, I paused.  Although not very high--not three
hundred feet, as I think--it yet outtops all the neighbouring lowlands of
the Ross, and commands a great view of sea and islands.  The sun, which
had been up some time, was already hot upon my neck; the air was listless
and thundery, although purely clear; away over the north-west, where the
isles lie thickliest congregated, some half-a-dozen small and ragged
clouds hung together in a covey; and the head of Ben Kyaw wore, not
merely a few streamers, but a solid hood of vapour.  There was a threat
in the weather.  The sea, it is true, was smooth like glass: even the
Roost was but a seam on that wide mirror, and the Merry Men no more than
caps of foam; but to my eye and ear, so long familiar with these places,
the sea also seemed to lie uneasily; a sound of it, like a long sigh,
mounted to me where I stood; and, quiet as it was, the Roost itself
appeared to be revolving mischief.  For I ought to say that all we
dwellers in these parts attributed, if not prescience, at least a quality
of warning, to that strange and dangerous creature of the tides.

I hurried on, then, with the greater speed, and had soon descended the
slope of Aros to the part that we call Sandag Bay.  It is a pretty large
piece of water compared with the size of the isle; well sheltered from
all but the prevailing wind; sandy and shoal and bounded by low
sand-hills to the west, but to the eastward lying several fathoms deep
along a ledge of rocks.  It is upon that side that, at a certain time
each flood, the current mentioned by my uncle sets so strong into the
bay; a little later, when the Roost begins to work higher, an undertow
runs still more strongly in the reverse direction; and it is the action
of this last, as I suppose, that has scoured that part so deep.  Nothing
is to be seen out of Sandag Bay, but one small segment of the horizon
and, in heavy weather, the breakers flying high over a deep sea reef.

From half-way down the hill, I had perceived the wreck of February last,
a brig of considerable tonnage, lying, with her back broken, high and dry
on the east corner of the sands; and I was making directly towards it,
and already almost on the margin of the turf, when my eyes were suddenly
arrested by a spot, cleared of fern and heather, and marked by one of
those long, low, and almost human-looking mounds that we see so commonly
in graveyards.  I stopped like a man shot.  Nothing had been said to me
of any dead man or interment on the island; Rorie, Mary, and my uncle had
all equally held their peace; of her at least, I was certain that she
must be ignorant; and yet here, before my eyes, was proof indubitable of
the fact.  Here was a grave; and I had to ask myself, with a chill, what
manner of man lay there in his last sleep, awaiting the signal of the
Lord in that solitary, sea-beat resting-place?  My mind supplied no
answer but what I feared to entertain.  Shipwrecked, at least, he must
have been; perhaps, like the old Armada mariners, from some far and rich
land over-sea; or perhaps one of my own race, perishing within eyesight
of the smoke of home.  I stood awhile uncovered by his side, and I could
have desired that it had lain in our religion to put up some prayer for
that unhappy stranger, or, in the old classic way, outwardly to honour
his misfortune.  I knew, although his bones lay there, a part of Aros,
till the trumpet sounded, his imperishable soul was forth and far away,
among the raptures of the everlasting Sabbath or the pangs of hell; and
yet my mind misgave me even with a fear, that perhaps he was near me
where I stood, guarding his sepulchre, and lingering on the scene of his
unhappy fate.

Certainly it was with a spirit somewhat over-shadowed that I turned away
from the grave to the hardly less melancholy spectacle of the wreck.  Her
stem was above the first arc of the flood; she was broken in two a little
abaft the foremast--though indeed she had none, both masts having broken
short in her disaster; and as the pitch of the beach was very sharp and
sudden, and the bows lay many feet below the stern, the fracture gaped
widely open, and you could see right through her poor hull upon the
farther side.  Her name was much defaced, and I could not make out
clearly whether she was called _Christiania_, after the Norwegian city,
or _Christiana_, after the good woman, Christian's wife, in that old book
the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'  By her build she was a foreign ship, but I was
not certain of her nationality.  She had been painted green, but the
colour was faded and weathered, and the paint peeling off in strips.  The
wreck of the mainmast lay alongside, half buried in sand.  She was a
forlorn sight, indeed, and I could not look without emotion at the bits
of rope that still hung about her, so often handled of yore by shouting
seamen; or the little scuttle where they had passed up and down to their
affairs; or that poor noseless angel of a figure-head that had dipped
into so many running billows.

I do not know whether it came most from the ship or from the grave, but I
fell into some melancholy scruples, as I stood there, leaning with one
hand against the battered timbers.  The homelessness of men and even of
inanimate vessels, cast away upon strange shores, came strongly in upon
my mind.  To make a profit of such pitiful misadventures seemed an
unmanly and a sordid act; and I began to think of my then quest as of
something sacrilegious in its nature.  But when I remembered Mary, I took
heart again.  My uncle would never consent to an imprudent marriage, nor
would she, as I was persuaded, wed without his full approval.  It behoved
me, then, to be up and doing for my wife; and I thought with a laugh how
long it was since that great sea-castle, the _Espirito Santo_, had left
her bones in Sandag Bay, and how weak it would be to consider rights so
long extinguished and misfortunes so long forgotten in the process of
time.

I had my theory of where to seek for her remains.  The set of the current
and the soundings both pointed to the east side of the bay under the
ledge of rocks.  If she had been lost in Sandag Bay, and if, after these
centuries, any portion of her held together, it was there that I should
find it.  The water deepens, as I have said, with great rapidity, and
even close along-side the rocks several fathoms may be found.  As I
walked upon the edge I could see far and wide over the sandy bottom of
the bay; the sun shone clear and green and steady in the deeps; the bay
seemed rather like a great transparent crystal, as one sees them in a
lapidary's shop; there was naught to show that it was water but an
internal trembling, a hovering within of sun-glints and netted shadows,
and now and then a faint lap and a dying bubble round the edge.  The
shadows of the rocks lay out for some distance at their feet, so that my
own shadow, moving, pausing, and stooping on the top of that, reached
sometimes half across the bay.  It was above all in this belt of shadows
that I hunted for the _Espirito Santo_; since it was there the undertow
ran strongest, whether in or out.  Cool as the whole water seemed this
broiling day, it looked, in that part, yet cooler, and had a mysterious
invitation for the eyes.  Peer as I pleased, however, I could see nothing
but a few fishes or a bush of sea-tangle, and here and there a lump of
rock that had fallen from above and now lay separate on the sandy floor.
Twice did I pass from one end to the other of the rocks, and in the whole
distance I could see nothing of the wreck, nor any place but one where it
was possible for it to be.  This was a large terrace in five fathoms of
water, raised off the surface of the sand to a considerable height, and
looking from above like a mere outgrowth of the rocks on which I walked.
It was one mass of great sea-tangles like a grove, which prevented me
judging of its nature, but in shape and size it bore some likeness to a
vessel's hull.  At least it was my best chance.  If the _Espirito Santo_
lay not there under the tangles, it lay nowhere at all in Sandag Bay; and
I prepared to put the question to the proof, once and for all, and either
go back to Aros a rich man or cured for ever of my dreams of wealth.

I stripped to the skin, and stood on the extreme margin with my hands
clasped, irresolute.  The bay at that time was utterly quiet; there was
no sound but from a school of porpoises somewhere out of sight behind the
point; yet a certain fear withheld me on the threshold of my venture.  Sad
sea-feelings, scraps of my uncle's superstitions, thoughts of the dead,
of the grave, of the old broken ships, drifted through my mind.  But the
strong sun upon my shoulders warmed me to the heart, and I stooped
forward and plunged into the sea.

It was all that I could do to catch a trail of the sea-tangle that grew
so thickly on the terrace; but once so far anchored I secured myself by
grasping a whole armful of these thick and slimy stalks, and, planting my
feet against the edge, I looked around me.  On all sides the clear sand
stretched forth unbroken; it came to the foot of the rocks, scoured into
the likeness of an alley in a garden by the action of the tides; and
before me, for as far as I could see, nothing was visible but the same
many-folded sand upon the sun-bright bottom of the bay.  Yet the terrace
to which I was then holding was as thick with strong sea-growths as a
tuft of heather, and the cliff from which it bulged hung draped below the
water-line with brown lianas.  In this complexity of forms, all swaying
together in the current, things were hard to be distinguished; and I was
still uncertain whether my feet were pressed upon the natural rock or
upon the timbers of the Armada treasure-ship, when the whole tuft of
tangle came away in my hand, and in an instant I was on the surface, and
the shores of the bay and the bright water swam before my eyes in a glory
of crimson.

I clambered back upon the rocks, and threw the plant of tangle at my
feet.  Something at the same moment rang sharply, like a falling coin.  I
stooped, and there, sure enough, crusted with the red rust, there lay an
iron shoe-buckle.  The sight of this poor human relic thrilled me to the
heart, but not with hope nor fear, only with a desolate melancholy.  I
held it in my hand, and the thought of its owner appeared before me like
the presence of an actual man.  His weather-beaten face, his sailor's
hands, his sea-voice hoarse with singing at the capstan, the very foot
that had once worn that buckle and trod so much along the swerving
decks--the whole human fact of him, as a creature like myself, with hair
and blood and seeing eyes, haunted me in that sunny, solitary place, not
like a spectre, but like some friend whom I had basely injured.  Was the
great treasure ship indeed below there, with her guns and chain and
treasure, as she had sailed from Spain; her decks a garden for the
seaweed, her cabin a breeding place for fish, soundless but for the
dredging water, motionless but for the waving of the tangle upon her
battlements--that old, populous, sea-riding castle, now a reef in Sandag
Bay?  Or, as I thought it likelier, was this a waif from the disaster of
the foreign brig--was this shoe-buckle bought but the other day and worn
by a man of my own period in the world's history, hearing the same news
from day to day, thinking the same thoughts, praying, perhaps, in the
same temple with myself?  However it was, I was assailed with dreary
thoughts; my uncle's words, 'the dead are down there,' echoed in my ears;
and though I determined to dive once more, it was with a strong
repugnance that I stepped forward to the margin of the rocks.

A great change passed at that moment over the appearance of the bay.  It
was no more that clear, visible interior, like a house roofed with glass,
where the green, submarine sunshine slept so stilly.  A breeze, I
suppose, had flawed the surface, and a sort of trouble and blackness
filled its bosom, where flashes of light and clouds of shadow tossed
confusedly together.  Even the terrace below obscurely rocked and
quivered.  It seemed a graver thing to venture on this place of ambushes;
and when I leaped into the sea the second time it was with a quaking in
my soul.

I secured myself as at first, and groped among the waving tangle.  All
that met my touch was cold and soft and gluey.  The thicket was alive
with crabs and lobsters, trundling to and fro lopsidedly, and I had to
harden my heart against the horror of their carrion neighbourhood.  On
all sides I could feel the grain and the clefts of hard, living stone; no
planks, no iron, not a sign of any wreck; the _Espirito Santo_ was not
there.  I remember I had almost a sense of relief in my disappointment,
and I was about ready to leave go, when something happened that sent me
to the surface with my heart in my mouth.  I had already stayed somewhat
late over my explorations; the current was freshening with the change of
the tide, and Sandag Bay was no longer a safe place for a single swimmer.
Well, just at the last moment there came a sudden flush of current,
dredging through the tangles like a wave.  I lost one hold, was flung
sprawling on my side, and, instinctively grasping for a fresh support, my
fingers closed on something hard and cold.  I think I knew at that moment
what it was.  At least I instantly left hold of the tangle, leaped for
the surface, and clambered out next moment on the friendly rocks with the
bone of a man's leg in my grasp.

Mankind is a material creature, slow to think and dull to perceive
connections.  The grave, the wreck of the brig, and the rusty shoe-buckle
were surely plain advertisements.  A child might have read their dismal
story, and yet it was not until I touched that actual piece of mankind
that the full horror of the charnel ocean burst upon my spirit.  I laid
the bone beside the buckle, picked up my clothes, and ran as I was along
the rocks towards the human shore.  I could not be far enough from the
spot; no fortune was vast enough to tempt me back again.  The bones of
the drowned dead should henceforth roll undisturbed by me, whether on
tangle or minted gold.  But as soon as I trod the good earth again, and
had covered my nakedness against the sun, I knelt down over against the
ruins of the brig, and out of the fulness of my heart prayed long and
passionately for all poor souls upon the sea.  A generous prayer is never
presented in vain; the petition may be refused, but the petitioner is
always, I believe, rewarded by some gracious visitation.  The horror, at
least, was lifted from my mind; I could look with calm of spirit on that
great bright creature, God's ocean; and as I set off homeward up the
rough sides of Aros, nothing remained of my concern beyond a deep
determination to meddle no more with the spoils of wrecked vessels or the
treasures of the dead.

I was already some way up the hill before I paused to breathe and look
behind me.  The sight that met my eyes was doubly strange.

For, first, the storm that I had foreseen was now advancing with almost
tropical rapidity.  The whole surface of the sea had been dulled from its
conspicuous brightness to an ugly hue of corrugated lead; already in the
distance the white waves, the 'skipper's daughters,' had begun to flee
before a breeze that was still insensible on Aros; and already along the
curve of Sandag Bay there was a splashing run of sea that I could hear
from where I stood.  The change upon the sky was even more remarkable.
There had begun to arise out of the south-west a huge and solid continent
of scowling cloud; here and there, through rents in its contexture, the
sun still poured a sheaf of spreading rays; and here and there, from all
its edges, vast inky streamers lay forth along the yet unclouded sky.  The
menace was express and imminent.  Even as I gazed, the sun was blotted
out.  At any moment the tempest might fall upon Aros in its might.

The suddenness of this change of weather so fixed my eyes on heaven that
it was some seconds before they alighted on the bay, mapped out below my
feet, and robbed a moment later of the sun.  The knoll which I had just
surmounted overflanked a little amphitheatre of lower hillocks sloping
towards the sea, and beyond that the yellow arc of beach and the whole
extent of Sandag Bay.  It was a scene on which I had often looked down,
but where I had never before beheld a human figure.  I had but just
turned my back upon it and left it empty, and my wonder may be fancied
when I saw a boat and several men in that deserted spot.  The boat was
lying by the rocks.  A pair of fellows, bareheaded, with their sleeves
rolled up, and one with a boathook, kept her with difficulty to her
moorings for the current was growing brisker every moment.  A little way
off upon the ledge two men in black clothes, whom I judged to be superior
in rank, laid their heads together over some task which at first I did
not understand, but a second after I had made it out--they were taking
bearings with the compass; and just then I saw one of them unroll a sheet
of paper and lay his finger down, as though identifying features in a
map.  Meanwhile a third was walking to and fro, polling among the rocks
and peering over the edge into the water.  While I was still watching
them with the stupefaction of surprise, my mind hardly yet able to work
on what my eyes reported, this third person suddenly stooped and summoned
his companions with a cry so loud that it reached my ears upon the hill.
The others ran to him, even dropping the compass in their hurry, and I
could see the bone and the shoe-buckle going from hand to hand, causing
the most unusual gesticulations of surprise and interest.  Just then I
could hear the seamen crying from the boat, and saw them point westward
to that cloud continent which was ever the more rapidly unfurling its
blackness over heaven.  The others seemed to consult; but the danger was
too pressing to be braved, and they bundled into the boat carrying my
relies with them, and set forth out of the bay with all speed of oars.

I made no more ado about the matter, but turned and ran for the house.
Whoever these men were, it was fit my uncle should be instantly informed.
It was not then altogether too late in the day for a descent of the
Jacobites; and may be Prince Charlie, whom I knew my uncle to detest, was
one of the three superiors whom I had seen upon the rock.  Yet as I ran,
leaping from rock to rock, and turned the matter loosely in my mind, this
theory grew ever the longer the less welcome to my reason.  The compass,
the map, the interest awakened by the buckle, and the conduct of that one
among the strangers who had looked so often below him in the water, all
seemed to point to a different explanation of their presence on that
outlying, obscure islet of the western sea.  The Madrid historian, the
search instituted by Dr. Robertson, the bearded stranger with the rings,
my own fruitless search that very morning in the deep water of Sandag
Bay, ran together, piece by piece, in my memory, and I made sure that
these strangers must be Spaniards in quest of ancient treasure and the
lost ship of the Armada.  But the people living in outlying islands, such
as Aros, are answerable for their own security; there is none near by to
protect or even to help them; and the presence in such a spot of a crew
of foreign adventurers--poor, greedy, and most likely lawless--filled me
with apprehensions for my uncle's money, and even for the safety of his
daughter.  I was still wondering how we were to get rid of them when I
came, all breathless, to the top of Aros.  The whole world was shadowed
over; only in the extreme east, on a hill of the mainland, one last gleam
of sunshine lingered like a jewel; rain had begun to fall, not heavily,
but in great drops; the sea was rising with each moment, and already a
band of white encircled Aros and the nearer coasts of Grisapol.  The boat
was still pulling seaward, but I now became aware of what had been hidden
from me lower down--a large, heavily sparred, handsome schooner, lying to
at the south end of Aros.  Since I had not seen her in the morning when I
had looked around so closely at the signs of the weather, and upon these
lone waters where a sail was rarely visible, it was clear she must have
lain last night behind the uninhabited Eilean Gour, and this proved
conclusively that she was manned by strangers to our coast, for that
anchorage, though good enough to look at, is little better than a trap
for ships.  With such ignorant sailors upon so wild a coast, the coming
gale was not unlikely to bring death upon its wings.



CHAPTER IV.  THE GALE.


I found my uncle at the gable end, watching the signs of the weather,
with a pipe in his fingers.

'Uncle,' said I, 'there were men ashore at Sandag Bay--'

I had no time to go further; indeed, I not only forgot my words, but even
my weariness, so strange was the effect on Uncle Gordon.  He dropped his
pipe and fell back against the end of the house with his jaw fallen, his
eyes staring, and his long face as white as paper.  We must have looked
at one another silently for a quarter of a minute, before he made answer
in this extraordinary fashion: 'Had he a hair kep on?'

I knew as well as if I had been there that the man who now lay buried at
Sandag had worn a hairy cap, and that he had come ashore alive.  For the
first and only time I lost toleration for the man who was my benefactor
and the father of the woman I hoped to call my wife.

'These were living men,' said I, 'perhaps Jacobites, perhaps the French,
perhaps pirates, perhaps adventurers come here to seek the Spanish
treasure ship; but, whatever they may be, dangerous at least to your
daughter and my cousin.  As for your own guilty terrors, man, the dead
sleeps well where you have laid him.  I stood this morning by his grave;
he will not wake before the trump of doom.'

My kinsman looked upon me, blinking, while I spoke; then he fixed his
eyes for a little on the ground, and pulled his fingers foolishly; but it
was plain that he was past the power of speech.

'Come,' said I.  'You must think for others.  You must come up the hill
with me, and see this ship.'

He obeyed without a word or a look, following slowly after my impatient
strides.  The spring seemed to have gone out of his body, and he
scrambled heavily up and down the rocks, instead of leaping, as he was
wont, from one to another.  Nor could I, for all my cries, induce him to
make better haste.  Only once he replied to me complainingly, and like
one in bodily pain: 'Ay, ay, man, I'm coming.'  Long before we had
reached the top, I had no other thought for him but pity.  If the crime
had been monstrous the punishment was in proportion.

At last we emerged above the sky-line of the hill, and could see around
us.  All was black and stormy to the eye; the last gleam of sun had
vanished; a wind had sprung up, not yet high, but gusty and unsteady to
the point; the rain, on the other hand, had ceased.  Short as was the
interval, the sea already ran vastly higher than when I had stood there
last; already it had begun to break over some of the outward reefs, and
already it moaned aloud in the sea-caves of Aros.  I looked, at first, in
vain for the schooner.

'There she is,' I said at last.  But her new position, and the course she
was now lying, puzzled me.  'They cannot mean to beat to sea,' I cried.

'That's what they mean,' said my uncle, with something like joy; and just
then the schooner went about and stood upon another tack, which put the
question beyond the reach of doubt.  These strangers, seeing a gale on
hand, had thought first of sea-room.  With the wind that threatened, in
these reef-sown waters and contending against so violent a stream of
tide, their course was certain death.

'Good God!' said I, 'they are all lost.'

'Ay,' returned my uncle, 'a'--a' lost.  They hadnae a chance but to rin
for Kyle Dona.  The gate they're gaun the noo, they couldnae win through
an the muckle deil were there to pilot them.  Eh, man,' he continued,
touching me on the sleeve, 'it's a braw nicht for a shipwreck!  Twa in ae
twalmonth!  Eh, but the Merry Men'll dance bonny!'

I looked at him, and it was then that I began to fancy him no longer in
his right mind.  He was peering up to me, as if for sympathy, a timid joy
in his eyes.  All that had passed between us was already forgotten in the
prospect of this fresh disaster.

'If it were not too late,' I cried with indignation, 'I would take the
coble and go out to warn them.'

'Na, na,' he protested, 'ye maunnae interfere; ye maunnae meddle wi' the
like o' that.  It's His'--doffing his bonnet--'His wull.  And, eh, man!
but it's a braw nicht for't!'

Something like fear began to creep into my soul and, reminding him that I
had not yet dined, I proposed we should return to the house.  But no;
nothing would tear him from his place of outlook.

'I maun see the hail thing, man, Cherlie,' he explained--and then as the
schooner went about a second time, 'Eh, but they han'le her bonny!' he
cried.  'The _Christ-Anna_ was naething to this.'

Already the men on board the schooner must have begun to realise some
part, but not yet the twentieth, of the dangers that environed their
doomed ship.  At every lull of the capricious wind they must have seen
how fast the current swept them back.  Each tack was made shorter, as
they saw how little it prevailed.  Every moment the rising swell began to
boom and foam upon another sunken reef; and ever and again a breaker
would fall in sounding ruin under the very bows of her, and the brown
reef and streaming tangle appear in the hollow of the wave.  I tell you,
they had to stand to their tackle: there was no idle men aboard that
ship, God knows.  It was upon the progress of a scene so horrible to any
human-hearted man that my misguided uncle now pored and gloated like a
connoisseur.  As I turned to go down the hill, he was lying on his belly
on the summit, with his hands stretched forth and clutching in the
heather.  He seemed rejuvenated, mind and body.

When I got back to the house already dismally affected, I was still more
sadly downcast at the sight of Mary.  She had her sleeves rolled up over
her strong arms, and was quietly making bread.  I got a bannock from the
dresser and sat down to eat it in silence.

'Are ye wearied, lad?' she asked after a while.

'I am not so much wearied, Mary,' I replied, getting on my feet, 'as I am
weary of delay, and perhaps of Aros too.  You know me well enough to
judge me fairly, say what I like.  Well, Mary, you may be sure of this:
you had better be anywhere but here.'

'I'll be sure of one thing,' she returned: 'I'll be where my duty is.'

'You forget, you have a duty to yourself,' I said.

'Ay, man?' she replied, pounding at the dough; 'will you have found that
in the Bible, now?'

'Mary,' I said solemnly, 'you must not laugh at me just now.  God knows I
am in no heart for laughing.  If we could get your father with us, it
would be best; but with him or without him, I want you far away from
here, my girl; for your own sake, and for mine, ay, and for your father's
too, I want you far--far away from here.  I came with other thoughts; I
came here as a man comes home; now it is all changed, and I have no
desire nor hope but to flee--for that's the word--flee, like a bird out
of the fowler's snare, from this accursed island.'

She had stopped her work by this time.

'And do you think, now,' said she, 'do you think, now, I have neither
eyes nor ears?  Do ye think I havenae broken my heart to have these braws
(as he calls them, God forgive him!) thrown into the sea?  Do ye think I
have lived with him, day in, day out, and not seen what you saw in an
hour or two?  No,' she said, 'I know there's wrong in it; what wrong, I
neither know nor want to know.  There was never an ill thing made better
by meddling, that I could hear of.  But, my lad, you must never ask me to
leave my father.  While the breath is in his body, I'll be with him.  And
he's not long for here, either: that I can tell you, Charlie--he's not
long for here.  The mark is on his brow; and better so--maybe better so.'

I was a while silent, not knowing what to say; and when I roused my head
at last to speak, she got before me.

'Charlie,' she said, 'what's right for me, neednae be right for you.
There's sin upon this house and trouble; you are a stranger; take your
things upon your back and go your ways to better places and to better
folk, and if you were ever minded to come back, though it were twenty
years syne, you would find me aye waiting.'

'Mary Ellen,' I said, 'I asked you to be my wife, and you said as good as
yes.  That's done for good.  Wherever you are, I am; as I shall answer to
my God.'

As I said the words, the wind suddenly burst out raving, and then seemed
to stand still and shudder round the house of Aros.  It was the first
squall, or prologue, of the coming tempest, and as we started and looked
about us, we found that a gloom, like the approach of evening, had
settled round the house.

'God pity all poor folks at sea!' she said.  'We'll see no more of my
father till the morrow's morning.'

And then she told me, as we sat by the fire and hearkened to the rising
gusts, of how this change had fallen upon my uncle.  All last winter he
had been dark and fitful in his mind.  Whenever the Roost ran high, or,
as Mary said, whenever the Merry Men were dancing, he would lie out for
hours together on the Head, if it were at night, or on the top of Aros by
day, watching the tumult of the sea, and sweeping the horizon for a sail.
After February the tenth, when the wealth-bringing wreck was cast ashore
at Sandag, he had been at first unnaturally gay, and his excitement had
never fallen in degree, but only changed in kind from dark to darker.  He
neglected his work, and kept Rorie idle.  They two would speak together
by the hour at the gable end, in guarded tones and with an air of secrecy
and almost of guilt; and if she questioned either, as at first she
sometimes did, her inquiries were put aside with confusion.  Since Rorie
had first remarked the fish that hung about the ferry, his master had
never set foot but once upon the mainland of the Ross.  That once--it was
in the height of the springs--he had passed dryshod while the tide was
out; but, having lingered overlong on the far side, found himself cut off
from Aros by the returning waters.  It was with a shriek of agony that he
had leaped across the gut, and he had reached home thereafter in a fever-
fit of fear.  A fear of the sea, a constant haunting thought of the sea,
appeared in his talk and devotions, and even in his looks when he was
silent.

Rorie alone came in to supper; but a little later my uncle appeared, took
a bottle under his arm, put some bread in his pocket, and set forth again
to his outlook, followed this time by Rorie.  I heard that the schooner
was losing ground, but the crew were still fighting every inch with
hopeless ingenuity and course; and the news filled my mind with
blackness.

A little after sundown the full fury of the gale broke forth, such a gale
as I have never seen in summer, nor, seeing how swiftly it had come, even
in winter.  Mary and I sat in silence, the house quaking overhead, the
tempest howling without, the fire between us sputtering with raindrops.
Our thoughts were far away with the poor fellows on the schooner, or my
not less unhappy uncle, houseless on the promontory; and yet ever and
again we were startled back to ourselves, when the wind would rise and
strike the gable like a solid body, or suddenly fall and draw away, so
that the fire leaped into flame and our hearts bounded in our sides.  Now
the storm in its might would seize and shake the four corners of the
roof, roaring like Leviathan in anger.  Anon, in a lull, cold eddies of
tempest moved shudderingly in the room, lifting the hair upon our heads
and passing between us as we sat.  And again the wind would break forth
in a chorus of melancholy sounds, hooting low in the chimney, wailing
with flutelike softness round the house.

It was perhaps eight o'clock when Rorie came in and pulled me
mysteriously to the door.  My uncle, it appeared, had frightened even his
constant comrade; and Rorie, uneasy at his extravagance, prayed me to
come out and share the watch.  I hastened to do as I was asked; the more
readily as, what with fear and horror, and the electrical tension of the
night, I was myself restless and disposed for action.  I told Mary to be
under no alarm, for I should be a safeguard on her father; and wrapping
myself warmly in a plaid, I followed Rorie into the open air.

The night, though we were so little past midsummer, was as dark as
January.  Intervals of a groping twilight alternated with spells of utter
blackness; and it was impossible to trace the reason of these changes in
the flying horror of the sky.  The wind blew the breath out of a man's
nostrils; all heaven seemed to thunder overhead like one huge sail; and
when there fell a momentary lull on Aros, we could hear the gusts
dismally sweeping in the distance.  Over all the lowlands of the Ross,
the wind must have blown as fierce as on the open sea; and God only knows
the uproar that was raging around the head of Ben Kyaw.  Sheets of
mingled spray and rain were driven in our faces.  All round the isle of
Aros the surf, with an incessant, hammering thunder, beat upon the reefs
and beaches.  Now louder in one place, now lower in another, like the
combinations of orchestral music, the constant mass of sound was hardly
varied for a moment.  And loud above all this hurly-burly I could hear
the changeful voices of the Roost and the intermittent roaring of the
Merry Men.  At that hour, there flashed into my mind the reason of the
name that they were called.  For the noise of them seemed almost
mirthful, as it out-topped the other noises of the night; or if not
mirthful, yet instinct with a portentous joviality.  Nay, and it seemed
even human.  As when savage men have drunk away their reason, and,
discarding speech, bawl together in their madness by the hour; so, to my
ears, these deadly breakers shouted by Aros in the night.

Arm in arm, and staggering against the wind, Rorie and I won every yard
of ground with conscious effort.  We slipped on the wet sod, we fell
together sprawling on the rocks.  Bruised, drenched, beaten, and
breathless, it must have taken us near half an hour to get from the house
down to the Head that overlooks the Roost.  There, it seemed, was my
uncle's favourite observatory.  Right in the face of it, where the cliff
is highest and most sheer, a hump of earth, like a parapet, makes a place
of shelter from the common winds, where a man may sit in quiet and see
the tide and the mad billows contending at his feet.  As he might look
down from the window of a house upon some street disturbance, so, from
this post, he looks down upon the tumbling of the Merry Men.  On such a
night, of course, he peers upon a world of blackness, where the waters
wheel and boil, where the waves joust together with the noise of an
explosion, and the foam towers and vanishes in the twinkling of an eye.
Never before had I seen the Merry Men thus violent.  The fury, height,
and transiency of their spoutings was a thing to be seen and not
recounted.  High over our heads on the cliff rose their white columns in
the darkness; and the same instant, like phantoms, they were gone.
Sometimes three at a time would thus aspire and vanish; sometimes a gust
took them, and the spray would fall about us, heavy as a wave.  And yet
the spectacle was rather maddening in its levity than impressive by its
force.  Thought was beaten down by the confounding uproar--a gleeful
vacancy possessed the brains of men, a state akin to madness; and I found
myself at times following the dance of the Merry Men as it were a tune
upon a jigging instrument.

I first caught sight of my uncle when we were still some yards away in
one of the flying glimpses of twilight that chequered the pitch darkness
of the night.  He was standing up behind the parapet, his head thrown
back and the bottle to his mouth.  As he put it down, he saw and
recognised us with a toss of one hand fleeringly above his head.

'Has he been drinking?' shouted I to Rorie.

'He will aye be drunk when the wind blaws,' returned Rorie in the same
high key, and it was all that I could do to hear him.

'Then--was he so--in February?' I inquired.

Rorie's 'Ay' was a cause of joy to me.  The murder, then, had not sprung
in cold blood from calculation; it was an act of madness no more to be
condemned than to be pardoned.  My uncle was a dangerous madman, if you
will, but he was not cruel and base as I had feared.  Yet what a scene
for a carouse, what an incredible vice, was this that the poor man had
chosen!  I have always thought drunkenness a wild and almost fearful
pleasure, rather demoniacal than human; but drunkenness, out here in the
roaring blackness, on the edge of a cliff above that hell of waters, the
man's head spinning like the Roost, his foot tottering on the edge of
death, his ear watching for the signs of ship-wreck, surely that, if it
were credible in any one, was morally impossible in a man like my uncle,
whose mind was set upon a damnatory creed and haunted by the darkest
superstitions.  Yet so it was; and, as we reached the bight of shelter
and could breathe again, I saw the man's eyes shining in the night with
an unholy glimmer.

'Eh, Charlie, man, it's grand!' he cried.  'See to them!' he continued,
dragging me to the edge of the abyss from whence arose that deafening
clamour and those clouds of spray; 'see to them dancin', man!  Is that no
wicked?'

He pronounced the word with gusto, and I thought it suited with the
scene.

'They're yowlin' for thon schooner,' he went on, his thin, insane voice
clearly audible in the shelter of the bank, 'an' she's comin' aye nearer,
aye nearer, aye nearer an' nearer an' nearer; an' they ken't, the folk
kens it, they ken wool it's by wi' them.  Charlie, lad, they're a' drunk
in yon schooner, a' dozened wi' drink.  They were a' drunk in the _Christ-
Anna_, at the hinder end.  There's nane could droon at sea wantin' the
brandy.  Hoot awa, what do you ken?' with a sudden blast of anger.  'I
tell ye, it cannae be; they droon withoot it.  Ha'e,' holding out the
bottle, 'tak' a sowp.'

I was about to refuse, but Rorie touched me as if in warning; and indeed
I had already thought better of the movement.  I took the bottle,
therefore, and not only drank freely myself, but contrived to spill even
more as I was doing so.  It was pure spirit, and almost strangled me to
swallow.  My kinsman did not observe the loss, but, once more throwing
back his head, drained the remainder to the dregs.  Then, with a loud
laugh, he cast the bottle forth among the Merry Men, who seemed to leap
up, shouting to receive it.

'Ha'e, bairns!' he cried, 'there's your han'sel.  Ye'll get bonnier nor
that, or morning.'

Suddenly, out in the black night before us, and not two hundred yards
away, we heard, at a moment when the wind was silent, the clear note of a
human voice.  Instantly the wind swept howling down upon the Head, and
the Roost bellowed, and churned, and danced with a new fury.  But we had
heard the sound, and we knew, with agony, that this was the doomed ship
now close on ruin, and that what we had heard was the voice of her master
issuing his last command.  Crouching together on the edge, we waited,
straining every sense, for the inevitable end.  It was long, however, and
to us it seemed like ages, ere the schooner suddenly appeared for one
brief instant, relieved against a tower of glimmering foam.  I still see
her reefed mainsail flapping loose, as the boom fell heavily across the
deck; I still see the black outline of the hull, and still think I can
distinguish the figure of a man stretched upon the tiller.  Yet the whole
sight we had of her passed swifter than lightning; the very wave that
disclosed her fell burying her for ever; the mingled cry of many voices
at the point of death rose and was quenched in the roaring of the Merry
Men.  And with that the tragedy was at an end.  The strong ship, with all
her gear, and the lamp perhaps still burning in the cabin, the lives of
so many men, precious surely to others, dear, at least, as heaven to
themselves, had all, in that one moment, gone down into the surging
waters.  They were gone like a dream.  And the wind still ran and
shouted, and the senseless waters in the Roost still leaped and tumbled
as before.

How long we lay there together, we three, speechless and motionless, is
more than I can tell, but it must have been for long.  At length, one by
one, and almost mechanically, we crawled back into the shelter of the
bank.  As I lay against the parapet, wholly wretched and not entirely
master of my mind, I could hear my kinsman maundering to himself in an
altered and melancholy mood.  Now he would repeat to himself with maudlin
iteration, 'Sic a fecht as they had--sic a sair fecht as they had, puir
lads, puir lads!' and anon he would bewail that 'a' the gear was as
gude's tint,' because the ship had gone down among the Merry Men instead
of stranding on the shore; and throughout, the name--the
_Christ-Anna_--would come and go in his divagations, pronounced with
shuddering awe.  The storm all this time was rapidly abating.  In half an
hour the wind had fallen to a breeze, and the change was accompanied or
caused by a heavy, cold, and plumping rain.  I must then have fallen
asleep, and when I came to myself, drenched, stiff, and unrefreshed, day
had already broken, grey, wet, discomfortable day; the wind blew in faint
and shifting capfuls, the tide was out, the Roost was at its lowest, and
only the strong beating surf round all the coasts of Aros remained to
witness of the furies of the night.



CHAPTER V.  A MAN OUT OF THE SEA.


Rorie set out for the house in search of warmth and breakfast; but my
uncle was bent upon examining the shores of Aros, and I felt it a part of
duty to accompany him throughout.  He was now docile and quiet, but
tremulous and weak in mind and body; and it was with the eagerness of a
child that he pursued his exploration.  He climbed far down upon the
rocks; on the beaches, he pursued the retreating breakers.  The merest
broken plank or rag of cordage was a treasure in his eyes to be secured
at the peril of his life.  To see him, with weak and stumbling footsteps,
expose himself to the pursuit of the surf, or the snares and pitfalls of
the weedy rock, kept me in a perpetual terror.  My arm was ready to
support him, my hand clutched him by the skirt, I helped him to draw his
pitiful discoveries beyond the reach of the returning wave; a nurse
accompanying a child of seven would have had no different experience.

Yet, weakened as he was by the reaction from his madness of the night
before, the passions that smouldered in his nature were those of a strong
man.  His terror of the sea, although conquered for the moment, was still
undiminished; had the sea been a lake of living flames, he could not have
shrunk more panically from its touch; and once, when his foot slipped and
he plunged to the midleg into a pool of water, the shriek that came up
out of his soul was like the cry of death.  He sat still for a while,
panting like a dog, after that; but his desire for the spoils of
shipwreck triumphed once more over his fears; once more he tottered among
the curded foam; once more he crawled upon the rocks among the bursting
bubbles; once more his whole heart seemed to be set on driftwood, fit, if
it was fit for anything, to throw upon the fire.  Pleased as he was with
what he found, he still incessantly grumbled at his ill-fortune.

'Aros,' he said, 'is no a place for wrecks ava'--no ava'.  A' the years
I've dwalt here, this ane maks the second; and the best o' the gear clean
tint!'

'Uncle,' said I, for we were now on a stretch of open sand, where there
was nothing to divert his mind, 'I saw you last night, as I never thought
to see you--you were drunk.'

'Na, na,' he said, 'no as bad as that.  I had been drinking, though.  And
to tell ye the God's truth, it's a thing I cannae mend.  There's nae
soberer man than me in my ordnar; but when I hear the wind blaw in my
lug, it's my belief that I gang gyte.'

'You are a religious man,' I replied, 'and this is sin'.

'Ou,' he returned, 'if it wasnae sin, I dinnae ken that I would care
for't.  Ye see, man, it's defiance.  There's a sair spang o' the auld sin
o' the warld in you sea; it's an unchristian business at the best o't;
an' whiles when it gets up, an' the wind skreights--the wind an' her are
a kind of sib, I'm thinkin'--an' thae Merry Men, the daft callants,
blawin' and lauchin', and puir souls in the deid thraws warstlin' the
leelang nicht wi' their bit ships--weel, it comes ower me like a glamour.
I'm a deil, I ken't.  But I think naething o' the puir sailor lads; I'm
wi' the sea, I'm just like ane o' her ain Merry Men.'

I thought I should touch him in a joint of his harness.  I turned me
towards the sea; the surf was running gaily, wave after wave, with their
manes blowing behind them, riding one after another up the beach,
towering, curving, falling one upon another on the trampled sand.
Without, the salt air, the scared gulls, the widespread army of the sea-
chargers, neighing to each other, as they gathered together to the
assault of Aros; and close before us, that line on the flat sands that,
with all their number and their fury, they might never pass.

'Thus far shalt thou go,' said I, 'and no farther.'  And then I quoted as
solemnly as I was able a verse that I had often before fitted to the
chorus of the breakers:--

   But yet the Lord that is on high,
      Is more of might by far,
   Than noise of many waters is,
      As great sea billows are.

'Ay,' said my kinsinan, 'at the hinder end, the Lord will triumph; I
dinnae misdoobt that.  But here on earth, even silly men-folk daur Him to
His face.  It is nae wise; I am nae sayin' that it's wise; but it's the
pride of the eye, and it's the lust o' life, an' it's the wale o'
pleesures.'

I said no more, for we had now begun to cross a neck of land that lay
between us and Sandag; and I withheld my last appeal to the man's better
reason till we should stand upon the spot associated with his crime.  Nor
did he pursue the subject; but he walked beside me with a firmer step.
The call that I had made upon his mind acted like a stimulant, and I
could see that he had forgotten his search for worthless jetsam, in a
profound, gloomy, and yet stirring train of thought.  In three or four
minutes we had topped the brae and begun to go down upon Sandag.  The
wreck had been roughly handled by the sea; the stem had been spun round
and dragged a little lower down; and perhaps the stern had been forced a
little higher, for the two parts now lay entirely separate on the beach.
When we came to the grave I stopped, uncovered my head in the thick rain,
and, looking my kinsman in the face, addressed him.

'A man,' said I, 'was in God's providence suffered to escape from mortal
dangers; he was poor, he was naked, he was wet, he was weary, he was a
stranger; he had every claim upon the bowels of your compassion; it may
be that he was the salt of the earth, holy, helpful, and kind; it may be
he was a man laden with iniquities to whom death was the beginning of
torment.  I ask you in the sight of heaven: Gordon Darnaway, where is the
man for whom Christ died?'

He started visibly at the last words; but there came no answer, and his
face expressed no feeling but a vague alarm.

'You were my father's brother,' I continued; 'You, have taught me to
count your house as if it were my father's house; and we are both sinful
men walking before the Lord among the sins and dangers of this life.  It
is by our evil that God leads us into good; we sin, I dare not say by His
temptation, but I must say with His consent; and to any but the brutish
man his sins are the beginning of wisdom.  God has warned you by this
crime; He warns you still by the bloody grave between our feet; and if
there shall follow no repentance, no improvement, no return to Him, what
can we look for but the following of some memorable judgment?'

Even as I spoke the words, the eyes of my uncle wandered from my face.  A
change fell upon his looks that cannot be described; his features seemed
to dwindle in size, the colour faded from his cheeks, one hand rose
waveringly and pointed over my shoulder into the distance, and the oft-
repeated name fell once more from his lips: 'The _Christ-Anna_!'

I turned; and if I was not appalled to the same degree, as I return
thanks to Heaven that I had not the cause, I was still startled by the
sight that met my eyes.  The form of a man stood upright on the cabin-
hutch of the wrecked ship; his back was towards us; he appeared to be
scanning the offing with shaded eyes, and his figure was relieved to its
full height, which was plainly very great, against the sea and sky.  I
have said a thousand times that I am not superstitious; but at that
moment, with my mind running upon death and sin, the unexplained
appearance of a stranger on that sea-girt, solitary island filled me with
a surprise that bordered close on terror.  It seemed scarce possible that
any human soul should have come ashore alive in such a sea as had rated
last night along the coasts of Aros; and the only vessel within miles had
gone down before our eyes among the Merry Men.  I was assailed with
doubts that made suspense unbearable, and, to put the matter to the touch
at once, stepped forward and hailed the figure like a ship.

He turned about, and I thought he started to behold us.  At this my
courage instantly revived, and I called and signed to him to draw near,
and he, on his part, dropped immediately to the sands, and began slowly
to approach, with many stops and hesitations.  At each repeated mark of
the man's uneasiness I grew the more confident myself; and I advanced
another step, encouraging him as I did so with my head and hand.  It was
plain the castaway had heard indifferent accounts of our island
hospitality; and indeed, about this time, the people farther north had a
sorry reputation.

'Why,' I said, 'the man is black!'

And just at that moment, in a voice that I could scarce have recognised,
my kinsman began swearing and praying in a mingled stream.  I looked at
him; he had fallen on his knees, his face was agonised; at each step of
the castaway's the pitch of his voice rose, the volubility of his
utterance and the fervour of his language redoubled.  I call it prayer,
for it was addressed to God; but surely no such ranting incongruities
were ever before addressed to the Creator by a creature: surely if prayer
can be a sin, this mad harangue was sinful.  I ran to my kinsman, I
seized him by the shoulders, I dragged him to his feet.

'Silence, man,' said I, 'respect your God in words, if not in action.
Here, on the very scene of your transgressions, He sends you an occasion
of atonement.  Forward and embrace it; welcome like a father yon creature
who comes trembling to your mercy.'

With that, I tried to force him towards the black; but he felled me to
the ground, burst from my grasp, leaving the shoulder of his jacket, and
fled up the hillside towards the top of Aros like a deer.  I staggered to
my feet again, bruised and somewhat stunned; the negro had paused in
surprise, perhaps in terror, some halfway between me and the wreck; my
uncle was already far away, bounding from rock to rock; and I thus found
myself torn for a time between two duties.  But I judged, and I pray
Heaven that I judged rightly, in favour of the poor wretch upon the
sands; his misfortune was at least not plainly of his own creation; it
was one, besides, that I could certainly relieve; and I had begun by that
time to regard my uncle as an incurable and dismal lunatic.  I advanced
accordingly towards the black, who now awaited my approach with folded
arms, like one prepared for either destiny.  As I came nearer, he reached
forth his hand with a great gesture, such as I had seen from the pulpit,
and spoke to me in something of a pulpit voice, but not a word was
comprehensible.  I tried him first in English, then in Gaelic, both in
vain; so that it was clear we must rely upon the tongue of looks and
gestures.  Thereupon I signed to him to follow me, which he did readily
and with a grave obeisance like a fallen king; all the while there had
come no shade of alteration in his face, neither of anxiety while he was
still waiting, nor of relief now that he was reassured; if he were a
slave, as I supposed, I could not but judge he must have fallen from some
high place in his own country, and fallen as he was, I could not but
admire his bearing.  As we passed the grave, I paused and raised my hands
and eyes to heaven in token of respect and sorrow for the dead; and he,
as if in answer, bowed low and spread his hands abroad; it was a strange
motion, but done like a thing of common custom; and I supposed it was
ceremonial in the land from which he came.  At the same time he pointed
to my uncle, whom we could just see perched upon a knoll, and touched his
head to indicate that he was mad.

We took the long way round the shore, for I feared to excite my uncle if
we struck across the island; and as we walked, I had time enough to
mature the little dramatic exhibition by which I hoped to satisfy my
doubts.  Accordingly, pausing on a rock, I proceeded to imitate before
the negro the action of the man whom I had seen the day before taking
bearings with the compass at Sandag.  He understood me at once, and,
taking the imitation out of my hands, showed me where the boat was,
pointed out seaward as if to indicate the position of the schooner, and
then down along the edge of the rock with the words 'Espirito Santo,'
strangely pronounced, but clear enough for recognition.  I had thus been
right in my conjecture; the pretended historical inquiry had been but a
cloak for treasure-hunting; the man who had played on Dr. Robertson was
the same as the foreigner who visited Grisapol in spring, and now, with
many others, lay dead under the Roost of Aros: there had their greed
brought them, there should their bones be tossed for evermore.  In the
meantime the black continued his imitation of the scene, now looking up
skyward as though watching the approach of the storm now, in the
character of a seaman, waving the rest to come aboard; now as an officer,
running along the rock and entering the boat; and anon bending over
imaginary oars with the air of a hurried boatman; but all with the same
solemnity of manner, so that I was never even moved to smile.  Lastly, he
indicated to me, by a pantomime not to be described in words, how he
himself had gone up to examine the stranded wreck, and, to his grief and
indignation, had been deserted by his comrades; and thereupon folded his
arms once more, and stooped his head, like one accepting fate.

The mystery of his presence being thus solved for me, I explained to him
by means of a sketch the fate of the vessel and of all aboard her.  He
showed no surprise nor sorrow, and, with a sudden lifting of his open
hand, seemed to dismiss his former friends or masters (whichever they had
been) into God's pleasure.  Respect came upon me and grew stronger, the
more I observed him; I saw he had a powerful mind and a sober and severe
character, such as I loved to commune with; and before we reached the
house of Aros I had almost forgotten, and wholly forgiven him, his
uncanny colour.

To Mary I told all that had passed without suppression, though I own my
heart failed me; but I did wrong to doubt her sense of justice.

'You did the right,' she said.  'God's will be done.'  And she set out
meat for us at once.

As soon as I was satisfied, I bade Rorie keep an eye upon the castaway,
who was still eating, and set forth again myself to find my uncle.  I had
not gone far before I saw him sitting in the same place, upon the very
topmost knoll, and seemingly in the same attitude as when I had last
observed him.  From that point, as I have said, the most of Aros and the
neighbouring Ross would be spread below him like a map; and it was plain
that he kept a bright look-out in all directions, for my head had
scarcely risen above the summit of the first ascent before he had leaped
to his feet and turned as if to face me.  I hailed him at once, as well
as I was able, in the same tones and words as I had often used before,
when I had come to summon him to dinner.  He made not so much as a
movement in reply.  I passed on a little farther, and again tried parley,
with the same result.  But when I began a second time to advance, his
insane fears blazed up again, and still in dead silence, but with
incredible speed, he began to flee from before me along the rocky summit
of the hill.  An hour before, he had been dead weary, and I had been
comparatively active.  But now his strength was recruited by the fervour
of insanity, and it would have been vain for me to dream of pursuit.  Nay,
the very attempt, I thought, might have inflamed his terrors, and thus
increased the miseries of our position.  And I had nothing left but to
turn homeward and make my sad report to Mary.

She heard it, as she had heard the first, with a concerned composure,
and, bidding me lie down and take that rest of which I stood so much in
need, set forth herself in quest of her misguided father.  At that age it
would have been a strange thing that put me from either meat or sleep; I
slept long and deep; and it was already long past noon before I awoke and
came downstairs into the kitchen.  Mary, Rorie, and the black castaway
were seated about the fire in silence; and I could see that Mary had been
weeping.  There was cause enough, as I soon learned, for tears.  First
she, and then Rorie, had been forth to seek my uncle; each in turn had
found him perched upon the hill-top, and from each in turn he had
silently and swiftly fled.  Rorie had tried to chase him, but in vain;
madness lent a new vigour to his bounds; he sprang from rock to rock over
the widest gullies; he scoured like the wind along the hill-tops; he
doubled and twisted like a hare before the dogs; and Rorie at length gave
in; and the last that he saw, my uncle was seated as before upon the
crest of Aros.  Even during the hottest excitement of the chase, even
when the fleet-footed servant had come, for a moment, very near to
capture him, the poor lunatic had uttered not a sound.  He fled, and he
was silent, like a beast; and this silence had terrified his pursuer.

There was something heart-breaking in the situation.  How to capture the
madman, how to feed him in the meanwhile, and what to do with him when he
was captured, were the three difficulties that we had to solve.

'The black,' said I, 'is the cause of this attack.  It may even be his
presence in the house that keeps my uncle on the hill.  We have done the
fair thing; he has been fed and warmed under this roof; now I propose
that Rorie put him across the bay in the coble, and take him through the
Ross as far as Grisapol.'

In this proposal Mary heartily concurred; and bidding the black follow
us, we all three descended to the pier.  Certainly, Heaven's will was
declared against Gordon Darnaway; a thing had happened, never paralleled
before in Aros; during the storm, the coble had broken loose, and,
striking on the rough splinters of the pier, now lay in four feet of
water with one side stove in.  Three days of work at least would be
required to make her float.  But I was not to be beaten.  I led the whole
party round to where the gut was narrowest, swam to the other side, and
called to the black to follow me.  He signed, with the same clearness and
quiet as before, that he knew not the art; and there was truth apparent
in his signals, it would have occurred to none of us to doubt his truth;
and that hope being over, we must all go back even as we came to the
house of Aros, the negro walking in our midst without embarrassment.

All we could do that day was to make one more attempt to communicate with
the unhappy madman.  Again he was visible on his perch; again he fled in
silence.  But food and a great cloak were at least left for his comfort;
the rain, besides, had cleared away, and the night promised to be even
warm.  We might compose ourselves, we thought, until the morrow; rest was
the chief requisite, that we might be strengthened for unusual exertions;
and as none cared to talk, we separated at an early hour.

I lay long awake, planning a campaign for the morrow.  I was to place the
black on the side of Sandag, whence he should head my uncle towards the
house; Rorie in the west, I on the east, were to complete the cordon, as
best we might.  It seemed to me, the more I recalled the configuration of
the island, that it should be possible, though hard, to force him down
upon the low ground along Aros Bay; and once there, even with the
strength of his madness, ultimate escape was hardly to be feared.  It was
on his terror of the black that I relied; for I made sure, however he
might run, it would not be in the direction of the man whom he supposed
to have returned from the dead, and thus one point of the compass at
least would be secure.

When at length I fell asleep, it was to be awakened shortly after by a
dream of wrecks, black men, and submarine adventure; and I found myself
so shaken and fevered that I arose, descended the stair, and stepped out
before the house.  Within, Rorie and the black were asleep together in
the kitchen; outside was a wonderful clear night of stars, with here and
there a cloud still hanging, last stragglers of the tempest.  It was near
the top of the flood, and the Merry Men were roaring in the windless
quiet of the night.  Never, not even in the height of the tempest, had I
heard their song with greater awe.  Now, when the winds were gathered
home, when the deep was dandling itself back into its summer slumber, and
when the stars rained their gentle light over land and sea, the voice of
these tide-breakers was still raised for havoc.  They seemed, indeed, to
be a part of the world's evil and the tragic side of life.  Nor were
their meaningless vociferations the only sounds that broke the silence of
the night.  For I could hear, now shrill and thrilling and now almost
drowned, the note of a human voice that accompanied the uproar of the
Roost.  I knew it for my kinsman's; and a great fear fell upon me of
God's judgments, and the evil in the world.  I went back again into the
darkness of the house as into a place of shelter, and lay long upon my
bed, pondering these mysteries.

It was late when I again woke, and I leaped into my clothes and hurried
to the kitchen.  No one was there; Rorie and the black had both
stealthily departed long before; and my heart stood still at the
discovery.  I could rely on Rorie's heart, but I placed no trust in his
discretion.  If he had thus set out without a word, he was plainly bent
upon some service to my uncle.  But what service could he hope to render
even alone, far less in the company of the man in whom my uncle found his
fears incarnated?  Even if I were not already too late to prevent some
deadly mischief, it was plain I must delay no longer.  With the thought I
was out of the house; and often as I have run on the rough sides of Aros,
I never ran as I did that fatal morning.  I do not believe I put twelve
minutes to the whole ascent.

My uncle was gone from his perch.  The basket had indeed been torn open
and the meat scattered on the turf; but, as we found afterwards, no
mouthful had been tasted; and there was not another trace of human
existence in that wide field of view.  Day had already filled the clear
heavens; the sun already lighted in a rosy bloom upon the crest of Ben
Kyaw; but all below me the rude knolls of Aros and the shield of sea lay
steeped in the clear darkling twilight of the dawn.

'Rorie!' I cried; and again 'Rorie!'  My voice died in the silence, but
there came no answer back.  If there were indeed an enterprise afoot to
catch my uncle, it was plainly not in fleetness of foot, but in dexterity
of stalking, that the hunters placed their trust.  I ran on farther,
keeping the higher spurs, and looking right and left, nor did I pause
again till I was on the mount above Sandag.  I could see the wreck, the
uncovered belt of sand, the waves idly beating, the long ledge of rocks,
and on either hand the tumbled knolls, boulders, and gullies of the
island.  But still no human thing.

At a stride the sunshine fell on Aros, and the shadows and colours leaped
into being.  Not half a moment later, below me to the west, sheep began
to scatter as in a panic.  There came a cry.  I saw my uncle running.  I
saw the black jump up in hot pursuit; and before I had time to
understand, Rorie also had appeared, calling directions in Gaelic as to a
dog herding sheep.

I took to my heels to interfere, and perhaps I had done better to have
waited where I was, for I was the means of cutting off the madman's last
escape.  There was nothing before him from that moment but the grave, the
wreck, and the sea in Sandag Bay.  And yet Heaven knows that what I did
was for the best.

My uncle Gordon saw in what direction, horrible to him, the chase was
driving him.  He doubled, darting to the right and left; but high as the
fever ran in his veins, the black was still the swifter.  Turn where he
would, he was still forestalled, still driven toward the scene of his
crime.  Suddenly he began to shriek aloud, so that the coast re-echoed;
and now both I and Rorie were calling on the black to stop.  But all was
vain, for it was written otherwise.  The pursuer still ran, the chase
still sped before him screaming; they avoided the grave, and skimmed
close past the timbers of the wreck; in a breath they had cleared the
sand; and still my kinsman did not pause, but dashed straight into the
surf; and the black, now almost within reach, still followed swiftly
behind him.  Rorie and I both stopped, for the thing was now beyond the
hands of men, and these were the decrees of God that came to pass before
our eyes.  There was never a sharper ending.  On that steep beach they
were beyond their depth at a bound; neither could swim; the black rose
once for a moment with a throttling cry; but the current had them, racing
seaward; and if ever they came up again, which God alone can tell, it
would be ten minutes after, at the far end of Aros Roost, where the
seabirds hover fishing.




WILL O' THE MILL.


CHAPTER I.  THE PLAIN AND THE STARS.


The Mill here Will lived with his adopted parents stood in a falling
valley between pinewoods and great mountains.  Above, hill after hill,
soared upwards until they soared out of the depth of the hardiest timber,
and stood naked against the sky.  Some way up, a long grey village lay
like a seam or a ray of vapour on a wooded hillside; and when the wind
was favourable, the sound of the church bells would drop down, thin and
silvery, to Will.  Below, the valley grew ever steeper and steeper, and
at the same time widened out on either hand; and from an eminence beside
the mill it was possible to see its whole length and away beyond it over
a wide plain, where the river turned and shone, and moved on from city to
city on its voyage towards the sea.  It chanced that over this valley
there lay a pass into a neighbouring kingdom; so that, quiet and rural as
it was, the road that ran along beside the river was a high thoroughfare
between two splendid and powerful societies.  All through the summer,
travelling-carriages came crawling up, or went plunging briskly downwards
past the mill; and as it happened that the other side was very much
easier of ascent, the path was not much frequented, except by people
going in one direction; and of all the carriages that Will saw go by,
five-sixths were plunging briskly downwards and only one-sixth crawling
up.  Much more was this the case with foot-passengers.  All the light-
footed tourists, all the pedlars laden with strange wares, were tending
downward like the river that accompanied their path.  Nor was this all;
for when Will was yet a child a disastrous war arose over a great part of
the world.  The newspapers were full of defeats and victories, the earth
rang with cavalry hoofs, and often for days together and for miles around
the coil of battle terrified good people from their labours in the field.
Of all this, nothing was heard for a long time in the valley; but at last
one of the commanders pushed an army over the pass by forced marches, and
for three days horse and foot, cannon and tumbril, drum and standard,
kept pouring downward past the mill.  All day the child stood and watched
them on their passage--the rhythmical stride, the pale, unshaven faces
tanned about the eyes, the discoloured regimentals and the tattered
flags, filled him with a sense of weariness, pity, and wonder; and all
night long, after he was in bed, he could hear the cannon pounding and
the feet trampling, and the great armament sweeping onward and downward
past the mill.  No one in the valley ever heard the fate of the
expedition, for they lay out of the way of gossip in those troublous
times; but Will saw one thing plainly, that not a man returned.  Whither
had they all gone?  Whither went all the tourists and pedlars with
strange wares? whither all the brisk barouches with servants in the
dicky? whither the water of the stream, ever coursing downward and ever
renewed from above?  Even the wind blew oftener down the valley, and
carried the dead leaves along with it in the fall.  It seemed like a
great conspiracy of things animate and inanimate; they all went downward,
fleetly and gaily downward, and only he, it seemed, remained behind, like
a stock upon the wayside.  It sometimes made him glad when he noticed how
the fishes kept their heads up stream.  They, at least, stood faithfully
by him, while all else were posting downward to the unknown world.

One evening he asked the miller where the river went.

'It goes down the valley,' answered he, 'and turns a power of mills--six
score mills, they say, from here to Unterdeck--and is none the wearier
after all.  And then it goes out into the lowlands, and waters the great
corn country, and runs through a sight of fine cities (so they say) where
kings live all alone in great palaces, with a sentry walling up and down
before the door.  And it goes under bridges with stone men upon them,
looking down and smiling so curious it the water, and living folks
leaning their elbows on the wall and looking over too.  And then it goes
on and on, and down through marshes and sands, until at last it falls
into the sea, where the ships are that bring parrots and tobacco from the
Indies.  Ay, it has a long trot before it as it goes singing over our
weir, bless its heart!'

'And what is the sea?' asked Will.

'The sea!' cried the miller.  'Lord help us all, it is the greatest thing
God made!  That is where all the water in the world runs down into a
great salt lake.  There it lies, as flat as my hand and as innocent-like
as a child; but they do say when the wind blows it gets up into water-
mountains bigger than any of ours, and swallows down great ships bigger
than our mill, and makes such a roaring that you can hear it miles away
upon the land.  There are great fish in it five times bigger than a bull,
and one old serpent as long as our river and as old as all the world,
with whiskers like a man, and a crown of silver on her head.'

Will thought he had never heard anything like this, and he kept on asking
question after question about the world that lay away down the river,
with all its perils and marvels, until the old miller became quite
interested himself, and at last took him by the hand and led him to the
hilltop that overlooks the valley and the plain.  The sun was near
setting, and hung low down in a cloudless sky.  Everything was defined
and glorified in golden light.  Will had never seen so great an expanse
of country in his life; he stood and gazed with all his eyes.  He could
see the cities, and the woods and fields, and the bright curves of the
river, and far away to where the rim of the plain trenched along the
shining heavens.  An over-mastering emotion seized upon the boy, soul and
body; his heart beat so thickly that he could not breathe; the scene swam
before his eyes; the sun seemed to wheel round and round, and throw off,
as it turned, strange shapes which disappeared with the rapidity of
thought, and were succeeded by others.  Will covered his face with his
hands, and burst into a violent fit of tears; and the poor miller, sadly
disappointed and perplexed, saw nothing better for it than to take him up
in his arms and carry him home in silence.

From that day forward Will was full of new hopes and longings.  Something
kept tugging at his heart-strings; the running water carried his desires
along with it as he dreamed over its fleeting surface; the wind, as it
ran over innumerable tree-tops, hailed him with encouraging words;
branches beckoned downward; the open road, as it shouldered round the
angles and went turning and vanishing fast and faster down the valley,
tortured him with its solicitations.  He spent long whiles on the
eminence, looking down the rivershed and abroad on the fat lowlands, and
watched the clouds that travelled forth upon the sluggish wind and
trailed their purple shadows on the plain; or he would linger by the
wayside, and follow the carriages with his eyes as they rattled downward
by the river.  It did not matter what it was; everything that went that
way, were it cloud or carriage, bird or brown water in the stream, he
felt his heart flow out after it in an ecstasy of longing.

We are told by men of science that all the ventures of mariners on the
sea, all that counter-marching of tribes and races that confounds old
history with its dust and rumour, sprang from nothing more abstruse than
the laws of supply and demand, and a certain natural instinct for cheap
rations.  To any one thinking deeply, this will seem a dull and pitiful
explanation.  The tribes that came swarming out of the North and East, if
they were indeed pressed onward from behind by others, were drawn at the
same time by the magnetic influence of the South and West.  The fame of
other lands had reached them; the name of the eternal city rang in their
ears; they were not colonists, but pilgrims; they travelled towards wine
and gold and sunshine, but their hearts were set on something higher.
That divine unrest, that old stinging trouble of humanity that makes all
high achievements and all miserable failure, the same that spread wings
with Icarus, the same that sent Columbus into the desolate Atlantic,
inspired and supported these barbarians on their perilous march.  There
is one legend which profoundly represents their spirit, of how a flying
party of these wanderers encountered a very old man shod with iron.  The
old man asked them whither they were going; and they answered with one
voice: 'To the Eternal City!'  He looked upon them gravely.  'I have
sought it,' he said, 'over the most part of the world.  Three such pairs
as I now carry on my feet have I worn out upon this pilgrimage, and now
the fourth is growing slender underneath my steps.  And all this while I
have not found the city.'  And he turned and went his own way alone,
leaving them astonished.

And yet this would scarcely parallel the intensity of Will's feeling for
the plain.  If he could only go far enough out there, he felt as if his
eyesight would be purged and clarified, as if his hearing would grow more
delicate, and his very breath would come and go with luxury.  He was
transplanted and withering where he was; he lay in a strange country and
was sick for home.  Bit by bit, he pieced together broken notions of the
world below: of the river, ever moving and growing until it sailed forth
into the majestic ocean; of the cities, full of brisk and beautiful
people, playing fountains, bands of music and marble palaces, and lighted
up at night from end to end with artificial stars of gold; of the great
churches, wise universities, brave armies, and untold money lying stored
in vaults; of the high-flying vice that moved in the sunshine, and the
stealth and swiftness of midnight murder.  I have said he was sick as if
for home: the figure halts.  He was like some one lying in twilit,
formless preexistence, and stretching out his hands lovingly towards many-
coloured, many-sounding life.  It was no wonder he was unhappy, he would
go and tell the fish: they were made for their life, wished for no more
than worms and running water, and a hole below a falling bank; but he was
differently designed, full of desires and aspirations, itching at the
fingers, lusting with the eyes, whom the whole variegated world could not
satisfy with aspects.  The true life, the true bright sunshine, lay far
out upon the plain.  And O! to see this sunlight once before he died! to
move with a jocund spirit in a golden land! to hear the trained singers
and sweet church bells, and see the holiday gardens!  'And O fish!' he
would cry, 'if you would only turn your noses down stream, you could swim
so easily into the fabled waters and see the vast ships passing over your
head like clouds, and hear the great water-hills making music over you
all day long!'  But the fish kept looking patiently in their own
direction, until Will hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.

Hitherto the traffic on the road had passed by Will, like something seen
in a picture: he had perhaps exchanged salutations with a tourist, or
caught sight of an old gentleman in a travelling cap at a carriage
window; but for the most part it had been a mere symbol, which he
contemplated from apart and with something of a superstitious feeling.  A
time came at last when this was to be changed.  The miller, who was a
greedy man in his way, and never forewent an opportunity of honest
profit, turned the mill-house into a little wayside inn, and, several
pieces of good fortune falling in opportunely, built stables and got the
position of post master on the road.  It now became Will's duty to wait
upon people, as they sat to break their fasts in the little arbour at the
top of the mill garden; and you may be sure that he kept his ears open,
and learned many new things about the outside world as he brought the
omelette or the wine.  Nay, he would often get into conversation with
single guests, and by adroit questions and polite attention, not only
gratify his own curiosity, but win the goodwill of the travellers.  Many
complimented the old couple on their serving-boy; and a professor was
eager to take him away with him, and have him properly educated in the
plain.  The miller and his wife were mightily astonished and even more
pleased.  They thought it a very good thing that they should have opened
their inn.  'You see,' the old man would remark, 'he has a kind of talent
for a publican; he never would have made anything else!'  And so life
wagged on in the valley, with high satisfaction to all concerned but
Will.  Every carriage that left the inn-door seemed to take a part of him
away with it; and when people jestingly offered him a lift, he could with
difficulty command his emotion.  Night after night he would dream that he
was awakened by flustered servants, and that a splendid equipage waited
at the door to carry him down into the plain; night after night; until
the dream, which had seemed all jollity to him at first, began to take on
a colour of gravity, and the nocturnal summons and waiting equipage
occupied a place in his mind as something to be both feared and hoped
for.

One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat young man arrived at sunset
to pass the night.  He was a contented-looking fellow, with a jolly eye,
and carried a knapsack.  While dinner was preparing, he sat in the arbour
to read a book; but as soon as he had begun to observe Will, the book was
laid aside; he was plainly one of those who prefer living people to
people made of ink and paper.  Will, on his part, although he had not
been much interested in the stranger at first sight, soon began to take a
great deal of pleasure in his talk, which was full of good nature and
good sense, and at last conceived a great respect for his character and
wisdom.  They sat far into the night; and about two in the morning Will
opened his heart to the young man, and told him how he longed to leave
the valley and what bright hopes he had connected with the cities of the
plain.  The young man whistled, and then broke into a smile.

'My young friend,' he remarked, 'you are a very curious little fellow to
be sure, and wish a great many things which you will never get.  Why, you
would feel quite ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in these
fairy cities of yours are all after the same sort of nonsense, and keep
breaking their hearts to get up into the mountains.  And let me tell you,
those who go down into the plains are a very short while there before
they wish themselves heartily back again.  The air is not so light nor so
pure; nor is the sun any brighter.  As for the beautiful men and women,
you would see many of them in rags and many of them deformed with
horrible disorders; and a city is so hard a place for people who are poor
and sensitive that many choose to die by their own hand.'

'You must think me very simple,' answered Will.  'Although I have never
been out of this valley, believe me, I have used my eyes.  I know how one
thing lives on another; for instance, how the fish hangs in the eddy to
catch his fellows; and the shepherd, who makes so pretty a picture
carrying home the lamb, is only carrying it home for dinner.  I do not
expect to find all things right in your cities.  That is not what
troubles me; it might have been that once upon a time; but although I
live here always, I have asked many questions and learned a great deal in
these last years, and certainly enough to cure me of my old fancies.  But
you would not have me die like a dog and not see all that is to be seen,
and do all that a man can do, let it be good or evil? you would not have
me spend all my days between this road here and the river, and not so
much as make a motion to be up and live my life?--I would rather die out
of hand,' he cried, 'than linger on as I am doing.'

'Thousands of people,' said the young man, 'live and die like you, and
are none the less happy.'

'Ah!' said Will, 'if there are thousands who would like, why should not
one of them have my place?'

It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in the arbour which lit up
the table and the faces of the speakers; and along the arch, the leaves
upon the trellis stood out illuminated against the night sky, a pattern
of transparent green upon a dusky purple.  The fat young man rose, and,
taking Will by the arm, led him out under the open heavens.

'Did you ever look at the stars?' he asked, pointing upwards.

'Often and often,' answered Will.

'And do you know what they are?'

'I have fancied many things.'

'They are worlds like ours,' said the young man.  'Some of them less;
many of them a million times greater; and some of the least sparkles that
you see are not only worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning about
each other in the midst of space.  We do not know what there may be in
any of them; perhaps the answer to all our difficulties or the cure of
all our sufferings: and yet we can never reach them; not all the skill of
the craftiest of men can fit out a ship for the nearest of these our
neighbours, nor would the life of the most aged suffice for such a
journey.  When a great battle has been lost or a dear friend is dead,
when we are hipped or in high spirits, there they are unweariedly shining
overhead.  We may stand down here, a whole army of us together, and shout
until we break our hearts, and not a whisper reaches them.  We may climb
the highest mountain, and we are no nearer them.  All we can do is to
stand down here in the garden and take off our hats; the starshine lights
upon our heads, and where mine is a little bald, I dare say you can see
it glisten in the darkness.  The mountain and the mouse.  That is like to
be all we shall ever have to do with Arcturus or Aldebaran.  Can you
apply a parable?' he added, laying his hand upon Will's shoulder.  'It is
not the same thing as a reason, but usually vastly more convincing.'

Will hung his head a little, and then raised it once more to heaven.  The
stars seemed to expand and emit a sharper brilliancy; and as he kept
turning his eyes higher and higher, they seemed to increase in multitude
under his gaze.

'I see,' he said, turning to the young man.  'We are in a rat-trap.'

'Something of that size.  Did you ever see a squirrel turning in a cage?
and another squirrel sitting philosophically over his nuts?  I needn't
ask you which of them looked more of a fool.'



CHAPTER II.  THE PARSON'S MARJORY.


After some years the old people died, both in one winter, very carefully
tended by their adopted son, and very quietly mourned when they were
gone.  People who had heard of his roving fancies supposed he would
hasten to sell the property, and go down the river to push his fortunes.
But there was never any sign of such in intention on the part of Will.  On
the contrary, he had the inn set on a better footing, and hired a couple
of servants to assist him in carrying it on; and there he settled down, a
kind, talkative, inscrutable young man, six feet three in his stockings,
with an iron constitution and a friendly voice.  He soon began to take
rank in the district as a bit of an oddity: it was not much to be
wondered at from the first, for he was always full of notions, and kept
calling the plainest common-sense in question; but what most raised the
report upon him was the odd circumstance of his courtship with the
parson's Marjory.

The parson's Marjory was a lass about nineteen, when Will would be about
thirty; well enough looking, and much better educated than any other girl
in that part of the country, as became her parentage.  She held her head
very high, and had already refused several offers of marriage with a
grand air, which had got her hard names among the neighbours.  For all
that she was a good girl, and one that would have made any man well
contented.

Will had never seen much of her; for although the church and parsonage
were only two miles from his own door, he was never known to go there but
on Sundays.  It chanced, however, that the parsonage fell into disrepair,
and had to be dismantled; and the parson and his daughter took lodgings
for a month or so, on very much reduced terms, at Will's inn.  Now, what
with the inn, and the mill, and the old miller's savings, our friend was
a man of substance; and besides that, he had a name for good temper and
shrewdness, which make a capital portion in marriage; and so it was
currently gossiped, among their ill-wishers, that the parson and his
daughter had not chosen their temporary lodging with their eyes shut.
Will was about the last man in the world to be cajoled or frightened into
marriage.  You had only to look into his eyes, limpid and still like
pools of water, and yet with a sort of clear light that seemed to come
from within, and you would understand at once that here was one who knew
his own mind, and would stand to it immovably.  Marjory herself was no
weakling by her looks, with strong, steady eyes and a resolute and quiet
bearing.  It might be a question whether she was not Will's match in
stedfastness, after all, or which of them would rule the roost in
marriage.  But Marjory had never given it a thought, and accompanied her
father with the most unshaken innocence and unconcern.

The season was still so early that Will's customers were few and far
between; but the lilacs were already flowering, and the weather was so
mild that the party took dinner under the trellice, with the noise of the
river in their ears and the woods ringing about them with the songs of
birds.  Will soon began to take a particular pleasure in these dinners.
The parson was rather a dull companion, with a habit of dozing at table;
but nothing rude or cruel ever fell from his lips.  And as for the
parson's daughter, she suited her surroundings with the best grace
imaginable; and whatever she said seemed so pat and pretty that Will
conceived a great idea of her talents.  He could see her face, as she
leaned forward, against a background of rising pinewoods; her eyes shone
peaceably; the light lay around her hair like a kerchief; something that
was hardly a smile rippled her pale cheeks, and Will could not contain
himself from gazing on her in an agreeable dismay.  She looked, even in
her quietest moments, so complete in herself, and so quick with life down
to her finger tips and the very skirts of her dress, that the remainder
of created things became no more than a blot by comparison; and if Will
glanced away from her to her surroundings, the trees looked inanimate and
senseless, the clouds hung in heaven like dead things, and even the
mountain tops were disenchanted.  The whole valley could not compare in
looks with this one girl.

Will was always observant in the society of his fellow-creatures; but his
observation became almost painfully eager in the case of Marjory.  He
listened to all she uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for the
unspoken commentary.  Many kind, simple, and sincere speeches found an
echo in his heart.  He became conscious of a soul beautifully poised upon
itself, nothing doubting, nothing desiring, clothed in peace.  It was not
possible to separate her thoughts from her appearance.  The turn of her
wrist, the still sound of her voice, the light in her eyes, the lines of
her body, fell in tune with her grave and gentle words, like the
accompaniment that sustains and harmonises the voice of the singer.  Her
influence was one thing, not to be divided or discussed, only to be felt
with gratitude and joy.  To Will, her presence recalled something of his
childhood, and the thought of her took its place in his mind beside that
of dawn, of running water, and of the earliest violets and lilacs.  It is
the property of things seen for the first time, or for the first time
after long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp edge
of sense and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise passes
out of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved face is
what renews a man's character from the fountain upwards.

One day after dinner Will took a stroll among the firs; a grave beatitude
possessed him from top to toe, and he kept smiling to himself and the
landscape as he went.  The river ran between the stepping-stones with a
pretty wimple; a bird sang loudly in the wood; the hill-tops looked
immeasurably high, and as he glanced at them from time to time seemed to
contemplate his movements with a beneficent but awful curiosity.  His way
took him to the eminence which overlooked the plain; and there he sat
down upon a stone, and fell into deep and pleasant thought.  The plain
lay abroad with its cities and silver river; everything was asleep,
except a great eddy of birds which kept rising and falling and going
round and round in the blue air.  He repeated Marjory's name aloud, and
the sound of it gratified his ear.  He shut his eyes, and her image
sprang up before him, quietly luminous and attended with good thoughts.
The river might run for ever; the birds fly higher and higher till they
touched the stars.  He saw it was empty bustle after all; for here,
without stirring a feet, waiting patiently in his own narrow valley, he
also had attained the better sunlight.

The next day Will made a sort of declaration across the dinner-table,
while the parson was filling his pipe.

'Miss Marjory,' he said, 'I never knew any one I liked so well as you.  I
am mostly a cold, unkindly sort of man; not from want of heart, but out
of strangeness in my way of thinking; and people seem far away from me.
'Tis as if there were a circle round me, which kept every one out but
you; I can hear the others talking and laughing; but you come quite
close.  Maybe, this is disagreeable to you?' he asked.

Marjory made no answer.

'Speak up, girl,' said the parson.

'Nay, now,' returned Will, 'I wouldn't press her, parson.  I feel tongue-
tied myself, who am not used to it; and she's a woman, and little more
than a child, when all is said.  But for my part, as far as I can
understand what people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they call in
love.  I do not wish to be held as committing myself; for I may be wrong;
but that is how I believe things are with me.  And if Miss Marjory should
feel any otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake her
head.'

Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard.

'How is that, parson?' asked Will.

'The girl must speak,' replied the parson, laying down his pipe.  'Here's
our neighbour who says he loves you, Madge.  Do you love him, ay or no?'

'I think I do,' said Marjory, faintly.

'Well then, that's all that could be wished!' cried Will, heartily.  And
he took her hand across the table, and held it a moment in both of his
with great satisfaction.

'You must marry,' observed the parson, replacing his pipe in his mouth.

'Is that the right thing to do, think you?' demanded Will.

'It is indispensable,' said the parson.

'Very well,' replied the wooer.

Two or three days passed away with great delight to Will, although a
bystander might scarce have found it out.  He continued to take his meals
opposite Marjory, and to talk with her and gaze upon her in her father's
presence; but he made no attempt to see her alone, nor in any other way
changed his conduct towards her from what it had been since the
beginning.  Perhaps the girl was a little disappointed, and perhaps not
unjustly; and yet if it had been enough to be always in the thoughts of
another person, and so pervade and alter his whole life, she might have
been thoroughly contented.  For she was never out of Will's mind for an
instant.  He sat over the stream, and watched the dust of the eddy, and
the poised fish, and straining weeds; he wandered out alone into the
purple even, with all the blackbirds piping round him in the wood; he
rose early in the morning, and saw the sky turn from grey to gold, and
the light leap upon the hill-tops; and all the while he kept wondering if
he had never seen such things before, or how it was that they should look
so different now.  The sound of his own mill-wheel, or of the wind among
the trees, confounded and charmed his heart.  The most enchanting
thoughts presented themselves unbidden in his mind.  He was so happy that
he could not sleep at night, and so restless, that he could hardly sit
still out of her company.  And yet it seemed as if he avoided her rather
than sought her out.

One day, as he was coming home from a ramble, Will found Marjory in the
garden picking flowers, and as he came up with her, slackened his pace
and continued walking by her side.

'You like flowers?' he said.

'Indeed I love them dearly,' she replied.  'Do you?'

'Why, no,' said he, 'not so much.  They are a very small affair, when all
is done.  I can fancy people caring for them greatly, but not doing as
you are just now.'

'How?' she asked, pausing and looking up at him.

'Plucking them,' said he.  'They are a deal better off where they are,
and look a deal prettier, if you go to that.'

'I wish to have them for my own,' she answered, 'to carry them near my
heart, and keep them in my room.  They tempt me when they grow here; they
seem to say, "Come and do something with us;" but once I have cut them
and put them by, the charm is laid, and I can look at them with quite an
easy heart.'

'You wish to possess them,' replied Will, 'in order to think no more
about them.  It's a bit like killing the goose with the golden eggs.  It's
a bit like what I wished to do when I was a boy.  Because I had a fancy
for looking out over the plain, I wished to go down there--where I
couldn't look out over it any longer.  Was not that fine reasoning?  Dear,
dear, if they only thought of it, all the world would do like me; and you
would let your flowers alone, just as I stay up here in the mountains.'
Suddenly he broke off sharp.  'By the Lord!' he cried.  And when she
asked him what was wrong, he turned the question off and walked away into
the house with rather a humorous expression of face.

He was silent at table; and after the night hid fallen and the stars had
come out overhead, he walked up and down for hours in the courtyard and
garden with an uneven pace.  There was still a light in the window of
Marjory's room: one little oblong patch of orange in a world of dark blue
hills and silver starlight.  Will's mind ran a great deal on the window;
but his thoughts were not very lover-like.  'There she is in her room,'
he thought, 'and there are the stars overhead:--a blessing upon both!'
Both were good influences in his life; both soothed and braced him in his
profound contentment with the world.  And what more should he desire with
either?  The fat young man and his councils were so present to his mind,
that he threw back his head, and, putting his hands before his mouth,
shouted aloud to the populous heavens.  Whether from the position of his
head or the sudden strain of the exertion, he seemed to see a momentary
shock among the stars, and a diffusion of frosty light pass from one to
another along the sky.  At the same instant, a corner of the blind was
lifted and lowered again at once.  He laughed a loud ho-ho!  'One and
another!' thought Will.  'The stars tremble, and the blind goes up.  Why,
before Heaven, what a great magician I must be!  Now if I were only a
fool, should not I be in a pretty way?'  And he went off to bed,
chuckling to himself: 'If I were only a fool!'

The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more in the garden, and
sought her out.

'I have been thinking about getting married,' he began abruptly; 'and
after having turned it all over, I have made up my mind it's not
worthwhile.'

She turned upon him for a single moment; but his radiant, kindly
appearance would, under the circumstances, have disconcerted an angel,
and she looked down again upon the ground in silence.  He could see her
tremble.

'I hope you don't mind,' he went on, a little taken aback.  'You ought
not.  I have turned it all over, and upon my soul there's nothing in it.
We should never be one whit nearer than we are just now, and, if I am a
wise man, nothing like so happy.'

'It is unnecessary to go round about with me,' she said.  'I very well
remember that you refused to commit yourself; and now that I see you were
mistaken, and in reality have never cared for me, I can only feel sad
that I have been so far misled.'

'I ask your pardon,' said Will stoutly; 'you do not understand my
meaning.  As to whether I have ever loved you or not, I must leave that
to others.  But for one thing, my feeling is not changed; and for
another, you may make it your boast that you have made my whole life and
character something different from what they were.  I mean what I say; no
less.  I do not think getting married is worth while.  I would rather you
went on living with your father, so that I could walk over and see you
once, or maybe twice a week, as people go to church, and then we should
both be all the happier between whiles.  That's my notion.  But I'll
marry you if you will,' he added.

'Do you know that you are insulting me?' she broke out.

'Not I, Marjory,' said he; 'if there is anything in a clear conscience,
not I.  I offer all my heart's best affection; you can take it or want
it, though I suspect it's beyond either your power or mine to change what
has once been done, and set me fancy-free.  I'll marry you, if you like;
but I tell you again and again, it's not worth while, and we had best
stay friends.  Though I am a quiet man I have noticed a heap of things in
my life.  Trust in me, and take things as I propose; or, if you don't
like that, say the word, and I'll marry you out of hand.'

There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy, began
to grow angry in consequence.

'It seems you are too proud to say your mind,' he said.  'Believe me
that's a pity.  A clean shrift makes simple living.  Can a man be more
downright or honourable, to a woman than I have been?  I have said my
say, and given you your choice.  Do you want me to marry you? or will you
take my friendship, as I think best? or have you had enough of me for
good?  Speak out for the dear God's sake!  You know your father told you
a girl should speak her mind in these affairs.'

She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without a word, walked
rapidly through the garden, and disappeared into the house, leaving Will
in some confusion as to the result.  He walked up and down the garden,
whistling softly to himself.  Sometimes he stopped and contemplated the
sky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to the tail of the weir and sat
there, looking foolishly in the water.  All this dubiety and perturbation
was so foreign to his nature and the life which he had resolutely chosen
for himself, that he began to regret Marjory's arrival.  'After all,' he
thought, 'I was as happy as a man need be.  I could come down here and
watch my fishes all day long if I wanted: I was as settled and contented
as my old mill.'

Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and quiet; and no sooner
were all three at table than she made her father a speech, with her eyes
fixed upon her plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassment or
distress.

'Father,' she began, 'Mr. Will and I have been talking things over.  We
see that we have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he has
agreed, at my request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more
than my very good friend, as in the past.  You see, there is no shadow of
a quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great deal of him in the
future, for his visits will always be welcome in our house.  Of course,
father, you will know best, but perhaps we should do better to leave Mr.
Will's house for the present.  I believe, after what has passed, we
should hardly be agreeable inmates for some days.'

Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty from the first, broke out
upon this into an inarticulate noise, and raised one hand with an
appearance of real dismay, as if he were about to interfere and
contradict.  But she checked him at once looking up at him with a swift
glance and an angry flush upon her cheek.

'You will perhaps have the good grace,' she said, 'to let me explain
these matters for myself.'

Will was put entirely out of countenance by her expression and the ring
of her voice.  He held his peace, concluding that there were some things
about this girl beyond his comprehension, in which he was exactly right.

The poor parson was quite crestfallen.  He tried to prove that this was
no more than a true lovers' tiff, which would pass off before night; and
when he was dislodged from that position, he went on to argue that where
there was no quarrel there could be no call for a separation; for the
good man liked both his entertainment and his host.  It was curious to
see how the girl managed them, saying little all the time, and that very
quietly, and yet twisting them round her finger and insensibly leading
them wherever she would by feminine tact and generalship.  It scarcely
seemed to have been her doing--it seemed as if things had merely so
fallen out--that she and her father took their departure that same
afternoon in a farm-cart, and went farther down the valley, to wait,
until their own house was ready for them, in another hamlet.  But Will
had been observing closely, and was well aware of her dexterity and
resolution.  When he found himself alone he had a great many curious
matters to turn over in his mind.  He was very sad and solitary, to begin
with.  All the interest had gone out of his life, and he might look up at
the stars as long as he pleased, he somehow failed to find support or
consolation.  And then he was in such a turmoil of spirit about Marjory.
He had been puzzled and irritated at her behaviour, and yet he could not
keep himself from admiring it.  He thought he recognised a fine, perverse
angel in that still soul which he had never hitherto suspected; and
though he saw it was an influence that would fit but ill with his own
life of artificial calm, he could not keep himself from ardently desiring
to possess it.  Like a man who has lived among shadows and now meets the
sun, he was both pained and delighted.

As the days went forward he passed from one extreme to another; now
pluming himself on the strength of his determination, now despising his
timid and silly caution.  The former was, perhaps, the true thought of
his heart, and represented the regular tenor of the man's reflections;
but the latter burst forth from time to time with an unruly violence, and
then he would forget all consideration, and go up and down his house and
garden or walk among the fir-woods like one who is beside himself with
remorse.  To equable, steady-minded Will this state of matters was
intolerable; and he determined, at whatever cost, to bring it to an end.
So, one warm summer afternoon he put on his best clothes, took a thorn
switch in his hand, and set out down the valley by the river.  As soon as
he had taken his determination, he had regained at a bound his customary
peace of heart, and he enjoyed the bright weather and the variety of the
scene without any admixture of alarm or unpleasant eagerness.  It was
nearly the same to him how the matter turned out.  If she accepted him he
would have to marry her this time, which perhaps was, all for the best.
If she refused him, he would have done his utmost, and might follow his
own way in the future with an untroubled conscience.  He hoped, on the
whole, she would refuse him; and then, again, as he saw the brown roof
which sheltered her, peeping through some willows at an angle of the
stream, he was half inclined to reverse the wish, and more than half
ashamed of himself for this infirmity of purpose.

Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her hand without affectation
or delay.

'I have been thinking about this marriage,' he began.

'So have I,' she answered.  'And I respect you more and more for a very
wise man.  You understood me better than I understood myself; and I am
now quite certain that things are all for the best as they are.'

'At the same time--,' ventured Will.

'You must be tired,' she interrupted.  'Take a seat and let me fetch you
a glass of wine.  The afternoon is so warm; and I wish you not to be
displeased with your visit.  You must come quite often; once a week, if
you can spare the time; I am always so glad to see my friends.'

'O, very well,' thought Will to himself.  'It appears I was right after
all.'  And he paid a very agreeable visit, walked home again in capital
spirits, and gave himself no further concern about the matter.

For nearly three years Will and Marjory continued on these terms, seeing
each other once or twice a week without any word of love between them;
and for all that time I believe Will was nearly as happy as a man can be.
He rather stinted himself the pleasure of seeing her; and he would often
walk half-way over to the parsonage, and then back again, as if to whet
his appetite.  Indeed there was one corner of the road, whence he could
see the church-spire wedged into a crevice of the valley between sloping
firwoods, with a triangular snatch of plain by way of background, which
he greatly affected as a place to sit and moralise in before returning
homewards; and the peasants got so much into the habit of finding him
there in the twilight that they gave it the name of 'Will o' the Mill's
Corner.'

At the end of the three years Marjory played him a sad trick by suddenly
marrying somebody else.  Will kept his countenance bravely, and merely
remarked that, for as little as he knew of women, he had acted very
prudently in not marrying her himself three years before.  She plainly
knew very little of her own mind, and, in spite of a deceptive manner,
was as fickle and flighty as the rest of them.  He had to congratulate
himself on an escape, he said, and would take a higher opinion of his own
wisdom in consequence.  But at heart, he was reasonably displeased, moped
a good deal for a month or two, and fell away in flesh, to the
astonishment of his serving-lads.

It was perhaps a year after this marriage that Will was awakened late one
night by the sound of a horse galloping on the road, followed by
precipitate knocking at the inn-door.  He opened his window and saw a
farm servant, mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, who told him
to make what haste he could and go along with him; for Marjory was dying,
and had sent urgently to fetch him to her bedside.  Will was no horseman,
and made so little speed upon the way that the poor young wife was very
near her end before he arrived.  But they had some minutes' talk in
private, and he was present and wept very bitterly while she breathed her
last.



CHAPTER III.  DEATH


Year after year went away into nothing, with great explosions and
outcries in the cities on the plain: red revolt springing up and being
suppressed in blood, battle swaying hither and thither, patient
astronomers in observatory towers picking out and christening new stars,
plays being performed in lighted theatres, people being carried into
hospital on stretchers, and all the usual turmoil and agitation of men's
lives in crowded centres.  Up in Will's valley only the winds and seasons
made an epoch; the fish hung in the swift stream, the birds circled
overhead, the pine-tops rustled underneath the stars, the tall hills
stood over all; and Will went to and fro, minding his wayside inn, until
the snow began to thicken on his head.  His heart was young and vigorous;
and if his pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong and steady in
his wrists.  He carried a ruddy stain on either cheek, like a ripe apple;
he stooped a little, but his step was still firm; and his sinewy hands
were reached out to all men with a friendly pressure.  His face was
covered with those wrinkles which are got in open air, and which rightly
looked at, are no more than a sort of permanent sunburning; such wrinkles
heighten the stupidity of stupid faces; but to a person like Will, with
his clear eyes and smiling mouth, only give another charm by testifying
to a simple and easy life.  His talk was full of wise sayings.  He had a
taste for other people; and other people had a taste for him.  When the
valley was full of tourists in the season, there were merry nights in
Will's arbour; and his views, which seemed whimsical to his neighbours,
were often enough admired by learned people out of towns and colleges.
Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew daily better known; so that
his fame was heard of in the cities of the plain; and young men who had
been summer travellers spoke together in _cafes_ of Will o' the Mill and
his rough philosophy.  Many and many an invitation, you may be sure, he
had; but nothing could tempt him from his upland valley.  He would shake
his head and smile over his tobacco-pipe with a deal of meaning.  'You
come too late,' he would answer.  'I am a dead man now: I have lived and
died already.  Fifty years ago you would have brought my heart into my
mouth; and now you do not even tempt me.  But that is the object of long
living, that man should cease to care about life.'  And again: 'There is
only one difference between a long life and a good dinner: that, in the
dinner, the sweets come last.'  Or once more: 'When I was a boy, I was a
bit puzzled, and hardly knew whether it was myself or the world that was
curious and worth looking into.  Now, I know it is myself, and stick to
that.'

He never showed any symptom of frailty, but kept stalwart and firm to the
last; but they say he grew less talkative towards the end, and would
listen to other people by the hour in an amused and sympathetic silence.
Only, when he did speak, it was more to the point and more charged with
old experience.  He drank a bottle of wine gladly; above all, at sunset
on the hill-top or quite late at night under the stars in the arbour.  The
sight of something attractive and unatttainable seasoned his enjoyment,
he would say; and he professed he had lived long enough to admire a
candle all the more when he could compare it with a planet.

One night, in his seventy-second year, he awoke in bed in such uneasiness
of body and mind that he arose and dressed himself and went out to
meditate in the arbour.  It was pitch dark, without a star; the river was
swollen, and the wet woods and meadows loaded the air with perfume.  It
had thundered during the day, and it promised more thunder for the
morrow.  A murky, stifling night for a man of seventy-two!  Whether it
was the weather or the wakefulness, or some little touch of fever in his
old limbs, Will's mind was besieged by tumultuous and crying memories.
His boyhood, the night with the fat young man, the death of his adopted
parents, the summer days with Marjory, and many of those small
circumstances, which seem nothing to another, and are yet the very gist
of a man's own life to himself--things seen, words heard, looks
misconstrued--arose from their forgotten corners and usurped his
attention.  The dead themselves were with him, not merely taking part in
this thin show of memory that defiled before his brain, but revisiting
his bodily senses as they do in profound and vivid dreams.  The fat young
man leaned his elbows on the table opposite; Marjory came and went with
an apronful of flowers between the garden and the arbour; he could hear
the old parson knocking out his pipe or blowing his resonant nose.  The
tide of his consciousness ebbed and flowed: he was sometimes half-asleep
and drowned in his recollections of the past; and sometimes he was broad
awake, wondering at himself.  But about the middle of the night he was
startled by the voice of the dead miller calling to him out of the house
as he used to do on the arrival of custom.  The hallucination was so
perfect that Will sprang from his seat and stood listening for the
summons to be repeated; and as he listened he became conscious of another
noise besides the brawling of the river and the ringing in his feverish
ears.  It was like the stir of horses and the creaking of harness, as
though a carriage with an impatient team had been brought up upon the
road before the courtyard gate.  At such an hour, upon this rough and
dangerous pass, the supposition was no better than absurd; and Will
dismissed it from his mind, and resumed his seat upon the arbour chair;
and sleep closed over him again like running water.  He was once again
awakened by the dead miller's call, thinner and more spectral than
before; and once again he heard the noise of an equipage upon the road.
And so thrice and four times, the same dream, or the same fancy,
presented itself to his senses: until at length, smiling to himself as
when one humours a nervous child, he proceeded towards the gate to set
his uncertainty at rest.

From the arbour to the gate was no great distance, and yet it took Will
some time; it seemed as if the dead thickened around him in the court,
and crossed his path at every step.  For, first, he was suddenly
surprised by an overpowering sweetness of heliotropes; it was as if his
garden had been planted with this flower from end to end, and the hot,
damp night had drawn forth all their perfumes in a breath.  Now the
heliotrope had been Marjory's favourite flower, and since her death not
one of them had ever been planted in Will's ground.

'I must be going crazy,' he thought.  'Poor Marjory and her heliotropes!'

And with that he raised his eyes towards the window that had once been
hers.  If he had been bewildered before, he was now almost terrified; for
there was a light in the room; the window was an orange oblong as of
yore; and the corner of the blind was lifted and let fall as on the night
when he stood and shouted to the stars in his perplexity.  The illusion
only endured an instant; but it left him somewhat unmanned, rubbing his
eyes and staring at the outline of the house and the black night behind
it.  While he thus stood, and it seemed as if he must have stood there
quite a long time, there came a renewal of the noises on the road: and he
turned in time to meet a stranger, who was advancing to meet him across
the court.  There was something like the outline of a great carriage
discernible on the road behind the stranger, and, above that, a few black
pine-tops, like so many plumes.

'Master Will?' asked the new-comer, in brief military fashion.

'That same, sir,' answered Will.  'Can I do anything to serve you?'

'I have heard you much spoken of, Master Will,' returned the other; 'much
spoken of, and well.  And though I have both hands full of business, I
wish to drink a bottle of wine with you in your arbour.  Before I go, I
shall introduce myself.'

Will led the way to the trellis, and got a lamp lighted and a bottle
uncorked.  He was not altogether unused to such complimentary interviews,
and hoped little enough from this one, being schooled by many
disappointments.  A sort of cloud had settled on his wits and prevented
him from remembering the strangeness of the hour.  He moved like a person
in his sleep; and it seemed as if the lamp caught fire and the bottle
came uncorked with the facility of thought.  Still, he had some curiosity
about the appearance of his visitor, and tried in vain to turn the light
into his face; either he handled the lamp clumsily, or there was a
dimness over his eyes; but he could make out little more than a shadow at
table with him.  He stared and stared at this shadow, as he wiped out the
glasses, and began to feel cold and strange about the heart.  The silence
weighed upon him, for he could hear nothing now, not even the river, but
the drumming of his own arteries in his ears.

'Here's to you,' said the stranger, roughly.

'Here is my service, sir,' replied Will, sipping his wine, which somehow
tasted oddly.

'I understand you are a very positive fellow,' pursued the stranger.

Will made answer with a smile of some satisfaction and a little nod.

'So am I,' continued the other; 'and it is the delight of my heart to
tramp on people's corns.  I will have nobody positive but myself; not
one.  I have crossed the whims, in my time, of kings and generals and
great artists.  And what would you say,' he went on, 'if I had come up
here on purpose to cross yours?'

Will had it on his tongue to make a sharp rejoinder; but the politeness
of an old innkeeper prevailed; and he held his peace and made answer with
a civil gesture of the hand.

'I have,' said the stranger.  'And if I did not hold you in a particular
esteem, I should make no words about the matter.  It appears you pride
yourself on staying where you are.  You mean to stick by your inn.  Now I
mean you shall come for a turn with me in my barouche; and before this
bottle's empty, so you shall.'

'That would be an odd thing, to be sure,' replied Will, with a chuckle.
'Why, sir, I have grown here like an old oak-tree; the Devil himself
could hardly root me up: and for all I perceive you are a very
entertaining old gentleman, I would wager you another bottle you lose
your pains with me.'

The dimness of Will's eyesight had been increasing all this while; but he
was somehow conscious of a sharp and chilling scrutiny which irritated
and yet overmastered him.

'You need not think,' he broke out suddenly, in an explosive, febrile
manner that startled and alarmed himself, 'that I am a stay-at-home,
because I fear anything under God.  God knows I am tired enough of it
all; and when the time comes for a longer journey than ever you dream of,
I reckon I shall find myself prepared.'

The stranger emptied his glass and pushed it away from him.  He looked
down for a little, and then, leaning over the table, tapped Will three
times upon the forearm with a single finger.  'The time has come!' he
said solemnly.

An ugly thrill spread from the spot he touched.  The tones of his voice
were dull and startling, and echoed strangely in Will's heart.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, with some discomposure.  'What do you
mean?'

'Look at me, and you will find your eyesight swim.  Raise your hand; it
is dead-heavy.  This is your last bottle of wine, Master Will, and your
last night upon the earth.'

'You are a doctor?' quavered Will.

'The best that ever was,' replied the other; 'for I cure both mind and
body with the same prescription.  I take away all pain and I forgive all
sins; and where my patients have gone wrong in life, I smooth out all
complications and set them free again upon their feet.'

'I have no need of you,' said Will.

'A time comes for all men, Master Will,' replied the doctor, 'when the
helm is taken out of their hands.  For you, because you were prudent and
quiet, it has been long of coming, and you have had long to discipline
yourself for its reception.  You have seen what is to be seen about your
mill; you have sat close all your days like a hare in its form; but now
that is at an end; and,' added the doctor, getting on his feet, 'you must
arise and come with me.'

'You are a strange physician,' said Will, looking steadfastly upon his
guest.

'I am a natural law,' he replied, 'and people call me Death.'

'Why did you not tell me so at first?' cried Will.  'I have been waiting
for you these many years.  Give me your hand, and welcome.'

'Lean upon my arm,' said the stranger, 'for already your strength abates.
Lean on me as heavily as you need; for though I am old, I am very strong.
It is but three steps to my carriage, and there all your trouble ends.
Why, Will,' he added, 'I have been yearning for you as if you were my own
son; and of all the men that ever I came for in my long days, I have come
for you most gladly.  I am caustic, and sometimes offend people at first
sight; but I am a good friend at heart to such as you.'

'Since Marjory was taken,' returned Will, 'I declare before God you were
the only friend I had to look for.'  So the pair went arm-in-arm across
the courtyard.

One of the servants awoke about this time and heard the noise of horses
pawing before he dropped asleep again; all down the valley that night
there was a rushing as of a smooth and steady wind descending towards the
plain; and when the world rose next morning, sure enough Will o' the Mill
had gone at last upon his travels.




MARKHEIM


'Yes,' said the dealer, 'our windfalls are of various kinds.  Some
customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior
knowledge.  Some are dishonest,' and here he held up the candle, so that
the light fell strongly on his visitor, 'and in that case,' he continued,
'I profit by my virtue.'

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had
not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the shop.
At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he
blinked painfully and looked aside.

The dealer chuckled.  'You come to me on Christmas Day,' he resumed,
'when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make
a point of refusing business.  Well, you will have to pay for that; you
will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my
books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark
in you to-day very strongly.  I am the essence of discretion, and ask no
awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has
to pay for it.'  The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his
usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, 'You can give,
as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the
object?' he continued.  'Still your uncle's cabinet?  A remarkable
collector, sir!'

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe,
looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with
every mark of disbelief.  Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite
pity, and a touch of horror.

'This time,' said he, 'you are in error.  I have not come to sell, but to
buy.  I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the
wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock
Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand
to-day is simplicity itself.  I seek a Christmas present for a lady,' he
continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had
prepared; 'and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you
upon so small a matter.  But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must
produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a
rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected.'

There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this
statement incredulously.  The ticking of many clocks among the curious
lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near
thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence.

'Well, sir,' said the dealer, 'be it so.  You are an old customer after
all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be
it from me to be an obstacle.  Here is a nice thing for a lady now,' he
went on, 'this hand glass--fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a
good collection, too; but I reserve the name, in the interests of my
customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole
heir of a remarkable collector.'

The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had stooped
to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a shock had
passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a sudden leap of
many tumultuous passions to the face.  It passed as swiftly as it came,
and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that now
received the glass.

'A glass,' he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more
clearly.  'A glass?  For Christmas?  Surely not?'

'And why not?' cried the dealer.  'Why not a glass?'

Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression.  'You ask
me why not?' he said.  'Why, look here--look in it--look at yourself!  Do
you like to see it?  No! nor I--nor any man.'

The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted
him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse on hand,
he chuckled.  'Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favoured,' said
he.

'I ask you,' said Markheim, 'for a Christmas present, and you give me
this--this damned reminder of years, and sins and follies--this
hand-conscience!  Did you mean it?  Had you a thought in your mind?  Tell
me.  It will be better for you if you do.  Come, tell me about yourself.
I hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man?'

The dealer looked closely at his companion.  It was very odd, Markheim
did not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an
eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth.

'What are you driving at?' the dealer asked.

'Not charitable?' returned the other, gloomily.  Not charitable; not
pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe
to keep it.  Is that all?  Dear God, man, is that all?'

'I will tell you what it is,' began the dealer, with some sharpness, and
then broke off again into a chuckle.  'But I see this is a love match of
yours, and you have been drinking the lady's health.'

'Ah!' cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity.  'Ah, have you been in
love?  Tell me about that.'

'I,' cried the dealer.  'I in love!  I never had the time, nor have I the
time to-day for all this nonsense.  Will you take the glass?'

'Where is the hurry?' returned Markheim.  'It is very pleasant to stand
here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry
away from any pleasure--no, not even from so mild a one as this.  We
should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a
cliff's edge.  Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it--a cliff a
mile high--high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of
humanity.  Hence it is best to talk pleasantly.  Let us talk of each
other: why should we wear this mask?  Let us be confidential.  Who knows,
we might become friends?'

'I have just one word to say to you,' said the dealer.  'Either make your
purchase, or walk out of my shop!'

'True true,' said Markheim.  'Enough, fooling.  To business.  Show me
something else.'

The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon the
shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so.  Markheim
moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he
drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different
emotions were depicted together on his face--terror, horror, and resolve,
fascination and a physical repulsion; and through a haggard lift of his
upper lip, his teeth looked out.

'This, perhaps, may suit,' observed the dealer: and then, as he began to
re-arise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim.  The long,
skewerlike dagger flashed and fell.  The dealer struggled like a hen,
striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a
heap.

Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some stately and slow
as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried.  All
these told out the seconds in an intricate, chorus of tickings.  Then the
passage of a lad's feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon
these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness of his
surroundings.  He looked about him awfully.  The candle stood on the
counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that
inconsiderable movement, the whole room was filled with noiseless bustle
and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots of
darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces of the
portraits and the china gods changing and wavering like images in water.
The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of shadows with a
long slit of daylight like a pointing finger.

From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's eyes returned to the body of
his victim, where it lay both humped and sprawling, incredibly small and
strangely meaner than in life.  In these poor, miserly clothes, in that
ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust.  Markheim had
feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing.  And yet, as he gazed, this
bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent voices.
There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or direct
the miracle of locomotion--there it must lie till it was found.  Found!
ay, and then?  Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would ring
over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit.  Ay, dead or
not, this was still the enemy.  'Time was that when the brains were out,'
he thought; and the first word struck into his mind.  Time, now that the
deed was accomplished--time, which had closed for the victim, had become
instant and momentous for the slayer.

The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with
every variety of pace and voice--one deep as the bell from a cathedral
turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz-the
clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon.

The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered
him.  He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle,
beleaguered by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance
reflections.  In many rich mirrors, some of home design, some from Venice
or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeated, as it were an army
of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of his own
steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet.  And still, as
he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him with a sickening
iteration, of the thousand faults of his design.  He should have chosen a
more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he should not have
used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and only bound and
gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have been more bold, and
killed the servant also; he should have done all things otherwise:
poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind to change what was
unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the
irrevocable past.  Meanwhile, and behind all this activity, brute
terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, filled the more
remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand of the constable would
fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish;
or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the prison, the gallows, and
the black coffin.

Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a
besieging army.  It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour of
the struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their
curiosity; and now, in all the neighbouring houses, he divined them
sitting motionless and with uplifted ear--solitary people, condemned to
spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now
startingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties
struck into silence round the table, the mother still with raised finger:
every degree and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, prying
and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him.  Sometimes it
seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of the tall
Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by the bigness
of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the clocks.  And then, again, with
a swift transition of his terrors, the very silence of the place appeared
a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze the passer-by; and he
would step more boldly, and bustle aloud among the contents of the shop,
and imitate, with elaborate bravado, the movements of a busy man at ease
in his own house.

But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one
portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on the
brink of lunacy.  One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on
his credulity.  The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his
window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the
pavement--these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through the
brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate.  But here,
within the house, was he alone?  He knew he was; he had watched the
servant set forth sweet-hearting, in her poor best, 'out for the day'
written in every ribbon and smile.  Yes, he was alone, of course; and
yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir of
delicate footing--he was surely conscious, inexplicably conscious of some
presence.  Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his
imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had
eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself; and yet again
behold the image of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred.

At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which
still seemed to repel his eyes.  The house was tall, the skylight small
and dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to
the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the threshold
of the shop.  And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, did there
not hang wavering a shadow?

Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to beat
with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blows with shouts and
railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name.
Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man.  But no! he lay
quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and
shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which would
once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had become an
empty sound.  And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from his
knocking, and departed.

Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth
from this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge into a bath of London
multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety
and apparent innocence--his bed.  One visitor had come: at any moment
another might follow and be more obstinate.  To have done the deed, and
yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure.  The money,
that was now Markheim's concern; and as a means to that, the keys.

He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was still
lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance of the mind,
yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of his victim.  The
human character had quite departed.  Like a suit half-stuffed with bran,
the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and yet the
thing repelled him.  Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the eye, he
feared it might have more significance to the touch.  He took the body by
the shoulders, and turned it on its back.  It was strangely light and
supple, and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the oddest
postures.  The face was robbed of all expression; but it was as pale as
wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one temple.  That was, for
Markheim, the one displeasing circumstance.  It carried him back, upon
the instant, to a certain fair-day in a fishers' village: a gray day, a
piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of brasses, the booming
of drums, the nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy going to and fro,
buried over head in the crowd and divided between interest and fear,
until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, he beheld a booth
and a great screen with pictures, dismally designed, garishly coloured:
Brown-rigg with her apprentice; the Mannings with their murdered guest;
Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell; and a score besides of famous
crimes.  The thing was as clear as an illusion; he was once again that
little boy; he was looking once again, and with the same sense of
physical revolt, at these vile pictures; he was still stunned by the
thumping of the drums.  A bar of that day's music returned upon his
memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, a breath
of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, which he must instantly
resist and conquer.

He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these
considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending his
mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime.  So little a while
ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth
had spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable energies; and
now, and by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, as the
horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock.  So
he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful consciousness;
the same heart which had shuddered before the painted effigies of crime,
looked on its reality unmoved.  At best, he felt a gleam of pity for one
who had been endowed in vain with all those faculties that can make the
world a garden of enchantment, one who had never lived and who was now
dead.  But of penitence, no, not a tremor.

With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the
keys and advanced towards the open door of the shop.  Outside, it had
begun to rain smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had
banished silence.  Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house
were haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled
with the ticking of the clocks.  And, as Markheim approached the door, he
seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of another
foot withdrawing up the stair.  The shadow still palpitated loosely on
the threshold.  He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his muscles, and
drew back the door.

The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the bare floor and stairs;
on the bright suit of armour posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing;
and on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against the
yellow panels of the wainscot.  So loud was the beating of the rain
through all the house that, in Markheim's ears, it began to be
distinguished into many different sounds.  Footsteps and sighs, the tread
of regiments marching in the distance, the chink of money in the
counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to
mingle with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of
the water in the pipes.  The sense that he was not alone grew upon him to
the verge of madness.  On every side he was haunted and begirt by
presences.  He heard them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, he
heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a great
effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and followed
stealthily behind.  If he were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he
would possess his soul!  And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh
attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held the
outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life.  His head turned
continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed starting from their
orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were half-rewarded as
with the tail of something nameless vanishing.  The four-and-twenty steps
to the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies.

On that first storey, the doors stood ajar, three of them like three
ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of cannon.  He could never
again, he felt, be sufficiently immured and fortified from men's
observing eyes, he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among
bedclothes, and invisible to all but God.  And at that thought he
wondered a little, recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear
they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers.  It was not so, at
least, with him.  He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous
and immutable procedure, they should preserve some damning evidence of
his crime.  He feared tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitions terror,
some scission in the continuity of man's experience, some wilful
illegality of nature.  He played a game of skill, depending on the rules,
calculating consequence from cause; and what if nature, as the defeated
tyrant overthrew the chess-board, should break the mould of their
succession?  The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) when the
winter changed the time of its appearance.  The like might befall
Markheim: the solid walls might become transparent and reveal his doings
like those of bees in a glass hive; the stout planks might yield under
his foot like quicksands and detain him in their clutch; ay, and there
were soberer accidents that might destroy him: if, for instance, the
house should fall and imprison him beside the body of his victim; or the
house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen invade him from all
sides.  These things he feared; and, in a sense, these things might be
called the hands of God reached forth against sin.  But about God himself
he was at ease; his act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his
excuses, which God knew; it was there, and not among men, that he felt
sure of justice.

When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind him,
he was aware of a respite from alarms.  The room was quite dismantled,
uncarpeted besides, and strewn with packing cases and incongruous
furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld himself at
various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, framed and
unframed, standing, with their faces to the wall; a fine Sheraton
sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with tapestry
hangings.  The windows opened to the floor; but by great good fortune the
lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this concealed him from
the neighbours.  Here, then, Markheim drew in a packing case before the
cabinet, and began to search among the keys.  It was a long business, for
there were many; and it was irksome, besides; for, after all, there might
be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on the wing.  But the closeness
of the occupation sobered him.  With the tail of his eye he saw the
door--even glanced at it from time to time directly, like a besieged
commander pleased to verify the good estate of his defences.  But in
truth he was at peace.  The rain falling in the street sounded natural
and pleasant.  Presently, on the other side, the notes of a piano were
wakened to the music of a hymn, and the voices of many children took up
the air and words.  How stately, how comfortable was the melody!  How
fresh the youthful voices!  Markheim gave ear to it smilingly, as he
sorted out the keys; and his mind was thronged with answerable ideas and
images; church-going children and the pealing of the high organ; children
afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on the brambly common, kite-
flyers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; and then, at another cadence
of the hymn, back again to church, and the somnolence of summer Sundays,
and the high genteel voice of the parson (which he smiled a little to
recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim lettering of the Ten
Commandments in the chancel.

And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his feet.
A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went over him,
and then he stood transfixed and thrilling.  A step mounted the stair
slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, and the
lock clicked, and the door opened.

Fear held Markheim in a vice.  What to expect he knew not, whether the
dead man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some
chance witness blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows.  But
when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced round the room, looked
at him, nodded and smiled as if in friendly recognition, and then
withdrew again, and the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from
his control in a hoarse cry.  At the sound of this the visitant returned.

'Did you call me?' he asked, pleasantly, and with that he entered the
room and closed the door behind him.

Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes.  Perhaps there was a
film upon his sight, but the outlines of the new comer seemed to change
and waver like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of the
shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he
bore a likeness to himself; and always, like a lump of living terror,
there lay in his bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the
earth and not of God.

And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood
looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added: 'You are looking for
the money, I believe?' it was in the tones of everyday politeness.

Markheim made no answer.

'I should warn you,' resumed the other, 'that the maid has left her
sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here.  If Mr. Markheim be
found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences.'

'You know me?' cried the murderer.

The visitor smiled.  'You have long been a favourite of mine,' he said;
'and I have long observed and often sought to help you.'

'What are you?' cried Markheim: 'the devil?'

'What I may be,' returned the other, 'cannot affect the service I propose
to render you.'

'It can,' cried Markheim; 'it does!  Be helped by you?  No, never; not by
you!  You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!'

'I know you,' replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or
rather firmness.  'I know you to the soul.'

'Know me!' cried Markheim.  'Who can do so?  My life is but a travesty
and slander on myself.  I have lived to belie my nature.  All men do; all
men are better than this disguise that grows about and stifles them.  You
see each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and
muffled in a cloak.  If they had their own control--if you could see
their faces, they would be altogether different, they would shine out for
heroes and saints!  I am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my
excuse is known to me and God.  But, had I the time, I could disclose
myself.'

'To me?' inquired the visitant.

'To you before all,' returned the murderer.  'I supposed you were
intelligent.  I thought--since you exist--you would prove a reader of the
heart.  And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts!  Think of it;
my acts!  I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants have
dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my mother--the giants of
circumstance.  And you would judge me by my acts!  But can you not look
within?  Can you not understand that evil is hateful to me?  Can you not
see within me the clear writing of conscience, never blurred by any
wilful sophistry, although too often disregarded?  Can you not read me
for a thing that surely must be common as humanity--the unwilling
sinner?'

'All this is very feelingly expressed,' was the reply, 'but it regards me
not.  These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care not
in the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so as you
are but carried in the right direction.  But time flies; the servant
delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures on the
hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as if
the gallows itself was striding towards you through the Christmas
streets!  Shall I help you; I, who know all?  Shall I tell you where to
find the money?'

'For what price?' asked Markheim.

'I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,' returned the other.

Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph.
'No,' said he, 'I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of
thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should
find the courage to refuse.  It may be credulous, but I will do nothing
to commit myself to evil.'

'I have no objection to a death-bed repentance,' observed the visitant.

'Because you disbelieve their efficacy!' Markheim cried.

'I do not say so,' returned the other; 'but I look on these things from a
different side, and when the life is done my interest falls.  The man has
lived to serve me, to spread black looks under colour of religion, or to
sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak compliance
with desire.  Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, he can add
but one act of service--to repent, to die smiling, and thus to build up
in confidence and hope the more timorous of my surviving followers.  I am
not so hard a master.  Try me.  Accept my help.  Please yourself in life
as you have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, spread your elbows
at the board; and when the night begins to fall and the curtains to be
drawn, I tell you, for your greater comfort, that you will find it even
easy to compound your quarrel with your conscience, and to make a
truckling peace with God.  I came but now from such a deathbed, and the
room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the man's last words: and
when I looked into that face, which had been set as a flint against
mercy, I found it smiling with hope.'

'And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?' asked Markheim.  'Do you
think I have no more generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin,
and, at the last, sneak into heaven?  My heart rises at the thought.  Is
this, then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with
red hands that you presume such baseness? and is this crime of murder
indeed so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?'

'Murder is to me no special category,' replied the other.  'All sins are
murder, even as all life is war.  I behold your race, like starving
mariners on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and
feeding on each other's lives.  I follow sins beyond the moment of their
acting; I find in all that the last consequence is death; and to my eyes,
the pretty maid who thwarts her mother with such taking graces on a
question of a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than such a
murderer as yourself.  Do I say that I follow sins?  I follow virtues
also; they differ not by the thickness of a nail, they are both scythes
for the reaping angel of Death.  Evil, for which I live, consists not in
action but in character.  The bad man is dear to me; not the bad act,
whose fruits, if we could follow them far enough down the hurtling
cataract of the ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of the
rarest virtues.  And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but
because you are Markheim, that I offer to forward your escape.'

'I will lay my heart open to you,' answered Markheim.  'This crime on
which you find me is my last.  On my way to it I have learned many
lessons; itself is a lesson, a momentous lesson.  Hitherto I have been
driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty,
driven and scourged.  There are robust virtues that can stand in these
temptations; mine was not so: I had a thirst of pleasure.  But to-day,
and out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches--both the power and
a fresh resolve to be myself.  I become in all things a free actor in the
world; I begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents of good,
this heart at peace.  Something comes over me out of the past; something
of what I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of the church
organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, or talked,
an innocent child, with my mother.  There lies my life; I have wandered a
few years, but now I see once more my city of destination.'

'You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?' remarked the
visitor; 'and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost some
thousands?'

'Ah,' said Markheim, 'but this time I have a sure thing.'

'This time, again, you will lose,' replied the visitor quietly.

'Ah, but I keep back the half!' cried Markheim.

'That also you will lose,' said the other.

The sweat started upon Markheim's brow.  'Well, then, what matter?' he
exclaimed.  'Say it be lost, say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one
part of me, and that the worse, continue until the end to override the
better?  Evil and good run strong in me, haling me both ways.  I do not
love the one thing, I love all.  I can conceive great deeds,
renunciations, martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as
murder, pity is no stranger to my thoughts.  I pity the poor; who knows
their trials better than myself?  I pity and help them; I prize love, I
love honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth but
I love it from my heart.  And are my vices only to direct my life, and my
virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber of the mind?  Not
so; good, also, is a spring of acts.'

But the visitant raised his finger.  'For six-and-thirty years that you
have been in this world,' said be, 'through many changes of fortune and
varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall.  Fifteen years ago
you would have started at a theft.  Three years back you would have
blenched at the name of murder.  Is there any crime, is there any cruelty
or meanness, from which you still recoil?--five years from now I shall
detect you in the fact!  Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can
anything but death avail to stop you.'

'It is true,' Markheim said huskily, 'I have in some degree complied with
evil.  But it is so with all: the very saints, in the mere exercise of
living, grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their surroundings.'

'I will propound to you one simple question,' said the other; 'and as you
answer, I shall read to you your moral horoscope.  You have grown in many
things more lax; possibly you do right to be so--and at any account, it
is the same with all men.  But granting that, are you in any one
particular, however trifling, more difficult to please with your own
conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser rein?'

'In any one?' repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration.  'No,'
he added, with despair, 'in none!  I have gone down in all.'

'Then,' said the visitor, 'content yourself with what you are, for you
will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are
irrevocably written down.'

Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it was the visitor who
first broke the silence.  'That being so,' he said, 'shall I show you the
money?'

'And grace?' cried Markheim.

'Have you not tried it?' returned the other.  'Two or three years ago,
did I not see you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your
voice the loudest in the hymn?'

'It is true,' said Markheim; 'and I see clearly what remains for me by
way of duty.  I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are
opened, and I behold myself at last for what I am.'

At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house;
and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which he
had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour.

'The maid!' he cried.  'She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there
is now before you one more difficult passage.  Her master, you must say,
is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious
countenance--no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success!  Once
the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that has already
rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in your path.
Thenceforward you have the whole evening--the whole night, if needful--to
ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your safety.  This is
help that comes to you with the mask of danger.  Up!' he cried; 'up,
friend; your life hangs trembling in the scales: up, and act!'

Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor.  'If I be condemned to evil
acts,' he said, 'there is still one door of freedom open--I can cease
from action.  If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down.  Though I
be, as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet,
by one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all.  My love
of good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be!  But I have still
my hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you
shall see that I can draw both energy and courage.'

The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely
change: they brightened and softened with a tender triumph, and, even as
they brightened, faded and dislimned.  But Markheim did not pause to
watch or understand the transformation.  He opened the door and went
downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself.  His past went soberly
before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream,
random as chance-medley--a scene of defeat.  Life, as he thus reviewed
it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet
haven for his bark.  He paused in the passage, and looked into the shop,
where the candle still burned by the dead body.  It was strangely silent.
Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing.  And
then the bell once more broke out into impatient clamour.

He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile.

'You had better go for the police,' said he: 'I have killed your master.'




THRAWN JANET


The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of the moorland parish of
Balweary, in the vale of Dule.  A severe, bleak-faced old man, dreadful
to his hearers, he dwelt in the last years of his life, without relative
or servant or any human company, in the small and lonely manse under the
Hanging Shaw.  In spite of the iron composure of his features, his eye
was wild, scared, and uncertain; and when he dwelt, in private
admonitions, on the future of the impenitent, it seemed as if his eye
pierced through the storms of time to the terrors of eternity.  Many
young persons, coming to prepare themselves against the season of the
Holy Communion, were dreadfully affected by his talk.  He had a sermon on
lst Peter, v. and 8th, 'The devil as a roaring lion,' on the Sunday after
every seventeenth of August, and he was accustomed to surpass himself
upon that text both by the appalling nature of the matter and the terror
of his bearing in the pulpit.  The children were frightened into fits,
and the old looked more than usually oracular, and were, all that day,
full of those hints that Hamlet deprecated.  The manse itself, where it
stood by the water of Dule among some thick trees, with the Shaw
overhanging it on the one side, and on the other many cold, moorish
hilltops rising towards the sky, had begun, at a very early period of Mr.
Soulis's ministry, to be avoided in the dusk hours by all who valued
themselves upon their prudence; and guidmen sitting at the clachan
alehouse shook their heads together at the thought of passing late by
that uncanny neighbourhood.  There was one spot, to be more particular,
which was regarded with especial awe.  The manse stood between the high
road and the water of Dule, with a gable to each; its back was towards
the kirk-town of Balweary, nearly half a mile away; in front of it, a
bare garden, hedged with thorn, occupied the land between the river and
the road.  The house was two stories high, with two large rooms on each.
It opened not directly on the garden, but on a causewayed path, or
passage, giving on the road on the one hand, and closed on the other by
the tall willows and elders that bordered on the stream.  And it was this
strip of causeway that enjoyed among the young parishioners of Balweary
so infamous a reputation.  The minister walked there often after dark,
sometimes groaning aloud in the instancy of his unspoken prayers; and
when he was from home, and the manse door was locked, the more daring
schoolboys ventured, with beating hearts, to 'follow my leader' across
that legendary spot.

This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a man of God of
spotless character and orthodoxy, was a common cause of wonder and
subject of inquiry among the few strangers who were led by chance or
business into that unknown, outlying country.  But many even of the
people of the parish were ignorant of the strange events which had marked
the first year of Mr. Soulis's ministrations; and among those who were
better informed, some were naturally reticent, and others shy of that
particular topic.  Now and again, only, one of the older folk would warm
into courage over his third tumbler, and recount the cause of the
minister's strange looks and solitary life.

* * * * *

Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam first into Ba'weary, he was still a
young man--a callant, the folk said--fu' o' book learnin' and grand at
the exposition, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi' nae leevin'
experience in religion.  The younger sort were greatly taken wi' his
gifts and his gab; but auld, concerned, serious men and women were moved
even to prayer for the young man, whom they took to be a self-deceiver,
and the parish that was like to be sae ill-supplied.  It was before the
days o' the moderates--weary fa' them; but ill things are like guid--they
baith come bit by bit, a pickle at a time; and there were folk even then
that said the Lord had left the college professors to their ain devices,
an' the lads that went to study wi' them wad hae done mair and better
sittin' in a peat-bog, like their forbears of the persecution, wi' a
Bible under their oxter and a speerit o' prayer in their heart.  There
was nae doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been ower lang at the
college.  He was careful and troubled for mony things besides the ae
thing needful.  He had a feck o' books wi' him--mair than had ever been
seen before in a' that presbytery; and a sair wark the carrier had wi'
them, for they were a' like to have smoored in the Deil's Hag between
this and Kilmackerlie.  They were books o' divinity, to be sure, or so
they ca'd them; but the serious were o' opinion there was little service
for sae mony, when the hail o' God's Word would gang in the neuk of a
plaid.  Then he wad sit half the day and half the nicht forbye, which was
scant decent--writin', nae less; and first, they were feared he wad read
his sermons; and syne it proved he was writin' a book himsel', which was
surely no fittin' for ane of his years an' sma' experience.

Onyway it behoved him to get an auld, decent wife to keep the manse for
him an' see to his bit denners; and he was recommended to an auld
limmer--Janet M'Clour, they ca'd her--and sae far left to himsel' as to
be ower persuaded.  There was mony advised him to the contrar, for Janet
was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba'weary.  Lang or that, she
had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadnae come forrit {140} for maybe
thretty year; and bairns had seen her mumblin' to hersel' up on Key's
Loan in the gloamin', whilk was an unco time an' place for a God-fearin'
woman.  Howsoever, it was the laird himsel' that had first tauld the
minister o' Janet; and in thae days he wad have gane a far gate to
pleesure the laird.  When folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the deil,
it was a' superstition by his way of it; an' when they cast up the Bible
to him an' the witch of Endor, he wad threep it doun their thrapples that
thir days were a' gane by, and the deil was mercifully restrained.

Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M'Clour was to be servant
at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi' her an' him thegether; and some
o' the guidwives had nae better to dae than get round her door cheeks and
chairge her wi' a' that was ken't again her, frae the sodger's bairn to
John Tamson's twa kye.  She was nae great speaker; folk usually let her
gang her ain gate, an' she let them gang theirs, wi', neither Fair-guid-
een nor Fair-guid-day; but when she buckled to, she had a tongue to deave
the miller.  Up she got, an' there wasnae an auld story in Ba'weary but
she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldnae say ae thing but
she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the guidwives up and
claught haud of her, and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu'd her doun
the clachan to the water o' Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soum
or droun.  The carline skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin'
Shaw, and she focht like ten; there was mony a guidwife bure the mark of
her neist day an' mony a lang day after; and just in the hettest o' the
collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the new minister.

'Women,' said he (and he had a grand voice), 'I charge you in the Lord's
name to let her go.'

Janet ran to him--she was fair wud wi' terror--an' clang to him, an'
prayed him, for Christ's sake, save her frae the cummers; an' they, for
their pairt, tauld him a' that was ken't, and maybe mair.

'Woman,' says he to Janet, 'is this true?'

'As the Lord sees me,' says she, 'as the Lord made me, no a word o't.
Forbye the bairn,' says she, 'I've been a decent woman a' my days.'

'Will you,' says Mr. Soulis, 'in the name of God, and before me, His
unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?'

Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she gave a girn that fairly
frichtit them that saw her, an' they could hear her teeth play dirl
thegether in her chafts; but there was naething for it but the ae way or
the ither; an' Janet lifted up her hand and renounced the deil before
them a'.

'And now,' says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, 'home with ye, one and all,
and pray to God for His forgiveness.'

And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her but a sark, and
took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy of the land; an' her
scrieghin' and laughin' as was a scandal to be heard.

There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that nicht; but when
the morn cam' there was sic a fear fell upon a' Ba'weary that the bairns
hid theirsels, and even the men folk stood and keekit frae their doors.
For there was Janet comin' doun the clachan--her or her likeness, nane
could tell--wi' her neck thrawn, and her heid on ae side, like a body
that has been hangit, and a girn on her face like an unstreakit corp.  By
an' by they got used wi' it, and even speered at her to ken what was
wrang; but frae that day forth she couldnae speak like a Christian woman,
but slavered and played click wi' her teeth like a pair o' shears; and
frae that day forth the name o' God cam never on her lips.  Whiles she
wad try to say it, but it michtnae be.  Them that kenned best said least;
but they never gied that Thing the name o' Janet M'Clour; for the auld
Janet, by their way o't, was in muckle hell that day.  But the minister
was neither to haud nor to bind; he preached about naething but the
folk's cruelty that had gi'en her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpt the
bairns that meddled her; and he had her up to the manse that same nicht,
and dwalled there a' his lane wi' her under the Hangin' Shaw.

Weel, time gaed by: and the idler sort commenced to think mair lichtly o'
that black business.  The minister was weel thocht o'; he was aye late at
the writing, folk wad see his can'le doon by the Dule water after twal'
at e'en; and he seemed pleased wi' himsel' and upsitten as at first,
though a' body could see that he was dwining.  As for Janet she cam an'
she gaed; if she didnae speak muckle afore, it was reason she should
speak less then; she meddled naebody; but she was an eldritch thing to
see, an' nane wad hae mistrysted wi' her for Ba'weary glebe.

About the end o' July there cam' a spell o' weather, the like o't never
was in that country side; it was lown an' het an' heartless; the herds
couldnae win up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to play; an'
yet it was gousty too, wi' claps o' het wund that rumm'led in the glens,
and bits o' shouers that slockened naething.  We aye thocht it but to
thun'er on the morn; but the morn cam, an' the morn's morning, and it was
aye the same uncanny weather, sair on folks and bestial.  Of a' that were
the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; he could neither sleep nor eat,
he tauld his elders; an' when he wasnae writin' at his weary book, he wad
be stravaguin' ower a' the countryside like a man possessed, when a' body
else was blythe to keep caller ben the house.

Abune Hangin' Shaw, in the bield o' the Black Hill, there's a bit
enclosed grund wi' an iron yett; and it seems, in the auld days, that was
the kirkyaird o' Ba'weary, and consecrated by the Papists before the
blessed licht shone upon the kingdom.  It was a great howff o' Mr.
Soulis's, onyway; there he would sit an' consider his sermons; and indeed
it's a bieldy bit.  Weel, as he cam ower the wast end o' the Black Hill,
ae day, he saw first twa, an syne fower, an' syne seeven corbie craws
fleein' round an' round abune the auld kirkyaird.  They flew laigh and
heavy, an' squawked to ither as they gaed; and it was clear to Mr. Soulis
that something had put them frae their ordinar.  He wasnae easy fleyed,
an' gaed straucht up to the wa's; an' what suld he find there but a man,
or the appearance of a man, sittin' in the inside upon a grave.  He was
of a great stature, an' black as hell, and his e'en were singular to see.
{144}  Mr. Soulis had heard tell o' black men, mony's the time; but there
was something unco about this black man that daunted him.  Het as he was,
he took a kind o' cauld grue in the marrow o' his banes; but up he spak
for a' that; an' says he: 'My friend, are you a stranger in this place?'
The black man answered never a word; he got upon his feet, an' begude to
hirsle to the wa' on the far side; but he aye lookit at the minister; an'
the minister stood an' lookit back; till a' in a meenute the black man
was ower the wa' an' rinnin' for the bield o' the trees.  Mr. Soulis, he
hardly kenned why, ran after him; but he was sair forjaskit wi' his walk
an' the het, unhalesome weather; and rin as he likit, he got nae mair
than a glisk o' the black man amang the birks, till he won doun to the
foot o' the hill-side, an' there he saw him ance mair, gaun, hap, step,
an' lowp, ower Dule water to the manse.

Mr. Soulis wasnae weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel suld mak' sae
free wi' Ba'weary manse; an' he ran the harder, an', wet shoon, ower the
burn, an' up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to see.  He
stepped out upon the road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a' ower
the gairden, but na, nae black man.  At the hinder end, and a bit feared
as was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the manse; and there was
Janet M'Clour before his een, wi' her thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased
to see him.  And he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een upon
her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue.

'Janet,' says he, 'have you seen a black man?'

'A black man?' quo' she.  'Save us a'!  Ye're no wise, minister.  There's
nae black man in a Ba'weary.'

But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like a
powney wi' the bit in its moo.

'Weel,' says he, 'Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with
the Accuser of the Brethren.'

And he sat down like ane wi' a fever, an' his teeth chittered in his
heid.

'Hoots,' says she, 'think shame to yoursel', minister;' an' gied him a
drap brandy that she keept aye by her.

Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' his books.  It's a lang,
laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin' cauld in winter, an' no very dry even in
the tap o' the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn.  Sae doun he
sat, and thocht of a' that had come an' gane since he was in Ba'weary,
an' his hame, an' the days when he was a bairn an' ran daffin' on the
braes; and that black man aye ran in his heid like the ower-come of a
sang.  Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o' the black man.  He
tried the prayer, an' the words wouldnae come to him; an' he tried, they
say, to write at his book, but he could nae mak' nae mair o' that.  There
was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an' the swat stood
upon him cauld as well-water; and there was other whiles, when he cam to
himsel' like a christened bairn and minded naething.

The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' stood glowrin' at Dule
water.  The trees are unco thick, an' the water lies deep an' black under
the manse; an' there was Janct washin' the cla'es wi' her coats kilted.
She had her back to the minister, an' he, for his pairt, hardly kenned
what he was lookin' at.  Syne she turned round, an' shawed her face; Mr.
Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day afore, an' it was borne
in upon him what folk said, that Janet was deid lang syne, an' this was a
bogle in her clay-cauld flesh.  He drew back a pickle and he scanned her
narrowly.  She was tramp-trampin' in the cla'es, croonin' to hersel'; and
eh!  Gude guide us, but it was a fearsome face.  Whiles she sang louder,
but there was nae man born o' woman that could tell the words o' her
sang; an' whiles she lookit side-lang doun, but there was naething there
for her to look at.  There gaed a scunner through the flesh upon his
banes; and that was Heeven's advertisement.  But Mr. Soulis just blamed
himsel', he said, to think sae ill of a puir, auld afflicted wife that
hadnae a freend forbye himsel'; an' he put up a bit prayer for him and
her, an' drank a little caller water--for his heart rose again the
meat--an' gaed up to his naked bed in the gloaming.

That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba'weary, the nicht o'
the seeventeenth of August, seventeen hun'er' an twal'.  It had been het
afore, as I hae said, but that nicht it was hetter than ever.  The sun
gaed doun amang unco-lookin' clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no a
star, no a breath o' wund; ye couldnae see your han' afore your face, and
even the auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds and lay pechin' for
their breath.  Wi' a' that he had upon his mind, it was gey and unlikely
Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep.  He lay an' he tummled; the gude, caller
bed that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he slept, and whiles he
waukened; whiles he heard the time o' nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin' up
the muir, as if somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles
claverin' in his lug, an' whiles he saw spunkies in the room.  He
behoved, he judged, to be sick; an' sick he was--little he jaloosed the
sickness.

At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, sat up in his sark on
the bed-side, and fell thinkin' ance mair o' the black man an' Janet.  He
couldnae weel tell how--maybe it was the cauld to his feet--but it cam'
in upon him wi' a spate that there was some connection between thir twa,
an' that either or baith o' them were bogles.  And just at that moment,
in Janet's room, which was neist to his, there cam' a stramp o' feet as
if men were wars'lin', an' then a loud bang; an' then a wund gaed
reishling round the fower quarters of the house; an' then a' was aince
mair as seelent as the grave.

Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil.  He got his tinder-box,
an' lit a can'le, an' made three steps o't ower to Janet's door.  It was
on the hasp, an' he pushed it open, an' keeked bauldly in.  It was a big
room, as big as the minister's ain, an' plenished wi' grand, auld, solid
gear, for he had naething else.  There was a fower-posted bed wi' auld
tapestry; and a braw cabinet of aik, that was fu' o' the minister's
divinity books, an' put there to be out o' the gate; an' a wheen duds o'
Janet's lying here and there about the floor.  But nae Janet could Mr.
Soulis see; nor ony sign of a contention.  In he gaed (an' there's few
that wad ha'e followed him) an' lookit a' round, an' listened.  But there
was naethin' to be heard, neither inside the manse nor in a' Ba'weary
parish, an' naethin' to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin' round the
can'le.  An' then a' at aince, the minister's heart played dunt an' stood
stock-still; an' a cauld wund blew amang the hairs o' his heid.  Whaten a
weary sicht was that for the puir man's een!  For there was Janat hangin'
frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid aye lay on her
shoother, her een were steeked, the tongue projekit frae her mouth, and
her heels were twa feet clear abune the floor.

'God forgive us all!' thocht Mr. Soulis; 'poor Janet's dead.'

He cam' a step nearer to the corp; an' then his heart fair whammled in
his inside.  For by what cantrip it wad ill-beseem a man to judge, she
was hingin' frae a single nail an' by a single wursted thread for darnin'
hose.

It's an awfu' thing to be your lane at nicht wi' siccan prodigies o'
darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the Lord.  He turned an' gaed his
ways oot o' that room, and lockit the door ahint him; and step by step,
doon the stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doon the can'le on the table
at the stairfoot.  He couldnae pray, he couldnae think, he was dreepin'
wi' caul' swat, an' naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin' o'
his ain heart.  He micht maybe have stood there an hour, or maybe twa, he
minded sae little; when a' o' a sudden, he heard a laigh, uncanny steer
upstairs; a foot gaed to an' fro in the cha'mer whaur the corp was
hingin'; syne the door was opened, though he minded weel that he had
lockit it; an' syne there was a step upon the landin', an' it seemed to
him as if the corp was lookin' ower the rail and doun upon him whaur he
stood.

He took up the can'le again (for he couldnae want the licht), and as
saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o' the manse an' to the far
end o' the causeway.  It was aye pit-mirk; the flame o' the can'le, when
he set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a room; naething
moved, but the Dule water seepin' and sabbin' doon the glen, an' yon
unhaly footstep that cam' ploddin doun the stairs inside the manse.  He
kenned the foot over weel, for it was Janet's; and at ilka step that cam'
a wee thing nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals.  He commanded his
soul to Him that made an' keepit him; 'and O Lord,' said he, 'give me
strength this night to war against the powers of evil.'

By this time the foot was comin' through the passage for the door; he
could hear a hand skirt alang the wa', as if the fearsome thing was
feelin' for its way.  The saughs tossed an' maned thegether, a lang sigh
cam' ower the hills, the flame o' the can'le was blawn aboot; an' there
stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi' her grogram goun an' her black mutch,
wi' the heid aye upon the shouther, an' the girn still upon the face
o't--leevin', ye wad hae said--deid, as Mr. Soulis weel kenned--upon the
threshold o' the manse.

It's a strange thing that the saul of man should be that thirled into his
perishable body; but the minister saw that, an' his heart didnae break.

She didnae stand there lang; she began to move again an' cam' slowly
towards Mr. Soulis whaur he stood under the saughs.  A' the life o' his
body, a' the strength o' his speerit, were glowerin' frae his een.  It
seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, an' made a sign wi' the
left hand.  There cam' a clap o' wund, like a cat's fuff; oot gaed the
can'le, the saughs skrieghed like folk; an' Mr. Soulis kenned that, live
or die, this was the end o't.

'Witch, beldame, devil!' he cried, 'I charge you, by the power of God,
begone--if you be dead, to the grave--if you be damned, to hell.'

An' at that moment the Lord's ain hand out o' the Heevens struck the
Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o' the witch-wife,
sae lang keepit frae the grave and hirsled round by deils, lowed up like
a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the grund; the thunder followed,
peal on dirling peal, the rairing rain upon the back o' that; and Mr.
Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, and ran, wi' skelloch upon
skelloch, for the clachan.

That same mornin', John Christie saw the Black Man pass the Muckle Cairn
as it was chappin' six; before eicht, he gaed by the change-house at
Knockdow; an' no lang after, Sandy M'Lellan saw him gaun linkin' doun the
braes frae Kilmackerlie.  There's little doubt but it was him that
dwalled sae lang in Janet's body; but he was awa' at last; and sinsyne
the deil has never fashed us in Ba'weary.

But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, lang he lay ravin'
in his bed; and frae that hour to this, he was the man ye ken the day.




OLALLA


'Now,' said the doctor, 'my part is done, and, I may say, with some
vanity, well done.  It remains only to get you out of this cold and
poisonous city, and to give you two months of a pure air and an easy
conscience.  The last is your affair.  To the first I think I can help
you.  It fells indeed rather oddly; it was but the other day the Padre
came in from the country; and as he and I are old friends, although of
contrary professions, he applied to me in a matter of distress among some
of his parishioners.  This was a family--but you are ignorant of Spain,
and even the names of our grandees are hardly known to you; suffice it,
then, that they were once great people, and are now fallen to the brink
of destitution.  Nothing now belongs to them but the residencia, and
certain leagues of desert mountain, in the greater part of which not even
a goat could support life.  But the house is a fine old place, and stands
at a great height among the hills, and most salubriously; and I had no
sooner heard my friend's tale, than I remembered you.  I told him I had a
wounded officer, wounded in the good cause, who was now able to make a
change; and I proposed that his friends should take you for a lodger.
Instantly the Padre's face grew dark, as I had maliciously foreseen it
would.  It was out of the question, he said.  Then let them starve, said
I, for I have no sympathy with tatterdemalion pride.  There-upon we
separated, not very content with one another; but yesterday, to my
wonder, the Padre returned and made a submission: the difficulty, he
said, he had found upon enquiry to be less than he had feared; or, in
other words, these proud people had put their pride in their pocket.  I
closed with the offer; and, subject to your approval, I have taken rooms
for you in the residencia.  The air of these mountains will renew your
blood; and the quiet in which you will there live is worth all the
medicines in the world.'

'Doctor,' said I, 'you have been throughout my good angel, and your
advice is a command.  But tell me, if you please, something of the family
with which I am to reside.'

'I am coming to that,' replied my friend; 'and, indeed, there is a
difficulty in the way.  These beggars are, as I have said, of very high
descent and swollen with the most baseless vanity; they have lived for
some generations in a growing isolation, drawing away, on either hand,
from the rich who had now become too high for them, and from the poor,
whom they still regarded as too low; and even to-day, when poverty forces
them to unfasten their door to a guest, they cannot do so without a most
ungracious stipulation.  You are to remain, they say, a stranger; they
will give you attendance, but they refuse from the first the idea of the
smallest intimacy.'

I will not deny that I was piqued, and perhaps the feeling strengthened
my desire to go, for I was confident that I could break down that barrier
if I desired.  'There is nothing offensive in such a stipulation,' said
I; 'and I even sympathise with the feeling that inspired it.'

'It is true they have never seen you,' returned the doctor politely; 'and
if they knew you were the handsomest and the most pleasant man that ever
came from England (where I am told that handsome men are common, but
pleasant ones not so much so), they would doubtless make you welcome with
a better grace.  But since you take the thing so well, it matters not.  To
me, indeed, it seems discourteous.  But you will find yourself the
gainer.  The family will not much tempt you.  A mother, a son, and a
daughter; an old woman said to be halfwitted, a country lout, and a
country girl, who stands very high with her confessor, and is,
therefore,' chuckled the physician, 'most likely plain; there is not much
in that to attract the fancy of a dashing officer.'

'And yet you say they are high-born,' I objected.

'Well, as to that, I should distinguish,' returned the doctor.  'The
mother is; not so the children.  The mother was the last representative
of a princely stock, degenerate both in parts and fortune.  Her father
was not only poor, he was mad: and the girl ran wild about the residencia
till his death.  Then, much of the fortune having died with him, and the
family being quite extinct, the girl ran wilder than ever, until at last
she married, Heaven knows whom, a muleteer some say, others a smuggler;
while there are some who uphold there was no marriage at all, and that
Felipe and Olalla are bastards.  The union, such as it was, was
tragically dissolved some years ago; but they live in such seclusion, and
the country at that time was in so much disorder, that the precise manner
of the man's end is known only to the priest--if even to him.'

'I begin to think I shall have strange experiences,' said I.

'I would not romance, if I were you,' replied the doctor; 'you will find,
I fear, a very grovelling and commonplace reality.  Felipe, for instance,
I have seen.  And what am I to say?  He is very rustic, very cunning,
very loutish, and, I should say, an innocent; the others are probably to
match.  No, no, senor commandante, you must seek congenial society among
the great sights of our mountains; and in these at least, if you are at
all a lover of the works of nature, I promise you will not be
disappointed.'

The next day Felipe came for me in a rough country cart, drawn by a mule;
and a little before the stroke of noon, after I had said farewell to the
doctor, the innkeeper, and different good souls who had befriended me
during my sickness, we set forth out of the city by the Eastern gate, and
began to ascend into the Sierra.  I had been so long a prisoner, since I
was left behind for dying after the loss of the convoy, that the mere
smell of the earth set me smiling.  The country through which we went was
wild and rocky, partially covered with rough woods, now of the cork-tree,
and now of the great Spanish chestnut, and frequently intersected by the
beds of mountain torrents.  The sun shone, the wind rustled joyously; and
we had advanced some miles, and the city had already shrunk into an
inconsiderable knoll upon the plain behind us, before my attention began
to be diverted to the companion of my drive.  To the eye, he seemed but a
diminutive, loutish, well-made country lad, such as the doctor had
described, mighty quick and active, but devoid of any culture; and this
first impression was with most observers final.  What began to strike me
was his familiar, chattering talk; so strangely inconsistent with the
terms on which I was to be received; and partly from his imperfect
enunciation, partly from the sprightly incoherence of the matter, so very
difficult to follow clearly without an effort of the mind.  It is true I
had before talked with persons of a similar mental constitution; persons
who seemed to live (as he did) by the senses, taken and possessed by the
visual object of the moment and unable to discharge their minds of that
impression.  His seemed to me (as I sat, distantly giving ear) a kind of
conversation proper to drivers, who pass much of their time in a great
vacancy of the intellect and threading the sights of a familiar country.
But this was not the case of Felipe; by his own account, he was a home-
keeper; 'I wish I was there now,' he said; and then, spying a tree by the
wayside, he broke off to tell me that he had once seen a crow among its
branches.

'A crow?' I repeated, struck by the ineptitude of the remark, and
thinking I had heard imperfectly.

But by this time he was already filled with a new idea; hearkening with a
rapt intentness, his head on one side, his face puckered; and he struck
me rudely, to make me hold my peace.  Then he smiled and shook his head.

'What did you hear?' I asked.

'O, it is all right,' he said; and began encouraging his mule with cries
that echoed unhumanly up the mountain walls.

I looked at him more closely.  He was superlatively well-built, light,
and lithe and strong; he was well-featured; his yellow eyes were very
large, though, perhaps, not very expressive; take him altogether, he was
a pleasant-looking lad, and I had no fault to find with him, beyond that
he was of a dusky hue, and inclined to hairyness; two characteristics
that I disliked.  It was his mind that puzzled, and yet attracted me.  The
doctor's phrase--an innocent--came back to me; and I was wondering if
that were, after all, the true description, when the road began to go
down into the narrow and naked chasm of a torrent.  The waters thundered
tumultuously in the bottom; and the ravine was filled full of the sound,
the thin spray, and the claps of wind, that accompanied their descent.
The scene was certainly impressive; but the road was in that part very
securely walled in; the mule went steadily forward; and I was astonished
to perceive the paleness of terror in the face of my companion.  The
voice of that wild river was inconstant, now sinking lower as if in
weariness, now doubling its hoarse tones; momentary freshets seemed to
swell its volume, sweeping down the gorge, raving and booming against the
barrier walls; and I observed it was at each of these accessions to the
clamour, that my driver more particularly winced and blanched.  Some
thoughts of Scottish superstition and the river Kelpie, passed across my
mind; I wondered if perchance the like were prevalent in that part of
Spain; and turning to Felipe, sought to draw him out.

'What is the matter?' I asked.

'O, I am afraid,' he replied.

'Of what are you afraid?' I returned.  'This seems one of the safest
places on this very dangerous road.'

'It makes a noise,' he said, with a simplicity of awe that set my doubts
at rest.

The lad was but a child in intellect; his mind was like his body, active
and swift, but stunted in development; and I began from that time forth
to regard him with a measure of pity, and to listen at first with
indulgence, and at last even with pleasure, to his disjointed babble.

By about four in the afternoon we had crossed the summit of the mountain
line, said farewell to the western sunshine, and began to go down upon
the other side, skirting the edge of many ravines and moving through the
shadow of dusky woods.  There rose upon all sides the voice of falling
water, not condensed and formidable as in the gorge of the river, but
scattered and sounding gaily and musically from glen to glen.  Here, too,
the spirits of my driver mended, and he began to sing aloud in a falsetto
voice, and with a singular bluntness of musical perception, never true
either to melody or key, but wandering at will, and yet somehow with an
effect that was natural and pleasing, like that of the of birds.  As the
dusk increased, I fell more and more under the spell of this artless
warbling, listening and waiting for some articulate air, and still
disappointed; and when at last I asked him what it was he sang--'O,'
cried he, 'I am just singing!'  Above all, I was taken with a trick he
had of unweariedly repeating the same note at little intervals; it was
not so monotonous as you would think, or, at least, not disagreeable; and
it seemed to breathe a wonderful contentment with what is, such as we
love to fancy in the attitude of trees, or the quiescence of a pool.

Night had fallen dark before we came out upon a plateau, and drew up a
little after, before a certain lump of superior blackness which I could
only conjecture to be the residencia.  Here, my guide, getting down from
the cart, hooted and whistled for a long time in vain; until at last an
old peasant man came towards us from somewhere in the surrounding dark,
carrying a candle in his hand.  By the light of this I was able to
perceive a great arched doorway of a Moorish character: it was closed by
iron-studded gates, in one of the leaves of which Felipe opened a wicket.
The peasant carried off the cart to some out-building; but my guide and I
passed through the wicket, which was closed again behind us; and by the
glimmer of the candle, passed through a court, up a stone stair, along a
section of an open gallery, and up more stairs again, until we came at
last to the door of a great and somewhat bare apartment.  This room,
which I understood was to be mine, was pierced by three windows, lined
with some lustrous wood disposed in panels, and carpeted with the skins
of many savage animals.  A bright fire burned in the chimney, and shed
abroad a changeful flicker; close up to the blaze there was drawn a
table, laid for supper; and in the far end a bed stood ready.  I was
pleased by these preparations, and said so to Felipe; and he, with the
same simplicity of disposition that I held already remarked in him,
warmly re-echoed my praises.  'A fine room,' he said; 'a very fine room.
And fire, too; fire is good; it melts out the pleasure in your bones.  And
the bed,' he continued, carrying over the candle in that direction--'see
what fine sheets--how soft, how smooth, smooth;' and he passed his hand
again and again over their texture, and then laid down his head and
rubbed his cheeks among them with a grossness of content that somehow
offended me.  I took the candle from his hand (for I feared he would set
the bed on fire) and walked back to the supper-table, where, perceiving a
measure of wine, I poured out a cup and called to him to come and drink
of it.  He started to his feet at once and ran to me with a strong
expression of hope; but when he saw the wine, he visibly shuddered.

'Oh, no,' he said, 'not that; that is for you.  I hate it.'

'Very well, Senor,' said I; 'then I will drink to your good health, and
to the prosperity of your house and family.  Speaking of which,' I added,
after I had drunk, 'shall I not have the pleasure of laying my
salutations in person at the feet of the Senora, your mother?'

But at these words all the childishness passed out of his face, and was
succeeded by a look of indescribable cunning and secrecy.  He backed away
from me at the same time, as though I were an animal about to leap or
some dangerous fellow with a weapon, and when he had got near the door,
glowered at me sullenly with contracted pupils.  'No,' he said at last,
and the next moment was gone noiselessly out of the room; and I heard his
footing die away downstairs as light as rainfall, and silence closed over
the house.

After I had supped I drew up the table nearer to the bed and began to
prepare for rest; but in the new position of the light, I was struck by a
picture on the wall.  It represented a woman, still young.  To judge by
her costume and the mellow unity which reigned over the canvas, she had
long been dead; to judge by the vivacity of the attitude, the eyes and
the features, I might have been beholding in a mirror the image of life.
Her figure was very slim and strong, and of a just proportion; red
tresses lay like a crown over her brow; her eyes, of a very golden brown,
held mine with a look; and her face, which was perfectly shaped, was yet
marred by a cruel, sullen, and sensual expression.  Something in both
face and figure, something exquisitely intangible, like the echo of an
echo, suggested the features and bearing of my guide; and I stood awhile,
unpleasantly attracted and wondering at the oddity of the resemblance.
The common, carnal stock of that race, which had been originally designed
for such high dames as the one now looking on me from the canvas, had
fallen to baser uses, wearing country clothes, sitting on the shaft and
holding the reins of a mule cart, to bring home a lodger.  Perhaps an
actual link subsisted; perhaps some scruple of the delicate flesh that
was once clothed upon with the satin and brocade of the dead lady, now
winced at the rude contact of Felipe's frieze.

The first light of the morning shone full upon the portrait, and, as I
lay awake, my eyes continued to dwell upon it with growing complacency;
its beauty crept about my heart insidiously, silencing my scruples one
after another; and while I knew that to love such a woman were to sign
and seal one's own sentence of degeneration, I still knew that, if she
were alive, I should love her.  Day after day the double knowledge of her
wickedness and of my weakness grew clearer.  She came to be the heroine
of many day-dreams, in which her eyes led on to, and sufficiently
rewarded, crimes.  She cast a dark shadow on my fancy; and when I was out
in the free air of heaven, taking vigorous exercise and healthily
renewing the current of my blood, it was often a glad thought to me that
my enchantress was safe in the grave, her wand of beauty broken, her lips
closed in silence, her philtre spilt.  And yet I had a half-lingering
terror that she might not be dead after all, but re-arisen in the body of
some descendant.

Felipe served my meals in my own apartment; and his resemblance to the
portrait haunted me.  At times it was not; at times, upon some change of
attitude or flash of expression, it would leap out upon me like a ghost.
It was above all in his ill tempers that the likeness triumphed.  He
certainly liked me; he was proud of my notice, which he sought to engage
by many simple and childlike devices; he loved to sit close before my
fire, talking his broken talk or singing his odd, endless, wordless
songs, and sometimes drawing his hand over my clothes with an
affectionate manner of caressing that never failed to cause in me an
embarrassment of which I was ashamed.  But for all that, he was capable
of flashes of causeless anger and fits of sturdy sullenness.  At a word
of reproof, I have seen him upset the dish of which I was about to eat,
and this not surreptitiously, but with defiance; and similarly at a hint
of inquisition.  I was not unnaturally curious, being in a strange place
and surrounded by staring people; but at the shadow of a question, he
shrank back, lowering and dangerous.  Then it was that, for a fraction of
a second, this rough lad might have been the brother of the lady in the
frame.  But these humours were swift to pass; and the resemblance died
along with them.

In these first days I saw nothing of any one but Felipe, unless the
portrait is to be counted; and since the lad was plainly of weak mind,
and had moments of passion, it may be wondered that I bore his dangerous
neighbourhood with equanimity.  As a matter of fact, it was for some time
irksome; but it happened before long that I obtained over him so complete
a mastery as set my disquietude at rest.

It fell in this way.  He was by nature slothful, and much of a vagabond,
and yet he kept by the house, and not only waited upon my wants, but
laboured every day in the garden or small farm to the south of the
residencia.  Here he would be joined by the peasant whom I had seen on
the night of my arrival, and who dwelt at the far end of the enclosure,
about half a mile away, in a rude out-house; but it was plain to me that,
of these two, it was Felipe who did most; and though I would sometimes
see him throw down his spade and go to sleep among the very plants he had
been digging, his constancy and energy were admirable in themselves, and
still more so since I was well assured they were foreign to his
disposition and the fruit of an ungrateful effort.  But while I admired,
I wondered what had called forth in a lad so shuttle-witted this enduring
sense of duty.  How was it sustained?  I asked myself, and to what length
did it prevail over his instincts?  The priest was possibly his inspirer;
but the priest came one day to the residencia.  I saw him both come and
go after an interval of close upon an hour, from a knoll where I was
sketching, and all that time Felipe continued to labour undisturbed in
the garden.

At last, in a very unworthy spirit, I determined to debauch the lad from
his good resolutions, and, way-laying him at the gate, easily pursuaded
him to join me in a ramble.  It was a fine day, and the woods to which I
led him were green and pleasant and sweet-smelling and alive with the hum
of insects.  Here he discovered himself in a fresh character, mounting up
to heights of gaiety that abashed me, and displaying an energy and grace
of movement that delighted the eye.  He leaped, he ran round me in mere
glee; he would stop, and look and listen, and seem to drink in the world
like a cordial; and then he would suddenly spring into a tree with one
bound, and hang and gambol there like one at home.  Little as he said to
me, and that of not much import, I have rarely enjoyed more stirring
company; the sight of his delight was a continual feast; the speed and
accuracy of his movements pleased me to the heart; and I might have been
so thoughtlessly unkind as to make a habit of these wants, had not chance
prepared a very rude conclusion to my pleasure.  By some swiftness or
dexterity the lad captured a squirrel in a tree top.  He was then some
way ahead of me, but I saw him drop to the ground and crouch there,
crying aloud for pleasure like a child.  The sound stirred my sympathies,
it was so fresh and innocent; but as I bettered my pace to draw near, the
cry of the squirrel knocked upon my heart.  I have heard and seen much of
the cruelty of lads, and above all of peasants; but what I now beheld
struck me into a passion of anger.  I thrust the fellow aside, plucked
the poor brute out of his hands, and with swift mercy killed it.  Then I
turned upon the torturer, spoke to him long out of the heat of my
indignation, calling him names at which he seemed to wither; and at
length, pointing toward the residencia, bade him begone and leave me, for
I chose to walk with men, not with vermin.  He fell upon his knees, and,
the words coming to him with more cleanness than usual, poured out a
stream of the most touching supplications, begging me in mercy to forgive
him, to forget what he had done, to look to the future.  'O, I try so
hard,' he said.  'O, commandante, bear with Felipe this once; he will
never be a brute again!'  Thereupon, much more affected than I cared to
show, I suffered myself to be persuaded, and at last shook hands with him
and made it up.  But the squirrel, by way of penance, I made him bury;
speaking of the poor thing's beauty, telling him what pains it had
suffered, and how base a thing was the abuse of strength.  'See, Felipe,'
said I, 'you are strong indeed; but in my hands you are as helpless as
that poor thing of the trees.  Give me your hand in mine.  You cannot
remove it.  Now suppose that I were cruel like you, and took a pleasure
in pain.  I only tighten my hold, and see how you suffer.'  He screamed
aloud, his face stricken ashy and dotted with needle points of sweat; and
when I set him free, he fell to the earth and nursed his hand and moaned
over it like a baby.  But he took the lesson in good part; and whether
from that, or from what I had said to him, or the higher notion he now
had of my bodily strength, his original affection was changed into a dog-
like, adoring fidelity.

Meanwhile I gained rapidly in health.  The residencia stood on the crown
of a stony plateau; on every side the mountains hemmed it about; only
from the roof, where was a bartizan, there might be seen between two
peaks, a small segment of plain, blue with extreme distance.  The air in
these altitudes moved freely and largely; great clouds congregated there,
and were broken up by the wind and left in tatters on the hilltops; a
hoarse, and yet faint rumbling of torrents rose from all round; and one
could there study all the ruder and more ancient characters of nature in
something of their pristine force.  I delighted from the first in the
vigorous scenery and changeful weather; nor less in the antique and
dilapidated mansion where I dwelt.  This was a large oblong, flanked at
two opposite corners by bastion-like projections, one of which commanded
the door, while both were loopholed for musketry.  The lower storey was,
besides, naked of windows, so that the building, if garrisoned, could not
be carried without artillery.  It enclosed an open court planted with
pomegranate trees.  From this a broad flight of marble stairs ascended to
an open gallery, running all round and resting, towards the court, on
slender pillars.  Thence again, several enclosed stairs led to the upper
storeys of the house, which were thus broken up into distinct divisions.
The windows, both within and without, were closely shuttered; some of the
stone-work in the upper parts had fallen; the roof, in one place, had
been wrecked in one of the flurries of wind which were common in these
mountains; and the whole house, in the strong, beating sunlight, and
standing out above a grove of stunted cork-trees, thickly laden and
discoloured with dust, looked like the sleeping palace of the legend.  The
court, in particular, seemed the very home of slumber.  A hoarse cooing
of doves haunted about the eaves; the winds were excluded, but when they
blew outside, the mountain dust fell here as thick as rain, and veiled
the red bloom of the pomegranates; shuttered windows and the closed doors
of numerous cellars, and the vacant, arches of the gallery, enclosed it;
and all day long the sun made broken profiles on the four sides, and
paraded the shadow of the pillars on the gallery floor.  At the ground
level there was, however, a certain pillared recess, which bore the marks
of human habitation.  Though it was open in front upon the court, it was
yet provided with a chimney, where a wood fire would he always prettily
blazing; and the tile floor was littered with the skins of animals.

It was in this place that I first saw my hostess.  She had drawn one of
the skins forward and sat in the sun, leaning against a pillar.  It was
her dress that struck me first of all, for it was rich and brightly
coloured, and shone out in that dusty courtyard with something of the
same relief as the flowers of the pomegranates.  At a second look it was
her beauty of person that took hold of me.  As she sat back--watching me,
I thought, though with invisible eyes--and wearing at the same time an
expression of almost imbecile good-humour and contentment, she showed a
perfectness of feature and a quiet nobility of attitude that were beyond
a statue's.  I took off my hat to her in passing, and her face puckered
with suspicion as swiftly and lightly as a pool ruffles in the breeze;
but she paid no heed to my courtesy.  I went forth on my customary walk a
trifle daunted, her idol-like impassivity haunting me; and when I
returned, although she was still in much the same posture, I was half
surprised to see that she had moved as far as the next pillar, following
the sunshine.  This time, however, she addressed me with some trivial
salutation, civilly enough conceived, and uttered in the same
deep-chested, and yet indistinct and lisping tones, that had already
baffled the utmost niceness of my hearing from her son.  I answered
rather at a venture; for not only did I fail to take her meaning with
precision, but the sudden disclosure of her eyes disturbed me.  They were
unusually large, the iris golden like Felipe's, but the pupil at that
moment so distended that they seemed almost black; and what affected me
was not so much their size as (what was perhaps its consequence) the
singular insignificance of their regard.  A look more blankly stupid I
have never met.  My eyes dropped before it even as I spoke, and I went on
my way upstairs to my own room, at once baffled and embarrassed.  Yet,
when I came there and saw the face of the portrait, I was again reminded
of the miracle of family descent.  My hostess was, indeed, both older and
fuller in person; her eyes were of a different colour; her face, besides,
was not only free from the ill-significance that offended and attracted
me in the painting; it was devoid of either good or bad--a moral blank
expressing literally naught.  And yet there was a likeness, not so much
speaking as immanent, not so much in any particular feature as upon the
whole.  It should seem, I thought, as if when the master set his
signature to that grave canvas, he had not only caught the image of one
smiling and false-eyed woman, but stamped the essential quality of a
race.

From that day forth, whether I came or went, I was sure to find the
Senora seated in the sun against a pillar, or stretched on a rug before
the fire; only at times she would shift her station to the top round of
the stone staircase, where she lay with the same nonchalance right across
my path.  In all these days, I never knew her to display the least spark
of energy beyond what she expended in brushing and re-brushing her
copious copper-coloured hair, or in lisping out, in the rich and broken
hoarseness of her voice, her customary idle salutations to myself.  These,
I think, were her two chief pleasures, beyond that of mere quiescence.
She seemed always proud of her remarks, as though they had been
witticisms: and, indeed, though they were empty enough, like the
conversation of many respectable persons, and turned on a very narrow
range of subjects, they were never meaningless or incoherent; nay, they
had a certain beauty of their own, breathing, as they did, of her entire
contentment.  Now she would speak of the warmth, in which (like her son)
she greatly delighted; now of the flowers of the pomegranate trees, and
now of the white doves and long-winged swallows that fanned the air of
the court.  The birds excited her.  As they raked the eaves in their
swift flight, or skimmed sidelong past her with a rush of wind, she would
sometimes stir, and sit a little up, and seem to awaken from her doze of
satisfaction.  But for the rest of her days she lay luxuriously folded on
herself and sunk in sloth and pleasure.  Her invincible content at first
annoyed me, but I came gradually to find repose in the spectacle, until
at last it grew to be my habit to sit down beside her four times in the
day, both coming and going, and to talk with her sleepily, I scarce knew
of what.  I had come to like her dull, almost animal neighbourhood; her
beauty and her stupidity soothed and amused me.  I began to find a kind
of transcendental good sense in her remarks, and her unfathomable good
nature moved me to admiration and envy.  The liking was returned; she
enjoyed my presence half-unconsciously, as a man in deep meditation may
enjoy the babbling of a brook.  I can scarce say she brightened when I
came, for satisfaction was written on her face eternally, as on some
foolish statue's; but I was made conscious of her pleasure by some more
intimate communication than the sight.  And one day, as I set within
reach of her on the marble step, she suddenly shot forth one of her hands
and patted mine.  The thing was done, and she was back in her accustomed
attitude, before my mind had received intelligence of the caress; and
when I turned to look her in the face I could perceive no answerable
sentiment.  It was plain she attached no moment to the act, and I blamed
myself for my own more uneasy consciousness.

The sight and (if I may so call it) the acquaintance of the mother
confirmed the view I had already taken of the son.  The family blood had
been impoverished, perhaps by long inbreeding, which I knew to be a
common error among the proud and the exclusive.  No decline, indeed, was
to be traced in the body, which had been handed down unimpaired in
shapeliness and strength; and the faces of to-day were struck as sharply
from the mint, as the face of two centuries ago that smiled upon me from
the portrait.  But the intelligence (that more precious heirloom) was
degenerate; the treasure of ancestral memory ran low; and it had required
the potent, plebeian crossing of a muleteer or mountain contrabandista to
raise, what approached hebetude in the mother, into the active oddity of
the son.  Yet of the two, it was the mother I preferred.  Of Felipe,
vengeful and placable, full of starts and shyings, inconstant as a hare,
I could even conceive as a creature possibly noxious.  Of the mother I
had no thoughts but those of kindness.  And indeed, as spectators are apt
ignorantly to take sides, I grew something of a partisan in the enmity
which I perceived to smoulder between them.  True, it seemed mostly on
the mother's part.  She would sometimes draw in her breath as he came
near, and the pupils of her vacant eyes would contract as if with horror
or fear.  Her emotions, such as they were, were much upon the surface and
readily shared; and this latent repulsion occupied my mind, and kept me
wondering on what grounds it rested, and whether the son was certainly in
fault.

I had been about ten days in the residencia, when there sprang up a high
and harsh wind, carrying clouds of dust.  It came out of malarious
lowlands, and over several snowy sierras.  The nerves of those on whom it
blew were strung and jangled; their eyes smarted with the dust; their
legs ached under the burthen of their body; and the touch of one hand
upon another grew to be odious.  The wind, besides, came down the gullies
of the hills and stormed about the house with a great, hollow buzzing and
whistling that was wearisome to the ear and dismally depressing to the
mind.  It did not so much blow in gusts as with the steady sweep of a
waterfall, so that there was no remission of discomfort while it blew.
But higher upon the mountain, it was probably of a more variable
strength, with accesses of fury; for there came down at times a far-off
wailing, infinitely grievous to hear; and at times, on one of the high
shelves or terraces, there would start up, and then disperse, a tower of
dust, like the smoke of in explosion.

I no sooner awoke in bed than I was conscious of the nervous tension and
depression of the weather, and the effect grew stronger as the day
proceeded.  It was in vain that I resisted; in vain that I set forth upon
my customary morning's walk; the irrational, unchanging fury of the storm
had soon beat down my strength and wrecked my temper; and I returned to
the residencia, glowing with dry heat, and foul and gritty with dust.  The
court had a forlorn appearance; now and then a glimmer of sun fled over
it; now and then the wind swooped down upon the pomegranates, and
scattered the blossoms, and set the window shutters clapping on the wall.
In the recess the Senora was pacing to and fro with a flushed countenance
and bright eyes; I thought, too, she was speaking to herself, like one in
anger.  But when I addressed her with my customary salutation, she only
replied by a sharp gesture and continued her walk.  The weather had
distempered even this impassive creature; and as I went on upstairs I was
the less ashamed of my own discomposure.

All day the wind continued; and I sat in my room and made a feint of
reading, or walked up and down, and listened to the riot overhead.  Night
fell, and I had not so much as a candle.  I began to long for some
society, and stole down to the court.  It was now plunged in the blue of
the first darkness; but the recess was redly lighted by the fire.  The
wood had been piled high, and was crowned by a shock of flames, which the
draught of the chimney brandished to and fro.  In this strong and shaken
brightness the Senora continued pacing from wall to wall with
disconnected gestures, clasping her hands, stretching forth her arms,
throwing back her head as in appeal to heaven.  In these disordered
movements the beauty and grace of the woman showed more clearly; but
there was a light in her eye that struck on me unpleasantly; and when I
had looked on awhile in silence, and seemingly unobserved, I turned tail
as I had come, and groped my way back again to my own chamber.

By the time Felipe brought my supper and lights, my nerve was utterly
gone; and, had the lad been such as I was used to seeing him, I should
have kept him (even by force had that been necessary) to take off the
edge from my distasteful solitude.  But on Felipe, also, the wind had
exercised its influence.  He had been feverish all day; now that the
night had come he was fallen into a low and tremulous humour that reacted
on my own.  The sight of his scared face, his starts and pallors and
sudden harkenings, unstrung me; and when he dropped and broke a dish, I
fairly leaped out of my seat.

'I think we are all mad to-day,' said I, affecting to laugh.

'It is the black wind,' he replied dolefully.  'You feel as if you must
do something, and you don't know what it is.'

I noted the aptness of the description; but, indeed, Felipe had sometimes
a strange felicity in rendering into words the sensations of the body.
'And your mother, too,' said I; 'she seems to feel this weather much.  Do
you not fear she may be unwell?'

He stared at me a little, and then said, 'No,' almost defiantly; and the
next moment, carrying his hand to his brow, cried out lamentably on the
wind and the noise that made his head go round like a millwheel.  'Who
can be well?' he cried; and, indeed, I could only echo his question, for
I was disturbed enough myself.

I went to bed early, wearied with day-long restlessness, but the
poisonous nature of the wind, and its ungodly and unintermittent uproar,
would not suffer me to sleep.  I lay there and tossed, my nerves and
senses on the stretch.  At times I would doze, dream horribly, and wake
again; and these snatches of oblivion confused me as to time.  But it
must have been late on in the night, when I was suddenly startled by an
outbreak of pitiable and hateful cries.  I leaped from my bed, supposing
I had dreamed; but the cries still continued to fill the house, cries of
pain, I thought, but certainly of rage also, and so savage and discordant
that they shocked the heart.  It was no illusion; some living thing, some
lunatic or some wild animal, was being foully tortured.  The thought of
Felipe and the squirrel flashed into my mind, and I ran to the door, but
it had been locked from the outside; and I might shake it as I pleased, I
was a fast prisoner.  Still the cries continued.  Now they would dwindle
down into a moaning that seemed to be articulate, and at these times I
made sure they must be human; and again they would break forth and fill
the house with ravings worthy of hell.  I stood at the door and gave ear
to them, till at, last they died away.  Long after that, I still lingered
and still continued to hear them mingle in fancy with the storming of the
wind; and when at last I crept to my bed, it was with a deadly sickness
and a blackness of horror on my heart.

It was little wonder if I slept no more.  Why had I been locked in?  What
had passed?  Who was the author of these indescribable and shocking
cries?  A human being?  It was inconceivable.  A beast?  The cries were
scarce quite bestial; and what animal, short of a lion or a tiger, could
thus shake the solid walls of the residencia?  And while I was thus
turning over the elements of the mystery, it came into my mind that I had
not yet set eyes upon the daughter of the house.  What was more probable
than that the daughter of the Senora, and the sister of Felipe, should be
herself insane?  Or, what more likely than that these ignorant and half-
witted people should seek to manage an afflicted kinswoman by violence?
Here was a solution; and yet when I called to mind the cries (which I
never did without a shuddering chill) it seemed altogether insufficient:
not even cruelty could wring such cries from madness.  But of one thing I
was sure: I could not live in a house where such a thing was half
conceivable, and not probe the matter home and, if necessary, interfere.

The next day came, the wind had blown itself out, and there was nothing
to remind me of the business of the night.  Felipe came to my bedside
with obvious cheerfulness; as I passed through the court, the Senora was
sunning herself with her accustomed immobility; and when I issued from
the gateway, I found the whole face of nature austerely smiling, the
heavens of a cold blue, and sown with great cloud islands, and the
mountain-sides mapped forth into provinces of light and shadow.  A short
walk restored me to myself, and renewed within me the resolve to plumb
this mystery; and when, from the vantage of my knoll, I had seen Felipe
pass forth to his labours in the garden, I returned at once to the
residencia to put my design in practice.  The Senora appeared plunged in
slumber; I stood awhile and marked her, but she did not stir; even if my
design were indiscreet, I had little to fear from such a guardian; and
turning away, I mounted to the gallery and began my exploration of the
house.

All morning I went from one door to another, and entered spacious and
faded chambers, some rudely shuttered, some receiving their full charge
of daylight, all empty and unhomely.  It was a rich house, on which Time
had breathed his tarnish and dust had scattered disillusion.  The spider
swung there; the bloated tarantula scampered on the cornices; ants had
their crowded highways on the floor of halls of audience; the big and
foul fly, that lives on carrion and is often the messenger of death, had
set up his nest in the rotten woodwork, and buzzed heavily about the
rooms.  Here and there a stool or two, a couch, a bed, or a great carved
chair remained behind, like islets on the bare floors, to testify of
man's bygone habitation; and everywhere the walls were set with the
portraits of the dead.  I could judge, by these decaying effigies, in the
house of what a great and what a handsome race I was then wandering.  Many
of the men wore orders on their breasts and had the port of noble
offices; the women were all richly attired; the canvases most of them by
famous hands.  But it was not so much these evidences of greatness that
took hold upon my mind, even contrasted, as they were, with the present
depopulation and decay of that great house.  It was rather the parable of
family life that I read in this succession of fair faces and shapely
bodies.  Never before had I so realised the miracle of the continued
race, the creation and recreation, the weaving and changing and handing
down of fleshly elements.  That a child should be born of its mother,
that it should grow and clothe itself (we know not how) with humanity,
and put on inherited looks, and turn its head with the manner of one
ascendant, and offer its hand with the gesture of another, are wonders
dulled for us by repetition.  But in the singular unity of look, in the
common features and common bearing, of all these painted generations on
the walls of the residencia, the miracle started out and looked me in the
face.  And an ancient mirror falling opportunely in my way, I stood and
read my own features a long while, tracing out on either hand the
filaments of descent and the bonds that knit me with my family.

At last, in the course of these investigations, I opened the door of a
chamber that bore the marks of habitation.  It was of large proportions
and faced to the north, where the mountains were most wildly figured.  The
embers of a fire smouldered and smoked upon the hearth, to which a chair
had been drawn close.  And yet the aspect of the chamber was ascetic to
the degree of sternness; the chair was uncushioned; the floor and walls
were naked; and beyond the books which lay here and there in some
confusion, there was no instrument of either work or pleasure.  The sight
of books in the house of such a family exceedingly amazed me; and I began
with a great hurry, and in momentary fear of interruption, to go from one
to another and hastily inspect their character.  They were of all sorts,
devotional, historical, and scientific, but mostly of a great age and in
the Latin tongue.  Some I could see to bear the marks of constant study;
others had been torn across and tossed aside as if in petulance or
disapproval.  Lastly, as I cruised about that empty chamber, I espied
some papers written upon with pencil on a table near the window.  An
unthinking curiosity led me to take one up.  It bore a copy of verses,
very roughly metred in the original Spanish, and which I may render
somewhat thus--

   Pleasure approached with pain and shame,
   Grief with a wreath of lilies came.
   Pleasure showed the lovely sun;
   Jesu dear, how sweet it shone!
   Grief with her worn hand pointed on,
         Jesu dear, to thee!

Shame and confusion at once fell on me; and, laying down the paper, I
beat an immediate retreat from the apartment.  Neither Felipe nor his
mother could have read the books nor written these rough but feeling
verses.  It was plain I had stumbled with sacrilegious feet into the room
of the daughter of the house.  God knows, my own heart most sharply
punished me for my indiscretion.  The thought that I had thus secretly
pushed my way into the confidence of a girl so strangely situated, and
the fear that she might somehow come to hear of it, oppressed me like
guilt.  I blamed myself besides for my suspicions of the night before;
wondered that I should ever have attributed those shocking cries to one
of whom I now conceived as of a saint, spectral of mien, wasted with
maceration, bound up in the practices of a mechanical devotion, and
dwelling in a great isolation of soul with her incongruous relatives; and
as I leaned on the balustrade of the gallery and looked down into the
bright close of pomegranates and at the gaily dressed and somnolent
woman, who just then stretched herself and delicately licked her lips as
in the very sensuality of sloth, my mind swiftly compared the scene with
the cold chamber looking northward on the mountains, where the daughter
dwelt.

That same afternoon, as I sat upon my knoll, I saw the Padre enter the
gates of the residencia.  The revelation of the daughter's character had
struck home to my fancy, and almost blotted out the horrors of the night
before; but at sight of this worthy man the memory revived.  I descended,
then, from the knoll, and making a circuit among the woods, posted myself
by the wayside to await his passage.  As soon as he appeared I stepped
forth and introduced myself as the lodger of the residencia.  He had a
very strong, honest countenance, on which it was easy to read the mingled
emotions with which he regarded me, as a foreigner, a heretic, and yet
one who had been wounded for the good cause.  Of the family at the
residencia he spoke with reserve, and yet with respect.  I mentioned that
I had not yet seen the daughter, whereupon he remarked that that was as
it should be, and looked at me a little askance.  Lastly, I plucked up
courage to refer to the cries that had disturbed me in the night.  He
heard me out in silence, and then stopped and partly turned about, as
though to mark beyond doubt that he was dismissing me.

'Do you take tobacco powder?' said he, offering his snuff-box; and then,
when I had refused, 'I am an old man,' he added, 'and I may be allowed to
remind you that you are a guest.'

'I have, then, your authority,' I returned, firmly enough, although I
flushed at the implied reproof, 'to let things take their course, and not
to interfere?'

He said 'yes,' and with a somewhat uneasy salute turned and left me where
I was.  But he had done two things: he had set my conscience at rest, and
he had awakened my delicacy.  I made a great effort, once more dismissed
the recollections of the night, and fell once more to brooding on my
saintly poetess.  At the same time, I could not quite forget that I had
been locked in, and that night when Felipe brought me my supper I
attacked him warily on both points of interest.

'I never see your sister,' said I casually.

'Oh, no,' said he; 'she is a good, good girl,' and his mind instantly
veered to something else.

'Your sister is pious, I suppose?' I asked in the next pause.

'Oh!' he cried, joining his hands with extreme fervour, 'a saint; it is
she that keeps me up.'

'You are very fortunate,' said I, 'for the most of us, I am afraid, and
myself among the number, are better at going down.'

'Senor,' said Felipe earnestly, 'I would not say that.  You should not
tempt your angel.  If one goes down, where is he to stop?'

'Why, Felipe,' said I, 'I had no guess you were a preacher, and I may say
a good one; but I suppose that is your sister's doing?'

He nodded at me with round eyes.

'Well, then,' I continued, 'she has doubtless reproved you for your sin
of cruelty?'

'Twelve times!' he cried; for this was the phrase by which the odd
creature expressed the sense of frequency.  'And I told her you had done
so--I remembered that,' he added proudly--'and she was pleased.'

'Then, Felipe,' said I, 'what were those cries that I heard last night?
for surely they were cries of some creature in suffering.'

'The wind,' returned Felipe, looking in the fire.

I took his hand in mine, at which, thinking it to be a caress, he smiled
with a brightness of pleasure that came near disarming my resolve.  But I
trod the weakness down.  'The wind,' I repeated; 'and yet I think it was
this hand,' holding it up, 'that had first locked me in.'  The lad shook
visibly, but answered never a word.  'Well,' said I, 'I am a stranger and
a guest.  It is not my part either to meddle or to judge in your affairs;
in these you shall take your sister's counsel, which I cannot doubt to be
excellent.  But in so far as concerns my own I will be no man's prisoner,
and I demand that key.'  Half an hour later my door was suddenly thrown
open, and the key tossed ringing on the floor.

A day or two after I came in from a walk a little before the point of
noon.  The Senora was lying lapped in slumber on the threshold of the
recess; the pigeons dozed below the eaves like snowdrifts; the house was
under a deep spell of noontide quiet; and only a wandering and gentle
wind from the mountain stole round the galleries, rustled among the
pomegranates, and pleasantly stirred the shadows.  Something in the
stillness moved me to imitation, and I went very lightly across the court
and up the marble staircase.  My foot was on the topmost round, when a
door opened, and I found myself face to face with Olalla.  Surprise
transfixed me; her loveliness struck to my heart; she glowed in the deep
shadow of the gallery, a gem of colour; her eyes took hold upon mine and
clung there, and bound us together like the joining of hands; and the
moments we thus stood face to face, drinking each other in, were
sacramental and the wedding of souls.  I know not how long it was before
I awoke out of a deep trance, and, hastily bowing, passed on into the
upper stair.  She did not move, but followed me with her great, thirsting
eyes; and as I passed out of sight it seemed to me as if she paled and
faded.

In my own room, I opened the window and looked out, and could not think
what change had come upon that austere field of mountains that it should
thus sing and shine under the lofty heaven.  I had seen her--Olalla!  And
the stone crags answered, Olalla! and the dumb, unfathomable azure
answered, Olalla!  The pale saint of my dreams had vanished for ever; and
in her place I beheld this maiden on whom God had lavished the richest
colours and the most exuberant energies of life, whom he had made active
as a deer, slender as a reed, and in whose great eyes he had lighted the
torches of the soul.  The thrill of her young life, strung like a wild
animal's, had entered into me; the force of soul that had looked out from
her eyes and conquered mine, mantled about my heart and sprang to my lips
in singing.  She passed through my veins: she was one with me.

I will not say that this enthusiasm declined; rather my soul held out in
its ecstasy as in a strong castle, and was there besieged by cold and
sorrowful considerations.  I could not doubt but that I loved her at
first sight, and already with a quivering ardour that was strange to my
experience.  What then was to follow?  She was the child of an afflicted
house, the Senora's daughter, the sister of Felipe; she bore it even in
her beauty.  She had the lightness and swiftness of the one, swift as an
arrow, light as dew; like the other, she shone on the pale background of
the world with the brilliancy of flowers.  I could not call by the name
of brother that half-witted lad, nor by the name of mother that immovable
and lovely thing of flesh, whose silly eyes and perpetual simper now
recurred to my mind like something hateful.  And if I could not marry,
what then?  She was helplessly unprotected; her eyes, in that single and
long glance which had been all our intercourse, had confessed a weakness
equal to my own; but in my heart I knew her for the student of the cold
northern chamber, and the writer of the sorrowful lines; and this was a
knowledge to disarm a brute.  To flee was more than I could find courage
for; but I registered a vow of unsleeping circumspection.

As I turned from the window, my eyes alighted on the portrait.  It had
fallen dead, like a candle after sunrise; it followed me with eyes of
paint.  I knew it to be like, and marvelled at the tenacity of type in
that declining race; but the likeness was swallowed up in difference.  I
remembered how it had seemed to me a thing unapproachable in the life, a
creature rather of the painter's craft than of the modesty of nature, and
I marvelled at the thought, and exulted in the image of Olalla.  Beauty I
had seen before, and not been charmed, and I had been often drawn to
women, who were not beautiful except to me; but in Olalla all that I
desired and had not dared to imagine was united.

I did not see her the next day, and my heart ached and my eyes longed for
her, as men long for morning.  But the day after, when I returned, about
my usual hour, she was once more on the gallery, and our looks once more
met and embraced.  I would have spoken, I would have drawn near to her;
but strongly as she plucked at my heart, drawing me like a magnet,
something yet more imperious withheld me; and I could only bow and pass
by; and she, leaving my salutation unanswered, only followed me with her
noble eyes.

I had now her image by rote, and as I conned the traits in memory it
seemed as if I read her very heart.  She was dressed with something of
her mother's coquetry, and love of positive colour.  Her robe, which I
know she must have made with her own hands, clung about her with a
cunning grace.  After the fashion of that country, besides, her bodice
stood open in the middle, in a long slit, and here, in spite of the
poverty of the house, a gold coin, hanging by a ribbon, lay on her brown
bosom.  These were proofs, had any been needed, of her inborn delight in
life and her own loveliness.  On the other hand, in her eyes that hung
upon mine, I could read depth beyond depth of passion and sadness, lights
of poetry and hope, blacknesses of despair, and thoughts that were above
the earth.  It was a lovely body, but the inmate, the soul, was more than
worthy of that lodging.  Should I leave this incomparable flower to
wither unseen on these rough mountains?  Should I despise the great gift
offered me in the eloquent silence of her eyes?  Here was a soul immured;
should I not burst its prison?  All side considerations fell off from me;
were she the child of Herod I swore I should make her mine; and that very
evening I set myself, with a mingled sense of treachery and disgrace, to
captivate the brother.  Perhaps I read him with more favourable eyes,
perhaps the thought of his sister always summoned up the better qualities
of that imperfect soul; but he had never seemed to me so amiable, and his
very likeness to Olalla, while it annoyed, yet softened me.

A third day passed in vain--an empty desert of hours.  I would not lose a
chance, and loitered all afternoon in the court where (to give myself a
countenance) I spoke more than usual with the Senora.  God knows it was
with a most tender and sincere interest that I now studied her; and even
as for Felipe, so now for the mother, I was conscious of a growing warmth
of toleration.  And yet I wondered.  Even while I spoke with her, she
would doze off into a little sleep, and presently awake again without
embarrassment; and this composure staggered me.  And again, as I marked
her make infinitesimal changes in her posture, savouring and lingering on
the bodily pleasure of the movement, I was driven to wonder at this depth
of passive sensuality.  She lived in her body; and her consciousness was
all sunk into and disseminated through her members, where it luxuriously
dwelt.  Lastly, I could not grow accustomed to her eyes.  Each time she
turned on me these great beautiful and meaningless orbs, wide open to the
day, but closed against human inquiry--each time I had occasion to
observe the lively changes of her pupils which expanded and contracted in
a breath--I know not what it was came over me, I can find no name for the
mingled feeling of disappointment, annoyance, and distaste that jarred
along my nerves.  I tried her on a variety of subjects, equally in vain;
and at last led the talk to her daughter.  But even there she proved
indifferent; said she was pretty, which (as with children) was her
highest word of commendation, but was plainly incapable of any higher
thought; and when I remarked that Olalla seemed silent, merely yawned in
my face and replied that speech was of no great use when you had nothing
to say.  'People speak much, very much,' she added, looking at me with
expanded pupils; and then again yawned and again showed me a mouth that
was as dainty as a toy.  This time I took the hint, and, leaving her to
her repose, went up into my own chamber to sit by the open window,
looking on the hills and not beholding them, sunk in lustrous and deep
dreams, and hearkening in fancy to the note of a voice that I had never
heard.

I awoke on the fifth morning with a brightness of anticipation that
seemed to challenge fate.  I was sure of myself, light of heart and foot,
and resolved to put my love incontinently to the touch of knowledge.  It
should lie no longer under the bonds of silence, a dumb thing, living by
the eye only, like the love of beasts; but should now put on the spirit,
and enter upon the joys of the complete human intimacy.  I thought of it
with wild hopes, like a voyager to El Dorado; into that unknown and
lovely country of her soul, I no longer trembled to adventure.  Yet when
I did indeed encounter her, the same force of passion descended on me and
at once submerged my mind; speech seemed to drop away from me like a
childish habit; and I but drew near to her as the giddy man draws near to
the margin of a gulf.  She drew back from me a little as I came; but her
eyes did not waver from mine, and these lured me forward.  At last, when
I was already within reach of her, I stopped.  Words were denied me; if I
advanced I could but clasp her to my heart in silence; and all that was
sane in me, all that was still unconquered, revolted against the thought
of such an accost.  So we stood for a second, all our life in our eyes,
exchanging salvos of attraction and yet each resisting; and then, with a
great effort of the will, and conscious at the same time of a sudden
bitterness of disappointment, I turned and went away in the same silence.

What power lay upon me that I could not speak?  And she, why was she also
silent?  Why did she draw away before me dumbly, with fascinated eyes?
Was this love? or was it a mere brute attraction, mindless and
inevitable, like that of the magnet for the steel?  We had never spoken,
we were wholly strangers: and yet an influence, strong as the grasp of a
giant, swept us silently together.  On my side, it filled me with
impatience; and yet I was sure that she was worthy; I had seen her books,
read her verses, and thus, in a sense, divined the soul of my mistress.
But on her side, it struck me almost cold.  Of me, she knew nothing but
my bodily favour; she was drawn to me as stones fall to the earth; the
laws that rule the earth conducted her, unconsenting, to my arms; and I
drew back at the thought of such a bridal, and began to be jealous for
myself.  It was not thus that I desired to be loved.  And then I began to
fall into a great pity for the girl herself.  I thought how sharp must be
her mortification, that she, the student, the recluse, Felipe's saintly
monitress, should have thus confessed an overweening weakness for a man
with whom she had never exchanged a word.  And at the coming of pity, all
other thoughts were swallowed up; and I longed only to find and console
and reassure her; to tell her how wholly her love was returned on my
side, and how her choice, even if blindly made, was not unworthy.

The next day it was glorious weather; depth upon depth of blue
over-canopied the mountains; the sun shone wide; and the wind in the
trees and the many falling torrents in the mountains filled the air with
delicate and haunting music.  Yet I was prostrated with sadness.  My
heart wept for the sight of Olalla, as a child weeps for its mother.  I
sat down on a boulder on the verge of the low cliffs that bound the
plateau to the north.  Thence I looked down into the wooded valley of a
stream, where no foot came.  In the mood I was in, it was even touching
to behold the place untenanted; it lacked Olalla; and I thought of the
delight and glory of a life passed wholly with her in that strong air,
and among these rugged and lovely surroundings, at first with a
whimpering sentiment, and then again with such a fiery joy that I seemed
to grow in strength and stature, like a Samson.

And then suddenly I was aware of Olalla drawing near.  She appeared out
of a grove of cork-trees, and came straight towards me; and I stood up
and waited.  She seemed in her walking a creature of such life and fire
and lightness as amazed me; yet she came quietly and slowly.  Her energy
was in the slowness; but for inimitable strength, I felt she would have
run, she would have flown to me.  Still, as she approached, she kept her
eyes lowered to the ground; and when she had drawn quite near, it was
without one glance that she addressed me.  At the first note of her voice
I started.  It was for this I had been waiting; this was the last test of
my love.  And lo, her enunciation was precise and clear, not lisping and
incomplete like that of her family; and the voice, though deeper than
usual with women, was still both youthful and womanly.  She spoke in a
rich chord; golden contralto strains mingled with hoarseness, as the red
threads were mingled with the brown among her tresses.  It was not only a
voice that spoke to my heart directly; but it spoke to me of her.  And
yet her words immediately plunged me back upon despair.

'You will go away,' she said, 'to-day.'

Her example broke the bonds of my speech; I felt as lightened of a
weight, or as if a spell had been dissolved.  I know not in what words I
answered; but, standing before her on the cliffs, I poured out the whole
ardour of my love, telling her that I lived upon the thought of her,
slept only to dream of her loveliness, and would gladly forswear my
country, my language, and my friends, to live for ever by her side.  And
then, strongly commanding myself, I changed the note; I reassured, I
comforted her; I told her I had divined in her a pious and heroic spirit,
with which I was worthy to sympathise, and which I longed to share and
lighten.  'Nature,' I told her, 'was the voice of God, which men disobey
at peril; and if we were thus humbly drawn together, ay, even as by a
miracle of love, it must imply a divine fitness in our souls; we must be
made,' I said--'made for one another.  We should be mad rebels,' I cried
out--'mad rebels against God, not to obey this instinct.'

She shook her head.  'You will go to-day,' she repeated, and then with a
gesture, and in a sudden, sharp note--'no, not to-day,' she cried, 'to-
morrow!'

But at this sign of relenting, power came in upon me in a tide.  I
stretched out my arms and called upon her name; and she leaped to me and
clung to me.  The hills rocked about us, the earth quailed; a shock as of
a blow went through me and left me blind and dizzy.  And the next moment
she had thrust me back, broken rudely from my arms, and fled with the
speed of a deer among the cork-trees.

I stood and shouted to the mountains; I turned and went back towards the
residencia, waltzing upon air.  She sent me away, and yet I had but to
call upon her name and she came to me.  These were but the weaknesses of
girls, from which even she, the strangest of her sex, was not exempted.
Go?  Not I, Olalla--O, not I, Olalla, my Olalla!  A bird sang near by;
and in that season, birds were rare.  It bade me be of good cheer.  And
once more the whole countenance of nature, from the ponderous and stable
mountains down to the lightest leaf and the smallest darting fly in the
shadow of the groves, began to stir before me and to put on the
lineaments of life and wear a face of awful joy.  The sunshine struck
upon the hills, strong as a hammer on the anvil, and the hills shook; the
earth, under that vigorous insulation, yielded up heady scents; the woods
smouldered in the blaze.  I felt the thrill of travail and delight run
through the earth.  Something elemental, something rude, violent, and
savage, in the love that sang in my heart, was like a key to nature's
secrets; and the very stones that rattled under my feet appeared alive
and friendly.  Olalla!  Her touch had quickened, and renewed, and strung
me up to the old pitch of concert with the rugged earth, to a swelling of
the soul that men learn to forget in their polite assemblies.  Love
burned in me like rage; tenderness waxed fierce; I hated, I adored, I
pitied, I revered her with ecstasy.  She seemed the link that bound me in
with dead things on the one hand, and with our pure and pitying God upon
the other: a thing brutal and divine, and akin at once to the innocence
and to the unbridled forces of the earth.

My head thus reeling, I came into the courtyard of the residencia, and
the sight of the mother struck me like a revelation.  She sat there, all
sloth and contentment, blinking under the strong sunshine, branded with a
passive enjoyment, a creature set quite apart, before whom my ardour fell
away like a thing ashamed.  I stopped a moment, and, commanding such
shaken tones as I was able, said a word or two.  She looked at me with
her unfathomable kindness; her voice in reply sounded vaguely out of the
realm of peace in which she slumbered, and there fell on my mind, for the
first time, a sense of respect for one so uniformly innocent and happy,
and I passed on in a kind of wonder at myself, that I should be so much
disquieted.

On my table there lay a piece of the same yellow paper I had seen in the
north room; it was written on with pencil in the same hand, Olalla's
hand, and I picked it up with a sudden sinking of alarm, and read, 'If
you have any kindness for Olalla, if you have any chivalry for a creature
sorely wrought, go from here to-day; in pity, in honour, for the sake of
Him who died, I supplicate that you shall go.'  I looked at this awhile
in mere stupidity, then I began to awaken to a weariness and horror of
life; the sunshine darkened outside on the bare hills, and I began to
shake like a man in terror.  The vacancy thus suddenly opened in my life
unmanned me like a physical void.  It was not my heart, it was not my
happiness, it was life itself that was involved.  I could not lose her.  I
said so, and stood repeating it.  And then, like one in a dream, I moved
to the window, put forth my hand to open the casement, and thrust it
through the pane.  The blood spurted from my wrist; and with an
instantaneous quietude and command of myself, I pressed my thumb on the
little leaping fountain, and reflected what to do.  In that empty room
there was nothing to my purpose; I felt, besides, that I required
assistance.  There shot into my mind a hope that Olalla herself might be
my helper, and I turned and went down stairs, still keeping my thumb upon
the wound.

There was no sign of either Olalla or Felipe, and I addressed myself to
the recess, whither the Senora had now drawn quite back and sat dozing
close before the fire, for no degree of heat appeared too much for her.

'Pardon me,' said I, 'if I disturb you, but I must apply to you for
help.'

She looked up sleepily and asked me what it was, and with the very words
I thought she drew in her breath with a widening of the nostrils and
seemed to come suddenly and fully alive.

'I have cut myself,' I said, 'and rather badly.  See!'  And I held out my
two hands from which the blood was oozing and dripping.

Her great eyes opened wide, the pupils shrank into points; a veil seemed
to fall from her face, and leave it sharply expressive and yet
inscrutable.  And as I still stood, marvelling a little at her
disturbance, she came swiftly up to me, and stooped and caught me by the
hand; and the next moment my hand was at her mouth, and she had bitten me
to the bone.  The pang of the bite, the sudden spurting of blood, and the
monstrous horror of the act, flashed through me all in one, and I beat
her back; and she sprang at me again and again, with bestial cries, cries
that I recognised, such cries as had awakened me on the night of the high
wind.  Her strength was like that of madness; mine was rapidly ebbing
with the loss of blood; my mind besides was whirling with the abhorrent
strangeness of the onslaught, and I was already forced against the wall,
when Olalla ran betwixt us, and Felipe, following at a bound, pinned down
his mother on the floor.

A trance-like weakness fell upon me; I saw, heard, and felt, but I was
incapable of movement.  I heard the struggle roll to and fro upon the
floor, the yells of that catamount ringing up to Heaven as she strove to
reach me.  I felt Olalla clasp me in her arms, her hair falling on my
face, and, with the strength of a man, raise and half drag, half carry me
upstairs into my own room, where she cast me down upon the bed.  Then I
saw her hasten to the door and lock it, and stand an instant listening to
the savage cries that shook the residencia.  And then, swift and light as
a thought, she was again beside me, binding up my hand, laying it in her
bosom, moaning and mourning over it with dove-like sounds.  They were not
words that came to her, they were sounds more beautiful than speech,
infinitely touching, infinitely tender; and yet as I lay there, a thought
stung to my heart, a thought wounded me like a sword, a thought, like a
worm in a flower, profaned the holiness of my love.  Yes, they were
beautiful sounds, and they were inspired by human tenderness; but was
their beauty human?

All day I lay there.  For a long time the cries of that nameless female
thing, as she struggled with her half-witted whelp, resounded through the
house, and pierced me with despairing sorrow and disgust.  They were the
death-cry of my love; my love was murdered; was not only dead, but an
offence to me; and yet, think as I pleased, feel as I must, it still
swelled within me like a storm of sweetness, and my heart melted at her
looks and touch.  This horror that had sprung out, this doubt upon
Olalla, this savage and bestial strain that ran not only through the
whole behaviour of her family, but found a place in the very foundations
and story of our love--though it appalled, though it shocked and sickened
me, was yet not of power to break the knot of my infatuation.

When the cries had ceased, there came a scraping at the door, by which I
knew Felipe was without; and Olalla went and spoke to him--I know not
what.  With that exception, she stayed close beside me, now kneeling by
my bed and fervently praying, now sitting with her eyes upon mine.  So
then, for these six hours I drank in her beauty, and silently perused the
story in her face.  I saw the golden coin hover on her breaths; I saw her
eyes darken and brighter, and still speak no language but that of an
unfathomable kindness; I saw the faultless face, and, through the robe,
the lines of the faultless body.  Night came at last, and in the growing
darkness of the chamber, the sight of her slowly melted; but even then
the touch of her smooth hand lingered in mine and talked with me.  To lie
thus in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the beloved, is to
reawake to love from whatever shock of disillusion.  I reasoned with
myself; and I shut my eyes on horrors, and again I was very bold to
accept the worst.  What mattered it, if that imperious sentiment
survived; if her eyes still beckoned and attached me; if now, even as
before, every fibre of my dull body yearned and turned to her?  Late on
in the night some strength revived in me, and I spoke:--

'Olalla,' I said, 'nothing matters; I ask nothing; I am content; I love
you.'

She knelt down awhile and prayed, and I devoutly respected her devotions.
The moon had begun to shine in upon one side of each of the three
windows, and make a misty clearness in the room, by which I saw her
indistinctly.  When she rearose she made the sign of the cross.

'It is for me to speak,' she said, 'and for you to listen.  I know; you
can but guess.  I prayed, how I prayed for you to leave this place.  I
begged it of you, and I know you would have granted me even this; or if
not, O let me think so!'

'I love you,' I said.

'And yet you have lived in the world,' she said; after a pause, 'you are
a man and wise; and I am but a child.  Forgive me, if I seem to teach,
who am as ignorant as the trees of the mountain; but those who learn much
do but skim the face of knowledge; they seize the laws, they conceive the
dignity of the design--the horror of the living fact fades from their
memory.  It is we who sit at home with evil who remember, I think, and
are warned and pity.  Go, rather, go now, and keep me in mind.  So I
shall have a life in the cherished places of your memory: a life as much
my own, as that which I lead in this body.'

'I love you,' I said once more; and reaching out my weak hand, took hers,
and carried it to my lips, and kissed it.  Nor did she resist, but winced
a little; and I could see her look upon me with a frown that was not
unkindly, only sad and baffled.  And then it seemed she made a call upon
her resolution; plucked my hand towards her, herself at the same time
leaning somewhat forward, and laid it on the beating of her heart.
'There,' she cried, 'you feel the very footfall of my life.  It only
moves for you; it is yours.  But is it even mine?  It is mine indeed to
offer you, as I might take the coin from my neck, as I might break a live
branch from a tree, and give it you.  And yet not mine!  I dwell, or I
think I dwell (if I exist at all), somewhere apart, an impotent prisoner,
and carried about and deafened by a mob that I disown.  This capsule,
such as throbs against the sides of animals, knows you at a touch for its
master; ay, it loves you!  But my soul, does my soul?  I think not; I
know not, fearing to ask.  Yet when you spoke to me your words were of
the soul; it is of the soul that you ask--it is only from the soul that
you would take me.'

'Olalla,' I said, 'the soul and the body are one, and mostly so in love.
What the body chooses, the soul loves; where the body clings, the soul
cleaves; body for body, soul to soul, they come together at God's signal;
and the lower part (if we can call aught low) is only the footstool and
foundation of the highest.'

'Have you,' she said, 'seen the portraits in the house of my fathers?
Have you looked at my mother or at Felipe?  Have your eyes never rested
on that picture that hangs by your bed?  She who sat for it died ages
ago; and she did evil in her life.  But, look-again: there is my hand to
the least line, there are my eyes and my hair.  What is mine, then, and
what am I?  If not a curve in this poor body of mine (which you love, and
for the sake of which you dotingly dream that you love me) not a gesture
that I can frame, not a tone of my voice, not any look from my eyes, no,
not even now when I speak to him I love, but has belonged to others?
Others, ages dead, have wooed other men with my eyes; other men have
heard the pleading of the same voice that now sounds in your ears.  The
hands of the dead are in my bosom; they move me, they pluck me, they
guide me; I am a puppet at their command; and I but reinform features and
attributes that have long been laid aside from evil in the quiet of the
grave.  Is it me you love, friend? or the race that made me?  The girl
who does not know and cannot answer for the least portion of herself? or
the stream of which she is a transitory eddy, the tree of which she is
the passing fruit?  The race exists; it is old, it is ever young, it
carries its eternal destiny in its bosom; upon it, like waves upon the
sea, individual succeeds to individual, mocked with a semblance of self-
control, but they are nothing.  We speak of the soul, but the soul is in
the race.'

'You fret against the common law,' I said.  'You rebel against the voice
of God, which he has made so winning to convince, so imperious to
command.  Hear it, and how it speaks between us!  Your hand clings to
mine, your heart leaps at my touch, the unknown elements of which we are
compounded awake and run together at a look; the clay of the earth
remembers its independent life and yearns to join us; we are drawn
together as the stars are turned about in space, or as the tides ebb and
flow, by things older and greater than we ourselves.'

'Alas!' she said, 'what can I say to you?  My fathers, eight hundred
years ago, ruled all this province: they were wise, great, cunning, and
cruel; they were a picked race of the Spanish; their flags led in war;
the king called them his cousin; the people, when the rope was slung for
them or when they returned and found their hovels smoking, blasphemed
their name.  Presently a change began.  Man has risen; if he has sprung
from the brutes, he can descend again to the same level.  The breath of
weariness blew on their humanity and the cords relaxed; they began to go
down; their minds fell on sleep, their passions awoke in gusts, heady and
senseless like the wind in the gutters of the mountains; beauty was still
handed down, but no longer the guiding wit nor the human heart; the seed
passed on, it was wrapped in flesh, the flesh covered the bones, but they
were the bones and the flesh of brutes, and their mind was as the mind of
flies.  I speak to you as I dare; but you have seen for yourself how the
wheel has gone backward with my doomed race.  I stand, as it were, upon a
little rising ground in this desperate descent, and see both before and
behind, both what we have lost and to what we are condemned to go farther
downward.  And shall I--I that dwell apart in the house of the dead, my
body, loathing its ways--shall I repeat the spell?  Shall I bind another
spirit, reluctant as my own, into this bewitched and tempest-broken
tenement that I now suffer in?  Shall I hand down this cursed vessel of
humanity, charge it with fresh life as with fresh poison, and dash it,
like a fire, in the faces of posterity?  But my vow has been given; the
race shall cease from off the earth.  At this hour my brother is making
ready; his foot will soon be on the stair; and you will go with him and
pass out of my sight for ever.  Think of me sometimes as one to whom the
lesson of life was very harshly told, but who heard it with courage; as
one who loved you indeed, but who hated herself so deeply that her love
was hateful to her; as one who sent you away and yet would have longed to
keep you for ever; who had no dearer hope than to forget you, and no
greater fear than to be forgotten.'

She had drawn towards the door as she spoke, her rich voice sounding
softer and farther away; and with the last word she was gone, and I lay
alone in the moonlit chamber.  What I might have done had not I lain
bound by my extreme weakness, I know not; but as it was there fell upon
me a great and blank despair.  It was not long before there shone in at
the door the ruddy glimmer of a lantern, and Felipe coming, charged me
without a word upon his shoulders, and carried me down to the great gate,
where the cart was waiting.  In the moonlight the hills stood out
sharply, as if they were of cardboard; on the glimmering surface of the
plateau, and from among the low trees which swung together and sparkled
in the wind, the great black cube of the residencia stood out bulkily,
its mass only broken by three dimly lighted windows in the northern front
above the gate.  They were Olalla's windows, and as the cart jolted
onwards I kept my eyes fixed upon them till, where the road dipped into a
valley, they were lost to my view forever.  Felipe walked in silence
beside the shafts, but from time to time he would cheek the mule and seem
to look back upon me; and at length drew quite near and laid his hand
upon my head.  There was such kindness in the touch, and such a
simplicity, as of the brutes, that tears broke from me like the bursting
of an artery.

'Felipe,' I said, 'take me where they will ask no questions.'

He said never a word, but he turned his mule about, end for end, retraced
some part of the way we had gone, and, striking into another path, led me
to the mountain village, which was, as we say in Scotland, the kirkton of
that thinly peopled district.  Some broken memories dwell in my mind of
the day breaking over the plain, of the cart stopping, of arms that
helped me down, of a bare room into which I was carried, and of a swoon
that fell upon me like sleep.

The next day and the days following the old priest was often at my side
with his snuff-box and prayer book, and after a while, when I began to
pick up strength, he told me that I was now on a fair way to recovery,
and must as soon as possible hurry my departure; whereupon, without
naming any reason, he took snuff and looked at me sideways.  I did not
affect ignorance; I knew he must have seen Olalla.  'Sir,' said I, 'you
know that I do not ask in wantonness.  What of that family?'

He said they were very unfortunate; that it seemed a declining race, and
that they were very poor and had been much neglected.

'But she has not,' I said.  'Thanks, doubtless, to yourself, she is
instructed and wise beyond the use of women.'

'Yes,' he said; 'the Senorita is well-informed.  But the family has been
neglected.'

'The mother?' I queried.

'Yes, the mother too,' said the Padre, taking snuff.  'But Felipe is a
well-intentioned lad.'

'The mother is odd?' I asked.

'Very odd,' replied the priest.

'I think, sir, we beat about the bush,' said I.  'You must know more of
my affairs than you allow.  You must know my curiosity to be justified on
many grounds.  Will you not be frank with me?'

'My son,' said the old gentleman, 'I will be very frank with you on
matters within my competence; on those of which I know nothing it does
not require much discretion to be silent.  I will not fence with you, I
take your meaning perfectly; and what can I say, but that we are all in
God's hands, and that His ways are not as our ways?  I have even advised
with my superiors in the church, but they, too, were dumb.  It is a great
mystery.'

'Is she mad?' I asked.

'I will answer you according to my belief.  She is not,' returned the
Padre, 'or she was not.  When she was young--God help me, I fear I
neglected that wild lamb--she was surely sane; and yet, although it did
not run to such heights, the same strain was already notable; it had been
so before her in her father, ay, and before him, and this inclined me,
perhaps, to think too lightly of it.  But these things go on growing, not
only in the individual but in the race.'

'When she was young,' I began, and my voice failed me for a moment, and
it was only with a great effort that I was able to add, 'was she like
Olalla?'

'Now God forbid!' exclaimed the Padre.  'God forbid that any man should
think so slightingly of my favourite penitent.  No, no; the Senorita (but
for her beauty, which I wish most honestly she had less of) has not a
hair's resemblance to what her mother was at the same age.  I could not
bear to have you think so; though, Heaven knows, it were, perhaps, better
that you should.'

At this, I raised myself in bed, and opened my heart to the old man;
telling him of our love and of her decision, owning my own horrors, my
own passing fancies, but telling him that these were at an end; and with
something more than a purely formal submission, appealing to his
judgment.

He heard me very patiently and without surprise; and when I had done, he
sat for some time silent.  Then he began: 'The church,' and instantly
broke off again to apologise.  'I had forgotten, my child, that you were
not a Christian,' said he.  'And indeed, upon a point so highly unusual,
even the church can scarce be said to have decided.  But would you have
my opinion?  The Senorita is, in a matter of this kind, the best judge; I
would accept her judgment.'

On the back of that he went away, nor was he thenceforward so assiduous
in his visits; indeed, even when I began to get about again, he plainly
feared and deprecated my society, not as in distaste but much as a man
might be disposed to flee from the riddling sphynx.  The villagers, too,
avoided me; they were unwilling to be my guides upon the mountain.  I
thought they looked at me askance, and I made sure that the more
superstitious crossed themselves on my approach.  At first I set this
down to my heretical opinions; but it began at length to dawn upon me
that if I was thus redoubted it was because I had stayed at the
residencia.  All men despise the savage notions of such peasantry; and
yet I was conscious of a chill shadow that seemed to fall and dwell upon
my love.  It did not conquer, but I may not deify that it restrained my
ardour.

Some miles westward of the village there was a gap in the sierra, from
which the eye plunged direct upon the residencia; and thither it became
my daily habit to repair.  A wood crowned the summit; and just where the
pathway issued from its fringes, it was overhung by a considerable shelf
of rock, and that, in its turn, was surmounted by a crucifix of the size
of life and more than usually painful in design.  This was my perch;
thence, day after day, I looked down upon the plateau, and the great old
house, and could see Felipe, no bigger than a fly, going to and fro about
the garden.  Sometimes mists would draw across the view, and be broken up
again by mountain winds; sometimes the plain slumbered below me in
unbroken sunshine; it would sometimes be all blotted out by rain.  This
distant post, these interrupted sights of the place where my life had
been so strangely changed, suited the indecision of my humour.  I passed
whole days there, debating with myself the various elements of our
position; now leaning to the suggestions of love, now giving an ear to
prudence, and in the end halting irresolute between the two.

One day, as I was sitting on my rock, there came by that way a somewhat
gaunt peasant wrapped in a mantle.  He was a stranger, and plainly did
not know me even by repute; for, instead of keeping the other side, he
drew near and sat down beside me, and we had soon fallen in talk.  Among
other things he told me he had been a muleteer, and in former years had
much frequented these mountains; later on, he had followed the army with
his mules, had realised a competence, and was now living retired with his
family.

'Do you know that house?' I inquired, at last, pointing to the
residencia, for I readily wearied of any talk that kept me from the
thought of Olalla.

He looked at me darkly and crossed himself.

'Too well,' he said, 'it was there that one of my comrades sold himself
to Satan; the Virgin shield us from temptations!  He has paid the price;
he is now burning in the reddest place in Hell!'

A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; and presently the man
resumed, as if to himself: 'Yes,' he said, 'O yes, I know it.  I have
passed its doors.  There was snow upon the pass, the wind was driving it;
sure enough there was death that night upon the mountains, but there was
worse beside the hearth.  I took him by the arm, Senor, and dragged him
to the gate; I conjured him, by all he loved and respected, to go forth
with me; I went on my knees before him in the snow; and I could see he
was moved by my entreaty.  And just then she came out on the gallery, and
called him by his name; and he turned, and there was she standing with a
lamp in her hand and smiling on him to come back.  I cried out aloud to
God, and threw my arms about him, but he put me by, and left me alone.  He
had made his choice; God help us.  I would pray for him, but to what end?
there are sins that not even the Pope can loose.'

'And your friend,' I asked, 'what became of him?'

'Nay, God knows,' said the muleteer.  'If all be true that we hear, his
end was like his sin, a thing to raise the hair.'

'Do you mean that he was killed?' I asked.

'Sure enough, he was killed,' returned the man.  'But how?  Ay, how?  But
these are things that it is sin to speak of.'

'The people of that house . . . ' I began.

But he interrupted me with a savage outburst.  'The people?' he cried.
'What people?  There are neither men nor women in that house of Satan's!
What? have you lived here so long, and never heard?'  And here he put his
mouth to my ear and whispered, as if even the fowls of the mountain might
have over-heard and been stricken with horror.

What he told me was not true, nor was it even original; being, indeed,
but a new edition, vamped up again by village ignorance and superstition,
of stories nearly as ancient as the race of man.  It was rather the
application that appalled me.  In the old days, he said, the church would
have burned out that nest of basilisks; but the arm of the church was now
shortened; his friend Miguel had been unpunished by the hands of men, and
left to the more awful judgment of an offended God.  This was wrong; but
it should be so no more.  The Padre was sunk in age; he was even
bewitched himself; but the eyes of his flock were now awake to their own
danger; and some day--ay, and before long--the smoke of that house should
go up to heaven.

He left me filled with horror and fear.  Which way to turn I knew not;
whether first to warn the Padre, or to carry my ill-news direct to the
threatened inhabitants of the residencia.  Fate was to decide for me;
for, while I was still hesitating, I beheld the veiled figure of a woman
drawing near to me up the pathway.  No veil could deceive my penetration;
by every line and every movement I recognised Olalla; and keeping hidden
behind a corner of the rock, I suffered her to gain the summit.  Then I
came forward.  She knew me and paused, but did not speak; I, too,
remained silent; and we continued for some time to gaze upon each other
with a passionate sadness.

'I thought you had gone,' she said at length.  'It is all that you can do
for me--to go.  It is all I ever asked of you.  And you still stay.  But
do you know, that every day heaps up the peril of death, not only on your
head, but on ours?  A report has gone about the mountain; it is thought
you love me, and the people will not suffer it.'

I saw she was already informed of her danger, and I rejoiced at it.
'Olalla,' I said, 'I am ready to go this day, this very hour, but not
alone.'

She stepped aside and knelt down before the crucifix to pray, and I stood
by and looked now at her and now at the object of her adoration, now at
the living figure of the penitent, and now at the ghastly, daubed
countenance, the painted wounds, and the projected ribs of the image.  The
silence was only broken by the wailing of some large birds that circled
sidelong, as if in surprise or alarm, about the summit of the hills.
Presently Olalla rose again, turned towards me, raised her veil, and,
still leaning with one hand on the shaft of the crucifix, looked upon me
with a pale and sorrowful countenance.

'I have laid my hand upon the cross,' she said.  'The Padre says you are
no Christian; but look up for a moment with my eyes, and behold the face
of the Man of Sorrows.  We are all such as He was--the inheritors of sin;
we must all bear and expiate a past which was not ours; there is in all
of us--ay, even in me--a sparkle of the divine.  Like Him, we must endure
for a little while, until morning returns bringing peace.  Suffer me to
pass on upon my way alone; it is thus that I shall be least lonely,
counting for my friend Him who is the friend of all the distressed; it is
thus that I shall be the most happy, having taken my farewell of earthly
happiness, and willingly accepted sorrow for my portion.'

I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, though I was no friend to
images, and despised that imitative and grimacing art of which it was a
rude example, some sense of what the thing implied was carried home to my
intelligence.  The face looked down upon me with a painful and deadly
contraction; but the rays of a glory encircled it, and reminded me that
the sacrifice was voluntary.  It stood there, crowning the rock, as it
still stands on so many highway sides, vainly preaching to passers-by, an
emblem of sad and noble truths; that pleasure is not an end, but an
accident; that pain is the choice of the magnanimous; that it is best to
suffer all things and do well.  I turned and went down the mountain in
silence; and when I looked back for the last time before the wood closed
about my path, I saw Olalla still leaning on the crucifix.




THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD.


CHAPTER I.  BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK.


They had sent for the doctor from Bourron before six.  About eight some
villagers came round for the performance, and were told how matters
stood.  It seemed a liberty for a mountebank to fall ill like real
people, and they made off again in dudgeon.  By ten Madame Tentaillon was
gravely alarmed, and had sent down the street for Doctor Desprez.

The Doctor was at work over his manuscripts in one corner of the little
dining-room, and his wife was asleep over the fire in another, when the
messenger arrived.

'Sapristi!' said the Doctor, 'you should have sent for me before.  It was
a case for hurry.'  And he followed the messenger as he was, in his
slippers and skull-cap.

The inn was not thirty yards away, but the messenger did not stop there;
he went in at one door and out by another into the court, and then led
the way by a flight of steps beside the stable, to the loft where the
mountebank lay sick.  If Doctor Desprez were to live a thousand years, he
would never forget his arrival in that room; for not only was the scene
picturesque, but the moment made a date in his existence.  We reckon our
lives, I hardly know why, from the date of our first sorry appearance in
society, as if from a first humiliation; for no actor can come upon the
stage with a worse grace.  Not to go further back, which would be judged
too curious, there are subsequently many moving and decisive accidents in
the lives of all, which would make as logical a period as this of birth.
And here, for instance, Doctor Desprez, a man past forty, who had made
what is called a failure in life, and was moreover married, found himself
at a new point of departure when he opened the door of the loft above
Tentaillon's stable.

It was a large place, lighted only by a single candle set upon the floor.
The mountebank lay on his back upon a pallet; a large man, with a
Quixotic nose inflamed with drinking.  Madame Tentaillon stooped over
him, applying a hot water and mustard embrocation to his feet; and on a
chair close by sat a little fellow of eleven or twelve, with his feet
dangling.  These three were the only occupants, except the shadows.  But
the shadows were a company in themselves; the extent of the room
exaggerated them to a gigantic size, and from the low position of the
candle the light struck upwards and produced deformed foreshortenings.
The mountebank's profile was enlarged upon the wall in caricature, and it
was strange to see his nose shorten and lengthen as the flame was blown
about by draughts.  As for Madame Tentaillon, her shadow was no more than
a gross hump of shoulders, with now and again a hemisphere of head.  The
chair legs were spindled out as long as stilts, and the boy set perched
atop of them, like a cloud, in the corner of the roof.

It was the boy who took the Doctor's fancy.  He had a great arched skull,
the forehead and the hands of a musician, and a pair of haunting eyes.  It
was not merely that these eyes were large, or steady, or the softest
ruddy brown.  There was a look in them, besides, which thrilled the
Doctor, and made him half uneasy.  He was sure he had seen such a look
before, and yet he could not remember how or where.  It was as if this
boy, who was quite a stranger to him, had the eyes of an old friend or an
old enemy.  And the boy would give him no peace; he seemed profoundly
indifferent to what was going on, or rather abstracted from it in a
superior contemplation, beating gently with his feet against the bars of
the chair, and holding his hands folded on his lap.  But, for all that,
his eyes kept following the Doctor about the room with a thoughtful
fixity of gaze.  Desprez could not tell whether he was fascinating the
boy, or the boy was fascinating him.  He busied himself over the sick
man: he put questions, he felt the pulse, he jested, he grew a little hot
and swore: and still, whenever he looked round, there were the brown eyes
waiting for his with the same inquiring, melancholy gaze.

At last the Doctor hit on the solution at a leap.  He remembered the look
now.  The little fellow, although he was as straight as a dart, had the
eyes that go usually with a crooked back; he was not at all deformed, and
yet a deformed person seemed to be looking at you from below his brows.
The Doctor drew a long breath, he was so much relieved to find a theory
(for he loved theories) and to explain away his interest.

For all that, he despatched the invalid with unusual haste, and, still
kneeling with one knee on the floor, turned a little round and looked the
boy over at his leisure.  The boy was not in the least put out, but
looked placidly back at the Doctor.

'Is this your father?' asked Desprez.

'Oh, no,' returned the boy; 'my master.'

'Are you fond of him?' continued the Doctor.

'No, sir,' said the boy.

Madame Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expressive glances.

'That is bad, my man,' resumed the latter, with a shade of sternness.
'Every one should be fond of the dying, or conceal their sentiments; and
your master here is dying.  If I have watched a bird a little while
stealing my cherries, I have a thought of disappointment when he flies
away over my garden wall, and I see him steer for the forest and vanish.
How much more a creature such as this, so strong, so astute, so richly
endowed with faculties!  When I think that, in a few hours, the speech
will be silenced, the breath extinct, and even the shadow vanished from
the wall, I who never saw him, this lady who knew him only as a guest,
are touched with some affection.'

The boy was silent for a little, and appeared to be reflecting.

'You did not know him,' he replied at last, 'he was a bad man.'

'He is a little pagan,' said the landlady.  'For that matter, they are
all the same, these mountebanks, tumblers, artists, and what not.  They
have no interior.'

But the Doctor was still scrutinising the little pagan, his eyebrows
knotted and uplifted.

'What is your name?' he asked.

'Jean-Marie,' said the lad.

Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden flashes of excitement, and
felt his head all over from an ethnological point of view.

'Celtic, Celtic!' he said.

'Celtic!' cried Madame Tentaillon, who had perhaps confounded the word
with hydrocephalous.  'Poor lad! is it dangerous?'

'That depends,' returned the Doctor grimly.  And then once more
addressing the boy: 'And what do you do for your living, Jean-Marie?' he
inquired.

'I tumble,' was the answer.

'So!  Tumble?' repeated Desprez.  'Probably healthful.  I hazard the
guess, Madame Tentaillon, that tumbling is a healthful way of life.  And
have you never done anything else but tumble?'

'Before I learned that, I used to steal,' answered Jean-Marie gravely.

'Upon my word!' cried the doctor.  'You are a nice little man for your
age.  Madame, when my _confrere_ comes from Bourron, you will communicate
my unfavourable opinion.  I leave the case in his hands; but of course,
on any alarming symptom, above all if there should be a sign of rally, do
not hesitate to knock me up.  I am a doctor no longer, I thank God; but I
have been one.  Good night, madame.  Good sleep to you, Jean-Marie.'



CHAPTER II.  MORNING TALK


Doctor Desprez always rose early.  Before the smoke arose, before the
first cart rattled over the bridge to the day's labour in the fields, he
was to be found wandering in his garden.  Now he would pick a bunch of
grapes; now he would eat a big pear under the trellice; now he would draw
all sorts of fancies on the path with the end of his cane; now he would
go down and watch the river running endlessly past the timber landing-
place at which he moored his boat.  There was no time, he used to say,
for making theories like the early morning.  'I rise earlier than any one
else in the village,' he once boasted.  'It is a fair consequence that I
know more and wish to do less with my knowledge.'

The Doctor was a connoisseur of sunrises, and loved a good theatrical
effect to usher in the day.  He had a theory of dew, by which he could
predict the weather.  Indeed, most things served him to that end: the
sound of the bells from all the neighbouring villages, the smell of the
forest, the visits and the behaviour of both birds and fishes, the look
of the plants in his garden, the disposition of cloud, the colour of the
light, and last, although not least, the arsenal of meteorological
instruments in a louvre-boarded hutch upon the lawn.  Ever since he had
settled at Gretz, he had been growing more and more into the local
meteorologist, the unpaid champion of the local climate.  He thought at
first there was no place so healthful in the arrondissement.  By the end
of the second year, he protested there was none so wholesome in the whole
department.  And for some time before he met Jean-Marie he had been
prepared to challenge all France and the better part of Europe for a
rival to his chosen spot.

'Doctor,' he would say--'doctor is a foul word.  It should not be used to
ladies.  It implies disease.  I remark it, as a flaw in our civilisation,
that we have not the proper horror of disease.  Now I, for my part, have
washed my hands of it; I have renounced my laureation; I am no doctor; I
am only a worshipper of the true goddess Hygieia.  Ah, believe me, it is
she who has the cestus!  And here, in this exiguous hamlet, has she
placed her shrine: here she dwells and lavishes her gifts; here I walk
with her in the early morning, and she shows me how strong she has made
the peasants, how fruitful she has made the fields, how the trees grow up
tall and comely under her eyes, and the fishes in the river become clean
and agile at her presence.--Rheumatism!' he would cry, on some malapert
interruption, 'O, yes, I believe we do have a little rheumatism.  That
could hardly be avoided, you know, on a river.  And of course the place
stands a little low; and the meadows are marshy, there's no doubt.  But,
my dear sir, look at Bourron!  Bourron stands high.  Bourron is close to
the forest; plenty of ozone there, you would say.  Well, compared with
Gretz, Bourron is a perfect shambles.'

The morning after he had been summoned to the dying mountebank, the
Doctor visited the wharf at the tail of his garden, and had a long look
at the running water.  This he called prayer; but whether his adorations
were addressed to the goddess Hygieia or some more orthodox deity, never
plainly appeared.  For he had uttered doubtful oracles, sometimes
declaring that a river was the type of bodily health, sometimes extolling
it as the great moral preacher, continually preaching peace, continuity,
and diligence to man's tormented spirits.  After he had watched a mile or
so of the clear water running by before his eyes, seen a fish or two come
to the surface with a gleam of silver, and sufficiently admired the long
shadows of the trees falling half across the river from the opposite
bank, with patches of moving sunlight in between, he strolled once more
up the garden and through his house into the street, feeling cool and
renovated.

The sound of his feet upon the causeway began the business of the day;
for the village was still sound asleep.  The church tower looked very
airy in the sunlight; a few birds that turned about it, seemed to swim in
an atmosphere of more than usual rarity; and the Doctor, walking in long
transparent shadows, filled his lungs amply, and proclaimed himself well
contented with the morning.

On one of the posts before Tentaillon's carriage entry he espied a little
dark figure perched in a meditative attitude, and immediately recognised
Jean-Marie.

'Aha!' he said, stopping before him humorously, with a hand on either
knee.  'So we rise early in the morning, do we?  It appears to me that we
have all the vices of a philosopher.'

The boy got to his feet and made a grave salutation.

'And how is our patient?' asked Desprez.

It appeared the patient was about the same.

'And why do you rise early in the morning?' he pursued.

Jean-Marie, after a long silence, professed that he hardly knew.

'You hardly know?' repeated Desprez.  'We hardly know anything, my man,
until we try to learn.  Interrogate your consciousness.  Come, push me
this inquiry home.  Do you like it?'

'Yes,' said the boy slowly; 'yes, I like it.'

'And why do you like it?' continued the Doctor.  '(We are now pursuing
the Socratic method.)  Why do you like it?'

'It is quiet,' answered Jean-Marie; 'and I have nothing to do; and then I
feel as if I were good.'

Doctor Desprez took a seat on the post at the opposite side.  He was
beginning to take an interest in the talk, for the boy plainly thought
before he spoke, and tried to answer truly.  'It appears you have a taste
for feeling good,' said the Doctor.  'Now, there you puzzle me extremely;
for I thought you said you were a thief; and the two are incompatible.'

'Is it very bad to steal?' asked Jean-Marie.

'Such is the general opinion, little boy,' replied the Doctor.

'No; but I mean as I stole,' explained the other.  'For I had no choice.
I think it is surely right to have bread; it must be right to have bread,
there comes so plain a want of it.  And then they beat me cruelly if I
returned with nothing,' he added.  'I was not ignorant of right and
wrong; for before that I had been well taught by a priest, who was very
kind to me.'  (The Doctor made a horrible grimace at the word 'priest.')
'But it seemed to me, when one had nothing to eat and was beaten, it was
a different affair.  I would not have stolen for tartlets, I believe; but
any one would steal for baker's bread.'

'And so I suppose,' said the Doctor, with a rising sneer, 'you prayed God
to forgive you, and explained the case to Him at length.'

'Why, sir?' asked Jean-Marie.  'I do not see.'

'Your priest would see, however,' retorted Desprez.

'Would he?' asked the boy, troubled for the first time.  'I should have
thought God would have known.'

'Eh?' snarled the Doctor.

'I should have thought God would have understood me,' replied the other.
'You do not, I see; but then it was God that made me think so, was it
not?'

'Little boy, little boy,' said Dr. Desprez, 'I told you already you had
the vices of philosophy; if you display the virtues also, I must go.  I
am a student of the blessed laws of health, an observer of plain and
temperate nature in her common walks; and I cannot preserve my equanimity
in presence of a monster.  Do you understand?'

'No, sir,' said the boy.

'I will make my meaning clear to you,' replied the doctor.  'Look there
at the sky--behind the belfry first, where it is so light, and then up
and up, turning your chin back, right to the top of the dome, where it is
already as blue as at noon.  Is not that a beautiful colour?  Does it not
please the heart?  We have seen it all our lives, until it has grown in
with our familiar thoughts.  Now,' changing his tone, 'suppose that sky
to become suddenly of a live and fiery amber, like the colour of clear
coals, and growing scarlet towards the top--I do not say it would be any
the less beautiful; but would you like it as well?'

'I suppose not,' answered Jean-Marie.

'Neither do I like you,' returned the Doctor, roughly.  'I hate all odd
people, and you are the most curious little boy in all the world.'

Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for a while, and then he raised his head
again and looked over at the Doctor with an air of candid inquiry.  'But
are not you a very curious gentleman?' he asked.

The Doctor threw away his stick, bounded on the boy, clasped him to his
bosom, and kissed him on both cheeks.  'Admirable, admirable imp!' he
cried.  'What a morning, what an hour for a theorist of forty-two!  No,'
he continued, apostrophising heaven, 'I did not know such boys existed; I
was ignorant they made them so; I had doubted of my race; and now!  It is
like,' he added, picking up his stick, 'like a lovers' meeting.  I have
bruised my favourite staff in that moment of enthusiasm.  The injury,
however, is not grave.'  He caught the boy looking at him in obvious
wonder, embarrassment, and alarm.  'Hullo!' said he, 'why do you look at
me like that?  Egad, I believe the boy despises me.  Do you despise me,
boy?'

'O, no,' replied Jean-Marie, seriously; 'only I do not understand.'

'You must excuse me, sir,' returned the Doctor, with gravity; 'I am still
so young.  O, hang him!' he added to himself.  And he took his seat again
and observed the boy sardonically.  'He has spoiled the quiet of my
morning,' thought he.  'I shall be nervous all day, and have a febricule
when I digest.  Let me compose myself.'  And so he dismissed his
pre-occupations by an effort of the will which he had long practised, and
let his soul roam abroad in the contemplation of the morning.  He inhaled
the air, tasting it critically as a connoisseur tastes a vintage, and
prolonging the expiration with hygienic gusto.  He counted the little
flecks of cloud along the sky.  He followed the movements of the birds
round the church tower--making long sweeps, hanging poised, or turning
airy somersaults in fancy, and beating the wind with imaginary pinions.
And in this way he regained peace of mind and animal composure, conscious
of his limbs, conscious of the sight of his eyes, conscious that the air
had a cool taste, like a fruit, at the top of his throat; and at last, in
complete abstraction, he began to sing.  The Doctor had but one air--,
'Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre;' even with that he was on terms of mere
politeness; and his musical exploits were always reserved for moments
when he was alone and entirely happy.

He was recalled to earth rudely by a pained expression on the boy's face.
'What do you think of my singing?' he inquired, stopping in the middle of
a note; and then, after he had waited some little while and received no
answer, 'What do you think of my singing?' he repeated, imperiously.

'I do not like it,' faltered Jean-Marie.

'Oh, come!' cried the Doctor.  'Possibly you are a performer yourself?'

'I sing better than that,' replied the boy.

The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupefaction.  He was aware that
he was angry, and blushed for himself in consequence, which made him
angrier.  'If this is how you address your master!' he said at last, with
a shrug and a flourish of his arms.

'I do not speak to him at all,' returned the boy.  'I do not like him.'

'Then you like me?' snapped Doctor Desprez, with unusual eagerness.

'I do not know,' answered Jean-Marie.

The Doctor rose.  'I shall wish you a good morning,' he said.  'You are
too much for me.  Perhaps you have blood in your veins, perhaps celestial
ichor, or perhaps you circulate nothing more gross than respirable air;
but of one thing I am inexpugnably assured:--that you are no human being.
No, boy'--shaking his stick at him--'you are not a human being.  Write,
write it in your memory--"I am not a human being--I have no pretension to
be a human being--I am a dive, a dream, an angel, an acrostic, an
illusion--what you please, but not a human being."  And so accept my
humble salutations and farewell!'

And with that the Doctor made off along the street in some emotion, and
the boy stood, mentally gaping, where he left him.



CHAPTER III.  THE ADOPTION.


Madame Desprez, who answered to the Christian name of Anastasie,
presented an agreeable type of her sex; exceedingly wholesome to look
upon, a stout _brune_, with cool smooth cheeks, steady, dark eyes, and
hands that neither art nor nature could improve.  She was the sort of
person over whom adversity passes like a summer cloud; she might, in the
worst of conjunctions, knit her brows into one vertical furrow for a
moment, but the next it would be gone.  She had much of the placidity of
a contented nun; with little of her piety, however; for Anastasie was of
a very mundane nature, fond of oysters and old wine, and somewhat bold
pleasantries, and devoted to her husband for her own sake rather than for
his.  She was imperturbably good-natured, but had no idea of
self-sacrifice.  To live in that pleasant old house, with a green garden
behind and bright flowers about the window, to eat and drink of the best,
to gossip with a neighbour for a quarter of an hour, never to wear stays
or a dress except when she went to Fontainebleau shopping, to be kept in
a continual supply of racy novels, and to be married to Doctor Desprez
and have no ground of jealousy, filled the cup of her nature to the brim.
Those who had known the Doctor in bachelor days, when he had aired quite
as many theories, but of a different order, attributed his present
philosophy to the study of Anastasie.  It was her brute enjoyment that he
rationalised and perhaps vainly imitated.

Madame Desprez was an artist in the kitchen, and made coffee to a nicety.
She had a knack of tidiness, with which she had infected the Doctor;
everything was in its place; everything capable of polish shone
gloriously; and dust was a thing banished from her empire.  Aline, their
single servant, had no other business in the world but to scour and
burnish.  So Doctor Desprez lived in his house like a fatted calf, warmed
and cosseted to his heart's content.

The midday meal was excellent.  There was a ripe melon, a fish from the
river in a memorable Bearnaise sauce, a fat fowl in a fricassee, and a
dish of asparagus, followed by some fruit.  The Doctor drank half a
bottle _plus_ one glass, the wife half a bottle _minus_ the same
quantity, which was a marital privilege, of an excellent Cote-Rotie,
seven years old.  Then the coffee was brought, and a flask of Chartreuse
for madame, for the Doctor despised and distrusted such decoctions; and
then Aline left the wedded pair to the pleasures of memory and digestion.

'It is a very fortunate circumstance, my cherished one,' observed the
Doctor--'this coffee is adorable--a very fortunate circumstance upon the
whole--Anastasie, I beseech you, go without that poison for to-day; only
one day, and you will feel the benefit, I pledge my reputation.'

'What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend?' inquired Anastasie, not
heeding his protest, which was of daily recurrence.

'That we have no children, my beautiful,' replied the Doctor.  'I think
of it more and more as the years go on, and with more and more gratitude
towards the Power that dispenses such afflictions.  Your health, my
darling, my studious quiet, our little kitchen delicacies, how they would
all have suffered, how they would all have been sacrificed!  And for
what?  Children are the last word of human imperfection.  Health flees
before their face.  They cry, my dear; they put vexatious questions; they
demand to be fed, to be washed, to be educated, to have their noses
blown; and then, when the time comes, they break our hearts, as I break
this piece of sugar.  A pair of professed egoists, like you and me,
should avoid offspring, like an infidelity.'

'Indeed!' said she; and she laughed.  'Now, that is like you--to take
credit for the thing you could not help.'

'My dear,' returned the Doctor, solemnly, 'we might have adopted.'

'Never!' cried madame.  'Never, Doctor, with my consent.  If the child
were my own flesh and blood, I would not say no.  But to take another
person's indiscretion on my shoulders, my dear friend, I have too much
sense.'

'Precisely,' replied the Doctor.  'We both had.  And I am all the better
pleased with our wisdom, because--because--'  He looked at her sharply.

'Because what?' she asked, with a faint premonition of danger.

'Because I have found the right person,' said the Doctor firmly, 'and
shall adopt him this afternoon.'

Anastasie looked at him out of a mist.  'You have lost your reason,' she
said; and there was a clang in her voice that seemed to threaten trouble.

'Not so, my dear,' he replied; 'I retain its complete exercise.  To the
proof: instead of attempting to cloak my inconsistency, I have, by way of
preparing you, thrown it into strong relief.  You will there, I think,
recognise the philosopher who has the ecstasy to call you wife.  The fact
is, I have been reckoning all this while without an accident.  I never
thought to find a son of my own.  Now, last night, I found one.  Do not
unnecessarily alarm yourself, my dear; he is not a drop of blood to me
that I know.  It is his mind, darling, his mind that calls me father.'

'His mind!' she repeated with a titter between scorn and hysterics.  'His
mind, indeed!  Henri, is this an idiotic pleasantry, or are you mad?  His
mind!  And what of my mind?'

'Truly,' replied the Doctor with a shrug, 'you have your finger on the
hitch.  He will be strikingly antipathetic to my ever beautiful
Anastasie.  She will never understand him; he will never understand her.
You married the animal side of my nature, dear and it is on the spiritual
side that I find my affinity for Jean-Marie.  So much so, that, to be
perfectly frank, I stand in some awe of him myself.  You will easily
perceive that I am announcing a calamity for you.  Do not,' he broke out
in tones of real solicitude--'do not give way to tears after a meal,
Anastasie.  You will certainly give yourself a false digestion.'

Anastasie controlled herself.  'You know how willing I am to humour you,'
she said, 'in all reasonable matters.  But on this point--'

'My dear love,' interrupted the Doctor, eager to prevent a refusal, 'who
wished to leave Paris?  Who made me give up cards, and the opera, and the
boulevard, and my social relations, and all that was my life before I
knew you?  Have I been faithful?  Have I been obedient?  Have I not borne
my doom with cheerfulness?  In all honesty, Anastasie, have I not a right
to a stipulation on my side?  I have, and you know it.  I stipulate my
son.'

Anastasie was aware of defeat; she struck her colours instantly.  'You
will break my heart,' she sighed.

'Not in the least,' said he.  'You will feel a trifling inconvenience for
a month, just as I did when I was first brought to this vile hamlet; then
your admirable sense and temper will prevail, and I see you already as
content as ever, and making your husband the happiest of men.'

'You know I can refuse you nothing,' she said, with a last flicker of
resistance; 'nothing that will make you truly happier.  But will this?
Are you sure, my husband?  Last night, you say, you found him!  He may be
the worst of humbugs.'

'I think not,' replied the Doctor.  'But do not suppose me so unwary as
to adopt him out of hand.  I am, I flatter myself, a finished man of the
world; I have had all possibilities in view; my plan is contrived to meet
them all.  I take the lad as stable boy.  If he pilfer, if he grumble, if
he desire to change, I shall see I was mistaken; I shall recognise him
for no son of mine, and send him tramping.'

'You will never do so when the time comes,' said his wife; 'I know your
good heart.'

She reached out her hand to him, with a sigh; the Doctor smiled as he
took it and carried it to his lips; he had gained his point with greater
ease than he had dared to hope; for perhaps the twentieth time he had
proved the efficacy of his trusty argument, his Excalibur, the hint of a
return to Paris.  Six months in the capital, for a man of the Doctor's
antecedents and relations, implied no less a calamity than total ruin.
Anastasie had saved the remainder of his fortune by keeping him strictly
in the country.  The very name of Paris put her in a blue fear; and she
would have allowed her husband to keep a menagerie in the back garden,
let alone adopting a stable-boy, rather than permit the question of
return to be discussed.

About four of the afternoon, the mountebank rendered up his ghost; he had
never been conscious since his seizure.  Doctor Desprez was present at
his last passage, and declared the farce over.  Then he took Jean-Marie
by the shoulder and led him out into the inn garden where there was a
convenient bench beside the river.  Here he sat him down and made the boy
place himself on his left.

'Jean-Marie,' he said very gravely, 'this world is exceedingly vast; and
even France, which is only a small corner of it, is a great place for a
little lad like you.  Unfortunately it is full of eager, shouldering
people moving on; and there are very few bakers' shops for so many
eaters.  Your master is dead; you are not fit to gain a living by
yourself; you do not wish to steal?  No.  Your situation then is
undesirable; it is, for the moment, critical.  On the other hand, you
behold in me a man not old, though elderly, still enjoying the youth of
the heart and the intelligence; a man of instruction; easily situated in
this world's affairs; keeping a good table:--a man, neither as friend nor
host, to be despised.  I offer you your food and clothes, and to teach
you lessons in the evening, which will be infinitely more to the purpose
for a lad of your stamp than those of all the priests in Europe.  I
propose no wages, but if ever you take a thought to leave me, the door
shall be open, and I will give you a hundred francs to start the world
upon.  In return, I have an old horse and chaise, which you would very
speedily learn to clean and keep in order.  Do not hurry yourself to
answer, and take it or leave it as you judge aright.  Only remember this,
that I am no sentimentalist or charitable person, but a man who lives
rigorously to himself; and that if I make the proposal, it is for my own
ends--it is because I perceive clearly an advantage to myself.  And now,
reflect.'

'I shall be very glad.  I do not see what else I can do.  I thank you,
sir, most kindly, and I will try to be useful,' said the boy.

'Thank you,' said the Doctor warmly, rising at the same time and wiping
his brow, for he had suffered agonies while the thing hung in the wind.  A
refusal, after the scene at noon, would have placed him in a ridiculous
light before Anastasie.  'How hot and heavy is the evening, to be sure!  I
have always had a fancy to be a fish in summer, Jean-Marie, here in the
Loing beside Gretz.  I should lie under a water-lily and listen to the
bells, which must sound most delicately down below.  That would be a
life--do you not think so too?'

'Yes,' said Jean-Marie.

'Thank God you have imagination!' cried the Doctor, embracing the boy
with his usual effusive warmth, though it was a proceeding that seemed to
disconcert the sufferer almost as much as if he had been an English
schoolboy of the same age.  'And now,' he added, 'I will take you to my
wife.'

Madame Desprez sat in the dining-room in a cool wrapper.  All the blinds
were down, and the tile floor had been recently sprinkled with water; her
eyes were half shut, but she affected to be reading a novel as the they
entered.  Though she was a bustling woman, she enjoyed repose between
whiles and had a remarkable appetite for sleep.

The Doctor went through a solemn form of introduction, adding, for the
benefit of both parties, 'You must try to like each other for my sake.'

'He is very pretty,' said Anastasie.  'Will you kiss me, my pretty little
fellow?'

The Doctor was furious, and dragged her into the passage.  'Are you a
fool, Anastasie?' he said.  'What is all this I hear about the tact of
women?  Heaven knows, I have not met with it in my experience.  You
address my little philosopher as if he were an infant.  He must be spoken
to with more respect, I tell you; he must not be kissed and
Georgy-porgy'd like an ordinary child.'

'I only did it to please you, I am sure,' replied Anastasie; 'but I will
try to do better.'

The Doctor apologised for his warmth.  'But I do wish him,' he continued,
'to feel at home among us.  And really your conduct was so idiotic, my
cherished one, and so utterly and distantly out of place, that a saint
might have been pardoned a little vehemence in disapproval.  Do, do
try--if it is possible for a woman to understand young people--but of
course it is not, and I waste my breath.  Hold your tongue as much as
possible at least, and observe my conduct narrowly; it will serve you for
a model.'

Anastasie did as she was bidden, and considered the Doctor's behaviour.
She observed that he embraced the boy three times in the course of the
evening, and managed generally to confound and abash the little fellow
out of speech and appetite.  But she had the true womanly heroism in
little affairs.  Not only did she refrain from the cheap revenge of
exposing the Doctor's errors to himself, but she did her best to remove
their ill-effect on Jean-Marie.  When Desprez went out for his last
breath of air before retiring for the night, she came over to the boy's
side and took his hand.

'You must not be surprised nor frightened by my husband's manners,' she
said.  'He is the kindest of men, but so clever that he is sometimes
difficult to understand.  You will soon grow used to him, and then you
will love him, for that nobody can help.  As for me, you may be sure, I
shall try to make you happy, and will not bother you at all.  I think we
should be excellent friends, you and I.  I am not clever, but I am very
good-natured.  Will you give me a kiss?'

He held up his face, and she took him in her arms and then began to cry.
The woman had spoken in complaisance; but she had warmed to her own
words, and tenderness followed.  The Doctor, entering, found them
enlaced: he concluded that his wife was in fault; and he was just
beginning, in an awful voice, 'Anastasie--,' when she looked up at him,
smiling, with an upraised finger; and he held his peace, wondering, while
she led the boy to his attic.



CHAPTER IV.  THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOSOPHER.


The installation of the adopted stable-boy was thus happily effected, and
the wheels of life continued to run smoothly in the Doctor's house.  Jean-
Marie did his horse and carriage duty in the morning; sometimes helped in
the housework; sometimes walked abroad with the Doctor, to drink wisdom
from the fountain-head; and was introduced at night to the sciences and
the dead tongues.  He retained his singular placidity of mind and manner;
he was rarely in fault; but he made only a very partial progress in his
studies, and remained much of a stranger in the family.

The Doctor was a pattern of regularity.  All forenoon he worked on his
great book, the 'Comparative Pharmacopoeia, or Historical Dictionary of
all Medicines,' which as yet consisted principally of slips of paper and
pins.  When finished, it was to fill many personable volumes, and to
combine antiquarian interest with professional utility.  But the Doctor
was studious of literary graces and the picturesque; an anecdote, a touch
of manners, a moral qualification, or a sounding epithet was sure to be
preferred before a piece of science; a little more, and he would have
written the 'Comparative Pharmacopoeia' in verse!  The article 'Mummia,'
for instance, was already complete, though the remainder of the work had
not progressed beyond the letter A.  It was exceedingly copious and
entertaining, written with quaintness and colour, exact, erudite, a
literary article; but it would hardly have afforded guidance to a
practising physician of to-day.  The feminine good sense of his wife had
led her to point this out with uncompromising sincerity; for the
Dictionary was duly read aloud to her, betwixt sleep and waning, as it
proceeded towards an infinitely distant completion; and the Doctor was a
little sore on the subject of mummies, and sometimes resented an allusion
with asperity.

After the midday meal and a proper period of digestion, he walked,
sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by Jean-Marie; for madame would
have preferred any hardship rather than walk.

She was, as I have said, a very busy person, continually occupied about
material comforts, and ready to drop asleep over a novel the instant she
was disengaged.  This was the less objectionable, as she never snored or
grew distempered in complexion when she slept.  On the contrary, she
looked the very picture of luxurious and appetising ease, and woke
without a start to the perfect possession of her faculties.  I am afraid
she was greatly an animal, but she was a very nice animal to have about.
In this way, she had little to do with Jean-Marie; but the sympathy which
had been established between them on the first night remained unbroken;
they held occasional conversations, mostly on household matters; to the
extreme disappointment of the Doctor, they occasionally sallied off
together to that temple of debasing superstition, the village church;
madame and he, both in their Sunday's best, drove twice a month to
Fontainebleau and returned laden with purchases; and in short, although
the Doctor still continued to regard them as irreconcilably
anti-pathetic, their relation was as intimate, friendly, and confidential
as their natures suffered.

I fear, however, that in her heart of hearts, madame kindly despised and
pitied the boy.  She had no admiration for his class of virtues; she
liked a smart, polite, forward, roguish sort of boy, cap in hand, light
of foot, meeting the eye; she liked volubility, charm, a little vice--the
promise of a second Doctor Desprez.  And it was her indefeasible belief
that Jean-Marie was dull.  'Poor dear boy,' she had said once, 'how sad
it is that he should be so stupid!'  She had never repeated that remark,
for the Doctor had raged like a wild bull, denouncing the brutal
bluntness of her mind, bemoaning his own fate to be so unequally mated
with an ass, and, what touched Anastasie more nearly, menacing the table
china by the fury of his gesticulations.  But she adhered silently to her
opinion; and when Jean-Marie was sitting, stolid, blank, but not unhappy,
over his unfinished tasks, she would snatch her opportunity in the
Doctor's absence, go over to him, put her arms about his neck, lay her
cheek to his, and communicate her sympathy with his distress.  'Do not
mind,' she would say; 'I, too, am not at all clever, and I can assure you
that it makes no difference in life.'

The Doctor's view was naturally different.  That gentleman never wearied
of the sound of his own voice, which was, to say the truth, agreeable
enough to hear.  He now had a listener, who was not so cynically
indifferent as Anastasie, and who sometimes put him on his mettle by the
most relevant objections.  Besides, was he not educating the boy?  And
education, philosophers are agreed, is the most philosophical of duties.
What can be more heavenly to poor mankind than to have one's hobby grow
into a duty to the State?  Then, indeed, do the ways of life become ways
of pleasantness.  Never had the Doctor seen reason to be more content
with his endowments.  Philosophy flowed smoothly from his lips.  He was
so agile a dialectician that he could trace his nonsense, when
challenged, back to some root in sense, and prove it to be a sort of
flower upon his system.  He slipped out of antinomies like a fish, and
left his disciple marvelling at the rabbi's depth.

Moreover, deep down in his heart the Doctor was disappointed with the ill-
success of his more formal education.  A boy, chosen by so acute an
observer for his aptitude, and guided along the path of learning by so
philosophic an instructor, was bound, by the nature of the universe, to
make a more obvious and lasting advance.  Now Jean-Marie was slow in all
things, impenetrable in others; and his power of forgetting was fully on
a level with his power to learn.  Therefore the Doctor cherished his
peripatetic lectures, to which the boy attended, which he generally
appeared to enjoy, and by which he often profited.

Many and many were the talks they had together; and health and moderation
proved the subject of the Doctor's divagations.  To these he lovingly
returned.

'I lead you,' he would say, 'by the green pastures.  My system, my
beliefs, my medicines, are resumed in one phrase--to avoid excess.
Blessed nature, healthy, temperate nature, abhors and exterminates
excess.  Human law, in this matter, imitates at a great distance her
provisions; and we must strive to supplement the efforts of the law.  Yes,
boy, we must be a law to ourselves and for ourselves and for our
neighbours--lex armata--armed, emphatic, tyrannous law.  If you see a
crapulous human ruin snuffing, dash from him his box!  The judge, though
in a way an admission of disease, is less offensive to me than either the
doctor or the priest.  Above all the doctor--the doctor and the purulent
trash and garbage of his pharmacopoeia!  Pure air--from the neighbourhood
of a pinetum for the sake of the turpentine--unadulterated wine, and the
reflections of an unsophisticated spirit in the presence of the works of
nature--these, my boy, are the best medical appliances and the best
religious comforts.  Devote yourself to these.  Hark! there are the bells
of Bourron (the wind is in the north, it will be fair).  How clear and
airy is the sound!  The nerves are harmonised and quieted; the mind
attuned to silence; and observe how easily and regularly beats the heart!
Your unenlightened doctor would see nothing in these sensations; and yet
you yourself perceive they are a part of health.--Did you remember your
cinchona this morning?  Good.  Cinchona also is a work of nature; it is,
after all, only the bark of a tree which we might gather for ourselves if
we lived in the locality.--What a world is this!  Though a professed
atheist, I delight to bear my testimony to the world.  Look at the
gratuitous remedies and pleasures that surround our path!  The river runs
by the garden end, our bath, our fishpond, our natural system of
drainage.  There is a well in the court which sends up sparkling water
from the earth's very heart, clean, cool, and, with a little wine, most
wholesome.  The district is notorious for its salubrity; rheumatism is
the only prevalent complaint, and I myself have never had a touch of it.
I tell you--and my opinion is based upon the coldest, clearest processes
of reason--if I, if you, desired to leave this home of pleasures, it
would be the duty, it would be the privilege, of our best friend to
prevent us with a pistol bullet.'

One beautiful June day they sat upon the hill outside the village.  The
river, as blue as heaven, shone here and there among the foliage.  The
indefatigable birds turned and flickered about Gretz church tower.  A
healthy wind blew from over the forest, and the sound of innumerable
thousands of tree-tops and innumerable millions on millions of green
leaves was abroad in the air, and filled the ear with something between
whispered speech and singing.  It seemed as if every blade of grass must
hide a cigale; and the fields rang merrily with their music, jingling far
and near as with the sleigh-bells of the fairy queen.  From their station
on the slope the eye embraced a large space of poplar'd plain upon the
one hand, the waving hill-tops of the forest on the other, and Gretz
itself in the middle, a handful of roofs.  Under the bestriding arch of
the blue heavens, the place seemed dwindled to a toy.  It seemed
incredible that people dwelt, and could find room to turn or air to
breathe, in such a corner of the world.  The thought came home to the
boy, perhaps for the first time, and he gave it words.

'How small it looks!' he sighed.

'Ay,' replied the Doctor, 'small enough now.  Yet it was once a walled
city; thriving, full of furred burgesses and men in armour, humming with
affairs;--with tall spires, for aught that I know, and portly towers
along the battlements.  A thousand chimneys ceased smoking at the curfew
bell.  There were gibbets at the gate as thick as scarecrows.  In time of
war, the assault swarmed against it with ladders, the arrows fell like
leaves, the defenders sallied hotly over the drawbridge, each side
uttered its cry as they plied their weapons.  Do you know that the walls
extended as far as the Commanderie?  Tradition so reports.  Alas, what a
long way off is all this confusion--nothing left of it but my quiet words
spoken in your ear--and the town itself shrunk to the hamlet underneath
us!  By-and-by came the English wars--you shall hear more of the English,
a stupid people, who sometimes blundered into good--and Gretz was taken,
sacked, and burned.  It is the history of many towns; but Gretz never
rose again; it was never rebuilt; its ruins were a quarry to serve the
growth of rivals; and the stones of Gretz are now erect along the streets
of Nemours.  It gratifies me that our old house was the first to rise
after the calamity; when the town had come to an end, it inaugurated the
hamlet.'

'I, too, am glad of that,' said Jean-Marie.

'It should be the temple of the humbler virtues,' responded the Doctor
with a savoury gusto.  'Perhaps one of the reasons why I love my little
hamlet as I do, is that we have a similar history, she and I.  Have I
told you that I was once rich?'

'I do not think so,' answered Jean-Marie.  'I do not think I should have
forgotten.  I am sorry you should have lost your fortune.'

'Sorry?' cried the Doctor.  'Why, I find I have scarce begun your
education after all.  Listen to me!  Would you rather live in the old
Gretz or in the new, free from the alarms of war, with the green country
at the door, without noise, passports, the exactions of the soldiery, or
the jangle of the curfew-bell to send us off to bed by sundown?'

'I suppose I should prefer the new,' replied the boy.

'Precisely,' returned the Doctor; 'so do I.  And, in the same way, I
prefer my present moderate fortune to my former wealth.  Golden
mediocrity! cried the adorable ancients; and I subscribe to their
enthusiasm.  Have I not good wine, good food, good air, the fields and
the forest for my walk, a house, an admirable wife, a boy whom I protest
I cherish like a son?  Now, if I were still rich, I should indubitably
make my residence in Paris--you know Paris--Paris and Paradise are not
convertible terms.  This pleasant noise of the wind streaming among
leaves changed into the grinding Babel of the street, the stupid glare of
plaster substituted for this quiet pattern of greens and greys, the
nerves shattered, the digestion falsified--picture the fall!  Already you
perceive the consequences; the mind is stimulated, the heart steps to a
different measure, and the man is himself no longer.  I have passionately
studied myself--the true business of philosophy.  I know my character as
the musician knows the ventages of his flute.  Should I return to Paris,
I should ruin myself gambling; nay, I go further--I should break the
heart of my Anastasie with infidelities.'

This was too much for Jean-Marie.  That a place should so transform the
most excellent of men transcended his belief.  Paris, he protested, was
even an agreeable place of residence.  'Nor when I lived in that city did
I feel much difference,' he pleaded.

'What!' cried the Doctor.  'Did you not steal when you were there?'

But the boy could never be brought to see that he had done anything wrong
when he stole.  Nor, indeed, did the Doctor think he had; but that
gentleman was never very scrupulous when in want of a retort.

'And now,' he concluded, 'do you begin to understand?  My only friends
were those who ruined me.  Gretz has been my academy, my sanatorium, my
heaven of innocent pleasures.  If millions are offered me, I wave them
back: _Retro_, _Sathanas_!--Evil one, begone!  Fix your mind on my
example; despise riches, avoid the debasing influence of cities.
Hygiene--hygiene and mediocrity of fortune--these be your watchwords
during life!'

The Doctor's system of hygiene strikingly coincided with his tastes; and
his picture of the perfect life was a faithful description of the one he
was leading at the time.  But it is easy to convince a boy, whom you
supply with all the facts for the discussion.  And besides, there was one
thing admirable in the philosophy, and that was the enthusiasm of the
philosopher.  There was never any one more vigorously determined to be
pleased; and if he was not a great logician, and so had no right to
convince the intellect, he was certainly something of a poet, and had a
fascination to seduce the heart.  What he could not achieve in his
customary humour of a radiant admiration of himself and his
circumstances, he sometimes effected in his fits of gloom.

'Boy,' he would say, 'avoid me to-day.  If I were superstitious, I should
even beg for an interest in your prayers.  I am in the black fit; the
evil spirit of King Saul, the hag of the merchant Abudah, the personal
devil of the mediaeval monk, is with me--is in me,' tapping on his
breast.  'The vices of my nature are now uppermost; innocent pleasures
woo me in vain; I long for Paris, for my wallowing in the mire.  See,' he
would continue, producing a handful of silver, 'I denude myself, I am not
to be trusted with the price of a fare.  Take it, keep it for me,
squander it on deleterious candy, throw it in the deepest of the river--I
will homologate your action.  Save me from that part of myself which I
disown.  If you see me falter, do not hesitate; if necessary, wreck the
train!  I speak, of course, by a parable.  Any extremity were better than
for me to reach Paris alive.'

Doubtless the Doctor enjoyed these little scenes, as a variation in his
part; they represented the Byronic element in the somewhat artificial
poetry of his existence; but to the boy, though he was dimly aware of
their theatricality, they represented more.  The Doctor made perhaps too
little, the boy possibly too much, of the reality and gravity of these
temptations.

One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie.  'Could not riches be used
well?' he asked.

'In theory, yes,' replied the Doctor.  'But it is found in experience
that no one does so.  All the world imagine they will be exceptional when
they grow wealthy; but possession is debasing, new desires spring up; and
the silly taste for ostentation eats out the heart of pleasure.'

'Then you might be better if you had less,' said the boy.

'Certainly not,' replied the Doctor; but his voice quavered as he spoke.

'Why?' demanded pitiless innocence.

Doctor Desprez saw all the colours of the rainbow in a moment; the stable
universe appeared to be about capsizing with him.  'Because,' said
he--affecting deliberation after an obvious pause--'because I have formed
my life for my present income.  It is not good for men of my years to be
violently dissevered from their habits.'

That was a sharp brush.  The Doctor breathed hard, and fell into
taciturnity for the afternoon.  As for the boy, he was delighted with the
resolution of his doubts; even wondered that he had not foreseen the
obvious and conclusive answer.  His faith in the Doctor was a stout piece
of goods.  Desprez was inclined to be a sheet in the wind's eye after
dinner, especially after Rhone wine, his favourite weakness.  He would
then remark on the warmth of his feeling for Anastasie, and with inflamed
cheeks and a loose, flustered smile, debate upon all sorts of topics, and
be feebly and indiscreetly witty.  But the adopted stable-boy would not
permit himself to entertain a doubt that savoured of ingratitude.  It is
quite true that a man may be a second father to you, and yet take too
much to drink; but the best natures are ever slow to accept such truths.

The Doctor thoroughly possessed his heart, but perhaps he exaggerated his
influence over his mind.  Certainly Jean-Marie adopted some of his
master's opinions, but I have yet to learn that he ever surrendered one
of his own.  Convictions existed in him by divine right; they were
virgin, unwrought, the brute metal of decision.  He could add others
indeed, but he could not put away; neither did he care if they were
perfectly agreed among themselves; and his spiritual pleasures had
nothing to do with turning them over or justifying them in words.  Words
were with him a mere accomplishment, like dancing.  When he was by
himself, his pleasures were almost vegetable.  He would slip into the
woods towards Acheres, and sit in the mouth of a cave among grey birches.
His soul stared straight out of his eyes; he did not move or think;
sunlight, thin shadows moving in the wind, the edge of firs against the
sky, occupied and bound his faculties.  He was pure unity, a spirit
wholly abstracted.  A single mood filled him, to which all the objects of
sense contributed, as the colours of the spectrum merge and disappear in
white light.

So while the Doctor made himself drunk with words, the adopted stable-boy
bemused himself with silence.



CHAPTER V.  TREASURE TROVE.


The Doctor's carriage was a two-wheeled gig with a hood; a kind of
vehicle in much favour among country doctors.  On how many roads has one
not seen it, a great way off between the poplars!--in how many village
streets, tied to a gate-post!  This sort of chariot is
affected--particularly at the trot--by a kind of pitching movement to and
fro across the axle, which well entitles it to the style of a Noddy.  The
hood describes a considerable arc against the landscape, with a solemnly
absurd effect on the contemplative pedestrian.  To ride in such a
carriage cannot be numbered among the things that appertain to glory; but
I have no doubt it may be useful in liver complaint.  Thence, perhaps,
its wide popularity among physicians.

One morning early, Jean-Marie led forth the Doctor's noddy, opened the
gate, and mounted to the driving-seat.  The Doctor followed, arrayed from
top to toe in spotless linen, armed with an immense flesh-coloured
umbrella, and girt with a botanical case on a baldric; and the equipage
drove off smartly in a breeze of its own provocation.  They were bound
for Franchard, to collect plants, with an eye to the 'Comparative
Pharmacopoeia.'

A little rattling on the open roads, and they came to the borders of the
forest and struck into an unfrequented track; the noddy yawed softly over
the sand, with an accompaniment of snapping twigs.  There was a great,
green, softly murmuring cloud of congregated foliage overhead.  In the
arcades of the forest the air retained the freshness of the night.  The
athletic bearing of the trees, each carrying its leafy mountain, pleased
the mind like so many statues; and the lines of the trunk led the eye
admiringly upward to where the extreme leaves sparkled in a patch of
azure.  Squirrels leaped in mid air.  It was a proper spot for a devotee
of the goddess Hygieia.

'Have you been to Franchard, Jean-Marie?' inquired the Doctor.  'I fancy
not.'

'Never,' replied the boy.

'It is ruin in a gorge,' continued Desprez, adopting his expository
voice; 'the ruin of a hermitage and chapel.  History tells us much of
Franchard; how the recluse was often slain by robbers; how he lived on a
most insufficient diet; how he was expected to pass his days in prayer.  A
letter is preserved, addressed to one of these solitaries by the superior
of his order, full of admirable hygienic advice; bidding him go from his
book to praying, and so back again, for variety's sake, and when he was
weary of both to stroll about his garden and observe the honey bees.  It
is to this day my own system.  You must often have remarked me leaving
the "Pharmacopoeia"--often even in the middle of a phrase--to come forth
into the sun and air.  I admire the writer of that letter from my heart;
he was a man of thought on the most important subjects.  But, indeed, had
I lived in the Middle Ages (I am heartily glad that I did not) I should
have been an eremite myself--if I had not been a professed buffoon, that
is.  These were the only philosophical lives yet open: laughter or
prayer; sneers, we might say, and tears.  Until the sun of the Positive
arose, the wise man had to make his choice between these two.'

'I have been a buffoon, of course,' observed Jean-Marie.

'I cannot imagine you to have excelled in your profession,' said the
Doctor, admiring the boy's gravity.  'Do you ever laugh?'

'Oh, yes,' replied the other.  'I laugh often.  I am very fond of jokes.'

'Singular being!' said Desprez.  'But I divagate (I perceive in a
thousand ways that I grow old).  Franchard was at length destroyed in the
English wars, the same that levelled Gretz.  But--here is the point--the
hermits (for there were already more than one) had foreseen the danger
and carefully concealed the sacrificial vessels.  These vessels were of
monstrous value, Jean-Marie--monstrous value--priceless, we may say;
exquisitely worked, of exquisite material.  And now, mark me, they have
never been found.  In the reign of Louis Quatorze some fellows were
digging hard by the ruins.  Suddenly--tock!--the spade hit upon an
obstacle.  Imagine the men fooling one to another; imagine how their
hearts bounded, how their colour came and went.  It was a coffer, and in
Franchard the place of buried treasure!  They tore it open like famished
beasts.  Alas! it was not the treasure; only some priestly robes, which,
at the touch of the eating air, fell upon themselves and instantly wasted
into dust.  The perspiration of these good fellows turned cold upon them,
Jean-Marie.  I will pledge my reputation, if there was anything like a
cutting wind, one or other had a pneumonia for his trouble.'

'I should like to have seen them turning into dust,' said Jean-Marie.
'Otherwise, I should not have cared so greatly.'

'You have no imagination,' cried the Doctor.  'Picture to yourself the
scene.  Dwell on the idea--a great treasure lying in the earth for
centuries: the material for a giddy, copious, opulent existence not
employed; dresses and exquisite pictures unseen; the swiftest galloping
horses not stirring a hoof, arrested by a spell; women with the beautiful
faculty of smiles, not smiling; cards, dice, opera singing, orchestras,
castles, beautiful parks and gardens, big ships with a tower of
sailcloth, all lying unborn in a coffin--and the stupid trees growing
overhead in the sunlight, year after year.  The thought drives one
frantic.'

'It is only money,' replied Jean-Marie.  'It would do harm.'

'O, come!' cried Desprez, 'that is philosophy; it is all very fine, but
not to the point just now.  And besides, it is not "only money," as you
call it; there are works of art in the question; the vessels were carved.
You speak like a child.  You weary me exceedingly, quoting my words out
of all logical connection, like a parroquet.'

'And at any rate, we have nothing to do with it,' returned the boy
submissively.

They struck the Route Ronde at that moment; and the sudden change to the
rattling causeway combined, with the Doctor's irritation, to keep him
silent.  The noddy jigged along; the trees went by, looking on silently,
as if they had something on their minds.  The Quadrilateral was passed;
then came Franchard.  They put up the horse at the little solitary inn,
and went forth strolling.  The gorge was dyed deeply with heather; the
rocks and birches standing luminous in the sun.  A great humming of bees
about the flowers disposed Jean-Marie to sleep, and he sat down against a
clump of heather, while the Doctor went briskly to and fro, with quick
turns, culling his simples.

The boy's head had fallen a little forward, his eyes were closed, his
fingers had fallen lax about his knees, when a sudden cry called him to
his feet.  It was a strange sound, thin and brief; it fell dead, and
silence returned as though it had never been interrupted.  He had not
recognised the Doctor's voice; but, as there was no one else in all the
valley, it was plainly the Doctor who had given utterance to the sound.
He looked right and left, and there was Desprez, standing in a niche
between two boulders, and looking round on his adopted son with a
countenance as white as paper.

'A viper!' cried Jean-Marie, running towards him.  'A viper!  You are
bitten!'

The Doctor came down heavily out of the cleft, and, advanced in silence
to meet the boy, whom he took roughly by the shoulder.

'I have found it,' he said, with a gasp.

'A plant?' asked Jean-Marie.

Desprez had a fit of unnatural gaiety, which the rocks took up and
mimicked.  'A plant!' he repeated scornfully.  'Well--yes--a plant.  And
here,' he added suddenly, showing his right hand, which he had hitherto
concealed behind his back--'here is one of the bulbs.'

Jean-Marie saw a dirty platter, coated with earth.

'That?' said he.  'It is a plate!'

'It is a coach and horses,' cried the Doctor.  'Boy,' he continued,
growing warmer, 'I plucked away a great pad of moss from between these
boulders, and disclosed a crevice; and when I looked in, what do you
suppose I saw?  I saw a house in Paris with a court and garden, I saw my
wife shining with diamonds, I saw myself a deputy, I saw you--well, I--I
saw your future,' he concluded, rather feebly.  'I have just discovered
America,' he added.

'But what is it?' asked the boy.

'The Treasure of Franchard,' cried the Doctor; and, throwing his brown
straw hat upon the ground, he whooped like an Indian and sprang upon Jean-
Marie, whom he suffocated with embraces and bedewed with tears.  Then he
flung himself down among the heather and once more laughed until the
valley rang.

But the boy had now an interest of his own, a boy's interest.  No sooner
was he released from the Doctor's accolade than he ran to the boulders,
sprang into the niche, and, thrusting his hand into the crevice, drew
forth one after another, encrusted with the earth of ages, the flagons,
candlesticks, and patens of the hermitage of Franchard.  A casket came
last, tightly shut and very heavy.

'O what fun!' he cried.

But when he looked back at the Doctor, who had followed close behind and
was silently observing, the words died from his lips.  Desprez was once
more the colour of ashes; his lip worked and trembled; a sort of bestial
greed possessed him.

'This is childish,' he said.  'We lose precious time.  Back to the inn,
harness the trap, and bring it to yon bank.  Run for your life, and
remember--not one whisper.  I stay here to watch.'

Jean-Marie did as he was bid, though not without surprise.  The noddy was
brought round to the spot indicated; and the two gradually transported
the treasure from its place of concealment to the boot below the driving
seat.  Once it was all stored the Doctor recovered his gaiety.

'I pay my grateful duties to the genius of this dell,' he said.  'O, for
a live coal, a heifer, and a jar of country wine!  I am in the vein for
sacrifice, for a superb libation.  Well, and why not?  We are at
Franchard.  English pale ale is to be had--not classical, indeed, but
excellent.  Boy, we shall drink ale.'

'But I thought it was so unwholesome,' said Jean-Marie, 'and very dear
besides.'

'Fiddle-de-dee!' exclaimed the Doctor gaily.  'To the inn!'

And he stepped into the noddy, tossing his head, with an elastic,
youthful air.  The horse was turned, and in a few seconds they drew up
beside the palings of the inn garden.

'Here,' said Desprez--'here, near the table, so that we may keep an eye
upon things.'

They tied the horse, and entered the garden, the Doctor singing, now in
fantastic high notes, now producing deep reverberations from his chest.
He took a seat, rapped loudly on the table, assailed the waiter with
witticisms; and when the bottle of Bass was at length produced, far more
charged with gas than the most delirious champagne, he filled out a long
glassful of froth and pushed it over to Jean-Marie.  'Drink,' he said;
'drink deep.'

'I would rather not,' faltered the boy, true to his training.

'What?' thundered Desprez.

'I am afraid of it,' said Jean-Marie: 'my stomach--'

'Take it or leave it,' interrupted Desprez fiercely; 'but understand it
once for all--there is nothing so contemptible as a precisian.'

Here was a new lesson!  The boy sat bemused, looking at the glass but not
tasting it, while the Doctor emptied and refilled his own, at first with
clouded brow, but gradually yielding to the sun, the heady, prickling
beverage, and his own predisposition to be happy.

'Once in a way,' he said at last, by way of a concession to the boy's
more rigorous attitude, 'once in a way, and at so critical a moment, this
ale is a nectar for the gods.  The habit, indeed, is debasing; wine, the
juice of the grape, is the true drink of the Frenchman, as I have often
had occasion to point out; and I do not know that I can blame you for
refusing this outlandish stimulant.  You can have some wine and cakes.  Is
the bottle empty?  Well, we will not be proud; we will have pity on your
glass.'

The beer being done, the Doctor chafed bitterly while Jean-Marie finished
his cakes.  'I burn to be gone,' he said, looking at his watch.  'Good
God, how slow you eat!'  And yet to eat slowly was his own particular
prescription, the main secret of longevity!

His martyrdom, however, reached an end at last; the pair resumed their
places in the buggy, and Desprez, leaning luxuriously back, announced his
intention of proceeding to Fontainebleau.

'To Fontainebleau?' repeated Jean-Marie.

'My words are always measured,' said the Doctor.  'On!'

The Doctor was driven through the glades of paradise; the air, the light,
the shining leaves, the very movements of the vehicle, seemed to fall in
tune with his golden meditations; with his head thrown back, he dreamed a
series of sunny visions, ale and pleasure dancing in his veins.  At last
he spoke.

'I shall telegraph for Casimir,' he said.  'Good Casimir! a fellow of the
lower order of intelligence, Jean-Marie, distinctly not creative, not
poetic; and yet he will repay your study; his fortune is vast, and is
entirely due to his own exertions.  He is the very fellow to help us to
dispose of our trinkets, find us a suitable house in Paris, and manage
the details of our installation.  Admirable Casimir, one of my oldest
comrades!  It was on his advice, I may add, that I invested my little
fortune in Turkish bonds; when we have added these spoils of the mediaeval
church to our stake in the Mahometan empire, little boy, we shall
positively roll among doubloons, positively roll!  Beautiful forest,' he
cried, 'farewell!  Though called to other scenes, I will not forget thee.
Thy name is graven in my heart.  Under the influence of prosperity I
become dithyrambic, Jean-Marie.  Such is the impulse of the natural soul;
such was the constitution of primaeval man.  And I--well, I will not
refuse the credit--I have preserved my youth like a virginity; another,
who should have led the same snoozing, countryfied existence for these
years, another had become rusted, become stereotype; but I, I praise my
happy constitution, retain the spring unbroken.  Fresh opulence and a new
sphere of duties find me unabated in ardour and only more mature by
knowledge.  For this prospective change, Jean-Marie--it may probably have
shocked you.  Tell me now, did it not strike you as an inconsistency?
Confess--it is useless to dissemble--it pained you?'

'Yes,' said the boy.

'You see,' returned the Doctor, with sublime fatuity, 'I read your
thoughts!  Nor am I surprised--your education is not yet complete; the
higher duties of men have not been yet presented to you fully.  A
hint--till we have leisure--must suffice.  Now that I am once more in
possession of a modest competence; now that I have so long prepared
myself in silent meditation, it becomes my superior duty to proceed to
Paris.  My scientific training, my undoubted command of language, mark me
out for the service of my country.  Modesty in such a case would be a
snare.  If sin were a philosophical expression, I should call it sinful.
A man must not deny his manifest abilities, for that is to evade his
obligations.  I must be up and doing; I must be no skulker in life's
battle.'

So he rattled on, copiously greasing the joint of his inconsistency with
words; while the boy listened silently, his eyes fixed on the horse, his
mind seething.  It was all lost eloquence; no array of words could
unsettle a belief of Jean-Marie's; and he drove into Fontainebleau filled
with pity, horror, indignation, and despair.

In the town Jean-Marie was kept a fixture on the driving-seat, to guard
the treasure; while the Doctor, with a singular, slightly tipsy airiness
of manner, fluttered in and out of cafes, where he shook hands with
garrison officers, and mixed an absinthe with the nicety of old
experience; in and out of shops, from which he returned laden with costly
fruits, real turtle, a magnificent piece of silk for his wife, a
preposterous cane for himself, and a kepi of the newest fashion for the
boy; in and out of the telegraph office, whence he despatched his
telegram, and where three hours later he received an answer promising a
visit on the morrow; and generally pervaded Fontainebleau with the first
fine aroma of his divine good humour.

The sun was very low when they set forth again; the shadows of the forest
trees extended across the broad white road that led them home; the
penetrating odour of the evening wood had already arisen, like a cloud of
incense, from that broad field of tree-tops; and even in the streets of
the town, where the air had been baked all day between white walls, it
came in whiffs and pulses, like a distant music.  Half-way home, the last
gold flicker vanished from a great oak upon the left; and when they came
forth beyond the borders of the wood, the plain was already sunken in
pearly greyness, and a great, pale moon came swinging skyward through the
filmy poplars.

The Doctor sang, the Doctor whistled, the Doctor talked.  He spoke of the
woods, and the wars, and the deposition of dew; he brightened and babbled
of Paris; he soared into cloudy bombast on the glories of the political
arena.  All was to be changed; as the day departed, it took with it the
vestiges of an outworn existence, and to-morrow's sun was to inaugurate
the new.  'Enough,' he cried, 'of this life of maceration!'  His wife
(still beautiful, or he was sadly partial) was to be no longer buried;
she should now shine before society.  Jean-Marie would find the world at
his feet; the roads open to success, wealth, honour, and post-humous
renown.  'And O, by the way,' said he, 'for God's sake keep your tongue
quiet!  You are, of course, a very silent fellow; it is a quality I
gladly recognise in you--silence, golden silence!  But this is a matter
of gravity.  No word must get abroad; none but the good Casimir is to be
trusted; we shall probably dispose of the vessels in England.'

'But are they not even ours?' the boy said, almost with a sob--it was the
only time he had spoken.

'Ours in this sense, that they are nobody else's,' replied the Doctor.
'But the State would have some claim.  If they were stolen, for instance,
we should be unable to demand their restitution; we should have no title;
we should be unable even to communicate with the police.  Such is the
monstrous condition of the law. {263}  It is a mere instance of what
remains to be done, of the injustices that may yet be righted by an
ardent, active, and philosophical deputy.'

Jean-Marie put his faith in Madame Desprez; and as they drove forward
down the road from Bourron, between the rustling poplars, he prayed in
his teeth, and whipped up the horse to an unusual speed.  Surely, as soon
as they arrived, madame would assert her character, and bring this waking
nightmare to an end.

Their entrance into Gretz was heralded and accompanied by a most furious
barking; all the dogs in the village seemed to smell the treasure in the
noddy.  But there was no one in the street, save three lounging landscape
painters at Tentaillon's door.  Jean-Marie opened the green gate and led
in the horse and carriage; and almost at the same moment Madame Desprez
came to the kitchen threshold with a lighted lantern; for the moon was
not yet high enough to clear the garden walls.

'Close the gates, Jean-Marie!' cried the Doctor, somewhat unsteadily
alighting.  'Anastasie, where is Aline?'

'She has gone to Montereau to see her parents,' said madame.

'All is for the best!' exclaimed the Doctor fervently.  'Here, quick,
come near to me; I do not wish to speak too loud,' he continued.
'Darling, we are wealthy!'

'Wealthy!' repeated the wife.

'I have found the treasure of Franchard,' replied her husband.  'See,
here are the first fruits; a pineapple, a dress for my ever-beautiful--it
will suit her--trust a husband's, trust a lover's, taste!  Embrace me,
darling!  This grimy episode is over; the butterfly unfolds its painted
wings.  To-morrow Casimir will come; in a week we may be in Paris--happy
at last!  You shall have diamonds.  Jean-Marie, take it out of the boot,
with religious care, and bring it piece by piece into the dining-room.  We
shall have plate at table!  Darling, hasten and prepare this turtle; it
will be a whet--it will be an addition to our meagre ordinary.  I myself
will proceed to the cellar.  We shall have a bottle of that little
Beaujolais you like, and finish with the Hermitage; there are still three
bottles left.  Worthy wine for a worthy occasion.'

'But, my husband; you put me in a whirl,' she cried.  'I do not
comprehend.'

'The turtle, my adored, the turtle!' cried the doctor; and he pushed her
towards the kitchen, lantern and all.

Jean-Marie stood dumfounded.  He had pictured to himself a different
scene--a more immediate protest, and his hope began to dwindle on the
spot.

The Doctor was everywhere, a little doubtful on his legs, perhaps, and
now and then taking the wall with his shoulder; for it was long since he
had tasted absinthe, and he was even then reflecting that the absinthe
had been a misconception.  Not that he regretted excess on such a
glorious day, but he made a mental memorandum to beware; he must not, a
second time, become the victim of a deleterious habit.  He had his wine
out of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial vessels,
some on the white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still crusted with
historic earth.  He was in and out of the kitchen, plying Anastasie with
vermouth, heating her with glimpses of the future, estimating their new
wealth at ever larger figures; and before they sat down to supper, the
lady's virtue had melted in the fire of his enthusiasm, her timidity had
disappeared; she, too, had begun to speak disparagingly of the life at
Gretz; and as she took her place and helped the soup, her eyes shone with
the glitter of prospective diamonds.

All through the meal, she and the Doctor made and unmade fairy plans.
They bobbed and bowed and pledged each other.  Their faces ran over with
smiles; their eyes scattered sparkles, as they projected the Doctor's
political honours and the lady's drawing-room ovations.

'But you will not be a Red!' cried Anastasie.

'I am Left Centre to the core,' replied the Doctor.

'Madame Gastein will present us--we shall find ourselves forgotten,' said
the lady.

'Never,' protested the Doctor.  'Beauty and talent leave a mark.'

'I have positively forgotten how to dress,' she sighed.

'Darling, you make me blush,' cried he.  'Yours has been a tragic
marriage!'

'But your success--to see you appreciated, honoured, your name in all the
papers, that will be more than pleasure--it will be heaven!' she cried.

'And once a week,' said the Doctor, archly scanning the syllables, 'once
a week--one good little game of baccarat?'

'Only once a week?' she questioned, threatening him with a finger.

'I swear it by my political honour,' cried he.

'I spoil you,' she said, and gave him her hand.

He covered it with kisses.

Jean-Marie escaped into the night.  The moon swung high over Gretz.  He
went down to the garden end and sat on the jetty.  The river ran by with
eddies of oily silver, and a low, monotonous song.  Faint veils of mist
moved among the poplars on the farther side.  The reeds were quietly
nodding.  A hundred times already had the boy sat, on such a night, and
watched the streaming river with untroubled fancy.  And this perhaps was
to be the last.  He was to leave this familiar hamlet, this green,
rustling country, this bright and quiet stream; he was to pass into the
great city; his dear lady mistress was to move bedizened in saloons; his
good, garrulous, kind-hearted master to become a brawling deputy; and
both be lost for ever to Jean-Marie and their better selves.  He knew his
own defects; he knew he must sink into less and less consideration in the
turmoil of a city life, sink more and more from the child into the
servant.  And he began dimly to believe the Doctor's prophecies of evil.
He could see a change in both.  His generous incredulity failed him for
this once; a child must have perceived that the Hermitage had completed
what the absinthe had begun.  If this were the first day, what would be
the last?  'If necessary, wreck the train,' thought he, remembering the
Doctor's parable.  He looked round on the delightful scene; he drank deep
of the charmed night air, laden with the scent of hay.  'If necessary,
wreck the train,' he repeated.  And he rose and returned to the house.



CHAPTER VI.  A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS.


The next morning there was a most unusual outcry, in the Doctor's house.
The last thing before going to bed, the Doctor had locked up some
valuables in the dining-room cupboard; and behold, when he rose again, as
he did about four o'clock, the cupboard had been broken open, and the
valuables in question had disappeared.  Madame and Jean-Marie were
summoned from their rooms, and appeared in hasty toilets; they found the
Doctor raving, calling the heavens to witness and avenge his injury,
pacing the room bare-footed, with the tails of his night-shirt flirting
as he turned.

'Gone!' he said; 'the things are gone, the fortune gone!  We are paupers
once more.  Boy! what do you know of this?  Speak up, sir, speak up.  Do
you know of it?  Where are they?'  He had him by the arm, shaking him
like a bag, and the boy's words, if he had any, were jolted forth in
inarticulate murmurs.  The Doctor, with a revulsion from his own
violence, set him down again.  He observed Anastasie in tears.
'Anastasie,' he said, in quite an altered voice, 'compose yourself,
command your feelings.  I would not have you give way to passion like the
vulgar.  This--this trifling accident must be lived down.  Jean-Marie,
bring me my smaller medicine chest.  A gentle laxative is indicated.'

And he dosed the family all round, leading the way himself with a double
quantity.  The wretched Anastasie, who had never been ill in the whole
course of her existence, and whose soul recoiled from remedies, wept
floods of tears as she sipped, and shuddered, and protested, and then was
bullied and shouted at until she sipped again.  As for Jean-Marie, he
took his portion down with stoicism.

'I have given him a less amount,' observed the Doctor, 'his youth
protecting him against emotion.  And now that we have thus parried any
morbid consequences, let us reason.'

'I am so cold,' wailed Anastasie.

'Cold!' cried the Doctor.  'I give thanks to God that I am made of
fierier material.  Why, madam, a blow like this would set a frog into a
transpiration.  If you are cold, you can retire; and, by the way, you
might throw me down my trousers.  It is chilly for the legs.'

'Oh, no!' protested Anastasie; 'I will stay with you.'

'Nay, madam, you shall not suffer for your devotion,' said the Doctor.  'I
will myself fetch you a shawl.'  And he went upstairs and returned more
fully clad and with an armful of wraps for the shivering Anastasie.  'And
now,' he resumed, 'to investigate this crime.  Let us proceed by
induction.  Anastasie, do you know anything that can help us?'  Anastasie
knew nothing.  'Or you, Jean-Marie?'

'Not I,' replied the boy steadily.

'Good,' returned the Doctor.  'We shall now turn our attention to the
material evidences.  (I was born to be a detective; I have the eye and
the systematic spirit.)  First, violence has been employed.  The door was
broken open; and it may be observed, in passing, that the lock was dear
indeed at what I paid for it: a crow to pluck with Master Goguelat.
Second, here is the instrument employed, one of our own table-knives, one
of our best, my dear; which seems to indicate no preparation on the part
of the gang--if gang it was.  Thirdly, I observe that nothing has been
removed except the Franchard dishes and the casket; our own silver has
been minutely respected.  This is wily; it shows intelligence, a
knowledge of the code, a desire to avoid legal consequences.  I argue
from this fact that the gang numbers persons of respectability--outward,
of course, and merely outward, as the robbery proves.  But I argue,
second, that we must have been observed at Franchard itself by some
occult observer, and dogged throughout the day with a skill and patience
that I venture to qualify as consummate.  No ordinary man, no occasional
criminal, would have shown himself capable of this combination.  We have
in our neighbourhood, it is far from improbable, a retired bandit of the
highest order of intelligence.'

'Good heaven!' cried the horrified Anastasie.  'Henri, how can you?'

'My cherished one, this is a process of induction,' said the Doctor.  'If
any of my steps are unsound, correct me.  You are silent?  Then do not, I
beseech you, be so vulgarly illogical as to revolt from my conclusion.  We
have now arrived,' he resumed, 'at some idea of the composition of the
gang--for I incline to the hypothesis of more than one--and we now leave
this room, which can disclose no more, and turn our attention to the
court and garden.  (Jean-Marie, I trust you are observantly following my
various steps; this is an excellent piece of education for you.)  Come
with me to the door.  No steps on the court; it is unfortunate our court
should be paved.  On what small matters hang the destiny of these
delicate investigations!  Hey!  What have we here?  I have led on to the
very spot,' he said, standing grandly backward and indicating the green
gate.  'An escalade, as you can now see for yourselves, has taken place.'

Sure enough, the green paint was in several places scratched and broken;
and one of the panels preserved the print of a nailed shoe.  The foot had
slipped, however, and it was difficult to estimate the size of the shoe,
and impossible to distinguish the pattern of the nails.

'The whole robbery,' concluded the Doctor, 'step by step, has been
reconstituted.  Inductive science can no further go.'

'It is wonderful,' said his wife.  'You should indeed have been a
detective, Henri.  I had no idea of your talents.'

'My dear,' replied Desprez, condescendingly, 'a man of scientific
imagination combines the lesser faculties; he is a detective just as he
is a publicist or a general; these are but local applications of his
special talent.  But now,' he continued, 'would you have me go further?
Would you have me lay my finger on the culprits--or rather, for I cannot
promise quite so much, point out to you the very house where they
consort?  It may be a satisfaction, at least it is all we are likely to
get, since we are denied the remedy of law.  I reach the further stage in
this way.  In order to fill my outline of the robbery, I require a man
likely to be in the forest idling, I require a man of education, I
require a man superior to considerations of morality.  The three
requisites all centre in Tentaillon's boarders.  They are painters,
therefore they are continually lounging in the forest.  They are
painters, therefore they are not unlikely to have some smattering of
education.  Lastly, because they are painters, they are probably immoral.
And this I prove in two ways.  First, painting is an art which merely
addresses the eye; it does not in any particular exercise the moral
sense.  And second, painting, in common with all the other arts, implies
the dangerous quality of imagination.  A man of imagination is never
moral; he outsoars literal demarcations and reviews life under too many
shifting lights to rest content with the invidious distinctions of the
law!'

'But you always say--at least, so I understood you'--said madame, 'that
these lads display no imagination whatever.'

'My dear, they displayed imagination, and of a very fantastic order,
too,' returned the Doctor, 'when they embraced their beggarly profession.
Besides--and this is an argument exactly suited to your intellectual
level--many of them are English and American.  Where else should we
expect to find a thief?--And now you had better get your coffee.  Because
we have lost a treasure, there is no reason for starving.  For my part, I
shall break my fast with white wine.  I feel unaccountably heated and
thirsty to-day.  I can only attribute it to the shock of the discovery.
And yet, you will bear me out, I supported the emotion nobly.'

The Doctor had now talked himself back into an admirable humour; and as
he sat in the arbour and slowly imbibed a large allowance of white wine
and picked a little bread and cheese with no very impetuous appetite, if
a third of his meditations ran upon the missing treasure, the other two-
thirds were more pleasingly busied in the retrospect of his detective
skill.

About eleven Casimir arrived; he had caught an early train to
Fontainebleau, and driven over to save time; and now his cab was stabled
at Tentaillon's, and he remarked, studying his watch, that he could spare
an hour and a half.  He was much the man of business, decisively spoken,
given to frowning in an intellectual manner.  Anastasie's born brother,
he did not waste much sentiment on the lady, gave her an English family
kiss, and demanded a meal without delay.

'You can tell me your story while we eat,' he observed.  'Anything good
to-day, Stasie?'

He was promised something good.  The trio sat down to table in the
arbour, Jean-Marie waiting as well as eating, and the Doctor recounted
what had happened in his richest narrative manner.  Casimir heard it with
explosions of laughter.

'What a streak of luck for you, my good brother,' he observed, when the
tale was over.  'If you had gone to Paris, you would have played dick-
duck-drake with the whole consignment in three months.  Your own would
have followed; and you would have come to me in a procession like the
last time.  But I give you warning--Stasie may weep and Henri
ratiocinate--it will not serve you twice.  Your next collapse will be
fatal.  I thought I had told you so, Stasie?  Hey?  No sense?'

The Doctor winced and looked furtively at Jean-Marie; but the boy seemed
apathetic.

'And then again,' broke out Casimir, 'what children you are--vicious
children, my faith!  How could you tell the value of this trash?  It
might have been worth nothing, or next door.'

'Pardon me,' said the Doctor.  'You have your usual flow of spirits, I
perceive, but even less than your usual deliberation.  I am not entirely
ignorant of these matters.'

'Not entirely ignorant of anything ever I heard of,' interrupted Casimir,
bowing, and raising his glass with a sort of pert politeness.

'At least,' resumed the Doctor, 'I gave my mind to the subject--that you
may be willing to believe--and I estimated that our capital would be
doubled.'  And he described the nature of the find.

'My word of honour!' said Casimir, 'I half believe you!  But much would
depend on the quality of the gold.'

'The quality, my dear Casimir, was--'  And the Doctor, in default of
language, kissed his finger-tips.

'I would not take your word for it, my good friend,' retorted the man of
business.  'You are a man of very rosy views.  But this robbery,' he
continued--'this robbery is an odd thing.  Of course I pass over your
nonsense about gangs and landscape-painters.  For me, that is a dream.
Who was in the house last night?'

'None but ourselves,' replied the Doctor.

'And this young gentleman?' asked Casimir, jerking a nod in the direction
of Jean-Marie.

'He too'--the Doctor bowed.

'Well; and if it is a fair question, who is he?' pursued the brother-in-
law.

'Jean-Marie,' answered the Doctor, 'combines the functions of a son and
stable-boy.  He began as the latter, but he rose rapidly to the more
honourable rank in our affections.  He is, I may say, the greatest
comfort in our lives.'

'Ha!' said Casimir.  'And previous to becoming one of you?'

'Jean-Marie has lived a remarkable existence; his experience his been
eminently formative,' replied Desprez.  'If I had had to choose an
education for my son, I should have chosen such another.  Beginning life
with mountebanks and thieves, passing onward to the society and
friendship of philosophers, he may be said to have skimmed the volume of
human life.'

'Thieves?' repeated the brother-in-law, with a meditative air.

The Doctor could have bitten his tongue out.  He foresaw what was coming,
and prepared his mind for a vigorous defence.

'Did you ever steal yourself?' asked Casimir, turning suddenly on Jean-
Marie, and for the first time employing a single eyeglass which hung
round his neck.

'Yes, sir,' replied the boy, with a deep blush.

Casimir turned to the others with pursed lips, and nodded to them
meaningly.  'Hey?' said he; 'how is that?'

'Jean-Marie is a teller of the truth,' returned the Doctor, throwing out
his bust.

'He has never told a lie,' added madame.  'He is the best of boys.'

'Never told a lie, has he not?' reflected Casimir.  'Strange, very
strange.  Give me your attention, my young friend,' he continued.  'You
knew about this treasure?'

'He helped to bring it home,' interposed the Doctor.

'Desprez, I ask you nothing but to hold your tongue,' returned Casimir.
'I mean to question this stable-boy of yours; and if you are so certain
of his innocence, you can afford to let him answer for himself.  Now,
sir,' he resumed, pointing his eyeglass straight at Jean-Marie.  'You
knew it could be stolen with impunity?  You knew you could not be
prosecuted?  Come!  Did you, or did you not?'

'I did,' answered Jean-Marie, in a miserable whisper.  He sat there
changing colour like a revolving pharos, twisting his fingers
hysterically, swallowing air, the picture of guilt.

'You knew where it was put?' resumed the inquisitor.

'Yes,' from Jean-Marie.

'You say you have been a thief before,' continued Casimir.  'Now how am I
to know that you are not one still?  I suppose you could climb the green
gate?'

'Yes,' still lower, from the culprit.

'Well, then, it was you who stole these things.  You know it, and you
dare not deny it.  Look me in the face!  Raise your sneak's eyes, and
answer!'

But in place of anything of that sort Jean-Marie broke into a dismal howl
and fled from the arbour.  Anastasie, as she pursued to capture and
reassure the victim, found time to send one Parthian arrow--'Casimir, you
are a brute!'

'My brother,' said Desprez, with the greatest dignity, 'you take upon
yourself a licence--'

'Desprez,' interrupted Casimir, 'for Heaven's sake be a man of the world.
You telegraph me to leave my business and come down here on yours.  I
come, I ask the business, you say "Find me this thief!"  Well, I find
him; I say "There he is!"  You need not like it, but you have no manner
of right to take offence.'

'Well,' returned the Doctor, 'I grant that; I will even thank you for
your mistaken zeal.  But your hypothesis was so extravagantly monstrous--'

'Look here,' interrupted Casimir; 'was it you or Stasie?'

'Certainly not,' answered the Doctor.

'Very well; then it was the boy.  Say no more about it,' said the brother-
in-law, and he produced his cigar-case.

'I will say this much more,' returned Desprez: 'if that boy came and told
me so himself, I should not believe him; and if I did believe him, so
implicit is my trust, I should conclude that he had acted for the best.'

'Well, well,' said Casimir, indulgently.  'Have you a light?  I must be
going.  And by the way, I wish you would let me sell your Turks for you.
I always told you, it meant smash.  I tell you so again.  Indeed, it was
partly that that brought me down.  You never acknowledge my letters--a
most unpardonable habit.'

'My good brother,' replied the Doctor blandly, 'I have never denied your
ability in business; but I can perceive your limitations.'

'Egad, my friend, I can return the compliment,' observed the man of
business.  'Your limitation is to be downright irrational.'

'Observe the relative position,' returned the Doctor with a smile.  'It
is your attitude to believe through thick and thin in one man's
judgment--your own.  I follow the same opinion, but critically and with
open eyes.  Which is the more irrational?--I leave it to yourself.'

'O, my dear fellow!' cried Casimir, 'stick to your Turks, stick to your
stable-boy, go to the devil in general in your own way and be done with
it.  But don't ratiocinate with me--I cannot bear it.  And so, ta-ta.  I
might as well have stayed away for any good I've done.  Say good-bye from
me to Stasie, and to the sullen hang-dog of a stable-boy, if you insist
on it; I'm off.'

And Casimir departed.  The Doctor, that night, dissected his character
before Anastasie.  'One thing, my beautiful,' he said, 'he has learned
one thing from his lifelong acquaintance with your husband: the word
_ratiocinate_.  It shines in his vocabulary, like a jewel in a muck-heap.
And, even so, he continually misapplies it.  For you must have observed
he uses it as a sort of taunt, in the sense of to _ergotise_, implying,
as it were--the poor, dear fellow!--a vein of sophistry.  As for his
cruelty to Jean-Marie, it must be forgiven him--it is not his nature, it
is the nature of his life.  A man who deals with money, my dear, is a man
lost.'

With Jean-Marie the process of reconciliation had been somewhat slow.  At
first he was inconsolable, insisted on leaving the family, went from
paroxysm to paroxysm of tears; and it was only after Anastasie had been
closeted for an hour with him, alone, that she came forth, sought out the
Doctor, and, with tears in her eyes, acquainted that gentleman with what
had passed.

'At first, my husband, he would hear of nothing,' she said.  'Imagine! if
he had left us! what would the treasure be to that?  Horrible treasure,
it has brought all this about!  At last, after he has sobbed his very
heart out, he agrees to stay on a condition--we are not to mention this
matter, this infamous suspicion, not even to mention the robbery.  On
that agreement only, the poor, cruel boy will consent to remain among his
friends.'

'But this inhibition,' said the Doctor, 'this embargo--it cannot possibly
apply to me?'

'To all of us,' Anastasie assured him.

'My cherished one,' Desprez protested, 'you must have misunderstood.  It
cannot apply to me.  He would naturally come to me.'

'Henri,' she said, 'it does; I swear to you it does.'

'This is a painful, a very painful circumstance,' the Doctor said,
looking a little black.  'I cannot affect, Anastasie, to be anything but
justly wounded.  I feel this, I feel it, my wife, acutely.'

'I knew you would,' she said.  'But if you had seen his distress!  We
must make allowances, we must sacrifice our feelings.'

'I trust, my dear, you have never found me averse to sacrifices,'
returned the Doctor very stiffly.

'And you will let me go and tell him that you have agreed?  It will be
like your noble nature,' she cried.

So it would, he perceived--it would be like his noble nature!  Up jumped
his spirits, triumphant at the thought.  'Go, darling,' he said nobly,
'reassure him.  The subject is buried; more--I make an effort, I have
accustomed my will to these exertions--and it is forgotten.'

A little after, but still with swollen eyes and looking mortally
sheepish, Jean-Marie reappeared and went ostentatiously about his
business.  He was the only unhappy member of the party that sat down that
night to supper.  As for the Doctor, he was radiant.  He thus sang the
requiem of the treasure:--

'This has been, on the whole, a most amusing episode,' he said.  'We are
not a penny the worse--nay, we are immensely gainers.  Our philosophy has
been exercised; some of the turtle is still left--the most wholesome of
delicacies; I have my staff, Anastasie has her new dress, Jean-Marie is
the proud possessor of a fashionable kepi.  Besides, we had a glass of
Hermitage last night; the glow still suffuses my memory.  I was growing
positively niggardly with that Hermitage, positively niggardly.  Let me
take the hint: we had one bottle to celebrate the appearance of our
visionary fortune; let us have a second to console us for its
occultation.  The third I hereby dedicate to Jean-Marie's wedding
breakfast.'



CHAPTER VII.  THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF DESPREZ.


The Doctor's house has not yet received the compliment of a description,
and it is now high time that the omission were supplied, for the house is
itself an actor in the story, and one whose part is nearly at an end.  Two
stories in height, walls of a warm yellow, tiles of an ancient ruddy
brown diversified with moss and lichen, it stood with one wall to the
street in the angle of the Doctor's property.  It was roomy, draughty,
and inconvenient.  The large rafters were here and there engraven with
rude marks and patterns; the handrail of the stair was carved in
countrified arabesque; a stout timber pillar, which did duty to support
the dining-room roof, bore mysterious characters on its darker side,
runes, according to the Doctor; nor did he fail, when he ran over the
legendary history of the house and its possessors, to dwell upon the
Scandinavian scholar who had left them.  Floors, doors, and rafters made
a great variety of angles; every room had a particular inclination; the
gable had tilted towards the garden, after the manner of a leaning tower,
and one of the former proprietors had buttressed the building from that
side with a great strut of wood, like the derrick of a crane.  Altogether,
it had many marks of ruin; it was a house for the rats to desert; and
nothing but its excellent brightness--the window-glass polished and
shining, the paint well scoured, the brasses radiant, the very prop all
wreathed about with climbing flowers--nothing but its air of a
well-tended, smiling veteran, sitting, crutch and all, in the sunny
corner of a garden, marked it as a house for comfortable people to
inhabit.  In poor or idle management it would soon have hurried into the
blackguard stages of decay.  As it was, the whole family loved it, and
the Doctor was never better inspired than when he narrated its imaginary
story and drew the character of its successive masters, from the Hebrew
merchant who had re-edified its walls after the sack of the town, and
past the mysterious engraver of the runes, down to the long-headed, dirty-
handed boor from whom he had himself acquired it at a ruinous expense.  As
for any alarm about its security, the idea had never presented itself.
What had stood four centuries might well endure a little longer.

Indeed, in this particular winter, after the finding and losing of the
treasure, the Desprez' had an anxiety of a very different order, and one
which lay nearer their hearts.  Jean-Marie was plainly not himself.  He
had fits of hectic activity, when he made unusual exertions to please,
spoke more and faster, and redoubled in attention to his lessons.  But
these were interrupted by spells of melancholia and brooding silence,
when the boy was little better than unbearable.

'Silence,' the Doctor moralised--'you see, Anastasie, what comes of
silence.  Had the boy properly unbosomed himself, the little
disappointment about the treasure, the little annoyance about Casimir's
incivility, would long ago have been forgotten.  As it is, they prey upon
him like a disease.  He loses flesh, his appetite is variable and, on the
whole, impaired.  I keep him on the strictest regimen, I exhibit the most
powerful tonics; both in vain.'

'Don't you think you drug him too much?' asked madame, with an
irrepressible shudder.

'Drug?' cried the Doctor; 'I drug?  Anastasie, you are mad!'

Time went on, and the boy's health still slowly declined.  The Doctor
blamed the weather, which was cold and boisterous.  He called in his
_confrere_ from Bourron, took a fancy for him, magnified his capacity,
and was pretty soon under treatment himself--it scarcely appeared for
what complaint.  He and Jean-Marie had each medicine to take at different
periods of the day.  The Doctor used to lie in wait for the exact moment,
watch in hand.  'There is nothing like regularity,' he would say, fill
out the doses, and dilate on the virtues of the draught; and if the boy
seemed none the better, the Doctor was not at all the worse.

Gunpowder Day, the boy was particularly low.  It was scowling, squally
weather.  Huge broken companies of cloud sailed swiftly overhead; raking
gleams of sunlight swept the village, and were followed by intervals of
darkness and white, flying rain.  At times the wind lifted up its voice
and bellowed.  The trees were all scourging themselves along the meadows,
the last leaves flying like dust.

The Doctor, between the boy and the weather, was in his element; he had a
theory to prove.  He sat with his watch out and a barometer in front of
him, waiting for the squalls and noting their effect upon the human
pulse.  'For the true philosopher,' he remarked delightedly, 'every fact
in nature is a toy.'  A letter came to him; but, as its arrival coincided
with the approach of another gust, he merely crammed it into his pocket,
gave the time to Jean-Marie, and the next moment they were both counting
their pulses as if for a wager.

At nightfall the wind rose into a tempest.  It besieged the hamlet,
apparently from every side, as if with batteries of cannon; the houses
shook and groaned; live coals were blown upon the floor.  The uproar and
terror of the night kept people long awake, sitting with pallid faces
giving ear.

It was twelve before the Desprez family retired.  By half-past one, when
the storm was already somewhat past its height, the Doctor was awakened
from a troubled slumber, and sat up.  A noise still rang in his ears, but
whether of this world or the world of dreams he was not certain.  Another
clap of wind followed.  It was accompanied by a sickening movement of the
whole house, and in the subsequent lull Desprez could hear the tiles
pouring like a cataract into the loft above his head.  He plucked
Anastasie bodily out of bed.

'Run!' he cried, thrusting some wearing apparel into her hands; 'the
house is falling!  To the garden!'

She did not pause to be twice bidden; she was down the stair in an
instant.  She had never before suspected herself of such activity.  The
Doctor meanwhile, with the speed of a piece of pantomime business, and
undeterred by broken shins, proceeded to rout out Jean-Marie, tore Aline
from her virgin slumbers, seized her by the hand, and tumbled downstairs
and into the garden, with the girl tumbling behind him, still not half
awake.

The fugitives rendezvous'd in the arbour by some common instinct.  Then
came a bull's-eye flash of struggling moonshine, which disclosed their
four figures standing huddled from the wind in a raffle of flying
drapery, and not without a considerable need for more.  At the
humiliating spectacle Anastasie clutched her nightdress desperately about
her and burst loudly into tears.  The Doctor flew to console her; but she
elbowed him away.  She suspected everybody of being the general public,
and thought the darkness was alive with eyes.

Another gleam and another violent gust arrived together; the house was
seen to rock on its foundation, and, just as the light was once more
eclipsed, a crash which triumphed over the shouting of the wind announced
its fall, and for a moment the whole garden was alive with skipping tiles
and brickbats.  One such missile grazed the Doctor's ear; another
descended on the bare foot of Aline, who instantly made night hideous
with her shrieks.

By this time the hamlet was alarmed, lights flashed from the windows,
hails reached the party, and the Doctor answered, nobly contending
against Aline and the tempest.  But this prospect of help only awakened
Anastasie to a more active stage of terror.

'Henri, people will be coming,' she screamed in her husband's ear.

'I trust so,' he replied.

'They cannot.  I would rather die,' she wailed.

'My dear,' said the Doctor reprovingly, 'you are excited.  I gave you
some clothes.  What have you done with them?'

'Oh, I don't know--I must have thrown them away!  Where are they?' she
sobbed.

Desprez groped about in the darkness.  'Admirable!' he remarked; 'my grey
velveteen trousers!  This will exactly meet your necessities.'

'Give them to me!' she cried fiercely; but as soon as she had them in her
hands her mood appeared to alter--she stood silent for a moment, and then
pressed the garment back upon the Doctor.  'Give it to Aline,' she
said--'poor girl.'

'Nonsense!' said the Doctor.  'Aline does not know what she is about.
Aline is beside herself with terror; and at any rate, she is a peasant.
Now I am really concerned at this exposure for a person of your
housekeeping habits; my solicitude and your fantastic modesty both point
to the same remedy--the pantaloons.'  He held them ready.

'It is impossible.  You do not understand,' she said with dignity.

By this time rescue was at hand.  It had been found impracticable to
enter by the street, for the gate was blocked with masonry, and the
nodding ruin still threatened further avalanches.  But between the
Doctor's garden and the one on the right hand there was that very
picturesque contrivance--a common well; the door on the Desprez' side had
chanced to be unbolted, and now, through the arched aperture a man's
bearded face and an arm supporting a lantern were introduced into the
world of windy darkness, where Anastasie concealed her woes.  The light
struck here and there among the tossing apple boughs, it glinted on the
grass; but the lantern and the glowing face became the centre of the
world.  Anastasie crouched back from the intrusion.

'This way!' shouted the man.  'Are you all safe?'  Aline, still
screaming, ran to the new comer, and was presently hauled head-foremost
through the wall.

'Now, Anastasie, come on; it is your turn,' said the husband.

'I cannot,' she replied.

'Are we all to die of exposure, madame?' thundered Doctor Desprez.

'You can go!' she cried.  'Oh, go, go away!  I can stay here; I am quite
warm.'

The Doctor took her by the shoulders with an oath.

'Stop!' she screamed.  'I will put them on.'

She took the detested lendings in her hand once more; but her repulsion
was stronger than shame.  'Never!' she cried, shuddering, and flung them
far away into the night.

Next moment the Doctor had whirled her to the well.  The man was there
and the lantern; Anastasie closed her eyes and appeared to herself to be
about to die.  How she was transported through the arch she knew not; but
once on the other side she was received by the neighbour's wife, and
enveloped in a friendly blanket.

Beds were made ready for the two women, clothes of very various sizes for
the Doctor and Jean-Marie; and for the remainder of the night, while
madame dozed in and out on the borderland of hysterics, her husband sat
beside the fire and held forth to the admiring neighbours.  He showed
them, at length, the causes of the accident; for years, he explained, the
fall had been impending; one sign had followed another, the joints had
opened, the plaster had cracked, the old walls bowed inward; last, not
three weeks ago, the cellar door had begun to work with difficulty in its
grooves.  'The cellar!' he said, gravely shaking his head over a glass of
mulled wine.  'That reminds me of my poor vintages.  By a manifest
providence the Hermitage was nearly at an end.  One bottle--I lose but
one bottle of that incomparable wine.  It had been set apart against Jean-
Marie's wedding.  Well, I must lay down some more; it will be an interest
in life.  I am, however, a man somewhat advanced in years.  My great work
is now buried in the fall of my humble roof; it will never be
completed--my name will have been writ in water.  And yet you find me
calm--I would say cheerful.  Can your priest do more?'

By the first glimpse of day the party sallied forth from the fireside
into the street.  The wind had fallen, but still charioted a world of
troubled clouds; the air bit like frost; and the party, as they stood
about the ruins in the rainy twilight of the morning, beat upon their
breasts and blew into their hands for warmth.  The house had entirely
fallen, the walls outward, the roof in; it was a mere heap of rubbish,
with here and there a forlorn spear of broken rafter.  A sentinel was
placed over the ruins to protect the property, and the party adjourned to
Tentaillon's to break their fast at the Doctor's expense.  The bottle
circulated somewhat freely; and before they left the table it had begun
to snow.

For three days the snow continued to fall, and the ruins, covered with
tarpaulin and watched by sentries, were left undisturbed.  The Desprez'
meanwhile had taken up their abode at Tentaillon's.  Madame spent her
time in the kitchen, concocting little delicacies, with the admiring aid
of Madame Tentaillon, or sitting by the fire in thoughtful abstraction.
The fall of the house affected her wonderfully little; that blow had been
parried by another; and in her mind she was continually fighting over
again the battle of the trousers.  Had she done right?  Had she done
wrong?  And now she would applaud her determination; and anon, with a
horrid flush of unavailing penitence, she would regret the trousers.  No
juncture in her life had so much exercised her judgment.  In the meantime
the Doctor had become vastly pleased with his situation.  Two of the
summer boarders still lingered behind the rest, prisoners for lack of a
remittance; they were both English, but one of them spoke French pretty
fluently, and was, besides, a humorous, agile-minded fellow, with whom
the Doctor could reason by the hour, secure of comprehension.  Many were
the glasses they emptied, many the topics they discussed.

'Anastasie,' the Doctor said on the third morning, 'take an example from
your husband, from Jean-Marie!  The excitement has done more for the boy
than all my tonics, he takes his turn as sentry with positive gusto.  As
for me, you behold me.  I have made friends with the Egyptians; and my
Pharaoh is, I swear it, a most agreeable companion.  You alone are
hipped.  About a house--a few dresses?  What are they in comparison to
the "Pharmacopoeia"--the labour of years lying buried below stones and
sticks in this depressing hamlet?  The snow falls; I shake it from my
cloak!  Imitate me.  Our income will be impaired, I grant it, since we
must rebuild; but moderation, patience, and philosophy will gather about
the hearth.  In the meanwhile, the Tentaillons are obliging; the table,
with your additions, will pass; only the wine is execrable--well, I shall
send for some to-day.  My Pharaoh will be gratified to drink a decent
glass; aha! and I shall see if he possesses that acme of organisation--a
palate.  If he has a palate, he is perfect.'

'Henri,' she said, shaking her head, 'you are a man; you cannot
understand my feelings; no woman could shake off the memory of so public
a humiliation.'  The Doctor could not restrain a titter.  'Pardon me,
darling,' he said; 'but really, to the philosophical intelligence, the
incident appears so small a trifle.  You looked extremely well--'

'Henri!' she cried.

'Well, well, I will say no more,' he replied.  'Though, to be sure, if
you had consented to indue--_A propos_,' he broke off, 'and my trousers!
They are lying in the snow--my favourite trousers!'  And he dashed in
quest of Jean-Marie.

Two hours afterwards the boy returned to the inn with a spade under one
arm and a curious sop of clothing under the other.

The Doctor ruefully took it in his hands.  'They have been!' he said.
'Their tense is past.  Excellent pantaloons, you are no more!  Stay,
something in the pocket,' and he produced a piece of paper.  'A letter!
ay, now I mind me; it was received on the morning of the gale, when I was
absorbed in delicate investigations.  It is still legible.  From poor,
dear Casimir!  It is as well,' he chuckled, 'that I have educated him to
patience.  Poor Casimir and his correspondence--his infinitesimal,
timorous, idiotic correspondence!'

He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet letter; but, as he bent
himself to decipher the writing, a cloud descended on his brow.

'_Bigre_!' he cried, with a galvanic start.

And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the Doctor's cap was
on his head in the turn of a hand.

'Ten minutes!  I can catch it, if I run,' he cried.  'It is always late.
I go to Paris.  I shall telegraph.'

'Henri! what is wrong?' cried his wife.

'Ottoman Bonds!' came from the disappearing Doctor; and Anastasie and
Jean-Marie were left face to face with the wet trousers.  Desprez had
gone to Paris, for the second time in seven years; he had gone to Paris
with a pair of wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, a black blouse, a country
nightcap, and twenty francs in his pocket.  The fall of the house was but
a secondary marvel; the whole world might have fallen and scarce left his
family more petrified.



CHAPTER VIII. THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY.


On the morning of the next day, the Doctor, a mere spectre of himself,
was brought back in the custody of Casimir.  They found Anastasie and the
boy sitting together by the fire; and Desprez, who had exchanged his
toilette for a ready-made rig-out of poor materials, waved his hand as he
entered, and sank speechless on the nearest chair.  Madame turned direct
to Casimir.

'What is wrong?' she cried.

'Well,' replied Casimir, 'what have I told you all along?  It has come.
It is a clean shave, this time; so you may as well bear up and make the
best of it.  House down, too, eh?  Bad luck, upon my soul.'

'Are we--are we--ruined?' she gasped.

The Doctor stretched out his arms to her.  'Ruined,' he replied, 'you are
ruined by your sinister husband.'

Casimir observed the consequent embrace through his eyeglass; then he
turned to Jean-Marie.  'You hear?' he said.  'They are ruined; no more
pickings, no more house, no more fat cutlets.  It strikes me, my friend,
that you had best be packing; the present speculation is about worked
out.'  And he nodded to him meaningly.

'Never!' cried Desprez, springing up.  'Jean-Marie, if you prefer to
leave me, now that I am poor, you can go; you shall receive your hundred
francs, if so much remains to me.  But if you will consent to stay'--the
Doctor wept a little--'Casimir offers me a place--as clerk,' he resumed.
'The emoluments are slender, but they will be enough for three.  It is
too much already to have lost my fortune; must I lose my son?'

Jean-Marie sobbed bitterly, but without a word.

'I don't like boys who cry,' observed Casimir.  'This one is always
crying.  Here! you clear out of this for a little; I have business with
your master and mistress, and these domestic feelings may be settled
after I am gone.  March!' and he held the door open.

Jean-Marie slunk out, like a detected thief.

By twelve they were all at table but Jean-Marie.

'Hey?' said Casimir.  'Gone, you see.  Took the hint at once.'

'I do not, I confess,' said Desprez, 'I do not seek to excuse his
absence.  It speaks a want of heart that disappoints me sorely.'

'Want of manners,' corrected Casimir.  'Heart, he never had.  Why,
Desprez, for a clever fellow, you are the most gullible mortal in
creation.  Your ignorance of human nature and human business is beyond
belief.  You are swindled by heathen Turks, swindled by vagabond
children, swindled right and left, upstairs and downstairs.  I think it
must be your imagination.  I thank my stars I have none.'

'Pardon me,' replied Desprez, still humbly, but with a return of spirit
at sight of a distinction to be drawn; 'pardon me, Casimir.  You possess,
even to an eminent degree, the commercial imagination.  It was the lack
of that in me--it appears it is my weak point--that has led to these
repeated shocks.  By the commercial imagination the financier forecasts
the destiny of his investments, marks the falling house--'

'Egad,' interrupted Casimir: 'our friend the stable-boy appears to have
his share of it.'

The Doctor was silenced; and the meal was continued and finished
principally to the tune of the brother-in-law's not very consolatory
conversation.  He entirely ignored the two young English painters,
turning a blind eyeglass to their salutations, and continuing his remarks
as if he were alone in the bosom of his family; and with every second
word he ripped another stitch out of the air balloon of Desprez's vanity.
By the time coffee was over the poor Doctor was as limp as a napkin.

'Let us go and see the ruins,' said Casimir.

They strolled forth into the street.  The fall of the house, like the
loss of a front tooth, had quite transformed the village.  Through the
gap the eye commanded a great stretch of open snowy country, and the
place shrank in comparison.  It was like a room with an open door.  The
sentinel stood by the green gate, looking very red and cold, but he had a
pleasant word for the Doctor and his wealthy kinsman.

Casimir looked at the mound of ruins, he tried the quality of the
tarpaulin.  'H'm,' he said, 'I hope the cellar arch has stood.  If it
has, my good brother, I will give you a good price for the wines.'

'We shall start digging to-morrow,' said the sentry.  'There is no more
fear of snow.'

'My friend,' returned Casimir sententiously, 'you had better wait till
you get paid.'

The Doctor winced, and began dragging his offensive brother-in-law
towards Tentaillon's.  In the house there would be fewer auditors, and
these already in the secret of his fall.

'Hullo!' cried Casimir, 'there goes the stable-boy with his luggage; no,
egad, he is taking it into the inn.'

And sure enough, Jean-Marie was seen to cross the snowy street and enter
Tentaillon's, staggering under a large hamper.

The Doctor stopped with a sudden, wild hope.

'What can he have?' he said.  'Let us go and see.'  And he hurried on.

'His luggage, to be sure,' answered Casimir.  'He is on the move--thanks
to the commercial imagination.'

'I have not seen that hamper for--for ever so long,' remarked the Doctor.

'Nor will you see it much longer,' chuckled Casimir; 'unless, indeed, we
interfere.  And by the way, I insist on an examination.'

'You will not require,' said Desprez, positively with a sob; and, casting
a moist, triumphant glance at Casimir, he began to run.

'What the devil is up with him, I wonder?' Casimir reflected; and then,
curiosity taking the upper hand, he followed the Doctor's example and
took to his heels.

The hamper was so heavy and large, and Jean-Marie himself so little and
so weary, that it had taken him a great while to bundle it upstairs to
the Desprez' private room; and he had just set it down on the floor in
front of Anastasie, when the Doctor arrived, and was closely followed by
the man of business.  Boy and hamper were both in a most sorry plight;
for the one had passed four months underground in a certain cave on the
way to Acheres, and the other had run about five miles as hard as his
legs would carry him, half that distance under a staggering weight.

'Jean-Marie,' cried the Doctor, in a voice that was only too seraphic to
be called hysterical, 'is it--?  It is!' he cried.  'O, my son, my son!'
And he sat down upon the hamper and sobbed like a little child.

'You will not go to Paris now,' said Jean-Marie sheepishly.

'Casimir,' said Desprez, raising his wet face, 'do you see that boy, that
angel boy?  He is the thief; he took the treasure from a man unfit to be
entrusted with its use; he brings it back to me when I am sobered and
humbled.  These, Casimir, are the Fruits of my Teaching, and this moment
is the Reward of my Life.'

'_Tiens_,' said Casimir.

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON




Footnotes


{5}  Boggy.

{15}  Clock

{16}  Enjoy.

{140}  To come forrit--to offer oneself as a communicant.

{144}  It was a common belief in Scotland that the devil appeared as a
black man.  This appears in several witch trials and I think in Law's
_Memorials_, that delightful store-house of the quaint and grisly.

{263}  Let it be so, for my tale!



***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY MEN***


******* This file should be named 344.txt or 344.zip *******


This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/4/344



Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://www.gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit:
http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.