moment that her heart had grown accustomed to tumult; otherwise it must
have burst. As it was, she gradually withdrew her eyes from Godwin’s,
and threw herself upon the bed in a passion of tears. And as she lay,
burying her head in the clothing, a change passed over her husband’s
countenance. The fires were quenched in his eyes, and now they were
really dim--with some strange commingling of pity, and melancholy, and
agony, and even of yearning love, all in one tear. It was not, however,
a time of abiding, and it, too, passed away.
Meanwhile Sybilla still wept and sobbed with her face hidden. Well would
it have been for her had she never lifted that face again; better to
have wept and sobbed there till every fountain in her breast was still.
But she did lift it; and putting forth her hand to assist herself in
rising from the bed, she placed it on a breakfast-cup with which John
had been habitually served throughout this last illness, and which was
not there before. She bounded backward to the wall with a low, long,
tremulous cry, and darted an agonized look at John Godwin. He lay with
his head pillowed upon his arm, fixedly regarding her. Her head swam;
she looked at her husband with the gaze that blind men turn to the sun;
she heard a voice far, far away, when he said with slow deliberation--
“Sybilla, _I know it_! I have known it for a fortnight. I have drunk
from that cup fourteen times since I knew it; but never shall drink from
it again. You had better go!” He covered his face.
Mechanically, and still entranced in stupor, she obeyed. Slowly attiring
herself in all the minutiæ of walking-dress, not forgetting a cloak
since the night was cold, she fled down stairs--fled home!
As the outer-door banged-to, the dying man rose, lifted the
window-curtain, and watched the hurrying figure of his wife as it
emerged here and there full in the light of a lamp, and went on into the
darkness beyond. Again and again, and ever less distinct, the shivering
mortal passed through narrowing breaks of light into a wider expanse of
darkness, as she had passed through many a mercy-sent dawning of remorse
into deeper shades of guilt. At length the retreating figure passed for
the last time from his straining vision, and he saw her never again.
“O Sybilla, Sybilla,” he said aloud, as he turned from the window, “I
pray Heaven the bitter, bitter punishment you now endure may atone for
this offense forever! It is enough; for after all _I live_! And some
day, Sybilla, when sorrow and repentance shall have chastened you, it
shall be a joy to you to _know_ that I live--broken, unstrung, all
youthful vigor shattered, but still not quite a murdered man. Yet if I
had not known so early----”
* * * * *
Shortly after, attired as for a journey, John Godwin stood in the street
below--a solitary, hopeless, stricken man. The day had just begun to
dawn, as fresh and beautiful as if for the first time it rolled away the
darkness from the earth. Clouds laden with soft violet light came up
from the East, and shed it all abroad; cool airs came down from the
courts of an eternal city, with a message therefrom to all who would
stop and listen. More than once did Godwin so pause in the silent
streets, listening with fixed attention, drinking the air as draughts of
water; and ever as his feet resounded on the pavement again he felt a
peaceful sleep settling over his weary spirit. Involuntarily, or rather
as a matter of course that no thinking about could affect, he bent his
steps toward the leafy old house: he had a vague intention of just
looking at it once more. And all his troubles melted away as, one by
one, he passed the old landmarks of pilgrimage. Past feelings came back
upon him, the same as of old, though robed not now in joy, but in
melancholy: the pleasures of an old man’s memory. But how fast his heart
beat as he neared the corner whence the old house, and Jessy’s chamber
in it, were visible! And there it was! the snowy curtain still flapping
in the morning air--the cactus, the roses, the geraniums--the same, the
same!
Glancing down the road at about the same time, Jessy descried a man
sitting dejectedly on the way-side bank, with his face turned steadily
toward her window. Her attention was sufficiently arrested to recall her
again and again; and still he sat there--still as before. A thousand
unformed emotions suddenly crowded within her; she felt her face grow
pale, and her heart sicken. The stranger approached timidly and with an
air of guilt; a few paces nearer, and Jessy saw not only _who_ it was,
but, by one of those wonderful laws which psychologists vainly endeavor
to expound, pretty distinctly _how_ it was. By what mysterious bridge
does soul pass over to soul? How came this loving woman to know, from
one glance at that bowed form and haggard face, that he had but now
escaped, scathed and wounded, through some fearful tribulation which it
was necessary for her to know and to share?
Without daring to look again, she knew that Godwin was approaching the
house. She went out upon the stairs to listen for his coming; and, after
some minutes, seated herself upon them with her hands clasped over her
knees, _knowing_ he would come. Her father was away on a short
journey--her mother had, months since, gone her last and longest
journey: Jessy was alone in the house with the old servant. Presently
the expected knock was heard--a faint, appealing knock, it seemed to
her; and the next moment they stood once more face to face, with the
threshold between them.
Godwin made no attempt to enter: he stood like one sinking under a heavy
burden imploring to be relieved.
“Yes! yes! For God’s sake come in!” said Jessy’s trembling voice. And
the next moment, as if there he would be safest from the pursuer, she
shut the door of her own chamber upon her old lost love. “Now, John,
what is all this? What terrible things have you to tell me.”
They sat down together. With dilated eyes and parted lips she listened,
as in a very frenzy of words Godwin told his story. Now in drops of
molten fire, and now in melancholy tear-drops, he poured out his whole
soul before her, till not one agony remained unknown. In the excitement
of the story he rose from his chair; and when he had ended all, and
stood silent before her, pale and ruined, a wreck most eloquent, her old
love, her pity, her anguish burst all bonds: she clasped her arms about
his neck, pressed her cheek convulsively to his, and wept as though the
flood-gates of her heart were all broken up together. “O, my poor boy!
my poor boy! They will kill me too!”
Godwin looked down upon the sobbing girl, trusting his tongue with not a
word; and when her tears were all spent, and they stood silently apart,
he felt that it was possible to bear up manfully against all distresses,
and to go on patiently to the end. But Sybilla was not forgotten; and
whatever thoughts passed between Jessy and Godwin in the sympathy of
silence, it was of her mainly that they spoke. There was some
understanding between them regarding her; her name was the last word
uttered before farewell; which, however choked down and delayed,
whatever they yearned to say first, each to the other, but were ashamed,
had at last to be uttered. “Good-bye, then, dear Jessy,” said Godwin, as
they stood as of old in the porch before the door, and it sounded to
them both like the snatch of an old-loved, long-forgotten song. She put
her hand in his, and the direful Whither and how long? rose up before
them, and was answered in each, Anywhere, to the ends of the earth
perhaps--forever! “God bless you, dear John,” said she in a broken
voice; and yielding herself to his embrace and his kisses, she added,
“and, right or wrong, I _will_ love you, dream of you, pray for you, and
never cease till I die!” The haggard face of Godwin lit up with one last
look, revealing more than words. “O faithful, loving girl,” he said,
“what have I lost, and yet not wholly lost!” He passed through the gate,
went out upon the road, and for miles turned not his head.
Her Lieutenant-General Sir Victor and all the idols of her vanity
shattered about her, Sybilla heard with renewed dismay of Godwin’s
disappearance. It was another stroke of the two-edged sword; for she
believed that, with the intention of screening her from justice, he had
crawled away to die in some obscurity; and had it not been for the
consequent excitement, the daily expectation of hearing of his death,
the wretched wife must have sunk under the agonies of her remorse. But,
when a few weeks were passed came Jessy with news of his life
instead--with grief and consolation, and not a word of reproach. Long
and painful was the interview between these two women; and, soon after
they parted, the high-strung nerves of Sybilla gave way, and she was
mercifully laid upon a bed of sickness. But there was a secret between
them now, betwixt the innocent and the guilty, that rendered separation
impossible; and before Sybilla rose, a repentant woman, they were knit
in close bonds of dependence and support.
Five years have now elapsed; and now and then, perhaps this very day,
these two strange friends bend their still young and beautiful heads
together in secret over some little piece of news--from
Paris--Vienna--St. Petersburgh. For, as the best outlet of never-resting
emotions, Godwin had turned himself to music, had spent whole nights in
pouring from the strings of his violin songs of his experience. Till at
last he began to grow famous; and is now known to the cognoscenti by a
new name--which, after all, is only Jessy’s name Italianized--as a
musician full of ungovernable fire and pathos, as a wild, erratic,
fast-consuming genius, careless at once of emolument and praise. And so,
suddenly appearing here and there, he still pours music into ears that
understand not the bitter secret of its power.
* * * * *
=TO MY CIGAR.=
=BY CHARLES ALBERT JANVIER.=
Oh! bright cigar!
I love thy wreaths of smoke so dimly curling,
I love thy murky cloud above me whirling,
While like a star
Amid the smoke thy brilliant tip is shining,
And bids me cast all care and repining
From me afar.
Companion dear!
When weary of this world, its empty pleasure,
Its ceaseless toil, its cares without a measure,
Its doubt and fear,
Then Fancy paints upon thy bright cloud waving
The far-off friends and scenes my heart is craving,
And brings them near.
And when in sorrow
My heart is bowed, and all is cold around it,
And dreary thoughts and weary cares surround it,
Yet still I borrow
From thee a solace, while dear Hope, reviving,
Brings to my view, the mists before it driving,
A bright to-morrow.
* * * * *
=THE TRIAL BY BATTLE.=
=A TALE OF CHIVALRY.=
(_Concluded from page 429._)
CHAPTER III.
THE JUDGMENT OF HEAVEN.
Upon the appointed day, the Count of Barcelona, who had passed the
preceding eve in masses and prayers, presented himself at the gate of
the camp, mounted on a horse from Seville--a steed whose slender legs
and light step made him rather resemble a courser for a _fête_-day than
a battle charger.
The champion of the empress was clad in a coat of mail of polished
steel, inlaid with gold, the work of the Moors of Cordova, in the midst
of which shone a sun of diamonds, which threw rays like pointed flames;
round his neck he wore the chain given him by the empress, for whose
life and fame he was about to do battle. He struck the barrier three
times, and thrice he was asked by a herald who he was, to which he
always gave this reply--“I am the Champion of God.” At the third
response, the gate was opened, and the Count of Barcelona entered the
lists, which were arranged in an oval form, like the ancient classic
circus, and bordered with seats, raised one above each other in tiers,
filled at this time with the nobility of the Rhine, who had hurried to
see the imposing and interesting spectacle.
At one end of the arena the Emperor Henry was seen, in his imperial
robes, seated on his throne; on the other, in a wooden lodge, sitting on
a common stool, was discovered the empress, dressed in black, holding
her infant son in her arms. Directly opposite the hut in which she was
immured, stood the pile destined to consume her and her babe, if her
champion were defeated; and near it was placed the common hangman, in a
red frock, his arms and legs bare, holding in one hand a chafing-dish,
and in the other a torch. In the middle of the curve that formed the
lists was an altar, whereon lay the holy evangelists, upon which a
crucifix was placed. Opposite the altar stood an uncovered bier.
The Count of Barcelona entered the lists, which he rode round, while a
flourish of trumpets proclaimed to the accusers of the empress that the
Champion of God was at his post; for by this sacred appellation the
defender of him or her who appealed to the ordeal of battle was always
styled in the ages of chivalry. The count stopped before the emperor,
whom he saluted by lowering the point of his lance to his feet; backing
his steed, whose head he kept toward the sovereign, till having reached
the middle he made him spring on all his feet, executing this
_demi-volte_ in so able a manner, that everybody acknowledged him for a
most gallant cavalier. Then he advanced slowly toward the lodge of the
empress, curbing the ardor of the mettled charger, till he reached the
spot where she was seated, when he dismounted, the noble animal standing
as still in the lists as if he had been made of marble. Ascending the
steps that conducted him to her side, as if to prove to all present his
conviction of her innocence, he knelt on one knee, and asked her if she
were still minded to accept of him for her champion.
The empress, overpowered by her feelings, could only extend her hand to
him, in token of her acceptance of his services. The count took off his
helmet, and kissed the offered hand of the empress with deep respect;
then rising, with sparkling eyes, fastened his helmet to the saddle-bow,
replacing himself in the saddle with a single bound, and with no more
assistance from the stirrups than if he had been clad in a silken vest.
Opposite the altar, on the other side of the lists, he recognized the
_jongleur_ who had been the cause of his coming there, seated at the
feet of a beautiful young lady, whom he rightly supposed to be the
heiress of Provence. He advanced toward her, in the midst of the
enthusiastic applause of the spectators, upon whom his youth, heroic
beauty, and chivalrous bearing, had made a lively impression, and whose
vows and prayers for his success were the more ardent because he
appeared too young and slight to risk his life in single combat against
two such formidable knights.
When the count reached the gallery where the fair Provençale was seated,
he bowed to the very neck of his charger, till his dark ringlets veiled
his face; and then raising his head shook back their scattered
luxuriance, while, in the language d’Oc,[4] he addressed the marchioness
thus:--“Noble lady, a thousand thanks for the good enterprise you have
considered me worthy to undertake; for, but for your message, I should
have now been in my own land, without the opportunity of showing my
devotion for the ladies, and my trust in God.” He smiled as he uttered
these courteous words, and looked into the fine eyes of the fair damsel,
who blushed, and cast hers on the ground.
“Noble knight,” replied the young lady, in the same tongue; “It is me
who ought to express the debt of gratitude I owe you, since my
invitation, sent by no higher messenger than a poor _jongleur_, has led
you to cross seas, rivers, and mountains. You are come. Indeed, I cannot
think how I have merited such great courtesy.”
“There is no journey so long, no enterprise so dangerous, that I would
not cheerfully undertake, in Christian land, or pagan clime, that a
smile from your lips and a glance from your eyes would not repay.
Therefore, fair damsel, should I grow weak in this combat, deign to
regard me with a smile, and my strength and courage will return to me
again.”
At these passionate words the count bowed, and the lady blushed; but the
flourish of the trumpets, that proclaimed his foes were in the field,
summoned the champion from the side of the Marchioness of Provence to
his duty. He put on his helmet, and with three bounds of his fine horse
was seen in the space between the pile and the empress; for the Champion
of God, according to the rule of the trial by battle, ought to be near
the accused, that her prayers and looks might encourage him during the
combat.
Guthram de Falkemberg entered in his turn, arrayed in dark armor, and
mounted on one of those heavy German horses who resemble those described
by Homer; an esquire before him, with his lance, battle-axe and sword.
At the gate of the lists he alighted, and advanced to the altar. When he
reached its steps, he raised his visor, and laying his hand upon the
crucifix, on his baptismal faith, his life, his soul, and his honor,
vowed that he believed his quarrel to be just and good; adding to this
vow his oath that neither he, nor his horse, nor his arms, were defended
by herbs, charms, prayers, conjurations, leagues with the Evil One, or
any enchantments whatever, by which he might hope to overcome his
opponent. Then, having made the sign of the cross, he knelt at the head
of the bier, and there made his prayer.
The Count of Barcelona alighted also, and in like manner advanced to the
altar, where he made the same vows, and recited the same oath; and,
after making the sign of the cross, knelt down to pray at the foot of
the bier. In an instant the Libera was heard chanted by invisible
voices, as if sung by a choir of unseen angels. The assistant priests,
on their knees, repeated in low tones the prayers for the dying. Nobody
remained standing at that solemn moment but the hangman, who was not
allowed to join his ominous voice to those of the assembly, because his
prayers were not likely, it was considered, to reach the eternal throne,
or, if they did, to do those he prayed for the slightest good.
As the last note of the Libera died away, the trumpets sounded, the
assistant priests took their places, the two combatants returned to
their chargers, and replaced themselves in their saddles, remaining
immovable, with their lances in rest, and their bucklers on their arms,
guarding their breasts, like two equestrian statues, till the flourish
of trumpets ceased, and the emperor, rising from his throne, and
stretching forth his sceptre, pronounced, in a loud voice, the words
“_Laissez aller_.”[5]
The two combatants careered against each other with the same courage,
but very different fortune; for scarcely had the heavy battle-steed of
Guthram de Falkemberg run a third part of the course, when, clearing
double the space with three bounds of his charger, the Count of
Barcelona was upon him. For an instant nothing was seen but a dreadful
shock, a lance shivered in a thousand splinters, and a confused vision
of men and horses; another moment, the horse of Guthram rose without his
rider, while the corpse of his master, pierced through with his
adversary’s lance, lay bleeding on the sand. The Count of Barcelona ran
to the horse of his fallen adversary, seized him by the reins, and
backing the reluctant animal, forced him to touch with the croup the
barriers of the field; this manœuvre, according to the known laws of
chivalry, being a sign of mercy given by the victor to the conquered
knight, whereby he gave his foe permission to rise, who was indeed
conquered; but the generosity of the brave champion was of no avail to
him; Guthram de Falkemberg would rise no more, till the sound of the
last trumpet summoned his perjured soul to judgment.
A cry of joy broke from the vast multitude, whose wishes and prayers had
been all along for the gallant and beautiful young knight. The emperor
rose and cried, “Well struck;” Douce waved her scarf; the empress fell
on her knees and gave thanks to God for her deliverance. Then the
hangman descended slowly from his stand, unbound the helmet from the
recreant knight, which he flung on the ground; after which he dragged
the corpse by the hair of the head to the bier, and returning to the end
of the lists remounted the pile.
The count went to salute the emperor, the empress, and the fair
Marchioness of Provence; then, returning to his post as champion, he
once more addressed the monarch:--“Saving, Sir Emperor, your pleasure,”
cried he, in a loud voice, “will you please to cause Walter de Than to
be summoned into the lists?”
“Let Walter de Than be introduced,” replied the emperor.
The barrier unclosed a second time, and Walter de Than entered the
lists, armed _cap-a-pied_, and mounted as ready to make his false
accusation good; but when he saw near him Guthram de Falkemberg,
stretched on the bier, and remarked that a single thrust from the lance
of the Champion of God had sent him to his dread account, instead of
advancing to the altar, to take his lying oath, he rode up to the
emperor, and, alighting from his horse, said:--“Sir Emperor, I cannot
obey your summons to the field; for nothing shall induce me to maintain
the cause I have taken, for it is a false and accursed one, as, indeed,
God, by his judgment on my sinful companion, has decided it to be. I,
therefore, throw myself upon your mercy, that of the innocent empress,
and the unknown knight--and a noble one he is--while I proclaim before
the court and this assembly, that the whole charge brought by Guthram de
Falkemberg and myself against my lady empress is false throughout; and
that we were induced and suborned to calumniate her by Prince Henry,
your second son, who, fearing lest you should finally prefer to him the
babe of which your imperial spouse was then pregnant, devised this
conspiracy against the life and honor of his stepmother, and the child
she would bear. His gifts and promises corrupted us from our fidelity as
true knights and loyal subjects. In virtue of this frank confession, I
therefore implore your grace and mercy.”
“You deserve no more mercy than the empress would have found, if she had
not obtained from God a champion,” replied the emperor. “Go, then, to
her, and at her feet implore for pardon, for she alone can restore your
life and honor.”
Walter de Than crossed the lists amidst the hisses, groans, and yells of
the spectators, and knelt down before the rescued empress, who was
tenderly caressing her infant son, whom she regarded with the expression
of a Madonna.
“Madam,” said the recreant knight, “I come, by the command of my lord
the emperor, to entreat your clemency; for, since I plead guilty to the
wrong of preferring a false and calumnious charge against your honor and
the legitimacy of my lord prince, you can do what you please with the
criminal.”
“Friend,” replied the young empress, “you may depart in health and
safety for me. I will take no vengeance upon you; God will deal with you
according to his own pleasure and justice. Go, then; but never let me
behold you in Germany again.”
Walter de Than rose and departed, and from that day was seen in the
imperial realms no more.
Then the emperor ordered the gate to be opened for the conqueror, who
entered the lists once more; but this time looked round in vain for an
enemy.
“Lord Knight,” said the emperor to the Count of Barcelona, “Walter de
Than will not fight with you. He has confessed his guilt to me, and
demanded mercy; and I sent him to the empress, who has granted him his
life, on the condition of his leaving my dominions forever. She was too
joyful and too full of gratitude for the deliverance God had granted her
by your arm to be severe to him.”
“Since it is so with him, I am satisfied,” replied the Count of
Barcelona; “and I ask no more.”
Then the emperor descended from his throne, and, leading the charger of
the victor by the bridle, in this manner conducted the count to the
empress. “Madam,” said he, “behold the knight who has so valiantly
defended your righteous cause. You must give one hand to him, and the
other to me, that we may conduct him to my throne, where we must all
three remain, while justice be done to the corpse of Guthram de
Falkemberg; after which, we shall in like manner lead you to the palace,
where we will both endeavor to render him all the honor we can, in order
to retain him as our welcome guest as long as we can prevail with him to
remain at our court.”
The empress quitted her station of doubt and shame, to kneel before the
emperor, who raised and embraced her before the vast assembly, as a
proof to them that she had recovered his confidence and love. Then he
took one of her hands, and the Count of Barcelona the other, and in this
manner she was conducted to the throne, upon which the emperor took his
seat, placing her on his right hand, and the Champion of God on his
left. As soon as they were seated, the hangman came into the lists a
second time, and, approaching the corpse of Guthram de Falkemberg, cut
with a knife the links of his armor, which he divided piece by piece,
throwing them about the lists, with these contemptuous words:--“This is
the helmet of a coward; this is the cuirass of a coward; this is the
buckler of a coward.” When the hangman had stripped the body in this
manner, his two assistants entered with a horse dragging a hurdle, to
which they attached the corpse, which was then dragged through every
street in Cologne to the public gibbet, where it was hanged by the
heels, in order that everybody might come and see the dreadful wound
through which the sinful soul of the recreant knight, Sir Guthram de
Falkemberg, had issued forth to its dread account. And all who looked
upon the guilty dead declared that only the just judgment of God could
have enabled such a young and gentle cavalier to overcome such a great
and renowned warrior in the trial by battle.
The emperor and empress brought the Champion of God to their palace,
where they made him a great feast; and, in order to do him honor, placed
him at dinner at their own table, and by their side, and declared that
they never intended to part with him. Now, the count wanted to return to
his own good city of Barcelona, which he had left two months before with
more chivalry than prudence. So, mindful of his duty as a sovereign,
after he had done his devoir as a knight-errant, he stole out of the
palace by night; and, having ordered hay and corn to be given his good
steed at the hostelrie, and commanded his squire to groom him, he
departed with great secrecy from Cologne, which he left that same night
for his own dominions.
The next day, the emperor, missing the count from his table, sent a
messenger to the hostel, where he supposed his summons to breakfast
would find him. He was soon informed of the departure of his guest, who
was supposed to be at least a dozen miles from Cologne by that time. The
messenger soon returned to the emperor, to whom he said:--“Sire, the
knight who fought for my lady the empress is gone, no one knows
whither.”
At this unexpected news Henry turned to the empress, and, in a voice
which betrayed his displeasure, said:--“Madam, you have heard what this
person has told me. I find your champion quitted Cologne last night,
without leaving any trace by which he can be discovered and brought
back.”
“Oh, my dear lord!” exclaimed the empress, “you will be still more
grieved when you learn the quality of this knight, with which, at
present, I think you are unacquainted.”
“No,” replied the emperor; “he has told me nothing more than that he was
a Spanish count.”
“Sire, the knight who did battle for me is the noble Count of Barcelona,
whose renown is already so great that it exceeds even his lofty rank.”
“How!” cried the emperor, “is this unknown knight no other than Raymond
de Berenger. God indeed, sent him to my aid, madam; for the imperial
crown has never been so highly honored before. He, however, makes me pay
him very dearly by the disgrace and shame his sudden departure has cast
upon me. I declare, madam, that I will not receive you into my love and
favor till you find and bring him back to my court. Go away yourself for
your journey as quickly as you can; for I will either see you with him,
or see you no more.”
“It shall be so, since you command it, sire,” replied the empress, who
was too well accustomed to the hasty manner and arbitrary disposition of
her consort to contest his will, however unreasonable that will might
appear to her. She had noticed the marked attention the handsome count
had paid to her beautiful maid of honor, Douce, Marchioness of Provence,
and, therefore, determined to include her in her train, which consisted
of a hundred noble matrons, a hundred young damsels of quality, and a
hundred knights; for Praxida resolved to travel in a style suitable to
her lofty rank; and she used such expedition, that in two months from
the time of her departure she found herself in the noble city of
Barcelona. The astonishing report that the Empress of Germany, with a
splendid retinue, had arrived at the principal hostelrie, quickly
reached the noble count, who knew not how to credit it; till, mounting
his horse, he rode thither, and recognized at the first glance the fair
lady for whom he had lately fought. The delivered and deliverer met with
equal joy, and, after the first salutation, the lord count, kneeling at
the feet of the empress, asked “to what fortunate chance he owed the
pleasure of seeing her in his own dominions.”
“Lord count,” replied the empress, “the emperor, my spouse, will not
permit me to return to his court without you, for your presence at
Cologne can alone restore to me his love and favor. Indeed, ever since
he has known the honor the noble Count of Barcelona did the imperial
crown by becoming my champion, he has resolved to share in no
festivities till that happy day when he can welcome you to his court,
and thank you for that act of courtesy in a manner befitting your high
degree. Therefore, if you wish me to be once more recognized as Empress
of Germany, you must hearken to my humble prayer, and accompany me to
Cologne.”
Upon hearing these words, the count once more knelt down, and presenting
both his hands, in the manner of a prisoner awaiting his fetters,
saying, “Madam, it is for you to command, and me to obey; do with me as
with a prisoner.”
The empress immediately took a golden chain, whose links encompassed her
throat eight times, unwound it, and clasped one end round the right
wrist of the Count of Barcelona, while she gave the other to the fair
Marchioness of Provence, in whose gentle keeping she willed the captive
to remain during the homeward journey. The prisoner, on his part,
declared that he was too well satisfied with his guardian to wish to
break her chains, unless she were pleased to permit him to relinquish
them for a time.
Three days after this interview, the Empress of Germany quitted
Barcelona, with her retinue of three hundred noble knights and ladies,
bringing with her its chivalrous sovereign, in a chain of gold, held by
her fair maid of honor; and in this manner traversed Roussillon,
Languedoc, Dauphiny, Switzerland, and Luxembourg; the lord count,
according to his vow, neither breaking his chain, nor showing any
inclination to do so.
The _cortége_ of the empress was met, five leagues from Cologne, by the
emperor, who, being apprised of the coming of the Count of Barcelona,
came to welcome him. As soon as he saw the brave cavalier who had saved
the honor of his dearly-beloved wife, Henry IV. alighted; Raymond
Berenger did the same, though still held in the chain of gold by the
Marchioness of Provence. The emperor then warmly embraced and thanked
him for the honorable service he had done him, by waging the battle of
the Empress Praxida, and besought him to name his reward.
“My lord emperor,” replied the count, “will you be pleased to command
the Marchioness of Provence never to let me go, for, since I cannot
depart from her wardship without her good pleasure, I think she ought
not to quit mine; that thus, being fast linked together for the rest of
our lives, we may never be divided from each other in this world, nor in
that which is to come.”
Douce of Provence blushed, and even thought proper to make some maidenly
opposition to an arrangement so pleasing to herself. The emperor,
however, intimated to her, that, being her suzerain, whatever he chose
to command she must obey. He therefore fixed the marriage for that day
week; and Douce of Provence was so submissive a vassal, that she never
even thought of requesting her lord paramount for the delay of a single
day. It was in this manner that Raymond Berenger, Count of Barcelona,
won the fair heiress, and became possessed of the marquisate and lands
of Provence.[6]
-----
[4] Tongue of the South, or Provence, in which part of France _oc_ was
used as the affirmative, instead of _oui_, as in the northern
districts.--_Translator._
[5] “You may go.” This was the signal at trials by battle, passes of
arms, and tournaments, for the combatants to engage.
[6] Henry the Fourth of Germany was subject to fits of jealousy, for
which failing he once received personal chastisement, at the fair hands
of the empress and her ladies, on a certain occasion on which he had
concealed himself in his wife’s apartment, disguised as a foreign knight
when his intrusion was resented and punished by severe buffettings from
the incensed female court, who either did not recognize the emperor, or
pretended to mistake him for a robber. Empresses of Germany appear to
have been often the mark for false and murderous accusations; since,
nearly a century before this period, the Empress Cunegonda was delivered
from the pile by the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights, who entered
the lists as the Champion of God, and successfully defended her
honor.--_Trans._
* * * * *
=THE LUCKY PENNY.=
=BY MRS. S. C. HALL.=
(_Continued from page 423._)
CHAPTER III.
There are some women who never lose the habit of blushing; it is lovely
in the young, and indicates extreme sensitiveness in the old. Richard
inherited his mother’s blushes before they had faded from her own
cheeks. The transparency of Mrs. Dolland’s complexion was noticed by Mr.
Whitelock; it contrasted well with the dust-covered pages of his books;
yet he wondered why her color came and went, and why her lips trembled.
“Nothing wrong with Richard, I hope?” he said.
“I hope not, sir; and that is what I wanted to speak with you about, if
you will be so good as to have a little patience with me. I am a simple
woman, I know, sir; my husband (ah! _you_ would have understood _him_)
always said I was; but the simple are sometimes wise unto salvation. You
live, sir, like a Christian--you never keep open after six on
Saturdays--so that my boy gets home early, and not too much worn with
fatigue to enjoy the rest and perform the duties of the Sabbath; and, on
Sunday, it does him good (he says) to see you in church before the bell
has done ringing. I am sure, sir, you are a Christian.”
“I hope so; I am a believer; but many a believer does not live as
becomes a follower of Christ,” replied Mr. Whitelock.
“My husband, sir, was one of those who suffered long, and was kind, and
thought no evil; in short, sir, you can read his character in 1
Corinthians, chap. xiii. I owe him more than woman ever owed to man. His
unfortunate attachment to me lost him his position in society: his
father never forgave him for marrying a farmer’s daughter. I thought
that I did right, because he, just one-and-twenty, said he could bend
his lot to mine, and laugh at poverty, and not live without me, and such
like things--as, perhaps, you have said yourself before you were
married.”
“I beg your pardon, my good woman,” interrupted the bookseller, “but I
never was married, and never uttered such absurdities in my life.”
Mrs. Dolland colored, and twisted the end of her shawl round her finger.
“Lucky, sir--lucky for you--and for--but I beg your pardon; perhaps you
never were in love.”
Mr. Whitelock fidgeted, and grumbled something, and the widow’s instinct
made her comprehend that he did not relish her conjectures. She
continued--
“I believed every word he said: I could not understand his sacrifice,
because I had never moved in his sphere; I thought it a fine thing to
marry for love, and out-stare poverty. I did not know that the gaze of
its stony eyes, and the clutch of its bony hands might drive him to his
grave. They said he was consumptive from his birth: I don’t believe it;
I know that labor and want take its form. I went to his father; I knelt
to him; I told him I would leave my husband--go where they should never
hear my name--if he would only receive him and his son; I did, indeed,
sir; but he turned from me with cruel words. And, though he knew he was
teaching a few poor scholars, just for bread, so he left him--and so he
died. I only wish that young, poor girls, who think it a fine thing to
many a gentleman, could know the misery it brings: the hardest lot can
be borne alone; but to bring another to it, and that other the one you
would die to make happy--_Oh! that is the hardest of all things to
bear!_ I beg your pardon, sir; but if I did not begin from the first,
you could not understand my feelings.”
She wiped away her tears, and Mr. Whitelock told her to proceed. He was
so much interested in her tale, told in her simple manner, in her soft
voice--a voice so full of that low intonation, which is distinct even in
its murmurs--that he could not help wishing some one of his favorite
novelists, people who, long ago, wrote the most innocent tales in five
or seven volumes, were there to hear it. By his own dreamy abstraction,
she was transformed into a young shepherdess, tying a blue ribbon round
a lamb’s neck; and the vision, with its adjuncts of green fields and
purling brooks--which he never saw more than twice a-year--with an
enraptured youth leaning over a stile, and the village church steeple
peering above the distant trees, was only dispelled by her resuming her
unaffected narrative.
“And speaking as I was, sir, of understanding the feelings, I know that
to the last I never quite understood those of my husband. I can’t tell
if it was because of the difference of our birth, or of our bringing up,
or of both; though, as to the birth, his father had been a poor man
once, and got rich, some said, not over rightly--though I can’t quite
believe _that_ of my dear husband’s father. I never, as I said, quite
understood my husband; for, to the last, I know I gave him pain, by
little ways which he never complained of, and I knew not how to change;
but what I could understand was his PIETY. He lived the last year of his
life, a life of such faith and hope, that the world seemed to fold
itself away from him like a vapor, and he looked upon all that stood
between Christ and him as evil. He delighted to teach our child texts of
Scripture; and even the wise-like copies which he used to set him from
Poor Richard’s Almanac faded from his memory toward the last, though
Bible words remained with him, and scraps of Watts’s hymns, and long
passages of holy poetry; but what he dwelt upon was the future of his
child. At that time I got constant work as an embroideress. But the last
year he might be said to be more in heaven than on earth: the world was
not with him; only hour by hour he used to call me to him and
say--‘Remember our great salvation,’ and the next minute he would pray
me, clasping my hands within his, not to care about the little lad’s
learning, so that he could win Christ. He would go on, adding scripture
to scripture, to prove that all this world is nothing worth without that
which insures eternal life. He desired neither riches, nor honors, nor
wealth, nor learning for that boy--nothing but his becoming wise unto
salvation. Sir, I understood _that_--_that_ came home to me. Now, sir,
the lad is a good lad--tender and loving to me his mother, and, I
believe, dutiful to you, sir, though the person below did hint, rather
than say, things which I own gave me concern just now--things which make
me fear he may not be altogether what I hope; but he is young, and--”
“It is only Matty’s unfortunate manner,” interrupted the bookseller.
“She does not mean it: she has an ugly trick of insinuating evil where
she means good.”
“How very strange,” said the meek woman. “I am so glad I mentioned it: I
should have made my son so unhappy. What a pity she does not hope, sir:
poor thing! not to have hope is worse than blindness. Well, sir, have I
explained how anxious my husband was that this dear lad should become a
righteous man--not a formalist, but a vital Christian--abiding
continually in the faith, faithful above all things; believing, like his
father, in Christ, and evincing that belief by acts of charity--in word,
in deed, in thought--toward his fellow creatures. That, sir, was the
religion in which he lived and died; and I should feel unfaithful to his
trust if I did not, by prayer, supplication and entreaty, try to keep
the lad in the path which his father trod. But he is getting too strong
for me: his mind swells like a river after rain. He reads his Bible, to
be sure; but he reads other books more frequently. I don’t know if that
is quite right. Oh! sir, I weary heaven with prayers to teach me how to
keep him in the right; so, that even if he halt, or turn aside, he may
return.”
“The boy is a good boy--an excellent lad: I have been turning over in my
mind what I could do for him, to put him in the way of bettering his
position. He is a right excellent lad,” repeated the bookseller; “and I
would have you beware of drawing the rein too tight: I think you are
anxious overmuch.”
She shook her head mournfully.
“Sir, I have lived on hope--a holy hope--a hope above the world--the
hope of one day seeing him in the courts of his Heavenly Father, met by
his earthly father. With that hope to light me, I can walk thankfully
into the grave--which, if I live a few months longer, cannot be darker
than my sight--_certain_ of the brightness which shall be revealed
hereafter. But, oh! sir, if he, his child, should be beguiled by too
much worldly wisdom, or learning, to forget God, how could I meet my
husband--how could I answer to him for the soul which he left to my care
upon his bed of death?”
“My good woman, all the most righteous parents can do is to letter and
bind the book carefully, and let the world cut the leaves.”
“Yes,” she answered, “and to pray for him, and keep evil, especially the
evil of unbelief, from him, and that is one great reason of my visit,
sir. You lent him--”
“The Works of Benjamin Franklin--I remember.”
“Is it the sort of book do you think, sir, that is fit for my little
lad? I know it is full of knowledge, about his catching lightning, and
inventing wonderful things, and contains great and good advice to young
tradesmen; but I fear, though a great man, he wanted--”
“What the best of us want, more or less, my good lady,” said the
bookseller, with unusual briskness, “and had much that few of us
possess.” And then, after some consideration, he added slowly, rather as
if talking to himself than addressing another--“Let me see. The early
part of his life was stained, like the lives of many--John Bunyan to
wit--with faults almost amounting to crimes; and those would have
remained untold, unrecorded--indeed, perfectly unknown, even by his most
intimate friends--but for the extraordinary truthfulness of the man’s
great nature. In the brief account of his own life, he confesses that he
was blown about by every wind of doctrine; and to what purpose? to fall
into the quagmire of unbelief. Now, this would be dangerous to read and
think over for lads of Richard’s age and eager temperament, if the
entire honesty of Franklin’s nature--downright, brave,
looking-straight-in-the-face truth--had not made him confess and condemn
his errors. He was scourged--as all unbelievers are, if they would only
admit so much--by his unbelief; he had to endure the bitterness and
self-reproach of knowing that the young friends whom his arguments had
perverted turned upon and ill-used him: he recalled his own
misconduct--born of, and nurtured by unbelief; and, though his nature
was neither pious nor enthusiastic like that of John Bunyan, he saw,
like Bunyan, the evil of his ways, particularly in a reasoning point of
view. He learned that unbelief was the proof of a weak, not of a strong
nature: he saw how foolish it would be to call a boy ‘strong-minded,’
because he would not believe what his father told him! As he grew in
years, he strengthened in truth: another proof of his great mind. And
then his works live in our literature: they keep their place by their
own specific gravity. The lad is old enough to understand this man’s
greatness, and the value he was to his country--indeed, to all
countries--and to imbibe those lessons of usefulness and industry which
are taught in his works, without being tainted by his confessed sin.
Infidelity is put, and by himself, at such a disadvantage, that it holds
out no temptation: it shows from first to last the confessed blot upon a
radiant memory. Ay, indeed, this great man--this man so in advance of
his time--this true man was, as I have said, scourged by his infidelity,
and he shows his stripes. I dare say” (the bookseller was a great
phrenologist, and the science engrafted much charity on his simple, yet
shrewd mind) “I dare say the organ was depressed at veneration, but
large in benevolence; with an almost over-weight of the reasoning
faculties. Ah! if historians would only give us the measurement of
_heads_, and their developments, instead of their own crude or
prejudiced analysis of _character_, we should better know where to
render our hero-worship--don’t you think so?”
The mother looked upward: the spirit’s vision was unimpaired, though the
_sight_ was fading day by day. Still she always looked upward, as if all
her consolation came from thence.
“I do not understand, sir,” she said, simply, “what you have observed
has to do with my Richard; but if you are sure the book won’t harm him,
won’t shake his faith, or make him think too highly of worldly gifts--”
She paused, and then added--
“You, sir, being a Christian man, know best. I am certain it teaches
plenty of hope _for this world_, and great reliance upon human gifts.”
“Your pardon, my good lady,” said the bookseller; “but which of our
_gifts_ is not divine?”
“Ay, sir, but we must acknowledge their origin; and, as my dear husband
used to say, not be too fond of setting the farthing-candle of reason to
give light to the sun of revelation. He made me understand _that_.”
She rose to withdraw.
“I fear you are not satisfied, even now.”
She shook her head.
“I pray night and day that he may be so guided as to win heaven. I would
fain know what to do,” she continued, still more feebly; “you are so
good to him, sir--may God bless you for it! But the lad--and that book.
I wish he had taken to it when my sight was strong, I could have read it
then: now, if he reads it to me, I think he picks out the passages he
knows I would like, and leaves the rest.”
“Did he ever read you the great man’s epitaph, written by himself?”
“Yes, sir: there is hope in the last lines about his appearing (after
death) in a new and more beautiful edition, corrected and amended by the
Author. Certainly, no bad man (Christianly speaking) could frame that.”
“Bad man!” repeated the bookseller, “_Why there are scores of editions
of his works!_”
This, as a proof of his goodness, did not strike the widow.
“Then, sir, you are quite satisfied with Richard.” The poor woman’s
hands trembled as she folded them together, and the long-suppressed
tears flowed over her cheeks. “I beg your pardon for troubling you--I
have no right to do so, you are so kind to him; only, sir, please to
remember that he has two fathers in heaven, and that I--poor creature
that I am--feel accountable to _both_. I cannot sleep by night: I fear I
neglect my duty, and yet I fear to overtax his; he gains knowledge so
quickly that I tremble for his faith; and when I am sitting alone,
between the dimness of my own sight and of the twilight, a thin, filmy
shadow stands before me, and I think that I can see the parting of its
lips, and hear them whisper--‘Where is my child--does he seek to win
Christ?’”
The compassionate bookseller gazed upon her with deep feeling; the woman
so feeble in body, yet so steadfast in what she believed right, was a
new interest to him. He rose without a word, went to a dingy escritoir,
opened the top, which folded down, and taking out a small bag of gold,
selected a sovereign. “Go homewards,” said he, “and as you go, purchase
a bottle of Port wine, and what my housekeeper calls a shin of beef.
Make it _all_, mind you, every atom, into beef tea.”
“For Richard?”
“No, woman, for yourself; the weakness of your body adds to the weakness
of your sight, and may, eventually, impair your mind. Pray, my good
soul, for _yourself_, as well as for your son. Lay out the money
faithfully for the purpose I have named; I know how it is, I know that
you feed _him_--but you devote his surplus earnings to pay your little
debts. I have seen you, on a Monday morning, enter a baker’s shop, with
a thin, marble-covered book rolled in your hand. I have seen you pay the
baker money, and you have left the shop without a loaf. Now, mind what I
say.”
“But a whole sovereign!” she said, “it is too much--might I not pay--”
“Not a farthing out of that!” he exclaimed, “why you are quite as much
of a shadow as when I saw you first. Well, if you are too proud to take
it as a gift, your son shall repay it hereafter. And do not be so
anxious about Richard; have you ever considered that great anxiety about
any earthly thing, is _want of faith_ in almighty wisdom and goodness?
Has He not taken your husband, as you believe, into his presence for
evermore? At the very time when you feared most for your boy, did not a
door open to him? and was not the crooked made straight? It has always
seemed most unaccountable to me, how people, and good people like
you--who have hope forever on their lips--suffer so much fear to enter
their hearts.”
But there was so much to cheer and encourage in the generosity and
kindness of the worthy man, and in the faithful, yet unpretending,
nature of his words, that the widow’s hope returned, at all events for a
time, to her heart as well as to her lips. She might again have
wandered--again have inquired if he thought her “little lad was quite
safe,” for she never, in her best of days, could embrace more than one
subject at a time--but his housekeeper entered with two cups of broth.
“You forget the time,” she said, abruptly, “though I’m thinking it wont
return the compliment to either of you; I can’t say much for the broth,
for the meat is not what it was long ago.”
“If the master gets a fit,” she continued, turning to the widow, “it
will be your fault--keeping him without bit or sup--here, take the
broth, it ain’t _pison_, and master’s no ways proud; I wish he was. If
you can’t take your broth here comfortably, come with me to the
kitchen.” Holding the cup in one hand, and leading the more than
half-blind sempstress with the other, she conducted her down the narrow,
dark stairs, as carefully as a mother would lead a child, but before she
had seated her by the fire, the bell rang.
“I rang for you,” said her master, “knowing that your heart and words do
not always go together--”
“Then I tell lies; thank ye sir,” she said, courtesying.
“No, only I wish you to bear in mind that Richard’s mother is in a very
low, nervous state.”
“How can any one passing through this valley o’ tears be any thing
else?” interrupted the incorrigible woman.
Her master seemed as though he heard her not. “And if you speak to her
in your usual grumpy, disagreeable manner”--she courtesied more deeply
than before--“you add to her misery. I am sure your natural kindness of
heart will tell you how cruel that would be.”
“Putting live worms on fishing-hooks, or roasting live cockles would be
nothing to it,” observed Matty. Now as the bookseller had a piscatorial
weakness, was, moreover, fond of roast cockles, and had recently
complained that Matty had forgotten his taste--this was a very hard hit;
he looked discomforted, upon which Martha rejoiced. He was by no means
ready-witted--but he was occasionally readily angered--and replied to
the sarcasm with a bitter oath, producing an effect directly contrary to
what he intended. Martha quitted the dusty room, as if suffocated by
satisfaction, and went grumbling and tittering down stairs.
“It was a Lucky Penny, sure enough,” she said, “that brought my master
and your son together.”
“God bless him!”
“Which him?”
“Both, mistress; we hope he will bless what we love best in the world.”
“Ay, indeed, true for you. I heard tell of a man once who was hung
through a ‘Lucky Penny.’”
The widow pushed away the unfinished cup of broth.
“And of another, who made his fortune by one--just as Richard will,”
added Matty, relenting.
And yet, despite this and her other sarcasms, it was curious to see how
Martha struggled to keep in her bitter words; when she looked at the
widow’s shrunk and trembling form, and wasted, though still beautiful
features, her better nature triumphed; but if her eyes were fixed upon
her kitchen deities, she became sharp and acid immediately. Had she
moved in a higher grade of society, with her peculiar talent, she might
have been
“That dangerous thing, a female wit;”
as it was, she kept her master (to whom, from her stern honesty of
pocket and purpose, as well as from “habit,” that great enslaver of our
“kind,” she was invaluable) on a species of rack, while the only
peaceful time Richard spent in her society, was while he read to her
what she called, “the state of Europe on the paper.”
“He will soon have been twelve months in his place,” said the widow,
smiling.
“Come next new-year’s-day, if we live to see it; Richard says he’ll
watch at the corner for the old gentleman.”
“Bother! I dare say he’s dead long ago.”
“No, he is not dead; I am sure he is not dead,” replied the widow. “I
should like him to see my boy now; I hope he is not dead--”
“Ay, ay, well we shall see,” quoth Matty. “Before Peter (down, Peter,
jewel!) before Peter came, we had a dog called Hope--the most
desaven’est _crayture_ she was that ever stole a bone; and always
brought it back--when there was nothing on it.”
[_To be continued._
* * * * *
=A DAY WITH A LION.=
A few years ago, while residing at the Cape, I became acquainted with
several of those enterprising traders who are engaged in the lucrative
but rather hazardous traffic with the natives north of the Orange River.
These traders are sometimes absent for more than two years from the
colony, moving about with their wagons and servants, from one tribe to
another, until their goods are all disposed of, when they return to
Graham’s Town or Cape Town with the cattle, hides, ivory, ostrich
feathers, and other valuables, into which their original merchandise has
been converted, usually at a profit of some four or five hundred per
cent. Most of those traders whom I knew in Cape Town confined their
operations to the country lying along the western coast of the
continent, and stretching from the Orange River toward the Portuguese
possessions in Benguela. Some of them had advanced on that side nearly
to the great lake which has since been discovered by travelers
proceeding from another quarter. The existence of this lake is well
known to the natives inhabiting the western coast, who have often spoken
of it to their English visitors.
One of the boldest and most successful of these adventurous traders was
a Mr. Hutton, a respectable English colonist, who had accumulated a
small fortune by his excursions among the Namaquas and the Dammaras, and
was talking of retiring from the business. I had heard of him not only
as a lucky dealer and a daring hunter, but also as being one of the most
intelligent explorers of South Africa; and having been able on one
occasion to render him a slight service, I obtained from him in return a
good deal of information concerning those parts of the interior with
which he was familiar. Some of his own adventures which he occasionally
related, in illustration of the facts thus communicated, seemed to me to
be curious and interesting enough to be worth preserving. One of them I
will endeavor to repeat as nearly as possible in the words in which he
told it.
It may be as well, before proceeding with the narrative, to mention
briefly the circumstances which drew from Mr. Hutton the account of this
singular adventure. The service which I had rendered to him consisted
merely in obtaining from the authorities, by proper representations, the
liberation of a Namaqua servant, whom he had brought to town with him
from the country beyond the Orange River. This dusky youth was in
appearance and in character a genuine Hottentot. He had the small
stature, the tawny complexion, the deep-set eyes, the diminutive nose,
the wide and prominent cheek-bones, and the curiously tufted hair, which
distinguish that peculiar race. He was usually silent, grave, and
somewhat sullen in mood, except when he was excited by strong liquor, of
which, like most of his compatriots, he was immoderately fond. In this
state Apollo (as he was preposterously named) became not only lively and
boisterous, but excessively pugnacious. The latter quality brought him
frequently into collision with some of the saucy and knowing blacks of
Cape Town, who found the same malicious pleasure in teasing the poor
Namaqua that town-bred youngsters in a London school evince in annoying
any rustic new-comer. It was in consequence of an affair of this sort,
that poor half-muddled Apollo, after a desperate combat with a gigantic
Mozambique “apprentice,” had one day been bundled off by the police to
the lock-up house; and his master, who was hardly more familiar than
Apollo himself with the ways of the town, came to me to ask my advice
and assistance toward getting the unlucky Namaqua released. There was
little difficulty in accomplishing this, when the circumstances were
properly explained to the presiding functionary; and Apollo, after a few
hours’ detention in the “tronk,” (or city jail,) was restored to his
master in a sober and very penitent condition.
I was somewhat surprised by the evidences of strong anxiety and even
affection displayed by Mr. Hutton for his uncouth _protégé_ in this
affair. The latter had certainly nothing in his appearance or ways which
could be considered prepossessing. He had, indeed, the grace to evince
some attachment for his master; but otherwise his mental and moral
traits did not appear to be more attractive than his physiognomy. I had
heard that Mr. Hutton, in spite of his reputation as a keen trader and
an ardent hunter, was an upright and kind-hearted man; and I concluded
that Master Apollo had probably been intrusted by his parents to the
trader, with a solemn promise that their precious treasure should be
restored to them unscathed; and no doubt Mr. Hutton’s solicitude
proceeded from his conscientious anxiety to keep his engagement.
He called upon me that evening, to thank me for my attention to his
wishes. In the course of our conversation, I casually remarked that
Apollo must be a good servant to have inspired his master with such a
feeling of regard for him.
“I ought to care for him,” answered Mr. Hutton, “since he saved my
life.”
This reply led, of course, to further questioning, and finally elicited
from the trader the narrative which struck me as so remarkable.
“I picked up Apollo about ten years ago,” he said, “on the north bank of
the Orange River. He was then a child, not more, I should say, than ten
or twelve years old; though you never can judge accurately of the ages
of these natives. I found him all alone, and half dead with fever, under
a little shelter of boughs and grass, where his people had left him when
he was taken ill. They almost always desert their sick people and
decrepit relations in that way. It is a shocking custom, and I think it
is about the worst part of their character; for, in other respects, I
must say, they are not altogether so bad as some travelers would make
them out to be. I put the little fellow in one of my wagons, and dosed
him with quinine and other medicines; and in a few days he was running
about, as well and lively as ever. He told me that his name was
Tkuetkue, or some other such crack-jaw affair, with two or three clucks
in it, that I would not attempt to pronounce. So, thinking it best to
give him a _Christian_ name, I called him Apollo, in compliment to his
good looks. He has remained with me ever since, and has always shown
himself attached to me in his own way. He is a real savage still. No one
but myself can control him; and he generally obeys my orders as long as
he can remember them, which is seldom more than a day. But I cannot make
him a teetotaler or a man of peace, although I believe I have set him a
fair example in both those lines. He will drink whenever he can get the
liquor; and when he is excited by drink or provocation he will fight
like a mad tiger. Otherwise he is an honest, faithful fellow, and the
best after-rider I ever had. An after-rider, you know, is the name given
to the Hottentot or black boy who rides with you, and carries your spare
gun and ammunition, and sometimes heads off the game, or assists you in
any other way, as you order him.”
I knew what an after-rider was, but I was curious to hear how Apollo had
been able to render his master the great service spoken of. It seemed
that in the first instance he had owed his own life to Mr. Hutton’s
kindness.
“Probably he did,” answered Hutton, “although if I had not found him he
might have recovered. Those Namaquas and Hottentots have wonderfully
tough constitutions; it takes a deal of sickness or starvation to kill
them. But the other affair took place about four years ago; and if you
care to hear the story, I have no objection to repeat it. I have told it
often, for the credit of my friend Apollo.
“I was on my way to Dammara-land, with two wagons and about a dozen
people. Two of them were Mozambique blacks, whom I had brought with me
from Cape Town, and the remainder were Hottentots and Namaquas that I
had picked up on the way. Most of them I got at old Schmelen’s
missionary station, on this side of the Orange River. The two negroes
were tolerably good servants; they had gained some knowledge of
civilized habits in Cape Town. The others could do little besides
helping to drive the wagons; though sometimes they were of service in
following _spoor_--traces of game, you know. They knew the country well,
and by keeping a pretty sharp eye upon them I was able to make them
useful. In tracking game, as I said, they sometimes rendered good
service; but they were great cowards, and though some of them could
handle firearms tolerably well, I never could get them to face any
dangerous animal, such as a buffalo or a rhinoceros, and least of all a
lion, with any steadiness. I shot two or three rhinoceroses with little
support from any of them, except Apollo, who always stood by me like a
Trojan, though his teeth sometimes chattered, and his eyes became like
saucers, as we approached the enemy.
“One afternoon,” continued Hutton, “I outspanned near a pool, where many
animals of different sorts came at night to drink. We could see their
tracks all about the margin. The Namaquas knew the place well, and urged
me to encamp at a little distance off, saying that the lions were ‘al te
kwaad,’ or very angry, in that region; and that if we rested near the
water we should be very likely to lose some of our oxen, and might
perhaps be ourselves attacked. For it is a curious fact that when a lion
has once tasted human flesh, he seems to acquire a peculiar relish for
it, and will leave all other game untouched if he has a chance of
seizing upon a man. I did not wish to run any risk, so far as my people,
or my oxen either, were concerned; and so, after making them drink
heartily, I drove off to a distance of about two miles, and outspanned
in a small valley, out of sight from the pool. We kindled a large fire
to keep off any wild beasts that might be prowling about, and then
turned the oxen loose to pick up what little herbage they could find
among the rocks about us. For myself, I felt a strong desire to have a
shot at a lion. I had not bagged one for more than three years. In fact,
I had been unlucky in two or three long shots, and began to fear that I
should get out of practice in that sort of sport, which requires good
nerves and experience more than any thing else. I asked four or five of
my best men, including Apollo, if they would watch with me at the pool,
that night, for lions. Three of them consented, and we left the others
with the wagons, with strict injunctions to keep the fire burning, and
not to let the oxen stray to a distance. We reached the water just at
sunset, and set to work at once with the spades and hoes which we had
brought with us, to dig a hole in the sand three or four feet deep,
about twenty yards from the pool. In about an hour we finished our
hiding-place, throwing up the earth about it so as to conceal us still
better from the sight of the wild animals. We then settled ourselves
comfortably in the trench, and lay there with our guns in readiness,
waiting for the lions.
“We stayed there all night to no purpose. A good many animals came down
to drink, but no lions. There were springboks, gemsboks, zebras,
quaggas, and some other creatures, but we did not waste our ammunition
upon them, as we were in no want of meat; and, besides, a single shot
would have alarmed the lions, and prevented them from approaching the
water. However, as it happened, we fared no better for keeping quiet;
and soon after dawn we came out of our grave, stiff, sleepy and sulky,
without having had a glimpse of a lion, though we had heard them roaring
in the distance. They had probably been attracted by our wagons and
oxen; for they were prowling about them all night, as we afterward
learned. The people whom we had left with them were in mortal terror,
but had sense enough to keep up a good blaze. The oxen, in their fright,
crowded almost into the fire, and by good luck the lions did not venture
to attack them.
“I now gave up all hope of meeting the game I had come out for; but I
was determined not to return to the wagons without something to show for
our night’s watching. We had gone but a few rods from the pool, when a
small herd of springboks came bounding through a thicket of thorn-trees
just in front of us. They ran and leaped as though something had
frightened them; but without waiting to see what it was, I fired both
barrels in among them, and knocked over one of the largest. My men all
blazed away at the same time, but without the smallest effect. I had
just taken my gun from my shoulder, when an enormous lion walked out of
the thicket and came slowly toward us. He was not more than thirty yards
off, and there was no time to reload. I was taken so completely by
surprise that for the first few seconds I stood quite motionless, and
uncertain what to do. But I then saw that there was but one course for
us. When a party of natives go out with their assagais and knives to
attack a lion, as they sometimes do, their custom is, when they see the
lion approaching, to sit down on the ground in a cluster. The lion, if
he is in fighting mood, singles out one of them, and pounces upon him.
Sometimes the unlucky man is killed at once by the first grip of the
lion’s teeth and claws; but more often he only receives severe hurt.
Then the other natives throw themselves altogether upon the animal; some
seize his tail and lift him up, which prevents him from turning upon
them, while others stab him with their assagais, and cut him with their
knives; and frequently they manage to kill him without any loss of life
in their party. But sometimes the victory is on the other side; the lion
kills two or three of the natives, and the rest take to their heels. It
seemed to me just possible that by sitting down together, and showing a
bold front, we might intimidate the lion, and prevent him from attacking
us until I had time to reload. I called out loudly, ‘Sit! sit!’ and
knelt down myself on one knee at the same moment, preparing to reload if
there should be time. But casting a hasty glance around, I saw that all
three of my men had taken themselves off at full speed as soon as the
lion appeared, and were already half-way to the hill which was just on
this side of the wagons. Apollo had started with the rest; but he told
me afterward, and I have no doubt with truth, that he thought I was
running also; only, not being as light-footed as they were, I could not
be expected to keep up with them. As the poor fellow did not dare to
look round, he did not discover his mistake until they reached the
wagons.
“In this way I was left alone to face the lion. It was useless then for
me to run. If I had started with the Namaquas he would have had one of
us, and most probably myself, before we had gone fifty yards. My gun was
discharged; and, while we were digging the trench, I had given my
hunting-knife, which incommoded me, to Apollo; so that I was at that
moment completely disarmed. I gave myself up for lost, as a matter of
course; and, as I was kneeling there, I just said, ‘God help my poor
wife and children,’ and waited for the lion to spring. But the fellow
did not seem to be in any hurry. He came slowly up, slackening his pace
by degrees; and at last, when he was about twelve feet off, he stopped
and sat down on the ground like a cat, looking me full in the face. I
sat down also, and looked at him in return; fixing my eyes upon his, and
staring as hard as I could. When I was at school, I had read that the
lower animals could not endure the steady gaze of a man; and although I
cannot say that my own experience had ever confirmed this opinion, it
occurred to me to make the trial with the lion. But I really don’t think
it had much effect upon him. Now and then he would shut his eyes, or
look round to one side or the other, but that was all. Presently he lay
down, with his paws drawn up under him, and his head resting on the
ground, exactly like a cat watching a mouse. At the same time he kept
occasionally licking his lips, as though he had just finished a meal. I
saw at once what the rascal’s intention was. He had just been feasting
on some animal he had killed, very likely a springbok, and was not
hungry. But he had made up his mind to have me for his next meal; and as
lions like their food fresh killed, the scoundrel was keeping me until
he had digested his breakfast. Wasn’t that an agreeable predicament for
a Christian man, as the boers say?”
There was no denying that it was a terrible situation indeed. But I had
read, in some missionary work, of a Hottentot who was kept prisoner by a
lion in a similar way, and was watched steadily by him for a whole day;
but at night, if I remembered rightly, the Hottentot was overcome by
exhaustion, and went to sleep, and when he awoke the lion was gone.
“Yes,” replied the trader, “I have heard of the story. The Hottentot was
a lucky fellow. You see, a lion, in his disposition and habits, is
nothing more or less than a great cat. Some people speak of the lion’s
magnanimity, and ascribe some noble qualities to the beast; but that is
all nonsense. When a lion is not hungry, if he meets with game he will
frequently pass it by without notice. He will seldom kill it out of mere
wantonness and cruelty; but neither will a cat, unless it has been
taught to do so. A cat, when it is not hungry, will sometimes play with
a mouse; that, you would think, must be from a cruel disposition; but,
in reality, it is only keeping the creature alive for its next meal.
Now, this is exactly what the lion sometimes does, and particularly one
that has tasted human flesh; so the natives, at least, will tell you.
The natives say that, in such a case, the lion usually waits for the man
to go to sleep, and then watches him till he begins to move and shows
signs of awaking, when he pounces upon him. In the case of the
Hottentot, the lion must have been frightened away by something that
occurred while the man was asleep. For myself, I did not doubt that the
creature was watching me with the intention of waiting until I should
fall asleep from exhaustion, and then springing upon me at the first
movement I made. I was safe, I thought, so long as I could keep my eyes
open; but if I went to sleep, I should certainly awake in the lion’s
jaws.”
There was something so peculiarly frightful, as well as unexpected, in
the picture thus conveyed, that I could not restrain a shudder and an
exclamation of horror.
“Oh, don’t be alarmed on my account,” said Hutton, with a laugh, “You
see I am here all alive and whole. I only want you to understand what
the danger really was before I tell you how I escaped. You know I had
been up all night, and was tolerably hungry and tired. I had brought a
flask full of water with me, and had just emptied it that morning; so
that, by good luck, I was not at all thirsty. But for that, I do not
know how I should have been able to hold out through the day. The sun
came up bright and clear, as it usually is in those deserts, with a
blaze of heat, which was reflected from the sand about me until it
seemed to burn my skin. I had a broad-brimmed felt hat, with ostrich
feathers round it, which warded off the direct rays; but still I think I
never felt the sun more oppressive; perhaps it was because I was weak
from fasting and want of rest. Still I kept my self-possession, and was
constantly on the watch to take advantage of any opportunity for escape.
There was just a chance that my men might muster courage enough to come
down in a body to my relief; but I believed them to be too
chicken-hearted to approach within a quarter of a mile of a lion, and
besides, there was the probability that the brute, if he should see them
approaching, would spring upon me, and put me out of suspense at once.”
I asked if he did not try to load his gun.
“Of course I did,” he answered; “but at the first motion I made, the old
scoundrel lifted his head and growled, as much as to say, ‘None of that
my boy, or if you do!--’ If I had persisted, it was clear that he would
have been upon me before the powder was in the barrel. He was a huge old
fellow--I think the largest lion I ever saw; with a long, grizzled mane,
and very knowing look. These experienced old lions are amazingly
cunning. He knew perfectly well that my gun was a weapon of some kind or
other; and I have no doubt he knew, too, of my people being in the
neighborhood; for every now and then he would look sharply in the
direction of the wagons. On such occasions I could feel my heart beat
violently, and the perspiration would start to my skin.”
And no wonder! But did the lion, I asked, remain perfectly quiet through
the whole day?
“No; unluckily he did not,” answered the trader. “His restlessness kept
me in constant anxiety. Once a troop of zebras came suddenly by us. When
they saw the lion they wheeled quickly about, snorted, and dashed off
furiously in another direction. The lion rose to his feet in an instant,
turned half round, and looked hard at them. Lions are particularly fond
of the flesh of the zebra, and I had strong hopes that he would leave
me, and go off after them. But I suppose the cunning rascal reflected
that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush; for he turned back
and lay down again, grumbling, and staring harder than ever at me, as
though he meant to say, ‘You see, my fine fellow, I have lost a zebra
through you; and now I mean to make sure of _you_.’ You may believe that
in my heart I bestowed a few witch’s blessings on the beast; but I
thought it best to keep silence.
“The next alarm came from the direction of my wagons. I saw the lion
look earnestly in that direction, as he had done once or twice before,
and then rise to his feet, and utter an angry growl, drawing back his
lips and showing his teeth, as though he saw something that did not
please him. I learned afterward that my men, urged on by Apollo, had
armed themselves to the teeth, and advanced to the top of the hill.
Standing there, with their wonderfully keen sight, they could perceive
the lion keeping guard over me; but no sooner did they see the brute
rise and turn toward them than they all scampered back to the wagons,
and jumped into them, frightened almost out of their wits. After a
little while, the lion crouched down again before me, stretched out his
paws, yawned and winked, and I thought seemed to be growing tired of his
watch. But it was clear that he had made up his mind to remain there
till night, otherwise he would have settled my account without further
delay.”
I may observe that the calm indifference with which Mr. Hutton had thus
far told this singular story was calculated to make a very peculiar
impression upon a listener--half of wonder and half of amusement. He
spoke, in fact, in the same quaint and cool manner in which an old
soldier relates the history of a battle, or a mariner tells of the
shipwrecks which he has experienced.
“Toward evening,” he continued, “I heard a low roaring, which seemed to
be at a great distance. It appeared to disturb my lion a good deal. From
the sound I knew it to be the roar of a lioness; and I thought it likely
that the old fellow’s mate was looking about for him. He got up and lay
down again, two or three times, moving about uneasily and sniffing the
ground, as though he was troubled in his mind; but he remained silent,
and at last the voice of the lioness passed gradually out of hearing.
This, I think, was the most anxious moment of the whole day to me. For
if the lion had answered his mate, and called her to him, she would most
likely have been hungry, and in that case would not have delayed an
instant in setting upon the nice supper which her husband was keeping
for himself. I dare say the cunning old rascal was of the same opinion,
and so thought it best to keep his own counsel.
“At last, the night came. The stars were bright, but there was no moon.
I could see objects indistinctly at a little distance, and could just
discern the outlines of the hills to the eastward. The lion lay quiet,
in a shaggy mass, a few yards from me. I knew that he was wide awake,
and that he saw distinctly every motion I made. Occasionally I could see
his eyes turned toward me, shining like two coals of fire. My last hope
now was that, by remaining perfectly silent and motionless, I might tire
him out, or keep him from attacking me until something happened, as in
the case of the Hottentot we were speaking of, to draw him off. For this
purpose it was necessary that I should remain awake, and this was really
a matter of the greatest difficulty to me. I was completely worn out, as
you may imagine, after being forty-eight hours without food or sleep,
and my mind most of the time wrought up to the highest pitch of anxiety.
The night was chilly, which alone would have caused me to feel sleepy.
Every thing about me was as silent as the grave, and I had to make
continual efforts to keep my eyelids open. Every now and then I caught
myself nodding, and would awaken with a sudden start of terror, at the
thought that the lion might be just preparing to spring upon me. That
was really a horrid time. I hardly like to think of it even now. I was
like a condemned prisoner who awakes from a nightmare to remember that
he is to be executed in a few hours. I don’t think I could have held out
in that condition through the night. It was too much for human nature.”
Here the trader paused for a moment, looking serious and absorbed, like
a man who has painful recollections recalled to his mind. But he
presently roused himself, and proceeded with his story.
“Two or three hours after the darkness had set in, I could hear the
animals coming to the water to drink. Some of them passed at a little
distance from me, but I did not get a sight of any. The lion saw them
plainly, but he only moved his head a little as they trotted by. There
was no chance of his leaving me and going after them, as I had hoped.
All at once, he lifted his head, looked toward me, and began to growl.
‘Now,’ I thought, ‘the time is come!’ He rose on his feet and growled
louder, all the while looking hard at me, as I thought. I braced myself
up for a struggle, with my gun in my left hand and my handkerchief in my
right. I had a notion of endeavoring to thrust the gun crosswise into
his mouth, and then getting my right hand down his throat. It was a very
poor chance, but the only one left, and I meant to die game. In fact, I
had given up all hope. But in a few minutes the lion, to my surprise,
became quiet again, and sat down: he did not lie down, as before, but
kept his head stretched forward toward me, like a cat intently examining
some objects. At last he lay down again, as though he was satisfied
about the matter that had disturbed him. But, in another ten minutes or
so, he rose up once more to his feet, and growled more ferociously than
ever. It struck me then that another lion might be cautiously
approaching me behind, and that my particular friend was objecting to
any division of the spoil. If this were the case, my fate would soon be
settled. Then I thought it just possible that my men might be making
some attempt to save me, under cover of the darkness; but there was
little likelihood of their mustering courage enough to do any thing
effectual. I was now fully awake, as you may suppose. The lion was
standing up, growling continually, and moving from side to side, as if
he felt uncertain what to do. At last he crouched, and I saw clearly
that he was getting ready for a spring. At that moment I heard a loud
yell behind me, and saw every thing around lighted up by a blaze of
fire. The yell was kept up constantly for a minute or two, and all at
once somebody, looking as though his head and shoulders were all in a
blaze, came running in between me and the lion. The brute gave a
tremendous roar, more in fright than in anger, and went bounding off
into the darkness. I then saw that the person with the fire was Apollo
himself. The blaze had gone out, but the little fellow had two or three
lighted brands in each hand, and was flourishing them about his head,
and dancing and whirling round, in a frantic way, like a little
demon--though to me, just then, he seemed more like an angel of light.
The poor little creature was in such a state of terror that he could
hardly speak, and did not hear a word that I said. ‘Load the gun! load
the gun!’ he kept screaming. ‘The great beast will come back! Load the
gun!’
“This was good advice, and I followed it as quickly as I could. At
first, on rising, I found myself so stiff that I could hardly move my
limbs. But the blood soon began to circulate again, and when I had
loaded up, we moved off toward the wagons. Apollo ran before me all the
way, still in a terrible fright, with a frying pan on his head, and a
firebrand in his right hand, jumping and screaming like a madman, to
scare the wild beasts. We got safely to the outspan place, and when I
had something to stay my hunger, I made Apollo tell me how he had
managed the affair, which was still a mystery to me. I found that the
poor fellow had tried hard all day to induce the other men to join him
in going to my relief. They made one attempt in the morning, as I
mentioned, but their hearts failed them. At night Apollo made up his
mind to undertake the business by himself, and he set about it in a
really ingenious manner. He took one of my large frying-pans, and
covered the inside with a thin coating of gun-powder, just enough
moistened to make it burn slowly; over this he placed some straw which I
used for packing, and sprinkled dry powder upon it; and on the top of
all he raised a little heap of brushwood and dry sticks. With this on
his head, he started from the wagons just after dark. When he had come
about half way, he lay down and crawled toward me so slowly and
cautiously that the lion did not observe him until he was within a
hundred yards of us. Then it was that the brute first rose up and began
growling. Apollo said that when he heard it his heart became as cold as
ice, and he almost went into a fit. He lay perfectly still, until the
lion became quiet, and he then began again to creep forward, dragging
himself along on the ground, inch by inch, and resting for a minute or
two at every yard he made. At last, when he thought he was near enough,
he took out a lucifer-match from a box which he had brought from the
wagon, and lighted it. He touched the straw, which blazed up
immediately. It was while he was doing this that the lion became so much
excited; but Apollo left him no time to act, for he dashed in upon us,
as I have told you, with the frying-pan on his head, and a burning stick
in his hand, and routed the enemy at once. So now you know the reason
why I feel such a particular regard for the little Namaqua. I really
believe he showed more ingenuity and courage in saving my life than he
could have mustered to preserve his own.”
Apollo had certainly behaved in a most creditable manner, and I was
ready to admit that he deserved all the good that his master could do
for him. As for the lion, I supposed nothing more was seen or heard of
him.
“You are mistaken there,” said Hutton. “I have the best part of him now
at my house. I had an account to settle with the rascal for the horrid
torture I had suffered through him. Besides, as he was evidently a
‘man-eater,’ it would not have done to leave him at large, if I could
help it. I was sure he would not quit the pool so long as the oxen
remained near it; and as I knew that two other traders, Johnson and Le
Roux, were only a day or two behind me, I waited till they came up, and
we all went out together, with our people and dogs. We hunted for two
days before we could manage to turn the old cannibal out of his den,
among some rocks and bushes. Johnson happened to be nearest to him, and
bowled him over at a long shot. A capital shot it was, too; the ball
went in behind the right shoulder and came out under the left flank. I
gave Johnson five pounds for the skin, which I mean to have stuffed and
set up at home, in memory of the day I passed with the living owner, and
the day after. The first I consider to have been the most miserable day,
and the other the happiest, that I have ever spent in all my life.”
* * * * *
=NELLY NOWLAN’S EXPERIENCE.=
=BY MRS. S. C. HALL.=
Dear Aunt--My good mistress has had an invitation to a place--they call
it by the name of Cranley Hurst: that is, the invitation did not come
from her cousin, but from her cousin’s brother’s wife, who was gone to
keep house for her cousin during what she called “her LITTLE ELECTION.”
My mistress said she had never been at “Cranley Hurst” since she was a
girl, and she had heard that her cousin, the Hon. Francis Cranley (who,
for some cause or another, had shut himself up, when a fine young
gentleman, all as one as a hermit) had been routed like a hare out of
its form, by his little sister-in-law, who pounced down upon him, now
and again, like a hawk, scaring and tearing and domineering wherever she
went. My poor mistress was a long time what they call temporizing
whether she would go or not, when--I am sure it was to her surprise--she
got a letter from the Honorable Francis himself. “He says,” says she,
“that it’s the first invitation he has given to any living creature to
pass the threshold of Cranley Hurst for five-and-twenty years, and he
hopes I will give his sister-in-law, Mrs. James Cranley, the pleasure to
receive me, and that he himself would be happy to see me in the old
place once more.”
“Poor fellow!” sighed my mistress.
Aunt dear, could you tell me why my mistress sighed “poor fellow,”
folded up the letter, and laid a rose I had just brought her from
Covent-Garden upon it?--where, darling aunt (only think how it raised my
spirits) I saw as good as thirty Irishwomen sitting on what we would
call pratee baskets, shelling peas for the quality, and working away at
the real Munster Irish, as if they had never left the quays of Cork. She
put the rose on the letter, as if, in her thoughts, one had something to
do with the other, and, resting her elbow on the table, shaded her face
with her hand: after a time, a very long time, I came back into the
room, and she was sitting the same way.
“Wouldn’t you like a turn in the park, ma’am,” I said; “for a wonder
it’s neither an east wind nor a pour of rain?” So she gazed up in my
face, with that kind of mazed look which people have when you talk to
them, and their thoughts are in deep sea or land graves--or, may-be, in
the Eternity, to which they go before the spirit’s time. And what do you
think she said?--why “poor fellow!” again. To be sure, thoughts are
thoughts, and we had as good, may-be, forget the thought of many a
thought we do think. That same evening she stood opposite the glass--
“Ellen,” she says, “I look very old.”
“There’s a power of amiability in your face, ma’am,” I answers, “and
you’ve a fine head-piece.” It’s true for me, and I thought I had got
over the age beautifully; but I had not; she turned to look at it again:
“I look very old, Ellen.”
“God bless you! ma’am, age is a beauty to many.”
“Not to me.”
“There’s twenty opinions about the one thing.”
“But I _am_ old.”
“More of that to you, ma’am, dear.”
“Do you wish me to be old?”
“I wish you, with all my heart and soul, to _grow_ old,” I says, and
from my heart I spoke, and she felt it; but, seeing she was melancholy,
I thought to rouse her a bit. “Indeed, ma’am, I never saw you better in
my life (that was true;) you’re as heavy again as you were when I first
had the blessing of looking in yer sweet face, and sure your eyes are as
bright as diamonds (that was a bit of a stretch,) and there’s thousands
of dimples in your cheeks this minute (that was another).”
“There, there,” she says, smiling her calm smile, “you will not have me
old.”
“Oh, the Holies forbid!” I said again, “it’s I that _will_ have you
old--_but not yet_.”
She took up wonderful after that. Sure we all like a taste of the
flattery: some wish it addressed to their head--some to their
_heart_--some to their great families, taking their pride out of blood,
so thick, you could cut it with a knife--some (_musheroons_ I call them)
to their wealth--more to their beauty, which, though dead and buried to
the world, is alive to them. Aunt dear, _all_ like it: somehow, the
thing to _know is, when and how to give it_. Well, my mistress bought a
new bonnet, and such elegant caps, and altogether took a turn for the
best. She was amused, too, at the notion of a _little election_, which I
wondered at, seeing she was so timid in general.
“I’ll engage Cranley Hurst is a fine, strong house, ma’am,” I made bold
to say.
“Oh, no, it’s a long, rambling, wandering sort of place, Ellen; all odd
windows and odd gables--all odd and old.” So I said that I’d go bail his
honor her cousin’s faction (his people, I meant) would keep off the
other party at election times, when they break in, and knock every thing
to bits; and I told her how my father remembered when the Kilconnel boys
broke into Kilmurray-house, and the master canvassing--destroying, right
and left--burning and murdering every one that was not of their way of
thinking, and shouting over their ashes for liberty and freedom of
election. That was the time, when knowing that more of the Kilconnel
boys were forced to come over the Crag-road--where no road was ever
made, only all bog--the Kilmurray men laid wait for them, and snared
them into a gamekeeper’s lodge, making believe it was a
whiskey-still--just a place where they had plenty of the
mountain-dew--which (bad luck to it) is a wonderful strengthener of sin,
and kept them there drinking and dancing until the election was over;
and then, leaving the Kilconnel boys sleeping, the Kilmurray men
disappeared in the night. When the poor fellows staggered out in the
rising sun and found how it was, they grew very savage, and just fair
and easy burnt the lodge. And may-be murderings and destructions did not
grow out of that, and lawsuits--and persecutions--that made men of two
attorneys, who never had cross or coin to bless themselves with before
the burning of Crag-road lodge!
My mistress says they manage things more quietly here. I can’t say
whether or not I’m glad of it, for I like a bit of a spree, now and
then, to keep the life in me--for the English are wonderful quiet; you
might as well travel with a lot of dummies, as with them: and the
suspicious looks they cast on you, if you only speak civil to them, or
look twice their way; the ladies rowling themselves up in shawls, in the
corners of the railway carriage, and keeping their eyes fixed, as if it
was a sin to be civil. I travel with my mistress, FIRST CLASS--aunt
dear, let all the people know _that_, coming from mass, Sunday
morning--so I see their ways; and the gentlemen bury their noses in a
mighty perplexing sort of paper-covered book, called “Bradshaw,” or in a
newspaper, which they read to themselves and keep to themselves, never
offering to lend the “news” to any one, only shifting it into their
pockets, as if they could get more out of it there. They scramble in and
out of the carriages, without ever moving their hats, or offering to
help the ladies out or in. The truth is they’re a good people; but
uncommon surly, or uncommon shy. And as to that book, “Bradshaw,” I
thought it must be diverting; people bought it so fast at the railway
stations; and you see it sticking out of the pockets of the little
scutty coats that are all the fashion, and out of the bags the ladies
nurse like babies on their laps, and which they spend months of their
time on, to make them look as if made of odds and ends of carpet--which,
indeed, they do. I asked my mistress if she would not like to have
“Bradshaw,” it must be such pleasant reading. So, with the same quiet
smile with which she does every thing, she bought it, and gave it to me,
saying:
“There it is, Ellen; I hope you may understand it.”
I was a little hurt, and made answer--
“Thank you kindly, ma’am: nothing puzzles me upon the print but foreign
languages or, may-be, Latin.” And as we were going down to Cranley
Hurst, I fixed my mistress in the first class, and myself opposite her,
with a _rale_ carpet-bag on my lap, and my “Bradshaw” in my hand.
“You may read if you like, Ellen,” said my mistress, the smile twinkling
in her eyes (I’m sure her eyes were mighty soft and sly when she was
young.)
“Thank you, ma’am,” I answered; “one of my mother’s second cousins
married a ‘Bradshaw,’ and may-be I’d find something about his family
here.” A gentleman stared at me over his “Bradshaw,” and a mighty pert
little old lady, who was reading her “Bradshaw,” let down her glass and
asked me when I left Ireland. [Aunt dear, how did she know I was Irish?]
I looked and looked at one page--and then at another--leaf after
leaf--it was about trains, and going and coming--and figures in, and
figures out--all marked, and crossed, and starred--up trains, down
trains, and Sunday trains--without a bit of sense.
“When will our train arrive at Cranley station?” asked my lady, after I
had been going across, and along, and about, and over “Bradshaw” for an
hour or two--I was so bothered, I could not tell which.
“It was written as a penance for poor traveling sinners,” I answered in
a whisper, for I did not want to _let on_ I couldn’t understand it: she
did not hear me, and asked the question again.
“I can read both running-hand and print, ma’am,” I said; “but none of my
family had a turn for figures, and this looks mighty like what my
brother got a prize for--they called it by the name of all-gib-raa.”
My mistress sometimes looks very provoking--and that’s the truth--I can
hardly think her the same at one time that she is at another.
The little pert lady thrust her “Bradshaw” into her bag, and snapt the
clasp--then turning round to the gentleman, she snapt him--“Do _you_
understand Bradshaw, sir?”
“Noa,” he drawled out, “not exactly--I heard of a gentleman once who
did, but im-me-diate-ly after he became insane!”
I shut the book--oh aunt, I would not be _that_, you know, for all the
books that ever were shut and opened. What should I do without my
senses?
Of all the ancient places you ever heard tell of, Cranley Hurst is the
_quarest_ I ever saw. When you think you are at the far end of the
building, it begins again--rooms upon rooms--shut up for ages--and
passages leading to nothing, and nothing leading to passages--and a
broad terrace looking over such a beautiful bog, and a pathway under the
terrace to Cranley-marsh (that’s English for bog.) I often go that path,
thinking of the waste lands of my own poor country. Oh, aunt, to see the
great innocent frogs, the very _moral_[7] of the Irish ones, and
lizards, turning and wriggling among the bullrushes; and between the
floating islands of green, plashy weeds, that veil the deep pools, you
see fish floating round the great gray stones, which, my mistress says,
the Romans flung into Cranley-marsh to make a bridge. You should hear my
mistress talk of it--she has such fine English.
“Although it’s a flat,” she says, “I like it better than any mountain I
ever saw. Such a combination of rich color--such orchis--such shades and
masses of iris--such floats of rush-cotton--such banks of
forget-me-nots--such ferns--and, in the spring, such piles of golden
blossoming furze: the peat, so dark and intense, forms a rich contrast
to the vegetation; and the ‘Roman stones,’ piled here and there into low
pyramids, have a gray, solemn effect, and afford shelter to numerous
migratory birds, who feed abundantly upon the insects that hover, like
metallic vapors, over the deepest pools.” Them were her very words.
The reception, I must tell you, we got at Cranley Hurst, seemed to me
mighty cool--I felt my mistress tremble as she leaned on me; but there
was neither master nor mistress at the door to welcome _her_. The
servants were there, to be sure, to carry the things to her room; but
she paused in the long, low hall, that was furnished like a parlor, to
look at one picture, then at another; and while she stood before one of
a very dark, sorrowful lady--a little pale, wizen’d woman stole out of a
room in the distance, and shading her eyes with one hand, while she
leaned with the other on a cross-headed stick, she crept, rather than
walked, toward my mistress. Her arms were only little bones, wrapt in
shriveled skin, and deep ruffles fell from her elbows. She was more of a
shadow than a substance--so very small--so over and above little--that
if I had seen her at the Well of Sweet Waters on Midsummer-eve, I would
have crossed myself, knowing she was one of the _good people_. She would
have been a fair go-by-the-ground, but for her high-heeled shoes; and,
daylight as it was, I did not like the looks of her. The nearer she
came, the more wild and bright her eyes glistened; and the lace borders
of her cap flew back from her small sallow features. Though I could not
help watching the withered woman, I tried to go close to my mistress;
but when I made the least motion, she waved her stick, and her eyes
flashed so, that I was rooted to the floor at once. She stole over the
floor, and the silence was increased by her presence. Aunt, dear, you
know I hate silence; and this hung like a weight on my heart, and
gathered over us like clouds--suffocating. At last she came close to me;
the border of her cap flapped against my hand, but, to save my life, I
could not move. Her eyes were on me; they were everywhere at once. She
crept round to my mistress, rested her hands on the cross of her stick,
and stared at her; her eyes flashing, not like soft summer lightning,
but like what we once watched darting into the very heart of the fine
ould tower of Castle Connel.
When my lady looked down from the picture, she saw the withered woman.
“Old Maud!” she cried. And, oh! what sorrow there was in them two words!
“The soul outlives the body,” said the woman, in a crackling voice--not
loud--but sharp and dry, “and the voice outlives the beauty. They said
the fair Cicely Cranley was coming, and I laughed at them. No; they said
Mrs. Bingham was coming--that was it--and I said it must be Miss Cicely;
for Mistress Bingham had never entered the door of Cranley Hurst since
she broke faith with her cousin.”
“Hush, Maud!” said my poor mistress, turning from the witch, who faced
round, and would look at her; “there--keep back. Ellen, keep her
back--her mind is gone.”
“But not her memory,” screamed the hag, striking her stick upon the
floor. “I mind the open window--and the ropy ladder--and my young
master’s misery when the hawk ’ticed away the dove that was to be his
bride--his own first cousin.”
“It was too near, Maud.”
“No; the Cranleys married in and out--in and out--and what brings you
now? withered and shriveled like myself, with only the voice!--nothing
but the voice! More worn--and old--and gray--than himself--a lean old
man! You called me ‘Ugly Maud’ once; what are you now? Augh!”
She threw down her stick, and began waving her bony arms, and sailing
round my poor mistress, in a sort of mock dance. I stepped in between
them, to keep her eyes off my lady; but she dodged between us, mocking,
and saying cruel words, and looking, just as a curse would look, if it
had a body. All of a sudden, a hard, firm step came up the hall: I knew
it was the master of Cranley Hurst. The little hag paused, pointed to me
to pick up her stick, which, like a fool, I did. Stepping back, she
curtsied reverently to my lady, her little pinched face changing into
something human; then, going to meet the master, “I came to give the
fair Miss Cicely welcome,” she said, “but I could not find her: that old
lady stole her voice! _She_ Miss Cicely!”
The master struck something which hung in the hall; they call it a gong:
the air and house shook again at the deep, loud noise, and from half a
dozen doors servants rushed in.
“Can none of you take care of Maud?” he said. “She is insane,
now--quite. Keep her away from this end of the house.”
“I only came to look for Miss Cicely: I found a voice--SHE stole a
voice!” said the old creature; and she continued talking and screaming
until the doors were shut, the echo of the alarum being like the
whisperings of spirits around the walls. I wished myself anywhere away,
and I did not know where to go; the house was all strange to me; the
cousins seemed afraid to look at each other. My mistress _drew down her
veil_, and extended her hand; hard as it is--thin and worn--the master
kissed it as fondly as if it had been the hand of a fresh fair girl of
eighteen. Aunt dear, it was as strange a meeting as ever was put in a
book--those two aged people--one who had loved, the other who had taken
her own will; and small blame to her, aunt. Sure it was better for her
to run off at the last moment, than take a false oath at God’s altar.
I shall never forget the look of downright, upright love that shone in
the master’s face, as they stood like two monuments _forenint_[8] each
other. I don’t know when they’d have left off or moved, if the
sister-in-law, Mrs. James Cranley, had not flung into the hall, followed
by her maid, with a clothes-basket, full of printed papers and sealed
letters, and a footman running on with a big tea-tray, covered with the
same sort of combustables. She came in speaking; and one word was so
_hot foot_ after the other, that it was out of the question to know what
she meant.