 Chapter 1 of Miss Grantley's Girls and the Stories She Told Them by Thomas Archer This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org reading by Lars Rolander. Chapter 1 Our Gaveness There was nothing romantic in Miss Grantley's appearance, and yet she was the sort of person that you could not help looking at again and again if you once saw her. She was not very young, nor was she middle-aged, about thirty perhaps. She was certainly not what is called a beauty, but she was not in the least plain. She was what some people would call superior looking, or rather remarkable, and yet they would not be able to say why she attracted attention. She was very little taller than Marion Cooper was the tallest of the girls in our first class, but yet she gave one the impression of being rather above the middle height. Because she walked so well, and moved in that easy graceful manner which belongs to a person who, as the old housekeeper at the school used to say, was born and bred a lady. There is no way of describing her, though Annie Bowers, who could draw beautifully, made several pencil sketches that were wonderful likenesses. Her hair, fine, soft and wavy, was dark chestnut, with that warm brown tinge that looked so well with a rather pale, creamy complexion. Her features were regular, her eyes of that strange grey that looked dark at night and steel blue in the sunshine, eyes that seemed to see into one's thoughts, and would have been severe except for the smile that flitted about her clear well-cut mouth whenever anything humorous happened, for a pleasant thought was passing through her mind. She always looked well dressed, though she wore silver grey alpaca or dark brown merino in school, and rather plain black or grey silk when she went visiting. But there was mostly a rose or some other flower in her silver brooch, and the lace that she sometimes wore at her neck and wrists was so fine and elegant that Mrs. Durand, who was the widow of a general officer and had been educated at a convent, declared it was very valuable indeed, and never was made in England. Somebody speaking once of Miss Grant's appearance compared her to fine old China, and she had just that clear, unsullied nice look that reminded you of an old China figure, though there was nothing particularly old-fashioned about her. She had some very pretty old-fashioned things, though quaint ivory carvings and porcelain balls and a delightful old tea set, and some old plate of that dark-looking silver that always seems to have a deep shadow lying under its smooth shining surface. She was something like that silver too, for though she was bright and pleasant, and with a constant liking for fun, there was a great deal of gravity beneath her smile. No one could have treated her with familiar liberty, though she was gentle and sweet-tempered, for no one who had seen her very rare expression of deep displeasure would care to provoke it. Of course, I am chiefly speaking now of our girls, but I think other people, grown-up and important people, thought much the same as we did of Miss Grantley. The true swath nobody thought of her except with kindly feelings, because everybody liked her. She had gone through much trouble. Her father, who had been a wealthy squire, lost all his money in buying shares in mines or something of that sort, and died a poor man. His wife had been dead for years so that Miss Grantley was left an orphan and with few relations except one brother, who had gone abroad to seek his fortune. But without finding it, I suppose, since Miss Grantley, after passing examinations and being a teacher in a great school in London, came down to Barton Vale to be our governess. Barton Vale is a pretty quiet, secluded place. It is not exactly a village, but is a suburb of a large town, only the town is nearly two miles away, so that the Barton Vale people heard very little of the factory people, and didn't smell the smoke from the tanneries and the alkali works at Barton on the lease. In fact, most of the principal people of the town had come to live about the Vale. The wicker and the principal manufacturers, the jorrings, who were county people, and Mr. Belfort the banker, and Mrs. Durand and the cellways, and old Dr. Spite, and the Norburys, had handsome houses and kept their carriages. Even the Barton doctor, Mr. Torridge, was more in the Vale than in the town, and the solicitor had a pretty little villa next door to the old fashioned house that Miss Grantley had taken to open a school in. Most of these folks knew Miss Grantley, and many of them loved her as much as her girls did, for some of the girls belonged to the families I have mentioned. They came to her school as daily pupils instead of being sent to the cathedral town, to live away from home, and that was one reason that she got on so well, for the dear old wicker and his wife had known her parents, and would have liked her to make the wickerage her home. The banker's married daughter, Mrs. Norbury, had been a school fellow of Miss Grantley, and called her dear Bessie, when they met, and wanted to take lessons of her in French and German, because Miss Grantley had studied abroad, and spoke both these languages very well. It was because so many people there and in the town and in London knew her, that she was able to take the old house, which was once the maltsters, and have it done up nicely, and the great long room that had been the front office and sample room turned into a school room, and the pretty little parlour fitted with French windows, that it might open to the garden full of roast bushes, and standard apple trees, and with its red brick walls covered with plums, and chresamine. She began with nine young girls, whom she brought with her as boarders, and five more soon came, so that she had fourteen in the house, and three more little ones as day boarders, two cellways, and one jarring, and eight of us seniors who went for lessons from ten to one, an hour for lunch, and then home at four to late dinner. It was of course a good thing for Miss Grantley, that she had her own old nurse there for cook and housekeeper, with a strong girl to do the housework, and one woman from one of the cottages at Bale Farm to help twice a week. The solicitor's villa had a large garden, and the gardener and his wife lived in the cottage which had once belonged to the maltsters' foreman, at the end of the orchard, and close to the old kiln, so they were always ready to help too, and our governess had very little to pay for gardening except a few shillings for a laborer now and then. You may very well believe then, that Lindley House School was a very pleasant place. Miss Grantley called it Lindley House because she said, Old-fashioned people always connected the idea of education with Lindley Murray's grammar, not that she taught grammar from Lindley Murray's book, for she declared the way of teaching was quite different now, and that there were a good many queer rules in the old grammar, which could only be counted for by the fact that the old gentleman who wrote it lived for many years chiefly on boiled mutton and turnips. When Miss Grantley said things of this kind, Mrs. Parmigan used to cry out, My dear, pray now, do consider, and Miss Grantley used to smile at her, and then the old lady would laugh till she shook the room. That was the way with our governess. She seemed able to make some people laugh by only smiling at them, and she could make people cry too by looking at them with quite a different sort of grave smile, and the strange light in her earnest grey eyes. Oh, I have forgotten about Miss Parmigan. She was a dear old thing, had actually been nursery governess to Miss Grantley, and having married and been left a widow, had heard of her former pupil and young mistress being left fatherless and motherless, and now brought her small annuity to Barton Vale, and helped to teach in the school and to be a sort of mother to Miss Grantley, without wanting any wages and only just her board and lodging, beside which she could afford to pay for a good many things towards the housekeeping. She used to teach the juniors and taught them well too, though some of them were occasionally spoiled, and it was very often somebody's birthday. Seed cake and gingerbread and lemon toffee were more common than they are in most schools. Even the senior girls came in for some of the goodies, and used to say that as they lived in a world where somebody was born every minute, it would be hard if they couldn't keep a birthday once a week. But this saying reminds me that we might go on gossiping about our governess for the hour together, and yet not get to the stories that she used to tell us. It was one of our delightful plans to devote an afternoon in each week to fancy needlework, and we used to take our work with us on that day, and instead of going home to dinner, we had luncheon and stayed as our guests to tea, with cake of homemade bread and butter, jam, or in summer ripe plums and apples from the garden, or plates of strawberries and cream from ivory farm. It was then that we read in turns from some of the best books of fiction, for Miss Grantley said, Girls are sure to read novels and the imagination needs to be cultivated as well as the intellect and the memory. So we read stories and sometimes poems by Tennyson and Browning, and other modern writers as well as Shakespeare, Dante, Schiller, and Goethe. Our governess would explain the passages to us, and we used to talk about them afterwards, but very often the conversation took a good deal more time than the reading. For it was then we found out that Miss Grantley had travelled in Germany, France, and Italy, and that she had been a student not only of subjects that she might have to teach but of people and their ways. We found out too that she could tell stories of her own, and now and then we used to persuade her to spin a jarn as Bella Daunton, whose father had been a naval officer used to say. One summer there were to be great doings at Barton on the Lees. A grand fancy fair was to be held in the town hall for the benefit of the infirmary, and we had all promised to work for it, so that nobody was offended when Miss Grantley made known that she intended to give a half-holiday every day for a week, that we seniors might be her guests from two o'clock to eight, and all worked together in the garden parlor, or out in the orchard beneath the apple trees. It was then that we made a compact with her after a great deal of trouble, that she should tell or read a story every day after tea, and in return we each promised to make some specially pretty article for her stall, for our governess had been persuaded to take a stall by some of the people who subscribed to the infirmary, and her old school fellow, Mrs Norbury, was to share it with her. I don't suppose that any of us will ever forget Miss Grantley's pretty parlor. It was a pattern of neatness and freshness, with its green silk curtains just shading the French window, which was open to the soft July air bearing the scent of the roses and chesamine. Its low, easy chairs of various patterns, its oval table with a cover of white and gold, its neat cabinet piano, the pretty dainty chimney ornaments, the few cool light sketches in watercolour that adorned the walls, the small bookcase with a few charmingly bound volumes, which filled up one recess by the fireplace, and the china closet that occupied the other. The contents of this china closet were always interesting to us, for they consisted of some rare specimens of porcelain, old Chelsea, and other exquisite ware, including the delicate tea service, which was brought out on high days and holidays, and was in daily use during the memorable week that we had devoted to the fancy fair. One might go on gossiping about some of the belongings of this room, and the old china and the quaint handsome tea equipache. But that is only a kind of introduction to our governess, or rather to the stories she told us out of school during that working holiday. It was on the Monday evening after we had come in from the orchard that we had finished tea, one tooth, some accompaniment, to which was some delectable apricot jam upon crisp toast, that Annie Bowers, who had been so quiet, that she might have been asleep, said in her usual deliberate way. Miss Grantley, that lovely silver cup, or shall I call it a vase, fascinates me more every time I look at it, and I shall never be contented till you let me make a sketch of it. The worst of it is there is no way of making a drawing that will show all the gleam and shadow that plays upon old silver. Dear me, how very poetical we are," said Sarah during interrupting. Not at all, said Annie in the same sleepy voice. Anybody with an eye can see how beautiful that is. There is something regal in the ornament of it. The slender stem seems to grow as it expands into the bowl. The chasing is so simple and yet so firm and grand. The handles are like curves of the lip of the cup itself, as though they were a part of the whole design, and not as though they were stuck on as they would be in modern works. I could fancy it the wine cup of a king or an emperor. We had none of us seen this handsome goblet before, as it was usually locked up with other silver in a chest that stood in a wardrobe closet in Miscranti's bedroom. The fact is, we were all looking at it with some curiosity, for it had been brought down with the teaspoons and sugar tongs, and now stood on the table filled with pounded sugar for the strawberries that were to be eaten by and by. Is it an heirloom, Miscranti? asked Marian Cooper. Has it always belonged to you, and did some ancestor leave you the history of it? Well, it has been in our family, in my mother's family for perhaps two centuries, replied our governess with her grave gentle smile. You know that my mother, or at all events my great-grandmother, belonged to the Huguenots, those French Protestants, many of whom escaped from the persecutions in France and came to England, where they worked at many trades. A number of these emigres, as they were called, settled in a neighborhood close to the city of London, a place called St. Mary's Spittle. The part that they lived in was named the Spittle Fields, and there they set up in business as weavers of silk. This cup came to my dear mother as a part of the old property that belonged to her grandmother, and it had been brought from the south of France, from the district where the persecution was carried on longest till the French Revolution changed everything. The reign of terror, as it was called, brought a terrible punishment to those who had themselves shown no mercy, and another kind of persecution to those who, rather than deny their religion, had endured the cruelties of a fierce soldiery. They had seen houses burned, even women and children tortured and killed. Property destroyed and existence made so hard and sorrowful that they ceased to fear death and fought on with desperate courage or abandoned the country that their tyrants had turned into a desert and carried their arts and manufactures to other lands where they might meet and pray in peace. Miss Grantley, said Sarah during when tea was over, and our governess had washed up the dainty cups and saucers. We don't want you to read to us today, I think. You are to tell us a story instead, you know, and it seems that there ought to be history belonging to the silver goblet. Yes, yes, we all cried out, surely you know ever so much about it, and if it's not a family secret, or if you don't wish to tell us... Oh, hell! replied our governess, laughing, as we all hurried to our work-baskets and drew round the table which had been moved nearer to the window. As I can work and recite at the same time, I may try to tell you the only story I ever heard about this jugonaut goblet, but mind, it isn't very romantic. It isn't very cheerful. There is a love story in it, though, and as girls are always supposed to prefer something of that kind, though I have always found that girls are more interested in the stories provided for their brothers than in their own books, I will say on as well as I can. Chapter 2 The Silver Goblet Part 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org reading by Lars Rolander. Chapter 2 The Silver Goblet Part 1 There was a time when on rare occasions it flushed with a glow of rare cold wine spiced with fragrant spices, or better still, held the essence of odorous flowers distilled into subtle perfume. Need I say that this goblet is old silver? It was in France that it held a place of honourer in the house. That house was one of note in Languedoc, not that his owner was noble by birth, but he was of the great Protestant families, the old jugonauts, whose undaunted spirit Louis XIV could not quail, even with the fortresses that he built to frown them into submission, or with the help of a fierce soldiery. They were troublesome times even long afterwards, when Anton Dormeur, owner of looms and manufacturer of velvet, went about with a serious face and trusted few of his neighbours. Anton Dormeur was a man who kept his own council, and when the persecutions had for a time been stayed, he saved money, hoping to rebuild the fortunes of his house for those two daughters who were but children when his wife died and left a vacant place that never could be filled. They were lovely these girls, each in a different fashion. The elder, tall, slender, dark-haired, haughty with the complexion of a peach, the younger, soft and fair, with locks that hung like silken skeins upon a neck of snow, and eyes of that dark, changeful sheen that is either grey or black, or blue as you seek to look into their depths. Hers were the plump white fingers that pulled the delicate rose-leaves with which this cup was filled, till the air or that gloomy room was fresh with the odours of a garden after a neeming rain. Matilda, her dark, proud sister, loved Lily's best and set them in a jewelled vase. That vase perished in the great calamity that fell upon the house, and the silver cup was among the few relics that were saved. Alas, the beautiful, imperious Matilda perished also in those evil times. Yes, this beautiful creature whose coming seemed to lighten the dim room in the old chateau with his hangings of amber damask. Its gilded panels framed with long slips of looking-glass. Its satin chairs, its quaint carved cabinets, filled with rare knick-knacks with ivory carvings, jade stones, jewelled daggers, boxes of filigree, and rare cups of porcelain, like great oak walls gleaming with strange lights that paled the pearls with which their rims were set. There were tables and tripods, too, bearing bronzes and oriental jars, filled with scented woods and spices. But it was over this silver cup that the sweet glowing face of Sarah Dormeur bent as she stood watching for her lover's fluttering signal amidst the trees that built the sloping parterre beyond the broad stone balcony on which the windows opened. For the father, Anton Dormeur, was averse to Jean Dufarche, who, though he belonged to a Protestant family among the tanners of Allée, was a man of the people without that connection with the old nobility that the Huguenots cherished, even though they suffered continually by the laws that King and nobles put in force against them. The Protestants were loyal to the caste which yet refused to own them, though they were of the best blood in France, for owned them secretly and in fear, lest to be identified with the heretics might bring fire and sword upon themselves. Thus old Dormeur forbade Sarah to have any more to say to Dufarche, but encouraged the lover of his eldest girl, a man of twice her age, the grim and saturnine Barthold by birth senior of an estate near Lausère, where however he lived only on sufferance, for the title had been abated after the persecutions following the edict of Nantes, and though Barthold was rich, he had abandoned both title and the display that belonged to it. He was just an alliance as the stately reserved manufacturer might have been supposed to choose for his eldest daughter, and indeed after they were married he would go and stay for days together at his son-in-law's house, a place less gloomy for him now that the light had gone out of his own. For Sarah, having pleaded in vain, fled with her lover to the north, and there they were married. After this they hoped and believed that the old man would relent. He never relented, or at least never to their knowledge. As his sweet fair daughter knelt to him, her golden hair streaming about her, her hands held up in supplication, he denounced her in words taken from Holy Scripture, and would have struck her but that the young husband stood with earnest eyes and folded arms, he having knelt in vain, or as he said bent his pride to his love for his sweet wife's sake. So Sarah Dufarche went out cursed, undoward and an orphan, from the old house, and Père Dormeur was left desolate indeed. Yet amidst the gloom that settled on his life and the hard unyielding determination which resisted any attempts on the part of her sister to bring him to receive his disowned daughter again, the manufacturer had frequent struggles with his pride and obstinacy. They were scarcely acknowledged even to himself. He thought he could trample the suggestions of nature underfoot, and he succeeded in so far as to suffer in silence and to make no sign of yielding, nor of admitting the possibility of foregoing his resentful purpose. He had much to occupy his thoughts at that time, for there were rumors of renewed persecutions of the Protestants by command of Bishops and clergy, not contented with refusing them the legal registration of marriage and the certificate of death. It was said that a general confiscation of property was ordered, and that recantation or death by fire and sword might once more be the doom of the sectaries. Anton Dormeur was frequently tallé with Barthold, and the people there whispered that it would go hard with the manufacture when the dragoons came. He had already made some preparations, however. Always in communication with the refugees who had settled in Spitalfils and Coventry he held money in England. This was pretty well understood, but what few people knew was that for weeks before the blow fell he had had a ship ready, and that some of his most valuable effects and merchandise were stowed among the cargo. This very cup was hidden away in a case surrounded by silk, brocade, and velvet, clothes, and lace. For days the vessel swung with the tide waiting for Anton Dormeur, who sought to bring his daughter Matilde and her husband with her child to be his companions in flight. Barthold had delayed loathe to part from the farms and land that were his birthright. He and his little boy, the first and only child, were on a visit to the old lonely house and his grey master, when a messenger, his horse covered with blood and foam, came thundering at the door with the fearful intelligence that the alarm was ringing at Allé and that the persecutions of the protestants had begun. Barthold was in the saddle in a minute. Stay for nothing but bring my daughter. Come on straight for your lives to Saint-Chon, cried the old man. There will be post horses there and I will order relays along the road where the people know me. Meantime I will take the boy. He will be safe with me. They never met again in this world. Barthold died fighting on his own threshold. His wife, the beautiful Matilde, perished perhaps in the flames. At all events a wild figure was seen at an upper window just before the great leaden roof of the chateau curled and fell. Fire and sword spread in a widening circle round that district. The house of Anton Dormeur was sacked. Achille de Farge and his wife, the lovely Sarah, were in Paris where no word reached them till long after and then only by a stranger, an old workman of the factory in Languedoc. So the months went by and then came the awful revolution that put an end to the royal family and enthroned the guillotine. Then the revolution passed out of the hands of men and the destinies of France seemed to be in the keeping of murders like Robespierre and Couton. By that time the old man and his grandson were in England, the boy having grown to be a tall and handsome youth. On the doorposts of a tall gaunt-looking house in a street of that strange part of London, lying between Spittlefields and Norton Folgate and known as the Liberty of the Old Artillery Ground might be seen the words A. Dormeur, Silk Manufacturer. It was a dim-looking place enough where the yellow blinds were nearly always drawn over the front windows and the summer's dust collected in the corners of the high flight of steps and was blown round and round in little eddies along with bits of string and snippings of patterns or shreds of silk and cotton. The front doors stood open every day from ten till five to give buyers access to the warehouse in which Anton Dormeur, old withered slightly bent and with a set look upon his face which even his rare smiles failed to disturb, unrolled pieces of silk made bargains examined with a critical eye and with the aid of a magnifying glass the fabrics brought in by the weavers and in fact carried on his trade as though he had forever been separated from the tragedy which befell him in Languedoc nearly fourteen years before. And yet that heavy affliction darkened his mind as he rolled and unrolled his silks or carefully matched the skeins that came from the diaries. The sun was shining through the windows, the lower paints of which were dulled in order to obtain a clear highlight, but the cloud upon his pocket brow was not lifted. Hour by hour the warehouse clock ticked away the afternoon. Customers departed, the sound of the scale and the clutter of reels and bobbins in another warehouse beyond the east since midday. Presently some passing thought too bitter for absolute self-control crossed the old man's mind and he bowed down his gray head for a moment upon his folded hands. But the next instant glanced round with the half-stuttle look of a man who fears he has betrayed himself. He was busy over his patterns again as he noted that a young man at the other end of the room was regarded him with a wistful, pitying look. Come, Antoine, he said, you have had a long day's work and we dined early. It is time you had finished your ledger for the day. Come and help me put up these pieces and then get you into the fresh air wood that I could make the old house more cheerful for the boy. But remember it is all thine own one day and do not add to the sorrows of the past anxiety for the future. The young man had come to his side a slender handsome fellow with an olive cheek, curling hair and a dark eye both frank and fearless and you, grand pair, he said touching the old man's hand, why will not you go out and seek some change from your dull life? What sorrow is it that seems to press so hard on you today and why do you think it necessary to give me words of warning? What shadow has come between us? What shadow echoed the old man peering at him from under his spent brows? None of my throwing boy, but do you forget what day it is? A dark anniversary for me if not for you and I scarcely thought you would have let it pass without a thought. Nay, I need not wish its darkness to lie on you forever either but aren't one. Remember, you are all I have left in my silent lonely life and this dull house and I always a reserved and seeming loveless man. You may well pine for something more, some lighter gayer time and ever broad over the means to find it but remember my son that you are by birth above the faulty pleasures of the herd that you can come to me and ask for money if you covet some pastime that befits you, that you need conceal nothing from me have no friend that I may not know also. Antoine's face flushed for a moment. It was seldom indeed that his grandfather spoke in a voice so tender and so yearning. Almost insensibly his arm stole round the old man's neck. What is it, he said again, what have I done? I accuse you of nothing lad, replied his grandfather gently disengaging himself. I thought perhaps your taste may have needed more money. You do not gamble Antoine you are never out late for I can hear you come in and the sound of your violin penetrates to my room so that I know when you are at home. I don't expect you to be always with me. I would not have it so but when you want money grandfather said the young man hastily. I know not what you mean have I ever asked you for more than the allowance you make me do I complain except for the two or three bills that you have paid for me of your own free will do I exceed your bounty talk not a bounty boy said the elder flashing in his turn. Antoine could you read my heart you would see that all I desire is to show to you the love that the world would give me no credit for that my own children even thy mother Antoine and Sarah leave me just now my dear I'm surely growing old and childish but I have still enough of the old man who'd left not to wish even my grandson his weakness leave me boy and let us meet at supper in my room I shall go out presently to see old Pierre and if I can to bring him home with me poor old faithful Pierre the young man slowly left the warehouse and ascended the stairs into the house when he shot himself in his own room and flying himself into chair and ejection he had scarcely done so when a man came from the upper warehouse a room when silk both warp and wolf was given out to the work people to be wound oven bobbins are spread into the web before it was fixed in the loom after every such operation this silk was brought back to be reweighed and only when the piece was finished in a woven fabric did it find its way into the lower warehouse there to be measured and inspected excess was gained to this upper warehouse by a door in a back street inscribed with the words ah dormeur weavers entrance and thence the work people of whom there were many each day waiting their turn went across a paved yard and into a passage terminating in a kind of square lobby at the bottom of the deep well which lighted the gloomy staircase by a glazed window from the roof of the house close to this lobby was a sliding panel opening on a counter where the great scales hung for weighing the silk and here weavers and winders gave in or took out their work from the scale foreman whose name was bashly one of those bad men who with a bullying pretence of candor and honesty contrived to impose victims over whom they tyrannize and at the same time as it were rest from their superiors the acknowledgement that they are rough diamonds by a horrible fiction it is often thought that such a man is just fit to deal with work people the same opinion prevailed then and thus bashly was able to get a character which obtained for him a place in the warehouse of anton dormeur he had been there for some twelve months in place of old Pierre Dobrie a faithful fellow who had joined his old master in London after the calamities which drove them both from France Pierre had been in Paris and had escaped to bring to his master the awful intelligence that the daughter he had denounced was now beyond his relentless anger but the old man having grown old and feeble had retired with a pension to the French hospital which then stood in St. Luke's and was called La Providence a refuge founded to receive poor protestant emigres mostly aged men and women who had their little rooms quaintly furnished with their own poor household goods and who walked daily in the quadrangle laid out in beds and borders bashly had been only fifteen months in dormeur's service and yet he had come between the grandfather and Antoine suggesting suspicions of the young man's property but so artfully that while he only seemed to hint at small blemishes which he pointed out for the sake of the lad's future welfare he left so much to be inferred that the old man had already a new trouble added to his load bashless insinuations when analysed came in effect to charging Antoine with small speculations in order to increase the amount of his allowance to taking beforehand what he of course might consider would be his own someday as the scoundrel would have put it not only this but he hinted at low companions at a secret love affair with a girl far beneath him in station of this he would if necessary furnish proof with the troubled heart that Antoine dormeur having at last escaped from a whispered conference with bashly locked up the warehouse and went slowly out towards shortage on his way to the Providence Old Pierre had been the early guide philosopher and friend of the little orphan boy and the keen-faced peeping-skinned old Frenchman had the courage of his convictions and roundly swore many innocent French oaths that afternoon when his old employer and present patron and friend paced with him along the path of the old quadrangle and told him his suspicions saw that man of plague that bashly he said the bottom of this also he said presently why did you send me away and take that liar that ventre bleu that high enarm true Pierre my heart is very heavy I tell you it is not true but about the girl he said he could prove it and yet the boy came and rested his hand upon my shoulder today as if he were candor itself let him prove it he swears he will what then what then do you too think it is possible to breathe I think it is quite possible that aunt one may be in love and in love with one who is poor but not ignoble no, never, not ignoble there was a strange light in the old foreman's eyes a strange look in his face as he said this so that aunt on Dormeur stopped him suddenly Pierre you know something of this he cried you shall tell me what does it mean tell you, replied the old man thoughtfully still you invite me to sup with you tonight aunt one will be there ah, there again this man bashly told me as one proof of his knowledge that even tonight, this night that I have been him to meet me aunt one will not be at home that he may stay away all together to avoid my questioning that he will certainly disappoint me for the sake of this girl with whom he has an engagement how, then? Pierre was silent for a moment a troubled look puckered his face then a keen sudden gleam of surprise and intelligence seemed to shoot across it you said supper at nine, did you not? he said quietly yes, the nights are dark make it ten, nevertheless agreed, but why and what is there working in your brain to breathe never mind, monsieur but lend me one or two three sovereigns Pierre, you are extravagant what can you want with them there will be no company your dress is good enough there will be master aunt one perhaps a lady but that I cannot tell there may even be two ladies Pierre, it is e-desting said Durmer turning pale and with an angry glance do you remember what day it is? good heaven master forgive me I had quite another thought than of the day pardon me a thousand times pardon me I could cut out my thoughtless tongue and yet believe me I meant never mind what I meant they had reached the passage leading to Dubres' queer little oak panel drum and as the door was open both the old men entered Durmer walking up to the mantelpiece and feeling about there with some old china cups and other little ornaments with which it was adorned turned with its face to the wall was a small trumpery frame containing as it seemed some common looking picture and quite absently and as though he scarcely knew the old man placed his fingers on it to turn it face outwards Anton Durmer gave a low cry and placed his hand upon his companion's arm where did you get this? he said slowly looking his old foreman in the face it is not old it cannot have been painted more than a year and yet as a mere likeness from memory it is wonderful who could have done it not you Pierre that is impossible Dubres had recovered himself you know that I came from Paris he said with his eyes cast down you know too how a picture may be retouched and made to look like new but you are deceiving me this is no retouching it is clumsy of course in accepting the evidence that the face itself must have been beautiful not a good likeness you wonder I can talk so calmly of this poor semblance of the bright fair girl of my Sarah mine although Dubres tell me how you came by this I will tell you tonight muttered the old man you know that I will tell you tonight and tonight I will show you portrait on ivory one that will make you think you see her as you once knew her Pierre a picture I keep among some relics and look at often oftener than you think or anyone in the world could guess goodbye or rather till nine no ten tonight or war when his grandfather had left the house Antoine who was restless unhappy and full of vague surmises sat for some time with his head in his hands and at last only roused himself with an effort it was growing dusk already for Orton had given place to winter and the days were short there was still light enough however for him to see to write a letter in a few lines he told his grandfather that he should be with him at nine o'clock and would then ask him to give him back the confidence that once existed between them or to charge him with a fault that he had committed he felt how vague this was and almost hesitated but he carried the letter to the sitting room nevertheless and opening the door gently advanced towards the table it was a large barely furnished room and yet not without evidence of luxury for at all events of ornament the great card chimney piece was surmounted by a node mirror with scorns containing candles a leather chair was thrown up to the earth on the table itself was a silver standish with writing materials and a tall goblet of a niche and glass while some rare china stood on a cabinet near the window Antoine so rarely entered this room except at night and to bear his grandfather company for an hour or two before bedtime that he involuntarily glanced round it now in the fast-fading twilight in that moment he remarked that the door of the cabinet was unlocked a circumstance so unusual that he went towards it and looked inside to note what might be the reason of such carelessness seeing this silver cup on the shelf he carried it to the window and looked curiously at its contents there was some reason for his doing so in that dim silent room where only its master came daily and the one domestico with an old housekeeper attended to the wants of Dormeur and his grandson and did a little dusting once a week the silver cup had become the receptable of small trinkets of coins and quaint pieces of jewelry it was a common custom for the old man to take it out to the cabinet when his eyes were tied with reading and to turn over these tarnished treasures some of which were in small morocco cases to one of the latter Antoine's attention was directed for it lay open as though it had been hastily placed there and covered with a piece of torn point lace removing this the young man saw a portrait the picture of a face so sweet and eyes so penetrating that he uttered an involuntary cry it was a deeper feeling than mere surprise or admiration that prompted it however his hand trembled as he replaced the miniature after gazing at it with an expression of mingled wonder and terror at that instant Antoine passed crying the first hour after dark and carefully replacing the cup he turned the key in the cabinet door and hurried from the room now all of my story that remains to tell took place in the next three hours after Antoine left the house with a strange sense of wonder and confusion in his mind so I must explain a little the situation of the young man the enmity of bashly it had happened then some months before that bashly being away for a day's holiday Antoine took his place at the scale for it was a slack time and few work people were there to be served he believed he had given out the last gain of silk and had weighed the last bobbin so shutting the slide and putting up the bar he unlocked an inner door and went into the house pausing on the first landing as he frequently did to look thoughtfully over the balustrade and down the well staircase he became aware that one person yet remained quietly seated on the bench below as he uttered some slight exclamation at his own negligence a face was turned upward towards his own a face of such sweet pure gurish beauty that he held his breath to be bent from his searching gaze as indeed it was but not before the plain straw bonnet had fallen backward and left a wealth of sunny hair glowing beneath the light that shone down upon it a confused sense of some picture of an angel upon Jacob's ladder that he had seen in an old family bible came into Antoine's thoughts as he stood and looked but in another moment the girl had replaced her bonnet and with her face bent down sat waiting as before in a minute he was beside her pardon me he said with an involuntary bow I thought everyone had gone what is it that I can do for you there was no embarrassment except that of modesty as she courtesied before him she might have been a young duchess by the frankness with which she met his look I come from Marie Rondeau she said who has brained her foot and cannot walk Mr. Bashly said she might send for the money due to her if she was still lame your name is then he inquired pausing for her to fill up the question by her answer Sarah Rondeau she said simply it is for my aunt that I come I live with my aunt and Bashly does he has he visited you to bring you money already the lad felt a short jealous pang but knew not what it was he has been to measure our work but not to bring money my aunt comes here herself but Bashly had been there and the image of this young girl had roused his sordid fancy is it a wonder that he soon began to hate his young master Antoine felt the warm blood in his face as he wrapped a paper the few shillings that were due do not come again on such an errand he said I will call and see if your aunt is better and will if necessary bring some more money myself there is little need to say that Antoine kept his promise that Mary Bashly little Marie Rondeau how unlike her niece she was to be sure was in a constant tremor when the little wicked gate over garden she looking through the lead encasement of the upper room saw the young master coming along the little path with its two rows of oyster shells dividing it from the gay plots of ghillie flowers, double stocks and sweet williams she trembled too for the peace of the fair girl who had too soon learned to know his footstep and to flush with pleasure at his approach already trouble seemed to threaten them for Bashly had warned her and in a course insolent way had said he meant to be Sarah's sweetheart himself or they might seek work elsewhere one night when Antoine entered the garden he was surprised to find old Pierre Dobry there you must come no more yet if you would spare this child from sorrow he said after talking long and earnestly your new foreman watches you and already hints to your grandfather that you are engaged in some mean intrigue you bring evil where I would have you do good master Antoine come no more I entreat you and Sarah does she wish that also said the young fellow Redding I have never spoken a word to her that could not be said before her aunt why do you interpose Peter Dobry excuse me the aunt is my cousin the child my ward and I know your grandfather well for a month you must not come but trust me and give me your word and all may yet go well so it was a month since Antoine had been to the little house in Betnell Green and in all that slack time neither Sarah nor her aunt had been to the warehouse for work or money but on that night Antoine was to suck with his grandfather the month's probation was at an end even had it not been he would have felt that he must break his promise for on that very morning as he stood at the door after the warehouse had been opened a boy ran up and placed a note in his hand a mere slip of paper on which was scrolled will you never come again SR his sensitive nature was shocked at such summons and for the first time he had a sharp pang of doubt whether he was not to be awakened from a foolish dream it was with a heavy heart that he bent his steps along the narrow tangle of streets that lay between his house and the edge of a great piece of waste ground known as Hairstreet Fields and even had he been less preoccupied he might not have noticed but there were two men who kept close to him in the shadows of the houses and walked as noiselessly as cats and with the same stealthy tread Mrs. Rondour was sitting in her lower room suing by the light of a weaver's oil lamp which hung from a string farsen to the mantelpiece the place was very bare fewer the little ornaments that usually decorate even a poor home remained her woman's eyes were red with recent crying the loom in the upper part of the house was empty and so was the cupboard or very nearly so there goes the quarter she said as she heard the chiming of a distant clock I wish I had gone myself instead of sending the poor child what would Peter say if he knew and what would that old rich say if he knew how I wish she would come even if she came back without the money the night had set in gloomily enough as Sarah Rondour went quickly through the now almost deserted streets on her way to a dim shop where three golden balls hung to an iron bracket at the door to show that a pawnbroker's business was carried on within it was not the first visit she had made to this establishment for the poor little household ornaments the loss of which had left her home so bleak and bare were now in the safekeeping of the proprietor but still she shrank back as she approached the dim side entrance in a narrow street and drawing her bonnet closer over her face pushed open a base door and entered a dark passage divided on one side into row of golden partitions she made so little noise and still kept so far back in the pervading gloom that her presence was unnoticed by a shabby looking man was just then engaged in Ernest's conversation with somebody in the next box before she had spoken and while she was yet in the shadow of the partition she thought she recognized the voice of the person who was speaking she had left to listen for a name was mentioned which sent the blood back to her heart and made her feel sick and faint well as long as everything's safe said the pawnbroker's assistant who leaned his elbows on the counter so that his head was close to the partition but where you got a good deal here now you're now and if that thing should be found out a host of find out retorted bashly everything's ready and the risk's mine Aldermere's half child is Ernest of the young one I'll tell you he's safe enough for a week if I like to keep him so heed an appointment to supper with the old man tonight and he won't keep it if he's not on his way now to see the goal he's tied up neck and heels by this time and in a safe place out of harm's way you're too deep in it now to draw back and decide who can swear to raw silk I shall go first and look after the girl they're now mean to call on the old man and send him out on a wild goose chase the rest's easy for I have a key and a light cart at the back of the warehouse will bring the silk here in no time the game is in my hands now and I shall play to win but when the young one tells his question of the story how can he he comes out without knowing where from and if ever he did he's been in an empty house a pretty story now now if the old man believes it he won't face the disgrace for he more than half suspects his grand son as it is come now will you or won't you Sarah Rondau crouching by the door hears this with an undefined fear which paralyzes her for a moment but leaves one thought in her troubled mind some foul plot is hatching against Antoine and she is powerless to hinder it no one thing she can do if only she can creep back unnoticed she will use all her strength to reach Mr. Dormur's house and tell him what she has heard it is a question of minutes walking backward and pressing slowly against the noiseless door she slips out again and like one pursuit begins to run at her utmost speed through the darkened streets end of chapter two part one read by Loche Roulander chapter two part two of Miscrently's Girls Stories She Told Them by Thomas Archer this is a LibriVox recording our LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org reading by Loche Roulander chapter two The Silver Goblet part two and on Dormur sits alone in the grim old house Cook and housekeeper have gone to market for the means of providing supper not a footfall sounds in the street only the wailing voice of the watchman calling the hour at a distance breaks the dead silence amidst which the old man can hear the ticking of the gold repeater in his pocket the tingle of the ashes that stir in the old wide crate where a fire has been lighted and the gnawing of a mouse behind the wainscot he sits with the silver goblet beside him on the table his knees to watch the fire his furrowed face quivering as he bends it down over the miniature he has taken from its case the miniature of his younger daughter dead and now not unforgiven dead and mourned for now with a silent grief that speaks of years of desolation and remorse the light of the shaded lamp falling on the picture in his hands seems to expand its linements the tears that gather in his eyes almost give quivering motion to the face before him a strange emotion masters him his temples seem to throb his hands to shake the sudden sound of a light single knock at the street door sets his nerves ajar the quiet click of the lock a pause of deadest silence and then the light tread of an uncertain foot upon the stairs make him tremble yet he knows not why does not even ask himself the reason there is a lamp outside upon the landing he knows the light of it shines down into the hall and yet he cannot stir towards it what superstition holds him even at the moment that he starts up from his chair the portrait still in his hand his highly strung senses enable him to hear a rustle that sounds quite close and is followed by a low knocking at the door of the room itself in a voice of hope of dreed of fear he knows not what or which he hoarsely cries coming in the mirror above his head he sees the room door partly open and then yes then either to his waking vision or in disordered fancy the living original of the picture stands with pale and earnest face in the upright bar of light in from the landing his daughter not as he had last seen her but with a difference unaccountable if he had had time to think or strength to reason his daughter with the past years rolled back to show her in her youth and yet with poor and scanty dress and long fair hair tossed in confusion on her shoulders when so battered bonnet hung he had no time to note all this at first he only knew that his heart seemed to be going out in some dumb movement towards this apparition that he sank again into his chair that he felt a living hand upon his shoulder saw a frightened face looking into his then his senses came back and he heard the voice speak rapidly and in French with swift steps but without picking his way taking the nearest road rather by habit than by any observation Antoine Dormeur traversed the narrow streets leading to his destination there were so few people abroad that the way was clear enough and yet there were some apprentices or work lads on their way home while in that neighborhood on the edge of Spittlefields a lower colony of petty thieves and receivers kept up the trade of two or three disreputable taverns where dogs, birds and pigeons were exchanged or betted on it may have been in consequence of this taste for pigeon flying that the whole neighborhood resounded with whistles and bird calls men and boys gave each other this shrill greeting as they passed or warned each other by it or used it to express reproach or pleasure hilarity or dismay varying its peculiar note to suit each emotion the Hare Street whistle was as well known an institution there as the jodl is to the Tyrolis peasant it scarcely surprised Antoine therefore as he reached a beer shop the last lighted house before the straggling street opened into a dirty lane leading to the open fields a man who was just emerging from the place gave a low whistle as he turned in the opposite direction and crossed the road had he given the matter a thought he might have hesitated for a moment before plunging into the gloom of the muddy lane or at least might have grasped his walking cane more firmly and looked about him in which case it is just possible he would have seen two shadows that moved in the darkness of the wall some fifty yards behind as it was he did neither the course of his gloomy thoughts was unbroken by so trivial an interruption and continued to be so till he approached a corner where a high ragged fence turned off on the edge of a footpath only a sudden scuffle a matted oath and the grasp of two powerful arms that pinioned his elbows to his side awakened him three men had leaped out from the projecting corner of the fence where a light cart was drawn up and were upon him before he could raise a hand but he was quick and active so that by a sudden turn and trip he bore to the ground the fellow who held him and fell upon him heavily give it him and quick there with a sack cried this worthy as they rolled on the path together another ruffian seized Antoine by the throat a weapon gleamed for his eyes but in that moment a quick patter of feet sounded in the roadway followed by two reports like the sudden breaking of a coconut crack crack the ruffian's body fell heavily against the fence as two shadows the two shadows that had been following Antoine so long danced in the footway whence they had just struck a second of the ruffians through a jagged hole in the fence and left him sticking there till he recovered his senses in a moment the young man felt his arms released and struggled to his feet his late antagonist escaping by a plunge through the fence and a desperate run across the fields where he was followed by a flash and the report of a pistol which failed to stop him oh fired said one of the shadows now visible a light active fellow armed with a knotted cudgel I did mutt replied a voice that Antoine knew as a thin spare old man came from the open space and turned are you hurt my boy he asked tenderly approaching Antoine who stared from one to another in amazement Pierre Pierre Dubry exclaimed the young man you here and these how is all this I will tell you presently said the old pensioner for it was he indeed I expected a trap that I could trust gave him a bodyguard of a couple of weaver lads he said turning to the rescuers you've done your work well boys why we haven't been three years at sea and learned the knack of the press gang for nothing daddy replied one of them grinning but we must be off we end constables you know and there may be trouble about Antoine you shan't be you ride in the cart said Peter we must hasten or your grandfather will be waiting supper he will have to excuse me though come in with you the two shadows leaped lightly up and one of them took the reins stop though he said suddenly this isn't our cart this will be brought in stealing it might be a hanging matter daddy I'm going to take it to the owner if I'm not much mistaken said Peter as he and Antoine scramble in at the back but Pierre Dobry what of Sarah what of your niece I must know if she's in danger and through me I will brave my grandfather's displeasure lose my hope of the fortune for which I care so little I will I must find her you can no more find her than I said the old man one word with your grandfather and then I go to seek her what she has left home then only this evening and for an hour or two but if my hopes do not play me false we shall overtake the scoundrel who detains her and he shall answer for it with my hand at his throat but I will have her back Pierre Dobry was ordinarily a calm rather rosy cheerful hydride old Frenchman quite small and thin and with a very perceptible stoop but Antoine said afterwards that there was a very terrible look in this face just then such a look as may have been born perhaps in the days of terror when he stood in the crowd beneath the guillotine and saw the head of Achille de Farge fall into the sack it was many minutes before old Antoine Dormeur could clear his mental vision or recover his senses sufficiently to determine that the girl who stood beside him touching his shoulder was real flesh and blood but at last with a strong effort he roused himself to listen and only half comprehending her hurried story rose from the chair into which he had fallen and you little one who are you what are you he asked presently without taking his eyes from her face your name is Sarah it must be shall be he exclaimed almost passionately it is said the girl Sarah Rondeau Rondeau Rondeau where have I heard that it is my aunt she is a weaver we work for you monsieur see you not that this monsieur bashley having a spite against us and against monsieur your grandson oh and what are you again said the old man you talk as one of us speaking of monsieur my grandson has he seen you do you know him your mother never saw him she was mon Dieu he is saying he added wildly pray pray delay not said the girl clasping her hands no no I come first to the watch house and then to your house did you say and with a great effort but almost without taking his eyes from the child's face Dormers drove to a closet behind the window and took down a sword which he drew quickly from the scabbard Sarah feared him and retreated to the door what he said does think I'd harm the little one come take my hand tell me how did you get in I found the street door unfastened and knocked but could make no one hear then I came in and listened and there was a light up here and so I came and knocked not knowing what to do but there is someone there now this the servants come back child said Anton but he trod softly for all that and turning about traverse noiselessly the long winding passage that led towards the back of the house at the end of that passage the well staircase sent a cold ray gleam from the skylight in the room but down at the basement where the lobby opened in the yard there was a stronger light the light of a lantern by which a man stood impatiently examining a key and picking it with a pen knife as though it had been clogged I wanted to unlock that closet too he muttered for I would swear he keeps cold there but the cart will be here directly it's rare luck that he should be out and the women too as I barely believe for not a soul is stirring in the kitchen fancy leaving the house alone I was a fool not to take the chance before the sound of wheels aroused him and bashfully for it was he gave a half frightened glance behind him for he had suddenly become conscious that he was talking to himself he looked upwards also as though by some strange instinct and there leaning over the wooden balustrade of the well their faces lighted in the gleam this lantern were Anton Dormeur and Sarah Rondeau looking down upon him he made a dash at the door leading to the yard then suddenly turned and with a desperate oath drew a pistol and fired it from the stairs but his aim was uncertain and the ball went straight upward crashing through the skylight another moment and a door opened a torrent of air rushed up the well and amid shouts and cries and the sound of falling glass bashfully was smitten down and handcuffed between two officers who had been posted in the street according to the instructions that they had received from Peter Dobré the old weaver had not counted on such a success but he had actually driven Angtois home in the very cart carried away the plunder after having conveyed the young man to some place of imprisonment where he might have died before Ed could reach him the first thing that Antoine saw clearly when they had all got in the house again was his grandfather carrying a woman in his arms the old man had darted down the stairs at the moment bashfully fired his pistol but Sarah had fainted poor child she had been long without food and her strength gave way amidst that awful scene arrived at the door of the room the second thing Antoine saw was that this was the very girl whom he had gone out to see as she lay there in the great leather chair with a wan face and closed eyes her keen anguish wrung the lad's heart anguish not unmingled with utter amazement for there bending over her and kissing her hands which he held gently to his breast was the proud old man who had so rarely displayed emotion Antoine covered his face with his hands for his head began to reel so Peter Dobry found him standing outside the half open door when he came panting up why what's the matter boy you're not wounded surely say ask the old foreman anxiously Antoine pointed to the scene within the room and Peter stooped down and peered in well he might Antoine Dormeur was on his knees beside the child moistening her lips with brandy from a teaspoon it was a spoon that had fallen from a dress nothing of that for he found it on the floor without thinking how it came there he spoke in carcing words to her talk to her as men talk to babies touched her forehead with his fingers and took up one of her long fair tresses to press it to his lips presently she sighed heavily and opened her great eyes upon him then flushed to herself further back in the chair and began to cry Pierre Pierre Dobry shouted the old man striding to the door he should be here where is he here I am said Peter suddenly confronting him and drawing Antoine into the room all grime and torn and smirched with mud as he was what is the meaning of that said Old Dormeur glaring into Peter's eyes and laying a grip upon his shoulder that must have left a bruise there the meaning of that is said Peter steadily and looking back with an eye as fierce as his masters the meaning of that is that when nearly 19 years ago I stood under Saint Guillotine and bowed a bow I meant to keep it that when Sarah Dufarch once Sarah Dormeur my loved and lovely mistress joined her husband not by the Guillotine but by a broken heart in a little country lodging at Nochon she left her child that child to the nurse who had been faithful to her to my own good sister Nancy who bringing her to England when she and her husband came to escape the troubles found her here another sister the widow Rondeau childless to whom came as a legacy that same little orphaned one who lies now in her grand sire's chair and Dormeur stood and glared for a moment at the undaunted little old man who had thus kept a secret for 18 years though he had been here in his service but even in his bitter anger came to him the recollection of the stern relentless temper with which he had blotted out his daughter's name from the family record and with a drooping head and tears that fell fast on his furrowed cheeks he went again and knelt beside the girl who now sat looking at them all with wide and wandering eyes Peter Dupri he said presently or send for your sister Rondeau Antoine dear lad go you into the kitchen and see if anyone has come in for we will have supper through all and Sarah Sarah my child my little one you must never leave me more what and are you Monsieur truly my grandfather and Monsieur Antoine your grandson then he is no not my brother what then but I may kiss him said the wandering girl as she stood in the centre of a talking group apart from which stood the lad who still looked at her wistfully enough they broke into a laugh at which she turned red as a rose and with a sudden gesture which shot a pain to the old man's heart for it was that of her mother once again turned away yes but you may kiss him said Antoine gently and leading her to where Antoine stood a cousin's kiss you now have you learnt what that is no I never had a cousin at least Antoine never kissed me she said simply and held up her sweet face to the young man who bent and touched it with his lips I do not think I need to say any more but that is the story of the silver goblet said our governess as she rang the bell for the strawberries and cream on the following evening the weather was so close and lowering that we had to remain indoors it was one of those heavy days which sometimes occur in the summer months when the whole atmosphere appears to be one low hanging cloud enveloping everything in a kind of dark grey mist that is only now and then pierced with red rays and drops upon the distant fields in a straw coloured vapor the effect of the sunlight behind the atmosphere of mist what a dim inviting evening said Miss Grantley as we stood at the window looking out at the garden where the roses seemed to droop heavy headed in the moisture laden air and the song of the birds was hushed or only an occasional chirp was heard as one of two thrushes flashed from amidst the plum trees or a martin tweeted beneath the eaves what a dim evening it almost reminds one of a London fog not a black fog but a jello one such as one sees in the city sometimes on late autumn afternoon or an evening in February oh do tell us a story about London Miss Grantley you must know ever so much of the streets and places there or how could you have learnt so easily about spittle fields and all that beside you lived in London haven't you well yes I was in London for more than two years and near the city too and I think I must have spent too much time in wondering about some of the quaint old streets and lanes where there are rare old churches and halls belonging to city companies and ancient houses that once belonged to noblemen of the court of King James and King Charles but are now used for counting houses and warehouses such of them as are not pulled down at least I made some odd acquaintances too and a kind old couple who were caretakers at one of the smaller city halls used to ask me to take tea with them for the old gentleman had known my great uncle Joseph who was an East India merchant and belonged to the company that used to meet in the hall I think the old gentleman said he had been the master but at any rate his portrait was on the wall along with many others and he was so like my dear father that I stood and cried and often wished I could take the portrait itself away but that of course was impossible here Miss Grantley became silent and we could see tears shining in her eyes till Annie Browers who was standing near her gently took her in her arms and kissed her on the cheek and without saying a word held her round the waist well resumed our governess smiling and pressing Annie's hand I was going to say that the old gentleman had kept a kind of diary or great memorandum book in which he had written oh in such neat stiffy stokey kind of hand all kinds of things that had happened among his friends and acquaintances for many years he used to read it to me sometimes and once when I had to stay there in the little cozy parlor for a whole winter evening because of a down poor old rain he asked me if I should mind his reading to me a little story that he had written about a very strange occurrence to an old friend of his who lived in just such another lane near just such another old hole in the city he said that he felt like Robinson Crusoe sometimes except that his wife was there with him in that quiet island of bricks and mortar and like Robinson Crusoe he had learned to put his narratives upon paper in quite a remarkable way so that if I didn't mind listening he would read me a bit of a romance that was as true as anything I should be likely to get out of the circulating libraries I said of course that I should like it very much and so while his wife sat on one side of the fire knitting and I was half lost in a great leather easy chair on the other side the old gentleman took a bundle of papers out of a drawer in the bookcase and read me the story that I'm now going to read to you for as I was very much interested in it he was so pleased that he made me a low bow and handed me the paper neatly folded and tied with a bit of red tape he said it would be something to remember I came by when I went away from London end of chapter 2 part 2 read by Lorsch Rolander