English, Thomas Dunn, 1819-1902 [1867], Ambrose fecit, or, The peer and the printer: a novel. (Hilton and Company, New York) [word count] [eaf558T].
To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
-- --
[figure description] Top Edge.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Front Cover.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Spine.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Front Edge.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Back Cover.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Bottom Edge.[end figure description]
Preliminaries
-- --
[figure description] Paste-Down Endpaper.[end figure description]
Harry V. Jones.,
Phila.
-- --
Hic Fructus Virtutis; Clifton
Waller Barrett
[figure description] 558EAF. Free Endpaper with Bookplate: heraldry figure with a
green tree on top and shield below. There is a small gray shield
hanging from the branches of the tree, with three blue figures on that
small shield. The tree stands on a base of gray and black intertwined
bars, referred to as a wreath in heraldic terms. Below the tree is a
larger shield, with a black background, and with three gray, diagonal
stripes across it; these diagonal stripes are referred to as bends in
heraldic terms. There are three gold leaves in line, end-to-end, down
the middle of the center stripe (or bend), with green veins in the
leaves. Note that the colors to which this description refers appear in
some renderings of this bookplate; however, some renderings may appear
instead in black, white and gray tones.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Free Endpaper.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Title-Page.[end figure description]
Title Page
AMBROSE FECIT;
OR,
THE PEER AND THE PRINTER.
A Novel.
BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
NEW YORK:
HILTON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
No. 128 NASSAU STREET.
1867.
-- --
[figure description] Copyright Page.[end figure description]
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867,
BY HILTON & CO.,
in the Clerk's Office of the U. S. District Court for the Southern
District of New York.
Main text
-- --
CHAPTER I. , Which introduces a nice little girl, and an accident.
[figure description] Page 005.[end figure description]
I must have been about eighteen
years old, or thereabouts, when, on a
holiday in June, I walked out, and
strolled by the high road to the country
beyond Puttenham. The highway
led me to a common over which it
crossed; and there, musing over the
commonplace events of the week, I
wandered over the knolls of gravelly
soil, and among the furze-bushes, watching
the donkies as they cropped the
scanty blades of grass, and indulged
occasionally in a tit-bit, in the way of
a juicy thistle. Tired at length, I sat
me down to rest under a thorn-bush
by the road-side, and was thus seated
when I heard the sound of voices.
Looking up, I saw a man approach,
who was leading by the hand a little
girl who appeared to be about ten
years of age. I was struck with the
appearance of the couple, and so scanned
them closely.
The man was short, thick-set, and
well-stricken in years. He was clad
in a plain suit of black, considerably
worn, and much dusted by travel;
and he wore a black felt hat, with a
very wide brim. His complexion was
swarthy, and his eyes were keen and
deeply set beneath long and bushy
eye brows. On his face he wore a
thick, grey moustache—a thing quite
uncommon in England at that time.
In fact, it was the first I had ever
seen off the stage of a theatre. His
hair was jet black in color, streaked
here and there with white, and fell in
glossy curls to his shoulders; but
when he removed his hat for a moment
to wipe the perspiration from his forehead,
I noticed that the hair in a wide
circle over the crown was not over a
half inch in length, as though it had
grown after having been recently
shaved. His walk was slow and steady,
and, although he occasionally
threw searching glances around him
his eyes were generally bent on the
ground.
My gaze, however, was riveted most
firmly to the little girl. She was the
very perfection of childish beauty,
and I had never seen before, nor have
I beheld since, anything so exquisitely
lovely. Her complexion was clear
and delicate, with that thin skin, in
which the color comes and goes at
every fleeting emotion. Her features
were of as perfect an outline as ever
poet imagined, or painter drew. There
was but little color in the cheeks, but
the lips were intensely red, and the
lower one looked like a ripe, pulpy
-- 006 --
[figure description] Page 006.[end figure description]
cherry. Her form, well shown by a
closely-fitting dress, seemed to be most
symmetrical; and the mould of her
ancles and feet would have delighted
a sculptor. But her eyes were the
most striking of all. Large, lustrous
and passionate, in color of the deepest
hazel, with the iris floating in a sea
of liquid pearl, they beamed with a
mingled fire and softness from beneath
their long, dark lashes, in a way to
haunt the memory of the gazer for
many days afterward. She was a mere
child—a little, innocent, dreamy-looking
girl; but I rose to my feet as she
came forward, and felt an emotion of
tenderness for the beautiful being,
which, had she been older, could only
have been inspired by love. As it
was I was fascinated.
The man saw me, stopped, removed
his hat, and addressed me a question
in a foreign tongue. I knew the language
to be Spanish, for I had heard
similar sounds once before; but I could
not understand the meaning. I showed,
this, doubtless, by my looks, for he
replaced his hat, bowed slightly, and
moved on. It happened, however, that
the music-teacher of my adopted sister,
who was a Frenchman, had given
me frequent lessons in his language,
and having labored to acquire it during
a whole year, I managed to speak
it fluently enough, though with a defective
accent. My admiration for the
child made me forget this, and almost
everything else; and it was only when
the couple had turned, and the spell
of the little girl's eyes had passed,
that I recalled to mind my accomplishment.
Thinking the man might possibly
understand me, I called after him
in French, and asked how I could serve
him. He turned instantly, his coun
tenance expressing great satisfaction,
and replied in the same tongue:
“I should be glad, my son, if you
could tell me the distance to the town
of Puttenham.”
“Two miles from the milestone
which stands at the mouth of yonder
quarry, sir. You can see the town
from the rising ground just beyond.”
As I spoke I joined them in their
walk toward the town. The man resumed
his questions.
“How far thence is the chateau of
the Lord Landeeze?”
“Landys Castle, I suppose you
mean. The park commences about a
mile on the other side of town, but the
castle is at least two miles farther,
and stands back nearly a half mile
from the high road. There is a near
path which cuts off much of the distance.”
“Is milord at home?”
“I believe so.”
“He is a very tall, stately gentleman,
is he not? He has dark grey
eyes, and brown hair, not unlike your
own, in color I mean, for yours is
straight and his is curled?”
“No; you describe his second-cousin,
the former earl, who died about
two years since, and who rarely visited
the place. The present earl is
stately enough, and tall; but he has
light grey eyes, and light, reddish,
yellow hair, such as we call sandy.”
The man seemed staggered at this.
“Dead!” he exclaimed, “about two
years since!”
I nodded my head affirmatively.
We walked for a few minutes in silence.
Then he turned suddenly and
questioned me again.
“How did he die?”
“I can only tell you what is
-- 007 --
[figure description] Page 007.[end figure description]
generally believed here,” I replied. “He
had been absent from England for many
years, traveling restlessly all over
the world. He was last heard from
at Valparaiso, where he took passage
in a schooner bound to Mazatlan,
whence he intended to cross over-and
to Vera Cruz, and to go thence
by way of Havana to the United States.
The vessel was wrecked near her port,
and all on board perished, except his
lordship's valet. He returned about a
year and a half since, and brought the
news of his master's death.”
He muttered something in Spanish,
and then resumed his questions.
“And the second-cousin succeeded.
Ah, yes! I know your English law—
the nearest heir-male.”
“Not exactly,” I replied. “His second-cousin
did succeed him, undoubtedly;
but as the nearest heir, and not
as the nearest heir-male.”
“I do not understand the distinction.
“What is it?”
“Because,” I said, “the earldom of
Landys is unlike many, and for all I
know, unlike any other title in the
peerage. It is of a very old creation,
and the title and estates are entailed
on the senior heir, without regard to
sex. If a female, and she marries,
the husband becomes earl through his
wife's right, to the exclusion of the
next of kin. The grandfather of the late
earl was a commoner, but on his marriage
with the young Countess of Landys,
entered on the wife's title and estate.
The late earl was childless, having
never married, and so the next
heir, the son of his father's cousin,
succeeded.”
The Spaniard seemed to be revolving
something in his mind, and walked
along for awhile in silence. I pleased
myself during the interval by watching
the movements of the child, who
tripped along, walking naturally and
gracefully, as most girls of her age
do. At length the man raised his head
and inquired:
“The present earl—is he married?”
“He is,” I replied, “and has a child
about four years old, a son.”
The eyes of the stranger flashed angrily,
but the gleam of passion passed,
and was followed by an expression
half smile and half sneer.
“What kind of man is the earl,”
he asked, “I mean as to mind and
manners?”
“That,” I answered, “would be
hard for me to tell. I have no opportunities
of judging of either.”
“I should have supposed,” said the
stranger, “from your familiarity with
the family history, that you were a
connexion or friend.”
I laughed at this, and said:
“You will not be in Puttenham long
before you learn that the townsfolk
are naturally interested in the Landys
family, since the earl owns about one-half
the town—the rest belonging to
old Sharp, the miser. My position debars
me from any special intimacy
with a peer.”
“Your position; may I ask, without
offending you, what that is?”
“Certainly. I am a printer's apprentice
at your service—apprentice
and adopted son of John Guttenberg,
printer and stationer.”
“You! a printer?”
“Nothing more sure.”
“Do printer's apprentices in this
part of the world usually learn
French?”
“I believe not; but I have a taste
for languages.”
-- 008 --
[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]
We had now reached the edge of the
town, and my companion having asked
where he could obtain lodging, I
directed him to the Crown and Angel,
a respectable, middle-class inn, situated
on the main street. He bowed
formally, gave me a profusion of thanks
for my courtesy, and so we parted. I
stood and gazed after him and the little
girl as she walked by his side, her
body gently swaying, and her glossy
hair, which hung in unrestrained
waves down her back, glistening in
the sunshine. A turn of the street
hid them from my sight; and then I
walked to the lodgings of a friend with
whom I purposed to spend the remainder
of the day.
This friend was a young London artist,
fastly rising into note in his profession,
who came annually to Puttenham,
and spent a couple of months'
time there and thereabouts, partly to
sketch, for there was some beautiful
scenery around the place, and partly
to fish, for there was an excellent trout
stream in the neighborhood. His
name was Paul Bagby. We had met
while I was spending a Saturday afternoon—
a half holiday always allowed
me—fishing on the banks of the
Willowfringe; and, from the admiration
I expressed at a huge trout he
dexterously captured, we became acquaintances.
He had his sketch-book
with him, and I begged a sight at the
drawings, which he was good enough
to let me have. Finding that I admired
art and artists, he invited me to
call at his lodgings, and I was glad
to accept the invitation. Being John
Guttenberg's adopted son, I had received
a fair English education, and
was not, in either manner or language,
what the world expected to find in an
ordinary apprentice-boy. Paul was
struck by some boyish remark I made
when looking at his sketches—its oddity
tickled his fancy—perhaps my
unfeigned admiration for his productions
tickled his vanity too—and we
became friends. He gave me lessons
in drawing, and during his stay would
frequently come to the shop and beg a
holiday for me that I might accompany
him in his sketching rambles.
My master never refused this, for Mr.
Bagby was becoming distinguished,
and was patronized by the Landys family,
the last fact, of course, a high
recommendation to the favor of the
townsfolk. Beside this he was a very
good customer to our circulating library,
taking out a fresh book nearly
every day, merely to dawdle over a
few passages, and then throw it aside.
He was lively, made many queer
remarks, and used to drop in at the
shop along with the officers and others,
and to tell all kinds of funny stories
to Mrs. Guttenberg and Mary, who
had charge of that part of the business.
He was a great favorite with
the family, as he appeared to be with
every one else.
But Bagby was not at home, having
left in the morning on a sketching
tour, and I turned to go elsewhere.
Longing to have another look at the
little girl whose childish beauty had
so impressed me, I made my way to
the inn, knowing that by taking a
street which ran diagonally, I would
reach there before the Spaniard and
his daughter, who had taken the longer
and usual way.
The Crown and Angel was in Charter
street, which was the principal
avenue of the town, and the house
stood at the corner of the market
-- 009 --
[figure description] Page 009.[end figure description]
square. By going through Billet lane
I arrived at the inn first. On entering
the public room I called for a mug
of ale, not that I wanted a drink, but
because I desired a pretext for remaining.
The waiter sat it before me,
and it was still untasted when I heard
an uproar without, and ran to the
door with the rest, to learn the cause.
Two runaway horses attached to an
empty phæton were galloping furiously
down the street, everybody getting
out of the way, and no one attempting
to stop the infuriated animals. As
they came near the inn, the Spaniard
and little girl emerged from the cross
street, and walked toward the Crown
and Angel. A dozen voices called to
them to go back; but the man, not
understanding English, did not think
the words to be addressed to him, or
was probably so lost in thought as
not to hear the noise. He still advanced,
the little girl accompanying
him. I called to him in French to take
care, and springing forward, dragged
the child out of the horses' path. The
man saw his danger, and leaped desperately
forward, but the hub of one
of the wheels struck him on the hip,
and threw him forward violently on
his face. The horses, as though startled
by the occurrence, stopped suddenly,
and were at once secured by
the bystanders.
The stranger was picked up insensible,
carried into the inn, and a surgeon
sent for. The little girl was almost
frantic at first, but soon calmed
when she recognized me as one whom
she had met before, though only for a
few minutes; and though she understood
none of my words, I was enabled
by soothing looks and gestures
to reassure her. In a few minutes her
father recovered his senses, but was
evidently seriously injured, as the
blood on his face denoted—even more
seriously hurt than at first appeared,
for when the surgeon came he pronounced
the hip to be dislocated. The
patient was at once removed to a
chamber, and the dislocation with
great difficulty reduced. The operation
was doubtless very painful; but
the Spaniard, during its continuance,
merely set his teeth firmly together,
and did not even groan. So soon as
the head of the bone resumed its proper
position, he fainted, but quickly
recovered, and in a short while, although
the parts around the joints
were much swollen, enjoyed comparative
ease.
The child would not be separated
from her father, but obeyed every order
given by signs to remain quiet—
keeping her large eyes fixed on the
sufferer during the operation, and
wiping the large drops of perspiration
from his forehead.
As I was the only person present
who could act as interpreter, I was
forced to remain nearly an hour. During
that time the Spaniard, who gave
his name as Jose Espinel, requested
me to tell the landlord that he preferred
to remain there rather than to go
to the public hospital, and that he had
sufficient means to pay for the required
accommodation. This I did, and at
his further request made the landlord
send by the carrier to the next town,
Puddleford, for his own portmanteau,
and his daughter's trunk, both of which
had been left there. He explained to
me that he could not obtain a conveyance
that morning, and, being anxious
to get to Puttenham, had walked over,
getting a lift for himself and the child
-- 010 --
[figure description] Page 010.[end figure description]
part of the way in a farmer's cart. He
requested me to visit him often while
he lay there, which I promised to do
if permitted. I pressed his hand, patted
the child on the shoulder, and left
the two together.
When I got home I found that the
news of the accident had preceded me—
indeed by that time had been spread
throughout the town. Captain Berkeley,
of the stationed regiment, was
commenting on the matter as I entered
the shop, and complimented me as
a “doocid plucky little fellah.” Mrs.
Guttenburg, who looked upon me as a
kind of hero for having pulled the
child out of the way of the horses,
made a great many inquiries about
the couple, and seemed very proud of
the compliment paid me by the captain.
Mary asked if the little girl
were pretty, and on my answering in
the affirmative, said that when we
grew up we would be married—as
that was the way in all the novels and
plays. As for John Guttenberg, he
merely said that I had acted properly
enough; and when I told him of the
Spaniard's request, added that I might
spend two hours with him during the
day, and the entire evenings, if he desired
it—a permission I was not slow
to accept.
CHAPTER II. , Which is principally about a Baby, a Mysterious Personage in Black, and the Church-Clock.
Thus far my story is plain enough;
but the reader may possibly desire to
know who I am, who John Guttenberg
was, and other matters. It is a
proper curiosity, and shall be gratified.
Who I am will be told in due time—
what I was, and how I came to be, up
to the commencement of the story, he
shall hear at once.
Mr. John Guttenberg, although born
in England, was the grandson of a
German printer, and was himself a
master of the printer's art and mystery.
He came of a race of printers,
and boasted that from the time of his
great ancestor, who had divided with
Fust and Schœffer the honor of introducing
moveable types, the eldest-born
of the family had always been a typesetter.
Mr. John Guttenberg was a
staid, sober and respectable tradesman,
the master of a well-conducted
printing-office, and the publisher of a
country newspaper at the town of Puttenham,
in the Southwestern part of
England. He was also a book-seller,
and kept a circulating library, whereof
the officers of a marching regiment,
quartered in the neighborhood, and all
the people of consequence there, as
well as many who were of no consequence
at all, were patrons.
Puttenham was a place having pretensions
to size and respectability. It
boasted of several public buildings,
including a Retreat for Decayed Malsters,
founded by the will of Gervase
Thompson, a retired brewer; the County
Jail and Court-house, for Puttenham
was the shire town; the stocks
and public pound; a fine old church,
planned by Sir Christopher Wren, and
erected in 1701; three Dissenters'
Meeting-Houses, each rectangular and
many-windowed; and a public square,
highly-ornamented by the stocks, a
pump and two long horse-troughs.
The church had a most excellent clock,
made by a famous clock-maker in London,
and had four dials, placed to
face the four points of the compass.
Of all these things, I insist more
-- 011 --
[figure description] Page 011.[end figure description]
particularly on John Guttenburg and
the town clock, since both have a deal
to do with the early part of my life.
To the one I am indebted for my rearing,
and to the other for my name;
and I hold both my benefactors in
grateful remembrance.
Mr. John Guttenberg, I repeat, was
a staid, sober, and respectable tradesman
Physically, nature had not been
lavish of her choicest gifts upon his
person, since he was but five feet five
inches in height, but as he was nearly
as rotund as one of his own ink-balls,
the deficiency of length was compensated
for by the extent of breadth;
and in like manner, a brevity of nose
was balanced by an extreme length of
chin; and a mouth in shape and size
like the button-hole of a great coat,
atoned for by a pair of ears whose
length caused them to invade the domain
of the hat above, and encroach
on that of the shirt-collar below. Mentally,
he was rather above the greater
part of his neighbors, having energy,
quick-sightedness in business affairs,
and some concentration of purpose.
Morally, he was well endowed, and in
addition to a warm heart, possessed a
fair share of honor, as he understood
the sentiment, and an abhorrence of
what he deemed a mean action. The
robbers of old, those fellows who went
robbing and ruffianizing over the
country in sheet-iron coats and trousers,
would not have recognized him
as a chivalrous gentleman. Yet, I assert
that John Guttenberg, tradesman
as he was, and therefore by occupation
supposed to be devoid of such
feeling, had as much of such chivalric
impulse in his nature as ever shed its
lustre upon the Knights of the Round
Table or the Peers of Charlemagne.
It is true that he had some prejudices,
and he evinced a slavish deference to
those above him in social position;
but these were common to the tradesman
of that time and place, and, judging
from history, not incompatible
with knightly acts. And if he were
occasionally betrayed into a slight excess,
it was only at rare intervals, and
upon great occasions.
Two and thirty years ago to a day—
I am writing this upon the third day
of December, in the year of grace one
thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine—
the publisher of the Puttenham
Chronicle, being a Councilman, attended
a meeting of the Corporation. After
the council had closed its session,
he accepted an invitation to dine with
the Mayor, a wealthy soap-boiler of
the town, and sat late with his worshipful
host and friends over the wine
and walnuts. Although, as he afterwards
explained to Mrs. Guttenberg,
he was exceedingly sober when he
left the Mayor's house, yet the sudden
emergence from a warm to a cold atmosphere,
and the change from the
bright, cheerful fire within, the more
cheerful company, and the still more
cheerful wine, to the coldness and quiet
without, had a bewildering effect upon
him. Instead of turning to the right,
he turned to the left, and pursued his
way for some distance before he discovered
his error.
He stopped and looked around him.
It was difficult at first to find to what
quarter of the town he had strayed.
At length he recognized a barber's
pole, which stood before a low house
at the street-corner, and thus knew
that his nearest road homeward
would be obtained by retracing his
steps. Before he could turn he felt a
-- 012 --
[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]
hand upon his elbow. He looked
around and saw a tall, dark figure,
with a coat closely buttoned up, and a
heavy fur collar over its shoulders.
All that he could discover about the
face was a pair of flashing eyes that
were fixed steadily on his own.
“Well?” said the printer, enquiringly,
and not without some apprehension,
lest his new companion might
be a foot-pad.
“Mr. John Guttenberg, I believe,”
said the other, in good enough English,
but with an accent that sounded
foreign.
“That is my name,” was the reply.
“You can do me an essential service.”
“I should be glad enough to do it,”
said the startled tradesman; “but it
is rather late, and Mrs. Guttenberg
will wonder what detains me so long
beyond my accustomed hour. If you
will call at my shop to-morrow, or rather
to-day, for it is now long past
midnight, I shall be happy to hear what
you may have to propose.”
The church clock struck two.
“At this moment, or never,” said
the unknown. “When the day dawns
it may be too late.”
John Guttenberg was about to reply,
when the other seized his arm
with a firm grasp, and urged his steps
onwards in a direction opposite to his
own house. Resistance was useless,
and although the printer was rather
startled, he saw no one to afford help,
and so gave in to the will of his captor.
Fifteen minutes sharp walking,
but through what streets he could not
tell, sufficed to bring the couple to the
outside of a dilapidated building in an
unfamiliar place. Into its narrow and
unlighted hall, and up its creaking
stairs, the unknown led the tradesman.
Before the back-room in the
third story, the stranger stopped, and
without announcing his approach, entered,
dragging his companion after
him, and then closing the door.
John Guttenberg, though greatly
astounded at the whole matter, when
he saw no personal harm was intended
to him, took a good look at the
apartment into which he had been so
unceremoniously thrust.
The room was devoid of comfortable
furniture. There was an old and
creaking deal table, and a three-legged,
oaken stool. On the former was
a farthing candle, inserted in an ordinary
iron candle-stick. A scanty sea-coal
fire glimmered at the bottom of
the grate. In the corner something
lay wrapped up in a pile of ragged
clothes, over which a cloak was partly
drawn. Near there, on the three-legged
stool, sat a woman, meanly clad,
and, for the weather, insufficiently.
She was handsome, though her skin
was dark, almost tawny — her hair
especially being of an unwonted blackness
and glossiness, and, from the mass
gathered at the back of the head, exceedingly
luxuriant in growth. She
turned her eyes on the new-comer,
and seemed about to rise. The unknown
raised his finger with a menacing
motion, when she sank back in
her seat, and covered her face with
her hands.
“You have the reputation of being
an honest and humane man,” said the
stranger.
“I hope so,” said the printer.
“You have, and I dare say it is deserved.”
The stranger paused a moment, and
the woman sighed. John Guttenberg
-- 013 --
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
took a good look at both. The woman,
though dressed so commonly,
had a well-proportioned hand and
wrist; and a portion of her underclothing,
which protruded from the bosom
of her dress, was edged with what appeared
to be costly lace. As for the
stranger, he was tall, handsomely
dressed, though without cloak or surtout,
and wore around his neck a heavy
collar, or rather a half cape of fur.
His eyes were dark, but whether grey,
black, or hazel, could not well be seen,
for his hat was so slouched over his
face as to throw them in shadow. He
also wore a heavy beard and whiskers.
“Take this child,” he said; and as
he spoke he lifted a young babe from
the pile of clothes in which it had
been snugly stowed. The woman
made a motion as though to wrest it;
but the stranger said something in a
foreign tongue, when she shrank back.
“Take it home with you,” he continued.
“Here—this collar of fur will
protect it still further from the cold.
Here are fifty pounds. Do with the
brat as you like. Make a printer of
him—bring him up as you think
fit—give him what name you choose.
You shall hear from me again. Come,
it is time for you to go home.”
“But,” remonstrated the printer,
holding the babe at arm's length, “I
don't choose to—”
“Ah!” said the woman, rising, and
commencing to speak.
“Diyum!” cried the unknown, angrily.
The woman was cowed, either by
the strange word, which she apparently
understood, or by his manner,
for she resumed her seat, wringing
her hands, piteously.
The babe looked up in the printer's
face, and smiled—at least, that contortion
of the lips which passes for a
smile in new-born babes made its appearance.
John Guttenberg, whose
married life was childless, found himself
involuntarily pressing the little
innocent to his bosom.
“Come,” said the stranger, “it is
time to go.”
The woman darted forward, snatched
the child, and gave it a kiss—then
returned it with a sigh. As she did
so, she slipped into John Guttenberg's
hand a small paper packet.
“Come!” said the stranger again,
and he led the bewildered printer, who
seemed to have lost all power of resistance,
out of the room, down stairs
and along the streets—by what route
it seemed impossible to say—to the
door of the latter's house. There the
bearer of the child plucked up courage,
and was about to return the
charge thus thrust upon him, when he
discovered that the other had turned
the nearest corner and disappeared.
“Oh, well! never mind!” said the
printer to himself, as he opened the
door with his latch-key, “I'll send the
little fellow to the poor-house in the
morning.”
Mrs. Guttenberg had not retired to
rest. She knew that her husband had
dined with the Mayor, and expecting
him to return a little flushed with
wine, had prepared a series of
moral observations, specially adapted
to his case. To her great surprise his
face had a look far more sober and melancholy
than usual, and to her greater
surprise she saw him unroll from a
bundle of furs and clothing, a very
little child. The babe, which by this
time had grown hungry, began to wail.
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
“Bless me!” said the wife, “if the
man hasn't a baby! Who's is it?”
“That's precisely what I'd like to
know,” replied the husband.
“But how did you come by it?”
“That's precisely what I mean to
tell you, if it will only stop its whining.”
Mrs. Guttenberg took the babe in
her arms. It was dressed in a long
frock of cross-barred muslin; but
around one arm was a strip of yellow
lace, of an exceedingly rare and costly
kind; and the short sleeves of the
dress, with those of the silk and flannel
underclothes, were looped up and
joined together by two bracelets of
turquoises, chained with gold after a
quaint and peculiar fashion. Around
the babe's neck was suspended by a
coarse flaxen thread, a plain gold ring.
Inside of this were some peculiar characters.
The letters M and T were to
be made out distinctly; but the others
seemed to be mere hieroglyphics. The
inscription, which was deeply engraven,
was as follows:
&runes1;
The fur in which the child was
wrapped was of the richest Russian
sable, and underneath it was a shawl
whose material was afterwards ascertained
to be true cashmere. The babe
raised its large grey eyes to the face
of the good woman, and, curling its
little lip, renewed its piteous wailing.
“I'm sure I don't know what to do
with it,” said the printer's wife. “It
wants feeding, poor thing, and I don't
believe there's a drop of milk in the
house. Jane gave the last to the cat
before she went to bed.”
“Well, my dear, Jane has a baby
herself, and—”
“Dear me! so she has. I never
thought of that. I'll wake her.”
And she did. Jane came. As she
was about to take the child, it again
indulged in that facial contortion which
young mothers call a smile.
“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Guttenberg,
“it is the sweetest babe. There,
Jane, take care of him until morning.
He seems to be very hungry.”
Jane experimented before reporting.
“It feeds uncommon strong, mum,”
she said. “It's a rare, hearty babe,
mum.”
And presently off went Jane, with
the new comer in charge.
John Guttenberg told his wife all
that had occurred to him, including
the fact that the apparent mother had
slipped a packet in his hand; but when
he came to that part of the story, for
the first time he missed the paper. It
was neither in his hand nor on his person,
and, after an unavailing search,
he came to the conclusion that he had
dropped it on the way home.
“What will you do with it?” inquired
the wife.
“Do with it! Give it up to the parochial
authorities along with the money.
I think that is the proper
course.”
“Is it like the man?”
“I am not sure whether it is or not.
He hid his face so that I cannot say.
It's not like the mother, I'm sure. Its
eyes are grey, and hers are the blackest
I ever saw.”
“It's a pretty baby, John; a very
pretty baby.”
“That's what you women say about
all babies. It looks to me to have
about as much expression as a sheet
of brown paper. However, its good
or bad looks don't concern us. The
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
parish will have to take care of it.”
“John, we've been married four
years come next May-day, and we have
no children.”
“Well?”
“It's a boy, John.”
“Is it? What then?”
“Suppose we keep him.”
“No, indeed! I have no idea of
supporting other peoples' babies—at
least not to bring them up at my expense.”
“But it seems like the gift of Providence;
and then the fifty pound, and
the lace, and the jewels, and the fur,
and that beautiful soft shawl! It is
not a poor man's child, you may depend
on that, and I think it will bring
good luck.”
“Do you really want to keep it,
Martha?”
“Indeed I do, John.”
“I should be annoyed to death with
all kinds of ridiculous stories. People
would invent all kinds of strange stories,
and some of them might even
fancy—”
“Well, let them fancy. I wouldn't
believe that, nor any one that has eyes,
for it isn't a hair like you; that's easy
to be seen.”
“It won't do, Martha.”
“Well, just as you choose; but it's
very hard that you won't grant a little
favor like that, when I've taken a fancy
to the child.”
“Little favor! very little to be
sure—to be kept awake all night by
some other man's crying brat.”
“Do you hear it cry now?”
“No, but—”
“John, dear!”
“Oh, well!” exclaimed the printer,
inwardly delighted at his wife's perseverance
in a whim which accorded
with his own wish, “you can keep it,
if you will. But what will you name
the young fellow?”
“Oh, I'll find a name, never fear.”
The church clock struck three.
“There!” she exclaimed, “there is
a name now, and a very pretty one.
You can see it any day on the north
dial of the clock. We'll call him Ambrose
Fecit.”
“Ambrose fecit! Why, my dear,
do you know what that means?”
“Of course, I do. It means that
Mr. Fecit made that clock. And a very
good clock it is, and a very pretty
name too, and not very common either;
for I never met any of the Fecits in
the course of my life.”
“I dare say not,” replied the husband;
and he leaned against the bedpost—
the latter part of the conversation
occurring as they were disrobing
for rest—and laughed immoderately.
And thus it was I had my name,
and that was why I was bred a printer.
As for the unknown couple, no inquiries
could find them out, nor could
John Guttenberg, in his after rambles
through the town, ever recognize the
house from whence he had taken me.
The after history of my life, up to
the period when I met the Spaniard
and his daughter, would show nothing
remarkable. I was a healthy child
and went through the perils of teething
and the measles safely. John
Guttenberg and his wife fulfilled their
self-imposed task like good and conscientious
people. I was treated as
though I were their own child, being
duly lectured and birched when I was
naughty, and cuddled and candied
when I was not. When I was about
four years old, Mrs. Guttenberg
-- 016 --
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
presented her husband, greatly to his
gratification and her delight, with a
daughter. Everybody — for people
knew me to be a foundling, though
they did not know the circumstances
of my finding—declared that “my
nose was put out of joint,” and that I
might now look out for neglect, if not
positive ill-treatment. Everybody
was mistaken. I was treated the
same as usual. As for myself, I was
too young to understand these predictions,
of which I knew nothing until
afterwards. But I was vastly delighted
with the new-comer, on whom I
used to gaze in the cradle with wrapt
admiration. It was the dawning of
an amiable weakness which followed
me through life—a love and esteem
for the opposite sex. As we grew up
together I loved the little Mary more
and more. I brought her home all my
trophies in the shape of marbles and
peg-tops; I expended my scanty pocket-money
in hard-bake and barley-sugar
for her particular benefit; and after
I had left school to be instructed
in the mysteries of my protector's
craft, I used to take surreptitious impressions
of wood-cuts in colored inks,
to ornament her play-house. I thought
my sister—for such I believed her to
be until good-natured strangers taught
me better—to be the prettiest child in
the world, my idea of beautiful eyes
being those of a mottled, light hazel
hue, and my type of symmetrical noses
the pug.
During the early part of my life,
and more especially in the first year
of my apprenticeship, I thought the
Puttenham Chronicle to be the leading
newspaper of the world; and I felt
more awful reverence for Mr. Hincks,
the editor, than I did for the Earl of
Landys, whose estate lay within a
mile of town, or even the ady Caroline
Bowlington, who came in her own
coach once a year to make the Dowager
Countess of Landys a visit, and
was the sole daughter of a Duke. For,
did not Mr. Hincks handle not only
Dukes and Marquesses without gloves,
but even boldly attacked her Majesty's
ministers—they being of the opposite
party to ours? Did he not sneer
at the French, who, to be sure, were
not much, as they all wore wooden
shoes, and lived on frogs, and spent
the principal part of their lives in
hair-dressing, and giving dancing-lessons
to one-another—a poor, lean set
of fellows, for any ten of whom a hardy
Briton was a match at any time?
And did he not give, at times, a good
setting-down to the Yankees, a nation
of savages who spoke a kind of wild
English, and scalped and ate their
prisoners—whose women chewed tobacco
and spoke through their noses;
a people who had behaved so badly
that his Majesty, George the Third,
after whipping them at Bunker Hill
and Yorktown, and New Orleans, and
I don't know how many more places,
finally cast them off, and sent them
about their own business, where they
have been miserably ever since? Then
there was my fellow-apprentice, Tom
Brown, who set up all the leaders, and,
in the absence of his master, even
made up the form. My opinion of him
was that he had great force of character,
combined with great knowledge
of the world, and had only to say the
word, after he was out of his time, to
be made a prime-minister, or a member
of parliament, er a beadle, or something
else equally important. And
the fishermen who came on market
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
days, with fish from the little port of
Puddleford, about five miles off, I regarded
as men who went down into
the sea in ships, bold navigators who
were ready to sail to the bottom of the
Maelstrom, if needed; though I did
find fault with them for not frequently
hitching up their trousers by the waist-band,
and imprecating their tarry top-lights,
as the gallant sailor, who appeared
in “Black-Eyed Seyeusan,”
when the players made their annual
visit, invariably did.
Having thus introduced myself to
the reader, let us go back to the Spaniard
and the little girl.
CHAPTER III. , Wherein I become almost a Spanish Scholar, but lose both my Teachers.
The next day Paul Bagby, having
heard of my adventure, called at the
printing-house. Learning that I was
about to visit the patient, he volunteered
to accompany me, saying that in his
two years' sketching tour on the Peninsula
he had made himself a tolerable
master of the Castilian. We found the
Spaniard lying upon a couch, reading,
while his little daughter sat near. He
seemed glad to see me, and when I
presented the artist, received him with
all the courtesy that his constrained
position would allow him to show.
They entered into conversation in Spanish,
at my instance, and while they
were thus engaged, I watched the
child, and noted the play of her features
as she listened. Occasionally I
joined in the conversation, Espinel appealing
to me at times in French.
Their conversation, I found by this, had
turned upon the Earl of Landys, who
seemed to be a subject of deep interest
to the Spaniard. The latter at length
said to me in French:
“Monsieur Bagby seems to admire
milord Landees very much.”
“My faith!” said Paul, in the same
language, “the admiration is merely
gratitude for patronage, of which I
have received a deal through the Landys'
interest.”
“D'Alembert pronounced quite a panegyric
upon Louis XIV., because the
king sent forty arm-chairs to the Academy,”
said the Spaniard.
“Exactly,” replied Paul, laughing,
“I might have bought as many as forty
sofas with the proceeds of Lord Landys'
direct patronage, throwing aside the
sitters he has sent me; consequently,
common gratitude requires that I should
admire him as much as D'Alembert did
Louis XIV.”
“He is fond of pictures then. Has
he many?”
“Yes, and some very fine ones. His
gallery contains a picture from every
modern artist of note, with some fine
specimens of the masters. By the by,
he has a picture painted by a foreign
artist, the portrait of a monk, which,
odd as it may seem, bears a striking
resemblance to you, senior.”
“Indeed! by one of the old masters?”
“No; modern, undoubtedly.”
The surgeon now entered the room,
and told us that the senior would not
be able to go about for some days, as
the internal injuries were severe. Bagby
translated this to the patient, who
merely replied that it was unfortunate,
as he desired to visit London at an early
date. Bagby now rose to leave, and
I, promising to return in a few minutes,
accompanied him down stairs.
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
“What do you think of the couple?”
I asked, when we were fairly out of
the room.
“I think the child is the most beautiful
creature of her age I ever saw,”
was the answer, “and I intend to paint
her portrait. As for her father, he is
no father at all, I fancy.”
“How do you come to that conclusion?”
“A child always bears some resemblance
to each parent. It may be only
such as those acquainted with those
matters can point out; but it is always
there. Sometimes the upper part of
the head is that of the father, and the
lower that of the mother, or vice versa.
Then the face may be that of one parent,
when the back part of the head
will have the configuration peculiar to
that of the other, or the reverse. Again,
there may be a mingling of the facial
points. I have been studying the two
with the eye of a naturalist, and the
analytical habit of an artist, and the
girl's face, head, and physical conformation,
are totally unlike his, except
in points that might be accidentally similar.
Besides, he is a monk, or has
been until recently.”
“How do you make that out?”
“His head bears the mark of the tonsure.
The hair has been only suffered
to grow a short while.”
“It may have been shaved through
illness.”
“Not a bit of it. In that case the
shaving would not have been so regular,
and scarcely on the top of the head.
Then you must remember, that although
she called him `father,' and he addressed
her as `daughter,' he spoke of her
to me all through as `this child,' `this
dear little girl,' and so on.”
“But,” said I, “he spoke of her to
me as `the child he was bound to protect.”'
“Precisely. It is not a parental obligation,
you see, on which a parent,
taking it as a matter of course, would
not insist. But you had better return
to your Spaniard. I'll see you again,
and we'll talk the matter over farther.
Call on me to-morrow before you come
here, and I will show you how far I
have gone in the way of painting her.”
“Do you expect her to sit, then?”
“Sit? No. A face so remarkable
is easily painted from memory. I won't
get its character and expression out of
my mind for a twelvemonth.”
He left, and I returned to Espinel.
The latter was reading when I came
in, but put the book down.
“Do not let me interrupt you,” said
I. “If you are interested, go on; but
first tell me if I can order anything
new for you of the landlord.”
“No; I am quite comfortable, and
if you will, would prefer to talk.”
He then asked me a great many
questions about the town and its vicinity,
more particularly about the Landys
family, all of which I answered as
well as I could. At length he said:
“How long since you commenced to
study French?”
“About a year since.”
“Are there many French people in
this town?”
“Only one that I know—the gentleman
who gave me lessons—M. de
Lille.”
“You must have great aptitude for
acquiring languages. Your accent is
defective in part, but wonderfully good
to have been acquired during a year.
How would you like to study Spanish?”
“Very much.”
“Repeat this;” and he uttered a few
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
words in Castilian.
I obeyed.
“Very good; very good, indeed,”
said he, while the little girl clapped her
hands in delight. “You have caught
the accent perfectly. You would find
the Spanish quite easy to master. Once
learn the alphabetical sounds, and all
after that is an effort of memory. I
know most European languages, but
not English. I have been thinking,
as I have nothing better to do while
fastened here, that I would like to
change lessons with you. I could get
along fastly, for I am familiar with the
Low Dutch, which is nearly identical
with the Low Saxon, one of the parents
of the English tongue. You shall teach
me English, and I will return it with
Spanish.”
I acceded to the proposition, and the
lessons began.
We continued our studies all the
time the Spaniard remained in Puttenham.
In a little time I had mastered
the sounds of the Spanish language,
and a good many phrases, as well as
the forms of its verbs. I was less fortunate
as a teacher than pupil. Espinel
found it very difficult to get over
some of our peculiar sounds, and our
exceptional orthography became a great
stumbling-block. Fortunately there
was in our printing-room a Spanish
grammar and dictionary, kept to determine
the proper spelling of Spanish
words, when such had to be used in the
Chronicle, and these books were of
great assistance.
It was nearly four weeks before Senor
Espinel was able to rise and walk
about the room. The shock had been
a severe one to a man over fifty-six—
for such he told me was his age—and
his recovery was slow. So earnestly
did I labor during this time that I had
acquired quite a smattering of Castilian,
and managed not only to translate
rapidly with the aid of the dictionary,
but to keep up a brisk conversation
on ordinary subjects. I found
myself, however, better able to converse
with the child than the old man.
Her prattle, simple as it was, I readily
understood, and my interest in her was
so deep, that it became my greatest
delight to talk with her. Zara, for
such was her name, had by this time
grown quite attached to me, and would
come and sit on my knee, and lay her
head on my shoulder, while I told her
some nursery ballad, or fairy story, in
my imperfect Spanish; or would prattle
to me in a curious mixture of her own
language with English, which last
tongue she acquired faster than Espinel.
The Senor Jose, meanwhile, with
a table wheeled up to where he sat,
worked hard in translating some English
book, and occasionally interrupted
Zara and me to ask me the proper form
of some verb, or an explanation of a
difficult idiom. How tenderly I loved
that pure and affectionate child! How
delighted I was with her growing attachment
to me!
At length the Senor Espinel was
able to walk without serious difficulty,
and managed to call on Mr. Guttenberg,
and thank him for permitting my
attendance. My protector recelved
him civilly enough, but did not feel
prepossessed in his favor. This arose
from the fact that Paul Bagby, then in
London, had intimated, previously to
his departure, that Espinel was, or had
been a monk. With all his many good
qualities, John Guttenberg had a strong
sectarian prejudice.
I left the Espinels one night about
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
ten o'clock, having shaken hands with
Don Jose, and kissed little Zara, who
always remained up from rest until I
left. She said, as we parted:
“Good night, brother Ambrosio.
Some day Zara grow great big; then
she spick English much gooder as
now.”
I smoothed her hair with my hand,
and turned to go. As I left the landlord
came with a letter which had arrived
by the evening mail, directed to
the Senor Jose Espinel. I noticed that
it had the London mark.
The next day, at noon, I went to see
my friends as usual, and was told that
the Spaniard and his daughter had taken
places the night before in the mail-coach
for London, and had departed at
daybreak.
“He left this for you,” said the landlord.
I tore open the letter. It was in
French, and read in English thus:
“My dear young friend—A letter, received
as you left us last night, called me direct to
London, without an opportunity to bid you
more than this farewell, or to express, as I
ought, my sense of your kindness. Zara
sends her love to you, and the enclosed souvenir.
May God have you in his holy keeping.
“Jose Espinel.”
Enclosed in the letter was a packet,
containing a lock of hair, which I knew
at once to be Zara's.
CHAPTER IV. , Which details singular events, including a fresh Mystery, and introduces the Right Honorable the Earl of Landys.
About two months after Zara and
her father had left the town, Tom
Brown, who had been over to the shop
for copy, told me that a package addressed
to me had arrived by the car
rier from London. For I must mention
that our printing-house was a back
building, in the rear of a piece of
ground on which the book-shop and
dwelling-house was built, and faced on
a ten foot alley behind. I asked Tom
what the package was like, and why
he did not bring it with him.
“It is thin,” answered he, “and
looks like a big atlas, wrapped up in
brown paper. I'd have brought it in,
Brosy, my boy, and charged you a pint
of beer for carrying it, only they
wouldn't let me. The Governor,” meaning
thereby his master, “said you were
to come in the shop shortly, as he
wanted to see you. He is in a terrible
state of excitement, I can tell you,
about the skeleton they picked up this
morning, and has got the traps they
dug out with it.”
“I'll go as soon as I fill my stick,”
said I. “What skeleton, and where
did they find it?”
“You know Sharp's old rookery, in
the Ram's Horn?”
The Ram's Horn was the cant name
given to a crooked lane in the outskirts
of the town, inhabited by the poorest
class of people.
“Yes,” I replied, “it tumbled down
during the last storm.”
“Exactly; very much tumbled; went
all to crash. Sharp sold it a little
while since to Bingham, who also
bought the three next to it, and is about
to build his new brew-house there.
They've been clearing out ruins and
digging foundations all last week.
This morning, right in the center of
what used to be the cellar of Sharp's
house, they came across a skeleton, in
some rotten clothes. Old Dr. Craig
says that the bones belonged to a woman.
The gold sleeve-buttons of the
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
chemise were there, and a gold pin,
with a sky-blue stone in it, and some
queer-shaped letters on the back; the
woman's name, I suppose.”
“What was the name?”
“Queer—very—V. M. Taw. Mrs.
Taw must have been made away with,
and buried there; at least that is
everybody's say-so. They found a dagger
there, the rummiest kind of a knife,
with a blade as crooked as a dog's
hind-leg, and a carved wooden handle,
partly rotten. The Governor heard of
it, and he bought all the things. I
think he means to keep 'em in the shop
to draw custom. Old Sharp tried to
get them for the Museum, but the Governor
was too quick for him. He is
in a terrible pother about something.”
“Who? Sharp?”
“No; our old man. He and the
mistress are holding a grand confabulation.
I heard 'em mention your
name as I went in.”
I finished my task, washed my hands,
put off my apron, and went to the
house. Mary Guttenberg, a girl of
fourteen, just turning into womanhood,
was sewing in the back part of the
shop. Her father and mother were inside
of the counter. Before them were
various articles, including the things
Tom had spoken of. As I came forward,
Mrs. Guttenberg pointed to the
larger package. I undid the fastenings,
and, after removing the wrapper,
and two stout bits of binder's bands,
placed on either side to preserve it from
injury, I found a portrait, one-fourth
size, of Zara Espinel. From the P. B.
in the left-hand corner, I knew it to be
the work of Paul Bagby. As I opened
it I discovered a letter, addressed to
me. When I had admired the portrait
sufficiently, I opened the letter. It was
from Paul, dated at London, and these
were the contents:
“My dear little type-sticker:
“Herewith you have a copy of my portrait
of little Zara, whose untimely fate in being
whisked away by a grim, grey-bearded ogre,
you have so much lamented. I think that I
have not only caught the features, but the
whole spirit of her extraordinary face. I
should like your criticism on that point, for
you were so fond of her that her expression
must be firmly fixed on your mind.
“Apropos to Zara—who do you think I saw
in the Park yesterday? No other than that
mysterious Don, the Senor Espinel. My
conjecture concerning him was right. Don
Jose is Fray Jose. He wore the suit of black,
with the cut and style of the ecclesiastic. He
was in a coach, with a coat of arms on the
panel, but it drove off and past before I could
make out more than a ducal coronet. I was
on foot—what right has a poor devil of an
artist to ride anything but Shank's mare?
Our eyes met, and I bowed. He looked at
me superciliously, as much as to say, `And
who are you, pray? It was a cut—cool as a
cucumber—unless I am very much mistaken.
There seemed to me to be a twitching about
the corners of his mouth, as though he enjoyed
my discomfiture. I felt annoyed, and
have made up my mind to pick up a quarrel
with his reverence on the first opportunity.
Zara was not with him. I should like to
know where he has bestowed her. Would
not you?
“I have a famous commission. I am to
make a series of paintings for a wealthy
Yankee—at least he came from New York,
and I presume he is an American. He wants
a set of pictures, without limit as to number,
of English life and scenery. He is a perfect
magnific o—as stately and proud as a baron
of old—and has lots of tin. His name is
Archbold.
“Give my compliments to the worthy publisher
of that astounding print, the Puttenham
Chronicle, and tell the redauteur-en chef
that ministers tremble at the thunders he
hurls, and the world generally shakes at his
fulminations as usual. I have three pictures
ready for the exhibition of this year, wherefrom
I expect great fame, unless the hanging
committee treat me unfairly and elevate my
offspring forty cubits high. I have known
vagabonds to do such things.”
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
The rest of the letter was filled with
gossip. I put it down and turned to
view the picture again, which Mary
Guttenburg, who had laid down her
work for the purpose, now held in her
hand.
“How pretty she is!” exclaimed
Mary, and her father and mother echoed
her comment. The likeness was wonderfully
correct. The artist had caught
the expression of tenderness peculiar to
her face, the liquidity of her dark eyes,
and all the poetry of her clouds of dark
hair. He had brought to his task the
whole force of his genius, and every
resource of his art.
“What a sweet face!” continued
Mary.
“Beautiful, indeed!” said a voice behind
us.
We turned, and to our astonishment
stood the Earl of Landy's, who bowed
slightly and apologetically. But the
bend of his body was entirely wasted
on a part of the by-standers. Mr. John
Guttenberg was filled with all that
servile deference to a peer which marks
the true English tradesman. Had the
Right Honorable John, Earl of Landys,
ex-member of the Privy Council, condescended
to have thrown a flip-flap
then and there—an outrageous impossibility
to suggest, I admit—my worthy
patron would have thought it in nowise
incompatible with the dignity of the
peerage. He would have gone into
ecstacies at the agility of the nobleman,
and would have avowed at once
that no one below the rank of a mar.
ques could have thrown such a flip-flap
as that. He felt honored by the ill-bred
peeping of the peer.
All the Guttenburgs bowed profoundly;
and the head of the family,
with a smiling face and a rubbing of
the palms of the hands together—a
trick of his when desiring to be very
courteous—inquired in what way he
could have the honor of serving his
lordship.
“I called, Mr. Guttenburg,” said the
Earl, “to say I would like to have the
last new novel, if it be in.”
I said to myself—
“That is not true, my lord. You
would have it sent you by the carrier
from London; or, had you wanted it
from us, would have despatched a servant
to obtain it. You have some
other motive for this extraordinary
visit.”
However, though I thought all this
I said nothing aloud, of course, but
merely stood there in a respectful attitude
waiting to hear more.
Mr. Guttenburg took down the book
from the shelf, and did it up carefully
in white paper, offering to send it by
me, but the Earl said he would take
it himself, and threw down the subscription-money.
“Can I have the honor to serve your
lordship in any other way?” inquired
the zealous bookseller. “Will your
lordship condescend to accept a copy
of this week's Chronicle? You will
find your lordship's recent arrival at
Landys Castle respectfully noticed under
the proper head. Will your lordship
deign to be seated?”
But his lordship preferred to stand.
“Is that picture for sale?” he asked.
“Of course, your lordship. That is,
it belongs to my adopted son there,
Ambrose, (pay your respects to his
lordship, sir,) and no doubt he would
be glad to dispose of it if your lordship
wished.” And the bookseller
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
contorted his brows and looked at me as
much as to say—“ “Why don't you offer
it to him at once?”
But I was determined not to part with
the picture at all and said—
“It is a gift from a friend, and therefore
your lordship will see, cannot be
sold.”
“It is a very fine picture. What
artist?”
“Mr. Paul Bagby my lord.”
“Ah, yes! I see his mark. I might
have known his style. I would like to
have a copy.”
“This is a copy, my lord. He retains
the original.”
“Is it a fancy sketch or from life?”
“From life, my lord.”
“Indeed! a very beautiful child then.
I am much struck with the face and
will write to Mr. Bagby on the subject.
By the by, Mr. Guttenberg, what
is this story about a skeleton having
been found in the town? They tell me
that you have some curious relics.”
“Yes, your lordship,” replied the
printer; “and Mrs. Guttenberg and
myself—let me have the honor of presenting
Mrs. Guttenberg to your lordship's
notice—were discussing the matter
just before your lordship entered
the shop. It is very singular taken in
connection with the other circumstances;
very singular indeed, your lordship.”
“Is there a story, then?”
“Yes, your lordship. Pray be seated,
my lord. I am pained to see your
lordship standing. Mary, my dear, you
may resume your former seat back
there.”
Mary retreated to the rear of the shop,
with a vexed expression on her countenance;
but she endeavored to listen
as well as the distance would permit.
“You see, your lordship, that my
wife and I are of the opinion that the
skeleton is connected with the history
of this boy. If your lordship will deign
to listen, you shall judge for yourself.
Don't go, Ambrose,” continued he as I
made a motion to leave, “I intend to
give his lordship your real history
which you have never heard yourself.”
He then detailed the circumstances
I have before given to the readers of
the events of the night in which I came
into his charge, and displayed the jewelry
and articles received with me,
dwelling on the fact that the pin or
brooch recently found matched the
bracelet before had, and bore an inscription
similar to that on the inside
of the ring. I took up the pin as he
spoke, and saw, deeply engraven on
the back:
&runes2;
“And was the package the woman
gave you ever found?” inquired Lord
Landys, when the printer had finished
his narration.
“Never, your lordship?”
“Your adopted son does you credit,”
said the Earl. “I hear that he is a
young man of correct deportment and
very studious, as well as proficient in
two or three languages. If he desire
it, he can have the use of my library
occasionally. I will speak to Mr. Osborn,
my steward, to that effect on my
return to the castle.”
I bowed my acknowledgment of the
favor, and Mr. Guttenberg rubbed his
hands and bobbed his head with great
assiduity.
“And this portrait, you say Mr.—
Mr.—”
“Fecit, my lord.” suggested Mrs.
Guttenberg.
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
“Ah, yes! thank you. This portrait,
you say, Mr. Fecit, is from life.
Did I hear you mention the name of
the party?”
“Her name is Zara, my lord. She is
the daughter of a Spaniard who was in
this town some few months back, and
who met with an accident which delayed
him for several weeks.”
“Ah, yes! I remember. You rescued
the child, I believe. I think I
read some account of it either in, or
copied from the Chronicle. I believe
also,” and here the nobleman fixed his
eyes full on mine, “that this same
Spaniard did me the honor to inquire
concerning me.”
How did he know that? I had never
mentioned it to any one. I felt a
a little embarrassed, having no idea
how far the queries might be pushed;
but I answered:
“He did make some inquires concerning
matters of interest in the
neighborhood, among the rest about
your lordship's place and asked questions
about your lordship's family; but
those were such as strangers are apt
to put.”
“May I ask who he was and what
he was?”
“Senor Jose Espinel, my lord, I do
not know his profession, if he had any;
that is not beyond doubt.”
“You conjecture then?”
“Another does. It has been suggested
to me that he was a monk or
something of that sort.”
“Was the child his daughter?”
“I cannot say, my lord.”
“Will you do me the favor to describe
the man?”
“I complied as accurately as I was
able, for though I felt the querist was
endeavoring to get from me all the in
formation he could, there was no reason
why I should withhold what he
wanted, and I was anxious to discover
the cause of his manifest interest, and
thought that full replies might lead to
a probable conjecture on my part. The
Earl mused a moment and then said:
“Did you notice anything peculiar
in his person or manner?”
This was said carelessly, but at the
lattea part of the sentence his voice, as
I thought trembled a little. I watched
him, therefore, curiously as I replied:
“Nothing, my lord, in his manner,
more than the profusion of gesture
common to most foreigners; and nothing
on his person except a blood-mark
on his right wrist shaped like a cross.”
The Earl turned pale and shivered
as though he were cold. He dropped
the subject, and turning toward the
counter took up the rusted and crooked
dagger.
“I recognize this kind of weapon,”
said he. “This is a krees, a dagger
used by the Malays. I passed three
months on the island of Sumatra, with
my late cousin, years since, and became
well acquainted with their language
and costume. Indeed, one reason
why I have proffered Mr. Fecit
here the use of my library is that I
learn that he is fond of the study of
languages. Having some pretensions
to be a linguist, myself, I sympathise
with his pursuit.”
“May I presume, said my patron
to ask your lordship a question?”
“Do so.”
“The tall dark man of whom I told
you, spoke to the lady in a strange
lenguage. I remember one one word
which seemed to have a powerful effect.
It was, near as I can make out the
sound, diyum!”
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
“The word, I think, is Malay. It
sounds very near the word for silence
in that language.”
“Pray, my lord,” said I, “is this inscription
in the Malay character?” and
I pointed to the letters on the brooch.
“No; these seem to be the rude attempts
of some foreigner to form English
characters.”
After some general conversation,
Captain Berkely and another officer
came in the shop, and his lordship, after
nodding to them, turned to leave
the shop, accompanied to the door by
the obsequious printer.
“Well, old fellah,” said Berkely, when
the printer returned, “what was Lord
Toplofty doing here, eh?”
“His lordship has been paying his
subscription to the library, captain.
Bless me, if his lordship hasn't left the
novel. His lordship has only gone a
few steps. Run after him, Ambrose,
and hand it to him, with my respectful
compliments.”
CHAPTER V. , In which I meet with the Dowager Countess, and see a strange portrait.
His lordship kept his word as a nobleman
should. Mr. Osborne, the steward,
called at the shop a few days afterward,
and told me that I had permission
to read in the library of the
castle at suitable hours. These suitable
hours I found, upon inquiry, were
from three to six in the afternoon, while
the family were there, and at any hours
I might choose when the family were
away. The time first named interfered
with my duties in the composing-room,
but Mr. Guttenberg looked upon the
permission as an express command from
an authority not to be contemned, and
insisted that I should spend the time
set down for me among his lordship's
books. I was readily obedient, for I
thus had a field of study opened to me,
otherwise far beyond my reach. I found
the library to be a full one—the rarest
and finest editions of new and old works
occupying the shelves. It struck me
that neither the earl nor his visitors
ever troubled the library, unless perchance
to lounge there, since none of
the works on the shelves bore traces
of frequent use. My mind did not
dwell on that fact. I thought only of
enjoying the advantages which I possessed.
Among the volumes were
grammars and dictionaries of all the
European languages, and some of Asiatic
tongues, besides a few hundred of
the writings of various foreign authors
in the original. My fondness for acquiring
languages found new stimulus
and satisfaction, and I applied myself
earnestly to a pursuit which some
would have called a task.
Time passed for several months with
little incident worthy of notice. I heard
nothing of Zara or her father in the
meanwhile, and it was only at rare intervals
that they came to my memory.
I was lost in my rambles through a
new world. My ordinary life was simply
monotonous, the same round of employment
in the printing-room or circulating
library, and I made no acquaintance
beyond our circle of patrons, with
whom I was a favorite. The officers
of the regiment, through Berkely, had
me in to assist when they gave amateur
dramatic performances, but this
was only an occasional amusement.
The servants at the castle got to know
me very well, and often amused me by
a bit of gossip concerning the family,
or an anecdote of one of its members.
To all these I listened, but made no
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
comments. I was naturally fond of
talking, but I was naturally prudent.
This was soon discovered, and I became
gradually the depository of a deal
of secret history, useless enough, but
very amusing.
Among other facts, I speedily learned
that the Dowager Countess of Landys,
the mother of the late earl, was
nearly imbecile—so much so that she
was constantly attended to by her
maid, a woman who had been brought
up in the family; and that the present
earl suffered her to retain the apartments
she had occupied during her
son's life-time. She was said to have
become insane on receiving the news
of her son's shipwreck; but the violent
paroxysms ceased, leaving her mind in
a state approaching idiocy, and giving
rise to a few harmless peculiarities.
Her cousin, Lady Caroline Bowlington,
was the only one who had the power
to interest her. During her short yearly
visit the countess seemed to rally,
and her mind resumed its normal condition.
On the departure of her cousin
there was an apparent relapse.
I also became well acquainted with
the steward, Mr. Osborne. He was
quite a fine gentleman in manners, and
had the entire confidence of his noble
master. Indeed it was remarked by
many that the consultations between
the two were conducted on a footing
of equality, and that the manner of the
steward to the peer was that of one
who felt secure of his position under
all circumstances. No one knew the
origin of this Mr. Osborne. He came
when the wearer of the title succeeded
to the earldom, having been summoned
from a distance. It was said that they
traveled together abroad, and had been
connected for many years. People
wondered how the servant maintained
such absolute control over the master,
for it was evident that the smooth,
smirking and dapper gentleman lost a
portion of his deferential manner when
conversing with his patron, and paid
but little heed to the commands generally
put as suggestions of the latter.
There was some secret in this which
none had been able to discover. I made
no effort to penetrate it. It was no affair
of mine.
Thus it passed until about a year after
the rescue of Zara, when, as I sat
one day in my customary place in the
library, Lord Landys entered. I rose
to go, but he bade me remain and be
seated. He took up the book I had
been reading, the Dejing Navodu Creskeho,
of Francis Palacky, and put me
some questions as to its contents, possibly
to ascertain what progress I had
made in the language in which it was
written. At length he said:
“Do you keep up communication
with your mysterious Spanish friend
still, Mr. Fecit?”
“No, my lord,” was my answer. “I
have not heard of him or of his daughter,
for a long while.”
“I should have thought Mr Bagby
would have kept you advised of their
movements.”
“No, my lord. He never mentions
them in the occasional letters I receive
from him, and I suppose is as ignorant
of their whereabouts as I.”
“Hardly since he painted the little
Zara's portrait.”
“That was a sketch from memory,
my lord. She has a striking face, apt
to fix its features in an artist's mind.”
“You are to be free of your indentures
in a couple of years, I believe,”
continued the earl. “Have you thought
on your future pursuits?”
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
“Not particularly, my lord. I shall
be a printer, of course.”
“Your information and quickness,”
said he, and I rose and bowed an acknowledgment
of the compliment, “lift
you out of that sphere of life. There
are few avenues for ambition in England,
without the command of money
and connexions, but abroad you might
rise rapidly.”
“It is possible, my lord,” I replied;
“but it would require means there
too.”
“Those might be found. I have influence
with the present ministry, and
could procure you a creditable position
in India. The road there to reputation
and wealth is not yet choked
up. At least, youth, health, talent
and enterprise might remove all obstacles.”
“I thank your lordship, but I have
no desire to abandon the land where I
was born.”
“Are you sure that you were born
here, at all?” was the quick reply.
I was startled at the question, and
the tone in which it was uttered. Before
I could frame an answer, he continued—
“I do not mean to wound your feelings
at all, but you know your own
history, and you might have been
born in France, you know. Think on
my proposition well before you reject
it. It gives you an opportunity which
you can never have upon the soil of
England. But perhaps you are determined
to remain here in order to investigate
the mystery of your birth.”
“No,” I replied, “I have thought of
that, but there seems to be no clue.
The loss of the packet of papers by
Mr. Guttenberg is irreparable. I shall
not waste time in a fruitless pursuit.
When I come to grapple with the world
I will do it boldly, and I will allow no
vain object to weaken my efforts.”
“You are ambitious, then,” said the
earl, as he arose to leave the room.
“Think well on India—wealth and distinction.”
Without reflecting any more on his
offers, I resumed my reading, when he
had retired. How long I read it is
impossible to say, but I had certainly
gone through a great number of pages,
when I heard the rustling of silk, and,
looking up, beheld a very old woman
regarding me with apparent interest.
There was something startling in
the apparition.
The features, from the indications
presented, must at one time have been
handsome; age had not entirely destroyed
their pleasing regularity of outline;
but the soul which formerly animated
them was clouded. In strange
contrast with the brilliant black eyes,
and the white hair which escaped in
masses from beneath the laced cap,
was the vacant expression about the
mouth, whose puckered lips, slightly
parted, disclosed the toothless gums.
The old woman looked at me intently,
and then muttered something which I
could not distinguish. This was followed
by the words, plainly uttered:
“Her son! it must be; yes, look at
the ear.”
I recovered from my astonishment
at length, and, rising, bowed respectfully;
for I was sure that this was the
Dowager Countess of Landys. She
motioned me to resume my seat, and
when I hesitated, sank in a chair, and
waving her hand, said in a peremptory
way:
“Sit, sir!”
I obeyed, and she still kept her eyes
fixed on me, the features lighting up,
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
and the vacant expression quite gone.
I was meditating how to escape the
painful scrutiny, when she spoke
again, and this time in a voice of tenderness:
“I have not seen you for many days,
my son. Why do you mourn her loss
still? She was not worthy of you. I
told you in the beginning how it would
be. Let her go.”
I made no answer. What could I
have said?
“He will come again,” continued the
Countess, now apparently talking to
herself. “I know it. He will come
again. What the living promised the
dead would do, were the body a hundred
fathoms beneath the sea. The
dead has never come, and the living
will.”
The interview with one thus crazed
became so embarrassing that I was
about to escape it by flight, when the
steward entered the room. The Countess
glared at him for a moment, rose,
and walked with a haughty, and, for
her years, a vigorous step from the library.
“Were you much disturbed, Ambrose?”
inquired Osborne.
“Yes, sir; and in some fear, though
she has been here but a few minutes.
It is the Dowager Countess—is it not?”
“Yes. It is singular that she said
nothing to you. She is very apt to
make queer remarks to strangers.”
“She did say something,” I said, and
repeated her words.
“Do you understand it?” he inquired.
Now, why should he ask that? Why
should I understand it? Is there some
secret here they fear I may fathom?
These were the questions that I instantly
put to myself. But to Osborne
I merely gave a negative to his question.
“She sometimes eludes the vigilance
of her attendant,” he said, “and goes
wandering about in this strange kind
of way, startling visitors with all kinds
of queer sayings. She often fancies if
she meets with a stranger that he must
be her son. She has never recovered
the late earl's loss.”
“Her ladyship seems to be very old,”
I said.
“Yes; but I merely came to get a
book, and will not disturb you.”
Mr. Osborne selected a book from
the shelves, and left the room.
I resumed my study, but was doomed
to another interruption. I heard
the door open, and on looking around,
saw another stranger.
The last intruder was a woman, neatly
clad in black, apparently a kind of
domestic. She was about forty years
of age, with bold, strong features, short
in stature, rather stout, but not fat.
Her eyes were grey, and were fixed on
me in some surprise.
“I beg pardon, sir,” she said, “but
I have missed the Countess Dowager,
and looked to see if she were here. She
sometimes comes in the library.”
“Ah! you are her attendant then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She was here, but left when Mr.
Osborne came.”
“She does not like him—who does?
I hope you won't think me impertinent,
but pray who are you, sir?”
“My name is Ambrose Fecit. I am
Mr. Guttenberg's apprentice and adopted
son.”
“A printer's boy! How singular!”
I was amused at the tone in which
the words were uttered, and the look
of wonder in her face.
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
“Pray,” I inquired, “is it singular
that I should be a printer's apprentice,
or that, being a printer's apprentice, I
should be seated here?”
“No, it was not that; but the likeness
was so strong.”
“What likeness?”
“Yours; you look like the portrait
in the north gallery.”
“Whose portrait?”
“I'm sure I don't know. The butler
says he was a pirate. It has hung
there for years. The late earl brought
it here. Would you like to see it?”
“Very much,” I replied.
“Come with me, and I will show
you.”
“But,” I said, “I have only the privilege
of the library, and doubt if that
permission extends to any other part of
the castle.”
“Oh, the north gallery is a showroom?”
“But the Countess may want you.”
“No, she always keeps herself alone
for an hour or so after she meets a
stranger.”
I was curious to see the portrait,
and so, without farther objections, I
accompanied the woman, who told me
that her name was Gifford. She led
me to the north gallery, and there
pointed out the portrait.
Certainly the features on the canvass
and my own were strikingly alike—at
least as far as the upper part of the
face went; but the mouth in the portrait
was broader, and the chin heavier
and squarer than mine.
The portrait was a full length likeness
of a man apparently about twenty-five.
The costume was oriental, but
of what particular country in the east
I could not say.
“You say this was a pirate,” I ask
ed, after I had looked at it well.
“The butler, who served the former
earl, says so,” answered she. “For
my part, I know nothing about it. He
was a foreigner of some kind. My
lord sent it home from abroad, when
he was a young man. Before he went
away for the last time he would stand
before the picture for hours, or rather
he would walk the gallery for hours,
and stop every now and then before
the picture, and look at it. He did not
appear to be fond of the man it was
like, either. He would scowl at it in
a way that was fearful. The servants
say”—and here she looked around cautiously—
“that every year, on the day
my lord was born—that is the late
earl—the picture walks.”
I laughed.
“It is silly, I know,” she said, “but
there is one thing quite certain; I saw
that face once—whether a ghost or alive,
I don't know. It was the year before
my lord came back the last time. I
had to cross the gallery late at night.
I had a candle in my hand, and stopped
to look at the picture as I passed. I
went on, after I had taken a look, and
just as I reached yonder door, which
was my lord's chamber, it opened. As
the door was kept locked always during
my lord's absence, it startled me a
deal. I turned to look, and saw a fignre
wrapped in a dark cloak. My light
fell on the face.”
“Well?” said I, for she paused.
“It was the face of the picture,”
said she. “I could not be mistaken.
I dropped the light and ran. The house
was alarmed, and when all gathered
there the door was found locked. It
was opened, and as no trace could be
found of any one, they all said I
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
dreamed the matter.”
“What did the earl say to it when
he came back?”
“He never knew it. My lady, his
mother, forbade any of us to tell him.
But I must go, lest my lady want me.
You do look like the picture—very
much—especially that look from the
eyes.”
And Gifford left me alone.
I looked a little while longer at the
portrait, and then returned to the library,
where I sat down, and began
to think. According to Guttenberg,
the man who gave me in his charge
was a foreigner. Could this be he?
His likeness to me, too! Could he
have been my father? How was I to
learn more of this strange portrait,
and the name of the original? While
I was engaged in these reflections, the
steward came in to replace the book he
had taken away.
“Has the Countess Dowager been
here since?”
“No,” I replied, “but her attendant
has.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated. “A strange
creature is Gifford—a woman of strong
prejudices. I have had to talk sharply
to Gifford, once or twice, and she don't
like me much.”
“Mr. Osborne,” I said, looking him
full in the face, “there is a portrait in
the gallery yonder, which is said to be
that of a pirate. May I ask who he
was?”
“Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it is nobody; a mere fancy
piece. The servants have an absurd
notion that it represents a pirate.”
“Does it not, then?”
“No more than it does his lordship,
or his lordship's son, or me. It was
picked up abroad by the late earl, I
believe, at a sale somewhere on the
continent. It is a very odd picture,
but is said to be a very good piece of
painting.”
“The likeness to me, then, would appear
to be accidental, after all?”
“Entirely so.”
I did not believe him, and for a plain
reason. The gay cloak or robe on the
picture was fastened by a belt, clasped
by turquoises; the striped jacket was
buttoned at the neck, with a brooch
exactly like that found in the old house
in the Ram's Horn; there was a crooked
dagger in the sash around the
waist; and on the dagger's handle
were several characters similar to
those on the inside of the ring which
had been found suspended from my
neck.
CHAPTER VI. , Wherein another Chip is thrown into the current of my Life, and I hear from Zara.
All these events began to shape
themselves into a problem. “Who am
I? What am I?” were the questions
to be solved. Thus it was that I frequently
reviewed the incidents connected
with my life, and wondered
whether the missing links in the chain
would be supplied. The facts might
be connected with a common-place origin—
perhaps a base one, after all;
still there was an air of romance about
them, and I was at an age when romance
had full control over the mind.
There was first a child with certain
tokens, delivered to a printer in the
town of Puttenham. One of these tokens
was a wedding-ring, with a singular
posy; the other, a packet. The
packet, which I conjectured to contain
the proofs of a marriage, was gone,
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
but the ring remained. Then in the
house that would seem to be the one
where the child had been entrusted to
the printer's care, certain relics were
found, one of which contained letters
similar to those in the ring.
Then the portrait in the gallery,
with its strange resemblance to me,
and with the same sort of mysterious
letters on the dagger-blade; and the
singular appearance of the original to
Gifford.
The bones in Sharp's house—were
they those of the woman? Was she
my mother? Had she been murdered?
Admitting the packet to contain evidences
of marriage—a conjecture—and
that it were ever recovered—a remote
possibility—how to identify me?
These questions, and others as useless,
frequently occurred to me. To
what end? The packet was gone irrecoverably—
trampled in the snow of
that night—utterly defaced; the mother
dead; the mysterious stranger
dead too, perhaps, or interested in keeping
silence.
Suppose all elucidated. I might
prove after all to be a—my face reddened
then. Better to be a child of
mystery than of shame. And yet the
questions would come again—“Who
am I? What am I?”
Time went on in the meanwhile. I
studied hard at the earl's books, and
each step made the next easier. The
people of the town thought me a prodigy
of learning, and I was not displeased
with the vulgar admiration. I
had vanity—who has not? and it was
tickled. No foreigner, high or low,
ever entered the town, but my name
was mentioned to him, and we were
speedily brought in contact. I was,
beyond dispute, the great linguist of
Puttenham. This was of service to
me. I acquired greater colloquial intercourse
with several modern languages,
and ease of manner. The municipal
dignitaries honored me with
their nod; and even the proud Earl of
Landys condescended to speak of me
as a remarkable boy. With the military
officers, and the patrons of the
library, I still continued to be a favorite.
As I was tall for my age, well-knit,
and with handsome features, the
young ladies of the place looked on me
pleasantly, and the matrons with a forbidding
air. For you see I was nobody;
my very name was not my own;
and, though Mr. Guttenberg had adopted
me, I might not be co-heir with his
daughter after all. I was not a desirable
match in the eyes of prudent mothers,
among the trades-folk of the
town.
A strange kind of friendship sprang
up between me and Gifford. She
would often slip into the library when
I was there, and interrupt my reading
with reminiscences of the Landys family,
of whose history she was a walking
chronicle. I asked her but few
questions, contenting myself with playing
the part of a listener; but there
were two points on which I wished to
be enlightened. One was about the
portrait that Bagby mentioned as resembling
Espinel; the other what the
dowager countess meant, if there was
any meaning to the words, by saying:
“The dead has not come, and the living
will.”
Gifford readily answered both questions.
“I know nothing about the picture. I
recollect there was one in my lord's
chamber, such as you describe, but it
has been removed, I think. As for her
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
ladyship's words, they refer to a promise
of her son. The old lady believes
in spirits coming back to this world
and appearing to their friends, if they
want to. Why shouldn't she? You
do, don't you?”
As Gifford evidently did, and I had
no desire to discuss the point, I said
evasively:
“Oh, that point is settled among all
sensible people; but I don't see what
that has to do with the words.”
“Why, you see, the late earl was
very fond of his mother, and she of
him. Somehow he never believed in
ghosts and such things—though there
was a spirit in the family once—I'll
tell you about that some other time;
and they used to dispute about it a
good deal, only in a good-natured way.
I was busy doing something one day
in the countess's chamber, and her son
was there, and they'd been talking over
the matter. Said his lordship, said he:
“`We'll settle the matter practically,
mother. If I die before you, and
am able to do so, I will come to see
you after death, and let you know how
I like the other world; and you shall
do the same with me.'
“The countess she spoke up and said,
says she:
“`That I solemnly promise to do,
George.'
“Now as he has never made his appearance
to her, and she knows he
would keep his word, that's what she
means by saying that the dead hadn't
come, and the living would.”
“But,” said I, “there can be no doubt
of the earl's death.”
“It seems not, but her ladyship don't
believe it.”
One thing Gifford was not communicative
upon—her own history; but I
learned that from others. She was an
orphan child, reared by the dowager
countess's direction, and in due time
promoted to be her maid. Despite her
apparent love of tattling, she was close
in regard to some things, and was, beyond
doubt, the confidante of her noble
mistress. What she said to me, therefore,
I at once divined was not meant
to be a secret, at least from me.
Beside Gifford, I made another friend,
and a very singular one, about this
time. The reader will remember that
the old house in the Ram's Horn belonged
to one Sharp. This Sharp,
whose Christian name was Abner, was
a singular character. No man was
more generally execrated and abhorred
by his townsmen. He was a thin,
pinched, cadaverous old man, apparently
about sixty, with a high and
narrow forehead, a thin nose, ornamented
with a knob, like a mighty
pimple, at the tip, and a round, long
chin. His eyes were small, keen and
restless, keeping up an uneasy motion
all the while; and he had a remarkable
and noted habit of casting alarmed
glances from time to time over his
shoulder. He was said to be enormously
rich, owning houses upon
houses, holding bonds and mortgages
innumerable, and loaning money at
usurious interest. Yet he was so parsimonious
that he denied himself necessary
food and proper clothing; and
he lived in the garret of one of his own
houses, the other floors being let to
the poorest class of people. This Sharp
I knew by sight very well, as did every
one else in town, and I had had at
times some conversation with him. He
owned the house and premises which
Mr. Guttenberg occupied, and used to
come on quarter day, exactly on the
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
stroke of twelve, to receive his rent.
He was also the proprietor of the Museum
of the town, a place got up by a
Yankee speculator, as a resort for the
people of the surrounding country, on
holidays; but which proved to be a
failure. However such a thing might
do in America, it failed here; but Sharp
had taken it in lieu of a debt, and it became
his only apparent delight. He
used to gloat over its quaint treasures,
its mummies, stuffed beasts, stones
and butterflies; its pickled heads of
New Zealanders, birds and wax figures.
Nay, he even expended money on it,
not only buying any double-headed
calf, or four-legged chicken that came
along, but absolutely going to some
expense by advertising each new possession
in the Puttenham Chronicle,
and having placards printed to post
upon dead walls and pumps, and to
place in the tap-rooms. Through his
visits to the printing-room, I came to
know Sharp tolerably well, and as I
treated him with a sort of patronizing
deference, we became quite familiar.
The truth is that I pitied the poor
wretch in spite of his large possessions,
and felt commisseration for the
miserable being who, in the midst of
wealth, felt the pangs of poverty. He
returned this by a number of parsimonious
proverbs, and much good money-making
advice. There was no obligation
incurred on either side. Each
could well spare what he parted with,
and the gifts given were not of the
least use to the recipients.
A striking incident made us quite intimate.
One day in winter, the quarter-day,
Sharp came to collect his rent. The
weather was more damp than cold;
the snow which had fallen the night
before had melted, and when Sharp entered
he presented a pitiable sight.
His face looked blue, with the exception
of his nose, which glowed like the
tip of a carbuncle, and he trembled
with weakness and cold. He was thinly
clad, as usual, without a great-coat,
and his patched shoes had evidently
not kept out the snow-water. I offered
him the loan of my great-coat, but he
declined it, saying that he had a very
excellent wrapper of his own, which
he had forgotten to put on in the morning.
Toward night-fall he came to the
printing-room again, on his way home,
and stood by the grate to dry his feet
and warm himself. He looked even
more ill than before, and I renewed the
offer of the great coat.
“No!” he answered sharply, “I've
one of my own, I tell you. “Besides,”
he added, more pleasantly, “you might
want to go out to-night; and I might
injure your coat too.”
“Nonsense!” I said, “I know you'll
take care of it; you never injure any
thing that costs money, and as I'm not
going out to-night, I shan't want it.
You'll be ill if you don't take it; and
if you do wear it out a little, that's no
matter. As I'm not quite so rich as
you, I'm not so close.”
“Ah!” he muttered, “wilful waste
makes woeful want. If I were to be
as extravagant as you I'd soon be a
beggar. It's very comfortable though,”
he continued, as he put it on, “and
wadded, too. A printer's apprentice
with such a coat as this. Dear me!
West of England cloth, at that. Why
don't you wear shoddy? Your master
allows you this, eh? He'll never be
rich—never!”
And off he went, grumbling.
That night at supper I mentioned
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
the occurrence laughingly to the family.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Guttenberg,
“what a mean man he is; and
so rich. To be sure, he was poor
enough once—a wild spendthrift.”
“He a spendthrift, mother! That's
the last I should expect to hear of him.
Why he might stand to a sculptor for
a model of Avarice. It seems to have
been born with him.”
“It was in the blood, that's a fact,”
said the old woman, “but he was a
spendthrift at first; and his father
threatened to disinherit him. The old
man would have done it, too, everybody
said; but he died suddenly, and there
was no will found, so, as Abner was an
only son, he fell heir to about ten thousand
pounds.”
“Which he has screwed and scraped,
and swelled into a hundred thousand
at least,” said Mr. Guttenberg. “When
his father died he cut loose from his
riotous companions, and for forty years
he has been a miserable, sordid, griping
miser, without a friend in the
world.”
“He is much to be pitied then,” I
said.
“I do not pity him,” said Mary.
“He is a mean old hunks; and I don't
believe you'll get your coat again, Ambrose.”
“He was wiser in one thing than
you, my boy,” said Mr. Guttenberg,
“for you really will want your coat to-night.
He signed the receipt I wrote
for the rent, and by mistake I have
made it up to the end of the coming
quarter. It is very odd that he did
not notice the blunder. I wish you
would go to his lodgings and have the
error corrected at once. Here is the
old receipt, and a new one stamped.
You can run along fastly, so you wont
need any overcoat while you're going;
and you can get your own to return
in.”
“Won't the morning do as well?”
inquired his wife.
“Oh, no! As the old fellow would
say himself, `never put off till to-morrow
what you can do to-day.' Ambrose
rather likes the errand, I dare say.”
“Of course I do,” I answered. “I
want to see how the old miser lives at
home.” And without further words I
took the receipt and started.
I cantered along briskly through the
sloppy, half-melted snow, to the house
where old Sharp had his den. Like
many other of his buildings, it was in
a dilapidated condition. I knocked at
the door, and after considerable delay
it was opened by a half-grown girl,
who held a flaring tallow candle over
her head with one hand, while she kept
the door half closed with the other.
“What do you want?” she inquired.
“I wish to see Mr. Sharp on particular
business,” I answered.
“I don't know that he'll want to see
you. He never does business after
dark. Who are you?”
“My name is Fecit, and I come from
Mr. Guttenberg.”
“Oh,” said the girl, after scrutinizing
me closely, “I know you. You
can go up to his room, but I don't
think you'll get in. He bolts up at
dark, and won't speak to any one. It's
the topmost room of the house. You
can't miss it. You can take this light,
and leave it on the stair-head.”
I took the candle, and made my way
up the creaking staircase to the garret.
I knocked at the door, but there
was no reply made. I tried the knob,
and to my surprise the door opened.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
I entered.
I had never seen a room so meanly
furnished containing so many tokens
of wealth There was a heavy iron
box, a wooden chest of drawers, a table
covered with papers, jewelry and
money, and a pallet. The windows
were furnished with iron bars, and
there were three bolts to the door, and
a chain. Around the room in a confused
litter were articles of vertu, piles
of handsomely bound books, beautiful
pictures, and an old suit of armor.
Hanging on hooks in the walls were
several curious swords and two pairs
of pistols, richly mounted. Upon a
large silver salver, which lay on the
chest of drawers, were a number of
pieces of plate, and on the corner of
the table lay a diamond-studded snuff-box.
As a sort of mockery of the valuables,
there was a wooden platter in
the midst of the table, containing a
crust of bread and a red herring. The
supper had been untouched.
I turned toward the pallet. Sharp,
still wrapped in my great-coat, lay
upon it, breathing heavily. I shook
him, but there was no answer. He did
not recognize me. I felt his pulse—it
scarcely beat. His head was hot, but
his feet were cold as ice. I ran to the
door and called down the stairs. Some
of the inmates of the rooms put their
heads out from their doors, among the
rest the girl who had admitted me.
“Send some one for the nearest doctor,”
I said, “Mr. Sharp is quite unwell.
And bring me some hot water,
somebody. I'd be obliged to any one
who'd go for Mr. Guttenberg.” They
were all for entering the room, but I
kept them back. As soon as I had
pacified them I threw some old clothes
over the money and valuables that
were exposed to view, so that when
the girl came with the hot water there
was nothing in sight of which she
could babble to excite the cupidity of
her hearers.
I removed Sharp's shoes. His feet
were icily cold. I propped him half
upright in the pallet, and placed his
feet in the hot water. I then opened
the dormer window, and obtaining
some snow from the roof, made a temporary
bag of my handkerchief, and
placing the snow in it, applied it to
his head. These simple measures soon
had their effect. The pulse began to
beat more quickly and firmly; the temperature
of the body became more even,
and the breathing grew natural. At
length Sharp recognised me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked,
endeavoring to rise. He was too
weak, however, and fell back again.
“You can let him lie down now,” I
said to the girl who was aiding me.
“Go down stairs, and when the doctor
and Mr. Guttenberg come, show them
up at once.”
The girl left the room. Sharp looked
at me in wonder.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I don't want a doctor. He'll ruin
me.”
“Pray be quiet,” I said. “You are
very ill, and must have a doctor. He'll
be here presently.”
“I won't pay him. I didn't send for
him—mind that.”
“Very well; we won't quarrel on
that score. A doctor is necessary, and
if you won't pay for him I will.”
“You can't; you havn't the money;
you're only a prentice boy. What's
your business here, anyhow? Do you
think you'll get any money from me?”
I was thoroughly provoked, but I
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
kept my temper, as there was no use
of quarreling with such a madman.
So I told him my errand there. It
seemed to calm him at first, but at the
next moment he glanced uneasily at
the table.
“All right,” I said, in answer to his
look. “I threw those clothes on the
table and chest, that the girl's prying
eyes might not fall on the money and
plate you had left exposed.”
“It was thoughtful,” he said, after a
moment's pause. “I must trust some
one—why not you? Take those keys
from under my pillow; there, pick only
the second-sized one from the bunch;
open the chest, and put the money and
jewelry away.”
I obeyed him, locked the chest, and
returned the key. I had scarcely done
this when the doctor entered, closely
followed by Mr. Guttenberg. The doctor
wasn't a physician; he was not a
regular M. D., but what in Puttenham
is called an apothecary. In London
he would have styled himself a general
practitioner. He was of some eminence
in his profession, and bore the
reputation of being a very worthy
man.
“I didn't send for you,” said Sharp,
when he saw him. “Remember, if you
prescribe I won't pay you. I call Mr.
Guttenberg to witness.”
Mr. Gray, the doctor, smiled, and
asked me the history of the case. I
told him how I had found the old man,
and what I had done.
“You couldn't have done better if
you had been the whole Royal College
of Surgeons,” said Mr. Gray. “You
have probably saved his life. Without
your prompt action, the congestion of
the brain might have been fatal.”
“Do you think he saved my life?”
inquired Sharp, leaning on his elbow,
and peering in the doctor's face.
“I think it very probable.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed the miser,
“I suppose I ought to be much obliged
to him. But he isn't a regular practitioner;
he can't make me pay.”
The air of the old man as he said
this was so absurdly earnest, that we
all burst into a simultaneous peal of
laughter. Sharp looked annoyed, but
the next instant his features relaxed
into a faint smile.
“I am well enough now, at all
events,” said he, “and I don't want
any one here now.”
The doctor told him that he was not
well enough at all, and that it was necessary
some one should remain with
him during the night, to carry out the
directions left.
“I won't have any one here,” persisted
Sharp.
“But you must,” reiterated the doctor.
“If Ambrose will stay, he may; but
I'll have no one else,” returned the miser.
I looked at Mr. Guttenberg inquiringly.
He nodded his head.
“Very well,” I said, “I'll stay.”
Mr. Gray told me what medicines
he should send, how to administer
them, and what to do in case certain
unfavorable symptoms came on. Then
off he went, and Mr. Guttenberg with
him. Previous to the departure of the
latter, he handed me a letter.
“This came,” said he, “during the
afternoon. I forgot to hand it you at
supper. We'll keep your breakfast
ready for you in the morning.”
I was left alone with my strange
charge. I turned towards him. He
was fast asleep. I found a couple of
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
tallow candles in a tin box, and laid
them in readiness by the candlestick;
put some of the books that were scattered
about on the table to read during
the night; took the medicine from the
doctor's boy, who had now come, awakened
my patient and gave him the
powder according to directions, and
then sat down to read my letter.
It was from Paul Bagby, and read as
follows:
“My dear Ambrose:—Read this letter as
carefully as you like, and then—burn it.
“Zara is in my charge—where you will
learn some day by word of mouth. I dare
not, for her sake, write it, lest some accident
should befall this letter.
“Espinel, who is a Spanish nobleman, and
her uncle, has disappeared. He has been
either killed or abducted; which I cannot
say.
“Keep all this secret. What I desire you
to do for me, and for Zara's sake, is to ascertain,
without provoking remark, if Mr. Osborne
left the castle recently. If so, when,
how long he was absent, and whether he has
now returned.
“The blow at Zara comes from that quarter.
I would like to tell you all; but this is
not the proper place nor time. I shall see
you shortly if I can leave London.
“Make some excuse for examining the records
of the parish-church of St. Stephen.
See the marriage-register, and get me the
exact date of the marriage of the present
Earl of Landys with Miss Ansleigh. I wish
to see if it corresponds with the statement in
Burke's peerage.”
I read the letter twice, and tearing
it in strips, consumed them one by one
in the flame of the candle.
CHAPTER VII. , Which contains singular revelations, and tells of the growth of an odd friendship.
I was musing over the contents of
the letter, when I heard Sharp speak.
I went to the pallet. The old man's
eyes were staring wildly, their whites
injected with blood, and his face deeply
flushed. The fever, as the doctor
had warned me, had evidently come
on. It was with some difficulty I
could get him to swallow the draught
sent for such an exigency.
He lay there, restlessly tossing about,
while I paced up and down the room,
striving to keep myself warm. There
was a grate, indeed, at the chimneyplace,
but it was quite empty, and it
was too late in the night to order coals.
All I could do to defend myself against
the cold was to keep myself in motion.
The rustling noise of Sharp's movements
stopped. I turned to look at
him. He was sitting erect on the bed,
his eyes dilated and almost starting
from their sockets with terror.
“Ah!” he cried, in a tone of horror
that made my very flesh creep, “there
he is, cold and stiff; and he is my father!
Have I murdered him? Take
him away! Take him away!”
Was this, then, the terrible secret of
the old man's life, or was it the creation
of the fever?
“There! there!” he said, “they are
coming—for me! There is the gallows!
and the rope — how it dangles and
swings! The hangman—I see him!
and the crowd! how they yell and
howl! Oh, God! how they yell!”
This, then, I thought, was the cause
of those watchful glances which he cast
over his shoulder from time to time as
he walked—this was the spectre that
haunted him.
I hoisted the window again, obtained
some snow, and applied it to his
head.
“Heavens!” I said, as I was thus
engaged, “is this miserable old man a
parricide?”
He caught at the word.
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
“Parricide!” he exclaimed. “No,
my lord, and you, gentlemen of the
jury, I did not mean to murder him.
No; mean and cold and cruel as he was
to me, he was still my father. Murder!—
me! Why I would not harm a
worm. I meant to rob; yes, I meant
to help myself from his hoard;
for she—she was starving—dying of
want—and he spurned me from him—
he would not give me a farthing to
save her—her! my poor Margaret!
Yes! I was a spendthrift—a reckless
young man; but I was a husband! I
thought to make him sleep the sounder
that I might get the keys. He slept,
and he never awoke again. Ah! the
money came too late! too late! my
poor Margaret was dead!”
I still applied the snow, and he calmed
under it, but his fancies were busy
with him.
“Yes! I know—he died of disease
of the heart—they said his death was
sudden; but did not the laudanum hasten
it? He comes at night,” he murmured,
“at night, when all is still, and
sits and looks at me with his cold eyes
and pale face; he tells me that I have
his money; but I have no Margaret—
and then he goes to only come back
again—again—again. You are there
now, and your touch is cold as ice.”
“It is I, Ambrose Fecit,” I said.
“Don't you know me?”
“But I wonder what is in the packet,”
he continued. “Shall I open it?
I think not.”
I renewed the snow application to
his head.
“My poor Margaret!” he said. “She
is dead, and I have nothing to love
now but gold—gold—gold! I am rich—
they do not know how rich I am;
but I atone; yes, I atone. Men hate
and despise me for a miser. They'll
never know me better; but the grave
will cover me, and then the worms will
find it out—ha! ha! the worms will
find it out!”
It was a trying position for one of
my age to fill—alone in a cold and
cheerless room, in the dead hours of
the night, listening to the ravings of a
remorseful man, whose sensitive conscience,
excited by disease, exaggerated
his crime, and unmasked his soul
to a stranger. What he meant by saying
that he atoned, I could not even
conceive. His sordid life, his denial of
pity and kindness to others, and even
to himself, was a worse crime than the
robbery of his father. The one was
prompted by the suffering of his wife;
the other had no palliation. But with
these and other thoughts within me, I
still sat there applying the cooling
snow to his head, and administering
his hourly draught. Two or three
hours more of raving and delirium
passed, and then he sank into an uneasy
slumber. I gathered what spare
clothes I could find around, and muffling
myself in these to secure a portion
of warmth, I took up one of the books
on the table, and sat down to read.
With the exception of once, when he
awakened, and took the draught ready
for him, I remained thus until long after
the grey streaks of dawn had stolen
through the dusty window-panes.
He did not wake until after nine
o'clock. He was evidently much better;
his skin was moist and his mind
clear, though his body was weak. He
looked at me curiously.
“I have been very sick, have I not?”
he inquired at length.
“Yes,” I answered, “you have had
a high fever during the greater part of
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
the night, talking all sorts of nonsense,
and seeing all kinds of dead people.”
He looked a little alarmed.
“What did I say?”
“Oh, you saw your father, and told
me all about him.”
I fixed my eyes on him closely and
curiously as I said this. He did not
seem so discomposed as I expected.
“Tell me what I said.”
I repeated it nearly word for word.
“Well,” he said, when I had done,
“do you think me a murderer, or was
it the fever?”
“I am willing to put down two-thirds,
at least to the fever.”
He raised himself up.
“Is it possible,” said he, “that
you've been sitting there without fire
all night, and your great coat on me?
Why didn't you get it?”
“I couldn't well disturb you for such
a purpose. I got along very well.”
“Help me off with it now. There,
there. You ought to whisk it well. It
is full of lint. The brush never injures
clothing so much as dust. Remember
that. You should never have suffered
me to lie in your coat. It injures a
coat very much. You'll never be rich,
if you're so extravagant.”
“Why, you miserable old man!” I
exclaimed, provoked at his folly, “do
you suppose great coats were not made
to be of service? I wouldn't have
your feelings for ten times your money.”
“And the doctor said you saved my
life; I remember that. And yet you
despise me.”
“You despise yourself. As for me
I only despise your parsimony. Do
you think people can respect any man
who walks through life alone, doing
no good to kin or kind?”
“I have no kin, and men are not of
my kind.”
“God forbid they were,” I said to
myself.
He seemed to read-my thoughts by
his remark.
“Shall I tell you my secret, then?”
“As you choose about that. I covet
no more confidence than you have already
given me without intending it.”
“I will tell you. I have watched
you before this. You have prudence
and discretion beyond your years; and
I would sooner trust you than graver
and older men. Your feelings are
fresh yet—you will understand me.”
The old man evidently could not repress
the desire to pour out his whole
history, and I sat there and listened.
Parsimony ran in the blood. His
father, Jacob Sharp, had acquired a
fortune of twenty thousand pounds, by
saving and pinching. Abner was
brought up to his father's trade, that
of a silver-smith, and became an expert
workman; but the family taste for
hoarding did not at first betray itself
in him. On the contrary, his vice ran
the other way. Young Abner spent as
fast, and faster than he earned, to the
great disgust of the father; and to add
to the chagrin and anger of the latter,
the son fell in love and married a poor
orphan girl. The elder Sharp grew
furious at this last act of folly, turned
his son out of doors, and swore he never
would see his daughter-in-law.
Abner grew more prudent in money
matters, but an accident to his right
hand threw him out of work, his surplus
means were soon exhausted, and
he and his wife were reduced to want.
She, indeed, obtained a pittance by
sewing, but fell sick, more through
hunger than disease, and languished.
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
Abner made up his mind to rob his father
of a sufficient sum to pay the passage
of himself and wife to America,
where he believed he could get employment.
Now, old Sharp, in spite of his
avarice, indulged in one luxury, namely,
a night-cap of old ale before he went
to bed. Into this night draught Abner
managed to pour some laudanum,
a dose of which he had in the house.
It was not an overdose by any means,
but it set the miser soundly asleep.
The son obtained the keys, helped himself
to sufficient money from a spot
where he knew it would not be missed
for awhile, and left the house. The
next morning, while he was preparing
to leave for Liverpool, word was
brought him that his father had been
found dead in his chair. The coroner's
jury, on the evidence of the surgeons
who made a post-mortem examination
of the body, rendered a verdict of
“Death from disease of the heart;”
but Abner was filled with the belief
that the dose of laudanum had hastened
his father's death. Hence the remorseful
feelings which embittered his
life. He succeeded to the father's property
as heir-at-law, but all the money
came too late for his wife, who died
the day after his father. From that
time the family propensity broke out
on him fiercely; he gave himself up
totally to the accumulation of money,
and for forty years had devoted his
energy, backed by unmitigated parsimony,
to gain.
“Young man,” said he, when he had
closed his story, “I owe you my life.
I am not ungrateful. I will show you
more of myself than the world knows.
You shall not entirely despise me. Hitherto
I have had no particular care
for one human being beyond another,
and no one has cared for me; but I
can confide in you. I like you. If you
will promise not to reveal it, I will acquaint
you with a secret.”
“As you choose. I do not covet
your confidence, as I told you before
but if your secret be one I can honor
ably keep, I'll hear it.”
He arose, and I assisted him to arrange
his dress. He went to the iron
chest where I had placed his money
and jewelry, and took out a book.
“No one but myself,” said he, “has
ever looked at these entries. The book
will be destroyed when I feel death
approaching. Before you examine it,
let me tell you something. You remember
that James Meadows, the carpenter,
was burned out last spring?”
“Yes.”
“His tools, his household furniture,
the clothing of the family, everything
he had was destroyed. He and his
family barely escaped with their lives.
They were in great distress. Every
one pitied them, and the pity took the
substantial shape of one pound, fourteen
shillings and nine pence.”
“You are mistaken,” I said, “fifty
pounds were sent by an unknown hand
from London. On this Meadows commenced
his work again, and is doing
well. There was one good Samaritan.”
“No; it was merely the payment due
from discriminating wealth to honest
industry crippled by misfortune. Meadows
was an honest and industrious
man, and the fire came through no
carelessness of his. He was my tenant,
and I lost a house by it—a loss
only partly made up by the insurance.
The money came from me through my
London bankers.”
“From you!”
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
“Yes, from me. I sent it with a
written charge to Meadows that he
should repay the unknown lender, by
sending anonymously, from time to
time, as he could afford it, small sums
of money to poor and honest persons
in distress. I hope and believe that
he will be honest enough to pay the
debt in that way.”
I was much astonished at the statement,
but more so when I glanced over
the book which he placed in my hand.
It was a record extending over many
years, of sums secretly sent to needy
persons, running from hundreds of
pounds down to a few shillings, and
amounted in the aggregate to a heavy
sum.
How the world misjudged this man!
But it was not the world's fault. I
handed him back the book.
“You have promised to keep my secret,”
said he. “I spend nothing on
myself; but I have on others for many
years, wherever I think it deserved.
It is my only relief from the terrible
remorse that weighs me down. But it
makes no diminution to my income.
Everything I touch prospers. Even
that ridiculous Museum, which ruined
its former owner, yields me a handsome
profit. By the by, you must
visit that. Your name will be left
with the doorkeeper. You will find a
deal to interest you there. Come when
you like—but not if it wastes your
time. Time is money—remember
that.”
The doctor came, pronounced the patient
all right, and so I went off to my
breakfast, leaving Sharp, for all I
knew, to luxuriate on the red herring
left from the night before.
From this date began my intimacy
with old Sharp. Every one was
amused and amazed when they heard
of it, attributing it to the fact of my
nursing him all night through his illness.
People thought that the “old
wretch,” as they called him, had one
redeeming trait in his character. Captain
Berkeley told me, before a crowd
of the officers, that I had bound myself
apprentice to Sharp to learn the art of
making money; and Tom Brown
called us “Sharp & Co.” But all that
wore off, and people found other topics
for discussion. I used occasionally to
drop in at the Museum, and sometimes
I would meet the old man there.
Then he came to the printing-room
more frequently. One way or other I
saw a good deal of him.
He never lost an opportunity to impress
on me lessons of economy, or
modes of making money, all of which
I listened to without reply. One piece
of advice I took, however. I was
looking at the collection of minerals in
the Museum, during a half hour's leisure
at noon, when he came in.
“Do you understand mineralogy or
geology?” he asked.
“No! I scarcely know one mineral
from another.”
“Learn both those sciences. The
knowledge might be profitable sometime.
Even a smattering is better
than nothing. I picked up some
knowledge of the kind when I was
working at my trade, and that enabled
me to tell gozzin when I saw it, and so
I was led to buy the Bury property.
I afterwards sold the mining right for
twenty-five thousand pounds.”
I never expected to find a coppermine,
but I had a thirst for knowledge
of all sorts; and, aided by elementary
works, with the collection at the museum,
and the geological features of the
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
surrouning country, I soon managed
to make myself very well versed in
mineralogy and the structure of the
earth.
I may as well mention here that I
sent Bagby the information that he
required. The date of the marriage
had, however, been written over an
erasure, and so I wrote to him.
CHAPTER VIII. , Which tells of the Entertainments at the Castle, and of a Finale not Rehearsed.
It was within a few weeks of the
term of twenty-one years from the time
I was first placed in the hands of John
Guttenberg, when the events occurred
which I am about to relate.
There were always a large number
of visitors at Landys Castle during the
Christmas holidays, when the family
was there; but this year there were
even more than ever before, for the Countess,
an invalid, was in much better
health than usual, and sometimes
drove out to take an airing accompanied
by her little boy. I had frequently
seen her at the Castle, a pale, thin
young lady, who had been a blonde
beauty, but who was wrecked by ill-health.
Her ladyship had recently so
far recovered her strength as to occasion
great rejoicing among her friends;
and the Earl, who appeared to be a
fond husband, did his best to minister
to her amusement. Among other matters
devised to add to the pleasure of
the season, it was proposed to get up
an amateur dramatic performance, and
the manager of a circuit of provincial
theatres not far from London was sent
for to supervise the affair. It was
found, however, even after obtaining
the aid of the army officers in town,
that there was not available material
for casting a tragedy—a fortunate
thing for the tragedy and the audience—
so they settled upon the old comedy
of “The Poor Gentleman,” which they
fell to rehearsing with great earnestness.
The little programmes of the
play were printed at our establishment,
and I noted that Captain Berkeley,
a very clever amateur as I knew,
was set down for the part of Frederick
Bramble; the Honorable Mr. Wickham,
and M. P. for the county, as Doctor
Ollapod, and the Honorable Mrs. Leigh
for Emily Worthington. The Emily of
the occasion was a young, rich, and
fashionable widow, very popular in the
town, on account of her beauty and
affability, and the dextrous manner
in which she drove her own phaeton
through the streets on her visits. I
knew, as I said, that Berkeley was
clever, but I marvelled at his choice,
Dr. Ollapod being his specialty, as
Frederick had been mine, but I saw
that it was done to oblige his noble
host. I, of course, never expected to
witness, much less to partake in these
performances; for I would not stand
among lackeys, and though the proud
Earl of Landys might allow a printer's
boy the use of his library, to receive
him as a guest was another matter.
And yet I did participate, nevertheless.
The day before the evening set for
the performance, Captain Berkeley came
to the printing-room in company with
a stranger whom he introduced as Mr.
Haresfoot, the manager.
This new acquaintance was a man
about forty years old, tall and inclining
to stoutness, with a rubicund face,
a slightly pompous manner, and a
shuffling walk, as though he were moving
about in Turkish slippers. He
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
had a ridiculous habit of emphasizing
or rather punctuating his sentences, by
closing and opening first one eye and
then the other, like a sportsman taking
aim at his game from either shoulder
alternately—a curious feat, which I
tried afterwards to imitate by way of
amusement, but found it to be to me
physically impossible.
Mr. Hincks was absent and I was
managing the Chronicle in his stead—
having been sub-editor for some
time. I was knee-deep in a pile of
newspapers, from which I had been
clipping and arranging paragraphs;
but I gave my visitors seats when they
entered, and waited to hear what they
had to say, for their manner spoke of
business.
Captain Berkeley introduced his companion.
“Happy to make your acquaintance,
sir,” said Haresfoot, winking his left
eye. “I have come down here to act
as director to the amateur entertainment
at the castle, at Captain Berkely's
request”—here the right eye was
put through its exercise—“but we
find ourselves at the last moment in
some trouble, from which I am told you
can extricate us.” And then both eyes
opened and shut alternately.
I looked my astonishment.
“You must know, then, Ambrose,”
said the Captain, “we cast the `Poor
Gentleman' very nicely indeed, and
were getting along famously, when
Wickham receives news of his uncle's
alarming illness in Yorkshire—”
“The said uncle personating twenty
thousand a year,” interrupted Haresfoot,
“and valuable props.”
“And off he posts,” continued Berkeley.
“I am up in Ollapod”—
“And down on it,” again interrupted
the manager.
“Oh, be quiet, will you! We have
nobody to play Frederic, and reading
a part is a bore. You have played it
for us more cleverly than I should. I
mentioned that to the Earl and ladies,
and told them I thought you might be
induced to do it, under the circumstances.
So Haresfoot and myself
were commissioned to say they would
feel obliged if you would oblige them.”
“Captain,” said Haresfoot, “that
was very well done. If you sell out
and want employment come to me.
You shall announce all the new plays,
and make apologies to the audience
when my leading man has set too late
to dinner, and my leading woman has
a fit of the sulks.”
“Oh, bother!” cried the Captain.
“What do you say?”
“Well,” I replied, “I'd be very happy
to do so; but why couldn't Mr. Haresfoot
fill the gap?”
“Oh,” said the manager, winking
his left eye, “that would never do.”
Snap went the right eye. “I should
only mar the—well, the unity of the
performance.”
Berkeley laughed.
“That, translated into plain Enlish,”
said he, “means that he thinks
we are a set of muffs. Won't we show
him? But what do you say, my fine
fellah?”
“My time is not at my own disposal
quite. You must ask Mr. Guttenberg.”
“Oh, if that's all, we'll expect you
at rehearsal at twelve o'clock to-morrow—
twelve o'clock, sharp! Not your
friend of the money-bags, though.”
The chuckle that broke from Haresfoot
at this miserable attempt at pleasantry
by Berkeley, showed that the latter
had been talking to the former
about me, and served to embarass me
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
a little. After some little conversation
on indifferent subjects, they bid me
good-day, and with a nod to Tom
Brown, now our foreman, who had just
come in with some proof-slips, left the
room.
Tom had an enquiring look on his
face, so I told him their errand.
“Now there's luck!” cried he enviously.
“Here you, a prentice, get an
invitation to the castle among the
nobs; and I'm a journeyman, and a
ten times better actor than you, and
get none.”
And Tom went out again feeling
perfectly aggrieved at my good-fortune.
For my part I heartily wished he could
take my place. I felt myself to be in
no pleasant position. Not being
among my equals in rank, I expected
to be unnoticed except when wanted
on the stage; and not being a professional
actor I should not even have the
privilege of sneering at the bad
acting.
Of course, Mr. Guttenberg was only
“too happy to oblige his lordship,” and
thought “you ought to be keenly sensible
of the honor, Ambrose,” though
Ambrose was not. But when did a
true, manly and independent British
tradesman not feel delighted at a service
demanded by a peer of the realm?
That evening I saw Sharp, and mentioned
to him my proposed participation
in the performance at the castle.
“Umph!” he growled. “Don't let
them look down on you then. They're
no better than you, blood or no blood.
You owe no man anything, while
they're in debt, every one of them.”
“Not the Earl?”
“Yes; he too. That Mr. Wickham
owes me nearly ten thousand pounds,
spent in his last election. It's well se
cured, though—well secured, or he
wouldn't have had a ha'p'ny from
me. If his uncle dies there's a nice
windfall. Your Sir Robert Bramble—
Mr. Willoughby, Lord Willoughby,
D'Erncliffe's brother, is in my debt a
pretty penny. In fact, I've had dealings
with every one, ladies and all,
who are to play with you, except the
Honorable Mrs. Leigh and Captain
Berkeley.”
“Captain Berkeley is very prudent
about money-matters,” I said.
“No, he isn't. He's a wasteful dog—
buying all sorts of nick-nacks just
because the expense don't go beyond
his income. `Many a mickle makes a
muckle,' as the Scotch say, and he'll
want his money some day. But
you've no furred coat—you want a
furred coat in order to play Frederick.”
“Oh, I can trim an ordinary surtout
with a little plush. That will answer
very well.”
“No, it won't. Those fellows shan't
sneer at you. I have a furred robe
that has lain in tobacco these three
years. It is trimmed with the finest
sable—none of your catskin humbugs,
and belonged to a gay, young attache
of the Russian embassay. Mary Guttenberg
can take the fur off carefully,
and sew it on the edges of your coat.”
“I'm very much obliged to you, I'm
sure.”
“Yes; you ought to be—the fur
might get injured. But I'm getting
extravagant—like a fool. I shouldn't
wonder if I came to want yet. To-day
I was silly enough to waste my
money. Yes; there was a little brat
spilt some milk from her pitcher—spilt
it all, in fact. She was crying. I
took hold of her pitcher to look at it.
As there was nobody looking I slipped
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
a sixpence in her pitcher, gave it back
to her, and went away. I watched
her from round the corner. She found
the money presently, and—well it was
right funny, I declare, to see her tears
dry up, and a grin get on her dirty
face, and then see the puzzled look
that followed. I was a fool.”
“I think not. The enjoyment was
certainly worth the sixpence.”
“Yes; but don't you see,” returned
Sharp, argumentatively, “she only lost
a pen'orth of milk. Now, if I'd put in
a penny she'd have been just as delighted,
and I threw away five pence.
Five pence at compound interest for
fifty years—”
“Mr. Sharp,” I interrupted, “you'll
allow me to say that it isn't Abner
Sharp whom I know, that is talking
now, but the Abner Sharp the public
know; and I prefer my own acquaintance
to the public's a good deal.”
“You're an impudent boy,” retorted
Sharp. “But let me get you the coat.”
I pass over the details of the rehearsal.
They were spiritless, of
course, as all such things are, whether
amateur or professional. Mr. Haresfoot
was nearly driven frantic by
people persisting in coming on at the
wrong cues, and going off by the
wrong exits. The ladies were even more
provokingly stupid than the gentlemen,
and every few minutes the voice
of Mr. Haresfoot, saying—“That is not
the entrance, my dear!” interrupted
the business.
“Pray, Mr. Fecit,” asked our Emily
Worthington, “what does the man
mean by `dearing' me so absurdly?”
I explained to her that it was a
technical term applied by all stagemanagers
to all females, old or young,
during rehearsal, and that Mr. Hares
foot was merely following a professional
habit without reference to the
different position of the parties addressed.
“You will observe, madam,”
I said, “that the more he is vexed the
stronger grows the emphasis on the
term. If he should murmur `my dear,”
very tenderly, he is extremely put out;
and when he brings it out with unction,
`my d-e-a-r!' he is in a terrible
passion.”
Mrs. Leigh laughed heartily. “He
is a very singular person,” she said.
“What a ridiculous habit the man has
of winking both his eyes.”
“That, madam,” I observed, is the
the language of Nod, and means—
`Good characters are to be murdered
to-night.”'
“Pray, answer for yourself, sir,” she
cried, gaily. “I intend to play with
spirit; that is, if I have a Frederick
who will make love to me properly—
on the stage—as he is in duty bound
to do.”
At length it was all over, and I was
about to go, when a footman informed
me that the ladies wished to speak
with me in the drawing-room. I followed
him and he ushered me into the
presence of the Countess of Landys,
Mrs. Leigh and several others.
“Mr. Fecit,” said Mrs. Leigh, “we
have arranged some tableaux, to be
shown after the play. We are desirous
of adding another—Conrad and
Medora. You have such a charming
piratical look about you” (here she
laughed gaily and I bowed ironically)
“that I have ventured to request you
to be my Conrad for the occasion.”
“With great pleasure, madam. But
I am at a loss, on so short a notice, for
the costume.”
“We have discussed all that, sir.”
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
said Lady Landys. “Gifford, the
dowager's maid, to whom we mentioned
it, tells us that there are a number
of dresses in the lumber-room, and
among them one that will answer. I
have directed her to have it properly
aired, and sent to the dressing-room for
you this evening.”
I thanked her ladyship and bowed
myself out.
At night we assembled in one of
the drawing-rooms, used as a temporary
green-room, awaiting the call, and
I slipped out for a moment to get a
view of the theatre that had been improvised
for the occasion. The stage
had been arranged at one extremity of
the great hall, and the part reserved
for the spectators had been fitted up
with seats very neatly. The scenery
and appointments, which had been prepared
under Haresfoot's supervision,
were very complete. Peeping through
a hole in the curtain (however new it
may be every theatrical curtain has a
peep-hole) I saw the audience gradually
gather in, and presently they
were all seated. On the extreme right
sat the dowager Countess, attended by
Gifford; and in the centre were the
Earl and Countess of Landys, attended
by their intimate friends. In the background
stood the servants. Mr. Osborne,
whose position was intermediate
between servitude and equality,
stood a little apart leaning against the
wall. I took in this survey, and then
returned to the green-room.
Mrs. Leigh chatted with me while I
was waiting for the call, and when she
was not on the stage herself. I readily
saw through her purpose. She had
noted that I felt isolated, and in the
kindness of her heart endeavored to
set me at ease. I knew that my histo
ry had been told to the guests, and
that I was the subject of observation
and curiosity, perhaps pity—a still
more galling position for me to take.
These reflections caused me a deal of
embarrassment at first, and when I
made my appearance in the third act,
I did little to justify the panegyric on
my histrionic ability which Berkeley,
as I learned by Mrs. Leigh, had given
to the party. This did not last long.
The excitement of the scene soon
roused me up, and I dashed out vigorously.
The part itself is not much;
but as Humphrey and Sir Robert were
but poorly represented, and as Emily
supported me well, the part stood out
strongly in relief. The audience began
to warm, Ollapod was very quaint
and funny, and the curtain fell on the
final scene amid the applause of the
noble and aristocratic spectators.
Everybody complimented me—even
Haresfoot condescended to say that it
was a very clever performance (sinister
eye winking) for an amateur, (dexter
eye snapping); and if I ever chose
to go on the stage he would find a
vacancy in his company for me; the
whole of which was emphasized by
at least three double winks fired off
with the utmost rapidity.
The stage was now cleared for the
tableaux, and I went into the dressing-room
to prepare for my share of the closing
scene. I found a bundle there with
a note sent by Sharp, the latter stating
that having heard that I was to appear
as Conrad in the closing tableau, he
had sent me something I might need.
I examined the bundle and found it to
contain a Turkish yataghan and pistols
and a dagger, which I recognized
as similar to the Malay krees
found in the old house, but longer, and
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
with the guard at one side, extremely
wide. The dress laid out for me was
not Turkish, however, nor could I tell
of what nation. It consisted of a red
cap, shaped like a brimless hat, a long
full embroidered robe, red trousers
trimmed like the cap, and a black,
gilt-edged belt. The hat, jacket and
trousers were very well, but I could
not arrange the robe to my satisfaction.
At length I girt it around me
with the belt, and let it fall to my feet.
When I had done so, I looked into the
mirror to try the effect, and started in
surprise.
I was made up to look exactly like
the portrait of the pirate in the gallery,
and the resemblance was certainly
striking. This was a trick of Gifford,
but I had no time to conjecture her
object, for the call-boy run his head in
the door and called out: “Mr. Fecit for
the last tableau!” and I ran down
stairs to take my place in the final
scene.
Mrs. Leigh looked at me and said:
“That is a very becoming dress, certainly,
Mr. Fecit; but it doesn't belong
to Conrad.”
I agreed with her, but what was I
to do?
The bell tinkled and the curtain rose.
Mrs. Leigh was seated at my feet,
lute in hand, and my head was turned
nearly full front to the audience. As
the curtain went up I could see the
Earl rise slowly, as though in perfect
amazement. The elder Countess
leaned forward with an expression of
wonder and dismay overspreading her
countenance. The next moment she
raised herself from her seat, and with
the words, shrieked rather than spoken:
“He is alive! Bugunda Jawa!”
fell back in violent hysterics.
All was confusion in an instant, the
tableau became alive at once; and the
guests were gathered in groups, wondering
at the circumstance, as they
bore the dowager Countess to her
apartment. I knew nothing of that
until afterwards, for when the curtain
had suddenly fallen I hastened up
stairs, resumed my Frederick dress,
which I had worn to the castle, and
taking the bundle containing the arms,
came down to leave. As I reached
the stair-foot I met Mr. Osborne.
“Youngster,” said he, “what did
you mean by putting on that dress?
Answer me that.”
“Mean!” I retorted, “What should I
mean, Mr. Osborne? It was the dress
left out for me and I put it on. What
do you mean, sir, by addressing me in
that tone?”
“Where did you get it?”
“Her ladyship had it sent to me;
Lady Landys.”
“How did she know of it?”
“Gifford pointed it out, I believe.”
He left me suddenly, coupling Gifford's
name with an expression too
profane to print.
CHAPTER IX. , Which describes a bold Stroke of the Peer and his Steward.
When Mr. Guttenberg learned of the
occurrences at the castle he was
alarmed lest the Earl might be vexed,
and withdraw his favors and patronage
from our circulating library and
printing-rooms. This would have been
a serious blow, for although directly
these were not much, yet as his lordship,
by virtue of his title and property
set the fashion in those parts, indirectly
they were a great deal.
“It's a very sad affair, Ambrose,”
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
said he, “very stupid on your part to
get yourself up in that way. I am
astonished at you.”
“But it was not my fault, sir. How
could I help it? The dress was prescribed
for me, and I took it. It is no
great matter for complaint that an
old lady should take a whim into her
head and go off in hysterics. And it's
no great matter, sir, I should think, to
the Earl, who must be used to her eccentricities.”
“Yes, it is. His lordship don't like
to have an occurrence which will set
every one to talking. And then you
mustn't call her an `old lady.' It isn't
proper.”
“Isn't she an old lady, sir?”
“An old lady! Good gracious!
Why her husband was a peer of the
realm!”
“It was not my fault, I am sure,
sir. I did not invite myself to the
castle.”
“Now, hush! I am ashamed of
you. It was an act of condescension
to ask you. You ought to feel it deeply,
and your remark sounds like ingratitude.”
And very ungrateful the bookseller
thought me. However all my adopted
father's fears were dissipated on the
following day by a visit from Mr. Osborne,
who came to thank me for having
assisted at the play, and to say
that I was expected to visit the library
while the guests were in the house,
as usual. He said the dowager had
recovered from the events of the night
before; her momentary insane fit had
passed apparently away; and added
that the ladies thought me a very interesting
young man, with manners
above my station.”
I chafed under this. This man who
talked about “my station,” was only one
remove above a lackey, and I felt convinced
that his language was his own.
I preserved a contemptuous silence
until he had gone, and then I broke
into a torrent of wrath, innocent of effect,
as there was no one to listen but
Mr. Guttenberg, and he thought me
mad. It had one good effect, however,
it relieved me of my suppressed
vexation, and next moment I smiled at
the consternation of the printer and
my own folly.
Berkeley came into the printing-room
during the afternoon.
“Ambrose,” said he, “your'e a doosid
lucky fellah! you've made a sensation.
The whole town is talking about
you. You're the observed of all observers.
The ladies declare there never
was such a printer since types were
invented. The Honorable Mrs. Leigh
raves about you and declares you are
a young eastern rajah in disguise.”
“It's all very annoying,” I said,
picking away at the letter, for I was
at work at the case.
Tom Brown and the two apprentices
(for we had two new ones) laughed.
“I'd like to have been in his place,”
said Tom.
“Would you?”
“Wouldn't I?”
“Sensible fellah, Thomas, you!” answered
the Captain. “Annoyed, eh!
If I could have made half the impression
I'd have been content to have put
types in that what-d'ye-call-it-there for
the remainder of my existence. You're
famous, I tell you. Your friend Sharp
would do a good business to exhibit
you at the Museum along with the nick-nackeries.
By the by, where did you
get that magnificent sabre you wore
in the tableau?”
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
“Mr. Sharp was kind enough to send
the arms for me,” I replied, “when he
found I was to stand in the tableau.”
Berkeley whistled.
“And that magnificent fur on your
surtout—was that from Sharp too?”
“It was.”
“Worse and worse; or, rather, better
and better. Stranger than the
Sphynx, by Jove! Old Sharp was never
known to do a kind thing to any one
before. I am quite sure he would
never have loaned that sword to me
without twice its value left as collateral
security. Your power over him
is very odd. Do you know they say
when he gets in company with you, he
is absolutely genial! What is your
secret? Are you Dr. Faustus come
back, and in league with the old gentleman
below?”
The Captain ran on for some time in
that way until he remembered an engagement
to dine, and left with the
quizzical caution not to run off with
the Honorable Mrs. Leigh, as he had
designs matrimonially on that lady
himself, and should certainly kill and
eat his successful rival.
To satisfy Mr. Guttenberg, I resumed
my visits to the library. The visitors
to my Lord Landys were not of studious
habits, and I seldom met any of
them amid the books. When I did it
was because they dawdled in there for
a partial refuge from ennui; and then
in a little while dawdled out.
On Monday after the performance I
was at the castle. I had not been
seated a minute after hanging up my
overcoat, before Gifford came in.
“I have been watching for you,”
said she. “Pray come to my lady.”
I followed her, and she ushered me
into the presence of the Countess dowager.
The old lady half rose as I entered,
and pointed to a chair. I seated myself.
“Gifford,” she said, “see that no
one disturbs us.”
The waiting-woman retired.
“Now, young gentleman,” said the
Countess, “I have heard something of
your history, but not fully. Will you
do me the favor to recite it so far as
you can.”
I told her all I knew or had heard—
at least the essential parts of it. She
listened attentively, and when I had
concluded, came towards me, scanned
my features carefully, laid her hand on
my ear, and then resumed her seat,
much agitated.
“It is very singular,” she muttered,
“and it cannot be. Yet that peculiar
mark. Does Mr. Marston know your
history?”
“Mr. Marston?”
“Oh, I see. You call him the Earl
of Landys. I had forgotten. But the
true earl will return—yes, he will return.
He is not dead or his spirit
would have come to tell me. But
what did I ask you? I forget; for my
brain wanders sadly of late.”
“If the present Earl knew my history.
He knows as much as I have
told you,” I replied.
Have a care then. He suspects you,
and will do you a mischief. And beware
of Osborne. I may send for you
again. Will you come?”
“Should I receive your ladyship's
message, I will strive to obey it,” I
answered, as I bowed myself out.
I returned to the library and had
not been there long before the Earl
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
came in. He smiled as he returned my
bow.
“We had quite a scene the other
night, Mr. Fecit.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The Dowager Countess's infirmity
gives her strange fancies. Your performance
of Frederick was very
spirited.”
I bowed my acknowledgments.
“Be seated. Have you thought on
what I suggested once concerning India?”
This was the third time during the
year that he had asked me a similar
question, and it was to be the third time
I was to make him a similar answer.
“I am sincerely obliged to your
lordship for the kind offer, but for the
present I have determined to remain
here, and find employment at the business
which I have been taught.”
How we sin through courtesy and
the rule of the world! I was by habit
and principle opposed to falsehood;
and yet I here caught myself lying
outrageously. I was not sincerely
obliged to his lordship at all; on the
contrary I was angry at the persistent
offer. Nor did I think it kind, for I
believed it to be prompted by some
sinister motive, the nature of which
I could scarcely conjecture.
His lordship took snuff and laid the
box on the table.
“Don't let me interrupt your
studies,” said he, and took up a book.
I resumed mine, not to study but to
think. On looking up a few minutes
after I found the Earl had gone. His
gold snuff-box lay on the table. I
thought it a piece of forgetfulness, but
went on with my reading, and just then
seeing a passage which I wished to
note, opened a box lying near me to
get a sheet of paper. The lid of the
box was lined with looking-glass, and
it remained up and slightly back from
the perpendicular. While I was writing
before it Mr. Osborne came in.
He bade me a good day, and went to
the book-case, selecting and rejecting
books.
I read on, and on turning a page my
eye rose from the top of the book, and
fell on the looking-glass in the lid
of the paper box. It chanced to be that
angle which brought the right side of
the room before me. My very flesh
crawled. What infamous work was
this!
I distinctly saw Mr. Osborne with
the gold snuff-box in his hand, with
his eye fixed upon me, advance to
where my great-coat hung, and, after
slipping the snuff-box in the breastpocket,
gather up a couple of books
from the table and make a noiseless departure.
I arose in alarm and excitement, but
my course of action was decided on at
once. I removed the box, and placing
it on a small table in the farthest corner
of the room, threw a newspaper
carelessly over it.
I sat there for a little while, but no
one came. The warning of the old
Countess recurred to me. What
could it all mean? At length the
anxiety became insupportable. I rose
and put on my great coat in order to go
out. I trembled with excitement, and
was steadying myself for a moment
against the chair, when the Earl accompanied
by Brewis, his butler, entered.
“And so, Mr. Fecit,” said the peer,
“you won't go to India? Why, where
is my snuff-box? I left it on the table.
Didn't you see it here, Mr. Fecit.”
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
“I did, my lord; but it has not been
here since Mr. Osborne left. Perhaps
he took it to hand it to your lordship.”
I said this in order to see if his lordship
were a party to the affair.
“No, I met him this moment. He
would have told me, you know It is
very singular.”
“Very,” I said, playing with him.
“I am quite sure I left it on the table.
Has any one else been here?”
“No one but Mr. Osborne.”
“It's very odd; and I don't know,
but—”
It's coming now, I thought.
“I am quite sure you couldn't have
taken it, of course, but, as a matter of
form, you had better allow Brewis
here to examine your pockets. It will
prevent false reports, you know.”
He felt his degradation, I was sure.
He looked meanly. I put my hand to
my breast pocket for the express purpose
of leading him on as I said:
“No, my lord. I allow no man, under
any pretext, to thus degrade me.”
“Brewis, do you hear?” asked the
peer. “This is extraordinary. If you
know nothing of the box, why do you
object to being, searched? Under such
circumstances I shall insist on it.”
“Pray,” said I, “did it never occur
to your lordship that you might have
left your box elsewhere in the room?”
“No! for I am positive that I left
it here.”
“Brewis,” said I to the butler, “do
me the favor to lift the paper on yonder
table.”
Brewis obeyed me, and revealed the
box.
“Is that what you seek, my lord?”
His lordship reddened, but took the
box without a word.
“I ask your lordship if that be the
box?”
The Earl muttered “Yes!”
“I owe you a thousand apologies,
Mr. Fecit,” he said after a pause.
“The mistake was mine, but your
manner—”
I might have affected to believe him,
though I knew it to be a lie. But I
was young and hot-headed, so I interrupted
him at once.
“I would like to believe that your
lordship was not engaged in a plot
that would disgrace the lowest minded
man in the world. But you were.
What your motives may have been I
can't tell; but you have the comforting
reflection of knowing that you have
failed.”
“Do you dare to accuse me, you
beggarly brat?” he demanded angrily.
“Fine language for a peer,” I replied.
“Do you see that mirror, my
lord? Seated before that, I saw your
tool at his dirty work, and I have
baffled him. I see through you and
despise you.”
The stupid surprise on the butler's
features satisfied me that he, at least,
was not in the conspiracy. The contents
of Paul Bagby's letter came to
my mind and I could not refrain from
a parting shot at random.
“Let me tell your lordship one
thing. I am more prudent than Don
Jose Espinel.”
The shot told. The Earl's features
grew livid with rage and apprehension,
and with a laugh I turned on my
heel and left him.
-- 052 --
CHAPTER X. , Wherein the Storm becomes so fierce that I Scud before it.
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
I went home immediately from the
castle, and entered the printing room
in no pleasant frame of mind. I felt
that I had been led by my passion into
a serious error. The allusion to Espinel's
abduction, or murder, whichever
it might be, was entirely wrong—not
only unnecessary of itself, but a breach
of confidence. The Earl would know
very well the source from whence
I had my information, and thus I had
compromised myself. The attempt
against myself I could trace to nothing
but a belief that I was acquainted
with the secret of Espinel; and unfounded
though that belief was, the
boast would confirm it. In any view
of the case I had let my resentment
get the better of my prudence—no very
wonderful position for a youth to take.
Tom Brown expressed surprise at
my quick return and commented on my
fretted countenance; but I parried his
thrusts and answered his questions by
evasive monosyllables. I took my
composing stick in hand and commenced
to set up one of Mr. Hinck's
ponderous leaders. But I was too
moody and restless, and emptying my
half-filled stick on a galley, I left the
copy on the case, threw off my apron,
and started for the shop. Here I found
Mr. Guttenberg behind the counter
serving some customers with stationery.
“You are soon back from the castle
to-day, Ambrose.”
The fact that I went to the castle
regularly by invitation of the Earl was
a matter of pride with the printer, and
he was fond of alluding to it before
strangers.
I answered him in the affirmative
and passed on to the back room. As
I did so I heard him say, in reply to
some remark made by one of the customers—
“Oh, yes! a great favorite with his
lordship.”
“Why, dear me, Ambrose!” exclaimed
Mrs. Guttenberg, looking up
from her work as I entered the apartment
where she was engaged in sewing,
“you look quite ill. What is the
matter? Are you sick?”
“Heart-sick, mother,” I answered;
for I often called her mother, though I
never called her husband father;
“heart sick.”
“What's the matter now, Brosy?”
inquired Mary, “you are pale as a
ghost.”
“Mary, I want to talk to your father
and mother a while. Suppose you go
into the shop and ask your father to
come here when he is disengaged.
You can take his place awhile.”
“What's it all about? Can't I know
too?”
“Do as Ambrose bids you,” said her
mother.
Mary went out pouting, and in a
few minutes Mr. Guttenberg came in
I told the couple all that had occurred
between me and the Earl, with the exception
of my own parting speech.
“The vile wretches!” exclaimed Mrs.
Guttenberg, indignantly.
But Mr. Guttenberg only looked
grave.
“There seems to be no doubt about
Mr. Osborne,” he said; “but you did
wrong to insult his lordship. He no
doubt thought you did take the box.
It was natural enough under the circumstances,
he not knowing you
well.”
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
“Why,” said I, “he was in the plot.”
“That can't be,” was the rejoinder.
“A peer of the realm! Impossible!”
“A peer of the realm may be a
rascal as well as a peasant of the
soil.”
“But he could have no motive.”
“He has one, depend on it. I have
reason to suspect it, and know why;
but it is quite enough, I think, to recall
the warning of the old Countess.”
“She is half crazy—wholly so at
times. You look at it wrongly.”
We talked the matter over without
coming to any agreement. While still
engaged in the discussion, Mary came
in to tell us that a footman was at the
door with a message from Lord Landys
who desired to see Mr. Guttenberg
immediately, and his lordship's own
carriage was in waiting to convey the
stationer to the castle.
“To see me! Bless me!” exclaimed
the tradesman, in a flutter of excitement.
“Get me my best coat, Mrs.
Guttenberg. Mary, tell the servant
I'll be ready presently. His lordship's
own coach! What an honor! Thank
you, my dear. Tidy my cravat a little,
Mrs. Guttenberg. It's all about
you, Ambrose. I'll be conciliatory,
but firm.”
Firm! a tradesman with an earl!
“There, my dear, that will do. Ambrose,
take charge of the shop till I
return.”
When we left the back room we
found Berkeley and the lieutenantcolonel
of the regiment, a gray-haired,
ramrodish individual, named Carden,
chatting with Mary.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have
to go to the castle on a little business.
His lordship has sent for me, and his
lordship's coach is waiting, and Am
brose and Mary will attend to you”—
and with this off went the delighted
printer, riding grandly for the first
time in his life, in a coach with a coronet
on the panels.
“He's in a doosid hurry, to be sure,”
said Berkeley. “Miss Guttenberg, the
Colonel wants that novel I had yesterday.
Is there a copy in?”
“Two of them, Captain. Which
will you have, Colonel?”
“Whichever you choose.”
“Take care, Colonel,” laughed Berkeley.
“One is dog's-eared, and the
other mortally wounded in the last
leaf. Now, the question is, dog's-ears,
or the veteran.”
“The complete one, by all means,
then.”
While the Colonel was examining
some stationery, I took the Captain
aside.
“Are you engaged to-night?” I asked.
“No—at least to nothing which
can't be put off. Why?”
“Can you spare me a couple of
hours?”
“Yes.”
“Then meet me at the Crown and
Angel at seven.”
“Of course, my boy, if it will oblige
you. What's up?”
“I'll tell you then.”
Out went the brace of officers. I
went to the desk and wrote a note to
Sharp, requesting him to meet me at
the Crown and Angel at seven, if he
were at all interested in a matter that
concerned me very much. I gave this
to a neighbor's boy, with directions to
hunt Sharp up, and get a verbal answer.
In about an hour the lad returned
with the reply that he would
attend to it.
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
Mary was on nettles all the time to
know what was going on.
It was quite late in the day when
Mr. Guttenberg returned in the noble
man's coach. He was filled with news,
and called me into the back room,
where Mrs. Guttenberg impatiently
awaited us.
“I have arranged it all properly,”
he said. “It was all as I conjectured.
His lordship has been very much deceived
in his steward, whom he has
discharged. His lordship is very much
hurt at what you said to him, but
sends his regret at having suspected
you even for a moment; though I must
agree with him that, under the circumstances,
the suspicion was not unnatural.
Of course I promised that you
would apologize for your very rash,
and, I must say, notwithstanding the
provocation, very offensive words.”
“This I cannot do, sir. His lordship
was a party to the whole affair.”
“How unreasonable and absurd you
are, Ambrose; and after his lordship,
a peer of the realm, has condescended
to make the first advances, too. He a
party! Why he is perfectly furious
against Mr. Osborne!”
“Is he? Will he have his steward
arrested for his attempt to fasten crime
on me?”
“He has sent him away.”
“He will bring him back in good
time.”
“Now, my dear boy, you surely
won't refuse, when I've made a promise.
There's nothing disgraceful in
a frank apology for such words to a
superior.”
“True, sir; but here the apology
would involve a falsehood. I am not
the least sorry for my conduct, which
was proper enough.”
“Ambrose,” said Mr. Guttenberg,
“I need not remind you that I have
always done my duty by you. I have
treated you like a son. Can you refuse
me a favor, and not only lose me
a patron, but gain me an enemy?”
I was a little affected by this appeal,
but none the less firm. I answered
promptly:
“I am grateful to you—I would
serve you in almost anything; but I
will not apologise to Lord Landys, and
certainly will never hold any intercourse
with him. He is an unprincipled
man, and my enemy.”
“What nonsense! He's your friend—
spoke of you in the warmest manner,
said you were a young man of the
highest promise; and even offered to
have you appointed to a post in India,
and to advance a thousand pounds for
your outfit. A thousand pounds!
Think of that!”
“Yes, for some motives of his own
he is quite anxious to exile me to India.”
“Motives! What could he have?”
“I do not know; but I do know
that he's a scoundrel.”
“Goodness! the boy is mad! A
scoundrel! An earl! a nobleman that
will be a duke when his grace of Sellingbourne
dies—a scoundrel! What
folly! I tell you what, Ambrose, you
are standing in your own light. You
will be of age in a few days. I have
the papers drawn up, all ready to sign
and seal, making you a full partner,
not only in the printing and stationery
business, but in the Chronicle. I
had always meant you should share
equally with Mary, as though you
were my own son; and now you make
me go back of my word.”
“I am very sorry, but I can't help it.”
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
“Then there'll be no Guttenberg &
Fecit, I can tell you. No, sir! you'll
be no partner of mine—no anything
here. You shall leave this house. I'll
have no further to do with you!”
“Oh, don't say that, John,” sobbed
his wife. “Give him time. He won't
be so obstinate if he has time to consider.”
I shook my head.
“I'll give him twenty-four hours,
and not one moment more. Let him
make up his mind by this time to-morrow.
If he chooses to sacrifice his
home and his prospects, and to repay
me with ingratitude, all through his
selfishness and obstinacy, let him do
it—that's all.”
Off flounced Mr. Guttenberg into
the shop, really believing himself a
much-injured man, and I absolutely
and positively heard him speak snappishly
to a customer. Mrs. Guttenberg
cried, and pleaded with me. I
answered the good old soul kindly and
affectionately, but I was determined,
nevertheless. Mary came in and looked
on in double distress—a two-headed
misery on her part—firstly, on account
of the general unhappiness, and
secondly, because she couldn't tell
what it was all about.
That night I went to the Crown and
Angel, called for a private room, and
directed the waiter to send in those
who inquired for me.
Captain Berkeley came in about ten
minutes before seven.
“Here I am, old fellah,” cried he,
“in advance of time. Now, what is
it?”
“Wait awhile, Captain. I don't
want to tell the same story twice.”
“A council of three, eh? Who's
the third?”
“Mr. Sharp.”
“Whew!” whistled Berkeley. “Old
money-bags, eh? This will be a queer
confabulation.”
“You won't have to wait long, Captain,
for there goes the first stroke of
my godfather.”
The last peal of the great bell of St.
Stephen's was still echoing when a
tap at the door announced the servant
who came to usher in old Sharp. The
latter stared in surprise at Berkeley,
and then, recovering himself, said:
“Well, what is it, Ambrose? Don't
keep me waiting. Time is money.”
“I wish the bankers agreed with
you, old fellah,” said Berkeley, gaily.
“Pshaw!”
I hastened to prevent a threatened
explosion by telling the story of the
Earl's attempt, as I had told it before
to the Guttenbergs. I did not give
my own history—it was not needed.
Had I done so it might have saved me
some after trouble. But who knows
his future?
“Now,” said I, when I had finished,
“the question is—what shall I do?”
“The Countess is mad, and the Earl
is madder, and Guttenberg is maddest.
Mad or no mad,” said Berkeley,
“he wants to get you out of the road,
for some reason best known to himself.
It is quite clear to my mind that
if you don't go he'll do you a mischief.
My advice is, cut and run. What do
you say, Mr. Sharp?”
“The Captain is right, Ambrose.
You must leave Puttenham for the
present, and quickly.”
“But how, and when?”
“At once. Four wagons start for
London at two to-morrow morning.
One of these will take you. The wagoner
will not disoblige me; he owes
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
me nine pound five shillings nop'nse
ha'penny. You can get into the wagon
just out of town, and I'll instruct him
what to do. Don't attempt to leave
the wagon for the mail, no matter how
slowly you go. When you get to London—
but have you any friend there?”
“Yes; one I can rely on, I think,
Mr. Paul Bagby.”
“Well, go to him, and keep quiet.
Have you any money?”
“About five pounds; that will last
me until I get employment in some
printing-house.”
“Let me give you some money, or
you may get into trouble.”
Berkeley raised his eyebrows at
such an offer from Sharp, and then a
second time when I declined it.
“Very foolish,” muttered the old
man. “Better lean on a friend's staff
than be struck by an enemy's cudgel.
However, I'll give you a sealed letter
to my bankers when you leave, and
you must promise to avail yourself of
it when you are in need.”
I promised.
“Now, go home,” said Sharp, “get
what you want at home; but don't
encumber yourself with a large bundle.
Light load, more speed. Slip
out unobserved, and meet us at the
Reindeer an hour after midnight.”
“But this looks like flight, and I am
not sure—”
“Not a word,” said Berkeley. “You
asked us to do your thinking, and we
have done it. The enemy is too strong,
and you must retreat. Leave us to
cover your rear.”
I could see no help for it. It was a
choice between going at once of my
own accord, or of being kicked out
the next day by Mr. Guttenberg. So
I returned home, and when the family
had retired, made a bundle of a spare
suit and some shirts, took the ring
and other tokens connected with my
history, rolled up Zara's portrait, which
I cut from its frame, and at a few minutes
after one o'clock, let myself
quietly out into the street.
I found the Reindeer. There were
several large wagons in the yard. I
was about to go to them, when some
one tapped me on the shoulder. It
was Berkeley, cloaked. He whispered
to me:
“Keep from the wagon. We have
talked with the wagoner, who will
take you up at a distance from town.
You know St. George Clyst.”
This was a church on the high-road,
nearly five miles from town.
“Yes.”
“Well, walk on, and remain in the
by-road there. The wagon has one
grey horse in the lead; the rest are
bays. There are three other wagons,
and yours will start last. When you
see it approach the mouth of the bye-road,
step up to it, and say to the
driver, `fine night for a race.' He'll tell
you to get in. Keep close until you
arrive in London.”
Sharp, who had come forward during
the utterance of these instructions,
slipped the promised letter into my
hand. They both wished me good-speed,
and I promised to write to them,
and give them the name I should assume,
for it was not deemed advisable
to retain my own in London. We
shook hands and parted, and I pushed
on to the place of rendezvous.
I waited at the spot pointed out for
a long while. At length I heard the
jingling of bells, and watched first one
and then two other wagons pass as I
lay in the shadow of the wall. The
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
fourth, with the light horse in the lead,
came according to promise in its turn.
The wagoner was walking with his
horses, evidently expecting some one.
I advanced, spoke as had been agreed
on, and was helped into the wagon,
which only contained hay and a couple
of bags of feed. The train was
returning empty. I buttomed my great
coat closely around me, and was soon
fast asleep.
I waked up about an hour after day-dawn.
We had stopped at a road-side
tavern, called the Fair-Mile Inn, and
here the wagoner secured me a lunch.
The second night I got out of the wagon
before we arrived at our stoppingplace,
and took lodgings as though I
were a foot-passer. In the morning I
went out before the starting of the
wagon, which picked me up two or
three miles farther on. And this was
the daily manner of the journey.
On the fifth day after our departure
for London, when within two miles of
the town of Coppleton, the fore axletree
broke short off in the middle, and
our progress was suddenly checked.
After a consulation between the wagoner
and myself, it was agreed that I
should walk to the town, and send
back a wheelwright. I did so, although
I had some trouble to find an artizan
disengaged, and more trouble to induce
him to go so far. As I was now within
forty miles of London, I concluded
to remain in the town a few days to
recruit myself after my five days'
shaking. So I took lodgings at a quiet
looking inn, sent for my scanty luggage,
and bestowed it and myself in a
snug apartment, where I passed a very
pleasant night.
The town of Coppleton is of modern
growth, and owes its importance principally
to its glove manufactories, and
two large establishments for the manufacture
of chemicals. In the morning
I took a stroll through it, to see what
was most worthy of note. As I roamed
up one street and down another,
my eyes frequently rested on flaming
placards, announcing that the theatre
would open on the following Monday,
with a new and efficient company;
and that the performances, by command
of his worship the Mayor, would
be “Speed the Plough,” and “The
Turnpike Gate.” I concluded that the
performance would be as good, at all
events, as any I had hitherto seen in
Puttenham, and so I said, thinking
aloud:
“I think, if I remain here so long,
I'll go. Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” said some one
at my elbow.
I turned. My echo was a broad-shouldered
man, rather over the middle
size, with a square chin, large
mouth, and deeply-set eyes. He was
rather shabbily dressed in an old body-coat,
buttoned closely up to the chin,
trousers polished on the knees, boots
long guiltless of Day & Martin's manufactured
lustre, and a hat garnished
with brown on the edges of the crown.
The presumption was that he wore a
shirt, that being supposed to be a necessary
part of an Englishman's apparel,
but there was no ocular evidence
of the fact. I made up my mind
as to his profession, from his tone of
voice and manner, and rejoined:
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“One of the company, I presume?”
“Sir, I have that honor. My name
is Fuzzy—Oliver Fuzzy. You will observe
my name in large letters on the
posters. I lead the business on this
circuit—play the Hamlets, Richards,
and others—and occasionally demean
myself by assisting in a broad-sword
combat between the pieces. However,
that keeps my hand in for Richard and
Macbeth, and `I dare do all that may
become a man; who dares do more is'
not Oliver Fuzzy. For all of which
old Hare, the Gov., allows me a miserable
sal., when we are playing, and
nothing and nopence a week when we
are not.”
“You have a prominent position,
Mr. Fuzzy, and it ought to be profitable.”
“`I do believe your grace,' it ought
to be, but it isn't. We don't play here
till next week, and as I'm up in every
thing we do for the first fortnight, I
have nothing to study, and so I am
roaming through the town, `a looker-on
here in Vienna,' cogitating on the
ways and means of raising a pot of'
arf-and-'arf.”
Here was a character, and I resolved
to study it.
“Suppose you join me in a pot,” I
said. “I have played a little myself
en amateur, and have a sympathy with
the profession.”
“Will I? `Come on, Macduff.”'
“But you'll have to point me out
the proper place, for I am a stranger
here.”
“Point! nothing easier, as long as
you'll point when we get there. `I do
remember me that hereabouts there
lives,' not `a starved apothecary,' but
a well-fed publican, who deals in most
excellent potations. Shall I attend
your grace?”
“Lead on; I follow,” I said, catching
his humor.
We soon found ourselves in a little,
quiet ale-house, in an alley just back
of a plain and dingy-looking building,
which my companion informed me was
the theatre. By the numerous portraits
of leading actors on the walls, as
well as from its proximity to the play-house,
I inferred that the place was a
resort for actors and their friends. A
couple of pots of half-and-half were
soon foaming before us, and Mr. Fuzzy,
blowing off the froth, and exclaiming,
“Off with his head! So much for
Buckingham,” took a hasty draught,
and replaced the half empty pot on
the table.
“With some bread and cheese, and
a pipe to follow,” he said, “this were
a banquet for the gods.”
“Wouldn't a chop be better?” I asked.
“Chop! if there be anything for
which this house is famous, outside of
its malt liquors, it is a chop.”
So I ordered the chops, and while
they were preparing, I asked him concerning
the actors.
“A very fine company, sir,” said he.
“It's true that our juvenile man is rather
shaky—the Governor goes in for
that line himself, and he's past it now—
fifty if he's a day; but juvenility is
his weakness. Then he chews his
words like Charles Kean—that young
man'll never make an actor; I know
it. I've seen him. Otherwise the
company is tip-top, for a poor circuit.
Cripps is our low comedy man—more
than passable; we've a very honest
fellow who makes an admirable
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
villain; and then there's Finch—a good
old fellow is Charley Finch—he does
everything well, and has to do everything,
second old man, heavy fathers,
high-priests, eccentric comedy, and so
on Then there's myself—well, I don't
boast; but I could have trod the London
boards before now. Lots of city
managers have made me offers; but
my health, my health, you see—here's
to you, sir?”
“And the women?”
“The ladies of the company are clever—
one especially—Cecilia Finch.
She's a prodigy; the best little juvenile,
the best daughter, and in chambermaids—
well, they haven't anything
in London can hold a candle to her.
Ah, she's a gem! and everything she
does is—done to a turn, I declare.”
The last observation had reference
to the chops, which the waiter then
placed upon the table, and which my
new friend attacked with a vehemence
and vigor highly complimentary to the
grazier who fed the sheep, and the
cook who prepared the meal, not ne
glecting his speech in the intervals of
mastication.
“We have a vacancy in the company,
though; we want a light comedy
man. We had one engaged, but a
screw's loose somehow. I suppose the
Governor will scare one up somewhere
in time. And here he comes, and
Charley Finch.”
I looked up, and there was my old
acquaintance, Haresfoot, in company
with a slender, pale and gentlemanly
old man. Haresfoot caught my eye,
and recognized me at once.
“Pray, my dear sir,” said he, shaking
me by the hand, “what lucky wind
has blown you to our coast?”
“An accident,” I replied; “but I am
right glad to see you. You're the manager,
I see.”
“Yes, and a very troubled one just
now. The most unfortunate thing in
the world. I've announced `Speed the
Plough,' and here my light comedian
sends me word three days before we
open, that he is laid up with a rheumatism
which will prevent his playing
for two months.”
“Very unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate! ruinous!”
And here the manager fired off his
peculiar winks, right and left, with
startling rapidity.
“By-the-bye, are you up in Bob
Handy?”
“I've done it a good while since.”
“Do it again. I'll announce you as
a distinguished amateur; give you
every chance. They're a most discriminating
and fashionable audience,
the wealthiest glovers in all England;
fine women too; set 'em all crazy. It's
a chance that only occurs once in a
life-time.”
I thought over the matter a little
while. There was a love of the stage
in me. I liked the experiment of the
thing, and had never any of its rough
experiences, and I consented.
Mr. Haresfoot was in a state of delight
at once, and fired off his double
winks more rapidly than ever. It was
arranged that I should appear on the
Monday following, and if I made a
hit a permanent engagement was to
follow, at a salary about equal to what
I could earn as a journeyman printer,
with two one-third benefits during the
year. It was also arranged that my
stage name should be Neville, that of
Fecit not being considered eligible;
and as Mr. Neville I was formally introduced
to Mr. Finch and Mr. Fuzzy,
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
over a pot of porter a-piece, which Mr.
Haresfoot insisted on providing in honor
of the occasion.
General conversation ensued, in
which old Finch bore his part, and I
was struck with the manner and spirit
of the old man's remarks. He was
evidently a man of education, and the
style of his conversation and movements
betokened the gentleman. How
such a man could ever have become a
strolling actor was a mystery, and I
determined to fathom it if possible.
Finch was a stage name; what his
real name was I felt certain I would
yet know. I was not of a curious nature,
in general, but here there was
something that provoked prying.
I pass over our conversation. As
soon as it closed I accompanied the
party to the theatre, where rehearsal
was about to begin, and was there introduced
to Billy Nuts, who combined
in his person the offices of prompter,
property-man, and wardrobe-keeper to
the rest of the company, male and female.
The rehearsal commenced. As it
was manifestly to the interest of every
member of the company that I should
succeed, one would have naturally
supposed that I should have received
every assistance and encouragement.
But actors have a contempt, generally
well founded, for amateurs; and do
not believe that any one can ever leap
to a position in their profession. They
think that the only way to attain eminence
is to climh the ladder, round by
round; a belief in the main correct
enough, although, those who have self-possession,
occasionally form exceptions
to the general conclusion. I
knew of this feeling, and was therefore
careful to make no attempt at act
ing during rehearsal, but walked
through my part in the most hurried
and business-like manner. Modest as
was my demeanor, it did not save me
from sneers and contemptuous looks
from every one on the stage except
from Finch and his daughter. Instead
of daunting me, this put me on my
mettle, and I took no apparent notice
of it, much as I chafed under the malicious
looks and words of my colleagues.
The announcement of “a distinguished
amateur, his first appearance
on the regular stage,” set the good
people of Coppleton in a fever of excitement,
and to the great delight of
the manager, every seat in the lower
tier of boxes was taken in advance.
The treasurer informed me as I entered
the theatre on Monday morning for
the last rehearsal, that the box-sheet
presented “a be-yu-tiful appearance,”
and Billy Nuts said to me, as I came
on the stage:
“'Ere's a go! Coppleton's waked
up! There'll be a crushin' 'ouse, and
if you fail after hall this blowin', my
heyes! won't there be a jolly row!”
When the night came, the little
house was jammed long before the
curtain rose, and on my appearance I
was warmly received, my stage-presence
being rather striking, and my
features prepossessing. But, to my
utter dismay, a powerful stage-fright
took possession of me; the audience
seemed to be sitting in a mist, my
tongue refused to move, and my knees
trembled so much that I was scarcely
able to stand. A dead and painful silence
fell over the house like a pall,
interrupted by a titter from one of the
side-boxes. I was about to turn and
flee from the stage, when I caught a
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
glimpse of the face of Fuzzy, maliciously
triumphant, at the wing.
It recalled my powers instantly.
The stage-fright left me as suddenly
as it had come. Through the part I
rattled vivaciously, my spirits rose
with every scene, never was I more
mercurial; and every fresh round
of applause gave me new spirit.
The curtain dropped on the epilogue
amid a deafening shout of the
audience, and I was called before the
curtain (a rare compliment in the
town) with the utmost enthusiasm. I
was announced to re-appear in the
same character on the Wednesday
following, to the apparent delight of
the house; and the performers crowded
around me on the stage to offer
their congratulations on my success.
“Hit's the greatest 'it, sir,” said
Billy Nuts, “has 'as been made 'ere,
by hall hodds. You're no hamachure;
you're a hactor.”
And Billy, in the exuberance of his
delight, qualified his assertion by an
expletive more earnest than pious, and
quite unnecessary to repeat.
CHAPTER XII. , Wherein Selgrove quite undoes the work of Coppleton, until we set two Richards in the field.
Our season at Coppleton was a great
success. I became the fashion, and it
was considered high ton among the
glove-makers to witness the performance
of Mr. Neville, “an artist,” as
the Coppleton Journal observed, “without
a peer in his line of business.”
This should have been true, as Haresfoot
was an undoubted judge of acting,
and as he wrote the puff and paid
for its insertion, it was naturally to be
presumed that such was his unbiased
opinion. But the plain truth was merely
that I was no actor at all, and owed
my success to a fine figure, a rather
handsome face, a strong verbal memory,
and a full flow of animal spirits.
So long as I pleased the public, the
manager did not care to enlighten me
as to my deficiencies; and because I
pleased the public, my fellow-actors
did not dare to; and so I believed
myself to be a capital performer. I
know better now; but fortunately I
did not know then; and the occasional
sharp criticism of the judicious few
fell from my self-love as harmlessly as
the rain-drops from the back of a water-bird.
I did not forgive these candid
critics, nevertheless, for I believed,
as a matter of course, that each
had an especial spite at me, and looked
at my performance with the eyes of
envy and hatred.
I became intimate with none of the
company except Finch and his daughter,
both of whom interested me very
much—wonder mingling with the interest
in his case, and delight mingling
with the interest in hers. Cecilia
Finch was at that time about the age
of seventeen, and though her features
were neither classical in their outline,
nor striking in their general effect,
they were nevertheless beautiful from
their sweetness when in repose, and
their archness of expression when lit
up by conversation. I have said that
her features were not regular, her nose
being too small and her forehead too
high; but she had clear, hazel-grey
eyes, large and lustrous, and a pair of
lips that were delightful to look at in
repose, and were highly mobile under
emotion. In general her manner was
extremely quiet; but on the stage she
was dashing, without being bold, and
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
piquant without being pert. She was
a deserved favorite with the public, for
she had a deal of talent, capable of
still further development, while she was
respected by the actors in the company,
and petted by the actresses. This
popularity was not courted. She kept
herself apart from the rest, and devoted
herself to her father, to whom
she was a shadow—seeming never
more cheerful than when with him.
That Finch had been born, or at
least bred a gentleman, I had no manner
of doubt. His manner, language,
and evidently liberal education, betrayed
the fact. It was not very long
before I became sufficiently intimate
with him and his daughter to gain his
confidence, and, little by little, I obtained
the leading points of his history.
He had been the son of a
man of wealth and family, and at
the age of twenty had gone off to join
a company of strolling players. His
father, after endeavoring to reclaim
him in vain, had left his whole estate,
which was not entailed, to the younger
brother, and shortly after died.
Finch married a member of the company
to which he was attached. This
completely severed him from his family
connections, and his lot in life was
fixed.
I should have said, however, that
my intimacy in the company extended
to one more. I became well acquainted
with Billy Nuts, necessarily; for
Billy was the ubiquitous and energetic
factotum of the company, and whether
he prompted the performers,
painted scenery, made properties,
picked out dresses, or murdered the
King's English, he did it with a thoroughness
quite his own. I soon grew
to be a great favorite with Billy, prin
cipally, I believe, because I admired
hugely a new scene—an interior—
which he painted for us at Coppleton,
and which, especially when we consider
the scanty materials at his command,
was a really clever bit of art.
Billy was full of stories, too. He had
been nearly everywhere, had tried almost
every line of life, and had a yarn
apropos to every occasion. I used to
spend a deal of time, after rehearsal,
in the paint-loft, where Billy, when he
had nothing else to do, would patch
and re-vamp the old scenery, changing
a worn-out English landscape, by
the introduction of a palm-tree here
and a pyramid there, with divers daubs
of ochre and amber, into a passable
oriental view; and by a few upright
strokes, surrounded by zig-zag lines,
and some harlequin patches of color,
converting a plain English interior into
a Moorish palace. In all this my
former intercourse with Paul Bagby
enabled me to give Billy a hint or two
at times, which seemed to increase his
respect for me amazingly.
Finch, who had a taste for the fine
arts, used to climb to the paint-room
occasionally, and there we three held
confabulation on various matters to
our hearts' content.
I had been about two months in the
company, and our season at Coppleton
was about to close, when I learned the
cause of Finch's continued melancholy.
The poor man had been doomed to
death by his doctor, who informed him
that he labored under a disease of the
heart which might take him away at
any moment. This was the spectre
that haunted him night and day; that
clouded his life with a darkness the
most terrible, and which neither the
regard of those around him, nor the
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
affectionate ministrations of his daughter
could for a moment disperse. If it
fostered melancholy, however, it begat
gentleness; and Charles Finch had
never had a harsh or unkind word for
any one, and never appeared, under
any circumstances, to lose either patience
or temper.
The very day after I had obtained
these facts from Finch, we were in the
paint-room, as usual, and I was sketching
out a scene in charcoal on a flat,
for the use of Billy, when the latter
said:
“That's a werry good idear; Mr. Neville;
Spanish, is it not?”
“No, Billy; it is a sketch of a spot
where I was bred.”
“It looks Spanish. Lord bless you,
we haint no scenery here can hold a
candle to some in Spain. That flat the
Governor's so fly on, I painted from
memory, but it don't come up to the
real thing. If I could draw like you
now, I'd show 'em some paintin'.”
“So you've been in Spain, too?”
“I was a walley, sir, to a gent as
traveled in the Peninzelay—an' that
minds me of an event. I've been puzzlin'
my 'ead hever since you've been
with us, about your face, which I
know'd I'd seen afore—and now I know
why. I seed a young 'oman as looked
as like you as two peas—let me see—
the matter of twenty odd year ago.
My master, Mr. Teignham an' I was in
Cadiz.”
Finch started, and colored, for some
unexplained reason, but resumed his
self-possession in an instant. Nuts
went on with his story.
“One night, he sez to me, sez he,
`Villiam, we're goin' to the Consulate.'
`Wery vell, sir,' sez I. Ven ve got
there I found he vos to be a vitness to
a veddin'. I seed the marriage myself.
I didn't know their names; but the
young 'oman vos the von as resembled
you. There; that kind o' startled look
you put on brings her face back to me
right away.”
“What kind of looking man was
the bridegroom?”
“Vell, a tall, dark-complected man;
a leetle stiff, but a nob, every hinch
of 'im, or I'm no judge.”
“Were they Spaniard's?”
“I think not. They vouldn't 'a been
married at the Consulate hunless they
vos Henglish.”
The conversation soon changed, but
I thought over it for some time. Was
I always to be reminding every one of
some one else, and never to know even
the names of the party to whom I bore
so strange a resemblance?
Other matters drove the conversation
away from my mind. Our season
at Coppleton closed, and we next went
to Selgrove. We had no regular theatre
there, merely a temporarily-fitted
room, used at other times for concerts
and assemblies, spacious enough, however,
and likely to afford ample room
for our audience. For although Selgrove
was a theatrical town, the residence
of a population fond of amusements,
circumstances robbed us of our
power to attract. A religious revival
had taken place just before our advent,
and the clergymen of the place
preached furiously against the drama.
In spite of the reputation I bore from
Coppleton, in spite of the most flaming
placards, and the most labored advertisements,
our houses were meagre at
the commencement, and fell off visibly
every night, until an audience of six,
all told, caused the utmost consternation
to both manager and actors.
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
Well might we be alarmed. The
time for opening at Potterburn, our
next town, was not for three months,
and as all of us, except Finch, were
rather improvident, there was but a
gloomy prospect. Haresfoot managed
adroitly enough, changing the pieces
every night, and trying every expedient
his wits could invent; but all
was in vain. The theatre had been tabooed,
and the people would not come.
The treasury was soon emptied of the
surplus gained at Coppleton, and
though half salaries were submitted
to, the houses did not afford even these.
At length a council was held to determine
some plan by which we might
retrieve our losses, or fight our way
until the time announced for opening
at Potterburn.
A most forlorn and distressed set of
comedians, to be sure, gathered in
council upon the stage one Saturday
morning. Some had been confined for
a week to a single meal a day, others
were in debt for their lodgrings, and
none knew what to attempt.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Haresfoot,
when we had all assembled, “the treasury
is barren. Unless some one can
suggest a movement likely to be profitable,
we shall have to suspend our
performances until the season at Potterburn
opens.”
“I can think of nothing but an empty
belly,” growled Fuzzy. “I've been
living for the last week off a pair of
boots, and I can get through next week
on a coat; but I can't eat everything
I have on my back, you know.”
I was aghast at this for a moment.
I had read of people who had eaten
leather and cloth in shipwrecks, but
such a thing was strange in civilized
England in the nineteenth century.
The explanation soon flashed over my
mind that the articles had been sold
and the money devoted to the purchase
of food, and I grew easier. Then, as
no one had any plan to propose, I spoke
up myself and said:
“Have you ever given an entirely
new local piece on the circuit, Mr.
Haresfoot?”
“No, sir, never. In the first place
there is never any occurrence here to
dramatise, and in the second place the
London play-wrights ask too high for
their pieces.”
“Why,” I said, “the occurrences
may be invented, and as for the piece,
fudge something out of six or seven
forgotten plays, give the thing a local
name, paint new scenery, with views
of all the principal places in town, announce
it with a flourish of trumpets,
and the thing is done.”
The suggestion was hailed rapturously
by all save Billy Nuts.
“Hit's all wery fine,” said that worthy,
“hit's a hidea; lots o' tin in it, I
dessay; but where's the money to
come from to paint the scenery? I
can't daub up with nothin'. Prooshin
blue and chrome yaller, an' rose pink,
costs money. There's ten pound o'
whitin', an' a paper o' lampblack, an'
a pound o' glue in the paint-loft; an'
them won't do. Mebbe Mr. Neville 'll
show us how to make paint, as he's so
clever.”
“There's a chance to get money to
mount a piece,” said Haresfoot, “tho'
I don't like the way. You know young
Phipps, the butcher, That young man
is bent on making an Edmund Kean
or a Judy of himself, and he offers
twenty pounds to let him play Richard
for one night. It will be a sorry exhibition;
but the money is tempting.
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
Still, Richard by Phipps—ugh!”
We all laughed but Fuzzy; he was
indignant.
“Richard!” exclaimed the tragedian.
“Why, who's to play Richmond?”
“We expect you to do that,” answered
the manager.
“Me! I'm only to play second to a
London star, you know.”
“True, Mr. Fuzzy, but under such
circumstances, and on an occasion—”
“Occasion me no occasions, Mr.
Haresfoot. Second to a butcher! Never!
It's a desecration of the dramatic
temple—an insult to the memory
of Bill Shakspeare. My love for the
glorious art will not stand it. Besides,
Richard falls to me as the leading
man.”
“We can arrange all that,” replied
Haresfoot. “You two can play scene
for scene alternately; and then all you
have to do is to play him down.”
“Yes, play him down,” we all chorused.
“Well, I rather like that. I'll do it,”
shouted Fuzzy; “but I must have the
combat scene.”
“Unfortunately, Phipps, to whom I
have already suggested the doubling,
insists on being killed by Richmond.
Mr. Neville is to revenge the murder
of the tyrant, Gloster, on his representative,
and butcher the butcher.”
“That can all be arranged,” I interposed,
for a mischievous idea entered
my head. “I'll undertake to bring Mr.
Phipps to reason. Let us consider
that as all settled, and now we'll
sketch the plot and incident of the
piece. The first point is the title.”
“It'll have to be a taking one.”
growled Fuzzy, “or the jailor of Selgrove
will take us.”
“The very thing!” exclaimed Finch.
“The Jailor of Selgrove—a superb title.”
“Who is to be a miser and a ruffian?”
I said, “and yet neither one nor
the other. Supposed to be cruel to his
prisoners, he is really studious of their
comforts; and supposed to be a sordid
miser, he spends the money he amasses
by economy in secret charities to the
deserving.”
Haresfoot laughed, for he recognized
the prototype of my character.
“And aids a young man,” said he,
“who is poor and deserving, and in
love with a duke's daughter, who looks
down on him.”
“The young man turns out to be his
nevvy, to whom he leaves lots o' tin,”
suggested Billy Nuts.
“And the jailor an eccentric nobleman,
who takes the position in order
to effect good,” chimed in Finch.
“And the young man is charged
with murder, with the evidence strong
against him; but it is all cleared up in
the last scene,” put in one of the company.
“The murder being really committed
by his rival, a gloomy baronet,
who commits suicide in the last scene
but one, and, by way of atonement,
leaves half his fortune to the youngman
aforesaid, and the other half to
found a lunatic asylum,” added another.
“With a screaming funny man,”
said our low comedian, “the miser's
half-starved servant, who has two comic
songs, and a hornpipe in fetters.”
“And a duett with the lively maid
of the duke's daughter,” I said.
Thus suggestions were thrown in
and noted down; incidents were stolen
from other plays, and held ready
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
to be dovetailed in. Haresfoot and
Finch agreed to put the thing into proper
shape; I was to make sketches of
the interior of the county jail, the market
place, the main street, and other
spots of interest, and Billy was to paint
the new scenery.
The next morning “the first appearance
of a young gentleman on any
stage, in the character of the Duke of
Gloster,” was duly announced, and the
bills were all underlined with the announcement
of the new piece, “a startling
local drama, to be produced with
entirely new scenery, costumes, properties
and effects.”
The bait took. Selgrove woke up.
The old taste for theatricals revived.
There was every prospect that in addition
to a crowded house to witness the
debut of Phipps we would have a perfect
jam on the first night of the new
piece.
As to Phipps's night, it was soon
placed beyond doubt, for every available
place was bespoken long before,
and when the doors were open, the
check-taker was kept busy for over an
hour without intermission, and long
before the rising of the curtain a large
board, with the words chalked upon it,
“No more standing-room,” had to be
placed at the door.
Matters did not go so smoothly on
the stage. Phipps had expected to be
furnished with the proper costume, and
was quite astounded, when he waited
at the wardrobe, to be shown a red regimental
coat and buff breeches, as the
dress assigned.
“Oh, come!” said he, “that won't
do, you know. I want my ten pounds'
worth.”
“Ain't you goin' to git it?” inquired
Billy. “What have you, or any man,
got agin that dress, I'd like to know?”
“Why, that's a soldier's coat.”
“Vell, vosn't King Richard a soldier?
That's the hidentical coat that
Garrick vore. I 'ope you don't think
you're a better hactor than Garrick,
Mr. Phipps.”
“Yes—that's all well enough; but
Richard was king.”
“So he vos; in course he vos. And
didn't his late majesty vear a red coat
an' bluff breeches? An' vosn't he a
king? In course he vos.”
“But look at the dress you've given
Mr. Fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy perwides that hisself; and
if he's goin' to make a fool of hisself,
by puttin' on such crinkums, that's his
business.”
There was no help for it; Mr. Phipps
was obliged to don the regimentals,
or go on in street costume. Of two
evils, he wisely chose the least. He
came to me with his troubles, and I
comforted him by asserting that the
costume was a minor matter, and that
spirited acting would replace any deficiency
in that line, especially among
among an audience made up largely
of his personal friends. The summons
of the call-boy cut short our discussion,
and at it we went.
I had seen a few performances before,
and a great many since; but I
never beheld any so peculiar as that I
witnessed on that evening. Phipps
was not only an untaught amateur,
but he had not a particle of natural
genius, and bellowed, stamped and
roared after a fashion which beggared
description. The alternation of scenes
made it worse, by contrast; for Fuzzy
was an actor, though a poor one, and
did not outrage all the proprieties by
his performance. As a large number
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
of Phipps's friends were in the house,
the hisses were always drowned by a
storm of applause; but the whole
scene was the most laughable ever
witnessed there; a hilarious tragedy.
The final scene was too much, however,
for the most staunch friend of the
debutant.
Both performers expected to have a
monopoly of the last scene, and simultaneously
made their entrances. The
audience stared, and when the two frantic
Richards demanded each a horse,
some mad-cap in the audience shouted
out:
“Better take a coach and pair!”
At this the house burst into a loud
guffaw; but the Richards were too
bent on their business to notice it.
Besides, the blood of each was up, and
they were determined to play each
other down. When they simultaneously
told me that they hated me for my
blood of Lancaster, I was well satisfied
that they hated me for something
else, and so vigorously did they assail
me, that I had some difficulty in preserving
my head from being cut open
by the foil of one or the other. However,
I fought vigorously, the audience
cheering at the unusually prolonged
combat, until my arm grew tired, and
I was forced to run for it. This they
did not mean to let me do; both had
their blood up at the trick I had played
them, and assailing me from separate
sides, cut off my retreat. Finding
my strength failing, I dodged between
the two, and overleaping the narrow
orchestra, sheltered myself amid the
audience in the pit. The two Richards
would have followed me to wreak
their revenge, but the fiddlers drove
them back, and they attacked each
other. How long they would have
continued amid the cheering of the
audience, it is impossible to say, but
an accident changed the character of
the combat. Fuzzy's foot tripped on
the edge of a trap-door which had not
been entirely closed, and falling forward,
his head struck Phipps full in
the stomach. Both fell, and their
swords flying out of their hands, the
curtain fell on the rival crookbacks
engaged in a supine position, in a game
of fisticuffs.
To prevent the house from being
torn down by the excited audience, the
rival Richards were forced to appear
before the curtain; Richard No. 1 with
his left eye in mourning, and Richard
No. 2 with the blood streaming from
his royal nostrils, while the Earl of
Richmond looked upon his late antagonists
from his sure refuge in the centre
of the pit.
CHAPTER XIII. , Which, after a brilliant success, brings about a catastrophe and a warning.
The performance of Richard, which
I have described in the last chapter,
was not only unique in itself, but serviceable
to the company, since it drew
attention to the theatre, and set the
good people of Selgrove a-gog in regard
to the new piece. I received no
gratitude, however, but a deal of ill-will,
in return for my share in this desirable
result. The manager declared
my conduct to be highly unprofessional,
as no doubt it was, and took me
roundly to task for having compromised
the dignity of the stage, and
the reputation of the theatre. Fuzzy
was sulky and morose, and laid his
bruised nose at my door. The offended
amateur, whose friends informed him
that he had been made a butt of,
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
threatened vengeance, and endeavored to
organize a cabal for the avowed purpose
of hissing me from the stage. A
nice piece of hot water I had dipped
in, to be sure; and though I was under
no alarm as to consequences, I
mentally resolved to allow my love of
mischief less rein in the future. Finch
spoke to me very sensibly on the subject,
and pointed me out that the consequences
of such freaks was to raise
me up enemies who might at some inopportune
moment do me an evil turn.
At the same time he admitted the
temptation to have been great for a
lover of the ludicrous.
Partly to avoid expense, and partly
to impress the public with the extent
of our preparations, the theatre was
closed for a week previous to the production
of our new play—the actors,
when rehearsal was over each day,
lounging in knots on the steps, or betaking
themselves to such porterhouses
in the neighborhood as were
liberal of their credit. As for me, I
divided my hours between the pursuit
of my favorite study of languages at
home, the yarns of Billy Nuts in the
paint-loft, and the conversation of
Finch and his daughter at their lodgings,
which I frequently visited. In
the last case Finch was the main attraction,
for though I was young, and
Cecilia agreeable, I was not in the
least in love with the young lady, nor
had I the most remote reason to suspect
that she regarded me in any other
light than that of a pleasant acquaintance.
The new piece was announced for
Monday night. The Saturday night
previous I climbed to the paint-loft to
watch Nuts give the finishing touch to
the great scene of the Market-place of
Selgrove. Billy was as loquacious as
usual, and Finch, who was there, more
melancholy than ever. After Billy
had got off one of his most marvellous
yarns, he turned to me and said:
“An' that minds me, Mr. Neville,
that there vos a gent as inkvired wery
pertickler arter you yisterday.”
“Ah! who was he?”
“That's vot I don't know. He's a
gent as seed me lookin' unkimmon dry,
an axed me to vet my vissle. I know'd
he vos a gent by his behavior as sich.”
“What did he ask?”
“Vy, he said you vos a clever young
hactor, an' ax'd if you 'adn't some
other name besides Neville, an' vere
you come from, an' vere you lodged,
an' if you were steady or fond of a
drop. `Vell,' sez I, `most young
hactors takes fancy names; but vere
Mr. Neville comes from I never ax'd,
an' vere he lodges you'll git from the
box-hoffis', sez I, `an' has for his steadiness,
there haint a steadier or a properer-behaved
young man in the perfession',
sez I, `though Mr. Fuzzy does
think he's a leetle too fond of a lark.”'
“What kind of a looking man was
the questioner, Billy?” I inquired.
“A short, stout gent; kvite the gent
in his dress an' manner he vos too;
kvite nobby.”
Finch said to me:
“When you have been in the profession
as long as I, you won't mind
these sort of inquiries. Some people
take an absurd interest in the history
of actors, and their sayings and doings
off the stage, especially if they
be popular favorites. It's only a troublesome
way of showing their regard.”
“A very impertinent way.”
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
“The penalty of popularity; nothing
more.”
I thought that probably the conjecture
of Finch was correct; but the
circumstance gave me some uneasiness,
nevertheless. This was momentary.
Finch left the paint-loft, and I
followed and joined him on his way
home, as I had promised to take tea
with him at his lodgings.
On our way Finch said:
“I have a trust for you, if you will
execute it.”
“Certainly; if I can.”
“I have been troubled with a difficulty
of breathing for several days
past, and so I consulted a doctor about
it.”
“And he told you that you had the
phthisic, I suppose,” I rejoined.
“Nothing of the sort, I am sorry to
say. He sings the same tune with the
rest. He says that—well, I can't remember
medical jargon, but it is something
about valves and auricles—and
the long and short of it is that I shall
not last long.”
“That has been the doctors' prophecy
for a long while, hasn't it?”
“Yes; and a true one it will prove.
I am prepared for the worst. I have
endeavored to do my duty, and the old
stroller is ready to have his bones laid
in earth whenever it pleases Providence
to so order it. I have looked
death so long in the face that he has
no terrors for me. But Cecilia—”
“Have no fears for her, my friend.
She has talent, determination, and good
sense, and there is no one in the company
who would not guard her from
harm.”
“True; but she is young, and I have
the fears of a father. I do not wish
her to remain on the stage. If any
thing should happen to me, there is a
slight favor that you can do me.”
“Name it.”
“Here is a letter which I have prepared.
It is addressed to Adolphus
Teignham, Esquire. Here is his proper
address on this card. If I should
be carried off suddenly, enclose it in
one announcing my death, and post it
as soon as possible. It is addressed
to my younger brother. He is a widower,
but has no children; and I
think he will take charge of Cecilia,
from pride of blood, if not from affection.”
I took the letter and gave the promise
required, though at the same
time I tried to disperse the cloud of
fears which hung so heavily on the
old man. It was a vain attempt.
The night for the new play came,
and the theatre was crowded. As a
drama the piece was good for nothing,
having neither unity of plot, coherence
of incident, nor novelty of character;
but the local scenery which
illustrated it, and the telling hits which
had been ruthlessly plundered from all
authors, tickled the public fancy, and
won a complete success. For weeks
and weeks it filled the house nightly,
until the close of the season, when the
final performances was marked by a
tragic incident.
The drama closed with the discovery
of the jailer's true character, the frustration
of the villain, and with all
those who were good being made happy,
and all those who were bad being
made miserable—a most conventional
ending.
Finch played the old miser, while
Cecilia and myself were the lovers of
the piece.
The last words of Finch, which
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
brought down the curtain, were:
“I owed my self-mortification to the
past. I have endeavored to atone for
my former follies, by a course of good
to others. How I have succeeded is
for the future to determine; but for
to-night it is enough if our kind friends
are pleased with the Jailer of Selgrove.”
During the entire performance Finch
had hesitated several times, and seemed
to find difficulty in utterance. In
the last scene he had got so far as the
words “for the future,” when he stopped,
burst into tears, and staggered.
I caught him on the instant. His features
were convulsed—he repeated the
words “the future,” and then uttering
with great difficulty, “the letter,” fell
back. Cecilia sprang forward shrieking,
and clasped his hand. He smiled
on her, and the next moment was dead.
The stage was in confusion in an instant,
and the house, which divined the
event, was hushed to stillness, as the
curtain fell. Haresfoot went in front
and announced the unexpected tragedy,
when the audience quietly dispersed.
That night I posted the letter to Mr.
Teignham, and in forty-eight hours
Cecilia's uncle arrived. He took charge
of Finch's, or rather Frederic Teignham's
body, which was to be interred
in the family vault at Staffordshire; at
once acknowledged his niece, thanked
me for my attention in a polite but
cold way, and left on the following day.
The morning of Mr. Teignham's arrival,
I received by mail, bearing the
Puttenham post-mark, the following
letter:
“Honored sir—I have learned from
a conversation which I have over
heard, the place you are at, and the
name you bear, and that some harm is
meant you. My lady, to whom I told
it, has ordered me to write and let you
know. So no more at present from
yours to command.”
The epistle had neither date nor siguature,
but I felt well assured that it
came from Gifford. The inquiries,
then, had been made with an object,
and probably by an agent of the earl,
or Osborne. After reflection, I concluded
the best thing for me to do was
to seek my original destination. I
sought Haresfoot in order to tell him
my determination, and found him not
in the best of humors.
“Here is a nice piece of business,
to be sure,” said the manager. “They
have made Miss Finch break her engagement,
and here I shall have to
open at Pottenbury with no chambermaid
nor juvenile lady. Who's to fill
her place, I wonder? There's Parker,
whose place you took, wants an engagement;
but he's no lady.”
“I'm glad to hear you can get him,”
I answered, “as I will have to leave.”
“What! what!” exclaimed Haresfoot,
firing off a dozen winks in his
dismay. “You going too!”
“I shall be obliged to. I am glad
that my going won't inconvenience
you.”
“But I don't choose to have you
leave in that way. If I suffer every
one to violate engagements in that
kind of way, I shall be at the mercy of
the company.”
I explained my reasons as well as I
could without letting him know too
much of my history; and as Mr. Parker
was really the better actor of the
two, left him mollified. My affairs
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
were soon arranged, and in a few hours
I was in the city of London.
CHAPTER XIV. , Which brings back little Zara, and introduces a real Duke.
The sensations of a provincial on
his first entry into the metropolis, soon
change. At the beginning there is an
impression of vastness, of hurry, of
bewilderment, and the apprehension
that his dress, person and manner, are
the subject of the crowd's contemptuous
observation; but this is soon followed
by a sense of dullness, the novelty
wears off, indifference follows,
and the self-assurance that the glances
around have no meaning, and that he
is in some measure invisible to those
who have no time to spare from their
own affairs by wasting a thought on
him.
I found no trouble in regard to lodgings,
readily engaging a scantily furnished
room in an obscure and quiet
street. After making the necessary
arrangements about coal and candles,
I went to bed early, and enjoyed a
quiet sleep.
I started early in the morning to
seek employment. I found printinghouses
enough, but no vacancy at a
case, and became rather disheartened.
As I was wandering along I came to
Rathbone Place, and looking up saw
that I was at No. 38. I saw the sign
of Winsor & Newton, the leading artists'
colormen in London, and in fact
in all Europe. As I knew that Paul
Bagby used their tube colors in preference
to all others, it occurred to me
that he might deal there direct, so I
went in and asked his address. One
of the shopmen was kind enough to
write down the street and number for
me, and to tell me the distance, and
by what omnibuses I would reach nearest
the spot. I set off, and in the course
of a half hour was at Paul's studio.
It was situated on the first floor of
a rather handsome house, in a fashionable
thoroughfare. I climbed the
stairs, and seeing the words, “Mr. P.
Bagby, Artist,” on a door, knocked.
The summons not being answered, I
repeated it, when the door suddenly
opened. A tall man, his face nearly
covered with a thick beard, grasped
the door-knob with one hand, and held
his palette, brushes and mahl-stick
with the other.
The bearded gentleman, whom I did
not at all know, inquired my business
by the monosyllable, sharply uttered,
“Well?”
I was about to apologize, and state
whom I expected to find there, when
he released the door-knob, grasped me
by the hand, and dragged me into the
room.
“Why, what wind blew you here,
Ambrose?” he asked, as we mutually
recognized each other. “You're the
last one I expected to see.”
“I'll tell you that,” I answered,
“when I am quite sure this is Mr Paul
Bagby, and not el Conde O'Samayer.”
He laughed.
“All your provincial friends shave,
I suppose; but London just now is
visited with an overflow of beard.
Esau is a man-about-town. But you
shall dine with me to-day. As the dinner
hour is some time off, we'll have a
famous confabulation first.”
He turned the key in the door.
“There, bring yourself to an anchor
in that easy chair. I won't see any
one until we've had our talk out, that's
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
flat. Tell me what brought you here,
and I'll listen while I work away on
the face of this fat dowager. It would
be a superb portrait, only it lacks color—
on the nose. If I only dared to
paint her grace's proboscis in all its
radiant glory, it would it would illuminate
the place like ten wax candles.
But, proceed. As my Yankee friend
and patron, Archbold, would say, `Go
a-head!”'
“Do you know my early history?”
“Bits of it. Found like Moses in
the bulrushes, or something—wasn't
it?”
“I'd better begin at the beginning,
so you'll understand what follows”
“By all means. Begin at the beginning,
and Cousin Sally Dilliard it as
little as you can.”
“What's that?”
“Oh, one of Archbold's queer stories.
I'll recite it for you at another time.
Commencez. mon ami!”
I narrated briefly the main points of
my life, he commenting from time to
time. When I came to my parting
shot at the earl, and expressed my regret
at my folly, he said:
“Don't concern yourself. He and I
are no more friends, and I defy him.”
“Now,” said I, when I had closed,
“What do you think of it all?”
“Think! why that you would have
been a mine of wealth to Mrs. Radcliffe.
You are no doubt the long-lost
heir to the crown of China, and I expect,
on your accession to the throne
of your august ancestors, to be appointed
court-painter, with an income
of a million a minute. Seriously, I
see no mode at present of fathoming
the mystery. If we had that packet.
As this new play of Richelieu says,
`your witness must be that same dis
patch.' But I can possibly assist you
a little. Have you a copy of those inscriptions
with you?”
“I have the things themselves with
me, that is, the ring and brooch.”
Very absurd that; leave them here
or you may lose them. Let me see—
yes, copy them on that slip of paper
for me. I remember `Bugunda Jawa'—
let me have the others. I know a
sort of Dr. Dryasdust who knows several
times more languages than you—
can talk fluently in fifty tongues or
more, and yet in general he hasn't
words enough to throw at a dog. I'll
make it my special business to see him
to-night, and force him to translate.
But where are you staying?”
I told him. He knew the place very
well, apparently, for he curled his lip,
and said:
“Miserable locality. You must have
better lodgings.”
“They're fully as good as prudence
warrants at present.”
“Oh, no, they're not. Bring your
traps—they're portable enough, I fancy—
here. There is a good bed in the
other room, which is principally used
by friends of mine—late gentlemen,
benighted on this side of town. There
is a chest of drawers for your clothes,
a small drawer in it, with a lock and
key, for your papers and trinkets.
Stay with me until you get settled employment,
and as long after as you
like.”
“You are very kind, and I thank
you; but a poor printer shouldn't lodge
with a fashionable artist.”
“Printer! why, man, it is an art
imperial; the monarch of all crafts
and mysteries. If I were not an artist,
I would be a printer. Then, you're
the heir to the empire of China, you
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
know and, if your majesty will deign—
but you must come. If you don't, you
shan't see Zara.”
“Zara!”
“Ha!” I thought I should bring you.
Fetch your things to-morrow, and take
possession, and you shall see the pretty
Spaniard.”
“Where is she? Tell me about her—
and him.”
“About her—very easy. About him—
impossible! Zara is at a ladies'
school in the suburbs—a parlor boarder.
She is under the joint guardianship
of another and myself. Several months
after I saw Espinel in the Park—as I
wrote you, you know—I met him at a
conversazione. I found that he was
very intimate with the Duke of Sillingbourne,
one of my patrons. He declared
that he did not recognize me,
when he saw me in the Park, and I had
no reason to doubt his word. We became
intimate. I soon learned that he
was a Spanish nobleman, and had been
a monk, but had been released from
his vows, for family reasons, shortly
before he came to England. I cannot
tell you his object here, nor who Zara
really is; for that is a secret confined
to two others beside himself—that is,
to the Duke and me. All that I can
tell you is, that she is his niece.”
“Then your old conjecture proved
to be right after all.”
“Precisely so. Just previous to my
last letter to you, Espinel went from
his lodgings one day for a stroll, and
never returned. We have traced him
to a certain part of London, where he
was met by a person, whose description
tallies with that of Osborne; but
your information that he was so many
miles off on that day has relieved
him.”
“I am not so sure,” I said, “but what,
from my friendship to you, the object
of my inquiries, carelessly made though
they were, may have been suspected;
and I may have been intentionally misinformed.”
“That must be looked to. I thought
you wrote to me from personal knowledge.
But come here early in the
morning, and we'll see Zara.”
About ten o'clock next morning I removed
my scanty luggage to Paul's
apartments, and took possession of the
chamber assigned to me. I had no
more than locked up Sharp's letter and
my trinkets in one of the drawers, befor
Paul called me into the studio.
There I saw a tall, thin and sicklylooking,
but nevertheless commanding
old gentleman, who scanned with earnest
but not offensive curiosity.
“Ambrose,” said Paul, “I wish to
present you to the Duke of Sillingbourne.
This, your grace, is Mr. Fecit,
of whom I spoke.”
The Duke shook my hand.
“I am glad to meet you, young gentleman,”
said his grace. “I may as
well mention that it is not merely your
singular history, which Mr. Bagby has
confidentially mentioned, which interests
me; but the acquirements which
he tells me that you possess, and your
general character.”
I bowed; I, a poor young printer,
and a foundling, complimented by a
duke. It was like a dream.
“I have had my Œdipus at work on
your riddle,” said Paul. “The words
of the Countess were Malay. `Baganda
Jawa,' mean literally, `The Prince
of Java.' The inscriptions, the Professor
says, are in the Korinchi character,
though they give Malay words.
The Malays, it appears, use the
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
Arabic characters, but it is supposed that
they formerly used the Korinchi letters.
The words on the ring are,
`chinchin baganda,' meaning `the
prince's ring;' and the letters on the
brooch stand for `piniti baganda,' `the
prince's pin.' After all, it does not
amount to much.”
“It is a step in the investigation,”
remarked the Duke.
“Can it be possible,” I inquired
“that I am Javanese?”
“Quite impossible, I should say,” answered
Paul. “The Javanese face belongs
to a peculiarly marked race; its
features are as distinctive as those of
the Mongolian or African. Yours bears
no resemblance to it whatever. Your
face is as thoroughly European as
mine. But we must visit Zara, and
you had better get ready.”
It was not long before I made the
necessary changes in my dress, and
rejoined them. As we were going
down stairs, I said apart to Paul:
“Do you know that I have been
thinking a deal about the old Countess
noticing my ear.”
“Poh! don't let that mislead you.
Your ear is slightly malformed; the
back of the lobe is drawn tightly to
the jaw. She has a quick eye, and
was attracted by an unusual trifle.
The oddity of the thing struck her—
that was all.”
“The Earl, you know,” I suggested,
“asked me if I were quite sure I was
born in England.”
“Merely because he didn't know
what else to say.”
I had great confidence in Paul's
judgment, but I weighed all these little
things in my mind a great deal.
We soon reached the “Home Seminary,”
and on sending up our names,
the principal, a formal and precise middle-aged
maiden lady, joined us. With
a triple air, compounded of deference
to the Duke, courtesy to Paul, and graciousness
to me, she engaged us in conversation
while Zara was summoned
from the school-room.
Presently the door opened—Zara
made her appearance, hesitated at the
sight of a stranger, and then advancing,
laid her hands in those of the
duke and Paul.
She had grown in height, but had
not changed in features. Though not
yet fourteen years of age, she had
reached the height of woman, and had
a woman's form, although lacking in
roundness of outline. And she was
so beautiful. I fairly drank in her
wondrous beauty, as I had done between
three and four years before on
the high road to Puttenham.
“You don't recognize old friends,
Zara,” said Paul, smiling. “Have you
forgotten Ambrose Fecit?”
Her eyes dilated, the blood rushed
to her face—a single glance, and she
sprang to me impulsively, and grasping
both of my hands, carried them to
her lips.
She recovered herself presently, and
seeing the scandalized look of the lady
principal, said, with the slightest
amount of foreign accent in her speech:
“It is my good adopted brother,
Madame; and my dear uncle loved
him so much.”
“Come, Mr. Bagby,', said the Duke,
“we will leave these youngsters to talk
awhile. They havn't seen each other
for so long, that an hour will be little
enough for their conversation. Miss
Myrtle, I have heard much in praise
of the perfect arrangement of this institution.
Will you honor me by
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
taking my arm, and accompany us over
the house and grounds?”
Miss Myrtle was only too much delighted
to oblige his grace, and so
Zara and myself were left together.
It was delightful to sit there and
listen to the dear child, as with her
dark, lustrous eyes beaming with pleasure,
she told me the simple story of
her life from the time we parted until
then. I returned this with much of
what had happened to me, and there
we both chatted with full hearts—both
children of mystery—both feathers
blown hither and thither by the brseze,
ignorant of our origin, and uncertain
of the future. What a dear memory
that hour is even now! We could
scarcely believe our hour had passed
when the Duke and Miss Myrtle, followed
by Paul, returned.
“Now, Zara,” said his grace, “I
have made arrangements with Miss
Myrtle, by which Ambrose will spend
an hour with you on every Saturday
afternoon; and you must continue to
be a good girl as Miss Myrtle says you
have been hitherto.”
“She is very docile, your grace, and
all her teachers and school-mates are
delighted with her. I hope, the Count,
her father, is well.”
The Duke bowed to avoid an answer,
and Zara's lip quivered. She knew,
then, of her uncle's disappearance.
As we retired, Zara and I were somewhat
in the rear of the others—Miss
Myrtle relaxing her dignity so far in
favor of a duke as to attend his grace
to the door—and I bent over and kissed
Zara on the forehead. She drew
down my head gently, pressed her lips
to my cheek, and then, frightened at
her own temerity, glided blushingly
away.
Miss Myrtle was horrified to find
that Miss Espinel had gone in without
bidding her noble guardian a respectful
farewell.
The Duke undertook to set us down
at the studio. On our way there, he
said to me:
“Mr. Fecit, you must really abandon
your tr— business for the present.”
“How shall I live, your grace, without
a mortifying sense of dependence
on others?”
“That is easily arranged, sir, without
the necessity of your incurring
any obligation. I have at present no
secretary. It is the situation of a gentleman.
We shall not disagree about
the amount of salary attached. Will
you accept the position?”
Young as I was I had the power of
prompt decision, but the proffer was
one I could not well refuse; so I answered:
“I think I understand your grace.
I accept your kindness gratefully, and
shall not forget the obligation.”
I was soon installed as his grace's
secretary. It was merely a delicate
way of providing for my support. The
Duke had very little correspondence,
was not in public life beyond his duties
as a peer of the realm, and lived
retired from the busy world. His financial
affairs were under his steward's
supervision, and I had next to nothing
to do. The greater part of my time
was spent with Paul Bagby, in whose
charge my papers and trinkets remained,
with the exception of hours devoted
to my favorite study, and the
pleasant ones passed with Zara on the
afternoon of each Saturday.
-- 076 --
CBAPTHER XV. Introducing a new acquaintance and more mystery.
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
In despite of the privacy of life
sought by the Duke, his grace had numerous
visitors. While I was nominally
acting as secretary, although my
years and station gave me no intimacy
with these, yet the contact with so
many of high rank and position was
likely to be useful. Paul pointed out
to me the chance that this speaking
acquaintanceship with distinguished
personages might turn to account at
some time. I did not build on that,
but I felt that the casual conversations
I held with these men, all of them well-bred,
and the insensible example of
their manner, served to give me greater
personal confidence, and ease of demeanor.
My intimacies ran in another
way. Among Paul's many acquaintances
I found some who, without being
entirely congenial, attracted me. These
were artists and literary men half way
up the ladder of reputation—men who
had undergone a deal of privation on
the road to distinction, and who had a
certain gay and almost reckless manner
which amused me exceedingly.
Now and then some of them seemed to
remember that they had a body to care
for in this world, and even a soul to
care for in the world to come; but the
majority lived for to-day solely, taking
good and ill-fortune with philsophical
indifference. Paul, at first, was rather
uneasy at my taking so kindly to these
roistering fellows; but he possibly reflected
that I had no inclination to semi-vagabondism,
that I drank but sparingly,
and had the habits of quiet life,
for he soon ceased to trouble me with
advice about my companionship.
One afternoon I had been dawdling
about the studios of several artists,
and wound up by a visit to Paul's
apartments. The first thing that I noticed
there was a sketch in oil, which
I knew was not in Paul's style. It represented
a scene in an eastern court,
showing the audience given by the
ruler. So far there was nothing striking
about the composition. But what
was surprising was the fact that the
face and costume of the vizier beside
the throne was unmistakably that of
the Baganda Jawa, having even the
very pose of the figure in the portrait
at Landy's Castle.
“Wonder away, old fellow!” said
Paul, as he caught my eye, “you can't
possibly wonder more than I do.”
“But where did you get it, and what
does it mean?”
“I'll tell you where I got it. I received
a note yesterday from a German
artist, named Diemer. I never
heard of the man before. He said
that he was a stranger here, and in
distress; that he knew me by reputation,
and thought if I would call that
I could render him a service with little
inconvenience to myself. Well, I went.
He has miserable lodgings enough in
a house over in Milton street, up three
pair back. I found him in bed. He
said that he was subject to sudden attacks
of paralysis of the lower limbs,
accompanied by neuralgia in the face.
He had been taken off his pins the
week before, but expected the disease
would pass off in a day or so. He had
come to England from Dusseldorf, hoping
to find sale for his pictures, of
which he had two comyleted, together
with the studies for several more. The
pictures were not much—a little clever,
perhaps—both bearing the Dusseldorf
stamp, and both in entirely
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
different styles of treatment. This
sketch struck me more than the pictures.
He says it is a mere fancy picture,
but I don't believe it. I borrowed
it to show you. I tried to pump
him, but failed. And now you've had
the whole story.”
“I should like to see him.”
“So you shall. I am going to return
the sketch, and you can accompany
me. You must wait awhile, however,
as he prefers to receive visitors
at night it seems.”
At night-fall we started. The German
was found in a chair, into which
he told us he had been helped, and was
seated before an easel, on which was
an unfinished pictnre, with the paint
dry, as though no one had worked on
it recently.
I did not notice that particularly
then, but I recalled the fact afterward.
The artist himself made a rather queer
picture. His face and jaws were muffled
up in cloths, to sustain the anodyne
applications, as he told us, that
were necessary in his case. From
these his hair escaped in one or two
places, but all the features of his face
that were visible were his eyes, his
beard and heavy moustache, and a
huge, red nose. The face, or what little
we could see of it, was strange;
but the eyes seemed wondrous familiar,
though I could not tell where I
had seen them before.
I addressed the man in German, but
he spoke a kind of patois, very difficult
to make out. His English I could
understand better, so we used that.
Our conversation turned upon the
strange similarity between the face of
the vizeer in the sketch and mine. He
told me so often that this similarity
was entirely accidental, that I felt quite
sure it was not. I offered to buy the
sketch, but he replied that it was a
study—the base of a picture in which
other figures would be introduced to
complete the story. Hence it was not
for sale.
I asked him the locality intended.
He hesitated, looked at the sketch,
which we had brought back with us,
and said, “Persia.”
“You'll have to alter the costume,
then,” I remarked. “The dresses are
Javanese.”
“Do you think so?” he inquired.
“I am sure of it,” I said; “you will
find them in the quarto book of plates
appended to Sir Stamford Raffles's
book on Java.”
He made no answer to this, and after
a little more conversation we left.
As we were going he specially invited
me to come speedily again, which I
promised to do.
“How did you learn about the costume?”
asked Paul, as we were going
homeward.
“By inspection. The book I cited
is in the Duke's library.”
“What do you think of my German?”
“I don't know what to think, but I
intend to visit him. Perhaps he may
drop something at some time or other.”
“Do you know, Ambrose,” resumed
Paul, after we had walked some distance
further in silence, “I think I
have seen this Herr Diemer somewhere
before.”
“I have seen his eyes,” I rejoined,
“though I can't tell where. I intend
to find out.”
And so I did, but not in a hurry, nor
in the way I expected. I could learn
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
nothing at my various visits, for I called
on him frequently during evenings,
but I patiently waited. I noticed one
thing more, namely, that though the
palsy went off, the neuralgia remained,
for the head of Herr Diemer was
kept muffled, and some kind of tincture
freely applied.
One evening when I called I found
him in bed. He told me that he had
just experienced another attack of palsy
in the legs, and asked me to remain
awhile. I had gotten to be quite
familiar with him, but on that night I
found him even more communicative
than usual. I drew him on, and at
length brought up the subject of the
sketch.
“I can tell you now,” said he, “where
I must have caught the face so like
yours. There, hand me down the bottle
of Rhine wine from yonder cupboard,
and a couple of glasses. Do you
ever drink Rhenish?”
“Rarely,” I answered.
“It is good for the health. Try it.”
I sipped it, and told him that it had
a peculiar flavor which I did not like.
“It will change when you drink the
first glass,” he said.
I drank a glass as he desired, but it
seemed to me as though the taste grew
stronger at every mouthful. He went
on, meanwhile, to tell me how he had
been in England some years before,
and while in the southwestern part had
visited the various show-places, among
the rest, Landys Castle. The narrative,
though tedious, and full of digressions,
was interesting, because I was
trying to detect where the falsehood
lay; but I felt all the while a drowsiness
stealing over me.
“The wine has affected you,” he said.
“It is headier than it seems, but it will
pass away.”
It did not, however. I grew drowsier
every moment.
“I can remedy that,” said he. “Pray
hand me that bottle and sponge from
the table. It contains ammonia and
other things that I use to clear the
head in such cases.”
He poured out a liquid, with a peculiar,
penetrating odor, on the sponge,
and loosely folded it in a napkin.
“There,” said he, “let me hold that
to your nostrils. Draw it in strong a
few times.”
I obeyed him, for I was desirous of
getting to the end of his story. I felt
my head soothed, but not cleared. I
grew more drowsy, and made an ineffectual
attempt to remove the sponge.
He held it firmly, and I struggled
slightly. As I did so the cover and
false nose fell from his face. I recognized
Osborne, and at the same moment
lost both sense and motion.
CHAPTER XVI. , Which tells of close confinement, a mysterious gnawing, and how we all scampered.
My return to consciousness showed
me that I was lying in bed. There
was a dull light around me, which
came apparently from a round hole at
a short distance. I felt for the edges
of the bed. One was clear, the other
was bordered by a cold wall. I arose,
and stepped on the floor As soon as
I could determine the point, I found
that I was in a narrow room, and that
the hole was in the door, immovable,
and apparently fastened from the outside.
I shouted aloud, but received
no answer. At length, I heard a number
of cries, confused and smothered,
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
with a dull echo, as though they came
from a number of apartments opening
on a common corridor.
I thought it must be all a dream;
but a second thought showed that it
was real, for in a dream we never
doubt whether we are dreaming or not.
Where, then, could I be?
By the dim light I saw the apartment
was narrow, high, and arched.
The narrow bed on which I had lain
was a hard mattress, resting upon a
frame, or lattice-work of strips of iron,
and let into the wall at the head and
foot. There was no other furniture in
the place, not even a chair. Back of
the bed was a door which would not
open. I tugged at it, when it slid,
and showed a private closet about two
feet square. Though there was no
trace of fire-place, furnace, nor flue,
the temperature of the apartment was
mild.
Could it be the cell of a prison? I
thought not. There was a grated window
high up and beyond my reach,
over my bed; but the grating was not
made prison-fashion, being merely a
piece of ornamental iron-work.
I tried again to call the attention of
some one, but received no response. I
put my hand to my head in thought,
and to my surprise and dismay, discovered
that my head had been shaved
close. In an instant the truth flashed
over me.
I was in a lunatic asylum.
I shuddered, and felt a sickening
sensation crawl over me. All the stories
I had read concerning unhappy
victims who had been buried in these
horrible bastiles, recurred to my memory.
I staggered to the bed, yielding
to a nervous prostration, and cried like
a child—no, not like a child; but with
the noiseless, burning, bleeding, agonizing
tears of a man.
Those tears relieved me. My mind
grew clearer, and I sat myself down
to deliberately shape some plan of action.
I could see no way visible, nor
even conjecture any. I drew the counterpane
over me, and lay there. Singularly
enough, it was not long before
I fell fast asleep.
It must have been near day when I
awoke. It was several minutes before
I could realize that I was shut up in a
cell, a helpless prisoner. The glimmering
light still came through a hole
in the door, showing that there must
be a light burning all night in the corridor,
and I looked at it as a sort of
comfort.
Close by the head of my bed there
was a rat gnawing in the wall. It
seemed a singular taste of his, too. I
could hear his teeth working away at
the mortar between the bricks. If I
could only pick so! But I had nothing—
not even a rusty nail. Ha! my
pocket knife!
I felt around. Clothing was on the
bed, but not mine. It felt as though
made of some coarse cloth. They had
stripped me while I was insensible,
and left me these instead. I laughed
convulsively at my own folly. Why,
of course they would leave their prisoner
no tool, no weapon—they were
too wise for that. Still the gnawing
went on. How I envied the rat his
sharp teeth!
Day came at length, the light in the
corridor was extinguished, and the sunlight,
crawling in through the grating
in the upper part of the cell, met and
wrestled with the colder rays that
crept in at the little hole in the door.
I could see the cell very clearly then.
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
It was about six feet by eight; the
walls were naked, plastered rough-cast
in mortar, and washed with lime. I
examined the closet to see if I could
communicate with my fellow-prisoners
by that way, but the iron drain-pipe
ran outwards and downwards, and was
set firmly in cement.
The rat stopped his gnawing with
the approach of light.
About an hour after day-break, the
light before the round hole was darkened,
a key turned in a lock, a square
portion of the door below the hole was
let down, forming a kind of shelf, and
a tin can, with a square ingot of bread
was placed upon it. A face appeared
at the aperture, the features stolid,
coarse, and by no means well-favored.
“Breakfuss!” growled the new-comer.
“Pray,” said I, “why am I here, and
what place is this?”
“You're a new man, an' doesn't
know the rules,” was the reply. “No
talkin' of payshins to attendins, nor
wisy warsy, which I doesn't mean to
explain to you no more. I'm a goin'
of my rouns. If the tin's here empty
when I comes back, I takes it away.
If the wittals is here, why I takes
them away. Them's the rules.”
The face disappeared.
I reflected a moment. Now, I had
not much appetite under the circumstances,
yet it would be rank folly to
starve myself; I might want all my
strength. I tried the bread—it was
not unpalatable. The tea was liberally
qualified with sugar and milk—it
was of a fair quality. I ate the one,
and drank the other—a meagre breakfast,
quality considered, but sufficient
in quantity. I laid the tin cup on the
shelf, and looked through the aperture.
The hall was about six feet wide. As
far as I could see, there appeared to
be no rooms on the opposite side, and
there were certainly no doors there.
I put my head through the aperture—
the man was returning, and I withdrew
it.
He came up to take the can.
“See here,” said he, “keep your
head inside, or I'll punch it. It's agin
rules.”
“To punch my head?” I inquired.
The man grinned, and closed the
aperture. As he locked it, I heard him
mutter to himself:
“Rum young chap that; werry.”
I put on the clothes which lay on
the bed—a loose, grey jacket, with
strings instead of buttons, and loose,
wide trousers—and then sat down. I
reflected carefully on the whole affair,
and at length came to the conclusion
that the best thing to do was to remain
quiet, and let events take their course.
In fact nothing else could well be done;
but men under such circumstances are
not always rational in act. I took the
common sense view of the case, and
acted accordingly. Had I screamed,
yelled or raved, it wouldn't have been
an unusual thing to have done; but I
mastered all impulses of that kind.
My first attempt would be to gain a
gradual intimacy with my grim jailor.
I did not hope much to soften him. He
would scarcely have been placed there
if made of penetrable stuff; but I
hoped to throw him off his guard, and
by that means pick up something as
to the place of my detention, and the
object of my imprisonment.
I was not without conviction as to
who was the author of my confinement.
That was easy enough. Mr.
Osborne was, of course, the Earl's
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
agent, and as he had been concerned
in putting away Espinel, who might,
indeed, be there under the same roof
with me, the cause of our imprisonment
was similar.
Espinel was evidently the master of
some secret highly dangerous to the
Earl of Landys, and his lordship
thought me to be privy to it. I assumed
that his mistake would be discovered,
and that my release would
come at some time, and all I could do
meanwhile was to wait.
At noon the same face made its appearance;
a pan of soup was put on
the shelf, and a horn spoon and large
slice of bread placed alongside of it.
It was not part of the system to starve
me, at all events, for the soup was
good, and there was enough of it.
I kept up my plan of amusing my
keeper, and as he was taking away
the pan and spoon I said to him, in a
mock dramatic style, “remove the banquet.”
He grinned again, but said
nothing.
Supper was similar to breakfast;
but a tin full of water was added, which
I retained, understanding it to be for
drink during the night, and the remainder
for ablution in the morning.
I lay down to sleep that night with
a terrible sense of loneliness and weariness.
About midnight I awakened,
and felt no more disposition to sleep.
The rat had resumed his work at my
bed-head. I lay and listened to him,
or got up and paced the narrow limits
of my cell, and thus the dreary night
passed away.
The solitude and want of occupation
threatened to make me really mad. So
on the third day I asked the attendant,
as he brought my dinner, if I could
have a book.
“Talkin' to attendins is agin the
rules,” he answered.
“Oh, very well,” said I. “All right;
but if anybody calls, send up their
cards.”
He grinned as usual, and left.
So then I was to be buried alive
there; no companionship, no books,
no relief. I sat on the bed-side and
thought of my early days; of honest
old John Guttenberg and his wife, of
Mary, of my schoolmates, of the heaths
and fields on the outskirts of Puttenham,
and of my meeting with Espinel
and Zara. Zara! at the thought of
her, and the pleasant life I had led for
a short while before, my tears flowed
again. Those tears seemed to save
me from frenzy.
There were two spiders, rivals in
trade, who had established fly-traps
far up in the cell, in opposite corners.
I watched them curiously, and speculated
as to what kept them awake at
that season, and alive at any time, for
the place was too gloomy for flies.
Then I got in the habit of dozing by
day, and lying awake at night, waiting
for the rat to begin. There was
companionship in him. About midnight
he would commence work, and
keep on indefatigably until day-break.
He was an industrious rodent. I tried
to make a calculation how long it
would be, admitting that he wore off
the thousandth part of an inch from
his teeth every night, before he would
get them even with his jaw, and so
perish miserably. Then I should lose
the companionship of his labor, and
have neither company nor amusement.
I grew very anxious to see that rat.
About six weeks had passed away
in the same monotonous round. Once
a week, however, my attendant thrust
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
a brush and narrow dust-pan through
the square aperture, just after breakfast,
with the words:
“Sweep your room!”
That was a great luxury. I used to
protract the operation as much as possible.
The day after the sweeping, the
coarse bed linen was changed. I made
my bed, as the door never opened.
About six weeks had passed, as I
said, when I thought I had secured a
sufficient amount of my jailor's good
will by my forced fun, to get him to
listen to me. So when he came that
day to remove my dinner dish, I whispered:
“The Duke of Sellingbourne would
give a hundred pounds to find where I
am.”
The man chuckled, and before he
closed the aperture, put his thumb to
his nose, and waved his fingers in a
derisive motion, classic through age,
but not picturesque. I thought the
bait might still be swallowed; but
when one, two, three, four weeks had
gone, and he did not in any way allude
to the offer, I began to despair.
At length, one night it struck me
that my rat had nearly gnawed his way
through, the sound of his teeth growing
plainer and plainer. I listened,
and heard small pieces of the plaster
falling to the floor. I leaned over the
bed and tried to peer underneath, but
the light from the corridor was too
dim. Suddenly the truth flashed upon
me. Some one from the next cell was
breaking into mine.
I was startled. This might be a real
maniac, desperate and dangerous.
Should I cry out? It might be a fellow-prisoner
trying to escape. And
yet what folly, merely to get from one
dungeon into the next. I determined
to wait and watch.
The loosened bricks were cautiously
removed. Some one was coming
through. I bent over and grasped the
intruder by the shoulder, saying:
“Who are you? What do you
want?”
The only reply was a despairing
groan. I spoke again.
“Tell me who you are. I am immured
in this cell. Are you a prisoner
too?”
A hoarse whisper answered me:
“Yes. Santa Maria! is there another
cell yet?”
“Come throught,” I whispered, for I
thought I recognized the voice.
The man crawled in, and we were
presently standing together on the
floor of the cell.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“Ambrose Fecit.”
“Cosa rara! Caspita! I am Espinel.”
We hurriedly consulted together.
He had been under the hope that the
one left was the last cell on the range,
and had worked through his own and
the others succeeding, which happened
to be vacant, by means of a strip of
iron which he had detached from his
bedstead. He had been at work for
over four months; but a part of the
time his labor had been interrupted by
the tenancy of an intermediate apartment.
He thought, if mine were the
last cell, we could get through in four
to six weeks more.
“But why,” I inquired, “did you not
try the outer wall, the back part of the
cell?”
“Because I know the plan of the
building. It is an oblong quadrangle,
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
the cells backing on a garden well-hole,
from which there would be no
escape There is a corirdor completely
around, and we can get into it at the
end without attracting observation.
Then we must fight, if necessary.”
I was too impatient to wait for this
slow burrowing, and struck on a bolder
plan.
“Do they ever open the cell doors?”
I asked.
“I think not,” he answered, “unless
you are sick. I was unwell the week
after I came here, and the doctor, the
keeper of the place, I think, came and
prescribed for me. That was the only
time my cell has been opened.”
“We might seize him, and force our
way.”
“No! he is always armed, and they
are continually on the watch.”
“Armed! so much the better. With
his arms we can fight our way out.”
“But how to take them.”
“I will be sick to-morrow. Watch,
and when the attendant goes to bring
the doctor, arrange your bed clothes
so that a passing glance would make
any one think you were lying there,
remove the bricks and come to me at
once.”
“And then?”
“And then I will show you on the
instant what to do. Now go, and replace
the bricks carefully.”
He left, and I quietly went to bed,
where I lay awake, quietly maturing
my plan, and leaving it to be modified
by circumstances. I fell asleep at
length, but woke at day-light.
I did not go to the grate when the
attendant came, but lay under the covers
with my clothes on, tossing and
moaning as though in great pain.
“Sick?” inquired he.
I muttered that I was dying—a doctor.
He removed the victuals, and I heard
him hurry off. In a couple of minutes
Espinel was in my cell. It was the
first time that I had seen him since our
imprisonment by day-light, and a very
bearded savage he was, to be sure.
The door of the cell was not in the
centre, but a little to the right. I
placed Espinel on the side next its
hinges, close against the wall, and
crouched down. Presently, some one
came to the door, and I resumed my
tossing and moaning. I heard the attendant
say:
“Shall I wait, sir?”
The face of the doctor placed itself
at the hole.
“No,” said a strange voice, “I shan't
want you, Bill. If I do I'll call. Go
on with your rounds.”
As he opened the door I rolled in a
fresh paroxysm of simulated agony, so
as to draw his gaze on me. He came
forward to the bed, and said, sharply:
“Now, then, Number Twenty-eight,
what appears to be the matter with
you?”
The answer was given in a startling
way. Espinel leaped upon him like a
tiger, and clasped his throat so tightly
that not only could he not cry out, but
was in imminent danger of strangulation.
His face began to blacken, his
tongue protruded, his eyes seemed
bursting from their sockets, and his
arms made convulsive efforts to free
himself from that fearful grasp. I
passed my hands over his person.
There were a pair of small pistols in
his skirt-pockets, and a short club,
like a constable's mace, in his bosom.
As I secured these, he fainted. We
saw that he was not dead. Espinel
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
released his throat. We gagged him
with a rude contrivance made of the
piece of broken iron brought by Espinel,
and his own cravat; and hastily
tying his hands and feet with strips
torn from the sheets, we threw him on
the bed, and covered him with the
counterpane. I then went to the door
and peered out. The attendant was
delivering food at the cell doors. I
imitated the doctor's peremptory tone
as near as I could, and called out:
“Bill.”
He came at the summons. As he
neared us I handed a pistol and the club
to Espinel, and with the other pistol
cocked stood waiting. As Bill came,
I sprang out, and my left hand was on
his collar, and my right had the remaining
pistol at his head in an instant.
He was too much petrified by terror,
which intensified at the sight of Espinel,
to make any attempt at escape.
“Silence!” I said sternly, “if you
value your life. You know what this
pistol holds; it is cocked, and my finger
on the trigger. A cry, a motion
more than I bid you to make, and I
spatter the floor with your brains. We
will not be retaken alive. You must
lead us out by the shortest and safest
way. Attempt to betray us, and I kill
you on the spot. Now, lead us out.”
“I hadn't the keys of the private
doors, sir; the doctor has 'em,” he replied,
trembling.
“Espinel, get them.”
The Spaniard re-entered the cell to
rifle the doctor's pockets, and soon re-entered
with the keys.
“Now,” said I, “quickly and silently.”
With one hand on the collar of his
coat, and the other grasping the pistol,
I followed him down stairs to a
private entrance, with a double door.
Espinel opened these, and by my direction,
closed and locked them after him.
It was well to take this precaution, for
no sooner had we done so than a thundering
upon them from the inside
showed we were pursued. We emerged
on a back street, and led our man to a
corner where we dismissed him. He
needed no advice to hurry off. We
were now in a crowded thoroughfare,
where our strange, wild figures, no
less than our dress, drew a mob around
us. Fortunately a policeman was
near, and came up. We surrendered
ourselves to his custody, and desired
to be transferred to Bow street. It
was not long before we were safe under
the guardianship of the magistrates.
Our story was soon told. Policemen
were at once sent to the asylum,
and messengers despatched to seek
the Duke, the Spanish minister, and
Paul Bagby. The former came back
to report that the doctor had escaped,
but that the attendants were in custody.
No direct charge was made
against them—they were mere hirelings—
but they were held to testify.
The messengers from our friends returned,
followed by Paul Bagby, and
an attache of the Spanish legation.
These identified us at once. Our parole
was taken to send sureties for our
appearance against the doctor, if he
were apprehended; a coach was procured;
and we were driven, amid the
parting cheers of the crowd, to the
Duke's house.
-- 085 --
CHAPTER XVII. Wherein, after a debate held by all parties concerned, I take flight again.
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
We were soon re-clad, and otherwise
rendered fit for decent society. How
pleasant the street looked from the
window of the chamber! How delicious
was the disorder that followed!
Commend me to confinement as a preparatory
course to the pleasures of
freedom.
It was not long before the Duke, who
was at the House of Peers when our
message came, arrived to welcome us,
and congratulate us on our escape. A
consultation followed about the course
proper for us to pursue under the circumstances,
and at this none were present
beside the Duke, Espinel, Paul
and myself.
“Of course,” said the Duke, “we
must avoid the prosecution of Dr.
Leeds, since that would produce an
unpleasant scandal.”
Dr. Leeds, it appeared, was the name
of the person in whose private asylum
we had been confined, and whom we
had so unceremoniously put to bed in
daylight.
“Of course,” echoed Paul and the
Count.
“Sureties can be sent, as Ambrose
and the Count have promised; but if
the doctor is apprehended, he can pay
the forfeited recognizances, and that
will dispose of the matter.”
“It is the only mode,” agreed Bagby.
“Excuse me, your grace,” I said,
“but I see no reason why the matter
should stop so. I cannot so easily forget
my loss of liberty, and the personal
indignity I encountered. The Count
may exhibit forbearance if he chooses;
I find no fault with him for that; but
I prefer to act differently.”
“But, don't you see that you may
strike at some one behind him—the
Earl of Landys, probably,” suggested
the Duke.
“That is precisely what I most desire.
I care less to break the tool than
to paralyze the hand that wields it.
The disgrace and punishment of the
Earl is what I intend; and I fancy, if
I can bring it home to him, a British
jury, or his peers, if he avail himself
of his privilege, will punish him and
his co-conspirator, though he were
twenty times an Earl. I will be satisfied
with no civil suit. Your grace
seems impatient. Can you give me
any reasons why I should forbear?”
“I can give you one which I hope
may have some influence over you—
the Earl is my kinsman. It is a pity
that such is the case, for he is a scoundrel;
but it is so. His disgrace would
attach itself to me. He is the next
heir to the dukedom and its estate,
which is entailed. As I have no male
children, he will necessarily succeed
me. It would be to me the most terrible
of calamities if our house, until
my time, at least, so glorious in the annals
of the realm, should have its escutcheon
tarnished. I have not much
claim on your regard, Mr. Fecit; will
you let me urge your silence as an act
of kindness?”
“My lord duke,” I answered, “I feel
under obligations to you, and if it were
this kidnapping alone, I might smother
my resentment. You do not know all.
That scoundrel—for your grace has
rightly named him—endeavored to fix
the brand of felony on me; and it was
only by accident, perhaps I should say
by the kind favor of an overruling
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
power, that I was enabled to avert unmerited
shame.”
“I do not understand you.”
I told the story of the snuff-box. His
grace shook his head.
“The man is worse than I thought
him,” he said; “much worse; but dastardly
as his conduct has been, it will
never do to make it public.”
But my resentment was too bitter to
allow me to have the affair hushed up.
“Allow me,” said Paul, “to talk to
Ambrose apart.”
He took me to a recess, and continued:
“Do you believe me when I pledge
my honor to the truth of a statement?”
“Implicitly.”
“Do you regard little Zara much?”
“Much! I love the child dearly.”
“And to spare her pain you would
sacrifice something?”
“Something! almost everything.”
“Listen, then. Circumstances which
we cannot show you now, are such that
you cannot strike a blow at Lord Landys
without injuring Zara very much.
Now, will you go on, or not?”
“Are you sure of this?”
“Positively and absolutely sure.”
“I have changed my mind,” I said,
coming forward. “I shall be guided
by your joint advice in this matter.”
“I am your debtor, then,” said Espinel.
“And I,” said the Duke. “And now
about yourself. I saw the Earl in the
house to-day. He will soon hear of
this affair. In spite of my pains to
hush it up, some account of the escape
will get into the journals; or if not,
Dr. Leeds has appealed, or will appeal,
to his partner for safety. The Earl is
rather desperate, and for some unknown
cause seems to have taken a
personal dislike to you. You are not
safe here, and I think you had better
leave the country and go to France for
awhile. As your journey is for my
advantage as well as yours, you must
permit me to defray your expenses
abroad.”
“Allow me to say that the continent
is too near England,” said Espinel.
“America?” suggested Paul.
“The very place,” replied the Duke.
I was annoyed at this summary disposition
of my movements, and spoke
up sharply.
“You will excuse me, but I see no
reason why I should leave at all. Now
that I know I am subject to be way-laid,
I shall be prepared to defend myself
against both kidnapping and assassination.”
“The same reasons,” said Paul,
“which I gave you a few moments
since will apply here.”
I gave in finally.
“But,” I said, “I believe I have
means enough at my command without
troubling your grace. I have a letter
from a friend to his bankers in London.
I believe it is a letter of credit, and I
prefer being under obligation to him.”
“Old Sharp?” inquired Paul.
I nodded assent.
“There is another mystery about
Ambrose,” gaily said Paul, “which is
more puzzling than all the rest. There
is a man—no, a walking money-bag—
in Puttenham; a miser so mean that
he would go down on his knees in the
mire to pick up a crooked pin without
a head; and over this man Ambrose
exercises a singular control.”
“You are mistaken,” I retorted. “He
would have sense enough to balance
the impending wear and tear of the
knees of his trousers against the value
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
of the headless pin, and keep erect.
That he is not the miser you and others
think him, this shows—he pressed money
on me for my journey to London,
and when I refused it, insisted on my
taking a letter to his bankers, to be
used whenever I had occasion.”
“For ten pounds, I suppose,” said
Paul.
“Well,” said the Duke, “if the
amount it obtains you be not amply
sufficient, you must put me under obligations
by permitting me to furnish
the rest.”
“I promise your grace to do so; but
you must not be misled in your estimate
of Mr. Sharp. He is a singular
being, I admit, but a different man,
and a far more liberal man than Mr.
Bagby believes.”
“Oh, I believe anything,” cried Paul,
laughing. “After the way in which
you seem to manage him, I can doubt
no more.”
It was settled that I was to call on
Zara the next day to bid her farewell,
and as Paul was well acquainted with
the junior partner of the house to
which Sharp's letter was directed, he
was to go with me first to make them
sure I was really the Ambrose Fecit
named. It was further settled that I
was to sail in the first vessel that left
for the United States, and that abroad
I should take the same name to which
my letters from Puttenham had been
directed—Mr. Andrew Brooks.
That night I read the letters that
had come for me during my absence—
one from Captain Berkely—the other
from Sharp.
The Captain detailed the alarm and
annoyance of the Guttenbergs at my
departure. Mr. Guttenberg found my
absence to be a serious disadvantage
to his business, was sorry that he had
spoken so harshly to me, and was willing
that I should come back on my
own terms. Mrs. Guttenberg mourned
me very much, and feared that something
would happen to the poor boy.
The Earl had gone to London to attend
Parliament, and, as I had predicted,
Osborne had come back to the
Castle.
Sharp's letter was principally filled
with good advice about money matters.
He presumed I was doing well,
as I had not been to his bankers; but
advised me if I could see an opportunity
to buy half or third of a well-established
printing business to do so,
but to be careful and investigate its
value and stability first.
“Be not too ambitious,” said the letter.
“Creep before you fly. Little
strokes fell great oaks. A concern of
which a thousand pounds will get half
is enough for a start. Prudence and
economy, with the other half of your
capital in reserve, will build you up a
fortune. Dress well—it is economy
for a tradesman to dress well. By
that, I mean to dress in the best of
materials, plainly made, not in the
height of the mode, as young men are
apt to do, but enough like others not
to be singular. This looks as though
you were thriving, and looks are a
great deal. And always brush your
coat well when you take it off, and put
it away carefully. The bristles injure
the texture less than dust.”
And so the letter went on, much to
my amusement. He wrote as though
I had capital. He might as well
have cautioned me against buying the
Pitt diamond, as not to expend more
than a thousand pounds in business.
As I could not suspect him of jeering
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
me, I concluded his mind wandered occasionally.
The next morning Paul and I were
driven into the city. We entered the
house of Lent & Co., bankers, to whom
I was properly introduced. After
glancing at my letter, the junior partner
broke the seal, and reading it, said:
“I hope you will keep your account
with us, sir. Shall we place it to your
credit, or will you draw?”
I was astonished, and asked to see
the letter. It contained a check, drawn
to my order, for two thousand pounds,
and a few words saying that any favors
I might need to the like amount,
in the course of business, might be
placed, from time to time, to the writer's
account. The money was so much
more than I ever dreamed of possessing,
that I half hesitated, but finally
took it in the shape of a draft upon a
New York banker.
On my way to see Zara, Paul was
full of this affair, which astonished
him, and declared that either Sharp
was John Howard re-born, or that I
was undoubtedly the Emperor of China,
and Sharp my Chancellor of the
Exchequer.
Zara, from whom her uncle had parted
but a short while before, was delighted
to see me, and cried over my
approaching departure. I consoled
her as well as I could, though I felt
like crying myself, and so we parted
for a long separation.
On my return home I found that the
Duke had sent a dispatch to engage
me a passage under the name of Andrew
Brooks, in the good ship Mary
Perkins, an American liner that was
to sail from Liverpool in four days'
time. I bade the Duke farewell, and
hurried down with Paul, after having
provided myself a hasty, though complete
outfit. On our arrival there,
Paul found his friend and patron, Mr.
Archbold, among the passengers, and
introduced me to him not only by my
traveling name, but confidentially by
my own. The manner of the American
pleased me very much, and I could
see that he was fond of Paul, and would
take to me warmly on his account. My
voyage promised, therefore, to be a
pleasant one, and though I regretted
parting with my friends, yet I was
young, the world was before me, I was
going to see a strange country, and I
parted with Paul with rather an exuberance
of spirits than otherwise.
Still, when I saw the shores of old
England fade away in the distance,
there was a lingering sadness, and I
thought for a moment mournfully of
Zara, and the others I had left behind.
CHAPTER XVIII. , Which contains a queer story, which the reader had better make a note of.
The early part of our voyage was, I
presume, what all sea voyages, at their
outset, usually are—namely, a disagreeable
sea-sickness, followed by wonder
and dissatisfaction at the vague
waste of water on every hand. After
the first sensation of novelty and nausea
had passed, I either spent most of
my time on deck, listening to Archbold's
stories, or in rambling over the
vessel pestering the sailors with inquiries.
This grew wearisome, too, and
then, to further break the monotony, I
took to studying the officers and crew.
At night, my thoughts went back to
Paul and Zara, and things of the past.
The master of the vessel—captain,
as every one called him—was named
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
Peabody. He was a slender little man,
with a superabundance of light whisker
around his cheeks and throat, clear,
blue eyes, and a pleasant, genial, and
open countenance. He had started in
sea-faring life on board of a whalingship
out of New Bedford, and had
fought his way up, until, at thirty-two
years of age, he had, along with the
reputation of being a thorough seaman,
the command of one of the finest
of the American packet-ships. He had
accumulated a little fortune, which was
invested in two houses in the city of
New York. In the smallest of these
his wife and children resided—the rent
of the other serving for their support
during his absence, while the greater
part of his pay was accumulating.
He had views of a different life, too,
for I heard him one day observe in conversation
with Archbold:
“Yes, sir, this is to be my last vy'ge.
I ain't tired of the sea, which I've
lived on about twelve years out of the
last sixteen; but I want to be at home
more with my family. So I've made
up my mind to throw up my command;
my owners don't know it, and won't
till I return—sell my two houses, and
buy a little farm in the Jarsies, somewhere
in Monmouth or Middlesex,
where I can look out on the salt water
and sniff the sea-weed; and there I'll
raise my own pigs and potatoes. You
see I'm kind of used to farming—I was
brought up to it between vy'ges, when
I was young—used to tend a spell on
father's farm when I'd come home from
whaling. It'll all come back, sir, with
a little practice.”
Archbold said to me afterwards, referring
to this idea, that there was al
ways an itching among two classes of
people to turn farmers, namely, sea-faring
men and actors. The shipmasters
generally did very well, and seemed
to plow the land as easily as they
previously had the ocean; but the actors
found their agricultural life too
monotonous.
Of the first mate, Mr. Lansing, we
saw little. He was taken ill on the
first day of our voyage out, and so severely
as to be confined to his berth.
The second mate, Van Kline, a native
of New York city, was a short, stout
man, about forty-five or fifty years old,
tanned and grizzled; moody, sullen,
and taciturn, but known to be exceedingly
temperate, and a fair officer. He
had followed the sea unremittingly from
his boyhood up; but though a good
sailor, never rose above the third position
in a ship. This had apparently
soured him, and though attentive to
his duties, his manner made him no favorite
with either passengers or crew.
There were but five cabin passengers,
Mr. Archbold, a New Yorker
named Rapelje, and his two sons, and
myself. The three Rapeljes, pere et fils,
were very proud of their Dutch ancestors—
the original emigrant to America,
by the bye, had been a worthy tailor—
and were very exclusive and toploftical.
They had made the tour of
Europe in three months, traveling post
haste from London to Paris, from Paris
to Berlin, from Berlin to St. Petersburg,
from St. Petersburg to Vienna,
from Vienna to Constantinople, from
Constantinople to Rome, from Rome to
Gibraltar, and from Gibraltar to London,
having seen everybody, every
place, in short, everything worth seeing
all over the world. They kept
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
close to their state rooms during the
voyage, except at meals; or if they
occasionally emerged to the deck, held
no communion with any one but themselves,
which, as they were not a lively
party, was rather a comfort than
otherwise.
Archbold was a tall, dark, loosely-jointed,
but, nevertheless, rather distinguished
man, about the middle age of
life. He belonged to the eastern shore
of Virginia—at least he had a large
plantation there—and he had a handsome
dwelling-house, I was told, in the
town of Richmond; but neither of
these localities saw him more than once
in two or three years. There seemed
to be no rest for the sole of his foot.
The man was a citizen of the world.
If he had any places particularly his
favorites, they were London, Paris,
and New York, between which he vibrated
with tolerable regularity. He
had been in the American naval service,
but when he had risen to the rank
of lieutenant, resigned, ostensibly because
promotion was too slow, but
really because he had too much money.
He was exceedingly good company,
full of fun, told a good story well, sung
a good song passably, and did not
think it beneath his dignity to stroll
to the forecastle on a pleasant night,
and listen to the tough yarns spun
there. He was a great favorite with
the sailors, one of whom, Ben Ward,
had served on a cruise with him aboard
a United States sloop of war.
Of the crew, but one was worthy
of particular note, and that was this
same Ben Ward. He was an old man-o'-war's
man, nearly sixty years of age,
but active as most men at thirty;
knew his profession well, and was
proud of the knowledge, and rather
thought he had compromised his dignity
by entering the merchant service.
He took a great fancy to me, taught
me the names and uses of the various
ropes and spars, and told me very funny
stories of his scrapes and adventures,
all of which would make very
agreeable reading, no doubt, if this
were the proper place to reel them off.
Nothing occurred of note until we
were out about four days, when the
first mate suddenly died. The ceremony
of a burial at sea has been so
often described, that I need not attempt
it here, though the scene made a great
impression on me. Mr. Archbold, at
the captain's request, read the funeral
service; the body, sewed up with a
piece of kentledge at its feet, in lieu of
round shot, was sent overboard, and
the next day all appeared to have been
forgotten. Van Kline kept the dead
man's position on board, and everything
went on as before.
The weather was not so stormy for
a couple of days after Lansing's death
as it had been, and Archbold and I,
during the fifth afternoon, were leaning
over the quarter chatting, when
my companion suddenly said:
“Do you know I've been trying to
place you, as they say, ever since I
saw you? I had seen some one with
your cast of features before, and I
couldn't tell who it was, or where it
was, for the life of me. But now I
have it; and it implies quite an odd
story too. Shall I tell it?”
“By all means,” I replied. “I have
been told so often that I look like somebody
else, that I shall begin to think
after a while my face bears a resemblance
to every tenth man in the
world.”
“Well, my boy, you can believe it
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
or not, but the man I speak of had a
great resemblance to you, though he
was a great deal older, and it is not
long since I saw him, not over eighteen
months.”
“Where does he live, and who is
he?”
“He is nobody now, and don't live
anywhere, for he is dead; but he was
Don Estevan de Cabarrus, one of the
wealthiest land-holders and cattle-owners
in the north of Chihuahua.”
“A Mexican, eh?”
“No, a native of old Spain, but he
spent the greater part of his time on
his Mexican estates—in fact he had
lived there for several years, and was
a naturalized citizen. I came overland
from Mazatlan, through Durango,
just before going to England, and—
well, it is a long story, but it is quite
enough that I was there, and the Senor
de Cabarrus, whom I had met at
Cadiz years ago, invited me to remain
awhile. I did so. He was a widower,
and had two very handsome daughters,
one of whom, Juanita, was the belle
of that region. The Senor lived en
prince. The ranchero was a place of
importance, a little town. The hacienda
where he dwelt was the abode of a
number of his farm-laborers and herdsmen,
whose adobe huts made a respectable-sized
village. In the centre was
his own mansion. You wouldn't call
it much of a mansion, I fancy, seeing
it was only one story high, and built
of wood, on a stone foundation; but it
was a great house for that quarter of
the world.
“Don Estevan passed his time in the
country, partly in superintending his
estate; he had several thousand horses
to take care of.”
“Several thousand!” I interrupted.
“Several thousand,” repeated Archbold,
coolly. “You must recollect that
there are large prairies in that quarter,
and that cattle and horses are
turned loose in vast numbers, breed
rapidly, and when wanted are captured,
or driven into great pounds. A
thousand there are about equal to ten
here, and cost less to rear. He passed
his time in taking care of these, and
amused himself in that, philosophical
experiments of one kind or other, and
reading. He had a large library, and
a complete set of philosophical instruments,
and among others a large electrical
machine, of London make. Keep
your eye on the electrical machine, for
there's the nub of the story.
“The Indians, Navajoes, and what
not, used to come down in that quarter,
plundering and slaying, but at the
time I staid there, they had not honored
the place with a visit for years.
Consequently, nobody looked for them;
but one night, or rather one morning,
just before day, about a hundred of the
vagabonds dashed in on us. In fact,
if it had not been for some of the curs
who commenced a furious barking at
their approach, the first tidings of their
presence would have been the breaking
in of the doors. We were roused
up suddenly, and made as good fight
as we could, but they were too many
for us, and we were soon prisoners at
their mercy.
“Senor Estevan fared badly. I was
overpowered at the beginning, thrown
down and tied. Don Estevan made
more resistance, and was beaten down.
The Indian was about to finish him—
the red rascal's blood was up, you see—
when another savage interfered, and
saved him partly. The blow fell, and
my host was seriously wounded, but
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
the force of the blow being interrupted,
did not finish him outright. I was
not a little astonished, when this new-comer
spoke to me in very good Spanish,
and said:
“`Keep yourselves still, and I will
manage to save your lives.'
“I could not do anything else but
keep still, for there I was, pinioned—
trussed like a turkey for the spit—
and they bundled us all into the library,
while they rummaged the house.
There we were, the Don lying wounded,
the two daughters with their hands
tied, sobbing, and expecting to be carried
off prisoners; and I, bound hand
and foot, waiting patiently the convenience
of my captors to have my brains
knocked out.”
“You were in a bad way,” I ventured.
“Yes, rather; but not so bad as the
Don. For you see, while we were lying
there, a big, hulking savage, his
name, as I learned, in his own language,
meant the Bear, came in and
offered some indignity to Juanita. I
shouted at him, but he paid no attention
to me. The father endeavored,
wounded as he was, to defend the girl,
and the Indian stabbed him. At that
moment the same man who had saved
him before entered, and interfered.
The Bear and the new-comer jabbered
awhile in their own dialect, and it ended
by the Bear going out very sulkily.
The Don had been stabbed in the arm.
The friendly savage—at least he was
dressed in their costume—made an extempore
tourniquet, and stopped the
flow of blood, and turning to the girls
assured them that they should be protected
from farther insult.
“`You must all keep as quiet as you
can,” he said. My power over these
men depends on their superstition; but
the one who has gone out is the chief
of the expedition, and hates me. I
an Englishman, a captive among these
wretches, though nominally one of the
tribe. He has gone out threatening
to rouse the rest against me, and it
will require dexterous management;
but I think I can save you, especially
as I see the means here.'
“He pointed to the electrical machine,
and bidding one of the girls to
watch the door, loosened me. We
both set to work to charge the machine,
and by the time the Bear got
back we had filled a couple of Leyden
jars, and I was seated quietly in a corner.
Are you getting tired?”
“No, I am quite interested. Pray
go on.”
“Well, the Indians swarmed in, and
gravely seated themselves around the
room, on the floor. It was a sort of
extempore council, and in spite of the
terrors of the occasion, the scene was
attractive. The gloomy faces of the
savages, streaked with their war paint,
peered out of the darkness, for there
was but a single lamp lit in the place;
and in contrast with their threatening
looks, and the alarmed faces of the
Don and his daughters, was the calm
look of our semi-savage Englishman,
as he stood leaning against the frame
of the electrical machine.”
“What a picture for a painter!”
“I dare say; but if you had been
in the middle of it, you would have
seen nothing in it but a band of blood-thirsty
savages debating about your
fate. You'd have found it too interesting
to be agreeable.
“Presently the Bear got up, and
spread himself for a speech. I couldn't
tell what he said, but as the deaf man
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
said of Prentiss, a famous orator of
ours, he went through the motions
splendid. He was evidently pitching
into our benevolent English friend,
whose conduct, seen in an Indian light,
had been rather irregular; and from
the glances cast from time to time by
the dusky warriors, I was very much
afraid that the chance of the whites
was a poor one. When he sat down
there was a general grunt of approval
in the council that boded no good.
“But the Englishman did not mind
it. By Jove! he was as cool as an
iceberg. He mounted the insulating
stool, and, with the connecting-rod in
one hand, he began to make his
speech. As he talked Indian of course,
I could not tell what he said. At first,
I could see that it made no impression;
but he wound up with some
proposition that evidently startled
them. There was a general look of
dismay among the party, but they came
up to the scratch with the Bear at their
head, and I partly found out what the
proposition was, and got it all afterwards.
“He had been inviting them, if they
doubted he was a great magician, to
touch his hand, when they would feel
their stout hearts tremble, and their
frames shake at the stroke of his anger.
They came toward him with some
misgivings, and at his direction joined
hands, he taking that of the Bear. I
saw what was coming. The jar that
he touched was a heavy one, and full
charged. The shock was strong
enough to bring the Bear and most of
his companions to their knees, and as
soon as they had recovered from it,
they slunk off one by one, leaving the
Englishman triumphant.”
“But who was he?” I asked.
“That's more than I certainly know,”
said Archbold; “he said that the savages
called him `The Great Mystery
Man,' but he gave me no English
name.”
“No doubt they thought him a great
medicine,” I said.
“He enlightened me on that point
some, in a conversation I had with him
after. He said that what we translate
`medicine,' should be `mystery.' The
Indians are ignorant and superstitious.
Whatever they don't understand they
call `mystery.' He had been taken
captive, and would have been put to
death, but some feats of legerdemain,
something like ordinary juggler's tricks,
which he had done to amuse one of the
squaws, made them think him a powerful
magician, and they saved his life.
His last feat eclipsed all the others.”
“I should have thought, as a civilized
man, he would not have gone on
their expeditions.”
“He went to save the whites from
being carried off, and always succeeded,
except with the peons' children. He
never intended to save them.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he gave a very fair reason.
He said they were better off as prisoners
among the savages, if adopted into
the tribe, than at home; and as to
the lack of Christian education, the
Christianity of the peons was only a
modification of Paganism.”
“And what else happened?”
“The most singular of all. By this
time the daylight was on us, and our
preserver turned to the Don to look at
his wounds. They both appeared to
recognize each other at the same moment.
Don Estevan said nothing—he
looked alarmed; but the Englishman
made use of an expression which
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
puzzled me at the time. He said, half in
wonder, and half triumphantly:
“So, so! Bugunda Jawa?”'
I started as Archbold repeated these
words. Was I then to find the solution
of the mystery, in an occurrence
far out in the wilds of Mexico?
“The two men,” continued Archbold,
“regarded each other silently for awhile,
and then the Don said:
“`I owe you something, Senor, and
I will pay it better than you think. I
am mortally wounded; I am sure of it;
but I may last some time yet. Let us
two be alone for awhile.'
“Well, I led out the girls; and going
out sent for the nearest surgeon.
Before he came, the interview between
the two closed, and the Indians, with
the stranger at their head, rode off,
driving with them the best of the
horses, and carrying all the portable
plunder they could. I never saw the
Englishman again, and suppose he is
with them yet; though he told me that
he intended to escape to civilization
when he could do it safely.”
“And this man whom I resemble—
what more of him?”
“He died in about three days,” answered
Archbold. “He told me that
he had done a very grievous wrong to
the other once, under the belief that
he was his enemy; but the interview
had cleared matters up.”
“Did he give you any of his own
history?”
“Yes, a good deal. It appears that
he was a Spaniard of good family, the
son of a Marquis, in fact a Marquis
himself, although he had abandoned
the title. When young, his family
being poor, he went to the East to seek
his fortune. From Manilla, he wandered
to Java, and found his way to
the court of the Susuhunan, or Emperor
of Java, at that time at Sura-Kerta, on
the Solo river. This prince was rather
partial to foreigners who had either
birth or parts to recommend them, and
Don Estevan, not being troubled with
two much conscience, turned Mahummadan,
and finally rose to be the Raden
Adipati, or chief minister of state.
The other came there too, a traveling
Englishman of rank, and the two at
first were very friendly. But circumstances
occurred which made the minister
think the Englishman intended to
supplant him. So fixed did this impression
get that the Spaniard hired
ruffians to assassinate his old friend,
but the attempt failed.”
“Pleasant,” I said.
“Very; but that is Eastern politics.
Their hatred got intensified afterwards,
I believe, when the Spaniard had left
Java, being a disgraced minister, and
he met the Englishman elsewhere.
There were some family difficulties, if I
understood rightly; but I didn't get
the particulars. I've given you all I
know.”
I pondered a good deal on this story,
though it appeared to me that I was
only getting deeper in a labyrinth of
conjecture. I determined, however, to
let Paul know it, and wrote a letter to
be sent to him either by the first vessel
that crossed us, or on my arrival at
New York.
CHAPTER XIX. , Giving nautical incidents, and an interesting nautical manœuvre, not to be told to the marines.
Two nights after Archbold had told
me his Mexican adventure, the wind
was blowing fresh, and we were scudding
under close-reefed top-sails, when,
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
as we two were leaning on the bulwarks,
looking into the darkness, the
captain passed us on his way aft. He
paused a moment opposite to us, and
said:
“If this breeze holds, it won't be
many days before we'll sight the Hook,
Mr. Archbold; and Sally and the children'
ll sight me.”
Archbold made some indifferent reply
about the old barky having a bone
in her teeth, or something similar, and
the captain passed on.
As we stood there talking, we heard
a sudden, sharp cry.
Archbold knew the sound, and yelling
out “man overboard,” ran aft. I
followed, the ship was brought to, the
deck was in an uproar, lights flew
about, and various articles were tossed
over for buoys. Van Kline came
running toward us, and as I flashed
over him the light of a lantern which
I had taken from one of the men, I noticed
he was deathly pale.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “it must
be the captain. He was aft a few minutes
since, and he didn't pass coming
back.”
The night was dark—it was useless
to attempt to lower boats; we listened,
but could hear no call. After an hour
or so, we resumed our course, the
winds singing through the tops the
dirge of the dead commander.
“Port, hard!” cried Archbold, suddenly.
The man at the wheel, Ben Ward,
mechanically answered, “hard it is,
sir; hard!” the vessel changed her
course, and just at that moment a white
mass sprang out of the darkness, and
shot past our starboard quarter.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Van Kline,”
said Archbold, “but it was touch and
go.”
The man overboard proved really to
have been the captain. It was a fearful
accident, for which no one could
account, and impressed us all sadly.
It seemed to fall on Van Kline with
more force than any one else, and he
appeared to have been more attached
to the captain than we supposed. He
grew pale and trembled excessively
whenever Peabody's name was mentioned,
and used to pace up and down
the deck muttering to himself. I overheard
him once, and the words were:
“Overboard! drowned!” uttered in
the most piteous tone. He took command,
of course, but his habits of life
changed. Hitherto remarkable for his
sobriety, he now drank to excess. The
suddenness of the accident to the captain
had so unsettled his nerves that
he resorted to the bottle to steady
them, and as usual in such cases, used
his remedy too freely. Day by day
this grew worse, and for the last few
days of our voyage, he was scarcely
ever sober after dinner time, the duties
of command devolving upon the new
acting-mate—a very clever young man,
in the American sense of the term but
utterly incapable as a seaman to fill
the position. The crew were very
much disturbed about this, but the new
mate was guided a good deal by Archbold,
in whom the men, through Ben
Ward, had confidence, and as to seamanship,
we got along very well. It
was well, however, the voyage was so
near at an end, since there would have
been a mutiny else. Van Kline, when
sober, that is, during the early part of
the day, was so harsh, capricious, and
tyrannical, that the men gave audible
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
murmurs of dissatisfaction, and only
submitted because of the prospect of
an early release.
“It is a shame, though, and sing'ler
too,” said Ben Ward to me, in regard
to the new captain. “Mr. Van Kline
never used to drink a drop afore, that
any one knowed on, and what's got into
him, isn't clear, accordin' to my
reckonin'. Maybe his unexpected rise
has oversot him; but I thought he had
more ballast. He 'peared to be stiddy
al'ays. There's one thing certain—if
he's in a drunken fit when a storm
comes up, Sam Perkins aint to be relied
on, and Mr. Archbold 'll have to
turn skipper a spell.”
No storm, however, did come on;
but nevertheless it did so chance that
Archbold had to assume command of
the ship, and a very narrow escape we
had; an escape attributable solely to
the Virginian's nautical education.
It was rather early in the morning;
the breeze was a little fresh, and we
were sailing by the wind, with royals
in. Mr. Archbold had been keeping
reckoning for his own satisfaction, and
he made us farther to the north and
east than Van Kline did. The consequence
was that he was uneasy, and
had kept a sharp look out. There was
a little haziness in the distance, and
land was reported, which Van Kline,
who was standing aft, not recovered
from the previous night's debauch,
thought was Sandy Hook.
“We're many miles from that,” muttered
Archbold to Ward, who was at
the wheel.
Van Kline still stood there, with a
sodden, imbecile look, and overheard
him. He chuckled out his disbelief.
The haze lifted a little, and we heard
the cry forward:
“Breakers on the lee bow.”
Every one looked at Van Kline, who
gave the laugh of a man half silly
from the effects of a previous fit of intoxication,
and said:
“What fool says that, and we twenty
miles west of a sandy beach?”
We could see the breakers plainly
enough, not a dozen lengths from us,
apparently, and we bearing down on
them; but there stood Van Kline, with
an idiotic smile of confidence on his
face. The men moved here and there uneasily,
and some kicked off their shoes.
Archbold sprung to Ward suddenly:
“Stand by me, Ben,” said he. “Ambrose,
look to Van Kline. If he touches
the wheel, or interferes, floor him.”
Then raising his voice, he sung out,
“All hands ahoy, there!”
The men recognized his voice, and
replied with a general “ay! ay!”
“Man the main clew-garnets and
buntlines!” he cried. “Let go the
tack and sheet. Up mainsail!”
The men went to work with a will,
and the mainsail was taken in.
“Jump aft to the spanker brails!”
he continued. “One of you clear away
the sheet! Brail up!”
The spanker was taken in in a hurry.
Archbold turned to Ward:
“Put your helm hard-a-lee!”
“Hard-a-lee it is, sir,” growled Ward.
“Fork's'l there!”
“Sir!”
“Man the weather fore clew garnets!”
“All manned for'd, sir.”
“Let go all your bowlines forward!
Haul up! Lead out the main and cross
jack braces! Let go your bowlines,
and catch a turn with the lee-braces
when the sails shiver. Brace in!”
The wind was thus being taken out
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
of her after sails, and the pressure that
was driving her to leeward was lessened
evidently.
“Lead out your head braces, and
keep them manned,” continued Archbold.
The sails on the foremast began to
flutter from being pointed in the direction
of the wind, and the ship was
slowly veering round.
“Brace up!” cried he.
The head sails began to catch the
wind and belly out, and Archbold roared
in stentorian tones:
“Man the main and cross braces!
Brace in! Catch a turn at the square
mark. Well that. Belay!”
Turning to Ward, he said:
“Meet her with the helm. Steady
so!”
“Steady it is, sir!” growled old
Ben.
The head sails were now full, and
Archbold gave his orders rapidly, the
men obeying with confident alacrity.
“Lay aft to the braces! Trim the
after yards by the fore. Sharp up!
Belay every inch! Let go your leefore-clew-garnet,
and man the sheet.
Haul aboard! Haul aft all the headsheets!
Man the main-tack and sheet!
Let go, and overhaul the clew-garnets
and buntlines! Haul aboard! Man
the spanker sheet! Let go the brails!
Haul out!”
The ship was now brought on the
opposite direction, braced sharp up,
with sails set, and leaving the breakers
astern farther every minute.
“Couldn't ha' done it better on old
Ironsides,” said old Ben to me, confidentially.
I knew nothing about that; but I
saw we had been in some danger, and
had escaped from it, and that was quite
enough for me.
We had, as Archbold had reckoned,
got far above Long Island, instead of
below it, and came near being wrecked,
in daylight, and with a fair wind,
on the Rhode Island coast. Not caring
to try the Hell Gate passage, Archbold
changed our course, turned Long
Island, and kept charge until we had
come near enough the Hook to take a
pilot aboard. Van Kline made all
kinds of fierce threats to punish this
mutiny of passengers and crew; but
no one paid the slightest attention to
him, and he went below to drown his
grief and insulted dignity in the bottle.
CHAPTER XX. , Which brings me to New York, where I find employment, and make a new acquaintance.
New York has a bewildering effect
on a European. Its size is not so great
as that of London; but its bustle and
life are scarcely inferior; and the habit
of the place, of interminably tearing
itself down and building itself up, prevents
any familiarity. The New Yorkers
seem like children with their cardhouses.
So soon as one fabric has
been erected, they throw it down and
commence building afresh—each succeeding
erection being of a more absurd
and impossible order of architecture
than the one before. The stranger
runs the gauntlet of mortar-beds and
sand-heaps, finds temporary bridges
over the sidewalks at every step, admires
the mixture of the useful and ornamental
which garnishes piles of
bricks with many-colored placards,
and gains great dexterity of movement
and quickness of eye by dodging
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
falling fragments of brick and stone.
Should he leave it on a visit to the
provinces, and remain six months, he
finds on his return new houses, new
streets, and apparently a new population.
New York is among cities what
the English tongue is among languages—
it is made up of the natives
of every part of its own land and
of the world at large. At least one-half
the population is foreign, and of
that half the greater portion comes
from the British islands. So I had no
difficulty in making the acquintance of
a number of my own countrymen.
These were mostly those who had resided
there for a number of years, and
who would probably die there, but who
did not think so.
There were some peculiarities about
these New York Englishmen which
struck me as being odd. These oddities
arose from their nationality of
thought, and its opposition to surrounding
circumstances—the conflict
of sentiment with fact.
The Englishman, and American too,
I fancy, only leaves his native place
with the expectation of returning to it
next month, or next year, or possibly
when he has accumulated a fortune.
The Irishman, or German, leaves his
home to find a new world, and leaves
it never to return. The Irishman is
content with his creature comforts, and
his political equality, and at once identifies
himself with the natives of the
country he has chosen; the German
brings fatherland along with him, in
the shape of lager bier, singing societies,
and impracticable theories of
government, and is content. The Englishman
cannot carry with him his
juicy mutton, and his moist atmosphere,
no more than the American could
his oysters and canvass-back ducks,
and so sighs for his old comforts. But
my new English acquaintances were
all married and settled—married chiefly
to the natives of the country—most
of them had children who were thoroughly
fast young Americans, looking
at their fathers as foreigners; they
had acquired property, some less and
some more; and they had acquired
with the last, though profoundly ignorant
of the fact, a grumbling attachment
to the country. They growled
at the usages around them, none of
which they would have changed had
they the power; and sighed for London,
which, had they once got there,
they would have left in a month
Though their cry was, “There's no
place like old England,” the attachment
it implied was theoretical. After
I had been in New York some time, I
parodied Alexander's declaration about
Diogenes, and said, “If I were not an
Englishman, I would be an American;”
but most of these ridiculing America
at the outset, became practically Americans
before the end. True, to an
American they would disparage the
country; but let a newly-come Englishman
poke fun at anything around
him, and they would fall on him as ferociously
as the most furious Yankee
patriot could desire.
Had there been any suspicion in my
mind that the Earl would endeavor to
reach at me over the Atlantic, I should
have kept clear of my countrymen in
New York, as one means to baffle discovery;
but I was well satisfied that
the enmity arose solely through my
supposed connection with Zara and
Espinel, whom he had some unknown
cause to either fear or hate. Hence
his desire to get me to India; and
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
were he to discover that I was in the
United States, it was probable he would
be well contented so long as I remained
there.
As I did not intend to draw on
Sharp's money, if possibly to be avoided,
I deposited it in a bank pointed
out to me by Archbold, and then, leaving
my hotel, went to lodgings. I
found a third story back room, plainly
furnished, at the house of a Frenchman,
a jeweler, for three dollars a
week. There I had my own breakfast
and supper—the arrangement including
hot water and attendance—and I took
my dinner at a cheap eating-house in
Nassau street, kept by a man named
Gosling. I sought for something to
do, and after a few weeks was fortunate
enough to find employment as
compositor in the “printing office,” as
they called it, of a Sunday newspaper—
so called because dated and sold on
the Christian Sabbath, though all the
work upon it, except the delivery to
the readers, was done before the midnight
of Saturday.
There were nine others at work in
the office—six regularly, and three
of Fridays and Saturdays. As I was
what is called a fast workman, and
could set nearly one-half as many more
“ems” of type per day than any of the
others, my only concern was to secure
a sufficiency of copy, with as much
“fat”—that is, as much blank space in
the matter—as possible. My fellow-compositors
were mostly agreeable
companions, and with the exception of
one of the number, very well-informed,
as well as very steady men. They
were all Americans, and felt disposed
to have some practical jokes at the expense
of the only foreigner among
them; but I took these attempts so
good naturedly, that they soon left it
off, voting me “a good fellow.” Thus
we got on together without mishap or
misunderstanding.
Among the compositors I have said
there was one not so well-informed as
the rest—in fact he knew little more
than how to read or write—and yet I
grew more intimate with him than
with any of the others. He was a
“chunky” young man, with a great
head of fiery red hair, and was named
John McManus. His father was an
Irishman, who had settled in the United
States about thirty years before, and
there reared a brood of stout young
Americans. The elder McManus had
been successful in various street contracts,
and was in comfortable circumstances;
but insisted that his children,
when grown, should take care of themselves.
The younger McManus, the
only son among seven children, was
married, fond of his home and his
pretty wife, and an occasional frolic.
There was not a particle of sympathy
in our tastes, or similarity in our
habits, and yet we soon became fast
friends. His jovial, off-hand manner
and broad jokes, diverted my melancholy
thoughts, and came to be a kind
of necessity.
During all this time I never saw
Archbold. I presumed that he was
wandering somewhere as usual. I
heard occasionally from Paul, but he
gave me nothing of importance; and
received one letter from Sharp, barren
of all details about affairs in Puttenham.
One day, about ten months after I
had been in the printing office, and toward
the latter part of February, McManus
invited me to visit his lodgings
that evening.
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
“The old woman,” said he, meaning
by that term his young wife, “gives
a tea-fight to-night, and there will be
lots of calico on hand. Do you
dance?”
“A little,” I replied.
“You're the man for the crisis,” he
said; “but, nota bena, you'd better oil
your shanks, and put a solid inch of
injy-rubber on your boot-soles, for some
of the girls are terrible dancers, and if
you don't take care you'll come away
with two short stumps sticking to your
body.”
I promised to use proper precautions
to prevent the abbreviation of
my legs, and taking his address, went
home when we were through work, to
get ready.
He had named seven o'clock, but I
thought it better to be late than too
early, so I did not start until eight.
He lived in Sullivan street, occupying
the first floor of a house, the basement
of which was used as a corner-grocery—
that is, a shop where they sell
sugar, tea, salted meats, vegetables,
coals, beer and whiskey, in short, any
thing that can be taken, drank or consumed
about the household. I forgot
the name of the cross street, and it
was some time before I could find the
place. At length I observed lights
and heard the sound of a piano in the
second story of a house over a grocer's
shop, and on inquiry found it to
be the place I sought. I knocked at
the door, but no one answered. There
were three bell handles, one above the
other, at the side of the door, and I
pulled the upper one briskly. In a few
minutes a young woman came to the
door and inquired my business.
“You've rung the wrong bell, sir,”
she said; “Mr. McManus lives in the
second story.”
She sighed as she spoke. I noted
by the dim light of the hall lamp that
she was pale and care-worn. I thanked
her for the information, and proceeded
to the second floor, and there
knocked at the door. McManus himself
answered my rap, appearing arrayed
in a black frock coat and trousers,
with a waistcoat of gorgeous
pattern, and a green silk neck-tie,
studded with golden sprigs, in which
his red face and flaming hair reposed
like a gigantic peony. He dragged
me in with boisterous welcome, and introduced
me generally to the company
and specially to his wife.
Mrs. McManus was quite a presentable
person indeed—young, handsome,
with a self-possessed air, and a style
quite different from what I had anticipated.
I have seen many women since,
in what are called the upper circles,
by no means so distinguished in their
appearance, or so faultless in their
style, who were considered models of
taste and deportment. How she could
ever have fancied her rude and boisterous
husband I could not divine—but
so we say of many other wives every
day. She put me at ease at once, and
after a short chat, introduced me to a
partner.
I stood up in a quadrille, intending
to walk through it, but found that I
was expected to dance, and that right
vigorously. As I had come determined
to make myself as agreeable as possible,
I fell into the spirit of the affair so
earnestly that when the music stopped,
I was nearly knocked up. I led
my partner to a seat, said to her some
of the complacent nothings customary
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
on such occasions, and presently rejoined
the mistress of the place.
McManus himself came up to us,
with a moist countenance and humbled
shirt collar.
“What kept you so late?” “he asked,
“I had given out that you'd be
here, and then I'd given you out.”
I explained the cause of my delay,
and then mentioned my mistake in
ringing the wrong bell, and how the
girl came from above.
“Yes,” he said. “That was poor
Mely Van Kline. My wife would have
asked her here to-night, but I don't
think she had a dress fit to wear. I
expect they've pawned nearly everything
they have. By thunder! that
Van Kline ought to be hung!”
“Don't say that, John, please,” interrupted
his wife. “You forget the
poor man is in the asylum.”
“No I don't. He ought to have
been in a worse place long ago.”
“Who is the father?” I inquired, the
name glimmering over my memory.
“He was a sea-faring man,” answered
M`Manus, “the second mate of a
liner, and would have been captain
only he drank so that the owners discharged
him. Now he's gone clear
crazy, and there's his family suffering.
It's a pity for them, but it's a judgment
on him.”
“Don't talk that way, John, please.”
“But I will talk that way, Bell,
please. It's just what I mean. I went
up there the time he had the horrors
on him, and he let out enough to make
me sure he'd knocked the captain overboard
one dark night; and no good
come of it. That's what made him a
bummer, and served him right.”
“But a man's crazy fancies, John—”
“Are about as apt as anything, Bella,
to be a crazy man's memories, especially
when he's run crazy. It was
his deed preying on him that drove
him crazy.”
“That explains it, then!” I exclaimed,
as I thought of Van Kline's pallid
face, on the night I flashed he light
upon it.
They both looked at me inquiringly.
I told them how I was aboard the vessel
on the night of Captain Peabody's
disappearance; and M'Manus plied me
with questions which I could not avoid
answering.
“Well,” said Mrs. M`Manus, “Amelia
is to be pitied.”
“Yes,” admitted John, “I'll own it's
a pity for her. Her mother is sick,
and she supports her by sewing for
the slop-shops—starves her, I guess.
They havn't paid any rent for some
time, and the agent says if the next
month isn't ready, he'll turn 'em out.”
“Oh, Mr. Brooks,” said the wife,
“don't you want some linen made up,
or some work of that kind done? Amelia
is a capital seamstress—I have
seen some of her work—and any employment
of that kind would be
of great assistance to her. It would
give her the profit that would otherwise
go to the shop-keeper.”
“Why,” said I, “I am not too well
supplied, and I will get the materials
and send them with the measure to
you. You can make the proper bargain
with her, if you will be kind
enough to undertake the commission.”
Another quadrille was formed, in
which I took part. I passed a very
pleasant evening. The guests were
honest, well-meaning working-people,
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
who had met to enjoy themselves, and
did it without restraint. I went home
late to my lodgings, thinking of the
poor girl who was striving to support
her mother and herself on a pittance,
and the terrible fate of the murderer.
I was impressible, and all that night
the pallid face and mournful eyes of
Amelia Van Kline looked on me
through my dreams.
The next morning I acted on impulse,
and enclosing forty dollars,
which was the amount of rent that
Mrs. M`Manus had said was in arrears,
in an envelope, along with the words—
“A loan from a shipmate of your father,”
I directed it to Amelia Van
Kline. As I feared to trust it to the
care of the penny-post, I hired a boy
to deliver it at the house. I stood at
some distance off, saw it taken from
his hand, and after he had told me that
he had given it to “a gal in a brown
an' white striped caliker,” gave him
the promised dime, and went on my
way rejoicing.
CHAPTER XXI. , Wherein I cultivate Amelia's acquaintance, and get a nurse.
I was informed by M`Manus, two
days after, that Amelia had paid her
rent, some unknown friend having sent
her the money. He supposed it to
come from the owners of some vessel
in which Van Kline had formerly sailed.
I did not undeceive him, and there
the matter rested.
My life for some months more was a
monotonous one, with little to interest
or excite me. I went to the office regularly
each day, received my weekly
pay on every Monday morning, and
was soon able to replace the amount
I had used out of Sharp's two thou
sand pounds. I generally spent my
surplus earnings after that in my old
pursuit of acquiring languages, but
occasionally went to a concert or a
picture-gallery with one of my English
friends. I was by no means fond of
society, and my intimacies were few.
My exile had grown irksome, and I was
desirous to terminate it; but Paul, to
whom I had written on the subject, advised
me to remain for the present
where I was. The Earl of Landys still
vibrated between his country residence
and London; Mr. Osborne lorded it
over the castle as usual; no farther
attempt had been made against Espinel,
who had gone to Spain; and Zara,
who was under the joint guardianship
of the Duke and Paul, always desired
to be remembered to me, and was
growing into a fine woman. The Guttenbergs,
it appeared, were well and
flourishing, and Mary was about to be
married to Tom Brown, whose uncle, a
London grocer, had left him a smart
sum, and who, on the marriage, was
to have an interest in the Chronicle.
Old Sharp, by all accounts, was about
the same, only richer, as the leases of
many of his houses had reverted to
him, and the rise of property in the
suburbs at Puttenham had added immensely
to his wealth. Capt. Berkely,
promoted to a majority, had been ordered
to India shortly after my departure,
and had distinguished himself in a difficulty
with the Affghans, when he was
by seniority the commanding officer of
a division which had been attacked by
the enemy; and Paul himself, as I
judged more from the newspapers he
had sent me than by his letters, was
growing in reputation as an artist
Once, too, he hinted at his forthcoming
marriage, but did not name the lady.
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
Sharp wrote me occasionally, but he
gave me no news, confining himself to
advice, and minute inquires as to my
doings.
My friend M`Manus continued all
this while to be as boisterous as ever,
and did not seem more subdued by an
addition to his household, which was
made seven months after I first visited
his house. This came in the form of a
youngster whose face gave indications
of duplicating the father's, whenever
it took a decided outline—a lusty,
healthy boy, with vigorous lungs, eyes
of great concentration of gaze, whether
upon a stranger or the tip of his
own nose, and hair of a tendency toward
the color of a badly-burned brick.
At one of my visits to this fellow and
his parents I first met Amelia Van
Kline.
I felt a strong interest in this girl,
though her father was a murderer, and
admired the quiet heroism with which
she was fighting her way through the
world. I saw she was not so handsome
as I thought her when we first
met. Her cheek-bones were high, her
skin was inclined to coarseness, and
her nostrils were rather too narrow;
but she had large, intelligent grey
eyes, very small and well-shaped hands,
and a good figure. She had a lowtoned
voice; and an occasional smile
relieved the prevailing sadness of expression,
and lit up her features pleasantly.
She was shy of me at first,
but I gradually drew her out. I found
that she had received little education;
but possessed a naturally clear mind;
and her conversation, though feminine
in expression, was masculine in tone.
Some of her remarks were striking,
and even epigrammatic. The commonplace
phrase, “she talks like a
book,” would give some idea of the
style of her conversation, and yet she
had evidently read few books. She
struck me as a very estimable young
woman, with a deep sense of duty a
kind heart, and a strong regard for
real propriety and right, without regard
for conventional rules. Little as
I had been thrown into female society,
she made for me an attractive and singular
study.
As time passed away, and we met
more frequently, we grew tolerably intimate,
and sometimes I would take
her to a concert, where she would sit
with her grey eyes fixed on the musicians,
and her ears drinking in the
sounds greedily. It was a pleasant
thing to watch her wrapt and intense
enjoyment on such occasions. It was
a long time before I knew that she
herself had a fine voice, and that she
could read music accurately, singing
at sight with facility. Mrs. M`Manus,
though but an ordinary performer,
clothed herself and made her own pocket
money, by giving lessons on the piano;
and one evening when Amelia
was there brought out a new song, and
asked her young friend to try it for
her. When she complied I was astonished
by the ease of her performance
and the quality of her voice. I was
not a profound judge, of course, but I
could not mistake the fact that she had
an organ of great compass, flexibility
and volume; and I thought it sad that
one so gifted should drag along existence
in earning with her needle barely
enough for the support of her mother
and herself.
An opportunity occurred for me to
serve her in that respect, and I embraced
it.
There was a German by the name of
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
Froebel, an organist in one of the fashionable
up-town churches, with whom
I had a dining acquaintance. I had
met him at the eating saloon where I
took my dinner, and finding that he
was a native of Berlin, and a fine scholar,
took the opportunity of getting
him, from time to time, to correct the
accent of my German. In the course
of our conversation one day, as we sat
at our table together, I observed to
him that he seemed to be vexed.
“Ach! Himmel, yaes! I have
trouble, my goot friend. My quire has
near kill me. It is go from bad to
worse, and now my contralto have
married and gone South, and she under
contract for one year, which she
ought not to do. I can buy contralto
all round, very plenty; but I have not
the means. The stingy fellows; they
allow me two hundred and fifty dollar
only for contralt, and expect angel that
sing at sight, and have fine voice, for
so little money. Ach!”
“Is it necessary that she should
know the church service thoroughly?”
“It is better so. But give me good
reader of music, and good voice, and I
can make all the rest her to know myself.”
“I think I can find you a contralto
that will suit you.”
“Can you? You shall have taken
much trouble from me. A countryman,
musician, came to hear as last
Sunday, and he say I have quire of
wild beast. Ach!”
I mentioned to him Amelia's name
and address, sending him to Mrs. McManus
with a note. The German
went, was delighted, took Amelia in
the choir on trial, and at the end of
three weeks she was engaged permanently.
“Ah, mine friend!” said Froebel, on
meeting me afterward, “I was much
obliged. That was fine contralto, indeed!
Herrmann shall say now if my
quire be wild beast.”
I used to go to St. Martin's church
nearly every Sunday after that, and I
am ashamed to say, less on account of
the service than the music. Froebel
was a capital organist, and understood
his profession thoroughly. The choir
soon gave evidence that it needed only
a capital contralto to balance the voices,
and a perfect quartette was the result.
I used to sit there and listen to the music
in great delight, and when the service
was over would quietly go home.
Sometimes, it is true, I walked home
with Amelia, but as a general thing I
left her under the guardianship of
the tenor, a pale, slender young man,
with a remarkably long, tawny imperial,
which hung from beneath his lower
lip, twisted and particolored, like
the string of a tobacco pouch.
It was after one of these visits, on a
Sunday afternoon, that I felt a certain
dizziness in my head as I walked along,
so much so that I staggered, and came
near falling once or twice. This was
accompanied by a violent pain in the
head and back. I reached home and
went to bed where I passed an uneasy
night. In the morning I found that I
had a high fever, and there were little
splotches here and there on my skin.
It was not long before these assumed
a pustular form, when I managed to
let the girl know that I wanted a doctor.
He came, shook his head, and
said I must have good attendance.
That night, however, I must have gone
off in delirium, for I remembered no
more except a faint conversation with
somebody, and the taking of some
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
medicine, until I found myself in old
Sharp's garret in the town of Puttenham.
Sharp, it seemed to me, was lying
on his pallet, as I had seen him the
night I watched with him. I thought
there were coals in the grate, and that
I wanted a piece of paper to light the
fire. I looked around. There was a
portfolio on the table—I observed its
color, shape, and general appearance
distinctly. There were some loose
ends of papers peering out at the edges,
and I opeued it to see if any of them
could be burned. On their top I noticed
a small packet, soiled and stained.
It was directed in Spanish to “el
Conde Lan Diez.” I was about to open
it, when Sharp arose from the bed, and
with the words, “wait until I am dead,”
took it way. I was about to remonstrate,
for I felt that this was the packet
originally delivered to John Guttenberg,
when I felt some one lightly
touch my head. I looked up. It was
Amelia Van Kline.
“Amelia!” I said.
“Oh, doctor!” she exclaimed, “he's
better. He knows me.”
I looked around. I was in my own
room, which was partially darkened.
Amelia was standing over me, and
with her was an elderly man in black.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Very well, but rather weak and
thirsty. This is Doctor Pascoe?”
“Yes.”
“What is the matter with me?”
“You have had the small-pox, but
you'll do very well now; but let me
caution you to keep your fingers from
your face, when it begins to itch, or
you'll mark yourself. You have been
very well attended, thanks to your
friends, and to the care of this young
lady.”
“I am sure I am grateful—and to
you also.”
“Oh, as to me, my attentions have
been professional, and need no thanks.
Besides, I should take some interest in
you, for you are a countryman.”
“You are an Englishman; may I
ask from what part?”
“Leeds last; though I practiced
once in Puttenham.”
“Did you? That's my native town.”
“Indeed! I made the largest fee
there I ever received; and a singular
case it was, too. Lie quiet; you want
a little conversation, and if you will
keep still, I'll tell you the circumstances.”
“Do so.”
“It was in a snowy night in 1827,
when about ten o'clock in the evening
I was getting ready to retire to my
bed. A rap came to the door, and I
went down myself to answer it. A
tall, dark man stood there, wrapped
about the shoulders in a fur cape. He
had his face muffled up.”
“In 1827—a tall, dark man—fur
cape—pray, go on.”
“Well, the man told me I was wanted
at once to attend a lady, and I prepared
to go, but he stopped me.”
“`There's one thing preliminary,'
he said. `At a certain street you must
be blindfolded, and let me lead you to
your patient.'
“`Fiddlesticks!' was my reply. `I
shall do no such thing.'
“`You will,' he continued. `To
show you that no harm is intended,
here are thirty sovereigns. Examine
them, leave them behind you. There
are reasons why this matter should be
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
private. Time presses; accept or reject
my offer.'
“I reflected a moment. It was the
outset of my practice. The sum, to
me, was enormous just then. I had no
enemies that I knew of.
“`Can I arm myself?' I asked.
“`To the teeth, if you desire it.'
“`Well,' said I, `I will go, and without
arms.'
“And go I did. I was blindfolded,
at the point agreed on, and led what I
supposed was a circuitous route, taken
up crazy old stairs into a half-darkened
room, where I found a lady in bed,
with a female attendant. I soon discovered
that the lady was in danger,
and that I could not save her. The
end of the story is, that a fine male
child was born, and the mother died.
I was blindfolded, led down the stairs,
and to the spot where I was blindfolded
at first; the bandage was removed,
and my conductor disappeared.
And that, I assure you, was the largest
fee I ever received.”
“Did you ever see the man again?”
“Never. I think I would know him
again, though, for I saw his face very
plainly for a moment. But I'll leave
you now to take a nap; be careful
about scratching your face, and you'll
do very well.”
And the doctor, accompanied by
Amelia, left.
I lay awake for a long while. Singular,
I thought, that three thousand
miles from the spot where it occurred,
I should find a witness of my birth.
And yet what could that matter? The
fact availed nothing. Looking at it in
its most favorable light, it did not
seem to throw a ray of light upon the
affair. The mystery was deeper than
before.
It was not long before I was able to
leave my chamber, but the disease,
which left no marks beyond a light
pit upon one check, was succeeded by
languor and lassitude, which kept me
from doing anything for several weeks.
Slowly and by degrees I recovered my
strength, and was able to walk to the
printing-office and back; but the fatigue
of standing at the case was still
too much for me, and I was only able
to make half my usual day's work.
I was told by M`Manus all that had
occurred during my illness. The disease,
in my case, had assumed great
virulence, but the doctor thought I
might recover with careful nursing.
The landlady, fearful that her lodgers
might take alarm and leave the house,
kept the nature of my sickness a secret
from even the servant girls, and
sent her husband to M`Manus, whom
she knew by sight, to come and see
her. She explained to him the case,
and the difficulty which she experienced
of finding a proper nurse.
M`Manus mentioned this at home, and
Amelia, being his wife's next friend,
was informed of the matter. She volunteered
to assist, M`Manus and some
of the compositors agreeing to take
turns at night. Mac, as we called
him, had no misgivings about the disease,
which he had suffered; but his
wife, from a prudent regard for the
younger Mac, trundled herself and the
baby to her sister's, over in New Jersey,
and remained there until after I
had recovered. I was well attended
among them all, and the doctor said
that the careful nursing was of great
service.
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
When able to visit her, I called at
M`Manus's apartments, and saw Amelia—
for it must be known I had never
visited her in her own rooms, her mother
being an invalid, to whom a stranger's
presence was irksome. I expressed
my grateful sense of her kindness.
“You owe me no thanks,” she said.
“I owe you too much still; not only
the situation which has enabled me to
keep my poor mother from want, but a
loan which you must let me repay you
before long.”
How had she discovered the last? I
looked my astonishment, and she replied
to it.
“Some loose papers lay in your
room,” she said, “and as Mrs. Lemaitre
and I were putting them to rights,
I recognized the handwriting. I saw
then that it was to you I was indebted
for the loan of the money. Ah! if you
could know from what a gulf of horror
and despair your kindness saved me!
Everything that we could spare, and
much that we could not, had been sold
or pledged, and we had no prospect
but starvation or the alms house. I
had kept up my courage till then; but
when the agent threatened to turn us
in the street, I was on the verge of
madness. That money saved the lives
of two. My mother would not have
long lived after the humiliation of public
relief, and I was in that state of
mind that I could not have long survived
her.”
She paused, but I was too much affected
to reply. She went on.
“It was part selfishness which made
me insist on nursing you alone; for I
remained with you as much as possible,
keeping the men, when I could, in
the outer room. During your delirium
you said enough to make me fear to
have your words heard by other ears
than mine. I excepted M`Manus, for
he already knew the terrible secret.”
“I can not tell what—”
“I refer to Peabody's death. Yes!
your ravings, and my poor father's,
told the story.”
“But,” I said, “is it not possible
that we may both be mistaken? May
it not have been a diseased fancy of
your father?”
She shook her head.
“I have thought it all over, day after
day. I have laid awake thinking
of it, night after night. I have striven
to reason myself out of the conviction,
but it is here—here. If you knew all
you would pity him, guilty as he is.
For years he had toiled and struggled,
none more honest, none more sober,
none kinder to his family—toiled and
struggled, never to rise higher than
the berth of second mate. Discontent
grew to be a fatal disease; the fatal
opportunity came; and then—oh! it is
horrible to think of it, but I thank heaven
that he is deprived of reason, for,
if it should be fonnd out—if—”
“No cause for alarm,” I interrupted.
“Even if he did it, which is by no
means certain, there are no human
witnesses.”
“Human!” She shuddered. “If
he should die, and unrepentent! Oh,
my father! my father!” and her feelings
found vent in tears.
“Amelia,” said I, “you cannot tell
what agony of penitence your father
has suffered. It was his very remorse
that caused the change in his life; his
madness comes from that. Depend
upon it, he has repented, and fearfully.”
“Upon my word,” exclaimed Mrs.
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
M`Manus, who was passing from one
room to another, and stopped for a moment
to regard us, “you two are holding
earnest conference. I wonder what
Joseph Peabody would say.”
Amelia sighed.
“Mr. Brooks,” she said, in a low
voice, “you have given me a brother's
kindness, and I will return you a sister's
confidence. I was engaged to
Captain Peabody's brother Joseph.”
“And he has cast you off on account
of your father's ruin?” I asked bitterly.
“You are well rid of any man so
base.”
“Do not say so, Mr. Brooks. You
wrong him—very much wrong him.
He never cast me off. He implored me
to marry him, and he declared that he
never would consider it other than a
pleasure to support my helpless parents,
and I believed him. Yes! he is
honor and truth, and kindness, and
I—”
“What then? How is it that you
did not accept him?”
“I—ah! I am a murderer's daughter—
the man who murdered his brother
is my father. Could I—dare I marry
him? No! I refused; he does not
know why; he will never know, I
hope. He thinks I am fickle and base;
he scorns me; he hates me; and I—
oh, what is left for me?”
It was useless to attempt consolation
for a grief like her's—a grief over
young hopes, fond passion and maiden
peace, all hoplessly wrecked. I said
but little; what could I say? but with
a sympathizing pressure of the hand
left her.
I walked slowly to Broadway, and
from thence down town, thinking of
Amelia Van Kline and her suffering,
and paying no attention to those on
either side, when I was startled by a
voice at my ear:
“Well, fellow-voyager, is this you
or your shadow?”
I looked up and saw Archbold. I
shook his hand, and asked him when
he had returned to the United States.
“When returned! I haven't been
away. I've just returned from St.
Louis. I've been spending the last
three years in the Indian country—
been among the Arrapahoes, and so on.
I only came from St. Louis last week.
But what makes you so miserable?
Been sick?”
“Yes—but just recovered.”
“Why don't you try the country? Go
out to the mountains, and brace yourself
up.”
“It would be very agreeable, I dare
say, if one had pleasant company.”
“The best of pleasant company—
me. I'm going to Western Virginia
in a week, to look after some land of
mine there. Come along. Know anything
about ores?”
“Yes; something.”
“Well, may be we'll find a gold
mine. At all events, the jaunt will do
you good, and it is the cheapest traveling
in the world. Think of a country
where chickens sell at a New York
shilling per pair, and eggs at five cents
a dozen—a country where there are
deer and black bear, with countless
turkeys—the land of Canaan, flowing
with milk and honey—the land of
mountains and forests, and waterfalls,
my boy. Come along.”
“You tempt me.”
“That's my aim; I want company;
come with me to Delmonico's. We'll
dine together, and talk the matter
over.”
There was no resisting his pressing
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
and to Delmonico's we went. My companion
got at once into the mysteries
of the carte, and was only fit to discuss
proper dishes. When we had made
our selections, he broke out again:
“You should have been with me at
St. Louis Who do you think I met
there? Can't say, of course. Do you
recollect the story I told you once of
my adventures in northern Mexico,
and the strange Englishman with the
savages?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I saw him. He had escaped
from them at last, and got to St. Louis.”
“What was his name?”
“I never asked him. I heard some
one call him Doctor Bull. He came
from the southwest of England, and is
going home in two or three months,
as soon as his drafts come back, he
says.”
“Southwestern part of England!
why that is my native place. At least
I was born there. Did he name the
county?”
“Yes, but I forget. I remember the
county town, the court-house as we
say in Virginia. Puttenham he called
it.”
“That's my town; but I remember
no Dr. Bull.”
“Oh, that's the town. He invited
me to spend some time at his place
there; and if I go over in two or three
months, as I may, I'll run down to
him.”
“See here,” said I, feeling quizzical,
“don't be too sure you will. I know
the name of every landholder in that
county, of any position, though I don't
know them personally, and I—well,
are you sure your friend isn't a tinker?”
“Pshaw!”
“Because, the only Bull I know is
Ralph Bull, and he is in the tin-repairing
line.”
“Poh! nonsense! the Doctor is a
gentleman, by three descents, at least.
It breaks out all over him. He's blood
to the bone, as the jockeys say. But
what makes you stare that way?
Heavens! man, are you ill?”
I was looking at another table.
There sat, bolt upright, looking us
both straight in the face, clearly, unmistakably
alive, Captain Peabody, formerly
master of the good ship Mary
Perkins.
CHAPTER XXIII. , Which clears up the close of the last, and takes the reader to the dismissal of characters in one of the by-plots.
Captain Peabody, no ghost at all,
very living, and very tanned, came
forward and shook my hand.
Archbold enjoyed my surprise exceedingly.
“I thought you knew all about the
Captain's escape and return,” said he.
“Knew! no! I can scarcely conceive
of his being alive, even now. I
thought the sea had swallowed him.
How did you escape, captain?”
“It's a long story,” said the captain.
“I have been at home two weeks, and
would have been at home two or three
years sooner, only after escaping being
drowned, I suffered shipwreck. Boy,
bring my plates and things here—we'll
mess together this hitch, and I'll spin
my yarn.”
The captain's story was a rather long
one, and I shall give only the main
particulars. He had gone aft that
night, and was looking out into the
distance, when he thought he made out
a vessel on the larboard quarter. He
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
stepped on the bulwarks, just at one
of the davits, to take a better look,
when he was suddenly jostled, and
losing his footing, fell overboard. The
whole thing was done so suddenly, that
he had not only no suspicion who his
assailant might be, but no time to do
more than utter a sharp cry, before he
touched the water, and went down.
When he arose to the surface the ship
was already some distance off. He
was a good swimmer, and desperately
kept himself up, though with little hope
to escape death. He swam on in the
wake of the vessel, hoping his loss
would be discovered, and something
thrown over as a buoy. Presently
something came sweeping against him
and he grappled it. It proved to be
one of the hen-coops that we had tossed
over, and it gave him courage. The
support rested him, and he managed
to take off his cravat with one hand, tie
it to two of the slats of the coop, and
make a kind of becket, into which he
placed his left arm. Thus supported
he hoped to float until daylight, when
possibly some passing vessel might
hear his hail, and pick him up. He
got occasional glimpses of the light of
some ship, which he supposed to be
the Mary Perkins, as it really was, retracing
her track in search of him,
but she was too far to leeward to hear
or see. He lost all sight of this at
last, and judged that she had given
him up. At length there came the
lights of a large vessel almost bearing
down on him, and he sung out lustily.
The wind had lulled somewhat, and by
a mere apparent chance, they heard
his cry. The vessel was hove to, and
a boat was lowered, though it came
near being swamped, and he was taken
on board. The vessel was the
Maubila, from Boston to Calcutta, with
a cargo of ice. She reported having
passed a large vessel a short time before,
with which she nearly came into
collision, and it was the narrow escape
from this accident which made her
string the lanterns the captain saw.
The master of the ship told him that
they intended to stop at no port on
their way out, but he would put him
on board some homeward-bound ship,
if possible. They passed one or two,
but the sea was so rough that communication
was impracticable. They next
hoped to meet with some vessel, under
better circumstances, when they weathered
the Cape. This they did not do,
for the vessel he was in was wrecked
off the coast of Zanguebar, and although
the crew, with the exception
of one landsman, was saved, the ship
and cargo were entirely gone. The
wrecked people were treated better by
the natives than they expected, being
only plundered of the lighter articles
on them, while their clothes were left
untouched. There they remained, prisoners
among a set of savages, for
over three years. During this time several
of the party died. At length an
English man-of-war, cruising in those
waters, heard by some means of Christians
and white men being prisoners,
and sent on shore to demand them.
After some quibbling, the survivors
were given up. Taken on board the
frigate, they were all conveyed to Calcutta.
From there he took passage to
England, and so got home.
The conduct of Van Kline on shipboard,
and his subsequent madness,
had been made known to Peabody,
and though the evidence was not conclusive,
he had no doubt as to who it
was that had shoved him overboard.
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
He said that but for the insanity of
Van Kline he would have been arrested.
Now he intended to keep the matter
as quiet as possible, for the sake
of his younger brother, who was
“sweet” on Van Kline's daughter. I
told him that I had some facts to communicate
which I thought would interest
him and his brother too, if they
would meet me at an hour fixed on the
following morning. He agreed to that,
and after I had arranged for my start
for Virginia with Archbold, which was
to take place the following week, we
all parted.
Punctual to the hour next day, the
captain came, bringing with him a
young man about twenty-eight years
old, a plain, matter-of-fact looking person,
whom he introduced as his brother
Joe, and whom I found was a shipbuilder,
with a very fair run of custom.
We three sat down, and I proceeded
to tell them of my acquaintanceship
with Amelia, of her character, her
struggles and her sufferings. This involved,
necessarily, an exposition of
her father's temper and temptations,
the progress of his remorse, and the
insanity which had resulted. I did
not spare even what she had said to
me with regard to herself, which otherwise
I should have regarded as a confidential
communication. I told all I
knew, and gave my own views with
regard to it. When I came to that
part referring to the rejection of him,
and her motives for it, tears stood in
the eyes of the younger Peabody, and
even the elder brother was visibly affected.
“The question is now, Captain,” I
said, “whether you will let your natural
resentment at the wrong you have
endured, and the captivity and suffering
it has caused you, stand in the way
of the peace of a young woman so single-hearted,
upright and courageous as
Amelia Van Kline?”
“And of mine too, brother,” added
Joe.
Capt. Peabody thundered out, “No,
by —!” I won't write the last
word, for the captain was excited, and
was not of pious habits. “No,” he
continued, “but what must I do?”
“The very sight of you would be a
balm to her; for your existence relieves
him of the evil act, whatever
may have been his intent; but your
forgiveness of him would complete the
good work.”
“I do forgive him,” exclaimed the
seaman, “for that girl's sake, from my
very soul.”
The younger brother grasped his
hand, and wrung it with both his. I
took things more coolly; but then I
was not in love with Amelia, and I
wasn't given to enthusiasm.
It was arranged between us that I
was to call on Amelia first, to prepare
her for an interview, and the rest were
to be within hail.
When I came to the house, I found
Mrs. M`Manus ready for a start.
“Where away,” I asked, “and
where is Amelia?”
“She is getting ready to visit her
father, and I am going with her. He
has been very ill for some time, and
has entirely recovered his reason.”
“So! the flashing up of the wick
before the candle goes out.”
“Yes; they have sent word that he
may not probably live this night
through.”
“And his wife?”
“She is not in a fit condition to be
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
carried to him, and we have concealed
the fact of his danger from her. It
would only fret her, and it will be as
easy if he dies to break the news to
her. A neighbor, whose discretion we
can confide in, remains with her till
our return.”
“Have you any objection to my
using your parlor for an interview between
Amelia and a couple of her
friends?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then, when she comes down, leave
the room to her and me for a few moments.
I will explain presently.”
When Amelia entered, Mrs. M`Manus
left as I had requested.
“Amelia,” said I, “may I go with
you?”
“Surely.”
“And take two friends along?”
“Friends!”
“Yes. I have some news of Captain
Peabody.”
“Captain Peabody!”
“Yes; can you bear good news?
The Captain is not dead!”
She would have fallen, had I not
caught her.
“Sit down,” I said, “and compose
yourself. The Captain is not dead.
Wait awhile.”
I joined Mrs. M`Manus in the next
room, and beckoning from the window
to my companions, who were in sight,
and anxiously awaiting my signal. I
then hurriedly explained matters to
Mac's wife.
We two heard the door of the outer
room open; a half scream; some sobbing;
low murmured words which
grew higher, and then Captain Peabody
came into the room rubbing his
hands. The Captain's eyes were very
red, but there was a pleasant smile on
his face as he said:
“Excuse me, ma'am, for intruding
here; but that couple have a good
deal to say to each other, and a little
time to say it in, and I reckon I'm rather
in the way.”
The captain rubbed his hands. A
happy man was the captain. Mrs.
M`Manus overflowed with delight.
“Captain,” she said, “you're an angel.”
“Thank 'ee, ma'am,” said the captain,
“of a Dutch build, strong and
stout.”
“I wish John was here,” said Mrs.
M`Manus.
I fancied John's honest face when
he would hear the particulars, and
wished he were there also.
We talked over the matter awhile,
and then interrupted the lovers; even
Amelia, fond daughter though she was,
having grown oblivious of time. Joseph
started to get a couple of coaches,
and we were soon on our way, the
captain and I in one coach, and Joseph
and the two ladies in another.
On our arrival at the asylum, I asked
for the chief resident physician, a
man as noted for his genial manners
as for his skill. I inquired from him
Van Kline's condition.
“Very bad,” he answered. “The
chances are very much against him,
unless we have something pleasurable
to excite him. Who have you with the
daughter and her friend?”
“You have heard of Captain Peabody.
The elder is he.”
“The man whom Van Kline fancies
he drowned.”
“Yes; can he see him?”
“In his present condition, no. He
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
is very weak, and it may do mischief.”
“Pardon me,” I said, “but I may
mention in confidence that Van Kline
had some reason for supposing he had
drowned the captain.”
“Ah!” that is a different affair. He
may go in.”
Amelia and I entered the apartment
first, it having been settled that we
should prepare him. He did not recognize
me. I spoke to him.
“Mr. Van Kline, don't you remember
me? Don't you remember Mr. Brooks,
who came passenger with you on the
Mary Perkins?”
He stared on me in fear, and his
sunken eyes lit up. I was afraid lest
the insane fit would return, so I hurried
matters.
“They tell me,” I said, “you fancied
when you were sick that you had
pushed Captain Peabody overboard,
though he's in the next room, alive and
well.”
He raised himself in bed and trembled.
“Then you know it too. Well—ah,
dead! dead! drowned! drowned!”
“Drowned! nonsense!” I rejoined,
as I went to the door. “Come in,
Captain. Here is Van Kline, who will
have it that you were drowned at sea,
whether or no.”
Peabody entered, walked forth to
the mate's bed, and put forth his hand.
Van Kline turned pale, and crouched
back, looking up suspiciously from under
his eye-brows.
“Why, Van,” exclaimed Peabody,
“won't you take your old Captain by
the hand when he comes to see you?”
Van Kline shivered, put forth his
hand tremulously, and touched the
Captain's palm. The next instant he
grasped the other's arm, felt it over,
and with a shriek, followed by a fit of
loud laughter, fell forward on his face.
We raised him at once. I thought he
was dead, but he had only fainted.
When he recovered, he saw his old
commander again, and we awaited the
result with anxiety.
“Alive!” he exclaimed, “alive!
Thank God!”
Every heart echoed the words, except
that of the doctor. He was not
much given to impulse, or perhaps was
too much accustomed to such scenes.
He was watching the case with a curious
and professional eye.
“Leave us alone together,” said Van
Kline. “Stand back, that we may
talk without being heard.”
We drew back, and the two talked
together a long while in low, earnest
tones. Whatever it was passed between
them, it seemed to satisfy Van
Kline, who looked grateful, and pressed
the other's hand.
Amelia went forward, and Captain
Peabody joined us. The doctor went
forward too.
“Hold on, messmate!” said the
Captain; “let the girl get her father's
dying blessing, and hear his last words
alone.”
The doctor paid no attention to the
remonstrance, but went forward, felt
the sick man's pulse, and asked him
one or two questions.
“Dying!” said he. “Not a bit of
it. All the faculty could hardly kill
him,” he continued, smiling. “He'll
get well, and quickly too.”
And so it proved. Van Kline rallied
from that out, and finally recovered.
As I never saw him again, I
will content myself with telling the
rest of his history. He lived
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
afterwards with his son-in-law, Joseph Peabody,
and died, I learn, about three
years since—his wife having long preceded
him—his son-in-law and daughter,
with their three children, standing
around his death-bed.
CHAPTER XXIV. , Wherein we travel to the mountains, and I tell what we meet there.
I certainly enjoyed my Virginia travel
vastly. We stopped a week at Richmond,
where I received the bachelor
hospitality of Archbold, who had a big
house, and supported a dozen or more
of black bond-servants, in lazy independence.
From thence we went by
the canal-packet to Lynchburg, a queer
old town, picturesquely imbedded in a
knot of hills. From that place we
traveled by mail-coach to the Southwest,
stopping to breakfast at Buford's,
where the inn-keeper welcomed us with
peach-brandy, and to look at the Peaks
of Otter. After several days of travel
over the most execrable roads, since
that time replaced in use by a railway,
we arrived at Evesham, the shire town
of Wythe. Here I was heartily glad
to learn that we should pursue the remainder
of our journey on horseback.
After purchasing a couple of short
rifled guns from a gunsmith in the village,
with their accountrements, and
dispatching them before us, we looked
about for horses. A written notice,
posted on the inn door, brought to our
view, in a few hours, a choice collection
of all the halt, blind, and aged
hacks for miles around, and served to
display the eloquence and acuteness
of the sharpest horse-jockeys in the
world, those of Yorkshire not excepted.
So soon as we had dismissed them,
a better kind of horses made their ap
pearance, and we finally obtained two
very decent cobs, at a moderate price,
the one I was to ride being held at sixteen
pounds, English money.
We crossed several mountains on
the following day, and arrived at evening,
after a ride of forty-nine miles, at
the county town of Tazewell. The
next day we dined in Abb's valley, a
narrow depression in the hills, and entered
upon the sandstone country, a
wild and picturesque region watered
by the branches of the Guyandotte and
Sandy rivers. Before us, as we topped
the summits of the hills, we could see
a countless succession of tree-clad
ridges, looking like the waves of some
sylvan sea. The inhabitants live there
in primeval simplicity, a race of hunters,
unlettered but shrewd, whose
knowledge of agriculture is chiefly
confined to the cultivation of maize,
or corn, as they call it. These hills
and valleys are the resort of vast
amounts of game, principally deer and
wild turkeys, and the streams are
stocked with the finest fish. We resisted
the seductions of hunting and
fishing on our route, and pushed on to
the waters of Coal river, a tributary
of the great Kanawha, where Archbold's
property lay.
It was a noble but wild domain he
had, although of little value in money.
Ten thousand acres of hill land, streaked
with numerous streams, running
through narrow, but highly fertile valleys,
and without a dwelling to invade
the wilderness. We found lodgings at
the house of a mountaineer, on Coal
river, a squatter who had but one
room in his house, but managed to give
us food and a bed.
So soon as breakfast was over on
the following morning, we started to
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
examine Archbold's tract, having a
surveyor's map of the property, and
being furnished with minute directions
from the man of the house. We had a
fine ride, working our way along cattle-paths
and deer-tracks, through the
woods and over numerous low gaps,
and it was not until nearly night-fall
that we turned to retrace our steps.
Unfortunately, however, we missed
our path somehow, and got farther
and farther into the wilderness, and
night-fall found us at the head of a
brawling branch without any apparently
defined path. We had taken
our dinners with us, and a sufficiency
of oats in our saddle-bags to give our
horses one meal, but expecting to return
to whence we had set out, had
made no provision for supper. After
wandering and stumbling through the
woods for some time, and getting thoroughly
wet by crossing the brook
at a deep hole, our horses suddenly
stopped, and refused to budge any
further, a hint not lost on us.
After a consultation, we determined
to stop where we were until morning,
a sensible conclusion, since we could
do nothing else. Tying our horses to
saplings, we stripped them, and then
groped about to find dead wood, which
we placed against a trunk of a fallen
tree, and kindled by means of dry
leaves, and some matches which Archbold
carried for the purpose of lighting
his pipe. The blaze of the fire
cheered us, and by its light we were
enabled to gather a sufficiency of dry
wood to replenish it during the night.
We had brought our rifled guns with
us, so that we are in no danger of
wild beasts, though there were really
none to fear, except possibly a stray
panther, and him the light of the camp
fire would keep away. And the fire
itself began to increase its brilliancy
at length to such a degree as to astonish
me, until I found the light was due
to other causes than the wood. We
had kindled it between what I supposed
were two great blocks of stone,
but these proved to be some species
of coal. By the light this made I gathered
some more lumps of like nature,
and our light grew exceedingly gay,
our spirits grew exceedingly high, and
despite the fact of our being supperless
and hungry, we indulged in a deal
of fun at our mishap.
We had been thus camped out about
a couple of hours, and were preparing
to lie down on a rude bed made of
hemlock boughs, when we found we
had a visitor. We heard something
crackling through the underbrush, and
over the dead limbs, and supposing it
to be some wild beast, raised our rifles.
As we did so, a tall, gaunt figure came
out of the darkness, and addressed
us:
“Good evening, gentlemen. Camped
out, I reckon.”
The language was the patois of the
section, but there was something in
the tone and manner which assured
me that the speaker was an Englishman.
“Yes,” answered Archbold, “we lost
our way.”
“I saw your light from my house,
and came out to see what it was. I
reckon you could lodge with me if you
felt so disposed.”
We gladly accepted the proffer, and
under the man's guidance found his
cabin, not quite half a mile down the
creek, as the brook is there called.
The house of our entertainer was of
more pretension than any we had
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
found in that region. Though built
originally of hewn logs, it was not
only covered externally with boards,
but wainscoted in the interior. It
had several apartments, or rather there
were several small cabins built one
against the other. The apartment
which we entered was neatly though
rudely furnished, and there were some
evidences of cultivated taste. The
two windows were hung with chintz
curtains, and a mantel-shelf was adorned
with the blossoms of the rhododendom
set in neat china vases. A few
colored paints, in plain frames, hung
upon the walls. A dark-complexioned
woman was in the room, and to her
our host spoke as his wife, urging her
to prepare us a supper. We deposited
our guns in one corner, and went out
to see that our horses were properly
bedded and fed. This was soon done,
and after hanging our saddles and
bridles on pins high up under the porch,
we entered the house, ready to eat our
supper whenever it was ready for us.
The woman was taciturn, and quietly
busied herself in preparing the food
and setting it on the table without uttering
a word. The husband was talkative,
and asked us our names, from
whence we came, whither we were going,
and what was our business, all of
which we imparted to him frankly,
since not to be communicative in that
quarter leaves the reticent traveler under
the ban of suspicion. As in ancient
Mercia, the traveler is obliged to blow
his horn on coming into the country,
and he who refuses to give a full account
of himself is supposed to have
evil designs.
“From New York, eh?” said our
host. “You wasn't raised there, I
reckon,” he added, addressing himself
specially to me.
“No,” I replied, “I was bred in England.”
“I allowed so,” said he, “when I
first heard you talk. I was raised in
the old country myself, but I've been
here so long, that I've fallen into their
ways, and pretty much talk their language.
Queer place, isn't it?”
“A little so to a stranger, but a fine
country, nevertheless.”
“What part did you come from?”
“The south-west—the town of Puttenham.”
The woman, who was carrying a dish
to the table, started and dropped the
vessel to the floor, shattering it to
pieces.
“Why, wife,” said Simon Potter, for
such he had told us was his name, “it
seems to me you're mighty narvous.”
The woman made no answer, but
swept the pieces into the hearth, and
then returned to her work. She soon
had everything ready, and seated herself
at the head of the table to pour
out the coffee, without which no meal
is considered complete among these
mountaineers.
“Set up, men,” said Potter. “Draw
your cheers.”
We drew up our chairs to the table
without a second invitation. It was
certainly a tempting meal. The rude
white-wood table had been covered
with a clean white cloth, and there
were plates of smoking, light biscuit,
honey in the comb, fresh venison cutlets,
fried chickens, preserved peaches,
slices of wheaten bread, and rich, yellow
butter. These two last were especially
welcome, since we had eaten
only maize-bread for several days past,
-- 117 --
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
and flavorless white butter, and we
fell to work heartily.
In a few minutes I had taken the
edge off my appetite, and was debating
what I should attack next, when I
raised my eyes, and saw those of the
woman fixed on me, with a strange,
startled expression. I looked at her
in some astonishment. She was about
forty-five, perhaps, and had no doubt
been very good-looking in her day;
certainly she still had fine eyes, which
retained the fire and lustre of early
womanhood. Her gaze fell, and she
muttered something to herself indistinctly.
Nothing more occurred worthy
of remark during supper, and we
finished our meal in silence.
After having satisfied our appetites,
we intimated to our host that we would
like to retire. As Potter was arranging
the rude lamp, and preparing to
light it, the woman came close to me,
and with an accent evidently foreign,
whispered to me:
“Let me see you alone in the morning
before you go away. Do not fail.”
I nodded assent, of course, though I
firmly believed at the moment that the
woman was mad. She seemed to be
satisfied, and went to the fire-place,
and leaned against the wall, still watching
me. The husband led us to our
apartment, and bade us good night.
As we were getting into bed, I told
Archbold of the matter, and he proposed
to occupy Potter's attention in
the morning, so that I could hold the
interview with the woman without interruption.
CHAPTER XXV. , Which tells of a Discovery, not such as I desired, but which turns out to be profitable, and of news from home.
The next morning I arose before my
companion. I found Potter and his
wife busy, the latter about household
matters, and the former in-doors and
out; but as there was no opportunity
for the desired conference, I left the
house and walked up the stream, to
the spot on which we had camped the
night before. I went to the fire, which
still smouldered, examined the ashes,
and then looked for more lumps of the
coal. I found these scattered in every
direction, having been washed from
the hills by floods. It proved to be an
exceedingly fat cannel-coal, a mineral
I was not then aware was to be found
in the United States. I next endeavored
to discover it in its original situation,
and soon found it where the stratum
crossed the brook, and had been
washed clean by the flow of water. I
measured the seam by my hand, and
estimated it to be nearly four feet from
roof to floor. The seams of cannel-coal
in Scotland are much thinner than
this, and yet are profitably worked. I
thought the discovery might possibly
be turned to account, and walked quietly
back.
Breakfast was ready when I returned,
and Archbold had arisen. We sat
down, and while eating engaged in
conversation.
“How much land do you hold here?”
I asked.
“Eight hundred acres, and about
forty of it first-rate bottom land,” was
the answer. “But if I could sell out,
I'd go back to the old country again,
for I've picked up something by ranging
cattle in these hills, and I could
live snugly enough on it in Lincolnshire.
I've got neither chick nor child,
both my sons are dead, and I'd like to
lay my bones in the old church-yard at
home.”
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
“What do you hold your land at?”
“Well, the bottom land is worth,
with the improvements, say thirty dollars
an acre, and cheap at that; and
the hill land about a dollar and a quarter.
That's—let me see—over twenty-one
hundred dollars, but I'd take a little
less for cash. That's the worst of
it, for you can't sell here, except for
long credits.”
“How far up this creek do you go?”
“About a mile, and down clear to
the mouth, with a narrow strip on the
river.”
“I think I might buy myself, if we
could agree,” I said.
“You think of settling here, then?”
“No, but I'd like to own it. I've
taken a fancy to the place.”
“You'd have to declare yourself a
citizen, or you couldn't hold it, I think.
I don't know much about the law, but
I think that's the case.”
I looked, I suppose, disappointed.
“Oh,” said Archbold, “if you really
want to buy that can be arranged. I
believe he is right that an alien can't
well hold real estate in this Commonwealth,
or at least can't transmit it;
but an enabling act could be got
through the Legislature easy enough.
It often passes such bills; and in the
meanwhile you could take a covenant
title. I think, by the by, some of the
larger tracts are held abroad by special
act.”
“Oh, that will answer. What is the
lowest you could take in cash?”
“Well,” said Potter, reflectingly,
“if you really want to buy, I'd take
two thousand dollars, and you to pay
for drawing the papers, and not a cent
less.”
“I'll take it. Here's ten dollars be
fore witness to bind the bargain. We'll
have the papers drawn to-day.”
And I handed Potter a gold coin.
“You're pretty quick,” said he, “but
it's a bargain. And as you were talking
about your tract, Mr. Archbold,”
he added, “I can tell you your line
joins mine. I can show you one of
your corner-trees about a mile from
this, a poplar, up a dry branch. So
your friend and you will be near neighbors.”
“Suppose you show it to me this
morning,” said Archbold, seizing the
opportunity to afford me the promised
interview with Potter's wife.
“Agreed,” said the other.
In the course of a half hour the woman
and I were alone together.
“Now,” said she, “I speak bad English.
Do you speak Spanish?”
“Yes.”
She addressed me then in the language
of the Peninsula.
“Why do you change your name to
Brooks? Is your father alive?”
“That is more than I can tell,” I
said, “for I do not know who he is.”
I had thought her crazy, but there
was not a little method in her madness,
if she were so.
“Do not know!” she ejaculated.
“What do you mean? What is your
real name, then?”
“Fecit. At least that is the name
given me, because they had no other
at hand, I suppose.”
“I must be mistaken, and yet—your
face—it is too marked. If your father
be dead, you should have succeeded to
his title. What is your history? Who
are you that comes here into the wild
forest, and brings up with that face
and tone, the memories of the past?
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
Speak!”
Should I tell her? It would do no
harm, I thought. What should I care
for this stranger in the woods of Virginia?
If she were mad, what then?
I briefly narrated the story of my having
been placed as a babe in the hands
of Mr. Guttenberg.
“Yes, I know all that,” she said
when I had closed, “but did not the
valet keep his promise?”
“I'm sure I don't know. Explain
yourself.”
“I will explain when we meet in
England. Buy this place. Then my
husband will go; but do you follow
us there.”
“I have bought it, but I can't go
home because—well, you don't know
him, but I have unwittingly incurred
the ill-will of the Earl of Landys; and
I had better keep out of his way?”
“He! why should he injure you?”
“That is what I cannot tell.”
“He! impossible! But go to England.
There has been wrong done to
you somehow. It shall be righted.”
All farther I could get from her was
the injunction to go to England as
speedily as possible, and wait for her.
Presently Potter and Archbold return
ed, and with them a stranger.
“As you seemed in a hurry,” said
Potter, “I thought I'd bring Squire
Adkins to draw them papers.”
“Thank you,” said I, “I'm quite
ready.”
The covenant to convey was drawn,
executed, and duly witnessed, and it
was arranged that the money was to
be paid, the title perfected, and the
deeds made to me or my assigns, within
three months. We shook hands
with our host, who would accept no
pay for our entertainment, and, bow
ing to the wife, we mounted our horses
and rode away.
“You have some strong motive in
buying this mountain land?” was Archbold's
question, as we rode along.
“I have,” I answered, and then gave
him the secret. When we came to the
bare stratum in the creek bottom, I
pointed it out to him.
“Do you think it so valuable, then?”
he asked.
“Certainly. It is worth much more
than the other coal, and will cost less
to mine and transport. Coal River
can be readily made navigable by a
company, and Kanawha is already fit
for coal barges during more than half
the year. Wait awhile, and you will
see.”
“By Jove! if that should prove to
be as you assert, I am the better off
for it, for by the bearing of this stream
it goes right through a corner of my
tract. I must see to it.”
We remained in the neighborhood
for several days, quite long enough for
Archbold, under the pretence of hunting,
to see that he had a goodly share
of the benefits of my discovery; and
after boxing up some specimens, and
sending them by wagon to Kanawha
to be shipped to New York, we started
for home, by the way of the White
Sulphur Springs, first selling our horses
at the town of Charleston, on Kanawha.
When we arrived at New York,
Archbold brought a noted speculator
into our counsels, who undertook to
engineer the matter through, for a per
centage on the nett proceeds. So systematically
and energetically did he go
to work, having paragraphs inserted
in the journals, and capitalists approached
in various effective ways,
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
that he soon had a fever among monied
men. Nothing was talked of in Wall
street but cannel coal, and the possibility
of supplying the population of
the Mississippi valley from a single
seam. A geologist was sent out, and
a chemist employed to analyze the coal.
On the favorable report of these a company
was formed. The stock was taken
rapidly, and my eight hundred
acres, with seven hundred from Archbold's
tract, was transferred to the
new corporation. In nine week's time
I had received, as my nett profits, after
our broker's commission had been
paid, the sum of seventeen thousand
dollars in cash, and an equal sum in
stock of the new company, which I at
once sold at ten per cent. discount.
This realized me in cash over thirty-two
thousand dollars. I felt, however
trifling the amount might he to millionaires,
with such a little fortune at my
command, I would be considered well-to-do-in-the-world
at home.
I wrote at once to both Sharp and
Paul an account of my good fortune,
and was in a state of bewildered delight
for some time.
About a week after I had written
home, I received the following letter:
“My dear Ambrose:—You have been
nearly four years absent from England,
and I have done my best to send
and keep you away. Now, I write to
you to urge you to come back.
“The Earl of Landys died at his
place near Puttenham last week. According
to that veracious sheet, the
Chronicle, `the deceased earl has closed
a life of public usefulness and private
worth, to the great regret of his friends,
and the irreparable loss of his tenantry
and dependants. His late lordship will
be succeeded in his title and estates
by his only son, Francis, a minor, who
is under the guardianship of his noble
mother.'
“Much reliance to be placed on the
newspapers, to be sure! You know
what his private worth amounted to,
and you may judge how much his loss
will affect his tenantry; but as to the
succession you don't know. A new
claimant has arisen to the title and
estates, and I think there can be no
donbt the new-comer will win. That
is the only legitimate daughter of the
late Earl, with his lawful wife—to sum
up shortly—our little Zara.
“And now you will want to know
all about it. I have sat down for the
purpose of writing you the points of
this singular case.
“It appears that eighteen years ago
the Hon. Mr. Marston, then only a commoner,
was in Spain, where he had
been traveling over a year. At the
commencement of the term of travel,
he had become acquainted with the
Conde de Espinel, a wealthy nobleman
of high political influence, and was his
invited guest. The Count had a son,
Silvan, and a daughter, Zara. He had
also a younger brother, Jose, who was
in orders, and was a friar, and the head
of a religious house. Mr. Marston fell
violently in love, or fancied he did,
with the daughter, who returned his
passion. The father acceded to the
match. The son, who was weakly in
constitution, and a bigoted devotee,
objected to it on the ground of a difference
of religion in the parties, but
really because he hated Marston. The
Count fell from his horse, and died from
the effects of the fall. Silvan, now
the head of the house, withdrew the
consent for the marriage. The customary
steps on the part of the lovers
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
followed. The uncle, won over by the
tears of his niece, of whom he was
very fond, married the two secretly,
after they had been previously married
by the chaplain of the British Embassy.
The marriage was kept secret,
but the birth of a daughter, little Zara,
revealed it, and Count Silvan was indignant.
He declared the couple should
never come together, if he could help
it; and Marston seemed anxious to aid
him, or was tired of his wife, for he
left Spain and was heard of no more.
His wife was fragile, and the double
blow of her husband's desertion and
her brother's cruelty proved too much
for her. She went into a rapid decline,
and died, leaving Zara under her uncle's
charge. She was taken care of,
however, though grudgingly. Her father
never appeared to claim her, and
it turned out afterward that the message
sent to England, in regard to the
mother's illness, had been misinterpreted
into the death of both mother
and child. In the meanwhile Marston
was much embarrassed in his affairs;
he had obtained no money from his
marriage, and tempted by the fortune
of a wealthy heiress, he married again.
Unfortunately for himself, the new
marriage was performed a week before
his wife really died.
“Don Silvan died about nine years
after, and through political influence,
Don Jose, his uncle, was released from
his vows, and succeeded his nephew
as the next heir. He pitied Zara, for
his dead niece's sake, and determined
to have justice done her. He came to
England, and his visit to Puttenham
startled the new Earl of Landys, who
had long before discovered his involuntary
bigamy. He discovered the
presence of his daughter also, and af
ter consulting with Osborne, it was
determined to put Espinel out of the
way on the first opportunity, and obtain
possession of Zara, who was to be
educated at some convent abroad, in
ignorance of her true birth. In the
meanwhile he must have caused the
alteration of the church register, postdating
his marriage.
“Espinel was desirous, on account
of Zara, to disgrace her father as little
as possible, and, after consulting with
the Duke of Sellingbourne, whom he
had known while the latter served as
Ambassador to Spain, it was agreed
to put the evidence in such a shape as
to secure Zara's rights on her father's
death, and then leave all to time. The
Earl was unaware of his noble relative's
intimacy with the facts, and pursued
his own plan against Espinel.
He finally succeeded in having the latter
taken to the lunatic asylum, where
he thought he would be buried for life.
You were taken also, partly because
he thought you involved in the secret,
but partly, it appears, for another reason,
though we have not been able to
quite fathom that. He was preparing
to seize Zara when the escape occurred.
A message was now sent him,
that any farther attempts would be
followed by a public exposure of the
facts, bigamy and all, but if he refrained
the secret was safe during his life-time.
This communication came from,
and was signed by the Duke, with
whom the Earl did not think it prudent
to wage war. So he suspended operations,
content with the assurance,
which, coming from the quarter it did,
was to be relied on.
“His intentions with regard to you,
which were discovered by Gifford, who
had overheard himand Osborne talk it
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
over, were to get you out of England,
by fair means or foul, for it appears
that the mysterious portrait had afforded
you a clue which it was not advisable
for you to be permitted to follow.
The snuff-box business was not
probably meant to cover you with infamy,
but as a means to force your departure.
There is a mystery about
that business apparently impenetrable.
At all events, it baffles my ingenuity.
“Immediately on the Earl's death, a
claim was laid to the Earldom and estates—
a possible female inheritance
by creation—on behalf of Zara Marston,
daughter of the late Earl of Landys
and Zara de Espinel. The fair
claimant is now at the house of the
Duke of Sellingbourne, whose daughter,
Lady Caroline Barre, formerly Lady
Caroline Bowlington, is there with her.
The land title, involving, in its result,
the title to the peerage, will come off
before very long. The relatives of the
younger Countess of Landys affect to
believe it to be a trumped-up case, and
fight fiercely for the right of the son.
The late Earl evidently knew better,
for before his death he had invested all
the money he could obtain in the hands
of trustees, for the son's benefit.
“Thus you have all the facts in this
singular case; and now—come home.
You have no reason to stay, unless you
have picked up an American wife, with
a copper skin, bells on her fingers, and
rings in her nose. I have been married
myself since I last wrote, and my
wife, who knew you well once, sends
her regards to you. So does Espinel.
So does a certain little, dark-eyed lady
whom I saw yesterday. So does also
Captain Berkeley—Captain no more.
He is back again—has been married to
what he calls a `doosid fine woman'—
is a Lieutenant-Colonel, to be farther
promoted, they say, to a Baronet, and
a Companion of the Bath. He has
picked up lots of `loot' in India, and,
horrible to relate, is growing fat.
“Yours ever,
“Paul Bagby.”
During the following week I started
for England.
CHAPTER XXVI. Wherein we have a little love-making and other miseries.
The arrival of the steamer at Liverpool
having been telegraphed, Paul
Bagby came down by mail to meet me.
I shook his hand warmly, and he congratulated
me on my general appearance,
and the good fortune I had met
with among the Yankees.
“My wife is with me,” said he, “and
is quite anxious to see you again.”
“You said in your letter that she
was an old acquaintance. Pray, whom
did you marry?”
“Come and see. I have engaged
seats within the hour, for London; and
my wife is already at the station, in
charge of a friend. Leave your luggage;
they will send it by another
train; I have seen to that, and start
at once.”
I followed him to the station, and
there met—Cecilia. I was delighted.
It appeared that Cecilia's uncle was
dead, and had made her his heiress.
Paul had met her while on a visit to
Staffordshire; my name had accidentally
come up, and finding Paul was my
intimate friend, conversation about me
ended in an intimacy, intimacy came
to love, and love culminated into marriage.
It had all come about in the
most natural manner in the world.
The run up to London was very
-- 123 --
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
pleasant. On arriving at the terminus,
just as we were about to get into
the Duke's carriage, which was in waiting,
Major-General Sir Charles Berkeley
came up, and shook hands with me.
“Allow me to congratulate you, Ambrose—
I beg pardon, Mr. Fecit, both
on your return and the good fortune I
am told you met with abroad. When
you get leisure call at my house, where
Lady Berkeley will be glad to see her
old acquaintance.”
And the gallant Baronet, who was
still suffering under the effects of a
wound he had received in India, limped
off.
“My old acquaintance!” said I, to
Paul, “here's another mystery. Pray
whom did he marry?”
“The Honorable Mrs. Leigh,” answered
Bagby.
My welcome by the Duke, and by
Espinel, who had returned from Spain
to attend to the interests of his grandniece,
was a warm one.
“Zara will hardly know you,” said
the Count, “you have altered so much
in appearance.”
“Zara does not forget her old friends
easily,” said a voice at my elbow.
I turned. It was Zara herself.
What a marked change! Was this
then the little girl who used to sit on
my lap—this lovely, stately woman?
Her beauty was matured early; she
had the ease, dignity, and self-possession
of a woman, grafted on the grace
of early girlhood. The laughing words
that rose to my lips died away; my
hand, already half extended to grasp
her's, fell to my side, and I bowed respectfully.
I felt the distance between us; I
saw the impassable gult that yawned
between the future Countess of Landys
in her own right, and the foundling-apprentice,
the parvenu; but I felt also,
on that first glance, that I loved her
madly, ardently, and, my reason told
me, hopelessly. I felt, as I looked upon
her glorious beauty, and saw the lustrous
depths of those dark eyes, far
more wretched to think she could never
be mine than glad to see her again.
And yet it was almost a rapture to
look at her, to see her move, to hear
her voice.
Zara was evidently ignorant of the
feelings contending within me, and
disposed to regard me as her old teacher-playmate;
for after the embarrassment
of the moment had somewhat
subsided, she resumed more of her
girlish manner of old, and expressed
a curiosity to hear of my adventures
during my absence. The Duke and
Espinel concurred in the wish, and
Lady Caroline Barre, to whom I was
introduced, added her request to the
others. So we sat down, and I told
them all to the moment of my return,
interrupted now and then by comments
and questions, more especially when I
told of my mysterious hostess in the
mountains of Virginia.
“And you never wrote to me,” said
Zara, when I had done. “I would
have written to you, but my uncle here
forbade it, unless you wrote first. As
though that made any difference! Etiquette
between my old teacher and his
pupil! How absurd!”
I felt that this was a quiet way of
reminding me of our relative positions,
which was quite unnecessary. I felt
the distance between us enough already.
“There is another lady desirous of
seeing you,” said the Duke; “but she
is an invalid, and you must wait on
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
her. Robert,” he said to the footman,
for whom he rang, “Show Mr. Fecit to
her ladyship.”
I was ushered into the presence of
the Dowager Countess of Landys,
whom I found attended by Gifford.
The old lady was much changed. She
was very feeble and attenuated, but
she rose as I entered, and bade me be
seated.
“You have been long away, young
gentleman,” she said, “but you have
come back.”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
“My son has been long away, but
he will come back. Yes, I am sure of
it. Sit still, sir. You are a foundling.
Have you never discovered your parents?”
“No, your ladyship; but I have
hopes from some recent occurrences.”
“May I ask what they are?”
I told her of the words of Bridget
Potter.
“It may be; but take my advice.
Probe this matter no farther. The discovery
may not please you. You are
young, high-spirited; you will advance
yourself in the world. Do not seek to
disperse a mystery which may result
in your own mortification. But let me
see you sometimes. I like to hear
your voice. It has a familiar sound.
Yes! why should he know? Better
let him remain in ignorance.”
The last words were spoken to
herself. She seemed not to be aware
that I was there. I arose and bade
her good day. She made no reply. I
took it for a tacit consent to my departure,
and left the room.
I ran down to Puttenham the following
week, in company with Paul, and
met with a warm welcome. An exaggerated
story of my good luck had
gone abroad, and it was reported that
I had succeeded to a princely fortune.
Mr. Guttenberg, who showed the prevailing
delirium, would have bowed
unceasingly had I permitted it; and
his wife flung her arms around my
neck and kissed me, a familiarity which
evidently horrified the printer. I gave
the dear old soul a very old-fashioned
and vulgar hug, and kissed her back
again. She had always given me a
mother's care, and I felt for her a son's
affection. Mary giggled, and dragged
forward her husband, my old friend,
Tom Brown that was, to whom my reported
riches rendered me a rather awful
personage. I shook him heartily
by the hand, called him by his Christian
name, and he was as delighted as
any one.
This interview over, I sought Sharp.
I found him at the Museum. He looked
frail and care-worn; but my presence
seemed to cheer him up.
“You're not going away any more,”
said he.
“No; I shall stay in England.”
“That's right. And don't make
ducks and drakes of your money; mind
that.”
“I shall be prudent, be assured.
What's going on in town?”
“As usual; one half of the town
cheating and swindling the other half;
everybody lying about everybody else,
and fools wasting their money.”
“What are they doing at the castle?”
“That fine gentleman, Osborne, is
lording it over the place, as usual.
Some people say he is going to marry
the Countess, but that's a silly lie.
Countess! If this new story's true,
she's the Countess of Luckland.”
“Mr. Sharp,” said I, “I had a
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
singular dream;” and I told him my old vision
in my delirium, during the attack
of small-pox. He listened to it with
the greatest of intorest.
“Singular,” he said. “I did find
just such a paper as you describe, in
the street, one winter morning, twenty-five
years ago. It was marked
with the name of the Earl of Landys.
I intended to give it to him, but he
was away. The packet got mislaid,
and I never found it until after the
Earl was lost. He sent me a polite
note, saying that it was of no importance,
but he was obliged to me for
my attention. That was all the correspondence
that passed between us.”
“How long since was that?”
“About six years.”
I felt disappointed. The packet was
no doubt long since destroyed or lost.
“I have one thing to request of you,
Ambrose,” said the old man. “I am
told that I have an affection which
may take me off at short notice—that
is no matter—but I want you to promise,
if you are not in Puttenham when
I am attacked, you will come to me at
once if I send for you.”
I promised. The next day I returned
to London, and by Paul's invitation
took up my temporary abode at his
house. I visited at the Duke's on various
pretexts. I was anxious to see
as much of Zara as possible. It was
pleasunt to look on that fair face, and
sun myself in that smile. So I was
with her day by day, almost, on some
transparent excuse or other, both the
Duke and Espinel apparently blind to
my feelings. And thus the time passed
until the day set for the trial of Zara's
cause was near at hand.
During this interval it seemed as
though Zara had begun to suspect my
love for her, and meant to check or rebuke
it, for she grew cold in her manner
toward me, at the last, and met
me no more in her trank, artless way.
Her address, as well as manner was
formal. I was no longer Ambrose with
her. Unless inadvertently, I was addressed
as Mr. Fecit.
But I said to myself, “while there
is even a ray of sunshine, let me enjoy
it.”
Three days before the time fixed for
the hearing of the case, I received a
telegraphic message from Paul Bagby,
who was in Puttenham, aiding the lawyers
in preliminary business, or rather
perhaps indulging in his anxiety in at
tempts to be useful. It was short, and
to the effect that Sharp was very ill,
and was anxious to see me at once. I
booked my seat in the train—there was
a railway now to Puttenham—and
started to inform my friends of my intended
absence.
They were absent, but Zara was at
home alone. It seemed to me that she
was kinder in her manner than usual.
Our conversation gradually went back
to the time when we first met, when I
saw her on the high road near Puttenham,
and the pleasant days that followed.
“Who would have thought then,”
she said, “that I would be the claimant
for a title and estates in England?”
“Or that I would be the friend of a
Duke, a Count, and a young Countess?”
I rejoined.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “you speak
of a certainty. My friends are all sanguine
of my success; but I have a
conviction that I shall never be Countess
of Landys in my own right. I am
sorry the suit has ever been brought.”
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
“Why?”
“Can you ask? He was my father;
and why should his daughter, for the
sake of a paltry title, expose his errors?
All these proceedings I objected
to; but the Duke and my uncle
have overruled my will. I wish it
could be recalled; if they would be
guided by me, it should be even now.”
“It is but plain justice that you
should have your right,” I said. “Your
friends have acted properly, and as to
the result, I feel confident. You will
certainly be the Countess of Landys.
And then,” I added sadly, “will forget
Ambrose.”
“And then,” she retorted gaily, “I
will never forget Ambrose.”
“Ah, if you were only a nameless
girl, poor, unfriended—then indeed—”
An impulse came upon me which I
could not resist. I bent over her and
taking her fair cheeks in my hand,
leant down and kissed her forehead.
She burst into tears. I forgot all then,
our inequality of birth, everything but
the passion of the present, and I poured
out my feelings in impulsive words.
“I love you, Zara, from my soul.
The passion has grown with me; it
grows deeper and stronger day by day
Yes! I, a wretched foundling, without
kin, without position, without a name
that I can call my own, love you fondly,
madly, and dare to tell you so. But
I do not dare to hope. This has burst
from me unawares; I will never so offend
again. Let me be your friend,
your brother; I ask no more. Forget
this mad outburst—this worse than
folly; I will never repeat it. Forget
it, and forgive me.”
I turned; I could not bear the agony
of the moment; I could not wait
to hear her words of scorn and rebuke;
but dashed wildly from her presence.
CHAPTER XXVII. , Which makes me and breaks me, and blows Zara on a lee shore.
I was not a little surprised, on getting
into the railway carriage, to find
Archbold already seated.
“Well,” said I, when our greetings
were over, “are you going to see your
friend the tinker—doctor, alias Ralph
Bull?”
“That was a very absurd mistake
as to his name,” replied Archbold. “It
appears he had answered some impertinent
querist that he was a John Bull,
which, with something he said about a
sick horse, led to the ridiculous blunder.”
“Oh, then, he's a horse-doctor.”
“Upon my word, you are incorrigible.
To punish you for your absurd
quizzing, you shall not know his real
name until after you have gone to Puttenham.
But one thing I will tell you.
Our neighbors of the mountains, the
Potters, came to England in the same
ship with me, and are now on one of
the second-class cars on the train.”
I recalled the woman's promise. She
evidently believed what she had said.
Could she be deceived? I thought a
deal on the matter all the way down;
and Archbold rallied me much on my
absent-mindedness.
Bagby met us at the Puttenham station.
He was in a great state of excitement.
“You are too late; Sharp is dead,”
he said. “But you are wanted nevertheless.
Can you bear good fortune
well?”
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
“I hope so. What is it?”
“Simply that you are enormously
wealthy. Sharp, with the exception of
a trifling legacy to me, has bequeathed
you his entire fortune.”
“You jest.”
“Do I? It will be a very pleasant
joke to you, I dare say. This little
windfall is variously estimated at from
one hundred and eighty to two hundred
thousand pounds. Sharp's lawyer,
tolerably well acquainted with his
affairs, says it will go over the highest
figure they name. A jest, is it? Only
let me be the victim of such a one, and
you'll see how I'll laugh.”
I was astounded, and received Archbold's
congratulations mechanically.
Two hundred thousand pounds! I forgot
all about Mrs. Potter and her intended
revelations. Here was something
substantial.
Puttenham was in a state of great
excitement, though not on my account.
The bequest of Sharp was not so unexpected,
for many had predicted that
the old man would make me his heir;
but the great Landys case was about
to come off, and it was the general topic
of conversation. The town was
crowded, the inns and lodging-houses
were all filled; and all those out of
town who could claim any acquaintanceship
with the dwellers, had invited
themselves to be the guests of the
townsfolk. As I had nother resource,
I went to the Guttenbergs. The printer
was exalted at the honor done him,
for was I not a millionaire? and Mrs.
Guttenberg felt sincerely glad to have
me again under her roof.
I had not been long domiciled with
my former master before a footman
rode up to the door with a note for me.
It came from Sir John Penreath, a ba
ronet of an old family, and one of the
magistrates of the county, who desired
I would call on him at his residence
between the hours of four and five the
next day, partly to dine, and partly to
transact some business. A similar
note came to Mr. Guttenberg.
“Bless me!” said the printer, “this
is an honor. My dear, I am invited to
dinner with Sir John Penreath. The
Penreaths were baronets long before
the Marstons were esquires. To think
of Sir John inviting me!”
The burial of Sharp followed, and
after qualifying along with Bagby, as
joint executors of the will, the lawyer,
Mr. Blodgett, desired to have a conversation
with me.
“You will excuse me, sir,” said he,
“but Mr. Sharp, before he died, spoke
to me of the mystery of your birth, and
desired me to say to you that he wished
me to investigate it. Will you tell
me, if you please, what facts you know
concerning it?”
I gave him the required information,
and he noted it down. When I had
concluded he read me the summary.
“There are links wanting,” said he,
“but they can be supplied, even if this
woman should turn out to be mistaken.
There are few mysteries but what can
be ferreted out, if they are systematically
attacked. By the by, are you
acquainted with the young lady who
is claiming the Landys title?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for her, for she will be
doomed to disappointment.”
“What do you mean? How can
you tell that? Do you know all the
evidence? She is certainly the daughter
of the late Earl.”
“Possibly the daughter of one who
was considered so; but there is no late
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
Earl at all; the former Earl is alive,
and has returned. He is now in the
country, though it is known only to a
few, and hence I say that the young
lady, whom I learn has just arrived
and taken lodgings at the hotel, is
doomed to disappointment.”
“If that be so—”
“It is so, I assure you. I have seen
the Earl, and know him. I was formerly
his Lordship's solicitor, and will
be so again.”
“It is not manly on his part to lie
concealed, and leave her to such hopes.
He should have avowed himself”
“She has been or will be made acquainted
with it; but his concealment
was necessary for another purpose.”
I went at once to the hotel where
Bagby was lodging, and where he had
taken apartments for Espinel and Zara.
Sir Charles and Lady Berkely,
who had come down to be present at
the trial, were also there. I found the
whole party in earnest conference.
They had been informed of the unexpected
re-appearance of the Earl.
“Do you think it is true?” asked
Lady Berkely of me.
“I have no doubt of it. My lawyer
was formerly his lordship's solicitor,
knows him, and has seen him personally.”
“We have been all invited to meet
the Earl to-morrow,” said Espinel.
“There is one comfort, however,”
said Lady Berkely. “The Earl is childless,
and not likely to marry. Zara is
still the next heir.”
“And how does Zara bear this unexpected
change in her prospects?” I
inquired.
“Oh, it seems to make no difference
to her. By the by, she is in the drawing-room,”—
the conference had taken
place in Sir Charles's apartments—
“and bade me say she'd like to see
you when you came, to congratulate
you on your good fortune.”
I sought and found Zara. She was
leaning with her face on her hands
when I entered. She raised her face,
and I was shocked at its paleness.
“Miss Marston,” I said, “I see no
cause for depression. It is true that
you do not succeed now, but ultimately—”
“And do you think the failure of the
suit costs me a pang?” she inquired.
“Miss Marston now—it used to be Zara;
but these fatal claims seem to have
made a fearful gap between me and my
friends.”
“No, no, Zara, you mistake; but it
is proper that our relative positions
should be maintained.”
“I am very wretched,” she said
“Your unkind words in London—”
“Forgive me,” I said, “I shall never
so offend again.”
“Offend! Oh, Ambrose! why will
you misunderstand Zara, and torture
yourself?”
She took my hand timidly, and looked
at me from under her half closed
lids. Her face was working with some
internal conflict of feeling.
“You distress me,” I said, “beyond
measure. Tell me—I do not ask it as
a lover, but as a brother, a friend—
what is the cause of this agony? Can
I give you sympathy, aid, counsel?”
She burst into tears, and dropping
her head on my breast, spoke in low
tones, but my heart heard every word.
“Ungenerous Ambrose,” she murmured,
“you know that as a child I
loved you; when you were away I
loved you; and now—”
She paused and looked up timidly in
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
my face; a strange, lustrous light was
in her eyes, flashing through the tears.
I bent forward eagerly; our lips met;
yes! she loved me; she! my beautiful,
my darling, my Zara!
We stood there, forgetful of all but
the present, with no word spoken to
still the wild current of joy, when
a shadow fell upon us. I turned; it
was Espinel. He looked at us, not unkindly,
but with a grave, sad expression.
“Count,” said I, “do not wrong me
even in thought. I love Zara, but the
avowal of my love and its return,
sprung from the impulse of the moment,
and not from calculation. It is
all over now, and I do not presume to
ask her at your hands. I know the
madness of attempting to mate with
her. I do not seek for a wife of the
best blood of England and Spain. I,
with a cloud upon my birth. No! I
will not so insult you and her; but at
least let me be the friend of both.”
Zara clung to me, and looked up imploringly
in her grand-uncle's face.
“I am to blame for this, Mr. Fecit,”
he said, at last, “I should have known
better. Zara has loved you from her
childhood up, and that attachment has
grown with her. I saw it early, and
should have kept you apart; but I
thought it a child's fancy, to be dissipated
by years. It is not mere pride
that makes me refuse my consent now
to your marriage. No; it is tenderness
for you both. The cloud that
hangs over you would be a heritage of
woe for yours, if not for you. Let that
be cleared up, and though you prove
to be the son of the poorest man in
England, the meanest day-laborer, so
you have no cause to blush for your
birth, Zara, if you still love each other,
shall be yours. Till then—”
“Till then, Count,” I interrupted, “I
will not abuse your confidence. Without
your full and free consent, I will
never speak to Zara of love again.
Nay, Zara, no tears, dearest. Your
uncle's views are just, as the law of
the world goes. I will not, for your
own happiness, create discord between
you and your kin. Wait; all may
prove right. If not—if not, Count,
though my heart break, I will keep my
pledge.”
“I believe you,” said he, “thoroughly
and frankly. I have watched you
well, Ambrose, and I love you well too.
You have honor, and I trust to your
word.”
As we stood thus, the remainder of
our party entered the apartment. We
controlled our emotions so well, that
none suspected what had passed between
us.
CHAPTER XXVIII. In which the ship of the narrator sails unexpectedly into port, with the usual cargo.
Sir John Penreath was a connection,
though distant, of the Marston family.
He considered that the Marston family
were much honored by the fact. For
the Penreaths went back for their origin
to a date long anterior to the conquest.
The Penreaths were Penreaths
in the time of Canute. The royal family
of England, alongside of the Penreaths,
were mere upstarts. Sir John
was duly impressed by the honorable
antiquity of his house. The Penreaths
came out of the antediluvian world
with Noah, no doubt, but in that case
they had a cabin passage in the Ark,
during its voyage to Mount Ararat.
Honest, punctilious, and slightly pompous
was Sir John. That he should
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
have invited the Count and Zara, Sir
Charles and Lady Berkely, was not to
be wondered at; that he should have
tolerated Paul Bagy was not astonishing,
since Paul was of an old family;
but to ask a parvenu like me, and a
tradesman like Guttenberg, to his table,
was so extraordinary that no ordinary
motives could have prompted
it. So I was not at all surprised on
my arrival at Penreath Hall to find
myself treated with the same frank
cordiality accorded to the other guests.
But why?
That was soon to be solved. When
we were assembled in the drawing-room,
where I found Archbold, Sir John
addressed us.
“I have had the honor of your presence,
ladies and gentlemen,” said he,
“through the request of my kinsman,
the Earl of Landys. His lordship is
tolerably well convinced that he has a
near kinsman in in this young gentleman,
Mr. Fecit; and desires to investigate
the fact, and acknowledge him
in your presence. All present, with
the exception of Mr. Blodgett, his lordship's
solicitor, and myself, have known
Mr. Fecit for some time, and it is to be
supposed are naturally interested in
the inquiry.
“His Lordship is coming now,” said
Mr. Blodgett, entering, and the Peer
followed him into the room.
I had seen the Earl once before in
my boyish days, during a short visit
he had made to England after a long
absence, and I remembered him very
well. Time had changed him but very
little. His complexion was darker
through long travel; there were a few
deepened lines about the mouth and
eyes; and here and there some silver
streaked his locks; but he was still
the same erect, dignified nobleman,
with the same grey eyes and squarely
cut chin that remained in my memory.
He greeted the guests courteously, as
they were presented. I was the last,
and I trembled, for was not the mystery
of my birth about to be probed,
and it might be laid bare? The Earl
smiled kindly as he took my hand,
which he retained a moment with a
gentle pressure.
“My return,” said he, “I find is looked
upon almost as a resurrection. Yet
there is nothing very startling, except
in the fact of my return at all, from my
long absence. I was shipwrecked on
the Mexican coast, near Mazatlan. My
servant and I alone escaped. It was
found that the ship could not be saved,
and she was let drive bow and quarter
on, the masts cut so as to fall to shore.
An attempt was made to get the passengers
and crew to shore by means
of boats; these were swamped, and
my servant, who must have found
something afloat from the wreck, and
clung to it, alone escaped. I was too
ill to take my place in the boat, and
was abandoned in the most cowardly
way. The abandonment saved me.
The gale subsided, and after twenty-four
hours the vessel, or rather the
fragments of it, was beached high and
dry. I crawled out of my state-room,
and with an energy created by peril,
found the use of my limbs. I let myself
down into the low water, made my
way to shore, and along the beach,
and finally found a spot where the
rocks were less steep. I climbed these,
and after a rest at the top made my
way to a rancho. The ranchero and
his wife took good care of me, and I
remained with them three weeks,
scarcely able to stir. I was indifferent
-- 131 --
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
as to the result, but with returning
health came a renewed love of life.
After considering over the matter, having
no care for home, for reasons which
you will presently see, I determined to
remain and explore that portion of
Mexico. My proper course was to have
gone to Mazatlan, written home from
thence to my friends, and drawn
through the Consul for funds. But I
happened to fall in with a company
who were going overland to the new
Mexico country, and thoughtlessly I
accompanied them. We were captured
by a band of Navajoes. I was the
only survivor, and some trifling feats
of legerdemain which I showed the
head chief caused my life to be spared,
and ensured my adoption into the tribe.
I was with them many years, and my
escape from them, in company with
some traveling traders, was of only
recent occurrence. That is my story;
but Mr. Blodgett will give you the
facts on which I have requested your
presence.”
Mr. Blodgett, thus appealed to, after
the customary preliminary ahem, began
his statement.
“On the third day of December, 1827,
a male child, newly-born, is delivered
into the charge of Mr. John Guttenberg,
printer and stationer, in the town
of Puttenham, in a mysterious manner.
By Mr. Guttenberg he is reared to manhood.
With this boy there are certain
tokens, a packet, unfortunately lost or
destroyed, a pair of bracelets, and a
ring, containing an inscription in the
Malay language. Subsequently, the
bones of a human being, pronounced
to be a female, are found in the cellar
of an old house, answering the description
of the one in which Mr. Guttenberg
received the child. To identify
this more surely, Mr. Guttenberg remembers
that there were two breaks
in the plaster in the room, one near the
door, and half way up, and a larger
one in the adjoining corner, extending
to the ceiling. The late Mr. Sharp,
just before his death, assured me that
such was the case in the back room of
the third story, in the house he sold to
Bingham. The house has been removed,
but others can prove the fact.
With the remains in this house were
found a Malay dress, a pair of sleeve-buttons,
and a pin, matching the bracelets,
and having a similar inscription
to that in the ring. Now, it appears
that in Landys Castle there is a portrait,
sent home by his lordship from
Java, of Don Estevan de Cabarrus, at
that time Prime-Minister to a native
Prince, and his lordship's friend. To
that portrait Mr. Fecit, in some respects,
bears a strong resemblance.
Circumstances occurring from time to
time, which I have in this paper, but
which we will pass over for the present,
have led this young gentleman
to believe himself the son of Don Estevan,
known among the Malays as Baganda
Jawa, though his title from his
office was Raden Adipati.”
Here Mr. Blodgett paused to take
breath, and the Earl took up the thread
of the revelation.
“From 1823 to 1828, I traveled
abroad,” he said, “roaming over the
Eastern Archipelago, and coming home
by the way of Spain. In Spain I fell
in love with a young lady, the daughter
of a nobleman of ancient family
but decayed fortune, residing near Cadiz.
I married her. The marriage has
never appeared in Burke's Peerage, but
we were married, nevertheless, in both
forms. I had unfortunately incurred
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
the ill-will of the brother, whom I had
met while at the court of the Susuhunan,
in Java, where he was chief minister,
and for a time my warm friend.
He was disgraced by that sovereign,
and erroneously attributed his disgrace
to my machinations. On his return,
which occurred three months after
our marriage, I inadvertently betrayed
the fact that he had apostacised
from his religion while in Java, which
drew on him the censure of the church,
and the reproaches of his friends. He
vowed revenge, and he soon found an
instrument for the purpose.
“Osborne, whom you know as the
steward of my cousin, was at that time
my confidential valet. I had picked
him up at Calcutta, when my former
body-servant died, and had taken him
on the representation of an army officer
there. He was bold, dexterous,
and without scruples, and was possessed
of the faculty of imitating, successfully,
any hand-writing that he had
ever seen. I had no reason to doubt
his fidelity, but still he betrayed me;
under what inducement, or for what
reason, I have been unable to learn.
“The plan of the conspirators was
soon laid, and it succeeded.
“I received a letter one day, dated
at Madrid, from a friend whom I knew
to be in Spain, informing me that he
was in trouble there, and desiring me
to set out for his relief. The letter was
urgent, but said nothing of the nature
of his difficulties. He was an old college-friend,
and without further ado I
set out at once for Madrid, leaving my
wife in charge of her family, and leaving
Osborne, who feigned to be too
sick to travel, behind also.
“When I arrived at Madrid, I found
the letter was a forgery. My friend
had gone to Paris two weeks before.
I set out on my return, anxious to see
my wife, for though I had been ten
months a husband, I was fond as ever,
and beside, I was about to take the
Countess to England, and my journey
had been undertaken in the midst of
our preparations for departure.
“On my return I found that my wife
and valet had gone. I found a letter
addressed to me, and signed by my
wife. She said in this letter that she
found she did not love me, and had
abandoned me forever under the protection
of one for whom she had more
regard. Her brother, to whom I showed
the letter, said that he had noticed
her in conference with Osborne the
night before they disappeared, but
thought nothing of it then, and swore
he would pursue the fugitives, and
wipe out the dishonor in their hearts'
blood. Don Estevan and I came to
London to intercept the vessel. We
failed in our object; for the ship had
parted with her passengers at Puddleford,
where a sloop for Havre had put
in for repairs, and the couple took passage
in that for France. It was useless
to pursue them. I sought my
home for a day only, bade my mother
farewell, and departed to be absent,
with rare intervals, for many years.
“You cannot wonder, any of you;
after this, that I never cared to acknowledge
the marriage. I never endeavored
to discover the after fate of
my wife, for she was dead to me, and
forever.”
“You did right, beyond doubt,” said
Sir Charles Berkely, at length, when
the silence of the Earl seemed to invite
comment.
I felt relieved by the close of the
narrative, for before it closed I had
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
begun to have a horrible suspicion. The
Earl went on.
“I did wrong, Sir Charles, but I was
deceived. My wife, like myself, was
the victim of a base plot. She had received
a letter the day after my departure
for Madrid, dated on the way—it
was a forgery of my handwriting—informing
her that I had meddled with
Spanish politics, and my only hope of
escape from trouble was to fly the
country. It directed her to place herself
in charge of Osborne, who would
conduct her to England, where I would
meet her. A vessel was to sail from
Cadiz that week, and Osborne engaged
passage for her and her maid, and they
left under cover of the night, the unusual
proceeding being covered by
some story to the master of the ship,
invented by Osborne. Unknown to
his sister, Don Estevan was cognisant
of the plot, a party to it, and to wreck
my happiness, did not scruple to blast
the reputation of his sister, or at least
to run the risk of her disgrace.
“The ship was bound to London,
but sprang a leak in the channel, and
was obliged to put into Puddleford.
Here Osborne, after misleading the
captain with a story of taking passage
in the sloop to Havre, took a conveyance
to Puttenham, and hired Sharp's
house, one room of which he furnished
for my wife's accommodation, leaving
her there, while he sought lodgings for
himself at an inn. My unfortunate
wife, excited, not knowing the language,
in effect, a prisoner, was taken
with premature labor, and gave birth
to a son. That birth, Ambrose, cost
your mother her life.”
There was a general murmur of surprise
when the Earl concluded, and I
was congratulated on the discovery of
my birth. The Earl went on to say—
“Here is the portrait, in miniature,
of your mother, and all can see that the
resemblance between you and her is
striking. Her brother and she were
very much alike. Besides, the ring
and trinkets were gifts of mine to her;
they were made for me in Sumatra, and
the letters were put on by the jeweler,
without my knowledge, he supposing
that as a great English nobleman I
must be a prince in my own country,
at least. I am convinced that you are
my son; the story of Don Estevan,
whom I met in Mexico since, confirms
it; but I desire to make it surer.
Bring Mr. Osborne in.”
Osborne was brought into the room
in charge of two constables. I expected
to see him crest-fallen. On the
contrary, he was apparently triumphant.
The Earl addressed him—
“Osborne, you know what charges
are against you for peculation, conspiracy
and forgery. The evidence is
sufficient to convict you, and you cannot
escape penal servitude, except
through my mercy. I am willing to
abandon these charges and set you
free, if you answer me a few questions
truly.”
“I may not choose to do that?”
“We shall see.”
At that moment a messenger came
in with a note for Sir John Penreath,
who left the room. The Countess Dowager
and Gifford entered at the same
time.
“Now,” said the Earl, “what was
your motive for betraying my confidence?”
“I will answer that question last of
all.”
“Very well. The next is, Mr. Guttenberg
received from you a male
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
infant. Whose child was that?”
“I can answer that readily. It was
that of Brigida, your wife's maid, and
the father was said to be Don Estevan
de Cabarrus. Your wife's child was
still-born.”
This was an unexpected answer, and
accounted for the likeness. I felt my
heart sink, but at the next moment the
story of Dr. Pascoe came to my recollection.
I broke the silence.
“Mr. Osborne,” I said, “I have not
hitherto meddled in this investigation;
but I have something to say and something
to ask. Dr. Pascoe attended my
mother. Shall I summon him to describe
his patient? If I am only the
offspring of a servant, why was the
packet given to your fellow-conspirator,
and, referring to me, destroyed?”
“Your story is false,” broke in the
Countess Dowager. “This young gentleman
has the Marston ear. That
mark is peculiar to our family. I knew
him from the first; but I never betrayed
my knowledge, for I thought
his mother had dishonored my son and
herself. Now that her honor is cleared,
I own him for my grandson, for
such I am assured he is.”
“Those who desire to deceive themselves
can always find enough evidence,”
retorted Osborne. “What
have I to gain by a lie? His lordship
has trumped up charges against me
that it may be difficult to disprove.
I have only to speak as you wish—to
satisfy your desire—and I am free. I
do not choose to lie, even to save myself.”
It looked reasonable enough, and
doubt began to crawl into the minds
of all. Sir John had entered the room
meanwhile, accompanied by a female
strange to all but Archbold and my
self. Osborne leaned against the back
of an easy chair, cool, self-possessed
and triumphant. The strange female—
it was Potter's wife—confronted
him.
“How,” said she, in Spanish, “Senor
Osborne, does it come that you did
not give the child to his father, as you
promised? I would not consent to
leave England for Spain until you
swore solemnly to undo the wrong thus
far, in a year's time. Have you done
it? You talk of him being my child
Liar! My husband shall strike you
to the earth, and choke the falsehood
out of you!”
“Brigida!”
“Yes; Brigida Mejia that was;
Bridget Potter now. You thought me
dead. Earl of Landys, the babe delivered
to the strange Englishman in
the old house—yonder he stands—is
your lawful son. I am ready to swear
it on the Evangelists of God. Base
dog, Osborne, instead of sending me
to Spain, as you promised, you put me
on board of a vessel bound to America.
You thought I would never come
back, Senor Osborne; but I am here
to confound you. My son, indeed!
Liar!”
“It strikes me,” said Mr. Blodgett,
“that with this evidence we have no
other use for this fellow. Officers, remove
him.”
“One moment, if you please, Mr
Blodgett,” returned Osborne. “I have
a word to say to you, Earl of Landys.
You asked me a question just now I
will answer why I betrayed you. I
loved Carlota de Cabarrus—loved her,
my lord, as you, with your cold heart
never did, never could have loved any
one. I would have won her too, but
for you. I had served you faithfully:
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
I had a chance of bettering my fortune—
of taking the position of a gentleman,
to which my culture and my
talents entitled me—yes, and my family—
for though I took menial service,
my connections were good as
your lordship's own. But you stepped
in as my rival Your wealth, your title,
outbid me; but I vowed revenge,
and I had it. I sent you a wretched
man, to wander for years. You came
back to find your fortune impaired too.
Your broad acres are there—I could
not destroy them. But the personal
property, the heir-looms of the family,
the jewels, the plate, have all been
sold, and the proceeds are placed where
you can never reach them. I have
taken good care of that. And you can
transport me—possibly I take with
me one comfort—the Countess of Landys,
the wife of a proud peer, your
wife, my lord, died like a pauper and
was buried like a brute!”
The angry wretch was removed from
the room. That night, by some means,
he escaped from jail, (the jailor plead
ignorance, but he was much richer afterwards,
they said) and hurrying by
night to Puddleford, chartered a fishing
smack, and escaped across the
channel. He was never again seen in
England. We afterwards learned that
he sailed from Havre to the United
States, went out West, engaged successfully
in land speculations, became
the President of some railway corporation
there, and when last heard of was
looked upon as a model of probity and
honor. Poetical justice would require
that he should lose some portion of his
ill-gotten gains. So far, however, poetical
justice has not been done, and
from present appearances is not likely
to be.
When he had been taken from the
room, I turned to Espinel:
“Count,” said I, “do you remember
your promise?”
“Yes,” he answered, smiling, “but
you will need your father's approval.”
“Pray,” said the Earl, smiling in
turn, “in what is the parental approval
required?”
I took Zara by the hand, and led her,
blushing, to the Earl.
“Father,” said I, demurely, “to prevent
any farther controversy about
the title—”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, as he bent forward
and imprinted a kiss on the brow
of Zara, “I get a daughter then, as
well as a son.”
And now seven years have passed,
and brought many changes. My father,
the Dowager Countess of Landys,
and the Count de Espinel are no more.
I am sitting now in the library of Landys
Castle, writing. A servant has
just brought a letter sealed with black.
That lady who sits yonder, with a very
little girl at her feet, and two boys
standing by her knee, is Zara, Countess
of Landys. No; I think she is not.
She is a Countess no longer. The elder
dignity has at last fallen to our house,
for by the superscription on that letter,
with its black wax and black edges, I
learn that Ambrose Fecit, foundling
and printer's apprentice, is now the
Duke of Sellingbourne.
THE END.
Back matter
-- --
An Excellent New Novel!
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
The Diamond Cross;
A Tale of American Society.
We need not say a word to the readers of the Weekly Herald in praise of this
capital story of American life. They are all familiar with it already, in the form
under which it first appeared as a prize tale, and they will now gladly welcome it
again in its attractive book form. Not only is the plot ingenious and full of thrilling
interest, but the author has known so well the art of concealing art, as to give
the whole a charm of naturalness and reality. The characters are real and alive.
We recognize them at a glance as just such persons as “live and move and have
their being” in actual American Society. In fine, aside from the romantic story
which is lit up by Laura's “Diamond Cross,” we find that neither Dickens nor Mrs.
Beecher Stowe, nor even De Tocqueville has given a better and more truthful picture
of American scenery, life manners and ideas than is presented in this new Novel of
Mr. Philips.
—N. Y. Herald.
| 12mo., Handsomely Bound in Cloth, |
Price $1 75. |
Capital New Books! Brilliant New Books
GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY.
BY CHARLES READE.
“Griffith Gaunt” is superbly written. Its
style is clear, incicive and epigramatic, and its
situations are worked up with the utmost energy
and power.
It may be pronounced one of the finest of
tragic writings produced for many a day in the
English language.......Price, 75 cents.
WHAT IS THIS MYSTERY.
BY MISS M. E. BRADDON.
This last work of the brilliant authoress
whose name is familiar to both the old and new
world, is just the style of book to please most
readers, dealing largely in mystery, and replete
with love and horrors. Some of the characters
are loveable and natural; others, by way of
contrast, human monstrosities in league with
powers of Darkness.......Price, 75 cents.
THE SECOND Mrs. TILLOTSON.
BY PERCY FITZGERALD.
This novel is written by a regular contributor
to Charles Dickens' periodical, “All the
Year Round,” and is exceedingly brilliant.
The best voucher for its merits is the fact that
its author has “passed muster” with the greatest
living novelist. It will be eagerly sought
after.......Price, 75 cents.
BROUGHT TO LIGHT.
BY THOMAS SPEIGHT.
This story, published as a Serial in America
and England, has created intense interest by
the thrilling character of its incidents, and the
power and beauty with which they are described.
It is a story of old days in England,
and is a graphic picture of ideas and customs
then prevalent.......Price, 50 cents.
CLEMENCEAU; OR, WIFE MURDER.
BY ALEXANDER DUMAS, FILS.
This novel is a chef d'œuvre in its display of
the motives which actuate the human mind
under peculiar influences. Every speech is
characteristic of the sensual, insensible and
voluptuous beauty of Paris life, to whom all
idea of feminine purity is unknown.....Price. 50 cents.
Ready March 21st.
LION IN THE PATH.
BY JOHN SAUNDERS.
This is an excellent new novel by the popular
author of “Bound to the Wheel.” In press,
Price, 75 cents.
&hand; These books are sold everywhere, and will be sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of
price,
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Free Endpaper.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Free Endpaper.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Paste-Down Endpaper.[end figure description]
English, Thomas Dunn, 1819-1902 [1867], Ambrose fecit, or, The peer and the printer: a novel. (Hilton and Company, New York) [word count] [eaf558T].
|
