THE SINS OF THE FATHERS AND OTHER TALES
By George Gissing
1924
PASCAL COVICI, Publisher
Copyright 1924
This edition is limited to 550
numbered copies of which 500 are offered
for sale.
This copy is No. 53.
Contents
The Sins of the
Fathers . . . . . . . . . 1
Gretchen . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
R. I. P. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Too Dearly Bought
. . . . . . . . . . . . 91
[i]
Introduction
In the twentieth year of his melancholy existence,
George Robert
Gissing, having involved himself in an offense against
the law, was
for a time imprisoned, then sent by his friends to
while he lived upon what money he had brought with
him, and for
a time he taught the classics in
and he faced a crisis. He purchased an emigrant ticket
for
and in the western metropolis endeavored
to make a living by the
pen. The four tales, here for the first time published
between
covers are all that have been discovered of his work
of that period.
All were contributed to the Chicago Tribune, and
probably were all
that he did for that journal, although there is reason
to believe that
he published other work of a literary nature at about
this time. The
year was 1877, and the tales were published in the
Saturday
supplement of the Tribune in the following order:
"The Sins of the Fathers," March 10, 1877.
Unsigned.
[ii]
"R. I. P."
"Too Dearly Bought,"
"Gretchen,"
For years, admirers of the later work of Gissing
wondered about
these tales. Their names were not known; it was known
only that he
had written some short stories for the Chicago Tribune
during his
dreary American adventure. Several attempts were made
to
discover them, and one fairly elaborate attempt was
undertaken by
the late Bert Leston Taylor
("B. L. T." , when he was conducting a
column in the Tribune. All attempts failed until Mr.
Christopher
Hagerup took the field. Shortly after the war, I met Mr. Hagerup,
and discovered in him an enthusiastic admirer of
Gissing's work and
a collector of that novelist's "first
editions." I was in both lines
myself, and we passed together many pleasant evenings
discussing
Gissing and others whom we had elected to honor. Some day, said
we, since we actually live in
Tribune files, and find those lost stories. Actually,
each of us
already had begun his exploration, unknown to the
other
[iii]
- each determined to be first. As it happened, Hagerup found them;
found them where I would have failed perhaps, for it
was only his
extraordinary interest in and knowledge of Gissing and
Gissing's
manner that enabled him to detect, by their style and
content, the
two unsigned contributions. He painstakingly copied
them from the
yellowed files with a stub of a pencil, and filed them
away in his
collection against the day when he would cause them
to. be
privately printed for other Gissing "fans."
Later, he decided that
they were not important enough to justify publication.
Now that, of course, is an easy enough decision to
reach when one is
oneself in possession of that which one would deny
others. But
there were other Gissing collectors who had not read
the tales, who
still wished to read them, and who had not the
opportunity Hagerup
and I had to read them in the Tribune files or copy
them for private
delectation. And so, for t h o s e others, I privately
determined
some day to reprint the four discovered stories. The
day came with
the advent into the publishing business of Pascal Covici, and I have
just stated my reasons for causing publica-
[iv]
tion and my justification of the reappearance in print of
these four
sorry enough little tales. It is inevitable that
critics will find them
"hardly worth the reprinting," and no doubt
there will be many to
assert that I have done Gissing's reputation a
disservice in giving
his apprentice work to the public. The first objection
may be true
enough, but the second I deny. The early work of an
author of
Gissing's ability is not negligible, and often is of
considerable
biographical and bibliographical interest. And,
anyway, collectors of
a man's work are always grateful for his least word,
and the
collectors of the work of George Gissing are an
increasing race. To
them, then, let the present volume be dedicated.
The story of Gissing's American adventure is gloomily
entertaining,
and may be told here to make the volume complete. The
reprinted
tales are part of that story, which is best told in
his own words, in
his best-known novel, "New Grub Street," in
which it is placed in the
mouth of Whelpdale, a
**********
"I have lived for five days on a few cents"
worth of peanuts in
the States."
"What are peanuts, Mr. Whelpdale?"
asked Dora.
[v]
Delighted with the question, Whelpdale
described that
undesirable species of food.
"It was in
should live on peanuts in a town called
"Tell us those adventures," cried Jasper.
"It's a long time since I
heard them, and the girls will enjoy it vastly."
Dora looked at him with such good-humored
interest that the
traveler needed no further persuasion.
"It came to pass in those days," he began,
"that I inherited from
my godfather a small, a very small, sum of money. I
was making
strenuous efforts to write for magazines, with
absolutely no
encouragement. As everybody was talking just then of
the
Centennial Exhibition at
of crossing the
literary material at the Exhibition - or Exposition,
as they called it"
and elsewhere. I won't trouble you with an account of
how I lived
whilst I still had money; sufficient that no one would
accept the
articles I sent to
I went to
of adventure was strong in me. "I'll go
west," I said to myself.
"There I am bound to find material." And go
I did, taking an
emigrant train to
[vi]
December, and I should like you to imagine what a
journey of a
thousand miles by an emigrant train meant at that
season. The cars
were deadly cold, and what with that and the hardness
of the seats
I found it impossible to sleep; it reminded me of
tortures I had read
about; I thought my brain would have burst with the
need of
sleeping. At
night; I left the station and wandered about till I
found myself on
the edge of a great cliff that looked over
picture! Brilliant moonlight, and all the lake away to
the horizon
frozen and covered with snow. The clocks struck two as
I stood
there."
He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant who
brought
coffee.
"Nothing could be more welcome," cried Dora.
"Mr. Whelpdale
makes one feel quite chilly."
There was laughter and chatting whilst Maud poured out
the
beverage. Then Whelpdale
pursued his narrative.
"I reached
and, with a courage which I now marvel at, I paid
immediately
four dollars and a half for a week's board and
lodging. 'Well,' I said
to myself, 'for a week I am safe. If I earn nothing in
that time, at
least I shall owe nothing when I have to turn out into
the streets.'
It was a rather dirty little boarding-house, in
[vii]
occupied, as I soon found, almost entirely by actors.
There was no
fireplace in my bedroom, and if there had been I
couldn't have
afforded a fire. But that mattered little; what I had
to do was to set
forth and discover some way of making money. Don't
suppose that
I was in a desperate state of mind; how it was, I
don't quite know,
but I felt decidedly cheerful. It was pleasant to be
in this new
region of the earth, and I went about the town like a
tourist who
has abundant resources."
He sipped his coffee.
"I saw nothing for it but to apply at the office
of some
newspaper, and as I happened to light upon the biggest
of them
first of all, I put on a bold face, marched in, asked
if I could see the
editor. There was no difficulty whatever about this; I
was told to
ascend by means of the 'elevator' to an upper storey,
and there I
walked into a comfortable little room where a youngish
man sat
smoking a cigar at a table covered with print and
manuscript. I
introduced myself, stated my business. 'Can you give
me work of
any kind on your paper?' 'Well, what experience have
you had?'
'None whatever.' The editor smiled. 'I'm very much
afraid you
would be no use to us. But what do you think you could
do?' Well
now, there was but one thing that by any possibility I
could do. I
asked him: 'Do you publish any fiction - short
stories?' 'Yes, we're
always glad of a short story, if it's good.' This was
[viii]
a big daily paper; they have weekly supplements of all
conceivable
kinds of matter. "Well," I said, "if I
write a story of English life, will
you consider it?" "With pleasure." I
left him, and went out as if my
existence were henceforth provided for."
He laughed heartily, and was joined by his hearers.
"It was a great thing to be permitted to write a
story, but then -
w hat story? I went down to the
there for half an hour in an icy wind. Then I looked
for a stationer's
shop, and laid out a few of my remaining cents in the
purchase of
pen, ink, and paper - my stock of all these things was
at an end
when I left
to write in my bedroom, the temperature was below
zero; there was
no choice but to sit down in the common room, a place
like the
smoke-room of a poor commercial hotel in
were gathered about the fire, smoking, talking, quarreling.
Favorable conditions, you see, for literary effort. But the
story had
to be written, and write it I did, sitting there at
the end of a deal
table; I finished it in less than a couple of days, a
good long story,
enough to fill three columns of the huge paper. I
stand amazed at
my power of concentration as often as I think of
it!"
"And was it accepted ?" asked Dora.
"You shall hear. I took my manuscript to the
[ix]
editor, and he told me to come and see him again next
morning. I
didn't forget the appointment. As I entered he smiled
in a very
promising way, and said, "I think your story will
do. I'll put it into
the Saturday supplement. Call on Saturday morning and
I'll
remunerate you." How well I remember that word
"remunerate" I
have had an affection for the word ever since. And
remunerate me
he did; scribbled something on a scrap of paper, which
I presented
to the cashier. The sum was eighteen dollars. Behold
me saved!"
He sipped his coffee again.
"I have never come across an English editor who
treated me
with anything like that consideration and general
kindliness. How
the man had time, in his position, to see me so often,
and do things
in such a human way, I can't understand. Imagine
anyone trying
the same at the office of a
couldn't see the editor at all. I shall always think
with profound
gratitude of that man with the peaked brown beard and
pleasant
smile."
"But did the peanuts come after that?"
inquired Dora.
"Alas! they did. For some months I supported
myself in
writing for that same paper, and for others. But at
length the flow
of my inspiration was checked; I had written myself
out. And I
began to grow homesick, wanted to get back to
[x]
England. The result was that I found myself one day in
again, but without money enough to pay for a passage
home. - I
tried to write one more story. But it happened, as I
was looking
over newspapers in a reading-room, that I saw one of
my
tales copied into a paper published at
far off, and it occurred to me that, if I went there,
the editor of this
paper might be disposed to employ me, seeing he had a
taste for
my fiction. And I went, up the
Troy I was as badly off as when I reached
dollar. And the worst of it was I had come on a vain
errand; the
editor treated me with scant courtesy, and no work was
to be got. I
took a little room, paying for it day by day, and in
the meantime I
fed on those loathsome peanuts, buying a handful in
the streets
now and then. And I assure you I looked starvation in
the face."
"What sort of a town is
first time.
"Don't ask me. They make straw hats there
principally, and they
sell peanuts. More I remember not."
"But you didn't starve to death," said Maud.
"No, I just didn't. I went one afternoon into a
lawyer's office,
thinking I might get some copying-work, and there I
found an oddlooking
old man, sitting with an open Bible on his knees. He
ex-
[xi]
plained to me that he wasn't the lawyer; that the lawyer was
away
on business, and that he was just guarding the office.
Well, could he
help me? He meditated, and a thought occurred to him.
'Go,' he said,
'to such-and-such a boarding-house, and ask for Mr.
Freeman
man to accompany him.' I didn't dream of asking what
the business
was, but sped, as fast as my trembling limbs would
carry me, to the
address he had mentioned. I asked for Mr. Freeman
Sterling, and
found him. He was a photographer, and his business at
present was
to go about getting orders for the reproducing of old
portraits. A
good-natured young fellow. He said he liked the look
of me, and on
the spot engaged me to assist him in a house-to-house
visitation. He
would pay for my board and lodging, and give me a
commission on
all the orders I obtained. Forthwith I sat down to a
"square meal,"
and ate - my conscience, how I ate!"
"You were not eminently successful in that
pursuit, I think?"
said Jasper.
"I don't think I got half-a-dozen orders. Yet
that good Samaritan
supported me for five or six weeks, whilst we traveled from
that we must part. Upon my word, I believe he would
have paid my
expenses for another month; why, I can't understand.
But he had a
vast
[xii]
respect for me because I had written in newspapers,
and I do
seriously think that he didn't like to tell me I was a
useless fellow.
We parted on the very best of terms in
"And you again had recourse to peanuts ?"
asked Dora.
"Well, no. In the meantime I had written to
someone in
begging the loan of just enough money to enable me to
get home.
The money came a day after I had seen
**********
The photographer, in this version, is said actually to
have been a
traveler in gas-fittings; but the account is believed to be a
fairly
accurate narration of Gissing's American experiences.
And here,
following this editorial delay, are the tales Gissing
wrote on the deal
table in his
my account of their author, lead new readers to the
later, finer
work of George Gissing.
VINCENT STARRETT.
[p.1]
The Sins of the Fathers
I.
A BROAD archway,
the gloom of its chill, murky shadow only
deepened by the
flicker of the shattered gas- lamp that hangs from
the centre, its
silence only broken by the agonized weeping of a
poor girl who
strives to still the throbbing of her temples by
pressing them
against the clammy stones; whilst, little as one would
imagine it, but a
few paces separate her from the crowd and glare
of the wide
streets - such a scene is but too common after nightfall
in the heart of a
great English manufacturing town. As such it did
not at first
produce a very startling effect upon Leonard Vincent,
who, as he was
hurrying home by short cuts from a social gathering
of
fellow-students, was stopped at the mouth of the archway by the
sounds of distress
[p.2]
that fell upon his
ear; but his interest was more vividly awakened
as he caught a
glimpse of the upturned face faintly illumined by the
light which just
then a gust of wind blew into a flame. The dark,
flashing eyes, the
long, black hair all unkempt and streaming over
the girl's
shoulders, the face, lovely in its outlines, now weird with
its look of agony
and ghastly pale, made a picture such as he had
never looked on,
and held him for a moment as immovable as
though he had been
gazing upon the head of Medusa. It was but for
a moment, however,
that he remained irresolute. Stepping quietly
up to the sobbing
girl, who was too much absorbed in her own grief
to notice his
presence, Vincent touched her lightly on the shoulder.
She instantly
turned round to meet his gaze; suppressing with a
sudden and violent
effort any trace of her emotion save the great
tears, which she
could not at once check in their course down her
cheeks, The cheeks
Were pale and somewhat sunken, as if hunger
as well as grief
had begun to
[p.3]
mar her beauty,
and, as she looked at the young man's face with a
proud, impatient
gaze, her tightly-compressed lips trembling
despite her
efforts, she aroused in him a feeling of the profoundest
compassion. For
some minutes they stood regarding each other in
silence; then, as
he saw the girl determined not to speak, Vincent
began to address
her, though with diffidence.
"May I ask
the cause of your grief? Do not think me rude. I ask
because I might -
it is my wish to help you."
The young man,
usually somewhat brusque in his manner of
addressing his
inferiors in station, was somewhat surprised at the
tone he was led to
adopt. The position of the girl before him, and
the plain,
much-worn character of her dress, showed that she
belonged to the
lower class; yet he almost quailed before her look,
and felt
unconsciously that in nature she was not beneath him.
The object of his
compassion stood for a moment as if undecided;
then, the proud
[p.4]
expression on her
face still unaltered, replied briefly and in a low,
quick voice:
"I wish to be
alone. You are very kind. I do not need help."
Leonard Vincent
smiled in spite of his pity.
"You must
allow me to doubt that," he said. "Will you not trust me?
It is not from
mere curiosity that I ask your confidence. I feel sure
I can help you, if
you will let me."
Again she replied
quickly, but the tone was not that of her former
speech:
"You are very
kind. It is long since I have been spoken to kindly.
But I need no
help, indeed I need none."
The young man
again smiled as he looked in her still unmoved face.
"You are very
proud," he said. "It is long since I met any one so
proud. I am proud,
too. Will you not confide in a kindred spirit?"
It was now her
turn to smile, and for a moment her countenance
brightened with a
[p.5]
look that was like
the faint memory of happiness long past. It was
enough that there
was a sign of relenting. Vincent continued to urge
her, and, after a
few moments of hesitation, she seemed about to
comply with his
request.
"Why should I
trouble you with a miserable story? You know it all
before I begin.
And yet, perhaps, you seem as if you had a good
home and good
parents; I will tell you in a few words. It will make
me cry again; that
is good for my pride."
Then she told,
briefly and plainly, the story of her young days; of a
happy childhood in
a little market-town in the south of
schooldays, and
the joys of loving companions. All was happy till
her father, who
had been a small farmer, died, and her mother, a
beautiful woman,
yielded to their rich landlord's entreaties, and
married him. She
had acted on an impulse of pride, and her
punishment was
severe. Laura Lindon, her only child, was hated by
her step-father,
chiefly because she would
[p.6]
not give up her
old rustic friends. The man, whose nature was
coarse and vulgar,
abused the poor girl dreadfully, till at length her
life became intolerable
to her.
"What could I
do? I could not kill myself for my poor mother's sake;
so I resolved to
leave home. I came North, accompanied by a girl of
my own age, who
had always been my best friend. For a few weeks
we just managed to
live on what we got for sewing, and then poor
Lizzie would not
bear the hard life any longer, and - left me. Do not
ask me what has
become of her; I dare not think. I have seen her
once since; God
grant I may never see her again. And I myself? You
see me; I am
alive, and that is all. I can no longer earn enough to
live on; perate tonight and came out, why and where I am getting
weak, I am afraid.
I grew des- did not know. There is my tale. You
see you cannot
help me. It was kind of you to think of helping me.
It is getting
late, I am afraid. Good night."
She turned quickly
round, wishing to hide
[p.7]
the tears that
were again coming into her eyes, and in another
moment would have
been gone; but Vincent, hastening after her,
again compelled
her to stay.
"But I can
help you; Miss Lindon, I must help you."
His first impulse
had been to offer her money, but he at once saw
how unwelcome such
an offer would be, how impossible to make
her accept of it.
Instead of that he proposed to find her work, to
provide her sewing
enough to enable her to make a living. The offer
was at once
thankfully accepted.
"And,"
said Vincent, as they were parting, "I may see you again, I
may come and see
you?"
"Thank
you," she replied, firmly but modestly, "I had rather you did
not. I must work
all my time. You are very kind to get me work."
And so they
parted.
Leonard Vincent
was as good as his promise with regard to finding
Laura work,
[p.8]
but, after a few
weeks, he proved disobedient to her wish that he
was not to visit
her. In time she grew more cheerful, and more
willing to talk
freely, though it was long before she lost, when
speaking to her
friend, the air of reserve which was the result of
her natural pride.
At last Vincent, obedient to an impulse which had
now become too
powerful for restraint, told Laura that he loved
her, that he
wished to make her his wife. He already knew that she
was not
indifferent to him, but he little knew of the consuming
passion which,
kindled at first by gratitude, now burnt fiercely in
her heart; of the
efforts it had long cost her to choke ardent
affection 'neath the guise of cold respect. Laura's emotions were
powerful, but her
self-command still remained more powerful; and
now, whilst she
modestly confessed her love, she urgently besought
her lover to
reflect before he committed what might prove an
irreparable error.
But Leonard was heedless of consequences. In the
warmth of the
moment he sought an
[p.9]
interview with his
father, and desired him to sanction his marriage
with Laura, at the
same time giving a truthful account of her life
and present
condition.
Old Mr. Vincent
was a retired cotton-spinner. His immense wealth
had been
accumulated by his life-long devotion to business; and his
nature, of course
material to begin with, was now rendered more
selfish and
intolerant by the addition of a vulgar pride. Furious at
first when he
heard his son's announcement; second thought
induced him to
rely upon low cunning as a better instrument
against his son,
who was himself proud, but not ignobly so. He
pretended to
consent to the match on one condition: that Leonard
should first
enable himself to support a wife by his own exertions,
independent of any
hopes he might entertain of settlement from his
father.
Laura had awaited
the issue of the conference with outward
calmness, but, in
reality, in suspense that amounted to agony.
"You have
asked?" she exclaimed hastily,
[p.10]
as her lover came
to see her immediately after receiving his
answer.
"All is well,
dearest," he replied. "But we are both too young as yet.
Let us be faithful
to each other. Till our marriage you will live at
my home and my
parents will care for you. I am going to spend a
year abroad."
Laura strove
bravely with her emotions and tried to appear glad. In
another week she
was living under Mr. Vincent's roof, and Leonard
had sailed for
II.
TWO YEARS have
passed, and we meet with Leonard Vincent, this
time not in the
Old, but in New,
an end, the summer
vacation is about to commence, and to-day all
the scholars are
assembled to show by an exhibition the results of
their own work and
that of their teachers, of whom our friend is
one. The members
of the graduating-class are here in all their
[p.11]
glory; the boys,
as is usual with boys on such occasions, welldressed
but awkward; the
girls resplendent in the combined charms
of nature and of
art - a perfect bouquet of rich buds just breaking
into the full blow
of womanhood. Let us notice Minnie Warren, the
young lady whose
place is at the head of this class. She is not tall,
but her figure is
perfect in symmetry; Minnie is grace itself, from
the little slipper
with the blue bow which now and then peeps from
beneath the
muslin, to the simple but jaunty coil of rich brown hair
that sits on the
back of her head. The face, usually wreathed in the
most attractive
smiles, but now demure-looking from a sense of
being regarded by
the whole assembly, is not handsome, but is
incontestably
pretty. Her cheeks, perhaps a trifle redder than on
ordinary
occasions, are soft and smooth as the petals of a flower,
and her lips -
description fails. On Minnie all eyes are fixed, and,
among them, those
of her teacher, Leonard Vincent; but does not
the gleam of joy
in the eyes of the latter indicate
[p.12]
more than the
justifiable pride of one who had helped to make
Minnie's mind rich
in learning and worthily corresponding to a face
so rich in beauty?
What has time brought about in the two years
that have passed?
Leonard Vincent never forgot his promise to
Laura, but for
many weeks wrote regular and loving letters, to
which his
betrothed replied in lines that showed the sincerity of her
love and the
nobility of her nature. Then all at once, she ceased to
write, and the
cause was explained by a letter which Leonard
shortly after
received from his father, wherein it was stated, with
much attempt at
sympathy and overstrained expressions of regret,
that Laura had
been taken sick of fever suddenly, and very shortly
after had died.
Must it be confessed that Leonard experienced no
keen sorrow at
this sudden news? He was shocked; but he did not
experience a
lover's grief. His nature would never have allowed him
to prove false to
Laura as long as he knew her living in the constant
hope of
[p.13]
becoming his wife;
but absence and reflection had so far altered his
feelings as to
enable him to bear her loss with equanimity. The
truth was that
from the first his love had contained far more of
mere compassion
and self-complacency than he could imagine or
would have been
willing to admit. Very soon after leaving
he had confessed
to himself the wish that Laura had been
intellectually
more of a companion for him. His soul was not great
enough to be
contented with simple devotion in the woman who
was to be his
wife, and his imperfect sympathies required more
points of contact.
Thus it was that very soon after receiving the
letter which told
him of Laura's death he had consciously proceeded
to foster a new
attachment, the seeds of which had already been
sown. Without
being handsome, or in any sense a lady-killer,
Vincent had yet,
for those who knew him well, a decidedly pleasing
appearance, which
joined to a lively and agreeable manner,
considerable
powers, and the polish of culture, made
[p.14]
him decidedly
pleasing and attractive. His cheerful equability of
temper had
speedily resigned him to the lot his father imposed
upon him, and he
had very soon become a decided favorite with the
pupils, especially
the young ladies.
The exhibition was
considered a great success. The singing, the
declamations, the
recitations, were voted delightful by the assembly
of parents and
friends. At last all was over, the people were
dispersing, and
Vincent was engaged in making a few last
arrangements in
his own room, when there came a knock at his
door, and, without
waiting for an invitation, Miss Warren walked in.
"Well, Mr.
Vincent are you satisfied now?"
"Decidedly,
Miss Warren; and above all with you. You were
charming."
Minnie appeared to
take no notice of the compliment, but went on
in her usual
voluble manner.
[p.15]
"Oh, Mr.
Vincent, did you notice Grace Wilson, how she spoke her
piece? It was just
elegant!"
"No doubt;
but there was some one else who spoke a piece; and she
was more than
'just elegant.'"
Minnie shook her
head with a pretty air of mock impatience.
"How
provoking you are! I really don't wish for any compliments, s-
--; no; I was just
going to call you 'sir,' but I'm not a schoolgirl now,
and I shan't call
you 'sir' any longer."
"Very well,
Miss Warren; then in revenge I shall deprive you of
your title, and
henceforth call you 'Minnie.'"
Minnie reddened
slightly, and turned round to look out of the
window. But
directly afterwards she turned to face Vincent again.
"Shall you be
here again next term, Mr. Vincent?"
"I am very
uncertain. It depends greatly upon circumstances."
[p.16]
Minnie laughed
merrily, and laid her hand upon the door as if about
to leave the room.
"That is one
of your provokingly indefinite philosophical phrases. I
suppose time will
show. But, really, all the people have left. I must
be quick and get
home. Good-by."
She opened the
door and pretended that she was off in a great
hurry. Leonard
appeared for a moment undecided; then he took a
step towards her.
"Minnie!"
She stopped, and,
turning around with an assumed air of
indifference,
asked:
"Did you
speak, sir?"
"So you are
going off without wishing me a happy vacation? I am
surprised at you,
Miss Warren."
"I thought
you were not going to call me 'Miss' any longer," she
replied, with a
merchant air.
"Oh, I
forgot. Have you nothing to say but a cold 'good-by,' Minnie,
now that we are
seeing each other for the last time?"
[p.17]
Minnie exhibited a
scarcely-perceptible start at this announcement.
"Oh, I am not
going away," she replied, perhaps a trifle more
earnestly than the
occasion seemed to warrant. "I shall be at home
when school begins
again."
"But I think
it very likely that I shall not. I think I shall go to
"So you are
tired of us Americans already? Ah, well, we are stupid
people, I suppose.
Good-by, then."
She held out her
delicate white hand, and it trembled just a little.
Leonard took it,
raised it to his lips, and then gently let it go. Minnie
laughed her
ordinary gay laugh.
"Is that how
Englishmen say good-by? What a knightly lot of people
you must be!"
"No,"
replied Leonard, earnestly, drawing nearer to Minnie, "that is
not how we say
good-by. We only do that when we mean that we
are never going to
say good-by."
"Oh, indeed!
Then I must leave you, I
[p.18]
suppose, without
exchanging the usual civilities!"
She turned and
moved very slowly towards the door. Vincent
reached her side
with a single step, and took her hand in his own.
She turned around,
and the blossoms in her cheeks deepened in
color as she looked in his face, unable to say
anything.
"Minnie,"
said Leonard, in a low, earnest tone, "you understand me,
though you pretend
not to. May I always keep this hand?"
She looked down at
the ground, a most unusual thing with her, and
replied somewhat
indistinctly:
"Really, that
would be asking me to stand here too long."
"It is a very
pretty hand. May I kiss it again?"
Minnie gave no
reply. He took the silence for consent.
"Those are
very pretty lips, Minnie. May I kiss them?"
The question was
asked in a tone little above a whisper. The reply
was not in
[p.19]
words, but the
look that was in her hazel eyes as she raised her face
to his told him
that Minnie Warren, with all her beauty and
roguishness, was
his own.
And so he did not
leave
that he had won a
wife who belonged to a family that the old
cotton-spinner had
no reason to be ashamed of as his relations; in
reply, his father
opened, if not his heart, at all events his pocketbook,
to his no longer
wayward son. Mr. Vincent, for reasons of his
own, had no
particular wish that Leonard should return to
and experienced no
great sorrow when he was told that his son
desired, for some
time at least, to continue to reside in
III.
And Laura Lindon? Was she really dead, as Leonard had heard
from his father?
No; it was but a cruel scheme invented by the
purse-proud old
man to frustrate a marriage in which he could see
nothing but
disgrace
[p.20]
to himself and to
his son. At the same time that he had written to
Leonard to tell
him that Laura was dead he had been to a man
skilled in such
matters and got him to forge a letter from Leonard,
which said that he
had for some time felt how unfitted he and
Laura were for
each other, owing to the latter's lack! of education;
that he had
hitherto been silent on the matter, endeavoring to
overcome his
doubts; but that he at last felt it to be his duty to free
Laura from her
engagement, and hoped that she would ere long
find a husband
better suited to her. At the same time he stated that
he had left his
former residence, and thought it better that she
should not know
his present address. The forgery was so skillful,
the awkward
appearance of the letter so exactly like those she had
hitherto received,
that the poor girl never for a moment suspected
any deception, all
the less because Mr. Vincent, with a cunning
foresight, had
always behaved to her with the utmost apparent
kindness, and had
openly professed himself anx-
[p.21]
ious for the union of the two lovers as soon as
Leonard should have
attained his
majority. The result was exactly what he had foreseen.
Laura, after
passing some days in an agony of grief, had suddenly
asked Mr. Vincent
if he would provide her with sufficient money to
pay her passage to
from the house
during the night, and never been heard of since. The
old man, confident
of the perfect success of his stratagem, rubbed
his hands in
satisfaction, and turned his attention to other matters.
Meanwhile all was
peace and comfort in the little home in New
with all her natty
ways. Minnie, herself scrupulously neat and
careful of her
appearance, was resolved that everything and
everybody about
her should be no less irreproachable, and he
would indeed have
been a happy man whose wife was a better
housekeeper.
Leonard passed his days in elegant leisure, his easy
nature flattered
to the ex-
[p.22]
treme by the affectionate attentions of his
excellent little wife. It is
true that he did
occasionally revert in thought to his old home, and
to the memory of
her whom he had once fancied so dear to him; but
his easy-going
philosophy was at no loss to provide consolation for
irremediable
events; and it is probable that, in such moments of
reflection, his
train of thought resulted in conclusions not so very
far removed from
those which his father had made use of to
disappoint poor
Laura's hopes.
It was an
afternoon in January.
been doing its
best to maintain its reputation for variability, and,
whilst the streets
were still wet with the recent rain, the still heavy
sky, which was
striving to stint the daylight of a few hours of
existence, gave
unmistakable warning of a coming snowstorm. Mrs.
Vincent, who
abhorred gloom of every kind, took the opportunity to
pull down the
blinds and light up the chandelier at an unusually
early hour.
[p.23]
"Now,
Leonard," said the charming little woman, as she sat down on
a low stool at her
husband's feet and crossed her hands over his
knees, "do,
pray, put aside that book and let me have a little of your
society."
Leonard had been
somewhat silent all day, an unusual thing for
him, and had
buried himself since morning in the depths of some
metaphysical
novel. Doubtless, as Mrs. Vincent had suggested, the
weather had
something to do with it. He now threw aside his book,
stretched himself,
and yawned somewhat drearily.
"Well,
Mm," he replied, "to tell you the truth, I feel rather out of
sorts."
Then, as if a
sudden thought had struck him, he stood up and took
up the newspaper that
lay on the floor beside him. Turning to the
advertisements of
amusements he read half aloud:
"Globe
Theatre: Last night of 'The Wild Man of the Prairie,' - bosh!
Variety Theatre: 'Jem Thompson's Marvelous
Impersonations; Miss
Williams with her favorite song
[p.24]
- pshaw! Theatre Comique: Opera-Bouffe, - ah,
that's better. 'La
Fille de Madame Angot.' What do you say, Minnie! Let us have an
evening at the
theatre."
Minnie, who had a
a demure look, but
didn't seem unfavorable.
"Well,
Leonard, it certainly is some time since we have been, and---
-"
"Very well,
then," broke in her husband. "Let's get supper over. I'll
just go order a
hack."
In due time
arrangements were completed, the hack arrived, and
before very long
the pair were comfortably seated directly in front
of the stage,
wishing for the curtain to rise. In the meantime Minnie
became the
unconscious focus of many opera-glasses, as was
usually the case
when she appeared in public. Leonard had
gradually been
regaining his even flow of spirits, and by the time
that the orchestra
commenced with the well-known delightful airs
he was quite ready
to enjoy to its full the peculiar pleasure of the
[p.25]
entertainment. All
went splendidly. The prima donna was a noted
"star,"
and entranced the house with her singing. Minnie was totally
absorbed in the
performance, when she suddenly felt her husband
start. At the same
time she noticed a disturbance on the stage. What
was the matter?
Oh, it was nothing, said the people next to her; only
one of the chorus
who had fainted. Look, they were carrying her off
the stage. Minnie
looked at Leonard and saw a pale, anxious look on
his face that she
had never before seen there. Thinking nothing of
the slight
confusion before her, she laid her hand on her husband's
arm:
"What is the
matter with you, Leonard?" she whispered. "Don't you
feel well?"
"Nothing,
nothing," he replied, hastily. "It was only for the moment.
And yet, - would
you mind if we left the theatre?"
"Let us go at
once. Give me my shawl." They rose from their places
and left the
theatre, the performance going on as if nothing had
happened to
disturb it. When they
[p.26]
were outside
Vincent seemed to alter his mind. "Minnie," he said,
his voice
trembling slightly, "would you mind going home alone? It
was foolish to
disturb your enjoyment. I feel all right now; but it is
hardly worth while
going back, and I think I will take the
opportunity of
going to see a friend in town whom I have often
promised to call
on." At first she remonstrated, but at length, as
Leonard began to
show signs of irritation, she pressed him no
further, and left
him to return home. Hitherto the threatened
snow-storm had
held back, but now white specks began to dot the
air, falling
steadily. Leonard showed no intention of going to visit
his friend, but
paced hurriedly up and down in front of the theatre,
repeatedly looking
at his watch. Old memories were at work within
his mind, and his
knit brows and anxious look indicated the
working of some
strong emotion. At length 10 o'clock struck, and
the people be-
[p.27]
gan to swarm out of the theatre. Hastily
walking down a narrow,
gloomy street that
led alongside of the house, he stopped before the
stage-door, as if
awaiting some one. Shortly the door opened, and,
one after another,
muffled forms appeared. He peered into their
faces as they
passed, but seemed to recognize none, till at length a
tall female figure
came down the steps, and, after hesitating a
moment, walked
down the dark street. Leonard could not see the
face, but the walk
of the figure he could not mistake. With light,
quick steps on the
new-fallen snow he followed her, and, when they
had come to a spot
slightly illuminated by a street-lamp, he stepped
up quite close to
her and touched her. She turned round hurriedly,
gazed eagerly in
his face, and then threw her arms around his neck
and sobbed
convulsively.
"I saw you, -
I knew you at once! It was wrong, - it was unkind of
you! But now I
have found you again, I can forgive everything."
[p.28]
Her incoherent
sentences were spoken as quickly as her sobs would
permit, and till
she had ceased Leonard could not speak a word.
Then he gently
removed her arms from his neck, and as she gazed
eagerly at him she
saw his face was ghastly pale. He spoke slowly
and as if with
difficulty.
"Laura, you
must not think of me. We must not see each other
again. She you saw
with me was my wife."
He paused. The
light of half reproach, half joy that had shone from
her eyes was
suddenly changed into a wild glare of madness. She
strove to speak
but could not. Leonard, terrified at her look, went
on in humbling
tones.
"Listen to
me, Laura. It is not my fault. They told me you were -
dead."
She caught both
his hands lightly in her own, and whispered rather
than spoke.
"It does not
matter. It does not matter. They were right, - I was
dead!"
Then with a
powerful effort she seemed to gain command over
herself and spoke
[p.29]
calmly, but
reproachfully, "And you would leave me at once, -
without talking
over old times With me? I have so much to tell you.
Come; at least you
will come to my house and sit one hour with me
and talk."
He could not
resist her voice, but he answered nothing. She turned
quickly round and
led the way, he following her with difficulty. The
snow was now
descending heavily and the storm-wind began to
whistle through
the narrow streets and heap up the white drifts
against the
houses. Leonard knew not the direction in which they
were going; the
snow and sleet in his face scarcely allowed him to
keep in sight of
the tall, dark figure that seemed almost to fly
before him. Now
and then she turned round to see that he still
followed her, and
each time beckoned to him to go faster. They had
been walking thus
for some time when Leonard raised his eyes to
see where they
were going. They had got out of the regular streets
and he could only
see a few houses around him. The storm was
raging fearfully
and the
[p.30]
snow was already
so deep as to render walking difficult. He stopped
and called to her.
"Laura I
cannot go further; where do you live?"
She did not turn
round to him, only beckoned with her hand, and
cried, "Only
a little further."
Leonard could not
see at all where he was. In the utmost perplexity
he still followed.
Finally they came to the top of a short flight of
steps, below which
he could discern a long, level, white track. They
both stopped at
the same moment. Leonard strained his eyes
through the storm
and the dark, and then suddenly drew back.
"Laura! where
are you going? Oh, God; it is the river!"
She answered with
a wild shriek of laughter, clasped him fiercely
round the neck,
and dragged him down the steps. In vain he tried
to struggle, for
she was nerved with the strength of frenzy. There
was a plunge, a
cracking as the thin layer of ice gave way, a
splashing of the
water on the lowest step,
[p.31]
and then all was
still. The thick snow soon made the river once
more a smooth
white surface, and the hidden depths bore witness
to the edict that
the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the
children.
THE END.
[p.33]
Gretchen
Paul Mansfield was a young art-student living in
with fair abilities and an enthusiastic admiration of
the beautiful, in
whatever shape it presented itself to his eyes, he
might have
worked hard and won himself a name, had it not been
for one
obstacle. Paul had the misfortune to be born rich. He
knew very
well that he lay under no necessity of earning his
living, and
consequently rather shirked those unpleasant duties of
his art
which are indispensable to the attainment of
pre-eminence, but
which for their mastery require the incentives either
of fervent
genius, or, what is no less powerful, an empty pocket.
To be sure, he
would be an artist; what better or more natural way
was there of
passing his time. His father had been a
highly-successful portraitpainter,
and from his earliest days Paul had breathed the
atmosphere of studios. Indeed, if the truth must be
told, he owed
his Chris-
[p.34]
tian name, not to any extraordinary reverence entertained
by his
parents for the Apostle Paul, but to the fact that it
had been borne
by the great Rubens; no doubt he would have been
called Peter also
had the name been a trifle more euphonious. The young
man was
not unpleasantly presumptuous in his disposition, but
he certainly
regarded himself as one of those who have the
happiness to excite
the smiles of Fortune; who, it must be confessed,
showed herself in
his case singularly free from jealousy, considering the
number of
young ladies from whom Paul prided himself on
receiving similar
signs of approbation. He passed his days in the most
agreeable
manner; now amusing himself for a few hours in his
elegant atelier,
now visiting his numerous friends and acquaintances;
doing his
best, in short, to enjoy to the full the delights of
the beautiful city.
One morning, strolling along together with a friend
and enjoying the
sunshine, he turned into a well-known picture-dealer's
to
[p.35]
examine the latest additions to the stock. As the two
walked armin-
arm round the room Paul amused himself by indulging in
the
severest criticism on every new picture. Criticism was
a delightful
occupation for him; so very easy, so thoroughly
congenial; he felt
that he was born to be a great art-critic. In this way
they came
before a small picture entitled "Gretchen at the
Spinning-Wheel."
Both stood silent and gazed at it. Paul's friend
turned in expectation
of the criticism, but none came; surprise and
admiration were alone
expressed in the young painter's eyes. And indeed the
picture
disarmed criticism. From beneath the beautiful dark
lashes which
seemed to droop with the burden of a tear, looked
forth a pair of
eyes that spoke the very poetry of hopeless passion.
All that is
sweetest in womanly beauty, all that is tenderest in womanly love,
all the holiness of innocence, and the pathos of
humility shone in
that perfect face, and one could almost hear the music
that
breathed from the slightly-parted lips. When Paul
[p.36]
recovered from his astonishment his ecstasy was
unbounded.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed to his friend,
"the man who painted that is a
genius; and the woman who sat for the model - I'm sure
it's a
portrait - is an angel, sir, an angel! Why don't you
speak, man? I tell
you I had rather own that picture than all the rest in
the place.
What eyes! What lips! What a rich beauty there is
about the hair, -
look at the shadow of that tress on the neck! Pshaw!
poetry is
nothing to painting. Only the privileged few can form
to themselves
an image of Gretchen from the poem; but here, here she
is made
visible alike to all, the greatest blockhead would
sigh when he
looked at this picture! Hollo!
I say, who is the painter of this?"
The somewhat unceremonious query was addressed in French
to
the proprietor, who happened to be standing not far
away, and who
now came up rubbing his hands.
"That, Monsieur, is - let me see; yes, by a young
man of the name of
Rossignol."
[p.37]
"Rossignol!"
exclaimed Paul with a laugh, and he turned to his
friend; "What a poetical name."
"I think, Monsieur," said the proprietor in
English, "that this is what
one calls a name of war; n'est
ce pas? Nom de guerre, as we say."
"Just so," replied Paul; "I should like
to know him. What is the price
of the picture?"
A rather high figure was named, and Paul remained for
a moment
in thought.
"Confound it, it's a good deal to pay; yet,"
glancing once more at the
picture, "I must have it. Here you are. Send it,
if you please, to that
address."
And Paul handed over the price of the picture together
with his
card; then, after gazing in rapture a moment longer,
turned away
with a sigh of relief. The two left the room at once.
"After that," Paul
said, "it is impossible to look at anything else;
ceta vu sans dire."
[p.38]
If it is possible for a man to become a sort of second
Pygmalion and
fall in love with a picture, it is certain that Paul
Mansfield was in
love with "Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel."
For many days after
receiving it and installing it in the best place the
walls of his studio
afforded, he did little but stand before it and gaze,
gaze in rapture
till the lovely form seemed to him to stir in the
frame. Then he
began to copy it, and never had he worked so
assiduously in his life
as he had at this picture. Twice he began it, and
twice, disgusted
with his effort, he threw aside his canvas and
commenced anew.
The third he thought a little better. Those eyes, - it
is a desperate
attempt to approach their magic fascination; it seemed
as
impossible to reproduce them as it would be to create
real eyes; and
yet he strove with all his skill to catch the secret
of their beauty,
and to one less bent on perfection would have appeared
successful.
Paul's friends were astonished and amused at his
infatuation. None
of them knew the artist; but then Paul
[p.39]
only associated with painters of good social position
and elegant
dilettantes - it was quite possible that this was the
work of some
struggling genius yet unknown. Every morning when the
young
men met together Paul was invariably greeted with the
question:
"And your Gretchen, how is she?" At which
they would all laugh,
but Paul shook his head and exclaimed: "I would
give a trifle to
know the model who sat for that picture."
"Pooh, my good fellow!"
some one would cry, "that is no woman; that was
drawn from the
imagination, from a cloud Juno." "Juno!
Pshaw!" replied Paul, "that is
Gretchen, I tell you; none of your cow-eyed
divinities, but flesh and
blood. What will you bet that I don't discover her
some day here in
"You know my 'Venus Anadyomene,'
cried one, "I've just finished it;
a jewel of a picture. I'll bet you that against your
'Gretchen' that
you don't discover her in two months."
[p.40]
"No, no," said Paul, shaking his head,
"against my copy of the
picture, if you like; but not the original."
"Done," cried the other; and the bet was
made, to the great
amusement of the whole company.
After this Paul set to work in earnest to try and
discover the
original Gretchen; for he felt convinced that the
picture he had
bought must be a portrait, so strong were the marks of
individuality that is presented. He visited the
life-schools, he
managed to get a glimpse of every professional model
he heard of,
but nowhere did he find any resembling Gretchen in the
least. He
was not very much surprised at this, for, after all,
the face he
sought was too refined in its lineaments and
expression to belong to
any ordinary woman. No, he would look elsewhere. In
spite of all
the banter and ridicule of his friends he continued
the search at the
opera, at all the theatres, at cafes, in the parks,
and on the
promenades; but, alas, Gretchen's face was still a
thing of the
imagination, a
[p.41]
divine idealization, whose prototype seemed
non-existent.
The two months had almost passed, and Paul was
beginning to flag
in his search, almost convinced that his friends were
right and that
the world contained no such charming creature as that
he sought,
when, happening one day to be walking in one of the
suburbs of the
city, he saw just before him a girl looking at some
pictures in a
shop-window. Her back was turned to him, but his
attention was at
once attracted by the girl's exquisite figure, the
grace of her
position, and, above all, the hair that fell in such
masses over her
shoulders. It was just such hair as Gretchen had, -
the very same
tresses of glossy-brown, rippling in lights and
shadows, either left
to arrange itself naturally or disposed by that art
which conceals
art. Paul paused; he would not have been an artist
otherwise. He
drew near to the window, as if with the intention of
looking at the
pictures. She was just moving away when he ventured to
turn his
head and look
[p.42]
at her face. Before he knew what he was doing the word
"Gretchen!"
escaped distinctly from his lips.
The girl turned her eyes on Paul with a look of
surprise, and the
young man felt the warm blood rush into his cheeks as
he
recognized the wonderful orbs which he had spent so
much time in
attempting to reproduce on canvas. It seemed to him as
if she stood
for several minutes looking at him. At length he
became conscious
of the cause of her surprise.
"Pardon me," he said in French, raising his
hat with an attempt at
politeness which must have been dreadfully clumsy,
"I - I am in the
habit of talking to myself; I - I believe I said
something that - that
made you think I was speaking to you."
The girl blushed and then smiled, doubtless at the
ridiculous
position in which our friend had put himself; then,
with a very
slight bow, she turned and walked away quickly. Paul
stood as if
suddenly awakened from a dream. Had he not seen
Gretchen?
[p.43]
Had not Gretchen actually smiled upon (or was it at)
him? All at
once he recovered his senses and looked up, just in
time to see the
girl's beautiful form turning round the corner of the
street.
Regardless of dignity he actually ran till he reached
the corner; then
he stopped; she was only a few yards in front of him.
He followed
her carefully, always keeping at a distance, till at
last he saw her
pause before the door of what seemed an ordinary
lodging-house. A
moment after, the door was opened, and she entered.
Paul's first feeling was one of delight at having
succeeded in his
task. That this was Gretchen he had no doubt; if it
was not, there
was such a marvelous
resemblance between her and the picture
that his friends could not but confess that he had
found one who
certainly might have been the model, a thing which
they had
declared impossible. Assuming a careless look he
walked past the
house and noticed the number; then he discovered the
name of the
street. Finally he
[p.44]
noticed that there was a small restaurant exactly
opposite to the
house, and, crossing the street, he stepped into this
and called for a
glass of absinthe. After giving the waiter a pour-boire by way of
propitiation, he said in a casual way: "Is that a
lodging house
opposite?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you happen to know any of the persons who
live there?"
"Well, let me see; there's Mademoiselle Nez, the modiste----"
"A young lady?" interrupted Paul in some
trepidation."
"Mais non,
Monsieur!" exclaimed the waiter, elevating his hands. "I
don't know Mademoiselle's age, but I dare not say she
is young."
Paul smiled, and requested the young man to proceed.
"Then there is M. Dunois, the author, and M.
Haricot and his wife -
he's a painter----"
"And his wife!" exclaimed Paul, feeling a
[p.45]
cold shiver run over him. "A painter! He is
married, and lives with
his wife!"
"Mais certainement, Monsieur!" cried the waiter, utterly
astonished
at Paul's outbreak.
The young artist said nothing more. Seizing his hat,
he jumped up
from his seat and rushed out of the restaurant, then
got out of the
street as quickly as possible, and took the nearest
way home.
As soon as he reached home Paul ran to his studio and
sat down
before the picture of Gretchen. Then all once, as the
sight of the
well-known features once more brought the reality of
his
adventure before his mind, he began to ask himself why
on earth
he had behaved just now in such an extraordinary
manner. So she
was married; the wife of a Monsieur----, whatever was
his name?
He had forgotten it already; but he knew he was a
painter. And
what was all this to him, Paul Mansfield? Ought he not
to rejoice,
seeing that he had won his bet, and should new be able
to laugh in
his turn at his incredulous friends? And yet for some
reason
[p.46]
or other he felt very far from rejoicing. He felt
rather as if he could
have flung himself on his knees before the picture of
Gretchen and
begun to weep. It seemed as if he had suddenly been
robbed of a
treasure; as if the idol before which he had
worshipped so long had
been all at once taken away from him to be enjoyed by
some more
fortunate man. But had he not the lovely picture
still, the same as
ever? No; it was not the same as ever. He had seen the
original; the
real Gretchen, living, breathing, and 0 Heaven!
smiling; and this
dead image before him had lost all its life and half
its beauty. It
was all very well for Paul to try and persuade himself
that his
interest in the picture and the original were purely
artistic; he
smiled somewhat bitterly as he thought of his sudden
exclamation,
and the way in which the girl had regarded him. Was it
possible
that Gretchen was her real name? Very likely; she did
not look
quite like a French girl, and she had certainly
started in a manner
that could only be explained by the fact of her
[p.47]
having a stranger suddenly pronounce her name.
Now, after all the trouble that Paul had taken to
discover the
original of the picture, he suddenly felt a repugnance
to announcing
his success to his friends, and claiming the
"Venus Anadyomene."
He felt that he would very much rather keep his own
counsel and
say nothing about his adventure; why, he did not
exactly like to
confess to himself; but he had a vague impression that
it would be
more like proclaiming a defeat than a victory. No; he
would say
nothing about Gretchen. The end of the month was close
at hand, he
would give up the copy which he had shortly ago
finished, and -
give up all thoughts of the original.
A fortnight passed away. How is it that we once more
see Mr. Paul
little restaurant? It seems that, for some good reason
or other, he
has altered his mind about forgetting the original of
"Gretchen at
the Spinning-Wheel."
[p.48]
He knocks and a servant-girl appears.
"I believe there is an artist living here, is
there not? I have
forgotten his name."
"Yes, sir; there is M. Grenzel,
the painter, has his atelier up-stairs."
"Grenzel - Grenzel," mutters Paul to himself; "that's a
German name.
I don't think that's the name the waiter fellow gave
me."
"Is he the only painter living here?"
"Yes, sir.
"H'm; it must be the
same. I wish to see him; will you announce
me?" and he gave her his card.
In a few minutes Paul was ushered upstairs into a very
small
studio, which contained no furniture but what was
absolutely
necessary. In recompense, however, the walls were hung
with
several exquisite pictures, in which Paul thought he
could recognize
signs of the same hand that had painted
"Gretchen." Yes; and there
was a picture containing the very same head; there
could not be the
slightest doubt about it. Paul's heart beat quickly as
he recognized
the features.
[p.49]
He had time to notice these things before the painter
entered. He
was quite a young man, and in appearance unmistakably
German.
The conversation began by Paul's introducing himself
an artist.
"A short time ago I happened to buy one of your
pictures," he said,
"one that pleased me exceedingly; a 'Gretchen at
the Spinning
Wheel' and, as I was very desirous of making the
acquaintance of so
talented an artist, I have taken the liberty to call
upon you."
"I am very happy to see you sir," replied Grenzel, in French, which
had a strong German accent. "How did you discover
my name?" he
asked, smiling. "From M. Haricot, I
suppose."
"The deuce!" thought Paul to himself, as
soon as he heard the
painter's question about his name; but, catching at
the suggestion
that followed, he bowed in silence.
"Doubtless you were amused at my assumed name, Rossignol," the
painter went
[p.50]
on, speaking in a frank, agreeable manner. "I
don't know whether
my reason for assuming it was a good one; but I
imagine that
pictures sell better under a French name in
my 'Gretchen'?"
"Extremely; I----"
At this moment the door opened, and who should enter
but
Gretchen herself. Paul rose to his feet and bowed
automatically,
knowing that his face was unpleasantly red, but being
quite unable
to prevent himself from blushing. Gretchen seemed
startled to see
him, but it was merely because she had thought no
stranger was
present; she bowed distantly, and after saying a few
words to
Grenzel in German, left the room.
"You see I am quite out of the district where
artists generally live,"
went on the painter in a pleasant tone, as he resumed
his seat. "I
think I have a natural taste for retirement, and,
above all, dislike
the constant interruption one has to submit to when
surrounded by
acquaintances. When I came here I did not know for
several days
that
[p.51]
there was actually another painter in the house, M.
Haricot, with
whom it seems you are acquainted; he also was fond of
quietness,
and we didn't disturb each other much. Since he left I
have had as
much solitude as I could desire."
A sudden thought flashed across Paul's mind. Was not
Haricot the
very name that the waiter had mentioned to him a
fortnight ago?
He felt sure it was. And could it be possible
that----?
"At all events, you have the company of your
wife," said Paul,
rather quickly, instead of continuing his mental
arguments.
"My wife, Monsieur!" exclaimed Grenzel. "I'm not married!"
"Not married!" cried Paul, jumping up from
his seat; and then the
next moment, finding that he had made himself
ridiculous, he sat
down again, very red.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, endeavoring to smile and appear at his
ease; "I - I presumed, unwarrantably I confess,
that the lady who
just now entered was your wife."
[p.52]
Grenzel laughed heartily.
"That is my sister," he said. "We live
here together very pleasantly.
She has excellent taste in art, and she is in reality
the only critic
whose opinions I listen to with regard to my
pictures."
How immeasurably relieved Paul felt. The whole mystery
was now
clearly explained. In his hastiness, a fortnight ago,
he had not
allowed his friend the writer to get to the end of his
list, but had
assumed at once that the first painter he heard named
was
Gretchen's husband. It was wonderful with what
vivacity he
continued the conversation. Grenzel
seemed to be highly pleased
with his visitor; and Paul found the German a most
interesting man.
When they parted it was with mutual invitations for
future
meetings.
The next time that Paul visited Grenzel
he was introduced to the
latter's sister, and actually had the happiness of listening
to
Gretchen's charming conversation for a full hour. Her
brother did
not fail to relate the
[p.53]
story of Paul's mistake, and that young man, it is
safe to say, would
have consented to make himself ridiculous ten times
over for the
sight of the girl's beautiful face as it glowed with
that deep blush.
Singularly enough, her own name was Margarete, and it was this
fact that had first suggested to her brother the
thought of the
picture for which she sat, and in which he had, whilst
producing an
excellent portrait, portrayed that intensity of
poetical expression
which had first of all arrested Paul's attention. In
the course of time
Paul and Gretchen became very well acquainted indeed.
The result
of this acquaintance will, I think, be best shown by
reproducing a
little scene that took place half a year after the day
on which the
young painter first saw "Gretchen at the
Spinning-Wheel."
A number of friends are gathered round Paul in his
studio, and, by
some strange chance, mention has just been made of the
bet which
had been lost some little time ago now.
[p.54]
"It was a capital joke," exclaimed the
illustrious painter of "Venus
Anadyomene," explaining the story to one who was a recent
comer.
"
he would find the original. Of course he failed, and
so he would
have done if he had hunted to this day, instead of
having forgotten
all about it, like a sensible chap."
"Don't be so sure of that, S," exclaimed
Paul. "Suppose that I were to
tell you that I was not unsuccessful after all, and
that I found
Gretchen?"
"My dear boy, I wouldn't believe you."
"Possibly not; and still it is true."
"That you found Gretchen?" exclaimed several
voices.
"Oui Messieurs; that I
found her. You know that I am going to
return to
to meet me at a little dinner here on the evening
before I leave; on
which occasion I promise to prove to you that I have
found
Gretchen."
[p.55]
Nothing more could be got out of Paul then; but his
friends did not
fail to remember his invitation. I myself happen to
have been
present at the little dinner, on which occasion Paul
fulfilled his
promise, and introduced me to Gretchen; but then he
spoke of her
as Mrs. Mansfield.
THE END.
[p.57]
R. I. P.
I.
IN THE south of
stood from time immemorial, a strange little
market-town. The
years pass over it, the inhabitants are born and die,
but many a
generation has gone by since an old man, entertaining
his grandchildren
with tales of his youth, could point to any change in
the
town that had happened in his recollection. The crazy
old houses on
each side of the narrow, crooked streets lean over
each other as if
they were passing the hours in whispering tales of all
they had seen
in the years long, long ago; and even the inhabitants
seem
insensibly to assimilate to the old-world character of
their
dwellings, and spend their days in a leisurely
dreaminess that but
ill accords with the progressive spirit of the age
they live in. As one
walks along the streets, where the sound of passing
wagons is
seldom heard, and grass
[p.58]
luxuriates among the broken fragments of the old tile
paving, one
seems all at once to have been carried back into the
Middle Ages,
and it would occasion no surprise to suddenly meet two
of the
Monks of Rabelais or the Knights of Froissart; their
presence would
be entirely in keeping with the surroundings.
Remote as are the lives of these simple people from
that of the busy
world around them, and few as are their means of
communication
with even the towns nearest to them, this was of
course the case to
a still greater extent fifty years ago, at the time
when the events
about to be related took place. Summer and winter,
seed-time and
harvest, came and went, bringing nothing to occupy the
minds of
the inhabitants save the successive cares incidental
to people who
are tillers of the ground arid keepers of flocks; and
the wiseacres
who nightly assembled in the tavern of honest Jacques Choutete
had little to provoke oracular utterances save the
price of crops or
disease among the
[p.59]
cattle; when all at once a circumstance occurred
which, at the time,
stirred the stagnant pool of the rustic intellect to
its very depths,
and was destined to afford an inexhaustible source of
conversation
and wonderment for many years to come.
It was late in the evening of a glorious day of
southern summer, the
sky shadowing over in the east, whilst in the west still
lingered the
remnants of a golden twilight. Lights began to gleam
here and there
from the windows, and most people, safe in their own
homes, were
just putting their last hand to their household
occupations and
thinking of going to bed; but on the benches in front
of Jacques
Choutete's tavern still loitered a few guests, some finding
their
habitual thirst yet unappeased, some in the faint hope
of an
occurrence which might incite a renewal of the
conversation. The
latter tonight were not fated to be disappointed.
Nearly all had
risen, and were about to exchange their farewell
greetings, when an
unusual sound of rattling wheels reached them from the
other
[p.60]
end of the street. The sound drew nearer, and at
length, to the
astonishment of all and the great joy of mine host, a
carriage,
evidently a hired one, pulled tip in front of the
tavern.
"Is the host at hand?" shouted the driver.
"Here at your service, "promptly responded
Jacques, running up to
the door of the carriage.
"The lady wishes to be provided with a room for
the night," went on
the driver. "See that she is well suited."
Then, as he jumped down
from his seat, "I myself shall stay here
overnight, friend. Let the
horses be put up and cared for; and tell your ostler to have them
harnessed and everything ready for my departure at 4
in the
morning. I must be back at D---- by
breakfast-time." Here he
mentioned a small town ten miles off.
"And the lady? Does she go back with you?"
"No," replied a voice from inside the coach.
"I shall remain with you
some time."
[p.61]
Jacques, in great joy at the prospect of such a guest,
who, from her
manner of corning here, he doubted not would pay well,
opened the
carriage-door, and immediately there stepped out a
tall figure,
completely muffled in a long, dark cloak, the face
veiled.
"My lady will find herself well pleased with her
entertainment, I
doubt not," said Jacques, with an innkeeper's
assurance; and at the
same time conducted her into the tavern, and
up-stairs, where he
showed her into a neat little room.
"My lady is doubtless hungry," said Jacques,
vainly endeavoring to
get a sight of her face as he lit two candles,
"It will take but a few
minutes to prepare a meal."
"Thank you; I need nothing," was the reply.
"Let the driver have all
he wants. I shall retire immediately; leave me."
Jacques was strongly tempted to remain longer for the
sake of
conversation and a chance of seeing his guest's face,
but the tone of
her speech left him no opportunity. She spoke like one
who was
accustomed to
[p.62]
command. Bowing low, the innkeeper left the room.
On descending to the public room below Jacques found
great
excitement prevailing. Not only the men who had seen
the carriage
arrive were there, but also a number of neighbors who had been
startled by the unusual noise. Clustering around the
driver they
were all asking him questions at once about the new
arrival. As
Jacques came down-stairs the man was concluding a
somewhat
angry reply.
"Once again, then, I tell you I know nothing
about the lady, and it's
no use asking me questions. She came up to the 'Cloche
Bleue' at D--
-- in a coach, just as any other traveler
might, and called for a
conveyance to the next town. If she's going to stay
here some time,
as she says she is, you will have a chance of satisfying
your
curiosity."
At this moment Jacques entered the room. Perceiving
the size of the
company, he assumed an important air.
[p.63]
"Now, my good friends, leave the gentleman alone.
Enough that the
lady has come to my house and that I have just spoken
to her and
received all her orders. At present I have no time to
talk with you;
and besides it is hardly becoming to chatter over my
guests so
openly." Then, turning to the driver, "Your
supper, sir, will be ready
for you in a few minutes. Let me show you into your
room.
So the gossips were left to themselves, but by no
means paid any
heed to the dignified rebuke of mine host. Here at
length was a
subject of open-mouthed wonder, timid suggestion, or
dogmatic
assertion, according to the various characters of the
good people
assembled. Very various were the conjectures hazarded,
and the
wisest did not hesitate to hint at the most noble
French names that
their knowledge could suggest. The incredulous laughed
and
affected to believe that the mysterious guest was nothing
more
than the daughter of some rich farmer, who had taken a
fancy to
see the country; and they as-
[p.64]
serted that the morning would dispel all the mystery in the
matter.
The discussion was continued to a late hour, Jacques
himself
keeping away from his guests; doubtless because he was
afraid of
being pressed and forced to disclose his ignorance. At
length when
it was seen that nothing could be elicited from
argument, save the
certainty of the fact that nothing was known, the
gossips began to
drop off one by one, and shortly before midnight all
was dark and
silent in the tavern.
Shortly after sunrise next morning the inhabitants of
the street
were awakened by the rattling of the coach over the
rugged stones
on its way back to D----. If anything had been needed
to renew the
discussion of the preceding night, this would have
afforded an
occasion. Hardly had mine host appeared, smoking his
morning pipe
up and down before the newly-opened tavern, when he
was
surrounded by eager questioners. Jacques still
preserved his air of
dignified reticence, and the townspeople had still
nothing but
[p.65]
conjecture wherewith to stay their mental appetite.
Eyes peered
curiously up at the window which Jacques pointed out
as that of the
room where the mysterious guest lay, but the closest
scrutiny could
discern nothing extraordinary. Evidently the only
thing to be done
was to wait till time, or the lady herself, should
choose to solve the
doubt.
Meantime the lady seemed in no hurry to rise. The sun
had long
risen when Jacques sent his little girl to knock at
the chamber-door
and ask if the guest was ready for breakfast, but she
received no
answer. Jacques consoled himself with the reflection
that this long
slumber was the result of weariness from travel. But
now it was
near noon, and still the child's knocking elicited no
response. What
was to be done? Afternoon came, and Jacques then
thought fit to
summon his neighbors to a
council. The unanimous opinion was that
it was the host's duty to force an entrance into the room.
Curiosity
(for even innkeepers are mortal) urged on Jacques the
acceptance
of this ad-
[p.66]
vice. He obeyed it; the door was forced; and Choutete with a select
number of friends entered the room.
At the first sight of the spectacle that met their eyes,
all drew back
in amazement. There on the outside of the bed lay a
woman,
dressed in what appeared to be a gorgeous
wedding-robe. On her
wrists were bracelets of gold, set with priceless
jewels, and her
necklace seemed entirely made of precious stones. She
wore a
head-dress of simple but rich construction and a veil
of exquisite
fabric, thrown back from her face, rested above her
head. The sight,
even from a distance, was so dazzling that those who
had entered
the room stood still in speechless astonishment. But
after a moment
they drew near and looked upon her face. It was
ravishingly
beautiful; but the cheeks retained no trace of color, the slightlyparted
lips were motionless, the high forehead was as cold
and
white as marble, - she was dead. The manner of her
death was not
long a mystery; in her right hand was tightly clasped
a
[p.67]
small bottle, which had evidently held poison.
The discoverers looked at each other and were almost
as pale as the
corpse. Jacques was the first to speak. "What can
this mean,
neighbors?"
All shook their heads in silence. There was no time
for foolish talk.
After a slight pause it suddenly occurred to them to
survey the
room. On the bureau they discovered a large purse,
filled with gold
pieces, and beside it was a note written in pencil.
"My good friends: when you read this I shall be
no more. Seek not
to know who I was; the story would but render you
unhappy. All I
ask is that you will bury me just as I am. In the
purse you will find
money, which will pay for my funeral. The rest keep,
and may it
bring you a blessing."
Two days after this was celebrated the greatest
funeral that the
little town had ever known. Every one wished to be
present at the
burial of the "Princess," as they called the
unknown one, and many
were the tears
[p.68]
shed by the simple people for the sorrowful end of the
beautiful
lady. Over her they placed a simple stone, raised on
four supports;
and on it they engraved a cross and the customary
letters: R. I. P.
II.
Twelve years have gone by since the day that saw the
burial of the
mysterious "Princess," years that have
wrought little more change
in the outward appearance of the village than did the
preceding
twelve; what alteration there is is
chiefly in the direction of decay.
Among the inhabitants the change is of course, more
appreciable;
many are dead, many have been born, and those who were
children
then are men and women now; but the new generation is,
in all
essentials, one with the old; they have the same beliefs
and
disbeliefs, the same manners, the same topics of
conversation.
In a community so seldom disturbed by extraordinary
events it is
natural that, when by chance such a one does occur,
its memory
[p.69]
will long continue fresh; and when, by the ultimate
satisfaction or
weariness of human curiosity, it ceases to possess the
charm of
novelty, it will yet hold its place as one of those
traditions handed
down as heirlooms from generation to generation. So it
was with the
mystery of the beautiful lady. The village wiseacres
had long ago
taxed their utmost ingenuity in the attempt to solve
the riddle, but
in vain; and now it remains as a story to be told to
wondering
groups of children, and a never-failing source of
self-satisfaction
and importance to those who, like our friend Jacques Choutete, are
able to say that they actually saw the
"Princess."
The grass is green and fresh in the little
burial-ground, and the
leafy, spreading branches of the old trees make a cool
and pleasant
shade, where, in the corner least occupied by graves,
a number of
children are spending in noisy play the long hours of
the summer
afternoon. Not far from them, on one of the low stones
that are
placed on either side of the wooden gate which leads
[p.70]
out into the road, sits a young woman, now bending her
head over
some knitting that lies in her lap, now dropping her
hands to gaze
for a moment with a pleasant look at the group of
children. She is
the daughter of Jacques, the innkeeper, and, though she
is now
married and a mother, she well remembers the morning
when her
father sent her up-stairs to knock at the door of the
lady who was
found dead, and she is fond of telling about her
childish fright to
the little ones who are always ready to run in from
the neighbors'
houses to talk about Nanette, as they call her. Seated
on the grass in
the midst of the children who are at play is Nanette's
own little girl,
not 3 years old. Suddenly putting down her work by her
side the
mother calls to one of the noisy crowd:
Elise, dear, take up baby and bring her to me. I am
afraid she will
get hurt."
Elise obeys, and, taking the little child in her arms,
comes up and
seats it in its mother's lap. Just as she has given
the child a caress
and is turning to go back to her
[p.71]
playmates, the little gate opens, and a man enters the
graveyard.
His figure is tall and upright, and there is nothing
about him to lead
one to suppose that he is old except his face. That,
however, is
wrinkled and worn, and the short beard is thickly
strewn with grey
hairs. His eyes, too, have an anxious, tired look, and
glance
restlessly from one side to the other. On his back he
carries a small
wallet, and has a stick in his hand, though seemingly
not for the
sake of support.
Nanette and Elise watched the man as he walked along
the path
leading across the grave-yard. When he had got a short
distance
from them he turned off onto the grass and sat down,
as if weary,
upon a large, flat gravestone that stood on four supports;
then took
off his wallet, opened it, and began to eat some bread
that he took
from it. He had probably chosen this stone for a seat
because it was
perfectly clean; all those round about were covered
with leaves, or
overgrown with grass; this, however, though evidently
old,
[p.72]
seemed well cared for by some one and kept in good
order. He had
hardly begun to eat when the group of children noticed
him, and
suddenly leaving off their game ran quickly to
Nanette.
"Nanette, Nanette," they cried all together.
"Look! The old man is
sitting on the Princess' grave. Mightn't we tell him
to
Nanette seemed to be in doubt for a moment.
"Well, children," she said at last,
"you mustn't be rude to him, but,
Elise, will you go and tell him that the people don't
like that grave
to be used to sit on, and that we should be glad if he
would move on
to another?"
Elise ran off to do her bidding. She stood before the
man, and, in a
somewhat timid voice, repeated Nanette's words. She
was almost
afraid at first as he looked at her with his sad eyes,
but her fear
soon vanished when she saw the smile which played
about his lips
when she had finished.
[p.73]
"And why don't they wish any one to sit here, my
child?" he asked.
Elise was silent. The man rose from the stone and
looked on it for
the inscription. He saw nothing but a cross and the
letters R. I. P.
"Who is buried here?"
The child seemed unwilling to answer.
"It is a long story," she said, after a
minute's silence. "Come to
Nanette; she knows all about it; she will tell
you."
At these words the stranger's curiosity seemed
somewhat excited.
He put back the food into his wallet, and followed the
child to
Nanette. The young mother reddened slightly as she saw
him
approaching her, and rose to reply to the bow he made
as he stood
before her. As he spoke to her he laid his hand on
Elise's brown
curls.
"The little girl tells me there is some story
connected with the grave
I was sitting on. Will it be too much trouble for you
to tell it me?"
[p.74]
His voice was full and rich, and Nanette looked up,
surprised at the
stranger's pronunciation, which, in its fineness,
seemed to contrast
so strangely with his appearance. She replied
modestly:
"I shall be very glad to tell you the story. I
suppose you are a
stranger here. Every one in our village knows it quite
well."
The man nodded, without speaking, and sat down on the
stone
opposite Nanette, who began forthwith and related the
story as it
has been told above. The listener at first manifested
nothing more
than a natural curiosity, but, as the tale progressed,
he seemed to
grow uneasy. Nanette was just describing the lady's
gorgeous dress
when he started up from the seat with an exclamation
of pain. The
narrator looked at him in surprise, and saw that his
face was deadly
pale; he seemed hardly able to stand, and, after
hesitating a
moment, he resumed his seat.
"Are you ill?" the young woman inquired
hastily.
[p.75]
He did not seem to hear her question, but sat with his
face covered
with his hands, and a low, mourning sound escaped him.
The
children, who had gathered round, looked at each other
frightened,
and then looked inquiringly at Nanette, but no one
spoke. Then all
at once the stranger rose hurriedly from his seat and
looked around
with a strange, vacant stare, as if he had just been
aroused from
sleep. Then suddenly turning to Nanette, he addressed
her, but so
confused that his words were barely intelligible.
"Where is that inn? Where is it? Is the innkeeper
living yet?"
"Jacques Choutete is
still alive," replied Nanette, her voice tremulous
with surprise and apprehension, "and I am his
daughter."
He did not seem to heed the latter part of her
sentence, but,
stepping up close to her and grasping her arm so tight
that she
could hardly refrain from uttering a cry, he whispered
hoarsely,
"Lead me there!"
Nanette obeyed, and began to walk hastily in the
direction of the
inn; the children fol-
[p.76]
lowing the two, looking up fearfully at the strange
man and now
and then appealingly at Nanette, as if asking her
whether they
should run and bring some one to her aid. They gained
the inn and
found old Jacques in his usual place, smoking on the
bench before
the door. He rose to meet the party, thinking at first
that his
daughter was bringing a guest to his house.
"Father," said Nanette, "the gentleman
wishes to speak to you"; then,
as if relieved from a painful situation, she turned
round to the
group of boys and girls, and, bidding them be off to
their play,
herself went towards her own house, taking the baby
with her.
"Can I speak to you in private?" said the
stranger.
"Certainly, sir"; and Jacques turned round
to enter the house with
an air indicating at once personal dignity and
conscious rectitude.
The two sat down together in a little parlor, and the stranger,
refusing Jacques' offer of refreshment, at once
referred to the
[p.77]
story he had just heard narrated and asked concerning
its truth.
The innkeeper was surprised at his guest's evident
excitement, but,
glad of an opportunity for display, he began, and, with
an important
air, detailed every circumstance of the mysterious
affair.
"And this was twelve years ago?" asked the
man.
"Twelve years ago precisely. My Nanette was then
a bit of a girl 8
years old, and now she is 20."
"And you buried her in all her clothes? I must
have the grave
opened!"
Jacques surveyed the man in open-mouthed astonishment;
it was
even with awe that he heard such an astonishing speech
so
decisively delivered. They faced each other for a
moment in silence;
then the stranger asked anxiously, "Did you keep
nothing of hers?"
There was no resisting the man's manner. Jacques,
after reflecting a
moment, replied, "Yes, one thing - but only to
remind us of her, not
for its value. On her hands were two rings; we took
one."
[p.78]
"Let me see it," was the instant reply. Old
Jacques was so taken
aback by the man's strange conduct that he never
thought of
resenting the commanding tone in which he spoke. In a
perfect
bewilderment he left the room, and in a moment
returned with a
small ring, in which was set a plain stone, with a
monogram
delicately carved upon it. The man took it in his
hand, trembling
violently, and for a moment regarded it closely. Then,
still holding
the ring, he suddenly covered his face with his hands
and burst into
tears.
III.
Honest Jacques' bewilderment had now reached its
climax, and it
was some minutes before he recovered himself
sufficiently to
observe that he had dropped his pipe. This trivial
circumstance
probably saved the worthy man's reason, inasmuch as it
provided a
means of distracting his attention from the stranger,
and thus
relieving his overwrought mind. Bending with
difficulty
[p.79]
- for with age had come increasing corpulency,
he picked up the
fragments with a rueful look, and, by the time he had
finished
contemplating his shattered treasure, the stranger had
so far
mastered his emotions as to be able to speak.
"You are surprised, doubtless, at my strange
conduct," he said, in a
sad, low voice, "and I feel that I owe you an
explanation. If you
have time to listen to me, I will at once solve the
mystery, and so
ease your mind."
Jacques had no urgent claims upon his time, and was
delighted with
the prospect of a solution of that riddle which had
refused to yield
to even his penetration. Sitting down on a bench, and pointing
to a
stool for the stranger, he remained in expectation,
being careful by
this time, however, to avoid outside sign of curiosity
inconsistent
with his dignity. After a moment's silence the man
began his story.
"I will not tell you my name; it is needless, and
perhaps will be
better if left un-
[p.80]
spoken. Suffice it to say that I belong to an old and
noble French
family, and, on my father's death, became heir to a
title, and
possessed of a large estate distant some fifty miles
from this town.
When my father was no more, the only relation
remaining to me
was a younger brother, in character very different
from myself,
inasmuch as he was overbearingly proud and ambitious.
My father
had often desired me to marry, but I was devoted to
study, and felt
no inclination to incur the cares and responsibilities
consequent
upon the possession of a wife and family. When I
succeeded to my
father's name I was already close upon 30 years' old,
and, as I
continued my studious habits and lived in almost total
retirement
from the world, there was every prospect that I should
die without
heirs and leave the title and estate to my brother, a
prospect which
rejoiced him exceedingly. Judge of his anger then,
when, all of a
sudden, I announced to him my intention of taking a
wife. The
circumstances which so unex-
[p.81]
pectedly induced me to adopt such a novel resolution was this.
It
was frequently my custom to take long and solitary
walks in the
woods surrounding my estate. Sometimes I would even be
absent
for days, all day giving myself up to the careless
enjoyment of
nature and my own reflections, and trusting at night
to arrive at
some inn, or, failing that, the dwelling of some
peasant who would
be willing, in return for payment, to afford me
shelter. It happened
one day that I had roamed farther than usual, and,
when towards
sunset I began to look around me for a place to pass
the night, I
found that I was utterly at a loss as to my
whereabouts. This,
however, did not trouble me much; I kept on my way,
and before
long arrived at a little cottage standing by the side
of the road, and
seemingly at some distance from any other habitation.
The sun had
just set, and I did not scruple to enter the cottage,
hoping to be
allowed to remain there that night. I walked in without
ceremony,
but was somewhat abashed
[p.82]
on discovering the only occupant of the room to be a
young girl,
who appeared to be engaged in preparing the evening
meal. She
was very simply dressed, her dress, if anything, being
plainer than
that of the ordinary peasant girl; but, when she
turned round on
hearing my footsteps and showed me her face, I thought
I had
never beheld any one half so beautiful - 'Is that you,
father?' she
said, as she turned round; then, when she saw a
stranger before
her, she corrected herself instantly and with the most
charming
smile, showing not the slightest trace of rustic
awkwardness or
embarrassment. 'Pardon me,' she said, 'I was expecting
my father,
and thought I heard his footstep. Is it him you seek?'
I explained
the occasion of my disturbing her, and asked her
permission to
remain there till her father arrived. This she readily
granted; I sat
down, and she went on with her work. I could not take
my eyes
from her as she moved from one side of the room to the
other and
busied herself in the cooking of
[p.83]
something that was over the fire; every movement was
grace itself,
and the words she from time to time addressed to me
made me
rather imagine myself in a countess' drawing-room than
in a
peasant's kitchen. In short, I was entranced, and my
heart, which I
had hitherto considered proof against woman's charm,
became
instantly filled with longings I had never known.
'Here,' I thought to
myself, 'I have at length found a woman who is worthy
of being
loved,' and, before I had been in her presence a
quarter of an hour,
I had resolved that, if she were willing, I would make
her my wife.
You will think my resolution strangely romantic, and,
for one in my
position, perhaps indiscreet; but you must know that I
had always
prided myself on my opposition to the
conventionalities of life so
closely adhered to by those of my rank, and my
sanguine
disposition led me always to expect the best results
from those acts
which proceeded from my unfettered judgment.
"Before long the father came in. He was
[p.84]
a stout, hearty-looking man, with genial countenance,
and was, as I
soon discovered, possessed of a better intellect than
is usually
found among peasants. He received me kindly, and, on
learning
that I was a belated traveler,
did not hesitate to offer me a supper
'and a bed for the night, setting aside somewhat
proudly my
promise of payment, and saying that he did not keen an
inn. I was
weary with my day's walk and had no fault to find with
the
entertainment that was provided; indeed, so pleased
was I with my
new friends, that I should have relished the hardiest
fare if
partaken with them. The peasant's daughter, whose name
I found
was Marianne, sat opposite to me during the meal, and
it was with
difficulty that I removed my eyes from her face. Only
once she
seemed to notice my attention; then our eyes met and
the faintest
possible blush rose to her cheek. We passed the
evening in pleasant
conversation, and I was loth
to retire when, obedient to their simple
manner of
[p.85]
life, the peasant rose at an early hour to conduct me
to my room.
We rose betimes, and, after partaking with them of a
single meal, I
signified my intention of departing. Warned by the
hint that I
received on the previous evening, I did not venture to
offer money
to my host, but I assured them that, if I passed that
way again
(which, as I said to myself, I had every intention of
doing very
shortly), I should with great pleasure renew our
acquaintance. I
had acquainted them with my name, so that my friends
'experienced no embarrassment in their conversation
with me, and
they assured me that at any time I should be very
welcome.
Scarcely a fortnight had passed before I repeated the
visit, and was
kindly received. I did not as yet venture to speak to
Marianne or
her father on the subject I had nearest at heart, but
confined my
efforts to a strengthening of the friendship and
intimacy which had
already sprung up between us. Several times did I
visit the little
cottage in the
[p.86]
course of the next two or three months, until at
length I ventured
one day, when I found myself alone with Marianne, to
confess to
her the cause that so often brought me there. She had
already
discovered it, and did not hesitate to confess, though
it was with all
modesty, that I had completely won her heart. My joy
at this was
unbounded, and I told her my intention immediately to
inform her
father of what has passed between us, and ask him to
give me
Marianne as my wife. 1 went out to meet him as he was
returning
from his work, and laid the matter at once before him.
He seemed
at first much surprised, and, when in hopes of the
more easily
gaining his assent, I told him my name and rank, he
firmly though
respectfully refused. I returned with him' to the
cottage, all the way
urging him to alter his decision. When we arrived
there Marianne
was informed of her father's refusal, and, when she
heard who I
was, herself tried to dissuade me from persisting in
my wish to
make her my wife, though I could see what pain it cost
her.
[p.87]
However, I was importunate; and ultimately, after
representing that
my title was in reality nothing to me, that I lived in
perfect privacy,
and that I was determined never to marry if I lost
Marianne, I
succeeded in gaining a reluctant consent.
When I informed my brother of my approaching marriage
I could
easily see how ill-pleased he was with the news - but
little
imagined to what extremities his ambition would drive
him. The
marriage was to be perfectly private, my brother and
Marianne s
father being the only witnesses. How shall I describe
to you that
dreadful night? I shudder whenever I recall it, and I
never thought
to have to relate it to another. I will be as brief as
possible. Though
the wedding was so quiet I had insisted on Marianne being
dressed
as became my bride, and it was with rapture that I
beheld her as
she walked with me to the altar like a Princess. We
were married,
and I thought I had reached my highest happiness,
when, in reality,
I was about to experience the bitterest woe. My
[p.88]
brother, determined to avert the danger which
threatened his
ambition, had laid a cruel plot against me; and it
succeeded. One of
my servants - she confessed the whole plot to me later
- was gained
over by bribes to take Marianne apart on the night of
our wedding
and feign to her that she herself was my wife; that I
had told her of
my new marriage and obtained her silence by threats;
and that, in
revenge, she had now disclosed the secret. My brother,
in framing
the plot, had reckoned on Marianne's simplicity, and
the poor girl
never doubted but what this horrible tale was true.
She fled at
once. I very soon discovered her absence, and sought
her all night -
but in vain. My agony was such that the next day I
fell into a raging
fever. My life was despaired of, and it was with
regret that I found
myself eventually recovering. However, I still
cherished some hopes
of regaining my wife, and, on getting back my
strength,
immediately set out to seek for her. My inquiries were
useless, and,
in despair, I quitted the country, careless of
[p.89]
all I left behind and of what life I should in future
lead. It is
unnecessary to tell you more - ever since I have been
a vagabond
on the face of the earth. On returning to
that my brother now holds my title and property -
doubtless happy
in the success of his ambition. You will think me mad;
another
would not have been so precipitate; would have acted
more wisely,
you will say. Perhaps so; I have always differed from
others in my
ways, and, I thank God, in my wishes."
The stranger ceased, and rose to depart. Once more he
passed
through the little grave-yard, and once more he paused
at the stone
of the "Princess." Then, with a sigh, he
turned away, and was no
more heard of
THE END.
[p.91]
Too Dearly Bought
ALL day long, and
day after day, Tim Ridley stitched and patched,
and plied his awl
and hammer, for Tim was a cobbler by trade.
Long years ago, Tim,
following the impulse of youth, had shouldered
his little bundle
and left his native village to seek his fortune in the
City of
it then presented
itself to his unsophisticated mind, he had at all
events never known
what it was to want a meal - a measure of
success perfectly
adequate to the maturer fancies of his later years.
The sixty years
that lay behind him had silvered his hair and
drawn deep
wrinkles on his forehead, and his step was far from
firm. Indeed, to
look at him, one would have taken Tim for a much
older man than he
really was; for not only had time dealt its blows,
but for many
[p.92]
years the hand of
grief had lain heavily upon the once stalwart man
and bowed his
frame. Shortly after coming to
in love and
married; and after twelve years his wife had died,
leaving him one
daughter. Ridley idolized his child, and worked
night and day in
the hopes of making her a happy future, only to be
dashed with disappointment
and sorrow. She had married early,
partly against her
father's will, though he could with difficulty
bring himself to
refuse her slightest wish, and the result had
proved the truth
of his foresight. The unworthy husband fell by
degrees into poverty,
drunkenness, and crime, and the once brighteyed,
light-hearted girl
was unable to survive the grief and shame.
A simple, everyday
story - of little interest, alas, save to those
concerned.
All that now
remained to Tim from the wreck of hopes which long
had made the
future a bright dream was his grandchild, a little girl
of 12 years. All
through the long hours of work the child sat by
Tim's side;
[p.93]
sometimes
prattling of all sorts of strange thoughts and fancies, but
oftener sitting
quite still and silent, her quick eye following all the
motions of the old
man's hand, and seeming to find a pleasure in his
occupation. Lucy
was small for her age, and far from strong; and
indeed the case
could not well be otherwise, for she had never
known what it was
to run about and play with other children. Ever
since her mother's
death, which had happened six years ago, the
child had been
Tim's constant companion; and, from always sitting
in the gloomy
workshop, her mind had developed into a strange
precocity, whilst
her body had from lack of exercise become weak
and her natural
strength had languished. But Lucy's face was of
wonderful beauty -
more beautiful, indeed, the old man often
thought, than her
mother's had been, and yet the likeness was so
strong as often to
draw back his mind over the gloomy interval and
make him dream
that he had his daughter beside him. How strange
are the thoughts
of a grandfather, when he turns
[p.94]
back to the days
of his own childhood, and then remembers that,
since he came to
manhood, he has seen a generation grow up and
thrive for a
while, and die; and here again is yet another, whose
future will yet be
bright when his eyes are forever closed!
To get to Ridley's
workshop one had to descend some stone steps
leading down from
the level of the street, for it was situated
beneath a large
building that was full of business-offices. Of all the
people who daily
went to and from their various offices, regularly
passing the
entrance to the cobbler's workshop, only one ever had
his attention
attracted for a moment by the array of old shoes
which served as a
sort of trade-mark. This was Mr. Page, a whiteheaded
old gentleman of
easy deportment, whose benevolent
features by no
means belied the goodness of his heart. By
profession he was
an architect, and had his office in the second
story of the
building above Ridley's shop. Mr. Page was one of those
rare individuals
who are not only content to be charitable when a
chance
[p.95]
is thrown in their
way, but will even go out of their way to find an
opportunity of
relieving the wants of others; and it was due to this
spontaneous
benevolence that, shortly after entering upon
possession of his
office, he had descended the stone steps which led
to the cobbler's
workshop, and, under various pretenses, had made
himself acquainted
with the condition of Tim's affairs. In
consequence, he
had since then often given the old man little jobs,
procuring the
custom of others when he had none of his own to
give, and had in
this way materially helped our friend. Tim, though
he was by no means
aware of the full extent of Mr. Page's good
offices in his
behalf, had yet a due sense of gratitude for those
favors he was conscious of having received, and
Lucy, shy as she
naturally was, never
hesitated to lift her sweet little lips to the
great, rough mustache of the gentleman who had been so kind to
her grandfather.
For the architect had taken a great fancy to the
child, and often
entered the cellar, close with the smell of shoe-
[p.96]
leather, to
exchange a word with the beautiful and precocious little
girl.
Tim often sighed
as he looked at his grandchild, and if ever he
wished for riches
it was that he might be able to take Lucy away
from the great
city, where, as he too well knew, she was pining
away. He had often
told her of the country, describing it as well as
he could, for
indeed it was so long since he had himself seen it that
his ideas had
grown somewhat vague, and the child seemed taken
up with a strange
longing to visit scenes that she imagined so
beautiful.
"Grandfather,"
she would say, looking up into the old man's face,
"tell me once
more about the country; about the hills and the rivers,
and the meadows
that are yellow with the beautiful flowers, where
the cattle feed
and the sun shines brightly every day. Tell me it all
over again!"
Then Tim would turn aside his head to wipe a tear
from his cheek,
and would begin and tell the best he could; and, as
the child
listened, her blue eyes would sparkle with delight, and at
the
[p.97]
end she would
heave a deep sigh, and say, "Grandfather, we shall go
there some day,
shan't we?" "Yes, Lucy, some day," Tim replied; and
when the little
girl pressed him to say when they were going he
would shake his
head and make no answer, except sometimes to
put his hand in
his pocket and count the few coins that he found
there.
The child's
longing went to Ridley's heart, and cost him many
a sad hour. She
tortured his mind to try and discover some plan of
gratifying his
wish, but could discover none. His earnings only just
covered the
expenses of their family; and he knew no one who
would take charge
of Lucy, even had he been able and willing to
send her away for
a short time. One day he was puzzling as usual
over the old
question, and at the same time mending a pair of boots
that Mr. Page had
left him the day before. The result of his puzzling
was as valueless
as ever, but this did not hinder his hands from
producing good
work, and ere he had ceased to revolve
impracticable
plans the boots were finished. It was
[p.98]
just about
good a customer,
he resolved to run up with the boots to Mr. Page's
office above. So,
telling Lucy that he would be back immediately, he
left his workshop.
On arriving before
the door of the architect's office Tim found it
ajar. He knocked
but received no answer. Resolving not to carry the
boots back, he
determined to walk in and deposit them where they
would be seen, for
he had no need to wait for his pay in order to be
sure of getting
it. So he walked into the office and looked round. No
one was there,
and, having put the boots in a conspicuous place, Tim
was about to
withdraw, when, as an ill luck would have it, his eye
happened to fall
on a number of gold pieces that lay glittering in
the sunlight. He
felt for a moment petrified at the sight His brain
was in a whirl.
All his hopes, his longings, his vain schemings,
flashed
instantaneously through his mind, and at the same time
came the thought
that here at
[p.99]
length was an
opportunity of gratifying his utmost wishes. He saw
Lucy's wan face
lifted up to his with its appealing eye, and heard
the oft-repeated
question: "When shall we go there, grandfather?"
uttered in heart-piercing
tones. All at once a cold shudder passed
over his body, and
then the next minute his forehead was turning
and his tongue
felt parched against his palate. He could not reason;
he stood a prey to
quick-succeeding passions and emotions. How
long he stood
motionless he knew not; thinking of it afterwards, it
seemed an age,
though in reality it could not have been more than a
minute. At length
he instinctively glanced round him. No one was
near. A hasty step
forward, and the next moment his hands closed
over the money.
Trembling with the
violence of his emotions, he left the room. He
had just entered
the passage, and was walking hastily away, when a
door opened, and
Mr. Page walked out. He met Ridley with his usual
good-natured
smile, and asked him if lie had been
[p.100]
into the office.
It was with the utmost effort that the cobbler forced
an answer from his
lips. He endeavored to say that he had just left
the boots there;
but his tongue seemed almost to refuse its office,
and he could not hear
a word he uttered. Mr. Page could not help
noticing Ridley's
peculiar behavior; he asked if he felt unwell. Tim
had by this time,
however, recovered most of his self-command,
and said that he
had not felt well all that day; then, repeating what
he had intended to
say about the boots, he turned and hurried
downstairs with a
muttered excuse.
On entering the
workshop his first care was to dispose of the
money, for he knew
that the architect would at once notice his loss,
and could not but
suspect the thief. Lucy was sitting absorbed in
her own thoughts,
and did not notice her father. Going into the
fartherest corner of the shop, the old man eagerly
counted the
money, and found
he had ten sovereigns; his heart beat audibly
with joy. Wrapping
them in a piece
[p.101]
of paper, he
carefully inserted the packet inside an old boot, and
left it in the
dark corner. Now, at all events, if he should be charged
with the theft, he
felt that he might boldly deny it, and trust to luck
not to be
discovered.
He returned to his
bench and worked with the utmost perturbation.
His sense of
hearing seemed suddenly to have become
preternaturally
keen, and every passing footstep on the pavement
outside he
imagined to be that of some one approaching to arrest
him. His grandchild
spoke to him, but he heard her not; he worked
on as if in a
frenzy. The afternoon, however, passed and no one
came. The cellar
was growing darker and darker; already it was
time to shut up
and go home, but he dared not go out into the street
yet. At length it
was almost entirely dark. He knew that the
architect must
long ago have left his office and gone home, and, as
he rose and went
tremblingly to secure his treasure, he bade Lucy
prepare to leave
the shop. The little girl
[p.102]
soon had everything
put straight, and, through the darkness, they
walked home hand
in hand.
II.
"Lucy,"
said Tim as he sat at breakfast with the child on the
following morning,
"we shall not go to the shop to-day."
"No?"
said Lucy, looking up at her grandfather with a questioning
glance.
"No; we will
take a holiday."
"And what
shall we do, grandfather? It is not Sunday to-day; there
is no church to go
to. Where shall we go?"
"Suppose we
go into the country," said Tim, drawing the child near
to him and laying
his hand on her golden curls. He trembled as he
looked into the
large blue eyes that were fixed on him with a look
of unspeakable
wonder.
"But can we
go, grandfather? Do you really mean it?"
"I do, Lucy.
We will go at once. We can soon pack up all our things;
then we will
[p.103]
go to the station,
and we shall be in the country in an hour.
Lucy clapped her
hands, and then threw her arms round the old
man's neck and
kissed him again and again. The excess of joy
brought tears to her
eyes, and it was a long time before she could
command herself
sufficiently to help Tim in making bundles of the
few things they
would have to take with them. Ridley thought of his
workshop and all
the tools and goods that he had left there, but he
did not dare to
return to fetch them. The child was oblivious of
everything save of
the prospect before them, and was too much
engrossed in
imagining endless delights to ask any questions about
how long they were
to remain away from
everything was
ready, and, Ridley carrying the larger and the child
a smaller bundle
,they left their humble lodgings.
After some inquiry
Ridley found out the railway station that he
wanted. He had
resolved to go back to his native village, but he was
in some fear lest
the cost of the journey
[p.104]
thither might be
more than he could afford, for his faint
recollections of
the time when he first came up to
exaggerated the
distance he had then traveled. He was, however,
soon reassured,
for he found that it was not quite fifty miles off,
and the expense of
a third-class ticket for himself and half a ticket
for the child
seemed to him trifling when he reflected on the money
he possessed.
Soon they were
seated in the train and whirling along through the
chaos of traffic
that besets the entrance to the great city. Lucy
hardly spoke a
word. She sat and gazed in wonder through the
carriage window,
and now and then, when Ridley looked at her, he
saw that she was
leaning back with her eyes closed, as if the
pressure of
novelty weighed too heavily upon her mind and
wearied her.
Little by little the great buildings ceased to obstruct
the view at each
side of the line, and their place was supplied by
long rows of
houses, cleaner and more handsome than any that
Lucy had ever
seen.
[p.105]
The little girl
seemed by degrees to recover from her overwhelming
excitement, and,
taking her grandfathers' hand in her little, thin
fingers, she began
to talk and question eagerly. Every now and then
a train would
shoot rapidly by, and the child would hastily cover
her face with her
hands, as if in fright, and then, when the rush had
passed would
remove them again, and looking up into the old man's
face, laugh
merrily. There was more of the child about Lucy now
than Tim had ever
seen; she had put aside that precociously grave
look and the
old-fashioned manners that usually characterized her,
and it rejoiced
her grandfather's heart to see this involuntary
outbreak of
childish spirits. Ridley himself was silent, save when he
opened his lips to
answer a question. During the night he had not
once closed his
eyes, and his face had a haggard look in addition to
the wonted
care-worn appearance. In the silence of the night he
had acted over
again in thought the deed of the preceding day, but
with a fuller
consciousness of its sig-
[p.106]
nificance than the hurried moment of its
perpetration had allowed.
Strange to say, it
was not fear of discovery that troubled him most,
but the
overwhelming sense of base ingratitude. Hitherto Ridley
had ever been a
scrupulously honest man, not only through fear of
the laws, but in
consequence of moral conviction. His nature was
susceptible of
every good impulse, and before that day he had
never known what
it was to harbor for a moment a thought of a
temptation which
conflicted with his firmly rooted notions of right
and wrong. For his
own sake only he would never have dreamt of
committing the
theft, even had the opportunity and the sum to be
gained been
increased manifold. It was the essential goodness of
his heart that, by
so forcibly presenting to him the excellence of the
end tot be
attained, blinded him for the moment to the true nature
of the means.
"Nemo repente fuit turpissimus," and
Ridley's action,
viewed in its true
light, had very much to mitigate its turpitude.
At length the travelers arrived at their
[p.107]
destination. Tim's
native place was a little market town, situated
not far from the
banks of the
it reaches the
great metropolis, is a pure and beautiful stream. On
entering the
village the old man's first object was, of course, to seek
old acquaintances.
He found that the little town had undergone
considerable
alteration since he knew it, forty years ago, and it was
long before he
found any one that remembered even his name.
Tired with walking
up and down the streets, and not willing to be
made the object of
curiosity, Ridley resolved to look out for an inn.
This he very soon
found. Over the door was a large signboard
whereon was painted
a bear, or what was evidently intended to
represent a member
of that species, and underneath was the name
"Anne
Hart," and words intimating the right of the aforementioned
lady to sell beer
and spirits for consumption on the premises. Tim
started as he saw
the name of the hostess, and a smile rose slowly
to his haggard
face.
[p.108]
"Here,"
he said, "here we will stop, Lucy. I know the woman that
keeps this
inn."
The child turned
and, taking her grandfather's hand, went with him
into the house. The
barroom was empty, and the two gladly
deposited their
bundles on the plain table and sat down to rest on
the low bench,
which bore the marks of having suffered from the
attacks of many
generations of idle whittlers. The child was just
beginning to
whisper something to her grandfather when the door
opened quickly and
the landlady bustled in. She was a hearty,
stout-looking
woman, seemingly of the same age as Tim, and her
somewhat florid
countenance was still comely and bespoke good
nature, though
traces of decision, a characteristic surely permissible
in landladies,
were not absent.
"Morning to
ye, master!" she exclaimed. "And what can I do for
you?"
"Your name is
Mistress Hart, isn't it?" was Tim's reply.
[p.109]
"At your
service," said the landlady, looking a trifle surprised.
"And it once
was Anne Hebdon, wasn't it?" said Tim, smiling.
"Ye're not far wrong there, master. But how come ye to know
that?
Ye're not one of our parts by your talk."
"So you don't
remember me?" asked Tim. "Didn't you once know one
Tim Ridley?"
"God bless my
soul! Tim Ridley! And so it is: well, who would'a
thought it? Why,
Tim, what makes you here? God bless me. I
declare I never
knew your face! And the little 'un; is she your
child?"
"My
grandchild," replied Tim.
"Bless my
heart alive! Aye, aye, we're all of us getting old. But come,
you mustn't stay
here; come into the parlor! Tim Ridley, who could
believe it? Come
on, my dear, give me your little hand. Eh, Mr.
Ridley, great
changes have happened. My poor husband's dead long
since, and I think
there isn't one of your folks left in the town. Eh,
dear; eh, dear!
Come on."
[p.110]
And so the good
woman rattled on unceasingly. To tell the truth,
she and Tim had
been great friends in the old days, and, indeed,
had not been far
from making a match of it. But both were then
very poor, and the
necessities of life had eventually proved far
more important
factors in the situation than romantic inclinations,
which, if the
truth were known, it had cost neither of them very
much to subdue.
Tim had gone to
old sweetheart,
who showed herself equally independent by
marrying a worthy
inn-keeper. They now met merely as old
friends, and
without doubt were heartily glad to see each other.
Arrangements were
very soon made for Tim and his grandchild's
remaining at the
"White Bear," at all events for the present.
And now, after
partaking of a hearty meal, Ridley and the child
wandered forth to
see what had so long been the eager desire of
both. Lucy had
never in her life seen a real green field, and her
ecstasy was
unbounded.
[p.111]
It was early
autumn and the trees were beginning to assume their
most gorgeous
robes. The red rays of the evening sun struck across
the wide tracts of
meadow-land as the old man and child wandered
along the banks of
the river, beneath the long rows of the leafy
chestnuts. Here
and there were clusters of willows; here groups of
tall rushes grew
in the shallow water; and in other places the
smooth, velvety
turf sloped gently down to the very edge of the
slow stream, which
gave back like a glass the deepening tints of the
sky, and, near the
bank was dark with many shades of green. Now
and then arose
from some copse close at hand the full-throated pipe
of the thrush, or
a golden-beaked blackbird whirred by; the ripple
of the stream, the
cool, evening breeze in the branches of the
chestnuts, and the
distant barking of a dog or the lowing of cattle
were the only
other sounds. Now Tim tried in vain to enjoy the
beauty that lay
around him, but his mind was too ill at ease. Lucy
was likewise
silent, but from other causes.
[p.112]
To her the open
sky, the wide meadows, the glories of the evening,
were a revelation,
and she stood entranced. Now and then a deep
sigh escaped her,
and more than once her eyes glistened with tears.
Many such evenings
did the two spend in rambles by the banks of
the
of money had
disappeared. Ridley begun seriously to think of
taking up once
more his old occupation, and he was the more
anxious to have a
source of income for Lucy's sake; for Lucy, as he
could see, was far
from well. The change from the city to the
country had at
first seemed greatly to benefit the child's health, but
after the first
fortnight she had begun to lose her recently-acquired
spirits and
visibly to grow weaker. The worthy Mistress Hart
cheered up the old
man with the hope of a rapid alteration
- it was merely
the relapse following on excessive excitement, she
said, and ere long
the little girl's health would begin to improve. But
Tim shook his head
and sighed sorrow-
[p.113]
fully. He was far
from being the man he had been, and he felt that
the secret of his
sin was crushing him day by day; and now if Lucy,
his only hope -
she whose welfare was the only compensation he
looked to for all
he had done and suffered - if Lucy was taken from
him, what would
the rest of life be worth? He took a cottage and
once more became a
cobbler. Every little luxury that he could
possibly afford
was procured for the child, and all that kindness
and sill could
suggest was done for her - but still she drooped. Day
by day the little
frame became more wasted. She seldom spoke, and
never complained, always
answering questions by saying that she
was very happy,
and that the country was delightful. Three months
had gone by, and
she was now unable to go out. Winter set in, and
frost and snow
covered up the landscape. Would it ever be green
once more, she
asked, as it used to be? Would she once more
wander along the
banks of the river, and pluck flowers, and listen
to the pipe of the
thrush and black-
[p.114]
bird? Would she
ever again lie on the smooth grass and bend over
the edge to watch
the fleecy clouds sail along in the depths of the
clear, smooth
water?
Christmas came and
went. The first two months of the new year
passed away with
blustering storms, and then the heavens were
calmer. Once more
the fields began to grow green, and the showers
of March and April
called forth the buds and the blossoms of spring.
Then drew on the
long, warm days, and once more on the banks of
the river grew the
golden flowers. But, alas! no little hand trembled
with delight as it
clasped and plucked them, and no sweet little
voice uttered the
child's delight at the thousand beauties which to it
were so new, so
heavenly. For the hand was cold, the voice was
forever mute, and
the golden flowers drank the sunlight that fell
upon Lucy's grave.
III.
The death of his
grandchild was a terrible shock to the old man. For
a long time he
[p.115]
was very ill and
unable to do anything, but his old friend Anne Hart
saw that he did
not want. During the long hours of his enforced
idleness Tim's conscience
gave him far more trouble than did his
bodily ailments.
In his recent loss his simple mind could not avoid
seeing direct
retribution for the sin of which he had been guilty,
and he often vowed
to himself that, should he recover, he would do
the utmost in his
power to repair the wrong.
Tim was blessed
with a good constitution, and with careful tending
he at length
recovered, and was sufficiently strong to renew his
every-day work,
though the shock to his system would evidently
hasten his end. It
was just a year since he had left
Lucy. Wan and
haggard as his face had then been, it was now more
so than ever, and
his restless eyes, which glanced from side to side
as if he was in
continual apprehension, indicated the uneasy state of
his mind. The
slight remnant of natural gayety and good spirits that
his long life of
toil and sorrow had left him was now entirely gone.
He
[p.116]
shunned as much as
possible the sight and the conversation of his
neighbors, working unceasingly from morning to
night; for the
good-natured
villagers, who sympathized deeply with the wornout
old man, were
always ready to give him employment. Had he
wished, he could
not have associated freely and openly with people,
for the secret
that weighed upon his mind made him uneasy and
suspicious, and he
dreaded the straightforward questioning of the
honest folk.
He seldom left his
cottage, except on Sunday; on which day he rose
early, before the
villagers were stirring, and walked to the
churchyard to sit for
an hour by Lucy's grave. Many a tear did the
old man shed in
his hopeless misery, bending over the little
swell in the turf
which, together with a rude headstone, marked the
child's
resting-place. The grass was thick with daisies all around
and upon the
grave, and the sight of them pleased Tim, for he knew
how Lucy had loved
to see them growing almost on this
[p.117]
very spot, where
the two had often rambled together. Here he
would sit each
Sunday morning in the early sunlight, till the sound
of the first
church-bells warned him that the people would soon be
coming hither and
he would no longer be alone. Then he would rise,
pluck a handful of
daisies, and, carrying them home, put them in
water and tend
them carefully till the last petal had dropped out.
For five years Tim
worked away at his cobbling, stinting himself
even in the
necessaries of life and laying aside every penny he
could possibly
spare. Now he had collected eight pounds, and he
needed but two
more. Every evening when he laid aside his work,
which was always
at sunset, for he would not allow himself the
burning of a
candle, he went to the drawer where he kept his
treasure, and,
drawing it forth, gloated over the heap of small coins
with more pleasure
than ever miser felt over a much larger sum,
for Tim's pleasure
had its source in nobler feelings. One dread was
ever present with
him, and that was lest he should die before his
[p.118]
task was completed
and the reparation he was toiling for
performed. The thought
of this was terrible to him, and he often
seriously
considered whether he should not impart his purpose to
some friend, in
order that if he suddenly died it might yet be
carried out as far
as possible. The only person that he could take
into his confidence
was the worthy landlady of the "White Bear,"
and yet he was
withheld from asking her to become his executrix
by the fear of
arousing her suspicion, for of course it was impossible
for him to
disclose to her the whole secret.
The sixth year of
his toil was now advancing, and Tim could feel
that day by day
his strength was leaving him. As he sat at his
bench one
afternoon the reality of the danger came so forcibly
before his eyes
that he determined he would tell Mrs. Hart of his
treasure and make
her promise to see that it reached its
destination,
should he die before he could himself complete his task.
Fortunately just
as he had made this resolve a shadow darkened
the open doorway
and
[p.119]
the subject of the
thoughts herself entered.
"Good day, Mr.
Ridley," said the good woman in her cheery tones.
"You don't
let us folks see much of ye."
Tim smiled faintly
and continued his hammering at the sole of an
old boot.
"No," he
replied, and his voice was tremulous and weak, "I don't get
much time to come
out, you see.'
"Need time! Lackadav, I should like to know the need of working as
you do! D'ye mean to make your fortune yet, Tim?"
Tim was silent for
a moment, then he looked up seriously into the
woman's face.
"Mrs.
Hart," he said, "will you sit down a minute? I've something to
say to you."
"Say away,
Tim! It's a pleasure to hear ye open your lips, I'm sure."
Tim rose and went
to the drawer where he kept his money.
Bringing it all
out he opened it on the table before the astonished
eyes of the
landlady.
"You get all
that!" she said, "and yet live
[p.120]
as you do! Why, I
didn't think you was a miser, Mr. Ridley."
"Listen,
Anne," replied Ridley, covering the money with his hand,
"I'm not
hoarding for my own sake. It belongs to someone else. Will
you promise to do
me a favor?"
"Aye, that I
will," said the woman, "all I can.
"It is only
this. I owe a gentleman in
eight here, that I
have saved from my earnings. Now, if I die before
I can get enough
and send it to him, will you see that it goes to the
right place?
That's the address." And he gave her a piece of paper.
Anne Hart was
silent with astonishment. "Why didn't you tell me
this before?"
she asked. "Didn't you think we were friends enough?
Stop your work at
once and come to the 'Bar,' and ye shall have the
other two pounds
today, if it costs me my last penny."
Tim shook his
head. Anne persisted, but the old man as steadily
refused, and at
last the worthy landlady departed in wonder-
[p.121]
ment, after promising to keep his secret, and
to see that what he
wanted was done.
"But don't
you fear, Tim," she said, as she went, "you'll live many a
year yet. Look at
me; I am as old as you are, an' I hope ye don't
think I'm going to
die just yet."
Henceforth Ridley
was easier in his mind, and resolved to brace up
his strength for a
short time longer. In a little more than a year he
had finished his
task, and got his ten pounds. He would hardly
believe that the
heap of coppers, sixpences, and shillings before him
amounted to so
much, and he counted them over and over again.
Then he took them
to the landlady of the "White Bear," and got
them changed into
good gold pieces, which were more satisfactory
to look at, to say
nothing of being more portable. He waited not a
single day, but,
borrowing enough for his journey from Anne, for
the good woman had
insisted on doing so much, he set out to
About
headquarters, trem-
[p.122]
bling with delight and apprehension. Would Mr.
Page still be in his
old office? And if
he was, how would he receive him? He knew the
architect's
goodness of old too well to fear anything from trusting
himself in his
hands, but he several times wavered in his purpose
when he thought of
standing in the presence of one to whom he had
shown such base
ingratitude, and confessing his crime. And yet he
resolved that it
must be done. He came to the building containing
the offices, and
saw the entrance to his old work-shop. It was still
kept for cobbler,
but the name over the door was a strange one. His
agony of mind was
such that he could hardly breathe, and he was a
long time
ascending the stairs with his weak and trembling limbs.
He reached the
architect's office, and uttered an audible "Thank
God!" as he
saw the name of Mr. Page still on the glass. After
leaning for a
moment against the wall of the passage to recover his
strength and his
resolution, he knocked at the door. "Come in!"
[p.123]
cried a cheery
voice - it was that of the architect himself.
Tim entered, and
sank into the nearest chair. Mr. Page looked up
from his desk, the
old desk on which Ridley had seen the money
lying, and his
face bore a look of surprise. He was little altered
himself, his hair
and beard only, if possible, a little whiter; but he
evidently had not
the slightest recollection of Ridley. Both were
silent for some
minutes, the architect looking with a questioning
gaze.
"Do you now
me, Mr. Page?" said Ridley at length. His voice was
hoarse and he
could hardly command his tongue. The architect
shook his head.
"I am Ridley;
the cobbler who used to work below, and to whom
you were so good.
I repaid your kindness by robbing you."
Ridley spoke
hurriedly, as if he feared his breath would not last.
Mr. Page rose in astonishment,
but his look soon settled into one of
pity and
kindliness.
"I knew
it," he said in a low voice.
[p.124]
"But I have
come to repay you," went on Tim, emptying his money
eagerly onto the
desk. "Here, take it! Take it! And say - for God's
sake say - you
will forgive me."
"I have long
since forgiven you, Mr. Ridley; for I guessed your
temptation. You
have fully atoned for the crime. Take this money
again, and give it
to your grandchild."
"0 God! she
is dead! She is dead! Keep the money! Would you have
me die and think
myself still a thief? Do not force me to despair!"
Then rising
suddenly, he tottered from the room, and hastened to
the stairs. Mr.
Page rose to follow him, shocked at the old man's
appearance and
emotion. He had just reached the door when he
heard a heavy
crash on the stairs. It was Ridley who had fallen, and
when the architect
reached him he was dead.
THE END.
Digitized by Mitsu Matsuoka,
2002.
mitsu@lang.nagoya-u.ac.jp
http://www.lang.nagoya-u.ac.jp/~matsuoka/Gissing.html