THE STRANGE COURSES OF LOVE.
Perhaps one of the most absurd questions that could be put to a person
would be to ask him how old he was when he was born. Yet the little
old-men's faces possessed by some babies might furnish an excuse for
such a question. The shrewd look, the cunning twinkle, the pinched
nose, the peaked chin, the very wrinkles--you see them all, though the
child be but a few weeks old. All the signs of worldly cunning and
worldly wisdom are there, ready made, unbought by worldly experience;
and as you look at them and wonder how old the little child-man really
is, the object of your curiosity returns your look with scarcely less
speculation in his eye than you have in yours. You are conscious that
you are no match, except in physical strength, for the little fellow
lying in his mother's lap or sprawling in his cradle; and a curious
compound of pity and humiliation afflicts you in consequence.
Some such a child as this was Solomon Fewster before he attained to
the dignity of boyhood; his parents and their friends agreed in
declaring that he was a cunning little fellow, a knowing little
fellow; they would poke their fingers in the fat creases of his neck,
and would sportively say, "Oh, you cunning little rogue!" "You knowing
little rogue!" and he would crow and laugh, and endeavor to utter the
words after them. He was so accustomed to the phrase, and grew to be
so fond of it, that when he was old enough to understand its meaning,
his chief desire seemed to be to prove himself worthy of it. It falls
to the lot of but very few of us to compass our desires. Solomon
Fewster was one of the fortunate exceptions. He was dubbed a cunning
little rogue, before he knew what such praise meant; and (could it be
that he was unwilling to trade under false pretences?) when he did
know, he educated himself to deserve it, and succeeded. A small
percentage of the old-men babies retain their old-men's looks as they
grow to boyhood; specimens of these can be seen any day in our courts
and alleys. This was not the case with Solomon Fewster; as he grew,
the old-man's look faded from his face, and the spirit of "a cunning
little rogue" took root in his heart, and flourished there. His
parents dying when he was a child, he was left to the charge of a
bachelor uncle, an undertaker by trade, who adopted and educated him.
When he was taken from school--where he was the cunningest boy of them
all--he was initiated into the mysteries of the undertaking business,
and when he was of age he was intrusted with a responsible position,
and his uncle made a will leaving every thing to him. He proved
himself an invaluable ally; was grieved to the heart at the losses
sustained by his uncle's customers; wept when he assisted at
measurements; was broken-hearted when the clay was taken from the
house; and sobbed with an almost utter prostration of spirit when he
receipted the account, and signed Payment in Full. He entered heart
and soul into the business, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Whether it was
because he looked upon himself as the future master of the
establishment, or because it was congenial to his nature, he strove by
every means in his power to extend the connection; and being as acute
and sensible as a man of double his age, his efforts were successful
and the business flourished. Death was most obliging to him, and
waited and fawned upon him at every step he took. If his spirits
became depressed because trade was slack, a fortunate epidemic
restored him to his usual cheerfulness, and orders poured in; and it
is no disparagement of him, as an undertaker, to state that he buried
his friends and acquaintances with melancholy satisfaction. When he
was twenty-three years of age his uncle died. He paid the old
gentleman every possible mark of respect: had the coffin lined with
white satin; wept till his face was puffed; entered the expense of the
funeral in the ledger to the debit of the deceased, and wiped off the
amount at once as a bad debt. Then he set to work vigorously upon his
own account. He had his name painted over the door, and issued
circulars to every house for miles round. In those circulars he
announced that he undertook and conducted funerals cheaper than any
other undertaker in London; said that one trial would prove the fact;
and respectfully solicited the patronage of his friends and the
public. His appeal was successful; his trade increased; and Solomon
Fewster was generally spoken of as a man on the high-road to
prosperity.
When Solomon Fewster first saw Ellen, she was seventeen years of age,
and he was seized with a sudden admiration for her pretty face and
graceful figure. He had never seen a girl so winsome; and when they
met again, he followed her admiringly to her home, and saw the
exhibition of the bullfinches in Dan's window. Here was an opportunity
to stare at her; and he enjoyed the cheap pleasure again and again
until Dan noticed his face at the window. Then a happy thought entered
Mr. Fewster's mind. The birds certainly were wonderfully intelligent,
and their clever tricks would most likely render them easy of
disposal. He entered into communication with a West-end fashionable
bird-fancier--the farther away from Dan the better, he thought--and
the bird-fancier (who had a connection among fine ladies) informed him
that if the birds could really do all that he stated, a profitable
trade might be established between them. "What a fine opportunity,"
thought Solomon Fewster, "of introducing myself to the pretty girl in
the light of a benefactor!" Then came the first interview and the
first purchase. The pair of bullfinches he bought for fifteen
shillings he sold for thirty; and the following week the fashionable
bird-fancier asked for more. Thus it was that Solomon Fewster made his
growing passion for Ellen a means of putting money in his purse; and
thus it was that he came to be looked upon as a privileged visitor to
the house.
The Old Sailor also found his way to the house. He was not as frequent
a visitor as Mr. Fewster, but he was a more welcome one. The Old
Sailor might have been a child, his heart was so green; and he had
such a fund of stories to tell, and he told them with such simplicity
and enthusiasm, believing in them thoroughly, however wild they were,
that his hearers would hang upon his words, and laugh with him, and
sorrow with him according to the nature of his narrative. They spent
the pleasantest of pleasant evenings together, and when Praiseworthy
Meddler told his sea-stories, Minnie would sit very quiet on the
floor--a favorite fashion of hers--listening eagerly to every word
that dropped from his lips. Then Basil Kindred would read Shakspeare
when he could be coaxed into the humor, and would keep them
spell-bound by his eloquence. He had ceased wandering in the streets
and begging for his living. Necessity was his master there. He was
stricken down with rheumatic fever, which so prostrated him that he
was unable to pursue his vagrant career. They had a very hard task in
inducing him to remain with them.
"Live upon you, my dear lad!" he exclaimed loftily. "No; I will perish
first!"
"There is enough for all, sir," replied Dan. "Do not go. I would take
from you--indeed, indeed I would!--could we change places. And there
is Minnie, sir,"--with such a wistful tender glance towards Minnie,
who was growing very beautiful,--"what would she do? But not for her
nor for you do I ask this, sir. It is for me; for Ellen and Susan and
Joshua. How happy he will be to find you here when he returns! You and
Minnie, that he talked of so often, and with such affection! Then
think, sir. You would not like to be the means of breaking up our
little happy circle; and it is happy, isn't it, Minnie?"
"Ah, yes, Dan!" replied Minnie, with an anxious look at her father.
"Only one is wanting to make it perfect."
"And that one is Joshua," said Dan, divining whom she meant, and
grateful to her for the thought.
"And that one is Joshua," she repeated softly, placing her shell to
his ear. "Do you hear it? Is it not sweet, the singing of the sea?"
But all argument and entreaty would have been thrown away upon Basil
if it had not been for Minnie. It was she who, when they were alone,
prevailed upon him to stay.
"Your mother suffered for me and died for me," he said to her, as he
lay upon his bed of pain. "How like her you are growing, Minnie! Well,
well, one is enough. I will stay, child, for your sake."
And she kissed him and thanked him, and whispered that he had made her
happy.
The next day she told Dan in a whisper that father was not going away;
and Dan clapped his hands, and quietly said, "Bravo!"
"And Joshua used to speak about us?" she remarked, with assumed
carelessness.
"Often and often, Minnie," answered Dan.
"And really speak of us affectionately?"
"Ah if you had only heard him! You know what a voice he has--like
music."
A sudden flush in her face, a rapid beating at her heart, a rush of
tears to her eyes. None of which did Dan notice, for her eyes were
towards the ground. A little while afterwards she was singing about
the house as blithe as a bird. Dan, stopping in the midst of his work,
listened to the soft rustle of her dress in the passage, and to her
soft singing as she went up the stairs; and a grateful look stole into
his eyes.
"Not to hear that!" he said. "Ah, it would be worse than death! But
she is going to stay, birdie," nodding gayly to one of his pets; "she
is going to stay!"
Dan told Minnie of the pretty fancies he had in connection with his
friend; of the manner in which his love had grown, until it was welded
in his heart for ever and ever; of Joshua's care and self-devotion
towards him, the poor useless cripple. He told her of his fancy about
the dream-theory, and how he had believed in it, and of the
experiments he had made. And Minnie listened with delight, and
sympathized with Dan--ay, and shed tears with him--and showed in every
word she uttered how thoroughly she understood his feelings.
"I have dreamed of him over and over again," said Dan; "but of course
I don't know, and indeed I can't believe, that I have dreamed of him
as he is. He is a man by this time, Minnie; and--let me see!--he is
standing on his ship, with his bright eyes and handsome face"--
"Yes!" interrupted Minnie eagerly. "Made brighter and handsomer by
living on the open sea and away from narrow streets. I can see the
spray dashing up into his eyes, and he shaking it off laughing the
while."
"Yes, yes!" said Minnie enthusiastically. "You can see him too,
Minnie. I feel that you can. Is he not handsome and brave? I can hear
him say, as he looks round upon the grand sea and up at the beautiful
clouds,--I can hear him say, 'Dan is here with me, although I cannot
see him.' He has me in his heart, as I have him. It was a compact. We
were to be always together, and we are. Dear Jo!" He paused a while,
and Minnie, her hands clasped in her lap, gazed before her, and saw
the picture painted by Dan's words. Many such conversations they had,
and the theme was always the same.
Shortly after the death of Mr. Taylor the Old Sailor came to see the
children. He did not know of the loss they had sustained; and when he
heard that both father and mother were dead, he was much grieved. The
news so disconcerted him that he rose to go three or four times, and
each time sat down again, as if he had something on his mind he wished
to get rid of first. As a proof that he was mentally disturbed, he
dabbed his face more frequently than usual with his blue-cotton
pocket-handkerchief, folding it up carefully before he put it in the
breast of his shirt, as if he were folding up his secret in it, and
afterwards taking it out and unfolding it, as if he had made up his
mind at last to disclose what that secret was. When he found courage
to speak, Dan learned that the bullfinches which Joshua and he had
presented to the Old Sailor were dead.
"Died yesterday morning, my lad," said the Old Sailor; "died just as
we were beginning to understand each other. Sailor birds they were,
and they could climb ropes as well as any bird in the service."
"I am sorry they are dead, sir," said Dan; "but I can give you another
pair."
"No, Dan, no. I'll not have any more; they wouldn't be safe."
"Not safe?"
"There was a mutineer in the crew, my lad," said the Old Sailor,
dropping his voice. "It comes awkward for me to tell you; but you
ought to know--and duty before every thing. The pretty birds were
poisoned."
"Who could have been so cruel as to poison the innocent creatures?"
asked Dan sorrowfully.
"That damned copper-colored eon of a thief who cooked for me!" replied
the Old Sailor excitedly. "You saw him when you were on my ship. He
had rings in his ears."
"I remember. He was a Lascar, you told us."
"The treacherous dog!" exclaimed the Old Sailor wrathfully, dabbing
his face. "But I did what was right to him. I flogged him with a
rope's end till he couldn't stand."
"He knew that Joshua gave you the birds, sir?"
"Ay, he knew it. To tell you the truth, my lad, I christened the birds
Josh and Dan, and used to call them by their names. They were as
sensible as human beings, and I gave them decent burial. I sewed them
in canvas, and weighted it with shot, and slipped it off a plank. I'll
not have any more of them, Dan. That lubberly thief would crawl on
board one night and murder them too. No, no, my lad; no more birds for
me."
"Well, then, I'll tell you what we'll do," said Dan. "I will give you
another pair of birds, and I will keep them for you, and you will come
here sometimes and see how they are getting along. That's a good idea,
isn't it, sir?"
The Old Sailor admitted that it was, and thus it fell out that he
became a visitor to the house. Dan bought a toy ship, with sails and
masts and slender ropes all complete, and taught the birds to climb
the ropes and masts, which they did deftly, although not in sailor
fashion, hand-over-hand; and his thoughtful conceit filled the Old
Sailor with infinite delight.
It was Susan's good fortune not to meet the Lascar for many months
after the eventful occurrence in which Joshua had played so prominent
a part. But one evening, when she and Ellen were returning home, she
met him face to face.
"Stop!" cried the Lascar, noticing Susan's agitation with secret
pleasure. "You don't forget me, do you?"
Ellen, raising her eyes, saw and recognized the Lascar, and was
recognized by him at the same moment.
"Ah!" he said, "I remember you. You came one day with a lame boy and
that young thief Joshua Marvel--curse him!--to see Mr. Meddler's
boat."
Ellen tried to hurry Susan along, but the Lascar stood directly in
their path.
"Not yet, my beauty. You are about the prettiest girl I've ever seen.
What's your name?"
Ellen was not so overcome with fear as to entirely lose her
self-possession. Had she been alone, she would have run away. But
Susan was clinging to her, almost fainting with terror. On the
opposite side of the road she saw a man walking towards them.
"Help!" she cried; but she could have bitten her lip with vexation
when she found that it was Solomon Fewster who responded to her
appeal. However, there Solomon Fewster was, ready to grapple with the
enemy and to die in Ellen's defence. The occasion for a display of
heroism was as good as he could have desired.
"Where is he?" he cried valiantly; "where's the villain who has dared
to frighten my pretty Ellen?"
He said this with such a presumptuous air of being her defender by
natural right, that Ellen was annoyed and displeased. But she could
not be uncivil to him. She thanked him for coming to their help, and
he asked to be allowed to see them home. But Ellen refused, and
although he pleaded hard, she was firm.
She was especially angry because of his calling her his pretty Ellen.
Glad as she would have been of a protector, she rightly thought that
it would be giving Mr. Fewster encouragement if she allowed him to
assume that office. So, with many distressingly-tender protestations,
he took his departure, congratulating himself upon the adventure, and
Susan and Ellen walked homewards.
Ellen was very anxious to know all about the Lascar, and why Susan was
frightened at him. Susan told her all, and Ellen's face glowed with
delight at Joshua's courage.
"Brave Joshua!" she exclaimed. "Isn't he a hero, Susan?"
Notwithstanding that she had not recovered from her fright at meeting
the Lascar, Susan could not help smiling at Ellen's enthusiasm.
"He was to be away a year," said Ellen, "and it is now two years and
four months."
"And how many weeks, and how many days, and how many hours?"
interrupted Susan, half gayly. "You could tell, I dare say. Ellen,
couldn't you, if you were put to it?" Ellen looked shyly at Susan.
"What a change he will find in you, my dear!" Susan continued
tenderly. "In the place of a plain little girl he will find a very
pretty woman."
"O Susey! calling me a woman!"
"Well, you are, dear, or you will be when he comes back. I wonder"--
But Susan did not say what it was she wondered at, but stopped, most
unaccountably, in the middle of the street and kissed Ellen in a
motherly kind of way. The caress set Ellen a-blushing, and she fell
into a state of happy musing. They were very near home when a voice at
their side said,--
"You thought you had escaped me, eh?"
It was the voice of the Lascar, who had dogged them until he found an
opportunity of speaking to them without attracting attention. Their
hearts beat fast, but they did not turn their heads.
"Don't say a word," whispered Ellen, "don't speak, don't stop, don't
look! We shall be home directly."
"So Joshua Marvel hasn't come back yet," he said with bitter emphasis.
"He is a long time gone; but wait till he comes. I go every day to see
the cross I put against him, and it grows brighter and brighter. I
curse him every night. Perhaps he thinks that I forget. He shall see
if I do." He gasped this at intervals, for the girls were now almost
running in their terror. "Tell him," hissed the Lascar, "when he comes
that that I poisoned at old thief's birds because Joshua gave them to
him, and because the old thief used to call one of them by his name.
Curse him! And you!" he exclaimed savagely, touching Susan's arm. "See
you--remember! My shadow follows you from this day, you damned witch!
for it was because of you that he came across me. Oh, you live there,
do you? Dream of my shadow, you cat, to-night. It shall stand at your
bedside. Blot it out if you can."
He had worked himself into a horrible rage; his passion made a madman
of him; yet he did not attempt to stop them as they darted in at the
door, but stood aside and looked at the house, and marked it and
lingered about it for half an hour afterwards. In the mean time Ellen
and Susan had run into their bedroom and locked the door. It was a
long time before they recovered from their agitation. Susan was in an
agony of terror; all her old fears came with stronger force upon her.
She pressed her fingers upon her eyes and threw herself upon the
ground, shuddering and moaning.
"Do you see his shadow, Ellen?" she moaned. "Do you see it?"
"There is nothing in the room but you and me, dear Susey," said Ellen,
smoothing Susan's hair, and striving by every means to soothe her.
"Why, I am braver than you, and I am ever so much younger. What have
we to be afraid of? A drunken man! You stupid Susey! And as for
shadows, who believes in them?"
"I do. I have seen them and felt them. I have heard them creeping
after me in the dark, and I have been frightened to turn. I have felt
their breath upon my face--and it is like death--like death!"
All Ellen's efforts to tranquillize her were unavailing. Susan did not
leave her room again that evening, and during the night that followed
she awoke a dozen times, and her fevered imagination conjured up the
shadow of the Lascar standing at her bedside, pointing to a cross of
blood which shone with cruel distinctness in the midst of the
darkness.