[Illustration: AN OLD MAN’S BLESSING. Page 126.]
THE
FORTUNATE ISLAND
_AND OTHER STORIES_
BY MAX ADELER
AUTHOR OF “OUT OF THE HURLY BURLY” “ELBOW ROOM”
“RANDOM SHOTS” ETC.
BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM
1882
COPYRIGHT, 1881,
BY CHAS. HEBER CLARK.
_All Rights Reserved._
PREFACE.
The custom which has ordained that a book shall have a preface is
useful enough to writers who have to say to their readers something
which could not properly be said in the body of the text; but it
imposes a burden upon those who have no such communication to make. The
author of the present volume considers that he may fairly perform the
task by remarking that if the tales herein contained are not so amusing
as others he has written, they will perhaps be found to be quite as
entertaining, and possibly, in some particulars, more instructive. If
they shall be received by the public with the favor that was found by
the preceding volumes, the author will have reason to congratulate
himself that they have achieved success of a somewhat remarkable
character.
MAX ADELER.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE FORTUNATE ISLAND 9
THE CITY OF BURLESQUE 107
AN OLD FOGY 221
MAJOR DUNWOODY’S LEG 252
JINNIE 311
THE FORTUNATE ISLAND
THE FORTUNATE ISLAND.
CHAPTER I.
THE ISLAND.
When the good ship “Morning Star,” bound to Liverpool from New York,
foundered at sea, the officers, the crew, and all of the passengers
but two, escaped in the boats. Professor E. L. Baffin and his
daughter, Matilda Baffin, preferred to intrust themselves to a patent
india-rubber life-raft, which the Professor was carrying with him to
Europe, with the hope that he should sell certain patent rights in the
contrivance.
There was time enough, before the ship sank, to inflate the raft and to
place upon it all of the trunks and bundles belonging to the Professor
and Matilda. These were lashed firmly to the rubber cylinders, and thus
Professor Baffin was encouraged to believe that he might save from
destruction all of the scientific implements and apparatus which he
had brought with him from the Wingohocking University to illustrate the
course of lectures which he had engaged to give in England and Scotland.
Having made the luggage fast, the Professor handed Matilda down from
the ship’s side, and when he had tied her to one of the trunks and
secured himself to another, he cut the raft adrift, and, with the
occupants of the boats, sorrowfully watched the brave old “Morning
Star” settle down deeper and deeper into the water; until at last, with
a final plunge, she dipped beneath the surface and disappeared.
The prospect was a cheerless one for all of the party. The sea was not
dangerously rough; but the captain estimated that the nearest land was
at least eight hundred miles distant; and, although there were in the
boats and upon the raft provisions and water enough for several days,
the chance was small that a port could be made before the supplies
should be exhausted. There was, moreover, almost a certainty that the
boats would be swamped if they should encounter a severe storm.
The Professor, for his part, felt confident that the raft would outlive
any storm; but his shipmates regarded his confidence in it as an
indication of partial insanity.
The captain rested his expectations of getting ashore chiefly upon the
fact that they were in the line of greatest travel across the Atlantic,
so that they might reasonably look to meet, within a day or two, with a
vessel of some kind which would rescue them.
As the night came on, it was agreed that the boats and the raft should
keep together, and the captain had provided a lantern, which was swung,
lighted, aloft upon an oar, so that the position of his boat could be
determined. The Professor, with his raft under sail, steered along in
the wake of the boats for several hours, Matilda, meanwhile, sleeping
calmly, after the exciting and exhausting labors of the day, upon a
couple of trunks.
As the night wore on, a brisk wind sprang up, and shortly afterward
the light upon the captain’s boat for some reason disappeared. The
Professor was somewhat perplexed when he missed it, but he concluded
that the safest plan would be to steer about upon the course he had
hitherto held, and then to communicate with the boats if they should be
within sight in the morning.
The wind increased in force about midnight, and the raft rolled and
pitched in such a manner that the Professor’s faith in it really
lost some of its force. Several times huge waves swept over it,
drenching the Professor and his daughter, and filling them with grave
apprehensions of the result if the storm should become more violent.
Even amid the peril, however, Professor Baffin could not but admire the
heroic courage and composure of Matilda, who sat upon her trunk, wet
and shivering with cold, without showing a sign of fear, but trying to
encourage her father with words of hope and cheer.
When the dawn came, dim and gray, the gale abated its force, and
although the sea continued rough, the raft rode the waves more
buoyantly and easily. Producing some matches from his waterproof box,
the Professor lighted the kerosene-lamp in the tiny stove which was
in one of the boxes; and then Matilda, with water from the barrel,
began to try to make some coffee. The attempt seemed to promise to be
successful, and while the process was going on, the Professor looked
about for the boats. They could not be seen. The Professor took out
his glass and swept the horizon. In vain; the boats had disappeared
completely; but the Professor saw something else that attracted his
attention, and made his heart for a moment stop beating.
Right ahead, not distinctly outlined, but visible in a misty sort of
way, he thought he discerned land!
At first he could not believe the evidence of his sight. The captain,
an expert navigator, had assured him that they were eight hundred miles
from any shore. But this certainly looked to the Professor very much
like land. He examined it through his glass. Even then the view was not
clear enough to remove all doubts, but it strengthened his conviction;
and when Matilda looked she said she knew it was land. She could trace
the outline of a range of hills.
“Tilly,” said the Professor, “we are saved! It _is_ the land, and the
raft is drifting us directly towards it. We cannot be sufficiently
thankful, my child, for this great mercy! Who would have expected it?
Taken altogether, it is the most extraordinary circumstance within my
recollection.”
“Captain Duffer must have made a miscalculation,” said Tilly. “The ship
must have been off of her course when she sprang a leak.”
“It is incomprehensible how so old a sailor could have made such a
blunder,” replied the Professor. “But there the land is; I can see it
now distinctly. It looks to me like a very large island.”
“Are you going ashore at once, pa?”
“Certainly, dear; that is, if we can make a landing through the
breakers.”
“Suppose there are cannibals on it, pa? It would be horrid to have them
eat us!”
“They would have to fatten us first, darling; and that would give us an
opportunity to study their habits. It would be extremely interesting!”
“But the study would be of no use if they should eat us!”
“All knowledge is useful, Tilly; I could write out the results of our
observations, and probably set them adrift in a bottle!”
“It is such a dreadful death!”
“Try to look at it philosophically! There is really nothing more
unpleasant about the idea of being digested than there is about the
thought of being buried.”
“O, pa!”
“No, my child! It is merely a sentiment. If I shall be eaten, and we
have volition after death, I am determined to know how I agreed with
the man who had me for dinner! Tilly, I have a notion that you would
eat tender!”
“Pa, you are simply awful!”
“To me, indeed, there is something inspiring in the thought that my
physical substance, when I have done with it, should nourish the
vitality of another being. I don’t like to think that I may be wasted.”
“You seem as if you rather hoped we should find savage cannibals upon
the island!”
“No, Tilly; I hope we shall not. I believe we shall not. Man-eaters are
rarely found in this latitude. My impression is that the island is not
inhabited at all. Probably it is of recent volcanic origin. If so, we
may have a chance to examine a newly-formed crater. I have longed to do
so for years.”
“We might as well be eaten as to be blown up and burned up by a
volcano,” said Matilda.
“It would be a grand thing, though, to be permitted to observe, without
interruption, the operation of one of the mightiest forces of nature! I
could make a magnificent report to the Philosophical Society about it;
that is, if we should ever get home again.”
“For my part,” said Matilda, “I hope it contains neither cannibals nor
volcanoes; I hope it is simply a charming island without a man or a
beast upon it.”
“Something like Robinson Crusoe’s, for example! I have often thought
I should like to undergo his experiences. It must be, to an inquiring
mind, exceedingly instructive to observe in what manner a civilized
man, thrown absolutely upon his own resources, contrives to conduct
his existence. I could probably enrich my lecture upon Sociology if we
should be compelled to remain upon the island for a year or two.”
“But we should starve to death in that time!”
“So we should; unless, indeed, the island produces fruits of some kind
from its soil. I think it does. It seems to be covered with trees,
Tilly, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Matilda, looking through the glass. “It is a mass of
verdure. It is perfectly beautiful. I believe I see something that
looks like a building, too.”
“Impossible! you see a peculiar rock formation, no doubt; I shan’t be
surprised if there is enough in the geological formation of the island
to engage my attention so long as we remain.”
“But what am I to do, meantime?”
“You? Oh, you can label my specimens and keep the journal; and maybe
you might hunt around for fossils a little yourself.”
The raft rapidly moved toward the shore, and the eyes of both of the
voyagers were turned toward it inquiringly and eagerly. Who could tell
how long the island might be their home, and what strange adventures
might befall them there?
“The wind is blowing right on shore, Tilly,” said the Professor. “I
will steer straight ahead, and I shouldn’t wonder if we could shoot
the breakers safely. Isn’t that a sand-beach right in front there?”
inquired the Professor, elevating his nose a little, to get his
spectacles in focus. “It looks like one.”
“Yes, it is,” replied Matilda, looking through her glass.
“First-rate! Couldn’t have been better. There, we will drive right in.
Tilly, hoist my umbrella, so as to give her more sail!”
The raft fairly danced across the waves under the increased pressure,
and in a moment or two it was rolling in the swell just outside of the
line of white breakers. Before the Professor had time to think what
he should do to avoid the shock, a huge wave uplifted the raft and ran
it high upon the beach with such violence as to compel the Professor
to turn a somersault over a trunk. He recovered himself at once, and
replacing his spectacles he proceeded, with the assistance of Matilda,
to pull the raft up beyond the reach of the waves.
Then, wet and draggled, with sand on his coat, and his hat knocked
completely out of shape, he stood rubbing his chin with his hand, and
thoughtfully observing the breakers.
“Extraordinary force, Tilly, that of the ocean surf,--clear waste, too,
apparently. If we stay here long enough, I must try to find out the
secret of its motion.”
“Hadn’t we better put on some dry clothing first?” suggested Miss
Baffin, “and examine the surf afterwards? For my part I have had enough
of it.”
“Certainly! Have you the keys of the trunks? Everything soaking wet,
most likely.”
When the trunks were unfastened, the Professor was delighted to find
that the contents were perfectly dry. Selecting some clothing for
himself, he went behind a huge rock and proceeded to dress. Matilda,
after looking carefully about, retreated to a group of trees, and
beneath their shelter made her toilette.
“Isn’t this a magnificent place?” said the Professor, when Matilda,
nicely dressed, came out to where he was standing by the raft.
“Perfectly lovely.”
“Noble trees, rich grass, millions of wild flowers, birds twittering
above us, a matchless sky, a bracing air, and--why, halloa! there’s a
stream of running water! We must have a drink of that, the very first
thing. Delicious, isn’t it?” asked the Professor, when Miss Baffin,
after drinking, returned the cup to him.
“It is nectar.”
“I tell you what, Tilly, I am not sure that it wouldn’t be a good thing
to be compelled to live here for two or three years. The vegetation
shows that we are in a temperate latitude, and I know I can find or
raise enough to eat in such a place as this.”
“Why, pa, look there!”
“Where?”
“Over there. Don’t you see that castle?”
“Castle? No! What! Why, yes, it is! Bless my soul, Tilly, the place is
inhabited!”
“Who would have thought of finding a building like that on an island in
mid-ocean?”
“It is the most extraordinary circumstance, taking it altogether, that
ever came under my observation,” said the Professor, looking towards
the distant edifice. “So far as I can make out, it is a castle of an
early period.”
“Mediæval?”
“Well, not later than the seventh or eighth century, at the farthest.
Tilly, I feel as if something remarkable was going to happen.”
“Pa, you frighten me!”
“No, I mean something that will be extraordinarily interesting. I know
it. The voice of instinct tells me so. Have you your journal with you?”
“It is in the trunk.”
“Get it and your lead-pencils. We will drag the baggage further up from
the water, and then we will push towards the castle. I am going to know
the date of that structure before I sleep to-night.”
“There can hardly be any danger, I suppose?” suggested Miss Baffin,
rather timidly.
“Oh, no, of course not; I have my revolver with me. Let me see; where
is it? Ah, here. And the cartridges are waterproof. I think I will put
a few things in a valise, also. We might find the castle empty, and
have to depend upon ourselves for supper.”
The Professor then let the air out of the raft, and folded the
flattened cylinders together.
When the valise was ready, the Professor grasped it, shouldered his
umbrella, and said, “Now, come, darling, and we will find out what all
this means.”
The pair started along a broad path which ran by the side of the
stream, following the course of the brook, and winding in and out among
trees of huge girth and gigantic height. Birds of familiar species
flitted from branch to branch before them, as if to lead them on their
way; now and then a brown rabbit, after eyeing them for a moment with
quivering nostrils, beat a quick tattoo upon the ground with his hind
legs, then threw up his tail and whisked into the shrubbery. Gray
squirrels scrambled around the trunks of the trees to look at them,
and now and then a screaming, blue-crested kingfisher ceased his
complaining while he plunged into one of the pools of the rivulet, and
emerged with a trout in his talons.
It was an enchanting scene; and Miss Baffin enjoyed it thoroughly as
she stepped blithely by the side of her father, who seemed to find
especial pleasure in discovering that the herbage, the trees, the
rocks, and all the other natural objects, were precisely like those
with which he had been familiar at home.
After following the path for some time, the pair came to a place where
the brook widened into a great pool, through which the water went
sluggishly, bearing upon its surface bubbles and froth, which told
how it had been tossed and broken by rapid descents over the rocks in
some narrow channel above. Here the Professor stopped to observe an
uncommonly large and green bullfrog, which sat upon a slimy stone a few
yards away, looking solemnly at him.
During the pause, they were startled to hear a voice saying to them,--
“Good morrow, gentle friends.”
Matilda uttered a partly-suppressed scream, and even the Professor
jumped backward a foot or two, in astonishment.
Looking toward the place from which the voice came, they saw an old
man with gray hair and beard lifting a large stone pitcher, which he
had been filling from the pool. He was dressed in a long and rather
loose robe, which reached from his shoulders to his feet, and which
was gathered about his waist with a knotted cord. This was his entire
costume, for his feet were bare, and he wore no hat to hide the
rich masses of hair which fell to his shoulders. As he offered his
salutation, he raised his pitcher until he stood upright, and then he
looked at the Professor and Miss Baffin with a pleasant smile, in which
there were traces of curiosity.
“Good afternoon,” returned the Professor, after a moment’s hesitation;
“how are you?”
“Are you not strangers in this land?” asked the old man.
“Well, yes,” said the Professor, briskly, with a manifest purpose
to be sociable; “we have just come ashore down here on the beach.
Shipwrecked, in fact. This is my daughter. Let me introduce you. My
child, allow me to make you acquainted with--with--beg pardon, but I
think you did not mention your name.”
“I am known as Father Anselm.”
“Ah, indeed! Matilda, this is Father Anselm. A clergyman, I suppose?”
“I am a hermit; my cell is close at hand. You will be welcome there if
you will visit it.”
“A hermit! Living in a cell! Well, this _is_ surprising! We shall
be only too happy to visit you, if you will permit us. Delightful,
isn’t it, dear? We will obtain some valuable information from the old
gentleman.”
The Hermit, with the pitcher poised upon his shoulder, led the way, and
he was closely followed by the Professor and by Matilda, who regarded
the proceeding rather with nervous apprehension. The Hermit’s cell was
a huge cave, excavated from the side of a hill. The floor was covered
with sprigs of fragrant evergreens. A small table stood upon one side
of the apartment; beside it was a rough bench, which was the only seat
in the room. A crucifix, a candle, a skull, an hour-glass, and a few
simple utensils were the only other articles to be seen.
The Hermit brought forward the bench for his visitors to sit upon, and
then, procuring a cup, he offered each a drink of water.
The Professor, hugging one knee with interlocked fingers, seemed
anxious to open a conversation.
“Pardon me, sir, but do I understand that you are a clergyman; that is
to say, some sort of a teacher of religion?”
“I belong to a religious order. I am a recluse.”
“Roman Catholic, I presume?” said the Professor, glancing at the
crucifix.
“Your meaning is not wholly clear to me,” replied the Hermit.
“What are your views? Do you lean to Calvinism, or do you think the
Arminians, upon the whole, have the best of the argument?”
“The gentleman does not understand you, pa,” said Miss Baffin.
“Never mind, then; we will not press it. But I should like very much
if you would tell us something about this place; this country around
here,” said the Professor, waving his hand towards the door.
“Let me ask first of the misadventure which cast you unwillingly upon
our shores?” said the Hermit.
“Well, you see, I sailed from New York on the twenty-third of last
month, with my daughter here, to fulfil an engagement to deliver a
course of lectures in England.”
“In England!” exclaimed the Hermit, with an appearance of eager
interest.
“Yes, in England. I am a professor, you know, in an American
university. When we were about half way across, the ship sprang a
leak, from some cause now unknown. My daughter and I got off with our
baggage upon a life-raft, which I most fortunately had with me. The
rest of the passengers and the crew escaped in the boats. I became
separated from them, and drifted here. That is the whole story.”
“I comprehend only a part of what you say,” replied the Hermit. “But it
is enough that you have suffered; I give you hearty welcome.”
“Thank you. And now tell me where I am.”
“You spoke of England a moment ago,” said the Hermit. “Let me begin
with it. Hundreds of years ago, in the time of King Arthur, of noble
fame, it happened, by some means even yet not revealed to us, that a
vast portion of that island separated from the rest, and drifted far
out upon the ocean. It carried with it hundreds of people--noble, and
gentle, and humble. This is that country.”
“In-_deed_!” exclaimed the Professor. “This? This island that we are
on? Amazing!”
“It is true,” responded the Hermit.
“Why, Tilly, do you hear that? This is the lost Atlantis! We have been
driven ashore on the far-famed Fortunate Island! Wonderful, isn’t it?
Taking every thing into consideration, I must say this certainly is the
most extraordinary circumstance I ever encountered!”
“Nobody among us has ever heard anything from England or of it,
excepting through tradition. No ship comes to our shores, and those
of us who have builded boats and gone away in search of adventure
have never come back. Sometimes I think the island has not ended its
wanderings, but is still floating about; but we cannot tell.”
“But, my dear sir,” said the Professor, “you can take your latitude and
longitude at any time, can’t you?”
“Take what?”
“Your latitude and longitude! Find out exactly in what part of the
world you are?”
“I never heard that such a thing was done. None of our people have that
kind of learning.”
“Well, but you have schools and colleges, and you acquire knowledge,
don’t you?”
“We have a few schools; but only the low-born children attend them,
and they are taught only what their fathers learned. We do not try to
know more. We reverence the past. It is a matter of pride among us to
preserve the habits, the manners, the ideas, the social state which our
fore-fathers had when they were sundered from their nation.”
“You live here pretty much as King Arthur and his subjects lived?”
“Yes. We have our chivalry; our knight errants; our tournaments; our
castles--everything just as it was in the old time.”
“My dear,” said the Professor to Miss Baffin, “the wildest imagination
could have conceived nothing like this. We shall be afforded an
opportunity to study the middle ages on the spot.”
“Sometimes,” said the Hermit, gravely, “I have secret doubts whether
our way is the best, whether in England and the rest of the world men
may not have learned while we have remained ignorant; but I cannot
tell. And no one would be willing to change if we could know the truth.”
“My friend,” said the Professor, with a look of compassion, “the
world has gone far, far ahead of King Arthur’s time! It has almost
forgotten that there ever was such a time. You would hardly believe
me, at any rate you would not understand me, if I should tell you of
the present state of things in the world. But if I stay here I will
try to enlighten you gradually. I feel as if I had been sent here as a
missionary for that very purpose.”
“Do you come from England?”
“Oh, no! I was going thither. I came from the United States. You never
heard of them, of course. They are a land right across the ocean from
England, about three thousand miles.”
“Discovered by a man named Columbus,” said Miss Baffin.
“Your dress is an odd one,” continued the Hermit. “Are you a fighting
man?”
“A fighting man! Oh, no, of course not. I’m a Professor.”
“Then this is not a weapon that you carry.”
“Bless my soul, my dear sir! Why, this is an umbrella! Tilly, we have
to deal with a very primitive condition of things here. It is both
entertaining and instructive.”
“What is it for?”
“I will show you. Suppose it begins to rain, I untie this string
and open the umbrella, _so_! Now don’t be alarmed! It is perfectly
harmless, I assure you!”
The holy man had retreated suddenly into the furthest recess of the
cell.
“While it rains I hold it in this manner. When it clears, I shut it up,
_thus_, and put it under my arm.”
“Wonderful! wonderful!” exclaimed the Hermit. “I thought it was an
implement of war. The world beyond us evidently has surpassed us.”
“This is nothing to the things I will show you,” said the Professor.
“I see you have an hour-glass here. Is this the only way you have of
recording time?”
“We have the sun.”
“No clocks or watches?”
“I do not know what they are.”
“Tilly, show him your watch. This is the machine with which we tell
time.”
“Alive, is it?” asked the Hermit.
The Professor explained the mechanism to him in detail.
“You are indeed a learned man,” said the recluse. “But I have forgotten
a part of my duty. Will you not take some food?”
“Well,” said the Professor, “if you have anything about in the form of
a lunch, I think I could dispose of it.”
“I am awfully hungry,” said Miss Baffin.
The Hermit produced a piece of meat, and hanging it upon a turnspit he
gathered a few sticks and placed them beneath it. The Professor watched
him closely; and when the holy man took in his hands a flint and steel
with which to ignite the wood, the Professor exclaimed,--
“One moment! Let me start that fire for you?”
Taking from his pocket an old newspaper, he put it beneath the sticks;
then from his match-box he took a match, and striking it there was a
blaze in a moment.
The Hermit crossed himself and muttered a prayer at this performance.
“No cause for alarm, I assure you,” said the Professor.
“You must be a wizard,” said the Hermit.
“No; I did that with what we call a match; like this one. There is
stuff on the end which catches fire when you rub it,” and the Professor
again ignited a match.
“I never could have dreamed that such a thing could be,” exclaimed the
recluse. “You will be regarded by our people as the most marvellous
magician that ever lived.”
The Professor laughed.
“Oh,” said he, “I will let them know it is not magic. We must clear all
that nonsense away. Tilly, I feel that duty points me clearly to the
task of delivering a course of lectures upon this island.”
During the repast, the Hermit, looking timidly at Professor Baffin,
said,--
“Would it seem discourteous if I should ask you another question?”
“Certainly not. I shall be glad to give you any information you may
want.”
“What, then,” inquired the Hermit, “is the reason why you protect your
eyes with glass windows?”
“These,” said the Professor, removing his spectacles, “are intended to
improve the sight. I cannot see well without them. With them I have
perfect vision. Tilly, make a memorandum in the journal that my first
lecture shall be upon Optics.”
“Pa, I wish we could learn something about the castle we saw,” observed
Miss Baffin.
“Oh, yes; by the way, Father Anselm,” said the Professor, “we observed
an old-fashioned castle over yonder, as we came here. Can you tell me
anything about it?”
“The castle,” replied the Hermit, “is the home and the stronghold of
Sir Bors, Baron of Lonazep. He is a great and powerful noble, much
feared in this country.”
“Any family?” inquired the Professor.
“He has a gallant son, Sir Dinadan, as brave a knight as ever levelled
lance, and a beautiful daughter, Ysolt. Both are unmarried; but the
fair Ysolt fondly loves Sir Bleoberis, to whom, however, the Baron will
not suffer her to be wedded, because Sir Bleoberis, though bold and
skilful, has little wealth.”
“Human nature, you observe, my child, is the same everywhere. We have
heard of something like this at home,” remarked the Professor to his
daughter.
“Ysolt is loved also by another knight, Sir Dagonet. He has great
riches, and is very powerful; but he is a bad and dangerous man, and
the Baron will not consent to give him Ysolt to wife. These matters
cause much strife and much unhappiness.”
“It’s the same way with us,” observed the Professor; “I have known lots
of such cases.”
“I hope we shall stay here long enough to see how it all turns out,”
said Miss Baffin.
“Of course,” replied the Professor. “You hated the island when you
thought it might promote the interests of science. But some lovers’
nonsense would keep you here willingly for life. Just like a woman.”
“The King,” said the Hermit, “has espoused the cause of Sir Bleoberis,
and we hope he may win the lady for the knight whom she loves.”
“The King, eh? Then you have a monarchical government?”
“We have eleven kings upon this island.”
“All reigning?”
“Yes.”
“How many people are there in the whole island?”
“No one knows, exactly. One hundred thousand, possibly.”
“Not ten thousand men apiece for the kings! Humph! In my country we
have a million men in one town, and nobody but a common man to rule
them.”
“Incredible!”
“And what is the name of your particular king,--the one who is lord of
this part of the country?”
“King Brandegore; a wise, and good, and valiant monarch.”
“Tilly,” said the Professor, “you might as well jot that down. Eleven
kings on the island, and King Brandegore running this part of the
government. I must get acquainted with him.”
When the meal was finished the Professor said to the recluse,--
“Do you allow smoking?”
“Smoking!”
“Pray excuse me! I forgot. If you will permit me, I will introduce you
to another of the practices of modern civilization.”
Then the Professor lighted a cigar, and, sitting on the bench in a
comfortable position, with his back against the wall of the cave, he
began to puff out whiffs of smoke.
The Hermit, with a look of alarm, was about to ask for an explanation
of the performance, when loud cries were heard outside of the cave
mingled with frightened exclamations from a woman.
The occupants of the cavern started to their feet, just as a beautiful
girl, dressed in a quaint but charming costume, ran into the doorway in
such haste that she dashed plump up against the Professor, who caught
her in his arms.
For a moment she was startled at seeing two strangers in a place where
she had thought to encounter none but the Hermit; but her dread of her
pursuer overcame her diffidence, and, clinging to the Professor, she
exclaimed,--
“Oh, save me! save me!”
“Certainly I will,” said the Professor, soothingly, as his arm
tightened its clasp about her waist. “What’s the matter? Don’t be
afraid, my child. Who is pursuing you?”
The Professor was not displeased at the situation in which he found
himself. The damsel was fair to see, and the head which rested, in what
seemed to him sweet confidence, upon his shoulder, was crowned with
golden hair of matchless beauty. Even amid the intense excitement of
the moment the reflection flashed through the Professor’s mind that he
was a widower, and that Matilda had always expressed a willingness to
try to love a stepmother.
“My father! The Baron! He threatens to kill me,” sobbed the maiden, and
then, tearing herself away from the Professor in a manner which struck
him as being, to say the least, inconsiderate, she flew to Father
Anselm and said, “You, holy father, will save me.”
“I will try, my daughter; I will try,” replied the Hermit. And then,
turning to the Professor he said, “It is Ysolt.”
“Ah!” said the Professor, “the Baron’s daughter. May I ask you, miss,
what the old gentleman is so excited about? It is not one of the
customs here for indignant parents to chase their children around the
country, is it?”
“I had gone from the castle,” said the damsel, partly to the Hermit
and partly to Professor Baffin, “to meet Sir Bleoberis at the
trysting-place. My father was watching me, and as I neared the spot he
rushed toward me with a drawn sword, threatening to kill me.”
“It is an outrageous shame!” exclaimed the Professor, sympathetically.
“I eluded him,” continued the sobbing girl, “and flew towards this
place. When he saw me at last he gave chase. I am afraid he will slay
me when he comes.”
“I think, perhaps, I may be able to reason with this person when he
arrives,” said the Professor, rubbing his chin and looking at the
hermit over the top of his spectacles. “The Baron ought to be ashamed
of himself to go on in this manner! Tilly, wipe the poor creature’s
eyes with your handkerchief. There now, dear, cheer up.”
Just then the Baron rushed into the cell, with his eyes flaming, and
his breath coming short and fast.
He was a large man, with a handsome face, thick covered with beard. He
was dressed in doublet, trunks and hose, and over one shoulder a mantle
hung gracefully. His sword was in its sheath, and it was manifest that
he had repented of his murderous purpose.
“Where is that faithless girl?” he demanded in a voice of thunder.
Ysolt had hidden behind Matilda Baffin.
“Say, priest, where have you secreted her?”
“One moment!” said the Professor, stepping forward. “May I, without
appearing impertinent, offer a suggestion?”
“Out, varlet!” exclaimed the Baron, pushing him aside. “Tell me,
Hermit, where is Ysolt?”
The Professor was actually pale with indignation. Pushing himself in
front of the Baron, and brandishing his umbrella in a determined way he
said:
“Old man, I want you to understand that you have to deal with a free
and independent American citizen! What do you mean by ‘varlet?’ I hurl
the opprobrious word back into your teeth, sir! I am not going to put
up with such conduct, I’d like you to know!”
The Baron for the first time perceived what manner of man the Professor
was, and he paused for a moment amid his rage to eye the stranger with
astonishment.
“Why do you want to hurt the young woman? Is this any way for an
affectionate father to behave to his own offspring? Allow me to say,
sir, that I’ll be hanged if I think it is! If you don’t want her to
marry Sir What’s-his-name, don’t let her; but it strikes me that
charging around the country after her, and threatening to kill her, is
an evidence that you don’t understand the first principles of domestic
discipline!”
“What do you mean? Who are you? What are you doing here?” demanded the
Baron, fiercely, recovering his self-possession.
“I am Professor E. L. Baffin, of Wingohocking University; and I mean
to try to persuade you to treat your daughter more gently,” said the
Professor, cooling as he remembered that the Baron had a father’s
authority.
“You have a weapon. I will fight you,” said the Baron, drawing his
sword.
The Professor put his cigar in his mouth, and opened his umbrella
suddenly in the Baron’s face.
The Baron retreated a distance of twenty feet and looked scared.
“Come,” said the Professor, closing his umbrella and smiling, “I am
not a fighting man. We will not quarrel. Let us talk the matter over
calmly.”
But the Baron, mortified because of the alarm that he had manifested,
rushed savagely at the Professor, and would have felled him to the
earth had not Matilda sprung forward and placed herself, shrieking,
between the Baron and her father.
At this precise juncture, also, a young man entered the cell, and,
seeing the Baron apparently about to strike a woman, seized his
sword-arm and held it. The Baron turned sharply about. Recognizing the
youth as his son, he simply looked at him angrily, and then, while Miss
Baffin clung to the Professor, the Baron seized Ysolt by the arm and
led her weeping away.
The Professor, after freeing himself from Miss Baffin’s embrace,
extended his hand to the youth, and said,--
“I have not the honor of knowing you, sir, but you have behaved
handsomely. Permit me to inquire your name?”
“Sir Dinadan; the son of the Baron,” said the youth, taking hold of the
Professor’s hand, as if he were somewhat uncertain what he had better
do with it.
“No last name?” asked the Professor.
“That is all. And you are?--”
“I am Everett L. Baffin, a Professor in the Wingohocking University. I
was cast ashore down here with my daughter. Tilly, let me introduce to
you Sir Dinadan.”
Sir Dinadan colored, and dropping upon his knee he seized Miss Baffin’s
hand and kissed it. Rising, he said:
“What, Sir Baffin, is the name of the sweet lady?”
“Matilda.”
“How lovely!” exclaimed Sir Dinadan.
“It is abbreviated sometimes to Tilly, by her friends.”
“It is too beautiful,” said the youth, gazing at Miss Baffin with
unconcealed admiration. “I trust, Sir Baffin, I may be able to serve in
some manner you and the Lady Tilly.”
“Professor Baffin, my dear sir; not Sir Baffin. Permit me to offer you
my card.”
Sir Dinadan took the card, and seemed perplexed as to its meaning. He
turned it over and over in a despairing sort of way in his fingers.
“If you will read it,” said the Professor, “you will find my name upon
it.”
“But, Sir Baffin, I cannot read.”
“Can’t read!” exclaimed the Professor, in amazement. “You don’t mean to
say that you have never learned to read!”
“High-born people,” replied Sir Dinadan, with an air of indifference,
“care nothing for learning. We leave that to the monks.”
“This,” said the Professor to Miss Baffin, “is one of the most
extraordinary circumstances that has yet come under my observation.
Tilly, mention in your journal that the members of the upper classes
are wholly illiterate.”
“As the Lady Tilly is a stranger here,” said Sir Dinadan, “I would be
glad to have her walk with me to the brow of the hill. I will show her
our beautiful park.”
“That would be splendid!” said Miss Baffin. “May I go, pa?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the Professor, with hesitation, and looking
inquiringly at the Hermit. As that individual appeared to regard the
proposition with no such feeling of alarm as would indicate a breach
of ordinary social custom, the Professor continued, “Yes, dear, but be
sure not to go beyond ear-shot.”
Sir Dinadan, smiling, led Miss Baffin away, and the Professor sat down
to finish his cigar and to have some further conversation with the
Hermit. Before he had time to begin, two other visitors arrived. Both
were young men, gaily dressed in rich costume. One of them, whom the
recluse greeted as Sir Bleoberis, had a tall slender figure and an
exceedingly handsome countenance, which was adorned with a moustache
and pointed beard. His companion, Sir Agravaine, was smaller, less
comely, and if his face was an index of his mind, by no means so
intelligent.
After being presented to the Professor, whom they regarded with not a
little curiosity, Sir Bleoberis said:
“Holy father, the fair Ysolt was here and was taken away by the Baron,
was she not?”
“Yes!”
“Alas!” said the Knight, “I see no hope. Whilst I am poor, the Baron
will never relent.”
“Never!” chimed in Sir Agravaine.
“Is your poverty the only objection he has to you?” asked the Professor.
“Yes.”
“Well,” replied the Professor, “I can understand a father’s feelings in
such a case. It seems hard upon a young man, but naturally he wants his
daughter to be comfortable. Is there nothing you can turn your hand to
to improve your fortunes?”
“We might rob somebody,” said Sir Agravaine, with a reflective air.
“Rob somebody!” exclaimed the Professor, “That is simply atrocious!
Can’t you go to work; go into business, start a factory, speculate in
stocks, or something of that kind?”
“Persons of my degree never work,” said Sir Bleoberis.
The Professor sighed, “Ah! I forgot. We must think of something else.
Let me see; young man, I think I can help you a little, perhaps. You
agree to accept some information from me and I believe I can make your
fortune.”
“Do you propose,” asked Sir Agravaine, “to drug the Baron, or to
enchant him so that he will change his mind? I have often tried
love-philters with ladies whose hands I sought, but they always failed.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the Professor. “I don’t operate with such
trumpery as that. You agree to help me, and we’ll give this island such
a stirring up as will revolutionize it.”
The Professor then proceeded to explain in detail the nature and
operation of some of the scientific apparatus which he had with him
in his trunk; and the Knight and the Hermit listened with open-eyed
amazement while he told them of the telegraph, the telephone, the
phonograph, the photograph, and other modern inventions.
Whilst the Professor waxed eloquent, Sir Dinadan and Miss Baffin
strolled slowly back towards the cave.
Sir Dinadan had improved the opportunity to offer Miss Baffin his hand,
rather abruptly.
“But you can try to love me,” he pleaded, as she, with much
embarrassment but with gentleness, resisted his importunity.
“I can try, Sir Dinadan,” she said, blushing, “but really I have
known you only a few moments. It is impossible for me now to have any
affection for you.”
“Will to-morrow be time enough?”
“No, no! I must have a much longer time than that.”
“I will fight for you. We will get up a tournament and you will see how
I can unhorse the bravest knights. If I knock over ten, will that make
any difference in your feelings?”
“Not the slightest!”
“Fifteen?”
“You do not understand. It is not the custom in our country to press a
suit upon a lady by poking people off of a horse.”
“Perhaps I ought to fight your father? Will Sir Baffin break a lance
with me to decide if I shall have you?”
“My father does not fight.”
“Does not fight! Certainly you don’t mean that?”
“He is the Vice-President of the Universal Peace Society.”
“The WHAT?” asked Sir Dinadan, in amazement.
“Of the Peace Society; a society which opposes fighting of every kind,
under any circumstances.”
It was a moment or two before Sir Dinadan could get his breath. Then he
said--
“But--but then, Lady Tilly, what--what do men in your country do with
themselves?”
Miss Baffin laughed and endeavored to explain to him the modern methods
of existence.
“I never could have believed such a thing from other lips,” said Sir
Dinadan. “It is marvellous. But tell me, how do lovers woo in your
land?”
“Really, Sir Dinadan,” replied Miss Baffin, blushing, “I have had no
experience worth speaking of in such matters. I suppose, perhaps, they
show a lady that they love her, and then wait until she can make up her
mind.”
“I will wait, then, as long as you wish.”
“But,” said Miss Baffin, shyly, although plainly she was beginning to
feel a genuine interest in the proceeding, “your father and your mother
may not think as you do; and then, I shall not want to stay upon this
island if I can get away.”
“My mother always consents to anything I wish, and the Baron never
dares to oppose what she wants. And if you go back to your own country,
I will go with you, whether you accept me or not.”
Miss Baffin smiled. Sir Dinadan was in earnest, at any rate. She
could not help thinking of the sensation that would be created in
Wingohocking if she should walk up the fashionable street of the town
some afternoon with Sir Dinadan in his parti-colored dress of doublet
and stockings, and jaunty feathered cap, and sword, while his long
yellow hair dangled about his shoulders.
While Sir Dinadan was protesting that he should love her for ever and
for ever, they came back again to the Hermit’s cell, and then Sir
Dinadan, greeting Sir Bleoberis and Sir Agravaine, presented Miss
Baffin to them.
Sir Bleoberis was courteous but somewhat indifferent; Sir Agravaine,
upon the contrary, appeared to be deeply impressed with Miss
Baffin’s beauty. After gazing at her steadily for a few moments, he
approached her, and while the other members of the company engaged in
conversation, he said,--
“Fair lady, you are not married?”
“No, sir,” replied Miss Baffin, with some indignation.
“Permit me, then, to offer you my hand.”
“What!” exclaimed Miss Baffin, becoming angry.
“I love you. Will you be mine?” said Sir Agravaine, falling upon one
knee and trying to take her hand.
Miss Baffin boxed his ear with a degree of violence.
Rising with a rueful countenance, he said,--
“Am I to understand, then, that you decline the offer?”
Miss Baffin, without replying, walked away from him and joined her
father.
Sir Dinadan was asking the Hermit for a few simples with which to
relieve the suffering of his noble mother.
“I judge, from what you say,” remarked the Professor, “that the
Baroness is afflicted with lumbago. The Hermit’s remedies, I fear, will
be ineffectual. Permit me to recommend you to iron her noble back, and
to apply a porous plaster.”
Sir Dinadan wished to have the process more clearly explained. The
Professor unfolded the matter in detail, and said,--
“I have some plasters in my trunk, down there upon the beach.”
“Then you are a leech?” asked Sir Dinadan.
“Matilda, my child,” remarked the Professor, “observe that word ‘leech’
used by Sir Dinadan! How very interesting it is! Not exactly a leech,
Sir Dinadan; but it is my habit to try to know a little of everything.”
“Can you cast a lover’s horoscope?” asked Sir Agravaine, looking at
Matilda.
“Young man,” said the Professor, sternly, “there is no such foolery as
a horoscope; and as for love, you had better let it alone until you
have more wit and a heavier purse.”
“I wish you and the Lady Tilly to come with me to the castle,” remarked
Sir Dinadan. “My father will welcome you heartily if you can medicine
the sickness of my mother; and she will be eager to receive your fair
daughter.”
“I will go, of course,” replied the Professor; “you are very kind.
Tilly, we had better accept, I think?”
Miss Baffin was willing to leave the matter wholly in the hands of her
father.
After requesting Sir Dinadan to have his luggage brought up from the
beach, the Professor bade adieu to the Hermit, and then turning to Sir
Bleoberis, who stood with a disconsolate air by the fire, he said:
“I will see you again about your affair; and meantime you may depend
upon my using my influence with the Baron to remove his prejudices.
I will dance at your wedding yet; that is, figuratively speaking, of
course; for, as a precise matter of fact, I do not know how to dance.”
As the Professor and Sir Dinadan and Miss Baffin left the cell, Sir
Agravaine approached the lady and whispered:
“Did I understand you to say you don’t love me?” Miss Baffin twitched
the skirt of her gown to one side in a scornful way, and passed on
without replying.
“Women,” sighed Sir Agravaine, as he looked mournfully after her, “are
_so_ incomprehensible. I wish I knew what she meant.”
CHAPTER II.
THE CASTLE OF BARON BORS.
As Sir Dinadan led the Professor and Miss Baffin along the lovely path
which went winding through the woods toward the castle, the Professor
lighted another cigar, and in response to Sir Dinadan, he entered upon
an explanation of the nature of tobacco, the methods and extent of its
use, and its effect upon the human system.
“The Lady Tilly, of course she smokes sometimes, also?” asked Sir
Dinadan.
“Oh, no,” replied Miss Baffin, “ladies in my country never do.”
“Of course not,” added the Professor.
“And yet, if it is so pleasing and so beneficial as you say,” responded
the youth, “why should not ladies attempt it?”
The Professor really could not say; Sir Dinadan was pressing him almost
too closely. He compromised further discussion by yielding promptly,
although with a melancholy reflection that his store of cigars was
small, to a request to teach Sir Dinadan, at the earliest opportunity,
to smoke.
As they neared the castle, the Professor’s attention was absorbed
in observing the details of the structure. It was a massive edifice
of stone, having severe outlines and no ornamentation worthy of the
name, but presenting, from the very grandeur of its proportions, an
impressive and not unpleasing appearance. It was surrounded by a wide
fosse filled with water; and the Professor was delighted to observe, as
they drew near, that the entrance was protected with a portcullis and a
drawbridge. The bridge was drawn up, and the iron portcullis, made of
bars of huge size, was closed.
“Magnificent, isn’t it, Tilly?” exclaimed the Professor, gleefully. “It
is probably the most perfect specimen of early English architecture
now upon earth. Most fortunately I have in my trunks a photographic
apparatus with which to obtain a picture of it.”
Sir Dinadan seized a curved horn which hung upon the branch of a tree,
and blew a blast loud and long upon it.
The Professor regarded the performance with intense interest and not a
little enthusiasm.
The warder of the castle appeared at the grating, and, perceiving Sir
Dinadan, saluted him; then lowering the drawbridge and lifting the
portcullis, which ascended with many hideous creaks and groans from
the rusty iron, Sir Dinadan and his companions entered.
Leaving the Professor and Miss Baffin comfortably seated in a great
hall, the walls of which were adorned with curious tapestries dark with
age, with swords and axes and trophies of the chase, Sir Dinadan went
in search of the Baron.
“Little did we think, Tilly,” said the Professor, looking around, “when
we left New York four weeks ago--it seems more like four years--that we
should find ourselves, within a month, in such a place as this.”
“I can hardly believe it yet,” responded Miss Baffin.
“It does seem like a dream. And yet we are certainly wide awake, and we
are in the hall of a real castle, waiting for real people to come to
us.”
“Sir Dinadan seems very real, too,” said Miss Baffin, timidly.
“Very! There can be no doubt about it.”
“And he behaves like a real young man, too,” continued Miss Baffin. “He
proposed to me this morning.”
“What! Proposed to you! Incredible! Why, the boy has not known you more
than an hour or two.”
“He is a man, pa; not a boy,” said Miss Baffin, a little hurt. “It
_was_ rather sudden; but, then, genuine affection sometimes manifests
itself in that way.”
The Professor smiled; he perceived the exact situation of things. Then
he looked very serious again. This was a contingency of which he had
not taken account.
“Well, Tilly,” he said, “I hardly know what to say about the matter. It
is so completely unexpected. You didn’t accept him?”
“No; not exactly, but--”
“Very well, then. We will leave the situation as it is for the present.
When we have been here longer we can better determine what we should
do.”
Sir Dinadan entered with the Baron. The Baron greeted his guests with
warmth, making no allusion to the occurrences in the Hermit’s cell, and
appearing, indeed, to have forgotten them.
“It is enough, sir, and fair damsel, that misfortune has thrown you
upon our shores. You shall make this your home while you live.”
“A thousand thanks,” responded the Professor.
“I cherish the belief that I can be of service to you. By the way, may
I ask how is the noble Lady Bors?”
“Suffering greatly. My son tells me you are a wise leech, and can give
her release from her pain.”
“I hope I can. If you will permit my daughter, here, to see the lady
and to follow my directions, we may be able to help her.”
“There,” said the Baron, waving his hand, “are your apartments. When
you have made ready we will summon you to our banquet.”
“Your property, which was upon the beach, will be placed before you
very soon,” said Sir Dinadan.
The Professor and Miss Baffin entered the rooms, and the Baron withdrew
with his son.
When the trunks came and were opened, the guests arrayed themselves
in their finest costumes, and Miss Baffin contrived to give to her
beauty a bewildering effect by an artistic arrangement of frippery,
which received its consummation when she placed some lovely artificial
flowers in her hair.
Then the Professor, giving her certain plasters and a soothing drug or
two, requested a servant, who stood outside the door, to announce to
Lady Bors that Miss Baffin was ready to give her treatment.
Sir Dinadan came forward and gallantly escorted Miss Baffin to his
mother’s room; where, after presenting her, he left her and returned to
the Professor.
The young man led the Professor about the castle, showing him its
apartments, its furniture and decorations, with an earnest purpose to
try to find favor in the eyes of the father of the woman he loved.
The Professor, for his part, was charmed with his companion, and his
interest in the castle and its appurtenances increased every moment.
“This,” said Sir Dinadan, pausing before a large oaken door, barred
with iron, “is the portal to the upper room of the south tower. In this
chamber the Baron has confined Ysolt, my sister, until she consents to
think no more of Sir Bleoberis.”
“Locked her up, has he? That seems hard.”
“Cruel, is it not?”
“You favor the suit of the Knight, do you?” inquired the Professor.
“I would let Ysolt choose for herself. He is a worthy man; but he has
poverty.”
“We must try to help him,” said the Professor.
“You would act differently in such a case; would you not?” asked Sir
Dinadan, rather eagerly.
“Why, yes, of course; that is, I mean,” said the Professor, suddenly
recollecting himself, and what Miss Baffin had told him, “I mean, I
would think about it. I would give the matter thoughtful consideration.”
Sir Dinadan sighed, and asked the Professor if he would come with him
to the dining-hall.
It was a noble room. As the Professor entered it with Sir Dinadan, as
he looked at the vast fireplace filled with burning logs, because the
air of the castle was chilly even in summer time, at the rudely carved
beams that traversed the ceiling, at the quaint curtains and curious
ornaments upon the walls, at the long table which stretched across the
floor and bore upon its polished surface a multitude of vessels of
strange and often fantastic shapes, he could hardly believe his senses.
These things, this method of existence, he had read about myriads of
times, but they had never seemed very real to him until he encountered
them here face to face.
These people among whom he had come by such strange mischance actually
lived and moved here, amid these scenes, and they were as common and
as prosy to them as the scenes in his own home in the little enclosure
hard by the walls of the university building at Wingohocking.
It was that home and its equipment that seemed strange and incongruous
to him now. As he thought about it, he felt that he would experience
an actual nervous shock if he should suddenly be plumped down in his
own library. Very oddly, as his mind reverted to the subject, his
memory recalled with peculiarly vivid distinctness an old and faded
dressing-gown in which he used to come to breakfast; and a blue
cream-jug with a broken handle, which used to be placed before him at
the meal.
It seemed to him that the dressing-gown and the defective jug were as
far back in the misty past as such a social condition as that with
which he had now been brought into contact would have seemed if he had
thought of it a month ago.
As the servants entered, bearing the viands upon large dishes, the
Baron made his appearance at the upper end of the room, and a moment
later Lady Bors walked slowly in, leaning upon the arm of Miss Baffin.
“Your sweet daughter,” she said, when the Professor had been presented
to her, “has eased my pain already. I think she must be an angel sent
to me by Heaven.”
“She _is_ an angel,” said Sir Dinadan, emphatically, so that his mother
looked at him curiously. Miss Baffin blushed.
“Angels, my lady, do not come with porous plasters,” said the
Professor, smiling.
“I love her already, whether she is angel or woman,” replied Lady Bors,
patting Miss Baffin’s arm.
“So do--,” Sir Dinadan did not complete the sentence. It occurred to
him that he might perhaps be getting a little too demonstrative.
“The Lady Tilly,” said the Baroness, “has told me something of the
adventure which brought you here. Will you be so courteous as to tell
us more, and to inform us of that strange and wonderful land from which
you have come?”
“Willingly, madam,” replied the Professor. And so, while the meal
was in progress, the Professor,--not neglecting the food, for he was
really hungry,--tried, in the plainest language he could command, to
convey to the minds of his hearers some notion of the marvels of
modern civilization. The Baron, Lady Bors, and Sir Dinadan asked many
questions, and they more than once expressed the greatest astonishment
at the revelations made in the Professor’s narrative.
“I will show you some of these wonders,” said Professor Baffin. “Most
happily I have with me in my trunks quite a number of instruments, such
as those I have told you of.”
“In your trunks!” exclaimed the Baron. “You do not wear trunks, as we
do.”
The Professor at once explained the misapprehension. When he had done,
there was heard in the room the twanging of the strings of a rude
musical instrument.
“It is the minstrel,” said Sir Dinadan, as the Professor and Miss
Baffin looked around.
The Professor was delighted.
“He is going to sing,” said the Baron.
The bard, after a few preliminary thrums upon an imbecile harp,
burst into song. He occupied several moments in reciting a ballad of
chivalry, and although his manner was dramatic, his voice was sadly
cracked and out of tune.
“Tilly,” said the Professor, “remember to note in your journal that the
musical system here is constructed from a defective minor scale, with
incorrect intervals. I observed precisely the same characteristics in
the song that our Irish nurse, Mary, used to put you to sleep with
when you were a baby. I stood outside the chamber door one night, and
wrote the strain down as she sang it. This proves that it is very
ancient.”
“You like the song, then?” asked the Baron.
“It is very interesting, indeed--very!” replied the Professor. “I
think we shall obtain a great deal of valuable information here. No,
Tilly, you had better refuse it,” said the Professor, observing that
Sir Dinadan, who appeared to be animated by a resolute purpose to stuff
Miss Baffin, was pressing another dish upon her, “you will spoil your
night’s rest.”
“Do you sing, Sir Baffin?” inquired Lady Bors.
“Never in company, my lady,” replied the Professor; “my vocalization
would excite too much alarm.”
The Baron and his wife manifestly did not comprehend the pleasantry.
“My daughter sings very nicely; but you can hear her sing without her
lips being opened. Excuse me for a moment.”
The Professor went to his apartment, and presently returned, bringing
with him a phonograph. Placing it upon the table, he turned the crank.
From the funnel at once issued a lovely soprano voice, singing, with
exquisite enunciation and inflection, a song, every word of which was
heard by the listeners.
Lady Bors looked scared, Sir Dinadan crossed himself, the Baron eyed
the Professor doubtfully, the minstrel over in the corner laid down his
harp, and relieved his overcharged feelings by bursting into tears,
which he wiped away with the sleeve of his tunic.
“It must be magic,” said the Baron, at last; “no mere man could hide an
angelic spirit in such a place, and compel it to sing.”
“Allow me to explain,” said the Professor; and then he unfolded the
mechanism, and showed the method of its operation. “My daughter sang up
several songs for me before we left home. They were stored away here
for future use. Tilly, my love, sing something, so that our friends can
perceive that it is the same voice.”
Miss Baffin, after some hesitation, began “The Last Rose of Summer.”
While she sang, Sir Dinadan looked at her with rapture depicted on his
countenance. When she had done he reflected for an instant, and then,
rising and walking over to the place where the minstrel sat, he seized
by the ear that unfortunate operator with defective minor scales, and,
leading him to the door, he kicked him into the hall.
This appeared to relieve Sir Dinadan’s feelings.
When he returned, the Professor persuaded him to have his voice
recorded by the phonograph; and by the time the Baron and Lady Bors
had also tried the experiment, the faith of the family in the powers
of Professor Baffin had risen to such a pitch that the Baron would have
been almost ready to lay wagers in favor of his omnipotence.
The Professor that evening accepted for himself and his daughter a very
urgent invitation to make the castle their home, at least until Fate
and the future should determine if they were to remain permanently
upon the island. The chance that they would ever escape seemed indeed,
exceedingly slender; and the Professor resolved to accept the promise
with philosophical resignation.
He employed much of his time during the first weeks that he was the
Baron’s guest in making the Baron familiar with some of the wonders of
modern discovery and invention. The Baron also was deeply interested
in an exhibition given by the Professor of the powers of his patent
india-rubber life-raft, which the Professor brought up from the beach
folded into a small bundle. After inflating it, to the amazement of
the spectators, he put it into the fosse that surrounded the castle
and paddled about upon it. The raft was allowed to remain in the ditch
ready for use.
The Professor often went outside the castle walls to talk with Sir
Bleoberis, and to comfort him. The Professor explained the telegraph
and the locomotive to the Knight; and when the Knight assured him
that the armorers of the island could make the machinery that would
be required, if they should receive suitable instructions, the
Professor arranged to build a short railroad line and a telegraph line
in partnership with Sir Bleoberis, if the latter would obtain the
necessary concession from King Brandegore. Professor Baffin was of the
opinion that the Knight, by such means, might ultimately acquire great
wealth.
Meantime Sir Dagonet had been seen several times of late in the
vicinity of the castle, and once he had made again a formal demand
upon the Baron for Ysolt’s hand. This the Baron refused, whereupon Sir
Dagonet returned an insolent reply that he would have her in spite of
her father’s objection. The Professor sincerely pitied both Ysolt and
Sir Bleoberis, but as the Baron always became violently angry when the
suffering of the lovers was alluded to, the Professor disliked to plead
their cause.
It occurred to him, however, one day that there could be no possible
harm in arranging to permit the forlorn creatures to converse with each
other; and so, with the help of Miss Baffin, who was allowed to enter
the captive’s room, he fixed up a telephone, the machinery of which he
had in one of his trunks, with a wire running from Ysolt’s window to a
point some distance beyond the castle wall.
The battery with which the instruments were supplied was placed in an
iron box furnished by Sir Bleoberis, and hidden behind a huge oak tree.
The lovers were delighted with the telephone and its performances; but
the Professor’s ingenious kindness caused him a great deal of serious
trouble.
It seems that Miss Baffin one morning had been showing her father’s
umbrella to Ysolt, and making her acquainted with its peculiarities and
uses.
When Miss Baffin had withdrawn, Sir Bleoberis began to breathe through
the telephone protestations of his undying love, and finally he
appealed to Ysolt to fly with him. Of course he expected nothing to
come of this appeal, for he had not the slightest conception of any
method by which Ysolt could escape from her prison. He merely threw it
in, in a general sort of a way, as an expression of the intensity of
his affection.
But it suggested to the mind of Ysolt an ingenious thought; and she
responded through the telephone that if Sir Bleoberis would keep out
of sight and have his gallant steed ready, she would join him in a
few moments. The Knight’s heart beat so fiercely at this news that it
fairly made his armor vibrate.
Obeying the orders of Ysolt, he went behind the oak and sat upon the
iron box containing the Professor’s battery and electrical apparatus.
Ysolt’s window was but twenty feet from the surface of the water in the
fosse. Directly beneath it, by a most fortunate chance, floated the
life-raft of Professor Baffin. The brave girl, climbing upon the stone
sill of the window, hoisted the umbrella, and sailing swiftly downward
through the air, she alighted safely upon the raft. A single push upon
the wall sent it to the further side of the ditch, whereupon Ysolt
leaped ashore, unperceived by the warder or by any one in the castle.
A moment more, and seated upon the steed of her cavalier, with his
strong arm around her, she would be flying to peace and happiness and
love’s sweet fulfilment, far, far beyond the reach of the angry Baron’s
power.
But, alas, human life is so full of mischances! As Ysolt neared
the great oak behind which her lover sat, Sir Dagonet came riding
carelessly across the lawn. Seeing her he spurred his horse forward,
and, right before the eyes of Sir Bleoberis, he grasped her by the arm,
tossed her to his saddle and dashed away across the country.
[Illustration: WHY SIR BLEOBERIS DID NOT LEAP TO THE RESCUE.]
But why did not Sir Bleoberis leap to the rescue?
Sir Bleoberis tried with all his might to do so; but he had on a full
suit of steel armor, and the Professor’s battery, by some means even
yet unexplained, so charged the cover of the box with magnetism that
it held the Knight close down. He could not move a muscle of his legs.
He writhed and twisted and expressed his fury in language that was
vehement and scandalous; but the Professor’s infamous machine held him
fast; and he was compelled to sit by, imbecile and raging, while the
wind bore to his ears the heart-rending screams of his sweetheart as
she cried to him to come and save her from an awful fate.
The shrieks of the unhappy Ysolt penetrated to the castle, and at once
the Baron ran out, followed by Sir Dinadan, Professor Baffin, and a
host of the Baron’s retainers, all of them armed and ready for war. The
first act of the Professor was to capture his expanded umbrella, which
was being blown about wildly by the wind. Furling it, he proceeded to
the place where Sir Bleoberis sat, trying to explain to the infuriated
Baron what had happened.
“There!” said Sir Bleoberis, savagely, pointing to the Professor, “is
the vile wretch that did it all! Seize him! He, he alone is to blame.”
The Professor was amazed.
“Yes!” exclaimed Sir Bleoberis, “it was he who persuaded the fair Ysolt
to leap from the window; it was he who notified Sir Dagonet, and it is
his wicked enchantment that held me here so that I could not fly to her
succor. I cannot even get up now.”
“The man,” said the Professor to the Baron, “appears to be suffering
from intellectual aberration. I can’t imagine what he means. Why don’t
you rise?”
“You, foul wizard, know that I am held here by your infernal power!”
“Try to be calm,” said the Professor, soothingly. “Your expressions are
too strong. Let me see--. Why, bless my soul, the electrical current
has magnetized the box. There, now,” said the Professor as he snipped a
couple of the wires, “try it again.”
Sir Bleoberis arose without effort. Baron Bors stepped forward and said
sternly:
“What, you, Sir Bleoberis, were doing here I do not know. I suspect
you of evil purposes. But it is clear you had nothing to do with the
seizure of my daughter, if, indeed, she has been carried off by Sir
Dagonet. You may go. But as for you,” shouted the Baron, turning to the
Professor, “I perceive that your devilish arts have been used against
me and my family while you have been eating my bread. The world shall
no longer be burdened by such a monster. Away with him to the scaffold!”
“This,” said the Professor, as the perspiration stood in beads upon his
pallid face, “is painful; very painful. Allow me to explain. The fact
is I--”
“Away!” said the Baron, with an impatient gesture. “Off with his head
as quickly as possible!”
“But, my dear sir,” contended the Professor, as the Baron’s retainers
seized him, “this is simply awful! No court, no jury, no trial, no
chance to tell my story! It is not just. It is not fair play. Permit
me, for one moment, to--”
“To the block with him!” screamed the Baron. “Have no more parley about
it!”
Sir Bleoberis came forward.
“Sir Bors,” he said, “this, in a measure, is my quarrel. It falls to
me by right to punish this wretch. Will you permit me?” and then Sir
Bleoberis struck the Professor in the face with his mailed gauntlet.
Professor Baffin would have assailed him upon the spot, but for the
fact that he was a captive.
“He means that you shall fight him,” said Sir Dinadan, who retained his
faith in the Professor, remembering his own affection for Miss Baffin.
“Certainly I will,” said the Professor. “Where, and when, and how? I
would like to have it out right here on the spot.”
It is melancholy to think what would have been the sorrow of the
members of the Universal Peace Society, of which the Professor was the
first vice-president, if they could have observed the eagerness with
which that good man seemed to long for the fray, and the fiery rage
which beamed from his eyes until the sparks almost appeared to fly from
his spectacles.
Miss Baffin at this moment rushed upon the scene, and in wild affright
flung her arms about her father.
“The contest shall be made,” said the Baron, sternly. “Unhand him!”
The Professor hurriedly explained the matter to Matilda, who sobbed
piteously.
“You shall have my armor, my horse, and my lance,” said Sir Dinadan
in a kindly voice to the Professor. “Go and get them,” he continued,
speaking to some of the servants.
“Thank you,” said the Professor. “I am much obliged. You are a fine
young man.”
“But, pa,” said Miss Baffin through her tears, “surely you are not
going to fight?”
“Yes, my love.”
“And you a member of the Peace Society, too.”
“I can’t help it, my child. You may omit to note this extraordinary
occurrence in your journal. The Society may as well remain in ignorance
of it. But I must conform to the customs of the place.”
“How can you ever do anything upon a horse, with armor and a lance? It
is dreadful!”
“No, my child, it may perhaps be regarded as fortunate. For many
years I have longed to observe the practices of ancient chivalry more
closely; that opportunity has now come. I am about to have actual
practical experience with them.”
Miss Baffin wiped her eyes as Sir Dinadan came to her side and tried to
comfort her. Sir Agravaine, who had ridden up during the excitement,
dismounted when he saw Miss Baffin, and pulling Sir Dinadan by the
sleeve, he whispered:
“You are acquainted with that lady?”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind ascertaining for me if I am to understand her
remarkable conduct to me as tantamount to a refusal? I don’t want to
trouble you, but--”
Sir Dinadan turned abruptly away, leaving Sir Agravaine still involved
in doubt.
When the armor came, Sir Dinadan helped the Professor to put it on.
It was a size or two too large for him, and the Professor had a
considerable amount of difficulty in adjusting the pieces properly,
but, with the help of Sir Dinadan, he at last succeeded.
“Bring me my lance!” he exclaimed, with a firm voice, as he stepped
forward.
“It is here,” said Sir Dinadan.
“Farewell, my child,” said the Professor to Miss Baffin, making a
futile attempt to bend his elbows so that he could embrace her.
“Farewell!” and the Professor tried to kiss her, but he merely
succeeded in injuring her nose with the visor of his helmet.
“O pa!” said Miss Baffin, weeping, “if you should be killed.”
“No danger of that love, none at all. I am perfectly safe. I feel
exactly as if I were a cooking-stove, to be sure; but you may depend
upon my giving a good account of myself. And now, dear, adieu! Ho,
there!” exclaimed the Professor, with faint reminiscences of the tragic
stage coming into his mind. “Bring me my steed!”
The determined efforts of four muscular men were required to mount the
Professor upon his horse. And when he was fairly astride, with his
lance in his hand, he felt as if he weighed at least three thousand
pounds, and the weapon seemed quite as large as the jib-boom of the
“Morning Star.”
The warrior did his best to sit his horse gracefully; but the miserable
beast pranced and curveted in such a very unreasonable manner that his
spectacles were continually shaking loose, and in his efforts to fix
them, and at the same time to hold his horse, he lost control of his
lance, and came near impaling two or three of the spectators.
Sir Dinadan’s own groom then took the bridle-rein, and leading the
horse quietly to the jousting-ground put him in place directly opposite
to Sir Bleoberis, whose lance was in rest, and who evidently intended
to spit the Professor through and through at the first encounter.
The Professor really felt uncomfortably at a disadvantage in his
iron-clad condition, and he began to think that the sports and combats
of the olden time were perhaps not so interesting after all, when
brought within the range of practical experience.
Suddenly the herald’s trumpet sounded a blast. The Professor had not
the least notion of the meaning of the sound, but Sir Bleoberis started
promptly towards him, and the Professor’s horse, trained at jousting,
also started. The Professor was not quite ready, and he pulled the rein
hard while trying to fix his lance in its rest. This caused the horse
to swerve sharply around, whereupon the warrior’s spectacles came off,
and the horse dashed at full speed to the side of the jousting-ground,
bringing the half-blinded Professor’s lance up against a tree, into
which the point stuck fast. The Professor was hurled with some violence
to the ground, and the horse ran away.
When they picked him up and unlatched his helmet, he was bleeding at
the nose.
“It is of no consequence, Matilda, of no consequence, I assure you,” he
said. “I am shaken up a little, but not hurt. I think, perhaps, I need
practice at this kind of thing.”
The Professor, while speaking, felt about him in a bewildered way for
the pocket in which he was used to keep his handkerchief. But as the
armor baffled his efforts to find it, Miss Baffin offered him her
kerchief with which to stanch the blood.
“The ancients, Matilda,” said the Professor, as he pressed the
handkerchief to his nose, “must have possessed great physical
strength, and they could not have been near sighted. By the way, where
are my glasses?”
Sir Dinadan handed them to him.
“You will not attempt to get on that horrid horse, again, pa, will
you?” said Miss Baffin, entreatingly.
“I think not, my child, unless I am forced to do so. Jousting is
interesting to read about; but as a matter of fact it is brutal.
I think, Sir Dinadan, I should be more comfortable if I could get
this cast-iron overcoat off, so that I could move my elbows without
creaking.”
Sir Dinadan helped him to remove his armor, and said:
“My noble mother has insisted that Sir Bleoberis shall not fight with
you, and the Baron has yielded to her wish.”
“How can I thank you?” exclaimed Miss Baffin.
Sir Dinadan looked at her as if he would like to tell her how, if he
dared venture. But he only said:
“I deserve no thanks. My mother is upon your side and that of your
father. She asks me to bring him to her.”
The Baron was with his wife, and Sir Bleoberis stood before them.
“Sir Bamn,” said the Baron, “Lady Bors insists that you are innocent
of any wrong-doing; and Sir Bleoberis, seeing that you are unskilled,
has resolved not to have a combat with you. I am willing to pardon you
upon one condition: that you find my daughter and bring her back to me.”
“That I should be willing to try to do under any circumstances,” said
the Professor. “I regret her loss very deeply. But, you see, I know
nothing of the country. I am afraid I should not discover her if I
should go alone.”
“I will go with you,” said Sir Bleoberis.
“That is first-rate,” said the Professor. “Give me your hand.”
“We will keep your daughter in the castle as a hostage,” said the
Baron. “When you return with Ysolt you shall have the Lady Tilly, and
Sir Bleoberis shall have Ysolt.”
“I am profoundly grateful,” replied Sir Bleoberis, bowing.
“My dear,” said the Professor to Miss Baffin, “does the arrangement
suit you?”
“It suits me,” muttered Sir Dinadan.
“I must stay whether I wish to or not,” replied Miss Baffin. “But I
shall worry about you every moment while you are gone.”
“Sir Dinadan may be able to soothe her,” said Sir Bleoberis, with a
smile.
“I think I could, if I were allowed to try,” insinuated Sir Agravaine.
“I charge Sir Dinadan and his noble parents with the task,” said the
Professor.
The entire party, with the exception of Sir Agravaine, then returned to
the castle, so that the Professor could make ready for the journey.
CHAPTER III.
THE RESCUE.
Professor Baffin politely declined to wear the armor of Sir Dinadan
upon the journey. He packed a few things in a satchel, and putting his
revolver in his pocket, he bade adieu to his daughter and the members
of the Baron’s family. Mounting his horse by the side of Sir Bleoberis,
who rode in full armor, the two trotted briskly out through the woods
to the roadway, which ran by not far from the castle.
“Where shall we go to look for the lady?” asked the Professor, as the
Knight started down the road at a rapid pace.
“The villain, no doubt, has carried her captive to his castle. We shall
seek her there.”
“How are we going to get her out? I have had very little experience,
personally, in storming castles.”
“We shall have to devise some plan when we get there,” replied the
Knight. “The castle, unhappily, is upon an island in the middle of the
lake.”
“And I can’t swim,” said the Professor.
“Perhaps the King will give us help. It is close to the place where he
holds his court.”
The Professor began to think that the case looked exceedingly
unpromising. He lapsed into silence, thinking over the probable results
of the failure of his mission; and as the Knight appeared to be
absorbed in his own reflections, the pair rode forward without engaging
in further conversation.
Professor Baffin did not fail to notice the extreme loveliness of
the country through which they were passing. It presented all the
characteristics of a perfect English landscape; but he observed that it
was not fully cultivated, and that the agricultural methods employed
were of a very primitive kind.
After an hour’s ride, the two horsemen entered a wood. Hardly had they
done so before they heard, near to them, the voice of a woman crying
loudly for help. Sir Bleoberis at once spurred his horse forward, and
the Professor followed close behind him.
Presently they perceived a Knight in armor endeavoring to hold upon
the horse in front of him a young woman of handsome appearance, who
screamed loudly as she attempted to release herself from his grasp.
“Drop her!” exclaimed the Professor in an excited manner, and drawing
his revolver, “put her down; let her go at once!”
The Knight turned, and seeing the intruders he released the maiden, and
levelling his lance, made straight for Sir Bleoberis at full gallop.
The lady, white with terror, flew to the Professor, and reposed her
head upon his bosom.
Professor Baffin was embarrassed. He had no idea what he had better do
or say. He could not repulse the poor creature; and as the situation,
upon the whole, was not positively disagreeable, he permitted her to
remain, sobbing upon his bosom, while he watched the fight and dried
her eyes, in a fatherly way, with his handkerchief.
The two Knights came together with a terrible shock which made the
sparks fly; but neither was unhorsed or injured, and the lances of both
glanced aside. They turned, and made at each other again. This time the
lance of each pierced the armor of the other, so that neither lance
could be withdrawn. It really seemed as if the two knights would have
to undress and to walk off, leaving their armor pinioned together. A
moment later the strange Knight fell to the ground, and lay perfectly
still. The Professor went up to him and taking his lance from his hand,
so that Sir Bleoberis could move, unlaced the Knight’s helmet.
He was dead.
The Professor was inexpressibly shocked. “Why,” he exclaimed, “the man
is dead! Most horrible, isn’t it?”
“Oh, no,” said Sir Bleoberis, coolly. “I tried to kill him.”
“You wanted to murder him?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“I am so glad you did,” exclaimed the damsel with a sweet smile. “How
can I thank you? And you, my dear preserver.”
“Bless my soul, madam,” exclaimed the Professor, “I had nothing to do
with it. I consider it perfectly horrible.”
Turning to Sir Bleoberis, the maiden said, “It was you who fought, but
it was this brave and wise man who brought you here, was it not?”
“Yes,” said Sir Bleoberis, smiling.
“I knew it,” exclaimed the lady, flinging her arms around the
Professor’s neck. “I can never repay you--never, never, excepting with
a life of devotion.”
The Professor began to feel warm. Disengaging himself as speedily as
possible, he said--
“Of course madam, I am very glad you have been rescued--very. But I
deeply regret that the Knight over there was slain. What,” asked the
Professor of Sir Bleoberis, “will you do with him?”
“Let him lie. He is of no further use.”
“I never heard of anything so shocking,” said Professor Baffin. “And
how are we to dispose of this lady?”
“I will go with you,” exclaimed the damsel, looking eagerly at the
Professor. “Let me tell you my story. My name is Bragwaine. I am the
daughter of the Prince Sagramor. That dead Knight found me, a few hours
ago, walking in the park by my father’s castle. Sir Lamorak, he was
called. Riding up swiftly to me, he seized me, and carried me away. He
brought me, despite my screams and struggles, to this place, where you
found us both. I should now be a captive in his castle but for you.”
Bragwaine seemed about to fall upon the Professor’s neck again, but he
pretended to stumble, and retreated to a safe distance.
“Is there much of this kind of thing going on,--this business of
galloping off with marriageable girls?” asked the Professor.
“Oh yes,” said Sir Bleoberis.
“I thought so,” said the Professor; “this is the second case I have
encountered to-day. We shall most likely have quite a collection of
rescued damsels on our hands by the time we get back home. It is
interesting, but embarrassing.”
“I know Prince Sagramor,” said Sir Bleoberis to Bragwaine. “We are
going to the court, and will take you to your father.”
“_You_ will take me, Sir--Sir--”
“Sir Baffin,” explained Sir Bleoberis.
“Sir Baffin, will you not?”
“You can have my horse. I will walk.”
“I will ride upon your horse with you, and you shall hold me on,” said
Bragwaine.
“That is the custom,” said Bleoberis.
“But,” exclaimed the Professor with an air of distress, “I am not used
to riding double. I doubt if I can manage the horse and hold you on at
the same time.”
“You need not hold me,” said Bragwaine laughingly; “I will hold fast to
you. I shall not fall.”
“But then--”
“I _will_ go with you,” said Bragwaine almost tearfully. “You won me
from the hands of that villain, Lamorak, and I am not so ungrateful as
to leave you to cling to another person.”
“Well, I declare!” exclaimed the Professor, “this certainly is a very
curious situation for a man like me to find himself in. However, I will
do the best I can.”
Professor Baffin mounted his steed, and then Sir Bleoberis swung the
fair Bragwaine up to a place on the saddle in front of the Professor.
Bragwaine clutched his coat-sleeve tightly; and although the Professor
felt that there was no real necessity that she should attempt to
preserve her equipoise by pressing his shoulder strongly with her head,
he regarded the arrangement without very intense indignation.
He found that he could ride very comfortably with two in the saddle,
but he felt that his attention could be given more effectively to the
management of the horse if Bragwaine would stop turning her eyes up to
his in that distracting manner so frequently.
They rode along in silence for awhile. Suddenly Bragwaine said:
“Sir Baffin?”
“Well; what?”
“Are you married?”
Professor Baffin hardly knew what answer he had better give. After
hesitating for a moment, he said:
“I have been.”
“Then your wife is dead?”
The Professor could not lie. He had to say “Yes!”
“I am so glad,” murmured Bragwaine. “Not that she is dead, but that you
are free.”
Professor Baffin was afraid to ask why. He felt that matters were
becoming serious.
“And the reason is,” continued Bragwaine, “that I have learned to love
you better than I love any other one on earth!”
She said this calmly, very modestly, and quite as if it were a matter
of course.
The Professor in astonishment looked at Sir Bleoberis, who had heard
Bragwaine’s words. The Knight nodded to him pleasantly, and said, “I
expected this.”
Evidently it was not an unusual thing for ladies so to express their
feelings.
The somewhat bewildered Sir Baffin then said, “Well, my dear child, it
is very kind indeed for you to regard me in that manner. I have done
nothing to deserve it.”
“You are my rescuer, my benefactor, my heart’s idol!”
“Persons at my time of life,” said the Professor, blushing, “have to be
extremely careful. I will be a father to you, of course! Oh, certainly,
you may count upon me being a father to you, right along.”
“I do not mean that I love you as a daughter. You must marry me; you
dear Sir Baffin.” Then she actually patted his cheek.
Professor Baffin could feel the cold perspiration trickling down his
back.
“I think,” he said to Sir Bleoberis, “that this is, everything
considered, altogether _the_ most stupendous combination of
circumstances that ever came within the range of my observation. It is
positively distressing.”
“You will break my heart if you will not love me,” said Bragwaine, as
if she were going to cry.
“Well, well,” replied the bewildered Professor, “we can consider the
subject at some other time. Your father, you know, might have other
views, and,--”
“The Prince, my father, will overwhelm you with gratitude for saving
me. I know he will approve of our marriage. I will persuade him to have
you knighted, and to secure for you some high place at court.”
“That,” said the Professor, “would probably make me acutely miserable
for life.”
Within an hour or two after the fight with Sir Lamorak, the Professor
and his companions drew near to Callion, the town in which King
Brandegore held his court.
Just before entering it they encountered Prince Sagramor coming out
with a retinue of knights in pursuit of Sir Lamorak and his daughter.
Naturally he was filled with joy at finding that she had been rescued
and brought back to him.
After embracing her, he greeted Sir Bleoberis and the Professor warmly,
thanking them for the service they had done to him. Bragwaine insisted
upon the Professor’s especial title to gratitude, and when she had told
with eloquence of his wisdom and his valor, and had added to her story
Sir Bleoberis’s explanation of the Professor’s adventures, the Prince
saluted the latter, and said:
“There is only one way in which I can honor you, Sir Baffin. I perceive
that already you have won the heart of this damsel. I had intended her
for another. But she is fairly yours. Take her, gallant sir, and with
her a loving father’s blessing!”
Bragwaine wept for happiness.
“But, your highness, if I might be permitted to explain--” stammered
the Professor.
“I know!” replied the Prince. “You will perhaps say you are poor. It is
nothing. I will make you rich. It is enough for me that she loves you,
and that you return it.”
“I cannot sufficiently thank you for your kindness,” said the
Professor, “but really there is a--”
“If you are not noble, the King will cure that. He wants such brave men
as you are in his service,” said the Prince.
“I am a free-born American citizen, and the equal of any man on earth,”
said the Professor proudly, “but to tell you the honest truth, I--”
“You are not already married?” inquired the Prince, somewhat
suspiciously.
“I have been married; my wife is dead, and--”
“Then, of course, you can marry Bragwaine. Sir Colgrevance,” said the
Prince to one of his attendants, “ride over and tell the abbot that
Bragwaine will wish to be married to-morrow!”
“To-morrow!” shrieked the Professor. “I really must protest; you are
much too sudden. I have an important mission to fulfil, and I must
attend to that first, and at once.”
Sir Bleoberis explained to the Prince the nature of their errand, and
told him the Professor’s daughter was held as a hostage until he should
bring Ysolt back to Baron Bors.
“We will delay the wedding, then,” said the Prince. “And now, let us
ride homeward.”
If it had not been for the heart-rending manner in which everybody
regarded him as the future husband of Bragwaine, and for the extreme
tenderness of that lady’s behavior toward him, the Professor would
have enjoyed hugely his sojourn at the court. King Brandegore regarded
him from the first with high favor, and the sovereign’s conduct of
course sufficed to recommend the Professor to everybody else. The
Professor found the King to be a man of rather large mind, and it was
a continual source of pleasure to the learned man to unfold to the
King, who listened with amazement and admiration, the wonders of modern
invention, science, and discovery.
With what instruments the Professor’s ingenuity could construct from
the rude materials at hand; he showed a number of experiments, chiefly
electrical, which so affected the King that he ordered the regular
court magician to be executed as a perfectly hopeless humbug; but
Professor Baffin’s energetic protest saved the unhappy conjurer from so
sad a fate.
An extemporized telegraph line, a few hundred yards in length,
impressed the King more strongly than any other thing, and not only
did he make to Sir Bleoberis and the Professor exclusive concessions
of the right to build lines within his dominions, but he promised to
organize, at an early day, a raid upon a neighboring sovereign, for
the purpose of obtaining plunder enough to give to the enterprise a
handsome subsidy.
Sir Dagonet did not come to court during the Professor’s stay. But
there, in full view of the palace, a mile away in the lake, was his
castle, and in that castle was the lovely Ysolt.
The Professor examined the building frequently through his
field-glasses, which, by the way, the King regarded with unspeakable
admiration; and more than once he thought he could distinguish Ysolt
sitting by the window of one of the towers overlooking the lake.
The King several times sent to Sir Dagonet messages commanding Sir
Dagonet to bring the damsel to him, but as Sir Dagonet invariably
responded by trying to brain the messenger or to sink his boat, the
King was forced to give it up as a hopeless case. Storming the castle
was out of the question. None of the available boats were large enough
to carry more than half a dozen men, and Sir Dagonet had many boats of
great size which he could man, so as to assail any hostile fleet before
it came beneath the castle wall.
But the Professor had a plan of his own, which he was working out in
secret, while he waited. Sir Bleoberis had procured several skilful
armorers, and under the directions of the Professor they undertook
to construct, in rather a crude fashion, a small steam-engine. This,
when the parts were completed, was fitted into a boat with a propeller
screw, and when the craft was launched upon the lake, the Professor was
delighted to find that it worked very nicely. The trial-trip was made
at night, so that the secret of the existence of such a vessel might
be kept from any of the friends of Sir Dagonet who might be loitering
about.
It devolved upon Sir Bleoberis, by bribing a servant of Sir Dagonet’s
who came ashore, to send a message to Ysolt. She was ordered to watch
at a given hour upon a certain night for a signal which should be given
from a boat, beneath her window, and then to leap fearlessly into the
water.
The night chosen was to be the eve of the Professor’s wedding-day. The
more Prince Sagramor saw of Professor Baffin and his feats, the more
strongly did he admire him; and in order to make provision against
any accident which should deprive his daughter of marriage with so
remarkable a man, the Prince commanded the wedding-day to be fixed
positively, despite the remonstrances which the Professor offered
somewhat timidly, in view of the extreme delicacy of the matter.
Upon the night in question, the Professor, at the request of the King,
who was very curious to have an opportunity to learn from practical
experience the nature of the thing which the Professor called “a
lecture,” undertook to deliver in the dining-room of the palace the
lecture upon Sociology, which he had prepared for his course in England.
The room was packed, and the interest and curiosity at first manifested
were intense; but the Professor spoke for an hour and three-quarters,
losing his place several times because of the wretched character of the
lights, and when he had concluded, he was surprised to discover that
his entire audience was sound asleep.
At first he felt rather annoyed, but in an instant he perceived that
chance had arranged matters in an extremely favorable manner.
It was within precisely half an hour of the time when he was to be in
the boat under the window of Ysolt.
Stepping softly from the platform, he went upon tiptoe from the room.
Not a sleeper awoke. Hurrying from the palace to the shore, he found
Sir Bleoberis sitting in the boat, and awaiting him with impatience.
The Professor entered the craft, and applying a lighted match to the
wood beneath the boiler, he pushed the boat away from the shore, and
waited until he could get steam enough to move with.
A few moments sufficed for this, and then, opening the throttle-valve
gently, the tiny steamer sailed swiftly over the bosom of the lake,
through the intense darkness, until the wall of the castle, dark and
gloomy, loomed up directly ahead.
A light was faintly burning in Ysolt’s chamber in the tower, and the
casement was open.
As the prow of the boat lightly touched the stones of the wall and
rested, Sir Bleoberis softly whistled.
“I have always been uncertain,” said the Professor to himself, “if the
ancients knew how to whistle. This seems to indicate that they did know
how. It is extremely interesting. I must remember to tell Tilly to note
it in her journal.”
In response to the signal, a head appeared at the casement, and a soft,
sweet voice said:
“Is that you, darling?”
“Yes, yes, it is I,” replied Sir Bleoberis. “Oh, my love! my Ysolt!” he
exclaimed, in an ecstasy.
“Is Sir Baffin there, too?”
“Yes. We are both here; and we have a swift boat. Come to me at once,
dear love, that we may fly with you homeward.”
“I am not quite ready, love,” replied Ysolt. “Will not you wait for a
moment?”
“It is important,” said the Professor, “that we should act quickly.”
“But I _must_ fix up my hair,” returned Ysolt. “I will hurry as much as
I can.”
“Women,” said the Professor to his companion, “are all alike. She would
rather remain in prison for life than come out with her hair mussed.”
The occupants of the boat waited very impatiently for fifteen or twenty
minutes. Then Ysolt, coming again to the window, said:
“Are you there, dearest?”
“Yes,” replied Sir Bleoberis, eagerly. “We are all ready.”
“And there’s no time to lose,” added Professor Baffin.
“Is your hair fixed?” asked the Knight.
“Oh, yes,” said Ysolt.
“Then come right down.”
“Would ten minutes more make any difference?” asked Ysolt.
“It might ruin us,” replied the Professor.
“We can wait no longer, darling,” said Sir Bleoberis, firmly.
“Then you will have to go without me,” said Ysolt, with a tinge of
bitterness. “It is simply impossible for me to come till I get my
bundle packed.”
“We will wait, then,” returned Sir Bleoberis, gloomily. Then he said to
the Professor: “She had no bundle with her when she was captured.”
The Professor, in silent desperation, banked his fires, threw open the
furnace-door, and began to wonder what kind of chance he would have in
the event of a boiler explosion. Blowing off steam, under the existing
circumstances, was simply out of the question.
After a delay of considerable duration, Ysolt’s voice was heard again:
“Dearest!”
“What, love?” asked Sir Bleoberis.
“I am all ready now,” said Ysolt.
“So are we.”
“How must I get down?”
“Climb through the window and jump. You will fall into the water, but I
shall catch you and place you in the boat.”
“But I shall get horridly wet!”
“Of course; but, darling, that can make no great difference, so that
you escape.”
“And spoil my clothes, too!”
“Yes, Ysolt, I know; but--”
“I cannot do it; I am afraid.” And Ysolt began to cry.
Wild despair filled the heart of Sir Bleoberis.
“I have a rope here,” said the Professor; “but how are we to get it up
to her?”
“Ysolt,” said Bleoberis, “if I throw you the end of a rope, do you
think you can catch it?”
“I will try.”
Sir Bleoberis threw it. He threw it again. He threw it thirteen times,
and then Ysolt contrived to catch it.
“What shall I do with it now?” she asked.
“Tie it fast to something; to the bed, or anything,” replied the
Knight.
“Now what shall I do?” asked the maiden, when she had made the rope
secure.
“Slide right down into the boat,” said the Professor.
“It would ruin my hands,” said Ysolt, mournfully.
“Make the attempt, and hold on tightly,” said Sir Bleoberis.
“We shall be caught if we stay here much longer,” observed the
Professor, with anxious thoughts of the boiler.
“Good-bye then! I am lost. Go without me! Save yourselves! Oh, this is
terrible!” Ysolt began again to cry.
“I will help her,” said Sir Bleoberis, seizing the rope and clambering
up the wall until he reached the window.
Day began to dawn as he disappeared in the room. The Professor started
his fire afresh and shut the furnace-door. Sir Bleoberis, he knew,
would bring down Ysolt without delay.
A moment later, the Knight seated himself upon the stone sill of the
window and caught the rope with his feet and one of his hands. Then he
placed his arm about Ysolt, lifted her out and began to descend.
Professor Baffin, even in his condition of intense anxiety, could not
fail to admire the splendid physical strength of the Knight. When the
pair were about half-way down, the rope broke, and Ysolt and Sir
Bleoberis were plunged into the lake.
The Professor, excited as he was by the accident, remembered the
boiler, and determined that he would have to blow off steam and take
the consequences; so he threw open the valve, and instantly the castle
walls sent the fierce sound out over the waters.
Sir Bleoberis, with Ysolt upon his arm, managed to swim to the side of
the boat, and the Professor after a severe effort lifted her in. Then
he gave his hand to the Knight, and as Sir Bleoberis’s foot touched the
side the Professor shut off steam, opened his throttle-valve, backed
the boat away from the wall, and started for the shore.
It was now daylight. As the boat turned the corner of the wall, it
almost came into collision with a boat in which, with ten oarsmen,
sat Sir Dagonet. The inmates of the castle had been alarmed by the
performances of the Professor’s escape-pipe; and Sir Dagonet had come
out to ascertain the cause of the extraordinary noise.
The Professor’s presence of mind was perfect. Turning his boat quickly
to the right, he gave the engine a full head of steam and shot away
before Sir Dagonet’s boat could stop its headway.
Sir Dagonet had perceived Ysolt, and recognized Sir Bleoberis. White
with rage he screamed to them to stop, and he hurled at them terrible
threats of vengeance if he should overtake them. As no heed was given
to him he urged his rowers to put forth their mightiest efforts, and
soon his boat was in hot pursuit of that in which the maiden, the
Knight, and the Professor fled away from him.
By some means the people of the town of Callion had had their attention
drawn to the proceedings at the castle, and now the shore was lined
with spectators who watched with eager interest the race between Sir
Dagonet’s boat and the wonderful craft which had neither oars nor
sails, and which sent a long streamer of smoke from out its chimney.
Professor Baffin, positively determined not to wed the daughter of
Prince Sagramor, had prepared a stratagem. He had sent three horses
to the side of the lake opposite to the town, and three or four miles
distant from it, with the intention of landing there, and hurrying
with Ysolt and Sir Bleoberis to the home of Baron Bors, without the
knowledge of the Prince.
The daylight interfered, to some extent, with the promise of the plan,
but Professor Baffin resolved to carry it out at any rate, taking what
he considered to be the tolerably good chances of success. He turned
the prow of his boat directly toward the town, making as if he would
go thither. The pursuers followed fast, and as the Professor perceived
that he could easily outstrip them, he slowed his engine somewhat,
permitting Sir Dagonet to gain upon him.
When he was within a few hundred yards of the shore, close enough
indeed, for him to perceive that the King, Prince Sagramor, Bragwaine,
and all the attendants of the court were among those who watched the
race with excited interest, the Professor suddenly turned his boat half
around, and putting the engine at its highest speed, ploughed swiftly
toward the opposite shore.
A mighty shout went up from the onlookers. Manifestly the fugitives had
the sympathy of the crowd.
The oarsmen of Sir Dagonet worked right valiantly to win the chase, but
the steamer gained constantly upon them; and when her keel grated upon
the sand, close by where the horses stood, the pursuers were at least a
third of a mile behind.
Sir Bleoberis sprang from the boat, and helped Ysolt to alight. The
Professor stopped to make the fire in the furnace more brisk, and to
tie down the safety valve; then hurrying after Sir Bleoberis and Ysolt,
the three mounted their horses and galloped away.
In a few moments they reached the top of a hill which commanded a view
of the lake. They stopped and looked back. Sir Dagonet had just touched
the shore, but, as he had no horse, further pursuit was useless.
So, shaking his fist at the distant party, he turned away with an
affectation of contempt, and entered the Professor’s boat to satisfy
his curiosity respecting it.
“Let him be careful how he meddles with that,” said the Professor.
As he spoke, the boat was torn to fragments. Sir Dagonet and two of
his men were seen to fall, and a second afterwards the dull, heavy
detonation of an explosion reached the ears of the Professor and his
friends.
“It is dreadful,” said the Professor with a sigh, “but
self-preservation is the first law of nature, and then he had no right
to run away with Ysolt, at any rate.”
CHAPTER IV.
HOW THE PROFESSOR WENT HOME.
The three friends turned their horses’ heads away from the lake, and
pressed swiftly along the road.
“It is necessary,” said Professor Baffin, “that we should make good
speed, for Prince Sagramor saw us come to this side of the lake, and
if he shall suspect our design no doubt he will at once pursue us, in
behalf of that abominable girl, his daughter.”
The journey was made in silence during most of the time, for the hard
riding rendered conversation exceedingly difficult, but whenever the
party reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view of the road
in the rear, the Professor looked anxiously behind him to ascertain
if anybody was giving chase. When within a mile or two of Lonazep, he
did at last perceive what appeared to be a group of horsemen at some
distance behind him, and although he felt by no means certain that the
Prince was among them, he nervously urged his companions forward,
spurring, meantime, his own horse furiously, in the hope that he might
reach the castle of Baron Bors ere he should be overtaken.
As the party came within sight of the castle, they could hear the hoofs
of the horses of the pursuers, and soon their ears were assailed by
cries, demanding that they should stop. It was, indeed, Prince Sagramor
and his knights, who were following fast. The Professor galloped more
furiously than ever when he ascertained the truth, and Sir Bleoberis
and Ysolt kept pace with him.
Just as they reached the drawbridge, however, they were overtaken; and,
as it was raised, they were compelled to stop and meet the Prince face
to face. The Professor hurriedly called to the warder to lower the
bridge, so that Ysolt could take refuge in the castle. Then he turned,
and determined to make the best of the situation. The Prince was
disposed to be conciliatory.
“We came,” he said, “to escort you back again. We have a guard of honor
here fitting for any bridegroom.”
“You are uncommonly kind,” replied the Professor, “but the parade is
rather unnecessary. I am not going back just at present.”
“I promised Bragwaine that you would return with us,” said the Prince,
sternly.
“Well, you ought not to make rash promises,” replied the Professor,
with firmness.
“You will go, of course?”
“Of course I will not go.”
“Bragwaine is waiting for you.”
“That,” said the Professor, “is a matter of perfect indifference to me.”
“I will not be trifled with, sir,” said the Prince, angrily.
“Nor will I,” exclaimed the Professor. “Let us understand one another.
I do not wish to marry any one. I did not ask your daughter to marry
me, and I have never consented to the union. I tell you now that I
positively and absolutely refuse to be forced to marry her or any other
woman. I will do as I please about it; not as you please.”
“Seize him,” shrieked the Prince to his attendants.
“Stand off,” said the Professor, presenting his revolver. “I’ll kill
the man who approaches me. I shall put up with this foolishness no
longer.”
One of the knights rode toward him. The Professor fired, and the
cavalier’s horse rolled in the dust. The Prince and his people were
stupefied with astonishment.
At this juncture, Baron Bors, Sir Dinadan, Sir Agravaine, Sir
Bleoberis, and Miss Baffin emerged from the castle. Miss Baffin flew
to her father, and flung her arms about him. The Professor kissed her
tenderly, and as he did so, his eye caught sight of the wire of the
telephone which he had arranged for Ysolt and Sir Bleoberis. A happy
thought struck him. Advancing, he said to the Prince:
“It is useless for us to quarrel over this matter. Baron Bors has here
an oracle. Let us consult that.”
Then the Professor whispered something to Miss Baffin, who withdrew
unobserved and went into the castle.
The Prince was at first indisposed to condescend to accept the offer,
but his curiosity finally overcame his pride.
“Step this way,” said the Professor. “Ask your questions through this,”
handing him the mouthpiece, “and put this to your ear for the answer.”
“What shall I say?” inquired the Prince.
“Ask if it is right that I should marry your daughter.”
The Prince put the question, and the answer came.
“What does the oracle say?” asked the Professor.
“It says you shall not,” replied the Prince, looking a good deal scared.
“Are you satisfied?” said the Professor.
The Prince did not answer, but he looked as if he suspected a trick of
some kind, and would like to impale Professor Baffin with his lance, if
he dared.
He was about to turn away in disgust, when Sir Agravaine, who stood
beside him, in a few half-whispered words explained to him the method
by which the Professor had imposed upon him.
In a raging fury, the Prince rode up to the Professor, and would have
assailed him; but Baron Bors advanced and said:
“This gentleman is unarmed, and unused to our methods of combat. He is
my guest, and he has saved my daughter. I will fight his battles.”
The Prince threw his glove at the Baron’s feet. Baron Bors called
for his armor and his horse, and when he was ready he took his place
opposite to his antagonist, and waited the signal for the contest.
“This,” said the Professor, “is probably the most asinine proceeding
upon record. Because I won’t marry Sagramor’s daughter, Sagramor is
going to fight with a man who never saw his daughter.”
[Illustration: AT THE FIRST SHOCK BOTH KNIGHTS WERE UNHORSED.]
The combat was not a long one. At the first shock both knights were
unhorsed; but, drawing their swords, they rushed together and hacked at
each other until the sparks flew in showers from their armor.
The Baron fought well, but presently the Prince’s sword struck his
shoulder with a blow which carried the blade down through the steel
plate, and caused the blood to spurt forth. The Baron fell to the
earth; and Prince Sagramor, remembering the small number of his
attendants, and the probability that he might be assailed by the
Baron’s people, mounted his horse and slowly trotted away without
deigning to look at Professor Baffin. They carried the Baron tenderly
into the castle, and put him to bed. The wound was a terrible one, and
the Professor perceived that the chances of his recovery, under the
rude medical treatment that could be obtained, were not very favorable.
After doing what he could to help the sufferer, he withdrew from the
room, and left the Baron with Lady Bors and the medical practitioner
who was ordinarily employed by the family.
Miss Baffin, with Sir Dinadan, awaited her father in the hall. This was
the first opportunity he had had to greet her. After some preliminary
conversation, and after the Professor had expressed to Sir Dinadan his
regret that the Baron should have been injured, the Professor said:
“And now, Tilly, my love, how have you been employing yourself during
my absence?”
Miss Baffin blushed.
“Have you kept the journal regularly?” asked the Professor.
“Not so _very_ regularly,” replied Miss Baffin.
“I have a number of interesting and extraordinary things for you to
record,” said the Professor. “Has nothing of a remarkable character
happened here during my absence?”
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Baffin.
“I have learned to smoke,” said Sir Dinadan.
“Indeed,” said the Professor with a slight pang. “And how many cigars
have you smoked?”
“Only one,” replied the Knight. “It made me ill for two days. I think,
perhaps, I shall give up smoking.”
“I would advise you to. It is a bad habit,” said the Professor, “and
expensive. And then, you know, cigars are so dreadfully scarce, too.”
“The Lady Tilly was very kind to me while I was ill. I believe I was
delirious once or twice; and I was so touched by her sweet patience
that I again proposed to her.”
“While you were delirious?” asked the Professor.
“Oh, no; when I had recovered.”
“What did you say to that, Tilly?” asked Professor Baffin.
“I referred him to you,” replied Miss Baffin.
“But what will the Baron say?” asked the Professor.
“He and my mother have given their consent,” said Sir Dinadan. “They
declared that I could not have pleased them better than by making such
a choice.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the Professor, reflectively. “I like you
first-rate, and if I felt certain we were going to stay here--”
“I will go with you if you leave the island,” said Sir Dinadan, eagerly.
“And then you know, Din,” continued the Professor familiarly, “Tilly is
highly educated, while you--Well, you know you must learn to read, and
write, and cipher, the very first thing.”
“I have been giving him lessons while you were away,” said Miss Baffin.
“How does he get along?”
“Quite well. He can do short division with a little help, and he has
learned as far as the eighth line in the multiplication table.”
“Eight eights are sixty-four, eight nines are seventy-two, eight tens
are eighty,” said Sir Dinadan, triumphantly.
“Well,” said the Professor, “if Tilly loves you, and you love Tilly, I
shall make no objection.”
“Oh, thank you,” exclaimed both of the lovers.
“But, I tell you what, Din, you are getting a good bargain. There is
no finer girl, or a smarter one either, on the globe. You people here
cannot half appreciate her.”
For more than a week, Baron Bors failed to show any signs of
improvement, and the Professor thought he perceived clearly that his
case was fast getting beyond hope. He deemed it prudent, however, to
keep his opinion from the members of the Baron’s family. But the Baron
himself soon reached the same conclusion, and one day Lady Bors came
out of his room to summon Sir Dinadan, Ysolt, Sir Bleoberis, who was
now formally betrothed to Ysolt, and the Professor, to the Baron’s
bedside.
The Baron said to them, in a feeble voice, that he felt his end
approaching, and that he desired to give some instructions, and to say
farewell to his family. Then he addressed himself first to Sir Dinadan,
and next to Ysolt. When he had finished speaking to them he said to
Lady Bors,--
“And now, Ettard, a final word to you. I am going away, and you will
need another friend, protector, companion, husband. Have you ever
thought of any one whom you should like, other than me?”
“Never, never, never,” said Lady Bors, sobbing.
“Let me advise you, then. Who would be more likely to fill my place in
your heart acceptably than our good and wise and wonderful friend Sir
Baffin?”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed the Professor with a start.
“Your son is to marry his daughter; and she will be happy to be here
with him in the castle. Promise me that you will try to love him.”
“Yes, I will try,” said Lady Bors, wiping her eyes and seeming, upon
the whole, rather more cheerful.
“That,” said the Baron, “does not altogether satisfy me. I place upon
you my command that you shall marry him. Will you consent to obey?”
“I will consent to anything, so that your last hour may be happier,”
said Lady Bors with an air of resignation. She was supported during
the trial, perhaps, by the reflection that in dealing with lumbago
Professor Baffin had no superior in the kingdom.
Father Anselm was announced. “Withdraw, now,” said the Baron to all of
his family but Lady Bors. “I must speak with the Hermit.”
Professor Baffin encountered the Hermit at the door. The holy man
stopped long enough to say that a huge ship had come near to the shore
upon which the Professor had landed, and that it was anchored there.
From its mast, Father Anselm said, fluttered a banner of red and white
stripes with a starry field of blue.
The Professor’s heart beat fast. For a moment he could hardly control
his emotion. He resolved to go at once to the shore and to take his
daughter with him. Withdrawing her from her companions the two strolled
slowly out from the castle into the park. Then, hastening their steps,
they passed towards the shore. In a few moments they reached it,
and there, sure enough, they saw a barque at anchor, while from her
mast-head floated the American flag.
A boat belonging to the barque had come to the shore to obtain water
from the stream. Professor Baffin entered into conversation with the
officer who commanded the boat. The vessel proved to be the _Mary L.
Simpson_, of Martha’s Vineyard, bound from the Azores to New York. When
the Professor had explained to the officer that he and his daughter
were Americans, the mate invited them to come aboard so that he could
introduce them to the captain.
“Shall we go, my child?” asked the Professor.
“If we can return in a very few moments, we might go,” said Miss Baffin.
They entered the boat, and when they reached the vessel, they were
warmly greeted by Captain Magruder.
While they were talking with him in his cabin the air suddenly
darkened, and the captain rushed out upon deck. Almost before he
reached it a terrific gale struck the barque, and she began to drag her
anchors. Fortunately the wind blew off shore, and the captain, weighing
anchor, let the barque drive right out to sea. The Professor was about
to remark to Miss Baffin that he feared there was small chance of his
ever seeing the island again, when a lurch of the vessel threw him
over. His head struck the sharp corner of the captain’s chest, and he
became unconscious.
When Professor Baffin regained his senses, he found that he was lying
in a berth in a ship’s cabin. Some one was sitting beside him,--
“Is that you, Tilly?” he asked, in a faint voice.
“Yes, pa; I am glad you are conscious again. Can I give you anything?”
“Have I been long unconscious, Tilly?”
“You have been very ill for several days; delirious sometimes.”
“Is the captain going back to the island?”
“Going back to the _what_, pa?”
“To the Island. It must have seemed dreadfully heartless for us to
leave the castle while the Baron was dying.”
“While the Baron was dying! What do you mean?”
“Why, Baron Bors could not have lived much longer. I am afraid Sir
Dinadan will think hard of us.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about. Poor pa! your
mind is beginning to wander again. Turn over, and try to go to sleep.”
Professor Baffin was silent for a moment. Then he said,--
“Tilly, do you mean to say you never heard of Baron Bors?”
“Never.”
“And that you were never engaged to Sir Dinadan?”
“Pa, how absurd! Who are these people?”
“Were you not upon the island with me, at the castle?”
“How could we have gone upon an island, pa, when we were taken from the
raft by the ship?”
“Tilly, my child, when I get perfectly well I shall have to tell you of
the most extraordinary series of circumstances that has come under my
observation during the whole course of my existence!”
Then Professor Baffin closed his eyes and fell into a doze, and
Miss Baffin went up to tell the surgeon of the ship _Undine_, from
Philadelphia to Glasgow, that her father seemed to be getting better.
THE CITY OF BURLESQUE:
An Account of some of the Inhabitants Thereof.
CHAPTER I.
THE COWDRICKS.--A CONJUGAL CHAT.--LEONIE.--A RISING ARTIST.--A
PROPOSAL.--SWEETHEARTS.
Occupying a very comfortable position in an easy-chair, Mr. Cowdrick,
banker, sat in his library before a blazing fire.
The Fate that arranges coincidences, and provides for the fitness
of things, could not have persuaded Mr. Cowdrick to choose a more
characteristic method of warming himself; for it was a sham fire. Some
skilful worker in clay had produced a counterfeit presentment of a heap
of logs, with the bark, the bits of moss, the knots, and the drops of
sap exuding from the ends, all admirably imitative of nature. But the
logs were hollow, and a hidden pipe, upon occasion, filled them with
gas, which, as it escaped through imperceptible holes, was ignited, to
burn as though it fed upon the inconsumable logs.
The library room was handsomely decorated in accordance with the
prevailing modes. Upon the wall were fastened porcelain plates,
bearing beautiful designs, but wholly useless for the purpose for
which plates were originally devised. Mr. Cowdrick realized that as a
mere matter of reason it would be as sensible to put a fireplace in
the ceiling, or to cover his library table with the door-mat, as to
adorn his wall with a dinner-plate; but, like some of the rest of us
Mr. Cowdrick surrendered his private convictions to the suggestions of
fashion.
Upon Mr. Cowdrick’s shelves and mantels were cups and saucers of
curious wares, which were to be looked at and not used; and in
his cabinets were jugs and bottles, which existed that they might
contribute to the pleasure of the eye rather than to the pleasure of
the palate. The bookcases, made with the best art of the workman, after
the most approved designs, were filled with richly-bound volumes, into
which Mr. Cowdrick had never cared to look since he bought them by the
cubic foot; and which, in some instances, considered themes which would
not have interested the banker in the slightest degree, even if he had
examined them, and had been gifted with the capacity to comprehend them.
Upon the mantel ticked a clock, so fine that it had to be kept under
glass, and which had never been known to indicate the time correctly
during twenty-four consecutive hours. The chairs and the sofas
were made of material so costly that Mrs. Cowdrick had them draped
continually in closely-fitting brown-linen covers, so that, in fact,
it was somewhat difficult to comprehend why the expensive and delicate
fabrics beneath should have been employed at all, seeing that they were
perpetually doomed to hide their loveliness.
Mr. Cowdrick sat looking at the deceitful fire in front of him, and
as he mused he smoked an excellent cigar. His reverie was presently
disturbed by the entrance of Mrs. Cowdrick to the room. Mrs. Cowdrick
was a woman in middle life, of rounded figure and pleasing face; and
she was clad, at this moment, in rich and tasteful dress. She held in
her hand a bit of canvas, upon which she was working, in worsted, a
pattern which was intended to convey to the observer the impression
that it was of Japanese origin; but really it was as great a sham as
Mr. Cowdrick’s fire.
Mrs. Cowdrick drew a chair near to that of her husband. Her first act,
when she had taken her seat, was to clap her hands vigorously together
two or three times, in ineffectual efforts to catch and to crush a
fluttering moth-fly.
This is a form of exercise that is very dear to the female heart,
but rarely is it productive of any practical results. Calculated in
horse-powers, it may fairly be estimated that the amount of force
expended annually by the sex upon the work of annihilating moth-flies
would be sufficient to raise one pound two hundred thousand feet high,
if any one cared to have a pound at such an elevation; while it is
probable that the number of moth-flies actually taken upon the wing
within the boundaries of civilization, does not in any one year exceed
a few hundreds.
When she had concluded her efforts, without at all injuring the insect,
Mrs. Cowdrick resumed her worsted attempt to insult Japanese art, and,
as she did so, Mr. Cowdrick, turning his head about lazily, as he sent
a whiff of smoke into the air, said,--
“Annie, dear, where is Leonie?”
“She is in her room, I think,” replied Mrs. Cowdrick, pleasantly. “She
will be down in a few moments.”
“I wish to have a little talk with you about her, my love,” said Mr.
Cowdrick. “I have been thinking that it is high time Leonie had found a
husband. Let me see; how old is she now?”
“In her twenty-ninth year, really,” replied Mrs. Cowdrick; “but then,
you know, she does not acknowledge more than twenty-five years to her
friends. Leonie is an exceedingly prudent girl.”
“But, of course,” remarked Mr. Cowdrick, “she cannot keep that up
forever. As she grows older she will have to allow a year or two, every
now and then; and, after a while, you know, people will begin to count
for themselves.”
“I have urged that upon her,” said Mrs. Cowdrick, “and I think she
fully realizes it. Her hair is becoming thinner every week, and there
would be no hope of her hiding the truth if the fashion did not permit
her easily to cover the bald place upon the top of her head.”
“She is no longer the young girl she once was,” said Mr. Cowdrick with
an air of sadness which seemed to indicate his disappointment at the
refusal of Time to make an exception in the case of Leonie.
“No,” said Mrs. Cowdrick; “she is beginning to ascertain that she
has nerves, and she has to take iron every morning. At the pic-nic
in September she tried to appear as girlish as she could; but I
noticed, while she was skipping the rope with those little chits of
Mrs. Parker’s, that she would catch her breath convulsively every time
she went up; and you know she was in bed with lumbago for three days
afterward.”
“She must marry,” said Mr. Cowdrick, with emphasis. “The case is
getting desperate. I will speak to her about it to-night. I wish her,
before I quit home, to have herself engaged to some one who is able to
support her handsomely.”
“How soon will it be necessary for you to fly?” asked Mrs. Cowdrick.
“Before the end of next week, at the very latest. Matters are fast
approaching a crisis at the bank. We might have pulled through after
the failure of Snell and Adam, to whom, as one of the directors was
a partner, we lent a large sum upon bogus collateral; and I did
not despair even when Pinyard, Moon and Company, with whom I had a
silent interest, went under just after obtaining that last hundred
thousand of us; but I heard to-day that J. P. Hunn and Co. are very
much embarrassed, and as we have hypothecated some good collaterals
deposited with us by our best customers in order to keep Hunn on his
legs, his failure will inevitably result in the exposure of the whole
business.”
“And how much, dear, is the bank short?” asked Mrs. Cowdrick, kindly.
“A full million and a quarter at the lowest estimate. We can’t tell
exactly, because the accounts have been so much falsified to hide the
deficiency. But the capital has gone, and with it the bulk of the money
belonging to the depositors; and as I say, a whole lot of collateral
securities, placed in our hands by some of the best men in town. It’s a
bad business! They will make it hot for us, I am afraid.”
“But then, dear, you will save something from the wreck, you said?”
“Oh, yes! Pinyard told me that he thought he and I would come out with
two or three hundred thousand apiece, if we can manage the creditors
of his firm so that they will take twenty-five per cent. of their
claims in settlement. That, however, is only a possibility.”
“If the crash is coming so soon,” said Mrs. Cowdrick, with a thoughtful
air, “there are some little things I should like to get at once.”
“What are they?”
“Why, you know, Henry, I want a sealskin sacque for this winter, and
I had thought of buying a pair of plain diamond earrings. Couldn’t
I get them, say to-morrow, and have them charged, and then let the
dealers just come in with the rest of your creditors when you arrange a
settlement?”
“Certainly, my love! get them immediately, of course. It is your last
chance. I have not yet gotten into such a position that I cannot
provide comforts for my family! Tell Leonie to make any little
purchases she may need, also. I might as well go to ruin for a large
amount as for a small one. A few hundreds more or less will not matter.”
As Mr. Cowdrick spoke, Leonie entered the room. She was elegantly and
fashionably dressed, and her face was wreathed with smiles. She ran
up to her father as a child might have done, and with a girlish laugh
kissed him; then, drawing a footstool close to him, she sat down beside
him and placed her arm upon his knee. Mr. Cowdrick stroked her head
affectionately, with a tenderness that was partly induced by fondness
and partly by a recollection of what Mrs. Cowdrick had said of Leonie’s
method of disguising the bare place upon her crown.
After reflecting for a moment in silence, Mr. Cowdrick said,--
“I want to ask my little girl if she has lost her heart to any one yet?”
Leonie blushed, and straightening herself up she said nervously, but
with traces of a smile about her lips,--
“Lost my heart, papa! What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear child, that it is high time you had obtained a husband
and settled yourself for life. It is important you should marry as
speedily as possible.”
“Oh, papa!” said Leonie, hiding her face in her hands.
“To speak plainly, darling,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “your poor father’s
affairs are in such a condition that a judicious matrimonial alliance
is almost necessary to your future happiness. You understand me, of
course; I am not at all sure of my financial future.”
“I am very sorry,” said Leonie.
“Of course you are,” replied Mr. Cowdrick, “but being sorry is not
enough. I should bear the calamity, when it comes, much more bravely if
I were assured that my dear child had a good and affluent husband to
console her amid the troubles that will befall her family. Is there no
one to whom you could give your affection if you tried? If you tried
right hard, just to please your poor old papa?”
Leonie hesitated before answering, and then she said,--
“Yes, papa, there is!”
“I am glad to hear that! Who is it, darling?”
“You will not be angry with me, papa, if I tell you, will you? I _have_
given my love to some one, and that some one is--is--Mr. Weems, the
artist!”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Cowdrick, in a voice that indicated mingled
surprise and indignation. “Not Julius Weems, the painter?”
“You don’t mean to say you are actually engaged to be married to that
young man?” said Mrs. Cowdrick, vehemently.
“Yes, I am engaged to him,” said Leonie, putting her forehead down upon
the arm of her father’s chair. “He proposed to me on Tuesday, while you
were at the opera.”
“And you love him?” asked Mr. Cowdrick.
“Oh, yes,” replied Leonie, “I love him; of course I love him, or I
never would have accepted him. But I don’t mean to say, positively and
finally, that I would refuse a better chance if it presented itself.
Julius is the only person who seems likely to want me, and certainly he
is a great deal better than nobody.”
“Yes; but, my dear child,” observed Mr. Cowdrick, “a mere husband is
nothing. The circumstances of the husband are everything.”
“And Mr. Weems is poor as poverty,” added Mrs. Cowdrick.
“Oh, no, mamma, you are mistaken,” said Leonie. “Julius is in very
comfortable circumstances. He has a very profitable business.”
“He has, has he?” said Mr. Cowdrick. “Well, I can’t imagine where it
can be. I never have seen any of his pictures.”
“Why, papa,” rejoined Leonie with a slight laugh. “Julius says that you
have two of his best works in your gallery.”
“I have,” exclaimed Mr. Cowdrick, in astonishment. “I think not.”
“He says so, at any rate.”
“Which are they?”
“Why, the ‘Leader and the Swan,’ by Correggio, and the ‘St. Lawrence,’
by Titian.”
“Leonie, that is ridiculous,” said Mr. Cowdrick, warmly.
“Perfectly absurd,” remarked Mrs. Cowdrick.
“But Julius declares he really did paint them. He says he paints
nothing but ‘old masters’; that they bring the best prices, and that
there is always an active demand for them. He wants me to come to his
studio to see a splendid Murillo he has just finished. He is making
money rapidly.”
“In that case, Leonie,” said Mr. Cowdrick, with a slight touch of
bitterness, as he thought of the prices he had paid for his Correggio
and his Titian, but with a certain cheerfulness, gained from his
suddenly formed resolution to realize on them to-morrow--“in that case,
we must regard Mr. Weems differently. He appears at least to be an
enterprising young man, and possibly he may do well.”
“You had better arrange to see him at once, dear,” said Mrs. Cowdrick,
“so that you can ascertain what his income is, and how soon the wedding
can be arranged.”
“I will do so,” replied Mr. Cowdrick. “But my child, did you tell him
anything? Does he know that you have already been engaged three times?
Does he know that you were affianced to old Mr. Baxter, who gained your
affection under the pretence that he was a millionaire, only to tread
upon the holiest of your emotions with the scandalous revelation that
he was living upon a paltry pension?”
“No, papa, I did not think it worth while to disturb Julius with such
matters as that. What does he care for my past? No more than I care for
his!”
“Do you think he suspects your age, dear?” asked Mrs. Cowdrick.
“I am certain he does not. You know I falsified the date in the
family Bible, and last evening I got him to look over it with me,
under pretense of searching for a text. When I showed him the record,
laughingly, he pretended to be surprised. He said he should never have
supposed me to be a day over twenty-three.”
Mr. Cowdrick slowly winked that one of his eyes which was upon the side
towards his wife, and then he said,--
“Well, Leonie, we will see about it. There are some things about the
match to recommend it, although I cannot say Weems is precisely the man
I should have chosen for you. However, you are the person who is most
deeply interested, and I suppose we must let you choose for yourself.
I wish you would ask Mr. Weems to call to see me to-morrow evening
concerning the matter.”
“He will be here to-night, papa,” replied Leonie. “He said he would
call to make a formal proposal for my hand.”
“Very well; that will do nicely. The sooner we reach a distinct
understanding, the better.”
Before many moments had elapsed, Mr. Julius Weems was announced by the
servant, whereupon Mrs. Cowdrick and Leonie withdrew. When Mr. Weems
entered the room, Mr. Cowdrick greeted him politely, but with dignified
gravity. Mr. Weems was somewhat nervous. Mr. Cowdrick clearly perceived
that he had reduced himself to a condition of misery with a resolution
to obtain, if possible during this visit, the paternal blessing upon
his proposed alliance with Leonie.
The current theory is that the most difficult of the processes by
which the state of marriage is approached, is the first declaration
of affection to the object of it; and it may be possible that most
men, upon reviewing their conduct upon such occasions, are inclined to
believe that they made fools of themselves. But, as a matter of fact,
it is nearly certain that those who make a careful survey of their
experiences will be likely to admit that the most trying ordeal through
which the lover is compelled to go is that of ascertaining what opinion
of the matter is held by the father of his sweetheart. If there is
a reasonable certainty that the loved one will accept him, he is at
least sure of the most acute and delicious sympathy when he summons up
courage enough to take her little hand in his and to give voice to his
feelings; and the difference of sex enables the performance to assume
the most romantic aspect. But to face a cold, practical man of the
world with a lot of sentiment, and to plunge boldly into an explanation
to him of a fervid passion which he regards in the prosiest fashion
possible, requires bravery of a very high order. And the man who can
approach such a task with perfect self-possession, and positive command
of his mental faculties and of his utterance, has a nervous system that
ordinary men may envy.
For a moment after Mr. Weems seated himself upon the other side of the
fireplace from Mr. Cowdrick, there was an embarrassing silence. Then
Mr. Cowdrick, to open the way for his visitor, remarked that it had
been a very disagreeable day.
“Very,” said Mr. Weems. “Uncommonly damp and chilly, even for this time
of year.”
“Yesterday was far from pleasant also,” observed Mr. Cowdrick.
“Wasn’t it abominable?” replied Mr. Weems. “There will be a great deal
of sickness if this kind of weather continues.”
“The prospect,” rejoined Mr. Cowdrick, “is that it will. There are no
signs of a clear day to-morrow.”
“I’m afraid not,” returned Mr. Weems.
Then Mr. Cowdrick looked into the fire, and relapsed into silence.
The weather of the past, the present, and the future having been
considered, there really seemed to be nothing more to be said upon that
particular topic. It would be curious to ascertain what men, who are in
a stress for something to talk about, fall back upon in those regions
where there is steadfast sunshine during half of every year, and
unremitting rain during the other half.
“How is Miss Leonie?” said Mr. Weems, suddenly, and with an air of
desperation.
“Quite well, thank you,” answered Mr. Cowdrick.
“Well, Mr. Cowdrick, I called this evening to speak to you about her,”
continued Weems, with a determination to make the plunge and have it
over.
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir. In fact, Mr. Cowdrick, your daughter has consented to become
my wife, and I wish to obtain, if I may, your approval of the match.
May I have it?”
“Really, Mr. Weems, this is so unexpected. I was so little prepared
for such an announcement that I hardly know what----. My answer would
depend somewhat upon circumstances, I may say, I have no objection
to you personally; but I know nothing of your prospects in your
profession.”
“They are first-rate. I sold a picture to-day for five thousand
dollars; and that is by no means an infrequent occurrence.”
“Who bought it?”
“St. Cadmus’s church. It is an altar piece; very handsome and old;
by Michael Angelo. You see, I give you my secret; in confidence, of
course.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “I am a regular attendant at St. Cadmus’s
and I was one of four subscribers for that picture. The balance of the
amount we made up by mortgaging the organ. Mr. Tunicle, the incumbent,
said it was indisputably genuine.”
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Weems, laughing; “if it looks like a genuine one,
and everybody thinks it is genuine, what difference is there? The
people are every bit as happy as if it were real. If one of my pictures
sells better with the name of some old chap who has been dead for two
or three centuries tagged to it, why shouldn’t I let it go in that way?
It does not hurt him, and it helps me.”
“From your point of view the theory is excellent; but from mine, as the
owner of a couple of old masters, it looks a little thin.”
“Well, to be fair,” said Mr. Weems, “I acknowledge that I painted
those you have, but I am willing to find you a market for them, to
oblige you; or I will sell you two or three more, if you prefer it.
I have just run off a fine Salvator Rosa, and a Titian, as kind of
‘pot-boilers,’ and you can have them for almost nothing if you want
them.”
“Thank you, no,” said Mr. Cowdrick. “My interest in art is gradually
cooling off. And then, besides, if you are going to turn out pictures
every time you want a suit of clothes, or a box of cigars, it seems
likely there will soon be a glut of old masters in the market.”
“But to come back to the point, Mr. Cowdrick,” said Mr. Weems. “What
may I accept as your decision respecting my claim to your daughter’s
hand?”
“Have you ever had an affair of this kind before, Mr. Weems? Pardon me
for asking. Is Leonie your first love?”
“Well, you know, every man does foolish things in his youth. I have
been involved in one or two trifling matters of the sort. But I am a
careful man, and to avoid any unpleasant demonstrations in the future,
I have procured formal decrees of divorce from eleven different girls;
all, in fact, with whom I have ever had any acquaintance that was at
all sentimental. I obtained six decrees from the State of Indiana, at
a cost of ten dollars apiece, and the remainder from Utah, at a little
higher rate.”
“And you were never married to any of the parties?”
“Oh, no! merely knew them; took them out driving, or danced with them
at balls. Some of them are married to other men. But, you know, a
man is never certain what may happen; women are so queer; and so I
concluded to destroy all the chances of anything turning up, and I have
the legal documents to show for it. Leonie’s happiness is perfectly
safe with me, I assure you.”
“Your course seems to me a prudent one, at any rate,” remarked Mr.
Cowdrick; “but then, of course, it is possible for a man to be a little
too far-sighted for the comfort of other people. How do I know, for
instance, that you haven’t taken the precaution to file away among your
papers a divorce from Leonie?”
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Weems, laughing, “you know I wouldn’t go quite
that far. I admit that I have half a dozen blank decrees, which I can
fill up to meet emergencies, but I pledge you my word of honor that I
will never put her name in one. I love her too dearly.”
“Do you believe you would love her if she were poor; or if she were to
become poor?”
“Yes, certainly; of course,” answered Mr. Weems. And then he added
mentally, “I wonder if anything is the matter? I’ll inquire about the
old man’s financial standing the first thing in the morning.”
“Well,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “I hardly know. Leonie is very dear to me. I
have not contemplated an early marriage for her. It would be a terrible
wrench upon my heartstrings. What would you do if I refused my consent?”
“Try to submit with what patience I could command, I suppose. But you
will not refuse, will you?”
Mr. Cowdrick did not respond at once. He had rather cherished the hope
that Weems would elope with Leonie, and save him the expense of a
wedding outfit and of a wedding festival, besides relieving him of all
responsibility. But he saw now that it would not be safe to take the
chances.
“Well, Mr. Weems,” he said, at length, “so far as I am concerned, I
think I may say that if Leonie wishes to marry you, she can. But we
must ask her mother about it. It will be a terrible shock to poor Mrs.
Cowdrick. I will call her in.”
When Mrs. Cowdrick entered the room with Leonie, Mr. Cowdrick said,--
“My dear, Mr. Weems, here, has formally proposed for the hand of
Leonie, and I have given my consent, provided you also would do so.”
Mrs. Cowdrick replied by a shriek, after which she flung herself into
a chair, and, with an expensive handkerchief to her face, she sobbed
hysterically.
“Ma is doing that to show how well she can pose,” said Leonie, in a
whisper to Weems. “She used to be splendid in private theatricals.”
Mrs. Cowdrick sprang up, and in tones of apparently intense excitement
she said,--“No, no! I cannot let her go! It is impossible! It is so
unexpected, so sudden! My child, my poor, darling child! To be torn
ruthlessly from the arms of her dear mother! I cannot bear it! It will
kill me!” and Mrs. Cowdrick flung her arms wildly about Leonie and wept.
Leonie seemed quite calm. She lowered her shoulder slightly, to incline
her mother’s head, so that her tears would fall upon the floor instead
of upon her dress.
Mr. Cowdrick comforted her, reasoned with her, and showed her that,
after all, Leonie’s happiness was at stake. To promote her happiness,
her parents must be willing to make some sacrifices, and she must try
to brace herself to meet the trial, hard as it was. Mrs. Cowdrick’s
agitation gradually decreased, as her husband spoke; and when she had
rested upon the sofa for a moment, and helped her nerves by inhaling
salts from a gilded smelling-bottle, she said:
“If it must be, it must! Take her, Julius! Take her, and love her,
and cherish her, so that she will never rue having been torn from the
parental nest!”
“I promise you faithfully to do my best,” replied Mr. Weems.
“And now, my children,” said Mr. Cowdrick, as his voice trembled with
emotion, “I give you an old man’s blessing! May you be happy in each
other’s love until life shall end!”
Then Mr. Cowdrick wiped his eyes, and taking Mrs. Cowdrick on his arm,
they went upstairs to discuss some method by which the marriage could
be celebrated before the crash came at the bank.
“And you are mine at last, darling!” said Mr. Weems, as he pushed his
chair up close to Leonie’s and took her hand in his.
In reply she nestled her head up against his shoulder, and her
thoughts went out dreamily over the past. Old Mr. Baxter and her two
other lovers had made precisely the same remark to her under similar
circumstances, and she had responded to them in the same manner. Life
is an endless round of repetitions.
“Sweet face!” said Mr. Weems, patting it tenderly, as if he were a
trifle uncertain of the permanent nature of the color. “Did you know,
darling, that I put your face in one of my recent pictures?”
“Oh, Julius! Did you?”
“Yes, dear, I gave it to my full length of St. Ethelberta, by Rubens.”
“Is it a good likeness?”
“I think it is. But,” said Mr. Weems thoughtfully, “it didn’t sell!
That is, I mean, no person of really good taste has inspected it yet.”
“And you painted it because you loved me, did you?”
“Oh, yes! Certainly! Of course!”
“How fortunate it was that I could return your love, wasn’t it? Julius,
what would you have done if I had refused you?”
“Done? Why, it would have mortified me dreadfully. I don’t believe I
should have had any appetite for a week or more.”
“Some disappointed lovers,” said Leonie almost reproachfully, and with
an air of chagrin, “become utterly desperate and try to take their own
lives.”
“Oh, I know,” replied Mr. Weems. “Dreadful, isn’t it? But I generally
try to bear up under misery. It’s a duty.”
“Could you bear misery for my sake, Julius? Do you think your love
would endure if poverty should overtake us? Bitter, blinding poverty?”
“I am sure I could,” replied Mr. Weems with a renewed determination to
discover in the morning if Mr. Cowdrick’s credit had been impaired.
“You believe, then, that love in a cottage is a possibility, do you,
dear?” asked Leonie.
“Yes, darling; possible, but not fascinating. My observation is that
love, upon the whole, has a better chance in a commodious mansion with
all of the modern conveniences; with gas, water and a boy to answer
the front-door bell. Love, darling, is like some other things in this
world--it thrives better when it is comfortable.”
“Have you thought about our wedding, dear?” asked Leonie. “Where will
we go upon our wedding journey? Wouldn’t it be splendid to take a trip
to Europe?”
The suggestion did not seem to excite any great amount of enthusiasm
in the heart of Mr. Weems. He said: “It would be very nice, but I am
afraid it would be almost too expensive, unless your pa--Did your pa
say anything about it?” asked Julius, with a faint expectation that
Mr. Cowdrick may have intended to include a handsome cheque among the
presents.
“No,” replied Leonie; “he said nothing. Only I thought may-be you might
want to go.”
“So I do, my love, but business is a trifle dull just now. I am afraid
we shall have to wait until the prevailing prejudice against Rubens and
St. Ethelberta blows over, as it were. I thought perhaps we might make
a short trip to Boston and back. How would that suit you?”
“I would be satisfied with it, dear, of course,” said Leonie.
Mr. Weems heard her answer with the serene consciousness that he had
a free pass for two over that particular route, and that even upon a
wedding journey there would be no need to be actually riotous in the
matter of hotel expenses.
“And when we get home, and settle down, may I keep a parrot, Julius?”
“Well,” replied Mr. Weems, “the question is sudden and somewhat
irrelevant, but I should think you might; provided, of course, you
selected one that has not been taught to use profane language, and to
imitate a screeching wheelbarrow with too great accuracy.”
“You are so kind! And, Julius?”
“What, sweet?”
“If papa should die, could dear mamma come to live with us?”
“I’ll tell you what, Leonie, suppose we postpone the consideration of
some of these distressing contingencies until they actually present
themselves! I am perfectly willing to wrestle with a grief when it
comes, but there is no use of putting crape on a door-knocker until
there is bereavement in the family circle.”
“That is true, dear. And, Julius?”
“Well, my love?”
“Whenever you can’t come to see me, will you write to me? I want you to
send me, at least once every day, a dear, kind, affectionate letter,
full of love; won’t you, dear?”
“I will, if you will promise faithfully to burn them,” replied Julius,
as his prudent mind grasped the possibility of some unfortunate future
misunderstanding, in which ardent love-letters might have a damaging
effect upon the case of the defendant. “That is, pretty nearly every
day.”
“Thus far,” continued Leonie, “I have kept all that you have written.
I have read them over, and over, and over, and kissed them again and
again. The sweet verses you have sent to me I have learned by heart.”
“Have you, darling?” said Mr. Weems, with a feeling of pride in his
success as a poet.
“Shall I repeat them to you?”
“If you will, dearest,” replied Mr. Weems, with the air of a man who
was conscious that he had turned off rather a good thing in the way of
verses.
“Let me see,” said Leonie, leaning back in her chair, “how do they
begin? Oh, yes!”
‘Sweetheart, if I could surely choose
The aptest word in passion’s speech,
And all its subtlest meaning use
With eloquence, your soul to teach,
Still, forced by its intensity,
Sweetheart, my love would voiceless be.
‘Sweetheart, though all the days and hours
Sped by, with love in sharpest stress,
To find some reach of human powers
Its faintest impulse to express;
Till Time merged in Eternity,
Sweetheart, my love would voiceless be.’
“Are they not beautiful?” asked Leonie, as she concluded.
“Very beautiful,” responded Mr. Weems, with a faint impression that
it might perhaps pay him to abandon the old masters, and to grasp the
resounding lyre, with a resolution to thrum it during the remainder of
his life.
“‘Sweetheart’ is a name I always liked,” said Leonie. “You called me
your ‘rosebud,’ in your last letter; but somehow it did not please me
so much as ‘sweetheart;’ it was not so natural.”
“Twenty-five years _is_ old for a rosebud,” said Mr. Weems, absently.
“Yes,” replied Leonie; “and does it not seem odd, Julius, that we who
have been apart so long should now be united forever, and that we
should go down the current of time together until the end?”
While she was speaking, the elegant clock, from beneath its crystal
covering, chimed out the hour of _four_, and the artist, consulting his
watch, discovered that the correct time was precisely ten minutes past
eleven. He arose from his seat, and fondly embracing Leonie, he kissed
her, and bade her good night. She went to the window, and as, by the
light of the street lamp, she saw him descending the steps in front of
the house, she waved her hand toward him. Then turning, she proceeded
to the hall, and up the stairs to bed, murmuring to herself,--
“Burn them! That _would_ be insane!”