"You talk of profanation to the dead. It would indeed be profanation
were I to imitate your language. I am willing to admit that you excel
in your nice selection of epithets, but I deny your love for the poor
dead girl lying here by your use of them."
[Illustration: "BEAUTIFUL SHE LOOKED, EVEN IN DEATH."]
Jack's calmness of utterance, so strongly in contrast to that of the
stranger, produced some effect upon his hearer. There was a lengthy
pause. Save for the sharp breathing of the two men confronting each
other, the chamber might have been given up entirely to the dead.
It seemed in that pause as though the still form in the shroud were
listening for an answer.
At length the stranger spoke, his voice now tremulous and pathetic:
"You doubt my love for her? _Eh, bien!_ I loved her as few men could
have loved. I have confronted death once, twice this day to see her
dear, dead face. I have confronted--still confront--what is worse than
death: disgrace and ignominy. Has Monsieur done as much?"
"No," said Jack, sententiously, touched yet chagrined by the man's
passion.
"Until Monsieur has done as much, has he the presumption to say that
he has as great a right to stand here as I?"
"Presumption!" cried Jack. "By whatever right I stand here, I
certainly question your right to use such terms to me. But before we
discuss the point further, would it not be as well to have a light?"
There was a hasty movement on the part of the figure opposite.
"If you stir, you are a dead man."
There was a faint ray of light shining through the window, not
sufficient for Jack to see the person before him, but sufficient to
see the cold gleam of steel. It was a sword. This man was a soldier,
then, and an enemy. Jack now understood his allusion to the peril he
had run in coming there, and admired his bravery. His love for Minnie
Denton must indeed have been great.
"You spoke about ignominy just now," said Jack. "I don't know whether
your interpretation of the phrase is the same as mine. But a British
soldier--for I, too, am a soldier--considers that there is no greater
ignominy than that of being suspected of cowardice. I should be a
coward if I cared for your threats. I'm going to get a light."
"Pardon me. You are a brave man. I did wrong to threaten you."
Jack heard the sword return to its scabbard. "Let me appeal to your
honour."
"That is an appeal which has never been made to me in vain."
"My visit here has been a secret. I wish it to remain so. This much
only I may tell you--that I am an officer in the French army, enjoying
a position of great responsibility and trust. You see the risk I have
run."
Jack started. This man had indeed risked much to see the last of the
woman he loved.
"You say that your visit here is a secret one; and yet you reproached
me just now with being a thief in the night. I will not retaliate; for
I too can respect a brave man. I will only say that your confidence
will not be betrayed."
Jack stretched out his hand. It was again clasped by the stranger.
They stood thus for a moment, hand in hand, over the dead.
Then the stranger bent, and Jack could hear him whispering terms of
endearment to ears that could not hear, and pressing kisses upon lips
that could not respond.
"Now, Monsieur, I am going," he said, at length. "I thank you for your
patience, and will send up the _concierge_ with a light. You will then
be able to read this letter. Oblige me by taking it. From it you will
see who is the most entitled to her love. It was the last letter she
ever wrote. You say you are a soldier? _Eh, bien_, when next we meet,
Monsieur, it will be in a different place. As we have learned to
respect each other, I hope to show that respect in the best way a
soldier can--by crossing swords with you. _Jusqu'au revoir!_"
[Illustration: "HE WAS STOPPED AT THE ENTRANCE BY A GENDARME."]
"_Au revoir_, Monsieur!"
In a moment or two Jack heard the stranger go out, and the _concierge_
came stumbling up with a light. Jack took it from him, and gazed upon
the face of Minnie Denton. Beautiful she looked, even in death. The
pain and agony of the last struggle had gone and left the features
placid, as one in peaceful sleep.
Years ago he had loved her deeply, tenderly, and she had returned his
love. Then they had quarrelled. The breach between them had widened,
and in a fit of desperation he enlisted. Europe was at the time one
great battlefield, and Jack was immediately sent on active service. So
he had altogether lost sight of his old love.
He had been with Wellington in the Peninsula, and after serving with
a bravery which had gained him the eulogiums of his general, had been
drafted with his regiment to Brussels just prior to the time when
Napoleon escaped from Elba.
There had not been much time to think of love while these stirring
events were transpiring, but the news of his old sweetheart's death,
in the very city in which he was stationed, had touched a tender
chord.
Jack mused mournfully upon the past as he looked down on the still,
silent face. She had been fickle; yet had not he? What would their
fate have been had they not quarrelled? Would it have been widely
different? Perchance she would have been a happy mother; he, a happy
father; or they might have been utterly miserable.
Whatever Fate might or might not have had in store for them in other
circumstances, it was galling to think that her last thoughts had been
of this stranger--a Frenchman and an enemy.
But was it true? There could, alas! be little doubt of it, for had
not the Frenchman left with him the best--rather he would say, the
worst--of all testimony: her own letter? What stronger evidence of her
fickleness could there be than that?
Jack turned to the light and looked at the letter which had been
placed in his hand.
Good heavens! What was this?
[Illustration: "THE DUKE AND HE HELD A WHISPERED CONVERSATION."]
It was no love letter, but a document folded in the shape of a letter.
Jack looked at it eagerly, and read it through not once, but twice,
and thrice.
It was Napoleon's directions to his generals, signed by the Emperor
himself, containing specific instructions respecting the forthcoming
battle against the allied forces. The one line that burnt itself into
Jack's brain was that an advance was to be made upon Quatre Bras early
the next morning. Wellington had no suspicion that the advance was to
be made so soon; for Jack knew that he and many of the officers were
at a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond in the Grande Place.
The Frenchman had said that he was an officer, enjoying a position of
great responsibility and trust. Jack saw it all. He had given him this
document instead of, as he supposed, the dead woman's letter. Then
came to Jack a question of honour. Had he the right to use this
information?
He did not pause long to consider the point. The safety of his country
was at stake. That was enough. The old maxim, "All is fair in love and
war," had now a double signification. So Jack hurried along with all
possible speed to the Grande Place.
The ball was at its height. The strains of music, the laughter of the
dancers, came to Jack as he neared the Duchess's residence.
He was stopped at the entrance to the hall by a gendarme.
"Est ce que vous avez votre billet, Monsieur?"
"Non."
"Alors je ne puis pas vous admettre."
Jack explained it was of the utmost importance that he should see the
Duke of Wellington, and at length he was ushered up the staircase into
an ante-room, while an attendant went in search of the Duke.
Jack had a full view of the ballroom as he waited. As in a
kaleidoscope he saw the gleam of many uniforms, fair faces, white
shoulders, slender graceful forms--alternate flashes of scarlet and
white--as couple after couple whirled by in the mazy waltz. Presently
from out the maze came one martial figure which Jack knew well. There
could be no mistaking that stern, immobile face, the tightly pressed
lips, the prominent Roman nose. It was the Iron Duke!
"Well, sir, you wish to see me?" was his laconic greeting.
"Yes, General, on a matter of life and death. Read that."
He handed the Duke the document he had received from the Frenchman.
His searching eyes had grasped its contents in a moment; yet he
betrayed no excitement or astonishment.
"Where did you get this?" he calmly asked.
Jack briefly explained the circumstances under which he had obtained
possession of the document. The Duke turned to his aide-de-camp.
"Tell General Picton I wish to see him immediately."
In a minute or two the aide-de-camp returned with the General.
[Illustration: "THE FRENCHMAN WAS A VERY SKILFUL SWORDSMAN, JACK
EQUALLY SO."]
"Napoleon left Frasne this morning," said Wellington. "The Prussians
have fallen back. Ziethen has been beaten. Napoleon is marching now
upon Quatre Bras. Read that."
Picton read the document, and studied the plan. Then the Duke and he
held a whispered consultation. The aide-de-camp returned again and
again to the ballroom, and Jack saw the officers stealing away one by
one. Then the Duke turned to Jack:
"You have done well in bringing me this document. I will not forget
it. Prepare to join your regiment."
Jack saluted, and passed into the street. As he did so, the bell
of the Hotel de Ville boomed one. Simultaneously could be heard the
tramp, tramp of the Highland regiments as they defiled into the Grande
Place.
The British forces were preparing to meet the enemy.
In the morning the two armies found themselves ranged in battle array
opposite each other.
Then came the opening struggle at Quatre Bras, followed by the yet
more memorable death-wrestle of nations at Waterloo.
No need to repeat the incidents of that famous day--Picton's bravery,
Napoleon's strategy, Wellington's tenacity of purpose, the glorious
stand around the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte.
Napoleon charged again and again the immovable British centre.
The destinies of nations hung in the balance, and it was not until
Wellington gave the famous command--"Up, Guards, and at them!"--that
the balance turned to the side of victory.
Jack was foremost in the charge, and as his column swept down the
slope, he heard a voice cry out to the fleeing Frenchmen:
"Arrêtez! Arrêtez!"
He recognised the voice as that of the man whom he had met at the
shroud of Minnie Denton. Though the interview had only been brief, he
could recall every accent. The voice was one he was never likely to
forget.
Finding his efforts to check the retreating soldiers unavailing, the
officer turned and faced the pursuing column.
Jack was the first to reach him. The rest of the column swept on,
leaving the two face to face, sword to sword.
"Your prophecy has come true, Monsieur," said Jack. "We have met
again--a little sooner probably than you anticipated."
"Ah! it is you," said the officer. "Truly pleased to see you. We are
destined, it seems, to be rivals till the last. I beat you in love,
you will admit; and I shall do my best to----"
He did not finish the sentence. Steel met steel; the sparks flew from
the quivering blades. The Frenchman was a very skilful swordsman, Jack
equally so. Jack at last with an adroit parry sent the sword from his
adversary's hand.
Jack was stooping to pick up the weapon when a stray shot hit the
Frenchman in the breast. He fell with a groan from his horse. Jack
quickly dismounted, and knelt by his side.
[Illustration: "JACK QUICKLY DISMOUNTED, AND KNELT BY HIS SIDE."]
"Ah, Monsieur, it is very good of you," he gasped, as Jack raised his
head; "it is very, very good of you; but I am dying. The fortune of
love was with me; the fortune of war is with you."
Jack strove to staunch the blood that was gushing from the wound, but
in vain. The wound was a mortal one.
"It is useless," gasped the Frenchman. "Nothing can be done, and I
would rather die than be a prisoner. You are my enemy, but you are a
gentleman. One thing I would ask you. Minnie--Mdlle. Denton--is to be
buried to-morrow, Bury us in one grave. It is all I ask."
Jack promised. He felt a great pressure from the hand resting within
his; then the head fell back in his arms. A brave soldier had fought
his last battle.
Simultaneously there rose on the air a great shout. It was the shout
of the conquering army announcing that the battle of Waterloo had been
fought and won.
SERMONS WITHOUT WORDS
A MARVELLOUS PERFORMANCE IN DUMB SHOW.
Not a quarter of a mile from the Marble Arch, on the left side of
Oxford Street (No. 419, Oxford Street, as a matter of fact), looking
towards the Park, there stands a dull, unpretentious, red brick
edifice, so unpretentious indeed that in spite of its ecclesiastical
appearance it is unnoticed by the majority of passers by.
The bulk of the teeming thousands who pride themselves that they know
their London are ignorant of its whereabouts, nor are the countless
legions who daily pass through the busy thoroughfare better informed.
Nor is it surprising; for there is little but a tiny cross on the
coping stone, and a dingy notice board behind dingier railings,
to mark one of the most interesting buildings in all London--St.
Saviour's Church, the cathedral of London's 2,000 deaf and dumb.
Here Sunday by Sunday the silent poor and the silent rich worship
together. Outside, the roll of traffic merges into one long dull roar
that may distract the thoughts of worshippers in other churches, but
to the congregation of St. Saviour's makes no difference. They cannot
hear it.
[Illustration: JUSTICE (WEIGHING WITH SCALES).]
I had heard much of the Rev. F. W. G. Gilby's wonderful method of
preaching to his people, how he has become thoroughly conversant not
only with the old-fashioned finger spelling familiar to those who have
watched the conversation of the deaf and dumb, but can also by means
of gesture and acting make use of a system of preaching richer in
suggestion, wider in range, and infinitely more effective in its scope
and power of riveting the interest of his flock.
Accordingly, one wet Thursday evening a short time ago, I made one of
the congregation at evening service, curious to take part in such a
service myself. I am never likely to forget the impression that
quiet service made on me, nor to relieve my mind of the feeling of
overwhelming depression at the realisation that this little crowd of
afflicted people, miserably and unutterably poor in the majority of
cases, was living, moving, and breathing in our very midst, helpless
yet happy, willing and intelligent, yet almost entirely dependent
on this one enthusiastic, unselfish man for their comfort--not only
spiritual, but in many cases, as I discovered, material as well.
I have not the space, nor is it in my province in this short article,
to describe or appeal on behalf of the needs of this institution, but
the interested ones should see for themselves, and if within their
power, help.
Excepting the chaplain's wife, herself an expert follower of her
husband's method, I was the first to arrive. The lights were low,
and there was nothing about the dim church save the absence of choir
stalls and pulpit to suggest the unusual nature of its mission.
Presently a distant door opened, a shuffling step dragged along the
aisle. The first member of the congregation took his rags with him
into a front seat. He was a shoeblack down on his luck, but nobody
turned him out. In Mr. Gilby's flock all are equals, all are friends
in their common adversity. The first seats are for the first comers.
A few moments later and the congregation was nearly complete. Here and
there one caught a flash of recognition between two friends, then up
went two pairs of hands flashing white in the dim light as an animated
conversation took place across the church. By the time the church was
half full a whole volley of chatter was playing round; everywhere
the darkness was alive with flickering, speaking hands, and faces
vibrating with expressive gesture. It was an odd scene, weird
and uncanny to the hearing visitor who sat misunderstood and not
understanding amid the silent throng.
[Illustration: 1. "DEAR]
[Illustration: 2. DEAF AND DUMB]
[Illustration: 3. FRIENDS]
[Illustration: 4. WE]
[Illustration: 5. WISH YOU]
In a few moments the chaplain, attired in the usual canonicals,
appeared, and the service commenced.
Throughout the proceedings there was no sound but the dull roar of
passing omnibuses and cabs outside. Not a hymn, not a word, only that
indescribable hush, almost unnerving to one strange to the scene.
Yet throughout the service, in the prayers, in the sermon, not an eye
strayed from the slight figure talking in a language of his own at the
little desk on the altar steps.
At first the ghostly reality of this strange sermon dispelled all
other thoughts. It did not seem comprehensible that there could be any
connection between the chaplain and the attentive congregation, but
here and there one could catch a reflection of one of his gestures on
the face of an intent watcher.
Then a more than usually familiar passage was signalled, and a broad
intelligent smile passed swiftly across the faces of the congregation,
and they nodded and looked towards each other comprehendingly.
Then for the first time one realised that the flying fingers playing
rapidly above the reading desk, flickering now high and now low,
like the figures in a kinetoscope picture, meant something; that the
gestures, the graceful swaying of the body, the marvellous play of
the features, all had their meaning; that each little movement was
intelligible to the watchers as the word of a spoken sermon, and
infinitely more expressive.
As the utter novelty of the scene became more familiar, I found myself
trying to interpret the drift of the sermon, and it was little short
of marvellous how intelligible a great number of the gestures were,
even to one untrained and unused to sign language.
The acting and gestures in many sentences were so obvious, that it was
almost as though the words were rather the equivalents of the signs
than _vice versâ_. It was, indeed, an astonishing revelation of the
possibilities of human expression. When the faculty is combined with
a system of word signs intelligible to the merest child, it will be
understood how much may be done in this way, without recourse to the
more tedious method of spelling out each word separately, although
this is necessary where the sign imagery is so subtle as only to
appeal to highly cultivated imaginations.
As a matter of fact, Mr. Gilby has a marvellous faculty in this
direction, that has been fostered and perfected by life-long study. So
much is this the case, indeed, that I doubt if he could be equalled in
this direction by any one of our greatest actors.
Presently the service was at an end. There was a little desultory
silent conversation, and the congregation dispersed, just as it
came, without a sound. Three or four stragglers, clean and
intelligent-looking, but obviously poor, remained behind, and
presently made their way up the altar steps, and into the tiny vestry.
[Illustration: 6. JOINED TOGETHER]
[Illustration: 7. IN ONE HEART AND ONE MIND,]
[Illustration: 8. IMITATING]
[Illustration: 9. CHRIST]
[Illustration: 10. UNTIL]
[Illustration: 11. THE CHURCH]
[Illustration: 12. IS COMPLETE."]
I followed them, and when each had stated his different wants and
difficulties, and received relief and comfort, I persuaded Mr. Gilby
to assist me in the preparation of this article, illustrative of his
remarkable work.
It will be readily granted by those who examine our interesting series
of photographs, that my demands on his good nature were by no means
moderate. Those who object to being photographed almost as much as
they dislike the necessary visit to the dentist--and Mr. Gilby is one
of these--will appreciate Mr. Gilby's feelings when our photographer
desired not only one siting, but a dozen. However, Mr. Gilby will
be more than compensated if this article is the means of attracting
public attention to the afflicted ones that are his especial charge.
The most important photographs we give are those that illustrate a
message that I have prevailed on Mr. Gilby to issue through these
pages to the deaf and dumb of the British Empire. The message is
necessarily brief and short: as it is we are obliged to print twelve
photographs in order to do it justice. The exact message is as
follows:--
"Dear deaf and dumb friends, we wish you joined together in one heart
and one mind, imitating Christ until the Church is complete."
The appropriateness of many of Mr. Gilby's signs becomes immediately
apparent on glancing at the photographs, but some are not as clear as
others. "Deaf and dumb" is signified by rapidly touching the mouth and
the ear; "friend," by shaking hands with oneself; "we," by pointing at
oneself, at the persons addressed, and vaguely to the left to indicate
people in general; and "joined together," by opening the hands, and
then bringing them together closed. A most interesting sign is that
representing "Christ," where a finger is pressed into the palm of each
hand in rapid succession, as if to indicate the piercings of the nails
of the cross; and scarcely less remarkable is that which denotes the
"Church"--the motions being those of one ringing church bells!
Excellent as these photographs are, they convey but a slight
impression of the effect produced by a sermon in Mr. Gilby's
gesture-language. It must be understood that his is no laborious art.
Distinct and picturesque as Mr. Gilby's motions are, they succeed
one another with the rapidity of words penned by an expert shorthand
writer. On one occasion, indeed, Canon Wilberforce--one of the most
fiery orators of the day--addressed our deaf and dumb congregation,
and Mr. Gilby, who stood by the side of the eloquent Canon to
interpret the discourse, experienced no difficulty in keeping level
with him. It will thus be seen that, as practised by an expert, the
art of gesture-language leaves little room for improvement. As a
matter of fact, the sentence given above would be "signed" by Mr.
Gilby, in the course of an ordinary pulpit address, in about three
seconds.
[Illustration: "KNOWLEDGE."]
Needless to say those signs that are to be expressive of themselves
require to be of the most suggestive nature in order to be readily
understood, and it is in the invention of these that the teacher
of the deaf and dumb may find a great field for the exercise of his
ingenuity.
In a great number of cases there are signs which are universally
accepted and understood by deaf mutes the world over. On the other
hand, each school has its own special gestures, equally expressive but
peculiar to itself, and in the department of versatility of gesture
Mr. Gilby is second to none. In fact, I have seen him express an idea
in half a dozen ways, and each one of them could have been interpreted
with ease by a half wit.
In the majority of cases the photographs illustrating the gestures
have been taken in an entirely novel way.
By making several exposures on one plate we have sought to illustrate
the various movements composing those gestures which are of a
composite description. Where a word or idea is expressed by a
single sign, this is, of course, unnecessary. One photograph is
all-sufficient.
It may possibly occur to many that there might be considerable
difficulty in conveying a difference of expression in the same idea;
that is to say, the difference indicated in spoken language by a mere
variation of inflection in the voice. As a matter of fact, the sign
language is even more expressive in this particular. An excellent
illustration of this is given in two photographs on page 71. Both
gestures express the same idea--a parting between two friends. In
the first of the two you have the parting in which there is a little
sadness. The idea of separation is conveyed by the hand leading the
other away. That it is a matter of regret is shown by the expression
of the face and the nod of the head.
In the second photograph of the pair you still have the parting. This
time, however, it is a humorous rendering which might be used with
happy felicity at the conclusion of a platform speech, where the
speaker wished to convey a sort of "Well, I'm sorry to go, but I
must," notion. Here the separation is humorously expressed by the
suggestion of brute force brought to bear on the speaker's collar.