[iii]
SHORT STORIES
FOR HIGH SCHOOLS
EDITED
WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES
BY
ROSA M. R. MIKELS
SHORTRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL, INDIANAPOLIS, IND.
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
[iv]
Copyright, 1915, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
[v]
CONTENTS
| PAGE |
| Preface |
vii |
| Introduction |
| Requirements of the Short Story |
xi |
| How This Book May Be Used |
xviii |
| The First Christmas-Tree |
Henry van Dyke |
1 |
| A French Tar-Baby |
Joel Chandler Harris |
27 |
| Sonny’s Christenin’ |
Ruth McEnery Stuart |
35 |
| Christmas Night with Satan |
John Fox, Jr. |
51 |
| A Nest-Egg |
James Whitcomb Riley |
67 |
| Wee Willie Winkle |
Rudyard Kipling |
79 |
| The Gold Bug |
Edgar Allan Poe |
95 |
| The Ransom of Red Chief |
O. Henry |
143 |
| The Freshman Full-Back |
Ralph D. Paine |
159 |
| Gallegher |
Richard Harding Davis |
181 |
| The Jumping Frog |
Mark Twain |
221 |
| The Lady or the Tiger? |
Frank R. Stockton |
231 |
| The Outcasts of Poker Flat |
Francis Bret Harte |
243 |
| The Revolt of Mother |
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman |
259 |
| Marse Chan |
Thomas Nelson Page |
283 |
| “Posson Jone’” |
George W. Cable |
315 |
| Our Aromatic Uncle |
Henry Cuyler Bunner |
341 |
| Quality |
John Galsworthy |
361 |
| The Triumph of Night |
Edith Wharton |
373 |
| A Messenger |
Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews |
407 |
| Markheim |
Robert Louis Stevenson |
431 |
[vi]
[vii]
PREFACE
Why must we confine the reading of our children to
the older literary classics? This is the question asked
by an ever-increasing number of thoughtful teachers.
They have no wish to displace or to discredit the classics.
On the contrary, they love and revere them. But
they do wish to give their pupils something additional,
something that pulses with present life, that is characteristic
of to-day. The children, too, wonder that, with
the great literary outpouring going on about them, they
must always fill their cups from the cisterns of the past.
The short story is especially adapted to supplement
our high-school reading. It is of a piece with our varied,
hurried, efficient American life, wherein figure the business
man’s lunch, the dictagraph, the telegraph, the
telephone, the automobile, and the railway “limited.”
It has achieved high art, yet conforms to the modern
demand that our literature—since it must be read with
despatch, if read at all—be compact and compelling.
Moreover, the short story is with us in almost overwhelming
numbers, and is probably here to stay. Indeed,
our boys and girls are somewhat appalled at the
quantity of material from which they must select their
reading, and welcome any instruction that enables them
to know the good from the bad. It is certain, therefore,
that, whatever else they may throw into the educational
discard when they leave the high school, they will keep
and use anything they may have learned about this[viii]
form of literature which has become so powerful a factor
in our daily life.
This book does not attempt to select the greatest
stories of the time. What tribunal would dare make
such a choice? Nor does it attempt to trace the evolution
of the short story or to point out natural types and
differences. These topics are better suited to college
classes. Its object is threefold: to supply interesting
reading belonging to the student’s own time, to help
him to see that there is no divorce between classic and
modern literature, and, by offering him material structurally
good and typical of the qualities represented, to
assist him in discriminating between the artistic and the
inartistic. The stories have been carefully selected, because
in the period of adolescence “nothing read fails
to leave its mark”;[1] they have also been carefully arranged
with a view to the needs of the adolescent boy
and girl. Stories of the type loved by primitive man,
and therefore easily approached and understood, have
been placed first. Those which appealed in periods of
higher development follow, roughly in the order of their
increasing difficulty. It is hoped, moreover, that this
arrangement will help the student to understand and
appreciate the development of the story. He begins
with the simple tale of adventure and the simple story
of character. As he advances he sees the story develop
in plot, in character analysis, and in setting, until he
ends with the psychological study of Markheim, remarkable
for its complexity of motives and its great spiritual
problem. Both the selection and the arrangement have
been made with this further purpose in view—“to keep
the heart warm, reinforcing all its good motives, preforming
choices, universalizing sympathies.”[2]
[ix]
It is a pleasure to acknowledge, in this connection, the
suggestions and the criticism of Mr. William N. Otto,
Head of the Department of English in Shortridge High
School, Indianapolis; and the courtesies of the publishers
who have permitted the use of their material.
[x]
[xi]
INTRODUCTION
I
REQUIREMENTS OF THE SHORT STORY
Critics have agreed that the short story must conform
to certain conditions. First of all, the writer must strive
to make one and only one impression. His time is
too limited, his space is too confined, his risk of dividing
the attention of the reader is too great, to admit of more
than this one impression. He therefore selects some
moment of action or some phase of character or some
particular scene, and focuses attention upon that. Life
not infrequently gives such brief, clear-cut impressions.
At the railway station we see two young people hurry
to a train as if fearful of being detained, and we get the
impression of romantic adventure. We pass on the
street corner two men talking, and from a chance sentence
or two we form a strong impression of the character
of one or both. Sometimes we travel through a scene so
desolate and depressing or so lovely and uplifting that
the effect is never forgotten. Such glimpses of life and
scene are as vivid as the vignettes revealed by the searchlight,
when its arm slowly explores a mountain-side or
the shore of a lake and brings objects for a brief moment
into high light. To secure this single strong impression,
the writer must decide which of the three essentials—plot
character, or setting—is to have first place.
[xii]
As action appeals strongly to most people, and very
adequately reveals character, the short-story writer may
decide to make plot pre-eminent. He accordingly chooses
his incidents carefully. Any that do not really aid in
developing the story must be cast aside, no matter how
interesting or attractive they may be in themselves.
This does not mean that an incident which is detached
from the train of events may not be used. But such an
incident must have proper relations provided for it. Thus
the writer may wish to use incidents that belong to two
separate stories, because he knows that by relating them
he can produce a single effect. Shakespeare does this
in Macbeth. Finding in the lives of the historic Macbeth
and the historic King Duff incidents that he wished
to use, he combined them. But he saw to it that they
had the right relation, that they fitted into the chain
of cause and effect. The reader will insist, as the writer
knows, that the story be logical, that incident 1 shall be
the cause of incident 2, incident 2 of incident 3, and so
on to the end. The triangle used by Freytag to illustrate
the plot of a play may make this clear.
AC is the line of rising action along which the story climbs,
incident by incident, to the point C; C is the turning
point, the crisis, or the climax; CB is the line of falling
action along which the story descends incident by incident
to its logical resolution. Nothing may be left to
luck or chance. In life the element of chance does sometimes[xiii]
seem to figure, but in the story it has no place. If
the ending is not the logical outcome of events, the reader
feels cheated. He does not want the situation to be too
obvious, for he likes the thrill of suspense. But he wants
the hints and foreshadowings to be sincere, so that he
may safely draw his conclusions from them. This does
not condemn, however, the “surprise” ending, so admirably
used by O. Henry. The reader, in this case,
admits that the writer has “played fair” throughout, and
that the ending which has so surprised and tickled his
fancy is as logical as that he had forecast.
To aid in securing the element of suspense, the author
often makes use of what Carl H. Grabo, in his The Art of
the Short Story, calls the “negative” or “hostile” incident.
Incidents, as he points out, are of two kinds—positive
and negative. The first openly help to untangle the
situation; the second seem to delay the straightening out
of the threads or even to make the tangle worse. He
illustrates this by the story of Cinderella. The appearance
of the fairy and her use of the magic wand are positive,
or openly helpful incidents, in rescuing Cinderella
from her lonely and neglected state. But her forgetfulness
of the hour and her loss of the glass slipper are
negative or hostile incidents. Nevertheless, we see how
these are really blessings in disguise, since they cause the
prince to seek and woo her.
The novelist may introduce many characters, because
he has time and space to care for them. Not so the short-story
writer: he must employ only one main character
and a few supporting characters. However, when the
plot is the main thing, the characters need not be remarkable
in any way. Indeed, as Brander Matthews has
said, the heroine may be “a woman,” the hero “a man,”
not any woman or any man in particular. Thus, in The
Lady or the Tiger? the author leaves the princess without[xiv]
definite traits of character, because his problem is
not “what this particular woman would do, but what
a woman would do.” Sometimes, after reading a story
of thrilling plot, we find that we do not readily recall the
appearance or the names of the characters; we recall only
what happened to them. This is true of the women of
James Fenimore Cooper’s stories. They have no substantiality,
but move like veiled figures through the most
exciting adventures.
Setting may or may not be an important factor in the
story of incident. What is meant by setting? It is an
inclusive term. Time, place, local conditions, and sometimes
descriptions of nature and of people are parts of
it. When these are well cared for, we get an effect called
“atmosphere.” We know the effect the atmosphere has
upon objects. Any one who has observed distant mountains
knows that, while they remain practically unchanged,
they never look the same on two successive
days. Sometimes they stand out hard and clear, sometimes
they are soft and alluring, sometimes they look
unreal and almost melt into the sky behind them. So
the atmosphere of a story may envelop people and events
and produce a subtle effect upon the reader. Sometimes
the plot material is such as to require little setting. The
incidents might have happened anywhere. We hardly
notice the absence of setting in our hurry to see what
happens. This is true of many of the stories we enjoyed
when we were children. For instance, in The Three Bears
the incidents took place, of course, in the woods, but our
imagination really supplied the setting. Most stories,
however, whatever their character, use setting as carefully
and as effectively as possible. Time and place are
often given with exactness. Thus Bret Harte says:
“As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the
main street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twentythird[xv]
of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change
in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night.” This
definite mention of time and place gives an air of reality
to the story. As to descriptions, the writer sifts them in,
for he knows that few will bother to read whole paragraphs
of description. He often uses local color, by
which we mean the employment of epithets, phrases,
and other expressions that impart a “feeling” for the
place. This use of local color must not be confused with
that intended to produce what is called an “impressionistic”
effect. In the latter case the writer subordinates
everything to this effect of scene. This use of
local color is discussed elsewhere.
Perhaps the writer wishes to make character the
dominant element. Then he subordinates plot and setting
to this purpose and makes them contribute to it.
In selecting the character he wishes to reveal he has
wide choice. “Human nature is the same, wherever
you find it,” we are fond of saying. So he may choose
a character that is quite common, some one he knows;
and, having made much of some one trait and ignored
or subordinated others, bring him before us at some
moment of decision or in some strange, perhaps hostile,
environment. Or the author may take some character
quite out of the ordinary: the village miser, the recluse,
or a person with a peculiar mental or moral twist. But,
whatever his choice, it is not enough that the character
be actually drawn from real life. Indeed, such fidelity
to what literally exists may be a hinderance to the writer.
The original character may have done strange things
and suffered strange things that cannot be accounted
for. But, in the story, inconsistencies must be removed,
and the conduct of the characters must be logical. Life
seems inconsistent to all of us at times, but it is probably
less so than it seems. People puzzle us by their apparent[xvi]
inconsistencies, when to themselves their actions seem
perfectly logical. But, as Mr. Grabo points out, “In
life we expect inconsistencies; in a story we depend
upon their elimination.” The law of cause and effect,
which we found so indispensable in the story of plot, we
find of equal importance in the story of character. There
must be no sudden and unaccountable changes in the behavior
or sentiments of the people in the story. On the
contrary, there must be reason in all they say and do.
Another demand of the character story is that the characters
be lifelike. In the plot story, or in the impressionistic
story, we may accept the flat figures on the
canvas; our interest is elsewhere. But in the character
story we must have real people whose motives and conduct
we discuss pro and con with as much interest as if
we knew them in the flesh. A character of this convincing
type is Hamlet. About him controversy has always
raged. It is impossible to think of him as other than a
real man. Whenever the writer finds that the characters
in his story have caused the reader to wax eloquent over
their conduct, he may rest easy: he has made his people
lifelike.
Setting in the character story is important, for it is in
this that the chief actor moves and has his being. His
environment is continually causing him to speak and
act. The incidents selected, even though some of them
may seem trivial in themselves, must reveal depth after
depth in his soul. Whatever the means by which the
author reveals the character—whether by setting, conduct,
analysis, dialogue, or soliloquy—his task is a hard one.
In Markheim we have practically all of these used, with
the result that the character is unmistakable and convincing.
Stories of scenes are neither so numerous nor so easy
to produce successfully as those of plot and character.[xvii]
But sometimes a place so profoundly impresses a writer
that its demands may not be disregarded. Robert Louis
Stevenson strongly felt the influence of certain places.
“Certain dank gardens cry aloud for murder; certain
old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are
set apart for shipwreck. Other spots seem to abide
their destiny, suggestive and impenetrable.” Perhaps all
of us have seen some place of which we have exclaimed:
“It is like a story!” When, then, scene is to furnish the
dominant interest, plot and character become relatively
insignificant and shadowy. “The pressure of the atmosphere,”
says Brander Matthews, holds our attention.
The Fall of the House of Usher, by Edgar Allan
Poe, is a story of this kind. It is the scene that affects
us with dread and horror; we have no peace until we
see the house swallowed up by the tarn, and have fled
out of sight of the tarn itself. The plot is extremely
slight, and the Lady Madeline and her unhappy brother
hardly more than shadows.
It must not be supposed from the foregoing explanation
that the three essentials of the short story are ever
really divorced. They are happily blended in many of
our finest stories. Nevertheless, analysis of any one of
these will show that in the mind of the writer one purpose
was pre-eminent. On this point Robert Louis Stevenson
thus speaks: “There are, so far as I know, three ways
and three only of writing a story. You may take a plot
and fit characters to it, or you may take a character and
choose incidents and situations to develop it, or, lastly,
you may take a certain atmosphere and get actions and
persons to express and realize it.” When to this clear
conception of his limitations and privileges the author
adds an imagination that clearly visualizes events and
the “verbal magic” by which good style is secured, he
produces the short story that is a masterpiece.
[xviii]
II
HOW THIS BOOK MAY BE USED
This book may be used in four ways. First, it may
serve as an appetizer. Even the casual reading of good
literature has a tendency to create a demand for more.
Second, it may be made the basis for discussion and
comparison. By using these stories, the works of recognized
authors, as standards, the student may determine
the value of such stories as come into his home. Third,
these selections may be studied in a regular short-story
course, such as many high schools have, to illustrate
the requirements and the types of this form of narration.
The chapter on “The Requirements of the Short Story”
will be found useful both in this connection and in the
comparative study of stories. Fourth, the student will
better appreciate and understand the short story if he
attempts to tell or to write one. This does not mean
that we intend to train him for the literary market. Our
object is entirely different. No form of literature brings
more real joy to the child than the story. Not only does
he like to hear stories; he likes to tell them. And where
the short-story course is rightly used, he likes to write
them. He finds that the pleasure of exercising creative
power more than offsets the drudgery inevitable in composition.
A plan that has been satisfactorily carried out
in the classroom is here briefly outlined.
The teacher reads with the class a story in which plot
furnishes the main interest. This type is chosen because
it is more easily analyzed by beginners. The class
discusses this, applying the tests of the short story given
elsewhere in this book. Then a number of short stories
of different types are read and compared. Next, each[xix]
member of the class selects from some recent book or
magazine a short story he enjoys. This he outlines and
reports to the class. If this report is not satisfactory,
the class insists that either the author or the reporter
be exonerated. The story is accordingly read to the class,
or is read and reported on by another member. The
class is then usually able to decide whether the story
is faulty or the first report inadequate.
Next the class gives orally incidents that might or
might not be expanded into short stories. The students
soon discover that some of these require the lengthy
treatment of a novel, that others are good as simple incidents
but nothing more, and that still others might
develop into satisfactory short stories. The class is now
asked to develop original plots. Since plots cannot be
produced on demand, but require time for the mind to
act subconsciously, the class practises, during the “period
of incubation,” the writing of dialogue. For these the
teacher suggests a list of topics, although any student
is free to substitute one of his own. Among the topics
that have been used are: “Johnny goes with his mother
to church for the first time,” “Mrs. Hennessy is annoyed
by the chickens of Mrs. Jones,” “Albert applies for a
summer job.” Sometimes the teacher relates an incident,
and has the class reproduce it in dialogue. By
comparing their work with dialogue by recognized writers
the youthful authors soon learn how to punctuate and
paragraph conversation, and where to place necessary
comment and explanation. They also discover that
dialogue must either reveal character or advance the
story; and that it must be in keeping with the theme
and maintain the tone used at the beginning. A commonplace
dialogue must not suddenly become romantic
in tone, and dialect must not lapse into ordinary
English.
[xx]
The original plots the class offers later may have been
suggested in many ways. Newspaper accounts, court
reports, historical incidents, family traditions—all may
contribute. Sometimes the student proudly declares
of his plot, “I made it out of my own head.” These
plots are arranged in outline form to show how incident
1 developed incident 2, that incident 3, and so on to the
conclusion. The class points out the weak places in these
plots and offers helpful suggestions. This co-operation
often produces surprisingly good results. A solution that
the troubled originator of the plot never thought of may
come almost as an inspiration from the class. Criticism
throughout is largely constructive. After the student
has developed several plots in outline, he usually finds
among them one that he wishes to use for his story.
This is worked out in some detail, submitted to the
class, and later in a revised form to the teacher. The
story when complete is corrected and sometimes rewritten.
Most of the class prefer to write stories of plot, but
some insist upon trying stories of character or of setting.
These pupils are shown the difficulties in their
way, but are allowed to try their hand if they insist.
Sometimes the results are good; more often the writer,
after an honest effort, admits that he cannot handle his
subject well and substitutes a story of plot.
In any case the final draft is sure to leave much to be
desired; but even so, the gain has been great. The
pupil writer has constantly been measuring his work by
standards of recognized excellence in form and in creative
power; as a result he has learned to appreciate the short
story from the art side. Moreover, he has had a large
freedom in his work that has relieved it of drudgery.
And, best of all, he has been doing original work with
plastic material; and to work with plastic material is[xxi]
always a source of joy, whether it be the mud that the
child makes into pies, the clay that the artist moulds
into forms of beauty, or the facts of life that the creative
imagination of the writer shapes into literature.
[xxii]
[1]
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE
A STORY OF THE FOREST
BY
Henry Van Dyke
[2]
This story is placed first because it is of the type that
first delighted man. It is the story of high adventure, of
a struggle with the forces of nature, barbarous men, and
heathen gods. The hero is “a hunter of demons, a subduer
of the wilderness, a woodman of the faith.” He
seeks hardships and conquers them. The setting is the
illimitable forest in the remote past. The forest, like
the sea, makes an irresistible appeal to the imagination.
Either may be the scene of the marvellous and the thrilling.
Quite unlike the earliest tales, this story is enriched
with description and exposition; nevertheless, it has their
simplicity and dignity. It reminds us of certain of the
great Biblical narratives, such as the contest between
Elijah and the prophets of Baal and the victory of
Daniel over the jealous presidents and princes of Darius.
In “The First Christmas Tree,” as in many others of
these stories, a third person is the narrator. But the hero
may tell his own adventures. “I did this. I did that.
Thus I felt at the conclusion.” Instances are Defoe’s
“Robinson Crusoe” and Stevenson’s “Kidnapped.”
But whether in the first or third person, the story holds
us by the magic of adventure.
[3]
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE[3]
I
THE CALL OF THE WOODSMAN
The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.
Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks
of the river Moselle; pallid hill-sides blooming with
mystic roses where the glow of the setting sun still
lingered upon them; an arch of clearest, faintest azure
bending overhead; in the centre of the aerial landscape
the massive walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, gray to the
east, purple to the west; silence over all,—a gentle, eager,
conscious stillness, diffused through the air like perfume,
as if earth and sky were hushing themselves to hear
the voice of the river faintly murmuring down the
valley.
In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset
hour. All day long there had been a strange and joyful
stir among the nuns. A breeze of curiosity and excitement
had swept along the corridors and through every
quiet cell.
The elder sisters,—the provost, the deaconess, the
stewardess, the portress with her huge bunch of keys
jingling at her girdle,—had been hurrying to and fro,
busied with household cares. In the huge kitchen there
was a bustle of hospitable preparation. The little bandy-legged
dogs that kept the spits turning before the fires
had been trotting steadily for many an hour, until their[4]
tongues hung out for want of breath. The big black
pots swinging from the cranes had bubbled and gurgled
and shaken and sent out puffs of appetizing
steam.
St. Martha was in her element. It was a field-day for
her virtues.
The younger sisters, the pupils of the convent, had forsaken
their Latin books and their embroidery-frames,
their manuscripts and their miniatures, and fluttered
through the halls in little flocks like merry snow-birds,
all in black and white, chattering and whispering together.
This was no day for tedious task-work, no day
for grammar or arithmetic, no day for picking out illuminated
letters in red and gold on stiff parchment, or patiently
chasing intricate patterns over thick cloth with
the slow needle. It was a holiday. A famous visitor had
come to the convent.
It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman
tongue was Boniface, and whom men called the
Apostle of Germany. A great preacher; a wonderful
scholar; he had written a Latin grammar himself,—think
of it,—and he could hardly sleep without a book
under his pillow; but, more than all, a great and daring
traveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a high-priest of romance.
He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex;
he would not stay in the rich monastery of Nutescelle,
even though they had chosen him as the abbot; he had
refused a bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothing
would content him but to go out into the wild woods
and preach to the heathen.
Up and down through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia,
and along the borders of Saxony, he had wandered
for years, with a handful of companions, sleeping
under the trees, crossing mountains and marshes, now[5]
here, now there, never satisfied with ease and comfort,
always in love with hardship and danger.
What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight
as a spear and strong as an oaken staff. His face was
still young; the smooth skin was bronzed by wind and
sun. His gray eyes, clear and kind, flashed like fire when
he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the
false priests with whom he contended.
What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles
wrought by sacred relics; not of courts and councils and
splendid cathedrals; though he knew much of these
things, and had been at Rome and received the Pope’s
blessing. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings
by sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves
and bears and fierce snowstorms and black nights in the
lonely forest; of dark altars of heathen gods, and weird,
bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes from murderous
bands of wandering savages.
The little novices had gathered around him, and their
faces had grown pale and their eyes bright as they listened
with parted lips, entranced in admiration, twining
their arms about one another’s shoulders and holding
closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The older
nuns had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing
by, to hear the pilgrim’s story. Too well they knew
the truth of what he spoke. Many a one among them
had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her father’s
roof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild
country to whom her heart went out night and day,
wondering if he were still among the living.
But now the excitements of that wonderful day
were over; the hour of the evening meal had come;
the inmates of the cloister were assembled in the
refectory.
On the daïs sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter[6]
of King Dagobert, looking a princess indeed, in her
violet tunic, with the hood and cuffs of her long white
robe trimmed with fur, and a snowy veil resting like a
crown on her snowy hair. At her right hand was the
honored guest, and at her left hand her grandson, the
young Prince Gregor, a big, manly boy, just returned
from the high school.
The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters
and beams; the double rows of nuns, with their pure
veils and fair faces; the ruddy glow of the slanting sunbeams
striking upwards through the tops of the windows
and painting a pink glow high up on the walls,—it was
all as beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For this was
the rule of the cloister, that at the table all should sit in
stillness for a little while, and then one should read
aloud, while the rest listened.
“It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day,” said
the abbess to Winfried; “we shall see how much he has
learned in the school. Read, Gregor; the place in the
book is marked.”
The tall lad rose from his seat and turned the pages
of the manuscript. It was a copy of Jerome’s version
of the Scriptures in Latin, and the marked place was
in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians,—the passage
where he describes the preparation of the Christian as
the arming of a warrior for glorious battle. The young
voice rang out clearly, rolling the sonorous words, without
slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.
Winfried listened smiling. “My son,” said he, as
the reader paused, “that was bravely read. Understandest
thou what thou readest?”
“Surely, father,” answered the boy; “it was taught
me by the masters at Treves; and we have read this
epistle clear through, from beginning to end, so that I
almost know it by heart.”
[7]
Then he began again to repeat the passage, turning
away from the page as if to show his skill.
But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of
the hand.
“Not so, my son; that was not my meaning. When
we pray, we speak to God; when we read, it is God who
speaks to us. I ask whether thou hast heard what He
has said to thee, in thine own words, in the common
speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior
and his armor and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so
that all can understand it.”
The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came
around to Winfried’s seat, bringing the book. “Take
the book, my father,” he cried, “and read it for me.
I cannot see the meaning plain, though I love the sound
of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of
our faith, and the life of priests and nuns in the cloister,
for which my grandmother designs me, though it likes
me little. And fighting I know, and the life of warriors
and heroes, for I have read of it in Virgil and the ancients,
and heard a bit from the soldiers at Treves; and
I would fain taste more of it, for it likes me much.
But how the two lives fit together, or what need there
is of armor for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see.
Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the
world that knows it, I am sure it is none other than
thou.”
So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping
the boy’s hand with his own.
“Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers,”
said he, “lest they should be weary.”
A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring
of sweet voices and a soft rustling of many feet
over the rushes on the floor; the gentle tide of noise
flowed out through the doors and ebbed away down the[8]
corridors; the three at the head of the table were left
alone in the darkening room.
Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the
soldier into the realities of life.
At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into
the picture out of his own experience. He spoke of the
combat with self, and of the wrestling with dark spirits
in solitude. He spoke of the demons that men had worshipped
for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice
they invoked against the stranger who ventured into the
gloomy forest. Gods, they called them, and told strange
tales of their dwelling among the impenetrable branches
of the oldest trees and in the caverns of the shaggy
hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling
spears of lightning against their foes. Gods they were
not, but foul spirits of the air, rulers of the darkness.
Was there not glory and honor in fighting with them,
in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in putting
them to flight with the sword of truth? What
better adventure could a brave man ask than to go forth
against them, and wrestle with them, and conquer them?
“Look you, my friends,” said Winfried, “how sweet
and peaceful is this convent to-night, on the eve of the
nativity of the Prince of Peace! It is a garden full of
flowers in the heart of winter; a nest among the branches
of a great tree shaken by the winds; a still haven on the
edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion
means for those who are chosen and called to quietude
and prayer and meditation.
“But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what
storms are raving to-night in the hearts of men, though
all the woods are still? who knows what haunts of wrath
and cruelty and fear are closed to-night against the
advent of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you
what religion means to those who are called and chosen[9]
to dare and to fight, and to conquer the world for Christ?
It means to launch out into the deep. It means to go
against the strongholds of the adversary. It means to
struggle to win an entrance for their Master everywhere.
What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the
helmet of salvation? What breastplate can guard a
man against these fiery darts but the breastplate of
righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of these
journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?”
“Shoes?” he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden
thought had struck him. He thrust out his foot, covered
with a heavy cowhide boot, laced high about his leg with
thongs of skin.
“See here,—how a fighting man of the cross is shod!
I have seen the boots of the Bishop of Tours,—white kid,
broidered with silk; a day in the bogs would tear them to
shreds. I have seen the sandals that the monks use on
the highroads,—yes, and worn them; ten pair of them
have I worn out and thrown away in a single journey.
Now I shoe my feet with the toughest hides, hard as
iron; no rock can cut them, no branches can tear them.
Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and
many more shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended.
And I think, if God is gracious to me, that I shall die
wearing them. Better so than in a soft bed with silken
coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a woodsman,—these
are my preparation of the gospel of peace.”
“Come, Gregor,” he said, laying his brown hand on
the youth’s shoulder, “come, wear the forester’s boots
with me. This is the life to which we are called. Be
strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer
of the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come!”
The boy’s eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother.
She shook her head vigorously.
“Nay, father,” she said, “draw not the lad away[10]
from my side with these wild words. I need him to help
me with my labors, to cheer my old age.”
“Do you need him more than the Master does?”
asked Winfried; “and will you take the wood that is
fit for a bow to make a distaff?”
“But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for
him. He will perish with hunger in the woods.”
“Once,” said Winfried, smiling, “we were camped
by the bank of the river Ohru. The table was spread
for the morning meal, but my comrades cried that it
was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go
without breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could
escape from the wilderness. While they complained, a
fish-hawk flew up from the river with flapping wings,
and let fall a great pike in the midst of the camp. There
was food enough and to spare. Never have I seen the
righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.”
“But the fierce pagans of the forest,” cried the
abbess,—“they may pierce the boy with their arrows,
or dash out his brains with their axes. He is but a child,
too young for the dangers of strife.”
“A child in years,” replied Winfried, “but a man in
spirit. And if the hero must fall early in the battle, he
wears the brighter crown, not a leaf withered, not a
flower fallen.”
The aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor
close to her side, and laid her hand gently on his brown
hair.
“I am not sure that he wants to leave me yet. Besides,
there is no horse in the stable to give him, now,
and he cannot go as befits the grandson of a king.”
Gregor looked straight into her eyes.
“Grandmother,” said he, “dear grandmother, if thou
wilt not give me a horse to ride with this man of God,
I will go with him afoot.”
[11]
II
THE TRAIL THROUGH THE FOREST
Two years had passed, to a day, almost to an hour,
since that Christmas eve in the cloister of Pfalzel. A
little company of pilgrims, less than a score of men,
were creeping slowly northward through the wide forest
that rolled over the hills of central Germany.
At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a
tunic of fur, with his long black robe girt high about
his waist, so that it might not hinder his stride. His
hunter’s boots were crusted with snow. Drops of ice
sparkled like jewels along the thongs that bound his legs.
There was no other ornament to his dress except the
bishop’s cross hanging on his breast, and the broad
silver clasp that fastened his cloak about his neck. He
carried a strong, tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the
top into the form of a cross.
Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade,
was the young Prince Gregor. Long marches through
the wilderness had stretched his limbs and broadened his
back, and made a man of him in stature as well as in
spirit. His jacket and cap were of wolf-skin, and on his
shoulder he carried an axe, with broad, shining blade.
He was a mighty woodsman now, and could make a spray
of chips fly around him as he hewed his way through
the trunk of spruce-tree.
Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters,
guiding a rude sledge, loaded with food and the equipage
of the camp, and drawn by two big, shaggy horses,
blowing thick clouds of steam from their frosty nostrils.
Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their lips. Their
flanks were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at
every step in the soft snow.
[12]
Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and
javelins. It was no child’s play, in those days, to cross
Europe afoot.
The weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered
hill and vale, tableland and mountain-peak. There were
wide moors where the wolves hunted in packs as if the
devil drove them, and tangled thickets where the lynx
and the boar made their lairs. Fierce bears lurked
among the rocky passes, and had not yet learned to fear
the face of man. The gloomy recesses of the forest gave
shelter to inhabitants who were still more cruel and
dangerous than beasts of prey,—outlaws and sturdy robbers
and mad were-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers.
The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the
Tiber to the mouth of the Rhine must travel with a little
army of retainers, or else trust in God and keep his
arrows loose in the quiver.
The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees,
so vast, so full of endless billows, that it seemed to be
pressing on every side to overwhelm them. Gnarled
oaks, with branches twisted and knotted as if in rage,
rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth forests of beech-trees,
round and gray, swept over the knolls and slopes
of land in a mighty ground-swell. But most of all, the
multitude of pines and firs, innumerable and monotonous,
with straight, stark trunks, and branches woven
together in an unbroken flood of darkest green, crowded
through the valleys and over the hills, rising on the
highest ridges into ragged crests, like the foaming edge
of breakers.
Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of
shining whiteness,—an ancient Roman road, covered
with snow. It was as if some great ship had ploughed
through the green ocean long ago, and left behind it a[13]
thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track the
travellers held their way,—heavily, for the drifts were
deep; warily, for the hard winter had driven many
packs of wolves down from the moors.
The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the
sledges creaked over the dry snow, and the panting of
the horses throbbed through the still, cold air. The
pale-blue shadows on the western side of the road grew
longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch,
dropped behind the tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly,
as if it had been a bird of prey waiting for this sign
to swoop down upon the world.
“Father,” said Gregor to the leader, “surely this
day’s march is done. It is time to rest, and eat, and
sleep. If we press onward now, we cannot see our steps;
and will not that be against the word of the psalmist
David, who bids us not to put confidence in the legs
of a man?”
Winfried laughed. “Nay, my son Gregor,” said he,
“thou hast tripped, even now, upon thy text. For
David said only, ’I take no pleasure in the legs of a
man.’ And so say I, for I am not minded to spare thy
legs or mine, until we come farther on our way, and
do what must be done this night. Draw the belt tighter,
my son, and hew me out this tree that is fallen across
the road, for our camp-ground is not here.”
The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help
him; and while the soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke
of the axes, and the snow flew from the bending branches,
Winfried turned and spoke to his followers in a cheerful
voice, that refreshed them like wine.
“Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The
moon will light us presently, and the path is plain. Well
know I that the journey is weary; and my own heart
wearies also for the home in England, where those I[14]
love are keeping feast this Christmas eve. But we have
work to do before we feast to-night. For this is the
Yuletide, and the heathen people of the forest have
gathered at the thunder-oak of Geismar to worship their
god, Thor. Strange things will be seen there, and deeds
which make the soul black. But we are sent to lighten
their darkness; and we will teach our kinsmen to keep a
Christmas with us such as the woodland has never known.
Forward, then, and let us stiffen up our feeble knees!”
A murmur of assent came from the men. Even the
horses seemed to take fresh heart. They flattened their
backs to draw the heavy loads, and blew the frost from
their nostrils as they pushed ahead.
The night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate
of brightness was opened secretly somewhere in the
sky; higher and higher swelled the clear moon-flood, until
it poured over the eastern wall of forest into the
road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in the distance,
but they were receding, and the sound soon died away.
The stars sparkled merrily through the stringent air;
the small, round moon shone like silver; little breaths of
the dreaming wind wandered whispering across the
pointed fir-tops, as the pilgrims toiled bravely onward,
following their clue of light through a labyrinth of
darkness.
After a while the road began to open out a little.
There were spaces of meadow-land, fringed with alders,
behind which a boisterous river ran, clashing through
spears of ice.
Rude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings,
each one casting a patch of inky blackness upon the
snow. Then the travellers passed a larger group of
dwellings, all silent and unlighted; and beyond, they
saw a great house, with many out-buildings and enclosed
courtyards, from which the hounds bayed furiously, and[15]
a noise of stamping horses came from the stalls. But
there was no other sound of life. The fields around lay
bare to the moon. They saw no man, except that once,
on a path that skirted the farther edge of a meadow,
three dark figures passed by, running very swiftly.
Then the road plunged again into a dense thicket,
traversed it, and climbing to the left, emerged suddenly
upon a glade, round and level except at the northern
side, where a swelling hillock was crowned with a huge
oak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant with contorted
arms, beckoning to the host of lesser trees.
“Here,” cried Winfried, as his eyes flashed and his
hand lifted his heavy staff, “here is the thunder-oak;
and here the cross of Christ shall break the hammer of
the false god Thor.”
III
THE SHADOW OF THE THUNDER-OAK
Withered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak:
torn and faded banners of the departed summer. The
bright crimson of autumn had long since disappeared,
bleached away by the storms and the cold. But to-night
these tattered remnants of glory were red again: ancient
blood-stains against the dark-blue sky. For an
immense fire had been kindled in front of the tree.
Tongues of ruddy flame, fountains of ruby sparks, ascended
through the spreading limbs and flung a fierce
illumination upward and around. The pale, pure moonlight
that bathed the surrounding forests was quenched
and eclipsed here. Not a beam of it sifted downward
through the branches of the oak. It stood like a pillar
of cloud between the still light of heaven and the crackling,
flashing fire of earth.
[16]
But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his
companions. A great throng of people were gathered
around it in a half-circle, their backs to the open glade,
their faces towards the oak. Seen against that glowing
background, it was but the silhouette of a crowd, vague,
black, formless, mysterious.
The travellers paused for a moment at the edge of
the thicket, and took counsel together.
“It is the assembly of the tribe,” said one of the
foresters, “the great night of the council. I heard of it
three days ago, as we passed through one of the villages.
All who swear by the old gods have been summoned.
They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war, and drink
blood, and eat horse-flesh to make them strong. It will
be at the peril of our lives if we approach them. At
least we must hide the cross, if we would escape death.”
“Hide me no cross,” cried Winfried, lifting his staff,
“for I have come to show it, and to make these blind
folk see its power. There is more to be done here to-night
than the slaying of a steed, and a greater evil
to be stayed than the shameful eating of meat sacrificed
to idols. I have seen it in a dream. Here the cross must
stand and be our rede.”
At his command the sledge was left in the border of
the wood, with two of the men to guard it, and the rest
of the company moved forward across the open ground.
They approached unnoticed, for all the multitude were
looking intently towards the fire at the foot of the oak.
Then Winfried’s voice rang out, “Hail, ye sons of the
forest! A stranger claims the warmth of your fire in
the winter night.”
Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes
were bent upon the speaker. The semicircle opened
silently in the middle; Winfried entered with his followers;
it closed again behind them.
[17]
Then, as they looked round the curving ranks, they
saw that the hue of the assemblage was not black, but
white,—dazzling, radiant, solemn. White, the robes of
the women clustered together at the points of the wide
crescent; white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors
standing in close ranks; white, the fur mantles of the
aged men who held the central place in the circle; white,
with the shimmer of silver ornaments and the purity of
lamb’s-wool, the raiment of a little group of children
who stood close by the fire; white, with awe and fear, the
faces of all who looked at them; and over all the flickering,
dancing radiance of the flames played and glimmered
like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on snow.
The only figure untouched by the glow was the old
priest, Hunrad, with his long, spectral robe, flowing
hair and beard, and dead-pale face, who stood with his
back to the fire and advanced slowly to meet the
strangers.
“Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek
you here?” His voice was heavy and toneless as a
muffled bell.
“Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood,”
answered Winfried, “and from England, beyond the
sea, have I come to bring you a greeting from that land,
and a message from the All-Father, whose servant I am.”
“Welcome, then,” said Hunrad, “welcome, kinsman,
and be silent; for what passes here is too high to wait,
and must be done before the moon crosses the middle
heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or token from
the gods. Canst thou work miracles?”
The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of
hope had flashed through the tangle of the old priest’s
mind. But Winfried’s voice sank lower and a cloud of
disappointment passed over his face as he replied:
“Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have[18]
heard of many; but the All-Father has given no power
to my hands save such as belongs to common man.”
“Stand still, then, thou common man,” said Hunrad,
scornfully, “and behold what the gods have called us
hither to do. This night is the death-night of the sun-god,
Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods and men.
This night is the hour of darkness and the power of
winter, of sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the
great Thor, the god of thunder and war, to whom this
oak is sacred, is grieved for the death of Baldur, and
angry with this people because they have forsaken his
worship. Long is it since an offering has been laid upon
his altar, long since the roots of his holy tree have been
fed with blood. Therefore its leaves have withered before
the time, and its boughs are heavy with death.
Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in
battle. Therefore the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes
have ravaged the folds, and the strength has
departed from the bow, and the wood of the spear has
broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman.
Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings, and
the dead are more than the living in all our villages.
Answer me, ye people, are not these things true?”
A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A
chant, in which the voices of the men and women
blended, like the shrill wind in the pine-trees above the
rumbling thunder of a waterfall, rose and fell in rude
cadences.
“O Thor, the Thunderer,
Mighty and merciless,
Spare us from smiting!
Heave not thy hammer,
Angry, against us;
Plague not thy people.
Take from our treasure
[19]Richest of ransom.
Silver we send thee,
Jewels and javelins,
Goodliest garments,
All our possessions,
Priceless, we proffer.
Sheep will we slaughter,
Steeds will we sacrifice;
Bright blood shall bathe thee,
O tree of Thunder,
Life-floods shall lave thee,
Strong wood of wonder.
Mighty, have mercy,
Smite us no more,
Spare us and save us,
Spare us, Thor! Thor!”
With two great shouts the song ended, and a stillness
followed so intense that the crackling of the fire was
heard distinctly. The old priest stood silent for a moment.
His shaggy brows swept down over his eyes like
ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and
spoke.
“None of these things will please the god. More
costly is the offering that shall cleanse your sin, more
precious the crimson dew that shall send new life into
this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest and
your noblest gift.”
Hunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who
stood watching the red mines in the fire and the swarms
of spark-serpents darting upward. They had heeded
none of the priest’s words, and did not notice now that
he approached them, so eager were they to see which
fiery snake would go highest among the oak branches.
Foremost among them, and most intent on the pretty
game, was a boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with
blithe brown eyes and laughing lips. The priest’s hand
was laid upon his shoulder. The boy turned and looked
up in his face.
[20]
“Here,” said the old man, with his voice vibrating as
when a thick rope is strained by a ship swinging from
her moorings, “here is the chosen one, the eldest son
of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken, Bernhard,
wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell
with the gods, to bear a message to Thor?”
The boy answered, swift and clear:
“Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it
far away? Shall I run quickly? Must I take my bow
and arrows for the wolves?”
The boy’s father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing
among his bearded warriors, drew his breath deep, and
leaned so heavily on the handle of his spear that the
wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forward
from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from
her forehead with one hand. The other dragged at the
silver chain about her neck until the rough links pierced
her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on the snow
of her breast.
A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur
of the forest before the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke
save Hunrad:
“Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou
have, for the way is long, and thou art a brave huntsman.
But in darkness thou must journey for a little
space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest thou?”
“Naught fear I,” said the boy, “neither darkness,
nor the great bear, nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar’s
son, and the defender of my folk.”
Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb’s-wool
to a broad stone in front of the fire. He gave him
his little bow tipped with silver, and his spear with
shining head of steel. He bound the child’s eyes with
a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with
his face to the east. Unconsciously the wide arc of[21]
spectators drew inward toward the centre, as the ends
of the bow draw together when the cord is stretched.
Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind
the priest.
The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone
from the ground,—the sacred hammer of the god Thor.
Summoning all the strength of his withered arms, he
swung it high in the air. It poised for an instant above
the child’s fair head—then turned to fall.
One keen cry shrilled out from where the women
stood: “Me! take me! not Bernhard!”
The flight of the mother towards her child was swift
as the falcon’s swoop. But swifter still was the hand of
the deliverer.
Winfried’s heavy staff thrust mightily against the
hammer’s handle as it fell. Sideways it glanced from
the old man’s grasp, and the black stone, striking on the
altar’s edge, split in twain. A shout of awe and joy
rolled along the living circle. The branches of the oak
shivered. The flames leaped higher. As the shout died
away the people saw the lady Irma, with her arms
clasped round her child, and above them, on the altar-stone,
Winfried, his face shining like the face of an
angel.
IV
THE FELLING OF THE TREE
A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a
huge rock tumbling from the hill-side and falling in
mid-stream; the baffled waters broken and confused,
pausing in their flow, dash high against the rock, foaming
and murmuring, with divided impulse, uncertain
whether to turn to the right or the left.
Even so Winfried’s bold deed fell into the midst of[22]
the thoughts and passions of the council. They were at
a standstill. Anger and wonder, reverence and joy and
confusion surged through the crowd. They knew not
which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the
stranger as an insult to their gods, or to welcome him
as the rescuer of their darling prince.
The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting
counsels troubled the air. Let the sacrifice go
forward; the gods must be appeased. Nay, the boy
must not die; bring the chieftain’s best horse and slay
it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree loves the
blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet;
seize the stranger whom the gods have led hither as a
victim and make his life pay the forfeit of his daring.
The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered
overhead. The fire flared and sank again. The
angry voices clashed against each other and fell like
opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the
earth with his spear and gave his decision.
“All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is
no voice of the council. Keep silence now, and let the
stranger speak. His words shall give us judgment,
whether he is to live or to die.”
Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a
roll of parchment from his bosom, and began to read.
“A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits
on a golden throne, to the people of the forest, Hessians
and Thuringians, Franks and Saxons. In nomine
Domini, sanctae et individuae trinitatis, amen!”
A murmur of awe ran through the crowd. “It is the
sacred tongue of the Romans: the tongue that is heard
and understood by the wise men of every land. There
is magic in it. Listen!”
Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it
into the speech of the people.
[23]
“‘We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and
appointed him your bishop, that he may teach you the
only true faith, and baptize you, and lead you back
from the ways of error to the path of salvation.
Hearken to him in all things like a father. Bow your
hearts to his teaching. He comes not for earthly gain,
but for the gain of your souls. Depart from evil works.
Worship not the false gods, for they are devils. Offer
no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses,
but do as our Brother Boniface commands you. Build
a house for him that he may dwell among you, and a
church where you may offer your prayers to the only
living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.’”
It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful,
loving. The dignity of the words imposed mightily upon
the hearts of the people. They were quieted, as men who
have listened to a lofty strain of music.
“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word
that thou bringest to us from the Almighty. What is
thy counsel for the tribes of the woodland on this night
of sacrifice?”
“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered
Winfried. “Not a drop of blood shall fall to-night,
save that which pity has drawn from the breast of your
princess, in love for her child. Not a life shall be blotted
out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the
tree which hides you from the light of heaven shall be
swept away. For this is the birth-night of the white
Christ, son of the All-Father, and Saviour of mankind.
Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater
than Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good. Since
He has come to earth the bloody sacrifices must cease.
The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call, is dead. Deep
in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever. His power
in the world is broken. Will you serve a helpless god?[24]
See, my brothers, you call this tree his oak. Does he
dwell here? Does he protect it?”
A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The
people stirred uneasily. Women covered their eyes.
Hunrad lifted his head and muttered hoarsely, “Thor!
take vengeance! Thor!”
Winfried beckoned to Gregor. “Bring the axes, thine
and one for me. Now, young woodsman, show thy craft!
The king-tree of the forest must fall, and swiftly, or all
is lost!”
The two men took their places facing each other, one
on each side of the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside,
their heads bare. Carefully they felt the ground with
their feet, seeking a firm grip of the earth. Firmly they
grasped the axe-helves and swung the shining blades.
“Tree-god!” cried Winfried, “art thou angry?
Thus we smite thee!”
“Tree-god!” answered Gregor, “art thou mighty?
Thus we fight thee!”
Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the
hard, ringing wood. The axe-heads glittered in their
rhythmic flight, like fierce eagles circling about their
quarry.
The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening
gashes in the sides of the oak. The huge trunk quivered.
There was a shuddering in the branches. Then the great
wonder of Winfried’s life came to pass.
Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing
noise sounded overhead.
Was it the ancient gods on their white battle-steeds,
with their black hounds of wrath and their arrows of
lightning, sweeping through the air to destroy their
foes?
A strong, whirling wind passed over the tree-tops.
It gripped the oak by its branches and tore it from its[25]
roots. Backward it fell, like a ruined tower, groaning
and crashing as it split asunder in four great pieces.
Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a
moment in the presence of almighty power.
Then he turned to the people, “Here is the timber,”
he cried, “already felled and split for your new building.
On this spot shall rise a chapel to the true God
and his servant St. Peter.”
“And here,” said he, as his eyes fell on a young
fir-tree, standing straight and green, with its top pointing
towards the stars, amid the divided ruins of the
fallen oak, “here is the living tree, with no stain of
blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship.
See how it points to the sky. Let us call it the
tree of the Christ-child. Take it up and carry it to the
chieftain’s hall. You shall go no more into the shadows
of the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of
shame. You shall keep them at home, with laughter
and song and rites of love. The thunder-oak has fallen,
and I think the day is coming when there shall not be
a home in all Germany where the children are not
gathered around the green fir-tree to rejoice in the
birth-night of Christ.”
So they took the little fir from its place, and carried
it in joyous procession to the edge of the glade, and
laid it on the sledge. The horses tossed their heads
and drew their load bravely, as if the new burden had
made it lighter.
When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade
them throw open the doors of the hall and set the tree
in the midst of it. They kindled lights among the
branches until it seemed to be tangled full of fire-flies.
The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odor
of the balsam filled the house.
Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on[26]
the daïs at the end of the hall, and told the story of
Bethlehem; of the babe in the manger, of the shepherds
on the hills, of the host of angels and their midnight song.
All the people listened, charmed into stillness.
But the boy Bernhard, on Irma’s knee, folded by her
soft arm, grew restless as the story lengthened, and began
to prattle softly at his mother’s ear.
“Mother,” whispered the child, “why did you cry
out so loud, when the priest was going to send me to
Valhalla?”
“Oh, hush, my child,” answered the mother, and
pressed him closer to her side.
“Mother,” whispered the boy again, laying his finger
on the stains upon her breast, “see, your dress is red!
What are these stains? Did some one hurt you?”
The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. “Dear,
be still, and listen!”
The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep.
But he heard the last words of Winfried as he spoke
of the angelic messengers, flying over the hills of Judea
and singing as they flew. The child wondered and
dreamed and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright.
He put his lips close to Irma’s cheek again.
“Oh, mother!” he whispered very low, “do not
speak. Do you hear them? Those angels have come
back again. They are singing now behind the tree.”
And some say that it was true; but others say that it
was only Gregor and his companions at the lower end of
the hall, chanting their Christmas hymn:
“‘All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace!
Good-will, henceforth, from heaven to men
Begin, and never cease.’”
[27]
A FRENCH TAR-BABY
BY
Joel Chandler Harris
[28]
The fable was one of the first tributaries to the stream
of story-telling. Primitive man with a kind of fine
democracy claimed kinship with the animals about him.
So Hiawatha learned the language and the secrets of
birds and beasts,
“Talked with them whene’er he met them,
Called them Hiawatha’s Brothers.”
Out of this intimacy and understanding grew the fable,
wherein animals thought, acted, and talked in the terms
of human life. This kind of story is illustrated by the
“Fables” of Æsop, the animal stories of Ernest
Thompson-Seton, the “Jungle Books” of Rudyard Kipling,
and the “Uncle Remus” stories of Joel Chandler
Harris. The fable is a tale rather than a true short-story.
[29]
A FRENCH TAR-BABY[4]
In the time when there were hobgoblins and fairies,
Brother Goat and Brother Rabbit lived in the same
neighborhood, not far from each other.
Proud of his long beard and sharp horns, Brother Goat
looked on Brother Rabbit with disdain. He would
hardly speak to Brother Rabbit when he met him, and
his greatest pleasure was to make his little neighbor the
victim of his tricks and practical jokes. For instance,
he would say:
“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Fox,” and this would
cause Brother Rabbit to run away as hard as he could.
Again he would say:
“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Wolf,” and poor
Brother Rabbit would shake and tremble with fear.
Sometimes he would cry out:
“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Tiger,” and then
Brother Rabbit would shudder and think that his last
hour had come.
Tired of this miserable existence, Brother Rabbit tried
to think of some means by which he could change his
powerful and terrible neighbor into a friend. After a
time he thought he had discovered a way to make
Brother Goat his friend, and so he invited him to dinner.
Brother Goat was quick to accept the invitation. The
dinner was a fine affair, and there was an abundance of
good eating. A great many different dishes were served.
Brother Goat licked his mouth and shook his long beard
with satisfaction. He had never before been present at
such a feast.
[30]
“Well, my friend,” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, when
the dessert was brought in, “how do you like your
dinner?”
“I could certainly wish for nothing better,” replied
Brother Goat, rubbing the tips of his horns against the
back of his chair; “but my throat is very dry and a
little water would hurt neither the dinner nor me.”
“Gracious!” said Brother Rabbit, “I have neither
wine-cellar nor water. I am not in the habit of drinking
while I am eating.”
“Neither have I any water, Brother Rabbit,” said
Brother Goat. “But I have an idea! If you will go
with me over yonder by the big poplar, we will dig a
well.”
“No, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit, who hoped
to revenge himself—“no, I do not care to dig a well.
At daybreak I drink the dew from the cups of the
flowers, and in the heat of the day I milk the cows and
drink the cream.”
“Well and good,” said Brother Goat. “Alone I
will dig the well, and alone I will drink out of it.”
“Success to you, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit.
“Thank you kindly, Brother Rabbit.”
Brother Goat then went to the foot of the big poplar
and began to dig his well. He dug with his forefeet and
with his horns, and the well got deeper and deeper.
Soon the water began to bubble up and the well was
finished, and then Brother Goat made haste to quench
his thirst. He was in such a hurry that his beard got
in the water, but he drank and drank until he had his
fill.
Brother Rabbit, who had followed him at a little distance,
hid himself behind a bush and laughed heartily.
He said to himself: “What an innocent creature you
are!”
[31]
The next day, when Brother Goat, with his big beard
and sharp horns, returned to his well to get some water,
he saw the tracks of Brother Rabbit in the soft earth.
This put him to thinking. He sat down, pulled his
beard, scratched his head, and tapped himself on the
forehead.
“My friend,” he exclaimed after a while, “I will
catch you yet.”
Then he ran and got his tools (for Brother Goat was
something of a carpenter in those days) and made a
large doll out of laurel wood. When the doll was finished,
he spread tar on it here and there, on the right
and on the left, and up and down. He smeared it all
over with the sticky stuff, until it was as black as a
Guinea negro.
This finished, Brother Goat waited quietly until
evening. At sunset he placed the tarred doll near the
well, and ran and hid himself behind the trees and
bushes. The moon had just risen, and the heavens
twinkled with millions of little star-torches.
Brother Rabbit, who was waiting in his house, believed
that the time had come for him to get some water,
so he took his bucket and went to Brother Goat’s well.
On the way he was very much afraid that something
would catch him. He trembled when the wind shook
the leaves of the trees. He would go a little distance
and then stop and listen; he hid here behind a stone,
and there behind a tuft of grass.
At last he arrived at the well, and there he saw the
little negro. He stopped and looked at it with astonishment.
Then he drew back a little way, advanced
again, drew back, advanced a little, and stopped once
more.
“What can that be?” he said to himself. He listened,
with his long ears pointed forward, but the trees[32]
could not talk, and the bushes were dumb. He winked
his eyes and lowered his head:
“Hey, friend! who are you?” he asked.
The tar-doll didn’t move. Brother Rabbit went up a
little closer, and asked again:
“Who are you?”
The tar-doll said nothing. Brother Rabbit breathed
more at ease. Then he went to the brink of the well,
but when he looked in the water the tar-doll seemed to
look in too. He could see her reflection in the water.
This made Brother Rabbit so mad that he grew red in
the face.
“See here!” he exclaimed, “if you look in this well
I’ll give you a rap on the nose!”
Brother Rabbit leaned over the brink of the well, and
saw the tar-doll smiling at him in the water. He raised
his right hand and hit her—bam! His hand stuck.
“What’s this?” exclaimed Brother Rabbit. “Turn
me loose, imp of Satan! If you do not, I will rap you on
the eye with my other hand.”
Then he hit her—bim! The left hand stuck also.
Then Brother Rabbit raised his right foot, saying:
“Mark me well, little Congo! Do you see this foot?
I will kick you in the stomach if you do not turn me
loose this instant.”
No sooner said than done. Brother Rabbit let fly his
right foot—vip! The foot stuck, and he raised the other.
“Do you see this foot?” he exclaimed. “If I hit
you with it, you will think a thunderbolt has struck
you.”
Then he kicked her with the left foot, and it also
stuck like the other, and Brother Rabbit held fast his
Guinea negro.
“Watch out, now!” he cried. “I’ve already butted
a great many people with my head. If I butt you in[33]
your ugly face I’ll knock it into a jelly. Turn me loose!
Oho! you don’t answer?” Bap!
“Guinea girl!” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, “are you
dead? Gracious goodness! how my head does stick!”
When the sun rose, Brother Goat went to his well to
find out something about Brother Rabbit. The result
was beyond his expectations.
“Hey, little rogue, big rogue!” exclaimed Brother
Goat. “Hey, Brother Rabbit! what are you doing
there? I thought you drank the dew from the cups of
the flowers, or milk from the cows. Aha, Brother Rabbit!
I will punish you for stealing my water.”
“I am your friend,” said Brother Rabbit; “don’t
kill me.”
“Thief, thief!” cried Brother Goat, and then he ran
quickly into the woods, gathered up a pile of dry limbs,
and made a great fire. He took Brother Rabbit from the
tar-doll, and prepared to burn him alive. As he was
passing a thicket of brambles with Brother Rabbit on
his shoulders, Brother Goat met his daughter Bélédie,
who was walking about in the fields.
“Where are you going, papa, muffled up with such a
burden? Come and eat the fresh grass with me, and
throw wicked Brother Rabbit in the brambles.”
Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended
to be very much frightened.
“Oh, no, Brother Goat!” he cried. “Don’t throw
me in the brambles. They will tear my flesh, put out
my eyes, and pierce my heart. Oh, I pray you, rather
throw me in the fire.”
“Aha, little rogue, big rogue! Aha, Brother Rabbit!”
exclaimed Brother Goat, exultingly, “you don’t
like the brambles? Well, then, go and laugh in them,”
and he threw Brother Rabbit in without a feeling of
pity.
[34]
Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his
feet, and began to laugh.
“Ha-ha-ha! Brother Goat, what a simpleton you
are!—ha-ha-ha! A better bed I never had! In these
brambles I was born!”
Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help
himself. Brother Rabbit was safe.
A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence.
[35]
SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’
BY
Ruth McEnery Stuart
[36]
This is the story of character, in the form of dramatic
monologue. There is only one speaker, but we know by
his words that another is present and can infer his part
in the conversation. This story has the additional values
of humor and local color.
[37]
SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’[5]
Yas, sir, wife an’ me, we’ve turned ’Piscopals—all on
account o’ Sonny. He seemed to prefer that religion,
an’ of co’se we wouldn’t have the family divided, so
we’re a-goin’ to be ez good ’Piscopals ez we can.
I reckon it’ll come a little bit awkward at first. Seem
like I never will git so thet I can sass back in church
’thout feelin’ sort o’ impident—but I reckon I’ll chirp
up an’ come to it, in time.
I never was much of a hand to sound the amens,
even in our own Methodist meetin’s.
Sir? How old is he? Oh, Sonny’s purty nigh six—but
he showed a pref’ence for the ’Piscopal Church long
fo’ he could talk.
When he wasn’t no mo’ ’n three year old we commenced
a-takin’ him round to church wherever they held
meetin’s,—’Piscopals, Methodists or Presbyterians,—so’s
he could see an’ hear for hisself. I ca’yed him to a
baptizin’ over to Chinquepin Crik, once-t, when he was
three. I thought I’d let him see it done an’ maybe it
might make a good impression; but no, sir! The Baptists
didn’t suit him! Cried ever’ time one was douced, an’
I had to fetch him away. In our Methodist meetin’s he
seemed to git worked up an’ pervoked, some way. An’
the Presbyterians, he didn’t take no stock in them at all.
Ricollect, one Sunday the preacher, he preached a
mighty powerful disco’se on the doctrine o’ lost infants
not ’lected to salvation—an’ Sonny? Why, he slep’
right thoo it.
[38]
The first any way lively interest he ever seemed to take
in religious services was at the ’Piscopals, Easter Sunday.
When he seen the lilies an’ the candles he thess
clapped his little hands, an’ time the folks commenced
answerin’ back he was tickled all but to death, an’
started answerin’ hisself—on’y, of co’se he’d answer
sort o’ hit an’ miss.
I see then thet Sonny was a natu’al-born ‘Piscopal, an’
we might ez well make up our minds to it—an’ I told her
so, too. They say some is born so. But we thought
we’d let him alone an’ let nature take its co’se for
a while—not pressin’ him one way or another. He never
had showed no disposition to be christened, an’ ever
sence the doctor tried to vaccinate him he seemed to git
the notion that christenin’ an’ vaccination was mo’ or
less the same thing; an’ sence that time, he’s been mo’
opposed to it than ever.
Sir? Oh no, sir. He didn’t vaccinate him; he thess
tried to do it; but Sonny, he wouldn’t begin to allow it.
We all tried to indoose ’im. I offered him everything
on the farm ef he’d thess roll up his little sleeve an’ let
the doctor look at his arm—promised him thet he
wouldn’t tech a needle to it tell he said the word. But
he wouldn’t. He ’lowed thet me an’ his mamma could
git vaccinated ef we wanted to, but he wouldn’t.
Then we showed him our marks where we had been
vaccinated when we was little, an’ told him how it had
kep’ us clair o’ havin’ the smallpock all our lives.
Well, sir, it didn’t make no diff’ence whether we’d
been did befo’ or not, he ’lowed thet he wanted to see
us vaccinated ag’in.
An’ so, of co’se, thinkin’ it might encour’ge him, we
thess had it did over—tryin’ to coax him to consent
after each one, an’ makin’ pertend like we enjoyed it.
Then, nothin’ would do but the nigger, Dicey, had[39]
to be did, an’ then he ’lowed thet he wanted the cat
did, an’ I tried to strike a bargain with him thet if
Kitty got vaccinated he would. But he wouldn’t comp’omise.
He thess let on thet Kit had to be did whe’r
or no. So I ast the doctor ef it would likely kill the cat,
an’ he said he reckoned not, though it might sicken her
a little. So I told him to go ahead. Well, sir, befo’
Sonny got thoo, he had had that cat an’ both dogs vaccinated—but
let it tech hisself he would not.
I was mighty sorry not to have it did, ’cause they was
a nigger thet had the smallpock down to Cedar Branch,
fifteen mile away, an’ he didn’t die, neither. He got
well. An’ they say when they git well they’re more
fatal to a neighborhood ‘n when they die.
That was fo’ months ago now, but to this day ever’
time the wind blows from sou’west I feel oneasy, an’
try to entice Sonny to play on the far side o’ the house.
Well, sir, in about ten days after that we was the
down-in-the-mouthest crowd on that farm, man an’ beast,
thet you ever see. Ever’ last one o’ them vaccinations
took, sir, an’ took severe, from the cat up.
But I reckon we’re all safe-t guarded now. They ain’t
nothin’ on the place thet can fetch it to Sonny, an’ I
trust, with care, he may never be exposed.
But I set out to tell you about Sonny’s christenin’ an’
us turnin’ ‘Piscopal. Ez I said, he never seemed to want
baptism, though he had heard us discuss all his life
both it an’ vaccination ez the two ordeels to be gone thoo
with some time, an’ we’d speculate ez to whether vaccination
would take or not, an’ all sech ez that, an’ then,
ez I said, after he see what the vaccination was, why he
was even mo’ prejudyced agin’ baptism ‘n ever, an’ we
’lowed to let it run on tell sech a time ez he’d decide
what name he’d want to take an’ what denomination
he’d want to bestow it on him.
[40]
Wife, she’s got some ‘Piscopal relations thet she sort o’
looks up to,—though she don’t own it,—but she was
raised Methodist an’ I was raised a true-blue Presbyterian.
But when we professed after Sonny come we
went up together at Methodist meetin’. What we was
after was righteous livin’, an’ we didn’t keer much
which denomination helped us to it.
An’ so, feelin’ friendly all roun’ that-a-way, we
thought we’d leave Sonny to pick his church when he got
ready, an’ then they wouldn’t be nothin’ to undo or do
over in case he went over to the ‘Piscopals, which has
the name of revisin’ over any other church’s performances—though
sence we’ve turned ‘Piscopals we’ve
found out that ain’t so.
Of co’se the preachers, they used to talk to us about
it once-t in a while,—seemed to think it ought to be did,—’ceptin’,
of co’se, the Baptists.
Well, sir, it went along so till last week. Sonny ain’t
but, ez I said, thess not quite six year old, an’ they
seemed to be time enough. But last week he had been
playin’ out o’ doors bare-feeted, thess same ez he always
does, an’ he tramped on a pine splinter some way. Of
co’se, pine, it’s the safe-t-est splinter a person can run
into a foot, on account of its carryin’ its own turpentine
in with it to heal up things; but any splinter thet dast to
push itself up into a little pink foot is a messenger of
trouble, an’ we know it. An’ so, when we see this one,
we tried ever’ way to coax him to let us take it out,
but he wouldn’t, of co’se. He never will, an’ somehow
the Lord seems to give ’em ambition to work their own
way out mos’ gen’ally.
But, sir, this splinter didn’t seem to have no energy in
it. It thess lodged there, an’ his little foot it commenced
to swell, an’ it swole an’ swole tell his little toes stuck out
so thet the little pig thet went to market looked like ez[41]
ef it wasn’t on speakin’ terms with the little pig thet
stayed home, an’ wife an’ me we watched it, an’ I reckon
she prayed over it consider’ble, an’ I read a extry psalm
at night befo’ I went to bed, all on account o’ that little
foot. An’ night befo’ las’ it was lookin’ mighty angry
an’ swole, an’ he had limped an’ “ouched!” consider’ble
all day, an’ he was mighty fretful bed-time. So,
after he went to sleep, wife she come out on the po’ch
where I was settin’, and she says to me, says she, her face
all drawed up an’ workin’, says she: “Honey,” says she,
“I reckon we better sen’ for him an’ have it did.”
Thess so, she said it. “Sen’ for who, wife?” says I,
“an’ have what did?” “Why, sen’ for him, the ‘Piscopal
preacher,” says she, “an’ have Sonny christened.
Them little toes o’ hisn is ez red ez cherry tomatoes.
They burnt my lips thess now like a coal o’ fire an’—an’
lockjaw is goin’ roun’ tur’ble.
“Seems to me,” says she, “when he started to git
sleepy, he didn’t gap ez wide ez he gen’ly does—an’ I’m
’feered he’s a-gittin’ it now.” An’, sir, with that, she
thess gathered up her apron an’ mopped her face in it
an’ give way. An’ ez for me, I didn’t seem to have no
mo’ backbone down my spinal colume ‘n a feather bolster
has, I was that weak.
I never ast her why she didn’t sen’ for our own
preacher. I knowed then ez well ez ef she’d ’a’ told me
why she done it—all on account o’ Sonny bein’ so tickled
over the ‘Piscopals’ meetin’s.
It was mos’ nine o’clock then, an’ a dark night, an’
rainin’, but I never said a word—they wasn’t no room
round the edges o’ the lump in my throat for words to
come out ef they’d ’a’ been one surgin’ up there to
say, which they wasn’t—but I thess went out an’ saddled
my horse an’ I rid into town. Stopped first at the doctor’s
an’ sent him out, though I knowed ’twouldn’t do[42]
no good; Sonny wouldn’t ’low him to tech it; but I sent
him out anyway, to look at it, an’, ef possible, console
wife a little. Then I rid on to the rector’s an’ ast him to
come out immejate an’ baptize Sonny. But nex’ day
was his turn to preach down at Sandy Crik, an’ he
couldn’t come that night, but he promised to come right
after services nex’ mornin’—which he done—rid the
whole fo’teen mile from Sandy Crik here in the rain, too,
which I think is a evidence o’ Christianity, though no
sech acts is put down in my book o’ “evidences” where
they ought rightfully to be.
Well, sir, when I got home that night, I found wife
a heap cheerfuler. The doctor had give Sonny a big
apple to eat an’ pernounced him free from all symptoms
o’ lockjaw. But when I come the little feller had
crawled ’back under the bed an’ lay there, eatin’
his apple, an’ they couldn’t git him out. Soon ez the
doctor had teched a poultice to his foot he had woke up
an’ put a stop to it, an’ then he had went off by hisself
where nothin’ couldn’t pester him, to enjoy his apple in
peace. An’ we never got him out tell he heered us tellin’
the doctor good-night.
I tried ever’ way to git him out—even took up a coal
o’ fire an’ poked it under at him; but he thess laughed at
that an’ helt his apple agin’ it an’ made it sizz. Well,
sir, he seemed so tickled that I helt that coal o’ fire for
him tell he cooked a good big spot on one side o’ the
apple, an’ et it, an’ then, when I took it out, he called
for another, but I didn’t give it to him. I don’t see no
use in over-indulgin’ a child. An’ when he knowed the
doctor was gone, he come out an’ finished roastin’ his
apple by the fire—thess what was left of it ’round the
co’e.
Well, sir, we was mightily comforted by the doctor’s
visit, but nex’ mornin’ things looked purty gloomy ag’in.[43]
That little foot seemed a heap worse, an’ he was sort o’
flushed an’ feverish, an’ wife she thought she heard a
owl hoot, an’ Rover made a mighty funny gurgly sound
in his th’oat like ez ef he had bad news to tell us, but
didn’t have the courage to speak it.
An’ then, on top o’ that, the nigger Dicey, she come in
an’ ’lowed she had dreamed that night about eatin’
spare-ribs, which everybody knows to dream about fresh
pork out o’ season, which this is July, is considered a
shore sign o’ death. Of co’se, wife an’ me, we don’t
b’lieve in no sech ez that, but ef you ever come to see
yo’ little feller’s toes stand out the way Sonny’s done
day befo’ yesterday, why, sir, you’ll be ready to b’lieve
anything. It’s so much better now, you can’t judge of
its looks day befo’ yesterday. We never had even so
much ez considered it necessary thet little children
should be christened to have ’em saved, but when things
got on the ticklish edge, like they was then, why, we felt
thet the safest side is the wise side, an’, of co’se, we
want Sonny to have the best of everything. So, we was
mighty thankful when we see the rector comin’. But,
sir, when I went out to open the gate for him, what on
top o’ this round hemisp’ere do you reckon Sonny done?
Why, sir, he thess took one look at the gate an’ then he
cut an’ run hard ez he could—limped acrost the yard
thess like a flash o’ zig-zag lightnin’—an’ ’fore anybody
could stop him, he had clumb to the tip top o’ the butter-bean
arbor—clumb it thess like a cat—an’ there he set,
a-swingin’ his feet under him, an’ laughin’, the rain
thess a-streakin’ his hair all over his face.
That bean arbor is a favoryte place for him to escape
to, ’cause it’s too high to reach, an’ it ain’t strong
enough to bear no grown-up person’s weight.
Well, sir, the rector, he come in an’ opened his valise
an’ ’rayed hisself in his robes an’ opened his book, an[44]’
while he was turnin’ the leaves, he faced ’round an’
says he, lookin’ at me direc’, says he:
“Let the child be brought forward for baptism,” says
he, thess that-a-way.
Well, sir, I looked at wife, an’ wife, she looked at me,
an’ then we both thess looked out at the butter-bean
arbor.
I knowed then thet Sonny wasn’t never comin’ down
while the rector was there, an’ rector, he seemed sort
o’ fretted for a minute when he see how things was, an’
he did try to do a little settin’ fo’th of opinions. He
’lowed, speakin’ in a mighty pompious manner, thet holy
things wasn’t to be trifled with, an’ thet he had come to
baptize the child accordin’ to the rites o’ the church.
Well, that sort o’ talk, it thess rubbed me the wrong
way, an’ I up an’ told him thet that might be so, but
thet the rites o’ the church didn’t count for nothin’, on
our farm, to the rights o’ the boy!
I reckon it was mighty disrespec’ful o’ me to face him
that-a-way, an’ him adorned in all his robes, too, but I’m
thess a plain up-an’-down man an’ I hadn’t went for
him to come an’ baptize Sonny to uphold the granjer of
no church. I was ready to do that when the time come,
but right now we was workin’ in Sonny’s interests,
an’ I intended to have it understood that way. An’ it
was.
Rector, he’s a mighty good, kind-hearted man, git
down to the man inside the preacher, an’ when he see
thess how things stood, why, he come ’round friendly,
an’ he went out on the po’ch an’ united with us in
tryin’ to help coax Sonny down. First started by
promisin’ him speritual benefits, but he soon see that
wasn’t no go, and he tried worldly persuasion; but no,
sir, stid o’ him comin’ down, Sonny started orderin’
the rest of us christened thess the way he done about[45]
the vaccination. But, of co’se, we had been baptized
befo’, an’ we nachelly helt out agin’ that for some time.
But d’rec’ly rector, he seemed to have a sudden idee,
an’ says he, facin’ ’round, church-like, to wife an’ me,
says he:
“Have you both been baptized accordin’ to the rites
o’ the church?”
An’ me, thinkin’ of co’se he meant the ‘Piscopal
Church, says: “No, sir,” says I, thess so. And then we
see that the way was open for us to be did over ag’in ef
we wanted to. So, sir, wife an’ me we was took into the
church, then an’ there. We wouldn’t ’a’’ yielded to him,
thoo an’ thoo, that-a-way ag’in ef his little foot hadn’t
’a’’ been so swole, an’ he maybe takin’ his death o’ cold
settin’ out in the po’in’-down rain; but things bein’ as
they was, we went thoo it with all due respects.
Then he commenced callin’ for Dicey, an’ the dog, an’
the cat, to be did, same ez he done befo’; but, of co’se,
they’s some liberties thet even a innocent child can’t
take with the waters o’ baptism, an’ the rector he got
sort o’ wo’e-out and disgusted an’ ’lowed thet ’less’n
we could get the child ready for baptism he’d haf to go
home.
Well, sir, I knowed we wouldn’t never git ’im down,
an’ I had went for the rector to baptize him, an’ I intended
to have it did, ef possible. So, says I, turnin’
’round an’ facin’ him square, says I: “Rector,” says I,
“why not baptize him where he is? I mean it. The
waters o’ Heaven are descendin’ upon him where he sets,
an’ seems to me ef he’s favo’bly situated for anything
it is for baptism.” Well, parson, he thess looked at me
up an’ down for a minute, like ez ef he s’picioned I was
wanderin’ in my mind, but he didn’t faze me. I thess
kep’ up my argiment. Says I: “Parson,” says I,
speakin’ thess ez ca’m ez I am this minute—“Parson,[46]”
says I, “his little foot is mighty swole, an’ so’e, an’ that
splinter—thess s’pose he was to take the lockjaw an’
die—don’t you reckon you might do it where he sets—from
where you stand?”
Wife, she was cryin’ by this time, an’ parson, he
claired his th’oat an’ coughed, an’ then he commenced
walkin’ up an’ down, an’ treckly he stopped, an’ says
he, speakin’ mighty reverential an’ serious:
“Lookin’ at this case speritually, an’ as a minister
o’ the Gospel,” says he, “it seems to me thet the question
ain’t so much a question of doin’ ez it is a question
of withholdin’. I don’t know,” says he, “ez I’ve
got a right to withhold the sacrament of baptism from
a child under these circumstances or to deny sech comfort
to his parents ez lies in my power to bestow.”
An’, sir, with that he stepped out to the end o’ the
po’ch, opened his book ag’in, an’ holdin’ up his right
hand to’ards Sonny, settin’ on top o’ the bean-arbor
in the rain, he commenced to read the service o’ baptism,
an’ we stood proxies—which is a sort o’ a dummy
substitutes—for whatever godfather an’ mother Sonny
see fit to choose in after life.
Parson, he looked half like ez ef he’d laugh once-t.
When he had thess opened his book and started to speak,
a sudden streak o’ sunshine shot out an’ the rain started
to ease up, an’ it looked for a minute ez ef he was goin’
to lose the baptismal waters. But d’rec’ly it come down
stiddy ag’in an’ he went thoo the programme entire.
An’ Sonny, he behaved mighty purty; set up perfec’ly
ca’m an’ composed thoo it all, an’ took everything
in good part, though he didn’t p’intedly know who was
bein’ baptized, ’cause, of co’se, he couldn’t hear the
words with the rain in his ears.
He didn’t rightly sense the situation tell it come
to the part where it says: “Name this child,” and, of[47]
co’se, I called out to Sonny to name hisself, which it
had always been our intention to let him do.
“Name yo’self, right quick, like a good boy,” says I.
Of co’se Sonny had all his life heered me say thet
I was Deuteronomy Jones, Senior, an’ thet I hoped
some day when he got christened he’d be the junior.
He knowed that by heart, an’ would agree to it or
dispute it, ’cordin’ to how the notion took him, and I
sort o’ ca’culated thet he’d out with it now. But no,
sir! Not a word! He thess sot up on thet bean-arbor
an’ grinned.
An’ so, feelin’ put to it, with the services suspended
over my head, I spoke up, an’ I says: “Parson,” says
I, “I reckon ef he was to speak his little heart, he’d
say Deuteronomy Jones, Junior.” An’ with thet what
does Sonny do but conterdic’ me flat! “No, not Junior!
I want to be named Deuteronomy Jones, Senior!” says
he, thess so. An’ parson, he looked to’ards me, an’ I
bowed my head an’ he pronounced thess one single name,
“Deuteronomy,” an’ I see he wasn’t goin’ to say no
more an’ so I spoke up quick, an’ says I: “Parson,”
says I, “he has spoke his heart’s desire. He has named
hisself after me entire—Deuteronomy Jones, Senior.”
An’ so he was obligated to say it, an’ so it is writ
in the family record colume in the big Bible, though I
spelt his Senior with a little s, an’ writ him down ez
the only son of the Senior with the big S, which it seems
to me fixes it about right for the time bein’.
Well, when the rector had got thoo an’ he had wropped
up his robes an’ put ’em in his wallet, an’ had told us
to prepare for conformation, he pernounced a blessin’
upon us an’ went.
Then Sonny seein’ it was all over, why, he come down.
He was wet ez a drownded rat, but wife rubbed him
off an’ give him some hot tea an’ he come a-snuggin[48]’
up in my lap, thess ez sweet a child ez you ever see in
yo’ life, an’ I talked to him ez fatherly ez I could, told
him we was all ‘Piscopals now, an’ soon ez his little
foot got well I was goin’ to take him out to Sunday-school
to tote a banner—all his little ‘Piscopal friends
totes banners—an’ thet he could pick out some purty
candles for the altar, an’ he ’lowed immejate thet he’d
buy pink ones. Sonny always was death on pink—showed
it from the time he could snatch a pink rose—an’
wife she ain’t never dressed him in nothin’ else.
Ever’ pair o’ little breeches he’s got is either pink or
pink-trimmed.
Well, I talked along to him till I worked ’round to
shamin’ him a little for havin’ to be christened settin’
up on top a bean-arbor, same ez a crow-bird, which I
told him the parson he wouldn’t ’a’’ done ef he’d ’a’’
felt free to ’ve left it undone. ’Twasn’t to indulge him
he done it, but to bless him an’ to comfort our hearts.
Well, after I had reasoned with him severe that-a-way
a while, he says, says he, thess ez sweet an’ mild, says he,
“Daddy, nex’ time y’all gits christened, I’ll come down
an’ be christened right—like a good boy.”
Th’ ain’t a sweeter child in’ardly ‘n what Sonny is,
nowheres, git him to feel right comf’table, and I know it,
an’ that’s why I have patience with his little out’ard
ways.
“Yes, sir,” says he; “nex’ time I’ll be christened
like a good boy.”
Then, of co’se, I explained to him thet it couldn’t
never be did no mo’, ’cause it had been did, an’ did
‘Piscopal, which is secure. An’ then what you reckon
the little feller said?
Says he, “Yes, daddy, but s’pos’in’ mine don’t take.
How ’bout that?”
An’ I didn’t try to explain no further. What was[49]
the use? Wife, she had drawed a stool close-t up to my
knee, an’ set there sortin’ out the little yaller rings ez
they’d dry out on his head, an’ when he said that I
thess looked at her an’ we both looked at him, an’ says
I, “Wife,” says I, “ef they’s anything in heavenly
looks an’ behavior, I b’lieve that christenin’ is started to
take on him a’ready.”
An’ I b’lieve it had.
[50]
[51]
CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN
BY
John Fox, Jr.
[52]
“All that is literature seeks to communicate power.”[6]
Here the power communicated is that of sympathizing
with God’s “lesser children.” The humanitarian story
is a long step in advance of the fable. It recognizes
the true relations of the animal world to man, and insists
that it be dealt with righteously and sympathetically.
[53]
CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN[7]
No night was this in Hades with solemn-eyed Dante,
for Satan was only a woolly little black dog, and surely
no dog was ever more absurdly misnamed. When Uncle
Carey first heard that name, he asked gravely:
“Why, Dinnie, where in h——,” Uncle Carey gulped
slightly, “did you get him?” And Dinnie laughed merrily,
for she saw the fun of the question, and shook her
black curls.
“He didn’t come f’um that place.”
Distinctly Satan had not come from that place. On
the contrary, he might by a miracle have dropped
straight from some Happy Hunting-Ground, for all the
signs he gave of having touched pitch in this or another
sphere. Nothing human was ever born that was
gentler, merrier, more trusting or more lovable than
Satan. That was why Uncle Carey said again gravely
that he could hardly tell Satan and his little mistress
apart. He rarely saw them apart, and as both had black
tangled hair and bright black eyes; as one awoke every
morning with a happy smile and the other with a jolly
bark; as they played all day like wind-shaken shadows
and each won every heart at first sight—the likeness
was really rather curious. I have always believed that
Satan made the spirit of Dinnie’s house, orthodox and
severe though it was, almost kindly toward his great
namesake. I know I have never been able, since I knew
little Satan, to think old Satan as bad as I once painted[54]
him, though I am sure the little dog had many pretty
tricks that the “old boy” doubtless has never used in
order to amuse his friends.
“Shut the door, Saty, please,” Dinnie would say, precisely
as she would say it to Uncle Billy, the butler, and
straightway Satan would launch himself at it—bang!
He never would learn to close it softly, for Satan liked
that—bang!
If you kept tossing a coin or marble in the air, Satan
would keep catching it and putting it back in your
hand for another throw, till you got tired. Then he
would drop it on a piece of rag carpet, snatch the carpet
with his teeth, throw the coin across the room, and
rush for it like mad, until he got tired. If you put a
penny on his nose, he would wait until you counted,
one—two—three! Then he would toss it up himself
and catch it. Thus, perhaps, Satan grew to love Mammon
right well, but for another and better reason than
that he liked simply to throw it around—as shall now
be made plain.
A rubber ball with a hole in it was his favorite plaything,
and he would take it in his mouth and rush around
the house like a child, squeezing it to make it whistle.
When he got a new ball, he would hide his old one
away until the new one was the worse worn of the two,
and then he would bring out the old one again. If
Dinnie gave him a nickel or a dime, when they went
down-town, Satan would rush into a store, rear up
on the counter where the rubber balls were kept, drop
the coin, and get a ball for himself. Thus, Satan learned
finance. He began to hoard his pennies, and one day
Uncle Carey found a pile of seventeen under a corner
of the carpet. Usually he carried to Dinnie all coins
that he found in the street, but he showed one day
that he was going into the ball-business for himself.[55]
Uncle Carey had given Dinnie a nickel for some candy,
and, as usual, Satan trotted down the street behind her.
As usual, Satan stopped before the knick-knack shop.
“Tum on, Saty,” said Dinnie. Satan reared against
the door as he always did, and Dinnie said again:
“Tum on, Saty.” As usual, Satan dropped to his
haunches, but what was unusual, he failed to bark.
Now Dinnie had got a new ball for Satan only that
morning, so Dinnie stamped her foot.
“I tell you to tum on, Saty.” Satan never moved.
He looked at Dinnie as much as to say:
“I have never disobeyed you before, little mistress,
but this time I have an excellent reason for what must
seem to you very bad manners——” and being a gentleman
withal, Satan rose on his haunches and begged.
“You’re des a pig, Saty,” said Dinnie, but with a
sigh for the candy that was not to be, Dinnie opened
the door, and Satan, to her wonder, rushed to the
counter, put his forepaws on it, and dropped from his
mouth a dime. Satan had found that coin on the street.
He didn’t bark for change, nor beg for two balls, but
he had got it in his woolly little head, somehow, that
in that store a coin meant a ball, though never before
nor afterward did he try to get a ball for a penny.
Satan slept in Uncle Carey’s room, for of all people,
after Dinnie, Satan loved Uncle Carey best. Every day
at noon he would go to an upstairs window and watch
the cars come around the corner, until a very tall,
square-shouldered young man swung to the ground, and
down Satan would scamper—yelping—to meet him at
the gate. If Uncle Carey, after supper and when Dinnie
was in bed, started out of the house, still in his
business clothes, Satan would leap out before him, knowing
that he too might be allowed to go; but if Uncle
Carey had put on black clothes that showed a big, dazzling[56]
shirt-front, and picked up his high hat, Satan
would sit perfectly still and look disconsolate; for as
there were no parties or theatres for Dinnie, so there
were none for him. But no matter how late it was
when Uncle Carey came home, he always saw Satan’s
little black nose against the window-pane and heard
his bark of welcome.
After intelligence, Satan’s chief trait was lovableness—nobody
ever knew him to fight, to snap at anything,
or to get angry; after lovableness, it was politeness.
If he wanted something to eat, if he wanted Dinnie
to go to bed, if he wanted to get out of the door,
he would beg—beg prettily on his haunches, his little
red tongue out and his funny little paws hanging loosely.
Indeed, it was just because Satan was so little less
than human, I suppose, that old Satan began to be afraid
he might have a soul. So the wicked old namesake with
the Hoofs and Horns laid a trap for little Satan,
and, as he is apt to do, he began laying it early—long,
indeed, before Christmas.
When Dinnie started to kindergarten that autumn,
Satan found that there was one place where he could
never go. Like the lamb, he could not go to school;
so while Dinnie was away, Satan began to make friends.
He would bark, “Howdy-do?” to every dog that passed
his gate. Many stopped to rub noses with him through
the fence—even Hugo the mastiff, and nearly all, indeed,
except one strange-looking dog that appeared every
morning at precisely nine o’clock and took his stand on
the corner. There he would lie patiently until a funeral
came along, and then Satan would see him take his place
at the head of the procession; and thus he would march
out to the cemetery and back again. Nobody knew where
he came from nor where he went, and Uncle Carey called
him the “funeral dog” and said he was doubtless looking[57]
for his dead master. Satan even made friends with
a scrawny little yellow dog that followed an old drunkard
around—a dog that, when his master fell in the
gutter, would go and catch a policeman by the coat-tail,
lead the officer to his helpless master, and spend the night
with him in jail.
By and by Satan began to slip out of the house at
night, and Uncle Billy said he reckoned Satan had
“jined de club”; and late one night, when he had
not come in, Uncle Billy told Uncle Carey that it was
“powerful slippery and he reckoned they’d better send
de kerridge after him”—an innocent remark that made
Uncle Carey send a boot after the old butler, who fled
chuckling down the stairs, and left Uncle Carey
chuckling in his room.
Satan had “jined de club”—the big club—and no
dog was too lowly in Satan’s eyes for admission; for no
priest ever preached the brotherhood of man better than
Satan lived it—both with man and dog. And thus he
lived it that Christmas night—to his sorrow.
Christmas Eve had been gloomy—the gloomiest of
Satan’s life. Uncle Carey had gone to a neighboring
town at noon. Satan had followed him down to the
station, and when the train started, Uncle Carey had
ordered him to go home. Satan took his time about
going home, not knowing it was Christmas Eve. He
found strange things happening to dogs that day. The
truth was, that policemen were shooting all dogs found
that were without a collar and a license, and every now
and then a bang and a howl somewhere would stop
Satan in his tracks. At a little yellow house on the
edge of town he saw half a dozen strange dogs in a
kennel, and every now and then a negro would lead
a new one up to the house and deliver him to a big
man at the door, who, in return, would drop something[58]
into the negro’s hand. While Satan waited, the
old drunkard came along with his little dog at his heels,
paused before the door, looked a moment at his faithful
follower, and went slowly on. Satan little knew the
old drunkard’s temptation, for in that yellow house
kind-hearted people had offered fifteen cents for each
dog brought to them, without a license, that they might
mercifully put it to death, and fifteen cents was the
precise price for a drink of good whiskey. Just then
there was another bang and another howl somewhere,
and Satan trotted home to meet a calamity. Dinnie
was gone. Her mother had taken her out in the country
to Grandmother Dean’s to spend Christmas, as was the
family custom, and Mrs. Dean would not wait any longer
for Satan; so she told Uncle Billy to bring him out
after supper.
“Ain’t you ’shamed o’ yo’self—suh—?” said the old
butler, “keeping me from ketchin’ Christmas gifts dis
day?”
Uncle Billy was indignant, for the negroes begin at
four o’clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve to slip
around corners and jump from hiding-places to shout
“Christmas Gif’—Christmas Gif’”; and the one who
shouts first gets a gift. No wonder it was gloomy for
Satan—Uncle Carey, Dinnie, and all gone, and not a
soul but Uncle Billy in the big house. Every few minutes
he would trot on his little black legs upstairs and
downstairs, looking for his mistress. As dusk came on,
he would every now and then howl plaintively. After
begging his supper, and while Uncle Billy was hitching
up a horse in the stable, Satan went out in the yard
and lay with his nose between the close panels of the
fence—quite heart-broken. When he saw his old friend,
Hugo the mastiff, trotting into the gas-light, he began
to bark his delight frantically. The big mastiff stopped[59]
and nosed his sympathy through the fence for a moment
and walked slowly on, Satan frisking and barking
along inside. At the gate Hugo stopped, and raising
one huge paw, playfully struck it. The gate flew open,
and with a happy yelp Satan leaped into the street.
The noble mastiff hesitated as though this were not quite
regular. He did not belong to the club, and he didn’t
know that Satan had ever been away from home after
dark in his life. For a moment he seemed to wait for
Dinnie to call him back as she always did, but this time
there was no sound, and Hugo walked majestically on,
with absurd little Satan running in a circle about him.
On the way they met the “funeral dog,” who glanced
inquiringly at Satan, shied from the mastiff, and trotted
on. On the next block the old drunkard’s yellow
cur ran across the street, and after interchanging the
compliments of the season, ran back after his staggering
master. As they approached the railroad track
a strange dog joined them, to whom Hugo paid no attention.
At the crossing another new acquaintance bounded
toward them. This one—a half-breed shepherd—was
quite friendly, and he received Satan’s advances with
affable condescension. Then another came and another,
and little Satan’s head got quite confused. They were
a queer-looking lot of curs and half-breeds from the
negro settlement at the edge of the woods, and though
Satan had little experience, his instincts told him that
all was not as it should be, and had he been human
he would have wondered very much how they had escaped
the carnage that day. Uneasy, he looked around
for Hugo; but Hugo had disappeared. Once or twice
Hugo had looked around for Satan, and Satan paying
no attention, the mastiff trotted on home in disgust.
Just then a powerful yellow cur sprang out of the darkness
over the railroad track, and Satan sprang to meet[60]
him, and so nearly had the life scared out of him by
the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer that he
hardly had the strength to shrink back behind his new
friend, the half-breed shepherd.
A strange thing then happened. The other dogs
became suddenly quiet, and every eye was on the yellow
cur. He sniffed the air once or twice, gave two
or three peculiar low growls, and all those dogs except
Satan lost the civilization of centuries and went
back suddenly to the time when they were wolves and
were looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo for that
little pack, and after a short parley, he lifted his nose
high and started away without looking back, while
the other dogs silently trotted after him. With a mystified
yelp, Satan ran after them. The cur did not
take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field,
making his way by the rear of houses, from which now
and then another dog would slink out and silently join
the band. Every one of them Satan nosed most friendlily,
and to his great joy the funeral dog, on the edge
of town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later
the cur stopped in the midst of some woods, as though
he would inspect his followers. Plainly, he disapproved
of Satan, and Satan kept out of his way. Then he
sprang into the turnpike and the band trotted down
it, under flying black clouds and shifting bands of brilliant
moonlight. Once, a buggy swept past them. A
familiar odor struck Satan’s nose, and he stopped for
a moment to smell the horse’s tracks; and right he was,
too, for out at her grandmother’s Dinnie refused to be
comforted, and in that buggy was Uncle Billy going
back to town after him.
Snow was falling. It was a great lark for Satan.
Once or twice, as he trotted along, he had to bark his joy
aloud, and each time the big cur gave him such a fierce[61]
growl that he feared thereafter to open his jaws. But
he was happy for all that, to be running out into the
night with such a lot of funny friends and not to know
or care where he was going. He got pretty tired presently,
for over hill and down hill they went, at that
unceasing trot, trot, trot! Satan’s tongue began to
hang out. Once he stopped to rest, but the loneliness
frightened him and he ran on after them with his heart
almost bursting. He was about to lie right down and
die, when the cur stopped, sniffed the air once or twice,
and with those same low growls, led the marauders
through a rail fence into the woods, and lay quietly
down. How Satan loved that soft, thick grass, all snowy
that it was! It was almost as good as his own bed at
home. And there they lay—how long, Satan never knew,
for he went to sleep and dreamed that he was after a
rat in the barn at home; and he yelped in his sleep,
which made the cur lift his big yellow head and show
his fangs. The moving of the half-breed shepherd and
the funeral dog waked him at last, and Satan got up.
Half crouching, the cur was leading the way toward
the dark, still woods on top of the hill, over which
the Star of Bethlehem was lowly sinking, and under
which lay a flock of the gentle creatures that seemed to
have been almost sacred to the Lord of that Star. They
were in sore need of a watchful shepherd now. Satan
was stiff and chilled, but he was rested and had had
his sleep, and he was just as ready for fun as he always
was. He didn’t understand that sneaking. Why they
didn’t all jump and race and bark as he wanted to, he
couldn’t see; but he was too polite to do otherwise than
as they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one
would have thought he knew, as well as the rest, the
hellish mission on which they were bent.
Out of the woods they went, across a little branch,[62]
and there the big cur lay flat again in the grass. A faint
bleat came from the hill-side beyond, where Satan could
see another woods—and then another bleat, and another.
And the cur began to creep again, like a snake
in the grass; and the others crept too, and little Satan
crept, though it was all a sad mystery to him. Again
the cur lay still, but only long enough for Satan to see
curious, fat, white shapes above him—and then, with a
blood-curdling growl, the big brute dashed forward. Oh,
there was fun in them after all! Satan barked joyfully.
Those were some new playmates—those fat, white, hairy
things up there; and Satan was amazed when, with
frightened snorts, they fled in every direction. But this
was a new game, perhaps, of which he knew nothing,
and as did the rest, so did Satan. He picked out one
of the white things and fled barking after it. It was
a little fellow that he was after, but little as he was,
Satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep
got tangled in some brush. Satan danced about him
in mad glee, giving him a playful nip at his wool and
springing back to give him another nip, and then away
again. Plainly, he was not going to bite back, and when
the sheep struggled itself tired and sank down in a
heap, Satan came close and licked him, and as he was
very warm and woolly, he lay down and snuggled up
against him for a while, listening to the turmoil that
was going on around him. And as he listened, he got
frightened.
If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar
one—the wild rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of
agony, and the fiendish growls of attack and the sounds
of ravenous gluttony. With every hair bristling, Satan
rose and sprang from the woods—and stopped with a
fierce tingling of the nerves that brought him horror
and fascination. One of the white shapes lay still before[63]
him. There was a great steaming red splotch on
the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him
dizzy; but only for a moment. Another white shape
rushed by. A tawny streak followed, and then, in a
patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur with his
teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate.
Like lightning Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him
ten feet away and went back to his awful work. Again
Satan leaped, but just then a shout rose behind him,
and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning
had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or
sheep, began to quiver with fright and slink away. Another
shout rose from another direction—another from
another.
“Drive ’em into the barn-yard!” was the cry.
Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl
of death-agony, as some dog tried to break through the
encircling men, who yelled and cursed as they closed
in on the trembling brutes that slunk together and
crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his
fate if caught, and will make little effort to escape.
With them went Satan, through the barn-yard gate,
where they huddled in a corner—a shamed and terrified
group. A tall overseer stood at the gate.
“Ten of ’em!” he said grimly.
He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy,
for there had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several
farms in that neighborhood, and for several nights
he had had a lantern hung out on the edge of the woods
to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand had
neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.
“Yassuh, an’ dey’s jus’ sebenteen dead sheep out
dar,” said a negro.
“Look at the little one,” said a tall boy who looked
like the overseer; and Satan knew that he spoke of him.
[64]
“Go back to the house, son,” said the overseer, “and
tell your mother to give you a Christmas present I got
for you yesterday.” With a glad whoop the boy dashed
away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new
.32 Winchester in his hand.
The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on
Christmas Day. It was the hour when Satan usually
rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress was asleep.
If he were only at home now, and if he only had known
how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her
playthings and his—two new balls and a brass-studded
collar with a silver plate on which was his name, Satan
Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart
would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun.
There was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the
funeral dog started on the right way at last toward his
dead master. Another crack, and the yellow cur leaped
from the ground and fell kicking. Another crack and
another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little
Satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone.
His time was now come. As the rifle was raised, he
heard up at the big house the cries of children; the
popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles
and loud shouts of “Christmas Gif’, Christmas Gif’!”
His little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just
what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit;
most likely Satan simply wanted to go home—but when
that gun rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches, his tongue
out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws
hanging loosely—and begged! The boy lowered the gun.
“Down, sir!” Satan dropped obediently, but when
the gun was lifted again, Satan rose again, and again
he begged.
“Down, I tell you!” This time Satan would not
down, but sat begging for his life. The boy turned.
[65]
“Papa, I can’t shoot that dog.” Perhaps Satan had
reached the stern old overseer’s heart. Perhaps he remembered
suddenly that it was Christmas. At any
rate, he said gruffly:
“Well, let him go.”
“Come here, sir!” Satan bounded toward the tall
boy, frisking and trustful and begged again.
“Go home, sir!”
Satan needed no second command. Without a sound
he fled out the barn-yard, and, as he swept under the
front gate, a little girl ran out of the front door of the
big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking:
“Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!” But Satan never heard.
On he fled, across the crisp fields, leaped the fence and
struck the road, lickety-split! for home, while Dinnie
dropped sobbing in the snow.
“Hitch up a horse, quick,” said Uncle Carey, rushing
after Dinnie and taking her up in his arms. Ten
minutes later, Uncle Carey and Dinnie, both warmly
bundled up, were after flying Satan. They never caught
him until they reached the hill on the outskirts of
town, where was the kennel of the kind-hearted people
who were giving painless death to Satan’s four-footed
kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the
road. There was divine providence in Satan’s flight for
one little dog that Christmas morning; for Uncle Carey
saw the old drunkard staggering down the road without
his little companion, and a moment later, both he and
Dinnie saw Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the
palings. Uncle Carey knew the little cur, and while Dinnie
was shrieking for Satan, he was saying under his
breath:
“Well, I swear!—I swear!—I swear!” And while
the big man who came to the door was putting Satan
into Dinnie’s arms, he said sharply:
[66]
“Who brought that yellow dog here?” The man
pointed to the old drunkard’s figure turning a corner
at the foot of the hill.
“I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you
for—for a drink of whiskey.”
The man whistled.
“Bring him out. I’ll pay his license.”
So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother
Dean’s—and Dinnie cried when Uncle Carey told
her why he was taking the little cur along. With her
own hands she put Satan’s old collar on the little brute,
took him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. Then
she went into the breakfast-room.
“Uncle Billy,” she said severely, “didn’t I tell you
not to let Saty out?”
“Yes, Miss Dinnie,” said the old butler.
“Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to whoop you if you
let Saty out?”
“Yes, Miss Dinnie.”
Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures
a toy riding-whip and the old darky’s eyes began to
roll in mock terror.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you
a little.”
“Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie,” said Uncle Carey,
“this is Christmas.”
“All wite,” said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan.
In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub,
Satan sat on the hearth begging for his breakfast.
[67]
A NEST-EGG
BY
James Whitcomb Riley
[68]
This is the simple character sketch in which there is
romance treated with a fine reserve. It employs the local
color so characteristic of Mr. Riley’s poems of Indiana.
[69]
A NEST-EGG[8]
But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping
banks of the stream noted more for its plenitude of
“chubs” and “shiners” than the gamier two- and
four-pound bass for which, in season, so many credulous
anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country residence,
so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its pleasant
exterior and comfortable surroundings—barn, dairy,
and spring-house—that the weary, sunburnt, and disheartened
fisherman, out from the dusty town for a
day of recreation, is often wont to seek its hospitality.
The house in style of architecture is something of a departure
from the typical farmhouse, being designed
and fashioned with no regard to symmetry or proportion,
but rather, as is suggested, built to conform to the
matter-of-fact and most sensible ideas of its owner, who,
if it pleased him, would have small windows where large
ones ought to be, and vice versa, whether they balanced
properly to the eye or not. And chimneys—he would
have as many as he wanted, and no two alike, in either
height or size. And if he wanted the front of the house
turned from all possible view, as though abashed at any
chance of public scrutiny, why, that was his affair and
not the public’s; and, with like perverseness, if he chose
to thrust his kitchen under the public’s very nose, what
should the generally fagged-out, half-famished representative
[70]of that dignified public do but reel in his dead
minnow, shoulder his fishing-rod, clamber over the back
fence of the old farmhouse and inquire within, or jog
back to the city, inwardly anathematizing that very particular
locality or the whole rural district in general.
That is just the way that farmhouse looked to the writer
of this sketch one week ago—so individual it seemed—so
liberal, and yet so independent. It wasn’t even
weather-boarded, but, instead, was covered smoothly with
some cement, as though the plasterers had come while
the folks were visiting, and so, unable to get at the
interior, had just plastered the outside.
I am more than glad that I was hungry enough, and
weary enough, and wise enough to take the house at
its first suggestion; for, putting away my fishing-tackle
for the morning, at least, I went up the sloping bank,
crossed the dusty road, and confidently clambered over
the fence.
Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing.
All was open—gracious-looking—pastoral. The
sward beneath my feet was velvet-like in elasticity, and
the scarce visible path I followed through it led promptly
to the open kitchen door. From within I heard a woman
singing some old ballad in an undertone, while at the
threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised on
one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled
head as though to catch the meaning of the words.
I paused. It was a scene I felt restrained from breaking
in upon, nor would I, but for the sound of a strong
male voice coming around the corner of the house:
“Sir. Howdy!”
Turning, I saw a rough-looking but kindly featured
man of sixty-five, the evident owner of the place.
I returned his salutation with some confusion and much
deference. “I must really beg your pardon for this
[71]intrusion,” I began, “but I have been tiring myself
out fishing, and your home here looked so pleasant—and
I felt so thirsty—and——”
“Want a drink, I reckon,” said the old man, turning
abruptly toward the kitchen door, then pausing as
suddenly, with a backward motion of his thumb—“jest
foller the path here down to the little brick—that’s the
spring—and you’ll find ’at you’ve come to the right place
fer drinkin’-worter! Hold on a minute tel I git you a
tumbler—there’re nothin’ down there but a tin.”
“Then don’t trouble yourself any further,” I said,
heartily, “for I’d rather drink from a tin cup than a
goblet of pure gold.”
“And so’d I,” said the old man, reflectively, turning
mechanically, and following me down the path.
“‘Druther drink out of a tin—er jest a fruit-can with
the top knocked off—er—er—er a gourd,” he added
in a zestful, reminiscent tone of voice, that so heightened
my impatient thirst that I reached the spring-house
fairly in a run.
“Well-sir!” exclaimed my host, in evident delight,
as I stood dipping my nose in the second cupful of the
cool, revivifying liquid, and peering in a congratulatory
kind of way at the blurred and rubicund reflection of my
features in the bottom of the cup, “well-sir, blame-don!
ef it don’t do a feller good to see you enjoyin’ of it that-a-way!
But don’t you drink too much o’ the worter!—’cause
there’re some sweet milk over there in one o’ them
crocks, maybe; and ef you’ll jest, kindo’ keerful-like,
lift off the led of that third one, say, over there to yer
left, and dip you out a tinful er two o’ that, w’y, it’ll
do you good to drink it, and it’ll do me good to see you
at it——But hold up!—hold up!” he called, abruptly,
as, nowise loath, I bent above the vessel designated.
“Hold yer hosses fer a second! Here’s Marthy; let her
[72]git it fer ye.”
If I was at first surprised and confused, meeting the
master of the house, I was wholly startled and chagrined
in my present position before its mistress. But as I
arose, and stammered, in my confusion, some incoherent
apology, I was again reassured and put at greater ease
by the comprehensive and forgiving smile the woman
gave me, as I yielded her my place, and, with lifted hat,
awaited her further kindness.
“I came just in time, sir,” she said, half laughingly,
as with strong, bare arms she reached across the gurgling
trough and replaced the lid that I had partially removed.—“I
came just in time, I see, to prevent father
from having you dip into the ’morning’s-milk,’ which, of
course, has scarcely a veil of cream over the face of it
as yet. But men, as you are doubtless willing to admit,”
she went on jocularly, “don’t know about these things.
You must pardon father, as much for his well-meaning
ignorance of such matters, as for this cup of cream,
which I am sure you will better relish.”
She arose, still smiling, with her eyes turned frankly
on my own. And I must be excused when I confess
that as I bowed my thanks, taking the proffered cup
and lifting it to my lips, I stared with an uncommon
interest and pleasure at the donor’s face.
She was a woman of certainly not less than forty years
of age. But the figure, and the rounded grace and fulness
of it, together with the features and the eyes, completed
as fine a specimen of physical and mental health
as ever it has been my fortune to meet; there was something
so full of purpose and resolve—something so wholesome,
too, about the character—something so womanly—I
might almost say manly, and would, but for the petty
prejudice maybe occasioned by the trivial fact of a
locket having dropped from her bosom as she knelt; and
[73]that trinket still dangles in my memory even as it then
dangled and dropped back to its concealment in her
breast as she arose. But her face, by no means handsome
in the common meaning, was marked with a breadth
and strength of outline and expression that approached
the heroic—a face that once seen is forever fixed in
memory—a personage once met one must know more of.
And so it was, that an hour later, as I strolled with the
old man about his farm, looking, to all intents, with the
profoundest interest at his Devonshires, Shorthorns, Jerseys,
and the like, I lured from him something of an
outline of his daughter’s history.
“There’re no better girl ‘n Marthy!” he said, mechanically
answering some ingenious allusion to her worth.
“And yit,” he went on reflectively, stooping from his
seat in the barn door and with his open jack-knife picking
up a little chip with the point of the blade—“and
yit—you wouldn’t believe it—but Marthy was the oldest
o’ three daughters, and hed—I may say—hed more advantages
o’ marryin’—and yit, as I was jest goin’ to say,
she’s the very one ’at didn’t marry. Hed every advantage—Marthy
did. W’y, we even hed her educated—her
mother was a-livin’ then—and we was well enough
fixed to afford the educatin’ of her, mother allus contended—and
we was—besides, it was Marthy’s notion,
too, and you know how women is thataway when they git
their head set. So we sent Marthy down to Indianop’lus,
and got her books and putt her in school there, and paid
fer her keepin’ and ever’thing; and she jest—well, you
may say, lived there stiddy fer better’n four year. O’
course she’d git back ever’ once-an-a-while, but her visits
was allus, some-way-another, onsatisfactory-like, ’cause,
you see, Marthy was allus my favorite, and I’d allus
laughed and told her ’at the other girls could git married
if they wanted, but she was goin’ to be the ‘nest-egg’
[74]of our family, and ’slong as I lived I wanted her at home
with me. And she’d laugh and contend ’a’t she’d as lif
be an old maid as not, and never expected to marry,
ner didn’t want to. But she had me sceart onc’t,
though! Come out from the city one time, durin’ the
army, with a peart-lookin’ young feller in blue clothes
and gilt straps on his shoulders. Young lieutenant he
was—name o’ Morris. Was layin’ in camp there in the
city somers. I disremember which camp it was now adzackly—but
anyway, it ’peared like he had plenty o’
time to go and come, fer from that time on he kep’
on a-comin’—ever’ time Marthy ’ud come home, he’d
come, too; and I got to noticin’ ’a’t Marthy come home
a good ’eal more’n she used to afore Morris first brought
her. And blame ef the thing didn’t git to worryin’ me!
And onc’t I spoke to mother about it, and told her ef
I thought the feller wanted to marry Marthy I’d jest
stop his comin’ right then and there. But mother she
sorto’ smiled and said somepin’ ’bout men a-never seein’
through nothin’; and when I ast her what she meant,
w’y, she ups and tells me ’a’t Morris didn’t keer nothin’
fer Marthy, ner Marthy fer Morris, and then went on
to tell me that Morris was kindo’ aidgin’ up to’rds Annie—she
was next to Marthy, you know, in pint of years
and experience, but ever’body allus said ’a’t Annie was
the purtiest one o’ the whole three of ’em. And so when
mother told me ’a’t the signs pinted to’rds Annie, w’y, of
course, I hedn’t no particular objections to that, ’cause
Morris was of good fambly enough it turned out, and,
in fact, was as stirrin’ a young feller as ever I’d want
fer a son-in-law, and so I hed nothin’ more to say—ner
they wasn’t no occasion to say nothin’, ’cause right along
about then I begin to notice ’a’t Marthy quit comin’
home so much, and Morris kep’ a-comin’ more. Tel
finally, one time he was out here all by hisself, ’long
[75]about dusk, come out here where I was feedin’, and ast
me, all at onc’t, and in a straightfor’ard way, ef he
couldn’t marry Annie; and, some-way-another, blame ef
it didn’t make me as happy as him when I told him
yes! You see that thing proved, pine-blank, ’a’t he
wasn’t a-fishin’ round fer Marthy. Well-sir, as luck
would hev it, Marthy got home about a half-hour later,
and I’ll give you my word I was never so glad to see
the girl in my life! It was foolish in me, I reckon, but
when I see her drivin’ up the lane—it was purt’ nigh
dark then, but I could see her through the open winder
from where I was settin’ at the supper-table, and so I
jest quietly excused myself, p’lite-like, as a feller will,
you know, when they’s comp’ny round, and I slipped off
and met her jest as she was about to git out to open
the barn gate. ’Hold up, Marthy,’ says I; ’set right
where you air; I’ll open the gate fer you, and I’ll do
anything else fer you in the world ’a’t you want me
to!’
“‘W’y, what’s pleased you so?’ she says, laughin’,
as she druv through slow-like and a-ticklin’ my nose with
the cracker of the buggy-whip.—’What’s pleased you?’
“‘Guess,’ says I, jerkin’ the gate to, and turnin’ to
lift her out.
“‘The new peanner’s come?’ says she, eager-like.
“‘Yer new peanner’s come,’ says I; ’but that’s not
it.’
“‘Strawberries fer supper?’ says she.
“‘Strawberries fer supper,’ says I; ’but that ain’t
it.’
“Jest then Morris’s hoss whinnied in the barn, and
she glanced up quick and smilin’ and says, ’Somebody
come to see somebody?’
“‘You’re a-gittin’ warm,’ says I.
“‘Somebody come to see me?’ she says, anxious-like.
[76]“‘No,’ says I, ’a’nd I’m glad of it—fer this one ’a’t’s
come wants to git married, and o’ course I wouldn’t
harber in my house no young feller ’a’t was a-layin’ round
fer a chance to steal away the “Nest-egg,’” says I,
laughin’.
“Marthy had riz up in the buggy by this time, but
as I helt up my hands to her, she sorto’ drawed back
a minute, and says, all serious-like and kindo’ whisperin’:
“‘Is it Annie?’
“I nodded. ’Yes,’ says I, ’a’nd what’s more, I’ve
give my consent, and mother’s give hern—the thing’s
all settled. Come, jump out and run in and be happy
with the rest of us!’ and I helt out my hands ag’in, but
she didn’t ’pear to take no heed. She was kindo’ pale,
too, I thought, and swallered a time er two like as ef she
couldn’t speak plain.
“‘Who is the man?’ she ast.
“‘Who—who’s the man?’ I says, a-gittin’ kindo’ out
o’ patience with the girl.—’W’y, you know who it is,
o’ course.—It’s Morris,’ says I. ’Come, jump down!
Don’t you see I’m waitin’ fer ye?’
“‘Then take me,’ she says; and blame-don! ef the girl
didn’t keel right over in my arms as limber as a rag!
Clean fainted away! Honest! Jest the excitement, I
reckon, o’ breakin’ it to her so suddent-like—’cause she
liked Annie, I’ve sometimes thought, better’n even she
did her own mother. Didn’t go half so hard with
her when her other sister married. Yes-sir!” said
the old man, by way of sweeping conclusion, as he rose
to his feet—“Marthy’s the on’y one of ’em ’a’t never
married—both the others is gone—Morris went all
through the army and got back safe and sound—’s livin’
in Idyho, and doin’ fust-rate. Sends me a letter ever’
now and then. Got three little chunks o’ grandchildren
out there, and I’ never laid eyes on one of ’em. You
[77]see, I’m a-gittin’ to be quite a middle-aged man—in fact,
a very middle-aged man, you might say. Sence mother
died, which has be’n—lem-me-see—mother’s be’n dead
somers in the neighborhood o’ ten year.—Sence mother
died I’ve be’n a-gittin’ more and more o’ Marthy’s notion—that
is,—you couldn’t ever hire me to marry
nobody! and them has allus be’n and still is the ’Nest-egg’s’
views! Listen! That’s her a-callin’ fer us now.
You must sorto’ overlook the freedom, but I told Marthy
you’d promised to take dinner with us to-day, and it
’ud never do to disappint her now. Come on.” And,
ah! it would have made the soul of you either rapturously
glad or madly envious to see how meekly I consented.
I am always thinking that I never tasted coffee till
that day; I am always thinking of the crisp and steaming
rolls, ored over with the molten gold that hinted
of the clover-fields, and the bees that had not yet permitted
the honey of the bloom and the white blood of
the stalk to be divorced; I am always thinking that the
young and tender pullet we happy three discussed was
a near and dear relative of the gay patrician rooster that
I first caught peering so inquisitively in at the kitchen
door; and I am always—always thinking of “The Nest-egg.”
[78]
[79]
WEE WILLIE WINKIE
BY
Rudyard Kipling
[80]
As the sub-title, “An Officer and a Gentleman,” indicates,
this is a story of character. Mr. Kipling, like
Robert Louis Stevenson, James Whitcomb Riley, and
Eugene Field, has carried into his maturity an imperishable
youth of spirit which makes him an interpreter
of children. Here he has shown what our Anglo-Saxon
ideals—honor, obedience, and reverence for woman—mean
to a little child.
[81]
WEE WILLIE WINKIE[9]
“An officer and a gentleman.”
His full name was Percival William Williams, but he
picked up the other name in a nursery-book, and that
was the end of the christened titles. His mother’s ayah
called him Willie-Baba, but as he never paid the faintest
attention to anything that the ayah said, her wisdom
did not help matters.
His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon
as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand
what Military Discipline meant, Colonel Williams put
him under it. There was no other way of managing
the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct
pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived of
his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India
offers many chances of going wrong to little six-year-olds.
Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee
Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he
accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously pleased to
thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on
sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and
Wee Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of
a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens
round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity
for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of
his opinion.
“I like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair and
coming over to Brandis. “I like you. I shall call you[82]
Coppy, because of your hair. Do you mind being called
Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know.”
Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie
Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look at a stranger
for some time, and then, without warning or explanation,
would give him a name. And the name stuck. No
regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie
of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christening
the Commissioner’s wife “Pobs”; but nothing
that the Colonel could do made the Station forego the
nickname, and Mrs. Collen remained “Pobs” till the
end of her stay. So Brandis was christened “Coppy,”
and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the regiment.
If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the
fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank
and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest.
“The Colonel’s son” was idolized on his own
merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely.
His face was permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently
scratched, and in spite of his mother’s almost
tearful remonstrances he had insisted upon having his
long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. “I
want my hair like Sergeant Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie
Winkie, and, his father abetting, the sacrifice was
accomplished.
Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections
on Lieutenant Brandis—henceforward to be called
“Coppy” for the sake of brevity—Wee Willie Winkie
was destined to behold strange things and far beyond
his comprehension.
Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had
let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own big
sword—just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy had
promised him a terrier puppy, and Coppy had permitted
him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving.[83]
Nay, more—Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie
Winkie, would rise in time to the ownership of a box
of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, and a silver-handled
“sputter-brush,” as Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly,
there was no one except his own father, who
could give or take away good-conduct badges at pleasure,
half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy with
the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why,
then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness
of kissing—vehemently kissing—a “big girl,” Miss
Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning ride Wee
Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, like the
gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered
back to his groom, lest the groom should also see.
Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken
to his father, but he felt instinctively that this was a
matter on which Coppy ought first to be consulted.
“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up
outside that subaltern’s bungalow early one morning—“I
want to see you, Coppy!”
“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was
at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. “What mischief
have you been getting into now?”
Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad
for three days, and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue.
“I’ve been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling himself
into a long chair with a studious affectation of the
Colonel’s languor after a hot parade. He buried his
freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring roundly
over the rim, asked: “I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss
big girls?”
“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who do you
want to kiss?”
“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I don’t
stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how was you kissing[84]
Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning, by ve
canal?”
Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had
with great craft managed to keep their engagement secret
for a fortnight. There were urgent and imperative reasons
why Major Allardyce should not know how matters
stood for at least another month, and this small marplot
had discovered a great deal too much.
“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. “But
ve sais didn’t see. I said, ’Hut jao!’”
“Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,”
groaned poor Coppy, half amused and half angry.
“And how many people may you have told about
it?”
“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied to
wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame; and I fought
you wouldn’t like.”
“Winkie,” said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the
small hand, “you’re the best of good fellows. Look
here, you can’t understand all these things. One of these
days—hang it, how can I make you see it!—I’m going
to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll be Mrs. Coppy,
as you say. If your young mind is so scandalized at
the idea of kissing big girls, go and tell your father.”
“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, who
firmly believed that his father was omnipotent.
“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, playing his
trump card with an appealing look at the holder of the
ace.
“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie briefly.
“But my faver says it’s un-man-ly to be always kissing,
and I didn’t fink you’d do vat, Coppy.”
“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only now
and then, and when you’re bigger you’ll do it too.
Your father meant it’s not good for little boys.”
[85]
“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened.
“It’s like ve sputter-brush?”
“Exactly,” said Coppy gravely.
“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, nor
no one, ’cept my muvver. And I must do vat, you
know.”
There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie
Winkie.
“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?”
“Awfully!” said Coppy.
“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha—or me?”
“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You see,
one of these days Miss Allerdyce will belong to me,
but you’ll grow up and command the Regiment and—all
sorts of things. It’s quite different, you see.”
“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. “If
you’re fond of ve big girl, I won’t tell any one. I must
go now.”
Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door,
adding—“You’re the best of little fellows, Winkie. I
tell you what. In thirty days from now you can tell if
you like—tell any one you like.”
Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement
was dependent on a little child’s word. Coppy, who
knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth, was at ease,
for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee
Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest
in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving round that embarrassed
young lady, was used to regard her gravely
with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why
Coppy should have kissed her. She was not half so
nice as his own mother. On the other hand, she was
Coppy’s property, and would in time belong to him.
Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much
respect as Coppy’s big sword or shiny pistol.
[86]
The idea that he shared a great secret in common
with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually virtuous
for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke out, and
he made what he called a “camp-fire” at the bottom of
the garden. How could he have foreseen that the flying
sparks would have lighted the Colonel’s little hay-rick
and consumed a week’s store for the horses? Sudden
and swift was the punishment—deprivation of the good-conduct
badge and, most sorrowful of all, two days’
confinement to barracks—the house and veranda—coupled
with the withdrawal of the light of his father’s
countenance.
He took the sentence like the man he strove to be,
drew himself up with a quivering under-lip, saluted,
and, once clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in his
nursery—called by him “my quarters.” Coppy came
in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit.
“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie mournfully,
“and I didn’t ought to speak to you.”
Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof
of the house—that was not forbidden—and beheld Miss
Allardyce going for a ride.
“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie Winkie.
“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted forward.
Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was
bounded on the north by a river—dry in the winter.
From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie had been
forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that
even Coppy—the almost almighty Coppy—had never set
foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once been read
to, out of a big blue book, the history of the Princess
and the Goblins—a most wonderful tale of a land where
the Goblins were always warring with the children of
men until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever[87]
since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and
purple hills across the river were inhabited by Goblins,
and, in truth, every one had said that there lived the
Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves of
the windows were covered with green paper on account
of the Bad Men who might, if allowed clear view, fire
into peaceful drawing-rooms and comfortable bedrooms.
Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of all
the Earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major
Allardyce’s big girl, Coppy’s property, preparing to
venture into their borders! What would Coppy say if
anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off with
her as they did with Curdie’s Princess? She must at
all hazards be turned back.
The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected
for a moment on the very terrible wrath of his father;
and then—broke his arrest! It was a crime unspeakable.
The low sun threw his shadow, very large and
very black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down
to the stables and ordered his pony. It seemed to him
in the hush of the dawn that all the big world had
been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie
guilty of mutiny. The drowsy sais gave him his mount,
and, since the one great sin made all others insignificant,
Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride over
to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a foot-pace, stepping
on the soft mould of the flower-borders.
The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the last
misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy of Humanity.
He turned into the road, leaned forward, and rode
at fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in the
direction of the river.
But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little
against the long canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was
far ahead, had passed through the crops, beyond the[88]
Police-posts, when all the guards were asleep, and her
mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed as Wee
Willie Winkie left the cantonment and British India
behind him. Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee
Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could
just see Miss Allardyce a black speck flickering across
the stony plain. The reason of her wandering was
simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too-hastily-assumed
authority, had told her over night that she must not
ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her
own spirit and teach Coppy a lesson.
Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee
Willie Winkie saw the Waler blunder and come down
heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but her ankle
had been severely twisted, and she could not stand.
Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was surprised
by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in
khaki, on a nearly spent pony.
“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee Willie
Winkie, as soon as he was within range. “You didn’t
ought to be here.”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignoring
the reproof. “Good gracious, child, what are you
doing here?”
“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” panted
Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off his pony.
“And nobody—not even Coppy—must go acwoss ve
wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you
wouldn’t stop, and now you’ve hurted yourself, and
Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and—I’ve bwoken my
awwest! I’ve bwoken my awwest!”
The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed.
In spite of the pain in her ankle, the girl was moved.
“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments,
little man? What for?”
[89]
“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!”
wailed Wee Willie Winkie disconsolately. “I saw him
kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you van Bell
or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up
and come back. You didn’t ought to be here. Vis is
a bad place, and I’ve bwoken my awwest.”
“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, with a
groan. “I’ve hurt my foot. What shall I do?”
She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied
Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought up to believe
that tears were the depth of unmanliness. Still, when
one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, even a
man may be permitted to break down.
“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve rested
a little, ride back and tell them to send out something
to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully.”
The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allardyce
closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her
faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie tying up
the reins on his pony’s neck and setting it free with
a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. The
little animal headed towards the cantonments.
“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?”
“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a man
coming—one of ve Bad Men. I must stay wiv you.
My faver says a man must always look after a girl.
Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll come and look for us.
Vat’s why I let him go.”
Not one man, but two or three, had appeared from
behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart of Wee
Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in this manner
were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex Curdie’s
soul. Thus had they played in Curdie’s garden (he
had seen the picture), and thus had they frightened the
Princess’s nurse. He heard them talking to each other,[90]
and recognized with joy the bastard Pushto that he had
picked up from one of his father’s grooms lately dismissed.
People who spoke that tongue could not be the
Bad Men. They were only natives, after all.
They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allardyce’s
horse had blundered.
Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child
of the Dominant Race, aged six and three-quarters, and
said briefly and emphatically, “Jao!” The pony had
crossed the river-bed.
The man laughed, and laughter from natives was the
one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not tolerate. He
asked them what they wanted and why they did not
depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked
guns crept out of the shadows of the hills, till,
soon, Wee Willie Winkie was face to face with an audience
some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed.
“Who are you?” said one of the men.
“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is that
you go at once. You black men are frightening the
Miss Sahib. One of you must run into cantonments
and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself,
and that the Colonel’s son is here with her.”
“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing
reply. “Hear this boy’s speech!”
“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s son. They
will give you money.”
“What is the use of this talk? Take up the child
and the girl, and we can at least ask for the ransom.
Ours are the villages on the heights,” said a voice in
the background.
These were the Bad Men—worse than Goblins—and it
needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s training to prevent him
from bursting into tears. But he felt that to cry before
a native, excepting only his mother’s ayah, would be an[91]
infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as
future Colonel of the 195th, had that grim regiment
at his back.
“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee Willie
Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable.
“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur,” said the tallest of
the men, “and eat you afterwards.”
“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie.
“Men do not eat men.”
A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on
firmly—“And if you do carry us away, I tell you that
all my regiment will come up in a day and kill you all
without leaving one. Who will take my message to
the Colonel Sahib?”
Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie
had a colloquial acquaintance with three—was easy to
the boy who could not yet manage his “r’s” and
“th’s” aright.
Another man joined the conference, crying, “O
foolish men! What this babe says is true. He is
the heart’s heart of those white troops. For the sake
of peace let them go both, for if he be taken, the regiment
will break loose and gut the valley. Our villages
are in the valley, and we shall not escape. That regiment
are devils. They broke Khoda Yar’s breastbone
with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we
touch this child they will fire and rape and plunder for
a month till nothing remains. Better to send a man
back to take the message and get a reward. I say that
this child is their God, and that they will spare none
of us, nor our women, if we harm him.”
It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the
Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry and
heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie, standing
over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his[92]
“wegiment,” his own “wegiment,” would not desert
him if they knew of his extremity.
The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th,
though there had been consternation in the Colonel’s
household for an hour before. The little beast came in
through the parade-ground in front of the main barracks,
where the men were settling down to play Spoilfive
till the afternoon. Devlin, the Color-Sergeant of E
Company, glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled
through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Corporal
as he passed. “Up, ye beggars! There’s something
happened to the Colonel’s son,” he shouted.
“He couldn’t fall off! S’help me, ’e couldn’t fall
off,” blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt acrost
the river. He’s over there if he’s anywhere, an’ maybe
those Pathans have got ’im. For the love o’ Gawd don’t
look for ’im in the nullahs! Let’s go over the river.”
“There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. “E Company,
double out to the river—sharp!”
So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled
for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the perspiring
Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet faster. The cantonment
was alive with the men of the 195th hunting for
Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E
Company, far too exhausted to swear, struggling in the
pebbles of the river-bed.
Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s Bad
Men were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the
child and the girl, a lookout fired two shots.
“What have I said?” shouted Din Mahommed.
“There is the warning! The pulton are out already
and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let us
not be seen with the boy!”
The men waited for an instant, and then, as another[93]
shot was fired, withdrew into the hills, silently as they
had appeared.
“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie Winkie
confidently to Miss Allardyce, “and it’s all wight.
Don’t cwy!”
He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later,
when his father came up, he was weeping bitterly with
his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap.
And the men of the 195th carried him home with
shouts and rejoicings; and Coppy, who had ridden a
horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense disgust,
kissed him openly in the presence of the men.
But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured
him that not only would the breaking of arrest
be condoned, but that the good-conduct badge would be
restored as soon as his mother could sew it on his blouse-sleeve.
Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story
that made him proud of his son.
“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie
Winkie, indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy forefinger.
“I knew she didn’t ought to go acwoss ve wiver,
and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent
Jack home.”
“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy—“a pukka
hero!”
“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee Willie
Winkie, “but you mustn’t call me Winkie any no more.
I’m Percival Will’am Will’ams.”
And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into
his manhood.
[94]
[95]
THE GOLD BUG
BY
Edgar Allan Poe
[96]
Poe was the first American short-story writer. Others
had written stories that were short, but he was the first
to recognize the short-story as having a form and an
aim all its own. Moreover, he was willing to admit the
public to his laboratory and to explain his process, for
he discounted inspiration and emphasized craftsmanship.
In “The Philosophy of Composition” he declares
that every plot “must be elaborated to its
dénouement before anything is attempted with the pen.
It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that
we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence,
or causation, by making the incidents and especially the
tone, at all points, tend to the development of the intention.”
He also tells us that he prefers beginning
with an effect. Having chosen, in the first place, an
effect that is both novel and vivid, he decides “whether
it can be best wrought by incident or tone,” and afterward
looks about “for such combinations of events, or
tone, as shall best aid ... in the construction of the
effect.”
In view of such explanations, it is interesting to study
“The Gold Bug” and to see how well the plot has been
worked out and the tone established. It is doubtful
whether in this story the plot meant to the writer what it
means to the reader. The latter likes the adventure with
its ingeniously fitted parts, each so necessary to the
whole. But after the gold has been found—and that
is the point of greatest interest—the story goes on and
on to explain the cryptogram. This, no doubt, was to
Poe the most interesting thing about the story, the tracing
of the steps by which the scrap of parchment was
deciphered and reasoned upon and made to yield up its
secret. As to the time and place, the strange conduct
and character of Legrand, the fears and superstitions
of Jupiter, and the puzzled solicitude of the narrator—all
these aid materially in establishing and maintaining
the tone.
[97]
THE GOLD BUG[10]
“What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.”
—All in the Wrong.
Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr.
William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot
family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of
misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the
mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New
Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his
residence at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South
Carolina.
This island is a very singular one. It consists of
little else than the sea sand, and is about three miles
long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a
mile. It is separated from the mainland by a scarcely
perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness
of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen.
The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at
least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be
seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie
stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings,
tenanted during summer by the fugitives from Charleston
dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly
palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of
this western point, and a line of hard white beach on
the seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of
the sweet myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists[98]
of England. The shrub here often attains the height
of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable
coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance.
In the utmost recesses of this coppice, not far from
the eastern or more remote end of the island, Legrand
had built himself a small hut, which he occupied when
I first, by mere accident, made his acquaintance. This
soon ripened into friendship—for there was much in
the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him
well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected
with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods
of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with
him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief
amusements were gunning and fishing, or sauntering
along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of
shells or entomological specimens;—his collection of the
latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In
these excursions he was usually accompanied by an old
negro, called Jupiter, who had been manumitted before
the reverses of the family, but who could be induced,
neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what
he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps
of his young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that
the relatives of Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat
unsettled in intellect, had contrived to instil this obstinacy
into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and
guardianship of the wanderer.
The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are
seldom very severe, and in the fall of the year it is a
rare event indeed when a fire is considered necessary.
About the middle of October, 18—, there occurred, however,
a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset
I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut
of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks—my
residence being at that time in Charleston, a distance[99]
of nine miles from the island, while the facilities
of passage and re-passage were very far behind those
of the present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped,
as was my custom, and, getting no reply, sought for
the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked the door
and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth.
It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one.
I threw off an overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling
logs, and awaited patiently the arrival of my hosts.
Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most
cordial welcome. Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear,
bustled about to prepare some marsh-hens for supper.
Legrand was in one of his fits—how else shall I term
them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve,
forming a new genus, and, more than this, he
had hunted down and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance,
a scarabæus which he believed to be totally new, but in
respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the
morrow.
“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands
over the blaze, and wishing the whole tribe of scarabæi
at the devil.
“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said
Legrand, “but it’s so long since I saw you; and how
could I foresee that you would pay me a visit this
very night of all others? As I was coming home I met
Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I
lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to
see it until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I
will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest
thing in creation!”
“What?—sunrise?”
“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold
color—about the size of a large hickory-nut—with two
jet black spots near one extremity of the back, and[100]
another, somewhat longer, at the other. The antennæ
are——“
“Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a-tellin’
on you,” here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole-bug,
solid, ebery bit of him, inside and all, sep him
wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug in my life.”
“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat
more earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case
demanded, “is that any reason for your letting the
birds burn? The color”—here he turned to me—“is
really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You
never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales
emit—but of this you cannot judge till to-morrow. In
the mean time I can give you some idea of the shape.”
Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which
were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some
in a drawer, but found none.
“Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;”
and he drew from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I
took to be very dirty foolscap, and made upon it a
rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I retained
my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When
the design was complete, he handed it to me without
rising. As I received it, a low growl was heard, succeeded
by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it,
and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed
in, leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with
caresses; for I had shown him much attention during
previous visits. When his gambols were over, I looked
at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not
a little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.
“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some
minutes, “this is a strange scarabæus, I must confess;
new to me: never saw anything like it before—unless
it was a skull, or a death’s-head, which it more nearly[101]
resembles than anything else that has come under my
observation.”
“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand—“Oh—yes—well,
it has something of that appearance upon paper,
no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, eh?
and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and then
the shape of the whole is oval.”
“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you
are no artist. I must wait until I see the beetle itself,
if I am to form any idea of its personal appearance.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I
draw tolerably—should do it at least—have had good
masters, and flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”
“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I,
“this is a very passable skull,—indeed, I may say that
it is a very excellent skull, according to the vulgar
notions about such specimens of physiology—and your
scarabæus must be the queerest scarabæus in the world
if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling
bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you
will call the bug scarabæus caput hominis, or something
of that kind—there are many similar titles in the
Natural Histories. But where are the antennæ you
spoke of?”
“The antennæ!” said Legrand, who seemed to be
getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am
sure you must see the antennæ. I made them as distinct
as they are in the original insect, and I presume
that is sufficient.”
“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I
don’t see them;” and I handed him the paper without
additional remark, not wishing to ruffle his temper;
but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken;
his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of[102]
the beetle, there were positively no antennæ visible, and
the whole did bear a very close resemblance to the ordinary
cuts of a death’s-head.
He received the paper very peevishly, and was about
to crumple it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a
casual glance at the design seemed suddenly to rivet
his attention. In an instant his face grew violently red—in
another as excessively pale. For some minutes he
continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he
sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table,
and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the
farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an
anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all
directions. He said nothing, however, and his conduct
greatly astonished me; yet I thought it prudent not
to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by
any comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket
a wallet, placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited
both in a writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew
more composed in his demeanor; but his original air
of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed
not so much sulky as abstracted. As the evening wore
away he became more and more absorbed in revery,
from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had
been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I
had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this
mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not
press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand
with even more than his usual cordiality.
It was about a month after this (and during the
interval I had seen nothing of Legrand) when I received
a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I
had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, and
I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my
friend.
[103]
“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how
is your master?”
“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry
well as mought be.”
“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does
he complain of?”
“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber plain of notin—but him
berry sick for all dat.”
“Very sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once?
Is he confined to bed?”
“No, dat he aint!—he aint find nowhar—dat’s just
whar de shoe pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby
bout poor Massa Will.”
“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you
are talking about. You say your master is sick. Hasn’t
he told you what ails him?”
“Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad bout
de matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter
wid him—but den what make him go about looking dis
here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as
white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all de
time——”
“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”
“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de
queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise gittin to be skeered,
I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight eye pon him
noovers. Todder day he gib me slip fore de sun up
and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big
stick ready cut for to gib him d——d good beating when
he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t de heart
arter all—he look so berry poorly.”
“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you
had better not be too severe with the poor fellow—don’t
flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very well stand it—but can
you form no idea of what has occasioned this illness, or[104]
rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant
happened since I saw you?”
“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant since den—’twas
fore den I’m feared—’twas de berry day you
was dare.”
“How? what do you mean?”
“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”
“The what?”
“De bug—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit
somewhere bout de head by dat goole-bug.”
“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”
“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did
see sich a d——d bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting
what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but
had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I tell you—den
was de time he must ha got de bite. I didn’t like
de look ob de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I wouldn’t
take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a
piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper
and stuff piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way.”
“And you think, then, that your master was really
bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him sick?”
“I don’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What
make him dream bout de goole so much, if taint cause
he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd bout dem goole-bugs
fore dis.”
“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”
“How I know? why cause he talk about it in he
sleep—dat’s how I nose.”
“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what
fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a
visit from you to-day?”
“What de matter, massa?”
“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”
[105]
“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here
Jupiter handed me a note which ran thus:
“My dear——, Why have I not seen you for so long a time?
I hope you have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little
brusquerie of mine; but no, that is improbable.
“Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have
something to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether
I should tell it at all.
“I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old
Jup annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions.
Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick,
the other day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip,
and spending the day, solus, among the hills on the mainland. I
verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging.
“I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.
“If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with
Jupiter. Do come. I wish to see you to-night, upon business of
importance. I assure you that it is of the highest importance.
“Ever yours,
“William Legrand.”
There was something in the tone of this note which
gave me great uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially
from that of Legrand. What could he be dreaming
of? What new crotchet possessed his excitable
brain? What “business of the highest importance”
could he possibly have to transact? Jupiter’s account
of him boded no good. I dreaded lest the continued
pressure of misfortune had, at length, fairly unsettled
the reason of my friend. Without a moment’s hesitation,
therefore, I prepared to accompany the negro.
Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and
three spades, all apparently new, lying in the bottom
of the boat in which we were to embark.
“What is the meaning of all this, Jup?” I inquired.
“Him syfe, massa, and spade.”
“Very true; but what are they doing here?”
[106]
“Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon
my buying for him in de town, and de debbil’s own lot
of money I had to gib for ’em.”
“But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is
your ’Massa Will’ going to do with scythes and
spades?”
“Dat’s more dan I know, and debbil take me if I
don’t blieve ’tis more dan he know, too. But it’s all
cum ob de bug.”
Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of
Jupiter, whose whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by
“de bug,” I now stepped into the boat and made sail.
With a fair and strong breeze we soon ran into the
little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and a walk
of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about
three in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had
been awaiting us in eager expectation. He grasped my
hand with a nervous empressement, which alarmed me
and strengthened the suspicions already entertained.
His countenance was pale even to ghastliness, and his
deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre. After some
inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not knowing
what better to say, if he had yet obtained the
scarabæus from Lieutenant G——.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it
from him the next morning. Nothing should tempt me
to part with that scarabæus. Do you know that Jupiter
is quite right about it?”
“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at
heart.
“In supposing it to be a bug of real gold.” He said
this with an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly
shocked.
“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued,
with a triumphant smile, “to reinstate me in my family[107]
possessions. Is it any wonder, then, that I prize it?
Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon me, I
have only to use it properly and I shall arrive at the
gold of which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me that
scarabæus!”
“What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer
trubble dat bug—you mus git him for your own self.”
Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and stately air,
and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which
it was enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabæus, and, at
that time, unknown to naturalists—of course a great
prize in a scientific point of view. There were two
round, black spots near one extremity of the back, and
a long one near the other. The scales were exceedingly
hard and glossy, with all the appearance of burnished
gold. The weight of the insect was very remarkable,
and, taking all things into consideration, I could hardly
blame Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what
to make of Legrand’s agreement with that opinion, I
could not, for the life of me, tell.
“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone,
when I had completed my examination of the beetle, “I
sent for you, that I might have your counsel and assistance
in furthering the views of Fate and of the bug——”
“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you
are certainly unwell, and had better use some little precautions.
You shall go to bed, and I will remain with
you a few days, until you get over this. You are feverish
and——”
“Feel my pulse,” said he.
I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest
indication of fever.
“But you may be ill, and yet have no fever. Allow
me this once to prescribe for you. In the first place,
go to bed. In the next——”
[108]
“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well
as I can expect to be under the excitement which I suffer.
If you really wish me well, you will relieve this excitement.”
“And how is this to be done?”
“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon
an expedition into the hills, upon the mainland, and,
in this expedition, we shall need the aid of some person
in whom we can confide. You are the only one
we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement
which you now perceive in me will be equally
allayed.”
“I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied;
“but do you mean to say that this infernal beetle has
any connection with your expedition into the hills?”
“It has.”
“Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such
absurd proceeding.”
“I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try
it by ourselves.”
“Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but
stay—how long do you propose to be absent?”
“Probably all night. We shall start immediately,
and be back, at all events, by sunrise.”
“And will you promise me, upon your honor, that
when this freak of yours is over, and the bug business
(good God!) settled to your satisfaction, you will then
return home and follow my advice implicitly, as that
of your physician?”
“Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have
no time to lose.”
With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We
started about four o’clock—Legrand, Jupiter, the dog,
and myself. Jupiter had with him the scythe and
spades—the whole of which he insisted upon carrying,[109]
more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either
of the implements within reach of his master, than
from any excess of industry or complaisance. His demeanor
was dogged in the extreme, and “dat d——d
bug” were the sole words which escaped his lips during
the journey. For my own part, I had charge of a
couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented himself
with the scarabæus, which he carried attached to
the end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, with
the air of a conjurer, as he went. When I observed this
last, plain evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I
could scarcely refrain from tears. I thought it best,
however, to humor his fancy, at least for the present, or
until I could adopt some more energetic measures with
a chance of success. In the mean time I endeavored,
but all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object of
the expedition. Having succeeded in inducing me to
accompany him, he seemed unwilling to hold conversation
upon any topic of minor importance, and to all
my questions vouchsafed no other reply than “we shall
see!”
We crossed the creek at the head of the island by
means of a skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on
the shore of the mainland, proceeded in a northwesterly
direction, through a tract of country excessively wild
and desolate, where no trace of a human footstep was to
be seen. Legrand led the way with decision; pausing
only for an instant, here and there, to consult what
appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance
upon a former occasion.
In this manner we journeyed for about two hours,
and the sun was just setting when we entered a region
infinitely more dreary than any yet seen. It was a
species of tableland, near the summit of an almost inaccessible
hill, densely wooded from base to pinnacle, and[110]
interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie
loosely upon the soil, and in many cases were prevented
from precipitating themselves into the valleys
below merely by the support of the trees against which
they reclined. Deep ravines, in various directions, gave
an air of still sterner solemnity to the scene.
The natural platform to which we had clambered was
thickly overgrown with brambles, through which we soon
discovered that it would have been impossible to force
our way but for the scythe; and Jupiter, by direction
of his master, proceeded to clear for us a path to the
foot of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which stood, with
some eight or ten oaks, upon the level, and far surpassed
them all, and all other trees which I had then ever
seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide
spread of its branches, and in the general majesty of
its appearance. When we reached this tree, Legrand
turned to Jupiter, and asked him if he thought he
could climb it. The old man seemed a little staggered
by the question, and for some moments made no reply.
At length he approached the huge trunk, walked slowly
around it, and examined it with minute attention. When
he had completed his scrutiny, he merely said:
“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he
life.”
“Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will
soon be too dark to see what we are about.”
“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter.
“Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell
you which way to go—and here—stop! take this beetle
with you.”
“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the
negro, drawing back in dismay—“what for mus tote de
bug way up de tree?—d——n if I do!”
“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you,[111]
to take hold of a harmless little dead beetle, why, you
can carry it up by this string—but, if you do not take
it up with you in some way, I shall be under the necessity
of breaking your head with this shovel.”
“What de matter now, massa?” said Jup, evidently
shamed into compliance; “always want fur to raise fuss
wid old nigger. Was only funnin anyhow. Me feered
de bug! what I keer for de bug?” Here he took
cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and,
maintaining the insect as far from his person as circumstances
would permit, prepared to ascend the tree.
In youth, the tulip-tree, or Liriodendron Tulipifera,
the most magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk
peculiarly smooth, and often rises to a great height
without lateral branches; but, in its riper age, the bark
becomes gnarled and uneven, while many short limbs
make their appearance on the stem. Thus the difficulty
of ascension, in the present case, lay more in semblance
than in reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as closely
as possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his
hands some projections, and resting his naked toes upon
others, Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from
falling, at length wriggled himself into the first great
fork, and seemed to consider the whole business as virtually
accomplished. The risk of the achievement was,
in fact, now over, although the climber was some sixty
or seventy feet from the ground.
“Which way mus go now, Massa Will?” he asked.
“Keep up the largest branch,—the one on this side,”
said Legrand. The negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently
with but little trouble, ascending higher and
higher, until no glimpse of his squat figure could be
obtained through the dense foliage which enveloped it.
Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.
“How much fudder is got for go?”
[112]
“How high up are you?” asked Legrand.
“Ebber so fur,” replied the negro; “can see de
sky fru de top ob de tree.”
“Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say.
Look down the trunk and count the limbs below you
on this side. How many limbs have you passed?”
“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb,
massa, pon dis side.”
“Then go one limb higher.”
In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing
that the seventh limb was attained.
“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited,
“I want you to work your way out upon that
limb as far as you can. If you see anything strange,
let me know.”
By this time what little doubt I might have entertained
of my poor friend’s insanity was put finally at
rest. I had no alternative but to conclude him stricken
with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about getting
him home. While I was pondering upon what was
best to be done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard.
“Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’tis
dead limb putty much all de way.”
“Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter?” cried
Legrand in a quavering voice.
“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for
sartain—done departed dis here life.”
“What in the name of heaven shall I do?” asked
Legrand, seemingly in the greatest distress.
“Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose
a word, “why come home and go to bed. Come now!—that’s
a fine fellow. It’s getting late, and, besides, you
remember your promise.”
“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least,
“do you hear me?”
[113]
“Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.”
“Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see
if you think it very rotten.”
“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in
a few moments, “but not so berry rotten as mought
be. Mought ventur out leetle way pon de limb by myself,
dat’s true.”
“By yourself!—what do you mean?”
“Why, I mean de bug. ’Tis berry hebby bug.
Spose I drop him down fuss, and den de limb won’t
break wid just de weight ob one nigger.”
“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently
much relieved, “what do you mean by telling
me such nonsense as that? As sure as you let that beetle
fall, I’ll break your neck. Look here, Jupiter! do you
hear me?”
“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.”
“Well! now listen!—if you will venture out on the
limb as far as you think safe, and not let go the beetle,
I’ll make you a present of a silver dollar as soon as
you get down.”
“I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the
negro very promptly—“mos out to the eend now.”
“Out to the end!” here fairly screamed Legrand,
“do you say you are out to the end of that limb?”
“Soon be to de eend, massa,—o-o-o-o-oh! Lord-gol-a-marcy!
what is dis here pon de tree?”
“Well!” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what
is it?”
“Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody bin lef
him head up de tree, and de crows done gobble ebery
bit ob de meat off.”
“A skull, you say!—very well!—how is it fastened
to the limb?—what holds it on?”
“Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why, dis berry curous[114]
sarcumstance, pon my word—dare’s a great big nail in de
skull, what fastens ob it on to de tree.”
“Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do you
hear?”
“Yes, massa.”
“Pay attention, then!—find the left eye of the skull.”
“Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why, dar aint no eye lef at
all.”
“Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand
from your left?”
“Yes, I nose dat—nose all bout dat—’tis my lef
hand what I chops de wood wid.”
“To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left
eye is on the same side as your left hand. Now, I suppose,
you can find the left eye of the skull, or the place
where the left eye has been. Have you found it?”
Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked,
“Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef
hand of de skull, too?—cause de skull aint got not a
bit ob a hand at all—nebber mind! I got de lef eye
now—here de lef eye! what must do wid it?”
“Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string
will reach—but be careful and not let go your hold of the
string.”
“All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to
put de bug fru de hole—look for him dar below!”
During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person
could be seen; but the beetle, which he had suffered to
descend, was now visible at the end of the string, and
glistened, like a globe of burnished gold, in the last rays
of the setting sun, some of which still faintly illumined
the eminence upon which we stood. The scarabæus hung
quite clear of any branches, and, if allowed to fall,
would have fallen at our feet. Legrand immediately
took the scythe, and cleared with it a circular space,[115]
three or four yards in diameter, just beneath the insect,
and, having accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let
go the string and come down from the tree.
Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground,
at the precise spot where the beetle fell, my friend now
produced from his pocket a tape-measure. Fastening
one end of this at that point of the trunk of the tree
which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it reached
the peg, and thence farther unrolled it, in the direction
already established by the two points of the tree and
the peg, for the distance of fifty feet—Jupiter clearing
away the brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus
attained a second peg was driven, and about this, as a
centre, a rude circle, about four feet in diameter, described.
Taking now a spade himself, and giving one
to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set
about digging as quickly as possible.
To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such
amusement at any time, and, at that particular moment,
would most willingly have declined it; for the night
was coming on, and I felt much fatigued with the exercise
already taken; but I saw no mode of escape, and
was fearful of disturbing my poor friend’s equanimity
by a refusal. Could I have depended, indeed, upon
Jupiter’s aid, I would have had no hesitation in attempting
to get the lunatic home by force; but I was too
well assured of the old negro’s disposition to hope that
he would assist me, under any circumstances, in a personal
contest with his master. I made no doubt that the
latter had been infected with some of the innumerable
Southern superstitions about money buried, and that
his fantasy had received confirmation by the finding of
the scarabæus, or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in
maintaining it to be “a bug of real gold.” A mind
disposed to lunacy would readily be led away by such[116]
suggestions, especially if chiming in with favorite preconceived
ideas; and then I called to mind the poor
fellow’s speech about the beetle’s being “the index of
his fortune.” Upon the whole, I was sadly vexed and
puzzled, but at length I concluded to make a virtue
of necessity—to dig with a good will, and thus the
sooner to convince the visionary, by ocular demonstration,
of the fallacy of the opinions he entertained.
The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work
with a zeal worthy a more rational cause; and, as the
glare fell upon our persons and implements, I could
not help thinking how picturesque a group we composed,
and how strange and suspicious our labors must
have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, might
have stumbled upon our whereabouts.
We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said;
and our chief embarrassment lay in the yelpings of
the dog, who took exceeding interest in our proceedings.
He, at length, became so obstreperous that we
grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some stragglers
in the vicinity; or, rather, this was the apprehension
of Legrand; for myself, I should have rejoiced
at any interruption which might have enabled me to get
the wanderer home. The noise was, at length, very
effectually silenced by Jupiter, who, getting out of the
hole with a dogged air of deliberation, tied the brute’s
mouth up with one of his suspenders, and then returned,
with a grave chuckle, to his task.
When the time mentioned had expired, we had
reached a depth of five feet, and yet no signs of any
treasure became manifest. A general pause ensued, and
I began to hope that the farce was at an end. Legrand,
however, although evidently much disconcerted, wiped
his brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated
the entire circle of four feet diameter, and now[117]
we slightly enlarged the limit, and went to the farther
depth of two feet. Still nothing appeared. The gold-seeker,
whom I sincerely pitied, at length clambered from
the pit, with the bitterest disappointment imprinted upon
every feature, and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to
put on his coat, which he had thrown off at the beginning
of his labor. In the mean time I made no remark.
Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up
his tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled,
we turned in profound silence towards home.
We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction,
when, with a loud oath, Legrand strode up to
Jupiter, and seized him by the collar. The astonished
negro opened his eyes and mouth to the fullest extent, let
fall the spades, and fell upon his knees.
“You scoundrel,” said Legrand, hissing out the syllables
from between his clenched teeth—“you infernal
black villain!—speak, I tell you!—answer me this instant,
without prevarication!—which—which is your left
eye?”
“Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef
eye for sartain?” roared the terrified Jupiter, placing
his hand upon his right organ of vision, and holding it
there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in immediate
dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge.
“I thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!” vociferated
Legrand, letting the negro go, and executing a series
of curvets and caracoles, much to the astonishment of
his valet, who, arising from his knees, looked mutely
from his master to myself, and then from myself to
his master.
“Come! we must go back,” said the latter, “the
game’s not up yet;” and he again led the way to the
tulip-tree.
“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, “come[118]
here! was the skull nailed to the limb with the face outward,
or with the face to the limb?”
“De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get
at de eyes good, widout any trouble.”
“Well, then, was it this eye or that through which
you dropped the beetle?”—here Legrand touched each
of Jupiter’s eyes.
“‘Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell
me,” and here it was his right eye that the negro indicated.
“That will do—we must try it again.”
Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw,
or fancied that I saw, certain indications of method,
removed the peg which marked the spot where the
beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to the westward
of its former position. Taking, now, the tape-measure
from the nearest point of the trunk to the
peg, as before, and continuing the extension in a straight
line to the distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated,
removed, by several yards, from the point at which
we had been digging.
Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger
than in the former instance, was now described, and we
again set to work with the spades. I was dreadfully
weary, but, scarcely understanding what had occasioned
the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer any great
aversion from the labor imposed. I had become most
unaccountably interested—nay, even excited. Perhaps
there was something, amid all the extravagant demeanor
of Legrand—some air of forethought, or of deliberation—which
impressed me. I dug eagerly, and now
and then caught myself actually looking, with something
that very much resembled expectation, for the
fancied treasure, the vision of which had demented my
unfortunate companion. At a period when such vagaries[119]
of thought most fully possessed me, and when we had
been at work perhaps an hour and a half, we were
again interrupted by the violent howlings of the dog.
His uneasiness, in the first instance, had been evidently
but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now
assumed a bitter and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s
again attempting to muzzle him, he made furious resistance,
and, leaping into the hole, tore up the mould
frantically with his claws. In a few seconds he had
uncovered a mass of human bones, forming two complete
skeletons, intermingled with several buttons of
metal, and what appeared to be the dust of decayed
woollen. One or two strokes of a spade upturned the
blade of a large Spanish knife, and, as we dug farther,
three or four loose pieces of gold and silver coin came
to light.
At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely
be restrained, but the countenance of his master wore
an air of extreme disappointment. He urged us, however,
to continue our exertions, and the words were
hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell forward, having
caught the toe of my boot in a large ring of iron
that lay half buried in the loose earth.
We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten
minutes of more intense excitement. During this interval
we had fairly unearthed an oblong chest of wood,
which, from its perfect preservation and wonderful
hardness, had plainly been subjected to some mineralizing
process—perhaps that of the bichloride of mercury.
This box was three feet and a half long, three feet
broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly
secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming
a kind of trellis-work over the whole. On each
side of the chest, near the top, were three rings of
iron—six in all—by means of which a firm hold could[120]
be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united endeavors
served only to disturb the coffer very slightly
in its bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing
so great a weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings
of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts. These
we drew back—trembling and panting with anxiety.
In an instant, a treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming
before us. As the rays of the lanterns fell within
the pit, there flashed upwards, from a confused heap
of gold and of jewels, a glow and a glare that absolutely
dazzled our eyes.
I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with
which I gazed. Amazement was, of course, predominant.
Legrand appeared exhausted with excitement,
and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance wore,
for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible,
in the nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume.
He seemed stupefied—thunderstricken. Presently
he fell upon his knees in the pit, and, burying his
naked arms up to the elbows in gold, let them there remain,
as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At length,
with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy:
“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug!
de poor little goole-bug, what I boosed in dat
sabage kind ob style! Aint you shamed ob yourself,
nigger?—answer me dat!”
It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse
both master and valet to the expediency of removing
the treasure. It was growing late, and it behooved
us to make exertion, that we might get everything
housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what
should be done, and much time was spent in deliberation—so
confused were the ideas of all. We finally
lightened the box by removing two-thirds of its contents,
when we were enabled, with some trouble, to[121]
raise it from the hole. The articles taken out were deposited
among the brambles, and the dog left to guard
them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, upon any
pretence, to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth
until our return. We then hurriedly made for home
with the chest; reaching the hut in safety, but after
excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morning. Worn out
as we were, it was not in human nature to do more
just now. We rested until two, and had supper; starting
for the hills immediately afterwards, armed with
three stout sacks, which by good luck were upon the
premises. A little before four we arrived at the pit,
divided the remainder of the booty, as equally as might
be, among us, and, leaving the holes unfilled, again set
out for the hut, at which, for the second time, we deposited
our golden burdens, just as the first streaks of
the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the East.
We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense
excitement of the time denied us repose. After
an unquiet slumber of some three or four hours’ duration,
we arose, as if by pre-concert, to make examination
of our treasure.
The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent
the whole day, and the greater part of the next night,
in a scrutiny of its contents. There had been nothing
like order or arrangement. Everything had been heaped
in promiscuously. Having assorted all with care, we
found ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than
we had at first supposed. In coin there was rather more
than four hundred and fifty thousand dollars: estimating
the value of the pieces, as accurately as we
could, by the tables of the period. There was not a
particle of silver. All was gold of antique date and
of great variety: French, Spanish, and German money,
with a few English guineas, and some counters, of which[122]
we had never seen specimens before. There were several
very large and heavy coins, so worn that we could
make nothing of their inscriptions. There was no
American money. The value of the jewels we found
more difficulty in estimating. There were diamonds—some
of them exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and
ten in all, and not one of them small; eighteen rubies of
remarkable brilliancy; three hundred and ten emeralds,
all very beautiful; and twenty-one sapphires, with an
opal. These stones had all been broken from their
settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings
themselves, which we picked out from among the other
gold, appeared to have been beaten up with hammers,
as if to prevent identification. Besides all this, there
was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments: nearly two
hundred massive finger and ear rings; rich chains—thirty
of these, if I remember; eighty-three very large
and heavy crucifixes; five gold censers of great value;
a prodigious golden punch-bowl, ornamented with richly
chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; with two
sword handles exquisitely embossed, and many other
smaller articles which I cannot recollect. The weight
of these valuables exceeded three hundred and fifty
pounds avoirdupois; and in this estimate I have not
included one hundred and ninety-seven superb gold
watches; three of the number being worth each five
hundred dollars, if one. Many of them were very old,
and as time-keepers valueless, the works having suffered
more or less from corrosion; but all were richly jewelled
and in cases of great worth. We estimated the entire
contents of the chest, that night, at a million and a half
of dollars; and, upon the subsequent disposal of the
trinkets and jewels (a few being retained for our own
use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued the
treasure.
[123]
When, at length, we had concluded our examination,
and the intense excitement of the time had in some
measure subsided, Legrand, who saw that I was dying
with impatience for a solution of this most extraordinary
riddle, entered into a full detail of all the circumstances
connected with it.
“You remember,” said he, “the night when I handed
you the rough sketch I had made of the scarabæus. You
recollect also, that I became quite vexed at you for
insisting that my drawing resembled a death’s-head.
When you first made this assertion I thought you were
jesting; but afterwards I called to mind the peculiar
spots on the back of the insect, and admitted to myself
that your remark had some little foundation in fact.
Still, the sneer at my graphic powers irritated me—for
I am considered a good artist—and, therefore, when
you handed me the scrap of parchment, I was about
to crumple it up and throw it angrily into the fire.”
“The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I.
“No: it had much of the appearance of paper, and
at first I supposed it to be such, but when I came to
draw upon it, I discovered it, at once, to be a piece
of very thin parchment. It was quite dirty, you remember.
Well, as I was in the very act of crumpling
it up, my glance fell upon the sketch at which you had
been looking, and you may imagine my astonishment
when I perceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s-head
just where, it seemed to me, I had made the drawing
of the beetle. For a moment I was too much amazed
to think with accuracy. I knew that my design was
very different in detail from this—although there was
a certain similarity in general outline. Presently I
took a candle and, seating myself at the other end of
the room, proceeded to scrutinize the parchment more
closely. Upon turning it over, I saw my own sketch[124]
upon the reverse, just as I had made it. My first idea,
now, was mere surprise at the really remarkable similarity
of outline—at the singular coincidence involved
in the fact that, unknown to me, there should have been
a skull upon the other side of the parchment, immediately
beneath my figure of the scarabæus, and that this
skull, not only in outline, but in size, should so closely
resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this
coincidence absolutely stupefied me for a time. This is
the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind struggles
to establish a connection—a sequence of cause and
effect—and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of
temporary paralysis. But, when I recovered from this
stupor, there dawned upon me gradually a conviction
which startled me even far more than the coincidence.
I began distinctly, positively, to remember that there
had been no drawing on the parchment when I made
my sketch of the scarabæus. I became perfectly certain
of this; for I recollected turning up first one side and
then the other, in search of the cleanest spot. Had the
skull been then there, of course I could not have failed
to notice it. Here was indeed a mystery which I felt
it impossible to explain; but, even at that early moment,
there seemed to glimmer, faintly, within the most
remote and secret chambers of my intellect, a glowworm-like
conception of that truth which last night’s adventure
brought to so magnificent a demonstration. I arose
at once, and, putting the parchment securely away,
dismissed all farther reflection until I should be
alone.
“When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast
asleep, I betook myself to a more methodical investigation
of the affair. In the first place I considered
the manner in which the parchment had come into my
possession. The spot where we discovered the scarabæus[125]
was on the coast of the mainland, about a mile eastward
of the island, and but a short distance above high-water
mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a
sharp bite, which caused me to let it drop. Jupiter,
with his accustomed caution, before seizing the insect,
which had flown towards him, looked about him for a
leaf, or something of that nature, by which to take hold
of it. It was at this moment that his eyes, and mine
also, fell upon the scrap of parchment, which I then
supposed to be paper. It was lying half buried in
the sand, a corner sticking up. Near the spot where
we found it, I observed the remnants of the hull of
what appeared to have been a ship’s long boat. The
wreck seemed to have been there for a very great while;
for the resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be
traced.
“Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped
the beetle in it, and gave it to me. Soon afterwards
we turned to go home, and on the way met Lieutenant
G——. I showed him the insect, and he begged me to
let him take it to the fort. On my consenting, he thrust
it forthwith into his waistcoat pocket, without the parchment
in which it had been wrapped, and which I had
continued to hold in my hand during his inspection.
Perhaps he dreaded my changing my mind, and thought
it best to make sure of the prize at once—you know how
enthusiastic he is on all subjects connected with Natural
History. At the same time, without being conscious of
it, I must have deposited the parchment in my own
pocket.
“You remember that when I went to the table, for
the purpose of making a sketch of the beetle, I found
no paper where it was usually kept. I looked in the
drawer, and found none there. I searched my pockets,
hoping to find an old letter, and then my hand fell[126]
upon the parchment. I thus detail the precise mode
in which it came into my possession; for the circumstances
impressed me with peculiar force.
“No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had
already established a kind of connection. I had put
together two links of a great chain. There was a boat
lying on a seacoast, and not far from the boat was
a parchment—not a paper—with a skull depicted on
it. You will, of course, ask ’where is the connection?’
I reply that the skull, or death’s-head, is the well-known
emblem of the pirate. The flag of the death’s-head
is hoisted in all engagements.
“I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not
paper. Parchment is durable—almost imperishable.
Matters of little moment are rarely consigned to parchment;
since, for the mere ordinary purposes of drawing
or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted as paper.
This reflection suggested some meaning—some relevancy—in
the death’s-head. I did not fail to observe, also,
the form of the parchment. Although one of its corners
had been, by some accident, destroyed, it could be
seen that the original form was oblong. It was just such
a slip, indeed, as might have been chosen for a memorandum—for
a record of something to be long remembered
and carefully preserved.”
“But,” I interposed, “you say that the skull was
not upon the parchment when you made the drawing
of the beetle. How then do you trace any connection
between the boat and the skull—since this latter, according
to your own admission, must have been designed
(God only knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent
to your sketching the scarabæus?”
“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although
the secret, at this point, I had comparatively little difficulty
in solving. My steps were sure, and could afford[127]
but a single result. I reasoned, for example, thus:
When I drew the scarabæus, there was no skull apparent
on the parchment. When I had completed the drawing
I gave it to you, and observed you narrowly until
you returned it. You, therefore, did not design the
skull, and no one else was present to do it. Then it was
not done by human agency. And nevertheless it was
done.
“At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to
remember, and did remember, with entire distinctness,
every incident which occurred about the period in question.
The weather was chilly (O rare and happy accident!),
and a fire was blazing on the hearth. I was
heated with exercise and sat near the table. You, however,
had drawn a chair close to the chimney. Just
as I placed the parchment in your hand, and as you were
in the act of inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland,
entered, and leaped upon your shoulders. With your
left hand you caressed him and kept him off, while your
right, holding the parchment, was permitted to fall
listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity
to the fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had
caught it, and was about to caution you, but, before
I could speak, you had withdrawn it, and were engaged
in its examination. When I considered all these particulars,
I doubted not for a moment that heat had been
the agent in bringing to light, on the parchment, the
skull which I saw designed on it. You are well aware
that chemical preparations exist, and have existed time
out of mind, by means of which it is possible to write
on either paper or vellum, so that the characters shall
become visible only when subjected to the action of fire.
Zaffre, digested in aqua regia, and diluted with four
times its weight of water, is sometimes employed; a
green tint results. The regulus of cobalt, dissolved in[128]
spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colors disappear at
longer or shorter intervals after the material written
upon cools, but again become apparent upon the re-application
of heat.
“I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its
outer edges—the edges of the drawing nearest the edge
of the vellum—were far more distinct than the others.
It was clear that the action of the caloric had been
imperfect or unequal. I immediately kindled a fire,
and subjected every portion of the parchment to a glowing
heat. At first, the only effect was the strengthening
of the faint lines in the skull; but, on persevering in the
experiment, there became visible at the corner of the
slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the death’s-head
was delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed
to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied
me that it was intended for a kid.”
“Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have no right to
laugh at you—a million and a half of money is too
serious a matter for mirth—but you are not about to
establish a third link in your chain: you will not find
any especial connection between your pirates and a
goat; pirates, you know, have nothing to do with goats;
they appertain to the farming interest.”
“But I have just said that the figure was not that
of a goat.”
“Well, a kid, then—pretty much the same thing.”
“Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand.
“You may have heard of one Captain Kidd. I at once
looked on the figure of the animal as a kind of punning
or hieroglyphical signature. I say signature; because
its position on the vellum suggested this idea. The
death’s-head at the corner diagonally opposite had, in
the same manner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But I
was sorely put out by the absence of all else—of the[129]
body to my imagined instrument—of the text for my
context.”
“I presume you expected to find a letter between
the stamp and the signature.”
“Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly
impressed with a presentiment of some vast good
fortune impending. I can scarcely say why. Perhaps,
after all, it was rather a desire than an actual belief;—but
do you know that Jupiter’s silly words, about the
bug being of solid gold, had a remarkable effect on my
fancy? And then the series of accidents and coincidences—these
were so very extraordinary. Do you observe
how mere an accident it was that these events
should have occurred on the sole day of all the year in
which it has been, or may be, sufficiently cool for fire,
and that without the fire, or without the intervention
of the dog at the precise moment in which he appeared,
I should never have become aware of the death’s-head,
and so never the possessor of the treasure?”
“But proceed—I am all impatience.”
“Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories
current—the thousand vague rumors afloat about money
buried, somewhere on the Atlantic coast, by Kidd and
his associates. These rumors must have had some foundation
in fact. And that the rumors have existed so
long and so continuously, could have resulted, it appeared
to me, only from the circumstance of the buried
treasure still remaining entombed. Had Kidd concealed
his plunder for a time, and afterwards reclaimed it,
the rumors would scarcely have reached us in their
present unvarying form. You will observe that the
stories told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders.
Had the pirate recovered his money, there the
affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that some
accident—say the loss of a memorandum indicating its[130]
locality—had deprived him of the means of recovering
it, and that this accident had become known to his followers,
who otherwise might never have heard that
treasure had been concealed at all, and, who, busying
themselves in vain, because unguided, attempts to regain
it, had given first birth, and then universal currency,
to the reports which are now so common. Have
you ever heard of any important treasure being unearthed
along the coast?”
“Never.”
“But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense is
well known. I took it for granted, therefore, that the
earth still held them; and you will scarcely be surprised
when I tell you that I felt a hope, nearly amounting
to certainty, that the parchment so strangely found
involved a lost record of the place of deposit.”
“But how did you proceed?”
“I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing
the heat, but nothing appeared. I now thought it
possible that the coating of dirt might have something
to do with the failure; so I carefully rinsed the parchment
by pouring warm water over it, and, having
done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downwards,
and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted charcoal.
In a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly
heated, I removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible
joy, found it spotted, in several places, with
what appeared to be figures arranged in lines. Again
I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain another
minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you
see it now.”
Here Legrand, having reheated the parchment, submitted
it to my inspection. The following characters
were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head
and the goat:—
[131]
53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;;]8*;:‡*8†83(88)5*†;46(;88*96*?;8)
*‡(;485);5*†2:*‡(;4956*2(5*—4)8¶8*;4069285);)6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4)
485†528806*81(‡9;48;(88;4(‡?34;48)4‡;161;:188;‡?;
“But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much
in the dark as ever. “Were all the jewels of Golconda
awaiting me on my solution of this enigma, I am quite
sure that I should be unable to earn them.”
“And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no
means so difficult as you might be led to imagine from
the first hasty inspection of the characters. These
characters, as any one might readily guess, form a
cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but
then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not suppose
him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse
cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once,
that this was of a simple species—such, however, as
would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, absolutely
insoluble without the key.”
“And you really solved it?”
“Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten
thousand times greater. Circumstances, and a certain
bias of mind, have led me to take interest in such riddles,
and it may well be doubted whether human ingenuity
can construct an enigma of the kind which
human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve.
In fact, having once established connected and
legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere
difficulty of developing their import.
“In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret
writing—the first question regards the language of the
cipher; for the principles of solution, so far, especially,
as the more simple ciphers are concerned, depend on,
and are varied by, the genius of the particular idiom.[132]
In general, there is no alternative but experiment (directed
by probabilities) of every tongue known to him
who attempts the solution, until the true one be attained.
But, with the cipher now before us, all difficulty
is removed by the signature. The pun upon the
word ’Kidd’ is appreciable in no other language than
the English. But for this consideration I should have
begun my attempts with the Spanish and French, as the
tongues in which a secret of this kind would most naturally
have been written by a pirate of the Spanish main.
As it was, I assumed the cryptograph to be English.
“You observe there are no divisions between the
words. Had there been divisions, the task would have
been comparatively easy. In such case I should have
commenced with a collation and analysis of the shorter
words, and, had a word of a single letter occurred, as
is most likely (a or I, for example), I should have
considered the solution as assured. But, there being no
division, my first step was to ascertain the predominant
letters, as well as the least frequent. Counting all, I
constructed a table, thus:
| “Of the character |
8 |
there are |
33 |
| |
; |
“ |
26 |
| 4 |
“ |
19 |
| ‡) |
“ |
16 |
| * |
“ |
13 |
| 5 |
“ |
12 |
| 6 |
“ |
11 |
| †1 |
“ |
8 |
| 0 |
“ |
6 |
| 92 |
“ |
5 |
| :3 |
“ |
4 |
| ? |
“ |
3 |
| ¶ |
“ |
2 |
| ]— |
“ |
1 |
[133]
“Now, in English, the letter which most frequently
occurs is e. Afterwards the succession runs thus: a o i
d h n r s t u y c f g l m w b k p q x z. E predominates,
however, so remarkably that an individual sentence of
any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the prevailing
character.
“Here, then, we have, in the very beginning, the
groundwork for something more than a mere guess.
The general use which may be made of the table is
obvious—but, in this particular cipher, we shall only
very partially require its aid. As our predominant
character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as the
e of the natural alphabet. To verify the supposition,
let us observe if the 8 be seen often in couples—for e
is doubled with great frequency in English—in such
words, for example, as ’meet,’ ’fleet,’ ’speed,’ ’seen,’
’been,’ ’a’gree,’ &c. In the present instance we see it
doubled no less than five times, although the cryptograph
is brief.
“Let us assume 8, then, as e. Now, of all words in
the language, ‘the’ is most usual; let us see, therefore,
whether there are not repetitions of any
three characters, in the same order of collocation, the
last of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of
such letters, so arranged, they will most probably represent
the word ’the.’ On inspection, we find no less
than seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48.
We may, therefore, assume that the semicolon represents
t, that 4 represents h, and that 8 represents e—the last
being now well confirmed. Thus a great step has been
taken.
“But, having established a single word, we are enabled
to establish a vastly important point; that is to
say, several commencements and terminations of other
words. Let us refer, for example, to the last instance[134]
but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs—not far
from the end of the cipher. We know that the semicolon
immediately ensuing is the commencement of a
word, and, of the six characters succeeding this ’the,’
we are cognizant of no less than five. Let us set these
characters down, thus, by the letters we know them
to represent, leaving a space for the unknown—
t eeth.
“Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ’th,’
as forming no portion of the word commencing with
the first t; since, by experiment of the entire alphabet
for a letter adapted to the vacancy, we perceive that
no word can be formed of which this th can be a part.
We are thus narrowed into
t ee,
and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before,
we arrive at the word ’tree’ as the sole possible
reading. We thus gain another letter, r, represented
by (, with the words ’the tree’ in juxtaposition.
“Looking beyond these words, for a short distance,
we again see the combination ;48, and employ it by way
of termination to what immediately precedes. We have
thus this arrangement:
the tree ;4(‡?34 the,
or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it
reads thus:
the tree thr‡?3h the.
“Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we
leave blank spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus:
the tree thr . . . h the,
[135]
when the word ’through’ makes itself evident at once.
But this discovery gives us three new letters, o, u, and g,
represented by ‡ ? and 3.
“Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations
of known characters, we find, not very far
from the beginning, this arrangement,
83(88, or egree,
which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ’degree,’
and gives us another letter, d, represented by †.
“Four letters beyond the word ’degree,’ we perceive
the combination
;46(;88*
“Translating the known characters, and representing
the unknown by dots, as before, we read thus:
th . rtee . ,
an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word
’thirteen,’ and again furnishing us with two new characters,
i and n, represented by 6 and *.
“Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph,
we find the combination,
53‡‡†.
“Translating, as before, we obtain
good,
which assures us that the first letter is A, and that the
first two words are ’A good.’
“To avoid confusion, it is now time that we arrange
our key, as far as discovered, in a tabular form. It
will stand thus:
[136]
| 5 |
represents |
a |
| † |
“ |
d |
| 8 |
“ |
e |
| 3 |
“ |
g |
| 4 |
“ |
h |
| 6 |
“ |
i |
| * |
“ |
n |
| ‡ |
“ |
o |
| ( |
“ |
r |
| ; |
“ |
t |
“We have, therefore, no less than ten of the most
important letters represented, and it will be unnecessary
to proceed with the details of the solution. I have
said enough to convince you that ciphers of this nature
are readily soluble, and to give you some insight into
the rationale of their development. But be assured that
the specimen before us appertains to the very simplest
species of cryptograph. It now only remains to give
you the full translation of the characters upon the parchment,
as unriddled. Here it is:
“‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the devil’s
seat twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes north-east
and by north main branch seventh limb east side shoot
from the left eye of the death’s-head a bee-line from the
tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”
“But,” said I, “the enigma seems still in as bad a
condition as ever. How is it possible to extort a meaning
from all this jargon about ’devil’s seats,’ ’death’s-heads,’
and ’Bishop’s hotels’?”
“I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still
wears a serious aspect, when regarded with a casual
glance. My first endeavor was to divide the sentence
into the natural division intended by the cryptographist.”
[137]
“You mean, to punctuate it?”
“Something of that kind.”
“But how was it possible to effect this?”
“I reflected that it had been a point with the writer
to run his words together without division, so as to
increase the difficulty of solution. Now, a not over-acute
man, in pursuing such an object, would be nearly
certain to overdo the matter. When, in the course of
his composition, he arrived at a break in his subject
which would naturally require a pause, or a point,
he would be exceedingly apt to run his characters,
at this place, more than usually close together. If you
will observe the MS., in the present instance, you will
easily detect five such cases of unusual crowding. Acting
on this hint, I made the division thus:
“‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the Devil’s
seat—twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes—north-east
and by north—main branch seventh limb east side—shoot
from the left eye of the death’s-head—a bee-line
from the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”
“Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the
dark.”
“It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for
a few days; during which I made diligent inquiry, in
the neighborhood of Sullivan’s Island, for any building
which went by the name of the ’Bishop’s Hotel’; for,
of course, I dropped the obsolete word ’hostel.’ Gaining
no information on the subject, I was on the point of
extending my sphere of search, and proceeding in a
more systematic manner, when one morning it entered
into my head, quite suddenly, that this ’Bishop’s
Hostel’ might have some reference to an old family,
of the name of Bessop, which, time out of mind, had
held possession of an ancient manor-house, about four
miles to the northward of the island. I accordingly went[138]
over to the plantation, and reinstituted my inquiries
among the older negroes of the place. At length one
of the most aged of the women said that she had heard
of such a place as Bessop’s Castle, and thought that she
could guide me to it, but that it was not a castle, nor
a tavern, but a high rock.
“I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after
some demur, she consented to accompany me to the
spot. We found it without much difficulty, when, dismissing
her, I proceeded to examine the place. The
’castle’ consisted of an irregular assemblage of cliffs
and rocks—one of the latter being quite remarkable for
its height as well as for its insulated and artificial appearance.
I clambered to its apex, and then felt much
at a loss as to what should be next done.
“While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell on
a narrow ledge in the eastern face of the rock, perhaps
a yard below the summit upon which I stood. This
ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not more
than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just above
it gave it a rude resemblance to one of the hollow-backed
chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that here
was the ’devil’s seat’ alluded to in the MS., and now
I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle.
“The ’good glass,’ I knew, could have reference to
nothing but a telescope; for the word ’glass’ is rarely
employed in any other sense by seamen. Now here, I
at once saw, was a telescope to be used, and a definite
point of view, admitting no variation, from which to use
it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases,
’twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes,’ and ‘north-east
and by north,’ were intended as directions for the
levelling of the glass. Greatly excited by these discoveries,
I hurried home, procured a telescope, and returned
to the rock.
[139]
“I let myself down the ledge, and found that it was
impossible to retain a seat on it unless in one particular
position. This fact confirmed my preconceived idea. I
proceeded to use the glass. Of course, the ’twenty-one
degrees and thirteen minutes’ could allude to nothing
but elevation above the visible horizon, since the horizontal
direction was clearly indicated by the words,
‘north-east and by north.’ This latter direction I at
once established by means of a pocket-compass; then,
pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of twenty-one
degrees of elevation as I could do it by guess, I moved
it cautiously up or down, until my attention was arrested
by a circular rift or opening in the foliage of
a large tree that overtopped its fellows in the distance.
In the centre of this rift I perceived a white spot, but
could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting
the focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now
made it out to be a human skull.
“On this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider
the enigma solved; for the phrase ’main branch, seventh
limb, east side,’ could refer only to the position of the
skull on the tree, while ’shoot from the left eye of the
death’s-head’ admitted, also, of but one interpretation,
in regard to a search for buried treasure. I perceived
that the design was to drop a bullet from the left eye
of the skull, and that a bee-line, or, in other words, a
straight line, drawn from the nearest point of the trunk
through ’the shotì (or the spot where the bullet fell),
and thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would
indicate a definite point—and beneath this point I
thought it at least possible that a deposit of value lay
concealed.”
“All this,” I said, “is exceedingly clear, and, although
ingenious, still simple and explicit. When you
left the Bishop’s Hotel, what then?”
[140]
“Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the
tree, I turned homewards. The instant that I left ’the
devil’s seat,’ however, the circular rift vanished; nor
could I get a glimpse of it afterwards, turn as I would.
What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this whole
business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has convinced
me it is a fact) that the circular opening in question
is visible from no other attainable point of view
than that afforded by the narrow ledge on the face of
the rock.
“In this expedition to the ’Bishop’s Hotel’ I had
been attended by Jupiter, who had no doubt observed,
for some weeks past, the abstraction of my demeanor,
and took especial care not to leave me alone. But on
the next day, getting up very early, I contrived to give
him the slip, and went into the hills in search of the
tree. After much toil I found it. When I came home
at night my valet proposed to give me a flogging. With
the rest of the adventure I believe you are as well acquainted
as myself.”
“I suppose,” said I, “you missed the spot, in the
first attempt at digging, through Jupiter’s stupidity in
letting the bug fall through the right instead of through
the left eye of the skull.”
“Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about
two inches and a half in the ’shot’—that is to say, in
the position of the peg nearest the tree; and had the
treasure been beneath the ’shot,’ the error would have
been of little moment; but ’the shot,’ together with the
nearest point of the tree, were merely two points for
the establishment of a line of direction; of course the
error, however trivial in the beginning, increased as we
proceeded with the line, and, by the time we had gone
fifty feet, threw us quite off the scent. But for my deep-seated
convictions that treasure was here somewhere[141]
actually buried, we might have had all our labor in
vain.”
“I presume the fancy of the skull—of letting fall a
bullet through the skull’s eye—was suggested to Kidd
by the piratical flag. No doubt he felt a kind of poetical
consistency in recovering his money through this ominous
insignium.”
“Perhaps so; still, I cannot help thinking that common-sense
had quite as much to do with the matter as
poetical consistency. To be visible from the Devil’s
seat, it was necessary that the object, if small, should
be white; and there is nothing like your human skull for
retaining and even increasing its whiteness under exposure
to all vicissitudes of weather.”
“But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in
swinging the beetle—how excessively odd! I was sure
you were mad. And why did you insist on letting fall
the bug, instead of a bullet, from the skull?”
“Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your
evident suspicions touching my sanity, and so resolved
to punish you quietly, in my own way, by a little bit
of sober mystification. For this reason I swung the
beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from the tree.
An observation of yours about its great weight suggested
the latter idea.”
“Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point
which puzzles me. What are we to make of the skeletons
found in the hole?”
“That is a question I am no more able to answer
than yourself. There seems, however, only one plausible
way of accounting for them—and yet it is dreadful
to believe in such atrocity as my suggestion would imply.
It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed secreted this treasure,
which I doubt not—it is clear that he must have had
assistance in the labor. But, the worst of this labor[142]
concluded, he may have thought it expedient to remove
all participants in his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows
with a mattock were sufficient, while his coadjutors were
busy in the pit; perhaps it required a dozen—who shall
tell?”
[143]
THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF
BY
O. Henry
[144]
This is a plot-story of the kind in which the American
public delights. The reader enjoys the humor due to situation,
hyperbole, satire, and astounding verbal liberties
to which the writer is given; but he enjoys even
more the sharp surprise that awaits him in the plot.
He has prepared himself for a certain conclusion and
finds himself entirely in the wrong. Nevertheless, he
admits that the ending is not illogical nor out of harmony
with the general tone. Bill and Sam subscribe
themselves “Two Desperate Men,” but they are so characterized
as to prepare us for their surrender of the
boy on the father’s own terms.
It is interesting to know that O. Henry himself put
slight value upon local color. “People say that I know
New York well!” he says. “But change Twenty-third
Street to Main Street, rub out the Flatiron Building and
put in the Town Hall. Then the story will fit just as
truly elsewhere. At least, I hope that is the case with
what I write. So long as your story is true to life, the
mere change of local color will set it in the East, West,
South, or North. The characters in ’The Arabian
Nights’ parade up and down Broadway at midday, or
Main Street in Dallas, Texas.”
[145]
THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF[11]
It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you.
“We were down South, in Alabama—Bill Driscoll and
myself—when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as
Bill afterward expressed it, “during a moment of temporary
mental apparition”; but we didn’t find that
out till later.
There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake,
and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants
of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class
of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.
Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred
dollars, and we needed, just two thousand dollars more
to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western
Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the
hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semirural
communities; therefore, and for other reasons, a
kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the
radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain
clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that
Summit couldn’t get after us with anything stronger
than constables and, maybe, some lackadaisical bloodhounds
and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers’
Budget. So, it looked good.
We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent
citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable
and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright
collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a
boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the color of[146]
the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand
when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured
that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two
thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.
About two miles from Summit was a little mountain,
covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation
of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions.
One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past
old Dorset’s house. The kid was in the street, throwing
rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.
“Hey, little boy!” says Bill, “would you like to
have a bag of candy and a nice ride?”
The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of
brick.
“That will cost the old man an extra five hundred
dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel.
That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon
bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the
buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave, and
I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I
drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away,
where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.
Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and
bruises on his features. There was a fire burning behind
the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was
watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers
stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me
when I come up, and says:
“Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp
of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?”
“He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his trousers
and examining some bruises on his shins. “We’re playing
Indian. We’re making Buffalo Bill’s show look[147]
like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall.
I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief’s captive, and
I’m to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid
can kick hard.”
Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his
life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him
forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately
christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that,
when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be
broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.
Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of
bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He
made a during-dinner speech something like this:
“I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I
had a pet ’possum once, and I was nine last birthday.
I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy
Talbot’s aunt’s speckled hen’s eggs. Are there any
real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy.
Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had
five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank?
My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I
whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don’t like girls.
You dassent catch toads unless with a string. Do oxen
make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you
got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has
got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish
can’t. How many does it take to make twelve?”
Every few minutes he would remember that he was
a pesky redskin, and pick up his stick rifle and tip-toe to
the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the
hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a war-whoop
that made Old Hank the Trapper, shiver. That
boy had Bill terrorized from the start.
“Red Chief,” says I to the kid, “would you like
to go home?”
[148]
“Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun at
home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You
won’t take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?”
“Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the
cave a while.”
“All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never
had such fun in all my life.”
We went to bed about eleven o ’clock. We spread down
some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between
us. We weren’t afraid he’d run away. He kept
us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for
his rifle and screeching: “Hist! pard,” in mine and
Bill’s ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle
of a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy
approach of the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a
troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped
and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red
hair.
Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful
screams from Bill. They weren’t yells, or howls, or
shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you’d expect from
a manly set of vocal organs—they were simply indecent,
terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit
when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It’s an awful thing
to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently
in a cave at daybreak.
I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief
was sitting on Bill’s chest, with one hand twined in
Bill’s hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife
we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously
and realistically trying to take Bill’s scalp, according
to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the
evening before.
I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie
down again. But, from that moment, Bill’s spirit was[149]
broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he
never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy
was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward
sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was
to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I
wasn’t nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe
and leaned against a rock.
“What you getting up so soon for, Sam?” asked
Bill.
“Me?” says I. “Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my
shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it.”
“You’re a liar!” says Bill. “You’re afraid. You
was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he’d
do it. And he would, too, if he could find a
match. Ain’t it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody
will pay out money to get a little imp like that back
home?”
“Sure,” said I. “A rowdy kid like that is just the
kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get
up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this
mountain and reconnoitre.”
I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran
my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit
I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village
armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside
for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was
a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing
with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no
couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no
news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan
attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section
of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay
exposed to my view. “Perhaps,” says I to myself,
“it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have
borne away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven[150]
help the wolves!” says I, and I went down the mountain
to breakfast.
When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against
the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to
smash him with a rock half as big as a cocoanut.
“He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back,”
explained Bill, “and then mashed it with his foot; and
I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you,
Sam?”
I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched
up the argument. “I’ll fix you,” says the kid to Bill.
“No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he
got paid for it. You better beware!”
After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with
strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes
outside the cave unwinding it.
“What’s he up to now?” says Bill, anxiously. “You
don’t think he’ll run away, do you, Sam?”
“No fear of it,” says I. “He don’t seem to be much
of a home body. But we’ve got to fix up some plan
about the ransom. There don’t seem to be much excitement
around Summit on account of his disappearance;
but maybe they haven’t realized yet that he’s
gone. His folks may think he’s spending the night
with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbors. Anyhow, he’ll
be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message
to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for
his return.”
Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David
might have emitted when he knocked out the champion
Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out
of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head.
I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a
sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take
his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had[151]
caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself
all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan
of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him
out and poured cold water on his head for half an
hour.
By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and
says: “Sam, do you know who my favorite Biblical
character is?”
“Take it easy,” says I. “You’ll come to your senses
presently.”
“King Herod,” says he. “You won’t go away and
leave me here alone, will you, Sam?”
I went out and caught that boy and shook him until
his freckles rattled.
“If you don’t behave,” says I, “I’ll take you straight
home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?”
“I was only funning,” says he sullenly. “I didn’t
mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for?
I’ll behave, Snake-eye, if you won’t send me home, and
if you’ll let me play the Black Scout to-day.”
“I don’t know the game,” says I. “That’s for you
and Mr. Bill to decide. He’s your playmate for the
day. I’m going away for a while, on business. Now,
you come in and make friends with him and say
you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at
once.”
I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took
Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a
little village three miles from the cave, and find out
what I could about how the kidnapping had been regarded
in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a
peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding
the ransom and dictating how it should be paid.
“You know, Sam,” says Bill, “I’ve stood by you
without batting an eye in earthquakes, fire, and flood—in[152]
poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train
robberies, and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till
we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He’s
got me going. You won’t leave me long with him, will
you, Sam?”
“I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” says I.
“You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return.
And now we’ll write the letter to old Dorset.”
Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the
letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around
him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the
cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom
fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. “I
ain’t attempting,” says he, “to decry the celebrated
moral aspect of parental affection, but we’re dealing
with humans, and it ain’t human for anybody to give
up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk
of freckled wildcat. I’m willing to take a chance at
fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference
up to me.”
So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a
letter that ran this way:
“Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.:
“We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit.
It is useless for you or the most skillful detectives to attempt to
find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him
restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in
large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night
at the same spot and in the same box as your reply—as hereinafter
described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in
writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o’clock.
After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are
three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence
of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the
fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard
box.
[153]
“The messenger will place the answer in this box and return
immediately to Summit.
“If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand
as stated, you will never see your boy again.
“If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you
safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if
you do not accede to them no further communication will be
attempted.
“Two Desperate Men.”
I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my
pocket. As I was about to start, the kid comes up to
me and says:
“Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black
Scout while you was gone.”
“Play it, of course,” says I. “Mr. Bill will play
with you. What kind of a game is it?”
“I’m the Black Scout,” says Red Chief, “and I
have to ride to the stockade to warn the settlers that
the Indians are coming. I’m tired of playing Indian
myself. I want to be the Black Scout.”
“All right.” says I. “It sounds harmless to me.
I guess Mr. Bill will help you foil the pesky savages.”
“What am I to do?” asks Bill, looking at the kid
suspiciously.
“You are the hoss,” says Black Scout. “Get down
on your hands and knees. How can I ride to the stockade
without a hoss?”
“You’d better keep him interested,” said I, “till we
get the scheme going. Loosen up.”
Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in
his eye like a rabbit’s when you catch it in a trap.
“How far is it to the stockade, kid?” he asks, in a
husky manner of voice.
“Ninety miles,” says the Black Scout. “And you
have to hump yourself to get there on time. Whoa,
now!”
[154]
The Black Scout jumps on Bill’s back and digs his
heels in his side.
“For Heaven’s sake,” says Bill, “hurry back, Sam,
as soon as you can. I wish we hadn’t made the ransom
more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking me or I’ll
get up and warm you good.”
I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the
post-office and store, talking with the chawbacons that
came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears
Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset’s
boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I
wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred
casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted
my letter surreptitiously, and came away. The postmaster
said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour
to take the mail on to Summit.
When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were
not to be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, and
risked a yodel or two, but there was no response.
So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank
to await developments.
In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and
Bill wabbled out into the little glade in front of the
cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a
scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took
off his hat, and wiped his face with a red handkerchief.
The kid stopped about eight feet behind him.
“Sam,” says Bill, “I suppose you’ll think I’m a
renegade, but I couldn’t help it. I’m a grown person
with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defence,
but there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance
fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him
home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times,” goes
on Bill, “that suffered death rather than give up the
particular graft they enjoyed. None of ’em ever was[155]
subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been.
I tried to be faithful to our articles of depredation; but
there came a limit.”
“What’s the trouble, Bill?” I asks him.
“I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles to the
stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers
was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain’t a palatable
substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to
explain to him why there was nothin’ in holes, how a
road can run both ways, and what makes the grass
green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so
much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags
him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs
black-and-blue from the knees down; and I’ve got to
have two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized.
“But he’s gone”—continues Bill—“gone home. I
showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about
eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m sorry we lose
the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to
the madhouse.”
Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of
ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink
features.
“Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in
your family, is there?”
“No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria
and accidents. Why?”
“Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have
a look behind you.”
Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion
and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck
aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was
afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my
scheme was to put the whole job through immediately[156]
and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by
midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So
Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of
a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese
war with him as soon as he felt a little better.
I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger
of being caught by counterplots that ought to commend
itself to professional kidnappers. The tree under
which the answer was to be left—and the money later
on—was close to the road fence with big, bare fields
on all sides. If a gang of constables should be watching
for any one to come for the note, they could see
him a long way off crossing the fields or in the road.
But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in that tree
as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger
to arrive.
Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road
on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the
fence-post, slips a folded piece of paper into it, and
pedals away again back toward Summit.
I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was
square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped along
the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the
cave in another half an hour. I opened the note, got
near the lantern, and read it to Bill. It was written with
a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of
it was this:
“Two Desperate Men.
“Gentlemen: I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to
the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a
little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition,
which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You
bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars
in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better
come at night, for the neighbors believe he is lost, and I couldn’t[157]
be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing
him back.
Very respectfully,
“Ebenezer Dorset.”
“Great pirates of Penzance!” says I; “of all the
impudent——”
But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most
appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a
dumb or a talking brute.
“Sam,” says he, “what’s two hundred and fifty dollars,
after all? We’ve got the money. One more night
of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides
being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a
spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You
ain’t going to let the chance go, are you?”
“Tell you the truth, Bill,” says I, “this little he ewe
lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We’ll take
him home, pay the ransom, and make our get-away.”
We took him home that night. We got him to go
by telling him that his father had bought a silver-mounted
rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we
were going to hunt bears the next day.
It was just twelve o’clock when we knocked at Ebenezer’s
front door. Just at the moment when I should have
been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box
under the tree, according to the original proposition,
Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars
into Dorset’s hand.
When the kid found out we were going to leave him
at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened
himself as tight as a leech to Bill’s leg. His
father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster.
“How long can you hold him?” asks Bill.
“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset,
“but I think I can promise you ten minutes.”
“Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I shall cross[158]
the Central, Southern, and Middle Western States, and
be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border.”
And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as
good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half
out of Summit before I could catch up with him.
[159]
THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK
BY
Ralph D. Paine
[160]
The chief interest in “The Freshman Full-Back” is
that of character. The action has real dramatic quality
and is staged with the local color of a college contest.
But the great value of the action is ethical, for it shows
that one may “wrest victory from defeat” and that it
is a shameful thing to be a “coward and a quitter.”
[161]
THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK[12]
The boyish night city editor glanced along the copy-readers’
table and petulantly exclaimed:
“Isn’t that spread head ready yet, Mr. Seeley? It
goes on the front page and we are holding open for it.
Whew, but you are slow. You ought to be holding down
a job on a quarterly review.”
A portly man of middle age dropped his pencil and
turned heavily in his chair to face the source of this
public humiliation. An angry flush overspread his face
and he chewed at a grayish mustache as if fighting
down rebellion. His comrades at the long table had
looked up from their work and were eyeing the oldest
copy-reader with sympathetic uneasiness while they
hoped that he would be able to hold himself in hand.
The night city editor felt the tension of this brief tableau
and awaited the threatened outbreak with a nervous
smile. But Seeley jerked his green eyeshade so low that
his face was partly in eclipse, and wheeled round to
resume his task with a catch of the breath and a tone
of surrender in his reply.
“The head will be ready in five minutes, sir. The
last pages of the story are just coming in.”
A much younger man, at the farther end of the table,
whispered to his neighbor:
“That’s cheap and nasty, to call down old man
Seeley as if he were a cub reporter. He may have
lost his grip, but he deserves decent treatment for what[162]
he has been. Managing editor of this very sheet, London
correspondent before that, and the crack man of
the staff when most of the rest of us were in short
breeches. And now Henry Harding Seeley isn’t any
too sure of keeping his job on the copy-desk.”
“That’s what the New York newspaper game can do
to you if you stick at it too long,” murmured the other.
“Back to the farm for mine.”
It was long after midnight when these two put on
their coats and bade the city editor’s desk a perfunctory
“Good-night.”
They left Henry Harding Seeley still slumped in his
chair, writing with dogged industry.
“He’s dead tired, you can see that,” commented
one of the pair as they headed for Broadway, “but, as
usual, he is grinding out stuff for the Sunday sheet after
hours. He must need the extra coin mighty bad. I
came back for my overcoat at four the other morning,
after the poker game, and he was still pegging away
just like that.”
Other belated editors and reporters of the Chronicle
staff drifted toward the elevator, until the gray-haired
copy-reader was left alone in the city room as if marooned.
Writing as steadily as if he were a machine
warranted to turn out so many words an hour, Seeley
urged his pencil until the last page was finished. Then
he read and corrected the “story,” slipped it through
a slit in a door marked “Sunday Editor,” and trudged
out, while the tower clock was striking three.
Instead of seeking the chop-house, wherein the vivacious
and tireless youth of the staff were wont to linger
over supper, he turned into a side street and betook
himself to a small café as yet unfrequented by the night-owls
of journalism. Seeley was a beaten man, and he
preferred to nurse his wounds in a morbid isolation.[163]
His gait and aspect were those of one who was stolidly
struggling on the defensive, as if hostile circumstances
had driven him into a corner where he was making his
last stand.
Through the years of his indomitable youth as a reporter
of rare ability and resourcefulness, he had never
spared himself. Burning the candle at both ends, with
a vitality which had seemed inexhaustible, he had won
step after step of promotion until, at forty, he was made
managing editor of that huge and hard-driven organization,
the New York Chronicle. For five years of
racking responsibility Henry Harding Seeley had been
able to maintain the pace demanded of his position.
Then came an error of judgment—a midnight decision
demanded of a fagged mind—and his O. K. was
scrawled upon the first sheet of a story of embezzlement
in Wall Street. By an incredible blunder the name
of the fugitive cashier was coupled with that of the
wrong bank. Publication of the Chronicle story started
a terrific run on this innocent institution, which won its
libel suit against the newspaper in the amount of one
hundred thousand dollars.
The managing editor, two reporters, and the copy-reader
who had handled the fatal manuscript, were
swept out of the building by one cyclonic order from
the owner thereof. Henry Seeley accepted his indirect
responsibility for the disaster in grim, manly fashion,
and straightway sought another berth befitting his
journalistic station. But his one costly slip was more
than a nine-days’ scandal along Park Row, and other
canny proprietors were afraid that he might hit them
in the very vital regions of their pockets. Worse than
this, his confidence in himself had suffered mortal damage.
The wear and tear of his earlier years had left[164]
him with little reserve power, and he went to pieces in
the face of adverse fortune.
“Worked out at forty-five,” was the verdict of his
friends, and they began to pity him.
The will to succeed had been broken, but Seeley
might have rallied had not his wife died during the
ebb-tide of his affairs. She had walked hand in hand
with him since his early twenties, her faith in him
had been his mainstay, and his happiness in her complete
and beautiful. Bereft of her when he stood most
in need of her, he seemed to have no more fight in him,
and, drifting from one newspaper office to another, he
finally eddied into his old “shop” as a drudging copy-reader
and an object of sympathy to a younger
generation.
There was one son, strong, bright, eager, and by dint
of driving his eternally wearied brain overtime, the father
had been able to send him to Yale, his own alma
mater. More or less pious deception had led young
Ernest Seeley to believe that his father had regained
much of his old-time prestige with the Chronicle and
that he had a hand in guiding its editorial destinies.
The lad was a Freshman, tremendously absorbed in the
activities of the autumn term, and his father was content
that he should be so hedged about by the interests
of the campus world as to have small time or thought
for the grizzled, taciturn toiler in New York.
This was the kind of man that trudged heavily into
the little German café of an early morning after his
long night’s slavery at the copy-desk. His mind, embittered
and sensitive to slights like a raw nerve, was
brooding over the open taunt of the night city editor,
who had been an office boy under him in the years gone
by. From force of habit he seated himself at a table
in the rear of the room, shunning the chance of having[165]
to face an acquaintance. Unfolding a copy of the city
edition, which had been laid on his desk damp from
the press-room, Seeley scanned the front page with
scowling uneasiness, as if fearing to find some blunder
of his own handiwork. Then he turned to the sporting
page and began to read the football news.
His son Ernest had been playing as a substitute
with the university eleven, an achievement which stirred
the father’s pride without moving his enthusiasm. And
the boy, chilled by his father’s indifference, had said
little about it during his infrequent visits to New York.
But now the elder Seeley sat erect, and his stolid countenance
was almost animated as he read, under a New
Haven date line:
“The Yale confidence of winning the game with Princeton to-morrow
has been shattered, and gloom enshrouds the camp of
the Elis to-night. Collins, the great full-back, who has been the
key-stone of Yale’s offensive game, was taken to the infirmary
late this afternoon. He complained of feeling ill after the signal
practice yesterday; fever developed overnight, and the consulting
physicians decided that he must be operated on for appendicitis
without delay. His place in the Princeton game will be filled by
Ernest Seeley, the Freshman, who has been playing a phenomenal
game in the back-field, but who is so lacking in experience that
the coaches are all at sea to-night. The loss of Collins has swung
the betting around to even money instead of 5 to 3 on Yale.”
The elder Seeley wiped his glasses as if not sure that
he had read aright.
Ernest had seemed to him no more than a sturdy
infant and here he was, on the eve of a championship
football battle, picked to fight for the “old blue.” The
father’s career at Yale had been a most honorable one.
He, too, had played on the eleven and had helped to
win two desperate contests against Princeton. But all
this belonged to a part of his life which was dead and[166]
done for. He had not achieved in after years what Yale
expected of him, and his record there was with his buried
memories.
Supper was forgotten while Henry Seeley wondered
whether he really wanted to go to New Haven to see
his boy play. Many of his old friends and classmates
would be there and he did not wish to meet them.
And it stung him to the quick as he reflected:
“I should be very happy to see him win, but—but to
see him whipped! I couldn’t brace and comfort him.
And supposing it breaks his heart to be whipped as it
has broken mine? No, I won’t let myself think that.
I’m a poor Yale man and a worse father, but I couldn’t
stand going up there to-day.”
Even more humiliating was the thought that he would
shrink from asking leave of the city editor. Saturday
was not his “day off,” and he so greatly hated to ask
favors at the office, that the possibility of being rebuffed
was more than he was willing to face.
Into his unhappy meditations broke a boisterous hail:
“Diogenes Seeley, as I live. Why, you old rascal,
I thought you were dead or something. Glad I didn’t
get foolish and go to bed. Here, waiter, get busy.”
Seeley was startled, and he looked much more distressed
than rejoiced as he lumbered from his table to
grasp the outstretched hand of a classmate. The opera-hat
of this Mr. Richard Giddings was cocked at a rakish
angle, his blue eye twinkled good cheer and youthful
hilarity, and his aspect was utterly care-free.
“How are you, Dick?” said Seeley, with an unusual
smile which singularly brightened his face. “You
don’t look a day older than when I last saw you. Still
cutting coupons for a living?”
“Oh, money is the least of my worries,” gayly rattled
Mr. Giddings. “Been doing the heavy society act to-night,[167]
and on my way home found I needed some
sauerkraut and beer to tone up my jaded system. By
Jove, Harry, you’re as gray as a badger. This newspaper
game must be bad for the nerves. Lots of fellows
have asked me about you. Never see you at the
University Club, nobody sees you anywhere. Remarkable
how a man can lose himself right here in New
York. Still running the Chronicle, I suppose.”
“I’m still in the old shop, Dick,” replied Seeley, glad
to be rid of this awkward question. “But I work
nearly all night and sleep most of the day, and am like
a cog in a big machine that never stops grinding.”
“Shouldn’t do it. Wears a man out,” and Mr. Giddings
sagely nodded his head. “Course you are going
up to the game to-day. Come along with me. Special
car with a big bunch of your old pals inside. They’ll
be tickled to death to find I’ve dug you out of your hole.
Hello! Is that this morning’s paper? Let me look at
the sporting page. Great team at New Haven, they
tell me. What’s the latest odds? I put up a thousand
at five to three last week and am looking for some
more easy money.”
The alert eye of the volatile Richard Giddings swept
down the New Haven dispatch like lightning.
With a grievous outcry he smote the table and shouted:
“Collins out of the game? Great Scott, Harry, that’s
awful news. And a green Freshman going to fill his
shoes at the last minute. I feel like weeping, honest I
do. Who the deuce is this Seeley? Any kin of yours?
I suppose not or you would have bellowed it at me
before this.”
“He is my only boy, Dick,” and the father held up
his head with a shadow of his old manner. “I didn’t
know he had the ghost of a show to make the team until
I saw this dispatch.”
[168]
“Then, of course, you are coming up with me,”
roared Mr. Giddings. “I hope he’s a chip of the old
block. If he has your sand they can’t stop him. Jumping
Jupiter, they couldn’t have stopped you with an
axe when you were playing guard in our time, Harry.
I feel better already to know that it is your kid going
in at full-back to-day.”
“No, I’m not going up, Dick,” said Seeley slowly.
“For one thing, it is too short notice for me to break
away from the office, and I—I haven’t the nerve to
watch the boy go into the game. I’m not feeling very
fit.”
“Stuff and nonsense, you need a brain cure,” vociferated
Richard Giddings. “You, an old Yale guard,
with a pup on the team, and he a Freshman at that!
Throw out your chest, man; tell the office to go to the
devil—where all newspapers belong—and meet me at the
station at ten o’clock sharp. You talk and look like the
oldest living grad with one foot in the grave.”
Seeley flushed and bit his lip. His dulled realization
of what Yale had been to him was quickened by this
tormenting comrade of the brave days of old, but he
could not be shaken from his attitude of morbid self-effacement.
“No, Dick, it’s no use,” he returned with a tremulous
smile. “You can’t budge me. But give my love
to the crowd and tell them to cheer for that youngster
of mine until they’re blue in the face.”
Mr. Richard Giddings eyed him quizzically, and surmised
that something or other was gravely wrong with
his grizzled classmate. But Seeley offered no more explanations
and the vivacious intruder fell to his task
of demolishing sauerkraut with great gusto, after which
he nimbly vanished into a cruising hansom with a sense
of having been rebuffed.
[169]
Seeley watched him depart at great speed and then
plodded toward his up-town lodgings. His sleep was
distressed with unhappy dreams, and during a wakeful
interval he heard a knock at his sitting-room door.
An office boy from the Chronicle editorial rooms gave
him a note and waited for an answer.
Seeley recognized the handwriting of the managing
editor and was worried, for he was always expecting
the worst to happen. He sighed with relieved surprise
as he read:
“My Dear Mr. Seeley:
“Please go to New Haven as soon as possible and do a couple
of columns of descriptive introduction of the Yale-Princeton game.
The sporting department will cover the technical story, but a big
steamboat collision has just happened in North River, two or three
hundred drowned and so on, and I need every man in the shop.
As an old Yale player I am sure I can depend on you for a good
story, and I know you used to do this kind of stuff in fine style.”
Seeley fished his watch from under a pillow. It was
after ten o’clock and the game would begin at two.
While he hurried into his clothes he was conscious of
a distinct thrill of excited interest akin to his old-time
joy in the day’s work. Could he “do this kind of stuff
in fine style”? Why, before his brain had begun to
be always tired, when he was the star reporter of the
Chronicle, his football introductions had been classics
in Park Row. If there was a spark of the old
fire left in him he would try to strike it out, and for
the moment he forgot the burden of inertia which had
so long crushed him.
“But I don’t want to run into Dick Giddings and
his crowd,” he muttered as he sought his hat and overcoat.
“And I’ll be up in the press-box away from the
mob of old grads. Perhaps my luck has turned.”
[170]
When Henry Seeley reached the Yale field the eleven
had gone to the dressing-rooms in the training house,
and he hovered on the edge of the flooding crowds,
fairly yearning for a glimpse of the Freshman full-back
and a farewell grasp of his hand. The habitual dread
lest the son find cause to be ashamed of his father had
been shoved into the background by a stronger, more
natural emotion. But he well knew that he ought not
to invade the training quarters in these last crucial moments.
Ernest must not be distraught by a feather’s
weight of any other interest than the task in hand. The
coaches would be delivering their final words of instruction
and the old Yale guard could picture to himself
the tense absorption of the scene. Like one coming
out of a dream, the past was returning to him in
vivid, heart-stirring glimpses. Reluctantly he sought
his place in the press-box high above the vast amphitheatre.
The preliminary spectacle was movingly familiar: the
rippling banks of color which rose on all sides to frame
the long carpet of chalked turf; the clamorous outbursts
of cheering when an eddy of Yale or Princeton
undergraduates swirled and tossed at command of the
dancing dervish of a leader at the edge of the field below;
the bright, buoyant aspect of the multitude as
viewed en masse. Seeley leaned against the railing of his
lofty perch and gazed at this pageant until a sporting
editor, long in harness, nudged his elbow and said:
“Hello! I haven’t seen you at a game in a dozen
years. Doing the story or just working the press-badge
graft? That namesake of yours will be meat for the
Tigers, I’m afraid. Glad he doesn’t belong to you, aren’t
you?”
Seeley stared at him like a man in a trance and replied
evasively:
[171]
“He may be good enough. It all depends on his
sand and nerve. Yes, I am doing the story for a change.
Have you the final line-up?”
“Princeton is playing all her regular men,” said
the sporting editor, giving Seeley his note-book. “The
only Yale change is at full-back—and that’s a catastrophe.”
Seeley copied the lists for reference and his pencil
was not steady when he came to “Full-back, Ernest
T. Seeley.” But he pulled his thoughts away from
the eleven and began to jot down notes of the passing
incidents which might serve to weave into the fabric
of his description. The unwonted stimulus aroused his
talent as if it were not dead but dormant. The scene
appealed to him with almost as much freshness and
color as if he were observing it for the first time.
A roar of cheering rose from a far corner of the field
and ran swiftly along the Yale side of the amphitheatre,
which blossomed in tossing blue. The Yale eleven scampered
into view like colts at pasture, the substitutes
veering toward the benches behind the side-line. Without
more ado the team scattered in formation for signal
practice, paying no heed to the tumult which raged
around and above them. Agile, clean-limbed, splendid
in their disciplined young manhood, the dark blue
of their stockings and the white “Y” gleaming on
their sweaters fairly trumpeted their significance to
Henry Seeley. And poised behind the rush-line, wearing
his hard-won university blue, was the lithe figure of
the Freshman full-back, Ernest Seeley.
The youngster, whose fate it was to be called a “forlorn
hope,” looked fragile beside his comrades of the
eleven. Although tall and wiry, he was like a greyhound
in a company of mastiffs. His father, looking
down at him from so great a height that he could not[172]
read his face, muttered to himself while he dug his nails
into his palms:
“He is too light for this day’s work. But he carries
himself like a thoroughbred.”
The boy and his fellows seemed singularly remote
from the shouting thousands massed so near them.
They had become the sole arbiters of their fate, and
their impressive isolation struck Henry Seeley anew as
the most dramatic feature of this magnificent picture.
He must sit idly by and watch his only son battle through
the most momentous hour of his young life, as if he
were gazing down from another planet.
The staccato cheers of Princeton rocketed along the
other side of the field, and the eleven from Old Nassau
ran briskly over the turf and wheeled into line for a last
rehearsal of their machine-like tactics. Henry Seeley
was finding it hard to breathe, just as it had happened
in other days when he was waiting for the “kick-off”
and facing a straining Princeton line. The minutes were
like hours while the officials consulted with the captains
in the centre of the field. Then the two elevens ranged
themselves across the brown turf, there was breathless
silence, and a Princeton toe lifted the ball far down
toward the Yale goal. It was the young full-back who
waited to receive the opening kick, while his comrades
thundered toward him to form a flying screen of interference.
But the twisting ball bounded from his too
eager arms, and another Yale back fell on it in time
to save it from the clutches of a meteoric Princeton end.
“Nervous. Hasn’t steadied down yet,” exclaimed a
reporter behind Henry Seeley. “But he can’t afford
to give Princeton any more chances like that. Her ends
are faster than chain lightning.”
The father groaned and wiped the sweat from his
eyes. If the team were afraid of this untried full-back,[173]
such a beginning would not give them confidence. Then
the two lines locked and heaved in the first scrimmage,
and a stocky Yale half-back was pulled down in his
tracks. Again the headlong Princeton defence held
firm and the Yale captain gasped, “Second down and
three yards to gain.” The Yale interferers sped to
circle one end of the line, but they were spilled this way
and that and the runner went down a yard short of
the needed distance.
The Yale full-back dropped back to punt. Far and
true the ball soared into the Princeton field, and the
lithe Freshman had somewhat redeemed himself. But
now, for their own part, the sons of Old Nassau found
themselves unable to make decisive gains against the
Yale defence. Greek met Greek in these early clashes,
and both teams were forced to punt again and again.
Trick-plays were spoiled by alert end-rushers for the
blue or the orange and black, fiercely launched assaults
at centre were torn asunder, and the longer the contest
raged up and down the field the more clearly it was
perceived that these ancient rivals were rarely well
matched in point of strength and strategy.
The Yale coaches were dismayed at this turn of events.
They had hoped to see the ball carried toward the
Princeton goal by means of shrewdly devised teamwork,
instead of which the burden of the game was
shifted to one man, the weakest link in the chain, the
Freshman at full-back. He was punting with splendid
distance, getting the ball away when it seemed as if he
must be overwhelmed by the hurtling Tigers. Once
or twice, however, a hesitant nervousness almost wrought
quick disaster, and the Yale partisans watched him with
tormenting apprehension.
The first half of the game was fought into the last
few minutes of play and neither eleven had been able[174]
to score. Then luck and skill combined to force the
struggle far down into Yale territory. Only ten yards
more of trampled turf to gain and Princeton would
cross the last white line. The indomitable spirit which
had placed upon the escutcheon of Yale football the
figure of a bulldog rampant, rallied to meet this crisis,
and the hard-pressed line held staunch and won possession
of the ball on downs. Back to the very shadow
of his own goal-posts the Yale full-back ran to punt
the ball out of the danger zone. It shot fairly into
his grasp from a faultless pass, but his fingers juggled
the slippery leather as if it were bewitched. For a
frantic, awful instant he fumbled with the ball and
wildly dived after it as it caromed off to one side,
bounded crazily, and rolled beyond his reach.
The Princeton quarter-back had darted through the
line like a bullet. Without slackening speed or veering
from his course, he scooped up the ball as he fled toward
the Yale goal-line. It was done and over within a
twinkling, and while the Yale team stampeded helplessly
in his wake the devastating hero was circling
behind the goal-posts where he flopped to earth, the
precious ball apparently embedded in his stomach. It
was a Princeton touchdown fairly won, but made possible
by the tragic blunder of one Yale man. While
ten thousand Princeton throats were barking their jubilation,
as many more loyal friends of Yale sat sad-eyed
and sullen and glowered their unspeakable displeasure
at the slim figure of the full-back as he limped into line
to face the try for goal.
The goal was not scored, however, and the fateful
tally stood five to nothing when the first half ended,
with the blue banners drooping disconsolate.
Henry Seeley pulled his slouch hat over his eyes and
sat with hunched shoulders staring at the Yale team[175]
as it left the field for the intermission. He had forgotten
about his story of the game. The old spectre
of failure obsessed him. It was already haunting the
pathway of his boy. Was he also to be beaten by one
colossal blunder? Henry Seeley felt that Ernest’s whole
career hung upon his behavior in the second half. How
would the lad “take his medicine”? Would it break
his heart or rouse him to fight more valiantly? As if
the father had been thinking aloud, the sporting editor
at his side observed:
“He may win the game yet. I like the looks of that
boy. But he did make a hideous mess of it, didn’t he?
I hope he hasn’t got a streak of yellow in him.”
Henry Seeley turned on his neighbor with a savage
scowl and could not hold, back the quivering retort:
“He belongs to me, I want you to understand, and
we’ll say nothing about yellow streaks until he has a
chance to make good next half.”
“Whew-w-w, why did you hold it out on me, old
man?” gasped the sporting editor. “No wonder you
kicked me black and blue without knowing it. I hope
he is a chip of the old block. I saw you play here in
your last game.”
Seeley grunted something and resumed staring at the
field. He was thinking of the present moment in the
training quarters, of the muddy, weary players sprawled
around the head coach, of his wise, bitter, stinging rebukes
and admonitions. Perhaps he would take Ernest
out of the game. But Seeley was confident that the
coaches would give the boy a chance to redeem himself
if they believed his heart was in the right place. Presently
the two teams trotted on the field, not as nimbly
as at their first appearance, but with dogged resolution
in their demeanor. Henry Seeley saw his son glance up
at the “cheering sections,” as if wondering whether[176]
their welcome was meant to include him. One cheer,
at least, was intended to greet him, for Henry Seeley
stood on his chair, waved his hat, and thundered:
“‘Rah, ’rah, ’rah, for Yale, my boy. Eat ’em alive
as your daddy used to do.”
The men from Princeton had no intention of being
devoured in this summary fashion. They resumed their
tireless, whirlwind attack like giants refreshed, and
so harried their Yale foemen that they were forced
to their utmost to ward off another touchdown. This
incessant battering dulled the edges of their offensive
tactics, and they seemed unable to set in motion a consistent
series of advances. But the joy of Princeton
was tempered by the knowledge that this, her dearest
enemy, was not beaten until the last play had been
signalled.
And somehow the Yale machine of muscle, brains,
and power began to find itself when the afternoon shadows
were slanting athwart the arena. With the ball
on Princeton’s forty-yard line the chosen sons of Eli
began a heroic advance down the field. It was as if
some missing cog had been supplied. “Straight old-fashioned
football” it was, eleven minds and bodies
working as one and animated by a desperate resolve,
which carried the Yale team along for down after
down into the heart of Princeton’s ground.
Perhaps because he was fresher than the other backs,
perhaps because the captain knew his man, the ball
was given to the Yale full-back for one swift and battering
assault after another. His slim figure pelted
at the rush-line, was overwhelmed in an avalanche of
striped arms and legs, but somehow twisted, wriggled,
dragged itself ahead as if there was no stopping him.
The multitude comprehended that this despised and
disgraced Freshman was working out his own salvation[177]
along with that of his comrades. Once, when the
scrimmage was untangled, he was dragged from beneath
a heap of players, unable to regain his feet.
He lay on the grass a huddled heap, blood smearing
his forehead. A surgeon and the trainer doused and
bandaged him, and presently he staggered to his feet and
hobbled to his station, rubbing his hands across his eyes
as if dazed.
When, at length, the stubbornly retreating Princeton
line had been driven deep down into their end of the
field, they, too, showed that they could hold fast in the
last extremity. The Yale attack crumpled against them
as if it had struck a stone wall. Young Seeley seemed
to be so crippled and exhausted that he had been given
a respite from the interlocked, hammering onslaught,
but at the third down the panting quarter-back croaked
out his signal. His comrades managed to rip a semblance
of an opening for him, he plunged through,
popped clear of the line, fell to his knees, recovered his
footing by a miracle of agility, and lunged onward,
to be brought down within five yards of the coveted
goal-posts.
He had won the right to make the last momentous
charge. Swaying in his tracks, the full-back awaited
the summons. Then he dived in behind the interference
for a circuit of the right end. Two Princeton men
broke through as if they had been shot out of mortars,
but the Yale full-back had turned and was ploughing
straight ahead. Pulled down, dragging the tackler who
clung to his waist, he floundered to earth with most of
the Princeton team piled above him. But the ball lay
beyond the fateful chalk-line, the Yale touchdown was
won, and the game was tied.
The captain clapped Seeley on the shoulder, nodded
at the ball, and the full-back limped on to the field[178]
to kick the goal or lose a victory. There were no more
signs of nervousness in his bearing. With grave deliberation
he stood waiting for the ball to be placed
in front of the goal-posts. The sun had dropped behind
the lofty grand-stands. The field lay in a kind
of wintry twilight. Thirty thousand men and women
gazed in tensest silence at the mud-stained, battered
youth who had become the crowning issue of this
poignant moment. Up in the press-box a thick-set, grayish
man dug his fists in his eyes and could not bear
to look at the lonely, reliant figure down yonder on
the quiet field. The father found courage to take his
hands from his face only when a mighty roar of joy
boomed along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, and he
saw the ball drop in a long arc behind the goal-posts.
The kick had won the game for Yale.
Once clear of the crowds, Henry Seeley hurried toward
the training quarters. His head was up, his
shoulders squared, and he walked with the free stride
of an athlete. Mr. Richard Giddings danced madly
across to him:
“Afraid to see him play were you, you silly old fool?
He is a chip of the old block. He didn’t know when
he was licked. Wow, wow, wow, blood will tell! Come
along with us, Harry.”
“I must shake hands with the youngster, Dick. Glad
I changed my mind and came to see him do it.”
“All right, see you at Mory’s to-night. Tell the boy
we’re all proud of him.”
Seeley resumed his course, saying over and over
again, as if he loved the sound of the words, “chip of
the old block,” “blood will tell.”
This verdict was like the ringing call of bugles. It
made him feel young, hopeful, resolute, that life were
worth having for the sake of its strife. One thing at[179]
least was certain. His son could “take his punishment”
and wrest victory from disaster, and he deserved
something better than a coward and a quitter for a
father.
The full-back was sitting on a bench when the elder
Seeley entered the crowded, steaming room of the
training house. The surgeon had removed the muddy,
blood-stained bandage from around his tousled head
and was cleansing an ugly, ragged gash. The boy
scowled and winced but made no complaint, although
his bruised face was very pale.
“Must have made you feel pretty foggy,” said the
surgeon. “I shall have to put in a few stitches. It
was a deuce of a thump.”
“I couldn’t see very well and my legs went queer
for a few minutes, but I’m all right now, thanks,” replied
the full-back, and then, glancing up, he espied
his father standing near the door. The young hero of
the game beckoned him with a grimy fist. Henry Seeley
went over to him, took the fist in his two hands,
and then patted the boy’s cheek with awkward and unaccustomed
tenderness.
“Sit still, Ernest. I won’t interfere with the doctor’s
job. I just wanted to let you know that I saw
your bully work. It made me think of—it made me
think of——”
Henry Seeley’s voice broke curiously and his lip
quivered. He had not meant to show any emotion.
His son replied with a smile of affectionate admiration:
“It made you think of your own teams, didn’t it?
And I was thinking of you in that last half. It helped
my nerve a whole lot to remember that my dad never
knew when he was licked. Why, even the coaches told
me that between the halves. It put more ginger into[180]
me than anything else. We’ve got to keep up the family
record between us.”
The father looked beyond the boy as if he were thinking
of a bigger, sterner game than football. There was
the light of a resurrected determination in his eyes, and
a vibrant earnestness in his voice as he said:
“I’m not worrying about your keeping the family
record bright, Ernest. And, however things may go
with me, you will be able to hang fast to the doctrine
which helped you to-day, that your father, too, doesn’t
know when he is whipped.”
[181]
GALLEGHER
A NEWSPAPER STORY
BY
Richard Harding Davis
[182]
This is an illustration of a popular type of the short-story.
The movement from beginning to end is swift
and urgent; something important is happening all the
time. Description is reduced to the minimum, and where
it is used does not impede the action. The local color
of a great newspaper office in a large city contributes to
the impression of orderly activity and haste. Gallegher,
moreover, is the kind of character that enlists sympathy
by his youth, his daring, and his resourcefulness.
[183]
GALLEGHER[13]
We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher
came among us that they had begun to lose the characteristics
of individuals, and became merged in a
composite photograph of small boys, to whom we
applied the generic title of “Here, you”; or “You,
boy.”
We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright,
“smart” boys, who became so familiar on so short
an acquaintance that we were forced to part with them
to save our own self-respect.
They generally graduated into district-messenger
boys, and occasionally returned to us in blue coats with
nickel-plated buttons, and patronized us.
But Gallegher was something different from anything
we had experienced before. Gallegher was short and
broad in build, with a solid, muscular broadness, and
not a fat and dumpy shortness. He wore perpetually
on his face a happy and knowing smile, as if you and
the world in general were not impressing him as seriously
as you thought you were, and his eyes, which
were very black and very bright, snapped intelligently
at you like those of a little black-and-tan terrier.
All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets;
not a very good school in itself, but one that turns
out very knowing scholars. And Gallagher had attended
both morning and evening sessions. He could not[184]
tell you who the Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he
name the thirteen original States, but he knew all the
officers of the twenty-second police district by name,
and he could distinguish the clang of a fire-engine’s gong
from that of a patrol-wagon or an ambulance fully two
blocks distant. It was Gallegher who rang the alarm
when the Woolwich Mills caught fire, while the officer
on the beat was asleep, and it was Gallegher who led
the “Black Diamonds” against the “Wharf Rats,”
when they used to stone each other to their hearts’
content on the coal-wharves of Richmond.
I am afraid, now that I see these facts written down,
that Gallegher was not a reputable character; but he
was so very young and so very old for his years that
we all liked him very much nevertheless. He lived in
the extreme northern part of Philadelphia, where the
cotton- and woollen-mills run down to the river, and how
he ever got home after leaving the Press building at two
in the morning, was one of the mysteries of the office.
Sometimes he caught a night car, and sometimes he
walked all the way, arriving at the little house, where
his mother and himself lived alone, at four in the morning.
Occasionally he was given a ride on an early milk-cart,
or on one of the newspaper delivery wagons, with
its high piles of papers still damp and sticky from the
press. He knew several drivers of “night hawks”—those
cabs that prowl the streets at night looking for
belated passengers—and when it was a very cold morning
he would not go home at all, but would crawl into
one of these cabs and sleep, curled upon the cushions,
until daylight.
Besides being quick and cheerful, Gallegher possessed
a power of amusing the Press’s young men to a degree
seldom attained by the ordinary mortal. His clog-dancing
on the city editor’s desk, when that gentleman[185]
was upstairs fighting for two more columns of space, was
always a source of innocent joy to us, and his imitations
of the comedians of the variety halls delighted
even the dramatic critic, from whom the comedians themselves
failed to force a smile.
But Gallegher’s chief characteristic was his love for
that element of news generically classed as “crime.”
Not that he ever did anything criminal himself. On
the contrary, his was rather the work of the criminal
specialist, and his morbid interest in the doings of all
queer characters, his knowledge of their methods, their
present whereabouts, and their past deeds of transgression
often rendered him a valuable ally to our police
reporter, whose daily feuilletons were the only portion
of the paper Gallegher deigned to read.
In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally
developed. He had shown this on several occasions, and
to excellent purpose.
Once the paper had sent him into a Home for Destitute
Orphans which was believed to be grievously mismanaged,
and Gallegher, while playing the part of a
destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to what was going
on around him so faithfully that the story he told
of the treatment meted out to the real orphans was
sufficient to rescue the unhappy little wretches from the
individual who had them in charge, and to have
the individual himself sent to jail.
Gallegher’s knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment,
and various misdoings of the leading criminals
in Philadelphia was almost as thorough as that of the
chief of police himself, and he could tell to an hour when
“Dutchy Mack” was to be let out of prison, and could
identify at a glance “Dick Oxford, confidence man,”
as “Gentleman Dan, petty thief.”
There were, at this time, only two pieces of news[186]
in any of the papers. The least important of the two
was the big fight between the Champion of the United
States and the Would-be Champion, arranged to take
place near Philadelphia; the second was the Burrbank
murder, which was filling space in newspapers all over
the world, from New York to Bombay.
Richard F. Burrbank was one of the most prominent
of New York’s railroad lawyers; he was also, as a
matter of course, an owner of much railroad stock, and
a very wealthy man. He had been spoken of as a political
possibility for many high offices, and, as the counsel
for a great railroad, was known even further than
the great railroad itself had stretched its system.
At six o’clock one morning he was found by his butler
lying at the foot of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds
above his heart. He was quite dead. His safe, to
which only he and his secretary had the keys, was found
open, and $200,000 in bonds, stocks, and money, which
had been placed there only the night before, was found
missing. The secretary was missing also. His name
was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and his description
had been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of the
world. There was enough circumstantial evidence to
show, beyond any question or possibility of mistake,
that he was the murderer.
It made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy
individuals were being arrested all over the country,
and sent on to New York for identification. Three had
been arrested at Liverpool, and one man just as he
landed at Sydney, Australia. But so far the murderer
had escaped.
We were all talking about it one night, as everybody
else was all over the country, in the local room, and
the city editor said it was worth a fortune to any one
who chanced to run across Hade and succeeded in handing[187]
him over to the police. Some of us thought Hade
had taken passage from some one of the smaller sea-ports,
and others were of the opinion that he had buried
himself in some cheap lodging-house in New York, or
in one of the smaller towns in New Jersey.
“I shouldn’t be surprised to meet him out walking,
right here in Philadelphia,” said one of the staff.
“He’ll be disguised, of course, but you could always
tell him by the absence of the trigger finger on his
right hand. It’s missing, you know; shot off when
he was a boy.”
“You want to look for a man dressed like a tough,”
said the city editor; “for as this fellow is to all appearances
a gentleman, he will try to look as little like
a gentleman as possible.”
“No, he won’t,” said Gallegher, with that calm impertinence
that made him dear to us. “He’ll dress
just like a gentleman. Toughs don’t wear gloves, and
you see he’s got to wear ’em. The first thing he thought
of after doing for Burrbank was of that gone finger,
and how he was to hide it. He stuffed the finger of
that glove with cotton so’s to make it look like a whole
finger, and the first time he takes off that glove they’ve
got him—see, and he knows it. So what youse want to
do is to look for a man with gloves on. I’ve been a-doing
it for two weeks now, and I can tell you it’s hard work,
for everybody wears gloves this kind of weather. But
if you look long enough you’ll find him. And when you
think it’s him, go up to him and hold out your hand in
a friendly way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand;
and if you feel that his forefinger ain’t real flesh, but
just wadded cotton, then grip to it with your right
and grab his throat with your left, and holler for help.”
There was an appreciative pause.
“I see, gentlemen,” said the city editor, drily, “that[188]
Gallegher’s reasoning has impressed you; and I also see
that before the week is out all of my young men will be
under bonds for assaulting innocent pedestrians whose
only offence is that they wear gloves in mid-winter.”
It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger,
of Inspector Byrnes’s staff, came over to Philadelphia
after a burglar, of whose whereabouts he had
been misinformed by telegraph. He brought the warrant,
requisition, and other necessary papers with him,
but the burglar had flown. One of our reporters had
worked on a New York paper, and knew Hefflefinger,
and the detective came to the office to see if he could
help him in his so far unsuccessful search.
He gave Gallegher his card, and after Gallegher had
read it, and had discovered who the visitor was, he became
so demoralized that he was absolutely useless.
“One of Byrnes’s men” was a much more awe-inspiring
individual to Gallegher than a member of the
Cabinet. He accordingly seized his hat and overcoat,
and leaving his duties to be looked after by others, hastened
out after the object of his admiration, who found
his suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable,
and his company so entertaining, that they became
very intimate, and spent the rest of the day together.
In the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed
his subordinates to inform Gallegher, when he condescended
to return, that his services were no longer
needed. Gallegher had played truant once too often.
Unconscious of this, he remained with his new friend
until late the same evening, and started the next afternoon
toward the Press office.
As I have said, Gallegher lived in the most distant
part of the city, not many minutes’ walk from the Kensington[189]
railroad station, where trains ran into the suburbs
and on to New York.
It was in front of this station that a smoothly-shaven,
well-dressed man brushed past Gallegher and hurried
up the steps to the ticket office.
He held a walking-stick in his right hand, and Gallegher,
who now patiently scrutinized the hands of
every one who wore gloves, saw that while three fingers
of the man’s hand were closed around the cane, the
fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his
palm.
Gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling
all over his little body, and his brain asked with a throb
if it could be possible. But possibilities and probabilities
were to be discovered later. Now was the time
for action.
He was after the man in a moment, hanging at his
heels and his eyes moist with excitement.
He heard the man ask for a ticket to Torresdale, a
little station just outside of Philadelphia, and when
he was out of hearing, but not out of sight, purchased
one for the same place.
The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated
himself at one end toward the door. Gallegher took his
place at the opposite end.
He was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight
feeling of nausea. He guessed it came from fright,
not of any bodily harm that might come to him, but
at the probability of failure in his adventure and of
its most momentous possibilities.
The stranger pulled his coat collar up around his
ears, hiding the lower portion of his face, but not
concealing the resemblance in his troubled eyes and close-shut
lips to the likenesses of the murderer Hade.
They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the[190]
stranger, alighting quickly, struck off at a rapid pace
down the country road leading to the station.
Gallegher gave him a hundred yards’ start, and then
followed slowly after. The road ran between fields and
past a few frame-houses set far from the road in kitchen
gardens.
Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder,
but he saw only a dreary length of road with a small
boy splashing through the slush in the midst of it and
stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at
belated sparrows.
After a ten minutes’ walk the stranger turned into
a side road which led to only one place, the Eagle Inn,
an old roadside hostelry known now as the headquarters
for pothunters from the Philadelphia game market
and the battle-ground of many a cock-fight.
Gallegher knew the place well. He and his young
companions had often stopped there when out chestnutting
on holidays in the autumn.
The son of the man who kept it had often accompanied
them on their excursions, and though the boys
of the city streets considered him a dumb lout, they
respected him somewhat owing to his inside knowledge
of dog- and cock-fights.
The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher,
reaching it a few minutes later, let him go for
the time being, and set about finding his occasional
playmate, young Keppler.
Keppler’s offspring was found in the wood-shed.
“‘Tain’t hard to guess what brings you out here,”
said the tavern-keeper’s son, with a grin; “it’s the
fight.”
“What fight?” asked Gallegher, unguardedly.
“What fight? Why, the fight,” returned his companion,
with the slow contempt of superior knowledge.
[191]
“It’s to come off here to-night. You knew that as
well as me; anyway your sportin’ editor knows it. He
got the tip last night, but that won’t help you any. You
needn’t think there’s any chance of your getting a peep
at it. Why, tickets is two hundred and fifty apiece!”
“Whew!” whistled Gallegher, “where’s it to be?”
“In the barn,” whispered Keppler. “I helped ’em
fix the ropes this morning, I did.”
“Gosh, but you’re in luck,” exclaimed Gallegher,
with flattering envy. “Couldn’t I jest get a peep at
it?”
“Maybe,” said the gratified Keppler. “There’s a
winder with a wooden shutter at the back of the barn.
You can get in by it, if you have some one to boost
you up to the sill.”
“Sa-a-y,” drawled Gallegher, as if something had but
just that moment reminded him. “Who’s that gent
who come down the road just a bit ahead of me—him
with the cape-coat! Has he got anything to do with
the fight?”
“Him?” repeated Keppler in tones of sincere disgust.
“No-oh, he ain’t no sport. He’s queer, Dad
thinks. He come here one day last week about ten in
the morning, said his doctor told him to go out ’en the
country for his health. He’s stuck up and citified, and
wears gloves, and takes his meals private in his room,
and all that sort of truck. They was saying in the saloon
last night that they thought he was hiding from something,
and Dad, just to try him, asks him last night if
he was coming to see the fight. He looked sort of scared,
and said he didn’t want to see no fight. And then Dad
says, ’I guess you mean you don’t want no fighters
to see you.’ Dad didn’t mean no harm by it, just
passed it as a joke; but Mr. Carleton, as he calls himself,
got white as a ghost an’ says, ’I’ll go to the fight[192]
willing enough,’ and begins to laugh and joke. And
this morning he went right into the bar-room, where
all the sports were setting, and said he was going in to
town to see some friends; and as he starts off he laughs
an’ says, ’This don’t look as if I was afraid of seeing
people, does it?’ but Dad says it was just bluff that
made him do it, and Dad thinks that if he hadn’t said
what he did, this Mr. Carleton wouldn’t have left his
room at all.”
Gallegher had got all he wanted, and much more than
he had hoped for—so much more that his walk back
to the station was in the nature of a triumphal march.
He had twenty minutes to wait for the next train,
and it seemed an hour. While waiting he sent a telegram
to Hefflefinger at his hotel. It read: “Your man
is near the Torresdale station, on Pennsylvania Railroad;
take cab, and meet me at station. Wait until I
come. Gallegher.”
With the exception of one at midnight, no other
train stopped at Torresdale that evening, hence the direction
to take a cab.
The train to the city seemed to Gallegher to drag
itself by inches. It stopped and backed at purposeless
intervals, waited for an express to precede it, and
dallied at stations, and when, at last, it reached the
terminus, Gallegher was out before it had stopped and
was in the cab and off on his way to the home of the
sporting editor.
The sporting editor was at dinner and came out in
the hall to see him, with his napkin in his hand. Gallegher
explained breathlessly that he had located the
murderer for whom the police of two continents were
looking, and that he believed, in order to quiet the suspicions
of the people with whom he was hiding, that he
would be present at the fight that night.
[193]
The sporting editor led Gallegher into his library and
shut the door. “Now,” he said, “go over all that
again.”
Gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how
he had sent for Hefflefinger to make the arrest in order
that it might be kept from the knowledge of the local
police and from the Philadelphia reporters.
“What I want Hefflefinger to do is to arrest Hade
with the warrant he has for the burglar,” explained Gallegher;
“and to take him on to New York on the owl
train that passes Torresdale at one. It don’t get to
Jersey City until four o’clock, one hour after the morning
papers go to press. Of course, we must fix Hefflefinger
so’s he’ll keep quiet and not tell who his prisoner
really is.”
The sporting editor reached his hand out to pat Gallegher
on the head, but changed his mind and shook
hands with him instead.
“My boy,” he said, “you are an infant phenomenon.
If I can pull the rest of this thing off to-night, it will
mean the $5,000 reward and fame galore for you and
the paper. Now, I’m going to write a note to the managing
editor, and you can take it around to him and
tell him what you’ve done and what I am going to do,
and he’ll take you back on the paper and raise your
salary. Perhaps you didn’t know you’ve been discharged?”
“Do you think you ain’t a-going to take me with
you?” demanded Gallegher.
“Why, certainly not. Why should I? It all lies with
the detective and myself now. You’ve done your share,
and done it well. If the man’s caught, the reward’s
yours. But you’d only be in the way now. You’d better
go to the office and make your peace with the chief.”
“If the paper can get along without me, I can get[194]
along without the old paper,” said Gallegher, hotly.
“And if I ain’t a-going with you, you ain’t neither,
for I know where Hefflefinger is to be, and you don’t,
and I won’t tell you.”
“Oh, very well, very well,” replied the sporting
editor, weakly capitulating. “I’ll send the note by a
messenger; only mind, if you lose your place, don’t blame
me.”
Gallegher wondered how this man could value a
week’s salary against the excitement of seeing a noted
criminal run down, and of getting the news to the paper,
and to that one paper alone.
From that moment the sporting editor sank in Gallegher’s
estimation.
Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off
the following note:
“I have received reliable information that Hade, the Burrbank
murderer, will be present at the fight to-night. We have
arranged it so that he will be arrested quietly and in such a manner
that the fact may be kept from all other papers. I need not
point out to you that this will be the most important piece of
news in the country to-morrow.
“Yours, etc.,
“Michael E. Dwyer.”
The sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab,
while Gallegher whispered the directions to the driver.
He was told to go first to a district-messenger office,
and from there up to the Ridge Avenue Road, out
Broad Street, and on to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale.
It was a miserable night. The rain and snow were
falling together, and freezing as they fell. The sporting
editor got out to send his message to the Press office,[195]
and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the collar
of his great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab.
“Wake me when we get there, Gallegher,” he said.
He knew he had a long ride, and much rapid work before
him, and he was preparing for the strain.
To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost
criminal. From the dark corner of the cab his eyes
shone with excitement, and with the awful joy of anticipation.
He glanced every now and then to where
the sporting editor’s cigar shone in the darkness, and
watched it as it gradually burnt more dimly and went
out. The lights in the shop windows threw a broad
glare across the ice on the pavements, and the lights
from the lamp-posts tossed the distorted shadow of the
cab, and the horse, and the motionless driver, sometimes
before and sometimes behind them.
After half an hour Gallegher slipped down to the
bottom of the cab and dragged out a lap-robe, in which
he wrapped himself. It was growing colder, and the
damp, keen wind swept in through the cracks until
the window-frames and woodwork were cold to the
touch.
An hour passed, and the cab was still moving more
slowly over the rough surface of partly paved streets,
and by single rows of new houses standing at different
angles to each other in fields covered with ash-heaps and
brick-kilns. Here and there the gaudy lights of a
drug-store, and the forerunner of suburban civilization,
shone from the end of a new block of houses, and the
rubber cape of an occasional policeman showed in the
light of the lamp-post that he hugged for comfort.
Then even the houses disappeared, and the cab
dragged its way between truck farms, with desolate-looking,
glass-covered beds, and pools of water, half-caked
with ice, and bare trees, and interminable fences.
[196]
Once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and Gallegher
could hear the driver swearing to himself, or at
the horse, or the roads. At last they drew up before
the station at Torresdale. It was quite deserted, and
only a single light cut a swath in the darkness and
showed a portion of the platform, the ties, and the
rails glistening in the rain. They walked twice past
the light before a figure stepped out of the shadow and
greeted them cautiously.
“I am Mr. Dwyer, of the Press,” said the sporting
editor, briskly. “You’ve heard of me, perhaps. Well,
there shouldn’t be any difficulty in our making a deal,
should there? This boy here has found Hade, and we
have reason to believe he will be among the spectators
at the fight to-night. We want you to arrest him quietly,
and as secretly as possible. You can do it with your
papers and your badge easily enough. We want you
to pretend that you believe he is this burglar you came
over after. If you will do this, and take him away
without any one so much as suspecting who he really
is, and on the train that passes here at 1.20 for New
York, we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 reward.
If, however, one other paper, either in New York or
Philadelphia, or anywhere else, knows of the arrest, you
won’t get a cent. Now, what do you say?”
The detective had a great deal to say. He wasn’t
at all sure the man Gallegher suspected was Hade; he
feared he might get himself into trouble by making a
false arrest, and if it should be the man, he was afraid
the local police would interfere.
“We’ve no time to argue or debate this matter,”
said Dwyer, warmly. “We agree to point Hade out to
you in the crowd. After the fight is over you arrest him
as we have directed, and you get the money and the
credit of the arrest. If you don’t like this, I will arrest[197]
the man myself, and have him driven to town, with a
pistol for a warrant.”
Hefflefinger considered in silence and then agreed
unconditionally. “As you say, Mr. Dwyer,” he returned.
“I’ve heard of you for a thoroughbred sport.
I know you’ll do what you say you’ll do; and as for
me I’ll do what you say and just as you say, and it’s a
very pretty piece of work as it stands.”
They all stepped back into the cab, and then it was
that they were met by a fresh difficulty, how to get the
detective into the barn where the fight was to take place,
for neither of the two men had $250 to pay for his
admittance.
But this was overcome when Gallegher remembered
the window of which young Keppler had told him.
In the event of Hade’s losing courage and not daring
to show himself in the crowd around the ring, it was
agreed that Dwyer should come to the barn and warn
Hefflefinger; but if he should come, Dwyer was merely
to keep near him and to signify by a prearranged gesture
which one of the crowd he was.
They drew up before a great black shadow of a house,
dark, forbidding, and apparently deserted. But at the
sound of the wheels on the gravel the door opened, letting
out a stream of warm, cheerful light, and a man’s
voice said, “Put out those lights. Don’t youse know
no better than that?” This was Keppler, and he welcomed
Mr. Dwyer with effusive courtesy.
The two men showed in the stream of light, and the
door closed on them, leaving the house as it was at
first, black and silent, save for the dripping of the rain
and snow from the eaves.
The detective and Gallegher put out the cab’s lamps
and led the horse toward a long, low shed in the rear
of the yard, which they now noticed was almost filled[198]
with teams of many different makes, from the Hobson’s
choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the man
about town.
“No,” said Gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch
the horse beside the others, “we want it nearest that
lower gate. When we newspaper men leave this place
we’ll leave it in a hurry, and the man who is nearest
town is likely to get there first. You won’t be a-following
of no hearse when you make your return trip.”
Gallegher tied the horse to the very gate-post itself,
leaving the gate open and allowing a clear road and a
flying start for the prospective race to Newspaper Row.
The driver disappeared under the shelter of the porch,
and Gallegher and the detective moved off cautiously
to the rear of the barn. “This must be the window,”
said Hefflefinger, pointing to a broad wooden shutter
some feet from the ground.
“Just you give me a boost once, and I’ll get that
open in a jiffy,” said Gallegher.
The detective placed his hands on his knees, and Gallegher
stood upon his shoulders, and with the blade
of his knife lifted the wooden button that fastened
the window on the inside, and pulled the shutter
open.
Then he put one leg inside over the sill, and leaning
down helped to draw his fellow-conspirator up to a
level with the window. “I feel just like I was burglarizing
a house,” chuckled Gallegher, as he dropped noiselessly
to the floor below and refastened the shutter. The
barn was a large one, with a row of stalls on either side
in which horses and cows were dozing. There was a
haymow over each row of stalls, and at one end of the
barn a number of fence-rails had been thrown across
from one mow to the other. These rails were covered
with hay.
[199]
In the middle of the floor was the ring. It was not
really a ring, but a square, with wooden posts at its
four corners through which ran a heavy rope. The
space inclosed by the rope was covered with sawdust.
Gallegher could not resist stepping into the ring,
and after stamping the sawdust once or twice, as if
to assure himself that he was really there, began dancing
around it, and indulging in such a remarkable series
of fistic manœuvres with an imaginary adversary that
the unimaginative detective precipitately backed into a
corner of the barn.
“Now, then,” said Gallegher, having apparently vanquished
his foe, “you come with me.” His companion
followed quickly as Gallegher climbed to one of the haymows,
and crawling carefully out on the fence-rail,
stretched himself at full length, face downward. In
this position, by moving the straw a little, he could
look down, without being himself seen, upon the heads
of whomsoever stood below. “This is better’n a private
box, ain’t it?” said Gallegher.
The boy from the newspaper office and the detective
lay there in silence, biting at straws and tossing anxiously
on their comfortable bed.
It seemed fully two hours before they came. Gallegher
had listened without breathing, and with every
muscle on a strain, at least a dozen times, when some
movement in the yard had led him to believe that
they were at the door.
And he had numerous doubts and fears. Sometimes
it was that the police had learnt of the fight, and had
raided Keppler’s in his absence, and again it was that
the fight had been postponed, or, worst of all, that it
would be put off until so late that Mr. Dwyer could
not get back in time for the last edition of the paper.[200]
Their coming, when at last they came, was heralded
by an advance-guard of two sporting men, who stationed
themselves at either side of the big door.
“Hurry up, now, gents,” one of the men said with
a shiver, “don’t keep this door open no longer’n is
needful.”
It was not a very large crowd, but it was wonderfully
well selected. It ran, in the majority of its component
parts, to heavy white coats with pearl buttons.
The white coats were shouldered by long blue coats with
astrakhan fur trimmings, the wearers of which preserved
a cliqueness not remarkable when one considers
that they believed every one else present to be either a
crook or a prize-fighter.
There were well-fed, well-groomed clubmen and brokers
in the crowd, a politician or two, a popular comedian
with his manager, amateur boxers from the athletic
clubs, and quiet, close-mouthed sporting men from every
city in the country. Their names if printed in the papers
would have been as familiar as the types of the papers
themselves.
And among these men, whose only thought was of
the brutal sport to come, was Hade, with Dwyer standing
at ease at his shoulder,—Hade, white, and visibly
in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face beneath a cloth
travelling-cap, and with his chin muffled in a woollen
scarf. He had dared to come because he feared his
danger from the already suspicious Keppler was less
than if he stayed away. And so he was there, hovering
restlessly on the border of the crowd, feeling his danger
and sick with fear.
When Hefflefinger first saw him he started up on his
hands and elbows and made a movement forward as
if he would leap down then and there and carry off
his prisoner single-handed.
[201]
“Lie down,” growled Gallegher; “an officer of any
sort wouldn’t live three minutes in that crowd.”
The detective drew back slowly and buried himself
again in the straw, but never once through the long
fight which followed did his eyes leave the person of
the murderer. The newspaper men took their places
in the foremost row close around the ring, and kept
looking at their watches and begging the master of
ceremonies to “shake it up, do.”
There was a great deal of betting, and all of the men
handled the great roll of bills they wagered with a flippant
recklessness which could only be accounted for
in Gallegher’s mind by temporary mental derangement.
Some one pulled a box out into the ring and the master
of ceremonies mounted it, and pointed out in forcible
language that as they were almost all already under
bonds to keep the peace, it behooved all to curb their
excitement and to maintain a severe silence, unless
they wanted to bring the police upon them and have
themselves “sent down” for a year or two.
Then two very disreputable-looking persons tossed
their respective principals’ high hats into the ring, and
the crowd, recognizing in this relic of the days when
brave knights threw down their gauntlets in the lists
as only a sign that the fight was about to begin, cheered
tumultuously.
This was followed by a sudden surging forward, and
a mutter of admiration much more flattering than the
cheers had been, when the principals followed their hats,
and slipping out of their great-coats, stood forth in all
the physical beauty of the perfect brute.
Their pink skin was as soft and healthy-looking as a
baby’s, and glowed in the lights of the lanterns like
tinted ivory, and underneath this silken covering the
great biceps and muscles moved in and out and[202]
looked like the coils of a snake around the branch
of a tree.
Gentleman and blackguard shouldered each other for
a nearer view; the coachmen, whose metal buttons were
unpleasantly suggestive of police, put their hands, in
the excitement of the moment, on the shoulders of their
masters; the perspiration stood out in great drops on
the foreheads of the backers, and the newspaper men
bit somewhat nervously at the ends of their pencils.
And in the stalls the cows munched contentedly at
their cuds and gazed with gentle curiosity at their two
fellow-brutes, who stood waiting the signal to fall upon,
and kill each other if need be, for the delectation of
their brothers.
“Take your places,” commanded the master of ceremonies.
In the moment in which the two men faced each other
the crowd became so still that, save for the beating of the
rain upon the shingled roof and the stamping of a horse
in one of the stalls, the place was as silent as a church.
“Time!” shouted the master of ceremonies.
The two men sprang into a posture of defence, which
was lost as quickly as it was taken, one great arm shot
out like a piston-rod; there was the sound of bare fists
beating on naked flesh; there was an exultant indrawn
gasp of savage pleasure and relief from the crowd, and
the great fight had begun.
How the fortunes of war rose and fell, and changed
and rechanged that night, is an old story to those who
listen to such stories; and those who do not will be
glad to be spared the telling of it. It was, they say, one
of the bitterest fights between two men that this country
has ever known.
But all that is of interest here is that after an hour
of this desperate brutal business the champion ceased[203]
to be the favorite; the man whom he had taunted and
bullied, and for whom the public had but little sympathy,
was proving himself a likely winner, and under
his cruel blows, as sharp and clean as those from a
cutlass, his opponent was rapidly giving way.
The men about the ropes were past all control now;
they drowned Keppler’s petitions for silence with oaths
and in inarticulate shouts of anger, as if the blows had
fallen upon them, and in mad rejoicings. They swept
from one end of the ring to the other, with every muscle
leaping in unison with those of the man they favored,
and when a New York correspondent muttered over his
shoulder that this would be the biggest sporting surprise
since the Heenan-Sayers fight, Mr. Dwyer nodded his
head sympathetically in assent.
In the excitement and tumult it is doubtful if any
heard the three quickly repeated blows that fell heavily
from the outside upon the big doors of the barn. If
they did, it was already too late to mend matters, for
the door fell, torn from its hinges, and as it fell a captain
of police sprang into the light from out of the
storm, with his lieutenants and their men crowding close
at his shoulder.
In the panic and stampede that followed, several of
the men stood as helplessly immovable as though they
had seen a ghost; others made a mad rush into the arms
of the officers and were beaten back against the ropes
of the ring; others dived headlong into the stalls, among
the horses and cattle, and still others shoved the rolls
of money they held into the hands of the police and
begged like children to be allowed to escape.
The instant the door fell and the raid was declared
Hefflefinger slipped over the cross rails on which he had
been lying, hung for an instant by his hands, and then
dropped into the centre of the fighting mob on the[204]
floor. He was out of it in an instant with the agility of
a pickpocket, was across the room and at Hade’s throat
like a dog. The murderer, for the moment, was the
calmer man of the two.
“Here,” he panted, “hands off, now. There’s no
need for all this violence. There’s no great harm in
looking at a fight, is there? There’s a hundred-dollar
bill in my right hand; take it and let me slip out of
this. No one is looking. Here.”
But the detective only held him the closer.
“I want you for burglary,” he whispered under his
breath. “You’ve got to come with me now, and quick.
The less fuss you make, the better for both of us. If
you don’t know who I am, you can feel my badge under
my coat there. I’ve got the authority. It’s all regular,
and when we’re out of this d——d row I’ll show you
the papers.”
He took one hand from Hade’s throat and pulled a
pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
“It’s a mistake. This is an outrage,” gasped the
murderer, white and trembling, but dreadfully alive
and desperate for his liberty. “Let me go, I tell you!
Take your hands off of me! Do I look like a burglar,
you fool?”
“I know who you look like,” whispered the detective,
with his face close to the face of his prisoner. “Now,
will you go easy as a burglar, or shall I tell these men
who you are and what I do want you for? Shall I call
out your real name or not? Shall I tell them? Quick,
speak up; shall I?”
There was something so exultant—something so unnecessarily
savage in the officer’s face that the man he
held saw that the detective knew him for what he really
was, and the hands that had held his throat slipped
down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen.[205]
The man’s eyes opened and closed again, and he swayed
weakly backward and forward, and choked as if his
throat were dry and burning. Even to such a hardened
connoisseur in crime as Gallegher, who stood closely by,
drinking it in, there was something so abject in the
man’s terror that he regarded him with what was almost
a touch of pity.
“For God’s sake,” Hade begged, “let me go. Come
with me to my room and I’ll give you half the money.
I’ll divide with you fairly. We can both get away.
There’s a fortune for both of us there. We both can
get away. You’ll be rich for life. Do you understand—for
life!”
But the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips
the tighter.
“That’s enough,” he whispered, in return. “That’s
more than I expected. You’ve sentenced yourself already.
Come!”
Two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door,
but Hefflefinger smiled easily and showed his badge.
“One of Byrnes’s men,” he said, in explanation;
“came over expressly to take this chap. He’s a burglar;
’Arlie’ Lane, alias Carleton. I’ve shown the papers
to the captain. It’s all regular. I’m just going to
get his traps at the hotel and walk him over to the
station. I guess we’ll push right on to New York to-night.”
The officers nodded and smiled their admiration for
the representative of what is, perhaps, the best detective
force in the world, and let him pass.
Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke to Gallegher, who
still stood as watchful as a dog at his side. “I’m going
to his room to get the bonds and stuff,” he whispered;
“then I’ll march him to the station and take that train.
I’ve done my share; don’t forget yours!”
[206]
“Oh, you’ll get your money right enough,” said Gallegher.
“And, sa-ay,” he added, with the appreciative
nod of an expert, “do you know, you did it rather
well.”
Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling
down, as he had been writing while waiting for
the fight to begin. Now he walked over to where the
other correspondents stood in angry conclave.
The newspaper men had informed the officers who
hemmed them in that they represented the principal
papers of the country, and were expostulating vigorously
with the captain, who had planned the raid, and who
declared they were under arrest.
“Don’t be an ass, Scott,” said Mr. Dwyer, who was
too excited to be polite or politic. “You know our
being here isn’t a matter of choice. We came here on
business, as you did, and you’ve no right to hold us.”
“If we don’t get our stuff on the wire at once,” protested
a New York man, “we’ll be too late for to-morrow’s paper, and——”
Captain Scott said he did not care a profanely small
amount for to-morrow’s paper, and that all he knew
was that to the station-house the newspaper men would
go. There they would have a hearing, and if the magistrate
chose to let them off, that was the magistrate’s
business, but that his duty was to take them into
custody.
“But then it will be too late, don’t you understand?”
shouted Mr. Dwyer. “You’ve got to let us go now, at
once.”
“I can’t do it, Mr. Dwyer,” said the captain, “and
that’s all there is to it. Why, haven’t I just sent the
president of the Junior Republican Club to the patrol-wagon,
the man that put this coat on me, and do you
think I can let you fellows go after that? You were[207]
all put under bonds to keep the peace not three days
ago, and here you’re at it—fighting like badgers. It’s
worth my place to let one of you off.”
What Mr. Dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary
to the gallant Captain Scott that that overwrought individual
seized the sporting editor by the shoulder, and
shoved him into the hands of two of his men.
This was more than the distinguished Mr. Dwyer
could brook, and he excitedly raised his hand in resistance.
But before he had time to do anything foolish
his wrist was gripped by one strong, little hand, and
he was conscious that another was picking the pocket
of his great-coat.
He slapped his hands to his sides, and looking down,
saw Gallegher standing close behind him and holding
him by the wrist. Mr. Dwyer had forgotten the boy’s
existence, and would have spoken sharply if something
in Gallegher’s innocent eyes had not stopped him.
Gallegher’s hand was still in that pocket, in which
Mr. Dwyer had shoved his note-book filled with what
he had written of Gallegher’s work and Hade’s final
capture, and with a running descriptive account of the
fight. With his eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer, Gallegher drew
it out, and with a quick movement shoved it inside his
waistcoat. Mr. Dwyer gave a nod of comprehension.
Then glancing at his two guardsmen, and finding that
they were still interested in the wordy battle of the
correspondents with their chief, and had seen nothing,
he stooped and whispered to Gallegher: “The forms
are locked at twenty minutes to three. If you don’t
get there by that time it will be of no use, but if you’re
on time you’ll beat the town—and the country too.”
Gallegher’s eyes flashed significantly, and nodding his
head to show he understood, started boldly on a run
toward the door. But the officers who guarded it[208]
brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to Mr. Dwyer’s
astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a
torrent of tears.
“Let me go to me father. I want me father,” the
boy shrieked, hysterically. “They’ve ’rested father.
Oh, daddy, daddy. They’re a-goin’ to take you to
prison.”
“Who is your father, sonny?” asked one of the
guardians of the gate.
“Keppler’s me father,” sobbed Gallegher. “They’re
a-goin’ to lock him up, and I’ll never see him no more.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” said the officer, good-naturedly;
“he’s there in that first patrol-wagon. You can run
over and say good-night to him, and then you’d better
get to bed. This ain’t no place for kids of your age.”
“Thank you, sir,” sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the
two officers raised their clubs, and let him pass out into
the darkness.
The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping,
and plunging, and backing the carriages into one
another; lights were flashing from every window of
what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and
the voices of the prisoners were still raised in angry
expostulation.
Three police patrol-wagons were moving about the
yard, filled with unwilling passengers, who sat or stood,
packed together like sheep, and with no protection
from the sleet and rain.
Gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched
the scene until his eyesight became familiar with the
position of the land.
Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging
light of a lantern with which an officer was searching
among the carriages, he groped his way between horses’
hoofs and behind the wheels of carriages to the cab[209]
which he had himself placed at the furthermost gate.
It was still there, and the horse, as he had left it, with
its head turned toward the city. Gallegher opened the
big gate noiselessly, and worked nervously at the hitching
strap. The knot was covered with a thin coating
of ice, and it was several minutes before he could loosen
it. But his teeth finally pulled it apart, and with the
reins in his hands he sprang upon the wheel. And as
he stood so, a shock of fear ran down his back like an
electric current, his breath left him, and he stood immovable,
gazing with wide eyes into the darkness.
The officer with the lantern had suddenly loomed up
from behind a carriage not fifty feet distant, and was
standing perfectly still, with his lantern held over his
head, peering so directly toward Gallegher that the boy
felt that he must see him. Gallegher stood with one
foot on the hub of the wheel and with the other on
the box waiting to spring. It seemed a minute before
either of them moved, and then the officer took a step
forward, and demanded sternly, “Who is that? What
are you doing there?”
There was no time for parley then. Gallegher felt
that he had been taken in the act, and that his only
chance lay in open flight. He leaped up on the box,
pulling out the whip as he did so, and with a quick
sweep lashed the horse across the head and back. The
animal sprang forward with a snort, narrowly clearing
the gate-post, and plunged off into the darkness.
“Stop!” cried the officer.
So many of Gallegher’s acquaintances among the
’longshoremen and mill hands had been challenged in
so much the same manner that Gallegher knew what
would probably follow if the challenge was disregarded.
So he slipped from his seat to the footboard below, and
ducked his head.
[210]
The three reports of a pistol, which rang out briskly
from behind him, proved that his early training had
given him a valuable fund of useful miscellaneous
knowledge.
“Don’t you be scared,” he said, reassuringly, to the
horse; “he’s firing in the air.”
The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient
clangor of a patrol-wagon’s gong, and glancing over
his shoulder Gallegher saw its red and green lanterns
tossing from side to side and looking in the darkness
like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a
storm.
“I hadn’t bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons,”
said Gallegher to his animal; “but if they
want a race, we’ll give them a tough tussle for it, won’t
we?”
Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up
a faint yellow glow to the sky. It seemed very far away,
and Gallegher’s braggadocio grew cold within him at
the loneliness of his adventure and the thought of the
long ride before him.
It was still bitterly cold.
The rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck
his skin with a sharp chilling touch that set him trembling.
Even the thought of the overweighted patrol-wagon
probably sticking in the mud some safe distance in the
rear, failed to cheer him, and the excitement that had
so far made him callous to the cold died out and left
him weaker and nervous.
But his horse was chilled with the long standing, and
now leaped eagerly forward, only too willing to warm
the half-frozen blood in its veins.
“You’re a good beast,” said Gallegher, plaintively.
“You’ve got more nerve than me. Don’t you go back[211]
on me now. Mr. Dwyer says we’ve got to beat the
town.” Gallegher had no idea what time it was as
he rode through the night, but he knew he would be
able to find out from a big clock over a manufactory
at a point nearly three-quarters of the distance from
Keppler’s to the goal.
He was still in the open country and driving recklessly,
for he knew the best part of his ride must be made
outside the city limits.
He raced between desolate-looking corn-fields with
bare stalks and patches of muddy earth rising above
the thin covering of snow, truck farms and brick-yards
fell behind him on either side. It was very lonely work,
and once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the gates
and barked after him.
Part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks,
and he drove for some time beside long lines of freight
and coal cars as they stood resting for the night. The
fantastic Queen Anne suburban stations were dark and
deserted, but in one or two of the block-towers he could
see the operators writing at their desks, and the sight
in some way comforted him.
Once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket
in which he had wrapped himself on the first trip, but
he feared to spare the time, and drove on with his
teeth chattering and his shoulders shaking with the
cold.
He welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses
with a faint cheer of recognition. The scattered lamp-posts
lightened his spirits, and even the badly paved
streets rang under the beats of his horse’s feet like music.
Great mills and manufactories, with only a night-watchman’s
light in the lowest of their many stories,
began to take the place of the gloomy farmhouses and
gaunt trees that had startled him with their grotesque[212]
shapes. He had been driving nearly an hour, he calculated,
and in that time the rain had changed to a wet
snow, that fell heavily and clung to whatever it touched.
He passed block after block of trim workmen’s houses,
as still and silent as the sleepers within them, and at last
he turned the horse’s head into Broad Street, the city’s
great thoroughfare, that stretches from its one end to
the other and cuts it evenly in two.
He was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush
in the street, with his thoughts bent only on the clock-face
he wished so much to see, when a hoarse voice challenged
him from the sidewalk. “Hey, you, stop there,
hold up!” said the voice.
Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that
the voice came from under a policeman’s helmet, his
only answer was to hit his horse sharply over the head
with his whip and to urge it into a gallop.
This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill
whistle from the policeman. Another whistle answered
it from a street-corner one block ahead of him.
“Whoa,” said Gallegher, pulling on the reins.
“There’s one too many of them,” he added, in apologetic
explanation. The horse stopped, and stood, breathing
heavily, with great clouds of steam rising from
its flanks.
“Why in hell didn’t you stop when I told you to?”
demanded the voice, now close at the cab’s side.
“I didn’t hear you,” returned Gallegher, sweetly.
“But I heard you whistle, and I heard your partner
whistle, and I thought maybe it was me you wanted to
speak to, so I just stopped.”
“You heard me well enough. Why aren’t your lights
lit?” demanded the voice.
“Should I have ’em lit?” asked Gallegher, bending
over and regarding them with sudden interest.
[213]
“You know you should, and if you don’t, you’ve
no right to be driving that cab. I don’t believe
you’re the regular driver, anyway. Where’d you get
it?”
“It ain’t my cab, of course,” said Gallegher, with
an easy laugh. “It’s Luke McGovern’s. He left it
outside Cronin’s while he went in to get a drink, and
he took too much, and me father told me to drive it
round to the stable for him. I’m Cronin’s son. McGovern
ain’t in no condition to drive. You can see
yourself how he’s been misusing the horse. He puts it
up at Bachman’s livery stable, and I was just going
around there now.”
Gallegher’s knowledge of the local celebrities of the
district confused the zealous officer of the peace. He
surveyed the boy with a steady stare that would have
distressed a less skilful liar, but Gallegher only shrugged
his shoulders slightly, as if from the cold, and waited
with apparent indifference to what the officer would say
next.
In reality his heart was beating heavily against his
side, and he felt that if he was kept on a strain much
longer he would give way and break down. A second
snow-covered form emerged suddenly from the shadow
of the houses.
“What is it, Reeder?” it asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied the first officer. “This
kid hadn’t any lamps lit, so I called to him to stop and
he didn’t do it, so I whistled to you. It’s all right,
though. He’s just taking it round to Bachman’s. Go
ahead,” he added, sulkily.
“Get up!” chirped Gallegher. “Good-night,” he
added, over his shoulder.
Gallegher gave an hysterical little gasp of relief as
he trotted away from the two policemen, and poured[214]
bitter maledictions on their heads for two meddling fools
as he went.
“They might as well kill a man as scare him to
death,” he said, with an attempt to get back to his
customary flippancy. But the effort was somewhat pitiful,
and he felt guiltily conscious that a salt, warm tear
was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump
that would not keep down was rising in his throat.
“‘Tain’t no fair thing for the whole police force to
keep worrying at a little boy like me,” he said, in shame-faced
apology. “I’m not doing nothing wrong, and
I’m half froze to death, and yet they keep a-nagging
at me.”
It was so cold that when the boy stamped his feet
against the footboard to keep them warm, sharp pains
shot up through his body, and when he beat his arms
about his shoulders, as he had seen real cabmen do,
the blood in his finger-tips tingled so acutely that he
cried aloud with the pain.
He had often been up that late before, but he had
never felt so sleepy. It was as if some one was pressing
a sponge heavy with chloroform near his face, and
he could not fight off the drowsiness that lay hold of
him.
He saw, dimly hanging above his head, a round disc
of light that seemed like a great moon, and which he
finally guessed to be the clock-face for which he had
been on the lookout. He had passed it before he realized
this; but the fact stirred him into wakefulness again,
and when his cab’s wheels slipped around the City Hall
corner, he remembered to look up at the other big clock-face
that keeps awake over the railroad station and
measures out the night.
He gave a gasp of consternation when he saw that it
was half-past two, and that there was but ten minutes[215]
left to him. This, and the many electric lights and the
sight of the familiar pile of buildings, startled him into
a semi-consciousness of where he was and how great was
the necessity for haste.
He rose in his seat and called on the horse, and urged
it into a reckless gallop over the slippery asphalt. He
considered nothing else but speed, and looking neither
to the left nor right dashed off down Broad Street into
Chestnut, where his course lay straight away to the
office, now only seven blocks distant.
Gallegher never knew how it began, but he was suddenly
assaulted by shouts on either side, his horse was
thrown back on its haunches, and he found two men
in cabmen’s livery hanging at its head, and patting its
sides, and calling it by name. And the other cabmen
who have their stand at the corner were swarming about
the carriage, all of them talking and swearing at once,
and gesticulating wildly with their whips.
They said they knew the cab was McGovern’s and
they wanted to know where he was, and why he wasn’t
on it; they wanted to know where Gallegher had stolen
it, and why he had been such a fool as to drive it into
the arms of its owner’s friends; they said that it was
about time that a cab-driver could get off his box to
take a drink without having his cab run away with,
and some of them called loudly for a policeman to take
the young thief in charge.
Gallegher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged
into consciousness out of a bad dream, and stood for a
second like a half-awakened somnambulist.
They had stopped the cab under an electric light, and
its glare shone coldly down upon the trampled snow
and the faces of the men around him.
Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the
horse with his whip.
[216]
“Let me go,” he shouted, as he tugged impotently
at the reins. “Let me go, I tell you. I haven’t stole
no cab, and you’ve got no right to stop me. I only want
to take it to the Press office,” he begged. “They’ll send
it back to you all right. They’ll pay you for the trip.
I’m not running away with it. The driver’s got the collar—he’s
’rested—and I’m only a-going to the Press
office. Do you hear me?” he cried, his voice rising and
breaking in a shriek of passion and disappointment. “I
tell you to let go those reins. Let me go, or I’ll kill you.
Do you hear me? I’ll kill you.” And leaning forward,
the boy struck savagely with his long whip at the faces
of the men about the horse’s head.
Some one in the crowd reached up and caught him
by the ankles, and with a quick jerk pulled him off
the box, and threw him on to the street. But he was
up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the man’s
hand.
“Don’t let them stop me, mister,” he cried, “please
let me go. I didn’t steal the cab, sir. S’help me, I
didn’t. I’m telling you the truth. Take me to the Press
office, and they’ll prove it to you. They’ll pay you anything
you ask ’em. It’s only such a little ways now,
and I’ve come so far, sir. Please don’t let them stop
me,” he sobbed, clasping the man about the knees. “For
Heaven’s sake, mister, let me go!”
The managing editor of the Press took up the india-rubber
speaking-tube at his side, and answered,
“Not yet” to an inquiry the night editor had already
put to him five times within the last twenty
minutes.
Then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently,
and went upstairs. As he passed the door of
the local room, he noticed that the reporters had not[217]
gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and
chairs, waiting. They looked up inquiringly as he
passed, and the city editor asked, “Any news yet?”
and the managing editor shook his head.
The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room,
and their foreman was talking with the night
editor.
“Well?” said that gentleman, tentatively.
“Well,” returned the managing editor, “I don’t
think we can wait; do you?”
“It’s a half-hour after time now,” said the night
editor, “and we’ll miss the suburban trains if we hold
the paper back any longer. We can’t afford to wait
for a purely hypothetical story. The chances are all
against the fight’s having taken place or this Hade’s
having been arrested.”
“But if we’re beaten on it——” suggested the chief.
“But I don’t think that is possible. If there were any
story to print, Dwyer would have had it here before
now.”
The managing editor looked steadily down at the
floor.
“Very well,” he said, slowly, “we won’t wait any
longer. Go ahead,” he added, turning to the foreman
with a sigh of reluctance. The foreman whirled
himself about, and began to give his orders; but the
two editors still looked at each other doubtfully.
As they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the
sound of people running to and fro in the reportorial
rooms below. There was the tramp of many footsteps
on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard the
voice of the city editor telling some one to “run to Madden’s
and get some brandy, quick.”
No one in the composing-room said anything; but
those compositors who had started to go home began[218]
slipping off their overcoats, and every one stood with
his eyes fixed on the door.
It was kicked open from the outside, and in the
doorway stood a cab-driver and the city editor, supporting
between them a pitiful little figure of a boy,
wet and miserable, and with the snow melting on his
clothes and running in little pools to the floor. “Why,
it’s Gallegher,” said the night editor, in a tone of the
keenest disappointment.
Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters,
and took an unsteady step forward, his fingers fumbling
stiffly with the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Mr. Dwyer, sir,” he began faintly, with his eyes
fixed fearfully on the managing editor, “he got arrested—and
I couldn’t get here no sooner, ’cause they
kept a-stopping me, and they took me cab from under
me—but—” he pulled the note-book from his breast
and held it out with its covers damp and limp from
the rain, “but we got Hade, and here’s Mr. Dwyer’s
copy.”
And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice,
partly of dread and partly of hope, “ Am I in time,
sir?”
The managing editor took the book, and tossed it to
the foreman, who ripped out its leaves and dealt them
out to his men as rapidly as a gambler deals out cards.
Then the managing editor stooped and picked Gallegher
up in his arms, and, sitting down, began to unlace
his wet and muddy shoes.
Gallegher made a faint effort to resist this degradation
of the managerial dignity; but his protest was
a very feeble one, and his head fell back heavily on
the managing editor’s shoulder.
To Gallegher the incandescent lights began to whirl
about in circles, and to burn in different colors; the[219]
faces of the reporters kneeling before him and chafing
his hands and feet grew dim and unfamiliar, and the
roar and rumble of the great presses in the basement
sounded far away, like the murmur of the sea.
And then the place and the circumstances of it came
back to him again sharply and with sudden vividness.
Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, into the managing
editor’s face. “You won’t turn me off for running
away, will you?” he whispered.
The managing editor did not answer immediately.
His head was bent, and he was thinking, for some reason
or other, of a little boy of his own, at home in
bed. Then he said, quietly, “Not this time, Gallegher.”
Gallegher’s head sank back comfortably on the older
man’s shoulder, and he smiled comprehensively at the
faces of the young men crowded around him. “You
hadn’t ought to,” he said, with a touch of his old impudence,
“‘cause—I beat the town.”
[220]
[221]
THE JUMPING FROG
BY
Mark Twain
[222]
This is a story typical of American humor. As William
Lyon Phelps says, “The essentially American qualities
of common-sense, energy, good-humor, and Philistinism
fairly shriek from his [Mark Twain’s] pages.”—Essays
on Modern Novelists.
[223]
THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG
OF CALAVERAS[14] COUNTY[15]
In compliance with the request of a friend of mine,
who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured,
garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my
friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do,
and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking
suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my
friend never knew such a personage; and that he only
conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it
would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he
would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating
reminiscence of him as long and as tedious
as it should be useless to me. If that was the design,
it succeeded.
I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the
bar-room stove of the dilapidated tavern in the decaying
mining camp of Angel’s, and I noticed that he was
fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning
gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance.
He roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a
friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries
about a cherished companion of his boyhood
named Leonidas W. Smiley—Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley,
a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was
at one time a resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that
if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev.[224]
Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations
to him.
Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded
me there with his chair, and then sat down and
reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this
paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he
never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key
to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed
the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all
through the interminable narrative there ran a vein
of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me
plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was
anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded
it as a really important matter, and admired its
two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. I
let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted
him once.
“Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le—well, there
was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the
winter of ’49—or maybe it was the spring of ’50—I don’t
recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think
it was one or the other is because I remember the big
flume warn’t finished when he first come to the camp;
but anyway, he was the curiosest man about always betting
on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could
get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn’t
he’d change sides. Any way that suited the other man
would suit him—any way just so’s he got a bet, he
was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky;
he ’most always come out winner. He was always ready
and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry
thing mentioned but that feller’d offer to bet on it,
and take ary side you please, as I was just telling you.
If there was a horse-race, you’d find him flush or you’d
find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dogfight,[225]
he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet
on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why,
if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet
you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting,
he would be there reg’lar to bet on Parson
Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about
here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even
see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet
you how long it would take him to get to—to wherever
he was going to, and if you took him up, he would
foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would
find out where he was bound for and how long he was
on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley,
and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no
difference to him—he’d bet on any thing—the dangdest
feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very sick once, for
a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going to
save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley up
and asked him how she was, and he said she was consid’able
better—thank the Lord for his inf’nite mercy—and
coming on so smart that with the blessing of Prov’dence
she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought,
says: ’Well, I’ll resk two-and-a-half she don’t anyway.’
“Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her
the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you
know, because, of course, she was faster than that—and
he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so
slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or
the consumption, or something of that kind. They used
to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then
pass her under way; but always at the fag end of the
race she’d get excited and desperate like, and come
cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs
around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes
out to one side among the fences, and kicking up[226]
m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing
and sneezing and blowing her nose—and always
fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near
as you could cipher it down.
“And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look
at him you’d think he warn’t worth a cent but to set
around and look ornery and lay for a chance to steal
something. But as soon as money was up on him he
was a different dog; his under-jaw’d begin to stick out
like the fo’castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would
uncover and shine like the furnaces. And a dog might
tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw
him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew
Jackson—which was the name of the pup—Andrew
Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied,
and hadn’t expected nothing else—and the bets being
doubled and doubled on the other side all the time,
till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden
he would grab that other dog jest by the j’int of his
hind leg and freeze to it—not chaw, you understand,
but only just grip and hang on till they throwed up
the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out
winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that
didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d been sawed
off in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone
along far enough, and the money was all up, and he
come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a
minute how he’d been imposed on, and how the other
dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he ’peared
surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like
and didn’t try no more to win the fight, and so he got
shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as
to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for
putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him to
take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight,[227]
and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died.
It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would
have made a name for hisself if he’d lived, for the
stuff was in him and he had genius—I know it, because
he hadn’t no opportunities to speak of, and it
don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a
fight as he could under them circumstances if he hadn’t
no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think
of that last fight of his’n, and the way it turned out.
“Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken
cocks, and tomcats, and all them kind of things, till you
couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him
to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched a frog one
day, and took him home, and said he cal’lated to educate
him; and so he never done nothing for three months
but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump.
And you bet you he did learn him, too. He’d give him
a little punch behind, and the next minute you’d see
that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut—see him
turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a
good start, and come down flat-footed and all right,
like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching
flies, and kep’ him in practice so constant, that he’d
nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley
said all a frog wanted was education, and he could
do ’most anything—and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen
him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor—Dan’l
Webster was the name of the frog—and sing out, ’Flies,
Dan’l, flies!’ and quicker’n you could wink he’d spring
straight up and snake a fly off’n the counter there, and
flop down on the floor ag’in as solid as a gob of mud,
and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind
foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been
doin’ any more’n any frog might do. You never see
a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for[228]
all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and
square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more
ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you
ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit,
you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would
ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley
was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might
be, for fellers that had travelled and been everywheres
all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.
“Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box,
and he used to fetch him down-town sometimes and lay
for a bet. One day a feller—a stranger in the camp,
he was—come acrost him with his box, and says:
“‘What might it be that you’ve got in the box?’
“And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like: ’It might
be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t—it’s
only just a frog.’
“And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and
turned it round this way and that, and says: ’H’m—so
’tis. Well, what’s he good for?’
“‘Well,’ Smiley says, easy and careless, ’he’s good
enough for one thing, I should judge—he can outjump
any frog in Calaveras county.’
“The feller took the box again, and took another
long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and
says, very deliberate, ’Well,’ he says, ’I don’t see no
p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other
frog.’
“‘Maybe you don’t,’ Smiley says. ’Maybe you
understand frogs and maybe you don’t understand ’em;
maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you ain’t only
a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got my opinion,
and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any
frog in Calaveras county.’
“And the feller studied a minute, and then says,[229]
kinder sad like, ’Well, I’m only a stranger here, and
I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet you.’
“And then Smiley says, ’That’s all right—that’s
all right—if you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and
get you a frog.’ And so the feller took the box, and
put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set
down to wait.
“So he set there a good while thinking and thinking
to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized
his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full
of quail shot—filled him pretty near up to his chin—and
set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and
slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally
he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him
to this feller, and says:
“‘Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l,
with his forepaws just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give
the word.’ Then he says, ’One—two—three—git!’
and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind,
and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l
give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a
Frenchman, but it warn’t no use—he couldn’t budge;
he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn’t
no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley
was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too,
but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of
course.
“The feller took the money and started away; and
when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked
his thumb over his shoulder—so—at Dan’l, and says
again, very deliberate, ’Well,’ he says, ’I don’t see no
p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other
frog.’
“Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking
down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, ’I do[230]
wonder what in the nation that frog throw’d off for—I
wonder if there ain’t something the matter with
him—he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.’ And
he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and hefted
him, and says, ’Why, blame my cats if he don’t weigh
five pound!’ and turned him upside down and he
belched out a double handful of shot. And then he
see how it was, and he was the maddest man—he set
the frog down and took out after that feller, but he
never ketched him. And——”
[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from
the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.]
And turning to me as he moved away, he said: “Just
set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I ain’t
going to be gone a second.”
But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation
of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim
Smiley would be likely to afford me much information
concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I
started away.
At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning,
and he button-holed me and recommenced:
“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yeller one-eyed cow
that didn’t have no tail, only just a short stump like
a bannanner, and——”
However, lacking both time and inclination, I did
not wait to hear about the afflicted cow, but took my
leave.
[231]
THE LADY OR THE TIGER?
BY
Frank R. Stockton
[232]
[233]
This is an illustration of the symmetrical plot. It
challenges the constructive imagination of the reader to
search the story for the evidence that will lead to a logical
conclusion.
THE LADY OR THE TIGER?[16]
In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric
king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened
by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors,
were still large, florid, and untrammelled, as became
the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man
of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so
irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies
into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing,
and when he and himself agreed upon anything, the
thing was done. When every member of his domestic
and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed
course, his nature was bland and genial; but whenever
there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got
out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial
still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the
crooked straight, and crush down uneven places.
Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism
had become semified was that of the public arena, in
which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the
minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.
But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy
asserted itself. The arena of the king was built, not
to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies
of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view
the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious
opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better
adapted to widen and develop the mental energies[234]
of the people. This vast amphitheatre, with its encircling
galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen
passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime
was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of
an impartial and incorruptible chance.
When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient
importance to interest the king, public notice was given
that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person
would be decided in the king’s arena—a structure
which well deserved its name; for, although its form
and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated
solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn
a king, knew no tradition to which he owed
more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted
on every adopted form of human thought and
action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.
When all the people had assembled in the galleries,
and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on
his throne of royal state on one side of the arena,
he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the
accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre. Directly
opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed
space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side.
It was the duty and the privilege of the person on
trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of
them. He could open either door he pleased. He was
subject to no guidance or influence but that of the
aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If
he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger,
the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which
immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces,
as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case
of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells
were clanged, great wails went up from the hired
mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and[235]
the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast
hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning
greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected,
should have merited so dire a fate.
But if the accused person opened the other door, there
came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his
years and station that his Majesty could select among
his fair subjects; and to this lady he was immediately
married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not
that he might already possess a wife and family, or
that his affections might be engaged upon an object
of his own selection. The king allowed no such subordinate
arrangements to interfere with his great scheme
of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the
other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena.
Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest,
followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens
blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an
epithalamic measure, advanced to where the pair stood
side by side, and the wedding was promptly and cheerily
solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth
their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and
the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers
on his path, led his bride to his home.
This was the king’s semi-barbaric method of administering
justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The
criminal could not know out of which door would come
the lady. He opened either he pleased, without having
the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he
was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the
tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the
other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair—they
were positively determinate. The accused person was
instantly punished if he found himself guilty,
and if innocent he was rewarded on the spot, whether[236]
he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments
of the king’s arena.
The institution was a very popular one. When the
people gathered together on one of the great trial days,
they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody
slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty
lent an interest to the occasion which it could
not otherwise have attained. Thus the masses were entertained
and pleased, and the thinking part of the
community could bring no charge of unfairness against
this plan; for did not the accused person have the whole
matter in his own hands?
This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming
as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent
and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases,
she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above
all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man
of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common
to the conventional heroes of romance who love
royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied
with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a
degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved
him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in
it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love
affair moved on happily for many months, until, one
day, the king happened to discover its existence. He
did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in
the premises. The youth was immediately cast into
prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the
king’s arena. This, of course, was an especially important
occasion, and his Majesty, as well as all the
people, was greatly interested in the workings and development
of this trial. Never before had such a case
occurred—never before had a subject dared to love the
daughter of a king. In after years such things became[237]
commonplace enough, but then they were, in no slight
degree, novel and startling.
The tiger cages of the kingdom were searched for
the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the
fiercest monster might be selected for the arena, and
the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the
land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in
order that the young man might have a fitting bride
in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny.
Of course, everybody knew that the deed with
which the accused was charged had been done. He had
loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one
else thought of denying the fact. But the king would
not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere
with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took
such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the
affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and
the king would take an æsthetic pleasure in watching
the course of events which would determine whether or
not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself
to love the princess.
The appointed day arrived. From far and near the
people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of
the arena, while crowds, unable to gain admittance,
massed themselves against its outside walls. The king
and his court were in their places, opposite the twin
doors—those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity!
All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath
the royal party opened, and the lover of the
princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair,
his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration
and anxiety. Half the audience had not known
so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder[238]
the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for
him to be there!
As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned,
as the custom was, to bow to the king. But he did
not think at all of that royal personage; his eyes were
fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her
father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism
in her nature, it is probable that lady would not have
been there. But her intense and fervid soul would not
allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was
so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree
had gone forth that her lover should decide his
fate in the king’s arena, she had thought of nothing,
night or day, but this great event and the various subjects
connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence,
and force of character than any one who had
ever before been interested in such a case, she had done
what no other person had done—she had possessed herself
of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of
the two rooms behind those doors stood the cage of
the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the
lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained
with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any
noise or suggestion should come from within to the
person who should approach to raise the latch of one
of them. But gold, and the power of a woman’s will,
had brought the secret to the princess.
Not only did she know in which room stood the lady,
ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her
door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It
was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels
of the court who had been selected as the reward of
the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the
crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the
princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined[239]
that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of
admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes
she thought these glances were perceived and
even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking
together. It was but for a moment or two, but much
can be said in a brief space. It may have been on most
unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The
girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes
to the loved one of the princess, and, with all the intensity
of the savage blood transmitted to her through
long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the
woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent
door.
When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye
met hers as she sat there paler and whiter than any one
in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw,
by that power of quick perception which is given to
those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which
door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the
lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood
her nature, and his soul was assured that she would
never rest until she had made plain to herself this
thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king.
The only hope for the youth in which there was any
element of certainty was based upon the success of the
princess in discovering this mystery, and the moment
he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded.
Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked
the question, “Which?” It was as plain to her as if
he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an
instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash;
it must be answered in another.
Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before
her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick
movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw[240]
her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the
arena.
He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked
across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating,
every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably
upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he
went to the door on the right, and opened it.
Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come
out of that door, or did the lady?
The more we reflect upon this question, the harder
it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart
which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out
of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it,
fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended
upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric
princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the
combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost
him, but who should have him?
How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams,
had she started in wild horror and covered her face
with her hands as she thought of her lover opening
the door on the other side of which waited the cruel
fangs of the tiger!
But how much oftener had she seen him at the other
door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed
her teeth and torn her hair when she saw his start
of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady!
How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen
him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek
and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him
lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy
of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts
from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy
bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous[241]
followers, advance to the couple, and make them man
and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen
them walk away together upon their path of flowers,
followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude,
in which her one despairing shriek was lost and
drowned!
Would it not be better for him to die at once, and
go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric
futurity?
And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!
Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but
it had been made after days and nights of anguished
deliberation. She had known she would be asked,
she had decided what she would answer, and, without
the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand
to the right.
The question of her decision is one not to be lightly
considered, and it is not for me to presume to set up
myself as the one person able to answer it. So I leave
it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door—the
lady or the tiger?
[242]
[243]
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT
BY
Francis Bret Harte
[244]
This is often called a story of local color. And it is.
It is rich in the characteristics of California in the gold-seeking
days. It is also classified as a story of setting.
And it is. The setting is a determining factor in the
conduct of these outcasts. They are men and women as
inevitably drawn to the mining camp as the ill-fated
ship in “The Arabian Nights” was attracted to the
lode-stone mountain, and with as much certainty of
shipwreck. These the blizzard of the west gathers into
its embrace, and compels them to reveal their better
selves. But it is more than a story of local color and of
setting. It is also an illustration of the artistic blending
of plot, character, and setting, and of the magical power
of youth to see life at the time truly enough, but to
transform it later into something fine and noble.
[245]
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT[17]
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main
street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twenty-third
of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change in
its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two
or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as
he approached, and exchanged significant glances.
There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which, in a settlement
unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.
Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face betrayed small
concern of these indications. Whether he was conscious
of any predisposing cause, was another question. “I
reckon they’re after somebody,” he reflected; “likely
it’s me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief
with which he had been whipping away the red dust
of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly discharged
his mind of any further conjecture.
In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.”
It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars,
two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It
was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite
as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that
had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to
rid the town of all improper persons. This was done
permanently in regard of two men who were then hanging
from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and[246]
temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable
characters. I regret to say that some of these
were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however, to state
that their impropriety was professional, and it was
only in such easily established standards of evil that
Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included
in this category. A few of the committee had
urged hanging him as a possible example, and a sure
method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of
the sums he had won from them. “It’s agin justice,”
said Jim Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from
Roaring Camp—an entire stranger—carry away our
money.” But a crude sentiment of equity residing in
the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough
to win from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local
prejudice.
Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic
calmness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the
hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a gambler
not to accept Fate. With him life was at best an uncertain
game, and he recognized the usual percentage
in favor of the dealer.
A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness
of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement.
Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly
desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed
escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of
a young woman familiarly known as “The Duchess”;
another, who had gained the infelicitous title of
“Mother Shipton”; and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected
sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade
provoked no comments from the spectators, nor was
any word uttered by the escort. Only, when the gulch
which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was[247]
reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The
exiles were forbidden to return at the peril of their
lives.
As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found
vent in a few hysterical tears from “The Duchess,”
some bad language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian
volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic
Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened
calmly to Mother Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s
heart out, to the repeated statements of “The Duchess”
that she would die in the road, and to the alarming
oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy
as he rode forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic
of his class, he insisted upon exchanging his
own riding-horse, “Five Spot,” for the sorry mule
which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not
draw the party into any closer sympathy. The young
woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with
a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the possessor
of “Five Spot” with malevolence, and Uncle
Billy included the whole party in one sweeping
anathema.
The road to Sandy Bar—a camp that, not having
as yet experienced the regenerating influences of Poker
Flat, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to
the emigrants—lay over a steep mountain range. It was
distant a day’s severe journey. In that advanced season,
the party soon passed out of the moist, temperate
regions of the foot-hills into the dry, cold, bracing air
of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and difficult. At
noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the
ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and
the party halted.
The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A
wooded amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by precipitous[248]
cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward
the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley.
It was undoubtedly the most suitable spot for a
camp, had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst
knew that scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was
accomplished, and the party were not equipped or provisioned
for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions
curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the
folly of “throwing up their hand before the game
was played out.” But they were furnished with liquor,
which in this emergency stood them in place of food,
fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances,
it was not long before they were more or less under
its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose
state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin,
and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone
remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying
them.
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a
profession which required coolness, impassiveness, and
presence of mind, and, in his own language, he
“couldn’t afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent
fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade,
his habits of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously
oppressed him. He bestirred himself in dusting
his black clothes, washing his hands and face, and other
acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits, and for
a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting
his weaker and more pitiable companions never
perhaps occurred to him. Yet he could not help feeling
the want of that excitement which, singularly
enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for
which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls
that rose a thousand feet sheer above the circling pines
around him; at the sky, ominously clouded; at the[249]
valley below, already deepening into shadow. And, doing
so, suddenly he heard his own name called.
A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh,
open face of the new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized
Tom Simson, otherwise known as “The Innocent”
of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before
over a “little game,” and had, with perfect equanimity,
won the entire fortune—amounting to some forty dollars—of
that guileless youth. After the game was finished,
Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind
the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy,
you’re a good little man, but you can’t gamble worth
a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He then handed him
his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and
so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.
There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and
enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started,
he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune.
“Alone?” No, not exactly alone; in fact—a giggle—he
had run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst
remember Piney? She that used to wait on the
table at the Temperance House? They had been engaged
a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected,
and so they had run away, and were going to Poker
Flat to be married, and here they were. And they were
tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place
to camp and company. All this the Innocent delivered
rapidly, while Piney—a stout, comely damsel of
fifteen—emerged from behind the pine-tree, where she
had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of her
lover.
Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment,
still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that
the situation was not felicitous. He retained, however,
his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy,[250]
who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was
sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a
superior power that would not bear trifling. He then
endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying
further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact
that there was no provision, nor means of making a
camp. But, unluckily, “The Innocent” met this objection
by assuring the party that he was provided with
an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery
of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail.
“Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent,
pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift for
myself.”
Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved
Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As
it was, he felt compelled to retire up the cañon until he
could recover his gravity. There he confided the joke
to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions
of his face, and the usual profanity. But when
he returned to the party, he found them seated by a
fire—for the air had grown strangely chill and the
sky overcast—in apparently amicable conversation.
Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlish
fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest
and animation she had not shown for many days.
The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal
effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was
actually relaxing into amiability. “Is this yer a d—-d
picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he
surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing fire-light, and
the tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly an
idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed
his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for
he felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist
into his mouth.
[251]
As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a
slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and
moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The
ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs,
was set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they
unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere
that it might have been heard above the swaying pines.
The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton
were probably too stunned to remark upon this last
evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to
the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down
before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.
Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning
he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying
fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought
to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it,—snow!
He started to his feet with the intention of awakening
the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning
to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone.
A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips.
He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered;
they were no longer there. The tracks were already
rapidly disappearing in the snow.
The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst
back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken
the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with
a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin
Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as
though attended by celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst,
drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked
his mustachios and waited for the dawn. It came slowly
in a whirling mist of snowflakes, that dazzled and confused
the eye. What could be seen of the landscape
appeared magically changed. He looked over the valley,[252]
and summed up the present and future in two
words,—“Snowed in!”
A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately
for the party, had been stored within the hut,
and so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed
the fact that with care and prudence they might
last ten days longer. “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst,
sotto voce to the Innocent, “if you’re willing to board
us. If you ain’t—and perhaps you’d better not—you
can wait till Uncle Billy gets back with provisions.”
For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring
himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s rascality, and so offered
the hypothesis that he had wandered from the
camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals. He
dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton,
who of course knew the facts of their associate’s defection.
“They’ll find out the truth about us all, when
they find out anything,” he added, significantly, “and
there’s no good frightening them now.”
Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at
the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the
prospect of their enforced seclusion. “We’ll have a
good camp for a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and
we’ll all go back together.” The cheerful gaiety of
the young man and Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the
others. The Innocent, with the aid of pine boughs, extemporized
a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the
Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the
interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes
of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent. “I
reckon now you’re used to fine things at Poker Flat,”
said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal
something that reddened her cheek through its professional
tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not
to “chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from[253]
a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of
happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped
in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted
to the whiskey, which he had prudently cachéd. “And
yet it don’t somehow sound like whiskey,” said the
gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the blazing
fire through the still blinding storm, and the group
around it, that he settled to the conviction that it was
“square fun.”
Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cachéd his cards with the
whiskey as something debarred the free access of the
community, I cannot say. It was certain that, in
Mother Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say cards once”
during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by
an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom
Simson, from his pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties
attending the manipulation of this instrument,
Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies
from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent
on a pair of bone castanets. But the crowning
festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting
hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang
with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a
certain defiant tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus,
rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily
to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain:
“‘I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I’m bound to die in His army.’”
The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above
the miserable group, and the flames of their altar
leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow.
At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds
parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping[254]
camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had
enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount
of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow
managed to take upon himself the greater part
of that duty. He excused himself to the Innocent,
by saying that he had “often been a week without
sleep.” “Doing what?” asked Tom. “Poker!” replied
Oakhurst, sententiously; “when a man gets a
streak of luck,—nigger-luck,—he don’t get tired. The
luck gives in first. Luck,” continued the gambler, reflectively,
“is a mighty queer thing. All you know
about it for certain is that it’s bound to change. And
it’s finding out when it’s going to change that makes
you. We’ve had a streak of bad luck since we left
Poker Flat—you come along, and slap you get into it,
too. If you can hold your cards right along you’re
all right. For,” added the gambler, with cheerful
irrelevance,
“‘I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I’m bound to die in His army.’”
The third day came, and the sun, looking through the
white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their
slowly decreasing store of provisions for the morning
meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain
climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the
wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of
the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled
high around the hut; a hopeless, uncharted, trackless
sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the
castaways still clung. Through the marvellously clear
air, the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat
rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and from a
remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness, hurled in that[255]
direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative
attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested
with a certain degree of sublimity. It did her
good, she privately informed the Duchess. “Just you
go out there and cuss, and see.” She then set herself
to the task of amusing “the child,” as she and the
Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no
chicken, but it was a soothing and ingenious theory of
the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn’t
swear and wasn’t improper.
When night crept up again through the gorges, the
reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful
spasms and long-drawn gasps by the flickering camp-fire.
But music failed to fill entirely the aching void
left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed
by Piney—story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst
nor his female companions caring to relate their personal
experiences, this plan would have failed, too, but
for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced
upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope’s ingenious translation
of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the principal
incidents of that poem—having thoroughly mastered
the argument and fairly forgotten the words—in
the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for
the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again
walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled
in the winds, and the great pines in the cañon seemed
to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst
listened with quiet satisfaction. Most especially
was he interested in the fate of “Ash-heels,” as the
Innocent persisted in denominating the “swift-footed
Achilles.”
So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion,
a week passed over the heads of the outcasts.
The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden[256]
skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by
day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until
at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls
of dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their
heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish
their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now
half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained.
The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked
into each other’s eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst
settled himself coolly to the losing game before him.
The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed
the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton—once
the strongest of the party—seemed to sicken and fade.
At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to
her side. “I’m going,” she said, in a voice of querulous
weakness, “but don’t say anything about it. Don’t
waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head
and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained
Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched.
“Give ’em to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping
Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler.
“That’s what they call it,” said the woman,
querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her
face to the wall, passed quietly away.
The accordion and the bones were put aside that day,
and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother
Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst
took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of
snowshoes, which he had fashioned from the old packsaddle.
“There’s one chance in a hundred to save
her yet,” he said, pointing to Piney; “but it’s there,”
he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. “If you can
reach there in two days she’s safe.” “And you?”
asked Tom Simson. “I’ll stay here,” was the curt
reply.
[257]
The lovers parted with a long embrace. “You are
not going, too?” said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst
apparently waiting to accompany him. “As far
as the cañon,” he replied. He turned suddenly, and
kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and
her trembling limbs rigid with amazement.
Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the
storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess,
feeding the fire, found that some one had quietly piled
beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer.
The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from
Piney.
The women slept but little. In the morning, looking
into each other’s faces, they read their fate. Neither
spoke; but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger,
drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess’s
waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day.
That night the storm reached its greatest fury, and,
rending asunder the protecting pines, invaded the very
hut.
Toward morning they found themselves unable to
feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers
slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney,
and broke the silence of many hours: “Piney, can
you pray?” “No, dear,” said Piney, simply. The
Duchess, without knowing exactly why, felt relieved,
and, putting her head upon Piney’s shoulder, spoke no
more. And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing
the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin
breast, they fell asleep.
The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them.
Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine
boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and settled about
them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds
looked down upon what had been the camp. But all[258]
human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hidden
beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung from above.
They slept all that day and the next, nor did they
waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of
the camp. And when pitying fingers brushed the snow
from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told
from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was
she that had sinned. Even the Law of Poker Flat
recognized this, and turned away, leaving them still
locked in each other’s arms.
But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest
pine-trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to
the bark with a bowie knife. It bore the following,
written in pencil, in a firm hand:
†
BENEATH THIS TREE
LIES THE BODY
OF
JOHN OAKHURST,
WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK
ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850,
AND
ANDED IN HIS CHECKS
ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850.
⸸
And, pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side
and a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life,
beneath the snow lay he who was at once the strongest
and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.
[259]
THE REVOLT OF “MOTHER”
BY
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
[260]
This is a story of character against a New England
background. Each character is worked out with the delicacy
and minuteness of a cameo. Each is intensely
realistic, yet, as in the cameo, palely flushed with romance.
“Mother,” along with her originality of action
and long-concealed ideals, has the saving quality of common-sense,
which makes its powerful appeal to the daily
realities of life. Thus when “Father,” dazed by the
unexpected revelation of the character and ideals of the
woman he has misunderstood for forty years, stands uncertain
whether to assert or to surrender his long-established
supremacy, she decides him in her favor by
a practical suggestion of acquiescence: “You’d better
take your coat off an’ get washed—there’s the wash-basin—an’
then we’ll have supper.”
[261]
THE REVOLT OF “MOTHER”[18]
“Father!”
“What is it?”
“What are them men diggin’ over there in the field
for?”
There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the
lower part of the old man’s face, as if some heavy
weight had settled therein; he shut his mouth tight,
and went on harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled
the collar on to her neck with a jerk.
“Father!”
The old man slapped the saddle upon the mare’s
back.
“Look here, father, I want to know what them men
are diggin’ over in the field for, an’ I’m goin’ to
know.”
“I wish you’d go into the house, mother, an’ ’tend
to your own affairs,” the old man said then. He ran
his words together, and his speech was almost as inarticulate
as a growl.
But the woman understood; it was her most native
tongue. “I ain’t goin’ into the house till you tell me
what them men are doin’ over there in the field,” said
she.
Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman,
short and straight-waisted like a child in her brown
cotton gown. Her forehead was mild and benevolent
between the smooth curves of gray hair; there were[262]
meek downward lines about her nose and mouth; but
her eyes, fixed upon the old man, looked as if the
meekness had been the result of her own will, never
of the will of another.
They were in the barn, standing before the wide-open
doors. The spring air, full of the smell of growing
grass and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The
deep yard in front was littered with farm wagons and
piles of wood; on the edges, close to the fence and
the house, the grass was a vivid green, and there were
some dandelions.
The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he
tightened the last buckles on the harness. She looked
as immovable to him as one of the rocks in his pastureland,
bound to the earth with generations of blackberry
vines. He slapped the reins over the horse,
and started forth from the barn.
“Father!” said she.
The old man pulled up. “What is it?”
“I want to know what them men are diggin’ over
there in that field for.”
“They’re diggin’ a cellar, I s’pose, if you’ve got
to know.”
“A cellar for what?”
“A barn.”
“A barn? You ain’t goin’ to build a barn over there
where we was goin’ to have a house, father?”
The old man said not another word. He hurried
the horse into the farm wagon, and clattered out of the
yard, jouncing as sturdily on his seat as a boy.
The woman stood a moment looking after him, then
she went out of the barn across a corner of the yard
to the house. The house, standing at right angles with
the great barn and a long reach of sheds and out-buildings,
was infinitesimal compared with them. It[263]
was scarcely as commodious for people as the little
boxes under the barn eaves were for doves.
A pretty girl’s face, pink and delicate as a flower,
was looking out of one of the house windows. She was
watching three men who were digging over in the field
which bounded the yard near the road line. She turned
quietly when the woman entered.
“What are they digging for, mother?” said she.
“Did he tell you?”
“They’re diggin’ for—a cellar for a new barn.”
“Oh, mother, he ain’t going to build another barn?”
“That’s what he says.”
A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair.
He combed slowly and painstakingly, arranging his
brown hair in a smooth hillock over his forehead. He
did not seem to pay any attention to the conversation.
“Sammy, did you know father was going to build
a new barn?” asked the girl.
The boy combed assiduously.
“Sammy!”
He turned, and showed a face like his father’s under
his smooth crest of hair. “Yes, I s’pose I did,” he
said, reluctantly.
“How long have you known it?” asked his mother.
“‘Bout three months, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you tell of it?”
“Didn’t think ’twould do no good.”
“I don’t see what father wants another barn for,”
said the girl, in her sweet, slow voice. She turned again
to the window, and stared out at the digging men in
the field. Her tender, sweet face was full of a gentle
distress. Her forehead was as bald and innocent as a
baby’s, with the light hair strained back from it in a
row of curl-papers. She was quite large, but her soft
curves did not look as if they covered muscles.
[264]
Her mother looked sternly at the boy. “Is he goin’
to buy more cows?” said she.
The boy did not reply; he was tying his shoes.
“Sammy, I want you to tell me if he’s goin’ to buy
more cows.”
“I s’pose he is.”
“How many?”
“Four, I guess.”
His mother said nothing more. She went into the
pantry, and there was a clatter of dishes. The boy
got his cap from a nail behind the door, took an old
arithmetic from the shelf, and started for school. He
was lightly built, but clumsy. He went out of the
yard with a curious spring in the hips, that made his
loose home-made jacket tilt up in the rear.
The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the
dishes that were piled up there. Her mother came
promptly out of the pantry, and shoved her aside.
“You wipe ’em,” said she; “I’ll wash. There’s a good
many this mornin’.”
The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the
water, the girl wiped the plates slowly and dreamily.
“Mother,” said she, “don’t you think it’s too bad
father’s going to build that new barn, much as we need
a decent house to live in?”
Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. “You ain’t
found out yet we’re women-folks, Nanny Penn,” said
she. “You ain’t seen enough of men-folks yet to. One
of these days you’ll find it out, an’ then you’ll know
that we know only what men-folks think we do,
so far as any use of it goes, an’ how we’d ought
to reckon men-folks in with Providence, an’ not complain
of what they do any more than we do of the
weather.”
“I don’t care; I don’t believe George is anything like[265]
that, anyhow,” said Nanny. Her delicate face flushed
pink, her lips pouted softly, as if she were going to
cry.
“You wait an’ see. I guess George Eastman ain’t
no better than other men. You hadn’t ought to judge
father, though. He can’t help it, ’cause he don’t look
at things jest the way we do. An’ we’ve been pretty
comfortable here, after all. The roof don’t leak—ain’t
never but once—that’s one thing. Father’s kept it
shingled right up.”
“I do wish we had a parlor.”
“I guess it won’t hurt George Eastman any to come
to see you in a nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many
girls don’t have as good a place as this. Nobody’s ever
heard me complain.”
“I ain’t complained either, mother.”
“Well, I don’t think you’d better, a good father an’
a good home as you’ve got. S’pose your father made
you go out an’ work for your livin’? Lots of girls have
to that ain’t no stronger an’ better able to than you
be.”
Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive
air. She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the
inside. She was a masterly keeper of her box of a house.
Her one living-room never seemed to have in it any
of the dust which the friction of life with inanimate
matter produces. She swept, and there seemed to be
no dirt to go before the broom; she cleaned, and one
could see no difference. She was like an artist so perfect
that he has apparently no art. To-day she got out
a mixing bowl and a board, and rolled some pies, and
there was no more flour upon her than upon her daughter
who was doing finer work. Nanny was to be married
in the fall, and she was sewing on some white cambric
and embroidery. She sewed industriously while[266]
her mother cooked, her soft milk-white hands and wrists
showed whiter than her delicate work.
“We must have the stove moved out in the shed
before long,” said Mrs. Penn. “Talk about not havin’
things, it’s been a real blessin’ to be able to put a
stove up in that shed in hot weather. Father did
one good thing when he fixed that stove-pipe out
there.”
Sarah Penn’s face as she rolled her pies had that expression
of meek vigor which might have characterized
one of the New Testament saints. She was making
mince-pies. Her husband, Adoniram Penn, liked them
better than any other kind. She baked twice a week.
Adoniram often liked a piece of pie between meals.
She hurried this morning. It had been later than
usual when she began, and she wanted to have a pie
baked for dinner. However deep a resentment she
might be forced to hold against her husband, she would
never fail in sedulous attention to his wants.
Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes
when it is not provided with large doors. Sarah Penn’s
showed itself to-day in flaky dishes of pastry. So she
made the pies faithfully, while across the table she
could see, when she glanced up from her work, the sight
that rankled in her patient and steadfast soul—the digging
of the cellar of the new barn in the place where
Adoniram forty years ago had promised her their new
house should stand.
The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and
Sammy were home a few minutes after twelve o’clock.
The dinner was eaten with serious haste. There was
never much conversation at the table in the Penn family.
Adoniram asked a blessing, and they ate promptly,
then rose up and went about their work.
Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out[267]
of the yard like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles
before school, and feared his father would give
him some chores to do. Adoniram hastened to the door
and called after him, but he was out of sight.
“I don’t see what you let him go for, mother,” said
he. “I wanted him to help me unload that wood.”
Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading
wood from the wagon. Sarah put away the dinner
dishes, while Nanny took down her curl-papers and
changed her dress. She was going down to the store
to buy some more embroidery and thread.
When Nanny was gone, Mrs. Penn went to the door.
“Father!” she called.
“Well, what is it!”
“I want to see you jest a minute, father.”
“I can’t leave this wood nohow. I’ve got to git it
unloaded an’ go for a load of gravel afore two o’clock.
Sammy had ought to helped me. You hadn’t ought
to let him go to school so early.”
“I want to see you jest a minute.”
“I tell ye I can’t, nohow, mother.”
“Father, you come here.” Sarah Penn stood in the
door like a queen; she held her head as if it bore a
crown; there was that patience which makes authority
royal in her voice. Adoniram went.
Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed
to a chair. “Sit down, father,” said she; “I’ve got
somethin’ I want to say to you.”
He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but
he looked at her with restive eyes. “Well, what is it,
mother?”
“I want to know what you’re buildin’ that new barn
for, father?”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it.”
“It can’t be you think you need another barn?”
[268]
“I tell ye I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it, mother;
an’ I ain’t goin’ to say nothin’.”
“Be you goin’ to buy more cows?”
Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight.
“I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father,
look here”—Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood
before her husband in the humble fashion of a Scripture
woman—“I’m goin’ to talk real plain to you; I
never have sence I married you, but I’m goin’ to now.
I ain’t never complained, an’ I ain’t goin’ to complain
now, but I’m goin’ to talk plain. You see this
room here, father; you look at it well. You see there
ain’t no carpet on the floor, an’ you see the paper is
all dirty, an’ droppin’ off the walls. We ain’t had no
new paper on it for ten year, an’ then I put it on myself,
an’ it didn’t cost but ninepence a roll. You see
this room, father; it’s all the one I’ve had to work in
an’ eat in an’ sit in sence we was married. There ain’t
another woman in the whole town whose husband ain’t
got half the means you have but what’s got better. It’s
all the room Nanny’s got to have her company in; an’
there ain’t one of her mates but what’s got better, an’
their fathers not so able as hers is. It’s all the room
she’ll have to be married in. What would you have
thought, father, if we had had our weddin’ in a room
no better than this? I was married in my mother’s
parlor, with a carpet on the floor, an’ stuffed furniture,
an’ a mahogany card-table. An’ this is all the room
my daughter will have to be married in. Look here,
father!”
Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were
a tragic stage. She flung open a door and disclosed
a tiny bedroom, only large enough for a bed and bureau,
with a path between. “There, father,” said she—“there’s
all the room I’ve had to sleep in forty year.[269]
All my children were born there—the two that died, an’
the two that’s livin’. I was sick with a fever there.”
She stepped to another door and opened it. It led
into the small, ill-lighted pantry. “Here,” said she,
“is all the buttery I’ve got—every place I’ve got for
my dishes, to set away my victuals in, an’ to keep my
milk-pans in. Father, I’ve been takin’ care of the milk
of six cows in this place, an’ now you’re goin’ to build
a new barn, an’ keep more cows, an’ give me more to
do in it.”
She threw open another door. A narrow crooked
flight of stairs wound upward from it. “There, father,”
said she, “I want you to look at the stairs that
go up to them two unfinished chambers that are all the
places our son an’ daughter have had to sleep in all
their lives. There ain’t a prettier girl in town nor a
more ladylike one than Nanny, an’ that’s the place she
has to sleep in. It ain’t so good as your horse’s stall;
it ain’t so warm an’ tight.”
Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband.
“Now, father,” said she, “I want to know if you think
you’re doin’ right an’ accordin’ to what you profess.
Here, when we was married, forty year ago, you promised
me faithful that we should have a new house built
in that lot over in the field before the year was out.
You said you had money enough, an’ you wouldn’t
ask me to live in no such place as this. It is forty
year now, an’ you’ve been makin’ more money, an’ I’ve
been savin’ of it for you ever sence, an’ you ain’t built
no house yet. You’ve built sheds an’ cow-houses an’
one new barn, an’ now you’re goin’ to build another.
Father, I want to know if you think it’s right. You’re
lodgin’ your dumb beasts better than you are your own
flesh an’ blood. I want to know if you think it’s
right.”
[270]
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“You can’t say nothin’ without ownin’ it ain’t right,
father. An’ there’s another thing—I ain’t complained;
I’ve got along forty year, an’ I s’pose I should forty
more, if it wa’n’t for that—if we don’t have another
house. Nanny she can’t live with us after she’s married.
She’ll have to go somewheres else to live away
from us, an’ it don’t seem as if I could have it so, noways,
father. She wa’n’t ever strong. She’s got considerable
color, but there wa’n’t never any backbone
to her. I’ve always took the heft of everything off her,
an’ she ain’t fit to keep house an’ do everything herself.
She’ll be all worn out inside of a year. Think
of her doin’ all the washin’ an’ ironin’ an’ bakin’ with
them soft white hands an’ arms, an’ sweepin’! I can’t
have it so, noways, father.”
Mrs. Penn’s face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed.
She had pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she
had ranged from severity to pathos; but her opponent
employed that obstinate silence which makes eloquence
futile with mocking echoes. Adoniram arose
clumsily.
“Father, ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” said Mrs.
Penn.
“I’ve got to go off after that load of gravel. I can’t
stan’ here talkin’ all day.”
“Father, won’t you think it over, an’ have a house
built there instead of a barn?”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her
bedroom. When she came out, her eyes were red. She
had a roll of unbleached cotton cloth. She spread it
out on the kitchen table, and began cutting out some
shirts for her husband. The men over in the field had
a team to help them this afternoon; she could hear[271]
their halloos. She had a scanty pattern for the shirts;
she had to plan and piece the sleeves.
Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down
with her needlework. She had taken down her curl-papers,
and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an
aureole over her forehead; her face was as delicately
fine and clear as porcelain. Suddenly she looked up,
and the tender red flamed all over her face and neck.
“Mother,” said she.
“What say?”
“I’ve been thinking—I don’t see how we’re goin’ to
have any—wedding in this room. I’d be ashamed to
have his folks come if we didn’t have anybody else.”
“Mebbe we can have some new paper before then;
I can put it on. I guess you won’t have no call to be
ashamed of your belongin’s.”
“We might have the wedding in the new barn,” said
Nanny, with gentle pettishness. “Why, mother, what
makes you look so?”
Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with
a curious expression. She turned again to her work,
and spread out a pattern carefully on the cloth.
“Nothin’,” said she.
Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his
two-wheeled dump cart, standing as proudly upright
as a Roman charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and
stood there a minute looking out; the halloos of the men
sounded louder.
It seemed to her all through the spring months
that she heard nothing but the halloos and the noises of
saws and hammers. The new barn grew fast. It was
a fine edifice for this little village. Men came on pleasant
Sundays, in their meeting suits and clean shirt
bosoms, and stood around it admiringly. Mrs. Penn
did not speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it[272]
to her, although sometimes, upon a return from inspecting
it, he bore himself with injured dignity.
“It’s a strange thing how your mother feels about
the new barn,” he said, confidentially, to Sammy one
day.
Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy;
he had learned it from his father.
The barn was all completed ready for use by the third
week in July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock
in on Wednesday; on Tuesday he received a letter which
changed his plans. He came in with it early in the
morning. “Sammy’s been to the post-office,” said he,
“an’ I’ve got a letter from Hiram.” Hiram was Mrs.
Penn’s brother, who lived in Vermont.
“Well,” said Mrs. Penn, “what does he say about
the folks?”
“I guess they’re all right. He says he thinks if I
come up country right off there’s a chance to buy jest
the kind of a horse I want.” He stared reflectively out
of the window at the new barn.
Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping
the rolling-pin into the crust, although she was very
pale, and her heart beat loudly.
“I dun’ know but what I’d better go,” said Adoniram.
“I hate to go off jest now, right in the midst of
hayin’, but the ten-acre lot’s cut, an’ I guess Rufus an’
the others can git along without me three or four days.
I can’t get a horse round here to suit me, nohow, an’
I’ve got to have another for all that wood-haulin’ in the
fall. I told Hiram to watch out, an’ if he got wind of
a good horse to let me know. I guess I’d better go.”
“I’ll get out your clean shirt an’ collar,” said Mrs.
Penn, calmly.
She laid out Adoniram’s Sunday suit and his clean
clothes on the bed in the little bedroom. She got his[273]
shaving-water and razor ready. At last she buttoned on
his collar and fastened his black cravat.
Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on
extra occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped
dignity. When he was all ready, with his coat and
hat brushed, and a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper
bag, he hesitated on the threshold of the door. He
looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly apologetic.
“If them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive
’em into the new barn,” said he; “an’ when they bring
the hay up, they can pitch it in there.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Penn.
Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started.
When he had cleared the door-step, he turned and looked
back with a kind of nervous solemnity. “I shall be back
by Saturday if nothin’ happens,” said he.
“Do be careful, father,” returned his wife.
She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and
watched him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange,
doubtful expression in them; her peaceful forehead was
contracted. She went in, and about her baking again.
Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day was drawing
nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with her
steady sewing. Her mother kept glancing at her.
“Have you got that pain in your side this mornin’?”
she asked.
“A little.”
Mrs. Penn’s face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed
forehead smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips
firmly set. She formed a maxim for herself, although
incoherently with her unlettered thoughts. “Unsolicited
opportunities are the guide-posts of the Lord to
the new roads of life,” she repeated in effect, and she
made up her mind to her course of action.
“S’posin’ I had wrote to Hiram,” she muttered once,[274]
when she was in the pantry—“s’posin’ I had wrote, an’
asked him if he knew of any horse? But I didn’t, an’
father’s goin’ wa’n’t none of my doin’. It looks like a
providence.” Her voice rang out quite loud at the last.
“What you talkin’ about, mother?” called Nanny.
“Nothin’.”
Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o’clock it was
all done. The load of hay from the west field came
slowly down the cart track, and drew up at the new
barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. “Stop!” she screamed—“stop!”
The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from
the top of the load, and stared at his mother.
“Stop!” she cried out again. “Don’t you put the
hay in that barn; put it in the old one.”
“Why, he said to put it in here,” returned one of
the haymakers, wonderingly. He was a young man,
a neighbor’s son, whom Adoniram hired by the year
to help on the farm.
“Don’t you put the hay in the new barn; there’s
room enough in the old one, ain’t there?” said Mrs.
Penn.
“Room enough,” returned the hired man, in his
thick, rustic tones. “Didn’t need the new barn, nohow,
far as room’s concerned. Well, I s’pose he changed
his mind.” He took hold of the horses’ bridles.
Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen
windows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm
honey came into the room.
Nanny laid down her work. “I thought father
wanted them to put the hay into the new barn?” she
said, wonderingly.
“It’s all right,” replied her mother.
Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in
to see if dinner was ready.
[275]
“I ain’t goin’ to get a regular dinner to-day, as long
as father’s gone,” said his mother. “I’ve let the fire
go out. You can have some bread an’ milk an’ pie. I
thought we could get along.” She set out some bowls
of milk, some bread, and a pie on the kitchen table.
“You’d better eat your dinner now,” said she. “You
might jest as well get through with it. I want you to
help me afterward.”
Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was
something strange in their mother’s manner. Mrs. Penn
did not eat anything herself. She went into the pantry,
and they heard her moving dishes while they ate. Presently
she came out with a pile of plates. She got the
clothes-basket out of the shed, and packed them in it.
Nanny and Sammy watched. She brought out cups
and saucers, and put them in with the plates.
“What you goin’ to do, mother?” inquired Nanny,
in a timid voice. A sense of something unusual made
her tremble, as if it were a ghost. Sammy rolled his
eyes over his pie.
“You’ll see what I’m goin’ to do,” replied Mrs. Penn.
“If you’re through, Nanny, I want you to go upstairs
an’ pack up your things; an’ I want you, Sammy, to
help me take down the bed in the bedroom.”
“Oh, mother, what for?” gasped Nanny.
“You’ll see.”
During the next few hours a feat was performed
by this simple, pious New England mother which was
equal in its way to Wolfe’s storming of the Heights of
Abraham. It took no more genius and audacity of
bravery for Wolfe to cheer his wondering soldiers up
those steep precipices, under the sleeping eyes of the
enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head of her children,
to move all their little household goods into the
new barn while her husband was away.
[276]
Nanny and Sammy followed their mother’s instructions
without a murmur; indeed, they were overawed.
There is a certain uncanny and superhuman quality
about all such purely original undertakings as their
mother’s was to them. Nanny went back and forth
with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober
energy.
At five o’clock in the afternoon the little house in
which the Penns had lived for forty years had emptied
itself into the new barn.
Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes,
and is in a measure a prophet. The architect of
Adoniram Penn’s barn, while he designed it for the
comfort of four-footed animals, had planned better than
he knew for the comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw
at a glance its possibilities. Those great box-stalls, with
quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms
than the one she had occupied for forty years, and
there was a tight carriage-room. The harness-room,
with its chimney and shelves, would make a kitchen of
her dreams. The great middle space would make a
parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Upstairs there was
as much room as down. With partitions and windows,
what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row
of stanchions before the allotted space for cows, and
reflected that she would have her front entry there.
At six o’clock the stove was up in the harness-room,
the kettle was boiling, and the table set for tea. It
looked almost as home-like as the abandoned house across
the yard had ever done. The young hired man milked,
and Sarah directed him calmly to bring the milk to
the new barn. He came gaping, dropping little blots
of foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before
the next morning he had spread the story of Adoniram
Penn’s wife moving into the new barn all over the[277]
little village. Men assembled in the store and talked
it over, women with shawls over their heads scuttled
into each other’s houses before their work was done.
Any deviation from the ordinary course of life in this
quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Everybody
paused to look at the staid, independent figure on
the side track. There was a difference of opinion with
regard to her. Some held her to be insane; some, of a
lawless and rebellious spirit.
Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the
forenoon, and she was at the barn door shelling peas
for dinner. She looked up and returned his salutation
with dignity, then she went on with her work.
She did not invite him in. The saintly expression of
her face remained fixed, but there was an angry flush
over it.
The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked.
She handled the peas as if they were bullets. At last
she looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that her
meek front had covered for a lifetime.
“There ain’t no use talkin’, Mr. Hersey,” said she.
“I’ve thought it all over an’ over, an’ I believe I’m
doin’ what’s right. I’ve made it the subject of prayer,
an’ it’s betwixt me an’ the Lord an’ Adoniram. There
ain’t no call for nobody else to worry about it.”
“Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord
in prayer, and feel satisfied that you are doing right,
Mrs. Penn,” said the minister, helplessly. His thin
gray-bearded face was pathetic. He was a sickly man;
his youthful confidence had cooled; he had to scourge
himself up to some of his pastoral duties as relentlessly
as a Catholic ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the
smart.
“I think it’s right jest as much as I think it was
right for our forefathers to come over from the old[278]
country ’cause they didn’t have what belonged to ’em,”
said Mrs. Penn. She arose. The barn threshold might
have been Plymouth Rock from her bearing. “I don’t
doubt you mean well, Mr. Hersey,” said she, “but there
are things people hadn’t ought to interfere with. I’ve
been a member of the church for over forty year. I’ve
got my own mind an’ my own feet, an’ I’m goin’ to
think my own thoughts an’ go my own ways, an’ nobody
but the Lord is goin’ to dictate to me unless I’ve
a mind to have him. Won’t you come in an’ set down?
How is Mis’ Hersey?”
“She is well, I thank you,” replied the minister. He
added some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he
retreated.
He could expound the intricacies of every character
study in the Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the
Pilgrim Fathers and all historical innovators, but Sarah
Penn was beyond him. He could deal with primal cases,
but parallel ones worsted him. But, after all, although
it was aside from his province, he wondered more how
Adoniram Penn would deal with his wife than how the
Lord would. Everybody shared the wonder. When
Adoniram’s four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three
to be put in the old barn, the other in the house shed
where the cooking-stove had stood. That added to the
excitement. It was whispered that all four cows were
domiciled in the house.
Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was
expected home, there was a knot of men in the road near
the new barn. The hired man had milked, but he still
hung around the premises. Sarah Penn had supper all
ready. There were brown-bread and baked beans and
a custard pie; it was the supper that Adoniram loved
on a Saturday night. She had on a clean calico, and
she bore herself imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy[279]
kept close at her heels. Their eyes were large, and
Nanny was full of nervous tremors. Still there was to
them more pleasant excitement than anything else. An
inborn confidence in their mother over their father asserted
itself.
Sammy looked out of the harness-room window.
“There he is,” he announced, in an awed whisper. He
and Nanny peeped around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept
on about her work. The children watched Adoniram
leave the new horse standing in the drive while he
went to the house door. It was fastened. Then he
went around to the shed. That door was seldom locked,
even when the family was away. The thought how
her father would be confronted by the cow flashed upon
Nanny. There was a hysterical sob in her throat.
Adoniram emerged from the shed and stood looking
about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was saying
something, but they could not hear what it was.
The hired man was peeping around a corner of the
old barn, but nobody saw him.
Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led
him across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and
Sammy slunk close to their mother. The barn doors
rolled back, and there stood Adoniram, with the long
mild face of the great Canadian farm horse looking
over his shoulder.
Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped
suddenly forward, and stood in front of her.
Adoniram stared at the group. “What on airth you
all down here for?” said he. “What’s the matter over
to the house?”
“We’ve come here to live, father,” said Sammy.
His shrill voice quavered out bravely.
“What”—Adoniram sniffed—“what is it smells like
cookin’?” said he. He stepped forward and looked[280]
in the open door of the harness-room. Then he turned
to his wife. His old bristling face was pale and frightened.
“What on airth does this mean, mother?” he
gasped.
“You come in here, father,” said Sarah. She led the
way into the harness-room and shut the door. “Now,
father,” said she, “you needn’t be scared. I ain’t
crazy. There ain’t nothin’ to be upset over. But we’ve
come here to live, an’ we’re goin’ to live here. We’ve
got jest as good a right here as new horses an’ cows.
The house wa’n’t fit for us to live in any longer, an’
I made up my mind I wa’n’t goin’ to stay there. I’ve
done my duty by you forty year, an’ I’m goin’ to do
it now; but I’m goin’ to live here. You’ve got to put
in some windows and partitions; an’ you’ll have to buy
some furniture.”
“Why, mother!” the old man gasped.
“You’d better take your coat off an’ get washed—there’s
the wash-basin—an’ then we’ll have supper.”
“Why, mother!”
Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse
to the old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his
head speechlessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his
arms seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him.
She poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a
piece of soap. She got the comb and brush, and
smoothed his thin gray hair after he had washed.
Then she put the beans, hot bread, and tea on the table.
Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram
sat looking dazedly at his plate, and they waited.
“Ain’t you goin’ to ask a blessin’, father?” said
Sarah.
And the old man bent his head and mumbled.
All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals,[281]
and stared furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The
home food tasted good to him, and his old frame was
too sturdily healthy to be affected by his mind. But
after supper he went out, and sat down on the step of
the smaller door at the right of the barn, through which
he had meant his Jerseys to pass in stately file, but
which Sarah designed for her front house door, and
he leaned his head on his hands.
After the supper dishes were cleared away and the
milk-pans washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight
was deepening. There was a clear green glow
in the sky. Before them stretched the smooth level
of field; in the distance was a cluster of hay-stacks like
the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm and
sweet. The landscape might have been an ideal one of
peace.
Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of
his thin, sinewy shoulders. “Father!”
The old man’s shoulders heaved: he was weeping.
“Why, don’t do so, father,” said Sarah.
“I’ll—put up the—partitions, an’—everything you—want,
mother.”
Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome
by her own triumph.
Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no
active resistance, and went down the instant the right
besieging tools were used. “Why, mother,” he said,
hoarsely, “I hadn’t no idee you was so set on’t as all
this comes to.”
[282]
[283]
MARSE CHAN
A TALE OF OLD VIRGINIA
BY
Thomas Nelson Page
[284]
Here plot, character, and setting are happily blended.
The story is sufficient to move smoothly and interestingly;
the characters, both black and white, reveal the
Southerner at his best; and the setting not only furnishes
an appropriate background for plot and characters,
but is significant of the leisure, the isolation, and
the pride of the people.
[285]
MARSE CHAN[19]
One afternoon, in the autumn of 1872, I was riding
leisurely down the sandy road that winds along the
top of the water-shed between two of the smaller rivers
of eastern Virginia. The road I was travelling, following
“the ridge” for miles, had just struck me as most
significant of the character of the race whose only
avenue of communication with the outside world it had
formerly been. Their once splendid mansions, now fast
falling to decay, appeared to view from time to time, set
back far from the road, in proud seclusion, among groves
of oak and hickory, now scarlet and gold with the early
frost. Distance was nothing to this people; time was
of no consequence to them. They desired but a level
path in life, and that they had, though the way was
longer, and the outer world strode by them as they
dreamed.
I was aroused from my reflections by hearing some
one ahead of me calling, “Heah!—heah—whoo-oop,
heah!”
Turning the curve in the road, I saw just before
me a negro standing, with a hoe and a watering-pot
in his hand. He had evidently just gotten over the
“worm-fence” into the road, out of the path which
led zigzag across the “old field” and was lost to sight
in the dense growth of sassafras. When I rode up, he
was looking anxiously back down this path for his dog.
So engrossed was he that he did not even hear my horse,[286]
and I reined in to wait until he should turn around
and satisfy my curiosity as to the handsome old place
half a mile off from the road.
The numerous out-buildings and the large barns and
stables told that it had once been the seat of wealth,
and the wild waste of sassafras that covered the broad
fields gave it an air of desolation that greatly excited
my interest. Entirely oblivious of my proximity, the
negro went on calling “Whoo-oop, heah!” until along
the path, walking very slowly and with great dignity,
appeared a noble-looking old orange and white setter,
gray with age, and corpulent with excessive feeding. As
soon as he came in sight, his master began:
“Yes, dat you! You gittin’ deaf as well as bline,
I s’pose! Kyarnt heah me callin’, I reckon? Whyn’t
yo’ come on, dawg?”
The setter sauntered slowly up to the fence and
stopped, without even deigning a look at the speaker,
who immediately proceeded to take the rails down, talking
meanwhile:
“Now, I got to pull down de gap, I s’pose! Yo’ so
sp’ilt yo’ kyahn hardly walk. Jes’ ez able to git over
it as I is! Jes’ like white folks—think ’cuz you’s white
and I’se black, I got to wait on yo’ all de time. Ne’m
mine, I ain’ gwi’ do it!”
The fence having been pulled down sufficiently low
to suit his dogship, he marched sedately through, and,
with a hardly perceptible lateral movement of his tail,
walked on down the road. Putting up the rails carefully,
the negro turned and saw me.
“Sarvent, marster,” he said, taking his hat off.
Then, as if apologetically for having permitted a
stranger to witness what was merely a family affair, he
added: “He know I don’ mean nothin’ by what I sez.
He’s Marse Chan’s dawg, an’ he’s so ole he kyahn git[287]
long no pearter. He know I’se jes’ prodjickin’ wid
’im.”
“Who is Marse Chan?” I asked; “and whose place
is that over there, and the one a mile or two back—the
place with the big gate and the carved stone
pillars?”
“Marse Chan,” said the darky, “he’s Marse Channin’—my
young marster; an’ dem places—dis one’s
Weall’s, an’ de one back dyar wid de rock gate-pos’s
is ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. Dey don’ nobody live dyar
now, ’cep’ niggers. Arfter de war some one or nurr
bought our place, but his name done kind o’ slipped
me. I nuver hearn on ’im befo’; I think dey’s half-strainers.
I don’ ax none on ’em no odds. I lives down
de road heah, a little piece, an’ I jes’ steps down of a
evenin’ and looks arfter de graves.”
“Well, where is Marse Chan?” I asked.
“Hi! don’ you know? Marse Chan, he went in de
army. I was wid ’im. Yo’ know he warn’ gwine an’
lef’ Sam.”
“Will you tell me all about it?” I said, dismounting.
Instantly, and as if by instinct, the darky stepped
forward and took my bridle. I demurred a little; but
with a bow that would have honored old Sir Roger, he
shortened the reins, and taking my horse from me, led
him along.
“Now tell me about Marse Chan,” I said.
“Lawd, marster, hit’s so long ago, I’d a’most forgit
all about it, ef I hedn’ been wid him ever sence he wuz
born. Ez ’tis, I remembers it jes’ like ’twuz yistiddy.
Yo’ know Marse Chan an’ me—we wuz boys togerr. I
wuz older’n he wuz, jes’ de same ez he wuz whiter’n me.
I wuz born plantin’ corn time, de spring arfter big Jim
an’ de six steers got washed away at de upper ford
right down dyar b’low de quarters ez he wuz a-bringin[288]’
de Chris’mas things home; an’ Marse Chan, he warn’
born tell mos’ to de harves’ arfter my sister Nancy married
Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s Torm, ’bout eight years arfterwoods.
“Well, when Marse Chan wuz born, dey wuz de
grettes’ doin’s at home you ever did see. De folks all
hed holiday, jes’ like in de Chris’mas. Ole marster
(we didn’ call ’im ole marster tell arfter Marster Chan
wuz born—befo’ dat he wuz jes’ de marster, so)—well,
ole marster, his face fyar shine wid pleasure, an’ all
de folks wuz mighty glad, too, ’cause dey all loved ole
marster, and aldo’ dey did step aroun’ right peart when
ole marster was lookin’ at ’em, dyar warn’ nyar han’
on de place but what, ef he wanted anythin’, would
walk up to de back poach, an’ say he warn’ to see de
marster. An’ ev’ybody wuz talkin’ ’bout de young
marster, an’ de maids an’ de wimmens ’bout de kitchen
wuz sayin’ how ’twuz de purties’ chile dey ever see;
an’ at dinner-time de mens (all on ’em hed holiday)
come roun’ de poach an’ ax how de missis an’ de young
marster wuz, an’ ole marster come out on de poach an’
smile wus’n a ’possum, an’ sez, ’Thankee! Bofe doin’
fust rate, boys’; an’ den he stepped back in de house,
sort o’ laughin’ to hisse’f, an’ in a minute he come out
ag’in wid de baby in he arms, all wrapped up in flannens
an’ things, an’ sez, ’Heah he is, boys.’ All de
folks den, dey went up on de poach to look at ’im, drappin’
dey hats on de steps, an’ scrapin’ dey feets ez dey
went up. An’ pres’n’y old marster, lookin’ down at we
all chil’en all packed togerr down dyah like a parecel
o’ sheep-burrs, cotch sight o’ me (he knowed my name,
’cause I use’ to hole he hoss fur ’im sometimes; but he
didn’t know all de chile’n by name, dey wuz so many
on ’em), an’ he sez, ’Come up heah!’ So up I goes
tippin’, skeered like, an’ old marster sez, ’Ain’ you[289]
Mymie’s son?’ ’Yass, seh,’ sez I. ’Well,’ sez he,
’I’m gwine to give you to yo’ young Marse Channin’ to
be his body-servant,’ an’ he put de baby right in my
arms (it’s de truth I’m tellin’ yo’!), an’ yo’ jes’ ought
to a-heard de folks sayin’, ’Lawd! marster, dat boy’ll
drap dat chile!’ ’Naw, he won’t,’ sez marster; ’I kin
trust ’im.’ And den he sez: ’Now, Sam, from dis time
you belong to yo’ young Marse Channin’; I wan’ you
to tek keer on ’im ez long ez he lives. You are to be
his boy from dis time. An’ now,’ he sez, ’carry ’im
in de house.’ An’ he walks arfter me an’ opens de do’s
fur me, an’ I kyars ’im in my arms, an’ lays ’im down
on de bed. An’ from dat time I was tooken in de house
to be Marse Channin’s body-servant.
“Well, you nuver see a chile grow so. Pres’n’y he
growed up right big, an’ ole marster sez he must have
some edication. So he sont ’im to school to ole Miss
Lawry down dyar, dis side o’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, an’
I use’ to go ’long wid ’im an’ tote he books an’ we all’s
snacks; an’ when he larnt to read an’ spell right good,
an’ got ’bout so-o big, old Miss Lawry she died, an’ old
marster said he mus’ have a man to teach ’im an’
trounce ’im. So we all went to Mr. Hall, whar kep’ de
school-house beyant de creek, an’ dyar we went ev’y
day, ’cep Sat’d’ys of co’se, an’ sich days ez Marse
Chan din’ warn’ go, an’ ole missis begged ’im off.
“Hit wuz down dyar Marse Chan fust took notice
o’ Miss Anne. Mr. Hall, he taught gals ez well ez
boys, an’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin he sont his daughter (dat’s
Miss Anne I’m talkin’ about). She wuz a leetle bit
o’ gal when she fust come. Yo’ see, her ma wuz dead,
an’ old Miss Lucy Chahmb’lin, she lived wid her brurr
an’ kep’ house for ’im; an’ he wuz so busy wid politics,
he didn’ have much time to spyar, so he sont Miss Anne
to Mr. Hall’s by a ’ooman wid a note. When she come[290]
dat day in de school-house, an’ all de chil’en looked at
her so hard, she tu’n right red, an’ tried to pull her
long curls over her eyes, an’ den put bofe de backs of
her little han’s in her two eyes, an’ begin to cry to herse’f.
Marse Chan he was settin’ on de een’ o’ de bench
nigh de do’, an’ he jes’ reached out an’ put he arm
’roun’ her an’ drawed her up to ’im. An’ he kep’ whisperin’
to her, an’ callin’ her name, an’ coddlin’ her; an’
pres’n’y she took her han’s down an’ begin to laugh.
“Well, dey ’peared to tek’ a gre’t fancy to each
urr from dat time. Miss Anne she warn’ nuthin’ but a
baby hardly, an’ Marse Chan he wuz a good big boy
’bout mos’ thirteen years ole, I reckon. Hows’ever, dey
sut’n’y wuz sot on each urr an’ (yo’ heah me!) ole
marster an’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin dey ’peared to like it
’bout well ez de chil’en. Yo’ see, Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s
place j’ined ourn, an’ it looked jes’ ez natural fur
dem two chil’en to marry an’ mek it one plantation, ez
it did fur de creek to run down de bottom from our
place into Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. I don’ rightly think de
chil’en thought ’bout gittin’ married, not den, no mo’n
I thought ’bout marryin’ Judy when she wuz a little
gal at Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, runnin’ ’bout de house,
huntin’ fur Miss Lucy’s spectacles; but dey wuz good
frien’s from de start. Marse Chan he use’ to kyar Miss
Anne’s books fur her ev’y day, an’ ef de road wuz
muddy or she wuz tired, he use’ to tote her; an’ ’twarn’
hardly a day passed dat he didn’ kyar her some’n’ to
school—apples or hick’y nuts, or some’n. He wouldn’t
let none o’ de chil’en tease her, nurr. Heh! One day,
one o’ de boys poked he finger at Miss Anne, and arfter
school Marse Chan he axed ’im ’roun’ ’hine de school-house
out o’ sight, an’ ef he didn’t whop ’im!
“Marse Chan, he wuz de peartes’ scholar ole Mr.
Hall hed, an’ Mr. Hall he wuz mighty proud o’ ’im. I[291]
don’ think he use’ to beat ’im ez much ez he did de urrs,
aldo’ he wuz de head in all debilment dat went on, jes’
ez he wuz in sayin’ he lessons.
“Heh! one day in summer, jes’ fo’ de school broke
up, dyah come up a storm right sudden, an’ riz de creek
(dat one yo’ cross’ back yonder), an’ Marse Chan he
toted Miss Anne home on he back. He ve’y off’n did dat
when de parf wuz muddy. But dis day when dey come
to de creek, it had done washed all de logs ’way. ’Twuz
still mighty high, so Marse Chan he put Miss Anne down,
an’ he took a pole an’ waded right in. Hit took ’im long
up to de shoulders. Den he waded back, an’ took Miss
Anne up on his head an’ kyared her right over. At fust
she wuz skeered; but he tol’ her he could swim an’
wouldn’ let her git hu’t, an’ den she let ’im kyar her
’cross, she hol’in’ his han’s. I warn’ ’long dat day,
but he sut’n’y did dat thing.
“Ole marster he wuz so pleased ’bout it, he giv’
Marse Chan a pony; an’ Marse Chan rode ’im to school
de day arfter he come, so proud, an’ sayin’ how he wuz
gwine to let Anne ride behine ’im; an’ when he come
home dat evenin’ he wuz walkin’. ’Hi! where’s yo’
pony?’ said ole marster. ’I give ’im to Anne,’ says
Marse Chan. ’She liked ’im, an’—I kin walk.’ ’Yes,’
sez ole marster, laughin’, ’I s’pose you’s already done
giv’ her yo’se’f, an’ nex’ thing I know you’ll be givin’
her this plantation and all my niggers.’
“Well, about a fortnight or sich a matter arfter dat,
Cun’l Chahmb’lin sont over an’ invited all o’ we all
over to dinner, an’ Marse Chan wuz ’spressly named
in de note whar Ned brought; an’ arfter dinner he made
ole Phil, whar wuz his ker’ige-driver, bring ’roun’ Marse
Chan’s pony wid a little side-saddle on ’im, an’ a beautiful
little hoss wid a bran’-new saddle an’ bridle on
’im; an’ he gits up an’ meks Marse Chan a gre’t speech,[292]
an’ presents ’im de little hoss; an’ den he calls Miss
Anne, an’ she comes out on de poach in a little ridin’
frock, an’ dey puts her on her pony, an’ Marse Chan
mounts his hoss, an’ dey goes to ride, while de grown
folks is a-laughin’ an’ chattin’ an’ smokin’ dey cigars.
“Dem wuz good ole times, marster—de bes’ Sam
ever see! Dey wuz, in fac’! Niggers didn’ hed nothin’
’t all to do—jes’ hed to ’ten’ to de feedin’ an’ cleanin’
de hosses, an’ doin’ what de marster tell ’em to do;
an’ when dey wuz sick, dey had things sont ’em out de
house, an’ de same doctor come to see ’em whar ’ten’ to
de white folks when dey wuz po’ly. Dyar warn’ no
trouble nor nothin’.
“Well, things tuk a change arfter dat. Marse Chan
he went to de bo’din’ school, whar he use’ to write to me
constant. Ole missis use’ to read me de letters, an’
den I’d git Miss Anne to read ’em ag’in to me when I’d
see her. He use’ to write to her too, an’ she use’ to write
to him too. Den Miss Anne she wuz sont off to school
too. An’ in de summer time dey’d bofe come home, an’
yo’ hardly knowed whether Marse Chan lived at home
or over at Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. He wuz over dyah constant.
’Twuz always ridin’ or fishin’ down dyah in de
river; or sometimes he’ go over dyah, an’ ’im an’ she’d
go out an’ set in de yard onder de trees; she settin’ up
mekin’ out she wuz knittin’ some sort o’ bright-cullored
some’n’, wid de grarss growin’ all up ’g’inst
her, an’ her hat th’owed back on her neck, an’ he
readin’ to her out books; an’ sometimes dey’d bofe read
out de same book, fust one an’ den todder. I use’ to
see em! Dat wuz when dey wuz growin’ up like.
“Den ole marster he run for Congress, an’ ole Cun’l
Chahmb’lin he wuz put up to run ’g’inst ole marster
by de Dimicrats; but ole marster he beat ’im. Yo’ know
he wuz gwine do dat! Co’se he wuz! Dat made ole[293]
Cun’l Chahmb’lin mighty mad, and dey stopt visitin’
each urr reg’lar, like dey had been doin’ all ’long. Den
Cun’l Chahmb’lin he sort o’ got in debt, an’ sell some
o’ he niggers, an’ dat’s de way de fuss begun. Dat’s
whar de lawsuit cum from. Ole marster he didn’ like
nobody to sell niggers, an’ knowin’ dat Cun’l Chahmb’lin
wuz sellin’ o’ his, he writ an’ offered to buy his
M’ria an’ all her chil’en, ’cause she hed married our
Zeek’yel. An’ don’ yo’ think, Cun’l Chahmb’lin axed ole
marster mo’ ‘n th’ee niggers wuz wuth fur M’ria!
Befo’ old marster bought her, dough, de sheriff cum
an’ levelled on M’ria an’ a whole parecel o’ urr niggers.
Ole marster he went to de sale, an’ bid for ’em;
but Cun’l Chahmb’lin he got some one to bid ’g’inst
ole marster. Dey wuz knocked out to ole marster dough,
an’ den dey hed a big lawsuit, an’ ole marster wuz
agwine to co’t, off an’ on, fur some years, till at lars’
de co’t decided dat M’ria belonged to ole marster. Ole
Cun’l Chahmb’lin den wuz so mad he sued ole marster
for a little strip o’ lan’ down dyah on de line fence,
whar he said belonged to ’im. Ev’ybody knowed hit
belonged to ole marster. Ef yo’ go down dyah now, I
kin show it to yo’, inside de line fence, whar it hed
done bin ever sence long befo’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin wuz
born. But Cun’l Chahmb’lin wuz a mons’us perseverin’
man, an’ ole marster he wouldn’ let nobody ran
over ’im. No, dat he wouldn’! So dey wuz agwine
down to co’t about dat, fur I don’ know how long, till
ole marster beat ’im.
“All dis time, yo’ know, Marse Chan wuz a-goin’
back’ads an’ for’ads to college, an’ wuz growed up a
ve’y fine young man. He wuz a ve’y likely gent’man!
Miss Anne she hed done mos’ growed up too—wuz puttin’
her hyar up like old missis use’ to put hers up, an’
’twuz jes’ ez bright ez de sorrel’s mane when de sun[294]
cotch on it, an’ her eyes wuz gre’t big dark eyes, like
her pa’s, on’y bigger an’ not so fierce, an’ ’twarn’ none
o’ de young ladies ez purty ez she wuz. She an’ Marse
Chan still set a heap o’ sto’ by one ‘nurr, but I don’
think dey wuz easy wid each urr ez when he used to
tote her home from school on his back. Marse Chan he
use’ to love de ve’y groun’ she walked on, dough, in my
’pinion. Heh! His face ’twould light up whenever
she come into chu’ch, or anywhere, jes’ like de sun hed
come th’oo a chink on it suddenly.
“Den’ ole marster lost he eyes. D’ yo’ ever heah
’bout dat? Heish! Didn’ yo’? Well, one night de
big barn cotch fire. De stables, yo’ know, wuz under
de big barn, an’ all de hosses wuz in dyah. Hit ’peared
to me like ’twarn’ no time befo’ all de folks an’ de
neighbors dey come, an’ dey wuz a-totin’ water, an’
a-tryin’ to save de po’ critters, and dey got a heap on
’em out; but de ker’ige-hosses dey wouldn’ come out,
an’ dey wuz a-runnin’ back’ads an’ for’ads inside de
stalls, a-nikerin’ an’ a-screamin’, like dey knowed dey
time hed come. Yo’ could heah ’em so pitiful, an’
pres’n’y old marster said to Ham Fisher (he wuz de
ker’ige-driver), ’Go in dyah an’ try to save ’em; don’
let ’em bu’n to death.’ An’ Ham he went right in. An’
jest arfter he got in, de shed whar it hed fus’ cotch
fell in, an’ de sparks shot ’way up in de air; an’ Ham
didn’ come back, an’ de fire begun to lick out under de
eaves over whar de ker’ige-hosses’ stalls wuz, an’ all
of a sudden ole marster tu’ned an’ kissed ole missis, who
wuz standin’ nigh him, wid her face jes’ ez white ez a
sperit’s, an’, befo’ anybody knowed what he wuz gwine
do, jumped right in de do’, an’ de smoke come po’in’
out behine ’im. Well, seh, I nuver ’spects to heah tell
Judgment sich a soun’ ez de folks set up! Ole missis
she jes’ drapt down on her knees in de mud an’ prayed[295]
out loud. Hit ’peared like her pra’r wuz heard; for in
a minit, right out de same do’, kyarin’ Ham Fisher in
his arms, come ole marster, wid his clo’s all blazin’.
Dey flung water on ’im, an’ put ’im out; an’, ef you
b’lieve me, yo’ wouldn’t a-knowed ’twuz ole marster.
Yo’ see, he had find Ham Fisher done fall down in de
smoke right by the ker’ige-hoss’ stalls, whar he sont
him, an’ he hed to tote ’im back in his arms th’oo de fire
what hed done cotch de front part o’ de stable, and
to keep de flame from gittin’ down Ham Fisher’s th’oat
he hed tuk off his own hat and mashed it all over Ham
Fisher’s face, an’ he hed kep’ Ham Fisher from bein’
so much bu’nt; but he wuz bu’nt dreadful! His beard
an’ hyar wuz all nyawed off, an’ his face an’ han’s an’
neck wuz scorified terrible. Well, he jes’ laid Ham
Fisher down, an’ then he kind o’ staggered for’ad, an’
ole missis ketch’ ’im in her arms. Ham Fisher, he
warn’ bu’nt so bad, an’ he got out in a month to two;
an’ arf ter a long time, ole marster he got well, too; but
he wuz always stone blind arfter that. He nuver could
see none from dat night.
“Marse Chan he comed home from college toreckly,
an’ he sut’n’y did nuss ole marster faithful—jes’ like a
’ooman. Den he took charge of de plantation arfter
dat; an’ I use’ to wait on ’im jes’ like when we wuz
boys togedder; an’ sometimes we’d slip off an’ have a
fox-hunt, an’ he’d be jes’ like he wuz in ole times, befo’
ole marster got bline, an’ Miss Anne Chahmb’lin stopt
comin’ over to our house, an’ settin’ onder de trees,
readin’ out de same book.
“He sut’n’y wuz good to me. Nothin’ nuver made
no diffunce ’bout dat. He nuver hit me a lick in his
life—an’ nuver let nobody else do it, nurr.
“I ’members one day, when he wuz a leetle bit o’
boy, ole marster hed done tole we all chil’en not to slide[296]
on de straw-stacks; an’ one day me an’ Marse Chan
thought ole marster hed done gone ’way from home. We
watched him git on he hoss an’ ride up de road out o’
sight, an’ we wuz out in de field a-slidin’ an’ a-slidin’,
when up comes ole marster. We started to run; but he
hed done see us, an’ he called us to come back; an’
sich a whuppin’ ez he did gi’ us!
“Fust he took Marse Chan, an’ den he teched me
up. He nuver hu’t me, but in co’se I wuz a-hollerin’
ez hard ez I could stave it, ’cause I knowed dat wuz
gwine mek him stop. Marse Chan he hed’n open he
mouf long ez ole marster wuz tunin’ ’im; but soon ez
he commence warmin’ me an’ I begin to holler, Marse
Chan he bu’st out cryin’, an’ stept right in befo’ ole
marster an’ ketchin’ de whup, sed:
“‘Stop, seh! Yo’ sha’n’t whup ’im; he b’longs to
me, an’ ef you hit ’im another lick I’ll set ’im free!’
“I wish yo’ hed see old marster. Marse Chan he
warn’ mo’n eight years ole, an’ dyah dey wuz—old
marster stan’in’ wid he whup raised up, an’ Marse Chan
red an’ cryin’, hol’in’ on to it, an’ sayin’ I b’longst
to ’im.
“Ole marster, he raise’ de whup, an’ den he drapt
it, an’ broke out in a smile over he face, an’ he chuck’
Marse Chan onder de chin, an’ tu’n right ’roun’ an’
went away, laughin’ to hisse’f, an’ I heah ’im tellin’
ole missis dat evenin’, an’ laughin’ ’bout it.
“‘Twan’ so mighty long arfter dat when dey fust
got to talkin’ ’bout de war. Dey wuz a-dictatin’
back’ads an’ for’ads ’bout it fur two or th’ee years ’fo’
it come sho’ nuff, you know. Ole marster, he was a
Whig, an’ of co’se Marse Chan he tuk after he pa.
Cun’l Chahmb’lin, he wuz a Dimicrat. He wuz in favor
of de war, an’ ole marster and Marse Chan dey wuz
agin’ it. Dey wuz a-talkin’ ’bout it all de time, an[297]’
purty soon Cun’l Chahmb’lin he went about ev’ywhar
speakin’ an’ noratin’ ’bout Firginia ought to secede;
an’ Marse Chan he’wuz picked up to talk agin’ ’im.
Dat wuz de way dey come to fight de dull. I sut’n’y
wuz skeered fur Marse Chan dat mawnin’, an’ he was
jes’ ez cool! Yo’ see, it happen so: Marse Chan he wuz
a-speakin’ down at de Deep Creek Tavern, an’ he kind
o’ got de bes’ of ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin. All de white
folks laughed an’ hoorawed, an’ ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin—my
Lawd! I fought he’d ’a’’ bu’st, he was so mad.
Well, when it come to his time to speak, he jes’ light
into Marse Chan. He call ’im a traitor, an’ a ab’litionis’,
an’ I don’ know what all. Marse Chan, he jes’
kep’ cool till de ole Cun’l light into he pa. Ez soon
ez he name ole marster, I seen Marse Chan sort o’ lif
up he head. D’ yo’ ever sec a hoss rar he head up right
sudden at night when he see somethiu’ comin’ to’ds ’im
from de side an’ he don’ know what ’tis? Ole Cun’l
Chahmb’lin he went right on. He said ole marster hed
taught Marse Chan; dat ole marster wuz a wuss ab’litionis’
dan he son. I looked at Marse Chan, an’ sez
to myse’f: ’Fo’ Gord! old Cun’l Chahmb’lin better
min’, an’ I hedn’ got de wuds out, when ole Cun’l
Chahmb’lin ’cuse’ old marster o’ cheatin’ ’im out o’ he
niggers, an’ stealing piece o’ he lan’—dat’s de lan’ I
tole you ’bout. Well, seh, nex’ thing I knowed, I
heahed Marse Chan—hit all happen right ’long togerr,
like lightnin’ and thunder when they hit right at you—I
heah ’im say:
“‘Cun’l Chahmb’lin, what you say is false, an’ yo’
know it to be so. You have wilfully slandered one of de
pures’ an’ nobles’ men Gord ever made, an’ nothin’
but yo’ gray hyars protects you.’
“Well, ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin, he ra’d an’ he pitch’d.
He said he wan’ too ole, an’ he’d show ’im so.
[298]
“‘Ve’y well,’ says Marse Chan.
“De meetin’ broke up den. I wuz hol’in’ de hosses
out dyar in de road by dee een’ o’ de poach, an’ I see
Marse Chan talkin’ an’ talkin’ to Mr. Gordon an’ anudder
gent’man, and den he come out an’ got on de sorrel
an’ galloped off. Soon ez he got out o’ sight he pulled
up, an’ we walked along tell we come to de road whar
leads off to ’ds Mr. Barbour ’s. He wuz de big lawyer o’
de country. Dar he tu’ned off. All dis time he hedn’
sed a wud, ’cep’ to kind o’ mumble to hisse’f now and
den. When we got to Mr. Harbour’s, he got down an’
went in. Dat wuz in de late winter; de folks wuz jes’
beginnin’ to plough fur corn. He stayed dyar ’bout two
hours, an’ when he come out Mr. Barbour come out to
de gate wid ’im an’ shake han’s arfter he got up in de
saddle. Den we all rode off. ’Twuz late den—good
dark; an’ we rid ez hard ez we could, tell we come to
de ole school-house at ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s gate.
When we got dar, Marse Chan got down an’ walked
right slow ’roun’ de house. After lookin’ ’roun’ a little
while an’ tryin’ de do’ to see ef if wuz shet, he walked
down de road tell he got to de creek. He stop’ dyar a
little while an’ picked up two or three little rocks an’
frowed ’em in, an’ pres’n’y he got up an’ we come on
home. Ez he got down, he tu’ned to me an’, rubbin’ de
sorrel’s nose, said: ’Have ’em well fed, Sam; I’ll want
’em early in de mawnin’.’
“Dat night at supper he laugh an’ talk, an’ he set
at de table a long time. Arfter ole marster went to
bed, he went in de charmber an’ set on de bed by ’im
talkin’ to ’im an’ tellin’ ’im ’bout de meetin’ an’ ev’ything;
but he nuver mention ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s
name. When he got up to come out to de office in de
yard, whar he slept, he stooped down an’ kissed ’im jes’
like he wuz a baby layin’ dyar in de bed, an’ he’d hardly[299]
let ole missis go at all. I knowed some’n wuz up, an’
nex’ mawnin’ I called ’im early befo’ light, like he tole
me, an’ he dressed an’ come out pres’n’y jes’ like he wuz
goin’ to church. I had de hosses ready, an’ we went out
de back way to ’ds de river. Ez we rode along, he said:
“‘Sam, you an’ I wuz boys togedder, wa’n’t we?’
“‘Yes,’ sez I, ’Marse Chan, dat we wuz.’
“‘You have been ve’y faithful to me,’ sez he, ’a’n’
I have seen to it that you are well provided fur. You
want to marry Judy, I know, an’ you’ll be able to buy
her ef you want to.’
“Den he tole me he wuz goin’ to fight a duil, an’ in
case he should git shot, he had set me free an’ giv’ me
nuff to tek keer o’ me an’ my wife ez long ez we lived.
He said he’d like me to stay an’ tek keer o’ ole marster
an’ ole missis ez long ez dey lived, an’ he said it wouldn’
be very long, he reckoned. Dat wuz de on’y time he
voice broke—when he said dat; an’ I couldn’ speak a
wud, my th’oat choked me so.
“When we come to de river, we tu’ned right up de
bank, an’ arfter ridin’ ’bout a mile or sich a matter,
we stopped whar dey wuz a little clearin’ wid elder
bushes on one side an’ two big gum-trees on de urr,
an’ de sky wuz all red, an’ de water down to’ds whar
the sun wuz comin’ wuz jes’ like de sky.
“Pres’n’y Mr. Gordon he come, wid a ’hogany box
’bout so big ’fore ’im, an’ he got down, an’ Marse Chan
tole me to tek all de hosses an’ go ’roun’ behine de
bushes whar I tell you ’bout—off to one side; an’ ’fore
I got ’roun’ dar, ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin an’ Mr. Hennin
an’ Dr. Call come ridin’ from t’urr way, to’ds ole
Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. When dey hed tied dey hosses,
de urr gent’mens went up to whar Mr. Gordon wuz,
an’ arfter some chattin’ Mr. Hennin step’ off ’bout fur
ez ’cross dis road, or mebbe it mout be a little furder;[300]
an’ den I seed ’em th’oo de bushes loadin’ de pistils, an’
talk a little while; an’ den Marse Chan an’ ole Cun’l
Chahmb’lin walked up wid de pistils in dey han’s, an’
Marse Chan he stood wid his face right to’ds de sun. I
seen it shine on him jes’ ez it come up over de low
groun’s, an’ he look like he did sometimes when he come
out of church. I wuz so skeered I couldn’ say nothin’.
Ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin could shoot fust rate, an’ Marse
Chan he never missed.
“Den I heared Mr. Gordon say, ’Gent’mens, is yo’
ready?’ and bofe of ’em sez, ’Ready,’ jes’ so.
“An’ he sez, ’Fire, one, two’—an’ ez he said ’one,’
old Cun’l Chahmb’lin raised he pistil an’ shot right
at Marse Chan. De ball went th’oo his hat. I seen he
hat sort o’ settle on he head ez de bullit hit it, an’ he
jes’ tilted his pistil up in de a’r an’ shot—bang; an’ ez
de pistil went bang, he sez to Cun’l Chahmb’lin, ’I mek
you a present to yo’ fam’ly, seh!’
“Well, dey had some talkin’ arfter dat. I didn’t
git rightly what it wuz; but it ’peared like Cun’l
Chahmb’lin he warn’t satisfied, an’ wanted to have
anurr shot. De seconds dey wuz talkin’, an’ pres’n’y
dey put de pistils up, an’ Marse Chan an’ Mr. Gordon
shook han’s wid Mr. Hennin an’ Dr. Call, an’ come an’
got on dey bosses. An’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin he got on his
hoss an’ rode away wid de urr gent’mens, lookin’ like
he did de day befo’ when all de people laughed at
’im.
“I b’lieve ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin wan’ to shoot Marse
Chan, anyway!
“We come on home to breakfast, I totin’ de box
wid de pistils befo’ me on de roan. Would you b’lieve
me, seh, Marse Chan he nuver said a wud ’bout it to
ole marster or nobody. Ole missis didn’ fin’ out ’bout
it for mo’n a month, an’ den, Lawd! how she did cry[301]
and kiss Marse Chan; an’ ole marster, aldo’ he never
say much, he wuz jes’ ez please’ ez ole missis. He call
me in de room an’ made me tole ’im all ’bout it, an’
when I got th’oo he gi’ me five dollars an’ a pyar of
breeches.
“But ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin he nuver did furgive
Marse Chan, an’ Miss Anne she got mad too. Wimmens
is mons’us onreasonable nohow. Dey’s jes’ like
a catfish: you can n’ tek hole on ’em like udder folks,
an’ when you gits ’im yo’ can n’ always hole ’em.
“What meks me think so? Heaps o’ things—dis:
Marse Chan he done gi’ Miss Anne her pa jes’ ez good
ez I gi’ Marse Chan’s dawg sweet ’taters, an’ she git
mad wid ’im ez if he hed kill ’im ’stid o’ sen’in’ ’im
back to her dat mawnin’ whole an’ soun’. B’lieve me!
she wouldn’ even speak to him arfter dat!
“Don’ I ’member dat mawnin’!
“We wuz gwine fox-huntin’, ’bout six weeks or sich
a matter arfter de duil, an’ we met Miss Anne ridin’
’long wid anurr lady an’ two gent’mens whar wuz
stayin’ at her house. Dyar wuz always some one or
nurr dyar co’ting her. Well, dat mawnin’ we meet
’em right in de road. Twuz de fust time Marse Chan
had see her sence de duil, an’ he raises he hat ez he
pahss, an’ she looks right at ’im wid her head up in de
yair like she nuver see ’im befo’ in her born days; an’
when she comes by me, she sez, ’Good-mawnin’, Sam!’
Gord! I nuver see nuthin’ like de look dat come on
Marse Chan’s face when she pahss ’im like dat. He gi’
de sorrel a pull dat fotch ’im back settin’ down in de
san’ on he handles. He ve’y lips wuz white. I tried
to keep up wid ’im, but ’twarn’ no use. He sont me
back home pres’n’y, an’ he rid on. I sez to myself,
’Cun’l Chahmb’lin, don’ yo’ meet Marse Chan dis
mawnin’. He ain’ bin lookin’ ’roun’ de ole school-house,[302]
whar he an’ Miss Anne use’ to go to school to ole
Mr. Hall together, fur nuffin’. He won’ stan’ no prodjickin’
to-day.’
“He nuver come home dat night tell ’way late, an’
ef he’d been fox-huntin’ it mus’ ha’ been de ole red
whar lives down in de greenscum mashes he’d been
chasin’. De way de sorrel wuz gormed up wid sweat
an’ mire sut’n’y did hu’t me. He walked up to de
stable wid he head down all de way, an’ I’se seen ’im
go eighty miles of a winter day, an’ prance into de
stable at night ez fresh ez if he hed jes’ cantered over
to ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s to supper. I nuver seen a
hoss beat so sence I knowed de fetlock from de fo’lock,
an’ bad ez he wuz he wan’ ez bad ez Marse Chan.
“Whew! he didn’ git over dat thing, seh—he nuver
did git over it.
“De war come on jes’ den, an’ Marse Chan wuz
elected cap’n; but he wouldn’ tek it. He said Firginia
hadn’ seceded, an’ he wuz gwine stan’ by her. Den
dey ’lected Mr. Gordon cap’n.
“I sut’n’y did wan’ Marse Chan to tek de place, cuz
I knowed he wuz gwine tek me wid ’im. He wan’
gwine widout Sam. An’ beside, he look so po’ an’ thin,
I thought he wuz gwine die.
“Of co’se, ole missis she heared ’bout it, an’ she met
Miss Anne in de road, an’ cut her jes’ like Miss Anne
cut Marse Chan.
“Ole missis, she wuz proud ez anybody! So we
wuz mo’ strangers dan ef we hadn’ live’ in a hundred
miles of each urr. An’ Marse Chan he wuz gittin’
thinner an’ thinner, an’ Firginia she come out, an’ den
Marse Chan he went to Richmond an’ listed, an’ come
back an’ sey he wuz a private, an’ he didn’ know whe’r
he could tek me or not. He writ to Mr. Gordon, hows’ever,
an’ ’twuz ’cided dat when he went I wuz to go[303]
’long an’ wait on him an’ de cap’n too. I didn’ min’
dat, yo’ know, long ez I could go wid Marse Chan, an’
I like’ Mr. Gordon, anyways.
“Well, one night Marse Chan come back from de
offis wid a telegram dat say, ’Come at once,’ so he wuz
to start nex’ mawnin’. He uniform wuz all ready,
gray wid yaller trimmin’s, an’ mine wuz ready too, an’
he had ole marster’s sword, whar de State gi’ ’im in de
Mexikin war; an’ he trunks wuz all packed wid ev’rything
in ’em, an’ my chist was packed too, an’ Jim
Rasher he druv ’em over to de depo’ in de waggin, an’
we wuz to start nex’ mawuin’ ’bout light. Dis wuz
’bout de las’ o’ spring, you know. Dat night ole missis
made Marse Chan dress up in he uniform, an’ he sut’n’y
did look splendid, wid he long mustache an’ he wavin’
hyar an’ he tall figger.
“Arfter supper he come down an’ sez: ’Sam, I wan’
you to tek dis note an’ kyar it over to Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s,
an’ gi’ it to Miss Anne wid yo’ own han’s, an’
bring me wud what she sez. Don’ let any one know
’bout it, or know why you’ve gone.’ ’Yes, seh,’ sez I.
“Yo’ see, I knowed Miss Anne’s maid over at ole
Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s—dat wuz Judy whar is my wife
now—an’ I knowed I could wuk it. So I tuk de roan
an’ rid over, an’ tied ’im down de hill in de cedars,
an’ I wen’ ’roun’ to de back yard. ’Twuz a right blowy
sort o’ night; de moon wuz jes’ risin’, but de clouds wuz
so big it didn’ shine ’cep’ th’oo a crack now an’ den.
I soon foun’ my gal, an’ arfter tellin’ her two or three
lies ’bout herse’f, I got her to go in an’ ax Miss Anne
to come to de do’. When she come, I gi’ her de note,
an’ arfter a little while she bro’t me anurr, an’ I tole
her good-bye, an’ she gi’ me a dollar, an’ I come home
an’ gi’ de letter to Marse Chan. He read it, an’ tole
me to have de hosses ready at twenty minits to twelve[304]
at de corner of de garden. An’ jes’ befo’ dat he come
out ez ef he wuz gwine to bed, but instid he come, an’
we all struck out to’ds Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. When we
got mos’ to de gate, de hosses got sort o’ skeered, an’
I see dey wuz some’n or somebody standin’ jes’ inside;
an’ Marse Chan he jumpt off de sorrel an’ flung me de
bridle an’ he walked up.
“She spoke fust (’twuz Miss Anne had done come
out dyar to meet Marse Chan), an’ she sez, jes’ ez cold
ez a chill, ’Well, seh, I granted your favor. I wished
to relieve myse’f of de obligations you placed me under
a few months ago, when you made me a present of my
father, whom you fust insulted an’ then prevented
from gittin’ satisfaction.’
“Marse Chan he didn’ speak fur a minit, an’ den
he said: ’Who is with you?’ Dat wuz ev’y wud.
“‘No one,’ sez she; ’I came alone.’
“‘My God!’ sez he, ’you didn’ come all through
those woods by yourse’f at this time o’ night?’
“‘Yes, I’m not afraid,’ sez she. (An’ heah dis
nigger! I don’ b’lieve she wuz.)
“De moon come out, an’ I cotch sight o’ her stan’in’
dyar in her white dress, wid de cloak she had wrapped
herse’f up in drapped off on de groun’, an’ she didn’
look like she wuz ’feared o’ nuthin’. She wuz mons’us
purty ez she stood dyar wid de green bushes behine her,
an’ she hed jes’ a few flowers in her breas’—right hyah—and
some leaves in her sorrel hyar; an’ de moon come
out an’ shined down on her hyar an’ her frock an’
’peared like de light wuz jes’ stan’in’ off it ez she stood
dyar lookin’ at Marse Chan wid her head tho’d back,
jes’ like dat mawnin’ when she pahss Marse Chan in de
road widout speakin’ to ’im, an’ sez to me, ’Good-mawnin’,
Sam.’
“Marse Chan, he den tole her he hed come to say[305]
good-bye to her, ez he wuz gwine ’way to de war nex’
mawnin’. I wuz watchin’ on her, an’ I tho’t, when
Marse Chan tole her dat, she sort o’ started an’ looked
up at ’im like she wuz mighty sorry, an’ ’peared like
she didn’ stan’ quite so straight arfter dat. Den Marse
Chan he went on talkin’ right fars’ to her; an’ he tole
her how he had loved her ever sence she wuz a little
bit o’ baby mos’, an’ how he nuver ’membered de time
when he hedn’t ’spected to marry her. He tole her
it wuz his love for her dat hed made ’im stan’ fust at
school an’ collige, an’ hed kep’ ’im good an’ pure; an’
now he wuz gwine ’way, wouldn’t she let it be like ’twuz
in ole times, an’ ef he come back from de war wouldn’
she try to think on him ez she use’ to do when she wuz
a little guirl?
“Marse Chan he had done been talkin’ so serious,
he hed done tuk Miss Anne’s han’, an’ wuz lookin’ down
in her face like he wuz list’nin’ wid his eyes.
“Arfter a minit Miss Anne she said somethin’, an’
Marse Chan he cotch her urr han’ an’ sez:
“‘But if you love me, Anne?’
“When he said dat, she tu’ned her head ’way from
’im, an’ wait’ a minit, an’ den she said—right clear:
“‘But I don’ love yo’.’ (Jes’ dem th’ee wuds!)
De wuds fall right slow-like dirt falls out a spade on
a coffin when yo’s buryin’ anybody, an’ seys, ’Uth to
uth.’ Marse Chan he jes’ let her hand drap, an’ he
stiddy hisse’f ’g’inst de gate-pos’, an’ he didn’ speak
torekly. When he did speak, all he sez wuz:
“‘I mus’ see you home safe.’
“I ’clar, marster, I didn’ know ’twuz Marse Chan’s
voice tell I look at ’im right good. Well, she wouldn’
let ’im go wid her. She jes’ wrap’ her cloak ’roun’ her
shoulders, an’ wen’ ’long back by herse’f, widout doin’
more’n jes’ look up once at Marse Chan leanin’ dyah[306]
’g’inst de gate-pos’ in he sodger clo’s, wid he eyes on
de groun’. She said ’Good-bye’ sort o’ sorf, an’ Marse
Chan, widout lookin’ up, shake han’s wid her, an’ she
wuz done gone down de road. Soon ez she got ’mos’
’roun’ de curve, Marse Chan he followed her, keepin’
under de trees so ez not to be seen, an’ I led de hosses
on down de road behine ’im. He kep’ ’long behine her
tell she wuz safe in de house, an’ den he come an’ got
on he hoss, an’ we all come home.
“Nex’ mawnin’ we all come off to j’ine de army. An’
dey wuz a-drillin’ an’ a-drillin’ all ’bout for a while,
an’ dey went ’long wid all de res’ o’ de army,
an’ I went wid Marse Chan an’ clean he boots, an’ look
arfter de tent, an’ tek keer o’ him an’ de hosses. An’
Marse Chan, he wan’ a bit like he use’ to be. He wuz so
solumn an’ moanful all de time, at leas’ ’cep’ when dyah
wuz gwine to be a fight. Den he’d peartin’ up, an’ he
alwuz rode at de head o’ de company, ’cause he wuz
tall; an’ hit wan’ on’y in battles whar all his company
wuz dat he went, but he use’ to volunteer whenever
de cun’l wanted anybody to fine out anythin’, an’ ’twuz
so dangersome he didn’ like to mek one man go no
sooner’n anurr, yo’ know, an’ ax’d who’d volunteer.
He ’peared to like to go prowlin’ aroun’ ’mong dem
Yankees, an’ he use’ to tek me wid ’im whenever he
could. Yes, seh, he sut’n’y wuz a good sodger! He
didn’ mine bullets no more’n he did so many draps o’
rain. But I use’ to be pow’ful skeered sometimes. It
jes’ use’ to ’pear like fun to ’im. In camp he use’ to
be so sorrerful he’d hardly open he mouf. You’d ’a’’
tho’t he wuz seekin’, he used to look so moanful; but
jes le’ ’im git into danger, an’ he use’ to be like ole
times—jolly an’ laughin’ like when he wuz a boy.
“When Cap’n Gordon got he leg shot off, dey mek
Marse Chan cap’n on de spot, ’cause one o’ de lieutenants[307]
got kilt de same day, an’ turr one (named Mr.
Ronny) wan’ no ’count, an’ de company said Marse
Chan wuz de man.
“An’ Marse Chan he wuz jes’ de same. He didn’
never mention Miss Anne’s name, but I knowed he wuz
thinkin’ on her constant. One night he wuz settin’
by de fire in camp, an’ Mr. Ronny—he wuz de secon’
lieutenant—got to talkin’ ’bout ladies, an’ he say all
sorts o’ things ’bout ’em, an’ I see Marse Chan kinder
lookin’ mad; an’ de lieutenant mention Miss Anne’s
name. He had been courtin’ Miss Anne ’bout de time
Marse Chan fit de duil wid her pa, an’ Miss Anne hed
kicked ’im, dough he wuz mighty rich, ’cause he warn’
nuthin’ but a half-strainer, an’ ’cause she like Marse
Chan, I believe, dough she didn’ speak to ’im; an’ Mr.
Ronny he got drunk, an’ ’cause Cun’l Chahmb’lin tole
’im not to come dyah no more, he got mighty mad. An’
dat evenin’ I’se tellin’ yo’ ’bout, he wuz talkin’, an’
he mention’ Miss Anne’s name. I see Marse Chan tu’n
he eye ’roun’ on ’im an’ keep it on he face, and pres’n’y
Mr. Ronny said he wuz gwine hev some fun dyah yit.
He didn’ mention her name dat time; but he said dey
wuz all on ’em a parecel of stuck-up ’risticrats, an’ her
pa wan’ no gent’man anyway, an’——I don’ know
what he wuz gwine say (he nuver said it), fur ez he
got dat far Marse Chan riz up an’ hit ’im a crack, an’
he fall like he hed been hit wid a fence-rail. He challenged
Marse Chan to fight a duil, an’ Marse Chan he
excepted de challenge, an’ dey wuz gwine fight; but
some on ’em tole ’im Marse Chan wan’ gwine mek a
present o’ him to his fam’ly, an’ he got somebody to
bre’k up de duil; ’twan’ nuthin’ dough, but he wuz
’fred to fight Marse Chan. An’ purty soon he lef’ de
comp’ny.
“Well, I got one o’ de gent’mens to write Judy a[308]
letter for me, an’ I tole her all ’bout de fight, an’ how
Marse Chan knock Mr. Ronny over fur speakin’ discontemptuous
o’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin, an’ I tole her how
Marse Chan wuz a-dyin’ fur love o’ Miss Anne. An’
Judy she gits Miss Anne to read de letter fur her. Den
Miss Anne she tells her pa, an’—you mind, Judy tells
me all dis arfterwards, an’ she say when Cun’l Chahmb’lin
hear ’bout it, he wuz settin’ on de poach, an’ he set
still a good while, an’ den he sey to hisse’f:
“‘Well, he carn’ he’p bein’ a Whig.’
“An’ den he gits up an’ walks up to Miss Anne an’
looks at her right hard; an’ Miss Anne she hed done
tu’n away her haid an’ wuz makin’ out she wuz fixin’ a
rose-bush ’g’inst de poach; an’ when her pa kep’ lookin’
at her, her face got jes’ de color o’ de roses on de bush,
and pres’n’y her pa sez:
“‘Anne!’
“An’ she tu’ned roun’, an’ he sez:
“‘Do yo’ want ’im?’
“An’ she sez, ’Yes,’ an’ put her head on he shoulder
an’ begin to cry; an’ he sez:
“‘Well, I won’ stan’ between yo’ no longer. Write
to ’im an’ say so.’
“We didn’ know nuthin’ ’bout dis den. We wuz
a-fightin’ an’ a-fightin’ all dat time; an’ come one day
a letter to Marse Chan, an’ I see ’im start to read it
in his tent, an’ he face hit look so cu’ious, an’ he han’s
trembled so I couldn’ mek out what wuz de matter wid
’im. An’ he fol’ de letter up an’ wen’ out an’ wen’ way
down ’hine de camp, an’ stayed dyah ’bout nigh an hour.
Well, seh, I wuz on de lookout for ’im when he come
back, an’, fo’ Gord, ef he face didn’ shine like a angel’s!
I say to myse’f, ’Um’m! ef de glory o’ Gord ain’ done
shine on ’im!’ An’ what yo’ ’spose ’twuz?
“He tuk me wid ’im dat evenin’, an’ he tell me he[309]
hed done git a letter from Miss Anne, an’ Marse Chan
he eyes look like gre’t big stars, an’ he face wuz jes’
like ’twuz dat mawnin’ when de sun riz up over de
low groun’, an’ I see ’im stan’in’ dyah wid de pistil in
he han’, lookin’ at it, an’ not knowin’ but what it mout
be de lars’ time, an’ he done mek up he mine not to
shoot ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin fur Miss Anne’s sake, what
writ ’im de letter.
“He fol’ de letter wha’ was in his han’ up, an’ put
it in he inside pocket—right dyar on de lef’ side; an’
den he tole me he tho’t mebbe we wuz gwine hev some
warm wuk in de nex’ two or th’ee days, an’ arfter dat
ef Gord speared ’im he’d git a leave o’ absence fur a
few days, an’ we’d go home.
“Well, dat night de orders come, an’ we all hed to
git over to’ds Romney; an’ we rid all night till ’bout
light; an’ we halted right on a little creek, an’ we
stayed dyah till mos’ breakfas’ time, an’ I see Marse
Chan set down on de groun’ ’hine a bush an’ read dat
letter over an’ over. I watch ’im, an’ de battle wuz
a-goin’ on, but we had orders to stay ’hine de hill, an’
ev’y now an’ den de bullets would cut de limbs o’ de
trees right over us, an’ one o’ dem big shells what goes
’Awhar—awhar—awhar!’ would fall right ’mong us;
but Marse Chan he didn’ mine it no mo’n nuthin’! Den
it ’peared to git closer an’ thicker, and Marse Chan
he calls me, an’ I crep’ up, an’ he sez:
“‘Sam, we’se goin’ to win in dis battle, an’ den
we’ll go home an’ git married; an’ I’se goin’ home wid a
star on my collar.’ An’ den he sez, ’Ef I’m wounded,
kyar me home, yo’ hear?’ An’ I sez, ’Yes, Marse
Chan.’
“Well, jes’ den dey blowed boots an’ saddles, an’ we
mounted; an’ de orders come to ride ’roun’ de slope,
an’ Marse Chan’s comp’ny wuz de secon’, an’ when we[310]
got ’roun’ dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de wust
place ever dis nigger got in. An’ dey said, ’Charge
’em!’ an’ my king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did
dat day. Hit wuz jes’ like hail; an’ we wen’ down de
slope (I ’long wid de res’) an’ up de hill right to’ds de
cannons, an’ de fire wuz so strong dyar (dey hed a
whole rigiment o’ infintrys layin’ down dyar onder de
cannons) our lines sort o’ broke an’ stop; de cun’l was
kilt, an’ I b’lieve dey wuz jes’ ’bout to bre’k all to
pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an’ cotch hol’ de fleg
an’ hollers, ’Foller me!’ an’ rid strainin’ up de hill
’mong de cannons. I seen ’im when he went, de sorrel
four good length ahead o’ ev’y urr hoss, jes’ like he use’
to be in a fox-hunt, an’ de whole rigiment right arfter
’im. Yo’ ain’ nuver hear thunder! Fust thing I
knowed, de roan roll’ head over heels an’ flung me up
’g’inst de bank, like yo’ chuck a nubbin over ’g’inst de
foot o’ de corn pile. An’ dat’s what kep’ me from bein’
kilt, I ’spects. Judy she say she think ’twuz Providence,
but I think ’twuz de bank! O’ co’se, Providence
put de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved
Marse Chan? When I look’ ’roun’, de roan wuz layin’
dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone ’mos’
th’oo him, an’ our men hed done swep’ dem on t’urr
side from de top o’ de hill. ’Twan’ mo’n a minit, de
sorrel come gallupin’ back wid his mane flyin’, an’ de
rein hangin’ down on one side to his knee. ’Dyar!’
says I, ’fo’ Gord! I ’specks dey done kill Marse Chan,
an’ I promised to tek care on him.’
“I jumped up an’ run over de bank, an’ dyar, wid
a whole lot o’ dead men, an’ some not dead yit, onder
one o’ de guns wid de fleg still in he han’, an’ a bullet
right th’oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu’n ’im over
an’ call ’im, ’Marse Chan!’ but ’twan’ no use, he wuz
done gone home, sho’ ‘nuff. I pick’ ’im up in my arms[311]
wid de fleg still in he han’s, an’ toted ’im back jes’ like
I did dat day when he wuz a baby, an’ ole marster gin
’im to me in my arms, an’ sez he could trus’ me, an’
tell me to tek keer on ’im long ez he lived. I kyar’d
’im ’way off de battlefiel’ out de way o’ de balls, an’ I
laid ’im down onder a big tree till I could git somebody
to ketch de sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a
while, an’ I hed some money, so I got some pine plank
an’ made a coffin dat evenin’, an’ wrapt Marse Chan’s
body up in de fleg, an’ put ’im in de coffin; but I didn’
nail de top on strong, ’cause I knowed ole missis wan’
see ’im; an’ I got a’ ambulance an’ set out for home dat
night. We reached dyar de nex’ evein’, arfter travellin’
all dat night an’ all nex’ day.
“Hit ’peared like somethin’ hed tole ole missis we
wuz comin’ so; for when we got home she wuz waitin’
for us—done drest up in her best Sunday-clo’es, an’
stan’n’ at de head o’ de big steps, an’ ole marster settin’
in his big cheer—ez we druv up de hill to’ds de house,
I drivin’ de ambulance an’ de sorrel leadin’ ’long behine
wid de stirrups crost over de saddle.
“She come down to de gate to meet us. We took de
coffin out de ambulance an’ kyar’d it right into de big
parlor wid de pictures in it, whar dey use’ to dance in
ole times when Marse Chan wuz a schoolboy, an’ Miss
Anne Chahmb’lin use’ to come over, an’ go wid ole
missis into her charmber an’ tek her things off. In dyar
we laid de coffin on two o’ de cheers, an’ ole missis
nuver said a wud; she jes’ looked so ole an’ white.
“When I had tell ’em all ’bout it, I tu’ned right
’roun’ an’ rid over to Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, ’cause I
knowed dat wuz what Marse Chan he’d ’a’’ wanted me
to do. I didn’ tell nobody whar I wuz gwine, ’cause yo’
know none on ’em hadn’ nuver speak to Miss Anne, not
sence de duil, an’ dey didn’ know ’bout de letter.
[312]
“When I rid up in de yard, dyar wuz Miss Anne
a-stan’in’ on de poach watchin’ me ez I rid up. I tied
my hoss to de fence, an’ walked up de parf. She
knowed by de way I walked dyar wuz somethin’ de motter,
an’ she wuz mighty pale. I drapt my cap down on
de een’ o’ de steps an’ went up. She nuver opened her
mouf; jes’ stan’ right still an’ keep her eyes on my
face. Fust, I couldn’ speak; den I cotch my voice, an’
I say, ’Marse Chan, he done got he furlough.’
“Her face was mighty ashy, an’ she sort o’ shook,
but she didn’ fall. She tu’ned ’roun’ an’ said, ’Git
me de ker’ige!’ Dat wuz all.
“When de ker’ige come ’roun’, she hed put on her
bonnet, an’ wuz ready. Ez she got in, she sey to me,
’Hev yo’ brought him home?’ an’ we drove ’long, I
ridin’ behine.
“When we got home, she got out, an’ walked up de
big walk—up to de poach by herse’f. Ole missis hed
done fin’ de letter in Marse Chan’s pocket, wid de love
in it, while I wuz ’way, an’ she wuz a-waitin’ on de
poach. Dey sey dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry
when she find de letter, an’ dat she sut’n’y did cry over
it, pintedly.
“Well, seh, Miss Anne she walks right up de steps,
mos’ up to ole missis stan’in’ dyar on de poach, an’
jes’ falls right down mos’ to her, on her knees fust, an’
den flat on her face right on de flo’, ketchin’ at ole
missis’ dress wid her two han’s—so.
“Ole missis stood for ’bout a minit lookin’ down at
her, an’ den she drapt down on de flo’ by her, an’ took
her in bofe her arms.
“I couldn’ see, I wuz cryin’ so myse’f, an’ ev’ybody
wuz cryin’. But dey went in arfter a while in de parlor,
an’ shet de do’; an’ I heahd ’em say, Miss Anne she[313]
tuk de coffin in her arms an’ kissed it, an’ kissed Marse
Chan, an’ call ’im by his name, an’ her darlin’, an’ ole
missis lef’ her cryin’ in dyar tell some on ’em went in,
an’ found her done faint on de flo’.
“Judy (she’s my wife) she tell me she heah Miss
Anne when she axed ole missis mout she wear mo’nin’
fur ‘im. I don’ know how dat is; but when we buried
‘im nex’ day, she wuz de one whar walked arfter de
coffin, holdin’ ole marster, an’ ole missis she walked
next to ’em.
“Well, we buried Marse Chan dyar in de ole grabeyard,
wid de fleg wrapped roun’ ‘im, an’ he face lookin’
like it did dat mawnin’ down in de low groun’s, wid de
new sun shinin’ on it so peaceful.
“Miss Anne she nuver went home to stay arfter dat;
she stay wid ole marster an’ ole missis ez long ez dey
lived. Dat warn’ so mighty long, ’cause ole marster he
died dat fall, when dey wuz fallerin’ fur wheat—I had
jes’ married Judy den—an’ ole missis she warn’ long
behine him. We buried her by him next summer. Miss
Anne she went in de hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis
died; an’ jes’ fo’ Richmond fell she come home sick
wid de fever. Yo’ nuver would ’a’’ knowed her fur de
same ole Miss Anne. She wuz light ez a piece o’ peth,
an’ so white, ’cep’ her eyes an’ her sorrel hyar, an’ she
kep’ on gittin’ whiter an’ weaker. Judy she sut’n’y did
nuss her faithful. But she nuver got no betterment!
De fever an’ Marse Chan’s bein’ kilt hed done strain
her, an’ she died jes’ fo’ de folks wuz sot free.
“So we buried Miss Anne right by Marse Chan, in
a place whar ole missis hed tole us to leave, an’ dey’s
bofe on ’em sleep side by side over in de ole grabeyard
at home.
“An’ will yo’ please tell me, marster? Dey tells me
dat de Bible sey dyar won’ be marryin’ nor givin’ in[314]
marriage in heaven, but I don’ b’lieve it signifies dat—does
you?”
I gave him the comfort of my earnest belief in some
other interpretation, together with several spare
“eighteen-pences,” as he called them, for which he
seemed humbly grateful. And as I rode away I heard
him calling across the fence to his wife, who was standing
in the door of a small whitewashed cabin, near
which we had been standing for some time:
“Judy, have Marse Chan’s dawg got home?”
[315]
“POSSON JONE’”
BY
George W. Cable
[316]
Bliss Perry mentions this story as one that presents
“people and events and circumstances, blended into an
artistic whole that defies analysis.” It illustrates dramatic
incident, local color, and complex character
analysis.
[317]
“POSSON JONE’”[20]
To Jules St.-Ange—elegant little heathen—there yet
remained at manhood a remembrance of having been
to school, and of having been taught by a stony-headed
Capuchin that the world is round—for example, like
a cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten
through, and Jules had nibbled quite into his cheeseworld
already at twenty-two.
He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning
where the intersection of Royal and Conti streets
some seventy years ago formed a central corner of
New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had been
wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that
faithful friend and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant.
They concluded that, papa’s patience and
tante’s pin-money having been gnawed away quite to
the rind, there were left open only these few easily
enumerated resorts: to go to work—they shuddered;
to join Major Innerarity’s filibustering expedition; or
else—why not?—to try some games of confidence. At
twenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing
else tempted; could that avail? One could but try. It
is noble to try; and, besides, they were hungry. If one
could “make the friendship” of some person from
the country, for instance, with money, not expert at
cards or dice, but, as one would say, willing to learn,
one might find cause to say some “Hail Marys.”
The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste[318]
pronounced it good for luck. There had been a hurricane
in the night. The weed-grown tile-roofs were still
dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls a
rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Upstreet,
and across the Rue du Canal, one could get
glimpses of the gardens in Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing
in silent wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias,
tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the
wind now and then came down the narrow street in
erratic puffs heavily laden with odors of broken boughs
and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-water
in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly
went away to nothing, like a juggler’s butterflies or a
young man’s money.
It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich
and poor met together. The locksmith’s swinging key
creaked next door to the bank; across the way, crouching,
mendicant-like, in the shadow of a great importing-house,
was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken
combs. Light balconies overhung the rows of showy
shops and stores open for trade this Sunday morning,
and pretty Latin faces of the higher class glanced over
their savagely pronged railings upon the passers below.
At some windows hung lace curtains, flannel duds at
some, and at others only the scraping and sighing one-hinged
shutter groaning toward Paris after its neglectful
master.
M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for
nearly an hour. But few ladies, only the inveterate
mass-goers, were out. About the entrance of the frequent
cafés the masculine gentility stood leaning on
canes, with which now one and now another beckoned
to Jules, some even adding pantomimic hints of the
social cup.
M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning[319]
his head that somehow he felt sure he should soon
return those bons that the mulatto had lent him.
“What will you do with them?”
“Me!” said Baptiste, quickly; “I will go and see
the bull-fight in the Place Congo.”
“There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M.
Cayetano?”
“Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead
of his circus, they are to have a bull-fight—not an ordinary
bull-fight with sick horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger
fight. I would not miss it——”
Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and
commenced striking at something with their canes.
Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange and servant, who
hasten forward—can the Creoles, Cubans, Spaniards,
San Domingo refugees, and other loungers—can they
hope it is a fight? They hurry forward. Is a man
in a fit? The crowd pours in from the side-streets.
Have they killed a so-long snake? Bareheaded shopmen
leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd
huddles and packs. Those on the outside make little
leaps into the air, trying to be tall.
“What is the matter?”
“Have they caught a real live rat?”
“Who is hurt?” asks some one in English.
“Personne,” replies a shopkeeper; “a man’s hat
blow’ in the gutter; but he has it now. Jules pick’ it.
See, that is the man, head and shoulders on top the
res’.”
“He in the homespun?” asks a second shopkeeper.
“Humph! an Américain—a West-Floridian;
bah!”
“But wait; ’st! he is speaking; listen!”
“To who is he speak——?”
“Sh-sh-sh! to Jules.”
[320]
“Jules who?”
“Silence, you! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe me a
bill since long time. Sh-sh-sh!”
Then the voice was heard.
Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight
stoop in his shoulders, as if he was making a constant,
good-natured attempt to accommodate himself to ordinary
doors and ceilings. His bones were those of an
ox. His face was marked more by weather than age,
and his narrow brow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously
formed an opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and
the multitude of words, most of them lingual curiosities,
with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of his
listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name
was Parson Jones, the little Creole was a “plum
gentleman.”
M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to
call attention, by both gesture and speech, to a singular
object on top of the still uncovered head, when the
nervous motion of the Américain anticipated him, as,
throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large
roll of bank-notes. The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian
joining, and began to disperse.
“Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church,” said
the giant.
“You are very dengerous to make your money expose
like that, Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange,
counting it with his eyes.
The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise.
“How d’dyou know my name was Jones?” he asked;
but, without pausing for the Creole’s answer, furnished
in his reckless way some further specimens of West-Floridian
English; and the conciseness with which he
presented full intelligence of his home, family, calling,
lodging-house, and present and future plans, might have[321]
passed for consummate art, had it not been the most
run-wild nature. “And I’ve done been to Mobile, you
know, on business for Bethesdy Church. It’s the on’yest
time I ever been from home; now you wouldn’t of believed
that, would you? But I admire to have saw you,
that’s so. You’ve got to come and eat with me. Me
and my boy ain’t been fed yit. “What might one call yo’
name? Jools? Come on, Jools. Come on, Colossus.
That’s my niggah—his name’s Colossus of Rhodes. Is
that yo’ yallah boy, Jools? Fetch him along, Colossus.
It seems like a special providence.—Jools, do you believe
in a special providence?”
Jules said he did.
The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed
by Baptiste and a short, square, old negro, very black
and grotesque, who had introduced himself to the
mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as
“d’body-sarvant of d’Rev’n’ Mr. Jones.”
Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation.
Parson Jones descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned,
as illustrated in the perplexities of cotton-growing,
and concluded that there would always be “a
special providence again’ cotton untell folks quits
a-pressin’ of it and haulin’ of it on Sundays!”
“Je dis,” said St.-Ange, in response, “I thing you
is juz right. I believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence,
yes. You know my papa he hown a sugah-plantation,
you know. ’Jules, me son,’ he say one time
to me, ’I goin’ to make one baril sugah to fedge the
moze high price in New Orleans.’ Well, he take his bez
baril sugah—I nevah see a so careful man like me papa
always to make a so beautiful sugah et sirop. ’Jules,
go at Father Pierre an’ ged this lill pitcher fill with holy-water,
an’ tell him sen’ his tin bucket, and I will make
it fill with quitte.’ I ged the holy-water; my papa[322]
sprinkle it over the baril, an’ make one cross on the ’ead
of the baril.”
“Why, Jools,” said Parson Jones, “that didn’t do
no good.”
“Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value!
You can strike me dead if thad baril sugah din fedge
the more high cost than any other in the city. Parce-que,
the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake
of one hundred pound”—falling back—“Mais certainlee!”
“And you think that was growin’ out of the holy-water?”
asked the parson.
“Mais, what could make it else? Id could not be
the quitte, because my papa keep the bucket, an’ forget
to sen’ the quitte to Father Pierre.”
Parson Jones was disappointed.
“Well, now, Jools, you know, I don’t think that was
right. I reckon you must be a plum Catholic.”
M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith.
“I am a Catholique, mais”—brightening as he hoped
to recommend himself anew—“not a good one.”
“Well, you know,” said Jones—“where’s Colossus?
Oh! all right. Colossus strayed off a minute in Mobile,
and I plum lost him for two days. Here’s the place;
come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the kitchen.—Now,
Colossus, what air you a-beckonin’ at me faw?”
He let his servant draw him aside and address him
in a whisper.
“Oh, go ’way!” said the parson with a jerk.
“Who’s goin’ to throw me? What? Speak louder.
Why, Colossus, you shayn’t talk so, saw. ’Pon my soul,
you’re the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest
you go down that alley-way with this yalla boy, and
don’t show yo’ face untell yo’ called!”
The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted.
[323]
“Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev
to strike you, saw?”
“O Mahs Jimmy, I—I’s gwine; but”—he ventured
nearer—“don’t on no account drink nothin’, Mahs
Jimmy.”
Such was the negro’s earnestness that he put one
foot in the gutter, and fell heavily against his master.
The parson threw him off angrily.
“Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted
with sumthin’; yo’ plum crazy.—Humph, come on,
Jools, let’s eat! Humph! to tell me that when I never
taken a drop, exceptin’ for chills, in my life—which he
knows so as well as me!”
The two masters began to ascend a stair.
“Mais, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me,” said the
young Creole.
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” replied the parson;
“though there is people in Bethesdy who says he is
a rascal. He’s a powerful smart fool. Why, that boy’s
got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon.
I’m shore he fallen into mighty bad company”—they
passed beyond earshot.
Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern
kitchen, passed to the next door and entered the dark
rear corner of a low grocery, where, the law notwithstanding,
liquor was covertly sold to slaves. There,
in the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the
colloquial powers of Colossus, which were simply prodigious,
began very soon to show themselves.
“For whilst,” said he, “Mahs Jimmy has eddication,
you know—whilst he has eddication, I has ’scretion. He
has eddication and I has ’scretion, an’ so we gits
along.”
He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying
half his length upon the damp board, continued:
[324]
“As a p’inciple I discredits de imbimin’ of awjus
liquors. De imbimin’ of awjus liquors, de wiolution of
de Sabbaf, de playin’ of de fiddle, and de usin’ of by-words,
dey is de fo’ sins of de conscience; an’ if
any man sin de fo’ sins of de conscience, de debble
done sharp his fork fo’ dat man.—Ain’t that so,
boss?”
The grocer was sure it was so.
“Neberdeless, mind you”—here the orator brimmed
his glass from the bottle and swallowed the contents
with a dry eye—“mind you, a roytious man, sech as
ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take
a leetle for de weak stomach.”
But the fascinations of Colossus’s eloquence must not
mislead us; this is the story of a true Christian; to wit,
Parson Jones.
The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee
M. St.-Ange declared he could not touch; it was too
wretchedly bad. At the French Market, near by, there
was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to
be bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.
“You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to
guide him, which it does so in——”
“Oh, yes!” cried St.-Ange, “conscien’; thad is the
bez, Posson Jone’. Certainlee! I am a Catholique, you
is a schismatique; you thing it is wrong to dring some
coffee—well, then, it is wrong; you thing it is wrong to
make the sugah to ged the so large price—well, then, it is
wrong; I thing it is right—well, then, it is right; it is
all ’a’bit; c’est tout. What a man thing is right, is right;
’tis all ’a’bit. A man muz nod go again’ his conscien’.
My faith! do you thing I would go again’ my conscien’?
Mais allons, led us go and ged some coffee.”
“Jools.”
“W’at?”
[325]
“Jools, it ain’t the drinkin’ of coffee, but the buyin’
of it on a Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools,
it’s again’ conscience, you know.”
“Ah!” said St.-Ange, “c’est very true. For you it
would be a sin, mais for me it is only ’a’bit. Rilligion is
a very strange; I know a man one time, he thing it was
wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening. I thing it is
all ’a’bit. Mais, come, Posson Jone’; I have got one
friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some
coffee. Come; Miguel have no familie; only him and
Joe—always like to see friend; allons, led us come
yonder.”
“Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know,” said the
shame-faced parson, “I never visit on Sundays.”
“Never w’at?” asked the astounded Creole.
“No,” said Jones, smiling awkwardly.
“Never visite?”
“Exceptin’ sometimes amongst church-members,”
said Parson Jones.
“Mais,” said the seductive St.-Ange, “Miguel and
Joe is church-member’—certainlee! They love to talk
about rilligion. Come at Miguel and talk about some
rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee.”
Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair
and rose up.
“Jools,” said the weak giant, “I ought to be in
church right now.”
“Mais, the church is right yonder at Miguel’, yes.
Ah!” continued St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs,
“I thing every man muz have the rilligion he like’
the bez—me, I like the Catholique rilligion the bez—for
me it is the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if
he like his rilligion the bez.”
“Jools,” said the West-Floridian, laying his great
hand tenderly upon the Creole’s shoulder, as they[326]
stepped out upon the banquette, “do you think you
have any shore hopes of heaven?”
“Yass!” replied St.-Ange; “I am sure-sure. I
thing everybody will go to heaven. I thing you will go,
et I thing Miguel will go, et Joe—everybody, I thing—mais,
hof course, not if they not have been christen’.
Even I thing some niggers will go.”
“Jools,” said the parson, stopping in his walk—“Jools,
I don’t want to lose my niggah.”
“You will not loose him. With Baptiste he cannot
ged loose.”
But Colossus’s master was not reassured.
“Now,” said he, still tarrying, “this is jest the way;
had I of gone to church——”
“Posson Jone’,” said Jules.
“What?”
“I tell you. We goin’ to church!”
“Will you?” asked Jones, joyously.
“Allons, come along,” said Jules, taking his elbow.
They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several
corners, and by and by turned into a cross street. The
parson stopped an instant as they were turning and
looked back up the street.
“W’at you lookin’?” asked his companion.
“I thought I saw Colossus,” answered the parson,
with an anxious face; “I reckon ’twa’n’t him, though.”
And they went on.
The street they now entered was a very quiet one.
The eye of any chance passer would have been at once
drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick edifice on the
lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out like
a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair
of lamps hanging before a large closed entrance. It
was a theatre, honey-combed with gambling-dens. At
this morning hour all was still, and the only sign of[327]
life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within
its narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative.
Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange entered, the
little nurses jumping up from the sills to let them
pass in.
A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that
time the whole juvenile company were laying alternate
eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather what they could
of an interesting quarrel going on within.
“I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence,
saw! It’s not so, saw! Mister Jools simply mistaken
the house, thinkin’ it was a Sabbath-school! No such
thing, saw; I ain’t bound to bet! Yes, I kin git out.
Yes, without bettin’! I hev a right to my opinion; I
reckon I’m a white man, saw! No, saw! I on’y said I
didn’t think you could get the game on them cards.
’Sno such thing, saw! I do not know how to play! I
wouldn’t hev a rascal’s money ef I should win it!
Shoot, ef you dare! You can kill me, but you cayn’t
scare me! No, I shayn’t bet! I’ll die first! Yes, saw;
Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I ain’t his
mostah.”
Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange.
“Saw, I don’t understand you, saw. I never said I’d
loan you money to bet for me. I didn’t suspicion this
from you, saw. No, I won’t take any more lemonade;
it’s the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!”
M. St.-Ange’s replies were in falsetto and not without
effect; for presently the parson’s indignation and
anger began to melt. “Don’t ask me, Jools, I can’t
help you. It’s no use; it’s a matter of conscience with
me, Jools.”
“Mais oui! ’tis a matt’ of conscien’ wid me, the
same.”
[328]
“But, Jools, the money’s none o’ mine, nohow; it
belongs to Smyrny, you know.”
“If I could make jus’ one bet,” said the persuasive
St.-Ange, “I would leave this place, fas’-fas’, yes. If
I had thing—mais I did not soupspicion this from you,
Posson Jone’——”
“Don’t, Jools, don’t!”
“No! Posson Jone’.”
“You’re bound to win?” said the parson, wavering.
“Mais certainement! But it is not to win that I
want; ’tis me conscien’—me honor!”
“Well, Jools, I hope I’m not a-doin’ no wrong. I’ll
loan you some of this money if you say you’ll come
right out ’thout takin’ your winnin’s.”
All was still. The peeping children could see the
parson as he lifted his hand to his breast-pocket. There
it paused a moment in bewilderment, then plunged to
the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly
at his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his
eyes were for a moment closed, his broad palms were
lifted and pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized
him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The children
ran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange
swearing by all his deceased relatives, first to
Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted parson, that he
did not know what had become of the money “except
if” the black man had got it.
In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites
of the old rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the
town has since sprung up and grown old, green with
all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay the
Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the historic
Cayetano, who Sunday after Sunday sowed the
sawdust for his circus-ring.
[329]
But to-day the great showman had fallen short of
his printed promise. The hurricane had come by night,
and with one fell swash had made an irretrievable
sop of everything. The circus trailed away its bedraggled
magnificence, and the ring was cleared for
the bull.
Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the
people. “See,” said the Spaniards, looking up at the
glorious sky with its great, white fleets drawn off upon
the horizon—“see—heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!”
In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat
the gaily-decked wives and daughters of the Gascons,
from the métaries along the Ridge, and the chattering
Spanish women of the Market, their shining hair unbonneted
to the sun. Next below were their husbands and
lovers in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers,
black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy
Portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers
of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, and
Holland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers,
Canadian voyageurs, drinking and singing;
Américains, too—more’s the shame—from the upper
rivers—who will not keep their seats—who ply the bottle,
and who will get home by and by and tell how
wicked Sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans,
too, with their copper cheeks and bat’s eyes, and
their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder, in that quieter
section, are the quadroon women in their black lace
shawls—and there is Baptiste; and below them are
the turbaned black women, and there is—but he vanishes—Colossus.
The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though
loudly demanded, does not begin. The Américains grow
derisive and find pastime in gibes and raillery. They[330]
mock the various Latins with their national inflections,
and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the
more aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the
women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of
applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quad-rooms.
The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland,
as spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards
look black and cast defiant imprecations upon their
persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick
their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of
gallantries.
In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull:
“The bull, the bull!—hush!”
In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling—standing
head and shoulders above the rest—calling
in the Américaine tongue. Another man, big and
red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole in elegant
dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the
flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it.
Ah, through some shameful knavery of the men, into
whose hands he has fallen, he is drunk! Even the
women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly
and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears
it. He is preaching!
Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The
men of his own nation—men from the land of the open
English Bible and temperance cup and song are cheering
him on to mad disgrace. And now another call
for the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen
singing the ancient tune of Mear. You can hear the
words—
“Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul”
—from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with
laughter, from singers who toss their hats aloft and roll[331]
in their seats; the chorus swells to the accompaniment
of a thousand brogans—
“He used to wear an old gray coat
All buttoned down before.”
A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard,
and the Latins raise one mighty cry for silence. The
big red man gets a hand over the parson’s mouth, and
the ribboned man seizes his moment.
“They have been endeavoring for hours,” he says,
“to draw the terrible animals from their dens, but
such is their strength and fierceness, that——”
His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to
warrant the inference that the beasts cannot be whipped
out of the storm-drenched cages to which menagerie-life
and long starvation have attached them, and from
the roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. The
noise increases. Men are standing up by hundreds,
and women are imploring to be let out of the turmoil.
All at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass
pours down into the ring. They sweep across the
arena and over the showman’s barriers. Miguel gets
a frightful trampling. Who cares for gates or doors?
They tear the beasts’ houses bar from bar, and, laying
hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears,
and tail; and in the midst of the mêlée, still head and
shoulders above all, wilder, with the cup of the wicked,
than any beast, is the man of God from the Florida
parishes!
In his arms he bore—and all the people shouted at
once when they saw it—the tiger. He had lifted it high
up with its back to his breast, his arms clasped under
its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled up caterpillar-wise,
with its long tail against its belly, and[332]
through its filed teeth grinned a fixed and impotent
wrath. And Parson Jones was shouting:
“The tiger and the buffler shell lay down together!
You dah to say they shayn’t and I’ll comb you with this
varmint from head to foot! The tiger and the buffler
shell lay down together. They shell! Now, you, Joe!
Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion and the
buffler shell lay down together!”
Mouthing these words again and again, the parson
forced his way through the surge in the wake of the
buffalo. This creature the Latins had secured by a
lariat over his head, and were dragging across the old
rampart and into a street of the city.
The northern races were trying to prevent, and there
was pommelling and knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing,
until Jules St.-Ange was quite carried away
with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and
swore with delight, and ever kept close to the gallant
parson.
Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child’s-play an interruption.
He had come to find Colossus and the
money. In an unlucky moment he made bold to lay
hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers
in the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the
terrible crowd swept over him, the lariat was cut, and
the giant parson hurled the tiger upon the buffalo’s
back. In another instant both brutes were dead at
the hands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet,
and prating of Scripture and the millennium, of Paul
at Ephesus and Daniel in the “buffler’s” den, was
borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing Américains.
Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on
the floor of a cell in the calaboza.
When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere
tolling for midnight. Somebody was at the door of[333]
his cell with a key. The lock grated, the door swung,
the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of
moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The prisoner
sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre
of the floor.
“Misty Posson Jone’,” said the visitor, softly.
“O Jools!”
“Mais, w’at de matter, Posson Jone’?”
“My sins, Jools, my sins!”
“Ah! Posson Jone’, is that something to cry, because
a man get sometime a litt’ bit intoxicate? Mais,
if a man keep all the time intoxicate, I think that is
again’ the conscien’.”
“Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened—oh! Jools,
where’s my pore old niggah?”
“Posson Jone’, never min’; he is wid Baptiste.”
“Where?”
“I don’ know w’ere—mais he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste
is a beautiful to take care of somebody.”
“Is he as good as you, Jools?” asked Parson Jones,
sincerely.
Jules was slightly staggered.
“You know, Posson Jone’, you know, a nigger cannot
be good as a w’ite man—mais Baptiste is a good
nigger.”
The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his
hands.
“I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on
the Isabella schooner. Pore Smyrny!” He deeply
sighed.
“Posson Jone’,” said Jules, leaning against the wall
and smiling, “I swear you is the moz funny man I
ever see. If I was you I would say, me, ’Ah! ’ow I am
lucky! the money I los’, it was not mine, anyhow!’ My
faith! shall a man make hisse’f to be the more sorry[334]
because the money he los’ is not his? Me, I would say,
’it is a specious providence.’
“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’,” he continued, “you make
a so droll sermon ad the bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear
I think you can make money to preach thad sermon
many time ad the theatre St. Philippe. Hah! you is
the moz brave dat I never see, mais ad the same time
the moz rilligious man. Where I’m goin’ to fin’ one
priest to make like dat? Mais, why you can’t cheer up
an’ be ’a’ppy? Me, if I should be miserabl’ like that I
would kill meself.”
The countryman only shook his head.
“Bien, Posson Jone’, I have the so good news for
you.”
The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.
“Las’ evening when they lock’ you, I come right
off at M. De Blanc’s house to get you let out of de
calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge. So soon I was
entering—’Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make
complete the game!’ Posson Jone’, it was a specious
providence! I win in t’ree hours more dan six hundred
dollah! Look.” He produced a mass of bank-notes,
bons, and due-bills.
“And you got the pass?” asked the parson, regarding
the money with a sadness incomprehensible to
Jules.
“It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight.”
“Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain.”
The Creole’s face became a perfect blank.
“Because,” said the parson, “for two reasons:
firstly, I have broken the laws, and ought to stand the
penalty; and secondly—you must really excuse me,
Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I’m
afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in
neither case it don’t become a Christian (which I hope[335]
I can still say I am one) to ’do evil that good may
come.’ I muss stay.”
M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment
speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism; but an
artifice was presently hit upon. “Mais, Posson Jone’!”—in
his old falsetto—“de order—you cannot read it,
it is in French—compel you to go hout, sir!”
“Is that so?” cried the parson, bounding up with
radiant face—“is that so, Jools?”
The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he
smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was opened. He
made the sign of the cross as the parson knelt in prayer,
and even whispered “Hail Mary,” etc., quite through,
twice over.
Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of
villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias
on the banks of a deep bayou, and known as
Suburb St. Jean.
With the first beam came the West-Floridian and
the Creole out upon the bank below the village. Upon
the parson’s arm hung a pair of antique saddle-bags.
Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were
encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone
bore the official impress of every knuckle of Colossus’s
left hand. The “beautiful to take care of somebody”
had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he became
wild, and, half in English, half in the “gumbo”
dialect, said murderous things. Intimidated by Jules
to calmness, he became able to speak confidently on
one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossus
had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost
certain; in fact, he thought so.
There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared
upon the bayou’s margin, and Baptiste pointed out,[336]
in the deep shadow of a great oak, the Isabella, moored
among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for
departure. Moving down to where she lay, the parson
and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say farewell.
“O Jools!” said the parson, “supposin’ Colossus
ain’t gone home! O Jools, if you’ll look him out for me,
I’ll never forget you—I’ll never forget you, nohow,
Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that
money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal”—he set
foot upon the gang-plank—“but Colossus wouldn’t
steal from me. Good-bye.”
“Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, putting his
hand on the parson’s arm with genuine affection, “hol’
on. You see dis money—w’at I win las’ night? Well,
I win’ it by a specious providence, ain’t it?”
“There’s no tellin’,” said the humbled Jones.
“Providence
“‘Moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform.’”
“Ah!” cried the Creole, “c’est very true. I ged this
money in the mysterieuze way. Mais, if I keep dis
money, you know where it goin’ be to-night?”
“I really can’t say,” replied the parson.
“Goin’ to de dev’,” said the sweetly-smiling young
man.
The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds,
and even Baptiste, laughed outright.
“O Jools, you mustn’t!”
“Well, den, w’at I shall do wid it?”
“Any thing!” answered the parson; “better donate
it away to some poor man——”
“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’, dat is w’at I want. You
los’ five hondred dollar’—’twas me fault.”
[337]
“No, it wa’n’t, Jools.”
“Mais, it was!”
“No!”
“It was me fault! I swear it was me fault! Mais,
here is five hondred dollar’; I wish you shall take it.
Here! I don’t got no use for money.—Oh, my
faith! Posson Jone’, you must not begin to cry some
more.”
Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found
voice he said:
“O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened
friend! ef you hed of hed a Christian raisin’!
May the Lord show you your errors better’n I kin,
and bless you for your good intentions—oh, no! I
cayn’t touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa’n’t
rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend,
but I cayn’t touch it.”
St.-Ange was petrified.
“Good-bye, dear Jools,” continued the parson. “I’m
in the Lord’s haynds, and he’s very merciful, which
I hope and trust you’ll find it out. Good-bye!”—the
schooner swang slowly off before the breeze—“good-bye!”
St.-Ange roused himself.
“Posson Jone’! make me hany’ow dis promise: you
never, never, never will come back to New Orleans.”
“Ah, Jools, the Lord willin’, I’ll never leave home
again!”
“All right!” cried the Creole; “I thing he’s willin’.
Adieu, Posson Jone’. My faith’! you are the so fighting
an’ moz rilligious man as I never saw! Adieu!
Adieu!”
Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master
toward the schooner, his hands full of clods.
St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of[338]
Colossus of Rhodes emerge from the vessel’s hold, and
the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesda seize him in his
embrace.
“O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the
Lord! Thank the Lord!”
The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the
tow-path, laughing and swearing, and making confused
allusion to the entire personnel and furniture of the
lower regions.
By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange further
demonstrated his delight by tripping his mulatto into
a bog, the schooner came brushing along the reedy bank
with a graceful curve, the sails napped, and the crew
fell to poling her slowly along.
Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once more
in prayer. His hat had fallen before him; behind him
knelt his slave. In thundering tones he was confessing
himself “a plum fool,” from whom “the conceit had
been jolted out,” and who had been made to see that even
his “nigger had the longest head of the two.”
Colossus clasped his hands and groaned.
The parson prayed for a contrite heart.
“Oh, yes!” cried Colossus.
The master acknowledged countless mercies.
“Dat’s so!” cried the slave.
The master prayed that they might still be “piled
on.”
“Glory!” cried the black man, clapping his hands;
“pile on!”
“An’ now,” continued the parson, “bring this pore,
backslidin’ jackace of a parson and this pore ole fool
nigger back to thar home in peace!”
“Pray fo’ de money!” called Colossus.
But the parson prayed for Jules.
“Pray fo’ de money!” repeated the negro.
[339]
“And oh, give thy servant back that there lost
money!”
Colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still shouting
master. St.-Ange, the captain, the crew, gazed in
silent wonder at the strategist. Pausing but an instant
over the master’s hat to grin an acknowledgment of his
beholders’ speechless interest, he softly placed in it the
faithfully mourned and honestly prayed-for Smyrna
fund; then, saluted by the gesticulative, silent applause
of St.-Ange and the schooner-men, he resumed his first
attitude behind his roaring master.
“Amen!” cried Colossus, meaning to bring him to
a close.
“Onworthy though I be——” cried Jones.
“Amen!” reiterated the negro.
“A-a-amen!” said Parson Jones.
He rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his hat,
beheld the well-known roll. As one stunned, he gazed
for a moment upon his slave, who still knelt with clasped
hands and rolling eyeballs; but when he became aware
of the laughter and cheers that greeted him from both
deck and shore, he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and
cried like the veriest babe. And when he looked at the
roll again, and hugged and kissed it, St.-Ange tried to
raise a second shout, but choked, and the crew fell to
their poles.
And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, and
prepares to cast his projectiles. The first one fell wide
of the mark; the schooner swung round into a long reach
of water, where the breeze was in her favor; another
shout of laughter drowned the maledictions of the muddy
man; the sails filled; Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and
bowing as hero of the moment, ducked as the main
boom swept round, and the schooner, leaning slightly
to the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the[340]
bulrushes, and then sped far away down the rippling
bayou.
M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the receding
vessel as it now disappeared, now reappeared beyond
the tops of the high undergrowth; but, when an arm
of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turned townward,
followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant,
saying, as he turned, “Baptiste.”
“Miché?”
“You know w’at I goin’ do wid dis money?”
“Non, m’sieur.”
“Well, you can strike me dead if I don’t goin’ to
pay hall my debts! Allons!”
He began a merry little song to the effect that his
sweetheart was a wine-bottle, and master and man, leaving
care behind, returned to the picturesque Rue Royale.
The ways of Providence are indeed strange. In all
Parson Jones’s after-life, amid the many painful reminiscences
of his visit to the City of the Plain, the sweet
knowledge was withheld from him that by the light of
the Christian virtue that shone from him even in his
great fall, Jules St.-Ange arose, and went to his father
an honest man.
[341]
OUR AROMATIC UNCLE
BY
Henry Cuyler Bunner
[342]
The title of Mr. Bunner’s story is attractive and stimulating
to the imagination. The plot is slight, yet clever
in its use of the surprise element. Its leading character
is a splendid illustration of a hero-worshipper who is
himself the real hero. The atmosphere is especially good.
It is warmed by family affection and fragrant with romance.
This romance, as Mr. Grabo points out in “The
Art of the Short Story,” is suggested rather than recorded.
The running away of the Judge’s son and of
his little admirer, the butcher-boy, really lies outside the
story proper. “With these youthful adventures the
story has not directly to do, but the hints of the antecedent
action envelop the story with a romantic atmosphere.
The reader speculates upon the story suggested,
and thereby is the written story enriched and made a
part of a larger whole.”
[343]
OUR AROMATIC UNCLE[21]
It is always with a feeling of personal tenderness and
regret that I recall his story, although it began long before
I was born, and must have ended shortly after that
important date, and although I myself never laid eyes
on the personage of whom my wife and I always speak
as “The Aromatic Uncle.”
The story begins so long ago, indeed, that I can tell
it only as a tradition of my wife’s family. It goes back
to the days when Boston was so frankly provincial a
town that one of its leading citizens, a man of eminent
position and ancient family, remarked to a young kinsman
whom he was entertaining at his hospitable board, by
way of pleasing and profitable discourse: “Nephew, it
may interest you to know that it is Mr. Everett who has
the other hindquarter of this lamb.” This simple tale
I will vouch for, for I got it from the lips of the
nephew, who has been my uncle for so many years that
I know him to be a trustworthy authority.
In those days which seem so far away—and yet the
space between them and us is spanned by a lifetime of
threescore years and ten—life was simpler in all its
details; yet such towns as Boston, already old, had well-established
local customs which varied not at all from
year to year; many of which lingered in later phases
of urban growth. In Boston, or at least in that part of
Boston where my wife’s family dwelt, it was the invariable
custom for the head of the family to go to market[344]
in the early morning with his wife’s list of the day’s
needs. When the list was filled, the articles were placed
in a basket; and the baskets thus filled were systematically
deposited by the market-boys at the back-door of
the house to which they were consigned. Then the
housekeeper came to the back-door at her convenience,
and took the basket in. Exposed as this position must
have been, such a thing as a theft of the day’s edibles
was unknown, and the first authentic account of any
illegitimate handling of the baskets brings me to the
introduction of my wife’s uncle.
It was on a summer morning, as far as I can find out,
that a little butcher-boy—a very little butcher-boy to
be driving so big a cart—stopped in the rear of two
houses that stood close together in a suburban street.
One of these houses belonged to my wife’s father, who
was, from all I can gather, a very pompous, severe, and
generally objectionable old gentleman; a Judge, and a
very considerable dignitary, who apparently devoted
all his leisure to making life miserable for his family.
The other was owned by a comparatively poor and unimportant
man, who did a shipping business in a small
way. He had bought it during a period of temporary
affluence, and it hung on his hands like a white elephant.
He could not sell it, and it was turning his hair gray
to pay the taxes on it. On this particular morning he
had got up at four o’clock to go down to the wharves to
see if a certain ship in which he was interested had
arrived. It was due and overdue, and its arrival would
settle the question of his domestic comfort for the whole
year; for if it failed to appear, or came home with an
empty bottom, his fate would be hard indeed; but if it
brought him money or marketable goods from its long
Oriental trip, he might take heart of grace and look
forward to better times.
[345]
When the butcher’s boy stopped at the house of my
wife’s father, he set down at the back-door a basket
containing fish, a big joint of roast beef, and a generous
load of fruit and vegetables, including some fine, fat
oranges. At the other door he left a rather unpromising-looking
lump of steak and a half-peck of potatoes,
not of the first quality. When he had deposited these
two burdens he ran back and started his cart up the
road.
But he looked back as he did so, and he saw a sight
familiar to him, and saw the commission of a deed entirely
unfamiliar. A handsome young boy of about his
own age stepped out of the back-door of my wife’s
father’s house and looked carelessly around him. He
was one of the boys who compel the admiration of all
other boys—strong, sturdy, and a trifle arrogant.
He had long ago compelled the admiration of the little
butcher-boy. They had been playmates together at the
public school, and although the Judge’s son looked down
from an infinite height upon his poor little comrade, the
butcher-boy worshipped him with the deepest and most
fervent adoration. He had for him the admiring reverence
which the boy who can’t lick anybody has for the
boy who can lick everybody. He was a superior being, a
pattern, a model; an ideal never to be achieved, but
perhaps in a crude, humble way to be imitated. And
there is no hero-worship in the world like a boy’s worship
of a boy-hero.
The sight of this fortunate and adorable youth was
familiar enough to the butcher-boy, but the thing he
did startled and shocked that poor little workingman
almost as much as if his idol had committed a capital
crime right before his very eyes. For the Judge’s son
suddenly let a look into his face that meant mischief,
glanced around him to see whether anybody was observing[346]
him or not, and, failing to notice the butcher-boy,
quickly and dexterously changed the two baskets. Then
he went back into the house and shut the door on himself.
The butcher-boy reined up his horse and jumped from
his cart. His first impulse, of course, was to undo
the shocking iniquity which the object of his admiration
had committed. But before he had walked back a dozen
yards, it struck him that he was taking a great liberty
in spoiling the other boy’s joke. It was wrong, of
course, he knew it; but was it for him to rebuke the
wrong-doing of such an exalted personage? If the
Judge’s son came out again, he would see that his joke
had miscarried, and then he would be displeased. And
to the butcher-boy it did not seem right in the nature
of things that anything should displease the Judge’s
son. Three times he went hesitatingly backward and
forward, trying to make up his mind, and then he made
it up. The king could do no wrong. Of course he himself
was doing wrong in not putting the baskets back
where they belonged; but then he reflected, he took that
sin on his own humble conscience, and in some measure
took it off the conscience of the Judge’s son—if, indeed,
it troubled that lightsome conscience at all. And, of
course, too, he knew that, being an apprentice, he would
be whipped for it when the substitution was discovered.
But he didn’t mind being whipped for the boy he worshipped.
So he drove out along the road; and the wife
of the poor shipping-merchant, coming to the back-door,
and finding the basket full of good things, and noticing
especially the beautiful China oranges, naturally concluded
that her husband’s ship had come in, and that he
had provided his family with a rare treat. And the
Judge, when he came home to dinner, and Mrs. Judge
introduced him to the rump-steak and potatoes—but I[347]
do not wish to make this story any more pathetic than
is necessary.
A few months after this episode, perhaps indirectly
in consequence of it—I have never been able to find out
exactly—the Judge’s son, my wife’s uncle, ran away
to sea, and for many years his recklessness, his strength,
and his good looks were only traditions in the family,
but traditions which he himself kept alive by remembrances
than which none could have been more effective.
At first he wrote but seldom, later on more regularly,
but his letters—I have seen many of them—were the
most uncommunicative documents that I ever saw in
my life. His wanderings took him to many strange
places on the other side of the globe, but he never wrote
of what he saw or did. His family gleaned from them
that his health was good, that the weather was such-and-such,
and that he wished to have his love, duty, and
respects conveyed to his various relatives. In fact, the
first positive bit of personal intelligence that they received
from him was five years after his departure, when
he wrote them from a Chinese port on letter-paper whose
heading showed that he was a member of a commercial
firm. The letter itself made no mention of the fact.
As the years passed on, however, the letters came more
regularly and they told less about the weather, and were
slightly—very slightly—more expressive of a kind regard
for his relatives. But at the best they were cramped by
the formality of his day and generation, and we of to-day
would have called them cold and perfunctory.
But the practical assurances that he gave of his undiminished—nay,
his steadily increasing—affection for
the people at home, were of a most satisfying character,
for they were convincing proof not only of his love but
of his material prosperity. Almost from his first time[348]
of writing he began to send gifts to all the members of
the family. At first these were mere trifles, little curios
of travel such as he was able to purchase out of a seaman’s
scanty wages; but as the years went on they grew
richer and richer, till the munificence of the runaway
son became the pride of the whole family.
The old house that had been in the suburbs of Boston
was fairly in the heart of the city when I first made
its acquaintance, and one of the famous houses of the
town. And it was no wonder it was famous, for such a
collection of Oriental furniture, bric-à-brac, and objects
of art never was seen outside of a museum. There were
ebony cabinets, book-cases, tables, and couches wonderfully
carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There
were beautiful things in bronze and jade and ivory.
There were all sorts of strange rugs and curtains and
portières. As to the china-ware and the vases, no house
was ever so stocked; and as for such trifles as shawls
and fans and silk handkerchiefs, why such things were
sent not singly but by dozens.
No one could forget his first entrance into that house.
The great drawing-room was darkened by heavy curtains,
and at first you had only a dim vision of the
strange and graceful shapes of its curious furnishing.
But you could not but be instantly conscious of the
delicate perfume that pervaded the apartment, and, for
the matter of that, the whole house. It was a combination
of all the delightful Eastern smells—not sandal-ood
only, nor teak, nor couscous, but all these odors
and a hundred others blent in one. Yet it was not heavy
nor overpowering, but delightfully faint and sweet, diffused
through those ample rooms. There was good reason,
indeed, for the children of the generation to which
my wife belonged to speak of the generous relative
whom they had never seen as “Our Aromatic Uncle.[349]”
There were other uncles, and I have no doubt they gave
presents freely, for it was a wealthy and free-handed
family; but there was no other uncle who sent such a
delicate and delightful reminder with every gift, to
breathe a soft memory of him by day and by night.
I did my courting in the sweet atmosphere of that
house, and, although I had no earthly desire to live in
Boston, I could not help missing that strangely blended
odor when my wife and I moved into an old house
in an old part of New York, whose former owners had
no connections in the Eastern trade. It was a charming
and home-like old house; but at first, although my
wife had brought some belongings from her father’s
house, we missed the pleasant flavor of our aromatic
uncle, for he was now my uncle, as well as my wife’s.
I say at first, for we did not miss it long. Uncle David—that
was his name—not only continued to send his
fragrant gifts to my wife at Christmas and upon her
birthday, but he actually adopted me, too, and sent me
Chinese cabinets and Chinese gods in various minerals
and metals, and many articles designed for a smoker’s
use, which no smoker would ever want to touch with a
ten-foot pole. But I cared very little about the utility
of these presents, for it was not many years before,
among them all, they set up that exquisite perfume in
the house, which we had learned to associate with our
aromatic uncle.
“Foo-choo-li, China, January—, 18—.
“Dear Nephew and Niece: The Present is to inform you that
I have this day shipped to your address, per Steamer Ocean
Queen, one marble and ebony Table, six assorted gods, and a
blue Dinner set; also that I purpose leaving this Country for a
visit to the Land of my Nativity on the 6th of March next, and
will, if same is satisfactory to you, take up my Abode temporarily
in your household. Should same not be satisfactory,[350]
please cable at my charge. Messrs. Smithson & Smithson, my
Customs Brokers, will attend to all charges on the goods, and
will deliver them at your readiness. The health of this place
is better than customary by reason of the cool weather, which
Health I am as usual enjoying. Trusting that you both are at
present in possession of the same Blessing, and will so continue,
I remain, dear nephew and niece,
“Your affectionate
“Uncle.”
This was, I believe, by four dozen words—those which
he used to inform us of his intention of visiting America—the
longest letter that Uncle David had ever written
to any member of his family. It also conveyed more
information about himself than he had ever given since
the day he ran away to sea. Of course we cabled the
old gentleman that we should be delighted to see him.
And, late that spring, at some date at which he could
not possibly have been expected to arrive, he turned up
at our house.
Of course we had talked a great deal about him, and
wondered what manner of a man we should find him.
Between us, my wife and I had got an idea of his personal
appearance which I despair of conveying in words.
Vaguely, I should say that we had pictured him as
something mid-way between an abnormally tall Chinese
mandarin and a benevolent Quaker. What we found
when we got home and were told that our uncle from
India was awaiting us, was a shrunken and bent old
gentleman, dressed very cleanly and neatly in black
broadcloth, with a limp, many-pleated shirt-front of old-fashioned
style, and a plain black cravat. If he had
worn an old-time stock we could have forgiven him
the rest of the disappointment he cost us; but we had
to admit to ourselves that he had the most absolutely
commonplace appearance of all our acquaintance. In
fact, we soon discovered that, except for a taciturnity[351]
the like of which we had never encountered, our aromatic
uncle had positively not one picturesque characteristic
about him. Even his aroma was a disappointment. He
had it, but it was patchouly or some other cheap perfume
of the sort, wherewith he scented his handkerchief,
which was not even a bandanna, but a plain decent
white one of the unnecessarily large sort which clergymen
and old gentlemen affect.
But, even if we could not get one single romantic association
to cluster about him, we very soon got to like
the old gentleman. It is true that at our first meeting,
after saying “How d’ye do” to me and receiving in impassive
placidity the kiss which my wife gave him, he
relapsed into dead silence, and continued to smoke a clay
pipe with a long stem and a short bowl. This instrument
he filled and re-filled every few minutes, and it
seemed to be his only employment. We plied him with
questions, of course, but to these he responded with a
wonderful brevity. In the course of an hour’s conversation
we got from him that he had had a pleasant voyage,
that it was not a long voyage, that it was not a short
voyage, that it was about the usual voyage, that he had
not been seasick, that he was glad to be back, and that
he was not surprised to find the country very much
changed. This last piece of information was repeated
in the form of a simple “No,” given in reply to the
direct question; and although it was given politely, and
evidently without the least unamiable intent, it made us
both feel very cheap. After all, it was absurd to ask a
man if he were surprised to find the country changed
after fifty or sixty years of absence. Unless he was an
idiot, and unable to read at that, he must have expected
something of the sort.
But we grew to like him. He was thoroughly kind and
inoffensive in every way. He was entirely willing to be[352]
talked to, but he did not care to talk. If it was absolutely
necessary, he could talk, and when he did talk he
always made me think of the “French-English Dictionary
for the Pocket,” compiled by the ingenious Mr.
John Bellows; for nobody except that extraordinary
Englishman could condense a greater amount of information
into a smaller number of words. During the
time of his stay with us I think I learned more about
China than any other man in the United States knew,
and I do not believe that the aggregate of his utterances
in the course of that six months could have
amounted to one hour’s continuous talk. Don’t ask
me for the information. I had no sort of use for it, and
I forgot it as soon as I could. I like Chinese bric-à-brac,
but my interest in China ends there.
Yet it was not long before Uncle David slid into his
own place in the family circle. We soon found that
he did not expect us to entertain him. He wanted only
to sit quiet and smoke his pipe, to take his two daily
walks by himself, and to read the daily paper one afternoon
and Macaulay’s “History of England” the next.
He was never tired of sitting and gazing amiably but
silently at my wife; and, to head the list of his good
points, he would hold the baby by the hour, and for
some mysterious reason that baby, who required the exhibition
of seventeen toys in a minute to be reasonably
quiet in the arms of anybody else, would sit placidly in
Uncle David’s lap, teething away steadily on the old
gentleman’s watch-chain, as quiet and as solemn and as
aged in appearance as any one of the assorted gods of
porcelain and jade and ivory which our aromatic uncle
had sent us.
The old house in Boston was a thing of the past. My
wife’s parents had been dead for some years, and no one[353]
remained of her immediate family except a certain Aunt
Lucretia, who had lived with them until shortly before
our marriage, when the breaking up of the family sent
her West to find a home with a distant relative in
California. We asked Uncle Davy if he had stopped
to see Aunt Lucretia as he came through California.
He said he had not. We asked him if he wanted to have
Aunt Lucretia invited on to pass a visit during his
stay with us. He answered that he did not. This did
not surprise us at all. You might think that a brother
might long to see a sister from whom he had been separated
nearly all of a long lifetime, but then you might
never have met Aunt Lucretia. My wife made the offer
only from a sense of duty; and only after a contest
with me which lasted three days and nights. Nothing
but loss of sleep during an exceptionally busy time at
my office induced me to consent to her project of inviting
Aunt Lucretia. When Uncle David put his veto
upon the proposition I felt that he might have taken
back all his rare and costly gifts, and I could still have
loved him.
But Aunt Lucretia came, all the same. My wife is
afflicted with a New England conscience, originally of a
most uncomfortable character. It has been much modified
and ameliorated, until it is now considerably less
like a case of moral hives; but some wretched lingering
remnant of the original article induced her to write
to Aunt Lucretia that Uncle David was staying with us,
and of course Aunt Lucretia came without invitation
and without warning, dropping in on us with ruthless
unexpectedness.
You may not think, from what I have said, that Aunt
Lucretia’s visit was a pleasant event. But it was, in
some respects; for it was not only the shortest visit[354]
she ever paid us, but it was the last with which she
ever honored us.
She arrived one morning shortly after breakfast, just
as we were preparing to go out for a drive. She would
not have been Aunt Lucretia if she had not upset somebody’s
calculations at every turn of her existence. We
welcomed her with as much hypocrisy as we could summon
to our aid on short notice, and she was not more
than usually offensive, although she certainly did herself
full justice in telling us what she thought of us for not
inviting her as soon as we even heard of Uncle David’s
intention to return to his native land. She said she
ought to have been the first to embrace her beloved
brother—to whom I don’t believe she had given one
thought in more years than I have yet seen.
Uncle David was dressing for his drive. His long
residence in tropical countries had rendered him sensitive
to the cold, and although it was a fine, clear September
day, with the thermometer at about sixty, he was
industriously building himself up with a series of overcoats.
On a really snappy day I have known him to get
into six of these garments; and when he entered the room
on this occasion I think he had on five, at least.
My wife had heard his familiar foot on the stairs,
and Aunt Lucretia had risen up and braced herself
for an outburst of emotional affection. I could see that
it was going to be such a greeting as is given only once
in two or three centuries, and then on the stage. I
felt sure it would end in a swoon, and I was looking
around for a sofa-pillow for the old lady to fall upon,
for from what I knew of Aunt Lucretia I did not believe
she had ever swooned enough to be able to go through
the performance without danger to her aged person.
But I need not have troubled myself. Uncle David
toddled into the room, gazed at Aunt Lucretia without[355]
a sign of recognition in his features, and toddled out
into the hall, where he got his hat and gloves, and went
out to the front lawn, where he always paced up and
down for a few minutes before taking a drive, in order
to stimulate his circulation. This was a surprise, but
Aunt Lucretia’s behavior was a greater surprise. The
moment she set eyes on Uncle David the theatrical fervor
went out of her entire system, literally in one instant;
and an absolutely natural, unaffected astonishment displayed
itself in her expressive and strongly marked
features. For almost a minute, until the sound of Uncle
David’s footsteps had died away, she stood absolutely
rigid; while my wife and I gazed at her spellbound.
Then Aunt Lucretia pointed one long bony finger
at me, and hissed out with a true feminine disregard of
grammar:
“That ain’t him!”
“David,” said Aunt Lucretia, impressively, “had
only one arm. He lost the other in Madagascar.”
I was too dumbfounded to take in the situation. I
remember thinking, in a vague sort of way, that Madagascar
was a curious sort of place to go for the purpose
of losing an arm; but I did not apprehend the full significance
of this disclosure until I heard my wife’s distressed
protestations that Aunt Lucretia must be mistaken;
there must be some horrible mistake somewhere.
But Aunt Lucretia was not mistaken, and there was
no mistake anywhere. The arm had been lost, and lost
in Madagascar, and she could give the date of the occurrence,
and the circumstances attendant. Moreover, she
produced her evidence on the spot. It was an old
daguerreotype, taken in Calcutta a year or two after
the Madagascar episode. She had it in her hand-bag,
and she opened it with fingers trembling with rage and[356]
excitement. It showed two men standing side by side
near one of those three-foot Ionic pillars that were an
indispensable adjunct of photography in its early stages.
One of the men was large, broad-shouldered, and handsome—unmistakably
a handsome edition of Aunt Lucretia.
His empty left sleeve was pinned across his breast.
The other man was, making allowance for the difference
in years, no less unmistakably the Uncle David who was
at that moment walking to and fro under our windows.
For one instant my wife’s face lighted up.
“Why, Aunt Lucretia,” she cried, “there he is!
That’s Uncle David, dear Uncle David.”
“There he is not,” replied Aunt Lucretia. “That’s
his business partner—some common person that he
picked up on the ship he first sailed in—and, upon my
word, I do believe it’s that wretched creature outside.
And I’ll Uncle David him.”
She marched out like a grenadier going to battle, and
we followed her meekly. There was, unfortunately, no
room for doubt in the case. It only needed a glance to
see that the man with one arm was a member of my
wife’s family, and that the man by his side, our Uncle
David, bore no resemblance to him in stature or features.
Out on the lawn Aunt Lucretia sailed into the dear
old gentleman in the five overcoats with a volley of vituperation.
He did not interrupt her, but stood patiently
to the end, listening, with his hands behind his back;
and when, with her last gasp of available breath, Aunt
Lucretia demanded:
“Who—who—who are you, you wretch?” he responded,
calmly and respectfully:
“I’m Tommy Biggs, Miss Lucretia.”
But just here my wife threw herself on his neck and
hugged him, and cried:
“You’re my own dear Uncle David, anyway!”
[357]
It was a fortunate, a gloriously fortunate, inspiration.
Aunt Lucretia drew herself up in speechless
scorn, stretched forth her bony finger, tried to say something
and failed, and then she and her hand-bag went
out of my gates, never to come in again.
When she had gone, our aromatic uncle—for we shall
always continue to think of him in that light, or rather
in that odor—looked thoughtfully after her till she disappeared,
and then made one of the few remarks I ever
knew him to volunteer.
“Ain’t changed a mite in forty-seven years.”
Up to this time I had been in a dazed condition of
mind. As I have said, my wife’s family was extinct
save for herself and Aunt Lucretia, and she remembered
so little of her parents, and she looked herself so
little like Aunt Lucretia, that it was small wonder that
neither of us remarked Uncle David’s unlikeness to the
family type. We knew that he did not resemble the
ideal we had formed of him; and that had been the only
consideration we had given to his looks. Now, it took
only a moment of reflection to recall the fact that all
the members of the family had been tall and shapely,
and that even between the ugly ones, like Aunt Lucretia,
and the pretty ones, like my wife, there was a
certain resemblance. Perhaps it was only the nose—the
nose is the brand in most families, I believe—but
whatever it was, I had only to see my wife and Aunt
Lucretia together to realize that the man who had
passed himself off as our Uncle David had not one
feature in common with either of them—nor with the
one-armed man in the daguerreotype. I was thinking
of this, and looking at my wife’s troubled face, when
our aromatic uncle touched me on the arm.
“I’ll explain,” he said, “to you. You tell her.”
[358]
We dismissed the carriage, went into the house, and
sat down. The old gentleman was perfectly cool and
collected, but he lit his clay pipe, and reflected for a
good five minutes before he opened his mouth. Then he
began:
“Finest man in the world, sir. Finest boy in the
world. Never anything like him. But, peculiarities.
Had ’em. Peculiarities. Wouldn’t write home.
Wouldn’t”—here he hesitated—“send things home. I
had to do it. Did it for him. Didn’t want his folks to
know. Other peculiarities. Never had any money.
Other peculiarities. Drank. Other peculiarities. Ladies.
Finest man in the world, all the same. Nobody like him.
Kept him right with his folks for thirty-one years. Then
died. Fever. Canton. Never been myself since. Kept
right on writing, all the same. Also”—here he hesitated
again—“sending things. Why? Don’t know.
Been a fool all my life. Never could do anything but
make money. No family, no friends. Only him. Ran
away to sea to look after him. Did look after him.
Thought maybe your wife would be some like him. Barring
peculiarities, she is. Getting old. Came here for
company. Meant no harm. Didn’t calculate on Miss
Lucretia.”
Here he paused and smoked reflectively for a minute
or two.
“Hot in the collar—Miss Lucretia. Haughty. Like
him, some. Just like she was forty-seven years ago.
Slapped my face one day when I was delivering meat,
because my jumper wasn’t clean. Ain’t changed a
mite.”
This was the first condensed statement of the case
of our aromatic uncle. It was only in reply to patient,
and, I hope, loving, gentle, and considerate, questioning
that the whole story came out—at once pitiful and noble—of[359]
the poor little butcher-boy who ran away to sea to be
body-guard, servant, and friend to the splendid, showy,
selfish youth whom he worshipped; whose heartlessness
he cloaked for many a long year, who lived upon his
bounty, and who died in his arms, nursed with a tenderness
surpassing that of a brother. And as far as I
could find out, ingratitude and contempt had been his
only reward.
I need not tell you that when I repeated all this to
my wife she ran to the old gentleman’s room and told
him all the things that I should not have known how to
say—that we cared for him; that we wanted him to
stay with us; that he was far, far more our uncle than
the brilliant, unprincipled scapegrace who had died
years before, dead for almost a lifetime to the family
who idolized him; and that we wanted him to stay with
us as long as kind heaven would let him. But it was
of no use. A change had come over our aromatic uncle
which we could both of us see, but could not understand.
The duplicity of which he had been guilty weighed on
his spirit. The next day he went out for his usual walk,
and he never came back. We used every means of search
and inquiry, but we never heard from him until we got
this letter from Foo-choo-li:
“Dear Nephew and Niece: The present is to inform you that
I am enjoying the Health that might be expected at my Age, and
in my condition of Body, which is to say bad. I ship you by
to-day’s steamer, Pacific Monarch, four dozen jars of ginger, and
two dozen ditto preserved oranges, to which I would have added
some other Comfits, which I purposed offering for your acceptance,
if it wore not that my Physician has forbidden me to leave my
Bed. In case of Fatal Results from this trying Condition, my
Will, duly attested, and made in your favor, will be placed in
your hands by Messrs. Smithson & Smithson, my Customs[360]
Brokers, who will also pay all charges on goods sent. The
Health of this place being unfavorably affected by the Weather,
you are unlikely to hear more from,
“Dear Nephew and Niece,
“Your affectionate
“Uncle.”
And we never did hear more—except for his will—from
Our Aromatic Uncle; but our whole house still
smells of his love.
[361]
QUALITY
BY
John Galsworthy
[362]
Here the emphasis is upon character. The plot is
negligible—hardly exists. The setting is carefully
worked out because it is essential to the characterization.
By means of the shoemaker the author reveals at least
a part of his philosophy of life—that there is a subtle
relation between a man and his work. Each reacts on
the other. If a man recognizes the Soul of Things and
strives to give it proper expression, he becomes an
Artist and influences for good all who come into contact
with him.
[363]
QUALITY[22]
I knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because
he made my father’s boots; inhabiting with his
elder brother two little shops let into one, in a small
by-street—now no more, but then most fashionably
placed in the West End.
That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there
was no sign upon its face that he made for any of the
Royal Family—merely his own German name of Gessler
Brothers; and in the window a few pairs of boots. I
remember that it always troubled me to account for
those unvarying boots in the window, for he made only
what was ordered, reaching nothing down, and it seemed
so inconceivable that what he made could ever have
failed to fit. Had he bought them to put there? That,
too, seemed inconceivable. He would never have tolerated
in his house leather on which he had not worked
himself. Besides, they were too beautiful—the pair of
pumps, so inexpressibly slim, the patent leathers with
cloth tops, making water come into one’s mouth, the
tall brown riding boots with marvellous sooty glow, as
if, though new, they had been worn a hundred years.
Those pairs could only have been made by one who
saw before him the Soul of Boot—so truly were they
prototypes incarnating the very spirit of all foot-gear.
These thoughts, of course, came to me later, though even
when I was promoted to him, at the age of perhaps fourteen,
some inkling haunted me of the dignity of himself[364]
and brother. For to make boots—such boots as he made—seemed
to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious
and wonderful.
I remember well my shy remark, one day, while
stretching out to him my youthful foot:
“Isn’t it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?”
And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out
of the sardonic redness of his beard: “Id is an Ardt!”
Himself, he was a little as if made from leather, with
his yellow crinkly face, and crinkly reddish hair and
beard, and neat folds slanting down his checks to the
corners of his mouth, and his guttural and one-toned
voice; for leather is a sardonic substance, and stiff and
slow of purpose. And that was the character of his face,
save that his eyes, which were gray-blue, had in them
the simple gravity of one secretly possessed by the Ideal.
His elder brother was so very like him—though watery,
paler in every way, with a great industry—that sometimes
in early days I was not quite sure of him until
the interview was over. Then I knew that it was he, if
the words, “I will ask my brudder,” had not been
spoken; and that, if they had, it was his elder brother.
When one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one
somehow never ran them up with Gessler Brothers. It
would not have seemed becoming to go in there and
stretch out one’s foot to that blue iron-spectacled glance,
owing him for more than—say—two pairs, just the comfortable
reassurance that one was still his client.
For it was not possible to go to him very often—his
boots lasted terribly, having something beyond the temporary—some,
as it were, essence of boot stitched into
them.
One went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of:
“Please serve me, and let me go!” but restfully, as
one enters a church; and, sitting on the single wooden[365]
chair, waited—for there was never anybody there. Soon,
over the top edge of that sort of well—rather dark, and
smelling soothingly of leather—which formed the shop,
there would be seen his face, or that of his elder brother,
peering down. A guttural sound, and the tip-tap of bast
slippers beating the narrow wooden stairs, and he would
stand before one without coat, a little bent, in leather
apron, with sleeves turned back, blinking—as if awakened
from some dream of boots, or like an owl surprised
in daylight and annoyed at this interruption.
And I would say: “How do you do, Mr. Gessler?
Could you make me a pair of Russia leather boots?”
Without a word he would leave me, retiring whence
he came, or into the other portion of the shop, and I
would continue to rest in the wooden chair, inhaling the
incense of his trade. Soon he would come back, holding
in his thin, veined hand a piece of gold-brown leather.
With eyes fixed on it, he would remark: “What a
beaudiful biece!” When I, too, had admired it, he
would speak again. “When do you wand dem?” And
I would answer: “Oh! As soon as you conveniently
can.” And he would say: “To-morrow fordnighd?”
Or if he were his elder brother: “I will ask my
brudder!”
Then I would murmur: “Thank you! Good-morning,
Mr. Gessler.” “Goot-morning!” he would reply,
still looking at the leather in his hand. And as I moved
to the door, I would hear the tip-tap of his bast slippers
restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of boots. But
if it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not
yet made me, then indeed he would observe ceremony—divesting
me of my boot and holding it long in his hand,
looking at it with eyes at once critical and loving, as if
recalling the glow with which he had created it, and rebuking
the way in which one had disorganized this masterpiece.[366]
Then, placing my foot on a piece of paper, he
would two or three times tickle the outer edges with a
pencil and pass his nervous fingers over my toes, feeling
himself into the heart of my requirements.
I cannot forget that day on which I had occasion to
say to him: “Mr. Gessler, that last pair of town
walking-boots creaked, you know.”
He looked at me for a time without replying, as if
expecting me to withdraw or qualify the statement, then
said:
“Id shouldn’d ’a’ve greaked.”
“It did, I’m afraid.”
“You goddem wed before dey found demselves?”
“I don’t think so.”
At that he lowered his eyes, as if hunting for memory
of those boots, and I felt sorry I had mentioned this
grave thing.
“Zend dem back!” he said; “I will look at dem.”
A feeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged
up in me, so well could I imagine the sorrowful long
curiosity of regard which he would bend on them.
“Zome boods,” he said slowly, “are bad from birdt.
If I can do noding wid dem, I dake dem off your bill.”
Once (once only) I went absent-mindedly into his shop
in a pair of boots bought in an emergency at some large
firm’s. He took my order without showing me any
leather, and I could feel his eyes penetrating the inferior
integument of my foot. At last he said:
“Dose are nod my boods.”
The tone was not one of anger, nor of sorrow, not
even of contempt, but there was in it something quiet
that froze the blood. He put his hand down and pressed
a finger on the place where the left boot, endeavoring
to be fashionable, was not quite comfortable.
“Id ’urds you dere,” he said. “Dose big virms ’a’ve[367]
no self-respect. Drash!” And then, as if something
had given way within him, he spoke long and bitterly.
It was the only time I ever heard him discuss the conditions
and hardships of his trade.
“Dey get id all,” he said, “dey get id by adverdisement,
nod by work. Dey dake it away from us, who
lofe our boods. Id gomes to this—bresently I haf no
work. Every year id gets less—you will see.” And
looking at his lined face I saw things I had never noticed
before, bitter things and bitter struggle—and what a lot
of gray hairs there seemed suddenly in his red beard!
As best I could, I explained the circumstances of the
purchase of those ill-omened boots. But his face and
voice made so deep impression that during the next
few minutes I ordered many pairs. Nemesis fell! They
lasted more terribly than ever. And I was not able
conscientiously to go to him for nearly two years.
When at last I went I was surprised to find that outside
one of the two little windows of his shop another
name was painted, also that of a bootmaker—making,
of course, for the Royal Family. The old familiar boots,
no longer in dignified isolation, were huddled in the
single window. Inside, the now contracted well of the
one little shop was more scented and darker than ever.
And it was longer than usual, too, before a face peered
down, and the tip-tap of the bast slippers began. At
last he stood before me, and, gazing through those rusty
iron spectacles, said:
“Mr.——, isn’d it?”
“Ah! Mr. Gessler,” I stammered, “but your boots
are really too good, you know! See, these are quite
decent still!” And I stretched out to him my foot. He
looked at it.
“Yes,” he said, “beople do nod wand good boods, id
seems.”
[368]
To get away from his reproachful eyes and voice I
hastily remarked: “What have you done to your
shop?”
He answered quietly: “Id was too exbensif. Do you
wand some boods?”
I ordered three pairs, though I had only wanted two,
and quickly left. I had, I do not know quite what feeling
of being part, in his mind, of a conspiracy against him;
or not perhaps so much against him as against his idea
of boot. One does not, I suppose, care to feel like that;
for it was again many months before my next visit to
his shop, paid, I remember, with the feeling: “Oh!
well, I can’t leave the old boy—so here goes! Perhaps
it’ll be his elder brother!”
For his elder brother, I knew, had not character
enough to reproach me, even dumbly.
And, to my relief, in the shop there did appear to be
his elder brother, handling a piece of leather.
“Well, Mr. Gessler,” I said, “how are you?”
He came close, and peered at me.
“I am breddy well,” he said slowly; “but my elder
brudder is dead.”
And I saw that it was indeed himself—but how aged
and wan! And never before had I heard him mention
his brother. Much shocked, I murmured: “Oh! I am
sorry!”
“Yes,” he answered, “he was a good man, he made
a good bood; but he is dead.” And he touched the top
of his head, where the hair had suddenly gone as thin
as it had been on that of his poor brother, to indicate,
I suppose, the cause of death. “He could nod ged
over losing de oder shop. Do you wand any boods?”
And he held up the leather in his hand: “Id’s a beaudiful
biece.”
I ordered several pairs. It was very long before they[369]
came—but they were better than ever. One simply
could not wear them out. And soon after that I went
abroad.
It was over a year before I was again in London. And
the first shop I went to was my old friend’s. I had left
a man of sixty, I came back to one of seventy-five,
pinched and worn and tremulous, who genuinely, this
time, did not at first know me.
“Oh! Mr. Gessler,” I said, sick at heart; “how
splendid your boots are! See, I’ve been wearing this
pair nearly all the time I’ve been abroad; and they’re
not half worn out, are they?”
He looked long at my boots—a pair of Russia leather,
and his face seemed to regain steadiness. Putting his
hand on my instep, he said:
“Do dey vid you here? I ’a’d drouble wid dat bair, I
remember.”
I assured him that they had fitted beautifully.
“Do you wand any boods?” he said. “I can make
dem quickly; id is a slack dime.”
I answered: “Please, please! I want boots all round—every
kind!”
“I will make a vresh model. Your food must be
bigger.” And with utter slowness, he traced round my
foot, and felt my toes, only once looking up to say:
“Did I dell you my brudder was dead?”
To watch him was painful, so feeble had he grown;
I was glad to get away.
I had given those boots up, when one evening they
came. Opening the parcel, I set the four pairs out in
a row. Then one by one I tried them on. There was
no doubt about it. In shape and fit, in finish and quality
of leather, they were the best he had ever made me.
And in the mouth of one of the town walking-boots I
found his bill. The amount was the same as usual, but[370]
it gave me quite a shock. He had never before sent it
in till quarter day. I flew downstairs, and wrote a
check, and posted it at once with my own hand.
A week later, passing the little street, I thought I
would go in and tell him how splendidly the new boots
fitted. But when I came to where his shop had been, his
name was gone. Still there, in the window, were the
slim pumps, the patent leathers with cloth tops, the
sooty riding boots.
I went in, very much disturbed. In the two little
shops—again made into one—was a young man with an
English face.
“Mr. Gessler in?” I said.
He gave me a strange, ingratiating look.
“No, sir,” he said, “no. But we can attend to anything
with pleasure. We’ve taken the shop over.
You’ve seen our name, no doubt, next door. We make
for some very good people.”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “but Mr. Gessler?”
“Oh!” he answered; “dead.”
Dead! But I only received these boots from him
last Wednesday week.”
“Ah!” he said; “a shockin’ go. Poor old man
starved ‘imself.”
“Good God!”
“Slow starvation, the doctor called it! You see he
went to work in such a way! Would keep the shop
on; wouldn’t have a soul touch his boots except himself.
When he got an order, it took him such a time.
People won’t wait. He lost everybody. And there
he’d sit, goin’ on and on—I will say that for him—not
a man in London made a better boot! But look at the
competition! He never advertised! Would ’a’ve the
best leather, too, and do it all ‘imself. Well, there it is.
What could you expect with his ideas?”
[371]
“But starvation——!”
“That may be a bit flowery, as the sayin’ is—but I
know myself he was sittin’ over his boots day and night,
to the very last. You see I used to watch him. Never
gave ‘imself time to eat; never had a penny in the
house. All went in rent and leather. How he lived
so long I don’t know. He regular let his fire go out.
He was a character. But he made good boots.”
“Yes,” I said, “he made good boots.”
And I turned and went out quickly, for I did not
want that youth to know that I could hardly see.
[372]
[373]
THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT
BY
Edith Wharton
[374]
This is a mystery plot in which the supernatural furnishes
the interest. In dealing with the supernatural
Mrs. Wharton does not allow it to become horrible or
grotesque. She secures plausibility by having for its
leading characters practical business men—not a woman,
hysterical or otherwise, really appears—and by placing
them in a perfectly conventional setting. The apparition
is not accompanied by blood stains, shroud, or uncanny
noises. Sometimes the writer of the supernatural
feels that he must explain his mystery by material agencies.
The effect is to disappoint the reader who has
yielded himself to the conditions imposed by the author,
and is willing, for the time at least, to believe in ghosts.
Mrs. Wharton makes no such mistake. She does not
spoil the effect by commonplace explanation.
In characterization Mrs. Wharton reveals the power
not only to analyze subtly temperaments and motives,
but also to describe vividly with a few words. This
phrasal power is illustrated when she says of Faxon that
he “had a healthy face, but dying hands,” and of
Lavington that “his pinched smile was screwed to his
blank face like a gas-light to a white-washed wall.”
[375]
THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT[23]
I
It was clear that the sleigh from Weymore had not
come; and the shivering young traveller from Boston,
who had so confidently counted on jumping into it when
he left the train at Northridge Junction, found himself
standing alone on the open platform, exposed to the full
assault of night-fall and winter.
The blast that swept him came off New Hampshire
snow-fields and ice-hung forests. It seemed to have
traversed interminable leagues of frozen silence, filling
them with the same cold roar and sharpening its edge
against the same bitter black-and-white landscape.
Dark, searching, and sword-like, it alternately muffled
and harried its victim, like a bull-fighter now whirling
his cloak and now planting his darts. This analogy
brought home to the young man the fact that he himself
had no cloak, and that the overcoat in which he
had faced the relatively temperate airs of Boston seemed
no thicker than a sheet of paper on the bleak heights
of Northridge. George Faxon said to himself that the
place was uncommonly well-named. It clung to an exposed
ledge over the valley from which the train had
lifted him, and the wind combed it with teeth of steel
that he seemed actually to hear scraping against the
wooden sides of the station. Other building there was
none: the village lay far down the road, and thither—since
the Weymore sleigh had not come—Faxon saw[376]
himself under the immediate necessity of plodding
through several feet of snow.
He understood well enough what had happened at
Weymore: his hostess had forgotten that he was coming.
Young as Faxon was, this sad lucidity of soul had
been acquired as the result of long experience, and he
knew that the visitors who can least afford to hire a
carriage are almost always those whom their hosts forget
to send for. Yet to say Mrs. Culme had forgotten
him was perhaps too crude a way of putting it. Similar
incidents led him to think that she had probably told
her maid to tell the butler to telephone the coachman to
tell one of the grooms (if no one else needed him) to
drive over to Northridge to fetch the new secretary; but
on a night like this what groom who respected his rights
would fail to forget the order?
Faxon’s obvious course was to struggle through the
drifts to the village, and there rout out a sleigh to convey
him to Weymore; but what if, on his arrival at Mrs.
Culme’s, no one remembered to ask him what this devotion
to duty had cost? That, again, was one of the contingencies
he had expensively learned to look out for,
and the perspicacity so acquired told him it would be
cheaper to spend the night at the Northridge inn, and
advise Mrs. Culme of his presence there by telephone.
He had reached this decision, and was about to entrust
his luggage to a vague man with a lantern who seemed
to have some loose connection with the railway company,
when his hopes were raised by the sound of sleigh-bells.
Two vehicles were just dashing up to the station, and
from the foremost there sprang a young man swathed
in furs.
“Weymore?—No, these are not the Weymore
sleighs.”
[377]
The voice was that of the youth who had jumped to
the platform—a voice so agreeable that, in spite of the
words, it fell reassuringly on Faxon’s ears. At the
same moment the wandering station-lantern, casting a
transient light on the speaker, showed his features to be
in the pleasantest harmony with his voice. He was
very fair and very young—hardly in the twenties, Faxon
thought—but his face, though full of a morning freshness,
was a trifle too thin and fine-drawn, as though
a vivid spirit contended in him with a strain of physical
weakness. Faxon was perhaps the quicker to notice
such delicacies of balance because his own temperament
hung on lightly vibrating nerves, which yet, as he believed,
would never quite swing him beyond the arc of a
normal sensibility.
“You expected a sleigh from Weymore?” the youth
continued, standing beside Faxon like a slender column
of fur.
Mrs. Culme’s secretary explained his difficulty, and
the new-comer brushed it aside with a contemptuous
“Oh, Mrs. Culme!” that carried both speakers a long
way toward reciprocal understanding.
“But then you must be——” The youth broke off
with a smile of interrogation.
“The new secretary? Yes. But apparently there
are no notes to be answered this evening.” Faxon’s
laugh deepened the sense of solidarity which had so
promptly established itself between the two.
The new-comer laughed also. “Mrs. Culme,” he explained,
“was lunching at my uncle’s to-day, and she
said you were due this evening. But seven hours is a
long time for Mrs. Culme to remember anything.”
“Well,” said Faxon philosophically, “I suppose
that’s one of the reasons why she needs a secretary. And
I’ve always the inn at Northridge,” he concluded.
[378]
The youth laughed again. He was at the age when
predicaments are food for gaiety.
“Oh, but you haven’t, though! It burned down last
week.”
“The deuce it did!” said Faxon; but the humor
of the situation struck him also before its inconvenience.
His life, for years past, had been mainly a succession
of resigned adaptations, and he had learned, before
dealing practically with his embarrassments, to extract
from most of them a small tribute of amusement.
“Oh, well, there’s sure to be somebody in the place
who can put me up.”
“No one you could put up with. Besides, Northridge
is three miles off, and our place—in the opposite
direction—is a little nearer.” Through the darkness,
Faxon saw his friend sketch a gesture of self-introduction.
“My name’s Frank Rainer, and I’m staying with
my uncle at Overdale. I’ve driven over to meet two
friends of his, who are due in a few minutes from New
York. If you don’t mind waiting till they arrive I’m
sure Overdale can do you better than Northridge.
We’re only down from town for a few days, but the
house is always ready for a lot of people.”
“But your uncle——?” Faxon could only object,
with the odd sense, through his embarrassment, that
it would be magically dispelled by his invisible friend’s
next words.
“Oh, my uncle—you’ll see! I answer for him! I
dare say you’ve heard of him—John Lavington?”
John Lavington! There was a certain irony in asking
if one had heard of John Lavington! Even from
a post of observation as obscure as that of Mrs. Culme’s
secretary, the rumor of John Lavington’s money, of his
pictures, his politics, his charities and his hospitality,
was as difficult to escape as the roar of a cataract in a[379]
mountain solitude. It might almost have been said that
the one place in which one would not have expected
to come upon him was in just such a solitude as now
surrounded the speakers—at least in this deepest hour
of its desertedness. But it was just like Lavington’s
brilliant ubiquity to put one in the wrong even there.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of your uncle.”
“Then you will come, won’t you? We’ve only five
minutes to wait,” young Rainer urged, in the tone that
dispels scruples by ignoring them; and Faxon found
himself accepting the invitation as simply as it was offered.
A delay in the arrival of the New York train lengthened
their five minutes to fifteen; and as they paced
the icy platform Faxon began to see why it had seemed
the most natural thing in the world to accede to his
new acquaintance’s suggestion. It was because Frank
Rainer was one of the privileged beings who simplify
human intercourse by the atmosphere of confidence and
good humor they diffuse. He produced this effect,
Faxon noted, by the exercise of no gift save his youth,
of no art save his sincerity; but these qualities were
revealed in a smile of such appealing sweetness that
Faxon felt, as never before, what Nature can achieve
when she deigns to match the face with the mind.
He learned that the young man was the ward, and
only nephew, of John Lavington, with whom he had
made his home since the death of his mother, the great
man’s sister. Mr. Lavington, Rainer said, had been “a
regular brick” to him—“But then he is to every one.
you know”—and the young fellow’s situation seemed,
in fact to be perfectly in keeping with his person. Apparently
the only shade that had ever rested on him
was cast by the physical weakness which Faxon had
already detected. Young Rainer had been threatened[380]
with a disease of the lungs which, according to the
highest authorities, made banishment to Arizona or New
Mexico inevitable. “But luckily my uncle didn’t pack
me off, as most people would have done, without getting
another opinion. Whose? Oh, an awfully clever chap,
a young doctor with a lot of new ideas, who simply
laughed at my being sent away, and said I’d do perfectly
well in New York if I didn’t dine out too much,
and if I dashed off occasionally to Northridge for a little
fresh air. So it’s really my uncle’s doing that I’m not
in exile—and I feel no end better since the new chap
told me I needn’t bother.” Young Rainer went on to
confess that he was extremely fond of dining out,
dancing, and other urban distractions; and Faxon, listening
to him, concluded that the physician who had
refused to cut him off altogether from these pleasures
was probably a better psychologist than his seniors.
“All the same you ought to be careful, you know.”
The sense of elder-brotherly concern that forced the
words from Faxon made him, as he spoke, slip his arm
impulsively through Frank Rainer’s.
The latter met the movement with a responsive pressure.
“Oh, I am: awfully, awfully. And then my
uncle has such an eye on me!”
“But if your uncle has such an eye on you, what
does he say to your swallowing knives out here in
this Siberian wild?”
Rainer raised his fur collar with a careless gesture.
“It’s not that that does it—the cold’s good for me.”
“And it’s not the dinners and dances? What is it,
then?” Faxon good-humoredly insisted; to which his
companion answered with a laugh: “Well, my uncle
says it’s being bored; and I rather think he’s right!”
His laugh ended in a spasm of coughing and a struggle
for breath that made Faxon, still holding his arm,[381]
guide him hastily into the shelter of the fireless waiting-room.
Young Rainer had dropped down on the bench against
the wall and pulled off one of his fur gloves to grope
for a handkerchief. He tossed aside his cap and drew
the handkerchief across his forehead, which was intensely
white, and beaded with moisture, though his face
retained a healthy glow. But Faxon’s gaze remained
fastened to the hand he had uncovered: it was so long,
so colorless, so wasted, so much older than the brow he
passed it over.
“It’s queer—a healthy face but dying hands,” the
secretary mused; he somehow wished young Rainer had
kept on his glove.
The whistle of the express drew the young men
to their feet, and the next moment two heavily-furred
gentlemen had descended to the platform and were
breasting the rigor of the night. Frank Rainer introduced
them as Mr. Grisben and Mr. Balch, and Faxon,
while their luggage was being lifted into the second
sleigh, discerned them, by the roving lantern-gleam, to
be an elderly gray-headed pair, apparently of the average
prosperous business cut.
They saluted their host’s nephew with friendly familiarity,
and Mr. Grisben, who seemed the spokesman of
the two, ended his greeting with a genial—“and many
many more of them, dear boy!” which suggested to
Faxon that their arrival coincided with an anniversary.
But he could not press the inquiry, for the seat allotted
him was at the coachman’s side, while Frank Rainer
joined his uncle’s guests inside the sleigh.
A swift flight (behind such horses as one could be
sure of John Lavington’s having) brought them to tall
gate-posts, an illuminated lodge, and an avenue on
which the snow had been levelled to the smoothness of[382]
marble. At the end of the avenue the long house
loomed through trees, its principal bulk dark but one
wing sending out a ray of welcome; and the next moment
Faxon was receiving a violent impression of
warmth and light, of hot-house plants, hurrying servants,
a vast spectacular oak hall like a stage-setting,
and, in its unreal middle distance, a small concise figure,
correctly dressed, conventionally featured, and utterly
unlike his rather florid conception of the great John
Lavington.
The shock of the contrast remained with him through
his hurried dressing in the large impersonally luxurious
bedroom to which he had been shown. “I don’t see
where he comes in,” was the only way he could put it,
so difficult was it to fit the exuberance of Lavington’s
public personality into his host’s contracted frame and
manner. Mr. Lavington, to whom Faxon’s case had
been rapidly explained by young Rainer, had welcomed
him with a sort of dry and stilted cordiality that exactly
matched his narrow face, his stiff hand, the whiff of
scent on his evening handkerchief. “Make yourself at
home—at home!” he had repeated, in a tone that suggested,
on his own part, a complete inability to perform
the feat he urged on his visitor. “Any friend of
Frank’s ... delighted ... make yourself thoroughly
at home!”
II
In spite of the balmy temperature and complicated
conveniences of Faxon’s bedroom, the injunction was
not easy to obey. It was wonderful luck to have found
a night’s shelter under the opulent roof of Overdale, and
he tasted the physical satisfaction to the full. But the
place, for all its ingenuities of comfort, was oddly cold
and unwelcoming. He couldn’t have said why, and[383]
could only suppose that Mr. Lavington’s intense personality—intensely
negative, but intense all the same—must,
in some occult way, have penetrated every corner
of his dwelling. Perhaps, though, it was merely that
Faxon himself was tired and hungry, more deeply chilled
than he had known till he came in from the cold,
and unutterably sick of all strange houses, and of
the prospect of perpetually treading other people’s
stairs.
“I hope you’re not famished?” Rainer’s slim figure
was in the doorway. “My uncle has a little business to
attend to with Mr. Grisben, and we don’t dine for half
an hour. Shall I fetch you, or can you find your way
down? Come straight to the dining-room—the second
door on the left of the long gallery.”
He disappeared, leaving a ray of warmth behind him,
and Faxon, relieved, lit a cigarette and sat down by the
fire.
Looking about with less haste, he was struck by a
detail that had escaped him. The room was full of
flowers—a mere “bachelor’s room,” in the wing of a
house opened only for a few days, in the dead middle of
a New Hampshire winter! Flowers were everywhere,
not in senseless profusion, but placed with the same
conscious art he had remarked in the grouping of the
blossoming shrubs that filled the hall. A vase of arums
stood on the writing-table, a cluster of strange-hued
carnations on the stand at his elbow, and from wide
bowls of glass and porcelain clumps of freesia-bulbs diffused
their melting fragrance. The fact implied acres
of glass—but that was the least interesting part of it.
The flowers themselves, their quality, selection and arrangement,
attested on some one’s part—and on whose
but John Lavington’s?—a solicitous and sensitive passion
for that particular embodiment of beauty. Well,[384]
it simply made the man, as he had appeared to Faxon,
all the harder to understand!
The half-hour elapsed, and Faxon, rejoicing at the
near prospect of food, set out to make his way to the
dining-room. He had not noticed the direction he had
followed in going to his room, and was puzzled, when
he left it, to find that two staircases, of apparently equal
importance, invited him. He chose the one to his right,
and reached, at its foot, a long gallery such as Rainer
had described. The gallery was empty, the doors down
its length were closed; but Rainer had said: “The second
to the left,” and Faxon, after pausing for some
chance enlightenment which did not come, laid his hand
on the second knob to the left.
The room he entered was square, with dusky picture-hung
walls. In its centre, about a table lit by veiled
lamps, he fancied Mr. Lavington and his guests to be
already seated at dinner; then he perceived that the
table was covered not with viands but with papers, and
that he had blundered into what seemed to be his host’s
study. As he paused in the irresolution of embarrassment
Frank Rainer looked up.
“Oh, here’s Mr. Faxon. Why not ask him——?”
Mr. Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected
his nephew’s smile in a glance of impartial benevolence.
“Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won’t
think it a liberty——”
Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his
solid head toward the door. “Of course Mr. Faxon’s
an American citizen?”
Frank Rainer laughed. “That’s all right!... Oh,
no, not one of your pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack!
Haven’t you got a quill somewhere?”
Mr. Balch, who spoke slowly and as if reluctantly, in a
muffled voice of which there seemed to be very little left,[385]
raised his hand to say: “One moment: you acknowledge
this to be——?”
“My last will and testament?” Rainer’s laugh
redoubled. “Well, I won’t answer for the ’last.’ It’s
the first one, anyway.”
“It’s a mere formula,” Mr. Balch explained.
“Well, here goes.” Rainer dipped his quill in the
inkstand his uncle had pushed in his direction, and
dashed a gallant signature across the document.
Faxon, understanding what was expected of him, and
conjecturing that the young man was signing his will
on the attainment of his majority, had placed himself
behind Mr. Grisben, and stood awaiting his turn to affix
his name to the instrument. Rainer, having signed, was
about to push the paper across the table to Mr. Balch;
but the latter, again raising his hand, said in his sad
imprisoned voice: “The seal——?”
“Oh, does there have to be a seal?”
Faxon, looking over Mr. Grisben at John Lavington,
saw a faint frown between his impassive eyes. “Really,
Frank!” He seemed, Faxon thought, slightly irritated
by his nephew’s frivolity.
“Who’s got a seal?” Frank Rainer continued, glancing
about the table. “There doesn’t seem to be one
here.”
Mr. Grisben interposed. “A wafer will do. Lavington,
you have a wafer?”
Mr. Lavington had recovered his serenity. “There
must be some in one of the drawers. But I’m ashamed
to say I don’t know where my secretary keeps these
things. He ought, of course, to have seen to it that a
wafer was sent with the document.”
“Oh, hang it——” Frank Rainer pushed the paper
aside: “It’s the hand of God—and I’m hungry as a
wolf. Let’s dine first, Uncle Jack.”
[386]
“I think I’ve a seal upstairs,” said Faxon suddenly.
Mr. Lavington sent him a barely perceptible smile.
“So sorry to give you the trouble——”
“Oh, I say, don’t send him after it now. Let’s
wait till after dinner!”
Mr. Lavington continued to smile on his guest, and
the latter, as if under the faint coercion of the smile,
turned from the room and ran upstairs. Having taken
the seal from his writing-case he came down again, and
once more opened the door of the study. No one was
speaking when he entered—they were evidently awaiting
his return with the mute impatience of hunger, and he
put the seal in Rainer’s reach, and stood watching while
Mr. Grisben struck a match and held it to one of the
candles flanking the inkstand. As the wax descended on
the paper Faxon remarked again the singular emaciation,
the premature physical weariness, of the hand that,
held it: he wondered if Mr. Lavington had ever noticed
his nephew’s hand, and if it were not poignantly visible
to him now.
With this thought in his mind, Faxon raised his eyes
to look at Mr. Lavington. The great man’s gaze rested
on Frank Rainer with an expression of untroubled
benevolence; and at the same instant Faxon’s attention
was attracted by the presence in the room of another
person, who must have joined the group while he was
upstairs searching for the seal. The new-comer was a
man of about Mr. Lavington’s age and figure, who stood
directly behind his chair, and who, at the moment when
Faxon first saw him, was gazing at young Rainer with
an equal intensity of attention. The likeness between
the two men—perhaps increased by the fact that the
hooded lamps on the table left the figure behind the
chair in shadow—struck Faxon the more because of[387]
the strange contrast in their expression. John Lavington,
during his nephew’s blundering attempt to drop
the wax and apply the seal, continued to fasten on him
a look of half-amused affection; while the man behind
the chair, so oddly reduplicating the lines of his features
and figure, turned on the boy a face of pale hostility.
The impression was so startling Faxon forgot what
was going on about him. He was just dimly aware of
young Rainer’s exclaiming: “Your turn, Mr. Grisben!”
of Mr. Grisben’s ceremoniously protesting:
“No—no; Mr. Faxon first,” and of the pen’s being
thereupon transferred to his own hand. He received it
with a deadly sense of being unable to move, or even to
understand what was expected of him, till he became
conscious of Mr. Grisben’s paternally pointing out the
precise spot on which he was to leave his autograph.
The effort to fix his attention and steady his hand prolonged
the process of signing, and when he stood up—a
strange weight of fatigue on all his limbs—the figure
behind Mr. Lavington’s chair was gone.
Faxon felt an immediate sense of relief. It was puzzling
that the man’s exit should have been so rapid
and noiseless, but the door behind Mr. Lavington was
screened by a tapestry hanging, and Faxon concluded
that the unknown looker-on had merely had to raise it
to pass out. At any rate, he was gone, and with his
withdrawal the strange weight was lifted. Young Rainer
was lighting a cigarette, Mr. Balch meticulously inscribing
his name at the foot of the document, Mr. Lavington—his
eyes no longer on his nephew—examining a
strange white-winged orchid in the vase at his elbow.
Everything suddenly seemed to have grown natural and
simple again, and Faxon found himself responding with
a smile to the affable gesture with which his host declared:
“And now, Mr. Faxon, we’ll dine.”
[388]
III
“I wonder how I blundered into the wrong room
just now; I thought you told me to take the second
door to the left,” Faxon said to Frank Rainer as they
followed the older men down the gallery.
“So I did; but I probably forgot to tell you which
staircase to take. Coming from your bedroom, I ought
to have said the fourth door to the right. It’s a puzzling
house, because my uncle keeps adding to it from year
to year. He built this room last summer for his modern
pictures.”
Young Rainer, pausing to open another door, touched
an electric button which sent a circle of light about the
walls of a long room hung with canvases of the French
impressionist school.
Faxon advanced, attracted by a shimmering Monet,
but Rainer laid a hand on his arm.
“He bought that last week for a thundering price.
But come along—I’ll show you all this after dinner. Or
he will rather—he loves it.”
“Does he really love things?”
Rainer stared, clearly perplexed at the question.
“Rather! Flowers and pictures especially! Haven’t
you noticed the flowers? I suppose you think his manner’s
cold; it seems so at first; but he’s really awfully
keen about things.”
Faxon looked quickly at the speaker. “Has your
uncle a brother?”
“Brother? No—never had. He and my mother were
the only ones.”
“Or any relation who—who looks like him? Who
might be mistaken for him?”
“Not that I ever heard of. Does he remind you of
some one?”
[389]
“Yes.”
“That’s queer. We’ll ask him if he’s got a double.
Come on!”
But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some
minutes elapsed before he and his young host reached
the dining-room. It was a large room, with the same
conventionally handsome furniture and delicately
grouped flowers; and Faxon’s first glance showed him
that only three men were seated about the dining-table.
The man who had stood behind Mr. Lavington’s chair
was not present, and no seat awaited him.
When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking,
and his host, who faced the door, sat looking down
at his untouched soup-plate and turning the spoon
about in his small dry hand.
“It’s pretty late to call them rumors—they were devilish
close to facts when we left town this morning,” Mr.
Grisben was saying, with an unexpected incisiveness of
tone.
Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively.
“Oh, facts—what are facts? Just the way
a thing happens to look at a given minute.”
“You haven’t heard anything from town?” Mr.
Grisben persisted.
“Not a syllable. So you see ... Balch, a little more
of that petite marmite. Mr. Faxon ... between Frank
and Mr. Grisben, please.”
The dinner progressed through a series of complicated
courses, ceremoniously dispensed by a stout butler attended
by three tall footmen, and it was evident that
Mr. Lavington took a somewhat puerile satisfaction in
the pageant. That, Faxon reflected, was probably the
joint in his armor—that and the flowers. He had
changed the subject—not abruptly but firmly—when the
young men entered, but Faxon perceived that it still[390]
possessed the thoughts of the two elderly visitors, and
Mr. Balch presently observed, in a voice that seemed to
come from the last survivor down a mine-shaft: “If
it does come, it will be the biggest crash since ’93.”
Mr. Lavington looked bored but polite. “Wall Street
can stand crashes better than it could then. It’s got a
robuster constitution.”
“Yes; but——”
“Speaking of constitutions,” Mr. Grisben intervened:
“Frank, are you taking care of yourself?”
A flush rose to young Rainer’s cheeks.
“Why, of course! Isn’t that what I’m here for?”
“You’re here about three days in the month, aren’t
you? And the rest of the time it’s crowded restaurants
and hot ballrooms in town. I thought you were to be
shipped off to New Mexico?”
“Oh, I’ve got a new man who says that’s rot.”
“Well, you don’t look as if your new man were right,”
said Mr. Grisben bluntly.
Faxon saw the lad’s color fade, and the rings of
shadow deepen under his gay eyes. At the same moment
his uncle turned to him with a renewed intensity of
attention. There was such solicitude in Mr. Lavington’s
gaze that it seemed almost to fling a tangible shield between
his nephew and Mr. Grisben’s tactless scrutiny.
“We think Frank’s a good deal better,” he began;
“this new doctor——”
The butler, coming up, bent discreetly to whisper a
word in his ear, and the communication caused a sudden
change in Mr. Lavington’s expression. His face
was naturally so colorless that it seemed not so much
to pale as to fade, to dwindle and recede into something
blurred and blotted-out. He half rose, sat down
again and sent a rigid smile about the table.
“Will you excuse me? The telephone. Peters, go[391]
on with the dinner.” With small precise steps he walked
out of the door which one of the footmen had hastened
to throw open.
A momentary silence fell on the group; then Mr.
Grisben once more addressed himself to Rainer. “You
ought to have gone, my boy; you ought to have gone.”
The anxious look returned to the youth’s eyes. “My
uncle doesn’t think so, really.”
“You’re not a baby, to be always governed on your
uncle’s opinion. You came of age to-day, didn’t you?
Your uncle spoils you ... that’s what’s the matter....”
The thrust evidently went home, for Rainer laughed
and looked down with a slight accession of color.
“But the doctor——”
“Use your common sense, Frank! You had to try
twenty doctors to find one to tell you what you wanted
to be told.”
A look of apprehension overshadowed Rainer’s
gaiety. “Oh, come—I say!... What would you
do?” he stammered.
“Pack up and jump on the first train.” Mr. Grisben
leaned forward and laid a firm hand on the young man’s
arm. “Look here: my nephew Jim Grisben is out
there ranching on a big scale. He’ll take you in and be
glad to have you. You say your new doctor thinks it
won’t do you any good; but he doesn’t pretend to say
it will do you harm, does he? Well, then—give it a trial.
It’ll take you out of hot theatres and night restaurants,
anyhow.... And all the rest of it.... Eh,
Balch?”
“Go!” said Mr. Balch hollowly. “Go at once,” he
added, as if a closer look at the youth’s face had impressed
on him the need of backing up his friend.
Young Rainer had turned ashy-pale. He tried to[392]
stiffen his mouth into a smile. “Do I look as bad as
all that?”
Mr. Grisben was helping himself to terrapin. “You
look like the day after an earthquake,” he said concisely.
The terrapin had encircled the table, and been deliberately
enjoyed by Mr. Lavington’s three visitors
(Rainer, Faxon noticed, left his plate untouched) before
the door was thrown open to re-admit their host.
Mr. Lavington advanced with an air of recovered
composure. He seated himself, picked up his napkin,
and consulted the gold-monogrammed menu. “No,
don’t bring back the filet.... Some terrapin;
yes....” He looked affably about the table. “Sorry
to have deserted you, but the storm has played the
deuce with the wires, and I had to wait a long time
before I could get a good connection. It must be blowing
up for a blizzard.”
“Uncle Jack,” young Rainer broke out, “Mr. Grisben’s
been lecturing me.”
Mr. Lavington was helping himself to terrapin. “Ah—what
about?”
“He thinks I ought to have given New Mexico a
show.”
“I want him to go straight out to my nephew at
Santa Paz and stay there till his next birthday.” Mr.
Lavington signed to the butler to hand the terrapin to
Mr. Grisben, who, as he took a second helping, addressed
himself again to Rainer. “Jim’s in New York now,
and going back the day after to-morrow in Olyphant’s
private car. I’ll ask Olyphant to squeeze you in if
you’ll go. And when you’ve been out there a week or
two, in the saddle all day and sleeping nine hours a
night, I suspect you won’t think much of the doctor
who prescribed New York.”
[393]
Faxon spoke up, he knew not why. “I was out
there once: it’s a splendid life. I saw a fellow—oh, a
really bad case—who’d been simply made over by it.”
“It does sound jolly,” Rainer laughed, a sudden
eagerness of anticipation in his tone.
His uncle looked at him gently. “Perhaps Grisben’s
right. It’s an opportunity——”
Faxon looked up with a start: the figure dimly perceived
in the study was now more visibly and tangibly
planted behind Mr. Lavington’s chair.
“That’s right, Frank: you see your uncle approves.
And the trip out there with Olyphant isn’t a thing to
be missed. So drop a few dozen dinners and be at the
Grand Central the day after to-morrow at five.”
Mr. Grisben’s pleasant gray eye sought corroboration
of his host, and Faxon, in a cold anguish of suspense,
continued to watch him as he turned his glance on
Mr. Lavington. One could not look at Lavington without
seeing the presence at his back, and it was clear
that, the next minute, some change in Mr. Grisben’s expression
must give his watcher a clue.
But Mr. Grisben’s expression did not change: the
gaze he fixed on his host remained unperturbed, and
the clue he gave was the startling one of not seeming
to see the other figure.
Faxon’s first impulse was to look away, to look anywhere
else, to resort again to the champagne glass the
watchful butler had already brimmed; but some fatal
attraction, at war in him with an overwhelming physical
resistance, held his eyes upon the spot they feared.
The figure was still standing, more distinctly, and
therefore more resemblingly, at Mr. Lavington’s back;
and while the latter continued to gaze affectionately at
his nephew, his counterpart, as before, fixed young
Rainer with eyes of deadly menace.
[394]
Faxon, with what felt like an actual wrench of the
muscles, dragged his own eyes from the sight to scan
the other countenances about the table; but not one revealed
the least consciousness of what he saw, and a
sense of mortal isolation sank upon him.
“It’s worth considering, certainly——” he heard Mr.
Lavington continue; and as Rainer’s face lit up, the
face behind his uncle’s chair seemed to gather into its
look all the fierce weariness of old unsatisfied hates.
That was the thing that, as the minutes labored by,
Faxon was becoming most conscious of. The watcher behind
the chair was no longer merely malevolent: he
had grown suddenly, unutterably tired. His hatred
seemed to well up out of the very depths of balked
effort and thwarted hopes, and the fact made him more
pitiable, and yet more dire.
Faxon’s look reverted to Mr. Lavington, as if to surprise
in him a corresponding change. At first none was
visible: his pinched smile was screwed to his blank face
like a gas-light to a white-washed wall. Then the fixity
of the smile became ominous: Faxon saw that its wearer
was afraid to let it go. It was evident that Mr. Lavington
was unutterably tired too, and the discovery sent
a colder current through Faxon’s veins. Looking down
at his untouched plate, he caught the soliciting twinkle
of the champagne glass; but the sight of the wine turned
him sick.
“Well, we’ll go into the details presently,” he heard
Mr. Lavington say, still on the question of his nephew’s
future. “Let’s have a cigar first. No—not here,
Peters.” He turned his smile on Faxon. “When we’ve
had coffee I want to show you my pictures.”
“Oh, by the way, Uncle Jack—Mr. Faxon wants to
know if you’ve got a double?”
“A double?” Mr. Lavington, still smiling, continued[395]
to address himself to his guest. “Not that I know of.
Have you seen one, Mr. Faxon?”
Faxon thought: “My God, if I look up now they’ll
both be looking at me!” To avoid raising his eyes he
made as though to lift the glass to his lips; but his hand
sank inert, and he looked up. Mr. Lavington’s glance
was politely bent on him, but with a loosening of the
strain about his heart he saw that the figure behind
the chair still kept its gaze on Rainer.
“Do you think you’ve seen my double, Mr. Faxon?”
Would the other face turn if he said yes? Faxon
felt a dryness in his throat. “No,” he answered.
“Ah? It’s possible I’ve a dozen. I believe I’m
extremely usual-looking,” Mr. Lavington went on
conversationally; and still the other face watched
Rainer.
“It was ... a mistake ... a confusion of memory ...”
Faxon heard himself stammer. Mr. Lavington
pushed back his chair, and as he did so Mr. Grisben
suddenly leaned forward.
“Lavington! What have we been thinking of? We
haven’t drunk Frank’s health!”
Mr. Lavington reseated himself. “My dear boy!...
Peters, another bottle....” He turned to his nephew.
“After such a sin of omission I don’t presume to
propose the toast myself ... but Frank knows....
Go ahead, Grisben!”
The boy shone on his uncle. “No, no, Uncle Jack!
Mr. Grisben won’t mind. Nobody but you—to-day!”
The butler was replenishing the glasses. He filled
Mr. Lavington’s last, and Mr. Lavington put out his
small hand to raise it.... As he did so, Faxon looked
away.
“Well, then—All the good I’ve wished you in all the
past years.... I put it into the prayer that the coming[396]
ones may be healthy and happy and many ... and
many, dear boy!”
Faxon saw the hands about him reach out for their
glasses. Automatically, he made the same gesture. His
eyes were still on the table, and he repeated to himself
with a trembling vehemence: “I won’t look up! I
won’t.... I won’t....”
His fingers clasped the stem of the glass, and raised
it to the level of his lips. He saw the other hands making
the same motion. He heard Mr. Grisben’s genial
“Hear! Hear!” and Mr. Balch’s hollow echo. He said
to himself, as the rim of the glass touched his lips:
“I won’t look up! I swear I won’t!——” and he
looked.
The glass was so full that it required an extraordinary
effort to hold it there, brimming and suspended,
during the awful interval before he could trust his
hand to lower it again, untouched, to the table. It was
this merciful preoccupation which saved him, kept him
from crying out, from losing his hold, from slipping
down into the bottomless blackness that gaped for him.
As long as the problem of the glass engaged him he
felt able to keep his seat, manage his muscles, fit unnoticeably
into the group; but as the glass touched the
table his last link with safety snapped. He stood up
and dashed out of the room.
IV
In the gallery, the instinct of self-preservation helped
him to turn back and sign to young Rainer not to follow.
He stammered out something about a touch of
dizziness, and joining them presently; and the boy
waved an unsuspecting hand and drew back.
At the foot of the stairs Faxon ran against a servant.[397]
“I should like to telephone to Weymore,” he said with
dry lips.
“Sorry, sir; wires all down. We’ve been trying the
last hour to get New York again for Mr. Lavington.”
Faxon shot on to his room, burst into it, and bolted
the door. The mild lamplight lay on furniture, flowers,
books, in the ashes a log still glimmered. He dropped
down on the sofa and hid his face. The room was utterly
silent, the whole house was still: nothing about
him gave a hint of what was going on, darkly and
dumbly, in the horrible room he had flown from, and
with the covering of his eyes oblivion and reassurance
seemed to fall on him. But they fell for a moment
only; then his lids opened again to the monstrous
vision. There it was, stamped on his pupils, a part of
him forever, an indelible horror burnt into his body
and brain. But why into his—just his? Why had he
alone been chosen to see what he had seen? What business
was it of his, in God’s name? Any one of the
others, thus enlightened, might have exposed the horror
and defeated it; but he, the one weaponless and defenceless
spectator, the one whom none of the others would
believe or understand if he attempted to reveal what
he knew—he alone had been singled out as the victim of
this atrocious initiation!
Suddenly he sat up, listening: he had heard a step
on the stairs. Some one, no doubt, was coming to see
how he was—to urge him, if he felt better, to go down
and join the smokers. Cautiously he opened his door;
yes, it was young Rainer’s step. Faxon looked down the
passage, remembered the other stairway, and darted to
it. All he wanted was to get out of the house. Not
another instant would he breathe its abominable air!
What business was it of his, in God’s name?
He reached the opposite end of the lower gallery, and[398]
beyond it saw the hall by which he had entered. It
was empty, and on a long table he recognized his coat
and cap among the furs of the other travellers. He got
into his coat, unbolted the door, and plunged into the
purifying night.
The darkness was deep, and the cold so intense that
for an instant it stopped his breathing. Then he perceived
that only a thin snow was falling, and resolutely
set his face for flight. The trees along the avenue
dimly marked his way as he hastened with long strides
over the beaten snow. Gradually, while he walked, the
tumult in his brain subsided. The impulse to fly still
drove him forward, but he began to feel that he was
flying from a terror of his own creating, and that the
most urgent reason for escape was the need of hiding
his state, of shunning other eyes’ scrutiny till he should
regain his balance.
He had spent the long hours in the train in fruitless
broodings on a discouraging situation, and he remembered
how his bitterness had turned to exasperation
when he found that the Weymore sleigh was not
awaiting him. It was absurd, of course; but, though
he had joked with Rainer over Mrs. Culme’s forgetfulness,
to confess it had cost a pang. That was what
his rootless life had brought him to: for lack of a personal
stake in things his sensibility was at the mercy
of such trivial accidents.... Yes; that, and the cold
and fatigue, the absence of hope and the haunting sense
of starved aptitudes, all these had brought him to the
perilous verge over which, once or twice before, his terrified
brain had hung.
Why else, in the name of any imaginable logic, human
or devilish, should he, a stranger, be singled out for
this experience? What could it mean to him, how was[399]
he related to it, what bearing had it on his case?...
Unless, indeed, it was just because he was a stranger—a
stranger everywhere—because he had no personal life,
no warm strong screen of private egotisms to shield
him from exposure, that he had developed this abnormal
sensitiveness to the vicissitudes of others. The thought
pulled him up with a shudder. No! Such a fate was
too abominable; all that was strong and sound in him
rejected it. A thousand times better regard himself
as ill, disorganized, deluded, than as the predestined
victim of such warnings!
He reached the gates and paused before the darkened
lodge. The wind had risen and was sweeping the
snow into his face in lacerating streamers. The cold had
him in its grasp again, and he stood uncertain. Should
he put his sanity to the test and go back? He turned
and looked down the dark drive to the house. A single
ray shone through the trees, evoking a picture of the
lights, the flowers, the faces grouped about that fatal
room. He turned and plunged out into the road.
He remembered that, about a mile from Overdale,
the coachman had pointed out the road to Northridge;
and he began to walk in that direction. Once in the
road, he had the gale in his face, and the wet snow on
his moustache and eye-lashes instantly hardened to
metal. The same metal seemed to be driving a million
blades into his throat and lungs, but he pushed on,
desperately determined, the vision of the warm room
pursuing him.
The snow in the road was deep and uneven. He
stumbled across ruts and sank into drifts, and the wind
rose before him like a granite cliff. Now and then he
stopped, gasping, as if an invisible hand had tightened
an iron band about his body; then he started again,
stiffening himself against the stealthy penetration of the[400]
cold. The snow continued to descend out of a pall of
inscrutable darkness, and once or twice he paused, fearing
he had missed the road to Northridge; but, seeing
no sign of a turn, he ploughed on doggedly.
At last, feeling sure that he had walked for more
than a mile, he halted and looked back. The act of
turning brought immediate relief, first because it put
his back to the wind, and then because, far down the
road, it showed him the advancing gleam of a lantern.
A sleigh was coming—a sleigh that might perhaps give
him a lift to the village! Fortified by the hope, he began
to walk back toward the light. It seemed to come
forward very slowly, with unaccountable zigzags and
waverings; and even when he was within a few yards
of it he could catch no sound of sleigh-bells. Then the
light paused and became stationary by the roadside, as
though carried by a pedestrian who had stopped, exhausted
by the cold. The thought made Faxon hasten
on, and a moment later he was stooping over a motionless
figure huddled against the snow-bank. The lantern
had dropped from its bearer’s hand, and Faxon,
fearfully raising it, threw its light into the face of
Frank Rainer.
“Rainer! What on earth are you doing here?”
The boy smiled back through his pallor. “What are
you, I’d like to know?” he retorted; and, scrambling
to his feet with a clutch on Faxon’s arm, he added
gaily: “Well, I’ve run you down, anyhow!”
Faxon stood confounded, his heart sinking. The lad’s
face was gray.
“What madness——” he began.
“Yes, it is. What on earth did you do it for?”
“I? Do what?... Why, I ... I was just taking
a walk.... I often walk at night....”
[401]
Frank Rainer burst into a laugh. “On such nights?
Then you hadn’t bolted?”
“Bolted?”
“Because I’d done something to offend you? My
uncle thought you had.”
Faxon grasped his arm. “Did your uncle send you
after me?”
“Well, he gave me an awful rowing for not going
up to your room with you when you said you were ill.
And when we found you’d gone we were frightened—and
he was awfully upset—so I said I’d catch you....
You’re not ill, are you?”
“Ill? No. Never better.” Faxon picked up the
lantern. “Come; let’s go back. It was awfully hot in
that dining-room,” he added.
“Yes; I hoped it was only that.”
They trudged on in silence for a few minutes; then
Faxon questioned: “You’re not too done up?”
“Oh, no. It’s a lot easier with the wind behind us.”
“All right. Don’t talk any more.”
They pushed ahead, walking, in spite of the light
that guided them, more slowly than Faxon had walked
alone into the gale. The fact of his companion’s stumbling
against a drift gave him a pretext for saying:
“Take hold of my arm,” and Rainer, obeying, gasped
out: “I’m blown!”
“So am I. Who wouldn’t be?”
“What a dance you led me! If it hadn’t been for
one of the servants’ happening to see you——”
“Yes: all right. And now, won’t you kindly shut
up?”
Rainer laughed and hung on him. “Oh, the cold
doesn’t hurt me....”
For the first few minutes after Rainer had overtaken
him, anxiety for the lad had been Faxon’s only[402]
thought. But as each laboring step carried them nearer
to the spot he had been fleeing, the reasons for his flight
grew more ominous and more insistent. No, he was
not ill; he was not distraught and deluded—he was the
instrument singled out to warn and save; and here he
was, irresistibly driven, dragging the victim back to
his doom!
The intensity of the conviction had almost checked his
steps. But what could he do or say? At all costs
he must get Rainer out of the cold, into the house and
into his bed. After that he would act.
The snow-fall was thickening, and as they reached a
stretch of the road between open fields the wind took
them at an angle, lashing their faces with barbed
thongs. Rainer stopped to take breath, and Faxon felt
the heavier pressure of his arm.
“When we get to the lodge, can’t we telephone to
the stable for a sleigh?”
“If they’re not all asleep at the lodge.”
“Oh, I’ll manage. Don’t talk!” Faxon ordered; and
they plodded on....
At length the lantern ray showed ruts that curved
away from the road under tree-darkness.
Faxon’s spirits rose. “There’s the gate! We’ll be
there in five minutes.”
As he spoke he caught, above the boundary hedge,
the gleam of a light at the farther end of the dark avenue.
It was the same light that had shone on the scene
of which every detail was burnt into his brain; and
he felt again its overpowering reality. No—he couldn’t
let the boy go back!
They were at the lodge at last, and Faxon was
hammering on the door. He said to himself: “I’ll
get him inside first, and make them give him a hot
drink. Then I’ll see—I’ll find an argument....”
[403]
There was no answer to his knocking, and after an
interval Rainer said: “Look here—we’d better go on.”
“No!”
“I can, perfectly——”
“You sha’n’t go to the house, I say!” Faxon furiously
redoubled his blows, and at length steps sounded
on the stairs. Rainer was leaning against the lintel,
and as the door opened the light from the hall flashed
on his pale face and fixed eyes. Faxon caught him by
the arm and drew him in.
“It was cold out there,” he sighed; and then, abruptly,
as if invisible shears at a single stroke had cut
every muscle in his body, he swerved, drooped on
Faxon’s arm, and seemed to sink into nothing at his
feet.
The lodge-keeper and Faxon bent over him, and somehow,
between them, lifted him into the kitchen and laid
him on a sofa by the stove.
The lodge-keeper, stammering: “I’ll ring up the
house,” dashed out of the room. But Faxon heard the
words without heeding them: omens mattered nothing
now, beside this woe fulfilled. He knelt down to undo
the fur collar about Rainer’s throat, and as he did so
he felt a warm moisture on his hands. He held them
up, and they were red....
V
The palms threaded their endless line along the yellow
river. The little steamer lay at the wharf, and George
Faxon, sitting in the veranda of the wooden hotel,
idly watched the coolies carrying the freight across the
gang-plank.
He had been looking at such scenes for two months.
Nearly five had elapsed since he had descended from the[404]
train at Northridge and strained his eyes for the sleigh
that was to take him to Weymore: Weymore, which he
was never to behold!... Part of the interval—the
first part—was still a great gray blur. Even now he
could not be quite sure how he had got back to Boston,
reached the house of a cousin, and been thence transferred
to a quiet room looking out on snow under bare
trees. He looked out a long time at the same scene,
and finally one day a man he had known at Harvard
came to see him and invited him to go out on a business
trip to the Malay Peninsula.
“You’ve had a bad shake-up, and it’ll do you no end
of good to get away from things.”
When the doctor came the next day it turned out
that he knew of the plan and approved it. “You ought
to be quiet for a year. Just loaf and look at the landscape,”
he advised.
Faxon felt the first faint stirrings of curiosity.
“What’s been the matter with me, anyhow?”
“Well, over-work, I suppose. You must have been
bottling up for a bad breakdown before you started
for New Hampshire last December. And the shock of
that poor boy’s death did the rest.”
Ah, yes—Rainer had died. He remembered....
He started for the East, and gradually, by imperceptible
degrees, life crept back into his weary bones
and leaden brain. His friend was very considerate and
forbearing, and they travelled slowly and talked little.
At first Faxon had felt a great shrinking from whatever
touched on familiar things. He seldom looked at a
newspaper, he never opened a letter without a moment’s
contraction of the heart. It was not that he had any
special cause for apprehension, but merely that a great
trail of darkness lay on everything. He had looked too
deep down into the abyss.... But little by little[405]
health and energy returned to him, and with them the
common promptings of curiosity. He was beginning to
wonder how the world was going, and when, presently,
the hotel-keeper told him there were no letters for him
in the steamer’s mail-bag, he felt a distinct sense of disappointment.
His friend had gone into the jungle on a
long excursion, and he was lonely, unoccupied, and
wholesomely bored. He got up and strolled into the
stuffy reading-room.
There he found a game of dominoes, a mutilated picture-puzzle,
some copies of Zion’s Herald, and a pile of
New York and London newspapers.
He began to glance through the papers, and was disappointed
to find that they were less recent than he had
hoped. Evidently the last numbers had been carried
off by luckier travellers. He continued to turn them
over, picking out the American ones first. These, as it
happened, were the oldest: they dated back to December
and January. To Faxon, however, they had all the
flavor of novelty, since they covered the precise period
during which he had virtually ceased to exist. It had
never before occurred to him to wonder what had happened
in the world during that interval of obliteration;
but now he felt a sudden desire to know.
To prolong the pleasure, he began by sorting the
papers chronologically, and as he found and spread out
the earliest number, the date at the top of the page entered
into his consciousness like a key slipping into a
lock. It was the seventeenth of December: the date
of the day after his arrival at Northridge. He glanced
at the first page and read in blazing characters: “Reported
Failure of Opal Cement Company. Lavington’s
Name Involved. Gigantic Exposure of Corruption
Shakes Wall Street to Its Foundations.”
He read on, and when he had finished the first paper[406]
he turned to the next. There was a gap of three days,
but the Opal Cement “Investigation” still held the
centre of the stage. From its complex revelations of
greed and ruin his eye wandered to the death notices,
and he read: “Rainer. Suddenly, at Northridge, New
Hampshire, Francis John, only son of the late....”
His eyes clouded, and he dropped the newspaper and
sat for a long time with his face in his hands. When
he looked up again he noticed that his gesture had
pushed the other papers from the table and scattered
them on the floor at his feet. The uppermost lay spread
out before him, and heavily his eyes began their search
again. “John Lavington comes forward with plan for
reconstructing Company. Offers to put in ten millions
of his own—The proposal under consideration by the
District Attorney.”
Ten millions ... ten millions of his own. But if
John Lavington was ruined?... Faxon stood up with
a cry. That was it, then—that was what the warning
meant! And if he had not fled from it, dashed wildly
away from it into the night, he might have broken the
spell of iniquity, the powers of darkness might not have
prevailed! He caught up the pile of newspapers and
began to glance through each in turn for the headline:
“Wills Admitted to Probate.” In the last of
all he found the paragraph he sought, and it stared up
at him as if with Rainer’s dying eyes.
That—that was what he had done! The powers of
pity had singled him out to warn and save, and he had
closed his ears to their call, had washed his hands of it,
and fled. Washed his hands of it! That was the word.
It caught him back to the dreadful moment in the lodge
when, raising himself up from Rainer’s side, he had
looked at his hands and seen that they were red....
[407]
A MESSENGER
BY
Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
[408]
The Berserker of the North, because he believed in
the directing power of the gods, knew no fear. Death
or life—it was meted out by a destiny that could not err.
In song and story he has been one of the most attractive
figures of the past; far more attractive in his savage virtues
than the more sensuous heroes of Greece and Rome.
In this story he lives again in the American boy who
has his ancestor’s inexplicable uplift of spirit in the
presence of danger and his implicit faith in “the God of
battles and the beauty of holiness.” The ideal of Miles
Morgan is such a man as Chinese Gordon, who, not only
in youth but all through life, had eyes for “the vision
splendid.”
The ethical value of “A Messenger” may be summed
up in the words of the General: “There is nothing in
Americanism to prevent either inspiration or heroism.”
[409]
A MESSENGER[24]
How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pineons cleave
The flitting skyes, like flying Pursuivant,
Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant!
They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward,
And their bright Squadrons round about us plant;
And all for love, and nothing for reward.
O! Why should heavenly God to men have such regard?
—Spenser’s “Faerie Queene.”
That the other world of our hope rests on no distant,
shining star, but lies about us as an atmosphere, unseen
yet near, is the belief of many. The veil of material
life shades earthly eyes, they say, from the glories in
which we ever are. But sometimes when the veil wears
thin in mortal stress, or is caught away by a rushing,
mighty wind of inspiration, the trembling human soul,
so bared, so purified, may look down unimagined heavenly
vistas, and messengers may steal across the shifting
boundary, breathing hope and the air of a brighter
world. And of him who speaks his vision, men say
“He is mad,” or “He has dreamed.”
The group of officers in the tent was silent for a long
half minute after Colonel Wilson’s voice had stopped.
Then the General spoke.
“There is but one thing to do,” he said. “We must
get word to Captain Thornton at once.”
[410]
The Colonel thought deeply a moment, and glanced
at the orderly outside the tent. “Flannigan!” The
man, wheeling swiftly, saluted. “Present my compliments
to Lieutenant Morgan and say that I should like
to see him here at once,” and the soldier went off, with
the quick military precision in which there is no haste
and no delay.
“You have some fine, powerful young officers,
Colonel,” said the General casually. “I suppose we
shall see in Lieutenant Morgan one of the best. It will
take strength and brains both, perhaps, for this message.”
A shadow of a smile touched the Colonel’s lips. “I
think I have chosen a capable man, General,” was all he
said.
Against the doorway of the tent the breeze blew the
flap lazily back and forth. A light rain fell with muffled
gentle insistence on the canvas over their heads,
and out through the opening the landscape was blurred—the
wide stretch of monotonous, billowy prairie, the
sluggish, shining river, bending in the distance about
the base of Black Wind Mountain—Black Wind Mountain,
whose high top lifted, though it was almost June,
a white point of snow above dark pine ridges of the
hills below. The five officers talked a little as they
waited, but spasmodically, absent-mindedly. A shadow
blocked the light of the entrance, and in the doorway
stood a young man, undersized, slight, blond. He
looked inquiringly at the Colonel.
“You sent for me, sir?” and the General and his
aide, and the grizzled old Captain, and the big, fresh-faced
young one, all watched him.
In direct, quiet words—words whose bareness made
them dramatic for the weight of possibility they carried—the
Colonel explained. Black Wolf and his band[411]
were out on the war-path. A soldier coming in
wounded, escaped from the massacre of the post at
Devil’s Hoof Gap, had reported it. With the large
command known to be here camped on Sweetstream
Fork, they would not come this way; they would swerve
up the Gunpowder River twenty miles away, destroying
the settlement and Little Fort Slade, and would sweep
on, probably for a general massacre, up the Great Horn
as far as Fort Doncaster. He himself, with the regiment,
would try to save Fort Slade, but in the meantime
Captain Thornton’s troop, coming to join him,
ignorant that Black Wolf had taken the war-path, would
be directly in their track. Some one must be sent to
warn them, and of course the fewer the quicker. Lieutenant
Morgan would take a sergeant, the Colonel ordered
quietly, and start at once.
In the misty light inside the tent, the young officer
looked hardly more than seventeen years old as he stood
listening. His small figure was light, fragile; his hair
was blond to an extreme, a thick thatch of pale gold;
and there was about him, among these tanned, stalwart
men in uniform, a presence, an effect of something unusual,
a simplicity out of place yet harmonious, which
might have come with a little child into a scene like
this. His large blue eyes were fixed on the Colonel as
he talked, and in them was just such a look of innocent,
pleased wonder, as might be in a child’s eyes, who
had been told to leave studying and go pick violets.
But as the Colonel ended he spoke, and the few words
he said, the few questions he asked, were full of poise,
of crisp directness. As the General volunteered a word
or two, he turned to him and answered with a very
charming deference, a respect that was yet full of
gracious ease, the unconscious air of a man to whom
generals are first as men, and then as generals. The[412]
slight figure in its dark uniform was already beyond
the tent doorway when the Colonel spoke again, with a
shade of hesitation in his manner.
“Mr. Morgan!” and the young officer turned
quickly. “I think it may be right to warn you that
there is likely to be more than usual danger in your
ride.”
“Yes, sir.” The fresh, young voice had a note of inquiry.
“You will—you will”—what was it the Colonel
wanted to say? He finished abruptly. “Choose the
man carefully who goes with you.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Morgan responded heartily,
but with a hint of bewilderment. “I shall take Sergeant
O’Hara,” and he was gone.
There was a touch of color in the Colonel’s face, and
he sighed as if glad to have it over. The General
watched him, and slowly, after a pause, he demanded:
“May I ask, Colonel, why you chose that blond baby
to send on a mission of uncommon danger and importance?”
The Colonel answered quietly: “There were several
reasons, General—good ones. The blond baby”—that
ghost of a smile touched the Colonel’s lips again—“the
blond baby has some remarkable qualities. He never
loses his head; he has uncommon invention and facility
of getting out of bad holes; he rides light and so can
make a horse last longer than most, and”—the Colonel
considered a moment—“I may say he has no fear of
death. Even among my officers he is known for the
quality of his courage. There is one more reason: he is
the most popular man I have, both with officers and
men; if anything happened to Morgan the whole command
would race into hell after the devils that did it,
before they would miss their revenge.”
[413]
The General reflected, pulling at his moustache. “It
seems a bit like taking advantage of his popularity,” he
said.
“It is,” the Colonel threw back quickly. “It’s just
that. But that’s what one must do—a commanding officer—isn’t
it so, General? In this war music we play
on human instruments, and if a big chord comes out
stronger for the silence of a note, the note must be
silenced—that’s all. It’s cruel, but it’s fighting; it’s
the game.”
The General, as if impressed with the tense words,
did not respond, and the other officers stared at the
Colonel’s face, as carved, as stern as if done in marble—a
face from which the warm, strong heart seldom shone,
held back always by the stronger will.
The big, fresh-colored young Captain broke the silence.
“Has the General ever heard of the trick Morgan
played on Sun Boy, sir?” he asked.
“Tell the General, Captain Booth,” the Colonel said
briefly, and the Captain turned toward the higher officer.
“It was apropos of what the Colonel said of his inventive
faculties, General,” he began. “A year ago
the youngster with a squad of ten men walked into Sun
Boy’s camp of seventy-five warriors. Morgan had made
quite a pet of a young Sioux, who was our prisoner
for five months, and the boy had taught him a lot of
the language, and assured him that he would have the
friendship of the band in return for his kindness to
Blue Arrow—that was the chap’s name. So he thought
he was safe; but it turned out that Blue Arrow’s father,
a chief, had got into a row with Sun Boy, and the latter
would not think of ratifying the boy’s promise. So
there was Morgan with his dozen men, in a nasty enough
fix. He knew plenty of Indian talk to understand that[414]
they were discussing what they would do with him, and
it wasn’t pleasant.
“All of a sudden he had an inspiration. He tells
the story himself, sir, and I assure you he’d make you
laugh—Morgan is a wonderful mimic. Well, he remembered
suddenly, as I said, that he was a mighty good
ventriloquist, and he saw his chance. He gave a great
jump like a startled fawn, and threw up his arms and
stared like one demented into the tree over their heads.
There was a mangy-looking crow sitting up there on a
branch, and Morgan pointed at him as if at something
marvellous, supernatural, and all those fool Indians
stopped pow-wowing and stared up after him, as curious
as monkeys. Then to all appearances, the crow
began to talk. Morgan said they must have thought
that spirits didn’t speak very choice Sioux, but he did
his best. The bird cawed out:
“‘Oh, Sun Boy, great chief, beware what you do!’
“And then the real bird flapped its wings and Morgan
thought it was going to fly, and he was lost. But
it settled back again on the branch, and Morgan proceeded
to caw on:
“‘Hurt not the white man, or the curses of the gods
will come upon Sun Boy and his people.’
“And he proceeded to give a list of what would
happen if the Indians touched a hair of their heads. By
this time the red devils were all down on their stomachs,
moaning softly whenever Morgan stopped cawing. He
said he quite got into the spirit of it, and would
have liked to go on some time, but he was beginning
to get hoarse, and besides he was in deadly terror
for fear the crow would fly before he got to the point.
So he had the spirit order them to give the white men
their horses and turn them loose instanter; and just
as he got all through, off went the thing with a big[415]
flap and a parting caw on its own account. I wish I
could tell it as Morgan does—you’d think he was a bird
and an Indian rolled together. He’s a great actor
spoiled, that lad.”
“You leave out a fine point, to my mind, Captain
Booth,” the Colonel said quickly. “About his going
back.”
“Oh! certainly that ought to be told,” said the Captain,
and the General’s eyes turned to him again.
“Morgan forgot to see young Blue Arrow, his friend,
before he got away, and nothing would do but that he
should go back and speak to him. He said the boy would
be disappointed. The men were visibly uneasy at his
going, but that didn’t affect him. He ordered them to
wait, and back he went, pell-mell, all alone into that
horde of fiends. They hadn’t got over their funk,
luckily, and he saw Blue Arrow and made his party
call and got out again all right. He didn’t tell that
himself, but Sergeant O’Hara made the camp ring with
it. He adores Morgan, and claims that he doesn’t know
what fear is. I believe it’s about so. I’ve seen him in a
fight three times now. His cap always goes off—he loses
a cap every blessed scrimmage—and with that yellow
mop of hair, and a sort of rapt expression he gets, he
looks like a child saying its prayers all the time he is
slashing and shooting like a berserker.” Captain Booth
faced abruptly toward the Colonel. “I beg your pardon
for talking so long, sir,” he said. “You know
we’re all rather keen about little Miles Morgan.”
The General lifted his head suddenly. “Miles Morgan?”
he demanded. “Is his name Miles Morgan?”
The Colonel nodded. “Yes. The grandson of the
old Bishop—named for him.”
“Lord!” ejaculated the General. “Miles Morgan
was my earliest friend, my friend until he died! This[416]
must be Jim’s son—Miles’s only child. And Jim is
dead these ten years,” he went on rapidly. “I’ve lost
track of him since the Bishop died, but I knew Jim left
children. Why, he married”—he searched rapidly
in his memory—“he married a daughter of General
Fitzbrian’s. This boy’s got the church and the army
both in him. I knew his mother,” he went on, talking
to the Colonel, garrulous with interest. “Irish and
fascinating she was—believed in fairies and ghosts and
all that, as her father did before her. A clever woman,
but with the superstitious, wild Irish blood strong in
her. Good Lord! I wish I’d known that was Miles
Morgan’s grandson.”
The Colonel’s voice sounded quiet and rather cold
after the General’s impulsive enthusiasm. “You have
summed him up by his antecedents, General,” he said.
“The church and the army—both strains are strong.
He is deeply religious.”
The General looked thoughtful. “Religious, eh?
And popular? They don’t always go together.”
Captain Booth spoke quickly. “It’s not that kind,
General,” he said. “There’s no cant in the boy. He’s
more popular for it—that’s often so with the genuine
thing, isn’t it? I sometimes think”—the young Captain
hesitated and smiled a trifle deprecatingly—“that
Morgan is much of the same stuff as Gordon—Chinese
Gordon; the martyr stuff, you know. But it seems a
bit rash to compare an every-day American youngster
to an inspired hero.”
“There’s nothing in Americanism to prevent either
inspiration or heroism that I know of,” the General affirmed
stoutly, his fine old head up, his eyes gleaming
with pride of his profession.
Out through the open doorway, beyond the slapping
tent-flap, the keen, gray eyes of the Colonel were fixed[417]
musingly on two black points which crawled along the
edge of the dulled silver of the distant river—Miles
Morgan and Sergeant O’Hara had started.
“Sergeant!” They were eight miles out now, and
the camp had disappeared behind the elbow of Black
Wind Mountain. “There’s something wrong with your
horse. Listen! He’s not loping evenly.” The soft
cadence of eight hoofs on earth had somewhere a lighter
and then a heavier note; the ear of a good horseman
tells in a minute, as a musician’s ear at a false note,
when an animal saves one foot ever so slightly, to come
down harder on another.
“Yessirr. The Lieutenant’ll remimber ’tis the horrse
that had a bit of a spavin. Sure I thot ’twas cured, and
’tis the kindest baste in the rigiment f’r a pleasure ride,
sorr—that willin’ ’tis. So I tuk it. I think ’tis only
the stiffness at furrst aff. ’Twill wurruk aff later.
Plaze God, I’ll wallop him.” And the Sergeant walloped
with a will.
But the kindest beast in the regiment failed to respond
except with a plunge and increased lameness. Soon
there was no more question of his incapacity.
Lieutenant Morgan halted his mount, and, looking at
the woe-begone O’Hara, laughed. “A nice trick this is,
Sergeant,” he said, “to start out on a trip to dodge
Indians with a spavined horse. Why didn’t you get a
broomstick? Now go back to camp as fast as you can go;
and that horse ought to be blistered when you get there.
See if you can’t really cure him. He’s too good to be
shot.” He patted the gray’s nervous head, and the
beast rubbed it gently against his sleeve, quiet under his
hand.
“Yessirr. The Lieutenant’ll ride slow, sorr, f’r me
to catch up on ye, sorr?”
[418]
Miles Morgan smiled and shook his head. “Sorry,
Sergeant, but there’ll be no slow riding in this. I’ll have
to press right on without you; I must be at Massacre
Mountain to-night to catch Captain Thornton to-morrow.”
Sergeant O’Hara’s chin dropped. “Sure the Lieutenant’ll
niver be thinkin’ to g’wan alone—widout
me?” and with all the Sergeant’s respect for his superiors,
it took the Lieutenant ten valuable minutes to
get the man started back, shaking his head and muttering
forebodings, to the camp.
It was quiet riding on alone. There were a few miles
to go before there was any chance of Indians, and no
particular lookout to be kept, so he put the horse
ahead rapidly while he might, and suddenly he found
himself singing softly as he galloped. How the words
had come to him he did not know, for no conscious train
of thought had brought them; but they surely fitted to
the situation, and a pleasant sense of companionship, of
safety, warmed him as the swing of an old hymn carried
his voice along with it.
“God shall charge His angel legions
Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;
Though thou walk through hostile regions,
Though in desert wilds thou sleep.”
Surely a man riding toward—perhaps through—skulking
Indian hordes, as he must, could have no better
message reach him than that. The bent of his mind
was toward mysticism, and while he did not think the
train of reasoning out, could not have said that he believed
it so, yet the familiar lines flashing suddenly,
clearly, on the curtain of his mind, seemed to him, very
simply, to be sent from a larger thought than his own.
As a child might take a strong hand held out as it[419]
walked over rough country, so he accepted this quite
readily and happily, as from that Power who was never
far from him, and in whose service, beyond most people,
he lived and moved. Low but clear and deep his voice
went on, following one stanza with its mate:
“Since with pure and firm affection
Thou on God hast set thy love,
With the wings of His protection
He will shield thee from above.”
The simplicity of his being sheltered itself in the
broad promise of the words.
Light-heartedly he rode on and on, though now more
carefully; lying flat and peering over the crests of hills
a long time before he crossed their tops; going miles
perhaps through ravines; taking advantage of every bit
of cover where a man and a horse might be hidden;
travelling as he had learned to travel in three years of
experience in this dangerous Indian country, where a
shrub taken for granted might mean a warrior, and that
warrior a hundred others within signal. It was his
plan to ride until about twelve—to reach Massacre
Mountain, and there rest his horse and himself till gray
daylight. There was grass there and a spring—two
good and innocent things that had been the cause of
the bad, dark thing which had given the place its name.
A troop under Captain James camping at this point,
because of the water and grass, had been surprised and
wiped out by five hundred Indian braves of the wicked
and famous Red Crow. There were ghastly signs about
the place yet; Morgan had seen them, but soldiers may
not have nerves, and it was good camping ground.
On through the valleys and half-way up the slopes,
which rolled here far away into a still wilder world, the
young man rode. Behind the distant hills in the east a[420]
glow like fire flushed the horizon. A rim of pale gold
lifted sharply over the ridge; a huge round ball of light
pushed faster, higher, and lay, a bright world on the
edge of the world, great against the sky—the moon had
risen. The twilight trembled as the yellow rays struck
into its depths, and deepened, dying into purple
shadows. Across the plain zigzagged the pools of a level
stream, as if a giant had spilled handfuls of quicksilver
here and there.
Miles Morgan, riding, drank in all the mysterious, wild,
beauty, as a man at ease; as open to each fair impression
as if he were not riding each moment into deeper
danger, as if his every sense were not on guard. On
through the shining moonlight and in the shadow of
the hills he rode, and, where he might, through the
trees, and stopped to listen often, to stare at the hill-tops,
to question a heap of stones or a bush.
At last, when his leg-weary horse was beginning to
stumble a bit, he saw, as he came around a turn, Massacre
Mountain’s dark head rising in front of him, only
half a mile away. The spring trickled its low song, as
musical, as limpidly pure as if it had never run scarlet.
The picketed horse fell to browsing and Miles sighed
restfully as he laid his head on his saddle and fell instantly
to sleep with the light of the moon on his damp,
fair hair. But he did not sleep long. Suddenly with
a start he awoke, and sat up sharply, and listened. He
heard the horse still munching grass near him, and
made out the shadow of its bulk against the sky; he
heard the stream, softly falling and calling to the waters
where it was going. That was all. Strain his hearing
as he might he could hear nothing else in the still night.
Yet there was something. It might not be sound or
sight, but there was a presence, a something—he could
not explain. He was alert in every nerve. Suddenly[421]
the words of the hymn he had been singing in the afternoon
flashed again into his mind, and, with his cocked
revolver in his hand, alone, on guard, in the midnight
of the savage wilderness, the words came that were not
even a whisper:
“God shall charge His angel legions
Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;
Though thou walk through hostile regions,
Though in desert wilds thou sleep.”
He gave a contented sigh and lay down. What was
there to worry about? It was just his case for which
the hymn was written. “Desert wilds”—that surely
meant Massacre Mountain, and why should he not sleep
here quietly, and let the angels keep their watch and
ward? He closed his eyes with a smile. But sleep
did not come, and soon his eyes were open again, staring
into blackness, thinking, thinking.
It was Sunday when he started out on this mission,
and he fell to remembering the Sunday nights at home—long,
long ago they seemed now. The family sang hymns
after supper always; his mother played, and the children
stood around her—five of them, Miles and his
brothers and sisters. There was a little sister with
brown hair about her shoulders, who always stood by
Miles, leaned against him, held his hand, looked up at
him with adoring eyes—he could see those uplifted
eyes now, shining through the darkness of this lonely
place. He remembered the big, home-like room; the
crackling fire; the peaceful atmosphere of books and
pictures; the dumb things about its walls that were yet
eloquent to him of home and family; the sword that his
great-grandfather had worn under Washington; the old
ivories that another great-grandfather, the Admiral, had
brought from China; the portraits of Morgans of half a[422]
dozen generations which hung there; the magazine
table, the books and books and books. A pang of desperate
homesickness suddenly shook him. He wanted
them—his own. Why should he, their best-beloved,
throw away his life—a life filled to the brim with hope
and energy and high ideals—on this futile quest? He
knew quite as well as the General or the Colonel that
his ride was but a forlorn hope. As he lay there, longing
so, in the dangerous dark, he went about the library
at home in his thought and placed each familiar belonging
where he had known it all his life. And as he finished,
his mother’s head shone darkly golden by the
piano; her fingers swept over the keys; he heard all
their voices, the dear never-forgotten voices. Hark!
They were singing his hymn—little Alice’s reedy note
lifted above the others—“God shall charge His angel
legions——”
Now! He was on his feet with a spring, and his revolver
pointed steadily. This time there was no mistaking—something
had rustled in the bushes. There
was but one thing for it to be—Indians. Without realizing
what he did, he spoke sharply.
“Who goes there?” he demanded, and out of the
darkness a voice answered quietly:
“A friend.”
“A friend?” With a shock of relief the pistol
dropped by his side, and he stood tense, waiting. How
might a friend be here, at midnight in this desert? As
the thought framed itself swiftly the leaves parted, and
his straining eyes saw the figure of a young man standing
before him.
“How came you here?” demanded Miles sternly.
“Who are you?”
Even in the dimness he could see the radiant smile
that answered him. The calm voice spoke again: “You[423]
will understand that later. I am here to help
you.”
As if a door had suddenly opened into that lighted
room of which he dreamed, Miles felt a sense of tranquillity,
of happiness stirring through him. Never in
his life had he known such a sudden utter confidence in
any one, such a glow of eager friendliness as this half-seen,
mysterious stranger inspired. “It is because I
was lonelier than I knew,” he said mentally. “It is because
human companionship gives courage to the
most self-reliant of us;” and somewhere in the words
he was aware of a false note, but he did not stop to
place it.
The low, even voice of the stranger spoke again.
“There are Indians on your trail,” he said. “A small
band of Black Wolf’s scouts. But don’t be troubled.
They will not hurt you.”
“You escaped from them?” demanded Miles eagerly,
and again the light of a swift smile shone into the night.
“You came to save me—how was it? Tell me, so that
we can plan. It is very dark yet, but hadn’t we better
ride? Where is your horse?”
He threw the earnest questions rapidly across the
black night, and the unhurried voice answered him.
“No,” it said, and the verdict was not to be disputed.
“You must stay here.”
Who this man might be or how he came Miles could
not tell, but this much he knew, without reason for
knowing it; it was some one stronger than he, in whom
he could trust. As the new-comer had said, it would be
time enough later to understand the rest. Wondering
a little at his own swift acceptance of an unknown authority,
wondering more at the peace which wrapped
him as an atmosphere at the sound of the stranger’s
voice, Miles made a place for him by his side, and the[424]
two talked softly to the plashing undertone of the
stream.
Easily, naturally, Miles found himself telling how he
had been homesick, longing for his people. He told him
of the big familiar room, and of the old things that
were in it, that he loved; of his mother; of little Alice,
and her baby adoration for the big brother; of how
they had always sung hymns together Sunday night;
he never for a moment doubted the stranger’s interest
and sympathy—he knew that he cared to hear.
“There is a hymn,” Miles said, “that we used to
sing a lot—it was my favorite; ’Miles’s hymn,’ the
family called it. Before you came to-night, while I
lay there getting lonelier every minute, I almost thought
I heard them singing it. You may not have heard it,
but it has a grand swing. I always think”—he hesitated—“it
always seems to me as if the God of battles
and the beauty of holiness must both have filled the
man’s mind who wrote it.” He stopped, surprised at
his own lack of reserve, at the freedom with which, to
this friend of an hour, he spoke his inmost heart.
“I know,” the stranger said gently. There was silence
for a moment, and then the wonderful low tones,
beautiful, clear, beyond any voice Miles had ever heard,
began again, and it was as if the great sweet notes of
an organ whispered the words:
“God shall charge His angel legions
Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;
Though thou walk through hostile regions,
Though in desert wilds thou sleep.”
“Great Heavens!” gasped Miles. “How could you
know I meant that? Why, this is marvellous—why,
this”—he stared, speechless, at the dim outlines of the
face which he had never seen before to-night, but which[425]
seemed to him already familiar and dear beyond all
reason. As he gazed the tall figure rose, lightly towering
above him. “Look!” he said, and Miles was on
his feet. In the east, beyond the long sweep of the
prairie, was a faint blush against the blackness; already
threads of broken light, of pale darkness, stirred
through the pall of the air; the dawn was at hand.
“We must saddle,” Miles said, “and be off. Where
is your horse picketed?” he demanded again.
But the strange young man stood still; and now his
arm was stretched pointing. “Look,” he said again, and
Miles followed the direction with his eyes.
From the way he had come, in that fast-growing glow
at the edge of the sky, sharp against the mist of the
little river, crept slowly half a dozen pin points, and
Miles, watching their tiny movement, knew that they
were ponies bearing Indian braves. He turned hotly to
his companion.
“It’s your fault,” he said. “If I’d had my way
we’d have ridden from here an hour ago. Now here
we are caught like rats in a trap; and who’s to do my
work and save Thornton’s troop—who’s to save them—God!”
The name was a prayer, not an oath.
“Yes,” said the quiet voice at his side, “God,”—and
for a second there was a silence that was like an
Amen.
Quickly, without a word, Miles turned and began to
saddle. Then suddenly, as he pulled at the girth, he
stopped. “It’s no use,” he said. “We can’t get
away except over the rise, and they’ll see us there;”
he nodded at the hill which rose beyond the camping
ground three hundred yards away, and stretched in a
long, level sweep into other hills and the west. “Our
chance is that they’re not on my trail after all—it’s
quite possible.” There was a tranquil unconcern about[426]
the figure near him; his own bright courage caught the
meaning of its relaxed lines with a bound of pleasure.
“As you say, it’s best to stay here,” he said, and as if
thinking aloud—“I believe you must always be right.”
Then he added, as if his very soul would speak itself
to this wonderful new friend: “We can’t be killed,
unless the Lord wills it, and if he does it’s right. Death
is only the step into life; I suppose when we know that
life, we will wonder how we could have cared for this
one.”
Through the gray light the stranger turned his face
swiftly, bent toward Miles, and smiled once again, and
the boy thought suddenly of the martyrdom of St. Stephen,
and how those who were looking “saw his face
as it had been the face of an angel.”
Across the plain, out of the mist-wreaths, came rushing,
scurrying, the handful of Indian braves. Pale light
streamed now from the east, filtering over a hushed
world. Miles faced across the plain, stood close to the
tall stranger whose shape, as the dawn touched it, seemed
to rise beyond the boy’s slight figure wonderfully large
and high. There was a sense of unending power, of
alertness of great, easy movement about him; one might
have looked at him, and looking away again, have said
that wings were folded about him. But Miles did not
see him. His eyes were on the fast-nearing, galloping
ponies, each with its load of filthy, cruel savagery. This
was his death coming; there was disgust, but not dread
in the thought for the boy. In a few minutes he should
be fighting hopelessly, fiercely against this froth of a
lower world; in a few minutes after that he should be
lying here still—for he meant to be killed; he had that
planned. They should not take him—a wave of sick repulsion
at that thought shook him. Nearer, nearer, right
on his track came the riders pell-mell. He could hear[427]
their weird, horrible cries; now he could see gleaming
through the dimness the huge head-dress of the foremost,
the white coronet of feathers, almost the stripes of paint
on the fierce face.
Suddenly a feeling that he knew well caught him,
and he laughed. It was the possession that had held
in him in every action which he had so far been in. It
lifted his high-strung spirit into an atmosphere where
there was no dread and no disgust, only a keen rapture
in throwing every atom of soul and body into physical
intensity; it was as if he himself were a bright blade,
dashing, cutting, killing, a living sword rejoicing to
destroy. With the coolness that may go with such a
frenzy he felt that his pistols were loose; saw with
satisfaction that he and his new ally were placed on the
slope to the best advantage, then turned swiftly, eager
now for the fight to come, toward the Indian band. As
he looked, suddenly in mid-career, pulling in their plunging
ponies with a jerk that threw them, snorting, on
their haunches, the warriors halted. Miles watched in
amazement. The bunch of Indians, not more than a
hundred yards away, were staring, arrested, startled,
back of him to his right, where the lower ridge of Massacre
Mountain stretched far and level over the valley
that wound westward beneath it on the road to Fort
Rain-and-Thunder. As he gazed, the ponies had swept
about and were galloping back as they had come, across
the plain.
Before he knew if it might be true, if he were not
dreaming this curious thing, the clear voice of his companion
spoke in one word again, like the single note of
a deep bell. “Look!” he said, and Miles swung about
toward the ridge behind, following the pointing finger.
In the gray dawn the hill-top was clad with the still
strength of an army. Regiment after regiment, silent,[428]
motionless, it stretched back into silver mist, and the
mist rolled beyond, above, about it; and through it he
saw, as through rifts in broken gauze, lines interminable
of soldiers, glitter of steel. Miles, looking, knew.
He never remembered how long he stood gazing, earth
and time and self forgotten, at a sight not meant for
mortal eyes; but suddenly, with a stab it came to him,
that if the hosts of heaven fought his battle it was that
he might do his duty, might save Captain Thornton and
his men; he turned to speak to the young man who had
been with him. There was no one there. Over the
bushes the mountain breeze blew damp and cold; they
rustled softly under its touch; his horse stared at
him mildly; away off at the foot-hills he could see
the diminishing dots of the fleeing Indian ponies; as he
wheeled again and looked, the hills that had been covered
with the glory of heavenly armies, lay hushed and
empty. And his friend was gone.
Clatter of steel, jingle of harness, an order ringing
out far but clear—Miles threw up his head sharply and
listened. In a second he was pulling at his horse’s
girth, slipping the bit swiftly into its mouth—in a moment
more he was off and away to meet them, as a body
of cavalry swung out of the valley where the ridge had
hidden them.
“Captain Thornton’s troop?” the officer repeated
carelessly. “Why, yes; they are here with us. We
picked them up yesterday, headed straight for Black
Wolf’s war-path. Mighty lucky we found them. How
about you—seen any Indians, have you?”
Miles answered slowly: “A party of eight were
on my trail; they were riding for Massacre Mountain,
where I camped, about an hour—about half an hour—awhile
ago.” He spoke vaguely, rather oddly, the officer
thought. “Something—stopped them about a hundred[429]
yards from the mountain. They turned, and rode
away.”
“Ah,” said the officer. “They saw us down the
valley.”
“I couldn’t see you,” said Miles.
The officer smiled. “You’re not an Indian, Lieutenant.
Besides, they were out on the plain and had a
farther view behind the ridge.” And Miles answered
not a word.
General Miles Morgan, full of years and of honors,
has never but twice told the story of that night of forty
years ago. But he believes that when his time comes,
and he goes to join the majority, he will know again
the presence which guarded him through the blackness
of it, and among the angel legions he looks to find an
angel, a messenger, who was his friend.
[430]
[431]
MARKHEIM
BY
Robert Louis Stevenson
[432]
In one of the old Greek tragedies, after the actors on
the stage have played their parts and the chorus in the
orchestra below has hinted mysteriously of crime and
retribution, the doors of the palace in the background
suddenly fly apart. There stands the criminal queen.
She confesses her crime and explains the reason for it.
So sometimes a story opens the doors of a character’s
heart and mind, and invites us to look within. Such
a story is called psychological. Sometimes there is action,
not for action’s sake, but for its revelation of character.
Sometimes nothing happens. “This,” says Bliss
Perry, “may be precisely what most interests us, because
we are made to understand what it is that inhibits
action.” In the story of this type we see the moods of
the character; we watch motives appear, encounter other
motives, and retreat or advance. In short, we are allowed
to observe the man’s mental processes until we
understand him.
The emotional value of this story may be stated in
the words of C. T. Winchester:
“We may lay it down as a rule that those emotions
which are intimately related to the conduct of life are
of higher rank than those which are not; and that, consequently,
the emotions highest of all are those related
to the deciding forces of life the affections, and the
conscience.”
[433]
MARKHEIM[25]
“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!”
[434]
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[435]
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 favored,”
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[436]
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 great-coat; 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[437]
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[438]
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 designs,
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;[439]
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 rumor of the struggle must
have reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity;
and now, in all the neighboring 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 startlingly 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 humor, but all, by
their own hearts, 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 neighbor 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[440]
was; he had watched the servant set forth sweethearting,
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
come 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 neighborhood,
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:[441]
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 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 colored: Brownrigg 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[442]
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 realize 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.
[443]
The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the
bare floor and stairs; on the bright suit of armor 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 story, 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[444]
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, superstitious 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[445]
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 neighbors.
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-fliers 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[446]
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 every-day
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.”
[447]
“You know me?” cried the murderer.
The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favorite
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; my self 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[448]
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 color 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[449]
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 death-bed, 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 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[450]
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 offered 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.
[451]
“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 worst, 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 he,
“through many changes of fortune and varieties of
humor, 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,[452]
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 demeanor.
“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[453]
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 clamor.
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.”
FOOTNOTES:
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
