[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 155.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
JUST BEFORE WINTER.
BY RICHARD JEFFERIES, AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC.
A rich tint of russet deepened on the Forest top and seemed to sink day
by day deeper into the foliage like a stain; riper and riper it grew,
as an apple colours. Broad acres these of the last crop, the crop of
leaves; a thousand, thousand quarters, the broad earth will be their
barn. A warm red lies on the hillside above the woods, as if the red
dawn stayed there through the day; it is the heath and heather seeds;
and higher still, a pale yellow fills the larches. The whole of the
great hill glows with colour under the short hours of the October sun;
and overhead, where the pine-cones hang, the sky is of the deepest
azure. The conflagration of the woods burning luminously crowds into
those short hours a brilliance the slow summer does not know.
The frosts and mists and battering rains that follow in quick
succession after the equinox, the chill winds that creep about the
fields, have ceased a little while, and there is a pleasant sound in
the fir-trees. Everything is not gone yet. In the lanes that lead
down to the ‘shaws’ in the dells, the ‘gills,’ as these wooded depths
are called, buckler ferns, green, fresh, and elegantly fashioned,
remain under the shelter of the hazel-lined banks. From the tops of
the ash-wands, where the linnets so lately sang, coming up from the
stubble, the darkened leaves have been blown, and their much-divided
branches stand bare like outstretched fingers. Black-spotted sycamore
leaves are down, but the moss grows thick and deeply green; and the
trumpets of the lichen seem to be larger now they are moist, than when
they were dry under the summer heat. Here is herb-Robert in flower—its
leaves are scarlet; a leaf of St John’s wort, too, has become scarlet;
the bramble leaves are many shades of crimson; one plant of tormentil
has turned yellow. Furze bushes, grown taller since the spring, bear
a second bloom, but not perhaps so golden as the first. It is the
true furze, and not the lesser gorse; it is covered with half-opened
buds; and it is clear, if the short hours of sun would but lengthen,
the whole gorse hedge would become aglow again. Our trees, too, that
roll up their buds so tightly, like a dragoon’s cloak, would open them
again at Christmas; and the sticky horse-chestnut would send forth its
long ears of leaves for New-year’s Day. They would all come out in leaf
again if we had but a little more sun; _they_ are quite ready for a
second summer.
Brown lie the acorns, yellow where they were fixed in their cups; two
of these cups seem almost as large as the great acorns from abroad. A
red dead nettle, a mauve thistle, white and pink bramble-flowers, a
white strawberry, a little yellow tormentil, a broad yellow dandelion,
narrow hawkweeds, and blue scabious, are all in flower in the lane.
Others are scattered on the mounds and in the meads adjoining, where
may be collected some heath still in bloom, prunella, hypernicum, white
yarrow, some heads of red clover, some beautiful buttercups, three bits
of blue veronica, wild chamomile, tall yellow weed, pink centaury,
succory dock cress, daisies, fleabane, knapweed, and delicate blue
harebells. Two York roses flower on the hedge: altogether, twenty-six
flowers, a large bouquet for the 19th of October, gathered, too, in a
hilly country.
Besides these, note the broad hedge-parsley leaves, tunnelled by
leaf-miners; bright masses of haws gleaming in the sun; scarlet hips;
great brown cones fallen from the spruce-firs; black heart-shaped
bindweed leaves here, and buff bryony leaves yonder; green and scarlet
berries of white bryony hanging thickly on bines from which the leaves
have withered; and bunches of grass, half yellow and half green,
along the mound. Now that the leaves have been brushed from the beech
saplings, you may see how the leading stem rises in a curious wavy
line; some of the leaves lie at the foot, washed in white dew, that
stays in the shade all day; the wetness of the dew makes the brownish
red of the leaf show clear and bright. One leaf falls in the stillness
of the air slowly, as if let down by a cord of gossamer gently, and not
as a stone falls—fate delayed to the last. A moth adheres to a bough,
his wings half open, like a short brown cloak flung over his shoulders.
Pointed leaves, some drooping, some horizontal, some fluttering
slightly, still stay on the tall willow-wands, like bannerets on the
knights’ lances, much torn in the late battle of the winds. There is
a shower from a clear sky under the trees in the forest; brown acorns
rattling as they fall, and rich coloured Spanish chestnuts thumping
the sward, and sometimes striking you as you pass under; they lie on
the ground in pocketfuls. Specks of brilliant scarlet dot the grass
like some bright berries blown from the bushes; but on stooping to pick
them, they are found to be the heads of a fungus. Near by lies a black
magpie’s feather, spotted with round dots of white.
At the edge of the trees stands an old timbered farmstead, whose gables
and dark lines of wood have not been painted in the memory of man, dull
and weather-beaten, but very homely; and by it rises the delicate cone
of a new oasthouse, the tiles on which are of the brightest red. Lines
of bluish smoke ascend from among the bracken of the wild open ground,
where a tribe of gypsies have pitched their camp. Three of the vans
are time-stained and travel-worn, with dull red roofs; the fourth is
brightly picked out with fresh yellow paint, and stands a marked object
at the side. Orange-red beeches rise beyond them on the slope; two
hoop-tents, or kibitkas, just large enough to creep into, are near the
fires, where the women are cooking the gypsy’s _bouillon_, that savoury
stew of all things good: vegetables, meat, and scraps, and savouries,
collected as it were in the stockpot from twenty miles round. Hodge,
the stay-at-home, sturdy carter, eats bread and cheese and poor bacon
sometimes; he looks with true British scorn on all scraps and soups,
and stockpots and _bouillons_—not for him, not he; he would rather
munch dry bread and cheese for every meal all the year round, though he
could get bits as easy as the other and without begging. The gypsy is a
cook. The man with a gold ring in his ear; the woman with a silver ring
on her finger, coarse black snaky hair like a horse’s mane; the boy
with naked olive feet; dark eyes all of them, and an Oriental, sidelong
look, and a strange inflection of tone that turns our common English
words into a foreign language—there they camp in the fern, in the sun,
their Eastern donkeys of Syria scattered round them, their children
rolling about like foals in the grass, a bit out of the distant Orient
under our Western oaks.
It is the nature of the oak to be still, it is the nature of the
hawk to roam with the wind. The Anglo-Saxon labourer remains in his
cottage generation after generation, ploughing the same fields; the
express train may rush by, but he feels no wish to rush with it; he
scarcely turns to look at it; all the note he takes is that it marks
the time to ‘knock off’ and ride the horses home. And if hard want at
last forces him away, and he emigrates, he would as soon jog to the
port in a wagon, a week on the road, as go by steam; as soon voyage
in a sailing-ship as by the swift Cunarder. The swart gypsy, like the
hawk, for ever travels on, but, like the hawk, that seems to have no
road, and yet returns to the same trees, so he, winding in circles of
which we civilised people do not understand the map, comes, in his own
times and seasons, home to the same waste spot, and cooks his savoury
_bouillon_ by the same beech. They have camped here for so many years,
that it is impossible to trace when they did not; it is wild still,
like themselves. Nor has their nature changed any more than the nature
of the trees.
The gypsy loves the crescent moon, the evening star, the clatter of the
fern-owl, the beetle’s hum. He was born on the earth in the tent, and
he has lived like a species of human wild animal ever since. Of his own
free-will he will have nothing to do with rites or litanies; he may
perhaps be married in a place of worship, to make it legal, that is
all. At the end, were it not for the law, he would for choice be buried
beneath the ‘fireplace’ of their children’s children. He will not
dance to the pipe ecclesiastic, sound it who may—churchman, dissenter,
priest, or laic. Like the trees, he is simply indifferent. All the
great wave of teaching and text and tracts and missions and the produce
of the printing-press has made no impression upon his race any more
than upon the red-deer that roam in the forest behind his camp. The
negroes have their fetich, every nation its idols; the gypsy alone has
none—not even a superstitious observance; they have no idolatry of the
Past, neither have they the exalted thought of the Present. It is very
strange that it should be so at this the height of our civilisation,
and you might go many thousand miles and search from Africa to
Australia before you would find another people without a Deity. That
can only be seen under an English sky, under English oaks and beeches.
Are they the oldest race on earth? and have they worn out all the
gods? Have they worn out all the hopes and fears of the human heart in
tens of thousands of years, and do they merely live, acquiescent to
fate? For some have thought to trace in the older races an apathy as
with the Chinese, a religion of moral maxims and some few josshouse
superstitions, which they themselves full well know to be naught,
worshipping their ancestors, but with no vital living force, like that
which drove Mohammed’s bands to zealous fury, like that which sent
our own Puritans over the sea in the _Mayflower_. No living faith. So
old, so very, very old, older than the Chinese, older than the Copts
of Egypt, older than the Aztecs; back to those dim Sanskrit times that
seem like the clouds on the far horizon of human experience, where
space and chaos begin to take shape, though but of vapour. So old, they
went through civilisation ten thousand years since; they have worn it
all out, even hope in the future; they merely live acquiescent to fate,
like the red-deer. The crescent moon, the evening star, the clatter
of the fern-owl, the red embers of the wood-fire, the pungent smoke
blown round about by the occasional puffs of wind, the shadowy trees,
the sound of the horses cropping the grass, the night that steals on
till the stubbles alone are light among the fields—the gypsy sleeps in
his tent on mother-earth; it is, you see, primeval man with primeval
nature. One thing he gains at least—an iron health, an untiring foot,
women whose haunches bear any burden, children whose naked feet are not
afraid of the dew.
By sharp contrast, the Anglo-Saxon labourer who lives in the cottage
close by and works at the old timbered farmstead, is profoundly
religious.
The gypsies return from their rambling soon after the end of
hop-picking, and hold a kind of informal fair on the village green with
cock-shies, swings, and all the clumsy games that extract money from
clumsy hands. It is almost the only time of the year when the labouring
people have any cash; their weekly wages are mortgaged beforehand; the
hop-picking money comes in a lump, and they have something to spend.
Hundreds of pounds are paid to meet the tally or account kept by the
pickers, the old word tally still surviving, and this has to be charmed
out of their pockets. Besides the gypsies’ fair, the little shopkeepers
in the villages send out circulars to the most outlying cottage
announcing the annual sale at an immense sacrifice; anything to get
the hop-pickers’ cash; and the packmen come round, too, with jewelry
and lace and finery. The village by the Forest has been haunted by the
gypsies for a century; its population in the last thirty years has much
increased, and it is very curious to observe how the gypsy element has
impregnated the place. Not only are the names gypsy; the faces are
gypsy; the black coarse hair, high cheek-bones, and peculiar forehead,
linger; even many of the shopkeepers have a distinct trace, and others
that do not show it so much, are known to be nevertheless related.
Until land became so valuable—it is now again declining—these Forest
grounds of heath and bracken were free to all comers, and great numbers
of squatters built huts and inclosed pieces of land. They cleared away
the gorse and heath and grubbed the fir-tree stumps, and found, after
a while, that the apparently barren sand could grow a good sward. No
one would think anything could flourish on such an arid sand, exposed
at a great height on the open hill to the cutting winds. Contrary,
however, to appearances, fair crops, and sometimes two crops of
hay are yielded, and there is always a good bite for cattle. These
squatters consequently came to keep cows, sometimes one and sometimes
two—anticipating the three acres and a cow—and it is very odd to hear
the women at the hop-picking telling each other they are going to churn
to-night. They have, in fact, little dairies. Such are the better class
of squatters. But others there are who have shown no industry, half
gypsies, who do anything but work—tramp, beg, or poach; sturdy fellows,
stalking round with toy-brooms for sale, with all the blackguardism of
both races. They keep just within the law; they do not steal or commit
burglary; but decency, order, and society they set utterly at defiance.
For instance, a gentleman pleased with the splendid view, built a large
mansion in one spot, never noticing that the entrance was opposite
a row of cottages, or rather thinking no evil of it. The result was
that neither his wife nor visitors could go in or out without being
grossly insulted, without rhyme or reason, merely for the sake of
blackguardism. Now, the pure gypsy in his tent or the Anglo-Saxon
labourer would not do this; it was the half-breed. The original owner
was driven from his premises; and they are said to have changed hands
several times since from the same cause. All over the parish this
half-breed element shows its presence by the extraordinary and unusual
coarseness of manner. The true English rustic is always civil, however
rough, and will not offend you with anything unspeakable, so that at
first it is quite bewildering to meet with such behaviour in the midst
of green lanes. This is the explanation—the gypsy taint. Instead of the
growing population obliterating the gypsy, the gypsy has saturated the
English folk.
When people saw the red man driven from the prairies and backwoods of
America, and whole States as large as Germany without a single Indian
left, much was written on the extermination of the aborigines by the
stronger Saxon. As the generations lengthen, the facts appear to wear
another aspect. From the intermarriage of the lower orders with the
Indian squaws, the Indian blood has got into the Saxon veins, and now
the cry is that the red man is exterminating the Saxon, so greatly
has he leavened the population. The typical Yankee face, as drawn
in _Punch_, is indeed the red Indian profile with a white skin and
a chimney-pot hat. Upon a small scale, the same thing has happened
in this village by the Forest; the gypsy half-breed has stained the
native blood. Perhaps races like the Jew and gypsy, so often quoted as
instances of the permanency of type, really owe that apparent fixidity
to their power of mingling with other nations. They are kept alive as
races by mixing; otherwise, one of two things would happen—the Jew and
the gypsy must have died out, or else have supplanted all the races
of the globe. Had the Jews been so fixed a type, by this time their
offspring would have been more numerous than the Chinese. The reverse,
however, is the case; and therefore, we may suppose they must have
become extinct, had it not been for fresh supplies of Saxon, Teuton,
Spanish, and Italian blood. It is in fact the intermarriages that
have kept the falsely so-called pure races of these human parasites
alive. The mixing is continually going on. The gypsies who still stay
in their tents, however, look askance upon those who desert them for
the roof. Two gypsy women, thoroughbred, came into a village shop and
bought a variety of groceries, ending with a pound of biscuits and a
Guy Fawkes’ mask for a boy. They were clad in dirty jackets and hats,
draggle-tails, unkempt and unwashed, with orange and red kerchiefs
round their necks (the gypsy colours). Happening to look out of window,
they saw a young servant-girl with a perambulator on the opposite side
of the ‘street;’ she was tidy and decently dressed, looking after her
mistress’ children in civilised fashion; but they recognised her as a
deserter from the tribe, and blazed with contempt. ‘Don’t _she_ look a
figure!’ exclaimed these dirty creatures.
The short hours shorten, and the leaf-crop is gathered to the great
barn of the earth; the oaks alone, more tenacious, retain their leaves,
that have now become a colour like new leather. It is too brown for
buff—it is more like fresh harness. The berries are red on the holly
bushes and holly trees that grow, whole copses of them, on the forest
slopes—‘the Great Rough’—the half-wild sheep have polished the stems
of these holly trees till they shine, by rubbing their fleeces against
them. The farmers have been drying their damp wheat in the oasthouses
over charcoal fires, and wages are lowered, and men discharged. Vast
loads of brambles and thorns, dead firs, useless hop-poles and hopbines
and gorse are drawn together for the great bonfire on the green. The
5th of November bonfires are still vital institutions, and from the top
of the hill you may see them burning in all directions, as if an enemy
had set fire to the hamlets.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER XIX.
Near one window stood a high Japanese screen, with plate-glass panels.
Isodore had barely time to conceal herself behind this, when Le Gautier
entered. He seemed somewhat hurried, but otherwise calm enough, as
he walked into the room and towards Enid. ‘Before I leave’—— Then he
stopped suddenly.
Sir Geoffrey was standing a little way back from the group, one hand
behind his back, the other pointing with unsteady forefinger to Linda
Despard, while he never moved his eyes from Le Gautier’s face. A little
flick of the nostrils, a quiver of the lip, and the Frenchman was
himself again. But Sir Geoffrey never moved; he merely opened his lips,
and snapped out one word, ‘Well?’
‘Is this a theatrical rehearsal?’ Le Gautier asked at length.
‘I am waiting,’ the baronet returned, ‘for some explanation. To a man
of your astuteness, I need not be explicit. This lady, monsieur, and
you, I hear, are old acquaintances.’
‘You talk in riddles, Sir Geoffrey.’
‘You are anxious to gain time. I, on the other hand, do not wish to
be too hard upon you. Let me explain. Miss Linda Despard—who has been
in my house for some time, the result of an accident, the details of
which you have probably heard—turns out to be an old friend of yours.
She is dressed this moment, you perceive, in a character which had been
rehearsed under your personal superintendence—the character of my late
brother.’
‘But what can this possibly have to do with me?’
‘A truce to this folly!’ Sir Geoffrey cried warmly. ‘I have heard
everything about the jugglery at Paddington—the mirrors, and Pepper’s
Ghosts, and the whole miserable machinery by which I was deluded.’
‘Then you no longer believe?’ Le Gautier asked, fixing his glittering
eyes upon the baronet’s face.
But the magnetic power was gone now; the glance was returned as
sternly. Sir Geoffrey seemed a new man. ‘I do not believe,’ he replied.
‘Then take the consequences—be a haunted, miserable man for the rest of
your days! You will not be warned. I have done all I can for you. If
you like to believe the tale you have heard, I will not prevent you. I
say again, take the consequences.’
‘On the contrary, my good sir, it is you who will be the principal
sufferer. I wish to make this interview as pleasant as possible, and
cannot do better than by making it brief. There was a little contract
between us, which you will consider at an end from this moment.’
‘And why?’ Le Gautier asked hotly. ‘You have proved nothing against me
at present. This Linda Despard, whose tale you have been listening to,
is no friend of mine.’
‘Can you look her in the face and say that she is wrong?’ Sir Geoffrey
interrupted. ‘Of course, you cannot deny the truth of her words. Then
why am I bound to fulfil my contract with you?’
‘Because I have your word it shall be so. On your word, and by the
power I hold over you, I claim my wife still.’
‘And in good time, you shall have her, Hector le Gautier.’
The group assembled there looked suddenly at Lucrece, as she spoke.
She came forward now, facing the Frenchman, who eyed her with an
undisguised sneer.
‘And what has the maid of Miss Charteris to do with me?’
‘Much,’ she answered quietly.—‘Do you know who I am?’
‘A servant who has got into the drawing-room by mistake. If I am wrong,
please enlighten me.’
Lucrece stepped forward, throwing her head back, and placing one hand
upon a table at her side. ‘I will enlighten you. Five years is a long
time in a lifetime like mine, but your memory will carry you back to
the Villa Mattio. Hector le Gautier, I am Lucrece Visci, sister of your
_friend_ Carlo Visci.’
‘And I am no wiser now.’
‘But I am,’ Enid exclaimed.—‘Father, you remember Signor Visci, the
artist who used to meet us at Rome?’
‘Yes, my dear’—with a glance at Le Gautier—‘a fine specimen of an
Italian gentleman. The only unpleasant recollection I have of him is,
that he first introduced me to Monsieur le Gautier.’
The Frenchman’s eyes flashed, and he moved as if to speak; but Lucrece
continued rapidly: ‘You may not remember me; but you have not forgotten
my sister, Genevieve.—Ah! I have moved you now!—Miss Charteris, you
were in Rome when she disappeared. Her false lover stands before you
now!’
‘It is false!’ Le Gautier exclaimed. ‘Prove that I’——
‘It is true.—Prove it? Look at your own face there!’ Lucrece cried,
pointing to a mirror opposite him. ‘Look there, and deny it if you can!’
‘True or false, I cannot waste words with you.—Sir Geoffrey, I hold you
to your promise.—Enid, you shall keep your word.’
‘We are not in the habit of bestowing the daughters of our house upon
adventurers,’ Sir Geoffrey replied. ‘I am sure your natural good sense
and a little calm reflection will show you the folly of your demand.’
‘My father has spoken for me,’ Enid said. ‘I have nothing to add.’
Le Gautier stepped across the room to her. She rose to her feet in
alarm. Lucrece stood between the two, and grasping Enid by the wrist,
and laying her hand upon the Frenchman’s shoulder, held him back. ‘Are
you mad that you ask this thing?’ she asked.
‘And wherefore? How does it concern you?’
She looked him steadily in the face as she replied: ‘Then I must
refresh your memory;’ and raising her voice, till it rang through the
lofty room, ‘because you have a wife already!’
Le Gautier staggered back; but he was not beaten yet. ‘Another of your
little fabrications,’ he said mockingly.
‘Look at him!’ Lucrece exclaimed, turning to the others, and pointing
at the detected man with infinite scorn. ‘Look into his face—mark his
dejected air, though he braves it out well, and tell me if I am wrong.’
‘Your word is doubtless a good one; but there is something better
than words, and that is proof. Do you not think I can see through
this paltry conspiracy which has been got up against me? But you have
the wrong man to deal with in me for that. I will have the compact
fulfilled; my power is not over yet; and, Sir Geoffrey, I give you one
more chance. Refuse at your peril.’
‘I do refuse,’ Sir Geoffrey answered icily. ‘Do your worst.’
‘That is your decision?—And now, as to these groundless accusations you
have brought against me. You have made them; prove them.’ He turned to
Lucrece with a gesture which was almost noble, all the actor’s instinct
aroused in him now. There was one desperate chance for him yet.
‘You had best take, care, if I accept you at your word.’
‘I wish to be taken at my word. I demand your proofs!’
‘And you shall have them!’ Saying these words, Lucrece glided swiftly
from the room.
An awkward silence fell upon the group. Le Gautier was the first to
speak. There was a kind of moisture in his eye, and an air of resigned
melancholy on his face. ‘You have misjudged me,’ he said sorrowfully.
‘Some day, you will be ashamed of this.—Sir Geoffrey, you are the
victim of a designing woman, who seeks, for some reason, to traduce my
fair fame. If I have a wife, let them bring me face to face with her
here.’
‘You have your wish, Hector, for I am here!’
Le Gautier bounded forward like a man who has received a mortal hurt,
and gazed at the speaker with glaring eyes. Valerie was standing before
him, not without agitation herself. A low cry burst from his lips, and
he drew his shaking hand down his white damp face. ‘What brings you
here?’ he asked, his voice sounding strangely to his own ears, as if
it came from far away. ‘Woman! why do you come here now, to destroy me
utterly?’
She shrank back—an eloquent gesture to the onlookers—a gesture seven
years’ freedom from thraldom had not obliterated. ‘You wished to see
me. Lo! I am here! Turn round to your friends now, and deny that I am
your lawful wife—deny again that you have ever seen me before, and put
me to the proof.—Why do you not speak? Why do you not show a little of
that manhood you used to have? Strike me, as you have done often in the
times gone by—anything better than standing there, a poor, pitiful,
detected swindler—a miserable hound indeed!’
There was a dead silence now, only broken by Le Gautier’s heavy
breathing, and the rustle of his sleeve as he wiped the perspiration
from his face.
‘There is the proof you demanded,’ Lucrece said at length. ‘We are
waiting for you to deny the witness of your eyes.’
But still Le Gautier did not speak, standing there like some stone
figure, his limbs almost powerless. He raised his head a moment, then
lowered it again swiftly. He tried to articulate a few words, but his
tongue refused its office.
Sir Geoffrey laid his hand upon the bell. ‘Have you nothing to say?’ he
asked.
‘I—I—— Let me go out—the place is choking me!’
Sir Geoffrey rang the bell sharply. ‘Then this interview had better
close. It has already been too long, and degrading.—James, show
Monsieur le Gautier out, if you please.—I have the honour to wish you
good-morning; and if we do meet again,’ he added in a stern undertone,
‘remember, it is as strangers.’
Le Gautier, without another word or look, left the room, Lucrece
following a moment later, and leading Valerie away. Isodore stepped out
from her hiding-place, her face alternately scornful and tender.
‘We owe you a heavy debt of gratitude indeed!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed
warmly. ‘It is extremely good of you to take all this trouble for mere
strangers. Accept my most sincere thanks!’
‘We are not quite strangers,’ Isodore replied, turning to Enid.
‘Lucrece told you who she was; let me tell you who I am. I have never
met you, though once I hoped to do so. I am Genevieve Visci!’
‘What! Signor Visci’s sister—the girl who—who’——
‘Do not hesitate to say it. Yes, Isodore and Genevieve are one. Out of
recollection of old times, when you were so kind to my dear brother, I
have not forgotten you, knowing Le Gautier so well.’
‘But Lucrece, your sister, to come here as my maid. And Le Gautier—how
did you know? I am all at sea yet.’
‘It is a long sad story, and some day, when I know you better, I will
tell you all, but not now. But one thing, please, remember, that come
what will, Le Gautier cannot harm you now. He may threaten, but he is
powerless. I have only to hold up my hand’——
‘And Frederick—Mr Maxwell?’
‘Do not be impatient. You will see him to-morrow; for this evening I
have need of him. You have not the slightest grounds for anxiety. Le
Gautier will never harm any one more.’
‘How strangely, sternly, you speak,’ Enid replied.
Isodore smiled. ‘Do I? Well, you heard what Lucrece said, and I may
have planned a little retaliation of my own. The eastern eagle flies
slowly, but his flight is sure. Trust me, and fear not.’
Enid was bewildered. But the time was near when she was to understand.
* * * * *
With baffled fury and revenge raging in his heart, Le Gautier turned
away in the direction of his lodgings, anywhere to get away from
himself for a time, nothing left to him now but to wreak his vengeance
upon Sir Geoffrey in the most diabolical way his fiendish ingenuity
could contrive—and Isodore. By this time, Maxwell was no more; there
was some grain of satisfaction in that; and he had Marie St Jean to
fall back upon.
He sat brooding in his rooms till nearly nine—time to attend the
meeting of the League, the last one he determined that should ever see
his face. Had he known how fatally true this was, he would have faced
a thousand dangers rather than gone to Gray’s Inn Road that night. It
was nearly ten when he lowered his gas, and struck off across the side
streets in the direction of Holborn. When he reached his destination,
he walked up-stairs, the only arrival as yet. Had he been less
preoccupied, he would not have failed to notice the glance bestowed
upon him by the custodian. He lingered about the room till one by one
the company came in.
They were not long in commencing business. Le Gautier did not occupy
the chair on this occasion; the proceedings of the evening were
important, and a Supreme Councillor was present. He greeted each man
coldly. To Le Gautier his manner was stern to the last degree. The
routine commenced, and was conducted quietly for some time in the
briefest, dryest fashion. Then the president for the evening rose, and
taking from his pocket the gold moidore, commanded every one there to
throw his upon the table. Presently, nine golden coins glittered on the
green baize. ‘One short,’ the president said sternly. ‘Whose?’
They looked round, each waiting for the other to speak.
‘It is mine,’ Le Gautier exclaimed. ‘I did not think it necessary.’
‘You have no right to think; it is not in your province. If you have
in any way parted with it’—— He stopped significantly, and Le Gautier
hastily intervened.
‘I humbly beg your pardon. I will fetch it immediately. I have not far
to go; I can return at once. In justice to myself, I am sure you will
permit me to fetch it.’
‘No!’ thundered the Chief Councillor with a glance in Le Gautier’s face
that made his heart beat thick and fast. ‘And as to justice, you shall
have it presently, to the uttermost scruple.—Gentlemen, there is a
traitor present!’
With one accord they sprang to their feet, suspicion and alarm in every
eye.
‘Who is it?’ they cried. ‘Death to the traitor!’
‘Look round among yourselves, and see if you can discover him.—No? Then
he wears a good mask who has a hard conscience.—Stand up, traitor!—ay,
the most despicable; stand up, and look us in the face! Who is the
man who has enjoyed our deepest confidences—the man we have to thank
Isodore for discovering?—Stand up, I say! Rise, Hector le Gautier!’
The Frenchman knew his last hour had come; he knew that such a bold
accusation as this could not be made without the most convincing proof.
But despite his failings, he was not the man to cower before such a
great danger. He braced his nerves till they were like steel; there was
no particle of fear in his face as he turned at bay.
‘I had expected something like this,’ he said. ‘It is not likely that
my promotion should pass by without incurring some jealousy. I will say
nothing about my long services, the years I have spent in the service
of the League. My accuser, and your proof!’
A murmur of applause ran round the table at this sentiment. There was
no appearance of guilt here.
‘Isodore is your accuser—the proofs she holds. You are charged with
conspiracy to overthrow the League, in conjunction with another person.
Your companion is one Marie St Jean.’
Even with his iron nerves under control as they were, Le Gautier could
not repress a start, which was not lost upon the Councillor.
‘Marie St Jean,’ he continued, ‘received from you certain papers
for the purpose of handing them over to the police. The information
contained therein is complete. Do you deny your handwriting?’
He threw a bundle of papers across the table to Le Gautier. As he read
them, his white face became corpse-like in its livid hue. But he was
fighting for his life now, and summoned all his self-command to his
aid, knowing full well that if he was condemned, he would never leave
that room alive. His calm air came back to him.
‘I admit the handwriting—private memoranda stolen from my apartments. I
am still waiting for your proof. Besides, Marie St Jean is a member of
the League; she restored to me’——
‘Your insignia, which you had the temerity to stake upon the colour at
Homburg.—Salvarini, I call upon you to say if this is not so?’
‘I would rather say nothing about this,’ Salvarini said. Le Gautier
noticed how distressed and agitated he was. ‘I fear—I much fear you
have too much proof, without calling upon me.’
‘You stand by a friend, Luigi!’ Le Gautier said bitterly. ‘Do not think
of me now. Every man must look to himself!’
‘Sufficient of this,’ the president interrupted. ‘My proofs are
overpowering. You are charged with packing the cards, to force the
Brother Maxwell upon a dangerous mission.’
‘Enough!’ the prisoner exclaimed; ‘confront me with my accuser!’
‘You shall see her.—Isodore!’
As he raised his voice, a breathless hush fell upon the assembly.
Presently, a woman entered; for a moment she looked at the group, and
then raising her veil, showed her beautiful face.
‘Marie!’ A deep, bitter cry, following this word, burst from Le
Gautier’s lips, and he fell forward upon the table, his head upon
his hands. There was no escape now, he knew full well. And the woman
he thought had loved him—the woman who knew all his plans to the
letter, was the Princess of the League, the most dangerous member,
Isodore herself! Salvarini looked into her face for a moment, and then
whispered one word—Genevieve; but she heard it, and smiled at him,
pleased that one man should remember—heard the little word which struck
a womanly chord in her heart, and was thankful. Then she made him a
sign to be silent.
Stunned by the crushing force and suddenness of the blow, Le Gautier
half lay there, with his head resting upon the table, no sound breaking
the solemn silence. The president addressed the wretched man, asking
him if he had anything to say.
He raised his head and looked dazedly around, then down again. ‘I? No!
I have nothing to say. My doom is sealed!’
‘Bind him!’
Rough hands were laid upon the doomed wretch, and fastened him in his
chair securely, taking care to make his bonds too tight for escape. Le
Gautier did not resist; he knew now that there was no escape in all the
wide world for him. They left him thus, trooping in to an adjoining
room to go through the mockery of the trial which the orders of the
League demanded.
When Le Gautier looked up, he was alone, save for Isodore. ‘You are
satisfied with your work now?’
‘Yes, I am satisfied now,’ Isodore echoed. ‘So you thought to play me
off against Enid Charteris, poor fool! Hector le Gautier, I am going to
tax your memory. Do you remember one evening in the Mattio woods when
you abandoned a lonely trusting girl, the sister of your friend? Do
you remember laughing at a vow of vengeance five years ago? Justice is
slow, but it is sure. Do you remember?’
‘Yes. Is it possible that you can be?’——
‘Yes, it is possible, for I am Genevieve Visci! It is my turn now.’ And
without another word she left him.
Presently, a desire to live took the place of his dull despair. In an
agony he tugged and turned, cutting his wrists with the keen rope till
the blood ran down his hands. He could hear the low monotonous voices
from the adjoining room, the hurrying footsteps in the road below; and
only that thin wall between himself and safety. Even the window leading
from the iron staircase was open, and the evening breeze fanned his
white despairing face. He struggled again till his heart nearly burst,
and then, worn out, broke into tears.
‘Hector!’
He turned round, hardly certain whether it was a voice or a fancy.
Gradually out of the mists a figure emerged, and creeping stealthily
across the bare floor, came to his side. It was Valerie.
‘So you have come to gloat over my misery too,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Go, or, manacled as I am, I shall do you a mischief.’
For answer, she drew a knife from her pocket, and commenced, with
trembling fingers, to sever his bonds. One by one the sharp knife
cut through them, till at length he stood a free man. One grudging,
grateful glance at the woman, and he disappeared.
CHRISTMAS IN A DÂK BUNGALOW.
I have spent Christmas Day in England and abroad, in my own family, in
mess, and with three commanding officers; but till the year 1883, I
had never spent one absolutely alone. I had on this occasion another
opportunity of spending the day in mess, for I was in India at the
time; but I came to the conclusion that a bird in the hand is worth
two in the bush; and three days’ leave for certain is better than a
fortnight’s in prospect; and having had rather a trying share of work
for some time before Christmas, I decided to forego the usual ‘going
round the men’s dinners,’ with its concomitant drinking of curious
and, I hope, rare liquors, eating pieces of Christmas pudding, and
subsequently getting through the day in a manner more Sunday-like than
actually amusing. So, on the 23d December I found myself about seven
P.M. in the dâk bungalow of a river-side station in the Punjab, to
which I had been recommended by a messmate as a good spot for a few
days’ duck-shooting. My servant, a Madrassi, rejoicing in the name of
Zacharias—the ‘Madras-man every time liking Christian name, sah’—had
preceded me, and had got the principal agent for my three days’
shooting in the shape of a shikaree, who bore the very unchristian name
of Rukkum (Rook’em) Deen, in attendance to make arrangements for the
morrow.
Now, I am not going to enter into a discussion on the subject of
duck-shooting, for many reasons, of which I will mention, first, that
I might have conducted such operations on any other three days of the
year, if I could have got leave; second, that I am not very proud of
my own prowess with a gun; third, that I didn’t get much, though I
saw a great deal; and fourth, that the subject of wildfowl shooting
is not one to enter into in a light and frivolous spirit, but must be
approached with awe, and with a due appreciation of nice distinctions
of weights and measures, and a ready desire to hear all manner of
extraordinary asseverations, however fond of truth the listener may
be. Mine is a true story, and is only a collection of jottings and
thoughts. After this explanation, I can safely skip over my doings on
the 24th, which were confined solely to the region of the river and the
somewhat distant society of the wildfowl.
Christmas Day opened fine and clear. That is a matter not of much note
in India, where the weather is remarkable for its succession of fine
clear days; but in England, Christmas Day—if my recollection serves me
true—does not always open fine and clear. I was called at half-past
six A.M.; and by eight had put my cartridges together, dispensed with
a tub, had breakfast, and started for the river again. Outside the dâk
bungalow, as luck would have it, I met an Englishman—a terrible thing
on the continent, I know; but somehow in India we are not so painfully
exclusive. I wished him good-morning and the compliments of the season;
he returned the sentiments; and that was all the conversation I had
with a fellow-countryman on that day. I was on the river from half-past
eight till four; but skip that period for the third of my reasons for
making this no wildfowler’s story. Soon after getting in, cleaning my
gun, having my tub, and generally assuming a more civilised appearance,
I heard the church bells ringing; and hurried off to find a children’s
service being conducted by a very nice, benevolent-looking clergyman,
who had for his congregation about twenty children and a round dozen
of adults, parents and so on. The reverend gentleman was giving the
children a simple address as I entered, and I felt at home and happy.
The little voices joined in singing hymns and saying prayers; and when
the lines, ‘Guard the sailors tossing on the deep blue sea,’ were sung,
I let my thoughts wander over a good many leagues of land and sea to
where others were, as I felt sure, thinking of me in the midst of their
Christmas doings.
On my return to the bungalow, I found that there was an Englishman
living under the same roof, and felt that I should very much like to
have a companion at my dinner. I accordingly sent Zacharias to find
out who the Englishman was and what he was doing here; for I did not
want to bore him with an invitation if he had come here for the express
purpose of being alone with his thoughts. I imagine my faithful valet
found the inquiry difficult of prosecution, or, what is more likely,
that he gave it up in favour of seeing ‘master’s Christmas dinner’
being properly cooked. Anyway, it was not till Zacharias brought me
my soup that he brought the intelligence that ‘the English gentleman
having joint;’ so my intentions were frustrated, and the only attention
I could pay the mysterious stranger was to send him the following note:
DÂK BUNGALOW, _Christmas Day_.
DEAR SIR—I should be very proud if you would accept a glass of
wine from my bottle, which I send by bearer, and drink with me to
Absent Friends. I am very sorry I did not find out till too late
that there was an Englishman in the bungalow, or I would have
done myself the pleasure of asking if you would care to dine with
a fellow-countryman on this occasion. Hoping you will excuse my
intrusion, I am, sir, with all the compliments of the season, yours
truly,
H. S.
I sent him at the same time an open bottle of ‘Sparkling Wine,’ and
soon after received my bottle back, with but very little gone, and at
the same time the following answer:
DEAR SIR—Thanks very many. A merry Christmas to you. I drink your
health.—Yours sincerely,
——.
I am very sorry I cannot put in the name of an eminent politician or
other dignitary, by way of completing the story; but as I couldn’t read
it, my curiosity must remain for ever unsatisfied, and the mysterious
stranger of Christmas Day, 1883, will remain wrapped up in his mystery,
unless he chances to peruse these lines, and, remembering the incident,
discloses himself.
As for my Christmas dinner, I must say it was as good as any government
establishment, and much better than most dâk bungalows could produce.
The hand of Zacharias was betrayed in potato chips and cunning sauces.
I can here fairly bring in that I had a duck of my own shooting,
and the only thing wanting was bread. The forgetful _khansamah_ or
housekeeper had not warned the native baker, and I had to make the best
I could of _chupatties_, a poor substitute; and I am convinced that
its permanent institution on the English diet table would soon reduce
us to a very low ebb indeed. But being in a properly Christmas frame
of mind, good-will to all men, &c., I determined to make the best of a
bad business, and toasted them before a wood-fire, thus giving myself
an opportunity of introducing to Zacharias’ notice, à la Mr Barlow,
of _Sandford and Merton_ fame, ‘The Story of King Alfred and the
Chupattie, or the Indigent Monarch and the Haughty Swineherd’s Wife.’
Wishing to be understood, I endeavoured to put the simple narrative in
a somewhat Indianised language, and the following was the result:
‘One time in Englishman’s place, one King Alfred living.—Do you
understand “king?” _Mr_ Queen _subse burra rajah_’ (the biggest swell
of all).
_Zacharias._ Yes, sah.
‘One time Alfred Sahib young man, and wanting to study how the newly
franchised ones would vote.—No; I mean liking to see how his people’s
getting on _mallum_.—Do you understand?’
_Zach._ Yes, sah.
‘Very well; he went to house of one man looking after pigs (_Suir ke
kubberdarwallah_). That right?’
_Zach._ Yes, sah.
‘Pigman’s wife not knowing Alfred Sahib have much _Burra Bahadur_
(Great Panjandrum), giving him some chupatties to toast before fire,
same like Master doing now. Then pigman’s wife going out to see pigs.
Alfred Sahib besides being king of England, was a bit of a _Bajawallah_
(music-man). When pigman’s wife going out, Alfred Sahib playing
on his baja same like Master on banjo. Chupatties getting burned;
pigman’s wife coming back, getting plenty angry, then stick-striking
(_Lackri-marta_) Alfred Sahib.—Now, Zacharias, you understand all that?’
_Zach._ Yes, sah.
‘What do you understand?’
_Zach._ Master not liking raw chupatties.
‘Yes; and I would take this opportunity of impressing on you the many
advantages to be gained by entirely giving up chupatties in favour of
bread. Look at that piece of garbage I have got to eat! I warn you that
so long as you and your fellow-men in India continue to eat chupatties
and such-like nastiness, so long will you remain in that state of
degradation and darkness that England was in, in the days of Alfred
Sahib.—Do you understand?’
_Zach._ Yes, sah.
After this expression of sentiment, I went to dinner, and really
enjoyed my toasted chupattie, as I had converted it into a sort of
ship’s biscuit, than which there is nothing better. When I felt the
influence, benign and benevolent, of doing myself well, creeping over
me, I was at the stage of my first glass of wine, and this was a bumper
to Absent Friends. What a host of faces passed before my eyes as I shut
them and quaffed the time-honoured toast! How I could have moralised,
and become sentimental and maudlin! But as that was not my intention
at all, I wished all the dear good souls the ‘Best of luck—lots of it,
and may I soon be there to see!’ and resumed my lessons in civilisation
to Zacharias. I never before appreciated so thoroughly what a capital
thing it is to have an English-speaking servant in India. Did I say
English-_speaking_? I am afraid I did; but English-understanding
would be a better expression, for I never gave Zacharias a chance
of speaking till after dinner, when he came in capitally. I told
him how shameful it was that his fellows would use the poisonous
_dekskai_ (cooking-pot), with its bi-monthly demand for tinning or for
a substitute ‘leading,’ when kind English people tried to introduce
the more familiar saucepan of iron and enamel. I told him how much
better a slow-burning moderate fire was for cooking purposes than the
pot-destroying furnaces of charcoal over which everything is cooked in
India; how nothing was cooked through, but everything sodden inside and
burned outside. I ingratiated myself again by drinking his health. I
then attacked him on another point, and told him confidentially that if
it was not for his fellows’ silly ideas on the subject of caste, that
we should never have taken the country; and was rather glad that he put
a stop to this unwise disclosure and counsel by saying: ‘God is good,
sah. Gentlemens never knowing why caste, and not liking.’
At last I finished dinner; and then gave a few directions for the
morning—to be called at half-past six, to have breakfast ready at
seven A.M., and to shut up rooms and come with me. But the demon of
speechifying was on me, the _cacoëthes loquendi_, and nothing under an
eighteen-hundred horse-power steam fire-engine could quench the raging
fire that had mastered the movements of my tongue. The only consolation
was that I gave Zacharias more chances. I asked him questions. ‘When
Master going to the war’ (there was none in prospect), ‘what will
Zacharias do?’
‘I will always come with Master. Master good to me, sah.’
‘Has Zacharias ever heard of Russian peoples?’
‘Yes, sah. I was always hearing when I was little child in _i-school_,
Russian peoples coming—never come. God is good, and Russian peoples bad
peoples. If Russian peoples coming, then Queen’s peoples putting them
back to their own land; but never coming, sah.’