It was a chill and cheerless day towards the end of November of
the year 1870. The siege of Paris was in full tide of determinate
execution. For two months, and a little more, the German host
had environed the city with a circle of glistening bayonets and
loud-mouthed cannons, cutting off intercourse with the outside world,
and effectually preventing the incoming of provisions; the smoke and
fumes of burning powder filled the air; while shot and shell rained
down upon the doomed metropolis, by day and by night.
Near the corner of the Boulevard Mazas and the Rue de Bercy was
situated the wine-shop of Victor Rameau, a popular resort of the
middling classes, but patronized by men of high standing, and often
sought by those of the lowest strata of society. On this chill November
day the spacious apartment on the street level was filled by a motley
assemblage. There were present representatives of almost every trade,
profession, and calling, though the military element predominated.
At one of the small oaken tables against the wall sat two men, with
whom we have particularly to do; and at the table next to them, also
against the wall, sat a third. Of the two, one was a sergeant of the
National Guard, named Jacques Carlier, a middle-aged man, with a heavy
red moustache, and a head of closely-clipped red hair. His face was
likewise very red, and his two eyes were as nearly of the same fiery
colour as they could be.
The guardsman's companion was a short, thick-set man, also of middle
age, with dark brown hair and a full beard of the same colour. His
stoutness was peculiar. It did not seem to be fat, but an unusual size
of body and limb--somewhat as though in his youth a ponderous weight
had fallen upon his head and shoulders and knocked him into that squat,
uncouth figure. His hair was thick and tangled; his face, where the
full beard did not hide it, darkly tanned and seemingly unwashed; and
his clothing of the very worst--worn and soiled and ragged. He had
given his name as Pierre Dubois, claiming to be from Ardennes.
The third man--he at the other table--was Colonel de Brèze, of the
National Guard. Both he and the sergeant were in uniform, and, saving
only the rags, neither of them could boast of a personal appearance
very much better than was that of the poor wayfarer from Ardennes.
Pierre Dubois had dark lines under his eyes; a look of pain and
distress marked his face; while a deep-reaching, rasping cough ever and
anon shook his frame and interrupted his speech.
"I'd enlist this moment," he said, "if I could be put on duty under
cover, out of the way of this miserable wintry wind. But what should
I be good for in the trenches, or at the breast-works? You can see for
yourself that I shouldn't last a week."
"Aye," returned the sergeant, "I see very plainly that you wouldn't
be good for much in an exposed position. I should say consumption was
carrying you off about as fast as it could."
"So--it--(a severe fit of coughing)--is."
"Are you fit to enlist at all?"
"Well, no; I do not suppose I am. But I'll be frank with you. I have a
spice of the man Adam in me. It is Vengeance. I was at Sedan, as I have
told you, and the Germans made me a prisoner. I wasn't fit to march: I
could hardly stand; so they pricked me up with their sabre bayonets.
Then, when I was thrown into a dirty prison, and begged for a bit of
medicine for my cough, they gave me curses and a kick. I swore then,
if ever the opportunity should be mine, I would volunteer to stand
sentinel over a squad of German prisoners. You've got those fellows in
limbo, haven't you?"
"Yes, plenty of them."
"And you've got strong, able, well men standing guard over them?"
"Yes, we have."
"Then, there's my opportunity. Put me there, and I'll do double duty,
if I can stand it. At all events, I can perform the duties of a
sentinel just as well as any living man."
At this point Colonel Brèze, who had overheard, faced about.
"Sergeant," he said, "we want this man. I want him at La Force."
At the sound of the name of that celebrated prison, a bright light
gleamed in the provincial's eyes, and he quickly hid his face behind
his beer-mug to conceal the emotion he could not keep back.
The sergeant nodded, and then to the man himself the colonel
continued:--
"You are used to military duty, my good man?"
"Yes, Colonel. I was a conscript when I was twenty, and served four
years; and I enlisted after that. I would be now with Trochu, in all
probability, had not the Germans captured me at Sedan, when out on a
sortie, and held me until I escaped."
"How did you manage to get through their lines when you entered our
beleaguered city?"
"They did not see me. I crawled in through the rain, on a dark night."
"And you would like to do guard duty over German prisoners, eh?"
"I could like nothing better. I have prayed that the privilege might be
mine."
"Very well, it shall be yours. I have command of the guard of La Force.
I want you there."
[Illustration: IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.]
On that same November day--the day on which we heard the conversation
between the colonel and the sergeant and the provincial--a prisoner sat
in one of the strongest and most gloomy of the cells of La Force. Most
of the cells were occupied by several persons, some of them containing
as many as could comfortably lie down therein; but this man had been
condemned to death, and placed in solitary confinement. He was a
young man, not over thirty, fair-faced and handsome. He was of German
birth--a German of Darmstadt--and though clad in the garb of a French
labourer, he was yet a gentleman of education and refinement; his
name, as had been learned from marked articles in his possession, Otho
Maximilian.
Poor Maximilian! In his soldier's ardour and love of country he had
volunteered to his Prince to enter the enemy's lines and bring away
a correct draught of the outer and inner fortifications, together
with proper plans of the disposition of troops. And all this he had
come very near to doing; but, alas! not quite. Had he been content to
carry away his observations and computations in his head, and made
the visible signs of his espionage in the presence of his Prince, all
might have been well. He had gained the interior of the city and its
free range; he had made plans of all important things he wished to
communicate, and he was apprehended and searched, with those neatly
drawn plans upon his person.
Poor Otho! So young and so fair, with wife and three children praying
for him, and waiting in the Fatherland, thus to die! He shed no tears;
he gave voice to no complaints; he was sure his comrades would keep his
memory green; that his Prince would bless him for what he had tried
to do, and that his dearly loved ones would seek consolation in the
thought that he had given his life to his country.
On the day after to-morrow he was to die. He was not to be shot, like a
soldier, nor beheaded, as kings and noblemen had been; he was to suffer
the ignominy of hanging. The thought gave him keenest torture.
That dismal day drew to a close, and, at eventide, when the attendant
came with his food, he made one last earnest appeal for writing
materials, that he might write a brief letter to his wife. But such a
grant would be a violation of prison law; it could not be done. Then
he closed his lips, resolved not to speak again save to the Heavenly
Father.
The night passed, and another dark and dismal day. Another evening
came, and another night shut down over the great prison. Otho's last
night of earth, as the few grim marks on his dungeon wall told him.
At eleven o'clock he threw himself upon his hard straw pallet and tried
to sleep. He heard the solemn bells strike the midnight hour, and a few
moments later the warder of that corridor opened the little wicket in
his door and looked in upon him.
Had our prisoner been on the outside of his cell at that particular
time, he would have seen a movement on the part of the sentinel strange
and unusual. This sentinel had softly and noiselessly followed the
warder to that door, had stood very near while he looked in at the
wicket, and then, when he had started on to the next cell, he leaped
upon him as a cat would strike its prey. A single blow of a sand-bag
upon the warder's head felled him to the granite pavement as though
a lightning-bolt had smitten him. On the next instant the sentinel
was upon his knees, those knees upon the fallen man's breast, with a
folded napkin, in which was a broad, flat, fine sponge, pressed tightly
over the mouth and nostrils. A brief space so, then the guardsman took
from his breast pocket a small flask and renewed the chloroform in the
sponge.
[Illustration: "A SPONGE PRESSED TIGHTLY OVER THE MOUTH."]
Otho Maximilian had heard the opening of the wicket, and had seen
the face that had peered in upon him. He had again closed his eyes,
when he heard a dull, heavy thud, as though a ponderous body had
fallen upon the adamantine floor. The sound was so unusual, so strange
and unaccountable, that he was startled--not with fear, but with a
nameless, shapeless spectre of the unseen. He arose and bent his ear
attentively.
Ere long he heard the light clatter of a key as it was inserted into
the lock of his door, and presently the door was opened and a man came
in--a man habited in the uniform of the National Guard.
"--Sh!" whispered the guardsman. "Speak not, but do as I bid you. Throw
off that ragged blouse. Sacré!--will you obey? Bah!--it is a friend!
Now act, and quickly!"
"What!--you?--Mar----"
"Will you stop your tongue and obey? We will talk by-and-by."
Without another word the prisoner pulled off his blouse and threw it
aside. At the same time the guardsman stripped off his uniform, threw
off waist-belt and baldric, with the sword; then the coat with its
gaudy facings; then the pants, gaiters, and the shoes; and he bade the
other to get himself into them with all possible dispatch, which was
done.
And yet the guardsman stood in full uniform as before. He had come
doubly clad, even to the hat and an extra pompon. And there was still
another dress inside the uniform in which he now appeared. No wonder he
had looked strangely rotund and squat when we met him in M. Rameau's
wine-shop.
"Come! Look out that your sword does not clank, yet be ready to use it
if need be. Now follow me. Look neither to the right nor to the left.
Are you ready? So! Forward! March!"
As they passed out upon the corridor, closing the door behind them,
Otho saw the warder prone upon the pavement, and his sensitive
olfactories detected the presence of the powerful anæsthetic that held
him in thrall.
On that corridor they were at liberty to move as they pleased--for
though there was a post of observation commanding that whole floor,
yet the officer whose duty it was to occupy it was the warder who now
lay senseless, and whose keys the sentinel had taken into his own
possession.
"Mark you," whispered the liberator, when they had reached the head
of the stairs and were about to descend, "we have our greatest risk
directly ahead. The sentinels below have just come on, and may not be
wakeful enough to be over-inquisitive. We must make them believe that
we have been relieved, and that we stopped behind to help M. Joubert
examine a cell."
[Illustration: "HE READ THE PASS."]
"Will they not know at once that I am not a true National Guardsman?"
asked Otho.
"Not if you hide your face as best as you can. They know not me. I
came on last evening for the first time. I only entered the service
yesterday; enlisted on purpose for this bit of work. Oh, God, send that
it prove a success! Now, forward! march!"
At the foot of the stairs was a door, which the zealous sentinel
unlocked with a key taken from the pocket of the warder. As they were
ready to step forth, he called out, imitating the gruff tones of the
warder as closely as possible:--
"There--off you go! and I thank you for your help!"
"You are entirely welcome; but you've robbed me of nigh half an hour's
sleep, nevertheless; good-night, M. Joubert."
The last words were upon his lips as he stepped forth into the lower
hall, and the sentinel there standing supposed, naturally enough, that
he was addressing the warder of the above.
"Now, comrade," said our experimenting guardsman, to the sentinel there
stationed, "if you will let us out, we shall be grateful. M. Joubert
has kept us to help him care for a prisoner who was inclined to be
restive."
"Certainly, comrade." And, without hesitation, the honest sentinel
ushered the twain forth into the vestibule, whence they made way to the
open court.
"Now, my boy, mark me once more: I am Pierre Dubois; you are Julien
Bizet--both of the National Guard. I have in my pocket a pass, signed
by Colonel de Brèze--or it will answer for his signature. I think this
will set us free. Come!"
Boldly they entered the office of the night keeper, where Pierre
exhibited his pass. Fortune favoured the adventurers at every turn.
This keeper was a plethoric, heavy-eyed man, dull and sleepy. He read
the pass and gave it back, and, with only a grunt and a growl at being
disturbed, he got up and opened the way for the anxious twain to go
free.
In the uniform of the National Guard, and with the pass of Colonel
Brèze, it was an easy matter for the fugitives to make their way to the
outer fortifications, whence they had no difficulty in slipping through
into the German lines, where they were received with great rejoicing.
During the winter of 1875-76, Colonel Alphonse de Brèze was called,
by business of State, to the Prussian capital, and while there he
went to the theatre. The play advertised on the occasion of his first
visit was called "The Guardsman," the leading character of which was
a rollicking, fun-making soldier of the French National Guard, said
character being enacted by a Berlin favourite, Martin OEsau. When the
guardsman made his appearance on the stage, De Brèze was electrified.
With the first effort of thought he recognised the man--his recruit
of Rameau's wine-shop!--his zealous sentinel of La Force!--his Pierre
Dubois!
De Brèze could honour and respect brave men. A few days later he called
upon M. OEsau at his home, and spent a pleasant hour; and not long
thereafter he met Otho Maximilian at the same place.
"My friends," the colonel said, as he put down his empty wine-glass,
"had you seen and heard me on that November morning, five years ago,
when my prisoner was demanded of me, and I found an empty cell and a
sentinel missing, you would have been slow to believe that an event
like this could ever enter into the story of our lives!"
"Thank high Heaven for peace and for friendship!" was OEsau's fervent
response.
And they filled up and emptied their glasses to the sentiment.
[Illustration]
_The Queer Side of Things._
[Illustration: THE UNBELIEVERS' CLUB.]
There had been silence for twenty minutes in the circle of our weekly
convivial at the "Chain-Harve." The last word had been "ghosts"--or,
more accurately, "ghostes." During that twenty minutes' silence, broken
only by the puffing of pipes and the setting down of mugs, Mr. Coffin
(who had been an undertaker, or something of that sort, up at London,
and was considered the leading mind of the convivial club) had sat
twinkling his eyes at the kettle-crane in a way that told those who
knew him that something was to come out presently. At the end of the
twenty minutes Peter broke the silence with:--
"He, he! Ghostes! Them's things as some folks thinks as ther' mebbe
more in 'em ner is gen'ly thought--more'n wot some other folks thinks!"
Mr. Coffin transferred his twinkle to Peter, and then spread it
over the company. But the company were engaged in twinkling for
themselves--or, rather, in blinking (which was their substitute for
twinkling)--at the kettle-crane. Most of them were wagging their heads
very slowly from side to side.
"There's some as don't believe nothink," said old Billet.
"An' 'ow about Mrs. Skindle and them there lights down in the Low
Medder?" said Peter.
"And 'ow about Master George's groom?" said Mr. Armstrong, of the Mill.
"Ar!" murmured the company.
Mr. Coffin had now completed the spreading of his twinkle over the
company, and spoke:--
"It seems to me, gentlemen, that this club has a sort of duty in
this very matter of ghosts and things. There's a great deal too much
ignorance and superstition about."
The company, added to by the dropping in of occasional new arrivals,
transferred their gaze--no longer a blink--to Mr. Coffin, in feeble
surprise. Then, very gradually, the slow wag of the heads dissolved
into a slow nod; as they said, very thoughtfully, "Ar!"
"It isn't only ghosts," continued Mr. Coffin. "It's superstition
generally that it's our duty to put our foot down against. There's all
sorts of nonsense about ill-luck from going under ladders, and spilling
salt, and crossing knives--it's a sheer disgrace to the century!"
"Ar!" said the company, feebly.
"I'm glad you agree with me," went on Mr. Coffin, "because I've always
felt strongly about the foolishness of these superstitions. Now, I was
reading the other day in the paper about a club they have in London--it
was there in my time, too; but that brought it to my mind. That club
was established to ridicule those very superstitions; and they go at it
with a vengeance when they are at it--regularly perspire over it, you
might say. Well, now--why shouldn't we--this club--take up this matter
too, just to show the people round about how sensible we are--eh?"
"Ar!" said the company.
"Very well, then, we couldn't have a more suitable occasion to
inaugurate the new proceedings than to-night. This is Hallowe'en,
gentlemen, the one night of the year on which people have the best
chance of seeing ghosts--witches' night, you know; and what's more,
there are just thirteen of us present, and that's another lucky thing;
and what's more, Mr. Puter's yard dog has been howling all the evening,
which is supposed to be a sign that somebody in this house will die
shortly; and, by the way, I heard the death-watch most distinctly
ticking in your parlour wall when I came in to-day, Peter; so, if
you're as eager about the subject as I feel sure you are, why, there's
no reason why we shouldn't begin at once."
"Why not?" murmured the company, very low and hesitatingly.
"Very well, then--those who are in favour of the new departure will
indicate the same in the usual manner, by holding up their hands," said
Mr. Coffin.
And he turned his eye on each of the company in turn, and as he did
so, the one gazed at feebly held up his hand, and then dropped it as
quickly as possible.
They had failed to notice, before he pointed it out, that they numbered
just thirteen. The attendance at the club varied from time to time,
owing to some of the frequenters living in neighbouring villages, and
to other reasons.
So Mr. Coffin called for two knives and a salt-cellar; and then each
one present was blindfolded in turn and made to go through a ceremony
of initiation over the crossed knives and to spill some salt; after
which Mr. Coffin entertained them with a discourse about ghosts, rising
gravestones, banshees, corpse lights, and other things which it was the
duty of the new club to ridicule.
"The time is approaching when the landlord will request us to leave the
premises," said Mr. Coffin; "and, as you are aware, the first of us
to rise to depart must, according to the superstition, die within the
year: a most laughable superstition, of course!"
Mr. Coffin looked round. Each one whom he fixed with his eye chuckled
feebly and whispered "Ar--o' course!"
"Who volunteers to rise first?" asked Mr. Coffin, fixing his twinkle on
the kettle-crane.
[Illustration: "TIME, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE."]
There was a dead silence, broken by a low, blood-curdling, tremulous
moan from the yard; a moan which swelled into a howl so prolonged that
it seemed as though it would never cease. Then another dead silence,
broken by a dreadful grating death-cry from the woods; only the cry
of the screech-owl. Then the landlord looked in and said: "Time,
gentlemen, please."
But no one stirred; Mr. Coffin's twinkle was still fixed upon the crane.
"I propose, brother Unbelievers," he said, "that Peter, as being the
person in whose house the death-watch is ticking at present, is the
fittest person to rise. This will give him a great opportunity of
showing his contempt for absurd superstitions."
"That's right, anyhow--'ear! 'ear!" said the other eleven, quite
heartily this time; and Peter desperately seized and emptied his glass
of gin and water, and--pale as a sheet--slowly rose and buttoned his
coat. As he did so, there resounded again, simultaneously, the howl
of the yard dog and the death-cry of the screech-owl. Peter grinned a
ghastly grin, wiped his brow, said tremulously, "Well--goo' night," and
crawled out.
Then Mr. Coffin removed his twinkle once more from the crane, and rose,
and beamed round upon the company.
"This _is_ a magnificent opportunity for the display of our contempt
for superstition!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "If I remember
rightly, it was on a Hallowe'en, just seven years ago, that the tramp
hanged himself to that oak at the turn of the road--your way home, by
the way, Mr. Armstrong. Yes, it _was_ Hallowe'en! How fortunate! And
then there's Master George's groom who was thrown and broke his neck at
the Squire's gate, and is said to haunt the avenue just inside so as to
be seen from the road. Why, if he's to be seen _any_ night, he's safe
to be about on Hallowe'en--and that's on _your_ road home, Mr. Billet;
there's a chance for _you_! Then some of you have to cross the Low
Meadow where old Meg was drowned, in the time of William the Fourth,
and where the corpse-lights are to be seen, eh? Why, there's some fun
for every one of you. There's the churchyard, too, with a lot of queer
stories about it. Don't you remember about Joe Watts seeing that grey
thing sitting on the grave that had been opened, no one knew how?
"Capital! I'll tell you what. Just come into my place and finish the
evening, and then you can all start off in time to pass those places
exactly at midnight. Come along; and I'll start you all off at the
right time."
[Illustration: "SPRANG OUT UPON PERSONS PASSING BY."]
Getting skilfully behind them all--(for Peter had been found hanging
about just outside the door of the "Chain-Harve")--he edged them into
his cottage like a collie showing sheep into a pen; and made them all
sit down; and told them about an uncle of his who had gone by a haunted
spot for all the world like the turn of the road where the tragedy of
the tramp had occurred; and had heard something following him, though
he could see nothing; and had felt a feeling like a dead fish sliding
down his back; and had been unable to stir from the spot or to turn
his head, although he felt a something behind him all the time; and
had been found nearly dead in the morning. Then there was another tale
of a maniac with blood on his nails, who lurked behind headstones in
just such a churchyard as the one some of them had to pass through
that night, and sprang out upon persons passing by; and was felt to be
cold and slimy; and left those whom he touched paralyzed all down one
side. And there was the story of the woman who saw a gravestone slowly
rising--rising--rising of its own accord; and several other stories.
Between the stories, in the dead silences, were heard the howls of the
yard dog and the cries of the screech-owl: for Mr. Coffin lived close
to the "Chain-Harve."
"And now it's about time for some of you to be off," he said, rising.
"You shall go one by one. Your road home lies by the Low Meadow, Peter;
you'd better start now, and you'll just get there as the clock strikes
twelve--you'll hear the church clock down there, so you can hang
about a bit if you get there too soon. Good-night! Bless me, look at
that thing in the elm tree! Doesn't it look like a man hanging there?
Oh, of course, that's the light from my window on the leaves. Well,
good-night, good-night all! Don't forget the rising gravestones, and
the maniac, and the groom, and the dead fish!"
When the last of them had got round the turn in the road, Mr. Coffin
put on his coat and crept out after them, walking on the turf at the
side of the road so that his steps could not be heard. Presently he
made a short cut across Farmer Worripp's third field so as to head
them. At the other end of the field was the tramp's corner, with the
fatal tree, now thin as to leaves, standing out blurrily against the
dark sky. There, behind the hedge, Mr. Coffin waited to observe how Mr.
Armstrong would pass the spot; Armstrong had been started off in good
time to pass the spot a little before twelve; but the watcher waited in
vain--no Armstrong turned up. So Mr. Coffin started off again, across
country, toward the churchyard, arriving there just before twelve, and
hiding behind King John's Yew; he strained his ear for the sound of
feet, but no sound of feet was to be heard. No one going by the road
could possibly have arrived there before him. The clock struck twelve,
but no one came; he waited until the quarter-past--still no one came.
Then he started off, still across country, to a point on Peter's way
home, some three-quarters of a mile beyond the Low Meadow--but no Peter
was to be seen. So Mr. Coffin went home across the Low Meadow without
meeting a soul--or a spirit. Even down at the Low Meadow he could hear
the distant howl of the yard dog--a marrow-chilling sound enough; but
Mr. Coffin had absolutely no nerves, and simply chuckled.
How the members of the Unbelievers' Club got home that night nobody
ever knew except themselves; but next morning Mr. Coffin was on
his pony making the round of their dwelling or working places, and
interviewing them.
But they seemed very grumpy and short that morning (one and all): and
on his ride home Mr. Coffin twinkled so at the hedges and the trees and
the sky, and chuckled so incessantly that even his pony (who was used
to his ways) several times stopped and turned a brown eye round at its
rider in surprise and inquiry. All that day twelve out of the thirteen
members of the Unbelievers' Club were morose and out of humour; and
that evening the majority of them happened to drop in at the "Threshing
Machine," at the other end of the district from the "Chain-Harve." They
said very little beyond "Good evening," and sat in the tap-room looking
sheepishly at the fire, the important subject of the newly-established
club being strangely avoided.
But reports of the prowess of the club on the previous night had been
carefully spread by Mr. Coffin. He had told everybody he came across
how Armstrong had sat and smoked right under the tramp's tree while the
clock struck twelve, and how Billet had spent nearly an hour by the
gate of the Squire's park, challenging the groom's ghost to show up,
and making the avenue echo with his laughter; and so forth: so that
the members of the new club had become heroes. Thus, one by one, the
villagers were attracted to drop in at the "Threshing Machine" to gaze
reverentially at the fearless ghost-defiers, and ask them all about it.
"It must hav' give yer a bit of a creepy feelin' when the clock began
to strike?" said the saddler.
"Me? Golong with yer! 'Ope _I_ ain't sech a turnip-liver as ter be
frightened at bogies!" replied Armstrong, scornfully.
"Yur! D'ye take us for a set o' babies?" asked Billet, witheringly.
"Yah!" exclaimed Joe Murzle. "Wot next?"
Then the admirers stood drinks to the heroes; and by the time the
latter got up--with more or less difficulty--to go home, there wasn't
one among them who would not have given a week's earnings to meet the
most creepy ghost about.
But the next morning they were silent once more; and Peter looked
gloomily over the fence at Billet.
"Mighty queer about this 'ere pig o' mine, _that's_ wot it is!" said
he. "Bin ailing, he has, ever since yesterday morning."
"Hum!" said Billet. "We-el--if you ask _me_--I tell yer plain as I do
b'leeve my roomatics come on wuss night afore last, and that's pat."
Then they were silent, shaking their heads for several minutes.
"I'll tell yer," said Peter. "'Umbug it may be; an' truck it may be;
but there's things as is best let alone, and that I _do_ think. Thur
ain't no kind o' weak-mindyness nor credibility about _me_; but I says,
wot's the objeck o' goin' a-spillin' o' salt, an' crossin' knives, an'
settin' down thirteen?"
[Illustration: "MIGHTY QUEER ABOUT THIS 'ERE PIG O' MINE."]
"Ar!" said Billet, eagerly, "that's wot I ses--let sleepin' dogs lie,
ses I; and then yer won't git bitten, I ses!"
"I've got a kind o' notion as things are a-going somehow queerish
like," said Armstrong, passing along the lane at that moment. "Do me
if I can git the wind right way round into the mill-sails this mornin'
nor yet yesterday; and what on earth shed make that there lot o'
flour mouldy--well! That there pig's tail o' yourn don't look kind o'
right--it's a-hangin' out straight as a dip. Wot's ailin'?"
Peter and Billet looked at each other and shook their heads. Then Joe
Maydew came along, and told how he had his doubts about them turkeys
of his being quite as they should be, and how Jem Baker the carrier's
horse had gone lame the day before; and how other suspicious things
were happening.
Now, as a fact, Peter's pig had been ailing over a week, and the mill
had been refractory for five or six days--ever since the wind had been
so choppy; and Baker's horse had gradually gone lame from a shoe-nail
badly driven ten days previously. But the "Club" had not been nervously
looking out for evil signs until some thirty hours ago, and so had
failed to find any particular significance in the mishaps.
"It strikes _me_," said Maydew (one of the Unbelievers' Club), "that
there's folks as is fools and folks as is bigger fools; and these 'ere
last kind is them as must go a-sneerin', and unb'leevin', and defyin',
and temptin' o' Providence. Wot's Providence provide bad luck for, if
you ain't free to 'elp yerself to it? An' how are yer goin' to 'elp
yerself to it if ther' ain't no proper reckernized means o' doing of
it--hey?"
"Do jest seem like throwin' away the gifts o' Providence, don't it?"
said Peter.
"And wot I ses, them as up and persuades others for to do that same,
though bein' nameless, is got to answer to it," said Billet. "There's
things as we knows about, and there's other things, as contrariwise, we
don't; and when you ses unluck, and ghostes, and sech ----."
"All tomfoolery, aren't they, Mr. Billet? and no one's more convinced
of that than you and Peter," put in Mr. Coffin, who had come along
unobserved, fixing his persuasive eye on Billet.
The influence of Mr. Coffin's eye was remarkable: poor Billet and Peter
stood on one foot and then on the other, and grinned feebly, while the
other two stood scratching their chins; and, with a cheery wave of the
hand, Mr. Coffin passed on; and when he was out of sight those four
stuck their fists defiantly into the very bottoms of their pockets,
and put their legs wide apart, and muttered: "Is got to arnswer for it;
and it's a mercy if there ain't bad luck for _them_."
[Illustration: "HE SET FIRE TO HIS THATCH."]
For the rest of that week the Unbelievers spent their time in detecting
signs of the ill-luck brought upon them by the rash proceedings of that
fatal evening; for, in truth, they were as superstitious a set as one
could well find. By the end of the week a thousand small misfortunes
had happened, exactly on a footing with the small misfortunes which
had been happening to them every week of their lives; but _now_ these
desperate deeds at the "Chain-Harve" caused everything.
Peter's pig got so ill that Peter was forced to sell it at less than
quarter value to the local butcher, who was forced to send the carcass
to London to dispose of it; and then Peter--always feeble-minded--began
to grow moody and to stand about brooding on ills to come; and while he
stood brooding with a candle in his hand he set fire to his thatch and
burned off half his roof.
Then the evening came round for the weekly meeting of the "Unbelievers'
Club," and Mr. Coffin sat in state in the club-room chair at the
"Chain-Harve"; but at half-past seven (the regulation time for dropping
in) not a member appeared, nor until a quarter past eight; and then Mr.
Coffin set off for the other end of the parish, and found them all at
the "Threshing Machine."
"Ha! Good evening, gentlemen!" said he, taking a big chair by the fire.
"So you've decided to hold our club meeting here for a change?"
"'Ear! 'ear!" cried all those who were not of the fated twelve. Then
came a ten minutes' silence. Then Armstrong said, doggedly:--
"As to clubs, there's clubs as is all right; and there's clubs as is,
what you might say, otherwise--an' that's all about it!"
"Ar! That's jest where it is!" said old Billet.
"An' take it or leave it!" added Joe Maydew.
"Ar!" said the rest.
Peter sat in a dark corner, behind a string of onions, muttering to
himself.
"Is it your pleasure, fellow Unbelievers, that we go into committee on
the future programme of the club?" asked Mr. Coffin.
"'Ear! 'ear!" cried the curious non-members, eagerly.
But Armstrong rose and stuck his fists again into the bottoms of his
pockets, and glared at the proposer.
"W'y, if it comes to that, no, it ain't!" he said, fiercely. "And
take it out o' that!" And with that he stamped out of the "Threshing
Machine," followed by Joe Maydew.
The non-members were terribly disappointed; Mr. Coffin's influence was
powerless to set the proceedings going; the affair was a disastrous
frost; and presently the party broke up. At the hour for closing Peter
still sat in the dark corner behind the string of onions, rocking his
chair on its two hind legs and glowering at his boots; and he had to be
nudged three times before he started up and mechanically trudged out,
with his eyes fixed on the floor.
Next day, at the time for going to work, Peter sat in his living-room
with his chin upon his chest, and refused to budge. He had not
attempted to repair the thatch of his roof; and the rain had soaked his
bed, and spoilt his one or two books, and the coloured prints on his
wall and other things; but he merely gazed hopelessly round like one
under an irremovable curse, and gave it up. He had left the cover off
his little flour-tub, and the rain had soaked the flour, and a hen was
scratching in it; but there he sat and glowered.
Then he lost his employment at Farmer Worripp's, for the farmer could
not wait his pleasure, and had to engage another hand instead; and so
Peter had to go to the "house" for out-door relief. So he dragged on,
wandering round his garden patch, with his head low, and glowering, and
brooding, and waiting for the further developments of the ill-luck he
had brought on himself by the proceedings at the "Club."
Then his landlord grew tired of receiving no rent, and Peter had to
leave his cottage, after selling his few "sticks" to his neighbours;
or, rather, after his neighbours had come forward and given him a
trifle for this and that article, which he would otherwise have left
behind without an attempt to sell.
And so he wandered out into the road, quietly, at dusk, when no one
was observing, and stood for a moment at his gate, wavering which way
to go; and then he turned at the sound of a dog barking, and went off
slowly in the direction to which he had turned, with no pack--nothing
but his clothes and the small amount from the sale in his pocket.
As he passed the "Chain-Harve," his head still on his breast, Mr.
Coffin (who had been away for ten days, and had not heard of Peter's
latest straits) was standing in the doorway and caught sight of him.
"Halloa, Master Peter," said Coffin. "Whither away now? Coming in to
have half-a-pint?"
Peter suddenly stopped in the light from the tap-room window, raised
his head, and glared fiercely at the speaker: then spat on the ground
before him, and disappeared into the darkness.
The next morning, when Mr. Coffin heard all about Peter's recent
troubles, he set off along the road the way he had gone, and searched
for him high and low. Peter had been seen in the next village, and had
bought a loaf and some cheese at the grocer's; but beyond this the
seeker could not trace him. He tried the next day, and the next; but
with no success.
It was eight or nine weeks after this that, at sunset, Peter dragged
himself from under a haystack where he had been asleep, and drew
himself slowly up to a standing position. He was scarcely recognisable:
his unwashed face was seared and lined with exposure, misery, and
incessant brooding on the ill-luck which had long ago developed in
his feeble mind into a crushing curse--a curse deliberately brought
down upon himself by some awful and inexpiable blasphemy--for such was
the phantasy which had evolved itself out of those harmless acts of
spilling the salt and so forth at the inauguration of the Unbelievers'
Club. Day and night--until he had fallen down with sheer inability to
keep awake--he had wandered on, with his chin on his chest and his eyes
on the road, brooding over the "blasphemy" and the "curse." He looked
like a skeleton; his eyes had grey hollows all round; his clothes were
in rags; and he had been wet through for many days.
Suddenly, now, he glared at the setting sun; then sprang forward to
a heap of flints on the roadside, and with trembling hand eagerly
selected a large stone, and hugged it up inside the breast of his
coat. Then he set off hurriedly--almost at a run--along the road; and
walked, walked, at the same pace, into the dusk, into the darkness,
under the stars. Now and again he would take out the flint and feel
it caressingly; and once he suddenly stopped, and tore off a large
piece of his coat, and wrapped the stone in it; and tied his old red
handkerchief over that, and put the stone back in his coat. Stumbling
along at the same pace, he arrived about ten o'clock at the window of
the "Threshing Machine," and peered in; everyone was away that night
at a merrymaking in the next village, and Mr. Coffin sat alone in the
tap-room.
Peter pushed open the tap-room door, and suddenly appeared before Mr.
Coffin, who started up in surprise. After a few moments' scrutiny he
recognised the changed figure, and advanced and touched its arm, and
sat it down in a chair; and went out and returned with some bread and
cheese and a mug of ale.
Peter pushed away the food and swallowed the pint of ale at a gulp,
then held out the mug to be refilled. It was strong ale, not "swipes."
Mr. Coffin took the mug and set it down; and while his back was turned
Peter seized his untouched glass of hot rum and water and swallowed the
liquor.
Not once did Peter speak, even in reply; but each time the other turned
his back, he would bring out the flint in its wrappings and caress it,
and glare at Mr. Coffin. Then suddenly Peter sprang up and tottered
out; and Mr. Coffin, after a vain attempt to find him in the darkness
outside, mounted his pony and set off for home. He took the lane for
the Low Meadow; and after him, keeping on the grass or in the soft mud,
crept Peter, caressing the flint stone.
[Illustration: "HE WALKED INTO THE DARKNESS."]
Mr. Coffin did not return home that night, although his pony did; and
the next day he was found on the Low Meadow with his skull fractured
and a large sharp flint lying close by; and Peter was found lying face
upwards, glaring at the sky through three feet of water, at the spot
where tradition said that old Meg was drowned in the time of William
the Fourth.
The Low Meadow is triply haunted now; and the villagers avoid it after
nightfall more carefully than ever. The Unbelievers' Club exists no
longer.