The Project Gutenberg eBook of Great Short Stories, Volume II: Ghost Stories (2025)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74549 ***

Theophile Gautier

Edited by William Patten

A NEW COLLECTION
OF FAMOUS EXAMPLES
FROM THE LITERATURES
OF FRANCE,
ENGLAND AND AMERICA

VOLUME II

GHOST
STORIES

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1906
BY P. F. COLLIER & SON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LA MORTE AMOREUSE By Theophile Gautier

THE RED ROOM By H. G. Wells

THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW By Rudyard Kipling

THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF By A. T. Quiller-Couch

THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN By Lord Edward Bulwer-Lytton

THE DREAM-WOMAN By Wilkie Collins

GREEN BRANCHES By Fiona Macleod

A BEWITCHED SHIP By W. Clark Russell

THE SIGNAL-MAN By Charles Dickens

THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS By Amelia B. Edwards

OUR LAST WALK By Hugh Conway

THRAWN JANET By Robert Louis Stevenson

A CHRISTMAS CAROL By Charles Dickens

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM By Washington Irving

THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH By Erckmann-Chatrian

MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE By Nathaniel Hawthorne

THE WHITE OLD MAID By Nathaniel Hawthorne

WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE By Sir Walter Scott

LA MORTE AMOREUSE

BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER

Theophile Gautier (born 1811, died 1872)began life as a painter, turned to poetry andfinally adopted prose forms for the expressionof his ideas. Always an enthusiastic apostleof romanticism, he lived in an atmosphere ofOriental splendor. His style is unusually richand sensuous, and has exerted a considerableinfluence on the present generation of writers.

LA MORTE AMOREUSE

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

Have I ever loved, you ask me, my brother? Yes,I have loved! The story is dread and marvelous,and, for all my threescore years, I scarce dare stirthe ashes of that memory. To you I can refusenothing; to a heart less steeled than yours this tale couldnever be told by me. For these things were so strange thatI can scarce believe they came into my own existence. Threelong years was I the puppet of a delusion of the devil.Three long years was I a parish priest by day, while bynight, in dreams (God grant they were but dreams!), I ledthe life of a child of this world, of a lost soul! For onekind glance at a woman's face was my spirit to be doomed;but at length, with God to aid and my patron saint, it wasgiven to me to drive away the evil spirit that possessed me.

I lived a double life, by night and by day. All day longwas I a pure priest of the Lord, concerned only with prayerand holy things; but no sooner did I close my eyes in sleepthan I was a young knight, a lover of women, of horses, ofhounds, a drinker, a dicer, a blasphemer, and, when I wokeat dawn, meseemed that I was fallen on sleep, and did butdream that I was a priest. For those years of dreamingcertain memories yet remain with me; memories of words andthings that will not down. Ay, though I have never left thewalls of my vicarage, he who heard me would rather takeme for one that had lived in the world and left it, to diein religion, and end in the breast of God his tumultuousdays, than for a priest grown old in a forgotten curé, deepin a wood, and far from the things of this earth.

Yes, I have loved as never man loved, with a wild loveand a terrible, so that I marvel my heart did not burst intwain. Oh, the nights of long ago!

From my earliest childhood had I felt the call to be apriest. This was the end of all my studies, and, till I wastwenty-four, my days were one long training. My theologicalcourse achieved, I took the lesser orders, and at length,at the end of Holy Week, was to be the hour of my ordination.

I had never entered the world; my world was the collegeclose. Vaguely I knew that woman existed, but of womanI never thought. My heart was wholly pure. Even my oldand infirm mother I saw but twice a year; of other worldlyrelations I had none.

I had no regrets and no hesitation in taking theirrevocable vow; nay, I was full of an impatient joy. Neverdid a young bridegroom so eagerly count the hours of hiswedding. In my broken sleep I dreamed of saying theMass. To be a priest seemed to me the noblest thing inthe world, and I would have disdained the estate of poet orof king. To be a priest! My ambition saw nothing higher.

All this I tell you that you may know how little Ideserve that which befell me; that you may know howinexplicable was the fascination by which I was overcome.

The great day came, and I walked to church as if I werewinged or trod on air. I felt an angelic beatitude, andmarveled at the gloomy and thoughtful faces of my companions,for we were many. The night I had passed in prayer. Iwas all but entranced in ecstasy. The bishop, a venerableold man, was in my eyes like God the Father bowed aboveHis own eternity, and I seemed to see heaven open beyondthe arches of the minster.

You know the ceremony: the Benediction, the Communionin both kinds, the anointing of the palms of thehands with consecrated oil, and finally the celebration of theHoly Rite, offered up in company with the bishop. On thesethings I will not linger, but oh, how true is the word of Job,that he is foolish who maketh not a covenant with his eyes!I chanced to raise my head and saw before me, so near thatit seemed I could touch her, though in reality she was atsome distance, and on the farther side of the railing, a youngdame royally clad, and of incomparable beauty.

It was as if scales had fallen from my eyes; and I feltlike a blind man who suddenly recovers his sight. Thebishop, so splendid a moment ago, seemed to fade; throughall the church was darkness, and the candles paled in theirsconces of gold, like stars at dawn. Against the gloom thatlovely thing shone out like a heavenly revelation, seemingherself to be the fountain of light, and to give it rather thanreceive it. I cast down my eyes, vowing that I would notraise them again; my attention was failing, and I scarce knewwhat I did. The moment afterward, I opened my eyes, forthrough my eyelids I saw her glittering in a bright penumbra,as when one has stared at the sun. Ah! how beautiful shewas! The greatest painters, when they have sought in heavenfor ideal beauty, and have brought to earth the portrait ofour Lady, come never near the glory of this vision! Pen ofpoet, or palette of painter, can give no idea of her. She wastall, with the carriage of a goddess; her fair hair flowed abouther brows in rivers of gold. Like a crowned queen she stoodthere, with her broad white brow, and dark eyebrows; withher eyes that had the brightness and life of the green sea,and at one glance made or marred the destiny of a man.They were astonishingly clear and brilliant, shooting rays likearrows, which I could actually see winging straight for myheart. I know not if the flame that lighted them came fromheaven or hell, but from one or other assuredly it came.

Angel or devil, or both; this woman was no child of Eve,the mother of us all. White teeth shone in her smile, littledimples came and went with each movement of her mouth,among the roses of her cheeks. There was a lustre as ofagate on the smooth and shining skin of her half-clad shoulders,and chains of great pearls no whiter than her neck fellover her breast. From time to time she lifted her head insnake-like motion, and set the silvery ruffles of her raimentquivering. She wore a flame-colored velvet robe, and fromthe ermine lining of her sleeves her delicate hands came andwent as transparent as the fingers of the dawn. As I gazedon her, I felt within me as it were the opening of gates thathad ever been barred; I saw sudden vistas of an unknownfuture; all life seemed altered, new thoughts wakened in myheart. A horrible pain took possession of me; each minuteseemed at once a moment and an age. The ceremony wenton and on, and I was being carried far from the world, atwhose gates my new desires were beating. I said "Yes,"when I wished to say "No," when my whole soul protestedagainst the words my tongue was uttering. A hidden forceseemed to drag them from me. This it is perhaps whichmakes so many young girls walk to the altar with the firmresolve to refuse the husband who is forced on them, and thisis why not one of them does what she intends. This is whyso many poor novices take the veil, though they are determinedto tear it into shreds, rather than pronounce the vows.None dares cause so great a scandal before so many observers,nor thus betray such general expectation. The will ofall imposes itself on you; the gaze of all weighs upon you likea cope of lead. And again, all is so clearly arranged inadvance, so evidently irrevocable, that the intention of refusalis crushed, and disappears.

The expression of the unknown beauty changed as theceremony advanced. Tender and caressing at first, it becamecontemptuous and disdainful. With an effort that might havemoved a mountain, I strove to cry out that I would neverbe a priest; it was in vain; my tongue clave to the roof of mymouth; I could not refuse even by a sign. Though wideawake, I seemed to be in one of those nightmares, whereinfor your life you can not utter the word on which your lifedepends. She appeared to understand the torture which Iendured, and cast on me a glance of divine pity and divinepromise. "Be mine," she seemed to say, "and I shall makethee happier than God and heaven, and His angels will bejealous of thee. Tear that shroud of death wherein thou artswathed, for I am beauty, and I am youth, and I am life;come to me and we shall be love. What can Jehovah offerthee in exchange for thy youth? Our life will flow like adream in the eternity of a kiss. Spill but the wine from thatchalice, and thou are free, and I will carry thee to theunknown isles, and thou shalt sleep on my breast in a bed ofgold beneath a canopy of silver, for I love thee and wouldfain take thee from thy God, before whom so many noblehearts pour forth the incense of their love, which dies beforeit reaches the heaven where He dwells." These words Iseemed to hear singing in the sweetest of tunes, for there wasa music in her look, and the words which her eyes sent to meresounded in my heart as if they had been whispered in mysoul. I was ready to foreswear God, and yet I went dulythrough each rite of the ceremony. She cast me a secondglance, so full of entreaty and despair, that I felt moreswords pierce my breast than stabbed the heart of our Ladyof Sorrows.

It was over, and I was a priest.

Then never did human face declare so keen a sorrow: thegirl who sees her betrothed fall dead at her side, the motherby the empty cradle of her child, Eve at the gate of Paradise,the miser who seeks his treasure and finds a stone, even theylook less sorely smitten, less inconsolable.

The blood left her fair face pale, white as marble sheseemed; her lovely arms fell powerless, her feet failedbeneath her, and she leaned against a pillar of the church.For me, I staggered to the door, with a white, wet face,breathless, with all the weight of all the dome upon my head.As I was crossing the threshold, a hand seized mine, awoman's hand. I had never felt before a woman's hand inmine. It was cold as the skin of a serpent, yet it burned melike a brand. "Miserable man, what hast thou done?" shewhispered, and was lost in the crowd.

The old bishop paused, and gazed severely at me, whowas a piteous spectacle, now red, now pale, giddy, and faint.One of my fellows had compassion on me, and led me home.I could not have found the way alone. At the corner of astreet, while the young priest's head was turned, a blackpage, strangely clad, came up to me, and gave me, as hepassed, a little leathern case, with corners of wrought gold,signing me to hide it. I thrust it into my sleeve, and therekept it till I was alone in my cell. Then I opened the clasp;there were but these words written: "Clarimonde, at thePalazzo Concini." So little of a worldling was I, that I hadnever heard of Clarimonde, despite her fame, nay, nor knewwhere the Palazzo Concini might be. I made a myriadguesses, each wilder than the other; but, truth to tell, so Idid but see her again, I recked little whether Clarimondewere a noble lady, or no better than one of the wicked.

This love, thus born in an hour, had struck root too deepfor me to dream of casting it from my heart. This womanhad made me utterly her own, a glance had been enough tochange me, her will had passed upon me; I lived not formyself, but in her and for her.

Many mad things did I, kissing my hand where hers hadtouched it, repeating her name for hours: Clarimonde,Clarimonde! I had but to close my eyes, and I saw her asdistinctly as if she had been present. Then I murmured tomyself the words that beneath the church porch she had spoken:"Miserable man, what hast thou done?" I felt all the horrorof that strait wherein I was, and the dead and terrible aspectof the life that I had chosen was now revealed. To be apriest! Never to love, to know youth nor sex, to turn frombeauty, to close the eyes, to crawl in the chill shade of acloister or a church; to see none but deathly men, to watchby the nameless corpses of folk unknown, to wear a cassocklike my own mourning for myself, my own raiment for mycoffin's pall.

Then life arose in me like a lake in flood, my bloodcoursed in my veins, my youth burst forth in a moment; likethe aloe, which flowers but once in a hundred years, andbreaks into blossom with a sound of thunder!

How was I again to have sight of Clarimonde? I hadno excuse for leaving the seminary, for I knew nobody intown, and indeed was only waiting till I should be appointedto my parish. I tried to remove the bars of the window, butto descend without a ladder was impossible. Then, again, Icould only escape by night, when I should be lost in thelabyrinth of streets. These difficulties, which would havebeen nothing to others, were enormous to a poor priest likeme, now first fallen in love, without experience, or money,or knowledge of the world.

Ah, had I not been a priest I might have seen her everyday, I might have been her lover, her husband, I said tomyself in the blindness of my heart. In place of being swathedin a cassock I might have worn silk and velvet, chains ofgold, a sword and feather like all the fair young knights.My locks would not be tonsured, but would fall in perfumedcurls about my neck. But one hour spent before an altar,and some gabbled words, had cut me off from the companyof the living. With my own hand I had sealed the stoneupon my tomb, and turned the key in the lock of myprison!

I walked to the window. The sky was heavenly blue, thetrees had clothed them in the raiment of spring, all naturesmiled with mockery in her smile. The square was full ofpeople coming and going: young exquisites, young beauties,two by two, were walking in the direction of the gardens.Workmen sang drinking songs as they passed; on all sideswere a life, a movement, a gaiety that did but increase mysorrow and my solitude. A young mother, on the steps ofthe gate, was playing with her child, kissing its little rosymouth, with a thousand of the caresses, the childlike and thedivine caresses that are the secret of mothers. Hard by thefather, with folded arms above a happy heart, smiled sweetlyas he watched them. I could not endure the sight. I shutthe window, and threw myself on the bed in a horriblejealousy and hatred, so that I gnawed my fingers and mycoverlet like a starved wild beast.

How many days I lay thus I know not, but at last, as Iturned in a spasm of rage, I saw the Abbé Sérapion curiouslyconsidering me. I bowed my head in shame, and hid my facewith my hands. "Romuald, my friend," said he, "somestrange thing hath befallen thee. Satan hath desired to havethee, that he may sift thee like wheat; he goeth about theeto devour thee like a raging lion. Beware and make thyselfa breastplate of prayer, a shield of the mortifying of the flesh.Fight, and thou shalt overcome. Be not afraid with anydiscouragement, for the firmest hearts and the most surelyguarded have known hours like these. Pray, fast, meditate,and the evil spirit will pass away from thee."

Then Sérapion told me that the priest of C—— was dead,that the bishop had appointed me to this charge, and that Imust be ready by the morrow. I nodded assent, and theAbbé departed. I opened my missal and strove to read init, but the lines waved confusedly, and the volume slippedunheeded from my hands.

Next day Sérapion came for me; two mules were waitingfor us at the gate with our slender baggage, and we mountedas well as we might. As we traversed the streets I lookedfor Clarimonde, in each balcony, at every window; but it wastoo early, and the city was yet asleep. When we had passedthe gates, and were climbing the height, I turned back for alast glance at the place that was the home of Clarimonde.The shadow of a cloud lay on the city, the red roofs and theblue were mingled in a mist, whence rose here and therewhite puffs of smoke. By some strange optical effect, onehouse stood up, golden in a ray of light, far above the roofsthat were mingled in the mist. A league away though itwas, it seemed quite close to us—all was plain to see,turrets, balconies, parapets, the very weathercocks.

"What is that palace we see yonder in the sunlight?"said I to Sérapion.

He shaded his eyes with his hand, looked, and answered:

"That is the old palace which Prince Concini hasgiven to Clarimonde the harlot. Therein dreadful thingsare done."

Even at that moment, whether it were real or a visionI know not now, methought I saw a white and slender shapecome across the terrace, glance, and disappear. It wasClarimonde!

Ah, did she know how in that hour, at the height of therugged way which led me from her, even at the crest of thepath I should never tread again, I was watching her, eagerand restless, watching the palace where she dwelt, and whicha freak of light and shadow seemed to bring near me, as ifinviting me to enter and be lord of all? Doubtless she knewit, so closely bound was her heart to mine; and this it waswhich had urged her, in the raiment of the night, to climbthe palace terrace in the frosty dews of dawn.

The shadow slipped over the palace, and, anon, there wasbut a motionless sea of roofs, marked merely by a billowyundulation of forms. Sérapion pricked on his mule, minealso quickened, and a winding of the road hid from meforever the city of S——, where I was to return no more. Atthe end of three days' journey through melancholy fields, wesaw the weathercock of my parish church peeping above thetrees. Some winding lanes, bordered by cottages andgardens, brought us to the building, which was of no greatsplendor. A porch with a few moldings, and two or threepillars rudely carved in sandstone, a tiled roof with counter-fortsof the same stone as the pillars—that was all. To theleft was the graveyard, deep in tall grasses, with an ironcross in the centre. The priest's house was to the right, inthe shadow of the church. Simplicity could not be moresimple, nor cleanliness less lovely. Some chickens werepecking at a few grains of oats on the ground as we entered.The sight of a priest's frock seemed too familiar to alarmthem, and they scarcely moved to let us pass. Then weheard a hoarse and wheezy bark, and an old dog ran up togreet us. He was the dog of the late priest—dim-eyed, gray,with every sign of a dog's extreme old age. I patted himgently, and he walked along by my side with an air ofinexpressible satisfaction. An elderly woman, my predecessor'shousekeeper, came in her turn to greet us; and when shelearned that I meant to keep her in my service, to keep thedog and the chickens, with all the furniture that her masterhad left her at his death—above all, when the Abbé Sérapionpaid what she asked on the spot—her joy knew nobounds.

When I had been duly installed, Sérapion returned to thecollege, and I was left alone. Unsupported, uncomforted asI was, the thought of Clarimonde again beset me, nor could Idrive her memory away for all my efforts. One evening, asI walked among the box-lined paths of my little garden, Ifancied that I saw among the trees the form of a woman,who followed all my movements, and whose green eyesglistened through the leaves. Green as the sea shone hereyes, but it was no more than a vision, for when I crossed tothe other side of the alley nothing did I find but the printof a little foot on the sand—a foot like the foot of a child.Now the garden was girt with high walls, and, for all mysearch, I could find no living thing within them. I havenever been able to explain this incident, which, after all,was nothing to the strange adventures that were to follow.

Thus did I live for a whole year, fulfilling every duty ofthe priesthood—preaching, praying, fasting, visiting the sick,denying myself necessaries that I might give to the poor.But within me all was dry and barren—the fountains of gracewere sealed. I knew not the happiness which goes with theconsciousness of a holy mission fulfilled. My heart wasotherwhere; the words of Clarimonde dwelt on my lips likethe ballad burden a man repeats against his will. Oh, mybrother, consider this! For the lifting up of mine eyes tobehold a woman have I been harried these many years, andmy life hath been troubled forever.

I shall not hold you longer with the story of these defeatsand these victories and the fresh defeats of my soul; letme come to the beginning of the new life.

One night there was a violent knocking at my gate. Theold housekeeper went to open it, and the appearance of aman richly clad in an outlandish fashion, tawny of hue,armed with a long dagger, stood before her in the light ofher lantern. She was terrified, but he soothed her, sayingthat he needs must see me instantly concerning a matter ofmy ministry. Barbara brought him upstairs to the roomwhere I was about going to bed. There the man told methat his mistress, a lady of high degree, was on the pointof death, and desired to see a priest. I answered that I wasready to follow him, and taking with me such matters as areneedful for extreme unction, I went down hastily. At thedoor were two horses, black as night, their breath rising inwhite clouds of vapor. The man held my stirrup while Imounted; then he laid one hand on the pommel and vaultedon the other horse. Gripping his beast with his knees, hegave him his head, and we started with the speed of anarrow, my horse keeping pace with his own. We seemed inrunning to devour the way; the earth flitted gray beneath us,the black trees fled in the darkness like an army in rout. Aforest we crossed, so gloomy and so frozen cold that I feltin all my veins a shudder of superstitious dread. The sparksstruck from the flints by our coursers' feet followed afterus like a trail of fire, and whoever saw us must have deemedus two ghosts riding the nightmare. Will-o'-the-wisps glitteredacross our path, the night birds clamored in the forestdeeps, and now and again shone out the burning eyes ofwild-cats.

The manes of the horses tossed more wildly on the wind,the sweat ran down their sides, their breath came thick andloud. But whenever they slackened, the groom called onthem with a cry like nothing that ever came from a humanthroat, and again they ran their furious course. At last thetempest of their flight reached its goal; suddenly therestood before us a great dark mass, with shining points offlame. Our horses' hoofs clattered louder on a drawbridge,and we thundered through the dark depths of a vaultedentrance which gaped between two monstrous towers.Within the castle all was confusion—servants with burningtorches ran hither and thither through the courts; on thestaircases lights rose and fell. I beheld a medley of vastbuildings, columns, arches, parapet and balcony—a bewilderingworld of royal or of fairy palaces. The negro pagewho had given me the tablets of Clarimonde, and whom Irecognized at a glance, helped me to alight. A seneschal inblack velvet, with a golden chain about his neck, and anivory wand in his hand, came forward to meet me, greattears rolling down his cheeks to his snowy beard.

"Too late," he said; "too late, sir priest! But if thou hastnot come in time to save the soul, watch, I pray thee, withthe unhappy body of the dead."

He took me by the arm; he led me to the hall, wherethe corpse was lying, and I wept as bitterly as he, deemingthat the dead was Clarimonde, the well and wildly loved.There stood a prie-dieu by the bed; a blue flame flickeringfrom a cup of bronze cast all about the chamber a doubtfullight, and here and there set the shadows fluttering. In achiseled vase on the table was one white rose faded, asingle petal clinging to the stem; the rest had fallen likefragrant tears and lay beside the vase. A broken mask, afan, masquerading gear of every kind were huddled on thechairs, and showed that death had come, unlooked for andunheralded, to that splendid house. Not daring to castmine eyes upon the bed, I kneeled, and fervently began torepeat the Psalms, thanking God that between this womanand me He had set the tomb, so that now her name mightcome like a thing enskied and sainted in my prayers.

By degrees this ardor slackened, and I fell a-dreaming.This chamber, after all, had none of the air of a chamberof death. In place of the fetid, corpse-laden atmosphere thatI was wont to breathe in these vigils, there floated gentlythrough the warmth a vapor of Orient essences, a perfumeof women and of love. The pale glimmer of the lampseemed rather the twilight of pleasure than the yellow burningof the taper that watches by the dead. I began to thinkof the rare hazard that brought me to Clarimonde in themoment when I had lost her forever, and a sigh camefrom my breast. Then meseemed that one answered with asigh behind me, and I turned unconsciously. 'Twas but anecho, but, as I turned, mine eyes fell on that which theyhad shunned—the bed where Clarimonde lay in state. Theflowered and crimson curtains, bound up with loops of gold,left the dead woman plain to view, lying at her length, withhands folded on her breast. She was covered with a linenveil, very white and glistening, the more by reason of thedark purple hangings, and so fine was the shroud that herfair body shone through it, with those beautiful soft wavinglines, as of the swan's neck, that not even death could harden.Fair she was as a statue of alabaster carved by some skilledman for the tomb of a queen; fair as a young maid asleepbeneath new-fallen snow.

I could endure no longer. The air as of a bower of love,the scent of the faded rose intoxicated me, and I strodethrough the chamber, stopping at each turn to gaze at thebeautiful dead beneath the transparent shroud. Strangethoughts haunted my brain. I fancied that she was notreally gone, that it was but a device to draw me within hercastle gates, and to tell me all her love.

Nay, one moment methought I saw her foot stir beneathits white swathings, and break the stiff lines of the shroud.

"Is she really Clarimonde?" I asked myself presently."What proof have I? The black page may have entered thehousehold of some other lady. Mad must I be thus todisquiet myself."

But the beating of my own heart answered me, "It is she!It is she!"

I drew near the bed, and looked with fresh attention atthat which thus perplexed me. Shall I confess it? Theperfection of her beauty, though shadowed and sanctifiedby death, troubled my heart, and that long rest of hers waswondrous like a living woman's sleep. I forgot that I hadcome there to watch by a corpse, and I dreamed that I wasa young bridegroom entering the chamber of the veiled,half-hidden bride. Broken with sorrow, wild with joy,shuddering with dread and desire, I stooped toward the dead andraised a corner of the sheet. Gently I raised it, holdingmy breath as though I feared to waken her. My bloodcoursed so vehemently that I heard it rushing and surgingthrough the veins of my temples. My brow was dank withdrops of sweat, as if I had lifted no film of linen, but aweighty gravestone of marble.

There lay Clarimonde, even as I had seen her on the dayof mine ordination; even so delightful was she, and deathin Clarimonde seemed but a wilful charm. The pallor ofher cheeks, her dead lips fading rose, her long downcasteyelids, with their brown lashes, breaking the marble of hercheek, all gave her an air of melancholy, and of purity, ofpensive patience that had an inexpressible winning magic.Her long loose hair, the small blue flowers yet scatteredthrough it, pillowed her head, and veiled the splendor of hershoulders. Her fair hands, clear and pure as the consecratedwafer, were crossed in an attitude of holy rest andsilent prayer, that suffered not the exquisite roundness andivory polish of her pearled arms to prove, even in death, tootriumphant a lure of men.

Long did I wait and watch her silently, and still the moreI gazed, the less I could deem that life had left forever herbeautiful body. I knew not if it were an illusion, or areflection from the lamp, but it was as if the blood began to flowagain beneath that dead white of her flesh, and yet she layeternally, immovably still. I touched her arm; it was cold,but no colder than her hand had been on the day when itmet mine beneath the church porch. I fell into my oldattitude, stooping my face above her face, while down uponher rained the warm dew of my tears. Oh, bitterness ofimpotence and of despair; oh, wild agony of that deathwatch!

The night crept on, and as I felt that the eternal separationdrew near, I could not deny myself the sad last delightof one kiss on the dead lips that held all my love.

Oh, miracle! A light breath mingled with my breath,and the mouth of Clarimonde answered to the touch ofmine! Her eyes opened, and softly shone. She sighed, sheuncrossed her arms, and, folding them about my neck in aravished ecstasy:

"Ah, Romuald, it is thou!" she said in a voice as sweetand languishing as the last tremblings of a lyre. "Ah,Romuald, what makest thou here? So long have I waited forthee that I am dead. Yet now we are betrothed, now Imay see thee, and visit thee. Farewell, Romuald, farewell!I love thee. It is all that I had to tell thee, and I give theeagain that life which thou gavest me with thy kiss. Soonshall we meet again."

Her head sank down, but still her arms clung to me as ifthey would hold me forever. A wild gust of wind burstopen the window and broke into the room. The last leafof the white rose fluttered like a bird's wing on the stem,and then fell and flew through the open casement, bearingwith it the soul of Clarimonde.

The lamp went out, and I fell fainting on the breast ofthe beautiful corpse.

When I came to myself I was lying on my own bed inthe little chamber of the priest's house; my hand had slippedfrom beneath the coverlet, the old dog was licking it.Barbara hobbled and trembled about the room, opening andshutting drawers, and shaking powders into glasses. Theold woman gave a cry of delight when she saw me open myeyes. The dog yelped and wagged his tail, but I was tooweak to utter a word or make the slightest movement.Later, I learned that for three days I had lain thus, withno sign of life but a scarce perceptible breathing. Thesethree days do not count in my life; I know not where myspirit went wandering all that time, whereof I keep not theslightest memory. Barbara told me that the same bronzedman who had come for me at night brought me back in aclosed litter next morning, and instantly went his way. Sosoon as I could recall my thoughts, I reviewed each incidentof that fatal night. At first I deemed that I had beenduped by art magic, but presently actual, palpable circumstancesdestroyed that belief. I could not suppose that Ihad been dreaming, for Barbara, no less than myself, hadseen the man with the two coal-black steeds, and shedescribed them accurately. Yet no one knew of any castle inthe neighborhood at all like that in which I had foundClarimonde again.

One morning Sérapion entered my room; he had comewith all haste in answer to Barbara's message about myillness. Though this declared his affection for me, none themore did his visit give me pleasure. There was somethinginquisitive and piercing to my mind in the very glance ofSérapion, and I felt like a criminal in his presence. He itwas who first discovered my secret disquiet, and I bore hima grudge for being so clear-sighted.

While he was asking about my health, in accents ofhoneyed hypocrisy, his eyes, as yellow as a lion's, weresounding the depths of my soul. Presently—"The famousharlot Clarimonde is dead," says he, in a piercing tone, "deadat the close of an eight days' revel. It was a feast ofBelshazzar or of Cleopatra. Good God, what an age is ours! Theguests were served by dusky slaves who spoke no tongueknown among men, and who seemed like spirits from thepit. The livery of the least of them might have beseemedan emperor on a coronation day. Wild tales are told ofthis same Clarimonde, and all her loves have perishedmiserably or by violence. They say she was a ghost, a femalevampire, but I believe she was the devil himself."

He paused, watching me, who could not master a suddenmovement at the name of Clarimonde.

"Satan's claw is long," said Sérapion, with a stern glance,"and tombs ere now have given up their dead. Threefoldshould be the seal upon the grave of Clarimonde, for thisis not, men say, the first time she hath died. God be withthee, Romuald!"

So speaking, Sérapion departed with slow steps, and Isaw him no more as at that time.

Time passed and I was well again. Nay, I deemed thatthe fears of Sérapion and my own terrors were too great,till, one night, I dreamed a dream.

Scarce had I tasted the first drops of the cup of sleepwhen I heard the curtains of my bed open and the ringsring. I raised myself suddenly on my arm and saw theshadow of a woman standing by me.

Straightway I knew her for Clarimonde.

She held in her hand a little lamp, such as are placedin tombs, and the light touched her slim fingers to a rosyhue, that faded away in the milk-white of her arms. Shewas clad with naught on but the linen shroud that veiled herwhen she lay in state; the folds were clasped about herbreast, as it were in pudency, by a hand all too small. Sowhite she was that her shroud and her body were blended inthe pallid glow of the lamp.

Swathed thus in the fine tissue that betrayed every lineof her figure, she seemed a marble image of some lady atthe bath rather than a living woman. Dead or living, statueor woman, spirit or flesh, her beauty was the same; onlythe glitter of her dull sea-green eyes was dulled—only themouth, so red of old, wore but a tender tint of rose, like thewhite rose of her cheeks. The little blue flowers that I hadseen in her hair were sere now, and all but bloomless; yet sowinning was she, so winning that, despite the strangeness ofthe adventure and her inexplicable invasion of my chamber,I was not afraid for one moment.

She placed the lamp on the table, and sat down by mybed-foot. Then, in those soft and silver accents which Inever heard from any lips but hers—"Long have I made theewait for me," she said, "and thou must have deemed that Ihad forgotten thee quite. But lo! I come from far, veryfar—even from that land whence no traveler has returned. Thereis no sunlight nor moon in the country whence I wander,only shadow and space. There the foot finds no rest, nor thewandering wing any way; yet here am I; behold me, forLove can conquer Death. Ah, what sad faces and terribleeyes have I seen in my voyaging, and in what labor hathmy soul been to find my body and to make her home thereinagain! How hard to lift was the stone that they had laid onme for a covering! Lo, my hands are sorely wounded inthat toil! Kiss them, my love, and heal them." And shelaid her chill palms, on my mouth, that I kissed manytimes, she smiling on me with an inexpressible sweetnessof delight.

To my shame be it spoken, I had wholly forgotten thecounsels of the Abbé Sérapion, and the sacred character ofmy ministry. I fell unresisting at the first attack. Nay, Idid not even try to bid the tempter avaunt, but succumbedwithout a struggle before the sweet freshness of Clarimonde'sfair body. Poor child! for all that is come andgone, I can scarce believe that she was indeed a devil;surely there was naught of the devil in her aspect. Neverhath Satan better concealed his claws and his horns!

She was crouching on the side of my bed, her heels drawnup beneath her in an attitude of careless and provokinggrace. Once and again she would pass her little handsamong my locks, and curl them, as if to try what style bestsuited my face. It is worth noting that I felt no astonishmentat an adventure so marvelous—nay, as in a dream thestrangest events fail to surprise us, even so the wholeencounter seemed to me perfectly natural.

"I loved thee long before I saw thee, Romuald, my love,and I sought for thee everywhere. Thou wert my dream,and I beheld thee in the church at that fatal hour. 'It is he,'I whispered to myself, and cast on thee a glance fulfilled ofall the love wherewith I had loved, and did love, and shalllove thee; a glance that would have ruined the soul of acardinal or brought a king with all his court to my feet.

"But thou wert not moved, and before my love thou didstplace the love of God.

"Ah, 'tis of God that I am jealous—God whom thou hastloved and lovest more than me.

"Miserable woman that I am! Never shall I have all thyheart for myself alone—for me, whom thou didst awakenwith one kiss; for me, Clarimonde, the dead; for me, who forthy sake have broken the portals of the grave, and am cometo offer to thee a life that hath been taken up again for thisone end to make thee happy."

So she spoke; and every word was broken in on by maddeningcaresses, till my brain swam, and I feared not toconsole her by this awful blasphemy, namely—That my loveof her passed my love of God!

Then the fire of her eyes was rekindled, and they blazedas it had been the chrysoprase stone.

"Verily thou lovest me with a love like thy love of God,"she cried, making her fair arms a girdle for my body. "Thenthou shalt come with me, and whithersoever I go wilt thoufollow. Thou wilt leave thine ugly black robes, thou wiltbe of all knights the proudest and the most envied. Theacknowledged lover of Clarimonde shalt thou be, of her whorefused a Pope! Ah, happy life, oh, golden days that shallbe ours! When do we mount and ride, mon gentilhomme?"

"To-morrow," I cried in my madness.

"To-morrow," she answered, "I shall have time to changethis robe of mine that is somewhat scant, nor fit forvoyaging. Also must I speak with my retainers, that think medead in good earnest, and lament me, as well they may.Money, carriages, change of raiment, all shall be ready forthee; at this hour to-morrow will I seek thee. Good-by,sweetheart."

She touched my brow with her lips, the lamp faded intodarkness, the curtains closed, a sleep like lead came down onme, sleep without a dream.

I wakened late, troubled by the memory of my dream,which at length I made myself believe was but a vision ofthe night. Yet it was not without dread that I sought restagain, praying Heaven to guard the purity of my slumber.

Anon I fell again into a deep sleep, and my dream beganagain. The curtains opened, and there stood Clarimonde,not pale in her pale shroud, nor with the violets of deathupon her cheek; but gay, bright, splendid, in a traveling robeof green velvet with trappings of gold, and kilted up on oneside to show a satin undercoat. Her fair, curled locks fellin great masses from under a large black beaver hat, withstrange white plumes; in her hand she held a little riding-whip,topped with a golden whistle. With this she touchedme gently, saying:

"Awake, fair sleeper! Is it thus you prepare for yourvoyage? I had thought to find you alert. Rise, quickly; wehave no time to lose!"

I leaped out of bed.

"Come, dress, and let us be gone," she said, showing mea packet she had brought. "Our horses are fretting andchamping at the gate. We should be ten leagues fromhere."

I arrayed myself in haste, while she instructed me, handedme the various articles of a knight's attire, and laughed at myclumsiness. She dressed my hair, and when all was done,gave me a little Venice pocket-mirror in a silver frame,crying:

"What think you of yourself now? Will you take me foryour valet de chambre?"

I did not know my own face in the glass, and was no morelike myself than a statue is like the uncut stone. I wasbeautiful, and I was vain of the change. The gold embroideredgallant attire made me another man, and I marveled atthe magic of a few ells of cloth, fashioned to certain device.The character of my clothes became my own, and in tenminutes I was sufficiently conceited.

Clarimonde watched me with a kind of maternal fondnessas I walked up and down the room, proving my new raimentas it were; then:

"Come," she cried; "enough of this child's play! Up andaway, my Romuald! We have far to go; we shall neverarrive."

She took my hand and led me forth. The gates openedat her touch; the dog did not waken as we passed.

At the gate we found the groom with three horses likethose he had led before: Tennets of Spain, the children ofthe wind. Swift as the wind they sped; and the moon thathad risen to light us at our going, spun down the sky behindus like a wheel broken loose from the axle; we seemed tosee her on our right, leaping from tree to tree as she stroveto follow our course. Presently we came on a plain, wherea carriage with four horses waited for us; and the postiliondrove them to a mad gallop. My arm was round the waistof Clarimonde, her head lay on my shoulder, her breasttouched my arm. Never had I known such delight. All thatI had been was forgotten, like the months before birth, sogreat was the power of the devil over my heart.

From that date mine became a double life; within mewere two men that knew each other not—the priest whodreamed that by night he was a noble, the noble whodreamed that by night he was a priest. I could not dividedreams from waking, nor tell where truth ended and illusionbegan. Two spirals, blended but touching not, might bea parable of my confused existence. Yet, strange as it was,I believe I never was insane. The experience of either lifedwells distinct and separate in my memory. Only there wasthis inexplicable fact—the feeling of one personality existedin both these two different men. Of this I have never foundan explanation, whether I was for the moment the curé ofthe village of ——, or whether I was Signor Romualdo, theavowed lover of Clarimonde.

Certain it is that I was, or believed myself to be, inVenice—in a great palace on the Grand Canal, full offrescoes, statues, and rich in two Titians of his bestperiod—a palace fit for a king. We had each our gondola, ourliveried men, our music, our poet, for Clarimonde loved lifein the great style, and in her nature was a touch of Cleopatra.Custom could not stale her infinite variety; to love her wasto love a score of mistresses, and you were faithless to herwith herself, so strangely she could wear the beauty of anywoman that caught your fancy. She returned my love ahundred-fold. She scorned the gifts of young patricians and ofthe elders of the Council of Ten. She refused the hand ofa Foscari. Gold enough she had, she desired only love; ayoung fresh love herself had wakened—a love that found inher its first mistress and its last.

As for me, in the midst of a life of the wildest pleasure,I should have been happy but for the nightly horror of thedream wherein I was a curé, fasting and mortifying myselfin penance for the sins of the day. Custom made my lifewith her familiar, and it was rarely that I remembered (andthat never with fear) the words of the Abbé Sérapion.

For some time Clarimonde had not been herself, herhealth failing, her complexion growing paler day by day.The physicians were of no avail, and she grew cold anddead as on the wondrous night in the nameless castle. Sadlyshe smiled on my distress, with the fatal smile of those whoknow that their death is near. One morning I sat on herbed, breakfasting at a small table hard by; as it chanced incutting a fruit I gashed my finger deeply; the blood camein purple streams; and spurted up on Clarimonde. Her eyesbrightened, her face took on a savage joy and greed such asI had never seen. She leaped from the bed like a cat, seizedmy wounded hand, and sucked the blood with unspeakablepleasure, slowly, gently like a connoisseur tasting some rarewine.

In her half-closed eyes the round pupil grew long in shape.Again and again she stopped to kiss my hand, and thenpressed her lips once more on the wound, to squeeze out thered drops.

When she saw that the blood was stanched, she rose;her eyes brilliant and humid, her face as rosy as a dawn ofMay, her hand warm and moist; in short, more lovely thanof old, and in perfect health.

"I shall not die! I shall not die!" she exclaimed, wildwith delight, as she embraced me. "I shall yet love theelong; for my life is in thine, and all that is in me comes fromthee. Some drops of thy rich and noble blood, more preciousthan all the elixirs in the world, have given me back mylife."

This event, and the strange doubts it inspired, hauntedme long. When the night and sleep brought me back to mypriest's home, I beheld Sérapion, more anxious than ever,more careful and troubled. He gazed on me steadfastly, andsaid:

"Not content with losing thy soul, thou art also desirousof ruining thy body. Unhappy young man, in what a nethast thou fallen!"

The tone of his voice struck cold on me; but a thousandnew cares made me forget his words. Yet, one night Isaw in a mirror that Clarimonde was pouring a powderinto the spiced wine-cup she mingled after supper. I tookthe cup, pretending to drink, but really casting the potionaway beneath the table. Then I went to bed, intent onwatching and seeing what should come to pass. Nor didI wait long. Clarimonde entered, cast off her night attire,and lay down by my side. When she was assured that Islept, she uncovered my arm, drew a golden pin from herhair, and then fell a-murmuring thus:

"One drop, one little crimson drop, one ruby on the tipof my needle! Since thou lovest me yet, I must not die.Sleep, my god, my child, my all; I shall not harm thee; ofthy life I will but take what is needful for mine. Alas! poorlove; alas! fair purple blood that I must drink! Ah, fairarm, so round, so white, never will I dare to prick thatpretty violet vein."

So speaking, she wept, and the tears fell hot on my arm.At length she came to a resolve, pricked me with the needle,and sucked the blood that flowed. But a few drops did shetaste, for fear of exhausting me, then she anointed the tinywound, and fastened a little bandage about my arm.

I could no longer doubt it, Sérapion had spoken sooth.Yet must I needs love Clarimonde, and would willinglyhave given her all the blood in my veins that then were richenough. Nor was I afraid, the woman in her was more thansurety for the vampire. I could have pricked my own armand said, "Drink; let my love become part of thy being withmy blood." I never spoke a word of the narcotic that shehad poured out for me, never a word of the needle; we livedtogether in perfect union of hearts.

It was my scruples as a priest that disquieted me. Howcould I touch the Host with hands polluted in suchdebauches, real or dreamed of? At night I struggled againstsleep, holding mine eyelids open, standing erect againstwalls; but mine eyes were filled with the sand of sleep, andthe wave carried me even where it would, down to the sirenshores.

Sérapion reproached me often. One day he came andsaid: "To drive away the devil that possesses thee there isbut one art; great ills demand harsh remedies. I knowwhere Clarimonde is buried; we must unearth her, and thesight of the worms and the dust of death will make theethyself again."

So weary was I of my double life, so eager to knowwhether the priest or the noble was the true man, whichthe dream, that I accepted his plan, being determined toslay one or the other of the beings that dwelt within me; ay,or to slay them both, for such a life as mine could not endure.

The Abbé Sérapion took a lantern, a pick, a crowbar, andat midnight we set out for the graveyard. After throwingthe light of the lantern on several tombs, we reached a stonehalf-hidden by tall weeds, and covered with ivy, moss, andlichen. Thereon we read these words graven:

ICI GIT CLARIMONDE
QUI PUT DE SON VIVANTE
LA PLUS BELLE DU MONDE

"'Tis here!" said Sérapion, who, laying down his lantern,thrust the crowbar in a cleft of the stone, and began to raiseit. Slowly it gave place, and he set to work with thepick-ax. For me, I watched him dark and silent as the night,while his face, when he raised it, ran with sweat, and hislaboring breath came like the death-rattle in his throat.Methought the deed was a sacrilege, and I would fain haveseen the lightning leap from the cloud, and strike Sérapionto ashes.

The owls of the graveyard, attracted by the light, flockedand flapped about the lantern with their wings; their hootingsounded wofully; the foxes barked their answer far away;a thousand evil sounds broke from the stillness.

At length the pick of Sérapion smote the coffin-lid; thefour planks answered sullenly, as the void of nothingnessreplied to the touch. Sérapion raised the coffin-lid, andthere I saw Clarimonde, pale as marble, her hands joined,the long white shroud flowing unbroken to her feet.

On her pale mouth shone one rosy drop, and Sérapion,breaking forth in fury, cried:

"Ah, there thou liest, devil, harlot, vampire, thou thatdrainest the blood of men!"

With this he sprinkled holy water over my lady, whosefair body straightway crumbled into earth, a dreadfulmingling of dust and the ashes of bones half-burned.

"There lies thy leman, Sir Romuald," he said; "go nowand dally at the Lido with thy beauty."

I bowed my head; within me all was ruin. Back to mypoor priest's house I went; and Romuald, the lover ofClarimonde, said farewell to the priest, with whom so long andso strangely he had companioned.

But, next night, I saw Clarimonde.

"Wretched man that thou art," she cried, as of old underthe church porch, "what hast thou done? Why hast thouhearkened to that foolish priest? Wert thou not happy, orwhat ill had I done thee that thou must violate my tomb,and lay bare the wretchedness of the grave? Henceforth isthe link between our souls and bodies broken. Farewell!Thou shalt desire me."

Then she fled away into air, like smoke, and I saw herno more.

Alas! it was truth she spoke; more than once have Isorrowed for her—nay, I long for her still. Dearly purchasedhath my salvation been, and the love of God hath not beentoo much to replace the love of her.

Behold, brother, all the story of my youth.

Let not thine eyes look ever upon a woman; walk alwayswith glance downcast; for, be ye chaste and be ye cold asye may, one minute may damn you to all eternity.

(Translation by Andrew Lang.)

THE RED ROOM

BY H. G. WELLS

Herbert George Wells (born 1866), on hisgraduation in 1888 from the Royal Collegeof Science, took up the serious side of scienceas a career, publishing in 1892-93 atextbook on biology. An editorial connection(with "The Saturday Review" in 1894-96)turned his attention to the literary possibilitiesof his favorite study, and in 1895 hebegan a series of novels in which by anextraordinary prescience of imagination hedeveloped the suggestions of modern scienceinto marvelous embodiments of newlydiscovered principles and powers which areshown to result in profound changes in boththe social and individual character of man.

THE RED ROOM

By H. G. WELLS

"I can assure you," said I, "that it will take a verytangible ghost to frighten me." And I stood upbefore the fire with my glass in my hand.

"It is your own choosing," said the man withthe withered arm, and glanced at me askance.

"Eight-and-twenty years," said I, "I have lived, and nevera ghost have I seen as yet."

The old woman sat staring hard into the fire, her paleeyes wide open. "Ay," she broke in, "and eight-and-twentyyears you have lived, and never seen the likes of this house,I reckon. There's a many things to see, when one's stillbut eight-and-twenty." She swayed her head slowly fromside to side. "A many things to see and sorrow for."

I half suspected these old people were trying to enhancethe spectral terrors of their house by this droning insistence.I put down my empty glass on the table, and, looking aboutthe room, caught a glimpse of myself, abbreviated andbroadened to an impossible sturdiness, in the queer old mirrorbeside the china cupboard. "Well," I said, "if I see anythingto-night, I shall be so much the wiser. For I come to thebusiness with an open mind."

"It's your own choosing," said the man with the witheredarm once more.

I heard the faint sound of a stick and a shambling stepon the flags in the passage outside. The door creaked on itshinges as a second old man entered, more bent, more wrinkled,more aged even than the first. He supported himselfby the help of a crutch, his eyes were covered by a shade,and his lower lip, half averted, hung pale and pink from hisdecaying yellow teeth. He made straight for an armchair onthe opposite side of the table, sat down clumsily, and beganto cough. The man with the withered hand gave thenew-comer a short glance of positive dislike; the old woman tookno notice of his arrival, but remained with her eyes fixedsteadily on the fire.

"I said—it's your own choosing," said the man with thewithered hand, when the coughing had ceased for a while.

"It's my own choosing," I answered.

The man with the shade became aware of my presence forthe first time, and threw his head back for a moment, andsidewise, to see me. I caught a momentary glimpse of hiseyes, small and bright and inflamed. Then he began tocough and splutter again.

"Why don't you drink?" said the man with the witheredarm, pushing the beer toward him. The man with the shadepoured out a glassful with a shaking hand, that splashed halfas much again on the deal table. A monstrous shadow ofhim crouched upon the wall, and mocked his action as hepoured and drank. I must confess I had scarcely expectedthese grotesque custodians. There is, to my mind, somethinginhuman in senility, something crouching and atavistic;the human qualities seem to drop from old people insensiblyday by day. The three of them made me feel uncomfortablewith their gaunt silences, their bent carriage, theirevident unfriendliness to me and to one another. And thatnight, perhaps, I was in the mood for uncomfortableimpressions. I resolved to get away from their vagueforeshadowings of the evil things upstairs.

"If," said I, "you will show me to this haunted room ofyours, I will make myself comfortable there."

The old man with the cough jerked his head back sosuddenly that it startled me, and shot another glance ofhis red eyes at me from out of the darkness under the shade,but no one answered me. I waited a minute, glancing fromone to the other. The old woman stared like a dead body,glaring into the fire with lack-lustre eyes.

"If," I said, a little louder, "if you will show me to thishaunted room of yours, I will relieve you from the task ofentertaining me."

"There's a candle on the slab outside the door," said theman with the withered hand, looking at my feet as headdressed me. "But if you go to the Red Room to-night—"

"This night of all nights!" said the old woman, softly.

"—You go alone."

"Very well," I answered, shortly, "and which way do I go?"

"You go along the passage for a bit," said he, nodding hishead on his shoulder at the door, "until you come to a spiralstaircase; and on the second landing is a door covered withgreen baize. Go through that, and down the long corridorto the end, and the Red Room is on your left up the steps."

"Have I got that right?" I said, and repeated his directions.

He corrected me in one particular.

"And you are really going?" said the man with the shade,looking at me again for the third time with that queer,unnatural tilting of the face.

"This night of all nights!" whispered the old woman.

"It is what I came for," I said, and moved toward thedoor. As I did so, the old man with the shade rose andstaggered round the table, so as to be closer to the othersand to the fire. At the door I turned and looked at them,and saw they were all close together, dark against thefirelight, staring at me over their shoulders, with an intentexpression on their ancient faces.

"Good-night," I said, setting the door open.

"It's your own choosing," said the man with thewithered arm.

I left the door wide open until the candle was well alight,and then I shut them in, and walked down the chilly,echoing passage.

I must confess that the oddness of these three old pensionersin whose charge her ladyship had left the castle, andthe deep-toned, old-fashioned furniture of the housekeeper'sroom, in which they foregathered, had affected me curiouslyin spite of my effort to keep myself at a matter-of-fact phase.They seemed to belong to another age, an older age, an agewhen things spiritual were indeed to be feared, whencommon sense was uncommon, an age when omens and witcheswere credible, and ghosts beyond denying. Their veryexistence, thought I, is spectral; the cut of their clothing,fashions born in dead brains; the ornaments and conveniencesin the room about them even are ghostly—thethoughts of vanished men, which still haunt rather thanparticipate in the world of to-day. And the passage I was in,long and shadowy, with a film of moisture glistening on thewall, was as gaunt and cold as a thing that is dead and rigid.But with an effort I sent such thoughts to the right-about.The long, drafty subterranean passage was chilly and dusty,and my candle flared and made the shadows cower andquiver. The echoes rang up and down the spiral staircase,and a shadow came sweeping up after me, and another fledbefore me into the darkness overhead. I came to the widelanding and stopped there for a moment listening to arustling that I fancied I heard creeping behind me, andthen, satisfied of the absolute silence, pushed open theunwilling baize-covered door and stood in the silent corridor.

The effect was scarcely what I expected, for the moonlight,coming in by the great window on the grand staircase,picked out everything in vivid black shadow or reticulatedsilvery illumination. Everything seemed in its properposition; the house might have been deserted on the yesterdayinstead of twelve months ago. There were candles in thesockets of the sconces, and whatever dust had gathered onthe carpets or upon the polished flooring was distributed soevenly as to be invisible in my candlelight. A waitingstillness was over everything. I was about to advance, andstopped abruptly. A bronze group stood upon the landinghidden from me by a corner of the wall; but its shadow fellwith marvelous distinctness upon the white paneling, andgave me the impression of some one crouching to waylayme. The thing jumped upon my attention suddenly. I stoodrigid for half a moment, perhaps. Then, with my hand inthe pocket that held the revolver, I advanced, only todiscover a Ganymede and Eagle, glistening in the moonlight.That incident for a time restored my nerve, and a dimporcelain Chinaman on a buhl table, whose head rocked as Ipassed, scarcely startled me.

The door of the Red Room and the steps up to it werein a shadowy corner. I moved my candle from side to sidein order to see clearly the nature of the recess in which Istood, before opening the door. Here it was, thought I, thatmy predecessor was found, and the memory of that storygave me a sudden twinge of apprehension. I glanced overmy shoulder at the black Ganymede in the moonlight, andopened the door of the Red Room rather hastily, with myface half turned to the pallid silence of the corridor.

I entered, closed the door behind me at once, turned thekey I found in the lock within, and stood with the candleheld aloft surveying the scene of my vigil, the great RedRoom of Lorraine Castle, in which the young Duke haddied; or rather in which he had begun his dying, for he hadopened the door and fallen headlong down the steps I hadjust ascended. That had been the end of his vigil, of hisgallant attempt to conquer the ghostly tradition of the place,and never, I thought, had apoplexy better served the ends ofsuperstition. There were other and older stories that clungto the room, back to the half-incredible beginning of it all,the tale of a timid wife and the tragic end that came to herhusband's jest of frightening her. And looking round thathuge shadowy room with its black window bays, its recessesand alcoves, its dusty brown-red hangings and dark giganticfurniture, one could well understand the legends that hadsprouted in its black corners, its germinating darknesses.My candle was a little tongue of light in the vastness of thechamber; its rays failed to pierce to the opposite end of theroom, and left an ocean of dull red mystery and suggestion,sentinel shadows and watching darknesses beyond its islandof light. And the stillness of desolation brooded over it all.

I must confess some impalpable quality of that ancientroom disturbed me. I tried to fight the feeling down. Iresolved to make a systematic examination of the place, andso, by leaving nothing to the imagination, dispel the fancifulsuggestions of the obscurity before they obtained a holdupon me. After satisfying myself of the fastening of thedoor, I began to walk round the room, peering round eacharticle of furniture, tucking up the valances of the bed andopening its curtains wide. In one place there was a distinctecho to my footsteps, the noises I made seemed so littlethat they enhanced rather than broke the silence of theplace. I pulled up the blinds and examined the fasteningsof the several windows. Attracted by the fall of a particleof dust, I leaned forward and looked up the blackness ofthe wide chimney. Then, trying to preserve my scientificattitude of mind, I walked round and began tapping the oakpaneling for any secret opening, but I desisted beforereaching the alcove. I saw my face in a mirror—white.

There were two big mirrors in the room, each with apair of sconces bearing candles, and on the mantelshelf, too,were candles in china candlesticks. All these I lit one afterthe other. The fire was laid—an unexpected considerationfrom the old housekeeper—and I lit it, to keep down anydisposition to shiver, and when it was burning well I stoodround with my back to it and regarded the room again. Ihad pulled up a chintz-covered armchair and a table to forma kind of barricade before me. On this lay my revolver,ready to hand. My precise examination had done me a littlegood, but I still found the remoter darkness of the place andits perfect stillness too stimulating for the imagination. Theechoing of the stir and crackling of the fire was no sort ofcomfort to me. The shadow in the alcove at the end ofthe room began to display that undefinable quality of apresence, that odd suggestion of a lurking living thing thatcomes so easily in silence and solitude. And to reassuremyself, I walked with a candle into it and satisfied myselfthat there was nothing tangible there. I stood that candleupon the floor of the alcove and left it in that position.

By this time I was in a state of considerable nervoustension, although to my reason there was no adequate causefor my condition. My mind, however, was perfectly clear.I postulated quite unreservedly that nothing supernaturalcould happen, and to pass the time I began stringing somerhymes together, Ingoldsby fashion, concerning the originallegend of the place. A few I spoke aloud, but the echoeswere not pleasant. For the same reason I also abandoned,after a time, a conversation with myself upon theimpossibility of ghosts and haunting. My mind reverted to the threeold and distorted people downstairs, and I tried to keep itupon that topic.

The sombre reds and grays of the room troubled me;even with its seven candles the place was merely dim. Thelight in the alcove flaring in a draft, and the fire flickering,kept the shadows and penumbra perpetually shifting andstirring in a noiseless flighty dance. Casting about for aremedy, I recalled the wax candles I had seen in the corridor,and, with a slight effort, carrying a candle and leavingthe door open, I walked out into the moonlight, and presentlyreturned with as many as ten. These I put in the variousknick-knacks of china with which the room was sparselyadorned, and lit and placed them where the shadows hadlain deepest, some on the floor, some in the window recesses,arranging and rearranging them until at last my seventeencandles were so placed that not an inch of the room but hadthe direct light of at least one of them. It occurred to methat when the ghost came I could warn him not to trip overthem. The room was now quite brightly illuminated. Therewas something very cheering and reassuring in these littlesilent streaming flames, and to notice their steady diminutionof length offered me an occupation and gave me a reassuringsense of the passage of time.

Even with that, however, the brooding expectation of thevigil weighed heavily enough upon me. I stood watching theminute hand of my watch creep towards midnight.

Then something happened in the alcove. I did not see thecandle go out, I simply turned and saw that the darkness wasthere, as one might start and see the unexpected presence ofa stranger. The black shadow had sprung back to its place."By Jove," said I aloud, recovering from my surprise, "thatdraft's a strong one;" and taking the matchbox from thetable, I walked across the room in a leisurely manner torelight the corner again. My first match would not strike, andas I succeeded with the second, something seemed to blinkon the wall before me. I turned my head involuntarily andsaw that the two candles on the little table by the fireplacewere extinguished. I rose at once to my feet.

"Odd," I said. "Did I do that myself in a flash ofabsent-mindedness?"

I walked back, relit one, and as I did so I saw the candlein the right sconce of one of the mirrors wink and go rightout, and almost immediately its companion followed it. Theflames vanished as if the wick had been suddenly nippedbetween a finger and thumb, leaving the wick neither glowingnor smoking, but black. While I stood gaping the candle atthe foot of the bed went out, and the shadows seemed totake another step toward me.

"This won't do!" said I, and first one and then anothercandle on the mantelshelf followed.

"What's up?" I cried, with a queer high note getting intomy voice somehow. At that the candle on the corner of thewardrobe went out, and the one I had relit in the alcovefollowed.

"Steady on!" I said, "those candles are wanted," speakingwith a half-hysterical facetiousness, and scratching away ata match the while, "for the mantel candlesticks." My handstrembled so much that twice I missed the rough paper of thematchbox. As the mantel emerged from darkness again, twocandles in the remoter end of the room were eclipsed. Butwith the same match I also relit the larger mirror candles,and those on the floor near the doorway, so that for themoment I seemed to gain on the extinctions. But then in anoiseless volley there vanished four lights at once indifferent corners of the room, and I struck another matchin quivering haste, and stood hesitating whither to take it.

As I stood undecided, an invisible hand seemed to sweepout the two candles on the table. With a cry of terror Idashed at the alcove, then into the corner and then into thewindow, relighting three as two more vanished by thefireplace, and then, perceiving a better way, I dropped matcheson the iron-bound deedbox in the corner, and caught up thebedroom candlestick. With this I avoided the delay of strikingmatches, but for all that the steady process of extinctionwent on, and the shadows I feared and fought against returned,and crept in upon me, first a step gained on this sideof me, then on that. I was now almost frantic with the horrorof the coming darkness, and my self-possession deserted me.I leaped panting from candle to candle in a vain struggleagainst that remorseless advance.

I bruised myself in the thigh against the table, I sent achair headlong, I stumbled and fell and whisked the clothfrom the table in my fall. My candle rolled away from meand I snatched another as I rose. Abruptly this was blownout as I swung it off the table by the wind of my suddenmovement, and immediately the two remaining candles followed.But there was light still in the room, a red light, thatstreamed across the ceiling and staved off the shadows fromme. The fire! Of course I could still thrust my candlebetween the bars and relight it!

I turned to where the flames were still dancing betweenthe glowing coals and splashing red reflections upon thefurniture; made two steps toward the grate, and incontinently theflames dwindled and vanished, the glow vanished, thereflections rushed together and disappeared, and as I thrust thecandle between the bars darkness closed upon me like theshutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace,sealed my vision, and crushed the last vestiges of self-possessionfrom my brain. And it was not only palpable darkness,but intolerable terror. The candle fell from my hands.I flung out my arms in a vain effort to thrust that ponderousblackness away from me, and lifting up my voice, screamedwith all my might, once, twice, thrice. Then I think I musthave staggered to my feet. I know I thought suddenly of themoonlit corridor, and with my head bowed and my armsover my face, made a stumbling run for the door.

But I had forgotten the exact position of the door, and Istruck myself heavily against the corner of the bed. Istaggered back, turned, and was either struck or struck myselfagainst some other bulky furnishing. I have a vague memoryof battering myself thus to and fro in the darkness, of aheavy blow at last upon my forehead, of a horrible sensationof falling that lasted an age, of my last frantic effortto keep my footing, and then I remember no more.

I opened my eyes in daylight. My head was roughlybandaged, and the man with the withered hand was watchingmy face. I looked about me trying to remember what hadhappened, and for a space I could not recollect. I rolledmy eyes into the corner and saw the old woman, no longerabstracted, no longer terrible, pouring out some drops ofmedicine from a little blue phial into a glass. "Where amI?" I said. "I seem to remember you, and yet I can notremember who you are."

They told me then, and I heard of the haunted Red Roomas one who hears a tale. "We found you at dawn," said he,"and there was blood on your forehead and lips."

I wondered that I had ever disliked him. The three ofthem in the daylight seemed commonplace old folk enough.The man with the green shade had his head bent as one whosleeps.

It was very slowly I recovered the memory of myexperience. "You believe now," said the old man with thewithered hand, "that the room is haunted?" He spoke nolonger as one who greets an intruder, but as one whocondoles with a friend.

"Yes," said I, "the room is haunted."

"And you have seen it. And we who have been hereall our lives have never set eyes upon it. Because we havenever dared. Tell us, is it truly the old earl who—"

"No," said I, "it is not."

"I told you so," said the old lady, with the glass in herhand. "It is his poor young countess who was frightened—"

"It is not," I said. "There is neither ghost of earl norghost of countess in that room; there is no ghost there atall, but worse, far worse, something impalpable—"

"Well?" they said.

"The worst of all the things that haunt poor mortalmen," said I; "and that is, in all its nakedness—'Fear!' Fearthat will not have light nor sound, that will not bear withreason, that deafens and darkens and overwhelms. It followedme through the corridor, it fought against me in theroom—"

I stopped abruptly. There was an interval of silence.My hand went up to my bandages. "The candles went outone after another, and I fled—"

Then the man with the shade lifted his face sideways tosee me and spoke.

"That is it," said he. "I knew that was it. A Power ofDarkness. To put such a curse upon a home! It lurks therealways. You can feel it even in the daytime, even of abright summer's day, in the hangings, in the curtains,keeping behind you however you face about. In the dusk itcreeps in the corridor and follows you, so that you dare notturn. It is even as you say. Fear itself is in that room.Black Fear... And there it will be ... so long as thishouse of sin endures."

THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

Joseph Rudyard Kipling was born in Bombayin 1865. The grandson of a clergyman,both on his father's and mother's side, hewas educated in England and served hisapprenticeship as a writer on the newspapersin India. No man ever tried harder to conveyto his reader the sensation and very pulse oflife that he himself felt than did Kipling inhis early work, of which "The Phantom'Rickshaw" is a well-known example. Though heis undoubtedly one of the great writers ofshort stories, we are still too near him to beable to clearly appreciate his great talents.

THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW

By RUDYARD KIPLING

My doctor tells me that I need rest and change ofair. It is not improbable that I shall get both erelong—rest that neither the red-coated messengernor the midday gun can break, and change of airfar beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer cangive me. In the meantime, I am resolved to stay where Iam; and, in flat defiance of my doctor's orders, to take all theworld into my confidence. You shall learn for yourselvesthe precise nature of my malady; and shall, too, judge foryourselves whether any man born of woman on this wearyearth was ever so tormented as I.

Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak erethe drop-bolts are drawn, my story, wild and hideouslyimprobable as it may appear, demands at least attention. Thatit will ever receive credence I utterly disbelieve. Two monthsago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man whohad dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was thehappiest man in India. To-day, from Peshawur to the sea, thereis no one more wretched. My doctor and I are the onlytwo who know this. His explanation is, that my brain,digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise tomy frequent and persistent "delusions." Delusions, indeed!I call him a fool; but he attends me still with the sameunwearied smile, the same bland professional manner, the sameneatly trimmed red whiskers, till I begin to suspect that Iam an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you shall judgefor yourselves.

Three years ago it was my fortune—my great misfortune—tosail from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from longleave, with one Agnes Keith-Wessington, wife of an officeron the Bombay side. It does not in the least concern you toknow what manner of woman she was. Be content with theknowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and Iwere desperately and unreasonably in love with each other.Heaven knows that I can make the admission now withoutone particle of vanity. In matters of this sort there isalways one who gives and another who accepts. From thefirst day of our ill-omened attachment, I was conscious thatAgnes's passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and—if Imay use the expression—a purer sentiment than mine.Whether she recognized the fact then, I do not know.Afterward it was bitterly plain to both of us.

Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we wentour respective ways, to meet no more for the next three orfour months, when my leave and her love took us both toSimla. There we spent the season together; and there myfire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the closingyear. I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessingtonhad given up much for my sake, and was preparedto give up all. From my own lips, in August, 1882,she learned that I was sick of her presence, tired of hercompany, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-ninewomen out of a hundred would have wearied of me as Iwearied of them; seventy-five of that number would havepromptly avenged themselves by active and obtrusive flirtationwith other men. Mrs. Wessington was the hundredth.On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor the cuttingbrutalities with which I garnished our interviews had theleast effect.

"Jack, darling!" was her one eternal cuckoo cry, "I'msure it's all a mistake—a hideous mistake; and we'll begood friends again some day. Please forgive me, Jackdear."

I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformedmy pity into passive endurance, and, eventually, intoblind hate—the same instinct, I suppose, which prompts aman to savagely stamp on the spider he has but half killed.And with this hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came toan end.

Next year we met again at Simla—she with her monotonousface and timid attempts at reconciliation, and I withloathing of her in every fibre of my frame. Several times Icould not avoid meeting her alone; and on each occasion herwords were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wailthat it was all a "mistake"; and still the hope of eventually"making friends." I might have seen, had I cared to look,that that hope only was keeping her alive. She grew morewan and thin month by month. You will agree with me, atleast, that such conduct would have driven any one todespair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. Imaintain that she was much to blame. And again, sometimes, inthe black, fever-stricken night-watches, I have begun tothink that I might have been a little kinder to her. But thatreally is a "delusion." I could not have continued pretendingto love her when I didn't; could I? It would have beenunfair to us both.

Last year we met again—on the same terms as before.The same weary appeals, and the same curt answers frommy lips. At least I would make her see how wholly wrongand hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old relationship.As the season wore on, we fell apart—that is to say,she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and moreabsorbing interests to attend to. When I think it overquietly in my sick-room, the season of 1884 seems a confusednightmare wherein light and shade were fantasticallyintermingled—my courtship of little Kitty Mannering; myhopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; mytrembling avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and againa vision of a white face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with theblack and white liveries I once watched for so earnestly; thewave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved hand; and, when she metme alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony ofher appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartilyloved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred forAgnes. In August, Kitty and I were engaged. The nextday I met those accursed "magpie" jhampanies at the backof Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity,stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew italready.

"So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear." Then, withouta moment's pause—"I'm sure it's all a mistake—a hideousmistake. We shall be as good friends some day, Jack, aswe ever were."

My answer might have made even a man wince. It cutthe dying woman before me like the blow of a whip. "Pleaseforgive me, Jack; I didn't mean to make you angry; but it'strue, it's true!"

And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turnedaway and left her to finish her journey in peace, feeling, butonly for a moment or two, that I had been an unutterablymean hound. I looked back, and saw that she had turnedher 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.

The scene and its surroundings were photographed on mymemory. The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of thewet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, the muddy road, andthe black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy backgroundagainst which the black and white liveries of the jhampanies,the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's down-bowedgolden head stood out clearly. She was holding herhandkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhaustedagainst the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up aby-path near the Sanjoylie Reservoir and literally ran away.Once I fancied I heard a faint call of "Jack!" This mayhave been imagination. I never stopped to verify it. Tenminutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, inthe delight of a long ride with her, forgot all about theinterview.

A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressibleburden of her existence was removed from my life. I wentplainsward perfectly happy. Before three months were overI had forgotten all about her, except that at times thediscovery of some of her old letters reminded me unpleasantlyof our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterredwhat was left of our correspondence from among my scatteredbelongings and had burned it. At the beginning ofApril of this year, 1885, I was at Simla—semi-desertedSimla—once more, and was deep in lover's talks and walks withKitty. It was decided that we should be married at the endof June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving Kittyas I did, I am not saying too much when I pronounce myselfto have been, at that time, the happiest man in India.

Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticedtheir flight. Then, aroused to the sense of what was properamong mortals circumstanced as we were, I pointed out toKitty that an engagement-ring was the outward and visiblesign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and that she mustforthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Upto that moment, I give you my word, we had completelyforgotten so trivial a matter. To Hamilton's we accordinglywent on the 15th of April, 1885. Remember that—whatevermy doctor may say to the contrary—I was then in perfecthealth, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolutelytranquil spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together,and there, regardless of the order of affairs, I measuredKitty for the ring in the presence of the amused assistant.The ring was a sapphire with two diamonds. We then rodeout down the slope that leads to the Combermere Bridgeand Peliti's shop.

While my waler was cautiously feeling his way over theloose shale, and Kitty was laughing and chattering at myside—while all Simla, that is to say as much of it as hadthen come from the plains, was grouped round the reading-roomand Peliti's veranda—I was aware that some one,apparently at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christianname. It struck me that I had heard the voice before,but when and where I could not at once determine. In theshort space it took to cover the road between the path fromHamilton's shop and the first plank of the CombermereBridge I had thought over half a dozen people who mighthave committed such a solecism, and had eventually decidedthat it must have been some singing in my ears. Immediatelyopposite Peliti's shop my eye was arrested by the sightof four jhampanies in "magpie" livery, pulling ayellow-paneled, cheap, bazaar 'rickshaw. In a moment my mindflew back to the previous season and Mrs. Wessington witha sense of irritation and disgust. Was it not enough thatthe woman was dead and done with, without her black andwhite servitors reappearing to spoil the day's happiness?Whoever employed them now I thought I would call upon,and ask as a personal favor to change her jhampanies'livery. I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buytheir coats from off their backs. It is impossible to say herewhat a flood of undesirable memories their presence evoked.

"Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington'sjhampanies turned up again! I wonder who has them now?"

Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season,and had always been interested in the sickly woman.

"What? Where?" she asked. "I can't see them anywhere."

Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a ladenmule, threw himself directly in front of the advancing'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to utter a word of warning when,to my unutterable horror, horse and rider passed throughmen and carriage as if they had been thin air.

"What's the matter?" cried Kitty; "what made you callout so foolishly, Jack? If I am engaged I don't want allcreation to know about it. There was lots of space betweenthe mule and the veranda; and, if you think I can'tride—There!"

Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head inthe air, at a hand-gallop in the direction of the band-stand;fully expecting, as she herself afterward told me, that Ishould follow her. What was the matter? Nothing indeed.Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla was hauntedwith devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round.The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediatelyfacing me, near the left railing of the Combermere Bridge.

"Jack! Jack, darling!" (There was no mistake aboutthe words this time; they rang through my brain as if theyhad been shouted in my ear.) "It's some hideous mistake,I'm sure. Please forgive me, Jack, and let's be friendsagain."

The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hopeand pray daily for the death I dread by night, satMrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief in hand, and golden head bowedon her breast.

How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, Iwas aroused by my syce taking the waler's bridle and askingwhether I was ill. From the horrible to the commonplace isbut a step. I tumbled off my horse and dashed, half fainting,into Peliti's for a glass of cherry brandy. There two orthree couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussingthe gossip of the day. Their trivialities were morecomforting to me just then than the consolations of religioncould have been. I plunged into the midst of the conversationat once; chatted, laughed, and jested with a face (whenI caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn asthat of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition;and, evidently setting it down to the results of overmanypegs, charitably endeavored to draw me apart from the restof the loungers. But I refused to be led away. I wanted thecompany of my kind—as a child rushes into the midst of thedinner party after a fright in the dark. I must have talkedfor about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an eternity tome, when I heard Kitty's clear voice outside inquiring forme. In another minute she had entered the shop, preparedto roundly upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties.Something in my face stopped her.

"Why, Jack," she cried, "what have you been doing?What has happened? Are you ill?" Thus driven into adirect lie, I said that the sun had been a little too much forme. It was close upon five o'clock of a cloudy Aprilafternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw mymistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth; attemptedto recover it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty, in aregal rage, out-of-doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances.I made some excuse (I have forgotten what) on thescore of my feeling faint; and cantered away to my hotel,leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself.

In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out thematter. Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educatedBengal civilian in the year of grace 1885, presumably sane,certainly healthy, driven in terror from my sweetheart's sideby the apparition of a woman who had been dead and buriedeight months ago. These were facts that I could not blink.Nothing was further from my thought than any memory ofMrs. Wessington when Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop.Nothing was more utterly commonplace than the stretch ofwall opposite Peliti's. It was broad daylight. The roadwas full of people; and yet here, look you, in defiance ofevery law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature'sordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave.

Kitty's Arab had gone through the 'rickshaw; so thatmy first hope that some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessingtonhad hired the carriage and the coolies with their oldlivery was lost. Again and again I went round this treadmillof thought; and again and again gave up, baffled and indespair. The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition.I had originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty;of begging her to marry me at once; and in her arms defyingthe ghostly occupant of the 'rickshaw. "After all," Iargued, "the presence of the 'rickshaw is in itself enough toprove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may seeghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies andcarriages. The whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost ofa hill-man!"

Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploringher to overlook my strange conduct of the previousafternoon. My divinity was still very wroth, and a personalapology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency born ofnight-long pondering over a falsehood, that I had beenattacked with a sudden palpitation of the heart—the result ofindigestion. This eminently practical solution had its effect;and Kitty and I rode out that afternoon with the shadow ofmy first lie dividing us.

Nothing could please her save a canter round Jakko.With my nerves still unstrung from the previous night, Ifeebly protested against the notion, suggesting ObservatoryHill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road—anything rather thanthe Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt; so Iyielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding,and we set out together toward Chota Simla. We walked agreater part of the way, and, according to our custom,cantered from a mile or so below the convent to the stretch oflevel road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched horsesappeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as weneared the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full ofMrs. Wessington all the afternoon; and every inch of theJakko road bore witness to our old-time walks and talks.The boulders were full of it; the pines sung it aloudoverhead; the rain-fed torrent giggled and chuckled unseen overthe shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted theiniquity aloud.

As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men callthe Lady's Mile, the horror was awaiting me. No other'rickshaw was in sight—only the four black and whitejhampanies, the yellow-paneled carriage, and the goldenhead of a woman within—all apparently just as I had leftthem eight months and one fortnight ago! For an instant Ifancied that Kitty must see what I saw—we were so marvelouslysympathetic in all things. Her next words undeceivedme—"Not a soul in sight! Come along, Jack, and I'll raceyou to the reservoir buildings!" Her wiry little Arab wasoff like a bird, my waler following close behind, and in thisorder we dashed under the cliffs. Half a minute brought uswithin fifty yards of the 'rickshaw. I pulled my waler andfell back a little. The 'rickshaw was directly in the middleof the road; and once more the Arab passed through it, myhorse following. "Jack! Jack, dear! Please forgive me,"rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval: "It's alla mistake, a hideous mistake!"

I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I turnedmy head at the reservoir works, the black and white liverieswere still waiting—patiently waiting—under the grayhillside, and the wind brought me a mocking echo of the wordsI had just heard. Kitty bantered me a good deal on mysilence throughout the remainder of the ride. I had beentalking up till then wildly and at random. To save my lifeI could not speak naturally afterward, and from Sanjowlie tothe church wisely held my tongue.

I was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and hadbarely time to canter home to dress. On the road to ElysiumHill I overheard two men talking together in the dusk—"It'sa curious thing," said one, "how completely all trace ofit disappeared. You know my wife was insanely fond of thewoman (never could see anything in her myself), and wantedme to pick up her old 'rickshaw and coolies if they were to begot for love or money. Morbid sort of fancy I call it; butI've got to do what the Memsahib tells me. Would youbelieve that the man she hired it from tells me that all fourof the men—they were brothers—died of cholera on the wayto Hardwar, poor devils; and the 'rickshaw has been brokenup by the man himself. Told me he never used a deadMemsahib's 'rickshaw. Spoiled his luck. Queer notion,wasn't it? Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling anyone's luck except her own!" I laughed aloud at this point;and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there wereghosts of 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments inthe other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give hermen? What were their hours? Where did they go?

And for visible answer to my last question I saw theinfernal thing blocking my path in the twilight. The deadtravel fast, and by short cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. Ilaughed aloud a second time and checked my laughtersuddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a certainextent I must have been, for I recollect that I reined in myhorse at the head of the 'rickshaw, and politely wishedMrs. Wessington "Good-evening." Her answer was one I knewonly too well. I listened to the end; and replied that Ihad heard it all before, but should be delighted if she hadanything further to say. Some malignant devil stronger thanI must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dimrecollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for fiveminutes to the thing in front of me.

"Mad as a hatter, poor devil—or drunk. Max, try andget him to come home."

Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice! The twomen had overheard me speaking to the empty air, and hadreturned to look after me. They were very kind andconsiderate, and from their words evidently gathered that I wasextremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and canteredaway to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at theMannerings' ten minutes late. I pleaded the darkness of thenight as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for myunlover-like tardiness; and sat down.

The conversation had already become general; and undercover of it I was addressing some tender small-talk to mysweetheart when I was aware that at the further end of thetable a short, red-whiskered man was describing, with muchbroidery, his encounter with a man unknown that evening.A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating theincident of half an hour ago. In the middle of the story helooked round for applause, as professional story-tellers do,caught my eyes, and straightway collapsed. There was amoment's awkward silence, and the red-whiskered manmuttered something to the effect that he had "forgotten therest," thereby sacrificing a reputation as a good story-tellerwhich he had built up for six seasons past. I blessed himfrom the bottom of my heart, and—went on with my fish.

In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; andwith genuine regret I tore myself away from Kitty—ascertain as I was of my own existence that It would be waitingfor me outside the door. The red-whiskered man, who hadbeen introduced to me as Dr. Heatherlegh of Simla,volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads lay together.I accepted his offer with gratitude.

My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness inthe Mall, and, in what seemed devilish mockery of our ways,with a lighted head-lamp. The red-whiskered man went tothe point at once, in a manner that showed he had beenthinking over it all dinner-time.

"I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with youthis evening on the Elysium road?" The suddenness of thequestion wrenched an answer from me before I was aware.

"That!" said I, pointing to It.

"That may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I know.Now, you don't liquor. I saw as much at dinner, so it can'tbe D. T. There's nothing whatever where you're pointing,though you're sweating and trembling with fright like ascared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it's Eyes. And Iought to understand all about them. Come along home withme. I'm on the Blessington lower road."

To my intense delight the 'rickshaw, instead of waitingfor us, kept about twenty yards ahead—and this, too, whetherwe walked, trotted, or cantered. In the course of that longnight ride I had told my companion almost as much as Ihave told you here.

"Well, you've spoiled one of the best tales I've ever laidtongue to," said he, "but I'll forgive you for the sake ofwhat you've gone through. Now, come home and do whatI tell you; and when I've cured you, young man, let this be alesson to you to steer clear of women and indigestible foodtill the day of your death."

The 'rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red-whiskeredfriend seemed to derive great pleasure from my account of itsexact whereabout.

"Eyes, Pansay—all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And thegreatest of these three is Stomach. You've too muchconceited brain, too little stomach, and thoroughly unhealthyeyes. Get your stomach straight and the rest follows. Andall that's French for a liver pill. I'll take sole medical chargeof you from this hour! for you're too interesting aphenomenon to be passed over."

By this time we were deep in the shadow of the Blessingtonlower road and the 'rickshaw came to a dead stop under apine-clad, overhanging shale cliff. Instinctively I halted, too,giving my reason. Heatherlegh rapped out an oath.

"Now, if you think I'm going to spend a cold night on thehillside for the sake of a Stomach-cum-Brain-cum-Eyeillusion ... Lord ha' mercy! What's that?"

There was a muffled report, a blinding smother of dustjust in front of us, a crack, the noise of rent boughs, andabout ten yards of the cliff-side—pines, undergrowth, andall—slid down into the road below, completely blocking it up.The uprooted trees swayed and tottered for a moment likedrunken giants in the gloom, and then fell prone among theirfellows with a thunderous crash. Our two horses stoodmotionless and sweating with fear. As soon as the rattle offalling earth and stone had subsided, my companion muttered:"Man, if we'd gone forward we should have been ten feetdeep in our graves by now. 'There are more things inheaven and earth—' Come home, Pansay, and thank God.I want a peg badly."

We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I arrivedat Dr. Heatherlegh's house shortly after midnight.

His attempts toward my cure commenced almost immediately,and for a week I never left his sight. Many a timein the course of that week did I bless the good fortune whichhad thrown me in contact with Simla's best and kindestdoctor. Day by day my spirits grew lighter and more equable.Day by day, too, I became more and more inclined to fall inwith Heatherlegh's "spectral illusion" theory, implicatingeyes, brain, and stomach. I wrote to Kitty, telling her thata slight sprain caused by a fall from my horse kept meindoors for a few days; and that I should be recovered beforeshe had time to regret my absence.

Heatherlegh's treatment was simple to a degree. It consistedof liver pills, cold water baths, and strong exercise,taken in the dusk or at early dawn—for, as he sagelyobserved: "A man with a sprained ankle doesn't walk a dozenmiles a day, and your young woman might be wondering ifshe saw you."

At the end of the week, after much examination of pupiland pulse, and strict injunctions as to diet and pedestrianism,Heatherlegh dismissed me as bruskly as he had takencharge of me. Here is his parting benediction: "Man, Icertify to your mental cure, and that's as much as to say I'vecured most of your bodily ailments. Now, get your trapsout of this as soon as you can; and be off to make loveto Miss Kitty."

I was endeavoring to express my thanks for his kindness.He cut me short.

"Don't think I did this because I like you. I gather thatyou've behaved like a blackguard all through. But, all thesame, you're a phenomenon, and as queer a phenomenon asyou are a blackguard. No!"—checking me a second time—"nota rupee, please. Go out and see if you can find theeyes-brain-and-stomach business again. I'll give you a lakhfor each time you see it."

Half an hour later I was in the Mannerings'drawing-room with Kitty—drunk with the intoxication of presenthappiness and the foreknowledge that I should never morebe troubled with Its hideous presence. Strong in the senseof my new-found security, I proposed a ride at once; and,by preference, a canter round Jakko.

Never had I felt so well, so overladen with vitality andmere animal spirits, as I did on the afternoon of the 30thof April. Kitty was delighted at the change in my appearance,and complimented me on it in her delightfully frankand outspoken manner. We left the Mannerings' housetogether, laughing and talking, and cantered along the ChotaSimla road as of old.

I was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir and theremake my assurance doubly sure. The horses did their best,but seemed all too slow to my impatient mind. Kitty wasastonished at my boisterousness. "Why, Jack!" she cried atlast, "you are behaving like a child. What are you doing?"

We were just below the convent, and from sheer wantonnessI was making my waler plunge and curvet across theroad as I tickled it with the loop of my riding-whip.

"Doing?" I answered; "nothing, dear. That's just it. Ifyou'd been doing nothing for a week except lie up, you'd beas riotous as I.

"'Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth,
Joying to feel yourself alive;
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth,
Lord of the senses five.'"

My quotation was hardly out of my lips before we hadrounded the corner above the convent, and a few yardsfurther on could see across to Sanjowlie. In the centre ofthe level road stood the black and white liveries, theyellow-paneled 'rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith-Wessington. I pulledup, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, I believe, must have saidsomething. The next thing I knew was that I was lyingface downward on the road, with Kitty kneeling above mein tears.

"Has it gone, child?" I gasped. Kitty only wept morebitterly.

"Has what gone, Jack dear? What does it all mean?There must be a mistake somewhere, Jack. A hideousmistake." Her last words brought me to my feet—mad—ravingfor the time being.

"Yes, there is a mistake somewhere," I repeated, "ahideous mistake. Come and look at It."

I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by the wristalong the road up to where It stood, and implored her forpity's sake to speak to It; to tell It that we were betrothed;that neither death nor hell could break the tie between us;and Kitty only knows how much more to the same effect.Now and again I appealed passionately to the terror in the'rickshaw to bear witness to all I had said, and to release mefrom a torture that was killing me. As I talked I supposeI must have told Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. Wessington,for I saw her listen intently with white face andblazing eyes.

"Thank you, Mr. Pansay," she said, "that's quite enough.Syce ghora láo."

The syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had comeup with the recaptured horses; and as Kitty sprang into hersaddle I caught hold of the bridle, entreating her to hear meout and forgive. My answer was the cut of her riding-whipacross my face from mouth to eye, and a word or two offarewell that even now I can not write down. So I judged, andjudged rightly, that Kitty knew all; and I staggered backto the side of the 'rickshaw. My face was cut and bleeding,and the blow of the riding-whip had raised a livid blue whealon it. I had no self-respect. Just then, Heatherlegh, whomust have been following Kitty and me at a distance,cantered up.

"Doctor," I said, pointing to my face, "here's MissMannering's signature to my order of dismissal, and I'll thankyou for that lakh as soon as convenient."

Heatherlegh's face, even in my abject misery, moved meto laughter.

"I'll stake my professional reputation—" he began.

"Don't be a fool," I whispered. "I've lost my life'shappiness and you'd better take me home."

As I spoke the 'rickshaw was gone. Then I lost allknowledge of what was passing. The crest of Jakko seemedto heave and roll like the crest of a cloud and fall in upon me.

Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to say) I wasaware that I was lying in Heatherlegh's room as weak as alittle child. Heatherlegh was watching me intently frombehind the papers on his writing-table. His first words werenot encouraging; but I was too far spent to be much movedby them.

"Here's Miss Kitty has sent back your letters. Youcorresponded a good deal, you young people. Here's apacket that looks like a ring, and a cheerful sort of a notefrom Mannering Papa, which I've taken the liberty of readingand burning. The old gentleman's not pleased with you."

"And Kitty?" I asked dully.

"Rather more drawn than her father from what she says.By the same token you must have been letting out anynumber of queer reminiscences just before I met you. Saysthat a man who would have behaved to a woman as you didto Mrs. Wessington ought to kill himself out of sheer pityfor his kind. She's a hot-headed little virago, your mash.Will have it too that you were suffering from D. T. whenthat row on the Jakko road turned up. Says she'll die beforeshe ever speaks to you again."

I groaned and turned over on the other side.

"Now, you've got your choice, my friend. This engagementhas to be broken off; and the Mannerings don't wantto be too hard on you. Was it broken through D. T. orepileptic fits? Sorry I can't offer you a better exchange unlessyou'd prefer hereditary insanity. Say the word and I'll tell'em it's fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the Ladies'Mile. Come! I'll give you five minutes to think over it."

During those five minutes I believe that I explored thoroughlythe lowest circles of the Inferno which it is permittedman to tread on earth. And at the same time I myself waswatching myself faltering through the dark labyrinths ofdoubt, misery, and utter despair. I wondered, as Heatherleghin his chair might have wondered, which dreadfulalternative I should adopt. Presently I heard myselfanswering in a voice that I hardly recognized:

"They're confoundedly particular about morality in theseparts. Give 'em fits, Heatherlegh, and my love. Now, letme sleep a bit longer."

Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (halfcrazed, devil-driven I) that tossed in my bed, tracing stepby step the history of the past month.

"But I am in Simla," I kept repeating to myself. "I, JackPansay, am in Simla, and there are no ghosts here. It'sunreasonable of that woman to pretend there are. Whycouldn't Agnes have left me alone? I never did her anyharm. It might just as well have been me as Agnes. OnlyI'd never have come back on purpose to kill her. Why can'tI be left alone—left alone and happy?"

It was high noon when I first awoke; and the sun waslow in the sky before I slept—slept as the tortured criminalsleeps on his rack, too worn to feel further pain.

Next day I could not leave my bed. Heatherlegh told mein the morning that he had received an answer fromMr. Mannering, and that, thanks to his (Heatherlegh's) friendlyoffices, the story of my affliction had traveled through thelength and breadth of Simla, where I was on all sides muchpitied.

"And that's rather more than you deserve," he concluded,pleasantly, "though the Lord knows you've been goingthrough a pretty severe mill. Never mind; we'll cureyou yet, you perverse phenomenon."

I declined firmly to be cured. "You've been much toogood to me already, old man," said I; "but I don't think Ineed trouble you further."

In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh could dowould lighten the burden that had been laid upon me.

With that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, impotentrebellion against the unreasonableness of it all. Therewere scores of men no better than I whose punishments hadat least been reserved for another world; and I felt that itwas bitterly, cruelly unfair that I alone should have beensingled out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in timegive place to another where it seemed that the 'rickshaw andI were the only realities in a world of shadows; that Kittywas a ghost; that Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the othermen and women I knew were all ghosts; and the great, grayhills themselves but vain shadows devised to torture me.From mood to mood I tossed backward and forward for sevenweary days; my body growing daily stronger and stronger,until the bedroom looking-glass told me that I had returnedto every day life, and was as other men once more. Curiouslyenough my face showed no signs of the struggle I hadgone through. It was pale indeed, but as expressionless andcommonplace as ever. I had expected some permanentalteration—visible evidence of the disease that was eating meaway. I found nothing.

On the 15th of May I left Heatherlegh's house at eleveno'clock in the morning; and the instinct of the bachelor droveme to the club. There I found that every man knew mystory as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in clumsy fashion,abnormally kind and attentive. Nevertheless, I recognizedthat for the rest of my natural life I should be among butnot of my fellows; and I envied very bitterly indeed thelaughing coolies on the Mall below. I lunched at the club,and at four o'clock wandered aimlessly down the Mall in thevague hope of meeting Kitty. Close to the band-stand theblack and white liveries joined me; and I heard Mrs. Wessington'sold appeal at my side. I had been expecting thisever since I came out; and was only surprised at her delay.The phantom 'rickshaw and I went side by side along theChota Simla road in silence. Close to the bazaar, Kitty anda man on horseback overtook and passed us. For any signshe gave I might have been a dog in the road. She did noteven pay me the compliment of quickening her pace; thoughthe rainy afternoon had served for an excuse.

So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly light-o'-love,crept round Jakko in couples. The road was streamingwith water; the pines dripped like roof-pipes on the rocksbelow, and the air was full of fine, driving rain. Two or threetimes I found myself saying to myself almost aloud: "I'mJack Pansay on leave at Simla—at Simla! Everyday, ordinarySimla. I mustn't forget that—I mustn't forget that." ThenI would try to recollect some of the gossip I had heardat the club; the prices of So-and-So's horses—anything, infact, that related to the workaday Anglo-Indian world Iknew so well. I even repeated the multiplication table rapidlyto myself, to make quite sure that I was not taking leaveof my senses. It gave me much comfort; and must haveprevented my hearing Mrs. Wessington for a time.

Once more I wearily climbed the convent slope andentered the level road. Here Kitty and the man started offat a canter, and I was left alone with Mrs. Wessington."Agnes," said I, "will you put back your hood and tell mewhat it all means?" The hood dropped noiselessly, and Iwas face to face with my dead and buried mistress. Shewas wearing the dress in which I had last seen her alive;carried the same tiny handkerchief in her right hand, andthe same card-case in her left. (A woman eight monthsdead with a card-case!) I had to pin myself down to themultiplication table, and to set both hands on the stoneparapet of the road, to assure myself that at least wasreal.

"Agnes," I repeated, "for pity's sake tell me what it allmeans." Mrs. Wessington leaned forward, with that odd,quick turn of the head I used to know so well, and spoke.

If my story had not already so madly overleaped thebounds of all human belief I should apologize to you now.As I know that no one—no, not even Kitty, for whom it iswritten as some sort of justification of my conduct—willbelieve me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and I walkedwith her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning below theCommander-in-chief's house as I might walk by the side ofany living woman's 'rickshaw, deep in conversation. Thesecond and most tormenting of my moods of sickness hadsuddenly laid hold upon me, and, like the prince inTennyson's poem, "I seemed to move amid a world of ghosts." Therehad been a garden-party at the commander-in-chief's,and we two joined the crowd of homeward-bound folk. AsI saw them then it seemed that they were the shadows—impalpablefantastic shadows—that divided for Mrs. Wessington's'rickshaw to pass through. What we said duringthe course of that weird interview I can not—indeed, I darenot—tell. Heatherlegh's comment would have been a shortlaugh and a remark that I had been "mashing abrain-eye-and-stomach chimera." It was a ghastly and yet in someindefinable way a marvelously dear experience. Could it bepossible, I wondered, that I was in this life to woo asecond time the woman I had killed by my own neglect andcruelty?

I met Kitty on the homeward road—a shadow among shadows.

If I were to describe all the incidents of the nextfortnight in their order, my story would never come to an end;and your patience would be exhausted. Morning aftermorning and evening after evening the ghostly 'rickshaw and Iused to wander through Simla together. Wherever I wentthere the four black and white liveries followed me and boreme company to and from my hotel. At the theatre I foundthem amid the crowd of yelling jhampanies; outside theclub veranda, after a long evening of whist; at the birthdayball, waiting patiently for my reappearance; and in broaddaylight when I went calling. Save that it cast no shadow,the 'rickshaw was in every respect as real to look upon asone of wood and iron. More than once, indeed, I have hadto check myself from warning some hard-riding friendagainst cantering over it. More than once I have walkeddown the Mall deep in conversation with Mrs. Wessingtonto the unspeakable amazement of the passers-by.

Before I had been out and about a week I learned thatthe "fit" theory had been discarded in favor of insanity.However, I made no change in my mode of life. I called,rode, and dined out as freely as ever. I had a passion forthe society of my kind which I had never felt before; Ihungered to be among the realities of life; and at the sametime I felt vaguely unhappy when I had been separated toolong from my ghostly companion. It would be almostimpossible to describe my varying moods from the 15th of Mayup to to-day.

The presence of the 'rickshaw filled me by turns with horror,blind fear, a dim sort of pleasure, and utter despair.I dared not leave Simla; and I knew that my stay there waskilling me. I knew, moreover, that it was my destiny to dieslowly and a little every day. My only anxiety was to getthe penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately Ihungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her outrageousflirtations with my successor—to speak more accurately, mysuccessors—with amused interest. She was as much out ofmy life as I was out of hers. By day I wandered withMrs. Wessington almost content. By night I implored Heaven tolet me return to the world as I used to know it.

Above all these varying moods lay the sensation of dull,numbing wonder that the Seen and the Unseen should mingleso strangely on this earth to hound one poor soul to itsgrave.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

August 27.—Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in hisattendance on me; and only yesterday told me that I oughtto send in an application for sick leave. An application toescape the company of a phantom! A request that thegovernment would graciously permit me to get rid of five ghostsand an airy 'rickshaw by going to England! Heatherlegh'sproposition moved me to almost hysterical laughter. I toldhim that I should await the end quietly at Simla; and I amsure that the end is not far off. Believe me that I dread itsadvent more than any word can say; and I torture myselfnightly with a thousand speculations as to the manner ofmy death.

Shall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentlemanshould die; or, in one last walk on the Mall, will mysoul be wrenched from me to take its place forever and everby the side of that ghastly phantasm? Shall I return to myold lost allegiance in the next world, or shall I meet Agnes,loathing her and bound to her side through all eternity?Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till the end ofTime? As the day of my death draws nearer, the intensehorror that all living flesh feels toward escaped spirits frombeyond the grave grows more and more powerful. It is anawful thing to go down quick among the dead with scarcelyone-half of your life completed. It is a thousand timesmore awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know notwhat unimaginable terror. Pity me, at least on the score ofmy "delusion," for I know you will never believe what Ihave written here. Yet as surely as ever a man was done todeath by the Powers of Darkness I am that man.

In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever womanwas killed by man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the lastportion of my punishment is even now upon me.

THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF

BY A. T. QUILLER-COUCH ("Q.")

"Q." is the signature of Arthur ThomasQuiller-Couch, born in Cornwall in 1863. NoEnglish novelist of the present generationupholds more evenly and consistently than he thebest traditions of the art of story-writing, bothin elevation of theme and dignity of style. Hisimagination attains the dramatic quality bystrength and purity rather than by eccentricityand abnormality. For these reasons he waschosen to complete Robert Louis Stevenson'snovel "St. Ives," left unfinished on the deathof the author.

THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF

By A. T. QUILLER-COUCH

"Yes, sir," said my host, the quarryman, reachingdown the relics from their hook in the wall overthe chimneypiece; "they've hung here all my time,and most of my father's. The women won't touch'em; they're afraid of the story. So here they'll dangle, andgather dust and smoke, till another tenant comes and tosses'em out o' doors for rubbish. Whew! 'tis coarse weather,surely."

He went to the door, opened it, and stood studying thegale that beat upon his cottage-front, straight from theManacle Reef. The rain drove past him into the kitchen,aslant like threads of gold silk in the shine of the wreck-woodfire. Meanwhile, by the same firelight, I examined therelics on my knee. The metal of each was tarnished outof knowledge. But the trumpet was evidently an old cavalrytrumpet, and the threads of its party-colored sling, thoughfretted and dusty, still hung together. Around theside-drum, beneath its cracked brown varnish, I could hardlytrace a royal coat-of-arms and a legend running, "Per MarePer Terram"—the motto of the marines. Its parchment,though black and scented with wood-smoke, was limp andmildewed; and I began to tighten up the straps—underwhich the drumsticks had been loosely thrust—with theidle purpose of trying if some music might be got out ofthe old drum yet.

But as I turned it on my knee, I found the drum attachedto the trumpet-sling by a curious barrel-shaped padlock, andpaused to examine this. The body of the lock was composedof half a dozen brass rings, set accurately edge toedge; and, rubbing the brass with my thumb, I saw thateach of the six had a series of letters engraved around it.

I knew the trick of it, I thought. Here was one of thoseword padlocks, once so common; only to be opened by gettingthe rings to spell a certain word, which the dealerconfides to you.

My host shut and barred the door, and came back to thehearth.

"'Twas just such a wind—east by south—that broughtin what you've got between your hands. Back in the year'nine, it was; my father has told me the tale a score o' times.You're twisting round the rings, I see. But you'll neverguess the word. Parson Kendall, he made the word, andhe locked down a couple o' ghosts in their graves with it;and when his time came he went to his own grave and tookthe word with him."

"Whose ghosts, Matthew?"

"You want the story, I see, sir. My father could tell itbetter than I can. He was a young man in the year 'nine,unmarried at the time, and living in this very cottage, justas I be. That's how he came to get mixed up with the tale."

He took a chair, lighted a short pipe, and went on, withhis eyes fixed on the dancing violet flames:

"Yes, he'd ha' been about thirty year old in January,eighteen 'nine. The storm got up in the night o' thetwenty-first o' that month. My father was dressed and out longbefore daylight; he never was one to bide in bed, let be thatthe gale by this time was pretty near lifting the thatch overhis head. Besides which, he'd fenced a small 'taty-patch thatwinter, down by Lowland Point, and he wanted to see if itstood the night's work. He took the path across Gunner'sMeadow—where they buried most of the bodies afterward.The wind was right in his teeth at the time, and once on theway (he's told me this often) a great strip of oarweed cameflying through the darkness and fetched him a slap on thecheek like a cold hand. But he made shift pretty well tillhe got to Lowland, and then had to drop upon hands andknees and crawl, digging his fingers every now and then intothe shingle to hold on, for he declared to me that thestones, some of them as big as a man's head, kept rollingand driving past till it seemed the whole foreshore wasmoving westward under him. The fence was gone, of course;not a stick left to show where it stood; so that, when firsthe came to the place, he thought he must have missed hisbearings. My father, sir, was a very religious man; and ifhe reckoned the end of the world was at hand—there in thegreat wind and night, among the moving stones—you maybelieve he was certain of it when he heard a gun fired, and,with the same, saw a flame shoot up out of the darkness towindward, making a sudden fierce light in all the placeabout. All he could find to think or say was, 'The SecondComing! The Second Coming! The Bridegroom cometh,and the wicked He will toss like a ball into a large country';and being already upon his knees, he just bowed his headand 'bided, saying this over and over.

"But by'm by, between two squalls, he made bold to lifthis head and look, and then by the light—a bluish color'twas—he saw all the coast clear away to Manacle Point,and off the Manacles in the thick of the weather, asloop-of-war with topgallants housed, driving stern foremosttoward the reef. It was she, of course, that was burning theflare. My father could see the white streak and the portsof her quite plain as she rose to it, a little outside thebreakers, and he guessed easy enough that her captain hadjust managed to wear ship and was trying to force her noseto the sea with the help of her small bower anchor and thescrap or two of canvas that hadn't yet been blown out ofher. But while he looked, she fell off, giving her broadsideto it foot by foot, and drifting back on the breakers aroundCarn Du and the Varses. The rocks lie so thick thereaboutthat 'twas a toss up which she struck first; at any rate, myfather couldn't tell at the time, for just then the flare dieddown and went out.

"Well, sir, he turned then in the dark and started backfor Coverack to cry the dismal tidings—though wellknowing ship and crew to be past any hope, and as he turnedthe wind lifted him and tossed him forward 'like a ball,' ashe'd been saying, and homeward along the foreshore. Asyou know, 'tis ugly work, even by daylight, picking yourway among the stones there, and my father was prettilyknocked about at first in the dark. But by this 'twas nearerseven than six o'clock, and the day spreading. By the timehe reached North Corner, a man could see to read print;hows'ever, he looked neither out to sea nor toward Coverack,but headed straight for the first cottage—the same thatstands above North Corner to-day. A man named BillyEde lived there then, and when my father burst into thekitchen bawling, 'Wreck! wreck!' he saw Billy Ede's wife,Ann, standing there in her clogs with a shawl over herhead, and her clothes wringing wet.

"'Save the chap!' says Billy Ede's wife, Ann. 'What d'eemean by crying stale fish at that rate?'

"'But 'tis a wreck, I tell 'ee.'

"'I've a-zeed 'n, too; and so has every one with an eyein his head.'

"And with that she pointed straight over my father'sshoulder, and he turned; and there, close under Dolor Point,at the end of Coverack town, he saw another wreck washing,and the point black with people, like emmets, running toand fro in the morning light. While he stood staring at her,he heard a trumpet sounded on board, the notes coming inlittle jerks, like a bird rising against the wind; but faintly,of course, because of the distance and the galeblowing—though this had dropped a little.

"'She's a transport,' said Billy Ede's wife, Ann, 'and fullof horse-soldiers, fine long men. When she struck theymust ha' pitched the horses over first to lighten the ship,for a score of dead horses had washed in afore I left, halfan hour back. An' three or four soldiers, too—fine longcorpses in white breeches and jackets of blue and gold. Iheld the lantern to one. Such a straight young man!'

"My father asked her about the trumpeting.

"'That's the queerest bit of all. She was burnin' a lightwhen me an' my man joined the crowd down there. All hermasts had gone; whether they carried away, or were cutaway to ease her, I don't rightly know. Her keelson wasbroke under her and her bottom sagged and stove, and shehad just settled down like a sitting hen—just the leastestlist to starboard; but a man could stand there easy. Theyhad rigged up ropes across her, from bulwark to bulwark,an' beside these the men were mustered, holding on likegrim death whenever the sea made a clean breach overthem, an' standing up like heroes as soon as it passed.The captain an' the officers were clinging to the rail ofthe quarterdeck, all in their golden uniforms, waiting for theend as if 'twas King George they expected. There wasno way to help, for she lay right beyond cast of line, thoughour folk tried it fifty times. And beside them clung atrumpeter, a whacking big man, an' between the heavy seas hewould lift his trumpet with one hand, and blow a call; andevery time he blew the men gave a cheer. There [shesays]—hark 'ee now—there he goes agen! But you won't hearno cheering any more, for few are left to cheer, and theirvoices weak. Bitter cold the wind is, and I reckon it numbstheir grip o' the ropes, for they were dropping off fast withevery sea when my man sent me home to get his breakfast.Another wreck, you say? Well, there's no hope for thetender dears, if 'tis the Manacles. You'd better run downand help yonder; though 'tis little help any man can give.Not one came in alive while I was there. The tide's flowing,an' she won't hold together another hour, they say.'

"Well, sure enough, the end was coming fast when myfather got down to the point. Six men had been cast upalive, or just breathing—a seaman and five troopers. Theseaman was the only one that had breath to speak; andwhile they were carrying him into the town, the word wentround that the ship's name was the 'Despatch,' transport,homeward-bound from Corunna, with a detachment of theSeventh Hussars, that had been fighting out there with SirJohn Moore. The seas had rolled her further over by thistime, and given her decks a pretty sharp slope; but a dozenmen still held on, seven by the ropes near the ship's waist,a couple near the break of the poop, and three on thequarterdeck. Of these three my father made out one to be theskipper; close by him clung an officer in full regimentals—hisname, they heard after, was Captain Duncanfield; andlast came the tall trumpeter; and if you'll believe me, thefellow was making shift there, at the very last, to blow 'GodSave the King.' What's more, he got to 'Send us victorious,'before an extra big sea came bursting across and washedthem off the deck—every man but one of the pair beneaththe poop—and he dropped his hold before the next wave;being stunned, I reckon. The others went out of sight atonce, but the trumpeter—being, as I said, a powerful manas well as a tough swimmer—rose like a duck, rode out acouple of breakers, and came in on the crest of the third.The folks looked to see him broke like an egg at their veryfeet; but when the smother cleared, there he was, lying facedownward on a ledge below them; and one of the men thathappened to have a rope round him—I forget the fellow'sname, if I ever heard it—jumped down and grabbed him bythe ankle as he began to slip back. Before the next bigsea, the pair were hauled high enough to be out of harm,and another heave brought them up to grass. Quick work,but master trumpeter wasn't quite dead; nothing worse thana cracked head and three staved ribs. In twenty minutes orso they had him in bed, with the doctor to tend him.

"Now was the time—nothing being left alive upon thetransport—for my father to tell of the sloop he'd seendriving upon the Manacles. And when he got a hearing, thoughthe most were set upon salvage, and believed a wreck in thehand, so to say, to be worth half a dozen they couldn't see,a good few volunteered to start off with him and have alook. They crossed Lowland Point; no ship to be seen onthe Manacles nor anywhere upon the sea. One or two wasfor calling my father a liar. 'Wait till we come to DeanPoint,' said he. Sure enough, on the far side of Dean Pointthey found the sloop's mainmast washing about with halfa dozen men lashed to it, men in red jackets, every mother'sson drowned and staring; and a little further on, just underthe Dean, three or four bodies cast up on the shore, one ofthem a small drummer-boy, side-drum and all; and near bypart of a ship's gig, with 'H.M.S. Primrose' cut on thestern-board. From this point on the shore was littered thick withwreckage and dead bodies—the most of them marines inuniform—and in Godrevy Cove, in particular, a heap offurniture from the captain's cabin, and among it a water-tightbox, not much damaged, and full of papers, by which, whenit came to be examined, next day, the wreck was easilymade out to be the 'Primrose,' of eighteen guns, outwardbound from Portsmouth, with a fleet of transports for theSpanish war—thirty sail, I've heard, but I've never heardwhat became of them. Being handled by merchant skippers,no doubt they rode out the gale, and reached the Tagussafe and sound. Not but what the captain of the 'Primrose'—Meinwas his name—did quite right to try and club-haulhis vessel when he found himself under the land; only henever ought to have got there, if he took proper soundings.But it's easy talking.

"The 'Primrose,' sir, was a handsome vessel—for her sizeone of the handsomest in the King's service—and newlyfitted out at Plymouth Dock. So the boys had brave pickingsfrom her in the way of brass-work, ship's instruments,and the like, let alone some barrels of stores not muchspoiled. They loaded themselves with as much as theycould carry, and started for home, meaning to make asecond journey before the preventive men got wind of theirdoings, and came to spoil the fun. 'Hullo!' says my father,and dropped his gear, 'I do believe there's a leg moving?' andrunning fore, he stooped over the small drummer-boy thatI told you about. The poor little chap was lying there,with his face a mass of bruises, and his eyes closed; but hehad shifted one leg an inch or two, and was still breathing.So my father pulled out a knife, and cut him free fromhis drum—that was lashed on to him with a double turn ofManila rope—and took him up and carried him along hereto this very room that we're sitting in. He lost a good dealby this; for when he went back to fetch the bundle he'ddropped, the preventive men had got hold of it, and werethick as thieves along the foreshore; so that 'twas only bypaying one or two to look the other way that he picked upanything worth carrying off: which you'll allow to be hard,seeing that he was the first man to give news of the wreck.

"Well, the inquiry was held, of course, and my fathergave evidence, and for the rest they had to trust to thesloop's papers, for not a soul was saved besides thedrummer-boy, and he was raving in a fever, brought on by thecold and the fright. And the seaman and the five troopersgave evidence about the loss of the 'Despatch.' The talltrumpeter, too, whose ribs were healing, came forward andkissed the book; but somehow his head had been hurt incoming ashore, and he talked foolish-like, and 'twas easyseen he would never be a proper man again. The otherswere taken up to Plymouth, and so went their ways; but thetrumpeter stayed on in Coverack; and King George, findinghe was fit for nothing, sent him down a trifle of a pensionafter a while—enough to keep him in board and lodging,with a bit of tobacco over.

"Now the first time that this man—William Tallifer hecalled himself—met with the drummer-boy, was about a fortnightafter the little chap had bettered enough to be alloweda short walk out of doors, which he took, if you please, infull regimentals. There never was a soldier so proud of hisdress. His own suit had shrunk a brave bit with the saltwater; but into ordinary frock an' corduroys he declaredhe would not get, not if he had to go naked the rest of hislife; so my father—being a good-natured man, and handywith the needle—turned to and repaired damages with apiece or two of scarlet cloth cut from the jacket of one ofthe drowned Marines. Well, the poor little chap chancedto be standing, in this rig out, down by the gate of Gunner'sMeadow, where they had buried two score and over of hiscomrades. The morning was a fine one, early in Marchmonth; and along came the cracked trumpeter, likewisetaking a stroll.

"'Hullo!' says he; 'good mornin'! And what might yoube doin' here?'

"'I was a-wishin',' says the boy, 'I had a pair o'drumsticks. Our lads were buried yonder without so much as adrum tapped or a musket fired; and that's not Christianburial for British soldiers.'

"'Phut!' says the trumpeter, and spat on the ground; 'aparcel of Marines!'

"The boy eyed him a second or so, and answered up: 'IfI'd a tav of turf handy, I'd bung it at your mouth, you greasycavalryman, and learn you to speak respectful of yourbetters. The Marines are the handiest body o' men in theservice.'

"The trumpeter looked down on him from the height ofsix-foot two, and asked: 'Did they die well?'

"'They died very well. There was a lot of running toand fro at first, and some of the men began to cry, and afew to strip off their clothes. But when the ship fell offfor the last time, Captain Mein turned and said somethingto Major Griffiths, the commanding officer on board, andthe Major called out to me to beat to quarters. It mighthave been for a wedding, he sang it out so cheerful. We'dhad word already that 'twas to be parade order; and themen fell in as trim and decent as if they were going tochurch. One or two even tried to shave at the lastmoment. The Major wore his medals. One of the seamen,seeing I had work to keep the drum steady—the sling being abit loose for me, and the wind what you remember—lashed ittight with a piece of rope; and that saved my life afterward,a drum being as good as a cork until it's stove. I keptbeating away until every man was on deck; and then the Majorformed them up and told them to die like British soldiers,and the chaplain was in the middle of a prayer when shestruck. In ten minutes she was gone. That was how theydied, cavalryman.'

"'And that was very well done, drummer of the Marines.What's your name?'

"'John Christian.'

"'Mine's William George Tallifer, trumpeter, of the SeventhLight Dragoons—the Queen's Own. I played "God Savethe King" while our men were drowning. Captain Duncanfieldtold me to sound a call or two, to put them in heart;but that matter of "God save the King" was a notion of myown. I won't say anything to hurt the feelings of a Marine,even if he's not much over five-foot tall; but the Queen's OwnHussars is a tearin' fine regiment. As between horse andfoot, 'tis a question o' which gets a chance. All the wayfrom Sahagun to Corunna 'twas we that took and gave theknocks—at Mayorga and Rueda, and Bennyventy.'—The reason,sir, I can speak the names so pat, is that my fatherlearnt 'em by heart afterward from the trumpeter, who wasalways talking about Mayorga and Rueda and Bennyventy.'—Wemade the rear-guard, under General Paget; and drovethe French every time; and all the infantry did was to sitabout in wine-shops till we whipped 'em out, an' steal an'straggle an' play the tom-fool in general. And when itcame to a stand-up fight at Corunna, 'twas we that had tostay seasick aboard the transports, an' watch the infantryin the thick o' the caper. Very well they behaved,too—specially the Fourth Regiment, an' the Forty-SecondHighlanders, an' the Dirty Half-Hundred. Oh, ay; they're decentregiments, all three. But the Queen's Own Hussars is atearin' fine regiment. So you played on your drum when theship was goin' down? Drummer John Christian, I'll have toget you a new pair of sticks.'

"The very next day the trumpeter marched into Helston,and got a carpenter there to turn him a pair of box-wooddrumsticks for the boy. And this was the beginning of oneof the most curious friendships you ever heard tell of.Nothing delighted the pair more than to borrow a boat off myfather and pull out to the rocks where the 'Primrose' and the'Despatch' had struck and sunk; and on still days 'twaspretty to hear them out there off the Manacles, the drummerplaying his tattoo—for they always took their music withthem—and the trumpeter practising calls, and making histrumpet speak like an angel. But if the weather turnedroughish, they'd be walking together and talking; leastwisethe youngster listened while the other discoursed about SirJohn's campaign in Spain and Portugal, telling how eachlittle skirmish befell; and of Sir John himself, and GeneralBaird, and General Paget, and Colonel Vivian, his owncommanding officer, and what kind of men they were; and of thelast bloody stand-up at Corunna, and so forth, as if neithercould have enough.

"But all this had to come to an end in the late summer,for the boy, John Christian, being now well and strong again,must go up to Plymouth to report himself. 'Twas his ownwish (for I believe King George had forgotten all about him),but his friend wouldn't hold him back. As for thetrumpeter, my father had made an arrangement to take him on aslodger, as soon as the boy left; and on the morning fixedfor the start, he was up at the door here by five o'clock, withhis trumpet slung by his side, and all the rest of his belongingsin a small valise. A Monday morning it was, and afterbreakfast he had fixed to walk with the boy some way on theroad toward Helston, where the coach started. My fatherleft them at breakfast together, and went out to meat thepig, and do a few odd morning jobs of that sort. When hecame back, the boy was still at table, and the trumpeter satwith the rings in his hands, hitched together just as they beat this moment.

"'Look at this,' he says to my father, showing him thelock. 'I picked it up off a starving brass-worker in Lisbon,and it is not one of your common locks that one word of sixletters will open at any time. There's janius in this lock;for you've only to make the rings spell any six-letter wordyou please and snap down the lock upon that, and nevera soul can open it—not the maker, even—until somebodycomes along that knows the word you snapped it on. NowJohnny here's goin', and he leaves his drum behind him; for,though he can make pretty music on it, the parchment sagsin wet weather, by reason of the sea-water getting at it;an' if he carries it to Plymouth, they'll only condemn it andgive him another. And, as for me, I shan't have the heart toput lip to the trumpet any more when Johnny's gone. Sowe've chosen a word together, and locked 'em together uponthat; and, by your leave, I'll hang 'em here together on thehook over your fireplace. Maybe Johnny'll come back;maybe not. Maybe, if he comes, I'll be dead an' gone, andhe'll take 'em apart an' try their music for old sake's sake.But if he never comes, nobody can separate 'em; for nobodybesides knows the word. And if you marry and have sons,you can tell 'em that here are tied together the souls ofJohnny Christian, drummer of the Marines, and WilliamGeorge Tallifer, once trumpeter of the Queen's OwnHussars. Amen.'

"With that he hung the two instruments 'pon the hookthere; and the boy stood up and thanked my father andshook hands; and the pair went out of the door, towardHelston.

"Somewhere on the road they took leave of one another;but nobody saw the parting, nor heard what was saidbetween them. About three in the afternoon the trumpetercame walking back over the hill; and by the time my fathercame home from the fishing, the cottage was tidied up, andthe tea ready, and the whole place shining like a new pin.From that time for five years he lodged here with my father,looking after the house and tilling the garden. And all thewhile he was steadily failing; the hurt in his head spreading,in a manner, to his limbs. My father watched the feeblenessgrowing on him, but said nothing. And from first to lastneither spake a word about the drummer, John Christian; nordid any letter reach them, nor word of his doings.

"The rest of the tale you're free to believe, sir, or not, asyou please. It stands upon my father's words, and he alwaysdeclared he was ready to kiss the Book upon it, before judgeand jury. He said, too, that he never had the wit to make upsuch a yarn; and he defied any one to explain about the lock,in particular, by any other tale. But you shall judge foryourself.

"My father said that about three o'clock in the morning,April fourteenth, of the year 'fourteen, he and William Talliferwere sitting here, just as you and I, sir, are sitting now.My father had put on his clothes a few minutes before, andwas mending his spiller by the light of the horn lantern,meaning to set off before daylight to haul the trammel. Thetrumpeter hadn't been to bed at all. Toward the last hemostly spent his nights (and his days, too) dozing in theelbow-chair where you sit at this minute. He was dozingthen (my father said) with his chin dropped forward onhis chest, when a knock sounded upon the door, and thedoor opened, and in walked an upright young man in scarletregimentals.

"He had grown a brave bit, and his face the color ofwood-ashes; but it was the drummer, John Christian. Onlyhis uniform was different from the one he used to wear, andthe figures '38' shone in brass upon his collar.

"The drummer walked past my father as if he never sawhim, and stood by the elbow-chair and said:

"'Trumpeter, trumpeter, are you one with us?'

"And the trumpeter just lifted the lids of his eyes, andanswered: 'How should I not be one with you, drummerJohnny—Johnny boy? If you come, I count; if you march,I mark time; until the discharge comes.'

"'The discharge has come to-night,' said the drummer;'and the word is Corunna no longer.' And stepping to thechimney-place, he unhooked the drum and trumpet, and beganto twist the brass rings of the lock, spelling the wordaloud, so—'C-O-R-U-N-A.' When he had fixed the lastletter, the padlock opened in his hand.

"'Did you know, trumpeter, that, when I came to Plymouth,they put me into a line regiment?'

"'The 38th is a good regiment,' answered the old Hussar,still in his dull voice; 'I went back with them fromSahagun to Corunna. At Corunna they stood in GeneralFraser's division, on the right. They behaved well."

"'But I'd fain see the Marines again,' says the drummer,handing him the trumpet; 'and you, you shall call once morefor the Queen's Own. Matthew,' he says, suddenly, turningon my father—and when he turned, my father saw for thefirst time that his scarlet jacket had a round hole by thebreast-bone, and that the blood was welling there—'Matthew,we shall want your boat.'

"Then my father rose on his legs like a man in a dream,while they two slung on, the one his drum, and t'other histrumpet. He took the lantern and went quaking before themdown to the shore, and they breathed heavily behind him;and they stepped into his boat, and my father pushed off.

"'Row you first for Dolor Point,' says the drummer. Somy father rowed them past the white houses of Coverack toDolor Point, and there, at a word, lay on his oars. And thetrumpeter, William Tallifer, put his trumpet to his mouthand sounded the reveille. The music of it was like riversrunning.

"'They will follow,' said the drummer. 'Matthew, pullyou now for the Manacles.'

"So my father pulled for the Manacles, and came to aneasy close outside Carn Du. And the drummer took hissticks and beat a tattoo, there by the edge of the reef; andthe music of it was like a rolling chariot.

"'That will do,' says he, breaking off; 'they will follow.Pull now for the shore under Gunner's Meadow.'

"Then my father pulled for the shore and ran his boatin under Gunner's Meadow. And they stepped out, all three,and walked up to the meadow. By the gate the drummerhalted, and began his tattoo again, looking out toward thedarkness over the sea.

"And while the drum beat, and my father held his breath,there came up out of the sea and the darkness a troop ofmany men, horse and foot, and formed up among the graves;and others rose out of the graves and formed up—drownedMarines with bleached faces, and pale Hussars, riding theirhorses, all lean and shadowy. There was no clatter of hoofsor accoutrements, my father said, but a soft sound all thewhile like the beating of a bird's wing; and a black shadowlay like a pool about the feet of all. The drummer stoodupon a little knoll just inside the gate, and beside him the talltrumpeter, with hand on hip, watching them gather; and behindthem both my father, clinging to the gate. When no morecame, the drummer stopped playing, and said, 'Call the roll.'

"Then the trumpeter stepped toward the end man of therank and called, 'Troop Sergeant-Major Thomas Irons,' andthe man answered in a thin voice, 'Here.'

"'Troop Sergeant-Major Thomas Irons, how is it withyou?'

"The man answered, 'How should it be with me? WhenI was young, I betrayed a girl; and when I was grown, Ibetrayed a friend, and for these I must pay. But I died as aman ought. God save the King!'

"The trumpeter called to the next man, 'Trooper HenryBuckingham,' and the next man answered, 'Here.'

"'Trooper Henry Buckingham, how is it with you?'

"'How should it be with me? I was a drunkard, and Istole, and in Lugo, in a wine-shop, I killed a man. But Idied as a man should. God save the King!'

"So the trumpeter went down the line; and when he hadfinished, the drummer took it up, hailing the dead Marines intheir order. Each man answered to his name, and eachman ended with 'God save the King!' When all were hailed,the drummer stepped back to his mound, and called:

"'It is well. You are content, and we are content to joinyou. Wait, now, a little while.'

"With this he turned and ordered my father to pick upthe lantern, and lead the way back. As my father picked itup, he heard the ranks of the dead men cheer and call, 'Godsave the King!' all together, and saw them waver and fadeback into the dark, like a breath fading off a pane.

"But when they came back here to the kitchen, and myfather set the lantern down, it seemed they'd both forgotabout him. For the drummer turned in the lantern-light—andmy father could see the blood still welling out of thehole in his breast—and took the trumpet-sling from aroundthe other's neck, and locked drum and trumpet togetheragain, choosing the letters on the lock very carefully. Whilehe did this, he said:

"'The word is no more Corunna, but Bayonne. As youleft out an "n" in Corunna, so must I leave out an "n" inBayonne.' And before snapping the padlock, he spelt outthe word slowly—'B-A-Y-O-N-E.' After that, he used nomore speech; but turned and hung the two instruments backon the hook; and then took the trumpeter by the arm; andthe pair walked out into the darkness, glancing neither toright nor left.

"My father was on the point of following, when he hearda sort of sigh behind him; and there, sitting in theelbow-chair, was the very trumpeter he had just seen walk out bythe door! If my father's heart jumped before, you maybelieve it jumped quicker now. But after a bit, he wentup to the man asleep in the chair and put a handupon him. It was the trumpeter in flesh and blood that hetouched; but though the flesh was warm, the trumpeterwas dead.

"Well, sir, they buried him three days after; and at firstmy father was minded to say nothing about his dream (as hethought it). But the day after the funeral, he met ParsonKendall coming from Helston market; and the parson calledout: 'Have 'ee heard the news the coach brought down thismornin'?' 'What news?' says my father. 'Why, that peaceis agreed upon.' 'None too soon,' says my father. 'Not soonenough for our poor lads at Bayonne,' the parson answered.'Bayonne!' cries my father, with a jump. 'Why, yes;' andthe parson told him all about a great sally the French hadmade on the night of April 13th. 'Do you happen to know ifthe 38th Regiment was engaged?' my father asked. 'Come,now,' said Parson Kendall, 'I didn't know you was so well upin the campaign. But, as it happens, I do know that the38th was engaged, for 'twas they that held a cottage andstopped the French advance.'

"Still my father held his tongue; and when, a week later,he walked into Helston and bought a 'Mercury' off theSherborne rider, and got the landlord of the 'Angel' tospell out the list of killed and wounded, sure enough, thereamong the killed was Drummer John Christian, of the38th Foot.

"After this there was nothing for a religious man but tomake a clean breast. So my father went up to Parson Kendall,and told the whole story. The parson listened, and puta question or two, and then asked:

"'Have you tried to open the lock since that night?'

"'I haven't dared to touch it,' says my father.

"'Then come along and try.' When the parson cameto the cottage here, he took the things off the hook and triedthe lock. 'Did he say "Bayonne?" The word has seven letters.'

"'Not if you spell it with one "n" as he did,' says myfather.

"The parson spelt it out—'B-A-Y-O-N-E.' 'Whew!' sayshe, for the lock had fallen open in his hand.

"He stood considering it a moment, and then he says:'I tell you what. I shouldn't blab this all round the parish,if I was you. You won't get no credit for truth-telling, and amiracle's wasted on a set of fools. But if you like, I'll shutdown the lock again upon a holy word that no one but meshall know, and neither drummer nor trumpeter, dead oralive, shall frighten the secret out of me.'

"'I wish to heaven you would, parson,' said my father.

"The parson chose the holy word there and then, and shutthe lock back upon it, and hung the drum and trumpet backin their place. He is gone long since, taking the word withhim. And till the lock is broken by force, nobody will everseparate those two."

THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN

BY LORD EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON

Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer, BaronLytton (born 1803, died 1873), was anextremely accomplished and versatile man. Hewas a statesman, orator, social reformer,playwright, poet, novelist (he wrote morethan fifty volumes of fiction), and short storywriter. In the latter capacity he produceda number of imaginative tales that in theirweird fantasy have been favorably comparedwith the work of Edgar Allan Poe. Ofthese the present story is the most noted.

THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN

By LORD EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON

A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and aphilosopher, said to me one day, as if betweenjest and earnest: "Fancy! since we last met,I have discovered a haunted house in the midstof London."

"Really haunted?—and by what?—ghosts?"

"Well, I can't answer that question; all I know is this:six weeks ago my wife and I were in search of a furnishedapartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window ofone of the houses a bill, 'Apartments, Furnished.' Thesituation suited us: we entered the house—liked therooms—engaged them by the week—and left them the third day.No power on earth could have reconciled my wife to staylonger; and I don't wonder at it."

"What did you see?"

"Excuse me—I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitiousdreamer—nor, on the other hand, could I ask you toaccept on my affirmation what you would hold to be incrediblewithout the evidence of your own senses. Let me onlysay this, it was not so much what we saw or heard (in whichyou might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our ownexcited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) thatdrove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seizedboth of us whenever we passed by the door of a certainunfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heardanything. And the strangest marvel of all was, that for oncein my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though shebe—and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossibleto stay a fourth in that house. Accordingly, on the fourthmorning I summoned the woman who kept the house andattended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quitesuit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said,dryly: 'I know why; you have stayed longer than any otherlodger. Few ever stayed a second night; none before you athird. But I take it they have been very kind to you."

"'They—who?' I asked, affecting to smile.

"'Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. Idon't mind them; I remember them many years ago, whenI lived in this house, not as a servant; but I know they willbe the death of me some day. I don't care—I'm old, andmust die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them, andin this house still.' The woman spoke with so dreary acalmness that really it was a sort of awe that prevented myconversing with her further. I paid for my week, and toohappy were my wife and I to get off so cheaply."

"You excite my curiosity," said I; "nothing I should likebetter than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me theaddress of the one which you left so ignominiously."

My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, Iwalked straight toward the house thus indicated.

It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dullbut respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up—nobill at the window, and no response to my knock. As Iwas turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at theneighboring areas, said to me, "Do you want any one atthat house, sir?"

"Yes, I heard it was to be let."

"Let!—why, the woman who kept it is dead—has beendead these three weeks, and no one can be found to staythere, though Mr. J—— offered ever so much. He offeredmother, who chars for him, a pound a week just to open andshut the windows, and she would not."

"Would not!—and why?"

"The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept itwas found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. Theysay the devil strangled her."

"Pooh!—you speak of Mr. J——. Is he the owner of thehouse?"

"Yes."

"Where does he live?"

"In G—— Street, No. —."

"What is he?—in any business?"

"No, sir—nothing particular; a single gentleman."

I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberalinformation, and proceeded to Mr. J——, in G—— Street,which was close by the street that boasted the hauntedhouse. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J—— at home—anelderly man, with intelligent countenance and prepossessingmanners.

I communicated my name and my business frankly. Isaid I heard the house was considered to be haunted—thatI had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocala reputation—that I should be greatly obliged if he wouldallow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willingto pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined toask. "Sir," said Mr. J——, with great courtesy, "the houseis at your service, for as short or as long a time as youplease. Rent is out of the question—the obligation will beon my side should you be able to discover the cause of thestrange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value.I can not let it, for I can not even get a servant to keep itin order or answer the door. Unluckily the house is haunted,if I may use that expression, not only by night, but by day;though at night the disturbances are of a more unpleasantand sometimes of a more alarming character. The poor oldwoman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whomI took out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had beenknown to some of my family, and had once been in suchgood circumstances that she had rented that house of myuncle. She was a woman of superior education and strongmind, and was the only person I could ever induce toremain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which wassudden, and the coroner's inquest, which gave it a notoriety inthe neighborhood, I have so despaired of finding any personto take charge of the house, much more a tenant, thatI would willingly let it rent free for a year to any one whowould pay its rates and taxes."

"How long is it since the house acquired this sinistercharacter?"

"That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since.The old woman I spoke of said it was haunted when sherented it between thirty and forty years ago. The fact is,that my life has been spent in the East Indies, and in thecivil service of the Company. I returned to England lastyear, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, among whosepossessions was the house in question. I found it shut upand uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, that noone would inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idlea story. I spent some money in repairing it—added to itsold-fashioned furniture a few modern articles—advertised it,and obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel onhalf-pay. He came in with his family, a son and a daughter,and four or five servants: they all left the house the nextday; and, although each of them declared that he had seensomething different from that which had scared the others,a something still was equally terrible to all. I really couldnot in conscience sue, nor even blame, the colonel for breachof agreement. Then I put in the old woman I have spokenof, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments.I never had one lodger who stayed more than three days. Ido not tell you their stories—to no two lodgers have therebeen exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better thatyou should judge for yourself than enter the house with animagination influenced by previous narratives; only beprepared to see and to hear something or other, and takewhatever precautions you yourself please."

"Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a nightin that house?"

"Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in broaddaylight alone in that house. My curiosity is not satisfied,but it is quenched. I have no desire to renew theexperiment. You can not complain, you see, sir, that Iam not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest beexceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, Ihonestly add, that I advise you not to pass a night in thathouse."

"My interest is exceedingly keen," said I, "and thoughonly a coward will boast of his nerves in situations whollyunfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned insuch variety of danger that I have the right to rely onthem—even in a haunted house."

Mr. J—— said very little more; he took the keys of thehouse out of his bureau, gave them to me—and, thankinghim cordially for his frankness, and his urbane concessionto my wish, I carried off my prize.

Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home,I summoned my confidential servant—a young man of gayspirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitiousprejudice as any one I could think of.

"F——," said I, "you remember in Germany how disappointedwe were at not finding a ghost in that old castle,which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition?Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I havereason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleepthere to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt thatsomething will allow itself to be seen or to be heard—something,perhaps, excessively horrible. Do you think, if Itake you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind,whatever may happen?"

"Oh, sir! pray trust me," answered F——, grinning withdelight.

"Very well; then here are the keys of the house—this isthe address. Go now—select for me any bedroom you please;and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks, makeup a good fire—air the bed well—see, of course, that thereare candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolverand my dagger—so much for my weapons—arm yourselfequally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts,we shall be but a sorry couple of Englishmen."

I was engaged for the rest of the day on business sourgent that had not leisure to think much on the nocturnaladventure to which I had plighted my honor. I dinedalone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my habit.I selected one of the volumes of Macaulay's essays. Ithought to myself that I would take the book with me;there was so much of healthfulness in the style, and practicallife in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidoteagainst the influences of superstitious fancy.

Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book intomy pocket, and strolled leisurely toward the haunted house.I took with me a favorite dog—an exceedingly sharp, bold,and vigilant bull-terrier—a dog fond of prowling aboutstrange ghostly corners and passages at night in search ofrats—a dog of dogs for a ghost.

It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhatgloomy and overcast. Still there was a moon—faint andsickly, but still a moon—and, if the clouds permitted, aftermidnight it would be brighter.

I reached the house, knocked, and my servant openedwith a cheerful smile.

"All right, sir, and very comfortable."

"Oh!" said I, rather disappointed; "have you not seennor heard anything remarkable?"

"Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer."

"What?—what?"

"The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twicesmall noises like whispers close at my ear—nothing more."

"You are not at all frightened?"

"I! not a bit of it, sir;" and the man's bold look reassuredme on one point—viz.: that happen what might, he wouldnot desert me.

We were in the hall, the street-door closed, and myattention was now drawn to my dog. He had at first run ineagerly enough, but had sneaked back to the door, and wasscratching and whining to get out. After patting him on thehead, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed toreconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and F——through the house, but keeping close at my heels instead ofhurrying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual andnormal habit in all strange places. We first visited thesubterranean apartments, the kitchen, and other offices, andespecially the cellars, in which last there were two or threebottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, andevidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years.It was clear that the ghosts were not wine-bibbers. For therest we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomylittle back-yard, with very high walls. The stones of thisyard were very damp; and what with the damp, and whatwith the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feetleft a slight impression where we passed. And now appearedthe first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in thisstrange abode. I saw, just before me, the print of a footsuddenly form itself, as it were. I stopped, caught holdof my servant, and pointed to it. In advance of thatfootprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. Iadvanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancingbefore me, a small footprint—the foot of a child: theimpression was too faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape,but it seemed to us both that it was the print of a nakedfoot.

This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the oppositewall, nor did it repeat itself on returning. We remountedthe stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground floor, adining-parlor, a small back-parlor, and a still smaller thirdroom that had been probably appropriated to a footman—allstill as death. We then visited the drawing-rooms, whichseemed fresh and new. In the front room I seated myselfin an armchair. F—— placed on the table the candlestickwith which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door.As he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved fromthe wall quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself abouta yard from my own chair, immediately fronting it.

"Why, this is better than the turning-tables," said I, witha half-laugh; and as I laughed, my dog put back his headand howled.

F——, coming back, had not observed the movement ofthe chair. He employed himself now in stilling the dog.I continued to gaze on the chair, and fancied I saw on it apale blue misty outline of a human figure, but an outline soindistinct that I could only distrust my own vision. Thedog was now quiet.

"Put back that chair opposite to me," said I to F——;"put it back to the wall."

F—— obeyed. "Was that you, sir?" said he, turningabruptly.

"I!—what?"

"Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on theshoulder—just here."

"No," said I. "But we have jugglers present, and thoughwe may not discover their tricks, we shall catch them beforethey frighten us."

We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms—in fact,they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad to get to thefire upstairs. We locked the doors of the drawing-rooms—aprecaution which, I should observe, we had taken with allthe rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my servanthad selected for me was the best on the floor—a large one,with two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bed,which took up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to thefire, which burnt clear and bright; a door in the wall tothe left, between the bed and the window, communicatedwith the room which my servant appropriated to himself.This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had nocommunication with the landing-place—no other door butthat which conducted to the bedroom I was to occupy. Oneither side of my fireplace was a cupboard, without locks,flush with the wall, and covered with the same dull-brownpaper. We examined these cupboards—only hooks to suspendfemale dresses—nothing else; we sounded the walls—evidentlysolid—the outer walls of the building. Havingfinished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself afew moments, and lighted my cigar, I then, still accompaniedby F——, went forth to complete my reconnoitre. In thelanding-place there was another door; it was closed firmly."Sir," said my servant, in surprise, "I unlocked this doorwith all the others when I first came; it can not have gotlocked from the inside, for—"

Before he had finished his sentence, the door, whichneither of us then was touching, opened quietly of itself.We looked at each other a single instant. The same thoughtseized both—some human agency might be detected here.I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small blank drearyroom without furniture—a few empty boxes and hampersin a corner—a small window—the shutters closed—not evena fireplace—no other door but that by which we hadentered—no carpet on the floor, and the floor seemed very old,uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as was shownby the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, andno visible place in which a living being could have hidden.As we stood gazing round, the door by which we hadentered closed as quietly as it had before opened: we wereimprisoned.

For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable horror.Not so my servant. "Why, they don't think to trap us, sir;I could break that trumpery door with a kick of my foot."

"Try first if it will open to your hand," said I, shakingoff the vague apprehension that had seized me, "while Iunclose the shutters and see what is without."

I unbarred the shutters—the window looked on the littleback-yard I have before described; there was no ledgewithout—nothing to break the sheer descent of the wall. Noman getting out of that window would have found anyfooting till he had fallen on the stones below.

F——, meanwhile, was vainly attempting to open thedoor. He now turned round to me and asked my permissionto use force. And I should here state, in justice to theservant, that, far from evincing any superstitious terrors, hisnerve, composure, and even gaiety amid circumstances soextraordinary, compelled my admiration, and made mecongratulate myself on having secured a companion in everyway fitted to the occasion. I willingly gave him thepermission he required. But though he was a remarkably strongman, his force was as idle as his milder efforts; the doordid not even shake to his stoutest kick. Breathless andpanting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself, equally invain. As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horrorcame over me; but this time it was more cold and stubborn.I felt as if some strange and ghastly exhalation were risingup from the chinks of that rugged floor, and filling theatmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to human life.The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its ownaccord. We precipitated ourselves into the landing-place.We both saw a large pale light—as large as the human figure,but shapeless and unsubstantial—move before us, and ascendthe stairs that led from the landing into the attic. Ifollowed the light, and my servant followed me. It entered tothe right of the landing, a small garret, of which the doorstood open. I entered in the same instant. The light thencollapsed into a small globule, exceedingly brilliant andvivid: rested a moment on a bed in the corner, quivered, andvanished. We approached the bed and examined it—a half-tester,such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants.On the drawers that stood near it we perceived anold faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in a rent halfrepaired. The kerchief was covered with dust; probably ithad belonged to the old woman who had last died in thathouse, and this might have been her sleeping-room. I hadsufficient curiosity to open the drawers: there were a fewodds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied roundwith a narrow ribbon of faded yellow. I took the liberty topossess myself of the letters. We found nothing else inthe room worth noticing—nor did the light reappear; butwe distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfallon the floor—just before us. We went through the otherattics (in all four), the footfall still preceding us. Nothingto be seen—nothing but the footfall heard. I had theletters in my hand: just as I was descending the stairs Idistinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint soft effort made todraw the letters from my clasp. I only held them themore tightly, and the effort ceased.

We regained the bed-chamber appropriated to myself, andI then remarked that my dog had not followed us when wehad left it. He was thrusting himself close to the fire, andtrembling. I was impatient to examine the letters; andwhile I read them, my servant opened a little box in whichhe had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring;took them out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head,and then occupied himself in soothing the dog, who,however, seemed to heed him very little.

The letters were short—they were dated; the dates exactlythirty-five years ago. They were evidently from a loverto his mistress, or a husband to some young wife. Not onlythe terms of expression, but a distinct reference to a formervoyage, indicated the writer to have been a seafarer. Thespelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectlyeducated, but still the language itself was forcible. In theexpressions of endearment there was a kind of rough wildlove; but here and there were dark unintelligible hints atsome secret not of love—some secret that seemed of crime."We ought to love each other," was one of the sentencesI remember, "for how every one else would execrate us if allwas known." Again: "Don't let any one be in the sameroom with you at night—you talk in your sleep." And again:"What's done can't be undone; and I tell you there's nothingagainst us unless the dead could come to life." Here therewas underlined in a better handwriting (a female's): "Theydo!" At the end of the letter latest in date the same femalehand had written these words: "Lost at sea the 4th of June,the same day as—"

I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which Ifell might unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keepmy mind in a fit state to cope with whatever of marvelousthe advancing night might bring forth. I roused myself—laidthe letters on the table—stirred up the fire, which wasstill bright and cheering, and opened my volume ofMacaulay. I read quietly enough till about half-past eleven. Ithen threw myself dressed upon the bed, and told my servanthe might retire to his own room, but must keep himselfawake. I bade him leave open the door between the tworooms. Thus alone, I kept two candles burning on the tableby my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons,and calmly resumed my Macaulay. Opposite to me the fireburned clear; and on the hearth-rug, seemingly asleep, laythe dog. In about twenty minutes I felt an exceedingly coldair pass by my cheek, like a sudden draft. I fancied thedoor to my right, communicating with the landing-place,must have got open; but no—it was closed. I then turnedmy glance to my left, and saw the flame of the candlesviolently swayed as by a wind. At the same moment the watchbeside the revolver softly slid from the table—softly,softly—no visible hand—it was gone. I sprang up, seizing therevolver with the one hand, the dagger with the other: I wasnot willing that my weapons should share the fate of thewatch. Thus armed, I looked round the floor—no sign ofthe watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were nowheard at the bed-head; my servant called out: "Is that you,sir?"

"No; be on your guard."

The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, hisears moving quickly backward and forward. He kept hiseyes fixed on me with a look so strange that he concentredall my attention on himself. Slowly, he rose up, all his hairbristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the same wildstare. I had no time, however, to examine the dog.Presently my servant emerged from his room; and if ever I sawhorror in the human face, it was then. I should not haverecognized him had we met in the street, so altered wasevery lineament. He passed by me quickly, saying in awhisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips:"Run—run! it is after me!" He gained the door to the landing,pulled it open, and rushed forth. I followed him into thelanding involuntarily, calling him to stop; but, withoutheeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging to the balusters,and taking several steps at a time. I heard, where I stood,the street-door open—heard it again clap to. I was leftalone in the haunted house.

It was but for a moment that I remained undecidedwhether or not to follow my servant; pride and curiosityalike forbade so dastardly a flight. I reentered my room,closing the door after me, and proceeded cautiously into theinterior chamber. I encountered nothing to justify myservant's terror. I again carefully examined the walls, to seeif there were any concealed door. I could find no trace ofone—not even a seam in the dull-brown paper with whichthe room was hung. How, then, had the Thing, whateverit was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress exceptthrough my own chamber?

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door thatopened upon the interior one, and stood on the hearth,expectant and prepared. I now perceived that the dog hadslunk into an angle of the wall, and was pressing himselfclose against it, as if literally striving to force his way intoit. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brutewas evidently beside itself with terror. It showed all itsteeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainlyhave bitten me if I had touched it. It did not seem torecognize me. Whoever has seen at the Zoological Gardens arabbit, fascinated by a serpent, cowering in a corner, mayform some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited.Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearingthat his bite might be as venomous in that state as in themadness of hydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weaponson the table beside the fire, seated myself, and recommencedmy Macaulay.

Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage,or rather a coolness, which the reader may conceive Iexaggerate, I may be pardoned if I pause to indulge in oneor two egotistical remarks.

As I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, tobe precisely proportioned to familiarity with the circumstancesthat lead to it, so I should say that I had been longsufficiently familiar with all experiments that appertain tothe Marvelous. I had witnessed many very extraordinaryphenomena in various parts of the world—phenomena thatwould be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, orascribed to supernatural agencies. Now, my theory is thatthe Supernatural is the Impossible, and that what is calledsupernatural is only a something in the laws of nature ofwhich we have been hitherto ignorant. Therefore, if a ghostrise before me, I have not the right to say, "So, then, thesupernatural is possible," but rather, "So, then, the apparitionof a ghost is, contrary to received opinion, within thelaws of nature—i.e., not supernatural."

Now, in all that I had hitherto witnessed, and indeed inall the wonders which the amateurs of mystery in our agerecord as facts, a material living agency is always required.On the Continent you will find still magicians who assertthat they can raise spirits. Assume for the moment thatthey assert truly, still the living material form of themagician is present; and he is the material agency by which, fromsome constitutional peculiarities, certain strange phenomenaare represented to your natural senses.

Accept, again, as truthful, the tales of Spirit Manifestationin America—musical or other sounds—writings on paper,produced by no discernible hand—articles of furniture movedwithout apparent human agency—or the actual sight andtouch of hands, to which no bodies seem to belong—stillthere must be found the Medium, or living being withconstitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining these signs.In fine, in all such marvels, supposing even that there is noimposture, there must be a human being like ourselves bywhom, or through whom, the effects presented to human beingsare produced. It is so with the now familiar phenomenaof mesmerism or electro-biology; the mind of the personoperated on is affected through a material living agent.Nor, supposing it true that a mesmerized patient can respondto the will or passes of a mesmerizer a hundred miles distant,is the response less occasioned by a material being; it maybe through a material fluid—call it Electric, call it Odic, callit what you will—which has the power of traversing spaceand passing obstacles that the material effect is communicatedfrom one to the other. Hence all that I had hithertowitnessed, or expected to witness, in this strange house, Ibelieved to be occasioned through some agency or mediumas mortal as myself; and this idea necessarily prevented theawe with which those who regard as supernatural thingsthat are not within the ordinary operations of nature mighthave been impressed by the adventures of that memorablenight.

As, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented,or would be presented, to my senses must originatein some human being gifted by constitution with the powerso to present them, and having some motive so to do, I feltan interest in my theory which, in its way, was ratherphilosophical than superstitious. And I can sincerely say thatI was in as tranquil a temper for observation as any practicalexperimentalist could be in awaiting the effects of somerare, though perhaps perilous, chemical combination. Ofcourse, the more I kept my mind detached from fancy, themore the temper fitted for observation would be obtained;and I therefore riveted eye and thought on the strongdaylight sense in the page of my Macaulay.

I now became aware that something interposed betweenthe page and the light—the page was overshadowed: Ilooked up, and I saw what I shall find it very difficult,perhaps impossible, to describe.

It was a darkness shaping itself forth from the air in veryundefined outline. I can not say it was of a human form,and yet it had more resemblance to a human form, or rathershadow, than to anything else. As it stood, wholly apartand distinct from the air and the light around it, itsdimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touching theceiling. While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. Aniceberg before me could not more have chilled me; norcould the cold of an iceberg have been more purely physical.I feel convinced that it was not the cold caused by fear. AsI continued to gaze, I thought—but this I can not say withprecision—that I distinguished two eyes looking down onme from the height. One moment I fancied that I distinguishedthem clearly, the next they seemed gone; but stilltwo rays of a pale-blue light frequently shot through thedarkness, as from the height on which I half believed, halfdoubted, that I had encountered the eyes.

I strove to speak—my voice utterly failed me; I couldonly think to myself: "Is this fear? it is not fear!" Istrove to rise—in vain; I felt as if weighed down by anirresistible force. Indeed, my impression was that of animmense and overwhelming power opposed to my volition—thatsense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyondman's, which one may feel physically in a storm at sea, ina conflagration, or when confronting some terrible wild beast,or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, I felt morally.Opposed to my will was another will, as far superior to itsstrength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in materialforce to the force of man.

And now, as this impression grew on me—now came, atlast, horror—horror to a degree that no words can convey.Still I retained pride, if not courage; and in my own mindI said: "This is horror, but it is not fear; unless I fear Ican not be harmed; my reason rejects this thing; it is anillusion—I do not fear." With a violent effort I succeededat last in stretching out my hand toward the weapon on thetable: as I did so, on the arm and shoulder I received astrange shock, and my arm fell to my side powerless. Andnow, to add to my horror, the light began slowly to wanefrom the candles—they were not, as it were, extinguished,but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn: it wasthe same with the fire—the light was extracted from thefuel; in a few minutes the room was in utter darkness. Thedread that came over me, to be thus in the dark with thatdark Thing, whose power was so intensely felt, broughta reaction of nerve. In fact, terror had reached that climax,that either my senses must have deserted me, or I must haveburst through the spell. I did burst through it. I foundvoice, though the voice was a shriek. I remembered that Ibroke forth with words like these: "I do not fear, my souldoes not fear;" and at the same time I found strength torise. Still in that profound gloom I rushed to one of thewindows—tore aside the curtain—flung open the shutters;my first thought was—Light. And when I saw the moonhigh, clear, and calm, I felt a joy that almost compensatedfor the previous terror. There was the moon, there was alsothe light from the gas-lamps in the deserted slumberousstreet. I turned to look back into the room; the moonpenetrated its shadow very palely and partially—but still therewas light. The dark Thing, whatever it might be, wasgone—except that I could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed theshadow of that shade, against the opposite wall.

My eye now rested on the table, and from under the table(which was without cloth or cover—an old mahogany roundtable) there rose a hand, visible as far as the wrist. It wasa hand, seemingly, as much of flesh and blood as my own,but the hand of an aged person—lean, wrinkled, smalltoo—a woman's hand. That hand very softly closed on the twoletters that lay on the table: hand and letters both vanished.There then came the same three loud measured knocks Ihad heard at the bed-head before this extraordinary dramahad commenced.

As those sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole roomvibrate sensibly; and at the far end there rose, as from thefloor, sparks or globules like bubbles of light, manycolored—green, yellow, fire-red, azure. Up and down, to and fro,hither, thither, as tiny Will-o'-the-Wisps, the sparks moved,slow or swift, each at its own caprice. A chair (as in thedrawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall withoutapparent agency, and placed at the opposite side of thetable. Suddenly, as forth from the chair, there grew ashape—a woman's shape. It was distinct as a shape oflife—ghastly as a shape of death. The face was that of youth,with a strange mournful beauty; the throat and shoulderswere bare, the rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudywhite. It began sleeking its long yellow hair, which fell overits shoulders; its eyes were not turned toward me, but to thedoor; it seemed listening, watching, waiting. The shadow ofthe shade in the background grew darker; and again Ithought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the summit ofthe shadow—eyes fixed upon that shape.

As if from the door, though it did not open, there grewout another shape, equally distinct, equally ghastly—a man'sshape—a young man's. It was in the dress of the last century,or rather in a likeness of such dress (for both the maleshape and the female, though defined, were evidentlyunsubstantial, impalpable—simulacra—phantasms); and there wassomething incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the contrastbetween the elaborate finery, the courtly precision ofthat old-fashioned garb, with its ruffles and lace and buckles,and the corpse-like stillness of the flitting wearer. Just asthe male shape approached the female, the dark Shadowstarted from the wall, all three for a moment wrapped indarkness. When the pale light returned, the two phantomswere as if in the grasp of the Shadow that towered betweenthem; and there was a blood-stain on the breast of thefemale; and the phantom male was leaning on its phantomsword, and blood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles, fromthe lace; and the darkness of the intermediate Shadowswallowed them up—they were gone. And again the bubbles oflight shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker andthicker and more wildly confused in their movements.

The closet door to the right of the fireplace now opened,and from the aperture there came the form of an agedwoman. In her hand she held letters—the very letters overwhich I had seen the Hand close; and behind her I hearda footstep. She turned round as if to listen, and then sheopened the letters and seemed to read; and over her shoulderI saw a livid face, the face as of a man long drowned—bloated,bleached—seaweed tangled in its dripping hair; and at herfeet lay a form as of a corpse, and beside the corpse therecowered a child, a miserable squalid child, with famine inits cheeks and fear in its eyes. And as I looked in the oldwoman's face, the wrinkles and lines vanished, and it becamea face of youth—hard-eyed, stony, but still youth; andthe Shadow darted forth, and darkened over these phantomsas it had darkened over the last.

Nothing now was left but the Shadow, and on that myeyes were intently fixed, till again eyes grew out of theShadow—malignant, serpent eyes. And the bubbles of lightagain rose and fell, and in their disordered, irregular,turbulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. And nowfrom these globules themselves, as from the shell of anegg, monstrous things burst out; the air grew filled withthem; larvæ so bloodless and so hideous that I can in noway describe them except to remind the reader of the swarminglife which the solar microscope brings before his eyesin a drop of water—things transparent, supple, agile, chasingeach other, devouring each other—forms like naught everbeheld by the naked eye. As the shapes were withoutsymmetry, so their movements were without order. In theirvery vagrancies there was no sport; they came round meand round, thicker and faster and swifter, swarming overmy head, crawling over my right arm, which was outstretchedin involuntary command against all evil beings.Sometimes I felt myself touched, but not by them; invisiblehands touched me. Once I felt the clutch as of cold softfingers at my throat. I was still equally conscious that ifI gave way to fear I should be in bodily peril; and Iconcentred all my faculties in the single focus of resisting,stubborn will. And I turned my sight from the Shadow—aboveall, from those strange serpent eyes—eyes that hadnow become distinctly visible. For there, though in naughtelse around me, I was aware that there was a WILL, anda will of intense, creative, working evil, which might crushdown my own.

The pale atmosphere in the room began now to redden asif in the air of some near conflagration. The larvæ grewlurid as things that live in fire. Again the room vibrated;again were heard the three measured knocks; and again allthings were swallowed up in the darkness of the darkShadow, as if out of that darkness all had come, into thatdarkness all returned.

As the gloom receded, the Shadow was wholly gone.Slowly, as it had been withdrawn, the flame grew again intothe candles on the table, again into the fuel in the grate. Thewhole room came once more calmly, healthfully into sight.

The two doors were still closed, the door communicatingwith the servant's room still locked. In the corner of thewall, into which he had so convulsively niched himself, laythe dog. I called to him—no movement; I approached—theanimal was dead; his eyes protruded; his tongue out of hismouth; the froth gathered round his jaws. I took him inmy arms; I brought him to the fire; I felt acute grief forthe loss of my poor favorite—acute self-reproach; I accusedmyself of his death; I imagined he had died of fright. Butwhat was my surprise on finding that his neck was actuallybroken. Had this been done in the dark?—must it not havebeen by a hand human as mine?—must there not have beena human agency all the while in that room? Good causeto suspect it. I can not tell. I can not do more than statethe fact fairly; the reader may draw his own inference.

Another surprising circumstance—my watch was restoredto the table from which it had been so mysteriouslywithdrawn; but it had stopped at the very moment it was sowithdrawn; nor, despite all the skill of the watchmaker,has it ever gone since—that is, it will go in a strange erraticway for a few hours, and then come to a dead stop—it isworthless.

Nothing more chanced for the rest of the night. Nor,indeed, had I long to wait before the dawn broke. Nor tillit was broad daylight did I quit the haunted house. BeforeI did so, I revisited the little blind room in which myservant and myself had been for a time imprisoned. I had astrong impression—for which I could not account—that fromthat room had originated the mechanism of the phenomena—ifI may use the term—which had been experienced in mychamber. And though I entered it now in the clear day,with the sun peering through the filmy window, I still felt,as I stood on its floors, the creep of the horror which I hadfirst there experienced the night before, and which had beenso aggravated by what had passed in my own chamber. Icould not, indeed, bear to stay more than half a minutewithin those walls. I descended the stairs, and again Iheard the footfall before me; and when I opened the streetdoor, I thought I could distinguish a very low laugh. Igained my own house, expecting to find my runaway servantthere. But he had not presented himself, nor did Ihear more of him for three days, when I received a letterfrom him, dated from Liverpool to this effect:

"Honored Sir—I humbly entreat your pardon, thoughI can scarcely hope that you will think that I deserve it,unless—which Heaven forbid!—you saw what I did. I feelthat it will be years before I can recover myself; and as tobeing fit for service, it is out of the question. I amtherefore going to my brother-in-law at Melbourne. The shipsails to-morrow. Perhaps the long voyage may set me up.I do nothing now but start and tremble, and fancy It isbehind me. I humbly beg you, honored sir, to order my clothes,and whatever wages are due to me, to be sent to my mother's,at Walworth—John knows her address."

The letter ended with additional apologies, somewhatincoherent, and explanatory details as to effects that had beenunder the writer's charge.

This flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that theman wished to go to Australia, and had been somehow orother fraudulently mixed up with the events of the night.I say nothing in refutation of that conjecture; rather, Isuggest it as one that would seem to many persons the mostprobable solution of improbable occurrences. My belief inmy own theory remained unshaken. I returned in the eveningto the house, to bring away in a hack cab the things Ihad left there, with my poor dog's body. In this task I wasnot disturbed, nor did any incident worth note befall me,except that still, on ascending and descending the stairs, Iheard the same footfall in advance. On leaving the house,I went to Mr. J——'s. He was at home. I returned him thekeys, told him that my curiosity was sufficiently gratified,and was about to relate quickly what had passed, when hestopped me, and said, though with much politeness, that hehad no longer any interest in a mystery which none hadever solved.

I determined at least to tell him of the two letters I hadread, as well as of the extraordinary manner in which theyhad disappeared, and I then inquired if he thought theyhad been addressed to the woman who had died in the house,and if there were anything in her early history which couldpossibly confirm the dark suspicions to which the lettersgave rise. Mr. J—— seemed startled, and, after musinga few moments, answered: "I am but little acquainted withthe woman's earlier history, except, as I before told you,that her family were known to mine. But you revive somevague reminiscences to her prejudice. I will make inquiries,and inform you of their result. Still, even if we could admitthe popular superstition that a person who had been eitherthe perpetrator or the victim of dark crimes in life couldrevisit, as a restless spirit, the scene in which those crimeshad been committed, I should observe that the house wasinfested by strange sights and sounds before the old womandied—you smile—what would you say?"

"I would say this, that I am convinced, if we could getto the bottom of these mysteries, we should find a livinghuman agency."

"What! you believe it is all an imposture? for whatobject?"

"Not an imposture in the ordinary sense of the word. Ifsuddenly I were to sink into a deep sleep, from which youcould not awake me, but in that sleep could answerquestions with an accuracy which I could not pretend to whenawake—tell you what money you had in your pocket—nay,describe your very thoughts—it is not necessarily animposture, any more than it is necessarily supernatural. Ishould be, unconsciously to myself, under a mesmericinfluence, conveyed to me from a distance by a human beingwho had acquired power over me by previous rapport."

"But if a mesmerizer could so affect another living being,can you suppose that a mesmerizer could also affectinanimate objects; move chairs—open and shut doors?"

"Or impress our senses with the belief in such effects—wenever having been en rapport with the person acting onus? No. What is commonly called mesmerism could notdo this; but there may be a power akin to mesmerism andsuperior to it—the power that in the old days was calledMagic. That such a power may extend to all inanimateobjects of matter, I do not say; but if so, it would not beagainst nature—it would only be a rare power in naturewhich might be given to constitutions with certain peculiarities,and cultivated by practise to an extraordinary degree.That such a power might extend over the dead—that is,over certain thoughts and memories that the dead may stillretain—and compel, not that which ought properly to becalled the Soul, and which is far beyond human reach, butrather a phantom of what has been most earth-stained onearth to make itself apparent to our senses—is a very ancientthough obsolete theory, upon which I will hazard no opinion.But I do not conceive the power would be supernatural.Let me illustrate what I mean from an experiment whichParacelsus describes as not difficult, and which the authorof the 'Curiosities of Literature' cites as credible: A flowerperishes; you burn it. Whatever were the elements of thatflower while it lived are gone, dispersed, you know notwhither; you can never discover nor re-collect them. Butyou can, by chemistry, out of the burned dust of that flower,raise a spectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life. Itmay be the same with the human being. The soul has asmuch escaped you as the essence or elements of the flower.Still you may make a spectrum of it. And this phantom,though in the popular superstition it is held to be the soulof the departed, must not be confounded with the true soul;it is but the eidolon of the dead form. Hence, like the bestattested stories of ghosts or spirits, the thing that moststrikes us is the absence of what we hold to be the soul; thatis, of superior emancipated intelligence. These apparitionscome for little or no object—they seldom speak when theydo come; if they speak, they utter no ideas above those ofan ordinary person on earth. American spirit-seers havepublished volumes of communications, in prose and verse,which they assert to be given in the names of the mostillustrious dead—Shakespeare, Bacon—heaven knows whom.Those communications, taking the best, are certainly not awhit of higher order than would be communications fromliving persons of fair talent and education; they arewondrously inferior to what Bacon, Shakespeare, and Plato saidand wrote when on earth. Nor, what is more noticeable, dothey ever contain an idea that was not on the earth before.Wonderful, therefore, as such phenomena may be (grantingthem to be truthful), I see much that philosophy mayquestion, nothing that it is incumbent on philosophy todeny—viz., nothing supernatural. They are but ideas conveyedsomehow or other (we have not yet discovered the means)from one mortal brain to another. Whether, in so doing,tables walk of their own accord, or fiendlike shapes appearin a magic circle, or bodyless hands rise and remove materialobjects, or a Thing of Darkness, such as presented itselfto me, freeze our blood—still am I persuaded that these arebut agencies conveyed, as by electric wires, to my own brainfrom the brain of another. In some constitutions there isa natural chemistry, and those constitutions may producechemic wonders—in others a natural fluid, call it electricity,and these may produce electric wonders. But the wondersdiffer from Natural Science in this—they are alike objectless,purposeless, puerile, frivolous. They lead on to no grandresults; and therefore the world does not heed, and truesages have not cultivated them. But sure I am, that of allI saw or heard, a man, human as myself, was the remoteoriginator; and I believe unconsciously to himself as to theexact effects produced, for this reason: no two persons, yousay, have ever told you that they experienced exactly thesame thing. Well, observe, no two persons ever experienceexactly the same dream. If this were an ordinary imposture,the machinery would be arranged for results that would butlittle vary; if it were a supernatural agency permitted bythe Almighty, it would surely be for some definite end.These phenomena belong to neither class; my persuasionis that they originate in some brain now far distant; thatthat brain had no distinct volition in anything that occurred;that what does occur reflects but its devious, motley,ever-shifting, half-formed thoughts; in short, that it has been butthe dreams of such a brain put into action and invested witha semi-substance. That this brain is of immense power,that it can set matter into movement, that it is malignantand destructive, I believe; some material force must havekilled my dog; the same force might, for aught I know, havesufficed to kill myself, had I been as subjugated by terror asthe dog—had my intellect or my spirit given me nocountervailing resistance in my will."

"It killed your dog! that is fearful! indeed it is strangethat no animal can be induced to stay in that house; noteven a cat. Rats and mice are never found in it."

"The instincts of the brute creation detect influencesdeadly to their existence. Man's reason has a sense lesssubtle, because it has a resisting power more supreme. Butenough; do you comprehend my theory?"

"Yes, though imperfectly—and I accept any crotchet(pardon the word), however odd, rather than embrace atonce the notion of ghosts and hobgoblins we imbibed in ournurseries. Still, to my unfortunate house the evil is thesame. What on earth can I do with the house?"

"I will tell you what I would do. I am convinced frommy own internal feelings that the small unfurnished roomat right angles to the door of the bedroom which I occupiedforms a starting-point or receptacle for the influenceswhich haunt the house; and I strongly advise you to havethe walls opened, the floor removed—nay, the whole roompulled down. I observe that it is detached from the bodyof the house, built over the small back-yard, and could beremoved without injury to the rest of the building."

"And you think, if I did that—"

"You would cut off the telegraph wires. Try it. I amso persuaded that I am right that I will pay half theexpense if you will allow me to direct the operations."

"Nay, I am well able to afford the cost; for the rest, allowme to write to you."

About ten days after I received a letter from Mr. J——,telling me that he had visited the house since I had seenhim; that he had found the two letters I had described,replaced in the drawer from which I had taken them; thathe had read them with misgivings like my own; that hehad instituted a cautious inquiry about the woman to whomI rightly conjectured they had been written. It seemed thatthirty-six years ago (a year before the date of the letters)she had married, against the wish of her relations, an Americanof very suspicious character; in fact, he was generallybelieved to have been a pirate. She herself was the daughterof very respectable tradespeople, and had served in thecapacity of a nursery governess before her marriage. Shehad a brother, a widower, who was considered wealthy,and who had one child of about six years old. A monthafter the marriage, the body of this brother was found inthe Thames, near London Bridge; there seemed some marksof violence about his throat, but they were not deemedsufficient to warrant the inquest in any other verdict than thatof "found drowned."

The American and his wife took charge of the little boy,the deceased brother having by his will left his sister theguardianship of his only child—and in event of the child'sdeath, the sister inherited. The child died about six monthsafterward—it was supposed to have been neglected andill-treated. The neighbors deposed to having heard it shriek atnight. The surgeon who had examined it after death saidthat it was emaciated as if from want of nourishment, andthe body was covered with livid bruises. It seemed thatone winter night the child had sought to escape—crept outinto the back-yard—tried to scale the wall—fallen backexhausted, and been found at morning on the stones in a dyingstate. But though there was some evidence of cruelty, therewas none of murder; and the aunt and her husband hadsought to palliate cruelty by alleging the exceedingstubbornness and perversity of the child, who was declared tobe half-witted. Be that as it may, at the orphan's death theaunt inherited her brother's fortune. Before the first weddedyear was out, the American quitted England abruptly, andnever returned to it. He obtained a cruising vessel, whichwas lost in the Atlantic two years afterward. The widowwas left in affluence; but reverses of various kinds hadbefallen her: a bank broke—an investment failed—she wentinto a small business and became insolvent—then sheentered into service, sinking lower and lower, from housekeeperdown to maid-of-all-work—never long retaining a place,though nothing decided against her character was everalleged. She was considered sober, honest, and peculiarlyquiet in her ways; still nothing prospered with her. And soshe had dropped into the workhouse, from which Mr. J——had taken her, to be placed in charge of the very house whichshe had rented as mistress in the first year of her weddedlife.

Mr. J—— added that he had passed an hour alone in theunfurnished room which I had urged him to destroy, andthat his impressions of dread while there were so great,though he had neither heard nor seen anything, that he waseager to have the walls bared and the floors removed as Ihad suggested. He had engaged persons for the work, andwould commence any day I would name.

The day was accordingly fixed. I repaired to the hauntedhouse—we went into the blind dreary room, took up theskirting, and then the floors. Under the rafters, coveredwith rubbish, was found a trap-door, quite large enough toadmit a man. It was closely nailed down, with clamps andrivets of iron. On removing these we descended into a roombelow, the existence of which had never been suspected. Inthis room there had been a window and a flue, but they hadbeen bricked over, evidently for many years. By the helpof candles we examined this place; it still retained somemoldering furniture—three chairs, an oak settle, a table—allof the fashion of about eighty years ago. There was achest of drawers against the wall, in which we found,half-rotted away, old-fashioned articles of a man's dress, suchas might have been worn eighty or a hundred years ago bya gentleman of some rank—costly steel buckles and buttons,like those yet worn in court-dresses, a handsome court sword—ina waistcoat which had once been rich with gold-lace, butwhich was now blackened and foul with damp, we found fiveguineas, a few silver coins, and an ivory ticket, probablyfor some place of entertainment long since passed away.But our main discovery was in a kind of iron safe fixed tothe wall, the lock of which it cost us much trouble to getpicked.

In this safe were three shelves, and two small drawers.Ranged on the shelves were several small bottles of crystal,hermetically stoppered. They contained colorless volatileessences, of the nature of which I shall only say that they werenot poisonous—phosphor and ammonia entered into someof them. There were also some very curious glass tubes,and a small pointed rod of iron, with a large lump ofrock-crystal, and another of amber—also a loadstone of greatpower.

In one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait setin gold, and retaining the freshness of its colors mostremarkably, considering the length of time it had probablybeen there. The portrait was that of a man who might besomewhat advanced in middle life, perhaps forty-seven orforty-eight.

It was a remarkable face—a most impressive face. Ifyou could fancy some mighty serpent transformed into man,preserving in the human lineaments the old serpent type,you would have a better idea of that countenance than longdescriptions can convey: the width and flatness offrontal—the tapering elegance of contour disguising the strengthof the deadly jaw—the long, large, terrible eye, glitteringand green as the emerald—and withal a certain ruthlesscalm, as if from the consciousness of an immense power.

Mechanically I turned round the miniature to examinethe back of it, and on the back was engraved a pentacle;in the middle of the pentacle a ladder, and the third step ofthe ladder was formed by the date 1765. Examining stillmore minutely, I detected a spring; this, on being pressed,opened the back of the miniature as a lid. Withinside thelid was engraved, "Marianna to thee—Be faithful in lifeand in death to ——." Here follows a name that I willnot mention, but it was not unfamiliar to me. I had heardit spoken of by old men in my childhood as the name borneby a dazzling charlatan who had made a great sensation inLondon for a year or so, and had fled the country on thecharge of a double murder within his own house—that ofhis mistress and his rival. I said nothing of this toMr. J——, to whom reluctantly I resigned the miniature.

We had found no difficulty in opening the first drawerwithin the iron safe; we found great difficulty in openingthe second: it was not locked, but it resisted all efforts, tillwe inserted in the chinks the edge of a chisel. When wehad thus drawn it forth, we found a very singular apparatusin the nicest order. Upon a small thin book, or rathertablet, was placed a saucer of crystal; this saucer was filledwith a clear liquid—on that liquid floated a kind of compass,with a needle shifting rapidly round; but instead of theusual points of a compass were seven strange characters,not very unlike those used by astrologers to denote theplanets. A peculiar but not strong nor displeasing odorcame from this drawer, which was lined with a wood thatwe afterward discovered to be hazel. Whatever the causeof this odor, it produced a material effect on the nerves.We all felt it, even the two workmen who were in the room—acreeping, tingling sensation from the tips of the fingersto the roots of the hair. Impatient to examine the tablet,I removed the saucer. As I did so the needle of thecompass went round and round with exceeding swiftness, andI felt a shock that ran through my whole frame, so that Idropped the saucer on the floor. The liquid was spilled—thesaucer was broken—the compass rolled to the end ofthe room—and at that instant the walls shook to and fro,as if a giant had swayed and rocked them.

The two workmen were so frightened that they ran upthe ladder by which we had descended from the trap-door;but seeing that nothing more happened, they were easilyinduced to return.

Meanwhile I had opened the tablet: it was bound inplain red leather, with a silver clasp; it contained but onesheet of thick vellum, and on that sheet were inscribed,within a double pentacle, words in old monkish Latin, whichare literally to be translated thus: "On all that it can reachwithin these walls—sentient or inanimate, living or dead—asmoves the needle, so work my will! Accursed be thehouse, and restless be the dwellers therein."

We found no more. Mr. J—— burned the tablet andits anathema. He razed to the foundations the part of thebuilding containing the secret room with the chamber overit. He had then the courage to inhabit the house himselffor a month, and a quieter, better-conditioned house couldnot be found in all London. Subsequently he let it toadvantage, and his tenant has made no complaints.

THE DREAM-WOMAN

BY WILKIE COLLINS

William Wilkie Collins, born in London in1824, was the son of the painter WilliamCollins. He was always called "Wilkie." Educatedprivately, he was articled to a Londontea merchant; but, publishing a book (afterwardissued as "Antonina"), he devoted himselfto letters. In 1851, he met Dickens, andwrote for "Household Words," and sometimescollaborated with him. His works include:"After Dark," "The Woman in White," "NoName, "The New Magdalen," and "TheMoonstone." "The Dream-Woman," whichexhibits many of his most striking characteristics,is from "The Queen of Hearts" (1860).He died in London in 1889.

THE DREAM-WOMAN

By WILKIE COLLINS

Some years ago there lived in the suburbs of alarge seaport town on the west coast of Englanda man in humble circumstances, by name IsaacScatchard. His means of subsistence were derivedfrom any employment that he could get as an ostler, andoccasionally when times went well with him, from temporaryengagements in service as stable-helper in private houses.Though a faithful, steady, and honest man, he got on badlyin his calling. His ill-luck was proverbial among hisneighbors. He was always missing good opportunities by nofault of his own, and always living longest in service withamiable people who were not punctual payers of wages."Unlucky Isaac" was his nickname in his own neighborhood,and no one could say that he did not richly deserve it.

With far more than one man's fair share of adversity toendure, Isaac had but one consolation to support him, andthat was of the dreariest and most negative kind. He hadno wife and children to increase his anxieties and add tothe bitterness of his various failures in life. It might havebeen from mere insensibility, or it might have been fromgenerous unwillingness to involve another in his ownunlucky destiny; but the fact undoubtedly was, that he hadarrived at the middle term of life without marrying, and,what is much more remarkable, without once exposing himself,from eighteen to eight-and-thirty, to the genial imputationof ever having had a sweetheart.

When he was out of service he lived alone with hiswidowed mother. Mrs. Scatchard was a woman above theaverage in her lowly station as to capacity and manners. Shehad seen better days, as the phrase is, but she neverreferred to them in the presence of curious visitors; and,though perfectly polite to every one who approached her,never cultivated any intimacies among her neighbors. Shecontrived to provide hardly enough for her simple wantsby doing rough work for the tailors, and always managedto keep a decent home for her son to return to wheneverhis ill-luck drove him out helpless into the world.

One bleak autumn, when Isaac was getting on fast towardforty, and when he was, as usual, out of place through nofault of his own, he set forth from his mother's cottage on along walk inland to a gentleman's seat, where he had heardthat a stable-helper was required.

It wanted then but two days of his birthday; andMrs. Scatchard, with her usual fondness, made him promise,before he started, that he would be back in time to keep thatanniversary with her, in as festive a way as their poor meanswould allow. It was easy for him to comply with thisrequest, even supposing he slept a night each way on theroad.

He was to start from home on Monday morning, and,whether he got the new place or not, he was to be back forhis birthday dinner on Wednesday at two o'clock.

Arriving at his destination too late on the Monday nightto make application for the stable-helper's place, he slept atthe village inn, and in good time on the Tuesday morningpresented himself at the gentleman's house to fill the vacantsituation. Here again his ill-luck pursued him as inexorablyas ever. The excellent written testimonials to his characterwhich he was able to procure availed him nothing; his longwalk had been taken in vain: only the day before thestable-helper's place had been given to another man.

Isaac accepted this new disappointment resignedly andas a matter of course. Naturally slow in capacity, he hadthe bluntness of sensibility and phlegmatic patience ofdisposition which frequently distinguish men with sluggishlyworking mental powers. He thanked the gentleman's stewardwith his usual quiet civility for granting him an interview,and took his departure with no appearance of unusualdepression in his face or manner.

Before starting on his homeward walk, he made someinquiries at the inn, and ascertained that he might save afew miles on his return by following a new road. Furnishedwith full instructions, several times repeated, as to thevarious turnings he was to take, he set forth on his homewardjourney, and walked on all day with only one stoppage forbread and cheese. Just as it was getting toward dark, therain came on and the wind began to rise, and he foundhimself, to make matters worse, in a part of the country withwhich he was entirely unacquainted, though he knewhimself to be some fifteen miles from home. The first househe found to inquire at was a lonely roadside inn, standingon the outskirts of a thick wood. Solitary as the placelooked, it was welcome to a lost man who was also hungry,thirsty, foot-sore, and wet. The landlord was civil, andrespectable-looking, and the price he asked for a bed wasreasonable enough. Isaac therefore decided on stoppingcomfortably at the inn for that night.

He was constitutionally a temperate man. His supperconsisted of two rashers of bacon, a slice of home-madebread, and a pint of ale. He did not go to bed immediatelyafter this moderate meal, but sat up with the landlord, talkingabout his bad prospects and his long run of ill-luck, anddiverging from these topics to the subject of horse-flesh andracing. Nothing was said either by himself, his host, or thefew laborers who strayed into the tap-room, which could,in the slightest degree, excite the very small and very dullimaginative faculty which Isaac Scatchard possessed.

At a little after eleven the house was closed. Isaac wentround with the landlord and held the candle while the doorsand lower windows were being secured. He noticed withsurprise the strength of the bolts and bars, and iron-sheathedshutters.

"You see we are rather lonely here," said the landlord."We never have had any attempts made to break in yet, butit's always as well to be on the safe side. When nobody issleeping here, I am the only man in the house. My wife anddaughter are timid, and the servant-girl takes after hermissuses. Another glass of ale before you turn in? No! Well,how such a sober man as you come to be out of a place ismore than I can make out, for one. Here's where you're tosleep. You're our only lodger to-night, and I think you'llsay my missus has done her best to make you comfortable.You're quite sure you won't have another glass of ale?Very well. Good-night."

It was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage asthey went upstairs to the bedroom, the window of whichlooked on to the wood at the back of the house.

Isaac locked the door, set his candle on the chest ofdrawers, and wearily got ready for bed. The bleak autumnwind was still blowing, and the solemn, monotonous, surgingmoan of it in the wood was dreary and awful to hearthrough the night-silence. Isaac felt strangely wakeful. Heresolved, as he lay down in bed, to keep the candle alightuntil he began to grow sleepy, for there was somethingunendurably depressing in the bare idea of laying awake in thedarkness, listening to the dismal, ceaseless moaning of thewind in the wood.

Sleep stole on him before he was aware of it. His eyesclosed, and he fell off insensibly to rest without having somuch as thought of extinguishing the candle.

The first sensation of which he was conscious aftersinking into slumber was a strange shivering that ran throughhim suddenly from head to foot, and a dreadful sinking painat the heart, such as he had never felt before. The shiveringonly disturbed his slumbers; the pain woke him instantly.In one moment he passed from a state of sleep to a stateof wakefulness—his eyes wide open—his mental perceptionscleared on a sudden as if by a miracle.

The candle had burned down nearly to the last morselof tallow, but the top of the unsnuffed wick had just fallenoff, and the light in the little room was, for the moment, fairand full.

Between the foot of the bed and the closed door therestood a woman with a knife in her hand, looking at him.

He was stricken speechless with terror, but he did notlose the preternatural clearness of his faculties, and henever took his eyes off the woman. She said not a wordas they stared each other in the face, but she began to moveslowly toward the left-hand side of the bed.

His eyes followed her. She was a fair, fine woman, withyellowish flaxen hair and light-gray eyes, with a droop inthe left eyelid. He noticed those things, and fixed them onhis mind before she was round at the side of the bed.Speechless, with no expression in her face, with no noisefollowing her footfall, she came closer and closer—stoppedand slowly raised the knife. He laid his right arm over histhroat to save it; but, as he saw the knife coming down,threw his hand across the bed to the right side, and jerked hisbody over that way just as the knife descended on themattress within an inch of his shoulder.

His eyes fixed on her arm and hand as she slowly drewher knife out of the bed; a white, well-shaped arm, with apretty down lying lightly over the fair skin—a delicate lady'shand; with the crowning beauty of a pink flush under andround the finger nails.

She drew the knife out, and passed again slowly to thefoot of the bed; stopped there for a moment looking athim; then came on—still speechless, still with no expressionon the blank, beautiful face, still with no sound followingthe stealthy footfalls—came on to the right side of the bedwhere he now lay.

As she approached, she raised the knife again, and hedrew himself away to the left side. She struck, as before,right into the mattress, with a deliberate, perpendicularlydownward action of the arm. This time his eyes wanderedfrom her to the knife. It was like the large clasp-kniveswhich he had often seen laboring men use to cut their breadand bacon with. Her delicate little fingers did not concealmore than two-thirds of the handle; he noticed that it wasmade of buckhorn, clean and shining the blade was, andlooking like new.

For the second time she drew the knife out, concealed itin the wide sleeve of her gown, then stopped by thebedside, watching him. For an instant he saw her standingin that position, then the wick of the spent candle fell overinto the socket, the flame diminished to a little blue point,and the room grew dark.

A moment, or less, if possible, passed so, and then thewick flamed up, smokingly, for the last time. His eyes werestill looking eagerly over the right-hand side of the bed whenthe final flash of light came, but they discerned nothing.The fair woman with the knife was gone.

The conviction that he was alone again weakened thehold of the terror that had struck him dumb up to this time.The preternatural sharpness which the very intensity of hispanic had mysteriously imparted to his faculties left themsuddenly. His brain grew confused—his heart beat wildly—hisears opened for the first time since the appearance of thewoman to a sense of the woful, ceaseless moaning of thewind among the trees. With the dreadful conviction of thereality of what he had seen still strong within him, he leapedout of bed, and screaming, "Murder! Wake up there! wakeup!" dashed headlong through the darkness to the door.

It was fast locked, exactly as he had left it on going tobed.

His cries on starting up had alarmed the house. Heheard the terrified, confused exclamations of women; hesaw the master of the house approaching along the passagewith his burning rush-candle in one hand and his gunin the other.

"What is it?" asked the landlord, breathlessly.

Isaac could only answer in a whisper. "A woman, witha knife in her hand," he gasped out. "In my room—a fair,yellow-haired woman; she jobbed at me with the knife twiceover."

The landlord's pale cheeks grew paler. He looked atIsaac eagerly by the flickering light of his candle, and hisface began to get red again; his voice altered, too, as wellas his complexion.

"She seems to have missed you twice," he said.

"I dodged the knife as it came down," Isaac went on, inthe same scared whisper. "It struck the bed each time."

The landlord took his candle into the bedroom immediately.In less than a minute he came out again into thepassage in a violent passion.

"The devil fly away with you and your woman with theknife! There isn't a mark in the bedclothes anywhere.What do you mean by coming into a man's place, andfrightening his family out of their wits about a dream?"

"I'll leave your house," said Isaac, faintly. "Better out onthe road, in rain and dark, on my road home, than back againin that room, after what I've seen in it. Lend me a lightto get my clothes by, and tell me what I'm to pay."

"Pay!" cried the landlord, leading the way with his lightsulkily into the bedroom. "You'll find your score on theslate when you go downstairs. I wouldn't have taken youin for all the money you've got about you if I'd known yourdreaming, screeching ways beforehand. Look at the bed.Where's the cut of a knife in it? Look at the window—is thelock bursted? Look at the door (which I heard you fastenyourself)—is it broke in? A murdering woman with aknife in my house! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Isaac answered not a word. He huddled on his clothes,and they went downstairs together.

"Nigh on twenty minutes past two!" said the landlord,as they passed a clock. "A nice time in the morning tofrighten honest people out of their wits!"

Isaac paid his bill, and the landlord let him out at thefront door, asking, with a grin of contempt, as he undid thestrong fastenings, whether "the murdering woman got inthat way?"

They parted without a word on either side. The rainhad ceased, but the night was dark, and the wind bleakerthan ever. Little did the darkness or the cold or theuncertainty about the way home matter to Isaac. If he hadbeen turned out into the wilderness in a thunderstorm, itwould have been a relief after what he had suffered in thebedroom of the inn.

What was the fair woman with the knife? The creatureof a dream, or that other creature from the unknown worldcalled among men by the name of ghost? He could makenothing of the mystery—had made nothing of it, even whenit was midday on Wednesday, and when he stood, at last,after many times missing his road, once more on thedoorstep of home.

His mother came out eagerly to receive him. His facetold her in a moment that something was wrong.

"I've lost the place; but that's my luck. I dreamed anill dream last night, mother—or maybe I saw a ghost. Takeit either way, it scared me out of my senses, and I am notmy own man again yet."

"Isaac, your face frightens me. Come into the fire—comein, and tell mother all about it."

He was as anxious to tell as she was to hear: for it hadbeen his hope, all the way home, that his mother, with herquicker capacity and superior knowledge, might be able tothrow some light on the mystery which he could not clearup for himself. His memory of the dream was still mechanicallyvivid, though his thoughts were entirely confused by it.

His mother's face grew paler and paler as he went on.She never interrupted him by so much as a single word; butwhen he had done, she moved her chair close to his, puther arms around his neck, and said to him:

"Isaac, you dreamed your ill dream on this Wednesdaymorning. What time was it when you saw the fair womanwith a knife in her hand?"

Isaac reflected on what the landlord had said when theyhad passed by the clock on his leaving the inn; allowedas nearly as he could for the time that must have elapsedbetween the unlocking of his bedroom door and the payingof his bill just before going away, and answered:

"Somewhere about two o'clock in the morning."

His mother suddenly quitted her hold of his neck, andstruck her hands together with a gesture of despair.

"This Wednesday is your birthday, Isaac, and two o'clockin the morning was the time when you were born."

Isaac's capacities were not quick enough to catch theinfection of his mother's superstitious dread. He wasamazed, and a little startled also, when she suddenly rosefrom her chair, opened her old writing-desk, took pen, ink,and paper, and then said to him:

"Your memory is but a poor one, Isaac, and now I'man old woman mine's not much better. I want all aboutthis dream of yours to be as well known to both of us, yearshence, as it is now. Tell me over again all you told me aminute ago, when you spoke of what the woman with theknife looked like."

Isaac obeyed, and marveled much as he saw his mothercarefully set down on paper the very words that he wassaying.

"Light-gray eyes," she wrote, as they came to the descriptivepart, "with a droop in the left eyelid; flaxen hair, witha gold-yellow streak in it; white arms, with a down uponthem; little lady's hand, with a reddish look about thefinger nails; clasp-knife with a buckhorn handle, that seemedas good as new." To these particulars Mrs. Scatchard addedthe year, month, day of the week, and time in the morningwhen the woman of the dream appeared to her son. She thenlocked up the paper carefully in the writing-desk.

Neither on that day nor on any day after could her soninduce her to return to the matter of the dream. Sheobstinately kept her thoughts about it to herself, and evenrefused to refer again to the paper in her writing-desk. Erelong Isaac grew weary of attempting to make her breakher resolute silence; and time, which sooner or later wearsout all things, gradually wore out the impression producedon him by the dream. He began by thinking of it carelessly,and he ended by not thinking of it at all.

The result was the more easily brought about by theadvent of some important changes for the better in hisprospects, which commenced not long after his terriblenight's experience at the inn. He reaped at last the rewardof his long and patient suffering under adversity by gettingan excellent place, keeping it for seven years, and leavingit, on the death of his master, not only with an excellentcharacter, but also with a comfortable annuity bequeathedto him as a reward for saving his mistress's life in acarriage accident. Thus it happened that Isaac Scatchardreturned to his old mother, seven years after the time of thedream at the inn, with an annual sum of money at hisdisposal sufficient to keep them both in ease and independencefor the rest of their lives.

The mother, whose health had been bad of late years,profited so much by the care bestowed on her and by freedomfrom money anxieties, that when Isaac's birthday cameround she was able to sit up comfortably at table and dinewith him.

On that day, as the evening drew on, Mrs. Scatcharddiscovered that a bottle of tonic medicine which she wasaccustomed to take, and in which she had fancied that adose or more was still left, happened to be empty. Isaacimmediately volunteered to go to the chemist's and get itfilled again. It was as rainy and bleak an autumn nightas on the memorable past occasion when he lost his wayand slept at the roadside inn.

On going into the chemist's shop he was passed hurriedlyby a poorly dressed woman coming out of it. Theglimpse he had of her face struck him, and he looked backafter her as she descended the door steps.

"You're noticing that woman?" said the chemist's apprenticebehind the counter. "It's my opinion there's somethingwrong with her. She's been asking for laudanum to put toa bad tooth. Master's out for half an hour, and I told herI wasn't allowed to sell poison to strangers in his absence.She laughed in a queer way, and said she would come backin half an hour. If she expects master to serve her, I thinkshe'll be disappointed. It's a case of suicide, sir, if everthere was one yet."

These words added immeasurably to the sudden interestin the woman which Isaac had felt at the first sight of herface. After he had got the medicine-bottle filled, he lookedabout anxiously for her as soon as he was out in the street.She was walking slowly up and down on the opposite sideof the road. With his heart, very much to his own surprise,beating fast, Isaac crossed over and spoke to her.

He asked if she was in any distress. She pointed to hertorn shawl, her scanty dress, her crushed, dirty bonnet; thenmoved under a lamp so as to let the light fall on her stern,pale, but still most beautiful face.

"I look like a comfortable, happy woman, don't I?" shesaid, with a bitter laugh.

She spoke with a purity of intonation which Isaac hadnever heard before from other lips than ladies' lips. Herslightest action seemed to have the easy, negligent graceof a thoroughbred woman. Her skin, for all its poverty-strickenpaleness, was as delicate as if her life had beenpassed in the enjoyment of every social comfort that wealthcan purchase. Even her small, finely shaped hands,gloveless as they were, had not lost their whiteness.

Little by little, in answer to his question, the sad storyof the woman came out. There is no need to relate it here;it is told over and over again in police reports andparagraphs about attempted suicides.

"My name is Rebecca Murdoch," said the woman, as sheended. "I have ninepence left, and I thought of spendingit at the chemist's over the way in securing a passage tothe other world. Whatever it is, it can't be worse to methan this, so why should I stop here?"

Besides the natural compassion and sadness moved inhis heart by what he heard, Isaac felt within him somemysterious influence at work all the time the woman wasspeaking which utterly confused his ideas and almost deprivedhim of his powers of speech. All that he could say inanswer to her last reckless words was that he would preventher from attempting her own life, if he followed her aboutall night to do it. His rough, trembling earnestness seemedto impress her.

"I won't occasion you that trouble," she answered, whenhe repeated his threat. "You have given me a fancy forliving by speaking kindly to me. No need for the mockeryof protestations and promises. You may believe me withoutthem. Come to Fuller's Meadow to-morrow at twelve,and you will find me alive, to answer for myself— No!—nomoney. My ninepence will do to get me as good a night'slodging as I want."

She nodded and left him. He made no attempt tofollow—he felt no suspicion that she was deceiving him.

"It's strange, but I can't help believing her," he said tohimself, and walked away, bewildered, toward home.

On entering the house his mind was still so completelyabsorbed by its new subject of interest that he took nonotice of what his mother was doing when he came in withthe bottle of medicine. She had opened her old writing-deskin his absence, and was now reading a paper attentivelythat lay inside it. On every birthday of Isaac's sinceshe had written down the particulars of his dream from hisown lips, she had been accustomed to read that same paper,and ponder over it in private.

The next day he went to Fuller's Meadow.

He had done only right in believing her so implicitly.She was there, punctual to a minute, to answer for herself.The last-left faint defenses in Isaac's heart against thefascination which a word or look from her began inscrutably toexercise over him sank down and vanished before herforever on that memorable morning.

When a man previously insensible to the influence ofwoman forms an attachment in middle life, the instancesare rare indeed, let the warning circumstances be what theymay, in which he is found capable of freeing himself fromthe tyranny of the new ruling passion. The charm of beingspoken to familiarly, fondly, and gratefully by a womanwhose language and manners still retained enough of theirearly refinement to hint at the high social station that shehad lost, would have been a dangerous luxury to a man ofIsaac's rank at the age of twenty. But it was far more thanthat—it was certain ruin to him—now that his heart wasopening unworthily to a new influence at that middle timeof life when strong feelings of all kinds, once implanted,strike root most stubbornly in a man's moral nature. Afew more stolen interviews after that first morning inFuller's Meadow completed his infatuation. In less thana month from the time when he first met her, Isaac Scatchardhad consented to give Rebecca Murdoch a new interestin existence and a chance of recovering the character shehad lost by promising to make her his wife.

She had taken possession, not of his passions only, butof his faculties as well. All the mind he had he put intoher keeping. She directed him on every point—eveninstructing him how to break the news of his approachingmarriage in the safest manner to his mother.

"If you tell her how you met me and who I am at first,"said the cunning woman, "she will move heaven and earthto prevent our marriage. Say I am the sister of one of yourfellow-servants—ask her to see me before you go into anymore particulars—and leave it to me to do the rest. I meanto make her love me next best to you, Isaac, before sheknows anything of who I really am."

The motive of the deceit was sufficient to sanctify it toIsaac. The stratagem proposed relieved him of his one greatanxiety, and quieted his uneasy conscience on the subject ofhis mother. Still, there was something wanting to perfecthis happiness, something that he could not realize,something mysteriously untraceable, and yet something thatperpetually made itself felt; not when he was absent fromRebecca Murdoch, but, strange to say, when he was actuallyin her presence! She was kindness itself with him. Shenever made him feel his inferior capacities and inferiormanners. She showed the sweetest anxiety to please him inthe smallest trifles; but, in spite of all these attractions, henever could feel quite at his ease with her. At their firstmeeting there had mingled with his admiration, when helooked in her face, a faint, involuntary feeling of doubtwhether that face was entirely strange to him. Noafter-familiarity had the slightest effect on this inexplicable,wearisome uncertainty.

Concealing the truth as he had been directed, he announcedhis marriage engagement precipitately and confusedlyto his mother on the day when he contracted it. PoorMrs. Scatchard showed her perfect confidence in her son byflinging her arms round his neck, and giving him joy ofhaving found at last, in the sister of one of hisfellow-servants, a woman to comfort and care for him after hismother was gone. She was all eagerness to see the womanof her son's choice, and the next day was fixed for theintroduction.

It was a bright sunny morning, and the little cottageparlor was full of light as Mrs. Scatchard, happy andexpectant, dressed for the occasion in her Sunday gown, satwaiting for her son and her future daughter-in-law.

Punctual to the appointed time, Isaac hurriedly andnervously led his promised wife into the room. His motherrose to receive her—advanced a few steps smiling—lookedRebecca full in the eyes, and suddenly stopped. Her face,which had been flushed the moment before, turned white inan instant; her eyes lost their expression of softness andkindness, and assumed a blank look of terror; heroutstretched hands fell to her sides, and she staggered backa few steps with a low cry to her son.

"Isaac," she whispered, clutching him fast by the armwhen he asked alarmedly if she was taken ill, "Isaac, doesthat woman's face remind you of nothing?"

Before he could answer—before he could look round towhere Rebecca stood, astonished and angered by her reception,at the lower end of the room—his mother pointedimpatiently to her writing-desk, and gave him the key.

"Open it," she said, in a quick, breathless whisper.

"What does this mean? Why am I treated as if I hadno business here? Does your mother want to insult me?"asked Rebecca, angrily.

"Open it, and give me the paper in the left-hand drawer.Quick! quick, for Heaven's sake!" said Mrs. Scatchard,shrinking further back in terror.

Isaac gave her the paper. She looked it over eagerly fora moment, then followed Rebecca, who was now turningaway haughtily to leave the room, and caught her by theshoulder—abruptly raised the long, loose sleeve of her gown,and glanced at her hand and arm. Something like fearbegan to steal over the angry expression of Rebecca's faceas she shook herself free from the old woman's grasp."Mad!" she said to herself, "and Isaac never told me." Withthese few words she left the room.

Isaac was hastening after her when his mother turnedand stopped his further progress. It wrung his heart tosee the misery and terror in her face as she looked at him.

"Light-gray eyes," she said, in low, mournful, awe-strucktones, pointing toward the open door; "a droop in the lefteyelid; flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it; whitearms, with a down upon them; little lady's hand, with areddish look under the finger nails—The Dream-Woman, Isaac,the Dream-Woman!"

That faint cleaving doubt which he had never been ableto shake off in Rebecca Murdoch's presence was fatally setat rest forever. He had seen her face, then, before—sevenyears before, on his birthday, in the bedroom of the lonelyinn.

"Be warned! oh, my son, be warned! Isaac, Isaac, let hergo, and do you stop with me!"

Something darkened the parlor window as those wordswere said. A sudden chill ran through him, and he glancedsidelong at the shadow. Rebecca Murdoch had come back.She was peering in curiously at them over the lowwindow-blind.

"I have promised to marry, mother," he said, "and marryI must."

The tears came into his eyes as he spoke and dimmedhis sight, but he could just discern the fatal face outsidemoving away again from the window.

His mother's head sank lower.

"Are you faint?" he whispered.

"Broken-hearted, Isaac."

He stooped down and kissed her. The shadow, as he didso, returned to the window, and the fatal face peered incuriously once more.

Three weeks after that day Isaac and Rebecca were manand wife. All that was hopelessly dogged and stubborn inthe man's moral nature seemed to have closed round hisfatal passion, and to have fixed it unassailably in his heart.

After that first interview in the cottage parlor noconsideration would induce Mrs. Scatchard to see her son'swife again, or even to talk of her when Isaac tried hardto plead her cause after their marriage.

This course of conduct was not in any degree occasionedby a discovery of the degradation in which Rebecca hadlived. There was no question of that between mother andson. There was no question of anything but the fearfullyexact resemblance between the living, breathing womanand the spectre-woman of Isaac's dream.

Rebecca, on her side, neither felt nor expressed theslightest sorrow at the estrangement between herself andher mother-in-law. Isaac, for the sake of peace, had nevercontradicted her first idea that age and long illness hadaffected Mrs. Scatchard's mind. He even allowed his wifeto upbraid him for not having confessed this to her at thetime of their marriage engagement rather than risk anythingby hinting at the truth. The sacrifice of his integritybefore his one all-mastering delusion seemed but a smallthing, and cost his conscience but little after the sacrificeshe had already made.

The time of waking from this delusion—the cruel and therueful time—was not far off. After some quiet months ofmarried life, as the summer was ending, and the year wasgetting on toward the month of his birthday, Isaac foundhis wife altering toward him. She grew sullen andcontemptuous; she formed acquaintances of the most dangerouskind in defiance of his objections, his entreaties, and hiscommands; and, worst of all, she learned, erelong, afterevery fresh difference with her husband, to seek the deadlyself-oblivion of drink. Little by little, after the firstmiserable discovery that his wife was keeping company withdrunkards, the shocking certainty forced itself on Isaac thatshe had grown to be a drunkard herself.

He had been in a sadly desponding state for some timebefore the occurrence of these domestic calamities. Hismother's health, as he could but too plainly discern everytime he went to see her at the cottage, was failing fast,and he upbraided himself in secret as the cause of the bodilyand mental suffering she endured. When to his remorseon his mother's account was added the shame and miseryoccasioned by the discovery of his wife's degradation, hesank under the double trial—his face began to alter fast,and he looked what he was, a spirit-broken man.

His mother, still struggling bravely against the illness thatwas hurrying her to the grave, was the first to notice the sadalteration in him, and the first to hear of his last worsttrouble with his wife. She could only weep bitterly on theday when he made his humiliating confession, but on thenext occasion when he went to see her she had taken aresolution in reference to his domestic afflictions whichastonished and even alarmed him. He found her dressed to goout, and on asking the reason received this answer:

"I am not long for this world, Isaac," she said, "and Ishall not feel easy on my death-bed unless I have done mybest to the last to make my son happy. I mean to put myown fears and my own feelings out of the question, and togo with you to your wife, and try what I can do to reclaimher. Give me your arm, Isaac, and let me do the lastthing I can in this world to help my son before it is toolate."

He could not disobey her, and they walked togetherslowly toward his miserable home.

It was only one o'clock in the afternoon when theyreached the cottage where he lived. It was their dinner-hour,and Rebecca was in the kitchen. He was thus ableto take his mother quietly into the parlor, and then preparehis wife for the interview. She had fortunately drunk butlittle at that early hour, and she was less sullen andcapricious than usual.

He returned to his mother with his mind tolerably atease. His wife soon followed him into the parlor, and themeeting between her and Mrs. Scatchard passed off betterthan he had ventured to anticipate, though he observedwith secret apprehension that his mother, resolutely as shecontrolled herself in other respects, could not look his wifein the face when she spoke to her. It was a relief to him,therefore, when Rebecca began to lay the cloth.

She laid the cloth, brought in the bread-tray, and cut aslice from the loaf for her husband, then returned to thekitchen. At that moment, Isaac, still anxiously watchinghis mother, was startled by seeing the same ghastly changepass over her face which had altered it so awfully on themorning when Rebecca and she first met. Before he couldsay a word, she whispered, with a look of horror:

"Take me back—home, home again, Isaac. Come withme, and never go back again."

He was afraid to ask for an explanation; he could onlysign to her to be silent, and help her quickly to the door.As they passed the bread-tray on the table she stopped andpointed to it.

"Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?" sheasked, in a low whisper.

"No, mother—I was not noticing—what was it?"

"Look!"

He did look. A new clasp-knife, with a buckhorn handle,lay with the loaf in the bread-tray. He stretched out hishand shudderingly to possess himself of it; but, at the sametime, there was a noise in the kitchen, and his mothercaught at his arm.

"The knife of the dream! Isaac, I'm faint with fear.Take me away before she comes back."

He was hardly able to support her. The visible, tangiblereality of the knife struck him with a panic, and utterlydestroyed any faint doubts that he might have entertained upto this time in relation to the mysterious dream-warning ofnearly eight years before. By a last desperate effort, hesummoned self-possession enough to help his mother out ofthe house—so quietly that the "Dream-Woman" (he thoughtof her by that name now) did not hear them departing fromthe kitchen.

"Don't go back, Isaac—don't go back!" implored Mrs. Scatchard,as he turned to go away, after seeing her safelyseated again in her own room.

"I must get the knife," he answered, under his breath.His mother tried to stop him again, but he hurried outwithout another word.

On his return he found that his wife had discovered theirsecret departure from the house. She had been drinking,and was in a fury of passion. The dinner in the kitchenwas flung under the grate; the cloth was off the parlortable. Where was the knife?

Unwisely, he asked for it. She was only too glad of theopportunity of irritating him which the request affordedher. He wanted the knife, did he? Could he give her areason why? No! Then he should not have it—not if hewent down on his knees to ask for it. Further recriminationelicited the fact that she had bought it a bargain, andthat she considered it her own especial property. Isaacsaw the uselessness of attempting to get the knife by fairmeans, and determined to search for it, later in the day, insecret. The search was unsuccessful. Night came on, andhe left the house to walk about the streets. He was afraidnow to sleep in the same room with her.

Three weeks passed. Still sullenly enraged with him,she would not give up the knife; and still that fear ofsleeping in the same room with her possessed him. He walkedabout at night, or dozed in the parlor, or sat watching byhis mother's bedside. Before the expiration of the first weekin the new month his mother died. It wanted then but tendays of her son's birthday. She had longed to live till thatanniversary. Isaac was present at her death, and her lastwords in this world were addressed to him:

"Don't go back, my son, don't go back!"

He was obliged to go back, if it were only to watch hiswife. Exasperated to the last degree by his distrust of her,she had revengefully sought to add a sting to his grief,during the last days of his mother's illness, by declaring thatshe would assert her right to attend the funeral. In spite ofall that he could do or say, she held with wicked pertinacityto her word, and on the day appointed for the burial forcedherself—inflamed and shameless with drink—into herhusband's presence, and declared that she would walk in thefuneral procession to his mother's grave.

This last worst outrage, accompanied by all that wasmost insulting in word and look, maddened him for themoment. He struck her.

The instant the blow was dealt he repented it. Shecrouched down, silent, in a corner of the room, and eyedhim steadily; it was a look that cooled his hot blood andmade him tremble. But there was no time now to think ofa means of making atonement. Nothing remained but to riskthe worst till the funeral was over. There was but one wayof making sure of her. He locked her in her bedroom.

When he came back some hours after, he found her sitting,very much altered in look and bearing, by the bedside, witha bundle on her lap. She rose and faced him quietly, andspoke with a strange stillness in her voice, a strange reposein her eyes, a strange composure in her manner.

"No man has ever struck me twice," she said, "and myhusband shall have no second opportunity. Set the dooropen and let me go. From this day forth we see each otherno more."

Before he could answer she passed him and left theroom. He saw her walk away up the street.

Would she return?

All that night he watched and waited, but no footstepcame near the house. The next night, overpowered by fatigue,he lay down in bed in his clothes, with the door locked,the key on the table, and the candle burning. His slumberwas not disturbed. The third night, the fourth, the fifth, thesixth passed, and nothing happened. He lay down on theseventh, still in his clothes, still with the door locked,the key on the table, and the candle burning, but easier inhis mind.

Easier in his mind, and in perfect health of body when hefell off to sleep. But his rest was disturbed. He woke twicewithout any sensation of uneasiness. But the third time itwas that never-to-be-forgotten shivering of the night at thelonely inn, that dreadful sinking pain at the heart, whichonce more aroused him in an instant.

His eyes opened toward the left-hand side of the bed, andthere stood—

The Dream-Woman again? No! his wife; the living reality,with the dream-spectre's face, in the dream-spectre's attitude;the fair arm up, the knife clasped in the delicate whitehand.

He sprang upon her almost at the instant of seeing her,and yet not quickly enough to prevent her from hiding theknife. Without a word from him—without a cry from her—hepinioned her in a chair. With one hand he felt up hersleeve, and there, where the Dream-Woman had hidden theknife, his wife had hidden it—the knife with the buckhornhandle, that looked like new.

In the despair of that fearful moment his brain was steady,his heart was calm. He looked at her fixedly with the knifein his hand, and said these last words:

"You have told me we should see each other no more,and you have come back. It is now my turn to go, and togo forever. I say that we shall see each other no more, andmy word shall not be broken."

He left her, and set forth into the night. There wasa bleak wind abroad, and the smell of recent rain was inthe air. The distant church-clocks chimed the quarter as hewalked rapidly beyond the last houses in the suburb. Heasked the first policeman he met what hour that was ofwhich the quarter past had just struck.

The man referred sleepily to his watch, and answered,"Two o'clock." Two in the morning. What day of themonth was this day that had just begun? He reckoned itup from the date of his mother's funeral. The fatal parallelwas complete: it was his birthday!

Had he escaped the mortal peril which his dreamforetold? or had he only received a second warning?

As that ominous doubt forced itself on his mind, hestopped, reflected, and turned back again toward the city.He was still resolute to hold to his word, and never to lether see him more; but there was a thought now in his mindof having her watched and followed. The knife was in hispossession; the world was before him; but a new distrust ofher—a vague, unspeakable, superstitious dread—had comeover him.

"I must know where she goes, now she thinks I have lefther," he said to himself, as he stole back wearily to theprecincts of his house.

It was still dark. He had left the candle burning in thebed-chamber; but when he looked up to the window of theroom now, there was no light in it. He crept cautiouslyto the house door. On going away, he remembered to haveclosed it; on trying it now, he found it open.

He waited outside, never losing sight of the house, tilldaylight. Then he ventured indoors—listened, and heardnothing—looked into kitchen, scullery, parlor, and foundnothing; went up, at last, into the bedroom—it was empty.A picklock lay on the floor, betraying how she had gainedentrance in the night, and that was the only trace of her.

Whither had she gone? That no mortal tongue could tellhim. The darkness had covered her flight; and when the daybroke no man could say where the light found her.

Before leaving the house and the town forever, he gaveinstructions to a friend and neighbor to sell his furniture foranything that it would fetch, and apply the proceeds toemploying the police to trace her. The directions were honestlyfollowed, and the money was all spent, but the inquiries ledto nothing. The picklock on the bedroom floor remained theone last useless trace of the Dream-Woman.

GREEN BRANCHES

BY FIONA MACLEOD

Fiona (which is Gaelic for Flora) Macleodwas the name of one of the most sympatheticwriters in the so-called Celtic movement. Withthat intensity of feeling characteristic of theCeltic people she succeeded in expressing muchof the mystic beauty of the old Gaelic legends.

Upon the death of William Sharp, the authorand critic, in the spring of 1906, a long-concealedsecret was brought to light:—FionaMacleod and William Sharp were one and thesame person.

GREEN BRANCHES*

*From "The Sin-Eater."

By FIONA MACLEOD

In the year that followed the death of ManusMacCodrum, James Achanna saw nothing of his brotherGloom. He might have thought himself alone inthe world, of all his people, but for a letter thatcame to him out of the west. True, he had never accepted thecommon opinion that his brothers had both been drowned onthat night when Anne Gillespie left Eilanmore with Manus.

In the first place, he had nothing of that inner convictionconcerning the fate of Gloom which he had concerning thatof Marcus; in the next, had he not heard the sound of thefeadan, which no one that he knew played except Gloom;and, for further token, was not the tune that which he hatedabove all others—the "Dance of the Dead"—for who butGloom would be playing that, he hating it so, and the hourbeing late, and no one else on Eilanmore? It was no surething that the dead had not come back; but the more hethought of it the more Achanna believed that his sixthbrother was still alive. Of this, however, he said nothing toany one.

It was as a man set free that, at last, after long waitingand patient trouble with the disposal of all that was left ofthe Achanna heritage, he left the island. It was a graymemory for him. The bleak moorland of it, the blight that hadlain so long and so often upon the crops, the rains that hadswept the isle for gray days and gray weeks and gray months,the sobbing of the sea by day and its dark moan by night,its dim relinquishing sigh in the calm of dreary ebbs, itshollow, baffling roar when the storm-shadow swept up outof the sea—one and all oppressed him, even in memory. Hehad never loved the island, even when it lay green andfragrant in the green and white seas under white and blueskies, fresh and sweet as an Eden of the sea.

He had ever been lonely and weary, tired of the mysteriousshadow that lay upon his folk, caring little for any ofhis brothers except the eldest—long since mysteriously goneout of the ken of man—and almost hating Gloom, who hadever borne him a grudge because of his beauty, and becauseof his likeness to and reverent heed for Alison. Moreover,ever since he had come to love Katreen Macarthur, thedaughter of Donald Macarthur who lived in Sleat of Skye,he had been eager to live near her; the more eager as heknew that Gloom loved the girl also, and wished for successnot only for his own sake, but so as to put a slight upon hisyounger brother.

So, when at last he left the island, he sailed southwardgladly. He was leaving Eilanmore; he was bound to a newhome in Skye, and perhaps he was going to his long-delayed,long dreamed-of happiness. True, Katreen was not pledgedto him; he did not even know for sure if she loved him. Hethought, hoped, dreamed, almost believed that she did; butthen there was her cousin Ian, who had long wooed her, andto whom old Donald Macarthur had given his blessing.Nevertheless, his heart would have been lighter than it hadbeen for long, but for two things. First, there was the letter.Some weeks earlier he had received it, not recognizing thewriting, because of the few letters he had ever seen, and,moreover, as it was in a feigned hand. With difficulty he haddeciphered the manuscript, plain printed though it was. Itran thus:

"Well, Sheumais, my brother, it is wondering if I am dead, you will be.Maybe ay, and maybe no.But I send you this writing to let you seethat I know all you do and think of.So you are going to leave Eilanmorewithout an Achanna upon it?And you will be going to Sleat in Skye?Well, let me be telling you this thing. Do not go.I see blood there. Andthere is this, too: neither you nor any manshall take Katreen away fromme. You know that; and Ian Macarthur knows it;and Katreen knows it;and that holds whether I am alive or dead.I say to you: do not go. Itwill be better for you, and for all.Ian Macarthur is away in the north-seawith the whaler-captain who came to us at Eilanmore,and will not be backfor three months yet.It will be better for him not to come back. But ifhe comes back he will have to reckon with the manwho says that KatreenMacarthur is his.I would rather not have two men to speak to, and onemy brother. It does not matter to you where I am.I want no money justnow. But put aside my portion for me.Have it ready for me against theday I call for it.I will not be patient that day; so have it ready for me.In the place that I am I am content.You will be saying: why is my brotheraway in a remote place (I will say this to you:that it is not further norththan St. Kilda nor further south than the Mullof Cantyrel), and for whatreason? That is between me and silence.But perhaps you think of Annesometimes. Do you know that she lies under the green grass?And ofManus MacCodrum?They say that he swam out into the sea and wasdrowned; and they whisper of the seal-blood,though the minister is wrathwith them for that. He calls it a madness.Well, I was there at that madness,and I played to it on my feadan.And now, Sheumais, can you bethinking of what the tune was that I played?

"Your brother, who waits his own day,
"GLOOM.

"Do not be forgetting this thing:I would rather not be playing the'Damhsa-na-Mairbh.' It was an ill hourfor Manus when he heard the'Dan-nan-Ron'; it was the song of his soul, that;and yours is the'Davsa-na-Mairv.'"

This letter was ever in his mind: this, and what happenedin the gloaming when he sailed away for Skye in theherring-smack of two men who lived at Armadale in Sleat. For,as the boat moved slowly out of the haven, one of the menasked him if he was sure that no one was left upon theisland; for he thought he had seen a figure on the rocks,waving a black scarf. Achanna shook his head; but just thenhis companion cried that at that moment he had seen thesame thing. So the smack was put about, and when she wasmoving slowly through the haven again, Achanna sculledashore in the little coggly punt. In vain he searched hereand there, calling loudly again and again. Both men couldhardly have been mistaken, he thought. If there were nohuman creature on the island, and if their eyes had notplayed them false, who could it be? The wraith of Marcus,mayhap; or might it be the old man himself (his father),risen to bid farewell to his youngest son, or to warn him?

It was no use to wait longer, so, looking often behindhim, he made his way to the boat again, and rowed slowlyout toward the smack.

Jerk—jerk—jerk across the water came, low but only tooloud for him, the opening motif of the "Damhsa-na-Mairbh."A horror came upon him, and he drove the boat through thewater so that the sea splashed over the bows. When hecame on deck he cried in a hoarse voice to the man nexthim to put up the helm, and let the smack swing to the wind.

"There is no one there, Callum Campbell," he whispered.

"And who is it that will be making that strange music?"

"What music?"

"Sure it has stopped now, but I heard it clear, and sodid Anndra MacEwan. It was like the sound of a reed pipe,and the tune was an eery one at that."

"It was the Dance of the Dead."

"And who will be playing that?" asked the man, withfear in his eyes.

"No living man."

"No living man?"

"No. I'm thinking it will be one of my brothers whowas drowned here, and by the same token that it is Gloom,for he played upon the feadan. But if not, then—then—"

The two men waited in breathless silence, each tremblingwith superstitious fear; but at last the elder made a sign toAchanna to finish.

"Then—it will be the Kelpie."

"Is there—is there one of the—cave-women here?"

"It is said; and you know of old that the Kelpie singsor plays a strange tune to wile seamen to their death."

At that moment the fantastic, jerking music came loudand clear across the bay. There was a horrible suggestionin it, as if dead bodies were moving along the ground withlong jerks, and crying and laughing wild. It was enough;the men, Campbell and MacEwan, would not now havewaited longer if Achanna had offered them all he had in theworld. Nor were they, or he, out of their panic haste tillthe smack stood well out at sea, and not a sound could beheard from Eilanmore.

They stood watching, silent. Out of the dusky mass thatlay in the seaward way to the north came a red gleam. Itwas like an eye staring after them with blood-red glances.

"What is that, Achanna?" asked one of the men at last.

"It looks as though a fire had been lighted in the houseup in the island. The door and the window must be open.The fire must be fed with wood, for no peats would givethat flame; and there were none lighted when I left. To myknowing, there was no wood for burning except the wood ofthe shelves and the bed."

"And who would be doing that?"

"I know of that no more than you do, Callum Campbell."

No more was said, and it was a relief to all when the lastglimmer of the light was absorbed in the darkness.

At the end of the voyage Campbell and MacEwan werewell pleased to be quit of their companion; not so muchbecause he was moody and distraught as because they fearedthat a spell was upon him—a fate in the working of whichthey might become involved. It needed no vow of the oneto the other for them to come to the conclusion that theywould never land on Eilanmore, or, if need be, only in broaddaylight, and never alone.

The days went well for James Achanna, where he madehis home at Ranza-beag, on Ranza Water in the Sleat ofSkye. The farm was small but good, and he hoped thatwith help and care he would soon have the place as good afarm as there was in all Skye.

Donald Macarthur did not let him see much of Katreen,but the old man was no longer opposed to him. Sheumaismust wait till Ian Macarthur came back again, which mightbe any day now. For sure, James Achanna of Ranza-beagwas a very different person from the youngest of theAchanna-folk, who held by on lonely Eilanmore; moreover,the old man could not but think with pleasure that it wouldbe well to see Katreen able to walk over the whole land ofRanza, from the cairn at the north of his own Ranza-Mòr tothe burn at the south of Ranza-beag, and know it for her own.

But Achanna was ready to wait. Even before he had thesecret word of Katreen he knew from her beautiful dark eyesthat she loved him. As the weeks went by they managed tomeet often, and at last Katreen told him that she loved himtoo, and would have none but him; but that they must waittill Ian came back, because of the pledge given to him byher father. They were days of joy for him. Through manya hot noontide hour, through many a gloaming he went asone in a dream. Whenever he saw a birch swaying in thewind, or a wave leaping upon Loch Liath, that was near hishome, or passed a bush covered with wild roses, or sawthe moonbeams lying white on the boles of the pines, hethought of Katreen—his fawn for grace, and so lithe andtall, with sunbrown face and wavy, dark mass of hair, andshadowy eyes and rowan-red lips. It is said that there isa god clothed in shadow who goes to and fro among thehuman kind, putting silence between lovers with his wavinghands, and breathing a chill out of his cold breath, andleaving a gulf of deep water flowing between them because ofthe passing of his feet. That shadow never came their way.Their love grew as a flower fed by rains and warmed bysunlight.

When midsummer came, and there was no sign of IanMacarthur, it was already too late. Katreen had been won.

During the summer months it was the custom for Katreenand two of the farm-girls to go up Maol-Ranza, to resideat the shealing of Cnoc-an-Fhraoch: and this because of thehill-pasture for the sheep. Cnoc-an-Fhraoch is a round,boulder-studded hill covered with heather, which has aprecipitous corrie on each side, and in front slopes down toLochan Fraoch, a lochlet surrounded by dark woods. Behindthe hill, or great hillock rather, lay the shealing. Ateach week-end Katreen went down to Ranza-Mòr, and onevery Monday morning at sunrise returned to her heather-girteyry. It was on one of these visits that she endureda cruel shock. Her father told her that she must marry someone else than Sheumais Achanna. He had heard wordsabout him which made a union impossible, and indeed, hehoped that the man would leave Ranza-beag. In the end headmitted that what he had heard was to the effect thatAchanna was under a doom of some kind, that he was involvedin a blood feud; and, moreover, that he was fey. Theold man would not be explicit as to the person from whomhis information came, but hinted that he was a stranger ofrank, probably a laird of the isles. Besides this, there wasword of Ian Macarthur. He was at Thurso, in the farnorth, and would be in Skye before long, and he—herfather—had written to him that he might wed Katreen as soon aswas practicable.

"Do you see that lintie yonder, father?" was her responseto this.

"Ay, lass, and what about the birdeen?"

"Well, when she mates with a hawk, so will I be matingwith Ian Macarthur, but not till then."

With that she turned and left the house, and went backto Cnoc-an-Fhraoch. On the way she met Achanna.

It was that night that for the first time he swam acrossLochan Fraoch to meet Katreen.

The quickest way to reach the shealing was to rowacross the lochlet, and then ascend by a sheep-path thatwound through the hazel copses at the base of the hill.Fully half an hour was thus saved, because of the steepnessof the precipitous corries to right and left. A boat waskept for this purpose, but it was fastened to a shore-boulderby a padlocked iron chain, the key of which was kept byDonald Macarthur. Latterly he had refused to let this keyout of his possession. For one thing, no doubt, he believedhe could thus restrain Achanna from visiting his daughter.The young man could not approach the shealing from eitherside without being seen.

But that night, soon after the moon was whitening slowin the dark, Katreen stole down to the hazel copse andawaited the coming of her lover. The lochan was visiblefrom almost any point on Cnoc-an-Fhraoch, as well as fromthe south side. To cross it in a boat unseen, if any watcherwere near, would be impossible, nor could even a swimmerhope to escape notice unless in the gloom of night or,mayhap, in the dusk. When, however, she saw, half-way acrossthe water, a spray of green branches slowly moving athwartthe surface, she knew that Sheumais was keeping his tryst.If, perchance, any one else saw, he or she would never guessthat those derelict rowan branches shrouded SheumaisAchanna.

It was not till the estray had drifted close to the ledge,where, hid among the bracken and the hazel undergrowth,she awaited him, that Katreen descried the face of her lover,as with one hand he parted the green sprays, and staredlongingly and lovingly at the figure he could just discern inthe dim, fragrant obscurity.

And as it was this night so was it many of the nightsthat followed. Katreen spent the days as in a dream. Noteven the news of her cousin Ian's return disturbed her much.

One day the inevitable meeting came. She was at Ranza-Mòr,and when a shadow came into the dairy where she wasstanding she looked up, and saw Ian before her. She thoughthe appeared taller and stronger than ever, though still notso tall as Sheumais, who would appear slim beside theHerculean Skye man. But as she looked at his close curlingblack hair and thick bull-neck and the sullen eyes in hisdark wind-red face, she wondered that she had evertolerated him at all.

He broke the ice at once.

"Tell me, Katreen, are you glad to see me back again?"

"I am glad that you are home once more safe and sound."

"And will you make it my home for me by coming to livewith me, as I've asked you again and again?"

"No: as I've told you again and again."

He gloomed at her angrily for a few moments before heresumed.

"I will be asking you this one thing, Katreen, daughterof my father's brother: do you love that man Achanna wholives at Ranza-beag?"

"You may ask the wind why it is from the east or thewest, but it won't tell you. You're not the wind's master."

"If you think I will let this man take you away from me,you are thinking a foolish thing."

"And you saying a foolisher."

"Ay?"

"Ay, sure. What could you do, Ian Mhic Ian? At theworst, you could do no more than kill James Achanna. Whatthen? I too would die. You can not separate us. I wouldnot marry you, now, though you were the last man in theworld and I the last woman."

"You're a fool, Katreen Macarthur. Your father has promisedyou to me, and I tell you this: if you love Achanna you'llsave his life only by letting him go away from here. Ipromise you he will not be here long."

"Ay, you promise me; but you will not say that thing toJames Achanna's face. You are a coward."

With a muttered oath the man turned on his heel.

"Let him beware o' me, and you, too, Katreen-mo-nighean-donn.I swear it by my mother's grave and by St. Martin'sCross that you will be mine by hook or by crook."

The girl smiled scornfully. Slowly she lifted a milk-pail.

"It would be a pity to waste the good milk, Ian-gorach,but if you don't go it is I that will be emptying the pail onyou, and then you will be as white without as your heart iswithin."

"So you call me witless, do you? Ian-gorach! Well, weshall be seeing as to that. And as for the milk, there willbe more than milk spilt because of you, Katreen-donn."

From that day, though neither Sheumais nor Katreenknew of it, a watch was set upon Achanna.

It could not be long before their secret was discovered,and it was with a savage joy overmastering his sullen ragethat Ian Macarthur knew himself the discoverer, andconceived his double vengeance. He dreamed, gloatingly, onboth the black thoughts that roamed like ravenous beaststhrough the solitudes of his heart. But he did not dreamthat another man was filled with hate because of Katreen'slover, another man who had sworn to make her his own,the man who, disguised, was known in Armadale as DonaldMcLean, and in the north isles would have been hailed asGloom Achanna.

There had been steady rain for three days, with a cold,raw wind. On the fourth the sun shone, and set in peace.An evening of quiet beauty followed, warm, fragrant, duskyfrom the absence of moon or star, though the thin veils ofmist promised to disperse as the night grew.

There were two men that eve in the undergrowth on thesouth side of the lochlet. Sheumais had come earlier thanhis wont. Impatient for the dusk, he could scarce await thewaning of the afterglow; surely, he thought, he mightventure. Suddenly his ears caught the sound of cautiousfootsteps. Could it be old Donald, perhaps with some inklingof the way in which his daughter saw her lover in despiteof all; or, mayhap, might it be Ian Macarthur, tracking himas a hunter stalking a stag by the water-pools? He crouched,and waited. In a few minutes he saw Ian carefully pickinghis way. The man stooped as he descried the green branches;smiled as, with a low rustling, he raised them from theground.

Meanwhile yet another man watched and waited, thoughon the further side of the lochan, where the hazel copseswere. Gloom Achanna half hoped, half feared the approachof Katreen. It would be sweet to see her again, sweet toslay her lover before her eyes, brother to him though hewas. But, there was the chance that she might descry him,and, whether recognizingly or not, warn the swimmer.

So it was that he had come there before sundown, andnow lay crouched among the bracken underneath a projectingmossy ledge close upon the water, where it could scarcebe that she or any should see him.

As the gloaming deepened a great stillness reigned.There was no breath of wind. A scarce audible sighprevailed among the spires of the heather. The churring of anight-jar throbbed through the darkness. Somewhere acorncrake called its monotonous crek-craik; the dull, harshsound emphasizing the utter stillness. The pinging of thegnats hovering over and among the sedges made an incessantmurmur through the warm, sultry air.

There was a splash once as of a fish. Then, silence.Then a lower but more continuous splash, or rather washof water. A slow susurrus rustled through the dark.

Where he lay among the fern Gloom Achanna slowlyraised his head, stared through the shadows and listenedintently. If Katreen were waiting there she was not near.

Noiselessly he slid into the water. When he rose it wasunder a clump of green branches. These he had cut andsecured three hours before. With his left hand he swamslowly, or kept his equipoise in the water; with his right heguided the heavy rowan bough. In his mouth were twoobjects, one long and thin and dark, the other with anoccasional glitter as of a dead fish.

His motion was scarcely perceptible. None the less hewas near the middle of the loch almost as soon as anotherclump of green branches. Doubtless the swimmer beneathit was confident that he was now safe from observation.

The two clumps of green branches drew nearer. Thesmaller seemed a mere estray, a spray blown down by therecent gale. But all at once the larger clump jerkedawkwardly and stopped. Simultaneously a strange, low strainof music came from the other.

The strain ceased. The two clumps of green branchesremained motionless. Slowly, at last, the larger movedforward. It was too dark for the swimmer to see if any onelay hid behind the smaller. When he reached it he thrustaside the leaves.

It was as though a great salmon leaped. There was asplash, and a narrow, dark body shot through the gloom.At the end of it something gleamed. Then suddenly therewas a savage struggle. The inanimate green branches torethis way and that, and surged and swirled. Gasping criescame from the leaves. Again and again the gleaming thingleaped. At the third leap an awful scream shrilled throughthe silence. The echo of it wailed thrice, with horribledistinctness, in the corrie beyond Cnoc-an-Fhraoch. Then,after a faint splashing, there was silence once more. Oneclump of green branches drifted slowly up the lochlet. Theother moved steadily toward the place whence, a brief whilebefore, it had stirred.

Only one thing lived in the heart of Gloom Achanna—thejoy of his exultation. He had killed his brother Sheumais.He had always hated him because of his beauty; oflate he had hated him because he had stood between him,Gloom, and Katreen Macarthur—because he had become herlover. They were all dead now except himself, all theAchannas. He was "Achanna." When the day came thathe would go back to Galloway, there would be a magpie onthe first birk, and a screaming jay on the first rowan, anda croaking raven on the first fir; ay, he would be theirsuffering, though they knew nothing of him meanwhile! Hewould be Achanna of Achanna again. Let those who wouldstand in his way beware. As for Katreen: perhaps hewould take her there, perhaps not. He smiled.

These thoughts were the wandering fires in his brainwhile he slowly swam shoreward under the floating greenbranches, and as he disengaged himself from them andcrawled upward through the bracken. It was at thismoment that a third man entered the water from the furthershore.

Prepared as he was to come suddenly upon Katreen,Gloom was startled when, in a place of dense shadow, ahand touched his shoulder, and her voice whispered:

"Sheumais, Sheumais!"

The next moment she was in his arms. He could feelher heart beating against his side.

"What was it, Sheumais? What was that awful cry?"she whispered.

For answer he put his lips to hers, and kissed her againand again.

The girl drew back. Some vague instinct warned her.

"What is it, Sheumais? Why don't you speak?"

He drew her close again.

"Pulse of my heart, it is I who love you, I who love youbest of all; it is I, Gloom Achanna!"

With a cry she struck him full in the face. He staggered,and in that moment she freed herself.

"You coward!"

"Katreen, I—"

"Come no nearer. If you do, it will be the death ofyou!"

"The death o' me! Ah, bonnie fool that you are, andis it you that will be the death o' me?"

"Ay, Gloom Achanna, for I have but to scream andSheumais will be here, an' he would kill you like a dogif he knew you did me harm."

"Ah, but if there were no Sheumais, or any man to comebetween me an' my will!"

"Then there would be a woman! Ay, if you overboreme I would strangle you with my hair, or fix my teeth inyour false throat!"

"I was not for knowing you were such a wild-cat; butI'll tame you yet, my lass! Aha, wild-cat!" And as hespoke he laughed low.

"It is a true word, Gloom of the black heart. I ama wild-cat, and, like a wild-cat, I am not to be seized by afox; and that you will be finding to your cost, by the holySt. Bridget! But now, off with you, brother of my man!"

"Your man—ha! ha!"

"Why do you laugh?"

"Sure, I am laughing at a warm, white lass like yourselfhaving a dead man as your lover!"

"A—dead—man?"

No answer came. The girl shook with a new fear.Slowly she drew closer, till her breath fell warm against theface of the other. He spoke at last:

"Ay, a dead man."

"It is a lie."

"Where would you be that you were not hearing hisgood-by? I'm thinking it was loud enough!"

"It is a lie—it is a lie!"

"No, it is no lie. Sheumais is cold enough now. He'slow among the weeds by now. Ay, by now: down there inthe lochan."

"What—you, you devil! Is it for killing your ownbrother you would be?"

"I killed no one. He died his own way. Maybe thecramp took him. Maybe—maybe a kelpie gripped him. Iwatched. I saw him beneath the green branches. He wasdead before he died. I saw it in the white face o' him.Then he sank. He's dead. Sheumais is dead. Look here,girl, I've always loved you. I swore the oath upon you.You're mine. Sure, you're mine now, Katreen! It isloving you I am! It will be a south wind for you from thisday, muirnean mochree! See here, I'll show you how I—"

"Back—back—murderer!"

"Be stopping that foolishness now, Katreen Macarthur!By the Book, I am tired of it. I am loving you, and it'shaving you for mine I am! And if you won't come to melike the dove to its mate, I'll come to you like the hawk tothe dove!"

With a spring he was upon her. In vain she strove tobeat him back. His arms held her as a stoat grips a rabbit.

He pulled her head back, and kissed her throat till thestrangulating breath sobbed against his ear. With a lastdespairing effort she screamed the name of the dead man:"Sheumais! Sheumais! Sheumais!" The man who struggledwith her laughed.

"Ay, call away! The herrin' will be coming through thebracken as soon as Sheumais comes to your call! Ah, it ismine you are now, Katreen! He's dead and cold—an' you'dbest have a living man—an'—"

She fell back, her balance lost in the sudden releasing.What did it mean? Gloom still stood there, but as onefrozen. Through the darkness she saw, at last, that a handgripped his shoulder; behind him a black mass vaguelyobtruded.

For some moments there was absolute silence. Then ahoarse voice came out of the dark:

"You will be knowing now who it is, Gloom Achanna!"

The voice was that of Sheumais, who lay dead in thelochan. The murderer shook as in a palsy. With a greateffort, slowly he turned his head. He saw a white splatch,the face of the corpse; in this white splatch flamed twoburning eyes, the eyes of the soul of the brother whom hehad slain.

He reeled, staggered as a blind man, and, free now ofthat awful clasp, swayed to and fro as one drunken.

Slowly Sheumais raised an arm and pointed downwardthrough the wood toward the lochan. Still pointing, hemoved swiftly forward.

With a cry like a beast, Gloom Achanna swung to oneside, stumbled, rose, and leaped into the darkness.

For some minutes Sheumais and Katreen stood, silent,apart, listening to the crashing sound of his flight—the raceof the murderer against the pursuing shadow of the Grave.

A BEWITCHED SHIP

BY W. CLARK RUSSELL

William Clark Russell, the son of HenryRussell, the composer of "Cheer, Boys, Cheer"and other songs, was born in New York in1844. At the age of thirteen he entered theBritish merchant service and followed thesea till twenty-one, after which he devotedhimself to story-writing. It is a common-placeof criticism to say that no one writesbetter sea stories than the author of thefamous "Wreck of the Grosvenor." Since1890 he has lived at Bath, in the west ofEngland. The present story is taken froma volume entitled "On the Fo'k'sle Head."

A BEWITCHED SHIP

By W. CLARK RUSSELL

"About ten years ago," began my friend, CaptainGreen, "I went as second mate of a ship named the'Ocean King.' She'd been an old Indiaman in hertime, and had a poop and topgallant forecastle,though alterations had knocked some of the dignity out ofher. Her channels had been changed into plates withdead-eyes above the rail, and the eye missed the spread of thelower rigging that it naturally sought in looking at a craftwith a square stern and windows in it, and checkered sidesrounding out into curves, that made a complete tub of theold hooker. Yet, spite of changes, the old-fashioned gracewould break through. She looked like a lady who has seenbetter days, who has got to do work which servants did forher in the times when she was well off, but who, let herset her hand to what she will, makes you see that the breedingand the instincts are still there, and that she's as littleto be vulgarized by poverty and its coarse struggles as shecould be made a truer lady than she is by money. Ships,like human beings, have their careers, and the close of someof them is strange, and sometimes hard, I think.

"The 'Ocean King' had been turned into a collier, andI went second mate of her when she was full up with coalfor a South African port. Yet, this ship, that was nowcarrying one of the dirtiest cargoes you could name, barringphosphate manure, had been reckoned in her day a finepassenger vessel, a noble Indiaman indeed—her tonnage wassomething over eleven hundred—with a cuddy fitted uproyally. Many a freight of soldiers had she carried round theCape, many an old nabob had she conveyed—ay, and Indianpotentates, who smoked out of jeweled hookahs, and whowere waited upon by crowds of black servants in turbansand slippers. I used to moralize over her just as I wouldover a tomb, when I had the watch and was alone andcould let my thoughts run loose.

"The sumptuous cabin trappings were all gone, and Iseemed to smell coal in the wind, even when my head wasover the weather side, and when the breeze that blew alongcame fresh across a thousand miles of sea; but there was agood deal of the fittings left—fittings which, I don't doubt,made the newspapers give a long account of this 'fine, greatship' when she was launched—quite enough of them to enablea man to reconstruct a picture of the cuddy of the 'OceanKing' as it was in the days of her glory, when the softoil-lamps shone bright on the draped tables and sparkled onsilver and glass; when the old skipper, sitting with themizzenmast behind him, would look, with his red face and whitehair, down the rows of ladies and gentlemen eating anddrinking, stewards running about, trays hanging from the deckabove, and globes full of gold-fish swinging to the roll ofthe vessel as she swung stately, with her stunsails hangingout, over the long blue swell, wrinkled by the wind. Theship is still afloat. Where are the people she carried? Thecrews who have worked her? The captains who have commandedher? There is nothing that should be fuller ofghosts than an old ship; and I very well remember thatwhen I first visited the 'Victory,' at Portsmouth, anddescended into her cockpit, what I saw was not a well-preservedand cleanly length of massive deck, but groups ofwounded and bleeding and dying men littering the darkfloor, and the hatchway shadowed by groaning figureshanded below, while the smell of English, French, andSpanish gunpowder, even down there, was so strong—phew! Icould have spat the flavor out!

"Well, the old 'Ocean King' had once upon a time beensaid to be haunted. She had certainly been long enoughafloat to own a hundred stories, and she was so stanch andtrue that if ever a superstition got into her there was nochance of its getting out again. I only remember one ofthese yarns; it was told to me by the dockmaster, who hadbeen at sea for many years, was an old man, and knew thehistory of all such craft as the 'Ocean King.' He said that,in '51, I think it was, there had been a row among the crew:an Italian sailor stabbed an Englishman, who bled to death.To avenge the Englishman's death the rest of the crew, whowere chiefly English, thrust the Italian into the forepeakand let him lie there in darkness. When he was asked forthey reported that he had fallen overboard, and this seemsto have been believed. Whether the crew meant to starvehim or not is not certain; but, after he had been in theforepeak three or four days, a fellow going behind the galleyout of the way of the wind to light his pipe—it being thenfour bells in the first watch—came running into the forecastle,with his hair on end, and the sweat pouring off his face,swearing he had seen the Italian's ghost. This frightenedthe men prettily; some of them went down into the forepeak,and found the Italian lying there dead, with a score of ratsupon him, which scampered off when the men dropped below.During all the rest of the voyage his ghost was constantlyseen, sometimes at the lee wheel, sometimes astride of theflying-jibboom. What was the end of it—I mean, whetherthe men confessed the murder, and, if so, what became ofthem—the dockmaster said he didn't know. But, be thisas it may, I discovered shortly after we had begun our voyagethat the crew had got to hear of this story, and the chief matesaid it had been brought aboard by the carpenter, who hadpicked it up from some of the dockyard laborers.

"I well recollect two uncomfortable circumstances; wesailed on a Friday, and the able and ordinary seamen werethirteen in number, the idlers and ourselves aft bringing upthe ship's company to nineteen souls! when, I suppose, inher prime the 'Ocean King' never left port short of seventyor eighty seamen, not to mention stewards, cooks, cooks'mates, butcher, butcher's mate, baker, and the rest of them.But double topsail yards were now in; besides, I understoodthat the vessel's masts had been reduced and her yardsshortened, and we carried stump fore and mizzen-topgallantmasts.

"All being ready, a tug got hold of our tow-rope, and awaywe went down the river and out to sea.

"I don't believe myself that any stories which had beentold the men about the ship impressed them much. Sailorsare very superstitious, but they are not to be scared tillsomething has happened to frighten them. Your merelytelling them that there's a ghost aboard the ship they're inwon't alarm them till they've caught sight of the ghost. Butonce let a man say to the others: 'There's a bloomin' sperritin this ship. Lay your head agin the forehatch, and you'llhear him gnashing his teeth and rattlin' his chains,' and thenlet another man go and listen, and swear, and perhaps veryhonestly, that he 'heerd the noises plain,' and you'll have allhands in a funk, talking in whispers, and going aloft in thedark nervously.

"In our ship nothing happened for some days. We weredeep and slow, and rolled along solemnly, the sea fallingaway from the vessel's powerful round bows as from a rock.Pile what we could upon her, with tacks aboard, staysailsdrawing, and the wind hitting her best sailing point, we couldseldom manage to get more than seven knots out of her.One night I had the first watch. It was about two bells.There was a nice wind, sea smooth, and a red moon crawlingup over our starboard beam. We were under all plain sail,leaning away from the wind a trifle, and the water washedalong under the bends in lines through which the starlightran glimmering.

"I was thinking over the five or six months' voyageswhich old wagons after the pattern of this ship took ingetting to India, when, seeing a squall coming along, I sung outfor hands to stand by the main-royal and mizzen-topgallanthalliards. It drove down dark, and not knowing what wasbehind I ordered the main-royal to be clewed up and furled.Two youngsters went aloft. By the time they were on theyard the squall thinned, but I fancied there was anotherbearing down, and thought it best to let the ordinary seamenroll the sail up. On a sudden down they both trotted, handover hand, leaving the sail flapping in the clutch of theclew-lines.

"I roared out: 'What d'ye mean by coming down beforeyou've furled that sail?'

"They stood together in the main rigging, and one ofthem answered: 'Please, sir, there's a ghost somewhere upaloft on the foretopsail-yard.'

"'A ghost, you fool!' I cried.

"'Yes, sir,' he answered. 'He says: "Jim, your motherwants yer." I says: "What?" and he says: "Your motherwants yer," in the hollowest o' voices. Dick here heard it.There's no one aloft forrard, sir.'

"I sung out to them to jump aloft again, and finding thatthey didn't move I made a spring, on which they droppedlike lightning on deck, and began to beg and pray of me inthe eagerest manner not to send them aloft, as they weretoo frightened to hold on. Indeed, the fellow named Jimactually began to shiver and cry when I threatened him; soas the royal had to be furled I sent an able seaman aloft,who, after rolling up the sail, came down and said that novoice had called to him, and that he rather reckoned it wasa bit of skylarking on the part of the boys to get out ofstowing the sail. However, I noticed that the man waswonderfully quick over the job, and that afterward the watchon deck stood talking in low voices in the waist.

"Jim was a fool of a youth, but Dick was a smart lad, agedabout nineteen, and good-looking, with a lively tongue, andI heard afterward that he could spin a yarn to perfection allout of his imagination. I called him to me, and asked him ifhe had really heard a voice, and he swore he had.

"'Did it say,' said I, 'Jim, your mother wants you?'

"'Ay, sir,' he answered, with a bit of a shudder, 'as plainas you yourself say it. It seemed to come off the foretop-gallantyard, where I fancied I see something dark a-moving,but I was too frightened to take particular notice.'

"Well, it was not long after this, about eleven o'clock inthe morning, that, the captain being on deck, the cook stepsout of the galley, comes walking along the poop, and goingup to the skipper touches his cap, and stands looking at him.

"'What d'ye want?' said the captain, eying him as if hetook him to be mad.

"'Didn't you call, sir?' says the cook.

"'Call!' cries the skipper. 'Certainly not.'

"The man looked stupid with surprise, and, mutteringsomething to himself, went forward. Ten minutes after hecame up again to the skipper, and says: 'Yes, sir!' as a manmight who answers to a call. The skipper began to swearat him, and called him a lunatic, and so on; but the man,finding he was wrong again, grew white, and swore that ifhe was on his death-bed he'd maintain that the captain hadcalled him twice.

"The skipper, who was a rather nervous man, turned tome, and said: 'What do you make of this, Mr. Green? I can'tdoubt the cook's word. Who's calling him in my voice?'

"'Oh, it's some illusion, sir,' said I, feeling puzzled forall that.

"But the cook, with the tears actually standing in hiseyes, declared it was no illusion; he'd know the captain'svoice if it was nine miles off. And he then walked in adazed way toward the forecastle, singing out that whetherthe voice he had heard belonged to a ghost or a Christianman, it might go on calling 'Cook!' for the next twentyyears without his taking further notice of it. This thing,coming so soon after the call to Jim that had so greatlyalarmed the two ordinary seamen, made a great impressionon the crew; and I never regret anything more than thatmy position should have prevented me from getting intotheir confidence, and learning their thoughts, for there isno doubt I should have stowed away memories enough toserve me for many a hearty laugh in after years.

"A few days rolled by without anything particularhappening. One night it came to my turn to have the firstwatch. It was a quiet night, with wind enough to keep thesails still while the old ship went drowsily rolling along hercourse to the African port. Suddenly I heard a commotionforward, and fearing that some accident had happened, Icalled out to know what the matter was. A voice answered:'Ghost or no ghost, there's somebody a-talking in theforehold; come and listen, sir.' The silence that followedsuggested a good deal of alarm. I sang out as I approached themen, 'Perhaps there's a stowaway below.'

"'It's no living voice,' was the reply; 'it sounds as if itcomes from a skelington.'

"I found a crowd of men standing in awed postures nearthe hatch, and the most frightened of all looked to me to bethe ordinary seaman Dick, who had backed away on theother side of the hatch, and stood looking on, leaning withhis hands on his knees, and staring as if he were fascinated.I waited a couple or three minutes, which, in a business ofthis kind, seems a long time, and, hearing nothing, I wasgoing to ridicule the men for their nervousness, when ahollow voice under the hatch said distinctly, 'It's a terriblething to be a ghost and not be able to get out.'

"I was greatly startled, and ran aft to tell the captain,who agreed with me that there must be a stowaway in thehold, and that he had gone mad. We both went forward,and the hatch was lifted, and we looked on top of the coal;and I was then about to ask some of the men to join mein a search in the forepeak, for upon my word I had notaste single-handed for a job of that kind at such amoment, when the voice said, 'There's no use looking, you'llnever find me. I'm not to be seen.'

"'Confound me!' cried the skipper, polishing his foreheadwith a pocket-handkerchief, 'if ever I heard of sucha thing. I'll tell you what it is,' he shouted, looking intothe hatch, 'dead men can't talk, and so, as you're bound tobe alive, you'd better come up out of that, and smartlytoo—d'ye hear?—or you'll find this the worst attempt atskylarking that was ever made.'

"There was a short silence, and you'd see all hands strainingtheir ears, for there was light enough for that, given outby a lantern one of the men held.

"'You couldn't catch me because you couldn't see me,'said the voice in a die-away tone, and this time it came fromthe direction of the main hatch, as though it had flitted aft.

"'Well,' says the captain, 'may I be jiggered!' andwithout another word he walked away on to the poop.

"I told the men to clap the hatches on again, and theydid this in double-quick time, evidently afraid that theghost might pop up out of the hold if they didn't mindtheir eye.

"All this made us very superstitious, from the captaindown to the boys. We talked it over in the cabin, and themate was incredulous, and disposed to ridicule me.

"'Any way,' said he, 'it's strange that this voice is onlyheard in your watch. It's never favored me with anyremarks. The creaking and groaning of an old wooden shipis often like spoken words, and what you've been hearingmay be nothing but a deception of the ear.'

"'A deception in your eye,' cried the skipper. 'Thetimbers of an old wooden ship may strain and creak in theDutch language, but hang me if they ever talked good,sensible English. However, I'm not going to worry. For mypart,' said he, with a nervous glance around him, 'I don'tbelieve in ghosts; whatever it is that's talking in the holdmay go on jawing, so long as he sticks to that, and don'tfrighten the men with an ugly mug, nor come upon us fora man's allowance.'

"'If it's anybody's ghost,' said I, 'it must be the Italian's,the chap that was starved in the forepeak.'

"'I doubt that,' said the skipper. 'I didn't detectanything foreign in what he said. To my ear it sounded morelike Whitechapel than Italiano.'

"Well, for another week we heard little more of theghost. It's true that one middle watch a chap I had sentaloft to loose the main-royal had hardly stepped out of thelower rigging, after lingering in the crosstrees to overhaulhis clew-lines, when he comes rushing up to me and criesout, 'I've been hailed from aloft, sir! a voice has just sungout, "Tommy, jump aloft again that I may have a goodlook at you!"'

"'Who's up there?' I asked him, staring into the gloomwhere the mast and yards went towering.

"'There's no one up there, sir; I'll swear it. I wasbound to see him had any one been there,' he answered,evidently very much frightened.

"It occurred to me that some one of the crew might belying hid in the top, and that if I could catch him I mightfind out who the ghost was. So I jumped into the riggingand trotted aloft, keeping my eye on the lee rigging, tomake sure that no one descended by it. I gained the top,but nobody was there. I mounted to the crosstrees, but thedeuce a sign of any one could I see. I came down, feelingboth foolish and scared; for you see I had heard the voicemyself in the hold; there was no question that there wasa voice, belonging to nobody knew what, knocking aboutthe ship, and consequently it was now impossible to helpbelieving a man when he said he heard it.

"However, it was necessary to keep the men in heart, andthis was not to be done by captain and mates appearingscared; so I reasoned a bit with the man, told him thatthere were no such things as ghosts, that a voice was boundto come from a live person, because a spectre couldn'tpossibly have lungs, those organs being of a perishable nature,and then sent him forward, but no easier in his mind, Isuspect, than I was. Anyhow, I was glad when eight bellsstruck and it was my turn to go below. But, as I have said,nothing much came of this—at least, nothing that reachedmy ears. But not many nights following the ship laybecalmed—there wasn't a breath of air, and the sea lay smoothas polished jet. This time I had the middle watch again.I was walking quietly up and down the poop, on thelookout for a deeper shadow upon the sea to indicatethe approach of wind, when a man came up the ladderand said, 'There's some one a-talking to the ship underthe bows.'

"'Are you awake?' said I.

"'Heaven help me, as I stand here, sir,' exclaimed thefellow, solemnly, 'if that there woice which talked in thehold t'other day ain't now over the side.'

"I ran forward, and found most of the watch huddledtogether near the starboard cathead. I peered over, andthere was a dead silence.

"'What are you looking over that side for? I'm here!'said a thin, faint voice, that seemed more in the air than inthe sea.

"There!' exclaimed one of the seamen, in a hoarsewhisper, 'that's the third time. Whichever side we look, he'son the other.'

"'But there must be some one in the water,' said anotherman. 'Anybody see his houtline? cuss me if I couldn'tswear I see a chap swimmin' just now.'

"'No, no,' answered some one, gruffly, 'nothing but phosphorus,Joe, and the right sort o' stuff, too, for if this ain'told Nick—'

"'You're a liar, Sam!' came the voice clear, and, as onecould swear, plain from over the side.

"There was a general recoil, and a sort of groan ranamong the men.

"At the same moment I collared a figure standing nearme, and slued him round to bring his face fair to thestarlight, clear of the staysail. 'Come you along with me,Master Dick,' said I; and I marched him off the forecastle, alongthe main deck, and up on to the poop. 'So you're the ghost,eh?' said I. 'Why, to have kept your secret you should havegiven my elbow a wider berth. No wonder the voice onlymakes observations in my watch. You're too lazy, Isuppose, to leave your hammock to try your wonderful poweron the mate, eh? Now see here,' said I, finding him silent,and noticing how white his face glimmered to the stars, 'Iknow you're the man, so you'd better confess. Own thetruth and I'll keep your secret, providing you belay allfurther tricks of the same kind; deny that you're the ghostand I'll speak to the captain and set the men upon you.'

"This fairly frightened him. 'Well, sir, it's true; I'm thevoice, sir; but for God's sake keep the secret, sir. The men'ud have my life if they found out that it was me as scaredthem.'

"This confession was what I needed, for though whenstanding pretty close to him on the forecastle I could havesworn that it was he who uttered the words which perplexedand awed the sailors, yet so perfect was the deception,so fine, in short, was his skill as a ventriloquist that,had he stoutly denied and gone on denying that he was the'voice,' I should have believed him and continued sharingin the wonder and superstition of the crew. I kept his secretas I promised; but, somehow or other, it leaked out in timethat he could deceive the ear by apparently pitching hisvoice among the rigging, or under the deck, or over the side,though the discovery was not made until the 'ghost' hadfor a long time ceased to trouble the ship's company, anduntil the men's superstitious awe had faded somewhat, andthey had recovered their old cheerfulness. We then sentfor Dick to the cabin, where he gave us a real entertainmentas a ventriloquist, imitating all sorts of animals, andproducing sounds as of women in distress and men singingout for help, in the berths; indeed, such was the skill thatI'd often see the skipper and mate turning startled to lookin the direction whence the voices proceeded.

"He made his peace with the men by amusing them inthe same way; so that, instead of getting the rope's endingaft and the pummeling forward which he deserved, he endedas a real and general favorite, and one of the most amusingfellows that a man ever was shipmate with. I used to tellhim that if he chose to perform ashore, he was sure tomake plenty of money, since such ventriloquial powers ashis was the rarest thing in the world; and I'd sometimesfancy he meant to take my advice. But whether he died orkept on going to sea I don't know, for after he left the shipI never saw nor heard of him again."

THE SIGNAL-MAN

BY CHARLES DICKENS

Charles Dickens (born 1812, died 1870) hasbeen acknowledged as the creator of themodern novel. Says David Christie Murray, apopular novelist: "There is not a writer offiction at this hour, in any land wherefiction is a recognized trade or art, who is not,whether he knows it and owns it, or no, largelyinfluenced by Dickens."

"The Signal-Man" has been frequentlyselected by critics as an example of Dickens'sability with the short-story form.

THE SIGNAL-MAN

By CHARLES DICKENS

"Halloa! Below there!"

When he heard a voice thus calling to him, hewas standing at the door of his box, with a flagin his hand, furled round its short pole. Onewould have thought, considering the nature of the ground,that he could not have doubted from what quarter the voicecame; but instead of looking up to where I stood on thetop of the steep cutting nearly over his head, he turnedhimself about, and looked down the Line. There was somethingremarkable in his manner of doing so, though I couldnot have said for my life what. But I know it was remarkableenough to attract my notice, even though his figurewas foreshortened and shadowed, down in the deep trench,and mine was high above him, so steeped in the glow ofan angry sunset that I had shaded my eyes with my handbefore I saw him at all.

"Halloa! Below!"

From looking down the Line, he turned himself aboutagain, and, raising his eyes, saw my figure high above him.

"Is there any path by which I can come down and speakto you?"

He looked up at me without replying, and Iat him without pressing him too soon with a repetition ofmy idle question. Just then there came a vague vibrationin the earth and air, quickly changing into a violentpulsation, and an oncoming rush that caused me to start back,as though it had force to draw me down. When such vaporas rose to my height from this rapid train had passed me,and was skimming away over the landscape, I looked downagain, and saw him refurling the flag he had shown whilethe train went by.

I repeated my inquiry. After a pause, during which heseemed to regard me with fixed attention, he motioned withhis rolled-up flag toward a point on my level, some two orthree hundred yards distant. I called down to him, "Allright!" and made for that point. There, by dint of lookingclosely about me, I found a rough zigzag descending pathnotched out, which I followed.

The cutting was extremely deep, and unusually precipitate.It was made through a clammy stone, that becameoozier and wetter as I went down. For these reasons, Ifound the way long enough to give me time to recall asingular air of reluctance or compulsion with which he hadpointed out the path.

When I came down low enough upon the zigzag descentto see him again, I saw that he was standing between therails on the way by which the train had lately passed, in anattitude as if he were waiting for me to appear. He hadhis left hand at his chin, and that left elbow rested on hisright hand, crossed over his breast. His attitude was oneof such expectation and watchfulness that I stopped amoment, wondering at it.

I resumed my downward way, and stepping out upon thelevel of the railroad, and drawing nearer to him, saw thathe was a dark, sallow man, with a dark beard and ratherheavy eyebrows. His post was in as solitary and dismal aplace as ever I saw. On either side, a dripping-wet wallof jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of sky; theperspective one way only a crooked prolongation of thisgreat dungeon; the shorter perspective in the otherdirection terminating in a gloomy red light, and the gloomierentrance to a black tunnel, in whose massive architecturethere was a barbarous, depressing, and forbidding air. Solittle sunlight ever found its way to this spot that it had anearthy, deadly smell; and so much cold wind rushed throughit that it struck chill to me, as if I had left the naturalworld.

Before he stirred, I was near enough to him to havetouched him. Not even then removing his eyes from mine,he stepped back one step, and lifted his hand.

This was a lonesome post to occupy (I said), and it hadriveted my attention when I looked down from up yonder.A visitor was a rarity, I should suppose; not an unwelcomerarity, I hoped? In me, he merely saw a man who had beenshut up within narrow limits all his life, and who, being atlast set free, had a newly-awakened interest in these greatworks. To such purpose I spoke to him; but I am far fromsure of the terms I used; for, besides that I am not happy inopening any conversation, there was something in the manthat daunted me.

He directed a most curious look toward the red lightnear the tunnel's mouth, and looked all about it, as ifsomething were missing from it, and then looked at me.

That light was part of his charge? Was it not?

He answered in a low voice: "Don't you know it is?"

The monstrous thought came into my mind, as I perusedthe fixed eyes and the saturnine face, that this was a spirit,not a man. I have speculated since, whether there may havebeen infection in his mind.

In my turn, I stepped back. But in making the action,I detected in his eyes some latent fear of me. This putthe monstrous thought to flight.

"You look at me," I said, forcing a smile, "as if you hada dread of me."

"I was doubtful," he returned, "whether I had seen youbefore."

"Where?"

He pointed to the red light he had looked at.

"There?" I said.

Intently watchful of me, he replied (but without sound),"Yes."

"My good fellow, what should I do there? However, bethat as it may, I never was there, you may swear."

"I think I may," he rejoined. "Yes; I am sure I may,"

His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to myremarks with readiness, and in well-chosen words. Had hemuch to do there? Yes; that was to say, he had enoughresponsibility to bear; but exactness and watchfulness werewhat was required of him, and of actual work—manuallabor—he had next to none. To change that signal, to trimthose lights, and to turn this iron handle now and then, wasall he had to do under that head. Regarding those manylong and lonely hours of which I seemed to make so much,he could only say that the routine of his life had shapeditself into that form, and he had grown used to it. He hadtaught himself a language down here—if only to know bysight, and to have formed his own crude ideas of itspronunciation, could be called learning it. He had also workedat fractions and decimals, and tried a little algebra; buthe was, and had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures. Wasit necessary for him when on duty always to remain in thatchannel of damp air, and could he never rise into thesunshine from between those high stone walls? Why, thatdepended upon times and circumstances. Under someconditions there would be less upon the Line than under others,and the same held good as to certain hours of the day andnight. In bright weather, he did choose occasions forgetting a little above these lower shadows; but, being at alltimes liable to be called by his electric bell, and at suchtimes listening for it with redoubled anxiety, the relief wasless than I would suppose.

He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a deskfor an official book in which he had to make certain entries,a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face, and needles, andthe little bell of which he had spoken. On my trustingthat he would excuse the remark that he had been welleducated, and (I hoped I might say without offense), perhapseducated above that station, he observed that instances ofslight incongruity in such wise would rarely be foundwanting among large bodies of men; that he had heard it wasso in workhouses, in the police force, even in that lastdesperate resource, the army; and that he knew it was so, moreor less, in any great railway staff. He had been, when young(if I could believe it, sitting in that hut—he scarcely could),a student of natural philosophy, and had attended lectures;but he had run wild, misused his opportunities, gone down,and never risen again. He had no complaint to offer aboutthat. He had made his bed, and he lay upon it. It was fartoo late to make another.

All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet manner,with his grave dark regards divided between me andthe fire. He threw in the word, "Sir," from time to time,and especially when he referred to his youth—as though torequest me to understand that he claimed to be nothing butwhat I found him. He was several times interrupted by thelittle bell, and had to read off messages, and send replies.Once he had to stand without the door, and display a flagas a train passed, and make some verbal communication tothe driver. In the discharge of his duties, I observed himto be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off hisdiscourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what hehad to do was done.

In a word, I should have set this man down as one of thesafest of men to be employed in that capacity, but for thecircumstance that while he was speaking to me he twicebroke off with a fallen color, turned his face toward thelittle bell when it did not ring, opened the door of the hut(which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp), andlooked out toward the red light near the mouth of thetunnel. On both of those occasions, he came back to thefire with the inexplicable air upon him which I hadremarked, without being able to define, when we were sofar asunder.

Said I, when I rose to leave him, "You almost make methink that I have met with a contented man."

(I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to leadhim on.)

"I believe I used to be so," he rejoined, in the low voicein which he had first spoken; "but I am troubled, sir, I amtroubled."

He would have recalled the words if he could. He hadsaid them, however, and I took them up quickly.

"With what? What is your trouble?"

"It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very difficultto speak of. If ever you make me another visit, I willtry to tell you."

"But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say,when shall it be?"

"I go off early in the morning, and I shall be on again atten to-morrow night, sir."

"I will come at eleven."

He thanked me, and went out at the door with me. "I'llshow my white light, sir," he said, in his peculiar low voice,"till you have found the way up. When you have found it,don't call out! And when you are at the top, don't call out!"

His manner seemed to make the place strike colder tome, but I said no more than, "Very well."

"And when you come down to-morrow night, don't callout! Let me ask you a parting question. What made youcry, 'Halloa! Below there!' to-night?"

"Heaven knows," said I. "I cried something to thateffect—"

"Not to that effect, sir. Those were the very words. Iknow them well."

"Admit those were the very words. I said them, nodoubt, because I saw you below."

"For no other reason?"

"What other reason could I possibly have?"

"You had no feeling that they were conveyed to you inany supernatural way?"

"No."

He wished me good-night, and held up his light. Iwalked by the side of the down Line of rails (with a verydisagreeable sensation of a train coming behind me) until Ifound the path. It was easier to mount than to descend, andI got back to my inn without any adventure.

Punctual to my appointment, I placed my foot on thefirst notch of the zigzag next night, as the distant clockswere striking eleven. He was waiting for me at the bottom,with his white light on. "I have not called out," I said, whenwe came close together; "may I speak now?"

"By all means, sir."

"Good-night, then, and here's my hand."

"Good-night, sir, and here's mine."

With that we walked side by side to his box, entered it,closed the door, and sat down by the fire.

"I have made up my mind, sir," he began, bendingforward as soon as we were seated, and speaking in a tone buta little above a whisper, "that you shall not have to ask metwice what troubles me. I took you for some one else,yesterday evening. That troubles me."

"That mistake?"

"No. That some one else."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know."

"Like me?"

"I don't know. I never saw the face. The left arm isacross the face, and the right arm is waved—violently waved.This way."

I followed his action with my eyes, and it was the actionof an arm gesticulating, with the utmost passion andvehemence:

"For God's sake, clear the way!"

"One moonlight night," said the man, "I was sittinghere, when I heard a voice cry, 'Halloa! Below there!' Istarted up, looked from that door, and saw this Some oneelse standing by the red light near the tunnel, waving as Ijust now showed you. The voice seemed hoarse with shouting,and it cried, 'Look out! Look out!' And then again,'Halloa! Below there! Look out!' I caught up my lamp,turned it on red, and ran toward the figure, calling, 'What'swrong? What has happened? Where?' It stood just outsidethe blackness of the tunnel. I advanced so close uponit that I wondered at its keeping the sleeve across its eyes.I ran right up at it, and had my hand stretched out to pullthe sleeve away, when it was gone."

"Into the tunnel?" said I.

"No. I ran on into the tunnel, five hundred yards. Istopped, and held my lamp above my head, and saw the figuresof the measured distance, and saw the wet stains stealingdown the walls and trickling through the arch. I ranout again faster than I had run in (for I had a mortalabhorrence of the place upon me), and I looked all round thered light with my own red light, and I went up the ironladder to the gallery atop of it, and I came down again, andran back here. I telegraphed both ways, 'An alarm has beengiven. Is anything wrong?' The answer came back, bothways, 'All well.'"

Resisting the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing outmy spine, I showed him how that this figure must be adeception of his sense of sight; and how that figures,originating in disease of the delicate nerves that minister to thefunctions of the eye, were known to have often troubledpatients, some of whom had become conscious of the natureof their affliction, and had even proved it by experimentsupon themselves. "As to an imaginary cry," said I, "do butlisten for a moment to the wind in this unnatural valleywhile we speak so low, and to the wild harp it makes of thetelegraph wires."

That was all very well, he returned, after we had satlistening for a while, and he ought to know something of thewind and the wires—he who so often passed long winternights there, alone and watching. But he would beg toremark that he had not finished.

I asked his pardon, and he slowly added these words,touching my arm:

"Within six hours after the Appearance, the memorableaccident on this Line happened, and within ten hours thedead and wounded were brought along through the tunnelover the spot where the figure had stood."

A disagreeable shudder crept over me, but I did mybest against it. It was not to be denied, I rejoined, that thiswas a remarkable coincidence, calculated deeply to impresshis mind. But it was unquestionable that remarkablecoincidences did continually occur, and they must be takeninto account in dealing with such a subject. Though to besure I must admit, I added (for I thought I saw that he wasgoing to bring the objection to bear upon me), men ofcommon sense did not allow much for coincidences in makingthe ordinary calculations of life.

He again begged to remark that he had not finished.

I again begged his pardon for being betrayed intointerruptions.

"This," he said, again laying his hand upon my arm, andglancing over his shoulder with hollow eyes, "was just ayear ago. Six or seven months passed, and I had recoveredfrom the surprise and shock, when one morning, as the daywas breaking, I, standing at the door, looked toward thered light, and saw the spectre again." He stopped, with afixed look at me.

"Did it cry out?"

"No. It was silent."

"Did it wave its arm?"

"No. It leaned against the shaft of the light, with bothhands before the face. Like this."

Once more I followed his action with my eyes. It wasan action of mourning. I have seen such an attitude instone figures on tombs.

"Did you go up to it?"

"I came in and sat down, partly to collect my thoughts,partly because it had turned me faint. When I went to thedoor again, daylight was above me, and the ghost was gone."

"But nothing followed? Nothing came of this?"

He touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice orthrice, giving a ghastly nod each time.

"That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, Inoticed, at a carriage window on my side, what looked likea confusion of hands and heads, and something waved. Isaw it just in time to signal the driver, Stop! He shut off,and put his brake on, but the train drifted past here ahundred and fifty yards or more. I ran after it, and, as I wentalong, heard terrible screams and cries. A beautiful younglady had died instantaneously in one of the compartments,and was brought in here, and laid down on this floorbetween us."

Involuntarily I pushed my chair back, as I looked fromthe boards at which he pointed to himself.

"True, sir. True. Precisely as it happened, so I tell ityou."

I could think of nothing to say, to any purpose, and mymouth was very dry. The wind and the wires took up thestory with a long lamenting wail.

He resumed. "Now, sir, mark this, and judge how mymind is troubled. The spectre came back a week ago.Ever since, it has been there, now and again, by fits andstarts."

"At the light?"

"At the Danger-light."

"What does it seem to do?"

He repeated, if possible with increased passion and vehemence,that former gesticulation of, "For God's sake, clearthe way!"

Then he went on. "I have no peace or rest for it. Itcalls to me, for many minutes together, in an agonizedmanner, 'Below there! Look out! Look out!' It stands wavingto me. It rings my little bell—"

I caught at that.

"Did it ring your bell yesterday evening when I washere, and you went to the door?"

"Twice."

"Why, see," said I, "how your imagination misleads you.My eyes were on the bell, and my ears were open to the bell,and if I am a living man, it did not ring at those times.No, nor at any other time, except when it was rung in thenatural course of physical things by the stationcommunicating with you."

He shook his head. "I have never made a mistake as tothat yet, sir. I have never confused the spectre's ring withthe man's. The ghost's ring is a strange vibration in thebell that it derives from nothing else, and I have notasserted that the bell stirs to the eye. I don't wonder thatyou failed to hear it. But I heard it."

"And did the spectre seem to be there, when you lookedout?"

"It was there."

"Both times?"

He repeated firmly: "Both times."

"Will you come to the door with me, and look for itnow?"

He bit his under lip as though he were somewhat unwilling,but arose. I opened the door, and stood on the step,while he stood in the doorway. There was the Danger-light.There was the dismal mouth of the tunnel. There were thehigh, wet stone walls of the cutting. There were the starsabove them.

"Do you see it?" I asked him, taking particular note ofhis face. His eyes were prominent and strained, but not verymuch more so, perhaps, than my own had been when I haddirected them earnestly toward the same spot.

"No," he answered. "It is not there."

"Agreed," said I.

We went in again, shut the door, and resumed our seats.I was thinking how best to improve this advantage, if itmight be called one, when he took up the conversation insuch a matter-of-course way, so assuming that there couldbe no serious question of fact between us, that I felt myselfplaced in the weakest of positions.

"By this time you will fully understand, sir," he said,"that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question, Whatdoes the spectre mean?"

I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand.

"What is its warning against?" he said, ruminating, withhis eyes on the fire, and only by times turning them on me."What is the danger? Where is the danger? There isdanger overhanging somewhere on the Line. Some dreadfulcalamity will happen. It is not to be doubted this thirdtime, after what has gone before. But surely this is a cruelhaunting of me. What can I do?"

He pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the drops fromhis heated forehead.

"If I telegraph Danger, on either side of me, or on both,I can give no reason for it," he went on, wiping the palmsof his hands. "I should get into trouble, and do no good.They would think I was mad. This is the way it wouldwork—Message: 'Danger! Take care!' Answer: 'WhatDanger? Where?' Message: 'Don't know. But, for God'ssake, take care!' They would displace me. What else couldthey do?"

His pain of mind was most pitiable to see. It was themental torture of a conscientious man, oppressed beyondendurance by an unintelligible responsibility involving life.

"When it first stood under the Danger-light," he went on,putting his dark hair back from his head, and drawing hishands outward across and across his temples in an extremityof feverish distress, "why not tell me where that accidentwas to happen—if it must happen? Why not tell me howit could be averted—if it could have been averted? Whenon its second coming it hid its face, why not tell me,instead, 'She is going to die. Let them keep her at home'?If it came, on those two occasions, only to show me thatits warnings were true, and so to prepare me for the third,why not warn me plainly now? And I, Lord help me! amere poor signal-man on this solitary station! Why notgo to somebody with credit to be believed, and power to act?"

When I saw him in this state, I saw that for the poorman's sake, as well as for the public safety, what I had todo for the time was to compose his mind. Therefore, settingaside all question of reality or unreality between us, Irepresented to him that whoever thoroughly discharged hisduty must do well, and that at least it was his comfort that heunderstood his duty, though he did not understand theseconfounding Appearances. In this effort I succeeded farbetter than in the attempt to reason him out of his conviction.He became calm; the occupations incidental to his postas the night advanced began to make larger demands on hisattention: and I left him at two in the morning. I hadoffered to stay through the night, but he would not hear of it.

That I more than once looked back at the red light as Iascended the pathway, that I did not like the red light, andthat I should have slept but poorly if my bed had beenunder it, I see no reason to conceal. Nor did I like the twosequences of the accident and the dead girl. I see no reasonto conceal that either.

But what ran most in my thoughts was the considerationhow ought I to act, having become the recipient of thisdisclosure? I had proved the man to be intelligent, vigilant,painstaking, and exact; but how long might he remain so,in his state of mind? Though in a subordinate position,still he held a most important trust, and would I (forinstance) like to stake my own life on the chances of hiscontinuing to execute it with precision?

Unable to overcome a feeling that there would besomething treacherous in my communicating what he had toldme to his superiors in the Company, without first beingplain with himself and proposing a middle course to him,I ultimately resolved to offer to accompany him (otherwisekeeping his secret for the present) to the wisest medicalpractitioner we could hear of in those parts, and to take hisopinion. A change in his time of duty would come roundnext night, he had apprised me, and he would be off an houror two after sunrise, and on again soon after sunset. I hadappointed to return accordingly.

Next evening was a lovely evening, and I walked out earlyto enjoy it. The sun was not yet quite down when Itraversed the field-path near the top of the deep cutting.I would extend my walk for an hour, I said to myself, halfan hour on and half an hour back, and it would then betime to go to my signal-man's box.

Before pursuing my stroll, I stepped to the brink, andmechanically looked down, from the point from which Ihad first seen him. I can not describe the thrill that seizedupon me, when, close at the mouth of the tunnel, I saw theappearance of a man, with his left sleeve across his eyes,passionately waving his right arm.

The nameless horror that oppressed me passed in a moment,for in a moment I saw that this appearance of a manwas a man indeed, and that there was a little group of othermen, standing at a short distance, to whom he seemed to berehearsing the gesture he made. The Danger-light wasnot yet lighted. Against its shaft, a little low hut, entirelynew to me, had been made of some wooden supports andtarpaulin. It looked no bigger than a bed.

With an irresistible sense that something was wrong—witha flashing self-reproachful fear that fatal mischief hadcome of my leaving the man there, and causing no one to besent to overlook or correct what he did—I descended thenotched path with all the speed I could make.

"What is the matter?" I asked the men.

"Signal-man killed this morning, sir."

"Not the man belonging to that box?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not the man I know?"

"You will recognize him, sir, if you knew him," said theman who spoke for the others, solemnly uncovering his ownhead, and raising an end of the tarpaulin, "for his face isquite composed."

"Oh, how did this happen, how did this happen?" I asked,turning from one to another as the hut closed in again.

"He was cut down by an engine, sir. No man in Englandknew his work better. But somehow he was not clear of theouter rail. It was just at broad day. He had struck thelight, and had the lamp in his hand. As the engine came outof the tunnel, his back was toward her, and she cut himdown. That man drove her, and was showing how ithappened. Show the gentleman, Tom."

The man, who wore a rough dark dress, stepped back tohis former place at the mouth of the tunnel.

"Coming round the curve in the tunnel, sir," he said, "Isaw him at the end, like as if I saw him down aperspective-glass. There was no timeto check speed, and I knew himto be very careful. As he didn't seem to take heed of thewhistle, I shut it off when we were running down upon him,and called to him as loud as I could call."

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'Below there! Look out! Look out! For God'ssake, clear the way!'"

I started.

"Ah! it was a dreadful time, sir. I never left off callingto him. I put this arm before my eyes not to see, and Iwaved this arm to the last; but it was no use."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Without prolonging the narrative to dwell on any one ofits curious circumstances more than on any other, I may, inclosing it, point out the coincidence that the warning of theengine-driver included, not only the words which theunfortunate signal-man had repeated to me as haunting him,but also the words which I myself—not he—had attached,and that only in my own mind, to the gesticulation heimitated.

THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS

BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS

Amelia Blandford Edwards, the daughterof an English officer, was born in Londonin 1831 and died in 1892. Thoughprincipally known to fame as an Egyptologist ofnote, she began publishing novels in 1864,among them being "Debenham's Vow,""Miss Carew, and Other Tales" and "LordBrackenbury." "The Four-Fifteen Express"was published at the height of herpopularity as a writer of fiction. Miss Edwardslectured in the United States in 1889-90.

THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS

By AMELIA B. EDWARDS

The events which I am about to relate took placebetween nine and ten years ago. Sebastopol hadfallen in the early spring, the peace of Paris hadbeen concluded since March, our commercial relationswith the Russian Empire were but recently renewed;and I, returning home after my first northward journey sincethe war, was well pleased with the prospect of spending themonth of December under the hospitable and thoroughlyEnglish roof of my excellent friend, Jonathan Jelf, Esq., ofDumbleton Manor, Clayborough, East Anglia. Travelingin the interests of the well-known firm in which it is my lotto be a junior partner, I had been called upon to visit notonly the capitals of Russia and Poland, but had found italso necessary to pass some weeks among the trading portsof the Baltic; whence it came that the year was already farspent before I again set foot on English soil, and that,instead of shooting pheasants with him, as I had hoped, inOctober, I came to be my friend's guest during the moregenial Christmas-tide.

My voyage over, and a few days given up to businessin Liverpool and London, I hastened down to Clayboroughwith all the delight of a schoolboy whose holidays are athand. My way lay by the Great East Anglian line as faras Clayborough station, where I was to be met by one ofthe Dumbleton carriages and conveyed across the remainingnine miles of country. It was a foggy afternoon,singularly warm for the 4th of December, and I had arrangedto leave London by the 4:15 express. The early darkness ofwinter had already closed in; the lamps were lighted in thecarriages; a clinging damp dimmed the windows, adheredto the door-handles, and pervaded all the atmosphere; whilethe gas-jets at the neighboring book-stand diffused aluminous haze that only served to make the gloom of theterminus more visible. Having arrived some seven minutesbefore the starting of the train, and, by the connivance ofthe guard, taken sole possession of an empty compartment,I lighted my traveling-lamp, made myself particularly snug,and settled down to the undisturbed enjoyment of a bookand a cigar. Great, therefore, was my disappointment when,at the last moment, a gentleman came hurrying along theplatform, glanced into my carriage, opened the locked doorwith a private key, and stepped in.

It struck me at the first glance that I had seen himbefore—a tall, spare man, thin-lipped, light-eyed, with anungraceful stoop in the shoulders, and scant gray hair wornsomewhat long upon the collar. He carried a light waterproofcoat, an umbrella, and a large brown japanned deed-box,which last he placed under the seat. This done, he feltcarefully in his breast-pocket, as if to make certain of thesafety of his purse or pocketbook, laid his umbrella in thenetting overhead, spread the waterproof across his knees,and exchanged his hat for a traveling-cap of some Scotchmaterial. By this time the train was moving out of thestation and into the faint gray of the wintry twilight beyond.

I now recognized my companion. I recognized him fromthe moment when he removed his hat and uncovered thelofty, furrowed, and somewhat narrow brow beneath. I hadmet him, as I distinctly remembered, some three yearsbefore, at the very house for which, in all probability, he wasnow bound, like myself. His name was Dwerrihouse; hewas a lawyer by profession, and, if I was not greatly mistaken,was first cousin to the wife of my host. I knew alsothat he was a man eminently "well-to-do," both as regardedhis professional and private means. The Jelfs entertainedhim with that sort of observant courtesy which falls to thelot of the rich relation, the children made much of him, andthe old butler, albeit somewhat surly "to the general," treatedhim with deference. I thought, observing him by the vaguemixture of lamplight and twilight, that Mrs. Jelf's cousinlooked all the worse for the three years' wear and tear whichhad gone over his head since our last meeting. He wasvery pale, and had a restless light in his eye that I did notremember to have observed before. The anxious lines, too,about his mouth were deepened, and there was a cavernous,hollow look about his cheeks and temples which seemed tospeak of sickness or sorrow. He had glanced at me as hecame in, but without any gleam of recognition in his face.Now he glanced again, as I fancied, somewhat doubtfully.When he did so for the third or fourth time I ventured toaddress him.

"Mr. John Dwerrihouse, I think?"

"That is my name," he replied.

"I had the pleasure of meeting you at Dumbleton aboutthree years ago."

Mr. Dwerrihouse bowed.

"I thought I knew your face," he said; "but your name,I regret to say—"

"Langford—William Langford. I have known JonathanJelf since we were boys together at Merchant Taylor's, andI generally spend a few weeks at Dumbleton in theshooting season. I suppose we are bound for the samedestination?"

"Not if you are on your way to the manor," he replied."I am traveling upon business—rather troublesomebusiness too—while you, doubtless, have only pleasurein view."

"Just so. I am in the habit of looking forward to thisvisit as to the brightest three weeks in all the year."

"It is a pleasant house," said Mr. Dwerrihouse.

"The pleasantest I know."

"And Jelf is thoroughly hospitable."

"The best and kindest fellow in the world!"

"They have invited me to spend Christmas week withthem," pursued Mr. Dwerrihouse, after a moment's pause.

"And you are coming?"

"I can not tell. It must depend on the issue of thisbusiness which I have in hand. You have heard perhaps thatwe are about to construct a branch line from Blackwater toStockbridge."

I explained that I had been for some months away fromEngland, and had therefore heard nothing of thecontemplated improvement.

Mr. Dwerrihouse smiled complacently.

"It will be an improvement," he said, "a great improvement.Stockbridge is a flourishing town, and needs but amore direct railway communication with the metropolis tobecome an important centre of commerce. This branch wasmy own idea. I brought the project before the board, andhave myself superintended the execution of it up to thepresent time."

"You are an East Anglian director, I presume?"

"My interest in the company," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse,"is threefold. I am a director, I am a considerableshareholder, and, as head of the firm of Dwerrihouse,Dwerrihouse & Craik, I am the company's principal solicitor."

Loquacious, self-important, full of his pet project, andapparently unable to talk on any other subject, Mr. Dwerrihousethen went on to tell of the opposition he had encounteredand the obstacles he had overcome in the cause of theStockbridge branch. I was entertained with a multitude oflocal details and local grievances. The rapacity of onesquire, the impracticability of another, the indignation of therector whose glebe was threatened, the culpable indifferenceof the Stockbridge townspeople, who could not bebrought to see that their most vital interests hinged upona junction with the Great East Anglian line; the spite of thelocal newspaper, and the unheard-of difficulties attendingthe Common question, were each and all laid before me witha circumstantiality that possessed the deepest interest formy excellent fellow-traveler, but none whatever for myself.From these, to my despair, he went on to more intricatematters: to the approximate expenses of construction permile; to the estimates sent in by different contractors; to theprobable traffic returns of the new line; to the provisionalclauses of the new act as enumerated in Schedule D of thecompany's last half-yearly report; and so on and on and on,till my head ached and my attention flagged and my eyeskept closing in spite of every effort that I made to keepthem open. At length I was roused by these words:

"Seventy-five thousand pounds, cash down."

"Seventy-five thousand pounds, cash down," I repeated,in the liveliest tone I could assume. "That is a heavy sum."

"A heavy sum to carry here," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse,pointing significantly to his breast-pocket, "but a merefraction of what we shall ultimately have to pay."

"You do not mean to say that you have seventy-five thousandpounds at this moment upon your person?" I exclaimed.

"My good sir, have I not been telling you so for the lasthalf-hour?" said Mr. Dwerrihouse, testily. "That money hasto be paid over at half-past eight o'clock this evening, at theoffice of Sir Thomas's solicitors, on completion of the deedof sale."

"But how will you get across by night from Blackwaterto Stockbridge with seventy-five thousand pounds in yourpock it?"

"To Stockbridge!" echoed the lawyer. "I find I havemade myself very imperfectly understood. I thought I hadexplained how this sum only carries us as far as Mallingford—thefirst stage, as it were, of our journey—and how ourroute from Blackwater to Mallingford lies entirely throughSir Thomas Liddell's property."

"I beg your pardon," I stammered. "I fear my thoughtswere wandering. So you only go as far as Mallingfordto-night?"

"Precisely. I shall get a conveyance from the 'BlackwaterArms.' And you?"

"Oh, Jelf sends a trap to meet me at Clayborough! CanI be the bearer of any message from you?"

"You may say, if you please, Mr. Langford, that I wishedI could have been your companion all the way, and that Iwill come over, if possible, before Christmas."

"Nothing more?"

Mr. Dwerrihouse smiled grimly. "Well," he said, "youmay tell my cousin that she need not burn the hall down inmy honor this time, and that I shall be obliged if she willorder the blue-room chimney to be swept before I arrive."

"That sounds tragic. Had you a conflagration on theoccasion of your last visit to Dumbleton?"

"Something like it. There had been no fire lighted inmy bedroom since the spring, the flue was foul, and therooks had built in it; so when I went up to dress for dinnerI found the room full of smoke and the chimney on fire.Are we already at Blackwater?"

The train had gradually come to a pause while Mr. Dwerrihousewas speaking, and, on putting my head out of thewindow, I could see the station some few hundred yardsahead. There was another train before us blocking the way,and the guard was making use of the delay to collect theBlackwater tickets. I had scarcely ascertained our positionwhen the ruddy-faced official appeared at our carriage door.

"Tickets, sir!" said he.

"I am for Clayborough," I replied, holding out the tinypink card.

He took it, glanced at it by the light of his little lantern,gave it back, looked, as I fancied, somewhat sharply at myfellow-traveler, and disappeared.

"He did not ask for yours," I said, with some surprise.

"They never do," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse; "they allknow me, and of course I travel free."

"Blackwater! Blackwater!" cried the porter, running alongthe platform beside us as we glided into the station.

Mr. Dwerrihouse pulled out his deed-box, put histraveling-cap in his pocket, resumed his hat, took down hisumbrella, and prepared to be gone.

"Many thanks, Mr. Langford, for your society," he said,with old-fashioned courtesy. "I wish you a good-evening."

"Good-evening," I replied, putting out my hand.

But he either did not see it or did not choose to see it,and, slightly lifting his hat, stepped out upon the platform.Having done this, he moved slowly away and mingled withthe departing crowd.

Leaning forward to watch him out of sight, I trod uponsomething which proved to be a cigar-case. It had fallen,no doubt, from the pocket of his waterproof coat, and wasmade of dark morocco leather, with a silver monogram uponthe side. I sprang out of the carriage just as the guard cameup to lock me in.

"Is there one minute to spare?" I asked, eagerly. "Thegentleman who traveled down with me from town hasdropped his cigar-case; he is not yet out of the station."

"Just a minute and a half, sir," replied the guard. "Youmust be quick."

I dashed along the platform as fast as my feet could carryme. It was a large station, and Mr. Dwerrihouse had bythis time got more than half-way to the farther end.

I, however, saw him distinctly, moving slowly with thestream. Then, as I drew nearer, I saw that he had metsome friend, that they were talking as they walked, that theypresently fell back somewhat from the crowd and stood asidein earnest conversation. I made straight for the spot wherethey were waiting. There was a vivid gas-jet just abovetheir heads, and the light fell full upon their faces. I sawboth distinctly—the face of Mr. Dwerrihouse and the faceof his companion. Running, breathless, eager as I was,getting in the way of porters and passengers, and fearful everyinstant lest I should see the train going on without me, Iyet observed that the new-comer was considerably youngerand shorter than the director, that he was sandy-haired,mustachioed, small-featured, and dressed in a close-cut suit ofScotch tweed. I was now within a few yards of them. Iran against a stout gentleman, I was nearly knocked down bya luggage-truck, I stumbled over a carpet-bag; I gained thespot just as the driver's whistle warned me to return.

To my utter stupefaction, they were no longer there. Ihad seen them but two seconds before—and they were gone!I stood still; I looked to right and left; I saw no sign ofthem in any direction. It was as if the platform had gapedand swallowed them.

"There were two gentlemen standing here a moment ago,"I said to a porter at my elbow; "which way can they havegone?"

"I saw no gentlemen, sir," replied the man.

The whistle shrilled out again. The guard, far up theplatform, held up his arm, and shouted to me to "come on!"

"If you're going on by this train, sir," said the porter,"you must run for it."

I did run for it, just gained the carriage as the trainbegan to move, was shoved in by the guard, and left, breathlessand bewildered, with Mr. Dwerrihouse's cigar-case stillin my hand.

It was the strangest disappearance in the world; it waslike a transformation trick in a pantomime. They werethere one moment—palpably there, talking, with the gaslightfull upon their faces—and the next moment they were gone.There was no door near, no window, no staircase; it was amere slip of barren platform, tapestried with bigadvertisements. Could anything be more mysterious?

It was not worth thinking about, and yet, for my life, Icould not help pondering upon it—pondering, wondering,conjecturing, turning it over and over in my mind, and beatingmy brains for a solution of the enigma. I thought of itall the way from Blackwater to Clayborough. I thought ofit all the way from Clayborough to Dumbleton, as I rattledalong the smooth highway in a trim dog-cart, drawn by asplendid black mare and driven by the silentest anddapperest of East Anglian grooms.

We did the nine miles in something less than an hour,and pulled up before the lodge gates just as the church clockwas striking half-past seven. A couple of minutes more,and the warm glow of the lighted hall was flooding out uponthe gravel, a hearty grasp was on my hand, and a clearjovial voice was bidding me "welcome to Dumbleton."

"And now, my dear fellow," said my host, when the firstgreeting was over, "you have no time to spare. We dine ateight, and there are people coming to meet you, so you mustjust get the dressing business over as quickly as may be. Bythe way, you will meet some acquaintances; the Biddulphsare coming, and Prendergast (Prendergast of the Skirmishers)is staying in the house. Adieu! Mrs. Jelf will beexpecting you in the drawing-room."

I was ushered to my room—not the blue room, of whichMr. Dwerrihouse had made disagreeable experience, but apretty little bachelor's chamber, hung with a delicate chintzand made cheerful by a blazing fire. I unlocked myportmanteau. I tried to be expeditious, but the memory of myrailway adventure haunted me. I could not get free of it;I could not shake it off. It impeded me, it worried me, ittripped me up, it caused me to mislay my studs, to mistiemy cravat, to wrench the buttons off my gloves. Worst ofall, it made me so late that the party had all assembled beforeI reached the drawing-room. I had scarcely paid myrespects to Mrs. Jelf when dinner was announced, and wepaired off, some eight or ten couples strong, into thedining-room.

I am not going to describe either the guests or the dinner.All provincial parties bear the strictest familyresemblance, and I am not aware that an East Anglian banquetoffers any exception to the rule. There was the usualcountry baronet and his wife; there were the usual countryparsons and their wives; there was the sempiternal turkey andhaunch of venison. Vanitas vanitatum. There is nothingnew under the sun.

I was placed about midway down the table. I had takenone rector's wife down to dinner, and I had another at myleft hand. They talked across me, and their talk was aboutbabies; it was dreadfully dull. At length there came a pause.The entrées had just been removed, and the turkey had comeupon the scene. The conversation had all along been of thelanguidest, but at this moment it happened to have stagnatedaltogether. Jelf was carving the turkey; Mrs. Jelflooked as if she was trying to think of something to say;everybody else was silent. Moved by an unlucky impulse, Ithought I would relate my adventure.

"By the way, Jelf," I began, "I came down part of theway to-day with a friend of yours."

"Indeed!" said the master of the feast, slicingscientifically into the breast of the turkey. "With whom,pray?"

"With one who bade me tell you that he should, ifpossible, pay you a visit before Christmas."

"I can not think who that could be," said my friend,smiling.

"It must be Major Thorp," suggested Mrs. Jelf. I shookmy head.

"It was not Major Thorp," I replied; "it was a nearrelation of your own, Mrs. Jelf."

"Then I am more puzzled than ever," replied my hostess."Pray tell me who it was."

"It was no less a person than your cousin, Mr. JohnDwerrihouse."

Jonathan Jelf laid down his knife and fork. Mrs. Jelflooked at me in a strange, startled way, and said never aword.

"And he desired me to tell you, my dear madam, thatyou need not take the trouble to burn the hall down in hishonor this time, but only to have the chimney of the blueroom swept before his arrival."

Before I had reached the end of my sentence I becameaware of something ominous in the faces of the guests. Ifelt I had said something which I had better have leftunsaid, and that for some unexplained reason my words hadevoked a general consternation. I sat confounded, not daringto utter another syllable, and for at least two whole minutesthere was dead silence round the table. Then CaptainPrendergast came to the rescue.

"You have been abroad for some months, have you not,Mr. Langford?" he said, with the desperation of one whoflings himself into the breach. "I heard you had been toRussia. Surely you have something to tell us of the stateand temper of the country after the war?"

I was heartily grateful to the gallant Skirmisher for thisdiversion in my favor. I answered him, I fear, somewhatlamely; but he kept the conversation up, and presently oneor two others joined in, and so the difficulty, whatever itmight have been, was bridged over—bridged over, but notrepaired. A something, an awkwardness, a visible constraintremained. The guests hitherto had been simply dull, butnow they were evidently uncomfortable and embarrassed.

The dessert had scarcely been placed upon the tablewhen the ladies left the room. I seized the opportunity toselect a vacant chair next Captain Prendergast.

"In Heaven's name," I whispered, "what was the matterjust now? What had I said?"

"You mentioned the name of John Dwerrihouse."

"What of that? I had seen him not two hours before."

"It is a most astounding circumstance that you shouldhave seen him," said Captain Prendergast. "Are you sureit was he?"

"As sure as of my own identity. We were talking allthe way between London and Blackwater. But why doesthat surprise you?"

"Because," replied Captain Prendergast, dropping hisvoice to the lowest whisper—"because John Dwerrihouseabsconded three months ago with seventy-five thousand pounds ofthe company's money, and has never been heard of since."

John Dwerrihouse had absconded three months ago—andI had seen him only a few hours back! John Dwerrihousehad embezzled seventy-five thousand pounds of thecompany's money, yet told me that he carried that sum uponhis person! Were ever facts so strangely incongruous, sodifficult to reconcile? How should he have ventured againinto the light of day? How dared he show himself alongthe line? Above all, what had he been doing throughoutthose mysterious three months of disappearance?

Perplexing questions these—questions which at oncesuggested themselves to the minds of all concerned, butwhich admitted of no easy solution. I could find no replyto them. Captain Prendergast had not even a suggestionto offer. Jonathan Jelf, who seized the first opportunityof drawing me aside and learning all that I had to tell,was more amazed and bewildered than either of us. Hecame to my room that night, when all the guests were gone,and we talked the thing over from every point of view;without, it must be confessed, arriving at any kind ofconclusion.

"I do not ask you," he said, "whether you can havemistaken your man. That is impossible."

"As impossible as that I should mistake some strangerfor yourself."

"It is not a question of looks or voice, but of facts. Thathe should have alluded to the fire in the blue room is proofenough of John Dwerrihouse's identity. How did he look?"

"Older, I thought; considerably older, paler, and moreanxious."

"He has had enough to make him look anxious, anyhow,"said my friend, gloomily, "be he innocent or guilty."

"I am inclined to believe that he is innocent," I replied."He showed no embarrassment when I addressed him, andno uneasiness when the guard came round. His conversationwas open to a fault. I might almost say that he talkedtoo freely of the business which he had in hand."

"That again is strange, for I know no one more reticenton such subjects. He actually told you that he had theseventy-five thousand pounds in his pocket?"

"He did."

"Humph! My wife has an idea about it, and she maybe right—"

"What idea?"

"Well, she fancies—women are so clever, you know, atputting themselves inside people's motives—she fancies thathe was tempted, that he did actually take the money, andthat he has been concealing himself these three months insome wild part of the country, struggling possibly with hisconscience all the time, and daring neither to abscond withhis booty nor to come back and restore it."

"But now that he has come back?"

"That is the point. She conceives that he has probablythrown himself upon the company's mercy, made restitutionof the money, and, being forgiven, is permitted to carry thebusiness through as if nothing whatever had happened."

"The last," I replied, "is an impossible case. Mrs. Jelfthinks like a generous and delicate-minded woman, but notin the least like a board of railway directors. They wouldnever carry forgiveness so far."

"I fear not; and yet it is the only conjecture that bearsa semblance of likelihood. However, we can run over toClayborough to-morrow and see if anything is to be learned.By the way, Prendergast tells me you picked up his cigar-case."

"I did so, and here it is."

Jelf took the cigar-case, examined it by the light of thelamp, and said at once that it was beyond doubtMr. Dwerrihouse's property, and that he remembered to have seenhim use it.

"Here, too, is his monogram on the side," he added—"abig J transfixing a capital D. He used to carry the sameon his note-paper."

"It offers, at all events, a proof that I was not dreaming."

"Ay, but it is time you were asleep and dreaming now.I am ashamed to have kept you up so long. Good-night."

"Good-night, and remember that I am more than readyto go with you to Clayborough, or Blackwater, or London,or anywhere, if I can be of the least service."

"Thanks! I know you mean it, old friend, and it maybe that I shall put you to the test. Once more,good-night."

So we parted for that night, and met again in thebreakfast-room at half-past eight next morning. It was a hurried,silent, uncomfortable meal; none of us had slept well, andall were thinking of the same subject. Mrs. Jelf hadevidently been crying, Jelf was impatient to be off, and bothCaptain Prendergast and myself felt ourselves to be in thepainful position of outsiders who are involuntarily broughtinto a domestic trouble. Within twenty minutes after wehad left the breakfast-table the dog-cart was brought round,and my friend and I were on the road to Clayborough.

"Tell you what it is, Langford," he said, as we sped alongbetween the wintry hedges, "I do not much fancy to bring upDwerrihouse's name at Clayborough. All the officials knowthat he is my wife's relation, and the subject just now ishardly a pleasant one. If you don't much mind, we will takethe 11:10 to Blackwater. It's an important station, and weshall stand a far better chance of picking up informationthere than at Clayborough."

So we took the 11:10, which happened to be an express,and, arriving at Blackwater about a quarter before twelve,proceeded at once to prosecute our inquiry.

We began by asking for the station-master, a big, blunt,business-like person, who at once averred that he knewMr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly well, and that there was nodirector on the line whom he had seen and spoken to sofrequently.

"He used to be down here two or three times a weekabout three months ago," said he, "when the new line wasfirst set afoot; but since then, you know, gentlemen—"

He paused significantly.

Jelf flushed scarlet.

"Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly; "we know all about that.The point now to be ascertained is whether anything hasbeen seen or heard of him lately."

"Not to my knowledge," replied the station-master.

"He is not known to have been down the line any timeyesterday, for instance?"

The station-master shook his head.

"The East Anglian, sir," said he, "is about the last placewhere he would dare to show himself. Why, there isn'ta station-master, there isn't a guard, there isn't a porter, whodoesn't know Mr. Dwerrihouse by sight as well as he knowshis own face in the looking-glass, or who wouldn't telegraphfor the police as soon as he had set eyes on him at anypoint along the line. Bless you, sir! there's been a standingorder out against him ever since the 25th of Septemberlast."

"And yet," pursued my friend, "a gentleman who traveleddown yesterday from London to Clayborough by the afternoonexpress testifies that he saw Mr. Dwerrihouse in thetrain, and that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwaterstation."

"Quite impossible, sir," replied the station-master,promptly.

"Why impossible?"

"Because there is no station along the line where he is sowell known or where he would run so great a risk. It wouldbe just running his head into the lion's mouth; he wouldhave been mad to come nigh Blackwater station; and if hehad come he would have been arrested before he left theplatform."

"Can you tell me who took the Blackwater tickets of thattrain?"

"I can, sir. It was the guard, Benjamin Somers."

"And where can I find him?"

"You can find him, sir, by staying here, if you please, tillone o'clock. He will be coming through with the up expressfrom Crampton, which stays at Blackwater for ten minutes."

We waited for the up express, beguiling the time as bestwe could by strolling along the Blackwater road till we camealmost to the outskirts of the town, from which the stationwas distant nearly a couple of miles. By one o'clock wewere back again upon the platform and waiting for thetrain. It came punctually, and I at once recognized theruddy-faced guard who had gone down with my train theevening before.

"The gentlemen want to ask you something aboutMr. Dwerrihouse, Somers," said the station-master, by way ofintroduction.

The guard flashed a keen glance from my face to Jelf'sand back again to mine.

"Mr. John Dwerrihouse, the late director?" said he,interrogatively.

"The same," replied my friend. "Should you know himif you saw him?"

"Anywhere, sir."

"Do you know if he was in the 4:15 express yesterdayafternoon?"

"He was not, sir."

"How can you answer so positively?"

"Because I looked into every carriage and saw everyface in that train, and I could take my oath that Mr. Dwerrihousewas not in it. This gentleman was," he added, turningsharply upon me. "I don't know that I ever saw himbefore in my life, but I remember his face perfectly. Younearly missed taking your seat in time at this station, sir,and you got out at Clayborough."

"Quite true, guard," I replied; "but do you not alsoremember the face of the gentleman who traveled down in thesame carriage with me as far as here?"

"It was my impression, sir, that you traveled down alone,"said Somers, with a look of some surprise.

"By no means. I had a fellow-traveler as far as Blackwater,and it was in trying to restore him the cigar-casewhich he had dropped in the carriage that I so nearly let yougo on without me."

"I remember your saying something about a cigar-case,certainly," replied the guard; "but—"

"You asked for my ticket just before we entered thestation."

"I did, sir."

"Then you must have seen him. He sat in the cornernext the very door to which you came."

"No, indeed; I saw no one."

I looked at Jelf. I began to think the guard was in theex-director's confidence, and paid for his silence.

"If I had seen another traveler I should have asked forhis ticket," added Somers. "Did you see me ask for histicket, sir?"

"I observed that you did not ask for it, but he explainedthat by saying—" I hesitated. I feared I might be tellingtoo much, and so broke off abruptly.

The guard and the station-master exchanged glances.The former looked impatiently at his watch.

"I am obliged to go on in four minutes more, sir," hesaid.

"One last question, then." interposed Jelf, with a sortof desperation. "If this gentleman's fellow-traveler hadbeen Mr. John Dwerrihouse, and he had been sitting in thecorner next the door by which you took the tickets, couldyou have failed to see and recognize him?"

"No, sir; it would have been quite impossible."

"And you are certain you did not see him?"

"As I said before, sir, I could take my oath I did not seehim. And if it wasn't that I don't like to contradict agentleman, I would say I could also take my oath that thisgentleman was quite alone in the carriage the whole wayfrom London to Clayborough. Why, sir," he added, droppinghis voice so as to be inaudible to the station-master,who had been called away to speak to some person close by,"you expressly asked me to give you a compartment toyourself, and I did so. I locked you in, and you were sogood as to give me something for myself."

"Yes; but Mr. Dwerrihouse had a key of his own."

"I never saw him, sir; I saw no one in that compartmentbut yourself. Beg pardon, sir; my time's up."

And with this the ruddy guard touched his cap and wasgone. In another minute the heavy panting of the enginebegan afresh, and the train glided slowly out of the station.

We looked at each other for some moments in silence.I was the first to speak.

"Mr. Benjamin Somers knows more than he chooses totell," I said.

"Humph! do you think so?"

"It must be. He could not have come to the door withoutseeing him; it's impossible."

"There is one thing not impossible, my dear fellow."

"What is that?"

"That you may have fallen asleep and dreamed the wholething."

"Could I dream of a branch line that I had never heardof? Could I dream of a hundred and one business detailsthat had no kind of interest for me? Could I dream of theseventy-five thousand pounds?"

"Perhaps you might have seen or heard some vague accountof the affair while you were abroad. It might havemade no impression upon you at the time, and might havecome back to you in your dreams, recalled perhaps by themere names of the stations on the line."

"What about the fire in the chimney of the blueroom—should I have heard of that during my journey?"

"Well, no; I admit there is a difficulty about that point."

"And what about the cigar-case?"

"Ay, by Jove! there is the cigar-case. That is a stubbornfact. Well, it's a mysterious affair, and it will need a betterdetective than myself, I fancy, to clear it up. I suppose wemay as well go home."

A week had not gone by when I received a letter fromthe secretary of the East Anglian Railway Company,requesting the favor of my attendance at a special boardmeeting not then many days distant. No reasons were allegedand no apologies offered for this demand upon my time, butthey had heard, it was clear, of my inquiries anent themissing director, and had a mind to put me through some sortof official examination upon the subject. Being still a guestat Dumbleton Hall, I had to go up to London for thepurpose, and Jonathan Jelf accompanied me. I found thedirection of the Great East Anglian line represented by a partyof some twelve or fourteen gentlemen seated in solemnconclave round a huge green baize table, in a gloomyboardroom adjoining the London terminus.

Being courteously received by the chairman (who atonce began by saying that certain statements of minerespecting Mr. John Dwerrihouse had come to the knowledgeof the direction, and that they in consequence desired toconfer with me on those points), we were placed at the table,and the inquiry proceeded in due form.

I was first asked if I knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse, howlong I had been acquainted with him, and whether I couldidentify him at sight. I was then asked when I had seenhim last. To which I replied: "On the 4th of this presentmonth, December, 1856." Then came the inquiry of whereI had seen him on that fourth day of December; to whichI replied that I met him in a first-class compartment ofthe 4:15 down express, that he got in just as the train wasleaving the London terminus, and that he alighted atBlackwater station. The chairman then inquired whether I hadheld any communication with my fellow-traveler; whereuponI related, as nearly as I could remember it, the whole bulkand substance of Mr. John Dwerrihouse's diffuse informationrespecting the new branch line.

To all this the board listened with profound attention,while the chairman presided and the secretary took notes.I then produced the cigar-case. It was passed from hand tohand, and recognized by all. There was not a man presentwho did not remember that plain cigar-case with its silvermonogram, or to whom it seemed anything less than entirelycorroborative of my evidence. When at length I had toldall that I had to tell, the chairman whispered something tothe secretary; the secretary touched a silver hand-bell, andthe guard, Benjamin Somers, was ushered into the room.He was then examined as carefully as myself. He declaredthat he knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly well, that hecould not be mistaken in him, that he remembered goingdown with the 4:15 express on the afternoon in question,that he remembered me, and that, there being one or twoempty first-class compartments on that especial afternoon,he had, in compliance with my request, placed me in acarriage by myself. He was positive that I remained alonein that compartment all the way from London to Clayborough.He was ready to take his oath that Mr. Dwerrihousewas neither in that carriage with me, nor in any compartmentof that train. He remembered distinctly to have examinedmy ticket at Blackwater; was certain that there wasno one else at that time in the carriage; could not have failedto observe a second person, if there had been one; had thatsecond person been Mr. John Dwerrihouse should havequietly double-locked the door of the carriage and have atonce given information to the Blackwater station-master.So clear, so decisive, so ready, was Somers with thistestimony, that the board looked fairly puzzled.

"You hear this person's statement, Mr. Langford," saidthe chairman. "It contradicts yours in every particular.What have you to say in reply?"

"I can only repeat what I said before. I am quite aspositive of the truth of my own assertions as Mr. Somerscan be of the truth of his."

"You say that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater,and that he was in possession of a private key. Are yousure that he had not alighted by means of that key beforethe guard came round for the tickets?"

"I am quite positive that he did not leave the carriagetill the train had fairly entered the station, and the otherBlackwater passengers alighted. I even saw that he wasmet there by a friend."

"Indeed! Did you see that person distinctly?"

"Quite distinctly."

"Can you describe his appearance?"

"I think so. He was short and very slight, sandy-haired,with a bushy mustache and beard, and he wore a closelyfitting suit of gray tweed, His age I should take to beabout thirty-eight or forty."

"Did Mr. Dwerrihouse leave the station in this person'scompany?"

"I can not tell. I saw them walking together down theplatform, and then I saw them standing aside under a gas-jet,talking earnestly. After that I lost sight of them quitesuddenly, and just then my train went on, and I with it."

The chairman and secretary conferred together in anundertone. The directors whispered to one another. Oneor two looked suspiciously at the guard. I could see that myevidence remained unshaken, and that, like myself, theysuspected some complicity between the guard and the defaulter.

"How far did you conduct that 4:15 express on the dayin question, Somers?" asked the chairman.

"All through, sir," replied the guard, "from London toCrampton."

"How was it that you were not relieved at Clayborough?I thought there was always a change of guards atClayborough."

"There used to be, sir, till the new regulations came inforce last midsummer, since when the guards in charge ofexpress trains go the whole way through."

The chairman turned to the secretary.

"I think it would be as well," he said, "if we had theday-book to refer to upon this point."

Again the secretary touched the silver hand-bell, anddesired the porter in attendance to summon Mr. Raikes. Froma word or two dropped by another of the directors I gatheredthat Mr. Raikes was one of the under-secretaries.

He came, a small, slight, sandy-haired, keen-eyed man,with an eager, nervous manner, and a forest of light beardand mustache. He just showed himself at the door of theboard-room, and, being requested to bring a certainday-book from a certain shelf in a certain room, bowed andvanished.

He was there such a moment, and the surprise of seeinghim was so great and sudden, that it was not till the doorhad closed upon him that I found voice to speak. He wasno sooner gone, however, than I sprang to my feet.

"That person," I said, "is the same who met Mr. Dwerrihouseupon the platform at Blackwater!"

There was a general movement of surprise. The chairmanlooked grave and somewhat agitated.

"Take care, Mr. Langford," he said; "take care whatyou say."

"I am as positive of his identity as of my own."

"Do you consider the consequences of your words? Doyou consider that you are bringing a charge of the gravestcharacter against one of the company's servants?"

"I am willing to be put upon my oath, if necessary. Theman who came to that door a minute since is the same whomI saw talking with Mr. Dwerrihouse on the Blackwaterplatform. Were he twenty times the company's servant, I couldsay neither more nor less."

The chairman turned again to the guard.

"Did you see Mr. Raikes in the train or on the platform?"he asked.

Somers shook his head.

"I am confident Mr. Raikes was not in the train," he said,"and I certainly did not see him on the platform."

The chairman turned next to the secretary.

"Mr. Raikes is in your office, Mr. Hunter," he said. "Canyou remember if he was absent on the 4th instant?"

"I do not think he was," replied the secretary, "but Iam not prepared to speak positively. I have been away mostafternoons myself lately, and Mr. Raikes might easily haveabsented himself if he had been disposed."

At this moment the under-secretary returned with theday-book under his arm.

"Be pleased to refer, Mr. Raikes," said the chairman, "tothe entries of the 4th instant, and see what BenjaminSomers's duties were on that day."

Mr. Raikes threw open the cumbrous volume, and rana practised eye and finger down some three or four successivecolumns of entries. Stopping suddenly at the foot ofa page, he then read aloud that Benjamin Somers had onthat day conducted the 4:15 express from London toCrampton.

The chairman leaned forward in his seat, looked theunder-secretary full in the face, and said, quite sharply andsuddenly:

"And where were you, Mr. Raikes, on the same afternoon?"

"I, sir?"

"You, Mr. Raikes. Where were you on the afternoonand evening of the 4th of the present month?"

"Here, sir, in Mr. Hunter's office. Where else shouldI be?"

There was a dash of trepidation in the under-secretary'svoice as he said this, but his look of surprise was naturalenough.

"We have some reason for believing, Mr. Raikes, thatyou were absent that afternoon without leave. Was this thecase?"

"Certainly not, sir. I have not had a day's holiday sinceSeptember. Mr. Hunter will bear me out in this."

Mr. Hunter repeated what he had previously said on thesubject, but added that the clerks in the adjoining officewould be certain to know. Whereupon the senior clerk, agrave, middle-aged person in green glasses, was summonedand interrogated.

His testimony cleared the under-secretary at once. Hedeclared that Mr. Raikes had in no instance, to his knowledge,been absent during office hours since his return fromhis annual holiday in September.

I was confounded. The chairman turned to me with asmile, in which a shade of covert annoyance was scarcelyapparent.

"You hear, Mr. Langford?" he said.

"I hear, sir; but my conviction remains unshaken."

"I fear, Mr. Langford, that your convictions are veryinsufficiently based," replied the chairman, with a doubtfulcough. "I fear that you 'dream dreams,' and mistake themfor actual occurrences. It is a dangerous habit of mind, andmight lead to dangerous results. Mr. Raikes here wouldhave found himself in an unpleasant position had he notproved so satisfactory an alibi."

I was about to reply, but he gave me no time.

"I think, gentlemen," he went on to say, addressing theboard, "that we should be wasting time to push this inquiryfurther. Mr. Langford's evidence would seem to be of anequal value throughout. The testimony of Benjamin Somersdisproves his first statement, and the testimony of the lastwitness disproves his second. I think we may conclude thatMr. Langford fell asleep in the train on the occasion of hisjourney to Clayborough, and dreamed an unusually vividand circumstantial dream, of which, however, we have nowheard quite enough."

There are few things more annoying than to find one'spositive convictions met with incredulity. I could not helpfeeling impatience at the turn that affairs had taken. I wasnot proof against the civil sarcasm of the chairman's manner.Most intolerable of all, however, was the quiet smile lurkingabout the corners of Benjamin Somers's mouth, and thehalf-triumphant, half-malicious gleam in the eyes of theunder-secretary. The man was evidently puzzled and somewhatalarmed. His looks seemed furtively to interrogate me.Who was I? What did I want? Why had I come there todo him an ill turn with his employers? What was it to mewhether or no he was absent without leave?

Seeing all this, and perhaps more irritated by it than thething deserved, I begged leave to detain the attention ofthe board for a moment longer. Jelf plucked me impatientlyby the sleeve.

"Better let the thing drop," he whispered. "The chairman'sright enough; you dreamed it, and the less said nowthe better."

I was not to be silenced, however, in this fashion. I hadyet something to say, and I would say it. It was to thiseffect: that dreams were not usually productive of tangibleresults, and that I requested to know in what way thechairman conceived I had evolved from my dream so substantialand well-made a delusion as the cigar-case which I had hadthe honor to place before him at the commencement of ourinterview.

"The cigar-case, I admit, Mr. Langford," the chairmanreplied, "is a very strong point in your evidence. It isyour only strong point, however, and there is just apossibility that we may all be misled by a mere accidentalresemblance. Will you permit me to see the case again?"

"It is unlikely," I said, as I handed it to him, "that anyother should bear precisely this monogram, and yet be in allother particulars exactly similar."

The chairman examined it for a moment in silence, andthen passed it to Mr. Hunter. Mr. Hunter turned it overand over, and shook his head.

"This is no mere resemblance," he said. "It is JohnDwerrihouse's cigar-case to a certainty. I remember itperfectly; I have seen it a hundred times."

"I believe I may say the same," added the chairman; "yethow account for the way in which Mr. Langford assertsthat it came into his possession?"

"I can only repeat," I replied, "that I found it on thefloor of the carriage after Mr. Dwerrihouse had alighted. Itwas in leaning out to look after him that I trod upon it,and it was in running after him for the purpose of restoringit that I saw, or believed I saw, Mr. Raikes standing asidewith him in earnest conversation."

Again I felt Jonathan Jelf plucking at my sleeve.

"Look at Raikes," he whispered; "look at Raikes!"

I turned to where the under-secretary had been standinga moment before, and saw him, white as death, with lipstrembling and livid, stealing toward the door.

To conceive a sudden, strange, and indefinite suspicion,to fling myself in his way, to take him by the shoulders as ifhe were a child, and turn his craven face, perforce, towardthe board, were with me the work of an instant.

"Look at him!" I exclaimed. "Look at his face! I askno better witness to the truth of my words."

The chairman's brow darkened.

"Mr. Raikes," he said, sternly, "if you know anythingyou had better speak."

Vainly trying to wrench himself from my grasp, theunder-secretary stammered out an incoherent denial.

"Let me go," he said. "I know nothing—you have noright to detain me—let me go!"

"Did you, or did you not, meet Mr. John Dwerrihouse atBlackwater station? The charge brought against you iseither true or false. If true, you will do well to throwyourself upon the mercy of the board and make full confessionof all that you know."

The under-secretary wrung his hands in an agony ofhelpless terror.

"I was away!" he cried. "I was two hundred miles awayat the time! I know nothing about it—I have nothing toconfess—I am innocent—I call God to witness I am innocent!"

"Two hundred miles away!" echoed the chairman. "Whatdo you mean?"

"I was in Devonshire. I had three weeks' leave ofabsence—I appeal to Mr. Hunter—Mr. Hunter knows I hadthree weeks' leave of absence! I was in Devonshire all thetime; I can prove I was in Devonshire!"

Seeing him so abject, so incoherent, so wild withapprehension, the directors began to whisper gravely amongthemselves, while one got quietly up and called the porter toguard the door.

"What has your being in Devonshire to do with the matter?"said the chairman. "When were you in Devonshire?"

"Mr. Raikes took his leave in September," said thesecretary, "about the time when Mr. Dwerrihouse disappeared."

"I never even heard that he had disappeared till I cameback!"

"That must remain to be proved," said the chairman."I shall at once put this matter in the hands of the police.In the meanwhile, Mr. Raikes, being myself a magistrate andused to deal with these cases, I advise you to offer noresistance, but to confess while confession may yet do youservice. As for your accomplice—"

The frightened wretch fell upon his knees.

"I had no accomplice!" he cried. "Only have mercyupon me—only spare my life, and I will confess all! I didn'tmean to harm him! I didn't mean to hurt a hair of hishead! Only have mercy upon me, and let me go!"

The chairman rose in his place, pale and agitated. "Goodheavens!" he exclaimed, "what horrible mystery is this?What does it mean?"

"As sure as there is a God in heaven," said Jonathan Jelf,"it means that murder has been done."

"No! no! no!" shrieked Raikes, still upon his knees, andcowering like a beaten hound. "Not murder! No jury thatever sat could bring it in murder. I thought I had onlystunned him—I never meant to do more than stun him!Manslaughter—manslaughter—not murder!"

Overcome by the horror of this unexpected revelation,the chairman covered his face with his hand and for amoment or two remained silent.

"Miserable man," he said at length, "you have betrayedyourself."

"You bade me confess! You urged me to throw myselfupon the mercy of the board!"

"You have confessed to a crime which no one suspectedyou of having committed," replied the chairman, "and whichthis board has no power either to punish or forgive. Allthat I can do for you is to advise you to submit to the law,to plead guilty, and to conceal nothing. When did you dothis deed?"

The guilty man rose to his feet, and leaned heavily againstthe table. His answer came reluctantly, like the speech ofone dreaming.

"On the 22d of September."

On the 22d of September! I looked in Jonathan Jelf'sface, and he in mine. I felt my own paling with a strangesense of wonder and dread. I saw his blanch suddenly, evento the lips.

"Merciful heaven!" he whispered. "What was it, then,that you saw in the train?"

What was it that I saw in the train? That questionremains unanswered to this day. I have never been able toreply to it. I only know that it bore the living likeness ofthe murdered man, whose body had then been lying some tenweeks under a rough pile of branches and brambles androtting leaves, at the bottom of a deserted chalk-pit abouthalf-way between Blackwater and Mallingford. I know that itspoke and moved and looked as that man spoke and movedand looked in life; that I heard, or seemed to hear, thingsrelated which I could never otherwise have learned; thatI was guided, as it were, by that vision on the platform tothe identification of the murderer; and that, a passiveinstrument myself, I was destined, by means of these mysteriousteachings, to bring about the ends of justice. For thesethings I have never been able to account.

As for that matter of the cigar-case, it proved, oninquiry, that the carriage in which I traveled down thatafternoon to Clayborough had not been in use for several weeks,and was, in point of fact, the same in which poor JohnDwerrihouse had performed his last journey. The case haddoubtless been dropped by him, and had lain unnoticed tillI found it.

Upon the details of the murder I have no need to dwell.Those who desire more ample particulars may find them, andthe written confession of Augustus Raikes, in the files ofthe "Times" for 1856. Enough that the under-secretary,knowing the history of the new line, and following thenegotiation step by step through all its stages, determined towaylay Mr. Dwerrihouse, rob him of the seventy-fivethousand pounds, and escape to America with his booty.

In order to effect these ends he obtained leave of absencea few days before the time appointed for the paymentof the money, secured his passage across the Atlantic in asteamer advertised to start on the 23d, provided himselfwith a heavily loaded "life-preserver," and went down toBlackwater to await the arrival of his victim. How he methim on the platform with a pretended message from theboard, how he offered to conduct him by a short cut acrossthe fields to Mallingford, how, having brought him to alonely place, he struck him down with the life-preserver,and so killed him, and how, finding what he had done, hedragged the body to the verge of an out-of-the-way chalk-pit,and there flung it in and piled it over with branches andbrambles, are facts still fresh in the memories of those who,like the connoisseurs in De Quincey's famous essay,regard murder as a fine art. Strangely enough, the murderer,having done his work, was afraid to leave the country.He declared that he had not intended to take the director'slife, but only to stun and rob him; and that, finding theblow had killed, he dared not fly for fear of drawing downsuspicion upon his own head. As a mere robber he wouldhave been safe in the States, but as a murderer he wouldinevitably have been pursued and given up to justice. Sohe forfeited his passage, returned to the office as usual at theend of his leave, and locked up his ill-gotten thousands tilla more convenient opportunity. In the meanwhile he hadthe satisfaction of finding that Mr. Dwerrihouse wasuniversally believed to have absconded with the money, no oneknew how or whither.

Whether he meant murder or not, however, Mr. AugustusRaikes paid the full penalty of his crime, and was hangedat the Old Bailey in the second week in January, 1857.Those who desire to make his further acquaintance may seehim any day (admirably done in wax) in the Chamber ofHorrors at Madame Tussaud's exhibition, in Baker Street.He is there to be found in the midst of a select society ofladies and gentlemen of atrocious memory, dressed in theclose-cut tweed suit which he wore on the evening of themurder, and holding in his hand the identical life-preserverwith which he committed it.

OUR LAST WALK

BY HUGH CONWAY

Frederick John Fargus (born 1847, died7885), writing under the pen-name of HughConway, lived to enjoy but one year ofliterary fame as the author of "Called Back,"a melodramatic novelette of strikingly cleverconception and powerful narrative style. Thequalities which distinguish this book are tobe found in his other stories, a number ofwhich, including the present selection, werepublished in the year preceding and thatfollowing his untimely death.

OUR LAST WALK

By HUGH CONWAY

If I wished to tell a love tale, I should begin thiswith the sweetest memories of my life, and relatewhen and where Walter Linton and I first met;should describe my pride and happiness when Iknew that he wished me to become his wife. The love webore each other through life—ay, even after life—may bemade manifest as I write these lines, but it is notbecause I loved him I have this tale to tell. Other womenhave loved as I love, and have mourned as I mourn: mylife, so far as the joy and grief of it go, is but the life ofthousands.

Had Walter Linton, when first he asked me for the heartwhich was already his own, been but a poor, struggling man,I should have given him all as freely as I did then. If needhad been, I could have waited patiently for years, or untilfortune smiled upon him. Feeling this, I had no falsesentiment as to sharing the worldly good that was his, althoughI was a penniless girl and brought nothing in my hands. Ofcourse, kind friends around wondered why Walter did notchoose a wife who would bring him wealth as well as love.Ah, no one could have given him more love than I couldgive him; that was all he wanted or asked for. He wastwenty-three, and his own master; I was twenty, and utterlyalone in this world. So we were married—just six weeksafter that happy spring day on which he told me I wasdearest to him.

Our home—a dear gray old house, full of pleasantcorners—was Draycot Hall, Somersetshire, not far from theMendip Hills. Walter had recently inherited the house andthe estates of Draycot, and when we took possession of ourkingdom, which was almost as new to Walter as it was tome, life seemed to hold all that could be desired. Walter'sincome was sufficient for the life of a quiet countrygentleman—a life to which he settled down, and appeared to findevery wish gratified in that happy existence. Shooting,fishing, and hunting gave him plenty of amusement, and theland, part of which he farmed himself, brought occupationand interest enough to make him feel that his life was notaltogether an idle or useless one.

Then, to make our happiness complete, the children came—agirl, then one, two, three bonny boys. How merry andbusy the old house grew with them, the sturdy rogues! Howproud Walter was of them!

We were not very rich people. Compared to that of someof our county neighbors, our income was insignificant.Draycot Hall, although not such an imposing pile as the namemight suggest, was by no means a small house; and, like allrambling old places, cost a good deal of money to keep up.Even when we began life together we found, at the end ofthe year, that our expenditure and income nearly tallied,and as expenses increased with an increasing family, we feltthat a few hundreds added to our revenue would be a verywelcome addition. But in spite of this our lot was too happyfor us to think of grumbling.

We sat one summer's evening on the lawn. The air wascooled by late fallen rain, and sweet with fragrance risingfrom the freshened flowers—for days were long and petalsnot yet closed. Our latest given child slept on my knee;and, as we watched the sun sink slowly down behind theMendip Hills, my husband said:

"Helena, how shall we manage to start all these boys inlife?"

I laughed at such a distant obligation. We were stillyoung, and it seemed that so many years must pass beforethe baby on my knee would want a starting hand. I kissedthe child's little white fingers.

"Why, Walter," I said, "you are looking a long, long wayinto the future."

"Yes, my girl; but days happy as ours pass very quickly.It will not seem so long before we shall be obliged to thinkabout it. What shall we do then? We save no money evennow, you know. By-and-by we must send these babies toschool; after that they will want money to help them on inprofessions. How are we to do all this? Our income won'tincrease."

"We must try and economize," I answered, impressed bythe really serious view he took.

"But how? As it is, we can scarcely make both endsmeet. I am afraid I am selfish in living as I do. I haveserious thought of going into some business and trying tomake a fortune."

I begged, beseeched him to dismiss the wild idea. Werewe not happy enough with all we now possessed? Whychange our mode of life, which was so peaceful and sweet?Besides, in my heart of hearts I doubted if my good,easy-going Walter was quite fitted for a commercial career. Hekissed me as I pleaded eloquently for a continuation of ourpresent happiness, and for a time the subject dropped.

Yet I could see, from remarks he now and again made,that the thought lingered in his mind, and I began to fearlest, some day, he might put it into practical shape, when theanxieties attendant on money-making or money-losing mightbe ours.

It was some months after our conversation that old ReubenDyke, a well-known character in the village of Draycot,came to the Hall. He wanted to see the master on importantbusiness, he said. This old Reuben was the greatestgossip of the place—the ale-house oracle—meddler inevery one's business, and unsolicited adviser-in-general tothe little world around him. He was a great authority amongthe villagers, many of whom would have backed his opinionagainst the united wisdom of a Daniel and a Solomon. Histalk and broad Somerset accent always amused us, and, itmay be, insured him a better reception than his virtuesmerited.

To-day he entered the room with an indescribable lookof mystery and secrecy on his shrewd old face. He carefullyclosed the door after him and bade us a respectful good-day.Then, drawing quite close to us, he spoke in guardedwhispers.

"I be jest come, zur, to tell 'ee as ther' have a-bin a chapa staayin' at the Blue Boar vor the last two or dree daays.Mebby, zur, as you've a zeed un about—a darkish,picket-noased zort of a chap."

"Yes, I saw him," answered Walter. "What about him?"

"Now, look here, zur. None o' we couldn't at vust miakeout what a wer' up to. He yent one o' them outrides, youzee. He werdn't lookin' aater shopkippers. He were aferretin' about aater land. Zo we up and ax'd un what a farma wer' aater, or if a did want to buy any land hereabouts?He laughed and zed, zes he, 'We be gwain to make a raailroadright up droo theese yer valley.' Zes I, 'I hoap myhead won't yache till we do get a raailwaay on Mendip, vorthat is a devilish poor country.' 'True,' zes he; 'but there bea lot o' coal jest under—along Havyat Green and UpperLangford.' Zes I, 'Zo I've a-heerd;' and then I zeed in aminute which waay the cat wer' jumpin'. He werdn't gwainto make nar a raailwaay; he wanted to zenk a coal-pit, andget howld o' zome land under false pretenses. Zo, if I wer'you, zur, and if I wer' Mr. Llewellyn, I should jest keepmy eyes open; vor I shouldn't wonder if, one o' thease heredaays, he won't be along and offer 'ee a hundred and fiftya yacre vor some o' your poorest land. But my advice toyou, zur, is—doan't 'ee zell it—not vor double the money."

After this important communication, Reuben bowed himselfout; retiring probably to the kitchen, in order that hemight regale himself with meat and drink and our servantswith the latest village gossip. Walter and I sat digestinghis news.

"I wonder if there can be any truth in it," said Walter."I'll go down to-morrow and see that fellow at the inn, andask him pointblank about it."

But on the morrow the fellow at the inn was there nolonger. He had departed and left no address. The landlordonly knew him as plain Mr. Smith. We never saw or heardof him again—whatever his errand may have been, it was notrevealed to us; but, nevertheless, old Reuben's conjecture asto the object of his sojourn at the Blue Boar quite unsettledWalter's mind. The thought that untold wealth mightbe lying under our very feet was always present to it, andat last he resolved to employ experts who were competentto give an opinion on the matter, and settle our hopes anddoubts.

So, very soon, we were visited by Captain Thomas Davies,of Aberfellteg, and Captain Davies Thomas, of Cwmtygwyn,two gentlemen whose strangely accented English, redundantwith such words as "Inteet" and "Inteet to coodness," wasa source of great amusement and enjoyment to each of us.They inspected, diagnosed, experimented, and then reported.My poor dear love! shall I ever forget your excitement, yourjoy, as we perused together that glowing joint production?What wealth you dreamed of and counted up! Not, I know,that you wished for riches for your own sake—it was for thesake of wife and children that the desire of acquiring a largefortune obtained such a hold on you. Ah me! how certain,how clear and straightforward it all seemed! Had not themining captains calculated, with an accuracy that seemedinfallible, every ton of coal that lay hidden beneath our greenfields? Did not their figures prove beyond dispute the profiteach ton raised must bring? After every contingency hadbeen guarded against, what read like Aladdin's wealth laywaiting for us to stoop down, take, and enjoy. Why shouldwe not do so?

Then other gentlemen came to our quiet home—legalgentlemen—gentlemen who were called financiers—gentlemenlearned, very learned, it seemed to me, in acreages, crops, andsoils. Old safes were unlocked, old plans and musty deedsextracted from their recesses. I heard the word "Mortgage"frequently; and Walter told me he had resolved to sharehis promised wealth with no one. He would work theprojected mines solely on his own account; but, in order tobegin operations, money was needful; so he had arrangedwith the two financial gentlemen, Messrs. Leach andVincent, of Bristol, that such sums of money as were necessaryshould be advanced to him upon the security of his estate.And these gentlemen applauded Walter's courageous resolution,and everything went so pleasantly.

Then the digging began!

Oh, how I hated it! From the very first I hated it! Notonly did it spoil one of our prettiest fields—the one wherethe children gathered earliest cowslips—but it broughtstrange faces and rough forms to the quiet, sleepy littlevillage. Men and women of a very different type to that oflaborers round about. Slatternly untidy women and strong,surly men who knew not the traditions of the land. Menwho were supposed to beat their wives once a week, andwho, we knew, played havoc with our neighbors' costlypreserves. Men who worked hard—very hard—and insistedupon that work being highly paid for—who spent so largea proportion of those hard-earned wages in drink, that thelandlords of the opposition village inns actually shook handsin their unexpected prosperity; whilst our kind, old,easy-going rector fairly cried at the way in which his new andunwelcome parishioners were demoralizing the old ones, andold Reuben Dyke seemed to look almost patronizingly uponus, as two deserving young people helped to fortune by hisgreat sagacity and wisdom.

So it went on, month after month; yet I saw no signs ofthe advent of that promised wealth. So far as I couldunderstand it, the seam of coal hit upon by those clever captainswas a failure. It broke, or dipped, or something else; sothe continuation had to be sought elsewhere. ThereuponCaptains Thomas Davies and Davies Thomas came overagain, inspected again, and reported so cheerfully thatWalter's face lost that look of anxiety which I had lately seenupon it, and he pushed on the work more briskly than before.

Then they told me the right seam had been found—Walterwas radiant. Out of the first money gained he wouldsend Thomas Davies and Davies Thomas a hundred poundsapiece, as an extra recognition due to their skill and goodcounsel. Larger sums than before were furnished by ourfinancial friends, who came to the Hall once or twice, andwere, I thought, very rude and familiar in their manner.Machinery and engines were erected, more men engaged,and in time great black heaps began to accumulate, andgrimy black faces met me at every turn. Our peaceful andbeautiful home was so changed that I began almost toloathe what had once been the dearest spot on earth to me,and to long for change of air and scene.

Money seemed always being paid away—large sums thatfrightened me. But was I not only a woman, who knewnothing of business?

Yet all these grievances were nothing to the grief I feltat seeing the change in my darling's face. Every week Inoticed an alteration. Gradually a cloud of care seemedsettling down on his once gay nature, and I knew his mind wasanxious and ill at ease. He grew thinner; his dark hairshowed signs of premature grayness; his sleep was oftenrestless and unfreshing. Though now, as he ever had been,kind and gentle to me, at times with others he was moody,silent, and evidently worried. All the brightness of youthappeared to be leaving him, so much so that my heart achedto see him, and I felt I could bear it no longer. I wouldlearn the worst he had to tell me, claiming my rightas a true wife to share trouble as well as joy with myhusband.

The confidence I was resolved to claim came unasked for.One evening Walter returned home and threw himself intoa chair, apparently utterly broken down. He covered hiseyes with his hands and sobbed bitterly.

I knelt at his side and my arms were round him. Thenhe told me all—I need not give the details. The bare truthwas this: After all the money spent, the coal raised was ofsuch a poor quality that every ton sold was sold at a loss.And more money than I had ever imagined had beenexpended. Of course he had been cheated—I knew he wasbeing cheated the moment I saw the faces of the men whohad lent him the money he wanted; but there was no helpfor it now. Messrs. Leach and Vincent claimed, foradvances, costs and interest, the enormous sum of close uponten thousand pounds. Walter had just come from Bristol,where these men carried on business, and after a stormyinterview with them, had been informed that unless theamount was paid by Saturday, house, lands, and everythingwould be at once advertised for sale—and to-day wasWednesday!

I knew nothing of law; but, even to my ignorance, thissudden demand and swift procedure seemed unusual.

"But can they do it?" I asked.

"Yes, I am afraid they can. Months ago, when they mademe a large advance, they gave me notice to pay the mortgageoff. It was a mere matter of form, they said; but now theywill act upon it. They are thorough-going rogues, and Ibelieve have some scheme in their heads by which they fancyit possible to get absolute possession of the whole estate."

"But, Walter dear, the estate must be worth thousandsmore than that amount."

"Oh yes, I can get the money easily enough. But not inthree days. It will cut me to the heart even to see it alladvertised, although doubtless the sale may be stopped."

"Why not go to that nice old gentleman, Mr. Mainwaring?"I suggested. "You always call him your familysolicitor. He will help you, I am sure."

"That is just what I intend doing. I shall go to Londonto-morrow, and show him exactly how I stand, and beg asa great favor that I may have the money at once. WhenI return I will give orders for all the men to be dischargedand the machinery sold. There shall be an end of it beforeit makes an end of me."

I was almost hysterical with joy as I heard his last words.

"Oh, my love!" I cried. "It will all come right with usyet. We are after all only half ruined. We can let the Halland go abroad for several years. Don't trouble about it anymore. If you could only know how happy I am to think Ishall have you back once again, all to myself as of old, youwould be happy too. We will live in some quiet French orSwiss town, and be everything to one another again."

So I talked to him and comforted him, until he grew morecomposed, and, kissing me, owned that life was still worthhaving, even if shorn of half its wealth.

That night I slept more happily than I had slept formonths.

The morning's post brought a letter from Leach andVincent. It was couched in legal terms, and stated thatunless the amount due was paid in notes or gold bySaturday at noon, they would take the threatened steps. Walterat once despatched a telegram, saying the money would bepaid, and requesting that the necessary release might beprepared in order to avoid any delay. Then he started forLondon, in quest of ten thousand pounds.

I had little fear as to the result of his expedition. I canread faces; and long ago I had read in Mr. Mainwaring'sface the kindness of his disposition. I knew he was rich,and that his clients were also rich men; moreover, he had ahigh opinion of Walter, and held him in what might almostbe termed affection. When he congratulated me upon mymarriage, he told me, in unmistakable words, what hethought of my husband. So I was not surprised when, onthe Friday evening, Walter returned with a semblance ofthe old joyous smile on his face; and, after locking apocketful of bank-notes in the safe, sat down by me, and for therest of the evening built airy castles, or rather cottages, fullof peacefulness and love.

When I awoke next morn, my heart was light; trouble, itseemed, had been, but passed away so swiftly that its tracesscarce remained. I threw the window open, and the fresh,sweet air of spring brought gladness on its wings. Thehoneysuckle, old and great, that clothed the wall beneath mywindow, just gave signs of breaking into blossom; leaningout, I plucked some sprays and pinned them in my dress. Athrush sung from a bush below; my heart kept echoing hisnotes of love and joy. What cared I for the money, or its loss?Should I not have my own love back again, and watch hisface regain its old bright look of health and happiness?Passed by his side, and with our children round, would notmy life be pleasant in some quaint old town of France? Andwe would live so carefully, and save money as years went on,until some day might bring us to the dear old Hall again.Unhappy?—no! few moments in my life had happier beenthan these.

And Walter was cheerful. He would soon be out of theclutches of his obliging friends. The shock was over. Hehad told me what had been gnawing at his heart for so long;he was now looking his troubles fairly in the face, and, asusually happens, found them not so terrible in aspect as hehad imagined. He buttoned his bank-notes in his breast-pocketand started for the railway station. He felt betterand stronger to-day, and, as the morning was so beautifullyfine, was tempted to walk the five miles, instead of driving,as he usually did.

We were early risers, so he had plenty of time, and Ithought the walk would do him good. Perhaps it was thefeeling of newly restored confidence—perfect and true—whichnow existed between us that made his farewell to me thatmorning even more affectionate than it was wont to be—madehim insist upon having all the children brought down,and taking many a kiss from those little rosy pursed-uplips—made him pause when he reached the furthest point towhich my eyes could follow him, and turning, waft me onemore farewell.

I should have walked with him, at any rate, part of theway; but household duties had to be attended to; so, afterwatching his tall figure disappear at the turning of the drive,I reentered the house, hoping that the day would passquickly, and hasten the evening which would bring him backagain.

Months and months ago I had promised a friend, whosighed in far-away lands for English fields again, to make,this spring, a little collection of dried ferns and send it toher. The anxiety of the last few months had driven the promisefrom my mind, but as, this morning, I pictured our ownprojected emigration, my thoughts turned to my distantfriend, and my broken promise came back to me. Idetermined that on the first opportunity I would make amendsfor my neglect.

Ferns, many of them scarce ones, grew plentifully in ourpleasant country; but on the road that Walter must takeon his way to the station they flourished in unusualabundance. I could obtain many varieties close at hand, butsome few grew further off; so I asked Walter, if he shouldchance to meet with any specimens of these particular sorts,to pick a frond or two, which he could place between theleaves of the book he carried. I wanted, especially, aspecimen of the Northern Shield Fern, which even here is notvery common, growing as it does in little patches, sometimesmiles apart. He laughed at my idle request, but promisedto attend to it.

The day wore on, and the sun got low. It was time tosend the dog-cart to meet the train. Long, long before thetime had elapsed in which, by any chance, it could return,I was waiting at the window to welcome Walter home again.I waited and waited, until so many weary minutes crawledaway that I was fain to conclude he had been detained inBristol until the next and last train.

I nursed my disappointment, and killed the time as best Icould. The hour when I might surely expect him came andpassed. The train must be late. I opened the window, andwaited and listened for the sound of his coming.

At last I heard the ring of the horse's hoofs, and sawthe approaching dog-cart dimly by the light of the stars. Iran to the door, eager to greet my husband; but as the horsedrew up on the gravel, I could see only one figure in thedog-cart—that of James, our groom. He told me that hismaster had come by neither train, so, after waiting, he haddriven back alone.

I turned away, very miserable and sad at heart, but,strange to say, felt no fear of evil. Business had, of course,detained him. It seemed unkind not to have let me knowin some way, but perhaps he could find no means of doingso. There was not the slightest chance of his returningto-night, the distance being far too great for driving. I mustwait until to-morrow.

It was only when I went to bed—alone, for almost thefirst time since we were married—that fear fell upon me,and fancy brought horrid ideas to my mind—that thepossibility of evil having befallen my husband came to me. Thelarge sum of money he carried, the lonely road, the black-facedcolliers about the neighborhood—all combined to fillme with a nameless dread—a terror which I could scarcelyput into thoughts, much less into words. Yet I strove withmy fears, trying to strangle each one as it was born.

"I shall see him to-morrow. To-morrow I shall see him,"I repeated over and over again; and as that morning at lastdawned, I fell into a restless sleep.

But morning brought him not; noon brought him not—neitherletter nor message. So my heart died within me;and taking a maid with me, I started for Bristol by theafternoon train. It was Sunday; the streets of the large townlooked dreary and deserted as we passed through them.Knowing Mr. Leach's private address, we drove straight tohis house. After some delay I was shown into a room.

By and by Mr. Leach entered, with his fat forefingerclosed in a book of sermons, which, I felt instinctively, hehad been engaged in reading for the benefit of his youngvultures. His smooth face was full of gentle astonishmentthat any one should wish to confer with him on businessmatters on that particular evening in the week. As I lookedat him and read through his mask of hypocrisy, I knew thatthe man was a rogue and capable of committing any crime.When he saw who his visitor was, his astonished lookchanged to one of annoyance. He closed his book entirely,laying it on the table with the edifying title turnedtoward me.

It seems childish to mention such trivial incidents; butduring that terrible time every word, every detail, seemsgraven upon my memory in deep lines that will never beeffaced.

"I have called, Mr. Leach—" I began.

"My dear Mrs. Linton, I know why you have called. ButI am sorry to be obliged to say that your errand isuseless—utterly useless. Mr. Lintonmade a promise he has not kept.He can not blame us for the steps we have taken."

"A promise not kept?" I echoed.

"Certainly not. He undertook to pay us a large sum ofmoney yesterday. He has not been near us—I conclude hefa ill," he added, with an approach to a sneer.

I sunk back in the wildest grief. Then all my fears of thenight, all my forebodings of the day, were true! I knew thatnever—never again should I look on Walter's face. He hadbeen murdered—but by whom?

Mr. Leach endeavored, after the manner of his kind, tocomfort me. He placed his fat hand in a soothing way uponmy arm. This action restored my senses to me.

"My husband left me only yesterday morning with themoney you claim in his pocket. I know it for certain. Hewas going straight to you. Where is he? Tell me?"

Mr. Leach gave a start of surprise, but said nothing. Iwaited for his answer.

"Where is he?" I reiterated. "Tell me!"

Mr. Leach placed his finger-tips together, and looked atme with an expression almost like placid amusement.

"Mrs. Linton," he said slowly, "I am a man of business,and have seen strange things in my time, so you mustn't beoffended if I ask you a question. Mr. Linton had the moneyready for us, you say. In what form was it?"

"In notes, sir," I replied. "He told me you declined takinganything else."

"Yes, yes—except gold. So we did. We are bound to becareful. Now, Mrs. Linton—mind, I mean no offense—doyou know that your husband was much embarrassed?"

"I know he could pay all just debts—and unjust ones,too," I answered, with rising indignation.

"Yes, of course. All just and unjust debts. All unjustdebts—very good. Now, do you think it possible—tenthousand is a lot of money—do you think it possible thatMr. Linton may have—well, in plain English, decamped with it?"

I heard no more. My face was flaming. I rose and, withoutanother word, left the room. I was in the cab beforeMr. Leach had recovered from his surprise, and in anotherminute was sobbing my poor heart out on the shoulder ofmy maid—a faithful, good girl who loved me.

I can not tell you of the next few days. The uncertaintyof everything, yet, to me, the utter hopelessness. The dreadof what any moment might make known to me. The searcherssearching and hoping to find—what? For I knew thatthe success of their quest could only bring me the dead bodyof my darling—murdered, perhaps, for the sake of the moneyhe carried. Yet hardest of all to bear was the knowledgethat the sorrow manifested by those around me was onlyassumed out of respect to me; that no one believed Walterto be dead; that the wicked, cruel slander which had frameditself in Mr. Leach's mind had entered into the minds ofothers. I could read the thought in the faces of all whocame near me during those days. I knew that the paid seekersperformed their task with a smile on their lips—that theword went around among them that, in order to be successful,the search should be, not for a dead, but for a livingman, to find whom it was needful to look further away.How was it I did not go mad?

I cared nothing when some one told me that the property,house, and all were advertised for sale in a few weeks' time.I thought of nothing, saw nothing but the cold, still face ofthe one I loved. I wished for nothing now but to see hisname cleared from the stain thrown upon it—a stain hewould have heeded more than death; this done, I wished todie—that was all. The wild thought which had at first enteredmy head, that the men to whom he owed the money hadtaken it and made away with him, was at last dispelled; forproof was positive that Walter had not gone to Bristol onthat fatal morning. The passengers from the station weretoo few, and Walter too well known not to have beennoticed. Indeed, no ticket for the class by which he wouldcertainly have traveled had been issued that day. No onehad met him that morning, and he had disappeared withoutleaving a trace; for people told me that every inch of thecountry near had been scoured. But I knew they deceivedme, and that the wicked thought was in every heart, althoughno one dared to speak it in words to me who knew him andloved him.

Mr. Mainwaring, whom I had almost forgotten in mygrief, came down in the course of a few days. Unfit as Iwas for business, I was compelled to see him. The kind oldman was in great distress and anxiety, but he was very goodto me. He started when he saw that I had already put onmourning.

"It is dreadful," he said, with tears in his eyes, and takingboth my hands in his. "Not that I care for the money somuch—although, of course, I must make up any deficiencymyself, having been guilty of such irregularity. It isdreadful to think that I, who tried to help Walter, must now striphis wife and children of their last shilling. I trusted him sothat I let him have my client's money simply on his note-of-hand,bearing, of course, all responsibility myself. It wasmost irregular; but he was so urgent, and I wanted to helphim. Poor girl! I will do what I can for you, but I amafraid it can be but little."

I begged him not to think of us, and thanked him againand again for his great kindness.

"I would, if only in my own interests, pay the moneyagain and stop the sale; but no one has the power tomortgage the property to me. We do not even know that Walteris dead. It can not, can not be true, what every one seemsto hint at?" he added, almost shamefacedly.

I burst into a flood of tears and almost fell at his feet.

"Not you, Mr. Mainwaring! Not you!" I sobbed out."You, who knew him, and knew that dishonor was not inhim! Let me think that one, at least, believes in my deadlove. Would to God, for my sake, it were as people think,so that I might some day see him again."

The kind old friend raised me.

"No," he said; "I don't believe it. I have known himfrom a boy, and I knew his father before him. They liewho say Walter Linton could have done such a thing. Butit is all very, very dreadful."

Mr. Mainwaring slept at Draycot Hall that night, but Icould not bring myself to spend the evening in hiscompany. We could but think or speak of one subject, and Ifelt I had no right to inflict my grief upon him. I should bebetter alone. I watched the children sink to sleep, and forsome hours sat by their little white beds listening to theirregular breathing. Then I kissed them all gently and veryquickly, lest my hot tears, falling on their upturned faces,should awake them; and, near midnight, retired to whatwith me would wrongly be called rest. I locked the doorof my room, undressed myself, and sat in my dressing-gownover the fire, for the night being damp and cold, my goodmaid had kindled a fire for me.

And there I sat, not seeking rest. I knew that sleep andI must be strangers for hours; that not until my strengthwas quite worn out would sad thoughts cease and change tosadder dreams; not till at last, from sheer fatigue they fell,would weary eyelids curtain tearful eyes. And so I sat, tillslowly died the fire, and morning air stole chilly throughthe room—thinking of all the joy and sweetness of life solately promised, all it gave me now. It seemed so hard tolose the one I loved—lost, as it were, in darkest night, withnone to say where he had wandered.

"Oh!" I cried, "if I could see you once and say farewell,although your words came but from dying lips! I shouldnot grieve so much, and for the sake of children dear to bothmight live, and even not go mad."

The wind had risen with the night, and gusts now andagain bore heavy rain that beat against my window; whilstthe tall trees round moaned as the gale went tearing throughtheir boughs. The world seemed full of dismal sounds andgrief, and I the saddest in the world. At last sleepconquered sorrow, so I threw myself down on the bed and slept.How long it was I slept I can not tell, for all the while Iseemed awake and seeing fearful sights. Cruel voiceswhispered words that stabbed my heart, so that in dreams Ilonged for wakefulness. Then I awoke and heard the windand rain, louder and fiercer, whilst the room looked strangeas morning dawned in cheerless gray, and crept in throughthe half turned blind.

I felt dazed. For a moment I could scarcely realizewhere I was, or quite recall what had happened. I eventurned, from force of habit, to see if Walter, who shouldbe by my side, was also awake. Then, as I saw the vacantpillow by mine, all came back to me—came back with sucha reflux of sorrow that, in my despair, I threw out my arms,and sobbing bitterly, called on the one who could not hearme. My right hand lay as it had fallen, outside thecoverlid, and, in a minute, I almost shrieked with horror andalarm; for I felt another hand seek it, touch it; and Iexperienced the sensation of fingers closing round my own.Hastily I tore my hand away from that clasp—if what heldwithout restraining, made itself distinctly felt withoutoffering resistance, can be called a clasp—and sprang from thebed. Courageous as I am by nature, I trembled like a leaf,and had it been dark when that unknown hand sought mine,my horror must have vented itself in screams. But the roomwas nearly light; so in a few moments I conquered thatoverpowering fright and looked around for the intruder. Ipeered into every nook in which one might possibly hide,but detected no one. The door was as firmly locked as Ileft it. I was alone, for no one could have entered eitherby door or window. Then I sat down and reasoned withmyself on my folly. It was fancy from a mind upset andoverwrought with grief. It was the lingering impressionleft by one of those dreams—those dreadful dreams whichsleep had brought me! It was a pure delusion, a creationof my own, and I wondered if, as I feared at times, I wasgoing out of my senses. Although I was able to persuademyself that this reasoning was correct, I dared not returnto my bed, but, sitting once more in my chair, longed forbroad daylight.

My thoughts soon wandered away from my recent fright,and took that path which they always followed. My armdropped to my side, and my fingers relaxed themselves. Andthen, once more I felt that hand creep to mine, take it, andhold it. Again I felt the unmistakable sensation of fingersthat closed round mine. I felt that there was no hand in minethat my hand could clasp in return, but the sensation of apalm against my palm—fingers twining my fingers—wasindisputable. The sensation of pressure was there—faintly, itis true, but it was there. It was no fancy, no dream, thistime. Whether mortal or not, a hand, or the semblance of ahand, was holding mine. Again the horror overcame me—againI strove to tear my hand away from this invisible clasp.My blood curdled as I found the result of my efforts failed onthis second occasion—found that the fingers which fastenedon my own could not be shaken off, do what I would. As Imoved my hand, even so the hand that held it moved with it.If I clinched my own, I could yet feel the strange pressureof those unseen fingers. If I grasped my right hand in myleft, there was still the sensation of another hand betweenmy own. Do what I would, move how I would, that clasp,or phantom of a clasp, was ever on my hand. Yet I struggledwith fear until the awful thought flashed through mybrain that this was the aura, the forerunner of paralysis orepilepsy. Then I could bear it no longer. Whether thatgrasp was the result of bodily or mental ailment, I couldbear it no longer—I felt my mind was going. I rushed tothe door, tore it open, and my screams rang through thehouse. Remember, I was but a woman, and alone.

As the sound of hurrying feet drew near, that hand orhand-clasp lying on my own quitted it. Then, as the strangesensation ceased, did I hear a mournful sound, like a sigh,or was it only the wind outside? Did the phantom fingersdraw themselves away from mine soothingly, even, it seemed,reluctantly, or was that fancy too? As the servants withfrightened looks drew near me, could that wild and joyfulthought that flashed through my brain be more than thethought of a madwoman? What could it mean?

Except for this I was myself again. I had been frightened,I told all who came to me—frightened by dreams, byshadows, by solitude, and my own thoughts. No one wonderedat it; what flesh and blood could stand, unmoved, theanxiety I had borne during the last week? I was over-wroughtand suffering from sleeplessness, so Mr. Mainwaringinsisted upon giving me an opiate. I swallowed it reluctantly,and my maid sat with me, until, in due time, dull sleeptold of the potency and efficacy of the drug which I had beenmade to take.

This artificial sleep lasted without a break until late in theafternoon. Then I awoke refreshed, and in full possession ofmy senses. I arose and prayed, as I had never prayed before,that my hand might again feel that unseen touch which hadnearly driven me mad in the night. "Will it come again?O, let it come again!" was the constant cry of my heart;and I longed ardently for the night, which, perhaps, mightbring that hand seeking my own again. For incredible as itseems, I knew, when those fingers last left mine, that lovehad in part conquered death—that Walter had been with me.Now I feared nothing. Why should I fear? He had lovedme living—he loved me now. Whether he came to me inbody or in spirit, should he not be welcome? Oh, that hemight come again!

And he came again. Mr. Mainwaring, who would notleave Draycot that day on account of the apparently strangestate of my health, that evening insisted upon my taking aturn in the garden. I obeyed him, although every plant, everyblossom around, seemed breathing sadness. I was too tiredto walk for longer than a few minutes, but sat on my favoriteseat, and watched the sun sink behind the hills. Even thenand there—in broad daylight—I felt his hand seek my own,and my heart leaped with joy. I shunned or strove to avoidit no longer. I let my hand lie still, and again I felt thetouch, or the spirit of the touch, of the one I loved. Sonaturally those fingers closed round mine; so familiar seemed thatclasp to me, that could I have forgotten the last week, I mighthave closed my eyes, and, lying there with my hand in his,have thought I had only to open them to happiness oncemore. If I could but forget!

Even if I had not known in whose hand mine was resting,the caress those fingers gave me would have told me.I wondered why I feared and repulsed them at first. If onlyI could sometimes sit as I sat then, and know and feel thatWalter was beside me, I thought that life might even behappy. So I turned my head toward him, and said,softly—so softly:

"Dearest love, you will come often and often, will younot? You will be always with me; then I shall not beunhappy."

He answered not, but I felt a change in the clasp of hishand, and I pondered as to what its meaning could be. ThenI fancied that faintly, very faintly, that touch wasendeavoring to make me understand something which my grosserearthly faculties failed to grasp—to direct, to lead mesomewhere for some purpose. For it left me and came again, leftand came again, till at last I learned its meaning.

Then and there I rose. "I come, my love," I said. Andonce more Walter Linton and his wife walked, as they hadwalked many a time before, hand-in-hand down the broadgarden path; past the rustic lodge, covered with rosebudsand woodbine; through the gateway; out into the high road.I feared nothing: the hand of the one I loved was in mine,and guiding me whither he chose; moreover it was yetdaylight, and I was not dreaming.

I even knew that Mr. Mainwaring followed us as wewalked down the path. I saw him come to my side and lookat me with wonder. I wanted no one to be near my husbandand myself, so I waved him back imperiously. "Follow ifyou like," I said, "but do not speak to us." Perhaps hethought I was mad, perhaps that I was walking in my sleep,and, if so, feared to awake me. Any way, he followed ussilently, and that was all I knew or cared about him, or aboutanything else. For were not my love and I walking, oncemore, hand-in-hand, and it was not in a dream?

Along and along the road, each side of which is beautifulwith its green banks and hedges, and every inch of which weknow, even keeping to that side we always choose because theflowers grow thickest there. How fresh and green everythinglooks this evening! The swallows are flying here and there.Every blade of grass is washed clean from dust by the heavyrain of the morning. No. I am not dreaming. I am walkingwith my husband. A nightingale breaks Into song nearus, as we walk. We stop—who could help stopping to listen?Now its melody ceases, and Walter leads me on. It is likein the old days when we were first wed; before we thoughtor wished for more wealth. Those days when all the countryround was fresh and new to me. Never did the wild-flowers,I think, look gayer than they look this evening, although theyare closing fast. I would stop, my darling, and gather abunch for the children; but they have so many flowers athome, and I fear to loose your hand for a moment. Besides,you wish to lead me further yet; we have somewhere to goto this evening. I forget whither it was you told me, Walter.Is it to the lily-pond, to see if we can find any snow-whitecups floating, buoyed up by the broad green leaves? Is itto climb the hill that lies in front of us, and see the verylast of the glorious sun; to catch the crimson sparkle of itsrays on the distant windows of our dear home? That sunwhich will rise to-morrow, and waken us both so early—foryou will never leave me again, Walter—promise me, mydarling—I have been so unhappy. Is it further yet? To the ruinsof the gray old abbey where the poet's ivy grows so freely?Shall we wait there, as once before, and see the full moonshine through the rose of the east windows? Shall we wanderarm-in-arm through the dim glades, laughing at the foolishmonks who chose to live and die there, knowing not love, northe sweetness of life when two share its joys and troubles?But our troubles are over now, are they not, dearest? Nomatter, lead me whither you will: I care not—you are withme, your hand is in mine, and I am happy. But whereverwe go, we will walk back by moonlight, and then creep upquietly and kiss the children just once before we go to bed.To-morrow we will wake and love again. No, I am notdreaming. But why do you not speak to me and tell mewhere you have been—why you left me so long? Oh, how Ihave wept and waited for you! Dearest, you will never leaveme again?

This is the spot you wished to lead me to—the place wherethe ferns grow? Ah, you remembered what I wanted. Arethere any of that sort up there? Let us go and see, althoughthe day is flying fast. Through the hazel bushes—deep, deepinto the underwood—on and on—up and up—brambles andstones! I did not know it was so steep here. Hold myhand firmer and help me. More bushes, more undergrowth;and how the twilight fades! My darling, we shall find noferns to-night. May we not go back and come again to-morrow?Yet on, and on! Love, where you lead I follow andfear not! Is not your hand in mine, and you will never leaveme again! Still on! My darling, you have brought me tothe very edge of a rock! Don't leave me here! Don't drawyour hand from mine! Stay one minute—one momentlonger! I can not see you; it is dark and cold! I can notfeel you, and the world seems filling again with grief. Comeback! Come back! Walter! Walter!

They told me I dreamed it—that I walked in my sleep.Clever and learned men said so, and I am only a woman,neither clever nor learned. Mr. Mainwaring, who had withgreat difficulty followed us—for I say "us," in spite of allthat wisdom can urge—found me lying lifeless at the brinkof the rocky depth to which Walter had led me, and wherehe had left me. Down below me lay something that I, thankGod, never saw. They bore it home and told me it was allthat was left of Walter Linton, my husband. But I knewbetter, for had he not that evening walked hand-in-handwith me for miles? They told me, also, that he had fallenfrom the top of the rock—that it was not a great height, buthigh enough for the fall to kill him instantaneously—thatmost likely he was led to that fatal place, seeking some rareplant; as a root and withered leaves were clenched in hishand—that the notes he had placed in his pocket when heleft his home were still there—that Draycot was still mineand his children's. But they believe me not when I tell themthat my love, my husband, through the power of the lovehe bore me, could come from the dead—could take my handIn his and lead me with him, on and on, till he showed mewhere and how he died—till he saved those he loved fromutter ruin and a life of penury—till, more than all, he clearedhis own dear memory from stain and dishonor. Yet thesethings were!

THRAWN JANET

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was bornin Edinburgh in 1850. He was graduated atCambridge and studied law, which he abandonedfor literature. In 1889 he settled inSamoa, where he died in 1894. He is theauthor of numerous essays, a delightfulvolume of poems called "A Child's Garden ofVerses," and many stories. Stevenson's booksinclude: "Treasure Island"; "Kidnapped"and its sequel, "David Balfour"; "The BlackArrow"; "Prince Otto"; "The SilveradoSquatters"; "New Arabian Nights"; "IslandNights' Entertainments"; "The Master ofBallantrae"; "An Inland Voyage"; "Travels witha Donkey," and "The Ebb-Tide."

"Thrawn Janet" appeared in "The MerryMen and Other Tales."

THRAWN JANET

By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister ofthe moorland parish of Balweary, in the vale ofDule. A severe, bleak-faced old man, dreadful tohis hearers, he dwelt in the last years of his life,without relative or servant or any human company, in thesmall and lonely manse under the Hanging Shaw. In spiteof the iron composure of his features, his eye was wild,scared, and uncertain; and when he dwelt, in private admonitions,on the future of the impenitent, it seemed as if hiseye pierced through the storms of time to the terrors ofeternity. Many young persons, coming to preparethemselves against the season of the Holy Communion, weredreadfully affected by his talk. He had a sermon on 1stPeter, v. and 8th, "The devil as a roaring lion," on theSunday after every seventeenth of August, and he wasaccustomed to surpass himself upon that text both by theappalling nature of the matter and the terror of his bearing inthe pulpit. The children were frightened into fits, and theold looked more than usually oracular, and were, all thatday, full of those hints that Hamlet deprecated. The manseitself, where it stood by the water of Dule among somethick trees, with the Shaw overhanging it on the one side,and on the other many cold, moorish hilltops rising towardthe sky, had begun, at a very early period of Mr. Soulis'sministry, to be avoided in the dusk hours by all who valuedthemselves upon their prudence; and guidmen sitting at theclachan alehouse shook their heads together at the thoughtof passing late by that uncanny neighborhood. There wasone spot, to be more particular, which was regarded withespecial awe. The manse stood between the high road andthe water of Dule, with a gable to each; its back was towardthe kirktown of Balweary, nearly half a mile away; in frontof it, a bare garden, hedged with thorn, occupied the landbetween the river and the road. The house was two storieshigh, with two large rooms on each. It opened not directlyon the garden, but on a causewayed path, or passage,giving on the road on the one hand, and closed on the otherby the tall willows and elders that bordered on the stream.And it was this strip of causeway that enjoyed among theyoung parishioners of Balweary so infamous a reputation.The minister walked there often after dark, sometimesgroaning aloud in the instancy of his unspoken prayers; and whenhe was from home, and the manse door was locked, themore daring schoolboys ventured, with beating hearts, to"follow my leader" across that legendary spot.

This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a manof God of spotless character and orthodoxy, was a commoncause of wonder and subject of inquiry among the fewstrangers who were led by chance or business into thatunknown, outlying country. But many even of the people ofthe parish were ignorant of the strange events which hadmarked the first year of Mr. Soulis's ministrations; and amongthose who were better informed, some were naturallyreticent, and others shy of that particular topic. Now andagain, only, one of the older folk would warm into courageover his third tumbler, and recount the cause of theminister's strange looks and solitary life.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam' first into Ba'weary,he was still a young man—a callant, the folk said—fu' o'book learnin' and grand at the exposition, but, as wasnatural in sae young a man, wi' nae leevin' experience inreligion. The younger sort were greatly taken wi' his giftsand his gab; but auld, concerned, serious men and womenwere moved even to prayer for the young man, whom theytook to be a self-deceiver, and the parish that was like tobe sae ill-supplied. It was before the days o' themoderates—weary fa' them; but ill things are like guid—they baithcome bit by bit, a pickle at a time; and there were folk eventhen that said the Lord had left the college professors totheir ain devices, an' the lads that went to study wi' themwad hae done mair and better sittin' in a peat-bog, like theirforebears of the persecution, wi' a Bible under their oxterand a speerit o' prayer in their heart. There was nae doubt,onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been ower lang at thecollege. He was careful and troubled for mony things besidesthe ae thing needful. He had a feck o' books wi' him—mairthan had ever been seen before in a' that presbytery; and asair wark the carrier had wi' them, for they were a' like tohave smoored in the Deil's Hag between this and Kilmackerlie.They were books o' divinity, to be sure, or so theyca'd them; but the serious were o' opinion there was littleservice for sae mony, when the hail o' God's Word wouldgang in the neuk of a plaid. Then he wad sit half the dayand half the nicht forbye, which was scant decent—writin',nae less; and first, they were feared he wad read his sermons;and syne it proved he was writin' a book himsel', which waysurely no fittin' for ane of his years an' sma' experience.

Onyway it behooved him to get an auld, decent wife tokeep the manse for him an' see to his bit denners; and hewas recommended to an auld limmer—Janet M'Clour, theyca'd her—and sae far left to himsel' as to be ower persuaded.There was mony advised him to the contrar, for Janet wasmair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba'weary. Lang orthat, she had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadnae comeforrit for maybe thretty year; and bairns had seen hermumblin' to hersel' up on Key's Loan in the gloamin', whilk wasan unco time an' place for a God-fearin' woman. Howsoever,it was the laird himsel' that had first tauld the ministero' Janet; and in thae days he wad have gane a far gate topleesure the laird. When folk tauld him that Janet was sibto the deil, it was a' superstition by his way of it; an' whenthey cast up the Bible to him an' the witch of Endor, he wadthreep it doun their thrapples that thir days were a' gane by,and the deil was mercifully restrained.

Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M'Clourwas to be servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi'her an' him thegether; and some o' the guidwives had naebetter to dae than get round her door cheeks and chairgeher wi' a' that was ken't again her, frae the sodger's bairnto John Tamson's twa kye. She was nae great speaker; folkusually let her gang her ain gate, an' she let them gangtheirs, wi' neither Fair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day; but whenshe buckled to she had a tongue to deave the miller. Upshe got, an' there wasnae an auld story in Ba'weary but shegart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldnae say aething but she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, theguidwives up and claught haud of her, and clawed the coatsaff her back, and pu'd her doun the clachan to the water o'Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soum or droun. Thecarline skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin' Shaw,and she focht like ten; there was mony a guidwife bure themark of her neist day, an' mony a lang day after; and justin the hettest o' the collteshangie, wha suld come up (forhis sins) but the new minister.

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

Janet ran to him—she was fair wud wi' terror—an' clangto him an' prayed him, for Christ's sake, save her frae thecummers; an' they, for their pairt, tauld him a' that wasken't, and maybe mair.

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

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

"Will you," says Mr. Soulis, "in the name of God, andbefore me, His unworthy minister, renounce the devil andhis works?"

Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she gave agirn that fairly frichtit them that saw her, an' they couldhear her teeth play dirl thegether in her chafts; but therewas naething for it but the ae way or the ither; an' Janetlifted up her hand and renounced the deil before them a'.

"And now," said Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, "home withye, one and all, and pray to God for His forgiveness."

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

There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers thatnicht; but when the morn cam' there was sic a fear fell upona' Ba'weary that the bairns hid theirsels, and even themen-folk stood and keekit frae their doors. For there was Janetcomin' doun the clachan—her or her likeness, nane couldtell—wi' her neck thrawn, and her heid on ae side, like abody that has been hangit, and a girn on her face like anunstreakit corp. By an' by they got used wi' it, and evenspeered at her to ken what was wrang; but frae that dayforth she couldnae speak like a Christian woman, but slaveredand played click wi' her teeth like a pair o' shears; andfrae that day forth the name o' God cam' never on her lips.Whiles she wad try to say it, but it michtnae be. Themthat kenned best said least; but they never gied that Thingthe name o' Janet M'Clour; for the auld Janet, by their wayo't, was in muckle hell that day. But the minister wasneither to haud nor to bind; he preached about naethingbut the folk's cruelty that had gi'en her a stroke of the palsy;he skelpt the bairns that meddled her; and he had her up tothe manse that same nicht and dwalled there a' his lane wi'her under the Hangin' Shaw.

Weel, time gaed by: and the idler sort commenced tothink mair lichtly o' that black business. The minister wasweel thocht o'; he was aye late at the writing, folk wad seehis can'le doun by the Dule water after twal' at e'en; andhe seemed pleased wi' himsel' and upsitten as at first, thougha' body could see that he was dwining. As for Janet shecam' an' she gaed; if she didnae speak muckle afore, it wasreason she should speak less then; she meddled naebody;but she was an eldritch thing to see, an' nane wad haemistrysted wi' her for Ba'weary glebe.

About the end o' July there cam' a spell o' weather, thelike o't never was in that countryside; it was lown an' hetan' heartless; the herds couldnae win up the Black Hill, thebairns were ower weariet to play; an' yet it was gousty too,wi' claps o' het wund that rumm'led in the glens, and bitso' shouers that sleekened naething. We aye thocht it butto thun'er on the morn; but the morn cam', and the morn'smorning, and it was aye the same uncanny weather, sair onfolks and bestial. Of a' that were the waur, nane sufferedlike Mr. Soulis; he could neither sleep nor eat, he tauld hiselders; an' when he wasnae writin' at his weary book, he wadbe stravaguin' ower a' the countryside like a man possessed,when a' body else was blythe to keep caller ben the house.

Abune Hangin' Shaw, in the bield o' the Black Hill,there's a bit inclosed grund wi' an iron yett; and it seems,in the auld days, that was the kirkyaird o' Ba'weary, andconsecrated by the Papists before the blessed licht shoneupon the kingdom. It was a great howff o' Mr. Soulis's,onyway; there he would sit an' consider his sermons; andindeed it's a bieldy bit. Weel, as he cam' ower the wast endo' the Black Hill, ae day, he saw first twa, an' syne fower,an' syne seeven corbie craws fleein' round an' round abunethe auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh and heavy, an' squawkedto ither as they gaed; and it was clear to Mr. Soulis thatsomething had put them frae their ordinar. He wasnae easyfleyed, an' gaed straucht up to the wa's; an' what suld hefind there but a man, or the appearance of a man, sittin' inthe inside upon a grave. He was of a great stature, an'black as hell, and his e'en were singular to see. Mr. Soulishad heard tell o' black men, mony's the time; but there wassomething unco about this black man that daunted him.Het as he was, he took a kind o' cauld grue in the marrowo' his banes; but up he spak for a' that; an' says he: "Myfriend, are you a stranger in this place?" The black mananswered never a word; he got upon his feet, an' begudeto hirsle to the wa' on the far side; but he aye lookit atthe minister; an' the minister stood an' lookit back; till a'in a meenute the black man was ower the wa' an' rinnin'for the bield o' the trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned why,ran after him; but he was sair forjaskit wi' his walk an' thehet, unhalesome weather; and rin as he likit, he got naemair than a glisk o' the black man amang the birks, till hewon doun to the foot o' the hillside, an' there he saw himance mair, gaun, hap, step, an' lowp, ower Dule water tothe manse.

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

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

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

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

"Weel," says he, "Janet, if there was nae black man, Ihave spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren."

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

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

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

The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' stoodglowrin' at Dule water. The trees are unco thick, an' thewater lies deep an' black under the manse; an' there wasJanet washin' the cla'es wi' her coats kilted. She had herback to the minister, an' he, for his pairt, hardly kennedwhat he was lookin' at. Syne she turned round, an' shawedher face; Mr. Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice thatday afore, an' it was borne in upon him what folk said, thatJanet was deid lang syne, an' this was a bogle in her claycauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and he scanned hernarrowly. She was tramp-trampin' in the cla'es, croonin' tohersel'; and eh! Gude guide us, but it was a fearsome face.Whiles she sang louder, but there was nae man born o'woman that could tell the words o' her sang; an' whilesshe lookit side-lang doun, but there was naething there forher to look at. There gaed a scunner through the flesh uponhis banes; and that was Heeven's advertisement. But Mr. Soulisjust blamed himsel', he said, to think sae ill of a puir,auld afflicted wife that hadnae a freend forby himsel'; andhe put up a bit prayer for him and her, an' drank a littlecaller water—for his heart rose again the meat—an' gaed upto his naked bed in the gloaming.

That was a nicht that has never been forgotten inBa'weary, the nicht o' the seeventeenth of August, seeventeenhun'er' and twal'. It had been het afore, as I hae said, butthat nicht it was hetter than ever. The sun gaed dounamang unco-lookin' clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no astar, no a breath o' wund; ye couldnae see your han' aforeyour face, and even the auld folk cuist the covers frae theirbeds and lay pechin' for their breath. Wi' a' that he hadupon his mind, it was gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis wad getmuckle sleep. He lay an' he tummled; the gude, caller bedthat he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he slept, andwhiles he waukened; whiles he heard the time o' nicht,and whiles a tyke yowlin' up the muir, as if somebody wasdeid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles claverin' in hislug, an' whiles he saw spunkies in the room. He behooved,he judged, to be sick; an' sick he was—little hejaloosed the sickness.

At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, sat upin his sark on the bedside, and fell thinkin' ance mair o' theblack man an' Janet. He couldnae weel tell how—maybe itwas the cauld to his feet—but it cam' in upon him wi' aspate that there was some connection between thir twa, an'that either or baith o' them were bogles. And just at thatmoment, in Janet's room, which was neist to his, there cam'a stramp o' feet as if men were wars'lin', an' then a loudbang; an' then a wund gaed reishling round the fowerquarters of the house; an' then a' was aince mair as seelentas the grave.

Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. Hegot his tinder box, an' lighted a can'le, an' made three stepso't ower to Janet's door. It was on the hasp, an' he pushedit open, an' keeked bauldly in. It was a big room, as big asthe minister's ain, an' plenished wi' grand, auld, solid gear,for he had naething else. There was a fower-posted bed wi'auld tapestry; and a braw cabinet of aik, that was fu' o' theminister's divinity books, an' put there to be out o' thegate; an' a wheen duds o' Janet's lying here and there aboutthe floor. But nae Janet could Mr. Soulis see; nor ony signof a contention. In he gaed (an' there's few that wad ha'efollowed him) an' lookit a' round, an' listened. But therewas naethin' to be heard, neither inside the manse nor in a'Ba'weary parish, an' naethin' to be seen but the muckleshadows turnin' round the can'le. An' then a' at aince, theminister's heart played dunt an' stood stock-still; an' a cauldwund blew amang the hairs o' his heid. Whaten a wearysicht was that for the puir man's een! For there was Janethangin' frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid ayelay on her shoother, her een were steeked, the tongue projekitfrae her mouth, and her heels were twa feet clear abunethe floor.

"God forgive us all!" thocht Mr. Soulis; "poor Janet'sdead."

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

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

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

By this time the foot was comin' through the passagefor the door; he could hear a hand skirt alang the wa', as ifthe fearsome thing was feelin' for its way. The saughstossed an' maned thegether, a lang sigh cam' ower the hills,the flame o' the can'le was blawn aboot; an' there stood thecorp of Thrawn Janet, wi' her grogram goun an' her blackmutch, wi' the heid aye upon the shouther, an' the girn stillupon the face o't—leevin', ye wad hae said—deid, asMr. Soulis weel kenned—upon the threshold o' the manse.

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

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

"Witch, beldame, devil!" he cried, "I charge you, by thepower of God, begone—if you be dead, to the grave—ifyou be damned, to hell."

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

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

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

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

BY CHARLES DICKENS

Charles Dickens was a stanch friend notonly of the child but of all humanity. Nowriter, perhaps, has succeeded in portrayingso strikingly the humorous and pathetic inhuman character. Much of Dickens's reputationfor ability in this direction is due to hissuccess with the particular story givenherewith. The man or woman who does not knowScrooge, the Ghost that scared him half todeath, and what this story stands for, has stillsomething to learn, both of literature and of life.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

By CHARLES DICKENS

STAVE ONE

Marley's Ghost

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubtwhatever about that. The register of his burial wassigned by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker,and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: andScrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything hechose to put his hand to. Old Marley was dead as adoornail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge,what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. Imight have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail asthe deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But thewisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowedhands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. Youwill therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marleywas dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. Howcould it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners forI don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor,his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuarylegatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scroogewas not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that hewas an excellent man of business on the very day of thefuneral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to thepoint I started from. There is no doubt that Marley wasdead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothingwonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If wewere not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father diedbefore the play began, there would be nothing more remarkablein his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, uponhis own ramparts, than there would be in any othermiddle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezyspot—say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance—literally toastonish his son's weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There itstood, years afterward, above the warehouse door: Scroogeand Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley.Sometimes people new to the business called ScroogeScrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to bothnames: it was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone,Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching,covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from whichno steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, andself-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within himfroze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled hischeek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lipsblue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frostyrime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wirychin. He carried his own low temperature always aboutwith him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thawit one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge.No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. Nowind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow wasmore intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less opento entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to havehim. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet,could boast of the advantage over him in only onerespect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scroogenever did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, withgladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When willyou come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow atrifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man orwoman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such andsuch a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogsappeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on,would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; andthen would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye atall is better than an evil eye, dark master!"

But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing heliked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life,warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was whatthe knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge.

Once upon a time—of all the good days in the year, onChristmas Eve—old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house.It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and hecould hear the people in the court outside go wheezing upand down, beating their hands upon their breasts, andstamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. Thecity clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite darkalready: it had not been light all day: and candles wereflaring in the windows of the neighboring offices, like ruddysmears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouringin at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without,that although the court was of the narrowest, the housesopposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloudcome drooping down, obscuring everything, one might havethought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on alarge scale.

The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open, that hemight keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal littlecell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scroogehad a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very muchsmaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn'treplenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; andso surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the masterpredicted that it would be necessary for them to part.Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and triedto warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being aman of a strong imagination, he failed.

"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried acheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, whocame upon him so quickly that this was the first intimationhe had of his approach.

"Bah!" said Scrooge, "humbug!"

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fogand frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in aglow; his face was ruddy and handsome! his eyes sparkled,and his breath smoked again.

"Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's nephew."You don't mean that, I am sure."

"I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What righthave you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry?You're poor enough."

"Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What righthave you to be dismal? What reason have you to bemorose? You're rich enough."

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur ofthe moment, said "Bah!" again; and followed it up with"Humbug!"

"Don't be cross, uncle," said the nephew.

"What else can I be," returned the uncle, "when I livein such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Outupon merry Christmas! What's Christmas time to you buta time for paying bills without money; a time for findingyourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time forbalancing your books and having every item in 'em througha round dozen of months presented dead against you? IfI could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly, "everyidiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lipsshould be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with astake of holly through his heart. He should!"

"Uncle!" pleaded the nephew.

"Nephew!" returned the uncle sternly, "keep Christmasin your own way, and let me keep it in mine."

"Keep it!" repeated Scrooge's nephew. "But you don'tkeep it."

"Let me leave it alone, then," said Scrooge. "Much goodmay it do you! Much good it has ever done you!"

"There are many things from which I might have derivedgood, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returnedthe nephew; "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure Ihave always thought of Christmas time, when it has comeround—apart from the veneration due to its sacred nameand origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart fromthat—as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasanttime: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of theyear, when men and women seem by one consent to opentheir shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below themas if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, andnot another race of creatures bound on other journeys. Andtherefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold orsilver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, andwill do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded: becomingimmediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire,and extinguished the last frail spark forever.

"Let me hear another sound from you," said Scrooge,"and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation.You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning tohis nephew. "I wonder you don't go into Parliament."

"Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow."

Scrooge said that he would see him—yes, indeed he did.He went the whole length of the expression, and said thathe would see him in that extremity first.

"But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew. "Why?"

"Why did you get married?" said Scrooge.

"Because I fell in love."

"Because you fell in love!" growled Scrooge, as if thatwere the only one thing in the world more ridiculous thana merry Christmas. "Good-afternoon!"

"Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before thathappened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?"

"Good-afternoon," said Scrooge.

"I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; whycan not we be friends?"

"Good-afternoon," said Scrooge.

"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute.We have never had any quarrel to which I have been aparty. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas,and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So a MerryChristmas, uncle!"

"Good-afternoon!" said Scrooge.

"And a Happy New Year!"

"Good-afternoon!" said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word,notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow thegreetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was,was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.

"There's another fellow," muttered Scrooge, who overheardhim; "my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and awife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retireto Bedlam."

This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let twoother people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant tobehold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge'soffice. They had books and papers in their hands, andbowed to him.

"Scrooge and Marley's, I believe," said one of the gentlemen,referring to his list. "Have I the pleasure of addressingMr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?"

"Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years," Scroogereplied. "He died seven years ago, this very night."

"We have no doubt his liberality is well represented byhis surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting hiscredentials.

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits.At the ominous word "liberality," Scrooge frowned, andshook his head, and handed the credentials back.

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," saidthe gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usuallydesirable that we should make some slight provision for thepoor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time.Many thousands are in want of common necessaries;hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts,sir."

"Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge.

"Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down thepen again.

"And the Union workhouses?" demanded Scrooge. "Arethey still in operation?"

"They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish Icould say they were not."

"The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigor,then?" said Scrooge.

"Both very busy, sir."

"Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that somethinghad occurred to stop them in their useful course," saidScrooge. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christiancheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned thegentleman, "a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund tobuy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth.We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, whenWant is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shallI put you down for?"

"Nothing!" Scrooge replied.

"You wish to be anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you askme what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don'tmake merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to makeidle people merry. I help to support the establishments Ihave mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badlyoff must go there."

"Many can't go there; and many would rather die."

"If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had betterdo it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides—excuseme—I don't know that."

"But you might know it," observed the gentleman.

"It's not my business," Scrooge returned. "It's enoughfor a man to understand his own business, and not tointerfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly.Good afternoon, gentlemen!"

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue theirpoint, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his laborswith an improved opinion of himself, and in a morefacetious temper than was usual with him.

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so that peopleran about with flaring links, proffering their services togo before horses in carriages and conduct them on their way.The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell wasalways peeping slyly down at Scrooge out of a gothicwindow in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours andquarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwardas if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there.The cold became intense. In the main street at the cornerof the court, some laborers were repairing the gas-pipes,and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a partyof ragged men and boys were gathered: warming theirhands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture.The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenlycongealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightnessof the shops, where holly sprigs and berries crackled inthe lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as theypassed. Poulterers' and grocers' trades became a splendidjoke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next toimpossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain andsale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the strongholdof the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fiftycooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor'shousehold should; and even the little tailor, whom he hadfined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunkand bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow'spudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby salliedout to buy the beef.

Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold.If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit'snose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of usinghis familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared tolusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawedand mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed bydogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him witha Christmas carol: but at the first sound of

"God bless you, merry gentleman!
May nothing you dismay!"

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action that thesinger fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and evenmore congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-housearrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool,and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in theTank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on hishat.

"You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Scrooge.

"If quite convenient, sir."

"It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's not fair.If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourselfill-used, I'll be bound?"

The clerk smiled faintly.

"And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think me ill-used,when I pay a day's wages for no work."

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

"A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifthof December!" said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coatto the chin. "But I suppose you must have the whole day.Be here all the earlier next morning!"

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walkedout with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, andthe clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter danglingbelow his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down aslide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times,in honor of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home toCamden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman'sbuff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholytavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiledthe rest of the evening with his banker's-book, wenthome to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belongedto his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms,in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so littlebusiness to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it musthave run there when it was a young house, playing athide-and-seek with other houses, and have forgotten the way outagain. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, fornobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all letout as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, whoknew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. Thefog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of thehouse that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat inmournful meditation on the threshold.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particularabout the knocker on the door, except that it was verylarge. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night andmorning, during his whole residence in that place; also thatScrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him asany man in the City of London, even including—which is abold word—the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let italso be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed onethought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven-years'dead partner that afternoon. And then let any manexplain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, havinghis key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, withoutits undergoing any intermediate process of change: not aknocker, but Marley's face.

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow asthe other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal lightabout it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angryor ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look:with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead.The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air;and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectlymotionless. That, and its livid color, made it horrible; butits horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond itscontrol, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was aknocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood wasnot conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had beena stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put hishand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily,walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before heshut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, asif he half-expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley'spigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing onthe back of the door, except the screws and nuts that heldthe knocker on; so he said "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it witha bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder.Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant'scellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoesof its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened byechoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall,and up the stairs: slowly, too, trimming his candle as hewent.

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six upa good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act ofParliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearseup that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bartoward the wall, and the door toward the balustrades:and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, androom to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scroogethought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him inthe gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the streetwouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you maysuppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip.

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that: darknessis cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavydoor, he walked through his rooms to see that all wasright. He had just enough recollection of the face to desireto do that.

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they shouldbe. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; asmall fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the littlesaucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon theBob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobodyin his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspiciousattitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Oldfireguard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on threelegs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himselfin; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom.Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put onhis dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and satdown before the fire to take his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitternight. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it,before he could extract the least sensation of warmth fromsuch a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, builtby some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all roundwith quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures.There were Cains and Abels, Pharaohs' daughters, Queensof Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the airon clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostlesputting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures, toattract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven yearsdead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed upthe whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first,with power to shape some picture on its surface from thedisjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have beena copy of old Marley's head on every one.

"Humbug!" said Scrooge; and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw hishead back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon abell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicatedfor some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the higheststory of the building. It was with great astonishment,and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, hesaw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in theoutset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang outloudly, and so did every bell in the house.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but itseemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun,together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deepdown below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chainover the casks in the wine-merchant's cellar. Scrooge thenremembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houseswere described as dragging chains.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, andthen he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below;then coming up the stairs; then coming straight toward hisdoor.

"It's humbug still!" said Scrooge. "I won't believe it."

His color changed though, when, without a pause, it cameon through the heavy door, and passed into the room beforehis eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up,as though it cried "I know him! Marley's Ghost!" and fellagain.

The same face; the very same. Marley in his pigtail,usual waistcoat, tights, and boots; the tassels on the latterbristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hairupon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about hismiddle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; andit was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes,keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought insteel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observinghim, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the twobuttons on his coat behind.

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had nobowels, but he had never believed it until now.

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he lookedthe phantom through and through, and saw it standing beforehim; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-coldeyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchiefbound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had notobserved before: he was still incredulous, and fought againsthis senses.

"How now!" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever."What do you want with me?"

"Much!"—Marley's voice, no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"Ask me who I was."

"Who were you, then?" said Scrooge, raising his voice."You're particular—for a shade." He was going to say "toa shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate.

"In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley."

"Can you—can you sit down?" asked Scrooge, lookingdoubtfully at him.

"I can."

"Do it, then."

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't knowwhether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a conditionto take a chair; and felt that in the event of its beingimpossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassingexplanation. But the Ghost sat down on the oppositeside of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.

"You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost.

"I don't," said Scrooge.

"What evidence would you have of my reality beyondthat of your senses?"

"I don't know," said Scrooge.

"Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them.A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. Youmay be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumbof cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There'smore of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes,nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then.The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means ofdistracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror;for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in hisbones.

To sit, staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence fora moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him.There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's beingprovided with an infernal atmosphere of its own. Scroogecould not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; forthough the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, andskirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vaporfrom an oven.

"You see this toothpick?" said Scrooge, returning quicklyto the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing,though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stonygaze from himself.

"I do," replied the Ghost.

"You are not looking at it," said Scrooge.

"But I see it," said the Ghost, "notwithstanding."

"Well!" returned Scrooge. "I have but to swallow this,and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion ofgoblins all of my creation. Humbug, I tell you—humbug!"

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook itschain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scroogeheld on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in aswoon. But how much greater was his horror, when, thephantom taking off the bandage round its head, as if itwere too warm to wear indoors, its lower jaw dropped downupon its breast!

Scrooge fell upon his knees and clasped his hands beforehis face.

"Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparition, why do youtrouble me?"

"Man of the worldly mind!" replied the Ghost, "do youbelieve in me or not?"

"I do," said Scrooge. "I must. But why do spirits walkthe earth, and why do they come to me?"

"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "thatthe spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men,and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes notforth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It isdoomed to wander through the world—oh, woe is me!—andwitness what it can not share, but might have sharedon earth, and turned to happiness!"

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain, andwrung its shadowy hands.

"You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell mewhy?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "Imade it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on ofmy own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is itspattern strange to you"

Scrooge trembled more and more.

"Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weightand length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was fullas heavy, and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago.You have labored on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!"

Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectationof finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixtyfathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.

"Jacob," he said imploringly. "Old Jacob Marley, tellme more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob."

"I have none to give," the Ghost replied. "It comesfrom other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed byother ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell youwhat I would. A very little more, is all permitted to me.I can not rest, I can not stay, I can not linger anywhere. Myspirit never walked beyond our counting-house—mark me!—inlife my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits ofour money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!"

It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful,to put his hands in his breeches pockets. Pondering onwhat the Ghost had said, he did so now, but without liftingup his eyes, or getting off his knees.

"You must have been very slow about it, Jacob," Scroogeobserved, in a business-like manner, though with humilityand deference.

"Slow!" the Ghost repeated.

"Seven years dead," mused Scrooge. "And traveling allthe time!"

"The whole time," said the Ghost. "No rest, no peace.Incessant torture of remorse."

"You travel fast?" said Scrooge.

"On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost.

"You might have got over a great quantity of groundin seven years," said Scrooge.

The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, andclanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of thenight, that the Ward would have been justified in indictingit for a nuisance.

"Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried thephantom, "not to know, that ages of incessant labor, byimmortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity beforethe good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not toknow that any Christian spirit working kindly in its littlesphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too shortfor its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no spaceof regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused!Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!"

"But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,"faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.

"Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing his hands again."Mankind was my business. The common welfare was mybusiness; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were,all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a dropof water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

It held up its chain at arm's-length, as if that were thecause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon theground again.

"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "Isuffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beingswith my eyes turned down, and never raise them to thatblessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode!Were there no poor homes to which its light would haveconducted me!"

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectregoing on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly.

"Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone."

"I will," said Scrooge. "But don't be hard upon me!Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!"

"How it is that I appear before you in a shape that youcan see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you manyand many a day."

It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, andwiped the perspiration from his brow.

"That is no light part of my penance," pursued theGhost. "I am here to-night to warn you that you have yeta chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hopeof my procuring, Ebenezer."

"You were always a good friend to me," said Scrooge."Thank'ee!"

"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by ThreeSpirits."

Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost'shad done.

"Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?" hedemanded, in a faltering voice.

"It is."

"I—I think I'd rather not," said Scrooge.

"Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you can not hopeto shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, whenthe bell tolls one."

"Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?"hinted Scrooge.

"Expect the second on the next night at the same hour.The third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelvehas ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and lookthat, for your own sake, you remember what has passedbetween us!"

When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapperfrom the table, and bound it round its head, as before.Scrooge knew this, by the smart sound its teeth made, whenthe jaws were brought together by the bandage. He venturedto raise his eyes again, and found his supernaturalvisitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chainwound over and about its arm.

The apparition walked backward from him; and at everystep it took the window raised itself a little, so that whenthe spectre reached it it was wide open. It beckoned Scroogeto approach, which he did. When they were within two pacesof each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning himto come no nearer. Scrooge stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for onthe raising of the hand, he became sensible of confusednoises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation andregret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory.The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in themournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, darknight.

Scrooge followed to the window, desperate in hiscuriosity. He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither andthither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Everyone of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few(they might be guilty governments) were linked together;none were free. Many had been personally known toScrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with oneold ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safeattached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unableto assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it sawbelow, upon a doorstep. The misery with them all was,clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in humanmatters, and had lost the power forever.

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshroudedthem, he could not tell. But they and their spiritvoices faded together; and the night became as it had beenwhen he walked home.

Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door bywhich the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as hehad locked it with his own hands, and the bolts wereundisturbed. He tried to say "Humbug!" but stopped at the firstsyllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone,or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the InvisibleWorld, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or thelateness of the hour, much in need of repose, went straight tobed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.

STAVE TWO

The First of the Three Spirits

When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark that, looking outof bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent windowfrom the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavoringto pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when thechimes of a neighboring church struck the four quarters.So he listened for the hour.

To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on fromsix to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up totwelve; then stopped. Twelve! It was past two when hewent to bed. The clock was wrong. An icicle must havegot into the works. Twelve!

He touched the spring of his repeater, to correct thismost preposterous clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve;and stopped.

"Why, it isn't possible," said Scrooge, "that I can haveslept through a whole day and far into another night. Itisn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, andthis is twelve at noon!"

The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out ofbed, and groped his way to the window. He was obligedto rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gownbefore he could see anything; and could see very little then.All he could make out was that it was still very foggy andextremely cold, and that there was no noise of people runningto and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionablywould have been if night had beaten off bright day,and taken possession of the world. This was a great relief,because "three days after sight of this First of Exchangepay to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge or his order," and so forth,would have become a mere United States security if therewere no days to count by.

Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought,and thought it over and over and over, and could makenothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexedhe was; and the more he endeavored not to think, the morehe thought. Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly.Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry,that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like astrong spring released, to its first position, and presentedthe same problem to be worked all through, "Was it a dreamor not?"

Scrooge lay in this state until the chimes had gonethree-quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that theGhost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolledone. He resolved to lie awake until the hour was passed;and, considering that he could no more go to sleep thango to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in hispower.

The quarter was so long that he was more than onceconvinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, andmissed the clock. At length it broke upon his listening ear.

"Ding, dong!"

"A quarter past," said Scrooge, counting.

"Ding, dong!"

"Half-past!" said Scrooge.

"Ding, dong!"

"A quarter to it," said Scrooge.

"Ding, dong!"

"The hour itself," said Scrooge, triumphantly, "andnothing else!"

He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now didwith a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashedup in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of hisbed were drawn.

The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, bya hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains athis back, but those to which his face was addressed. Thecurtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, startingup into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself faceto face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as closeto it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit atyour elbow.

It was a strange figure—like a child: yet not so like achild as like an old man, viewed through some supernaturalmedium, which gave him the appearance of having recededfrom the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions.Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, waswhite as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle init, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms werevery long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its holdwere of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, mostdelicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. Itwore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist wasbound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. Itheld a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, insingular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dresstrimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thingabout it was, that from the crown of its head there spranga bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; andwhich was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its dullermoments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now heldunder its arm.

Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasingsteadiness, was not its strangest quality. For asits belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now inanother, and what was light one instant, at another timewas dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness:being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now withtwenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a headwithout a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline wouldbe visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away.And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again;distinct and clear as ever.

"Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold tome?" asked Scrooge.

"I am!"

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as ifinstead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

"Who, and what are you?" Scrooge demanded.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Long past?" inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfishstature.

"No. Your Past."

Perhaps, Scrooge could not have told anybody why, ifanybody could have asked him; but he had a special desireto see the Spirit in his cap; and begged him to be covered.

"What!" exclaimed the Ghost, "would you so soon putout, with worldly hands, the light I give? Is it not enoughthat you are one of those whose passions made this cap, andforce me through whole trains of years to wear it low uponmy brow?"

Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend, orany knowledge of having wilfully "bonneted" the Spirit atany period of his life. He then made bold to inquire whatbusiness brought him there.

"Your welfare!" said the Ghost.

Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could nothelp thinking that a night of unbroken rest would havebeen more conducive to that end. The Spirit must haveheard him thinking, for it said immediately:

"Your reclamation, then. Take heed!"

It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped himgently by the arm.

"Rise! and walk with me!"

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that theweather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrianpurposes; that the bed was warm, and the thermometer a longway below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in hisslippers, dressing-gown, and night-cap; and that he had a coldupon him at that time. The grasp, though gentle as awoman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but findingthat the Spirit made toward the window, clasped its robein supplication.

"I am a mortal," Scrooge remonstrated, "and liable to fall."

"Bear but a touch of my hand there," said the Spirit,laying it upon his heart, "and you shall be upheld in morethan this!"

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall,and stood upon an open country road, with fields on eitherhand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of itwas to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanishedwith it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow uponthe ground.

"Good Heaven!" said Scrooge, clasping his hands together,as he looked about him. "I was bred in this place.I was a boy here!"

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch,though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared stillpresent to the old man's sense of feeling. He wasconscious of a thousand odors floating in the air, each oneconnected with a thousand thoughts and hopes, and joys,and cares long, long forgotten!

"Your lip is trembling," said the Ghost. "And what isthat upon your cheek?"

Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice,that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead himwhere he would.

"You recollect the way?" inquired the Spirit.

"Remember it!" cried Scrooge with fervor—"I could walkit blindfold."

"Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!"observed the Ghost. "Let us go on."

They walked along the road: Scrooge recognizing everygate, and post, and tree; until a little market town appearedin the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river.Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting toward themwith boys upon their backs, who called to other boys incountry gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boyswere in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until thebroad fields were so full of merry music that the crisp airlaughed to hear it.

"These are but shadows of the things that have been,"said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us."

The jocund travelers came on; and as they came, Scroogeknew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyondall bounds to see them! Why did his cold eye glisten,and his heart leap up as they went past! Why was he filledwith gladness when he heard them give each other MerryChristmas, as they parted at cross-roads and by-ways, fortheir several homes! What was merry Christmas to Scrooge?Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever doneto him?

"The school is not quite deserted," said the Ghost. "Asolitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still."

Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.

They left the highroad, by a well-remembered lane, andsoon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a littleweathercock surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bellhanging in it. It was a large house, but one of brokenfortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their wallswere damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gatesdecayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; andthe coach-houses and sheds were overrun with grass. Norwas it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for enteringthe dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of manyrooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast.There was an earthy savor in the air, a chilly bareness in theplace, which associated itself somehow with too muchgetting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat.

They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to adoor at the back of the house. It opened before them, anddisclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer stillby lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these alonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge satdown upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten selfas he had used to be.

Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scufflefrom the mice behind the paneling, not a drip from thehalf-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sighamong the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not theidle swinging of an empty storehouse door, no, not a clickingin the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with softeninginfluence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.

The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to hisyounger self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, inforeign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at:stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, andleading an ass laden with wood by the bridle.

"Why, it's Ali Baba!" Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. "It'sdear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, yes, I know! One Christmastime, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone,he did come, for the first time, just like that. Poor boy!And Valentine," said Scrooge, "and his wild brother, Orson;there they go! And what's his name, who was put down inhis drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don't you seehim! And the Sultan's Groom turned upside down by theGenii; there he is upon his head! Serve him right. I'mglad of it. What business had he to be married to thePrincess!"

To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of hisnature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voicebetween laughing and crying; and to see his heightened andexcited face; would have been a surprise to his businessfriends in the City, indeed.

"There's the Parrot!" cried Scrooge. "Green body andyellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of thetop of his head; there he is! Poor Robin Crusoe, he calledhim, when he came home again after sailing round the island.'Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe?' Theman thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. It wasthe Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for hislife to the little creek! Halloa! Hoop! Halloo!"

Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to hisusual character, he said, in pity for his former self, "Poorboy!" and cried again.

"I wish," Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in hispocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes withhis cuff: "but it's too late now."

"What is the matter?" asked the Spirit.

"Nothing," said Scrooge. "Nothing. There was a boysinging a Christmas Carol at my door last night. I shouldlike to have given him something: that's all."

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand:saying as it did so, "Let us see another Christmas!"

Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and theroom became a little darker and more dirty. The panelsshrank, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell outof the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; buthow all this was brought about Scrooge knew no more thanyou do. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everythinghad happened so; that there he was, alone again, whenall the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays.

He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly.Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournfulshaking of his head glanced anxiously toward the door.

It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy,came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck, andoften kissing him, addressed him as her "Dear, dear brother."

"I have come to bring you home, dear brother!" said thechild, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh."To bring you home, home, home!"

"Home, little Fan?" returned the boy.

"Yes!" said the child, brimful of glee. "Home, for goodand all. Home, forever and ever. Father is so much kinderthan he used to be that home's like Heaven! He spoke sogently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that Iwas not afraid to ask him once more if you might comehome; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coachto bring you. And you're to be a man!" said the child,opening her eyes, "and are never to come back here; but firstwe're to be together all the Christmas long, and have themerriest time in all the world."

"You are quite a woman, little Fan!" exclaimed the boy.She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch hishead; but being too little, laughed again, and stood ontiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in herchildish eagerness, toward the door; and he, nothing loth togo, accompanied her.

A terrible voice in the hall cried, "Bring down MasterScrooge's box, there!" and in the hall appeared theschoolmaster himself, who glared on Master Scrooge with aferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state ofmind by shaking hands with him. He then conveyed himand his sister into the veriest old well of a shiveringbest-parlor that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall,and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, werewaxy with cold. Here he produced a decanter of curiouslylight wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, andadministered instalments of those dainties to the young people;at the same time sending out a meagre servant to offer aglass of "something" to the postboy, who answered that hethanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he hadtasted before, he had rather not. Master Scrooge's trunkbeing by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, thechildren bade the schoolmaster good-by right willingly; andgetting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep, the quickwheels dashing the hoar-frost and snow from off the darkleaves of the evergreens like spray.

"Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might havewithered," said the Ghost. "But she had a large heart!"

"So she had," cried Scrooge. "You're right. I'll notgainsay it, Spirit. God forbid!"

"She died a woman," said the Ghost, "and had, as Ithink, children."

"One child," Scrooge returned.

"True," said the Ghost. "Your nephew!"

Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answeredbriefly, "Yes."

Although they had but that moment left the schoolbehind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of acity, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; whereshadowy carts and coaches battled for the way, and all thestrife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plainenough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it wasChristmas time again; but it was evening, and the streetswere lighted up.

The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, andasked Scrooge if he knew it.

"Know it!" said Scrooge. "I was apprenticed here!"

They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welshwig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had beentwo inches taller he must have knocked his head against theceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement:

"Why, it's old Fezziwig! Bless his heart; it's Fezziwigalive again!"

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at theclock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed hishands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all overhimself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; andcalled out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:

"Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!"

Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, camebriskly in, accompanied by his fellow-'prentice.

"Dick Wilkins, to be sure!" said Scrooge to the Ghost."Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attachedto me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!"

"Yo ho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night.Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let'shave the shutters up," cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clapof his hands, "before a man can say Jack Robinson!"

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it!They charged into the street with the shutters—one, two,three—had 'em up in their places—four, five, six—barred'em and pinned 'em—seven, eight, nine—and came backbefore you could have got to twelve, panting likeracehorses.

"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from thehigh desk with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, andlet's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup,Ebenezer!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't havecleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with oldFezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movablewas packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps weretrimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehousewas as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ballroom asyou would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to thelofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fiftystomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantialsmile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming andlovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts theybroke. In came all the young men and women employedin the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin,the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particularfriend, the milkman. In came the boy from over the way,who was suspected of not having board enough from hismaster; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next doorbut one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled byher mistress. In they all came, one after another; someshyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, somepushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow andeveryhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once, handshalf round and back again the other way; down the middleand up again; round and round in various stages ofaffectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in thewrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon asthey got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom oneto help them. When this result was brought about, oldFezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out,"Well done!" and the fiddler plunged his hot face into apot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. Butscorning rest upon his reappearance, he instantly beganagain, though there were no dancers yet, as if the otherfiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter; andhe were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight,or perish.

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, andmore dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, andthere was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a greatpiece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plentyof beer. But the great effect of the evening came after theRoast and Boiled when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! Thesort of man who knew his business better than you or Icould have told it him!) struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Thenold Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig.Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out forthem; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people whowere not to be trifled with; people who would dance, andhad no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many: ah, four times: oldFezziwig would have been a match for them, and so wouldMrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partnerin every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell mehigher, and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issuefrom Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of thedance like moons. You couldn't have predicted, at anygiven time, what would become of 'em next. And when oldFezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through thedance; advance and retire, hold hands with your partner;bow and courtesy; cork-screw; thread-the-needle, and backagain to your place; Fezziwig "cut"—cut so deftly, that heappeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet againwithout a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up.Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either sidethe door, and shaking hands with every person individuallyas he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas.When everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they didthe same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away,and the lads were left to their beds; which were under acounter in the back-shop.

During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like aman out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene,and with his former self. He corroborated everything,remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwentthe strangest agitation. It was not until now, when thebright faces of his former self and Dick were turned fromthem, that he remembered the Ghost, and became consciousthat it was looking full upon him, while the light upon itshead burned very clear.

"A small matter," said the Ghost, "to make these sillyfolks so full of gratitude."

"Small!" echoed Scrooge.

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices,who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig:and when he had done so, said:

"Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds ofyour mortal money: three or four, perhaps. Is that so muchthat he deserves this praise?"

"It isn't that," said Scrooge, heated by the remark, andspeaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self."It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happyor unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; apleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words andlooks; in things so slight and insignificant that it isimpossible to add and count 'em up: what then? The happinesshe gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune."

He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.

"What is the matter?" asked the Ghost.

"Nothing particular," said Scrooge.

"Something, I think?" the Ghost insisted.

"No," said Scrooge, "no. I should like to be able to saya word or two to my clerk just now! That's all."

His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utteranceto the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood sideby side in the open air.

"My time grows short," observed the Spirit. "Quick!"

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whomhe could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For againScrooge saw himself. He was older now; a man in the primeof life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of lateryears; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice.There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, whichshowed the passion that had taken root, and where theshadow of the growing tree would fall.

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girlin a mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, whichsparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of ChristmasPast.

"It matters little," she said, softly. "To you, very little.Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer andcomfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do,I have no just cause to grieve."

"What Idol has displaced you?" he rejoined.

"A golden one."

"This is the even-handed dealing of the world!" he said."There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; andthere is nothing it professes to condemn with such severityas the pursuit of wealth!"

"You fear the world too much," she answered, gently."All your other hopes have merged into the hope of beingbeyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen yournobler aspirations fall off one by one, until themaster-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?"

"What then?" he retorted. "Even if I have grown somuch wiser, what then? I am not changed toward you."

She shook her head.

"Am I?"

"Our contract is an old one. It was made when we wereboth poor and content to be so, until, in good season, wecould improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry.You are changed. When it was made, you were anotherman."

"I was a boy," he said impatiently.

"Your own feeling tells you that you were not what youare," she returned. "I am. That which promised happinesswhen we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now thatwe are two. How often and how keenly I have thoughtof this, I will not say. It is enough that I have thought ofit, and can release you."

"Have I ever sought release?"

"In words? No. Never."

"In what, then?"

"In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in anotheratmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. Ineverything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight.If this had never been between us," said the girl, lookingmildly, but with steadiness, upon him, "tell me, would youseek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no!"

He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, inspite of himself. But he said with a struggle, "You thinknot."

"I would gladly think otherwise if I could," she answered,"Heaven knows! When I have learned a Truth like this, Iknow how strong and irresistible it must be. But if youwere free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believethat you would choose a dowerless girl—you who, in yourvery confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or,choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough toyour one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that yourrepentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and Irelease you. With a full heart, for the love of him youonce were."

He was about to speak; but with her head turned fromhim, she resumed.

"You may—the memory of what is past half makes mehope you will—have pain in this. A very, very brief time,and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as anunprofitable dream, from which it happened well that youawoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen!"

She left him, and they parted.

"Spirit!" said Scrooge, "show me no more! Conduct mehome. Why do you delight to torture me?"

"One shadow more!" exclaimed the Ghost.

"No more!" cried Scrooge. "No more. I don't wish tosee it. Show me no more!"

But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both his arms,and forced him to observe what happened next.

They were in another scene and place; a room not verylarge or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winterfire sat a beautiful young girl, so like the last that Scroogebelieved it was the same, until he saw her, now a comelymatron, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in thisroom was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more childrenthere than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind couldcount; and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they werenot forty children conducting themselves like one, but everychild was conducting itself like forty. The consequenceswere uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care;on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily,and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginningto mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigandsmost ruthlessly. What would I not have given to be oneof them! Though I never could have been so rude, no, no!I wouldn't for the wealth of all the world have crushed thatbraided hair, and torn it down; and for the precious littleshoe, I wouldn't have plucked it off, God bless my soul! tosave my life. As to measuring her waist in sport, as theydid, bold young brood, I couldn't have done it; I shouldhave expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment,and never come straight again. And yet I shouldhave dearly liked, I own, to have touched her lips; to havequestioned her, that she might have opened them; to havelooked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and neverraised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch ofwhich would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I shouldhave liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest license ofa child, and yet been man enough to know its value.

But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such arush immediately ensued that she with laughing face andplundered dress was borne toward it the centre of a flushedand boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, whocame home attended by a man laden with Christmas toysand presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and theonslaught that was made on the defenseless porter! Thescaling him with chairs for ladders to dive into his pockets,despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by hiscravat, hug him round the neck, pommel his back, and kickhis legs in irrepressible affection! The shouts of wonderand delight with which the development of every packagewas received! The terrible announcement that the baby hadbeen taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into hismouth, and was more than suspected of having swalloweda fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter! The immenserelief of finding this a false alarm! The joy, and gratitude,and ecstasy! They are all indescribable alike. It is enoughthat by degrees the children and their emotions got out ofthe parlor and by one stair at a time, up to the top of thehouse; where they went to bed, and so subsided.

And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever,when the master of the house, having his daughter leaningfondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at hisown fireside; and when he thought that such another creature,quite as graceful and as full of promise, might havecalled him father, and been a spring-time in the haggardwinter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed.

"Belle," said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile,"I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon."

"Who was it?"

"Guess!"

"How can I? Tut, don't I know?" she added in the samebreath, laughing as he laughed. "Mr. Scrooge."

"Mr. Scrooge it was. I passed his office window; andas it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I couldscarcely help seeing him. His partner lies upon the pointof death, I hear; and there he sat alone. Quite alone inthe world, I do believe."

"Spirit!" said Scrooge in a broken voice, "remove mefrom this place."

"I told you these were shadows of the things that havebeen," said the Ghost. "That they are what they are, do notblame me!"

"Remove me!" Scrooge exclaimed, "I can not bear it!"

He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked uponhim with a face, in which in some strange way there werefragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it.

"Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!"

In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in whichthe Ghost with no visible resistance on its own part wasundisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Scrooge observedthat its light was burning high and bright; and dimlyconnecting that with its influence over him, he seized theextinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down uponits head.

The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguishercovered its whole form; but though Scrooge pressed it downwith all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamedfrom under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome byan irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his ownbedroom. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which hishand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before hesank into a heavy sleep.

STAVE THREE

The Second of the Three Spirits

Awakening in the middle of a prodigiously tough snoreand sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scroogehad no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon thestroke of One. He felt that he was restored to consciousnessin the right nick of time, for the especial purpose ofholding a conference with the second messenger despatchedto him through Jacob Marley's intervention. But, findingthat he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonderwhich of his curtains this new spectre would draw back,he put them every one aside with his own hands, and lyingdown again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed.For he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of itsappearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise andmade nervous.

Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselveson being acquainted with a move or two, and beingusually equal to the time-of-day, express the wide range oftheir capacity for adventure by observing that they are goodfor anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; betweenwhich opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerablywide and comprehensive range of subjects. Withoutventuring for Scrooge quite as hardily as this, I don't mindcalling on you to believe that he was ready for a good broadfield of strange appearances, and that nothing between ababy and a rhinoceros would have astonished him verymuch.

Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not byany means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, whenthe Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was takenwith a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes,a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All thistime he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of ablaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clockproclaimed the hour; and which, being only light, was morealarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to makeout what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimesapprehensive that he might be at that very moment aninteresting case of spontaneous combustion, without having theconsolation of knowing it. At last, however, he began tothink—as you or I would have thought at first; for it is alwaysthe person not in the predicament who knows what oughtto have been done in it, and would unquestionably havedone it too—at last, I say, he began to think that the sourceand secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoiningroom, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine.This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softlyand shuffled in his slippers to the door.

The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strangevoice called him by his name, and bade him enter. Heobeyed.

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. Butit had undergone a surprising transformation. The wallsand ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked aperfect grove, from every part of which bright gleamingberries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, andivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors hadbeen scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaringup the chimney as that dull petrifaction of a hearth hadnever known in Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many andmany a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to forma kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn,great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages,mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hotchestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears,immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, thatmade the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easystate upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see;who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn,and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as hecame peeping round the door.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! and knowme better, man!"

Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before thisSpirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; andthough the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not liketo meet them.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit."Look upon me!"

Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simpledeep-green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. Thisgarment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capaciousbreast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealedby any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample foldsof the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore noother covering than a holly wreath set here and there withshining icicles. Its dark-brown curls were long and free;free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, itscheery voice, its unconstrained demeanor, and its joyful air.Girdled round its middle was an antique scabbard; but nosword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up withrust.

"You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimedthe Spirit.

"Never," Scrooge made answer to it.

"Have never walked forth with the younger membersof my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elderbrothers born in these later years?" pursued the Phantom.

"I don't think I have," said Scrooge. "I am afraid I havenot. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?"

"More than eighteen hundred," said the Ghost.

"A tremendous family to provide for!" muttered Scrooge.

The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.

"Spirit," said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me whereyou will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and Ilearned a lesson which is working now. To-night, if youhave aught to teach me, let me profit by it."

"Touch my robe!"

Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.

Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game,poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings,fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room,the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stoodin the City streets on Christmas morning, where (for theweather was severe) the people made a rough but brisk andnot unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from thepavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops oftheir houses: whence it was mad delight to the boys to seeit come plumping down into the road below, and splittinginto artificial little snowstorms.

The house fronts looked black enough, and the windowsblacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snowupon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground;which last deposit had been plowed up in deep furrows bythe heavy wheels of carts and wagons; furrows that crossedand recrossed each other hundreds of times where the greatstreets branched off, and made intricate channels, hard totrace, in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky wasgloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with adingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particlesdescended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneysin Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and wereblazing away to their dear hearts' content. There wasnothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yetwas there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearestsummer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoredto diffuse in vain.

For the people who were shoveling away on the housetopswere jovial and full of glee; calling out to one anotherfrom the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetioussnowball—better-natured missile far than many a wordyjest—laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily ifit went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open,and the fruiterers were radiant in their glory. There weregreat, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped likethe waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors,and tumbling out into the street in their apoplecticopulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed SpanishOnions, shining in the fatness of their growth like SpanishFriars; and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness atthe girls as they went by and glanced demurely at thehung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered highin blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made,in the shopkeepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuoushooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as theypassed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown,recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, andpleasant shufflings ankle-deep through withered leaves; therewere Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off theyellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactnessof their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseechingto be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choicefruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-bloodedrace, appeared to know that there was somethinggoing on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round theirlittle world in slow and passionless excitement.

The Grocers'! oh the Grocers'! nearly closed, withperhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gapssuch glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descendingon the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine androller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters wererattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that theblended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose,or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, thealmonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so longand straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruitsso caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make thecoldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious. Norwas it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the Frenchplums blushed in modest tartness from their highly decoratedboxes, or that everything was good to eat and in itsChristmas dress: but the customers were all so hurried andso eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbledup against each other at the door, clashing their wickerbaskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter,and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundredsof the like mistakes in the best humor possible; whilethe Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that thepolished hearts with which they fastened their apronsbehind might have been their own, worn outside for generalinspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

But soon the steeples called good people all to church andchapel, and away they came, flocking through the streetsin their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And atthe same time there emerged from scores of by-streets,lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carryingtheir dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poorrevelers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for hestood with Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, andtaking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkledincense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a veryuncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there wereangry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostledwith each other, he shed a few drops of water on themfrom it, and their good humor was restored directly. Forthey said it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day.And so it was! God love it, so it was!

In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up;and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all thesedinners and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotchof wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smokedas if its stones were cooking too.

"Is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from yourtorch?" asked Scrooge.

"There is. My own."

"Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?"asked Scrooge.

"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."

"Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge.

"Because it needs it most."

"Spirit," said Scrooge, after a moment's thought, "Iwonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us,should desire to cramp these people's opportunities ofinnocent enjoyment."

"I!" cried the Spirit.

"You would deprive them of their means of dinner everyseventh day, often the only day on which they can be saidto dine at all," said Scrooge. "Wouldn't you?"

"I!" cried the Spirit.

"You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day!"said Scrooge. "And it comes to the same thing."

"I seek!" exclaimed the Spirit.

"Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in yourname, or at least in that of your family," said Scrooge.

"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned theSpirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deedsof passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, andselfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kithand kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, andcharge their doings on themselves, not us."

Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on,invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of thetown. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (whichScrooge had observed at the baker's), that notwithstandinghis gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any placewith ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite asgracefully and like a supernatural creature as it was possiblehe could have done in any lofty hall.

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had inshowing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind,generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poormen, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there hewent, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; andon the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stoppedto bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of historch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen "Bob" a weekhimself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of hisChristian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Presentblessed his four-roomed house!

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed outbut poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons,which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; andshe laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second ofher daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master PeterCratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, andgetting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob'sprivate property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor ofthe day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantlyattired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionableParks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl,came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they hadsmelled the goose, and known it for their own; and baskingin luxurious thoughts of sage-and-onion, these youngCratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master PeterCratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although hiscollars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slowpotatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to belet out and peeled.

"What has ever got your precious father, then?" saidMrs. Cratchit. "And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Marthawarn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour!"

"Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits."Hurrah! There's such a goose, Martha!"

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!"said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking offher shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied thegirl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother!"

"Well! Never mind so long as you are come," saidMrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have awarm, Lord bless ye!"

"No, no! There's father coming," cried the two youngCratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha,hide!"

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father,with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe,hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darnedup and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon hisshoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, andhad his limbs supported by an iron frame!

"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, lookinground.

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension in hishigh spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the wayfrom church, and had come home rampant. "Not comingupon Christmas Day!"

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were onlyin joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closetdoor, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchitshustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house,that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit,when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob hadhugged his daughter to his heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow hegets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks thestrangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home,that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because hewas a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to rememberupon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk andblind men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, andtrembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growingstrong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, andback came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escortedby his brother and sister to his stool before the fire;and while Bob, turning up his cuffs—as if, poor fellow, theywere capable of being made more shabby—compounded somehot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred itround and round and put it on the hob to simmer; MasterPeter, and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetchthe goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought agoose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, towhich a black swan was a matter of course—and in truthit was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchitmade the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan)hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incrediblevigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Marthadusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in atiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairsfor everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mountingguard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths,lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came tobe helped. At last the dishes were set on, and gracewas said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, asMrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, preparedto plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when thelong expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur ofdelight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim,excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with thehandle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believethere ever was such a goose cooked. Its tendernessand flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universaladmiration. Eked out by the apple sauce and mashed potatoes,it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed,as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one smallatom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last!Yet every one had had enough, and the younger Cratchits inparticular, were steeped in sage-and-onion to the eyebrows!But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda,Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone—too nervous to bearwitness—to take the pudding up and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it shouldbreak in turning out! Suppose somebody should have gotover the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they weremerry with the goose—a supposition at which the twoyoung Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors weresupposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was outof the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was thecloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry-cook's nextdoor to each other, with a laundress's next door to that!That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchitentered—flushed, but smiling proudly—with the pudding, likea speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half ofhalf-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmasholly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmlytoo, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved byMrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said thatnow the weight was off her mind, she would confess shehad had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybodyhad something to say about it, but nobody said or thought itwas at all a small pudding for a large family. It would havebeen flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushedto hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared,the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound inthe jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples andoranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnutson the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew roundthe hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaninghalf a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbows stood the familydisplay of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without ahandle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as wellas golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it outwith beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputteredand cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family reechoed.

"God bless us, every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side upon his little stool.Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved thechild, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded thathe might be taken from him.

"Spirit," said Scrooge, with an interest he had neverfelt before, "tell me if Tiny Tim will live."

"I see a vacant seat," replied the Ghost, "in the poorchimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefullypreserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future,the child will die."

"No, no," said Scrooge. "Oh, no, kind Spirit! say he willbe spared."

"If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, noneother of my race," returned the Ghost, "will find him here.What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, anddecrease the surplus population."

Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted bythe Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.

"Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, notadamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discoveredWhat the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide whatmen shall live, what men shall die? It may be that in thesight of Heaven you are more worthless and less fit to livethan millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hearthe Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much lifeamong his hungry brothers in the dust!"

Scrooge bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and tremblingcast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily,on hearing his own name.

"Mr. Scrooge!" said Bob; "I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, theFounder of the Feast!"

"The Founder of the Feast indeed!" cried Mrs. Cratchit,reddening. "I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece ofmy mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a goodappetite for it."

"My dear," said Bob, "the children! Christmas Day."

"It should be Christmas Day, I am sure," said she, "onwhich one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard,unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert!Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!"

"My dear," was Bob's mild answer, "Christmas Day."

"I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's," saidMrs. Cratchit, "not for his. Long life to him! A MerryChristmas and a Happy New Year! He'll be very merryand very happy, I have no doubt!"

The children drank the toast after her. It was the firstof their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. TinyTim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it.Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of hisname cast a dark shadow on the party, which was notdispelled for fully five minutes.

After it had passed away, they were ten times merrierthan before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Balefulbeing done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had asituation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in,if obtained, fully five-and-sixpence weekly. The two youngCratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's beinga man of business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully atthe fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberatingwhat particular investments he should favor when he cameinto the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, whowas a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them whatkind of work she had to do, and how many hours sheworked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abedto-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being aholiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countessand a lord some days before, and how the lord "was muchabout as tall as Peter"; at which Peter pulled up his collarsso high that you couldn't have seen his head if you hadbeen there. All this time the chestnuts and the jug wentround and round; and by and by they had a song, about alost child traveling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had aplaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed.

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were nota handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoeswere far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty;and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the insideof a pawnbroker's. But, they were happy, grateful, pleasedwith one another, and contented with the time; and whenthey faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklingsof the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye uponthem, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last.

By this time it was getting dark, and snowing prettyheavily; and as Scrooge and the Spirit went along thestreets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens,parlors, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here theflickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cozy dinner,with hot plates baking through and through before the fire,and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out coldand darkness. There all the children of the house wererunning out into the snow to meet their married sisters,brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greetthem. Here, again, were shadows on the window-blind ofguests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls,all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, trippedlightly off to some near neighbor's house; where, woe uponthe single man who saw them enter—artful witches: wellthey knew it—in a glow!

But if you had judged from the numbers of people ontheir way to friendly gatherings, you might have thoughtthat no one was at home to give them welcome when theygot there, instead of every house expecting company, andpiling up its fires half-chimney high. Blessings on it, howthe Ghost exulted! How it bared its breadth of breast, andopened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, witha generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everythingwithin its reach! The very lamplighter, who ran on beforedotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who wasdressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudlyas the Spirit passed: though little kenned the lamplighterthat he had any company but Christmas!

And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost,they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrousmasses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were theburial-place of giants; and water spread itself wheresoeverit listed, or would have done so, but for the frost that heldit prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse,rank grass. Down in the west the setting sun had left astreak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for aninstant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower, lower, loweryet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.

"What place is this?" asked Scrooge.

"A place where Miners live, who labor in the bowels ofthe earth," returned the Spirit. "But they know me. See!"

A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftlythey advanced toward it. Passing through the wall of mudand stone, they found a cheerful company assembled rounda glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with theirchildren and their children's children, and another generationbeyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. Theold man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling ofthe wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a Christmassong; it had been a very old song when he was a boy;and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. Sosurely as they raised their voices, the old man got quiteblithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigorsank again.

The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge holdhis robe, and passing on above the moor, sped whither?Not to sea? To sea. To Scrooge's horror, looking back,he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behindthem; and his ears were deafened by the thundering ofwater, as it rolled, and roared, and raged among the dreadfulcaverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine theearth.

Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league orso from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, thewild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Greatheaps of seaweed clung to its base, and storm-birds—bornof the wind one might suppose, as seaweed of the water—roseand fell about it, like the waves they skimmed.

But even here, two men who watched the light had madea fire, that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shedout a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Joining theirhorny hands over the rough table at which they sat, theywished each other Merry Christmas in their can of grog;and one of them: the elder, too, with his face all damagedand scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an oldship might be: struck up a sturdy song that was like a Galein itself.

Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heavingsea—on, on—until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, fromany shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside thehelmsman at the wheel, the lookout in the bow, the officerswho had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their severalstations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune,or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath tohis companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homewardhopes belonging to it. And every man on board, wakingor sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for anotheron that day than on any day in the year; and had shared tosome extent in its festivities; and had remembered those hecared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted toremember him.

It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to themoaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing itwas to move on through the lonely darkness over anunknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound asDeath: it was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thusengaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greatersurprise to Scrooge to recognize it as his own nephew's and tofind himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spiritstanding smiling by his side, and looking at that samenephew with approving affability.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Scrooge's nephew. "Ha, ha, ha!"

If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to knowa man more blest in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all Ican say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce him tome, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance.

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, thatwhile there is infection in disease and sorrow, there isnothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughterand good-humor. When Scrooge's nephew laughed in thisway: holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his faceinto the most extravagant contortions: Scrooge's niece, bymarriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembledfriends being not a bit behindhand, roared out, lustily.

"Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!" criedScrooge's nephew. "He believed it too!"

"More shame for him, Fred!" said Scrooge's niece,indignantly. Bless those women; they never do anything byhalves. They are always in earnest.

She was very pretty; exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled,surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, thatseemed made to be kissed—as no doubt it was; all kinds ofgood little dots about her chin, that melted into one anotherwhen she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you eversaw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was whatyou would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory,too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory!

"He's a comical old fellow," said Scrooge's nephew, "that'sthe truth; and not so pleasant as he might be. However, hisoffenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing tosay against him."

"I'm sure he is very rich, Fred," hinted Scrooge's niece."At least you always tell me so."

"What of that, my dear!" said Scrooge's nephew. "Hiswealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it.He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't thesatisfaction of thinking—ha, ha, ha!—that he is ever going tobenefit Us with it."

"I have no patience with him," observed Scrooge's niece.Scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressedthe same opinion.

"Oh, I have!" said Scrooge's nephew. "I am sorry forhim; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffersby his ill whims? Himself, always. Here, he takes it intohis head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us.What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner."

"Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner," interruptedScrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and theymust be allowed to have been competent judges, because theyhad just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table,were clustered round the fire, by lamplight.

"Well! I'm very glad to hear it," said Scrooge's nephew,"because I haven't any great faith in these younghousekeepers. What do you say, Topper?"

Topper had clearly got his eye upon one of Scrooge'sniece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was awretched outcast, who had no right to express an opinionon the subject. Whereat Scrooge's niece's sister—the plumpone with the lace tucker: not the one with theroses—blushed.

"Do go on, Fred," said Scrooge's niece, clapping herhands. "He never finishes what he begins to say. He issuch a ridiculous fellow!"

Scrooge's nephew reveled in another laugh, and as it wasimpossible to keep the infection off; though the plump sistertried hard to do it with aromatic vinegar; his example wasunanimously followed.

"I was only going to say," said Scrooge's nephew, "thatthe consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not makingmerry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasantmoments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he losespleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts,either in his moldy old office, or his dusty chambers. I meanto give him the same chance every year, whether he likes itor not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies,but he can't help thinking better of it—I defy him—if he findsme going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying,'Uncle Scrooge, how are you?' If it only puts him in thevein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something;and I think I shook him yesterday."

It was their turn to laugh now at the notion of hisshaking Scrooge. But being thoroughly good-natured, and notmuch caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed atany rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passedthe bottle joyously.

After tea, they had some music. For they were a musicalfamily, and knew what they were about, when they sang aGlee or Catch, I can assure you: especially Topper, whocould growl away in the bass like a good one, and neverswell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the faceover it. Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; andplayed among other tunes a simple little air (a merenothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), whichhad been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from theboarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost ofChristmas Past. When this strain of music sounded, all thethings that Ghost had shown him came upon his mind; hesoftened more and more; and thought that if he could havelistened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated thekindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands,without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried JacobMarley.

But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. Aftera while they played at forfeits; for it is good to be childrensometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when itsmighty Founder was a child himself. Stop! There was firsta game at blind-man's buff. Of course there was. And Ino more believe Topper was really blind than I believe hehad eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a donething between him and Scrooge's nephew: and that theGhost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went afterthat plump sister in the lace tucker was an outrage on thecredulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons,tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano,smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went,there went he. He always knew where the plump sister was.He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you had fallen upagainst him, as some of them did, and stood there; he wouldhave made a feint of endeavoring to seize you, which wouldhave been an affront to your understanding; and wouldinstantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister.She often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not.But when at last he caught her; when, in spite of all hersilken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he gother into a corner whence there was no escape; then hisconduct was the most execrable. For his pretending not toknow her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch herhead-dress, and further to assure himself of her identity bypressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chainabout her neck; was vile, monstrous! No doubt she toldhim her opinion of it, when, another blind man being inoffice, they were so very confidential together, behind thecurtains.

Scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party,but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool,in a snug corner, where the Ghost and Scrooge were closebehind her. But she joined in the forfeits, and loved herlove to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet.Likewise at the game of How, When, and Where, she was verygreat, and to the secret joy of Scrooge's nephew, beat hersisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as Toppercould have told you. There might have been twenty peoplethere, young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge;for, wholly forgetting in the interest he had in what wasgoing on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, hesometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and veryoften guessed quite right, too; for the sharpest needle, bestWhitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was notsharper than Scrooge: blunt as he took it in his head to be.

The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood,and looked upon him with such favor that he begged like aboy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But thisthe Spirit said could not be done.

"Here is a new game," said Scrooge. "One half-hour,Spirit, only one!"

It is a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephewhad to think of something, and the rest must find out what;he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the casewas. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposedelicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a liveanimal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, ananimal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talkedsometimes, and lived in London, and walked about thestreets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody,and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed ina market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull,or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At everyfresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst intoa fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickledthat he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At lastthe plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out:

"I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I knowwhat it is!"

"What is it?" cried Fred.

"It's your Uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!"

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universalsentiment, though some objected that the reply to "Is it abear?" ought to have been "Yes"; inasmuch as an answer inthe negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughtsfrom Mr. Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendencythat way.

"He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure," saidFred, "and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health.Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at themoment; and I say, 'Uncle Scrooge!'"

"Well! Uncle Scrooge!" they cried.

"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the oldman, whatever he is!" said Scrooge's nephew. "He wouldn'ttake it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. UncleScrooge!"

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and lightof heart that he would have pledged the unconscious companyin return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, ifthe Ghost had given him time. But the whole scene passedoff in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; andhe and the Spirit were again upon their travels.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes theyvisited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stoodbeside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands,and they were close at home; by struggling men, and theywere patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it wasrich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery's everyrefuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not madefast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing,and taught Scrooge his precepts.

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scroogehad his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidaysappeared to be condensed into the space of time they passedtogether. It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remainedunaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearlyolder. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spokeof it until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when,looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place,he noticed that its hair was gray.

"Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Scrooge.

"My life upon this globe is very brief," replied the Ghost."It ends to-night."

"To-night!" cried Scrooge.

"To-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near."

The chimes were ringing the three-quarters past elevenat that moment.

"Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," saidScrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I seesomething strange, and not belonging to yourself,protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!"

"It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it," wasthe Spirit's sorrowful reply. "Look here."

From the foldings of its robe it brought two children;wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They kneltdown at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

"Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!" exclaimedthe Ghost.

They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling,wolfish; but, prostrate, too, in their humility. Wheregraceful youth should have filled their features out, andtouched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shriveledhand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, andpulled them into shreds. Where angels might have satenthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change,no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade,through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, hasmonsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown tohim in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, butthe words choked themselves rather than be parties to a lieof such enormous magnitude.

"Spirit! are they yours?" Scrooge could say no more.

"They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down uponthem. "And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers.This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware themboth, and all of their degree, but most of all beware thisboy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unlessthe writing be erased. Deny it!" cried the Spirit, stretchingout its hand toward the City. "Slander those who tell it ye!Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse!And bide the end!"

"Have they no refuge or resource?" cried Scrooge.

"Are there no prisons?" said the Spirit, turning on himfor the last time with his own words. "Are there noworkhouses?"

The bell struck twelve.

Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it not.As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered theprediction of old Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, behelda solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mistalong the ground, toward him.

STAVE FOUR

The Last of the Spirits

The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached.When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee;for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemedto scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealedits head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visiblesave one outstretched hand. But for this it would havebeen difficult to detach its figure from the night, andseparate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

He felt that it was tall and stately when it came besidehim, and that its mysterious presence filled him with asolemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spokenor moved.

"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet ToCome?" said Scrooge.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed downward with itshand.

"You are about to show me shadows of the things thathave not happened, but will happen in the time before us,"Scrooge pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?"

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for aninstant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head.That was the only answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time,Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legstrembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly standwhen he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment,as if observing his condition, and giving him timeto recover.

But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled himwith a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind thedusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed uponhim, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost,could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heapof black.

"Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you morethan any Spectre I have seen. But, as I know your purposeis to do me good, and as I hope to live to be anotherman from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company,and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak tome?"

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straightbefore them.

"Lead on!" said Scrooge. "Lead on! The night iswaning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Leadon, Spirit!"

The Phantom moved away as it had come toward him.Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which borehim up, he thought, and carried him along.

They scarcely seemed to enter the City; for the Cityrather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass themof its own act. But there they were, in the heart of it;on 'Change, among the merchants; who hurried up anddown, and chinked the money in their pockets, andconversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifledthoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so forth, asScrooge had seen them often.

The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men.Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scroogeadvanced to listen to their talk.

"No," said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, "Idon't know much about it, either way. I only know he'sdead."

"When did he die?" inquired another.

"Last night, I believe."

"Why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third,taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very largesnuffbox. "I thought he'd never die."

"God knows," said the first, with a yawn.

"What has he done with his money?" asked a red-facedgentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of hisnose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock.

"I haven't heard," said the man with the large chin,yawning again. "Left it to his Company, perhaps. Hehasn't left it to me. That's all I know."

This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

"It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the samespeaker; "for upon my life I don't know of anybody to goto it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?"

"I don't mind going if a lunch is provided," observedthe gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. "But Imust be fed, if I make one."

Another laugh.

"Well, I am the most disinterested among you, afterall," said the first speaker, "for I never wear black gloves,and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if anybody elsewill. When I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that Iwasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop andspeak whenever we met. By-by!"

Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed withother groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked toward theSpirit for an explanation.

The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointedto two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinkingthat the explanation might lie here.

He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men ofbusiness: very wealthy, and of great importance. He hadmade a point always of standing well in their esteem: in abusiness point of view, that is; strictly in a business pointof view.

"How are you?" said one.

"How are you?" returned the other.

"Well!" said the first. "Old Scratch has got his own atlast, hey?"

"So I am told," returned the second. "Cold, isn't it?"

"Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skater, Isuppose?"

"No. No. Something else to think of. Good-morning!"

Not another word. That was their meeting, theirconversation, and their parting.

Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that theSpirit should attach importance to conversations apparentlyso trivial; but feeling assured that they must have somehidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likelyto be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearingon the death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was Past, andthis Ghost's province was the Future. Nor could he thinkof any one immediately connected with himself to whomhe could apply them. But nothing doubting that to whomsoeverthey applied they had some latent moral for his ownimprovement, he resolved to treasure up every word heheard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe theshadow of himself when it appeared. For he had anexpectation that the conduct of his future self would give himthe clue he missed, and would render the solution of theseriddles easy.

He looked about in that very place for his own image;but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and thoughthe clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there,he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes thatpoured in through the Porch. It gave him little surprise,however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change oflife, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutionscarried out in this.

Quiet and dark beside him stood the Phantom, with itsoutstretched hand. When he roused himself from histhoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, andits situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyeswere looking at him keenly. It made him shudder, and feelvery cold.

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscurepart of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before,although he recognized its situation, and its bad repute.The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houseswretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly.Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged theiroffenses of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the stragglingstreets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime; with filth,and misery.

Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed,beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron,old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought.Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys,nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron ofall kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinize werebred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses ofcorrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. Sitting in amongthe wares he dealt in, by a charcoal-stove, made of oldbricks, was a gray-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age;who had screened himself from the cold air without by afrowsy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters hung upon a line;and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement.

Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of thisman, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into theshop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman,similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely followedby a man in faded black, who was no less startled by thesight of them than they had been upon the recognition ofeach other. After a short period of blank astonishment, inwhich the old man with the pipe had joined them, they allthree burst into a laugh.

"Let the charwoman alone to be the first!" cried shewho had entered first. "Let the laundress alone to be thesecond; and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third.Look here, old Joe, here's a chance! If we haven't all threemet here without meaning it!"

"You couldn't have met in a better place," said old Joe,removing his pipe from his mouth. "Come into the parlor.You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the othertwo an't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop.Ah! How it skreeks! There an't such a rusty bit of metalin the place as its own hinges, I believe; and I'm sure there'sno such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitableto our calling, we're well matched. Come into the parlor.Come into the parlor."

The parlor was the space behind the screen of rags. Theold man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, andhaving trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night) with thestem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again.

While he did this, the woman who had already spokenthrew her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flauntingmanner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, andlooking with a bold defiance at the other two.

"What odds then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber?" said thewoman. "Every person has a right to take care ofthemselves. He always did!"

"That's true, indeed!" said the laundress. "No man moreso."

"Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid,woman; who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes ineach other's coats, I suppose?"

"No, indeed!" said Mrs. Dilber and the man together."We should hope not."

"Very well, then!" cried the woman. "That's enough.Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these?Not a dead man, I suppose."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Dilber, laughing.

"If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wickedold screw," pursued the woman, "why wasn't he natural inhis lifetime? If he had been, he'd have had somebody tolook after him when he was struck with Death, instead oflying gasping out his last there, alone by himself."

"It's the truest word that ever was spoke," saidMrs. Dilber. "It's a judgment on him."

"I wish it was a little heavier one," replied the woman;"and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if Icould have laid my hands on anything else. Open thatbundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak outplain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them tosee it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves,before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle,Joe."

But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this;and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first,produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two, apencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of nogreat value, were all. They were severally examined andappraised by old Joe, who chalked the sums he was disposedto give for each upon the wall, and added them up intoa total when he found there was nothing more to come.

"That's your account," said Joe, "and I wouldn't give anothersixpence if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who'snext?"

Mrs. Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearingapparel, two old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair ofsugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated onthe wall in the same manner.

"I always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness ofmine, and that's the way I ruin myself," said old Joe. "That'syour account. If you asked me for another penny, andmade it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal andknock off half-a-crown."

"And now undo my bundle, Joe," said the first woman.

Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenienceof opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots,dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.

"What do you call this?" said Joe. "Bed-curtains!"

"Ah!" returned the woman, laughing and leaning forwardon her crossed arms. "Bed-curtains!"

"You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all,with him lying there?" said Joe.

"Yes, I do," replied the woman. "Why not?"

"You were born to make your fortune," said Joe, "andyou'll certainly do it."

"I certainly shan't hold my hand when I can get anythingin it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as He was,I promise you, Joe," returned the woman coolly. "Don'tdrop that oil upon the blankets, now."

"His blankets?" asked Joe.

"Whose else's do you think?" replied the woman. "Heisn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say."

"I hope he didn't die of anything catching, eh?" said oldJoe, stopping in his work, and looking up.

"Don't you be afraid of that," returned the woman. "Ian't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for suchthings, if he did. Ah! you may look through that shirt tillyour eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbareplace. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'dhave wasted it, if it hadn't been for me."

"What do you call wasting of it?" asked old Joe.

"Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure," replied thewoman with a laugh. "Somebody was fool enough to do it,but I took it off again. If calico an't good enough for sucha purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's quite asbecoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did inthat one."

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they satgrouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by theold man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation anddisgust which could hardly have been greater, though they hadbeen obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producinga flannel bag with money in it, told out their severalgains upon the ground. "This is the end of it, you see! Hefrightened every one away from him when he was alive, toprofit us when he was dead! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Spirit!" said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. "Isee, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own.My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what isthis!"

He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, andnow he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: onwhich, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something coveredup, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awfullanguage.

The room was very dark, too dark to be observed withany accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedienceto a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room itwas. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight uponthe bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched,unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man.

Scrooge glanced toward the Phantom. Its steady handwas pointed to the head. The cover was so carelesslyadjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a fingerupon Scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. Hethought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longedto do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than todismiss the spectre at his side.

Oh, cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altarhere, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thycommand: for this is thy dominion! But of the loved, revered,and honored head, thou canst not turn one hair to thydread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is not thatthe hand is heavy and will fall down when released; it is notthat the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand wasopen, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender;and the pulse a man's. Strike, Shadow, strike! And see hisgood deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world withlife immortal!

No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears, andyet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought,if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremostthoughts? Avarice, hard dealing, griping cares? Theyhave brought him to a rich end, truly!

He lay in the dark, empty house, with not a man, a woman,or a child to say that he was kind to me in this or that, andfor the memory of one kind word I will be kind to him. Acat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound ofgnawing rats beneath the hearthstone. What they wanted in theroom of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed,Scrooge did not dare to think.

"Spirit!" he said, "this is a fearful place. In leaving it,I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!"

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to thehead.

"I understand you," Scrooge returned, "and I would do it,if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not thepower."

Again it seemed to look upon him.

"If there is any person in the town who feels emotioncaused by this man's death," said Scrooge, quite agonized,"show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you!"

The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment,like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room bydaylight, where a mother and her children were.

She was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness;for she walked up and down the room; started at everysound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock;tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardlybear the voices of the children in their play.

At length the long-expected knock was heard. Shehurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose facewas careworn and depressed, though he was young. Therewas a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of seriousdelight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggledto repress.

He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding forhim by the fire; and when she asked him faintly what news(which was not until after a long silence), he appearedembarrassed how to answer.

"Is it good," she said, "or bad?"—to help him.

"Bad," he answered.

"We are quite ruined?"

"No. There is hope yet, Caroline."

"If he relents," she said, amazed, "there is! Nothing ispast hope, if such a miracle has happened."

"He is past relenting," said her husband. "He is dead."

She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoketruth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and shesaid so, with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness thenext moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotionof her heart.

"What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of lastnight, said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain aweek's delay; and what I thought was a mere excuse toavoid me; turns out to have been quite true. He was notonly very ill, but dying, then."

"To whom will our debt be transferred?"

"I don't know. But before that time we shall be readywith the money; and even though we were not, it would bebad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in hissuccessor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline!"

Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter.The children's faces, hushed, and clustered round to hearwhat they so little understood, were brighter; and it wasa happier house for this man's death! The only emotion thatthe Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one ofpleasure.

"Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,"said Scrooge; "or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we leftjust now, will be forever present to me."

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiarto his feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here andthere to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. Theyentered poor Bob Cratchit's house; the dwelling he hadvisited before; and found the mother and the children seatedround the fire.

Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were asstill as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter,who had a book before him. The mother and her daughterswere engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet!

"'And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'"

Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had notdreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as heand the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on?The mother laid her work upon the table, and put herhand up to her face.

"The color hurts my eyes," she said.

The color? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!

"They're better now again," said Cratchit's wife. "Itmakes them weak by candlelight; and I wouldn't show weakeyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. Itmust be near his time."

"Past it rather," Peter answered, shutting up his book."But I think he's walked a little slower than he used, thesefew last evenings, mother."

They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in asteady cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

"I have known him walk with—I have known him walkwith Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed."

"And so have I," cried Peter. "Often."

"And so have I," exclaimed another. So had all.

"But he was very light to carry," she resumed, intent uponher work, "and his father loved him so, that it was notrouble—no trouble. And there is your father at the door!"

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in hiscomforter—he had need of it, poor fellow—came in. His tea wasready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should helphim to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon hisknees and laid, each child a little cheek, against his face, asif they said, "Don't mind it, father. Don't be grieved!"

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantlyto all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, andpraised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls.They would be done long before Sunday he said.

"Sunday? You went to-day, then, Robert?" said his wife.

"Yes, my dear," returned Bob. "I wish you could havegone. It would have done you good to see how green a placeit is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I wouldwalk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!" cried Bob."My little child!"

He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If hecould have helped it, he and his child would have beenfurther apart perhaps than they were.

He left the room, and went upstairs into the room above,which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas.There was a chair set close beside the child, and there weresigns of some one having been there, lately. Poor Bob satdown in it, and when he had thought a little and composedhimself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to whathad happened, and went down again quite happy.

They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls andmother working still. Bob told them of the extraordinarykindness of Mr. Scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcelyseen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day,and seeing that he looked a little—"just a little down youknow," said Bob, inquired what had happened to distresshim. "On which," said Bob, "for he is the pleasantest-spokengentleman you ever heard, I told him. 'I am heartilysorry for it, Mr. Cratchit,' he said, 'and heartily sorry foryour good wife.' By the by, how he ever knew that, I don'tknow."

"Knew what, my dear?"

"Why, that you were a good wife," replied Bob.

"Everybody knows that!" said Peter.

"Very well observed, my boy!" cried Bob. "I hope theydo. 'Heartily sorry,' he said, 'for your good wife. If I canbe of service to you in any way,' he said, giving me his card,'that's where I live. Pray come to me.' Now, it wasn't," criedBob, "for the sake of anything he might be able to do forus, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful.It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Tim, andfelt with us."

"I'm sure he's a good soul!" said Mrs. Cratchit.

"You would be surer of it, my dear," returned Bob, "ifyou saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised,mark what I say, if he got Peter a better situation."

"Only hear that, Peter," said Mrs. Cratchit.

"And then," cried one of the girls, "Peter will be keepingcompany with some one, and setting up for himself."

"Get along with you!" retorted Peter, grinning.

"It's just as likely as not," said Bob, "one of these days;though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. Buthowever and whenever we part from one another, I am sure weshall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim—shall we—or thisfirst parting that there was among us?"

"Never, father!" cried they all.

"And I know," said Bob, "I know, my dears, that whenwe recollect how patient and how mild he was; although hewas a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily amongourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it."

"No, never, father!" they all cried again.

"I am very happy," said little Bob, "I am very happy!"

Mrs. Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, thetwo young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himselfshook hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence wasfrom God!

"Spectre," said Scrooge, "something informs me that ourparting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how.Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead?"

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, asbefore—though at a different time, he thought: indeed, thereseemed no order in these latter visions, save that they werein the Future—into the resorts of business men, but showedhim not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything,but went straight on, as to the end just now desired, untilbesought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment.

"This court," said Scrooge, "through which we hurry now,is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a lengthof time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be, indays to come!"

The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere.

"The house is yonder," Scrooge exclaimed. "Why do youpoint away?"

The inexorable finger underwent no change.

Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and lookedin. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was notthe same, and the figure in the chair was not himself. ThePhantom pointed as before.

He joined it once again, and wondering why and whitherhe had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate.He paused to look round before entering.

A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man whose namehe had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was aworthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass andweeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked upwith too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A worthyplace!

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down toOne. He advanced toward it trembling. The Phantom wasexactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw newmeaning in its solemn shape.

"Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,"said Scrooge, "answer me one question. Are these the shadowsof the things that Will be, or are they shadows of thingsthat May be, only?"

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by whichit stood.

"Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, ifpersevered in, they must lead," said Scrooge. "But if thecourses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it isthus with what you show me!"

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

Scrooge crept toward it, trembling as he went; and followingthe finger, read upon the stone of the neglected gravehis own name, "Ebenezer Scrooge."

"Am I that man who lay upon the bed?" he cried, uponhis knees.

The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

"No, Spirit! Oh, no, no!"

The finger still was there.

"Spirit!" he cried, tight clutching at its robe, "hear me!I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must havebeen but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I ampast all hope!"

For the first time the hand appeared to shake.

"Good Spirit," he pursued, as down upon the ground hefell before it: "Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me.Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you haveshown me, by an altered life!"

The kind hand trembled.

"I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it allthe year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future.The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I willnot shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I maysponge away the writing on this stone!"

In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought tofree itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it.The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.

Holding up his hand in one last prayer to have his fatereversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hoodand dress. It shrank, collapsed, and dwindled down intoa bed-post.

STAVE FIVE

The End of It

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own,the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Timebefore him was his own, to make amends in!

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!"Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spiritsof all Three shall strive within me. Oh, Jacob Marley!Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this! Isay it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!"

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions,that his broken voice would scarcely answer to hiscall. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with theSpirit, and his face was wet with tears.

"They are not torn down," cried Scrooge, folding one ofhis bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, ringsand all. They are here: I am here: the shadows of thethings that would have been may be dispelled. They will be.I know they will!"

His hands were busy with his garments all this time:turning them inside out, putting them on upside down,tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to everykind of extravagance.

"I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing andcrying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoönof himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather,I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy.I am as giddy as a drunken man. A Merry Christmas toeverybody! A Happy New Year to all the world. Hallohere! Whoop! Hallo!"

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standingthere: perfectly winded.

"There's the saucepan that the gruel was in!" criedScrooge, starting off again, and frisking round the fireplace."There's the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marleyentered! There's the corner where the Ghost of ChristmasPresent sat! There's the window where I saw the wanderingSpirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha,ha, ha!"

Really, for a man who had been out of practise for somany years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustriouslaugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs!

"I don't know what day of the month it is!" said Scrooge."I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. Idon't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. Idon't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo! Whoop! Hallohere!"

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringingout the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang,hammer, ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding, hammer, clang,clash! Oh, glorious, glorious!

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out hishead. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold;cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight;heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious.Glorious!

"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to aboy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to lookabout him.

"Eh?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.

"To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY."

"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven'tmissed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. Theycan do anything they like. Of course they can. Of coursethey can. Hallo, my fine fellow!"

"Hallo!" returned the boy.

"Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one,at the corner?" Scrooge inquired.

"I should hope I did," replied the lad.

"An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy!Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that washanging up there? Not the little prize turkey: the big one?"

"What, the one as big as me?" returned the boy.

"What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasureto talk to him. Yes, my buck!"

"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.

"Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it."

"Walk-er!" exclaimed the boy.

"No, no," said Scrooge, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it,and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them thedirection where to take it. Come back with the man, andI'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less thanfive minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!"

The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steadyhand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's!" whispered Scrooge, rubbinghis hands, and splitting with a laugh. "He shan't knowwho sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Millernever made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be!"

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steadyone, but write it he did, somehow, and went downstairs toopen the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer'sman. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knockercaught his eye.

"I shall love it, as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, pattingit with his hand. "I scarcely ever looked at it before. Whatan honest expression it has in its face! It's a wonderfulknocker!—Here's the Turkey. Hallo! Whoop! How areyou! Merry Christmas!"

It was a Turkey! He could never have stood upon hislegs, that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in aminute, like sticks of sealing-wax.

"Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town,"said Scrooge. "You must have a cab."

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chucklewith which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle withwhich he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which herecompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by thechuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chairagain, and chuckled till he cried.

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued toshake very much; and shaving requires attention, even whenyou don't dance while you are at it. But if he had cut theend of his nose off, he would have put a piece ofsticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied.

He dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got outinto the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth,as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present;and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regardedevery one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistiblypleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humored fellowssaid: "Good-morning, sir! A Merry Christmas to you!" AndScrooge said often afterward, that of all the blithesounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

He had not gone far, when coming on toward him hebeheld the portly gentleman who had walked into hiscounting-house the day before and said: "Scrooge and Marley's, Ibelieve?" It sent a pang across his heart to think how thisold gentleman would look upon him when they met; but heknew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

"My dear sir," said Scrooge, quickening his pace, andtaking the old gentleman by both his hands. "How do you do?I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you.A Merry Christmas to you, sir!"

"Mr. Scrooge?"

"Yes," said Scrooge. "That is my name, and I fear itmay not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon.And will you have the goodness"—here Scrooge whisperedin his ear.

"Lord bless me!" cried the gentleman, as if his breathwere gone. "My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious?"

"If you please," said Scrooge. "Not a farthing less.A great many back-payments are included in it, I assureyou. Will you do me that favor?"

"My dear sir," said the other, shaking hands with him."I don't know what to say to such munifi—"

"Don't say anything, please," retorted Scrooge. "Comeand see me. Will you come and see me?"

"I will!" cried the old gentleman. And it was clear hemeant to do it.

"Thank'ee," said Scrooge. "I am much obliged to you.I thank you fifty times. Bless you!"

He went to church, and walked about the streets, andwatched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted childrenon the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down intothe kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and foundthat everything could yield him pleasure. He had neverdreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him somuch happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his stepstoward his nephew's house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had thecourage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, anddid it:

"Is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to thegirl. Nice girl! Very.

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he, my love?" said Scrooge.

"He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'llshow you upstairs, if you please."

"Thank'ee. He knows me," said Scrooge, with hishand already on the dining-room lock. "I'll go in here,my dear."

He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round thedoor. They were looking at the table (which was spread outin great array); for these young housekeepers are alwaysnervous on such points, and like to see that everything isright.

"Fred!" said Scrooge.

Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started!Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sittingin the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it,on any account.

"Why, bless my soul!" cried Fred, "who's that?"

"It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner.Will you let me in, Fred?"

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off.He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier.His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when hecame. So did the plump sister, when she came. So did everyone when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful games,wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he wasearly there. If he could only be there first, and catch BobCratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set hisheart upon.

And he did it; yes he did! The clock struck nine. NoBob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutesand a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his doorwide open, that he might see him come into the Tank.

His hat was off, before he opened the door; his comfortertoo. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with hispen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.

"Hallo!" growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice asnear as he could feign it. "What do you mean by cominghere at this time of day?"

"I am very sorry, sir," said Bob. "I am behind my time."

"You are?" repeated Scrooge. "Yes. I think you are.Step this way, sir, if you please."

"It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Bob, appearing fromthe Tank. "It shall not be repeated. I was making rathermerry yesterday, sir."

"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Scrooge, "I amnot going to stand this sort of thing any longer. Andtherefore," he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bobsuch a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into theTank again: "and therefore I am about to raise your salary!"

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. Hehad a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it;holding him; and calling to the people in the court forhelp and a strait-waistcoat.

"A Merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestnessthat could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on theback. "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than Ihave given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, andendeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discussyour affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowlof smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy anothercoal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!"

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, andinfinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was asecond father. He became as good a friend, as good amaster, and as good a man, as the good old City knew, or anyother good old city, town, or borough in the good old world.Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but helet them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wiseenough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe,for good, at which some people did not have their fill oflaughter in the outset; and knowing that such as thesewould be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that theyshould wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady inless attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that wasquite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but livedupon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterward; and itwas always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmaswell, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May thatbe truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM

BY WASHINGTON IRVING

"A torch-bearer in the great procession ofEnglish prose writers," Irving's style isbased on a close study of Addison and the"Spectator" models.

"The Sketch-Book," from which this storyis taken, has been often pronounced the bestbook that came from his pen.

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM

By WASHINGTON IRVING

A TRAVELER'S TALE*

* The erudite reader, well versedin good-for-nothing lore, will perceivethat the above Tale must have been suggestedto the old Swiss by a littleFrench anecdote of a circumstance saidto have taken place at Paris.

"He that supper for is dight,
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!
Yestreen to chamber I him led,
This night Gray-steel has made his bed!"
—Sir Eger, Sir Grahame and Sir Gray-steel

On the summit of one of the heights of theOdenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germanythat lies not far from the confluence of the Maineand the Rhine, there stood, many, many yearssince, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is nowquite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech treesand dark firs; above which, however, its old watch-towermay still be seen struggling, like the former possessor Ihave mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upona neighboring country.

The Baron was a dry branch of the great family ofKatzenellenbogen,* and inherited the relics of the property andall the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike dispositionof his predecessors had much impaired the family possessions,yet the Baron still endeavored to keep up someshow of former state. The times were peaceable, and theGerman nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenientold castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains,and had built more convenient residences in the valleys;still the Baron remained proudly drawn up in his littlefortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the oldfamily feuds; so that he was on ill terms with some of hisnearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happenedbetween their great-great-grandfathers.

* I.e., Cat's Elbow—the name of a familyof those parts, very powerful informer times. The appellation, we are told,was given in compliment to apeerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm.

The Baron had but one child, a daughter; but Nature,when she grants but one child, always compensates bymaking it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of theBaron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assuredher father that she had not her equal for beauty in allGermany; and who should know better than they? She had,moreover, been brought up with great care, under thesuperintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some yearsof their early life at one of the little German courts, andwere skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary tothe education of a fine lady. Under their instructions, shebecame a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she waseighteen she could embroider to admiration, and had workedwhole histories of the saints in tapestry with such strengthof expression in their countenances that they looked like somany souls in purgatory. She could read without greatdifficulty, and had spelled her way through several churchlegends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch.She had even made considerable proficiency in writing,could sign her own name without missing a letter,and so legibly that her aunts could read it withoutspectacles. She excelled in making little good-for-nothinglady-like knickknacks of all kinds; was versed in the mostabstruse dancing of the day; played a number of airs on theharp and guitar; and knew all the tender ballads of theMinnie-lieders by heart.

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes intheir younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilantguardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece;for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorablydecorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarelysuffered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains ofthe castle, unless well attended, or, rather, well watched;had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum andimplicit obedience; and, as to the men—pah! she was taughtto hold them at such distance and distrust that, unlessproperly authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon thehandsomest cavalier in the world—no, not if he were evendying at her feet.

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent.The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness.While others were wasting their sweetness in theglare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrownaside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh andlovely womanhood under the protection of those immaculatespinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardianthorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation,and vaunted that though all the other young ladies inthe world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of thekind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen.

But however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might beprovided with children, his household was by no means asmall one, for Providence had enriched him with abundanceof poor relations. They, one and all, possessed theaffectionate disposition common to humble relatives; werewonderfully attached to the Baron, and took every possibleoccasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All familyfestivals were commemorated by these good people at theBaron's expense; and when they were filled with good cheer,they would declare that there was nothing on earth sodelightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart.

The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and itswelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being thegreatest man in the little world about him. He loved to telllong stories about the stark old warriors whose portraitslooked grimly down from the walls around, and he foundno listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He wasmuch given to the marvelous, and a firm believer in all thosesupernatural tales with which every mountain and valley inGermany abounds. The faith of his guests even exceededhis own: they listened to every tale of wonder with openeyes and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, eventhough repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived theBaron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolutemonarch of his little territory, and happy, above all things,in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age.

At the time of which my story treats there was a greatfamily gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmostimportance: it was to receive the destined bridegroom of theBaron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried onbetween the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unitethe dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children.The preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio.The young people were betrothed without seeing each other,and the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. Theyoung Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the armyfor the purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron'sto receive his bride. Missives had even been received fromhim, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained,mentioning the day and hour when he might be expectedto arrive.

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him asuitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out withuncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet,and quarreled the whole morning about every article of herdress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contestto follow the bent of her own taste; and fortunately it was agood one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom coulddesire; and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustreof her charms.

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentleheaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie,all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her littleheart. The aunts were continually hovering around her; formaiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs ofthis nature: they were giving her a world of staid counselhow to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner toreceive the expected lover.

The Baron was no less busied in preparations. He had,in truth, nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally afuming, bustling little man, and could not remain passive whenall the world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottomof the castle, with an air of infinite anxiety; he continuallycalled the servants from their work to exhort them to bediligent, and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly,restless, and importunate as a bluebottle fly of a warmsummer's day.

In the meantime, the fatted calf had been killed; theforests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchenwas crowded with good cheer; the cellars had yielded upwhole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein, and even thegreat Heidelberg Tun had been laid under contribution.Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest withSaus and Braus in the true spirit of German hospitality—butthe guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled afterhour. The sun that had poured his downward rays uponthe rich forests of the Odenwald, now just gleamed alongthe summits of the mountains. The Baron mounted thehighest tower, and strained his eyes in hopes of catching adistant sight of the Count and his attendants. Once hethought he beheld them; the sound of horns came floatingfrom the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes: a numberof horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along theroad; but when they had nearly reached the foot of themountain they suddenly struck off in a different direction.The last ray of sunshine departed—the boats began to flit byin the twilight—the road grew dimmer and dimmer to theview; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and thena peasant lagging homeward from his labor.

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state ofperplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in adifferent part of the Odenwald.

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuinghis route in that sober jog-trot way in which a man travelstoward matrimony when his friends have taken all thetrouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a brideis waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner, at the end of hisjourney. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthfulcompanion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on thefrontiers: Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutesthands and worthiest hearts of German chivalry, who wasnow returning from the army. His father's castle was notfar distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although ahereditary feud rendered the families hostile and strangers toeach other.

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the youngfriends related all their past adventures and fortunes, andthe Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptialswith a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whosecharms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, theyagreed to perform the rest of their journey together; and,that they might do it more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburgat an early hour, the Count having given directions for hisretinue to follow and overtake him.

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of theirmilitary scenes and adventures; but the Count was apt to bea little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms ofhis bride, and the felicity that awaited him.

In this way they had entered among the mountains of theOdenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely andthickly wooded passes. It is well known that the forestsof Germany have always been as much infested with robbersas its castles by spectres; and, at this time, the former wereparticularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldierswandering about the country. It will not appear extraordinary,therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gangof these stragglers in the midst of the forest. They defendedthemselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered whenthe Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight ofthem the robbers fled, but not until the Count had receiveda mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed backto the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboringconvent, who was famous for his skill in administeringto both soul and body. But half of his skill was superfluous;the moments of the unfortunate Count were numbered.

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repairinstantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatalcause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride.Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the mostpunctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous thatthis mission should be speedily and courteously executed."Unless this is done," said he, "I shall not sleep quietly inmy grave!" He repeated these last words with peculiarsolemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admittedno hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him tocalmness; promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gavehim his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it inacknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium—raved abouthis bride—his engagements—his plighted word; ordered hishorse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, andexpired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle.

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on theuntimely fate of his comrade; and then pondered on theawkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy,and his head perplexed; for he was to present himself anunbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp theirfestivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there werecertain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see thisfar-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen so cautiously shut upfrom the world; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex,and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in hischaracter that made him fond of all singular adventure.

Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangementswith the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeralsolemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedralof Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives; andthe mourning retinue of the Count took charge of hisremains.

It is now high time that we should return to the ancientfamily of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for theirguest, and still more for their dinner; and to the worthy littleBaron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower.

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Barondescended from the tower in despair. The banquet, whichhad been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer bepostponed. The meats were already overdone, the cook in anagony, and the whole household had the look of a garrisonthat had been reduced by famine. The Baron was obligedreluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presenceof the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the pointof commencing, when the sound of a horn from without thegate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Anotherlong blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes,and was answered by the warder from the walls. The Baronhastened to receive his future son-in-law.

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger wasbefore the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted ona black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had abeaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy.The Baron was a little mortified that he should have comein this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment wasruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of properrespect for the important occasion, and the important familywith which he was to be connected. He pacified himself,however, with the conclusion that it must have been youthfulimpatience which had induced him thus to spur on soonerthan his attendants.

"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon youthus unseasonably—"

Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of complimentsand greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided himselfupon his courtesy and his eloquence. The strangerattempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but invain; so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. Bythe time the Baron had come to a pause they had reachedthe inner court of the castle; and the stranger was againabout to speak, when he was once more interrupted by theappearance of the female part of the family, leading forththe shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for amoment as one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soulbeamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form.One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear;she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidlyraised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and wascast again to the ground. The words died away; but therewas a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimplingof the cheek, that showed her glance had not beenunsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age ofeighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, notto be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no timefor parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred allparticular conversation until the morning, and led the wayto the untasted banquet.

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Aroundthe walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of thehouse of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they hadgained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corselets,splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingledwith the spoils of sylvan warfare: the jaws of the wolf, andthe tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among crossbows andbattle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediatelyover the head of the youthful bridegroom.

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or theentertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemedabsorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a lowtone, that could not be overheard—for the language of loveis never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that itcan not catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was amingled tenderness and gravity in his manner that appearedto have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her colorcame and went, as she listened with deep attention. Now andthen she made some blushing reply, and when his eye wasturned away she would steal a sidelong glance at his romanticcountenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness.It was evident that the young couple were completelyenamored. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteriesof the heart, declared that they had fallen in love with eachother at first sight.

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for theguests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attendupon light purses and mountain air. The Baron told his bestand longest stories, and never had he told them so well, orwith such great effect. If there was anything marvelous,his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anythingfacetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place.The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignifiedto utter any joke but a dull one: it was always enforced,however, by a bumper of excellent Hoch-heimer; and even adull joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine,is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer andkeener wits that would not bear repeating, except on similaroccasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears thatalmost convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a songor two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-facedcousin of the Baron, that absolutely made the maiden auntshold up their fans.

Amid all this revelry, the stranger-guest maintained amost singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenanceassumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced,and, strange as it may appear, even the Baron's jokes seemedonly to render him the more melancholy. At times he waslost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed andrestless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease.His conversation with the bride became more and more earnestand mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal overthe fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through hertender frame.

All this could not escape the notice of the company.Their gaiety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom ofthe bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whispers andglances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs anddubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grewless and less frequent: there were dreary pauses in theconversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, andsupernatural legends. One dismal story produced anotherstill more dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened some ofthe ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblinhorseman that carried away the fair Leonora—a dreadful, but truestory, which has since been put into excellent verse, and isread and believed by all the world.

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention.He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron, and, asthe story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from hisseat, growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron'sentranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. Themoment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, andtook a solemn farewell of the company. They were allamazement. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck.

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why,everything was prepared for his reception; a chamber wasready for him if he wished to retire."

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously:"I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night!"

There was something in this reply, and the tone in whichit was uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive him;but he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitableentreaties. The stranger shook his head silently, but positively,at every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company,stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutelypetrified—the bride hung her head, and a tear stole toher eye.

The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of thecastle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth andsnorting with impatience. When they had reached the portal,whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, thestranger paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow toneof voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still moresepulchral. "Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart toyou the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensableengagement—"

"Why," said the Baron, "can not you send some one inyour place?"

"It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in person—Imust away to Wurtzburg cathedral—"

"Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, "but not untilto-morrow—to-morrow you shall take your bride there."

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity,"my engagement is with no bride—the worms! the wormsexpect me! I am a dead man—I have been slain by robbers—mybody lies at Wurtzburg—at midnight I am to be buried—thegrave is waiting for me—I must keep my appointment!"

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge,and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in thewhistling of the night-blast.

The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation,and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright;others sickened at the idea of having banqueted witha spectre. It was the opinion of some that this might be thewild huntsman famous in German legend. Some talked ofmountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernaturalbeings, with which the good people of Germany have beenso grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of thepoor relations ventured to suggest that it might be somesportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the verygloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholya personage. This, however, drew on him the indignationof the whole company, and especially of the Baron,who looked upon him as little better than an infidel; so thathe was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, andcome into the faith of the true believers.

But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained,they were completely put to an end by the arrival, nextday, of regular missives confirming the intelligence of theyoung Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburgcathedral.

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. TheBaron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests who hadcome to rejoice with him could not think of abandoning himin his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collectedin groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shruggingtheir shoulders at the troubles of so good a man; and satlonger than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutlythan ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But thesituation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To havelost a husband before she had even embraced him—and sucha husband! if the very spectre could be so gracious and noble,what must have been the living man? She filled the housewith lamentations.

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, shehad retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts,who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was oneof the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had justbeen recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep inthe very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlookeda small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at thebeams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves ofan aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had justtolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from thegarden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightlyto the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows ofthe trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fellupon the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld theSpectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment burstupon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by themusic, and had followed her silently to the window, fell intoher arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared.

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing,for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As tothe young lady, there was something, even in the spectre ofher lover, that seemed endearing. There was still thesemblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow of a man isbut little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sickgirl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that isconsoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in thatchamber again; the niece, for once, was refractory, anddeclared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in thecastle: the consequence was that she had to sleep in it alone;but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the storyof the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholypleasure left her on earth—that of inhabiting the chamberover which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightlyvigils.

How long the good old lady would have observed thispromise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of themarvelous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell afrightful story; it is, however, still quoted in theneighborhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, that shekept it to herself for a whole week; when she was suddenlyabsolved from all further restraint by intelligence brought tothe breakfast-table one morning that the young lady wasnot to be found. Her room was empty—the bed had notbeen slept in—the window was open—and the bird hadflown!

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligencewas received can only be imagined by those who have witnessedthe agitation which the mishaps of a great man causeamong his friends. Even the poor relations paused for amoment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher; whenthe aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung herhands and shrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! She'scarried away by the goblin!"

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden,and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride.Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they hadheard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountainabout midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre onhis black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All presentwere struck with the direful probability; for events of thekind are extremely common in Germany, as manywell-authenticated histories bear witness.

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron!What a heartrending dilemma for a fond father, and amember of the great family of Katzenellenbogen! His onlydaughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he wasto have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance,a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completelybewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The menwere ordered to take horse and scour every road and pathand glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had justdrawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was aboutto mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, whenhe was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady wasseen approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey attendedby a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate,sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's feet,embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and hercompanion—the Spectre Bridegroom! The Baron was astounded.He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almostdoubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, waswonderfully improved in his appearance, since his visit to theworld of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noblefigure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale andmelancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow ofyouth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, intruth, as you must have known all the while, he was nogoblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust.He related his adventure with the young Count. He toldhow he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcometidings, but that the eloquence of the Baron had interruptedhim in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of thebride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a fewhours near her he had tacitly suffered the mistake tocontinue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what way tomake a decent retreat, until the Baron's goblin stories hadsuggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostilityof the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth—hadhaunted the garden beneath the young lady's window—hadwooed—had won—had borne away in triumph—and, in aword, had wedded the fair.

Under any other circumstances the Baron would have beeninflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority anddevoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved his daughter;he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her stillalive; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet,thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, itmust be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with hisnotions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passedupon him of his being a dead man; but several old friendspresent, who had served in the wars, assured him that everystratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier wasentitled to especial privilege, having lately served as atrooper.

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baronpardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at thecastle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed thisnew member of the family with loving-kindness; he was sogallant, so generous—and so rich. The aunts, it is true, weresomewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion,and passive obedience, should be so badly exemplified, butattributed it all to their negligence in not having the windowsgrated. One of them was particularly mortified at havingher marvelous story marred, and that the only spectre she hadever seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemedperfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh andblood—and so the story ends.

THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH

BY ERCKMANN—CHATRIAN

Emile Erckmann (born 1822, died 1899)and Alexandre Chatrian (born 1826, died1890), natives of Alsace-Lorraine, formed aliterary partnership in 1847 and wrote manycharming novels and plays which attaineda great vogue. These, appearing under thesignature of Erckmann-Chatrian, weresupposed to be the productions of a single writeruntil 1863, when the collaboration wasannounced. It is said that their first storieswere rejected by all the newspapers of Paris.

"The Mysterious Sketch" is from "LesContes Fantastiques."

THE MYSTERIOUS SKETCH

By ERCKMANN—CHATRIAN

I

Opposite the chapel of Saint Sebalt in Nuremberg,at the corner of Trabaus Street, there stands a littletavern, tall and narrow, with a toothed gable anddusty windows, whose roof is surmounted by aplaster Virgin. It was there that I spent the unhappiestdays of my life. I had gone to Nuremberg to study the oldGerman masters; but in default of ready money, I had topaint portraits—and such portraits! Fat old women withtheir cats on their laps, big-wigged aldermen, burgomastersin three-cornered hats—all horribly bright with ochre andvermilion. From portraits I descended to sketches, and fromsketches to silhouettes.

Nothing is more annoying than to have your landlordcome to you every day with pinched lips, shrill voice, andimpudent manner to say: "Well, sir, how soon are you going topay me? Do you know how much your bill is? No; thatdoesn't worry you! You eat, drink, and sleep calmly enough.God feeds the sparrows. Your bill now amounts to two hundredflorins and ten kreutzers—it is not worth talking about."

Those who have not heard any one talk in this way canform no idea of it; love of art, imagination, and the sacredenthusiasm for the beautiful are blasted by the breath of suchan attack. You become awkward and timid; all your energyevaporates, as well as your feeling of personal dignity, andyou bow respectfully at a distance to the burgomasterSchneegans.

One night, not having a sou, as usual, and threatened withimprisonment by this worthy Mister Rap, I determined tomake him a bankrupt by cutting my throat. Seated on mynarrow bed, opposite the window, in this agreeable mood,I gave myself up to a thousand philosophical reflections, moreor less comforting.

"What is man?" I asked myself. "An omnivorous animal;his jaws, provided with canines, incisors, and molars, proveit. The canines are made to tear meat; the incisors to bitefruits; and the molars to masticate, grind and triturate animaland vegetable substances that are pleasant to smell and totaste. But when he has nothing to masticate, this being isan absurdity in Nature, a superfluity, a fifth wheel to thecoach."

Such were my reflections. I dared not open my razor forfear that the invincible force of my logic would inspire mewith the courage to make an end of it all. After havingargued so finely, I blew out my candle, postponing the sequeltill the morrow.

That abominable Rap had completely stupefied me. Icould do nothing but silhouettes, and my sole desire was tohave some money to rid myself of his odious presence. Buton this night a singular change came over my mind. I awokeabout one o'clock—I lit my lamp, and, enveloping myself inmy gray gabardine, I drew upon the paper a rapid sketchafter the Dutch school—something strange and bizarre, whichhad not the slightest resemblance to my ordinary conceptions.

Imagine a dreary courtyard enclosed by high dilapidatedwalls. These walls are furnished with hooks, seven or eightfeet from the ground. You see, at a glance, that it is abutchery.

On the left, there extends a lattice structure; youperceive through it a quartered beef suspended from the roofby enormous pulleys. Great pools of blood run over theflagstones and unite in a ditch full of refuse.

The light falls from above, between the chimneys wherethe weathercocks stand out from a bit of the sky the sizeof your hand, and the roofs of the neighboring houses throwbold shadows from story to story.

At the back of this place is a shed, beneath the shed apile of wood, and upon the pile of wood some ladders, a fewbundles of straw, some coils of rope, a chicken-coop, and anold dilapidated rabbit-hutch.

How did these heterogeneous details suggest themselvesto my imagination? I don't know; I had no reminiscences,and yet every stroke of the pencil seemed the result ofobservation, and strange because it was all so true. Nothing waslacking.

But on the right, one corner of the sketch remained ablank. I did not know what to put there.... Somethingsuddenly seemed to writhe there, to move! Then I saw afoot, the sole of a foot. Notwithstanding this improbableposition, I followed my inspiration without reference to myown criticism. This foot was joined to a leg—over this leg,stretched out with effort, there soon floated the skirt of adress. In short, there appeared by degrees, an old woman,pale, disheveled, and wasted, thrown down at the side of awell, and struggling to free herself from a hand that clutchedat her throat.

It was a murder scene that I was drawing. The pencilfell from my hand.

This woman, in the boldest attitude, with her thighs benton the curb of the well, her face contracted by terror, andher two hands grasping the murderer's arm, frightened me.I could not look at her. But the man—he, the person towhom that arm belonged—I could not see him. It wasimpossible for me to finish the sketch.

"I am tired," I said, my forehead dripping with perspiration;"there is only this figure to do; I will finish it to-morrow.It will be easy then."

And I went to bed again, thoroughly frightened by myvision.

The next morning, I got up very early. I was dressingin order to resume my interrupted work, when two littleknocks were heard on my door.

"Come in!"

The door opened. An old man, tall, thin, and dressed inblack, appeared on the threshold. This man's face, his eyesset close together and his large nose like the beak of aneagle, surmounted by a high bony forehead, had somethingsevere about it. He bowed to me gravely.

"Mister Christian Vénius, the painter?" said he.

"That is my name, sir."

He bowed again, adding:

"The Baron Frederick Van Spreckdal."

The appearance of the rich amateur, Van Spreckdal, judgeof the criminal court, in my poor lodging, greatly disturbedme. I could not help throwing a stealthy glance at my oldworm-eaten furniture, my damp hangings and my dusty floor.I felt humiliated by such dilapidation; but Van Spreckdal didnot seem to take any account of these details; and sittingdown at my little table:

"Mister Vénius," he resumed, "I come—" But at thisinstant his glance fell upon the unfinished sketch—he didnot finish his phrase.

I was sitting on the edge of my little bed; and the suddenattention that this personage bestowed upon one of myproductions made my heart beat with an indefinable apprehension.

At the end of a minute, Van Spreckdal lifted his head:

"Are you the author of that sketch?" he asked me with anintent look.

"Yes, sir."

"What is the price of it?"

"I never sell my sketches. It is the plan for a picture."

"Ah!" said he, picking up the paper with the tips of hislong yellow fingers.

He took a lens from his waistcoat pocket and began tostudy the design in silence.

The sun was now shining obliquely into the garret. VanSpreckdal never said a word; the hook of his immense noseincreased, his heavy eyebrows contracted, and his longpointed chin took a turn upward, making a thousand littlewrinkles in his long, thin cheeks. The silence was soprofound that I could distinctly hear the plaintive buzzing of afly that had been caught in a spider's web.

"And the dimensions of this picture, Mister Vénius," hesaid without looking at me.

"Three feet by four."

"The price?"

"Fifty ducats."

Van Spreckdal laid the sketch on the table, and drew fromhis pocket a large purse of green silk shaped like a pear;he drew the rings of it—

"Fifty ducats," said he, "here they are."

I was simply dazzled.

The Baron rose and bowed to me, and I heard his bigivory-headed cane resounding on each step until he reachedthe bottom of the stairs. Then, recovering from my stupor,I suddenly remembered that I had not thanked him, and Iflew down the five flights like lightning; but when I reachedthe bottom, I looked to the right and left; the street wasdeserted.

"Well!" I said, "this is strange."

And I went upstairs again all out of breath.

II

The surprising way in which Van Spreckdal had appearedto me threw me into a deep wonderment. "Yesterday," I saidto myself, as I contemplated the pile of ducats glittering inthe sun, "yesterday I formed the wicked intention of cuttingmy throat, all for the want of a few miserable florins, and nowto-day Fortune has showered them from the clouds. Indeedit was fortunate that I did not open my razor; and, if thesame temptation ever comes to me again, I will take care towait until the morrow."

After making these judicious reflections, I sat down tofinish the sketch; four strokes of the pencil and it would befinished. But here an incomprehensible difficulty awaited me.It was impossible for me to make those four sweeps of thepencil; I had lost the thread of my inspiration, and themysterious personage no longer stood out in my brain. I triedin vain to evoke him, to sketch him, and to recover him;he no longer accorded with the surroundings than with afigure by Raphael in a Teniers inn-kitchen. I broke out intoa profuse perspiration.

At this moment, Rap opened the door without knocking,according to his praiseworthy custom. His eyes fell upon mypile of ducats and in a shrill voice he cried:

"Eh! eh! so I catch you. Will you still persist in tellingme, Mr. Painter, that you have no money?"

And his hooked fingers advanced with that nervous tremblingthat the sight of gold always produces in a miser.

For a few seconds I was stupefied.

The memory of all the indignities that this individual hadinflicted upon me, his covetous look, and his impudent smileexasperated me. With a single bound, I caught hold of him,and pushed him out of the room, slamming the door in hisface.

This was done with the crack and rapidity of a springsnuff-box.

But from outside the old usurer screamed like an eagle:

"My money, you thief, my money!"

The lodgers come out of their rooms, asking:

"What is the matter? What has happened?"

I opened the door suddenly and quickly gave Mister Rapa kick in the spine that sent him rolling down more thantwenty steps.

"That's what's the matter!" I cried, quite beside myself.Then I shut the door and bolted it, while bursts of laughterfrom the neighbors greeted Mister Rap in the passage.

I was satisfied with myself; I rubbed my hands together.This adventure had put new life into me; I resumed my work,and was about to finish the sketch when I heard an unusualnoise.

Butts of muskets were grounded on the pavement. Ilooked out of my window and saw three soldiers in fulluniform with grounded arms in front of my door.

I said to myself in my terror: "Can it be that thatscoundrel of a Rap has had any bones broken?"

And here is the strange peculiarity of the human mind: I,who the night before had wanted to cut my own throat, shookfrom head to foot, thinking that I might well be hanged ifRap were dead.

The stairway was filled with confused noises. It was anascending flood of heavy footsteps, clanking arms, and shortsyllables.

Suddenly somebody tried to open my door. It was shut.

Then there was a general clamor.

"In the name of the law—open!"

I arose, trembling and weak in the knees.

"Open!" the same voice repeated.

I thought to escape over the roofs; but I had hardly putmy head out of the little snuff-box window, when I drewback, seized with vertigo. I saw in a flash all the windowsbelow with their shining panes, their flower-pots, theirbirdcages, and their gratings. Lower, the balcony; still lower,the street lamp; still lower again, the sign of the "Red Cask"framed in iron-work; and, finally, three glittering bayonets,only awaiting my fall to run me through the body from thesole of my foot to the crown of my head. On the roof of theopposite house a tortoise-shell cat was crouching behind achimney, watching a band of sparrows fighting and scoldingin the gutter.

One can not imagine to what clearness, intensity, andrapidity the human eye acquires when stimulated by fear.

At the third summons I heard:

"Open, or we shall force it!"

Seeing that flight was impossible, I staggered to the doorand drew the bolt.

Two hands immediately fell upon my collar. A dumpy,little man, smelling of wine, said:

"I arrest you!"

He wore a bottle-green redingote, buttoned to the chin,and a stovepipe hat. He had large brown whiskers, rings onevery finger, and was named Passauf.

He was the chief of police.

Five bull-dogs with flat caps, noses like pistols, and lowerjaws turning upward, observed me from outside.

"What do you want?" I asked Passauf.

"Come downstairs," he cried roughly, as he gave a signto one of his men to seize me.

This man took hold of me, more dead than alive, whileseveral other men turned my room upside down.

I went downstairs supported by the arms like a person inthe last stages of consumption—with hair disheveled andstumbling at every step.

They thrust me into a cab between two strong fellows,who charitably let me see the ends of their clubs, held totheir wrists by a leather string—and then the carriagestarted off.

I heard behind us the feet of all the urchins of the town.

"What have I done?" I asked one of my keepers.

He looked at the other with a strange smile and said:

"Hans—he asks what he has done!"

That smile froze my blood.

Soon a deep shadow enveloped the carriage; the horses'hoofs resounded under an archway. We were entering theRaspelhaus. Of this place one might say:

"Dans cet antre,
Je vois fort bien comme l'on entre,
Et ne vois point comme on en sort."

All is not rose-colored in this world; from the claws ofRap I fell into a dungeon, from which very few poor devilshave a chance to escape.

Large dark courtyards and rows of windows like a hospital,and furnished with gratings; not a sprig of verdure, nota festoon of ivy, not even a weathercock in perspective—suchwas my new lodging. It was enough to make one tearhis hair out by the roots.

The police officers, accompanied by the jailer, took metemporarily to a lock-up.

The jailer, if I remember rightly, was named KasperSchlüssel; with his gray, woolen cap, his pipe between histeeth, and his bunch of keys at his belt, he reminded me ofthe Owl-God of the Caribs. He had the same golden yelloweyes, that see in the dark, a nose like a comma, and a neckthat was sunk between the shoulders.

Schlüssel shut me up as calmly as one locks up his socksin a cupboard, while thinking of something else. As for me,I stood for more than ten minutes with my hands behindmy back and my head bowed. At the end of that time Imade the following reflection: "When falling, Rap cried out,'I am assassinated,' but he did not say by whom. I will sayit was my neighbor, the old merchant with the spectacles: hewill be hanged in my place."

This idea comforted my heart, and I drew a long breath.Then I looked about my prison. It seemed to have beennewly whitewashed, and the walls were bare of designs, exceptin one corner, where a gallows had been crudely sketchedby my predecessor. The light was admitted through abull's-eye about nine or ten feet from the floor; the furnitureconsisted of a bundle of straw and a tub.

I sat down upon the straw with my hands around myknees in deep despondency. It was with great difficulty thatI could think clearly; but suddenly imagining that Rap, beforedying, had denounced me, my legs began to tingle, and Ijumped up coughing, as if the hempen cord were alreadytightening around my neck.

At the same moment, I heard Schlüssel walking down thecorridor; he opened the lock-up, and told me to follow him.He was still accompanied by the two officers, so I fell intostep resolutely.

We walked down long galleries, lighted at intervals bysmall windows from within. Behind a grating I saw thefamous Jic-Jack, who was going to be executed on themorrow. He had on a straitjacket and sang out in a raucousvoice:

"Je suis le roi de ces montagnes."

Seeing me, he called out:

"Eh! comrade! I'll keep a place for you at my right."

The two police officers and the Owl-God looked at eachother and smiled, while I felt the goose-flesh creep down thewhole length of my back.

III

Schlüssel shoved me into a large and very dreary hall,with benches arranged in a semicircle. The appearance ofthis deserted hall, with its two high grated windows, and itsChrist carved in old brown oak with His arms extended andHis head sorrowfully inclined upon His shoulder, inspired mewith I do not know what kind of religious fear that accordedwith my actual situation.

All my ideas of false accusation disappeared, and my lipstremblingly murmured a prayer.

I had not prayed for a long time; but misfortune alwaysbrings us to thoughts of submission. Man is so little inhimself!

Opposite me, on an elevated seat, two men were sitting,with their backs to the light, and consequently their faceswere in shadow. However, I recognized Van Spreckdal byhis acquiline profile, illuminated by an oblique reflection fromthe window. The other person was fat, he had round, chubbycheeks and short hands, and he wore a robe, like VanSpreckdal.

Below was the clerk of the court, Conrad; he was writingat a low table and was tickling the tip of his ear with thefeather-end of his pen. When I entered, he stopped to lookat me curiously.

They made me sit down, and Van Spreckdal, raising hisvoice, said to me:

"Christian Vénius, where did you get this sketch?"

He showed me the nocturnal sketch which was then inhis possession. It was handed to me. After having examinedit, I replied:

"I am the author of it."

A long silence followed; the clerk of the court, Conrad,wrote down my reply. I heard his pen scratch over thepaper, and I thought: "Why did they ask me that question?That has nothing to do with the kick I gave Rap in theback."

"You are the author of it?" asked Van Spreckdal. "Whatis the subject?"

"It is a subject of pure fancy."

"You have not copied the details from some spot?"

"No, sir; I imagined it all."

"Accused Christian," said the judge in a severe tone, "Iask you to reflect. Do not lie."

"I have spoken the truth."

"Write that down, clerk," said Van Spreckdal.

The pen scratched again.

"And this woman," continued the judge—"this womanwho is being murdered at the side of the well—did youimagine her also?"

"Certainly."

"You have never seen her?"

"Never."

Van Spreckdal rose indignantly; then, sitting down again,he seemed to consult his companion in a low voice.

These two dark profiles silhouetted against the brightnessof the window, and the three men standing behind me, thesilence in the hall—everything made me shiver.

"What do you want with me? What have I done?" Imurmured.

Suddenly Van Spreckdal said to my guardians:

"You can take the prisoner back to the carriage; we willgo to Metzerstrasse."

Then, addressing me:

"Christian Vénius," he cried, "you are in a deplorablesituation. Collect your thoughts and remember that if the lawof men is inflexible, there still remains for you the mercy ofGod. This you can merit by confessing your crime."

These words stunned me like a blow from a hammer. Ifell back with extended arms, crying:

"Ah! what a terrible dream!"

And I fainted.

When I regained consciousness, the carriage was rollingslowly down the street; another one preceded us. The twoofficers were always with me. One of them on the wayoffered a pinch of snuff to his companion; mechanically Ireached out my hand toward the snuff-box, but he withdrew itquickly.

My cheeks reddened with shame, and I turned away myhead to conceal my emotion.

"If you look outside," said the man with the snuff-box,"we shall be obliged to put handcuffs on you."

"May the devil strangle you, you infernal scoundrel!" Isaid to myself. And as the carriage now stopped, one ofthem got out, while the other held me by the collar; then,seeing that his comrade was ready to receive me, he pushedme rudely to him.

These infinite precautions to hold possession of myperson boded no good; but I was far from predicting theseriousness of the accusation that hung over my head until analarming circumstance opened my eyes and threw me intodespair.

They pushed me along a low alley, the pavement of whichwas unequal and broken; along the wall there ran a yellowishooze, exhaling a fetid odor. I walked down this dark placewith the two men behind me. A little further there appearedthe chiaroscuro of an interior courtyard.

I grew more and more terror-stricken as I advanced. Itwas no natural feeling: it was a poignant anxiety, outside ofnature—like the nightmare. I recoiled instinctively at eachstep.

"Go on!" cried one of the policemen, laying his hand onmy shoulder; "go on!"

But what was my astonishment when, at the end of thepassage, I saw the courtyard that I had drawn the nightbefore, with its walls furnished with hooks, its rubbish-heapof old iron, its chicken-coops, and its rabbit-hutch. Not adormer window, high or low, not a broken pane, not theslightest detail had been omitted.

I was thunderstruck by this strange revelation.

Near the well were the two judges, Van Spreckdal andRichter. At their feet lay the old woman extended on herback, her long, thin, gray hair, her blue face, her eyes wideopen, and her tongue between her teeth.

It was a horrible spectacle!

"Well," said Van Spreckdal, with solemn accents, "whathave you to say?"

I did not reply.

"Do you remember having thrown this woman, TheresaBecker, into this well, after having strangled her to rob herof her money."

"No," I cried, "no! I do not know this woman; I neversaw her before. May God help me!"

"That will do," he replied in a dry voice. And withoutsaying another word he went out with his companion.

The officers now believed they had best put handcuffs onme. They took me back to the Raspelhaus, in a state ofprofound stupidity. I did not know what to think; myconscience itself troubled me; I even asked myself if I reallyhad murdered the old woman!

In the eyes of the officers I was condemned.

I will not tell you of my emotions that night in theRaspelhaus, when, seated on my straw bed with the windowopposite me and the gallows in perspective, I heard thewatchmen cry in the silence of the night: "Sleep, people ofNuremberg; the Lord watches over you. One o'clock! Twoo'clock! Three o'clock!"

Every one may form his own idea of such a night. Thereis a fine saying that it is better to be hanged innocent thanguilty. For the soul, yes; but for the body, it makes no difference;on the contrary, it kicks, it curses its lot, it tries toescape, knowing well enough that its rôle ends with the rope.Add to this, that it repents not having sufficiently enjoyedlife and at having listened to the soul when it preachedabstinence.

"Ah! if I had only known!" it cried, "you would not haveled me about by a string with your big words, your beautifulphrases, and your magnificent sentences! You would nothave allured me with your fine promises. I should have hadmany happy moments that are now lost forever. Everythingis over! You said to me: 'Control your passions.' Very well!I did control them. Here I am now! they are going to hangme, and you—later they will speak of you as a sublime soul,a stoical soul, a martyr to the errors of Justice. They willnever think about me!"

Such were the sad reflections of my poor body.

Day broke; at first, dull and undecided, it threw an uncertainlight on my bull's-eye window with its cross-bars; thenit blazed against the wall at the back. Outside the streetbecame lively. This was a market-day; it was Friday. I heardthe vegetable wagons pass and also the country peoplewith their baskets. Some chickens cackled in their coopsin passing and some butter sellers chattered together.The market opposite opened, and they began to arrange thestalls.

Finally, it was broad daylight and the vast murmur ofthe increasing crowd, housekeepers who assembled withbaskets on their arms, coming and going, discussing andmarketing, told me that it was eight o'clock.

With the light, my heart gained a little courage. Someof my black thoughts disappeared. I desired to see whatwas going on outside.

Other prisoners before me had managed to climb up tothe bull's-eye; they had dug some holes in the wall to mountmore easily. I climbed in my turn, and, when seated in theoval edge of the window, with my legs bent and my headbowed, I could see the crowd, and all the life and movement.Tears ran freely down my cheeks. I thought no longer ofsuicide—I experienced a need to live and breathe, which wasreally extraordinary.

"Ah!" I said, "to live what happiness! Let them harnessme to a wheelbarrow—let them put a ball and chain aroundmy leg—nothing matters if I may only live!"

The old market, with its roof shaped like an extinguisher,supported on heavy pillars, made a superb picture: old womenseated before their panniers of vegetables, their cages ofpoultry and their baskets of eggs; behind them the Jews, dealersin old clothes, their faces the color of old boxwood; butcherswith bare arms, cutting up meat on their stalls; countrymen,with large hats on the backs of their heads, calm and gravewith their hands behind their backs and resting on theirsticks of hollywood, and tranquilly smoking their pipes.Then the tumult and noise of the crowd—those screaming,shrill, grave, high, and short words—those expressivegestures—those sudden attitudes that show from a distance theprogress of a discussion and depict so well the character ofthe individual—in short, all this captivated my mind, andnotwithstanding my sad condition, I felt happy to be stillof the world.

Now, while I looked about in this manner, a man—abutcher—passed, inclining forward and carrying an enormousquarter of beef on his shoulders; his arms were bare, hiselbows were raised upward and his head was bent underthem. His long hair, like that of Salvator's Sicambrian, hidhis face from me; and yet, at the first glance, I trembled.

"It is he!" I said.

All the blood in my body rushed to my heart. I gotdown from the window trembling to the ends of my fingers,feeling my cheeks quiver, and the pallor spread over myface, stammering in a choked voice:

"It is he! he is there—there—and I, I have to die toexpiate his crime. Oh, God! what shall I do? What shallI do?"

A sudden idea, an inspiration from Heaven, flashed acrossmy mind. I put my hand in the pocket of my coat—my boxof crayons was there!

Then rushing to the wall, I began to trace the scene of themurder with superhuman energy. No uncertainty, no hesitation!I knew the man! I had seen him! He was there before me!

At ten o'clock the jailer came to my cell. His owl-likeimpassibility gave place to admiration.

"Is it possible?" he cried, standing at the threshold.

"Go, bring me my judges," I said to him, pursuing mywork with an increasing exultation.

Schlüssel answered:

"They are waiting for you in the trial-room."

"I wish to make a revelation," I cried, as I put thefinishing touches to the mysterious personage.

He lived; he was frightful to see. His full-faced figure,foreshortened upon the wall, stood out from the whitebackground with an astonishing vitality.

The jailer went away.

A few minutes afterward the two judges appeared. Theywere stupefied. I, trembling, with extended hand, said tothem:

"There is the murderer!"

After a few moments of silence, Van Spreckdal asked me:

"What is his name?"

"I don't know; but he is at this moment in the market;he is cutting up meat in the third stall to the left as you enterfrom Trabaus Street."

"What do you think?" said he, leaning toward his colleague.

"Send for the man," he replied in a grave tone.

Several officers retained in the corridor obeyed this order.The judges stood, examining the sketch. As for me, I haddropped on my bed of straw, my head between my knees,perfectly exhausted.

Soon steps were heard echoing under the archway. Thosewho have never awaited the hour of deliverance and countedthe minutes, which seem like centuries—those who havenever experienced the sharp emotions of outrage, terror,hope, and doubt—can have no conception of the inward chillsthat I experienced at that moment. I should havedistinguished the step of the murderer, walking between theguards, among a thousand others. They approached. Thejudges themselves seemed moved. I raised up my head, myheart feeling as if an iron hand had clutched it, and I fixedmy eyes upon the closed door. It opened. The man entered.His cheeks were red and swollen, the muscles in his largecontracted jaws twitched as far as his ears, and his littlerestless eyes, yellow like a wolf's, gleamed beneath his heavyyellowish red eyebrows.

Van Spreckdal showed him the sketch in silence.

Then that murderous man, with the large shoulders, havinglooked, grew pale—then, giving a roar which thrilled usall with terror, he waved his enormous arms, and jumpedbackward to overthrow the guards. There was a terriblestruggle in the corridor; you could hear nothing but thepanting breathing of the butcher, his muttered imprecations,and the short words and the shuffling feet of the guard, uponthe flagstones.

This lasted only about a minute.

Finally the assassin reentered, with his head hangingdown, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands fastened behind hisback. He looked again at the picture of the murder; heseemed to reflect, and then, in a low voice, as if talking tohimself:

"Who could have seen me," he said, "at midnight?"

I was saved!

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Many years have passed since that terrible adventure.Thank Heaven! I make silhouettes no longer, nor portraitsof burgomasters. Through hard work and perseverance, Ihave conquered my place in the world, and I earn my livinghonorably by painting works of art—the sole end, in myopinion, to which a true artist should aspire. But thememory of that nocturnal sketch has always remained in mymind. Sometimes, in the midst of work, the thought of itrecurs. Then I lay down my palette and dream for hours.

How could a crime committed by a man that I did notknow—at a place that I had never seen—have beenreproduced by my pencil, in all its smallest details?

Was it chance? No! And moreover, what is chance butthe effect of a cause of which we are ignorant?

Was Schiller right when he said: "The immortal soul doesnot participate in the weaknesses of matter; during the sleepof the body, it spreads its radiant wings and travels, Godknows where! What it then does, no one can say, butinspiration sometimes betrays the secret of its nocturnalwanderings."

Who knows? Nature is more audacious in her realitiesthan man in his most fantastic imaginings.

MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Here is a story, one of the "Twice-ToldTales," the subject of which might well havebeen selected for treatment by Poe. In hishands, how different the result would havebeen; how much more physical and poignant,how much less spiritual and charming!

The real difference in the two writers isnot so much a conflict of artistic methodsas it is a difference of moral make-up.Hawthorne, the son of a Salem sea captain,was descended from the grimmest Puritans;Poe was the son of an actor.

MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE

By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

A young fellow, a tobacco-pedler by trade, was onhis way from Morristown, where he had dealtlargely with the Deacon of the Shaker settlement,to the village of Parker's Falls, on Salmon River.He had a neat little cart, painted green, with a box of cigarsdepicted on each side-panel, and an Indian chief, holding apipe and a golden tobacco-stalk, on the rear. The pedlerdrove a smart little mare, and was a young man of excellentcharacter, keen at a bargain, but none the worse liked by theYankees; who, as I have heard them say, would rather beshaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. Especially washe beloved by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, whosefavor he used to court by presents of the best smokingtobacco in his stock; knowing well that the country lasses ofNew England are generally great performers on pipes.Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedlerwas inquisitive, and something of a tattler, always itchingto hear the news, and anxious to tell it again.

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco-pedler,whose name was Dominicus Pike, had traveled sevenmiles through a solitary piece of woods, without speaking aword to anybody but himself and his little gray mare. Itbeing nearly seven o'clock, he was as eager to hold amorning gossip as a city shopkeeper to read the morning paper.An opportunity seemed at hand, when, after lighting a cigarwith a sun-glass, he looked up and perceived a man comingover the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the pedlerhad stopped his green cart. Dominicus watched him as hedescended, and noticed that he carried a bundle over hisshoulder on the end of a stick, and traveled with a weary,yet determined pace. He did not look as if he had startedin the freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night,and meant to do the same all day.

"Good-morning, mister," said Dominicus, when withinspeaking distance. "You go a pretty good jog. What's thelatest news at Parker's Falls?"

The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over hiseyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did not comefrom Parker's Falls, which, as being the limit of his ownday's journey, the pedler had naturally mentioned in hisinquiry.

"Well, then," rejoined Dominicus Pike, "let's have thelatest news where you did come from. I'm not particularabout Parker's Falls. Any place will answer."

Being thus importuned, the traveler—who was as ill-lookinga fellow as one would desire to meet, in a solitary pieceof woods—appeared to hesitate a little, as if he was eithersearching his memory for news or weighing the expediencyof telling it. At last, mounting on the step of the cart,he whispered in the ear of Dominicus, though he mighthave shouted aloud and no other mortal would have heardhim.

"I do remember one little trifle of news," said he. "OldMr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered in hisorchard, at eight o'clock last night, by an Irishman and anigger. They strung him up to the branch of a St. Michael'spear-tree, where nobody would find him till the morning."

As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicatedthe stranger betook himself to his journey again, with morespeed than ever, not even turning his head when Dominicusinvited him to smoke a Spanish cigar and relate all theparticulars. The pedler whistled to his mare and went up thehill, pondering on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham,whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold himmany a bunch of long nines, and a great deal of pigtail,lady's twist, and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished atthe rapidity with which the news had spread. Kimballtonwas nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; the murderhad been perpetrated only at eight o'clock the precedingnight; yet Dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning,when, in all probability, poor Mr. Higginbotham'a ownfamily had but just discovered his corpse, hanging on theSt. Michael's pear-tree. The stranger on foot must have wornseven-league boots, to travel at such a rate.

"Ill news flies fast, they say," thought Dominicus Pike;"but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hired togo express with the President's Message."

The difficulty was solved by supposing that the narratorhad made a mistake of one day in the date of the occurrence;so that our friend did not hesitate to introduce thestory at every tavern and country store along the road,expending a whole bunch of Spanish wrappers among at leasttwenty horrified audiences. He found himself invariably thefirst bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered withquestions that he could not avoid filling up the outline, till itbecame quite a respectable narrative. He met with one pieceof corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader;and a former clerk of his, to whom Dominicus related thefacts, testified that the old gentleman was accustomed toreturn home through the orchard, about nightfall, with themoney and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. Theclerk manifested but little grief at Mr. Higginbotham'scatastrophe, hinting, what the pedler had discovered in his owndealings with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as closeas a vise. His property would descend to a pretty niece whowas now keeping school in Kimballton.

What with telling the news for the public good, and drivingbargains for his own, Dominicus was so much delayed onthe road that he chose to put up at a tavern, about five milesshort of Parker's Falls. After supper, lighting one of hisprime cigars, he seated himself in the barroom, and wentthrough the story of the murder, which had grown so fastthat it took him a half hour to tell. There were as many astwenty people in the room, nineteen of whom received it allfor gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly farmer, who hadarrived on horseback a short time before, and was now seatedin a corner smoking his pipe. When the story was concluded,he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair rightin front of Dominicus, and stared him full in the face,puffing out the vilest tobacco smoke the pedler had eversmelled.

"Will you make affidavit," demanded he in the tone ofa country justice taking an examination, "that old SquireHigginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in his orchardthe night before last, and found hanging on his greatpear-tree yesterday morning?"

"I tell the story as I heard it, mister," answered Dominicus,dropping his half-burned cigar; "I don't say that I sawthe thing done. So I can't take my oath that he wasmurdered exactly in that way."

"But I can take mine," said the farmer, "that if SquireHigginbotham was murdered night before last, I drank aglass of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being a neighborof mine, he called me into his store, as I was riding by,and treated me, and then asked me to do a little business forhim on the road. He didn't seem to know any more abouthis own murder than I did."

"Why, then, it can't be a fact!" exclaimed Dominicus Pike.

"I guess he'd have mentioned it, if it was," said the oldfarmer; and he removed his chair back to the corner, leavingDominicus quite down in the mouth.

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham!The pedler had no heart to mingle in the conversation anymore, but comforted himself with a glass of gin and water,and went to bed, where, all night long, he dreamed of hangingon the St. Michael's pear-tree. To avoid the old farmer(whom he so detested that his suspension would have pleasedhim better than Mr. Higginbotham's), Dominicus rose in thegray of the morning, put the little mare into the green cart,and trotted swiftly away toward Parker's Falls. The freshbreeze, the dewy road, and the pleasant summer dawn revivedhis spirits, and might have encouraged him to repeatthe old story had there been anybody awake to hear it. Buthe met neither ox-team, light wagon, chaise, horseman, norfoot-traveler, till, just as he crossed Salmon River, a mancame trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over hisshoulder, on the end of a stick.

"Good morning, mister," said the pedler, reining in hismare. "If you come from Kimballton or that neighborhoodmaybe you can tell me the real fact about this affair of oldMr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow actually murdered,two or three nights ago, by an Irishman and a nigger?"

Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe,at first, that the stranger himself had a deep tinge of negroblood. On hearing this sudden question, the Ethiopianappeared to change his skin, its yellow hue becoming a ghastlywhite, while, shaking and stammering, he thus replied:

"No! no! There was no colored man! It was an Irishmanthat hanged him last night, at eight o'clock. I cameaway at seven! His folks can't have looked for him in theorchard yet."

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interruptedhimself, and, though he seemed weary enough before,continued his journey at a pace which would have kept thepedler's mare on a smart trot. Dominicus stared after himin great perplexity. If the murder had not been committedtill Tuesday night, who was the prophet that had foretoldit, in all its circumstances, on Tuesday morning? IfMr. Higginbotham's corpse were not yet discovered by his ownfamily, how came the mulatto, at above thirty miles' distance,to know that he was hanging in the orchard, especially as hehad left Kimballton before the unfortunate man was hangedat all? These ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger'ssurprise and terror, made Dominicus think of raising a hueand cry after him, as an accomplice in the murder; since amurder, it seemed, had really been perpetrated.

"But let the poor devil go," thought the pedler. "I don'twant his black blood on my head; and hanging the niggerwouldn't unhang Mr. Higginbotham. Unhang the old gentleman!It's a sin, I know; but I should hate to have himcome to life a second time, and give me the lie!"

With these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into thestreet of Parker's Falls, which, as everybody knows, is asthriving a village as three cotton factories and a slitting millcan make it. The machinery was not in motion, and but afew of the shop doors unbarred, when he alighted in thestable-yard of the tavern, and made it his first business toorder the mare four quarts of oats. His second duty, ofcourse, was to impart Mr. Higginbotham's catastrophe to thehostler. He deemed it advisable, however, not to be too positiveas to the date of the direful fact, and also to be uncertainwhether it were perpetrated by an Irishman and a mulatto,or by the son of Erin alone. Neither did he profess to relateit on his own authority, nor that of any one person; butmentioned it as a report generally diffused.

The story ran through the town like fire among girdledtrees, and became so much the universal talk that nobodycould tell whence it had originated. Mr. Higginbotham wasas well known at Parker's Falls as any citizen of the place,being part owner of the slitting mill, and a considerablestockholder in the cotton factories. The inhabitants felttheir own prosperity interested in his fate. Such was theexcitement that the "Parker's Falls Gazette" anticipated itsregular day of publication, and came out with half a formof blank paper and a column of double pica emphasizedwith capitals, and headed "HORRID MURDER OFMR. HIGGINBOTHAM!" Among other dreadful details, the printedaccount described the mark of the cord round the dead man'sneck, and stated the number of thousand dollars of whichhe had been robbed; there was much pathos also about theaffliction of his niece, who had gone from one fainting fit toanother, ever since her uncle was found hanging on theSt. Michael's pear-tree with his pockets inside out. The villagepoet likewise commemorated the young lady's grief in seventeenstanzas of a ballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and,in consideration of Mr. Higginbotham's claims on the town,determined to issue handbills, offering a reward of fivehundred dollars for the apprehension of his murderers, and therecovery of the stolen property.

Meanwhile, the whole population of Parker's Falls, consistingof shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factorygirls, mill men, and schoolboys, rushed into the street, andkept up such a terrible loquacity as more than compensatedfor the silence of the cotton-machines which refrained fromtheir usual din, out of respect to the deceased. HadMr. Higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his untimelyghost would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend Dominicus,in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precautions,and, mounting on the town pump, announced himself as thebearer of the authentic intelligence which had caused sowonderful a sensation. He immediately became the greatman of the moment, and had just begun a new edition of thenarrative, with a voice like a field preacher, when the mailstage drove into the village street. It had traveled all night,and must have shifted horses at Kimballton at three in themorning.

"Now we shall hear all the particulars," shouted the crowd.

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern,followed by a thousand people; for if any man had beenminding his own business till then, he now left it at sixes andsevens, to hear the news. The pedler, foremost in the race,discovered two passengers, both of whom had been startledfrom a comfortable nap to find themselves in the centre of amob. Every man assailing them with separate questions,all propounded at once, the couple were struck speechless,though one was a lawyer and the other a young lady.

"Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us theparticulars about old Mr. Higginbotham!" bawled the mob."What is the coroner's verdict? Are the murderersapprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham's niece come out of herfainting fits? Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham!!"

The coachman said not a word, except to swear awfullyat the hostler for not bringing him a fresh team of horses.The lawyer inside had generally his wits about him, evenwhen asleep; the first thing he did, after learning the causeof the excitement, was to produce a large red pocketbook.Meantime, Dominicus Pike, being an extremely polite youngman, and also suspecting that a female tongue would tellthe story as glibly as a lawyer's, had handed the lady outof the coach. She was a fine, smart girl, now wide-awakeand bright as a button, and had such a sweet, pretty mouththat Dominicus would almost as lief have heard a love talefrom it as a tale of murder.

"Gentlemen and ladies," said the lawyer, to the shopkeepers,the mill men, and the factory girls, "I can assureyou that some unaccountable mistake, or, more probably,a wilful falsehood, maliciously contrived to injureMr. Higginbotham's credit, has excited this singular uproar. Wepassed through Kimballton at three o'clock this morning,and most certainly should have been informed of the murderhad any been perpetrated. But I have proof, nearly asstrong as Mr. Higginbotham's own oral testimony, in thenegative. Here is a note, relating to a suit of his in theConnecticut courts, which was delivered me from thatgentleman himself. I find it dated at ten o'clock last evening."

So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signatureof the note, which irrefragably proved, either that thisperverse Mr. Higginbotham was alive when he wrote it, or—assome deemed the more probable case of two doubtful ones—thathe was so absorbed in worldly business as to continueto transact it, even after his death. But unexpectedevidence was forthcoming. The young lady, after listening tothe pedler's explanation, merely seized a moment to smoothher gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared atthe tavern-door, making a modest signal to be heard.

"Good people," said she, "I am Mr. Higginbotham's niece."

A wondering murmur passed through the crowd, on beholdingher so rosy and bright; that same unhappy niecewhom they had supposed, on the authority of the "Parker'sFalls Gazette," to be lying at death's door in a fainting fit.But some shrewd fellows had doubted, all along, whether ayoung lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging ofa rich old uncle.

"You see," continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile,"that this strange story is quite unfounded, as to myself;and I believe I may affirm it to be equally so in regard to mydear uncle Higginbotham. He has the kindness to giveme a home in his house, though I contribute to my ownsupport by teaching a school. I left Kimballton this morningto spend the vacation of commencement week with a friend,about five miles from Parker's Falls. My generous uncle,when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bedside,and gave me two dollars and fifty cents, to pay my stagefare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. He thenlaid his pocketbook under his pillow, shook hands with me,and advised me to take some biscuit in my bag, instead ofbreakfasting on the road. I feel confident, therefore, thatI left my beloved relative alive, and trust that I shall findhim so on my return."

The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech,which was so sensible and well-worded, and delivered withsuch grace and propriety, that everybody thought her fit tobe Preceptress of the best Academy in the State. But astranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham wasan object of abhorrence at Parker's Falls, and that athanksgiving had been proclaimed for his murder, so excessive wasthe wrath of the inhabitants on learning their mistake. Themill men resolved to bestow public honors on DominicusPike, only hesitating whether to tar and feather him, ridehim on a rail, or refresh him with an ablution at thetown-pump on the top of which he had declared himself the bearerof the news. The selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spokeof prosecuting him for a misdemeanor, in circulatingunfounded reports, to the great disturbance of the peace ofthe commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus, either frommob law or a court of justice, but an eloquent appeal madeby the young lady in his behalf. Addressing a few wordsof heartfelt gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted thegreen cart and rode out of town, under a discharge ofartillery from the schoolboys, who found plenty of ammunitionin the neighboring clay-pits and mud-holes. As he turnedhis head, to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham'sniece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty-pudding,hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most grim aspect.His whole person was so bespattered with the like filthymissiles, that he had almost a mind to ride back and supplicatefor the threatened ablution at the town-pump; for, thoughnot meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed ofcharity.

However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, andthe mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved opprobrium,was easily brushed off when dry. Being a funny rogue, hisheart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain from a heartylaugh at the uproar which his story had excited. The hand-billsof the selectmen would cause the commitment of all thevagabonds in the State; the paragraph in the "Parker'sFalls Gazette" would be reprinted from Maine to Florida,and perhaps form an item in the London newspapers; andmany a miser would tremble for his money-bags and life,on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. Thepedler meditated with much fervor on the charms of the youngschoolmistress, and swore that Daniel Webster never spokenor looked so like an angel as Miss Higginbotham, whiledefending him from the wrathful populace at Parker's Falls.

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton Turnpike, havingall along determined to visit that place, though business haddrawn him out of the most direct road from Morristown. Ashe approached the scene of the supposed murder, hecontinued to revolve the circumstances in his mind, and wasastonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed.Had nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the firsttraveler, it might now have been considered as a hoax; butthe yellow man was evidently acquainted either with thereport or the fact; and there was a mystery in his dismayedand guilty look on being abruptly questioned. When, tothis singular combination of incidents, it was added thatthe rumor tallied exactly with Mr. Higginbotham's characterand habits of life; and that he had an orchard, and aSt. Michael's pear-tree, near which he always passed atnightfall; the circumstantial evidence appeared so strong thatDominicus doubted whether the autograph produced by thelawyer, or even the niece's direct testimony, ought to beequivalent. Making cautious inquiries along the road, thepedler further learned that Mr. Higginbotham had in hisservice an Irishman of doubtful character, whom he had hiredwithout a recommendation, on the score of economy.

"May I be hanged myself," exclaimed Dominicus Pikealoud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, "if I'll believeold Higginbotham is unhanged till I see him with my owneyes and hear it from his own mouth? And as he's a realshaver, I'll have the minister or some other responsible manfor an endorser."

It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house onKimballton Turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from thevillage of this name. His little mare was fast bringing himup with a man on horseback, who trotted through the gatea few rods in advance of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer,and kept on toward the village. Dominicus was acquaintedwith the toll-man, and while making change the usualremarks on the weather passed between them.

"I suppose," said the pedler, throwing back his whip-lash,to bring it down like a feather on the mare's flank, "you havenot seen anything of old Mr. Higginbotham within a day ortwo?"

"Yes," answered the toll-gatherer. "He passed the gatejust before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if youcan see him through the dusk. He's been to Woodfield thisafternoon, attending a sheriff's sale there. The old mangenerally shakes hands and has a little chat with me; butto-night he nodded—as if to say, 'Charge my toll'—andjogged on; for wherever he goes, he must always be home ateight o'clock."

"So they tell me," said Dominicus.

"I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squiredoes," continued the toll-gatherer. "Says I to myself,to-night, 'He's more like a ghost or an old mummy than goodflesh and blood.'"

The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, andcould just discern the horseman, now far ahead on thevillage road. He seemed to recognize the rear ofMr. Higginbotham; but through the evening shadows, and amid thedust from the horse's feet, the figure appeared dim andunsubstantial; as if the shape of the mysterious old man werefaintly molded of darkness and gray light. Dominicusshivered.

"Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world,by way of the Kimballton Turnpike," thought he.

He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about thesame distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, till thelatter was concealed by a bend of the road. On reachingthis point, the pedler no longer saw the man on horseback,but found himself at the head of the village street, not farfrom a number of stores and two taverns, clustered roundthe meeting-house steeple. On his left was a stone wall anda gate, the boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay anorchard, further still a mowing field, and last of all ahouse. These were the premises of Mr. Higginbotham,whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had beenleft in the background by the Kimballton Turnpike. Dominicusknew the place; and the little mare stopped short byinstinct; for he was not conscious of tightening the reins.

"For the soul of me, I can not get by this gate!" said he,trembling. "I never shall be my own again, till I seewhether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St. Michael'spear-tree!"

He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn around thegate-post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot, asif Old Nick were chasing behind. Just then the village clocktolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell, Dominicus gavea fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in thesolitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree.One great branch stretched from the old contorted trunkacross the path, and threw the darkest shadow on that onespot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the branch!

The pedler had never pretended to more courage thanbefits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could he accountfor his valor on this awful emergency. Certain it is,however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy Irishmanwith the butt-end of his whip, and found—not indeed hangingon the St. Michael's pear-tree, but trembling beneath it,with a halter round his neck—the old identical Mr. Higginbotham!

"Mr. Higginbotham," said Dominicus, tremulously, "you'rean honest man, and I'll take your word for it. Have youbeen hanged or not?"

If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words willexplain the simple machinery by which this "coming event"was made to "cast its shadow before." Three men had plottedthe robbery and murder of Mr. Higginbotham; two of them,successively, lost courage and fled, each delaying the crimeone night by their disappearance; the third was in the actof perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the callof fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in theperson of Dominicus Pike.

It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took thepedler into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to the prettyschoolmistress, and settled his whole property on their children,allowing themselves the interest. In due time, the oldgentleman capped the climax of his favors by dying a Christiandeath, in bed, since which melancholy event DominicusPike has removed from Kimballton, and established a largetobacco manufactory in my native village.

THE WHITE OLD MAID

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

This is an admirable example of Hawthorne'spoint of view and style. Startingwith an aim to leave one strong impressionon the mind of the reader, instead of theremembrance of a number of related facts,the author not only omits everything thatwould detract from the unity and strength ofthis impression, but creates only such scenesand situations as will intensify the effect.

THE WHITE OLD MAID

By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

The moonbeams came through two deep and narrowwindows and showed a spacious chamber richlyfurnished in an antique fashion. From one latticethe shadow of the diamond panes was thrownupon the floor; the ghostly light through the other sweptupon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains andilluminating the face of a young man. But how quietly theslumberer lay! how pale his features! And how like a shroudthe sheet was wound about his frame! Yes, it was a corpse inits burial clothes.

Suddenly the fixed features seemed to move with darkemotion. Strange fantasy! It was but the shadow of thefringed curtain waving between the dead face and themoonlight as the door of the chamber opened and a girl stolesoftly to the bedside. Was there delusion in the moonbeams,or did her gesture and her eye betray a gleam of triumph asshe bent over the pale corpse, pale as itself, and pressed herliving lips to the cold ones of the dead? As she drew backfrom that long kiss her features writhed as if a proud heartwere fighting with its anguish. Again it seemed that thefeatures of the corpse had moved responsive to her own.Still an illusion. The silken curtains had waved a secondtime between the dead face and the moonlight as anotherfair young girl unclosed the door and glided ghostlike to thebedside. There the two maidens stood, both beautiful, withthe pale beauty of the dead between them. But she whohad first entered was proud and stately, and the other a softand fragile thing.

"Away!" cried the lofty one. "Thou hadst him living;the dead is mine."

"Thine!" returned the other, shuddering. "Well hastthou spoken; the dead is thine."

The proud girl started and stared into her face with aghastly look, but a wild and mournful expression passedacross the features of the gentle one, and, weak andhelpless, she sank down on the bed, her head pillowed besidethat of the corpse and her hair mingling with his dark locks.A creature of hope and joy, the first draft of sorrow hadbewildered her.

"Edith!" cried her rival.

Edith groaned as with a sudden compression of the heart,and removing her cheek from the dead youth's pillow, shestood upright, fearfully encountering the eyes of the loftygirl.

"Wilt thou betray me?" said the latter, calmly.

"Till the dead bid me speak I will be silent," answeredEdith. "Leave us alone together. Go and live many years,and then return and tell me of thy life. He too will be here.Then, if thou tellest of sufferings more than death, we willboth forgive thee."

"And what shall be the token?" asked the proud girl, asif her heart acknowledged a meaning in these wild words.

"This lock of hair," said Edith, lifting one of the darkclustering curls that lay heavily on the dead man's brow.

The two maidens joined their hands over the bosom ofthe corpse and appointed a day and hour far, far in time tocome for their next meeting in that chamber. The stateliergirl gave one deep look at the motionless countenance anddeparted, yet turned again and trembled ere she closed thedoor, almost believing that her dead lover frowned uponher. And Edith, too! Was not her white form fading intothe moonlight? Scorning her own weakness, she went forthand perceived that a negro slave was waiting in the passagewith a waxlight, which he held between her face and hisown and regarded her, as she thought, with an uglyexpression of merriment. Lifting his torch on high, the slavelighted her down the staircase and undid the portal of themansion. The young clergyman of the town had justascended the steps, and, bowing to the lady, passed inwithout a word.

Years—many years—rolled on. The world seemed newagain, so much older was it grown since the night when thosepale girls had clasped their hands across the bosom of thecorpse. In the interval a lonely woman had passed fromyouth to extreme age, and was known by all the town as the"Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet." A taint of insanity hadaffected her whole life, but so quiet, sad, and gentle, soutterly free from violence, that she was suffered to pursueher harmless fantasies unmolested by the world with whosebusiness or pleasures she had naught to do. She dwelt alone,and never came into the daylight except to follow funerals.Whenever a corpse was borne along the street, in sunshine,rain, or snow, whether a pompous train of the rich andproud thronged after it, or few and humble were themourners, behind them came the lonely woman in a long whitegarment which the people called her shroud. She took noplace among the kindred or the friends, but stood at the doorto hear the funeral prayer, and walked in the rear of theprocession as one whose earthly charge it was to haunt thehouse of mourning and be the shadow of affliction and seethat the dead were duly buried. So long had this been hercustom that the inhabitants of the town deemed her a partof every funeral, as much as the coffin-pall or the very corpseitself, and augured ill of the sinner's destiny unless the OldMaid in the Winding-Sheet came gliding like a ghost behind.Once, it is said, she affrighted a bridal-party with her palepresence, appearing suddenly in the illuminated hall just asthe priest was uniting a false maid to a wealthy man beforeher lover had been dead a year. Evil was the omen to thatmarriage. Sometimes she stole forth by moonlight andvisited the graves of venerable integrity and wedded love andvirgin innocence, and every spot where the ashes of a kindand faithful heart were moldering. Over the hillocks ofthose favored dead would she stretch out her arms with agesture as if she were scattering seeds, and many believedthat she brought them from the garden of Paradise, for thegraves which she had visited were green beneath the snowand covered with sweet flowers from April to November.Her blessing was better than a holy verse upon the tombstone.Thus wore away her long, sad, peaceful, andfantastic life till few were so old as she, and the people of latergenerations wondered how the dead had ever been buried ormourners had endured their grief without the Old Maid inthe Winding-Sheet. Still years went on, and still shefollowed funerals and was not yet summoned to her ownfestival of death.

One afternoon the great street of the town was all alivewith business and bustle, though the sun now gilded onlythe upper half of the church-spire, having left the house-topsand loftiest trees in shadow. The scene was cheerful andanimated in spite of the sombre shade between the highbrick buildings. Here were pompous merchants in whitewigs and laced velvet, the bronzed faces of sea-captains, theforeign garb and air of Spanish Creoles, and the disdainfulport of natives of Old England, all contrasted with the roughaspect of one or two back-settlers negotiating sales of timberfrom forests where ax had never sounded. Sometimes alady passed, swelling roundly forth in an embroidered petticoat,balancing her steps in high-heeled shoes and courtesyingwith lofty grace to the punctilious obeisances of thegentlemen. The life of the town seemed to have its very centrenot far from an old mansion that stood somewhat backfrom the pavement, surrounded by neglected grass, with astrange air of loneliness rather deepened than dispelled bythe throng so near it. Its site would have been suitablyoccupied by a magnificent Exchange or a brick block lettered allover with various signs, or the large house itself might havemade a noble tavern with the "King's Arms" swinging beforeit and guests in every chamber, instead of the present solitude.But, owing to some dispute about the right of inheritance,the mansion had been long without a tenant, decaying fromyear to year and throwing the stately gloom of its shadowover the busiest part of the town.

Such was the scene, and such the time, when a figureunlike any that have been described was observed at adistance down the street.

"I spy a strange sail yonder," remarked a Liverpoolcaptain—"that woman in the long white garment."

The sailor seemed much struck by the object, as wereseveral others who at the same moment caught a glimpse ofthe figure that had attracted his notice. Almost immediatelythe various topics of conversation gave place tospeculations in an undertone on this unwonted occurrence.

"Can there be a funeral so late this afternoon?" inquiredsome.

They looked for the signs of death at every door—thesexton, the hearse, the assemblage of black-clad relatives, allthat makes up the woful pomp of funerals. They raisedtheir eyes, also, to the sun-gilded spire of the church, andwondered that no clang proceeded from its bell, which hadalways tolled till now when this figure appeared in the light ofday. But none had heard that a corpse was to be borne to itshome that afternoon, nor was there any token of a funeralexcept the apparition of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.

"What may this portend?" asked each man of his neighbor.

All smiled as they put the question, yet with a certaintrouble in their eyes, as if pestilence, or some other widecalamity, were prognosticated by the untimely intrusionamong the living of one whose presence had always beenassociated with death and woe. What a comet is to theearth was that sad woman to the town. Still she moved on,while the hum of surprise was hushed at her approach, andthe proud and the humble stood aside that her whitegarment might not wave against them. It was a long, looserobe of spotless purity. Its wearer appeared very old, pale,emaciated, and feeble, yet glided onward without theunsteady pace of extreme age. At one point of her course alittle rosy boy burst forth from a door and ran with openarms toward the ghostly woman, seeming to expect a kissfrom her bloodless lips. She made a slight pause, fixing hereye upon him with an expression of no earthly sweetness, sothat the child shivered and stood awestruck rather thanaffrighted while the Old Maid passed on. Perhaps hergarment might have been polluted even by an infant's touch;perhaps her kiss would have been death to the sweet boywithin the year.

"She is but a shadow," whispered the superstitious. "Thechild put forth his arms and could not grasp her robe."

The wonder was increased when the Old Maid passedbeneath the porch of the deserted mansion, ascended themoss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker and gave threeraps. The people could only conjecture that some oldremembrance, troubling her bewildered brain, had impelled thepoor woman hither to visit the friends of her youth—all gonefrom their home long since, and forever, unless their ghostsstill haunted it, fit company for the Old Maid in theWinding-Sheet.

An elderly man approached the steps, and, reverentlyuncovering his gray locks, essayed to explain the matter.

"None, madam," said he, "have dwelt in this house thesefifteen years agone—no, not since the death of old ColonelFenwicke, whose funeral you may remember to have followed.His heirs, being ill-agreed among themselves, havelet the mansion-house go to ruin."

The Old Maid looked slowly round with a slight gestureof one hand and a finger of the other upon her lip, appearingmore shadow-like than ever in the obscurity of the porch.But again she lifted the hammer, and gave, this time, asingle rap. Could it be that a footstep was now heard comingdown the staircase of the old mansion which all conceived tohave been so long untenanted? Slowly, feebly, yet heavily,like the pace of an aged and infirm person, the stepapproached, more distinct on every downward stair, till itreached the portal. The bar fell on the inside; the door wasopened. One upward glance toward the church-spire, whencethe sunshine had just faded, was the last that the people sawof the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.

"Who undid the door?" asked many.

This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath theporch, no one could satisfactorily answer. Two or three agedmen, while protesting against an inference which might bedrawn, affirmed that the person within was a negro, and borea singular resemblance to Old Cæsar, formerly a slave in thehouse, but freed by death some thirty years before.

"Her summons has waked up a servant of the old family,"said one, half seriously.

"Let us wait here," replied another; "more guests willknock at the door anon. But the gate of the graveyardshould be thrown open."

Twilight had overspread the town before the crowd beganto separate or the comments on this incident were exhausted.One after another was wending his way homeward, when acoach—no common spectacle in those days—drove slowlyinto the street. It was an old-fashioned equipage, hangingclose to the ground, with arms on the panels, a footmanbehind, and a grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front,the whole giving an idea of solemn state and dignity. Therewas something awful in the heavy rumbling of the wheels.

The coach rolled down the street, till, coming to thegateway of the deserted mansion, it drew up, and the footmansprang to the ground.

"Whose grand coach is this?" asked a very inquisitivebody.

The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps ofthe old house, gave three taps with the iron hammer, andreturned to open the coach door. An old man possessed ofthe heraldic lore so common in that day examined the shieldof arms on the panel.

"Azure, a lion's head erased, between three flowers-de-luce,"said he, then whispered the name of the family towhom these bearings belonged. The last inheritor of itshonors was recently dead, after a long residence amid thesplendor of the British court, where his birth and wealthhad given him no mean station. "He left no child,"continued the herald, "and these arms, being in a lozenge,betoken that the coach appertains to his widow."

Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made hadnot the speaker been suddenly struck dumb by the stern eyeof an ancient lady who thrust forth her head from the coachpreparing to descend. As she emerged, the people saw thather dress was magnificent, and her figure dignified in spiteof age and infirmity—a stately ruin, but with a look at onceof pride and wretchedness. Her strong and rigid featureshad an awe about them unlike that of the white Old Maid,but as of something evil. She passed up the steps, leaningon a gold-headed cane. The door swung open as sheascended, and the light of a torch glittered on theembroidery of her dress and gleamed on the pillars of theporch. After a momentary pause, a glance backward andthen a desperate effort, she went in.

The decipherer of the coat-of-arms had ventured up thelower step, and, shrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous,affirmed that the torch was held by the very image ofOld Cæsar.

"But such a hideous grin," added he, "was never seen onthe face of mortal man, black or white. It will haunt metill my dying day."

Meantime, the coach had wheeled round with a prodigiousclatter on the pavement and rumbled up the street, disappearingin the twilight, while the ear still tracked its course.Scarcely was it gone when the people began to questionwhether the coach and attendants, the ancient lady, thespectre of Old Cæsar and the Old Maid herself were not alla strangely combined delusion with some dark purport inits mystery. The whole town was astir, so that, insteadof dispersing, the crowd continually increased, and stoodgazing up at the windows of the mansion, now silvered bythe brightening moon. The elders, glad to indulge thenarrative propensity of age, told of the long-faded splendor of.the family, the entertainments they had given and the guests,the greatest of the land, and even titled and noble ones fromabroad, who had passed beneath that portal. These graphicreminiscences seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whomthey referred. So strong was the impression on some of themore imaginative hearers that two or three were seized withtrembling fits at one and the same moment, protesting thatthey had distinctly heard three other raps of the ironknocker.

"Impossible!" exclaimed others. "See! The moon shinesbeneath the porch, and shows every part of it except in thenarrow shade of that pillar. There is no one there."

"Did not the door open?" whispered one of these fancifulpersons.

"Didst thou see it too?" said his companion, in a startledtone.

But the general sentiment was opposed to the idea thata third visitant had made application at the door of thedeserted house. A few, however, adhered to this new marvel,and even declared that a red gleam like that of a torch hadshone through the great front window, as if the negro werelighting a guest up the staircase. This too was pronounceda mere fantasy.

But at once the whole multitude started, and eachman beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all therest.

"What an awful thing is this!" cried they.

A shriek, too fearfully distinct for doubt, had been heardwithin the mansion, breaking forth suddenly and succeededby a deep stillness, as if a heart had burst in giving itutterance. The people knew not whether to fly from the verysight of the house or to rush trembling in and search out thestrange mystery. Amid their confusion and affright theywere somewhat reassured by the appearance of theirclergyman, a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, who hadtaught them and their fathers the way to heaven for morethan the space of an ordinary lifetime. He was a reverendfigure with long white hair upon his shoulders, a white beardupon his breast, and a back so bent over his staff that heseemed to be looking downward continually, as if to choosea proper grave for his weary frame. It was some timebefore the good old man, being deaf and of impaired intellect,could be made to comprehend such portions of the affair aswere comprehensible at all. But when possessed of thefacts, his energies assumed unexpected vigor.

"Verily," said the old gentleman, "it will b$ fitting thatI enter the mansion-house of the worthy Colonel Fenwicke;lest any harm should have befallen that true Christianwoman whom ye call the 'Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.'"

Behold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending the stepsof the mansion with a torch-bearer behind him. It was theelderly man who had spoken to the Old Maid, and the samewho had afterward explained the shield of arms and recognizedthe features of the negro. Like their predecessors,they gave three raps with the iron hammer.

"Old Cæsar cometh not," observed the priest. "Well, Iwot he no longer doth service in this mansion."

"Assuredly, then, it was something worse in Old Cæsar'slikeness," said the other adventurer.

"Be it as God wills," answered the clergyman. "See! mystrength, though it be much decayed, hath sufficed to,open this heavy door. Let us enter and pass up the staircase."

Here occurred a singular exemplification of the dreamystate of a very old man's mind. As they ascended the wideflight of stairs the aged clergyman appeared to move withcaution, occasionally standing aside, and oftener bending hishead, as it were in salutation, thus practising all the gesturesof one who makes his way through a throng. Reaching thehead of the staircase, he looked around with sad and solemnbenignity, laid aside his staff, bared his hoary locks, andwas evidently on the point of commencing a prayer.

"Reverend sir," said his attendant, who conceived thisa very suitable prelude to their further search, "would itnot be well that the people join with us in prayer?"

"Well-a-day!" cried the old clergyman, staring strangelyaround him. "Art thou here with me, and none other?Verily, past times were present to me, and I deemed thatI was to make a funeral prayer, as many a time heretofore,from the head of this staircase. Of a truth, I saw the shadesof many that are gone. Yea, I have prayed at their burials,one after another, and the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheethath seen them to their graves."

Being now more thoroughly awake to their present purpose,he took his staff and struck forcibly on the floor, tillthere came an echo from each deserted chamber, but nomenial to answer their summons. They, therefore, walkedalong the passage, and again paused, opposite to the greatfront window, through which was seen the crowd in theshadow and partial moonlight of the street beneath. Onthe right hand was the open door of a chamber, and a closedone on their left.

The clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak panelof the latter.

"Within that chamber," observed he, "a whole lifetimesince, did I sit by the deathbed of a goodly young man who,being now at the last gasp—" Apparently, there was somepowerful excitement in the ideas which had now flashedacross his mind. He snatched the torch from his companion'shand, and threw open the door with such sudden violencethat the flame was extinguished, leaving them no other lightthan the moonbeams which fell through two windows intothe spacious chamber. It was sufficient to discover all thatcould be known. In a high-backed oaken armchair, upright,with her hands clasped across her breast and her headthrown back, sat the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. Thestately dame had fallen on her knees with her forehead onthe holy knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the floor andthe other pressed convulsively against her heart. It clutcheda lock of hair—once sable, now discolored with a greenishmold.

As the priest and layman advanced into the chamber theOld Maid's features assumed such a semblance of shiftingexpression that they trusted to hear the whole mysteryexplained by a single word. But it was only the shadow ofa tattered curtain waving between the dead face and themoonlight.

"Both dead!" said the venerable man. "Then who shalldivulge the secret? Methinks it glimmers to and fro in mymind like the light and shadow across the Old Maid's face.And now 'tis gone!"

WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE

BY SIR WAITER SCOTT

Sir Walter Scott, born in Edinburgh in1771 and died at "Abbotsford" in 1832,published the first of his Waverley Novels("Waverley") in 1814. "Redgauntlet," inwhich "Wandering Willie's Tale" occurs,appeared in 1824. Wandering Willie, whotells the tale, is Willie Steenson, a blindfiddler devoted to the Redgauntlet family.Many critics consider this the finest story inthe English language. Andrew Lang, whocalls it "immortal," describes ft as "thatperfect model of a 'conte' in whose narrow rangehumor, poetry, the grotesque, the terribleare combined as in no other work of man."

WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE

By SIR WALTER SCOTT

Ye maun have heard of Sir Robert Redgauntlet ofthat Ilk, who lived in these parts before the dearyears. The country will lang mind him; and ourfathers used to draw breath thick if ever they heardhim named. He was out wi' the Hielandmen in Montrose'stime; and again he was in the hills wi' Glencairn in thesaxteen hundred and fifty-twa; and sae when King Charles theSecond came in, wha was in sic favor as the Laird ofRedgauntlet? He was knighted at Lonon court, wi' the King'sain sword; and being a red-hot prelatist, he came down here,rampauging like a lion, with commissions of lieutenancy(and of lunacy, for what I ken), to put down a' the Whigsand Covenanters in the country. Wild wark they made ofit; for the Whigs were as dour as the Cavaliers were fierce,and it was which should first tire the other. Redgauntlet wasaye for the strong hand; and his name is kenn'd as wide inthe country as Claverhouse's or Tam Dalyell's. Glen, nordargle, nor mountain, nor cave could hide the puir Hill-folkwhen Redgauntlet was out with bugle and bloodhound afterthem, as if they had been sae mony deer. And troth whenthey fand them, they didna mak muckle mair ceremonythan a Hielandman wi' a roebuck. It was just, "Will ye takthe test?" If not, "Make ready—present—fire!" and therelay the recusant.

Far and wide was Sir Robert hated and feared. Menthought he had a direct compact with Satan; that he wasproof against steel, and that bullets happed aff his buff-coatlike hailstanes from a hearth; that he had a mear that wouldturn a hare on the side of Carrifra Gauns—and muckle to thesame purpose, of whilk mair anon. The best blessing theywared on him was, "Deil scowp wi' Redgauntlet!" He wasnaa bad maister to his ain folk though, and was weel aneughliked by his tenants; and as for the lackies and troopers thatraid out wi' him to the persecutions, as the Whigs ca'd thosekilling times, they wad hae drunken themsells blind to hishealth at ony time.

Now you are to ken that my gudesire lived on Redgauntlet'sgrund; they ca' the place Primrose Knowe. We hadlived on the grund, and under the Redgauntlets, since theriding days, and lang before. It was a pleasant bit; and Ithink the air is callerer and fresher there than onywhere elsein the country. It's a' deserted now; and I sat on the brokendoor-cheek three days since, and was glad I couldna see theplight the place was in; but that's a' wide o' the mark. Theredwelt my gudesire, Steenie Steenson, a rambling, rattlingchiel he had been in his young days, and could play weel onthe pipes; he was famous at "Hoopers and Girders," a'Cumberland couldna touch him at "Jockie Lattin," and hehad the finest finger for the backlilt between Berwick andCarlisle. The like o' Steenie wasna the sort that they madeWhigs o'. And so he became a Tory, as they ca' it, whichwe now ca' Jacobites, just out of a kind of needcessity, thathe might belang to some side or other. He had nae ill-willto the Whig bodies, and liked little to see the blude rin,though being obliged to follow Sir Robert in hunting andhosting, watching and warding, he saw muckle mischief, andmaybe did some, that he couldna avoid.

Now Steenie was a kind of favorite with his master, andkenn'd a' the folks about the castle, and was often sent forto play the pipes when they were at their merriment. AuldDougal MacCallum, the butler, that had followed Sir Robertthrough gude and ill, thick and thin, pool and stream, wasspecially fond of the pipes, and aye gae my gudesire hisgude word wi' the laird; for Dougal could turn his masterround his finger.

Weel, round came the Revolution, and it had like tohave broken the hearts baith of Dougal and his master. Butthe change was not a'thegither sae great as they feared, andother folk thought for. The Whigs made an unco crawingwhat they wad do with their auld enemies, and in specialwi' Sir Robert Redgauntlet. But there were ower monygreat folks dipped in the same doings to mak a spickspan new warld. So Parliament passed it a' ower easy; andSir Robert, bating that he was held to hunting foxes insteadof Covenanters, remained just the man he was. His revelwas as loud, and his hall as weel lighted, as ever it had been,though maybe he lacked the fines of the Nonconformists,that used to come to stock his larder and cellar; for it iscertain he began to be keener about the rents than histenants used to find him before, and they behoved to beprompt to the rent-day, or else the laird wasna pleased. Andhe was sic an awsome body that naebody cared to anger him;for the oaths he swore, and the rage that he used to getinto, and the looks that he put on, made men sometimesthink him a devil incarnate.

Weel, my gudesire was nae manager—no that he was avery great misguider—but he hadna the saving gift, and hegot twa terms' rent in arrear. He got the first brash atWhitsunday put ower wi' fair word and piping; but whenMartinmas came, there was a summons from the grund-officerto come wi' the rent on a day preceese, or else Steeniebehoved to flit. Sair wark he had to get the siller; but hewas weel-freended, and at last he got the haill scrapedthegither—a thousand merks; the maist of it was from aneighbor they ca'd Laurie Lapraik—a sly tod. Laurie had waltho' gear—could hunt wi' the hound and rin wi' the hare—andbe Whig or Tory, saunt or sinner, as the wind stood. Hewas a professor in this Revolution warld; but he liked anorra sough of this warld, and a tune on the pipes weelaneugh at a bytime; and abune a' he thought he had gudesecurity for the siller he lent my gudesire ower the stockingat Primrose Knowe.

Away trots my gudesire to Redgauntlet Castle, wi' a heavypurse and a light heart, glad to be out of the laird's danger.Weel, the first thing he learned at the castle was that SirRobert had fretted himsell into a fit of the gout, because hedid not appear before twelve o'clock. It wasna a'thegitherfor sake of the money, Dougal thought; but because he didnalike to part wi' my gudesire aff the grund. Dougal wasglad to see Steenie, and brought him into the great oakparlor, and there sat the laird his leesome lane, excepting thathe had beside him a great ill-favored jackanape, that was aspecial pet of his—a cankered beast it was, and mony anill-natured trick it played; ill to please it was, and easilyangered—ran about the haill castle, chattering and yowling,and pinching and biting folk, especially before ill weather,or disturbances in the state. Sir Robert ca'd it Major Weir,after the warlock that was burnt;* and few folk liked eitherthe name or the conditions of the creature—they thoughtthere was something in it by ordinar—and my gudesire wasnot just easy in mind when the door shut on him, and hesaw himself in the room wi' naebody but the laird, DougalMacCallum, and the major, a thing that hadna chanced tohim before.

* A celebrated wizard, executed (1670) at Edinburgh for sorcery and othercrimes.

Sir Robert sat, or, I should say, lay, in a great armedchair, wi' his grand velvet gown, and his feet on a cradle;for he had baith gout and gravel, and his face looked as gashand ghastly as Satan's. Major Weir sat opposite to him, ina red laced coat, and the laird's wig on his head; and aye asSir Robert girned wi' pain, the jackanape girned too, like asheep's-head between a pair of tangs—an ill-faured, fearsomecouple they were. The laird's buff-coat was hung ona pin behind him, and his broadsword and his pistols withinreach; for he keepit up the auld fashion of having theweapons ready, and a horse saddled day and night, just as heused to do when he was able to loup on horseback, and awayafter ony of the Hill-folk he could get speerings of. Somesaid it was for fear of the Whigs taking vengeance, but Ijudge it was just his auld custom—he wasna gien to fearonything. The rental-book, wi' its black cover and brass clasps,was lying beside him; and a book of sculduggery sangs wasput betwixt the leaves, to keep it open at the place where itbore evidence against the goodman of Primrose Knowe, asbehind the hand with his mails and duties. Sir Robert gavemy gudesire a look as if he would have withered his heartin his bosom. Ye maun ken he had a way of bending hisbrows that men saw the visible mark of a horseshoe in hisforehead, deep-dinted, as if it had been stamped there.

"Are ye come light-handed, ye son of a toom whistle?"said Sir Robert. "Zounds! if you are—"

My gudesire, with as gude a countenance as he couldput on, made a leg, and placed the bag of money on thetable wi' a dash, like a man that does something clever.The laird drew it to him hastily. "Is it all here, Steenie,man?"

"Your honor will find it right," said my gudesire.

"Here, Dougal," said the laird, "gie Steenie a tass ofbrandy downstairs, till I count the siller and write thereceipt."

But they werena weel out of the room when Sir Robertgied a yelloch that garr'd the castle rock. Back ran Dougal—inflew the livery-men—yell on yell gied the laird, ilk anemair awfu' than the ither. My gudesire knew not whetherto stand or flee, but he ventured back into the parlor, wherea' was gaun hirdie-girdie—naebody to say "come in" or "gaeout." Terribly the laird roared for cauld water to his feet,and wine to cool his throat; and "Hell, hell, hell, and itsflames," was aye the word in his mouth. They brought himwater, and when they plunged his swoln feet into the tub, hecried out it was burning; and folk say that it did bubbleand sparkle like a seething caldron. He flung the cup atDougal's head, and said he had given him blood instead ofburgundy; and, sure aneugh, the lass washed clotted bloodaff the carpet the neist day. The jackanape they ca'd MajorWeir, it jibbered and cried as if it was mocking its master.My gudesire's head was like to turn: he forgot baith sillerand receipt, and downstairs he banged; but as he ran, theshrieks came faint and fainter; there was a deep-drawn shiveringgroan, and word gaed through the castle that the lairdwas dead.

Weel, away came my gudesire wi' his finger in his mouth,and his best hope was that Dougal had seen the moneybag,and heard the laird speak of writing the receipt. Theyoung laird, now Sir John, came from Edinburgh to seethings put to rights. Sir John and his father never gree'dweel. Sir John had been bred an advocate, and afterwardsat in the last Scots Parliament and voted for the Union,having gotten, it was thought, a rug of the compensations;if his father could have come out of his grave he would havebrained him for it on his awn hearthstane. Some thoughtit was easier counting with the auld rough knight than thefair-spoken young ane—but mair of that anon.

Dougal MacCallum, poor body, neither grat nor graned,but gaed about the house looking like a corpse, but directing,as was his duty, a' the order of the grand funeral. Now,Dougal looked aye waur and waur when night was coming, andwas aye the last to gang to his bed, whilk was in a little roundjust opposite the chamber of dais, whilk his master occupiedwhile he was living, and where he now lay in state, as theyca'd it, weel-a-day! The night before the funeral, Dougalcould keep his awn counsel nae langer: he came doun withhis proud spirit, and fairly asked auld Hutcheon to sit inhis room with him for an hour. When they were in theround, Dougal took ae tass of brandy to himsell and gaveanother to Hutcheon, and wished him all health and langlife, and said that, for himsell, he wasna lang for this world;for that, every night since Sir Robert's death, his silver callhad sounded from the state chamber, just as it used to do atnights in his lifetime, to call Dougal to help to turn him inhis bed. Dougal said that, being alone with the dead onthat floor of the tower (for naebody cared to wake SirRobert Redgauntlet like another corpse), he had never dauredto answer the call, but that now his conscience checked himfor neglecting his duty; for, "though death breaks service,"said MacCallum, "it shall never break my service to SirRobert; and I will answer his next whistle, so be you willstand by me, Hutcheon."

Hutcheon had nae will to work, but he had stood byDougal in battle and broil, and he wad not fail him at thispinch; so down the carles sat ower a stoup of brandy, andHutcheon, who was something of a clerk, would have read achapter of the Bible; but Dougal would hear naething buta blaud of Davie Lindsay, whilk was the waur preparation.

When midnight came, and the house was quiet as thegrave, sure aneugh the silver whistle sounded as sharp andshrill as if Sir Robert was blowing it, and up gat the twaauld serving-men and tottered into the room where the deadman lay. Hutcheon saw aneugh at the first glance; forthere were torches in the room, which showed him the foulfiend in his ain shape, sitting on the laird's coffin! Owerhe couped as if he had been dead. He could not tell howlang he lay in a trance at the door, but when he gatheredhimsell he cried on his neighbor, and getting nae answer,raised the house, when Dougal was found lying dead withintwa steps of the bed where his master's coffin was placed.As for the whistle, it was gaen anes and aye; but mony atime was it heard at the top of the house on the bartizan,and amang the auld chimneys and turrets, where the howletshave their nests. Sir John hushed the matter up, and thefuneral passed over without mair bogle-wark.

But when a' was ower, and the laird was beginning tosettle his affairs, every tenant was called up for his arrears,and my gudesire for the full sum that stood him in therental-book. Weel, away he trots to the castle, to tell hisstory, and there he is introduced to Sir John, sitting in hisfather's chair, in deep mourning, with weepers and hangingcravat, and a small walking rapier by his side, instead of theauld broadsword that had a hundredweight of steel about it,what with blade, chape, and basket-hilt. I have heard theircommuning so often tauld ower, that I almost think I wasthere mysell, though I couldna be born at the time. (In fact,Alan, my companion mimicked, with a good deal of humor,the flattering, conciliating tone of the tenant's address, andthe hypocritical melancholy of the laird's reply. Hisgrandfather, he said, had, while he spoke, his eye fixed on therental-book, as if it were a mastiff-dog that he was afraidwould spring up and bite him.)

"I wuss ye joy, sir, of the head seat, and the white loaf,and the braid lairdship. Your father was a kind man tofriends and followers; muckle grace to you, Sir John, to fillhis shoon—his boots, I suld say, for he seldom wore shoon,unless it were muils when he had the gout."

"Ay, Steenie," quoth the laird, sighing deeply, andputting his napkin to his een, "his was a sudden call, and hewill be missed in the country; no time to set his house inorder: weel prepared Godward, no doubt, which is the rootof the matter, but left us behind a tangled hesp to wind,Steenie. Hem! hem! We maun go to business, Steenie;much to do, and little time to do it in."

Here he opened the fatal volume. I have heard of athing they call Doomsday Book—I am clear it has been arental of back-ganging tenants.

"Stephen," said Sir John, still in the same soft, sleekittone of voice—"Stephen Stevenson, or Steenson, ye are downhere for a year's rent behind the hand, due at last term."

Stephen. "Please your honor, Sir John, I paid it to yourfather."

Sir John. "Ye took a receipt then, doubtless, Stephen, andcan produce it?"

Stephen. "Indeed I hadna time, an it like your honor; fornae sooner had I set doun the siller, and just as his honorSir Robert, that's gaen, drew it till him to count it, and writeout the receipt, he was ta'en wi' the pains that removed him."

"That was unlucky," said Sir John, after a pause. "Butye maybe paid it in the presence of somebody. I want but atalis qualis evidence, Stephen. I would go ower strictly towork with no poor man."

Stephen. "Troth, Sir John, there was naebody in theroom but Dougal MacCallum, the butler. But, as your honorkens, he has e'en followed his auld master."

"Very unlucky again, Stephen," said Sir John, withoutaltering his voice a single note. "The man to whom ye paidthe money is dead; and the man who witnessed the paymentis dead too; and the siller, which should have been to thefore, is neither seen nor heard tell of in the repositories.How am I to believe a' this?"

Stephen. "I dinna ken, your honor; but there is a bitmemorandum note of the very coins—for, God help me! I had toborrow out of twenty purses—and I am sure that ilka manthere set down will take his grit oath for what purpose Iborrowed the money."

Sir John. "I have little doubt ye borrowed the money,Steenie. It is the payment to my father that I want to havesome proof of."

Stephen. "The siller maun be about the house, Sir John.And since your honor never got it, and his honor that wascanna have ta'en it wi' him, maybe some of the family mayhave seen it."

Sir John. "We will examine the servants, Stephen; thatis but reasonable."

But lackey and lass, and page and groom, all deniedstoutly that they had ever seen such a bag of money as mygudesire described. What was waur, he had unluckily notmentioned to any living soul of them his purpose of payinghis rent. Ae quean had noticed something under his arm,but she took it for the pipes.

Sir John Redgauntlet ordered the servants out of theroom, and then said to my gudesire: "Now, Steenie, ye seeyou have fair play; and, as I have little doubt ye ken betterwhere to find the siller than any other body, I beg, in fairterms, and for your own sake, that you will end this fasherie;for, Stephen, ye maun pay or flit."

"The Lord forgie your opinion," said Stephen, drivenalmost to his wit's-end—"I am an honest man."

"So am I, Stephen," said his honor; "and so are all thefolks in the house, I hope. But if there be a knave amongus, it must be he that tells the story he can not prove." Hepaused, and then added, mair sternly: "If I understand yourtrick, sir, you want to take advantage of some maliciousreports concerning things in this family, and particularlyrespecting my father's sudden death, thereby to cheat me outof the money, and perhaps take away my character, byinsinuating that I have received the rent I am demanding.Where do you suppose this money to be? I insist uponknowing."

My gudesire saw everything look sae muckle against himthat he grew nearly desperate; however, he shifted from onefoot to another, looked to every corner of the room, andmade no answer.

"Speak out, sirrah," said the laird, assuming a look of hisfather's—a very particular ane, which he had when he wasangry: it seemed as if the wrinkles of his frown made thatselfsame fearful shape of a horse's shoe in the middle of hisbrow—"speak out, sir! I will know your thoughts. Do yousuppose that I have this money?"

"Far be it frae me to say so," said Stephen.

"Do you charge any of my people with having taken it?"

"I wad be laith to charge them that may be innocent,"said my gudesire; "and if there be any one that is guilty, Ihave nae proof."

"Somewhere the money must be, if there is a word oftruth in your story," said Sir John; "I ask where you thinkit is, and demand a correct answer?"

"In hell, if you will have my thoughts of it," said mygudesire, driven to extremity—"in hell! with your father, hisjackanape, and his silver whistle."

Down the stairs he ran, for the parlor was nae place forhim after such a word, and he heard the laird swearing bloodand wounds behind him, as fast as ever did Sir Robert, androaring for the bailie and the baron-officer.

Away rode my gudesire to his chief creditor, him theyca'd Laurie Lapraik, to try if he could make onything outof him; but when he tauld his story, he got but the warstword in his wame—thief, beggar, and dyvour were the safestterms; and to the boot of these hard terms, Laurie broughtup the auld story of his dipping his hand in the blood ofGod's saunts, just as if a tenant could have helped riding withthe laird, and that a laird like Sir Robert Redgauntlet. Mygudesire was by this time far beyond the bounds of patience,and while he and Laurie were at deil speed the liars, he waswanchancie aneugh to abuse Lapraik's doctrine as weel asthe man, and said things that garr'd folks' flesh grue thatheard them; he wasna just himsell, and he had lived wi' awild set in his day.

At last they parted, and my gudesire was to ride hamethrough the wood of Pitmurkie, that is a' fou of black firs,as they say. I ken the wood, but the firs may be black orwhite for what I can tell. At the entry of the wood there isa wild common, and on the edge of the common a littlelonely change-house, that was keepit then by ahostler-wife—they suld hae ca'd her Tibbie Faw—and there puir Steeniecried for a mutchkin of brandy, for he had had no refreshmentthe haill day. Tibbie was earnest wi' him to take abite o' meat, but he couldna think o't, nor would he take hisfoot out of the stirrup, and took off the brandy wholly at twadrafts, and named a toast at each—the first was, thememory of Sir Robert Redgauntlet, and might he never liequiet in his grave till he had righted his poor bond-tenant;and the second was, a health to Man's Enemy, if he wouldbut get him back the pock of siller, or tell him what came o't,for he saw the haill world was like to regard him as a thiefand a cheat, and he took that waur than even the ruin of hishouse and hauld.

On he rode, little caring where. It was a dark nightturned, and the trees made it yet darker, and he let the beasttake its ain road through the wood; when, all of a sudden,from tired and wearied that it was before, the nag began tospring, and flee, and stend, that my gudesire could hardlykeep the saddle; upon the whilk, a horseman, suddenly ridingup beside him, said, "That's a mettle beast of yours, freend;will you sell him?" So saying, he touched the horse's neckwith his riding-wand, and it fell into its auld heigh-ho of astumbling trot. "But his spunk's soon out of him, I think,"continued the stranger, "and that is like mony a man's courage,that thinks he wad do great things till he come to theproof."

My gudesire scarce listened to this, but spurred his horse,with "Gude e'en to you, freend."

But it's like the stranger was ane that doesna lightly yieldhis point; for, ride as Steenie liked, he was aye beside himat the salfsame pace. At last my gudesire, Steenie Steenson,grew half angry and, to say the truth, half feared.

"What is it that ye want with me, freend?" he said. "Ifye be a robber, I have nae money; if ye be a leal man,wanting company, I have nae heart to mirth or speaking; and ifye want to ken the road, I scarce ken it mysell."

"If you will tell me your grief," said the stranger, "I amone that, though I have been sair misca'd in the world, amthe only hand for helping my freends."

So my gudesire, to ease his ain heart, mair than from anyhope of help, told him the story from beginning to end.

"It's a hard pinch," said the stranger; "but I think I canhelp you."

"If you could lend the money, sir, and take a lang day—Iken nae other help on earth," said my gudesire.

"But there may be some under the earth," said the stranger."Come, I'll be frank wi' you; I could lend you themoney on bond, but you would maybe scruple my terms.Now, I can tell you that your auld laird is disturbed in hisgrave by your curses, and the wailing of your family, andif ye daur venture to go to see him, he will give you thereceipt."

My gudesire's hair stood on end at this proposal, but hethought his companion might be some humorsome chield thatwas trying to frighten him, and might end with lending himthe money. Besides, he was bauld wi' brandy, and desperatewi' distress; and he said he had courage to go to the gate ofhell, and a step farther, for that receipt.

The stranger laughed.

Weel, they rode on through the thickest of the wood,when, all of a sudden, the horse stopped at the door of agreat house; and, but that he knew the place was ten milesoff, my gudesire would have thought he was at RedgauntletCastle. They rode into the outer courtyard, through themuckle faulding yetts, and aneath the auld portcullis; andthe whole front of the house was lighted, and there werepipes and fiddles, and as much dancing and deray within asused to be in Sir Robert's house at Pace and Yule, and suchhigh seasons. They lap off, and my gudesire, as seemed tohim, fastened his horse to the very ring he had tied him tothat morning, when he gaed to wait on the young Sir John.

"God!" said my gudesire, "if Sir Robert's death be but adream!"

He knocked at the ha' door just as he was wont, and hisauld acquaintance, Dougal MacCallum, just after his wont,too, came to open the door, and said, "Piper Steenie, are yethere, lad? Sir Robert has been crying for you."

My gudesire was like a man in a dream; he looked for thestranger, but he was gane for the time. At last he just triedto say, "Ha! Dougal Driveower, are ye living? I thought yehad been dead."

"Never fash yoursell wi' me," said Dougal, "but look toyoursell; and see ye tak naething frae onybody here, neithermeat, drink, or siller, except just the receipt that is yourain."

So saying, he led the way out through halls and trancesthat were weel kenn'd to my gudesire, and into the auld oakparlor; and there was as much singing of profane sangs, andbirling of red wine, and speaking blasphemy and sculduddry,as had ever been in Redgauntlet Castle when it was at theblythest.

But, Lord take us in keeping! what a set of ghastly revelersthey were that sat round that table! My gudesire kenn'dmony that had long before gane to their place, for often hadhe piped to the most part in the hall of Redgauntlet. Therewas the fierce Middleton, and the dissolute Rothes, and thecrafty Lauderdale; and Dalyell, with his bald head and abeard to his girdle; and Earlshall, with Cameron's blude onhis hand; and wild Bonshaw, that tied blessed Mr. Cargill'slimbs till the blude sprung; and Dumbarton Douglas, thetwice-turned traitor baith to country and king. There wasthe Bluidy Advocate MacKenyie, who, for his worldly witand wisdom, had been to the rest as a god. And there wasClaverhouse, as beautiful as when he lived, with his longdark, curled locks, streaming down over his laced buff-coat,and his left hand always on his right spule-blade, to hide thewound that the silver bullet had made. He sat apart fromthem all, and looked at them with a melancholy, haughtycountenance; while the rest hallooed, and sung, and laughed,that the room rang. But their smiles were fearfullycontorted from time to time; and their laughter passed into suchwild sounds as made my gudesire's very nails grow blue, andchilled the marrow in his banes.

They that waited at the table were just the wicked serving-menand troopers that had done their work and cruel biddingon earth. There was the Lang Lad of the Nethertown, thathelped to take Argyle; and the bishop's summoner, that theycalled the Deil's Rattle-bag; and the wicked guardsmen, intheir laced coats; and the savage Highland Amorites, thatshed blood like water; and mony a proud serving-man,haughty of heart and bloody of hand, cringing to the rich,and making them wickeder than they would be; grinding thepoor to powder, when the rich had broken them to fragments.And mony, mony mair were coming and ganging, a' as busy intheir vocation as if they had been alive.

Sir Robert Redgauntlet, in the midst of a' this fearful riot,cried, wi' a voice like thunder, on Steenie Piper to come tothe board-head where he was sitting, his legs stretched outbefore him, and swathed up with flannel, with his holsterpistols aside him, while the great broadsword rested against hischair, just as my gudesire had seen him the last time uponearth—the very cushion for the jackanape was close to him,but the creature itsell was not there; it wasna its hour, it'slikely; for he heard them say as he came forward, "Is notthe major come yet?" And another answered, "The jackanapewill be here betimes the morn." And when my gudesirecame forward, Sir Robert, or his ghaist, or the deevil in hislikeness, said, "Weel, piper, hae ye settled wi' my son for theyear's rent?"

With much ado my father gat breath to say that Sir Johnwould not settle without his honor's receipt.

"Ye shall hae that for a tune of the pipes, Steenie," saidthe appearance of Sir Robert. "Play us up, 'Weel noddled,Luckie.'"

Now this was a tune my gudesire learned frae a warlock,that heard it when they were worshiping Satan at their meetings,and my gudesire had sometimes played it at the rantingsuppers in Redgauntlet Castle, but never very willingly; andnow he grew cauld at the very name of it, and said, forexcuse, he hadna his pipes wi' him.

"MacCallum, ye limb of Beelzebub," said the fearfu' SirRobert, "bring Steenie the pipes that I am keeping for him!"

MacCallum brought a pair of pipes might have served thepiper of Donald of the Isles. But he gave my gudesire anudge as he offered them; and looking secretly and closely,Steenie saw that the chanter was of steel, and heated to awhite heat; so he had fair warning not to trust his fingerswith it. So he excused himself again, and said he was faintand frightened, and had not wind enough to fill the bag.

"Then ye maun eat and drink, Steenie," said the figure;"for we do little else here; and it's ill speaking between afou man and a fasting."

Now these were the very words that the bloody Earl ofDouglas said to keep the king's messenger in hand, while hecut the head off MacLellan of Bombie, at the Threave Castle,and that put Steenie mair and mair on his guard. So hespoke up like a man, and said he came neither to eat, ordrink, or make minstrelsy, but simply for his ain—to kenwhat was come o' the money he had paid, and to get a dischargefor it; and he was so stout-hearted by this time, thathe charged Sir Robert for conscience' sake (he had no powerto say the holy name), and as he hoped for peace and rest,to spread no snares for him, but just to give him his ain.

The appearance gnashed its teeth and laughed, but it tookfrom a large pocket-book the receipt, and handed it toSteenie. "There is your receipt, ye pitiful cur; and for themoney, my dog-whelp of a son may go look for it in theCat's Cradle."

My gudesire uttered mony thanks, and was about to retirewhen Sir Robert roared aloud: "Stop though, thousack-doudling son of a whore! I am not done with thee. Herewe do nothing for nothing; and you must return on this veryday twelvemonth to pay your master the homage that youowe me for my protection."

My father's tongue was loosed of a suddenty, and he saidaloud: "I refer mysell to God's pleasure, and not to yours."

He had no sooner uttered the word than all was darkaround him, and he sunk on the earth with such a suddenshock that he lost both breath and sense.

How lang Steenie lay there, he could not tell; but when hecame to himsell, he was lying in the auld kirkyard ofRedgauntlet parochine, just at the door of the family aisle, andthe scutcheon of the auld knight, Sir Robert, hanging overhis head. There was a deep morning fog on grass and gravestanearound him, and his horse was feeding quietly besidethe minister's twa cows. Steenie would have thought thewhole was a dream, but he had the receipt in his hand, fairlywritten and signed by the auld laird; only the last letters ofhis name were a little disorderly, written like one seized withsudden pain.

Sorely troubled in his mind, he left that dreary place, rodethrough the mist to Redgauntlet Castle, and with much adohe got speech of the laird.

"Well, you dyvour bankrupt," was the first word, "haveyou brought me my rent?"

"No," answered my gudesire, "I have not; but I havebrought your honor Sir Robert's receipt for it."

"How, sirrah? Sir Robert's receipt! You told me he hadnot given you one."

"Will your honor please to see if that bit line is right?"

Sir John looked at every line, and at every letter, withmuch attention, and at last at the date, which my gudesirehad not observed—"'From my appointed place,'" he read,"'this twenty-fifth of November.' What! That is yesterday!Villain, thou must have gone to Hell for this!"

"I got it from your honor's father; whether he be inHeaven or Hell, I know not," said Steenie.

"I will delate you for a warlock to the privy council!" saidSir John. "I will send you to your master, the devil, withthe help of a tar-barrel and a torch!"

"I intend to delate mysell to the presbytery," said Steenie,"and tell them all I have seen last night, whilk are thingsfitter for them to judge of than a borrel man like me."

Sir John paused, composed himsell, and desired to hear thefull history; and my gudesire told it him from point to point,as I have told it you—word for word, neither more nor less.

Sir John was silent again for a long time, and at last hesaid, very composedly: "Steenie, this story of yours concernsthe honor of many a noble family besides mine; and if it bea leasing-making, to keep yourself out of my danger, the leastyou can expect is to have a red-hot iron driven through yourtongue, and that will be as bad as scauding your fingers witha red-hot chanter. But yet it may be true, Steenie; and if themoney cast up, I shall not know what to think of it. Butwhere shall we find the Cat's Cradle? There are cats enoughabout the old house, but I think they kitten without theceremony of bed or cradle."

"We were best ask Hutcheon," said my gudesire; "he kensa' the odd corners about as weel as—another serving-man thatis now gane, and that I wad not like to name."

Aweel, Hutcheon, when he was asked, told them that aruinous turret, lang disused, next to the clock-house, onlyaccessible by a ladder, for the opening was on the outside,and far above the battlements, was called of old the Cat'sCradle.

"There will I go immediately," said Sir John; and hetook (with what purpose, Heaven kens) one of his father'spistols from the hall-table, where they had lain since thenight he died, and hastened to the battlements.

It was a dangerous place to climb, for the ladder was auldand frail, and wanted ane or twa rounds. However, up gotSir John, and entered at the turret door, where his bodystopped the only little light that was in the bit turret.Something flees at him wi' a vengeance, maist dang him back ower;bang gaed the knight's pistol, and Hutcheon, that held theladder, and my gudesire that stood beside him, hears a loudskelloch. A minute after, Sir John flings the body of thejackanape down to them, and cries that the siller is fund, andthat they should come up and help him. And there was thebag of siller sure aneugh, and mony orra things besides thathad been missing for mony a day. And Sir John, when hehad riped the turret weel, led my gudesire into thedining-parlor, and took him by the hand, and spoke kindly to him,and said he was sorry he should have doubted his word, andthat he would hereafter be a good master to him, to makeamends.

"And now, Steenie," said Sir John, "although this visionof yours tends, on the whole, to my father's credit, as anhonest man, that he should, even after his death, desire to seejustice done to a poor man like you, yet you are sensible thatill-dispositioned men might make bad constructions upon it,concerning his soul's health. So, I think, we had better laythe haill dirdum on that ill-deedie creature, Major Weir, andsay naething about your dream in the wood of Pitmurkie,You had taken ower muckle brandy to be very certain aboutonything; and, Steenie, this receipt (his hand shook while heheld it out), it's but a queer kind of document, and we willdo best, I think, to put it quietly in the fire."

"Od, but for as queer as it is, it's a' the voucher I have formy rent," said my gudesire, who was afraid, it may be, oflosing the benefit of Sir Robert's discharge.

"I will bear the contents to your credit in the rental-book,and give you a discharge under my own hand," said Sir John,"and that on the spot. And, Steenie, if you can hold yourtongue about this matter, you shall sit, from this termdownward, at an easier rent."

"Mony thanks to your honor," said Steenie, who saw easilyin what corner the wind was; "doubtless I will be conformableto all your honor's commands; only I would willinglyspeak wi' some powerful minister on the subject, for I do notlike the sort of summons of appointment whilk your honor'sfather—"

"Do not call the phantom my father!" said Sir John,interrupting him.

"Weel, then, the thing that was so like him," said mygudesire; "he spoke of my coming back to him this timetwelvemonth, and it's a weight on my conscience."

"Aweel, then," said Sir John, "if you be so much distressedin mind, you speak to our minister of the parish; he is adouce man, regards the honor of our family, and the mairthat he may look for some patronage from me."

Wi' that my gudesire readily agreed that the receiptshould be burned, and the laird threw it into the chimneywith his ain hand. Burn it would not for them, though;but away it flew up the lum, wi' a lang train of sparks atits tail, and a hissing noise like a squib.

My gudesire gaed down to the manse, and the minister,when he had heard the story, said it was his real opinion that,though my gudesire had gaen very far in tampering with dangerousmatters, yet, as he had refused the devil's arles (forsuch was the offer of meat and drink), and had refused to dohomage by piping at his bidding, he hoped, that if he held acircumspect walk hereafter, Satan could take little advantageby what was come and gane. And, indeed, my gudesire, ofhis ain accord, lang foreswore baith the pipes and thebrandy; it was not even till the year was out, and the fatalday passed, that he would so much as take the fiddle, ordrink usquebaugh or tippenny.

Sir John made up his story about the jackanape as he likedhimsell; and some believe till this day there was no more inthe matter than the filching nature of the brute. Indeed,ye'll no hinder some to threap that it was nane o' theAuld Enemy that Dougal and Hutcheon saw in thelaird's room, but only that wanchancie creature, the major,capering on the coffin; and that, as to the blawing on thelaird's whistle that was heard after he was dead, the filthybrute could do that as weel as the laird himsell, if no better.But Heaven kens the truth, whilk first came out by theminister's wife, after Sir John and her ain gudeman were baithin the molds. And then, my gudesire, wha was failed in hislimbs, but not in his judgment or memory—at least nothingto speak of—was obliged to tell the real narrative to hisfreends for the credit of his good name. He might else havebeen charged for a warlock.

The shades of evening were growing thicker around us asmy conductor finished his long narrative with this moral:"Ye see, birkie, it is nae chancy thing to tak a strangertraveler for a guide when ye are in an uncouth land."

"I should not have made that inference," said I. "Yourgrandfather's adventure was fortunate for himself, whom itsaved from ruin and distress; and fortunate for his landlordalso, whom it prevented from committing a gross act ofinjustice."

"Ay, but they had baith to sup the sauce o't sooner orlater," said Wandering Willie. "What was fristed wasnaforgiven. Sir John died before he was much over threescore;and it was just like of a moment's illness. And for mygudesire, though he departed in fulness of years, yet there wasmy father, a yauld man of forty-five, fell down betwixt thestilts of his pleugh, and raise never again, and left nae bairnbut me, a puir sightless, fatherless, motherless creature, couldneither work nor want. Things gaed weel aneugh at first;for Sir Redwald Redgauntlet, the only son of Sir John, andthe oye of auld Sir Robert, and, wae's me! the last of thehonorable house, took the farm off our hands, and broughtme into his household to have care of me. He liked music,and I had the best teachers baith England and Scotlandcould gie me. Mony a merry year was I wi' him; but wae'sme! he gaed out with other pretty men in the Forty-five—I'llsay nae mair about it. My head never settled weel sinceI lost him; and if I say another word about it, deil a barwill I have the heart to play the night. Look out, my gentlechap," he resumed, in a different tone, "ye should see thelights in Brokenburn Glen by this time."

END OF VOLUME TWO

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74549 ***