to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the
face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for
he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence
otherwise than as a part of his vision.
"Good boy, Charley--well done," he mumbled; "Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha!
Oliver, too--quite the gentleman now--quite the--take that boy away to
bed!"
The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and whispering him not
to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.
"Take him away to bed!" cried the Jew. "Do you hear me, some of you? He
has been the--the--somehow the cause of all this. It's worth the money
to bring him up to it--Bolter's throat, Bill; never mind the
girl--Bolter's throat, as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!"
"Fagin," said the jailer.
"That's me!" cried the Jew, falling instantly into the attitude of
listening he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my lord; a very
old, old man!"
"Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him
down--"here's somebody wants to see you--to ask you some questions, I
suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?"
"I shan't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face
retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all
dead! what right have they to butcher me?"
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to
the farthest corner of the seat he demanded to know what they wanted
there.
"Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down.
"Now, sir, tell him what you want--quick, if you please, for he grows
worse as the time gets on."
"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed
in your hands for better security by a man called Monks."
"It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one--not one."
"For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not say that
now, upon the very verge of death, but tell me where they are. You know
that Sikes is dead, that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of
any further gain. Where are those papers?"
"Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper
to you."
"I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a low voice, as he relinquished
Mr. Brownlow's hand.
"The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas
bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want
to talk to you, my dear; I want to talk to you."
"Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one
prayer--say only one, upon your knees with me, and we will talk till
morning."
"Outside, outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards
the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to
sleep--they'll believe _you_. You can get me out, if you take me so.
Now then, now then!"
"Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy, with a burst of
tears.
"That's right, that's right," said the Jew; "that'll help us on. This
door first. If I shake and tremble as we pass the gallows, don't you
mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!"
"Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey.
"No other question," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recall
him to a sense of his position--"
"Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You had
better leave him."
The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.
"Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster,
faster!"
The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held
him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and
then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and
rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.
A Caution to Poets.
What poets feel not, when they make
A pleasure in creating,
The world, in its turn, will not take
Pleasure in contemplating.
--_Matthew Arnold_.
Apollo Belvedere[G]
_A Christmas Episode of the Plantation._
BY RUTH McENERY STUART.
[In the same volume which contains this story there are many
others that lend themselves to recitation. "Moriah's Mourning"
is one of the best pieces of humor which Mrs. Stuart has
written; "Christmas at the Trimbles" has proven itself a
never-failing success, and "The Second Mrs. Slimm" is an
excellent reading.]
He was a little yellow man, with a quizzical face and sloping shoulders,
and when he gave his full name, with somewhat of a flourish, as if it
might hold compensations for physical shortcomings, one could hardly
help smiling. And yet there was a pathos in the caricature that
dissipated the smile half-way.
"Yas, I'm named 'Pollo Belvedere, an' my marster gi'e me dat intitlemint
on account o' my shape," he would say, with a strut, as if he were
bantered. As Apollo would have told you himself, the fact that he had
never married was not because he couldn't get anybody to have him, but
simply that he hadn't himself been suited.
Lily Washington was a beauty in her own right, and she was the belle of
the plantation. She was an emotional creature, with a caustic tongue on
occasion, and when it pleased her mood to look over her shoulder at one
of her numerous admirers and to wither him with a look or a word, she
did not hesitate to do it. For instance, when Apollo first asked her to
marry him--it had been his habit to propose to her every day or so for a
year or two past--she glanced at him askance from head to foot, and then
she said: "Why, yas. Dat is, I s'pose, of co'se, you's de sample. I'd
order a full-size by you in a minute." This was cruel, and seeing the
pathetic look come into his face, she instantly repented of it, and
walked home from church with him, dismissing a handsome black fellow,
and saying only kind things to Apollo all the way.
Of course no one took Apollo seriously as Lily's suitor, much less the
chocolate maid herself. But there were other lovers. Indeed, there were
all the others, for that matter, but in point of eligibility the number
to be seriously regarded was reduced to about two. These were Pete
Peters, a handsome griff, with just enough Indian blood to give him an
air of distinction, and a French-talking mulatto, who had come up from
New Orleans to repair the machinery in the sugar-house, and who was
buying land in the vicinity, and drove his own sulky. Pete was less
prosperous than he, but, although he worked his land on shares, he
owned two mules and a saddle horse, and would be allowed to enter on a
purchase of land whenever he should choose to do so. Although Pete and
the New Orleans fellow, whose name was also Peter, but who was called
Pierre, met constantly in a friendly enough way, they did not love
each other. They both loved Lily too much for that. But they laughed
good-naturedly together at Apollo and his "case," which they inquired
after politely, as if it were a member of his family.
"Well, 'Pollo, how's yo' case on Miss Lily comin' on?" either one would
say, with a wink at the other, and Apollo would artlessly report the
state of the heavens with relation to his particular star, as when he
once replied to this identical question:
"Well, Miss Lily was mighty obstropulous 'istiddy, but she is mo'
cancelized dis mornin'."
It was Pete who had asked the question, and he laughed aloud at the
answer. "Mo' cancelized dis mornin', is she?" he replied. "How do you
know she is?"
"'Caze she lemme tote her hoe all de way up f'rom de field," answered
the ingenuous Apollo.
"She did, did she? An' who was walkin' by her side all dat time, I like
to know?"
Apollo winced a little at this, but he answered, bravely, "I don't kyah
ef Pier was walkin' wid her; I was totin' her hoe, all de samee."
The Christmas-eve dance in the sugar-house had been for years an annual
function on the plantation. At this, since her debut, at fourteen, three
Christmases before, Lily had held undisputed sway, and all her former
belles amiably accepted their places as lesser lights.
Lily was perfectly ravishing in her splendor at the dance this year. The
white Swiss frock she wore was high in the neck, but her brown shoulders
and arms shone through the thin fabric with fine effect. About her slim
waist she tied a narrow ribbon of blue, and she carried a pink feather
fan, and the wreath about her forehead was of lilies-of-the-valley. She
had done a day's scouring for them, and they had come out of the summer
hat of one of the white ladies on the coast. This insured their quality,
and no doubt contributed somewhat to the quiet serenity with which she
bore herself as, with her little head held like that of the Venus of
Milo, she danced down the center of the room, holding her flounces in
either hand, and kicking the floor until she kicked both her slippers
to pieces, when she finished the figure in her stocking feet.
She had a relay of slippers ready, and there was a scramble as to who
should put them on; but she settled that question by making 'Pollo rise,
with his fiddle in his arms, and lend her his chair for a minute while
she pulled them on herself. Then she let Pete and Pierre each have
one of the discarded slippers as a trophy. Lily had always danced out
several pairs of slippers at the Christmas dance, but she never achieved
her stocking feet in the first round until now, and she was in high
glee over it. If she had been admired before, she was looked upon as a
raving, tearing, beauty to-night, and so she was. Fortunately 'Pollo had
his fiddling to do, and this saved him from any conspicuous folly. But
he kept his eyes on her, and when she grew too ravishingly lovely to his
fond vision, and he couldn't stand it a minute longer in silence, he
turned to the man next him, who played the bones, and remarked, "Ef--ef
anybody but Gord A'mighty had a-made anything as purty as Miss Lily,
dey'd 'a' stinted it somewhar," and, watching every turn, he lent his
bow to her varying moods while she tired out one dancer after another.
It was the New Orleans fellow who first lost his head utterly. He had
danced with her but three times, but, while she took another's hand
and whizzed through the figures, he scarcely took his eyes from her,
and when, at about midnight, he succeeded in getting her apart for a
promenade, he poured forth his soul to her in the picturesque English of
the quadroon quarter of New Orleans. "An' now, to proof to you my lorv,
Ma'm'selle Leelee"--he gesticulated vigorously as he spoke--"I am
geeving you wan beau-u-tiful Christmas present--I am goin' to geev
you--w'at you t'ink? My borgee!" With this he turned dramatically and
faced her. They were standing now under the shed outside the door in
the moonlight, and, although they did not see him, Apollo stood within
hearing, behind a pile of molasses barrels, where he had come "to cool
off."
Lily had several times been "buggy-ridin'" with Pierre in this same
"borgee," and it was a very magnificent affair in her eyes. When he
told her that it was to be hers she gasped. Such presents were unknown
on the plantation. But Lily was a "mannerly" member of good society, if
her circle was small, and she was not to be taken back by any compliment
a man should pay her. She simply fanned herself, a little flurriedly
perhaps, with her feather fan, as she said: "You sho' must be jokin',
Mr. Pier. You cert'n'y must." But Mr. Pierre was not joking. He was
never more in earnest in his life, and he told her so, and there is no
telling what else he would have told her but for the fact that Mr. Pete
Peters happened to come out to the shed to cool off about this time, and
as he almost brushed her shoulder, it was as little as Lily could do to
address a remark to him, and then, of course, he stopped and chatted
awhile; and, after what appeared a reasonable interval, long enough for
it not to seem that she was too much elated over it, she remarked, "An',
by-de-way, Mr. Peters, I must tell you what a lovely Christmas gif' I
have just received by de hand of Mr. Pier. He has jest presented me
with his yaller-wheeled buggy, an' I sho' is proud of it." Then,
turning to Pierre, she added, "You sho' is a mighty generous gen'leman,
Mr. Pier--you cert'n'y is."
Peters give Lily one startled look, but he instantly realized, from
her ingenuous manner, that there was nothing back of the gift of the
buggy--that is, it had been, so far as she was concerned, simply a
Christmas present. Pierre had not offered himself with the gift. And
if this were so, well--he reckoned he could match him.
He reached forward and took Lily's fan from her hand. He hastened to do
this to keep Pierre from taking it. Then, while he fanned her, he said,
"Is dat so, Miss Lily, dat Mr. Pier is give you a buggy? Dat sholy is a
fine Christmas gif'--it sho' is. An' sense you fin' yo'se'f possessed of
a buggy, I trust you will allow me de pleasure of presentin' you wid a
horse to drive in de buggy." He made a graceful bow as he spoke, a bow
that would have done credit to the man from New Orleans. It was so well
done, indeed, that Lily unconsciously bowed in return, as she said, with
a look that savored a little of roguishness: "Oh, hursh, Mr. Peters! You
des a-guyin' me--dat what you doin'."
"Guyin' nothin'," said Peters, grinning broadly as he noted the
expression of Pierre's face. "Ef you'll jes do me de honor to accep' of
my horse, Miss Lily, I'll be de proudest gen'leman on dis plantation."
At this she chuckled, and took her fan in her own hand. And then she
turned to Pierre.
"You sho' has set de style o' mighty expensive Christmas gif's on dis
plantation, Mr. Pier--you cert'n'y has. An' I wants to thank you bofe
mos' kindly--I cert'n'y does."
Having heard this much, 'Pollo thought it time to come from his hiding,
and he strolled leisurely out in the other direction first, but soon
returned this way. And then he stopped, and, reaching over, took the
feather fan--and for a few moments he had his innings. Then some one
else came along and the conversation became impersonal, and one by one
they all dropped off--all except 'Pollo. When the rest had gone, he and
Lily found seats on the cane carrier, and they talked a while, and when
a little later supper was announced, it was the proud fiddler who took
her in, while Pierre and Peters stood off and politely glared at each
other; and after a while Pierre must have said something, for Peters
suddenly sprang at him and tumbled him out the door and rolled him over
in the dirt, and they had to be separated. But presently they laughed
and shook hands, and Pierre offered Pete a cigarette, and Pete took it,
and gave Pierre a light--and it was all over.
It was next day--Christmas morning--and the young people were standing
about in groups under the China-trees in the campus, when Apollo joined
them, looking unusually chipper and beaming. He was dressed in his
best--Prince Albert, beaver, and all--and he sported a bright silk
handkerchief tied loosely about his neck.
He was altogether a delightful figure, absolutely content with himself,
and apparently at peace with the world. No sooner had he joined the
crowd than the fellows began chaffing him, as usual, and presently some
one mentioned Lily's name and spoke of her presents. The two men who
had broken the record for generosity in the history of plantation
lovers were looked upon as nabobs by those of lesser means. Of course
everybody knew the city fellow had started it, and they were glad that
Peters had come to time and saved the dignity of the place; indeed, he
was about the only one on the plantation who could have done it.
As they stood talking it over, the two heroes had nothing to say, of
course, and 'Pollo began rolling a cigarette--an art he had learned from
the man from New Orleans.
Finally, he remarked, "Yas, Miss Lily got sev'al mighty nice presents
last night."
At this Pierre turned, laughing, and said, "I s'pose you geeve 'er
somet'ing, too, eh?"
"Pity you hadn't a-give her dat silk hank'cher. Hit 'd become her a
heap better'n it becomes you," Peters said, laughing.
"Yas, I reckon it would," said 'Pollo; "but de fact is she gi' me dis
hank'cher--an' of co'se I accepted it."
"But why ain't you tellin' us what you give her?" insisted Peters.
'Pollo put the cigarette to his lips, deliberately lit it, puffed
several times, and then, removing it in a leisurely way, he drawled:
"Well, de fact is, I heerd Mr. Pier here give her a buggy,
an'--Mr. Peters, he up an' handed over a horse,--an' so, quick
as I got a chance, I des balanced my ekalub'ium an' went an' set
down beside her an' ast her ef she wouldn't do me the honor to
accep' of a driver, an'--an' she say yas.
"You know I'm a coachman by trade.
"An dat's huccome I to say she got sev'al presents las' night."
And he took another puff of his cigarette.
[G] From "Moriah's Mourning." Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers.
An Invalid in Lodgings
BY J. M. BARRIE.
Until my system collapsed, my landlady only spoke of me as her parlor.
At intervals I had communicated with her through the medium of Sarah
Ann, the servant, and, as her rent was due on Wednesday, could I pay my
bill now? Except for these monetary transactions, my landlady and I were
total strangers, and, though I sometimes fell over her children in the
lobby, that led to no intimacy. Even Sarah Ann never opened her mouth
to me. She brought in my tea, and left me to discover that it was there.
My first day in lodgings I said "Good-morning" to Sarah Ann, and she
replied, "Eh?" "Good-morning," I repeated, to which she answered
contemptuously, "Oh, ay." For six months I was simply the parlor; but
then I fell ill, and at once became an interesting person.
Sarah Ann found me shivering on the sofa one hot day a week or more ago,
beneath my rug, two coats, and some other articles. My landlady sent
up some beef-tea, in which she has a faith that is pathetic, and then,
to complete the cure, she appeared in person. She has proved a nice,
motherly old lady, but not cheerful company.
"Where do you feel it worst, sir?" she asked.
I said it was bad all over, but worst in my head.
"On your brow?"
"No; on the back of my head."
"It feels like a lump of lead?"
"No; like a furnace."
"That's just what I feared," she said. "It began so with him."
"With whom?"
"My husband. He came in one day, five years ago, complaining of his
head, and in three days he was a corpse."
"What?"
"Don't be afraid, sir. Maybe it isn't the same thing."
"Of course it isn't. Your husband, according to the story you told me
when I took these rooms, died of fever."
"Yes, but the fever began just in this way. It carried him off in no
time. You had better see a doctor, sir. Doctor was no use in my
husband's case, but it is satisfaction to have him."
Here Sarah Ann, who had been listening with mouth and eyes open,
suddenly burst into tears, and was led out of the room, exclaiming,
"Him such a quiet gentleman, and he never flung nothing at me."
Though I knew that I had only caught a nasty cold, a conviction in
which the doctor confirmed me, my landlady stood out for its being
just such another case as her husband's, and regaled me for hours with
reminiscences of his rapid decline. If I was a little better one day,
alas! he had been a little better the day before he died; and if I
answered her peevishly, she told Sarah Ann that my voice was going. She
brought the beef-tea up with her own hands, her countenance saying that
I might as well have it, though it could not save me. Sometimes I pushed
it away untasted (how I loathe beef-tea now!), when she whispered
something to Sarah Ann that sent that tender-hearted maid howling once
more from the room.
"He's supped it all," Sarah Ann said one day, brightening.
"That's a worse sign," said her mistress, "than if he hadn't took none."
I lay on a sofa, pulled close to the fire, and when the doctor came, my
landlady was always at his heels, Sarah Ann's dismal face showing at the
door. The doctor is a personal friend of my own, and each day he said I
was improving a little.
"Ah, doctor!" my landlady said, reprovingly.
"He does it for the best," she exclaimed to me, "but I don't hold with
doctors as deceive their patients. Why don't he speak out the truth like
a man? My husband were told the worst, and so he had time to reconcile
himself."
On one of these occasions I summoned up sufficient energy to send her
out of the room; but that only made matters worse.
"Poor gentleman!" I heard her say to Sarah Ann; "he is very violent
to-day. I saw he were worse the moment I clapped eyes on him. Sarah Ann,
I shouldn't wonder though we had to hold him down yet."
About an hour afterwards she came in to ask me if I "had come more round
to myself," and when I merely turned round on the sofa for reply, she
said, in a loud whisper to Sarah Ann, that I "were as quiet as a lamb
now." Then she stroked me and went away.
So attentive was my landlady that she was a ministering angel. Yet I
lay on that sofa plotting how to get her out of the room. The plan that
seemed the simplest was to pretend sleep, but it was not easily carried
out. Not getting any answer from me, she would approach on tiptoe and
lean over the sofa, listening to hear me breathe. Convinced that I was
still living, she and Sarah Ann began a conversation in whispers, of
which I or the deceased husband was the subject. The husband had slept
a good deal, too, and it wasn't a healthy sign.
"It isn't a good sign," whispered my landlady, "though them as know no
better might think it is. It shows he's getting weaker. When they takes
to sleeping in the day-time, it's only because they don't have the
strength to keep awake."
"Oh, missus!" Sarah Ann would say.
"Better face facts, Sarah Ann," replied my landlady.
In the end I had generally to sit up and confess that I heard what they
were saying. My landlady evidently thought this another bad sign.
I discovered that my landlady held receptions in another room, where
visitors came who referred to me as her "trial." When she thought me
distinctly worse, she put on her bonnet and went out to disseminate the
sad news. It was on one of these occasions that Sarah Ann, who had been
left in charge of the children, came to me with a serious request.
"Them children," she said, "want awful to see you, and I sort of
promised to bring 'em in, if so you didn't mind."
"But, Sarah Ann, they have seen me often, and, though I'm a good deal
better, I don't feel equal to speaking to them."
Sarah Ann smiled pityingly when I said I felt better, but she assured me
the children only wanted to look at me. I refused her petition, but, on
my ultimatum being announced to them, they set up such a roar that, to
quiet them, I called them in.
They came one at a time. Sophia, the eldest, came first. She looked at
me very solemnly, and then said bravely that If I liked she would kiss
me. As she had a piece of flannel tied round her face, and was swollen
in the left cheek, I declined this honor, and she went off much
relieved. Next came Tommy, who sent up a shriek as his eyes fell on me,
and had to be carried off by Sarah Ann. Johnny was bolder and franker,
but addressed all his remarks to Sarah Ann. First, he wanted to know if
he could touch me, and, being told he could, he felt my face all over.
Then, he wanted to see the "spouter." The "spouter" was a spray through
which Sarah Ann blew coolness on my head, and Johnny had heard of it
with interest. He refused to leave the room until he had been permitted
to saturate me and my cushion.
I am so much better now that even my landlady knows I am not dying. I
suppose she is glad that it is so, but at the same time she resents it.
There is an impression in the house that I am a fraud. They call me by
my name as yet, but soon again I shall be the parlor.
The Stirrup-Cup
BY SIDNEY LANIER.
Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare:
Look how compounded, with what care!
Time got his wrinkles reaping thee
Sweet herbs from all antiquity.
David to thy distillage went,
Keats, and Gotama excellent,
Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright,
And Shakespeare for a king-delight.
Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt;
Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt;
'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me;
I'll drink it down right smilingly.
Das Krist Kindel.[H]
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight
Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night;
And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"--
The old split-bottomed rocker--and was musing all alone.