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Title: Adela Cathcart, Vol. 3

Author: George MacDonald

Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8943]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on August 28, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADELA CATHCART, VOL. 3 ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charles Bidwell and Distributed Proofreaders




ADELA CATHCART

Volume Three

By George MacDonald


CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.


CHAPTER

I.    MY UNCLE PETER.--CONTINUED

II.   THE GIANT'S HEART

III.  A CHILD'S HOLIDAY

IV.   INTERRUPTION

V.    PERCY

VI.   THE CRUEL PAINTER

VII.  THE CASTLE

VIII. WHAT NEXT?

XI.   GENERALSHIP

X.    AN UNFORESEEN FORESIGHT




CHAPTER I.

MY UNCLE PETER.--CONTINUED.


"It was resolved that on the same evening, Chrissy should tell my uncle
her story. We went out for a walk together; and though she was not afraid
to go, the least thing startled her. A voice behind her would make her
turn pale and look hurriedly round. Then she would smile again, even
before the colour had had time to come back to her cheeks, and say--'What
a goose I am! But it is no wonder.' I could see too that she looked down
at her nice clothes now and then with satisfaction. She does not like me
to say so, but she does not deny it either, for Chrissy can't tell a story
even about her own feelings. My uncle had given us five pounds each to
spend, and that was jolly. We bought each other such a lot of things,
besides some for other people. And then we came home and had dinner
_tete-a-tete_ in my uncle's dining-room; after which we went up to my
uncle's room, and sat over the fire in the twilight till his afternoon-nap
was over, and he was ready for his tea. This was ready for him by the time
he awoke. Chrissy got up on the bed beside him; I got up at the foot of
the bed, facing her, and we had the tea-tray and plenty of _etceteras_
between us.

"'Oh! I _am_ happy!' said Chrissy, and began to cry.

"'So am I, my darling!' rejoined Uncle Peter, and followed her example.

"'So am I,' said I, 'but I don't mean to cry about it.' And then I did.

"We all had one cup of tea, and some bread and butter in silence after
this. But when Chrissy had poured out the second cup for Uncle Peter, she
began of her own accord to tell us her story.

"'It was very foggy when we came out of school that afternoon, as you may
remember, dear uncle.'

"'Indeed I do,' answered Uncle Peter with a sigh.

"'I was coming along the way home with Bessie--you know Bessie, uncle--and
we stopped to look in at a bookseller's window where the gas was lighted.
It was full of Christmas things already. One of them I thought very
pretty, and I was standing staring at it, when all at once I saw that a
big drabby woman had poked herself in between Bessie and me. She was
staring in at the window too. She was so nasty that I moved away a little
from her, but I wanted to have one more look at the picture. The woman
came close to me. I moved again. Again she pushed up to me. I looked in
her face, for I was rather cross by this time. A horrid feeling, I cannot
tell you what it was like, came over me as soon as I saw her. I know how
it was now, but I did not know then why I was frightened. I think she saw
I was frightened; for she instantly walked against me, and shoved and
hustled me round the corner--it was a corner-shop--and before I knew, I
was in another street. It was dark and narrow. Just at the moment a man
came from the opposite side and joined the woman. Then they caught hold of
my hands, and before my fright would let me speak, I was deep into the
narrow lane, for they ran with me as fast as they could. Then I began to
scream, but they said such horrid words that I was forced to hold my
tongue; and in a minute more they had me inside a dreadful house, where
the plaster was dropping away from the walls, and the skeleton-ribs of the
house were looking through. I was nearly dead with terror and disgust. I
don't think it was a bit less dreadful to me from having dim recollections
of having known such places well enough at one time of my life. I think
that only made me the more frightened, because so the place seemed to have
a claim upon me. What if I ought to be there after all, and these dreadful
creatures were my father and mother!

"'I thought they were going to beat me at once, when the woman, whom I
suspected to be my aunt, began to take off my frock. I was dreadfully
frightened, but I could not cry. However it was only my clothes that they
wanted. But I cannot tell you how frightful it was. They took almost
everything I had on, and it was only when I began to scream in despair--
sit still, Charlie, it's all over now--that they stopped, with a nod to
each other, as much as to say--'we can get the rest afterwards.' Then they
put a filthy frock on me; brought me some dry bread to eat; locked the
door, and left me. It was nearly dark now. There was no fire. And all my
warm clothes were gone.--Do sit still, Charlie.--I was dreadfully cold.
There was a wretched-looking bed in one corner, but I think I would have
died of cold rather than get into it. And the air in the place was
frightful. How long I sat there in the dark, I don't know.'

"'What did you do all the time?' said I.

"'There was only one thing to be done, Charlie. I think that is a foolish
question to ask.'

"'Well, what _did_ you do, Chrissy?'

"'Said my prayers, Charlie.'

"'And then?'

"'Said them again.'

"'And nothing else?'

"'Yes; I tried to get out of the window, but that was of no use; for I
could not open it. And it was one story high at least.'

"'And what did you do next?'

"'Said over all my hymns.'

"'And then--what _did_ you do next?'

"'Why do you ask me so many times?'

"'Because I want to know.'

"'Well, I will tell you.--I left my prayers alone; and I began at the
beginning, and I told God the whole story, as if He had known nothing
about it, from the very beginning when Uncle Peter found me on the
crossing, down to the minute when I was talking there to Him in the dark.'

"'Ah! my dear,' said my uncle, with faltering voice, 'you felt better
after that, I daresay. And here was I in despair about you, and thought He
did not care for any of us. I was very naughty, indeed.'

"'And what next?' I said.

"'By and by I heard a noise of quarrelling in the street, which came
nearer and nearer. The door was burst open by some one falling against it.
Blundering steps came up the stairs. The two who had robbed me, evidently
tipsy, were trying to unlock the door. At length they succeeded, and
tumbled into the room.'

"'Where is the unnatural wretch,' said the woman, 'who ran away and left
her own mother in poverty and sickness?'--

"'Oh! uncle, can it be that she is my mother?' said Chrissy, interrupting
herself.

"'I don't think she is,' answered Uncle Peter. 'She only wanted to vex
you, my lamb. But it doesn't matter whether she is or not.'

"'Doesn't it, uncle?--I am ashamed of her.'

"'But you are God's child. And He can't be ashamed of you. For He gave you
the mother you had, whoever she was, and never asked you which you would
have. So you need not mind. We ought always to like best to be just what
God has made us.'

"'I am sure of that, uncle.--Well, she began groping about to find me, for
it was very dark. I sat quite still, except for trembling all over, till I
felt her hands on me, when I jumped up, and she fell on the floor. She
began swearing dreadfully, but did not try to get up. I crept away to
another corner. I heard the man snoring, and the woman breathing loud.
Then I felt my way to the door, but, to my horror, found the man lying
across it on the floor, so that I could not open it. Then I believe I
cried for the first time. I was nearly frozen to death, and there was all
the long night to bear yet. How I got through it, I cannot tell. It did go
away. Perhaps God destroyed some of it for me. But when the light began to
come through the window, and show me all the filth of the place, the man
and the woman lying on the floor, the woman with her head cut and covered
with blood, I began to feel that the darkness had been my friend. I felt
this yet more when I saw the state of my own dress, which I had forgotten
in the dark. I felt as if I had done some shameful thing, and wanted to
follow the darkness, and hide in the skirts of it. It was an old gown of
some woollen stuff, but it was impossible to tell what, it was so dirty
and worn. I was ashamed that even those drunken creatures should wake and
see me in it. But the light would come, and it came and came, until at
last it waked them up, and the first words were so dreadful! They
quarrelled and swore at each other and at me, until I almost thought there
couldn't be a God who would let that go on so, and never stop it. But I
suppose He wants them to stop, and doesn't care to stop it Himself, for He
could easily do that of course, if He liked.'

"'Just right, my darling!' said Uncle Peter with emotion.

"Chrissy saw that my uncle was too much excited by her story although he
tried not to show it, and with a wisdom which I have since learned to
appreciate, cut it short.

"'They did not treat me cruelly, though, the worst was, that they gave me
next to nothing to eat. Perhaps they wanted to make me thin and wretched
looking, and I believe they succeeded.--Charlie, you'll turn over the
cream, if you don't sit still.--Three days passed this way. I have thought
all over it, and I think they were a little puzzled how to get rid of me.
They had no doubt watched me for a long time, and now they had got my
clothes, they were afraid.--At last one night they took me out. My aunt,
if aunt she is, was respectably dressed--that is, comparatively, and the
man had a great-coat on, which covered his dirty clothes. They helped me
into a cart which stood at the door, and drove off. I resolved to watch
the way we went. But we took so many turnings through narrow streets
before we came out in a main road, that I soon found it was all one mass
of confusion in my head; and it was too dark to read any of the names of
the streets, for the man kept as much in the middle of the road as
possible. We drove some miles, I should think, before we stopped at the
gate of a small house with a big porch, which stood alone. My aunt got out
and went up to the house, and was admitted. After a few minutes, she
returned, and making me get out, she led me up to the house, where an
elderly lady stood, holding the door half open. When we reached it, my
aunt gave me a sort of shove in, saying to the lady, 'There she is.' Then
she said to me: 'Come now be a good girl and don't tell lies,' and turning
hastily, ran down the steps, and got into the cart at the gate, which
drove off at once the way we had come. The lady looked at me from head to
foot sternly but kindly too, I thought, and so glad was I to find myself
clear of those dreadful creatures, that I burst out crying. She instantly
began to read me a lecture on the privilege of being placed with Christian
people, who would instruct me how my soul might be saved, and teach me to
lead an honest and virtuous life. I tried to say that I had led an honest
life. But as often as I opened my mouth to tell anything about myself
or my uncle, or, indeed, to say anything at all, I was stopped by her
saying--'Now don't tell lies. Whatever you do, don't tell lies.' This shut
me up quite. I could not speak when I knew she would not believe me. But I
did not cry, I only felt my face get very hot, and somehow my back-bone
grew longer, though I felt my eyes fixed on the ground.

"'But,' she went on, 'you must change you dress. I will show you the way
to your room, and you will find a print gown there, which I hope you will
keep clean. And above all things don't tell lies.'

"Here Chrissy burst out laughing, as if it was such fun to be accused of
lying; but presently her eyes filled, and she made haste to go on.

"'You may be sure I made haste to put on the nice clean frock, and, to my
delight, found other clean things for me as well. I declare I felt like a
princess for a whole day after, notwithstanding the occupation. For I soon
found that I had been made over to Mrs. Sprinx, as a servant of all work.
I think she must have paid these people for the chance of reclaiming one
whom they had represented as at least a great liar. Whether my wages were
to be paid to them, or even what they were to be, I never heard. I made up
my mind at once that the best thing would be to do the work without
grumbling, and do it as well as I could, for that would be doing no harm
to anyone, but the contrary, while it would give me the better chance of
making my escape. But though I was determined to get away the first
opportunity, and was miserable when I thought how anxious you would all be
about me, yet I confess it was such a relief to be clean and in
respectable company, that I caught myself singing once or twice the very
first day. But the old lady soon stopped that. She was about in the
kitchen the greater part of the day till almost dinner-time, and taught me
how to cook and save my soul both at once.'

"'Indeed,' interrupted Uncle Peter, 'I have read receipts for the
salvation of the soul that sounded very much as if they came out of a
cookery-book.' And the wrinkles of his laugh went up into his night-cap.
Neither Chrissy nor I understood this at the time, but I have often
thought of it since.

"Chrissy went on:

"'I had finished washing up my dinner-things, and sat down for a few
minutes, for I was tired. I was staring into the fire, and thinking and
thinking how I should get away, and what I should do when I got out of the
house, and feeling as if the man and the woman were always prowling about
it, and watching me through the window, when suddenly I saw a little boy
in a corner of the kitchen, staring at me with great brown eyes. He was a
little boy, perhaps about six years old, with a pale face, and very
earnest look. I did not speak to him, but waited to see what he would do.
A few minutes passed, and I forgot him. But as I was wiping my eyes, which
would get wet sometimes, notwithstanding my good-fortune, he came up to
me, and said in a timid whisper,

"'Are you a princess?'

"'What makes you think that?' I said.

"'You have got such white hands,' he answered.

"'No, I am not a princess,' I said.

"'Aren't you Cinderella?'

"'No, my darling,' I replied; 'but something like her; for they have
stolen me away from home and brought me here. I wish I could get away.'

"'And here I confess I burst into a down right fit of crying.

"'Don't cry,' said the little fellow, stroking my cheek. 'I will let you
out some time. Shall you be able to find your way home all by yourself?'

"'Yes I think so,' I answered; but at the same time, I felt very doubtful
about it, because I always fancied those people watching, me. But before
either of us spoke again, in came Mrs. Sprinx.

"'You naughty boy! What business have you to make the servant neglect her
work?'

"'For I was still sitting by the fire, and my arm was round the dear
little fellow, and his head was leaning on my shoulder.

"'She's not a servant, auntie!' cried he, indignantly. 'She's a real
princess, though of course she won't own to it.'

"'What lies you have been telling the boy! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself. Come along directly. Get the tea at once, Jane.'

"'My little friend went with his aunt, and I rose and got the tea. But I
felt much lighter-hearted since I had the sympathy of the little boy to
comfort me. Only I was afraid they would make him hate me. But, although I
saw very little of him the rest of the time, I knew they had not succeeded
in doing so; for as often as he could, he would come sliding up to me,
saying 'How do you do, princess?'and then run away, afraid of being seen
and scolded.

"'I was getting very desperate about making my escape, for there was a
high wall about the place, and the gate was always locked at night. When
Christmas-Eve came, I was nearly crazy with thinking that to-morrow was
uncle's birthday; and that I should not be with him. But that very night,
after I had gone to my room, the door opened, and in came little Eddie in
his nightgown, his eyes looking very bright and black over it.

"'There, princess!' said he, 'there is the key of the gate. Run.'

"'I took him in my arms and kissed him, unable to speak. He struggled to
get free, and ran to the door. There he turned and said:

"'You will come back and see me some day--will you not?'

"'That I will,' I answered.

"'That you shall,' said Uncle Peter.

"'I hid the key, and went to bed, where I lay trembling. As soon as I was
sure they must be asleep, I rose and dressed. I had no bonnet or shawl but
those I had come in; and though they disgusted me, I thought it better to
put them on. But I dared not unlock the street-door for fear of making a
noise. So I crept out of the kitchen-window, and then I got out at the
gate all safe. No one was in sight. So I locked it again, and threw the
key over. But what a time of fear and wandering about I had in the
darkness, before I dared to ask any one the way. It was a bright, clear
night; and I walked very quietly till I came upon a great wide common. The
sky, and the stars, and the wideness frightened me, and made me gasp at
first. I felt as if I should fall away from everything into nothing. And
it was so lonely! But then I thought of God, and in a moment I knew that
what I had thought loneliness was really the presence of God. And then I
grew brave again, and walked on. When the morning dawned, I met a
bricklayer going to his work; and found that I had been wandering away
from London all the time; but I did not mind that. Now I turned my face
towards it, though not the way I had come. But I soon got dreadfully tired
and faint, and once I think I fainted quite. I went up to a house, and
asked for a piece of bread, and they gave it to me, and I felt much better
after eating it. But I had to rest so often, and got so tired, and my feet
got so sore, that--you know how late it was before I got home to my
darling uncle.'

"'And me too!' I expostulated.

"'And you, too, Charlie,' she answered; and we all cried over again.

"'This shan't happen any more!' said my uncle.

"After tea was over, he asked for writing things, and wrote a note, which
he sent off.

"The next morning, about eleven, as I was looking out of the window, I saw
a carriage drive up and stop at our door.

"'What a pretty little brougham!' I cried. 'And such a jolly horse! Look
here, Chrissy!'

"Presently Uncle Peter's bell rang, and Miss Chrissy was sent for. She
came down again radiant with pleasure.

"'What do you think, Charlie! That carriage is mine--all my own. And I am
to go to school in it always. Do come and have a ride in it.'

"You may be sure I was delighted to do so.

"'Where shall we go?' I said.

"'Let us ask uncle if we may go and see the little darling who set me
free.'

"His consent was soon obtained, and away we went. It was a long drive, but
we enjoyed it beyond everything. When we reached the house, we were shown
into the drawing-room.

"There was Mrs. Sprinx and little Eddie. The lady stared; but the child
knew Cinderella at once, and flew into her arms.

"'I knew you were a princess!' he cried. 'There, auntie!'

"But Mrs. Sprinx had put on an injured look, and her hands shook very
much.

"'Really, Miss Belper, if that is your name, you have behaved in a most
unaccountable way. Why did you not tell me, instead of stealing the key of
the gate, and breaking the kitchen window? A most improper way for a young
lady to behave--to run out of the house at midnight!'

"'You forget, madam,' replied Chrissy, with more dignity than I had ever
seen her assume, 'that as soon as ever I attempted to open my mouth, you
told me not to tell lies. You believed the wicked people who brought me
here rather than myself. However, as you will not be friendly, I think we
had better go. Come, Charlie?'

"'Don't go, princess,' pleaded little Eddie.

"'But I must, for your auntie does not like me,' said Chrissy.

"'I am sure I always meant to do my duty by you. And I will do so still.--
Beware, my dear young woman, of the deceitfulness of riches. Your carriage
won't save your soul!'

"Chrissy was on the point of saying something rude, as she confessed when
we got out; but she did not. She made her bow, turned and walked away. I
followed, and poor Eddie would have done so too, but was laid hold of by
his aunt. I confess this was not quite proper behaviour on Chrissy's part;
but I never discovered that till she made me see it. She was very sorry
afterwards, and my uncle feared the brougham had begun to hurt her
already, as she told me. For she had narrated the whole story to him, and
his look first let her see that she had been wrong. My uncle went with her
afterwards to see Mrs. Sprinx, and thank her for having done her best; and
to take Eddie such presents as my uncle only knew how to buy for children.
When he went to school, I know he sent him a gold watch. From that time
till now that she is my wife, Chrissy has had no more such adventures; and
if Uncle Peter did not die on Christmas-day, it did not matter much, for
Christmas-day makes all the days of the year as sacred as itself."



CHAPTER II.

THE GIANT'S HEART.


When Harry had finished reading, the colonel gallantly declared that the
story was the best they had had. Mrs. Armstrong received this as a joke,
and begged him not to be so unsparing.

"Ah! Mrs. Armstrong," returned he laughing, "you are not old enough yet,
to know the truth from a joke. Don't you agree with me about the story,
Mrs. Cathcart?"

"I think it is very pretty and romantic. Such men as Uncle Peter are not
very common in the world. The story is not too true to Nature."

This she said in a tone intended to indicate superior acquaintance with
the world and its nature. I fear Mrs. Cathcart and some others whom I
could name, mean by _Nature_ something very bad indeed, which yet an
artist is bound to be loyal to. The colonel however seemed to be of a
different opinion.

"If there never was such a man as Uncle Peter," said he, "there ought to
have been; and it is all the more reason for putting him into a story that
he is not to be found in the world."

"Bravo!" cried I. "You have answered a great question in a few words."

"I don't know," rejoined our host. "Have I? It seems to me as plain as the
catechism."

I thought he might have found a more apt simile, but I held my peace.

Next morning, I walked out in the snow. Since the storm of that terrible
night, it had fallen again quietly and plentifully; and now in the
sunlight, the world--houses and trees, ponds and rivers--was like a
creation, more than blocked out, but far from finished--in marble.

"And this," I said to myself, as I regarded the wondrous loveliness with
which the snow had at once clothed and disfigured the bare branches of the
trees, "this is what has come of the chaos of falling flakes! To this
repose of beauty has that storm settled and sunk! Will it not be so with
our mental storms as well?"

But here the figure displeased me; for those were not the true right
shapes of the things; and the truth does not stick to things, but shows
itself out of them.

"This lovely show," I said, "is the result of a busy fancy. This white
world is the creation of a poet such as Shelley, in whom the fancy was too
much for the intellect. Fancy settles upon anything; half destroys its
form, half beautifies it with something that is not its own. But the true
creative imagination, the form-seer, and the form-bestower, falls like the
rain in the spring night, vanishing amid the roots of the trees; not
settling upon them in clouds of wintry white, but breaking forth from them
in clouds of summer green."

And then my thoughts very naturally went from Nature to my niece; and I
asked myself whether within the last few days I had not seen upon her
countenance the expression of a mental spring-time. For the mind has its
seasons four, with many changes, as well as the world, only that the
cycles are generally longer: they can hardly be more mingled than as here
in our climate.

Let me confess, now that the subject of the confession no longer exists,
that there had been something about Adela that, pet-child of mine as she
was, had troubled me. In all her behaviour, so far as I had had any
opportunity of judging, she had been as good as my desires at least.
But there was a want in her face, a certain flatness of expression which
I did not like. I love the common with all my heart, but I hate the
common-place; and, foolish old bachelor that I am, the common-place in a
woman troubles me, annoys me, makes me miserable. Well, it was something
of the common-place in Adela's expression that had troubled me. Her eyes
were clear, with lovely long dark lashes, but somehow the light in them
had been always the same; and occasionally when I talked to her of the
things I most wished her to care about, there was such an immobile
condition of the features, associated with such a ready assent in words,
that I felt her notion of what I meant must be something very different
indeed from what I did mean. Her face looked as if it were made of
something too thick for the inward light to shine through--wax, and not
living muscle and skin. The fact was, the light within had not been
kindled, else that face of hers would have been ready enough to let it
shine out. Hitherto she had not seemed to me to belong at all to that
company that praises God with sweet looks, as Thomas Hood describes Ruth
as doing. What was wanting I had found it difficult to define. Her soul
was asleep. She was dreaming a child's dreams, instead of seeing a woman's
realities--realities that awake the swift play of feature, as the wind of
God arouses the expression of a still landscape. So there seemed after all
a gulf between her and me. She did not see what I saw, feel what I felt,
seek what I sought. Occasionally even, the delicate young girl, pure and
bright as the snow that hung on the boughs around me, would shock the
wizened old bachelor with her worldliness--a worldliness that lay only in
the use of current worldly phrases of selfish contentment, or selfish
care. Ah! how little do young beauties understand of the pitiful emotions
which they sometimes rouse in the breasts of men whom they suppose to be
absorbed in admiration of them! But for faith that these girls are God's
work and only half made yet, one would turn from them with sadness, almost
painful dislike, and take refuge with some noble-faced grandmother, or
withered old maid, whose features tell of sorrow and patience. And the
beauty would think with herself that such a middle-aged gentleman did not
admire pretty girls, and was severe and unkind and puritanical; whereas it
was the lack of beauty that made him turn away; the disappointment of a
face--dull, that ought to be radiant; or the presence of only that sort of
beauty, which in middle age, except the deeper nature should meantime come
into play, would be worse than common-place--would be mingled with the
trail of more or less guilty sensuality. Many a woman at forty is
repulsive, whom common men found at twenty irresistibly attractive; and
many a woman at seventy is lovely to the eyes of the man who would have
been compelled to allow that she was decidedly plain at seventeen.

"Maidens' bairns are aye weel guided," says the Scotch proverb; and the
same may be said of bachelors' wives. So I will cease the strain, and
return to Adela, the change in whom first roused it.

Of late, I had seen a glimmer of something in her countenance which I had
never seen before--a something which, the first time I perceived it, made
me say to her, in my own hearing only: "Ah, my dear, we shall understand
each other by and by!" And now and then the light in her eye would be
dimmed as by the fore-shadowing of a tear, when there was no immediate and
visible cause to account for it; and--which was very strange--I could not
help fancying she began to be a little shy of her old uncle.--Could it be
that she was afraid of his insight reaching to her heart, and reading
there more than she was yet willing to confess to herself?--But whatever
the cause of the change might be, there was certainly a responsiveness in
her, a readiness to meet every utterance, and take it home, by which the
vanity of the old bachelor would have been flattered to the full, had not
his heart come first, and forestalled the delight.

So absorbed was I in considering these things, that the time passed like
one of my thoughts; and before I knew I found myself on the verge of the
perilous moor over which Harry had ridden in the teeth and heart of the
storm. How smooth yet cruel it looked in its thick covering of snow! There
was heather beneath, within which lay millions of purple bells, ready to
rush out at the call of summer, and ring peals of merry gladness, making
the desolate place not only blossom but rejoice as the rose. And there
were cold wells of brown water beneath that snow, of depth unknown, which
nourished nothing but the green grass that hid the cold glare of their
presence from the eyes of the else warefully affrighted traveller. And I
thought of Adela when I thought of the heather; and of some other woman
whom I had known, when I thought of the wells.

When I came home, I told Adela where I had been, and what a desolate place
it was. And the flush that rose on her pale cheek was just like the light
of the sunset which I had left shining over the whiteness of that snowy
region. And I said to myself: "It _is_ so. And I trust it may be well."

As I walked home, I had bethought myself of a story which I had brought
down with me in the hope of a chance of reading it, but which Adela's
illness had put out of my mind; for it was only a child's story; and
although I hoped older people might find something in it, it would have
been absurd to read it without the presence of little children. So I said
to Adela:

"Don't you know any little children in Purleybridge, Adela?"

"Oh! yes; plenty."

"Couldn't you ask some of them one night, and I would tell them a story. I
think at this season they should have a share in what is going, and I have
got one I think they would like."

"I shall be delighted. I will speak to papa about it at once. But next
time--."

"Yes, I know. Next time Harry Armstrong was going to read; but to tell you
the truth, Adela, I doubt if he will be ready. I know he is dreadfully
busy just now, and I believe he will be thankful to have a reprieve for a
day or two, and his story, which I expect will be a good one, will be all
the better for it."

"Then I will speak to papa about it the moment he comes in; and you will
tell Mr. Henry. And mind, uncle, you take the change upon your own
shoulders."

"Trust me, my dear," I said, as I left the room.

As I had anticipated, Harry was grateful. Everything was arranged. So the
next evening but one, we had a merry pretty company of boys and girls,
none older, or at least looking older, than twelve. It did my heart good
to see how Adela made herself at home with them, and talked to them as if
she were one of themselves. By the time tea was over, I had made friends
with them all, which was a stroke in its way nearly equal to Chaucer's,
who made friends with all the nine and twenty Canterbury pilgrims before
the sun was down. And the way I did was this. I began with the one next
me, asking her the question:

"Do you like fairy-stories?"

"Yes, I do," answered she, heartily.

"Did you ever hear of the princess with the blue foot?"

"No. Will you tell me, please?"

Then I turned to the one on my other side, and asked her:

"Did you ever hear of the giant that was all skin--not skin and bone, you
know, but all skin?"

"No-o" she answered, and her round blue eyes got rounder and bluer.

The next was a boy. I asked him:

"Did you ever hear of Don Worm of Wakemup?"

"No. Do please tell us about it."

And so I asked them, round the room. And by that time all eyes were fixed
upon me. Then I said:

"You see I cannot tell you all these stories to-night. But would you all
like one of some sort?"

A chorus of _I should_ filled the room.

"What shall it be about, then?"

"A wicked fairy."

"No; that's stupid. I'm tired of wicked fairies," said a scornful little
girl.

"A good giant, then," said a priggish imp, with a face as round as the
late plum-pudding.

"I am afraid I could not tell you a story about a _good_ giant; for
unfortunately all the good giants I ever heard of were very stupid; so
stupid that a story would not make itself about them; so stupid, indeed,
that they were always made game of by creatures not half so big or half so
good; and I don't like such stories. Shall I tell you about the wicked
giant that grew little children in his garden instead of radishes, and
then carried them about in his waistcoat pocket, and ate one as often as
he remembered he had got some?"

"Yes, yes; please do."

"He used to catch little children and plant them in his garden, where you
might see them in rows, with their heads only above ground, rolling their
eyes about, and growing awfully fast. He liked greedy boys best--boys that
ate plum-pudding till they felt as if their belts were too tight."

Here the fat-faced boy stuck both his hands inside his belt.

"Because he was so fond of radishes," I went on, "he lived just on the
borders of Giantland, where it touched on the country of common people.
Now, everything in Giantland was so big, that the common people saw only a
mass of awful mountains and clouds; and no living man had ever come from
it, as far as anybody knew, to tell what he had seen in it.

"Somewhere near these borders, on the other side, by the edge of a great
forest, lived a labourer with his wife and a great many children. One day
Tricksey-Wee, as they called her, teased her brother Buffy-Bob, till he
could not bear it any longer, and gave her a box on the ear. Tricksey-Wee
cried; and Buffy-Bob was so sorry and ashamed of himself, that he cried
too, and ran off into the wood. He was so long gone, that Tricksey-Wee
began to be frightened, for she was very fond of her brother; and she was
so sorry that she had first teased him, and then cried, that at last she
ran into the wood to look for him, though there was more chance of losing
herself than of finding him. And, indeed, so it seemed likely to turn out;
for, running on without looking, she at length found herself in a valley
she knew nothing about. And no wonder; for what she thought was a valley
with round, rocky sides, was no other than the space between two of the
roots of a great tree that grew on the borders of Giantland. She climbed
over the side of it, and right up to what she took for a black, round-
topped mountain, far away; but she soon discovered that it was close to
her, and was a hollow place so great that she could not tell what it was
hollowed out of. Staring at it, she found that it was a doorway; and,
going nearer and staring harder, she saw the door, far in, with a knocker
of iron upon it, a great many yards above her head, and as large as the
anchor of a big ship. Now, nobody had ever been unkind to Tricksey-Wee,
and therefore she was not afraid of anybody. For Buffy-Bob's box on the
ear she did not think worth considering. So, spying a little hole at the
bottom of the door, which had been nibbled by some giant mouse, she crept
through it, and found herself in an enormous hall, as big as if the late
Mr. Martin, R.A., had been the architect. She could not have seen the
other end of it at all, except for the great fire that was burning there,
diminished to a spark in the distance. Towards this fire she ran as fast
as she could, and was not far from it when something fell before her with
a great clatter, over which she tumbled, and went rolling on the floor.
She was not much hurt, however, and got up in a moment. Then she saw that
she had fallen over something not unlike a great iron bucket. When she
examined it more closely, she discovered that it was a thimble; and
looking up to see who had dropped it, beheld a huge face, with spectacles
as big as the round windows in a church, bending over her, and looking
everywhere for the thimble. Tricksey-Wee immediately laid hold of it in
both her arms, and lifted it about an inch nearer to the nose of the
peering giantess. This movement made the old lady see where it was, and,
her finger popping into it, it vanished from the eyes of Tricksey-Wee,
buried in the folds of a white stocking, like a cloud in the sky, which
Mrs. Giant was busy darning. For it was Saturday night, and her husband
would wear nothing but white stockings on Sunday."

"But how could he be so particular about white stockings on Sunday, and
eat little children?" asked one of the group.

"Why, to be sure," I answered, "he did eat little children, but only
_very_ little ones; and if ever it crossed his mind that it was wrong to
do so, he always said to himself that he wore whiter stockings on Sunday
than any other giant in all Giantland.

"At that instant, Tricksey-Wee heard a sound like the wind in a tree full
of leaves, and could not think what it could be; till, looking up, she
found that it was the giantess whispering to her; and when she tried very
hard, she could hear what she said well enough.

"'Run away, dear little girl,' she said, 'as fast as you can; for my
husband will be home in a few minutes.'

"'But I've never been naughty to your husband,' said Tricksey-Wee, looking
up in the giantess's face.

"'That doesn't matter. You had better go. He is fond of little children,
particularly little girls!'

"'Oh! Then he won't hurt me.'

"'I am not sure of that. He is so fond of them that he eats them up; and I
am afraid he couldn't help hurting you a little. He's a very good man
though.'

"'Oh! then--' began Tricksey-Wee, feeling rather frightened; but before
she could finish her sentence, she heard the sound of footsteps very far
apart and very heavy. The next moment, who should come running towards
her, full speed, and as pale as death, but Buffy-Bob! She held out her
arms, and he ran into them. But when she tried to kiss him, she only
kissed the back of his head; for his white face and round eyes were turned
to the door.

"'Run, children; run and hide,' said the giantess.

"'Come, Buffy,' said Tricksey; 'yonder's a great brake; we'll hide in it.'

"The brake was a big broom; and they had just got into the bristles of it,
when they heard the door open with a sound of thunder; and in stalked the
giant. You would have thought you saw the whole earth through the door
when he opened it, so wide was it; and, when he closed it, it was like
nightfall.

"'Where is that little boy?' he cried, with a voice like the bellowing of
cannon. 'He looked a very nice boy, indeed. I am almost sure he crept
through the mouse hole at the bottom of the door. Where is he, my dear?'

"'I don't know,' answered the giantess.

"'But you know it is wicked to tell lies; don't you, dear?' retorted the
giant.

"'Now, you ridiculous old Thunderthump!' said his wife, with a smile as
broad as the sea in the sun; 'how can I mend your white stockings, and
look after little boys? You have got plenty to last you over Sunday, I am
sure. Just look what good little boys they are!'

"Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob peered through the bristles, and discovered a
row of little boys, about a dozen, with very fat faces and goggle eyes,
sitting before the fire, and looking stupidly into it. Thunderthump
intended the most of these for seed, and was feeding them well before
planting them. Now and then, however, he could not keep his teeth off
them, and would eat one by the bye, without salt."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now, you know that's all nonsense; for little children don't grow in
gardens, I know. _You_ may believe in the radish beds: _I_ don't," said
one pert little puss.

"I never said I did," replied I. "If the giant did, that's enough for my
story. I told you the good giants are very stupid; so you may think what
the bad ones are. Indeed, the giant never really tried the plan. No doubt
he did plant the children, but he always pulled them up and ate them
before they had a chance of increasing.

"He strode up to the wretched children. Now, what made them very wretched
indeed was, that they knew if they could only keep from eating, and grow
thin, the giant would dislike them, and turn them out to find their way
home; but notwithstanding this, so greedy were they, that they ate as much
as ever they could hold. The giantess, who fed them, comforted herself
with thinking that they were not real boys and girls, but only little pigs
pretending to be boys and girls.

"'Now tell me the truth,' cried the giant, bending his face down over
them. They shook with terror, and every one hoped it was somebody else the
giant liked best. 'Where is the little boy that ran into the hall just
now? Whoever tells me a lie shall be instantly boiled.'

"'He's in the broom,' cried one dough-faced boy. 'He's in there, and a
little girl with him.'

"'The naughty children,' cried the giant, 'to hide from _me_!' And he made
a stride towards the broom.

"'Catch hold of the bristles, Bobby. Get right into a tuft, and hold on,'
cried Tricksey-Wee, just in time.

"The giant caught up the broom, and seeing nothing under it, set it down
again with a bang that threw them both on the floor. He then made two
strides to the boys, caught the dough-faced one by the neck, took the lid
off a great pot that was boiling on the fire, popped him in as if he had
been a trussed chicken, put the lid on again, and saying, 'There boys! See
what comes of lying!' asked no more questions; for, as he always kept his
word, he was afraid he might have to do the same to them all; and he did
not like boiled boys. He like to eat them crisp, as radishes, whether
forked or not, ought to be eaten. He then sat down, and asked his wife if
his supper was ready. She looked into the pot, and, throwing the boy out
with the ladle, as if he had been a black-beetle that had tumbled in and
had had the worst of it, answered that she thought it was. Whereupon he
rose to help her; and, taking the pot from the fire, poured the whole
contents, bubbling and splashing into a dish like a vat. Then they say
down to supper. The children in the broom could not see what they had; but
it seemed to agree with them; for the giant talked like thunder, and the
giantess answered like the sea, and they grew chattier and chattier. At
length the giant said:

"'I don't feel quite comfortable about that heart of mine.' And as he
spoke, instead of laying his hand on his bosom, he waved it away towards
the corner where the children were peeping from the broom-bristles, like
frightened little mice.

"'Well, you know, my darling Thunderthump,' answered his wife, 'I always
thought it ought to be nearer home. But you know best, of course.'

"'Ha! ha! You don't know where it is, wife. I moved it a month ago.'

"'What a man you are, Thunderthump! You trust any creature alive rather
than your wife.'

"Here the giantess gave a sob which sounded exactly like a wave going flop
into the mouth of a cave up to the roof.

"'Where have you got it now?' she resumed, checking her emotion.

"'Well, Doodlem, I don't mind telling _you_,' said the giant, soothingly.
'The great she-eagle has got it for a nest-egg. She sits on it night and
day, and thinks she will bring the greatest eagle out of it that ever
sharpened his beak on the rocks of Mount Skycrack. I can warrant no one
else will touch it while she has got it. But she is rather capricious, and
I confess I am not easy about it; for the least scratch of one of her
claws would do for me at once. And she _has_ claws.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

"What funny things you do make up!" said a boy. "How could the giant's
heart be in an eagle's nest, and the giant himself alive and well without
it?"

"Whatever you may think of it, Master Fred, I assure you I did not make it
up. If it ever was made up, no one can tell who did it; for it was written
in the chronicles of Giantland long before one of us was born. It was
quite common," said I, in an injured tone, "for a giant to put his heart
out to nurse, because he did not like the trouble and responsibility of
doing it himself. It was, I confess, a dangerous sort of thing to do.--But
do you want any more of my story or not?"

"Oh! yes, please," cried Frederick, very heartily.

"Then don't you find any more fault with it, or I will stop."

Master Fred was straightway silent, and I went on.

       *       *       *       *       *

"All this time Buffy-Bob and Tricksey-Wee were listening with long ears.
_They_ did not dispute about the giant's heart, and impossibility, and all
that; for they were better educated than Master Fred, and knew all about
it. 'Oh!' thought Tricksey-Wee, 'if I could but find the giant's cruel
heart, wouldn't I give it a squeeze!'

"The giant and giantess went on talking for a long time. The giantess kept
advising the giant to hide his heart somewhere in the house; but he seemed
afraid of the advantage it would give her over him.

"'You could hide it at the bottom of the flour-barrel,' said she.

"'That would make me feel chokey,' answered he.

"'Well, in the coal-cellar, or in the dust-hole. That's the place! No one
would think of looking for your heart in the dust-hole.'

"'Worse and worse!' cried the giant.

"'Well, the water-butt?' said she.

"'No, no; it would grow spongy there,' said he.

"'Well, what will you do with it?'

"'I will leave it a month longer where it is, and then I will give it to
the Queen of the Kangaroos, and she will carry it in her pouch for me. It
is best to change, you know, and then my enemies can't find it. But, dear
Doodlem, it's a fretting care to have a heart of one's own to look after.
The responsibility is too much for me. If it were not for a bite of a
radish now and then, I never could bear it.'

"Here the giant looked lovingly towards the row of little boys by the
fire, all of whom were nodding, or asleep on the floor.

"'Why don't you trust it to me, dear Thunderthump?' said his wife. 'I
would take the best possible care of it.'

"'I don't doubt it, my love. But the responsibility would be too much for
you. You would no longer be my darling, light-hearted, airy, laughing
Doodlem. It would transform you into a heavy, oppressed woman, weary of
life--as I am.'

"The giant closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. His wife got his
stockings, and went on with her darning. Soon, the giant's pretence became
reality, and the giantess began to nod over her work.

"'Now, Buffy,' whispered Tricksey-Wee, 'now's our time. I think it's
moonlight, and we had better be off. There's a door with a hole for the
cat just behind us.'

"'All right!' said Bob; 'I'm ready.'

"So they got out of the broom-brake, and crept to the door. But, to their
great disappointment, when they got through it, they found themselves in a
sort of shed. It was full of tubs and things, and, though it was built of
wood only, they could not find a crack.

"'Let us try this hole,' said Tricksey; for the giant and giantess were
sleeping behind them, and they dared not go back.

"'All right,' said Bob. He seldom said anything else than _All right_.

"Now this hole was in a mound that came in through the wall of the shed
and went along the floor for some distance. They crawled into it, and
found it very dark. But groping their way along, they soon came to a small
crack, through which they saw grass, pale in the moonshine. As they crept
on, they found the hole began to get wider and lead upwards.

"'What is that noise of rushing?' said Buffy-Bob.

"'I can't tell,' replied Tricksey; 'for, you see, I don't know what we are
in.'

"The fact was, they were creeping along a channel in the heart of a giant
tree; and the noise they heard was the noise of the sap rushing along in
its wooden pipes. When they laid their ears to the wall, they heard it
gurgling along with a pleasant noise.

"'It sounds kind and good,' said Tricksey. 'It is water running. Now it
must be running from somewhere to somewhere. I think we had better go on,
and we shall come somewhere.'

"It was now rather difficult to go on, for they had to climb as if they
were climbing a hill; and now the passage was wide. Nearly worn out, they
saw light overhead at last, and creeping through a crack into the open
air, found themselves on the fork of a huge tree. A great, broad, uneven
space lay around them, out of which spread boughs in every direction, the
smallest of them as big as the biggest tree in the country of common
people. Overhead were leaves enough to supply all the trees they had ever
seen. Not much moonlight could come through, but the leaves would glimmer
white in the wind at times. The tree was full of giant birds. Every now
and then, one would sweep through, with a great noise. But, except an
occasional chirp, sounding like a shrill pipe in a great organ, they made
no noise. All at once an owl began to hoot. He thought he was singing. As
soon as he began, other birds replied, making rare game of him. To their
astonishment, the children found they could understand every word they
sang. And what they said was something like this:

  "'I will sing a song.
    I'm the owl.'
  'Sing a song, you sing-song
    Ugly fowl!
  What will you sing about,
    Now the light is out?'

  "'Sing about the night;
    I'm the owl.'
  'You could not see for the light,
    Stupid fowl.'
  'Oh! the moon! and the dew!
    And the shadows!--tu-whoo!'

"The owl spread out his silent, soft, sly wings, and lighting between
Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob, nearly smothered them, closing up one under
each wing. It was like being buried in a down bed. But the owl did not
like anything between his sides and his wings, so he opened his wings
again, and the children made haste to get out. Tricksey-Wee immediately
went in front of the bird, and looking up into his huge face, which was as
round as the eyes of the giantess's spectacles, and much bigger, dropped a
pretty courtesy, and said:

"'Please, Mr. Owl, I want to whisper to you.'

"'Very well, small child,' answered the owl, looking important, and
stooping his ear towards her. 'What is it?'

"'Please tell me where the eagle lives that sits on the giant's heart.'

"'Oh, you naughty child! That's a secret. For shame!'

"And with a great hiss that terrified them, the owl flew into the tree.
All birds are fond of secrets; but not many of them can keep them so well
as the owl.

"So the children went on because they did not know what else to do. They
found the way very rough and difficult, the tree was so full of humps and
hollows. Now and then they plashed into a pool of rain; now and then they
came upon twigs growing out of the trunk where they had no business, and
they were as large as full-grown poplars. Sometimes they came upon great
cushions of soft moss, and on one of them they lay down and rested. But
they had not lain long before they spied a large nightingale sitting on a
branch, with its bright eyes looking up at the moon. In a moment more he
began to sing, and the birds about him began to reply, but in a very
different tone from that in which they had replied to the owl. Oh, the
birds did call the nightingale such pretty names! The nightingale sang,
and the birds replied like this:--

  "I will sing a song.
    I'm the nightingale.'
  'Sing a song, long, long,
    Little Neverfail!
  What will you sing about,
    Light in or light out?'

  'Sing about the light
    Gone away;
  Down, away, and out of sight--
    Poor lost day!
  Mourning for the day dead,
    O'er his dim bed.'

"The nightingale sang so sweetly, that the children would have fallen
asleep but for fear of losing any of the song. When the nightingale
stopped they got up and wandered on. They did not know where they were
going, but they thought it best to keep going on, because then they might
come upon something or other. They were very sorry they forgot to ask the
nightingale about the eagle's nest, but his music had put everything else
out of their heads. They resolved, however, not to forget the next time
they had a chance. They went on and on, till they were both tired, and
Tricksey-Wee said at last, trying to laugh,

"'I declare my legs feel just like a Dutch doll's.'

"'Then here's the place to go to bed in,' said Buffy-Bob.

"They stood at the edge of a last year's nest, and looked down with
delight into the round, mossy cave. Then they crept gently in, and, lying
down in each other's arms, found it so deep, and warm, and comfortable,
and soft, that they were soon fast asleep.

"Now close beside them, in a hollow, was another nest, in which lay a lark
and his wife; and the children were awakened very early in the morning, by
a dispute between Mr. and Mrs. Lark.

"'Let me up,' said the lark.

"'It is not time,' said the lark's wife.

"'It is,' said the lark, rather rudely. 'The darkness is quite thin. I can
almost see my own beak.'

"'Nonsense!' said the lark's wife. 'You know you came home yesterday
morning quite worn out--you had to fly so very high before you saw him. I
am sure he would not mind if you took it a little easier. Do be quiet and
go to sleep again.'

"'That's not it at all,' said the lark. 'He doesn't want me. I want him.
Let me up, I say.'

"He began to sing; and Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob, having now learned the
way, answered him:--

  "'I will sing a song,
    I'm the Lark.'
  'Sing, sing, Throat-strong,
    Little Kill-the-dark.
  What will you sing about,
    Now the night is out?'

  "'I can only call;
    I can't think.
  Let me up--that's all.
    Let me drink!
  Thirsting all the long night
    For a drink of light.'

"By this time the lark was standing on the edge of his nest and looking at
the children.

"'Poor little things! You can't fly,' said the lark.

"'No; but we can look up,' said Tricksey.

"'Ah! you don't know what it is to see the very first of the sun.'

"'But we know what it is to wait till he comes. He's no worse for your
seeing him first, is he?'

"'Oh! no, certainly not,' answered the lark, with condescension; and then,
bursting into his _jubilate_, he sprung aloft, clapping his wings like a
clock running down.

"'Tell us where--' began Buffy-Bob.

"But the lark was out of sight. His song was all that was left of him.
That was everywhere, and he was nowhere.

"'Selfish bird!' said Buffy. 'It's all very well for larks to go hunting
the sun, but they have no business to despise their neighbours, for all
that.'

"'Can I be of any use to you?' said a sweet bird-voice out of the nest.
This was the lark's wife, who staid at home with the young larks while her
husband went to church.

"'Oh! thank you. If you please,' answered Tricksey-Wee.

"And up popped a pretty brown head; and then up came a brown feathery
body; and last of all came the slender legs on to the edge of the nest.
There she turned, and, looking down into the nest, from which came a whole
litany of chirpings for breakfast, said, 'Lie still, little ones.' Then
she turned to the children. 'My husband is King of the Larks,' she said.

"Buffy-Bob took off his cap, and Tricksey-Wee courtesied very low.

"'Oh, it's not me,' said the bird, looking very shy. 'I am only his wife.
It's my husband.'And she looked up after him into the sky, whence his song
was still falling like a shower of musical hailstones. Perhaps she could
see him.

"'He's a splendid bird,' said Buffy-Bob; 'only you know he _will_ get up a
little too early.'

"'Oh, no! he doesn't. It's only his way, you know. But tell me what I can
do for you.'

"'Tell us, please, Lady Lark, where the she-eagle lives that sits on Giant
Thunderthump's heart.'

"'Oh! that is a secret.'

"'Did you promise not to tell?'

"'No; but larks ought to be discreet. They see more than other birds.'

"'But you don't fly up high like your husband, do you?'

"'Not often. But it's no matter. I come to know things for all that.'

"'Do tell me, and I will sing you a song,' said Tricksey-Wee.

"'Can you sing too?'

"'Yes. And I will sing you a song I learned the other day about a lark and
his wife.'

"'Please do,' said the lark's wife. 'Be quiet, children, and listen.'

"Tricksey-Wee was very glad she happened to know a song which would please
the lark's wife, at least, whatever the lark himself might have thought of
it, if he had heard it. So she sang:

  "'Good morrow, my lord!' in the sky alone,
  Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne.
  'Shine on me, my lord; I only am come,
  Of all your servants, to welcome you home.
  I have flown for an hour, right up, I swear,
  To catch the first shine of your golden hair!'

  'Must I thank you, then,' said the king, 'Sir Lark,
  For flying so high, and hating the dark?
  You ask a full cup for half a thirst:
  Half is love of me, and half love to be first.
  There's many a bird that makes no haste,
  But waits till I come. That's as much to my taste.'

  And the king hid his head in a turban of cloud;
  And the lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed.
  But he flew up higher, and thought, 'Anon,
  The wrath of the king will be over and gone;
  And his crown, shining out of the cloudy fold,
  Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold.'

  So he flew, with the strength of a lark he flew.
  But, as he rose, the cloud rose too;
  And not a gleam of the golden hair
  Came through the depth of the misty air;
  Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore,
  The strong sun-seeker could do no more.

  His wings had had no chrism of gold;
  And his feathers felt withered and worn and old;
  And he sank, and quivered, and dropped like a stone.
  And there on his nest, where he left her, alone,
  Sat his little wife on her little eggs,
  Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

  Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!
  Full in her face was shining the king.
  'Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired,' said he.
  'Up is not always the best way to me.
  While you have been singing so high and away,
  I've been shining to your little wife all day.'

  He had set his crown all about the nest,
  And out of the midst shone her little brown breast;
  And so glorious was she in russet gold,
  That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold.
  He popped his head under her wing, and lay
  As still as a stone, till the king was away.

"As soon as Tricksey-Wee had finished her song, the lark's wife began a
low, sweet, modest little song of her own; and after she had piped away
for two or three minutes, she said:

"'You dear children, what can I do for you?'

"'Tell us where the she-eagle lives, please,' said Tricksey-Wee.

"'Well, I don't think there can be much harm in telling such wise, good
children,' said Lady Lark; 'I am sure you don't want to do any mischief.'

"'Oh, no; quite the contrary,' said Buffy-Bob.

"'Then I'll tell you. She lives on the very topmost peak of Mount Skycrack;
and the only way to get up is, to climb on the spiders' webs that cover it
from top to bottom.'

"'That's rather serious,' said Tricksey-Wee.

"'But you don't want to go up, you foolish little thing. You can't go. And
what do you want to go up for?'

"'That is a secret,' said Tricksey-Wee.

"'Well, it's no business of mine,' rejoined Lady Lark, a little offended,
and quite vexed that she had told them. So she flew away to find some
breakfast for her little ones, who by this time were chirping very
impatiently. The children looked at each other, joined hands, and walked
off.

"In a minute more the sun was up, and they soon reached the outside of the
tree. The bark was so knobby and rough, and full of twigs, that they
managed to get down, though not without great difficulty. Then, far away
to the north, they saw a huge peak, like the spire of a church, going
right up into the sky. They thought this must be Mount Skycrack, and
turned their faces towards it. As they went on, they saw a giant or two,
now and then, striding about the fields or through the woods, but they
kept out of their way. Nor were they in much danger; for it was only one
or two of the border giants that were so very fond of children. At last
they came to the foot of Mount Skycrack. It stood in a plain alone, and
shot right up, I don't know how many thousand feet, into the air, a long,
narrow, spearlike mountain. The whole face of it, from top to bottom, was
covered with a network of spiders' webs, with threads of various sizes,
from that of silk to that of whipcord. The webs shook, and quivered, and
waved in the sun, glittering like silver. All about ran huge, greedy
spiders, catching huge, silly flies, and devouring them.

"Here they sat down to consider what could be done. The spiders did not
heed them, but ate away at the flies. At the foot of the mountain, and all
round it, was a ring of water, not very broad, but very deep. Now, as they
sat watching, one of the spiders, whose web was woven across this water,
somehow or other lost his hold, and fell on his back. Tricksey-Wee and
Buffy-Bob ran to his assistance, and laying hold each of one of his legs,
succeeded, with the help of the other legs, which struggled spiderfully,
in getting him out upon dry land. As soon as he had shaken himself, and
dried himself a little, the spider turned to the children, saying,

"'And now, what can I do for you?'

"'Tell us, please,' said they, 'how we can get up the mountain to the
she-eagle's nest.'

"'Nothing is easier,' answered the spider. 'Just run up there, and tell
them all I sent you, and nobody will mind you.'

"'But we haven't got claws like you, Mr. Spider,' said Buffy.

"'Ah! no more you have, poor unprovided creatures! Still, I think we can
manage it. Come home with me.'

"'You won't eat us, will you?' said Buffy.

"'My dear child,' answered the spider, in a tone of injured dignity, 'I
eat nothing but what is mischievous or useless. You have helped me, and
now I will help you.'

"The children rose at once, and, climbing as well as they could, reached
the spider's nest in the centre of the web. They did not find it very
difficult; for whenever too great a gap came, the spider spinning a
strong cord stretched it just where they would have chosen to put their
feet next. He left them in his nest, after bringing them two enormous
honey-bags, taken from bees that he had caught. Presently about six of the
wisest of the spiders came back with him. It was rather horrible to look
up and see them all round the mouth of the nest, looking down on them in
contemplation, as if wondering whether they would be nice eating. At
length one of them said:

"'Tell us truly what you want with the eagle, and we will try to help
you.'

"Then Tricksey-Wee told them that there was a giant on the borders who
treated little children no better than radishes, and that they had
narrowly escaped being eaten by him; that they had found out that the
great she-eagle of Mount Skycrack was at present sitting on his heart; and
that, if they could only get hold of the heart, they would soon teach the
giant better behaviour.

"'But,' said their host, 'if you get at the heart of the giant, you
will find it as large as one of your elephants. What can you do with it?'

"'The least scratch will kill it,' answered Buffy-Bob.

"'Ah! but you might do better than that,' said the spider.--'Now we have
resolved to help you. Here is a little bag of spider-juice. The giants
cannot bear spiders, and this juice is dreadful poison to them. We are all
ready to go up with you, and drive the eagle away. Then you must put the
heart into this other bag, and bring it down with you; for then the giant
will be in your power.'

"'But how can we do that?' said Buffy. 'The bag is not much bigger than a
pudding-bag.'

"'But it is as large as you will find convenient to carry.'

"'Yes; but what are we to do with the heart?'

"'Put it into the bag, to be sure. Only, first, you must squeeze a drop
out of the other bag upon it. You will see what will happen.'

"'Very well; we will,' said Tricksey-Wee. 'And now, if you please, how
shall we go?'

"'Oh, that's our business,' said the first spider. 'You come with me, and
my grandfather will take your brother. Get up.'

"So Tricksey-Wee mounted on the narrow part of the spider's back, and held
fast. And Buffy-Bob got on the grandfather's back. And up they scrambled,
over one web after another, up and up. And every spider followed; so that,
when Tricksey-Wee looked back, she saw a whole army of spiders scrambling
after them.

"'What can we want with so many?' she thought; but she said nothing.

"The moon was now up, and it was a splendid sight below and around them.
All Giantland was spread out under them, with its great hills, lakes,
trees, and animals. And all above them was the clear heaven, and Mount
Skycrack rising into it, with its endless ladders of spiderwebs,
glittering like cords made of moonbeams. And up the moonbeams went,
crawling, and scrambling, and racing, a huge army of huge spiders.

"At length they reached all but the very summit, where they stopped.
Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob could see above them a great globe of feathers,
that finished off the mountain like an ornamental knob.

"'How shall we drive her off?' said Buffy.

"'We'll soon manage that,' said the grandfather spider. 'Come on, you,
down there.'

"Up rushed the whole army, past the children, over the edge of the nest,
on to the she-eagle, and buried themselves in her feathers. In a moment
she became very restless, and went picking about with her beak. All at
once she spread out her wings, with a sound like a whirlwind, and flew off
to bathe in the sea; and then the spiders began to drop from her in all
directions on their gossamer wings. The children had to hold fast to keep
the wind of the eagle's flight from blowing them off. As soon as it was
over, they looked into the nest, and there lay the giant's heart--an awful
and ugly thing.

"'Make haste, child!' said Tricksey's spider. So Tricksey took her bag,
and squeezed a drop out of it upon the heart. She thought she heard the
giant give a far-off roar of pain, and she nearly fell from her seat with
terror. The heart instantly began to shrink. It shrunk and shrivelled till
it was nearly gone; and Buffy-Bob caught it up and put it into the bag.
Then the two spiders turned and went down again as fast as they could.
Before they got to the bottom, they heard the shrieks of the she-eagle
over the loss of her egg; but the spiders told them not to be alarmed, for
her eyes were too big to see them. By the time they reached the foot of
the mountain, all the spiders had got home, and were busy again catching
flies, as if nothing had happened. So the children, after renewed thanks
to their friends, set off, carrying the giant's heart with them.

"'If you should find it at all troublesome, just give it a little more
spider-juice directly,' said the grandfather, as they took their leave.

"Now, the giant had given an awful roar of pain, the moment they anointed
his heart, and had fallen down in a fit, in which he lay so long that all
the boys might have escaped if they had not been so fat. One did--and got
home in safety. For days the giant was unable to speak. The first words he
uttered were,

"'Oh, my heart! my heart!'

"'Your heart is safe enough, dear Thunderthump,' said his wife. 'Really a
man of your size ought not to be so nervous and apprehensive. I am ashamed
of you.'

"'You have no heart, Doodlem,' answered he. 'I assure you that this moment
mine is in the greatest danger. It has fallen into the hands of foes,
though who they are I cannot tell.'

"Here he fainted again; for Tricksey-Wee, finding the heart begin to swell
a little, had given it the least touch of spider-juice.

"Again he recovered, and said:

"'Dear Doodlem, my heart is coming back to me. It is coming nearer and
nearer.'

"After lying silent for a few hours, he exclaimed:

"'It is in the house, I know!' And he jumped up and walked about, looking
in every corner.

"Just then, Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob came out of the hole in the
tree-root, and through the cat-hole in the door, and walked boldly towards
the giant. Both kept their eyes busy watching him. Led by the love of his
own heart, the giant soon spied them, and staggered furiously towards
them.

"'I will eat you, you vermin!' he cried. 'Give me my heart.'

"Tricksey gave the heart a sharp pinch; when down fell the giant on his
knees, blubbering, and crying, and begging for his heart.

"'You shall have it, if you behave yourself properly,' said Tricksey.

"'What do you want me to do?' asked he, whimpering.

"'To take all those boys and girls, and carry them home at once.'

"'I'm not able; I'm too ill.'

"'Take them up directly.'

"'I can't, till you give me my heart.'

"'Very well!' said Tricksey; and she gave the heart another pinch.

"The giant jumped to his feet, and catching up all the children, thrust
some into his waistcoat pockets, some into his breast-pocket, put two or
three into his hat, and took a bundle of them under each arm. Then he
staggered to the door. All this time poor Doodlem was sitting in her
armchair, crying, and mending a white stocking.

"The giant led the way to the borders. He could not go fast, so that Buffy
and Tricksey managed to keep up with him. When they reached the borders,
they thought it would be safer to let the children find their own way
home. So they told him to set them down. He obeyed.

"'Have you put them all down, Mr. Thunderthump?' asked. Tricksey-Wee.

"'Yes,' said the giant.

"'That's a lie!' squeaked a little voice; and out came a head from his
waistcoat-pocket.

"Tricksey-Wee pinched the heart till the giant roared with pain.

"'You're not a gentleman. You tell stories,' she said.

"'He was the thinnest of the lot,' said Thunderthump, crying.

"'Are you all there now, children?' asked Tricksey.

"'Yes, ma'am,' said they, after counting themselves very carefully, and
with some difficulty; for they were all stupid children.

"'Now,' said Tricksey-Wee to the giant, 'will you promise to carry off no
more children, and never to eat a child again all you life?'

"'Yes, yes! I promise,' answered Thunderthump, sobbing.

"'And you will never cross the borders of Giantland?'

"'Never.'

"'And you shall never again wear white stockings on a Sunday, all your
life long.--Do you promise?'

"The giant hesitated at this, and began to expostulate; but Tricksey-Wee,
believing it would be good for his morals, insisted; and the giant
promised.

"Then she required of him, that, when she gave him back his heart, he
should give it to his wife to take care of for him for ever after. The
poor giant feel on his knees and began again to beg. But Tricksey-Wee
giving the heart a slight pinch, he bawled out:

"'Yes, yes! Doodlem shall have it, I swear. Only she must not put it in
the flour-barrel, or in the dust-hole.'

"'Certainly not. Make your own bargain with her.--And you promise not to
interfere with my brother and me, or to take any revenge for what we have
done?'

"'Yes, yes, my dear children; I promise everything. Do, pray, make haste
and give me back my poor heart.'

"'Wait there, then, till I bring it to you.'

"'Yes, yes. Only make haste, for I feel very faint.'

"Tricksey-Wee began to undo the mouth of the bag. But Buffy-Bob, who had
got very knowing on his travels, took out his knife with the pretence of
cutting the string; but, in reality, to be prepared for any emergency.

"No sooner was the heart out of the bag, than it expanded to the size of
a bullock; and the giant, with a yell of rage and vengeance, rushed on
the two children, who had stepped sideways from the terrible heart. But
Buffy-Bob was too quick for Thunderthump. He sprang to the heart, and
buried his knife in it, up to the hilt. A fountain of blood spouted from
it; and with a dreadful groan, the giant fell dead at the feet of little
Tricksey-Wee, who could not help being sorry for him after all."

       *        *        *       *       *

"Silly thing!" said a little wisehead.

"What a horrid story!" said one small girl with great eyes, who sat
staring into the fire.

"I don't think it at all a nice story for supper, with those horrid
spiders, too," said an older girl.

"Well, let us have a game and forget it," I said.

"No; that we shan't, I am sure," said one.

"I will tell our Amy. Won't it be fun?"

"She'll scream," said another.

"I'll tell her all the more."

"No, no; you mustn't be unkind," said I; "else you will never help little
children against wicked giants. The giants will eat you too, then."

"Oh! I know what you mean. You can't frighten me."

This was said by one of the elder girls, who promised fair to reach before
long the summit of uncompromising womanhood. She made me feel very small
with my moralizing; so I dropt it. On the whole I was rather disappointed
with the effect of my story. Perhaps the disappointment was no more than I
deserved; but I did not like to think I had failed with children.

Nor did I think so any longer after a darling little blue-eyed girl, who
had sat next me at tea, came to me to say good night, and, reaching up,
put her arms round my neck and kissed me, and then whispered very gently:

"Thank you, dear Mr. Smith. I will be good. It was a very nice story. If I
was a man, I would kill all the wicked people in the world. But I am only
a little girl, you know; so I can only be good."

The darling did not know how much more one good woman can do to kill evil
than all the swords of the world in the hands of righteous heroes.



CHAPTER III.

A CHILD'S HOLIDAY.


When the next evening of our assembly came, I could see on Adela's face a
look of subdued expectation, and I knew now to what to attribute it: Harry
was going to read. There was a restlessness in her eyelids--they were
always rising, and falling as suddenly. But when the time drew near, they
grew more still; only her colour went and came a little. By the time we
were all seated, she was as quiet as death. Harry pulled out a manuscript.

"Have you any objection to a ballad-story?" he asked of the company
generally.

"Certainly not," was the common reply; though Ralph stared a little, and
his wife looked at him. I believe the reason was, that they had never
known Harry write poetry before. But as soon as he had uttered the title--
"_The Two Gordons_"--

"You young rascal!" cried his brother. "Am I to keep you in material for
ever? Are you going to pluck my wings till they are as bare as an egg?
Really, ladies and gentlemen," he continued, in pretended anger, while
Harry was keeping down a laugh of keen enjoyment, "it is too bad of that
scapegrace brother of mine! Of course you are all welcome to anything I
have got; but he has no right to escape from his responsibilities on that
account. It is rude to us all. I know he can write if he likes."

"Why, Ralph, you would be glad of such a brother to steal your sermons
from, if you had been up all night as I was. Of course I did not mean to
claim any more credit than that of unearthing some of your shy verses.--
May I read them or not?"

"Oh! of course. But it is lucky I came prepared for some escapade of the
sort, and brought a manuscript of proper weight and length in my pocket."

Suddenly Harry's face changed from a laughing to a grave one. I saw how it
was. He had glanced at Adela, and her look of unmistakeable disappointment
was reflected in his face. But there was a glimmer of pleasure in his
eyes, notwithstanding; and I fancied I could see that the pleasure would
have been more marked, had he not feared that he had placed himself at a
disadvantage with her, namely, that she would suppose him incapable of
producing a story. However, it was only for a moment that this change of
feeling stopped him. With a gesture of some haste he re-opened the
manuscript, which he had rolled up as if to protect it from the
indignation of his brother, and read the following ballad:

    _"The Two Gordons._

            I

"There was John Gordon, and Archibold,
    And an earl's twin sons were they.
When they were one and twenty years old,
    They fell out on their birth-day.

"'Turn,' said Archibold, 'brother sly!
    Turn now, false and fell;
Or down thou goest, as black as a lie,
    To the father of lies in hell.'

"'Why this to me, brother Archie, I pray?
    What ill have I done to thee?'
'Smooth-faced hound, thou shall rue the day
    Thou gettest an answer of me.

"'For mine will be louder than Lady Janet's,
    And spoken in broad daylight--
And the wall to scale is my iron mail,
    Not her castle wall at night.'

"'I clomb the wall of her castle tall,
    In the moon and the roaring wind;
It was dark and still in her bower until
    The morning looked in behind.'

"'Turn therefore, John Gordon, false brother;
    For either thou or I,
On a hard wet bed--wet, cold, and red,
    For evermore shall lie.'

"'Oh, Archibold, Janet is my true love;
    Would I had told it thee!'
'I hate thee the worse. Turn, or I'll curse
    The night that got thee and me.'

"Their swords they drew, and the sparks they flew,
    As if hammers did anvils beat;
And the red blood ran, till the ground began
    To plash beneath their feet.

"'Oh, Archie! thou hast given me a cold supper,
    A supper of steel, I trow;
But reach me one grasp of a brother's hand,
    And turn me, before you go.'

"But he turned himself on his gold-spurred heel,
    And away, with a speechless frown;
And up in the oak, with a greedy croak,
    The carrion-crow claimed his own.

                II

"The sun looked over a cloud of gold;
    Lady Margaret looked over the wall.
Over the bridge rode Archibold;
    Behind him his merry men all.

"He leads his band to the holy land.
  They follow with merry din.
A white Christ's cross is on his back;
  In his breast a darksome sin.

"And the white cross burned him like the fire,
  That he could nor eat nor rest;
It burned in and in, to get at the sin,
  That lay cowering in his breast.

"A mile from the shore of the Dead Sea,
  The army lay one night.
Lord Archibold rose; and out he goes,
  Walking in the moonlight.

"He came to the shore of the old salt sea--
  Yellow sands with frost-like tinge;
The bones of the dead on the edge of its bed,
  Lay lapped in its oozy fringe.

"He sat him down on a half-sunk stone,
  And he sighed so dreary and deep:
'The devil may take my soul when I wake,
  If he'd only let me sleep!'

"Out from the bones and the slime and the stones,
  Came a voice like a raven's croak:
'Was it thou, Lord Archibold Gordon?' it said,
  'Was it thou those words that spoke?'

"'I'll say them again,' quoth Archibold,
  'Be thou ghost or fiend of the deep.'
'Lord Archibold heed how thou may'st speed,
  If thou sell me thy soul for sleep.'

"Lord Archibold laughed with a loud _ha! ha!_--
  The Dead Sea curdled to hear:
'Thou would'st have the worst of the bargain curst--
  It has every fault but fear.'

"'Done, Lord Archibold?' 'Lord Belzebub, done!'
    His laugh came back in a moan.
The salt glittered on, and the white moon shone,
    And Lord Archibold was alone.

"And back he went to his glimmering tent;
    And down in his cloak he lay;
And sound he slept; and a pale-faced man
    Watched by his bed till day.

"And if ever he turned or moaned in his sleep,
    Or his brow began to lower,
Oh! gentle and clear, in the sleeper's ear,
    He would whisper words of power;

"Till his lips would quiver, and sighs of bliss
    From sorrow's bosom would break;
And the tear, soft and slow, would gather and flow;
    And yet he would not wake.

"Every night the pale-faced man
    Sat by his bed, I say;
And in mail rust-brown, with his visor down,
    Rode beside him in battle-fray.

"But well I wot that it was not
    The devil that took his part;
But his twin-brother John, he thought dead and gone,
    Who followed to ease his heart.

          III

"Home came Lord Archibold, weary wight,
    Home to his own countree;
And he cried, when his castle came in sight,
    'Now Christ me save and see!'

"And the man in rust-brown, with his visor down,
    Had gone, he knew not where.
And he lighted down, and into the hall,
    And his mother met him there.

"But dull was her eye, though her mien was high;
    And she spoke like Eve to Cain:
'Lord Archibold Gordon, answer me true,
    Or I'll never speak again.

"'Where is thy brother, Lord Archibold?
    He was flesh and blood of thine.
Has thy brother's keeper laid him cold,
    Where the warm sun cannot shine?'

"Lord Archibold could not speak a word,
    For his heart was almost broke.
He turned to go. The carrion-crow
    At the window gave a croak.

"'Now where art thou going, Lord Archie?' she said,
    'With thy lips so white and thin?'
'Mother, good-bye; I am going to lie
    In the earth with my brother-twin.'

"Lady Margaret sank on her couch. 'Alas!
    I shall lose them both to-day.'
Lord Archibold strode along the road,
    To the field of the Brothers' Fray.

"He came to the spot where they had fought.
    'My God!' he cried in fright,
'They have left him there, till his bones are bare;
    Through the plates they glimmer white.'

"For his brother's armour lay there, dank,
    And worn with frost and dew.
Had the long, long grass that grew so rank,
    Grown the very armour through?

"'O brother, brother!' cried the Earl,
    With a loud, heart-broken wail,
'I would put my soul into thy bones,
    To see thee alive and hale.'

"'Ha! ha!' said a voice from out the helm--
    'Twas the voice of the Dead Sea shore--
And the joints did close, and the armour rose,
    And clattered and grass uptore--

"'Thou canst put no soul into his bones,
    Thy brother alive to set;
For the sleep was thine, and thy soul is mine,
    And, Lord Archibold, well-met!'

"'Two words to that!' said the fearless Earl;
    'The sleep was none of thine;
For I dreamed of my brother all the night--
    His soul brought the sleep to mine.

"'But I care not a crack for a soul so black,
    And thou may'st have it yet:
I would let it burn to eternity,
    My brother alive to set.'

"The demon lifted his beaver up,
    Crusted with blood and mould;
And, lo! John Gordon looked out of the helm,
    And smiled upon Archibold.

"'Thy soul is mine, brother Archie,' he said,
    'And I yield it thee none the worse;
No devil came near thee, Archie, lad,
    But a brother to be thy nurse.'

"Lord Archibold fell upon his knee,
    On the blood-fed, bright green sod:
'The soul that my brother gives back to me,
    Is thine for ever, O God!'"


"Now for a piece of good, honest prose!" said the curate, the moment Harry
had finished, without allowing room for any remarks. "That is, if the
ladies and gentlemen will allow me to read once more."

Of course, all assented heartily.

"It is nothing of a story, but I think it is something of a picture, drawn
principally from experiences of my own childhood, which I told you was
spent chiefly in the north of Scotland. The one great joy of the year,
although some years went without it altogether, was the summer visit paid
to the shores of the Moray Firth. My story is merely a record of some of
the impressions left on myself by such a visit, although the boy is
certainly not a portrait of myself; and if it has no result, no end,
reaching beyond childhood into what is commonly called life, I presume it
is not of a peculiar or solitary character in that respect; for surely
many that we count finished stories--life-histories--must look very
different to the angels; and if they haven't to be written over again, at
least they have to be carried on a few aeons further.

"A CHILD'S HOLIDAY.

"Before the door of a substantial farm-house in the north of Scotland,
stands a vehicle of somewhat singular construction. When analysed,
however, its composition proves to be simple enough. It is a common
agricultural cart, over which, by means of a few iron rods bent across, a
semi-cylindrical covering of white canvas has been stretched. It is thus
transformed from a hay or harvest cart into a family carriage, of
comfortable dimensions, though somewhat slow of progress. The lack of
springs is supplied by thick layers of straw, while sacks stuffed with the
same material are placed around for seats. Various articles are being
stowed away under the bags, and in the corners among the straw, by
children with bright expectant faces; the said articles having been in
process of collection and arrangement for a month or six weeks previous,
in anticipation of the journey which now lies, in all its length and
brightness, the length and brightness of a long northern summer's day,
before them.

"At last, all their private mysteries of provisions, playthings, and
books, having found places of safety more or less accessible on demand,
every motion of the horse, every shake and rattle of the covered cart,
makes them only more impatient to proceed; which desire is at length
gratified by their moving on at a funeral pace through the open gate.
They are followed by another cart loaded with the luggage necessary for a
six-week's sojourn at one of the fishing villages on the coast, about
twenty miles distant from their home. Their father and mother are to
follow in the gig, at a later hour in the day, expecting to overtake them
about half-way on the road.--Through the neighbouring village they pass,
out upon the lonely highway.

"Some seeds are borne to the place of their destiny by their own wings and
the wings of the wind, some by the wings of birds, some by simple
gravitation. The seed of my story, namely, the covered cart, sent forth to
find the soil for its coming growth, is dragged by a stout horse to the
sea-shore; and as it oscillates from side to side like a balloon trying to
walk, I shall say something of its internal constitution, and principally
of its germ; for, regarded as the seed of my story, a pale boy of thirteen
is the germ of the cart. First, though he will be of little use to us
afterwards, comes a great strong boy of sixteen, who considerably despises
this mode of locomotion, believing himself quite capable of driving his
mother in the gig, whereas he is only destined to occupy her place in the
evening, and return with his father. Then comes the said germ, a boy whom
repeated attacks of illness have blanched, and who looks as if the
thinness of its earthly garment made his soul tremble with the proximity
of the ungenial world. Then follows a pretty blonde, with smooth hair, and
smooth cheeks, and bright blue eyes, the embodiment of home pleasures and
love; whose chief enjoyment, and earthly destiny indeed, so far as yet
revealed, consist in administering to the cupidities of her younger
brother, a very ogre of gingerbread men, and Silenus of bottled milk. This
milk, by the way, is expected, from former experience, to afford
considerable pleasure at the close of the journey, in the shape of one or
two pellets of butter in each bottle; the novelty of the phenomenon, and
not any scarcity of the article, constituting the ground of interest. A
baby on the lap of a rosy country-girl, and the servant in his blue Sunday
coat, who sits outside the cover on the edge of the cart, but looks in
occasionally to show some attention to the young woman, complete the
contents of the vehicle.

"Herbert Netherby, though, as I have said, only thirteen years of age, had
already attained a degree of mental development sufficient for
characterization. Disease had favoured the almost unhealthy predominance
of the mental over the bodily powers of the child; so that, although the
constitution which at one time was supposed to have entirely given way,
had for the last few years been gradually gaining strength, he was still
to be seen far oftener walking about with his hands in his pockets, and
his gaze bent on the ground, or turned up to the clouds, than joining in
any of the boyish sports of those of his own age. A nervous dread of
ridicule would deter him from taking his part, even when for a moment the
fountain of youthfulness gushed forth, and impelled him to find rest in
activity. So the impulse would pass away, and he would relapse into his
former quiescence. But this partial isolation ministered to the growth of
a love of Nature which, although its roots were coeval with his being,
might not have so soon appeared above ground, but for this lack of human
companionship. Thus the boy became one of Nature's favourites, and enjoyed
more than a common share of her teaching.

"But he loved her most in her stranger moods. The gathering of a blue
cloud, on a sultry summer afternoon, he watched with intense hope, in
expectation of a thunder-storm; and a windy night, after harvest, when the
trees moaned and tossed their arms about, and the wind ran hither and
hither over the desolate fields of stubble, made the child's heart dance
within him, and sent him out careering through the deepening darkness. To
meet him then, you would not have known him for the sedate, actionless
boy, whom you had seen in the morning looking listlessly on while his
schoolfellows played. But of all his loves for the shows of Nature, none
was so strong as his love for water--common to childhood, with its mills
of rushes, its dams, its bridges, its aqueducts; only in Herbert, it was
more a quiet, delighted contemplation. Weakness prevented his joining his
companions in the river; but the sight of their motions in the mystery of
the water, as they floated half-idealized in the clear depth, or glided
along by graceful propulsion, gave him as much real enjoyment as they
received themselves. For it was water itself that delighted him, whether
in rest or motion; whether rippling over many stones, like the first
half-articulate sounds of a child's speech, mingled with a strange musical
tremble and cadence which the heart only, and not the ear, could detect;
or lying in deep still pools, from the bottom of which gleamed up bright
green stones, or yet brighter water-plants, cool in their little grotto,
with water for an atmosphere and a firmament, through which the sun-rays
came, washed of their burning heat, but undimmed of their splendour. He
would lie for an hour by the side of a hill-streamlet; he would stand
gazing into a muddy pool, left on the road by last night's rain. Once, in
such a brown-yellow pool, he beheld a glory--the sun, encircled with a
halo vast and wide, varied like the ring of opal colours seen about the
moon when she floats through white clouds, only larger and brighter than
that. Looking up, he could see nothing but a chaos of black clouds,
brilliant towards the sun: the colours he could not see, except in the
muddy water.

"In autumn the rains would come down for days, and the river grow stormy,
forget its clearness, and spread out like a lake over the meadows; and
that was delightful indeed. But greater yet was the delight when the
foot-bridge was carried away; for then they had to cross the stream in a
boat. He longed for water where it could not be; would fain have seen it
running through the grass in front of his father's house; and had a waking
vision of a stream with wooden shores that babbled through his bedroom. So
it may be fancied with what delight he overheard the parental decision
that they should spend some weeks by the shores of the great world--water,
the father and the grave of rivers.

"After many vain outlooks, and fruitless inquiries of their driver, a
sudden turn in the road brought them in sight of the sea between the
hills; itself resembling a low blue hill, covered with white stones.
Indeed, the little girl only doubted whether those were white stones or
sheep scattered all over it. They lost sight of it; saw it again; and
hailed it with greater rapture than at first.

"The sun was more than halfway down when they arrived. They had secured a
little cottage, almost on the brow of the high shore, which in most places
went down perpendicularly to the beach or sands, and in some right into
deep water; but opposite the cottage, declined with a sloping, grassy
descent. A winding track led down to the village, which nestled in a
hollow, with steep footpaths radiating from it. In front of it, lower
still, lay the narrow beach, narrow even at low water, for the steep,
rocky shore went steep and rocky down into the abyss. A thousand
fantastic rocks stood between land and water; amidst which, at half-tide,
were many little rocky arbours, with floors of sunny sand, and three or
four feet of water. Here you might bathe, or sit on the ledges with your
feet in the water, medicated with the restless glitter and bewilderment of
a half-dissolved sunbeam.

"A promontory, curving out into the sea, on the right, formed a bay and
natural harbour, from which, towards the setting sun, many fishing-boats
were diverging into the wide sea, as the children, stiff and weary, were
getting out of the cart. Herbert's fatigue was soon forgotten in watching
their brown-dyed sails, glowing almost red in the sunset, as they went out
far into the dark, hunters of the deep, to spend the night on the waters.

"From the windows, the children could not see the shore, with all its
burst of beauties struck out from the meeting of things unlike; for it lay
far down, and the brow of the hill rose between it and them; only they
knew that below the waves were breaking on the rocks, and they heard the
gush and roar filling all the air. The room in which Herbert slept was a
little attic, with a window towards the sea. After gazing with unutterable
delight on the boundless water, which lay like a condensed sky in the grey
light of the sleeping day (for there is no night at this season in the
North), till he saw it even when his eyelids closed from weariness, he lay
down, and the monotonous lullaby of the sea mingled with his dreams.

"Next morning he was wakened by the challenging and replying of the
sentinel-cocks, whose crowing sounded to him more clear and musical than
that of any of the cocks at home. He jumped out of bed. It was a sunny
morning, and his soul felt like a flake of sunshine, as he looked out of
his window on the radiant sea, green and flashing, its clear surface here
and there torn by the wind into spots of opaque white. So happy did he
feel, that he might have been one who had slept through death and the
judgment, and had awaked, a child, still in the kingdom of God, under the
new heavens and upon the new earth.

"After breakfast, they all went down with their mother to the sea-shore.
As they went, the last of the boats which had gone out the night before,
were returning laden, like bees. The sea had been bountiful. Everything
shone with gladness. But as Herbert drew nearer, he felt a kind of dread
at the recklessness of the waves. On they hurried, assailed the rocks,
devoured the sands, cast themselves in wild abandonment on whatever
opposed them. He feared at first to go near, for they were unsympathizing,
caring not for his love or his joy, and would sweep him away like one of
those floating sea-weeds. 'If they are such in their play,' thought he,
'what must they be in their anger!' But ere long he was playing with the
sea as with a tame tiger, chasing the retreating waters till they rallied
and he, in his turn, had to flee from their pursuit. Wearied at length, he
left his brother and sister building castles of wet sand, and wandered
along the shore.

"Everywhere about lay shallow lakes of salt water, so shallow that they
were invisible, except when a puff of wind blew a thousand ripples into
the sun; whereupon they flashed as if a precipitous rain of stormy light
had rushed down upon them. Lifting his eyes from one of these films of
water, Herbert saw on the opposite side, stooping to pick up some treasure
of the sea, a little girl, apparently about nine years of age. When she
raised herself and saw Herbert, she moved slowly away with a quiet grace,
that strangely contrasted with her tattered garments. She was ragged like
the sea-shore, or the bunch of dripping sea-weed that she carried in her
hand; she was bare from foot to knee, and passed over the wet sand with a
gleam; the wind had been at more trouble with her hair than any loving
hand; it was black, lusterless, and tangled. The sight of rags was always
enough to move Herbert's sympathies, and he wished to speak to the little
girl, and give her something. But when he had followed her a short
distance, all at once, and without having looked round, she began to glide
away from him with a wave-like motion, dancing and leaping; till a clear
pool in the hollow of a tabular rock imbedded in the sand, arrested her
progress. Here she stood like a statue, gazing into its depth; then, with
a dart like a kingfisher, plunged half into it, caught something at which
her head and curved neck showed that she looked with satisfaction--and
again, before Herbert could come near her, was skimming along the uneven
shore. He followed, as a boy follows a lapwing; but she, like the lapwing,
gradually increased the distance between them, till he gave up the pursuit
with some disappointment, and returned to his brother and sister. More
ambitious than they, he proceeded to construct--chiefly for the sake of
the moat he intended to draw around it--a sand-castle of considerable
pretensions; but the advancing tide drove him from his stronghold before
he had begun to dig the projected fosse.

"As they returned home, they passed a group of fishermen in their long
boots and flapped sou'-westers, looking somewhat anxiously seaward. Much
to Herbert's delight, they predicted a stiff gale, and probably a storm. A
low bank of cloud had gathered along the horizon, and the wind had already
freshened; the white spots were thicker on the waves, and the sound of
their trampling on the shore grew louder.

"After dinner, they sat at the window of their little parlour, looking out
over the sea, which grew darker and more sullen, ever as the afternoon
declined. The cloudy bank had risen and walled out the sun; but a narrow
space of blue on the horizon looked like the rent whence the wind rushed
forth on the sea, and with the feet of its stormy horses tore up the blue
surface, and scattered the ocean-dust in clouds. As evening drew on,
Herbert could keep in the house no longer. He wandered away on the
heights, keeping from the brow of the cliffs; now and then stooping and
struggling with a stormier eddy; till, descending into a little hollow, he
sunk below the plane of the tempest, and stood in the glow of a sudden
calm, hearing the tumult all round him, but himself in peace. Looking up,
he could see nothing but the sides of the hollow with the sky resting on
them, till, turning towards the sea, he saw, at some distance, a point of
the cliff rising abruptly into the air. At the same moment, the sun looked
out from a crack in the clouds, on the very horizon; and as Herbert could
not see the sunset, the peculiar radiance illuminated the more strangely
the dark vault of earth and cloudy sky. Suddenly, to his astonishment, it
was concentrated on the form of the little ragged girl. She stood on the
summit of the peak before him. The light was a crown, not to her head
only, but to her whole person; as if she herself were the crown set on the
brows of the majestic shore. Disappearing as suddenly, it left her
standing on the peak, dark and stormy; every tress, if tresses they could
be called, of her windy hair, every tatter of her scanty garments, seeming
individually to protest, 'The wind is my playmate; let me go!' If
Aphrodite was born of the sunny sea, this child was the offspring of the
windy shore; as if the mind of the place had developed for itself a
consciousness, and this was its embodiment. She bore a strange affinity to
the rocks, and the sea-weed, and the pools, and the wide, wild ocean; and
Herbert would scarcely have been shocked to see her cast herself from the
cliff into the waves, which now dashed half-way up its height. By the time
he had got out of the hollow, she had vanished, and where she had gone he
could not conjecture. He half feared she had fallen over the precipice;
and several times that night, as the vapour of dreams gathered around him,
he started from his half-sleep in terror at seeing the little genius of
the storm fall from her rock-pedestal into the thundering waves as its
foot.

"Next day the wind continuing off the sea, with vapour and rain, the
children were compelled to remain within doors, and betake themselves to
books and playthings. But Herbert's chief resource lay in watching the sea
and the low grey sky, between which was no distinguishable horizon. The
wind still increased, and before the afternoon it blew a thorough storm,
wind and waves raging together on the rocky shore. The fishermen had
secured their boats, drawing them up high on the land; but what vessels
might be labouring under the low misty pall no one could tell. Many
anxious fears were expressed for some known to be at sea; and many tales
of shipwreck were told that night in the storm-shaken cottages.

"The day was closing in, darkened the sooner by the mist, when Herbert,
standing at the window, now rather weary, saw the little girl dart past
like a petrel. He snatched up his cap and rushed from the house, buttoning
his jacket to defend him from the weather. The little fellow, though so
quiet among other boys, was a lover of the storm as much as the girl was,
and would have preferred its buffeting, so long as his strength lasted, to
the warmest nook by the fireside; and now he could not resist the
temptation to follow her. As soon as he was clear of the garden, he saw
her stopping to gaze down on the sea--starting again along the heights--
blown out of her course--and regaining it by struggling up in the teeth of
the storm. He at once hastened in pursuit, trying as much as possible to
keep out of her sight, and was gradually lessening the distance between
them, when, on crossing the hollow already mentioned, he saw her on the
edge of the cliff, close to the pinnacle on which she had stood the night
before; where after standing for a moment, she sank downwards and
vanished, but whether into earth or air, he could not tell. He approached
the place. A blast of more than ordinary violence fought against him, as
if determined to preserve the secret of its favourite's refuge. But he
persisted, and gained the spot.

"He then found that the real edge of the precipice was several yards
farther off, the ground sloping away from where he stood. At his feet, in
the slope, was an almost perpendicular opening. He hesitated a little;
but, sure that the child was a real human child and no phantom, he did not
hesitate long. He entered and found it lead spirally downwards. Descending
with some difficulty, for the passage was narrow, he arrived at a small
chamber, into one corner of which the stone shaft, containing the stair,
projected half its round. The chamber looked as if it had been hollowed
out of the rock. A narrow window, little more than a loop-hole through the
thick wall, admitted the roar of the waves and a dim grey light. This
light was just sufficient to show him the child in the farthest corner of
the chamber, bending forward with her hands between her knees, in a
posture that indicated fear. The little playfellow of the winds was not
sure of him. At the first word he spoke, a sea-bird, which had made its
home in the apartment, startled by the sound of his voice, dashed through
the window, with a sudden clang of wings, into the great misty void
without; and Herbert looking out after it, almost forgot the presence of
the little girl in the awe and delight of the spectacle before him. It was
now much darker, and the fog had settled down more closely on the face of
the deep; but just below him he could see the surface of the ocean, whose
mad waves appeared to rush bellowing out of the unseen on to the shore of
the visible. When, after some effort, he succeeded in leaning out of the
window, he could see the shore beneath him; for he was on its extreme
verge, and the spray now and then dashed through the loop-hole into the
chamber. He was still gazing and absorbed, when a sweet timid voice, that
yet partook undefinably of the wildness of a sea-breeze, startled him out
of his contemplation.

"'Did my mother send you to me?' said the voice.

"He looked down. Close beside him stood the child, gazing earnestly up
into his face through the twilight from the window.

"'Where does your mother live?' asked Herbert.

"'All out there,' the child answered, pointing to the window.

"While he was thinking what she could mean, she continued:

"'Mother is angry to-night; but when the sun comes out, and those nasty
clouds are driven away, she will laugh again. Mother does not like black
clouds and fogs; they spoil her house.'

"Still perplexed as to the child's meaning, Herbert asked,

"'Does your mother love you?'

"'Yes, except when she is angry. She does not love me to-night; but
to-morrow, perhaps, she will be all over laughs to me; and that makes me
run to her; and she will smile to me all day, till night comes and she
goes to sleep, and leaves me alone; for I hear her sleeping, but I cannot
go to sleep with her.'"

Here the curate interrupted his reading to remark, that he feared he had
spoiled the pathos of the child's words, by translating them into English;
but that they must gain more, for the occasion, by being made intelligible
to his audience, than they could lose by the change from their original
form.

"Herbert's sympathies had by this time made him suspect that the child
must be talking of the sea, which somehow she had come to regard as her
mother. He asked,

"'Where does your father live, then?'

"'I have not any father,' she answered. 'I had one, but mother took him.'

"Several other questions Herbert put; but still the child's notions ran in
the same channel. They were wild notions, but uttered with confidence as
if they were the most ordinary facts. It seemed that whatever her
imagination suggested, bore to her the impress of self-evident truth; and
that she knew no higher reality.

"By this time it was almost dark.

"'I must go home,' said Herbert.

"'I will go with you,' responded the girl.

"She ran along beside him, but in the discursive manner natural to her;
till, coming to one of the paths descending towards the shore, she darted
down, without saying good-night even.

"Next day, the storm having abated, and the sun shining out, they were
standing on the beach, near a fisherman, who like them was gazing
seawards, when the child went skimming past along the shore. Mrs. Netherby
asked the fisherman about her, and learned the secret of the sea's
motherhood. She had been washed ashore from the wreck of a vessel; and was
found on the beach, tied to a spar. All besides had perished. From the
fragment they judged it to have been a Dutch vessel. Some one had said in
her hearing--'Poor child! the sea is her mother;' and her imagination had
cherished the idea. A fisherman, who had no family, had taken her to his
house and loved her dearly. But he lost his wife shortly after; and a year
or two ago, the sea had taken him, the only father she knew. All, however,
were kind to her. She was welcome wherever she chose to go and share with
the family. But no one knew today where she would be to-morrow, where she
would have her next meal, or where she would sleep. She was wild,
impulsive, affectionate. The simple people of the village believed her to
be of foreign birth and high descent, while reverence for her lonely
conditions made them treat her with affection as well as deference; so
that the forsaken child, regarded as subject to no law, was as happy in
her freedom and confidence as any wild winged thing of the land or sea.
The summer loved her; the winter strengthened her. Her first baptism in
the salt waters had made her a free creature of the earth and skies; had
fortified her, Achilles-like, against all hardship, cold, and nakedness
to come; had delivered her from the bonds of habit and custom, and shown
in her what earth and air of themselves can do, to make the lowest, most
undeveloped life, a divine gift.

"The following morning, the sea was smooth and clear. So was the sky.
Looking down from their cottage, the sea appeared to Herbert to slope
steeply up to the horizon, so that the shore lay like a deep narrow valley
between him and it. Far down, at the low pier, he saw a little boat
belonging to a retired ship-captain. The oars were on board; and the owner
and some one with him were walking towards the boat. Now the captain had
promised to take him with him some day.

"He was half-way down the road a moment after the words of permission had
left his mother's lips, and was waiting at the boat when the two men came
up. They readily agreed to let him go with them. They were going to row to
a village on the opposite side of the bay, and return in the evening.
Herbert was speechless with delight. They got in, the boat heaving beneath
them, unmoored and pushed off. This suspension between sea and sky was a
new sensation to Herbert; for when he looked down, his eye did not repose
on the surface, but penetrated far into a clear green abyss, where the
power of vision seemed rather to vanish than be arrested. When he looked
up, the shore was behind them; and he knew, for the first time, what it
was to look at the land as he had looked at the sea; to regard the land,
in its turn, as a _phenomenon_--observing it apart from himself.

"Running along the shore like a little bird, he saw the child of the sea;
and, further to the right, the peak on which she had stood in the sunset,
and into whose mysterious chamber she had led him. The captain here put a
pocket-telescope into his hand; and with this annihilator of space he made
new discoveries. He saw a little window in the cliff, doubtless the same
from which he had looked out on the dim sea; and then perceived that the
front of the cliff, in that part, was no rock, but a wall, regularly and
strongly built. It was evidently the remains of an old fortress. The front
foundation had been laid in the rocks of the shore; the cliff had then
been faced up with masonry; and behind chambers had been cut in the rock;
into one of which Herbert had descended a ruined spiral stair. The castle
itself, which had stood on the top, had mouldered away, leaving only a
rugged and broken surface.

"By this time they were near the opposite shore, and Herbert looked up
with dread at the great cliffs that rose perpendicularly out of the water,
which heaved slowly and heavily, with an appearance of immense depth,
against them. Their black jagged sides had huge holes, into which the sea
rushed--far into the dark--with a muffled roar; and large protuberances of
rock, bare and threatening. Numberless shadows lay on their faces; and
here and there from their tops trickled little steams, plashing into the
waves at their feet. Passing through a natural arch in a rock, lofty and
narrow, called the Devil's Bridge, and turning a little promontory, they
were soon aground on the beach.

"When the captain had finished his business, they had some dinner at the
inn; and while the two men drank their grog, Herbert was a delighted
listener to many a sea story, old and new. How the boy longed to be a
sailor, and live always on the great waters! The blocks and cordage of the
fast-rooted flagstaff before the inn, assumed an almost magic interest to
him, as the two sailors went on with their tales of winds and rocks, and
narrow escapes and shipwrecks. And how proud he was of the friendship of
these old seafarers!

"At length it was time to return home. As they rowed slowly along, the sun
was going down in the west, and their shadows were flung far on the waves,
which gleamed and glistened in the rich calm light. Land and sea were
bathed in the blessing of heaven; its glory was on the rocks, and on the
shore, and in the depth of the heaving sea. Under the boat, wherever it
went, shone a paler green. The only sounds were of the oars in the
row-locks, of the drip from their blades as they rose and made curves in
the air, and the low plash with which they dipped again into the sea;
while the water in the wake of the boat hastened to compose itself again
to that sleep from which it had been unwillingly roused by the passing
keel. The boy's heart was full. Often in after years he longed for the
wings of a dove that he might fly to that boat (still floating in the calm
sea of his memory), and there lie until his spirit had had rest enough.

"The next time that Herbert approached the little girl, she waited his
coming; and while they talked, Mrs. Netherby joined them with her Effie.
Presently the gaze of the sea-child was fixed upon little Effie, to the
all but total neglect of the others. The result of this contemplation was
visible the next day. Mrs. Netherby having invited her to come and see
them, the following morning, as they were seated at breakfast, the door of
the room opened, without any prefatory tap, and in peeped with wild
confidence the smiling face of the untamed Undine. It was at once evident
that civilization had laid a finger upon her, and that a new womanly
impulse had been awakened. For there she stood, gazing at Effie, and with
both hands smoothing down her own hair, which she had managed, after a
fashion, to part in the middle, and had plentifully wetted with sea-water.
In her run up the height, it had begun to dry, and little spangles of salt
were visible all over it. She could not alter her dress, whose many
slashes showed little lining except her skin; but she had done all she
could to approximate her appearance to that of Effie, whom she seemed to
regard as a little divinity.

"Mrs. Netherby's heart was drawn towards the motherless child, and she
clothed her from head to foot; though how far this was a benefit as
regarded cold and heat, is a question. Herbert began to teach her to read;
in which her progress was just like her bodily movements over the earth's
surface; now a dead pause, and now the flight of a bird. Now and then she
would suddenly start up, heedless where her book might happen to fall, and
rush out along the heights; returning next day, or the same afternoon,
and, without any apology, resuming her studies.

"This holiday was to Herbert one of those seasons which tinge the whole of
the future life. It was a storehouse of sights and sounds and images of
thought; a tiring-room, wherein to clothe the ideas that came forth to act
their parts upon the stage of reason. Often at night, just ere the sleep
that wipes out the day from the overfilled and blotted tablets of the
brain, enwrapped him in its cool, grave-like garments, a vision of the
darkened sea, spotted and spangled with pools of unutterable light, would
rise before him unbidden, in that infinite space for creation which lies
dark and waiting under the closed eyelids. The darkened sea might be but
the out-thrown image of his own overshadowed soul; and the spots of light
the visual form of his hopes. So clearly would these be present to him
sometimes, that when he opened his eyes and gazed into the darkness of his
room, he would see the bright spaces shining before him still. Then he
would fall asleep and dream on about the sea--watching a little cutter
perhaps, as 'she leaned to the lee, and girdled the wave,' flinging the
frolic-some waters from her bows, and parting a path for herself between.
Or he would be seated with the helm in his hand, and all the force and the
joy wherewith she dashed headlong on the rising waves, and half pierced
them and half drove them under her triumphant keel, would be issuing from
his will and his triumph.

"Surely even for the sad despairing waves there is some hope, out in that
boundless room which borders on the sky, and upon which, even in the
gloomiest hour of tempest, falls sometimes from heaven a glory intense.

"So when the time came that the lover of waters must return, he went back
enriched with new visions of them in their great home and motherland, he
had seen them still and silent as a soul in holy trance; he had seen them
raving in a fury of livid green, swarming with 'white-mouthed waves;' he
had seen them lying in one narrow ridge of unbroken blue, where the eye,
finding no marks to measure the distance withal, saw miles as furlongs;
and he had seen sweeps and shadows innumerable stretched along its calm
expanse, so dividing it into regions, and graduating the distance, that
the eye seemed to wander on and on from sea to sea, and the ships to float
in oceans beyond oceans of infinite reach. O lonely space! awful indeed
wert thou, did no one love us! But he had yet to receive one more vision
of the waters, and that was to be in a dream. With this dream I will close
the story of his holiday; for it went with him ever after, breaking forth
from the dream-home, and encompassing his waking thoughts with an
atmosphere of courage and hope, when his heart was ready to sink in a
world which was not the world the boy had thought to enter, when he ran to
welcome his fate.

"On their last Sunday, Herbert went with his mother to the evening service
in a little chapel in the midst of the fishermen's cottages. It was a
curious little place, with galleries round, that nearly met in the middle,
and a high pulpit with a great sounding-board over it, from which came the
voice of an earnest little Methodist, magnified by his position into a
mighty prophet. The good man was preaching on the parable of _the sheep
and the goats;_ and, in his earnestness for his own theology and the souls
of his hearers, was not content that the Lord should say these things in
his own way, but he must say them in his too. And a terrible utterance it
was! Looking about, unconsciously seeking some relief from the
accumulation of horrors with which the preacher was threatening the goats
of his congregation, Herbert spied, in the very front of one of the side
galleries, his little pupil, white with terror, and staring with round
unwinking eyes full in the face of the prophet of fear. Never after could
he read the parable without seeing the blanched face of the child, and
feeling a renewal of that evening's sadness over the fate of the poor
goats which afterwards grew into the question--'Doth God care for oxen,
and not for goats?' He never saw the child again; for they left the next
day, and she did not come to bid them good-by.

"As he went home from the chapel, her face of terror haunted him.

"That night he fell asleep, as usual, with the sound of the waves in his
soul. And as he slept he dreamed.--He stood, as he thought, upon the
cliff, within which lay the remnants of the old castle. The sun was slowly
sinking down the western sky, and a great glory lay upon the sea. Close to
the shore beneath, by the side of some low rocks, floated a little boat.
He thought how delightful it would be to lie in the boat in the sunlight,
and let it die away upon his bosom. He scrambled down the rocks, stepped
on board, and laid himself in the boat, with his face turned towards the
sinking sun. Lower and lower the sun sank, seeming to draw the heavens
after him, like a net. At length he plunged beneath the waves; but as his
last rays disappeared on the horizon, lo! a new splendour burst upon the
astonished boy. The whole waters were illuminated from beneath, with the
permeating glories of the buried radiance. In rainbow circles, and
intermingling, fluctuating sweeps of colours, the sea lay like an intense
opal, molten with the fire of its own hues. The sky gave back the
effulgence with a less deep but more heavenly loveliness.

"But betwixt the sea and the sky, just over the grave of the down-gone
sun, a dark spot appeared, parting the earth and the heaven where they had
mingled in embraces of light. And the dark spot grew and spread, and a
cold breath came softly over the face of the shining waters; and the
colours paled away; and as the blossom-sea withered and grew grey below,
the clouds withered and darkened above. The sea began to swell and moan
and look up, like the soul of a man whose joy is going down in darkness;
and a horror came over the heart of the sleeper, and in his dream he
lifted up his head, meaning to rise and hasten to his home. But, behold,
the shore was far away, and the great castle-cliff had sunk to a low
ridge! With a cry, he sank back on the bosom of the careless sea.

"The boat began to rise and fall on the waking waves. Then a great blast
of wind laid hold of it, and whirled it about. Once more he looked up, and
saw that the tops of the waves were torn away, and that 'the white water
was coming out of the black.' Higher and higher rose the billows; louder
and louder roared the wind across their jagged furrows, tearing awful
descants from their bursting chords, and tossing the little boat like a
leaf in the lone desert of storms; now holding it perched on the very
crest of a wave, in the mad eye of the tempest, while the chaotic waters
danced, raving about, in hopeless confusion; now letting it sink in the
hollow of the waves, and lifting above it cold glittering walls of water,
that becalmed it as in a sheltered vale, while the hurricane roaring
above, flung arches of writhing waters across from billow to billow
overhead, and threatened to close, as in a transparent tomb, boat and boy.
At length, when the boat rose once more, unwilling, to the awful ridge,
jagged and white, a yet fiercer blast tore it from the top of the wave.
The dreamer found himself choking in the waters, and soon lost all
consciousness of the buffeting waves or the shrieking winds.

"When the dreamer again awoke, he felt that he was carried along through
the storm above the waves; for they reached him only in bursts of spray,
though the wind raged around him more fiercely than ever. He opened his
eyes and looked downwards. Beneath him seethed and boiled the tumultuous
billows, their wreathy tops torn from them, and shot, in long vanishing
sheets of spray, over the distracted wilderness. Such was the turmoil
beneath, that he had to close his eyes again to feel that he was moving
onwards.

"The next time he opened them, it was to look up. And lo! a shadowy face
bent over him, whence love unutterable was falling in floods, from eyes
deep, and dark, and still, as the heavens that are above the clouds, Great
waves of hair streamed back from a noble head, and floated on the tides of
the tempest. The face was like his mother's and like his father's, and
like a face that he had seen somewhere in a picture, but far more
beautiful and strong and loving than all. With a sudden glory of gladness,
in which the spouting pinnacles of the fathomless pyramids of wandering
waters dwindled into the confusion of a few troubled water-drops, he knew,
he knew that the Lord was carrying his lamb in his bosom. Around him were
the everlasting arms, and above him the lamps that light heaven and earth,
the eyes that watch and are not weary. And now he felt the arms in which
he lay, and he nestled close to that true, wise bosom, which has room in
it for all, and where none will strive.

"Over the waters went the Master, now crossing the calm hollows, now
climbing the rising wave, now shrouded in the upper ocean of drifting
spray, that wrapped him around with whirling force, and anon calmly
descending the gliding slope into the glassy trough below. Sometimes, when
he looked up, the dreamer could see nothing but the clouds driving across
the heavens, whence now and then a star, in a little well of blue, looked
down upon him; but anon he knew that the driving clouds were his drifting
hair, and that the stars in the blue wells of heaven were his love-lighted
eyes. Over the sea he strode, and the floods lifted up their heads in
vain. The billows would gather and burst around and over them; but a
moment more, and the billows were beneath his feet, and on they were
going, safe and sure.

"Long time the journey endured; and the dream faded and again revived. It
was as if he had slept, and again awaked; for he lay in soft grass on a
mountain-side, and the form of a mighty man lay outstretched beside him,
who was weary with a great weariness.

"Below, the sea howled and beat against the base of the mountain; but it
was far below. Again the Lord arose, and lifted him up, and bore him
onwards. Up to the mountain-top they went, through the keen, cold air, and
over the fields of snow and ice. On the peak the Master paused and looked
down.

"In a vast amphitheatre below, was gathered a multitude that no man could
number. They crowded on all sides beyond the reach of the sight, rising up
the slopes of the surrounding mountains, till they could no longer be
distinguished; grouped and massed upon height above height; filling the
hollows, and plains, and platforms all about. But every eye looked towards
the lowest centre of the mountain-amphitheatre, where a little vacant spot
awaited the presence of some form, which should be the heart of all the
throng. Down towards this centre the Lord bore him. Entering the holy
circle, he set him gently down, and then looked all around, as if
searching earnestly for some one he could not see.

"And not finding whom he sought, he walked across the open space. A path
was instantly divided for him through the dense multitude surrounding it.
Along this lane of men and women and children, he went; and Herbert ran,
following close at his feet; for now all the universe seemed empty save
where he was. And he was not rebuked, but suffered to follow. And although
the Lord walked fast and far, the feet following him were not weary, but
grew in speed and in power. Through the great crowd and beyond it, never
looking back, up and over the brow of the mountain they went, and leaving
behind them the gathered universe of men, descended into a pale night.
Hither and hither went the Master, searching up and down the gloomy
valley; now looking behind a great rock, and now through a thicket of
brushwood; now entering a dark cave, and now ascending a height and gazing
all around; till at last, on a bare plain, seated on a grey stone, with
her hands in her lap, they found the little orphan child who had called
the sea her mother.

"As he drew near to her, the Lord called out, 'My poor little lamb, I have
found you at last!' But she did not seem to hear or understand what he
said; for she fell on her knees, and held up her clasped hands, and cried,
'Do not be angry with me. I am a goat; and I ran away because I was
afraid. Do not burn me.' But all the answer the Lord made was to stoop,
and lift her, and hold her to his breast. And she was an orphan no more.

"So he turned and went back over hill and over dale, and Herbert followed,
rejoicing that the lost lamb was found.

"As he followed, he spied in a crevice of a rock, close by his path, a
lovely primrose. He stooped to pluck it. And ere he began again to follow,
a cock crew shrill and loud; and he knew it was the cock that rebuked
Peter; and he trembled and stood up. The Master had vanished. He, too,
fell a-weeping bitterly. And again the cock crew; and he opened his eyes,
and knew that he had dreamed. His mother stood by his bedside, comforting
the weeper with kisses. And he cried to her--

"'O mother! surely he would not come over the sea to find me in the storm,
and then leave me because I stopped to pluck a flower!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Too long, I am afraid," said the curate, the moment he had finished his
paper, looking at his watch.

"We have not thought so, I am sure," said Adela, courteously. The ladies
rose to go.

"Who is to read next?" said the schoolmaster.

"Why, of course," said the curate, indignantly, "it ought to be my
brother, but there is no depending on him."

"If this frost lasts, I will positively read next time," said the doctor.
"But, you know, Ralph, it will be better for you to bring something else
with you, lest I should fail again."

"Cool!" said the curate. "I think it is time we dropped it."

"No, please don't," said Harry, with a little anxiety in his tone. "I
really want to read my story."

"It looks like it, doesn't it?"

"Now, Ralph, a clergyman should never be sarcastic. Be as indignant as you
please--but--sarcastic--never. It is very easy for you, who know just what
you have to do, and have besides whole volumes in that rickety old desk of
yours, to keep such an appointment as this. Mine is produced for the
occasion, _bona fide_; and I cannot tell what may be required of me from
one hour to another."

He went up to Adela.

"I am very sorry to have failed again," he said.

"But you won't next time, will you?"

"I will not, if I can help it."



CHAPTER IV.

INTERRUPTION.


But it was Adela herself who failed next time. I had seen her during the
reading draw her shawl about her as if she were cold. She seemed quite
well when the friends left, but she had caught a chill; and before the
morning she was quite feverish, and unable to leave her bed.

"You see, Colonel," said Mrs. Cathcart at breakfast, "that this doctor of
yours is doing the child harm instead of good. He has been suppressing
instead of curing the complaint; and now she is worse than ever."

"When the devil--" I began to remark in reply.

"Mr. Smith!" exclaimed Mrs. Cathcart.

"Allow me, madam, to finish my sentence before you make up your mind to be
shocked.--When the devil goes out of a man, or a woman either, he gives a
terrible wrench by way of farewell. Now, as the prophet Job teaches us,
all disease is from the devil; and--"

"The prophet Job!--Mr. Smith?"

"Well, the old Arab Scheik, if you like that epithet better."

"Really, Mr. Smith!"

"Well, I don't mind what you call him. I only mean to say that a disease
sometimes goes out with a kind of flare, like a candle--or like the poor
life itself. I believe, if this is an intermittent fever--as, from your
description, I expect it will prove to be--it will be the best thing for
her."

"Well, we shall see what Dr. Wade will say."

"Dr. Wade?" I exclaimed.

"Of course, my brother will not think of trusting such a serious case to
an inexperienced young man like Mr. Armstrong."

"It seems to me," I replied, "that for some time the case has ceased to be
a serious one. You must allow that Adela is better."

"Seemed to be better, Mr. Smith. But it was all excitement, and here is
the consequence. I, as far as I have any influence, decidedly object to
Mr. Armstrong having anything more to do with the case."

"Perhaps you are right, Jane," said the colonel. "I fear you are. But how
can I ask Dr. Wade to resume his attendance?"

Always nervous about Adela, his sister-in-law had at length succeeded in
frightening him.

"Leave that to me," she said; "I will manage him."

"Pooh!" said I, rudely. "He will jump at it. It will be a grand triumph
for him. I only want you to mind what you are about. You know Adela does
not like Dr. Wade."

"And she does like _Doctor_ Armstrong?" said Mrs. Cathcart, stuffing each
word with significance.

"Yes," I answered, boldly. "Who would not prefer the one to the other?"

But her arrow had struck. The colonel rose, and saying only, "Well, Jane,
I leave the affair in your hands," walked out of the room. I was coward
enough to follow him. Had it been of any use, coward as I was, I would
have remained.

But Mrs. Cathcart, if she had not reckoned without her host, had, at
least, reckoned without her hostess. She wrote instantly to Dr. Wade, in
terms of which it is enough to say that they were successful, for they
brought the doctor at once. I saw him pass through the hall, looking
awfully stiff, important, and condescending. Beeves, who had opened
the door to him, gave me a very queer look as he showed him into the
drawing-room, ringing, at the same time, for Adela's maid.

Now Mrs. Cathcart had not expected that the doctor would arrive so soon,
and had, as yet, been unable to make up her mind how to communicate to the
patient the news of the change in the physical ministry. So when the maid
brought the message, all that her cunning could provide her with at the
moment was the pretence, that he had called so opportunely by chance.

"Ask him to walk up," she said, after just one moment's hesitation.

Adela heard the direction her aunt gave, through the cold shiver which was
then obliterating rather than engrossing her attention, and concluded that
they had sent for Mr. Armstrong. But Mrs. Cathcart, turning towards her,
said--

"Adela, my love, Dr. Wade had just called; and I have asked him to step up
stairs."

The patient started up.

"Aunt, what do you mean? If that old wife comes into this room, I will
make him glad to go out of it!"

You see she was feverish, poor child, else I am sure she could not have
been so rude to her aunt. But before Mrs. Cathcart could reply, in came
Dr. Wade. He walked right up to the bed, after a stately obeisance to the
lady attendant.

"I am sorry to find you so ill, Miss Cathcart."

"I am perfectly well, Dr. Wade. I am sorry you have had the trouble of
walking up stairs."

As she said this, she rang the bell at the head of her bed. Her maid, who
had been listening at the door, entered at once.--I had all this from
Adela herself afterwards.

"Emma, bring me my desk. Dr. Wade, there must be some mistake. It was my
aunt, Mrs. Cathcart, who sent for you. Had she given me the opportunity, I
would have begged that the interview might take place in her room instead
of mine."

Dr. Wade retreated towards the fireplace, where Mrs. Cathcart stood, quite
aware that she had got herself into a mess of no ordinary complication.
Yet she persisted in her cunning. She lifted her finger to her forehead.

"Ah?" said Dr. Wade.

"Yes," said Mrs. Cathcart.

"Wandering?"

"Dreadfully."

After some more whispering, the doctor sat down to write a prescription.
But meantime, Adela was busy writing another. What she wrote was precisely
to this effect--

"Dear Mr. Armstrong,

"I have caught a bad cold, and my aunt has let loose Dr. Wade upon me.
Please come directly, if you will save me from ever so much nasty
medicine, at the least. My aunt is not my mother, thank heaven! though she
would gladly usurp that relationship.

"Yours most truly,

"Adela Cathcart."

She folded and sealed the note--sealed it carefully--and gave it to Emma,
who vanished with it, followed instantly by Mrs. Cathcart. As to what took
place outside the door--shall I confess it?--Beeves is my informant.

"Where are you going, Emma? Emma, come here directly," said Mrs. Cathcart.

Emma obeyed.

"I am going a message for mis'ess."

"Who is that note for?"

"I didn't ask. John can read well enough."

"Show it me."

Emma, I presume, closed both lips and hand very tight. "I command you."

"Miss Cathcart pays me my wages, ma'am," said Emma, and turning, sped
down-stairs like a carrier-pigeon.

In the hall she met Beeves, and told him the story.

"There she comes!" cried he. "Give me the letter. I'll take it myself."

"You're not going without your hat, surely, Mr. Beeves," said Emma.

"Bless me! It's down-stairs. There's master's old one! He'll never want it
again. And if he does, it'll be none the worse."

And he was out of the door in a moment. Beeves's alarm, however, as to
Mrs. Cathcart's approach, was a false one. She returned into the sick
chamber, with a face fiery red, and found Dr. Wade just finishing an
elaborate prescription.

"There!" said he, rising. "Send for that at once, and let it be taken
directly. Good morning."

He left the room instantly, making signs that he was afraid of exciting
his patient, as she did not appear to approve of his presence.

"What is the prescription?" said Adela, quite quietly, as Mrs. Cathcart
approached the bed, apparently trying to decipher it.

"I am glad to see you so much calmer, my dear. You must not excite
yourself. The prescription?--I cannot make it out. Doctors do write so
badly. I suppose they consider it professional."

"They consider a good many things professional which are only stupid. Let
me see it."

Mrs. Cathcart, thrown off her guard, gave it to her. Adela tore it in
fragments, and threw it in a little storm on the floor.

"Adela!" screamed Mrs. Cathcart. "What is to be done?"

"Pay Dr. Wade his fee, and tell him I shall never be too ill to refuse his
medicines. Now, aunt! You find I am determined.--I declare you make me
behave so ill that I am ashamed of myself."

Here the poor impertinent child crept under the clothes, and fell
a-weeping bitterly. Mrs. Cathcart had sense enough to see that nothing
could be done, and retired to her room. Getting weary of her own society
after a few moments of solitude, she proceeded to go down-stairs. But
half-way down, she was met full in the face by Harry Armstrong ascending
two steps at a time. He had already met Dr. Wade, as he came out of the
dining-room, where he had been having an interview with the colonel. Harry
had turned, and held out his hand with a "How do you do, Dr. Wade?" But
that gentleman had bowed with the utmost stiffness, and kept his hand at
home.

"So it is to be open war and mutual slander, is it, Dr. Wade?" said Harry.
"In that case, I want to know how you come to interfere with my patient. I
have had no dismissal, which punctilio I took care to know was observed in
your case."

"Sir, I was sent for," said Dr. Wade, haughtily.

"I have in my pocket a note from the lady of this house, requesting my
immediate attendance. If you have received a request to the same purport
from a visitor, you obey it at your own risk. Good morning."

Then Harry walked quietly up the first half of the stair, while Beeves
hastened to open the door to the crest-fallen Dr. Wade; but by the time he
met Mrs. Cathcart, his rate of ascent had considerably increased. As soon
as she saw him, however, without paying any attention to the usual
formality of a greeting, she turned and re-entered her niece's room. Her
eyes were flashing, and her face spotted red and white with helpless rage.
But she would not abandon the field. Harry bowed to her, and passed on to
the bed, where he was greeted with a smile.

"There's not much the matter, I hope?" he said, returning the smile.

"It may suit you to make light of my niece's illness, Mr. Armstrong; but I
beg to inform you that her father thought it serious enough to send for
Dr. Wade. He has been here already, and your attendance is quite
superfluous."

"No doubt; no doubt. But as I am here, I may as well prescribe."

"Dr. Wade has already prescribed."

"And I have taken his prescription, have I not, aunt?--and destroyed it,
Mr. Armstrong, instead of my own chance."

"Of what?" said Mrs. Cathcart, with vulgar significance.

"Of getting rid of two officious old women at once," said Adela--in a
rage, I fear I must confess, as the only excuse for impertinence.

"Come, come," said Harry, "this won't do. I cannot have my patient excited
in this way. Miss Cathcart, may I ring for your maid?"

For answer, Adela rang the bell herself. Her aunt was pretending to look
out of the window.

"Will you go and ask your master," said Harry, when Emma made her
appearance, "to be so kind as come here for a moment?"

The poor colonel--an excellent soldier, a severe master, with the highest
notions of authority and obedience, found himself degraded by his own
conduct, as other autocrats have proved before, into a temporizing
incapable. It was the more humiliating that he was quite aware in his own
honest heart that it was jealousy of Harry that had brought him into this
painful position. But he obeyed the summons at once; for wherever there
was anything unpleasant to be done, there, with him, duty assumed the
sterner command. As soon as he entered the room, Harry, without giving
time for anyone else to determine the course of the conference, said:

"There has been some mistake, Colonel Cathcart, between Dr. Wade and
myself, which has already done Miss Cathcart no good. As I find her very
feverish, though not by any means alarmingly ill, I must, as her medical
attendant, insist that _no_ one come into her room but yourself or her
maid."

Every one present perfectly understood this; and however, in other
circumstances, the colonel might have resented the tone of authority with
which Harry spoke, he was compelled, for his daughter's sake, to yield;
and he afterwards justified Harry entirely. Mrs. Cathcart walked out of
the room with her neck invisible from behind. The colonel sat down by the
fire. Harry wrote his prescription on the half sheet from which Dr. Wade
had torn his; and then saying that he would call in the evening, took his
leave of the colonel, and bowed to his patient, receiving a glance of
acknowledgment which could not fail to generate the feeling that there was
a secret understanding between them, and that he had done just what she
wanted. He mounted his roan horse, called Rhubarb, with a certain elation
of being, which he tried to hide from everyone but himself.

When doctors forget that their patients are more like musical instruments
than machines, they will soon need to be reminded that they are men and
women, and not dogs or horses. Yet, alas for the poor dogs and horses that
fall into the hands of a man without a human sympathy even with them! I,
John Smith, bless you, my doctor-friends, that ye are not doctors merely,
but good and loving men; and, in virtue thereof, so much the more--so
exceedingly the more _Therapeutae_.

I need not follow the course of the fever. Each day the arrival of the
cold fit was longer delayed, and the violence of both diminished, until
they disappeared altogether. But a day or two before this happy result was
completed, Adela had been allowed to go down to the drawing-room, and had
delighted her father with her cheerfulness and hopefulness. It really
seemed as if the ague had carried off the last remnants of the illness
under which she had been so long labouring. But then, you can never put
anything to the _experimentum crucis_; and there were other causes at work
for Adela's cure, which were perhaps more powerful than even the ague.
However this may have been, she got almost quite well in a very short
space of time; and with her father's consent, issued invitations to
another meeting of the story-club. They were at once satisfactorily
responded to.



CHAPTER V.

PERCY.


By this time Percy had returned to London. His mother remained; but the
terms understood between her niece and herself were those of icy
politeness and reserve. I learned afterwards that something of an
understanding had also been arrived at between Percy and Harry; ever since
learning the particulars of which, I have liked the young rascal a great
deal better. So I will trouble my reader to take an interest in my report
of the affair.

Percy met Harry at the gate, after one of his professional visits, and
accosted him thus:

"Mr. Armstrong, my mother says you have been rude to her."

"I am not in the least aware of it, Mr. Percy."

"Oh! I don't care much. She is provoking. Besides, she can take care of
herself. That's not it."

"What is it, then?"

"What do you mean about Adela?"

"I have said nothing more than that she has had a sharp attack of
intermittent fever, which is going off."

"Come, come--you know what I mean."

"I may suspect, but I don't choose to answer hints, the meaning of which I
_only_ suspect. I might make a fool of myself."

"Well, I'll be plain. Are you in love with her?"

"Suppose I were, you are not the first to whom I should think it necessary
to confess."

"Well, are you paying your addresses to her?"

"I am sorry I cannot consent to make my answers as frank as your
questions. You have the advantage of me in straightforwardness, I confess.
Only you have got sun and wind of me both."

"Come, come--I hate dodging."

"I daresay you do. But just let me shift round a bit, and see what you
will do then.--Are _you in love with Miss Cathcart?"

"Yes."

"Upon my word, I shouldn't have thought it. Here have we been all
positively conspiring to do her good, and you have been paying ten times
the attention to the dogs and horses that you have paid to her."

"By Jove! it's quite true. But I couldn't somehow."

"Then she hasn't encouraged you?"

"By Jupiter! you are frank enough now.--No, damn it--not a bit.--But she
used to like me, and she would again, if you would let her alone."

"Now, Mr. Percy, I'll tell you what.--I don't believe you are a bit in
love with her."

"She's devilish pretty."

"Well?"

"And I declare I think she got prettier and prettier every day till this
cursed ague took her.--Your fault too, my mother says."

"We'll leave your mother out of the question now, if you please. Do you
know what made her look prettier and prettier--for you are quite right
about that?"

"No. I suppose you were giving her arsenic."

"No. I was giving her the true _elixir vitae_, unknown even to the
Rosicrucians."

Percy stared.

"I will explain myself. Her friend, Mr. Smith--"

"Old fogie!"

"Old bachelor--yes.--Mr. Smith and I agreed that she was dying of ennui;
and so we got up this story-club, and got my brother and the rest to bear
a hand in it. It did her all the good the most sanguine of us could have
hoped for."

"I thought it horrid slow."

"I am surprised at that, for you were generally asleep."

"I was forced, in self-defence. I couldn't smoke."

"It gave her something to think about."

"So it seems."

"Now, Mr. Percy, how could you think you had the smallest chance with her,
when here was the first one and then another turning each the flash of his
own mental prism upon her weary eyes, and healing them with light; while
you would not take the smallest trouble to gratify her, or even to show
yourself to anything like advantage?--My dear fellow, what a fool you
are!"

"Mr. Armstrong!"

"Come, come--you began with frankness, and I've only gone on with it. You
are a good-hearted fellow, and ought to be made something of."

"At all events, you make something of yourself, to talk of your own
productions as the elixir _vitae_."

"You forget that I am in disgrace as well as yourself on that score; for I
have not read a word of my own since the club began."

"Then how the devil should I be worse off than you?"

"I didn't say you were. I only said you did your best to place yourself at
a disadvantage. I at least took a part in the affair, although a very
humble one. But depend upon it, a girl like Miss Cathcart thinks more of
mental gifts, than of any outward advantages which a man may possess; and
in the company of those who _think_, a fellow's good looks don't go for
much. She could not help measuring you by those other men--and women too.
But you may console yourself with the reflection that there are plenty of
girls, and pretty ones too, of a very different way of judging; and for my
part you are welcome to the pick of them."

"You mean to say that I sha'n't have Addie?"

"Not in the least. But, come now--do you think yourself worthy of a girl
like that?"

"No. Do you?"

"No. But I should not feel such a hypocrite if she thought me worthy, as
to give her up on that ground."

"Then what _do_ you mean?"

"To win her, if I can."

"Whew!"

"But if you are a gentleman, you will let me say so myself, and not betray
my secret."

"Damned if I do! Good luck to you! There's my hand. I believe you're a
good fellow after all. I wish I had seen you ride to hounds. They tell me
it's a sight."

"Thank you heartily. But what are you going to do?"

"Go back to the sweet-flowing Thames, and the dreams of the desk."

"Well--be a man as well as a gentleman. Don't be a fool."

"Hang it all! I believe it was her money, after all, I was in love with.
Good-bye!"

But the poor fellow looked grave enough as he went away. And I trust that,
before long, he, too, began to reap some of the good corn that grows on
the wintry fields of disappointment.--I have my eye upon him; but it is
little an _old fogie_ like me can do with a fellow like Percy.



CHAPTER VI

THE CRUEL PAINTER.


Now to return to the Story-Club.

On the night appointed, we met. And to the delight of all the rest of us,
Harry arrived with a look that satisfied us that he was to be no defaulter
this time. The look was one of almost nervous uneasiness. Of course this
sprung from anxiety to please Adela--at least, so I interpreted it. She
occupied her old place on the couch; we all arranged ourselves nearly as
before; and the fire was burning very bright. Before he began, however,
Harry, turning to our host, said:

"May I arrange the scene as I please, for the right effect of my story?"

"Certainly," answered the colonel.

Harry rose, and extinguished the lamp.

"But, my dear sir," said the colonel, "how can you read now?"

"Perfectly, by the firelight," answered Harry.

He then went to the windows, and drawing aside the curtains, drew up the
blinds.

It was full high moon, and the light so clear that, notwithstanding the
brightness of the fire, each window seemed to lie in ghostly shimmer on
the floor. Not a breath of wind was abroad. The whole country being
covered with snow, the air was filled with a snowy light. On one side rose
the high roof of another part of the house, on which the snow was lying
thick and smooth, undisturbed save by the footprints, visible in the moon,
of a large black cat, which had now paused in the middle of it, and was
looking round suspiciously towards the source of the light which had
surprised him in his midnight walk.

"Now," said Harry, returning to his seat, and putting on an air of
confidence to conceal the lack of it, "let any one who has nerves retire
at once, both for his own sake and that of the company! This is just such
a night as I wanted to read my story in--snow--stillness--moonlight
outside, and nothing but firelight inside. Mind, Ralph, you keep up the
fire, for the room will be more ready to get cold now the coverings are
off the windows.--You will say at once if you feel it cold, Miss
Cathcart?"

Adela promised; and Harry, who had his manuscript gummed together in a
continuous roll, so that he might not have to turn over any leaves, began
at once:

"THE CRUEL PAINTER.

"Among the young men assembled at the University of Prague, in the year
159--, was one called Karl von Wolkenlicht. A somewhat careless student,
he yet held a fair position in the estimation of both professors and men,
because he could hardly look at a proposition without understanding it.
Where such proposition, however, had to do with anything relating to the
deeper insights of the nature, he was quite content that, for him, it
should remain a proposition; which, however, he laid up in one of his
mental cabinets, and was ready to reproduce at a moment's notice. This
mental agility was more than matched by the corresponding corporeal
excellence, and both aided in producing results in which his remarkable
strength was equally apparent. In all games depending upon the combination
of muscle and skill, he had scarce rivalry enough to keep him in practice.
His strength, however, was embodied in such a softness of muscular
outline, such a rare Greek-like style of beauty, and associated with such
a gentleness of manner and behaviour, that, partly from the truth of the
resemblance, partly from the absurdity of the contrast, he was known
throughout the university by the diminutive of the feminine form of his
name, and was always called Lottchen.

"'I say, Lottchen,' said one of his fellow-students, called Richter,
across the table in a wine-cellar they were in the habit of frequenting,
'do you know, Heinrich Hoellenrachen here says that he saw this morning,
with mortal eyes, whom do you think?--Lilith.'

"'Adam's first wife?' asked Lottchen, with an attempt at carelessness,
while his face flushed like a maiden's.

"'None of your chaff!'said Richter. 'Your face is honester than your
tongue, and confesses what you cannot deny, that you would give your
chance of salvation--a small one to be sure, but all you've got--for one
peep at Lilith. Wouldn't you now, Lottchen?'

"'Go to the devil!' was all Lottchen's answer to his tormentor; but he
turned to Heinrich, to whom the students had given the surname above
mentioned, because of the enormous width of his jaws, and said with
eagerness and envy, disguising them as well as he could, under the
appearance of curiosity:

"'You don't mean it, Heinrich? You've been taking the beggar in! Confess
now.'

"'Not I. I saw her with my two eyes.'

"'Notwithstanding the different planes of their orbits,' suggested
Richter.

"'Yes, notwithstanding the fact that I can get a parallax to any of the
fixed stars in a moment, with only the breadth of my nose for the base,'
answered Heinrich, responding at once to the fun, and careless of the
personal defect insinuated. 'She was near enough for even me to see her
perfectly.'

"'When? Where? How?' asked Lottchen.

"'Two hours ago. In the churchyard of St. Stephen's. By a lucky chance.
Any more little questions, my child?' answered Hoellenrachen.

"'What could have taken her there, who is seen nowhere?' said Richter.

"She was seated on a grave. After she left, I went to the place; but it
was a new-made grave. There was no stone up. I asked the sexton about her.
He said he supposed she was the daughter of the woman buried there last
Thursday week. I knew it was Lilith.'

"'Her mother dead!' said Lottchen, musingly. Then he thought with
himself--'She will be going there again, then!' But he took care that this
ghost-thought should wander unembodied. 'But how did you know her,
Heinrich? You never saw her before.'

"'How do you come to be over head and ears in love with her, Lottchen, and
you haven't seen her at all?' interposed Richter.

"'Will you or will you not go to the devil?' rejoined Lottchen, with a
comic crescendo; to which the other replied with a laugh.

"'No one could miss knowing her,' said Heinrich.

"'Is she so very like, then?'

"'It is always herself, her very self.'

"A fresh flask of wine, turning out to be not up to the mark, brought the
current of conversation against itself; not much to the dissatisfaction of
Lottchen, who had already resolved to be in the churchyard of St.
Stephen's at sun-down the following day, in the hope that he too might be
favoured with a vision of Lilith.

"This resolution he carried out. Seated in a porch of the church, not
knowing in what direction to look for the apparition he hoped to see, and
desirous as well of not seeming to be on the watch for one, he was gazing
at the fallen rose-leaves of the sunset, withering away upon the sky;
when, glancing aside by an involuntary movement, he saw a woman seated
upon a new-made grave, not many yards from where he sat, with her face
buried in her hands, and apparently weeping bitterly. Karl was in the
shadow of the porch, and could see her perfectly, without much danger of
being discovered by her; so he sat and watched her. She raised her head
for a moment, and the rose-flush of the west fell over it, shining on the
tears with which it was wet, and giving the whole a bloom which did not
belong to it, for it was always pale, and now pale as death. It was indeed
the face of Lilith, the most celebrated beauty of Prague.

"Again she buried her face in her hands; and Karl sat with a strange
feeling of helplessness, which grew as he sat; and the longing to help her
whom he could not help, drew his heart towards her with a trembling
reverence which was quite new to him. She wept on. The western roses
withered slowly away, and the clouds blended with the sky, and the stars
gathered like drops of glory sinking through the vault of night, and the
trees about the churchyard grew black, and Lilith almost vanished in the
wide darkness. At length she lifted her head, and seeing the night around
her, gave a little broken cry of dismay. The minutes had swept over her
head, not through her mind, and she did not know that the dark had come.

"Hearing her cry, Karl rose and approached her. She heard his footsteps,
and started to her feet. Karl spoke--

"'Do not be frightened,' he said. 'Let me see you home. I will walk behind
you.'

"'Who are you?' she rejoined.

"'Karl Wolkenlicht.'

"'I have heard of you. Thank you. I can go home alone.'

"Yet, as if in a half-dreamy, half-unconscious mood, she accepted his
offered hand to lead her through the graves, and allowed him to walk
beside her, till, reaching the corner of a narrow street, she suddenly
bade him good-night and vanished. He thought it better not to follow her,
so he returned her good-night and went home.

"How to see her again was his first thought the next day; as, in fact, how
to see her at all had been his first thought for many days. She went
nowhere that ever he heard of; she knew nobody that he knew; she was never
seen at church, or at market; never seen in the street. Her home had a
dreary, desolate aspect. It looked as if no one ever went out or in. It
was like a place on which decay had fallen because there was no indwelling
spirit. The mud of years was baked upon its door, and no faces looked out
of its dusty windows.

"How then could she be the most celebrated beauty of Prague? How then was
it that Heinrich Hoellenrachen knew her the moment he saw her? Above all,
how was it that Karl Wolkenlicht had, in fact, fallen in love with her
before ever he saw her? It was thus--

"Her father was a painter. Belonging thus to the public, it had taken the
liberty of re-naming him. Every one called him Teufelsbuerst, or
Devilsbrush. It was a name with which, to judge from the nature of his
representations, he could hardly fail to be pleased. For, not as a
nightmare dream, which may alternate with the loveliest visions, but as
his ordinary everyday work, he delighted to represent human suffering.

"Not an aspect of human woe or torture, as expressed in countenance or
limb, came before his willing imagination, but he bore it straightway to
his easel. In the moments that precede sleep, when the black space
before the eyes of the poet teems with lovely faces, or dawns into a
spirit-landscape, face after face of suffering, in all varieties of
expression, would crowd, as if compelled by the accompanying fiends, to
present themselves, in awful levee, before the inner eye of the expectant
master. Then he would rise, light his lamp, and, with rapid hand, make
notes of his visions; recording, with swift successive sweeps of his
pencil, every individual face which had rejoiced his evil fancy. Then he
would return to his couch, and, well satisfied, fall asleep to dream yet
further embodiments of human ill.

"What wrong could man or mankind have done him, to be thus fearfully
pursued by the vengeance of the artist's hate?

"Another characteristic of the faces and form which he drew was, that they
were all beautiful in the original idea. The lines of each face, however
distorted by pain, would have been, in rest, absolutely beautiful; and the
whole of the execution bore witness to the fact that upon this original
beauty the painter had directed the artillery of anguish to bring down the
sky-soaring heights of its divinity to the level of a hated existence. To
do this, he worked in perfect accordance with artistic law, falsifying no
line of the original forms. It was the suffering, rather than his pencil,
that wrought the change. The latter was the willing instrument to record
what the imagination conceived with a cruelty composed enough to be
correct.

"To enhance the beauty he had thus distorted, and so to enhance yet
further the suffering that produced the distortion, he would often
represent attendant demons, whom he made as ugly as his imagination could
compass; avoiding, however, all grotesqueness beyond what was sufficient
to indicate that they were demons, and not men. Their ugliness rose from
hate, envy, and all evil passions; amongst which he especially delighted
to represent a gloating exultation over human distress. And often in the
midst of his clouds of demon faces, would some one who knew him recognise
the painter's own likeness, such as the mirror might have presented it to
him when he was busiest over the incarnation of some exquisite torture.

"But apparently with the wish to avoid being supposed to choose such
representations for their own sakes, he always found a story, often in the
histories of the church, whose name he gave to the painting, and which he
pretended to have inspired the pictorial conception. No one, however, who
looked upon his suffering martyrs, could suppose for a moment that he
honoured their martyrdom. They were but the vehicles for his hate of
humanity. He was the torturer, and not Diocletian or Nero.

"But, stranger yet to tell, there was no picture, whatever its subject,
into which he did not introduce one form of placid and harmonious
loveliness. In this, however, his fierceness was only more fully
displayed. For in no case did this form manifest any relation either to
the actors or the endurers in the picture. Hence its very loveliness
became almost hateful to those who beheld it. Not a shade crossed the
still sky of that brow, not a ripple disturbed the still sea of that
cheek. She did not hate, she did not love the sufferers: the painter would
not have her hate, for that would be to the injury of her loveliness:
would not have her love, for he hated. Sometimes she floated above, as a
still, unobservant angel, her gaze turned upward, dreaming along, careless
as a white summer cloud, across the blue. If she looked down on the scene
below, it was only that the beholder might see that she saw and did not
care--that not a feather of her outspread pinions would quiver at the
sight. Sometimes she would stand in the crowd, as if she had been copied
there from another picture, and had nothing to do with this one, nor any
right to be in it at all. Or when the red blood was trickling drop by drop
from the crushed limb, she might be seen standing nearest, smiling over a
primrose or the bloom on a peach. Some had said that she was the painter's
wife; that she had been false to him; that he had killed her; and, finding
that that was no sufficing revenge, thus half in love, and half in deepest
hate, immortalized his vengeance. But it was now universally understood
that it was his daughter, of whose loveliness extravagant reports went
abroad; though all said, doubtless reading this from her father's
pictures, that she was a beauty without a heart. Strange theories of
something else supplying its place were rife among the anatomical
students. With the girl in the pictures, the wild imagination of Lottchen,
probably in part from her apparently absolute unattainableness and her
undisputed heartlessness, had fallen in love, as far as the mere
imagination can fall in love.

"But again, how was he to see her? He haunted the house night after night.
Those blue eyes never met his. No step responsive to his came from that
door. It seemed to have been so long unopened that it had grown as fixed
and hard as the stones that held its bolts in their passive clasp. He
dared not watch in the daytime, and with all his watching at night, he
never saw father or daughter or domestic cross the threshold. Little he
thought that, from a shot-window near the door, a pair of blue eyes, like
Lilith's, but paler and colder, were watching him just as a spider watches
the fly that is likely ere long to fall into his toils. And into those
toils Karl soon fell. For her form darkened the page; her form stood on
the threshold of sleep; and when, overcome with watching, he did enter its
precincts, her form entered with him, and walked by his side. He must find
her; or the world might go to the bottomless pit for him. But how?

"Yes. He would be a painter. Teufelsbuerst would receive him as a humble
apprentice. He would grind his colours, and Teufelsbuerst would teach him
the mysteries of the science which is the handmaiden of art. Then he might
see _her_, and that was all his ambition.

"In the clear morning light of a day in autumn, when the leaves were
beginning to fall seared from the hand of that Death which has his dance
in the chapels of nature as well as in the cathedral aisles of men--he
walked up and knocked at the dingy door. The spider painter opened it
himself. He was a little man, meagre and pallid, with those faded blue
eyes, a low nose in three distinct divisions, and thin, curveless, cruel
lips. He wore no hair on his face; but long grey locks, long as a woman's,
were scattered over his shoulders, and hung down on his breast. When
Wolkenlicht had explained his errand, he smiled a smile in which hypocrisy
could not hide the cunning, and, after many difficulties, consented to
receive him as a pupil, on condition that he would become an inmate of his
house. Wolkenlicht's heart bounded with delight, which he tried to hide:
the second smile of Teufelsbuerst might have shown him that he had ill
succeeded. The fact that he was not a native of Prague, but coming from a
distant part of the country, was entirely his own master in the city,
rendered this condition perfectly easy to fulfil; and that very afternoon
he entered the studio of Teufelsbuerst as his scholar and servant.

"It was a great room, filled with the appliances and results of art. Many
pictures, festooned with cobwebs, were hung carelessly on the dirty walls.
Others, half finished, leaned against them, on the floor. Several, in
different stages of progress, stood upon easels. But all spoke the cruel
bent of the artist's genius. In one corner a lay figure was extended on a
couch, covered with a pall of black velvet. Through its folds, the form
beneath was easily discernible; and one hand and forearm protruded from
beneath it, at right angles to the rest of the frame. Lottchen could not
help shuddering when he saw it. Although he overcame the feeling in a
moment, he felt a great repugnance to seating himself with his back
towards it, as the arrangement of an easel, at which Teufelsbuerst wished
him to draw, rendered necessary. He contrived to edge himself round, so
that when he lifted his eyes he should see the figure, and be sure that it
could not rise without his being aware of it. But his master saw and
understood his altered position; and under some pretence about the light,
compelled him to resume the position in which he had placed him at first;
after which he sat watching, over the top of his picture, the expression
of his countenance as he tried to draw; reading in it the horrid fancy
that the figure under the pall had risen, and was stealthily approaching
to look over his shoulder. But Lottchen resisted the feeling, and, being
already no contemptible draughtsman, was soon interested enough to forget
it. And then, any moment _she_ might enter.

"Now began a system of slow torture, for the chance of which the painter
had been long on the watch--especially since he had first seen Karl
lingering about the house. His opportunities of seeing physical suffering
were nearly enough even for the diseased necessities of his art; but now
he had one in his power, on whom, his own will fettering him, he could try
any experiments he pleased for the production of a kind of suffering, in
the observation of which he did not consider that he had yet sufficient
experience. He would hold the very heart of the youth in his hand, and
wring it and torture it to his own content. And lest Karl should be strong
enough to prevent those expressions of pain for which he lay on the watch,
he would make use of further means, known to himself, and known to few
besides.

"All that day Karl saw nothing of Lilith; but he heard her voice once--and
that was enough for one day. The next, she was sitting to her father the
greater part of the day, and he could see her as often as he dared glance
up from his drawing. She had looked at him when she entered, but had shown
no sign of recognition; and all day long she took no further notice of
him. He hoped, at first, that this came of the intelligence of love; but
he soon began to doubt it. For he saw that, with the holy shadow of
sorrow, all that distinguished the expression of her countenance from that
which the painter so constantly reproduced, had vanished likewise. It was
the very face of the unheeding angel whom, as often as he lifted his eyes
higher than hers, he saw on the wall above her, playing on a psaltery in
the smoke of the torment ascending for ever from burning Babylon.--The
power of the painter had not merely wrought for the representation of the
woman of his imagination; it had had scope as well in realizing her.

"Karl soon began to see that communication, other than of the eyes, was
all but hopeless; and to any attempt in that way she seemed altogether
indisposed to respond. Nor if she had wished it, would it have been safe;
for as often as he glanced towards her, instead of hers, he met the blue
eyes of the painter gleaming upon him like winter lightning. His tones,
his gestures, his words, seemed kind: his glance and his smile refused to
be disguised.

"The first day he dined alone in the studio, waited upon by an old woman;
the next he was admitted to the family table, with Teufelsbuerst and
Lilith. The room offered a strange contrast to the study. As far as
handicraft, directed by a sumptuous taste, could construct a house-
paradise, this was one. But it seemed rather a paradise of demons; for the
walls were covered with Teufelsbuerst's paintings. During the dinner,
Lilith's gaze scarcely met that of Wolkenlicht; and once or twice, when
their eyes did meet, her glance was so perfectly unconcerned, that Karl
wished he might look at her for ever without the fear of her looking at
him again. She seemed like one whose love had rushed out glowing with
seraphic fire, to be frozen to death in a more than wintry cold: she now
walked lonely without her love. In the evenings, he was expected to
continue his drawing by lamplight; and at night he was conducted by
Teufelsbuerst to his chamber. Not once did he allow him to proceed thither
alone, and not once did he leave him there without locking and bolting the
door on the outside. But he felt nothing except the coldness of Lilith.

"Day after day she sat to her father, in every variety of costume that
could best show the variety of her beauty. How much greater that beauty
might be, if it ever blossomed into a beauty of soul, Wolkenlicht never
imagined; for he soon loved her enough to attribute to her all the
possibilities of her face as actual possessions of her being. To account
for everything that seemed to contradict this perfection, his brain was
prolific in inventions; till he was compelled at last to see that she was
in the condition of a rose-bud, which, on the point of blossoming, had
been chilled into a changeless bud by the cold of an untimely frost. For
one day, after the father and daughter had become a little more accustomed
to his silent presence, a conversation began between them, which went on
until he saw that Teufelsbuerst believed in nothing except his art. How
much of his feeling for that could be dignified by the name of belief,
seeing its objects were such as they were, might have been questioned. It
seemed to Wolkenlicht to amount only to this: that, amidst a thousand
distastes, it was a pleasant thing to reproduce on the canvas the forms he
beheld around him, modifying them to express the prevailing feelings of
his own mind.

"A more desolate communication between souls than that which then passed
between father and daughter could hardly be imagined. The father spoke of
humanity and all its experiences in a tone of the bitterest scorn. He
despised men, and himself amongst them; and rejoiced to think that the
generations rose and vanished, brood after brood, as the crops of corn
grew and disappeared. Lilith, who listened to it all unmoved, taking only
an intellectual interest in the question, remarked that even the corn had
more life than that; for, after its death, it rose again in the new crop.
Whether she meant that the corn was therefore superior to man, forgetting
that the superior can produce being without losing its own, or only
advanced an objection to her father's argument, Wolkenlicht could not
tell. But Teufelsbuerst laughed like the sound of a saw, and said: 'Follow
out the analogy, my Lilith, and you will see that man is like the corn
that springs again after it is buried; but unfortunately the only result
we know of is a vampire.'

"Wolkenlicht looked up, and saw a shudder pass through the frame, and over
the pale thin face of the painter. This he could not account for. But
Teufelsbuerst could have explained it, for there were strange whispers
abroad, and they had reached his ear; and his philosophy was not quite
enough for them. But the laugh with which Lilith met this frightful
attempt at wit, grated dreadfully on Wolkenlicht's feeling. With her, too,
however, a reaction seemed to follow. For, turning round a moment after,
and looking at the picture on which her father was working, the tears rose
in her eyes, and she said: 'Oh! father, how like my mother you have made
me this time!' 'Child!' retorted the painter with a cold fierceness, 'you
have no mother. That which is gone out is gone out. Put no name in my
hearing on that which is not. Where no substance is, how can there be a
name?'

"Lilith rose and left the room. Wolkenlicht now understood that Lilith was
a frozen bud, and could not blossom into a rose. But pure love lives by
faith. It loves the vaguely beheld and unrealized ideal. It dares believe
that the loved is not all that she ever seemed. It is in virtue of this
that love loves on. And it was in virtue of this, that Wolkenlicht loved
Lilith yet more after he discovered what a grave of misery her unbelief
was digging for her within her own soul. For her sake he would bear
anything--bear even with calmness the torments of his own love; he would
stay on, hoping and hoping.--The text, that we know not what a day may
bring forth, is just as true of good things as of evil things; and out of
Time's womb the facts must come.

"But with the birth of this resolution to endure, his suffering abated;
his face grew more calm; his love, no less earnest, was less imperious;
and he did not look up so often from his work when Lilith was present. The
master could see that his pupil was more at ease, and that he was making
rapid progress in his art. This did not suit his designs, and he would
betake himself to his further schemes.

"For this purpose he proceeded first to simulate a friendship for
Wolkenlicht, the manifestations of which he gradually increased, until,
after a day or two, he asked him to drink wine with him in the evening.
Karl readily agreed. The painter produced some of his best; but took care
not to allow Lilith to taste it; for he had cunningly prepared and mingled
with it a decoction of certain herbs and other ingredients, exercising
specific actions upon the brain, and tending to the inordinate excitement
of those portions of it which are principally under the rule of the
imagination. By the reaction of the brain during the operation of these
stimulants, the imagination is filled with suggestions and images. The
nature of these is determined by the prevailing mood of the time. They are
such as the imagination would produce of itself, but increased in number
and intensity. Teufelsbuerst, without philosophizing about it, called his
preparation simply a love-philtre, a concoction well known by name, but
the composition of which was the secret of only a few. Wolkenlicht had, of
course, not the least suspicion of the treatment to which he was
subjected.

"Teufelsbuerst was, however, doomed to fresh disappointment. Not that his
potion failed in the anticipated effect, for now Karl's real sufferings
began; but that such was the strength of Karl's will, and his fear of
doing anything that might give a pretext for banishing him from the
presence of Lilith, that he was able to conceal his feelings far too
successfully for the satisfaction of Teufelsbuerst's art. Yet he had to
fetter himself with all the restraints that self-exhortation could load
him with, to refrain from falling at the feet of Lilith and kissing the
hem of her garment. For that, as the lowliest part of all that surrounded
her, itself kissing the earth, seemed to come nearest within the reach of
his ambition, and therefore to draw him the most.

"No doubt the painter had experience and penetration enough to perceive
that he was suffering intensely; but he wanted to see the suffering
embodied in outward signs, bringing it within the region over which his
pencil held sway. He kept on, therefore, trying one thing after another,
and rousing the poor youth to agony; till to his other sufferings were
added, at length, those of failing health; a fact which notified itself
evidently enough even for Teufelsbuerst, though its signs were not of the
sort he chiefly desired. But Karl endured all bravely.

"Meantime, for various reasons, he scarcely ever left the house.

"I must now interrupt the course of my story to introduce another element.

"A few years before the period of my tale, a certain shoemaker of the city
had died under circumstances more than suggestive of suicide. He was
buried, however, with such precautions, that six weeks elapsed before the
rumour of the facts broke out; upon which rumour, not before, the most
fearful reports began to be circulated, supported by what seemed to the
people of Prague incontestable evidence.--A _spectrum_ of the deceased
appeared to multitudes of persons, playing horrible pranks, and
occasioning indescribable consternation throughout the whole town. This
went on till at last, about eight months after his burial, the magistrates
caused his body to be dug up; when it was found in just the condition of
the bodies of those who in the eastern countries of Europe are called
_vampires_. They buried the corpse under the gallows; but neither the
digging up nor the re-burying were of avail to banish the spectre. Again
the spade and pick-axe were set to work, and the dead man being found
considerably improved in _condition_ since his last interment, was, with
various horrible indignities, burnt to ashes, 'after which the _spectrum_
was never seen more.'

"And a second epidemic of the same nature had broken out a little before
the period to which I have brought my story.

"About midnight, after a calm frosty day, for it was now winter, a
terrible storm of wind and snow came on. The tempest howled frightfully
about the house of the painter, and Wolkenlicht found some solace in
listening to the uproar, for his troubled thoughts would not allow him to
sleep. It raged on all the next three days, till about noon on the fourth
day, when it suddenly fell, and all was calm. The following night,
Wolkenlicht, lying awake, heard unaccountable noises in the next house, as
of things thrown about, of kicking and fighting horses, and of opening and
shutting gates. Flinging wide his lattice and looking out, the noise of
howling dogs came to him from every quarter of the town. The moon was
bright and the air was still. In a little while he heard the sounds of a
horse going at full gallop round the house, so that it shook as if it
would fall; and flashes of light shone into his room. How much of this may
have been owing to the effect of the drugs on poor Lottchen's brain, I
leave my readers to determine. But when the family met at breakfast in the
morning, Teufelsbuerst, who had been already out of doors, reported that he
had found the marks of strange feet in the snow, all about the house and
through the garden at the back; stating, as his belief, that the tracks
must be continued over the roofs, for there was no passage otherwise.
There was a wicked gleam in his eye as he spoke; and Lilith believed that
he was only trying an experiment on Karl's nerves. He persisted that he
had never seen any footprints of the sort before. Karl informed him of his
experiences during the night; upon which Teufelsbuerst looked a little
graver still, and proceeded to tell them that the storm, whose snow was
still covering the ground, had arisen the very moment that their next door
neighbour died, and had ceased as suddenly the moment he was buried,
though it had raved furiously all the time of the funeral, so that 'it
made men's bodies quake and their teeth chatter in their heads.' Karl had
heard that the man, whose name was John Kuntz, was dead and buried. He
knew that he had been a very wealthy, and therefore most respectable,
alderman of the town; that he had been very fond of horses; and that he
had died in consequence of a kick received from one of his own, as he was
looking at his hoof. But he had not heard that, just before he died, a
black cat 'opened the casement with her nails, ran to his bed, and
violently scratched his face and the bolster, as if she endeavoured by
force to remove him out of the place where he lay. But the cat afterwards
was suddenly gone, and she was no sooner gone, but he breathed his last.'

"So said Teufelsbuerst, as the reporter of the town talk. Lilith looked
very pale and terrified; and it was perhaps owing to this that the painter
brought no more tales home with him. There were plenty to bring, but he
heard them all and said nothing. The fact was that the philosopher himself
could not resist the infection of the fear that was literally raging in
the city; and perhaps the reports that he himself had sold himself to the
devil had sufficient response from his own evil conscience to add to the
influence of the epidemic upon him. The whole place was infested with the
presence of the dead Kuntz, till scarce a man or woman would dare to be
alone. He strangled old men; insulted women; squeezed children to death;
knocked out the brains of dogs against the ground; pulled up posts; turned
milk into blood; nearly killed a worthy clergyman by breathing upon him
the intolerable airs of the grave, cold and malignant and noisome; and, in
short, filled the city with a perfect madness of fear, so that every
report was believed without the smallest doubt or investigation.

"Though Teufelsbuerst brought home no more of the town talk, the old
servant was a faithful purveyor, and frequented the news-mart assiduously.
Indeed she had some nightmare experiences of her own that she was proud to
add to the stock of horrors which the city enjoyed with such a hearty
community of goods. For those regions were not far removed from the
birthplace and home of the vampire. The belief in vampires is the
quintessential concentration and embodiment of all the passion of fear in
Hungary and the adjacent regions. Nor, of all the other inventions of the
human imagination, has there ever been one so perfect in crawling terror
as this. Lilith and Karl were quite familiar with the popular ideas on the
subject. It did not require to be explained to them, that a vampire was a
body retaining a kind of animal life after the soul had departed. If any
relation existed between it and the vanished ghost, it was only sufficient
to make it restless in its grave. Possessed of vitality enough to keep it
uncorrupted and pliant, its only instinct was a blind hunger for the sole
food which could keep its awful life persistent--living human blood. Hence
it, or, if not it, a sort of semi-material exhalation or essence of it,
retaining its form and material relations, crept from its tomb, and went
roaming about till it found some one asleep, towards whom it had an
attraction, founded on old affection. It sucked the blood of this unhappy
being, transferring so much of its life to itself as a vampire could
assimilate. Death was the certain consequence. If suspicion conjectured
aright, and they opened the proper grave, the body of the vampire would be
found perfectly fresh and plump, sometimes indeed of rather florid
complexion;--with grown hair, eyes half open, and the stains of recent
blood about its greedy, leech-like lips. Nothing remained but to consume
the corpse to ashes, upon which the vampire would show itself no more. But
what added infinitely to the horror was the certainty that whoever died
from the mouth of the vampire, wrinkled grandsire or delicate maiden, must
in turn rise from the grave, and go forth a vampire, to suck the blood of
the dearest left behind. This was the generation of the vampire brood.
Lilith trembled at the very name of the creature. Karl was too much in
love to be afraid of anything. Yet the evident fear of the unbelieving
painter took a hold of his imagination; and, under the influence of the
potions of which he still partook unwittingly, when he was not thinking
about Lilith, he was thinking about the vampire.

"Meantime, the condition of things in the painter's household continued
much the same for Wolkenlicht--work all day; no communication between the
young people; the dinner and the wine; silent reading when work was done,
with stolen glances many over the top of the book, glances that were never
returned; the cold good-night; the locking of the door; the wakeful night
and the drowsy morning. But at length a change came, and sooner than any
of the party had expected. For, whether it was that the impatience of
Teufelsbuerst had urged him to yet more dangerous experiments, or that the
continuance of those he had been so long employing had overcome at length
the vitality of Wolkenlicht--one afternoon, as he was sitting at his work,
he suddenly dropped from his chair, and his master hurrying to him in some
alarm, found him rigid and apparently lifeless. Lilith was not in the
study when this took place. In justice to Teufelsbuerst, it must be
confessed that he employed all the skill he was master of, which for
beneficent purposes was not very great, to restore the youth; but without
avail. At last, hearing the footsteps of Lilith, he desisted in some
consternation; and that she might escape being shocked by the sight of a
dead body where she had been accustomed to see a living one, he removed
the lay figure from the couch, and laid Karl in its place, covering him
with a black velvet pall. He was just in time. She started at seeing no
one in Karl's place and said:

"'Where is your pupil, father?'

"'Gone home,' he answered, with a kind of convulsive grin.

"She glanced round the room, caught sight of the lay figure where it had
not been before, looked at the couch, and saw the pall yet heaved up from
beneath, opened her eyes till the entire white sweep around the iris
suggested a new expression of consternation to Teufelsbuerst, though from a
quarter whence he did not desire or look for it; and then, without a word,
sat down to a drawing she had been busy upon the day before. But her
father, glancing at her now, as Wolkenlicht had used to do, could not help
seeing that she was frightfully pale. She showed no other sign of
uneasiness. As soon as he released her, she withdrew, with one more
glance, as she passed, at the couch and the figure blocked out in black
upon it. She hastened to her chamber, shut and locked the door, sat down
on the side of the couch, and fell, not a-weeping, but a-thinking. Was he
dead? What did it matter? They would all be dead soon. Her mother was dead
already. It was only that the earth could not bear more children, except
she devoured those to whom she had already given birth. But what if they
had to come back in another form, and live another sad, hopeless, loveless
life over again?--And so she went on questioning, and receiving no
replies; while through all her thoughts passed and repassed the eyes of
Wolkenlicht, which she had often felt to be upon her when she did not see
them, wild with repressed longing, the light of their love shining through
the veil of diffused tears, ever gathering and never overflowing. Then
came the pale face, so worshipping, so distant in its self-withdrawn
devotion, slowly dawning out of the vapours of her reverie. When it
vanished, she tried to see it again. It would not come when she called it;
but when her thoughts left knocking at the door of the lost, and wandered
away, out came the pale, troubled, silent face again, gathering itself up
from some unknown nook in her world of phantasy, and once more, when she
tried to steady it by the fixedness of her own regard, fading back into
the mist. So the phantasm of the dead drew near and wooed, as the living
had never dared.--What if there were any good in loving? What if men and
women did not die all out, but some dim shade of each, like that pale,
mind-ghost of Wolkenlicht, floated through the eternal vapours of chaos?
And what if they might sometimes cross each other's path, meet, know that
they met, love on? Would not that revive the withered memory, fix the
fleeting ghost, give a new habitation, a body even, to the poor, unhoused
wanderers, frozen by the eternal frosts, no longer thinking beings, but
thoughts wandering through the brain of the 'Melancholy Mass?' Back with
the thought came the face of the dead Karl, and the maiden threw herself
on her bed in a flood of bitter tears. She could have loved him if he had
only lived: she did love him, for he was dead. But even in the midst of
the remorse that followed--for had she not killed him?--life seemed a less
hard and hopeless thing than before. For it is love itself and not its
responses or results that is the soul of life and its pleasures.

"Two hours passed ere she could again show herself to her father, from
whom she seemed in some new way divided by the new feeling in which he did
not, and could not share. But at last, lest he should seek her, and
finding her, should suspect her thoughts, she descended and sought him.--
For there is a maidenliness in sorrow, that wraps her garments close
around her.--But he was not to be seen; the door of the study was locked.
A shudder passed through her as she thought of what her father, who lost
no opportunity of furthering his all but perfect acquaintance with the
human form and structure, might be about with the figure which she knew
lay dead beneath that velvet pall, but which had arisen to haunt the
hollow caves and cells of her living brain. She rushed away, and up once
more to her silent room, through the darkness which had now settled down
in the house; threw herself again on her bed, and lay almost paralysed
with horror and distress.

"But Teufelsbuerst was not about anything so frightful as she supposed,
though something frightful enough. I have already implied that Wolkenlicht
was, in form, as fine an embodiment of youthful manhood as any old Greek
republic could have provided one of its sculptors with as model for an
Apollo. It is true, that to the eye of a Greek artist he would not have
been more acceptable in consequence of the regimen he had been going
through for the last few weeks; but the emaciation of Wolkenlicht's frame,
and the consequent prominence of the muscles, indicating the pain he had
gone through, were peculiarly attractive to Teufelsbuerst.--He was busy
preparing to take a cast of the body of his dead pupil, that it might aid
to the perfection of his future labours.

"He was deep in the artistic enjoyment of a form, at the same time so
beautiful and strong, yet with the lines of suffering in every limb and
feature, when his daughter's hand was laid on the latch. He started, flung
the velvet drapery over the body, and went to the door. But Lilith had
vanished. He returned to his labours. The operation took a long time, for
he performed it very carefully. Towards midnight, he had finished encasing
the body in a close-clinging shell of plaster, which, when broken off, and
fitted together, would be the matrix to the form of the dead Wolkenlicht.
Before leaving it to harden till the morning, he was just proceeding to
strengthen it with an additional layer all over, when a flash of
lightning, reflected in all its dazzle from the snow without, almost
blinded him. A peal of long-drawn thunder followed; the wind rose; and
just such a storm came on as had risen some time before at the death of
Kuntz, whose spectre was still tormenting the city. The gnomes of terror,
deep hidden in the caverns of Teufelsbuerst's nature, broke out jubilant.
With trembling hands he tried to cast the pall over the awful white
chrysalis,--failed, and fled to his chamber. And there lay the studio
naked to the eyes of the lightning, with its tortured forms throbbing out
of the dark, and quivering, as with life, in the almost continuous
palpitations of the light; while on the couch lay the motionless mass of
whiteness, gleaming blue in the lightning, almost more terrible in its
crude indications of the human form, than that which it enclosed. It lay
there as if dropped from some tree of chaos, haggard with the snows of
eternity--a huge misshapen nut, with a corpse for its kernel.

"But the lightning would soon have revealed a more terrible sight still,
had there been any eyes to behold it. At midnight, while a peal of thunder
was just dying away in the distance, the crust of death flew asunder,
rending in all directions; and, pale as his investiture, staring with
ghastly eyes, the form of Karl started up sitting on the couch. Had he not
been far beyond ordinary men in strength, he could not thus have rent his
sepulchre. Indeed, had Teufelsbuerst been able to finish his task by the
additional layer of gypsum which he contemplated, he must have died the
moment life revived; although, so long as the trance lasted, neither the
exclusion from the air, nor the practical solidification of the walls of
his chest, could do him any injury. He had lain unconscious throughout the
operations of Teufelsbuerst, but now the catalepsy had passed away,
possibly under the influence of the electric condition of the atmosphere.
Very likely the strength he now put forth was intensified by a convulsive
reaction of all the powers of life, as is not infrequently the case in
sudden awakenings from similar interruptions of vital activity. The coming
to himself and the bursting of his case were simultaneous. He sat staring
about him, with, of all his mental faculties, only his imagination awake,
from which the thoughts that occupied it when he fell senseless had not
yet faded. These thoughts had been compounded of feelings about Lilith,
and speculations about the vampire that haunted the neighbourhood; and the
fumes of the last drug of which he had partaken, still hovering in his
brain, combined with these thoughts and fancies to generate the delusion
that he had just broken from the embrace of his coffin, and risen, the
last-born of the vampire race. The sense of unavoidable obligation to
fulfil his doom, was yet mingled with a faint flutter of joy, for he knew
that he must go to Lilith. With a deep sigh, he rose, gathered up the pall
of black velvet, flung it around him, stepped from the couch, and left the
study to find her.

"Meantime, Teufelsbuerst had sufficiently recovered to remember that he had
left the door of the studio unfastened, and that any one entering would
discover in what he had been engaged, which, in the case of his getting
into any difficulty about the death of Karl, would tell powerfully against
him. He was at the farther end of a long passage, leading from the house
to the studio, on his way to make all secure, when Karl appeared at the
door, and advanced towards him. The painter, seized with invincible
terror, turned and fled. He reached his room, and fell senseless on the
floor. The phantom held on its way, heedless.

"Lilith, on gaining her room the second time, had thrown herself on her
bed as before, and had wept herself into a troubled slumber. She lay
dreaming--and dreadful dreams. Suddenly she awoke in one of those peals of
thunder which tormented the high regions of the air, as a storm billows
the surface of the ocean. She lay awake and listened. As it died away, she
thought she heard, mingling with its last muffled murmurs, the sound of
moaning. She turned her face towards the room in keen terror. But she saw
nothing. Another light, long-drawn sigh reached her ear, and at the same
moment a flash of lightning illumined the room. In the corner farthest
from her bed, she spied a white face, nothing more. She was dumb and
motionless with fear. Utter darkness followed, a darkness that seemed to
enter into her very brain. Yet she felt that the face was slowly crossing
the black gulf of the room, and drawing near to where she lay. The next
flash revealed, as it bended over her, the ghastly face of Karl, down
which flowed fresh tears. The rest of his form was lost in blackness.
Lilith did not faint, but it was the very force of her fear that seemed to
keep her alive. It became for the moment the atmosphere of her life. She
lay trembling and staring at the spot in the darkness where she supposed
the face of Karl still to be. But the next flash showed her the face far
off, looking at her through the panes of her lattice-window.

"For Lottchen, as soon as he saw Lilith, seemed to himself to go through a
second stage of awaking. Her face made him doubt whether he could be a
vampire after all; for instead of wanting to bite her arm and suck the
blood, he all but fell down at her feet in a passion of speechless love.
The next moment he became aware that his presence must be at least very
undesirable to her; and in an instant he had reached her window, which he
knew looked upon a lower roof that extended between two different parts of
the house, and before the next flash came, he had stepped through the
lattice and closed it behind him.

"Believing his own room to be attainable from this quarter, he proceeded
along the roof in the direction he judged best. The cold winter air by
degrees restored him entirely to his right mind, and he soon comprehended
the whole of the circumstances in which he found himself. Peeping through
a window he was passing, to see whether it belonged to his room, he spied
Teufelsbuerst, who, at the very moment, was lifting his head from the faint
into which he had fallen at the first sight of Lottchen. The moon was
shining clear, and in its light the painter saw, to his horror, the pale
face staring in at his window. He thought it had been there ever since he
had fainted, and dropped again in a deeper swoon than before. Karl saw him
fall, and the truth flashed upon him that the wicked artist took him for
what he had believed himself to be when first he recovered from his
trance--namely, the vampire of the former Karl Wolkenlicht. The moment he
comprehended it, he resolved to keep up the delusion if possible. Meantime
he was innocently preparing a new ingredient for the popular dish of
horrors to be served at the ordinary of the city the next day. For the old
servant's were not the only eyes that had seen him besides those of
Teufelsbuerst. What could be more like a vampire, dragging his pall after
him, than this apparition of poor, half-frozen Lottchen, crawling across
the roof? Karl remembered afterwards that he had heard the dogs howling
awfully in every direction, as he crept along; but this was hardly
necessary to make those who saw him conclude that it was the same phantasm
of John Kuntz, which had been infesting the whole city, and especially the
house next door to the painter's, which had been the dwelling of the
respectable alderman who had degenerated into this most disreputable of
moneyless vagabonds. What added to the consternation of all who heard of
it, was the sickening conviction that the extreme measures which they had
resorted to in order to free the city from the ghoul, beyond which nothing
could be done, had been utterly unavailing, successful as they had proved
in every other known case of the kind. For, urged as well by various
horrid signs about his grave, which not even its close proximity to the
altar could render a place of repose, they had opened it, had found in the
body every peculiarity belonging to a vampire, had pulled it out with the
greatest difficulty on account of a quite supernatural ponderosity; which
rendered the horse which had killed him--a strong animal--all but unable
to drag it along, and had at last, after cutting it in pieces, and
expending on the fire two hundred and sixteen great billets, succeeded in
conquering its incombustibleness, and reducing it to ashes. Such, at
least, was the story which had reached the painter's household, and was
believed by many; and if all this did not compel the perturbed corpse to
rest, what more could be done?

"When Karl had reached his room, and was dressing himself, the thought
struck him that something might be made of the report of the extreme
weight of the body of old Kuntz, to favour the continuance of the delusion
of Teufelsbuerst, although he hardly knew yet to what use he could turn
this delusion. He was convinced that he would have made no progress
however long he might have remained in his house; and that he would have
more chance of favour with Lilith if he were to meet her in any other
circumstances whatever than those in which he invariably saw her--namely,
surrounded by her father's influences, and watched by her father's cold
blue eyes.

"As soon as he was dressed, he crept down to the studio, which was now
quiet enough, the storm being over, and the moon filling it with her
steady shine. In the corner lay in all directions the fragments of the
mould which his own body had formed and filled. The bag of plaster and the
bucket of water which the painter had been using stood beside. Lottchen
gathered all the pieces together, and then making his way to an outhouse
where he had seen various odds and ends of rubbish lying, chose from the
heap as many pieces of old iron and other metal as he could find. To these
he added a few large stones from the garden. When he had got all into the
studio, he locked the door, and proceeded to fit together the parts of the
mould, filling up the hollow as he went on with the heaviest things he
could get into it, and solidifying the whole by pouring in plaster; till,
having at length completed it, and obliterated, as much as possible, the
marks of joining, he left it to harden, with the conviction that now it
would make a considerable impression on Teufelsbuerst's imagination, as
well as on his muscular sense. He then left everything else as nearly
undisturbed as he could; and, knowing all the ways of the house, was soon
in the street, without leaving any signs of his exit.

"Karl soon found himself before the house in which his friend Hoellenrachen
resided. Knowing his studious habits, he had hoped to see his light still
burning, nor was he disappointed. He contrived to bring him to his window,
and a moment after, the door was cautiously opened.

"'Why, Lottchen, where do you come from?'

"'From the grave, Heinrich, or next door to it.'

"'Come in, and tell me all about it. We thought the old painter had made a
model of you, and tortured you to death.'

"'Perhaps you were not far wrong. But get me a horn of ale, for even a
vampire is thirsty, you know.'

"'A vampire!' exclaimed Heinrich, retreating a pace, and involuntarily
putting himself upon his guard.

"Karl laughed.

"'My hand was warm, was it not, old fellow?' he said. Vampires are cold,
all but the blood.'

"'What a fool I am!' rejoined Heinrich. 'But you know we have been hearing
such horrors lately that a fellow may be excused for shuddering a little
when a pale-faced apparition tells him at two o'clock in the morning that
he is a vampire, and thirsty, too.'

"Karl told him the whole story; and the mental process of regarding it for
the sake of telling it, revealed to him pretty clearly some of the
treatment of which he had been unconscious at the time. Heinrich was quite
sure that his suspicions were correct. And now the question was, what was
to be done next?

"'At all events,' said Heinrich, 'we must keep you out of the way for some
time. I will represent to my landlady that you are in hiding from enemies,
and her heart will rule her tongue. She can let you have a garret-room, I
know; and I will do as well as I can to bear you company. We shall have
time then to invent some plan of operation.'

"To this proposal Karl agreed with hearty thanks, and soon all was
arranged. The only conclusion they could yet arrive at was, that somehow
or other the old demon-painter must be tamed.

"Meantime, how fared it with Lilith? She too had no doubt that she had
seen the body-ghost of poor Karl, and that the vampire had, according to
rule, paid her the first visit because he loved her best. This was
horrible enough if the vampire were not really the person he represented;
but if in any sense it were Karl himself, at least it gave some
expectation of a more prolonged existence than her father had taught her
to look for; and if love anything like her mother's still lasted, even
along with the habits of a vampire, there was something to hope for in the
future. And then, though he had visited her, he had not, as far as she was
aware, deprived her of a drop of blood. She could not be certain that he
had not bitten her, for she had been in such a strange condition of mind
that she might not have felt it, but she believed that he had restrained
the impulses of his vampire nature, and had left her, lest he should yet
yield to them. She fell fast asleep; and, when morning came, there was
not, as far as she could judge, one of those triangular leech-like
perforations to be found upon her whole body. Will it be believed that the
moment she was satisfied of this, she was seized by a terrible jealousy,
lest Karl should have gone and bitten some one else? Most people will
wonder that she should not have gone out of her senses at once; but there
was all the difference between a visit from a real vampire and a visit
from a man she had begun to love, even although she took him for a
vampire. All the difference does _not_ lie in a name. They were very
different causes, and the effects must be very different.

"When Teufelsbuerst came down in the morning, he crept into the studio like
a murderer. There lay the awful white block, seeming to his eyes just the
same as he had left it. What was to be done with it? He dared not open it.
Mould and model must go together. But whither? If inquiry should be made
after Wolkenlicht, and this were discovered anywhere on his premises,
would it not be enough to bring him at once to the gallows? Therefore it
would be dangerous to bury it in the garden, or in the cellar.

"'Besides,' thought he, with a shudder, 'that would be to fix the vampire
as a guest for ever.'--And the horrors of the past night rushed back upon
his imagination with renewed intensity. What would it be to have the dead
Karl crawling about his house for ever, now inside, now out, now sitting
on the stairs, now staring in at the windows?

"He would have dragged it to the bottom of his garden, past which the
Moldau flowed, and plunged it into the stream; but then, should the
spectre continue to prove troublesome, it would be almost impossible to
reach the body so as to destroy it by fire; besides which, he could not do
it without assistance, and the probability of discovery. If, however, the
apparition should turn out to be no vampire, but only a respectable ghost,
they might manage to endure its presence, till it should be weary of
haunting them.

"He resolved at last to convey the body for the meantime into a concealed
cellar in the house, seeing something must be done before his daughter
came down. Proceeding to remove it, his consternation as greatly increased
when he discovered how the body had grown in weight since he had thus
disposed of it, leaving on his mind scarcely a hope that it could turn out
not to be a vampire after all. He could scarcely stir it, and there was
but one whom he could call to his assistance--the old woman who acted as
his housekeeper and servant.

"He went to her room, roused her, and told her the whole story. Devoted to
her master for many years, and not quite so sensitive to fearful
influences as when less experienced in horrors, she showed immediate
readiness to render him assistance. Utterly unable, however, to lift the
mass between them, they could only drag and push it along; and such a slow
toil was it that there was no time to remove the traces of its track,
before Lilith came down and saw a broad white line leading from the door
of the studio down the cellar-stairs. She knew in a moment what it meant;
but not a word was uttered about the matter, and the name of Karl
Wolkenlicht seemed to be entirely forgotten.

"But how could the affairs of a house go on all the same when every one of
the household knew that a dead body lay in the cellar?--nay more, that,
although it lay still and dead enough all day, it would come half alive at
nightfall, and, turning the whole house into a sepulchre by its presence,
go creeping about like a cat all over it in the dark--perhaps with
phosphorescent eyes? So it was not surprising that the painter abandoned
his studio early, and that the three found themselves together in the
gorgeous room formerly described, as soon as twilight began to fall.

"Already Teufelsbuerst had begun to experience a kind of shrinking from the
horrid faces in his own pictures, and to feel disgusted at the abortions
of his own mind. But all that he and the old woman now felt was an
increasing fear as the night drew on, a kind of sickening and paralysing
terror. The thing down there would not lie quiet--at least its phantom in
the cellars of their imagination would not. As much as possible, however,
they avoided alarming Lilith, who, knowing all they knew, was as silent as
they. But her mind was in a strange state of excitement, partly from the
presence of a new sense of love, the pleasure of which all the atmosphere
of grief into which it grew could not totally quench. It comforted her
somehow, as a child may comfort when his father is away.

"Bedtime came, and no one made a move to go. Without a word spoken on the
subject, the three remained together all night; the elders nodding and
slumbering occasionally, and Lilith getting some share of repose on a
couch. All night the shape of death might be somewhere about the house;
but it did not disturb them. They heard no sound, saw no sight; and when
the morning dawned, they separated, chilled and stupid, and for the time
beyond fear, to seek repose in their private chambers. There they remained
equally undisturbed.

"But when the painter approached his easel a few hours after, looking more
pale and haggard still than he was wont, from the fears of the night, a
new bewilderment took possession of him. He had been busy with a fresh
embodiment of his favourite subject, into which he had sketched the form
of the student as the sufferer. He had represented poor Wolkenlicht as
just beginning to recover from a trance, while a group of surgeons,
unaware of the signs of returning life, were absorbed in a minute
dissection of one of the limbs. At an open door he had painted Lilith
passing, with her face buried in a bunch of sweet peas. But when he came
to the picture, he found, to his astonishment and terror, that the face of
one of the group was now turned towards that of the victim, regarding his
revival with demoniac satisfaction, and taking pains to prevent the others
from discovering it. The face of this prince of torturers was that of
Teufelsbuerst himself. Lilith had altogether vanished, and in her place
stood the dim vampire reiteration of the body that lay extended on the
table, staring greedily at the assembled company. With trembling hands the
painter removed the picture from the easel, and turned its face to the
wall.

"Of course this was the work of Lottchen. When he left the house, he took
with him the key of a small private door, which was so seldom used that,
while it remained closed, the key would not be missed, perhaps for many
months. Watching the windows, he had chosen a safe time to enter, and had
been hard at work all night on these alterations. Teufelsbuerst attributed
them to the vampire, and left the picture as he found it, not daring to
put brush to it again.

"The next night was passed much after the same fashion. But the fear had
begun to die away a little in the hearts of the women, who did not know
what had taken place in the studio on the previous night. It burrowed,
however, with gathered force in the vitals of Teufelsbuerst. But this night
likewise passed in peace; and before it was over, the old woman had taken
to speculating in her own mind as to the best way of disposing of the
body, seeing it was not at all likely to be troublesome. But when the
painter entered his studio in trepidation the next morning, he found that
the form of the lovely Lilith was painted out of every picture in the
room. This could not be concealed; and Lilith and the servant became aware
that the studio was the portion of the house in haunting which the vampire
left the rest in peace.

"Karl recounted all the tricks he had played to his friend Heinrich, who
begged to be allowed to bear him company the following night. To this Karl
consented, thinking it would be considerably more agreeable to have a
companion. So they took a couple of bottles of wine and some provisions
with them, and before midnight found themselves snug in the studio. They
sat very quiet for some time, for they knew that if they were seen, two
vampires would not be so terrible as one, and might occasion discovery.
But at length Heinrich could bear it no longer. "'I say, Lottchen, let's
go and look; for your dead body. What has the old beggar done with it?'

"'I think I know. Stop; let me peep out. All right! Come along.'

"With a lamp in his hand, he led the way to the cellars, and after
searching about a little they discovered it.

"'It looks horrid enough,' said Heinrich, 'but think a drop or two of wine
would brighten it up a little.'

"So he took a bottle from his pocket, and after they had had a glass
apiece, he dropped a third in blots all over the plaster. Being red wine,
it had the effect Hoellenrachen desired.

"'When they visit it next, they will know that the vampire can find the
food he prefers,' said he.

"In a corner close by the plaster, they found the clothes Karl had worn.

"'Hillo!' said Heinrich, 'we'll make something of this find.'

"So he carried them with him to the studio. There he got hold of the
lay-figure.

"'What are you about, Heinrich?'

"'Going to make a scarecrow to keep the ravens off old Teufel's pictures,'
answered Heinrich, as he went on dressing the lay-figure in Karl's
clothes. He next seated the creature at an easel with its back to the
door, so that it should be the first thing the painter should see when he
entered. Karl meant to remove this before he went, for it was too comical
to fall in with the rest of his proceedings. But the two sat down to their
supper, and by the time they had finished the wine, they thought they
should like to go to bed. So they got up and went home, and Karl forgot
the lay-figure, leaving it in busy motionlessness all night before the
easel.

"When Teufelsbuerst saw it, he turned and fled with a cry that brought his
daughter to his help. He rushed past her, able only to articulate:

"The vampire! The vampire! Painting!'

"Far more courageous than he, because her conscience was more peaceful,
Lilith passed on to the studio. She too recoiled a step or two when she
saw the figure; but with the sight of the back of Karl, as she supposed it
to be, came the longing to see the face that was on the other side. So she
crept round and round by the wall, as far off as she could. The figure
remained motionless. It was a strange kind of shock that she experienced
when she saw the face, disgusting from its inanity. The absurdity next
struck her; and with the absurdity flashed into her mind the conviction
that this was not the doing of a vampire; for of all creatures under the
moon, he could not be expected to be a humorist. A wild hope sprang up in
her mind that Karl was not dead. Of this she soon resolved to make herself
sure.

"She closed the door of the studio; in the strength of her new hope
undressed the figure, put it in its place, concealed the garments--all the
work of a few minutes; and then, finding her father just recovering from
the worst of his fear, told him there was nothing in the studio but what
ought to be there, and persuaded him to go and see. He not only saw no
one, but found that no further liberties had been taken with his pictures.
Reassured, he soon persuaded himself that the spectre in this case had
been the offspring of his own terror-haunted brain. But he had no spirit
for painting now. He wandered about the house, himself haunting it like a
restless ghost.

"When night came, Lilith retired to her own room. The waters of fear had
begun to subside in the house; but the painter and his old attendant did
not yet follow her example.

"As soon, however, as the house was quite still, Lilith glided noiselessly
down the stairs, went into the studio, where as yet there assuredly was no
vampire, and concealed herself in a corner.

"As it would not do for an earnest student like Heinrich to be away from
his work very often, he had not asked to accompany Lottchen this time. And
indeed Karl himself, a little anxious about the result of the scarecrow,
greatly preferred going alone.

"While she was waiting for what might happen, the conviction grew upon
Lilith, as she reviewed all the past of the story, that these phenomena
were the work of the real Karl, and of no vampire. In a few moments she
was still more sure of this. Behind the screen where she had taken refuge,
hung one of the pictures out of which her portrait had been painted the
night before last. She had taken a lamp with her into the studio, with the
intention of extinguishing it the moment she heard any sign of approach;
but as the vampire lingered, she began to occupy herself with examining
the picture beside her. She had not looked at it long, before she wetted
the tip of her forefinger, and began to rub away at the obliteration. Her
suspicions were instantly confirmed: the substance employed was only a
gummy wash over the paint. The delight she experienced at the discovery
threw her into a mischievous humour.

"'I will see,' she said to herself, 'whether I cannot match Karl
Wolkenlicht at this game.'

"In a closet in the room hung a number of costumes, which Lilith had at
different times worn for her father. Among them was a large white drapery,
which she easily disposed as a shroud. With the help of some chalk, she
soon made herself ghastly enough, and then placing her lamp on the floor
behind the screen, and setting a chair over it, so that it should throw no
light in any direction, she waited once more for the vampire. Nor had she
much longer to wait. She soon heard a door move, the sound of which she
hardly knew, and then the studio door opened. Her heart beat dreadfully,
not with fear lest it should be a vampire after all, but with hope that it
was Karl. To see him once more was too great joy. Would she not make up to
him for all her coldness! But would he care for her now? Perhaps he had
been quite cured of his longing for a hard heart like hers. She peeped. It
was he sure enough, looking as handsome as ever. He was holding his light
to look at her last work, and the expression of his face, even in
regarding her handiwork, was enough to let her know that he loved her
still. If she had not seen this, she dared not have shown herself from her
hiding-place. Taking the lamp in her hand, she got upon the chair, and
looked over the screen, letting the light shine from below upon her face.
She then made a slight noise to attract Karl's attention. He looked up,
evidently rather startled, and saw the face of Lilith in the air. He gave
a stifled cry threw himself on his knees with his arms stretched towards
her, and moaned--

"'I have killed her! I have killed her!'

"Lilith descended, and approached him noiselessly. He did not move. She
came close to him and said--

"'Are you Karl Wolkenlicht?'

"His lips moved, but no sound came.

"'If you are a vampire, and I am a ghost,' she said--but a low happy laugh
alone concluded the sentence.

"Karl sprang to his feet. Lilith's laugh changed into a burst of sobbing
and weeping, and in another moment the ghost was in the arms of the
vampire.

"Lilith had no idea how far her father had wronged Karl, and though, from
thinking over the past, he had no doubt that the painter had drugged him,
he did not wish to pain her by imparting this conviction. But Lilith was
afraid of a reaction of rage and hatred in her father after the terror was
removed; and Karl saw that he might thus be deprived of all further
intercourse with Lilith, and all chance of softening the old man's heart
towards him; while Lilith would not hear of forsaking him who had banished
all the human race but herself. They managed at length to agree upon a
plan of operation.

"The first thing they did was to go to the cellar where the plaster mass
lay, Karl carrying with him a great axe used for cleaving wood. Lilith
shuddered when she saw it, stained as it was with the wine Heinrich had
spilt over it, and almost believed herself the midnight companion of a
vampire after all, visiting with him the terrible corpse in which he lived
all day. But Karl soon reassured her; and a few good blows of the axe
revealed a very different core to that which Teufelsbuerst supposed to be
in it. Karl broke it into pieces, and with Lilith's help, who insisted on
carrying her share, the whole was soon at the bottom of the Moldau and
every trace of its ever having existed removed. Before morning, too, the
form of Lilith had dawned anew in every picture. There was no time to
restore to its former condition the one Karl had first altered; for in it
the changes were all that they seemed; nor indeed was he capable of
restoring it in the master's style; but they put it quite out of the way,
and hoped that sufficient time might elapse before the painter thought of
it again.

"When they had done, and Lilith, for all his entreaties, would remain with
him no longer, Karl took his former clothes with him, and having spent the
rest of the night in his old room, dressed in them in the morning. When
Teufelsbuerst entered his studio next day, there sat Karl, as if nothing
had happened, finishing the drawing on which he had been at work when the
fit of insensibility came upon him. The painter started, stared, rubbed
his eyes, thought it was another spectral illusion, and was on the point
of yielding to his terror, when Karl rose, and approached him with a
smile. The healthy, sunshiny countenance of Karl, let him be ghost or
goblin, could not fail to produce somewhat of a tranquilizing effect on
Teufelsbuerst. He took his offered hand mechanically, his countenance
utterly vacant with idiotic bewilderment. Karl said:

"'I was not well, and thought it better to pay a visit to a friend for a
few days; but I shall soon make up for lost time, for I am all right now.'

"He sat down at once, taking no notice of his master's behaviour, and went
on with his drawing. Teufelsbuerst stood staring at him for some minutes
without moving, then suddenly turned and left the room. Karl heard him
hurrying down the cellar stairs. In a few moments he came up again. Karl
stole a glance at him. There he stood in the same spot, no doubt more full
of bewilderment than ever, but it was not possible that his face should
express more. At last he went to his easel, and sat down with a long-drawn
sigh as if of relief. But though he sat at his easel, he painted none that
day; and as often as Karl ventured a glance, he saw him still staring at
him. The discovery that his pictures were restored to their former
condition aided, no doubt, in leading him to the same conclusion as the
other facts, whatever that conclusion might be--probably that he had been
the sport of some evil power, and had been for the greater part of a week
utterly bewitched. Lilith had taken care to instruct the old woman, with
whom she was all-powerful; and as neither of them showed the smallest
traces of the astonishment which seemed to be slowly vitrifying his own
brain, he was at last perfectly satisfied that things had been going on
all right everywhere but in his inner man; and in this conclusion he
certainly was not far wrong, in more senses than one. But when all was
restored again to the old routine, it became evident that the peculiar
direction of his art in which he had hitherto indulged had ceased to
interest him. The shock had acted chiefly upon that part of his mental
being which had been so absorbed. He would sit for hours without doing
anything, apparently plunged in meditation.--Several weeks elapsed without
any change, and both Lilith and Karl were getting dreadfully anxious about
him. Karl paid him every attention; and the old man, for he now looked
much older than before, submitted to receive his services as well as those
of Lilith. At length, one morning, he said in a slow thoughtful tone:

"'Karl Wolkenlicht, I should like to paint you.'

"'Certainly, sir,' answered Karl, jumping up, 'where would you like me to
sit?'

"So the ice of silence and inactivity was broken, and the painter drew and
painted; and the spring of his art flowed once more; and he made a
beautiful portrait of Karl--a portrait without evil or suffering. And as
soon as he had finished Karl, he began once more to paint Lilith; and when
he had painted her, he composed a picture for the very purpose of
introducing them together; and in this picture there was neither ugliness
nor torture, but human feeling and human hope instead. Then Karl knew that
he might speak to him of Lilith; and he spoke, and was heard with a smile.
But he did not dare to tell him the truth of the vampire story till one
day that Teufelsbuerst was lying on the floor of a room in Karl's ancestral
castle, half smothered in grandchildren; when the only answer it drew from
the old man was a kind of shuddering laugh and the words--'Don't speak of
it, Karl, my boy!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

No one had interrupted Harry. His brother had put a shovelful of coals on
the fire, to keep up the flame; but not a word had been spoken. The cold
moon had shone in at the windows all the time, her light made yet colder
by the snowy sheen from the face of the earth; and any horror that the
story could generate had had full freedom to operate on the minds of the
listeners.

"Well, I'm glad its over, for my part," said Mrs. Bloomfield. "It made my
flesh creep."

"I do not see any good in founding a story upon a superstition. One knows
it is false, all the time," said Mrs. Cathcart.

"But," said Harry, "all that I have related might have taken place; for
the story is not founded on the superstition itself, but on the belief of
the people of the time in the superstition. I have merely used this belief
to give the general tone to the story, and sometimes the particular
occasion for events in it, the vampire being a terrible fact to those
times."

"You write," said the curate, "as if you quoted occasionally from some
authority."

"The story of John Kuntz, as well as that of the shoemaker, is told by
Henry More in his _Antidote against Atheism_. He believed the whole
affair. His authority is Martin Weinrich, a Silesian doctor. I have only
taken the liberty of shifting the scene of the _post-mortem_ exploits of
Kuntz from a town of Silesia to Prague."

"Well, Harry," said his sister-in-law, "if your object was to frighten us,
I confess that I for one was tolerably uncomfortable. But I don't know
that that is a very high aim in story-telling."

"If that were all--certainly not," replied Harry, glancing towards Adela,
who had not spoken. Nor did she speak yet. But her expression showed
plainly enough that it was not the horror of the story that had taken
chief hold of her mind. Her face was full of suppressed light, and she was
evidently satisfied--or shall I call it _gratified_?--as well as delighted
with the tale. Something or other in it had touched her not only deeply,
but nearly.

Nothing was said about another meeting--perhaps because, from Adela's
illness, the order had been interrupted, and the present had required a
special summons.

The ladies had gone up stairs to put on their bonnets. I had crossed into
the library, which was on the same floor with the drawing-room, to find
out if I was right in supposing I had seen some volumes of Henry More's
works on the shelves--certainly the colonel could never have bought them.
Our host, the curate and the schoolmaster had followed me. Harry had
remained behind in the drawing-room. Thinking of something I wanted to say
to him before he went, I left the gentlemen looking over the book-shelves,
and went to cross again to the drawing-room. But when I reached the door,
there stood at the top of the stair, Adela and Harry. She had evidently
just said something warm about the story. I could almost read what she had
said still lingering on her face, which was turned up a good deal to look
into his, so near each other were they standing. Hers had a rosy flush as
of sunset over it, while his glowed like the sun rising in a mist.
Evidently the pleasures of giving and receiving were in this case nearly
equal. But they were not of long duration; for the moment I appeared, they
bade each other a hurried good night, and parted. I, thinking it better to
pretermit my speech to Harry, retreated into the library, and was glad to
think that no one had seen that conference but myself. Such a conjunction
of planets prefigured, however, not merely warm spring weather, but sultry
gloom, and thunderous clouds to follow; and although I was delighted with
my astronomical observation, I could not help growing anxious about the
omen.



CHAPTER VII.

THE CASTLE.


The next day, as I passed the school-house on my way to call on the
curate, I heard such an uproar that I stopped involuntarily to listen. I
soon satisfied myself that it was only the usual water-spout occasioned on
the ocean of boyhood by the vacuum of the master. As soon as I entered the
curate's study, there stood the missing master, hat in hand. He had not
sat down, and would not, hearing all the time, no doubt, in his soul, the
far confusion of his forsaken realm. He had but that moment entered.

"You come just in the right time, Smith," said the curate.--We had already
dropped unnecessary prefixes.--"Here is Mr. Bloomfield come to ask us to
spend a final evening with him and Mrs. Bloomfield. And in the name of the
whole company, I have taken upon me to assure him that it will give us
pleasure. Am I not right?"

"Undoubtedly," I replied. "What evening have you fixed upon, Mr.
Bloomfield?"

"This day week," he answered. "Shall I tell you why I put it off so long?"

"If you please."

"I heard your brother, Mr. Armstrong, say that you were very fond of
parables. Now I have always had a leaning that way myself; and for years I
have had one in particular glimmering before my mental sight. The ambition
seized me, to write it out for one of our meetings, and so submit it to
your judgment; for, Mr. Armstrong, I am so delighted with your sermons and
opinions generally, that I long to let you know that I am not only
friendly, but capable of sympathizing with you. But it is only in the
rough yet, and I want to have plenty of time to act the dutiful bear to my
offspring, and lick it into thorough shape. So if you will come this day
week, Mrs. Bloomfield and I will be delighted to entertain you in our
humble fashion. But, bless me! the boys will be all in a heap of confusion
worse confounded before I get back to them. I have no business to be away
from them at this hour. Good morning, gentlemen."

And off ran the worthy Neptune, to quell, by the vision of his returning
head, the rebellious waves of boyish impulse.

"That man will be a great comfort to you, Armstrong," I said.

"I know he will. He is a far-seeing, and what is better, a far-feeling
man."

"There is true wealth in him, it seems to me, although it may be of narrow
reach in expression," said I.

"I think so, quite. He seems to me to be one of those who have never grown
robust because they have laboured in-doors instead of going out to work in
the open air. There is a shrinking delicacy about him when with those whom
he doesn't feel to be of his own kind, which makes him show to a
disadvantage. But you should see him amongst his boys to do him justice."

We were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Armstrong, who came, after
their simple fashion, to tell her husband that dinner was ready. I took my
leave.

In the evening, Mrs. Bloomfield called to invite Adela and the colonel;
and the affair was settled for that day week.

"You're much better, my dear, are you not?" said the worthy woman to my
niece.

"Indeed I am, Mrs. Bloomfield. I could not have believed it possible that
I should be so much better in so short a time--and at this season of the
year too."

"Mr. Armstrong is a very clever young man, I think; though I can't say I
quite relished that extraordinary story of his."

"I suppose he is clever," replied Adela, something demurely as I thought.
"I must say I liked the story."

"Ah, well! Young people, you know, Mr. Smith--But, bless me! I'm sure I
beg your pardon. I had forgotten you weren't a married man. Of course
you're one of the young people too, Mr. Smith."

"I don't think there's much of youth to choose between you and me, Mrs.
Bloomfield," said I, "if I may venture to say so. But I fear I do belong
to the young people, if a liking for extravagant stories, so long as they
mean well, you know--is to be the test of the classification. I fear I
have a depraved taste, that way. I don't mean in this particular instance,
though, Adela."

"I hope not," answered Adela, with a blushing smile, which I, at least,
could read, having had not merely the key to it, but the open door and
window as well, ever since I had seen the two standing together at the top
of the stair.

That night the weather broke. A slow thaw set in; and before many days
were over, islands of green began to appear amid the "wan water" of the
snow--to use a phrase common in Scotch ballads, though with a different
application. The graves in the churchyard lifted up their green altars of
earth, as the first whereon to return thanks for the prophecy of spring;
which, surely, if it has force and truth anywhere, speaks loudest to us in
the churchyard. And on Sunday the sun broke out and shone on the green
hillocks, just as good old Mr. Venables was reading the words, "I will not
leave you comfortless--I will come to you."

And the ice vanished from the river, and the dark stream flowed, somewhat
sullen, but yet glad at heart, on through the low meadows bordered with
pollards, which, poor things, maltreated and mutilated, yet did the best
they could, and went on growing wildly in all insane shapes--pitifully
mingling formality and grotesqueness.

And the next day the hounds met at Castle Irksham. And that day Colonel
Cathcart would ride with them.

For the good man had gathered spirit just as the light grew upon his
daughter's face. And he was merry like a boy now that the first breath of
spring--for so it seemed, although no doubt plenty of wintriness remained
and would yet show itself--had loosened the hard hold of the frost, which
is the death of Nature. The frost is hard upon old people; and the spring
is so much the more genial and blessed in its sweet influences on them. Do
we grow old that, in our weakness and loss of physical self-assertion, we
may learn the benignities of the universe--only to be learned first
through the feeling of their want?--I do not envy the man who laughs the
east wind to scorn. He can never know the balmy power of its sister of the
west, which is the breath of the Lord, the symbol of the one _genial_
strength at the root of all life, resurrection, and growth--commonly
called the Spirit of God.--Who has not seen, as the infirmities of age
grow upon old men, the haughty, self-reliant spirit that had neglected, if
not despised the gentle ministrations of love, grow as it were a little
scared, and begin to look about for some kindness; begin to return the
warm pressure of the hand, and to submit to be waited upon by the anxiety
of love? Not in weakness alone comes the second childhood upon men, but
often in childlikeness; for in old age as in nature, to quote the song of
the curate,

    Old Autumn's fingers
  Paint in hues of Spring.

The necessities of the old man prefigure and forerun the dawn of the
immortal childhood. For is not our necessity towards God our highest
blessedness--the fair cloud that hangs over the summit of existence? Thank
God, he has made his children so noble and high that they cannot do
without Him! I believe we are sent into this world just to find this out.

But to leave my reflections and return to my story--such as it is. The
colonel mounted me on an old horse of his, "whom," to quote from Sir
Philip Sidney's _Arcadia_, "though he was near twenty years old, he
preferred for a piece of sure service, before a great number of younger."
Now the piece of sure service, in the present instance, was to take care
of old John Smith, who was only a middling horseman, though his friend,
the colonel, would say that he rode pretty well for a lad. The old horse,
in fact, knew not only what he could do, but what I could do, for our
powers were about equal. He looked well about for the gaps and the
narrow places. From weakness in his forelegs, he had become a capital
buck-jumper, as I think Cathcart called him, always alighting over a hedge
on his hind legs, instead of his fore ones, which was as much easier for
John Smith as for Hop o' my Thumb--that was the name of the old horse, he
being sixteen hands, at least. But I beg my reader's pardon for troubling
him with all this about my horse, for, assuredly, neither he nor I will
perform any deed of prowess in his presence. But I have the weakness of
garrulity in regard to a predilection from the indulgence of which
circumstances have debarred me.

At nine o'clock my friend and I started upon hacks for the meet. Now, I am
not going to describe the "harrow and weal away!" with which the soul of
poor Reynard is hunted out of the world--if, indeed, such a clever wretch
can have a soul. I daresay--I hope, at least, that the argument of the
fox-hunter is analogically just, who, being expostulated with on the
cruelty of fox-hunting, replied--"Well, you know, the hounds like it; and
the horses like it; and there's no doubt the men like it--and who knows
whether the fox doesn't like it too?" But I would not have introduced the
subject except for the sake of what my reader will find in the course of a
page or two, and which assuredly is not fox-hunting.

We soon found. But just before, a sudden heavy noise, coming apparently
from a considerable distance, made one or two of the company say, with
passing curiosity: "What is that?" It was instantly forgotten, however, as
soon as the fox broke cover. He pointed towards Purley-bridge. We had
followed for some distance, circumstances permitting Hop o' my Thumb to
keep in the wake of his master, when the colonel, drawing rein, allowed
me--I ought to say _us_, for the old horse had quite as much voice in the
matter as I had--to come up with him.

"The cunning old dog!" said he. "He has run straight for the deepest
cutting in the railway. They'll all be pounded presently! They don't know
this part so well as I do. I know every field and gate in it. I used to go
larking over it all when I was only a cub myself. Confound it! I'm not up
to much to-day. I suppose I'm getting old, you know; or I'd strike off
here at right angles to the left, and make for the bridge at Crumple's
Corner. I should lose the hounds though, I fear. I wonder what his
lordship will do."

All the time my old friend was talking, we were following the rest of the
field, whom, sure enough, as soon as we got into the next inclosure, we
saw drawing up one after another on the top of the railway cutting, which
ran like the river of death between them and the fox-hunter's paradise.
But at the moment we entered this field, whom should we see approaching us
at right angles, from the direction of Purleybridge, but Harry Armstrong,
mounted on _the_ mare! I rode towards him.

"Trapped, you see," said I. "Are you after the fox--or some nobler game?"

"I was going my rounds," answered Harry, "when I caught sight of the
hounds. I have no very pressing case to day, so I turned a few yards out
of the road to see a bit of the sport. Confound these railways!"

At the moment--and all this passed, as the story-teller is so often
compelled to remind his reader, in far less time than it takes to tell--
over the hedge on the opposite side from where Harry had entered the
field, blundered a country fellow, on a great, heavy, but spirited horse,
and ploughed his way up the soft furrow to where we stood.

"Doctor!" he cried, half-breathless with haste and exertion--"Doctor!"

"Well?" answered Henry, alert.

"There's a awful accident at Grubblebon Quarry, sir. Powder blowed up.
Legs and arms! Good God! sir, make haste."

"Well," said Harry, whose compressed lips alone gave sign of his being
ready for action, "ride to the town, and tell my housekeeper to give you
bandages and wadding and oil, and splints, and whatever she knows to be
needful. Are there many hurt?"

"Half a dozen alive, sir."

"Then you'd better let the other doctors know as well. And just tell my
man to saddle Jilter and take him to by brother, the curate. He had better
come out at once. Ride now."

"I _will_, sir," said the man, and was over the hedge in another minute.

But not before Harry was over the railway. For he rode gently towards it,
as if nothing particular was to be done, and chose as the best spot one
close to where several of the gentlemen stood, disputing for a moment as
to which was the best way to get across. Now on the top of the cutting
there was a rail, and between the rail and the edge of the cutting a space
of about four feet. Harry trotted his mare gently up to the rail, and went
over. Nor was the mutual confidence of mare and master misplaced from
either side. She lighted and stood stock still within a foot of the slope,
so powerful was she to stop herself. An uproar of cries arose among the
men. I heard the old soldier's voice above them all.

"Damn you, Armstrong, you fool!" he cried; "you'll break your neck, and
serve you right too!"

I don't know a stronger proof that the classical hell has little hold on
the faith of the Saxons, than that good-hearted and true men will not
unfrequently damn their friends when they are most anxious to save them.
But before the words were half out of the colonel's mouth, Harry was
half-way down the cutting. He had gone straight at it like a cat, and it
was of course the only way. I had galloped to the edge after him, and now
saw him, or rather her, descending by a succession of rebounds--not
bounds--a succession, in fact, of short falls upon the fore-legs, while
Harry's head was nearly touching her rump. Arrived at the bottom, she gave
two bounds across the rails, and the same moment was straining right up
the opposite bank in a fierce agony of effort, Harry hanging upon her
neck. Now the mighty play of her magnificent hind quarters came into
operation. I could see, plainly enough across the gulf, the alternate
knotting and loosening of the thick muscles as, step by step, she tore her
way up the grassy slope. It was a terrible trial of muscle and wind, and
very few horses could have stood it. As she neared the top, her pace grew
slower and slower, and the exertion more and more severe. If she had given
in, she would have rolled to the bottom, but nothing was less in her
thoughts. Her master never spurred or urged her, except it may have been
by whispering in her ear, to which his mouth was near enough: he knew she
needed no excitement to that effort. At length the final heave of her
rump, as it came up to a level with her withers, told the breathless
spectators that the attempt was a success, when a loud "Hurrah for the
doctor and his mare!" burst from their lips. The doctor, however, only
waved his hand in acknowledgment, for he had all to do yet. Fortunately
there was space enough between the edge and the fence on that side to
allow of his giving his mare a quarter of a circle of a gallop before
bringing her up to the rail, else in her fatigue she might have failed to
top it. Over she went and away, with her tail streaming out behind her, as
if she had done nothing worth thinking about, once it was done. One more
cheer for the doctor--but no one dared to follow him. They scattered in
different directions to find a less perilous crossing. I stuck by my
leader.

"By Jove! Cathcart," said Lord Irksham, as they parted, "that doctor of
yours is a hero. He ought to have been bred a soldier."

"He's better employed, my lord," bawled the old colonel; for they were now
a good many yards asunder, making for different points in the hedge. From
this answer, I hoped well for the doctor. At all events, the colonel
admired his manliness more than ever, and that was a great thing. For me,
I could hardly keep down the expression of an excitement which I did not
wish to show. It was a great relief to me when the _hurrah!_ arose, and I
could let myself off in that way. I told you, kind reader, I was only an
old boy. But, as the Arabs always give God thanks when they see a
beautiful woman, and quite right too! so, in my heart, I praised God who
had made a mare with such muscles, and a man with such a heart. And I said
to myself, "A fine muscle is a fine thing; but the finest muscle of all,
keeping the others going too, is the heart itself. That is the true
Christian muscle. And the real muscular Christianity is that which pours
in a life-giving torrent from the devotion of the heart, receiving only
that it may give."

But I fancy I hear my reader saying,

"Mr. Smith, you've forgotten the fox. What a sportsman you make!"

Well, I had forgotten the fox. But then we didn't kill him or find another
that day. So you won't care for the rest of the run.

I was tired enough by the time we got back to Purleybridge. I went early
to bed.

The next morning, the colonel, the moment we met at the breakfast table,
said to me,

"You did not hear, Smith, what that young rascal of a doctor said to Lord
Irksham last night?"

"No, what was it?"

"It seems they met again towards evening, and his lordship said to him:
'You hare-brained young devil!'--you know his lordship's rough way,"
interposed the colonel, forgetting how roundly he had sworn at Harry
himself, "'by the time you're my age, you'll be more careful of the few
brains you'll have left.' To which expostulated Master Harry replied: 'If
your lordship had been my age, and would have done it yourself to kill a
fox: when I am your lordship's age, I hope I shall have the grace left to
do as much to save a man.' Whereupon his lordship rejoined, holding out
his hand, 'By Jove! sir, you are an honour to your profession. Come and
dine with me on Monday.' And what do you think the idiot did?--Backed out
of it, and wouldn't go, because he thought his lordship condescending, and
he didn't want his patronage. But his lordship's not a bit like that, you
know."

"Then if he isn't, he'll like Harry all the better for declining, and will
probably send him a proper invitation."

And sure enough, I was right; and Harry did dine at Castle Irksham on
Monday.

Adela's eyes showed clearly enough that her ears were devouring every word
we had said; and the glow on her face could not be mistaken by me at
least, though to another it might well appear only the sign of such an
enthusiasm as one would like every girl to feel in the presence of noble
conduct of any kind. She had heard the whole story last night you may be
sure; and I do not doubt that the unrestrained admiration shown by her
father for the doctor's conduct, was a light in her heart which sleep
itself could not extinguish, and which went shining on in her dreams.
Admiration of the beloved is dear to a woman. You see I like to show that
although I _am_ an old bachelor, I know something about _them_.

I met Harry that morning; that is, I contrived to meet him.

"Well, how are you to-day, Harry?" I said.

"All right, thank you."

"Were there many hurt at the quarry?"

"Oh! it wasn't so very bad, I'm happy to say."

"You did splendidly yesterday."

"Oh, nonsense! It was my mare. It wasn't me. I had nothing to do with it."

"Well! well! you have my full permission to say so, and to think so, too."

"Well! well! say no more about it."

So it was long before the subject was again alluded to by me. But it will
be long, too, before it is forgotten in that county.

And so the evening came when we were to meet--for the last time as the
Story-telling club--at the schoolmaster's house. It was now past the time
I had set myself for returning to London, and although my plans were never
of a very unalterable complexion, seeing I had the faculty of being able
to write wherever I was, and never admitted chairs and tables, and certain
rows of bookshelves, to form part of my mental organism, without which the
rest of the mechanism would be thrown out of gear, I had yet reasons for
wishing to be in London; and I intended to take my departure on the day
but one after the final meeting.--I may just remark, that before this time
one or two families had returned to Purleybridge, and others were free
from their Christmas engagements, who would have been much pleased to join
our club; but, considering its ephemeral nature, and seeing it had been
formed only for what we hoped was a passing necessity, we felt that the
introduction of new blood, although essential for the long life of
anything constituted for long life, would only hasten the decay of its
butterfly constitution. So we had kept our meetings entirely to ourselves.

We all arrived about the same time, and found our host and hostess full of
quiet cordiality, to which their homeliness lent an additional charm. The
relation of host and guest is weakened by every addition to a company, and
in a large assembly all but disappears. Indeed, the tendency of the
present age is to blot from the story of every-day life all reminders of
the ordinary human relations, as commonplace and insignificant, and to
mingle all society in one concourse of atoms, in which the only
distinctions shall be those of _rank_; whereas the sole power to keep
social intercourse from growing stale is the recognition of the immortal
and true in all the simple human relations. Then we look upon all men with
reverence, and find ourselves safe and at home in the midst of divine
intents, which may be violated and striven with, but can never be escaped,
because the will of God is the very life and well-being of his creatures.

Mrs. Bloomfield looked very nice in her black silk dress, and collar and
cuffs of old lace, as she presided at the tea-table, and made us all feel
that it was a pleasure to her to serve us.

After repeated apologies, and confessions of failure, our host then read
the following _parable_, as he called it, though I daresay it would be
more correct to call it an _allegory_. But as that word has so many
wearisome associations, I, too, intend, whether right or wrong, to call it
a parable. So, then, it shall be:

"THE CASTLE: A PARABLE.

"On the top of a high cliff, forming part of the base of a great mountain,
stood a lofty castle. When or how it was built, no man knew; nor could any
one pretend to understand its architecture. Every one who looked upon it
felt that it was lordly and noble; and where one part seemed not to agree
with another, the wise and modest dared not to call them incongruous, but
presumed that the whole might be constructed on some higher principle of
architecture than they yet understood. What helped them to this conclusion
was, that no one had ever seen the whole of the edifice; that, even of the
portion best known, some part or other was always wrapped in thick folds
of mist from the mountain; and that, when the sun shone upon this mist,
the parts of the building that appeared through the vaporous veil were
strangely glorified in their indistinctness, so that they seemed to belong
to some aerial abode in the land of the sunset; and the beholders could
hardly tell whether they had ever seen them before, or whether they were
now for the first time partially revealed.

"Nor, although it was inhabited, could certain information be procured as
to its internal construction. Those who dwelt in it often discovered rooms
they had never entered before--yea, once or twice,--whole suites of
apartments, of which only dim legends had been handed down from former
times. Some of them expected to find, one day, secret places, filled with
treasures of wondrous jewels; amongst which they hoped to light upon
Solomon's ring, which had for ages disappeared from the earth, but which
had controlled the spirits, and the possession of which made a man simply
what a man should be, the king of the world. Now and then, a narrow,
winding stair, hitherto untrodden, would bring them forth on a new turret,
whence new prospects of the circumjacent country were spread out before
them. How many more of these there might be, or how much loftier, no one
could tell. Nor could the foundations of the castle in the rock on which
it was built be determined with the smallest approach to precision. Those
of the family who had given themselves to exploring in that direction,
found such a labyrinth of vaults and passages, and endless successions of
down-going stairs, out of one underground space into a yet lower, that
they came to the conclusion that at least the whole mountain was
perforated and honeycombed in this fashion. They had a dim consciousness,
too, of the presence, in those awful regions, of beings whom they could
not comprehend. Once they came upon the brink of a great black gulf, in
which the eye could see nothing but darkness: they recoiled with horror;
for the conviction flashed upon them that that gulf went down into the
very central spaces of the earth, of which they had hitherto been
wandering only in the upper crust; nay, that the seething blackness before
them had relations mysterious, and beyond human comprehension, with the
far-off voids of space, into which the stars dare not enter.

"At the foot of the cliff whereon the castle stood, lay a deep lake,
inaccessible save by a few avenues, being surrounded on all sides with
precipices which made the water look very black, although it was pure as
the night-sky. From a door in the castle, which was not to be otherwise
entered, a broad flight of steps, cut in the rock, went down to the lake,
and disappeared below its surface. Some thought the steps went to the very
bottom of the water.

"Now in this castle there dwelt a large family of brothers and sisters.
They had never seen their father or mother. The younger had been educated
by the elder, and these by an unseen care and ministration, about the
sources of which they had, somehow or other, troubled themselves very
little--for what people are accustomed to, they regard as coming from
nobody; as if help and progress and joy and love were the natural crops of
Chaos or old Night. But Tradition said that one day--it was utterly
uncertain _when_--their father would come, and leave them no more; for he
was still alive, though where he lived nobody knew. In the meantime all
the rest had to obey their eldest brother, and listen to his counsels.

"But almost all the family was very fond of liberty, as they called it;
and liked to run up and down, hither and thither, roving about, with
neither law nor order, just as they pleased. So they could not endure
their brother's tyranny, as they called it. At one time they said that he
was only one of themselves, and therefore they would not obey him; at
another, that he was not like them, and could not understand them, and
_therefore_ they would not obey him. Yet, sometimes, when he came and
looked them full in the face, they were terrified, and dared not disobey,
for he was stately and stern and strong. Not one of them loved him
heartily, except the eldest sister, who was very beautiful and silent, and
whose eyes shone as if light lay somewhere deep behind them. Even she,
although she loved him, thought him very hard sometimes; for when he had
once said a thing plainly, he could not be persuaded to think it over
again. So even she forgot him sometimes, and went her own ways, and
enjoyed herself without him. Most of them regarded him as a sort of
watchman, whose business it was to keep them in order; and so they were
indignant and disliked him. Yet they all had a secret feeling that they
ought to be subject to him; and after any particular act of disregard,
none of them could think, with any peace, of the old story about the
return of their father to his house. But indeed they never thought much
about it, or about their father at all; for how could those who cared so
little for their brother, whom they saw every day, care for their father
whom they had never seen?--One chief cause of complaint against him was
that he interfered with their favourite studies and pursuits; whereas he
only sought to make them give up trifling with earnest things, and seek
for truth, and not for amusement, from the many wonders around them. He
did not want them to turn to other studies, or to eschew pleasures; but,
in those studies, to seek the highest things most, and other things in
proportion to their true worth and nobleness. This could not fail to be
distasteful to those who did not care for what was higher than they. And
so matters went on for a time. They thought they could do better without
their brother; and their brother knew they could not do at all without
him, and tried to fulfil the charge committed into his hands.

"At length, one day, for the thought seemed to strike them simultaneously,
they conferred together about giving a great entertainment in their
grandest rooms to any of their neighbours who chose to come, or indeed to
any inhabitants of the earth or air who would visit them. They were too
proud to reflect that some company might defile even the dwellers in what
was undoubtedly the finest palace on the face of the earth. But what made
the thing worse, was, that the old tradition said that these rooms were to
be kept entirely for the use of the owner of the castle. And, indeed,
whenever they entered them, such was the effect of their loftiness and
grandeur upon their minds, that they always thought of the old story, and
could not help believing it. Nor would the brother permit them to forget
it now; but, appearing suddenly amongst them, when they had no expectation
of being interrupted by him, he rebuked them, both for the indiscriminate
nature of their invitation, and for the intention of introducing any one,
not to speak of some who would doubtless make their appearance on the
evening in question, into the rooms kept sacred for the use of the unknown
father. But by this time their talk with each other had so excited their
expectations of enjoyment, which had previously been strong enough, that
anger sprung up within them at the thought of being deprived of their
hopes, and they looked each other in the eyes; and the look said: 'We are
many and he is one--let us get rid of him, for he is always finding fault,
and thwarting us in the most innocent pleasures;--as if we would wish to
do anything wrong!' So without a word spoken, they rushed upon him; and
although he was stronger than any of them, and struggled hard at first,
yet they overcame him at last. Indeed some of them thought he yielded to
their violence long before they had the mastery of him; and this very
submission terrified the more tender-hearted amongst them. However, they
bound him; carried him down many stairs, and, having remembered an iron
staple in the wall of a certain vault, with a thick rusty chain attached
to it, they bore him thither, and made the chain fast around him. There
they left him, shutting the great gnarring brazen door of the vault, as
they departed for the upper regions of the castle.

"Now all was in a tumult of preparation. Every one was talking of the
coming festivity; but no one spoke of the deed they had done. A sudden
paleness overspread the face, now of one, and now of another; but it
passed away, and no one took any notice of it; they only plied the task of
the moment the more energetically. Messengers were sent far and near, not
to individuals or families, but publishing in all places of concourse a
general invitation to any who chose to come on a certain day, and partake
for certain succeeding days of the hospitality of the dwellers in the
castle. Many were the preparations immediately begun for complying with
the invitation. But the noblest of their neighbours refused to appear; not
from pride, but because of the unsuitableness and carelessness of such a
mode. With some of them it was an old condition in the tenure of their
estates, that they should go to no one's dwelling except visited in
person, and expressly solicited. Others, knowing what sort of persons
would be there, and that, from a certain physical antipathy, they could
scarcely breathe in their company, made up their minds at once not to go.
Yet multitudes, many of them beautiful and innocent as well as gay,
resolved to appear.

"Meanwhile the great rooms of the castle were got in readiness--that is,
they proceeded to deface them with decorations; for there was a solemnity
and stateliness about them in their ordinary condition, which was at once
felt to be unsuitable for the light-hearted company so soon to move about
in them with the self-same carelessness with which men walk abroad within
the great heavens and hills and clouds. One day, while the workmen were
busy, the eldest sister, of whom I have already spoken, happened to enter,
she knew not why. Suddenly the great idea of the mighty halls dawned upon
her, and filled her soul. The so-called decorations vanished from her
view, and she felt as if she stood in her father's presence. She was at
one elevated and humbled. As suddenly the idea faded and fled, and she
beheld but the gaudy festoons and draperies and paintings which disfigured
the grandeur. She wept and sped away. Now it was too late to interfere,
and things must take their course. She would have been but a Cassandra-
prophetess to those who saw but the pleasure before them. She had not been
present when her brother was imprisoned; and indeed for some days had been
so wrapt in her own business, that she had taken but little heed of
anything that was going on. But they all expected her to show herself when
the company was gathered; and they had applied to her for advice at
various times during their operations.

"At length the expected hour arrived, and the company began to assemble.
It was a warm summer evening. The dark lake reflected the rose-coloured
clouds in the west, and through the flush rowed many gaily painted boats,
with various coloured flags, towards the massy rock on which the castle
stood. The trees and flowers seemed already asleep, and breathing forth
their sweet dream-breath. Laughter and low voices rose from the breast of
the lake to the ears of the youths and maidens looking forth expectant
from the lofty windows. They went down to the broad platform at the top of
the stairs in front of the door to receive their visitors. By degrees the
festivities of the evening commenced. The same smiles flew forth both at
eyes and lips, darting like beams through the gathering crowd. Music, from
unseen sources, now rolled in billows, now crept in ripples through the
sea of air that filled the lofty rooms. And in the dancing halls, when
hand took hand, and form and motion were moulded and swayed by the
indwelling music, it governed not these alone, but, as the ruling spirit
of the place, every new burst of music for a new dance swept before it a
new and accordant odour, and dyed the flames that glowed in the lofty
lamps with a new and accordant stain. The floors bent beneath the feet of
the time-keeping dancers. But twice in the evening some of the inmates
started, and the pallor occasionally common to the household overspread
their faces, for they felt underneath them a counter-motion to the dance,
as if the floor rose slightly to answer their feet. And all the time their
brother lay below in the dungeon, like John the Baptist in the castle of
Herod, when the lords and captains sat around, and the daughter of
Herodias danced before them. Outside, all around the castle, brooded the
dark night unheeded; for the clouds had come up from all sides, and were
crowding together overhead. In the unfrequent pauses of the music, they
might have heard, now and then, the gusty rush of a lonely wind, coming
and going no one could know whence or whither, born and dying unexpected
and unregarded.

"But when the festivities were at their height, when the external and
passing confidence which is produced between superficial natures by a
common pleasure was at the full, a sudden crash of thunder quelled the
music, as the thunder quells the noise of the uplifted sea. The windows
were driven in, and torrents of rain, carried in the folds of a rushing
wind, poured into the halls. The lights were swept away; and the great
rooms, now dark within, were darkened yet more by the dazzling shoots of
flame from the vault of blackness overhead. Those that ventured to look
out of the windows saw, in the blue brilliancy of the quick-following jets
of lightning, the lake at the foot of the rock, ordinarily so still and so
dark, lighted up, not on the surface only, but down to half its depth; so
that, as it tossed in the wind, like a tortured sea of writhing flames, or
incandescent half-molten serpents of brass, they could not tell whether a
strong phosphorescence did not issue from the transparent body of the
waters, as if earth and sky lightened together, one consenting source of
flaming utterance.

"Sad was the condition of the late plastic mass of living form that had
flowed into shape at the will and law of the music. Broken into
individuals, the common transfusing spirit withdrawn, they stood drenched,
cold, and benumbed, with clinging garments; light, order, harmony, purpose
departed, and chaos restored; the issuings of life turned back on their
sources, chilly and dead. And in every heart reigned the falsest of
despairing convictions, that this was the only reality, and that was but a
dream. The eldest sister stood with clasped hands and down-bent head,
shivering and speechless, as if waiting for something to follow. Nor did
she wait long. A terrible flash and thunder-peal made the castle rock; and
in the pausing silence that followed, her quick sense heard the rattling
of a chain far off, deep down; and soon the sound of heavy footsteps,
accompanied with the clanking of iron, reached her ear. She felt that her
brother was at hand. Even in the darkness, and amidst the bellowing of
another deep-bosomed cloud-monster, she knew that he had entered the room.
A moment after, a continuous pulsation of angry blue light began, which,
lasting for some moments, revealed him standing amidst them, gaunt,
haggard, and motionless; his hair and beard untrimmed, his face ghastly,
his eyes large and hollow. The light seemed to gather around him as a
centre. Indeed some believed that it throbbed and radiated from his
person, and not from the stormy heavens above them. The lightning had rent
the wall of his prison, and released the iron staple of his chain, which
he had wound about him like a girdle. In his hand he carried an iron
fetter-bar, which he had found on the floor of the vault. More terrified
at his aspect than at all the violence of the storm, the visitors, with
many a shriek and cry, rushed out into the tempestuous night. By degrees,
the storm died away. Its last flash revealed the forms of the brothers and
sisters lying prostrate, with their faces on the floor, and that fearful
shape standing motionless amidst them still.

"Morning dawned, and there they lay, and there he stood. But at a word
from him, they arose and went about their various duties, though
listlessly enough. The eldest sister was the last to rise; and when she
did, it was only by a terrible effort that she was able to reach her room,
where she fell again on the floor. There she remained lying for days. The
brother caused the doors of the great suite of rooms to be closed, leaving
them just as they were, with all the childish adornment scattered about,
and the rain still falling in through the shattered windows. 'Thus let
them lie,' said he, 'till the rain and frost have cleansed them of paint
and drapery: no storm can hurt the pillars and arches of these halls.'

"The hours of this day went heavily. The storm was gone, but the rain was
left; the passion had departed, but the tears remained behind. Dull and
dark the low misty clouds brooded over the castle and the lake, and shut
out all the neighbourhood. Even if they had climbed to the loftiest known
turret, they would have found it swathed in a garment of clinging vapour,
affording no refreshment to the eye, and no hope to the heart. There was
one lofty tower that rose sheer a hundred feet above the rest, and from
which the fog could have been seen lying in a grey mass beneath; but that
tower they had not yet discovered, nor another close beside it, the top of
which was never seen, nor could be, for the highest clouds of heaven
clustered continually around it. The rain fell continuously, though not
heavily, without; and within, too, there were clouds from which dropped
the tears which are the rain of the spirit. All the good of life seemed
for the time departed, and their souls lived but as leafless trees that
had forgotten the joy of the summer, and whom no wind prophetic of spring
had yet visited. They moved about mechanically, and had not strength
enough left to wish to die.

"The next day the clouds were higher, and a little wind blew through such
loopholes in the turrets as the false improvements of the inmates had not
yet filled with glass, shutting out, as the storm, so the serene visitings
of the heavens. Throughout the day, the brother took various opportunities
of addressing a gentle command, now to one and now to another of his
family. It was obeyed in silence. The wind blew fresher through the
loopholes and the shattered windows of the great rooms, and found its way,
by unknown passages, to faces and eyes hot with weeping. It cooled and
blessed them.--When the sun arose the next day, it was in a clear sky.

"By degrees, everything fell into the regularity of subordination. With
the subordination came increase of freedom. The steps of the more youthful
of the family were heard on the stairs and in the corridors more light and
quick than ever before. Their brother had lost the terrors of aspect
produced by his confinement, and his commands were issued more gently, and
oftener with a smile, than in all their previous history. By degrees his
presence was universally felt through the house. It was no surprise to any
one at his studies, to see him by his side when he lifted up his eyes,
though he had not before known that he was in the room. And although some
dread still remained, it was rapidly vanishing before the advances of a
firm friendship. Without immediately ordering their labours, he always
influenced them, and often altered their direction and objects. The change
soon evident in the household was remarkable. A simpler, nobler expression
was visible on all the countenances. The voices of the men were deeper,
and yet seemed by their very depth more feminine than before; while the
voices of the women were softer and sweeter, and at the same time more
full and decided. Now the eyes had often an expression as if their sight
was absorbed in the gaze of the inward eyes; and when the eyes of two met,
there passed between those eyes the utterance of a conviction that both
meant the same thing. But the change was, of course, to be seen more
clearly, though not more evidently, in individuals.

"One of the brothers, for instance, was very fond of astronomy. He had his
observatory on a lofty tower, which stood pretty clear of the others,
towards the north and east. But hitherto, his astronomy, as he had called
it, had been more of the character of astrology. Often, too, he might have
been seen directing a heaven-searching telescope to catch the rapid
transit of a fiery shooting-star, belonging altogether to the earthly
atmosphere, and not to the serene heavens. He had to learn that the signs
of the air are not the signs of the skies. Nay, once, his brother
surprised him in the act of examining through his longest tube a patch of
burning heath upon a distant hill. But now he was diligent from morning
till night in the study of the laws of the truth that has to do with
stars; and when the curtain of the sunlight was about to rise from before
the heavenly worlds which it had hidden all day long, he might be seen
preparing his instruments with that solemn countenance with which it
becometh one to look into the mysterious harmonies of Nature. Now he
learned what law and order and truth are, what consent and harmony mean;
how the individual may find his own end in a higher end, where law and
freedom mean the same thing, and the purest certainty exists without the
slightest constraint. Thus he stood on the earth, and looked to the
heavens.

"Another, who had been much given to searching out the hollow places and
recesses in the foundations of the castle, and who was often to be found
with compass and ruler working away at a chart of the same which he had
been in process of constructing, now came to the conclusion, that only by
ascending the upper regions of his abode could he become capable of
understanding what lay beneath; and that, in all probability, one clear
prospect, from the top of the highest attainable turret, over the castle
as it lay below, would reveal more of the idea of its internal
construction, than a year spent in wandering through its subterranean
vaults. But the fact was, that the desire to ascend wakening within him
had made him forget what was beneath; and having laid aside his chart for
a time at least, he was now to be met in every quarter of the upper parts,
searching and striving upward, now in one direction, now in another; and
seeking, as he went, the best outlooks into the clear air of outer
realities.

"And they began to discover that they were all meditating different
aspects of the same thing; and they brought together their various
discoveries, and recognized the likeness between them; and the one thing
often explained the other, and combining with it helped to a third. They
grew in consequence more and more friendly and loving; so that every now
and then one turned to another and said, as in surprise, 'Why, you are my
brother!'--'Why, you are my sister!' And yet they had always known it.

"The change reached to all. One, who lived on the air of sweet sounds, and
who was almost always to be found seated by her harp or some other
instrument, had, till the late storm, been generally merry and playful,
though sometimes sad. But for a long time after that, she was often found
weeping, and playing little simple airs which she had heard in childhood--
backward longings, followed by fresh tears. Before long, however, a new
element manifested itself in her music. It became yet more wild, and
sometimes retained all its sadness, but it was mingled with anticipation
and hope. The past and the future merged in one; and while memory yet
brought the rain-cloud, expectation threw the rainbow across its bosom--
and all was uttered in her music, which rose and swelled, now to defiance,
now to victory; then died in a torrent of weeping.

"As to the eldest sister, it was many days before she recovered from the
shock. At length, one day, her brother came to her, took her by the hand,
led her to an open window, and told her to seat herself by it, and look
out. She did so; but at first saw nothing more than an unsympathizing
blaze of sunlight. But as she looked, the horizon widened out, and the
dome of the sky ascended, till the grandeur seized upon her soul, and she
fell on her knees and wept. Now the heavens seemed to bend lovingly over
her, and to stretch out wide cloud-arms to embrace her; the earth lay like
the bosom of an infinite love beneath her, and the wind kissed her cheek
with an odour of roses. She sprang to her feet, and turned, in an agony of
hope, expecting to behold the face of the father, but there stood only her
brother, looking calmly though lovingly on her emotion. She turned again
to the window. On the hilltops rested the sky: Heaven and Earth were one;
and the prophecy awoke in her soul, that from betwixt them would the steps
of the father approach.

"Hitherto she had seen but Beauty; now she beheld Truth. Often had she
looked on such clouds as these, and loved the strange ethereal curves into
which the winds moulded them; and had smiled as her little pet sister told
her what curious animals she saw in them, and tried to point them out to
her. Now they were as troops of angels, jubilant over her new birth, for
they sang, in her soul, of beauty, and truth, and love. She looked down,
and her little sister knelt beside her.

"She was a curious child, with black, glittering eyes, and dark hair; at
the mercy of every wandering wind; a frolicsome, daring girl, who laughed
more than she smiled. She was generally in attendance on her sister, and
was always finding and bringing her strange things. She never pulled a
primrose, but she knew the haunts of all the orchis tribe, and brought
from them bees and butterflies innumerable, as offerings to her sister.
Curious moths and glow-worms were her greatest delight; and she loved the
stars, because they were like the glow-worms. But the change had affected
her too; for her sister saw that her eyes had lost their glittering look,
and had become more liquid and transparent. And from that time she often
observed that her gaiety was more gentle, her smile more frequent, her
laugh less bell-like; and although she was as wild as ever, there was more
elegance in her motions, and more music in her voice. And she clung to her
sister with far greater fondness than before.

"The land reposed in the embrace of the warm summer days. The clouds of
heaven nestled around the towers of the castle; and the hearts of its
inmates became conscious of a warm atmosphere--of a presence of love. They
began to feel like the children of a household, when the mother is at
home. Their faces and forms grew daily more and more beautiful, till they
wondered as they gazed on each other. As they walked in the gardens of the
castle, or in the country around, they were often visited, especially the
eldest sister, by sounds that no one heard but themselves, issuing from
woods and waters; and by forms of love that lightened out of flowers, and
grass, and great rocks. Now and then the young children would come in with
a slow, stately step, and, with great eyes that looked as if they would
devour all the creation, say that they had met the father amongst the
trees, and that he had kissed them; 'And,' added one of them once, 'I grew
so big!' But when the others went out to look, they could see no one. And
some said it must have been the brother, who grew more and more beautiful,
and loving, and reverend, and who had lost all traces of hardness, so that
they wondered they could ever have thought him stern and harsh. But the
eldest sister held her peace, and looked up, and her eyes filled with
tears. 'Who can tell,' thought she, 'but the little children know more
about it than we?'

"Often, at sunrise, might be heard their hymn of praise to their unseen
father, whom they felt to be near, though they saw him not. Some words
thereof once reached my ear through the folds of the music in which they
floated, as in an upward snowstorm of sweet sounds. And these are some of
the words I heard--but there was much I seemed to hear which I could not
understand, and some things which I understood but cannot utter again.

"'We thank thee that we have a father, and not a maker; that thou hast
begotten us, and not moulded us as images of clay; that we have come forth
of thy heart, and have not been fashioned by thy hands. It _must_ be so.
Only the heart of a father is able to create. We rejoice in it, and bless
thee that we know it. We thank thee for thyself. Be what thou art--our
root and life, our beginning and end, our all in all. Come home to us.
Thou livest; therefore we live. In thy light we see. Thou art--that is all
our song.'

"Thus they worship, and love, and wait. Their hope and expectation grow
ever stronger and brighter, that one day, ere long, the Father will show
Himself amongst them, and thenceforth dwell in His own house for evermore.
What was once but an old legend has become the one desire of their hearts.

"And the loftiest hope is the surest of being fulfilled."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Thank you, heartily," said the curate. "I will choose another time to
tell you how much I have enjoyed your parable, which is altogether to my
mind, and far beyond anything I could do."

Mr. Bloomfield returned no answer, but his countenance showed that he was
far from hearing this praise unmoved. The faces of the rest showed that
they too had listened with pleasure; and Adela's face shone as if she had
received more than delight--hope, namely, and onward impulse. The colonel
alone--I forgot to say that Mrs. Cathcart had a headache, and did not
come--seemed to have been left behind.

"I am a stupid old fellow, I believe," said he; "but to tell the truth, I
did not know what to make of it. It seemed all the time to be telling me
in one breath something I knew and something I didn't and couldn't know. I
wish I could express what I mean, but it puzzled me too much for that;
although every now and then it sounded very beautiful indeed."

"I will try and tell you what it said to me, sometime, papa," said Adela.

"Thank you, my child; I should much like to understand it. I believe I
have done my duty by my king and country, but a man has to learn a good
deal after all that is over and done with; and I suppose it is never too
late to begin, Mr. Armstrong?"

"On the contrary, I not merely believe that no future time can be so good
as the present, but I am inclined to assert that no past time could have
been so good as the present. This seems to be a paradox, but I think I
could explain it very easily. I find, however, that the ladies are looking
as if they wanted to go home, and I am quite ready, Mrs. Armstrong. But
while the ladies put their bonnets on, just let Smith see your schoolroom,
Mr. Bloomfield. As an inhabitant of Purleybridge, I already begin to be
proud of it."

The ladies did go to put on their bonnets. I followed Mr. Bloomfield and
the colonel into the schoolroom, and the curate followed me. But after we
had looked about us and remarked on the things about for five minutes,
finding I had left my handkerchief in the drawing-room, I went back to
fetch it. The door was open, and I saw Adela--no bonnet on her head yet--
standing face to face with Harry. They were alone. I hesitated for a
moment what I should do, and while I hesitated, I could not help seeing
the arm of the doctor curved and half-outstretched, as if it would gladly
have folded about her, and his face droop and droop, till it could not
have been more than half a foot from hers. Now, as far as my seeing this
was concerned, there was no harm done. But behind me came the curate and
the schoolmaster, and they had eyes in their heads, at least equal to
mine. Well, no great harm yet. And just far enough down the stair to see
into the drawing-room, appeared their wives, who could not fail to see the
unconscious pair, at least as well as we men below. Still there was no
great harm done, for Mrs. Cathcart was at home, as I have said. But,
_horresco referens!_ excuse the recondite quotation--at the same moment
the form of the colonel appeared, looking over the heads of all before him
right in at the drawing-room door, and full at the young sinners, who had
heard no sound along the matted passage.

"Here's a go!" said I to myself--not aloud, observe, for it was slang.

For just think of a man like Harry caught thus in a perfect trap of
converging looks.

As if from a sudden feeling of hostile presence, he glanced round--and
stood erect. The poor fellow's face at once flushed as red as shame could
make it, but he neither lost his self-possession, nor sought to escape
under cover of a useless pretence. He turned to the colonel.

"Colonel Cathcart," he said, "I will choose a more suitable time to make
my apology. I wish you good night."

He bowed to us all, not choosing to risk a refusal of his hand by the
colonel, and went quickly out of the house.

The colonel stood for some moments, which felt to me like minutes, as if
he had just mounted guard at the drawing-room door. His face was perfectly
expressionless. We men felt very much like stale oysters, and would rather
have skipped that same portion of our inevitable existence. What the
ladies felt, I do not pretend, being an old bachelor, to divine.

Adela, pale as death, fled up the stair. The only thing left for the rest
of us was, to act as much as possible as if nothing were the matter, and
get out of the way before the poor girl came down again. As soon as I got
home, I went to my own room, and thus avoided the _tete-a-tete_ with my
host which generally closed our evenings.

The colonel went up to his daughter's room, and remained there for nearly
an hour. Adela was not at the breakfast-table the next morning. Her father
looked very gloomy, and Mrs. Cathcart grimly satisfied, with _I told you
so_ written on her face as plainly as I have now written it on the paper.
How she came to know anything about it, I can only conjecture.



CHAPTER VIII.

WHAT NEXT?


Harry called early, and was informed that the colonel was not at home.

"Something's the matter, Mr. Armstrong," said Beeves. "Master's not at
home to you to-day, he says, nor any other day till he countermands the
order--that was the word, sir. I'm sure I am very sorry, sir."

"So am I," said Harry. "How's your mistress?"

"Haven't seen her to-day, sir. Emma says she's poorly. But she is down.
Emma looks as if she knew something and wouldn't tell it. I'll get it out
of her though, sir. We'll be having that old Wade coming about the house
again, I'm afeard, sir. _He's_ no good."

"At all events you will let your master know that I have called," said
Harry, as he turned disconsolately, to take his departure.

"That I will, sir. And I'll be sure he hears me. He's rather deaf,
sometimes, you know, sir."

"Thank you, Beeves. Good morning."

Now what could have been Harry's intention in calling upon the colonel?
Why, as he had said himself, to make an apology. But what kind of apology
could he make? Clearly there was only one that would satisfy all parties--
and that must be in the form of a request to be allowed to pay his
addresses--(that used to be the phrase in my time--I don't know the young
ladies' slang for it now-a-days)--to Adela. Did I say--_satisfy all
parties_? This was just the one form affairs might take, which would least
of all satisfy the colonel. I believe, with all his rigid proprieties, he
would have preferred the confession that the doctor had so far forgotten
himself as to attempt to snatch a kiss--a theft of which I cannot imagine
a gentleman guilty, least of all a doctor from his patient; which relation
no doubt the colonel persisted in regarding as the sole possible and
everlastingly permanent one between Adela and Harry. The former was,
however, the only apology Harry could make; and evidently the colonel
expected it when he refused to see him.

But why should he refuse to see him?--The doctor was not on an equality
with the colonel. Well, to borrow a form from the Shorter Catechism:
wherein consisted the difference between the colonel and the doctor?--The
difference between the colonel and the doctor consisted chiefly in this,
that whereas the colonel lived by the wits of his ancestors, Harry lived
by his own, and therefore was not so respectable as the colonel. Or in
other words: the colonel inherited a good estate, with the ordinary
quantity of brains; while Harry inherited a good education and an
extraordinary quantity of brains. So of course it was very presumptuous in
Harry to aspire to the hand of Miss Cathcart.

In the forenoon the curate called upon me, and was shown into the library
where I was.

"What's that scapegrace brother of mine been doing, Smith?" he asked, the
moment he entered.

"Wanting to marry Adela," I replied.

"What has he done?"

"Called this morning."

"And seen Colonel Cathcart?"

"No."

"Not at home?"

"In a social sense, not at home; in a moral sense, very far from at home;
in a natural sense, seated in his own arm-chair, with his own work on the
Peninsular War open on the table before him."

"Wouldn't see him?"

"No."

"What's he to do then?"

"I think we had better leave that to him. Harry is not the man I take him
for if he doesn't know his own way better than you or I can tell him."

"You're right, Smith. How's Miss Cathcart?"

"I have never seen her so well. Certainly she did not come down to
breakfast, but I believe that was merely from shyness. She appeared in the
dining-room directly after, and although it was evident she had been
crying, her step was as light and her colour as fresh as her lover even
could wish to see them."

"Then she is not without hope in the matter?"

"If she loves him, and I think she does, she is not without hope. But I do
not think the fact of her looking well would be sufficient to prove that.
For some mental troubles will favour the return of bodily health. They
will at least give one an interest in life."

"Then you think her father has given in a little about it?"

"I don't believe it.--If her illness and she were both of an ordinary
kind, she would gain her point now by taking to her bed. But from what I
know of Adela she would scorn and resist that."

"Well, we must let matters take their course. Harry is worthy of the best
wife in Christendom."

"I believe it. And more, if Adela will make that best wife, I think he
will have the best wife. But we must have patience."

Next morning, a letter arrived from Harry to the colonel. I have seen it,
and it was to this effect:

"My dear Sir,--As you will not see me, I am forced to write to you. Let my
earnest entreaty to be allowed to address your daughter, cover, if it
cannot make up for, my inadvertence of the other evening. I am very sorry
I have offended you. If you will receive me, I trust you will not find it
hard to forget. Yours, &c."

To this the colonel replied:

"Sir,--It is at least useless, if not worse, to apply for an _ex post
facto_ permission. What I might have answered, had the courtesies of
society been observed, it may be easy for me to determine, but it is
useless now to repeat. Allow me to say that I consider such behaviour of a
medical practitioner towards a young lady, his patient, altogether
unworthy of a gentleman, as every member of a learned profession is
supposed to be. I have the honour, &c."

I returned the curate's call, and while we were sitting in his study, in
walked Harry with a rather rueful countenance.

"What do you say to that, Ralph?" said he, handing his brother the letter.

"Cool," replied Ralph. "But Harry, my boy, you have given him quite the
upper hand of you. How could you be so foolish as kiss the girl there and
then?"

"I didn't," said Harry.

"But you did just as bad. You were going to do it."

"I don't think I was. But somehow those great eyes of hers kept pulling
and pulling my head, so that I don't know what I was going to do. I
remember nothing but her eyes. Suddenly a scared look in them startled me,
and I saw it all. Mr. Smith, was it so very dishonourable of me?"

"You are the best judge of that yourself, Harry," I answered. "Just let me
look at the note."

I read it, folded it up carefully, and returning it, said:

"He's given you a good hold of him there. It is really too bad of
Cathcart, being a downright good fellow, to forget that he ran away with
Miss Selby, old Sir George, the baronet's daughter. Neither of them ever
repented it; though he was only Captain Cathcart then, in a regiment of
foot, too, and was not even next heir to the property he has now."

"Hurrah!" cried Harry.

"Stop, stop. That doesn't make it a bit better," said his brother. "I
suppose you mean to argue with him on that ground, do you?"

"No, I don't. I'm not such a fool. But if I _should_ be forced to run away
with her, _he_ can't complain, you know."

"No, no, Harry, my boy," said I. "That won't do. It would break the old
man's heart. You must have patience for a while."

"Yes, yes. I know what I mean to do."

"What?"

"When I've made up my mind, I never ask advice. It only bewilders a
fellow."

"Quite right, Hal," said his brother. "Only don't do anything foolish."

"I won't do anything she doesn't like."

"No, nor anything you won't like yourself afterwards," I ventured to say.

"I hope not," returned he, gravely, as he walked out, too much absorbed to
bid either of us _good morning_.

It was now more than time that I should return to town; but I could not
leave affairs in this unsatisfactory state. I therefore lingered on to see
what would come next.



CHAPTER IX.

GENERALSHIP.


The next day Harry called again.

"Master 'aint countermanded the order, Doctor. He 'aint at home--not a bit
of it. He 'aint been out of the house since that night."

"Well, is Miss Cathcart at home?"

"She's said nothing to the contrairy, sir. I believe she _is_ at home. I
know she's out in the garding--on the terridge."

And old Beeves held the door wide open, as if to say--"Don't stop to ask
any questions, but step into the garden." Which Harry did.

There was a high gravel terrace along one end of it, always dry and sunny
when there was any sun going; and there she was, over-looked by the
windows of her papa's room.

Now I do not know anything that passed upon that terrace. How should I
know? Neither of them was likely to tell old Smith. And I wonder at the
clumsiness of novelists in pretending to reveal all that _he_ said, and
all that _she_ answered. But if I were such a clumsy novelist, I should
like to invent it all, and see if I couldn't make you believe every word
of it.

This is what I would invent.

The moment Adela caught sight of Harry, she cast one frightened glance up
to her father's windows, and stood waiting. He lifted his hat; and held
out his hand. She took it. Neither spoke. They turned together and walked
along the terrace.

"I am very sorry," said Harry at last.

"Are you? What for?"

"Because I got you into a scrape."

"Oh! I don't care."

"Don't you?"

"No; not a bit."

"I didn't mean it."

"What didn't you mean?"

"It did look like it, I know."

"Look like what?"

"Adela, you'll drive me crazy. It was all your fault."

"So I told papa, and he was angrier than ever."

"You angel! It wasn't your fault. It was your eyes. I couldn't help it.
Adela, I love you dreadfully."

"I'm _so_ glad."

She gave a sigh as of relief.

"Why?"

"Because I wished you would. But I don't deserve it. A great clever man
like you love a useless girl like me! I _am_ so glad!"

"But your papa?"

"I'm so happy, I can't think about him steadily just yet."

"Adela, I love you--so dearly! Only I am too old for you."

"Old! how old are you?"

"Nearly thirty."

"And I'm only one-and-twenty. You're worth one and a half of me--yes
twenty of me."

And so their lips played with the ripples of love, while their hearts were
heaving with the ground swell of its tempest.

Now what I do know about is this:

The colonel came down-stairs in his dressing-gown and slippers, and found
Beeves flattening his nose against the glass of the garden-door.

"Beeves!" said the colonel.

"Sir!" said Beeves, darting around and confronting his master with a face
purple and pale from the sense of utter unpreparedness.

"Beeves, where is your mistress?"

"My mistress, sir? I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure, sir! How should I
know, sir? I 'aint let her out. Shall I run up-stairs and see if she is in
her room?"

"Open the door."

Beeves laid violent hold upon the handle of the door, and pulled and
twisted, but always took care to pull before he twisted.

"I declare if that stupid Ann 'aint been and locked it. It aint nice in
the garden to-day, sir--leastways without goloshes," added he, looking
down at his master's slippers.

Now the colonel understood Beeves, and Beeves knew that he understood him.
But Beeves knew likewise that the colonel would not give in to the
possibility of his servant's taking such liberties with him.

"Never mind," said the colonel; "I will go the other way."

The moment he was out of sight, Beeves opened the garden-door, and began
gesticulating like a madman, fully persuaded that the doctor would make
his escape. But so far from being prepared to run away, Harry had come
there with the express intention of forcing a conference. So that when the
colonel made his appearance on the terrace, the culprits walked slowly
towards him. He went to meet them with long military strides, and was the
first to speak.

"Mr. Armstrong, to what am I to attribute this intrusion?"

"Chiefly to the desire of seeing you, Colonel Cathcart."

"And I find you with my daughter!--Adela, go in-doors,"

Adela withdrew at once.

"You denied yourself, and I inquired for Miss Cathcart."

"You will oblige me by not calling again."

"Surely I have committed no fault beyond forgiveness."

"You have taken advantage of your admission into my family to entrap the
affections of my daughter."

"Colonel Cathcart, as far as my conscience tells me, I have not behaved
unworthily."

"Sir, is it not unworthy of a gentleman to use such professional
advantages to gain the favour of one who--you will excuse me for reminding
you of what you will not allow me to forget--is as much above him in
social position, as inferior to him in years and experience."

"Is it always unworthy in a gentleman to aspire to a lady above him in
social position, Colonel Cathcart?"

The honesty of the colonel checked all reply to this home-thrust.

Harry resumed:

"At least I am able to maintain my wife in what may be considered
comfort."

"Your wife!" exclaimed the colonel, his anger blazing out at the word. "If
you use that expression with any prospective reference to Miss Cathcart, I
am master enough in my own family to insure you full possession of the
presumption. I wish you good morning."

The angry man of war turned on his slippered heel, and was striding away.

"One word, I beg," said Harry.

The colonel had too much courtesy in his nature not to stop and turn half
towards the speaker.

"I beg to assure you," said Harry, "that I shall continue to cherish the
hope that after-thoughts will present my conduct, as well as myself, in a
more favourable light to Colonel Cathcart."

And he lifted his hat, and walked away by the gate.

"By Jove!" said the colonel, to himself, notwithstanding the rage he was
in, "the fellow can express himself like a gentleman, anyhow."

And so he went back to his room, where I heard him pacing about for hours.
I believe he found that his better self was not to be so easily put down
as he had supposed; and that that better self sided with Adela and Harry.



CHAPTER X.

AN UNFORESEEN FORESIGHT.


What else is a Providence?

Harry went about his work as usual, only with a graver face.

Adela looked very sad, but without any of her old helpless and hopeless
air. Her health was quite established; and she now returned all the
attention her father had paid to her.--Fortunately Mrs. Cathcart had gone
home.

"Cunning puss!" some of my readers may say; "she was trying to coax the
old man out of his resolution." But such a notion would be quite unjust to
my niece. She was more in danger of going to the other extreme, to avoid
hypocrisy. But she had the divine gift of knowing what any one she loved
was feeling and thinking; and she knew that her father was suffering, and
all about it. The old man's pace grew heavier; the lines about his mouth
grew deeper; he sat at table without speaking; he ate very little, and
drank more wine. Adela's eyes followed his every action. I could see that
sometimes she was ready to rise and throw her arms about him. Often I saw
in her lovely eyes that peculiar clearness of the atmosphere which
indicates the nearness of rain. And once or twice she rose and left the
room, as if to save her from an otherwise unavoidable exposure of her
feelings.

The gloom fell upon the servants too. Beeves waited in a leaden-handed
way, that showed he was determined to do his duty, although it should
bring small pleasure with it. He took every opportunity of unburdening his
bosom to me.

"It's just like when mis'ess died," said he. "The very cocks walk about
the yard as if they had hearse-plumes in their tails. Everybody looks
ready to hang hisself, except you, Mr. Smith. And that's a comfort."

The fact was, that I had very little doubt as to how it would all end. But
I would not interfere; for I saw that it would be much better for the
colonel's heart and conscience to right themselves, than that he should be
persuaded to anything, it was very hard for him. He had led his regiment
to victory and glory; he had charged and captured many a gun; he had
driven the enemy out of many a boldly defended entrenchment; and was it
not hard that he could not drive the _eidolon_ of a country surgeon out of
the bosom of his little girl? (It was hard that he could not; but it would
have been a deal harder if he could). He had nursed and loved, and petted
and spoiled her. And she _would_ care for a man whom he disliked!

But here the old man was mistaken. He did not dislike Harry Armstrong.
He admired and honoured him. He almost loved him for his gallant devotion
to his duty. He would have been proud of him for a son--but not for a
son-in-law. He would not have minded adopting him, or doing anything _but_
giving him Adela. There was a great deal of pride left in the old soldier,
and that must be taken out of him. We shall all have to thank God for the
whip of scorpions which, if needful, will do its part to drive us into the
kingdom of heaven.

"How happy the dear old man will be," I said to myself, "when he just
yields this last castle of selfishness, and walks unhoused into the new
childhood, of which God takes care!"

And this end came sooner than I had looked for it.

I had made up my mind that it would be better for me to go.

When I told Adela that I must go, she gave me a look in which lay the
whole story in light and in tears. I answered with a pressure of her hand
and an old uncle's kiss. But no word was spoken on the subject.

I had a final cigar with the curate, and another with the schoolmaster;
bade them and their wives good-bye; told them all would come right if we
only had patience, and then went to Harry. But he was in the country, and
I thought I should not see him again.

With the assistance of good Beeves, I got my portmanteau packed that
night. I was going to start about ten o'clock next morning. It was long
before I got to sleep, and I heard the step of the colonel, whose room was
below mine on the drawing-room floor, going up and down, up and down, all
the time, till slumber came at last, and muffled me up.--We met at
breakfast, a party lugubrious enough. Beeves waited like a mute; the
colonel ate his breakfast like an offended parent; Adela trifled with hers
like one who had other things to think about; and I ate mine like a
parting guest who was being anything but sped. When the postbag was
brought in, the colonel unlocked it mechanically; distributed the letters;
opened one with indifference, read a few lines, and with a groan fell back
in his chair. We started up, and laid him on the sofa. With the privilege
of an old friend, I glanced at the letter, and found that a certain
speculation in which the colonel had ventured largely, had utterly failed.
I told Adela enough to satisfy her as to the nature of the misfortune. We
feared apoplexy, but before we could send for any medical man, he opened
his eyes, and called Adela. He clasped her to his bosom, and then tried to
rise; but fell back helpless.

"Shall we send for Dr. Wade?" said Adela, trembling and pale as death.

"Dr. Wade!" faltered the old man, with a perceptible accent of scorn.

"Which shall we send for?" I said.

"How can you ask?" he answered, feebly. "Harry Armstrong, of course."

The blood rushed into Adela's white face, and Beeves rushed out of the
room. In a quarter of an hour, Harry was with us. Adela had retired. He
made a few inquiries, administered some medicine he had brought with him,
and, giving orders that he should not be disturbed for a couple of hours,
left him with the injunction to keep perfectly quiet.

"Take my traps up to my room again, Beeves: and tell the coach-man he
won't be wanted this morning."

"Thank you, sir," said Beeves. "I don't know what we should do without
you, sir."

When Harry returned, we carried the colonel up to his own room, and Beeves
got him to bed. I said something about a nurse, but Harry said there was
no one so fit to nurse him as Adela. The poor man had never been ill
before; and I daresay he would have been very rebellious, had he not had a
great trouble at his heart to quiet him. He was as submissive as could be
desired.

I felt sure he would be better as soon as he had told Adela. I gave Harry
a hint of the matter, and he looked very much as if he would shout "Oh,
jolly!" but he did not.

Towards the evening, the colonel called his daughter to his bedside, and
said,

"Addie, darling, I have hurt you dreadfully."

"Oh, no! dear papa; you have not. And it is so easy to put it all right,
you know," she added, turning her head away a little.

"No, my child," he said in a tone full of self-reproach, "nobody can put
it right. I have made us both beggars, Addie, my love."

"Well, dearest papa, you can bear a little poverty surely?"

"It's not of myself I am thinking, my darling. Don't do me that injustice,
or I shall behave like a fool. It's only you I am thinking of."

"Oh, is that all, papa? Do you know that, if it were not for your sake, I
could sing a song about it!"

"Ah! you don't know what you make so light of. Poverty is not so easy to
endure."

"Papa," said Adela, solemnly, "if you knew how awful things looked to me
a little while ago--but it's all gone now!--the whole earth black and
frozen to the heart, with no God in it, and nothing worth living for--you
would not wonder that I take the prospect of poverty with absolute
indifference--yes, if you will believe me, with something of a strange
excitement. There will be something to battle with and beat."

And she stretched out a strong, beautiful white arm--from which the loose
open sleeve fell back, as if with that weapon of might she would strike
poverty to the earth; but it was only to adjust the pillow, which had
slipped sideways from the loved head.

"But Mr. Armstrong will not want to marry you now, Addie."

"Oh, won't he?" thought Adela; or at least I think she thought so. But she
said, rather demurely, and very shyly:

"But that won't be any worse than it was before; for you know you would
never have let me marry him anyhow."

"Oh! yes, I would, in time, Adela. I am not such a brute as you take me
for."

"Oh! you dear darling papa!" cried the poor child, and burst into tears,
with her head on her father's bosom. And he began comforting her so
sweetly, that you would have thought she had lost everything, and he was
going to give her all back again.

"Papa! papa!" she cried, "I will work for you; I will be your servant; I
will love you and love you to all eternity. I won't leave you. I won't
indeed. What _does_ it matter for the money!"

At this moment the doctor entered.

"Ah!" he said, "this won't do at all. I thought you would have made a
better nurse, Miss Adela. There you are, both crying together!"

"Indeed, Mr. Henry," said Adela, rather comically, "it's not my fault. He
would cry."

And as she spoke she wiped away her own tears.

"But he's looking much better, after all," said Harry. "Allow me to feel
your pulse."

The patient was pronounced much better; fresh orders were given; and Harry
took his leave.

But Adela felt vexed. She did not consider that he knew nothing of what
had passed between her father and her. To the warm fire-side of her
knowledge, he came in wintry and cold. Of course it would never do for the
doctor to aggravate his patient's symptoms by making love to his daughter;
but ought he not to have seen that it was all right between them now?--How
often we feel and act as if our mood were the atmosphere of the world! It
may be a cold frost within us, when our friend is in the glow of a summer
sunset: and we call him unsympathetic and unfeeling. If we let him know
the state of our world, we should see the rosehues fade from his, and our
friend put off his singing robes, and sit down with us in sackcloth and
ashes, to share our temptation and grief.

"You see I cannot offer you to him now, Adela," said her father.

"No, papa."

But I knew that all had come right, although I saw from Adela's manner
that she was not happy about it.

So things went on for a week, during which the colonel was slowly mending.
I used to read him to sleep. Adela would sit by the fire, or by the
bedside, and go and come while I was reading.

One afternoon, in the twilight, Harry entered. We greeted; and then,
turning to the bed, I discovered that my friend was asleep. We drew
towards the fire, and sat down. Adela had gone out of the room a few
minutes before.

"He is such a manageable patient!" I said.

"Noble old fellow!" returned the doctor. "I wish he would like me, and
then all would be well."

"He doesn't dislike you personally," I said.

"I hope not. I can understand his displeasure perfectly, and repugnance
too. But I assure you, Mr. Smith, I did not lay myself out to gain her
affections. I was caught myself before I knew. And I believe she liked me
too before she knew."

"I fear their means will be very limited after this."

"For his sake I am very sorry to hear it; but for my own, I cannot help
thinking it the luckiest thing that could have happened."

"I am not so sure of that. It might increase the difficulty."

At this moment I thought I heard the handle of the door move, but there
was a screen between us and it. I went on.

"That is, if you still want to marry her, you know."

"Marry her!" he said. "If she were a beggar-maid, I would be proud as King
Cophetua to marry her to-morrow."

There was a rustle in the twilight, and a motion of its gloom. With a
quick gliding, Adela drew near, knelt beside Harry, and hid her eyes on
his knee. I thought it better to go.

Was this unmaidenly of her?

I say "No, for she knew that he loved her."

As I left the room, I heard the colonel call--

"Adela."

And when I returned, I found them both standing by the bedside, and the
old man holding a hand of each.

"Now, John Smith," I said to myself, "you may go when you please."

Before we, that is, I and my reader, part, however, my reader may be
inclined to address me thus:

"Pray, Mr. Smith, do you think it was your wonderful prescription of
story-telling, that wrought Miss Cathcart's cure?"

"How can I tell?" I answer. "Probably it had its share. But there were
other things to take into the account. If you went on to ask me whether it
was not Harry's prescriptions; or whether it was not the curate's sermons;
or whether it was not her falling in love with the doctor; or whether even
her father's illness and the loss of their property had not something to
do with it; or whether it was not the doctor's falling in love with her;
or that the cold weather suited her; I should reply in the same way to
every one of the interrogatories."

But I retort another question:

"Did you ever know anything whatever resulting from the operation of one
separable cause?"

In regard to any good attempt I have ever made in my life, I am content to
know that the end has been gained. Whether _I_ have succeeded or not is of
no consequence, if I have tried well.--In the present case, Adela
recovered; and my own conviction is, that the cure was effected mainly
from within. Except in physics, we can put nothing to the _experimentum
crucis_, and must be content with conjecture and probability.

The night before I left, I had a strange dream. I stood in a lonely
cemetery in a pine-forest. Dark trees that never shed their foliage rose
all around--strange trees that mourn for ever, because they never die. The
dream light that has no visible source, because it is in the soul that
dreams, showed all in a dim blue-grey dawn, that never grew clearer. The
night wind was the only power abroad save myself. It went with slow
intermitting, sigh-like gusts, through the tops of the dreaming trees; for
the trees seemed, in the midst of my dream, to have dreams of their own.

Now this burial-place was mine. I had tended it for years. In it lay all
the men and women whom I had honoured and loved.

And I was a great sculptor. And over every grave I had placed a marble
altar, and upon every altar the marble bust of the man or woman who lay
beneath; each in the supreme beauty which all the defects of birth and of
time and of incompleteness, could not hide from the eye of the prophetic
sculptor. Each was like a half-risen glorified form of the being who had
there descended into the realms of Hades. And through these glimmering
rows of the dead I walked in the dream-light; and from one to another I
went in the glory of having known and loved them; now weeping sad tears
over the loss of the beautiful; now rejoicing in the strength of the
mighty; now exulting in the love and truth which would yet dawn upon me
when I too should go down beneath the visible, and emerge in the realms of
the actual and the unseen? All the time I was sensible of a wondrous
elevation of being, a glory of life and feeling hitherto unknown to me.

I had entered the secret places of my own hidden world by the gate of
sleep, and walked about them in my dream.

Gradually I became aware that a foreign sound was mingling with the
sighing of the tree-tops overhead. It grew and grew, till I recognized the
sound of wheels--not of heavenly chariots, but of earthly motion and
business. I heard them stop at the lofty gates of my holy place, and by
twoes and threes, or in solitary singleness, came people into my garden of
the dead. And who should they be but the buried ones?--all those whose
marble busts stood in ghostly silence, within the shadows of the
everlasting pines? And they talked and laughed and jested. And my
city of the dead melted away. And lo! we stood in the midst of a great
market-place; and I knew it to be the market-place in which the children
had sat who said to the other children:

"We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you,
and ye have not lamented."

And to my misery, I saw that the faces of my fathers and brothers, my
mothers and sisters, had not grown nobler in the country of the dead, in
which I had thought them safe and shining. Cares, as of this world, had so
settled upon them, that I could hardly recognize the old likeness; and the
dim forms of the ideal glory which I had reproduced in my marble busts,
had vanished altogether. Ah me! my world of the dead! my city of
treasures, hid away under the locks and bars of the unchangeable! Was
there then no world of realities?--only a Vanity Fair after all? The
glorious women went sweeping about, smiling and talking, and buying and
adorning, but they were glorious no longer; for they had common thoughts,
and common beauties, and common language and aims and hopes; and
everything was common about them. And ever and anon, with a kind of
shiver, as if to keep alive my misery by the sight of my own dreams, the
marble busts would glimmer out, faintly visible amidst the fair, as if
about to reappear, and, dispossessing the vacuity of folly, assert the
noble and the true, and give me back my dead to love and worship once
more, in the loneliness of the pine-forest. Side by side with a greedy
human face, would shimmer out for a moment the ghostly marble face; and
the contrast all but drove me mad with perplexity and misery.

"Alas!" I cried, "where is my future? Where is my beautiful death?"

All at once I saw the face of a man who went round and round the skirts of
the market, and looked earnestly in amongst the busy idlers. He was head
and shoulders taller than any there; and his face was a pale face, with an
infinite future in it, visible in all its grief. I made my way through the
crowd, which regarded me with a look which I could not understand, and
came to the stranger. I threw myself at his feet and sobbed: "I have lost
them all. I will follow thee." He took me by the hand, and led me back. We
walked up and down the fair together. And as we walked, the tumult
lessened, and lessened. They made a path for us to go, and all eyes were
turned upon my guide. The tumult sank, and all was still. Men and women
stood in silent rows. My guide looked upon them all, on the right and on
the left. And they all looked on him till their eyes filled with tears.
And the old faces of my friends grew slowly out of the worldly faces,
until at length they were such as I had known of yore.

Suddenly they all fell upon their knees, and their faces changed into the
likeness of my marble faces. Then my guide waved his hand--and lo! we were
in the midst of my garden of the dead; and the wind was like the sound of
a going in the tops of the pine trees; and my white marbles glimmered
glorified on the altars of the tombs. And the dream vanished, and I came
awake.

And I will not say here whose face the face of my guide was like.

THE END.





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