THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLESTAR AND OTHER TALES BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
TO
MY FRIEND
MAJOR-GENERAL A. W. DRAYSON
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN
OF
MY ADMIRATION FOR HIS GREAT
AND AS YET UNRECOGNISED SERVICES TO ASTRONOMY
This little Volume
IS
DEDICATED
PREFACE
For the use of some of the following Tales I am
indebted to the courtesy of the Proprietors of
"Cornhill," "Temple Bar," "Belgravia," "London
Society," "Cassell's," and "The Boy's Own Paper."
A. CONAN DOYLE, M.D.
CONTENTS.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE-STAR
J. HABAKUK JEPHSON'S STATEMENT
THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT
THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL
THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX
JOHN HUXFORD'S HIATUS
A LITERARY MOSAIC
JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES
THE PARSON OF JACKMAN'S GULCH
THE RING OF THOTH
THE CAPTAIN OF THE "POLE-STAR."
[Being an extract from the singular journal of JOHN M`ALISTER RAY,
student of medicine.]
September 11th.--Lat. 81 degrees 40' N.; long. 2 degrees E. Still
lying-to amid enormous ice fields. The one which stretches away to
the north of us, and to which our ice-anchor is attached, cannot be
smaller than an English county. To the right and left unbroken
sheets extend to the horizon. This morning the mate reported that
there were signs of pack ice to the southward. Should this form of
sufficient thickness to bar our return, we shall be in a position
of danger, as the food, I hear, is already running somewhat short.
It is late in the season, and the nights are beginning to reappear.
This morning I saw a star twinkling just over the fore-yard, the
first since the beginning of May. There is considerable discontent
among the crew, many of whom are anxious to get back home to be in
time for the herring season, when labour always commands a high
price upon the Scotch coast. As yet their displeasure is only
signified by sullen countenances and black looks, but I heard from
the second mate this afternoon that they contemplated sending a
deputation to the Captain to explain their grievance. I much doubt
how he will receive it, as he is a man of fierce temper, and very
sensitive about anything approaching to an infringement of his
rights. I shall venture after dinner to say a few words to him
upon the subject. I have always found that he will tolerate from
me what he would resent from any other member of the crew.
Amsterdam Island, at the north-west corner of Spitzbergen, is
visible upon our starboard quarter--a rugged line of volcanic
rocks, intersected by white seams, which represent glaciers. It is
curious to think that at the present moment there is probably no
human being nearer to us than the Danish settlements in the south
of Greenland--a good nine hundred miles as the crow flies. A
captain takes a great responsibility upon himself when he risks his
vessel under such circumstances. No whaler has ever remained in
these latitudes till so advanced a period of the year.
9 P.M,--I have spoken to Captain Craigie, and though the result has
been hardly satisfactory, I am bound to say that he listened to
what I had to say very quietly and even deferentially. When I had
finished he put on that air of iron determination which I have
frequently observed upon his face, and paced rapidly backwards and
forwards across the narrow cabin for some minutes. At first I
feared that I had seriously offended him, but he dispelled the idea
by sitting down again, and putting his hand upon my arm with a
gesture which almost amounted to a caress. There was a depth of
tenderness too in his wild dark eyes which surprised me
considerably. "Look here, Doctor," he said, "I'm sorry I ever took
you--I am indeed--and I would give fifty pounds this minute to see
you standing safe upon the Dundee quay. It's hit or miss with me
this time. There are fish to the north of us. How dare you shake
your head, sir, when I tell you I saw them blowing from the
masthead?"--this in a sudden burst of fury, though I was not
conscious of having shown any signs of doubt. "Two-and-twenty fish
in as many minutes as I am a living man, and not one under ten
foot.[1] Now, Doctor, do you think I can leave the country when
there is only one infernal strip of ice between me and my fortune?
If it came on to blow from the north to-morrow we could fill the
ship and be away before the frost could catch us. If it came on to
blow from the south--well, I suppose the men are paid for risking
their lives, and as for myself it matters but little to me, for I
have more to bind me to the other world than to this one. I
confess that I am sorry for you, though. I wish I had old Angus
Tait who was with me last voyage, for he was a man that would never
be missed, and you--you said once that you were engaged, did you
not?"
[1] A whale is measured among whalers not by the length of its
body, but by the length of its whalebone.
"Yes," I answered, snapping the spring of the locket which hung
from my watch-chain, and holding up the little vignette of Flora.
"Curse you!" he yelled, springing out of his seat, with his very
beard bristling with passion. "What is your happiness to me? What
have I to do with her that you must dangle her photograph before my
eyes?" I almost thought that he was about to strike me in the
frenzy of his rage, but with another imprecation he dashed open the
door of the cabin and rushed out upon deck, leaving me considerably
astonished at his extraordinary violence. It is the first time
that he has ever shown me anything but courtesy and kindness. I
can hear him pacing excitedly up and down overhead as I write these
lines.
I should like to give a sketch of the character of this man, but it
seems presumptuous to attempt such a thing upon paper, when the
idea in my own mind is at best a vague and uncertain one. Several
times I have thought that I grasped the clue which might explain
it, but only to be disappointed by his presenting himself in some
new light which would upset all my conclusions. It may be that no
human eye but my own shall ever rest upon these lines, yet as a
psychological study I shall attempt to leave some record of Captain
Nicholas Craigie.
A man's outer case generally gives some indication of the soul
within. The Captain is tall and well-formed, with dark, handsome
face, and a curious way of twitching his limbs, which may arise
from nervousness, or be simply an outcome of his excessive energy.
His jaw and whole cast of countenance is manly and resolute, but
the eyes are the distinctive feature of his face. They are of the
very darkest hazel, bright and eager, with a singular mixture of
recklessness in their expression, and of something else which I
have sometimes thought was more allied with horror than any other
emotion. Generally the former predominated, but on occasions, and
more particularly when he was thoughtfully inclined, the look of
fear would spread and deepen until it imparted a new character to
his whole countenance. It is at these times that he is most
subject to tempestuous fits of anger, and he seems to be aware of
it, for I have known him lock himself up so that no one might
approach him until his dark hour was passed. He sleeps badly, and
I have heard him shouting during the night, but his cabin is some
little distance from mine, and I could never distinguish the words
which he said.
This is one phase of his character, and the most disagreeable one.
It is only through my close association with him, thrown together
as we are day after day, that I have observed it. Otherwise he is
an agreeable companion, well-read and entertaining, and as gallant
a seaman as ever trod a deck. I shall not easily forget the way in
which he handled the ship when we were caught by a gale among the
loose ice at the beginning of April. I have never seen him so
cheerful, and even hilarious, as he was that night, as he paced
backwards and forwards upon the bridge amid the flashing of the
lightning and the howling of the wind. He has told me several
times that the thought of death was a pleasant one to him, which is
a sad thing for a young man to say; he cannot be much more than
thirty, though his hair and moustache are already slightly
grizzled. Some great sorrow must have overtaken him and blighted
his whole life. Perhaps I should be the same if I lost my Flora--
God knows! I think if it were not for her that I should care very
little whether the wind blew from the north or the south to-morrow.
There, I hear him come down the companion, and he has locked
himself up in his room, which shows that he is still in an
unamiable mood. And so to bed, as old Pepys would say, for the
candle is burning down (we have to use them now since the nights
are closing in), and the steward has turned in, so there are no
hopes of another one.
September 12th.--Calm, clear day, and still lying in the same
position. What wind there is comes from the south-east, but it is
very slight. Captain is in a better humour, and apologised to me
at breakfast for his rudeness. He still looks somewhat distrait,
however, and retains that wild look in his eyes which in a
Highlander would mean that he was "fey"--at least so our chief
engineer remarked to me, and he has some reputation among the
Celtic portion of our crew as a seer and expounder of omens.
It is strange that superstition should have obtained such mastery
over this hard-headed and practical race. I could not have
believed to what an extent it is carried had I not observed it for
myself. We have had a perfect epidemic of it this voyage, until I
have felt inclined to serve out rations of sedatives and nerve-
tonics with the Saturday allowance of grog. The first symptom
of it was that shortly after leaving Shetland the men at the wheel
used to complain that they heard plaintive cries and screams in the
wake of the ship, as if something were following it and were unable
to overtake it. This fiction has been kept up during the whole
voyage, and on dark nights at the beginning of the seal-fishing it
was only with great difficulty that men could be induced to do
their spell. No doubt what they heard was either the creaking of
the rudder-chains, or the cry of some passing sea-bird. I have
been fetched out of bed several times to listen to it, but I need
hardly say that I was never able to distinguish anything unnatural.
The men, however, are so absurdly positive upon the subject that it
is hopeless to argue with them. I mentioned the matter to the
Captain once, but to my surprise he took it very gravely, and
indeed appeared to be considerably disturbed by what I told him.
I should have thought that he at least would have been above such
vulgar delusions.
All this disquisition upon superstition leads me up to the fact
that Mr. Manson, our second mate, saw a ghost last night--or, at
least, says that he did, which of course is the same thing. It is
quite refreshing to have some new topic of conversation after the
eternal routine of bears and whales which has served us for so many
months. Manson swears the ship is haunted, and that he would not
stay in her a day if he had any other place to go to. Indeed the
fellow is honestly frightened, and I had to give him some
chloral and bromide of potassium this morning to steady him
down. He seemed quite indignant when I suggested that he had been
having an extra glass the night before, and I was obliged to pacify
him by keeping as grave a countenance as possible during his story,
which he certainly narrated in a very straight-forward and matter-
of-fact way.
"I was on the bridge," he said, "about four bells in the middle
watch, just when the night was at its darkest. There was a bit of
a moon, but the clouds were blowing across it so that you couldn't
see far from the ship. John M`Leod, the harpooner, came aft from
the foc'sle-head and reported a strange noise on the starboard bow.
I went forrard and we both heard it, sometimes like a bairn crying
and sometimes like a wench in pain. I've been seventeen years to
the country and I never heard seal, old or young, make a sound like
that. As we were standing there on the foc'sle-head the moon came
out from behind a cloud, and we both saw a sort of white figure
moving across the ice field in the same direction that we had heard
the cries. We lost sight of it for a while, but it came back on
the port bow, and we could just make it out like a shadow on the
ice. I sent a hand aft for the rifles, and M`Leod and I went down
on to the pack, thinking that maybe it might be a bear. When we
got on the ice I lost sight of M`Leod, but I pushed on in the
direction where I could still hear the cries. I followed them for
a mile or maybe more, and then running round a hummock I came right
on to the top of it standing and waiting for me seemingly. I
don't know what it was. It wasn't a bear any way. It was tall and
white and straight, and if it wasn't a man nor a woman, I'll stake
my davy it was something worse. I made for the ship as hard as I
could run, and precious glad I was to find myself aboard. I signed
articles to do my duty by the ship, and on the ship I'll stay, but
you don't catch me on the ice again after sundown."
That is his story, given as far as I can in his own words. I fancy
what he saw must, in spite of his denial, have been a young bear
erect upon its hind legs, an attitude which they often assume when
alarmed. In the uncertain light this would bear a resemblance to
a human figure, especially to a man whose nerves were already
somewhat shaken. Whatever it may have been, the occurrence is
unfortunate, for it has produced a most unpleasant effect upon the
crew. Their looks are more sullen than before, and their
discontent more open. The double grievance of being debarred from
the herring fishing and of being detained in what they choose to
call a haunted vessel, may lead them to do something rash. Even
the harpooners, who are the oldest and steadiest among them, are
joining in the general agitation.
Apart from this absurd outbreak of superstition, things are looking
rather more cheerful. The pack which was forming to the south of
us has partly cleared away, and the water is so warm as to lead me
to believe that we are lying in one of those branches of the gulf-
stream which run up between Greenland and Spitzbergen. There
are numerous small Medusse and sealemons about the ship, with
abundance of shrimps, so that there is every possibility of "fish"
being sighted. Indeed one was seen blowing about dinner-time, but
in such a position that it was impossible for the boats to follow
it.
September 13th.--Had an interesting conversation with the chief
mate, Mr. Milne, upon the bridge. It seems that our Captain is as
great an enigma to the seamen, and even to the owners of the
vessel, as he has been to me. Mr. Milne tells me that when the
ship is paid off, upon returning from a voyage, Captain Craigie
disappears, and is not seen again until the approach of another
season, when he walks quietly into the office of the company, and
asks whether his services will be required. He has no friend in
Dundee, nor does any one pretend to be acquainted with his early
history. His position depends entirely upon his skill as a seaman,
and the name for courage and coolness which he had earned in the
capacity of mate, before being entrusted with a separate command.
The unanimous opinion seems to be that he is not a Scotchman, and
that his name is an assumed one. Mr. Milne thinks that he has
devoted himself to whaling simply for the reason that it is the
most dangerous occupation which he could select, and that he courts
death in every possible manner. He mentioned several instances of
this, one of which is rather curious, if true. It seems that on
one occasion he did not put in an appearance at the office, and
a substitute had to be selected in his place. That was at the time
of the last Russian and Turkish war. When he turned up again next
spring he had a puckered wound in the side of his neck which he
used to endeavour to conceal with his cravat. Whether the mate's
inference that he had been engaged in the war is true or not I
cannot say. It was certainly a strange coincidence.
The wind is veering round in an easterly direction, but is still
very slight. I think the ice is lying closer than it did
yesterday. As far as the eye can reach on every side there is one
wide expanse of spotless white, only broken by an occasional rift
or the dark shadow of a hummock. To the south there is the narrow
lane of blue water which is our sole means of escape, and which is
closing up every day. The Captain is taking a heavy responsibility
upon himself. I hear that the tank of potatoes has been finished,
and even the biscuits are running short, but he preserves the same
impassible countenance, and spends the greater part of the day at
the crow's nest, sweeping the horizon with his glass. His manner
is very variable, and he seems to avoid my society, but there has
been no repetition of the violence which he showed the other night.
7.30 P.M.--My deliberate opinion is that we are commanded by a
madman. Nothing else can account for the extraordinary vagaries of
Captain Craigie. It is fortunate that I have kept this journal of
our voyage, as it will serve to justify us in case we have to put
him under any sort of restraint, a step which I should only
consent to as a last resource. Curiously enough it was he himself
who suggested lunacy and not mere eccentricity as the secret of his
strange conduct. He was standing upon the bridge about an hour
ago, peering as usual through his glass, while I was walking up and
down the quarterdeck. The majority of the men were below at their
tea, for the watches have not been regularly kept of late. Tired
of walking, I leaned against the bulwarks, and admired the mellow
glow cast by the sinking sun upon the great ice fields which
surround us. I was suddenly aroused from the reverie into which I
had fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow, and starting round I
found that the Captain had descended and was standing by my side.
He was staring out over the ice with an expression in which horror,
surprise, and something approaching to joy were contending for the
mastery. In spite of the cold, great drops of perspiration were
coursing down his forehead, and he was evidently fearfully excited.
His limbs twitched like those of a man upon the verge of an
epileptic fit, and the lines about his mouth were drawn and hard.
"Look!" he gasped, seizing me by the wrist, but still keeping his
eyes upon the distant ice, and moving his head slowly in a
horizontal direction, as if following some object which was moving
across the field of vision. "Look! There, man, there! Between
the hummocks! Now coming out from behind the far one! You see
her--you MUST see her! There still! Flying from me, by
God, flying from me--and gone!"
He uttered the last two words in a whisper of concentrated agony
which shall never fade from my remembrance. Clinging to the
ratlines he endeavoured to climb up upon the top of the bulwarks as
if in the hope of obtaining a last glance at the departing object.
His strength was not equal to the attempt, however, and he
staggered back against the saloon skylights, where he leaned
panting and exhausted. His face was so livid that I expected him
to become unconscious, so lost no time in leading him down the
companion, and stretching him upon one of the sofas in the cabin.
I then poured him out some brandy, which I held to his lips, and
which had a wonderful effect upon him, bringing the blood back into
his white face and steadying his poor shaking limbs. He raised
himself up upon his elbow, and looking round to see that we were
alone, he beckoned to me to come and sit beside him.
"You saw it, didn't you?" he asked, still in the same subdued
awesome tone so foreign to the nature of the man.
"No, I saw nothing."
His head sank back again upon the cushions. "No, he wouldn't
without the glass," he murmured. "He couldn't. It was the glass
that showed her to me, and then the eyes of love--the eyes of love.
I say, Doc, don't let the steward in! He'll think I'm mad. Just
bolt the door, will you!"
I rose and did what he had commanded.
He lay quiet for a while, lost in thought apparently, and then
raised himself up upon his elbow again, and asked for some more
brandy.
"You don't think I am, do you, Doc?" he asked, as I was putting the
bottle back into the after-locker. "Tell me now, as man to man, do
you think that I am mad?"
"I think you have something on your mind," I answered, "which is
exciting you and doing you a good deal of harm."
"Right there, lad!" he cried, his eyes sparkling from the effects
of the brandy. "Plenty on my mind--plenty! But I can work out the
latitude and the longitude, and I can handle my sextant and manage
my logarithms. You couldn't prove me mad in a court of law, could
you, now?" It was curious to hear the man lying back and coolly
arguing out the question of his own sanity.
"Perhaps not," I said; "but still I think you would be wise to get
home as soon as you can, and settle down to a quiet life for a
while."
"Get home, eh?" he muttered, with a sneer upon his face. "One word
for me and two for yourself, lad. Settle down with Flora--pretty
little Flora. Are bad dreams signs of madness?"
"Sometimes," I answered.
"What else? What would be the first symptoms?"
"Pains in the head, noises in the ears flashes before the eyes,
delusions"----
"Ah! what about them?" he interrupted. "What would you call a
delusion?"
"Seeing a thing which is not there is a delusion."
"But she WAS there!" he groaned to himself. "She WAS there!"
and rising, he unbolted the door and walked with slow and uncertain
steps to his own cabin, where I have no doubt that he will remain
until to-morrow morning. His system seems to have received a
terrible shock, whatever it may have been that he imagined himself
to have seen. The man becomes a greater mystery every day, though
I fear that the solution which he has himself suggested is the
correct one, and that his reason is affected. I do not think that
a guilty conscience has anything to do with his behaviour. The
idea is a popular one among the officers, and, I believe, the crew;
but I have seen nothing to support it. He has not the air of a
guilty man, but of one who has had terrible usage at the hands of
fortune, and who should be regarded as a martyr rather than a
criminal.
The wind is veering round to the south to-night. God help us if it
blocks that narrow pass which is our only road to safety! Situated
as we are on the edge of the main Arctic pack, or the "barrier" as
it is called by the whalers, any wind from the north has the effect
of shredding out the ice around us and allowing our escape, while
a wind from the south blows up all the loose ice behind us and hems
us in between two packs. God help us, I say again!
September 14th.--Sunday, and a day of rest. My fears have
been confirmed, and the thin strip of blue water has disappeared
from the southward. Nothing but the great motionless ice fields
around us, with their weird hummocks and fantastic pinnacles.
There is a deathly silence over their wide expanse which is
horrible. No lapping of the waves now, no cries of seagulls or
straining of sails, but one deep universal silence in which the
murmurs of the seamen, and the creak of their boots upon the white
shining deck, seem discordant and out of place. Our only visitor
was an Arctic fox, a rare animal upon the pack, though common
enough upon the land. He did not come near the ship, however, but
after surveying us from a distance fled rapidly across the ice.
This was curious conduct, as they generally know nothing of man,
and being of an inquisitive nature, become so familiar that they
are easily captured. Incredible as it may seem, even this little
incident produced a bad effect upon the crew. "Yon puir beastie
kens mair, ay, an' sees mair nor you nor me!" was the comment of
one of the leading harpooners, and the others nodded their
acquiescence. It is vain to attempt to argue against such puerile
superstition. They have made up their minds that there is a curse
upon the ship, and nothing will ever persuade them to the contrary.
The Captain remained in seclusion all day except for about half an
hour in the afternoon, when he came out upon the quarterdeck. I
observed that he kept his eye fixed upon the spot where the vision
of yesterday had appeared, and was quite prepared for another
outburst, but none such came. He did not seem to see me
although I was standing close beside him. Divine service was read
as usual by the chief engineer. It is a curious thing that in
whaling vessels the Church of England Prayer-book is always
employed, although there is never a member of that Church among
either officers or crew. Our men are all Roman Catholics or
Presbyterians, the former predominating. Since a ritual is used
which is foreign to both, neither can complain that the other is
preferred to them, and they listen with all attention and devotion,
so that the system has something to recommend it.
A glorious sunset, which made the great fields of ice look like a
lake of blood. I have never seen a finer and at the same time more
weird effect. Wind is veering round. If it will blow twenty-four
hours from the north all will yet be well.
September 15th.--To-day is Flora's birthday. Dear lass! it is
well that she cannot see her boy, as she used to call me, shut up
among the ice fields with a crazy captain and a few weeks'
provisions. No doubt she scans the shipping list in the Scotsman
every morning to see if we are reported from Shetland. I have to
set an example to the men and look cheery and unconcerned; but God
knows, my heart is very heavy at times.
The thermometer is at nineteen Fahrenheit to-day. There is but
little wind, and what there is comes from an unfavourable quarter.
Captain is in an excellent humour; I think he imagines he has seen
some other omen or vision, poor fellow, during the night, for he
came into my room early in the morning, and stooping down over
my bunk, whispered, "It wasn't a delusion, Doc; it's all right!"
After breakfast he asked me to find out how much food was left,
which the second mate and I proceeded to do. It is even less than
we had expected. Forward they have half a tank full of biscuits,
three barrels of salt meat, and a very limited supply of coffee
beans and sugar. In the after-hold and lockers there are a good
many luxuries, such as tinned salmon, soups, haricot mutton, &c.,
but they will go a very short way among a crew of fifty men. There
are two barrels of flour in the store-room, and an unlimited supply
of tobacco. Altogether there is about enough to keep the men on
half rations for eighteen or twenty days--certainly not more. When
we reported the state of things to the Captain, he ordered all
hands to be piped, and addressed them from the quarterdeck. I
never saw him to better advantage. With his tall, well-knit
figure, and dark animated face, he seemed a man born to command,
and he discussed the situation in a cool sailor-like way which
showed that while appreciating the danger he had an eye for every
loophole of escape.
"My lads," he said, "no doubt you think I brought you into this
fix, if it is a fix, and maybe some of you feel bitter against me
on account of it. But you must remember that for many a season no
ship that comes to the country has brought in as much oil-money as
the old Pole-Star, and every one of you has had his share of it.
You can leave your wives behind you in comfort while other poor
fellows come back to find their lasses on the parish. If you have
to thank me for the one you have to thank me for the other, and we
may call it quits. We've tried a bold venture before this and
succeeded, so now that we've tried one and failed we've no cause to
cry out about it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can make the
land across the ice, and lay in a stock of seals which will keep us
alive until the spring. It won't come to that, though, for you'll
see the Scotch coast again before three weeks are out. At present
every man must go on half rations, share and share alike, and no
favour to any. Keep up your hearts and you'll pull through this as
you've pulled through many a danger before." These few simple
words of his had a wonderful effect upon the crew. His former
unpopularity was forgotten, and the old harpooner whom I have
already mentioned for his superstition, led off three cheers, which
were heartily joined in by all hands.
September 16th.--The wind has veered round to the north during
the night, and the ice shows some symptoms of opening out. The men
are in a good humour in spite of the short allowance upon which
they have been placed. Steam is kept up in the engine-room, that
there may be no delay should an opportunity for escape present
itself. The Captain is in exuberant spirits, though he still
retains that wild "fey" expression which I have already remarked
upon. This burst of cheerfulness puzzles me more than his former
gloom. I cannot understand it. I think I mentioned in an
early part of this journal that one of his oddities is that he
never permits any person to enter his cabin, but insists upon
making his own bed, such as it is, and performing every other
office for himself. To my surprise he handed me the key to-day and
requested me to go down there and take the time by his chronometer
while he measured the altitude of the sun at noon. It is a bare
little room, containing a washing-stand and a few books, but little
else in the way of luxury, except some pictures upon the walls.
The majority of these are small cheap oleographs, but there was one
water-colour sketch of the head of a young lady which arrested my
attention. It was evidently a portrait, and not one of those fancy
types of female beauty which sailors particularly affect. No
artist could have evolved from his own mind such a curious mixture
of character and weakness. The languid, dreamy eyes, with their
drooping lashes, and the broad, low brow, unruffled by thought or
care, were in strong contrast with the clean-cut, prominent jaw,
and the resolute set of the lower lip. Underneath it in one of the
corners was written, "M. B., aet. 19." That any one in the short
space of nineteen years of existence could develop such strength of
will as was stamped upon her face seemed to me at the time to be
well-nigh incredible. She must have been an extraordinary woman.
Her features have thrown such a glamour over me that, though I had
but a fleeting glance at them, I could, were I a draughtsman,
reproduce them line for line upon this page of the journal. I
wonder what part she has played in our Captain's life. He has
hung her picture at the end of his berth, so that his eyes
continually rest upon it. Were he a less reserved man I should
make some remark upon the subject. Of the other things in his
cabin there was nothing worthy of mention--uniform coats, a camp-
stool, small looking-glass, tobacco-box, and numerous pipes,
including an oriental hookah--which, by-the-bye, gives some colour
to Mr. Milne's story about his participation in the war, though the
connection may seem rather a distant one.
11.20 P.M.--Captain just gone to bed after a long and interesting
conversation on general topics. When he chooses he can be a most
fascinating companion, being remarkably well-read, and having the
power of expressing his opinion forcibly without appearing to be
dogmatic. I hate to have my intellectual toes trod upon. He spoke
about the nature of the soul, and sketched out the views of
Aristotle and Plato upon the subject in a masterly manner. He
seems to have a leaning for metempsychosis and the doctrines of
Pythagoras. In discussing them we touched upon modern
spiritualism, and I made some joking allusion to the impostures of
Slade, upon which, to my surprise, he warned me most impressively
against confusing the innocent with the guilty, and argued that it
would be as logical to brand Christianity as an error because
Judas, who professed that religion, was a villain. He shortly
afterwards bade me good-night and retired to his room.
The wind is freshening up, and blows steadily from the north. The
nights are as dark now as they are in England. I hope to-morrow
may set us free from our frozen fetters.
September 17th.--The Bogie again. Thank Heaven that I have
strong nerves! The superstition of these poor fellows, and the
circumstantial accounts which they give, with the utmost
earnestness and self-conviction, would horrify any man not
accustomed to their ways. There are many versions of the matter,
but the sum-total of them all is that something uncanny has been
flitting round the ship all night, and that Sandie M`Donald of
Peterhead and "lang" Peter Williamson of Shetland saw it, as also
did Mr. Milne on the bridge--so, having three witnesses, they can
make a better case of it than the second mate did. I spoke to
Milne after breakfast, and told him that he should be above such
nonsense, and that as an officer he ought to set the men a better
example. He shook his weatherbeaten head ominously, but answered
with characteristic caution, "Mebbe aye, mebbe na, Doctor," he
said; "I didna ca' it a ghaist. I canna' say I preen my faith in
sea-bogles an' the like, though there's a mony as claims to ha'
seen a' that and waur. I'm no easy feared, but maybe your ain
bluid would run a bit cauld, mun, if instead o' speerin' aboot it
in daylicht ye were wi' me last night, an' seed an awfu' like
shape, white an' gruesome, whiles here, whiles there, an' it
greetin' and ca'ing in the darkness like a bit lambie that hae lost
its mither. Ye would na' be sae ready to put it a' doon to
auld wives' clavers then, I'm thinkin'." I saw it was hopeless to
reason with him, so contented myself with begging him as a personal
favour to call me up the next time the spectre appeared--a request
to which he acceded with many ejaculations expressive of his hopes
that such an opportunity might never arise.
As I had hoped, the white desert behind us has become broken by
many thin streaks of water which intersect it in all directions.
Our latitude to-day was 80 degrees 52' N., which shows that there
is a strong southerly drift upon the pack. Should the wind
continue favourable it will break up as rapidly as it formed. At
present we can do nothing but smoke and wait and hope for the best.
I am rapidly becoming a fatalist. When dealing with such uncertain
factors as wind and ice a man can be nothing else. Perhaps it was
the wind and sand of the Arabian deserts which gave the minds of
the original followers of Mahomet their tendency to bow to kismet.
These spectral alarms have a very bad effect upon the Captain. I
feared that it might excite his sensitive mind, and endeavoured to
conceal the absurd story from him, but unfortunately he overheard
one of the men making an allusion to it, and insisted upon being
informed about it. As I had expected, it brought out all his
latent lunacy in an exaggerated form. I can hardly believe that
this is the same man who discoursed philosophy last night with the
most critical acumen and coolest judgment. He is pacing backwards
and forwards upon the quarterdeck like a caged tiger, stopping
now and again to throw out his hands with a yearning gesture, and
stare impatiently out over the ice. He keeps up a continual mutter
to himself, and once he called out, "But a little time, love--but
a little time!" Poor fellow, it is sad to see a gallant seaman and
accomplished gentleman reduced to such a pass, and to think that
imagination and delusion can cow a mind to which real danger was
but the salt of life. Was ever a man in such a position as I,
between a demented captain and a ghost-seeing mate? I sometimes
think I am the only really sane man aboard the vessel--except
perhaps the second engineer, who is a kind of ruminant, and would
care nothing for all the fiends in the Red Sea so long as they
would leave him alone and not disarrange his tools.
The ice is still opening rapidly, and there is every probability of
our being able to make a start to-morrow morning. They will think
I am inventing when I tell them at home all the strange things that
have befallen me.
12 P.M.--I have been a good deal startled, though I feel steadier
now, thanks to a stiff glass of brandy. I am hardly myself yet,
however, as this handwriting will testify. The fact is, that I
have gone through a very strange experience, and am beginning to
doubt whether I was justified in branding every one on board as
madmen because they professed to have seen things which did not
seem reasonable to my understanding. Pshaw! I am a fool to let
such a trifle unnerve me; and yet, coming as it does after all
these alarms, it has an additional significance, for I cannot doubt
either Mr. Manson's story or that of the mate, now that I have
experienced that which I used formerly to scoff at.
After all it was nothing very alarming--a mere sound, and that was
all. I cannot expect that any one reading this, if any one ever
should read it, will sympathise with my feelings, or realise the
effect which it produced upon me at the time. Supper was over, and
I had gone on deck to have a quiet pipe before turning in. The
night was very dark--so dark that, standing under the quarter-boat,
I was unable to see the officer upon the bridge. I think I have
already mentioned the extraordinary silence which prevails in these
frozen seas. In other parts of the world, be they ever so barren,
there is some slight vibration of the air--some faint hum, be it
from the distant haunts of men, or from the leaves of the trees, or
the wings of the birds, or even the faint rustle of the grass that
covers the ground. One may not actively perceive the sound, and
yet if it were withdrawn it would be missed. It is only here in
these Arctic seas that stark, unfathomable stillness obtrudes
itself upon you in all its gruesome reality. You find your
tympanum straining to catch some little murmur, and dwelling
eagerly upon every accidental sound within the vessel. In this
state I was leaning against the bulwarks when there arose from the
ice almost directly underneath me a cry, sharp and shrill, upon the
silent air of the night, beginning, as it seemed to me, at a note
such as prima donna never reached, and mounting from that ever
higher and higher until it culminated in a long wail of agony,
which might have been the last cry of a lost soul. The ghastly
scream is still ringing in my ears. Grief, unutterable grief,
seemed to be expressed in it, and a great longing, and yet through
it all there was an occasional wild note of exultation. It
shrilled out from close beside me, and yet as I glared into the
darkness I could discern nothing. I waited some little time, but
without hearing any repetition of the sound, so I came below, more
shaken than I have ever been in my life before. As I came down the
companion I met Mr. Milne coming up to relieve the watch. "Weel,
Doctor," he said, "maybe that's auld wives' clavers tae? Did ye no
hear it skirling? Maybe that's a supersteetion? What d'ye think
o't noo?" I was obliged to apologise to the honest fellow, and
acknowledge that I was as puzzled by it as he was. Perhaps to-
morrow things may look different. At present I dare hardly write
all that I think. Reading it again in days to come, when I have
shaken off all these associations, I should despise myself for
having been so weak.
September 18th.--Passed a restless and uneasy night, still
haunted by that strange sound. The Captain does not look as if he
had had much repose either, for his face is haggard and his eyes
bloodshot. I have not told him of my adventure of last night, nor
shall I. He is already restless and excited, standing up, sitting
down, and apparently utterly unable to keep still.
A fine lead appeared in the pack this morning, as I had
expected, and we were able to cast off our ice-anchor, and steam
about twelve miles in a west-sou'-westerly direction. We were then
brought to a halt by a great floe as massive as any which we have
left behind us. It bars our progress completely, so we can do
nothing but anchor again and wait until it breaks up, which it will
probably do within twenty-four hours, if the wind holds. Several
bladder-nosed seals were seen swimming in the water, and one was
shot, an immense creature more than eleven feet long. They are
fierce, pugnacious animals, and are said to be more than a match
for a bear. Fortunately they are slow and clumsy in their
movements, so that there is little danger in attacking them upon
the ice.
The Captain evidently does not think we have seen the last of our
troubles, though why he should take a gloomy view of the situation
is more than I can fathom, since every one else on board considers
that we have had a miraculous escape, and are sure now to reach the
open sea.
"I suppose you think it's all right now, Doctor?" he said, as we
sat together after dinner.
"I hope so," I answered.
"We mustn't be too sure--and yet no doubt you are right. We'll all
be in the arms of our own true loves before long, lad, won't we?
But we mustn't be too sure--we mustn't be too sure."
He sat silent a little, swinging his leg thoughtfully backwards and
forwards. "Look here," he continued; "it's a dangerous place this,
even at its best--a treacherous, dangerous place. I have known
men cut off very suddenly in a land like this. A slip would do it
sometimes--a single slip, and down you go through a crack, and only
a bubble on the green water to show where it was that you sank.
It's a queer thing," he continued with a nervous laugh, "but all
the years I've been in this country I never once thought of making
a will--not that I have anything to leave in particular, but still
when a man is exposed to danger he should have everything arranged
and ready--don't you think so?"
"Certainly," I answered, wondering what on earth he was driving at.
"He feels better for knowing it's all settled," he went on. "Now
if anything should ever befall me, I hope that you will look after
things for me. There is very little in the cabin, but such as it
is I should like it to be sold, and the money divided in the same
proportion as the oil-money among the crew. The chronometer I wish
you to keep yourself as some slight remembrance of our voyage. Of
course all this is a mere precaution, but I thought I would take
the opportunity of speaking to you about it. I suppose I might
rely upon you if there were any necessity?"
"Most assuredly," I answered; "and since you are taking this step,
I may as well"----
"You! you!" he interrupted. "YOU'RE all right. What the devil
is the matter with YOU? There, I didn't mean to be peppery, but
I don't like to hear a young fellow, that has hardly began life,
speculating about death. Go up on deck and get some fresh air
into your lungs instead of talking nonsense in the cabin, and
encouraging me to do the same."
The more I think of this conversation of ours the less do I like
it. Why should the man be settling his affairs at the very time
when we seem to be emerging from all danger? There must be some
method in his madness. Can it be that he contemplates suicide? I
remember that upon one occasion he spoke in a deeply reverent
manner of the heinousness of the crime of self-destruction. I
shall keep my eye upon him, however, and though I cannot obtrude
upon the privacy of his cabin, I shall at least make a point of
remaining on deck as long as he stays up.
Mr. Milne pooh-poohs my fears, and says it is only the "skipper's
little way." He himself takes a very rosy view of the situation.
According to him we shall be out of the ice by the day after to-
morrow, pass Jan Meyen two days after that, and sight Shetland in
little more than a week. I hope he may not be too sanguine. His
opinion may be fairly balanced against the gloomy precautions of
the Captain, for he is an old and experienced seaman, and weighs
his words well before uttering them.
. . . . . .
The long-impending catastrophe has come at last. I hardly know
what to write about it. The Captain is gone. He may come back to
us again alive, but I fear me--I fear me. It is now seven o'clock
of the morning of the 19th of September. I have spent the
whole night traversing the great ice-floe in front of us with
a party of seamen in the hope of coming upon some trace of him, but
in vain. I shall try to give some account of the circumstances
which attended upon his disappearance. Should any one ever chance
to read the words which I put down, I trust they will remember that
I do not write from conjecture or from hearsay, but that I, a sane
and educated man, am describing accurately what actually occurred
before my very eyes. My inferences are my own, but I shall be
answerable for the facts.
The Captain remained in excellent spirits after the conversation
which I have recorded. He appeared to be nervous and impatient,
however, frequently changing his position, and moving his limbs in
an aimless choreic way which is characteristic of him at times. In
a quarter of an hour he went upon deck seven times, only to descend
after a few hurried paces. I followed him each time, for there was
something about his face which confirmed my resolution of not
letting him out of my sight. He seemed to observe the effect which
his movements had produced, for he endeavoured by an over-done
hilarity, laughing boisterously at the very smallest of jokes, to
quiet my apprehensions.
After supper he went on to the poop once more, and I with him. The
night was dark and very still, save for the melancholy soughing of
the wind among the spars. A thick cloud was coming up from the
northwest, and the ragged tentacles which it threw out in front of
it were drifting across the face of the moon, which only shone
now and again through a rift in the wrack. The Captain paced
rapidly backwards and forwards, and then seeing me still dogging
him, he came across and hinted that he thought I should be better
below--which, I need hardly say, had the effect of strengthening my
resolution to remain on deck.
I think he forgot about my presence after this, for he stood
silently leaning over the taffrail, and peering out across the
great desert of snow, part of which lay in shadow, while part
glittered mistily in the moonlight. Several times I could see by
his movements that he was referring to his watch, and once he
muttered a short sentence, of which I could only catch the one word
"ready." I confess to having felt an eerie feeling creeping over
me as I watched the loom of his tall figure through the darkness,
and noted how completely he fulfilled the idea of a man who is
keeping a tryst. A tryst with whom? Some vague perception began
to dawn upon me as I pieced one fact with another, but I was
utterly unprepared for the sequel.
By the sudden intensity of his attitude I felt that he saw
something. I crept up behind him. He was staring with an eager
questioning gaze at what seemed to be a wreath of mist, blown
swiftly in a line with the ship. It was a dim, nebulous body,
devoid of shape, sometimes more, sometimes less apparent, as the
light fell on it. The moon was dimmed in its brilliancy at the
moment by a canopy of thinnest cloud, like the coating of an
anemone.
"Coming, lass, coming," cried the skipper, in a voice of
unfathomable tenderness and compassion, like one who soothes a
beloved one by some favour long looked for, and as pleasant to
bestow as to receive.
What followed happened in an instant. I had no power to interfere.
He gave one spring to the top of the bulwarks, and another which
took him on to the ice, almost to the feet of the pale misty
figure. He held out his hands as if to clasp it, and so ran into
the darkness with outstretched arms and loving words. I still
stood rigid and motionless, straining my eyes after his retreating
form, until his voice died away in the distance. I never thought
to see him again, but at that moment the moon shone out brilliantly
through a chink in the cloudy heaven, and illuminated the great
field of ice. Then I saw his dark figure already a very long way
off, running with prodigious speed across the frozen plain. That
was the last glimpse which we caught of him--perhaps the last we
ever shall. A party was organised to follow him, and I accompanied
them, but the men's hearts were not in the work, and nothing was
found. Another will be formed within a few hours. I can hardly
believe I have not been dreaming, or suffering from some hideous
nightmare, as I write these things down.
7.30 P.M.--Just returned dead beat and utterly tired out from a
second unsuccessful search for the Captain. The floe is of
enormous extent, for though we have traversed at least twenty miles
of its surface, there has been no sign of its coming to an end.
The frost has been so severe of late that the overlying snow is
frozen as hard as granite, otherwise we might have had the
footsteps to guide us. The crew are anxious that we should cast
off and steam round the floe and so to the southward, for the ice
has opened up during the night, and the sea is visible upon the
horizon. They argue that Captain Craigie is certainly dead, and
that we are all risking our lives to no purpose by remaining when
we have an opportunity of escape. Mr. Milne and I have had the
greatest difficulty in persuading them to wait until to-morrow
night, and have been compelled to promise that we will not under
any circumstances delay our departure longer than that. We propose
therefore to take a few hours' sleep, and then to start upon a
final search.
September 20th, evening.--I crossed the ice this morning with
a party of men exploring the southern part of the floe, while Mr.
Milne went off in a northerly direction. We pushed on for ten or
twelve miles without seeing a trace of any living thing except a
single bird, which fluttered a great way over our heads, and which
by its flight I should judge to have been a falcon. The southern
extremity of the ice field tapered away into a long narrow spit
which projected out into the sea. When we came to the base of this
promontory, the men halted, but I begged them to continue to the
extreme end of it, that we might have the satisfaction of knowing
that no possible chance had been neglected.
We had hardly gone a hundred yards before M`Donald of Peterhead
cried out that he saw something in front of us, and began to
run. We all got a glimpse of it and ran too. At first it was only
a vague darkness against the white ice, but as we raced along
together it took the shape of a man, and eventually of the man of
whom we were in search. He was lying face downwards upon a frozen
bank. Many little crystals of ice and feathers of snow had drifted
on to him as he lay, and sparkled upon his dark seaman's jacket.
As we came up some wandering puff of wind caught these tiny flakes
in its vortex, and they whirled up into the air, partially
descended again, and then, caught once more in the current, sped
rapidly away in the direction of the sea. To my eyes it seemed but
a snow-drift, but many of my companions averred that it started up
in the shape of a woman, stooped over the corpse and kissed it, and
then hurried away across the floe. I have learned never to
ridicule any man's opinion, however strange it may seem. Sure it
is that Captain Nicholas Craigie had met with no painful end, for
there was a bright smile upon his blue pinched features, and his
hands were still outstretched as though grasping at the strange
visitor which had summoned him away into the dim world that lies
beyond the grave.
We buried him the same afternoon with the ship's ensign around him,
and a thirty-two pound shot at his feet. I read the burial
service, while the rough sailors wept like children, for there were
many who owed much to his kind heart, and who showed now the
affection which his strange ways had repelled during his
lifetime. He went off the grating with a dull, sullen splash, and
as I looked into the green water I saw him go down, down, down
until he was but a little flickering patch of white hanging upon
the outskirts of eternal darkness. Then even that faded away, and
he was gone. There he shall lie, with his secret and his sorrows
and his mystery all still buried in his breast, until that great
day when the sea shall give up its dead, and Nicholas Craigie come
out from among the ice with the smile upon his face, and his
stiffened arms outstretched in greeting. I pray that his lot may
be a happier one in that life than it has been in this.
I shall not continue my journal. Our road to home lies plain and
clear before us, and the great ice field will soon be but a
remembrance of the past. It will be some time before I get over
the shock produced by recent events. When I began this record of
our voyage I little thought of how I should be compelled to finish
it. I am writing these final words in the lonely cabin, still
starting at times and fancying I hear the quick nervous step of the
dead man upon the deck above me. I entered his cabin to-night, as
was my duty, to make a list of his effects in order that they might
be entered in the official log. All was as it had been upon my
previous visit, save that the picture which I have described as
having hung at the end of his bed had been cut out of its frame, as
with a knife, and was gone. With this last link in a strange chain
of evidence I close my diary of the voyage of the Pole-Star.
[NOTE by Dr. John M'Alister Ray, senior.--I have read over the
strange events connected with the death of the Captain of the
Pole-Star, as narrated in the journal of my son. That everything
occurred exactly as he describes it I have the fullest confidence,
and, indeed, the most positive certainty, for I know him to be a
strong-nerved and unimaginative man, with the strictest regard for
veracity. Still, the story is, on the face of it, so vague and so
improbable, that I was long opposed to its publication. Within the
last few days, however, I have had independent testimony upon the
subject which throws a new light upon it. I had run down to
Edinburgh to attend a meeting of the British Medical Association,
when I chanced to come across Dr. P----, an old college chum of
mine, now practising at Saltash, in Devonshire. Upon my telling
him of this experience of my son's, he declared to me that he was
familiar with the man, and proceeded, to my no small surprise, to
give me a description of him, which tallied remarkably well with
that given in the journal, except that he depicted him as a younger
man. According to his account, he had been engaged to a young lady
of singular beauty residing upon the Cornish coast. During his
absence at sea his betrothed had died under circumstances of
peculiar horror.]
F. HABAKUK JEPHSON'S STATEMENT.
In the month of December in the year 1873, the British ship Dei
Gratia steered into Gibraltar, having in tow the derelict
brigantine Marie Celeste, which had been picked up in latitude
38 degrees 40', longitude 17 degrees 15' W. There were several
circumstances in connection with the condition and appearance of
this abandoned vessel which excited considerable comment at the
time, and aroused a curiosity which has never been satisfied. What
these circumstances were was summed up in an able article which
appeared in the Gibraltar Gazette. The curious can find it in the
issue for January 4, 1874, unless my memory deceives me. For the
benefit of those, however, who may be unable to refer to the paper
in question, I shall subjoin a few extracts which touch upon the
leading features of the case.
"We have ourselves," says the anonymous writer in the Gazette,
"been over the derelict Marie Celeste, and have closel
questioned the officers of the Dei Gratia on every point which
might throw light on the affair. They are of opinion that she had
been abandoned several days, or perhaps weeks, before being picked
up. The official log, which was found in the cabin, states that
the vessel sailed from Boston to Lisbon, starting upon
October 16. It is, however, most imperfectly kept, and affords
little information. There is no reference to rough weather, and,
indeed, the state of the vessel's paint and rigging excludes the
idea that she was abandoned for any such reason. She is perfectly
watertight. No signs of a struggle or of violence are to be
detected, and there is absolutely nothing to account for the
disappearance of the crew. There are several indications that a
lady was present on board, a sewing-machine being found in the
cabin and some articles of female attire. These probably belonged
to the captain's wife, who is mentioned in the log as having
accompanied her husband. As an instance of the mildness of the
weather, it may be remarked that a bobbin of silk was found
standing upon the sewing-machine, though the least roll of the
vessel would have precipitated it to the floor. The boats were
intact and slung upon the davits; and the cargo, consisting of
tallow and American clocks, was untouched. An old-fashioned sword
of curious workmanship was discovered among some lumber in the
forecastle, and this weapon is said to exhibit a longitudinal
striation on the steel, as if it had been recently wiped. It has
been placed in the hands of the police, and submitted to Dr.
Monaghan, the analyst, for inspection. The result of his
examination has not yet been published. We may remark, in
conclusion, that Captain Dalton, of the Dei Gratia, an able and
intelligent seaman, is of opinion that the Marie Celeste may have
been abandoned a considerable distance from the spot at which
she was picked up, since a powerful current runs up in that
latitude from the African coast. He confesses his inability,
however, to advance any hypothesis which can reconcile all the
facts of the case. In the utter absence of a clue or grain of
evidence, it is to be feared that the fate of the crew of the
Marie Celeste will be added to those numerous mysteries of the
deep which will never be solved until the great day when the sea
shall give up its dead. If crime has been committed, as is much to
be suspected, there is little hope of bringing the perpetrators to
justice."
I shall supplement this extract from the Gibraltar Gazette by
quoting a telegram from Boston, which went the round of the English
papers, and represented the total amount of information which had
been collected about the Marie Celeste. "She was," it said, "a
brigantine of 170 tons burden, and belonged to White, Russell &
White, wine importers, of this city. Captain J. W. Tibbs was an
old servant of the firm, and was a man of known ability and tried
probity. He was accompanied by his wife, aged thirty-one, and
their youngest child, five years old. The crew consisted of seven
hands, including two coloured seamen, and a boy. There were three
passengers, one of whom was the well-known Brooklyn specialist on
consumption, Dr. Habakuk Jephson, who was a distinguished advocate
for Abolition in the early days of the movement, and whose
pamphlet, entitled "Where is thy Brother?" exercised a strong
influence on public opinion before the war. The other passengers
were Mr. J. Harton, a writer in the employ of the firm, and Mr.
Septimius Goring, a half-caste gentleman, from New Orleans. All
investigations have failed to throw any light upon the fate of
these fourteen human beings. The loss of Dr. Jephson will be felt
both in political and scientific circles."
I have here epitomised, for the benefit of the public, all that has
been hitherto known concerning the Marie Celeste and her crew,
for the past ten years have not in any way helped to elucidate the
mystery. I have now taken up my pen with the intention of telling
all that I know of the ill-fated voyage. I consider that it is a
duty which I owe to society, for symptoms which I am familiar with
in others lead me to believe that before many months my tongue and
hand may be alike incapable of conveying information. Let me
remark, as a preface to my narrative, that I am Joseph Habakuk
Jephson, Doctor of Medicine of the University of Harvard, and ex-
Consulting Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of Brooklyn.
Many will doubtless wonder why I have not proclaimed myself before,
and why I have suffered so many conjectures and surmises to pass
unchallenged. Could the ends of justice have been served in any
way by my revealing the facts in my possession I should
unhesitatingly have done so. It seemed to me, however, that there
was no possibility of such a result; and when I attempted, after
the occurrence, to state my case to an English official, I was met
with such offensive incredulity that I determined never again to
expose myself to the chance of such an indignity. I can excuse
the discourtesy of the Liverpool magistrate, however, when I
reflect upon the treatment which I received at the hands of my own
relatives, who, though they knew my unimpeachable character,
listened to my statement with an indulgent smile as if humouring
the delusion of a monomaniac. This slur upon my veracity led to a
quarrel between myself and John Vanburger, the brother of my wife,
and confirmed me in my resolution to let the matter sink into
oblivion--a determination which I have only altered through my
son's solicitations. In order to make my narrative intelligible,
I must run lightly over one or two incidents in my former life
which throw light upon subsequent events.
My father, William K. Jephson, was a preacher of the sect called
Plymouth Brethren, and was one of the most respected citizens of
Lowell. Like most of the other Puritans of New England, he was a
determined opponent to slavery, and it was from his lips that I
received those lessons which tinged every action of my life. While
I was studying medicine at Harvard University, I had already made
a mark as an advanced Abolitionist; and when, after taking my
degree, I bought a third share of the practice of Dr. Willis, of
Brooklyn, I managed, in spite of my professional duties, to devote
a considerable time to the cause which I had at heart, my pamphlet,
"Where is thy Brother?" (Swarburgh, Lister & Co., 1859) attracting
considerable attention.
When the war broke out I left Brooklyn and accompanied the 113th
New York Regiment through the campaign. I was present at the
second battle of Bull's Run and at the battle of Gettysburg.
Finally, I was severely wounded at Antietam, and would probably
have perished on the field had it not been for the kindness of a
gentleman named Murray, who had me carried to his house and
provided me with every comfort. Thanks to his charity, and to the
nursing which I received from his black domestics, I was soon able
to get about the plantation with the help of a stick. It was
during this period of convalescence that an incident occurred which
is closely connected with my story.
Among the most assiduous of the negresses who had watched my couch
during my illness there was one old crone who appeared to exert
considerable authority over the others. She was exceedingly
attentive to me, and I gathered from the few words that passed
between us that she had heard of me, and that she was grateful to
me for championing her oppressed race.
One day as I was sitting alone in the verandah, basking in the sun,
and debating whether I should rejoin Grant's army, I was surprised
to see this old creature hobbling towards me. After looking
cautiously around to see that we were alone, she fumbled in the
front of her dress and produced a small chamois leather bag which
was hung round her neck by a white cord.
"Massa," she said, bending down and croaking the words into my ear,
"me die soon. Me very old woman. Not stay long on Massa
Murray's plantation."
"You may live a long time yet, Martha," I answered. "You know I am
a doctor. If you feel ill let me know about it, and I will try to
cure you."
"No wish to live--wish to die. I'm gwine to join the heavenly
host." Here she relapsed into one of those half-heathenish
rhapsodies in which negroes indulge. "But, massa, me have one
thing must leave behind me when I go. No able to take it with me
across the Jordan. That one thing very precious, more precious and
more holy than all thing else in the world. Me, a poor old black
woman, have this because my people, very great people, 'spose they
was back in the old country. But you cannot understand this same
as black folk could. My fader give it me, and his fader give it
him, but now who shall I give it to? Poor Martha hab no child, no
relation, nobody. All round I see black man very bad man. Black
woman very stupid woman. Nobody worthy of the stone. And so I
say, Here is Massa Jephson who write books and fight for coloured
folk--he must be good man, and he shall have it though he is white
man, and nebber can know what it mean or where it came from." Here
the old woman fumbled in the chamois leather bag and pulled out a
flattish black stone with a hole through the middle of it. "Here,
take it," she said, pressing it into my hand; "take it. No harm
nebber come from anything good. Keep it safe--nebber lose it!" and
with a warning gesture the old crone hobbled away in the same
cautious way as she had come, looking from side to side to see if
we had been observed.
I was more amused than impressed by the old woman's earnestness,
and was only prevented from laughing during her oration by the fear
of hurting her feelings. When she was gone I took a good look at
the stone which she had given me. It was intensely black, of
extreme hardness, and oval in shape--just such a flat stone as one
would pick up on the seashore if one wished to throw a long way.
It was about three inches long, and an inch and a half broad at the
middle, but rounded off at the extremities. The most curious part
about it were several well-marked ridges which ran in semicircles
over its surface, and gave it exactly the appearance of a human
ear. Altogether I was rather interested in my new possession, and
determined to submit it, as a geological specimen, to my friend
Professor Shroeder of the New York Institute, upon the earliest
opportunity. In the meantime I thrust it into my pocket, and
rising from my chair started off for a short stroll in the
shrubbery, dismissing the incident from my mind.
As my wound had nearly healed by this time, I took my leave of Mr.
Murray shortly afterwards. The Union armies were everywhere
victorious and converging on Richmond, so that my assistance seemed
unnecessary, and I returned to Brooklyn. There I resumed my
practice, and married the second daughter of Josiah Vanburger, the
well-known wood engraver. In the course of a few years I built up
a good connection and acquired considerable reputation in the
treatment of pulmonary complaints. I still kept the old black
stone in my pocket, and frequently told the story of the dramatic
way in which I had become possessed of it. I also kept my
resolution of showing it to Professor Shroeder, who was much
interested both by the anecdote and the specimen. He pronounced it
to be a piece of meteoric stone, and drew my attention to the fact
that its resemblance to an ear was not accidental, but that it was
most carefully worked into that shape. A dozen little anatomical
points showed that the worker had been as accurate as he was
skilful. "I should not wonder," said the Professor, "if it were
broken off from some larger statue, though how such hard material
could be so perfectly worked is more than I can understand. If
there is a statue to correspond I should like to see it!" So I
thought at the time, but I have changed my opinion since.
The next seven or eight years of my life were quiet and uneventful.
Summer followed spring, and spring followed winter, without any
variation in my duties. As the practice increased I admitted J. S.
Jackson as partner, he to have one-fourth of the profits. The
continued strain had told upon my constitution, however, and I
became at last so unwell that my wife insisted upon my consulting
Dr. Kavanagh Smith, who was my colleague at the Samaritan Hospital.
That gentleman examined me, and pronounced the apex of my left lung
to be in a state of consolidation, recommending me at the same time
to go through a course of medical treatment and to take a long
sea-voyage.
My own disposition, which is naturally restless, predisposed me
strongly in favour of the latter piece of advice, and the matter
was clinched by my meeting young Russell, of the firm of White,
Russell & White, who offered me a passage in one of his father's
ships, the Marie Celeste, which was just starting from Boston.
"She is a snug little ship," he said, "and Tibbs, the captain, is
an excellent fellow. There is nothing like a sailing ship for an
invalid." I was very much of the same opinion myself, so I closed
with the offer on the spot.
My original plan was that my wife should accompany me on my
travels. She has always been a very poor sailor, however, and
there were strong family reasons against her exposing herself to
any risk at the time, so we determined that she should remain at
home. I am not a religious or an effusive man; but oh, thank God
for that! As to leaving my practice, I was easily reconciled to
it, as Jackson, my partner, was a reliable and hard-working man.
I arrived in Boston on October 12, 1873, and proceeded immediately
to the office of the firm in order to thank them for their
courtesy. As I was sitting in the counting-house waiting until
they should be at liberty to see me, the words Marie Celeste
suddenly attracted my attention. I looked round and saw a very
tall, gaunt man, who was leaning across the polished mahogany
counter asking some questions of the clerk at the other side.
His face was turned half towards me, and I could see that he had a
strong dash of negro blood in him, being probably a quadroon or
even nearer akin to the black. His curved aquiline nose and
straight lank hair showed the white strain; but the dark restless
eye, sensuous mouth, and gleaming teeth all told of his African
origin. His complexion was of a sickly, unhealthy yellow, and as
his face was deeply pitted with small-pox, the general impression
was so unfavourable as to be almost revolting. When he spoke,
however, it was in a soft, melodious voice, and in well-chosen
words, and he was evidently a man of some education.
"I wished to ask a few questions about the Marie Celeste," he
repeated, leaning across to the clerk. "She sails the day after
to-morrow, does she not?"
"Yes, sir," said the young clerk, awed into unusual politeness by
the glimmer of a large diamond in the stranger's shirt front.
"Where is she bound for?"
"Lisbon."
"How many of a crew?"
"Seven, sir."
"Passengers?"
"Yes, two. One of our young gentlemen, and a doctor from New
York."
"No gentleman from the South?" asked the stranger eagerly.
"No, none, sir."
"Is there room for another passenger?"
"Accommodation for three more," answered the clerk.
"I'll go," said the quadroon decisively; "I'll go, I'll engage my
passage at once. Put it down, will you--Mr. Septimius Goring, of
New Orleans."
The clerk filled up a form and handed it over to the stranger,
pointing to a blank space at the bottom. As Mr. Goring stooped
over to sign it I was horrified to observe that the fingers of his
right hand had been lopped off, and that he was holding the pen
between his thumb and the palm. I have seen thousands slain in
battle, and assisted at every conceivable surgical operation, but
I cannot recall any sight which gave me such a thrill of disgust as
that great brown sponge-like hand with the single member protruding
from it. He used it skilfully enough, however, for, dashing off
his signature, he nodded to the clerk and strolled out of the
office just as Mr. White sent out word that he was ready to receive
me.
I went down to the Marie Celeste that evening, and looked over my
berth, which was extremely comfortable considering the small size
of the vessel. Mr. Goring, whom I had seen in the morning, was to
have the one next mine. Opposite was the captain's cabin and a
small berth for Mr. John Harton, a gentleman who was going out in
the interests of the firm. These little rooms were arranged on
each side of the passage which led from the main-deck to the
saloon. The latter was a comfortable room, the panelling
tastefully done in oak and mahogany, with a rich Brussels carpet
and luxurious settees. I was very much pleased with the
accommodation, and also with Tibbs the captain, a bluff, sailor-
like fellow, with a loud voice and hearty manner, who welcomed me
to the ship with effusion, and insisted upon our splitting a bottle
of wine in his cabin. He told me that he intended to take his wife
and youngest child with him on the voyage, and that he hoped with
good luck to make Lisbon in three weeks. We had a pleasant chat
and parted the best of friends, he warning me to make the last of
my preparations next morning, as he intended to make a start by the
midday tide, having now shipped all his cargo. I went back to my
hotel, where I found a letter from my wife awaiting me, and, after
a refreshing night's sleep, returned to the boat in the morning.
From this point I am able to quote from the journal which I kept in
order to vary the monotony of the long sea-voyage. If it is
somewhat bald in places I can at least rely upon its accuracy in
details, as it was written conscientiously from day to day.
October 16.--Cast off our warps at half-past two and were towed
out into the bay, where the tug left us, and with all sail set we
bowled along at about nine knots an hour. I stood upon the poop
watching the low land of America sinking gradually upon the horizon
until the evening haze hid it from my sight. A single red light,
however, continued to blaze balefully behind us, throwing a long
track like a trail of blood upon the water, and it is still visible
as I write, though reduced to a mere speck. The Captain is in a
bad humour, for two of his hands disappointed him at the last
moment, and he was compelled to ship a couple of negroes who
happened to be on the quay. The missing men were steady, reliable
fellows, who had been with him several voyages, and their non-
appearance puzzled as well as irritated him. Where a crew of seven
men have to work a fair-sized ship the loss of two experienced
seamen is a serious one, for though the negroes may take a spell at
the wheel or swab the decks, they are of little or no use in rough
weather. Our cook is also a black man, and Mr. Septimius Goring
has a little darkie servant, so that we are rather a piebald
community. The accountant, John Harton, promises to be an
acquisition, for he is a cheery, amusing young fellow. Strange how
little wealth has to do with happiness! He has all the world
before him and is seeking his fortune in a far land, yet he is as
transparently happy as a man can be. Goring is rich, if I am not
mistaken, and so am I; but I know that I have a lung, and Goring
has some deeper trouble still, to judge by his features. How
poorly do we both contrast with the careless, penniless clerk!
October 17.--Mrs. Tibbs appeared upon deck for the first time
this morning--a cheerful, energetic woman, with a dear little child
just able to walk and prattle. Young Harton pounced on it at once,
and carried it away to his cabin, where no doubt he will lay the
seeds of future dyspepsia in the child's stomach. Thus medicine
doth make cynics of us all! The weather is still all that could be
desired, with a fine fresh breeze from the west-sou'-west. The
vessel goes so steadily that you would hardly know that she was
moving were it not for the creaking of the cordage, the bellying of
the sails, and the long white furrow in our wake. Walked the
quarter-deck all morning with the Captain, and I think the keen
fresh air has already done my breathing good, for the exercise did
not fatigue me in any way. Tibbs is a remarkably intelligent man,
and we had an interesting argument about Maury's observations on
ocean currents, which we terminated by going down into his cabin to
consult the original work. There we found Goring, rather to the
Captain's surprise, as it is not usual for passengers to enter that
sanctum unless specially invited. He apologised for his intrusion,
however, pleading his ignorance of the usages of ship life; and the
good-natured sailor simply laughed at the incident, begging him to
remain and favour us with his company. Goring pointed to the
chronometers, the case of which he had opened, and remarked that he
had been admiring them. He has evidently some practical knowledge
of mathematical instruments, as he told at a glance which was the
most trustworthy of the three, and also named their price within a
few dollars. He had a discussion with the Captain too upon the
variation of the compass, and when we came back to the ocean
currents he showed a thorough grasp of the subject. Altogether he
rather improves upon acquaintance, and is a man of decided culture
and refinement. His voice harmonises with his conversation, and
both are the very antithesis of his face and figure.
The noonday observation shows that we have run two hundred and
twenty miles. Towards evening the breeze freshened up, and the
first mate ordered reefs to be taken in the topsails and top-
gallant sails in expectation of a windy night. I observe that the
barometer has fallen to twenty-nine. I trust our voyage will not
be a rough one, as I am a poor sailor, and my health would probably
derive more harm than good from a stormy trip, though I have the
greatest confidence in the Captain's seamanship and in the
soundness of the vessel. Played cribbage with Mrs. Tibbs after
supper, and Harton gave us a couple of tunes on the violin.
October 18.--The gloomy prognostications of last night were not
fulfilled, as the wind died away again, and we are lying now in a
long greasy swell, ruffled here and there by a fleeting catspaw
which is insufficient to fill the sails. The air is colder than it
was yesterday, and I have put on one of the thick woollen jerseys
which my wife knitted for me. Harton came into my cabin in the
morning, and we had a cigar together. He says that he remembers
having seen Goring in Cleveland, Ohio, in '69. He was, it appears,
a mystery then as now, wandering about without any visible
employment, and extremely reticent on his own affairs. The man
interests me as a psychological study. At breakfast this morning
I suddenly had that vague feeling of uneasiness which comes over
some people when closely stared at, and, looking quickly up, I met
his eyes bent upon me with an intensity which amounted to ferocity,
though their expression instantly softened as he made some
conventional remark upon the weather. Curiously enough, Harton
says that he had a very similar experience yesterday upon deck. I
observe that Goring frequently talks to the coloured seamen as he
strolls about--a trait which I rather admire, as it is common to
find half-breeds ignore their dark strain and treat their black
kinsfolk with greater intolerance than a white man would do. His
little page is devoted to him, apparently, which speaks well for
his treatment of him. Altogether, the man is a curious mixture of
incongruous qualities, and unless I am deceived in him will give me
food for observation during the voyage.
The Captain is grumbling about his chronometers, which do not
register exactly the same time. He says it is the first time that
they have ever disagreed. We were unable to get a noonday
observation on account of the haze. By dead reckoning, we have
done about a hundred and seventy miles in the twenty-four hours.
The dark seamen have proved, as the skipper prophesied, to be very
inferior hands, but as they can both manage the wheel well they are
kept steering, and so leave the more experienced men to work the
ship. These details are trivial enough, but a small thing serves
as food for gossip aboard ship. The appearance of a whale in the
evening caused quite a flutter among us. From its sharp back and
forked tail, I should pronounce it to have been a rorqual, or
"finner," as they are called by the fishermen.
October 19.--Wind was cold, so I prudently remained in my
cabin all day, only creeping out for dinner. Lying in my bunk I
can, without moving, reach my books, pipes, or anything else I may
want, which is one advantage of a small apartment. My old wound
began to ache a little to-day, probably from the cold. Read
"Montaigne's Essays" and nursed myself. Harton came in in the
afternoon with Doddy, the Captain's child, and the skipper himself
followed, so that I held quite a reception.
October 20 and 21.--Still cold, with a continual drizzle of
rain, and I have not been able to leave the cabin. This
confinement makes me feel weak and depressed. Goring came in to
see me, but his company did not tend to cheer me up much, as he
hardly uttered a word, but contented himself with staring at me in
a peculiar and rather irritating manner. He then got up and stole
out of the cabin without saying anything. I am beginning to
suspect that the man is a lunatic. I think I mentioned that his
cabin is next to mine. The two are simply divided by a thin wooden
partition which is cracked in many places, some of the cracks being
so large that I can hardly avoid, as I lie in my bunk, observing
his motions in the adjoining room. Without any wish to play the
spy, I see him continually stooping over what appears to be a chart
and working with a pencil and compasses. I have remarked the
interest he displays in matters connected with navigation, but I am
surprised that he should take the trouble to work out the course of
the ship. However, it is a harmless amusement enough, and no
doubt he verifies his results by those of the Captain.
I wish the man did not run in my thoughts so much. I had a
nightmare on the night of the 20th, in which I thought my bunk was
a coffin, that I was laid out in it, and that Goring was
endeavouring to nail up the lid, which I was frantically pushing
away. Even when I woke up, I could hardly persuade myself that I
was not in a coffin. As a medical man, I know that a nightmare is
simply a vascular derangement of the cerebral hemispheres, and yet
in my weak state I cannot shake off the morbid impression which it
produces.
October 22.--A fine day, with hardly a cloud in the sky, and a
fresh breeze from the sou'-west which wafts us gaily on our way.
There has evidently been some heavy weather near us, as there is a
tremendous swell on, and the ship lurches until the end of the
fore-yard nearly touches the water. Had a refreshing walk up and
down the quarter-deck, though I have hardly found my sea-legs yet.
Several small birds--chaffinches, I think--perched in the rigging.
4.40 P.M.--While I was on deck this morning I heard a sudden
explosion from the direction of my cabin, and, hurrying down, found
that I had very nearly met with a serious accident. Goring was
cleaning a revolver, it seems, in his cabin, when one of the
barrels which he thought was unloaded went off. The ball passed
through the side partition and imbedded itself in the bulwarks in
the exact place where my head usually rests. I have been under
fire too often to magnify trifles, but there is no doubt that
if I had been in the bunk it must have killed me. Goring, poor
fellow, did not know that I had gone on deck that day, and must
therefore have felt terribly frightened. I never saw such emotion
in a man's face as when, on rushing out of his cabin with the
smoking pistol in his hand, he met me face to face as I came down
from deck. Of course, he was profuse in his apologies, though I
simply laughed at the incident.
11 P.M.--A misfortune has occurred so unexpected and so horrible
that my little escape of the morning dwindles into insignificance.
Mrs. Tibbs and her child have disappeared--utterly and entirely
disappeared. I can hardly compose myself to write the sad details.
About half-past eight Tibbs rushed into my cabin with a very white
face and asked me if I had seen his wife. I answered that I had
not. He then ran wildly into the saloon and began groping about
for any trace of her, while I followed him, endeavouring vainly to
persuade him that his fears were ridiculous. We hunted over the
ship for an hour and a half without coming on any sign of the
missing woman or child. Poor Tibbs lost his voice completely from
calling her name. Even the sailors, who are generally stolid
enough, were deeply affected by the sight of him as he roamed
bareheaded and dishevelled about the deck, searching with feverish
anxiety the most impossible places, and returning to them again and
again with a piteous pertinacity. The last time she was seen was
about seven o'clock, when she took Doddy on to the poop to give him
a breath of fresh air before putting him to bed. There was no
one there at the time except the black seaman at the wheel, who
denies having seen her at all. The whole affair is wrapped in
mystery. My own theory is that while Mrs. Tibbs was holding the
child and standing near the bulwarks it gave a spring and fell
overboard, and that in her convulsive attempt to catch or save it,
she followed it. I cannot account for the double disappearance in
any other way. It is quite feasible that such a tragedy should be
enacted without the knowledge of the man at the wheel, since it was
dark at the time, and the peaked skylights of the saloon screen the
greater part of the quarter-deck. Whatever the truth may be it is
a terrible catastrophe, and has cast the darkest gloom upon our
voyage. The mate has put the ship about, but of course there is
not the slightest hope of picking them up. The Captain is lying in
a state of stupor in his cabin. I gave him a powerful dose of
opium in his coffee that for a few hours at least his anguish may
be deadened.
October 23.--Woke with a vague feeling of heaviness and
misfortune, but it was not until a few moments' reflection that I
was able to recall our loss of the night before. When I came on
deck I saw the poor skipper standing gazing back at the waste of
waters behind us which contains everything dear to him upon earth.
I attempted to speak to him, but he turned brusquely away, and
began pacing the deck with his head sunk upon his breast. Even
now, when the truth is so clear, he cannot pass a boat or an unbent
sail without peering under it. He looks ten years older than
he did yesterday morning. Harton is terribly cut up, for he was
fond of little Doddy, and Goring seems sorry too. At least he has
shut himself up in his cabin all day, and when I got a casual
glance at him his head was resting on his two hands as if in a
melancholy reverie. I fear we are about as dismal a crew as ever
sailed. How shocked my wife will be to hear of our disaster! The
swell has gone down now, and we are doing about eight knots with
all sail set and a nice little breeze. Hyson is practically in
command of the ship, as Tibbs, though he does his best to bear up
and keep a brave front, is incapable of applying himself to serious
work.
October 24.--Is the ship accursed? Was there ever a voyage which
began so fairly and which changed so disastrously? Tibbs shot
himself through the head during the night. I was awakened about
three o'clock in the morning by an explosion, and immediately
sprang out of bed and rushed into the Captain's cabin to find out
the cause, though with a terrible presentiment in my heart.
Quickly as I went, Goring went more quickly still, for he was
already in the cabin stooping over the dead body of the Captain.
It was a hideous sight, for the whole front of his face was blown
in, and the little room was swimming in blood. The pistol was
lying beside him on the floor, just as it had dropped from his
hand. He had evidently put it to his mouth before pulling the
trigger. Goring and I picked him reverently up and laid him on his
bed. The crew had all clustered into his cabin, and the six
white men were deeply grieved, for they were old hands who had
sailed with him many years. There were dark looks and murmurs
among them too, and one of them openly declared that the ship was
haunted. Harton helped to lay the poor skipper out, and we did him
up in canvas between us. At twelve o'clock the foreyard was hauled
aback, and we committed his body to the deep, Goring reading the
Church of England burial service. The breeze has freshened up, and
we have done ten knots all day and sometimes twelve. The sooner we
reach Lisbon and get away from this accursed ship the better
pleased shall I be. I feel as though we were in a floating coffin.
Little wonder that the poor sailors are superstitious when I, an
educated man, feel it so strongly.
October 25.--Made a good run all day. Feel listless and
depressed.
October 26.--Goring, Harton, and I had a chat together on deck in
the morning. Harton tried to draw Goring out as to his profession,
and his object in going to Europe, but the quadroon parried all his
questions and gave us no information. Indeed, he seemed to be
slightly offended by Harton's pertinacity, and went down into his
cabin. I wonder why we should both take such an interest in this
man! I suppose it is his striking appearance, coupled with his
apparent wealth, which piques our curiosity. Harton has a theory
that he is really a detective, that he is after some criminal who
has got away to Portugal, and that he chooses this peculiar way of
travelling that he may arrive unnoticed and pounce upon his
quarry unawares. I think the supposition is rather a far-fetched
one, but Harton bases it upon a book which Goring left on deck, and
which he picked up and glanced over. It was a sort of scrap-book
it seems, and contained a large number of newspaper cuttings. All
these cuttings related to murders which had been committed at
various times in the States during the last twenty years or so.
The curious thing which Harton observed about them, however, was
that they were invariably murders the authors of which had never
been brought to justice. They varied in every detail, he says, as
to the manner of execution and the social status of the victim, but
they uniformly wound up with the same formula that the murderer was
still at large, though, of course, the police had every reason to
expect his speedy capture. Certainly the incident seems to support
Harton's theory, though it may be a mere whim of Gorings, or, as I
suggested to Harton, he may be collecting materials for a book
which shall outvie De Quincey. In any case it is no business of
ours.
October 27, 28.--Wind still fair, and we are making good
progress. Strange how easily a human unit may drop out of its
place and be forgotten! Tibbs is hardly ever mentioned now; Hyson
has taken possession of his cabin, and all goes on as before. Were
it not for Mrs. Tibbs's sewing-machine upon a side-table we might
forget that the unfortunate family had ever existed. Another
accident occurred on board to-day, though fortunately not a very
serious one. One of our white hands had gone down the
afterhold to fetch up a spare coil of rope, when one of the hatches
which he had removed came crashing down on the top of him. He
saved his life by springing out of the way, but one of his feet was
terribly crushed, and he will be of little use for the remainder of
the voyage. He attributes the accident to the carelessness of his
negro companion, who had helped him to shift the hatches. The
latter, however, puts it down to the roll of the ship. Whatever be
the cause, it reduces our shorthanded crew still further. This run
of ill-luck seems to be depressing Harton, for he has lost his
usual good spirits and joviality. Goring is the only one who
preserves his cheerfulness. I see him still working at his chart
in his own cabin. His nautical knowledge would be useful should
anything happen to Hyson--which God forbid!
October 29, 30.--Still bowling along with a fresh breeze. All
quiet and nothing of note to chronicle.
October 31.--My weak lungs, combined with the exciting episodes
of the voyage, have shaken my nervous system so much that the most
trivial incident affects me. I can hardly believe that I am the
same man who tied the external iliac artery, an operation requiring
the nicest precision, under a heavy rifle fire at Antietam. I am
as nervous as a child. I was lying half dozing last night about
four bells in the middle watch trying in vain to drop into a
refreshing sleep. There was no light inside my cabin, but a single
ray of moonlight streamed in through the port hole, throwing a
silvery flickering circle upon the door. As I lay I kept my drowsy
eyes upon this circle, and was conscious that it was gradually
becoming less well-defined as my senses left me, when I was
suddenly recalled to full wakefulness by the appearance of a small
dark object in the very centre of the luminous disc. I lay quietly
and breathlessly watching it. Gradually it grew larger and
plainer, and then I perceived that it was a human hand which had
been cautiously inserted through the chink of the half-closed
door--a hand which, as I observed with a thrill of horror, was not
provided with fingers. The door swung cautiously backwards, and
Goring's head followed his hand. It appeared in the centre of the
moonlight, and was framed as it were in a ghastly uncertain halo,
against which his features showed out plainly. It seemed to me
that I had never seen such an utterly fiendish and merciless
expression upon a human face. His eyes were dilated and glaring,
his lips drawn back so as to show his white fangs, and his straight
black hair appeared to bristle over his low forehead like the hood
of a cobra. The sudden and noiseless apparition had such an effect
upon me that I sprang up in bed trembling in every limb, and held
out my hand towards my revolver. I was heartily ashamed of my
hastiness when he explained the object of his intrusion, as he
immediately did in the most courteous language. He had been
suffering from toothache, poor fellow! and had come in to beg some
laudanum, knowing that I possessed a medicine chest. As to a
sinister expression he is never a beauty, and what with my state of
nervous tension and the effect of the shifting moonlight it was
easy to conjure up something horrible. I gave him twenty drops,
and he went off again with many expressions of gratitude. I can
hardly say how much this trivial incident affected me. I have felt
unstrung all day.
A week's record of our voyage is here omitted, as nothing eventful
occurred during the time, and my log consists merely of a few pages
of unimportant gossip.
November 7.--Harton and I sat on the poop all the morning, for
the weather is becoming very warm as we come into southern
latitudes. We reckon that we have done two-thirds of our voyage.
How glad we shall be to see the green banks of the Tagus, and leave
this unlucky ship for ever! I was endeavouring to amuse Harton to-
day and to while away the time by telling him some of the
experiences of my past life. Among others I related to him how I
came into the possession of my black stone, and as a finale I
rummaged in the side pocket of my old shooting coat and produced
the identical object in question. He and I were bending over it
together, I pointing out to him the curious ridges upon its
surface, when we were conscious of a shadow falling between us and
the sun, and looking round saw Goring standing behind us glaring
over our shoulders at the stone. For some reason or other he
appeared to be powerfully excited, though he was evidently trying
to control himself and to conceal his emotion. He pointed once or
twice at my relic with his stubby thumb before he could recover
himself sufficiently to ask what it was and how I obtained it--a
question put in such a brusque manner that I should have been
offended had I not known the man to be an eccentric. I told him
the story very much as I had told it to Harton. He listened with
the deepest interest, and then asked me if I had any idea what the
stone was. I said I had not, beyond that it was meteoric. He
asked me if I had ever tried its effect upon a negro. I said I had
not. "Come," said he, "we'll see what our black friend at the
wheel thinks of it." He took the stone in his hand and went across
to the sailor, and the two examined it carefully. I could see the
man gesticulating and nodding his head excitedly as if making some
assertion, while his face betrayed the utmost astonishment, mixed
I think with some reverence. Goring came across the deck to us
presently, still holding the stone in his hand. "He says it is a
worthless, useless thing," he said, "and fit only to be chucked
overboard," with which he raised his hand and would most certainly
have made an end of my relic, had the black sailor behind him not
rushed forward and seized him by the wrist. Finding himself
secured Goring dropped the stone and turned away with a very bad
grace to avoid my angry remonstrances at his breach of faith. The
black picked up the stone and handed it to me with a low bow and
every sign of profound respect. The whole affair is inexplicable.
I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that Goring is a maniac or
something very near one. When I compare the effect produced by
the stone upon the sailor, however, with the respect shown to
Martha on the plantation, and the surprise of Goring on its first
production, I cannot but come to the conclusion that I have really
got hold of some powerful talisman which appeals to the whole dark
race. I must not trust it in Goring's hands again.
November 8, 9.--What splendid weather we are having! Beyond one
little blow, we have had nothing but fresh breezes the whole
voyage. These two days we have made better runs than any hitherto.
It is a pretty thing to watch the spray fly up from our prow as it
cuts through the waves. The sun shines through it and breaks it up
into a number of miniature rainbows--"sun-dogs," the sailors call
them. I stood on the fo'csle-head for several hours to-day
watching the effect, and surrounded by a halo of prismatic colours.
The steersman has evidently told the other blacks about my
wonderful stone, for I am treated by them all with the greatest
respect. Talking about optical phenomena, we had a curious one
yesterday evening which was pointed out to me by Hyson. This was
the appearance of a triangular well-defined object high up in the
heavens to the north of us. He explained that it was exactly like
the Peak of Teneriffe as seen from a great distance--the peak was,
however, at that moment at least five hundred miles to the south.
It may have been a cloud, or it may have been one of those strange
reflections of which one reads. The weather is very warm. The
mate says that he never knew it so warm in these latitudes.
Played chess with Harton in the evening.
November 10.--It is getting warmer and warmer. Some land birds
came and perched in the rigging today, though we are still a
considerable way from our destination. The heat is so great that
we are too lazy to do anything but lounge about the decks and
smoke. Goring came over to me to-day and asked me some more
questions about my stone; but I answered him rather shortly, for I
have not quite forgiven him yet for the cool way in which he
attempted to deprive me of it.
November 11, 12.--Still making good progress. I had no idea
Portugal was ever as hot as this, but no doubt it is cooler on
land. Hyson himself seemed surprised at it, and so do the men.
November 13.--A most extraordinary event has happened, so
extraordinary as to be almost inexplicable. Either Hyson has
blundered wonderfully, or some magnetic influence has disturbed our
instruments. Just about daybreak the watch on the fo'csle-head
shouted out that he heard the sound of surf ahead, and Hyson
thought he saw the loom of land. The ship was put about, and,
though no lights were seen, none of us doubted that we had struck
the Portuguese coast a little sooner than we had expected. What
was our surprise to see the scene which was revealed to us at break
of day! As far as we could look on either side was one long line
of surf, great, green billows rolling in and breaking into a cloud
of foam. But behind the surf what was there! Not the green
banks nor the high cliffs of the shores of Portugal, but a great
sandy waste which stretched away and away until it blended with the
skyline. To right and left, look where you would, there was
nothing but yellow sand, heaped in some places into fantastic
mounds, some of them several hundred feet high, while in other
parts were long stretches as level apparently as a billiard board.
Harton and I, who had come on deck together, looked at each other
in astonishment, and Harton burst out laughing. Hyson is
exceedingly mortified at the occurrence, and protests that the
instruments have been tampered with. There is no doubt that this
is the mainland of Africa, and that it was really the Peak of
Teneriffe which we saw some days ago upon the northern horizon. At
the time when we saw the land birds we must have been passing some
of the Canary Islands. If we continued on the same course, we are
now to the north of Cape Blanco, near the unexplored country which
skirts the great Sahara. All we can do is to rectify our
instruments as far as possible and start afresh for our
destination.
8.30 P.M.--Have been lying in a calm all day. The coast is now
about a mile and a half from us. Hyson has examined the
instruments, but cannot find any reason for their extraordinary
deviation.
This is the end of my private journal, and I must make the
remainder of my statement from memory. There is little chance of
my being mistaken about facts which have seared themselves into my
recollection. That very night the storm which had been brewing
so long burst over us, and I came to learn whither all those little
incidents were tending which I had recorded so aimlessly. Blind
fool that I was not to have seen it sooner! I shall tell what
occurred as precisely as I can.
I had gone into my cabin about half-past eleven, and was preparing
to go to bed, when a tap came at my door. On opening it I saw
Goring's little black page, who told me that his master would like
to have a word with me on deck. I was rather surprised that he
should want me at such a late hour, but I went up without
hesitation. I had hardly put my foot on the quarter-deck before I
was seized from behind, dragged down upon my back, and a
handkerchief slipped round my mouth. I struggled as hard as I
could, but a coil of rope was rapidly and firmly wound round me,
and I found myself lashed to the davit of one of the boats, utterly
powerless to do or say anything, while the point of a knife pressed
to my throat warned me to cease my struggles. The night was so
dark that I had been unable hitherto to recognise my assailants,
but as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and the moon broke
out through the clouds that obscured it, I made out that I was
surrounded by the two negro sailors, the black cook, and my fellow-
passenger Goring. Another man was crouching on the deck at my
feet, but he was in the shadow and I could not recognise him.
All this occurred so rapidly that a minute could hardly have
elapsed from the time I mounted the companion until I found
myself gagged and powerless. It was so sudden that I could scarce
bring myself to realise it, or to comprehend what it all meant. I
heard the gang round me speaking in short, fierce whispers to each
other, and some instinct told me that my life was the question at
issue. Goring spoke authoritatively and angrily--the others
doggedly and all together, as if disputing his commands. Then they
moved away in a body to the opposite side of the deck, where I
could still hear them whispering, though they were concealed from
my view by the saloon skylights.
All this time the voices of the watch on deck chatting and laughing
at the other end of the ship were distinctly audible, and I could
see them gathered in a group, little dreaming of the dark doings
which were going on within thirty yards of them. Oh! that I could
have given them one word of warning, even though I had lost my life
in doing it I but it was impossible. The moon was shining fitfully
through the scattered clouds, and I could see the silvery gleam of
the surge, and beyond it the vast weird desert with its fantastic
sand-hills. Glancing down, I saw that the man who had been
crouching on the deck was still lying there, and as I gazed at him,
a flickering ray of moonlight fell full upon his upturned face.
Great Heaven! even now, when more than twelve years have elapsed,
my hand trembles as I write that, in spite of distorted features
and projecting eyes, I recognised the face of Harton, the cheery
young clerk who had been my companion during the voyage. It needed
no medical eye to see that he was quite dead, while the twisted
handkerchief round the neck, and the gag in his mouth, showed the
silent way in which the hell-hounds had done their work. The clue
which explained every event of our voyage came upon me like a flash
of light as I gazed on poor Harton's corpse. Much was dark and
unexplained, but I felt a great dim perception of the truth.
I heard the striking of a match at the other side of the skylights,
and then I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Goring standing up on the
bulwarks and holding in his hands what appeared to be a dark
lantern. He lowered this for a moment over the side of the ship,
and, to my inexpressible astonishment, I saw it answered
instantaneously by a flash among the sand-hills on shore, which
came and went so rapidly, that unless I had been following the
direction of Goring's gaze, I should never have detected it. Again
he lowered the lantern, and again it was answered from the shore.
He then stepped down from the bulwarks, and in doing so slipped,
making such a noise, that for a moment my heart bounded with the
thought that the attention of the watch would be directed to his
proceedings. It was a vain hope. The night was calm and the ship
motionless, so that no idea of duty kept them vigilant. Hyson, who
after the death of Tibbs was in command of both watches, had gone
below to snatch a few hours' sleep, and the boatswain who was left
in charge was standing with the other two men at the foot of the
foremast. Powerless, speechless, with the cords cutting into
my flesh and the murdered man at my feet, I awaited the next act in
the tragedy.
The four ruffians were standing up now at the other side of the
deck. The cook was armed with some sort of a cleaver, the others
had knives, and Goring had a revolver. They were all leaning
against the rail and looking out over the water as if watching for
something. I saw one of them grasp another's arm and point as if
at some object, and following the direction I made out the loom of
a large moving mass making towards the ship. As it emerged from
the gloom I saw that it was a great canoe crammed with men and
propelled by at least a score of paddles. As it shot under our
stern the watch caught sight of it also, and raising a cry hurried
aft. They were too late, however. A swarm of gigantic negroes
clambered over the quarter, and led by Goring swept down the deck
in an irresistible torrent. All opposition was overpowered in a
moment, the unarmed watch were knocked over and bound, and the
sleepers dragged out of their bunks and secured in the same manner.
Hyson made an attempt to defend the narrow passage leading to his
cabin, and I heard a scuffle, and his voice shouting for
assistance. There was none to assist, however, and he was brought
on to the poop with the blood streaming from a deep cut in his
forehead. He was gagged like the others, and a council was held
upon our fate by the negroes. I saw our black seamen pointing
towards me and making some statement, which was received with
murmurs of astonishment and incredulity by the savages. One of
them then came over to me, and plunging his hand into my pocket
took out my black stone and held it up. He then handed it to a man
who appeared to be a chief, who examined it as minutely as the
light would permit, and muttering a few words passed it on to the
warrior beside him, who also scrutinised it and passed it on until
it had gone from hand to hand round the whole circle. The chief
then said a few words to Goring in the native tongue, on which the
quadroon addressed me in English. At this moment I seem to see the
scene. The tall masts of the ship with the moonlight streaming
down, silvering the yards and bringing the network of cordage into
hard relief; the group of dusky warriors leaning on their spears;
the dead man at my feet; the line of white-faced prisoners, and in
front of me the loathsome half-breed, looking in his white linen
and elegant clothes a strange contrast to his associates.
"You will bear me witness," he said in his softest accents, "that
I am no party to sparing your life. If it rested with me you would
die as these other men are about to do. I have no personal grudge
against either you or them, but I have devoted my life to the
destruction of the white race, and you are the first that has ever
been in my power and has escaped me. You may thank that stone of
yours for your life. These poor fellows reverence it, and indeed
if it really be what they think it is they have cause. Should it
prove when we get ashore that they are mistaken, and that its shape
and material is a mere chance, nothing can save your life. In
the meantime we wish to treat you well, so if there are any of your
possessions which you would like to take with you, you are at
liberty to get them." As he finished he gave a sign, and a couple
of the negroes unbound me, though without removing the gag. I was
led down into the cabin, where I put a few valuables into my
pockets, together with a pocket-compass and my journal of the
voyage. They then pushed me over the side into a small canoe,
which was lying beside the large one, and my guards followed me,
and shoving off began paddling for the shore. We had got about a
hundred yards or so from the ship when our steersman held up his
hand, and the paddlers paused for a moment and listened. Then on
the silence of the night I heard a sort of dull, moaning sound,
followed by a succession of splashes in the water. That is all I
know of the fate of my poor shipmates. Almost immediately
afterwards the large canoe followed us, and the deserted ship was
left drifting about--a dreary, spectre-like hulk. Nothing was
taken from her by the savages. The whole fiendish transaction was
carried through as decorously and temperately as though it were a
religious rite.
The first grey of daylight was visible in the east as we passed
through the surge and reached the shore. Leaving half-a-dozen men
with the canoes, the rest of the negroes set off through the sand-
hills, leading me with them, but treating me very gently and
respectfully. It was difficult walking, as we sank over our ankles
into the loose, shifting sand at every step, and I was nearly
dead beat by the time we reached the native village, or town
rather, for it was a place of considerable dimensions. The houses
were conical structures not unlike bee-hives, and were made of
compressed seaweed cemented over with a rude form of mortar, there
being neither stick nor stone upon the coast nor anywhere within
many hundreds of miles. As we entered the town an enormous crowd
of both sexes came swarming out to meet us, beating tom-toms and
howling and screaming. On seeing me they redoubled their yells and
assumed a threatening attitude, which was instantly quelled by a
few words shouted by my escort. A buzz of wonder succeeded the
war-cries and yells of the moment before, and the whole dense mass
proceeded down the broad central street of the town, having my
escort and myself in the centre.
My statement hitherto may seem so strange as to excite doubt in the
minds of those who do not know me, but it was the fact which I am
now about to relate which caused my own brother-in-law to insult me
by disbelief. I can but relate the occurrence in the simplest
words, and trust to chance and time to prove their truth. In the
centre of this main street there was a large building, formed in
the same primitive way as the others, but towering high above them;
a stockade of beautifully polished ebony rails was planted all
round it, the framework of the door was formed by two magnificent
elephant's tusks sunk in the ground on each side and meeting at the
top, and the aperture was closed by a screen of native cloth
richly embroidered with gold. We made our way to this imposing-
looking structure, but, on reaching the opening in the stockade,
the multitude stopped and squatted down upon their hams, while I
was led through into the enclosure by a few of the chiefs and
elders of the tribe, Goring accompanying us, and in fact directing
the proceedings. On reaching the screen which closed the temple--
for such it evidently was--my hat and my shoes were removed, and I
was then led in, a venerable old negro leading the way carrying in
his hand my stone, which had been taken from my pocket. The
building was only lit up by a few long slits in the roof, through
which the tropical sun poured, throwing broad golden bars upon the
clay floor, alternating with intervals of darkness.
The interior was even larger than one would have imagined from the
outside appearance. The walls were hung with native mats, shells,
and other ornaments, but the remainder of the great space was quite
empty, with the exception of a single object in the centre. This
was the figure of a colossal negro, which I at first thought to be
some real king or high priest of titanic size, but as I approached
it I saw by the way in which the light was reflected from it that
it was a statue admirably cut in jet-black stone. I was led up to
this idol, for such it seemed to be, and looking at it closer I saw
that though it was perfect in every other respect, one of its ears
had been broken short off. The grey-haired negro who held my relic
mounted upon a small stool, and stretching up his arm fitted
Martha's black stone on to the jagged surface on the side of the
statue's head. There could not be a doubt that the one had been
broken off from the other. The parts dovetailed together so
accurately that when the old man removed his hand the ear stuck in
its place for a few seconds before dropping into his open palm.
The group round me prostrated themselves upon the ground at the
sight with a cry of reverence, while the crowd outside, to whom the
result was communicated, set up a wild whooping and cheering.
In a moment I found myself converted from a prisoner into a demi-
god. I was escorted back through the town in triumph, the people
pressing forward to touch my clothing and to gather up the dust on
which my foot had trod. One of the largest huts was put at my
disposal, and a banquet of every native delicacy was served me. I
still felt, however, that I was not a free man, as several spearmen
were placed as a guard at the entrance of my hut. All day my mind
was occupied with plans of escape, but none seemed in any way
feasible. On the one side was the great arid desert stretching
away to Timbuctoo, on the other was a sea untraversed by vessels.
The more I pondered over the problem the more hopeless did it seem.
I little dreamed how near I was to its solution.
Night had fallen, and the clamour of the negroes had died gradually
away. I was stretched on the couch of skins which had been
provided for me, and was still meditating over my future, when
Goring walked stealthily into the hut. My first idea was that
he had come to complete his murderous holocaust by making away with
me, the last survivor, and I sprang up upon my feet, determined to
defend myself to the last. He smiled when he saw the action, and
motioned me down again while he seated himself upon the other end
of the couch.
"What do you think of me?" was the astonishing question with which
he commenced our conversation.
"Think of you!" I almost yelled. "I think you the vilest, most
unnatural renegade that ever polluted the earth. If we were away
from these black devils of yours I would strangle you with my
hands!"
"Don't speak so loud," he said, without the slightest appearance of
irritation. "I don't want our chat to be cut short. So you would
strangle me, would you!" he went on, with an amused smile. "I
suppose I am returning good for evil, for I have come to help you
to escape."
"You!" I gasped incredulously.
"Yes, I," he continued.
"Oh, there is no credit to me in the matter. I am quite
consistent. There is no reason why I should not be perfectly
candid with you. I wish to be king over these fellows--not a very
high ambition, certainly, but you know what Caesar said about being
first in a village in Gaul. Well, this unlucky stone of yours has
not only saved your life, but has turned all their heads so that
they think you are come down from heaven, and my influence will be
gone until you are out of the way. That is why I am going to help
you to escape, since I cannot kill you"--this in the most
natural and dulcet voice, as if the desire to do so were a matter
of course.
"You would give the world to ask me a few questions," he went on,
after a pause; "but you are too proud to do it. Never mind, I'll
tell you one or two things, because I want your fellow white men to
know them when you go back--if you are lucky enough to get back.
About that cursed stone of yours, for instance. These negroes, or
at least so the legend goes, were Mahometans originally. While
Mahomet himself was still alive, there was a schism among his
followers, and the smaller party moved away from Arabia, and
eventually crossed Africa. They took away with them, in their
exile, a valuable relic of their old faith in the shape of a large
piece of the black stone of Mecca. The stone was a meteoric one,
as you may have heard, and in its fall upon the earth it broke into
two pieces. One of these pieces is still at Mecca. The larger
piece was carried away to Barbary, where a skilful worker modelled
it into the fashion which you saw to-day. These men are the
descendants of the original seceders from Mahomet, and they have
brought their relic safely through all their wanderings until they
settled in this strange place, where the desert protects them from
their enemies."
"And the ear?" I asked, almost involuntarily.
"Oh, that was the same story over again. Some of the tribe
wandered away to the south a few hundred years ago, and one of
them, wishing to have good luck for the enterprise, got into the
temple at night and carried off one of the ears. There has
been a tradition among the negroes ever since that the ear would
come back some day. The fellow who carried it was caught by some
slaver, no doubt, and that was how it got into America, and so into
your hands--and you have had the honour of fulfilling the
prophecy."
He paused for a few minutes, resting his head upon his hands,
waiting apparently for me to speak. When he looked up again, the
whole expression of his face had changed. His features were firm
and set, and he changed the air of half levity with which he had
spoken before for one of sternness and almost ferocity.
"I wish you to carry a message back," he said, "to the white race,
the great dominating race whom I hate and defy. Tell them that I
have battened on their blood for twenty years, that I have slain
them until even I became tired of what had once been a joy, that I
did this unnoticed and unsuspected in the face of every precaution
which their civilisation could suggest. There is no satisfaction
in revenge when your enemy does not know who has struck him. I am
not sorry, therefore, to have you as a messenger. There is no need
why I should tell you how this great hate became born in me. See
this," and he held up his mutilated hand; "that was done by a white
man's knife. My father was white, my mother was a slave. When he
died she was sold again, and I, a child then, saw her lashed to
death to break her of some of the little airs and graces which her
late master had encouraged in her. My young wife, too, oh, my
young wife!" a shudder ran through his whole frame. "No
matter! I swore my oath, and I kept it. From Maine to Florida,
and from Boston to San Francisco, you could track my steps by
sudden deaths which baffled the police. I warred against the whole
white race as they for centuries had warred against the black one.
At last, as I tell you, I sickened of blood. Still, the sight of
a white face was abhorrent to me, and I determined to find some
bold free black people and to throw in my lot with them, to
cultivate their latent powers, and to form a nucleus for a great
coloured nation. This idea possessed me, and I travelled over the
world for two years seeking for what I desired. At last I almost
despaired of finding it. There was no hope of regeneration in the
slave-dealing Soudanese, the debased Fantee, or the Americanised
negroes of Liberia. I was returning from my quest when chance
brought me in contact with this magnificent tribe of dwellers in
the desert, and I threw in my lot with them. Before doing so,
however, my old instinct of revenge prompted me to make one last
visit to the United States, and I returned from it in the Marie
Celeste.
"As to the voyage itself, your intelligence will have told you by
this time that, thanks to my manipulation, both compasses and
chronometers were entirely untrustworthy. I alone worked out the
course with correct instruments of my own, while the steering was
done by my black friends under my guidance. I pushed Tibbs's wife
overboard. What! You look surprised and shrink away. Surely you
had guessed that by this time. I would have shot you that day
through the partition, but unfortunately you were not there. I
tried again afterwards, but you were awake. I shot Tibbs. I think
the idea of suicide was carried out rather neatly. Of course when
once we got on the coast the rest was simple. I had bargained that
all on board should die; but that stone of yours upset my plans.
I also bargained that there should be no plunder. No one can say
we are pirates. We have acted from principle, not from any sordid
motive."
I listened in amazement to the summary of his crimes which this
strange man gave me, all in the quietest and most composed of
voices, as though detailing incidents of every-day occurrence. I
still seem to see him sitting like a hideous nightmare at the end
of my couch, with the single rude lamp flickering over his
cadaverous features.
"And now," he continued, "there is no difficulty about your escape.
These stupid adopted children of mine will say that you have gone
back to heaven from whence you came. The wind blows off the land.
I have a boat all ready for you, well stored with provisions and
water. I am anxious to be rid of you, so you may rely that nothing
is neglected. Rise up and follow me."
I did what he commanded, and he led me through the door of the hut.
The guards had either been withdrawn, or Goring had arranged
matters with them. We passed unchallenged through the town and
across the sandy plain. Once more I heard the roar of the sea,
and saw the long white line of the surge. Two figures were
standing upon the shore arranging the gear of a small boat. They
were the two sailors who had been with us on the voyage.
"See him safely through the surf," said Goring. The two men sprang
in and pushed off, pulling me in after them. With mainsail and jib
we ran out from the land and passed safely over the bar. Then my
two companions without a word of farewell sprang overboard, and I
saw their heads like black dots on the white foam as they made
their way back to the shore, while I scudded away into the
blackness of the night. Looking back I caught my last glimpse of
Goring. He was standing upon the summit of a sand-hill, and the
rising moon behind him threw his gaunt angular figure into hard
relief. He was waving his arms frantically to and fro; it may have
been to encourage me on my way, but the gestures seemed to me at
the time to be threatening ones, and I have often thought that it
was more likely that his old savage instinct had returned when he
realised that I was out of his power. Be that as it may, it was
the last that I ever saw or ever shall see of Septimius Goring.
There is no need for me to dwell upon my solitary voyage. I
steered as well as I could for the Canaries, but was picked up upon
the fifth day by the British and African Steam Navigation Company's
boat Monrovia. Let me take this opportunity of tendering my
sincerest thanks to Captain Stornoway and his officers for the
great kindness which they showed me from that time till they
landed me in Liverpool, where I was enabled to take one of the
Guion boats to New York.
From the day on which I found myself once more in the bosom of my
family I have said little of what I have undergone. The subject is
still an intensely painful one to me, and the little which I have
dropped has been discredited. I now put the facts before the
public as they occurred, careless how far they may be believed, and
simply writing them down because my lung is growing weaker, and I
feel the responsibility of holding my peace longer. I make no
vague statement. Turn to your map of Africa. There above Cape
Blanco, where the land trends away north and south from the
westernmost point of the continent, there it is that Septimius
Goring still reigns over his dark subjects, unless retribution has
overtaken him; and there, where the long green ridges run swiftly
in to roar and hiss upon the hot yellow sand, it is there that
Harton lies with Hyson and the other poor fellows who were done to
death in the Marie Celeste.
THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT.
Of all the sciences which have puzzled the sons of men, none had
such an attraction for the learned Professor von Baumgarten as
those which relate to psychology and the ill-defined relations
between mind and matter. A celebrated anatomist, a profound
chemist, and one of the first physiologists in Europe, it was a
relief for him to turn from these subjects and to bring his varied
knowledge to bear upon the study of the soul and the mysterious
relationship of spirits. At first, when as a young man he began to
dip into the secrets of mesmerism, his mind seemed to be wandering
in a strange land where all was chaos and darkness, save that here
and there some great unexplainable and disconnected fact loomed out
in front of him. As the years passed, however, and as the worthy
Professor's stock of knowledge increased, for knowledge begets
knowledge as money bears interest, much which had seemed strange
and unaccountable began to take another shape in his eyes. New
trains of reasoning became familiar to him, and he perceived
connecting links where all had been incomprehensible and startling.
By experiments which extended over twenty years, he obtained a
basis of facts upon which it was his ambition to build up a new
exact science which should embrace mesmerism, spiritualism,
and all cognate subjects. In this he was much helped by his
intimate knowledge of the more intricate parts of animal physiology
which treat of nerve currents and the working of the brain; for
Alexis von Baumgarten was Regius Professor of Physiology at the
University of Keinplatz, and had all the resources of the
laboratory to aid him in his profound researches.
Professor von Baumgarten was tall and thin, with a hatchet face and
steel-grey eyes, which were singularly bright and penetrating.
Much thought had furrowed his forehead and contracted his heavy
eyebrows, so that he appeared to wear a perpetual frown, which
often misled people as to his character, for though austere he was
tender-hearted. He was popular among the students, who would
gather round him after his lectures and listen eagerly to his
strange theories. Often he would call for volunteers from amongst
them in order to conduct some experiment, so that eventually there
was hardly a lad in the class who had not, at one time or another,
been thrown into a mesmeric trance by his Professor.
Of all these young devotees of science there was none who equalled
in enthusiasm Fritz von Hartmann. It had often seemed strange to
his fellow-students that wild, reckless Fritz, as dashing a young
fellow as ever hailed from the Rhinelands, should devote the time
and trouble which he did in reading up abstruse works and in
assisting the Professor in his strange experiments. The fact was,
however, that Fritz was a knowing and long-headed fellow.
Months before he had lost his heart to young Elise, the blue-eyed,
yellow-haired daughter of the lecturer. Although he had succeeded
in learning from her lips that she was not indifferent to his suit,
he had never dared to announce himself to her family as a formal
suitor. Hence he would have found it a difficult matter to see his
young lady had he not adopted the expedient of making himself
useful to the Professor. By this means he frequently was asked to
the old man's house, where he willingly submitted to be
experimented upon in any way as long as there was a chance of his
receiving one bright glance from the eyes of Elise or one touch of
her little hand.
Young Fritz von Hartmann was a handsome lad enough. There were
broad acres, too, which would descend to him when his father died.
To many he would have seemed an eligible suitor; but Madame frowned
upon his presence in the house, and lectured the Professor at times
on his allowing such a wolf to prowl around their lamb. To tell
the truth, Fritz had an evil name in Keinplatz. Never was there a
riot or a duel, or any other mischief afoot, but the young
Rhinelander figured as a ringleader in it. No one used more free
and violent language, no one drank more, no one played cards more
habitually, no one was more idle, save in the one solitary subject.
No wonder, then, that the good Frau Professorin gathered her
Fraulein under her wing, and resented the attentions of such a
mauvais sujet. As to the worthy lecturer, he was too much
engrossed by his strange studies to form an opinion upon the
subject one way or the other.
For many years there was one question which had continually
obtruded itself upon his thoughts. All his experiments and his
theories turned upon a single point. A hundred times a day the
Professor asked himself whether it was possible for the human
spirit to exist apart from the body for a time and then to return
to it once again. When the possibility first suggested itself to
him his scientific mind had revolted from it. It clashed too
violently with preconceived ideas and the prejudices of his early
training. Gradually, however, as he proceeded farther and farther
along the pathway of original research, his mind shook off its old
fetters and became ready to face any conclusion which could
reconcile the facts. There were many things which made him believe
that it was possible for mind to exist apart from matter. At last
it occurred to him that by a daring and original experiment the
question might be definitely decided.
"It is evident," he remarked in his celebrated article upon
invisible entities, which appeared in the Keinplatz wochenliche
Medicalschrift about this time, and which surprised the whole
scientific world--"it is evident that under certain conditions the
soul or mind does separate itself from the body. In the case of a
mesmerised person, the body lies in a cataleptic condition, but the
spirit has left it. Perhaps you reply that the soul is there, but
in a dormant condition. I answer that this is not so,
otherwise how can one account for the condition of clairvoyance,
which has fallen into disrepute through the knavery of certain
scoundrels, but which can easily be shown to be an undoubted fact.
I have been able myself, with a sensitive subject, to obtain an
accurate description of what was going on in another room or
another house. How can such knowledge be accounted for on any
hypothesis save that the soul of the subject has left the body and
is wandering through space? For a moment it is recalled by the
voice of the operator and says what it has seen, and then wings its
way once more through the air. Since the spirit is by its very
nature invisible, we cannot see these comings and goings, but we
see their effect in the body of the subject, now rigid and inert,
now struggling to narrate impressions which could never have come
to it by natural means. There is only one way which I can see by
which the fact can be demonstrated. Although we in the flesh are
unable to see these spirits, yet our own spirits, could we separate
them from the body, would be conscious of the presence of others.
It is my intention, therefore, shortly to mesmerise one of my
pupils. I shall then mesmerise myself in a manner which has become
easy to me. After that, if my theory holds good, my spirit will
have no difficulty in meeting and communing with the spirit of my
pupil, both being separated from the body. I hope to be able to
communicate the result of this interesting experiment in an early
number of the Keinplatz wochenliche Medicalschrilt."
When the good Professor finally fulfilled his promise, and
published an account of what occurred, the narrative was so
extraordinary that it was received with general incredulity. The
tone of some of the papers was so offensive in their comments upon
the matter that the angry savant declared that he would never open
his mouth again or refer to the subject in any way--a promise which
he has faithfully kept. This narrative has been compiled, however,
from the most authentic sources, and the events cited in it may be
relied upon as substantially correct.
It happened, then, that shortly after the time when Professor von
Baumgarten conceived the idea of the above-mentioned experiment, he
was walking thoughtfully homewards after a long day in the
laboratory, when he met a crowd of roystering students who had just
streamed out from a beer-house. At the head of them, half-
intoxicated and very noisy, was young Fritz von Hartmann. The
Professor would have passed them, but his pupil ran across and
intercepted him.
"Heh! my worthy master," he said, taking the old man by the sleeve,
and leading him down the road with him. "There is something that
I have to say to you, and it is easier for me to say it now, when
the good beer is humming in my head, than at another time."
"What is it, then, Fritz?" the physiologist asked, looking at him
in mild surprise.
"I hear, mein herr, that you are about to do some wondrous
experiment in which you hope to take a man's soul out of his
body, and then to put it back again. Is it not so?"
"It is true, Fritz."
"And have you considered, my dear sir, that you may have some
difficulty in finding some one on whom to try this? Potztausend!
Suppose that the soul went out and would not come back. That would
be a bad business. Who is to take the risk?"
"But, Fritz," the Professor cried, very much startled by this view
of the matter, "I had relied upon your assistance in the attempt.
Surely you will not desert me. Consider the honour and glory."
"Consider the fiddlesticks!" the student cried angrily. "Am I to
be paid always thus? Did I not stand two hours upon a glass
insulator while you poured electricity into my body? Have you not
stimulated my phrenic nerves, besides ruining my digestion with a
galvanic current round my stomach? Four-and-thirty times you have
mesmerised me, and what have I got from all this? Nothing. And
now you wish to take my soul out, as you would take the works from
a watch. It is more than flesh and blood can stand."
"Dear, dear!" the Professor cried in great distress. "That is very
true, Fritz. I never thought of it before. If you can but suggest
how I can compensate you, you will find me ready and willing."
"Then listen," said Fritz solemnly. "If you will pledge your word
that after this experiment I may have the hand of your daughter,
then I am willing to assist you; but if not, I shall have
nothing to do with it. These are my only terms."
"And what would my daughter say to this?" the Professor exclaimed,
after a pause of astonishment.
"Elise would welcome it," the young man replied. "We have loved
each other long."
"Then she shall be yours," the physiologist said with decision,
"for you are a good-hearted young man, and one of the best neurotic
subjects that I have ever known--that is when you are not under the
influence of alcohol. My experiment is to be performed upon the
fourth of next month. You will attend at the physiological
laboratory at twelve o'clock. It will be a great occasion, Fritz.
Von Gruben is coming from Jena, and Hinterstein from Basle. The
chief men of science of all South Germany will be there.
"I shall be punctual," the student said briefly; and so the two
parted. The Professor plodded homeward, thinking of the great
coming event, while the young man staggered along after his noisy
companions, with his mind full of the blue-eyed Elise, and of the
bargain which he had concluded with her father.
The Professor did not exaggerate when he spoke of the widespread
interest excited by his novel psychophysiological experiment. Long
before the hour had arrived the room was filled by a galaxy of
talent. Besides the celebrities whom he had mentioned, there had
come from London the great Professor Lurcher, who had just
established his reputation by a remarkable treatise upon cerebral
centres. Several great lights of the Spiritualistic body had
also come a long distance to be present, as had a Swedenborgian
minister, who considered that the proceedings might throw some
light upon the doctrines of the Rosy Cross.
There was considerable applause from this eminent assembly upon the
appearance of Professor von Baumgarten and his subject upon the
platform. The lecturer, in a few well-chosen words, explained what
his views were, and how he proposed to test them. "I hold," he
said, "that when a person is under the influence of mesmerism, his
spirit is for the time released from his body, and I challenge any
one to put forward any other hypothesis which will account for the
fact of clairvoyance. I therefore hope that upon mesmerising my
young friend here, and then putting myself into a trance, our
spirits may be able to commune together, though our bodies lie
still and inert. After a time nature will resume her sway, our
spirits will return into our respective bodies, and all will be as
before. With your kind permission, we shall now proceed to attempt
the experiment."
The applause was renewed at this speech, and the audience settled
down in expectant silence. With a few rapid passes the Professor
mesmerised the young man, who sank back in his chair, pale and
rigid. He then took a bright globe of glass from his pocket, and
by concentrating his gaze upon it and making a strong mental
effort, he succeeded in throwing himself into the same condition.
It was a strange and impressive sight to see the old man and the
young sitting together in the same cataleptic condition.
Whither, then, had their souls fled? That was the question which
presented itself to each and every one of the spectators.
Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then fifteen, and then
fifteen more, while the Professor and his pupil sat stiff and stark
upon the platform. During that time not a sound was heard from the
assembled savants, but every eye was bent upon the two pale faces,
in search of the first signs of returning consciousness. Nearly an
hour had elapsed before the patient watchers were rewarded. A
faint flush came back to the cheeks of Professor von Baumgarten.
The soul was coming back once more to its earthly tenement.
Suddenly he stretched out his long thin arms, as one awaking from
sleep, and rubbing his eyes, stood up from his chair and gazed
about him as though he hardly realised where he was. "Tausend
Teufel!" he exclaimed, rapping out a tremendous South German oath,
to the great astonishment of his audience and to the disgust of the
Swedenborgian. "Where the Henker am I then, and what in thunder
has occurred? Oh yes, I remember now. One of these nonsensical
mesmeric experiments. There is no result this time, for I remember
nothing at all since I became unconscious; so you have had all your
long journeys for nothing, my learned friends, and a very good joke
too; "at which the Regius Professor of Physiology burst into a roar
of laughter and slapped his thigh in a highly indecorous fashion.
The audience were so enraged at this unseemly behaviour on the part
of their host, that there might have been a considerable
disturbance, had it not been for the judicious interference of
young Fritz von Hartmann, who had now recovered from his lethargy.
Stepping to the front of the platform, the young man apologised for
the conduct of his companion. "I am sorry to say," he said, "that
he is a harum-scarum sort of fellow, although he appeared so grave
at the commencement of this experiment. He is still suffering from
mesmeric reaction, and is hardly accountable for his words. As to
the experiment itself, I do not consider it to be a failure. It is
very possible that our spirits may have been communing in space
during this hour; but, unfortunately, our gross bodily memory is
distinct from our spirit, and we cannot recall what has occurred.
My energies shall now be devoted to devising some means by which
spirits may be able to recollect what occurs to them in their free
state, and I trust that when I have worked this out, I may have the
pleasure of meeting you all once again in this hall, and
demonstrating to you the result." This address, coming from so
young a student, caused considerable astonishment among the
audience, and some were inclined to be offended, thinking that he
assumed rather too much importance. The majority, however, looked
upon him as a young man of great promise, and many comparisons were
made as they left the hall between his dignified conduct and the
levity of his professor, who during the above remarks was laughing
heartily in a corner, by no means abashed at the failure of the
experiment.
Now although all these learned men were filing out of the
lecture-room under the impression that they had seen nothing of
note, as a matter of fact one of the most wonderful things in the
whole history of the world had just occurred before their very eyes
Professor von Baumgarten had been so far correct in his theory that
both his spirit and that of his pupil had been for a time absent
from his body. But here a strange and unforeseen complication had
occurred. In their return the spirit of Fritz von Hartmann had
entered into the body of Alexis von Baumgarten, and that of Alexis
von Baumgarten had taken up its abode in the frame of Fritz von
Hartmann. Hence the slang and scurrility which issued from the
lips of the serious Professor, and hence also the weighty words and
grave statements which fell from the careless student. It was an
unprecedented event, yet no one knew of it, least of all those whom
it concerned.
The body of the Professor, feeling conscious suddenly of a great
dryness about the back of the throat, sallied out into the street,
still chuckling to himself over the result of the experiment, for
the soul of Fritz within was reckless at the thought of the bride
whom he had won so easily. His first impulse was to go up to the
house and see her, but on second thoughts he came to the conclusion
that it would be best to stay away until Madame Baumgarten should
be informed by her husband of the agreement which had been made.
He therefore made his way down to the Graner Mann, which was one of
the favourite trysting-places of the wilder students, and ran,
boisterously waving his cane in the air, into the little
parlour, where sat Spiegler and Muller and half a dozen other boon
companions.
"Ha, ha! my boys," he shouted. "I knew I should find you here.
Drink up, every one of you, and call for what you like, for I'm
going to stand treat to-day."
Had the green man who is depicted upon the signpost of that well-
known inn suddenly marched into the room and called for a bottle of
wine, the students could not have been more amazed than they were
by this unexpected entry of their revered professor. They were so
astonished that for a minute or two they glared at him in utter
bewilderment without being able to make any reply to his hearty
invitation.
"Donner und Blitzen!" shouted the Professor angrily. "What the
deuce is the matter with you, then? You sit there like a set of
stuck pigs staring at me. What is it, then?"
"It is the unexpected honour," stammered Spiegel, who was in the
chair.
"Honour--rubbish!" said the Professor testily. "Do you think that
just because I happen to have been exhibiting mesmerism to a parcel
of old fossils, I am therefore too proud to associate with dear old
friends like you? Come out of that chair, Spiegel my boy, for I
shall preside now. Beer, or wine, or shnapps, my lads--call for
what you like, and put it all down to me."
Never was there such an afternoon in the Gruner Mann. The foaming
flagons of lager and the green-necked bottles of Rhenish circulated
merrily. By degrees the students lost their shyness in the
presence of their Professor. As for him, he shouted, he sang, he
roared, he balanced a long tobacco-pipe upon his nose, and offered
to run a hundred yards against any member of the company. The
Kellner and the barmaid whispered to each other outside the door
their astonishment at such proceedings on the part of a Regius
Professor of the ancient university of Kleinplatz. They had still
more to whisper about afterwards, for the learned man cracked the
Kellner's crown, and kissed the barmaid behind the kitchen door.
"Gentlemen," said the Professor, standing up, albeit somewhat
totteringly, at the end of the table, and balancing his high old-
fashioned wine glass in his bony hand, "I must now explain to you
what is the cause of this festivity."
"Hear! hear! " roared the students, hammering their beer glasses
against the table; "a speech, a speech!--silence for a speech!"
"The fact is, my friends," said the Professor, beaming through his
spectacles, "I hope very soon to be married."
"Married!" cried a student, bolder than the others "Is Madame dead,
then?"
"Madame who?"
"Why, Madame von Baumgarten, of course."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the Professor; "I can see, then, that you know
all about my former difficulties. No, she is not dead, but I have
reason to believe that she will not oppose my marriage."
"That is very accommodating of her," remarked one of the company.
"In fact," said the Professor, "I hope that she will now be induced
to aid me in getting a wife. She and I never took to each other
very much; but now I hope all that may be ended, and when I marry
she will come and stay with me."
"What a happy family!" exclaimed some wag.
"Yes, indeed; and I hope you will come to my wedding, all of you.
I won't mention names, but here is to my little bride!" and the
Professor waved his glass in the air.
"Here's to his little bride!" roared the roysterers, with shouts of
laughter. "Here's her health. Sie soll leben--Hoch!" And so the
fun waxed still more fast and furious, while each young fellow
followed the Professor's example, and drank a toast to the girl of
his heart.
While all this festivity had been going on at the Graner Mann, a
very different scene had been enacted elsewhere. Young Fritz von
Hartmann, with a solemn face and a reserved manner, had, after the
experiment, consulted and adjusted some mathematical instruments;
after which, with a few peremptory words to the janitors, he had
walked out into the street and wended his way slowly in the
direction of the house of the Professor. As he walked he saw Von
Althaus, the professor of anatomy, in front of him, and quickening
his pace he overtook him.
"I say, Von Althaus," he exclaimed, tapping him on the sleeve, "you
were asking me for some information the other day concerning
the middle coat of the cerebral arteries. Now I find----"
"Donnerwetter!" shouted Von Althaus, who was a peppery old fellow.
"What the deuce do you mean by your impertinence! I'll have you up
before the Academical Senate for this, sir; "with which threat he
turned on his heel and hurried away. Von Hartmann was much
surprised at this reception. "It's on account of this failure of
my experiment," he said to himself, and continued moodily on his
way.
Fresh surprises were in store for him, however. He was hurrying
along when he was overtaken by two students. These youths, instead
of raising their caps or showing any other sign of respect, gave a
wild whoop of deligilt the instant that they saw him, and rushing
at him, seized him by each arm and commenced dragging him along
with them.
"Gott in himmel!" roared Von Hartmann. "What is the meaning of
this unparalleled insult? Where are you taking me?"
"To crack a bottle of wine with us," said the two students. "Come
along! That is an invitation which you have never refused."
"I never heard of such insolence in my life!" cried Von Hartmann.
"Let go my arms! I shall certainly have you rusticated for this.
Let me go, I say!" and he kicked furiously at his captors.
"Oh, if you choose to turn ill-tempered, you may go where you
like," the students said, releasing him. "We can do very well
without you."
"I know you. I'll pay you out," said Von Hartmann furiously, and
continued in the direction which he imagined to be his own home,
much incensed at the two episodes which had occurred to him on the
way.
Now, Madame von Baumgarten, who was looking out of the window and
wondering why her husband was late for dinner, was considerably
astonished to see the young student come stalking down the road.
As already remarked, she had a great antipathy to him, and if ever
he ventured into the house it was on sufferance, and under the
protection of the Professor. Still more astonished was she,
therefore, when she beheld him undo the wicket-gate and stride up
the garden path with the air of one who is master of the situation.
She could hardly believe her eyes, and hastened to the door with
all her maternal instincts up in arms. From the upper windows the
fair Elise had also observed this daring move upon the part of her
lover, and her heart beat quick with mingled pride and
consternation.
"Good day, sir," Madame Baumgarten remarked to the intruder, as she
stood in gloomy majesty in the open doorway.
"A very fine day indeed, Martha," returned the other. "Now, don't
stand there like a statue of Juno, but bustle about and get the
dinner ready, for I am well-nigh starved."
"Martha! Dinner!" ejaculated the lady, falling back in
astonishment.
"Yes, dinner, Martha, dinner!" howled Von Hartmann, who was
becoming irritable. "Is there anything wonderful in that request
when a man has been out all day? I'll wait in the dining-room.
Anything will do. Schinken, and sausage, and prunes--any little
thing that happens to be about. There you are, standing staring
again. Woman, will you or will you not stir your legs?"
This last address, delivered with a perfect shriek of rage, had the
effect of sending good Madame Baumgarten flying along the passage
and through the kitchen, where she locked herself up in the
scullery and went into violent hysterics. In the meantime Von
Hartmann strode into the room and threw himself down upon the sofa
in the worst of tempers.
"Elise!" he shouted. "Confound the girl! Elise!"
Thus roughly summoned, the young lady came timidly downstairs and
into the presence of her lover. "Dearest!" she cried, throwing her
arms round him, "I know this is all done for my sake! It is a
RUSE in order to see me."
Von Hartmann's indignation at this fresh attack upon him was so
great that he became speechless for a minute from rage, and could
only glare and shake his fists, while he struggled in her embrace.
When he at last regained his utterance, he indulged in such a
bellow of passion that the young lady dropped back, petrified with
fear, into an armchair.
"Never have I passed such a day in my life," Von Hartmann cried,
stamping upon the floor. "My experiment has failed. Von Althaus
has insulted me. Two students have dragged me along the
public road. My wife nearly faints when I ask her for dinner, and
my daughter flies at me and hugs me like a grizzly bear."
"You are ill, dear," the young lady cried. "Your mind is
wandering. You have not even kissed me once."
"No, and I don't intend to either," Von Hartmann said with
decision. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why don't you go
and fetch my slippers, and help your mother to dish the dinner?"
"And is it for this," Elise cried, burying her face in her
handkerchief--"is it for this that I have loved you passionately
for upwards of ten months? Is it for this that I have braved my
mother's wrath? Oh, you have broken my heart; I am sure you have!"
and she sobbed hysterically.
"I can't stand much more of this," roared Von Hartmann furiously.
"What the deuce does the girl mean? What did I do ten months ago
which inspired you with such a particular affection for me? If you
are really so very fond, you would do better to run away down and
find the schinken and some bread, instead of talking all this
nonsense"
"Oh, my darling!" cried the unhappy maiden, throwing herself into
the arms of what she imagined to be her lover, "you do but joke in
order to frighten your little Elise."
Now it chanced that at the moment of this unexpected embrace Von
Hartmann was still leaning back against the end of the sofa, which,
like much German furniture, was in a somewhat rickety
condition. It also chanced that beneath this end of the sofa there
stood a tank full of water in which the physiologist was conducting
certain experiments upon the ova of fish, and which he kept in his
drawing-room in order to insure an equable temperature. The
additional weight of the maiden, combined with the impetus with
which she hurled herself upon him, caused the precarious piece of
furniture to give way, and the body of the unfortunate student was
hurled backwards into the tank, in which his head and shoulders
were firmly wedged, while his lower extremities flapped helplessly
about in the air. This was the last straw. Extricating himself
with some difficulty from his unpleasant position, Von Hartmann
gave an inarticulate yell of fury, and dashing out of the room, in
spite of the entreaties of Elise, he seized his hat and rushed off
into the town, all dripping and dishevelled, with the intention of
seeking in some inn the food and comfort which he could not find at
home.
As the spirit of Von Baumgarten encased in the body of Von Hartmann
strode down the winding pathway which led down to the little town,
brooding angrily over his many wrongs, he became aware that an
elderly man was approaching him who appeared to be in an advanced
state of intoxication. Von Hartmann waited by the side of the road
and watched this individual, who came stumbling along, reeling from
one side of the road to the other, and singing a student song in a
very husky and drunken voice. At first his interest was
merely excited by the fact of seeing a man of so venerable an
appearance in such a disgraceful condition, but as he approached
nearer, he became convinced that he knew the other well, though he
could not recall when or where he had met him. This impression
became so strong with him, that when the stranger came abreast of
him he stepped in front of him and took a good look at his
features.
"Well, sonny," said the drunken man, surveying Von Hartmann and
swaying about in front of him, "where the Henker have I seen you
before? I know you as well as I know myself. Who the deuce are
you?"
"I am Professor von Baumgarten," said the student. "May I ask who
you are? I am strangely familiar with your features."
"You should never tell lies, young man," said the other. "You're
certainly not the Professor, for he is an ugly snuffy old chap, and
you are a big broad-shouldered young fellow. As to myself, I am
Fritz von Hartmann at your service."
"That you certainly are not," exclaimed the body of Von Hartmann.
"You might very well be his father. But hullo, sir, are you aware
that you are wearing my studs and my watch-chain?"
"Donnerwetter!" hiccoughed the other. " If those are not the
trousers for which my tailor is about to sue me, may I never taste
beer again."
Now as Von Hartmann, overwhelmed by the many strange things which
had occurred to him that day, passed his hand over his
forehead and cast his eyes downwards, he chanced to catch the
reflection of his own face in a pool which the rain had left upon
the road. To his utter astonishment he perceived that his face was
that of a youth, that his dress was that of a fashionable young
student, and that in every way he was the antithesis of the grave
and scholarly figure in which his mind was wont to dwell. In an
instant his active brain ran over the series of events which had
occurred and sprang to the conclusion. He fairly reeled under the
blow.
"Himmel!" he cried, "I see it all. Our souls are in the wrong
bodies. I am you and you are I. My theory is proved--but at what
an expense! Is the most scholarly mind in Europe to go about with
this frivolous exterior? Oh the labours of a lifetime are ruined!"
and he smote his breast in his despair.
"I say," remarked the real Von Hartmann from the body of the
Professor, "I quite see the force of your remarks, but don't go
knocking my body about like that. You received it in excellent
condition, but I perceive that you have wet it and bruised it, and
spilled snuff over my ruffled shirt-front."
"It matters little," the other said moodily. "Such as we are so
must we stay. My theory is triumphantly proved, but the cost is
terrible."
"If I thought so," said the spirit of the student, "it would be
hard indeed. What could I do with these stiff old limbs, and how
could I woo Elise and persuade her that I was not her father? No,
thank Heaven, in spite of the beer which has upset me more
than ever it could upset my real self, I can see a way out of it."
"How?" gasped the Professor.
"Why, by repeating the experiment. Liberate our souls once more,
and the chances are that they will find their way back into their
respective bodies."
No drowning man could clutch more eagerly at a straw than did Von
Baumgarten's spirit at this suggestion. In feverish haste he
dragged his own frame to the side of the road and threw it into a
mesmeric trance; he then extracted the crystal ball from the
pocket, and managed to bring himself into the same condition.
Some students and peasants who chanced to pass during the next hour
were much astonished to see the worthy Professor of Physiology and
his favourite student both sitting upon a very muddy bank and both
completely insensible. Before the hour was up quite a crowd had
assembled, and they were discussing the advisability of sending for
an ambulance to convey the pair to hospital, when the learned
savant opened his eyes and gazed vacantly around him. For an
instant he seemed to forget how he had come there, but next moment
he astonished his audience by waving his skinny arms above his head
and crying out in a voice of rapture, "Gott sei gedanket! I am
myself again. I feel I am!" Nor was the amazement lessened when
the student, springing to his feet, burst into the same cry, and
the two performed a sort of pas de joie in the middle of the
road.
For some time after that people had some suspicion of the sanity of
both the actors in this strange episode. When the Professor
published his experiences in the Medicalschrift as he had promised,
he was met by an intimation, even from his colleagues, that he
would do well to have his mind cared for, and that another such
publication would certainly consign him to a madhouse. The student
also found by experience that it was wisest to be silent about the
matter.
When the worthy lecturer returned home that night he did not
receive the cordial welcome which he might have looked for after
his strange adventures. On the contrary, he was roundly upbraided
by both his female relatives for smelling of drink and tobacco, and
also for being absent while a young scapegrace invaded the house
and insulted its occupants. It was long before the domestic
atmosphere of the lecturer's house resumed its normal quiet, and
longer still before the genial face of Von Hartmann was seen
beneath its roof. Perseverance, however, conquers every obstacle,
and the student eventually succeeded in pacifying the enraged
ladies and in establishing himself upon the old footing. He has
now no longer any cause to fear the enmity of Madame, for he is
Hauptmann von Hartmann of the Emperor's own Uhlans, and his loving
wife Elise has already presented him with two little Uhlans as a
visible sign and token of her affection.
THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL.
On the fourth day of March, in the year 1867, being at that time in
my five-and-twentieth year, I wrote down the following words in my
note-book--the result of much mental perturbation and conflict:--
"The solar system, amidst a countless number of other systems as
large as itself, rolls ever silently through space in the direction
of the constellation of Hercules. The great spheres of which it is
composed spin and spin through the eternal void ceaselessly and
noiselessly. Of these one of the smallest and most insignificant
is that conglomeration of solid and of liquid particles which we
have named the earth. It whirls onwards now as it has done before
my birth, and will do after my death--a revolving mystery, coming
none know whence, and going none know whither. Upon the outer
crust of this moving mass crawl many mites, of whom I, John
M`Vittie, am one, helpless, impotent, being dragged aimlessly
through space. Yet such is the state of things amongst us that the
little energy and glimmering of reason which I possess is entirely
taken up with the labours which are necessary in order to procure
certain metallic disks, wherewith I may purchase the
chemical elements necessary to build up my ever-wasting tissues,
and keep a roof over me to shelter me from the inclemency of the
weather. I thus have no thought to expend upon the vital questions
which surround me on every side. Yet, miserable entity as I am, I
can still at times feel some degree of happiness, and am even--save
the mark!--puffed up occasionally with a sense of my own
importance."
These words, as I have said, I wrote down in my note-book, and they
reflected accurately the thoughts which I found rooted far down in
my soul, ever present and unaffected by the passing emotions of the
hour. At last, however, came a time when my uncle, M`Vittie of
Glencairn, died--the same who was at one time chairman of
committees of the House of Commons. He divided his great wealth
among his many nephews, and I found myself with sufficient to
provide amply for my wants during the remainder of my life, and
became at the same time owner of a bleak tract of land upon the
coast of Caithness, which I think the old man must have bestowed
upon me in derision, for it was sandy and valueless, and he had
ever a grim sense of humour. Up to this time I had been an
attorney in a midland town in England. Now I saw that I could put
my thoughts into effect, and, leaving all petty and sordid aims,
could elevate my mind by the study of the secrets of nature. My
departure from my English home was somewhat accelerated by the fact
that I had nearly slain a man in a quarrel, for my temper was
fiery, and I was apt to forget my own strength when enraged.
There was no legal action taken in the matter, but the papers
yelped at me, and folk looked askance when I met them. It ended by
my cursing them and their vile, smoke-polluted town, and hurrying
to my northern possession, where I might at last find peace and an
opportunity for solitary study and contemplation. I borrowed from
my capital before I went, and so was able to take with me a choice
collection of the most modern philosophical instruments and books,
together with chemicals and such other things as I might need in my
retirement.
The land which I had inherited was a narrow strip, consisting
mostly of sand, and extending for rather over two miles round the
coast of Mansie Bay, in Caithness. Upon this strip there had been
a rambling, grey-stone building--when erected or wherefore none
could tell me--and this I had repaired, so that it made a dwelling
quite good enough for one of my simple tastes. One room was my
laboratory, another my sitting-room, and in a third, just under the
sloping roof, I slung the hammock in which I always slept. There
were three other rooms, but I left them vacant, except one which
was given over to the old crone who kept house for me. Save the
Youngs and the M`Leods, who were fisher-folk living round at the
other side of Fergus Ness, there were no other people for many
miles in each direction. In front of the house was the great bay,
behind it were two long barren hills, capped by other loftier ones
beyond. There was a glen between the hills, and when the wind
was from the land it used to sweep down this with a melancholy
sough and whisper among the branches of the fir-trees beneath my
attic window.
I dislike my fellow-mortals. Justice compels me to add that they
appear for the most part to dislike me. I hate their little
crawling ways, their conventionalities, their deceits, their narrow
rights and wrongs. They take offence at my brusque outspokenness,
my disregard for their social laws, my impatience of all
constraint. Among my books and my drugs in my lonely den at Mansie
I could let the great drove of the human race pass onwards with
their politics and inventions and tittle-tattle, and I remained
behind stagnant and happy. Not stagnant either, for I was working
in my own little groove, and making progress. I have reason to
believe that Dalton's atomic theory is founded upon error, and I
know that mercury is not an element.
During the day I was busy with my distillations and analyses.
Often I forgot my meals, and when old Madge summoned me to my tea
I found my dinner lying untouched upon the table. At night I read
Bacon, Descartes, Spinoza, Kant--all those who have pried into what
is unknowable. They are all fruitless and empty, barren of result,
but prodigal of polysyllables, reminding me of men who, while
digging for gold, have turned up many worms, and then exhibit them
exultantly as being what they sought. At times a restless spirit
would come upon me, and I would walk thirty and forty miles without
rest or breaking fast. On these occasions, when I used to
stalk through the country villages, gaunt, unshaven, and
dishevelled, the mothers would rush into the road and drag their
children indoors, and the rustics would swarm out of their pot-
houses to gaze at me. I believe that I was known far and wide as
the "mad laird o' Mansie." It was rarely, however, that I made
these raids into the country, for I usually took my exercise upon
my own beach, where I soothed my spirit with strong black tobacco,
and made the ocean my friend and my confidant.
What companion is there like the great restless, throbbing sea?
What human mood is there which it does not match and sympathise
with? There are none so gay but that they may feel gayer when they
listen to its merry turmoil, and see the long green surges racing
in, with the glint of the sunbeams in their sparkling crests. But
when the grey waves toss their heads in anger, and the wind screams
above them, goading them on to madder and more tumultuous efforts,
then the darkest-minded of men feels that there is a melancholy
principle in Nature which is as gloomy as his own thoughts. When
it was calm in the Bay of Mansie the surface would be as clear and
bright as a sheet of silver, broken only at one spot some little
way from the shore, where a long black line projected out of the
water looking like the jagged back of some sleeping monster. This
was the top of the dangerous ridge of rocks known to the fishermen
as the "ragged reef o' Mansie." When the wind blew from the east
the waves would break upon it like thunder, and the spray
would be tossed far over my house and up to the hills behind. The
bay itself was a bold and noble one, but too much exposed to the
northern and eastern gales, and too much dreaded for its reef, to
be much used by mariners. There was something of romance about
this lonely spot. I have lain in my boat upon a calm day, and
peering over the edge I have seen far down the flickering, ghostly
forms of great fish--fish, as it seemed to me, such as naturalist
never knew, and which my imagination transformed into the genii of
that desolate bay. Once, as I stood by the brink of the waters
upon a quiet night, a great cry, as of a woman in hopeless grief,
rose from the bosom of the deep, and swelled out upon the still
air, now sinking and now rising, for a space of thirty seconds.
This I heard with my own ears.
In this strange spot, with the eternal hills behind me and the
eternal sea in front, I worked and brooded for more than two years
unpestered by my fellow men. By degrees I had trained my old
servant into habits of silence, so that she now rarely opened her
lips, though I doubt not that when twice a year she visited her
relations in Wick, her tongue during those few days made up for its
enforced rest. I had come almost to forget that I was a member of
the human family, and to live entirely with the dead whose books I
pored over, when a sudden incident occurred which threw all my
thoughts into a new channel.
Three rough days in June had been succeeded by one calm and
peaceful one. There was not a breath of air that evening. The sun
sank down in the west behind a line of purple clouds, and the
smooth surface of the bay was gashed with scarlet streaks. Along
the beach the pools left by the tide showed up like gouts of blood
against the yellow sand, as if some wounded giant had toilfully
passed that way, and had left these red traces of his grievous hurt
behind him. As the darkness closed in, certain ragged clouds which
had lain low on the eastern horizon coalesced and formed a great
irregular cumulus. The glass was still low, and I knew that there
was mischief brewing. About nine o'clock a dull moaning sound came
up from the sea, as from a creature who, much harassed, learns that
the hour of suffering has come round again. At ten a sharp breeze
sprang up from the eastward. At eleven it had increased to a gale,
and by midnight the most furious storm was raging which I ever
remember upon that weather-beaten coast.
As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against
my attic window, and the wind was screaming as though every gust
were a lost soul. By that time the sounds of the tempest had
become a lullaby to me. I knew that the grey walls of the old
house would buffet it out, and for what occurred in the world
outside I had small concern. Old Madge was usually as callous to
such things as I was myself. It was a surprise to me when, about
three in the morning, I was awoke by the sound of a great knocking
at my door and excited cries in the wheezy voice of my house-
keeper. I sprang out of my hammock, and roughly demanded of
her what was the matter.
"Eh, maister, maister!" she screamed in her hateful dialect. "Come
doun, mun; come doun! There's a muckle ship gaun ashore on the
reef, and the puir folks are a' yammerin' and ca'in' for help--and
I doobt they'll a' be drooned. Oh, Maister M`Vittie, come doun!"
"Hold your tongue, you hag!" I shouted back in a passion. "What is
it to you whether they are drowned or not? Get back to your bed
and leave me alone." I turned in again and drew the blankets over
me. "Those men out there," I said to myself, "have already gone
through half the horrors of death. If they be saved they will but
have to go through the same once more in the space of a few brief
years. It is best therefore that they should pass away now, since
they have suffered that anticipation which is more than the pain of
dissolution." With this thought in my mind I endeavoured to
compose myself to sleep once more, for that philosophy which had
taught me to consider death as a small and trivial incident in
man's eternal and everchanging career, had also broken me of much
curiosity concerning worldly matters. On this occasion I found,
however, that the old leaven still fermented strongly in my soul.
I tossed from side to side for some minutes endeavouring to beat
down the impulses of the moment by the rules of conduct which I had
framed during months of thought. Then I heard a dull roar amid the
wild shriek of the gale, and I knew that it was the sound of
a signal-gun. Driven by an uncontrollable impulse, I rose,
dressed, and having lit my pipe, walked out on to the beach.
It was pitch dark when I came outside, and the wind blew with such
violence that I had to put my shoulder against it and push my way
along the shingle. My face pringled and smarted with the sting of
the gravel which was blown against it, and the red ashes of my pipe
streamed away behind me, dancing fantastically through the
darkness. I went down to where the great waves were thundering in,
and shading my eyes with my hands to keep off the salt spray, I
peered out to sea. I could distinguish nothing, and yet it seemed
to me that shouts and great inarticulate cries were borne to me by
the blasts. Suddenly as I gazed I made out the glint of a light,
and then the whole bay and the beach were lit up in a moment by a
vivid blue glare. They were burning a coloured signal-light on
board of the vessel. There she lay on her beam ends right in the
centre of the jagged reef, hurled over to such an angle that I
could see all the planking of her deck. She was a large two-masted
schooner, of foreign rig, and lay perhaps a hundred and eighty or
two hundred yards from the shore. Every spar and rope and writhing
piece of cordage showed up hard and clear under the livid light
which sputtered and flickered from the highest portion of the
forecastle. Beyond the doomed ship out of the great darkness came
the long rolling lines of black waves, never ending, never tiring,
with a petulant tuft of foam here and there upon their crests.
Each as it reached the broad circle of unnatural light appeared to
gather strength and volume, and to hurry on more impetuously until,
with a roar and a jarring crash, it sprang upon its victim.
Clinging to the weather shrouds I could distinctly see some ten or
twelve frightened seamen, who, when their light revealed my
presence, turned their white faces towards me and waved their hands
imploringly. I felt my gorge rise against these poor cowering
worms. Why should they presume to shirk the narrow pathway along
which all that is great and noble among mankind has travelled?
There was one there who interested me more than they. He was a
tall man, who stood apart from the others, balancing himself upon
the swaying wreck as though he disdained to cling to rope or
bulwark. His hands were clasped behind his back and his head was
sunk upon his breast, but even in that despondent attitude there
was a litheness and decision in his pose and in every motion which
marked him as a man little likely to yield to despair. Indeed, I
could see by his occasional rapid glances up and down and all
around him that he was weighing every chance of safety, but though
he often gazed across the raging surf to where he could see my dark
figure upon the beach, his self-respect or some other reason
forbade him from imploring my help in any way. He stood, dark,
silent, and inscrutable, looking down on the black sea, and waiting
for whatever fortune Fate might send him.
It seemed to me that that problem would very soon be settled. As
I looked, an enormous billow, topping all the others, and
coming after them, like a driver following a flock, swept over the
vessel. Her foremast snapped short off, and the men who clung to
the shrouds were brushed away like a swarm of flies. With a
rending, riving sound the ship began to split in two, where the
sharp back of the Mansie reef was sawing into her keel. The
solitary man upon the forecastle ran rapidly across the deck and
seized hold of a white bundle which I had already observed but
failed to make out. As he lifted it up the light fell upon it, and
I saw that the object was a woman, with a spar lashed across her
body and under her arms in such a way that her head should always
rise above water. He bore her tenderly to the side and seemed to
speak for a minute or so to her, as though explaining the
impossibility of remaining upon the ship. Her answer was a
singular one. I saw her deliberately raise her hand and strike him
across the face with it. He appeared to be silenced for a moment
or so by this, but he addressed her again, directing her, as far as
I could gather from his motions, how she should behave when in the
water. She shrank away from him, but he caught her in his arms.
He stooped over her for a moment and seemed to press his lips
against her forehead. Then a great wave came welling up against
the side of the breaking vessel, and leaning over he placed her
upon the summit of it as gently as a child might be committed to
its cradle. I saw her white dress flickering among the foam on the
crest of the dark billow, and then the light sank gradually lower,
and the riven ship and its lonely occupant were hidden from my
eyes.
As I watched those things my manhood overcame my philosophy, and I
felt a frantic impulse to be up and doing. I threw my cynicism to
one side as a garment which I might don again at leisure, and I
rushed wildly to my boat and my sculls. She was a leaky tub, but
what then? Was I, who had cast many a wistful, doubtful glance at
my opium bottle, to begin now to weigh chances and to cavil at
danger. I dragged her down to the sea with the strength of a
maniac and sprang in. For a moment or two it was a question
whether she could live among the boiling surge, but a dozen frantic
strokes took me through it, half full of water but still afloat.
I was out on the unbroken waves now, at one time climbing, climbing
up the broad black breast of one, then sinking down, down on the
other side, until looking up I could see the gleam of the foam all
around me against the dark heavens. Far behind me I could hear the
wild wailings of old Madge, who, seeing me start, thought no doubt
that my madness had come to a climax. As I rowed I peered over my
shoulder, until at last on the belly of a great wave which was
sweeping towards me I distinguished the vague white outline of the
woman. Stooping over, I seized her as she swept by me, and with an
effort lifted her, all sodden with water, into the boat. There was
no need to row back, for the next billow carried us in and threw us
upon the beach. I dragged the boat out of danger, and then lifting
up the woman I carried her to the house, followed by my
housekeeper, loud with congratulation and praise.
Now that I had done this thing a reaction set in upon me. I felt
that my burden lived, for I heard the faint beat of her heart as I
pressed my ear against her side in carrying her. Knowing this, I
threw her down beside the fire which Madge had lit, with as little
sympathy as though she had been a bundle of fagots. I never
glanced at her to see if she were fair or no. For many years I had
cared little for the face of a woman. As I lay in my hammock
upstairs, however, I heard the old woman as she chafed the warmth
back into her, crooning a chorus of, "Eh, the puir lassie! Eh, the
bonnie lassie!" from which I gathered that this piece of jetsam was
both young and comely.
The morning after the gale was peaceful and sunny. As I walked
along the long sweep of sand I could hear the panting of the sea.
It was heaving and swirling about the reef, but along the shore it
rippled in gently enough. There was no sign of the schooner, nor
was there any wreckage upon the beach, which did not surprise me,
as I knew there was a great undertow in those waters. A couple of
broad-winged gulls were hovering and skimming over the scene of the
shipwreck, as though many strange things were visible to them
beneath the waves. At times I could hear their raucous voices as
they spoke to one another of what they saw.
When I came back from my walk the woman was waiting at the
door for me. I began to wish when I saw her that I had never saved
her, for here was an end of my privacy. She was very young--at the
most nineteen, with a pale somewhat refined face, yellow hair,
merry blue eyes, and shining teeth. Her beauty was of an ethereal
type. She looked so white and light and fragile that she might
have been the spirit of that storm-foam from out of which I plucked
her. She had wreathed some of Madge's garments round her in a way
which was quaint and not unbecoming. As I strode heavily up the
pathway, she put out her hands with a pretty child-like gesture,
and ran down towards me, meaning, as I surmise, to thank me for
having saved her, but I put her aside with a wave of my hand and
passed her. At this she seemed somewhat hurt, and the tears sprang
into her eyes, but she followed me into the sitting-room and
watched me wistfully. "What country do you come from?" I asked her
suddenly.
She smiled when I spoke, but shook her head.
"Francais?" I asked. "Deutsch?" "Espagnol?"--each time she shook
her head, and then she rippled off into a long statement in some
tongue of which I could not understand one word.
After breakfast was over, however, I got a clue to her nationality.
Passing along the beach once more, I saw that in a cleft of the
ridge a piece of wood had been jammed. I rowed out to it in my
boat, and brought it ashore. It was part of the sternpost of a
boat, and on it, or rather on the piece of wood attached to
it, was the word "Archangel," painted in strange, quaint lettering.
"So," I thought, as I paddled slowly back, "this pale damsel is a
Russian. A fit subject for the White Czar and a proper dweller on
the shores of the White Sea!" It seemed to me strange that one of
her apparent refinement should perform so long a journey in so
frail a craft. When I came back into the house, I pronounced the
word "Archangel" several times in different intonations, but she
did not appear to recognise it.
I shut myself up in the laboratory all the morning, continuing a
research which I was making upon the nature of the allotropic forms
of carbon and of sulphur. When I came out at mid-day for some food
she was sitting by the table with a needle and thread, mending some
rents in her clothes, which were now dry. I resented her continued
presence, but I could not turn her out on the beach to shift for
herself. Presently she presented a new phase of her character.
Pointing to herself and then to the scene of the shipwreck, she
held up one finger, by which I understood her to be asking whether
she was the only one saved. I nodded my head to indicate that she
was. On this she sprang out of the chair with a cry of great joy,
and holding the garment which she was mending over her head, and
swaying it from side to side with the motion of her body, she
danced as lightly as a feather all round the room, and then out
through the open door into the sunshine. As she whirled round she
sang in a plaintive shrill voice some uncouth barbarous chant,
expressive of exultation. I called out to her, "Come in, you
young fiend, come in and be silent!" but she went on with her
dance. Then she suddenly ran towards me, and catching my hand
before I could pluck it away, she kissed it. While we were at
dinner she spied one of my pencils, and taking it up she wrote the
two words "Sophie Ramusine" upon a piece of paper, and then pointed
to herself as a sign that that was her name. She handed the pencil
to me, evidently expecting that I would be equally communicative,
but I put it in my pocket as a sign that I wished to hold no
intercourse with her.
Every moment of my life now I regretted the unguarded precipitancy
with which I had saved this woman. What was it to me whether she
had lived or died? I was no young, hot-headed youth to do such
things. It was bad enough to be compelled to have Madge in the
house, but she was old and ugly, and could be ignored. This one
was young and lively, and so fashioned as to divert attention from
graver things. Where could I send her, and what could I do with
her? If I sent information to Wick it would mean that officials
and others would come to me and pry, and peep, and chatter--a
hateful thought. It was better to endure her presence than that.
I soon found that there were fresh troubles in store for me. There
is no place safe from the swarming, restless race of which I am a
member. In the evening, when the sun was dipping down behind the
hills, casting them into dark shadow, but gilding the sands and
casting a great glory over the sea, I went, as is my custom,
for a stroll along the beach. Sometimes on these occasions I took
my book with me. I did so on this night, and stretching myself
upon a sand-dune I composed myself to read. As I lay there I
suddenly became aware of a shadow which interposed itself between
the sun and myself. Looking round, I saw to my great surprise a
very tall, powerful man, who was standing a few yards off, and who,
instead of looking at me, was ignoring my existence completely, and
was gazing over my head with a stern set face at the bay and the
black line of the Mansie reef. His complexion was dark, with black
hair, and short, curling beard, a hawk-like nose, and golden
earrings in his ears--the general effect being wild and somewhat
noble. He wore a faded velveteen jacket, a red-flannel shirt, and
high sea boots, coming half-way up his thighs. I recognised him at
a glance as being the same man who had been left on the wreck the
night before.
"Hullo!" I said, in an aggrieved voice. "You got ashore all right,
then?"
"Yes," he answered, in good English. "It was no doing of mine.
The waves threw me up. I wish to God I had been allowed to drown!"
There was a slight foreign lisp in his accent which was rather
pleasing. "Two good fishermen, who live round yonder point, pulled
me out and cared for me; yet I could not honestly thank them for
it."
"Ho! ho!" thought I, "here is a man of my own kidney. Why do you
wish to be drowned?" I asked.
"Because," he cried, throwing out his long arms with a passionate,
despairing gesture, "there--there in that blue smiling bay, lies my
soul, my treasure--everything that I loved and lived for."
"Well, well," I said. "People are ruined every day, but there's no
use making a fuss about it. Let me inform you that this ground on
which you walk is my ground, and that the sooner you take yourself
off it the better pleased I shall be. One of you is quite trouble
enough."
"One of us?" he gasped.
"Yes--if you could take her off with you I should be still more
grateful."
He gazed at me for a moment as if hardly able to realise what I
said, and then with a wild cry he ran away from me with prodigious
speed and raced along the sands towards my house. Never before or
since have I seen a human being run so fast. I followed as rapidly
as I could, furious at this threatened invasion, but long before I
reached the house he had disappeared through the open door. I
heard a great scream from the inside, and as I came nearer the
sound of a man's bass voice speaking rapidly and loudly. When I
looked in the girl, Sophie Ramusine, was crouching in a corner,
cowering away, with fear and loathing expressed on her averted face
and in every line of her shrinking form. The other, with his dark
eyes flashing, and his outstretched hands quivering with emotion,
was pouring forth a torrent of passionate pleading words. He made
a step forward to her as I entered, but she writhed still
further away, and uttered a sharp cry like that of a rabbit when
the weasel has him by the throat.
"Here!" I said, pulling him back from her. "This is a pretty to-
do! What do you mean? Do you think this is a wayside inn or place
of public accommodation?"
"Oh, sir," he said, "excuse me. This woman is my wife, and I
feared that she was drowned. You have brought me back to life."
"Who are you?" I asked roughly.
"I am a man from Archangel," he said simply; "a Russian man."
"What is your name?"
"Ourganeff."
"Ourganeff!--and hers is Sophie Ramusine. She is no wife of yours.
She has no ring."
"We are man and wife in the sight of Heaven," he said solemnly,
looking upwards. "We are bound by higher laws than those of
earth." As he spoke the girl slipped behind me and caught me by
the other hand, pressing it as though beseeching my protection.
"Give me up my wife, sir," he went on. "Let me take her away from
here."
"Look here, you--whatever your name is," I said sternly; "I don't
want this wench here. I wish I had never seen her. If she died it
would be no grief to me. But as to handing her over to you, when
it is clear she fears and hates you, I won't do it. So now just
clear your great body out of this, and leave me to my books.
I hope I may never look upon your face again."
"You won't give her up to me?" he said hoarsely.
"I'll see you damned first!" I answered.
"Suppose I take her," he cried, his dark face growing darker.
All my tigerish blood flushed up in a moment. I picked up a billet
of wood from beside the fireplace. "Go," I said, in a low voice;
"go quick, or I may do you an injury." He looked at me
irresolutely for a moment, and then he left the house. He came
back again in a moment, however, and stood in the doorway looking
in at us.
"Have a heed what you do," he said. "The woman is mine, and I
shall have her. When it comes to blows, a Russian is as good a man
as a Scotchman."
"We shall see that," I cried, springing forward, but he was already
gone, and I could see his tall form moving away through the
gathering darkness.
For a month or more after this things went smoothly with us. I
never spoke to the Russian girl, nor did she ever address me.
Sometimes when I was at work in my laboratory she would slip inside
the door and sit silently there watching me with her great eyes.
At first this intrusion annoyed me, but by degrees, finding that
she made no attempt to distract my attention, I suffered her to
remain. Encouraged by this concession, she gradually came to move
the stool on which she sat nearer and nearer to my table, until
after gaining a little every day during some weeks, she at last
worked her way right up to me, and used to perch herself
beside me whenever I worked. In this position she used, still
without ever obtruding her presence in any way, to make herself
very useful by holding my pens, test-tubes, or bottles, and handing
me whatever I wanted, with never-failing sagacity. By ignoring the
fact of her being a human being, and looking upon her as a useful
automatic machine, I accustomed myself to her presence so far as to
miss her on the few occasions when she was not at her post. I have
a habit of talking aloud to myself at times when I work, so as to
fix my results better in my mind. The girl must have had a
surprising memory for sounds, for she could always repeat the words
which I let fall in this way, without, of course, understanding in
the least what they meant. I have often been amused at hearing her
discharge a volley of chemical equations and algebraic symbols at
old Madge, and then burst into a ringing laugh when the crone would
shake her head, under the impression, no doubt, that she was being
addressed in Russian.
She never went more than a few yards from the house, and indeed
never put her foot over the threshold without looking carefully out
of each window in order to be sure that there was nobody about. By
this I knew that she suspected that her fellow-countryman was still
in the neighbourhood, and feared that he might attempt to carry her
off. She did something else which was significant. I had an old
revolver with some cartridges, which had been thrown away
among the rubbish. She found this one day, and at once
proceeded to clean it and oil it. She hung it up near the door,
with the cartridges in a little bag beside it, and whenever I went
for a walk, she would take it down and insist upon my carrying it
with me. In my absence she would always bolt the door. Apart from
her apprehensions she seemed fairly happy, busying herself in
helping Madge when she was not attending upon me. She was
wonderfully nimble-fingered and natty in all domestic duties.
It was not long before I discovered that her suspicions were well
founded, and that this man from Archangel was still lurking in the
vicinity. Being restless one night I rose and peered out of the
window. The weather was somewhat cloudy, and I could barely make
out the line of the sea, and the loom of my boat upon the beach.
As I gazed, however, and my eyes became accustomed to the
obscurity, I became aware that there was some other dark blur upon
the sands, and that in front of my very door, where certainly there
had been nothing of the sort the preceding night. As I stood at my
diamond-paned lattice still peering and peeping to make out what
this might be, a great bank of clouds rolled slowly away from the
face of the moon, and a flood of cold, clear light was poured down
upon the silent bay and the long sweep of its desolate shores.
Then I saw what this was which haunted my doorstep. It was he, the
Russian. He squatted there like a gigantic toad, with his legs
doubled under him in strange Mongolian fashion, and his eyes fixed
apparently upon the window of the room in which the young girl
and the housekeeper slept. The light fell upon his upturned face,
and I saw once more the hawk-like grace of his countenance, with
the single deeply-indented line of care upon his brow, and the
protruding beard which marks the passionate nature. My first
impulse was to shoot him as a trespasser, but, as I gazed, my
resentment changed into pity and contempt. "Poor fool," I said to
myself, "is it then possible that you, whom I have seen looking
open-eyed at present death, should have your whole thoughts and
ambition centred upon this wretched slip of a girl--a girl, too,
who flies from you and hates you. Most women would love you--were
it but for that dark face and great handsome body of yours--and yet
you must needs hanker after the one in a thousand who will have no
traffic with you." As I returned to my bed I chuckled much to
myself over this thought. I knew that my bars were strong and my
bolts thick. It mattered little to me whether this strange man
spent his night at my door or a hundred leagues off, so long as he
was gone by the morning. As I expected, when I rose and went out
there was no sign of him, nor had he left any trace of his midnight
vigil.
It was not long, however, before I saw him again. I had been out
for a row one morning, for my head was aching, partly from
prolonged stooping, and partly from the effects of a noxious drug
which I had inhaled the night before. I pulled along the coast
some miles, and then, feeling thirsty, I landed at a place where I
knew that a fresh water stream trickled down into the sea.
This rivulet passed through my land, but the mouth of it, where I
found myself that day, was beyond my boundary line. I felt
somewhat taken aback when rising from the stream at which I had
slaked my thirst I found myself face to face with the Russian. I
was as much a trespasser now as he was, and I could see at a glance
that he knew it.
"I wish to speak a few words to you," he said gravely.
"Hurry up, then!" I answered, glancing at my watch. "I have no
time to listen to chatter."
"Chatter!" he repeated angrily. "Ah, but there. You Scotch people
are strange men. Your face is hard and your words rough, but so
are those of the good fishermen with whom I stay, yet I find that
beneath it all there lie kind honest natures. No doubt you are
kind and good, too, in spite of your roughness."
"In the name of the devil," I said, "say your say, and go your way.
I am weary of the sight of you."
"Can I not soften you in any way?" he cried. " Ah, see--see
here"--he produced a small Grecian cross from inside his velvet
jacket. "Look at this. Our religions may differ in form, but at
least we have some common thoughts and feelings when we see this
emblem."
"I am not so sure of that," I answered.
He looked at me thoughtfully.
"You are a very strange man," he said at last. "I cannot
understand you. You still stand between me and Sophie. It is
a dangerous position to take, sir. Oh, believe me, before it is
too late. If you did but know what I have done to gain that
woman--how I have risked my body, how I have lost my soul! You are
a small obstacle to some which I have surmounted--you, whom a rip
with a knife, or a blow from a stone, would put out of my way for
ever. But God preserve me from that," he cried wildly. "I am
deep--too deep--already. Anything rather than that."
"You would do better to go back to your country," I said, "than to
skulk about these sand-hills and disturb my leisure. When I have
proof that you have gone away I shall hand this woman over to the
protection of the Russian Consul at Edinburgh. Until then, I shall
guard her myself, and not you, nor any Muscovite that ever
breathed, shall take her from me."
"And what is your object in keeping me from Sophie?" he asked. "Do
you imagine that I would injure her? Why, man, I would give my
life freely to save her from the slightest harm. Why do you do
this thing?"
"I do it because it is my good pleasure to act so," I answered. "I
give no man reasons for my conduct."
"Look here!" he cried, suddenly blazing into fury, and advancing
towards me with his shaggy mane bristling and his brown hands
clenched. "If I thought you had one dishonest thought towards this
girl--if for a moment I had reason to believe that you had any base
motive for detaining her--as sure as there is a God in Heaven I
should drag the heart out of your bosom with my hands." The
very idea seemed to have put the man in a frenzy, for his face was
all distorted and his hands opened and shut convulsively. I
thought that he was about to spring at my throat.
"Stand off," I said, putting my hand on my pistol. "If you lay a
finger on me I shall kill you."
He put his hand into his pocket, and for a moment I thought he was
about to produce a weapon too, but instead of that he whipped out
a cigarette and lit it, breathing the smoke rapidly into his lungs.
No doubt he had found by experience that this was the most
effectual way of curbing his passions.
"I told you," he said in a quieter voice, "that my name is
Ourganeff--Alexis Ourganeff. I am a Finn by birth, but I have
spent my life in every part of the world. I was one who could
never be still, nor settle down to a quiet existence. After I came
to own my own ship there is hardly a port from Archangel to
Australia which I have not entered. I was rough and wild and free,
but there was one at home, sir, who was prim and white-handed and
soft-tongued, skilful in little fancies and conceits which women
love. This youth by his wiles and tricks stole from me the love of
the girl whom I had ever marked as my own, and who up to that time
had seemed in some sort inclined to return my passion. I had been
on a voyage to Hammerfest for ivory, and coming back unexpectedly
I learned that my pride and treasure was to be married to this
soft-skinned boy, and that the party had actually gone to the
church. In such moments, sir, something gives way in my head,
and I hardly know what I do. I landed with a boat's crew--all men
who had sailed with me for years, and who were as true as steel.
We went up to the church. They were standing, she and he, before
the priest, but the thing had not been done. I dashed between them
and caught her round the waist. My men beat back the frightened
bridegroom and the lookers on. We bore her down to the boat and
aboard our vessel, and then getting up anchor we sailed away across
the White Sea until the spires of Archangel sank down behind the
horizon. She had my cabin, my room, every comfort. I slept among
the men in the forecastle. I hoped that in time her aversion to me
would wear away, and that she would consent to marry me in England
or in France. For days and days we sailed. We saw the North Cape
die away behind us, and we skirted the grey Norwegian coast, but
still, in spite of every attention, she would not forgive me for
tearing her from that pale-faced lover of hers. Then came this
cursed storm which shattered both my ship and my hopes, and has
deprived me even of the sight of the woman for whom I have risked
so much. Perhaps she may learn to love me yet. You, sir," he said
wistfully, "look like one who has seen much of the world. Do you
not think that she may come to forget this man and to love me?"
"I am tired of your story," I said, turning away. "For my part, I
think you are a great fool. If you imagine that this love of yours
will pass away you had best amuse yourself as best you can until it
does. If, on the other hand, it is a fixed thing, you cannot
do better than cut your throat, for that is the shortest way out of
it. I have no more time to waste on the matter." With this I
hurried away and walked down to the boat. I never looked round,
but I heard the dull sound of his feet upon the sands as he
followed me.
"I have told you the beginning of my story," he said, "and you
shall know the end some day. You would do well to let the girl
go."
I never answered him, but pushed the boat off. When I had rowed
some distance out I looked back and saw his tall figure upon the
yellow sand as he stood gazing thoughtfully after me. When I
looked again some minutes later he had disappeared.
For a long time after this my life was as regular and as monotonous
as it had been before the shipwreck. At times I hoped that the man
from Archangel had gone away altogether, but certain footsteps
which I saw upon the sand, and more particularly a little pile of
cigarette ash which I found one day behind a hillock from which a
view of the house might be obtained, warned me that, though
invisible, he was still in the vicinity. My relations with the
Russian girl remained the same as before. Old Madge had been
somewhat jealous of her presence at first, and seemed to fear that
what little authority she had would be taken away from her. By
degrees, however, as she came to realise my utter indifference, she
became reconciled to the situation, and, as I have said before,
profited by it, as our visitor performed much of the domestic work.
And now I am coming near the end of this narrative of mine, which
I have written a great deal more for my own amusement than for that
of any one else. The termination of the strange episode in which
these two Russians had played a part was as wild and as sudden as
the commencement. The events of one single night freed me from all
my troubles, and left me once more alone with my books and my
studies, as I had been before their intrusion. Let me endeavour to
describe how this came about.
I had had a long day of heavy and wearying work, so that in the
evening I determined upon taking a long walk. When I emerged from
the house my attention was attracted by the appearance of the sea.
It lay like a sheet of glass, so that never a ripple disturbed its
surface. Yet the air was filled with that indescribable moaning
sound which I have alluded to before--a sound as though the spirits
of all those who lay beneath those treacherous waters were sending
a sad warning of coming troubles to their brethren in the flesh.
The fishermen's wives along that coast know the eerie sound, and
look anxiously across the waters for the brown sails making for the
land. When I heard it I stepped back into the house and looked at
the glass. It was down below 29 degrees. Then I knew that a wild
night was coming upon us.
Underneath the hills where I walked that evening it was dull and
chill, but their summits were rosy-red, and the sea was brightened
by the sinking sun. There were no clouds of importance in the sky,
yet the dull groaning of the sea grew louder and stronger. I
saw, far to the eastward, a brig beating up for Wick, with a reef
in her topsails. It was evident that her captain had read the
signs of nature as I had done. Behind her a long, lurid haze lay
low upon the water, concealing the horizon. "I had better push
on," I thought to myself, "or the wind may rise before I can get
back."
I suppose I must have been at least half a mile from the house when
I suddenly stopped and listened breathlessly. My ears were so
accustomed to the noises of nature, the sighing of the breeze and
the sob of the waves, that any other sound made itself heard at a
great distance. I waited, listening with all my ears. Yes, there
it was again--a long-drawn, shrill cry of despair, ringing over the
sands and echoed back from the hills behind me--a piteous appeal
for aid. It came from the direction of my house. I turned and ran
back homewards at the top of my speed, ploughing through the sand,
racing over the shingle. In my mind there was a great dim
perception of what had occurred.
About a quarter of a mile from the house there is a high sand-hill,
from which the whole country round is visible. When I reached the
top of this I paused for a moment. There was the old grey
building--there the boat. Everything seemed to be as I had left
it. Even as I gazed, however, the shrill scream was repeated,
louder than before, and the next moment a tall figure emerged from
my door, the figure of the Russian sailor. Over his shoulder
was the white form of the young girl, and even in his haste he
seemed to bear her tenderly and with gentle reverence. I could
hear her wild cries and see her desperate struggles to break away
from him. Behind the couple came my old housekeeper, staunch and
true, as the aged dog, who can no longer bite, still snarls with
toothless gums at the intruder. She staggered feebly along at the
heels of the ravisher, waving her long, thin arms, and hurling, no
doubt, volleys of Scotch curses and imprecations at his head. I
saw at a glance that he was making for the boat. A sudden hope
sprang up in my soul that I might be in time to intercept him. I
ran for the beach at the top of my speed. As I ran I slipped a
cartridge into my revolver. This I determined should be the last
of these invasions.
I was too late. By the time I reached the water's edge he was a
hundred yards away, making the boat spring with every stroke of his
powerful arms. I uttered a wild cry of impotent anger, and stamped
up and down the sands like a maniac. He turned and saw me. Rising
from his seat he made me a graceful bow, and waved his hand to me.
It was not a triumphant or a derisive gesture. Even my furious and
distempered mind recognised it as being a solemn and courteous
leave-taking. Then he settled down to his oars once more, and the
little skiff shot away out over the bay. The sun had gone down
now, leaving a single dull, red streak upon the water, which
stretched away until it blended with the purple haze on the
horizon. Gradually the skiff grew smaller and smaller as it
sped across this lurid band, until the shades of night gathered
round it and it became a mere blur upon the lonely sea. Then this
vague loom died away also and darkness settled over it--a darkness
which should never more be raised.
And why did I pace the solitary shore, hot and wrathful as a wolf
whose whelp has been torn from it? Was it that I loved this
Muscovite girl? No--a thousand times no. I am not one who, for
the sake of a white skin or a blue eye, would belie my own life,
and change the whole tenor of my thoughts and existence. My heart
was untouched. But my pride--ah, there I had been cruelly wounded.
To think that I had been unable to afford protection to the
helpless one who craved it of me, and who relied on me! It was
that which made my heart sick and sent the blood buzzing through my
ears.
That night a great wind rose up from the sea, and the wild waves
shrieked upon the shore as though they would tear it back with them
into the ocean. The turmoil and the uproar were congenial to my
vexed spirit. All night I wandered up and down, wet with spray and
rain, watching the gleam of the white breakers and listening to the
outcry of the storm. My heart was bitter against the Russian. I
joined my feeble pipe to the screaming of the gale. "If he would
but come back again!" I cried with clenched hands; "if he would but
come back!"
He came back. When the grey light of morning spread over the
eastern sky, and lit up the great waste of yellow, tossing waters,
with the brown clouds drifting swiftly over them, then I saw him
once again. A few hundred yards off along the sand there lay a
long dark object, cast up by the fury of the waves. It was my
boat, much shattered and splintered. A little further on, a vague,
shapeless something was washing to and fro in the shallow water,
all mixed with shingle and with seaweed. I saw at a glance that it
was the Russian, face downwards and dead. I rushed into the water
and dragged him up on to the beach. It was only when I turned him
over that I discovered that she was beneath him, his dead arms
encircling her, his mangled body still intervening between her and
the fury of the storm. It seemed that the fierce German Sea might
beat the life from him, but with all its strength it was unable to
tear this one-idea'd man from the woman whom he loved. There were
signs which led me to believe that during that awful night the
woman's fickle mind had come at last to learn the worth of the true
heart and strong arm which struggled for her and guarded her so
tenderly. Why else should her little head be nestling so lovingly
on his broad breast, while her yellow hair entwined itself with his
flowing beard? Why too should there be that bright smile of
ineffable happiness and triumph, which death itself had not had
power to banish from his dusky face? I fancy that death had been
brighter to him than life had ever been.
Madge and I buried them there on the shores of the desolate
northern sea. They lie in one grave deep down beneath the yellow
sand. Strange things may happen in the world around them. Empires
may rise and may fall, dynasties may perish, great wars may come
and go, but, heedless of it all, those two shall embrace each other
for ever and aye, in their lonely shrine by the side of the
sounding ocean. I sometimes have thought that their spirits flit
like shadowy sea-mews over the wild waters of the bay. No cross or
symbol marks their resting-place, but old Madge puts wild flowers
upon it at times, and when I pass on my daily walk and see the
fresh blossoms scattered over the sand, I think of the strange
couple who came from afar, and broke for a little space the dull
tenor of my sombre life.
THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX.
All aboard?" said the captain.
"All aboard, sir!" said the mate.
"Then stand by to let her go."
It was nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning. The good ship
Spartan was lying off Boston Quay with her cargo under hatches,
her passengers shipped, and everything prepared for a start. The
warning whistle had been sounded twice; the final bell had been
rung. Her bowsprit was turned towards England, and the hiss of
escaping steam showed that all was ready for her run of three
thousand miles. She strained at the warps that held her like a
greyhound at its leash,
I have the misfortune to be a very nervous man. A sedentary
literary life has helped to increase the morbid love of solitude
which, even in my boyhood, was one of my distinguishing
characteristics. As I stood upon the quarter-deck of the
Transatlantic steamer, I bitterly cursed the necessity which drove
me back to the land of my forefathers. The shouts of the sailors,
the rattle of the cordage, the farewells of my fellow-passengers,
and the cheers of the mob, each and all jarred upon my sensitive
nature. I felt sad too. An indescribable feeling, as of some
impending calamity, seemed to haunt me. The sea was
calm, and the breeze light. There was nothing to disturb the
equanimity of the most confirmed of landsmen, yet I felt as if I
stood upon the verge of a great though indefinable danger. I have
noticed that such presentiments occur often in men of my peculiar
temperament, and that they are not uncommonly fulfilled. There is
a theory that it arises from a species of second-sight, a subtle
spiritual communication with the future. I well remember that Herr
Raumer, the eminent spiritualist, remarked on one occasion that I
was the most sensitive subject as regards supernatural phenomena
that he had ever encountered in the whole of his wide experience.
Be that as it may, I certainly felt far from happy as I threaded my
way among the weeping, cheering groups which dotted the white decks
of the good ship Spartan. Had I known the experience which
awaited me in the course of the next twelve hours I should even
then at the last moment have sprung upon the shore, and made my
escape from the accursed vessel.
"Time's up!" said the captain, closing his chronometer with a snap,
and replacing it in his pocket. "Time's up!" said the mate. There
was a last wail from the whistle, a rush of friends and relatives
upon the land. One warp was loosened, the gangway was being pushed
away, when there was a shout from the bridge, and two men appeared,
running rapidly down the quay. They were waving their hands and
making frantic gestures, apparently with the intention of stopping
the ship. "Look sharp!" shouted the crowd.
"Hold hard!" cried the captain. "Ease her! stop her! Up with the
gangway!" and the two men sprang aboard just as the second warp
parted, and a convulsive throb of the engine shot us clear of the
shore. There was a cheer from the deck, another from the quay, a
mighty fluttering of handkerchiefs, and the great vessel ploughed
its way out of the harbour, and steamed grandly away across the
placid bay.
We were fairly started upon our fortnight's voyage. There was a
general dive among the passengers in quest of berths and luggage,
while a popping of corks in the saloon proved that more than one
bereaved traveller was adopting artificial means for drowning the
pangs of separation. I glanced round the deck and took a running
inventory of my compagnons de voyage. They presented the usual
types met with upon these occasions. There was no striking face
among them. I speak as a connoisseur, for faces are a specialty of
mine. I pounce upon a characteristic feature as a botanist does on
a flower, and bear it away with me to analyse at my leisure, and
classify and label it in my little anthropological museum. There
was nothing worthy of me here. Twenty types of young America going
to "Yurrup," a few respectable middle-aged couples as an antidote,
a sprinkling of clergymen and professional men, young ladies,
bagmen, British exclusives, and all the olla podrida of an ocean-
going steamer. I turned away from them and gazed back at the
receding shores of America, and, as a cloud of remembrances rose
before me, my heart warmed towards the land of my adoption.
A pile of portmanteaus and luggage chanced to be lying on one side
of the deck, awaiting their turn to be taken below. With my usual
love for solitude I walked behind these, and sitting on a coil of
rope between them and the vessel's side, I indulged in a melancholy
reverie.
I was aroused from this by a whisper behind me. "Here's a quiet
place," said the voice. "Sit down, and we can talk it over in
safety."
Glancing through a chink between two colossal chests, I saw that
the passengers who had joined us at the last moment were standing
at the other side of the pile. They had evidently failed to see me
as I crouched in the shadow of the boxes. The one who had spoken
was a tall and very thin man with a blue-black beard and a
colourless face. His manner was nervous and excited. His
companion was a short plethoric little fellow, with a brisk and
resolute air. He had a cigar in his mouth, and a large ulster
slung over his left arm. They both glanced round uneasily, as if
to ascertain whether they were alone. "This is just the place," I
heard the other say. They sat down on a bale of goods with their
backs turned towards me, and I found myself, much against my will,
playing the unpleasant part of eavesdropper to their conversation.
"Well, Muller," said the taller of the two, "we've got it aboard
right enough."
"Yes," assented the man whom he had addressed as Muller, "it's safe
aboard."
"It was rather a near go."
"It was that, Flannigan."
"It wouldn't have done to have missed the ship."
"No, it would have put our plans out."
"Ruined them entirely," said the little man, and puffed furiously
at his cigar for some minutes.
"I've got it here," he said at last.
"Let me see it."
"Is no one looking?"
"No, they are nearly all below."
"We can't be too careful where so much is at stake," said Muller,
as he uncoiled the ulster which hung over his arm, and disclosed a
dark object which he laid upon the deck. One glance at it was
enough to cause me to spring to my feet with an exclamation of
horror. Luckily they were so engrossed in the matter on hand that
neither of them observed me. Had they turned their heads they
would infallibly have seen my pale face glaring at them over the
pile of boxes.
From the first moment of their conversation a horrible misgiving
had come over me. It seemed more than confirmed as I gazed at what
lay before me. It was a little square box made of some dark wood,
and ribbed with brass. I suppose it was about the size of a cubic
foot. It reminded me of a pistol-case, only it was decidedly
higher. There was an appendage to it, however, on which my eyes
were riveted, and which suggested the pistol itself rather than its
receptacle. This was a trigger-like arrangement upon the lid, to
which a coil of string was attached. Beside this trigger there was
a small square aperture through the wood. The tall man,
Flannigan, as his companion called him, applied his eye to this,
and peered in for several minutes with an expression of intense
anxiety upon his face.
"It seems right enough," he said at last.
"I tried not to shake it," said his companion.
"Such delicate things need delicate treatment. Put in some of the
needful, Muller."
The shorter man fumbled in his pocket for some time, and then
produced a small paper packet. He opened this, and took out of it
half a handful of whitish granules, which he poured down through
the hole. A curious clicking noise followed from the inside of the
box, and both the men smiled in a satisfied way.
"Nothing much wrong there," said Flannigan.
"Right as a trivet," answered his companion.
"Look out! here's some one coming. Take it down to our berth. It
wouldn't do to have any one suspecting what our game is, or, worse
still, have them fumbling with it, and letting it off by mistake."
"Well, it would come to the same, whoever let it off," said Muller.
"They'd be rather astonished if they pulled the trigger," said the
taller, with a sinister laugh. "Ha, ha! fancy their faces! It's
not a bad bit of workmanship, I flatter myself."
"No," said Muller. "I hear it is your own design, every bit of it,
isn't it?"
"Yes, the spring and the sliding shutter are my own."
"We should take out a patent."
And the two men laughed again with a cold harsh laugh, as they took
up the little brass-bound package, and concealed it in Muller's
voluminous overcoat.
"Come down, and we'll stow it in our berth," said Flannigan. "We
won't need it until to-night, and it will be safe there."
His companion assented, and the two went arm-in-arm along the deck
and disappeared down the hatchway, bearing the mysterious little
box away with them. The last words I heard were a muttered
injunction from Flannigan to carry it carefully, and avoid knocking
it against the bulwarks.
How long I remained sitting on that coil of rope I shall never
know. The horror of the conversation I had just overheard was
aggravated by the first sinking qualms of sea-sickness. The long
roll of the Atlantic was beginning to assert itself over both ship
and passengers. I felt prostrated in mind and in body, and fell
into a state of collapse, from which I was finally aroused by the
hearty voice of our worthy quartermaster.
"Do you mind moving out of that, sir?" he said. "We want to get
this lumber cleared off the deck."
His bluff manner and ruddy healthy face seemed to be a positive
insult to me in my present condition. Had I been a courageous or
a muscular man I could have struck him. As it was, I treated the
honest sailor to a melodramatic scowl which seemed to cause him no
small astonishment, and strode past him to the other side of
the deck. Solitude was what I wanted--solitude in which I could
brood over the frightful crime which was being hatched before my
very eyes. One of the quarter-boats was hanging rather low down
upon the davits. An idea struck me, and climbing on the bulwarks,
I stepped into the empty boat and lay down in the bottom of it.
Stretched on my back, with nothing but the blue sky above me, and
an occasional view of the mizen as the vessel rolled, I was at
least alone with my sickness and my thoughts.
I tried to recall the words which had been spoken in the terrible
dialogue I had overheard. Would they admit of any construction but
the one which stared me in the face? My reason forced me to
confess that they would not. I endeavoured to array the various
facts which formed the chain of circumstantial evidence, and to
find a flaw in it; but no, not a link was missing. There was the
strange way in which our passengers had come aboard, enabling them
to evade any examination of their luggage. The very name of
"Flannigan" smacked of Fenianism, while "Muller" suggested nothing
but socialism and murder. Then their mysterious manner; their
remark that their plans would have been ruined had they missed the
ship; their fear of being observed; last, but not least, the
clenching evidence in the production of the little square box with
the trigger, and their grim joke about the face of the man who
should let it off by mistake--could these facts lead to any
conclusion other than that they were the desperate emissaries of
some body, political or otherwise, who intended to sacrifice
themselves, their fellow-passengers, and the ship, in one great
holocaust? The whitish granules which I had seen one of them pour
into the box formed no doubt a fuse or train for exploding it. I
had myself heard a sound come from it which might have emanated
from some delicate piece of machinery. But what did they mean by
their allusion to to-night? Could it be that they contemplated
putting their horrible design into execution on the very first
evening of our voyage? The mere thought of it sent a cold shudder
over me, and made me for a moment superior even to the agonies of
sea-sickness.
I have remarked that I am a physical coward. I am a moral one
also. It is seldom that the two defects are united to such a
degree in the one character. I have known many men who were most
sensitive to bodily danger, and yet were distinguished for the
independence and strength of their minds. In my own case, however,
I regret to say that my quiet and retiring habits had fostered a
nervous dread of doing anything remarkable or making myself
conspicuous, which exceeded, if possible, my fear of personal
peril. An ordinary mortal placed under the circumstances in which
I now found myself would have gone at once to the Captain,
confessed his fears, and put the matter into his hands. To me,
however, constituted as I am, the idea was most repugnant. The
thought of becoming the observed of all observers, cross-questioned
by a stranger, and confronted with two desperate conspirators in
the character of a denouncer, was hateful to me. Might it not
by some remote possibility prove that I was mistaken? What would
be my feelings if there should turn out to be no grounds for my
accusation? No, I would procrastinate; I would keep my eye on the
two desperadoes and dog them at every turn. Anything was better
than the possibility of being wrong.
Then it struck me that even at that moment some new phase of the
conspiracy might be developing itself. The nervous excitement
seemed to have driven away my incipient attack of sickness, for I
was able to stand up and lower myself from the boat without
experiencing any return of it. I staggered along the deck with the
intention of descending into the cabin and finding how my
acquaintances of the morning were occupying themselves. Just as I
had my hand on the companion-rail, I was astonished by receiving a
hearty slap on the back, which nearly shot me down the steps with
more haste than dignity.
"Is that you, Hammond?" said a voice which I seemed to recognise.
"God bless me," I said, as I turned round, "it can't be Dick
Merton! Why, how are you, old man?"
This was an unexpected piece of luck in the midst of my
perplexities. Dick was just the man I wanted; kindly and shrewd in
his nature, and prompt in his actions, I should have no difficulty
in telling him my suspicions, and could rely upon his sound sense
to point out the best course to pursue. Since I was a little lad
in the second form at Harrow, Dick had been my adviser and
protector. He saw at a glance that something had gone wrong with
me.
"Hullo!" he said, in his kindly way, "what's put you about,
Hammond? You look as white as a sheet. Mal de mer, eh?"
"No, not that altogether," said I. "Walk up and down with me,
Dick; I want to speak to you. Give me your arm."
Supporting myself on Dick's stalwart frame, I tottered along by his
side; but it was some time before I could muster resolution to
speak.
"Have a cigar," said he, breaking the silence.
"No, thanks," said I. "Dick, we shall be all corpses to-night."
"That's no reason against your having a cigar now," said Dick, in
his cool way, but looking hard at me from under his shaggy eyebrows
as he spoke. He evidently thought that my intellect was a little
gone.
"No," I continued, "it's no laughing matter; and I speak in sober
earnest, I assure you. I have discovered an infamous conspiracy,
Dick, to destroy this ship and every soul that is in her; "and I
then proceeded systematically, and in order, to lay before him the
chain of evidence which I had collected. "There, Dick," I said, as
I concluded, "what do you think of that? and, above all, what am I
to do?"
To my astonishment he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"I'd be frightened," he said, "if any fellow but you had told me as
much. You always had a way, Hammond, of discovering mares'
nests. I like to see the old traits breaking out again. Do you
remember at school how you swore there was a ghost in the long
room, and how it turned out to be your own reflection in the
mirror. Why, man," he continued, "what object would any one have
in destroying this ship? We have no great political guns aboard.
On the contrary, the majority of the passengers are Americans.
Besides, in this sober nineteenth century, the most wholesale
murderers stop at including themselves among their victims. Depend
upon it, you have misunderstood them, and have mistaken a
photographic camera, or something equally innocent, for an infernal
machine."
"Nothing of the sort, sir," said I, rather touchily "You will learn
to your cost, I fear, that I have neither exaggerated nor
misinterpreted a word. As to the box, I have certainly never
before seen one like it. It contained delicate machinery; of that
I am convinced, from the way in which the men handled it and spoke
of it."
"You'd make out every packet of perishable goods to be a torpedo,"
said Dick, "if that is to be your only test."
"The man's name was Flannigan," I continued.
"I don't think that would go very far in a court of law," said
Dick; "but come, I have finished my cigar. Suppose we go down
together and split a bottle of claret. You can point out these two
Orsinis to me if they are still in the cabin."
"All right," I answered; "I am determined not to lose sight of
them all day. Don't look hard at them, though, for I don't want
them to think that they are being watched."
"Trust me," said Dick; "I'll look as unconscious and guileless as
a lamb;" and with that we passed down the companion and into the
saloon.
A good many passengers were scattered about the great central
table, some wrestling with refractory carpet bags and rug-straps,
some having their luncheon, and a few reading and otherwise amusing
themselves. The objects of our quest were not there. We passed
down the room and peered into every berth, but there was no sign of
them. "Heavens!" thought I, "perhaps at this very moment they are
beneath our feet, in the hold or engine-room, preparing their
diabolical contrivance!" It was better to know the worst than to
remain in such suspense.
"Steward," said Dick, "are there any other gentlemen about?"
"There's two in the smoking-room, sir," answered the steward.
The smoking-room was a little snuggery, luxuriously fitted up, and
adjoining the pantry. We pushed the door open and entered. A sigh
of relief escaped from my bosom. The very first object on which my
eye rested was the cadaverous face of Flannigan, with its hard-set
mouth and unwinking eye. His companion sat opposite to him. They
were both drinking, and a pile of cards lay upon the table. They
were engaged in playing as we entered. I nudged Dick to show him
that we had found our quarry, and we sat down beside them with
as unconcerned an air as possible. The two conspirators seemed to
take little notice of our presence. I watched them both narrowly.
The game at which they were playing was "Napoleon." Both were
adepts at it, and I could not help admiring the consummate nerve of
men who, with such a secret at their hearts, could devote their
minds to the manipulating of a long suit or the finessing of a
queen. Money changed hands rapidly; but the run of luck seemed to
be all against the taller of the two players. At last he threw
down his cards on the table with an oath, and refused to go on.
"No, I'm hanged if I do," he said; "I haven't had more than two of
a suit for five hands."
"Never mind," said his comrade, as he gathered up his winnings; "a
few dollars one way or the other won't go very far after to-night's
work."
I was astonished at the rascal's audacity, but took care to keep my
eyes fixed abstractedly upon the ceiling, and drank my wine in as
unconscious a manner as possible. I felt that Flannigan was
looking towards me with his wolfish eyes to see if I had noticed
the allusion. He whispered something to his companion which I
failed to catch. It was a caution, I suppose, for the other
answered rather angrily--
"Nonsense! Why shouldn't I say what I like? Over-caution is just
what would ruin us."
"I believe you want it not to come off," said Flannigan.
"You believe nothing of the sort," said the other, speaking rapidly
and loudly. "You know as well as I do that when I play for a stake
I like to win it. But I won't have my words criticised and cut
short by you or any other man. I have as much interest in our
success as you have--more, I hope."
He was quite hot about it, and puffed furiously at his cigar for
some minutes. The eyes of the other ruffian wandered alternately
from Dick Merton to myself. I knew that I was in the presence of
a desperate man, that a quiver of my lip might be the signal for
him to plunge a weapon into my heart, but I betrayed more self-
command than I should have given myself credit for under such
trying circumstances. As to Dick, he was as immovable and
apparently as unconscious as the Egyptian Sphinx.
There was silence for some time in the smoking-room, broken only by
the crisp rattle of the cards, as the man Muller shuffled them up
before replacing them in his pocket. He still seemed to be
somewhat flushed and irritable. Throwing the end of his cigar into
the spittoon, he glanced defiantly at his companion and turned
towards me.
"Can you tell me, sir," he said, "when this ship will be heard of
again?"
They were both looking at me; but though my face may have turned a
trifle paler, my voice was as steady as ever as I answered--
"I presume, sir, that it will be heard of first when it enters
Queenstown Harbour."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the angry little man, "I knew you would say that.
Don't you kick me under the table, Flannigan, I won't stand it. I
know what I am doing. You are wrong, sir," he continued, turning
to me, "utterly wrong."
"Some passing ship, perhaps," suggested Dick.
"No, nor that either."
"The weather is fine," I said; "why should we not be heard of at
our destination."
"I didn't say we shouldn't be heard of at our destination.
Possibly we may not, and in any case that is not where we shall be
heard of first."
"Where then?" asked Dick.
"That you shall never know. Suffice it that a rapid and mysterious
agency will signal our whereabouts, and that before the day is out.
Ha, ha!" and he chuckled once again.
"Come on deck!" growled his comrade; "you have drunk too much of
that confounded brandy-and-water. It has loosened your tongue.
Come away!" and taking him by the arm he half led him, half forced
him out of the smoking-room, and we heard them stumbling up the
companion together, and on to the deck.
"Well, what do you think now?" I gasped, as I turned towards Dick.
He was as imperturbable as ever.
"Think!" he said; "why, I think what his companion thinks, that we
have been listening to the ravings of a half-drunken man. The
fellow stunk of brandy."
"Nonsense, Dick I you saw how the other tried to stop his tongue."
"Of course he did. He didn't want his friend to make a fool of
himself before strangers. Maybe the short one is a lunatic, and
the other his private keeper. It's quite possible."
"O Dick, Dick," I cried, "how can you be so blind! Don't you see
that every word confirmed our previous suspicion?"
"Humbug, man!" said Dick; "you're working yourself into a state of
nervous excitement. Why, what the devil do you make of all that
nonsense about a mysterious agent which would signal our
whereabouts?"
"I'll tell you what he meant, Dick," I said, bending forward and
grasping my friend's arm. "He meant a sudden glare and a flash
seen far out at sea by some lonely fisherman off the American
coast. That's what he meant."
"I didn't think you were such a fool, Hammond," said Dick Merton
testily. "If you try to fix a literal meaning on the twaddle that
every drunken man talks, you will come to some queer conclusions.
Let us follow their example, and go on deck. You need fresh air,
I think. Depend upon it, your liver is out of order. A sea-voyage
will do you a world of good."
"If ever I see the end of this one," I groaned, "I'll promise never
to venture on another. They are laying the cloth, so it's hardly
worth while my going up. I'll stay below and unpack my things."
"I hope dinner will find you in a more pleasant state of mind,"
said Dick; and he went out, leaving me to my thoughts until the
clang of the great gong summoned us to the saloon.
My appetite, I need hardly say, had not been improved by the
incidents which had occurred during the day. I sat down, however,
mechanically at the table, and listened to the talk which was going
on around me. There were nearly a hundred first-class passengers,
and as the wine began to circulate, their voices combined with the
clash of the dishes to form a perfect Babel. I found myself seated
between a very stout and nervous old lady and a prim little
clergyman; and as neither made any advances I retired into my
shell, and spent my time in observing the appearance of my fellow-
voyagers. I could see Dick in the dim distance dividing his
attentions between a jointless fowl in front of him and a self-
possessed young lady at his side. Captain Dowie was doing the
honours at my end, while the surgeon of the vessel was seated at
the other. I was glad to notice that Flannigan was placed almost
opposite to me. As long as I had him before my eyes I knew that,
for the time at least, we were safe. He was sitting with what was
meant to be a sociable smile on his grim face. It did not escape
me that he drank largely of wine--so largely that even before the
dessert appeared his voice had become decidedly husky. His friend
Muller was seated a few places lower down. He ate little, and
appeared to be nervous and restless.
"Now, ladies," said our genial Captain, "I trust that you will
consider yourselves at home aboard my vessel. I have no fears for
the gentlemen. A bottle of champagne, steward. Here's to a fresh
breeze and a quick passage! I trust our friends in America will
hear of our safe arrival in eight days, or in nine at the very
latest."
I looked up. Quick as was the glance which passed between
Flannigan and his confederate, I was able to intercept it. There
was an evil smile upon the former's thin lips.
The conversation rippled on. Politics, the sea, amusements,
religion, each was in turn discussed. I remained a silent though
an interested listener. It struck me that no harm could be done by
introducing the subject which was ever in my mind. It could be
managed in an off-hand way, and would at least have the effect of
turning the Captain's thoughts in that direction. I could watch,
too, what effect it would have upon the faces of the conspirators.
There was a sudden lull in the conversation. The ordinary subjects
of interest appeared to be exhausted. The opportunity was a
favourable one.
"May I ask, Captain," I said, bending forward and speaking very
distinctly, "what you think of Fenian manifestoes?"
The Captain's ruddy face became a shade darker from honest
indignation.
"They are poor cowardly things," he said, "as silly as they are
wicked."
"The impotent threats of a set of anonymous scoundrels," said
a pompous-looking old gentleman beside him.
"O Captain!" said the fat lady at my side, "you don't really think
they would blow up a ship?"
"I have no doubt they would if they could. But I am very sure they
shall never blow up mine."
"May I ask what precautions are taken against them?" asked an
elderly man at the end of the table.
"All goods sent aboard the ship are strictly examined," said
Captain Dowie.
"But suppose a man brought explosives aboard with him?" I
suggested.
"They are too cowardly to risk their own lives in that way."
During this conversation Flannigan had not betrayed the slightest
interest in what was going on. He raised his head now and looked
at the Captain.
"Don't you think you are rather underrating them?" he said. "Every
secret society has produced desperate men--why shouldn't the
Fenians have them too? Many men think it a privilege to die in the
service of a cause which seems right in their eyes, though others
may think it wrong"
"Indiscriminate murder cannot be right in anybody's eyes," said the
little clergyman.
"The bombardment of Paris was nothing else," said Flannigan; "yet
the whole civilised world agreed to look on with folded arms, and
change the ugly word `murder' into the more euphonious one of
`war.' It seemed right enough to German eyes; why shouldn't
dynamite seem so to the Fenian?"
"At any rate their empty vapourings have led to nothing as yet,"
said the Captain.
"Excuse me," returned Flannigan, "but is there not some room for
doubt yet as to the fate of the Dotterel? I have met men in
America who asserted from their own personal knowledge that there
was a coal torpedo aboard that vessel."
"Then they lied," said the Captain. "It was proved conclusively at
the court-martial to have arisen from an explosion of coal-gas--but
we had better change the subject, or we may cause the ladies to
have a restless night;" and the conversation once more drifted back
into its original channel.
During this little discussion Flannigan had argued his point with
a gentlemanly deference and a quiet power for which I had not given
him credit. I could not help admiring a man who, on the eve of a
desperate enterprise, could courteously argue upon a point which
must touch him so nearly. He had, as I have already mentioned,
partaken of a considerable quantity of wine; but though there was
a slight flush upon his pale cheek, his manner was as reserved as
ever. He did not join in the conversation again, but seemed to be
lost in thought.
A whirl of conflicting ideas was battling in my own mind. What was
I to do? Should I stand up now and denounce them before both
passengers and Captain? Should I demand a few minutes'
conversation with the latter in his own cabin, and reveal it
all? For an instant I was half resolved to do it, but then the old
constitutional timidity came back with redoubled force. After all
there might be some mistake. Dick had heard the evidence and had
refused to believe in it. I determined to let things go on their
course. A strange reckless feeling came over me. Why should I
help men who were blind to their own danger? Surely it was the
duty of the officers to protect us, not ours to give warning to
them. I drank off a couple of glasses of wine, and staggered upon
deck with the determination of keeping my secret locked in my own
bosom.
It was a glorious evening. Even in my excited state of mind I
could not help leaning against the bulwarks and enjoying the
refreshing breeze. Away to the westward a solitary sail stood out
as a dark speck against the great sheet of flame left by the
setting sun. I shuddered as I looked at it. It was grand but
appalling. A single star was twinkling faintly above our mainmast,
but a thousand seemed to gleam in the water below with every stroke
of our propeller. The only blot in the fair scene was the great
trail of smoke which stretched away behind us like a black slash
upon a crimson curtain. It was hard to believe that the great
peace which hung over all Nature could be marred by a poor
miserable mortal.
"After all," I thought, as I gazed into the blue depths beneath me,
"if the worst comes to the worst, it is better to die here than to
linger in agony upon a sick-bed on land." A man's life seems a
very paltry thing amid the great forces of Nature. All my
philosophy could not prevent my shuddering, however, when I turned
my head and saw two shadowy figures at the other side of the deck,
which I had no difficulty in recognising. They seemed to be
conversing earnestly, but I had no opportunity of overhearing what
was said; so I contented myself with pacing up and down, and
keeping a vigilant watch upon their movements.
It was a relief to me when Dick came on deck. Even an incredulous
confidant is better than none at all.
"Well, old man," he said, giving me a facetious dig in the ribs,
"we've not been blown up yet."
"No, not yet," said I; "but that's no proof that we are not going
to be."
"Nonsense, man!" said Dick; "I can't conceive what has put this
extraordinary idea into your head. I have been talking to one of
your supposed assassins, and he seems a pleasant fellow enough;
quite a sporting character, I should think, from the way he
speaks."
"Dick," I said, "I am as certain that those men have an infernal
machine, and that we are on the verge of eternity, as if I saw them
putting the match to the fuse."
"Well, if you really think so," said Dick, half awed for the moment
by the earnestness of my manner, "it is your duty to let the
Captain know of your suspicions."
"You are right," I said; "I will. My absurd timidity has prevented
my doing so sooner. I believe our lives can only be saved by
laying the whole matter before him."
"Well, go and do it now," said Dick; "but for goodness' sake don't
mix me up in the matter."
"I'll speak to him when he comes off the bridge," I answered; "and
in the meantime I don't mean to lose sight of them."
"Let me know of the result," said my companion; and with a nod he
strolled away in search, I fancy, of his partner at the dinner-
table.
Left to myself, I bethought me of my retreat of the morning, and
climbing on the bulwark I mounted into the quarter-boat, and lay
down there. In it I could reconsider my course of action, and by
raising my head I was able at any time to get a view of my
disagreeable neighbours.
An hour passed, and the Captain was still on the bridge. He was
talking to one of the passengers, a retired naval officer, and the
two were deep in debate concerning some abstruse point in
navigation. I could see the red tips of their cigars from where I
lay. It was dark now, so dark that I could hardly make out the
figures of Flannigan and his accomplice. They were still standing
in the position which they had taken up after dinner. A few of the
passengers were scattered about the deck, but many had gone below.
A strange stillness seemed to pervade the air. The voices of
the watch and the rattle of the wheel were the only sounds which
broke the silence.
Another half-hour passed. The Captain was still upon the bridge.
It seemed as if he would never come down. My nerves were in a
state of unnatural tension, so much so that the sound of two steps
upon the deck made me start up in a quiver of excitement. I peered
over the edge of the boat, and saw that our suspicious passengers
had crossed from the other side, and were standing almost directly
beneath me. The light of a binnacle fell full upon the ghastly
face of the ruffian Flannigan. Even in that short glance I saw
that Muller had the ulster, whose use I knew so well, slung loosely
over his arm. I sank back with a groan. It seemed that my fatal
procrastination had sacrificed two hundred innocent lives.
I had read of the fiendish vengeance which awaited a spy. I knew
that men with their lives in their hands would stick at nothing.
All I could do was to cower at the bottom of the boat and listen
silently to their whispered talk below.
"This place will do," said a voice.
"Yes, the leeward side is best."
"I wonder if the trigger will act?"
"I am sure it will."
"We were to let it off at ten, were we not?"
"Yes, at ten sharp. We have eight minutes yet." There was a
pause. Then the voice began again--
"They'll hear the drop of the trigger, won't they?"
"It doesn't matter. It will be too late for any one to prevent its
going off."
"That's true. There will be some excitement among those we have
left behind, won't there?"
"Rather. How long do you reckon it will be before they hear of
us?"
"The first news will get in at about midnight at earliest."
"That will be my doing."
"No, mine."
"Ha, ha! we'll settle that."
There was a pause here. Then I heard Muller's voice in a ghastly
whisper, "There's only five minutes more."
How slowly the moments seemed to pass! I could count them by the
throbbing of my heart.
"It'll make a sensation on land," said a voice.
"Yes, it will make a noise in the newspapers."
I raised my head and peered over the side of the boat. There
seemed no hope, no help. Death stared me in the face, whether I
did or did not give the alarm. The Captain had at last left the
bridge. The deck was deserted, save for those two dark figures
crouching in the shadow of the boat.
Flannigan had a watch lying open in his hand.
"Three minutes more," he said. "Put it down upon the deck."
"No, put it here on the bulwarks."
It was the little square box. I knew by the sound that they had
placed it near the davit, and almost exactly under my head.
I looked over again. Flannigan was pouring something out of a
paper into his hand. It was white and granular--the same that I
had seen him use in the morning. It was meant as a fuse, no doubt,
for he shovelled it into the little box, and I heard the strange
noise which had previously arrested my attention.
"A minute and a half more," he said. "Shall you or I pull the
string?"
"I will pull it," said Muller.
He was kneeling down and holding the end in his hand. Flannigan
stood behind with his arms folded, and an air of grim resolution
upon his face.
I could stand it no longer. My nervous system seemed to give way
in a moment.
"Stop!" I screamed, springing to my feet. "Stop misguided and
unprincipled men!"
They both staggered backwards. I fancy they thought I was a
spirit, with the moonlight streaming down upon my pale face.
I was brave enough now. I had gone too far to retreat.
"Cain was damned," I cried, "and he slew but one; would you have
the blood of two hundred upon your souis?"
"He's mad!" said Flannigan. "Time's up. Let it off, Muller."
I sprang down upon the deck.
"You shan't do it!" I said.
"By what right do you prevent us?"
"By every right, human and divine."
"It's no business of yours. Clear out of this."
"Never!" said I.
"Confound the fellow! There's too much at stake to stand on
ceremony. I'll hold him, Muller, while you pull the trigger."
Next moment I was struggling in the herculean grasp of the
Irishman. Resistance was useless; I was a child in his hands.
He pinned me up against the side of the vessel, and held me there.
"Now," he said, "look sharp. He can't prevent us."
I felt that I was standing on the verge of eternity. Half-
strangled in the arms of the taller ruffian, I saw the other
approach the fatal box. He stooped over it and seized the string.
I breathed one prayer when I saw his grasp tighten upon it. Then
came a sharp snap, a strange rasping noise. The trigger had
fallen, the side of the box flew out, and let off--TWO GREY
CARRIER PIGEONS!
Little more need be said. It is not a subject on which I care to
dwell. The whole thing is too utterly disgusting and absurd.
Perhaps the best thing I can do is to retire gracefully from the
scene, and let the sporting correspondent of the New York Herald
fill my unworthy place. Here is an extract clipped from its
columns shortly after our departure from America:--
"Pigeon-flying Extraordinary.--A novel match has been brought off
last week between the birds of John H. Flannigan, of Boston, and
Jeremiah Muller, a well-known citizen of Lowell. Both men
have devoted much time and attention to an improved breed of bird,
and the challenge is an old-standing one. The pigeons were backed
to a large amount, and there was considerable local interest in the
result. The start was from the deck of the Transatlantic steamship
Spartan, at ten o'clock on the evening of the day of starting,
the vessel being then reckoned to be about a hundred miles from the
land. The bird which reached home first was to be declared the
winner. Considerable caution had, we believe, to be observed, as
some captains have a prejudice against the bringing off of sporting
events aboard their vessels. In spite of some little difficulty at
the last moment, the trap was sprung almost exactly at ten o'clock.
Muller's bird arrived in Lowell in an extreme state of exhaustion
on the following morning, while Flannigan's has not been heard of.
The backers of the latter have the satisfaction of knowing,
however, that the whole affair has been characterised by extreme
fairness. The pigeons were confined in a specially invented trap,
which could only be opened by the spring. It was thus possible to
feed them through an aperture in the top, but any tampering with
their wings was quite out of the question. A few such matches
would go far towards popularising pigeon-flying in America, and
form an agreeable variety to the morbid exhibitions of human
endurance which have assumed such proportions during the last few
years."
JOHN HUXFORD'S HIATUS.
Strange it is and wonderful to mark how upon this planet of ours
the smallest and most insignificant of events set a train of
consequences in motion which act and react until their final
results are portentous and incalculable. Set a force rolling,
however small; and who can say where it shall end, or what it may
lead to! Trifles develop into tragedies, and the bagatelle of one
day ripens into the catastrophe of the next. An oyster throws out
a secretion to surround a grain of sand, and so a pearl comes into
being; a pearl diver fishes it up, a merchant buys it and sells it
to a jeweller, who disposes of it to a customer. The customer is
robbed of it by two scoundrels who quarrel over the booty. One
slays the other, and perishes himself upon the scaffold. Here is
a direct chain of events with a sick mollusc for its first link,
and a gallows for its last one. Had that grain of sand not chanced
to wash in between the shells of the bivalve, two living breathing
beings with all their potentialities for good and for evil would
not have been blotted out from among their fellows. Who shall
undertake to judge what is really small and what is great?
Thus when in the year 1821 Don Diego Salvador bethought
him that if it paid the heretics in England to import the bark of
his cork oaks, it would pay him also to found a factory by which
the corks might be cut and sent out ready made, surely at first
sight no very vital human interests would appear to be affected.
Yet there were poor folk who would suffer, and suffer acutely--
women who would weep, and men who would become sallow and hungry-
looking and dangerous in places of which the Don had never heard,
and all on account of that one idea which had flashed across him as
he strutted, cigarettiferous, beneath the grateful shadow of his
limes. So crowded is this old globe of ours, and so interlaced our
interests, that one cannot think a new thought without some poor
devil being the better or the worse for it.
Don Diego Salvador was a capitalist, and the abstract thought soon
took the concrete form of a great square plastered building wherein
a couple of hundred of his swarthy countrymen worked with deft
nimble fingers at a rate of pay which no English artisan could have
accepted. Within a few months the result of this new competition
was an abrupt fall of prices in the trade, which was serious for
the largest firms and disastrous for the smaller ones. A few old-
established houses held on as they were, others reduced their
establishments and cut down their expenses, while one or two put up
their shutters and confessed themselves beaten. In this last
unfortunate category was the ancient and respected firm of
Fairbairn Brothers of Brisport.
Several causes had led up to this disaster, though Don Diego's
debut as a corkcutter had brought matters to a head. When a
couple of generations back the original Fairbairn had founded the
business, Brisport was a little fishing town with no outlet or
occupation for her superfluous population. Men were glad to have
safe and continuous work upon any terms. All this was altered now,
for the town was expanding into the centre of a large district in
the west, and the demand for labour and its remuneration had
proportionately increased. Again, in the old days, when carriage
was ruinous and communication slow, the vintners of Exeter and of
Barnstaple were glad to buy their corks from their neighbour of
Brisport; but now the large London houses sent down their
travellers, who competed with each other to gain the local custom,
until profits were cut down to the vanishing point. For a long
time the firm had been in a precarious position, but this further
drop in prices settled the matter, and compelled Mr. Charles
Fairbairn, the acting manager, to close his establishment.
It was a murky, foggy Saturday afternoon in November when the hands
were paid for the last time, and the old building was to be finally
abandoned. Mr. Fairbairn, an anxious-faced, sorrow-worn man, stood
on a raised dais by the cashier while he handed the little pile of
hardly-earned shillings and coppers to each successive workman as
the long procession filed past his table. It was usual with the
employes to clatter away the instant that they had been paid, like
so many children let out of school; but to-day they waited,
forming little groups over the great dreary room, and discussing in
subdued voices the misfortune which had come upon their employers,
and the future which awaited themselves. When the last pile of
coins had been handed across the table, and the last name checked
by the cashier, the whole throng faced silently round to the man
who had been their master, and waited expectantly for any words
which he might have to say to them.
Mr. Charles Fairbairn had not expected this, and it embarrassed
him. He had waited as a matter of routine duty until the wages
were paid, but he was a taciturn, slow-witted man, and he had not
foreseen this sudden call upon his oratorical powers. He stroked
his thin cheek nervously with his long white fingers, and looked
down with weak watery eyes at the mosaic of upturned serious faces.
"I am sorry that we have to part, my men," he said at last in a
crackling voice. "It's a bad day for all of us, and for Brisport
too. For three years we have been losing money over the works. We
held on in the hope of a change coming, but matters are going from
bad to worse. There's nothing for it but to give it up before the
balance of our fortune is swallowed up. I hope you may all be able
to get work of some sort before very long. Good-bye, and God bless
you!"
"God bless you, sir! God bless you!" cried a chorus of rough
voices. "Three cheers for Mr. Charles Fairbairn!" shouted a
bright-eyed, smart young fellow, springing up upon a bench and
waving his peaked cap in the air. The crowd responded to the call,
but their huzzas wanted the true ring which only a joyous heart can
give. Then they began to flock out into the sunlight, looking back
as they went at the long deal tables and the cork-strewn floor--
above all at the sad-faced, solitary man, whose cheeks were flecked
with colour at the rough cordiality of their farewell.
"Huxford," said the cashier, touching on the shoulder the young
fellow who had led the cheering; "the governor wants to speak to
you."
The workman turned back and stood swinging his cap awkwardly in
front of his ex-employer, while the crowd pushed on until the
doorway was clear, and the heavy fog-wreaths rolled unchecked into
the deserted tactory.
"Ah, John!" said Mr. Fairbairn, coming suddenly out of his reverie
and taking up a letter from the table. "You have been in my
service since you were a boy, and you have shown that you merited
the trust which I have placed in you. From what I have heard I
think I am right in saying that this sudden want of work will
affect your plans more than it will many of my other hands."
"I was to be married at Shrovetide," the man answered, tracing a
pattern upon the table with his horny forefinger. "I'll have to
find work first."
"And work, my poor fellow, is by no means easy to find. You see
you have been in this groove all your life, and are unfit for
anything else. It's true you've been my foreman, but even
that won't help you, for the factories all over England are
discharging hands, and there's not a vacancy to be had. It's a bad
outlook for you and such as you."
"What would you advise, then, sir?" asked John Huxford.
"That's what I was coming to. I have a letter here from Sheridan
and Moore, of Montreal, asking for a good hand to take charge of a
workroom. If you think it will suit you, you can go out by the
next boat. The wages are far in excess of anything which I have
been able to give you."
"Why, sir, this is real kind of you," the young workman said
earnestly. "She--my girl--Mary, will be as grateful to you as I
am. I know what you say is right, and that if I had to look for
work I should be likely to spend the little that I have laid by
towards housekeeping before I found it. But, sir, with your leave
I'd like to speak to her about it before I made up my mind. Could
you leave it open for a few hours?"
"The mail goes out to-morrow," Mr. Fairbairn answered. "If you
decide to accept you can write tonight. Here is their letter,
which will give you their address."
John Huxford took the precious paper with a grateful heart. An
hour ago his future had been all black, but now this rift of light
had broken in the west, giving promise of better things. He would
have liked to have said something expressive of his feelings to his
employer, but the English nature is not effusive, and he could
not get beyond a few choking awkward words which were as awkwardly
received by his benefactor. With a scrape and a bow, he turned on
his heel, and plunged out into the foggy street.
So thick was the vapour that the houses over the way were only a
vague loom, but the foreman hurried on with springy steps through
side streets and winding lanes, past walls where the fishermen's
nets were drying, and over cobble-stoned alleys redolent of
herring, until he reached a modest line of whitewashed cottages
fronting the sea. At the door of one of these the young man
tapped, and then without waiting for a response, pressed down the
latch and walked in.
An old silvery-haired woman and a young girl hardly out of her
teens were sitting on either side of the fire, and the latter
sprang to her feet as he entered.
"You've got some good news, John," she cried, putting her hands
upon his shoulders, and looking into his eyes. "I can tell it from
your step. Mr. Fairbairn is going to carry on after all."
"No, dear, not so good as that," John Huxford answered, smoothing
back her rich brown hair; "but I have an offer of a place in
Canada, with good money, and if you think as I do, I shall go out
to it, and you can follow with the granny whenever I have made all
straight for you at the other side. What say you to that, my
lass?"
"Why, surely, John, what you think is right must be for the
best," said the girl quietly, with trust and confidence in her pale
plain face and loving hazel eyes. "But poor granny, how is she to
cross the seas?"
"Oh, never mind about me," the old woman broke in cheerfully.
"I'll be no drag on you. If you want granny, granny's not too old
to travel; and if you don't want her, why she can look after the
cottage, and have an English home ready for you whenever you turn
back to the old country."
"Of course we shall need you, granny," John Huxford said, with a
cheery laugh. "Fancy leaving granny behind! That would never do!
Mary! But if you both come out, and if we are married all snug and
proper at Montreal, we'll look through the whole city until we find
a house something like this one, and we'll have creepers on the
outside just the same, and when the doors are shut and we sit round
the fire on the winter's nights, I'm hanged if we'll be able to
tell that we're not at home. Besides, Mary, it's the same speech
out there, and the same king and the same flag; it's not like a
foreign country."
"No, of course not," Mary answered with conviction. She was an
orphan with no living relation save her old grandmother, and no
thought in life but to make a helpful and worthy wife to the man
she loved. Where these two were she could not fail to find
happiness. If John went to Canada, then Canada became home to her,
for what had Brisport to offer when he was gone?
"I'm to write to-night then and accept?" the young man asked.
"I knew you would both be of the same mind as myself, but of course
I couldn't close with the offer until we had talked it over. I can
get started in a week or two, and then in a couple of months I'll
have all ready for you on the other side."
"It will be a weary, weary time until we hear from you, dear John,"
said Mary, clasping his hand; "but it's God's will, and we must be
patient. Here's pen and ink. You can sit at the table and write
the letter which is to take the three of us across the Atlantic."
Strange how Don Diego's thoughts were moulding human lives in the
little Devon village.
The acceptance was duly despatched, and John Huxford began
immediately to prepare for his departure, for the Montreal firm had
intimated that the vacancy was a certainty, and that the chosen man
might come out without delay to take over his duties. In a very
few days his scanty outfit was completed, and he started off in a
coasting vessel for Liverpool, where he was to catch the passenger
ship for Quebec.
"Remember, John," Mary whispered, as he pressed her to his heart
upon the Brisport quay, "the cottage is our own, and come what may,
we have always that to fall back upon. If things should chance to
turn out badly over there, we have always a roof to cover us.
There you will find me until you send word to us to come."
"And that will be very soon, my lass," he answered cheerfully, with
a last embrace. "Good-bye, granny, good-bye." The ship was a mile
and more from the land before he lost sight of the figures of
the straight slim girl and her old companion, who stood watching
and waving to him from the end of the grey stone quay. It was with
a sinking heart and a vague feeling of impending disaster that he
saw them at last as minute specks in the distance, walking townward
and disappearing amid the crowd who lined the beach.
From Liverpool the old woman and her granddaughter received a
letter from John announcing that he was just starting in the barque
St. Lawrence, and six weeks afterwards a second longer epistle
informed them of his safe arrival at Quebec, and gave them his
first impressions of the country. After that a long unbroken
silence set in. Week after week and month after month passed by,
and never a word came from across the seas. A year went over their
heads, and yet another, but no news of the absentee. Sheridan and
Moore were written to, and replied that though John Huxford's
letter had reached them, he had never presented himself, and they
had been forced to fill up the vacancy as best they could. Still
Mary and her grandmother hoped against hope, and looked out for the
letter-carrier every morning with such eagerness, that the kind-
hearted man would often make a detour rather than pass the two pale
anxious faces which peered at him from the cottage window. At
last, three years after the young foreman's disappearance, old
granny died, and Mary was left alone, a broken sorrowful woman,
living as best she might on a small annuity which had descended to
her, and eating her heart out as she brooded over the mystery
which hung over the fate of her lover.
Among the shrewd west-country neighbours there had long, however,
ceased to be any mystery in the matter. Huxford arrived safely in
Canada--so much was proved by his letter. Had he met with his end
in any sudden way during the journey between Quebec and Montreal,
there must have been some official inquiry, and his luggage would
have sufficed to have established his identity. Yet the Canadian
police had been communicated with, and had returned a positive
answer that no inquest had been held, or any body found, which
could by any possibility be that of the young Englishman. The only
alternative appeared to be that he had taken the first opportunity
to break all the old ties, and had slipped away to the backwoods or
to the States to commence life anew under an altered name. Why he
should do this no one professed to know, but that he had done it
appeared only too probable from the facts. Hence many a deep growl
of righteous anger rose from the brawny smacksmen when Mary with
her pale face and sorrow-sunken head passed along the quays on her
way to her daily marketing; and it is more than likely that if the
missing man had turned up in Brisport he might have met with some
rough words or rougher usage, unless he could give some very good
reason for his strange conduct. This popular view of the case
never, however, occurred to the simple trusting heart of the lonely
girl, and as the years rolled by her grief and her suspense were
never for an instant tinged with a doubt as to the good faith
of the missing man. From youth she grew into middle age, and from
that into the autumn of her life, patient, long-suffering, and
faithful, doing good as far as lay in her power, and waiting humbly
until fate should restore either in this world or the next that
which it had so mysteriously deprived her of.
In the meantime neither the opinion held by the minority that John
Huxford was dead, nor that of the majority, which pronounced him to
be faithless, represented the true state of the case. Still alive,
and of stainless honour, he had yet been singled out by fortune as
her victim in one of those strange freaks which are of such rare
occurrence, and so beyond the general experience, that they might
be put by as incredible, had we not the most trustworthy evidence
of their occasional possibility.
Landing at Quebec, with his heart full of hope and courage, John
selected a dingy room in a back street, where the terms were less
exorbitant than elsewhere, and conveyed thither the two boxes which
contained his worldly goods. After taking up his quarters there he
had half a mind to change again, for the landlady and the fellow-
lodgers were by no means to his taste; but the Montreal coach
started within a day or two, and he consoled himself by the thought
that the discomfort would only last for that short time. Having
written home to Mary to announce his safe arrival, he employed
himself in seeing as much of the town as was possible, walking
about all day, and only returning to his room at night.
It happened, however, that the house on which the unfortunate youth
had pitched was one which was notorious for the character of its
inmates. He had been directed to it by a pimp, who found regular
employment in hanging about the docks and decoying new-comers to
this den. The fellow's specious manner and proffered civility had
led the simple-hearted west-countryman into the toils, and though
his instinct told him that he was in unsafe company, he refrained,
unfortunately, from at once making his escape. He contented
himself with staying out all day, and associating as little as
possible with the other inmates. From the few words which he did
let drop, however, the landlady gathered that he was a stranger
without a single friend in the country to inquire after him should
misfortune overtake him.
The house had an evil reputation for the hocussing of sailors,
which was done not only for the purpose of plundering them, but
also to supply outgoing ships with crews, the men being carried on
board insensible, and not coming to until the ship was well down
the St. Lawrence. This trade caused the wretches who followed it
to be experts in the use of stupefying drugs, and they determined
to practise their arts upon their friendless lodger, so as to have
an opportunity of ransacking his effects, and of seeing what it
might be worth their while to purloin. During the day he
invariably locked his door and carried off the key in his
pocket, but if they could render him insensible for the night they
could examine his boxes at their leisure, and deny afterwards that
he had ever brought with him the articles which he missed. It
happened, therefore, upon the eve of Huxford's departure from
Quebec, that he found, upon returning to his lodgings, that his
landlady and her two ill-favoured sons, who assisted her in her
trade, were waiting up for him over a bowl of punch, which they
cordially invited him to share. It was a bitterly cold night, and
the fragrant steam overpowered any suspicions which the young
Englishman may have entertained, so he drained off a bumper, and
then, retiring to his bedroom, threw himself upon his bed without
undressing, and fell straight into a dreamless slumber, in which he
still lay when the three conspirators crept into his chamber, and,
having opened his boxes, began to investigate his effects.
It may have been that the speedy action of the drug caused its
effect to be evanescent, or, perhaps, that the strong constitution
of the victim threw it off with unusual rapidity. Whatever the
cause, it is certain that John Huxford suddenly came to himself,
and found the foul trio squatted round their booty, which they were
dividing into the two categories of what was of value and should be
taken, and what was valueless and might therefore be left. With a
bound he sprang out of bed, and seizing the fellow nearest him by
the collar, he slung him through the open doorway. His brother
rushed at him, but the young Devonshire man met him with such a
facer that he dropped in a heap upon the ground.
Unfortunately, the violence of the blow caused him to overbalance
himself, and, tripping over his prostrate antagonist, he came down
heavily upon his face. Before he could rise, the old hag sprang
upon his back and clung to him, shrieking to her son to bring the
poker. John managed to shake himself clear of them both, but
before he could stand on his guard he was felled from behind by a
crashing blow from an iron bar, which stretched him senseless upon
the floor.
"You've hit too hard, Joe," said the old woman, looking down at the
prostrate figure. "I heard the bone go."
"If I hadn't fetched him down he'd ha' been too many for us," said
the young villain sulkily.
"Still, you might ha' done it without killing him, clumsy," said
his mother. She had had a large experience of such scenes, and
knew the difference between a stunning blow and a fatal one.
"He's still breathing," the other said, examining him; "the back o'
his head's like a bag o' dice though. The skull's all splintered.
He can't last. What are we to do?"
"He'll never come to himself again," the other brother remarked.
"Sarve him right. Look at my face! Let's see, mother; who's in
the house?"
"Only four drunk sailors."
"They wouldn't turn out for any noise. It's all quiet in the
street. Let's carry him down a bit, Joe, and leave him there. He
can die there, and no one think the worse of us."
"Take all the papers out of his pocket, then," the mother
suggested; "they might help the police to trace him. His watch,
too, and his money-- L3 odd; better than nothing. Now carry him
softly and don't slip."
Kicking off their shoes, the two brothers carried the dying man
down stairs and along the deserted street for a couple of hundred
yards. There they laid him among the snow, where he was found by
the night patrol, who carried him on a shutter to the hospital. He
was duly examined by the resident surgeon, who bound up the wounded
head, but gave it as his opinion that the man could not possibly
live for more than twelve hours.
Twelve hours passed, however, and yet another twelve, but John
Huxford still struggled hard for his life. When at the end of
three days he was found to be still breathing, the interest of the
doctors became aroused at his extraordinary vitality, and they bled
him, as the fashion was in those days, and surrounded his shattered
head with icebags. It may have been on account of these measures,
or it may have been in spite of them, but at the end of a week's
deep trance the nurse in charge was astonished to hear a gabbling
noise, and to find the stranger sitting up upon the couch and
staring about him with wistful, wondering eyes. The surgeons were
summoned to behold the phenomenon, and warmly congratulated each
other upon the success of their treatment.
"You have been on the brink of the grave, my man," said one of
them, pressing the bandaged head back on to the pillow; "you must
not excite yourself. What is your name?"
No answer, save a wild stare.
"Where do you come from?"
Again no answer.
"He is mad," one suggested. "Or a foreigner," said another.
"There were no papers on him when he came in. His linen is marked
`J. H.' Let us try him in French and German."
They tested him with as many tongues as they could muster among
them, but were compelled at last to give the matter over and to
leave their silent patient, still staring up wild-eyed at the
whitewashed hospital ceiling.
For many weeks John lay in the hospital, and for many weeks efforts
were made to gain some clue as to his antecedents, but in vain. He
showed, as the time rolled by, not only by his demeanour, but also
by the intelligence with which he began to pick up fragments of
sentences, like a clever child learning to talk, that his mind was
strong enough in the present, though it was a complete blank as to
the past. The man's memory of his whole life before the fatal blow
was entirely and absolutely erased. He neither knew his name, his
language, his home, his business, nor anything else. The doctors
held learned consultations upon him, and discoursed upon the centre
of memory and depressed tables, deranged nerve-cells and cerebral
congestions, but all their polysyllables began and ended at the
fact that the man's memory was gone, and that it was beyond
the power of science to restore it. During the weary months of his
convalescence he picked up reading and writing, but with the return
of his strength came no return of his former life. England,
Devonshire, Brisport, Mary, Granny--the words brought no
recollection to his mind. All was absolute darkness. At last he
was discharged, a friendless, tradeless, penniless man, without a
past, and with very little to look to in the future. His very name
was altered, for it had been necessary to invent one. John Huxford
had passed away, and John Hardy took his place among mankind. Here
was a strange outcome of a Spanish gentleman's tobacco-inspired
meditations.
John's case had aroused some discussion and curiosity in Quebec, so
that he was not suffered to drift into utter helplessness upon
emerging from the hospital. A Scotch manufacturer named M`Kinlay
found him a post as porter in his establishment, and for a long
time he worked at seven dollars a week at the loading and unloading
of vans. In the course of years it was noticed, however, that his
memory, however defective as to the past, was extremely reliable
and accurate when concerned with anything which had occurred since
his accident. From the factory he was promoted into the counting-
house, and the year 1835 found him a junior clerk at a salary of
L120 a year. Steadily and surely John Hardy fought his way upward
from post to post, with his whole heart and mind devoted to the
business. In 1840 he was third clerk, in 1845 he was second, and
in 1852 he became manager of the whole vast establishment, and
second only to Mr. M`Kinlay himself.
There were few who grudged John this rapid advancement, for it was
obviously due to neither chance nor favouritism, but entirely to
his marvellous powers of application and industry. From early
morning until late in the night he laboured hard in the service of
his employer, checking, overlooking, superintending, setting an
example to all of cheerful devotion to duty. As he rose from one
post to another his salary increased, but it caused no alteration
in his mode of living, save that it enabled him to be more open-
handed to the poor. He signalised his promotion to the managership
by a donation of L1000 to the hospital in which he had been
treated a quarter of a century before. The remainder of his
earnings he allowed to accumulate in the business, drawing a small
sum quarterly for his sustenance, and still residing in the humble
dwelling which he had occupied when he was a warehouse porter. In
spite of his success he was a sad, silent, morose man, solitary in
his habits, and possessed always of a vague undefined yearning, a
dull feeling of dissatisfaction and of craving which never
abandoned him. Often he would strive with his poor crippled brain
to pierce the curtain which divided him from the past, and to solve
the enigma of his youthful existence, but though he sat many a time
by the fire until his head throbbed with his efforts, John Hardy
could never recall the least glimpse of John Huxford's history.
On one occasion he had, in the interests of the firm, to journey to
Quebec, and to visit the very cork factory which had tempted him to
leave England. Strolling through the workroom with the foreman,
John automatically, and without knowing what he was doing, picked
up a square piece of the bark, and fashioned it with two or three
deft cuts of his penknife into a smooth tapering cork. His
companion picked it out of his hand and examined it with the eye of
an expert. "This is not the first cork which you have cut by many
a hundred, Mr. Hardy," he remarked. "Indeed you are wrong," John
answered, smiling; "I never cut one before in my life."
"Impossible!" cried the foreman. "Here's another bit of cork. Try
again." John did his best to repeat the performance, but the
brains of the manager interfered with the trained muscles of the
corkcutter. The latter had not forgotten their cunning, but they
needed to be left to themselves, and not directed by a mind which
knew nothing of the matter. Instead of the smooth graceful shape,
he could produce nothing but rough-hewn clumsy cylinders. "It must
have been chance," said the foreman, "but I could have sworn that
it was the work of an old hand!"
As the years passed John's smooth English skin had warped and
crinkled until he was as brown and as seamed as a walnut. His
hair, too, after many years of iron-grey, had finally become as
white as the winters of his adopted country. Yet he was a hale and
upright old man, and when he at last retired from the manager-
ship of the firm with which he had been so long connected, he
bore the weight of his seventy years lightly and bravely. He was
in the peculiar position himself of not knowing his own age, as it
was impossible for him to do more than guess at how old he was at
the time of his accident.
The Franco-German War came round, and while the two great rivals
were destroying each other, their more peaceful neighbours were
quietly ousting them out of their markets and their commerce. Many
English ports benefited by this condition of things, but none more
than Brisport. It had long ceased to be a fishing village, but was
now a large and prosperous town, with a great breakwater in place
of the quay on which Mary had stood, and a frontage of terraces and
grand hotels where all the grandees of the west country came when
they were in need of a change. All these extensions had made
Brisport the centre of a busy trade, and her ships found their way
into every harbour in the world. Hence it was no wonder,
especially in that very busy year of 1870, that several Brisport
vessels were lying in the river and alongside the wharves of
Quebec.
One day John Hardy, who found time hang a little on his hands since
his retirement from business, strolled along by the water's edge
listening to the clanking of the steam winches, and watching the
great barrels and cases as they were swung ashore and piled upon
the wharf. He had observed the coming in of a great ocean steamer,
and having waited until she was safely moored, he was turning
away, when a few words fell upon his ear uttered by some one on
board a little weather-beaten barque close by him. It was only
some commonplace order that was bawled out, but the sound fell upon
the old man's ears with a strange mixture of disuse and
familiarity. He stood by the vessel and heard the seamen at their
work, all speaking with the same broad, pleasant jingling accent.
Why did it send such a thrill through his nerves to listen to it?
He sat down upon a coil of rope and pressed his hands to his
temples, drinking in the long-forgotten dialect, and trying to
piece together in his mind the thousand half-formed nebulous
recollections which were surging up in it. Then he rose, and
walking along to the stern he read the name of the ship, The
Sunlight, Brisport. Brisport! Again that flush and tingle
through every nerve. Why was that word and the men's speech so
familiar to him? He walked moodily home, and all night he lay
tossing and sleepless, pursuing a shadowy something which was ever
within his reach, and yet which ever evaded him.
Early next morning he was up and down on the wharf listening to the
talk of the west-country sailors. Every word they spoke seemed to
him to revive his memory and bring him nearer to the light. From
time to time they paused in their work, and seeing the white-haired
stranger sitting so silently and attentively, they laughed at him
and broke little jests upon him. And even these jests had a
familiar sound to the exile, as they very well might, seeing that
they were the same which he had heard in his youth, for no one
ever makes a new joke in England. So he sat through the long day,
bathing himself in the west-country speech, and waiting for the
light to break.
And it happened that when the sailors broke off for their mid-day
meal, one of them, either out of curiosity or good nature, came
over to the old watcher and greeted him. So John asked him to be
seated on a log by his side, and began to put many questions to him
about the country from which he came, and the town. All which the
man answered glibly enough, for there is nothing in the world that
a sailor loves to talk of so much as of his native place, for it
pleases him to show that he is no mere wanderer, but that he has a
home to receive him whenever he shall choose to settle down to a
quiet life. So the seaman prattled away about the Town Hall and
the Martello Tower, and the Esplanade, and Pitt Street and the High
Street, until his companion suddenly shot out a long eager arm and
caught him by the wrist. "Look here, man," he said, in a low quick
whisper. "Answer me truly as you hope for mercy. Are not the
streets that run out of the High Street, Fox Street, Caroline
Street, and George Street, in the order named?" "They are," the
sailor answered, shrinking away from the wild flashing eyes. And
at that moment John's memory came back to him, and he saw clear and
distinct his life as it had been and as it should have been, with
every minutest detail traced as in letters of fire. Too stricken
to cry out, too stricken to weep, he could only hurry away
homewards wildly and aimlessly; hurry as fast as his aged limbs
would carry him, as if, poor soul! there were some chance yet of
catching up the fifty years which had gone by. Staggering and
tremulous he hastened on until a film seemed to gather over his
eyes, and throwing his arms into the air with a great cry, "Oh,
Mary, Mary! Oh, my lost, lost life!" he fell senseless upon the
pavement.
The storm of emotion which had passed through him, and the mental
shock which he had undergone, would have sent many a man into a
raging fever, but John was too strong-willed and too practical to
allow his strength to be wasted at the very time when he needed it
most. Within a few days he realised a portion of his property, and
starting for New York, caught the first mail steamer to England.
Day and night, night and day, he trod the quarter-deck, until the
hardy sailors watched the old man with astonishment, and marvelled
how any human being could do so much upon so little sleep. It was
only by this unceasing exercise, by wearing down his vitality until
fatigue brought lethargy, that he could prevent himself from
falling into a very frenzy of despair. He hardly dared ask himself
what was the object of this wild journey? What did he expect?
Would Mary be still alive? She must be a very old woman. If he
could but see her and mingle his tears with hers he would be
content. Let her only know that it had been no fault of his, and
that they had both been victims to the same cruel fate. The
cottage was her own, and she had said that she would wait for
him there until she heard from him. Poor lass, she had never
reckoned on such a wait as this.
At last the Irish lights were sighted and passed, Land's End lay
like a blue fog upon the water, and the great steamer ploughed its
way along the bold Cornish coast until it dropped its anchor in
Plymouth Bay. John hurried to the railway station, and within a
few hours he found himself back once more in his native town, which
he had quitted a poor corkcutter, half a century before.
But was it the same town? Were it not for the name engraved all
over the station and on the hotels, John might have found a
difficulty in believing it. The broad, well-paved streets, with
the tram lines laid down the centre, were very different from the
narrow winding lanes which he could remember. The spot upon which
the station had been built was now the very centre of the town, but
in the old days it would have been far out in the fields. In every
direction, lines of luxurious villas branched away in streets and
crescents bearing names which were new to the exile. Great
warehouses, and long rows of shops with glittering fronts, showed
him how enormously Brisport had increased in wealth as well as in
dimensions. It was only when he came upon the old High Street that
John began to feel at home. It was much altered, but still it was
recognisable, and some few of the buildings were just as he had
left them. There was the place where Fairbairn's cork works had
been. It was now occupied by a great brand-new hotel. And
there was the old grey Town Hall. The wanderer turned down beside
it, and made his way with eager steps but a sinking heart in the
direction of the line of cottages which he used to know so well.
It was not difficult for him to find where they had been. The sea
at least was as of old, and from it he could tell where the
cottages had stood. But alas, where were they now! In their place
an imposing crescent of high stone houses reared their tall front
to the beach. John walked wearily down past their palatial
entrances, feeling heart-sore and despairing, when suddenly a
thrill shot through him, followed by a warm glow of excitement and
of hope, for, standing a little back from the line, and looking as
much out of place as a bumpkin in a ballroom, was an old
whitewashed cottage, with wooden porch and walls bright with
creeping plants. He rubbed his eyes and stared again, but there it
stood with its diamond-paned windows and white muslin curtains, the
very same down to the smallest details, as it had been on the day
when he last saw it. Brown hair had become white, and fishing
hamlets had changed into cities, but busy hands and a faithful
heart had kept granny's cottage unchanged and ready for the
wanderer.
And now, when he had reached his very haven of rest, John Huxford's
mind became more filled with apprehension than ever, and he came
over so deadly sick, that he had to sit down upon one of the beach
benches which faced the cottage. An old fisherman was perched
at one end of it, smoking his black clay pipe, and he remarked
upon the wan face and sad eyes of the stranger.
"You have overtired yourself," he said. "It doesn't do for old
chaps like you and me to forget our years."
"I'm better now, thank you," John answered. "Can you tell me,
friend, how that one cottage came among all those fine houses?"
"Why," said the old fellow, thumping his crutch energetically upon
the ground, "that cottage belongs to the most obstinate woman in
all England. That woman, if you'll believe me, has been offered
the price of the cottage ten times over, and yet she won't part
with it. They have even promised to remove it stone by stone, and
put it up on some more convenient place, and pay her a good round
sum into the bargain, but, God bless you! she wouldn't so much as
hear of it."
"And why was that?" asked John.
"Well, that's just the funny part of it. It's all on account of a
mistake. You see her spark went away when I was a youngster, and
she's got it into her head that he may come back some day, and that
he won't know where to go unless the cottage is there. Why, if the
fellow were alive he would be as old as you, but I've no doubt he's
dead long ago. She's well quit of him, for he must have been a
scamp to abandon her as he did."
"Oh, he abandoned her, did he?"
"Yes--went off to the States, and never so much as sent a word to
bid her good-bye. It was a cruel shame, it was, for the girl
has been a-waiting and a-pining for him ever since. It's my belief
that it's fifty years' weeping that blinded her."
"She is blind!" cried John, half rising to his feet.
"Worse than that," said the fisherman. "She's mortal ill, and not
expected to live. Why, look ye, there's the doctor's carriage a-
waiting at her door."
At this evil tidings old John sprang up and hurried over to the
cottage, where he met the physician returning to his brougham.
"How is your patient, doctor?" he asked in a trembling voice.
"Very bad, very bad," said the man of medicine pompously. "If she
continues to sink she will be in great danger; but if, on the other
hand, she takes a turn, it is possible that she may recover," with
which oracular answer he drove away in a cloud of dust.
John Huxford was still hesitating at the doorway, not knowing how
to announce himself, or how far a shock might be dangerous to the
sufferer, when a gentleman in black came bustling up.
"Can you tell me, my man, if this is where the sick woman is?" he
asked.
John nodded, and the clergyman passed in, leaving the door half
open. The wanderer waited until he had gone into the inner room,
and then slipped into the front parlour, where he had spent so many
happy hours. All was the same as ever, down to the smallest
ornaments, for Mary had been in the habit whenever anything was
broken of replacing it with a duplicate, so that there might
be no change in the room. He stood irresolute, looking about him,
until he heard a woman's voice from the inner chamber, and stealing
to the door he peeped in.
The invalid was reclining upon a couch, propped up with pillows,
and her face was turned full towards John as he looked round the
door. He could have cried out as his eyes rested upon it, for
there were Mary's pale, plain, sweet homely features as smooth and
as unchanged as though she were still the half child, half woman,
whom he had pressed to his heart on the Brisport quay. Her calm,
eventless, unselfish life had left none of those rude traces upon
her countenance which are the outward emblems of internal conflict
and an unquiet soul. A chaste melancholy had refined and softened
her expression, and her loss of sight had been compensated for by
that placidity which comes upon the faces of the blind. With her
silvery hair peeping out beneath her snow-white cap, and a bright
smile upon her sympathetic face, she was the old Mary improved and
developed, with something ethereal and angelic superadded.
"You will keep a tenant in the cottage," she was saying to the
clergyman, who sat with his back turned to the observer. "Choose
some poor deserving folk in the parish who will be glad of a home
free. And when he comes you will tell him that I have waited for
him until I have been forced to go on, but that he will find me on
the other side still faithful and true. There's a little money
too--only a few pounds--but I should like him to have it when
he comes, for he may need it, and then you will tell the folk you
put in to be kind to him, for he will be grieved, poor lad, and to
tell him that I was cheerful and happy up to the end. Don't let
him know that I ever fretted, or he may fret too."
Now John listened quietly to all this from behind the door, and
more than once he had to put his hand to his throat, but when she
had finished, and when he thought of her long, blameless, innocent
life, and saw the dear face looking straight at him, and yet unable
to see him, it became too much for his manhood, and he burst out
into an irrepressible choking sob which shook his very frame. And
then occurred a strange thing, for though he had spoken no word,
the old woman stretched out her arms to him, and cried, "Oh,
Johnny, Johnny! Oh dear, dear Johnny, you have come back to me
again," and before the parson could at all understand what had
happened, those two faithful lovers were in each other's arms,
weeping over each other, and patting each other's silvery heads,
with their hearts so full of joy that it almost compensated for all
that weary fifty years of waiting.
It is hard to say how long they rejoiced together. It seemed a
very short time to them and a very long one to the reverend
gentleman, who was thinking at last of stealing away, when Mary
recollected his presence and the courtesy which was due to him.
"My heart is full of joy, sir," she said; "it is God's will that I
should not see my Johnny, but I can call his image up as clear as
if I had my eyes. Now stand up, John, and I will let the
gentleman see how well I remember you. He is as tall, sir, as the
second shelf, as straight as an arrow, his face brown, and his eyes
bright and clear. His hair is well-nigh black, and his moustache
the same--I shouldn't wonder if he had whiskers as well by this
time. Now, sir, don't you think I can do without my sight?" The
clergyman listened to her description, and looking at the battered,
white-haired man before him, he hardly knew whether to laugh or to
cry.
But it all proved to be a laughing matter in the end, for, whether
it was that her illness had taken some natural turn, or that John's
return had startled it away, it is certain that from that day Mary
steadily improved until she was as well as ever. "No special
license for me," John had said sturdily. "It looks as if we were
ashamed of what we are doing, as though we hadn't the best right to
be married of any two folk in the parish." So the banns were put
up accordingly, and three times it was announced that John Huxford,
bachelor, was going to be united to Mary Howden, spinster, after
which, no one objecting, they were duly married accordingly. "We
may not have very long in this world," said old John, "but at least
we shall start fair and square in the next."
John's share in the Quebec business was sold out, and gave rise to
a very interesting legal question as to whether, knowing that his
name was Huxford, he could still sign that of Hardy, as was
necessary for the completion of the business. It was decided,
however, that on his producing two trustworthy witnesses to
his identity all would be right, so the property was duly realised
and produced a very handsome fortune. Part of this John devoted to
building a pretty villa just outside Brisport, and the heart of the
proprietor of Beach Terrace leaped within him when he learned that
the cottage was at last to be abandoned, and that it would no
longer break the symmetry and impair the effect of his row of
aristocratic mansions.
And there in their snug new home, sitting out on the lawn in the
summer-time, and on either side of the fire in the winter, that
worthy old couple continued for many years to live as innocently
and as happily as two children. Those who knew them well say that
there was never a shadow between them, and that the love which
burned in their aged hearts was as high and as holy as that of any
young couple who ever went to the altar. And through all the
country round, if ever man or woman were in distress and fighting
against hard times, they had only to go up to the villa to receive
help, and that sympathy which is more precious than help. So when
at last John and Mary fell asleep in their ripe old age, within a
few hours of each other, they had all the poor and the needy and
the friendless of the parish among their mourners, and in talking
over the troubles which these two had faced so bravely, they
learned that their own miseries also were but passing things, and
that faith and truth can never miscarry, either in this existence
or the next.
CYPRIAN OVERBECK WELLS.
A LITERARY MOSAIC.
From my boyhood I have had an intense and overwhelming conviction
that my real vocation lay in the direction of literature. I have,
however, had a most unaccountable difficulty in getting any
responsible person to share my views. It is true that private
friends have sometimes, after listening to my effusions, gone the
length of remarking, "Really, Smith, that's not half bad!" or, "You
take my advice, old boy, and send that to some magazine!" but I
have never on these occasions had the moral courage to inform my
adviser that the article in question had been sent to well-nigh
every publisher in London, and had come back again with a rapidity
and precision which spoke well for the efficiency of our postal
arrangements.
Had my manuscripts been paper boomerangs they could not have
returned with greater accuracy to their unhappy dispatcher. Oh,
the vileness and utter degradation of the moment when the stale
little cylinder of closely written pages, which seemed so fresh and
full of promise a few days ago, is handed in by a remorseless
postman! And what moral depravity shines through the
editor's ridiculous plea of "want of space!" But the subject is a
painful one, and a digression from the plain statement of facts
which I originally contemplated.
From the age of seventeen to that of three-and-twenty I was a
literary volcano in a constant state of eruption. Poems and tales,
articles and reviews, nothing came amiss to my pen. From the great
sea-serpent to the nebular hypothesis, I was ready to write on
anything or everything, and I can safely say that I seldom handled
a subject without throwing new lights upon it. Poetry and romance,
however, had always the greatest attractions for me. How I have
wept over the pathos of my heroines, and laughed at the
comicalities of my buffoons! Alas! I could find no one to join me
in my appreciation, and solitary admiration for one's self, however
genuine, becomes satiating after a time. My father remonstrated
with me too on the score of expense and loss of time, so that I was
finally compelled to relinquish my dreams of literary independence
and to become a clerk in a wholesale mercantile firm connected with
the West African trade.
Even when condemned to the prosaic duties which fell to my lot in
the office, I continued faithful to my first love. I have
introduced pieces of word-painting into the most commonplace
business letters which have, I am told, considerably astonished the
recipients. My refined sarcasm has made defaulting creditors
writhe and wince. Occasionally, like the great Silas Wegg, I would
drop into poetry, and so raise the whole tone of the
correspondence. Thus what could be more elegant than my rendering
of the firm's instructions to the captain of one of their vessels.
It ran in this way :--
"From England, Captain, you must steer a
Course directly to Madeira,
Land the casks of salted beef,
Then away to Teneriffe.
Pray be careful, cool, and wary
With the merchants of Canary.
When you leave them make the most
Of the trade winds to the coast.
Down it you shall sail as far
As the land of Calabar,
And from there you'll onward go
To Bonny and Fernando Po"----
and so on for four pages. The captain, instead of treasuring up
this little gem, called at the office next day, and demanded with
quite unnecessary warmth what the thing meant, and I was compelled
to translate it all back into prose. On this, as on other similar
occasions, my employer took me severely to task--for he was, you
see, a man entirely devoid of all pretensions to literary taste!
All this, however, is a mere preamble, and leads up to the fact
that after ten years or so of drudgery I inherited a legacy which,
though small, was sufficient to satisfy my simple wants. Finding
myself independent, I rented a quiet house removed from the uproar
and bustle of London, and there I settled down with the
intention of producing some great work which should single me
out from the family of the Smiths, and render my name immortal. To
this end I laid in several quires of foolscap, a box of quill pens,
and a sixpenny bottle of ink, and having given my housekeeper
injunctions to deny me to all visitors, I proceeded to look round
for a suitable subject.
I was looking round for some weeks. At the end of that time I
found that I had by constant nibbling devoured a large number of
the quills, and had spread the ink out to such advantage, what with
blots, spills, and abortive commencements, that there appeared to
be some everywhere except in the bottle. As to the story itself,
however, the facility of my youth had deserted me completely, and
my mind remained a complete blank; nor could I, do what I would,
excite my sterile imagination to conjure up a single incident or
character.
In this strait I determined to devote my leisure to running rapidly
through the works of the leading English novelists, from Daniel
Defoe to the present day, in the hope of stimulating my latent
ideas and of getting a good grasp of the general tendency of
literature. For some time past I had avoided opening any work of
fiction because one of the greatest faults of my youth had been
that I invariably and unconsciously mimicked the style of the last
author whom I had happened to read. Now, however, I made up my
mind to seek safety in a multitude, and by consulting ALL the
English classics to avoid?? the danger of imitating any one too
closely. I had just accomplished the task of reading through
the majority of the standard novels at the time when my narrative
commences.
It was, then, about twenty minutes to ten on the night of the
fourth of June, eighteen hundred and eighty-six, that, after
disposing of a pint of beer and a Welsh rarebit for my supper, I
seated myself in my arm-chair, cocked my feet upon a stool, and lit
my pipe, as was my custom. Both my pulse and my temperature were,
as far as I know, normal at the time. I would give the state of
the barometer, but that unlucky instrument had experienced an
unprecedented fall of forty-two inches--from a nail to the ground--
and was not in a reliable condition. We live in a scientific age,
and I flatter myself that I move with the times.
Whilst in that comfortable lethargic condition which accompanies
both digestion and poisoning by nicotine, I suddenly became aware
of the extraordinary fact that my little drawing-room had elongated
into a great salon, and that my humble table had increased in
proportion. Round this colossal mahogany were seated a great
number of people who were talking earnestly together, and the
surface in front of them was strewn with books and pamphlets. I
could not help observing that these persons were dressed in a most
extraordinary mixture of costumes, for those at the end nearest to
me wore peruke wigs, swords, and all the fashions of two centuries
back; those about the centre had tight knee-breeches, high cravats,
and heavy bunches of seals; while among those at the far side
the majority were dressed in the most modern style, and among
them I saw, to my surprise, several eminent men of letters whom I
had the honour of knowing. There were two or three women in the
company. I should have risen to my feet to greet these unexpected
guests, but all power of motion appeared to have deserted me, and
I could only lie still and listen to their conversation, which I
soon perceived to be all about myself.
"Egad!" exclaimed a rough, weather-beaten man, who was smoking a
long churchwarden pipe at my end of the table, "my heart softens
for him. Why, gossips, we've been in the same straits ourselves.
Gadzooks, never did mother feel more concern for her eldest born
than I when Rory Random went out to make his own way in the world."
"Right, Tobias, right!" cried another man, seated at my very elbow.
"By my troth, I lost more flesh over poor Robin on his island, than
had I the sweating sickness twice told. The tale was well-nigh
done when in swaggers my Lord of Rochester--a merry gallant, and
one whose word in matters literary might make or mar. `How now,
Defoe,' quoth he, `hast a tale on hand?' `Even so, your lordship,'
I returned. `A right merry one, I trust,' quoth he. `Discourse
unto me concerning thy heroine, a comely lass, Dan, or I mistake.'
`Nay,' I replied, `there is no heroine in the matter.' `Split not
your phrases,' quoth he; `thou weighest every word like a scald
attorney. Speak to me of thy principal female character, be she
heroine or no.' `My lord,' I answered, `there is no female
character.' `Then out upon thyself and thy book too!' he cried.
`Thou hadst best burn it!'--and so out in great dudgeon, whilst I
fell to mourning over my poor romance, which was thus, as it were,
sentenced to death before its birth. Yet there are a thousand now
who have read of Robin and his man Friday, to one who has heard of
my Lord of Rochester."
"Very true, Defoe," said a genial-looking man in a red waistcoat,
who was sitting at the modern end of the table. "But all this
won't help our good friend Smith in making a start at his story,
which, I believe, was the reason why we assembled."
"The Dickens it is!" stammered a little man beside him, and
everybody laughed, especially the genial man, who cried out,
"Charley Lamb, Charley Lamb, you'll never alter. You would make a
pun if you were hanged for it."
"That would be a case of haltering," returned the other, on which
everybody laughed again.
By this time I had begun to dimly realise in my confused brain the
enormous honour which had been done me. The greatest masters of
fiction in every age of English letters had apparently made a
rendezvous beneath my roof, in order to assist me in my
difficulties. There were many faces at the table whom I was unable
to identify; but when I looked hard at others I often found them to
be very familiar to me, whether from paintings or from mere
description. Thus between the first two speakers, who had betrayed
themselves as Defoe and Smollett, there sat a dark, saturnine
corpulent old man, with harsh prominent features, who I was sure
could be none other than the famous author of Gulliver. There were
several others of whom I was not so sure, sitting at the other side
of the table, but I conjecture that both Fielding and Richardson
were among them, and I could swear to the lantern-jaws and
cadaverous visage of Lawrence Sterne. Higher up I could see among
the crowd the high forehead of Sir Walter Scott, the masculine
features of George Eliott, and the flattened nose of Thackeray;
while amongst the living I recognised James Payn, Walter Besant,
the lady known as "Ouida," Robert Louis Stevenson, and several of
lesser note. Never before, probably, had such an assemblage of
choice spirits gathered under one roof.
"Well," said Sir Walter Scott, speaking with a pronounced accent,
"ye ken the auld proverb, sirs, `Ower mony cooks,' or as the Border
minstrel sang--
`Black Johnstone wi' his troopers ten
Might mak' the heart turn cauld,
But Johnstone when he's a' alane
Is waur ten thoosand fauld.'
The Johnstones were one of the Redesdale families, second cousins
of the Armstrongs, and connected by marriage to----"
"Perhaps, Sir Walter," interrupted Thackeray, "you would take the
responsibility off our hands by yourself dictating the commencement
of a story to this young literary aspirant."
"Na, na!" cried Sir Walter; "I'll do my share, but there's Chairlie
over there as full o' wut as a Radical's full o' treason. He's the
laddie to give a cheery opening to it."
Dickens was shaking his head, and apparently about to refuse the
honour, when a voice from among the moderns--I could not see who it
was for the crowd--said:
"Suppose we begin at the end of the table and work round, any one
contributing a little as the fancy seizes him?"
"Agreed! agreed!" cried the whole company; and every eye was turned
on Defoe, who seemed very uneasy, and filled his pipe from a great
tobacco-box in front of him.
"Nay, gossips," he said, "there are others more worthy----" But he
was interrupted by loud cries of "No! no!" from the whole table;
and Smollett shouted out, "Stand to it, Dan--stand to it! You and
I and the Dean here will make three short tacks just to fetch her
out of harbour, and then she may drift where she pleases." Thus
encouraged, Defoe cleared his throat, and began in this way,
talking between the puffs of his pipe:--
"My father was a well-to-do yeoman of Cheshire, named Cyprian
Overbeck, but, marrying about the year 1617, he assumed the name of
his wife's family, which was Wells; and thus I, their eldest son,
was named Cyprian Overbeck Wells. The farm was a very fertile one,
and contained some of the best grazing land in those parts, so
that my father was enabled to lay by money to the extent of a
thousand crowns, which he laid out in an adventure to the Indies
with such surprising success that in less than three years it had
increased fourfold. Thus encouraged, he bought a part share of the
trader, and, fitting her out once more with such commodities as
were most in demand (viz., old muskets, hangers and axes, besides
glasses, needles, and the like), he placed me on board as
supercargo to look after his interests, and despatched us upon our
voyage.
"We had a fair wind as far as Cape de Verde, and there, getting
into the north-west trade-winds, made good progress down the
African coast. Beyond sighting a Barbary rover once, whereat our
mariners were in sad distress, counting themselves already as
little better than slaves, we had good luck until we had come
within a hundred leagues of the Cape of Good Hope, when the wind
veered round to the southward and blew exceeding hard, while the
sea rose to such a height that the end of the mainyard dipped into
the water, and I heard the master say that though he had been at
sea for five-and-thirty years he had never seen the like of it, and
that he had little expectation of riding through it. On this I
fell to wringing my hands and bewailing myself, until the mast
going by the board with a crash, I thought that the ship had
struck, and swooned with terror, falling into the scuppers and
lying like one dead, which was the saving of me, as will appear in
the sequel. For the mariners, giving up all hope of saving the
ship, and being in momentary expectation that she would
founder, pushed off in the long-boat, whereby I fear that they met
the fate which they hoped to avoid, since I have never from that
day heard anything of them. For my own part, on recovering from
the swoon into which I had fallen, I found that, by the mercy of
Providence, the sea had gone down, and that I was alone in the
vessel. At which last discovery I was so terror-struck that I
could but stand wringing my hands and bewailing my sad fate, until
at last taking heart, I fell to comparing my lot with that of my
unhappy camerados, on which I became more cheerful, and descending
to the cabin, made a meal off such dainties as were in the
captain's locker."
Having got so far, Defoe remarked that he thought he had given them
a fair start, and handed over the story to Dean Swift, who, after
premising that he feared he would find himself as much at sea as
Master Cyprian Overbeck Wells, continued in this way:--
"For two days I drifted about in great distress, fearing that there
should be a return of the gale, and keeping an eager look-out for
my late companions. Upon the third day, towards evening, I
observed to my extreme surprise that the ship was under the
influence of a very powerful current, which ran to the north-east
with such violence that she was carried, now bows on, now stern on,
and occasionally drifting sideways like a crab, at a rate which I
cannot compute at less than twelve or fifteen knots an hour. For
several weeks I was borne away in this manner, until one morning,
to my inexpressible joy, I sighted an island upon the
starboard quarter. The current would, however, have carried me
past it had I not made shift, though single-handed, to set the
flying-jib so as to turn her bows, and then clapping on the sprit-
sail, studding-sail, and fore-sail, I clewed up the halliards upon
the port side, and put the wheel down hard a-starboard, the wind
being at the time north-east-half-east."
At the description of this nautical manoeuvre I observed that
Smollett grinned, and a gentleman who was sitting higher up the
table in the uniform of the Royal Navy, and who I guessed to be
Captain Marryat, became very uneasy and fidgeted in his seat.
"By this means I got clear of the current and was able to steer
within a quarter of a mile of the beach, which indeed I might have
approached still nearer by making another tack, but being an
excellent swimmer, I deemed it best to leave the vessel, which was
almost waterlogged, and to make the best of my way to the
shore.
"I had had my doubts hitherto as to whether this new-found country
was inhabited or no, but as I approached nearer to it, being on the
summit of a great wave, I perceived a number of figures on the
beach, engaged apparently in watching me and my vessel. My joy,
however, was considerably lessened when on reaching the land I
found that the figures consisted of a vast concourse of animals of
various sorts who were standing about in groups, and who hurried
down to the water's edge to meet me. I had scarce put my foot upon
the sand before I was surrounded by an eager crowd of deer,
dogs, wild boars, buffaloes, and other creatures, none of whom
showed the least fear either of me or of each other, but, on the
contrary, were animated by a common feeling of curiosity, as well
as, it would appear, by some degree of disgust."
"A second edition," whispered Lawrence Sterne to his neighbour;
"Gulliver served up cold."
"Did you speak, sir?" asked the Dean very sternly, having evidently
overheard the remark.
"My words were not addressed to you, sir," answered Sterne, looking
rather frightened.
"They were none the less insolent," roared the Dean. "Your
reverence would fain make a Sentimental Journey of the narrative,
I doubt not, and find pathos in a dead donkey--though faith, no man
can blame thee for mourning over thy own kith and kin."
"Better that than to wallow in all the filth of Yahoo-land,"
returned Sterne warmly, and a quarrel would certainly have ensued
but for the interposition of the remainder of the company. As it
was, the Dean refused indignantly to have any further hand in the
story, and Sterne also stood out of it, remarking with a sneer that
he was loth to fit a good blade on to a poor handle. Under these
circumstances some further unpleasantness might have occurred had
not Smollett rapidly taken up the narrative, continuing it in the
third person instead of the first:--
"Our hero, being considerably alarmed at this strange reception,
lost little time in plunging into the sea again and regaining
his vessel, being convinced that the worst which might befall him
from the elements would be as nothing compared to the dangers of
this mysterious island. It was as well that he took this course,
for before nightfall his ship was overhauled and he himself picked
up by a British man-of-war, the Lightning, then returning
from the West Indies, where it had formed part of the fleet under
the command of Admiral Benbow. Young Wells, being a likely lad
enough, well-spoken and high-spirited, was at once entered on the
books as officer's servant, in which capacity he both gained great
popularity on account of the freedom of his manners, and found an
opportunity for indulging in those practical pleasantries for which
he had all his life been famous.
"Among the quartermasters of the Lightning there was one named
Jedediah Anchorstock, whose appearance was so remarkable that it
quickly attracted the attention of our hero. He was a man of about
fifty, dark with exposure to the weather, and so tall that as he
came along the 'tween decks he had to bend himself nearly double.
The most striking peculiarity of this individual was, however, that
in his boyhood some evil-minded person had tattooed eyes all over
his countenance with such marvellous skill that it was difficult at
a short distance to pick out his real ones among so many
counterfeits. On this strange personage Master Cyprian determined
to exercise his talents for mischief, the more so as he learned
that he was extremely superstitious, and also that he had left
behind him in Portsmouth a strong-minded spouse of whom he
stood in mortal terror. With this object he secured one of the
sheep which were kept on board for the officers' table, and pouring
a can of rumbo down its throat, reduced it to a state of utter
intoxication. He then conveyed it to Anchorstock's berth, and with
the assistance of some other imps, as mischievous as himself,
dressed it up in a high nightcap and gown, and covered it over with
the bedclothes.
"When the quartermaster came down from his watch our hero met him
at the door of his berth with an agitated face. `Mr. Anchorstock,'
said he, `can it be that your wife is on board?' `Wife!' roared
the astonished sailor. `Ye white-faced swab, what d'ye mean?' `If
she's not here in the ship it must be her ghost,' said Cyprian,
shaking his head gloomily. `In the ship! How in thunder could she
get into the ship? Why, master, I believe as how you're weak in
the upper works, d'ye see? to as much as think o' such a thing. My
Poll is moored head and starn, behind the point at Portsmouth,
more'n two thousand mile away.' `Upon my word,' said our hero,
very earnestly, `I saw a female look out of your cabin not five
minutes ago.' `Ay, ay, Mr. Anchorstock,' joined in several of the
conspirators. `We all saw her--a spanking-looking craft with a
dead-light mounted on one side.' `Sure enough,' said Anchorstock,
staggered by this accumulation of evidence, `my Polly's starboard
eye was doused for ever by long Sue Williams of the Hard. But if
so be as she be there I must see her, be she ghost or quick;'
with which the honest sailor, in much perturbation and trembling in
every limb, began to shuffle forward into the cabin, holding the
light well in front of him. It chanced, however, that the unhappy
sheep, which was quietly engaged in sleeping off the effects of its
unusual potations, was awakened by the noise of this approach, and
finding herself in such an unusual position, sprang out of the bed
and rushed furiously for the door, bleating wildly, and rolling
about like a brig in a tornado, partly from intoxication and partly
from the night-dress which impeded her movements. As Anchorstock
saw this extraordinary apparition bearing down upon him, he uttered
a yell and fell flat upon his face, convinced that he had to do
with a supernatural visitor, the more so as the confederates
heightened the effect by a chorus of most ghastly groans and cries.
The joke had nearly gone beyond what was originally intended, for
the quartermaster lay as one dead, and it was only with the
greatest difficulty that he could be brought to his senses. To the
end of the voyage he stoutly asserted that he had seen the distant
Mrs. Anchorstock, remarking with many oaths that though he was too
woundily scared to take much note of the features, there was no
mistaking the strong smell of rum which was characteristic of his
better half.
"It chanced shortly after this to be the king's birthday, an event
which was signalised aboard the Lightening by the death of the
commander under singular circumstances. This officer, who was a
real fair-weather Jack, hardly knowing the ship's keel from
her ensign, had obtained his position through parliamentary
interest, and used it with such tyranny and cruelty that he was
universally execrated. So unpopular was he that when a plot was
entered into by the whole crew to punish his misdeeds with death,
he had not a single friend among six hundred souls to warn him of
his danger. It was the custom on board the king's ships that upon
his birthday the entire ship's company should be drawn up upon
deck, and that at a signal they should discharge their muskets into
the air in honour of his Majesty. On this occasion word had been
secretly passed round for every man to slip a slug into his
firelock, instead of the blank cartridge provided. On the
boatswain blowing his whistle the men mustered upon deck and formed
line, whilst the captain, standing well in front of them, delivered
a few words to them. `When I give the word,' he concluded, `you
shall discharge your pieces, and by thunder, if any man is a second
before or a second after his fellows I shall trice him up to the
weather rigging!' With these words he roared `Fire!' on which
every man levelled his musket straight at his head and pulled the
trigger. So accurate was the aim and so short the distance, that
more than five hundred bullets struck him simultaneously, blowing
away his head and a large portion of his body. There were so many
concerned in this matter, and it was so hopeless to trace it to any
individual, that the officers were unable to punish any one for the
affair--the more readily as the captain's haughty ways and
heartless conduct had made him quite as hateful to them as to the
men whom they commanded.
"By his pleasantries and the natural charm of his manners our hero
so far won the good wishes of the ship's company that they parted
with infinite regret upon their arrival in England. Filial duty,
however, urged him to return home and report himself to his father,
with which object he posted from Portsmouth to London, intending to
proceed thence to Shropshire. As it chanced, however, one of the
horses sprained his off foreleg while passing through Chichester,
and as no change could be obtained, Cyprian found himself compelled
to put up at the Crown and Bull for the night.
"Ods bodikins!" continued Smollett, laughing, "I never could pass
a comfortable hostel without stopping, and so, with your
permission, I'll e'en stop here, and whoever wills may lead friend
Cyprian to his further adventures. Do you, Sir Walter, give us a
touch of the Wizard of the North."
With these words Smollett produced a pipe, and filling it at
Defoe's tobacco-pot, waited patiently for the continuation of the
story.
"If I must, I must," remarked the illustrious Scotchman, taking a
pinch of snuff; "but I must beg leave to put Mr. Wells back a few
hundred years, for of all things I love the true mediaeval smack.
To proceed then:--
"Our hero, being anxious to continue his journey, and learning that
it would be some time before any conveyance would be ready,
determined to push on alone mounted on his gallant grey steed.
Travelling was particularly dangerous at that time, for besides the
usual perils which beset wayfarers, the southern parts of England
were in a lawless and disturbed state which bordered on
insurrection. The young man, however, having loosened his sword in
his sheath, so as to be ready for every eventuality, galloped
cheerily upon his way, guiding himself to the best of his ability
by the light of the rising moon.
"He had not gone far before he realised that the cautions which had
been impressed upon him by the landlord, and which he had been
inclined to look upon as self-interested advice, were only too well
justified. At a spot where the road was particularly rough, and
ran across some marsh land, he perceived a short distance from him
a dark shadow, which his practised eye detected at once as a body
of crouching men. Reining up his horse within a few yards of the
ambuscade, he wrapped his cloak round his bridle-arm and summoned
the party to stand forth.
"`What ho, my masters!' he cried. `Are beds so scarce, then, that
ye must hamper the high road of the king with your bodies? Now, by
St. Ursula of Alpuxerra, there be those who might think that birds
who fly o' nights were after higher game than the moorhen or the
woodcock!'
"`Blades and targets, comrades!' exclaimed a tall powerful man,
springing into the centre of the road with several companions, and
standing in front of the frightened horse. `Who is this
swashbuckler who summons his Majesty's lieges from their repose?
A very soldado, o' truth. Hark ye, sir, or my lord, or thy grace,
or whatsoever title your honour's honour may be pleased to approve,
thou must curb thy tongue play, or by the seven witches of
Gambleside thou may find thyself in but a sorry plight.'
"`I prythee, then, that thou wilt expound to me who and what ye
are,' quoth our hero, `and whether your purpose be such as an
honest man may approve of. As to your threats, they turn from my
mind as your caitiffly weapons would shiver upon my hauberk from
Milan.'
"`Nay, Allen,' interrupted one of the party, addressing him who
seemed to be their leader; `this is a lad of mettle, and such a one
as our honest Jack longs for. But we lure not hawks with empty
hands. Look ye, sir, there is game afoot which it may need such
bold hunters as thyself to follow. Come with us and take a firkin
of canary, and we will find better work for that glaive of thine
than getting its owner into broil and bloodshed; for, by my troth!
Milan or no Milan, if my curtel axe do but ring against that morion
of thine it will be an ill day for thy father's son.'
"For a moment our hero hesitated as to whether it would best become
his knightly traditions to hurl himself against his enemies, or
whether it might not be better to obey their requests. Prudence,
mingled with a large share of curiosity, eventually carried the
day, and dismounting from his horse, he intimated that he was ready
to follow his captors.
"`Spoken like a man!' cried he whom they addressed as Allen. `Jack
Cade will be right glad of such a recruit. Blood and carrion! but
thou hast the thews of a young ox; and I swear, by the haft of my
sword, that it might have gone ill with some of us hadst thou not
listened to reason!'
"`Nay, not so, good Allen--not so,' squeaked a very small man, who
had remained in the background while there was any prospect of a
fray, but who now came pushing to the front. `Hadst thou been
alone it might indeed have been so, perchance, but an expert
swordsman can disarm at pleasure such a one as this young knight.
Well I remember in the Palatinate how I clove to the chine even
such another--the Baron von Slogstaff. He struck at me, look ye,
so; but I, with buckler and blade, did, as one might say, deflect
it; and then, countering in carte, I returned in tierce, and so--
St. Agnes save us! who comes here?'
"The apparition which frightened the loquacious little man was
sufficiently strange to cause a qualm even in the bosom of the
knight. Through the darkness there loomed a figure which appeared
to be of gigantic size, and a hoarse voice, issuing apparently some
distance above the heads of the party, broke roughly on the silence
of the night.
"`Now out upon thee, Thomas Allen, and foul be thy fate if thou
hast abandoned thy post without good and sufficient cause. By St.
Anselm of the Holy Grove, thou hadst best have never been born than
rouse my spleen this night. Wherefore is it that you <224>and your
men are trailing over the moor like a flock of geese when
Michaelmas is near?'
"`Good captain,' said Allen, doffing his bonnet, an example
followed by others of the band, `we have captured a goodly youth
who was pricking it along the London road. Methought that some
word of thanks were meet reward for such service, rather than taunt
or threat.'
"`Nay, take it not to heart, bold Allen,' exclaimed their leader,
who was none other than the great Jack Cade himself. `Thou knowest
of old that my temper is somewhat choleric, and my tongue not
greased with that unguent which oils the mouths of the lip-serving
lords of the land. And you,' he continued, turning suddenly upon
our hero, `are you ready to join the great cause which will make
England what it was when the learned Alfred reigned in the land?
Zounds, man, speak out, and pick not your phrases.'
"`I am ready to do aught which may become a knight and a
gentleman,' said the soldier stoutly.
"`Taxes shall be swept away!' cried Cade excitedly--`the impost and
the anpost--the tithe and the hundred-tax. The poor man's salt-box
and flour-bin shall be as free as the nobleman's cellar. Ha! what
sayest thou?'
"`It is but just,' said our hero.
"`Ay, but they give us such justice as the falcon gives the
leveret!' roared the orator. `Down with them, I say--down with
every man of them! Noble and judge, priest and king, down with
them all!'
"`Nay,' said Sir Overbeck Wells, drawing himself up to his full
height, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, `there I
cannot follow thee, but must rather defy thee as traitor and
faineant, seeing that thou art no true man, but one who would usurp
the rights of our master the king, whom may the Virgin protect!'
"At these bold words, and the defiance which they conveyed, the
rebels seemed for a moment utterly bewildered; but, encouraged by
the hoarse shout of their leader, they brandished their weapons and
prepared to fall upon the knight, who placed himself in a posture
for defence and awaited their attack.
"There now!" cried Sir Walter, rubbing his hands and chuckling,
"I've put the chiel in a pretty warm corner, and we'll see which of
you moderns can take him oot o't. Ne'er a word more will ye get
frae me to help him one way or the other."
"You try your hand, James," cried several voices, and the author in
question had got so far as to make an allusion to a solitary
horseman who was approaching, when he was interrupted by a tall
gentleman a little farther down with a slight stutter and a very
nervous manner.
"Excuse me," he said, "but I fancy that I may be able to do
something here. Some of my humble productions have been said to
excel Sir Walter at his best, and I was undoubtedly stronger all
round. I could picture modern society as well as ancient; and as
to my plays, why Shakespeare never came near `The <226>Lady of
Lyons' for popularity. There is this little thing----" (Here he
rummaged among a great pile of papers in front of him). "Ah!
that's a report of mine, when I was in India! Here it is. No,
this is one of my speeches in the House, and this is my criticism
on Tennyson. Didn't I warm him up? I can't find what I wanted,
but of course you have read them all--`Rienzi,' and `Harold,' and
`The Last of the Barons.' Every schoolboy knows them by heart, as
poor Macaulay would have said. Allow me to give you a sample:--
"In spite of the gallant knight's valiant resistance the combat was
too unequal to be sustained. His sword was broken by a slash from
a brown bill, and he was borne to the ground. He expected
immediate death, but such did not seem to be the intention of the
ruffians who had captured him. He was placed upon the back of his
own charger and borne, bound hand and foot, over the trackless
moor, in the fastnesses of which the rebels secreted themselves.
"In the depths of these wilds there stood a stone building which
had once been a farm-house, but having been for some reason
abandoned had fallen into ruin, and had now become the headquarters
of Cade and his men. A large cowhouse near the farm had been
utilised as sleeping quarters, and some rough attempts had been
made to shield the principal room of the main building from the
weather by stopping up the gaping apertures in the walls. In this
apartment was spread out a rough meal for the returning rebels, and
our hero was thrown, still bound, into an empty outhouse,
there to await his fate."
Sir Walter had been listening with the greatest impatience to
Bulwer Lytton's narrative, but when it had reached this point he
broke in impatiently.
"We want a touch of your own style, man," he said. "The animal-
magnetico-electro-hysterical-biological-mysterious sort of story is
all your own, but at present you are just a poor copy of myself,
and nothing more."
There was a murmur of assent from the company, and Defoe remarked,
"Truly, Master Lytton, there is a plaguey resemblance in the style,
which may indeed be but a chance, and yet methinks it is
sufficiently marked to warrant such words as our friend hath used."
"Perhaps you will think that this is an imitation also," said
Lytton bitterly, and leaning back in his chair with a morose
countenance, he continued the narrative in this way:--
"Our unfortunate hero had hardly stretched himself upon the straw
with which his dungeon was littered, when a secret door opened in
the wall and a venerable old man swept majestically into the
apartment. The prisoner gazed upon him with astonishment not
unmixed with awe, for on his broad brow was printed the seal of
much knowledge--such knowledge as it is not granted to the son of
man to know. He was clad in a long white robe, crossed and
chequered with mystic devices in the Arabic character, while a high
scarlet tiara marked with the square and circle enhanced his
venerable appearance. `My son,' he said, turning his piercing
and yet dreamy gaze upon Sir Overbeck, `all things lead to nothing,
and nothing is the foundation of all things. Cosmos is
impenetrable. Why then should we exist?'
"Astounded at this weighty query, and at the philosophic demeanour
of his visitor, our hero made shift to bid him welcome and to
demand his name and quality. As the old man answered him his voice
rose and fell in musical cadences, like the sighing of the east
wind, while an ethereal and aromatic vapour pervaded the apartment.
"`I am the eternal non-ego,' he answered. "I am the concentrated
negative--the everlasting essence of nothing. You see in me that
which existed before the beginning of matter many years before the
commencement of time. I am the algebraic _x_ which represents the
infinite divisibility of a finite particle.'
"Sir Overbeck felt a shudder as though an ice-cold hand had been
placed upon his brow. `What is your message?' he whispered,
falling prostrate before his mysterious visitor.
"`To tell you that the eternities beget chaos, and that the
immensities are at the mercy of the divine ananke. Infinitude
crouches before a personality. The mercurial essence is the prime
mover in spirituality, and the thinker is powerless before the
pulsating inanity. The cosmical procession is terminated only by
the unknowable and unpronounceable'----
"May I ask, Mr. Smollett, what you find to laugh at?"
"Gad zooks, master," cried Smollett, who had been sniggering for
some time back. "It seems to me that there is little danger of any
one venturing to dispute that style with you."
"It's all your own," murmured Sir Walter.
"And very pretty, too," quoth Lawrence Sterne, with a malignant
grin. "Pray sir, what language do you call it?"
Lytton was so enraged at these remarks, and at the favour with
which they appeared to be received, that he endeavoured to stutter
out some reply, and then, losing control of himself completely,
picked up all his loose papers and strode out of the room, dropping
pamphlets and speeches at every step. This incident amused the
company so much that they laughed for several minutes without
cessation. Gradually the sound of their laughter sounded more and
more harshly in my ears, the lights on the table grew dim and the
company more misty, until they and their symposium vanished away
altogether. I was sitting before the embers of what had been a
roaring fire, but was now little more than a heap of grey ashes,
and the merry laughter of the august company had changed to the
recriminations of my wife, who was shaking me violently by the
shoulder and exhorting me to choose some more seasonable spot for
my slumbers. So ended the wondrous adventures of Master Cyprian
Overbeck Wells, but I still live in the hopes that in some future
dream the great masters may themselves finish that which they have
begun.
JOHN BARRINGTON COWLES.
It might seem rash of me to say that I ascribe the death of my poor
friend, John Barrington Cowles, to any preternatural agency. I am
aware that in the present state of public feeling a chain of
evidence would require to be strong indeed before the possibility
of such a conclusion could be admitted.
I shall therefore merely state the circumstances which led up to
this sad event as concisely and as plainly as I can, and leave
every reader to draw his own deductions. Perhaps there may be some
one who can throw light upon what is dark to me.
I first met Barrington Cowles when I went up to Edinburgh
University to take out medical classes there. My landlady in
Northumberland Street had a large house, and, being a widow without
children, she gained a livelihood by providing accommodation for
several students.
Barrington Cowles happened to have taken a bedroom upon the same
floor as mine, and when we came to know each other better we shared
a small sitting-room, in which we took our meals. In this manner
we originated a friendship which was unmarred by the slightest
disagreement up to the day of his death.
Cowles' father was the colonel of a Sikh regiment and had remained
in India for many years. He allowed his son a handsome income, but
seldom gave any other sign of parental affection--writing
irregularly and briefly.
My friend, who had himself been born in India, and whose whole
disposition was an ardent tropical one, was much hurt by this
neglect. His mother was dead, and he had no other relation in the
world to supply the blank.
Thus he came in time to concentrate all his affection upon me, and
to confide in me in a manner which is rare among men. Even when a
stronger and deeper passion came upon him, it never infringed upon
the old tenderness between us.
Cowles was a tall, slim young fellow, with an olive, Velasquez-like
face, and dark, tender eyes. I have seldom seen a man who was more
likely to excite a woman's interest, or to captivate her
imagination. His expression was, as a rule, dreamy, and even
languid; but if in conversation a subject arose which interested
him he would be all animation in a moment. On such occasions his
colour would heighten, his eyes gleam, and he could speak with an
eloquence which would carry his audience with him.
In spite of these natural advantages he led a solitary life,
avoiding female society, and reading with great diligence. He was
one of the foremost men of his year, taking the senior medal for
anatomy, and the Neil Arnott prize for physics.
How well I can recollect the first time we met her! Often and
often I have recalled the circumstances, and tried to remember what
the exact impression was which she produced on my mind at the time.
After we came to know her my judgment was warped, so that I am
curious to recollect what my unbiassed{sic} instincts were. It is
hard, however, to eliminate the feelings which reason or prejudice
afterwards raised in me.
It was at the opening of the Royal Scottish Academy in the spring
of 1879. My poor friend was passionately attached to art in every
form, and a pleasing chord in music or a delicate effect upon
canvas would give exquisite pleasure to his highly-strung nature.
We had gone together to see the pictures, and were standing in the
grand central salon, when I noticed an extremely beautiful woman
standing at the other side of the room. In my whole life I have
never seen such a classically perfect countenance. It was the real
Greek type--the forehead broad, very low, and as white as marble,
with a cloudlet of delicate locks wreathing round it, the nose
straight and clean cut, the lips inclined to thinness, the chin and
lower jaw beautifully rounded off, and yet sufficiently developed
to promise unusual strength of character.
But those eyes--those wonderful eyes! If I could but give some
faint idea of their varying moods, their steely hardness, their
feminine softness, their power of command, their penetrating
intensity suddenly melting away into an expression of womanly
weakness--but I am speaking now of future impressions!
There was a tall, yellow-haired young man with this lady, whom I at
once recognised as a law student with whom I had a slight
acquaintance.
Archibald Reeves--for that was his name--was a dashing, handsome
young fellow, and had at one time been a ringleader in every
university escapade; but of late I had seen little of him, and the
report was that he was engaged to be married. His companion was,
then, I presumed, his fiancee. I seated myself upon the velvet
settee in the centre of the room, and furtively watched the couple
from behind my catalogue.
The more I looked at her the more her beauty grew upon me. She was
somewhat short in stature, it is true; but her figure was
perfection, and she bore herself in such a fashion that it was only
by actual comparison that one would have known her to be under the
medium height.
As I kept my eyes upon them, Reeves was called away for some
reason, and the young lady was left alone. Turning her back to the
pictures, she passed the time until the return of her escort in
taking a deliberate survey of the company, without paying the least
heed to the fact that a dozen pair of eyes, attracted by her
elegance and beauty, were bent curiously upon her. With one of her
hands holding the red silk cord which railed off the pictures, she
stood languidly moving her eyes from face to face with as
little self-consciousness as if she were looking at the canvas
creatures behind her. Suddenly, as I watched her, I saw her gaze
become fixed, and, as it were, intense. I followed the direction
of her looks, wondering what could have attracted her so strongly.
John Barrington Cowles was standing before a picture--one, I think,
by Noel Paton--I know that the subject was a noble and ethereal
one. His profile was turned towards us, and never have I seen him
to such advantage. I have said that he was a strikingly handsome
man, but at that moment he looked absolutely magnificent. It was
evident that he had momentarily forgotten his surroundings, and
that his whole soul was in sympathy with the picture before him.
His eyes sparkled, and a dusky pink shone through his clear olive
cheeks. She continued to watch him fixedly, with a look of
interest upon her face, until he came out of his reverie with a
start, and turned abruptly round, so that his gaze met hers. She
glanced away at once, but his eyes remained fixed upon her for some
moments. The picture was forgotten already, and his soul had come
down to earth once more.
We caught sight of her once or twice before we left, and each time
I noticed my friend look after her. He made no remark, however,
until we got out into the open air, and were walking arm-in-arm
along Princes Street.
"Did you notice that beautiful woman, in the dark dress, with the
white fur?" he asked.
"Yes, I saw her," I answered.
"Do you know her?" he asked eagerly. "Have you any idea who she
is?"
"I don't know her personally," I replied. "But I have no doubt I
could find out all about her, for I believe she is engaged to young
Archie Reeves, and he and I have a lot of mutual friends."
"Engaged!" ejaculated Cowles.
"Why, my dear boy," I said, laughing, "you don't mean to say you
are so susceptible that the fact that a girl to whom you never
spoke in your life is engaged is enough to upset you?"
"Well, not exactly to upset me," he answered, forcing a laugh.
"But I don't mind telling you, Armitage, that I never was so taken
by any one in my life. It wasn't the mere beauty of the face--
though that was perfect enough--but it was the character and the
intellect upon it. I hope, if she is engaged, that it is to some
man who will be worthy of her."
"Why," I remarked, "you speak quite feelingly. It is a clear case
of love at first sight, Jack. However, to put your perturbed
spirit at rest, I'll make a point of finding out all about her
whenever I meet any fellow who is likely to know."
Barrington Cowles thanked me, and the conversation drifted off into
other channels. For several days neither of us made any allusion
to the subject, though my companion was perhaps a little more
dreamy and distraught than usual. The incident had almost vanished
from my remembrance, when one day young Brodie, who is a
second cousin of mine, came up to me on the university steps with
the face of a bearer of tidings.
"I say," he began, "you know Reeves, don't you?"
"Yes. What of him?"
"His engagement is off."
"Off!" I cried. "Why, I only learned the other day that it was
on."
"Oh, yes--it's all off. His brother told me so. Deucedly mean of
Reeves, you know, if he has backed out of it, for she was an
uncommonly nice girl."
"I've seen her," I said; "but I don't know her name."
"She is a Miss Northcott, and lives with an old aunt of hers in
Abercrombie Place. Nobody knows anything about her people, or
where she comes from. Anyhow, she is about the most unlucky girl
in the world, poor soul!"
"Why unlucky?"
"Well, you know, this was her second engagement," said young
Brodie, who had a marvellous knack of knowing everything about
everybody. "She was engaged to Prescott--William Prescott, who
died. That was a very sad affair. The wedding day was fixed, and
the whole thing looked as straight as a die when the smash came."
"What smash?" I asked, with some dim recollection of the
circumstances.
"Why, Prescott's death. He came to Abercrombie Place one night,
and stayed very late. No one knows exactly when he left, but
about one in the morning a fellow who knew him met him walking
rapidly in the direction of the Queen's Park. He bade him good
night, but Prescott hurried on without heeding him, and that was
the last time he was ever seen alive. Three days afterwards his
body was found floating in St. Margaret's Loch, under St. Anthony's
Chapel. No one could ever understand it, but of course the verdict
brought it in as temporary insanity."
"It was very strange," I remarked.
"Yes, and deucedly rough on the poor girl," said Brodie. "Now that
this other blow has come it will quite crush her. So gentle and
ladylike she is too!"
"You know her personally, then!" I asked.
"Oh, yes, I know her. I have met her several times. I could
easily manage that you should be introduced to her."
"Well," I answered, "it's not so much for my own sake as for a
friend of mine. However, I don't suppose she will go out much for
some little time after this. When she does I will take advantage
of your offer."
We shook hands on this, and I thought no more of the matter for
some time.
The next incident which I have to relate as bearing at all upon the
question of Miss Northcott is an unpleasant one. Yet I must detail
it as accurately as possible, since it may throw some light upon
the sequel. One cold night, several months after the conversation
with my second cousin which I have quoted above, I was walking down
one of the lowest streets in the city on my way back from a
case which I had been attending. It was very late, and I was
picking my way among the dirty loungers who were clustering round
the doors of a great gin-palace, when a man staggered out from
among them, and held out his hand to me with a drunken leer. The
gaslight fell full upon his face, and, to my intense astonishment,
I recognised in the degraded creature before me my former
acquaintance, young Archibald Reeves, who had once been famous as
one of the most dressy and particular men in the whole college. I
was so utterly surprised that for a moment I almost doubted the
evidence of my own senses; but there was no mistaking those
features, which, though bloated with drink, still retained
something of their former comeliness. I was determined to rescue
him, for one night at least, from the company into which he had
fallen.
"Holloa, Reeves!" I said. "Come along with me. I'm going in your
direction."
He muttered some incoherent apology for his condition, and took my
arm. As I supported him towards his lodgings I could see that he
was not only suffering from the effects of a recent debauch, but
that a long course of intemperance had affected his nerves and his
brain. His hand when I touched it was dry and feverish, and he
started from every shadow which fell upon the pavement. He rambled
in his speech, too, in a manner which suggested the delirium of
disease rather than the talk of a drunkard.
When I got him to his lodgings I partially undressed him and laid
him upon his bed. His pulse at this time was very high, and he was
evidently extremely feverish. He seemed to have sunk into a doze;
and I was about to steal out of the room to warn his landlady of
his condition, when he started up and caught me by the sleeve of my
coat.
"Don't go!" he cried. "I feel better when you are here. I am safe
from her then."
"From her!" I said. "From whom?"
"Her! her!" he answered peevishly. "Ah! you don't know her. She
is the devil! Beautiful--beautiful; but the devil!"
"You are feverish and excited," I said. "Try and get a little
sleep. You will wake better."
"Sleep!" he groaned. "How am I to sleep when I see her sitting
down yonder at the foot of the bed with her great eyes watching and
watching hour after hour? I tell you it saps all the strength and
manhood out of me. That's what makes me drink. God help me--I'm
half drunk now!"
"You are very ill," I said, putting some vinegar to his temples;
"and you are delirious. You don't know what you say."
"Yes, I do," he interrupted sharply, looking up at me. "I know
very well what I say. I brought it upon myself. It is my own
choice. But I couldn't--no, by heaven, I couldn't--accept the
alternative. I couldn't keep my faith to her. It was more than
man could do."
I sat by the side of the bed, holding one of his burning hands in
mine, and wondering over his strange words. He lay still for some
time, and then, raising his eyes to me, said in a most plaintive
voice--
"Why did she not give me warning sooner? Why did she wait until I
had learned to love her so?"
He repeated this question several times, rolling his feverish head
from side to side, and then he dropped into a troubled sleep. I
crept out of the room, and, having seen that he would be properly
cared for, left the house. His words, however, rang in my ears for
days afterwards, and assumed a deeper significance when taken with
what was to come.
My friend, Barrington Cowles, had been away for his summer
holidays, and I had heard nothing of him for several months. When
the winter session came on, however, I received a telegram from
him, asking me to secure the old rooms in Northumberland Street for
him, and telling me the train by which he would arrive. I went
down to meet him, and was delighted to find him looking wonderfully
hearty and well.
"By the way," he said suddenly, that night, as we sat in our chairs
by the fire, talking over the events of the holidays, "you have
never congratulated me yet!"
"On what, my boy?" I asked.
"What! Do you mean to say you have not heard of my engagement?"
"Engagement! No!" I answered. "However, I am delighted to
hear it, and congratulate you with all my heart."
"I wonder it didn't come to your ears," he said. "It was the
queerest thing. You remember that girl whom we both admired so
much at the Academy?"
"What!" I cried, with a vague feeling of apprehension at my heart.
"You don't mean to say that you are engaged to her?"
"I thought you would be surprised," he answered. "When I was
staying with an old aunt of mine in Peterhead, in Aberdeenshire,
the Northcotts happened to come there on a visit, and as we had
mutual friends we soon met. I found out that it was a false alarm
about her being engaged, and then--well, you know what it is when
you are thrown into the society of such a girl in a place like
Peterhead. Not, mind you," he added, "that I consider I did a
foolish or hasty thing. I have never regretted it for a moment.
The more I know Kate the more I admire her and love her. However,
you must be introduced to her, and then you will form your own
opinion."
I expressed my pleasure at the prospect, and endeavoured to speak
as lightly as I could to Cowles upon the subject, but I felt
depressed and anxious at heart. The words of Reeves and the
unhappy fate of young Prescott recurred to my recollection, and
though I could assign no tangible reason for it, a vague, dim fear
and distrust of the woman took possession of me. It may be that
this was foolish prejudice and superstition upon my part, and that
I involuntarily contorted her future doings and sayings to fit
into some half-formed wild theory of my own. This has been
suggested to me by others as an explanation of my narrative. They
are welcome to their opinion if they can reconcile it with the
facts which I have to tell.
I went round with my friend a few days afterwards to call upon Miss
Northcott. I remember that, as we went down Abercrombie Place, our
attention was attracted by the shrill yelping of a dog--which noise
proved eventually to come from the house to which we were bound.
We were shown upstairs, where I was introduced to old Mrs. Merton,
Miss Northcott's aunt, and to the young lady herself. She looked
as beautiful as ever, and I could not wonder at my friend's
infatuation. Her face was a little more flushed than usual, and
she held in her hand a heavy dog-whip, with which she had been
chastising a small Scotch terrier, whose cries we had heard in the
street. The poor brute was cringing up against the wall, whining
piteously, and evidently completely cowed.
"So Kate," said my friend, after we had taken our seats, "you have
been falling out with Carlo again."
"Only a very little quarrel this time," she said, smiling
charmingly. "He is a dear, good old fellow, but he needs
correction now and then." Then, turning to me, "We all do that,
Mr. Armitage, don't we? What a capital thing if, instead of
receiving a collective punishment at the end of our lives, we were
to have one at once, as the dogs do, when we did anything wicked.
It would make us more careful, wouldn't it?"
I acknowledged that it would.
"Supposing that every time a man misbehaved himself a gigantic hand
were to seize him, and he were lashed with a whip until he
fainted"--she clenched her white fingers as she spoke, and cut out
viciously with the dog-whip--"it would do more to keep him good
than any number of high-minded theories of morality."
"Why, Kate," said my friend, "you are quite savage to-day."
"No, Jack," she laughed. "I'm only propounding a theory for Mr.
Armitage's consideration."
The two began to chat together about some Aberdeenshire
reminiscence, and I had time to observe Mrs. Merton, who had
remained silent during our short conversation. She was a very
strange-looking old lady. What attracted attention most in her
appearance was the utter want of colour which she exhibited. Her
hair was snow-white, and her face extremely pale. Her lips were
bloodless, and even her eyes were of such a light tinge of blue
that they hardly relieved the general pallor. Her dress was a grey
silk, which harmonised with her general appearance. She had a
peculiar expression of countenance, which I was unable at the
moment to refer to its proper cause.
She was working at some old-fashioned piece of ornamental
needlework, and as she moved her arms her dress gave forth a dry,
melancholy rustling, like the sound of leaves in the autumn. There
was something mournful and depressing in the sight of her. I
moved my chair a little nearer, and asked her how she liked
Edinburgh, and whether she had been there long.
When I spoke to her she started and looked up at me with a scared
look on her face. Then I saw in a moment what the expression was
which I had observed there. It was one of fear--intense and
overpowering fear. It was so marked that I could have staked my
life on the woman before me having at some period of her life been
subjected to some terrible experience or dreadful misfortune.
"Oh, yes, I like it," she said, in a soft, timid voice; "and we
have been here long--that is, not very long. We move about a great
deal." She spoke with hesitation, as if afraid of committing
herself.
"You are a native of Scotland, I presume?" I said.
"No--that is, not entirely. We are not natives of any place. We
are cosmopolitan, you know." She glanced round in the direction of
Miss Northcott as she spoke, but the two were still chatting
together near the window. Then she suddenly bent forward to me,
with a look of intense earnestness upon her face, and said--
"Don't talk to me any more, please. She does not like it, and I
shall suffer for it afterwards. Please, don't do it."
I was about to ask her the reason for this strange request, but
when she saw I was going to address her, she rose and walked slowly
out of the room. As she did so I perceived that the lovers had
ceased to talk and that Miss Northcott was looking at me with
her keen, grey eyes.
"You must excuse my aunt, Mr. Armitage," she said; "she is odd, and
easily fatigued. Come over and look at my album."
We spent some time examining the portraits. Miss Northcott's
father and mother were apparently ordinary mortals enough, and I
could not detect in either of them any traces of the character
which showed itself in their daughter's face. There was one old
daguerreotype, however, which arrested my attention. It
represented a man of about the age of forty, and strikingly
handsome. He was clean shaven, and extraordinary power was
expressed upon his prominent lower jaw and firm, straight mouth.
His eyes were somewhat deeply set in his head, however, and there
was a snake-like flattening at the upper part of his forehead,
which detracted from his appearance. I almost involuntarily, when
I saw the head, pointed to it, and exclaimed--
"There is your prototype in your family, Miss Northcott."
"Do you think so?" she said. "I am afraid you are paying me a very
bad compliment. Uncle Anthony was always considered the black
sheep of the family."
"Indeed," I answered; "my remark was an unfortunate one, then."
"Oh, don't mind that," she said; "I always thought myself that he
was worth all of them put together. He was an officer in the
Forty-first Regiment, and he was killed in action during the
Persian War--so he died nobly, at any rate."
"That's the sort of death I should like to die," said Cowles, his
dark eyes flashing, as they would when he was excited; "I often
wish I had taken to my father's profession instead of this vile
pill-compounding drudgery."
"Come, Jack, you are not going to die any sort of death yet," she
said, tenderly taking his hand in hers.
I could not understand the woman. There was such an extraordinary
mixture of masculine decision and womanly tenderness about her,
with the consciousness of something all her own in the background,
that she fairly puzzled me. I hardly knew, therefore, how to
answer Cowles when, as we walked down the street together, he asked
the comprehensive question--
"Well, what do you think of her?"
"I think she is wonderfully beautiful," I answered guardedly.
"That, of course," he replied irritably. "You knew that before you
came!"
"I think she is very clever too," I remarked.
Barrington Cowles walked on for some time, and then he suddenly
turned on me with the strange question--
"Do you think she is cruel? Do you think she is the sort of girl
who would take a pleasure in inflicting pain?"
"Well, really," I answered, "I have hardly had time to form an
opinion."
We then walked on for some time in silence.
"She is an old fool," at length muttered Cowles. "She is mad."
"Who is?" I asked.
"Why, that old woman--that aunt of Kate's--Mrs. Merton, or whatever
her name is."
Then I knew that my poor colourless friend had been speaking to
Cowles, but he never said anything more as to the nature of her
communication.
My companion went to bed early that night, and I sat up a long time
by the fire, thinking over all that I had seen and heard. I felt
that there was some mystery about the girl--some dark fatality so
strange as to defy conjecture. I thought of Prescott's interview
with her before their marriage, and the fatal termination of it.
I coupled it with poor drunken Reeves' plaintive cry, "Why did she
not tell me sooner?" and with the other words he had spoken. Then
my mind ran over Mrs. Merton's warning to me, Cowles' reference to
her, and even the episode of the whip and the cringing dog.
The whole effect of my recollections was unpleasant to a degree,
and yet there was no tangible charge which I could bring against
the woman. It would be worse than useless to attempt to warn my
friend until I had definitely made up my mind what I was to warn
him against. He would treat any charge against her with scorn.
What could I do? How could I get at some tangible conclusion as to
her character and antecedents? No one in Edinburgh knew them
except as recent acquaintances. She was an orphan, and as far as
I knew she had never disclosed where her former home had been.
Suddenly an idea struck me. Among my father's friends there was a
Colonel Joyce, who had served a long time in India upon the staff,
and who would be likely to know most of the officers who had been
out there since the Mutiny. I sat down at once, and, having
trimmed the lamp, proceeded to write a letter to the Colonel. I
told him that I was very curious to gain some particulars about a
certain Captain Northcott, who had served in the Forty-first Foot,
and who had fallen in the Persian War. I described the man as well
as I could from my recollection of the daguerreotype, and then,
having directed the letter, posted it that very night, after which,
feeling that I had done all that could be done, I retired to bed,
with a mind too anxious to allow me to sleep.
PART II.
I got an answer from Leicester, where the Colonel resided, within
two days. I have it before me as I write, and copy it verbatim.
"DEAR BOB," it said, "I remember the man well. I was with him at
Calcutta, and afterwards at Hyderabad. He was a curious, solitary
sort of mortal; but a gallant soldier enough, for he distinguished
himself at Sobraon, and was wounded, if I remember right. He
was not popular in his corps--they said he was a pitiless,
cold-blooded fellow, with no geniality in him. There was a rumour,
too, that he was a devil-worshipper, or something of that sort, and
also that he had the evil eye, which, of course, was all nonsense.
He had some strange theories, I remember, about the power of the
human will and the effects of mind upon matter.
"How are you getting on with your medical studies? Never forget,
my boy, that your father's son has every claim upon me, and that if
I can serve you in any way I am always at your command.--Ever
affectionately yours,
EDWARD JOYCE.
"P.S.--By the way, Northcott did not fall in action. He was
killed after peace was declared in a crazy attempt to get some of
the eternal fire from the sun-worshippers' temple. There was
considerable mystery about his death."
I read this epistle over several times--at first with a feeling of
satisfaction, and then with one of disappointment. I had come on
some curious information, and yet hardly what I wanted. He was an
eccentric man, a devil-worshipper, and rumoured to have the power
of the evil eye. I could believe the young lady's eyes, when
endowed with that cold, grey shimmer which I had noticed in them
once or twice, to be capable of any evil which human eye ever
wrought; but still the superstition was an effete one. Was there
not more meaning in that sentence which followed--"He had
theories of the power of the human will and of the effect of mind
upon matter"? I remember having once read a quaint treatise, which
I had imagined to be mere charlatanism at the time, of the power of
certain human minds, and of effects produced by them at a distance.
Was Miss Northcott endowed with some exceptional power of the sort?
The idea grew upon me, and very shortly I had evidence which
convinced me of the truth of the supposition.
It happened that at the very time when my mind was dwelling upon
this subject, I saw a notice in the paper that our town was to be
visited by Dr. Messinger, the well-known medium and mesmerist.
Messinger was a man whose performance, such as it was, had been
again and again pronounced to be genuine by competent judges. He
was far above trickery, and had the reputation of being the
soundest living authority upon the strange pseudo-sciences of
animal magnetism and electro-biology. Determined, therefore, to
see what the human will could do, even against all the
disadvantages of glaring footlights and a public platform, I took
a ticket for the first night of the performance, and went with
several student friends.
We had secured one of the side boxes, and did not arrive until
after the performance had begun. I had hardly taken my seat before
I recognised Barrington Cowles, with his fiancee and old Mrs.
Merton, sitting in the third or fourth row of the stalls. They
caught sight of me at almost the same moment, and we bowed to
each other. The first portion of the lecture was somewhat
commonplace, the lecturer giving tricks of pure legerdemain, with
one or two manifestations of mesmerism, performed upon a subject
whom he had brought with him. He gave us an exhibition of
clairvoyance too, throwing his subject into a trance, and then
demanding particulars as to the movements of absent friends, and
the whereabouts of hidden objects all of which appeared to be
answered satisfactorily. I had seen all this before, however.
What I wanted to see now was the effect of the lecturer's will when
exerted upon some independent member of the audience.
He came round to that as the concluding exhibition in his
performance. "I have shown you," he said, "that a mesmerised
subject is entirely dominated by the will of the mesmeriser. He
loses all power of volition, and his very thoughts are such as are
suggested to him by the master-mind. The same end may be attained
without any preliminary process. A strong will can, simply by
virtue of its strength, take possession of a weaker one, even at a
distance, and can regulate the impulses and the actions of the
owner of it. If there was one man in the world who had a very much
more highly-developed will than any of the rest of the human
family, there is no reason why he should not be able to rule over
them all, and to reduce his fellow-creatures to the condition of
automatons. Happily there is such a dead level of mental power, or
rather of mental weakness, among us that such a catastrophe is not
likely to occur; but still within our small compass there are
variations which produce surprising effects. I shall now single
out one of the audience, and endeavour `by the mere power of will'
to compel him to come upon the platform, and do and say what I
wish. Let me assure you that there is no collusion, and that the
subject whom I may select is at perfect liberty to resent to the
uttermost any impulse which I may communicate to him."
With these words the lecturer came to the front of the platform,
and glanced over the first few rows of the stalls. No doubt
Cowles' dark skin and bright eyes marked him out as a man of a
highly nervous temperament, for the mesmerist picked him out in a
moment, and fixed his eyes upon him. I saw my friend give a start
of surprise, and then settle down in his chair, as if to express
his determination not to yield to the influence of the operator.
Messinger was not a man whose head denoted any great brain-power,
but his gaze was singularly intense and penetrating. Under the
influence of it Cowles made one or two spasmodic motions of his
hands, as if to grasp the sides of his seat, and then half rose,
but only to sink down again, though with an evident effort. I was
watching the scene with intense interest, when I happened to catch
a glimpse of Miss Northcott's face. She was sitting with her eyes
fixed intently upon the mesmerist, and with such an expression of
concentrated power upon her features as I have never seen on any
other human countenance. Her jaw was firmly set, her lips
compressed, and her face as hard as if it were a beautiful
sculpture cut out of the whitest marble. Her eyebrows were
drawn down, however, and from beneath them her grey eyes seemed to
sparkle and gleam with a cold light.
I looked at Cowles again, expecting every moment to see him rise
and obey the mesmerist's wishes, when there came from the platform
a short, gasping cry as of a man utterly worn out and prostrated by
a prolonged struggle. Messinger was leaning against the table, his
hand to his forehead, and the perspiration pouring down his face.
"I won't go on," he cried, addressing the audience. "There is a
stronger will than mine acting against me. You must excuse me for
to-night." The man was evidently ill, and utterly unable to
proceed, so the curtain was lowered, and the audience dispersed,
with many comments upon the lecturer's sudden indisposition.
I waited outside the hall until my friend and the ladies came out.
Cowles was laughing over his recent experience.
"He didn't succeed with me, Bob," he cried triumphantly, as he
shook my hand. "I think he caught a Tartar that time."
"Yes," said Miss Northcott, "I think that Jack ought to be very
proud of his strength of mind; don't you! Mr. Armitage?"
"It took me all my time, though," my friend said seriously. "You
can't conceive what a strange feeling I had once or twice. All the
strength seemed to have gone out of me--especially just before he
collapsed himself."
I walked round with Cowles in order to see the ladies home. He
walked in front with Mrs. Merton, and I found myself behind with
the young lady. For a minute or so I walked beside her without
making any remark, and then I suddenly blurted out, in a manner
which must have seemed somewhat brusque to her--
"You did that, Miss Northcott."
"Did what?" she asked sharply.
"Why, mesmerised the mesmeriser--I suppose that is the best way of
describing the transaction."
"What a strange idea!" she said, laughing. "You give me credit for
a strong will then?"
"Yes," I said. "For a dangerously strong one."
"Why dangerous?" she asked, in a tone of surprise.
"I think," I answered, "that any will which can exercise such power
is dangerous--for there is always a chance of its being turned to
bad uses."
"You would make me out a very dreadful individual, Mr. Armitage,"
she said; and then looking up suddenly in my face--"You have never
liked me. You are suspicious of me and distrust me, though I have
never given you cause."
The accusation was so sudden and so true that I was unable to find
any reply to it. She paused for a moment, and then said in a voice
which was hard and cold--
"Don't let your prejudice lead you to interfere with me, however,
or say anything to your friend, Mr. Cowles, which might lead
to a difference between us. You would find that to be very bad
policy."
There was something in the way she spoke which gave an
indescribable air of a threat to these few words.
"I have no power," I said, "to interfere with your plans for the
future. I cannot help, however, from what I have seen and heard,
having fears for my friend."
"Fears!" she repeated scornfully. "Pray what have you seen and
heard. Something from Mr. Reeves, perhaps--I believe he is another
of your friends?"
"He never mentioned your name to me," I answered, truthfully
enough. "You will be sorry to hear that he is dying." As I said
it we passed by a lighted window, and I glanced down to see what
effect my words had upon her. She was laughing--there was no doubt
of it; she was laughing quietly to herself. I could see merriment
in every feature of her face. I feared and mistrusted the woman
from that moment more than ever.
We said little more that night. When we parted she gave me a
quick, warning glance, as if to remind me of what she had said
about the danger of interference. Her cautions would have made
little difference to me could I have seen my way to benefiting
Barrington Cowles by anything which I might say. But what could I
say? I might say that her former suitors had been unfortunate. I
might say that I believed her to be a cruel-hearted woman. I
might say that I considered her to possess wonderful, and almost
preternatural powers. What impression would any of these
accusations make upon an ardent lover--a man with my friend's
enthusiastic temperament? I felt that it would be useless to
advance them, so I was silent.
And now I come to the beginning of the end. Hitherto much has been
surmise and inference and hearsay. It is my painful task to relate
now, as dispassionately and as accurately as I can, what actually
occurred under my own notice, and to reduce to writing the events
which preceded the death of my friend.
Towards the end of the winter Cowles remarked to me that he
intended to marry Miss Northcott as soon as possible--probably some
time in the spring. He was, as I have already remarked, fairly
well off, and the young lady had some money of her own, so that
there was no pecuniary reason for a long engagement. "We are going
to take a little house out at Corstorphine," he said, "and we hope
to see your face at our table, Bob, as often as you can possibly
come." I thanked him, and tried to shake off my apprehensions, and
persuade myself that all would yet be well.
It was about three weeks before the time fixed for the marriage,
that Cowles remarked to me one evening that he feared he would be
late that night. "I have had a note from Kate," he said, "asking
me to call about eleven o'clock to-night, which seems rather a late
hour, but perhaps she wants to talk over something quietly after
old Mrs. Merton retires."
It was not until after my friend's departure that I suddenly
recollected the mysterious interview which I had been told of as
preceding the suicide of young Prescott. Then I thought of the
ravings of poor Reeves, rendered more tragic by the fact that I had
heard that very day of his death. What was the meaning of it all?
Had this woman some baleful secret to disclose which must be known
before her marriage? Was it some reason which forbade her to
marry? Or was it some reason which forbade others to marry her?
I felt so uneasy that I would have followed Cowles, even at the
risk of offending him, and endeavoured to dissuade him from keeping
his appointment, but a glance at the clock showed me that I was too
late.
I was determined to wait up for his return, so I piled some coals
upon the fire and took down a novel from the shelf. My thoughts
proved more interesting than the book, however, and I threw it on
one side. An indefinable feeling of anxiety and depression weighed
upon me. Twelve o'clock came, and then half-past, without any sign
of my friend. It was nearly one when I heard a step in the street
outside, and then a knocking at the door. I was surprised, as I
knew that my friend always carried a key--however, I hurried down
and undid the latch. As the door flew open I knew in a moment that
my worst apprehensions had been fulfilled. Barrington Cowles was
leaning against the railings outside with his face sunk upon his
breast, and his whole attitude expressive of the most intense
despondency. As he passed in he gave a stagger, and would
have fallen had I not thrown my left arm around him. Supporting
him with this, and holding the lamp in my other hand, I led him
slowly upstairs into our sitting-room. He sank down upon the sofa
without a word. Now that I could get a good view of him, I was
horrified to see the change which had come over him. His face was
deadly pale, and his very lips were bloodless. His cheeks and
forehead were clammy, his eyes glazed, and his whole expression
altered. He looked like a man who had gone through some terrible
ordeal, and was thoroughly unnerved.
"My dear fellow, what is the matter?" I asked, breaking the
silence. "Nothing amiss, I trust? Are you unwell?"
"Brandy!" he gasped. "Give me some brandy!"
I took out the decanter, and was about to help him, when he
snatched it from me with a trembling hand, and poured out nearly
half a tumbler of the spirit. He was usually a most abstemious
man, but he took this off at a gulp without adding any water to it.
It seemed to do him good, for the colour began to come back to his
face, and he leaned upon his elbow.
"My engagement is off, Bob," he said, trying to speak calmly, but
with a tremor in his voice which he could not conceal. "It is all
over."
"Cheer up!" I answered, trying to encourage him.
Don't get down on your luck. How was it? What was it all about?"
"About?" he groaned, covering his face with his hands. "If I did
tell you, Bob, you would not believe it. It is too dreadful--
too horrible--unutterably awful and incredible! O Kate, Kate!" and
he rocked himself to and fro in his grief; "I pictured you an angel
and I find you a----"
"A what?" I asked, for he had paused.
He looked at me with a vacant stare, and then suddenly burst out,
waving his arms: "A fiend!" he cried. "A ghoul from the pit! A
vampire soul behind a lovely face! Now, God forgive me!" he went
on in a lower tone, turning his face to the wall; "I have said more
than I should. I have loved her too much to speak of her as she
is. I love her too much now."
He lay still for some time, and I had hoped that the brandy had had
the effect of sending him to sleep, when he suddenly turned his
face towards me.
"Did you ever read of wehr-wolves?" he asked.
I answered that I had.
"There is a story," he said thoughtfully, "in one of Marryat's
books, about a beautiful woman who took the form of a wolf at night
and devoured her own children. I wonder what put that idea into
Marryat's head?"
He pondered for some minutes, and then he cried out for some more
brandy. There was a small bottle of laudanum upon the table, and
I managed, by insisting upon helping him myself, to mix about half
a drachm with the spirits. He drank it off, and sank his head once
more upon the pillow. "Anything better than that," he groaned.
"Death is better than that. Crime and cruelty; cruelty and crime.
Anything is better than that," and so on, with the monotonous
refrain, until at last the words became indistinct, his
eyelids closed over his weary eyes, and he sank into a profound
slumber. I carried him into his bedroom without arousing him; and
making a couch for myself out of the chairs, I remained by his side
all night.
In the morning Barrington Cowles was in a high fever. For weeks he
lingered between life and death. The highest medical skill of
Edinburgh was called in, and his vigorous constitution slowly got
the better of his disease. I nursed him during this anxious time;
but through all his wild delirium and ravings he never let a word
escape him which explained the mystery connected with Miss
Northcott. Sometimes he spoke of her in the tenderest words and
most loving voice. At others he screamed out that she was a fiend,
and stretched out his arms, as if to keep her off. Several times
he cried that he would not sell his soul for a beautiful face, and
then he would moan in a most piteous voice, "But I love her--I love
her for all that; I shall never cease to love her."
When he came to himself he was an altered man. His severe illness
had emaciated him greatly, but his dark eyes had lost none of their
brightness. They shone out with startling brilliancy from under
his dark, overhanging brows. His manner was eccentric and
variable--sometimes irritable, sometimes recklessly mirthful, but
never natural. He would glance about him in a strange, suspicious
manner, like one who feared something, and yet hardly knew what it
was he dreaded. He never mentioned Miss Northcott's name--
never until that fatal evening of which I have now to speak.
In an endeavour to break the current of his thoughts by frequent
change of scene, I travelled with him through the highlands of
Scotland, and afterwards down the east coast. In one of these
peregrinations of ours we visited the Isle of May, an island near
the mouth of the Firth of Forth, which, except in the tourist
season, is singularly barren and desolate. Beyond the keeper of
the lighthouse there are only one or two families of poor fisher-
folk, who sustain a precarious existence by their nets, and by the
capture of cormorants and solan geese. This grim spot seemed to
have such a fascination for Cowles that we engaged a room in one of
the fishermen's huts, with the intention of passing a week or two
there. I found it very dull, but the loneliness appeared to be a
relief to my friend's mind. He lost the look of apprehension which
had become habitual to him, and became something like his old self.
He would wander round the island all day, looking down from the
summit of the great cliffs which gird it round, and watching the
long green waves as they came booming in and burst in a shower of
spray over the rocks beneath.
One night--I think it was our third or fourth on the island--
Barrington Cowles and I went outside the cottage before retiring to
rest, to enjoy a little fresh air, for our room was small, and the
rough lamp caused an unpleasant odour. How well I remember every
little circumstance in connection with that night! It
promised to be tempestuous, for the clouds were piling up in the
north-west, and the dark wrack was drifting across the face of the
moon, throwing alternate belts of light and shade upon the rugged
surface of the island and the restless sea beyond.
We were standing talking close by the door of the cottage, and I
was thinking to myself that my friend was more cheerful than he had
been since his illness, when he gave a sudden, sharp cry, and
looking round at him I saw, by the light of the moon, an expression
of unutterable horror come over his features. His eyes became
fixed and staring, as if riveted upon some approaching object, and
he extended his long thin forefinger, which quivered as he pointed.
"Look there!" he cried. "It is she! It is she! You see her there
coming down the side of the brae." He gripped me convulsively by
the wrist as he spoke. "There she is, coming towards us!"
"Who?" I cried, straining my eyes into the darkness.
"She--Kate--Kate Northcott!" he screamed. "She has come for me.
Hold me fast, old friend. Don't let me go!"
"Hold up, old man," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Pull
yourself together; you are dreaming; there is nothing to fear."
"She is gone!" he cried, with a gasp of relief. "No, by heaven!
there she is again, and nearer--coming nearer. She told me she
would come for me, and she keeps her word."
"Come into the house," I said. His hand, as I grasped it, was as
cold as ice.
"Ah, I knew it!" he shouted. "There she is, waving her arms. She
is beckoning to me. It is the signal. I must go. I am coming,
Kate; I am coming!"
I threw my arms around him, but he burst from me with superhuman
strength, and dashed into the darkness of the night. I followed
him, calling to him to stop, but he ran the more swiftly. When the
moon shone out between the clouds I could catch a glimpse of his
dark figure, running rapidly in a straight line, as if to reach
some definite goal. It may have been imagination, but it seemed to
me that in the flickering light I could distinguish a vague
something in front of him--a shimmering form which eluded his grasp
and led him onwards. I saw his outlines stand out hard against the
sky behind him as he surmounted the brow of a little hill, then he
disappeared, and that was the last ever seen by mortal eye of
Barrington Cowles.
The fishermen and I walked round the island all that night with
lanterns, and examined every nook and corner without seeing a trace
of my poor lost friend. The direction in which he had been running
terminated in a rugged line of jagged cliffs overhanging the sea.
At one place here the edge was somewhat crumbled, and there
appeared marks upon the turf which might have been left by human
feet. We lay upon our faces at this spot, and peered with our
lanterns over the edge, looking down on the boiling surge two
hundred feet below. As we lay there, suddenly, above the
beating of the waves and the howling of the wind, there rose a
strange wild screech from the abyss below. The fishermen--a
naturally superstitious race--averred that it was the sound of a
woman's laughter, and I could hardly persuade them to continue the
search. For my own part I think it may have been the cry of some
sea-fowl startled from its nest by the flash of the lantern.
However that may be, I never wish to hear such a sound again.
And now I have come to the end of the painful duty which I have
undertaken. I have told as plainly and as accurately as I could
the story of the death of John Barrington Cowles, and the train of
events which preceded it. I am aware that to others the sad
episode seemed commonplace enough. Here is the prosaic account
which appeared in the Scotsman a couple of days afterwards:--
"Sad Occurrence on the Isle of May.--The Isle of May has been the
scene of a sad disaster. Mr. John Barrington Cowles, a gentleman
well known in University circles as a most distinguished student,
and the present holder of the Neil Arnott prize for physics, has
been recruiting his health in this quiet retreat. The night before
last he suddenly left his friend, Mr. Robert Armitage, and he has
not since been heard of. It is almost certain that he has met his
death by falling over the cliffs which surround the island. Mr.
Cowles' health has been failing for some time, partly from over
study and partly from worry connected with family affairs. By
his death the University loses one of her most promising alumni."
I have nothing more to add to my statement. I have unburdened my
mind of all that I know. I can well conceive that many, after
weighing all that I have said, will see no ground for an accusation
against Miss Northcott. They will say that, because a man of a
naturally excitable disposition says and does wild things, and even
eventually commits self-murder after a sudden and heavy
disappointment, there is no reason why vague charges should be
advanced against a young lady. To this, I answer that they are
welcome to their opinion. For my own part, I ascribe the death of
William Prescott, of Archibald Reeves, and of John Barrington
Cowles to this woman with as much confidence as if I had seen her
drive a dagger into their hearts.
You ask me, no doubt, what my own theory is which will explain all
these strange facts. I have none, or, at best, a dim and vague
one. That Miss Northcott possessed extraordinary powers over the
minds, and through the minds over the bodies, of others, I am
convinced, as well as that her instincts were to use this power for
base and cruel purposes. That some even more fiendish and terrible
phase of character lay behind this--some horrible trait which it
was necessary for her to reveal before marriage--is to be inferred
from the experience of her three lovers, while the dreadful
nature of the mystery thus revealed can only be surmised from the
fact that the very mention of it drove from her those who had loved
her so passionately. Their subsequent fate was, in my opinion, the
result of her vindictive remembrance of their desertion of her, and
that they were forewarned of it at the time was shown by the words
of both Reeves and Cowles. Above this, I can say nothing. I lay
the facts soberly before the public as they came under my notice.
I have never seen Miss Northcott since, nor do I wish to do so. If
by the words I have written I can save any one human being from the
snare of those bright eyes and that beautiful face, then I can lay
down my pen with the assurance that my poor friend has not died
altogether in vain.
ELIAS B. HOPKINS,
THE PARSON OF JACKMAN'S GULCH.
He was known in the Gulch as the Reverend Elias B. Hopkins, but it
was generally understood that the title was an honorary one,
extorted by his many eminent qualities, and not borne out by any
legal claim which he could adduce. "The Parson" was another of his
sobriquets, which was sufficiently distinctive in a land where the
flock was scattered and the shepherds few. To do him justice, he
never pretended to have received any preliminary training for the
ministry, or any orthodox qualification to practise it. "We're all
working in the claim of the Lord," he remarked one day, "and it
don't matter a cent whether we're hired for the job or whether we
waltzes in on our own account," a piece of rough imagery which
appealed directly to the instincts of Jackman's Gulch. It is quite
certain that during the first few months his presence had a marked
effect in diminishing the excessive use both of strong drinks and
of stronger adjectives which had been characteristic of the little
mining settlement. Under his tuition, men began to understand that
the resources of their native language were less limited than they
had supposed, and that it was possible to convey their
impressions with accuracy without the aid of a gaudy halo of
profanity.
We were certainly in need of a regenerator at Jackman's Gulch about
the beginning of '53. Times were flush then over the whole colony,
but nowhere flusher than there. Our material prosperity had had a
bad effect upon our morals. The camp was a small one, lying rather
better than a hundred and twenty miles to the north of Ballarat, at
a spot where a mountain torrent finds its way down a rugged ravine
on its way to join the Arrowsmith River. History does not relate
who the original Jackman may have been, but at the time I speak of
the camp it contained a hundred or so adults, many of whom were men
who had sought an asylum there after making more civilised mining
centres too hot to hold them. They were a rough, murderous crew,
hardly leavened by the few respectable members of society who were
scattered among them.
Communication between Jackman's Gulch and the outside world was
difficult and uncertain. A portion of the bush between it and
Ballarat was infested by a redoubtable outlaw named Conky Jim, who,
with a small band as desperate as himself, made travelling a
dangerous matter. It was customary, therefore, at the Gulch, to
store up the dust and nuggets obtained from the mines in a special
store, each man's share being placed in a separate bag on which his
name was marked. A trusty man, named Woburn, was deputed to watch
over this primitive bank. When the amount deposited became
considerable, a waggon was hired, and the whole treasure was
conveyed to Ballarat, guarded by the police and by a certain number
of miners, who took it in turn to perform the office. Once in
Ballarat, it was forwarded on to Melbourne by the regular gold
waggons. By this plan the gold was often kept for months in the
Gulch before being despatched, but Conky Jim was effectually
checkmated, as the escort party were far too strong for him and his
gang. He appeared, at the time of which I write, to have forsaken
his haunts in disgust, and the road could be traversed by small
parties with impunity.
Comparative order used to reign during the daytime at Jackman's
Gulch, for the majority of the inhabitants were out with crowbar
and pick among the quartz ledges, or washing clay and sand in their
cradles by the banks of the little stream. As the sun sank down,
however, the claims were gradually deserted, and their unkempt
owners, clay-bespattered and shaggy, came lounging into camp, ripe
for any form of mischief. Their first visit was to Woburn's gold
store, where their clean-up of the day was duly deposited, the
amount being entered in the storekeeper's book, and each miner
retaining enough to cover his evening's expenses. After that, all
restraint was at an end, and each set to work to get rid of his
surplus dust with the greatest rapidity possible. The focus of
dissipation was the rough bar, formed by a couple of hogsheads
spanned by planks, which was dignified by the name of the
"Britannia Drinking Saloon." Here Nat Adams, the burly bar-
keeper, dispensed bad whisky at the rate of two shillings a noggin,
or a guinea a bottle, while his brother Ben acted as croupier in a
rude wooden shanty behind, which had been converted into a gambling
hell, and was crowded every night. There had been a third brother,
but an unfortunate misunderstanding with a customer had shortened
his existence. "He was too soft to live long," his brother
Nathaniel feelingly observed, on the occasion of his funeral.
"Many's the time I've said to him, `If you're arguin' a pint with
a stranger, you should always draw first, then argue, and then
shoot, if you judge that he's on the shoot.' Bill was too purlite.
He must needs argue first and draw after, when he might just as
well have kivered his man before talkin' it over with him." This
amiable weakness of the deceased Bill was a blow to the firm of
Adams, which became so short-handed that the concern could hardly
be worked without the admission of a partner, which would mean a
considerable decrease in the profits.
Nat Adams had had a roadside shanty in the Gulch before the
discovery of gold, and might, therefore, claim to be the oldest
inhabitant. These keepers of shanties were a peculiar race, and at
the cost of a digression it may he interesting to explain how they
managed to amass considerable sums of money in a land where
travellers were few and far between. It was the custom of the
"bushmen," i.e., bullock-drivers, sheep tenders, and the other
white hands who worked on the sheep-runs up country, to sign
articles by which they agreed to serve their master for one,
two, or three years at so much per year and certain daily rations.
Liquor was never included in this agreement, and the men remained,
per force, total abstainers during the whole time. The money was
paid in a lump sum at the end of the engagement. When that day
came round, Jimmy, the stockman, would come slouching into his
master's office, cabbage-tree hat in hand.
"Morning, master!" Jimmy would say. "My time's up. I guess I'll
draw my cheque and ride down to town."
"You'll come back, Jimmy?"
"Yes, I'll come back. Maybe I'll be away three weeks, maybe a
month. I want some clothes, master, and my bloomin' boots are
well-nigh off my feet."
"How much, Jimmy?" asks his master, taking up his pen.
"There's sixty pound screw," Jimmy answers thoughtfully; "and you
mind, master, last March, when the brindled bull broke out o' the
paddock. Two pound you promised me then. And a pound at the
dipping. And a pound when Millar's sheep got mixed with ourn;" and
so he goes on, for bushmen can seldom write, but they have memories
which nothing escapes.
His master writes the cheque and hands it across the table. "Don't
get on the drink, Jimmy," he says.
"No fear of that, master," and the stockman slips the cheque into
his leather pouch, and within an hour he is ambling off upon
his long-limbed horse on his hundred-mile journey to town.
Now Jimmy has to pass some six or eight of the above-mentioned
roadside shanties in his day's ride, and experience has taught him
that if he once breaks his accustomed total abstinence, the
unwonted stimulant has an overpowering effect upon his brain.
Jimmy shakes his head warily as he determines that no earthly
consideration will induce him to partake of any liquor until his
business is over. His only chance is to avoid temptation; so,
knowing that there is the first of these houses some half-mile
ahead, he plunges into a byepath through the bush which will lead
him out at the other side.
Jimmy is riding resolutely along this narrow path, congratulating
himself upon a danger escaped, when he becomes aware of a
sunburned, black-bearded man who is leaning unconcernedly against
a tree beside the track. This is none other than the shanty-
keeper, who, having observed Jimmy's manoeuvre in the distance, has
taken a short cut through the bush in order to intercept him.
"Morning, Jimmy!" he cries, as the horseman comes up to him.
"Morning, mate; morning!"
"Where are ye off to to-day then?"
"Off to town," says Jimmy sturdily.
"No, now--are you though? You'll have bully times down there for
a bit. Come round and have a drink at my place. Just by way of
luck."
"No," says Jimmy, "I don't want a drink."
"Just a little damp."
"I tell ye I don't want one," says the stockman angrily.
"Well, ye needn't be so darned short about it. It's nothin' to me
whether you drinks or not. Good mornin'."
"Good mornin'," says Jimmy, and has ridden on about twenty yards
when he hears the other calling on him to stop.
"See here, Jimmy!" he says, overtaking him again. "If you'll do me
a kindness when you're up in town I'd be obliged."
"What is it?"
"It's a letter, Jim, as I wants posted. It's an important one too,
an' I wouldn't trust it with every one; but I knows you, and if
you'll take charge on it it'll be a powerful weight off my mind."
"Give it here," Jimmy says laconically.
"I hain't got it here. It's round in my caboose. Come round for
it with me. It ain't more'n quarter of a mile."
Jimmy consents reluctantly. When they reach the tumble-down hut
the keeper asks him cheerily to dismount and to come in.
"Give me the letter," says Jimmy.
"It ain't altogether wrote yet, but you sit down here for a minute
and it'll be right," and so the stockman is beguiled into the
shanty.
At last the letter is ready and handed over. "Now, Jimmy," says
the keeper, "one drink at my expense before you go."
"Not a taste," says Jimmy.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" the other says in an aggrieved tone.
"You're too damned proud to drink with a poor cove like me. Here--
give us back that letter. I'm cursed if I'll accept a favour from
a man whose too almighty big to have a drink with me."
"Well, well, mate, don't turn rusty," says Jim. "Give us one drink
an' I'm off."
The keeper pours out about half a pannikin of raw rum and hands it
to the bushman. The moment he smells the old familiar smell his
longing for it returns, and he swigs it off at a gulp. His eyes
shine more brightly and his face becomes flushed. The keeper
watches him narrowly. "You can go now, Jim," he says.
"Steady, mate, steady," says the bushman. "I'm as good a man as
you. If you stand a drink I can stand one too, I suppose." So the
pannikin is replenished, and Jimmy's eyes shine brighter still.
"Now, Jimmy, one last drink for the good of the house," says the
keeper, "and then it's time you were off." The stockman has a
third gulp from the pannikin, and with it all his scruples and good
resolutions vanish for ever.
"Look here," he says somewhat huskily, taking his cheque out of his
pouch. "You take this, mate. Whoever comes along this road, ask
'em what they'll have, and tell them it's my shout. Let me know
when the money's done."
So Jimmy abandons the idea of ever getting to town, and for
three weeks or a month he lies about the shanty in a state of
extreme drunkenness, and reduces every wayfarer upon the road to
the same condition. At last one fine morning the keeper comes to
him. "The coin's done, Jimmy," he says; "it's about time you made
some more." So Jimmy has a good wash to sober him, straps his
blanket and his billy to his back, and rides off through the bush
to the sheeprun, where he has another year of sobriety, terminating
in another month of intoxication.
All this, though typical of the happy-go-lucky manners of the
inhabitants, has no direct bearing upon Jackman's Gulch, so we must
return to that Arcadian settlement. Additions to the population
there were not numerous, and such as came about the time of which
I speak were even rougher and fiercer than the original
inhabitants. In particular, there came a brace of ruffians named
Phillips and Maule, who rode into camp one day, and started a claim
upon the other side of the stream. They outgulched the Gulch in
the virulence and fluency of their blasphemy, in the truculence of
their speech and manner, and in their reckless disregard of all
social laws. They claimed to have come from Bendigo, and there
were some amongst us who wished that the redoubted Conky Jim was on
the track once more, as long as he would close it to such visitors
as these. After their arrival the nightly proceedings at the
Britannia bar and at the gambling hell behind it became more
riotous than ever. Violent quarrels, frequently ending in
bloodshed, were of constant occurrence. The more peaceable
frequenters of the bar began to talk seriously of lynching the two
strangers who were the principal promoters of disorder. Things
were in this unsatisfactory condition when our evangelist, Elias B.
Hopkins, came limping into the camp, travel-stained and footsore,
with his spade strapped across his back, and his Bible in the
pocket of his moleskin jacket.
His presence was hardly noticed at first, so insignificant was the
man. His manner was quiet and unobtrusive, his face pale, and his
figure fragile. On better acquaintance, however, there was a
squareness and firmness about his clean-shaven lower jaw, and an
intelligence in his widely-opened blue eyes, which marked him as a
man of character. He erected a small hut for himself, and started
a claim close to that occupied by the two strangers who had
preceded him. This claim was chosen with a ludicrous disregard for
all practical laws of mining, and at once stamped the newcomer as
being a green hand at his work. It was piteous to observe him
every morning as we passed to our work, digging and delving with
the greatest industry, but, as we knew well, without the smallest
possibility of any result. He would pause for a moment as we went
by, wipe his pale face with his bandanna handkerchief, and shout
out to us a cordial morning greeting, and then fall to again with
redoubled energy. By degrees we got into the way of making a half-
pitying, half-contemptuous inquiry as to how he got on. "I hain't
struck it yet, boys," he would answer cheerily, leaning on his
spade, "but the bedrock lies deep just hereabouts, and I reckon
we'll get among the pay gravel to-day." Day after day he returned
the same reply with unvarying confidence and cheerfulness.
It was not long before he began to show us the stuff that was in
him. One night the proceedings were unusually violent at the
drinking saloon. A rich pocket had been struck during the day, and
the striker was standing treat in a lavish and promiscuous fashion
which had reduced three parts of the settlement to a state of wild
intoxication. A crowd of drunken idlers stood or lay about the
bar, cursing, swearing, shouting, dancing, and here and there
firing their pistols into the air out of pure wantonness. From the
interior of the shanty behind there came a similar chorus. Maule,
Phillips, and the roughs who followed them were in the ascendant,
and all order and decency was swept away.
Suddenly, amid this tumult of oaths and drunken cries, men became
conscious of a quiet monotone which underlay all other sounds and
obtruded itself at every pause in the uproar. Gradually first one
man and then another paused to listen, until there was a general
cessation of the hubbub, and every eye was turned in the direction
whence this quiet stream of words flowed. There, mounted upon a
barrel, was Elias B. Hopkins, the newest of the inhabitants of
Jackman's Gulch, with a good-humoured smile upon his resolute face.
He held an open Bible in his hand, and was reading aloud a passage
taken at random--an extract from the Apocalypse, if I remember
right. The words were entirely irrelevant and without the smallest
bearing upon the scene before him, but he plodded on with great
unction, waving his left hand slowly to the cadence of his words.
There was a general shout of laughter and applause at this
apparition, and Jackman's Gulch gathered round the barrel
approvingly, under the impression that this was some ornate joke,
and that they were about to be treated to some mock sermon or
parody of the chapter read. When, however, the reader, having
finished the chapter, placidly commenced another, and having
finished that rippled on into another one, the revellers came to
the conclusion that the joke was somewhat too long-winded. The
commencement of yet another chapter confirmed this opinion, and an
angry chorus of shouts and cries, with suggestions as to gagging
the reader or knocking him off the barrel, rose from every side.
In spite of roars and hoots, however, Elias B. Hopkins plodded away
at the Apocalypse with the same serene countenance, looking as
ineffably contented as though the babel around him were the most
gratifying applause. Before long an occasional boot pattered
against the barrel or whistled past our parson's head; but here
some of the more orderly of the inhabitants interfered in favour of
peace and order, aided curiously enough by the afore-mentioned
Maule and Phillips, who warmly espoused the cause of the little
Scripture reader. "The little cus has got grit in him," the latter
explained, rearing his bulky red-shirted form between the
crowd and the object of its anger. "His ways ain't our ways, and
we're all welcome to our opinions, and to sling them round from
barrels or otherwise if so minded. What I says and Bill says is,
that when it comes to slingin' boots instead o' words it's too
steep by half, an' if this man's wronged we'll chip in an' see him
righted." This oratorical effort had the effect of checking the
more active signs of disapproval, and the party of disorder
attempted to settle down once more to their carouse, and to ignore
the shower of Scripture which was poured upon them. The attempt
was hopeless. The drunken portion fell asleep under the drowsy
refrain, and the others, with many a sullen glance at the
imperturbable reader, slouched off to their huts, leaving him still
perched upon the barrel. Finding himself alone with the more
orderly of the spectators, the little man rose, closed his book,
after methodically marking with a lead pencil the exact spot at
which he stopped, and descended from his perch. "To-morrow night,
boys," he remarked in his quiet voice, "the reading will commence
at the 9th verse of the 15th chapter of the Apocalypse," with which
piece of information, disregarding our congratulations, he walked
away with the air of a man who has performed an obvious duty.
We found that his parting words were no empty threat. Hardly had
the crowd begun to assemble next night before he appeared once more
upon the barrel and began to read with the same monotonous vigour,
tripping over words! muddling up sentences, but still boring
along through chapter after chapter. Laughter, threats, chaff--
every weapon short of actual violence--was used to deter him, but
all with the same want of success. Soon it was found that there
was a method in his proceedings. When silence reigned, or when the
conversation was of an innocent nature, the reading ceased. A
single word of blasphemy, however, set it going again, and it would
ramble on for a quarter of an hour or so, when it stopped, only to
be renewed upon similar provocation. The reading was pretty
continuous during that second night, for the language of the
opposition was still considerably free. At least it was an
improvement upon the night before.
For more than a month Elias B. Hopkins carried on this campaign.
There he would sit, night after night, with the open book upon his
knee, and at the slightest provocation off he would go, like a
musical box when the spring is touched. The monotonous drawl
became unendurable, but it could only be avoided by conforming to
the parson's code. A chronic swearer came to be looked upon with
disfavour by the community, since the punishment of his
transgression fell upon all. At the end of a fortnight the reader
was silent more than half the time, and at the end of the month his
position was a sinecure.
Never was a moral revolution brought about more rapidly and more
completely. Our parson carried his principle into private life.
I have seen him, on hearing an unguarded word from some worker in
the gulches, rush across, Bible in hand, and perching himself upon
the heap of red clay which surmounted the offender's claim,
drawl through the genealogical tree at the commencement of the New
Testament in a most earnest and impressive manner, as though it
were especially appropriate to the occasion. In time, an oath
became a rare thing amongst us. Drunkenness was on the wane too.
Casual travellers passing through the Gulch used to marvel at our
state of grace, and rumours of it went as far as Ballarat, and
excited much comment therein.
There were points about our evangelist which made him especially
fitted for the work which he had undertaken. A man entirely
without redeeming vices would have had no common basis on which to
work, and no means of gaining the sympathy of his flock. As we
came to know Elias B. Hopkins better, we discovered that in spite
of his piety there was a leaven of old Adam in him, and that he had
certainly known unregenerate days. He was no teetotaler. On the
contrary, he could choose his liquor with discrimination, and lower
it in an able manner. He played a masterly hand at poker, and
there were few who could touch him at "cut-throat euchre." He and
the two ex-ruffians, Phillips and Maule, used to play for hours in
perfect harmony, except when the fall of the cards elicited an oath
from one of his companions. At the first of these offences the
parson would put on a pained smile, and gaze reproachfully at the
culprit. At the second he would reach for his Bible, and the game
was over for the evening. He showed us he was a good revolver
shot too, for when we were practising at an empty brandy bottle
outside Adams' bar, he took up a friend's pistol and hit it plumb
in the centre at twenty-four paces. There were few things he took
up that he could not make a show at apparently, except gold-
digging, and at that he was the veriest duffer alive. It was
pitiful to see the little canvas bag, with his name printed across
it, lying placid and empty upon the shelf at Woburn's store, while
all the other bags were increasing daily, and some had assumed
quite a portly rotundity of form, for the weeks were slipping by,
and it was almost time for the gold-train to start off for
Ballarat. We reckoned that the amount which we had stored at the
time represented the greatest sum which had ever been taken by a
single convoy out of Jackman's Gulch.
Although Elias B. Hopkins appeared to derive a certain quiet
satisfaction from the wonderful change which he had effected in the
camp, his joy was not yet rounded and complete. There was one
thing for which he still yearned. He opened his heart to us about
it one evening.
"We'd have a blessing on the camp, boys," he said, "if we only had
a service o' some sort on the Lord's day. It's a temptin' o'
Providence to go on in this way without takin' any notice of it,
except that maybe there's more whisky drunk and more card playin'
than on any other day."
"We hain't got no parson," objected one of the crowd.
"Ye fool!" growled another, "hain't we got a man as is worth any
three parsons, and can splash texts around like clay out o' a
cradle. What more d'ye want?"
"We hain't got no church!" urged the same dissentient.
"Have it in the open air," one suggested.
"Or in Woburn's store," said another.
"Or in Adams' saloon."
The last proposal was received with a buzz of approval, which
showed that it was considered the most appropriate locality.
Adams' saloon was a substantial wooden building in the rear of the
bar, which was used partly for storing liquor and partly for a
gambling saloon. It was strongly built of rough-hewn logs, the
proprietor rightly judging, in the unregenerate days of Jackman's
Gulch, that hogsheads of brandy and rum were commodities which had
best be secured under lock and key. A strong door opened into each
end of the saloon, and the interior was spacious enough, when the
table and lumber were cleared away, to accommodate the whole
population. The spirit barrels were heaped together at one end by
their owner, so as to make a very fair imitation of a pulpit.
At first the Gulch took but a mild interest in the proceedings, but
when it became known that Elias B. Hopkins intended, after reading
the service, to address the audience, the settlement began to warm
up to the occasion. A real sermon was a novelty to all of them,
and one coming from their own parson was additionally so.
Rumour announced that it would be interspersed with local hits, and
that the moral would be pointed by pungent personalities. Men
began to fear that they would be unable to gain seats, and many
applications were made to the brothers Adams. It was only when
conclusively shown that the saloon could contain them all with a
margin that the camp settled down into calm expectancy.
It was as well that the building was of such a size, for the
assembly upon the Sunday morning was the largest which had ever
occurred in the annals of Jackman's Gulch. At first it was thought
that the whole population was present, but a little reflection
showed that this was not so. Maule and Phillips had gone on a
prospecting journey among the hills, and had not returned as yet,
and Woburn, the gold-keeper, was unable to leave his store. Having
a very large quantity of the precious metal under his charge, he
stuck to his post, feeling that the responsibility was too great to
trifle with. With these three exceptions the whole of the Gulch,
with clean red shirts, and such other additions to their toilet as
the occasion demanded, sauntered in a straggling line along the
clayey pathway which led up to the saloon.
The interior of the building had been provided with rough benches,
and the parson, with his quiet good-humoured smile, was standing at
the door to welcome them. "Good morning, boys," he cried cheerily,
as each group came lounging up. "Pass in; pass in. You'll find
this is as good a morning's work as any you've done. Leave
your pistols in this barrel outside the door as you pass; you can
pick them out as you come out again, but it isn't the thing to
carry weapons into the house of peace." His request was good-
humouredly complied with, and before the last of the congregation
filed in, there was a strange assortment of knives and firearms in
this depository. When all had assembled, the doors were shut, and
the service began--the first and the last which was ever performed
at Jackman's Gulch.
The weather was sultry and the room close, yet the miners listened
with exemplary patience. There was a sense of novelty in the
situation which had its attractions. To some it was entirely new,
others were wafted back by it to another land and other days.
Beyond a disposition which was exhibited by the uninitiated to
applaud at the end of certain prayers, by way of showing that they
sympathised with the sentiments expressed, no audience could have
behaved better. There was a murmur of interest, however, when
Elias B. Hopkins, looking down on the congregation from his rostrum
of casks, began his address.
He had attired himself with care in honour of the occasion. He
wore a velveteen tunic, girt round the waist with a sash of china
silk, a pair of moleskin trousers, and held his cabbage-tree hat in
his left hand. He began speaking in a low tone, and it was noticed
at the time that he frequently glanced through the small aperture
which served for a window which was placed above the heads of those
who sat beneath him.
"I've put you straight now," he said, in the course of his address;
"I've got you in the right rut if you will but stick in it." Here
he looked very hard out of the window for some seconds. "You've
learned soberness and industry, and with those things you can
always make up any loss you may sustain. I guess there isn't one
of ye that won't remember my visit to this camp." He paused for a
moment, and three revolver shots rang out upon the quiet summer
air. "Keep your seats, damn ye!" roared our preacher, as his
audience rose in excitement. "If a man of ye moves down he goes!
The door's locked on the outside, so ye can't get out anyhow. Your
seats, ye canting, chuckle-headed fools! Down with ye, ye dogs, or
I'll fire among ye!"
Astonishment and fear brought us back into our seats, and we sat
staring blankly at our pastor and each other. Elias B. Hopkins,
whose whole face and even figure appeared to have undergone an
extraordinary alteration, looked fiercely down on us from his
commanding position, with a contemptuous smile on his stern face.
"I have your lives in my hands," he remarked; and we noticed as he
spoke that he held a heavy revolver in his hand, and that the butt
of another one protruded from his sash. "I am armed and you are
not. If one of you moves or speaks he is a dead man. If not, I
shall not harm you. You must wait here for an hour. Why, you
FOOLS" (this with a hiss of contempt which rang in our ears for
many a long day), "do you know who it is that has stuck you
up? Do you know who it is that has been playing it upon you for
months as a parson and a saint? Conky Jim, the bushranger, ye
apes. And Phillips and Maule were my two right-hand men. They're
off into the hills with your gold----Ha! would ye?" This to some
restive member of the audience, who quieted down instantly before
the fierce eye and the ready weapon of the bushranger. "In an hour
they will be clear of any pursuit, and I advise you to make the
best of it, and not to follow, or you may lose more than your
money. My horse is tethered outside this door behind me. When the
time is up I shall pass through it, lock it on the outside, and be
off. Then you may break your way out as best you can. I have no
more to say to you, except that ye are the most cursed set of asses
that ever trod in boot-leather."
We had time to endorse mentally this outspoken opinion during the
long sixty minutes which followed; we were powerless before the
resolute desperado. It is true that if we made a simultaneous rush
we might bear him down at the cost of eight or ten of our number.
But how could such a rush be organised without speaking, and who
would attempt it without a previous agreement that he would be
supported? There was nothing for it but submission. It seemed
three hours at the least before the ranger snapped up his watch,
stepped down from the barrel, walked backwards, still covering us
with his weapon, to the door behind him, and then passed rapidly
through it. We heard the creaking of the rusty lock, and the
clatter of his horse's hoofs, as he galloped away.
It has been remarked that an oath had, for the last few weeks, been
a rare thing in the camp. We made up for our temporary abstention
during the next half-hour. Never was heard such symmetrical and
heartfelt blasphemy. When at last we succeeded in getting the door
off its hinges all sight of both rangers and treasure had
disappeared, nor have we ever caught sight of either the one or the
other since. Poor Woburn, true to his trust, lay shot through the
head across the threshold of his empty store. The villains, Maule
and Phillips, had descended upon the camp the instant that we had
been enticed into the trap, murdered the keeper, loaded up a small
cart with the booty, and got safe away to some wild fastness among
the mountains, where they were joined by their wily leader.
Jackman's Gulch recovered from this blow, and is now a flourishing
township. Social reformers are not in request there, however, and
morality is at a discount. It is said that an inquest has been
held lately upon an unoffending stranger who chanced to remark that
in so large a place it would be advisable to have some form of
Sunday service. The memory of their one and only pastor is still
green among the inhabitants, and will be for many a long year to
come.
THE RING OF THOTH.
Mr. John Vansittart Smith, F.R.S., of 147-A Gower Street, was a
man whose energy of purpose and clearness of thought might have
placed him in the very first rank of scientific observers. He was
the victim, however, of a universal ambition which prompted him to
aim at distinction in many subjects rather than preeminence in one.
In his early days he had shown an aptitude for zoology and for
botany which caused his friends to look upon him as a second
Darwin, but when a professorship was almost within his reach he had
suddenly discontinued his studies and turned his whole attention to
chemistry. Here his researches upon the spectra of the metals had
won him his fellowship in the Royal Society; but again he played
the coquette with his subject, and after a year's absence from the
laboratory he joined the Oriental Society, and delivered a paper on
the Hieroglyphic and Demotic inscriptions of El Kab, thus giving a
crowning example both of the versatility and of the inconstancy of
his talents.
The most fickle of wooers, however, is apt to be caught at last,
and so it was with John Vansittart Smith. The more he burrowed his
way into Egyptology the more impressed he became by the vast field
which it opened to the inquirer, and by the extreme importance
of a subject which promised to throw a light upon the first germs
of human civilisation and the origin of the greater part of our
arts and sciences. So struck was Mr. Smith that he straightway
married an Egyptological young lady who had written upon the sixth
dynasty, and having thus secured a sound base of operations he set
himself to collect materials for a work which should unite the
research of Lepsius and the ingenuity of Champollion. The
preparation of this magnum opus entailed many hurried visits to
the magnificent Egyptian collections of the Louvre, upon the last
of which, no longer ago than the middle of last October, he became
involved in a most strange and noteworthy adventure.
The trains had been slow and the Channel had been rough, so that
the student arrived in Paris in a somewhat befogged and feverish
condition. On reaching the Hotel de France, in the Rue Laffitte,
he had thrown himself upon a sofa for a couple of hours, but
finding that he was unable to sleep, he determined, in spite of his
fatigue, to make his way to the Louvre, settle the point which he
had come to decide, and take the evening train back to Dieppe.
Having come to this conclusion, he donned his greatcoat, for it was
a raw rainy day, and made his way across the Boulevard des Italiens
and down the Avenue de l'Opera. Once in the Louvre he was on
familiar ground, and he speedily made his way to the collection of
papyri which it was his intention to consult.
The warmest admirers of John Vansittart Smith could hardly claim
for him that he was a handsome man. His high-beaked nose and
prominent chin had something of the same acute and incisive
character which distinguished his intellect. He held his head in
a birdlike fashion, and birdlike, too, was the pecking motion with
which, in conversation, he threw out his objections and retorts.
As he stood, with the high collar of his greatcoat raised to his
ears, he might have seen from the reflection in the glass-case
before him that his appearance was a singular one. Yet it came
upon him as a sudden jar when an English voice behind him exclaimed
in very audible tones, "What a queer-looking mortal!"
The student had a large amount of petty vanity in his composition
which manifested itself by an ostentatious and overdone disregard
of all personal considerations. He straightened his lips and
looked rigidly at the roll of papyrus, while his heart filled with
bitterness against the whole race of travelling Britons.
"Yes," said another voice, "he really is an extraordinary fellow."
"Do you know," said the first speaker, "one could almost believe
that by the continual contemplation of mummies the chap has become
half a mummy himself?"
"He has certainly an Egyptian cast of countenance," said the other.
John Vansittart Smith spun round upon his heel with the intention
of shaming his countrymen by a corrosive remark or two. To his
surprise and relief, the two young fellows who had been
conversing had their shoulders turned towards him, and were gazing
at one of the Louvre attendants who was polishing some brass-work
at the other side of the room.
"Carter will be waiting for us at the Palais Royal," said one
tourist to the other, glancing at his watch, and they clattered
away, leaving the student to his labours.
"I wonder what these chatterers call an Egyptian cast of
countenance," thought John Vansittart Smith, and he moved his
position slightly in order to catch a glimpse of the man's face.
He started as his eyes fell upon it. It was indeed the very face
with which his studies had made him familiar. The regular
statuesque features, broad brow, well-rounded chin, and dusky
complexion were the exact counterpart of the innumerable statues,
mummy-cases, and pictures which adorned the walls of the apartment.
The thing was beyond all coincidence. The man must be an Egyptian.
The national angularity of the shoulders and narrowness of the hips
were alone sufficient to identify him.
John Vansittart Smith shuffled towards the attendant with some
intention of addressing him. He was not light of touch in
conversation, and found it difficult to strike the happy mean
between the brusqueness of the superior and the geniality of the
equal. As he came nearer, the man presented his side face to him,
but kept his gaze still bent upon his work. Vansittart Smith,
fixing his eyes upon the fellow's skin, was conscious of a sudden
impression that there was something inhuman and preternatural
about its appearance. Over the temple and cheek-bone it was as
glazed and as shiny as varnished parchment. There was no
suggestion of pores. One could not fancy a drop of moisture upon
that arid surface. From brow to chin, however, it was cross-
hatched by a million delicate wrinkles, which shot and interlaced
as though Nature in some Maori mood had tried how wild and
intricate a pattern she could devise.
"Ou est la collection de Memphis?" asked the student, with the
awkward air of a man who is devising a question merely for the
purpose of opening a conversation.
"C'est la," replied the man brusquely, nodding his head at the
other side of the room.
"Vous etes un Egyptien, n'est-ce pas?" asked the Englishman.
The attendant looked up and turned his strange dark eyes upon his
questioner. They were vitreous, with a misty dry shininess, such
as Smith had never seen in a human head before. As he gazed into
them he saw some strong emotion gather in their depths, which rose
and deepened until it broke into a look of something akin both to
horror and to hatred.
"Non, monsieur; je suis Fransais." The man turned abruptly and
bent low over his polishing. The student gazed at him for a moment
in astonishment, and then turning to a chair in a retired corner
behind one of the doors he proceeded to make notes of his
researches among the papyri. His thoughts, however refused to
return into their natural groove. They would run upon the
enigmatical attendant with the sphinx-like face and the parchment
skin.
"Where have I seen such eyes?" said Vansittart Smith to himself.
"There is something saurian about them, something reptilian.
There's the membrana nictitans of the snakes," he mused, bethinking
himself of his zoological studies. "It gives a shiny effect. But
there was something more here. There was a sense of power, of
wisdom--so I read them--and of weariness, utter weariness, and
ineffable despair. It may be all imagination, but I never had so
strong an impression. By Jove, I must have another look at them!"
He rose and paced round the Egyptian rooms, but the man who had
excited his curiosity had disappeared.
The student sat down again in his quiet corner, and continued to
work at his notes. He had gained the information which he required
from the papyri, and it only remained to write it down while it was
still fresh in his memory. For a time his pencil travelled rapidiy
over the paper, but soon the lines became less level, the words
more blurred, and finally the pencil tinkled down upon the floor,
and the head of the student dropped heavily forward upon his chest.
Tired out by his journey, he slept so soundly in his lonely post
behind the door that neither the clanking civil guard, nor the
footsteps of sightseers, nor even the loud hoarse bell which gives
the signal for closing, were sufficient to arouse him.
Twilight deepened into darkness, the bustle from the Rue de Rivoli
waxed and then waned, distant Notre Dame clanged out the hour of
midnight, and still the dark and lonely figure sat silently in the
shadow. It was not until close upon one in the morning that, with
a sudden gasp and an intaking of the breath, Vansittart Smith
returned to consciousness. For a moment it flashed upon him that
he had dropped asleep in his study-chair at home. The moon was
shining fitfully through the unshuttered window, however, and, as
his eye ran along the lines of mummies and the endless array of
polished cases, he remembered clearly where he was and how he came
there. The student was not a nervous man. He possessed that love
of a novel situation which is peculiar to his race. Stretching out
his cramped limbs, he looked at his watch, and burst into a chuckle
as he observed the hour. The episode would make an admirable
anecdote to be introduced into his next paper as a relief to the
graver and heavier speculations. He was a little cold, but wide
awake and much refreshed. It was no wonder that the guardians had
overlooked him, for the door threw its heavy black shadow right
across him.
The complete silence was impressive. Neither outside nor inside
was there a creak or a murmur. He was alone with the dead men of
a dead civilisation. What though the outer city reeked of the
garish nineteenth century! In all this chamber there was scarce an
article, from the shrivelled ear of wheat to the pigment-box
of the painter, which had not held its own against four thousand
years. Here was the flotsam and jetsam washed up by the great
ocean of time from that far-off empire. From stately Thebes, from
lordly Luxor, from the great temples of Heliopolis, from a hundred
rifled tombs, these relics had been brought. The student glanced
round at the long silent figures who flickered vaguely up through
the gloom, at the busy toilers who were now so restful, and he fell
into a reverent and thoughtful mood. An unwonted sense of his own
youth and insignificance came over him. Leaning back in his chair,
he gazed dreamily down the long vista of rooms, all silvery with
the moonshine, which extend through the whole wing of the
widespread building. His eyes fell upon the yellow glare of a
distant lamp.
John Vansittart Smith sat up on his chair with his nerves all on
edge. The light was advancing slowly towards him, pausing from
time to time, and then coming jerkily onwards. The bearer moved
noiselessly. In the utter silence there was no suspicion of the
pat of a footfall. An idea of robbers entered the Englishman's
head. He snuggled up further into the corner. The light was two
rooms off. Now it was in the next chamber, and still there was no
sound. With something approaching to a thrill of fear the student
observed a face, floating in the air as it were, behind the flare
of the lamp. The figure was wrapped in shadow, but the light fell
full upon the strange eager face. There was no mistaking the
metallic glistening eyes and the cadaverous skin. It was the
attendant with whom he had conversed.
Vansittart Smith's first impulse was to come forward and address
him. A few words of explanation would set the matter clear, and
lead doubtless to his being conducted to some side door from which
he might make his way to his hotel. As the man entered the
chamber, however, there was something so stealthy in his movements,
and so furtive in his expression, that the Englishman altered his
intention. This was clearly no ordinary official walking the
rounds. The fellow wore felt-soled slippers, stepped with a rising
chest, and glanced quickly from left to right, while his hurried
gasping breathing thrilled the flame of his lamp. Vansittart Smith
crouched silently back into the corner and watched him keenly,
convinced that his errand was one of secret and probably sinister
import.
There was no hesitation in the other's movements. He stepped
lightly and swiftly across to one of the great cases, and, drawing
a key from his pocket, he unlocked it. From the upper shelf he
pulled down a mummy, which he bore away with him, and laid it with
much care and solicitude upon the ground. By it he placed his
lamp, and then squatting down beside it in Eastern fashion he began
with long quivering fingers to undo the cerecloths and bandages
which girt it round. As the crackling rolls of linen peeled off
one after the other, a strong aromatic odour filled the chamber,
and fragments of scented wood and of spices pattered down upon the
marble floor.
It was clear to John Vansittart Smith that this mummy had never
been unswathed before. The operation interested him keenly. He
thrilled all over with curiosity, and his birdlike head protruded
further and further from behind the door. When, however, the last
roll had been removed from the four-thousand-year-old head, it was
all that he could do to stifle an outcry of amazement. First, a
cascade of long, black, glossy tresses poured over the workman's
hands and arms. A second turn of the bandage revealed a low, white
forehead, with a pair of delicately arched eyebrows. A third
uncovered a pair of bright, deeply fringed eyes, and a straight,
well-cut nose, while a fourth and last showed a sweet, full,
sensitive mouth, and a beautifully curved chin. The whole face was
one of extraordinary loveliness, save for the one blemish that in
the centre of the forehead there was a single irregular, coffee-
coloured splotch. It was a triumph of the embalmer's art.
Vansittart Smith's eyes grew larger and larger as he gazed upon it,
and he chirruped in his throat with satisfaction.
Its effect upon the Egyptologist was as nothing, however, compared
with that which it produced upon the strange attendant. He threw
his hands up into the air, burst into a harsh clatter of words, and
then, hurling himself down upon the ground beside the mummy, he
threw his arms round her, and kissed her repeatedly upon the lips
and brow. "Ma petite!" he groaned in French. "Ma pauvre petite!"
His voice broke with emotion, and his innumerable wrinkles
quivered and writhed, but the student observed in the
lamplight that his shining eyes were still as dry and tearless as
two beads of steel. For some minutes he lay, with a twitching
face, crooning and moaning over the beautiful head. Then he broke
into a sudden smile, said some words in an unknown tongue, and
sprang to his feet with the vigorous air of one who has braced
himself for an effort.
In the centre of the room there was a large circular case which
contained, as the student had frequently remarked, a magnificent
collection of early Egyptian rings and precious stones. To this
the attendant strode, and, unlocking it, he threw it open. On the
ledge at the side he placed his lamp, and beside it a small
earthenware jar which he had drawn from his pocket. He then took
a handful of rings from the case, and with a most serious and
anxious face he proceeded to smear each in turn with some liquid
substance from the earthen pot, holding them to the light as he did
so. He was clearly disappointed with the first lot, for he threw
them petulantly back into the case, and drew out some more. One of
these, a massive ring with a large crystal set in it, he seized and
eagerly tested with the contents of the jar. Instantly he uttered
a cry of joy, and threw out his arms in a wild gesture which upset
the pot and sent the liquid streaming across the floor to the very
feet of the Englishman. The attendant drew a red handkerchief from
his bosom, and, mopping up the mess, he followed it into the
corner, where in a moment he found himself face to face with his
observer.
"Excuse me," said John Vansittart Smith, with all imaginable
politeness; "I have been unfortunate enough to fall asleep behind
this door."
"And you have been watching me?" the other asked in English, with
a most venomous look on his corpse-like face.
The student was a man of veracity. "I confess," said he, "that I
have noticed your movements, and that they have aroused my
curiosity and interest in the highest degree."
The man drew a long flamboyant-bladed knife from his bosom. "You
have had a very narrow escape," he said; "had I seen you ten
minutes ago, I should have driven this through your heart. As it
is, if you touch me or interfere with me in any way you are a dead
man."
"I have no wish to interfere with you," the student answered. "My
presence here is entirely accidental. All I ask is that you will
have the extreme kindness to show me out through some side door."
He spoke with great suavity, for the man was still pressing the tip
of his dagger against the palm of his left hand, as though to
assure himself of its sharpness, while his face preserved its
malignant expression.
"If I thought----" said he. "But no, perhaps it is as well. What
is your name?"
The Englishman gave it.
"Vansittart Smith," the other repeated. "Are you the same
Vansittart Smith who gave a paper in London upon El Kab? I saw a
report of it. Your knowledge of the subject is contemptible."
"Sir!" cried the Egyptologist.
"Yet it is superior to that of many who make even greater
pretensions. The whole keystone of our old life in Egypt was not
the inscriptions or monuments of which you make so much, but was
our hermetic philosophy and mystic knowledge, of which you say
little or nothing."
"Our old life!" repeated the scholar, wide-eyed; and then suddenly,
"Good God, look at the mummy's face!"
The strange man turned and flashed his light upon the dead woman,
uttering a long doleful cry as he did so. The action of the air
had already undone all the art of the embalmer. The skin had
fallen away, the eyes had sunk inwards, the discoloured lips had
writhed away from the yellow teeth, and the brown mark upon the
forehead alone showed that it was indeed the same face which had
shown such youth and beauty a few short minutes before.
The man flapped his hands together in grief and horror. Then
mastering himself by a strong effort he turned his hard eyes once
more upon the Englishman.
"It does not matter," he said, in a shaking voice. "It does not
really matter. I came here to-night with the fixed determination
to do something. It is now done. All else is as nothing. I have
found my quest. The old curse is broken. I can rejoin her.
What matter about her inanimate shell so long as her spirit is
awaiting me at the other side of the veil!"
"These are wild words," said Vansittart Smith. He was becoming
more and more convinced that he had to do with a madman.
"Time presses, and I must go," continued the other. "The moment is
at hand for which I have waited this weary time. But I must show
you out first. Come with me."
Taking up the lamp, he turned from the disordered chamber, and led
the student swiftly through the long series of the Egyptian,
Assyrian, and Persian apartments. At the end of the latter he
pushed open a small door let into the wall and descended a winding
stone stair. The Englishman felt the cold fresh air of the night
upon his brow. There was a door opposite him which appeared to
communicate with the street. To the right of this another door
stood ajar, throwing a spurt of yellow light across the passage.
"Come in here!" said the attendant shortly.
Vansittart Smith hesitated. He had hoped that he had come to the
end of his adventure. Yet his curiosity was strong within him. He
could not leave the matter unsolved, so he followed his strange
companion into the lighted chamber.
It was a small room, such as is devoted to a concierge. A wood
fire sparkled in the grate. At one side stood a truckle bed, and
at the other a coarse wooden chair, with a round table in the
centre, which bore the remains of a meal. As the visitor's
eye glanced round he could not but remark with an ever-recurring
thrill that all the small details of the room were of the most
quaint design and antique workmanship. The candlesticks, the vases
upon the chimney-piece, the fire-irons, the ornaments upon the
walls, were all such as he had been wont to associate with the
remote past. The gnarled heavy-eyed man sat himself down upon the
edge of the bed, and motioned his guest into the chair.
"There may be design in this," he said, still speaking excellent
English. "It may be decreed that I should leave some account
behind as a warning to all rash mortals who would set their wits up
against workings of Nature. I leave it with you. Make such use as
you will of it. I speak to you now with my feet upon the threshold
of the other world.
"I am, as you surmised, an Egyptian--not one of the down-trodden
race of slaves who now inhabit the Delta of the Nile, but a
survivor of that fiercer and harder people who tamed the Hebrew,
drove the Ethiopian back into the southern deserts, and built those
mighty works which have been the envy and the wonder of all after
generations. It was in the reign of Tuthmosis, sixteen hundred
years before the birth of Christ, that I first saw the light. You
shrink away from me. Wait, and you will see that I am more to be
pitied than to be feared.
"My name was Sosra. My father had been the chief priest of Osiris
in the great temple of Abaris, which stood in those days upon the
Bubastic branch of the Nile. I was brought up in the temple
and was trained in all those mystic arts which are spoken of in
your own Bible. I was an apt pupil. Before I was sixteen I had
learned all which the wisest priest could teach me. From that time
on I studied Nature's secrets for myself, and shared my knowledge
with no man.
"Of all the questions which attracted me there were none over which
I laboured so long as over those which concern themselves with the
nature of life. I probed deeply into the vital principle. The aim
of medicine had been to drive away disease when it appeared. It
seemed to me that a method might be devised which should so fortify
the body as to prevent weakness or death from ever taking hold of
it. It is useless that I should recount my researches. You would
scarce comprehend them if I did. They were carried out partly upon
animals, partly upon slaves, and partly on myself. Suffice it that
their result was to furnish me with a substance which, when
injected into the blood, would endow the body with strength to
resist the effects of time, of violence, or of disease. It would
not indeed confer immortality, but its potency would endure for
many thousands of years. I used it upon a cat, and afterwards
drugged the creature with the most deadly poisons. That cat is
alive in Lower Egypt at the present moment. There was nothing of
mystery or magic in the matter. It was simply a chemical
discovery, which may well be made again.
"Love of life runs high in the young. It seemed to me that I had
broken away from all human care now that I had abolished pain
and driven death to such a distance. With a light heart I poured
the accursed stuff into my veins. Then I looked round for some one
whom I could benefit. There was a young priest of Thoth, Parmes by
name, who had won my goodwill by his earnest nature and his
devotion to his studies. To him I whispered my secret, and at his
request I injected him with my elixir. I should now, I reflected,
never be without a companion of the same age as myself.
"After this grand discovery I relaxed my studies to some extent,
but Parmes continued his with redoubled energy. Every day I could
see him working with his flasks and his distiller in the Temple of
Thoth, but he said little to me as to the result of his labours.
For my own part, I used to walk through the city and look around me
with exultation as I reflected that all this was destined to pass
away, and that only I should remain. The people would bow to me as
they passed me, for the fame of my knowledge had gone abroad.
"There was war at this time, and the Great King had sent down his
soldiers to the eastern boundary to drive away the Hyksos. A
Governor, too, was sent to Abaris, that he might hold it for the
King. I had heard much of the beauty of the daughter of this
Governor, but one day as I walked out with Parmes we met her, borne
upon the shoulders of her slaves. I was struck with love as with
lightning. My heart went out from me. I could have thrown myself
beneath the feet of her bearers. This was my woman. Life without
her was impossible. I swore by the head of Horus that she
should be mine. I swore it to the Priest of Thoth. He turned away
from me with a brow which was as black as midnight.
"There is no need to tell you of our wooing. She came to love me
even as I loved her. I learned that Parmes had seen her before I
did, and had shown her that he too loved her, but I could smile at
his passion, for I knew that her heart was mine. The white plague
had come upon the city and many were stricken, but I laid my hands
upon the sick and nursed them without fear or scathe. She
marvelled at my daring. Then I told her my secret, and begged her
that she would let me use my art upon her.
"`Your flower shall then be unwithered, Atma,' I said. `Other
things may pass away, but you and I, and our great love for each
other, shall outlive the tomb of King Chefru.'
"But she was full of timid, maidenly objections. `Was it right?'
she asked, `was it not a thwarting of the will of the gods? If the
great Osiris had wished that our years should be so long, would he
not himself have brought it about?'
"With fond and loving words I overcame her doubts, and yet she
hesitated. It was a great question, she said. She would think it
over for this one night. In the morning I should know her
resolution. Surely one night was not too much to ask. She wished
to pray to Isis for help in her decision.
"With a sinking heart and a sad foreboding of evil I left her with
her tirewomen. In the morning, when the early sacrifice was
over, I hurried to her house. A frightened slave met me upon the
steps. Her mistress was ill, she said, very ill. In a frenzy I
broke my way through the attendants, and rushed through hall and
corridor to my Atma's chamber. She lay upon her couch, her head
high upon the pillow, with a pallid face and a glazed eye. On her
forehead there blazed a single angry purple patch. I knew that
hell-mark of old. It was the scar of the white plague, the sign-
manual of death.
"Why should I speak of that terrible time? For months I was mad,
fevered, delirious, and yet I could not die. Never did an Arab
thirst after the sweet wells as I longed after death. Could poison
or steel have shortened the thread of my existence, I should soon
have rejoined my love in the land with the narrow portal. I tried,
but it was of no avail. The accursed influence was too strong upon
me. One night as I lay upon my couch, weak and weary, Parmes, the
priest of Thoth, came to my chamber. He stood in the circle of the
lamplight, and he looked down upon me with eyes which were bright
with a mad joy.
"`Why did you let the maiden die?' he asked; `why did you not
strengthen her as you strengthened me?'
"`I was too late,' I answered. `But I had forgot. You also loved
her. You are my fellow in misfortune. Is it not terrible to think
of the centuries which must pass ere we look upon her again?
Fools, fools, that we were to take death to be our enemy!'
"`You may say that,' he cried with a wild laugh; `the words come
well from your lips. For me they have no meaning.'
"`What mean you?' I cried, raising myself upon my elbow. `Surely,
friend, this grief has turned your brain.' His face was aflame
with joy, and he writhed and shook like one who hath a devil.
"`Do you know whither I go?' he asked.
"`Nay,' I answered, `I cannot tell.'
"`I go to her,' said he. `She lies embalmed in the further tomb by
the double palm-tree beyond the city wall.'
"`Why do you go there?' I asked.
"`To die!' he shrieked, `to die! I am not bound by earthen
fetters.'
"`But the elixir is in your blood,' I cried.
"`I can defy it,' said he; `I have found a stronger principle which
will destroy it. It is working in my veins at this moment, and in
an hour I shall be a dead man. I shall join her, and you shall
remain behind.'
"As I looked upon him I could see that he spoke words of truth.
The light in his eye told me that he was indeed beyond the power of
the elixir.
"`You will teach me!' I cried.
"`Never!' he answered.
"`I implore you, by the wisdom of Thoth, by the majesty of Anubis!'
"`It is useless,' he said coldly.
"`Then I will find it out,' I cried.
"`You cannot,' he answered; `it came to me by chance. There
is one ingredient which you can never get. Save that which is in
the ring of Thoth, none will ever more be made.
"`In the ring of Thoth!' I repeated; `where then is the ring of
Thoth?'
"`That also you shall never know,' he answered. `You won her love.
Who has won in the end? I leave you to your sordid earth life. My
chains are broken. I must go!' He turned upon his heel and fled
from the chamber. In the morning came the news that the Priest of
Thoth was dead.
"My days after that were spent in study. I must find this subtle
poison which was strong enough to undo the elixir. From early dawn
to midnight I bent over the test-tube and the furnace. Above all,
I collected the papyri and the chemical flasks of the Priest of
Thoth. Alas! they taught me little. Here and there some hint or
stray expression would raise hope in my bosom, but no good ever
came of it. Still, month after month, I struggled on. When my
heart grew faint I would make my way to the tomb by the palm-trees.
There, standing by the dead casket from which the jewel had been
rifled, I would feel her sweet presence, and would whisper to her
that I would rejoin her if mortal wit could solve the riddle.
"Parmes had said that his discovery was connected with the ring of
Thoth. I had some remembrance of the trinket. It was a large and
weighty circlet, made, not of gold, but of a rarer and heavier
metal brought from the mines of Mount Harbal. Platinum, you call
it. The ring had, I remembered, a hollow crystal set in it,
in which some few drops of liquid might be stored. Now, the secret
of Parmes could not have to do with the metal alone, for there were
many rings of that metal in the Temple. Was it not more likely
that he had stored his precious poison within the cavity of the
crystal? I had scarce come to this conclusion before, in hunting
through his papers, I came upon one which told me that it was
indeed so, and that there was still some of the liquid unused.
"But how to find the ring? It was not upon him when he was
stripped for the embalmer. Of that I made sure. Neither was it
among his private effects. In vain I searched every room that he
had entered, every box, and vase, and chattel that he had owned.
I sifted the very sand of the desert in the places where he had
been wont to walk; but, do what I would, I could come upon no
traces of the ring of Thoth. Yet it may be that my labours would
have overcome all obstacles had it not been for a new and unlooked-
for misfortune.
"A great war had been waged against the Hyksos, and the Captains of
the Great King had been cut off in the desert, with all their
bowmen and horsemen. The shepherd tribes were upon us like the
locusts in a dry year. From the wilderness of Shur to the great
bitter lake there was blood by day and fire by night. Abaris was
the bulwark of Egypt, but we could not keep the savages back. The
city fell. The Governor and the soldiers were put to the
sword, and I, with many more, was led away into captivity.
"For years and years I tended cattle in the great plains by the
Euphrates. My master died, and his son grew old, but I was still
as far from death as ever. At last I escaped upon a swift camel,
and made my way back to Egypt. The Hyksos had settled in the land
which they had conquered, and their own King ruled over the country
Abaris had been torn down, the city had been burned, and of the
great Temple there was nothing left save an unsightly mound.
Everywhere the tombs had been rifled and the monuments destroyed.
Of my Atma's grave no sign was left. It was buried in the sands of
the desert, and the palm-trees which marked the spot had long
disappeared. The papers of Parmes and the remains of the Temple of
Thoth were either destroyed or scattered far and wide over the
deserts of Syria. All search after them was vain.
"From that time I gave up all hope of ever finding the ring or
discovering the subtle drug. I set myself to live as patiently as
might be until the effect of the elixir should wear away. How can
you understand how terrible a thing time is, you who have
experience only of the narrow course which lies between the cradle
and the grave! I know it to my cost, I who have floated down the
whole stream of history. I was old when Ilium fell. I was very
old when Herodotus came to Memphis. I was bowed down with years
when the new gospel came upon earth. Yet you see me much as
other men are, with the cursed elixir still sweetening my blood,
and guarding me against that which I would court. Now at last, at
last I have come to the end of it!
"I have travelled in all lands and I have dwelt with all nations.
Every tongue is the same to me. I learned them all to help pass
the weary time. I need not tell you how slowly they drifted by,
the long dawn of modern civilisation, the dreary middle years, the
dark times of barbarism. They are all behind me now, I have never
looked with the eyes of love upon another woman. Atma knows that
I have been constant to her.
"It was my custom to read all that the scholars had to say upon
Ancient Egypt. I have been in many positions, sometimes affluent,
sometimes poor, but I have always found enough to enable me to buy
the journals which deal with such matters. Some nine months ago I
was in San Francisco, when I read an account of some discoveries
made in the neighbourhood of Abaris. My heart leapt into my mouth
as I read it. It said that the excavator had busied himself in
exploring some tombs recently unearthed. In one there had been
found an unopened mummy with an inscription upon the outer case
setting forth that it contained the body of the daughter of the
Governor of the city in the days of Tuthmosis. It added that on
removing the outer case there had been exposed a large platinum
ring set with a crystal, which had been laid upon the breast of the
embalmed woman. This, then was where Parmes had hid the ring
of Thoth. He might well say that it was safe, for no Egyptian
would ever stain his soul by moving even the outer case of a buried
friend.
"That very night I set off from San Francisco, and in a few weeks
I found myself once more at Abaris, if a few sand-heaps and
crumbling walls may retain the name of the great city. I hurried
to the Frenchmen who were digging there and asked them for the
ring. They replied that both the ring and the mummy had been sent
to the Boulak Museum at Cairo. To Boulak I went, but only to be
told that Mariette Bey had claimed them and had shipped them to the
Louvre. I followed them, and there at last, in the Egyptian
chamber, I came, after close upon four thousand years, upon the
remains of my Atma, and upon the ring for which I had sought so
long.
"But how was I to lay hands upon them? How was I to have them for
my very own? It chanced that the office of attendant was vacant.
I went to the Director. I convinced him that I knew much about
Egypt. In my eagerness I said too much. He remarked that a
Professor's chair would suit me better than a seat in the
Conciergerie. I knew more, he said, than he did. It was only by
blundering, and letting him think that he had over-estimated my
knowledge, that I prevailed upon him to let me move the few effects
which I have retained into this chamber. It is my first and my
last night here.
"Such is my story, Mr. Vansittart Smith. I need not say more
to a man of your perception. By a strange chance you have this
night looked upon the face of the woman whom I loved in those far-
off days. There were many rings with crystals in the case, and I
had to test for the platinum to be sure of the one which I wanted.
A glance at the crystal has shown me that the liquid is indeed
within it, and that I shall at last be able to shake off that
accursed health which has been worse to me than the foulest
disease. I have nothing more to say to you. I have unburdened
myself. You may tell my story or you may withhold it at your
pleasure. The choice rests with you. I owe you some amends, for
you have had a narrow escape of your life this night. I was a
desperate man, and not to be baulked in my purpose. Had I seen you
before the thing was done, I might have put it beyond your power to
oppose me or to raise an alarm. This is the door. It leads into
the Rue de Rivoli. Good night!"
The Englishman glanced back. For a moment the lean figure of Sosra
the Egyptian stood framed in the narrow doorway. The next the door
had slammed, and the heavy rasping of a bolt broke on the silent
night.
It was on the second day after his return to London that Mr. John
Vansittart Smith saw the following concise narrative in the Paris
correspondence of the Times:--
"Curious Occurrence in the Louvre.--Yesterday morning a strange
discovery was made in the principal Egyptian Chamber. The
ouvriers who are employed to clean out the rooms in the morning
found one of the attendants lying dead upon the floor with his arms
round one of the mummies. So close was his embrace that it was
only with the utmost difficulty that they were separated. One of
the cases containing valuable rings had been opened and rifled.
The authorities are of opinion that the man was bearing away the
mummy with some idea of selling it to a private collector, but that
he was struck down in the very act by long-standing disease of the
heart. It is said that he was a man of uncertain age and eccentric
habits, without any living relations to mourn over his dramatic and
untimely end."
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Captain of the Polestar