CHAPTER IV

"Ay, scream, ye fools," roared Bradbury, "that couldn't see a church by

daylight." Then, shaking his fist at Cowen, "Thou villain! 'Tisn't

one man you have murdered, 'tis two. But please God I'll save one of

them yet, and hang you in his place. Way, there! not a moment to lose."

In another minute they were all in the yard, and a hackney-coach sent

for.

Captain Cowen said to Bradbury, "This thing on my face is choking me."

"Oh, better than you have been choked--at Tyburn and all."

"Hang me. Don't pillory me. I've served my country."

Bradbury removed the wax mask. He said afterward he had no power to

refuse the villain, he was so grand and gentle.

"Thank you, sir. Now, what can I do for you? Save Daniel Cox?"

"Ay, do that, and I'll forgive you."

"Give me a sheet of paper."

Bradbury, impressed by the man's tone of sincerity, took him into the

bar, and getting all his men round him, placed paper and ink before him.

He addressed to General Barrington, in attendance on His Majesty,

these:--

General,--See His Majesty betimes, tell him from me that Daniel Cox,

condemned to die at noon, is innocent, and get him a reprieve. O

Barrington, come to your lost comrade. The bearer will tell you where

I am. I cannot.

EDWARD COWEN.

"Send a man you can trust to Windsor with that, and take me to my most

welcome death."

A trusty officer was despatched to Windsor, and in about an hour Cowen

was lodged in Newgate.

All that night Bradbury labored to save the man that was condemned to

die. He knocked up the sheriff of Middlesex, and told him all.

"Don't come to me," said the sheriff; "go to the minister."

He rode to the minister's house. The minister was up. His wife gave a

ball--windows blaring, shadows dancing--musics--lights. Night turned

into day. Bradbury knocked. The door flew open, and revealed a line

of bedezined footmen, dotted at intervals Up the stairs.

"I must see my lord. Life or death. I'm an officer from Bow Street."

"You can't see my lord. Ha is entertaining the Prootian Ambassador and

his sweet."

"I must see him, or an innocent man will die to-morrow. Tell him so.

Here's a guinea."

"Is there? Step aside here."

He waited in torments till the message went through the gamut of

lackeys, and got, more or less mutilated, to the minister.

He detached a buffet, who proposed to Mr. Bradbury to call at the

Do-little office in Westminster next morning.

"No," said Bradbury, "I don't leave the house till I see him. Innocent

blood shall not be spilled for want of a word in time."

The buffer retired, and in came a duffer who said the occasion was not

convenient.

"Ay, but it is," said Bradbury, "and if my lord is not here in five

minutes, I'll go up-stairs and tell my tale before them all, and see if

they are all hair-dressers' dummies, without heart or conscience or

sense."

In five minutes in came a gentleman, with an order on his breast, and

said, "You are a Bow Street officer?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Name?"

"Bradbury."

"You say the man condemned to die to-morrow is innocent?"

"Yes, my lord."

"How do you know?"

"Just taken the real culprit."

"When is the other to suffer?"

"Twelve to-morrow."

"Seems short time. Humph! Will you be good enough to take a line to

the sheriff? Formal message to-morrow." The actual message ran:--

"Delay execution of Cox till we hear from Windsor. Bearer will give

reasons."

With this Bradbury hurried away, not to the sheriff, but to the prison,

and infected the jailor and the chaplain and all the turnkeys, with

pity for the condemned, and the spirit of delay.

Bradbury breakfasted, and washed his face, and off to the sheriff.

Sheriff was gone out. Bradbury hunted him from pillar to post, and

could find him nowhere. He was at last obliged to go and wait for him

at Newgate.

He arrived at the stroke of twelve to superintend the execution.

Bradbury put the minister's note into his hand.

"This no use," said he. "I want an order from His Majesty, or the

Privy Council at least."

"Not to delay," suggested the chaplain. "You have an the day for it."

"All the day! I can't be all the day hanging a single man. My time is

precious, gentlemen." Then, his bark being worse than his bite, he

said, "I shall come again at four o'clock, and then, if there is no

news from Windsor, the law must take its course."

He never came again, though, for, even as he turned his back to retire,

there was a faint cry from the farthest part of the crowd, a paper

raised on a hussar's lance, and as the mob fell back on every aide, a

royal aide-de-camp rode up, followed closely by the mounted runner, and

delivered to the sheriff a reprieve under the sign-manual of His

Majesty George the First.

At 2 P.M. of the same day Gen. Sir Robert Barrington reached Newgate,

and saw Captain Cowen in private. That unhappy man fell on his knees

and made a confession.

Barrington was horrified, and turned as cold as ice to him. He stood

erect as a statue. "A soldier to rob!" said he. "Murder was bad

enough--but to rob!"

Cowen, with his head and hands all hanging down, could only say,

faintly, "I have been robbed and ruined, and it was for my boy. Ah,

me! what will become of him? I have lost my soul for him, and now he

will be ruined and disgraced--by me, who would have died for him." The

strong man shook with agony, and his head and hands almost touched the

ground.

Sir Robert Barrington looked at him and pondered.

"No," said he, relenting a little, "that is the one thing I can do for

you. I had made up my mind to take your son to Canada as my secretary,

and I will take him. But he must change his name. I sail next

Thursday."

The broken man stared wildly; then started up and blessed him; and from

that moment the wild hope entered his breast that he might keep his son

unstained by his crime, and even ignorant of it.

Barrington said that was impossible; but yielded to the father's

prayers, and consented to act as if it was possible. He would send a

messenger to Oxford, with money and instructions to bring the young man

up and put him on board the ship at Gravesend.

This difficult scheme once conceived, there was not a moment to be

lost. Barrington sent down a mounted messenger to Oxford, with money

and instructions.

Cowen sent for Bradbury, and asked him when he was to appear at Bow

Street.

"To-morrow, I suppose."

"Do me a favor. Get all your witnesses; make the case complete, and

show me only once to the public before I am tried."

"Well, Captain," said Bradbury, "you were square with me about poor

Cox. I don't see as it matters much to you; but I'll not say you nay."

He saw the solicitor for the Crown, and asked a few days to collect all

his evidence. The functionary named Friday.

This was conveyed next day to Cowen, and put him in a fever; it gave

him a chance of keeping his son ignorant, but no certainty. Ships were

eternally detained at Gravesend waiting for a wind; there were no

steam-tugs then to draw them into blue water. Even going down the

Channel, letters boarded them if the wind slacked. He walked his room

to and fro, like a caged tiger, day and night.

Wednesday evening Barrington came with the news that his son was at the

"Star" in Cornhill. "I have got him to bed," said he, "and, Lord

forgive me, I have let him think he will see you before we go down to

Gravesend to-morrow."

"Then let me see him," said the miserable father. "He shall know

nought from me."

They applied to the jailer, and urged that he could be a prisoner all

the time, surrounded by constables in disguise. No; the jailer would

not risk his place and an indictment. Bradbury was sent for, and made

light of the responsibility. "I brought him here," said he, "and I

will take him to the 'Star,' I and my fellows. Indeed, he will give us

no trouble this time. Why, that would blow the gaff, and make the

young gentleman fly to the whole thing."

"It can only be done by authority," was the jailer's reply.

"Then by authority it shall be done," said Sir Robert "Mr. Bradbury,

have three men here with a coach at one o'clock, and a regiment, if you

like, to watch the 'Star.'"

Punctually at one came Barrington with an authority. It was a request

from the Queen. The jailer took it respectfully. It was an authority

not worth a button; but he knew he could not lose his place, with this

writing to brandish at need.

The father and son dined with the General at the "Star." Bradbury and

one of his fellows waited as private servants; other officers, in plain

clothes, watched back and front.

At three o'clock father and son parted, the son with many tears, the

father with dry eyes, but a voice that trembled as he blessed him.

Young Cowen, now Morris, went down to Gravesend with his chief; the

criminal back to Newgate, respectfully bowed from the door of the

"Star" by landlord and waiters.

At first he was comparatively calm, but as the night advanced became

restless, and by and by began to pace his cell again like a caged lion.

At twenty minutes past eleven a turnkey brought him a line; a horseman

had galloped in with it from Gravesend.

"A fair wind--we weigh anchor at the full tide. It is a merchant

vessel, and the Captain under my orders to keep off shore and take no

messages. Farewell. Turn to the God you have forgotten. He alone can

pardon you."

On receiving this note, Cowen betook him to his knees.

In this attitude the jailer found him when he went his round.

He waited till the Captain rose, and then let him know that an able

lawyer was in waiting, instructed to defend him at Bow Street next

morning. The truth is, the females of the "Swan" had clubbed money for

this purposes.

Cowen declined to see him. "I thank you, sir," said he, "I will defend

myself."

He said, however, he had a little favor to ask.

"I have been," said he, "of late much agitated and fatigued, and a sore

trial awaits me in the morning. A few hours of unbroken sleep would be

a boon to me."

"The turnkeys must come in to see you are all right."

"It is their duty; but I will lie in sight of the door if they will be

good enough not to wake me."

"There can be no objection to that; Captain, and I am glad to see you

calmer."

"Thank you; never calmer in my life."

He got his pillow, set two chairs, and composed himself to sleep. He

put the candle on the table, that the turnkeys might peep through the

door and see him.

Once or twice they peeped in very softly, and saw him sleeping in the

full light of the candle, to moderate which, apparently, he had thrown

a white handkerchief over his face.

At nine in the morning they brought him his breakfast, as he must be at

Bow Street between ten and eleven.

When they came so near him, it struck them he lay too still.

They took off the handkerchief.

He had been dead some hours.

Yes, there, calm, grave, and noble, incapable, as it seemed, either of

the passions that had destroyed him or the tender affection which

redeemed yet inspired his crimes, lay the corpse of Edward Cowen.

Thus miserably perished a man in whom were many elements of greatness.

He left what little money he had to Bradbury, in a note imploring him

to keep particulars out of the journals, for his son's sake; and such

was the influence on Bradbury of the scene at the "Star," the man's

dead face, and his dying words, that, though public detail was his

interest, nothing transpired but that the gentleman who had been

arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder at the "Swan"

Inn had committed suicide: to which was added by another hand: "Cox,

however, has the King's pardon, and the affair still remains shrouded

with mystery."

Cox was permitted to see the body of Cowen, and, whether the features

had gone back to youth, or his own brain, long sobered in earnest, had

enlightened his memory, recognized him as a man he had seen committed

for horse-stealing at Ipswich, when he himself was the mayor's groom;

but some girl lent the accused a file, and he cut his way out of the

cage.

Cox's calamity was his greatest blessing. He went into Newgate

scarcely knowing there was a God; he came out thoroughly enlightened in

that respect by the teaching of the chaplain and the death of Cowen.

He went in a drunkard; the noose that dangled over his head so long

terrified him into life-long sobriety--for he laid all the blame on

liquor--and he came out as bitter a foe to drink as drink had been to

him.

His case excited sympathy; a considerable sum was subscribed to set him

up in trade. He became a horse-dealer on a small scale: but he was

really a most excellent judge of horses, and, being sober, enlarged his

business; horsed a coach or two; attended fairs, and eventually made a

fortune by dealing in cavalry horses under government contracts.

As his money increased, his nose diminished, and when he died, old and

regretted, only a pink tinge revealed the habits of his earlier life.

Mrs. Martha Cust and Barbara Lamb were no longer sure, but they doubted

to their dying day the innocence of the ugly fellow, and the guilt of

the handsome, civil-spoken gentleman.

But they converted nobody to their opinion; for they gave their reasons.

THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD

By RUDYARD KIPLING

I

All day I had followed at the heels of a pursuing army, engaged on one

of the finest battles that ever camp of exercise beheld. Thirty

thousand troops had by the wisdom of the government of India been

turned loose over a few thousand square miles of country to practice in

peace what they would never attempt in war. The Army of the South had

finally pierced the center of the Army of the North, and was pouring

through the gap, hot-foot, to capture a city of strategic importance.

Its front extended fanwise, the sticks being represented by regiments

strung out along the line of route backward to the divisional transport

columns, and all the lumber that trails behind an army on the move. On

its right the broken left of the Army of the North was flying in mass,

chased by the Southern horse and hammered by the Southern guns, till

these had been pushed far beyond the limits of their last support.

Then the flying Army of the North sat down to rest, while the

commandant of the pursuing force telegraphed that he held it in check

and observation.

Unluckily he did not observe that three miles to his right flank a

flying column of Northern horse, with a detachment of Goorkhas and

British troops, had been pushed round, as fast as the falling light

allowed, to cut across the entire rear of the Southern Army, to break,

as it were, all the ribs of the fan where they converged, by striking

at the transport reserve, ammunition, and artillery supplies. Their

instructions were to go in, avoiding the few scouts who might not have

been drawn off by the pursuit, and create sufficient excitement to

impress the Southern Army with the wisdom of guarding their own flank

and rear before they captured cities. It was a pretty maneuver, neatly

carried out.

Speaking for the second division of the Southern Army, our first

intimation of it was at twilight, when the artillery were laboring in

deep sand, most of the escort were trying to help them out, and the

main body of the infantry had gone on. A Noah's ark of elephants,

camels, and the mixed menagerie of an Indian transport train bubbled

and squealed behind the guns, when there rose up from nowhere in

particular British infantry to the extent of three companies, who

sprung to the heads of the gun-horses, and brought all to a standstill

amid oaths and cheers.

"How's that, umpire?" said the major commanding the attack, and with

one voice the drivers and limber gunners answered, "Hout!" while the

colonel of artillery sputtered.

"All your scouts are charging our main body," said the major. "Your

flanks are unprotected for two miles. I think we've broken the back of

this division. And listen! there go the Goorkhas!"

A weak fire broke from the rear-guard more than a mile away, and was

answered by cheerful howlings. The Goorkhas, who should have swung

clear of the second division, had stepped on its tail in the dark, but,

drawing off, hastened to reach the next line, which lay almost parallel

to us, five or six miles away.

Our column swayed and surged irresolutely--three batteries, the

divisional ammunition reserve, the baggage, and a section of hospital

and bearer corps. The commandant ruefully promised to report himself

"cut up" to the nearest umpire, and commending his cavalry and all

other cavalry to the care of Eblis, toiled on to resume touch with the

rest of the division.

"We'll bivouac here to-night," said the major. "I have a notion that

the Ghoorkhas will get caught. They may want us to reform on. Stand

easy till the transport gets away."

A hand caught my beast's bridle and led him out of the choking dust; a

larger hand deftly canted me out of the saddle, and two of the hugest

hands in the world received me sliding. Pleasant is the lot of the

special correspondent who falls into such hands as those of Privates

Mulvaney, Ortheris, and Learoyd.

"An' that's all right," said the Irishman, calmly. "We thought we'd

find you somewheres here by. Is there anything of yours in the

transport? Orth'ris'll fetch ut out."

Ortheris did "fetch ut out" from under the trunk of an elephant in the

shape of a servant and an animal, both laden with medical comforts.

The little man's eyes sparkled.

"If the brutil an' licentious soldiery av these parts gets sight av the

thruck," said Mulvaney, making practiced investigation, "they'll loot

ev'rything. They're bein' fed on iron-filin's an' dog biscuit these

days, but glory's no compensation for a bellyache. Praise be, we're

here to protect you, sorr. Beer, sausage, bread (soft, an' that's a

cur'osity), soup in a tin, whisky by the smell av ut, an' fowls.

Mother av Moses, but ye take the field like a confectioner! 'Tis

scand'lus."

"'Ere's a orficer," said Ortheris, significantly. "When the sergent's

done lushin', the privit may clean the pot."

I bundled several things into Mulvaney's haversack before the major's

hand fell on my shoulder, and he said, tenderly: "Requisitioned for the

queen's service. Wolseley was quite wrong about special

correspondents. They are the best friends of the soldier. Come an'

take pot-luck with us to-night."

And so it happened amid laughter and shoutings that my well-considered

commissariat melted away to reappear on the mess-table, which was a

water-proof sheet spread on the ground. The flying column had taken

three days' rations with it, and there be few things nastier than

government rations--especially when government is experimenting with

German toys. Erbswurst, tinned beef, of surpassing tinniness,

compressed vegetables, and meat biscuits may be nourishing, but what

Thomas Atkins wants is bulk in his inside. The major, assisted by his

brother officers, purchased goats for the camp, and so made the

experiment of no effect. Long before the fatigue-party sent to collect

brushwood had returned, the men were settled down by their valises,

kettles and pots had appeared from the surrounding country, and were

dangling over fires as the kid and the compressed vegetables bubbled

together; there rose a cheerful clinking of mess tins, outrageous

demands for a "little more stuffin' with that there liver wing," and

gust on gust of chaff as pointed as a bayonet and as delicate as a

gun-butt.

"The boys are in a good temper," said the major. "They'll be singing

presently. Well, a night like this is enough to keep them happy."

Over our heads burned the wonderful Indian stars, which are not all

pricked in on one plane, but preserving an orderly perspective, draw

the eye through the velvet darkness of the void up to the barred doors

of heaven itself. The earth was a gray shadow more unreal than the

sky. We could hear her breathing lightly in the pauses between the

howling of the jackals, the movement of the wind in the tamarisks, and

the fitful mutter of musketry fire leagues away to the left. A native

woman in some unseen hut began to sing, the mail train thundered past

on its way to Delhi, and a roosting crow cawed drowsily. Then there

was a belt-loosening silence about the fires, and the even breathing of

the crowded earth took up the story.

The men, full fed, turned to tobacco and song--their officers with

them. Happy is the subaltern who can win the approval of the musical

critics in his regiment, and is honored among the more intricate step

dancers. By him, as by him who plays cricket craftily, will Thomas

Atkins stand in time of need when he will let a better officer go on

alone. The ruined tombs of forgotten Mussulman saints heard the ballad

of "Agra Town," "The Buffalo Battery," "Marching to Cabul," "The long,

long Indian Day," "The Place Where the Punkah Coolie Died," and that

crashing chorus which announces

"Youth's daring spirit, manhood's fire,

Firm hand, and eagle eye

Must be acquire who would aspire

To see the gray boar die."

To-day, of all those jovial thieves who appropriated my commissariat,

and lay and laughed round that water-proof sheet, not one remains.

They went to camps that were not of exercise, and battles without

umpires. Burma, the Soudan, and the frontier fever and fight took them

in their time.

I drifted across to the men's fires in search of Mulvaney, whom I found

greasing his feet by the blaze. There is nothing particularly lovely

in the sight of a private thus engaged after a long day's march, but

when you reflect on the exact proportion of the "might, majesty,

dominion, and power" of the British Empire that stands on those feet,

you take an interest in the proceedings.

"There's a blister--bad luck to ut!--on the heel," said Mulvaney. "I

can't touch it. Prick ut out, little man."

Ortheris produced his housewife, eased the trouble with a needle,

stabbed Mulvaney in the calf with the same weapon, and was

incontinently kicked into the fire.

"I've bruk the best av my toes over you, ye grinnin' child av

disruption!" said Mulvaney, sitting cross-legged and nursing his feet;

then, seeing me: "Oh, ut's you, sorr! Be welkim, an' take that

maraudin' scut's place. Jock, hould him down on the cindhers for a

bit."

But Ortheris escaped and went elsewhere as I took possession of the

hollow he had scraped for himself and lined with his greatcoat.

Learoyd, on the other side of the fire, grinned affably, and in a

minute fell fast asleep.

"There's the height av politeness for you," said Mulvaney, lighting his

pipe with a flaming branch. "But Jock's eaten half a box av your

sardines at wan gulp, an' I think the tin too. What's the best wid

you, sorr; an' how did you happen to be on the losin' side this day

when we captured you?"

"The Army of the South is winning all along the line," I said.

"Thin that line's the hangman's rope, savin' your presence. You'll

learn to-morrow how we retreated to dhraw thim on before we made thim

trouble, an' that's what a woman does. By the same token, we'll be

attacked before the dawnin', an' ut would be betther not to slip your

boots. How do I know that? By the light av pure reason. Here are

three companies av us ever so far inside av the enemy's flank, an' a

crowd av roarin', t'arin', an' squealin' cavalry gone on just to turn

out the whole nest av thim. Av course the enemy will pursue by

brigades like as not, an' then we'll have to run for ut. Mark my

words. I am av the opinion av Polonius, whin he said: 'Don't fight wid

ivry scut for the pure joy av fightin'; but if you do, knock the nose

av him first an' frequint!' We ought to ha' gone on an' helped the

Goorkhas."

"But what do you know about Polonius?" I demanded. This was a new side

of Mulvaney's character.

"All that Shakespeare ever wrote, an' a dale more that the gallery

shouted," said the man of war, carefully lacing his boots. "Did I not

tell you av Silver's Theater in Dublin whin I was younger than I am

now, an' a patron av the drama? Ould Silver wud never pay actor, man

or woman, their just dues, an' by consequence his comp'nies was

collapsible at the last minut. Then the bhoys would clamor to take a

part, an' oft as not ould Silver made them pay for the fun. Faith,

I've seen Hamlut played wid a new black eye, an' the queen as full as a

cornucopia. I remember wanst Hogin, that 'listed in the Black Tyrone

an' was shot in South Africa, he sejuced ould Silver into givin' him

Hamlut's part instid av me, that had a fine fancy for rhetoric in those

days. Av course I wint into the gallery an' began to fill the pit wid

other people's hats, an' I passed the time av day to Hogin walkin'

through Denmark like a hamstrung mule wid a pall on his back.

'Hamlut,' sez I, 'there's a hole in your heel. Pull up your

shtockin's, Hamlut,' sez I. 'Hamlut, Hamlut, for the love av decincy,

dhrop that skull, an' pull up your shtockin's.' The whole house began

to tell him that. He stopped his soliloquishms mid between. 'My

shtockin's may be comin' down, or they may not,' sez he, screwin' his

eye into the gallery, for well he knew who I was; 'but afther the

performince is over, me an' the Ghost'll trample the guts out av you,

Terence, wid your ass's bray.' An' that's how I come to know about

Hamlut. Eyah! Those days, those days! Did you iver have onendin'

devilmint, an' nothin' to pay for it in your life, sorr?"

"Never without having to pay," I said.

"That's thrue. 'Tis mane, whin you considher on ut; but ut's the same

wid horse or fut. A headache if you dhrink, an' a bellyache if you eat

too much, an' a heartache to kape all down. Faith, the beast only gets

the colic, an' he's the lucky man."

He dropped his head and stared into the fire, fingering his mustache

the while. From the far side of the bivouac the voice of Corbet-Nolan,

senior subaltern of B Company, uplifted itself in an ancient and

much-appreciated song of sentiment, the men moaning melodiously behind

him:

"The north wind blew coldly, she dropped from that hour,

My own little Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,

Kathleen, my Kathleen, Kathleen O'Moore!"

with forty-five o's in the last word. Even at that distance you might

have cut the soft South Irish accent with a shovel.

"For all we take we must pay; but the price is cruel high," murmured

Mulvaney when the chorus had ceased.

"What's the trouble?" I said gently, for I knew that he was a man of an

inextinguishable sorrow.

"Hear now," said he. "Ye know what I am now. I know what I mint to be

at the beginnin' av my service. I've tould you time an' again, an'

what I have not, Dinah Shadd has. An' what am I? Oh, Mary Mother av

Hiven! an ould dhrunken, untrustable baste av a privit that has seen

the regiment change out from colonel to drummer-boy, not wanst or

twict, but scores av times. Ay, scores! An' me not so near gettin'

promotion as in the furst. An' me livin' on an' kapin' clear o' clink

not by my own good conduck, but the kindness av some orf'cer-bhoy young

enough to be son to me! Do I not know ut? Can I not tell whin I'm

passed over at p'rade, tho' I'm rockin' full av liquor an' ready to

fall all in wan piece, such as even a suckin' child might see, bekase,

'Oh, 'tis only ould Mulvaney!' An' whin I'm let off in the

ord'ly-room, through some thrick av the tongue an' a ready answer an'

the ould man's mercy, is ut smilin' I feel whin I fall away an' go back

to Dinah Shadd, thryin' to carry ut all off as a joke? Not I. 'Tis

hell to me--dumb hell through ut all; an' next time whin the fit comes

I will be as bad again. Good cause the reg'ment has to know me for the

best soldier in ut. Better cause have I to know mesilf for the worst

man. I'm only fit to tache the new drafts what I'll never learn

myself; an' I am sure as tho' I heard ut, that the minut wan av these

pink-eyed recruities gets away from my 'Mind ye now,' an' 'Listen to

this, Jim, bhoy,' sure I am that the sergint houlds me up to him for a

warnin'. So I tache, as they say at musketry instruction, by direct

an' ricochet fire. Lord be good to me! for I have stud some trouble."

"Lie down and go to sleep," said I, not being able to comfort or

advise. "You're the best man in the regiment, and, next to Ortheris,

the biggest fool. Lie down, and wait till we're attacked. What force

will they turn out? Guns, think you?"

"Thry that wid your lorrds an' ladies, twistin' an' turnin' the talk,

tho' you mint ut well. Ye cud say nothin' to help me, an' yet ye never

knew what cause I had to be what I am."

"Begin at the beginning and go on to the end," I said, royally. "But

rake up the fire a bit first." I passed Ortheris' bayonet for a poker.

"That shows how little you know what to do," said Mulvaney, putting it

aside. "Fire takes all the heart out av the steel, an' the next time,

maybe, that our little man is fightin' for his life his bradawl'll

break, an' so you'll 'ave killed him, m'anin' no more than to kape

yourself warm. 'Tis a recruity's thrick that. Pass the cl'anin'-rod,

sorr."

I snuggled down, abashed, and after an interval the low, even voice of

Mulvaney began.

II

"Did I ever tell you how Dinah Shadd came to be wife av mine?"

I dissembled a burning anxiety that I had felt for some months--ever

since Dinah Shadd, the strong, the patient, and the infinitely tender,

had, of her own good love and free will, washed a shirt for me, moving

in a barren land where washing was not.

"I can't remember," I said, casually. "Was it before or after you made

love to Annie Bragin, and got no satisfaction?"

The story of Annie Bragin is written in another place. It is one of

the many episodes in Mulvaney's checkered career.

"Before--before--long before was that business av Annie Bragin an' the

corp'ril's ghost. Never woman was the worse for me whin I had married

Dinah. There's a time for all things, an' I know how to kape all

things in place--barrin' the dhrink, that kapes me in my place, wid no

hope av comin' to be aught else."

"Begin at the beginning," I insisted. "Mrs. Mulvaney told me that you

married her when you were quartered in Krab Bokhar barracks."

"An' the same is a cess-pit," said Mulvaney, piously. "She spoke

thrue, did Dinah. 'Twas this way. Talkin' av that, have ye iver

fallen in love, sorr?"

I preserved the silence of the damned. Mulvaney continued:

"Thin I will assume that ye have not. I did. In the days av my youth,

as I have more than wanst told you, I was a man that filled the eye an'

delighted the sowl av women. Niver man was hated as I have been.

Niver man was loved as I--no, not within half a day's march av ut. For

the first five years av my service, whin I was what I wud give my sowl

to be now, I tuk whatever was widin my reach, an' digested ut, an'

that's more than most men can say. Dhrink I tuk, an' ut did me no

harm. By the hollow av hiven, I could play wid four women at wanst,

an' kape thim from findin' out anything about the other three, and

smile like a full-blown marigold through ut all. Dick Coulhan, of the

battery we'll have down on us to-night, could dhrive his team no better

than I mine; an' I hild the worser cattle. An' so I lived an' so I was

happy, till afther that business wid Annie Bragin--she that turned me

off as cool as a meat-safe, an' taught me where I stud in the mind av

an honest woman. 'Twas no sweet dose to take.

"Afther that I sickened a while an' tuk thought to my reg'mental work,

conceiting mesilf I wud study an' be a sargint, an' a major-gineral

twinty minutes afther that. But on top o' my ambitiousness there was

an empty place in my sowl, an' me own opinion av mesilf cud not fill

ut.' Sez I to mesilf: 'Terence, you're a great man an' the best set up

in the reg'ment. Go on an' get promotion.' Sez mesilf to me, 'What

for?' Sez I to mesilf, 'For the glory av ut.' Sez mesilf to me, 'Will

that fill these two strong arrums av yours, Terence?' 'Go to the

devil,' sez I to mesilf. 'Go to the married lines,' sez mesilf to me.

''Tis the same thing,' sez I to mesilf. 'Av you're the same man, ut

is,' said mesilf to me. An' wid that I considhered on ut a long while.

Did you iver feel that way, sorr?"

I snored gently, knowing that if Mulvaney were uninterrupted he would

go on. The clamor from the bivouac fires beat up to the stars as the

rival singers of the companies were pitted against each other.

"So I felt that way, an' a bad time ut was. Wanst, bein' a fool, I

went into the married lines, more for the sake av speakin' to our ould

color-sergint Shadd than for any thruck wid wimmen-folk. I was a

corp'ril then--rejuced aftherwards; but a corp'ril then. I've got a

photograft av mesilf to prove ut. 'You'll take a cup av tay wid us?'

sez he. 'I will that,' I sez; 'tho' tay is not my diversion.' ''Twud

be better for you if ut were,' sez ould Mother Shadd. An' she had

ought to know, for Shadd, in the ind av his service, dhrank bung-full

each night.

"Wid that I tuk off my gloves--there was pipe-clay in thim so that they

stud alone--an' pulled up my chair, lookin' round at the china

ornamints an' bits av things in the Shadds' quarters. They were things

that belonged to a woman, an' no camp kit, here to-day an' dishipated

next. 'You're comfortable in this place, sergint,' sez I. ''Tis the

wife that did ut, boy,' sez he, pointin' the stem av his pipe to ould

Mother Shadd, an' she smacked the top av his bald head upon the

compliment. 'That manes you want money,' sez she.

"An' thin--an' thin whin the kittle was to be filled, Dinah came in--my

Dinah--her sleeves rowled up to the elbow, an' her hair in a gowlden

glory over her forehead, the big blue eyes beneath twinklin' like stars

on a frosty night, an' the tread of her two feet lighter than waste

paper from the colonel's basket in ord'ly-room when ut's emptied.

Bein' but a shlip av a girl, she went pink at seein' me, an' I twisted

me mustache an' looked at a picture forninst the wall. Never show a

woman that ye care the snap av a finger for her, an', begad, she'll

come bleatin' to your boot heels."

"I suppose that's why you followed Annie Bragin till everybody in the

married quarters laughed at you," said I, remembering that unhallowed

wooing, and casting off the disguise of drowsiness.

"I'm layin' down the gineral theory av the attack," said Mulvaney,

driving his foot into the dying fire. "If you read the 'Soldier's

Pocket-Book,' which never any soldier reads, you'll see that there are

exceptions. When Dinah was out av the door (an' 'twas as tho' the

sunlight had gone too), 'Mother av Hiven, sergint!' sez I, 'but is that

your daughter?' 'I've believed that way these eighteen years,' sez

ould Shadd, his eyes twinklin'. 'But Mrs. Shadd has her own opinion,

like ivry other woman.' ''Tis wid yours this time, for a mericle,' sez

Mother Shadd. 'Then why, in the name av fortune, did I never see her

before?' sez I. 'Bekaze you've been thraipsin' round wid the married

women these three years past. She was a bit av a child till last year,

an' she shot up wid the spring,' sez ould Mother Shadd. 'I'll thraipse

no more,' sez I. 'D'you mane that?' sez ould Mother Shadd, lookin' at

me sideways, like a hen looks at a hawk whin the chickens are runnin'

free. 'Try me, an' tell,' sez I. Wid that I pulled on my gloves,

dhrank off the tea, an' wint out av the house as stiff as at gineral

p'rade, for well I knew that Dinah Shadd's eyes were in the small av my

back out av the scullery window. Faith, that was the only time I

mourned I was not a cav'lryman, for the sake av the spurs to jingle.

"I wint out to think, an' I did a powerful lot av thinkin', but ut all

came round to that shlip av a girl in the dotted blue dhress, wid the

blue eyes an' the sparkil in them. Thin I kept off canteen, an' I kept

to the married quarthers or near by on the chanst av meetin' Dinah.

Did I meet her? Oh, my time past, did I not, wid a lump in my throat

as big as my valise, an' my heart goin' like a farrier's forge on a

Saturday mornin'! 'Twas 'Good-day to ye, Miss Dinah,' an' 'Good-day

t'you, corp'ril,' for a week or two, an' divil a bit further could I

get, bekase av the respict I had to that girl that I cud ha' broken

betune finger an' thumb."

Here I giggled as I recalled the gigantic figure of Dinah Shadd when

she handed me my shirt.

"Ye may laugh," grunted Mulvaney. "But I'm speakin' the trut', an'

'tis you that are in fault. Dinah was a girl that wud ha' taken the

imperiousness out av the Duchess av Clonmel in those days. Flower

hand, foot av shod air, an' the eyes av the mornin' she had. That is

my wife to-day--ould Dinah, an' never aught else than Dinah Shadd to me.

"'Twas after three weeks standin' off an' on, an' niver makin' headway

excipt through the eyes, that a little drummer-boy grinned in me face

whin I had admonished him wid the buckle av my belt for riotin' all

over the place. 'An' I'm not the only wan that doesn't kape to

barricks,' sez he. I tuk him by the scruff av his neck--my heart was

hung on a hair trigger those days, you will understand--an' 'Out wid

ut,' sez I, 'or I'll lave no bone av you unbruk.' 'Speak to Dempsey,'

sez he, howlin'. 'Dempsey which,' sez I, 'ye unwashed limb av Satan?'

'Of the Bobtailed Dhragoons,' sez he. 'He's seen her home from her

aunt's house in the civil lines four times this fortnight.' 'Child,

sez I, dhroppin' him, 'your tongue's stronger than your body. Go to

your quarters. I'm sorry I dhressed you down.'

"At that I wint four ways to wanst huntin' Dempsey. I was mad to think

that wid all my airs among women I shud ha' been ch'ated by a

basin-faced fool av a cav'lryman not fit to trust on a mule thrunk.

Presintly I found him in our lines--the Bobtails was quartered next

us--an' a tallowy, top-heavy son av a she-mule he was, wid his big

brass spurs an' his plastrons on his epigastons an' all. But he niver

flinched a hair.

"'A word wid you, Dempsey,' sez I. 'You've walked wid Dinah Shadd four

times this fortnight gone.'

"'What's that to you?' sez he. 'I'll walk forty times more, an' forty

on top av that, ye shovel-futted, clod-breakin' infantry

lance-corp'ril.'

"Before I cud gyard, he had his gloved fist home on me cheek, an' down

I went full sprawl. 'Will that content you?' sez he, blowin' on his

knuckles for all the world like a Scots Grays orf'cer. 'Content?' sez

I. 'For your own sake, man, take off your spurs, peel your jackut, and

onglove. 'Tis the beginnin' av the overture. Stand up!"

"He stud all he knew, but he niver peeled his jackut, an' his shoulders

had no fair play. I was fightin' for Dinah Shadd an' that cut on me

cheek. What hope had he forninst me? 'Stand up!' sez I, time an'

again, when he was beginnin' to quarter the ground an' gyard high an'

go large. 'This isn't ridin'-school,' sez I. 'Oh, man, stand up, an'

let me get at ye!' But whin I saw he wud be runnin' about, I grup his

shtock in me left an' his waist-belt in me right, an' swung him clear

to me right front, head undher, he hammerin' me nose till the wind was

knocked out av him on the bare ground. 'Stand up,' sez I, 'or I'll

kick your head into your chest.' An' I wud ha' done ut, too, so ragin'

mad I was.

"'Me collar-bone's bruk,' sez he. 'Help me back to lines. I'll walk

wid her no more.' So I helped him back."

"And was his collar-bone broken?" I asked, for I fancied that only

Learoyd could neatly accomplish that terrible throw.

"He pitched on his left shoulder-point. It was. Next day the news was

in both barracks; an' whin I met Dinah Shadd wid a cheek like all the

reg'mintal tailors' samples, there was no 'Good-mornin', corp'ril,' or

aught else. 'An' what have I done, Miss Shadd,' sez I, very bould,

plantin' mesilf forninst her, 'that ye should not pass the time of day?'

"'Ye've half killed rough-rider Dempsey,' sez she, her dear blue eyes

fillin' up.

"'Maybe,' sez I. 'Was he a friend av yours that saw ye home four times

in a fortnight?'

"'Yes,' sez she, very bould; but her mouth was down at the corners.

'An'--an' what's that to you?'

"'Ask Dempsey,' sez I, purtendin' to go away.

"'Did you fight for me then, ye silly man?' she sez, tho' she knew ut

all along.

"'Who else?' sez I; an' I tuk wan pace to the front.

"'I wasn't worth ut,' sez she, fingerin' her apron.

"'That's for me to say,' sez I. 'Shall I say ut?'

"'Yes,' sez she, in a saint's whisper; an' at that I explained mesilf;

an' she tould me what ivry man that is a man, an' many that is a woman,

hears wanst in his life.

"'But what made ye cry at startin', Dinah, darlin'?' sez I.

"'Your--your bloody cheek,' sez she, duckin' her little head down on my

sash (I was duty for the day), an' whimperin' like a sorrowful angel.

"Now, a man cud take that two ways. I tuk ut as pleased me best, an'

my first kiss wid it. Mother av innocence! but I kissed her on the tip

av the nose an' undher the eye, an' a girl that lets a kiss come

tumbleways like that has never been kissed before. Take note av that,

sorr. Thin we wint, hand in hand, to ould Mother Shadd, like two

little childher, an' she said it was no bad thing; an' ould Shadd

nodded behind his pipe, an' Dinah ran away to her own room. That day I

throd on rollin' clouds. All earth was too small to hould me. Begad,

I cud ha' picked the sun out av the sky for a live coal to me pipe, so

magnificent I was. But I tuk recruities at squad-drill, an' began with

general battalion advance whin I shud ha' been balance-steppin' 'em.

Eyah! that day! that day!"

A very long pause. "Well?" said I.

"It was all wrong," said Mulvaney, with an enormous sigh. "An' sure I

know that ev'ry bit av ut was me own foolishness. That night I tuk

maybe the half av three pints--not enough to turn the hair of a man in

his natural sinses. But I was more than half dhrunk wid pure joy, an'

that canteen beer was so much whisky to me. I can't tell how ut came

about, but bekase I had no thought for any wan except Dinah, bekase I

hadn't slipped her little white arms from me neck five minutes, bekase

the breath av her kiss was not gone from my mouth, I must go through

the married lines on me way to quarthers, an' I must stay talkin' to a

red-headed Mullengar heifer av a girl, Judy Sheehy, that was daughter

to Mother Sheehy, the wife av Nick Sheehy, the canteen sergint--the

black curse av Shielygh be on the whole brood that are above groun'

this day!

"'An' what are ye houldin' your head that high for, corp'ril?' sez

Judy. 'Come in an' thry a cup av tay,' she sez, standin' in the

doorway.

"Bein' an onbustable fool, an' thinkin' av anythin' but tay, I wint."

"'Mother's at canteen,' sez Judy, smoothin' the hair av hers that was

like red snakes, an' lookin' at me corner-ways out av her green cat's

eyes. 'Ye will not mind, corp'ril?'

"'I can endure,' sez I. 'Ould Mother Sheehy bein' no divarsion av

mine, nor her daughter too.' Judy fetched the tea-things an' put thim

on the table, leanin' over me very close to get them square. I dhrew

back, thinkin' of Dinah.

"'Is ut afraid you are av a girl alone?' sez Judy.

"'No,' sez I. 'Why should I be?'

"'That rests wid the girl,' sez Judy, dhrawin' her chair next to mine.

"'Thin there let ut rest,' sez I; an' thinkin' I'd been a trifle

onpolite, I sez, 'The tay's not quite sweet enough for me taste. Put

your little finger in the cup, Judy; 'twill make ut nechthar.'

"'What's necthar?' sez she.

"'Somethin' very sweet,' sez I; an' for the sinful life av me I cud not

help lookin' at her out av the corner av my eye, as I was used to look

at a woman.

"'Go on wid ye, corp'ril,' sez she. 'You're a flirt.'

"'On me sowl I'm not,' sez I.

"'Then you're a cruel handsome man, an' that's worse,' sez she, heavin'

big sighs an' lookin' crossways.

"'You know your own mind,' sez I.

"''Twud be better for me if I did not,' she sez.

"'There's a dale to be said on both sides av that,' sez I, not thinkin'.

"'Say your own part av ut, then, Terence, darlin',' sez she; 'for begad

I'm thinkin' I've said too much or too little for an honest girl;' an'

wid that she put her arms round me neck an' kissed me.

"'There's no more to be said afther that,' sez I, kissin' her back

again. Oh, the mane scut that I was, my head ringin' wid Dinah Shadd!

How does ut come about, sorr, that whin a man has put the comether on

wan woman he's sure bound to put ut on another? 'Tis the same thing at

musketry. Wan day ev'ry shot goes wide or into the bank, an' the

next--lay high, lay low, sight or snap--ye can't get off the bull's-eye

for ten shots runnin'."

"That only happens to a man who has had a good deal of experience; he

does it without thinking," I replied.

"Thankin' you for the complimint, sorr, ut may be so; but I'm doubtin'

whether you mint ut for a complimint. Hear, now. I sat there wid Judy

on my knee, tellin' me all manner av nonsinse, an' only sayin' 'yes'

an' 'no,' when I'd much better ha' kept tongue betune teeth. An' that

was not an hour afther I had left Dinah. What I was thinkin' av I

cannot say.

"Presently, quiet as a cat, ould Mother Sheehy came in velvet-dhrunk.

She had her daughter's red hair, but 'twas bald in patches, an' I cud

see in her wicked ould face, clear as lightnin', what Judy wud be

twenty year to come. I was for jumpin' up, but Judy niver moved.

"'Terence has promust, mother,' sez she, an' the cowld sweat bruk out

all over me.

"Ould Mother Sheehy sat down of a heap, an' began playin' wid the cups.

'Thin you're a well-matched pair,' she sez, very thick; 'for he's the

biggest rogue that iver spoiled the queen's shoe-leather, an'--'

"'I'm off, Judy,' sez I. 'Ye should not talk nonsinse to your mother.

Get her to bed, girl.'

"'Nonsinse?' sez the ould woman, prickin' up her ears like a cat, an'

grippin' the table-edge. ''Twill be the most nonsinsical nonsinse for

you, ye grinnin' badger, if nonsinse 'tis. Git clear, you. I'm goin'

to bed.'

"I ran out into the dhark, me head in a stew an' me heart sick, but I

had sinse enough to see that I'd brought ut all on mesilf. 'It's this

to pass the time av day to a panjandhrum of hell-cats,' sez I. 'What

I've said an' what I've not said do not matther. Judy an' her dam will

hould me for a promust man, an' Dinah will give me the go, an' I

desarve ut. I will go an' get dhrunk,' sez I, 'an' forgit about ut,

for 'tis plain I'm not a marryin' man.'

"On me way to canteen I ran against Lascelles, color-sergint that was

av E Comp'ny--a hard, hard man, wid a tormint av a wife. 'You've the

head av a drowned man on your shoulders,' sez he, 'an' you're goin'

where you'll get a worse wan. Come back,' sez he. 'Let me go,' sez I.

'I've thrown me luck over the wall wid me own hand.' 'Then that's not

the way to get ut back,' sez he. 'Have out wid your throuble, ye

fool-bhoy.' An' I tould him how the matther was.

"He sucked his lower lip. 'You've been thrapped,' sez he. 'Ju Sheehy

wud be the betther for a man's name to hers as soon as she can. An' ye

thought ye'd put the comether on her. That's the naturil vanity av the

baste. Terence, you're a big born fool, but you're not bad enough to

marry into that comp'ny. If you said anythin', an' for all your

protestations I'm sure you did--or did not, which is worse--eat ut all.

Lie like the father av all lies, but come out av ut free av Judy. Do I

not know what ut is to marry a woman that was the very spit av Judy

when she was young? I'm gettin' ould, an' I've larnt patience; but

you, Terence, you'd raise hand on Judy an' kill her in a year. Never

mind if Dinah gives you the go; you've desarved ut. Never mind if the

whole reg'mint laughs at you all day. Get shut av Judy an' her mother.

They can't dhrag you to church, but if they do, they'll dhrag you to

hell. Go back to your quarthers an' lie down,' sez he. Thin, over his

shoulder, 'You must ha' done with thim.'

"Nixt day I wint to see Dinah; but there was no tucker in me as I

walked. I knew the throuble wud come soon enough widout any handlin'

av mine, an' I dreaded ut sore.

"I heard Judy callin' me, but I hild straight on to the Shadds'

quarthers, an' Dinah wud ha' kissed me, but I hild her back.

"'Whin all's said, darlin',' sez I, 'you can give ut me if you will,

tho' I misdoubt 'twill be so easy to come by thin.'

"I had scarce begun to put the explanation into shape before Judy an'

her mother came to the door. I think there was a veranda, but I'm

forgettin'.

"'Will ye not step in?' sez Dinah, pretty and polite, though the Shadds

had no dealin's with the Sheehys. Ould Mother Shadd looked up quick,

an' she was the fust to see the throuble, for Dinah was her daughter.

"'I'm pressed for time to-day,' sez Judy, as bould as brass; 'an' I've

only come for Terence--my promust man. 'Tis strange to find him here

the day afther the day.'

"Dinah looked at me as though I had hit her, an' I answered straight:

"'There was some nonsinse last night at the Sheehys' quarthers, an'

Judy's carryin' on the joke, darlin',' sez I.

"'At the Sheehys' quarthers?' sez Dinah, very slow; an' Judy cut in wid:

"'He was there from nine till tin, Dinah Shadd, an' the betther half av

that time I was sittin' on his knee, Dinah Shadd. Ye may look an' ye

may look an' ye may look me up an' down, but ye won't look away that

Terence is my promust man. Terence, darlin', 'tis time for us to be

comin' home.'

"Dinah Shadd never said a word to Judy. 'Ye left me at half-past

eight,' sez she to me, 'an' I never thought that ye'd leave me for

Judy, promises or no promises. Go back wid her, you that have to be

fetched by a girl! I'm done with you,' sez she; and she ran into her

own room, her mother followin'. So I was alone with those two women,

and at liberty to spake me sintiments.

"'Judy Sheehy,' sez I, 'if you made a fool av me betune the lights, you

shall not do ut in the day. I never promised you words or lines.'

"'You lie!' sez ould Mother Sheehy; 'an' may ut choke you where you

stand!' She was far gone in dhrink.

"'An' tho' ut choked me where I stud I'd not change,' sez I. 'Go home,

Judy. I take shame for a decent girl like you dhraggin' your mother

out bareheaded on this errand. Hear, now, and have ut for an answer.

I gave me word to Dinah Shadd yesterday, an' more blame to me I was

with you last night talkin' nonsinse, but nothin' more. You've chosen

to thry to hould me on ut. I will not be held thereby for any thin' in

the world. Is that enough?'

"Judy wint pink all over. 'An' I wish you joy av the perjury,' sez

she. 'You've lost a woman that would ha' wore her hand to the bone for

your pleasure; an' 'deed, Terence, ye were not thrapped.' ... Lascelles

must ha' spoken plain to her. 'I am as such as Dinah is--'deed I am!

Ye've lost a fool av a girl that'll never look at you again, an' ye've

lost what ye niver had--your common honesty. If you manage your men as

you manage your love-makin', small wondher they call you the worst

corp'ril in the comp'ny. Come away, mother,' sez she.

"But divil a fut would the ould woman budge! 'D'you hould by that?'

sez she, peerin' up under her thick gray eyebrows.

"'Ay, an' wud,' said I, 'Tho' Dinah gave me the go twinty times. I'll

have no thruck with you or yours,' sez I. 'Take your child away, ye

shameless woman!'

"'An' am I shameless,' sez she, bringin' her hands up above her head.

'Thin what are you, ye lyin', schamin', weak-kneed, dhirty-souled son

of a sutler? Am I shameless? Who put the open shame on me an' my

child that we shud go beggin' though the lines in daylight for the

broken word of a man? Double portion of my shame be on you, Terence

Mulvaney, that think yourself so strong! By Mary and the saints, by

blood and water, an' by ivry sorrow that came into the world since the

beginnin', the black blight fall on you and yours, so that you may

niver be free from pain for another when ut's not your own! May your

heart bleed in your breast drop by drop wid all your friends laughin'

at the bleedin'! Strong you think yourself? May your strength be a

curse to you to dhrive you into the devil's hands against your own

will! Clear-eyed you are? May your eyes see clear ivry step av the

dark path you take till the hot cinders av hell put thim out! May the

ragin' dry thirst in my own ould bones go to you, that you shall never

pass bottle full nor glass empty! God preserve the light av your

understandin' to you, my jewel av a bhoy, that ye may niver forget what

you mint to be an' do, when you're wallowin' in the muck! May ye see

the betther and follow the worse as long as there's breath in your

body, an' may ye die quick in a strange land, watchin' your death

before ut takes you, an' onable to stir hand or fut!'

"I heard a scufflin' in the room behind, and thin Dinah Shadd's hand

dhropped into mine like a roseleaf into a muddy road.

"'The half av that I'll take,' sez she, 'an' more too, if I can. Go

home, ye silly-talkin' woman--go home an' confess.'

"'Come away! Come away!" sez Judy, pullin' her mother by the shawl.

''Twas none av Terence's fault. For the love av Mary, stop the

talkin'!'

"'An' you!' said ould Mother Sheehy, spinnin' round forninst Dinah.

'Will ye take the half av that man's load? Stand off from him, Dinah

Shadd, before he takes you down too--you that look to be a

quarthermaster-sergint's wife in five years. Ye look too high, child.

Ye shall wash for the quarthermaster-sergint, whin he pl'ases to give

you the job out av charity; but a privit's wife ye shall be to the end,

an' ivry sorrow of a privit's wife ye shall know, an' niver a joy but

wan, that shall go from you like the tide from a rock. The pain of

bearin' ye shall know, but niver the pleasure of givin' the breast; an'

you shall put away a man-child into the common ground wid niver a

priest to say a prayer over him, an' on that man-child ye shall think

ivry day av your life. Think long, Dinah Shadd, for you'll niver have

another tho' you pray till your knees are bleedin'. The mothers av

children shall mock you behind your back whin you're wringin' over the

wash-tub. You shall know what ut is to take a dhrunken husband home

an' see him go to the gyard-room. Will that pl'ase you, Dinah Shadd,

that won't be seen talkin' to my daughter? You shall talk to worse

than Judy before all's over. The sergint's wives shall look down on

you, contemptuous daughter av a sergint, an' you shall cover ut all up

wid a smilin' face whin your heart's burstin'. Stand aff him, Dinah

Shadd, for I've put the Black Curse of Shielygh upon him, an' his own

mouth shall make ut good.'

"She pitched forward on her head an' began foamin' at the mouth. Dinah

Shadd ran out with water, an' Judy dhragged the ould woman into the

veranda till she sat up.

"'I'm old an' forlorn,' she sez, tremblin' an' cryin', 'an' 'tis like I

say a dale more than I mane.'

"'When you're able to walk--go,' says ould Mother Shadd. 'This house

has no place for the likes av you, that have cursed my daughter.'

"Eyah!' said the ould woman. 'Hard words break no bones, an' Dinah

Shadd'll kape the love av her husband till my bones are green corn.

Judy, darlin', I misremember what I came here for. Can you lend us the

bottom av a taycup av tay, Mrs. Shadd?'

"But Judy dhragged her off, cryin' as tho' her heart wud break. An'

Dinah Shadd an' I, in ten minutes we had forgot ut all."

"Then why do you remember it now?" said I.

"Is ut like I'd forgit? Ivry word that wicked ould woman spoke fell

thrue in my life afterward; an' I cud ha' stud ut all--stud ut all,

except fwhen little Shadd was born. That was on the line av march

three months afther the regiment was taken wid cholera. We were betune

Umballa an' Kalka thin, an' I was on picket. When I came off, the

women showed me the child, an' ut turned on uts side an' died as I

looked. We buried him by the road, an' Father Victory was a day's

march behind with the heavy baggage, so the comp'ny captain read

prayer. An' since then I've been a childless man, an' all else that

ould Mother Sheehy put upon me an' Dinah Shadd. What do you think,

sorr?"

I thought a good deal, but it seemed better then to reach out for

Mulvaney's hand. This demonstration nearly cost me the use of three

fingers. Whatever he knows of his weaknesses, Mulvaney is entirely

ignorant of his strength.

"But what do you think?" he insisted, as I was straightening out the

crushed members.

My reply was drowned in yells and outcries from the next fire, where

ten men were shouting for "Orth'ris!" "Privit Orth'ris!" "Mistah

Or-ther-is!" "Deah Boy!" "Cap'n Orth'ris!" "Field-Marshal Orth'ris!"

"Stanley, you penn'orth o' pop, come 'ere to your own comp'ny!" And

the Cockney, who had been delighting another audience with recondite

and Rabelaisian yarns, was shot down among his admirers by the major

force.

"You've crumpled my dress-shirt 'orrid," said he; "an' I shan't sing no

more to this 'ere bloomin' drawin'-room."

Learoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled himself, crept behind

Ortheris, and raised him aloft on his shoulders.

"Sing, ye bloomin' hummin'-bird!" said he; and Ortheris, beating time

on Learoyd's skull, delivered himself, in the raucous voice of the

Ratcliffe Highway, of the following chaste and touching ditty:

"My girl she give me the go oncet,

When I was a London lad,

An' I went on the drunk for a fortnight,

An' then I went to the bad.

The queen she gave me a shilling

To fight for 'er over the seas;

But guv'ment built me a fever trap,

An' Injia gave me disease.

Chorus--"Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says.

An' don't you go for the beer;

But I was an ass when I was at grass,

An' that is why I'm 'ere.

"I fired a shot at an Afghan;

The beggar 'e fired again;

An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ead,

An' missed the next campaign!

I up with my gun at a Burman

Who carried a bloomin' _dah_,

But the cartridge stuck an' the bay'nit bruk

An' all I got was the scar.

Chorus--"Ho! don't you aim at a Afghan

When you stand on the sky-line clear;

An' don't you go for a Burman

If none o' your friends is near.

"I served my time for a corp'ral.

An' wetted my stripes with pop,

For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,

An' finished the night in the shop.

I served my time for a sergeant;

The colonel 'e sez No!

The most you'll be is a full C.B.'[*]

An'--very next night 'twas so.

[*] Confined to barracks.

Chorus--"Ho! don't you go for a corp'ral

Unless your 'ead is clear;

But I was an ass when I was at grass.

An' that is why I am 'ere.

"I've tasted the luck o' the army

In barrack 'an camp 'an clink,

And I lost my tip through the bloomin' trip

Along 'o the women an' drink,

I'm down at the heel o' my service,

An' when I am laid on the shelf,

My very wust friend from beginning to end,

By the blood of a mouse, was myself.

Chorus--"Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,

An' don't go for the beer;

But I was an ass when I was at grass,

An' that is why I'm 'ere."

"Ay, listen to our little man now, singin' and shoutin' as tho' trouble

had never touched him! D'ye remember when he went mad with the

homesickness?" said Mulvaney, recalling a never-to-be-forgotten season

when Ortheris waded through the deep waters of affliction and behaved

abominably. "But he's talkin' the bitter truth, tho'. Eyah!

"'My very worst friend from beginning to end,

By the blood of a mouse, was mesilf.'

Hark out!" he continued, jumping to his feet. "What did I tell you,

sorr?"

Fttl! spttl! whttl! went the rifles of the picket in the darkness, and

we heard their feet rushing toward us as Ortheris tumbled past me and

into his greatcoat. It is an impressive thing, even in peace, to see

an armed camp spring to life with clatter of accouterments, click of

Martini levers, and blood-curdling speculations as to the fate of

missing boots. "Pickets dhriven in," said Mulvaney, staring like a

buck at bay into the soft, slinging gloom. "Stand by an' kape close to

us. If 'tis cav'lry, they may blundher into the fires."

Tr--ra ra! ta--ra--la! sung the thrice-blessed bugle, and the rush to

form square began. There is much rest and peace in the heart of a

square if you arrive in time and are not trodden upon too frequently.

The smell of leather belts, fatigue uniform, and unpacked humanity is

comforting.

A dull grumble, that seemed to come from every point of the compass at

once, struck our listening ears, and little thrills of excitement ran

down the faces of the square. Those who write so learnedly about

judging distance by sound should hear cavalry on the move at night. A

high-pitched yell on the left told us that the disturbers were

friends--the cavalry of the attack, who had missed their direction in

the darkness, and were feeling blindly for some sort of support and

camping-ground. The difficulty explained, they jingled on.

"Double pickets out there; by your arms lie down and sleep the rest,"

said the major, and the square melted away as the men scrambled for

their places by the fires.

When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming his mustache, leaning

on his rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his rock, with I know

not what vultures tearing his liver.

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR

By R. L. STEVENSON

Denis de Beaulieu was not yet two-and-twenty, but he counted himself a

grown man, and a very accomplished cavalier into the bargain. Lads

were early formed in that rough, warfaring epoch; and when one has been

in a pitched battle and a dozen raids, has killed one's man in an

honorable fashion, and knows a thing or two of strategy and mankind, a

certain swagger in the gait is surely to be pardoned. He had put up

his horse with due care, and supped with due deliberation; and then, in

a very agreeable frame of mind, went out to pay a visit in the gray of

the evening. It was not a very wise proceeding on the young man's

part. He would have done better to remain beside the fire or go

decently to bed. For the town was full of the troops of Burgundy and

England under a mixed command; and though Denis was there on

safe-conduct, his safe-conduct was like to serve him little on a chance

encounter.

It was September, 1429; the weather had fallen sharp; a flighty piping

wind, laden with showers, beat about the township; and the dead leaves

ran riot along the streets. Here and there a window was already

lighted up; and the noise of men-at-arms making merry over supper

within, came forth in fits and was swallowed up and carried away by the

wind. The night fell swiftly; the flag of England, fluttering on the

spire-top, grew ever fainter and fainter against the flying clouds--a

black speck like a swallow in the tumultuous, leaden chaos of the sky.

As the night fell the wind rose, and began to hoot under archways and

roar amid the treetops in the valley below the town.

Denis de Beaulieu walked fast and was soon knocking at his friend's

door; but though he promised himself to stay only a little while and

make an early return, his welcome was so pleasant, and he found so much

to delay him, that it was already long past midnight before he said

good-by upon the threshold. The wind had fallen again in the

meanwhile; the night was as black as the grave; not a star, nor a

glimmer of moonshine, slipped through the canopy of cloud. Denis was

ill-acquainted with the intricate lanes of Chateau Landon; even by

daylight he had found some trouble in picking his way; and in this

absolute darkness he soon lost it altogether. He was certain of one

thing only--to keep mounting the hill; for his friend's house lay at

the lower end or tail, of Chateau Landon, while the inn was up at the

head, under the great church spire. With this clew to go upon he

stumbled and groped forward, now breathing more freely in open places

where there was a good slice of sky overhead, now feeling along the

wall in stifling closes. It is an eerie and mysterious position to be

thus submerged in opaque blackness in an almost unknown town. The

silence is terrifying in its possibilities. The touch of cold window

bars to the exploring hand startles the man like the touch of a toad;

the inequalities of the pavement shake his heart into his mouth; a

piece of denser darkness threatens an ambuscade or a chasm in the

pathway; and where the air is brighter, the houses put on strange and

bewildering appearances, as if to lead him further from his way. For

Denis, who had to regain his inn without attracting notice, there was

real danger as well as mere discomfort in the walk; and he went warily

and boldly at once, and at every corner paused to make an observation.

He had been for some time threading a lane so narrow that he could

touch a wall with either hand, when it began to open out and go sharply

downward. Plainly this lay no longer in the direction of his inn; but

the hope of a little more light tempted him forward to reconnoiter.

The lane ended in a terrace with a bartizan wall, which gave an outlook

between high houses, as out of an embrasure, into the valley lying dark

and formless several hundred feet below. Denis looked down, and could

discern a few tree-tops waving and a single speck of brightness where

the river ran across a weir. The weather was clearing up, and the sky

had lightened, so as to show the outline of the heavier clouds and the

dark margin of the hills. By the uncertain glimmer, the house on his

left hand should be a place of some pretensions; it was surmounted by

several pinnacles and turret-tops; the round stern of a chapel, with a

fringe of flying buttresses, projected boldly from the main block; and

the door was sheltered under a deep porch carved with figures and

overhung by two long gargoyles. The windows of the chapel gleamed

through their intricate tracery with a light as of many tapers, and

threw out the buttresses and the peaked roof in a more intense

blackness against the sky. It was plainly the hotel of some great

family of the neighborhood; and as it reminded Denis of a town house of

his own at Bourges, he stood for some time gazing up at it and mentally

gauging the skill of the architects and the consideration of the two

families.

There seemed to be no issue to the terrace but the lane by which he had

reached it; he could only retrace his steps, but he had gained some

notion of his whereabout, and hoped by this means to hit the main

thoroughfare and speedily regain the inn. He was reckoning without

that chapter of accidents which was to make this night memorable above

all others in his career; for he had not gone back above a hundred

yards before he saw a light coming to meet him, and heard loud voices

speaking together in the echoing narrows of the lane. It was a party

of men-at-arms going the night round with torches. Denis assured

himself that they had all been making free with the wine-bowl, and were

in no mood to be particular about safe-conducts or the niceties of

chivalrous war. It was as like as not that they would kill him like a

dog and leave him where he fell. The situation was inspiriting but

nervous. Their own torches would conceal him from sight, he reflected;

and he hoped that they would drown the noise of his footsteps with

their own empty voices. If he were but fleet and silent, he might

evade their notice altogether.

Unfortunately, as he turned to beat a retreat, his foot rolled upon a

pebble; he fell against the wall with an ejaculation, and his sword

rang loudly on the stones. Two or three voices demanded who went

there--some in French, some in English; but Denis made no reply, and

ran the faster down the lane. Once upon the terrace, he paused to look

back. They still kept calling after him, and just then began to double

the pace in pursuit, with a considerable clank of armor, and great

tossing of the torchlight to and fro in the narrow jaws of the passage.

Denis cast a look around and darted into the porch. There he might

escape observation, or--if that were too much to expect--was in a

capital posture whether for parley or defense. So thinking, he drew

his sword and tried to set his back against the door. To his surprise,

it yielded behind his weight; and though he turned in a moment,

continued to swing back on oiled and noiseless hinges, until it stood

wide open on a black interior. When things fall out opportunely for

the person concerned, he is not apt to be critical about the how or

why, his own immediate personal convenience seeming a sufficient reason

for the strangest oddities and resolutions in our sublunary things; and

so Denis, without a moment's hesitation, stepped within and partly

closed the door behind him to conceal his place of refuge. Nothing was

further from his thoughts than to close it altogether; but for some

inexplicable reason--perhaps by a spring or a weight--the ponderous

mass of oak whipped itself out of his fingers and clanked to, with a

formidable rumble and a noise like the falling of an automatic bar.

The round, at that very moment, debouched upon the terrace and

proceeded to summon him with shouts and curses. He heard them

ferreting in the dark corners; the stock of a lance even rattled along

the outer surface of the door behind which he stood; but these

gentlemen were in too high a humor to be long delayed, and soon made

off down a corkscrew pathway which had escaped Denis's observation, and

passed out of sight and hearing along the battlements of the town.

Denis breathed again. He gave them a few minutes' grace for fear of

accidents, and then groped about for some means of opening the door and

slipping forth again. The inner surface was quite smooth, not a

handle, not a molding, not a projection of any sort. He got his

finger-nails round the edges and pulled, but the mass was immovable.

He shook it, it was as firm as a rock. Denis de Beaulieu frowned and

gave vent to a little noiseless whistle. What ailed the door? he

wondered. Why was it open? How came it to shut so easily and so

effectually after him? There was something obscure and underhand about

all this that was little to the young man's fancy. It looked like a

snare; and yet who could suppose a snare in such a quiet by-street and

in a house of so prosperous and even noble an exterior? And yet--snare

or no snare, intentionally or unintentionally--here he was, prettily

trapped; and for the life of him he could see no way out of it again.

The darkness began to weigh upon him. He gave ear; all was silent

without, but within and close by he seemed to catch a faint sighing, a

faint sobbing rustle, a little stealthy creak--as though many persons

were at his side, holding themselves quite still, and governing even

their respiration with the extreme of slyness. The idea went to his

vitals with a shock, and he faced about suddenly as if to defend his

life. Then, for the first time, he became aware of a light about the

level of his eyes and at some distance in the interior of the house--a

vertical thread of light, widening toward the bottom, such as might

escape between two wings of arras over a doorway. To see anything was

a relief to Denis; it was like a piece of solid ground to a man

laboring in a morass; his mind seized upon it with avidity; and he

stood staring at it and trying to piece together some logical

conception of his surroundings. Plainly there was a flight of steps

ascending from his own level to that of this illuminated doorway; and

indeed he thought he could make out another thread of light, as fine as

a needle and as faint as phosphorescence, which might very well be

reflected along the polished wood of a handrail. Since he had begun to

suspect that he was not alone, his heart had continued to beat with

smothering violence, and an intolerable desire for action of any sort

had possessed itself of his spirit. He was in deadly peril, he

believed. What could be more natural than to mount the staircase, lift

the curtain, and confront his difficulty at once? At least he would be

dealing with something tangible; at least he would be no longer in the

dark. He stepped slowly forward with outstretched hands, until his

foot struck the bottom step; then he rapidly scaled the stairs, stood

for a moment to compose his expression, lifted the arras and went in.

He found himself in a large apartment of polished stone. There were

three doors; one on each of three sides; all similarly curtained with

tapestry. The fourth side was occupied by two large windows and a

great stone chimney-piece, carved with the arms of the Maletroits.

Denis recognized the bearings, and was gratified to find himself in

such good hands. The room was strongly illuminated; but it contained

little furniture except a heavy table and a chair or two, the hearth

was innocent of fire, and the pavement was but sparsely strewn with

rushes clearly many days old.

On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly facing Denis as he

entered, sat a little old gentleman in a fur tippet. He sat with his

legs crossed and his hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine stood by

his elbow on a bracket on the wall. His countenance had a strongly

masculine cast; not properly human, but such as we see in the bull, the

goat, or the domestic boar; something equivocal and wheedling,

something greedy, brutal, and dangerous. The upper lip was

inordinately full, as though swollen by a blow or a toothache; and the

smile, the peaked eyebrows, and the small, strong eyes were quaintly

and almost comically evil in expression. Beautiful white hair hung

straight all round his head, like a saint's, and fell in a single curl

upon the tippet. His beard and mustache were the pink of venerable

sweetness. Age, probably in consequence of inordinate precautions, had

left no mark upon his hands; and the Maletroit hand was famous. It

would be difficult to imagine anything at once so fleshy and so

delicate in design; the tapered, sensual fingers were like those of one

of Leonardo's women; the fork of the thumb made a dimpled protuberance

when closed; the nails were perfectly shaped, and of a dead, surprising

whiteness. It rendered his aspect tenfold more redoubtable, that a man

with hands like these should keep them devoutly folded in his lap like

a virgin martyr--that a man with so intense and startling an expression

of face should sit patiently on his seat and contemplate people with an

unwinking stare, like a god, or a god's statue. His quiescence seemed

ironical and treacherous, it fitted so poorly with his looks.

Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit.

Denis and he looked silently at each other for a second or two.

"Pray step in," said the Sire de Maletroit. "I have been expecting you

all the evening."

He had not risen, but he accompanied his words with a smile and a

slight but courteous inclination of the head. Partly from the smile,

partly from the strange musical murmur with which the Sire prefaced his

observation, Denis felt a strong shudder of disgust go through his

marrow. And what with disgust and honest confusion of mind, he could

scarcely get words together in reply.

"I fear," he said, "that this is a double accident. I am not the

person you suppose me. It seems you were looking for a visit; but for

my part, nothing was further from my thoughts--nothing could be more

contrary to my wishes--than this intrusion."

"Well, well," replied the old gentleman indulgently, "here you are,

which is the main point. Seat yourself, my friend, and put yourself

entirely at your ease. We shall arrange our little affairs presently."

Denis perceived that the matter was still complicated with some

misconception, and he hastened to continue his explanations.

"Your door..." he began.

"About my door?" asked the other, raising his peaked eyebrows. "A

little piece of ingenuity." And he shrugged his shoulders. "A

hospitable fancy! By your own account; you were not desirous of making

my acquaintance. We old people look for such reluctance now and then;

and when it touches our honor, we cast about until we find some way of

overcoming it. You arrive uninvited, but believe me, very welcome."

"You persist in error, sir," said Denis. "There can be no question

between you and me. I am a stranger in this countryside. My name is

Denis, damoiseau de Beaulieu. If you see me in your house, it is

only--"

"My young friend," interrupted the other, "you will permit me to have

my own ideas on that subject. They probably differ from yours at the

present moment," he added with a leer, "but time will show which of us

is in the right."

Denis was convinced he had to do with a lunatic. He seated himself

with a shrug, content to wait the upshot; and a pause ensued, during

which he thought he could distinguish a hurried gabbling as of prayer

from behind the arras immediately opposite him. Sometimes there seemed

to be but one person engaged, sometimes two; and the vehemence of the

voice, low as it was, seemed to indicate either great haste or an agony

of spirit. It occurred to him that this piece of tapestry covered the

entrance to the chapel he had noticed from without.

The old gentleman meanwhile surveyed Denis from head to foot with a

smile, and from time to time emitted little noises like a bird or a

mouse, which seemed to indicate a high degree of satisfaction. This

state of matters became rapidly insupportable; and Denis, to put an end

to it, remarked politely that the wind had gone down.

The old gentleman fell into a fit of silent laughter, so prolonged and

violent that he became quite red in the face. Denis got upon his feet

at once, and put on his hat with a flourish.

"Sir," he said; "if you are in your wits, you have affronted me

grossly. If you are out of them, I flatter myself I can find better

employment for my brains than to talk with lunatics. My conscience is

clear; you have made a fool of me from the first moment; you have

refused to hear my explanations; and now there is no power under God

will make me stay here any longer; and if I cannot make my way out in a

more decent fashion, I will hack your door in pieces with my sword."

The Sire de Maletroit raised his right hand and wagged it at Denis with

the fore and little fingers extended.

"My dear nephew," he said, "sit down."

"Nephew!" retorted Denis, "you lie in your throat;" and he snapped his

fingers in his face.

"Sit down, you rogue!" cried the old gentleman, in a sudden, harsh

voice, like the barking of a dog. "Do you fancy," he went on, "that

when I had made my little contrivance for the door I had stopped short

with that? If you prefer to be bound hand and foot till your bones

ache, rise and try to go away. If you choose to remain a free young

buck, agreeably conversing with an old gentleman--why, sit where you

are in peace, and God be with you."

"Do you mean I am a prisoner?" demanded Denis.

"I state the facts," replied the other. "I would rather leave the

conclusion to yourself."

Denis sat down again. Externally he managed to keep pretty calm; but

within, he was now boiling with anger, now chilled with apprehension.

He no longer felt convinced that he was dealing with a madman. And if

the old gentleman was sane, what, in God's name, had he to look for?

What absurd or tragical adventure had befallen him? What countenance

was he to assume?

While he was thus unpleasantly reflecting, the arras that overhung the

chapel door was raised, and a tall priest in his robes came forth and,

giving a long, keen stare at Denis, said something in an undertone to

Sire de Maletroit.

"She is in a better frame of spirit?" asked the latter.

"She is more resigned, messire," replied the priest.

"Now the Lord help her, she is hard to please!" sneered the old

gentleman. "A likely stripling--not ill-born--and of her own choosing,

too? Why, what more would the jade have?"

"The situation is not usual for a young damsel," said the other, "and

somewhat trying to her blushes."

"She should have thought of that before she began the dance? It was

none of my choosing, God knows that: but since she is in it, by our

lady, she shall carry it to the end." And then addressing Denis,

"Monsieur de Beaulieu," he asked, "may I present you to my niece? She

has been waiting your arrival, I may say, with even greater impatience

than myself."

Denis had resigned himself with a good grace--all he desired was to

know the worst of it as speedily as possible; so he rose at once, and

bowed in acquiescence. The Sire de Maletroit followed his example and

limped, with the assistance of the chaplain's arm, toward the chapel

door. The priest pulled aside the arras, and all three entered. The

building had considerable architectural pretensions. A light groining

sprang from six stout columns, and hung down in two rich pendents from

the center of the vault. The place terminated behind the altar in a

round end, embossed and honeycombed with a superfluity of ornament in

relief, and pierced by many little windows shaped like stars, trefoils,

or wheels. These windows were imperfectly glazed, so that the night

air circulated freely in the chapel. The tapers, of which there must

have been half a hundred burning on the altar, were unmercifully blown

about; and the light went through many different phases of brilliancy

and semi-eclipse. On the steps in front of the altar knelt a young

girl richly attired as a bride. A chill settled over Denis as he

observed her costume; he fought with desperate energy against the

conclusion that was being thrust upon his mind; it could not--it should

not--be as he feared.

"Blanche," said the Sire, in his most flute-like tones, "I have brought

a friend to see you, my little girl; turn round and give him your

pretty hand. It is good to be devout; but it is necessary to be

polite, my niece."

The girl rose to her feet and turned toward the new comers. She moved

all of a piece; and shame and exhaustion were expressed in every line

of her fresh young body; and she held her head down and kept her eyes

upon the pavement, as she came slowly forward. In the course of her

advance, her eyes fell upon Denis de Beaulieu's feet--feet of which he

was justly vain, be it remarked, and wore in the most elegant

accoutrement even while traveling. She paused--started, as if his

yellow boots had conveyed some shocking meaning--and glanced suddenly

up into the wearer's countenance. Their eyes met; shame gave place to

horror and terror in her looks; the blood left her lips; with a

piercing scream she covered her face with her hands and sank upon the

chapel floor.

"That is not the man!" she cried. "My uncle, that is not the man!"

The Sire de Maletroit chirped agreeably. "Of course not," he said, "I

expected as much. It was so unfortunate you could not remember his

name."

"Indeed," she cried, "indeed, I have never seen this person till this

moment--I have never so much as set eyes upon him--I never wish to see

him again. Sir," she said, turning to Denis, "if you are a gentleman,

you will bear me out. Have I ever seen you--have you ever seen

me--before this accursed hour?"

"To speak for myself, I have never had that pleasure," answered the

young man. "This is the first time, messire, that I have met with your

engaging niece."

The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders.

"I am distressed to hear it," he said. "But it is never too late to

begin. I had little more acquaintance with my own late lady ere I

married her; which proves," he added with a grimace, "that these

impromptu marriages may often produce an excellent understanding in the

long run. As the bridegroom is to have a voice in the matter, I will

give him two hours to make up for lost time before we proceed with the

ceremony." And he turned toward the door, followed by the clergyman.

The girl was on her feet in a moment. "My uncle, you cannot be in

earnest," she said. "I declare before God I will stab myself rather

than be forced on that young man. The heart rises at it; God forbids

such marriages; you dishonor your white hair. Oh, my uncle, pity me!

There is not a woman in all the world but would prefer death to such a

nuptial. Is it possible," she added, faltering--"is it possible that

you do not believe me--that you still think this"--and she pointed at

Denis with a tremor of anger and contempt--"that you still think this

to be the man?"

"Frankly," said the old gentleman, pausing on the threshold, "I do.

But let me explain to you once for all, Blanche de Maletroit, my way of

thinking about this affair. When you took it into your head to

dishonor my family and the name that I have borne, in peace and war,

for more than threescore years, you forfeited, not only the right to

question my designs, but that of looking me in the face. If your

father had been alive, he would have spat on you and turned you out of

doors. His was the hand of iron. You may bless your God you have only

to deal with the hand of velvet, mademoiselle. It was my duty to get

you married without delay. Out of pure goodwill, I have tried to find

your own gallant for you. And I believe I have succeeded. But before

God and all the holy angels, Blanche de Maletroit, if I have not, I

care not one jack-straw. So let me recommend you to be polite to our

young friend; for upon my word, your next groom may be less appetizing."

And with that he went out, with the chaplain at his heels; and the

arras fell behind the pair.

The girl turned upon Denis with flashing eyes.

"And what, sir," she demanded, "may be the meaning of all this?"

"God knows," returned Denis gloomily. "I am a prisoner in this house,

which seems full of mad people. More I know not; and nothing do I

understand."

"And pray how came you here?" she asked.

He told her as briefly as he could. "For the rest," he added, "perhaps

you will follow my example, and tell me the answer to all these

riddles, and what, in God's name, is like to be the end of it."

She stood silent for a little, and he could see her lips tremble and

her tearless eyes burn with a feverish luster. Then she pressed her

forehead in both hands.

"Alas, how my head aches!" she said wearily--"to say nothing of my poor

heart! But it is due to you to know my story, unmaidenly as it must

seem. I am called Blanche de Maletroit; I have been without father or

mother for--oh! for as long as I can recollect, and indeed I have been

most unhappy all my life. Three months ago a young captain began to

stand near me every day in church. I could see that I pleased him; I

am much to blame, but I was so glad that any one should love me; and

when he passed me a letter, I took it home with me and read it with

great pleasure. Since that time he has written many. He was so

anxious to speak with me, poor fellow! and kept asking me to leave the

door open some evening that we might have two words upon the stair.

For he knew how much my uncle trusted me." She gave something like a

sob at that, and it was a moment before she could go on. "My uncle is

a hard man, but he is very shrewd," she said at last. "He has

performed many feats in war, and was a great person at court, and much

trusted by Queen Isabeau in old days. How he came to suspect me I

cannot tell; but it is hard to keep anything from his knowledge; and

this morning, as we came from mass, he took my hand in his, forced it

open, and read my little billet, walking by my side all the while.

When he had finished, he gave it back to me with great politeness. It

contained another request to have the door left open; and this has been

the ruin of us all. My uncle kept me strictly in my room until

evening, and then ordered me to dress myself as you see me--a hard

mockery for a young girl, do you not think so? I suppose, when he

could not prevail with me to tell him the young captain's name, he must

have laid a trap for him: into which, alas! you have fallen in the

anger of God. I looked for much confusion; for how could I tell

whether he was willing to take me for his wife on these sharp terms?

He might have been trifling with me from the first; or I might have

made myself too cheap in his eyes. But truly I had not looked for such

a shameful punishment as this! I could not think that God would let a

girl be so disgraced before a young man. And now I have told you all;

and I can scarcely hope that you will not despise me."

Denis made her a respectful inclination.

"Madam," he said, "you have honored me by your confidence. It remains

for me to prove that I am not unworthy of the honor. Is Messire de

Maletroit at hand?"

"I believe he is writing in the salle without," she answered.

"May I lead you thither, madam?" asked Denis, offering his hand with

his most courtly bearing.

She accepted it; and the pair passed out of the chapel, Blanche in a

very drooping and shamefast condition, but Denis strutting and ruffling

in the consciousness of a mission, and the boyish certainty of

accomplishing it with honor.

The Sire de Maletroit rose to meet them with an ironical obeisance.

"Sir," said Denis, with the grandest possible air, "I believe I am to

have some say in the matter of this marriage; and let me tell you at

once, I will be no party to forcing the inclination of this young lady.

Had it been freely offered to me, I should have been proud to accept

her hand, for I perceive she is as good as she is beautiful; but as

things are, I have now the honor, messire, of refusing."

Blanche looked at him with gratitude in her eyes; but the old gentleman

only smiled and smiled, until his smile grew positively sickening to

Denis.

"I am afraid," he said, "Monsieur de Beaulieu, that you do not

perfectly understand the choice I have to offer you. Follow me, I

beseech you, to this window." And he led the way to one of the large

windows which stood open on the night. "You observe," he went on,

"there is an iron ring in the upper masonry, and, reeved through that,

a very efficacious rope. Now, mark my words: if you should find your

disinclination to my niece's person insurmountable, I shall have you

hanged out of this window before sunrise. I shall only proceed to such

an extremity with the greatest regret, you may believe me. For it is

not at all your death that I desire, but my niece's establishment in

life. At the same time, it must come to that if you prove obstinate.

Your family, Monsieur de Beaulieu, is very well in its way; but if you

sprang from Charlemagne, you should not refuse the hand of a Maletroit

with impunity--not if she had been as common as the Pairs road--not if

she were so hideous as the gargoyle over my door. Neither my niece nor

you nor my own private feelings, move me at all in this matter. The

honor of my house has been compromised; I believe you to be the guilty

person; at least you are now in the secret; and you can hardly wonder

if I request you to wipe out the stain. If you will not, your blood be

on your own head! It will be no great satisfaction to me to have your

interesting relics kicking their heels in the breeze below my windows;

but half a loaf is better than no bread, and if I cannot cure the

dishonor, I shall at least stop the scandal."

There was a pause.

"I believe there are other ways of settling such imbroglios among

gentlemen," said Denis. "You wear a sword, and I hear you have used it

with distinction."

The Sire de Maletroit made a signal to the chaplain, who crossed the

room with long silent strides and raised the arras over the third of

the three doors. It was only a moment before he let it fall again; but

Denis had time to see a dusky passage full of armed men.

"When I was a little younger, I should have been delighted to honor

you, Monsieur de Beaulieu," said Sire Alain; "but I am now too old.

Faithful retainers are the sinews of age, and I must employ the

strength I have. This is one of the hardest things to swallow as a man

grows up in years; but with a little patience, even this becomes

habitual. You and the lady seem to prefer the salle for what remains

of your two hours; and as I have no desire to cross your preference, I

shall resign it to your use with all the pleasure in the world. No

haste!" he added, holding up his hand, as he saw a dangerous look come

into Denis de Beaulieu's face. "If your mind revolts against hanging,

it will be time enough two hours hence to throw yourself out of the

window or upon the pikes of my retainers. Two hours of life are always

two hours. A great many things may turn up in even as little a while

as that. And, besides, if I understand her appearance, my niece has

still something to say to you. You will not disfigure your last hours

by a want of politeness to a lady?"

Denis looked at Blanche, and she made him an imploring gesture.

It is likely that the old gentleman was hugely pleased at this symptom

of an understanding; for he smiled on both, and added sweetly: "If you

will give me your word of honor, Monsieur de Beaulieu, to await my

return at the end of the two hours before attempting anything

desperate, I shall withdraw my retainers, and let you speak in greater

privacy with mademoiselle."

Denis again glanced at the girl, who seemed to beseech him to agree.

"I give you my word of honor," he said.

Messire de Maletroit bowed, and proceeded to limp about the apartment,

clearing his throat the while with that odd musical chirp which had

already grown so irritating in the ears of Denis de Beaulieu. He first

possessed himself of some papers which lay upon the table; then he went

to the mouth of the passage and appeared to give an order to the men

behind the arras; and lastly he hobbled out through the door by which

Denis had come in, turning upon the threshold to address a last smiling

bow to the young couple, and followed by the chaplain with a hand-lamp.

No sooner were they alone than Blanche advanced toward Denis with her

hands extended. Her face was flushed and excited, and her eyes shone

with tears.

"You shall not die!" she cried, "you shall marry me after all."

"You seem to think, madam," replied Denis, "that I stand much in fear

of death."

"Oh, no, no," she said, "I see you are no poltroon. It is for my own

sake--I could not bear to have you slain for such a scruple."

"I am afraid," returned Denis, "that you underrate the difficulty,

madam. What you may be too generous to refuse, I may be too proud to

accept. In a moment of noble feeling toward me, you forget what you

perhaps owe to others." He had the decency to keep his eyes upon the

floor as he said this, and after he had finished, so as not to spy upon

her confusion. She stood silent for a moment, then walked suddenly

away, and falling on her uncle's chair, fairly burst out sobbing.

Denis was in the acme of embarrassment. He looked round, as if to seek

for inspiration, and seeing a stool, plumped down upon it for something

to do. There he sat, playing with the guard of his rapier, and wishing

himself dead a thousand times over, and buried in the nastiest

kitchen-heap in France. His eyes wandered round the apartment, but

found nothing to arrest them. There were such wide spaces between the

furniture, the light fell so baldly and cheerlessly over all, the dark

outside air looked in so coldly through the windows, that he thought he

had never seen a church so vast, nor a tomb so melancholy. The regular

sobs of Blanche de Maletroit measured out the time like the ticking of

a clock. He read the device upon the shield over and over again, until

his eyes became obscured; he stared into shadowy corners until he

imagined they were swarming with horrible animals; and every now and

again he awoke with a start, to remember that his last two hours were

running, and death was on the march.

Oftener and oftener, as the time went on, did his glance settle on the

girl herself. Her face was bowed forward and covered with her hands,

and she was shaken at intervals by the convulsive hiccup of grief.

Even thus she was not an unpleasant object to dwell upon, so plump and

yet so fine, with a warm brown skin, and the most beautiful hair, Denis

thought, in the whole world of womankind. Her hands were like her

uncle's; but they were more in place at the end of her young arms, and

looked infinitely soft and caressing. He remembered how her blue eyes

had shone upon him, full of anger, pity, and innocence. And the more

he dwelt on her perfections, the uglier death looked, and the more

deeply was he smitten with penitence at her continued tears. Now he

felt that no man could have the courage to leave a world which

contained so beautiful a creature; and now he would have given forty

minutes of his last hour to have unsaid his cruel speech.

Suddenly a hoarse and ragged peal of cockcrow rose to their ears from

the dark valley below the windows. And this shattering noise in the

silence of all around was like a light in a dark place, and shook them

both out of their reflections.

"Alas, can I do nothing to help you?" she said, looking up.

"Madam," replied Denis, with a fine irrelevancy, "if I have said

anything to wound you, believe me, it was for your own sake and not for

mine."

She thanked him with a tearful look.

"I feel your position cruelly," he went on. "The world has been bitter

hard on you. Your uncle is a disgrace to mankind. Believe me, madam,

there is no young gentleman in all France but would be glad of my

opportunity, to die in doing you a momentary service."

"I know already that you can be very brave and generous," she answered.

"What I want to know is whether I can serve you--now or afterward," she

added, with a quaver.

"Most certainly," he answered with a smile. "Let me sit beside you as

if I were a friend, instead of a foolish intruder; try to forget how

awkwardly we are placed to one another; make my last moments go

pleasantly; and you do me the chief service possible."

"You are very gallant," she added, with a yet deeper sadness ... "Very

gallant ... and it somehow pains me. But draw nearer, if you please;

and if you find anything to say to me, you will at least make certain

of a very friendly listener. Ah! Monsieur de Beaulieu," she broke

forth--"ah! Monsieur de Beaulieu, how can I look you in the face?"

And she fell to weeping again with a renewed effusion.

"Madam," said Denis, taking her hand in both of his; "reflect on the

little time I have before me, and the great bitterness into which I am

cast by the sight of your distress. Spare me, in my last moments, the

spectacle of what I cannot cure even with the sacrifice of my life."

"I am very selfish," answered Blanche. "I will be braver, Monsieur de

Beaulieu, for your sake. But think if I can do you no kindness in the

future--if you have no friends to whom I could carry your adieus.

Charge me as heavily as you can; every burden will lighten, by so

little, the invaluable gratitude I owe you. Put it in my power to do

something more for you than weep."

"My mother is married again, and has a young family to care for. My

brother Guichard will inherit my fiefs; and if I am not in error, that

will content him amply for my death. Life is a little vapor that

passeth away, as we are told by those in holy orders. When a man is in

a fair way and sees all life open in front of him, he seems to himself

to make a very important figure in the world. His horse whinnies to

him; the trumpets blow and the girls look out of window as he rides

into town before his company; he receives many assurances of trust and

regard--sometimes by express in a letter--sometimes face to face, with

persons of great consequence falling on his neck. It is not wonderful

if his head is turned for a time. But once he is dead, were he as

brave as Hercules or as wise as Solomon, he is soon forgotten. It is

not ten years since my father fell, with many other knights around him,

in a very fierce encounter, and I do not think that any one of them,

nor so much as the name of the fight, is now remembered. No, no,

madam, the nearer you come to it, you see that death is a dark and

dusty corner, where a man gets into his tomb and has the door shut

after him till the judgment day. I have few friends just now, and once

I am dead I shall have none."

"Ah, Monsieur de Beaulieu!" she exclaimed, "you forget Blanche de

Maletroit."

"You have a sweet nature, madam, and you are pleased to estimate a

little service far beyond its worth."

"It is not that," she answered. "You mistake me if you think I am so

easily touched by my own concerns. I say so, because you are the

noblest man I have ever met; because I recognize in you a spirit that

would have made even a common person famous in the land."

"And yet here I die in a mousetrap--with no more noise about it than my

own squeaking," answered he.

A look of pain crossed her face, and she was silent for a little while.

Then a light came into her eyes and with a smile she spoke again.

"I cannot have my champion think meanly of himself. Any one who gives

his life for another will be met in paradise by all the heralds and

angels of the Lord God. And you have no such cause to hang your head.

For.... Pray, do you think me beautiful?" she asked, with a flush.

"Indeed, madam, I do," he said.

"I am glad of that," she answered heartily. "Do you think there are

many men in France who have been in marriage by a beautiful

maiden--with her own lips--and who have refused her to her face? I

know you men would half despise such a triumph; but believe me, we

women know more of what is precious in love. There is nothing that

should set a person higher in his own esteem; and we women would prize

nothing more dearly."

"You are very good," he said; "but you cannot make me forget that I was

asked in pity and not for love."

"I am not so sure of that," she replied, holding down her head. "Hear

me to an end, Monsieur de Beaulieu. I know how you must despise me; I

feel you are right to do so; I am too poor a creature to occupy one

thought of your mind, although, alas! you must die for me this morning.

But when I asked you to marry me, indeed, and indeed, it was because I

respected and admired you, and loved you with my whole soul, from the

very moment that you took my part against my uncle. If you had seen

yourself, and how noble you looked, you would pity rather than despise

me. And now," she went on, hurriedly checking him with her hand,

"although I have laid aside all reserve and told you so much, remember

that I know your sentiments toward me already. I would not, believe

me, being nobly born, weary you with importunities into consent. I too

have a pride of my own: and I declare before the holy mother of God, if

you should now go back from your word already given, I would no more

marry you than I would marry my uncle's groom."

Denis smiled a little bitterly.

"It is a small love," he said, "that shies at a little pride."

She made no answer, although she probably had her own thoughts.

"Come hither to the window," he said with a sigh. "Here is the dawn."

And indeed the dawn was already beginning. The hollow of the sky was

full of essential daylight, colorless and clean; and the valley

underneath was flooded with a gray reflection. A few thin vapors clung

in the coves of the forest or lay along the winding course of the

river. The scene disengaged a surprising effect of stillness, which

was hardly interrupted when the cocks began once more to crow among the

steadings. Perhaps the same fellow who had made so horrid a clangor in

the darkness not half an hour before, now sent up the merriest cheer to

greet the coming day. A little wind went bustling and eddying among

the treetops underneath the windows. And still the daylight kept

flooding insensibly out of the east, which was soon to grow

incandescent and cast up that red-hot cannon-ball, the rising sun.

Denis looked out over all this with a bit of a shiver. He had taken

her hand, and retained it in his almost unconsciously.

"Has the day begun already?" she said; and then, illogically enough:

"the night has been so long! Alas! what shall we say to my uncle when

he returns?"

"What you will," said Denis, and he pressed her fingers in his.

She was silent.

"Blanche," he said, with a swift uncertain passionate utterance, "you

have seen whether I fear death. You must know well enough that I would

as gladly leap out of that window into the empty air as lay a finger on

you without your free and full consent. But if you care for me at all

do not let me lose my life in a misapprehension; for I love you better

than the whole world; and though I will die for you blithely, it would

be like all the joys of Paradise to live on and spend my life in your

service."

As he stopped speaking, a bell began to ring loudly in the interior of

the house; and a clatter of armor in the corridor showed that the

retainers were returning to their post, and the two hours were at an

end.

"After all that you have heard?" she whispered, leaning toward him with

her lips and eyes.

"I have heard nothing," he replied.

"The captain's name was Florimond de Champdivers," she said in his ear.

"I did not hear it," he answered, taking her supple body in his arms

and covering her wet face with kisses.

A melodious chirping was audible behind, followed by a beautiful

chuckle, and the voice of Messire de Maletroit wished his new nephew a

good-morning.

THE SECRET OF GORESTHORPE GRANGE

By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

I am sure that Nature never intended me to be a self-made man. There

are times when I can hardly bring myself to realize that twenty years

of my life were spent behind the counter of a grocer's shop in the East

End of London, and that it was through such an avenue that I reached a

wealthy independence and the possession of Goresthorpe Grange. My

habits are conservative, and my tastes refined and aristocratic. I

have a soul which spurns the vulgar herd. Our family, the D'Odds, date

back to a prehistoric era, as is to be inferred from the fact that

their advent into British history is not commented on by any

trustworthy historian. Some instinct tells me that the blood of a

Crusader runs in my veins. Even now, after the lapse of so many years,

such exclamations as "By'r Lady!" rise naturally to my lips, and I feel

that, should circumstances require it, I am capable of rising in my

stirrups and dealing an infidel a blow--say with a mace--which would

considerably astonish him.

Goresthorpe Grange is a feudal mansion--or so it was termed in the

advertisement which originally brought it under my notice. Its right

to this adjective had a most remarkable effect upon its price, and the

advantages gained may possibly be more sentimental than real. Still,

it is soothing to me to know that I have slits in my staircase through

which I can discharge arrows; and there is a sense of power in the fact

of possessing a complicated apparatus by means of which I am enabled to

pour molten lead upon the head of the casual visitor. These things

chime in with my peculiar humor, and I do not grudge to pay for them.

I am proud of my battlements and of the circular, uncovered sewer which

girds me round. I am proud of my portcullis and donjon and keep.

There is but one thing wanting to round off the mediævalism of my

abode, and to render it symmetrically and completely antique.

Goresthorpe Grange is not provided with a ghost.

Any man with old-fashioned tastes and ideas as to how such

establishments should be conducted would have been disappointed at the

omission. In my case it was particularly unfortunate. From my

childhood I had been an earnest student of the supernatural, and a firm

believer in it. I have reveled in ghostly literature until there is

hardly a tale bearing upon the subject which I have not perused. I

learned the German language for the sole purpose of mastering a book

upon demonology. When an infant I have secreted myself in dark rooms

in the hope of seeing some of those bogies with which my nurse used to

threaten me; and the same feeling is as strong in me now as then. It

was a proud moment when I felt that a ghost was one of the luxuries

which my money might command.

It is true that there was no mention of an apparition in the

advertisement. On reviewing the mildewed walls, however, and the

shadowy corridors, I had taken it for granted that there was such a

thing on the premises. As the presence of a kennel presupposes that of

a dog, so I imagined that it was impossible that such desirable

quarters should be untenanted by one or more restless shades. Good

heavens, what can the noble family from whom I purchased it have been

doing these hundreds of years! Was there no member of it spirited

enough to make away with his sweetheart, or take some other steps

calculated to establish a hereditary spectre? Even now I can hardly

write with patience upon the subject.

For a long time I hoped against hope. Never did rat squeak behind the

wainscot, or rain drip upon the attic floor, without a wild thrill

shooting through me as I thought that at last I had come upon traces of

some unquiet soul. I felt no touch of fear upon these occasions. If

it occurred in the night-time, I would send Mrs. D'Odd--who is a

strong-minded woman--to investigate the matter while I covered up my

head with the bedclothes and indulged in an ecstasy of expectation.

Alas, the result was always the same! The suspicious sound would be

traced to some cause so absurdly natural and commonplace that the most

fervid imagination could not clothe it with any of the glamour of

romance.

I might have reconciled myself to this state of things had it not been

for Jorrocks, of Havistock Farm. Jorrocks is a coarse, burly,

matter-of-fact fellow whom I only happen to know through the accidental

circumstance of his fields adjoining my demesne. Yet this man, though

utterly devoid of all appreciation of archæological unities, is in

possession of a well-authenticated and undeniable spectre. Its

existence only dates back, I believe, to the reign of the Second

George, when a young lady cut her throat upon hearing of the death of

her lover at the battle of Dettingen. Still, even that gives the house

an air of respectability, especially when coupled with blood-stains

upon the floor. Jorrocks is densely unconscious of his good fortune;

and his language, when he reverts to the apparition, is painful to

listen to. He little dreams how I covet every one of those moans and

nocturnal wails which he describes with unnecessary objurgation.

Things are indeed coming to a pretty pass when democratic spectres are

allowed to desert the landed proprietors and annul every social

distinction by taking refuge in the houses of the great unrecognized.

I have a large amount of perseverance. Nothing else could have raised

me into my rightful sphere, considering the uncongenial atmosphere in

which I spent the earlier part of my life. I felt now that a ghost

must be secured, but how to set about securing one was more than either

Mrs. D'Odd or myself was able to determine. My reading taught me that

such phenomena are usually the outcome of crime. What crime was to be

done, then, and who was to do it? A wild idea entered my mind that

Watkins, the house-steward, might be prevailed upon--for a

consideration--to immolate himself or some one else in the interests of

the establishment. I put the matter to him in a half-jesting manner;

but it did not seem to strike him in a favorable light. The other

servants sympathized with him in his opinion--at least, I can not

account in any other way for their having left the house in a body the

same afternoon.

"My dear," Mrs. D'Odd remarked to me one day after dinner, as I sat

moodily sipping a cup of sack--I love the good old names--"my dear,

that odious ghost of Jorrocks' has been gibbering again."

"Let it gibber!" I answered, recklessly.

Mrs. D'Odd struck a few chords on her virginal and looked thoughtfully

into the fire.

"I tell you what it is, Argentine," she said at last, using the pet

name which we usually substitute for Silas, "we must have a ghost sent

down from London."

"How can you be so idiotic, Matilda," I remarked, severely. "Who could

get us such a thing?"

"My cousin, Jack Brocket, could," she answered, confidently.

Now, this cousin of Matilda's was rather a sore subject between us. He

was a rakish, clever young fellow, who had tried his hand at many

things, but wanted perseverance to succeed at any. He was, at that

time, in chambers in London, professing to be a general agent, and

really living, to a great extent, upon his wits. Matilda managed so

that most of our business should pass through his hands, which

certainly saved me a great deal of trouble; but I found that Jack's

commission was generally considerably larger than all the other items

of the bill put together. It was this fact which made me feel inclined

to rebel against any further negotiations with the young gentleman.

"Oh, yes, he could," insisted Mrs. D., seeing the look of

disapprobation upon my face. "You remember how well he managed that

business about the crest?"

"It was only a resuscitation of the old family coat of arms, my dear,"

I protested.

Matilda smiled in an irritating manner.

"There was a resuscitation of the family portraits, too, dear," she

remarked. "You must allow that Jack selected them very judiciously."

I thought of the long line of faces which adorned the walls of my

banqueting-hall, from the burly Norman robber, through every gradation

of casque, plume, and ruff, to the sombre Chesterfieldian individual

who appears to have staggered against a pillar in his agony at the

return of a maiden MS. which he grips convulsively in his right hand.

I was fain to confess that in that instance he had done his work well,

and that it was only fair to give him an order--with the usual

commission--for a family spectre, should such a thing be attainable.

It is one of my maxims to act promptly when once my mind is made up.

Noon of the next day found me ascending the spiral stone staircase

which leads to Mr. Brocket's chambers, and admiring the succession of

arrows and fingers upon the whitewashed wall, all indicating the

direction of that gentleman's sanctum. As it happened, artificial aids

of the sort were unnecessary, as an animated flap-dance overhead could

proceed from no other quarter, though it was replaced by a deathly

silence as I groped my way up the stair. The door was opened by a

youth evidently astounded at the appearance of a client, and I was

ushered into the presence of my young friend, who was writing furiously

in a large ledger--upside down, as I afterward discovered.

After the first greetings, I plunged into business at once. "Look

here, Jack," I said, "I want you to get me a spirit, if you can."

"Spirits you mean!" shouted my wife's cousin, plunging his hand into

the waste-paper basket and producing a bottle with the celerity of a

conjuring trick. "Let's have a drink!"

I held up my hand as a mute appeal against such a proceeding so early

in the day; but on lowering it again I found that I almost

involuntarily closed my fingers round the tumbler which my adviser had

pressed upon me. I drank the contents hastily off, lest any one should

come in upon us and set me down as a toper. After all, there was

something very amusing about the young fellow's eccentricities.

"Not spirits," I explained, smilingly; "an apparition--a ghost. If

such a thing is to be had, I should be very willing to negotiate."

"A ghost for Goresthorpe Grange?" inquired Mr. Brocket with as much

coolness as if I had asked for a drawing-room suite.

"Quite so," I answered.

"Easiest thing in the world," said my companion, filling up my glass

again in spite of my remonstrance. "Let us see!" Here he took down a

large red note-book, with all the letters of the alphabet in a fringe

down the edge. "A ghost you said, didn't you. That's G.

G--gems--gimlets--gaspipes--gauntlets--guns--galleys. Ah, here we are!

Ghosts. Volume nine, section six, page forty-one. Excuse me!" And

Jack ran up a ladder and began rummaging among a pile of ledgers on a

high shelf. I felt half inclined to empty my glass into the spittoon

when his back was turned; but on second thoughts I disposed of it in a

legitimate way.

"Here it is!" cried my London agent, jumping off the ladder with a

crash, and depositing an enormous volume of manuscript upon the table.

"I have all these things tabulated, so that I may lay my hands upon

them in a moment. It's all right--it's quite weak" (here he filled our

glasses again). "What were we looking up, again?"

"Ghosts," I suggested.

"Of course; page 41. Here we are. 'J. H. Fowler & Son, Dunkel Street,

suppliers of mediums to the nobility and gentry; charms

sold--love-philters--mummies--horoscopes cast.' Nothing in your line

there, I suppose?"

I shook my head despondingly.

"Frederick Tabb," continued my wife's cousin, "sole channel of

communication between the living and the dead. Proprietor of the

spirits of Byron, Kirke White, Grimaldi, Tom Cribb, and Inigo Jones.

That's about the figure!"

"Nothing romantic enough there," I objected. "Good heavens! Fancy a

ghost with a black eye and a handkerchief tied round its waist, or

turning somersaults, and saying, 'How are you to-morrow?'" The very

idea made me so warm that I emptied my glass and filled it again.

"Here is another," said my companion, "'Christopher McCarthy; bi-weekly

séances--attended by all the eminent spirits of ancient and modern

times. Nativities--charms--abracadabras, messages from the dead.' He

might be able to help us. However, I shall have a hunt round myself

to-morrow, and see some of these fellows. I know their haunts, and

it's odd if I can't pick up something cheap. So there's an end of

business," he concluded, hurling the ledger into the corner; "and now

we'll have something to drink."

We had several things to drink--so many that my inventive faculties

were dulled next morning, and I had some little difficulty in

explaining to Mrs. D'Odd why it was that I hung my boots and spectacles

upon a peg along with my other garments before retiring to rest. The

new hopes excited by the confident manner in which my agent had

undertaken the commission caused me to rise superior to alcoholic

reaction, and I paced about the rambling corridors and old-fashioned

rooms picturing to myself the appearance of my expected acquisition,

and deciding what part of the building would harmonize best with its

presence. After much consideration, I pitched upon the banqueting hall

as being, on the whole, most suitable for its reception. It was a long

low room, hung round with valuable tapestry and interesting relics of

the old family to whom it had belonged. Coats of mail and implements

of war glimmered fitfully as the light of the fire played over them,

and the wind crept under the door, moving the hangings to and fro with

a ghastly rustling. At one end there was the raised dais, on which in

ancient times the host and his guests used to spread their table, while

a descent of a couple of steps led to the lower part of the hall, where

the vassals and retainers held wassail. The floor was uncovered by any

sort of carpet, but a layer of rushes had been scattered over it by my

direction. In the whole room there was nothing to remind one of the

nineteenth century; except, indeed, my own solid silver plate, stamped

with the resuscitated family arms, which was laid out upon an oak table

in the centre. This, I determined, should be the haunted room,

supposing my wife's cousin to succeed in his negotiation with the

spirit-mongers. There was nothing for it now but to wait patiently

until I heard some news of the result of his inquiries.