 Mr. Lismore and the Widow by Wilkie Collins. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Late in the autumn, not many years since, a public meeting was held at the Mansion House London, under the direction of the Lord Mayor. The list of gentlemen invited to address the audience had been chosen with two objects in view. Speakers of celebrity, who would rouse public enthusiasm, were supported by speakers connected with commerce, who would be practically useful in explaining the purpose for which the meeting was convened. Money wisely spent in advertising had produced the customary result. Every seat was occupied before the proceedings began. Among the later rivals, who had no choice but to stand or to leave the hall, were two ladies. One of them at once decided on leaving the hall. I shall go back to the carriage, she said, and wait for you at the door. Her friend answered, I shan't keep you long. He is advertised to support the second resolution. I want to see him, and that is all. An elderly gentleman seated at the end of a bench rose and offered his place to the lady who remained. She hesitated to take advantage of his kindness, until he reminded her that he had heard what she said to her friend. Before the third resolution was proposed, his seat would be at his own disposal again. She thanked him, and without further ceremony took his place. He was provided with an opera-glass, which she more than once offered to her when famous orators appeared on the platform. She made no use of it until a speaker, known in the city as a ship-owner, stepped forward to support the second resolution. His name, announced in the advertisements, was Ernest Lismore. After the moment he rose, the lady asked for the opera-glass. She kept it to her eyes for such a length of time, and with such evident interest in Mr. Lismore, that the curiosity of her neighbours was aroused. Had he anything to say in which a lady, evidently a stranger to him, was personally interested. There was nothing in the address that he delivered which appealed to the enthusiasm of women. He was undoubtedly a handsome man, whose appearance proclaimed him to be in the prime of life, midway perhaps between thirty and forty years of age. But why a lady should persist in keeping an opera-glass fixed on him all through his speech, was a question which found the general ingenuity at a loss for a reply. When he returned to the glass with an apology, the lady ventured on putting a question next. Did it strike you, sir, that Mr. Lismore seemed to be out of spirits? She asked. I can't say it did, ma'am. Perhaps you noticed that he left the platform the moment he had done. This betrayal of interest in the speaker did not escape the notice of a lady seated on the bench in front. Before the old gentleman could answer, she volunteered an explanation. I am afraid Mr. Lismore is troubled by anxieties connected with his business, she said. My husband heard it reported in the city yesterday that he was seriously embarrassed by the failure. A loud burst of applause made the end of the sentence inaudible. A famous member of Parliament had risen to propose the Third Resolution. The polite old man took his seat and the lady left the hall to join her friend. Well, Mrs. Callander, has Mr. Lismore disappointed you? Far from it, but I have heard a report about him which has alarmed me. He is said to be seriously troubled about money matters. How can I find out his address in the city? We can stop at the first station as shop we pass and ask to look at the directory. Are you going to pay Mr. Lismore a visit? I am going to think about it. The next day a clerk entered Mr. Lismore's private room at the office and presented a visiting card. Mrs. Callander had reflected and had arrived at a decision. Underneath her name she had written these explanatory words. An important business. Does she look as if she wanted money? Mr. Lismore inquired. Oh, dear, no! She comes in her carriage. Is she young or old? Old, sir. To Mr. Lismore, conscious of the disastrous influence occasionally exercised over busy men by youth and beauty, this was a recommendation in itself. He said, Show her in. Observing the lady as she approached him with the momentary curiosity of a stranger, he noticed that she still preserved the remains of beauty. She had also escaped the misfortune common to persons at her time of life of becoming too fat. Even to a man's eye her dressmaker appeared to have made the most of that favourable circumstance. Her figure had its defects concealed and its remaining merits set off to advantage. At the same time she evidently held herself above the common deceptions by which some women seek to conceal their age. She wore her own grey hair, and her complexion bore the test of daylight. On entering the room she made her apologies with some embarrassment. Being the embarrassment of a stranger, and not of a useful stranger, it fails to impress Mr. Lismore favourably. I am afraid I have chosen an inconvenient time for my visit," she began. I am at your service," he answered a little stiffly. Especially if you will be so kind as to mention your business with me in few words. She was a woman of some spirit, and that reply aroused her. I will mention it in one word," she said smartly. My business is gratitude. He was completely at a loss to understand what she meant, and he said so plainly. Instead of explaining herself she put a question. Do you remember the night of the eleventh of March between five and six years since? He considered for a moment. No," he said, I don't remember it. Excuse me, Mrs. Callender, I have affairs of my own to attend to which cause me some anxiety. Let me assist your memory, Mr. Lismore, and I will leave you to your affairs. On the date that I have referred to you were on your way to the railway station at Bexmore, to catch the night express from the north to London. As a hint that his time was valuable, the ship-owner had hitherto remained standing. He now took his customary seat and began to listen with some interest. Mrs. Callender had produced her effect on him already. It was absolutely necessary," she proceeded, that you should be on board your ship in the London docks at nine o'clock the next morning. If you had lost the express the vessel would have sailed without you. The expression of his face began to change to surprise. Oh, told you that," he asked. You shall hear directly. On your way into the town your carriage was stopped by an obstruction on the high road. The people of Bexmore were looking at a house on fire. He started to his feet. Good heavens, are you the lady? She held up her hand in satirical protest. Gently, sir, you suspected me just now of wasting your valuable time. Don't rashly conclude that I am the lady, until you find that I am acquainted with the circumstances. Is there no excuse for my failing to recognise you? Mr. Lismore asked. We were on the dark side of the burning house. You were fainting, and I— And you," she interposed, after saving me at the risk of your own life, turned a deaf ear to my poor husbands and treatise when he asked you to wait till I had recovered my senses. Your poor husband? Surely Mrs. Callender he received no serious injury from the fire? The fireman rescued him under circumstances of peril, she answered, and at his great age he sank under the shock. I have lost the kindest and best of men. Do you remember how you parted from him, burned and bruised in saving me? He liked to talk of it in his last illness. At least, he said to you, tell me the name of the man who preserved my wife from a dreadful death. You threw your card to him out of the carriage window, and away you went at a gallop to catch your train. In all the years that have passed I have kept that card, and have vainly inquired for my brave sea-captain. Yesterday I saw your name on the list of speakers at the mansion-house. Need I say that I attended the meeting? Need I tell you now why I come here and interrupt you in business hours? She held out her hand. Mr. Lismore took it in silence and pressed it warmly. You have not done with me yet, she resumed with a smile. Do you remember what I said of my errand when I first came in? You said it was an errand of gratitude. Something more than the gratitude which only says thank you," she added. Before I explain myself, however, I want to know what you have been doing and how it was that my inquiries failed to trace you after that terrible night. The appearance of depression which Mrs. Callander had noticed at the public meeting showed itself again in Mr. Lismore's face. He sighed as he answered her. "'My story has one merit,' he said. It is soon told. "'I cannot wonder that you failed to discover me. In the first place I was not captain of my ship at that time. I was only mate. In the second place I inherited some money and ceased to lead a sailor's life in less than a year from the night of the fire. You will now understand what obstacles were in the way of your tracing me. With my little capital I started successfully in business as a ship-owner. At the time I naturally congratulated myself on my own good fortune. We little know, Mrs. Callander, what the future has in store for us." He stopped. His handsome features hardened, as if he were suffering and concealing pain. Before it was possible to speak to him there was a knock at the door. Another visitor without an appointment had called. The clerk appeared again with a card and a message. "'The gentleman begs you will see him, sir. He has something to tell you which is too important to be delayed.' Hearing the message, Mrs. Callander rose immediately. "'It is enough for a day that we understand each other,' she said. "'Have you any engagement to-morrow after the hours of business?' "'None.' She pointed to her card on the writing-table. "'Will you come to me to-morrow evening at that address? I am like the gentleman who has just called. I too have my reason for wishing to see you.' He gladly accepted the invitation. Mrs. Callander stopped him as he opened the door for her. "'Shall I offend you?' she said. "'If I ask a strange question before I go. I have a better motive, mind, than mere curiosity. Are you married?' "'No.' "'Forgive me again,' she resumed. "'At my age you cannot possibly misunderstand me. And yet,' she hesitated, Mr. Lismore tried to give her confidence. "'Pray don't stand on ceremony, Mrs. Callander. Nothing that you can ask me need be prefaced by an apology.' Thus encouraged she ventured to proceed. "'You may be engaged to be married,' she suggested. "'Or you may be in love?' He found it impossible to conceal his surprise, but he answered without hesitation. "'There is no such bright prospect in my life,' he said. "'I am not even in love.' She left him with a little sigh. It sounded like a sigh of relief." Ernest Lismore was thoroughly puzzled. What could be the old lady's object in ascertaining that he was still free from a matrimonial engagement? If the idea had occurred to him in time he might have alluded to her domestic life and might have asked if she had children. With a little tact he might have discovered more than this. She had described her feeling toward him as passing the ordinary limits of gratitude, when she was evidently rich enough to be above the imputation of a mercenary motive. Did she propose to brighten those dreary prospects to which he had alluded in speaking of his own life? When he presented himself at her house the next evening would she introduce him to a charming daughter? He smiled as the idea occurred to him. An appropriate time to be thinking of my chances of marriage, he said to himself, in another month I may be a ruined man. The gentleman who had so urgently requested an interview was a devoted friend who had obtained a means of helping Ernest at a serious crisis in his affairs. It had been truly reported that he was in a position of pecuniary embarrassment owing to the failure of a mercantile house with which he had been intimately connected. Whispers affecting his own solvency had followed on the bankruptcy of the firm. He had already endeavoured to obtain advances of money on the usual conditions, and had been met by excuses for delay. His friend had now arrived with a letter of introduction to a capitalist, well known in commercial circles, for his daring speculations and for his great wealth. Looking at the letter Ernest observed that the envelope was sealed. In spite of that ominous innovation on established usage in cases of personal introduction he presented the letter. On this occasion he was not put off with excuses. The capitalist flatly declined to discount Mr. Lismore's bills unless they were backed by responsible names. Ernest made a last effort. He applied for help to two mercantile men whom he had assisted in their difficulties, and whose names would have satisfied the moneylender. They were most sincerely sorry, but they too refused. The one security that he could offer was open and it must be owned to serious objections on the score of risk. He wanted an advance of twenty thousand pounds secured on a homeward-bound ship and cargo. But the vessel was not insured, and at that stormy season she was already more than a month overdue. Could grateful colleagues be blamed if they forgot their obligations when they were asked to offer pecuniary help to a merchant in this situation? Ernest returned to his office without money and without credit. A man threatened by ruin is in no state of mind to keep an engagement at a lady's tea-table. Ernest sent a letter of apology to Mrs. Calender, alleging extreme pressure of business as the excuse for breaking his engagement. Am I to wait for an answer, sir? the messenger asked. No, you are merely to leave the letter. In an hour's time, to Ernest's astonishment, the messenger returned with a reply. The lady was just going out, sir, when I rang at the door. He explained. And she took the letter from me herself. She didn't appear to know your handwriting, and she asked me who I came from. When I mentioned your name I was ordered to wait. Ernest opened the letter. Dear Mr. Lismore, one of us must speak out, and your letter of apology forces me to be that one. If you are really so proud and so distrustful as you seem to be, I shall offend you. If not, I shall prove myself to be your friend. Your excuse is pressure of business. The truth, as I have good reason to believe, is want of money. I heard a stranger at that public meeting say that you were seriously embarrassed by some failure in the city. Let me tell you what my own pecuniary position is in two words. I am the childless widow of a rich man. Ernest paused. His anticipated discovery of Mrs. Callander's charming daughter was in his mind for the moment. That little romance must return to the world of dreams, he thought, and went on with the letter. After what I owe to you, I don't regard it as repaying an obligation. I consider myself as merely performing a duty, when I offer to assist you by a loan of money. Wait a little before you throw my letter into the waste-paper basket. Circumstances, which it is impossible for me to mention before we meet, put it out of my power to help you, unless I attach to my most sincere offer of service a very unusual and very embarrassing condition. If you are on the brink of ruin, that misfortune will plead my excuse, and your excuse, too, if you accept the loan on my terms. In any case, I rely on the sympathy and forbearance of the man to whom I owe my life. After what I have now written, there is only one thing to add. I beg to decline, accepting your excuses, and I shall expect to see you to-morrow evening as we arranged. I am an obstinate old woman, but I am also your faithful friend and servant, Mary Callander. Ernest looked up from the letter. What can this possibly mean? he wondered. But he was too sensible a man to be content with wondering. He decided on keeping his engagement. What Dr. Johnson called the insolence of wealth appears far more frequently in the houses of the rich than in the manners of the rich. The reason is plain enough. Personal ostentation is, in the very nature of it, ridiculous. But the ostentation which exhibits magnificent pictures, priceless china, and splendid furniture, can purchase good taste to guide it, and can assert itself without affording the smallest opening for a word of depreciation or a look of contempt. If I am worth a million of money, and if I am dying to show it, I don't ask you to look at me. I ask you to look at my house. Keeping his engagement with Mrs. Callander, Ernest discovered that riches might be lavishly and yet modestly used. In crossing the hall and ascending the stairs, look where he might, his notice was insensibly won by proofs of the taste which is not to be purchased, and the wealth which uses but never exhibits its purse. Conducted by a man-servant to the landing on the first floor, he found a maid at the door of the boudoir waiting to announce him. Mrs. Callander advanced to welcome her guest in a simple evening dress perfectly suited to her age. All that had looked worn and faded in her fine face by daylight was now softly obscured by shaded lamps. Objects of beauty surrounded her which glowed with subdued radiance from their background of sober colour. The influence of appearances is the strongest of all outward influences while it lasts. For the moment the scene produced its impression on Ernest in spite of the terrible anxieties which consumed him. Mrs. Callander in his office was a woman who had stepped out of her appropriate sphere. Mrs. Callander in her own house was a woman who had risen to a new place in his estimation. I'm afraid you don't thank me for forcing you to keep your engagement, she said, with her friendly tones and her pleasant smile. Indeed I do thank you, he replied. Your beautiful house and your gracious welcome have persuaded me into forgetting my troubles for a while. The smile passed away from her face. Then it is true, she said gravely. Only too true. She led him to a seat beside her and waited to speak again until her maid had brought in the tea. Have you read my letter in the same friendly spirit in which I wrote it? she asked when they were alone again. I have read your letter gratefully, but— But you don't know yet what I have to say. Let us understand each other before we make any objections on either side. Will you tell me what your present position is at its worst? I can and will speak plainly when my turn comes, if you will honour me with your confidence. Not if it distresses you," she added, observing him attentively. He was ashamed of his hesitation and he made amends for it. Do you thoroughly understand me? he asked when the whole truth had been laid before her without reserve. She summed up the result in her own words. If your overdue ship returns safely within a month from this time, you can borrow the money you want without difficulty. If the ship is lost, you have no alternative when the end of the month comes, but to accept a loan from me or to suspend payment. Is that the hard truth? It is. And the sum you require is twenty thousand pounds. Yes. I have twenty times as much money as that, Mr. Lismore, at my sole disposal, on one condition. The condition alluded to in your letter. Yes. Does the fulfilment of the condition depend in some way on any decision of mine? It depends entirely on you. That answer closed his lips. With a composed manner and a steady hand she poured herself out a cup of tea. I conceal it from you, she said, but I want confidence. Here, she pointed to the cup, is the friend of women rich or poor when they are in trouble. What I have now to say obliges me to speak in praise of myself. I don't like it. Let me get it over as soon as I can. My husband was very fond of me. He had the most absolute confidence in my discretion, and in my sense of duty to him and to myself. His last words, before he died, were words that thanked me for making the happiness of his life. As soon as I had, in some degree, recovered after the affliction that had fallen on me, his lawyer and executor produced a copy of his will, and said there were two clauses in it which my husband had expressed a wish that I should read. It is needless to say that I obeyed. She still controlled her agitation, but she was now unable to conceal it. Ernest made an attempt to spare her. "'Am I concerned in this?' he asked. "'Yes. Before I tell you why, I want to know what you would do, in a certain case which I am unwilling even to suppose. I have heard of men, unable to pay the demands made on them, who began business again, and succeeded, and in course of time paid their creditors. And you want to know if there is any likelihood of my following their example?' he said. "'Have you also heard of men who have made that second effort, who have failed again, and who have doubled the debts they owe to their brethren in business, who trusted them?' "'I knew one of those men myself.' He committed suicide.' She laid her hand for a moment on his. "'I understand you,' she said. "'If ruin comes.' "'If ruin comes,' he interposed, a man without money and without credit can make but one last atonement. Don't speak of it now.' She looked at him with horror. "'I didn't mean that,' she said. "'Shall we go back to what you read in the will?' he suggested. "'Yes, if you will give me a minute to compose myself.' In less than the minute she had asked for, Mrs. Callender was calm enough to go on. "'I now possess what is called a life interest in my husband's fortune,' she said. "'The money is to be divided at my death among charitable institutions, accepting a certain event.' "'Which is provided for in the will,' Ernest added, helping her to go on. "'Yes. I am to be absolute mistress of the whole of the four hundred thousand pounds.' Her voice dropped, and her eyes looked away from him as she spoke the next words. "'On this one condition. That I marry again,' he looked at her in amazement. "'Surely I have mistaken you,' he said. "'You mean on this one condition that you do not marry again?' "'No, Mr. Lismore. I mean exactly what I have said. You now know that the recovery of your credit and your peace of mind rests entirely with yourself.' After a moment of reflection he took her hand and raised it respectfully to his lips. "'You are a noble woman,' he said. She made no reply. With drooping head and downcast eyes she waited for his decision. He accepted his responsibility. "'I must not and dare not think of the hardship of my own position,' he said. "'I owe it to you to speak without reference to the future that may be in store for me. No man can be worthy of the sacrifice which your generous forgetfulness of yourself is willing to make. I respect you. I admire you. I thank you with my whole heart. "'Leave me to my fate, Mrs. Callender, and let me go.' He rose. She stopped him by a gesture. "'A young woman,' she answered, would shrink from saying what I as an old woman mean to say now. "'I refuse to leave you to your fate. I ask you to prove that you respect me, admire me, and thank me with your whole heart. "'Take one day to think, and let me hear the result. "'You promise me this?' He promised. "'Now go,' she said. Next morning Ernest received a letter from Mrs. Callender. She wrote to him as follows. "'There are some considerations which I ought to have mentioned yesterday evening before you left my house. I ought to have reminded you, if you consent, to reconsider your decision, that the circumstances do not require you to pledge yourself to me absolutely. "'At my age I can with perfect propriety assure you that I regard our marriage simply and solely as a formality which we must fulfil if I am to carry out my intention of standing between you and ruin. "'Therefore, if the missing ship appears in time, the only reason for the marriage is at an end. We shall be as good friends as ever, without the encumbrance of a formal tie to bind us. "'In the other event I should ask you to submit to certain restrictions, which remembering my position you will understand and excuse. "'We are to live together it is unnecessary to say as mother and son. The marriage ceremony is to be strictly private, and you are so to arrange our affairs that immediately afterward we leave England for any foreign place which you prefer. Some of my friends and perhaps some of your friends will certainly misinterpret our motives if we stay in our own country, in a manner which would be unendurable to a woman like me. "'As to our future lives, I have the most perfect confidence in you, and I should leave you in the same position of independence which you occupy now. When you wish for my company you will always be welcome. At other times you are your own master. I live on my side of the house and you live on yours, and I am to be allowed my hours of solitude every day in the pursuit of musical occupations, which I have been happily associated with all my past life, and which I trust confidently to your indulgence. A last word to remind you of what you may be too kind to think of yourself. At my age you cannot, in the course of nature, be troubled by the society of a grateful old woman for many years. You are young enough to look forward to another marriage, which shall be something more than a mere form. Even if you meet with the happy woman in my lifetime, honestly tell me of it, and I promise to tell her that she has only to wait. In the meantime, don't think, because I write composedly, that I write heartlessly. You pleased and interested me when I first saw you at the public meeting. I don't think I could have proposed what you call this sacrifice of myself to a man who had personally repelled me, though I have felt my debt of gratitude as sincerely as ever. Whether your ship is safe or whether your ship is lost, Old Mary Callander likes you, and owns it without false shame. Let me have your answer this evening, either personally or by letter, whichever you like best. Mrs. Callander received a written answer long before the evening. It said much in few words. A man impenetrable to kindness might be able to resist your letter. I am not that man. Your great heart has conquered me. The few formalities which precede marriage by special licence were observed by Ernest. While the destiny of their future lives was still in suspense, an unacknowledged feeling of embarrassment on either side kept Ernest and Mrs. Callander apart. Every day brought the Lady her report of the state of affairs in the city, written always in the same words. No news of the ship. On the day before the ship-owner's liabilities became due, the terms of the report from the city remained unchanged, and the special licence was put to its contemplated use. Mrs. Callander's lawyer and Mrs. Callander's maid were the only persons trusted with the secret. Leaving the chief clerk in charge of the business, with every pecuniary demand on his employer satisfied in full, the strangely married pair quitted England. They arranged to wait for a few days in Paris, to receive any letters of importance which might have been addressed to Ernest in the interval. On the evening of their arrival, a telegram from London was waiting at their hotel. It announced that the missing ship had passed up Channel, undiscovered in a fog until she reached the Danes, on the day before Ernest's liabilities fell due. Do you regret it? Mrs. Lismore said to her husband. Not for a moment, he answered. They decided on pursuing their journey as far as Munich. Mrs. Lismore's taste for music was matched by Ernest's taste for painting. In his leisure hours he cultivated the art, and delighted in it. The picture galleries of Munich were almost the only galleries in Europe which he had not seen. Due to the engagements to which she had pledged herself, his wife was willing to go wherever it might please him to take her. The one suggestion she made was that they should hire furnished apartments. If they lived at her hotel, friends of the husband or the wife, visitors like themselves, to the famous city, might see their names in the book, or might meet them at the door. They were soon established in a house large enough to provide them with every accommodation which they required. Ernest's days were passed in the galleries. Mrs. Lismore remaining at home devoted to her music, until it was time to go out with her husband for a drive. Living together in perfect amity and concord, they were nevertheless not living happily. Without any visible reason for the change, Mrs. Lismore's spirits were depressed. On the one occasion when Ernest noticed it, she made an effort to be cheerful, which it distressed him to see. He allowed her to think that she had relieved him of any further anxiety. Whatever doubts he might feel were doubts delicately concealed from that time forth. But when two people are living together in a state of artificial tranquility, it seems to be a law of nature that the element of disturbance gathers unseen, and that the outburst comes inevitably with the lapse of time. In ten days from the date of their arrival at Munich the crisis came. Ernest returned later than usual from the picture gallery, and for the first time in his wife's experience shot himself up in his own room. He appeared at the dinner-hour with a futile excuse. Mrs. Lismore waited until the servant had withdrawn. Now, Ernest, she said, it's time to tell me the truth. Her manner, when she said those few words, took him by surprise. She was unquestionably confused, and instead of looking at him she trifled with the fruit on her plate. Embarrassed on his side he could only answer, I have nothing to tell. Were there many visitors at the gallery? She asked, about the same as usual. Any that you particularly noticed? She went on. I mean among the ladies. He laughed uneasily. You forget how interested I am in the pictures, he said. There was a pause. She looked up at him, and suddenly looked away again. But he saw it plainly. There were tears in her eyes. Do you mind turning down the gas? She said. My eyes have been weak all day. He complied with her request the more readily, having his own reasons for being glad to escape the glaring scrutiny of the light. I think I will rest a little on the sofa, she resumed. In the position which he occupied his back would have been now turned on her. She stopped him when he tried to move his chair. I would rather not look at you, Ernest, she said, when you have lost confidence in me. Not the words, but the tone, touched all that was generous and noble in his nature. He left his place and knelt beside her, and opened to her his whole heart. Am I not unworthy of you? He asked when it was over. She pressed his hand in silence. I should be the most ungrateful wretch living, he said, if I did not think of you and you only, now that my confession is made. We will leave Munich to-morrow, and if resolution can help me, I will only remember the sweetest woman my eyes ever looked on as the creature of a dream. She hid her face on his breast, and reminded him of that letter of her writing which had decided the course of their lives. When I thought you might meet the happy woman in my lifetime, I said to you, tell me of it, and I promised to tell her that she has only to wait. Time must pass, Ernest, before it can be needful to perform my promise, but you might let me see her. If you find her in the gallery tomorrow, you might bring her here. Mrs. Lismore's request met with no refusal. Ernest was only at a loss to know how to grant it. You tell me she is a copyist of pictures, his wife reminded him. She will be interested in hearing of the portfolio of drawings by the great French artists which I bought for you in Paris. Ask her to come and see them, and to tell you if she can make some copies. And say, if you like, that I shall be glad to become acquainted with her. He felt her breath beating fast on his bosom. In the fear that she might lose all control over herself, he tried to relieve her by speaking lightly. What an invention yours is! he said. If my wife ever tries to deceive me, I shall be her mere child in her hands. She rose abruptly from the sofa, kissed him on the forehead, and said wildly, I shall be better in bed. Before he could move or speak, she had left him. The next morning he knocked at the door of his wife's room and asked how she had passed the night. I have slept badly, she answered, and I must beg you to excuse my absence at breakfast time. She called him back as he was about to withdraw. Remember, she said, when you return from the gallery today, I expect that you will not return alone. Three hours later he was at home again. The young lady's services as a copyist were at his disposal. She had returned with him to look at the drawings. The sitting-room was empty when they entered it. He rang for his wife's mate, and was informed that Mrs. Lismore had gone out. Refusing to believe the woman, he went to his wife's apartments. She was not to be found. When he returned to the sitting-room, the young lady was not unnaturally offended. He could make allowances for her being a little out of temper at the slight that had been put on her. But he was inexpressibly disconcerted by the manner, almost the coarse manner, in which she expressed herself. I have been talking to your wife's maid while you've been away, she said. I find you have married an old lady for her money. She is jealous of me, of course. Let me beg you to alter your opinion, he answered. You are wronging my wife. She is incapable of any such feeling as you attribute to her. The young lady laughed. At any rate you are a good husband, she said satirically. Suppose you own the truth! Wouldn't you like her better if she was young and pretty like me? He was not merely surprised. He was disgusted. Her beauty had so completely fascinated him when he first saw her, that the idea of associating any want of refinement and good breeding with such a charming creature never entered his mind. The disenchantment to him was already so complete that he was even disagreeably affected by the tone of her voice. It was almost as repellent to him as this exhibition of unrestrained bad temper, which she seemed perfectly careless to conceal. I confers you surprised me, he said coldly. The reply produced no effect on her. On the contrary, she became more insolent than ever. I have a fertile fancy, she went on, and your absurd way of taking a joke only encourages me. Suppose you could transform this sour old wife of yours who has insulted me into the sweetest young creature that ever lived by only holding up your finger. Wouldn't you do it? This passed the limits of his endurance. I have no wish, he said, to forget the consideration which is due to a woman. You leave me but one alternative. He rose to go out of the room. She ran to the door as he spoke, and placed herself in the way of his going out. He signed to her to let him pass. She suddenly threw her arms round his neck, kissed him passionately, and whispered with her lips at his ear. Oh, Ernest, forgive me! Could I have asked you to marry me for my money, if I had not taken refuge in a disguise? When he had sufficiently recovered to think, he put her back from him. Is there an end of the deception now? He asked sternly, Am I to trust you in your new character? You are not to be harder on me than I deserve. She answered gently. Did you ever hear of an actress named Miss Max? He began to understand her. Forgive me if I spoke harshly, he said. You have put me to a severe trial. She burst into tears. Love, she murmured, is my only excuse. From that moment she had won her pardon. He took her hand and made her sit by him. Yes, he said, I have heard of Miss Max. and of her wonderful powers of personation, and I have always regretted not having seen her whilst she was on the stage. Did you hear anything more of her, Ernest? Yes, I heard that she was a pattern of modesty and good conduct, and that she gave up her profession at the height of her success to marry an old man. Will you come with me to my room? she asked. I have something there which I wish to show you. It was the copy of her husband's will. Read the lines, Ernest, which begin at the top of the page. Let my dead husband speak for me. The lines ran thus. My motive in marrying Miss Max must be stated in this place, injustice to her, and I will venture to add injustice to myself. I felt the sincerest sympathy for her position. She was, without father, mother, or friends, one of the poor, forsaken children, whom the mercy of the Foundling Hospital provides with a home. Her afterlife on the stage was the life of a virtuous woman, persecuted by profligates, insulted by some of the basic creatures associated with her, to whom she was an object of envy. I offered her a home and the protection of a father, on the only terms which the world would recognize as worthy of us. My experience of her, since our marriage, has been the experience of unvarying goodness, sweetness, and sound sense. She has behaved so nobly in a trying position, that I wish her, even in this life, to have her reward. I entreat her to make a second choice in marriage, which shall not be a mere form. I firmly believe that she will choose well and wisely, that she will make the happiness of a man who is worthy of her, and that, as wife and mother, she will set an example of inestimable value in the social sphere that she occupies. In proof of the heartfelt sincerity with which I pay my tribute to her virtues, I add to this my will, the clause that follows. With the clause that followed, Ernest was already acquainted. Will you now believe that I never loved till I saw your face for the first time? said his wife. I had no experience to place me on my guard against the fascination, the madness, some people might call it, which possesses a woman when all her heart is given to a man. Don't despise me, my dear. Remember that I had to save you from disgrace and ruin. Besides, my old stage-remembrances tempted me. I had acted in a play in which the heroine did what I have done. It didn't end with me as it did with her in the story. She was represented as rejoicing in the success of her disguise. I have known some miserable hours of doubt and shame since our marriage. When I went to meet you in my own person at the picture-gallery, oh, what relief, what joy I felt when I saw how you admired me. It was not because I could no longer carry on the disguise. I was able to get hours of rest from the effort, not only at night, but in the daytime, when I was shut up in my retirement in the music-room, and when my maid kept watch against discovery. No, my love. I hurried on the disclosure, because I could no longer endure the hateful triumph of my own dissection. Look at that witness against me! I can't bear even to see it. She abruptly left him. The drawer that she had opened to take out the copy of the will also contained the false gray hair which she had discarded. It had only that moment attracted her notice. She snatched it up and turned to the fireplace. Ernest took it from her before she could destroy it. Give it to me, he said. Why? He drew her gently to his bosom and answered, I must not forget my old wife. End of Mr. Lismore and the Widow by Wilkie Collins Red by Ruth Golding Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning by Mark Twain This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning by Mark Twain Well, sir, continued Mr. McWilliams, for this was not the beginning of his talk. The fear of lightning is one of the most distressing infirmities a human being can be afflicted with. It is mostly confined to women, but now and then you find it in a little dog and sometimes in a man. It is a particularly distressing infirmity, for the reason that it takes the sand out of a person, to an extent which no other fear can, and it can't be reasoned with, and neither can it be shamed out of a person. A woman who could face the very devil himself, or a mouse, loses her grip and goes all the pieces in front of a flash of lightning. Her fright is something pitiful to see. Well, as I was telling you, I woke up with that smothered and unlocatable cry of Mortimer, Mortimer wailing in my ears, and as soon as I could scrape my faculties together, I reached over in the dark and then said, Evangeline, is that you calling? What is the matter? Where are you? Shut up in the boot closet. You ought to be ashamed to lie there and sleep so, and such an awful storm going on. Why, how can one be ashamed when he is asleep? It is unreasonable. A man can't be ashamed when he is asleep, Evangeline. You never try, Mortimer. You know very well you never try. I caught the sound of muffled sobs. That sound smote dead the sharp speech that was on my lips, and I changed it too. I'm sorry, dear. I'm truly sorry. I'm never meant to act so. Come back and—Mortimer! Heavens, what is the matter, my love? Do you mean to say that you're in that bed yet? Why, of course. Come out of it instantly. I should think you would take some little care of your life for my sake and the children's, if you'll not for your own. But, my love, don't talk to me, Mortimer. You know there is no place so dangerous as a bed, and such a thunderstorm is this. All the books say so. And yet there you would lie and deliberately throw away your life, for goodness knows what, unless for the sake of arguing and arguing, and— But, confounded, Evangeline, I'm not in the bed now. I'm— sentence interrupted by a sudden glare of lightning, followed by a terrified little scream from Mrs. McWilliams in a tremendous blast of thunder. There, you see the result, oh Mortimer, how can you be so profligate as to swear at such a time as this? I didn't swear. And that wasn't a result of it anyway. It would have come just the same if I hadn't said a word. And you know very well, Evangeline. At least you ought to know that when the atmosphere is charged with electricity, oh yes, now argue it and argue it and argue it. I don't see how you can act so when you know that there is not a lightning rod on the place, and your poor wife and children are absolutely at the mercy of Providence. What are you doing? Lighting a match at such a time as this? Are you stark mad? Hang it, woman, where's the harm? The place is as dark as the inside of an infidel, and put it out. Put it out instantly. Are you determined to sacrifice us all? You know there is nothing that attracts lightning like a light. Crash! Boom, baloon, boom, boom, boom. Oh, just hear it. Now you see what you've done? No, I don't see what I've done. A match may attract lightning for all I know, but it don't cause lightning. I'll go odds on that. And it didn't attract it worth a cent this time, for if that shot was leveled at my match it was blessed poor marksmanship, but an average of none out of a possible million I should say. Why at Dollymount sets marksmanship as that? For shame, Mortimer. Here we are, standing right in the very presence of death, and yet in so solemn a moment you are capable of using such language as that. If you have no desire to… Mortimer. Well, did you say your prayers tonight? I… I… I meant to, but I got to trying to cipher out how much 12 times 13 is, and… Boom, baloon, boom, boom, boom, boom. Smash! Oh, we are lost, beyond all help. How could you neglect such a thing at such a time as this? But it wasn't such a time as this. It wasn't a cloud in the sky. How could I know there was going to be all this rumpus and powwow about a little slip like that? And I don't think it's just fair for you to make so much out of it anyway, seeing it happen so seldom. I haven't missed before since I brought on that earthquake four years ago. Mortimer, how you talk? Have you forgotten the yellow fever? My dear, you are always throwing up the yellow fever to me, and I think it is perfectly unreasonable. You can't even send a telegraphic message as far as Memphis without delays. So how is a little devotional slip of mine going to carry so far? I'll stand the earthquake because it was in the neighborhood. But I'll be hanged if I'm going to be responsible for every blamed… Boom, baloon, boom, boom, boom. Oh dear, dear, dear, I know it struck something, Mortimer. We shall never see the light of another day, and if it will do you any good to remember when we are gone that you are dreadful language. Mortimer! Well, what now? Your voice sounds as if… Mortimer, are you actually standing in front of that open fireplace? That is the very crime I am committing. Get away from it. This moment, you do seem determined to bring destruction on us all. Don't you know that there is no better conductor for lightning than an open chimney? Now where have you got to? I'm here by the window. Oh, for pity's sake, have you lost your mind? Clear out from there this moment. The very children in arms know it is fatal to stand near a window in a thunderstorm. Dear, dear, I shall never see the light of another day. Mortimer? Yes? What is that, rustling? It's me. What are you doing? Trying to find the upper end of my pantaloons. Quick! Throw those things away. I do believe you would deliberately put on those clothes at such a time as this, yet you know perfectly well that all authorities agree that woolen stuffs attract lightning. Oh dear, dear, it isn't sufficient that one's life must be in peril from natural causes, but you must do everything you can possibly think of to augment the danger. Oh, don't sing. What can you be thinking of? Now where is the harm in it? Mortimer, if I have told you once I have told you 100 times that singing causes vibrations in the atmosphere which interrupts the flow of the electric fluid and what on earth are you opening that door for? Goodness gracious woman, is there any harm in that? Harm? There's death in it. Anybody that has given this subject any attention knows that to create a draft is to invite the lightning. You haven't half shut it, shut it tight, and do hurry or we are all destroyed. Oh, it is an awful thing to be shut up with a lunatic at such a time as this. Mortimer, what are you doing? Nothing. Just turning on the water, this room is smothering hot and close. I want to bathe my face in hands. You have certainly parted with the remnant of your mind, where lightning strikes any other substance once, it strikes water 50 times. Do turn it off. Oh dear, I am sure that nothing in this world can save us. It does seem to me that Mortimer, what was that? It was a picture. Knocked it down. Then you are close to the wall. I never heard of such imprudence. Don't you know that there is no better conductor for lightning than a wall? Come away from there. And you came as near as anything to swearing too. Oh, how can you be so desperately wicked in your family in such peril? Mortimer, did you order a feather bed as I asked you to do? No. Forgot it. Forgot it. It may cost you your life. If you had a feather bed now, you could spread it in the middle of the room and lie on it. You would be perfectly safe. Come in here. Come quick before you have a chance to commit any more frantic indiscretions. I tried, but the little closet would not hold us both with the door shut, unless we could be content to smother. I gasped a while and then forced my way out. My wife called out, Mortimer, something must be done for your preservation. Give me that German book that is on the end of the mantelpiece in a candle. But don't light it. Give me a match. I will light it in here. That book has some directions in it. I got the book at the cost of a vase and some other brittle things. And the madam shut herself up with her candle. I had a moment's peace. Then she called out, Mortimer, what was that? Nothing but the cat. The cat! Oh, destruction! Catch her and shut her up in the wash stand. Do be quick, love. Cats are full of electricity. I just know my hair will turn white with this night's awful perils. I heard the muffled sobbing again. But for that I should not have moved hand or foot in such a wild enterprise in the dark. However, I went at my task over chairs and against all sorts of obstructions, all of them hard ones, too, and most of them with sharp edges. And at last I got Kitty cooped up in the commode at an expense of over $400 in broken furniture and shins. Then these muffled words came from the closet. It says that the safest thing is to stand on a chair in the middle of the room, Mortimer, and the legs of the chair must be insulated with non-conductors. That is, you must set the legs of the chair in glass tumblers. Boom, bang, smash! Oh, hear that! Do hurry, Mortimer, before you are struck! I managed to find and secure the tumblers. I got the last four, broke all the rest. I insulated the chair legs and called for further instructions. Mortimer, it says, Eisengruten! What does that mean, Mortimer? Does it mean that you must keep metals about you or keep them away from you? Well, I hardly know. It appears to be a little mixed. All German advice is more or less mixed. However, I think that that sentence is mostly in the date of case, with a little genitive and accusative sifted in here and there for luck. So I reckon it means that you must keep some metals about you. Yes, that must be it. It stands to reason that it is. They are in the nature of lightning rods, you know. Put on your fireman's helmet, Mortimer. That is mostly metal. I got it and put it on, a very heavy and clumsy and uncomfortable thing on a hot night in a close room. Even my nightdress seemed to be more clothing than I strictly needed. Mortimer, I think your middle ought to be protected. Won't you buckle on your malicious labor, please? I complied. Now, Mortimer, you ought to have some way to protect your feet. Do please put on your spurs. I did it in silence and kept my temper as well as I could. Mortimer, it says, Mortimer, does that mean that it is dangerous not to ring the church bells during a thunderstorm? Yes, it seems to mean that if that is the past participle of the nominative case singular, and I reckon it is. Yes, I think it means that on account of the height of the church tower and the absence of Luftzug, it would be very dangerous, serega firelik, not to ring the bells in time of a storm. And, moreover, don't you see the very wording? Never mind that, Mortimer. Don't waste the precious time and talk. Get the large dinner bell. It is right there in the hall. Quick, Mortimer, dear, we are almost safe. Oh, dear, I do believe we are going to be saved at last. Our little summer establishment stands on top of a high range of hills overlooking a valley. Several farmhouses are in our neighborhood, the nearest some three or four hundred yards away. When I, mounted on the chair, had been clanging that dreadful bell a matter of seven or eight minutes, our shutters were suddenly torn open from without. And a brilliant bullseye lantern was thrust in at the window, followed by a horse inquiry. What in the nation is the matter here? The window was full of men's heads, and the heads were full of eyes that stared wildly at my nightdress in my warlike accoutrements. I dropped the bell, skipped down from the chair in confusion, and said, There is nothing the matter, friends, only a little discomfort on the count of the thunderstorm. I was trying to keep off the lightning. Thunderstorm? Lightning? Why, Mr. McWilliams, have you lost your mind? It is a beautiful starlight night. There has been no storm. I looked out, and I was so astonished I could hardly speak for a while. Then I said, I do not understand this. We distinctly saw the glow of the flashes through the curtains and shutters, and heard the thunder. One after another of those people lay down on the ground to laugh, and two of them died. One of the survivors remarked, Pity, you didn't think to open your blinds and look over to the top of the high hill yonder. What you heard was canon. What you saw was the flash. You see, the telegraph brought some news just at midnight. Garfield's nominated, and that's what's the matter. Yes, Mr. Twain, as I was saying in the beginning, said Mr. McWilliams, the rules for preserving people against lightning are so excellent and so innumerable that the most incomprehensible thing in the world to me is how anybody ever manages to get struck. So saying, he gathered up his satchel and umbrella and departed, for the train had reached his town. End of Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning by Mark Twain, read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, 7 April 2010. My Favorite Murder by Ambrose Beers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit the LibriVox.org. Having murdered my mother, under circumstances of singular atrocity, I was arrested and put upon my trial, which lasted seven years. In charging the jury, the judge of the court of acquittal remarked that it was one of the most ghastly crimes that he had ever been called upon to explain away. At this my attorney rose and said, May it please your honor. Crimes are ghastly or agreeable, only by comparison. If you were familiar with the details of my client's previous murder of his uncle, you would discern in his later offense, if offense it may be called, something in the nature of tender forbearance and filial consideration for the feelings of the victim. The appalling ferocity of the former assassination was indeed inconsistent with any hypothesis but that of guilt, and had it not been for the fact that the honorable judge before whom he was tried was the president of a life insurance company that took risks on hanging, and in which my client held a policy, it is hard to see how he could decently have been acquitted. If your honor would like to hear about it for instruction and guidance of your honor's mind, this unfortunate man, my client, will consent to give himself the pain of relating it under oath. The district attorney said, Your honor, I object. Such a statement would be in the nature of evidence and the testimony in this case is closed. The prisoner's statement should have been introduced three years ago in the spring of 1881. In a statutory sense, said the judge, you are right. And in the court of objections and technicalities you would get a ruling in your favor. But not in a court of acquittal. The objection is overruled. I accept, said the district attorney. You cannot do that, the judge said. I must remind you that in order to take an exception, you must first get this case transferred for a time to the court of exceptions on a formal motion duly supported by affidavits. A motion to that effect by your predecessor in office was denied by me during the first year of this trial. Mr. Clerk, swear the prisoner. The customary oath having been administered, I made the following statement which impressed the judge with so strong a sense of the comparative triviality of the offense for which I was on trial that he made no further search for mitigating circumstances, but simply instructed the jury to acquit. And I left the court without a stain upon my reputation. I was born in 1856 in Kalamaki, Michigan of honest and reputable parents, one of whom heaven has mercifully spared to comfort me in my later years. In 1867 the family came to California and settled near Niggerhead where my father opened a road-agency and prospered beyond the dreams of avarice. He was a reticent Saturnine man then, though his increasing years have now somewhat relaxed the austerity of his disposition. And I believe that nothing but his memory of the sad event for which I am now on trial prevents him from manifesting a genuine hilarity. Four years after we had set up the road-agency, an itinerant preacher came along, and having no other way to pay for the night's lodging that we gave him, favored us with an exhortation of such power that praise God we were all converted to religion. My father at once sent for his brother, the Honorable William Ridley of Stockton, and on his arrival turned over the agency to him, charging him nothing for the franchise nor plant, the latter consisting of a Winchester rifle, a sawed-off shotgun, and an assortment of masks made out of flower sacks. The family then moved to Ghost Rock and opened a dance-house. It was called the Saints Rest Hurdy-Gurdy, and the proceedings each night began with prayer. It was there that my now sainted mother, by her grace in the dance, acquired the sobriquet of the Bucking Walrus. In the fall of 1975 I had occasion to visit Coyote on the road to Mahalla and took the stage at Ghost Rock. There were four other passengers. About three miles beyond Niggerhead, persons whom I identified as my Uncle William and his two sons, held up the stage. Finding nothing in the express-box, they went through the passengers. I acted a most honorable part in the affair, placing myself in line with the others, holding up my hands, and permitting myself to be deprived of forty dollars and a gold watch. From my behavior no one could have suspected that I knew the gentleman who gave the entertainment. A few days later, when I went to Niggerhead and asked for the return of my money and watch, my uncle and cousins swore they knew nothing of the matter, and they affected a belief that my father and I had done the job ourselves in dishonest violation of commercial good faith. Uncle William even threatened to retaliate by starting an opposition dance-house at Ghost Rock. As the Saints' Rest had become rather unpopular, I saw that this would assuredly ruin it, and prove a paying enterprise. So I told my uncle that I was willing to overlook the past if he would take me into the scheme and keep the partnership a secret from my father. This fair offer he rejected, and I then perceived that it would be better and more satisfactory if he were dead. My plans to that end were soon perfected, and communicating them to my dear parents I had the gratification of receiving their approval. My father said he was proud of me, and my mother promised that although her religion forbade her to assist in taking human life, I should have the advantage of her prayers for my success. As a preliminary measure looking to my security in case of detection, I made an application for membership in that powerful order the Knights of Murder, and in due course was received as a member of the Ghost Rock Commandery. On the day that my probation ended, I was for the first time permitted to inspect the records of the order and learn who belonged to it, all the rites of initiation having been conducted in masks. Fancy my delight when, in looking over the role of membership, I found the third name to be that of my uncle, who indeed was junior vice chancellor of the order. Here was an opportunity exceeding my wildest dreams. To murder I could add, in subordination, and treachery. It was what my good mother would have called a special providence. At about this time something occurred which caused my cup of joy already full, to overflow on all sides, a circular cataract of bliss. Three men, strangers in that locality, were arrested for the stage robbery in which I had lost my money and watch. They were brought to trial, and despite my efforts to clear them and fasten the guilt upon three of the most respectable and worthy citizens of Ghost Rock convicted on the clearest proof, the murder would now be as wanton and reasonless as I could wish. One morning I shouldered my Winchester rifle, and going over to my uncle's house near Niggerhead, ask my aunt Mary, his wife, if he were at home, adding that I had come to kill him. My aunt replied with her peculiar smile that so many gentlemen called on that errand, and were afterward carried away without having performed it, that I must excuse her for doubting my good faith in the matter. She said, I did not look as if I would kill anybody. So as a proof of good faith I levelled my rifle and wounded a Chinaman who happened to be passing the house. She said she knew whole families that could do a thing of that kind, but Bill Ridley was a horse of another color. She said, however, that I would find him over on the other side of the creek in the she-plot, and she added that she hoped the best man would win. My aunt Mary was one of the most fair-minded women that I have ever met. I found my uncle down on his knees, engaged in skinning a sheep. Seeing that he had neither gun nor pistol handy, I had not the heart to shoot him. So I approached him, greeted him pleasantly, and struck him a powerful blow on the head with the butt of my rifle. I have a very good delivery, and Uncle William lay down on his side. Then rolled over on his back, spread out his fingers, and shivered. Before he could recover the use of his limbs, I seized the knife that he had been using, and cut his hamstrings. You know, doubtless, that when you sever the tendo Achilles, the patient has no further use of his leg. It is just the same as if he had no leg. Well, I parted them both, and when he revived he was at my service. As soon as he comprehended the situation he said, Samuel, you have got the drop on me and can afford to be generous. I have only one thing to ask of you, and that is that you carry me to the house and finish me in the bosom of my family. I told him I thought that a pretty reasonable request, and I would do so if he would let me put him into a wheat sack. He would be easier to carry that way, and if we were seen by the neighbors en route it would cause less remark. He agreed to that, and going to the barn I got a sack. This, however, did not fit him. It was too short and much wider than he, so I bent his legs, forced his knees up against his breast, and got him into it that way, tying the sack above his head. He was a heavy man, and I had all that I could do to get him on my back. But I staggered along for some distance until I came to a swing that some of the children had suspended to the branch of an oak. Here I laid him down and sat upon him to rest, and the side of the rope gave me a happy inspiration. In twenty minutes my uncle, still in the sack, swung free to the sport of the wind. I had taken down the rope, tied one in tightly about the mouth of the bag, thrown the other across the limb, and hauled him up about five feet from the ground, passing the other end of the rope also about the mouth of the sack. I had the satisfaction to see my uncle converted into a large, fine pendulum. I must add that he was not himself entirely aware of the nature of the change that he had undergone in his relation to the exterior world, though in justice to a good man's memory. I ought to say that I do not think he would in any case have wasted much of my time in vain remonstrance. Uncle William had a ram that was famous in all that region as a fighter. It was in a state of chronic constitutional indignation. Some deep disappointment in early life had soured his disposition, and it had declared war upon the whole world. To say that it would but anything accessible is but faintly to express the nature and scope of its military activity. The universe was its antagonist, its methods that of a projectile. It fought like the angels and devils in midair, cleaving the atmosphere like a bird, describing a parabolic curve and descending upon its victim at just the exact angle of incidence to make the most of its velocity and weight. Its momentum calculated in foot-tons was something incredible. It had been seen to destroy a four-year-old bull by a single impact upon that animal's gnarly forehead. No stone wall had ever been known to resist its downward swoop. There were no trees tough enough to stay it. It would splinter them into matchwood and defile their leafy honors in the dust. This irascible and implacable brute, this incarnate thunderbolt, this monster of the upper deep, I had seen reposing in the shade of an adjacent tree, dreaming dreams of conquest and glory. It was with a view to summoning it forth to the field of honor that I suspended its master in the manner described. Having completed my preparations, I imparted to the avuncular pendulum a gentle oscillation and, retiring to cover behind a contiguous rock, lifted up my voice in a long, rasping cry whose diminishing final note was drowned in a noise like that of a swearing cat, which emanated from the sack. Instantly that formidable sheep was upon its feet and had taken in the military situation at a glance. In a few moments it had approached, stamping to within fifty yards of the swinging foeman, who, now retreating, and a non-advancing scene to invite the fray. Suddenly I saw the beast's head drop earthward as if depressed by the weight of its enormous horns. Then a dim, white, wavy streak of sheep prolonged itself from that spot in a generally horizontal direction to within about four yards of a point immediately beneath the enemy. There it struck sharply upward, and before it had faded from my gaze at the place wince it had set out. I heard a horrid thump and a piercing scream, and my poor uncle shot forward with a slack rope higher than the limb to which he was attached. Here the rope taughtened with a jerk, arresting his flight, and back he swung in a breathless curve to the other end of his arc. The ram had fallen a heap of indistinguishable legs, wool, and horns, but pulling itself together and dodging as its antagonists swept downward, it retired at random, alternately shaking its head and stamping its forefeet. When it had backed about the same distance as that from which it had delivered the assault, it paused again, bowed its head as if in prayer for victory, and again shot forward, dimly visible as before, a prolonged white streak with monstrous undulations, ending with a sharp ascension. Its course this time was at a right angle to its former one, and its impatience so great that it struck the enemy before he had nearly reached the lowest point of his arc. In consequence he went flying round and round in a horizontal circle whose radius was about equal to half the length of the rope, which, I forgot to say, was nearly twenty feet long. His shrieks, crescendo in approach, and diminuendo in recession, made the rapidity of his revolution more obvious to the ear than to the eye. He had evidently not yet been struck in a vital spot. His posture in the sack, and the distance from the ground at which he hung, compelled the ram to operate upon his lower extremities and the end of his back. Like a plant that has struck its root into some poisonous mineral, my poor uncle was dying slowly upward. After delivering its second blow the ram had not again retired. The fever of battle burned hot in its heart. Its brain was intoxicated with the wine of strife. Like a pugilist who, in his rage, forgets his skill and fights ineffectively at half-arm's length, the angry beast endeavored to reach its fleeting foe by awkward vertical leaps as he passed overhead. Sometimes, indeed, succeeded in striking him feebly, but more frequently overthrown by its own misguided eagerness. But as the impetus was exhausted and the man's circles narrowed in scope and diminished in speed, bringing him nearer to the ground, these tactics produced better results, enlisting a superior quality of screams which I greatly enjoyed. Suddenly as if the bugles had sung truce, the ram suspended hostilities and walked away, thoughtfully wrinkling and smoothing its great aquiline nose, and occasionally cropping a bunch of grass and slowly munching it. It seemed to have tired of war's alarms and resolved to beat the sword into a plowshare and cultivate the arts of peace. Steadily it held its course away from the field of fame until it had gained a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. There it stopped and stood with its rear to the foe, chewing its cud and apparently half asleep. I observed, however, an occasional slight turn of its head as if its apathy were more affected than real. Meantime, Uncle William Shrieks had abated with his motion and nothing was heard from him but long, low moans, and at long intervals my name, uttered in pleading tones, exceedingly grateful to my ear. Evidently the man had not the faintest notion of what was being done to him and was inexpressibly terrified. When death comes cloaked in mystery he is terrible indeed. Little by little my uncle's oscillations diminished and finally he hung motionless. I went to him and was about to give him the coup de gras. When I heard and felt a succession of smart shocks which shook the ground like a series of light earthquakes and turning in the direction of the ram saw a long cloud of dust approaching me with inconceivable rapidity and alarming effect. At a distance of some 30 yards away it stopped short and from the near end of it rose into the air what I at first thought a great white bird. Its ascent was so smooth and easy and regular that I could not realize its extraordinary celerity and was lost in admiration of its grace. To this day the impression remains that it was a slow deliberate movement. The ram, for it was that animal being upborn by some power other than its own impetus and supported through the successive stages of its flight with infinite tenderness and care. My eyes followed its progress through the air with unspeakable pleasure, all the greater by contrast with my former terror of its approach by land. Onward and upward the noble animal sailed its head bent down almost between its knees, its four feet thrown back, its hindered legs trailing to rear like the legs of a soaring heron. At a height of forty or fifty feet, as fawn recollection presents it to view, it attained its zenith and appeared to remain an instant stationary. Then, tilting suddenly forward without altering the relative position of its parts, it shot downward on a steeper and steeper course with augmenting velocity passed immediately above me with a noise like the rush of a cannon shot and struck my poor uncle almost squarely on the top of the head. So frightful was the impact that not only the man's neck was broken, but the rope, too, and the body of the deceased forced against the earth was crushed to pulp beneath the awful front of that meteoric sheep. The concussion stopped all the clocks between Lone Hand and Dutch Dan's and Professor Davidson, a distinguished authority in matters seismic, who happened to be in the vicinity, promptly explained that the vibrations were from north to southwest. Altogether I cannot help thinking that in point of artistic atrocity my murder of Uncle William has seldom been excelled. End of My Favorite Murder by Ambrose Bierce Read by Bill Moseley, Frelsberg, Texas, U.S.A.