 Chapter 3 of Miscrantless 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 3 A Baby's Hand People who know the city of London and like to wander up and down the streets, soon learn to leave the broad and more modern thoroughfares, and to plunge into the silence and seclusion of the queer byways, which lie away from the great roaring sea of traffic, like the caves and shallows that skirt some great ocean-bay. Amongst these retired spots none are more suggestive than the old church yards, all blurred and dim with London smoke, but yet in which a few trees yearly put forth green leaves of little promise, and a choir of sooty sparrows chirp around the queer old steeples, or purge impudently upon the leaden ornaments, which adorn the sacred porch. In these places, which even in summer are well like in their cool impenetrable shade, there is no little business going on, however, for all round the rusty iron railing, which encloses the weed-entangled graveyard, the houses of city merchants seem to crowd and hustle for space. And if they had any time for it, the clerks behind those dust-blinded windows might spend an hour non-unprofitably in looking down upon the decaying monuments of departed citizens and meditating at once on the uncertainty of human affairs, and the benefits of life-assurance. Amongst the dozen or so of such places illustrating the brick-and-mortar history of the city, none are more suggestive than the church and yard of St. Simon's Swinherd, which lying in the circumventibus of a lane named after the same saint, forms, as it were, a sort of outlying island upon whose quiet shores the unconscious wayfarer, being sometimes lost or cast away, can hear the humming surges of the Great Sea as they boom in the thoroughfares beyond. There is no alteration in this place from year to year, except such differences as are brought about by the change of seasons. No civic improvements troubles its sedate gloom. No adventure speculator regards it as a promising sight for building blocks or offices. No railway company casts an evil eye upon its seclusion within the area formed by the church and the tall-dim houses which have mouldered into uniform neutrality of colour. Even the march of time seems to have been arrested amidst the decay of the place, since the bell of the church clock rusted from its bearings, and the index of the old sundial fell a prey to accumulated canker. The spring brings a few green buds and feeble leaves upon the grimy trees. The summer serves to accumulate the store of dust and torn paper and shreds of light rubbish, which the autumn wind swirls into neglected corners, on the dim evenings when the rain's weeps on the blackened windows, and the mist creeps up to the steeple in long ghostly shapes. The winter brings a frozen cyclone, which whistles round and round or gently covers the graveyard with snow. The unbroken whiteness of which is gradually spotted and interlaced with sooty flakes, as though the genius of the place resented the intrusion and would make no further compromise than half-morning. The dimest, darkest and dirtiest of all the houses round the yard was that of Richard Drys and Company, Factors and General Merchants. It was never known who was the Company, for Richard Drys managed his own business and lived in the house in one of the back rooms of which, overlooking, a square paved courtyard he had been born. The business belonged to his father before him, and he himself had married into the business of another factor and General Merchant. His wife had died some twenty years before the period of this story, died in giving birth to a boy who was sometimes mistaken for the Company, but who at present occupied no better position than that of a superior clerk, with a questionable advantage of living with his father in the dull old house, where he had to go through the warehouse amidst innumerable bails and crates and packages to reach the staircase that conducted him to the gloomy rooms, the old-fashioned furniture of which suited his father, but was sorely against his own taste. How he should have come to have an opinion of his own is perhaps a mystery, for he resembled his mother, who was a simple creature, easily influenced, and with all her tastes apparently molded on the pattern set before her by her husband. Still, however, it may have been, though he was born in the gloomy house and was subject to the same influences, the younger Dries, whose name was Robert, never too kindly to the dull routine to which his father's habits doomed him. He was too dutiful and too mild in disposition, in fact too unlike his own father, to offer any direct opposition to it, or to complain very often of its exactions. But he felt that at twenty he was kept with too tight a hand, and that there were worlds beyond St. Simon's winard, which might be harmlessly explored. Richard Dries was, however, not a bad man, not a cruel or hard man in his inmost heart, but he had been himself devoted from early life to one condition of things, which were in some strange way in accordance with his natural constitution, or with which he had become identified till they grew into a necessary part of his existence. He was a self-contained man, an undemonstrative man, whose mind was attuned to respectable solitude, and who, without being a misanthrope, regarded his fellow creatures through a ground-glass medium, which made them seem shadowy and unapproachable. A few business acquaintances he had, with whom he would sometimes take his chop and glass of old port at a city tavern of an evening. He would even, on rare occasions, go to the length of smoking a cigar in company with one or two of his less distant companions. But his laugh was like the harsh echo of a disused violin, and he seldom or never invited anybody to see him at home. One of the people whom he disliked most said that he was a buttoned-up man, and Richard Dryce could never forgive him, the description was so true. One of his most intimate friends, an alderman of congenial temperament, who had greatly distinguished himself by quarrelling and exchanging ver-toperative epithets with another alderman on the magisterial bench, seriously advised him to become a candidate for civic honors. But he strenuously refused, although he ultimately permitted his son Robert to achieve something like independency by becoming a liveryman of the worshipful company of twiddlers, whose hall stood within the precincts of St. Seaman Swinard. It was only on the occasion of one of their dinners that Robert was allowed to be out after ten o'clock. But that restriction did not prevent his spending the larger number of his evenings between eight o'clock and ten at the twiddler's hall, which moldy old structure, with its great cold lonely dining room and awkward polygonal ante-rooms decorated with portraits of deceased dignitaries, held an attraction not to be found elsewhere in the person of pretty Agnes Reinkliff, the only daughter of the company's speedl. For six months they had been under the sweet illusion that disinterested defection must eventually win for itself a way to union. But old Mr. Reinkliff had spoken seriously to them and altogether forbade their further meeting until Robert had spoken to his father. He went home that very night and, nerve to a sort of desperation, did speak to his father, ending with the usual declarations that his choice was unalterable. Perhaps it was, but whether or not, Richard Rice went the very way to make it so when he laughed that discordant laugh, and with a taunt against his son's weakness of purpose and his dependent position, told him to dismiss such a scheming little hussy from his thoughts, for he was to marry when he had permission, which would never be granted to such a match as the beetle wanted to bring about. Robert left his father's presence without a word, but in a week from that date he had followed Agnes down into the country with her she had been sent out of the way. When he returned he wrote a letter to his father to say that they were married. It is easy to guess what followed. When he called for an answer to his communication, he received a brief note saying that he was discarded from that hour. He'd never trouble himself to enter the doors of the old house again, and that henceforth he must look to his own exertions for the means of living. This letter was sent by the hand of a sort of managing clerk, one Jaggers, who was at the same time commissioned to tell Robert that he could if he choose obtain a situation in a house at Liverpool, where his father's interest was sufficient to secure him a clerkship at a very moderate salary. Now it so happened that Jaggers had always appeared to be the best friend young Robert ever had. He had sympathized with him on the subject of his father's harshness, had applauded his noble sentiments when he had imparted the secret of his engagement to Agnes, had wished that he was master of the establishment in St. Simon's Jard, that justice might be done to disinterested virtue, and had generally assumed the part of guide, philosopher and friend tempered by humble deference to the young man. It was arranged between them, therefore, that after a time during which Robert should accept the situation at Liverpool, a more successful appeal might be made to dry's senior, and that a letter addressed to him should be sent undercover to Jaggers would lay it on his table. Robert and his young wife went away, leaving this good-natured fellow to watch their interests. A year passed, and the letter had been written, but remained unanswered. Indeed, according to Jaggers's showing, Richard Drys was more inveterate than ever, and was unapproachable on the subject of his undutiful son, in pleading whose cause he, Jaggers had very nearly obtained his own dismissal. The firm in which Robert was a clerk became bankrupt in the commercial crisis, and he was thrown out of employment. Again he wrote to his father, saying that he had an appointment offered him in Australia, and only wanted the money to pay his passage. He received no reply, but some people who knew him in Liverpool made up the sum, and his wife came to London to live with her father, who was now superannuated in favour of a new beetle, and to wait for his return and for the remittance that was to come by the first male that she might join him there. Their first child, a girl, had been a poor, sickly little creature and was dead, but Angus was likely again to become a mother, and waited anxiously for the money which would enable her to prepare for such an event. Anxiously, as she waited, it never came, and Jaggers, to whom it was to have been directed, advanced her a sovereign, as he said, out of his small means, and then lost sight of her, for she and her father had moved into other lodgings where the managing clerk could scarcely trouble himself to go, unless he had good news to take with him. Indeed he had so much to occupy his attention that some months had elapsed since he had seen Angus. Once only he had written a short reply to a note imploring him to say whether any remittance had arrived, but how could he spare time to tend to such matters when Mr. Dries was every week taking a less active part in the business, and the Christmas quarter was stealing on with the balance sheet not even thought of in the press of country orders. Mr. Richard Dries was still hail and active, but those who knew him best thought that he was breaking. His voice was less harsh, his hair had turned from iron grey to white, and in his face there was an anxious look as of one who waits for something that does not come. Once or twice old acquaintances ventured to ask after his son, but he shook his head and said that he knew nothing of him. He had written to his last address but had received no reply. It was cold dull wintry weather and the old man looked so solitary that one or two tried to rally him and even asked him to come and dine or spend the evening with him, to which he responded by his old harsh laugh and putting on his worsted gloves trudged home through the snow. One morning he awoke early almost before daylight had penetrated the dull rooms where he lived, and had a sudden fancy to walk into the church. It was already daylight in the streets but the interior of St. Simon's Swinherd was dimmed with mist and with the obscurity of the high windows. He could only just see the pillars and the organ where his own name had been painted in gilt letters since the time that he had been church warden and helped to restore it. Even as he looked up at it, the notes of the Christmas hymn came trembling into the chill morning air, for the organist had come there to practice and expected the parish school children to come in to sing at a morning service. To most people there might have been nothing in the place or its associations to evoke much gentle feeling, but as the tones of the organ swelled and the music grew louder, old Richard Dry sat down in the corner of his own pew and leaned his head upon the book board with his hands clasped before his face. Not till the worn tears had trickled from between his fingers did he raise his head, and then it was to look round him to the cushion at the other end of the pew, for from someplace near him he thought he had heard a sound that was out of all harmony with the organ, but not altogether apart from the associations of the Christmas hymn, the wailing of a child. Another moment and he was bending over a bundle seemingly composed of a coarse blow-cloak, but from which there presently came out a baby-hand, and the covering once pulled aside a little round rosy face in which a pair of large blue eyes were wide awake in the utter astonishment. Who can tell what had been the thought-specy in old Dry's mind? Was it prayer? Was it that journey which finds no words of entreaty, but yet ardently and humbly implores all vaguely that a crooked path of former errors may be straight at last, that the rough places of a mistaken course may become divinely plain? He could not tell, and yet in some way he accepted this child as a visible answer to a petition that he had meant to frame. When the organist and the sextoness came down presently and with indignant virtue advised the removal of the child to the workhouse, he regarded their suggestions as little less than empires, and expressed his determination of taking the little one home with him. His old housekeeper and the younger servants were not a little surprised to see the merchant come home with such a companion. But Mr. Dry's was mastering his own house, and the little guest was fed. Then Dr. Banks was sent for, and he declared that it would be necessary to provide a nurse, while as luck would have it, he had that very morning been sent for to see a casual applicant for relief at the junior workhouse, a woman who had just lost a child. Temporarily she might do well enough, and Dr. Banks wanted to get home to dinner, so away went the housekeeper in a cab with a letter from the doctor. And in two hours came back bringing with her a pale pretty young woman whose name was Jane Harris, and who, her husband having gone abroad and left her with a child which she had just lost, was reduced to ply at the workhouse. She was so timid and had at first such a scared look that Mr. Dry's had much trouble to induce her to stay. But it was quite wonderful the way in which the child took to her, and so a room was got ready for them both, and she was comfortably settled, almost as the housekeeper said, as if she was a lady, though for the matter of that Dr. Banks knew more about her than he said. And at any rate Dr. Banks said the next day after he had a little conversation with a new nurse that she was thoroughly trustworthy, and that he himself had known her father, who once held a very respectable position in the city. So Mrs. Harris became an inmate at the dim old house, and a charge throw under her care. He was a bonny boy, and every day's little baby ways became of so great interest to the lonely old man, that he was never happy after business hours until he had the little fellow in the room. He never stayed at his old tavern now for more than half an hour beyond the time it took him to eat his dinner, and even went so far as to tell two or three of his friends what he had done, and invite them home to see the child, in whom they being themselves fathers of families, they could see nothing extraordinary, and wondered amongst themselves that old Rice's strange infatuation. When the boy at last grew able to crawl about, and even to walk from chair to chair, he seemed to have so grown to the old man's heart, that Rice became subject to a kind of transformation. As though the violin had been laid near the fire, and played upon gently, a dozen old and forgotten picture books was disinterred from some books, and toys strewed the floor of the dingy sitting-room. At about this time Mrs. Harris was for a week or more strangely agitated by a letter which was brought to her one morning, and came as she said from her husband, who had been for some time in Australia. Upon her recovery, Mr. Rice inquired a little into her husband's circumstances, and hearing that he was endeavouring to establish an agency in Sydney, wrote a letter requesting him to make some inquiries about a house to which Rice and Company had made large consignments, but whose promised remittance had not duly arrived. The old man had other matters to occupy him, however, for with something like a resumption of his old vigor and his business habits, he had called for his books, for he had some serious losses lately, and began to think it necessary to give more personal attention to the current accounts. Still every day he had his little pet into the room to play about his knees, and indeed refused to part with him even when nurse Harris came to put him to bed, often making her stay, and take some wine or consulting her as to some future provisions for a little charge, for whom she seemed to have even more affection than the old gentleman himself. It was late one evening that he sat talking to her in this way, but still with a rather absent manner, for his heavy ledgers and cash books lay beside him on the table. She would have taken the child away, but Mr. Rice told her to let him remain, and at the same time asked her to step down into the counting house, and if Mr. Jaggers had not left for the night to ask him to come up. Now Mr. Jaggers had so seldom been invited to come upstairs that although he of course knew of the adoption of the little foundling, he had never seen the nurse, but that was scarcely any reason for her stopping on her way downstairs and pressing her hand to her side with a sudden spasm of fear. She got down at last, however, and opening the two doors which led to the passage at the end of which was the private counting house, stood there in the shadow and looked in. Mr. Jaggers was busy at his desk, tearing up papers, some of which already blazed upon the earth. The desk itself was open, and by the light of the shaded lamp, she could see that it contained a heavily bound box in which hung a bunch of keys. As she delivered Mr. Dries's message, still in the shadow of the door, he looked up with a scared face and dropping the lid of the desk with a loud slam, peered into the darkness. Mrs. Harris repeated her message and returned swiftly up the stairs, nor stopped even to go in for the child, but shut herself into her own room. Somehow or other Mr. Jaggers felt a cold perspiration break out all over him, and yet he needs scarcely have been cold, for he already had his great coat on, and there was a decent fire in the great burning behind a guard. Still he shivered, and after taking the lamp, and once more looking into the entry, gave a deep sigh of relief, and in a half absent manner locked the both box and desk, and carefully placed the keys in a breast pocket. Leaving the lamp still burning, he went upstairs and found Mr. Dries alone, sitting at the table where the books opened before him. He looked up as his clerk entered. Take a seat, Jaggers, he said. I shall want you for an hour or more, for there are several things here that require explanation. Mr. Jaggers turned pale, but he took off his coat and laid it along with his hat on the great horse-hair sofa, at the other end of the room. Then both he and his employer plunged into figures till the chimes of a distant clock sounded nine. We must finish this the day after tomorrow, Jaggers, said Mr. Dries. I won't keep you longer. Mr. Jaggers put on his coat and hat and laid his employer good night, and he had no sooner left the room than Mrs. Harris came in to fetch the little one, for as she said, it was already past his bedtime. Richard Dries fell into his chair, and was as near having a fit as ever he had been in his life. Good heavens, Mrs. Harris, you don't mean to say you haven't got the boy. He's not here. Run and see whether he has gone into Betsy's room. She runs away with him sometimes. Mama said asleep a little voice under the sofa, and Mr. Dries and the nurse were both on their knees in a moment. They're precious, why if he hasn't been asleep all the time, said Mr. Dries, kissing the warm, rosy cheek. Take him off to bed directly, and bring him down to breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Harris only just escaped meeting Jaggers on the stairs, up which she was coming followed by Betsy with a flaring tallow candle, and looking carefully on every stair. I beg your pardon, sir, he said with a scared look as he opened the room door, but have you seen my keys anywhere? I must have dropped them somewhere in the room, I think. Now, replied Mr. Dries, I've seen nothing, most extraordinary, he said to himself, thinking of the child and forgetting Jaggers. It is, sir, very extraordinary, said the clerk, groping on the floor and patting the carpet with his hands. I know I had them when I came up here, and I can't open my desk where I keep my money. Oh, never mind, Jaggers, said Dries sleepily. Here are a couple of sovereigns, if we find the keys you can have them tomorrow, and if not we will have a new lock. Come, good night, I'll come down and bolt the office door after you. Jaggers entreated his employer not to take so much trouble, and delayed so long that the old gentleman began to grow a little impatient. At last he got rid of him by giving him permission to come early on the following morning, when, if his keys were not discovered by the servant in sweeping, he might pick the lock. Mr. Dries was in a brown study sitting looking at the fire and sipping a glass of hot negus when Mrs. Harris knocked at the door. Excuse me, sir, but have you missed your keys? Hang the keys, said Mr. Dries absently. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harris, sit down a moment. I was thinking what I could buy our little fellow for a present. But these keys, sir, I took them out of the bosom of baby's frock when I undressed him. How he got them, I can't tell. Mr. Dries took the keys in his hand and looked at them mechanically. Then he started and singled out one particular key, held it near the light, at the same time comparing it with one of a bunch which he took from his own pocket. He had turned stern and pale. I want you to come downstairs with me, Mrs. Harris, he said. These are the keys Mr. Jaggers has lost, and I'm afraid I shall want a policeman. First the door of the great iron safe let into the wall. Mr. Dries knew that it was a cunningly made lock and thought that no key but his would open it. It opened easily with Jaggers' key, however, and from the lower drawer was missing all the property which in those days were often kept in such places. Bills, gold and notes to the value of £4,500. With feverish haste the old man unlocked the desk and the brass bound box within it. The latter contained all the missing property evidently placed there for immediate removal. In the disk were found bills, letters and correspondence, a glance at which disclosed a long system of fraud and speculation. Above all amongst the loose papers were the letters that Robert sent to his father and those which had been written by himself in repentance of the harsh parting which he had brought about with his lost sum. While they were both looking with mute astonishment at this evidence of Jaggers' villainy, there came a low knocking at the door and two men entered one of them a broad brown-bearded man in a half sea-faring dress, the other a policeman. A clerk of yours named Jaggers said the latter, I want to know whether he has robbed you or if you have reason to suspect him. This party has given him in custody on another charge. There was a loud scream and Mrs. Harris fell into the arms of the stranger who had taken her aside to whisper to her. She is my wife, said he to Mr. Dries. I am the person to whom you wrote and I have brought the remittance with me from Australia. They all went upstairs together except the policeman whose question was answered by a recital of the events of the night and the present of a sovereign. Bring down the boy and let me look at his dear little face, said old Dries when they were sitting round the fire. The child was brought down tenderly and still asleep. God bless him, said the bearded stranger. He is not like either of us, Aggie. Like either of you, said Mr. Dries, surprised. How should he be like your husband, Mrs. Harris? Don't you know me, sir, said the stranger, taking Mr. Dries' hand and sitting in the firelight. My name is Robert Dries and this is my child whose mother left it to the mercy of heaven and found that it had reached its natural home. Forgive us, sir, for our child's sake. Old Dries was a shrewd man but he took an hour to make him understand it all. Events had come about so strangely. Well, said Robert at last, I am glad you were in time to save the money. Confound the money, ejaculated the old man. At least too much of it, he added, correcting himself. This baby's hand has unlocked more treasures for me than all the bank of England could count on a summer's day. Oh, I shouldn't like to live in London always, said Kate Bell, whose father was one of the large mill owners at Barton. I've been up twice with Papa, you know, but we lived in a great square where we could hear the noise of the cabs all night and of the carts and wagons as soon as daylight came. And then there are such crowds of people in the streets and if you walk, you are pushed about so and if you ride, you can't see anything except from an open carriage. Except the theatre where I went twice and the zoological gardens and the crystal palace and Hyde Park where everybody goes before dinner, there's nothing to care for. Nothing to care for, exclaimed Annie Powers, why the streets and the old historical buildings, Westminster Abbey, the picture galleries, the great solemn churches with monuments of poets and warriors and the constant life and movement and change must be grand if one only could stay long enough to get over the feeling that you are only sightseeing. To be part of it all and to be able to go about quietly and live in it, looking and thinking and making one's own pictures and one's own romances of it would be delightful for six months in the year. I often think it would be grand to spend a summer day in the middle of one of the bridges, Westminster or London Bridge and watch the boats on the river and the tide of people coming and going and see the clouds and the sunshine change the colour of the stream and the outlines of the great buildings and then go back just at dark and see the same scene by moonlight with everything transformed and solemn and listen to the rush of the tide and watch the lights twinkling on wards and on board boats and barges and the moon on the great lovely buildings of Westminster and the dome of St. Paul's in the distance. That is what I should like to do. I used to think very much as you do, Annie, when I was last in London, said Miss Scrantley. But then I had very little opportunity of going to theatres or other amusements for I had no one to take me except in a family party and had to make the most of the pleasure that is to be found in the wonderful aspects of the great city itself. Of course it is only possible for a poor unprotected creature to see a part of the greatest capital in the world and so when I went to explore the bridges or any other neighbourhood after dusk I took an escort and one who knew London so well that he was able to say where I ought and where I ought not to go. A policeman, was it, Miss Scrantley? said Kate Bell. Oh dear no! Policemen have no time to go out as escorts to young or middle aged ladies said our governess laughing. My cavalier was a boy who worked at a printing office. His mother was a very respectable woman who lived in a tidy house in a very quiet street where she let two furnished rooms while I was studying to pass two examinations. I had been staying with old friends of my dear father for they did not desert me altogether though I was only a governess. Indeed they gave me two larger shares of the amusements and sightseeing which take up so much time so that I was obliged to bid them goodbye for a good while and restrict my visits to Sundays or one evening a week. I think my landlady who was a widow had her cook but at all events she was a good motherly woman and her boy of fourteen was always ready for an excursion when he came home from work. At first I was obliged to repress his sense of being a sort of champion and once when a bigger and very dirty boy who had a dog in a string splashed my dress with mud and nearly threw me down I had to go home again because my young friend gave him battle and he came out of the fray with his collar so rumpled his best cap so crushed and his face so smudged that it was a dearly bought victory but he was an excellent boy and an apt pupil for I used to give him easy lessons in French and Mathematics sometimes so that when I left he was able to attend an advanced class at an evening college in the city. He had the sentiment of a gentleman too though he was a printer's boy and was always called Bob he never talked to me unless I spoke to him first or he had to give me some direction or tell me which way we were going and in the great thoroughfares he would walk either just in front or at a little distance so that no one would have known we were companions I used to remonstrate with him sometimes for it made me feel that I was selfish and discortuous to have him to guide or follow me without acknowledgement but he always replied that people couldn't talk in the noise of the streets and that what I came out for was to see London or to look at shop windows or to see how places looked after dark or to get a walk and some fresh air on London or Blackfriars Bridge and to be able to fancy all manner of things to have somebody that knew all about London to keep me from being run over or pickpotted or inferred with by anybody never had a lady a more devoted squire and I really believe he used to read up the history and anecdotes of some of the churches and public buildings that he might be able to have something to say when I insisted on talking to him as we strolled quietly along the less crowded thoroughfares especially those around St. Paul's and the Royal Exchange where the city is nearly deserted after the hours of business Well, Miss Grantley and it is about this very grievous boy that you are going to tell us a story asked Sarah Joring who was often rather abrupt and impertinent For a moment the shaft of light seemed to dart from those expressive eyes upon the questioner but the instantaneous gleam of surprise and annoyance passed into a smile I would never willingly forget or be ashamed to speak of true service and real courtesy, she said I should we most of us would feel some satisfaction in acknowledging the politeness shown to us by a Duke or an Earl even though to be scrupulously courteous should be regarded as duties and custom belonging to their station To have received true and delicate consideration from a printer's boy is therefore more remarkable and to speak of it with grateful recollection is only just My own want of courtesy, however led me to forget that we seldom feel much enthusiastic about the attentions that are bestowed on other people We were all silent for a moment for there was a rebuke even in the gentle tone which the words were uttered but presently Annie Bowers said Did you ever know an actor, Miss Grantley? Well, I cannot say I never met an actor replied our governess and yet it was not in London but at the village near which I lived when I was at home with my dear father whose house and grants were not far off and whose pew in the church had belonged to his family from time immemorial Oh, do let us hear something about that then we said Well, replied our governess that shall be the story for tomorrow evening the story of a stranger from London who visited our village End of Chapter 3 read by Lars Rolander Chapter 4 of Miss Grantley's Girls and the stories she told them by Thomas Archer 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 4 A Stranger from London How it was that we began seriously to consider the expediency of organising penny readings in the school room attached to the quaint old square-towered church at Chuton Cuddly I haven't the remotest idea I fancy it must have been Mr. Pettifer, the curate who suggested it after he had been to preach for a friend of his in London I know that he was much impressed by what the congregation of Sanctua Nergis his friends church were doing and that there was a noticeable difference in his delivery when he read the lessons after his visit We all observed it and some of the old fashioned people thought that he was going to intone to which there was a strong objection but his efforts not carrying him beyond a peculiar rising inflection towards the middle of a verse and a remarkable lingering fall into deep bass at the end We soon regarded it as a price worthy attempt to give variety to his previous vapid utterances and came rather to like it as it gave the church somewhat of a cathedral flavour The old pew opener and sextoness said that to hear him publish the bands was almost as good as listening to the marriage service itself The truth is that we had few changes of any kind at Chuton It had ceased to be a market town when the new line of railway took the three coaches of the road and opened a branch to Noxby and though the trades fork contrived to keep their shops open they did a very quiet business indeed There was nothing actively speculative about the place and the motto of the town was slow and sure From the two maiden ladies the Mrs. Twitwald who kept the circulating library and soul stationery and Berlin wool to the brewer who owned half the beer shops or the landlord of the Georgian gate who kept a select stud of saddle horses and had promoted the tradesmen's club Nobody was ever seen in a hurry Not even the doctor who had come to take old Mr. Vericos practice and was quite a young man from the hospitals He began by bustling about and walking as though he was out for a wager and speaking as though he expected people to do things in a minute but he soon got over that Forks at Chuton Cuddly had a way of looking with a slow placid immovable stare at anybody who showed unseemly haze If they were told to be quick or to look sharp they would leave what they were about to gaze with a cow-like serenity at the disturber It was quite a lesson in placidity even to watch a farm labourer or a workman sit on a gate or a cart shaft to eat a slice of bread and cheese Each bite was only taken after a deliberate investigation of the sides and edges of the hunch and was slowly masticated during a peculiar ruminating survey of surrounding objects The possessor of a clasp knife never closed it with a click and if any adult person had been seen to run along the high street public attention would have been aroused by the event The vicar was really the most active person in the town and though he had lived there in the quaint ivy-covered for twenty years and had been constantly among his parishioners he had the same bright pleasant and yet grave smile the same quick easy step the same lively way with children and old women the same impatient toleration of daudlers as had distinguished him on his first coming He had been a famous cricketer at college and one of the first things he did was to form a cricket club but he always said the batsman waited to watch the ball knock down the wicket and the fielder stood staring into space when they ought to have made a catch This was his fun, of course and the cricket club flourished in a sedate slow bowling sort away So did the penny bank and the evening school and the sewing class for he was well loved boss or vicar of his offering such a contrast to the larger number of his flock He was a bachelor and his sister kept house for him a quiet middle aged lady a little older than himself and more accomplished than most of the chute and ladies were not only in music and needlework but in the matter of pickles puddings, preserves and domestic medicine about which she and the doctor had many pleasant discussions as he declared she was the best friend he had since her herb tea and electuaries made people fancy they were ill enough to send for him to complete their cure that the wicker should have remained unmarried for so many years had almost ceased to be a topic for speculation for it had somehow become known that some great sorrow had befallen him years before and it was supposed that he had been crossed in love though to give them credit there were unmarried ladies of the congregation who never could and never would believe that a young man such as he must have been could have spoken in vain to any well-regulated young person possessed of a heart they came to the conclusion therefore that he never told his love and as he had certainly never told it to them only a few of his more intimate friends knew that the shadow which had fallen on the life so those two kindly beings at the vicarage was the early marriage of a younger sister with some adventurer who had taken her away from the home to which she never had been returned only occasional tidings were received of her for she was seldom to be found at any stated address and was travelling with her husband from one poor lodging to another in the large towns where they had sometimes sought for her in vain but the vicar was no killjoy he entered with hearty goodwill into the scheme for weekly penny readings and delivered an address at the preliminary meeting in which he eluded with a slight touch of humor to the capabilities of Mr. Binks the Saddler to sing a famous comic song and a rasbo the baker who had once tried his hand at an original Christmas Carol he even called upon the ladies and we were all of us rather shocked at the time to bring their music and as a piano had actually been hired from somewhere and stood on the platform he called upon his sister for a song there and then and she actually we were surprised sang one of those old English ballads to hear which we had regarded as the sole privilege of the select few who were invited to take tea at the vicarage at the sewing meetings which we had associated with the name of Dorcas the widow we should have soon have thought of seeing Dorcas herself at a sewing machine as the vicar's sister and she sang very well and the applause at the back of the room was uproarious so it was when the vicar himself followed with the McCaulis lay of Horatius though of course it was only intended for the front rows for how could the tradespeople and the laborers understand it more to their taste was the performance of Mr. Binks who was with difficulty persuaded to sit on the platform where after fixing his eye on the remote corner of the ceiling he began by giving himself a circular twist on his chair and moving his arms as though he were gently whipping a horse started with a prolonged and then stopped coughed, cogitated and gathering courage from the ceiling started again with a more emphatic run and went on to describe in song how some person of that name took whiskey punch every day for his lunch the landlord of the George who was about the middle of the room shook his head in a deprecating manner at this and we ladies in the front row were saddened but the vicar laughed the brewer led off a round of applause with the farmers the doctor grinned with the dust from the floor made them sneeze and when Jerry Stead Ghost stood by the bed post with an imitation of the Irish brooch which everybody admitted was singularly like the real thing Mr. Binks had risen in public estimation and his name was put down on the committee the baker was scarcely so successful for he could remember nothing but the Christmas Carol by which he had risen and as it contained some slight but obvious illusions to rasples French rolls and cellulans with a distant but rhyming reference to rich plum cake and current buns a few disrespectful eaculations were heard from some unruly boys on the side benches and the recitation ended in some confusion and suppressed chuckling on the part of the farmers and their wives was persuaded to attempt one or more melodies and selected young love once 12 with a singularly wiry accompaniment and this having restored complete decorum the curate came forward in a surprising manner and astonished us by that change in voice and delivery to which references already been made he had chosen Eugene Aaron's dream as his recitation and the tone in which he announced the title was as Mrs. Maltover said like cold water running down your back every breath was held every eyes started as he told us it was frame of summer tame an evening calm and keyhole whenever four and twenty happy bass came trooping out of the score the boys shifted uneasily on their seats their master looked anxious as though something personal was coming and when the drama reached its height we timid once in front were feigned to pinch each other in a stress of nervous excitement the tragic conclusion was marked by a simultaneous low long agricultural whistle wish the duty as a sigh and the audience first stared into each other's faces and then gave a roar of applause amidst which the wicker announced that the penny readings were established from that night that books containing suitable pieces for recitation could be obtained at the circulating library and that practice nights for efficient members would be held on Wednesday evenings but everybody went away impressed with Mr. Pettyfer's determination of dramatic power that comes with a playhouse mark me if it don't said Farmer Shorter as he buttoned his coat forked out go up to London for nothing and cures spin to the tragedy that's where he's been the first meeting of our penny reading society gave a decided tone to our subsequent proceedings but we had made such slow progress and there was still some difficulty with the readers to meet the audible remarks the half concealed mirth and even the exaggerated applause of their audiences when the wicker one evening announced his intention of leaving Chuten for a fortnight on a visit to London and coming back in time to prepare a grand entertainment at the school room in a few days the wicker returned and told his sister to have the guests room got ready to meet the original gentleman from London to visit him in a day or two it was on the Wednesday that the idlers about the old coachyard of the Georgian gate woke up from their usual expressionless stare at things in general to notice a stranger who came along at a brisk rate carrying a small portmanteau and looking sharply and with a quick penetrating glance at them and the sign where he called for a glass of ale and inquired his way to the vicarage he was a well-knit active man of about forty-five with dark glossy hair just beginning to gray a dark short moustache shaven cheeks and chin with a blue tinge where the beard and whiskers would have been and he wore well-fitting but rather shabby clothes which scarcely seemed to be bordering on his right hand and a huge pressed pin in his satin stock these were the remarks some of us made about him when he appeared on the low platform at our penny reading the next evening and was introduced by the vicar as my friend Mr. Walter de Montfort a gentleman connected with a dramatic profession in London who has consented to favour us with the reading and to contribute to our improvement a good many of us thought we had never heard reading or rather recitation till that evening there was such a keen bright intense look in the man's face such a rich flexible sonorous role in his voice such a conscious appropriateness in his rather exaggerated gestures that when he commenced with what I have since learnt was a peculiarly stagey expression the poem of King Robert of Sicily and the angel and began to tell us how King Robert of Sicily dreamt his wonderful dream we were all eye and ear and when he had concluded people looked at each other and gasped who was he an actor a manager of a theatre a great tragedian how did the vicar first know him how long was he going to stay what theatre did he perform at all these questions were asked among ourselves and to some of them we obtained answers at the next Dorcas meeting which was held at the vicarage Mr. de Montfort was not a regular actor now he had been but he now taught elocution and deportment and had been introduced to the vicar by a brother clergyman in London much interested in the junior of church and stage his credentials were undoubted but it was feared he was poor of his ability everybody spoke highly and he was so accomplished that the vicar had invited him to stay for several days but he had told them he must be in London for he was a widower with one little child who was at school but would be waiting for him to fetch her home for her one week's holiday in the jeer it was evident that the vicar's guest had created a very favourable impression on us all for though Mrs. Marchwald looked at us rather hard and then pursed up her lips and looked steadily at the vicar's sister evidently meaning to disconcert that lady with some indication of the thought that was in all our minds we'd rather resented the rudeness and murmuring in chorus that it was evident that Mr. Dimond IV was quite a gentleman which is just what he is not said the lady who bore Mrs. Marchwald's deprecatory stare with a most complete indifference he is not quite a gentleman and my brother the vicar knows that very well but he is a clever amusing man and his reading will help on the society on the whole though I think it's quite as well he should leave before long for I am certain idling about in Chuton will do him no good especially as he has already kept us up late two nights because the deputation came to ask him to be a visitor at the tradesmen's club at the George further discussion of the merits or demerits of the gentleman was prevented by his entering the room along with the vicar who told us he had prevailed on Mr. Dimond IV to take tea with us and to read us something from Shakespeare while we were at work Mr. Dimond IV took tea and talked unceasingly of London of its streets, shops, people, trades and amusements he described to us the stage of a theatre and told us all about how a play was performed and how the actors came on and went off opening the door between the parlor and the drawing room and hanging it with table covers to represent the front of the stage he recited Hamlet and King Liar and we all left off work to look at him and when he wound up with the performance of Le Gère Dumin and brought a vase that had previously been on the mantelpiece out of Mrs. Marchpole's work bag and took eggs from a pillowcase and took four reels of cotton out of Miss Baileys' chignon we didn't know whether to scream or to laugh but we all agreed that he was the most entertaining person we had ever met or were likely to meet again Mr. Dimond IV had grown more familiar to the Chute and Cuddly people by that time he had only been with them a few days and yet he had a dozen imitations the wicker had evidently taken an accountable liking to him there were even people who went so far as to say we should hear him read the lessons in church if he were to stay over another Sunday he had been to two more penny readings and had held an extra night for instructing some of the members in the art of Elocution only three people seemed rather doubtful as to their opinion of the visitor one of these was the wicker's sister she said nothing slighting but it was evident that she mistrusted him a little another was Mr. Pettifer and his coolness to the stranger was set down to jealousy especially when he fired up on the subject of the probable reading of the lessons the third was Mr. Femme, the doctor but he only grinned and said he thought he remembered having heard Dimond IV recite under another name when he was a student at Guy's Hospital and used to go to a hall of harmony in the Walworth Road it's dreadful to hear a doctor talk so said Mrs. Marchbold these young medical men have no reverence but the visitor showed such remarkable good humor and was so very entertaining and was so sedate and respectful to all the ladies that I fancy there was something said about his bringing his little daughter down to Chuten for the holidays Mr. Binks would have taken Dimond IV off the wicker's hands in a minute Raspall was heard to interrupt that he had a nice warm spare room over the bake house doing nothing and our principal butcher Mr. Claude declared boldly that a man like that who could amuse any company and was fit for any company was worth his meet anywhere at holiday time but we had all heard that Mr. Dimond IV was about to leave he had received an invitation from the land lord of the Georgian gate count a sign by the members of the club to spend the last evening with them and they had even gone so far as to wish that the wicker himself if they might make so bold would condescend to look in for an hour this request of course could not be complied with and the guest was about to send a polite refusal reluctantly it must be confessed but the wicker readily excused him the town's folk naturally wanted to have him among them again for an evening and he could return about eleven for a glass of hot spiced elder wine before going to bed the wicker had put his hand on Dimond IV's shoulder as he said this and was looking at him in his kind, genial way when his visitor looked up and said to himself there was such a remarkable expression in his face that the good person afterwards said he should never forget it but it passed and with a smile which was half trustful half sorrowful the actor turned away well then if you think I ought to go I'll say yes I'll say yes I'll say yes I'll say yes he replied but I had thought to spend the last night here with you I shan't have done work much before ten myself said the wicker for I must see about the beef and bread for the pensioners and there are the cakes for the school treat and no end of things so we'll meet at a late supper don't stay to the club pies and sausages but get back in time for hours there is no need to say don't drink too much of the Georgian gate ale and brandy for you never take much of either so far as I know it was a special evening at the Georgian gate and every member of the club who could leave his shop was there by eight o'clock the low ceiling but handsome parlor was all bright and tidy and the plate stood on the sideboard ready for supper two noble punch bowls graced the table and a number of long church warden pipes supported the large brass coffer filled with tobacco which opened only by some cunning mechanism set in motion by dropping a hapeny in a slit at the top Mr. Bing swast in the chair Claude the butcher sat opposite a great fragrance of spice and lemon peel pervaded the place it only needed a speech to commence the proceedings and Mr. Bing's was equal to the occasion it was a hearty welcome to their visitor he responded with a few words and a recitation there was a song and another toast and then the accomplished visitor played on the Georgian gate fiddle in a manner that astonished everybody played it behind his back over his head under his arm between his knees with a bow in his mouth then he showed a few tricks with the cards spun plates passed coins and watches into space and sung a song with a violin accompaniment the evening was in his honor and he opened his whole repertoire of accomplishments time passed quickly the waiters were at the door with the table cloths ready to lay for supper Mr. Claude proposed the health of the bicker they all rose to do it honor and called upon de Montfort to reply he had his glass in his hand just touching it with his lips I wish he said and then he stopped I wish I could say what I would do to deserve that he should call me his friend but it can never be they wondered what he would say next there was such a strange look in his eyes they were about to ask him what he meant when everybody there was startled by a sudden cry in the street a sudden cry and an uproar that penetrated to the in-yard the cry of fire and the trampling of feet they were all out in a minute de Montfort first and without his hat it is your place Rustball as I'm a living sinner said Claude forcing himself to the front and commencing to run don't say so, don't say so cried the baker for my missus is up at the school making the cakes and the man's down below setting the batch and my little best is in bed this hour and more oh help, help, where is that engine but the key of the engine house had to be found and the wretched old thing had to be wheeled out and the hose attached and righted and before all this could be done the flame which seemed to have begun at the back of Rustball's shop had burst through the shutters and was already lapping the outer wall it was an old fashioned house with a high rickety portico over the door and a tall narrow window a good way above it at this window where the flicker of the flame was reflected through the smoke that was now pouring out and blackening the old woodwork a glimpse of a child's face had been seen and Rustball was already in the roadway ringing his hands and calling for a ladder we must get her down from the top of that there portico cried Claude but I'm too heavy here we'll jump atop of my back and so try to clamber up stand away there shouted a strong deep voice and almost before they could move aside a man shot past them like a catapult and with one bound had reached the carved cornice of the portico with his right hand the whole structure quivered but in another moment he had drawn himself up with the ease of a practised acrobat and was standing on the top it was dim on four the window was still far above him and the glare within showed that the fire had reached the room but a gutter ran down the wall to the leading roof of the portico and he was seen through the smoke to clasp it by a rusty projection and to draw his chin on a level with a sill to cling to the sill itself with his arm and elbow and with one tremendous effort to sit there amidst the smoke and to force the sash upward they had scarcely had time to cry out that he had entered the room when he was out again pursued by the flame that now roared from the open space but with something under his arm somebody had brought out a large blanket and four men were holding it the engine was just beginning to play feebly where it wasn't wanted and a short ladder had been borrowed from somewhere he dropped a little heavily from the window but was on his feet when they called to him to let the child fall and a chair went up as he seemed to gather up his strength and tossed his living burden from him so that it cleared the edge of the woodwork and was caught and placed in her father's arms jump! jump for your life! they cried for the wretched portico had begun to sway and every lip turned white it was too late he had stooped to swing himself off when the whole thing fell in ruin and he in the midst of it covered with a heavy lead and woodwork and the stone and bricks that had come down with it a score of strong and willing hands lifted the wreck away piecemeal and under the direction of the doctor got him out and placed him on a hurdle made soft with blankets and straw he was insensible but his face and head were uninjured for he was found lying with his arms protecting both carefully they bore him to the vicarage the vicar following and his sister already at the door with everything ready it was nearly an hour before the sad group of men stood outside anxiously waiting heard that he was so seriously injured that his life was in danger and that he was still unconscious Raspal was crying more for the accident than for his injured house which was still smoldering though the engine had at last put out the fire his child was safe but he felt almost guilty for rejoicing that her life had been spared Vinks and Claude sat patiently on the fence opposite the vicarage talking in low tones at last the vicar came out to them and told them to go home the patient would not be left for a moment in the morning he would let them know if there was any change there was a change but only after long efforts to restore consciousness and the vicar himself sat by the injured man's bedside with something in his hand upon which his tears fell as he looked at it by the light of the shaded lamp when the month four had been carried in and placed upon the bed the doctor had asked to be allowed to undress him without help as it required a practised hand and for a moment the vicar left the room to bring up some restorative and the bandages which had been sent for to the surgery he had turned into the dining room when to his surprise the doctor came quickly but softly downstairs entered the room and gently closed the door do you feel that you could bear another great shock just now he said in a curious tone he said in a curious tone taking hold of the vicar's wrist as he spoke yes, I think you can your nerves are pretty firm what do you mean? is he dead? no but I have undressed him and under his shirt near his heart found something which I think you ought to see I may be mistaken but I seldom miss observing a likeness especially once in my life and he held out a locket attached to silk and cord and holding a likeness the vicar trembled as he stretched out his hand for it some prevision of the truth had already flashed upon him and as he carried the trinket to the candle above the mantelpiece he leaned heavily against the wall and groaned as though he had been smitten with the vicar's hand and the vicar's hand and the vicar's hand and the vicar's hand a man like that could scarcely have been cruel to woman at all events said the doctor in a low but emphatic tone poverty is not the worst of human ills and even occasional want if it be not too prolonged is indurable more enjoyable than brutal neglect This poor fellow was going home to his child, I think. The wicker clasped the young man's hand, and bent his noble grey head upon his shoulder. "'Take my thanks, my dear friend,' he said with a sob, "'you have recalled me to myself. He was my sister's husband.' As the wicker sat by the bedside that night, watching, watching, the injured man moved and tried to raise himself, but fell back with a heavy sigh. The good parson was bending over him in a moment. "'Shall I fetch the doctor again?' he asked. "'No, I must speak to you now, alone.' It was nearly an hour before the wicker went to the stair-head and called for his sister and the doctor to come up. We never heard quite what took place, what was the conversation between the wicker and his guest. But the next day the wicker went to London, and before the week was out a plain funeral went from the wickerage to the old church-charge, and the curate conducting the burial service had to stop with his handkerchief to his eyes, for in the church clad in deep mourning was a little girl, whose silent sobbing was only hushed when the aunt, whom she had but just found, took her in her arms and pressed the little pale face to her bosom. Nobody knew what the name was on the locket, for it was replaced where it so long had rested, and was buried when the heart beneath it had ceased to beat. But the name afterwards carved on the tome stone was not de Montfort. "'I don't think I shall be able to collect my wits enough to tell a story this evening,' said our governess, as we sat at tea on the Thursday evening. For I have had a long letter to answer and to think over. But I fancied you like my story about the baby's hand, and so, if you please, I'll read you another from a little black-covered manuscript-book which my old friend gave me. He said it was a story about a very near friend and school-fellow of his, and was one of the most pathetic and affecting histories that he had ever known. I don't suppose you'll think so, still it is rather affecting though it is only a tale of disappointment in love. But then it was a love that lasted for a lifetime, and survived death. End of Chapter 4, read by Lash Rolander. Chapter 5 of Miss Grantless 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 Lash Rolander. Chapter 5, The Story of a Bookworm Yes, she is dead, and on her snow-strung grave I left a bunch of winter flowers but yesterday. Ah, me! I never go and wander in that dingy churchyard where the sound of the great roaring cities hushed to sleepy murmur, but I seem to leave half my poor life there. Would that I could leave it all? I sometimes think, and that when the sexton comes to bring the keys of the church on a Sunday morning, he should find the mere body of me lying there, my head leaning on the stone that bears her name, not his name, her name, her one dear name by which I called her last of all. But these are ill thoughts, and as the poet says, this way madness lies. Let me get to my books, there is comfort and companionship in them. And yet I have held my finger in this page till the light is gone, and it's too dark to read. I suppose I was meant for a bookworm, and yet I didn't like school. At all events I didn't like the free grammar school of St. Bothwin by church, to which I had the privilege of being elected, when my poor father was clerk of the company, and lived in the old hall till he bought this little house in Hoxton. Ah, me, how I seem to see the old black open wainscot of the courtroom, and the little parlor where the firelight danced in deep crimson flecks and pools in the polished floor and the shadowy panels. How I can remember going in after dark in winter evenings and sitting there, a lonely, motherless boy, and seeming to be lost in some mysterious way to the outside world, as I poured over tales of old romance, and when I grew older traced the origin of some quaint custom in one of the heavy leather-bound volumes that filled the narrow-cramp bookcase of the clerk's office. In the midst of my dreaming one thing was real to me, and I suppose it was a part of my queer character that was said to be fancy in other young men, was the one fact of my life. I MEAN LOVE. Apart from the daily routine of the office which often became mechanical, so that I could pursue it and think of other things even while it was going on, I had no true life in the present, that is to say no strongly conscious life of my own, apart from the region of imagination, except when I was sitting in the deep-ole, eschewed ashen bay window of the hall, looking out upon the old shaded courtyard, where the sunlight darting amidst the spreading plain trees flicked and checkered the marble pavement, and the little card fountain trilled and rippled till it incited the canary hanging in its gilded cage to break into song that drowned its splashing murmur, and silenced the sparrow's twittering about the heavy woodwork of the old porch. That was my real world, because there was one figure, one face that held me to it, as though by a spell that I could not and never sought to break, I scarcely remember the time I did not love her. She never suspected, as I sat watching her at work, of reading to her on those summer evenings, that my heart was ready to break out into words of passionate entreaty. She had been so used to see me sitting there, or to run with me round the little paved courtyard, or the old dingy grass-plot in the midst of its prim gravel walks at the side of the hall, that I had become an ordinary association of her life. I had left school while she was still learning of a governess, who came four times a week to teach her, for her father was a man of more consideration than mine. But Mary was motherless as I was. Our mothers had been dear friends in their schoolgirl days and afterwards. And our father were old acquaintances. And so it came about that I was often at the hall for the week, round after office hours, and that I seemed to belong as much to the place as the old, fat, weasy, brown spaniel that stood upon the broad stone-step, and welcomed me with tail and tongue. But while I remained as it were stationary, an old-fashioned boy, an older-fashioned youth, an antiquated man, she altered. Occasionally when I went to see her, she had gone out visiting, and I was left to dream away the evening in the old window waiting for her return, or, if I knew which way she came, loitering in the street in case she should be unattended by the maid, was usually sent to meet or to fetch her when her father did not go himself. It was on one of these evenings that I suddenly understood what was the cause of the undefinable change that I had noticed in her manner some time before. In the previous week the company had held a court dinner, and that was the evening when the alderman introduced his son. My son the captain, as he called him, a captain by purchase, and with the right to wear a brilliant uniform and long moustaches, a chuckle-painted fellow for all his scarlet coat and clanking heels, but with a bullying, insolent air. When the feast was over and the guests were preparing to go, it was time for me to go too, for I had been late helping to make up some of the accounts in the office, and after taking my hat off the hook in the passage, turned to the old sitting-room to look for Mary, that I might say, good-night. It was beyond her time for being about, especially on the court-nights, but to my surprise as I opened the door, she was standing there with the captain, who was holding her hand. He had no business there, and she knew it. The other diners were already coming down the stairs at the end of the passage. He must have stolen down quickly, and she must have been waiting for him. This all passed through my mind in a moment as I stood looking at him, such an ugly layer upon his face as he bent over her hand, that I had to plunge my fingers till the blood started in the nails to keep down my rising wrath. "'Halla, who is this?' he said as he turned with a swagger, but without dropping her hand. "'Oh, Richard, I thought you'd gone home long ago. It's only friend of my father's, and he's so near-sighted I suppose he did not see anybody here,' she replied in a flutter. "'Confound it, little manners,' said the captain, staring at me. I was dumb, and my limbs seemed to be rigid. "'Is he deaf, too?' asked the captain with a grin. "'Confound it, little manners, really.' "'You welcome to the little there are,' I blurted out. "'You have none of your own, Mary. Shall I take you to your father?' She pushed away my outstretched hand and hurried from the room, and he went out also after bestowing upon me an oath which I could hear him repeat as he sought his hat and cloak in the hall. I stood there without a word. My heart had seemed to drop within me as a coal fire burnt to ashes fall together in a grate. The warmth that kept it alive had gone out suddenly, but it smoldered yet, and when I went to meet her a few evenings afterwards, I had determined to gather courage and speak to her once for all. I walked mechanically through the streets between the hall and Doctor's Commons, where she had gone on a visit, and was just turning by the old garden beyond the Protector's College, when I heard voices close to me, and looking up saw her walking with him, clinging to his arm, looking into his face. I hesitated for a moment, and they saw me. "'Good night,' said she in a formal voice as she clutched his arm tighter, and they both passed on. So all was over. It was many weeks before I went again to see her father. It might have been many more. I think I should never have gone again, but for my own father saying to me, "'Dick, my son, I can see and feel for you, but bear up. You are no boy now, you know. And I had set my heart on it too, so had our old friend. He wants you to go and see him, Dick, to help him make up his quarterly account as you used to do. Perhaps she'll tire of this pop-in-jay, and when she comes to her senses, "'Oh, when he deserts her,' I interrupted bitterly. The dear old man said no more, but pressed my hand, his other hand upon my shoulder. "'Go and see our old friend,' he repeated presently. I went, taking care to avoid the familiar sitting-room, and to go only to the office. There her father sat, looking strangely worn and anxious, but he rose to greet me. He was pleased to see me. I could see that by the smile that brought something of the old look back upon his face. But his voice shook as he told me that at the first rumor of active service, the pompous alderman had bought the captain off, and that now he had all his time to dangle after Mary. "'It had broken him,' he said. He was not the man he had been. His accounts confused him, and his cash balance was short. He was going that very night to see an old cousin, to ask if she would take charge of Mary for a while, and if I would only once more look through the books while he was gone, perhaps I might put them right. It was a cold night near Christmas, and there was a bright fire in the office, which seemed to light the room with a ruddy glow that quite paled the flame of the shaded lamp upon the writing table. All was so still that the ticking of the old clock upon a bracket seemed to grow into an emphatic beat upon my ear, quickened with nervous pain. But I sat down and was soon immersed in my accustomed drudgery of figures, so that when I had taken out sundry balances, and checked the totals with the sum of money in gold and silver that lay upon the table in a leather bag, I had ceased to note how the night wore on, and after tying up the cash and placing it inside the secretary, of which I turned the key, I sat down before the fire in a high-backed old leather chair, and began to think or dream, no matter which. Above the high-card manor was a little round old-fashioned mirror, and as I lay back in the chair my pearl-blind eyes were fixed upon it, as it reflected the mingled gleams of lamp and fire. That touched the shining surfaces of the oaken wall or the furniture of the room. My back was to the door, and yet by the sudden passing of a shadow across the glass, I saw that it was being opened stealthily, and all the doors were too heavy and well-hung to make a sound, if only the locks were noiselessly turned. I was so concealed by the great chair, and by the darkness of the corner where I sat beyond the rages of the lamp, that the intruder advanced quickly. He evidently expected to find nobody there, and with scarcely a glance round, he went to the table, peered amongst the books, and then, as though not finding what he sought, turned to the secretary, and with a sudden wrench of the key opened it. I had had time to think what I should do, and as his hand closed on the bag of money, I sprang to the bell beside the fireplace and rang it furiously, then darted across the room and stood with my back to the door. The captain, for it was he, and I had known him by his height and figure, gave a sort of shriek and turned livid as he dropped the bag and came towards me. You hear, he said, it's well that I happen to come in and catch you. Stand back, I cried, or I'll race the neighborhood to see the noble captain who has turned thief. You don't go till the servants at least know who and what you are. You fool, he retorted his face working, it is only your word against mine, and who has the most right here I'd like to know. All this time someone was pushing heavily against the door from the outside, and a woman was whimpering there. I stepped back, still facing him, and flung it open. It was Mary, looking white and wild, and holding a sealed letter in her hand. What is this? Why are you here, Algonon? she asked, turning to the captain. He was here to rob your father of another treasure besides yourself, I said. He is a thief, and I will proclaim him as such. A thief? How dare you, she said, her face all aflame. Do you know you are speaking of my husband? Husband, I cried, husband, and I leaned on a chair for support. Richard, she said, placing the letter on the table, I brought this that I might leave it for my father when he came in. You will see that he has it, will you? Or, if you go before his return, let him find it when he comes. Married, the room swam round as I stood there, dumb and sick, they seemed to swim with it out at the door. When I came to myself, the place was still as death, save for the ticking of the clock, and the click of the failing fire. But there lay the letter. Another moment, as it seemed to me, and her father had let himself in, and I had placed it in his hand. He read it half through before he quite understood what had been enclosed in it, a narrow printed slip of paper. Suddenly he unfolded that, and carried it near the light. Married, he said, well, thank God for that, but, but, married unto him, and he fell forward on the table. He didn't die, people don't mostly die of these shocks. The months went on, the years went on, and though he'd never seen his daughter, nor rightly knew where she was, he heard that her husband had an allowance made him by his father, after his gambling debts had been paid. But the alderman had taken his said clerk into partnership, and there was an end of the captains going into the business. My dear old father died, and left me this house, and his small savings. I seldom went to the hall, though I should have been welcome there. Four times a year I lent a hand with the accounts for the sake of old routine, and stayed to eat a little supper, and drink a glass of the famous clary, or to smoke a pipe with the old gentleman who was failing greatly. His daughter was never mentioned between us, and I supposed he had lost sight of her altogether, when one night he said quite suddenly, Dick, I wish you'd take a letter and a message to marry for me. He hadn't called me Dick for years, and I thought he was dribbling, but he held an open letter into which he was folding some banknotes. You may read it, Dick, they are in London, but she has not been to see me, and she writes for help to tide over some difficulties, she says, till her husband can see his father. She evidently doesn't know that the aldermans it's in the bankruptcy court. Poor dear, poor dear, she is reaping the fruits of her disobedience, and yet she will not come to see me. To her own hand, Dick, to her own hand only, must this letter go. He tells her how in the last resort she may seek my cousin, if she will not come to me before I die. My poor savings, they are but little, Dick, will be in trust for her with my cousin, but she shan't know that from me. Could you take this tomorrow morning, Dick? I could do no less than promise to convey it to her, and the next morning set off to find the house in a rather mean neighborhood, where I found that she and her husband had taken furnished lodgings. A servant girl took up my name, and I was asked to walk upstairs. There upon the landings stood the woman I had not seen since the night she left her father's home, but changed, as years should not have changed her, and with a pleading, anxious look in her scared eyes that was grievous to see. Richard, she said with a faint smile, and holding out her hand, is it you? I commenced the bearer a written message, I replied, but if I can ever do your real service, you know well enough that I should gladly aid you. Thank you, Richard, she said gently, I know it, but my father, he is well, his writing has changed though, it trembles so, and she burst into tears as she went to the landing-window to read the letter. She had but just finished, and was slipping it into the bosom of her dress, when, with a sudden gesture, she said, I dare not stay, I hear him coming up the street, goodbye, goodbye, and take my love to papa, my dear, dear love. Say, I'll write again, or see him, but now go, and take no notice. I went down and should have passed quietly from the house, but a latchkey turned in the street door, and as I tried to go out, the captain stood in the way. I knew him, bloated, shabby, and broken down as he looked, but should have said nothing had he not also recognized me, and turned upon me with an oath wanting to know what I did there. I had heard of their address, I said, and that misfortune had overtaken his father, and had come to see whether I could do anything to help them. Could I lend him a ten-pound note there, and then he asked, with an ugly laugh, and when I said I had no such sum, he broke out again in a torrent of abuse. I would have pushed past him, but he seized me by the arm and swung me round facing him. I still strolled to get away when I heard his wife's imploring voice upon the stairs, and he spoke words that made the little blood that was in me surge swift and hot my face. In a moment I had wrenched myself free, and struck him full on the mouth with my clenched hand. He was cowed for a moment and turned white, but there were two or three people looking on by that time. You miserable old pant alone, he screamed as he made a rush at me. But I had one hand on the knob of the door, and swinging round as though I worked on a pivot, I caught him full between the eyes, and sent him sprawling among the hats and umbrellas that he had knocked down in his fall. Then I closed the door and walked away. The page is turned forever now, I mutter to myself. I cannot even meet her father again, poor old gentleman. He died, he died too soon, but not before I had seen him and held his hand in mine. But she had never been to the old home, and on inquiring at the place where they had lodged, it was believed that they had gone abroad after the death of their two children. So that was the bitter ending, I thought, and all that dead past was to be closed like a page in a book that is read and clasped. Yes, but the book is reopened sometimes, where a sprig of rue has been placed to mark between the leaves. I didn't change, I was long past changing, and I followed my old pursuits, went to my old horns, wore my old clothes, as I do now from day to day. So the jeers went on, until one dreary afternoon in November, one bright and sunny afternoon it might have been for its influence on my dim calendar. I was rummaging one of the boxes of a bookstore in Hallborn, when the keeper of it came out, and put two or three battered volumes among the rest. Instinctively I took one of them up and opened it. A great throb came into my heart and made me real, for it was a prayer-book, and there on the title-page was her name, hers, and in my handwriting, of years and years ago, the prayer-book that I had given her. Dear me, sir, you look faint like, says the dealer. Let me fetch you stool or come in and sit down a bit. Can you tell me, I gasped, where you bought this book, where and when? Where, why here, when, why five minutes ago, along with two or three more of no particular value of a poor little thing that said it was all her mother had to part with. Stop, sir, stop, why there she's coming out of the grocer's shop in this very minute. Run after the old gentleman, James, he'll do himself a mischief, or be run over or something, for I had dashed after the child like a madman, my hat off, the open book in my hand. James had outrun me, though, and was now coming back with a child, a young girl, poorly clad. Oh, so poorly clad, but yet like Mary, my Mary, on the day I wrote that name in the book, still open in my hand. Mary, I gasped. Yes, sir, said the child, I must make haste home, or my mother will have no tea. No, no, I will not dwell on the recollection of that poor room, with its evidences of want, its signs of suffering, nor of all that might have been said and was not. By the bedside of the woman whom I had loved and lost, and who was now passing from the world into the great reality of life, I had few words to speak. The only witness of the promise I made, except the Lord and his angels, was the silent weeping girl, his only remaining child, almost the only words were, Mary, Dick. And the child stood there, clasping her mother's hand, my hand, to be in future my child, and the child of the mother in heaven, and who shall tell but at the resurrection. Ah, I hear her foot upon the stair, her sweet voice singing as she comes, that sweet, sweet voice that one day may be will sing me to sleep. Ah, said Mrs. Parmigun, who had listened to the last two stories without saying a word, but with an expression of wonder. How do you can remember so much about people I can't imagine? But really, my dear, these love stories never do end and accept in the saddest way. Now, if I could only write a tale which I know is, of course, quite impossible, it should be every word of it true, and everybody should be as happy as the day is long. But then you see, dear Mrs. Parmigun, that wouldn't be every word true, said Miss Grantley, with her grave smile. I hope my dear young friends here are mostly happy with me at school, but there are times when we don't feel altogether in harmony, and lessons are not learned, and our tempers get the upper hand, and the sun seems to have gone behind a cloud, and the world turns the wrong way, till the storm lowers and breaks, and then come regret and forbearance, and the stillness, and the gentle shining of the rain. Life is often a rather difficult school, and our education in this world is not completed without trouble, and the discipline of pain, and the finding of strength through weakness, and of truth through error. But come, old lady, I am not to be led into a lecture, especially to a person of your years and experience, so tell me what you mean. Where am I to find a love story, as you call it, that shall be without bittersweet, and come to a bright ending, without going through a dark passage? Well, to tell you the truth, my dear, I was first thinking of my own very happy, but at the same time very commonplace and unromantic married life with Mr. Parmigan, who, as you know, was in the Bank of England, and came home as regularly as the clock struck half past five. But then I was trying to recall what Mrs. Schwartz, the Cooper's wife, was telling you that day when we went into her house, out of the rain after a long walk from Furncite. What, has that pretty, fair round rosy cheek German woman a romance in her life? asked Annie Bowers. I declare I've often thought that there must have been some kind of sentimental recollection in those great dreamy blue eyes. What a fine, strong-looking man her husband is, too. Marian and I have often stood looking into the shed while he has been at work, making tubs and casks, and sometimes we have heard him singing some German song as we walked that way. He speaks English so well, too, but Mrs. Schwartz has a pretty buzzing accent, even the two flaccid-headed children have caught it, and talked in what seems to be a German idiom. Well, would you like me to try to repeat Mrs. Schwartz's story, as she told it to me, said our governess. I must let you know, however, that she and I are very old friends, for I have been to see her over and over again, and she and her children have been here to tea several times in the holidays, her husband fetching them home in the evening. I was selfish in that, for I wanted to refresh my own ear with a German accent, and they both speak well, particularly the Master Cooper, who, like most of his countrymen, was a true journeyman, and travelled all over the country to practice his trade, before he was drafted off to the army to fight in the Franco-German war. Oh, tell us the Schwartz's love story, said Sarah Joring, and try to tell it just as you heard it. It would be so much more sentimental. But not in German, we cried. That wouldn't be fair to give us a German exercise under the pretense of a story. We'll have it in English. Well, you shall have it in something like the original German English, which seems to me very much to resemble real old English, and sounds to my ear more simple and more fit for storytelling than the more modern tongue. You must try to picture to yourself Mrs. Schwartz when she was younger and paler, and wore a round white cap and great silver earrings, and was in fact a slender, rather pale, pretty girl with a plaintive look in her great blue eyes, and a voice soft and low. The story rose from our talking about the fashion of Christmas trees having been adopted in England, and the recollection of the last Christmas tree that she had seen at her old home with her former mistress, post her to say with a deep sigh, So I will call the story, I have lived and loved, and you must try to fancy that Mrs. Schwartz is speaking. End of chapter 5, read by Losch Rolander