From the _Stilly Gazette_, July 24th.
We understand that the last arrival at Giants' Bay has been our talented
young fellow-islander Dr John Smith. Dr Smith has arrived at the Bay
at an opportune time, as we hear that Giant Blunderbore is ill, and will
doubtless avail himself of his guest's well-known professional services.
From the _Giants' Bay Broadsheet_, July 27th.
The following bulletin has been issued: "Giant Blunderbore is still
suffering from the effects of his recent sharp attack of indigestion;
but is better. His appetite is good; and he feels able to resume his
receptions."
Later.--Giant Blunderbore has had a slight relapse, and some anxiety is
felt as to his condition. Dr Smith, of Scilly, at present resident in
the hotel, has been called in, and a consultation is about to take
place. Meanwhile Giants Cormoran and Galligantus are prepared to
receive visitors daily at 3 and 8 p.m.
From the _Evening Tell-Tale_, July 28th.
The Missing Tourists.--
Extraordinary Rumours.--No News of the Lincoln Clergyman.--
Fifty Scientific Men Missing.--The most astonishing rumours continue to
come in from Giants' Bay. In addition to the disappearance recorded in
a recent issue, we have received information that a whole congress of
anthropomorphists has been missing for a week. They were quartered at
Cormoran's Hotel, where their personal effects still remain.
Many conjectures are afloat, the most reasonable of which appears to
point to the probability of the unfortunate tourists having been
engulfed in the sands, which at certain states of the tide are said to
be highly dangerous along this coast.
Later.--At the Round Table to-night a question was asked as to the
extraordinary disappearances reported from Giants' Bay. The Home
Secretary requested the hon, member to give notice of the question for
this day week.
From the _Giants Bay Broadsheet_, July 28th.
The following bulletins have been issued:--
12:30 p.m.--Giant Blunderbore is decidedly worse. Contrary to medical
advice, he partook of a hearty meal last night. Dr Smith is still in
attendance.
4 p.m.--Giant Blunderbore lies in a hopeless state. He has again
disregarded medical advice, and eaten solid food. Dr Smith is still in
attendance.
8 p.m.--It is with the deepest regret that we have to announce the death
of our esteemed patron Giant Blunderbore, which took place suddenly this
evening, after a somewhat painful operation. Details are not yet
forthcoming; but we expect to issue an extra double number to-morrow,
with a coloured photograph of the deceased. As only a limited number
will be printed, copies should be ordered early. The attention of
advertisers is drawn to the present unusual opportunity.
Latest.--Just as we go to press we hear that Dr Smith has been summoned
to attend Giant Cormoran, who is ailing of a complaint which presents
symptoms similar to those of the late Giant Blunderbore.
From the _Scampingtonian_, July 27th.
Dear Chappies,--No end of a go! Can't find my people high or low.
People been sloping off all round. Fancy I know why now. On Monday I
saw Blunderbore's door open as I passed, and I thought I'd pop in and
see what he knew about it. He was sitting in his chair, looking jolly
blue.
"What's up, Blundy?" I said.
"I'm awfully hungry," said he.
"Why don't you have some grub?" I said.
"Doctors won't let me," said he. "You see, a week ago I happened to eat
something that disagreed with me. Between me and you," said he, "it was
a knight in armour. I didn't mind the knight, but the armour gave me a
very bad turn."
"Do you know," said I, "that was my governor?"
"My dear boy," said he, "I'm awfully sorry. I feel for you. I wish I
hadn't done it--sincerely. But a fellow must live. Really, I
sympathise with you; let me grasp your hand."
"Not if I know it, you cad," said I; "and where's my mother?"
"That's another thing that troubles me," said he. "Tell me, did she
wear a brocaded silk gown with beads? Most unlucky for us both! Beads
never did agree with me. It's a warning to both of us to be more
particular. Really, you _must_ let me grasp your hand."
"Not much!" said I. "Look here, Blunderbore, I mean to show you up.
I'll let some of our fellows know about you, and you see if they don't
make you sit up before long."
"I feel much more like lying down," said he. "Would you mind handing me
that medicine bottle?"
"Don't you wish _you_ may get it!" said I, and cut.
I told Jack Smith about it, and he was no end riled. I must say, I feel
riled myself. It's specially awkward, because the mater had our return
tickets in her pocket; and I can't get away from here. I wish you'd
send me a sov., some of you. I'll square up after vac.
Yours ever, Hugh a Pie.
P.S.--Here's a go! Old Blunderbore's gone at last! Smith says it was
the steel armour inside him that did it. Serves him jolly well right!
From the _Giants' Bay Broadsheet_, July 29th.
It is with feelings almost akin to consternation that we announce the
sudden and critical illness of our esteemed fellow-citizen Giant
Cormoran. The regret with which we make this announcement will be
shared by all those visitors to this charming retreat who during the
last months have come into contact with the amiable and accommodating
gentleman.
Giant Cormoran is one of the old school of Englishmen whom we can ill
afford to lose. Capacious in mind and body, with a large sense of
humour, of strict personal integrity, and a hearty enjoyment of life, it
is indeed sad to think of him at the present moment as lying on a bed of
languishing, from which it is doubtful whether he will rise more. Very
little news leaks out from the sick-chamber. Dr Smith is in regular
attendance, and, according to a curt bulletin published an hour ago,
reports his patient's condition as exceedingly grave: "Giant Cormoran is
in a state of collapse. There is a complete loss of nervous power. The
patient has quite lost his head."
We have no doubt that the melancholy death of his comrade Giant
Blunderbore has seriously affected his nerves. Happily, his condition
spares him the additional pang of knowing that Giant Galligantus is also
on the sick list, with what it is feared is a mild attack of the
prevailing epidemic. Later.
The following bulletins have just appeared: "The condition of Giant
Cormoran remains unchanged.
"John Smith, M.D."
"Giant Galligantus is suffering from a severe shock to the system, with
complications. It is feared that the attack is of a similar nature to
that of Giants Blunderbore and Cormoran.
"John Smith, M.D."
Latest.--Giant Cormoran is no more. A memoir will appear in our next.
Special space will be reserved for advertisements on the cover.
From the _Evening Tell-Tale_, August 1st.
The Giants' Bay Mysteries.--
The Plot Thickens.--
Sudden Death of Giants.--
Rumoured Government Intervention.--
Further Wholesale Disappearances.--The plot thickens at Giants' Bay.
Two of the leading giants of the place, Giants Blunderbore and Cormoran,
have died of what is apparently an acute gastric epidemic. Meanwhile
hundreds of inquiries are pouring into the place respecting missing
relatives and friends. It is stated that an entire learned society has
disappeared.
Owing to the urgent representations of the _Tell-Tale_ and other
journals, the Government has at last awakened to a sense of the gravity
of the situation. At the Round Table last night a commission was
appointed to inquire into the matter. It will meet this day week, and
after appointing president and secretary, adjourn till October.
The police are reticent; but on inquiry at the head office we understand
that search is being made in the atlas for Giants' Bay. For the
information of our readers, we give a map of the locality of the
mysteries, and fancy portraits of the three giants. During the present
excitement, and in the interests of our subscribers, it has been decided
permanently to double the price of the _Tell-Tale_.
From the _West Anglian Anthropomorphist_, August 2nd.
In the continued unexplained absence of the president and members of the
society, the usual meetings will not be held in August. We may point
out for the benefit of advertisers that a considerable amount of
additional space will thus be available for their announcements.
From the _Giants' Bay Broadsheet_, August 3rd.
It is with feelings of unfeigned melancholy that we announce the demise
of our excellent neighbour Giant Galligantus, after a brief illness.
The lamented giant never rallied from the nervous shock which overtook
him a few days since. Although details are still a-wanting, we
understand that his head was seriously affected. Dr John Smith was in
attendance to the last. Further particulars, with an extra supplement
and portrait memoirs of the three giants, will be given in our next. In
order not to disappoint our readers and advertisers, the prices in each
department will be further doubled.
Departure.--John Smith, Esquire, M.D., has left Giants' Bay.
From the _Hue and Cry_, August 14th. Police Notice.
Whereas several persons have recently disappeared from the neighbourhood
of Giants' Bay, in the county of Cornwall, a reward of One Pound will be
offered to any person, not a principal, who shall give any information
leading to the detection of the aforesaid.
From the _Evening Tell-Tale_, August 6th.
Our special correspondent at Giants' Bay writes: "The excitement here is
unabated. All sorts of conjectures are afloat. General opinion seems
to connect the wholesale disappearance of tourists and the sudden death
of the three giants as parts of the fiendish scheme of some person
unknown. The miscreant is supposed to be interested in some other
watering-place.
"We have been fortunate enough to secure a personal interview with the
celebrated Dr John Smith, whose remarks--in view of his recent close
personal relations with the deceased giants--will be read with interest.
We found the youthful doctor enjoying a fragrant weed in the verandah
of his father's bijou residence in Scilly.
"`A beautiful day, doctor,' we said, taking the vacant seat beside him.
"`Is it?' replied he, placing his two feet in a graceful attitude on the
elaborately-polished balustrade of the balcony.
"`Heard of you at Giants' Bay,' we remarked, by way of leading up to the
subject. There was a pause, and then the doctor replied, `Oh!'
"`A strange affair the sudden mortality in that place, doctor.'
"`What about it?' was the unexpected rejoinder, as the man of physic
slowly assumed a standing attitude.
"He was dressed in a light check suit, which reflected considerable
credit on the provincial tailor who made it.
"`That's the question,' we replied, with a touch of humour.
"The doctor appeared to feel the heat, but presently recovered
sufficiently to call our attention to the peculiar make of his boots.
They were large, with flapped uppers and clumped soles, and could hardly
have cost less than a guinea the pair. We congratulated him warmly upon
his possession. Dr Smith was evidently proud of them.
"`See them?' said he, pointing to the right foot.
"We nodded a friendly assent, inwardly amused at our friend's
eccentricity.
"`Do you see that hill there?' said he, abruptly pointing over our
shoulder.
"We turned to look. It was indeed a fine view which met our eyes--a
view of which any native of Scilly might be proud. We were about to
make an observation to the effect, when he interrupted us.
"`Feel them?'
We certainly did feel something--not in front of us--and not being
anxious to take up more of our friend's valuable time, we thanked him
for his courtesy and retired.
From the _Round Table Hansard_, August 25th.
Giants' Bay Select Committee.--Lord Merlin was in the chair. The
committee sat for a short time to draw up rules of procedure and arrange
an adjournment. It was decided to prorogue the inquiry for six months,
in order to allow witnesses to attend. A brief discussion ensued on the
question of costs, and a short Bill was drafted, which it is proposed to
add to the estimates.
The Chairman expressed an opinion that an additional twopence on the
income-tax would amply cover the costs of the commission; and it was
agreed to await the passing of the Bill before fixing the date for the
next meeting. The committee then adjourned.
From the _Giants' Bay Broadsheet_, September 10th.
Preliminary Notice.--On the 1st of April next, at the Mart, will be sold
those three eligible hotels--namely, Blunderbore Hotel, Cormoran Hotel,
and Galligantus Hotel, pleasantly situated in Giants' Bay, Cornwall,
commanding fine views of the sea. These palatial houses, standing in
their own grounds, are fitted with every comfort and replete with every
convenience. Fixtures at a valuation. By order of the executors of the
late Giants Blunderbore, Cormoran, and Galligantus.
Catalogues and orders to view on application.
From the _Army Gazetteer_, December 1st.
Captain Tom Thumb to be Major-General, _vice_ Sir Cap a Pie, deceased.
From the _Lincoln Weekly Supplement_, December 25th.
The Reverend Friar Tucker has been appointed to the living lately held
by the Reverend Simon Cellarer.
From the _West Anglian Anthropomorphist_, January 1st.
At a meeting held last week it was decided to reorganise this society.
A new president was elected. It was announced that an exhibition would
be offered yearly, to be called the "Hardhide Exhibition," for the best
essay on the gigantic remains of south-west Britain.
From the _Scampingtonian_, January 25th.
Term has begun. We are glad to say that our chum, a Pie--now Sir Hugh a
Pie--has been unanimously elected captain of the football club.
From the _Stilly Gazette_, April 3rd.
At the mart on Monday were sold the three Giant Hotels of Giants' Bay.
The bidding was very slack, but we understand the lots were eventually
knocked down to a dealer in old bricks.
Our respected fellow-islander, Dr John Smith, has had the honour of
being presented at court, where his Majesty has been pleased to confer
on him several stripes, and the order of the Giant Killer. A public
reception is to be held in the market-place to welcome home Sir John
Smith, G.K., M.D., on his return from London.
From the _Giants' Bay Broadsheet_, June 1st.
The offices of this paper being now closed, subscribers are requested to
forward outstanding accounts by return to Messrs. Payup and Shellout,
Solicitors, London.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
Sub-Chapter I.
THE COASTGUARDSMAN'S YARN.
A LEGEND OF THE CIVIL WAR.
Several summers ago I happened to be spending a few weeks at W--, a
small fishing village on the Welsh coast. A beautiful little place it
was, nestling in a break of the cliffs which rose majestically above it
on either side and stretched in gaunt rugged walls seaward.
The beautiful bay, with its sunset lights behind the grand headland,
with its deep caves and tumbled rocks, and above all its blue waters,
lying sometimes calm and motionless, and at others dashing furiously at
the foot of the cliffs, was enough to attract any lover of nature.
And dull little place as it was, with its one tiny inn and its handful
of natives, the time I spent there, with my easel and paint-brush, was
one of the most enjoyable of my life.
But beautiful as the view was from the land, I found the view from the
sea still more attractive, and in order to gratify my tastes in this
respect, I took pains to get myself into the good graces of one or two
of the fishermen, a few of whom could speak English, and many times
accompanied them on their fishing cruises in the bay, where, while they
toiled at the nets, I sat and drank in the thousand beauties of the
coast, or worked eagerly with my brush to commit them to canvas.
The expedition I liked best was towards the southern headland of the
bay, where the cliffs were tallest and steepest and where, to add to the
other attractions of the view, stood, perched like an eagle's nest on
the edge of the crag, the ruins of an old castle.
By old, I do not mean Roman or even Norman. Indeed in that sense it was
comparatively modern; for the building, what was left of it, looked more
like one of those Tudor manor-houses which dot the country still, than a
fortress. And yet, that it had been fortified was plain enough even
still. On the side towards the sea it needed no protection; indeed
looking up at it from below, it seemed almost to overhang its
precipitous foundation. But on the land side there remained traces of a
moat, and loop-holes in the walls, and a massive gate.
It was scarcely to be called a picturesque ruin, except inasmuch as
every ruin is picturesque. Its bare walls rose gaunt and black out of
the ground, not out of a heap of tumbled moss-grown masonry, or covered
over with ivy. There were very few signs of decay about the place,
ruinous as it was, and very little examination was enough to show that
it had suffered not from old age, or from the cannon of an enemy, but
from fire.
No one about could tell me its story, and the mystery of the place only
added to its charm. Indeed I was quite glad to discover that it had not
even a name, and that the country folk would as soon have thought of
crossing the old moat after nightfall as they would have done of
stepping over the edge of the cliff. The only thing I could learn about
it, in fact, was that it was haunted, and that the one little turret
which still retained a roof, and over which the only ivy visible tried
to creep, was railed the Lady Tower, and was the "most haunted" spot of
all.
I could not believe that the one corner of the old ruin where there
still remained a sign of life and verdure, could be infested by any very
terrible ghost. Still I am not quite sure whether I should have enjoyed
a solitary night's rest there, and to have suggested the thing to the
natives of W-- would have been enough to secure my incarceration as a
raving lunatic. So I did not. But by daytime I added myself one more
to the spirits that haunted the place, and yielded myself up completely
to its fascination.
One day towards the end of my visit I walked over to a coastguard
station some miles along the shore for the sake of taking a last survey
of the beautiful coast. When I reached it I found, to my pleasure, one
of the W-- fishing-boats just preparing to put out and sail round the
headland back to the village. One of the coastguardsmen was on board,
and I was glad to accept the invitation of my honest friend to form
another of the party.
I found the coastguardsman a most intelligent fellow--well informed on
many subjects, and even professing to be something of an art critic. I
showed him one or two of my pictures, and he was graciously pleased to
approve of them, especially a sketch of the ruined castle from the
south, with the Lady Tower in the foreground.
The examination of this picture naturally turned the conversation on to
the ruin, and I was delighted to find my companion seemed almost as
interested in the subject as I was.
"It's a strange thing," said I, "that the one thing wanting seems to be
a story."
"Ah! that was burnt out by the fire, sir."
I was rude enough to laugh. He fancied I was lamenting the absence of
the top storey!
"I don't mean that," I said. "What I mean is, no one seems to know
anything about the place or its history."
"Not they! What should they bother their heads about it for?"
"But it must have a history of some sort," said I.
"Of course it has."
"Do you know it?"
"Of course I do."
It was quite a shock to me to find any one knew anything about my ruin,
and it was some time before I ventured to ask--
"Would you tell it to me?"
Instead of saying "Yes," the coastguardsman laid down his telescope,
pulled a plug of tobacco out of his pocket, and, cutting off a small
quid, put it into his mouth, looked up at the sail, shifted himself once
or twice in his seat, and then, looking to see if I was ready, began--
"It's not such a wonderful yarn after all, sir. You see, something like
two hundred and fifty years ago, when our Civil Wars were going on--
you've heard of them, I suppose?--yonder castle belonged to a stout
Charles the First's man called Fulke. He owned a good bit about this
coast, I'm told, and the folk at the New Manor are sort of descendants.
But direct descendants they can't be, for Fulke only had one daughter,
sir, and she never married. If it hadn't been for those cruel wars she
would have been married, though, for she was betrothed to a neighbour,
young Morgan, who lived beyond that hill there, and mightily they loved
one another too! Fulke, whose lands joined on Morgan's, was pleased
enough to have the two families united, and united they would have been
to this day but for the Civil Wars. I'm no great hand at dates, sir,
but it was somewheres about 1642 that things began to get unpleasant.
"One day, not long before the wedding was to be, Fulke and his daughter
went over to Morgan Hall; and while the young folk spent the day love-
making in the garden the two old folk sat and discussed the affairs of
the nation in the house. And it's safe to say the two out of doors
agreed far better than the two indoors. For Morgan went with the
Parliament, and told Fulke the King had no right to try and arrest the
five members, and that the Parliament had done a fine thing in
protecting them, and that if he'd been there he'd have called out
against the King as loud as any of them. At that Fulke--who was a hot-
headed man at best of times, and who went mad to hear any one say a word
against the King--got up in a rage, and, taking his hat, stalked out
into the garden, and taking his daughter by the arm marched away from
Morgan Hall with never a word.
"It was a sad business. The young folks begged and the old Morgan sent
a letter; but no, Fulke wouldn't listen to one of them, and forbade his
daughter to leave the castle.
"Whether the lovers saw one another after that I don't know, but almost
directly after the war blazed out and the whole country went mad.
Morgan and his son had to leave these parts, and took arms under the
Parliament, while Fulke brought guns and powder into his castle, and
hoisted the flag of King Charles.
"The young lady had a busy time of it sheltering and entertaining the
Royalists who came this way. But she had no heart in it--not that she
didn't love the King, sir. Yet she loved young Morgan more.
"So things went on for four or live years. The King, as you know, sir,
got the worst of it, and was driven to his wits' end. Most of his
friends had fallen, and some had deserted. But so far no one had given
Fulke much trouble. Either they had never heard of him, or saw there
was not much to fear from him. So the Royal flag waved over the castle
day and night, and the young lady did what her father bid her, and never
went abroad or heard a word of young Morgan.
"But at last the King, not knowing what to do, tried to bring over the
Irish to help him. And then it was the troubles in these parts began.
For every one that was suspected of aiding in this venture was doomed by
the Parliament.
"And Fulke was suspected. Rightly or wrongly I can't say, but I've a
notion there was something in it. Anyway, his castle commanded the bay,
and the Parliament made up their minds to have it. Fulke had only time
to get a score or so of men with arms and provender inside his gate,
when a troop of roundheads came with their guns over the lulls and sat
down before it.
"The leader of the troop was a Colonel Frank, a cruel, ruffianly fellow,
as you shall hear. And the second in command was no other than young
Captain Morgan himself.
"He had had plenty of rough work during the war, and had done it well.
And it's a pity, sir, all the Parliament's officers weren't of his sort,
for he was as unlike Colonel Frank as a house-dog is to a wolf. When
first ordered on this expedition he didn't know where he was going, and
you can fancy his horror at finding out that he was to lay siege to the
very castle that held his lady-love. At first he would have held back,
and even refused. But he was under iron rules, and besides, thought he,
I might help my lady more by going than staying away.
"So he came with the troop to the castle, and looked wistfully up at the
little turret yonder, and prayed that she might never know that he was
where he was.
"Colonel Frank came expecting an easy task with this small out-of-the-
way castle. But it was not so easy as he thought. On two sides, as you
see, sir, no mortal man could get at it. And on the other two, Fulke
had guarded himself so well that by the end of a fortnight the
Roundheads were not an inch nearer getting the place than they had been
when they began.
"The rage of the colonel knew no bounds, and he vowed all sorts of
vengeance. You may fancy one of his men did not join in his threats.
Many a time that fortnight Captain Morgan wished a shot from the castle
might find him out and end his misery. And yet whenever he was tempted
to desert or quarrel with his colonel the thought of the lady left with
no protector at the mercy of such a man held him to his post. All he
could do was once or twice to urge the colonel to raise the siege, or
come to terms with its master. But Frank was bent on vengeance, and at
last poor Morgan had to desist for fear of getting suspected himself.
"About three weeks after the siege had begun, when the Roundheads were
beginning to lose spirit, and Morgan's hopes were beginning to rise once
more, a trooper rushed into the colonel's tent to say he had found a
small cave below the top of the cliff which seemed to run up under the
castle. The colonel's eyes blazed at the news, and he ordered the man
to lead him instantly to the spot. Do you see a square grey patch on
the face of the cliff up there, sir, nearly at the top, under the south
corner?"
"Yes; what is it?"
"That's the mouth of the cave. At least, it's not a cave now, for it's
filled up. But it was there the trooper, under cover of night, led the
colonel and the captain. They didn't do more than mark the place then,
for fear an alarm might be given by a sentinel within.
"`Now,' says Colonel Frank, `the castle's ours; and not a soul inside it
shall be there by this time to-morrow.'
"`What shall you do?' says Captain Morgan, pale, and with a shaky voice.
"`Do? Art thou a dunce, Morgan? Without doubt, at the end of that cave
is a way up into the castle; and though the passage be too narrow for
all my troop, three men and a captain will suffice to lay faggots and
light them at the door. What say you, comrade?'
"`What!' cries Morgan, `would you burn the place? No, no, colonel; we
will capture it if we can, but it is no soldier's work to burn men in
their beds!'
"`Fool!' exclaims the colonel, in a passion, `it is no captain's work to
read sermons to his colonel, sirrah! These rebels shall be smoked out
like all other vermin!'
"`But,' says the captain once more, and very pale--`but I hear there is
a lady in the castle, and--'
"`Peace, sir, on your peril!' exclaims the colonel, `and hold yourself
ready to obey orders when I shall give them.'
It was no use saying more, young Morgan saw that. As it was, he knew
his colonel half suspected him of some treachery, and for the rest of
that day put a watch upon him. Twenty times that day he was on the
point of risking all consequences and declaring to his officer's face he
would have no hand in this bad business. But the thought of how much
worse that might be for the folk in the castle kept him to his post.
"Well, sir, the day passed, and they kept up a show of besieging the
place on the land side, and took care to keep all Fulke's guns turned
that way. But at nightfall Colonel Frank called Morgan to him and
ordered him to take six men, whom he named, and try the passage.
"`If you find a sentinel at this end,' says the colonel, `see he is
overpowered and taken before an alarm can be given. Over the cliff will
be the shortest way with him. The men you take know their business; and
see you perform yours!' he says, with a scowl. `I and the rest of the
troop will be ready to storm the place as soon as we see the flames. Go
now, lose no time; and, hark you, there is no quarter to-night for
traitors!'
"This last remark may have been meant for the captain, who knew that, at
heart, he was a traitor to the Parliament that night; or it may have
been meant for the inmates of the castle. Anyway, it sounded ugly
enough, and it was all Morgan could do to hold his peace and make no
reply.
"He found the six men waiting for him without, and in the darkness they
crept stealthily round to the edge of the cliff, where a narrow ledge
led down to the end of the cave.
"It was a perilous step down, especially to those unaccustomed to the
way. But the spot had been carefully marked in the daytime, and
presently the little band all stood there at the entrance. Morgan in
his secret heart wished some sentinel of the besieged might have
perceived them, and so given an alarm. But no; such was the security
Fulke felt in the secrecy of his cave that it never entered his head to
guard it.
"The men entered one by one, with a man carrying a light in front. The
passage was too narrow to allow of two abreast, and too low for any one
to stand upright in it. So, single file, on hands and knees, they
crawled forward.
"At last, when they had gone some way, and the sound of the sea grew
faint in the distance, Morgan halted his men.
"`Give me the light,' says he, `and stay here while I go forward and see
how the passage ends.'
"He crawled forward to the front of the file and took the torch from the
hands of the foremost man. But when he began to move forward he noticed
that two of the band followed him at a short distance.
"`Did I not order you to remain with the rest?' demands he, angrily.
"`Pardon, captain. The colonel bade us keep close to you,' says one of
the men, sourly.
"Morgan's blood ran cold in his veins, and his last hope of giving a
friendly warning to those in the castle vanished. However, it was no
time to quarrel, and he answered, with a forced laugh, `The colonel
flatters me by his attention. But, as he is anxious for my welfare,
come on, my men, and keep your eyes on me.'
"The three went forward, till the cave became so narrow that they could
scarcely drag themselves farther. In one place a little chink in the
roof let in a faint ray of moonlight from above.
"At length they could get no farther, and Morgan, turning his head,
said, `It's a false scent, after all; the cave leads nowhere!'
"But at that moment over their heads they heard a sound of feet, and
presently of voices. At first they could distinguish nothing, but after
a while Morgan's ears caught some words.
"`Pray, master, get you to bed for this one night. The scoundrels can
do nothing till the morning.'
"`I need no rest, I tell you,' said another voice, sternly. `How stands
the provender, Peter?'
"`It will last three days, master; and the shot will hold out for two.
The water, alas! is already exhausted.'
"`Ah! And my child--how is she?'
"`In good heart, master; she was sleeping like a child as I passed her
room just now.'
"Morgan could forbear no longer. He turned quickly to his men and said,
in a loud voice, which might be heard by the unseen watchers overhead,
`My torch has gone out. Crawl back, one of you, to the rest and bring
another, for if the castle is to be fired to-night--'
"There was a startled movement above, which told him his object had been
gained. The voices grew silent, and the footsteps moved suddenly. For
a moment his two companions did not comprehend what had happened. But
it flashed on them soon enough, and they were ready for the emergency.
"One of the two suddenly lit a small ball of hemp saturated in some
inflammable substance, which he had carried with him, and, fixing it on
to the point of his sword, held it up to the boards above, at the same
time that the other drew his pistol and pointed it at Morgan's head.
"Not a word was said, and not one of the three stirred, until a sharp
crackling of the wood above told its own tale. The soldier still held
up his brand till the place was well alight. Then withdrawing it, and
beckoning to his companion, he began to retreat towards the mouth of the
cave, saying as he did so, with a mocking laugh--
"`Farewell, master traitor, I doubt not your business keeps you where
you are. We shall miss your company.'
"Morgan did not hear them. He sprang desperately towards the now
blazing boards. But it was too late to stay the fire, and the heat and
falling embers drove him back.
"Still he could not go, but stayed there half suffocated, determined at
least not to desert his post while a glimmer of hope remained.
"In a few moments there was a crash and a shower of sparks at his feet.
The trap-door had fallen in.
"Heedless of the peril or the pain, he sprang once more at the opening,
and this time, how he knew not, succeeded in lifting himself into the
blazing apartment. Many a time had he been there before in happier
days.
"He rushed across to the door and out into the great hall of the castle.
Not a man was there to stop him. He heard voices and shouts outside,
but the castle seemed to have been left to its fate. There was yet
time, thought he, before the flames reached so far, to rush up to his
lady's room and save her.
"He sprang up the staircase. Halfway up he saw a figure before him,
ascending too. He called, and the man turned suddenly. Morgan knew him
in a moment. It was Fulke himself. The old Royalist, seeing himself
pursued by a soldier in the dress of a Roundhead, concluded the enemy
had already entered his castle, and with the fury of a desperate man,
drew his sword and threw himself upon the stranger. Morgan had no time
to hesitate. The delay of a moment might cost his lady her life.
"With a rapid pass of his sword, he struck Fulke across the arm, and as
the weapon dropped from the old soldier's hand, Morgan rushed past, on
towards the lady's chamber.
"Another obstacle still awaited him. This time it was a groom unarmed,
who encountered him. He too, defenceless as he was, sprang wildly upon
the intruder to dispute the passage. But Morgan put him by with the
flat of his sword and crying--
"`Look to your master below. I will see to the lady,' darted on.
"After that it was all like a dream. He was dimly conscious of rushing
down those steps shortly after, with a precious burden in his arms. How
he struggled through the smoke and fire, or how he kept his feet on that
tottering staircase, no one knows. It's enough to say he struggled
forward down the stairs and across the hall as far as the outer door,
where some one snatched his unharmed burden from his arms and carried
her to a place of safety, where already her father, tended by his
faithful servant, was recovering consciousness.
"The courtyard by this time was crowded with troopers, Royalist and
Roundhead, and above the roar of the flames and the crashing of falling
roofs there rose the report of guns and the clash of swords. Morgan,
half stunned and like a man in a dream, was standing propped up against
a tree a helpless spectator of the scene, when suddenly one of his own
men rushed up to him and saluted.
"`The colonel, sir, is dead. He was under yonder wall as it fell. The
men, sir, look to you for orders.'
"Morgan sprang to his feet like one electrified.
"`Call the men off,' he cried hoarsely, `instantly--without another
blow, and bring the prisoners to the camp--to me. Lose not a moment,
friend.'
"The order was obeyed. The Roundheads were glad enough to get clear of
the tottering walls without being too particular as to who escaped and
who was captured.
"Among the prisoners who next morning were reported to the captain as
safe were Fulke, his daughter, and one manservant.
"Morgan's heart failed him. He could not, dared not see them. He
ordered them to be kept in safe custody, and, meanwhile, summoned two of
his most trusty soldiers to receive orders respecting them.
"That night a small boat was brought round to the bottom of yonder
cliff, where you see the little creak, sir. And in it Fulke and the
young lady and their servant were rowed secretly to W--, where a
fishing-boat waited to carry them to Ireland. That's the story, sir."
"And what became of Morgan?" said I.
"No one heard of him after this affair, sir. And they do say he was
punished as a traitor. But whatever the end of him was, he never
repented his night's work at the burning of Fulke Castle."
CHAPTER TWELVE.
FALLEN AMONG THIEVES.
A GRANDFATHER'S YARN.
Sub-Chapter I.
"When I was a young fellow," began my grandfather--
There was a general silence and a settling of ourselves in our seats, as
the wavering voice of the old man uttered these magical words.
No one had asked him to tell a story, some of us had almost forgotten
that he was sitting there in his big chair, one of the group which
crowded round his own Christmas fire at Culverton Manor.
He was an old, old man, was my grandfather. The proverbial "threescore
years and ten" was an old story with him, and even the "fourscore"
awarded to the strong was receding into the distance. Yet there he sat,
in his old straight-back chair, hale and bright, as he looked round on
us his descendants, sons and daughters grey-haired already,
grandchildren, who some of them were staid heads of families themselves,
and the little group of great-grandchildren, who knew as well as any one
that when their father's grandfather began to talk of "the days when he
was young," it was worth their while to hold their peace and prick up
their ears.
"When I was a young fellow," began my grandfather, stroking his old
grizzled moustache, "I was a cornet in the Buffs. It was in the year--
heigho! my memory's getting rusty!--it was in the year 1803, I believe,
when every one was expecting the French over, and I was quartered with
my regiment at Ogilby. Ogilby is an inland town, you know, thirty miles
from here; and as there was not much immediate danger of Bonaparte
dropping in upon us there without good warning, we had a lazy rollicking
time of it in that bright little place.
"We young officers, boys that we were, thought it a fine thing to live
as grand gentlemen, and spend our pay half a dozen times over in all
sorts of extravagances. And, I recollect with sorrow, I was as bad as
any of them.
"Our colonel was an easy-going old soldier, who had been a wild blade
himself once, and held that it was little use looking too sharply after
us, so he didn't look after us at all; and we in consequence did just as
we pleased.
"Sometimes we invited all the gentry round to feast with us at mess, and
pledged our pay months in advance to load the table with the most costly
delicacies. At other times we would sally forth, and out of sheer
mischief organise a riot in the town, and end the night with broken
heads, and now and then in the lock-up. And when we were tired of this,
we got up I know not what gaieties to pass the time.
"As I said, I was as bad as any of them--worse perhaps. For I had had a
good home and careful training, and knew all the time I was joining in
the excesses of my comrades that I was a fool and a prodigal, and a
traitor to my better self. And yet I went in, and might have gone on to
the end of the chapter, had not an event happened to me which served to
pull me up short.
"One evening that winter our festivities culminated by a grand
entertainment given by the officers of our mess to all the countryside.
Compared with this, our former efforts in the same direction had been
mere child's play. We had hired the largest assembly room in the town,
and decorated it regardless of all expense. The wine merchants and
confectioners for miles round had been exhausted to furnish our supper,
and the tailors and milliners driven nearly distracted over our toilets.
Ogilby had never seen such a brilliant entertainment, and the officers
of the Buffs had never achieved such a triumph.
"I was among the last to leave the gay scene, and as I stepped out into
the chill winter air, and called for my horse, the clock of the church
was striking four. My man had to help me to my saddle, for, what with
the sudden change of air, added to the excesses of the evening, I was
not steady enough to do it myself. My man was the son of an old tenant
of my father's, and as he had known me from childhood, I was used to
allowing him more familiarity than most gentlemen allow to their
servants. I was, therefore, not surprised when, on reaching my
quarters, after helping me to alight, he stopped a moment to speak to me
before I entered the house.
"`By your leave, Master Hal,' said he, saluting, `I thought you might
like to know there is bad news from Culverton.'
"`How?' I demanded, scarcely taking in what he said.
"`Bad news, begging your honour's pardon. I had it in a letter from
Phoebe, the dairymaid at the Vicarage, who your honour may know is my
sweetheart, or rather I am hers; and by your--'
"`Sirrah, man, drop your sweetheart and come to your news! What is it?'
"`It is news of the squire, Master Hal!' said the man, seriously.
"`My father!' I exclaimed, suddenly sobered by the name.
"`He is ill, please your honour. He had a stroke a week ago, and Phoebe
says his life is despaired of.'
"`Ill a week, and I never heard!' I exclaimed. `Why did no one tell
me?'
"`Your honour may remember you have not examined your letters for these
three days past.'
"It was true. In the whirl of excitement, with late nights and later
mornings, and never-ending frivolity, my very letters had lain on my
mantelshelf unopened!
"My man turned to take my horse away to the stable. His action recalled
me suddenly to myself.
"`Hold!' I said; `leave the horse here, Tucker, and help me into the
saddle again.'
"Tucker gazed at me in astonishment, but did as he was bid.
"`I am going to Culverton,' I said, shortly, taking up the reins.
"`To Culverton! At this hour, and in this weather!' said Tucker, in
tones of alarm. `Stay at any rate till you have had a night's rest, for
you need it, master, and till I can put up what you need for the
journey.'
"`Let go my horse, man!' I cried, excitedly, setting spurs to the
animal and abruptly ending the honest fellow's remonstrance.
"The thought of my father lying ill, dying perhaps, and me here
revelling in Ogilby, made it impossible for me to contemplate a moment's
delay, even so much as to change my gay attire or provide myself with
necessaries for the journey. Culverton was thirty miles distant. I had
a good horse, and with all my dissipation I was capable of a fair share
of endurance. I therefore yielded to my impulse, and halting only to
leave word with a comrade whom I met to explain my absence to the
colonel, I dashed off into the night on my way to Culverton.
"What were my thoughts during those first few hours I need hardly tell
you. I hope and trust none of you will ever be tortured by the self-
reproach of which I was then the victim.
"For some distance out of Ogilby the roads were pretty good, and I made
tolerable progress; so that when morning broke about seven I was at
least a dozen miles on my journey. I could scarcely brook the delay of
a few minutes at the first village to rest my horse and swallow a
hurried breakfast; but I knew that for the rest of the way
accommodation, either for man or beast, was very limited, and,
therefore, prudence made the unwelcome delay a necessity.
"Once more in the saddle I hoped to make up for lost time; but in this I
was fated to be disappointed. For scarcely had I got beyond the village
when the weather suddenly changed. The chill morning air freshened to a
wind which brought snow with it, light at first, but increasing in
heaviness as the day went on. The road rapidly became covered, and my
horse, unable on the treacherous foothold to maintain the canter of the
morning, was compelled to slacken into a trot.
"I was in no gear for weather like this, as you may suppose. I still
wore the light festive attire of the previous night, covered only with
my military cape, which I now drew more closely around me at every step.
How I wished I had taken Tucker's prudent advice! But it was too late
to help it now.
"What troubled me most was not the cold, or the driving snow in my face,
but the slow pace at which progress was now possible. I had hoped to
reach Culverton by noon, but by noon I had accomplished scarcely two-
thirds of the distance, and every moment the difficulties of the way
were increasing. My horse trudged on gallantly. The trot had long
since given place to a walk, and the walk in turn often became a sheer
struggle for progress through the drifts and obstacles of the uncertain
road.
"As for me, I was nearly frozen in my saddle, and more than once was
compelled to dismount and tramp along beside my horse in the deep snow
in order to keep the blood going in my veins. And all the while the
thought of my father lying there at Culverton, neglected perhaps, with
no son at hand to tend him, drove me nearly frantic.
"The afternoon dragged on, and towards dark the snow ceased to fall.
That was at least some comfort, for to battle through that storm in the
dark would have been an impossibility. As it was, my good horse was
even now ready to drop, and I was in little better plight. If either of
us failed it meant an entire night in the snow, and that would be little
short of certain death. It was a dreary prospect.
"However, as I say, the snow ceased to fall, and towards night the sky
overhead began to clear, until presently the moon shone out and lit up
the wintry scene. But for this light we might have lost our way
hopelessly, for the road lay over a heath, which being all covered in
snow, we had only the wayside posts to direct us and keep us on the
beaten track.
"It must have been near eight o'clock, sixteen hours since I had left
the assembly at Ogilby, when I caught sight in the moonlight of a small
cottage a little way removed from the road on our right. The sight of
this, the first habitation we had passed for hours, was welcome indeed.
I could scarcely stand with hunger, fatigue, and cold, and my brave
horse was stumbling at every step. Our only chance of reaching
Culverton that night was in seeking such rest and refreshment as this
place might afford, and I therefore gladly turned aside and led my weary
steed along the by-path that led up to it.
"It was a small tumbledown cottage, or rather barn, and my fond hopes as
to fire and refreshment were dashed at once. It was empty. The broken
door stood ajar, the roof was nearly fallen in, and everything within
and without testified that for weeks at any rate it had been deserted.
Still it had walls and a roof, and so if we were not to have board we
might at least for an hour or so help ourselves to lodgings.
"I led my horse in, and after much groping about was delighted to
discover in one corner of the hovel a sort of stall, which had evidently
at one time or other been occupied by a cow. The ground was still
strewn with a little old and very vile straw, which, however, was an
unexpected luxury to us both, and a mere mouthful of stale hay remained
in the trough. To these desirable quarters I conducted my faithful
companion, who without ceremony devoured the hay, and then, too
exhausted to stand, dropped into a recumbent posture, and lay stretched
on his side on the straw. I quickly followed his example, creeping as
close to his side as I could for the sake of the warmth, and thus we lay
in the dark, resting as we had never rested before after our day's work.
"My own fear was lest I should fall asleep. In spite of my anxiety
about my father, and my bitter reproaches against myself, I felt a
stupor come over me which it was almost more than human nature to
resist. Once or twice I dozed off for a moment, and then woke by an
effort, each time more painful, until I was tempted at last to give in
and resist no longer, whatever it cost.
"I had just come to this resolve when I became suddenly aware of the
sound of voices in the cottage. Whoever they belonged to, I felt sure
they must have entered after me, for I had explored every corner of the
place when I took possession. They had probably entered during one of
my fits of drowsiness."
My first impulse was to discover myself to the new comers, and see if
they could help me and my horse in our distress. But on second thoughts
I decided to remain where I was until I could ascertain at least who the
intruders were, and if they had any better right in the cottage than I
had. I was wide awake now, and raising myself noiselessly from my
horse's side, I crawled to the side of the stall and peered over.
"By the uncertain light of a small fire of sticks which they had made, I
saw two men sitting on the floor regaling themselves with bread and meat
and the contents of a bottle. The sight of these good things made me
still more inclined to disclose my presence, but prudence again forbade;
besides which there was something strange about the look of the men, and
the place where they were, which excited my curiosity.
"For a long time they continued their meal in silence. It went to my
heart to see the victuals disappearing at such a rate, as you may
suppose.
"At length, when, for the present at any rate, their appetites seemed to
be appeased, they began to talk once more.
"`You're sure there's no mistake this time?' said one.
"`I have his own word for it,' replied the other. `I tell you, Tom,
he's planned it all out like Bonaparte himself.'
"`All I can say is,' said he who was called Tom, `I hope something will
come of it, for I'm sick of all this doing nothing.'
"`You may be sure something will come of this,' replied the other; `and
it will be something worth the while too, unless I'm mistaken, for the
old gentleman is very rich; see here,' said he, producing some papers
from his pocket, `this is what he says.'
"He began to read a letter, and you may fancy how I, listening behind
the partition, started as I heard it.
"`Jack,' it said, `I'm watched and can't come. You and Tom must do it
without me. Be you know where by eight on Friday night, and I'll send
one I can trust to show you the way and help you through with it. You
may rely on him, though he's a queer dog. Here's a map of the grounds
of Culverton, but you won't need it, for he I send knows the place well.
The steward is on our side, and will leave the back door unlatched.
The strong box stands in the study, the second door on the left after
you pass the great clock. The old man lies ill, and only two maids are
in the house besides. The young puppy is away at Ogilby. Bring what
you get to the tower by the river on Saturday night. There are jewels
in the desk in the old man's room. He cannot hurt--if he tries he must
be quieted--you know how.'
"I was so horrified that for a moment or two I scarcely knew whether I
was awake or dreaming. My poor father, not only ill, but in peril of
robbery, and perhaps murder! And I, what could I do? My impulse was to
spring from my retreat and make one desperate effort to overpower the
villains. But I was too weak to do it. Besides I was unarmed, whereas
they had each his pistol. What could I do?
"The man who had read the letter carefully put it, along with the rough
map of the Culverton grounds, into the fire, and the two sat and watched
the papers as they burned.
"`He's a good man of business,' said Tom.
"`Middling,' replied the other; `and if he--'
"At that moment my horse gave a sudden start in his sleep. The quick
ears of the two villains instantly caught the sound.
"`Hullo!' said one in a whisper, `what was that?'
"`Hist!' said the other, holding up his hand, `strike a light, Tom.'
"While Tom obeyed I softly dropped on my hands and knees and crawled
back to my old place beside the horse, where I lay motionless, and to
all appearance in a profound sleep.
"`I'm sure I heard something,' said Tom, holding up the lantern. From
where they were they could see nothing but the side of the stall. They
therefore crept round stealthily; and as I lay I saw the light suddenly
turn on the horse.
"`A nag, as I'm a Dutchman, and saddled too!' exclaimed Tom.
"`If that's so, the rider's not far off,' said the other, grimly, taking
the lantern and advancing.
"It was all I could do to lie motionless, breathing heavily, as the
light fell full on my face.
"`Ah! found him!' was the exclamation, as both rushed towards me.
"I heard the cocking of a pistol close beside me, and was conscious of a
rude plucking at my arm.
"`Come, get up there! What do you do here? Get up, do you hear?'
"I had one hope left, and it was a desperate one.
"I roused myself slowly, and with many feints, from my mock slumber, and
rubbed my eyes and yawned, and stared first at one, then the other.
"`Get up,' again cried the men, still pulling my arm roughly, `and say
what you're doing here.'
"`Doing here?' I drawled as unconcernedly as I could, stretching myself
at the same time, `That's a pretty question to ask me. What were _you_
doing not to be here at eight o'clock, I'd like to know?'
"The men let go my arms, and looked at me in bewilderment.
"`Why,' said one, `are you--'
"`There,' said I, `we don't mention names in our trade. You'll learn
that when you grow older, and you'll learn to be punctual too,' I added,
testily.
"The men looked half abashed.
"`We were here at eight,' they said.
"`No, you were not. I was here at eight to the minute, and I had time
to fall asleep, as you see, before you came. But never mind that. You
know what business is on foot, I suppose?'
"`Yes, I had it all from--'
"`Hush! no names, you dolt; what did I tell you before?'
"The men were perfectly sheepish now, and I began to breathe again. It
was well I had been described in the letter as a `queer dog,' for it is
an easy part to act, even to save one's own life. Besides, this would
account sufficiently well for my unbusinesslike attire.
"My great fear was lest the real person referred to in the letter should
arrive on the scene before I had quitted it. I therefore ordered an
immediate departure.
"`We've lost an hour already with your dilatoriness,' I growled; `don't
let us lose any more. As it is, it is a chance if we reach Culverton
before morning. Come, lead out my horse, and bring what food you have
with you, for I'm starving.'
"Before five minutes had passed we were safe out of the cottage and in
the high-road--I, mounted on my faithful and partly refreshed horse,
eating ravenously of the scraps of bread and meat my companions had
left, while they trudged along in the snow one on either side.
"In this manner we progressed for an hour or so in silence, until about
one o'clock there appeared on the side of a distant hill a twinkling
light. I knew it at once. It had guided me home often and often before
now, and it was doing so again. But in what strange company!
"`That's Culverton, on the hill there,' said I.
"The men, who were nearly dead beat with their tramp through the deep
snow, said nothing, but plodded on doggedly. It was nearly an hour more
before we reached the outskirts of the estate, and by this time so
exhausted were they that when I cried a halt they fairly sat down in the
snow.
"I was strongly tempted to leave them there; but a desire to bring them
to condign punishment prevented me. They were armed, and I was not.
Besides, the reference in the letter to my father's steward made me
anxious to sift the matter to the bottom.
"`Come, come,' said I, `at that rate you'll never see the strong box.
Get up, men!'
"They struggled to their feet. Had they been anything but the villains
they were I could have pitied them, they looked so miserable.
"`Hold my horse,' said I, dismounting, `while I go and reconnoitre. I
know every inch of the ground. Keep in the dark, whatever you do, under
the hedge there. So. Are you loaded?'
"`I am,' said Tom, sullenly taking out his pistol.
"`So am I,' said the other.
"`Give me one of the pistols,' I said, as coolly as I could. `You won't
want both here, and I may want one.'
"Tom handed me his.
"`Now keep a look-out here, and when you hear me whistle over the wall,
come sharp, mind!'
"So saying, I left them, and went on towards the house.
"Except in my father's room no lights were burning, and I began to hope
that what the letter had said about the steward might after all prove to
be false. I went quietly up to the back door and turned the handle. It
was open. The story was true, then, and in my rage and indignation I
could hardly contain myself to act my part any longer. However, I made
a desperate effort.
"Holding the door slightly open I whistled softly. There was no answer.
I whistled again louder. This time there was a sound of some one
moving, and the faint nicker of a candle, and presently I heard a voice
whisper--
"`Is it all right?'
"`All right,' I whispered back. `And you, steward?'
"`Yes. All ready. Come in.'
"I entered. My hat was over my eyes, and in the faint candle-light the
false servant did not know me. I followed him to his room.
"`You're late,' he said, reaching down some keys from a nail. `Where
are the rest?'
"`Outside,' I replied in a low whisper.
"But, low as it was, the voice was not disguised enough to escape the
quick ear of the steward. He turned sharply round and looked at me,
while I at the same moment, throwing off my cap, sprang towards him and
presented my pistol.
"He was too stunned and terrified to do anything but drop on his knees
and utter incoherent entreaties and ejaculations for pity.
"`How is my father?' I inquired, not heeding his entreaties, and
pointing the pistol still at his head.
"`Better,' he faltered--`much better. Oh, Master--'
"`Come with me,' I replied, turning to the door.
"He accompanied me like a lamb. Had my father been worse I had intended
to lock him up a prisoner in his own room. As it was, I took him
silently and stealthily through the village and delivered him up then
and there into the hands of the watch.
"This villain secured, it only remained to make sure of the other two.
And this, as it happened, was a very easy task. For both, exhausted by
their long, forced march and utterly benumbed by the cold, had fallen
into a drowsy stupor under the hedge where they had been left, crouching
beside my faithful steed for warmth. In this state it was simple work
to secure them and march them off to custody, where at any rate they
were not less comfortable for a time than they had been.
"A further visit next morning to the `tower by the river,' which was
well known to the watch as a rendezvous of thieves, served to secure the
rest of the conspirators: and the law of the land shortly afterwards put
it out of their power one and all to practise their wicked craft again.
"As for me, that night taught me a lesson or two that I've not forgotten
to this day, and which in my turn I've tried to teach to some of you
here. I went back to Ogilby a wiser man than I had left it, and, thank
God, a better one."
"And what did the poor horse do?" asked the youngest of the Culvertons.
"Why, he carried me back as merrily as if he'd never seen snow in all
his life."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
OUR NOVEL.
A SUMMER HOLIDAY ACHIEVEMENT.
Sub-Chapter I.
THE PLOT.
It was a bold undertaking, no doubt, at our tender age, to propose to
take the world by storm. But others had done it before us.
We had read our _Wonderful Boys_ and our _Boyhood of Great Men_
carefully and critically. We had seen that Mozart had composed music at
six, and written it down very untidily too; we had seen that Marlborough
had, by sheer cheek, been made an officer at about our age; that David
Wilkie, one of the dullest of boys, had painted pictures while at
school; that Scott, a notorious blockhead, had written poetry at
thirteen; and that James Watt, at the same age, with very little
education, had pondered over the spout of a tea-kettle.
All this we had seen, and been very greatly impressed, for surely, if
some of these very ordinary boys had succeeded in startling their
generation, it would be strange, if we two--Sydney Sproutels and Harry
Hullock, who had just carried off the English composition prize at
Denhamby--couldn't write something between us that would make the world
"sit up."
That English composition prize had really been a great feather in our
caps. It was the first thing of the kind we had done--not the first
English composition, but the first sustained literary effort--and it had
opened our eyes to the genius that burned within us.
The exercise had been to expand the following brief anecdote into an
interesting narrative which should occupy two pages of Denhamby paper
with twenty lines in a page:--
"Orpheus, son of Oeagrus and Calliope, having lost his wife, Eurydice,
followed her to Hades, where, by the charm of his music, he received
permission to conduct her back to earth, on condition that he should not
look behind him during the journey. This condition he broke before
Eurydice had quite reached earth, and she was in consequence snatched
back into Hades."
I need not say that two pages of Denhamby paper were all too short to
express all we had to say on this delightful subject. I, being by
nature a poet, could have used all my space in describing the beauties
of the spring morning on which Orpheus made his unusual expedition;
while Hullock, whose genius was of a more practical order, confided to
me afterwards that if he had had room he had intended to introduce a
stirring conversation between the widower and his wife's ghost, in which
the latter would make certain very stringent conditions before
consenting to return once more to household duties.
However, by dint of severe self-denial, we both managed to restrain our
muses to the forty lines prescribed, and sent in our compositions with
quite a feeling of envy for the examiner who would have to read them.
When the results were announced, the doctor publicly stated that "though
many of the compositions were meritorious, yet, on the whole, those of
Sproutels and Hullock showed most originality, and, indeed, gave
considerable promise. The prize would be shared between them."
Of course, after that, all question as to our calling in life was at an
end, and the sooner we "fleshed" our pens before the world the better.
So it was arranged that Hullock was to get his father and mother to
invite me for the midsummer holidays, and that before Denhamby saw us
again, "Our Novel" should be started.
The Hullock family, it is necessary to say here, consisted of my
partner, his two parents, a maiden aunt, and a sister. Mr Hullock, a
good and worthy little man, who had not had all the advantages of
education which his son possessed, was a retired coal merchant, spending
the afternoon of his days at Saint Leonards.
His wife, as kind and motherly as she was tall and portly, treated me
like her own son from the moment I entered her house.
And with her to look after me, and Alice to fall in love with, and Harry
to collaborate with, I was about as comfortable as a restless genius
could be--that is, I should have been so had it not been for the damp
and frigid influence of Aunt Sarah, who sympathised neither with genius
nor youth, and certainly not with the two in combination. Twenty times
a day she grieved me by calling me "silly little boy," and twenty times
a day she exasperated me by reminding Harry, and, through him, me, that
"little boys should be seen and not heard."
However, we decided to ignore this uncongenial influence, and bury our
sorrows in "Our Novel."
"Tell you what," said Harry, as we walked on the pier the first evening,
"we ought to look sharp and get our plot."
"Wouldn't it be better to settle on the characters and get the plot
afterwards?"
"All serene!" said Harry; "can you suggest any one for a hero?"
Harry said this in a half significant, half off-hand manner, which made
it evident to me he expected I should at once nominate him.
But, in my judgment, Harry hardly possessed all the qualifications
necessary for the hero of our novel. So I replied, half significantly,
half off-handedly too--
"Hadn't _you_ better think of some one?"
Here we were in a fix at the very start. For Harry insisted he would
much rather that I should select, and I was equally anxious for him to
do it.
At length we compromised the matter and decided we should make the hero
a mixture of two fellows--the fellow Harry liked best and the fellow I
liked best.
After this amicable arrangement it was comparatively clear sailing. We
had not to look far for the heroine, and it occurred to both of us that
it would be original as well as pleasant to make the villain a female
and middle-aged. As for minor characters, we were able to draw on our
acquaintance at Denhamby to supply them, and, failing that, Harry was
magnanimous enough to offer his father and mother as "not bad for some
of the side plots."
We had got our characters. That one walk on the pier settled them all.
We also stopped a bit to watch the people, we entered into conversation
with a sailor (who turned out to be deaf), and insinuated ourselves into
the front of a street row, all with a view to reproducing our
observations on life into "Our Novel."
The street row indeed furnished an inspiration for our plot. It was the
arrest of a make-believe Italian female organ-grinder, whose offence
appeared to be that she was carrying about in a cradle attached to the
organ an infant that did not belong to her. And as the infant brought
her in much more money than her music did, she protested in very strong
English against having it removed.
With the quickness of genius we saw in this incident the pivot on which
our novel should be made to turn.
The baby was the heroine, the organ-grinder the villain who had stolen
her from her high-born station in life. Two of the characters fitted at
a blow! We had even got the high-born parents ready if required, and
when sixteen years later the little truant was to discover her noble
station, we had our hero ready to take her home!
Between the pier-gate and Warrior Square we had the whole story worked
out.
"What has kept you little boys out so late?" asked a voice as we entered
Mr Hullock's hall. "It's not right. You should have been in bed by
eight."
It was Aunt Sarah! and we secretly condemned her on the spot to a public
execution in our last chapter.
As we undressed that evening another point was cleared up.
"We can't keep the hero hanging about sixteen years before we bring him
in," said Harry.
"Humph," I observed, "unless we said `sixteen years passed' at the end
of the first chapter, and then we might get him in in the second."
"It strikes me," said Harry dubiously, "he ought to be in it all
through. What do you say to making him another stolen baby belonging to
another organ? Just as likely to have two stolen as one."
It did occur to me that if it came to that, all the characters in the
story might begin life in this romantic way. However, there seemed no
objection to starting the hero in an organ-grinder's cradle, and we
closed with the suggestion at once and got into bed.
I woke very early. I had the hero on my mind. I wanted him to be a
good one after the best model, and I could not help thinking that the
Harry in him ought not to be overdone. Besides, if he was to make
himself pleasant to the heroine, the less he was like Harry and the more
he was like Harry's chief friend the better. For sisters in fiction
never make much of their brothers, but they often make a lot of their
brothers' friends.
I nudged Harry with my elbow, in order to represent the case to him from
this point of view. I did it delicately and in a most conciliatory
manner.
"I was thinking, old man, as Alice is the heroine and you're her
brother, I might--don't you know--perhaps you'd like if--well, what I
mean to say is, perhaps I'd better do the gush, when it comes to that."
Happily Harry was scarcely awake, and did not take in all my meaning.
"All serene," said he, "we'll have as little of that as we can."
"I mean I think you'd do the parts about the villain and that sort of
thing better--don't you?"
But as Harry was asleep again I had to take silence for consent.
The day that followed was an anxious one. It is easy enough to get your
characters, but it is awful having to fix their names. And it is simple
work getting a plot, compared with the agony of dividing it up into
forty chapters!
This was the task before us to-day, and we retired as before to the
pier-head with pencils and paper, in order to do it beyond the sound of
Aunt Sarah's voice.
We endured agonies over the names. The hero's name should naturally
have been a judicious combination of the names of the two fellows we had
in our minds' eyes. But neither "Sydrey Sproutock" nor "Hardney
Hulltels" exactly pleased us. Finally we decided to call him Henry
Sydney, and, strange to say, it occurred to me it would be best as a
rule to speak of him by his surname, while Harry was equally strong
about calling him by his Christian name. At last we agreed that when
we, the authors, spoke of him it should be as Sydney, and that when the
heroine or any one else mentioned his name it should be as Henry--Harry
explaining that "as they're to be kids together there won't be anything
strange in her calling him by his Christian name." The heroine, after
much searching of heart, we christened Alicia Dearlove, and the villain
Sarah Vixen.
The other names we made up from a local directory which we were lucky
enough to stumble across in the pavilion.
Then came the formidable work of slicing up our novel into forty pieces.
We wrote the figures down the side of a long sheet of paper, and looked
with something like dismay at the work we had set before us.
"Seems a lot of chapters," said Harry; "couldn't we make it thirty?"
"Wouldn't run to six shillings if we did," said I.
That settled it, and we set ourselves to fill up the blanks.
"Chapter the First," wrote I. "Theft of Alicia--Sorrow of her Parents--
The Organ-grinder's Lodgings--Suspicions of the Police--The Hero in the
Room underneath."
"Hold hard!" cried Harry; "that's too much for one chapter. We shall
have to make that do for four of 'em, or else we shall run out in ten."
"How on earth can you make four chapters of that?" said I.
"Well, you can make `Theft of Alicia' spin out into one."
"Oh, ah! Why, all there is to say is that Aunt Sarah--I mean Mother
Vixen--came across her in the square and collared her. However are you
to make a dozen pages of that?"
"Oh," said Harry, "we shall have to make her call at public-houses on
the way, and that sort of thing, and describe the scenery in the square,
and have the nursemaid go off to see the militia band go by, and leave
the baby on the seat. Bless you, it'll spread out!"
Harry seemed to know all about it.
So we went, on with our skeleton, trotting our little foundling round
town on the organ, where she witnessed with infant eyes street rows,
cricket matches, bicycle races, a murder or two, and such other little
incidents of life which we deemed calculated to enliven our story.
About the twelfth chapter she and our hero had already exchanged tender
passages.
In the twentieth chapter her real father and mother happen to see her in
the street (she being then sixteen), and are immediately struck by her
resemblance to their lost baby.
By chapter twenty-five our hero had saved the lives of his future mother
and father-in-law, and had rescued the heroine, single-handed, from a
Hatton Garden mob.
In the twenty-ninth chapter Aunt Sarah had committed her murder with
every circumstance of brutality and unpleasantness, the victim being one
of our schoolfellows whom we neither of us loved.
Then for a chapter or two there was some very active police play,
interspersed with a few love scenes between the hero and heroine, who--
though it never occurred to us at the time--must have enjoyed
independent means, which made it quite unnecessary for them to follow
the ordinary avocations of organ-grinders.
About the thirty-fifth chapter there was to be a sudden drawing-in of
threads from all quarters.
Sub-Chapter thirty-sixth was to be devoted to Sarah in the condemned
cell.
Thirty-seventh--Alicia discovers her name by seeing it marked on a
pocket-handkerchief she had been using at the time she was stolen.
Sub-Chapter thirty-eighth--The hero discovers his name by being told it
by a solicitor who has known all about it all the time.
Sub-Chapter thirty-ninth--All comes right; everybody goes back to their
mothers and fathers, and a quiet wedding ensues.
Sub-Chapter forty--Execution of Sarah. Finis.
We were tired and hungry by the time our paper was full, but we were
jubilant all the same.
"Stunning fine plot!" said Harry. "If we only work it out it ought to
be as good as _Nicholas Nickleby_."
"Rather! By the way, we ought to have one or two funny chaps in it to
work off some of our jokes. There's that one about the sculptor dying a
horrid death, you know--because he makes faces and busts! I'd like to
get that in somehow."
"All serene! That might come in in the last chapters. I've got the
_Family Jest-Book_ at home; we might pick a few things out of that, and
then settle where they come in, and work in for them as we go on."
We accordingly made a judicious selection, and having marked the
initials of the character who was to bring them in against each, and
also the number of the chapter in which they were to "come on," we
really felt as if everything was now ready for our venture.
We went to bed early, so as to get a good night and arise fresh to our
work, not, however, before we had made an expedition to the stationer's
and expended half a crown in manuscript paper, J and D pens, blotting-
paper, blue-black ink, and forty small paper-fasteners.
These provided, and the servant being particularly charged to call us at
five o'clock, we retired to rest, and slept with our "skeleton" under
the pillow.
Sub-Chapter II.
THE PLOT THICKENS.
A grave question arose the moment we opened our eyes next morning. Who
was to write the first chapter? A great deal depended on how it was
done. The style of the first chapter would give tone to the whole
novel, and, so to speak, show the way for all the other chapters.