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Adela Cathcart, Volume 3

by George MacDonald · English · Gutenberg #8943 · 338,297 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Adela Cathcart, Volume 3

Author: George MacDonald


        
Release date: September 1, 2005 [eBook #8943]
                Most recently updated: August 8, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8943

Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charles Bidwell and Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADELA CATHCART, VOLUME 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 re

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