CHAPTER XVIII.

A short chapter makes fitting close to a short story.

In mid May, on a morning which set forth the perfection either of

sunny spring warmth or of breezy summer freshness, Arthur Tresham and

Lucy Charlmont took each other for better for worse, till death

should them part. Mr. Gawkins Drum gave away the bride; Miss Drum

appeared auspicious as a rainbow; Catherine glowed and expanded with

unselfish happiness; Mrs. Gawkins Drum pronounced the bride graceful,

elegant, but old-looking; Mr. Durham contributed a costly wedding

present, accompanied by a speech both ostentatious and affectionate;

Jane displayed herself a little disdainful, a little cross, and

supremely handsome; Alan and Stella—there was a young Alan now, a

comical little fright, more like mother than father—Alan and Stella

seemed to enjoy their friend’s wedding as light-heartedly as they had

enjoyed their own. No tears were shed, no stereotyped hypocrisies

uttered, no shoes flung; this time a true man and a true woman who

loved and honoured each other, and whom no man should put asunder,

were joined together; and thus the case did not lend itself to any

tribute of lies, miscalled white.

Four months after their marriage Mr.Tresham was hard at work again in

London among his East-end poor; while Lucy, taking a day’s holiday at

Brompton-on Sea, sat in the old familiar drawing-room, Catherine’s

exclusively now. She had returned from the East blooming, vigorous,

full of gentle fun and kindly happiness: so happy, that she would not

have exchanged her present lot for aught except her own future; so

happy, that it saddened her to believe Catherine less happy than

herself.

The two sisters sat at the open window, alike yet unlike: the elder

handsome, resolute, composed; the younger with the old wistful

expression in her tender beautiful eyes. They had talked of Jane,

who, though not dissatisfied with her lot, too obviously despised her

husband; once lately, she had written of him as the ‘habitation-tax’

paid for Orpingham Place: of Jane, who was too worldly either to keep

right in the spirit, or go wrong in the letter. They had talked, and

they had fallen silent; for Catherine, who loved no one on earth as

she loved her frivolous sister, could best bear in silence the sting

of shame and grief for her sake.

Full in view of the drawing-room windows spread the sea, beautiful,

strong, resistless, murmuring; the sea which had cast a burden on

Catherine’s life, and from which she now never meant to absent

herself; the sea from which Lucy had fled in the paroxysm of her

nervous misery.

At last Lucy spoke again very earnestly,—‘Oh, Catherine, I cannot bear

to be so happy when I think of you! If only you, too, had a future.’

Catherine leaned over her happy sister and gave her one kiss, a rare

sign with her of affectionate emotion. Then she turned to face the

open sky and sea.—‘My dear,’ she answered, whilst her eyes gazed

beyond clouds and waves, and rested on one narrow streak of sunlight

which glowed at the horizon,—‘My dear, my future seems further off

than yours; but I certainly have a future, and I can wait.’

THE LOST TITIAN.

‘A lie with a circumstance.’

WALTER SCOTT.

The last touch was laid on. The great painter stood opposite the

masterpiece of the period; the masterpiece of his life.

Nothing remained to be added. The orange drapery was perfect in its

fruit-like intensity of hue; each vine-leaf was curved, each tendril

twisted, as if fanned by the soft south wind; the sunshine brooded

drowsily upon every dell and swelling upland: but a tenfold

drowsiness slept in the cedar shadows. Look a moment, and those

cymbals must clash, that panther bound forward; draw nearer, and the

songs of those ripe, winy lips must become audible.

The achievement of his life glowed upon the easel, and Titian was

satisfied.

Beside him, witnesses of his triumph, stood his two friends—Gianni

the successful, and Giannuccione the universal disappointment.

Gianni ranked second in Venice; second in most things, but in nothing

first. His colorito paled only before that of his illustrious rival,

whose supremacy, however, he ostentatiously asserted. So in other

matters. Only the renowned Messer Cecchino was a more sonorous singer;

only fire-eating Prince Barbuto a better swordsman; only Arrigo il

Biondo a finer dancer or more sculpturesque beauty; even Caterina

Suprema, in that contest of gallantry which has been celebrated by so

many pens and pencils, though she awarded the rose of honour to Matteo

Grande, the wit, yet plucked off a leaf for the all but victor Gianni.

A step behind him lounged Giannuccione, who had promised everything

and fulfilled nothing. At the appearance of his first picture—‘Venus

whipping Cupid with feathers plucked from his own wing’—Venice rang

with his praises, and Titian foreboded a rival: but when, year after

year, his works appeared still lazily imperfect, though always all

but perfect, Venice subsided into apathetic silence, and Titian felt

that no successor to his throne had as yet achieved the purple.

So these two stood with the great master in the hour of his triumph:

Gianni loud, and Giannuccione hearty, in his applauses.

Only these two stood with him: as yet Venice at large knew not what

her favourite had produced. It was, indeed, rumoured, that Titian had

long been at work on a painting which he himself accounted his

masterpiece, but its subject was a secret; and while some spoke of it

as an undoubted Vintage of red grapes, others maintained it to be a

Dance of wood-nymphs; while one old gossip whispered that, whatever

else the painting might contain, she knew whose sunset-coloured

tresses and white brow would figure in the foreground. But the

general ignorance mattered little; for, though words might have named

the theme, no words could have described a picture which combined the

softness of a dove’s breast with the intensity of an October sunset:

a picture of which the light almost warmed, and the fruit actually

bloomed and tempted.

Titian gazed upon his work, and was satisfied: Giannuccione gazed

upon his friend’s work, and was satisfied: only Gianni gazed upon his

friend and upon his work, and was enviously dissatisfied.

‘To-morrow,’ said Titian,—‘to-morrow Venice shall behold what she has

long honoured by her curiosity. To-morrow, with music and festivity,

the unknown shall be unveiled; and you, my friends, shall withdraw

the curtain.’

The two friends assented.

‘To-morrow,’ he continued, half amused, half thoughtful, ‘I know

whose white brows will be knit, and whose red lips will pout. Well,

they shall have their turn: but blue eyes are not always in season;

hazel eyes, like hazel nuts, have their season also.’

‘True,’ chimed the chorus.

‘But to-night,’ he pursued, ‘let us devote the hours to sacred

friendship. Let us with songs and bumpers rehearse to-morrow’s

festivities and let your congratulations forestall its triumphs.’

‘Yes, evviva!’ returned the chorus, briskly; and again ‘evviva!’

So, with smiles and embraces, they parted. So they met again at the

welcome coming of Argus-eyed night.

The studio was elegant with clusters of flowers, sumptuous with

crimson, gold-bordered hangings, and luxurious with cushions and

perfumes. From the walls peeped pictured fruit and fruit-like faces,

between the curtains and in the corners gleamed moonlight-tinted

statues; whilst on the easel reposed the beauty of the evening,

overhung by budding boughs, and illuminated by an alabaster lamp

burning scented oil. Strewn about the apartment lay musical

instruments and packs of cards. On the table were silver dishes,

filled with leaves and choice fruits; wonderful vessels of Venetian

glass, containing rare wines and iced waters; and footless goblets,

which allowed the guest no choice but to drain his bumper.

That night the bumpers brimmed. Toast after toast was quaffed to the

success of tomorrow, the exaltation of the unveiled beauty, the

triumph of its author.

At last Giannuccione, flushed and sparkling, rose: ‘Let us drink,’ he

cried, ‘to our host’s success to-morrow: may it be greater than the

past, and less than the future!’

‘Not so,’ answered Titian, suddenly; ‘not so: I feel my star

culminate.’

He said it gravely, pushing back his seat, and rising from table. His

spirits seemed in a moment to flag, and he looked pale in the

moonlight. It was as though the blight of the evil eye had fallen

upon him.

Gianni saw his disquiet, and laboured to remove it. He took a lute

from the floor, and tuning it, exerted his skill in music. He wrung

from the strings cries of passion, desolate sobs, a wail as of one

abandoned, plaintive, most tender tones as of the solitario passero.

The charm worked: vague uneasiness was melting into delicious

melancholy. He redoubled his efforts; he drew out tinkling notes

joyful as the feet of dancers; he struck notes like fire, and,

uniting his voice to the instrument, sang the glories of Venice and

of Titian. His voice, full, mellow, exultant, vibrated through the

room; and, when it ceased, the bravos of his friends rang out an

enthusiastic chorus.

Then, more stirring than the snap of castanets on dexterous fingers;

more fascinating, more ominous, than a snake’s rattle, sounded the

music of the dice-box.

The stakes were high, waxing higher, and higher; the tide of fortune

set steadily towards Titian. Giannuccione laughed and played, played

and laughed with reckless good-nature, doubling and redoubling his

bets apparently quite at random. At length, however, he paused,

yawned, laid down the dice, observing that it would cost him a good

six months’ toil to pay off his losses—a remark which elicited a

peculiar smile of intelligence from his companions—and, lounging back

upon the cushions, fell fast asleep.

Gianni also had been a loser: Gianni the imperturbable, who won and

lost alike with steady hand and unvarying colour. Rumour stated that

one evening he lost, won back, lost once more, and finally regained

his whole property unmoved: at last only relinquishing the game,

which fascinated, but could not excite him, for lack of an adversary.

In like manner he now threw his possessions, as coolly as if they

been another’s, piecemeal into the gulph. First his money went, then

his collection of choice sketches; his gondola followed, his plate,

his jewelry. These gone, for the first time he laughed.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘amico mio, let us throw the crowning cast. I stake

thereon myself; if you win, you may sell me to the Moor to-morrow,

with the remnant of my patrimony; to wit, one house, containing

various articles of furniture and apparel; yea, if aught else remains

to me, that also do I stake: against these set you your newborn

beauty, and let us throw for the last time; lest it be said cogged

dice are used in Venice, and I be taunted with the true

proverb,—“Save me from my friends, and I will take care of my

enemies.”’

‘So be it,’ mused Titian, ‘even so. If I gain, my friend shall not

suffer; if I lose, I can but buy back my treasure with this night’s

winnings. His whole fortune will stand Gianni in more stead than my

picture; moreover, luck favours me. Besides, it can only be that my

friend jests, and would try my confidence.’

So argued Titian, heated by success, by wine and play. But for these,

he would freely have restored his adversary’s fortune, though it had

been multiplied tenfold, and again tenfold, rather than have risked

his life’s labour on the hazard of the dice.

They threw.

Luck had turned, and Gianni was successful.

Titian, nothing doubting, laughed as he looked up from the table into

his companion’s face; but no shadow of jesting lingered there. Their

eyes met, and read each other’s heart at a glance.

One, discerned the gnawing envy of a life satiated: a thousand

mortifications, a thousand inferiorities, compensated in a moment.

The other, read an indignation that even yet scarcely realised the

treachery which kindled it; a noble indignation, that more upbraided

the false friend than the destroyer of a life’s hope.

It was a nine-days’ wonder in Venice what had become of Titian’s

masterpiece; who had spirited it away,—why, when, and where. Some

explained the mystery by hinting that Clementina Beneplacida, having

gained secret access to the great master’s studio, had there, by dint

of scissors, avenged her slighted beauty, and in effigy defaced her

nut-brown rival. Others said that Giannuccione, paying tipsy homage

to his friend’s performance, had marred its yet moist surface. Others

again averred, that in a moment of impatience, Titian’s own sponge

flung against the canvas, had irremediably blurred the principal

figure. None knew, none guessed the truth. Wonder fulfilled its

little day, and then, subsiding, was forgotten: having, it may be,

after all, as truly amused Venice the volatile as any work of art

could have done, though it had robbed sunset of its glow, its glory,

and its fire.

But why was the infamy of that night kept secret?

By Titian, because in blazoning abroad his companion’s treachery, he

would subject himself to the pity of those from whom he scarcely

accepted homage; and, in branding Gianni as a traitor, he would

expose himself as a dupe.

By Gianni, because had the truth got wind, his iniquitous prize might

have been wrested from him, and his malice frustrated in the moment

of triumph; not to mention that vengeance had a subtler relish when

it kept back a successful rival from the pinnacle of fame, than when

it merely exposed a friend to humiliation. As artists, they might

possibly have been accounted rivals; as astute men of the world,

never.

Giannuccione had not witnessed all the transactions of that night.

Thanks to his drunken sleep, he knew little; and what he guessed,

Titian’s urgency induced him to suppress. It was, indeed, noticed

how, from that time forward, two of the three inseparables appeared

in a measure, estranged from the third; yet all outward observances

of courtesy were continued, and, if embraces had ceased, bows and

doffings never failed.

For weeks, even for months, Gianni restrained his love for play, and,

painting diligently, laboured to rebuild his shattered fortune. All

prospered in his hands. His sketches sold with unprecedented

readiness, his epigrams charmed the noblest dinner-givers, his verses

and piquant little airs won him admission into the most exclusive

circles. Withal, he seemed to be steadying. His name no more pointed

stories of drunken frolics in the purlieus of the city, of mad wagers

in the meanest company, of reckless duels with nameless adversaries.

If now he committed follies, they were committed in the best society;

if he sinned, it was, at any rate, in a patrician casa; and, though

his morals might not yet be flawless, his taste was unimpeachable.

His boon companions grumbled, yet could not afford to dispense with

him; his warmest friends revived hopes which long ago had died away

into despair. It was the heyday of his life: fortune and Venice alike

courted him; he had but to sun himself in their smiles, and accept

their favours.

So, nothing loth, he did, and for a while prospered. But, as the

extraordinary stimulus flagged, the extraordinary energy flagged with

it. Leisure returned, and with leisure the allurements of old

pursuits. In proportion as his expenditure increased, his gains

lessened; and, just when all his property, in fact, belonged to his

creditors, he put the finishing stroke to his obvious ruin, by

staking and losing at the gambling-table what was no longer his own.

That night beheld Gianni grave, dignified, imperturbable, and a

beggar. Next day, his creditors, princely and plebeian, would be upon

him: everything must go; not a scrap, not a fragment, could be held

back. Even Titian’s masterpiece would be claimed; that prize for

which he had played away his soul, by which, it may be, he had hoped

to acquire a worldwide fame, when its mighty author should be

silenced forever in the dust.

Yet to-morrow, not to-night, would be the day of reckoning; to-night,

therefore, was his own. With a cool head he conceived, with a steady

hand he executed, his purpose. Taking coarse pigments, such as, when

he pleased, might easily be removed, he daubed over those figures

which seemed to live, and that wonderful background, which not Titian

himself could reproduce; then, on the blank surface, he painted a

dragon, flaming, clawed, preposterous. One day he would recover his

dragon, recover his Titian under the dragon, and the world should see.

Next morning the crisis came.

After all, Gianni’s effects were worth more than had been supposed.

They included Giannuccione’s Venus whipping Cupid—how obtained, who

knows?—a curiously wrought cup, by a Florentine goldsmith, just then

rising into notice; within the hollow of the foot was engraved

Benvenuto Cellini, surmounted by an outstretched hand, symbolic of

welcome, and quaintly allusive to the name; a dab by Giorgione, a

scribble of the brush by Titian, and two feets square of genuine

Tintoret. The creditors brightened; there was not enough for honesty,

but there was ample for the production of a most decorous bankrupt.

His wardrobe was a study of colour; his trinkets, few but choice,

were of priceless good taste. Moreover, his demeanour was

unimpeachable and his delinquencies came to light with the best grace

imaginable. Some called him a defaulter, but all admitted he was a

thorough gentleman.

Foremost in the hostile ranks stood Titian; Titian, who now, for the

first time since that fatal evening, crossed his rival’s threshold.

His eye searched eagerly among the heap of nameless canvasses for one

unforgotten beauty, who had occasioned him such sore heartache; but

he sought in vain; only in the forefront sprawled a dragon, flaming,

clawed, preposterous; grinned, twinkled, erected his tail, and

flouted him.

‘Yes,’ said Gianni, answering his looks, not words, yet seeming to

address the whole circle, ‘Signori miei, these compose all my

gallery. An immortal sketch, by Messer Tiziano’—here a complimentary

bow—‘a veritable Giorgione; your own work, Messer Robusti, which

needs no comment of mine to fix its value. A few productions by

feebler hands, yet not devoid of merit. These are all. The most

precious part of my collection was destroyed (I need not state,

accidentally), three days ago by fire. That dragon, yet moist, was

designed for mine host, Bevilacqua Mangiaruva; but this morning, I

hear, with deep concern, of his sudden demise.’

Here Lupo Vorace of the Orco decapitato stepped forward. He, as he

explained at length, was a man of few words (this, doubtless, in

theory); but to make a long story short, so charmed was he by the

scaly monster that he would change his sign, accept the ownerless

dragon, and thereby wipe out a voluminous score which stood against

his debtor. Gianni, with courteous thanks, explained that the dragon,

still moist, was unfit for immediate transport; that it should remain

in the studio for a short time longer; and that, as soon as its

safety permitted, he would himself convey it to the inn of his

liberal creditor. But on this point Lupo was inflexible. In diffuse

but unvarying terms he claimed instant possession of Gianni’s

masterstroke. He seized it, reared it face upwards on to his head,

and by his exit broke up the conclave of creditors.

What remains can be briefly told.

Titian, his last hope in this direction wrecked, returned to achieve,

indeed, fresh greatnesses: but not the less returned to the tedium of

straining after an ideal once achieved, but now lost forever.

Giannuccione, half amused, half mortified, at the slighting mention

made of his performances, revenged himself in an epigram, of which

the following is a free translation:—

‘Gianni my friend and I both strove to excel,

But, missing better, settled down in well.

Both fail, indeed; but not alike we fail—

My forte being Venus’ face, and his a dragon’s tail.’

Gianni, in his ruin, took refuge with a former friend; and there,

treated almost on the footing of a friend, employed his superabundant

leisure in concocting a dragon superior in all points to its

predecessor; but, when this was almost completed, this which was to

ransom his unsuspected treasure from the clutches of Lupo, the more

relentless clutches of death fastened upon himself.

His secret died with him.

An oral tradition of a somewhere extant lost Titian having survived

all historical accuracy, and so descended to another age, misled the

learned Dr. Landau into purchasing a spurious work for the Gallery of

Lunenberg; and even more recently induced Dr. Dreieck to expend a

large sum on a nominal Titian, which he afterwards bequeathed to the

National Museum of Saxe Eulenstein. The subject of this latter

painting is a Vintage of red grapes, full of life and vigour,

exhibiting marked talent, but clearly assignable to the commencement

of a later century.

There remains, however, a hope that some happy accident may yet

restore to the world the masterpiece of one of her most brilliant

sons.

Reader, should you chance to discern over wayside inn or metropolitan

hotel a dragon pendent, or should you find such an effigy amid the

lumber of a broker’s shop, whether it be red, green, or piebald,

demand it importunately, pay for it liberally, and in the privacy of

home scrub it. It may be that from behind the dragon will emerge a

fair one, fairer than Andromeda, and that to you will appertain the

honour of yet further exalting Titian’s greatness in the eyes of a

world.

NICK.

There dwelt in a small village, not a thousand miles from Fairyland,

a poor man, who had no family to labour for or friend to assist. When

I call him poor, you must not suppose he was a homeless wanderer,

trusting to charity for a night’s lodging; on the contrary, his stone

house, with its green verandah and flower-garden, was the prettiest

and snuggest in all the place, the doctor’s only excepted. Neither

was his store of provisions running low: his farm supplied him with

milk, eggs, mutton, butter, poultry, and cheese in abundance; his

fields with hops and barley for beer, and wheat for bread; his

orchard with fruit and cider; and his kitchen-garden with vegetables

and wholesome herbs. He had, moreover, health, an appetite to enjoy

all these good things, and strength to walk about his possessions.

No, I call him poor because, with all these, he was discontented and

envious. It was in vain that his apples were the largest for miles

around, if his neighbour’s vines were the most productive by a single

bunch; it was in vain that his lambs were fat and thriving, if some

one else’s sheep bore twins: so, instead of enjoying his own

prosperity, and being glad when his neighbours prospered too, he

would sit grumbling and bemoaning himself as if every other man’s

riches were his poverty. And thus it was that one day our friend Nick

leaned over Giles Hodge’s gate, counting his cherries.

‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘I wish I were sparrows to eat them up, or a

blight to kill your fine trees altogether.’

The words were scarcely uttered when he felt a tap on his shoulder,

and looking round, perceived a little rosy woman, no bigger than a

butterfly, who held her tiny fist clenched in a menacing attitude.

She looked scornfully at him, and said: ‘Now listen, you churl, you!

henceforward you shall straightway become everything you wish; only

mind, you must remain under one form for at least an hour.’ Then she

gave him a slap in the face, which made his cheek tingle as if a bee

had stung him, and disappeared with just so much sound as a dewdrop

makes in falling.

Nick rubbed his cheek in a pet, pulling wry faces and showing his

teeth. He was boiling over with vexation, but dared not vent it in

words lest some unlucky wish should escape him. Just then the sun

seemed to shine brighter than ever, the wind blew spicy from the

south; all Giles’s roses looked redder and larger than before, while

his cherries seemed to multiply, swell, ripen. He could refrain no

longer, but, heedless of the fairy-gift he had just received,

exclaimed, ‘I wish I were sparrows eating’ No sooner said than done:

in a moment he found himself a whole flight of hungry birds, pecking,

devouring, and bidding fair to devastate the envied cherry-trees. But

honest Giles was on the watch hard by; for that very morning it had

struck him he must make nets for the protection of his fine fruit.

Forthwith he ran home, and speedily returned with a revolver

furnished with quite a marvellous array of barrels. Pop, bang—pop,

bang! he made short work of the sparrows, and soon reduced the enemy

to one crestfallen biped with broken leg and wing, who limped to hide

himself under a holly-bush. But though the fun was over, the hour was

not; so Nick must needs sit out his allotted time. Next a pelting

shower came down, which soaked him through his torn, ruffled

feathers; and then, exactly as the last drops fell and the sun came

out with a beautiful rainbow, a tabby cat pounced upon him. Giving

himself up for lost, he chirped in desperation, ‘O, I wish I were a

dog to worry you!’ Instantly—for the hour was just passed—in the grip

of his horrified adversary, he turned at bay, a savage bull-dog. A

shake, a deep bite, and poor puss was out of her pain. Nick, with

immense satisfaction, tore her fur to bits, wishing he could in like

manner exterminate all her progeny. At last, glutted with vengeance,

he lay down beside his victim, relaxed his ears and tail, and fell

asleep.

Now that tabby-cat was the property and special pet of no less a

personage than the doctor’s lady; so when dinner-time came, and not

the cat, a general consternation pervaded the household. The kitchens

were searched, the cellars, the attics; every apartment was

ransacked; even the watch-dog’s kennel was visited. Next the stable

was rummaged, then the hay-loft; lastly, the bereaved lady wandered

disconsolately through her own private garden into the shrubbery,

calling ‘Puss, puss,’ and looking so intently up the trees as not to

perceive what lay close before her feet. Thus it was that, unawares,

she stumbled over Nick, and trod upon his tail.

Up jumped our hero, snarling, biting, and rushing at her with such

blind fury as to miss his aim. She ran, he ran. Gathering up his

strength, he took a flying-leap after his victim; her foot caught in

the spreading root of an oaktree, she fell, and he went over her

head, clear over, into a bed of stinging-nettles. Then she found

breath to raise that fatal cry, ‘Mad dog!’ Nick’s blood curdled in

his veins; he would have slunk away if he could; but already a stout

labouring-man, to whom he had done many an ill turn in the time of

his humanity, had spied him, and, bludgeon in hand, was preparing to

give chase. However, Nick had the start of him, and used it too;

while the lady, far behind, went on vociferating, ‘Mad dog, mad dog!’

inciting doctor, servants, and vagabonds to the pursuit. Finally, the

whole village came pouring out to swell the hue and cry.

The dog kept ahead gallantly, distancing more and more the asthmatic

doctor, fat Giles, and, in fact, all his pursuers except the

bludgeon-bearing labourer, who was just near enough to persecute his

tail. Nick knew the magic hour must be almost over, and so kept

forming wish after wish as he ran,—that he were a viper only to get

trodden on, a thorn to run into some one’s foot, a man-trap in the

path, even the detested bludgeon to miss its aim and break. This wish

crossed his mind at the propitious moment; the bull-dog vanished, and

the labourer, overreaching himself, fell flat on his face, while his

weapon struck deep into the earth, and snapped.

A strict search was instituted after the missing dog, but without

success. During two whole days the village children were exhorted to

keep indoors and beware of dogs; on the third an inoffensive bull pup

was hanged, and the panic subsided.

Meanwhile the labourer, with his shattered stick, walked home in

silent wonder, pondering on the mysterious disappearance. But the

puzzle was beyond his solution; so he only made up his mind not to

tell his wife the whole story till after tea. He found her preparing

for that meal, the bread and cheese set out, and the kettle singing

softly on the fire. ‘Here’s something to make the kettle boil,

mother,’ said he, thrusting our hero between the bars and seating

himself; ‘for I’m mortal tired and thirsty.’

Nick crackled and blazed away cheerfully, throwing out bright sparks,

and lighting up every corner of the little room. He toasted the

cheese to a nicety, made the kettle boil without spilling a drop, set

the cat purring with comfort, and illuminated the pots and pans into

splendour. It was provocation enough to be burned; but to contribute

by his misfortune to the well-being of his tormentors was still more

aggravating. He heard, too, all their remarks and wonderment about

the supposed mad-dog, and saw the doctor’s lady’s own maid bring the

labourer five shillings as a reward for his exertions. Then followed

a discussion as to what should be purchased with the gift, till at

last it was resolved to have their best window glazed with real

glass. The prospect of their grandeur put the finishing-stroke to

Nick’s indignation. Sending up a sudden flare, he wished with all his

might that he were fire to burn the cottage.

Forthwith the flame leaped higher than ever flame leaped before. It

played for a moment about a ham, and smoked it to a nicety; then,

fastening on the woodwork above the chimney-corner, flashed full into

a blaze. The labourer ran for help, while his wife, a timid woman,

with three small children, overturned two pails of water on the

floor, and set the beer-tap running. This done, she hurried, wringing

her hands, to the door, and threw it wide open. The sudden draught of

air did more mischief than all Nick’s malice, and fanned him into

quite a conflagration. He danced upon the rafters, melted a

pewter-pot and a pat of butter, licked up the beer, and was just

making his way towards the bedroom, when through the thatch and down

the chimney came a rush of water. This arrested his progress for the

moment; and before he could recover himself, a second and a third

discharge from the enemy completed his discomfiture. Reduced ere long

to one blue flame, and entirely surrounded by a wall of wet ashes,

Nick sat and smouldered; while the good-natured neighbours did their

best to remedy the mishap,—saved a small remnant of beer, assured the

labourer that his landlord was certain to do the repairs, and

observed that the ham would eat ‘beautiful.’

Our hero now had leisure for reflection. His situation precluded all

hope of doing further mischief; and the disagreeable conviction kept

forcing itself upon his mind that, after all, he had caused more

injury to himself than to any of his neighbours. Remembering, too,

how contemptuously the fairy woman had looked and spoken, he began to

wonder how he could ever have expected to enjoy her gift. Then it

occurred to him, that if he merely studied his own advantage without

trying to annoy other people, perhaps his persecutor might be

propitiated; so he fell to thinking over all his acquaintances, their

fortunes and misfortunes; and, having weighed well their several

claims on his preference, ended by wishing himself the rich old man

who lived in a handsome house just beyond the turnpike. In this wish

he burned out.

The last glimmer had scarcely died away, when Nick found himself in a

bed hung round with faded curtains, and occupying the centre of a

large room. A night-lamp, burning on the chimney-piece, just enabled

him to discern a few shabby old articles of furniture, a scanty

carpet, and some writing materials on a table. These objects looked

somewhat dreary; but for his comfort he felt an inward consciousness

of a goodly money-chest stowed away under his bed, and of sundry

precious documents hidden in a secret cupboard in the wall.

So he lay very cosily, and listened to the clock ticking, the mice

squeaking, and the house-dog barking down below. This was, however,

but a drowsy occupation; and he soon bore witness to its somniferous

influence by sinking into a fantastic dream about his money-chest.

First, it was broken open, then shipwrecked, then burned; lastly,

some men in masks, whom he knew instinctively to be his own servants,

began dragging it away. Nick started up, clutched hold of something

in the dark, found his last dream true, and the next moment was

stretched on the floor—lifeless, yet not insensible—by a heavy blow

from a crowbar.

The men now proceeded to secure their booty, leaving our hero where

he fell. They carried off the chest, broke open and ransacked the

secret closet, overturned the furniture, to make sure that no

hiding-place of treasure escaped them, and at length, whispering

together, left the room.

Nick felt quite discouraged by his ill success, and now entertained

only one wish—that he were himself again. Yet even this wish gave him

some anxiety; for he feared that if the servants returned and found

him in his original shape they might take him for a spy, and murder

him in downright earnest. While he lay thus cogitating two of the men

reappeared, bearing a shutter and some tools. They lifted him up,

laid him on the shutter, and carried him out of the room, down the

back-stairs, through a long vaulted passage, into the open air. No

word was spoken; but Nick knew they were going to bury him.

An utter horror seized him, while, at the same time, he felt a

strange consciousness that his hair would not stand on end because he

was dead. The men set him down, and began in silence to dig his

grave. It was soon ready to receive him; they threw the body roughly

in, and cast upon it the first shovelful of earth.

But the moment of deliverance had arrived. His wish suddenly found

vent in a prolonged unearthly yell. Damp with night dew, pale as

death, and shivering from head to foot, he sat bolt upright, with

starting, staring eyes and chattering teeth. The murderers, in mortal

fear, cast down their tools, plunged deep into a wood hard by, and

were never heard of more.

Under cover of night Nick made the best of his way home, silent and

pondering. Next morning he gave Giles Hodge a rare tulip root, with

full directions for rearing it; he sent the doctor’s wife a Persian

cat twice the size of her lost pet; the labourer’s cottage was

repaired, his window glazed, and his beer barrel replaced by unknown

agency; and when a vague rumour reached the village that the miser

was dead, that his ghost had been heard bemoaning itself, and that

all his treasures had been carried off, our hero was one of the few

persons who did not say, ‘And served him right, too.’

Finally, Nick was never again heard to utter a wish.

HERO.

A METAMORPHOSIS.

‘Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us!’

BURNS.

If you consult the authentic map of Fairyland (recently published by

Messrs. Moon, Shine, and Co.) you will notice that the emerald green

line which indicates its territorial limit, is washed towards the

south by a bold expanse of sea, undotted by either rocks or islands.

To the north-west it touches the work-a-day world, yet is effectually

barricaded against intruders by an impassable chain of mountains;

which, enriched throughout with mines of gems and metals, presents on

Manside a leaden sameness of hue, but on Elfside glitters with

diamonds and opals as with ten thousand fire-flies. The greater

portion of the west frontier is, however, bounded, not by these

mountains, but by an arm of the sea, which forms a natural barrier

between the two countries; its eastern shore peopled by good folks

and canny neighbours, gay sprites, graceful fairies, and sportive

elves; its western by a bold tribe of semi-barbarous fishermen.

Nor was it without reason that the first settlers selected this

fishing-field, and continued to occupy it, though generation after

generation they lived and died almost isolated. Their swift,

white-sailed boats ever bore the most delicate freights of fish to

the markets of Outerworld—and not of fish only; many a waif and stray

from Fairyland washed ashore amongst them. Now a fiery carbuncle

blazed upon the sand; now a curiously-wrought ball of gold or ivory

was found imbedded amongst the pebbles. Sometimes a sunny wave threw

up a rose-coloured winged shell or jewelled starfish; sometimes a

branch of unfading seaweed, exquisitely perfumed. But though these

treasures, when once secured, could be offered for sale and purchased

by all alike, they were never, in the first instance, discovered

except by children or innocent young maidens; in-deed, this fact was

of such invariable occurrence, and children were so fortunate in

treasure-finding, that a bluff mariner would often, on returning home

empty-handed from his day’s toil, despatch his little son or daughter

to a certain sheltered stretch of shingle, which went by the name of

‘the children’s harvestfield;’ hoping by such means to repair his

failure.

Amongst this race of fishermen was none more courageous, hospitable,

and free-spoken than Peter Grump the widower; amongst their daughters

was none more graceful and pure than his only child Hero, beautiful,

lively, tender-hearted, and fifteen; the pet of her father, the pride

of her neighbours, and the true love of Forss, as sturdy a young

fellow as ever cast a net in deep water, or rowed against wind and

tide for dear life.

One afternoon Hero, rosy through the splashing spray and sea-wind,

ran home full-handed from the harvest-field.

‘See here, father!’ she cried, eagerly depositing a string of

sparkling red beads upon the table: ‘see, are they not beautiful?’

Peter Grump examined them carefully, holding each bead up to the

light, and weighing them in his hand.

‘Beautiful indeed!’ echoed Forss, who unnoticed, at least by the

elder, had followed Hero into the cottage. ‘Ah, if I had a sister to

find me fairy treasures, I would take the three months’ long journey

to the best market of Outerworld, and make my fortune there.’

‘Then you would rather go the three months’ journey into Outerworld

than come every evening to my father’s cottage?’ said Hero, shyly.

‘Truly I would go to Outerworld first, and come to you afterwards,’

her lover answered, with a smile; for he thought how speedily on his

return he would have a tight house of his own, and a fair young wife,

too.

‘Father,’ said Hero presently, ‘if, instead of gifts coming now and

then to us, I could go to Giftland and grow rich there, would you

fret after me?’

‘Truly,’ answered honest Peter, ‘if you can go and be Queen of

Fairyland, I will not keep you back from such eminence:’ for he

thought, ‘my darling jests; no one ever traversed those mountains or

that inland sea, and how should her little feet cross over?’

But Hero, who could not read their hearts, said within herself, ‘They

do not love me as I love them. Father should not leave me to be fifty

kings; and I would not leave Forss to go to Fairyland, much less

Outerworld.’

Yet from that day forward Hero was changed; their love no longer

seemed sufficient for her; she sought after other love and other

admiration. Once a lily was ample head-dress, now she would heighten

her complexion with a wreath of gorgeous blossoms; once it was enough

that Peter and Forss should be pleased with her, now she grudged any

man’s notice to her fellow-maidens. Stung by supposed indifference,

she suffered disappointment to make her selfish. Her face, always

beautiful, lost its expression of gay sweetness; her temper became

capricious, and instead of cheerful airs she would sing snatches of

plaintive or bitter songs. Her father looked anxious, her lover sad;

both endeavoured, by the most patient tenderness, to win her back to

her former self; but a weight lay on their hearts when they noticed

that she no longer brought home fairy treasures, and remembered that

such could be found only by the innocent.

One evening Hero, sick alike of herself and of others, slipped

unnoticed from the cottage, and wandered seawards. Though the moon

had not yet risen, she could see her way distinctly, for all

Fairycoast flashed one blaze of splendour. A soft wind bore to Hero

the hum of distant instruments and songs, mingled with ringing

laughter; and she thought, full of curiosity, that some festival must

be going on amongst the little people; perhaps a wedding.

Suddenly the music ceased, the lights danced up and down, ran to and

fro, clambered here and there, skurried round and round with

irregular precipitate haste, while the laughter was succeeded by

fitful sounds of lamentation and fear. Hero fancied some precious

thing must have been lost, and that a minute search was going on. For

hours the commotion continued, then gradually, spark by spark, the

blaze died out, and all seemed once more quiet; yet still the low

wail of sorrow was audible.

Weary at length of watching. Hero arose; and was just about to turn

homewards, when a noisy, vigorous wave leaped ashore, and deposited

something shining at her feet.

She stooped. What could it be?

It was a broad, luminous shell, fitted up with pillows and an awning.

On the pillows and under the scented canopy lay fast asleep a little

creature, butterfly-winged and coloured like a rose-leaf. The fish

who should have piloted her had apparently perished at his post, some

portion of his pulp still cleaving to the shell’s fluted lip; while

unconscious of her faithful adherent’s fate rocked by wind and wave,

the Princess Royal of Fairyland had floated fast asleep to Man-side.

Her disappearance it was which had occasioned such painful commotion

amongst her family and affectionate lieges; but all their

lamentations failed to rouse her; and not till the motion of the

water ceased did she awake to find herself, vessel and all, cradled

in the hands of Hero.

During some moments the two stared at each other in silent amazement;

then a suspicion of the truth flashing across her mind. Princess Fay

sat upright on her couch and spoke,—

‘What gift shall I give you that so I may return to my home in peace?’

For an instant Hero would have answered, ‘Give me the love of Forss:’

but pride checked the words, and she said, ‘Grant me, wherever I am,

to become the supreme object of admiration.’

Princess Fay smiled, ‘As you will,’ said she; ‘but to effect this you

must come with me to my country.’

Then, whilst Hero looked round for some road which mortal feet might

traverse, Fay uttered a low, bird-like call, A slight frothing

ensued, at the water’s edge, close to the shingle, whilst one by one

mild, scaly faces peered above the surface, and vigorous tails

propelled their owners. Next, three strong fishes combining

themselves into a raft. Hero seated herself on the centre back, and

holding fast her little captive, launched out upon the water.

Soon they passed beyond where mortal sailor had ever navigated, and

explored the unknown sea. Strange forms of seals and porpoises,

marine snails and unicorns contemplated them with surprise, followed

reverentially in their wake, and watched them safe ashore.

But on Hero their curious ways were lost, so absorbed was she by

ambitious longings. Even after landing, to her it seemed nothing

that her feet trod on sapphires, and that both birds and fairies

made their nests in the adjacent trees. Blinded, deafened,

stultified by self, she passed unmoved through crystal streets,

between fountains of rainbow, along corridors carpeted with

butterflies’ wings, up a staircase formed from a single tusk, into

the opal presence-chamber, even to the foot of the carnelian

dormouse on which sat enthroned Queen Fairy.

Till the Queen said, ‘What gift shall I give you, that so my child

may be free from you and we at peace?’

Then again Hero answered, ‘Grant me, wherever I am, to become the

supreme object of admiration.’

Thereat a hum and buzz of conflicting voices ran through the

apartment. The immutable statutes of Fairycourt enacted that no

captured fairy could be set free except at the price named by the

captor; from this necessity not even the blood-royal was exempt, so

that the case was very urgent; on the other hand, the beauty of Hero,

her extreme youth, and a certain indignant sorrow which spoke in her

every look and tone, had enlisted such sympathy on her side as made

the pigmy nation loth to endow her with the perilous preeminence she

demanded.

‘Clear the court,’ shrilled the usher of the golden rod, an alert

elf, green like a grasshopper.

Amid the crowd of non-voters Hero, bearing her august prisoner,

retired from the throne room.

When recalled to the assembly an imposing silence reigned, which was

almost instantly broken by the Queen. ‘Maiden,’ she said, ‘it cannot

be but that the dear ransom of my daughter’s liberty must be paid. I

grant you, wherever you may appear, to become the supreme object of

admiration. In you every man shall find his taste satisfied. In you

one shall recognise his ideal of loveliness, another shall bow before

the impersonation of dignity. One shall be thrilled by your voice,

another fascinated by your wit and inimitable grace. He, who prefers

colour shall dwell upon your complexion, hair, eyes; he who worships

intellect shall find in you his superior; he who is ambitious shall

feel you to be a prize more august than an empire. I cannot ennoble

the taste of those who look upon you: I can but cause that in you all

desire shall be gratified. If sometimes you chafe under a trivial

homage, if sometimes you are admired rather for what you have than

for what you are, accuse your votaries,—accuse, if you will,

yourself, but accuse not me. In consideration, however, of your utter

inexperience, land my trusty counsellors have agreed for one year to

retain your body here, whilst in spirit you at will become one with

the reigning object of admiration. If at the end of the year you

return to claim this preeminence as your own proper attribute, it

shall then be unconditionally granted: if, on the contrary, you then

or even sooner desire to be released from a gift whose sweetness is

alloyed by you know not how much of bitter shortcoming and

disappointment, return, and you shall at once be relieved of a burden

you cannot yet estimate.’

So Hero quitted the presence, led by spirits to a pleasance screened

off into a perpetual twilight. Here, on a rippling lake, blossomed

lilies. She lay down among their broad leaves and cups, cradled by

their interlaced stems, rocked by warm winds on the rocking water;

she lay till the splash of fountains, and the chirp of nestlings, and

the whisper of spiced breezes, and the chanted monotone of an

innumerable choir, lulled to sleep her soul, lulled to rest her

tumultuous heart, charmed her conscious spirit into a heavy blazing

diamond,—a glory by day, a lamp by night, and a world’s wonder at all

times.

Let us leave the fair body at rest, and crowned with lilies, to

follow the restless spirit, shrined in a jewel, and cast ashore on

Man-side.

No sooner was this incomparable diamond picked up and carried home

than Hero’s darling wish was gratified. She outshone every beauty,

she eclipsed the most brilliant eyes of the colony. For a moment the

choicest friend was superseded, the dearest mistress overlooked. For

a moment—and this outstripped her desire—Peter Grump forgot his

lost daughter and Forss his lost love. Soon greedy admiration

developed into greedy strife: her spark kindled a conflagration. This

gem, in itself an unprecedented fortune, should this gem remain the

property of a defenceless orphan to whom mere chance had assigned it?

From her it was torn in a moment: then the stronger wrested it from

the strong, blows revenged blows, until, as the last contender bit

the dust in convulsive death, the victor, feared throughout the

settlement for his brute strength and brutal habits, bore off the

prize toward the best market of Outerworld.

It irked Hero to nestle in that polluted bosom and count the beatings

of that sordid heart; but when, at the end of the three months’ long

journey, she found herself in a guarded booth, enthroned on a cushion

of black velvet, by day blazing even in the full sunshine, by night

needing no lamp save her own lustre; when she heard the sums running

up from thousands into millions which whole guilds of jewellers,

whole caravans of merchant princes, whole royal families clubbed

their resources to offer for her purchase, it outweighed all she had

undergone of disgust and tedium. Finally, two empires, between which

a marriage was about to be contracted and a peace ratified, outbid

all rivals and secured the prize.

Princess Lily, the august bride-elect, was celebrated far and near

for courteous manners and delicate beauty. Her refusal was more

gracious, her reserve more winning, than the acquiescence or

frankness of another. She might have been more admired, or even

envied, had she been less loved. If she sang, her hearers loved her;

if she danced, the lookers-on loved her; thus love forestalled

admiration, and happy in the one she never missed the other.

Only on her wedding-day, for the first time, she excited envy; for in

her coronet appeared the inestimable jewel, encircling her sweet face

with a halo of splendour. Hero eclipsed the bride, dazzled the

bridegroom, distracted the queen-mother, and thrilled the whole

assembly. Through all the public solemnities of the day Hero reigned

supreme: and when, the state parade being at length over, Lily

unclasped her gems and laid aside her cumbrous coronet. Hero was

handled with more reverential tenderness than her mistress.

The bride leaned over her casket of treasures and gazed at the

inestimable diamond. ‘Is it not magnificent?’ whispered she.

‘What?’ said the bridegroom: ‘I was looking at you.’

So Lily flushed up with delight, and Hero experienced a shock. Next

the diamond shot up one ray of dazzling momentary lustre; then lost

its supernatural brilliancy, as Hero quitted the gem for the heart of

Lily.

Etiquette required that the young couple should for some days remain

in strict retirement. Hero now found herself in a secluded palace,

screened by the growth of many centuries. She was waited on by twenty

bridesmaids only less noble than their princess; she was worshipped

by her bridegroom and reflected by a hundred mirrors. In Lily’s pure

heart she almost found rest: and when the young prince, at dawn, or

lazy noon, or mysterious twilight—for indeed the process went on

every day and all day—praised his love’s eyes, or hair, or voice, or

movements, Hero thought with proud eagerness of the moment when, in

her own proper person, she might claim undisputed preeminence.

The prescribed seclusion, however, drew to a close, and the royal

pair must make their entrance on public life. Their entrance

coincided with another’s exit.

Melice Rapta had for three successive seasons thrilled the world by

her voice, and subdued it by her loveliness. She possessed the

demeanour of an empress, and the winning simplicity of a child,

genius and modesty, tenderness and indomitable will. Her early years

had passed in obscurity, subject to neglect, if not unkindness; it

was only when approaching womanhood developed and matured her gifts

that she met with wealthy protectors and assumed their name: for

Melice was a foundling.

No sooner, however, did her world-wide fame place large resources at

her command, than she anxiously sought to trace her unknown parentage;

and, at length, discovered that her high-born father and plebeian

mother—herself sole fruit of their concealed marriage—were dead. Once

made known to her kindred, she was eagerly acknowledged by them; but

rejecting more brilliant offers, she chose to withdraw into a private

sphere, and fix her residence with a maternal uncle, who, long past

the meridian of life, devoted his energies to botanical research and

culture.

So, on the same evening, Lily and her husband entered on their public

duties, and Melice took leave for ever of a nation of admirers.

When the prince and princess appeared in the theatre, the whole house

stood up, answering their smiles and blushes by acclamations of

welcome. They took their places on chairs of state under an

emblazoned canopy, and the performance commenced.

A moonless night: three transparent ghosts flit across the scene,

bearing in their bosoms unborn souls. They leave behind tracks of

light from which are generated arums. Day breaks—Melice enters; she

washes her hands in a fountain, singing to the splash of the water;

she plucks arums, and begins weaving them into a garland, still

singing.

Lily bent forward to whisper something to her husband; but he raised

his hand, enforcing ‘Hush!’ as through eyes and ears his soul drank

deep of beauty. The young wife leaned back with good-humoured

acquiescence; but Hero?

In another moment Hero was singing in the unrivalled songstress,

charming and subduing every heart. The play proceeded; its incidents,

its characters developed. Melice outshone, out-sang herself;

warbling like a bird, thrilling with entreaty, pouring forth her soul

in passion. Her voice commanded an enthusiastic silence, her silence

drew down thunders of enthusiastic applause. She acknowledged the

honour with majestic courtesy; then, for the first time, trembled,

changed colour: would have swept from the presence like a queen, but

merely wept like a woman.

It was her hour of supreme triumph.

Next day she set out for her uncle’s residence, her own selected home.

Many a long day’s journey separated her from her mother’s village,

and her transit thither assumed the aspect of a ceremonial progress.

At every town on her route orations and emblems awaited her; whilst

from the capital she was quitting, came, pursuing her, messages of

farewell, congratulation, entreaty. Often an unknown cavalier rode

beside her carriage some stage of the journey; often a high-born lady

met her on the road, and, taking a last view of her countenance,

obtained a few more last words from the most musical mouth in the

world.

At length the goal was reached. The small cottage, surrounded by its

disproportionately extensive garden, was there; the complex

forcing-houses, pits, refrigerators, were there; Uncle Treeh was

there, standing at the open door to receive his newly-found relative.

Uncle Treeh was rather old, rather short, not handsome; with an acute

eye, a sensitive mouth, and spectacles. With his complexion of sere

brown, and his scattered threads of white hair, he strikingly

resembled certain plants of the cactus tribe, which, in their turn,

resemble withered old men.

All his kind face brightened with welcome as he kissed his fair

niece, and led her into his sitting-room. On the table were spread

for her refreshment the choicest products of his gardens: ponderous

pine-apples, hundred-berried vine clusters, currants large as grapes

and sweet as honey. For a moment his eyes dwelt on a human

countenance with more admiration than on a vegetable; for a moment,

on comparing Malice’s complexion with an ole-ander, he awarded the

palm to the former.

But a week afterwards, when Melice, leaning over his shoulder,

threatened to read what he was writing, Treeh looked good-naturedly

conscious, and, abandoning the letter to her mercy, made his escape

into a neighbouring conservatory.

She read as follows:—

My Friend,—

You will doubtless have learned how my solitude has been invaded by

my sister’s long-lost daughter, a peach-coloured damsel, with

commeline eyes, and hair darker than chestnuts. For one whole evening

I suspended my beloved toils and devoted myself to her: alas! next

day, on revisiting Lime Alley, house B, pot 37, I found that during

my absence a surreptitious slug had devoured three shoots of a

tea-rose. Thus nipped in the bud, my cherished nursling seemed to

upbraid me with neglect; and so great was my vexation, that, on

returning to company, I could scarcely conceal it. From that hour I

resolved that no mistaken notions of hospitality should ever again

seduce me from the true aim of my existence. Nerved by this

resolution, I once more take courage; and now write to inform you

that I am in hourly expectation of beholding pierce the soil (loam,

drenched with liquid manure) the first sprout from that unnamed alien

seed, which was brought to our market, three months ago, by a

seafaring man of semi-barbarous aspect. I break off to visit my

hoped-for seedling.

At this moment the door, hastily flung open, startled Melice, who,

looking up, beheld Treeh, radiant and rejoicing, a flowerpot in his

hand. He hurried up to her, and, setting his load on the table, sank

upon his knees. ‘Look!’ he cried.

‘Why, uncle,’ rejoined Melice, when curious examination revealed to

her eyes a minute living point of green, ‘this marvel quite eclipses

me!’

A pang of humiliation shot through Hero, an instantaneous sharp pang;

the next moment she was burrowing beneath the soil in the thirsty

sucking roots of a plant not one-eighth of an inch high.

Day by day she grew, watched by an eye unwearied as that of a lover.

The green sheath expanded fold after fold, till from it emerged a

crumpled leaf, downy and notched. How was this first-born of an

unknown race tended; how did fumigations rout its infinitesimal foes,

whilst circles of quicklime barricaded it against the invasion of

snails! It throve vigorously, adding leaf to leaf and shoot to shoot:

at length, a minute furry-bud appeared.

Uncle Treeh, the most devoted of foster-fathers, revelled in ecstasy;

yet it seemed to Hero that his step was becoming feebler, and his

hand more tremulous. One morning he waited on her as usual, but

appeared out of breath and unsteady: gradually he bent more and more

forward, till, without removing his eyes from the cherished plant, he

sank huddled on the conservatory floor.

Three hours afterwards hurried steps and anxious faces sought the old

man. There, on the accustomed spot, he lay, shrunk together, cold,

dead; his glazed eyes still riveted on his favourite nursling.

They carried away the corpse—could Treeh have spoken he would have

begged to lie where a delicate vine might suck nourishment from his

remains—and buried it a mile away from the familiar garden; but no

one had the heart to crush him beneath a stone. The earth lay lightly

upon him; and though his bed was unvisited by one who would have

tended it—for Melice, now a wife, had crossed the sea to a distant

home—generations of unbidden flowers, planted by winds and birds,

blossomed there.

During one whole week Hero and her peers dwelt in solitude, uncared

for save by a mournful gardener, who loved and cherished the

vegetable family for their old master’s sake. But on the eighth day

came a change: all things were furbished up, and assumed their most

festive aspect; for the new owners were hourly expected.

The door opened. A magnificently attired lady, followed by two

children and a secondary husband, sailed into the narrow passage,

casting down with her robe several flower-pots. She glanced around

with a superior air, and was about to quit the scene without a word,

when the gardener ventured to remark, ‘Several very rare plants,

madam.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she cried, ‘we knew his eccentric tastes, poor dear old

man!’ and stepped doorwards.

One more effort: ‘This madam,’ indicating Hero, ‘is a specimen quite

unique.’

‘Really,’ said she; and observed to her husband as she left

the house, ‘These useless buildings must be cleared away. This will

be the exact spot for a ruin: I adore a ruin!’

A ruin?—Hero’s spirit died in the slighted plant. Was it to such

taste as this she must condescend? such admiration as this she must

court? Merely to receive it would be humiliation. A passionate

longing for the old lost life, the old beloved love, seized her; she

grew tremulous, numbed: ‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘this is death!’

A hum, a buzz, voices singing and speaking, the splash of fountains,

airy laughter, rustling wings, the noise of a thousand leaves and

flower-cups in commotion. Sparks dancing in the twilight, dancing

feet, joy and triumph; unseen hands loosing succous, interlacing

stalks from their roots beneath the water; towing a lily-raft across

the lake, down a tortuous inland creek, through Fairy-harbour, out

into the open sea.

On the lily-raft lay Hero, crowned with lilies, at rest. A swift tide

was running from Fairycoast to Man-side: every wave heaving her to

its silver crest bore her homewards; every wind whistling from the

shore urged her homewards. Seals and unicorns dived on either hand,

unnoticed. All the tumbling porpoises in the ocean could not have

caught her eye.

At length, the moon-track crossed, she entered the navigable sea.

There all was cold, tedious, dark; not a vessel in sight, not a

living sound audible. She floated farther: something black loomed

through the obscurity; could it be a boat? yes, it was certainly a

distant boat; then she perceived a net lowered into the water; then

saw two fishermen kindle a fire, and prepare themselves to wait, it

might be for hours. Their forms thrown out against the glare struck

Hero as familiar: that old man, stooping more than his former wont;

that other strong and active figure, not so broad as in days of

yore;—Hero’s heart beat painfully: did they remember yet? did they

love yet? was it yet time?

Nearer and nearer she floated, nearer and nearer. The men were

wakeful, restless; they stirred the embers into a blaze, and sat

waiting. Then softly and sadly arose the sound of a boat-song:—

PETER GRUMP.

If underneath the water

You comb your golden hair

With a golden comb, my daughter,

Oh, would that I were there.

If underneath the wave

You fill a slimy grave,

Would that I, who could not save,

Might share.

FORSS.

If my love Hero queens it

In summer Fairyland,

What would I be

But the ring on her hand?

Her cheek when she leans it

Would lean on me:—

Or sweet, bitter-sweet,

The flower that she wore

When we parted, to meet

On the hither shore

Anymore? nevermore.

Some caught Forss’s eye; he tried the nets, and finding them heavily

burdened began to haul them in, saying, ‘It is a shoal of white fish;

no, a drift of white seaweed;’—but suddenly he cried out: ‘Help, old

father! it is a corpse, as white as snow!’

Peter ran to the nets, and with the younger man’s aid rapidly drew

them in. Hero lay quite still, while very gently they lifted the body

over the boat-side, whispering one to another: ‘It is a woman—she is

dead!’ They laid her down where the fire-light shone full upon her

face—her familiar face.

Not a corpse, O Peter Grump: not a corpse, O true Forss, staggering

as from a death-blow. The eyes opened, the face dimpled into a happy

smile; with tears, and clinging arms, and clinging kisses, Hero

begged forgiveness of her father and her lover.

I will not tell you the questions asked and answered, the return

home, the wonder and joy which spread like wildfire through the

colony. Nor how in the moonlight Forss wooed and won his fair love;

nor even how at the wedding danced a band of strangers, gay and

agile, recognised by none save the bride. I will merely tell you how

in after years, sitting by her husband’s fireside, or watching on the

shingle for his return, Hero would speak to her children of her own

early days. And when their eyes kindled while she told of the

marvellous splendour of Fairyland, she would assure them, with the

convincing smile, that only home is happy: and when, with flushed

cheeks and quickened breath, they followed the story of her brief

pre-eminence, she would add, that though admiration seems sweet at

first, only love is sweet first, and last, and always.

VANNA’S TWINS.

There I stood on the platform at H—, girt by my three boxes, one

carpet-bag, strapful of shawls and bundle of umbrellas; there I

stood, with a courteous station-master and two civil porter assuring

me that not one lodging was vacant throughout H—. At another time

such an announcement might not have greatly signified, for London,

whence I came, was less than three hours off; but on this particular

occasion it did matter because I was weakened by recent illness, the

journey down had shaken me, I was hungry and thirsty for my tea, and,

through fear of catching cold, I had wrapped up overmuch; so that

when those polite officials states that they could not point out a

lodging for me I felt more inclined to cry than I hope anybody

suspected. One of the porters, noticing how pale and weak I looked,

good-naturedly volunteered to go to the three best hotels, and see

whether in one of them, I could be housed for the moment; and though

the expensiveness of such a plan secretly dismayed me, I saw nothing

better than to accept his offer. Meanwhile, I retreated into the

waiting-room wishing him success; but wondering, should he not

succeed, what would become of me for the night.

Happily for me, my troubles were not aggravated by imaginary

difficulties. I was turned forty-five, and looked not a day younger;

an age at which there is nothing alarming in finding oneself in a

strange place, or compelled to take a night journey by rail. So I sat

on the waiting-room sofa, shut my eyes to ease, if possible, a

racking headache, and made up my mind that, at the worst, I could

always take the mail-train back to London.

After all, I had not long to wait. Within ten minutes of leaving me

my porter returned with the news that, if I did not mind a very

unfashionable, but quite respectable, quarter of H—, he had just

heard of a first floor vacated half-an-hour before my arrival, and

ready, if I pleased, to receive me. I merely asked, was it clean? and

being assured that there was not a tidier young woman in all H—than

‘Fanny,’ that her husband was a decent optician and stone-cutter, and

that for cleanliness any of their floors might be eaten off, I felt

only too thankful to step into a fly, and accompany my boxes to an

abiding place. Before starting, I happened to ask the name of my

landlord, and was answered, somewhat vaguely, by my porter, ‘We call

them Cole.’

The report of a coming lodger had travelled before me, and I found

Mr. Cole and his Fanny awaiting me at their shop-door. But what a Mr.

Cole and what a Fanny. He was a tall, stout foreigner, about thirty

years of age, ready with tucked-up shirt-sleeves and athletic arms to

bear my boxes aloft; she was the comeliest of young matrons, her

whole face one smile, her ears adorned by weighty gold pendents, and

with an obvious twin baby borne in each arm. Husband and wife alike

addressed me as ‘Meess,’ and displayed teeth of an enviable

regularity and whiteness as they smiled or spoke. Thus much I saw at

a first glance.

Too tired for curiosity, I toiled up the narrow staircase after my

boxes, washed my dusty face and hot hands, and stepped into my little

sitting room, intending to lie down on the soda, and wait as

patiently as might be whilst tea, which I had already ordered, was

got ready. A pleasant surprise met me. I suppose the good-natured

porter may have forewarned Mr. Cole of my weakness and wants; be this

as it may, there stood the tea ready brewed, and flanked by pats of

butter, small rolls, a rasher, and three eggs wrapped up in a clean

napkin. After this, my crowning pleasure for the day was to step into

a bed soft as down could make it, and drop to sleep between sheets

fragrant of lavender.

A few days’ convalescence at H—did more for me than as many weeks’

convalescence in London had effected. Soon I strolled about the beach

without numbering the breakwaters, or along the country roads, taking

no count of the milestones; and went home to meals as hungry as a

school-girl, and slept at nights like a baby. One of my earliest

street-discoveries was that my landlord’s name, as inscribed over his

window, was not Cole, but Cola (Nicola) Piccirillo; and a very brief

sojourn under his roof instructed me that the Fanny of my friend the

porter was called Vanna (Giovanna) by her husband. They were both

Neapolitans of the ex-kingdom, though not of the city, Naples;

whenever I asked either of them after the name of their native place,

they invariably answered me in a tone of endearment, by what sounded

more like ‘Vascitammò’ than aught else I know how to spell; but when

my English tongue uttered ‘Vascitammò’ after them, they would shake

their heads and repeat the uncatchable word; at last it grew to be a

standing joke between us that when I became a millionaire my courier

Cola and my maid Vanna should take the twins and me to see Vascitammò.

I never thought of changing my lodgings, though, as time went on, it

would have been easy to do so, and certainly the quarter we inhabited

was not fashionable. A laborious, not an idle, community environed

our doors and furnished customers to the shop: it was some time

before I discovered that l’amico Piccirillo held a store for polished

stones and marine curiosities in the bazaar of H—. He liked to be

styled an optician; but whilst he sold and repaired spectacles,

driving a prosperous trade amongst the fishing population who

surrounded us, and supplying them with cheap telescopes, compasses,

and an occasional magic-lantern, he was not too proud to eke out his

gains by picking up and preparing marine oddities, pebbles, or weeds.

After we became intimate I more than once rose at three or four in

the morning, as the turn of the ride dictated, and accompanied him on

a ramble of exploration. He scrambled about slippery, jagged rocks as

sure-footed as a wild goat; and if ever my climbing powers failed at

some critical pass, thought nothing of lifting me over the

difficulty, with that courteous familiarity which, in an Italian,

does not cease to be respectful. I was rather lucky in spying

eligible stones, which I contributed to his basket; and then, when we

got home, he would point out to his wife what ‘la Signora’ had found

‘per noi due e per li piccini.’ I understood a little Italian and

they a little English, so we generally, in spite of the Neapolitan

blurring accent, made out each other’s meaning.

Vanna was one of the prettiest women I ever saw, if indeed I ought to

term merely pretty a face which, with good features, contained eyes

softer and more lustrous than any others I remember; their colour I

never made out, but when she lowered the large eyelids, their long

black lashes seemed to throw half her face into shadow. I don’t know

that she was clever except as a housewife, but in this capacity she

excelled, and was a dainty cook over her shining pots and pans: her

husband’s ‘due maccheroni’ often set me hankering, as I spied them

done to a turn and smoking hot; though I confess that when Cola

brought home a cuttle-fish and I saw it dished up as a ‘calamarello’

my English prejudice asserted itself.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Cole’ were unique in my small experience of people, but

surely the twins must have remained unique in anybody’s experience.

What other babies were ever so fat or so merry? To see their creased

arms was enough till one saw their creased legs, and then their arms

grew commonplace. I never once heard them cry: a clothes-basket

formed their primitive bassinette, and there they would sprawl,

tickling each other and chuckling. They chuckled at their father,

mother, myself, or any stranger who would toss them, or poke a finger

into their cushions of fat. They crowed over their own teething, and

before they could speak seemed to bandy intuitive jokes, and chuckled

in concert. Well were they name Felice Maria and Maria Gioconda. At

first sight, they were utterly indistinguishable apart; but

experiment proved that Felice was a trifle heavier than his sister,

and that fingers could go a hair’s-breadth farther round her fat

waist than round his. When I made their acquaintance their heads were

thickly plaistered with that scurf which apparently an Italian custom

leaves undisturbed; but as this wore off, curly black down took its

place, and balanced the large, dark eyes and silky eyebrows and

lashes, which both inherited from their mother. What we, in our

insularity, term the English love of soap and water was shared by

Vanna, and it was one of my amusements to see the twins in their tub.

Often, if hastily summoned to serve behind the counter, Vanna would

leave them in the tub to splash about, and throw each other down and

pick each other up, for a quarter of an hour, together; and if I

hinted that this might not be perfectly safe for them, she invariably

assured me that in her ‘paese’ all the babies toddled about the

shore, and into the sea and out again so soon as ever they could

toddle. ‘E che male vi potrebb essere? non vi son coccodrilli:’ an

argument no less apposite to the tub than to the sea.

As I possessed a small competence and no near home-ties, I felt under

no constraint to leave H—sooner than suited my humour; so, though I

had originally intended to remain there no longer than seven or eight

weeks, month after month slipped away till a whole year had elapsed,

and found me there still. In a year one becomes thoroughly acquainted

with daily associates, and from being prepossessed by their engaging

aspect, I had come to love and respect Piccirillo and his wife. Both

were good Catholics, and evinced their orthodoxy as well by

regularity at mass and confession as by strict uprightness towards

customers and kindliness towards neighbours. Once when a fishing-boat

was lost at sea, and its owner, Ned Gough, lift well-nigh penniless,

Cola, who was ingenious in preparing marine oddities, arranged a

group of young skate in their quaint hoods and mantles, and mounted

them on a green board amongst seaweed bushes as a party of gipsies;

this would have been raffled for, and the proceeds given to the

ruined boatman, had I not taken a fancy to the group, and purchased

it. And the first time the twins walked out alone was when they

crossed over the road hand in hand, each holding an orange as a

present to a little sick girl opposite. Both parents watched them

safe over, and I heard one remark to the other, that ‘Nossignore’

would bless them.

It was mid-May when I arrived at H—, and about mid-May of the year

following I returned to London. A legal question had meanwhile arisen

touching my small property; and this took so long to settle, that

during many and many months I remained in doubt whether I should

continue adequately provided for, or be reduced to work in some

department or other for my living. The point was ultimately decided

in my favour, but not before much vexation and expense had been

incurred on both sides. At the end of three years from quitting H—I

made up my mind to return and settle there for good: no special ties

bound me to London, and I knew of no people under whose roof I would

so gladly make my solitary home as with Piccirillo and his wife;

besides, the twins were an attraction. As to the optician’s shop

being in an out-of-the-way quarter, that I cared nothing for, having

neither the tastes nor the income for fashionable society: so, after

a preliminary letter or two had passed between us, I found myself one

glowing afternoon in June standing once again on the H—platform, not

in the forlorn position I so vividly remembered, but met by Cola,

broader than ever in figure, and smiling his broadest, who whipped up

my trunks with his own hands on to the fly, and took his place by the

driver.

Vanna came running out to meet me at the carriage door, seizing and

kissing both my hands; and before I even alighted two sturdy urchins

had been made to kiss ‘la Signora’s hand. Ten minutes more and I was

seated at tea, chatting to Vanna, and renewing acquaintance with my

old friends Felice and Gioconda. This was effected by the

presentation to them of a lump of sugar apiece, for which each again

kissed my hand, fortunately before their mouths had become sticky by

suction.

They were the funniest little creatures imaginable, and two of the

prettiest. Felice was still just ahead of Gioconda in bulk, but so

much like her that (as I found afterwards) if for fun they exchanged

hats I got into a complete mental muddle as to which was which,

confused by the discrepant hats and frocks. There was no paid Roman

Catholic school in H—, but the good nuns of St. L—taught the little

boys and girl of their congregation; and morning after morning I used

to see the twins start for school hand in hand, with dinner as well

as books in their bags; for St. L—was too far from their home to

admit of going and returning twice in one day. All the neighbours

were fond of them; and often before their destination was reached a

hunch of cake from some good-natured rough hand had found its way

into one or other bag, to be shared in due course.

At their books they were ‘proprio maravigliosi,’ as Vanna phrased it;

whilst Cola, swelling with paternal pride under a veil of humility,

would observe, ‘Non c’è male, nè lui nè lei.’ I believe they really

were clever children and fond of their books: at any rate, one Holy

Innocents’ Day they brought home a prize, a little story in two

volumes, one volume apiece; for, as the kind nuns had remarked, they

were like one work in two volumes themselves, and should have one

book between them. That night they went to bed and feel asleep hand

in hand as usual, but each holding in the other hand a scarlet-bound

volume, so proud were they. They were but seven years old, and had

never yet slept apart: never yet, and, as it turned out, never at all.

The Christmas when this happened was one of the brightest and

pleasantest I recollect; night after night slight frost visited us,

but day after day it melted away, whilst sea and sky spread clear and

blue in the sunshine. In other countries much snow had fallen and was

still falling, but snow had not yet reached our shores.

Christmas, as usual, brought a few bills to me, and likewise to my

friends. Of theirs the heaviest was the doctor’s bill, for the twins

had caught scarlatina in the summer, and had got well on a variety of

pills and draughts. Then Cola bethought himself of certain money due

to him at a coast-guard station not many miles from H—, and which

would just suffice to pay the doctor; and one Saturday, a day or two

after Twelfth Day, he took the first afternoon train to E—, this

being the nearest point on the line to his destination, and went to

look after his debtor, telling Vanna that he might not be back before

the latest train came into H—.

So Vanna took her seat behind the counter, and looked up the road

towards St. L—, watching for her little ones to come racing home from

school, for school broke up early on Saturdays. At she sat, she

knitted something warm and useful, for she was never idle, and hummed

in her low, sweet voice the first words of a Christmas carol. I only

know those first words, so pathetic in their devout simplicity:—

‘Tu scendi dalle stelle, O Re del Cielo,

E vieni in una grotta al freddo al gelo:

O Bambino mio divino

Io Ti voglio sempre amar!

O Dio beato

E quanto Ti costò l’avermi amato.’

She was thus occupied as I crossed the shop on my way upstairs, and

whilst I paused to say a word in passing, a young woman, her face

swollen with crying, came up, who, almost without stopping, called

out: ‘O Fanny, Fanny, my three are down with the fever, and I’m

running for the doctor!’ and in speaking she was gone.

Sympathetic tears had gathered in Vanna’s kind eyes when I looked at

her. ‘Non hanno padre,’ she said, half apologetically; and I then

recollected who the young woman was, and that her children were worse

than fatherless. Poor Maggie Crowe! deserted by a good-for-nothing

husband she worked hard to keep her little ones out of the workhouse;

did charing, took in needlework, went out nursing when she could get

a job, and now her three children were ‘down with the fever,’ and she

had had to leave them alone in her wretched hovel on the east cliff

to run a mile and more into H—to fetch the parish doctor. We soon saw

her tearing back as she had come, not stopping now to speak.

I went to my room, and looking into my charity-purse found that I

could afford five shillings out of it for this poor family, and

settled mentally that I would take them round next day after church.

At the moment I was feeling tired and disinclined to stir, and I

concluded the parish doctor, who bore a character for kindness, would

certainly for that night supply his patients with necessaries.

Just after the clock struck three I heard a bustle below; the twins

had come home and were talking eagerly to their mother in their loud,

childish voices. I heard Vanna answer them once or twice; then she

spoke continuously, seeming to tell them something, and I heard both

reply, ‘Mamma sì.’ A few minutes later I was surprised to see them

from my window trotting along the street, but not in the direction

from which they had just come, and bearing between them a

market-basket, each of them holding it by one handle.

A suspicion of their errand crossed my mind, and I hurried downstairs

to warn Vanna that a few snowflakes had already fallen and more hung

floating about in the still air. She had noticed this of herself, but

replied that they knew their way quite well, and it was not far to

go; indeed, she could not feel easy without sending up a few oranges

left from Twelfth Day for the sick children. Her own had had the

fever, they had promised her to go straight and return straight

without loitering, and though she looked somewhat anxious, she

concluded bravely: ‘Nossignore avrà cura di loro.’

I went back to my room thoroughly mortified at the rebuke which her

alacrity administered to my laziness. How much less would it not have

cost me to set off at once with my five shillings than it cost poor

Vanna to send her little ones, tired as perhaps they were, to what,

for such short legs, was a considerable distance. From my window,

moreover, I soon could not help perceiving that not only the snow,

rare at first, had begun to fall rapidly and in large flakes, but

that the sky lowered dense and ominous over the east cliff. I felt

sure that there, and thither it was that the twins were bound, it

must already be snowing heavily.

Four o’clock struck, but Felice and Gioconda had not come back. I

heard Vanna closing the shop. In another five minutes she came up to

me dressed in bonnet and shawl, with a pale face that told its own

story of alarm. Still she would not acknowledge herself frightened,

but tried to laugh, as she apologized for leaving me alone in the

house, assured me that no one could possibly calling at that hour,

and protested that she would not be out long. If the twins arrived in

her absence she was sure I would kindly let them sit by my fire till

her return; then, fairly breaking down and crying, she left me,

repeating, ‘Non son che piccini, poveri piccini, poveri piccini miei.’

A couple of men with lighted lanterns stood waiting for her in the

street; one of them made her take his arm, and I knew by the voice

that it was Ned Gough. Hour after hour struck, and they did not

return.

About seven o’clock I heard a loud knocking; and running down to open

the door, for being left alone in the house I had locked up and made

all safe, I found Piccirillo, who on account of the snow had hastened

home by an earlier train than he had mentioned, and was now much

amazed at finding the house closed and no light burning below. When

he understood what had happened he seemed beside himself with

agitation and terror. Flinging up his arms he rushed from the house,

calling out, ‘Vanna, Vanna mia! dove sei? rispondimi: figli miei,

rispondetemi.’ Neighbours came about him, offering what comfort they

could think of: but what comfort could there be? He, too, must set

off in the snow to seek his poor lost babies and their mother; and

soon he started, lantern and stick in hand, ejaculating, and making

vows as he went. ‘Dio mio Dio mio, abbi pietà di noi.’