Chapter Three.A Ghastly Deed.In Portsmouth harbour the good ship lay,Her cruising ended for many a day,And gathered on deck while receiving their pay,The sailors most thickly were mustered.The Jews on the wharves were all eagerly bentOn supplying poor Jack, while most likely by scent,There were sharks by the scoreOn all parts of the shore.Both he sharks and she sharks enough, ay and more,To devour poor Jack,When they made their attack,And there on the land they all clustered.Only think; from a cruise of four years returned,And paid in clean money! No wonder it burned,And Jack’s canvass pockets were ready to give.But, there: not so ready as Jack who would liveTo the top of his income - the very main truck,And when to the bottom of pocket, why luck,Would never turn backOn poor happy-faced Jack,Who never said dieIn his life. And would tryTo face any storm if his officers spoke,Or the wildest of sights that the hurricane woke.Now Dick Sprit was a sailor,Tight and bold in a gale orA storm. He would cheer in a fight,’Mid the bullets’ flight,And sooner than hear any praise or flattery,Would have run his head in a “Rooshun” battery.Now Dick his pockets had ten times slapped,His fingers snapped, and his trousers clapped;He had thought of his home and the Christmas-time,The long shore days ’mid the frosty rime.He had gone on shore, run the gauntlet well,’Scaped the Jews’ oiled words and the grog-shops’ smell.The night was cold and the way was dark,What mattered when Dick was free of his bark,And with kit on his back, and stick in his fist,His pay in his pocket, and cheek full of twist,He started off for his six miles’ trampTo his native spot, spite of snow or damp.Dick twisted his twist, and he flourished his stick,And vowed he could fourteen footpads lick,For in war or in peace, a scrimmage or sparIs heartily welcome to every tar.The night was cold and the way was dark,And the town lights shone here and there like a spark,As merrily on through the snow Dick tramped,Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped.But what was that when with four years’ pay,And a leave of absence for many a day,With the old folks waiting their boy to meet,Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet,Hurried along o’er the crunching snow,As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow.Some three miles past, and the sailor nowPaused by a hedge where the holly boughGrew thick and dense, and though dim the nightThere were memories many within that sight,For the days of old came hurrying by,And that Christmas past when he said good-bye;While then came the thoughts of years soon sped,Of the distant climes and the blood he’d shed,Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild,Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild.But now once more he was nearing homeAfter his four years’ tiring roam;And with bounding heart how the night he blest,And thought of the coming days of rest.Some three miles past, when his blood was chilledBy a shriek which through every muscle thrilled;He stood for a moment, and then could hearThe sounds of a struggle and trampling near;Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight,While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light.Dick’s feelings were wrought to the highest pitch;His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch,Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak,With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke,When hard by a cottage a lanthorn’s lightCast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight:With gory features and blade in handTwo ruffians stooped and their victim scanned;As over the struggling form they leant,Dick paused no more, but his sapling went,Cut one - cut two on each villain’s head,Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead,And then they fell with a deep drawn groan,While Dick leaned forward on hearing a moan,But suddenly turning, he ran like mad,And breathlessly muttered, “’Twas really too bad.Be blest if he ever did see such a rigAs to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!”And Dick was right, for ’twas really no joke,Though our sailor lad here had no “pig in a poke;”But though courage should merit the best of our praise,There’s a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes’ raysShould be shed on our mind when we think to engage,And not in our hurry go blind in our rage;Discretion should lead us, or else every whit,We may turn out as blind as the sailor - Dick Sprit.
In Portsmouth harbour the good ship lay,Her cruising ended for many a day,And gathered on deck while receiving their pay,The sailors most thickly were mustered.The Jews on the wharves were all eagerly bentOn supplying poor Jack, while most likely by scent,There were sharks by the scoreOn all parts of the shore.Both he sharks and she sharks enough, ay and more,To devour poor Jack,When they made their attack,And there on the land they all clustered.Only think; from a cruise of four years returned,And paid in clean money! No wonder it burned,And Jack’s canvass pockets were ready to give.But, there: not so ready as Jack who would liveTo the top of his income - the very main truck,And when to the bottom of pocket, why luck,Would never turn backOn poor happy-faced Jack,Who never said dieIn his life. And would tryTo face any storm if his officers spoke,Or the wildest of sights that the hurricane woke.Now Dick Sprit was a sailor,Tight and bold in a gale orA storm. He would cheer in a fight,’Mid the bullets’ flight,And sooner than hear any praise or flattery,Would have run his head in a “Rooshun” battery.Now Dick his pockets had ten times slapped,His fingers snapped, and his trousers clapped;He had thought of his home and the Christmas-time,The long shore days ’mid the frosty rime.He had gone on shore, run the gauntlet well,’Scaped the Jews’ oiled words and the grog-shops’ smell.The night was cold and the way was dark,What mattered when Dick was free of his bark,And with kit on his back, and stick in his fist,His pay in his pocket, and cheek full of twist,He started off for his six miles’ trampTo his native spot, spite of snow or damp.Dick twisted his twist, and he flourished his stick,And vowed he could fourteen footpads lick,For in war or in peace, a scrimmage or sparIs heartily welcome to every tar.The night was cold and the way was dark,And the town lights shone here and there like a spark,As merrily on through the snow Dick tramped,Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped.But what was that when with four years’ pay,And a leave of absence for many a day,With the old folks waiting their boy to meet,Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet,Hurried along o’er the crunching snow,As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow.Some three miles past, and the sailor nowPaused by a hedge where the holly boughGrew thick and dense, and though dim the nightThere were memories many within that sight,For the days of old came hurrying by,And that Christmas past when he said good-bye;While then came the thoughts of years soon sped,Of the distant climes and the blood he’d shed,Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild,Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild.But now once more he was nearing homeAfter his four years’ tiring roam;And with bounding heart how the night he blest,And thought of the coming days of rest.Some three miles past, when his blood was chilledBy a shriek which through every muscle thrilled;He stood for a moment, and then could hearThe sounds of a struggle and trampling near;Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight,While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light.Dick’s feelings were wrought to the highest pitch;His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch,Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak,With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke,When hard by a cottage a lanthorn’s lightCast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight:With gory features and blade in handTwo ruffians stooped and their victim scanned;As over the struggling form they leant,Dick paused no more, but his sapling went,Cut one - cut two on each villain’s head,Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead,And then they fell with a deep drawn groan,While Dick leaned forward on hearing a moan,But suddenly turning, he ran like mad,And breathlessly muttered, “’Twas really too bad.Be blest if he ever did see such a rigAs to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!”And Dick was right, for ’twas really no joke,Though our sailor lad here had no “pig in a poke;”But though courage should merit the best of our praise,There’s a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes’ raysShould be shed on our mind when we think to engage,And not in our hurry go blind in our rage;Discretion should lead us, or else every whit,We may turn out as blind as the sailor - Dick Sprit.
In Portsmouth harbour the good ship lay,Her cruising ended for many a day,And gathered on deck while receiving their pay,The sailors most thickly were mustered.The Jews on the wharves were all eagerly bentOn supplying poor Jack, while most likely by scent,There were sharks by the scoreOn all parts of the shore.Both he sharks and she sharks enough, ay and more,To devour poor Jack,When they made their attack,And there on the land they all clustered.Only think; from a cruise of four years returned,And paid in clean money! No wonder it burned,And Jack’s canvass pockets were ready to give.But, there: not so ready as Jack who would liveTo the top of his income - the very main truck,And when to the bottom of pocket, why luck,Would never turn backOn poor happy-faced Jack,Who never said dieIn his life. And would tryTo face any storm if his officers spoke,Or the wildest of sights that the hurricane woke.Now Dick Sprit was a sailor,Tight and bold in a gale orA storm. He would cheer in a fight,’Mid the bullets’ flight,And sooner than hear any praise or flattery,Would have run his head in a “Rooshun” battery.Now Dick his pockets had ten times slapped,His fingers snapped, and his trousers clapped;He had thought of his home and the Christmas-time,The long shore days ’mid the frosty rime.He had gone on shore, run the gauntlet well,’Scaped the Jews’ oiled words and the grog-shops’ smell.The night was cold and the way was dark,What mattered when Dick was free of his bark,And with kit on his back, and stick in his fist,His pay in his pocket, and cheek full of twist,He started off for his six miles’ trampTo his native spot, spite of snow or damp.Dick twisted his twist, and he flourished his stick,And vowed he could fourteen footpads lick,For in war or in peace, a scrimmage or sparIs heartily welcome to every tar.The night was cold and the way was dark,And the town lights shone here and there like a spark,As merrily on through the snow Dick tramped,Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped.But what was that when with four years’ pay,And a leave of absence for many a day,With the old folks waiting their boy to meet,Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet,Hurried along o’er the crunching snow,As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow.Some three miles past, and the sailor nowPaused by a hedge where the holly boughGrew thick and dense, and though dim the nightThere were memories many within that sight,For the days of old came hurrying by,And that Christmas past when he said good-bye;While then came the thoughts of years soon sped,Of the distant climes and the blood he’d shed,Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild,Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild.But now once more he was nearing homeAfter his four years’ tiring roam;And with bounding heart how the night he blest,And thought of the coming days of rest.Some three miles past, when his blood was chilledBy a shriek which through every muscle thrilled;He stood for a moment, and then could hearThe sounds of a struggle and trampling near;Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight,While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light.Dick’s feelings were wrought to the highest pitch;His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch,Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak,With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke,When hard by a cottage a lanthorn’s lightCast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight:With gory features and blade in handTwo ruffians stooped and their victim scanned;As over the struggling form they leant,Dick paused no more, but his sapling went,Cut one - cut two on each villain’s head,Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead,And then they fell with a deep drawn groan,While Dick leaned forward on hearing a moan,But suddenly turning, he ran like mad,And breathlessly muttered, “’Twas really too bad.Be blest if he ever did see such a rigAs to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!”And Dick was right, for ’twas really no joke,Though our sailor lad here had no “pig in a poke;”But though courage should merit the best of our praise,There’s a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes’ raysShould be shed on our mind when we think to engage,And not in our hurry go blind in our rage;Discretion should lead us, or else every whit,We may turn out as blind as the sailor - Dick Sprit.
Chapter Four.Come Back.“Ha-ha-ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach—Shadrach Pratt, light porter at Teman, Sundry, and Sope’s, the wholesale and retail grocers in the City. “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach, stopping, with one foot on the wet pavement and the other in the snowy slush of the kennel, to slap his thigh, and say: “That’s a good ’un, that is—‘What do the Arabs of the desert live on? the sand which is there.’ Thatisa good one, rale grit. Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the little man. “I’ll ask ’em that after dinner to-morrow.”Who’d have thought, to see the little fellow go skipping along through the wet, splashy snow, that there were holes in the sides of his boots, and that one sole had given up the stitches that morning and gone off, being not buried, but suffering the fiery ordeal of burning, curling about upon its funereal pyre as though still alive? Who’d have thought that he had had no dinner this Christmas-eve, and was now off, post-haste, to his home in Bermondsey (pronouncedBummonsey), to get dinner and tea together—a hot meal of bloater and bread-and-butter—with orders to be back in an hour at the latest? for it was busy tide with the firm, and whatever Shadrach’s duty may have been at other times, he was heavy porter now decidedly.Over the bridge, round the corner, down by Tooley Street warehouses, famed for suffering from an ailment that must amongst buildings answer to the Saint Anthony’s fire of the human being; down past sacking, sailcloth, and rope warehouses; and down past marine stores, and miseries enough to give a man an ultramarine tint; and then home in the pleasant and unsalubrious locality of Snow’s Fields. Snow there was in plenty—muddy, slushy snow; but the only field visible was a large field for improvement; but then, as Shadrach said, “How handy for business!”“Here’s father!” was the cry, as the little man rushed in, hugged his wife, and had his legs hugged at the same time; and then he was in the warm place by the tea-tray, toasting his steaming boots, and watching the water being poured into the hissing, hot earthen teapot.“Now, then,” said Mrs Pratt, “they’ve all had their teas; and you’re not to touch them, or give them a scrap. But have you had your dinner?”“No,” said Shadrach; “only stayed my stomach with half a pint of four ale and a hot tater, at one; but I’ve brought a bloat—There, bless my soul! I always did say the tail of your coat is not a safe place, and if I ain’t been setting upon it. What a good job it was a hard-roed ’un. Not hurt a bit. Who’ll toast it?”“Me—me—me!” chorussed some six or seven voices; and then the most substantial-looking of the family was picked out, and she began toasting till the fish began to curl its head and tail together, when the toaster happening to turn her head to watch the distribution of “dog’s bits” (ie scraps of bread-and-butter), the bloater glided from the fork, and had to be picked from the ashes and wiped.But it was not so very gritty when done, and only made Shadrach think about the Arabs and the sandwiches; though, after distributing so many scraps, father’s share of bloater, or grit, was not large; and then up jumped the refreshed head of the family, and prepared for another start.“’Tain’t much, eighteen shillings a week, with a family, is it?” said Shadrach, counting the money out in his wife’s hand; “but, never mind, there’s lots worse off.”Mrs Pratt gave a shrug, as much as to say, “And lots better.” But, smiling again, she told what preparations had been made towards the next day.“There, I can’t stop,” said Shadrach; “you must do it all. Goose, you know! Wait till it’s quite late at Leadenhall, and then you’ll get it cheap. They can’t sell them all out.”Mrs Pratt seemed to think that the goose would make a fearful hole in eighteen shillings.“There’s coals, and grosheries, and vegetables, and bread, and butter; and Ginger’s boots are in a sad state, and—and—”Certainly, Ginger’s boots were in a sad state; but that was not of much consequence, according to the Countess de Noailles; and if she advocated bare feet amidst the aristocracy, she would have little pity for Ginger—domus name of Mr Pratt’s fourth son; for Shadrach was given to nicknaming his children in accordance with the common objects of his life: hence “Ginger,” “Pepper,” and “Spicy” were familiar terms for as many children.“But didn’t I, eh?—the Christmas-box?” said Shadrach, pinching his chin and looking innocent.“Why, an old cheat!” cried Mrs Pratt, rushing to the door, and finding a brown paper parcel resting behind the bulky umbrella upon her clogs; and then, amidst a volley of cheers, bearing it to the table, which was directly surrounded by chairs, climbed upon by an escalading party, and it was only by dint of great presence of mind that Mrs Pratt saved the brown paper citadel by hurriedly opening it, drawing out a pound of raisins, and bribing the attacking party by giving them a plum apiece.“Ta ta! I’m off,” cried Shadrach, with glistening eyes, as he hurried out and banged the door after him; but only to climb on to the window-sill by means of holding on to the water-butt and nearly pulling it over, when he could peep through a hole in the shutter and see his wife hold up to the eyes of the exultant children the Christmas-box regularly given by Teman, Sundry, and Sope to theiremployés. There was a pound of raisins, and a pound of currants, and a ditto brown sugar, a ditto lump, an ounce of spice, and a quarter of a pound of peel; which was the last packet opened, when Shadrach leaped down and hurried away through the dirty street.But it was fine now overhead, and the stars began to twinkle brightly, while the slushy roads were fast growing crisp; but not crisp enough to prevent moisture from creeping through into Shadrach’s boots.“Because they live on the sand which—law!” cried Shadrach, “what a pity we can’t live on sand; what a lot the little ’uns do eat.” And then he stopped short for a minute to hear some street singers spoiling a carol, and heard the reference to a babe in a manger; and then somehow, as he trotted on, Shadrach could not see very clearly for thinking of two lambs lost from his humble fold: one sleeping in its little grave with the pure white snow covering its breast, and the bright stars like angels’ eyes watching it; and the other—“My poor, poor bairn!” sobbed the little man, hurrying along; and then he was elbowing his way through the throng on London Bridge, eager to get back in time.“That’s the worst of music,” said Shadrach; “it allus upsets me. Ah! yah! where are you running to, you young dog?” he cried to a boy who, yelling out “I would I were a bird,” blundered on to the little man’s favourite corn, and made him limp the rest of the way. “Not that sort of music, confound him. Would he was a bird, indeed! Pity he ain’t got his neck wrung for him. Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Shadrach, taking a long breath; “how bracing the wind is off the river! why, I do declare if I couldn’t over posts or anything to-night.”But there was no room for Shadrach to run or over posts, for the streets were thronged with busy, hurrying people. The roadway was crowded too; and everywhere it was plain to see that Christmas was here. It was quite a blessing that some of the laden railway-vans did not break down, for there would have been an absolute block; while, however it was possible for all the presents on the way to get to their destination in time, no one could say. Shops and people, ay, and weather too, all spoke of Christmas: people looked hearty and genial; the shops looked generous; while, though the weather felt cold, it was not a griping, nipping cold, but a warm, dry cold that made the slush hard and firm, and whispered of blazing fires and brave old English comforts.God bless it! I love a Christmas-night; and, when I say a Christmas-night, I mean any night in that jovial, happy tide, when men sink the care and money-hunting to spread enjoyment around; when the hand is open, either for a loving, brotherly pressure, or to aid a poorer brother; or, better still, the fatherless and the widow. The hand open? ay, and the heart too; for there seems to be breathed around a spirit that softens the hard crust, so that it is open to any emotion, be it such as begets mirth or tears. Who can say what it is?—that loving, happy exhilaration that comes over us, and makes a man even kiss his mother-in-law roundly. Why, it’s the very time to get your salary raised, is Christmas; and now the secret is out, I know I shall never be forgiven by the heads of firms, who will be pounds out of pocket in future. Who ever kicked a dog at Christmas; or prosecuted a thief? who ever gave a beggar a penny without a blush for the smallness of the sum? God bless it! though it comes so soon year after year to tell us how by twelve months our span of life is shorter, and that we are nearer to the long sleep. God bless it! and may its genial breath softly waft the incense from every frugal hearth in our land, and rest in love where the poor prepare their humble feast—ay, feast; for the simplest Christmas dinner is a feast sprinkled by the torch of “Christmas Present.” There’s something stirring in the very air, and the bells sound as they do at no other time—they go home to the feelings, and call up from the past the happy emotions planted in our hearts by God; but which a busy life and rude contact with the world have caused to flee away and hide. Back they come though, till, in the wild delight, eyes sparkle, cheeks flush, and hands grasp hands in the fulness of heart to give a squeeze often accompanied by a twinkling eye, where a tear will force its way. Holy—sacred—are those reunions—those family meetings; and sad is it when a seat becomes vacant; but is not that loss a bond to bind those left the tighter, as wishing each other “a merry Christmas,” as I do, they say—“God bless it!”Is there such a thing as a kind of magnetism in life by which spirit whispers to spirit, and by some occult warning we know that those we love are near? Or why should old Shadrach start and shiver as he passed some one in the throng, and then mutter to himself very thoughtfully—“Poor Polly!”But it was a busy night, and what baskets did Shadrach lug about from Gracechurch Street. East, west, north, and south—here, there, and everywhere. Light porter, indeed! why, we won’t insult him. But he didn’t mind, bless you, though he groaned and grunted under his load of Christmas fruit; and there was something merry to say to every servant lass who lightened his basket. Toast and ale, and egg-flip too, were waiting when eleven o’clock struck, and though Mr Sope wanted to keep open another hour, and Sundry said half an hour, old Teman, the head, said “No! regular hours were the thing, and it was not fair to the young men; and that if the Queen herself came from Buckingham Palace and wanted a pound or two of fruit, she should not have it after the shutters were up.”It would have done your heart good to have seen Shadrach rattle up those shutters, as the boy down stairs held them up to the roller ready for him to take.“Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle” went the shutter as he dragged it over the roller, and then “flip-flap-bang,” it was in its place. “Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle” went another, and nearly knocked an old gentleman over, but he only gave a leap, skip, and a jump, and laughed. Two shutters up, and that big, nodding Chinese mandarin with the bare stomach is covered up. “Ter-r-r-r-rattle,” and part of the big China punchbowl covered. “Ter-r-r-r-rattle,” and the whole of it covered. At it again—and the squeezy almond-eyed lady hidden. At it again, nine shutters up. At it again, skipping about as though he had never walked a step that day, but just come fresh out of a lavender-and-clover bed ready for work, after lying by for a rest. “Ter-r-r-r-rattle-bing-bang-bump.” He did it that time: knocked the policeman’s helmet off, and sent it rolling along the pavement.“God bless my soul,” said Shadrach, aghast at such an assault upon the law of the land, but the policeman only laughed, and old Teman only laughed, and called the bobby up to the door, while he fetched him a glass of egg-flip himself, and wished him “A merry Christmas.”“Bang—slap—slip—flap—crack—jangle—jang—jink jonk—jank!” There they are; the twelve shutters up, and both iron bars; screws rammed in, and all tight; and Shadrach not a bit out of breath. Shop closed, and no Queen to beg for a pound or two of fruit and test old Teman’s loyalty, as he ladled out the flip to his dozen men, when, wishing he could have poured his share into his pocket, Shadrach said “Good-night!” and was off homeward.Plenty of people in the streets yet, but London Bridge seemed empty on the west side when Shadrach reached it, and then stopped at the first recess to look over at the rushing river. A bright, calm, light night, with snow lying here and there in patches; here upon pier or barge, there upon roof, and all glittering in the light of the full moon. Lanthorns here and there where vessels were moored, and lamps in lines upon the distant bridges. Frost laying hold of everything; but warmed with exercise and the genial draught, Shadrach felt not the cold, but knelt gazing over at the hurrying tide, and comparing it, perhaps, with his life. But there was something else upon his mind, something that kept bringing a shadow over him, and kept him from hurrying home.At length he stepped down, and walked slowly across the bridge towards the Borough; but then, with a strange, thoughtful, undecided step, he crossed over and sauntered back towards the city again; and at last stood leaning once more over the parapet, gazing at the glittering river, till he started, for the clocks began to strike twelve. There were the faint and distant tones, and the sharp, clear sounds of those at hand, mingled with which came the heavy boom of Saint Paul’s, till the last stroke had fallen upon his ear, when with a half-shudder of cold, Shadrach once more stepped down and commenced with some display of vigour his homeward walk.There was scarcely a soul to be seen now upon the bridge, but as he reached the middle recess, Shadrach paused with a strange, tumultuous beating at his heart, for there, in the same position as that in which he had so lately leant, was the figure of a woman, evidently watching the rushing river.“Could she be meditating self-destruction?” Shadrach thought. “Could he save her? But why should such thoughts come when he had often and often seen women of her class in the same attitude?” he asked himself the question, and could find no answer, except that it was so sad to see a homeless outcast there upon a Christmas-eve.“Poor thing—poor thing!” muttered Shadrach to himself; and then, going up and speaking in a husky voice: “Had you not better go home, my girl?”“What?” cried the girl, angrily; “home? There’s no home for such as I.”“But the night—the cold—and—ah, my God!—Polly!”Shadrach had advanced to the girl, and laid his hand upon her shoulder; when, starting, she turned hastily round and confronted him beneath the lamp; a mutual recognition took place, when, with a bitter cry, the girl darted away, while her father staggered and fell, striking his head violently against the granite seat.But he soon recovered himself, slowly got up, looked hopelessly round at the deserted bridge, and then walked with feeble, uncertain steps in the direction of home.The old Dutch clock upon the wall had given warning that it was about to strike one; the fire was low, and the candle burned with a long snuff, as Shadrach Pratt and his wife sat beside the fire silent and tearful. There was an open Bible upon his lap, and he had been essaying to read, but the print looked blurred and confused; his voice was husky; and more than one tear had dropped upon the page where it said—“I will arise and go to my father,” and again where “his father fell upon his neck and kissed him;” and there was sorrow that night in the humble home.The candle burned down, quivered in the socket, and then went out; the fire sank together again and again with a musical tinkle, and then ceased to give forth its warmth; but through the two round holes in the shutters the bright moonbeams shone, bathing the couple with their light, as slowly they knelt down, and Shadrach repeated some words, stopping long upon that impressive clause—“As we forgive them that trespass against us.”“And you’ll leave the back door unfastened, Mary?” whispered Shadrach.Mrs Pratt nodded.“And forget the past if she should come?”“Ah, me! ah, me! my poor girl!” cried the mother, thoroughly heart-broken, and for the first time since her child forsook her home showing any emotion; “what have we done that we should be her judges?”The moonbeams shone brightly in as the couple rose, and after listening for a moment at the stair foot, Shadrach walked to the back door, opened it, uttered a cry, and then fell upon his knees; for there, upon the cold snow, with her cheek resting upon the threshold, lay the lost one of the flock—cold, pale, and motionless, but with her hands outstretched, and clasped together, as if praying for forgiveness. Stretched upon the cold snow by the door she had stolen from two years before; lying where she had crept, with trembling hands, and quivering, fevered lips, whispering to herself that she would die there, for she dared ask no entrance.Need the story be told of that Christmas-day, and of the joy in that poor man’s home—of the sick one weeping in her mother’s arms—of the welcome given to one the world called lost! I trow not; but let us skip another year, and then stand in the same room, in the same place, and at the same hour, as with a bright light in his humble, ordinary face, Shadrach Pratt, a man not addicted to quoting Scripture, takes his homely wife’s hand, and whispers—“More than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach—Shadrach Pratt, light porter at Teman, Sundry, and Sope’s, the wholesale and retail grocers in the City. “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach, stopping, with one foot on the wet pavement and the other in the snowy slush of the kennel, to slap his thigh, and say: “That’s a good ’un, that is—‘What do the Arabs of the desert live on? the sand which is there.’ Thatisa good one, rale grit. Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the little man. “I’ll ask ’em that after dinner to-morrow.”
Who’d have thought, to see the little fellow go skipping along through the wet, splashy snow, that there were holes in the sides of his boots, and that one sole had given up the stitches that morning and gone off, being not buried, but suffering the fiery ordeal of burning, curling about upon its funereal pyre as though still alive? Who’d have thought that he had had no dinner this Christmas-eve, and was now off, post-haste, to his home in Bermondsey (pronouncedBummonsey), to get dinner and tea together—a hot meal of bloater and bread-and-butter—with orders to be back in an hour at the latest? for it was busy tide with the firm, and whatever Shadrach’s duty may have been at other times, he was heavy porter now decidedly.
Over the bridge, round the corner, down by Tooley Street warehouses, famed for suffering from an ailment that must amongst buildings answer to the Saint Anthony’s fire of the human being; down past sacking, sailcloth, and rope warehouses; and down past marine stores, and miseries enough to give a man an ultramarine tint; and then home in the pleasant and unsalubrious locality of Snow’s Fields. Snow there was in plenty—muddy, slushy snow; but the only field visible was a large field for improvement; but then, as Shadrach said, “How handy for business!”
“Here’s father!” was the cry, as the little man rushed in, hugged his wife, and had his legs hugged at the same time; and then he was in the warm place by the tea-tray, toasting his steaming boots, and watching the water being poured into the hissing, hot earthen teapot.
“Now, then,” said Mrs Pratt, “they’ve all had their teas; and you’re not to touch them, or give them a scrap. But have you had your dinner?”
“No,” said Shadrach; “only stayed my stomach with half a pint of four ale and a hot tater, at one; but I’ve brought a bloat—There, bless my soul! I always did say the tail of your coat is not a safe place, and if I ain’t been setting upon it. What a good job it was a hard-roed ’un. Not hurt a bit. Who’ll toast it?”
“Me—me—me!” chorussed some six or seven voices; and then the most substantial-looking of the family was picked out, and she began toasting till the fish began to curl its head and tail together, when the toaster happening to turn her head to watch the distribution of “dog’s bits” (ie scraps of bread-and-butter), the bloater glided from the fork, and had to be picked from the ashes and wiped.
But it was not so very gritty when done, and only made Shadrach think about the Arabs and the sandwiches; though, after distributing so many scraps, father’s share of bloater, or grit, was not large; and then up jumped the refreshed head of the family, and prepared for another start.
“’Tain’t much, eighteen shillings a week, with a family, is it?” said Shadrach, counting the money out in his wife’s hand; “but, never mind, there’s lots worse off.”
Mrs Pratt gave a shrug, as much as to say, “And lots better.” But, smiling again, she told what preparations had been made towards the next day.
“There, I can’t stop,” said Shadrach; “you must do it all. Goose, you know! Wait till it’s quite late at Leadenhall, and then you’ll get it cheap. They can’t sell them all out.”
Mrs Pratt seemed to think that the goose would make a fearful hole in eighteen shillings.
“There’s coals, and grosheries, and vegetables, and bread, and butter; and Ginger’s boots are in a sad state, and—and—”
Certainly, Ginger’s boots were in a sad state; but that was not of much consequence, according to the Countess de Noailles; and if she advocated bare feet amidst the aristocracy, she would have little pity for Ginger—domus name of Mr Pratt’s fourth son; for Shadrach was given to nicknaming his children in accordance with the common objects of his life: hence “Ginger,” “Pepper,” and “Spicy” were familiar terms for as many children.
“But didn’t I, eh?—the Christmas-box?” said Shadrach, pinching his chin and looking innocent.
“Why, an old cheat!” cried Mrs Pratt, rushing to the door, and finding a brown paper parcel resting behind the bulky umbrella upon her clogs; and then, amidst a volley of cheers, bearing it to the table, which was directly surrounded by chairs, climbed upon by an escalading party, and it was only by dint of great presence of mind that Mrs Pratt saved the brown paper citadel by hurriedly opening it, drawing out a pound of raisins, and bribing the attacking party by giving them a plum apiece.
“Ta ta! I’m off,” cried Shadrach, with glistening eyes, as he hurried out and banged the door after him; but only to climb on to the window-sill by means of holding on to the water-butt and nearly pulling it over, when he could peep through a hole in the shutter and see his wife hold up to the eyes of the exultant children the Christmas-box regularly given by Teman, Sundry, and Sope to theiremployés. There was a pound of raisins, and a pound of currants, and a ditto brown sugar, a ditto lump, an ounce of spice, and a quarter of a pound of peel; which was the last packet opened, when Shadrach leaped down and hurried away through the dirty street.
But it was fine now overhead, and the stars began to twinkle brightly, while the slushy roads were fast growing crisp; but not crisp enough to prevent moisture from creeping through into Shadrach’s boots.
“Because they live on the sand which—law!” cried Shadrach, “what a pity we can’t live on sand; what a lot the little ’uns do eat.” And then he stopped short for a minute to hear some street singers spoiling a carol, and heard the reference to a babe in a manger; and then somehow, as he trotted on, Shadrach could not see very clearly for thinking of two lambs lost from his humble fold: one sleeping in its little grave with the pure white snow covering its breast, and the bright stars like angels’ eyes watching it; and the other—“My poor, poor bairn!” sobbed the little man, hurrying along; and then he was elbowing his way through the throng on London Bridge, eager to get back in time.
“That’s the worst of music,” said Shadrach; “it allus upsets me. Ah! yah! where are you running to, you young dog?” he cried to a boy who, yelling out “I would I were a bird,” blundered on to the little man’s favourite corn, and made him limp the rest of the way. “Not that sort of music, confound him. Would he was a bird, indeed! Pity he ain’t got his neck wrung for him. Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Shadrach, taking a long breath; “how bracing the wind is off the river! why, I do declare if I couldn’t over posts or anything to-night.”
But there was no room for Shadrach to run or over posts, for the streets were thronged with busy, hurrying people. The roadway was crowded too; and everywhere it was plain to see that Christmas was here. It was quite a blessing that some of the laden railway-vans did not break down, for there would have been an absolute block; while, however it was possible for all the presents on the way to get to their destination in time, no one could say. Shops and people, ay, and weather too, all spoke of Christmas: people looked hearty and genial; the shops looked generous; while, though the weather felt cold, it was not a griping, nipping cold, but a warm, dry cold that made the slush hard and firm, and whispered of blazing fires and brave old English comforts.
God bless it! I love a Christmas-night; and, when I say a Christmas-night, I mean any night in that jovial, happy tide, when men sink the care and money-hunting to spread enjoyment around; when the hand is open, either for a loving, brotherly pressure, or to aid a poorer brother; or, better still, the fatherless and the widow. The hand open? ay, and the heart too; for there seems to be breathed around a spirit that softens the hard crust, so that it is open to any emotion, be it such as begets mirth or tears. Who can say what it is?—that loving, happy exhilaration that comes over us, and makes a man even kiss his mother-in-law roundly. Why, it’s the very time to get your salary raised, is Christmas; and now the secret is out, I know I shall never be forgiven by the heads of firms, who will be pounds out of pocket in future. Who ever kicked a dog at Christmas; or prosecuted a thief? who ever gave a beggar a penny without a blush for the smallness of the sum? God bless it! though it comes so soon year after year to tell us how by twelve months our span of life is shorter, and that we are nearer to the long sleep. God bless it! and may its genial breath softly waft the incense from every frugal hearth in our land, and rest in love where the poor prepare their humble feast—ay, feast; for the simplest Christmas dinner is a feast sprinkled by the torch of “Christmas Present.” There’s something stirring in the very air, and the bells sound as they do at no other time—they go home to the feelings, and call up from the past the happy emotions planted in our hearts by God; but which a busy life and rude contact with the world have caused to flee away and hide. Back they come though, till, in the wild delight, eyes sparkle, cheeks flush, and hands grasp hands in the fulness of heart to give a squeeze often accompanied by a twinkling eye, where a tear will force its way. Holy—sacred—are those reunions—those family meetings; and sad is it when a seat becomes vacant; but is not that loss a bond to bind those left the tighter, as wishing each other “a merry Christmas,” as I do, they say—“God bless it!”
Is there such a thing as a kind of magnetism in life by which spirit whispers to spirit, and by some occult warning we know that those we love are near? Or why should old Shadrach start and shiver as he passed some one in the throng, and then mutter to himself very thoughtfully—“Poor Polly!”
But it was a busy night, and what baskets did Shadrach lug about from Gracechurch Street. East, west, north, and south—here, there, and everywhere. Light porter, indeed! why, we won’t insult him. But he didn’t mind, bless you, though he groaned and grunted under his load of Christmas fruit; and there was something merry to say to every servant lass who lightened his basket. Toast and ale, and egg-flip too, were waiting when eleven o’clock struck, and though Mr Sope wanted to keep open another hour, and Sundry said half an hour, old Teman, the head, said “No! regular hours were the thing, and it was not fair to the young men; and that if the Queen herself came from Buckingham Palace and wanted a pound or two of fruit, she should not have it after the shutters were up.”
It would have done your heart good to have seen Shadrach rattle up those shutters, as the boy down stairs held them up to the roller ready for him to take.
“Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle” went the shutter as he dragged it over the roller, and then “flip-flap-bang,” it was in its place. “Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle” went another, and nearly knocked an old gentleman over, but he only gave a leap, skip, and a jump, and laughed. Two shutters up, and that big, nodding Chinese mandarin with the bare stomach is covered up. “Ter-r-r-r-rattle,” and part of the big China punchbowl covered. “Ter-r-r-r-rattle,” and the whole of it covered. At it again—and the squeezy almond-eyed lady hidden. At it again, nine shutters up. At it again, skipping about as though he had never walked a step that day, but just come fresh out of a lavender-and-clover bed ready for work, after lying by for a rest. “Ter-r-r-r-rattle-bing-bang-bump.” He did it that time: knocked the policeman’s helmet off, and sent it rolling along the pavement.
“God bless my soul,” said Shadrach, aghast at such an assault upon the law of the land, but the policeman only laughed, and old Teman only laughed, and called the bobby up to the door, while he fetched him a glass of egg-flip himself, and wished him “A merry Christmas.”
“Bang—slap—slip—flap—crack—jangle—jang—jink jonk—jank!” There they are; the twelve shutters up, and both iron bars; screws rammed in, and all tight; and Shadrach not a bit out of breath. Shop closed, and no Queen to beg for a pound or two of fruit and test old Teman’s loyalty, as he ladled out the flip to his dozen men, when, wishing he could have poured his share into his pocket, Shadrach said “Good-night!” and was off homeward.
Plenty of people in the streets yet, but London Bridge seemed empty on the west side when Shadrach reached it, and then stopped at the first recess to look over at the rushing river. A bright, calm, light night, with snow lying here and there in patches; here upon pier or barge, there upon roof, and all glittering in the light of the full moon. Lanthorns here and there where vessels were moored, and lamps in lines upon the distant bridges. Frost laying hold of everything; but warmed with exercise and the genial draught, Shadrach felt not the cold, but knelt gazing over at the hurrying tide, and comparing it, perhaps, with his life. But there was something else upon his mind, something that kept bringing a shadow over him, and kept him from hurrying home.
At length he stepped down, and walked slowly across the bridge towards the Borough; but then, with a strange, thoughtful, undecided step, he crossed over and sauntered back towards the city again; and at last stood leaning once more over the parapet, gazing at the glittering river, till he started, for the clocks began to strike twelve. There were the faint and distant tones, and the sharp, clear sounds of those at hand, mingled with which came the heavy boom of Saint Paul’s, till the last stroke had fallen upon his ear, when with a half-shudder of cold, Shadrach once more stepped down and commenced with some display of vigour his homeward walk.
There was scarcely a soul to be seen now upon the bridge, but as he reached the middle recess, Shadrach paused with a strange, tumultuous beating at his heart, for there, in the same position as that in which he had so lately leant, was the figure of a woman, evidently watching the rushing river.
“Could she be meditating self-destruction?” Shadrach thought. “Could he save her? But why should such thoughts come when he had often and often seen women of her class in the same attitude?” he asked himself the question, and could find no answer, except that it was so sad to see a homeless outcast there upon a Christmas-eve.
“Poor thing—poor thing!” muttered Shadrach to himself; and then, going up and speaking in a husky voice: “Had you not better go home, my girl?”
“What?” cried the girl, angrily; “home? There’s no home for such as I.”
“But the night—the cold—and—ah, my God!—Polly!”
Shadrach had advanced to the girl, and laid his hand upon her shoulder; when, starting, she turned hastily round and confronted him beneath the lamp; a mutual recognition took place, when, with a bitter cry, the girl darted away, while her father staggered and fell, striking his head violently against the granite seat.
But he soon recovered himself, slowly got up, looked hopelessly round at the deserted bridge, and then walked with feeble, uncertain steps in the direction of home.
The old Dutch clock upon the wall had given warning that it was about to strike one; the fire was low, and the candle burned with a long snuff, as Shadrach Pratt and his wife sat beside the fire silent and tearful. There was an open Bible upon his lap, and he had been essaying to read, but the print looked blurred and confused; his voice was husky; and more than one tear had dropped upon the page where it said—“I will arise and go to my father,” and again where “his father fell upon his neck and kissed him;” and there was sorrow that night in the humble home.
The candle burned down, quivered in the socket, and then went out; the fire sank together again and again with a musical tinkle, and then ceased to give forth its warmth; but through the two round holes in the shutters the bright moonbeams shone, bathing the couple with their light, as slowly they knelt down, and Shadrach repeated some words, stopping long upon that impressive clause—“As we forgive them that trespass against us.”
“And you’ll leave the back door unfastened, Mary?” whispered Shadrach.
Mrs Pratt nodded.
“And forget the past if she should come?”
“Ah, me! ah, me! my poor girl!” cried the mother, thoroughly heart-broken, and for the first time since her child forsook her home showing any emotion; “what have we done that we should be her judges?”
The moonbeams shone brightly in as the couple rose, and after listening for a moment at the stair foot, Shadrach walked to the back door, opened it, uttered a cry, and then fell upon his knees; for there, upon the cold snow, with her cheek resting upon the threshold, lay the lost one of the flock—cold, pale, and motionless, but with her hands outstretched, and clasped together, as if praying for forgiveness. Stretched upon the cold snow by the door she had stolen from two years before; lying where she had crept, with trembling hands, and quivering, fevered lips, whispering to herself that she would die there, for she dared ask no entrance.
Need the story be told of that Christmas-day, and of the joy in that poor man’s home—of the sick one weeping in her mother’s arms—of the welcome given to one the world called lost! I trow not; but let us skip another year, and then stand in the same room, in the same place, and at the same hour, as with a bright light in his humble, ordinary face, Shadrach Pratt, a man not addicted to quoting Scripture, takes his homely wife’s hand, and whispers—
“More than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance.”
Chapter Five.Upon Christmas-Eve.And I’ve found that out that it isn’t money, nor a well-furnished house, nor clothes that make a man happy, but the possession of a good wife; and it took me ten years to find it out. It took me ten selfish years—years that I had been spending thinking more about myself than anybody else, you know. And all that while I’d got so used to it that I never took any notice of the patience and forbearance and tenderness that was always being shown to me. It’s all right, thinks I, and it’s me that’s master, and I’ve a right to be served. And that’s the case with too many of us: we get married, and are precious proud taking the wife out for a bit; but then come the domestic duties, and mostly a few children, when it’s hard work to make both ends meet, and so the poor wife gets lower and lower and lower, till she’s a regular slave, while the husband looks on, and never stretches out a hand to save her a bit of trouble.Well, that’s measuring other people’s corn by your own bushel, and that’s right—that’s just what it is: that’s my bushel, and allowing for it being a bit battered and knocked about, it’s surprising what a correct measure it is, and if ever I use that old measure to try any other man’s corn, and I find as it don’t do for it, I always feel as if I should like to shake that fellow’s hand off, for I know he’s a trump and a man worth knowing.Now, I’m going to tell you how I found it all out, and in finding it all out as I call it, let me tell you I mean principally what a fool I had been for ten long years. I needn’t tell you when it was, and Jane there don’t care to be too nice about the day—very well, we’ll say you do, but never mind now—only it was Christmas-eve, and I come home from work with my hands in my pockets, and a week’s wage there too, and when I mounted the stairs and went into our shabby room, there was the wife down in the low rocking-chair, with two of the little ones in her lap, and though her head was partly turned away I could see she was crying, and another time I should have flown at her about it, for I don’t mind saying as I was a regular brute to her—not hitting or anything of that sort, you know, but sending hard words such as she’s told me since hit harder than blows. But I couldn’t fly at her then on account of a strange chap as was there. Shabby, snuffy-looking little fellow, with flue in his hair and pits in his chin, where he couldn’t shave into, so that, what with his face not being over well washed, and his old black clothes looking greasy, he didn’t seem the sort of visitor as you’d care about having in your place, because, though I came home dirty with my trade, I always set that down as clean dirt, and don’t mind it.“Well, what’s for you?” I says, precious gruff.“Two pun fifteen and ninepence, with costs,” he says, bringing out a paper; and then you might have knocked me down with it, for I knew it was for rent. There’d been a bother about it several times, and no wonder, and as I’d promised again and again, and never kept my word, as I should have done, why this was come on me, and there was a man in possession.There was only one thing to be done, and of course that I does at once; goes over the way to the landlord, and when I got into his room I began to bluster a bit.“It’s a deal too bad,” I says.“Have you brought the money, my man?” he says.“No, I ain’t,” I says, “and I thinks—”“Now, look here, Roberts,” he says, quite quietly, and holding up his finger, “You’re not the sort of tenant I want. You’re no credit to the place. If you had been a decent fellow, struggling against the world, and you owed me twice as much, and I saw you meant to pay, why I’d never have put in the bailiffs; but when I see a man going on as you do, why I say if you’ve money to waste you can pay your rent. Sorry for your wife, but if you can’t pay the money now, there’s the door. I’m not going to be annoyed in my own place.”He wasn’t a big man, but he took me down twenty pegs in a minute in his cool, easy way, and before I knew where I was I’d backed out, and was going across the street, when I recollects the man sitting there at home, and of a Christmas-eve too, and I slowly went back and sent in a message to landlord, and directly after I stood before him again, and after no end of a hard fight he consented to let a pound stop on, and send the man off if I’d pay down one pound fifteen and ninepence.Well, I thought a minute, and hesitated, and thought again, and then recollected the dirty, snuffy fellow there, and that settled me, so that I paid down the money, took my receipt, and a note to the man, and directly after I was standing in my own place, with that chap gone, and only threepence left of my six-and-thirty shillings for a Christmas dinner; and now it came upon me hot and strong why it was that I stood there like that, and as I saw it all so plain I set my teeth and brought my fist down upon the table in a way as made the candlestick jump, and sent the children trembling up to their mother.“It’s because nobody ever said to me, ‘Sam Roberts, what’ll you take to eat?’” And then I banged my fist on the table again, and began walking up and down the room.Nobody spoke to me, but the wife got the children off quietly to bed, and at last, when I was still striding up and down, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and she whispered quite low like—“Don’t mind it, dear.”“But I do,” I said, quite fierce and loud, and the poor thing stole away from me again, and though I didn’t look at her, I knew she wasn’t able to keep the tears back, and that I’d been the cause again.I took no notice then though, for something was working in me, and at last I told her to go to bed, and she did, while I sat before the bit of fire in the room and thought it over.Now don’t laugh at me when I tell you that I believe in bells, but I can’t help it if you do, for they always seem to speak to me like music does, and if there’s ever anything will act on me it’s the sound of a peal of bells. It was bitter cold that night, and yet I didn’t feel it; the wind howled along the street, and I could now and then hear the great flakes of snow come softly patting at the window, and then the sashes would shake, and the wind rumble in the chimney, while every now and then came the sound of the bells, not bright and joyful, but sad and sobbing and mournful. I knew it was a merry, rejoicing time with every one else. I could not attend to that, for I was gradually getting to see one thing that I kept on fighting against, and that was, what a fool I had been.Fight against it I did, but it was no use, for as the streets got more quiet, and the wind sunk, the bells rang out clearer and clearer, and seemed to keep telling me of it. Now I knew of it by the threepence in my pocket; now it was by the shabby floor; then the beggarly furniture and the miserable fire; and though I didn’t cross the room I had it in my mind’s eye, and there it all was written plain enough in my wife’s face.And yet I wouldn’t own to it, though the bells seemed to be speaking to me, and rang out plainer and plainer all my waste and carelessness, till all at once they stopped for a minute; when one big bell began to toll slowly, “boom, boom, boom”; and that did it, for the next moment I gave a wild sort of cry, and was down on my knees with my hands over my face, and the big tears, hot and blinding, bursting out from between my fingers. But the tears might blind, they could not hide that, though every one seemed like hot lead. They could not hide what I then saw, for the bell still went on, now swept away in the distance, now coming nearer and nearer, till it filled the room, and made the very place seem to tremble and quiver, as did every nerve in my body.No; the tears could not hide that scene as the tolling bell brought up, and there I could see the snow upon the ground, and two mourners following a little coffin through the street of a country-town with their footmarks left black in the pathway, as though even they were marks of the funeral. And there, too, was the church, and the grey-haired clergyman meeting us at the gate, and me hard, bitter, and sullen, seeing it all unmoved, and listening to the words as came now to my ears borne upon the bells. There, too, was the little grave, and the earth thrown out all black round it, and every spade-full of earth, too, black, just as though everything was in mourning for the little flower as the bitter winter had nipped. Yes; there it all was, with the poor wife sinking down at last upon her knees beside the open grave, and letting a few of a mother’s tears fall silently upon the little plain, white coffin, and me—hard, bitter, and cold.“Boom, boom, boom”—how it all came back, and how I saw it all now. How plain it all was that I had been a fool and my own enemy, and ready to blame every one but myself for my ill success; and at last muttering “pardon, pardon,” I held up my hands, and then started to my feet, for the bells had stopped, and my hands were taken by some one there in the dark, so that I trembled; till I heard my name whispered, and this time I did not turn from the offered comfort.Just then out rang the bells again, bright, cheerful, and merry; and, though I listened attentively, and tried to make them go with my thoughts, they seemed now quite to have left me to myself.And then, without thinking of the bitter night, or our poverty, or what we should do for a Christmas dinner, we sat there together wrapped up in one idea, and that was that there was a change come over me, for somehow I felt quite a different man; and, though no word was spoken, we seemed to understand one another, and that was quite enough for us.All at once I turns to the wife, and I says, “I don’t know what’s come over me, lass; feelings have got the better of me; I’m almost choking.” And then we both started up, for it seemed hot, and close, and heavy in the room.“Why, it’s fire somewhere,” I says, and then I turned all over hot and trembling, and the wet stood upon my forehead, for I thought the place below was on fire, and we on the second floor with three children.I ran to the window and opened it, and just then there was the rattle of a policeman going, and first one voice and then another shouting, “Fire!” while directly after there was a tremendous noise as shook the house from top to bottom, and made the plaster off the ceiling come rattling down on our heads, while the shop-front seemed to be blown out. Then there came another crashing explosion, and that was the jingling noise and falling of window-glass upon the pavement; and then came screaming and crying out, the sounds of people running and kicking at doors, shouting cries for help, and a hundred people outside shrieking, “Fire!”For a minute I stood with my hands to my head, as though it was all a dream. I felt lost, and could not tell what to do, but the next moment I had two of the children in my arms; and, shouting to the wife, “Slip on a few things!” I tore open the door and darted down the stairs through the heat and smoke to the first-floor, where the rush of flame and smoke almost drove me back; but I knew it was for life, and I dashed down the rest of the way along the passage, and then fell staggering down with my load upon the pavement.They had us up, though, in a moment, blackened, scorched, half suffocated, and smarting; and then, after casting one look up at our window, where the wife stood with one little one in her arms, I ran towards the blazing passage, but a policeman and two men had hold of me in a moment.“Hold back, man!” said one of ’em; “it’s madness to try it.”“Certain death,” says another.“Yes, if you don’t let go!” I roared, feeling as furious as a wild beast at being held back. “Let go; I tell you they’ll be burnt to death if I don’t save them;” and then I fought with ’em to get away, but they were too strong for me; and, more coming to help, I could do nothing.“Pray, let me go,” I cried at last, quite pitifully, for I could hear shrieks for help from up above, and felt that some one would think I had taken care of myself and left her to perish; and then, what with the shrieks and the thoughts, I felt almost mad, and strove and plunged so, that I got free and dashed at the door where the flames came pouring out.I believe that I should have rushed in, but at that moment there was another loud explosion, and I seemed to be lifted off my feet, and thrown back into the road, where I lay quite helpless and half-stunned for a few moments. But I soon came to again, just as they were going to carry me through the crowd, and begging of them not to take me away, I got them to let me stop, for the men wanted to see what was going on; for now the flames were mounting up higher and higher, and rushing out of the first-floor windows, while that one under where my poor wife stood shrieking for help was glowing with light, and I knew the fire would burst out there directly.The gunpowder canisters in the shop as they exploded had all helped to make the fire burn more rapidly, and before the first engine came, the place was blazing furiously, while, instead of trying anything to save her who stood at the window, people did nothing but shriek and scream and wring their hands. I soon saw, unless something was done the fire would get the better of us, while in spite of all I could think of, there seemed no way to save her who stood crying there for the help we could not give—nothing but for her to jump out. I ran about through the crowd here and there, calling to the people to save her, and for the time quite mad and frantic that I could not get at her, when all at once there was a loud shout and cheer, and the people gave way, as along at full speed came the tall fire-escape.I ran to help drag it along, and in a few moments they had it leaning beneath the window, but it was too short, and I groaned again, for it seemed only brought to raise our hopes, and then dash them down; but the next moment the fly ladder was pulled up by ropes, and before any one could stay me, I tried to get up.But the escape man was before me, and up and up he went, till there came a fierce burst of flame and smoke right upon him and beat him back, so that he crept down again, till he reached where I was coming up, and then I got past him and past the flames where the escape was quite on fire, and then up to the window where my wife stood clutching the child, and leaned half-fainting from the window.It was a hard matter to reach to them, but I got one foot upon the sill, dashed out a pane of glass to get a hold of the sash for my hand, and then began to wonder how I could save them, when I heard a cry from below and a regular yell of shrieks as the light escape ladder was burned through and fell to the ground, so that it was only by an effort I saved myself from felling; but I crept inside the room with a horrid sensation upon me, for I felt that our last hour was come, and a frightful one it was.The wife just turned her horrified face to me once, and then fainted, while I could see but little of what was going on below, on account of the rising flame and smoke, and as to the heat it was awful—so stifling, that I was glad to hold out the heads of them with me, for the smoke came rolling through the door.I knew that in a few minutes we must be burned to death, and how awful those thoughts were that came upon me is more than I can describe, and yet in spite of all there seemed a calmness, even when I heard a crackling behind me, and saw the flickering light playing through the smoke behind as the flames were creeping into the room.Just then I heard a shouting below, and some one to the left cried to me. I looked up and found there were two men at the third-floor window of the next house, and one of them shouted:—“Put her down and try and catch this,” and then he began swinging a rope towards me till I got hold of it; and without waiting for instructions made it fast round the wife’s waist, helped her out of the window, and held on till they had the rope tight, and shouted to me, when I left go, and saw her go clear of the flame and smoke with such a fearful swing that I felt sure they would let go, and I shrunk back, for I dared not look.Before a minute was over I heard them shout again, and then I looked out trembling, and caught at the rope again two or three times before I could get it, for it was a hard matter to get it swung far enough. But I had it at last, and pulled in as much as they could spare, so as to tie it round the little child somewhere about the middle, when they saw me make a sign, for I could not shout, I was that choked, and then they hauled in while I kept hold too, so as to keep the little thing from swinging down so fearfully.It was a good long rope, and even when they had the little one safe there was enough left for me to fasten it with a half hitch round my waist and climb out and hang by the window-sill till they were ready, for the room was burning, and the flames came over me, quite scorching my hands, so that in another few minutes I must have dropped. But the rope tightened, and I left go, swinging through the air right clear of the smoke and flame; and then I felt myself dragged up and in at the window, but I did not see or hear anything more for some little time.It was a shocking fire, certainly, but it’s when people are at the worst that they find out how neighbourly those around could be, for we found them as took us in; and in spite of being so frightened and scorched, after two or three hours’ sleep we did not feel so bad but we could put on the things that were lent us, and I can’t help thinking that we should have given thanks somewhere else for our escape besides in our bedroom, if it had not been for our burnt-off hair.And in spite of all loss and care, that was a pleasant Christmas-day we spent, where everybody seemed as if they could not make enough of us; and, at the same time, there was a feeling in my heart that seemed to cheer me and make me look hopefully to the future. For the clothes and furniture that we had lost were none to be so proud of—rather different to what we now have round us, and when I tell the wife so, I get a pleasant smile, for she says there’s light behind every cloud.
And I’ve found that out that it isn’t money, nor a well-furnished house, nor clothes that make a man happy, but the possession of a good wife; and it took me ten years to find it out. It took me ten selfish years—years that I had been spending thinking more about myself than anybody else, you know. And all that while I’d got so used to it that I never took any notice of the patience and forbearance and tenderness that was always being shown to me. It’s all right, thinks I, and it’s me that’s master, and I’ve a right to be served. And that’s the case with too many of us: we get married, and are precious proud taking the wife out for a bit; but then come the domestic duties, and mostly a few children, when it’s hard work to make both ends meet, and so the poor wife gets lower and lower and lower, till she’s a regular slave, while the husband looks on, and never stretches out a hand to save her a bit of trouble.
Well, that’s measuring other people’s corn by your own bushel, and that’s right—that’s just what it is: that’s my bushel, and allowing for it being a bit battered and knocked about, it’s surprising what a correct measure it is, and if ever I use that old measure to try any other man’s corn, and I find as it don’t do for it, I always feel as if I should like to shake that fellow’s hand off, for I know he’s a trump and a man worth knowing.
Now, I’m going to tell you how I found it all out, and in finding it all out as I call it, let me tell you I mean principally what a fool I had been for ten long years. I needn’t tell you when it was, and Jane there don’t care to be too nice about the day—very well, we’ll say you do, but never mind now—only it was Christmas-eve, and I come home from work with my hands in my pockets, and a week’s wage there too, and when I mounted the stairs and went into our shabby room, there was the wife down in the low rocking-chair, with two of the little ones in her lap, and though her head was partly turned away I could see she was crying, and another time I should have flown at her about it, for I don’t mind saying as I was a regular brute to her—not hitting or anything of that sort, you know, but sending hard words such as she’s told me since hit harder than blows. But I couldn’t fly at her then on account of a strange chap as was there. Shabby, snuffy-looking little fellow, with flue in his hair and pits in his chin, where he couldn’t shave into, so that, what with his face not being over well washed, and his old black clothes looking greasy, he didn’t seem the sort of visitor as you’d care about having in your place, because, though I came home dirty with my trade, I always set that down as clean dirt, and don’t mind it.
“Well, what’s for you?” I says, precious gruff.
“Two pun fifteen and ninepence, with costs,” he says, bringing out a paper; and then you might have knocked me down with it, for I knew it was for rent. There’d been a bother about it several times, and no wonder, and as I’d promised again and again, and never kept my word, as I should have done, why this was come on me, and there was a man in possession.
There was only one thing to be done, and of course that I does at once; goes over the way to the landlord, and when I got into his room I began to bluster a bit.
“It’s a deal too bad,” I says.
“Have you brought the money, my man?” he says.
“No, I ain’t,” I says, “and I thinks—”
“Now, look here, Roberts,” he says, quite quietly, and holding up his finger, “You’re not the sort of tenant I want. You’re no credit to the place. If you had been a decent fellow, struggling against the world, and you owed me twice as much, and I saw you meant to pay, why I’d never have put in the bailiffs; but when I see a man going on as you do, why I say if you’ve money to waste you can pay your rent. Sorry for your wife, but if you can’t pay the money now, there’s the door. I’m not going to be annoyed in my own place.”
He wasn’t a big man, but he took me down twenty pegs in a minute in his cool, easy way, and before I knew where I was I’d backed out, and was going across the street, when I recollects the man sitting there at home, and of a Christmas-eve too, and I slowly went back and sent in a message to landlord, and directly after I stood before him again, and after no end of a hard fight he consented to let a pound stop on, and send the man off if I’d pay down one pound fifteen and ninepence.
Well, I thought a minute, and hesitated, and thought again, and then recollected the dirty, snuffy fellow there, and that settled me, so that I paid down the money, took my receipt, and a note to the man, and directly after I was standing in my own place, with that chap gone, and only threepence left of my six-and-thirty shillings for a Christmas dinner; and now it came upon me hot and strong why it was that I stood there like that, and as I saw it all so plain I set my teeth and brought my fist down upon the table in a way as made the candlestick jump, and sent the children trembling up to their mother.
“It’s because nobody ever said to me, ‘Sam Roberts, what’ll you take to eat?’” And then I banged my fist on the table again, and began walking up and down the room.
Nobody spoke to me, but the wife got the children off quietly to bed, and at last, when I was still striding up and down, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and she whispered quite low like—
“Don’t mind it, dear.”
“But I do,” I said, quite fierce and loud, and the poor thing stole away from me again, and though I didn’t look at her, I knew she wasn’t able to keep the tears back, and that I’d been the cause again.
I took no notice then though, for something was working in me, and at last I told her to go to bed, and she did, while I sat before the bit of fire in the room and thought it over.
Now don’t laugh at me when I tell you that I believe in bells, but I can’t help it if you do, for they always seem to speak to me like music does, and if there’s ever anything will act on me it’s the sound of a peal of bells. It was bitter cold that night, and yet I didn’t feel it; the wind howled along the street, and I could now and then hear the great flakes of snow come softly patting at the window, and then the sashes would shake, and the wind rumble in the chimney, while every now and then came the sound of the bells, not bright and joyful, but sad and sobbing and mournful. I knew it was a merry, rejoicing time with every one else. I could not attend to that, for I was gradually getting to see one thing that I kept on fighting against, and that was, what a fool I had been.
Fight against it I did, but it was no use, for as the streets got more quiet, and the wind sunk, the bells rang out clearer and clearer, and seemed to keep telling me of it. Now I knew of it by the threepence in my pocket; now it was by the shabby floor; then the beggarly furniture and the miserable fire; and though I didn’t cross the room I had it in my mind’s eye, and there it all was written plain enough in my wife’s face.
And yet I wouldn’t own to it, though the bells seemed to be speaking to me, and rang out plainer and plainer all my waste and carelessness, till all at once they stopped for a minute; when one big bell began to toll slowly, “boom, boom, boom”; and that did it, for the next moment I gave a wild sort of cry, and was down on my knees with my hands over my face, and the big tears, hot and blinding, bursting out from between my fingers. But the tears might blind, they could not hide that, though every one seemed like hot lead. They could not hide what I then saw, for the bell still went on, now swept away in the distance, now coming nearer and nearer, till it filled the room, and made the very place seem to tremble and quiver, as did every nerve in my body.
No; the tears could not hide that scene as the tolling bell brought up, and there I could see the snow upon the ground, and two mourners following a little coffin through the street of a country-town with their footmarks left black in the pathway, as though even they were marks of the funeral. And there, too, was the church, and the grey-haired clergyman meeting us at the gate, and me hard, bitter, and sullen, seeing it all unmoved, and listening to the words as came now to my ears borne upon the bells. There, too, was the little grave, and the earth thrown out all black round it, and every spade-full of earth, too, black, just as though everything was in mourning for the little flower as the bitter winter had nipped. Yes; there it all was, with the poor wife sinking down at last upon her knees beside the open grave, and letting a few of a mother’s tears fall silently upon the little plain, white coffin, and me—hard, bitter, and cold.
“Boom, boom, boom”—how it all came back, and how I saw it all now. How plain it all was that I had been a fool and my own enemy, and ready to blame every one but myself for my ill success; and at last muttering “pardon, pardon,” I held up my hands, and then started to my feet, for the bells had stopped, and my hands were taken by some one there in the dark, so that I trembled; till I heard my name whispered, and this time I did not turn from the offered comfort.
Just then out rang the bells again, bright, cheerful, and merry; and, though I listened attentively, and tried to make them go with my thoughts, they seemed now quite to have left me to myself.
And then, without thinking of the bitter night, or our poverty, or what we should do for a Christmas dinner, we sat there together wrapped up in one idea, and that was that there was a change come over me, for somehow I felt quite a different man; and, though no word was spoken, we seemed to understand one another, and that was quite enough for us.
All at once I turns to the wife, and I says, “I don’t know what’s come over me, lass; feelings have got the better of me; I’m almost choking.” And then we both started up, for it seemed hot, and close, and heavy in the room.
“Why, it’s fire somewhere,” I says, and then I turned all over hot and trembling, and the wet stood upon my forehead, for I thought the place below was on fire, and we on the second floor with three children.
I ran to the window and opened it, and just then there was the rattle of a policeman going, and first one voice and then another shouting, “Fire!” while directly after there was a tremendous noise as shook the house from top to bottom, and made the plaster off the ceiling come rattling down on our heads, while the shop-front seemed to be blown out. Then there came another crashing explosion, and that was the jingling noise and falling of window-glass upon the pavement; and then came screaming and crying out, the sounds of people running and kicking at doors, shouting cries for help, and a hundred people outside shrieking, “Fire!”
For a minute I stood with my hands to my head, as though it was all a dream. I felt lost, and could not tell what to do, but the next moment I had two of the children in my arms; and, shouting to the wife, “Slip on a few things!” I tore open the door and darted down the stairs through the heat and smoke to the first-floor, where the rush of flame and smoke almost drove me back; but I knew it was for life, and I dashed down the rest of the way along the passage, and then fell staggering down with my load upon the pavement.
They had us up, though, in a moment, blackened, scorched, half suffocated, and smarting; and then, after casting one look up at our window, where the wife stood with one little one in her arms, I ran towards the blazing passage, but a policeman and two men had hold of me in a moment.
“Hold back, man!” said one of ’em; “it’s madness to try it.”
“Certain death,” says another.
“Yes, if you don’t let go!” I roared, feeling as furious as a wild beast at being held back. “Let go; I tell you they’ll be burnt to death if I don’t save them;” and then I fought with ’em to get away, but they were too strong for me; and, more coming to help, I could do nothing.
“Pray, let me go,” I cried at last, quite pitifully, for I could hear shrieks for help from up above, and felt that some one would think I had taken care of myself and left her to perish; and then, what with the shrieks and the thoughts, I felt almost mad, and strove and plunged so, that I got free and dashed at the door where the flames came pouring out.
I believe that I should have rushed in, but at that moment there was another loud explosion, and I seemed to be lifted off my feet, and thrown back into the road, where I lay quite helpless and half-stunned for a few moments. But I soon came to again, just as they were going to carry me through the crowd, and begging of them not to take me away, I got them to let me stop, for the men wanted to see what was going on; for now the flames were mounting up higher and higher, and rushing out of the first-floor windows, while that one under where my poor wife stood shrieking for help was glowing with light, and I knew the fire would burst out there directly.
The gunpowder canisters in the shop as they exploded had all helped to make the fire burn more rapidly, and before the first engine came, the place was blazing furiously, while, instead of trying anything to save her who stood at the window, people did nothing but shriek and scream and wring their hands. I soon saw, unless something was done the fire would get the better of us, while in spite of all I could think of, there seemed no way to save her who stood crying there for the help we could not give—nothing but for her to jump out. I ran about through the crowd here and there, calling to the people to save her, and for the time quite mad and frantic that I could not get at her, when all at once there was a loud shout and cheer, and the people gave way, as along at full speed came the tall fire-escape.
I ran to help drag it along, and in a few moments they had it leaning beneath the window, but it was too short, and I groaned again, for it seemed only brought to raise our hopes, and then dash them down; but the next moment the fly ladder was pulled up by ropes, and before any one could stay me, I tried to get up.
But the escape man was before me, and up and up he went, till there came a fierce burst of flame and smoke right upon him and beat him back, so that he crept down again, till he reached where I was coming up, and then I got past him and past the flames where the escape was quite on fire, and then up to the window where my wife stood clutching the child, and leaned half-fainting from the window.
It was a hard matter to reach to them, but I got one foot upon the sill, dashed out a pane of glass to get a hold of the sash for my hand, and then began to wonder how I could save them, when I heard a cry from below and a regular yell of shrieks as the light escape ladder was burned through and fell to the ground, so that it was only by an effort I saved myself from felling; but I crept inside the room with a horrid sensation upon me, for I felt that our last hour was come, and a frightful one it was.
The wife just turned her horrified face to me once, and then fainted, while I could see but little of what was going on below, on account of the rising flame and smoke, and as to the heat it was awful—so stifling, that I was glad to hold out the heads of them with me, for the smoke came rolling through the door.
I knew that in a few minutes we must be burned to death, and how awful those thoughts were that came upon me is more than I can describe, and yet in spite of all there seemed a calmness, even when I heard a crackling behind me, and saw the flickering light playing through the smoke behind as the flames were creeping into the room.
Just then I heard a shouting below, and some one to the left cried to me. I looked up and found there were two men at the third-floor window of the next house, and one of them shouted:—
“Put her down and try and catch this,” and then he began swinging a rope towards me till I got hold of it; and without waiting for instructions made it fast round the wife’s waist, helped her out of the window, and held on till they had the rope tight, and shouted to me, when I left go, and saw her go clear of the flame and smoke with such a fearful swing that I felt sure they would let go, and I shrunk back, for I dared not look.
Before a minute was over I heard them shout again, and then I looked out trembling, and caught at the rope again two or three times before I could get it, for it was a hard matter to get it swung far enough. But I had it at last, and pulled in as much as they could spare, so as to tie it round the little child somewhere about the middle, when they saw me make a sign, for I could not shout, I was that choked, and then they hauled in while I kept hold too, so as to keep the little thing from swinging down so fearfully.
It was a good long rope, and even when they had the little one safe there was enough left for me to fasten it with a half hitch round my waist and climb out and hang by the window-sill till they were ready, for the room was burning, and the flames came over me, quite scorching my hands, so that in another few minutes I must have dropped. But the rope tightened, and I left go, swinging through the air right clear of the smoke and flame; and then I felt myself dragged up and in at the window, but I did not see or hear anything more for some little time.
It was a shocking fire, certainly, but it’s when people are at the worst that they find out how neighbourly those around could be, for we found them as took us in; and in spite of being so frightened and scorched, after two or three hours’ sleep we did not feel so bad but we could put on the things that were lent us, and I can’t help thinking that we should have given thanks somewhere else for our escape besides in our bedroom, if it had not been for our burnt-off hair.
And in spite of all loss and care, that was a pleasant Christmas-day we spent, where everybody seemed as if they could not make enough of us; and, at the same time, there was a feeling in my heart that seemed to cheer me and make me look hopefully to the future. For the clothes and furniture that we had lost were none to be so proud of—rather different to what we now have round us, and when I tell the wife so, I get a pleasant smile, for she says there’s light behind every cloud.
Chapter Six.Haunted by Spirits.“But what an out-of-the-way place to get to,” I said, after being most cordially received by my old school fellow and his wife, one bitter night after a long ride. “But you really are glad to see me, eh?”“Now, hold your tongue, do,” cried Ned and his wife in a breath. “You won’t get away again under a month, so don’t think it. But where we are going to put you I don’t know,” said Ned.“Oh I can sleep anywhere, chairs, table, anything you like; only make me welcome. Fine old house this seems, but however came you to take it?”“Got it cheap, my boy. Been shut up for twenty years. It’s haunted, and no one will live in it. But I have it full for this Christmas, at all events, and what’s more I have some potent spirits in the place too, but they are all corked down tightly, so there is no fear at present. But I say, Lilly,” cried Ned, addressing his wife, “why we shall have to go into the haunted room and give him our place.”“That you won’t,” I said. “I came down here on purpose to take you by surprise, and to beg for a snack of dinner on Christmas-day; and now you are going to give me about the greatest treat possible, a bed in a haunted room. What kind of a ghost is it?”“You mustn’t laugh,” said Ned, trying to appear very serious; “for there is not a soul living within ten miles of this place, that would not give you a long account of the horrors of the Red Chamber: of spots of blood upon the bedclothes coming down in a regular rain; noises; clashing of swords; shrieks and groans; skeletons or transparent bodies. Oh, my dear fellow, you needn’t grin, for it’s all gospel truth about here, and if we did not keep that room screwed up, not a servant would stay in the house.”“Wish I could buy it and take it away,” I said.“I wish you could, indeed,” cried Ned, cordially.Half an hour after Ned and I were busy with screwdriver and candle busy in the large corridors, turning the rusty screws which held a large door at the extreme end of the house. First one and then another was twirled out till nothing held the door but the lock; the key for which Ned Harrington now produced from his pocket—an old, many-warded, rusty key, at least a couple of hundred years old.“Hold the candle a little lower,” said Ned, “here’s something in the keyhole,” when pulling out his knife, he picked out a quantity of paper, evidently very recently stuffed in. He then inserted the key, and after a good deal of effort it turned, and the lock shot back with a harsh, grating noise. Ned then tried the handle, but the door remained fast; and though he tugged and tugged, it still stuck, till I put one hand to help him, when our united efforts made it come open with a rush, knocking over the candle, and there we were standing upon the portal of the haunted room in the dark.“I’ll fetch a light in a moment out of the hall,” said Ned, and he slipped off, while I must confess to a certain feeling of trepidation on being left alone, listening to a moaning, whistling noise, which I knew to be the wind, but which had all the same a most dismal effect upon my nerves, which, in spite of my eagerness to be the inmate of the closed room, began to whisper very strongly that they did not like it at all. But the next minute Ned was beside me with the light, and we entered the gloomy dusty old chamber—a bed-chamber furnished after the fashion of the past century. The great four-post bedstead looked heavy and gloomy, and when we drew back the curtains, I half expected to see a body lying in state, but no, all was very dusty, very gloomy, and soul chilling, but nothing more.“Come, there’s plenty of room for a roaring fire,” said Ned, “and I think after all we had better come here ourselves, and let you have our room.”“That you will not,” I said, determinedly. “Order them to light a fire, and have some well-aired things put upon that bed, and it will be a clever ghost that wakes me to-night, for I’m as tired as a dog.”“Here, Mary,” shouted Ned to one of the maids, “coals and wood here, and a broom.”We waited about, peering here and there at the old toilet-ware and stands, the old chest of drawers and armoire, old chairs and paintings, for all seemed as if the room had been suddenly quitted; while inside a huge cupboard beside the fireplace hung a dusty horseman’s cloak, and in the corner were a long thin rapier and a quaint old-fashioned firelock.“Strikes chilly and damp,” said I, snuffing the smell of old boots and fine dust.“Ah, but we’ll soon drive that out,” said Ned. “But you’d better give in, my boy. ’Pon my word, I’m ashamed to let you come in here.”“Pooh! nonsense!” I said. “Give me a roaring fire, and that’s all I want.”“Ah!” cried Ned. “But what a while that girl is;” and then he stepped out into the passage. “Why, what are you standing there for?” he cried. “Come and light this fire.”“Plee’, sir, I dussent,” said the maid.“Here, give me hold,” cried Ned, in a pet; “and send your mistress here;” and then he made his appearance with a coal-scuttle, paper, and wood; when between us we soon had a fire alight and roaring up the huge chimney, while the bright flames flickered and danced, and gave quite a cheerful aspect to the place.“Well,” cried Mrs Harrington, who now appeared, “how are you getting on?” but neither Ned’s wife nor her sister stood looking, for, in spite of all protestations, dressed as they were, they set to sweeping, dusting, airing linen, bed, mattress, etcetera, we helping to the best of our ability—for no maid, either by threats or persuasion, would enter the place—and at last we made the place look, if not comfortable, at all events less dismal than before we entered. The old blinds came down like so much tinder when touched, while, as to the curtains, the first attempt to draw them brought down such a cloud of dust, that they were left alone, though Mrs Harrington promised that the place should be thoroughly seen to in the morning.Returning to the drawing-room, the remainder of the evening was most agreeably spent; while the cause of my host and hostess’s prolonged absence produced endless comments and anecdotes respecting the Red Chamber—some of them being so encouraging in their nature that Ned Harrington, out of sheer compassion, changed the conversation.“Well, my boy,” said Ned, when the ladies had all retired for the night, “you shan’t go to bed till the witching hour is past;” so he kept me chatting over old times, till the clock had gone one—the big old turret-clock, whose notes flew booming away upon the frosty air. “Christmas-eve to-morrow, so we’ll have a tramp on the moors after the wild ducks—plenty out here. I say, my boy, I believe this is the original Moated Grange, so don’t be alarmed if you hear the mice.”“There’s only one thing I care for,” I said, “and that is anything in the shape of a practical joke.”“Honour bright! my boy,” said Ned; “you need fear nothing of that kind;” and then I was alone in the Haunted Chamber, having locked myself in.My first proceeding was to give the large fire an extra poke, which sent a flood of light across the room, and the flames gushing up the chimney; my next, to take one of the candles and make a tour of my bedroom, during which I looked under the bed, behind the curtains, and into armoire and cupboard, but discovered nothing. Next thing I tried the windows, through which I could just dimly see the snow-white country, but they were fast and blackened with dirt. The chimney-glass, too, was so injured by damp, that the dim reflection given back was something startling, being more like a bad photograph of life-size than anything else; and at length, having fully made up my mind that I was alone, and that, as far as I could make out, there were neither trap-doors nor secret passages in the wall, I undressed, put out the candles, and plunged into bed.But I was wrong in what I had said to my host about sleeping, for I never felt more wakeful in my life. I watched the blaze of the fire sink down to a ruddy glow, the glow turn blacker and blacker till at last the fire was all but extinct, while the room was dark as could be. But my eyesight was painfully acute, while my hearing seemed strained to catch the slightest passing sound. The wind roared and rumbled in the great chimney, and swept sighing past the windows; and, though it had a strange, wild sound with it, yet I had heard the wind before, and therefore paid but little heed to its moans.All at once the fire seemed to fall together with a tinkling sound, a bright flame leaped up, illumining the room for a moment, then becoming extinct, and leaving all in darkness; but there was light for a long enough interval for me to see, or fancy I saw, the cupboard door open and the great horseman’s cloak stand out in a weird-like manner before me, as though covering the shoulders of some invisible figure.I felt warm—then hot—then in a profuse perspiration, but I told myself it was fancy, punched my pillow, and turned over upon the other side to sleep. Now came a long, low, dreary moan, hollow and heartrending, for it seemed like the cry of some one in distress; when I raised myself upon one elbow and listened.“Old cowl on a chimney,” I muttered, letting myself fall back again, now thoroughly determined to sleep, but the moaning continued, the wind whistled and howled, while now came a gentle tap, tap, tapping at my window, as if some one was signalling to be admitted.“Tap, tap, tap;” still it kept on, as though whoever tapped was fearful of making too much noise; and at length, nerving myself, I slipped out of bed, crossed the room, and found that the closet door was open, but a vigorous poke inside produced nothing but dust and two or three very sharp sneezes. So I fastened the door, and listened. All silent: but the next moment began the tapping upon the dirty window-pane again; and, impelled by a mingled sensation of fear and attraction, I crept closer to the sash, and at length made out the shadow of something tapping at the glass.“Bah! Bah!” I exclaimed the next moment as I shuffled across the room and back to my bed, “strand of ivy and the wind.” But I was not to be at peace yet, for now there came a most unmistakable noise behind the wainscot—louder and louder, as if some one were trying to tear a piece of the woodwork down. The place chosen seemed to be the corner beside the cupboard; and at last, having made up my mind that it was the rats, I dropped off to sleep, and slept soundly till morning, when I heard the cheery voice of my host at the door.“Oh, all right,” he said as I answered; “I only came because the girl knocked, and said that something must be the matter, for she could not make you hear.”On descending to breakfast, I found that I was to undergo a rigorous cross-examination as to what I had seen and heard; but one elderly lady present shook her head ominously, freely giving it as her opinion that it was little better than sacrilege to open the haunted chamber, and finishing a very solemn peroration with the words—“Stop a bit; they don’t walk every night.”This was encouraging, certainly; but in the course of the afternoon I went up to my room, and found that it had been well cleaned out, while many little modern appliances had been added to the dingy furniture, so that it wore quite a brightened appearance. The insides of the windows had been cleaned, and a man was then upon a ladder polishing away at the exterior, when I drew his attention to a number of loose ivy strands, which he cut off.In the cupboard I found plenty of traces of rats in the shape of long-gnawed-off fragments of wood pushed beneath the skirting-board; while, upon holding my head against the chimney, the groaning of the cowl was plainly to be heard, as it swung round dolefully upon some neighbouring chimney.A pleasant day was spent, and then, after a cosy evening, I was once more ushered into the chamber of horrors, this time being escorted by the whole of the visitors, the gentlemen affectionately bidding me farewell, but not one seeming disposed to accept my offer of changing rooms. However, Ned and Mrs Harrington both wished me to go to their room, when I of course refused; and once more I was alone.It was now about half-past twelve and Christmas-morning, a regular storm was hurrying round the house, and a strange feeling of crepitation came upon me when I had extinguished the light; and then on climbing into bed I sat and listened for a while, laid my head upon my pillow, and the next moment, or what seemed the next moment, I was startled by a strange beating sound, and as I became aware of a dim, peculiar light, penetrating the room, I heard a low, muffled voice cry appealingly—“Your hot water, sir—quarter to eight!” while I could hardly believe my eyes had been closed.Christmas-day passed as it generally does in the country, that is to say, in a most jovial, sociable way; and after fun, frolic, sport, pastime, forfeit, dance, and cards, I stood once more within the haunted chamber with the strange sensation upon me, that though I had met with nothing so far to alarm me—this night, a night when, of all nights in the year, spirits might be expected to break loose, I was to suffer for my temerity.As soon as I entered and secured the door, I felt that something was wrong, but I roused up the fire, lit the wax candles upon the dressing-table, and then looked round the room.Apparently I was alone, but upon opening the big closet door, the great cloak fell down with a ghostly rustle, while a peculiar odour seemed to rise from the heap. The long, thin sword too, fell, with a strange clanging noise as I hastily closed the door, and then setting down the candle tried to compose myself to look at matters in a calm, philosophical manner. But things would not be looked at in that way, and now I began to feel that I was being punished for all, since the next moment I could see the eyes of the large portrait between the windows gleam and roll, now showing the whites, now seeming to pierce me, so intense was their gaze. Then the figure seemed to be slowly coming down from the frame nearer and nearer, till it was close to me, when it slowly receded, and a shade passed over the canvas, so that it was gone.But for shame and the fear of ridicule, I should have opened the door and cried for aid; in fact, I believe I did rise from the chair and try to reach the door, but some invisible power drew me into a corner of the room, where I leaned panting against the wall to gaze upon a fresh phenomenon. I had brought a chamber candlestick into the room, and after igniting the pair of candles upon the toilet table, placed the flat candlestick between them, and left it alight, but now—no—yes—I rubbed my eyes—there was no mistake.There were six candles burning.I started, shook myself, muttering that it was deception; but no, there burned six candles, while their flames were big and blurred with a large, ghastly, blue halo round each, that had a strange weird light; and now I tried to recall what I had read in old ghost stories about corpse candles, for I felt that these three must be of that character.In an agony of fear I tried to run up to the dressing-table to dash the weird lights over, but again the same strange influence guided my steps, so that I curved off to the bed, where I sat down, trembling in every limb—limbs that refused their office—while I gazed upon the candles which now began to float backwards and forwards before me, till I could bear the strange sight no more, and throwing myself back, I buried my face in the bed.But there was no relief here, for as I threw myself down at full length, the great bedstead gave a crack, a rattle, and a bound, and then in an agony of dread I was clinging to the bedding, for the huge structure began to rise slowly higher—higher—higher—sailing away apparently upon the wings of the wind, and then again sinking lower and lower and lower to interminable depths, so that I involuntarily groaned and closed my eyes. But that was of no avail, for I could feel the great bedstead career, now on one side, now on the other, and ever going onward through space like some vessel upon a vast aerial sea.The rapid gliding upward, in spite of the dread, seemed attended with somewhat of an exhilarating effect; but the falling was hideous in the extreme—for now it was slowly and gently, but the next moment the speed was fearful, and I lay trembling in expectation of feeling the structure dash upon the ground, while every time I unclosed my eyes I could see the gyrating candles, and turned giddy with confusion.And now, with one tremendously swift gliding swoop, away we went, faster and faster, more rapidly than swallows upon the wing. Space seemed obliterated; and, by the rushing noise and singing in my ears, I could feel that the bedstead was careering on where the atmosphere was growing more and more attenuated, while soon, from the catching of my breath, I felt sure that we should soon be beyond air altogether. The candles were gone, but there were stars innumerable, past which we sped with inconceivable rapidity, so that their light seemed continued in one long luminous streak, while ever more and more the speed was increasing, till it seemed that we were attached to some mighty cord, and being whirled round and round with frightful velocity, as if at the end of the string; and now I trembled for the moment when the cord should be loosed, and we should fly off into illimitable space, to go on—on—on for ever!At last it came, and away I went; but now separated from the bedstead, to which I had clung to the last. On—on—on, with something large and undefined in front of me, which I felt that I should strike, though I was powerless to prevent the collision. Nearer—nearer—nearer, but ever darting along like a shooting-star in its course, I was swept on, till, with a fearful crash, I struck what I now found to be the lost bed, and tried to cling to it once more; but, no! I rolled off, and fell slowly and gradually lower—lower, and evidently out of the sphere of the former attraction, so that at last I fell, with only a moderate bump, upon the floor, when, hastily rising, I found all totally dark, and that the bedpost was beside me; when, shudderingly dragging off some of the clothes on to the carpet, I rolled myself in them, and went off into a heavy sleep.The next morning several of my friends made remarks upon my pale and anxious looks; and soon after breakfast, Ned beckoned me into his study, and begged of me to tell him whether I had been disturbed.For a few minutes I felt that I could not tell of the horrors of the past night, even though I had vowed to sleep in the haunted room still; but at last I began my recital, and had arrived at the point where the bedstead set sail, when Ned jumped up, crying:“Why, I thought from your looks that you really had been disturbed. But I say, old boy, I suppose we must look over it, as it’s Christmas; but, do you know, judging by my own feelings, I think I’d better make the punch rather less potent to-night.”“Well, really,” I said, “I think so too.”“Do you?” said Ned.“Oh, yes,” I said, “for my head aches awfully;” and no wonder, seeing how it had been Haunted by Spirits!
“But what an out-of-the-way place to get to,” I said, after being most cordially received by my old school fellow and his wife, one bitter night after a long ride. “But you really are glad to see me, eh?”
“Now, hold your tongue, do,” cried Ned and his wife in a breath. “You won’t get away again under a month, so don’t think it. But where we are going to put you I don’t know,” said Ned.
“Oh I can sleep anywhere, chairs, table, anything you like; only make me welcome. Fine old house this seems, but however came you to take it?”
“Got it cheap, my boy. Been shut up for twenty years. It’s haunted, and no one will live in it. But I have it full for this Christmas, at all events, and what’s more I have some potent spirits in the place too, but they are all corked down tightly, so there is no fear at present. But I say, Lilly,” cried Ned, addressing his wife, “why we shall have to go into the haunted room and give him our place.”
“That you won’t,” I said. “I came down here on purpose to take you by surprise, and to beg for a snack of dinner on Christmas-day; and now you are going to give me about the greatest treat possible, a bed in a haunted room. What kind of a ghost is it?”
“You mustn’t laugh,” said Ned, trying to appear very serious; “for there is not a soul living within ten miles of this place, that would not give you a long account of the horrors of the Red Chamber: of spots of blood upon the bedclothes coming down in a regular rain; noises; clashing of swords; shrieks and groans; skeletons or transparent bodies. Oh, my dear fellow, you needn’t grin, for it’s all gospel truth about here, and if we did not keep that room screwed up, not a servant would stay in the house.”
“Wish I could buy it and take it away,” I said.
“I wish you could, indeed,” cried Ned, cordially.
Half an hour after Ned and I were busy with screwdriver and candle busy in the large corridors, turning the rusty screws which held a large door at the extreme end of the house. First one and then another was twirled out till nothing held the door but the lock; the key for which Ned Harrington now produced from his pocket—an old, many-warded, rusty key, at least a couple of hundred years old.
“Hold the candle a little lower,” said Ned, “here’s something in the keyhole,” when pulling out his knife, he picked out a quantity of paper, evidently very recently stuffed in. He then inserted the key, and after a good deal of effort it turned, and the lock shot back with a harsh, grating noise. Ned then tried the handle, but the door remained fast; and though he tugged and tugged, it still stuck, till I put one hand to help him, when our united efforts made it come open with a rush, knocking over the candle, and there we were standing upon the portal of the haunted room in the dark.
“I’ll fetch a light in a moment out of the hall,” said Ned, and he slipped off, while I must confess to a certain feeling of trepidation on being left alone, listening to a moaning, whistling noise, which I knew to be the wind, but which had all the same a most dismal effect upon my nerves, which, in spite of my eagerness to be the inmate of the closed room, began to whisper very strongly that they did not like it at all. But the next minute Ned was beside me with the light, and we entered the gloomy dusty old chamber—a bed-chamber furnished after the fashion of the past century. The great four-post bedstead looked heavy and gloomy, and when we drew back the curtains, I half expected to see a body lying in state, but no, all was very dusty, very gloomy, and soul chilling, but nothing more.
“Come, there’s plenty of room for a roaring fire,” said Ned, “and I think after all we had better come here ourselves, and let you have our room.”
“That you will not,” I said, determinedly. “Order them to light a fire, and have some well-aired things put upon that bed, and it will be a clever ghost that wakes me to-night, for I’m as tired as a dog.”
“Here, Mary,” shouted Ned to one of the maids, “coals and wood here, and a broom.”
We waited about, peering here and there at the old toilet-ware and stands, the old chest of drawers and armoire, old chairs and paintings, for all seemed as if the room had been suddenly quitted; while inside a huge cupboard beside the fireplace hung a dusty horseman’s cloak, and in the corner were a long thin rapier and a quaint old-fashioned firelock.
“Strikes chilly and damp,” said I, snuffing the smell of old boots and fine dust.
“Ah, but we’ll soon drive that out,” said Ned. “But you’d better give in, my boy. ’Pon my word, I’m ashamed to let you come in here.”
“Pooh! nonsense!” I said. “Give me a roaring fire, and that’s all I want.”
“Ah!” cried Ned. “But what a while that girl is;” and then he stepped out into the passage. “Why, what are you standing there for?” he cried. “Come and light this fire.”
“Plee’, sir, I dussent,” said the maid.
“Here, give me hold,” cried Ned, in a pet; “and send your mistress here;” and then he made his appearance with a coal-scuttle, paper, and wood; when between us we soon had a fire alight and roaring up the huge chimney, while the bright flames flickered and danced, and gave quite a cheerful aspect to the place.
“Well,” cried Mrs Harrington, who now appeared, “how are you getting on?” but neither Ned’s wife nor her sister stood looking, for, in spite of all protestations, dressed as they were, they set to sweeping, dusting, airing linen, bed, mattress, etcetera, we helping to the best of our ability—for no maid, either by threats or persuasion, would enter the place—and at last we made the place look, if not comfortable, at all events less dismal than before we entered. The old blinds came down like so much tinder when touched, while, as to the curtains, the first attempt to draw them brought down such a cloud of dust, that they were left alone, though Mrs Harrington promised that the place should be thoroughly seen to in the morning.
Returning to the drawing-room, the remainder of the evening was most agreeably spent; while the cause of my host and hostess’s prolonged absence produced endless comments and anecdotes respecting the Red Chamber—some of them being so encouraging in their nature that Ned Harrington, out of sheer compassion, changed the conversation.
“Well, my boy,” said Ned, when the ladies had all retired for the night, “you shan’t go to bed till the witching hour is past;” so he kept me chatting over old times, till the clock had gone one—the big old turret-clock, whose notes flew booming away upon the frosty air. “Christmas-eve to-morrow, so we’ll have a tramp on the moors after the wild ducks—plenty out here. I say, my boy, I believe this is the original Moated Grange, so don’t be alarmed if you hear the mice.”
“There’s only one thing I care for,” I said, “and that is anything in the shape of a practical joke.”
“Honour bright! my boy,” said Ned; “you need fear nothing of that kind;” and then I was alone in the Haunted Chamber, having locked myself in.
My first proceeding was to give the large fire an extra poke, which sent a flood of light across the room, and the flames gushing up the chimney; my next, to take one of the candles and make a tour of my bedroom, during which I looked under the bed, behind the curtains, and into armoire and cupboard, but discovered nothing. Next thing I tried the windows, through which I could just dimly see the snow-white country, but they were fast and blackened with dirt. The chimney-glass, too, was so injured by damp, that the dim reflection given back was something startling, being more like a bad photograph of life-size than anything else; and at length, having fully made up my mind that I was alone, and that, as far as I could make out, there were neither trap-doors nor secret passages in the wall, I undressed, put out the candles, and plunged into bed.
But I was wrong in what I had said to my host about sleeping, for I never felt more wakeful in my life. I watched the blaze of the fire sink down to a ruddy glow, the glow turn blacker and blacker till at last the fire was all but extinct, while the room was dark as could be. But my eyesight was painfully acute, while my hearing seemed strained to catch the slightest passing sound. The wind roared and rumbled in the great chimney, and swept sighing past the windows; and, though it had a strange, wild sound with it, yet I had heard the wind before, and therefore paid but little heed to its moans.
All at once the fire seemed to fall together with a tinkling sound, a bright flame leaped up, illumining the room for a moment, then becoming extinct, and leaving all in darkness; but there was light for a long enough interval for me to see, or fancy I saw, the cupboard door open and the great horseman’s cloak stand out in a weird-like manner before me, as though covering the shoulders of some invisible figure.
I felt warm—then hot—then in a profuse perspiration, but I told myself it was fancy, punched my pillow, and turned over upon the other side to sleep. Now came a long, low, dreary moan, hollow and heartrending, for it seemed like the cry of some one in distress; when I raised myself upon one elbow and listened.
“Old cowl on a chimney,” I muttered, letting myself fall back again, now thoroughly determined to sleep, but the moaning continued, the wind whistled and howled, while now came a gentle tap, tap, tapping at my window, as if some one was signalling to be admitted.
“Tap, tap, tap;” still it kept on, as though whoever tapped was fearful of making too much noise; and at length, nerving myself, I slipped out of bed, crossed the room, and found that the closet door was open, but a vigorous poke inside produced nothing but dust and two or three very sharp sneezes. So I fastened the door, and listened. All silent: but the next moment began the tapping upon the dirty window-pane again; and, impelled by a mingled sensation of fear and attraction, I crept closer to the sash, and at length made out the shadow of something tapping at the glass.
“Bah! Bah!” I exclaimed the next moment as I shuffled across the room and back to my bed, “strand of ivy and the wind.” But I was not to be at peace yet, for now there came a most unmistakable noise behind the wainscot—louder and louder, as if some one were trying to tear a piece of the woodwork down. The place chosen seemed to be the corner beside the cupboard; and at last, having made up my mind that it was the rats, I dropped off to sleep, and slept soundly till morning, when I heard the cheery voice of my host at the door.
“Oh, all right,” he said as I answered; “I only came because the girl knocked, and said that something must be the matter, for she could not make you hear.”
On descending to breakfast, I found that I was to undergo a rigorous cross-examination as to what I had seen and heard; but one elderly lady present shook her head ominously, freely giving it as her opinion that it was little better than sacrilege to open the haunted chamber, and finishing a very solemn peroration with the words—
“Stop a bit; they don’t walk every night.”
This was encouraging, certainly; but in the course of the afternoon I went up to my room, and found that it had been well cleaned out, while many little modern appliances had been added to the dingy furniture, so that it wore quite a brightened appearance. The insides of the windows had been cleaned, and a man was then upon a ladder polishing away at the exterior, when I drew his attention to a number of loose ivy strands, which he cut off.
In the cupboard I found plenty of traces of rats in the shape of long-gnawed-off fragments of wood pushed beneath the skirting-board; while, upon holding my head against the chimney, the groaning of the cowl was plainly to be heard, as it swung round dolefully upon some neighbouring chimney.
A pleasant day was spent, and then, after a cosy evening, I was once more ushered into the chamber of horrors, this time being escorted by the whole of the visitors, the gentlemen affectionately bidding me farewell, but not one seeming disposed to accept my offer of changing rooms. However, Ned and Mrs Harrington both wished me to go to their room, when I of course refused; and once more I was alone.
It was now about half-past twelve and Christmas-morning, a regular storm was hurrying round the house, and a strange feeling of crepitation came upon me when I had extinguished the light; and then on climbing into bed I sat and listened for a while, laid my head upon my pillow, and the next moment, or what seemed the next moment, I was startled by a strange beating sound, and as I became aware of a dim, peculiar light, penetrating the room, I heard a low, muffled voice cry appealingly—
“Your hot water, sir—quarter to eight!” while I could hardly believe my eyes had been closed.
Christmas-day passed as it generally does in the country, that is to say, in a most jovial, sociable way; and after fun, frolic, sport, pastime, forfeit, dance, and cards, I stood once more within the haunted chamber with the strange sensation upon me, that though I had met with nothing so far to alarm me—this night, a night when, of all nights in the year, spirits might be expected to break loose, I was to suffer for my temerity.
As soon as I entered and secured the door, I felt that something was wrong, but I roused up the fire, lit the wax candles upon the dressing-table, and then looked round the room.
Apparently I was alone, but upon opening the big closet door, the great cloak fell down with a ghostly rustle, while a peculiar odour seemed to rise from the heap. The long, thin sword too, fell, with a strange clanging noise as I hastily closed the door, and then setting down the candle tried to compose myself to look at matters in a calm, philosophical manner. But things would not be looked at in that way, and now I began to feel that I was being punished for all, since the next moment I could see the eyes of the large portrait between the windows gleam and roll, now showing the whites, now seeming to pierce me, so intense was their gaze. Then the figure seemed to be slowly coming down from the frame nearer and nearer, till it was close to me, when it slowly receded, and a shade passed over the canvas, so that it was gone.
But for shame and the fear of ridicule, I should have opened the door and cried for aid; in fact, I believe I did rise from the chair and try to reach the door, but some invisible power drew me into a corner of the room, where I leaned panting against the wall to gaze upon a fresh phenomenon. I had brought a chamber candlestick into the room, and after igniting the pair of candles upon the toilet table, placed the flat candlestick between them, and left it alight, but now—no—yes—I rubbed my eyes—there was no mistake.
There were six candles burning.
I started, shook myself, muttering that it was deception; but no, there burned six candles, while their flames were big and blurred with a large, ghastly, blue halo round each, that had a strange weird light; and now I tried to recall what I had read in old ghost stories about corpse candles, for I felt that these three must be of that character.
In an agony of fear I tried to run up to the dressing-table to dash the weird lights over, but again the same strange influence guided my steps, so that I curved off to the bed, where I sat down, trembling in every limb—limbs that refused their office—while I gazed upon the candles which now began to float backwards and forwards before me, till I could bear the strange sight no more, and throwing myself back, I buried my face in the bed.
But there was no relief here, for as I threw myself down at full length, the great bedstead gave a crack, a rattle, and a bound, and then in an agony of dread I was clinging to the bedding, for the huge structure began to rise slowly higher—higher—higher—sailing away apparently upon the wings of the wind, and then again sinking lower and lower and lower to interminable depths, so that I involuntarily groaned and closed my eyes. But that was of no avail, for I could feel the great bedstead career, now on one side, now on the other, and ever going onward through space like some vessel upon a vast aerial sea.
The rapid gliding upward, in spite of the dread, seemed attended with somewhat of an exhilarating effect; but the falling was hideous in the extreme—for now it was slowly and gently, but the next moment the speed was fearful, and I lay trembling in expectation of feeling the structure dash upon the ground, while every time I unclosed my eyes I could see the gyrating candles, and turned giddy with confusion.
And now, with one tremendously swift gliding swoop, away we went, faster and faster, more rapidly than swallows upon the wing. Space seemed obliterated; and, by the rushing noise and singing in my ears, I could feel that the bedstead was careering on where the atmosphere was growing more and more attenuated, while soon, from the catching of my breath, I felt sure that we should soon be beyond air altogether. The candles were gone, but there were stars innumerable, past which we sped with inconceivable rapidity, so that their light seemed continued in one long luminous streak, while ever more and more the speed was increasing, till it seemed that we were attached to some mighty cord, and being whirled round and round with frightful velocity, as if at the end of the string; and now I trembled for the moment when the cord should be loosed, and we should fly off into illimitable space, to go on—on—on for ever!
At last it came, and away I went; but now separated from the bedstead, to which I had clung to the last. On—on—on, with something large and undefined in front of me, which I felt that I should strike, though I was powerless to prevent the collision. Nearer—nearer—nearer, but ever darting along like a shooting-star in its course, I was swept on, till, with a fearful crash, I struck what I now found to be the lost bed, and tried to cling to it once more; but, no! I rolled off, and fell slowly and gradually lower—lower, and evidently out of the sphere of the former attraction, so that at last I fell, with only a moderate bump, upon the floor, when, hastily rising, I found all totally dark, and that the bedpost was beside me; when, shudderingly dragging off some of the clothes on to the carpet, I rolled myself in them, and went off into a heavy sleep.
The next morning several of my friends made remarks upon my pale and anxious looks; and soon after breakfast, Ned beckoned me into his study, and begged of me to tell him whether I had been disturbed.
For a few minutes I felt that I could not tell of the horrors of the past night, even though I had vowed to sleep in the haunted room still; but at last I began my recital, and had arrived at the point where the bedstead set sail, when Ned jumped up, crying:
“Why, I thought from your looks that you really had been disturbed. But I say, old boy, I suppose we must look over it, as it’s Christmas; but, do you know, judging by my own feelings, I think I’d better make the punch rather less potent to-night.”
“Well, really,” I said, “I think so too.”
“Do you?” said Ned.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “for my head aches awfully;” and no wonder, seeing how it had been Haunted by Spirits!