CHAPTER I

The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been summoned to the top of a great

house in the Isle St. Louis to make a will; and now, his duties

finished, wrapped in a warm roquelaure and with a lantern swinging

from one hand, he issued from the mansion on his homeward way. Little

did he think what strange adventures were to befall him!--

That is how stories should begin. And I am offered HUSKS instead.

What should be: What is:

The Filibuster's Cache. Aunt Anne's Tea Cosy.

Jerry Abershaw. Mrs. Brierly's Niece.

Blood Money: A Tale. Society: A Novel.

R. L. S.

[The following letters to myself refer to a project, eagerly embraced

at first, but afterward abandoned for want of time and strength, for a

short life of Wellington to be contributed to a series edited by Mr.

Andrew Lang for Messrs. Longman. In the third letter to me, and in

that to Mr. J. A. Symonds which follows it, are expressed something of

the feelings of distress and bitterness with which, in common with,

but even more deeply than most Englishmen of sense and spirit,

Stevenson at this time felt the national disgrace of Gordon's fate in

the Soudan.]

BONALLIE TOWER, BRANKSOME PARK,

BOURNEMOUTH,

Jan. 4th, 1885.

DEAR S. C.,--I am on my feet again, and getting on my boots to do the

_Iron Duke_. Conceive my glee: I have refused the £100, and am to get

some sort of royalty, not yet decided, instead. 'Tis for Longman's

_English Worthies_, edited by A. Lang. Aw haw!

Now look here, could you get me a loan of the Despatches, or is that a

dream? I should have to mark passages I fear, and certainly note pages

on the fly. If you think it a dream, will Bain get me a second-hand

copy, or who would? The sooner, and cheaper, I can get it the better.

If there is anything in your weird library that bears on either the

man or the period, put it in a mortar and fire it here instanter: I

shall catch. I shall want, of course, an infinity of books: among

which, any lives there may be; a life of the Marquis Marmont (the

Maréchal), _Marmont's Memoirs_; _Greville's Memoirs_; _Peel's

Memoirs_; _Napier_; that blind man's history of England you once lent

me; Hamley's _Waterloo_; can you get me any of these? Thiers, idle

Thiers also. Can you help a man getting into his boots for such a huge

campaign? How are you? A good new year to you. I mean to have a good

one, but on whose funds I cannot fancy: not mine, leastways; as I am a

mere derelict and drift beam-on to bankruptcy.

For God's sake remember the man who set out for to conquer Arthur

Wellesley, with a broken bellows and an empty pocket.--Yours ever.

R. L. SHORTHOUSE.

BOURNEMOUTH,

Jan. or Feb. 1885.

DEAR S. C.,--I have addressed a letter to the G. O. M. _à propos_ of

Villainton; and I became aware, you will be interested to hear, of an

overwhelming respect for the old gentleman. I can _blaguer_ his

failures; but when you actually address him, and bring the two

statures and records to confrontation, dismay is the result. By mere

continuance of years, he must impose; the man who helped to rule

England, before I was conceived, strikes me with a new sense of

greatness and antiquity, when I must actually beard him with the cold

forms of correspondence. I shied at the necessity of calling him plain

"Sir"! had he been "My lord," I had been happier; no, I am no

equalitarian. Honour to whom honour is due; and if to none, why, then,

honour to the old!

These, O Slade Professor, are my unvarnished sentiments: I was a

little surprised to find them so extreme, and, therefore, I

communicate the fact.

Belabour thy brains, as to whom it would be well to question. I have a

small space; I wish to make a popular book, nowhere obscure, nowhere,

if it can be helped, unhuman. It seems to me the most hopeful plan to

tell the tale, so far as may be, by anecdote. He did not die till so

recently, there must be hundreds who remember him, and thousands who

have still ungarnered stories. Dear man, to the breach! Up, soldier of

the iron dook, up, Slades, and at 'em! (which, conclusively, he did

not say: the at 'em-ic theory is to be dismissed). You know piles of

fellows who must reek with matter; help! help!

R. L. S.

[BOURNEMOUTH,

Feb. 1885.]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--You are indeed a backward correspondent, and much may

be said against you. But in this weather, and O dear! in this

political scene of degradation, much must be forgiven. I fear England

is dead of Burgessry, and only walks about galvanised. I do not love

to think of my countrymen these days; nor to remember myself. Why was

I silent? I feel I have no right to blame any one: but I won't write

to the G. O. M. I do really not see my way to any form of signature,

unless "your fellow criminal in the eyes of God," which might disquiet

the proprieties.

About your book, I have always said go on. [This refers to some kind

of a scheme, I forget what, for the republication of stray

magazine-work of mine under the title Pictures, Places, and People.]

The drawing of character is a different thing from publishing the

details of a private career. No one objects to the first, or should

object, if his name be not put upon it; at the other, I draw the line.

In a preface, if you choose, you might distinguish: it is besides, a

thing for which you are eminently well equipped, and which you would

do with taste and incision. I long to see the book. People like

themselves (to explain a little more); no one likes his life, which is

a misgotten issue, and a tale of failure. To see these failures either

touched upon, or _coasted_, to get the idea of a spying eye and

blabbing tongue about the house is to lose all privacy in life. To see

that thing, which we do love, our character set forth, is ever

gratifying. See how my _Talk and Talkers_ went; everyone liked his own

portrait, and shrieked about other people's; so it will be with yours:

if you are the least true to the essential, the sitter will be

pleased: very likely not his friends, and that from _various motives_.

R. L. S.

When will your holiday be? I sent your letter to my wife, and forget.

Keep us in mind, and I hope we shall be able to receive you.

BOURNEMOUTH,

Feb. 1885.

MY DEAR SYMONDS,--Yes, we have both been very neglectful. I had horrid

luck: catching (from kind friends) two thundering influenzas in August

and November; I recovered from the last with difficulty: also had

great annoyance from hæmorrhagic leaking; but have come through this

blustering winter with some general success; in the house, up and

down. My wife, however, has been painfully upset by my health. Last

year, of course, was cruelly trying to her nerves; Nice and Hyères are

bad experiences; and though she is not ill, the doctors tell me that

prolonged anxiety may do her a real mischief. She is now at Hyères

collecting our goods; and she has been ill there, which has upset my

liver and driven me to the friendly calomel on which I now mainly

live: it is the only thing that stops the bleeding, which seems

directly connected with the circulation of the liver.

I feel a little old and fagged, and chary of speech, and not very sure

of spirit in my work; but considering what a year I have passed, and

how I have twice sat on Charon's pier-head, I am surprising. The

doctors all seem agreed in saying that my complaint is quite unknown,

and will allow of no prognosis.

My father has presented us with a very pretty home in this place, into

which we hope to move by May. My _Child's Verses_ come out next week.

_Otto_ begins to appear in April. _More New Arabian Nights_ as soon as

possible. Moreover, I am neck deep in Wellington; also a story on the

stocks: _The Great North Road_. O, I am busy! Lloyd is at college in

Edinburgh. That is, I think, all that can be said by the way of news.

Have you read _Huckleberry Finn_? It contains many excellent things;

above all, the whole story of a healthy boy's dealings with his

conscience, incredibly well done.

My own conscience is badly seared: a want of piety; yet I pray for it,

tacitly, every day; believing it, after courage, the only gift worth

having; and its want, in a man of any claims to honour, quite

unpardonable. The tone of your letter seemed to me very sound. In

these dark days of public dishonour, I do not know that one can do

better than carry our private trials piously. What a picture is this

of a nation! No man that I can see, on any side or party, seems to

have the least sense of our ineffable shame: the desertion of the

garrisons. I tell my little parable that Germany took England, and

then there was an Indian Mutiny, and Bismarck said: "Quite right: let

Delhi and Calcutta and Bombay fall; and let the women and children be

treated Sepoy fashion," and people say: "O, but that is very

different!" And then I wish I were dead. Millais (I hear) was painting

Gladstone when the news came of Gordon's death; Millais was much

affected, and Gladstone said: "Why? _It is the man's own temerity!_"

But why should I blame Gladstone, when I too am a Bourgeois? when I

have held my peace? Why did I hold my peace? Because I am a sceptic:

_i.e._ a Bourgeois. We believe in nothing, Symonds; you don't, and I

don't; and there are two reasons, out of a handful of millions, why

England stands before the world dripping with blood and daubed with

dishonour. I will first try to take the beam out of my own eye;

trusting that even private effort somehow betters and braces the

general atmosphere. See, for example, if England has shown (I put it

hypothetically) one spark of manly sensibility, they have been shamed

into it by the spectacle of Gordon. Police-Officer Cole is the only

man that I see to admire. I dedicate my _New Arabs_ to him and Cox, in

default of other great public characters.--Yours ever most

affectionately,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

BOURNEMOUTH,

March 16th, 1885.

MY DEAR HAMERTON,--Various things have been reminding me of my

misconduct: First, Swan's application for your address; second, a

sight of the sheets of your _Landscape_ book; and last, your note to

Swan, which he was so kind as to forward. I trust you will never

suppose me to be guilty of anything more serious than an idleness,

partially excusable. My ill-health makes my rate of life heavier than

I can well meet, and yet stops me from earning more. My conscience,

sometimes perhaps too easily stifled, but still (for my time of life

and the public manners of the age) fairly well alive, forces me to

perpetual and almost endless transcriptions. On the back of all this,

any correspondence hangs like a thunder-cloud; and just when I think I

am getting through my troubles, crack, down goes my health, I have a

long costly sickness, and begin the world again. It is fortunate for

me I have a father, or I should long ago have died; but the

opportunity of the aid makes the necessity none the more welcome. My

father has presented me with a beautiful house here--or so I believe,

for I have not yet seen it, being a cage bird but for nocturnal

sorties in the garden. I hope we shall soon move into it, and I tell

myself that some day perhaps we may have the pleasure of seeing you as

our guest. I trust at least that you will take me as I am, a

thoroughly bad correspondent, and a man, a hater, indeed, of rudeness

in others, but too often rude in all unconsciousness himself; and that

you will never cease to believe the sincere sympathy and admiration

that I feel for you and for your work.

About the _Landscape_ [Mr. Hamerton's book so called], which I had a

glimpse of while a friend of mine was preparing a review, I was

greatly interested, and could write and wrangle for a year on every

page; one passage particularly delighted me, the part about

Ulysses--jolly. Then, you know, that is just what I fear I have come

to think landscape ought to be in literature; so there we should be at

odds. Or perhaps not so much as I suppose, as Montaigne says it is a

pot with two handles, and I own I am wedded to the technical handle,

which (I likewise own and freely) you do well to keep for a mistress.

I should much like to talk with you about some other points; it is

only in talk that one gets to understand. Your delightful Wordsworth

trap I have tried on two hardened Wordsworthians, not that I am one

myself. By covering up the context, and asking them to guess what the

passage was, both (and both are very clever people, one a writer, one

a painter) pronounced it a guide-book. "Do you think it an unusually

good guide-book?" I asked, and both said, "No, not at all!" Their

grimace was a picture when I showed the original.

I trust your health and that of Mrs. Hamerton keep better; your last

account was a poor one. I was unable to make out the visit I had

hoped, as (I do not know if you heard of it) I had a very violent and

dangerous hæmorrhage last spring. I am almost glad to have seen death

so close with all my wits about me, and not in the customary lassitude

and disenchantment of disease. Even thus clearly beheld I find him not

so terrible as we suppose. But, indeed, with the passing of years, the

decay of strength, the loss of all my old active and pleasant habits,

there grows more and more upon me that belief in the kindness of this

scheme of things, and the goodness of our veiled God, which is an

excellent and pacifying compensation. I trust, if your health

continues to trouble you, you may find some of the same belief. But

perhaps my fine discovery is a piece of art, and belongs to a

character cowardly, intolerant of certain feelings, and apt to

self-deception. I don't think so, however; and when I feel what a weak

and fallible vessel I was thrust into this hurly-burly, and with what

marvellous kindness the wind has been tempered to my frailties, I

think I should be a strange kind of ass to feel anything but

gratitude.

I do not know why I should inflict this talk upon you; but when I

summon the rebellious pen, he must go his own way; I am no Michael

Scott, to rule the fiend of correspondence. Most days he will none of

me; and when he comes, it is to rape me where he will,--Yours very

sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

[With Mr. Will H. Low as intermediary, Stevenson had now been entering

into relations with Messrs. Scribner's Sons for the publication of his

works in America. The following letter refers to this matter and to

Mr. Low's proposed dedication to R. L. S. of one of the poems of Keats

which he had been illustrating.]

BONALLIE TOWER, BOURNEMOUTH,

March 13th, 1885.

MY DEAR LOW,--Your success has been immense. I wish your letter had

come two days ago: _Otto_, alas! has been disposed of a good while

ago; but it was only day before yesterday that I settled the new

volume of Arabs. However, for the future, you and the sons of the

deified Scribner are the men for me. Really they have behaved most

handsomely. I cannot lay my hand on the papers, or I would tell you

exactly how it compares with my English bargain: but it compares well.

Ah! if we had that copyright, I do believe it would go far to make me

solvent, ill health and all.

I wrote you a letter to the Rembrandt, in which I stated my views

about the dedication in a very brief form. It will give me sincere

pleasure; and will make the second dedication I have received: the

other being from John Addington Symonds. It is a compliment I value

much; I don't know any that I should prefer.

I am glad to hear you have windows to do; that is a fine business, I

think; but alas! the glass is so bad nowadays; realism invading even

that, as well as the huge inferiority of our technical resource

corrupting every tint. Still, anything that keeps a man to decoration

is in this age, good for the artist's spirit.

By the way, have you seen James and me on the novel? James, I think in

the August or September--R. L. S. in the December _Longman_. I own I

think the _école bête_, of which I am the champion, has the whiphand

of the argument; but as James is to make a rejoinder, I must not

boast. Anyway the controversy is amusing to see. I was terribly tied

down to space, which has made the end congested and dull. I shall see

if I can afford to send you the April _Contemporary_--but I daresay

you see it anyway--as it will contain a paper of mine on style, a sort

of continuation of old arguments on art in which you have wagged a

most effective tongue. It is a sort of start upon my Treatise on the

Art of Literature: a small, arid book that shall some day appear.

With every good wish from me and mine (should I not say "she and

hers"?) to you and yours, believe me yours ever,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Do you see much of Marius Townsend? Are you next door to the Doctor's

Daughter? or does "North" refer to another "Washington Square" than

Henry James's?

[The following to Mr. Gosse refers to the publication of that

gentleman's life of Gray, in Mr. Morley's series of English Men of

Letters, and of the writer's own, now classic, volume, _A Child's

Garden of Verses_.]

BONALLIE TOWER, BOURNEMOUTH,

March 12, 1885.

MY DEAR GOSSE,--I was indeed much exercised how I could be worked into

Gray; and lo! when I saw it, the passage seemed to have been written

with a single eye to elucidate the ... worst?... well, not a very good

poem of Gray's. Your little life is excellent, clean, neat, efficient.

I have read many of your notes, too, with pleasure. Your connection

with Gray was a happy circumstance; it was a suitable conjunction.

I did not answer your letter from the States, for what was I to say? I

liked getting it and reading it; I was rather flattered that you wrote

it to me; and then I'll tell you what I did--I put it in the fire.

Why? Well, just because it was very natural and expansive; and thinks

I to myself, if I die one of these fine nights, this is just the

letter that Gosse would not wish to go into the hands of third

parties. Was I well inspired? And I did not answer it because you were

in your high places, sailing with supreme dominion, and seeing life in

a particular glory; and I was peddling in a corner, confined to the

house, overwhelmed with necessary work, which I was not always doing

well, and, in the very mild form in which the disease approaches me,

touched with a sort of bustling cynicism. Why throw cold water? How

ape your agreeable frame of mind? In short, I held my tongue.

I have now published on 101 small pages _The Complete Proof of Mr. R.

L. Stevenson's Incapacity to Write Verse_, in a series of graduated

examples with table of contents. I think I shall issue a companion

volume of exercises: "Analyse this poem. Collect and comminate the

ugly words. Distinguish and condemn the _chevilles_. State Mr.

Stevenson's faults of taste in regard to the measure. What reasons can

you gather from this example for your belief that Mr. S. is unable to

write any other measure?"

They look ghastly in the cold light of print; but there is something

nice in the little ragged regimen; for all; the blackguards seem to me

to smile; to have a kind of childish treble note that sounds in my

ears freshly; not song, if you will, but a child's voice.

I was glad you enjoyed your visit to the States. Most Englishmen go

there with a confirmed design of patronage, as they go to France for

that matter; and patronage will not pay. Besides, in this year

of--grace, said I?--of disgrace, who should creep so low as an

Englishman? "It is not to be thought of that the flood"--ah,

"Wordsworth," you would change your note were you alive to-day!

I am now a beastly householder, but have not yet entered on my domain.

When I do, the social revolution will probably cast me back upon my

dung heap. There is a person called Hyndman whose eye is on me; his

step is beHynd me as I go. I shall call my house Skerryvore when I get

it: SKERRYVORE: _c'est bon pour la poéshie_. I will conclude with my

favourite sentiment: "The world is too much with me."

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

The Hermit of Skerryvore.

Author of "John Vane Tempest: a Romance," "Herbert and Henrietta: or

the Nemesis of Sentiment," "The Life and Adventures of Colonel Bludyer

Fortescue," "Happy Homes and Hairy Faces," "A Pound of Feathers and a

Pound of Lead," part author of "Minn's Complete Capricious

Correspondent: a Manual of Natty, Natural, and Knowing Letters," and

editor of the "Poetical Remains of Samuel Burt Crabbe, known as the

melodious Bottle-Holder."

Uniform with the above:

"The Life and Remains of the Reverend Jacob Degray Squah," author of

"Heave-yo for the New Jerusalem." "A Box of Candles; or the Patent

Spiritual Safety Match," and "A Day with the Heavenly Harriers."

[The two following letters refer to the sudden death of Professor

Fleeming Jenkin, with whom, and with his wife, Stevenson from his

early student days maintained unbroken kindness and friendship.]

SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH

[Midsummer, 1885].

MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,--You know how much and for how long I have loved,

respected, and admired him; I am only able to feel a little with you.

But I know how he would have wished us to feel. I never knew a better

man, nor one to me more lovable; we shall all feel the loss more

greatly as time goes on. It scarce seems life to me; what must it be

to you? Yet one of the last things that he said to me was, that from

all these sad bereavements of yours he had learned only more than ever

to feel the goodness and what we, in our feebleness, call the support

of God; he had been ripening so much--to other eyes than ours, we must

suppose he was ripe, and try to feel it. I feel it is better not to

say much more. It will be to me a great pride to write a notice of

him: the last I can now do. What more in any way I can do for you,

please to think and let me know. For his sake and for your own, I

would not be a useless friend: I know, you know me a most warm one;

please command me or my wife, in any way. Do not trouble to write to

me; Austin, I have no doubt, will do so, if you are, as I fear you

will be, unfit.

My heart is sore for you. At least you know what you have been to him;

how he cherished and admired you, how he was never so pleased as when

he spoke of you; with what a boy's love, up to the last, he loved you.

This surely is a consolation. Yours is the cruel part: to survive; you

must try and not grudge to him his better fortune, to go first. It is

the sad part of such relations that one must remain and suffer; I

cannot see my poor Jenkin without you. Nor you indeed without him; but

you may try to rejoice that he is spared that extremity. Perhaps I (as

I was so much his confidant) know even better that you can do, what

your loss would have been to him; he never spoke of you but what his

face changed; it was--you were--his religion.

I write by this post to Austin and to the Academy.--Yours most

sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH.

MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,--I should have written sooner, but we are in a

bustle and I have been very tired, though still well. Your very kind

note was most welcome to me. I shall be very much pleased to have you

call me Louis, as he has now done for so many years. Sixteen, you say?

is it so long? It seems too short now; but of that we cannot judge and

must not complain.

I wish that either I or my wife could do anything for you; when we

can, you will, I am sure, command us.

I trust that my notice gave you as little pain as was possible. I

found I had so much to say, that I preferred to keep it for another

place and make but a note in the Academy. To try to draw my friend at

greater length, and say what he was to me and his intimates, what a

good influence in life and what an example, is a desire that grows

upon me. It was strange, as I wrote the note, how his old tests and

criticisms haunted me; and it reminded me afresh with every few words

how much I owe to him.

I had a note from Henley, very brief and very sad. We none of us yet

feel the loss; but we know what he would have said and wished.

Do you know that Dew-Smith has two photographs of him, neither very

bad; and one giving a lively, though not flattering air of him in

conversation? If you have not got them, would you like me to write to

Dew and ask him to give you proofs?

I was so pleased that he and my wife had at last made friends; that is

a great pleasure. We found and have preserved one fragment (the head)

of the drawing he made and tore up when he was last here. He had

promised to come and stay with us this summer. May we not hope, at

least, some time soon to have one from you?--Believe me, my dear Mrs.

Jenkin, with the most real sympathy, your sincere friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Dear me, what happiness I owe to both of you!

SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH,

October 22nd, 1885.

MY DEAR LOW,--I trust you are not annoyed with me beyond forgiveness:

for indeed my silence has been devilish prolonged. I can only tell you

that I have been nearly six months (more than six) in a strange

condition of collapse when it was impossible to do any work and

difficult (more difficult than you would suppose) to write the merest

note. I am now better, but not yet my own man in the way of brains,

and in health only so-so. I turn more towards the liver and dyspepsia

business, which is damned unpleasant and paralysing; I suppose I shall

learn (I begin to think I am learning) to fight this vast, vague

feather-bed of an obsession that now overlies and smothers me; but in

the beginnings of these conflicts, the inexperienced wrestler is

always worsted; and I own I have been quite extinct. I wish you to

know, though it can be no excuse, that you are not the only one of my

friends by many whom I have thus neglected; and even now, having come

so very late into the possession of myself, with a substantial capital

of debts, and my work still moving with a desperate slowness--as a

child might fill a sandbag with its little handfuls--and my future

deeply pledged, there is almost a touch of virtue in my borrowing

these hours to write to you. Why I said 'hours' I know not; it would

look blue for both of us if I made good the word.

I was writing your address the other day, ordering a copy of my next,

_Prince Otto_, to go your way. I hope you have not seen it in parts;

it was not meant to be so read; and only my poverty (dishonourably)

consented to the serial evolution.

I will send you with this a copy of the English edition of the

_Child's Garden_. I have heard there is some vile rule of the

post-office in the States against inscriptions; so I send herewith a

piece of doggerel which Mr. Bunner may, if he thinks fit, copy off the

fly leaf.

Sargent was down again and painted a portrait of me walking about in

my own dining-room, in my own velveteen jacket and twisting as I go my

own moustache; at one corner a glimpse of my wife, in an Indian dress

and seated in a chair that was once my grandfather's, but since some

months goes by the name of Henry James's, for it was there the

novelist loved to sit--adds a touch of poesy and comicality. It is, I

think, excellent; but is too eccentric to be exhibited. I am at one

extreme corner; my wife, in this wild dress and looking like a ghost,

is at the extreme other end; between us an open door exhibits my

palatial entrance hall and a part of my respected staircase. All this

is touched in lovely, with that witty touch of Sargent's; but of

course it looks dam queer as a whole.

Pray let me hear from you and give me good news of yourself and your

wife, to whom please remember me.--Yours most sincerely, my dear Low,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

(To be continued.)

[Illustration: "Well, he can't lead _me_."--Page 35.]

THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN

By Joel Chandler Harris

ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. FROST

AN EVENING WITH THE KU-KLUX

While in Halcyondale attending the county fair I had a good many talks

with Aunt Minervy Ann, who was the cook, housekeeper, and general

superintendent of Major Tumlin Perdue's household. Some of these

conversations have been reported on account of the whiff and flavor of

old times which caused them to live in my mind, while others perhaps

as important have been forgotten.

In the published reports of these conversations the name of Hamp, Aunt

Minervy's husband, often occurs. When a slave, Hamp had belonged to an

estate which was in the hands of the Court of Ordinary (or, as it was

then called, the Inferior Court), to be administered in the interest

of minor heirs. This was not a fortunate thing for the negroes, of

which there were above one hundred and fifty. Men, women, and children

were hired out, some far and some near. They came back home at

Christmas-time, enjoyed a week's frolic, and were then hired out

again, perhaps to new employers. But whether to new or old, it is

certain that hired hands in those days did not receive the

consideration that men gave to their own negroes.

This experience told heavily on Hamp's mind. It made him reserved,

suspicious, and antagonistic. He had few pleasant memories to fall

back on, and these were of the days of his early youth, when he used

to trot around holding to his old master's coat-tails--the kind old

master who had finally been sent to the insane asylum. Hamp never got

over the idea (he had heard some of the older negroes talking about

it) that his old master had been judged to be crazy simply because he

was unusually kind to his negroes, especially the little ones. Hamp's

after-experience seemed to prove this, for he received small share of

kindness, as well as scrimped rations, from those who hired him.

It was a very good thing for Hamp that he married Aunt Minervy Ann,

otherwise he would have become a wanderer and a vagabond when freedom

came. Even as it was, he didn't miss it a hair's breadth. He "broke

loose," as he described it, and went off, but finally came back and

tried to persuade Aunt Minervy Ann to leave Major Perdue. How he

failed in this has already been reported. He settled down, but he

acquired no very friendly feelings toward the white race.

He joined the secret political societies strangely called "Union

Leagues," and aided in disseminating the belief that the whites were

only awaiting a favorable opportunity to re-enslave his race. He was

only repeating what the carpet-baggers had told him. Perhaps he

believed the statement, perhaps not. At any rate, he repeated it

fervently and frequently, and soon came to be the recognized leader of

the negroes in the county of which Halcyondale was the capital. That

is to say, the leader of all except one. At church one Sunday night

some of the brethren congratulated Aunt Minervy Ann on the fact that

Hamp was now the leader of the colored people in that region.

"What colored people?" snapped Aunt Minervy Ann.

"We-all," responded a deacon, emphatically.

"Well, he can't lead _me_, I'll tell you dat right now!" exclaimed

Aunt Minervy Ann.

[Illustration: He wore a blue army overcoat and a stove-pipe

hat.--Page 36.]

Anyhow, when the time came to elect members of the Legislature (the

constitutional convention had already been held), Hamp was chosen to

be the candidate of the negro Republicans. A white man wanted to run,

but the negroes said they preferred their own color, and they had

their way. They had their way at the polls, too, for, as nearly all

the whites who would have voted had served in the Confederate army,

they were at that time disfranchised.

So Hamp was elected overwhelmingly, "worl' widout een'," as he put it,

and the effect it had on him was a perfect illustration of one aspect

of human nature. Before and during the election (which lasted three

days) Hamp had been going around puffed up with importance. He wore a

blue army overcoat and a stove-pipe hat, and went about smoking a big

cigar. When the election was over, and he was declared the choice of

the county, he collapsed. His dignity all disappeared. His air of

self-importance and confidence deserted him. His responsibilities

seemed to weigh him down.

He had once "rolled" in the little printing-office where the machinery

consisted of a No. 2 Washington hand-press, a wooden imposing-stone,

three stands for the cases, a rickety table for "wetting down" the

paper, a tub in which to wash the forms, and a sheet-iron

"imposing-stone." This chanced to be my head-quarters, and the day

after the election I was somewhat surprised to see Hamp saunter in. So

was Major Tumlin Perdue, who was reading the exchanges.

"He's come to demand a retraction," remarked the Major, "and you'll

have to set him right. He's no longer plain Hamp; he's the Hon.

Hamp--what's your other name?" turning to the negro.

"Hamp Tumlin my fergiven name, suh. I thought 'Nervy tol' you dat."

"Why, who named you after me?" inquired the Major, somewhat angrily.

"Me an' 'Nervy fix it up, suh. She say it's about de purtiest name in

town."

The Major melted a little, but his bristles rose again, as it were.

"Look here, Hamp!" he exclaimed in a tone that nobody ever forgot or

misinterpreted; "don't you go and stick Perdue onto it. I won't stand

that!"

"No, suh!" responded Hamp. "I started ter do it, but 'Nervy Ann say

she ain't gwine ter have de Perdue name bandied about up dar whar de

Legislatur's at."

Again the Major thawed, and though he looked long at Hamp it was with

friendly eyes. He seemed to be studying the negro--"sizing him up," as

the saying is. For a newly elected member of the Legislature, Hamp

seemed to take a great deal of interest in the old duties he once

performed about the office. He went first to the box in which the

"roller" was kept, and felt of its surface carefully.

"You'll hatter have a bran new roller 'fo' de mont's out," he said,

"an' I won't be here to he'p you make it."

Then he went to the roller-frame, turned the handle, and looked at the

wooden cylinders. "Dey don't look atter it like I use ter, suh; an'

dish yer frame monst'us shackly."

From there he passed to the forms where the advertisements remained

standing. He passed his thumb over the type and looked at it

critically. "Dey er mighty skeer'd dey'll git all de ink off," was his

comment. Do what he would, Hamp couldn't hide his embarrassment.

Meanwhile, Major Perdue scratched off a few lines in pencil. "I wish

you'd get this in Tuesday's paper," he said. Then he read: "The Hon.

Hampton Tumlin, recently elected a member of the Legislature, paid us

a pop-call last Saturday. We are always pleased to meet our

distinguished fellow-townsman and representative. We trust Hon.

Hampton Tumlin will call again when the Ku-Klux are in."

"Why, certainly," said I, humoring the joke.

"Sholy you-all ain't gwine put dat in de paper, is you?" inquired

Hamp, in amazement.

"Of course," replied the Major; "why not?"

"Kaze, ef you does, I'm a ruint nigger. Ef 'Nervy Ann hear talk 'bout

my name an' entitlements bein' in de paper, she'll quit me sho. Uh-uh!

I'm gwine 'way fum here!" With that Hamp bowed and disappeared. The

Major chuckled over his little joke, but soon returned to his

newspaper. For a quarter of an hour there was absolute quiet in the

room, and, as it seemed, in the entire building, which was a brick

structure of two stories, the stairway being in the centre. The

hallway was, perhaps, seventy-five feet long, and on each side, at

regular intervals, there were four rooms, making eight in all, and,

with one exception, variously occupied as lawyers' offices or sleeping

apartments, the exception being the printing-office in which Major

Perdue and I were sitting. This was at the extreme rear of the

hallway.

[Illustration: "Sholy you-all ain't gwine put dat in de paper, is

you?"--Page 36.]

I had frequently been struck by the acoustic properties of this

hallway. A conversation carried on in ordinary tones in the

printing-office could hardly be heard in the adjoining room.

Transferred to the front rooms, however, or even to the sidewalk

facing the entrance to the stairway, the lightest tone was magnified

in volume. A German professor of music who for a time occupied the

apartment opposite the printing-office was so harassed by the

thunderous sounds of laughter and conversation rolling back upon him

that he tried to remedy the matter by nailing two thicknesses of

bagging along the floor from the stairway to the rear window. This

was, indeed, something of a help, but when the German left, being of

an economical turn of mind, he took his bagging away with him, and

once more the hall-way was torn and rent, as you may say, with the

lightest whisper.

Thus it happened that, while the Major and I were sitting enjoying an

extraordinary season of calm, suddenly there came a thundering sound

from the stairway. A troop of horse could hardly have made a greater

uproar, and yet I knew that less than half a dozen people were

ascending the steps. Some one stumbled and caught himself, and the

multiplied and magnified reverberations were as loud as if the roof

had caved in, carrying the better part of the structure with it. Some

one laughed at the misstep, and the sound came to our ears with the

deafening effect of an explosion. The party filed with a dull roar

into one of the front rooms, the office of a harum-scarum young lawyer

who had more empty bottles behind his door than he had ever had briefs

on his desk.

"Well, the great Gemini!" exclaimed Major Perdue, "how do you manage

to stand that sort of thing?"

I shrugged my shoulders and laughed, and was about to begin anew a

very old tirade against caves and halls of thunder, when the Major

raised a warning hand. Some one was saying----

"He hangs out right on ol' Major Perdue's lot. He's got a wife there."

"By jing!" exclaimed another voice; "is that so? Well, I don't wanter

git mixed up wi' the Major. He may be wobbly on his legs, but I don't

wanter be the one to run up ag'in 'im."

The Major pursed up his lips and looked at the ceiling, his attitude

being one of rapt attention.

"Shucks!" cried another; "by the time the ol' cock gits his bellyful

of dram, thunder wouldn't roust 'im."

A shrewd, foxy, almost sinister expression came over the Major's rosy

face as he glanced at me. His left hand went to his goatee, an

invariable signal of deep feeling, such as anger, grief, or serious

trouble. Another voice broke in here, a voice that we both knew to be

that of Larry Pulliam, a big Kentuckian who had refugeed to

Halcyondale during the war.

"Blast it all!" exclaimed Larry Pulliam, "I hope the Major will come

out. Me an' him hain't never butted heads yit, an' it's gittin' high

time. Ef he comes out, you fellers jest go ahead with your

rat-killin'. _I_'ll 'ten' to him."

"Why, you'd make two of him, Pulliam," said the young lawyer.

"Oh, I'll not hurt 'im; that is, not _much_--jest enough to let 'im

know I'm livin' in the same village," replied Mr. Pulliam. The voice

of the town bull could not have had a more terrifying sound.

Glancing at the Major, I saw that he had entirely recovered his

equanimity. More than that, a smile of sweet satisfaction and

contentment settled on his rosy face, and stayed there.

"I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that last remark," whispered

the Major. "That chap's been a-raisin' his hackle at me ever since

he's been here, and every time I try to get him to make a flutter he's

off and gone. Of course it wouldn't do for me to push a row on him

just dry so. But now----" The Major laughed softly, rubbed his hands

together, and seemed to be as happy as a child with a new toy.

"My son," said he after awhile, "ain't there some way of finding out

who the other fellows are? Ain't you got some word you want Seab

Griffin"--this was the young lawyer--"to spell for you?"

Spelling was the Major's weakness. He was a well-educated man, and

could write vigorous English, but only a few days before he had asked

me how many, _f_'s there are in _graphic_.

"Let's see," he went on, rubbing the top of his head. "Do you spell

_Byzantium_ with two _y_'s, or with two _i_'s, or with one _y_ and one

_i_? It'll make Seab feel right good to be asked that before company,

and he certainly needs to feel good if he's going with that crowd."

So, with a manuscript copy in my hand, I went hurriedly down the hall

and put the important question. Mr. Griffin was all politeness, but

not quite sure of the facts in the case. But he searched in his books

of reference, including the Geographical Gazette, until finally he was

able to give me the information I was supposed to stand in need of.

While he was searching, Mr. Pulliam turned to me and inquired what day

the paper came out. When told that the date was Tuesday, he smiled and

nodded his head mysteriously.

"That's good," he declared; "you'll be in time to ketch the news."

"What news?" I inquired.

"Well, ef you don't hear about it before to-morrer night, jest inquire

of Major Perdue. He'll tell you all about it."

Mr. Pulliam's tone was so supercilious that I was afraid the Major

would lose his temper and come raging down the hallway. But he did

nothing of the kind. When I returned he was fairly beaming. The Major

took down the names in his note-book--I have forgotten all except

those of Buck Sanford and Larry Pulliam--and seemed to be perfectly

happy. They were all from the country except Larry Pulliam and the

young lawyer.

After my visit to the room, the men spoke in lower tones, but every

word came back to us as distinctly as before.

"The feed of the bosses won't cost us a cent," remarked young Sanford.

"Tom Gresham said he'd 'ten' to that. They're in the stable right

now. And we're to have supper in Tom's back room, have a little game

of ante, and along about twelve or one we'll sa'nter down and yank

that derned nigger from betwixt his blankets, ef he's got any, and

leave him to cool off at the cross-roads. Won't you go 'long, Seab,

and see it well done?"

[Illustration: Inquired what day the paper came out.--Page 38.]

"I'll go and see if the supper's well done, and I'll take a shy at

your ante," replied Mr. Griffin. "But when it comes to the balance of

the programme--well, I'm a lawyer, you know, and you couldn't expect

me to witness the affair. I might have to take your cases and prove an

alibi, you know, and I couldn't conscientiously do that if I was on

hand at the time."

"The Ku-Klux don't have to have alibis," suggested Larry Pulliam.

"Perhaps not, still--" Apparently Mr. Griffin disposed of the matter

with a gesture.

When all the details of their plan had been carefully arranged, the

amateur Ku-Klux went filing out, the noise they made dying away like

the echoes of a storm.

Major Perdue leaned his head against the back of his chair, closed his

eyes, and sat there so quietly that I thought he was asleep. But this

was a mistake. Suddenly he began to laugh, and he laughed until the

tears ran down his face. It was laughter that was contagious, and

presently I found myself joining in without knowing why. This started

the Major afresh, and we both laughed until exhaustion came to our

aid.

"O Lord!" cried the Major, panting, "I haven't had as much fun since

the war, and a long time before. That blamed Pulliam is going to walk

into a trap of his own setting. Now you jest watch how he goes out

ag'in."

"But I'll not be there," I suggested.

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the Major, "you can't afford to miss it. It'll be

the finest piece of news your paper ever had. You'll go to supper with

me--" He paused. "No, I'll go home, send Valentine to her Aunt Emmy's,

get Blasengame to come around, and we'll have supper about nine.

That'll fix it. Some of them chaps might have an eye on my house, and

I don't want 'em to see anybody but me go in there. Now, if you don't

come at nine, I'll send Blasengame after you."

"I shall be glad to come, Major. I was simply fishing for an

invitation."

"_That_ fish is always on your hook, and you know it," the Major

insisted.

As it was arranged, so it fell out. At nine, I lifted and dropped the

knocker on the Major's front door. It opened so promptly that I was

somewhat taken by surprise, but in a moment the hand of my host was on

my arm, and he pulled me inside unceremoniously.

[Illustration: "I was on the lookout," the Major explained.]

"I was on the lookout," the Major explained. "Minervy Ann has fixed to

have waffles, and she's crazy about havin' 'em just right. If she

waits too long to make 'em, the batter'll spoil; and if she puts 'em

on before everybody's ready, they won't be good. That's what she says.

Here he is, you old Hessian!" the Major cried, as Minervy Ann peeped

in from the dining-room. "Now slap that supper together and let's get

at it."

"I'm mighty glad you come, suh," said Aunt Minervy Ann, with a

courtesy and a smile, and then she disappeared. In an incredibly short

time, supper was announced, and though Aunt Minervy has since informed

me confidentially that the Perdues were having a hard time of it at

that period, I'll do her the credit to say that the supper she

furnished forth was as good as any to be had in that town--waffles,

beat biscuit, fried chicken, buttermilk, and coffee that could not be

surpassed.

"How about the biscuit, Minervy Ann?" inquired Colonel Blasengame, who

was the Major's brother-in-law, and therefore one of the family.

"I turned de dough on de block twelve times, an' hit it a hunderd an

forty-sev'm licks," replied Aunt Minervy Ann.

"I'm afeard you hit it one lick too many," said Colonel Blasengame,

winking at me.

"Well, suh, I been hittin' dat away a mighty long time," Aunt Minervy

Ann explained, "and I ain't never hear no complaints."

"Oh, I'm not complainin', Minervy Ann." Colonel Blasengame waved his

hand. "I'm mighty glad you did hit the dough a lick too many. If you

hadn't, the biscuit would 'a' melted in my mouth, and I believe I'd

rather chew on 'em to get the taste."

"He des runnin' on, suh," said Aunt Minervy Ann to me. "Marse Bolivar

know mighty well dat he got ter go 'way fum de Nunited State fer ter

git any better biscuits dan what I kin bake."

Then there was a long pause, which was broken by an attempt on the

part of Major Perdue to give Aunt Minervy Ann an inkling of the

events likely to happen during the night. She seemed to be both hard

of hearing and dull of understanding when the subject was broached; or

she may have suspected the Major was joking or trying to "run a rig"

on her. Her questions and comments, however, were very characteristic.

"I dunner what dey want wid Hamp," she said. "Ef dey know'd how

no-count he is, dey'd let 'im 'lone. What dey want wid 'im?"

"Well, two or three of the country boys and maybe some of the town

chaps are going to call on him between midnight and day. They want to

take him out to the cross-roads. Hadn't you better fix 'em up a little

snack? Hamp won't want anything, but the boys will feel a little

hungry after the job is over."

"Nobody ain't never tell me dat de Legislatur' wuz like de Free

Masons, whar dey have ter ride a billy goat an' go down in a dry well

wid de chains a-clankin'. I done tol' Hamp dat he better not fool wid

white folks' do-in's."

"Only the colored members have to be initiated," explained the Major,

solemnly.

"What does dey do wid um?" inquired Aunt Minervy Ann.

"Well," replied the Major, "they take 'em out to the nearest

cross-roads, put ropes around their necks, run the ropes over limbs,

and pull away as if they were drawing water from a well."

"What dey do dat fer?" asked Aunt Minervy Ann, apparently still

oblivious to the meaning of it all.

"They want to see which'll break first, the ropes or the necks," the

Major explained.

"Ef dey takes Hamp out," remarked Aunt Minervy Ann,

tentatively--feeling her way, as it were--"what time will he come

back?"

"You've heard about the Resurrection Morn, haven't you, Minervy Ann?"

There was a pious twang in the Major's voice as he pronounced the

words.

"I hear de preacher say sump'n 'bout it," replied Aunt Minervy Ann.

"Well," said the Major, "along about that time Hamp will return. I

hope his record is good enough to give him wings."

"Shuh! Marse Tumlin! you-all des fool'n' me. I don't keer--Hamp ain't

gwine wid um. I tell you dat right now."

"Oh, he may not want to go," persisted the Major, "but he'll go all

the same if they get their hands on him."

"My life er me!" exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, bristling up, "does

you-all 'speck I'm gwine ter let um take Hamp out dat away? De fus'

man come ter my door, less'n it's one er you-all, I'm gwine ter fling

a pan er hot embers in his face ef de Lord'll gi' me de strenk. An' ef

dat don't do no good, I'll scald um wid b'ilin' water. You hear dat,

don't you?"

"Minervy Ann," said the Major, sweetly, "have you ever heard of the

Ku-Klux?"

"Yasser, I is!" she exclaimed with startling emphasis. She stopped

still and gazed hard at the Major. In response, he merely shrugged his

shoulders and raised his right hand with a swift gesture that told the

whole story.

"Name er God! Marse Tumlin, is you an' Marse Bolivar and dish yer

young genterman gwine ter set down here flat-footed and let dem

Ku-kluckers scarify Hamp?"

[Illustration: "Dat's some er 'Nervy Ann's doin's, suh." Page 43.]

"Why should _we_ do anything? You've got everything arranged. You're

going to singe 'em with hot embers, and you're going to take their

hides off with scalding water. What more do you want?" The Major spoke

with an air of benign resignation.

Aunt Minervy Ann shook her head vigorously. "Ef deyer de Kukluckers,

fire won't do um no harm. Dey totes der haids in der han's."

"Their heads in their hands?" cried Colonel Blasengame, excitedly.

"Dat what dey say, suh," replied Aunt Minervy Ann.

Colonel Blasengame looked at his watch. "Tumlin, I'll have to ask you

to excuse me to-night," he said. "I--well, the fact is, I have a

mighty important engagement up town. I'm obliged to fill it." He

turned to Aunt Minervy Ann: "Did I understand you to say the Ku-Klux

carry their heads in their hands?"

"Dat what folks tell me. I hear my own color sesso," replied Aunt

Minervy Ann.

"I'd be glad to stay with you, Tumlin," the Colonel declared;

"but--well, under the circumstances, I think I'd better fill that

engagement. Justice to my family demands it."

"Well," responded Major Perdue, "if you are going, I reckon we'd just

as well go, too."

"Huh!" exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, "ef gwine's de word, dey can't

nobody beat me gittin' way fum here. Dey may beat me comin' back, I

ain't 'sputin' dat; but dey can't beat me gwine 'way. I'm ol', but I

got mighty nigh ez much go in me ez a quarter-hoss."

[Illustration: In the third he placed only powder.--Page 44.]

Colonel Blasengame leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling.

"It seems to me, Tumlin, we might compromise on this. Suppose we get

Hamp to come in here. Minervy Ann can stay out there in the kitchen

and throw a rock against the back door when the Ku-Klux come."

Aunt Minervy Ann fairly gasped. "_Who? Me?_ I'll die fust. I'll t'ar

down dat do'; I'll holler twel ev'ybody in de neighborhood come

a-runnin'. Ef you don't b'lieve me, you des try me. I'll paw up dat

back-yard."

Major Perdue went to the back door and called Hamp, but there was no

answer. He called him a second time, with the same result.

"Well," said the Major, "they've stolen a march on us. They've come

and carried him off while we were talking."

"No, suh, dey ain't, needer. I know right whar he is, an' I'm gwine

atter 'im. He's right 'cross de street dar, colloguin' wid dat ol'

Ceely Ensign. Dat's right whar he is."

[Illustration: We administered to his hurts the best we could.--Page

45.]

"Old! Why, Celia is young," remarked the Major. "They say she's the

best cook in town."

Aunt Minervy Ann whipped out of the room, and was gone some little

time. When she returned, she had Hamp with her, and I noticed that

both were laboring under excitement which they strove in vain to

suppress.

"Here I is, suh," said Hamp. "'Nervy Ann say you call me."

"How is Celia to-night?" Colonel Blasengame inquired, suavely.

This inquiry, so suddenly and unexpectedly put, seemed to disconcert

Hamp. He shuffled his feet and put his hand to his face. I noticed a

blue welt over his eye, which was not there when he visited me in the

afternoon.

"Well, suh, I speck she's tolerbul."

"_Is she? Is she? Ah-h-h!_" cried Aunt Minervy Ann.

"She must be pretty well," said the Major. "I see she's hit you a clip

over the left eye."

"Dat's some er 'Nervy Ann's doin's, suh," replied Hamp, somewhat

disconsolately.

"Den what you git in de way fer?" snapped Aunt Minervy Ann.

"Marse Tumlin, dat ar 'oman ain't done nothin' in de roun' worl'. She

say she want me to buy some hime books fer de church when I went to

Atlanty, an' I went over dar atter de money."

"_I himed 'er an' I churched 'er!_" exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann.

"Here de money right here," said Hamp, pulling a small roll of

shinplasters out of his pocket; "an' whiles we settin' dar countin' de

money, 'Nervy Ann come in dar an' frail dat 'oman out."

"Ain't you hear dat nigger holler, Marse Tumlin?" inquired Minervy

Ann. She was in high good-humor now. "Look like ter me dey could

a-heerd 'er blate in de nex' county ef dey'd been a-lis'nin'. 'Twuz

same ez a picnic, suh, an' I'm gwine 'cross dar 'fo' long an' pay my

party call."

Then she began to laugh, and pretty soon went through the whole

episode for our edification, dwelling with unction on that part where

the unfortunate victim of her jealousy had called her "Miss 'Nervy."

The more she laughed the more serious Hamp became.

[Illustration: "I'd a heap rather you'd pull your shot-gun on me than

your pen."--Page 46.]

At the proper time he was told of the visitation that was to be made

by the Ku-Klux, and this information seemed to perplex and worry him

no little. But his face lit up with genuine thankfulness when the

programme for the occasion was announced to him. He and Minervy Ann

were to remain in the house and not show their heads until the Major

or the Colonel or their guest came to the back door and drummed on it

lightly with the fingers.

Then the arms--three shot-guns--were brought out, and I noticed with

some degree of surprise, that as the Major and the Colonel began to

handle these, their spirits rose perceptibly. The Major hummed a tune

and the Colonel whistled softly as they oiled the locks and tried the

triggers. The Major, in coming home, had purchased four pounds of

mustard-seed shot, and with this he proceeded to load two of the guns.

In the third he placed only powder. This harmless weapon was intended

for me, while the others were to be handled by Major Perdue and

Colonel Blasengame. I learned afterward that the arrangement was made

solely for my benefit. The Major and the Colonel were afraid that a

young hand might become excited and fire too high at close range, in

which event mustard-seed shot would be as dangerous as the larger

variety.

At twelve o'clock I noticed that both Hamp and Aunt Minervy Ann were

growing restless.

"You hear dat clock, don't you, Marse Tumlin?" said Minervy as the

chimes died away. "Ef you don't min', de Ku-kluckers'll be a-stickin'

der haids in de back do'."

But the Major and the Colonel were playing a rubber of seven-up (or

high-low-Jack) and paid no attention. It was a quarter after twelve

when the game was concluded and the players pushed their chairs back

from the table.

"Ef you don't fin' um in de yard waitin' fer you, I'll be fooled

might'ly," remarked Aunt Minervy Ann.

"Go and see if they're out there," said the Major.

"_Me_, Marse Tumlin? _Me?_ I wouldn't go out dat do' not for ham."

The Major took out his watch. "They'll eat and drink until twelve or a

little after, and then they'll get ready to start. Then they'll have

another drink all 'round, and finally they'll take another. It'll be a

quarter to one or after when they get in the grove in the far end of

the lot. But we'll go out now and see how the land lays. By the time

they get here, our eyes will be used to the darkness."

The light was carried to a front room, and we groped our way out at

the back door the best we could. The night was dark, but the stars

were shining. I noticed that the belt and sword of Orion had drifted

above the tree-tops in the east, following the Pleiades. In a little

while the darkness seemed to grow less dense, and I could make out the

outlines of trees twenty feet away.

Behind one of these trees, near the outhouse in which Hamp and Aunt

Minervy lived, I was to take my stand, while the Major and the Colonel

were to go farther into the wood-lot so as to greet the would-be

Ku-Klux as they made their retreat, of which Major Perdue had not the

slightest doubt.

"You stand here," said the Major in a whisper. "We'll go to the

far-end of the lot where they're likely to come in. They'll pass us

all right enough, but as soon as you see one of 'em, up with the gun

an' lam aloose, an' before they can get away give 'em the other

barrel. Then you'll hear from us."

Major Perdue and Colonel Blasengame disappeared in the darkness,

leaving me, as it were, on the inner picket line. I found the

situation somewhat ticklish, as the saying is. There was not the

slightest danger, and I knew it, but if you ever have occasion to

stand out in the dark, waiting for something to happen, you'll find

there's a certain degree of suspense attached to it. And the

loneliness and silence of the night will take on shape almost

tangible. The stirring of the half-dead leaves, the chirping of a

belated cricket, simply emphasized the loneliness and made the silence

more profound. At intervals, all nature seemed to heave a deep sigh,

and address itself to slumber again.

In the house I heard the muffled sound of the clock chime one, but

whether it was striking the half-hour or the hour I could not tell.

Then I heard the stealthy tread of feet. Some one stumbled over a

stick of timber, and the noise was followed by a smothered exclamation

and a confused murmur of voices. As the story-writers say, I knew that

the hour had come. I could hear whisperings, and then I saw a tall

shadow steal from behind Aunt Minervy's house, and heard it rap gently

on the door. I raised the gun, pulled the hammer back, and let drive.

A stream of fire shot from the gun, accompanied by a report that tore

the silence to atoms. I heard a sharp exclamation of surprise, then

the noise of running feet, and off went the other barrel. In a moment

the Major and the Colonel opened on the fugitives. I heard a loud cry

of pain from one, and, in the midst of it all, the mustard-seed shot

rattled on the plank fence like hominy-snow on a tin roof.

The next instant I heard some one running back in my direction, as if

for dear life. He knew the place apparently, for he tried to go

through the orchard, but just before he reached the orchard fence, he

uttered a half-strangled cry of terror, and then I heard him fall as

heavily as if he had dropped from the top of the house.

It was impossible to imagine what had happened, and it was not until

we had investigated the matter that the cause of the trouble was

discovered. A wire clothes-line, stretched across the yard, had caught

the would-be Ku-Klux under the chin, his legs flew from under him, and

he had a fall, from the effects of which he did not recover for a long

time. He was a young man about town, very well connected, who had gone

into the affair in a spirit of mischief. We carried him into the

house, and administered to his hurts the best we could; Aunt Minervy

Ann, be it said to her credit, being more active in this direction

than any of us.

On the Tuesday following, the county paper contained the news in a

form that remains to this day unique. It is hardly necessary to say

that it was from the pen of Major Tumlin Perdue.

"Last Saturday afternoon our local editor was informed by a prominent

citizen that if we would apply to Major Purdue we would be put in

possession of a very interesting piece of news. Acting upon this hint,

ye local yesterday went to Major Perdue, who, being in high

good-humor, wrote out the following with his own hand:

"'Late Saturday night, while engaged with a party of friends in

searching for a stray dog on my premises, I was surprised to see four

or five men climb over my back fence and proceed toward my residence.

As my most intimate friends do not visit me by climbing over my back

fence, I immediately deployed my party in such a manner as to make the

best of a threatening situation. The skirmish opened at my

kitchen-door, with two rounds from a howitzer. This demoralized the

enemy, who promptly retreated the way they came. One of them, the

leader of the attacking party, carried away with him two loads of

mustard-seed shot, delivered in the general neighborhood and region of

the coat-tails, which, being on a level with the horizon, afforded as

fair a target as could be had in the dark. I understand on good

authority that Mr. Larry Pulliam, one of our leading and deservedly

popular citizens, has had as much as a quart of mustard-seed shot

picked from his carcass. Though hit in a vulnerable spot, the wound is

not mortal.--T. PERDUE.'"

I did my best to have Mr. Pulliam's name suppressed, but the Major

would not have it so.

"No, sir," he insisted; "the man has insulted me behind my back, and

he's got to cut wood or put down the axe."

Naturally this free and easy card created quite a sensation in

Halcyondale and the country round about. People knew what it would

mean if Major Perdue's name had been used in such an off-hand manner

by Mr. Pulliam, and they naturally supposed that a fracas would be the

outcome. Public expectation was on tiptoe, and yet the whole town

seemed to take the Major's card humorously. Some of the older citizens

laughed until they could hardly sit up, and even Mr. Pulliam's friends

caught the infection. Indeed, it is said that Mr. Pulliam, himself,

after the first shock of surprise was over, paid the Major's audacious

humor the tribute of a hearty laugh. When Mr. Pulliam appeared in

public, among the first men he saw was Major Perdue. This was natural,

for the Major made it a point to be on hand. He was not a ruffler, but

he thought it was his duty to give Mr. Pulliam a fair opportunity to

wreak vengeance on him. If the boys about town imagined that a row was

to be the result of this first meeting, they were mistaken. Mr.

Pulliam looked at the Major and then began to laugh.

"Major Perdue," he said, "I'd a heap rather you'd pull your shot-gun

on me than your pen."

And that ended the matter.

[Illustration]

THE SHIP OF STARS

By A. T. Quiller-Couch

(Q.)

XIV

VOICES FROM THE SEA

Before winter and the long nights came round again, Taffy had become

quite a clever carpenter. From the first his quickness fairly

astonished the Bryanite, who at the best was but a journeyman and soon

owned himself beaten.

"I doubt," said he, "if you'll ever make so good a man as your father;

but you can't help making a better workman." He added, with his eyes

on the boy's face, "There's one thing in which you might copy 'em. He

hasn't much of a gift, _but he lays it 'pon the altar_."

By this time Taffy had resumed his lessons. Every day he carried a

book or two in the satchel with his dinner, and read or translated

aloud while his father worked. Two hours were allowed for this in the

morning, and again two in the afternoon. Sometimes a day would be set

apart during which they talked nothing but Latin. Difficulties in the

text of their authors they postponed until the evening, and worked

them out at home, after supper, with the help of grammar and

dictionary.

The boy was not unhappy, on the whole; though for weeks together he

longed for sight of George Vyell, who seemed to have vanished into

space, or into that limbo where his childhood lay like a toy in a

lumber-room. Taffy seldom turned the key of that room. The stories he

imagined now were not about fairies or heroes, but about himself. He

wanted to be a great man and astonish the world. Just how the world

was to be astonished he did not clearly see, even in his dreams; but

the triumph, in whatever shape it came, was to involve a new gown for

his mother, and for his father a whole library of books.

Mr. Raymond never went back to his books now, except to help Taffy.

The Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews was laid aside. "Some

day!" he told Humility. The Sunday congregation had dwindled to a very

few, mostly farm people; Squire Moyle having threatened to expel any

tenant of his who dared to set foot within the church.

In the autumn two things happened which set Taffy wondering.

During the first three years at Nannizabuloe old Mrs. Venning had

regularly been carried downstairs to dine with the family. The sea-air

(she said) had put new life into her. But now she seldom moved from

her room, and Taffy seldom saw her except at night, when--after the

old childish custom--he knocked at her door to wish her pleasant

dreams and pull up the weights of the tall clock which stood by her

bed's head.

One night he asked, carelessly, "What do you want with the clock?

Lying here you don't need to know the time; and its ticking must keep

you awake."

"So it does, child; but, bless you, I like it."

"Like being kept awake?"

"Dear, yes! I have enough of rest and quiet up here. You mind the

litany I used to say over to you?--Parson Kempthorne taught it to us

girls when I was in service with him; 'twas made up, he said, by

another old Devonshire parson, years and years ago--

When I lie within my bed

Sick in heart and sick in head,

And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house do sigh and weep--

That's it. You wouldn't think how quiet it is up here all day. But at

night, when you're in bed and sleeping, all the house begins to talk;

little creakings of the furniture, you know, and the wind in the

chimney, and sometimes the rain in the gutters running--it's all talk

to me. Mostly it's quite sociable too; but sometimes, in rainy

weather, the tune changes, and then it's like some poor soul in bed

and sobbing to itself. That's when the verse comes in:

"When the house do sigh and weep

And the world is drowned in sleep,

Yet my eyes the watch do keep,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

"And then the clock's ticking is a wonderful comfort. _Tick-tack,

tick-tack!_ and I think of you stretched asleep and happy and growing

up to be a man, and the minutes running and trickling away to my

deliverance----"

"Granny!"

"My dear, I'm as well off as most; but that isn't saying I sha'n't be

glad to go and take the pain in my joints to a better land. Before we

came here, in militia-time, I used to lie and listen for the buglers,

but now I've only the clock. No more bugles for me, I suppose, till I

hear them blown on t'other side of Jordan."

Taffy remembered how he too had lain and listened to the bugles; and

with that he suddenly saw his childhood, as it were a small round

globe set within a far larger one and wrapped around with other folks'

thoughts. He kissed his grandmother and went away wondering; and as he

lay down that night it still seemed wonderful to him that she should

have heard those bugles, and more wonderful that night after night for

years she should have been thinking of him while he slept, and he

never have guessed it.

One morning, some three weeks later, he and his father were putting on

their oilskins before starting to work--for it had been blowing hard

through the night and the gale was breaking up in floods of rain--when

they heard a voice hallooing in the distance. Humility heard it too

and turned swiftly to Taffy. "Run upstairs, dear. I expect it's

someone sent from Tresedder Farm; and if so, he'll want to see your

father alone."

Mr. Raymond frowned. "No," he said; "the time is past for that."

A fist hammered on the door. Mr. Raymond threw it open.

"Brigantine--on the sands--half a mile this side of the lighthouse!"

Taffy saw across his father's shoulder a gleam of yellow oilskins and

a flapping sou-wester' hat. The panting voice belonged to Sam Udy--son

of old Bill Udy--a laborer at Tresedder.

"I'll go at once," said Mr. Raymond. "Run you for the coast-guard."

The oilskins went by the window; the side gate clashed to.

"Is it a wreck?" cried Taffy. "May I go with you?"

"Yes, there may be a message to run with."

From the edge of the towans, where the ground dipped steeply to the

long beach, they saw the wreck, about a mile up the coast and, as well

as they could judge, a hundred or a hundred-and-fifty yards out. She

lay almost on her beam-ends, with the waves sweeping high across her

starboard quarter, and never less than six ranks of ugly breakers

between her and dry land. A score of watchers--in the distance they

looked like emmets--were gathered by the edge of the surf. But the

coast-guard had not arrived yet.

"The tide is ebbing, and the rocket will reach. Can you see anyone

aboard?"

Taffy spied through his hands, but could see no one. His father set

off running and he followed, half-blinded by the rain, at every fourth

step foundering knee-deep in loose sand or tripping in a rabbit hole.

They had covered three-fourths of the distance when Mr. Raymond pulled

up and waved his hat as the coast-guard carriage swept into view over

a ridge to the right and came plunging across the main valley of the

towans. It passed them close--the horses fetlock-deep in sand, with

heads down and heaving, smoking shoulders; the coast-guardsmen with

keen strong faces like heroes'--and the boy longed to copy his father

and send a cheer after them as they went galloping by. But something

rose in his throat.

He ran after the carriage, and reached the shore just as the first

rocket shot singing out toward the wreck. By this time at least a

hundred miners had gathered, and between their legs he caught a

glimpse of two figures stretched at length on the wet sand. He had

never looked on a dead body before. The faces of these were hidden by

the crowd; and he hung about the fringe of it, dreading and yet

courting a sight of them.

The first rocket was swept down the wind to leeward of the wreck. The

chief officer judged his second beautifully and the line fell clean

across the vessel and all but amidships. A figure started up from the

lee of the deckhouse and springing into the main shrouds grasped it

and made it fast. The beach being too low for them to work the cradle

clear above the breakers, the coast-guardsmen carried the shore end of

the line up the shelving cliff and fixed it. Within ten minutes the

cradle was run out, and within twenty, the first man came swinging

shoreward.

Four men were brought ashore alive, the captain last. The other two of

the crew of six lay on the sands, with Mr. Raymond kneeling beside

them. He had covered their faces, and, still on his knees, gave the

order to lift them into the carriage. Taffy noticed that he was obeyed

without demur or question. And there flashed on his memory a gray

morning, not unlike this one, when he had missed his father at

breakfast: "He had been called away suddenly," Humility had explained,

"and there would be no lessons that day," and had kept the boy indoors

all the morning and busy with a netting-stitch he had been bothering

her to teach him.

"Father," he asked as they followed the cart, "does this often

happen?"

"Your mother hasn't thought it well for you to see these sights."

"Then it _has_ happened often?"

"I have buried seventeen," said Mr. Raymond.

That afternoon he showed Taffy their graves. "I know the names of all

but two. The bodies have marks about them--tattooed, you know--and

that helps. And I write to their relatives or friends, and restore

whatever small property may be found on them. I have often wished to

put up some grave-stone, or a wooden cross, with their names. I keep a

book and enter all particulars, and where each is laid."

He went to his chest in the vestry and took out the volume--a cheap

account book, ruled for figures. Taffy turned over the pages.

_Nov. 3rd. 187-. Brig "James and Maria:" J. D., fair-haired, height 5

ft. 8 in., marked on chest with initials and cross swords, tattooed,

also anchor and coil of rope on right fore-arm: large brown mole on

right shoulder-blade. Striped flannel drawers: otherwise naked: no

property of any kind.

Ditto. Grown man, age 40 or thereabouts: dark; iron gray beard;

lovers' knot tattooed on right fore-arm, with initials R. L., E. W.,

in the loops: clad in flannel shirt, guernsey, trousers (blue

sea-cloth), socks (heather-mixture), all unmarked. Silver chain in

pocket, with free-mason's token: a half-crown, a florin, and

four-pence_----and so on. On the opposite page were entered the full

names and details afterwards discovered, with notes of the Vicar's

correspondence, and position of the grave.

"They ought to have grave-stones," said Mr. Raymond. "But as it is I

can only get about thirty shillings for the funeral from the county

rate. The balance has come out of my pocket--from two to three pounds

for each. From the beginning the squire refused to help to bury

sailors. He took the ground that it wasn't a local claim."

"Hullo!" said Taffy: for as he turned the leaves his eye fell on this

entry:--

_Jan. 30th, 187-. S. S. "Rifleman" (all hands). Cargo, China-clay: W.

P., Age, about eighteen, fair skin, reddish hair, short and curled,

height 5 ft. 10¾ in. Initials tattooed on chest under a three-masted

ship and semi-circle of seven stars; clad in flannel singlet and

trousers (cloth): singlet marked with same initial in red cotton:

pockets empty_----

"But he was in the navy!" cried Taffy, with his finger on the entry.

"Which one? Yes, he was in the Navy. You'll see it on the opposite

page. He deserted, poor boy, in Cork Harbor, and shipped on board a

tramp steamer as donkey-man. She loaded at Fowey and was wrecked on

the voyage back. William Pellow he was called; his mother lives but

ten miles up the coast; she never heard of it until six weeks after."

"But we--I, I mean--knew him. He was one of the sailor boys on Toby's

van. You remember their helping us with the luggage at _Indian

Queen's_? He showed me his tattoo marks that day."

And again he saw his childhood as it were set about with an enchanted

hedge, across which many voices would have called to him, and some

from near, but all had hung muted and arrested.

The inquest on the two drowned sailors was held next day at the

_Fifteen Balls_, down in Innis village. Later in the afternoon, the

four survivors walked up to the church, headed by the Captain.

"We've been hearing," said the Captain, "of your difficulties, sir:

likewise your kindness to other poor sea-faring chaps. We have liked

to make ye a small offering for your church, but sixteen shillings is

all we can raise between us. So we come to say that if you can put us

on to a job, why we're staying over the funeral, and a day's work or

more after that won't hurt us one way or another."

Mr. Raymond led them to the chancel and pointed out a new beam, on

which he and Jacky Pascoe had been working a week past, and over which

they had been cudgelling their brains how to get it lifted and fixed

in place.

"I can send to one of the miners and borrow a couple of ladders."

"Ladders? Lord love ye, sir, and begging your pardon, we don't want

ladders. With a sling, Bill, hey?--and a couple of tackles. You leave

it to we, sir."

He went off to turn over the gear salved from his vessel, and early

next forenoon had the apparatus rigged up and ready. He was obliged to

leave it at this point, having been summoned across to Falmouth, to

report to his agents. His last words before starting were addressed to

his crew. "I reckon you can fix it now, boys. There's only one thing

more, and don't you forget it: any man that wants to spit must go

outside."

That afternoon Taffy learnt for the first time what could be done with

a few ropes and pulleys. The seamen seemed to spin ropes out of

themselves like spiders. By three o'clock the beam was hoisted and

fixed; and they broke off work to attend their shipmates' funeral.

After the funeral they fell to, again, though more silently, and

before nightfall the beam shone with a new coat of varnish.

They left early next morning, after a good deal of handshaking, and

Taffy looked after them wistfully as they turned to wave their caps

and trudged away over the rise toward the cross-roads. Away to the

left in the wintry sunshine, a speck of scarlet caught his eye against

the blue-gray of the town. He watched it as it came slowly toward him,

and his heart leapt--yet not quite as he had expected it to leap.

For it was George Vyell. George had lately been promoted to "pink" and

made a gallant figure on his strapping gray hunter. For the first time

Taffy felt ashamed of his working suit and would have slipped back to

the church. But George had seen him, and pulled up.

"Hullo!" said he.

"Hullo!" said Taffy; and, absurdly enough, could find no more to say.

"How are you getting on?"

"Oh, I'm all right." There was another pause. "How's Honoria?"

"Oh, she's all right. I'm riding over there now; they meet at

Tredinnis to-day." He tapped his boot with his hunting crop.

"Don't you have any lessons now?" asked Taffy, after awhile.

"Dear me, yes; I've got a tutor. He's no good at it. But what made you

ask?"

Really Taffy could not tell. He had asked merely for the sake of

saying something. George pulled out a gold watch.

"I must be getting on. Well, good-by!"

"Good-by!"

And that was all.

XV

TAFFY'S APPRENTICESHIP

They could manage the carpentering now. And Jacky Pascoe, who in

addition to his other trades was something of a glazier, had taken the

damaged east window in hand. For six months it had remained boarded

up, darkening the chancel. Mr. Raymond removed the boards and fixed

them up again on the outside, and the Bryanite worked behind them

night after night. He could only be spied upon through two lancet

windows at the west end of the church, and these they curtained.

But what continually bothered them was their ignorance of iron-work.

Staples, rivets, hinges were for ever wanted. At length, one evening

toward the end of March, the Bryanite laid down his tools.

"Tell 'ee what 'tis, Parson. You must send the boy to someone that'll

teach 'er smithy-work. There's no sense in this cold hammering."

"Wheelwright Hocken holds his shop and cottage from the Squire."

"Why not put the boy to Mendarva the Smith, over to Benny Beneath?

He's a first-rate workman."

"That is more than six miles away."

"No matter for that. There's Joll's Farm close by; Farmer Joll would

board and lodge 'en for nine shilling a week, and glad of the chance;

and he could come home for Sundays."

Mr. Raymond, as soon as he reached home, sat down and wrote a letter

to Mendarva the Smith and another to Farmer Joll. Within a week the

bargains were struck, and it was settled that Taffy should go at once.

"I may be calling before long, to look you up," said the Bryanite,

"but mind you do no more than nod when you see me."

Joll's Farm lay somewhere near Carwithiel, across the moor where Taffy

had gone fishing with George and Honoria. On the Monday morning when

he stepped through the white front gate, with his bag on his shoulder,

and paused for a good look at the building, it seemed to him a very

comfortable farmstead, and vastly superior to the tumble-down farms

around Nannizabuloe. The flagged path, which led up to the front door

between great bunches of purple honesty, was swept as clean as a

dairy.

A dark-haired maid opened the door and led him to the great kitchen at

the back. Hams wrapped in paper hung from the rafters, and strings of

onions. The pans over the fireplace were bright as mirrors, and

through the open window he heard the voices of children at play as

well as the clacking of poultry in the town-place.

"I'll go and tell the mistress," said the maid; but she paused at the

door. "I suppose you don't remember me, now?"

"No," said Taffy, truthfully.

"My name's Lizzie Pezzack. You was with the young lady, that day, when

she bought my doll. I mind you quite well. But I put my hair up last

Easter, and that makes a difference."

"Why, you were only a child."

"I was seventeen last week. And--I say, do you know the Bryanite, over

to Innis?--Preacher Jacky Pascoe?"

He nodded, remembering the caution given him.

"I got salvation off him. Master and mis'ess, they've got salvation

too; but they take it very quiet. They're very fond of one another; if

you please one you'll please both. They let me walk over to

prayer-meetin' once a week. But I don't go by Mendarva's shop--that's

where you work--though 'tis the shortest way; because there's a woman

buried in the road there, with a stake through her, and I'm a terrible

coward for ghosts."

She paused as if expecting him to say something; but Taffy was staring

at a "neck" of corn, elaborately plaited, which hung above the

mantle-shelf. And just then Mrs. Joll entered the kitchen.

Taffy--without any reason--had expected to see a middle-aged

house-wife. But Mrs. Joll was hardly over thirty; a shapely woman,

with a plain, pleasant face and auburn hair, the wealth of which she

concealed by wearing it drawn straight back from the forehead and

plaited in the severest coil behind. She shook hands.

"You'll like a drink of milk before I show you your room?"

Taffy was grateful for the milk. While he drank it, the voices of the

children outside rose suddenly to shouts of laughter.

"That will be their father come home," said Mrs. Joll and going to the

side-door called to him. "John, put the children down; Mr. Raymond's

son is here."

Mr. Joll, who had been galloping round the farmyard with a small girl

of three on his back, and a boy of six tugging at his coat-tails,

pulled up, and wiped his good-natured face.

"Glad to see you," said he, coming forward and shaking hands, while

the two children stared at Taffy.

After a minute, the boy said, "My name's Bob. Come and play horses,

too."

Farmer Joll looked at Taffy shyly. "Shall we?"

"Mr. Raymond will be tired enough already," his wife suggested.

"Not a bit," declared Taffy; and hoisting Bob on his back, he set off

furiously prancing after the farmer.

By dinner-time he and the family were fast friends, and after dinner

the farmer took him off to be introduced to Mendarva the Smith.

Mendarva's forge stood on a triangle of turf beside the high-road,

where a cart-track branched off to descend to Joll's Farm in the

valley. And Mendarva was a dark giant of a man with a beard like those

you see on the statues of Nineveh. On Sundays he parted his beard

carefully and tied the ends with little bows of scarlet ribbon; but on

week days it curled at will over his mighty chest. He had one

assistant whom he called "the Dane;" a red-haired youth as tall as

himself and straighter from the waist down. Mendarva's knees had come

together with years of poising and swinging his great hammer.

"He's little, but he'll grow," said he, after eying Taffy up and down.

"Dane, come fore and tell me if we'll make a workman of 'en."

The Dane stepped forward and passed his hands over the boy's shoulders

and down his ribs. "He's slight, but he'll fill out. Good pair o'

shoulders. Give's hold o' your hand, my son."

Taffy obeyed; not very well liking to be handled thus.

"Hand like a lady's. Tidy wrist, though. He'll do, master."

So Taffy was passed, given a leathern apron, and set to his first task

of keeping the forge-fire raked and the bellows going, while the

hammers took up the music he was to listen to for a year to come.

This music kept the day merry; and beyond the window along the bright

high-road there was usually something worth seeing--farm-carts,

jowters' carts, the doctor and his gig, pedlars and Johnny-fortnights,

the miller's wagons from the valley-bottom below Joll's Farm, and on

Tuesdays and Fridays, the market van going and returning. Mendarva

knew or speculated upon everybody, and, with half the passers-by,

broke off work and passed the time of day, leaning on his hammer. But

down at the farm all was strangely quiet, in spite of the children's

voices; and at night the quietness positively kept Taffy awake,

listening to the pur-r of the pigeons in their cote against the

house-wall, thinking of his grandmother awake at home and listening to

the _tick-tack_ of her tall clock. Often when he woke to the early

summer daybreak and saw through his attic-window the gray shadows of

the sheep, still and long, on the slope above the farmstead, his ear

was wanting something, asking for something; for the murmur of the sea

never reached this inland valley. And he would lie and long for the

chirruping of the two children in the next room and the drawing of

bolts and clatter of milk-pails below stairs.

He had a plenty to eat, and that plenty simple and good; and clean

linen to sleep between. The kitchen was his, except on Saturday

nights, when Mrs. Joll and Lizzie tubbed the children there; and then

he would carry his books off to the best parlor, or stroll around the

farm with Mr. Joll and discuss the stock. There were no loose rails in

Mr. Joll's gates, no farm implements lying out in the weather to rust.

Mr. Joll worked early and late, and his shoulders had a tell-tale

stoop--for he was a man in the prime of life, perhaps some five years

older than his wife.

One Saturday evening he unburdened his heart to Taffy. It happened at

the end of the hay-harvest, and the two were leaning over a gate

discussing the yet unthatched rick.

"What I say is," declared the farmer, quite inconsequently, "a man

must be able to lay his troubles 'pon the Lord. I don't mean his work,

but his troubles; and go home and shut the door and be happy with his

wife and children. Now I tell you that for months--iss, years--after

Bob was born, I kept plaguing mysel' in the fields, thinking that some

harm might have happened to the child. Why, I used to make an excuse

and creep home, and then if I see'd a blind pulled down, you wouldn't

think how my heart'd go thump; and I'd stand wi' my hand on the

door-hapse an' say, 'If so be the Lord have took'n, I must go and

comfort Susan--not my will but Thine, Lord--but, Lord, don't 'ee be

cruel this time!' And then find the cheeld right as ninepence and the

blind only pulled down to keep the sun off the carpet! After awhile my

wife guessed what was wrong--I used to make up such poor twiddling

pretences. She said, 'Look here, the Lord and me'll see after Bob;

and if you can't keep to your own work without poking your nose into

ours, then I married for worse and not for better.' Then it came upon

me that by leaving the Lord to look after my job I'd been treating Him

like a farm-laborer. It's the things you can't help He looks

after--not the work."

A few evenings later there came a knock at the door, and Lizzie, who

went to open it, returned with the Bryanite skipping behind her.

"Blessings be upon this here house!" he cried, cutting a sort of

double-shuffle on the threshold. He shook hands with the farmer and

his wife, and nodded toward Taffy. "So you've got Parson Raymond's boy

here!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Joll; and turned to Taffy. "He've come to pray a bit;

perhaps you would rather be in the parlor?"

Taffy asked to be allowed to stay; and presently Mr. Pascoe had them

all down on their knees. He began by invoking God's protection on the

household; but his prayer soon ceased to be a prayer. It broke into

ejaculations of praise--"Friends, I be too happy to ask for

anything--Glory, glory! The blood! The precious blood! O deliverance!

O streams of redemption running!" The farmer and his wife began to

chime in--"Hallelujah!" "Glory!" and Lizzie Pezzack to sob. Taffy,

kneeling before a kitchen chair, peeped between his palms and saw her

shoulders heaving.

The Bryanite sprang to his feet, over-turning the settle with a crash.

"Tid'n no use. I must skip. Who'll dance wi' me?"

He held out his hands to Mrs. Joll. She took them, and skipped once

shamefacedly. Lizzie, with flaming cheeks, pushed her aside. "Leave me

try, mis'ess; I shall die if I don't." She caught the preacher's

hands, and the two leapt about the kitchen. "I can dance higher than

mis'ess! I can dance higher than mis'ess!" Farmer Joll looked on with

a dazed face. "Hallelujah!" "Amen!" he said at intervals, quite

mechanically. The pair stood under the bacon rank and began to whirl

like dervishes--hands clasped, toes together, bodies leaning back and

almost rigid. They whirled until Taffy's brain whirled with them.

With a louder sob, Lizzie let go her hold, and tottered back into a

chair, laughing hysterically. The Bryanite leaned against the table,

panting.

There was a long pause. Mrs. Joll took a napkin from the dresser and

fell to fanning the girl's face, then to slapping it briskly. "Get up

and lay the table," she commanded; "the preacher'll stay to supper."

"Thank 'ee, ma'am, I don't care if I do," said he; and ten minutes

latter they were all seated at supper and discussing the fall in wheat

in the most matter-of-fact voices. Only their faces twitched, now and

again.

"I hear you had the preacher down to Joll's last night," said Mendarva

the Smith. "What'st think of 'en?"

"I can't make him out," was Taffy's colorless but truthful answer.

"He's a bellows of a man. I do hear he's heating up th' old Squire

Moyle's soul, to knack an angel out of 'en. He'll find that a job and

a half. You mark my words, there'll be Hamlet's ghost over in your

parish one o' these days."

During work-hours Mendarva bestowed most of his talk on Taffy. The

Dane seldom opened his lips, except to join in the Anvil Chorus--

Here goes one--

Sing, sing, Johnny!

Here goes two--

Sing, Johnny, sing!

Whack'n till he's red

Whack'n till he's dead

And whop! goes the widow with a brand new ring!

and when the boy took a hammer and joined in, he fell silent. Taffy

soon observed that a singular friendship knit these two men, who were

both unmarried. Mendarva had been a famous wrestler in his day, and

his great ambition now was to train the other to win the County belt.

Often, after work, the pair would try a hitch together on the triangle

of turf, with Taffy for stickler; Mendarva illustrating and

explaining, the Dane nodding seriously whenever he understood, but

never answering a word. Afterwards the boy recalled these bouts very

vividly--the clear evening sky, the shoulders of the two big men

shining against the level sun as they gripped and swayed, their long

shadows on the grass under which (as he remembered) the poor

self-murdered woman lay buried.

He thought of her at night, sometimes, as he worked alone at the

forge: for Mendarva allowed him the keys and use of the smithy

overtime, in consideration of a small payment for coal, and then he

blew his fire and hammered with a couple of candles on the bench and a

Homer between them; and beat the long hexameters into his memory. The

incongruity of it never struck him. He was going to be a great man,

and somehow this was going to be the way. These scraps of iron--these

tools of his forging--were to grow into the arms and shield of

Achilles. In its own time would come the magic moment, the shield find

its true circumference and swing to the balance of his arm, proof and

complete.

ἐν δ' ἐτίθει ποταμοῖο μέγα σθένος Ὠκεανοῖο

ἄντυγα παρ' πυμάτην σάκεος πύκα ποιητοῖο.

XVI

LIZZIE AND HONORIA

His apprenticeship lasted a year and six months, and all this while he

lived with the Jolls, walking home every Sunday morning and returning

every Sunday night, rain or shine. He carried his deftness of hand

into his new trade, and it was Mendarva who begged and obtained an

extension of the time agreed on. "Rather than lose the boy I'll tache

'en for love." So Taffy stayed on for another six months.

He was now in his seventeenth year--a boy no longer. One evening, as

he blew up his smithy fire, the glow of it fell on the form of a woman

standing just outside the window and watching him. He had no silly

fears of ghosts; but the thought of the buried woman flashed across

his mind and he dropped his pincers with a clatter.

"'Tis only me," said the woman. "You needn't to be afeared." And he

saw it was the girl Lizzie.

She stepped inside the forge and seated herself on the Dane's anvil.

"I was walking back from prayer-meeting," she said. "'Tis nigher this

way, but I don't ever dare to come. Might, I dessay, if I'd somebody

to see me home."

"Ghosts?" asked Taffy, picking up the pincers and thrusting the bar

back into the hot cinders.

"I dunno; I gets frightened o' the very shadows on the road sometimes.

I suppose, now, you never walks out that way?"

"Which way?"

"Why, toward where your home is. That's the way I comes."

"No, I don't." Taffy blew at the cinders until they glowed again.

"It's only on Sundays I go over there."

"That's a pity," said Lizzie, candidly. "I'm kept in, Sunday evenings,

to look after the children while farmer and mis'ess goes to Chapel.

That's the agreement I came 'pon."

Taffy nodded.

"It would be nice now, wouldn't it--" She broke off, clasping her

knees and staring at the blaze.

"What would be nice?"

Lizzie laughed confusedly. "Aw, you make me say 't. I can't abear any

of the young men up to the Chapel. If me and you----"

Taffy ceased blowing. The fire died down and in the darkness he could

hear her breathing hard.

"They're so rough," she went on, "And t'other night I met young Squire

Vyell riding along the road, and he stopped me and wanted to kiss me."

"George Vyell? Surely he didn't?" Taffy blew up the fire again.

"Iss he did. I don't see why not, neither."

"Why he shouldn't kiss you?"

"Why he shouldn't want to."

Taffy frowned, carried the white hot bar to his anvil and began to

hammer. He despised girls, as a rule, and their ways. Decidedly Lizzie

annoyed him: and yet as he worked he could not help glancing at her

now and then, as she sat and watched him. By and by he saw that her

eyes were full of tears.

"What's the matter?" he asked, abruptly.

"I--I can't walk home alone. I'm afeared."

He tossed his hammer aside, raked out the fire, and reached his coat

off its peg. As he swung round in the darkness to put it on, he

blundered against Lizzie or Lizzie blundered against him. She clutched

at him nervously.

"Clumsy! can't you see the doorway?"

She passed out, and he followed and locked the door. As they crossed

the turf to the highroad, she slipped her arm into his. "I feel safe,

that way. Let it stay, co!" After a few paces, she added, "You're

different from the others--that's why I like you."

"How?"

"I dunno; but you _be_ diff'rent. You don't think about girls, for one

thing."

Taffy did not answer. He felt angry, ashamed, uncomfortable. He did

not turn once to look at her face, dimly visible by the light of the

young moon--the Hunter's moon--now sinking over the slope of the hill.

Thick dust--too thick for the heavy dew to lay--covered the cart-track

down to the farm, muffling their footsteps. Lizzie paused by the gate.

"Best go in separate," she said; paused again and whispered, "You may,

if you like."

"May do what?"

"What--what young Squire Vyell wanted."

They were face to face now. She held up her lips, and as she did so,

they parted in an amorous murmurous little laugh. The moonlight was on

her face. Taffy bent swiftly and kissed her.

"Oh, you hurt!" With another little laugh, she slipped up the

garden-path and into the house.

Ten minutes later Taffy followed, hating himself.

* * * * *

For the next fortnight he avoided her; and then, late one evening, she

came again. He was prepared for this, and had locked the door of the

smithy and let down the shutter while he worked. She tapped upon the

outside of the shutter with her knuckles.

"Let me in!"

"Can't you leave me alone?" he answered, pettishly. "I want to work,

and you interrupt."

"I don't want no love-making--I don't indeed. I'll sit quiet as a

mouse. But I'm afeared, out here."

"Nonsense!"

"I'm afeared o' the ghost. There's something comin'--let me in, co!"

Taffy unlocked the door and held it half open while he listened.

"Yes, there's somebody coming, on horseback. Now, look here--it's no

ghost, and I can't have you about here, with people passing. I--I

don't want you here at all; so make haste and slip away home--that's a

good girl."

Lizzie glided like a shadow into the dark lane as the trample of hoofs

drew close, and the rider pulled up beside the door.

"You're working late, I see. Is it too late to make a shoe for

Aide-de-camp here?"

It was Honoria. She dismounted and stood in the doorway, holding her

horse's bridle.

"No," said Taffy; "that is, if you don't mind the waiting."

With his leathern apron he wiped the Dane's anvil for a seat, while

she hitched up Aide-de-camp and stepped into the glow of the

forge-fire.

"The hounds took us six miles beyond Carwithiel: and there, just as

they lost, Aide-de-camp cast his off-hind shoe. I didn't find it out

at first, and now I've had to walk him all the way back. Are you alone

here?"

"Yes."

"Who was that I saw leaving as I came up?"

"You saw someone?"

"Yes." She nodded, looking him straight in the face. "It looked like a

woman. Who was she?"

"That was Lizzie Pezzack, the girl who sold you her doll, once. She's

a servant down at the farm where I lodge."

Honoria said no more for the moment, but seated herself on the Dane's

anvil, while Taffy chose a bar of iron and stepped out to examine

Aide-de-camp's hoof. He returned and in silence began to blow up the

fire.

"I dare say you were astonished to see me," she remarked at length.

"Yes."

"I'm still forbidden to speak to you. The last time I did it,

grandfather beat me."

"The old brute!" Taffy nipped the hot iron savagely in his pincers.

"I wonder if he'll do it again. Somehow I don't think he will."

Taffy looked at her. She had drawn herself up, and was smiling. In her

close riding-habit she seemed very slight, yet tall, and a woman

grown. He took the bar to the anvil and began to beat it flat. His

teeth were shut, and with every blow he said to himself "Brute!"

"That's beautiful," Honoria went on. "I stopped Mendarva, the other

day, and he told me wonders about you. He says he tried you with a

hard-boiled egg and you swung the hammer and chipped the shell all

round without bruising the white a bit. Is that true?"

Taffy nodded.

"And your learning--the Latin and Greek, I mean; do you still go on

with it?"

He nodded again, toward a volume of Euripides that lay open on the

work-bench.

"And the stories you used to tell George and me; do you go on telling

them to yourself?"

He was obliged to confess that he never did. She sat for awhile

watching the sparks as they flew. Then she said, "I should like to

hear you tell one again. That one about Aslog and Orm, who ran away by

night across the ice-fields and took a boat and came to an island with

a house on it, and found a table spread and the fire lit, but no

inhabitants anywhere--You remember? It began 'Once upon a time, not

far from the city of Drontheim, there lived a rich man----'"

Taffy considered a moment and began "Once upon a time, not far from

the city of Drontheim----" He paused, eyed the horse-shoe cooling

between the pincers, and shook his head. It was no use. Apollo had

been too long in service with Admetus, and the tale would not come.

"At any rate," Honoria persisted, "you can tell me something out of

your books: something you have just been reading."

So he began to tell her the story of Ion, and managed well enough in

describing the boy and how he ministered before the shrine at Delphi,

sweeping the temple and scaring the birds away from the precincts; but

when he came to the plot of the play and, looking up, caught Honoria's

eyes, it suddenly occurred to him that all the rest of the story was a

sensual one and he could not tell it to her. He blushed, faltered, and

finally broke down.

"But it was beautiful," said she, "so far as it went; and it's just

what I wanted. I shall remember that boy Ion now, whenever I think of

you helping your father in the church at home. If the rest of the

story is not nice, I don't want to hear it."

How had she guessed? It was delicious, at any rate, to know that she

thought of him, and Taffy felt how delicious it was, while he fitted

and hammered the shoe on Aide-de-camp's hoof, she standing by with a

candle in either hand, the flame scarcely quivering in the windless

night.

When all was done, she raised a foot for him to give her a mount.

"Good-night!" she called, shaking the reins. Taffy stood by the door

of the forge, listening to the echoes of Aide-de-camp's canter, and

the palm of his hand tingled where her foot had rested.

XVII

THE SQUIRE'S WEIRD

He took leave of Mendarva and the Jolls just before Christmas. The

smith was unaffectedly sorry to lose him. "But," said he, "the Dane

will be entered for the Championship next summer, so I s'pose I must

look forward to that."

Everyone in the Joll household gave him a small present on his

leaving. Lizzie's was a New Testament, with her name on the fly-leaf,

and under it "Converted, April 19, 187-." Taffy did not want the gift,

but took it rather than hurt her feelings.

Farmer Joll said, "Well, wish 'ee well! Been pretty comfiable, I hope.

Now you'm goin', I don't mind telling 'ee I didn't like your coming a

bit. But now 'tis wunnerful to me you've been wi' us less'n two year';

we've made such progress."

At home Taffy bought a small forge and set it up in the church, at the

west end of the north aisle. Mr. Raymond, under his direction, had

been purchasing the necessary tools for some months past; and now the

main expense was the cost of coal, which pinched them a little. But

they managed to keep the fire alight, and the work went forward

briskly. Save that he still forbade the parish to lend them the least

help, the old Squire had ceased to interfere.

Mr. Raymond's hair was grayer; and Taffy might have observed--but did

not--how readily, toward the close of a day's laborious carpentry, he

would drop work and turn to Dindorf 's _Poetæ Scenici Græci_, through

which they were reading their way. On Sundays, the congregation rarely

numbered a dozen. It seemed that as the end of the Vicar's task drew

nearer, so the prospect of filling the church receded and became more

shadowy. And if his was a queer plight, Jacky Pascoe's was a queerer.

The Bryanite continued to come by night and help, but at rarer

intervals. He was discomforted in mind, as anyone could see; and at

length he took Mr. Raymond aside and made confession.

"I must go away; that's what 'tis. My burden is too great for me to

bear."

"Why," said Mr. Raymond, who had grown surprisingly tolerant during

the past twelve months, "what cause have you, of all men, to feel

dejected? You can set the folk here on fire like flax." He sighed.

"That's azackly the reason--I can set 'em afire with a breath; but I

can't hold 'em under. I make 'em too strong for me--_and I'm afeard_.

Parson, dear, it's the gospel truth; for two years I've a been

strivin' agen myself, wrastlin' upon my knees, and all to hold this

parish in." He mopped his face. "'Tis like fightin' with beasts at

Ephesus," he said.

"Do you want to hold them in?"