I could not restrain a cry of admiration.

‘Even in your ignorant eyes,’ pursued my father, ‘they command respect.

Yet what are they but pebbles, passive to the tool, cold as death?

Ingrate!’ he cried. ‘Each one of these—miracles of nature’s patience,

conceived out of the dust in centuries of microscopical activity, each

one is, for you and me, a year of life, liberty, and mutual affection.

How, then, should I cherish them! and why do I delay to place them beyond

reach! Teresa, follow me.’

He rose to his feet, and led me to the borders of the great jungle, where

they overhung, in a wall of poisonous and dusky foliage, the declivity of

the hill on which my father’s house stood planted. For some while he

skirted, with attentive eyes, the margin of the thicket. Then, seeming

to recognise some mark, for his countenance became immediately lightened

of a load of thought, he paused and addressed me. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘is

the entrance of the secret path that I have mentioned, and here you shall

await me. I but pass some hundreds of yards into the swamp to bury my

poor treasure; as soon as that is safe, I will return.’ It was in vain

that I sought to dissuade him, urging the dangers of the place; in vain

that I begged to be allowed to follow, pleading the black blood that I

now knew to circulate in my veins: to all my appeals he turned a deaf

ear, and, bending back a portion of the screen of bushes, disappeared

into the pestilential silence of the swamp.

At the end of a full hour, the bushes were once more thrust aside; and my

father stepped from out the thicket, and paused and almost staggered in

the first shock of the blinding sunlight. His face was of a singular

dusky red; and yet for all the heat of the tropical noon, he did not seem

to sweat.

‘You are tired,’ I cried, springing to meet him. ‘You are ill.’

‘I am tired,’ he replied; ‘the air in that jungle stifles one; my eyes,

besides, have grown accustomed to its gloom, and the strong sunshine

pierces them like knives. A moment, Teresa, give me but a moment. All

shall yet be well. I have buried the hoard under a cypress, immediately

beyond the bayou, on the left-hand margin of the path; beautiful, bright

things, they now lie whelmed in slime; you shall find them there, if

needful. But come, let us to the house; it is time to eat against our

journey of the night: to eat and then to sleep, my poor Teresa: then to

sleep.’ And he looked upon me out of bloodshot eyes, shaking his head as

if in pity.

We went hurriedly, for he kept murmuring that he had been gone too long,

and that the servants might suspect; passed through the airy stretch of

the verandah; and came at length into the grateful twilight of the

shuttered house. The meal was spread; the house servants, already

informed by the boatmen of the master’s return, were all back at their

posts, and terrified, as I could see, to face me. My father still

murmuring of haste with weary and feverish pertinacity, I hurried at once

to take my place at table; but I had no sooner left his arm than he

paused and thrust forth both his hands with a strange gesture of groping.

‘How is this?’ he cried, in a sharp, unhuman voice. ‘Am I blind?’ I ran

to him and tried to lead him to the table; but he resisted and stood

stiffly where he was, opening and shutting his jaws, as if in a painful

effort after breath. Then suddenly he raised both hands to his temples,

cried out, ‘My head, my head!’ and reeled and fell against the wall.

I knew too well what it must be. I turned and begged the servants to

relieve him. But they, with one accord, denied the possibility of hope;

the master had gone into the swamp, they said, the master must die; all

help was idle. Why should I dwell upon his sufferings? I had him

carried to a bed, and watched beside him. He lay still, and at times

ground his teeth, and talked at times unintelligibly, only that one word

of hurry, hurry, coming distinctly to my ears, and telling me that, even

in the last struggle with the powers of death, his mind was still

tortured by his daughter’s peril. The sun had gone down, the darkness

had fallen, when I perceived that I was alone on this unhappy earth.

What thought had I of flight, of safety, of the impending dangers of my

situation? Beside the body of my last friend, I had forgotten all except

the natural pangs of my bereavement.

The sun was some four hours above the eastern line, when I was recalled

to a knowledge of the things of earth, by the entrance of the slave-girl

to whom I have already referred. The poor soul was indeed devotedly

attached to me; and it was with streaming tears that she broke to me the

import of her coming. With the first light of dawn a boat had reached

our landing-place, and set on shore upon our isle (till now so fortunate)

a party of officers bearing a warrant to arrest my father’s person, and a

man of a gross body and low manners, who declared the island, the

plantation, and all its human chattels, to be now his own. ‘I think,’

said my slave-girl, ‘he must be a politician or some very powerful

sorcerer; for Madam Mendizabal had no sooner seen them coming, than she

took to the woods.’

‘Fool,’ said I, ‘it was the officers she feared; and at any rate why does

that beldam still dare to pollute the island with her presence? And O

Cora,’ I exclaimed, remembering my grief, ‘what matter all these troubles

to an orphan?’

‘Mistress,’ said she, ‘I must remind you of two things. Never speak as

you do now of Madam Mendizabal; or never to a person of colour; for she

is the most powerful woman in this world, and her real name even, if one

durst pronounce it, were a spell to raise the dead. And whatever you do,

speak no more of her to your unhappy Cora; for though it is possible she

may be afraid of the police (and indeed I think that I have heard she is

in hiding), and though I know that you will laugh and not believe, yet it

is true, and proved, and known that she hears every word that people

utter in this whole vast world; and your poor Cora is already deep enough

in her black books. She looks at me, mistress, till my blood turns ice.

That is the first I had to say; and now for the second: do, pray, for

Heaven’s sake, bear in mind that you are no longer the poor Señor’s

daughter. He is gone, dear gentleman; and now you are no more than a

common slave-girl like myself. The man to whom you belong calls for you;

oh, my dear mistress, go at once! With your youth and beauty, you may

still, if you are winning and obedient, secure yourself an easy life.’

For a moment I looked on the creature with the indignation you may

conceive; the next, it was gone: she did but speak after her kind, as the

bird sings or cattle bellow. ‘Go,’ said I. ‘Go, Cora. I thank you for

your kind intentions. Leave me alone one moment with my dead father; and

tell this man that I will come at once.’

She went: and I, turning to the bed of death, addressed to those deaf

ears the last appeal and defence of my beleaguered innocence. ‘Father,’

I said, ‘it was your last thought, even in the pangs of dissolution, that

your daughter should escape disgrace. Here, at your side, I swear to you

that purpose shall be carried out; by what means, I know not; by crime,

if need be; and Heaven forgive both you and me and our oppressors, and

Heaven help my helplessness!’ Thereupon I felt strengthened as by long

repose; stepped to the mirror, ay, even in that chamber of the dead;

hastily arranged my hair, refreshed my tear-worn eyes, breathed a dumb

farewell to the originator of my days and sorrows; and composing my

features to a smile, went forth to meet my master.

He was in a great, hot bustle, reviewing that house, once ours, to which

he had but now succeeded; a corpulent, sanguine man of middle age,

sensual, vulgar, humorous, and, if I judged rightly, not ill-disposed by

nature. But the sparkle that came into his eye as he observed me enter,

warned me to expect the worst.

‘Is this your late mistress?’ he inquired of the slaves; and when he had

learnt it was so, instantly dismissed them. ‘Now, my dear,’ said he, ‘I

am a plain man: none of your damned Spaniards, but a true blue,

hard-working, honest Englishman. My name is Caulder.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said I, and curtsied very smartly as I had seen the

servants.

‘Come,’ said he, ‘this is better than I had expected; and if you choose

to be dutiful in the station to which it has pleased God to call you, you

will find me a very kind old fellow. I like your looks,’ he added,

calling me by my name, which he scandalously mispronounced. ‘Is your

hair all your own?’ he then inquired with a certain sharpness, and coming

up to me, as though I were a horse, he grossly satisfied his doubts. I

was all one flame from head to foot, but I contained my righteous anger

and submitted. ‘That is very well,’ he continued, chucking me good

humouredly under the chin. ‘You will have no cause to regret coming to

old Caulder, eh? But that is by the way. What is more to the point is

this: your late master was a most dishonest rogue, and levanted with some

valuable property that belonged of rights to me. Now, considering your

relation to him, I regard you as the likeliest person to know what has

become of it; and I warn you, before you answer, that my whole future

kindness will depend upon your honesty. I am an honest man myself, and

expect the same in my servants.’

‘Do you mean the jewels?’ said I, sinking my voice into a whisper.

‘That is just precisely what I do,’ said he, and chuckled.

‘Hush!’ said I.

‘Hush?’ he repeated. ‘And why hush? I am on my own place, I would have

you to know, and surrounded by my own lawful servants.’

‘Are the officers gone?’ I asked; and oh! how my hopes hung upon the

answer!

‘They are,’ said he, looking somewhat disconcerted. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I wish you had kept them,’ I answered, solemnly enough, although my

heart at that same moment leaped with exultation. ‘Master, I must not

conceal from you the truth. The servants on this estate are in a

dangerous condition, and mutiny has long been brewing.’

‘Why,’ he cried, ‘I never saw a milder-looking lot of niggers in my

life.’ But for all that he turned somewhat pale.

‘Did they tell you,’ I continued, ‘that Madam Mendizabal is on the

island? that, since her coming, they obey none but her? that if, this

morning, they have received you with even decent civility, it was only by

her orders—issued with what after-thought I leave you to consider?’

‘Madam Jezebel?’ said he. ‘Well, she is a dangerous devil; the police

are after her, besides, for a whole series of murders; but after all,

what then? To be sure, she has a great influence with you coloured folk.

But what in fortune’s name can be her errand here?’

‘The jewels,’ I replied. ‘Ah, sir, had you seen that treasure, sapphire

and emerald and opal, and the golden topaz, and rubies red as the

sunset—of what incalculable worth, of what unequalled beauty to the

eye!—had you seen it, as I have, and alas! as _she_ has—you would

understand and tremble at your danger.’

‘She has seen them!’ he cried, and I could see by his face, that my

audacity was justified by its success.

I caught his hand in mine. ‘My master,’ said I, ‘I am now yours; it is

my duty, it should be my pleasure, to defend your interests and life.

Hear my advice, then; and, I conjure you, be guided by my prudence.

Follow me privily; let none see where we are going; I will lead you to

the place where the treasure has been buried; that once disinterred, let

us make straight for the boat, escape to the mainland, and not return to

this dangerous isle without the countenance of soldiers.’

What free man in a free land would have credited so sudden a devotion?

But this oppressor, through the very arts and sophistries he had abused,

to quiet the rebellion of his conscience and to convince himself that

slavery was natural, fell like a child into the trap I laid for him. He

praised and thanked me; told me I had all the qualities he valued in a

servant; and when he had questioned me further as to the nature and value

of the treasure, and I had once more artfully inflamed his greed, bade me

without delay proceed to carry out my plan of action.

From a shed in the garden, I took a pick and shovel; and thence, by

devious paths among the magnolias, led my master to the entrance of the

swamp. I walked first, carrying, as I was now in duty bound, the tools,

and glancing continually behind me, lest we should be spied upon and

followed. When we were come as far as the beginning of the path, it

flashed into my mind I had forgotten meat; and leaving Mr. Caulder in the

shadow of a tree, I returned alone to the house for a basket of

provisions. Were they for him? I asked myself. And a voice within me

answered, No. While we were face to face, while I still saw before my

eyes the man to whom I belonged as the hand belongs to the body, my

indignation held me bravely up. But now that I was alone, I conceived a

sickness at myself and my designs that I could scarce endure; I longed to

throw myself at his feet, avow my intended treachery, and warn him from

that pestilential swamp, to which I was decoying him to die; but my vow

to my dead father, my duty to my innocent youth, prevailed upon these

scruples; and though my face was pale and must have reflected the horror

that oppressed my spirits, it was with a firm step that I returned to the

borders of the swamp, and with smiling lips that I bade him rise and

follow me.

The path on which we now entered was cut, like a tunnel, through the

living jungle. On either hand and overhead, the mass of foliage was

continuously joined; the day sparingly filtered through the depth of

super-impending wood; and the air was hot like steam, and heady with

vegetable odours, and lay like a load upon the lungs and brain.

Underfoot, a great depth of mould received our silent footprints; on each

side, mimosas, as tall as a man, shrank from my passing skirts with a

continuous hissing rustle; and but for these sentient vegetables, all in

that den of pestilence was motionless and noiseless.

We had gone but a little way in, when Mr. Caulder was seized with sudden

nausea, and must sit down a moment on the path. My heart yearned, as I

beheld him; and I seriously begged the doomed mortal to return upon his

steps. What were a few jewels in the scales with life? I asked. But no,

he said; that witch Madam Jezebel would find them out; he was an honest

man, and would not stand to be defrauded, and so forth, panting the

while, like a sick dog. Presently he got to his feet again, protesting

he had conquered his uneasiness; but as we again began to go forward, I

saw in his changed countenance, the first approaches of death.

‘Master,’ said I, ‘you look pale, deathly pale; your pallor fills me with

dread. Your eyes are bloodshot; they are red like the rubies that we

seek.’

‘Wench,’ he cried, ‘look before you; look at your steps. I declare to

Heaven, if you annoy me once again by looking back, I shall remind you of

the change in your position.’

A little after, I observed a worm upon the ground, and told, in a

whisper, that its touch was death. Presently a great green serpent,

vivid as the grass in spring, wound rapidly across the path; and once

again I paused and looked back at my companion, with a horror in my eyes.

‘The coffin snake,’ said I, ‘the snake that dogs its victim like a

hound.’

But he was not to be dissuaded. ‘I am an old traveller,’ said he. ‘This

is a foul jungle indeed; but we shall soon be at an end.’

‘Ay,’ said I, looking at him, with a strange smile, ‘what end?’

Thereupon he laughed again and again, but not very heartily; and then,

perceiving that the path began to widen and grow higher, ‘There!’ said

he. ‘What did I tell you? We are past the worst.’

Indeed, we had now come to the bayou, which was in that place very narrow

and bridged across by a fallen trunk; but on either hand we could see it

broaden out, under a cavern of great arms of trees and hanging creepers:

sluggish, putrid, of a horrible and sickly stench, floated on by the flat

heads of alligators, and its banks alive with scarlet crabs.

‘If we fall from that unsteady bridge,’ said I, ‘see, where the caiman

lies ready to devour us! If, by the least divergence from the path, we

should be snared in a morass, see, where those myriads of scarlet vermin

scour the border of the thicket! Once helpless, how they would swarm

together to the assault! What could man do against a thousand of such

mailed assailants? And what a death were that, to perish alive under

their claws.’

‘Are you mad, girl?’ he cried. ‘I bid you be silent and lead on.’

Again I looked upon him, half relenting; and at that he raised the stick

that was in his hand and cruelly struck me on the face. ‘Lead on!’ he

cried again. ‘Must I be all day, catching my death in this vile slough,

and all for a prating slave-girl?’

I took the blow in silence, I took it smiling; but the blood welled back

upon my heart. Something, I know not what, fell at that moment with a

dull plunge in the waters of the lagoon, and I told myself it was my pity

that had fallen.

On the farther side, to which we now hastily scrambled, the wood was not

so dense, the web of creepers not so solidly convolved. It was possible,

here and there, to mark a patch of somewhat brighter daylight, or to

distinguish, through the lighter web of parasites, the proportions of

some soaring tree. The cypress on the left stood very visibly forth,

upon the edge of such a clearing; the path in that place widened broadly;

and there was a patch of open ground, beset with horrible ant-heaps,

thick with their artificers. I laid down the tools and basket by the

cypress root, where they were instantly blackened over with the crawling

ants; and looked once more in the face of my unconscious victim.

Mosquitoes and foul flies wove so close a veil between us that his

features were obscured; and the sound of their flight was like the

turning of a mighty wheel.

‘Here,’ I said, ‘is the spot. I cannot dig, for I have not learned to

use such instruments; but, for your own sake, I beseech you to be swift

in what you do.’

He had sunk once more upon the ground, panting like a fish; and I saw

rising in his face the same dusky flush that had mantled on my father’s.

‘I feel ill,’ he gasped, ‘horribly ill; the swamp turns around me; the

drone of these carrion flies confounds me. Have you not wine?’

I gave him a glass, and he drank greedily. ‘It is for you to think,’

said I, ‘if you should further persevere. The swamp has an ill name.’

And at the word I ominously nodded.

‘Give me the pick,’ said he. ‘Where are the jewels buried?’

I told him vaguely; and in the sweltering heat and closeness, and dim

twilight of the jungle, he began to wield the pickaxe, swinging it

overhead with the vigour of a healthy man. At first, there broke forth

upon him a strong sweat, that made his face to shine, and in which the

greedy insects settled thickly.

‘To sweat in such a place,’ said I. ‘O master, is this wise? Fever is

drunk in through open pores.’

‘What do you mean?’ he screamed, pausing with the pick buried in the

soil. ‘Do you seek to drive me mad? Do you think I do not understand

the danger that I run?’

‘That is all I want,’ said I: ‘I only wish you to be swift.’ And then,

my mind flitting to my father’s deathbed, I began to murmur, scarce above

my breath, the same vain repetition of words, ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry.’

Presently, to my surprise, the treasure-seeker took them up; and while he

still wielded the pick, but now with staggering and uncertain blows,

repeated to himself, as it were the burthen of a song, ‘Hurry, hurry,

hurry;’ and then again, ‘There is no time to lose; the marsh has an ill

name, ill name;’ and then back to ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ with a dreadful,

mechanical, hurried, and yet wearied utterance, as a sick man rolls upon

his pillow. The sweat had disappeared; he was now dry, but all that I

could see of him, of the same dull brick red. Presently his pick

unearthed the bag of jewels; but he did not observe it, and continued

hewing at the soil.

‘Master,’ said I, ‘there is the treasure.’ He seemed to waken from a

dream. ‘Where?’ he cried; and then, seeing it before his eyes, ‘Can this

be possible?’ he added. ‘I must be light-headed. Girl,’ he cried

suddenly, with the same screaming tone of voice that I had once before

observed, ‘what is wrong? is this swamp accursed?’

‘It is a grave,’ I answered. ‘You will not go out alive; and as for me,

my life is in God’s hands.’

He fell upon the ground like a man struck by a blow, but whether from the

effect of my words, or from sudden seizure of the malady, I cannot tell.

Pretty soon, he raised his head. ‘You have brought me here to die,’ he

said; ‘at the risk of your own days, you have condemned me. Why?’

‘To save my honour,’ I replied. ‘Bear me out that I have warned you.

Greed of these pebbles, and not I, has been your undoer.’

He took out his revolver and handed it to me. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I

could have killed you even yet. But I am dying, as you say; nothing

could save me; and my bill is long enough already. Dear me, dear me,’ he

said, looking in my face with a curious, puzzled, and pathetic look, like

a dull child at school, ‘if there be a judgment afterwards, my bill is

long enough.’

At that, I broke into a passion of weeping, crawled at his feet, kissed

his hands, begged his forgiveness, put the pistol back into his grasp and

besought him to avenge his death; for indeed, if with my life I could

have bought back his, I had not balanced at the cost. But he was

determined, the poor soul, that I should yet more bitterly regret my act.

‘I have nothing to forgive,’ said he. ‘Dear heaven, what a thing is an

old fool! I thought, upon my word, you had taken quite a fancy to me.’

He was seized, at the same time, with a dreadful, swimming dizziness,

clung to me like a child, and called upon the name of some woman.

Presently this spasm, which I watched with choking tears, lessened and

died away; and he came again to the full possession of his mind. ‘I must

write my will,’ he said. ‘Get out my pocket-book.’ I did so, and he

wrote hurriedly on one page with a pencil. ‘Do not let my son know,’ he

said; ‘he is a cruel dog, is my son Philip; do not let him know how you

have paid me out;’ and then all of a sudden, ‘God,’ he cried, ‘I am

blind,’ and clapped both hands before his eyes; and then again, and in a

groaning whisper, ‘Don’t leave me to the crabs!’ I swore I would be true

to him so long as a pulse stirred; and I redeemed my promise. I sat

there and watched him, as I had watched my father, but with what

different, with what appalling thoughts! Through the long afternoon, he

gradually sank. All that while, I fought an uphill battle to shield him

from the swarms of ants and the clouds of mosquitoes: the prisoner of my

crime. The night fell, the roar of insects instantly redoubled in the

dark arcades of the swamp; and still I was not sure that he had breathed

his last. At length, the flesh of his hand, which I yet held in mine,

grew chill between my fingers, and I knew that I was free.

I took his pocket-book and the revolver, being resolved rather to die

than to be captured, and laden besides with the basket and the bag of

gems, set forward towards the north. The swamp, at that hour of the

night, was filled with a continuous din: animals and insects of all

kinds, and all inimical to life, contributing their parts. Yet in the

midst of this turmoil of sound, I walked as though my eyes were bandaged,

beholding nothing. The soil sank under my foot, with a horrid, slippery

consistence, as though I were walking among toads; the touch of the thick

wall of foliage, by which alone I guided myself, affrighted me like the

touch of serpents; the darkness checked my breathing like a gag; indeed,

I have never suffered such extremes of fear as during that nocturnal

walk, nor have I ever known a more sensible relief than when I found the

path beginning to mount and to grow firmer under foot, and saw, although

still some way in front of me, the silver brightness of the moon.

Presently, I had crossed the last of the jungle, and come forth amongst

noble and lofty woods, clean rock, the clean, dry dust, the aromatic

smell of mountain plants that had been baked all day in sunlight, and the

expressive silence of the night. My negro blood had carried me unhurt

across that reeking and pestiferous morass; by mere good fortune, I had

escaped the crawling and stinging vermin with which it was alive; and I

had now before me the easier portion of my enterprise, to cross the isle

and to make good my arrival at the haven and my acceptance on the English

yacht. It was impossible by night to follow such a track as my father

had described; and I was casting about for any landmark, and, in my

ignorance, vainly consulting the disposition of the stars, when there

fell upon my ear, from somewhere far in front, the sound of many voices

hurriedly singing.

I scarce knew upon what grounds I acted; but I shaped my steps in the

direction of that sound; and in a quarter of an hour’s walking, came

unperceived to the margin of an open glade. It was lighted by the strong

moon and by the flames of a fire. In the midst, there stood a little low

and rude building, surmounted by a cross: a chapel, as I then remembered

to have heard, long since desecrated and given over to the rites of

Hoodoo. Hard by the steps of entrance was a black mass, continually

agitated and stirring to and fro as if with inarticulate life; and this I

presently perceived to be a heap of cocks, hares, dogs, and other birds

and animals, still struggling, but helplessly tethered and cruelly tossed

one upon another. Both the fire and the chapel were surrounded by a ring

of kneeling Africans, both men and women. Now they would raise their

palms half-closed to heaven, with a peculiar, passionate gesture of

supplication; now they would bow their heads and spread their hands

before them on the ground. As the double movement passed and repassed

along the line, the heads kept rising and falling, like waves upon the

sea; and still, as if in time to these gesticulations, the hurried chant

continued. I stood spellbound, knowing that my life depended by a hair,

knowing that I had stumbled on a celebration of the rites of Hoodoo.

Presently, the door of the chapel opened, and there came forth a tall

negro, entirely nude, and bearing in his hand the sacrificial knife. He

was followed by an apparition still more strange and shocking: Madam

Mendizabal, naked also, and carrying in both hands and raised to the

level of her face, an open basket of wicker. It was filled with coiling

snakes; and these, as she stood there with the uplifted basket, shot

through the osier grating and curled about her arms. At the sight of

this, the fervour of the crowd seemed to swell suddenly higher; and the

chant rose in pitch and grew more irregular in time and accent. Then, at

a sign from the tall negro, where he stood, motionless and smiling, in

the moon and firelight, the singing died away, and there began the second

stage of this barbarous and bloody celebration. From different parts of

the ring, one after another, man or woman, ran forth into the midst;

ducked, with that same gesture of the thrown-up hand, before the

priestess and her snakes; and with various adjurations, uttered aloud the

blackest wishes of the heart. Death and disease were the favours usually

invoked: the death or the disease of enemies or rivals; some calling down

these plagues upon the nearest of their own blood, and one, to whom I

swear I had been never less than kind, invoking them upon myself. At

each petition, the tall negro, still smiling, picked up some bird or

animal from the heaving mass upon his left, slew it with the knife, and

tossed its body on the ground. At length, it seemed, it reached the turn

of the high-priestess. She set down the basket on the steps, moved into

the centre of the ring, grovelled in the dust before the reptiles, and

still grovelling lifted up her voice, between speech and singing, and

with so great, with so insane a fervour of excitement, as struck a sort

of horror through my blood.

‘Power,’ she began, ‘whose name we do not utter; power that is neither

good nor evil, but below them both; stronger than good, greater than

evil—all my life long I have adored and served thee. Who has shed blood

upon thine altars? whose voice is broken with the singing of thy praises?

whose limbs are faint before their age with leaping in thy revels? Who

has slain the child of her body? I,’ she cried, ‘I, Metamnbogu! By my

own name, I name myself. I tear away the veil. I would be served or

perish. Hear me, slime of the fat swamp, blackness of the thunder, venom

of the serpent’s udder—hear or slay me! I would have two things, O

shapeless one, O horror of emptiness—two things, or die! The blood of my

white-faced husband; oh! give me that; he is the enemy of Hoodoo; give me

his blood! And yet another, O racer of the blind winds, O germinator in

the ruins of the dead, O root of life, root of corruption! I grow old, I

grow hideous; I am known, I am hunted for my life: let thy servant then

lay by this outworn body; let thy chief priestess turn again to the

blossom of her days, and be a girl once more, and the desired of all men,

even as in the past! And, O lord and master, as I here ask a marvel not

yet wrought since we were torn from the old land, have I not prepared the

sacrifice in which thy soul delighteth—the kid without the horns?’

Even as she uttered the words, there was a great rumour of joy through

all the circle of worshippers; it rose, and fell, and rose again; and

swelled at last into rapture, when the tall negro, who had stepped an

instant into the chapel, reappeared before the door, carrying in his arms

the body of the slave-girl, Cora. I know not if I saw what followed.

When next my mind awoke to a clear knowledge, Cora was laid upon the

steps before the serpents; the negro with the knife stood over her; the

knife rose; and at this I screamed out in my great horror, bidding them,

in God’s name, to pause.

A stillness fell upon the mob of cannibals. A moment more, and they must

have thrown off this stupor, and I infallibly have perished. But Heaven

had designed to save me. The silence of these wretched men was not yet

broken, when there arose, in the empty night, a sound louder than the

roar of any European tempest, swifter to travel than the wings of any

Eastern wind. Blackness engulfed the world; blackness, stabbed across

from every side by intricate and blinding lightning. Almost in the same

second, at one world-swallowing stride, the heart of the tornado reached

the clearing. I heard an agonising crash, and the light of my reason was

overwhelmed.

When I recovered consciousness, the day was come. I was unhurt; the

trees close about me had not lost a bough; and I might have thought at

first that the tornado was a feature in a dream. It was otherwise

indeed; for when I looked abroad, I perceived I had escaped destruction

by a hand’s-breadth. Right through the forest, which here covered hill

and dale, the storm had ploughed a lane of ruin. On either hand, the

trees waved uninjured in the air of the morning; but in the forthright

course of its advance, the hurricane had left no trophy standing.

Everything, in that line, tree, man, or animal, the desecrated chapel and

the votaries of Hoodoo, had been subverted and destroyed in that brief

spasm of anger of the powers of air. Everything, but a yard or two

beyond the line of its passage, humble flower, lofty tree, and the poor

vulnerable maid who now knelt to pay her gratitude to heaven, awoke

unharmed in the crystal purity and peace of the new day.

To move by the path of the tornado was a thing impossible to man, so

wildly were the wrecks of the tall forest piled together by that fugitive

convulsion. I crossed it indeed; with such labour and patience, with so

many dangerous slips and falls, as left me, at the further side, bankrupt

alike of strength and courage. There I sat down awhile to recruit my

forces; and as I ate (how should I bless the kindliness of Heaven!) my

eye, flitting to and fro in the colonnade of the great trees, alighted on

a trunk that had been blazed. Yes, by the directing hand of Providence,

I had been conducted to the very track I was to follow. With what a

light heart I now set forth, and walking with how glad a step, traversed

the uplands of the isle!

It was hard upon the hour of noon, when I came, all tattered and wayworn,

to the summit of a steep descent, and looked below me on the sea. About

all the coast, the surf, roused by the tornado of the night, beat with a

particular fury and made a fringe of snow. Close at my feet, I saw a

haven, set in precipitous and palm-crowned bluffs of rock. Just outside,

a ship was heaving on the surge, so trimly sparred, so glossily painted,

so elegant and point-device in every feature, that my heart was seized

with admiration. The English colours blew from her masthead; and from my

high station, I caught glimpses of her snowy planking, as she rolled on

the uneven deep, and saw the sun glitter on the brass of her deck

furniture. There, then, was my ship of refuge; and of all my

difficulties only one remained: to get on board of her.

Half an hour later, I issued at last out of the woods on the margin of a

cove, into whose jaws the tossing and blue billows entered, and along

whose shores they broke with a surprising loudness. A wooded promontory

hid the yacht; and I had walked some distance round the beach, in what

appeared to be a virgin solitude, when my eye fell on a boat, drawn into

a natural harbour, where it rocked in safety, but deserted. I looked

about for those who should have manned her; and presently, in the

immediate entrance of the wood, spied the red embers of a fire, and,

stretched around in various attitudes, a party of slumbering mariners.

To these I drew near: most were black, a few white; but all were dressed

with the conspicuous decency of yachtsmen; and one, from his peaked cap

and glittering buttons, I rightly divined to be an officer. Him, then, I

touched upon the shoulder. He started up; the sharpness of his movement

woke the rest; and they all stared upon me in surprise.

‘What do you want?’ inquired the officer.

‘To go on board the yacht,’ I answered.

I thought they all seemed disconcerted at this; and the officer, with

something of sharpness, asked me who I was. Now I had determined to

conceal my name until I met Sir George; and the first name that rose to

my lips was that of the Señora Mendizabal. At the word, there went a

shock about the little party of seamen; the negroes stared at me with

indescribable eagerness, the whites themselves with something of a scared

surprise; and instantly the spirit of mischief prompted me to add, ‘And

if the name is new to your ears, call me Metamnbogu.’

I had never seen an effect so wonderful. The negroes threw their hands

into the air, with the same gesture I remarked the night before about the

Hoodoo camp-fire; first one, and then another, ran forward and kneeled

down and kissed the skirts of my torn dress; and when the white officer

broke out swearing and calling to know if they were mad, the coloured

seamen took him by the shoulders, dragged him on one side till they were

out of hearing, and surrounded him with open mouths and extravagant

pantomime. The officer seemed to struggle hard; he laughed aloud, and I

saw him make gestures of dissent and protest; but in the end, whether

overcome by reason or simply weary of resistance, he gave in—approached

me civilly enough, but with something of a sneering manner underneath—and

touching his cap, ‘My lady,’ said he, ‘if that is what you are, the boat

is ready.’

My reception on board the _Nemorosa_ (for so the yacht was named) partook

of the same mingled nature. We were scarcely within hail of that great

and elegant fabric, where she lay rolling gunwale under and churning the

blue sea to snow, before the bulwarks were lined with the heads of a

great crowd of seamen, black, white, and yellow; and these and the few

who manned the boat began exchanging shouts in some _lingua franca_

incomprehensible to me. All eyes were directed on the passenger; and

once more I saw the negroes toss up their hands to heaven, but now as if

with passionate wonder and delight.

At the head of the gangway, I was received by another officer, a

gentlemanly man with blond and bushy whiskers; and to him I addressed my

demand to see Sir George.

‘But this is not—’ he cried, and paused.

‘I know it,’ returned the other officer, who had brought me from the

shore. ‘But what the devil can we do? Look at all the niggers!’

I followed his direction; and as my eye lighted upon each, the poor

ignorant Africans ducked, and bowed, and threw their hands into the air,

as though in the presence of a creature half divine. Apparently the

officer with the whiskers had instantly come round to the opinion of his

subaltern; for he now addressed me with every signal of respect.

‘Sir George is at the island, my lady,’ said he: ‘for which, with your

ladyship’s permission, I shall immediately make all sail. The cabins are

prepared. Steward, take Lady Greville below.’

Under this new name, then, and so captivated by surprise that I could

neither think nor speak, I was ushered into a spacious and airy cabin,

hung about with weapons and surrounded by divans. The steward asked for

my commands; but I was by this time so wearied, bewildered, and

disturbed, that I could only wave him to leave me to myself, and sink

upon a pile of cushions. Presently, by the changed motion of the ship, I

knew her to be under way; my thoughts, so far from clarifying, grew the

more distracted and confused; dreams began to mingle and confound them;

and at length, by insensible transition, I sank into a dreamless slumber.

When I awoke, the day and night had passed, and it was once more morning.

The world on which I reopened my eyes swam strangely up and down; the

jewels in the bag that lay beside me chinked together ceaselessly; the

clock and the barometer wagged to and fro like pendulums; and overhead,

seamen were singing out at their work, and coils of rope clattering and

thumping on the deck. Yet it was long before I had divined that I was at

sea; long before I had recalled, one after another, the tragical,

mysterious, and inexplicable events that had brought me where was.

When I had done so, I thrust the jewels, which I was surprised to find

had been respected, into the bosom of my dress; and seeing a silver bell

hard by upon a table, rang it loudly. The steward instantly appeared; I

asked for food; and he proceeded to lay the table, regarding me the while

with a disquieting and pertinacious scrutiny. To relieve myself of my

embarrassment, I asked him, with as fair a show of ease as I could

muster, if it were usual for yachts to carry so numerous a crew?

‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I know not who you are, nor what mad fancy has induced

you to usurp a name and an appalling destiny that are not yours. I warn

you from the soul. No sooner arrived at the island—’

At this moment he was interrupted by the whiskered officer, who had

entered unperceived behind him, and now laid a hand upon his shoulder.

The sudden pallor, the deadly and sick fear, that was imprinted on the

steward’s face, formed a startling addition to his words.

‘Parker!’ said the officer, and pointed towards the door.

‘Yes, Mr. Kentish,’ said the steward. ‘For God’s sake, Mr. Kentish!’

And vanished, with a white face, from the cabin.

Thereupon the officer bade me sit down, and began to help me, and join in

the meal. ‘I fill your ladyship’s glass,’ said he, and handed me a

tumbler of neat rum.

‘Sir,’ cried I, ‘do you expect me to drink this?’

He laughed heartily. ‘Your ladyship is so much changed,’ said he, ‘that

I no longer expect any one thing more than any other.’

Immediately after, a white seaman entered the cabin, saluted both Mr.

Kentish and myself, and informed the officer there was a sail in sight,

which was bound to pass us very close, and that Mr. Harland was in doubt

about the colours.

‘Being so near the island?’ asked Mr. Kentish.

‘That was what Mr. Harland said, sir,’ returned the sailor, with a

scrape.

‘Better not, I think,’ said Mr. Kentish. ‘My compliments to Mr. Harland;

and if she seem a lively boat, give her the stars and stripes; but if she

be dull, and we can easily outsail her, show John Dutchman. That is

always another word for incivility at sea; so we can disregard a hail or

a flag of distress, without attracting notice.’

As soon as the sailor had gone on deck, I turned to the officer in

wonder. ‘Mr. Kentish, if that be your name,’ said I, ‘are you ashamed of

your own colours?’

‘Your ladyship refers to the _Jolly Roger_?’ he inquired, with perfect

gravity; and immediately after, went into peals of laughter. ‘Pardon

me,’ said he; ‘but here for the first time I recognise your ladyship’s

impetuosity.’ Nor, try as I pleased, could I extract from him any

explanation of this mystery, but only oily and commonplace evasion.

While we were thus occupied, the movement of the _Nemorosa_ gradually

became less violent; its speed at the same time diminished; and presently

after, with a sullen plunge, the anchor was discharged into the sea.

Kentish immediately rose, offered his arm, and conducted me on deck;

where I found we were lying in a roadstead among many low and rocky

islets, hovered about by an innumerable cloud of sea-fowl. Immediately

under our board, a somewhat larger isle was green with trees, set with a

few low buildings and approached by a pier of very crazy workmanship; and

a little inshore of us, a smaller vessel lay at anchor.

I had scarce time to glance to the four quarters, ere a boat was lowered.

I was handed in, Kentish took place beside me, and we pulled briskly to

the pier. A crowd of villainous, armed loiterers, both black and white,

looked on upon our landing; and again the word passed about among the

negroes, and again I was received with prostrations and the same gesture

of the flung-up hand. By this, what with the appearance of these men,

and the lawless, sea-girt spot in which I found myself, my courage began

a little to decline, and clinging to the arm of Mr. Kentish, I begged him

to tell me what it meant?

‘Nay, madam,’ he returned, ‘_you_ know.’ And leading me smartly through

the crowd, which continued to follow at a considerable distance, and at

which he still kept looking back, I thought, with apprehension, he

brought me to a low house that stood alone in an encumbered yard, opened

the door, and begged me to enter.

‘But why?’ said I. ‘I demand to see Sir George.’

‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Kentish, looking suddenly as black as thunder, ‘to

drop all fence, I know neither who nor what you are; beyond the fact that

you are not the person whose name you have assumed. But be what you

please, spy, ghost, devil, or most ill-judging jester, if you do not

immediately enter that house, I will cut you to the earth.’ And even as

he spoke, he threw an uneasy glance behind him at the following crowd of

blacks.

I did not wait to be twice threatened; I obeyed at once, and with a

palpitating heart; and the next moment, the door was locked from the

outside and the key withdrawn. The interior was long, low, and quite

unfurnished, but filled, almost from end to end, with sugar-cane,

tar-barrels, old tarry rope, and other incongruous and highly inflammable

material; and not only was the door locked, but the solitary window

barred with iron.

I was by this time so exceedingly bewildered and afraid, that I would

have given years of my life to be once more the slave of Mr. Caulder. I

still stood, with my hands clasped, the image of despair, looking about

me on the lumber of the room or raising my eyes to heaven; when there

appeared outside the window bars, the face of a very black negro, who

signed to me imperiously to draw near. I did so, and he instantly, and

with every mark of fervour, addressed me a long speech in some unknown

and barbarous tongue.

‘I declare,’ I cried, clasping my brow, ‘I do not understand one

syllable.’

‘Not?’ he said in Spanish. ‘Great, great, are the powers of Hoodoo! Her

very mind is changed! But, O chief priestess, why have you suffered

yourself to be shut into this cage? why did you not call your slaves at

once to your defence? Do you not see that all has been prepared to

murder you? at a spark, this flimsy house will go in flames; and alas!

who shall then be the chief priestess? and what shall be the profit of

the miracle?’

‘Heavens!’ cried I, ‘can I not see Sir George? I must, I must, come by

speech of him. Oh, bring me to Sir George!’ And, my terror fairly

mastering my courage, I fell upon my knees and began to pray to all the

saints.

‘Lordy!’ cried the negro, ‘here they come!’ And his black head was

instantly withdrawn from the window.

‘I never heard such nonsense in my life,’ exclaimed a voice.

‘Why, so we all say, Sir George,’ replied the voice of Mr. Kentish. ‘But

put yourself in our place. The niggers were near two to one. And upon

my word, if you’ll excuse me, sir, considering the notion they have taken

in their heads, I regard it as precious fortunate for all of us that the

mistake occurred.’

‘This is no question of fortune, sir,’ returned Sir George. ‘It is a

question of my orders, and you may take my word for it, Kentish, either

Harland, or yourself, or Parker—or, by George, all three of you!—shall

swing for this affair. These are my sentiments. Give me the key and be

off.’

Immediately after, the key turned in the lock; and there appeared upon

the threshold a gentleman, between forty and fifty, with a very open

countenance, and of a stout and personable figure.

‘My dear young lady,’ said he, ‘who the devil may you be?’

I told him all my story in one rush of words. He heard me, from the

first, with an amazement you can scarcely picture, but when I came to the

death of the Señora Mendizabal in the tornado, he fairly leaped into the

air.

‘My dear child,’ he cried, clasping me in his arms, ‘excuse a man who

might be your father! This is the best news I ever had since I was born;

for that hag of a mulatto was no less a person than my wife.’ He sat

down upon a tar-barrel, as if unmanned by joy. ‘Dear me,’ said he, ‘I

declare this tempts me to believe in Providence. And what,’ he added,

‘can I do for you?’

‘Sir George,’ said I, ‘I am already rich: all that I ask is your

protection.’

‘Understand one thing,’ he said, with great energy. ‘I will never

marry.’

‘I had not ventured to propose it,’ I exclaimed, unable to restrain my

mirth; ‘I only seek to be conveyed to England, the natural home of the

escaped slave.’

‘Well,’ returned Sir George, ‘frankly I owe you something for this

exhilarating news; besides, your father was of use to me. Now, I have

made a small competence in business—a jewel mine, a sort of naval agency,

et cætera, and I am on the point of breaking up my company, and retiring

to my place in Devonshire to pass a plain old age, unmarried. One good

turn deserves another: if you swear to hold your tongue about this

island, these little bonfire arrangements, and the whole episode of my

unfortunate marriage, why, I’ll carry you home aboard the _Nemorosa_.’ I

eagerly accepted his conditions.

‘One thing more,’ said he. ‘My late wife was some sort of a sorceress

among the blacks; and they are all persuaded she has come alive again in

your agreeable person. Now, you will have the goodness to keep up that

fancy, if you please; and to swear to them, on the authority of Hoodoo or

whatever his name may be, that I am from this moment quite a sacred

character.’

‘I swear it,’ said I, ‘by my father’s memory; and that is a vow that I

will never break.’

‘I have considerably better hold on you than any oath,’ returned Sir

George, with a chuckle; ‘for you are not only an escaped slave, but have,

by your own account, a considerable amount of stolen property.’

I was struck dumb; I saw it was too true; in a glance, I recognised that

these jewels were no longer mine; with similar quickness, I decided they

should be restored, ay, if it cost me the liberty that I had just

regained. Forgetful of all else, forgetful of Sir George, who sat and

watched me with a smile, I drew out Mr. Caulder’s pocket-book and turned

to the page on which the dying man had scrawled his testament. How shall

I describe the agony of happiness and remorse with which I read it! for

my victim had not only set me free, but bequeathed to me the bag of

jewels.

My plain tale draws towards a close. Sir George and I, in my character

of his rejuvenated wife, displayed ourselves arm-in-arm among the

negroes, and were cheered and followed to the place of embarkation.

There, Sir George, turning about, made a speech to his old companions, in

which he thanked and bade them farewell with a very manly spirit; and

towards the end of which he fell on some expressions which I still

remember. ‘If any of you gentry lose your money,’ he said, ‘take care

you do not come to me; for in the first place, I shall do my best to have

you murdered; and if that fails, I hand you over to the law. Blackmail

won’t do for me. I’ll rather risk all upon a cast, than be pulled to

pieces by degrees. I’ll rather be found out and hang, than give a doit

to one man-jack of you.’ That same night we got under way and crossed to

the port of New Orleans, whence, as a sacred trust, I sent the

pocket-book to Mr. Caulder’s son. In a week’s time, the men were all

paid off; new hands were shipped; and the _Nemorosa_ weighed her anchor

for Old England.

A more delightful voyage it were hard to fancy. Sir George, of course,

was not a conscientious man; but he had an unaffected gaiety of character

that naturally endeared him to the young; and it was interesting to hear

him lay out his projects for the future, when he should be returned to

Parliament, and place at the service of the nation his experience of

marine affairs. I asked him, if his notion of piracy upon a private

yacht were not original. But he told me, no. ‘A yacht, Miss Valdevia,’

he observed, ‘is a chartered nuisance. Who smuggles? Who robs the

salmon rivers of the West of Scotland? Who cruelly beats the keepers if

they dare to intervene? The crews and the proprietors of yachts. All I

have done is to extend the line a trifle, and if you ask me for my

unbiassed opinion, I do not suppose that I am in the least alone.’

In short, we were the best of friends, and lived like father and

daughter; though I still withheld from him, of course, that respect which

is only due to moral excellence.

We were still some days’ sail from England, when Sir George obtained,

from an outward-bound ship, a packet of newspapers; and from that fatal

hour my misfortunes recommenced. He sat, the same evening, in the cabin,

reading the news, and making savoury comments on the decline of England

and the poor condition of the navy, when I suddenly observed him to

change countenance.

‘Hullo!’ said he, ‘this is bad; this is deuced bad, Miss Valdevia. You

would not listen to sound sense, you would send that pocket-book to that

man Caulder’s son.’

‘Sir George,’ said I, ‘it was my duty.’

‘You are prettily paid for it, at least,’ says he; ‘and much as I regret

it, I, for one, am done with you. This fellow Caulder demands your

extradition.’

‘But a slave,’ I returned, ‘is safe in England.’

‘Yes, by George!’ replied the baronet; ‘but it’s not a slave, Miss

Valdevia, it’s a thief that he demands. He has quietly destroyed the

will; and now accuses you of robbing your father’s bankrupt estate of

jewels to the value of a hundred thousand pounds.’

I was so much overcome by indignation at this hateful charge and concern

for my unhappy fate that the genial baronet made haste to put me more at

ease.

‘Do not be cast down,’ said he. ‘Of course, I wash my hands of you

myself. A man in my position—baronet, old family, and all that—cannot

possibly be too particular about the company he keeps. But I am a deuced

good-humoured old boy, let me tell you, when not ruffled; and I will do

the best I can to put you right. I will lend you a trifle of ready

money, give you the address of an excellent lawyer in London, and find a

way to set you on shore unsuspected.’

He was in every particular as good as his word. Four days later, the

_Nemorosa_ sounded her way, under the cloak of a dark night, into a

certain haven of the coast of England; and a boat, rowing with muffled

oars, set me ashore upon the beach within a stone’s throw of a railway

station. Thither, guided by Sir George’s directions, I groped a devious

way; and finding a bench upon the platform, sat me down, wrapped in a

man’s fur great-coat, to await the coming of the day. It was still dark

when a light was struck behind one of the windows of the building; nor

had the east begun to kindle to the warmer colours of the dawn, before a

porter carrying a lantern, issued from the door and found himself face to

face with the unfortunate Teresa. He looked all about him; in the grey

twilight of the dawn, the haven was seen to lie deserted, and the yacht

had long since disappeared.

‘Who are you?’ he cried.

‘I am a traveller,’ said I.

‘And where do you come from?’ he asked.

‘I am going by the first train to London,’ I replied.

In such manner, like a ghost or a new creation, was Teresa with her bag

of jewels landed on the shores of England; in this silent fashion,

without history or name, she took her place among the millions of a new

country.

Since then, I have lived by the expedients of my lawyer, lying concealed

in quiet lodgings, dogged by the spies of Cuba, and not knowing at what

hour my liberty and honour may be lost.

_THE BROWN BOX_

(_Concluded_)

The effect of this tale on the mind of Harry Desborough was instant and

convincing. The Fair Cuban had been already the loveliest, she now

became, in his eyes, the most romantic, the most innocent, and the most

unhappy of her sex. He was bereft of words to utter what he felt: what

pity, what admiration, what youthful envy of a career so vivid and

adventurous. ‘O madam!’ he began; and finding no language adequate to

that apostrophe, caught up her hand and wrung it in his own. ‘Count upon

me,’ he added, with bewildered fervour; and getting somehow or other out

of the apartment and from the circle of that radiant sorceress, he found

himself in the strange out-of-doors, beholding dull houses, wondering at

dull passers-by, a fallen angel. She had smiled upon him as he left, and

with how significant, how beautiful a smile! The memory lingered in his

heart; and when he found his way to a certain restaurant where music was

performed, flutes (as it were of Paradise) accompanied his meal. The

strings went to the melody of that parting smile; they paraphrased and

glossed it in the sense that he desired; and for the first time in his

plain and somewhat dreary life, he perceived himself to have a taste for

music.

The next day, and the next, his meditations moved to that delectable air.

Now he saw her, and was favoured; now saw her not at all; now saw her and

was put by. The fall of her foot upon the stair entranced him; the books

that he sought out and read were books on Cuba, and spoke of her

indirectly; nay, and in the very landlady’s parlour, he found one that

told of precisely such a hurricane, and, down to the smallest detail,

confirmed (had confirmation been required) the truth of her recital.

Presently he began to fall into that prettiest mood of a young love, in

which the lover scorns himself for his presumption. Who was he, the dull

one, the commonplace unemployed, the man without adventure, the impure,

the untruthful, to aspire to such a creature made of fire and air, and

hallowed and adorned by such incomparable passages of life? What should

he do, to be more worthy? by what devotion, call down the notice of these

eyes to so terrene a being as himself?

He betook himself, thereupon, to the rural privacy of the square, where,

being a lad of a kind heart, he had made himself a circle of

acquaintances among its shy frequenters, the half-domestic cats and the

visitors that hung before the windows of the Children’s Hospital. There

he walked, considering the depth of his demerit and the height of the

adored one’s super-excellence; now lighting upon earth to say a pleasant

word to the brother of some infant invalid; now, with a great heave of

breath, remembering the queen of women, and the sunshine of his life.

What was he to do? Teresa, he had observed, was in the habit of leaving

the house towards afternoon: she might, perchance, run danger from some

Cuban emissary, when the presence of a friend might turn the balance in

her favour: how, then, if he should follow her? To offer his company

would seem like an intrusion; to dog her openly were a manifest

impertinence; he saw himself reduced to a more stealthy part, which,

though in some ways distasteful to his mind, he did not doubt that he

could practise with the skill of a detective.

The next day he proceeded to put his plan in action. At the corner of

Tottenham Court Road, however, the Señorita suddenly turned back, and met

him face to face, with every mark of pleasure and surprise.

‘Ah, Señor, I am sometimes fortunate!’ she cried. ‘I was looking for a

messenger;’ and with the sweetest of smiles, she despatched him to the

East End of London, to an address which he was unable to find. This was

a bitter pill to the knight-errant; but when he returned at night, worn

out with fruitless wandering and dismayed by his _fiasco_, the lady

received him with a friendly gaiety, protesting that all was for the

best, since she had changed her mind and long since repented of her

message.

Next day he resumed his labours, glowing with pity and courage, and

determined to protect Teresa with his life. But a painful shock awaited

him. In the narrow and silent Hanway Street, she turned suddenly about

and addressed him with a manner and a light in her eyes that were new to

the young man’s experience.

‘Do I understand that you follow me, Señor?’ she cried. ‘Are these the

manners of the English gentleman?’

Harry confounded himself in the most abject apologies and prayers to be

forgiven, vowed to offend no more, and was at length dismissed,

crestfallen and heavy of heart. The check was final; he gave up that

road to service; and began once more to hang about the square or on the

terrace, filled with remorse and love, admirable and idiotic, a fit

object for the scorn and envy of older men. In these idle hours, while

he was courting fortune for a sight of the beloved, it fell out naturally

that he should observe the manners and appearance of such as came about

the house. One person alone was the occasional visitor of the young

lady: a man of considerable stature, and distinguished only by the

doubtful ornament of a chin-beard in the style of an American deacon.

Something in his appearance grated upon Harry; this distaste grew upon

him in the course of days; and when at length he mustered courage to

inquire of the Fair Cuban who this was, he was yet more dismayed by her

reply.

‘That gentleman,’ said she, a smile struggling to her face, ‘that

gentleman, I will not attempt to conceal from you, desires my hand in

marriage, and presses me with the most respectful ardour. Alas, what am

I to say? I, the forlorn Teresa, how shall I refuse or accept such

protestations?’

Harry feared to say more; a horrid pang of jealousy transfixed him; and

he had scarce the strength of mind to take his leave with decency. In

the solitude of his own chamber, he gave way to every manifestation of

despair. He passionately adored the Señorita; but it was not only the

thought of her possible union with another that distressed his soul, it

was the indefeasible conviction that her suitor was unworthy. To a duke,

a bishop, a victorious general, or any man adorned with obvious

qualities, he had resigned her with a sort of bitter joy; he saw himself

follow the wedding party from a great way off; he saw himself return to

the poor house, then robbed of its jewel; and while he could have wept

for his despair, he felt he could support it nobly. But this affair

looked otherwise. The man was patently no gentleman; he had a startled,

skulking, guilty bearing; his nails were black, his eyes evasive; his

love perhaps was a pretext; he was perhaps, under this deep disguise, a

Cuban emissary!

Harry swore that he would satisfy these doubts; and the next evening,

about the hour of the usual visit, he posted himself at a spot whence his

eye commanded the three issues of the square.

Presently after, a four-wheeler rumbled to the door, and the man with the

chin-beard alighted, paid off the cabman, and was seen by Harry to enter

the house with a brown box hoisted on his back. Half an hour later, he

came forth again without the box, and struck eastward at a rapid walk;

and Desborough, with the same skill and caution that he had displayed in

following Teresa, proceeded to dog the steps of her admirer. The man

began to loiter, studying with apparent interest the wares of the small

fruiterer or tobacconist; twice he returned hurriedly upon his former

course; and then, as though he had suddenly conquered a moment’s

hesitation, once more set forth with resolute and swift steps in the

direction of Lincoln’s Inn. At length, in a deserted by-street, he

turned; and coming up to Harry with a countenance which seemed to have

become older and whiter, inquired with some severity of speech if he had

not had the pleasure of seeing the gentleman before.

‘You have, sir,’ said Harry, somewhat abashed, but with a good show of

stoutness; ‘and I will not deny that I was following you on purpose.

Doubtless,’ he added, for he supposed that all men’s minds must still be

running on Teresa, ‘you can divine my reason.’

At these words, the man with the chin-beard was seized with a palsied

tremor. He seemed, for some seconds, to seek the utterance which his

fear denied him; and then whipping sharply about, he took to his heels at

the most furious speed of running.

Harry was at first so taken aback that he neglected to pursue; and by the

time he had recovered his wits, his best expedition was only rewarded by

a glimpse of the man with the chin-beard mounting into a hansom, which

immediately after disappeared into the moving crowds of Holborn.

Puzzled and dismayed by this unusual behaviour, Harry returned to the

house in Queen Square, and ventured for the first time to knock at the

fair Cuban’s door. She bade him enter, and he found her kneeling with

rather a disconsolate air beside a brown wooden trunk.

‘Señorita,’ he broke out, ‘I doubt whether that man’s character is what

he wishes you to believe. His manner, when he found, and indeed when I

admitted that I was following him, was not the manner of an honest man.’

‘Oh!’ she cried, throwing up her hands as in desperation, ‘Don Quixote,

Don Quixote, have you again been tilting against windmills?’ And then,

with a laugh, ‘Poor soul!’ she added, ‘how you must have terrified him!

For know that the Cuban authorities are here, and your poor Teresa may

soon be hunted down. Even yon humble clerk from my solicitor’s office

may find himself at any moment the quarry of armed spies.’

‘A humble clerk!’ cried Harry, ‘why, you told me yourself that he wished

to marry you!’

‘I thought you English like what you call a joke,’ replied the lady

calmly. ‘As a matter of fact, he is my lawyer’s clerk, and has been here

to-night charged with disastrous news. I am in sore straits, Señor

Harry. Will you help me?’

At this most welcome word, the young man’s heart exulted; and in the

hope, pride, and self-esteem that kindled with the very thought of

service, he forgot to dwell upon the lady’s jest. ‘Can you ask?’ he

cried. ‘What is there that I can do? Only tell me that.’

With signs of an emotion that was certainly unfeigned, the fair Cuban

laid her hand upon the box. ‘This box,’ she said, ‘contains my jewels,

papers, and clothes; all, in a word, that still connects me with Cuba and

my dreadful past. They must now be smuggled out of England; or, by the

opinion of my lawyer, I am lost beyond remedy. To-morrow, on board the

Irish packet, a sure hand awaits the box: the problem still unsolved, is

to find some one to carry it as far as Holyhead, to see it placed on

board the steamer, and instantly return to town. Will you be he? Will

you leave to-morrow by the first train, punctually obey orders, bear

still in mind that you are surrounded by Cuban spies; and without so much

as a look behind you, or a single movement to betray your interest, leave

the box where you have put it and come straight on shore? Will you do

this, and so save your friend?’

‘I do not clearly understand . . .’ began Harry.

‘No more do I,’ replied the Cuban. ‘It is not necessary that we should,

so long as we obey the lawyer’s orders.’

‘Señorita,’ returned Harry gravely, ‘I think this, of course, a very

little thing to do for you, when I would willingly do all. But suffer me

to say one word. If London is unsafe for your treasures, it cannot long

be safe for you; and indeed, if I at all fathom the plan of your

solicitor, I fear I may find you already fled on my return. I am not

considered clever, and can only speak out plainly what is in my heart:

that I love you, and that I cannot bear to lose all knowledge of you. I

hope no more than to be your servant; I ask no more than just that I

shall hear of you. Oh, promise me so much!’

‘You shall,’ she said, after a pause. ‘I promise you, you shall.’ But

though she spoke with earnestness, the marks of great embarrassment and a

strong conflict of emotions appeared upon her face.

‘I wish to tell you,’ resumed Desborough, ‘in case of accidents. . . .’

‘Accidents!’ she cried: ‘why do you say that?’

‘I do not know,’ said he, ‘you may be gone before my return, and we may

not meet again for long. And so I wished you to know this: That since

the day you gave me the cigarette, you have never once, not once, been

absent from my mind; and if it will in any way serve you, you may crumple

me up like that piece of paper, and throw me on the fire. I would love

to die for you.’

‘Go!’ she said. ‘Go now at once. My brain is in a whirl. I scarce know

what we are talking. Go; and good-night; and oh, may you come safe!’

Once back in his own room a fearful joy possessed the young man’s mind;

and as he recalled her face struck suddenly white and the broken

utterance of her last words, his heart at once exulted and misgave him.

Love had indeed looked upon him with a tragic mask; and yet what

mattered, since at least it was love—since at least she was commoved at

their division? He got to bed with these parti-coloured thoughts; passed

from one dream to another all night long, the white face of Teresa still

haunting him, wrung with unspoken thoughts; and in the grey of the dawn,

leaped suddenly out of bed, in a kind of horror. It was already time for

him to rise. He dressed, made his breakfast on cold food that had been

laid for him the night before; and went down to the room of his idol for

the box. The door was open; a strange disorder reigned within; the

furniture all pushed aside, and the centre of the room left bare of

impediment, as though for the pacing of a creature with a tortured mind.

There lay the box, however, and upon the lid a paper with these words:

‘Harry, I hope to be back before you go. Teresa.’

He sat down to wait, laying his watch before him on the table. She had

called him Harry: that should be enough, he thought, to fill the day with

sunshine; and yet somehow the sight of that disordered room still

poisoned his enjoyment. The door of the bed-chamber stood gaping open;

and though he turned aside his eyes as from a sacrilege, he could not but

observe the bed had not been slept in. He was still pondering what this

should mean, still trying to convince himself that all was well, when the

moving needle of his watch summoned him to set forth without delay. He

was before all things a man of his word; ran round to Southampton Row to

fetch a cab; and taking the box on the front seat, drove off towards the

terminus.

The streets were scarcely awake; there was little to amuse the eye; and

the young man’s attention centred on the dumb companion of his drive. A

card was nailed upon one side, bearing the superscription: ‘Miss Doolan,

passenger to Dublin. Glass. With care.’ He thought with a sentimental

shock that the fair idol of his heart was perhaps driven to adopt the

name of Doolan; and as he still studied the card, he was aware of a

deadly, black depression settling steadily upon his spirits. It was in

vain for him to contend against the tide; in vain that he shook himself

or tried to whistle: the sense of some impending blow was not to be

averted. He looked out; in the long, empty streets, the cab pursued its

way without a trace of any follower. He gave ear; and over and above the

jolting of the wheels upon the road, he was conscious of a certain

regular and quiet sound that seemed to issue from the box. He put his

ear to the cover; at one moment, he seemed to perceive a delicate

ticking: the next, the sound was gone, nor could his closest hearkening

recapture it. He laughed at himself; but still the gloom continued; and

it was with more than the common relief of an arrival, that he leaped

from the cab before the station.

Probably enough on purpose, Teresa had named an hour some thirty minutes

earlier than needful; and when Harry had given the box into the charge of

a porter, who sat it on a truck, he proceeded briskly to pace the

platform. Presently the bookstall opened; and the young man was looking

at the books when he was seized by the arm. He turned, and, though she

was closely veiled, at once recognised the Fair Cuban.

‘Where is it?’ she asked; and the sound of her voice surprised him.

‘It?’ he said. ‘What?’

‘The box. Have it put on a cab instantly. I am in fearful haste.’

He hurried to obey, marvelling at these changes, but not daring to

trouble her with questions; and when the cab had been brought round, and

the box mounted on the front, she passed a little way off upon the

pavement and beckoned him to follow.

‘Now,’ said she, still in those mechanical and hushed tones that had at

first affected him, ‘you must go on to Holyhead alone; go on board the

steamer; and if you see a man in tartan trousers and a pink scarf, say to

him that all has been put off: if not,’ she added, with a sobbing sigh,

‘it does not matter. So, good-bye.’

‘Teresa,’ said Harry, ‘get into your cab, and I will go along with you.

You are in some distress, perhaps some danger; and till I know the whole,

not even you can make me leave you.’

‘You will not?’ she asked. ‘O Harry, it were better!’

‘I will not,’ said Harry stoutly.

She looked at him for a moment through her veil; took his hand suddenly

and sharply, but more as if in fear than tenderness; and still holding

him, walked to the cab-door.

‘Where are we to drive?’ asked Harry.

‘Home, quickly,’ she answered; ‘double fare!’ And as soon as they had

both mounted to their places, the vehicle crazily trundled from the

station.

Teresa leaned back in a corner. The whole way Harry could perceive her

tears to flow under her veil; but she vouchsafed no explanation. At the

door of the house in Queen Square, both alighted; and the cabman lowered

the box, which Harry, glad to display his strength, received upon his

shoulders.

‘Let the man take it,’ she whispered. ‘Let the man take it.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ said Harry cheerfully; and having paid the

fare, he followed Teresa through the door which she had opened with her

key. The landlady and maid were gone upon their morning errands; the

house was empty and still; and as the rattling of the cab died away down

Gloucester Street, and Harry continued to ascend the stair with his

burthen, he heard close against his shoulders the same faint and muffled

ticking as before. The lady, still preceding him, opened the door of her

room, and helped him to lower the box tenderly in the corner by the

window.

‘And now,’ said Harry, ‘what is wrong?’

‘You will not go away?’ she cried, with a sudden break in her voice and

beating her hands together in the very agony of impatience. ‘O Harry,

Harry, go away! Oh, go, and leave me to the fate that I deserve!’

‘The fate?’ repeated Harry. ‘What is this?’

‘No fate,’ she resumed. ‘I do not know what I am saying. But I wish to

be alone. You may come back this evening, Harry; come again when you

like; but leave me now, only leave me now!’ And then suddenly, ‘I have

an errand,’ she exclaimed; ‘you cannot refuse me that!’

‘No,’ replied Harry, ‘you have no errand. You are in grief or danger.

Lift your veil and tell me what it is.’

‘Then,’ she said, with a sudden composure, ‘you leave but one course open

to me.’ And raising the veil, she showed him a countenance from which

every trace of colour had fled, eyes marred with weeping, and a brow on

which resolve had conquered fear. ‘Harry,’ she began, ‘I am not what I

seem.’

‘You have told me that before,’ said Harry, ‘several times.’

‘O Harry, Harry,’ she cried, ‘how you shame me! But this is the God’s

truth. I am a dangerous and wicked girl. My name is Clara Luxmore. I

was never nearer Cuba than Penzance. From first to last I have cheated

and played with you. And what I am I dare not even name to you in words.

Indeed, until to-day, until the sleepless watches of last night, I never

grasped the depth and foulness of my guilt.’

The young man looked upon her aghast. Then a generous current poured

along his veins. ‘That is all one,’ he said. ‘If you be all you say,

you have the greater need of me.’

‘Is it possible,’ she exclaimed, ‘that I have schemed in vain? And will

nothing drive you from this house of death?’

‘Of death?’ he echoed.

‘Death!’ she cried: ‘death! In that box that you have dragged about

London and carried on your defenceless shoulders, sleep, at the trigger’s

mercy, the destroying energies of dynamite.’

‘My God!’ cried Harry.

‘Ah!’ she continued wildly, ‘will you flee now? At any moment you may

hear the click that sounds the ruin of this building. I was sure M’Guire

was wrong; this morning, before day, I flew to Zero; he confirmed my

fears; I beheld you, my beloved Harry, fall a victim to my own

contrivances. I knew then I loved you—Harry, will you go now? Will you

not spare me this unwilling crime?’

Harry remained speechless, his eyes fixed upon the box: at last he turned

to her.

‘Is it,’ he asked hoarsely, ‘an infernal machine?’

Her lips formed the word ‘Yes,’ which her voice refused to utter.

With fearful curiosity, he drew near and bent above the box; in that

still chamber, the ticking was distinctly audible; and at the measured

sound, the blood flowed back upon his heart.

‘For whom?’ he asked.

‘What matters it,’ she cried, seizing him by the arm. ‘If you may still

be saved, what matter questions?’

‘God in heaven!’ cried Harry. ‘And the Children’s Hospital! At whatever

cost, this damned contrivance must be stopped!’

‘It cannot,’ she gasped. ‘The power of man cannot avert the blow. But

you, Harry—you, my beloved—you may still—’

And then from the box that lay so quietly in the corner, a sudden catch

was audible, like the catch of a clock before it strikes the hour. For

one second the two stared at each other with lifted brows and stony eyes.

Then Harry, throwing one arm over his face, with the other clutched the

girl to his breast and staggered against the wall.

A dull and startling thud resounded through the room; their eyes blinked

against the coming horror; and still clinging together like drowning

people, they fell to the floor. Then followed a prolonged and strident

hissing as from the indignant pit; an offensive stench seized them by the

throat; the room was filled with dense and choking fumes.

Presently these began a little to disperse: and when at length they drew

themselves, all limp and shaken, to a sitting posture, the first object

that greeted their vision was the box reposing uninjured in its corner,

but still leaking little wreaths of vapour round the lid.

‘Oh, poor Zero!’ cried the girl, with a strange sobbing laugh. ‘Alas,

poor Zero! This will break his heart!’

_THE SUPERFLUOUS MANSION_

(_Concluded_)

Somerset ran straight upstairs; the door of the drawing-room, contrary to

all custom, was unlocked; and bursting in, the young man found Zero

seated on a sofa in an attitude of singular dejection. Close beside him

stood an untasted grog, the mark of strong preoccupation. The room

besides was in confusion: boxes had been tumbled to and fro; the floor

was strewn with keys and other implements; and in the midst of this

disorder lay a lady’s glove.

‘I have come,’ cried Somerset, ‘to make an end of this. Either you will

instantly abandon all your schemes, or (cost what it may) I will denounce

you to the police.’

‘Ah!’ replied Zero, slowly shaking his head. ‘You are too late, dear

fellow! I am already at the end of all my hopes, and fallen to be a

laughing-stock and mockery. My reading,’ he added, with a gentle

despondency of manner, ‘has not been much among romances; yet I recall

from one a phrase that depicts my present state with critical exactitude;

and you behold me sitting here “like a burst drum.”’

‘What has befallen you?’ cried Somerset.

‘My last batch,’ returned the plotter wearily, ‘like all the others, is a

hollow mockery and a fraud. In vain do I combine the elements; in vain

adjust the springs; and I have now arrived at such a pitch of

disconsideration that (except yourself, dear fellow) I do not know a soul

that I can face. My subordinates themselves have turned upon me. What

language have I heard to-day, what illiberality of sentiment, what

pungency of expression! She came once; I could have pardoned that, for

she was moved; but she returned, returned to announce to me this crushing

blow; and, Somerset, she was very inhumane. Yes, dear fellow, I have

drunk a bitter cup; the speech of females is remarkable for . . . well,

well! Denounce me, if you will; you but denounce the dead. I am

extinct. It is strange how, at this supreme crisis of my life, I should

be haunted by quotations from works of an inexact and even fanciful

description; but here,’ he added, ‘is another: “Othello’s occupation’s

gone.” Yes, dear Somerset, it is gone; I am no more a dynamiter; and

how, I ask you, after having tasted of these joys, am I to condescend to

a less glorious life?’

‘I cannot describe how you relieve me,’ returned Somerset, sitting down

on one of several boxes that had been drawn out into the middle of the

floor. ‘I had conceived a sort of maudlin toleration for your character;

I have a great distaste, besides, for anything in the nature of a duty;

and upon both grounds, your news delights me. But I seem to perceive,’

he added, ‘a certain sound of ticking in this box.’

‘Yes,’ replied Zero, with the same slow weariness of manner, ‘I have set

several of them going.’

‘My God!’ cried Somerset, bounding to his feet.

‘Machines?’

‘Machines!’ returned the plotter bitterly. ‘Machines indeed! I blush to

be their author. Alas!’ he said, burying his face in his hands, ‘that I

should live to say it!’

‘Madman!’ cried Somerset, shaking him by the arm. ‘What am I to

understand? Have you, indeed, set these diabolical contrivances in

motion? and do we stay here to be blown up?’

‘“Hoist with his own petard?”’ returned the plotter musingly. ‘One more

quotation: strange! But indeed my brain is struck with numbness. Yes,

dear boy, I have, as you say, put my contrivance in motion. The one on

which you are sitting, I have timed for half an hour. Yon other—’

‘Half an hour!—’ echoed Somerset, dancing with trepidation. ‘Merciful

Heavens, in half an hour?’

‘Dear fellow, why so much excitement?’ inquired Zero. ‘My dynamite is

not more dangerous than toffy; had I an only child, I would give it him

to play with. You see this brick?’ he continued, lifting a cake of the

infernal compound from the laboratory-table. ‘At a touch it should

explode, and that with such unconquerable energy as should bestrew the

square with ruins. Well now, behold! I dash it on the floor.’

Somerset sprang forward, and with the strength of the very ecstasy of

terror, wrested the brick from his possession. ‘Heavens!’ he cried,

wiping his brow; and then with more care than ever mother handled her

first-born withal, gingerly transported the explosive to the far end of

the apartment: the plotter, his arms once more fallen to his side,

dispiritedly watching him.

‘It was entirely harmless,’ he sighed. ‘They describe it as burning like

tobacco.’

‘In the name of fortune,’ cried Somerset, ‘what have I done to you, or

what have you done to yourself, that you should persist in this insane

behaviour? If not for your own sake, then for mine, let us depart from

this doomed house, where I profess I have not the heart to leave you; and

then, if you will take my advice, and if your determination be sincere,

you will instantly quit this city, where no further occupation can detain

you.’

‘Such, dear fellow, was my own design,’ replied the plotter. ‘I have, as

you observe, no further business here; and once I have packed a little

bag, I shall ask you to share a frugal meal, to go with me as far as to

the station, and see the last of a broken-hearted man. And yet,’ he

added, looking on the boxes with a lingering regret, ‘I should have liked

to make quite certain. I cannot but suspect my underlings of some

mismanagement; it may be fond, but yet I cherish that idea: it may be the

weakness of a man of science, but yet,’ he cried, rising into some

energy, ‘I will never, I cannot if I try, believe that my poor dynamite

has had fair usage!’

‘Five minutes!’ said Somerset, glancing with horror at the timepiece.

‘If you do not instantly buckle to your bag, I leave you.’

‘A few necessaries,’ returned Zero, ‘only a few necessaries, dear

Somerset, and you behold me ready.’

He passed into the bedroom, and after an interval which seemed to draw

out into eternity for his unfortunate companion, he returned, bearing in

his hand an open Gladstone bag. His movements were still horribly

deliberate, and his eyes lingered gloatingly on his dear boxes, as he

moved to and fro about the drawing-room, gathering a few small trifles.

Last of all, he lifted one of the squares of dynamite.

‘Put that down!’ cried Somerset. ‘If what you say be true, you have no

call to load yourself with that ungodly contraband.’

‘Merely a curiosity, dear boy,’ he said persuasively, and slipped the

brick into his bag; ‘merely a memento of the past—ah, happy past, bright

past! You will not take a touch of spirits? no? I find you very

abstemious. Well,’ he added, ‘if you have really no curiosity to await

the event—’

‘I!’ cried Somerset. ‘My blood boils to get away.’

‘Well, then,’ said Zero, ‘I am ready; I would I could say, willing; but

thus to leave the scene of my sublime endeavours—’

Without further parley, Somerset seized him by the arm, and dragged him

downstairs; the hall-door shut with a clang on the deserted mansion; and

still towing his laggardly companion, the young man sped across the

square in the Oxford Street direction. They had not yet passed the

corner of the garden, when they were arrested by a dull thud of an

extraordinary amplitude of sound, accompanied and followed by a

shattering _fracas_. Somerset turned in time to see the mansion rend in

twain, vomit forth flames and smoke, and instantly collapse into its

cellars. At the same moment, he was thrown violently to the ground. His

first glance was towards Zero. The plotter had but reeled against the

garden rail; he stood there, the Gladstone bag clasped tight upon his

heart, his whole face radiant with relief and gratitude; and the young

man heard him murmur to himself: ‘_Nunc dimittis_, _nunc dimittis_!’

The consternation of the populace was indescribable; the whole of Golden

Square was alive with men, women, and children, running wildly to and

fro, and like rabbits in a warren, dashing in and out of the house doors.

And under favour of this confusion, Somerset dragged away the lingering

plotter.

‘It was grand,’ he continued to murmur: ‘it was indescribably grand. Ah,

green Erin, green Erin, what a day of glory! and oh, my calumniated

dynamite, how triumphantly hast thou prevailed!’

Suddenly a shade crossed his face; and pausing in the middle of the

footway, he consulted the dial of his watch.

‘Good God!’ he cried, ‘how mortifying! seven minutes too early! The

dynamite surpassed my hopes; but the clockwork, fickle clockwork, has

once more betrayed me. Alas, can there be no success unmixed with

failure? and must even this red-letter day be chequered by a shadow?’

‘Incomparable ass!’ said Somerset, ‘what have you done? Blown up the

house of an unoffending old lady, and the whole earthly property of the

only person who is fool enough to befriend you!’

‘You do not understand these matters,’ replied Zero, with an air of great

dignity. ‘This will shake England to the heart. Gladstone, the

truculent old man, will quail before the pointing finger of revenge. And

now that my dynamite is proved effective—’

‘Heavens, you remind me!’ ejaculated Somerset. ‘That brick in your bag

must be instantly disposed of. But how? If we could throw it in the

river—’

‘A torpedo,’ cried Zero, brightening, ‘a torpedo in the Thames! Superb,

dear fellow! I recognise in you the marks of an accomplished anarch.’

‘True!’ returned Somerset. ‘It cannot so be done; and there is no help

but you must carry it away with you. Come on, then, and let me at once

consign you to a train.’

‘Nay, nay, dear boy,’ protested Zero. ‘There is now no call for me to

leave. My character is now reinstated; my fame brightens; this is the

best thing I have done yet; and I see from here the ovations that await

the author of the Golden Square Atrocity.’

‘My young friend,’ returned the other, ‘I give you your choice. I will

either see you safe on board a train or safe in gaol.’

‘Somerset, this is unlike you!’ said the chymist. ‘You surprise me,

Somerset.’

‘I shall considerably more surprise you at the next police office,’

returned Somerset, with something bordering on rage. ‘For on one point

my mind is settled: either I see you packed off to America, brick and

all, or else you dine in prison.’

‘You have perhaps neglected one point,’ returned the unoffended Zero:

‘for, speaking as a philosopher, I fail to see what means you can employ

to force me. The will, my dear fellow—’

‘Now, see here,’ interrupted Somerset. ‘You are ignorant of anything but

science, which I can never regard as being truly knowledge; I, sir, have

studied life; and allow me to inform you that I have but to raise my hand

and voice—here in this street—and the mob—’

‘Good God in heaven, Somerset,’ cried Zero, turning deadly white and

stopping in his walk, ‘great God in heaven, what words are these? Oh,

not in jest, not even in jest, should they be used! The brutal mob, the

savage passions . . . Somerset, for God’s sake, a public-house!’

Somerset considered him with freshly awakened curiosity. ‘This is very

interesting,’ said he. ‘You recoil from such a death?’

‘Who would not?’ asked the plotter.

‘And to be blown up by dynamite,’ inquired the young man, ‘doubtless

strikes you as a form of euthanasia?’

‘Pardon me,’ returned Zero: ‘I own, and since I have braved it daily in

my professional career, I own it even with pride: it is a death unusually

distasteful to the mind of man.’

‘One more question,’ said Somerset: ‘you object to Lynch Law? why?’

‘It is assassination,’ said the plotter calmly, but with eyebrows a

little lifted, as in wonder at the question.

‘Shake hands with me,’ cried Somerset. ‘Thank God, I have now no

ill-feeling left; and though you cannot conceive how I burn to see you on

the gallows, I can quite contentedly assist at your departure.’

‘I do not very clearly take your meaning,’ said Zero, ‘but I am sure you

mean kindly. As to my departure, there is another point to be

considered. I have neglected to supply myself with funds; my little all

has perished in what history will love to relate under the name of the

Golden Square Atrocity; and without what is coarsely if vigorously called

stamps, you must be well aware it is impossible for me to pass the

ocean.’

‘For me,’ said Somerset, ‘you have now ceased to be a man. You have no

more claim upon me than a door scraper; but the touching confusion of

your mind disarms me from extremities. Until to-day, I always thought

stupidity was funny; I now know otherwise; and when I look upon your

idiot face, laughter rises within me like a deadly sickness, and the

tears spring up into my eyes as bitter as blood. What should this

portend? I begin to doubt; I am losing faith in scepticism. Is it

possible,’ he cried, in a kind of horror of himself—‘is it conceivable

that I believe in right and wrong? Already I have found myself, with

incredulous surprise, to be the victim of a prejudice of personal honour.

And must this change proceed? Have you robbed me of my youth? Must I

fall, at my time of life, into the Common Banker? But why should I

address that head of wood? Let this suffice. I dare not let you stay

among women and children; I lack the courage to denounce you, if by any

means I may avoid it; you have no money: well then, take mine, and go;

and if ever I behold your face after to-day, that day will be your last.’

‘Under the circumstances,’ replied Zero, ‘I scarce see my way to refuse

your offer. Your expressions may pain, they cannot surprise me; I am

aware our point of view requires a little training, a little moral

hygiene, if I may so express it; and one of the points that has always

charmed me in your character is this delightful frankness. As for the

small advance, it shall be remitted you from Philadelphia.’

‘It shall not,’ said Somerset.

‘Dear fellow, you do not understand,’ returned the plotter. ‘I shall now

be received with fresh confidence by my superiors; and my experiments

will be no longer hampered by pitiful conditions of the purse.’

‘What I am now about, sir, is a crime,’ replied Somerset; ‘and were you

to roll in wealth like Vanderbilt, I should scorn to be reimbursed of

money I had so scandalously misapplied. Take it, and keep it. By

George, sir, three days of you have transformed me to an ancient Roman.’

With these words, Somerset hailed a passing hansom; and the pair were

driven rapidly to the railway terminus. There, an oath having been

exacted, the money changed hands.

‘And now,’ said Somerset, ‘I have bought back my honour with every penny

I possess. And I thank God, though there is nothing before me but

starvation, I am free from all entanglement with Mr. Zero Pumpernickel

Jones.’

‘To starve?’ cried Zero. ‘Dear fellow, I cannot endure the thought.’

‘Take your ticket!’ returned Somerset.

‘I think you display temper,’ said Zero.

‘Take your ticket,’ reiterated the young man.

‘Well,’ said the plotter, as he returned, ticket in hand, ‘your attitude

is so strange and painful, that I scarce know if I should ask you to

shake hands.’

‘As a man, no,’ replied Somerset; ‘but I have no objection to shake hands

with you, as I might with a pump-well that ran poison or bell-fire.’

‘This is a very cold parting,’ sighed the dynamiter; and still followed

by Somerset, he began to descend the platform. This was now bustling

with passengers; the train for Liverpool was just about to start, another

had but recently arrived; and the double tide made movement difficult.

As the pair reached the neighbourhood of the bookstall, however, they

came into an open space; and here the attention of the plotter was

attracted by a _Standard_ broadside bearing the words: ‘Second Edition:

Explosion in Golden Square.’ His eye lighted; groping in his pocket for

the necessary coin, he sprang forward—his bag knocked sharply on the

corner of the stall—and instantly, with a formidable report, the dynamite

exploded. When the smoke cleared away the stall was seen much shattered,

and the stall keeper running forth in terror from the ruins; but of the

Irish patriot or the Gladstone bag no adequate remains were to be found.

In the first scramble of the alarm, Somerset made good his escape, and

came out upon the Euston Road, his head spinning, his body sick with

hunger, and his pockets destitute of coin. Yet as he continued to walk

the pavements, he wondered to find in his heart a sort of peaceful

exultation, a great content, a sense, as it were, of divine presence and

the kindliness of fate; and he was able to tell himself that even if the

worst befell, he could now starve with a certain comfort since Zero was

expunged.

Late in the afternoon, he found himself at the door of Mr. Godall’s shop;

and being quite unmanned by his long fast, and scarce considering what he

did, he opened the glass door and entered.

‘Ha!’ said Mr. Godall, ‘Mr. Somerset! Well, have you met with an

adventure? Have you the promised story? Sit down, if you please; suffer

me to choose you a cigar of my own special brand; and reward me with a

narrative in your best style.’

‘I must not take a cigar,’ said Somerset.

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Godall. ‘But now I come to look at you more closely,

I perceive that you are changed. My poor boy, I hope there is nothing

wrong?’

Somerset burst into tears.

_EPILOGUE OF THE CIGAR DIVAN_

On a certain day of lashing rain in the December of last year, and

between the hours of nine and ten in the morning, Mr. Edward Challoner

pioneered himself under an umbrella to the door of the Cigar Divan in

Rupert Street. It was a place he had visited but once before: the memory

of what had followed on that visit and the fear of Somerset having

prevented his return. Even now, he looked in before he entered; but the

shop was free of customers.

The young man behind the counter was so intently writing in a penny

version-book, that he paid no heed to Challoner’s arrival. On a second

glance, it seemed to the latter that he recognised him.

‘By Jove,’ he thought, ‘unquestionably Somerset!’

And though this was the very man he had been so sedulously careful to

avoid, his unexplained position at the receipt of custom changed distaste

to curiosity.

‘“Or opulent rotunda strike the sky,”’ said the shopman to himself, in

the tone of one considering a verse. ‘I suppose it would be too much to

say “orotunda,” and yet how noble it were! “Or opulent orotunda strike

the sky.” But that is the bitterness of arts; you see a good effect, and

some nonsense about sense continually intervenes.’

‘Somerset, my dear fellow,’ said Challoner, ‘is this a masquerade?’

‘What? Challoner!’ cried the shopman. ‘I am delighted to see you. One

moment, till I finish the octave of my sonnet: only the octave.’ And

with a friendly waggle of the hand, he once more buried himself in the

commerce of the Muses. ‘I say,’ he said presently, looking up, ‘you seem

in wonderful preservation: how about the hundred pounds?’

‘I have made a small inheritance from a great aunt in Wales,’ replied

Challoner modestly.

‘Ah,’ said Somerset, ‘I very much doubt the legitimacy of inheritance.

The State, in my view, should collar it. I am now going through a stage

of socialism and poetry,’ he added apologetically, as one who spoke of a

course of medicinal waters.

‘And are you really the person of the—establishment?’ inquired Challoner,

deftly evading the word ‘shop.’

‘A vendor, sir, a vendor,’ returned the other, pocketing his poesy. ‘I

help old Happy and Glorious. Can I offer you a weed?’

‘Well, I scarcely like . . . ’ began Challoner.

‘Nonsense, my dear fellow,’ cried the shopman. ‘We are very proud of the

business; and the old man, let me inform you, besides being the most

egregious of created beings from the point of view of ethics, is

literally sprung from the loins of kings. “_De Godall je suis le

fervent_.” There is only one Godall.—By the way,’ he added, as Challoner

lit his cigar, ‘how did you get on with the detective trade?’

‘I did not try,’ said Challoner curtly.

‘Ah, well, I did,’ returned Somerset, ‘and made the most incomparable

mess of it: lost all my money and fairly covered myself with odium and

ridicule. There is more in that business, Challoner, than meets the eye;

there is more, in fact, in all businesses. You must believe in them, or

get up the belief that you believe. Hence,’ he added, ‘the recognised

inferiority of the plumber, for no one could believe in plumbing.’

‘_A propos_,’ asked Challoner, ‘do you still paint?’

‘Not now,’ replied Paul; ‘but I think of taking up the violin.’

Challoner’s eye, which had been somewhat restless since the trade of the

detective had been named, now rested for a moment on the columns of the

morning paper, where it lay spread upon the counter.

‘By Jove,’ he cried, ‘that’s odd!’

‘What is odd?’ asked Paul.

‘Oh, nothing,’ returned the other: ‘only I once met a person called

M’Guire.’

‘So did I!’ cried Somerset. ‘Is there anything about him?’

Challoner read as follows: ‘_Mysterious death in Stepney_. An inquest

was held yesterday on the body of Patrick M’Guire, described as a

carpenter. Doctor Dovering stated that he had for some time treated the

deceased as a dispensary patient, for sleeplessness, loss of appetite,

and nervous depression. There was no cause of death to be found. He

would say the deceased had sunk. Deceased was not a temperate man, which

doubtless accelerated death. Deceased complained of dumb ague, but

witness had never been able to detect any positive disease. He did not

know that he had any family. He regarded him as a person of unsound

intellect, who believed himself a member and the victim of some secret

society. If he were to hazard an opinion, he would say deceased had died

of fear.’

‘And the doctor would be right,’ cried Somerset; ‘and my dear Challoner,

I am so relieved to hear of his demise, that I will—Well, after all,’ he

added, ‘poor devil, he was well served.’

The door at this moment opened, and Desborough appeared upon the

threshold. He was wrapped in a long waterproof, imperfectly supplied

with buttons; his boots were full of water, his hat greasy with service;

and yet he wore the air of one exceeding well content with life. He was

hailed by the two others with exclamations of surprise and welcome.

‘And did you try the detective business?’ inquired Paul.

‘No,’ returned Harry. ‘Oh yes, by the way, I did though: twice, and got

caught out both times. But I thought I should find my—my wife here?’ he

added, with a kind of proud confusion.

‘What? are you married?’ cried Somerset.

‘Oh yes,’ said Harry, ‘quite a long time: a month at least.’

‘Money?’ asked Challoner.

‘That’s the worst of it,’ Desborough admitted. ‘We are deadly hard up.

But the Pri--- Mr. Godall is going to do something for us. That is what

brings us here.’

‘Who was Mrs. Desborough?’ said Challoner, in the tone of a man of

society.

‘She was a Miss Luxmore,’ returned Harry. ‘You fellows will be sure to

like her, for she is much cleverer than I. She tells wonderful stories,

too; better than a book.’

And just then the door opened, and Mrs. Desborough entered. Somerset

cried out aloud to recognise the young lady of the Superfluous Mansion,

and Challoner fell back a step and dropped his cigar as he beheld the

sorceress of Chelsea.

‘What!’ cried Harry, ‘do you both know my wife?’

‘I believe I have seen her,’ said Somerset, a little wildly.

‘I think I have met the gentleman,’ said Mrs. Desborough sweetly; ‘but I

cannot imagine where it was.’

‘Oh no,’ cried Somerset fervently: ‘I have no notion—I cannot

conceive—where it could have been. Indeed,’ he continued, growing in

emphasis, ‘I think it highly probable that it’s a mistake.’

‘And you, Challoner?’ asked Harry, ‘you seemed to recognise her too.’

‘These are both friends of yours, Harry?’ said the lady. ‘Delighted, I

am sure. I do not remember to have met Mr. Challoner.’

Challoner was very red in the face, perhaps from having groped after his

cigar. ‘I do not remember to have had the pleasure,’ he responded

huskily.

‘Well, and Mr. Godall?’ asked Mrs. Desborough.

‘Are you the lady that has an appointment with old—’ began Somerset, and

paused blushing. ‘Because if so,’ he resumed, ‘I was to announce you at

once.’

And the shopman raised a curtain, opened a door, and passed into a small

pavilion which had been added to the back of the house. On the roof, the

rain resounded musically. The walls were lined with maps and prints and

a few works of reference. Upon a table was a large-scale map of Egypt

and the Soudan, and another of Tonkin, on which, by the aid of coloured

pins, the progress of the different wars was being followed day by day.

A light, refreshing odour of the most delicate tobacco hung upon the air;

and a fire, not of foul coal, but of clear-flaming resinous billets,

chattered upon silver dogs. In this elegant and plain apartment, Mr.

Godall sat in a morning muse, placidly gazing at the fire and hearkening

to the rain upon the roof.

‘Ha, my dear Mr. Somerset,’ said he, ‘and have you since last night

adopted any fresh political principle?’

‘The lady, sir,’ said Somerset, with another blush.

‘You have seen her, I believe?’ returned Mr. Godall; and on Somerset’s

replying in the affirmative, ‘You will excuse me, my dear sir,’ he

resumed, ‘if I offer you a hint. I think it not improbable this lady may

desire entirely to forget the past. From one gentleman to another, no

more words are necessary.’

A moment after, he had received Mrs. Desborough with that grave and

touching urbanity that so well became him.

‘I am pleased, madam, to welcome you to my poor house,’ he said; ‘and

shall be still more so, if what were else a barren courtesy and a

pleasure personal to myself, shall prove to be of serious benefit to you

and Mr. Desborough.’

‘Your Highness,’ replied Clara, ‘I must begin with thanks; it is like

what I have heard of you, that you should thus take up the case of the

unfortunate; and as for my Harry, he is worthy of all that you can do.’

She paused.

‘But for yourself?’ suggested Mr. Godall—‘it was thus you were about to

continue, I believe.’

‘You take the words out of my mouth,’ she said. ‘For myself, it is

different.’

‘I am not here to be a judge of men,’ replied the Prince; ‘still less of

women. I am now a private person like yourself and many million others;

but I am one who still fights upon the side of quiet. Now, madam, you

know better than I, and God better than you, what you have done to

mankind in the past; I pause not to inquire; it is with the future I

concern myself, it is for the future I demand security. I would not

willingly put arms into the hands of a disloyal combatant; and I dare not

restore to wealth one of the levyers of a private and a barbarous war. I

speak with some severity, and yet I pick my terms. I tell myself

continually that you are a woman; and a voice continually reminds me of

the children whose lives and limbs you have endangered. A woman,’ he

repeated solemnly—‘and children. Possibly, madam, when you are yourself

a mother, you will feel the bite of that antithesis: possibly when you

kneel at night beside a cradle, a fear will fall upon you, heavier than

any shame; and when your child lies in the pain and danger of disease,

you shall hesitate to kneel before your Maker.’

‘You look at the fault,’ she said, ‘and not at the excuse. Has your own

heart never leaped within you at some story of oppression? But, alas,

no! for you were born upon a throne.’

‘I was born of woman,’ said the Prince; ‘I came forth from my mother’s

agony, helpless as a wren, like other nurselings. This, which you

forgot, I have still faithfully remembered. Is it not one of your

English poets, that looked abroad upon the earth and saw vast

circumvallations, innumerable troops manoeuvring, warships at sea and a

great dust of battles on shore; and casting anxiously about for what

should be the cause of so many and painful preparations, spied at last,

in the centre of all, a mother and her babe? These, madam, are my

politics; and the verses, which are by Mr. Coventry Patmore, I have

caused to be translated into the Bohemian tongue. Yes, these are my

politics: to change what we can, to better what we can; but still to bear

in mind that man is but a devil weakly fettered by some generous beliefs

and impositions, and for no word however nobly sounding, and no cause

however just and pious, to relax the stricture of these bonds.’

There was a silence of a moment.

‘I fear, madam,’ resumed the Prince, ‘that I but weary you. My views are

formal like myself; and like myself, they also begin to grow old. But I

must still trouble you for some reply.’

‘I can say but one thing,’ said Mrs. Desborough: ‘I love my husband.’

‘It is a good answer,’ returned the Prince; ‘and you name a good

influence, but one that need not be conterminous with life.’

‘I will not play at pride with such a man as you,’ she answered. ‘What

do you ask of me? not protestations, I am sure. What shall I say? I

have done much that I cannot defend and that I would not do again. Can I

say more? Yes: I can say this: I never abused myself with the

muddle-headed fairy tales of politics. I was at least prepared to meet

reprisals. While I was levying war myself—or levying murder, if you

choose the plainer term—I never accused my adversaries of assassination.

I never felt or feigned a righteous horror, when a price was put upon my

life by those whom I attacked. I never called the policeman a hireling.

I may have been a criminal, in short; but I never was a fool.’

‘Enough, madam,’ returned the Prince: ‘more than enough! Your words are

most reviving to my spirits; for in this age, when even the assassin is a

sentimentalist, there is no virtue greater in my eyes than intellectual

clarity. Suffer me, then, to ask you to retire; for by the signal of

that bell, I perceive my old friend, your mother, to be close at hand.

With her I promise you to do my utmost.’

And as Mrs. Desborough returned to the Divan, the Prince, opening a door

upon the other side, admitted Mrs. Luxmore.

‘Madam and my very good friend,’ said he, ‘is my face so much changed

that you no longer recognise Prince Florizel in Mr. Godall?’

‘To be sure!’ she cried, looking at him through her glasses. ‘I have

always regarded your Highness as a perfect man; and in your altered

circumstances, of which I have already heard with deep regret, I will beg

you to consider my respect increased instead of lessened.’

‘I have found it so,’ returned the Prince, ‘with every class of my

acquaintance. But, madam, I pray you to be seated. My business is of a

delicate order, and regards your daughter.’

‘In that case,’ said Mrs. Luxmore, ‘you may save yourself the trouble of

speaking, for I have fully made up my mind to have nothing to do with

her. I will not hear one word in her defence; but as I value nothing so

particularly as the virtue of justice, I think it my duty to explain to

you the grounds of my complaint. She deserted me, her natural protector;

for years, she has consorted with the most disreputable persons; and to

fill the cup of her offence, she has recently married. I refuse to see

her, or the being to whom she has linked herself. One hundred and twenty

pounds a year, I have always offered her: I offer it again. It is what I

had myself when I was her age.’

‘Very well, madam,’ said the Prince; ‘and be that so! But to touch upon

another matter: what was the income of the Reverend Bernard Fanshawe?’

‘My father?’ asked the spirited old lady. ‘I believe he had seven

hundred pounds in the year.’

‘You were one, I think, of several?’ pursued the Prince.

‘Of four,’ was the reply. ‘We were four daughters; and painful as the

admission is to make, a more detestable family could scarce be found in

England.’

‘Dear me!’ said the Prince. ‘And you, madam, have an income of eight

thousand?’

‘Not more than five,’ returned the old lady; ‘but where on earth are you

conducting me?’

‘To an allowance of one thousand pounds a year,’ replied Florizel,

smiling. ‘For I must not suffer you to take your father for a rule. He

was poor, you are rich. He had many calls upon his poverty: there are

none upon your wealth. And indeed, madam, if you will let me touch this

matter with a needle, there is but one point in common to your two

positions: that each had a daughter more remarkable for liveliness than

duty.’

‘I have been entrapped into this house,’ said the old lady, getting to

her feet. ‘But it shall not avail. Not all the tobacconists in Europe . . .’

‘Ah, madam,’ interrupted Florizel, ‘before what is referred to as my

fall, you had not used such language! And since you so much object to

the simple industry by which I live, let me give you a friendly hint. If

you will not consent to support your daughter, I shall be constrained to

place that lady behind my counter, where I doubt not she would prove a

great attraction; and your son-in-law shall have a livery and run the

errands. With such young blood my business might be doubled, and I might

be bound in common gratitude to place the name of Luxmore beside that of

Godall.’

‘Your Highness,’ said the old lady, ‘I have been very rude, and you are

very cunning. I suppose the minx is on the premises. Produce her.’

‘Let us rather observe them unperceived,’ said the Prince; and so saying

he rose and quietly drew back the curtain.

Mrs. Desborough sat with her back to them on a chair; Somerset and Harry

were hanging on her words with extraordinary interest; Challoner,

alleging some affair, had long ago withdrawn from the detested

neighbourhood of the enchantress.

‘At that moment,’ Mrs. Desborough was saying, ‘Mr Gladstone detected the

features of his cowardly assailant. A cry rose to his lips: a cry of

mingled triumph . . .’

‘That is Mr. Somerset!’ interrupted the spirited old lady, in the highest

note of her register. ‘Mr. Somerset, what have you done with my

house-property?’

‘Madam,’ said the Prince, ‘let it be mine to give the explanation; and in

the meanwhile, welcome your daughter.’

‘Well, Clara, how do you do?’ said Mrs. Luxmore. ‘It appears I am to

give you an allowance. So much the better for you. As for Mr. Somerset,

I am very ready to have an explanation; for the whole affair, though

costly, was eminently humorous. And at any rate,’ she added, nodding to

Paul, ‘he is a young gentleman for whom I have a great affection, and his

pictures were the funniest I ever saw.’

‘I have ordered a collation,’ said the Prince. ‘Mr. Somerset, as these

are all your friends, I propose, if you please, that you should join them

at table. I will take the shop.’