In her ear he whispers gaily,"If my heart by signs can tell,Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily,And I think thou lov'st me well."She replies, in accents fainter,"There is none I love like thee."He is but a landscape-painter,And a village maiden she.He to lips, that fondly falter,Presses his without reproof;Leads her to the village altar,And they leave her father's root.
"I can make no marriage present;Little can I give my wife.Love will make our cottage pleasant,And I love thee more than life."
They by parks and lodges goingSee the lordly castles stand;Summer woods about them blowingMade a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,Says to her that loves him well,"Let us see these handsome housesWhere the wealthy nobles dwell."
So she goes by him attended,Hears him lovingly converse,Sees whatever fair and splendidLay betwixt his home and hers.Parks with oak and chestnut shady,Parks and order'd gardens great,Ancient homes of lord and lady,Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer;Evermore she seems to gazeOn that cottage growing nearer,Where they twain will spend their days.
O but she will love him truly!He shall have a cheerful homeShe will order all things duly,When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,Till a gateway she discernsWith armorial bearings stately,And beneath the gate she turns;Sees a mansion more majesticThan all those she saw before;Many a gallant gay domesticBows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,When they answer to his call,While he treads with footstep firmer,Leading on from hall to hall.
And while now she wanders blindly,Nor the meaning can divine,Proudly turns he round and kindly,"All of this is mine and thine."
Here he lives in state and bounty,Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,Not a lord in all the countyIs so great a lord as he.All at once the colour flushesHer sweet face from brow to chin;As it were with shame she blushes,And her Spirit changed within.
Then her countenance all overPale again as death did prove;But he clasp'd her like a lover,And he cheer'd her soul with love.
So she strove against her weakness,Tho' at times her spirits sank;Shaped her heart with woman's meeknessTo all duties of her rank;And a gentle consort made he,And her gentle mind was suchThat she grew a noble lady,And the people loved her much.
But a trouble weigh'd upon her,And perplex'd her, night and morn,With the burden of an honourUnto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,As she murmur'd "Oh, that heWere once more that landscape-painterWhich did win my heart from me!"So she droop'd and droop'd before him,Fading slowly from his side;Three fair children first she bore him,Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,Walking up and pacing down,Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh,Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.And he came to look upon her,And he look'd at her and said,"Bring the dress and put it on her,That she wore when she was wed."
Then her people, softly treading,Bore to earth her body, drestIn the dress that she was wed in,That her spirit might have rest.
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often look'd at them,And often thought "I'll make them man and wife."Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.
Then there came a dayWhen Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son:I married late, but I would wish to seeMy grandchild on my knees before I die:And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora; she is wellTo look to; thrifty too beyond her age.She is my brother's daughter: he and IHad once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wished this marriage, night and day,For many years." But William answered short:"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora." Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father's word was law,And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;Consider, William: take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall packAnd never more darken my doors again."But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,And broke away. The more he looked at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father's house,And hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wedA labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'dHis niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law,"And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,"It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!"And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he passed his father's gate,Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd look'd with tears upon her boy, and thoughtHard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
"I have obey'd my uncle until now,And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you:You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest: let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle's eyeAmong the wheat; that when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and the land was dark.
But when the morrow came she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it round his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.Then when the farmer pass'd into the fieldHe spied her, and he left his men at work,And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!""And did I not," said Allan, "did I notForbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:"Do with me as you will, but take the childAnd bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"And Allan said, "I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more."
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fellAt Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,And the boy's cry came to her from the fieldMore and more distant. She bow'd down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bow'd downAnd wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praiseTo God, that help'd her in her widowhood.And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more."Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother; therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home,And I will beg of him to take thee back;But if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William's child, until he growsOf age to help us."
So the women kiss'dEach other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.The door was off the latch: they peep'd and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched outAnd babbled for the golden seal that hungFrom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in; but when the boy beheldHis mother he cried out to come to her:And Allan set him down, and Mary said:—
"O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a-begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora: take her back; she loves you well.O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me—I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus:'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'dHis face and pass'd—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slightHis father's memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before."
So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room;And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—
"I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill'd my son.I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son.May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children."
Then they clung aboutThe old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times,And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,Thinking of William.
So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as yearsWent forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
Mrs. B. is my wife; and her alarms are those produced by a delusion under which she labours that there are assassins, gnomes, vampires, or what not, in our house at night, and that it is my bounden duty to leave my bed at any hour or temperature, and to do battle with the same, in very inadequate apparel. The circumstances which attend Mrs. B.'s alarms are generally of the following kind. I am awakened by the mention of my baptismal name in that peculiar species of whisper which has something uncanny in its very nature, besides the dismal associations which belong to it, from the fact of its being used only in melodramas and sick-rooms.
"Henry, Henry, Henry!"
How many times she had repeated this I know not; the sound falls on my ear like the lapping of a hundred waves, or as the "Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe," of the parrot smote upon the ear of the terrified islander of Defoe; but at last I wake, to view, by the dim firelight, this vision: Mrs. B. is sitting up beside me, in a listening attitude of the very intensest kind; her nightcap (one with cherry-coloured ribbons, such as it can be no harm to speak about) is tucked back behind either ear; her hair—in paper—is rolled out of the way upon each side like a banner furled; her eyes are rather wide open, and her mouth very much so; her fingers would be held up to command attention, but that she is supporting herself in a somewhat absurd manner upon her hands.
"Henry, did you hearthat?"
"What, my love?"
"That noise. There it is again; there—there."
The disturbance referred to is that caused by a mouse nibbling at the wainscot; and I venture to say so much in a tone of the deepest conviction.
"No, no, Henry; it's not the least like that: it's a file working at the bars of the pantry-window. I will stake my existence, Henry, that it is a file."
Whenever my wife makes use of this particular form of words I know that opposition is useless. I rise, therefore, and put on my slippers and dressing-gown. Mrs. B. refuses to let me have the candle, because she will die of terror if she is left alone without a light. She puts the poker into my hand, and with a gentle violence is about to expel me from the chamber, when a sudden thought strikes her.
"Stop a bit, Henry," she exclaims, "until I have looked into the cupboards and places;" which she proceeds to do most minutely, investigating even the short drawers of a foot and a half square. I am at length dismissed upon my perilous errand, and Mrs. B. locks and double-locks the door behind me with a celerity that almost catches my retreating garment. My expedition therefore combines all the dangers of a sally, with the additional disadvantage of having my retreat into my own fortress cut off. Thus cumbrously but ineffectually caparisoned, I peramulate the lower stories of the house in darkness, in search of the disturber of Mrs. B.'s repose, which, I am well convinced, is behind the wainscot of her own apartment, and nowhere else. The pantry, I need not say, is as silent as the grave, and about as cold. The great clock in the kitchen looks spectral enough by the light of the expiring embers, but there is nothing there with life except black-beetles, which crawl in countless numbers over my naked ankles. There is a noise in the cellar such as Mrs. B. would at once identify with the suppressed converse of anticipated burglars, but which I recognise in a moment as the dripping of the small-beer cask, whose tap is troubled with a nervous disorganisation of that kind. The dining-room is chill and cheerless; a ghostly armchair is doing the grim honours of the table to three other vacant seats, and dispensing hospitality in the shape of a mouldy orange and some biscuits, which I remember to have left in some disgust, about——Hark! the clicking of a revolver? No! the warning of the great clock—one, two, three…. What a frightful noise it makes in the startled ear of night! Twelve o'clock. I left this dining-room, then, but three hours and a-half ago; it certainly does not look like the same room now. The drawing-room is also far from wearing its usual snug and comfortable appearance. Could we possibly have all been sitting in the relative positions to one another which these chairs assume? Or since we were there, has some spiritual company, with no eye for order left among them, taken advantage of the remains of our fire to hold aréunion? They are here even at this moment perhaps, and their gentlemen have not yet come up from the dining-room. I shudder from head to foot, partly at the bare idea of such a thing, partly from the naked fact of my exceedingly unclothed condition. They do say that in the very passage which I have now to cross in order to get to Mrs. B. again, my great-grandfather "walks"; in compensation, I suppose, for having been prevented by gout from taking that species of exercise while he was alive. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, I think, as I approach this spot; but I do not say so, for I am well-nigh speechless with the cold: yes, the cold. It is only my teeth that chatter. What a scream that was! There it comes again, and there is no doubt this time as to who is the owner of that terrified voice. Mrs. B.'s alarms have evidently taken some other direction. "Henry, Henry!" she cries, in tones of a very tolerable pitch. A lady being in the case, I fly upon the wings of domestic love along the precincts sacred to the perambulations of my great-grandfather. I arrive at my wife's chamber; the screams continue, but the door is locked.
"Open, open!" shout I. "What on earth is the matter?"
There is silence; then a man's voice—that is to say, my wife's voice in imitation of a man's—replies in tones of indignant ferocity, to convey the idea of a life-preserver being under the pillow of the speaker, and ready to his hand: "Who are you—what do you want?"
"You very silly woman," I answered; not from unpoliteness, but because I find that that sort of language recovers and assures her of my identity better than any other—"why, it's I."
The door is then opened about six or seven inches, and I am admitted with all the precaution which attends the entrance of an ally into a besieged garrison.
Mrs. B., now leaning upon my shoulder, dissolves into copious tears, and points to the door communicating with my attiring-chamber.
"There's sur—sur—somebody been snoring in your dressing-room," she sobs, "all the time you were away."
This statement is a little too much for my sense of humour, and although sympathising very tenderly with poor Mrs. B., I cannot help bursting into a little roar of laughter. Laughter and fear are deadly enemies, and I can see at once that Mrs. B. is all the better for this explosion.
"Consider, my love," I reason, "consider the extreme improbability of a burglar or other nefarious person making such a use of the few precious hours of darkness as to go to sleep in them! Why, too, should he take a bedstead without a mattress, which I believe is the case in this particular supposition of yours, when there were feather-beds unoccupied in other apartments? Moreover, would not this be a still greater height of recklessness in such an individual, should he have a habit of snor——"
A slight noise in the dressing-room, occasioned by the Venetian blind tapping against the window, here causes Mrs. B. to bury her head with extreme swiftness, ostrichlike, beneath the pillow, so that the peroration of my argument is lost upon her. I enter the suspected chamber—this time with a lighted candle—and find my trousers, with the boots in them, hanging over the bedside something after the manner of a drunken marauder, but nothing more. Neither is there anybody reposing under the shadow of my boot-tree upon the floor. All is peace there, and at sixes and sevens as I left it upon retiring—as I had hoped—to rest.
Once more I stretch my chilled and tired limbs upon the couch; sweet sleep once more begins to woo my eyelids, when "Henry, Henry!" again dissolves the dim and half-formed dream.
"Are youcertain, Henry, that you looked in the shower-bath? I am almost sure that I heard somebody pulling the string."
No grounds, indeed, are too insufficient, no supposition too incompatible with reason, for Mrs. B. to build her alarms upon. Sometimes, although we lodge upon the second story, she imagines that the window is being attempted; sometimes, although the register may be down, she is confident that the chimney is being used as the means of ingress.
Once, when we happened to be in London—where she feels, however, a good deal safer than in the country—we had a real alarm, and Mrs. B., since I was suffering from a quinsy, contracted mainly by my being sent about the house o' nights in the usual scanty drapery, had to be sworn in as her own special constable.
"Henry, Henry!" she whispered upon this occasion, "there's a dreadful cat in the room."
"Pooh, pooh!" I gasped; "it's only in the street; I've heard the wretches. Perhaps they are on the tiles."
"No, Henry. There, I don't want you to talk, since it makes you cough; only listen to me. What am I to do, Henry? I'll stake my existence that there's a—— Ugh, what's that?"
And, indeed, some heavy body did there and then jump upon our bed, and off again at my wife's interjection, with extreme agility. I thought Mrs. B. would have had a fit, but she didn't. She told me, dear soul, upon no account to venture into the cold with my bad throat. She would turn out the beast herself, single-handed. We arranged that she was to take hold of my fingers, and retain them, until she reached the fireplace, where she would find a shovel or other offensive weapon fit for the occasion. During the progress of this expedition, however, so terrible a caterwauling broke forth, as it seemed, from the immediate neighbourhood of the fender, that my disconcerted helpmate made a most precipitate retreat. She managed after this mishap to procure a light, and by a circuitous route, constructed of tables and chairs, to avoid stepping upon the floor, Mrs. B. obtained the desired weapon. It was then much better than a play to behold that heroic woman defying grimalkin from her eminence, and to listen to the changeful dialogue which ensued between herself and that far from dumb, though inarticulately speaking animal.
"Puss, puss, pussy—poor pussy."
"Miau, miau, miau," was the linked shrillness, long drawn out, of the feline reply.
"Poor old puss, then, was it ill? Puss, puss. Henry, the horrid beast is going to fly at me! Whist, whist, cat."
"Ps-s-s-s. ps-s-s-s, miau; ps-s-s-s-s-s-s-s," replied the other, in a voice like fat in the fire.
"My dear love," cried I, almost suffocated with a combination of laughter and quinsy; "you have never opened the door; where is the poor thing to run to?"
Mrs. B. had all this time been exciting the bewildered animal to frenzy by her conversation and shovel, without giving it the opportunity to escape, which, as soon as offered, it took advantage of with an expression of savage impatience partaking very closely indeed of the character of an oath.
This is, however, the sole instance of Mrs. B.'s having ever taken it in hand to subdue her own alarms. It is I who, ever since her marriage, have done the duty, and more than the duty, of an efficient house-dog, which before that epoch, I understand, was wont to be discharged by one of her younger sisters. Not seldom, in these involuntary rounds of mine, I have become myself the cause of alarm or inconvenience to others. Our little foot-page, with a courage beyond his years, and a spirit worthy of a better cause, very nearly transfixed me with the kitchen spit as I was trying, upon one occasion, the door of his own pantry. Upon another nocturnal expedition, I ran against a human body in the dark—that turned out to be my brother-in-law's, who was also in search of robbers—with a shock to both our nervous systems such as they have not yet recovered from. It fell to my lot, upon a third, to discover one of the rural police up in our attics, where, in spite of the increased powers lately granted to the county constabulary, I could scarcely think he was entitled to be. I once presented myself, an uninvited guest, at a select morning entertainment—it was at 1.30 A.M.—given by our hired London cook to nearly a dozen of her male and female friends. No wonder that Mrs. B. had "staked her existence" that night that she had heard the area gate "go." When I consider the extremely free and unconstrained manner in which I was received, poker and all, by that assembly, my only surprise is that they did not signify their arrivals by double knocks at the front door.
On one memorable night, and on one only, have I found it necessary to use that formidable weapon which habit has rendered as familiar to my hand as its flower to that of the Queen of Clubs.
The grey of morning had just begun to steal into our bedchamber, when Mrs. B. ejaculated with unusual vigour, "Henry, Henry, they're in the front drawing-room; and they've just knocked down the parrot screen."
"My love," I was about to observe, "your imaginative powers have now arrived at the pitch ofclairvoyance," when a noise from the room beneath us, as if all the fireirons had gone off together with a bang, compelled me to acknowledge, to myself at least, that there was something in Mrs. B.'s alarms at last. I trod downstairs as noiselessly as I could, and in almost utter darkness. The drawing-room door was ajar, and through the crevice I could distinguish, despite the gloom, as many as three muffled figures. They were all of them in black clothing, and each wore over his face a mask of crape, fitting quite closely to his features. I had never been confronted by anything so dreadful before. Mrs. B. had cried "Wolf!" so often that I had almost ceased to believe in wolves of this description at all. Unused to personal combat, and embarrassed by the novel circumstance under which I found myself, I was standing undecided on the landing, when I caught that well-known whisper of "Henry, Henry!" from the upper story. The burglars caught it also. They desisted from their occupation of examining the articles ofvertuupon the chimney-piece, while their fiendish countenances relaxed into a hideous grin. One of them stole cautiously towards the door where I was standing. I hear his burglarious feet, I heard the "Henry, Henry!" still going on from above-stairs; I heard my own heart pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat within me. It was one of those moments in which one lives a life. The head of the craped marauder was projected cautiously round the door, as if to listen. I poised my weapon, and brought it down with unerring aim upon his skull. He fell like a bullock beneath the axe, and I sped up to my bedchamber with all the noiselessness and celerity of a bird. It was I who locked the door this time, and piled the washhand-stand, two band-boxes, and a chair against it with the speed of lightning.
Was Mrs. B. out of her mind with terror that at such an hour as that she should indulge in a paroxysm of mirth?
"Good heavens!" I cried, "be calm, my love; there are burglars in the house at last."
"My dear Henry," she answered, laughing so that the tears quite stood in her eyes, "I am very sorry; I tried to call you back. But when I sent you downstairs, I quite forgot that this was the morning upon which I had ordered the sweeps!"
One of those gentlemen was at that moment lying underneath with his skull fractured, and it cost me fifteen pounds to get it mended, besides the expense of a new drawing-room carpet.
—From "Humorous Stories" by James Payn. By permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus.
It was a cloudy, dismal day, and I was all alone,For early in the morning John Earl and Nathan StoneCame riding up the lane to say—I saw they both looked pale—That Anderson the murderer had broken out of jail.
They only stopped a minute, to tell my man that heMust go to the four corners, where all the folks would be;They were going to hunt the country, for he only had been goneAn hour or so when they missed him, that morning just at dawn.
John never finished his breakfast; he saddled the old white mare.She seemed to know there was trouble, and galloped as free and fairAnd even a gait as she ever struck when she was a five-year-old:The knowingest beast we ever had, and worth her weight in gold.
He turned in the saddle and called to me—I watched him fromthe door—"I shan't be home to dinner," says he, "but I'll be back by four.I'd fasten the doors if I was you, and keep at home to-day;"And a little chill came over me as I watched him ride away.
I went in and washed the dishes—I was sort of scary too.We had 'ranged to go away that day. I hadn't much to do,Though I always had some sewing work, and I got it and sat down;But the old clock tick-tacked loud at me, and I put away the gown.
I thought the story over: how Anderson had beenA clever, steady fellow, so far's they knew, till then.Some said his wife had tried him, but he got to drinking hard,Till last he struck her with an axe and killed her in the yard.
The only thing I heard he said was, he was most to blame;But he fought the men that took him like a tiger. 'Twas a shameHe'd got away; he ought to swing: a man that killed his wifeAnd broke her skull in with an axe—he ought to lose his life!
Our house stood in a lonesome place, the woods were all around,But I could see for quite a ways across the open ground;I couldn't help, for the life o' me, a-looking now and thenAll along the edge o' the growth, and listening for the men.
I thought they would find Anderson: he couldn't run till night,For the farms were near together, and there must be a sightOf men out hunting for him; but when the clock struck three,A neighbour's boy came up with word that John had sent to me.
He would be home by five o'clock. They'd scour the woods till dark;Some of the men would be off all night, but he and Andrew ClarkWould keep watch round his house and ours—I should not stay alone.Poor John, he did the best he could, but what if he had known!
The boy could hardly stop to tell that the se-lec'men had saidThey would pay fifty dollars for the man alive or dead,And I felt another shiver go over me for fearThat John might get that money, though we were pinched that year.
I felt a little easier then, and went to work again:The sky was getting cloudier, 'twas coming on to rain.Before I knew, the clock struck six, and John had not come back;The rain began to spatter down, and all the sky was black.
I thought and thought, what shall I do if I'm alone all night?I wa'n't so brave as I am now. I lit another light,And I stirred round and got supper, but I ate it all alone.The wind was blowing more and more—I hate to hear it moan.
I was cutting rags to braid a rug—I sat there by the fire;I wished I'd kep' the dog at home; the gale was rising higher;O own I had hard thoughts o' John; I said he had no rightTo leave his wife in that lonesome place alone that dreadful night.
And then I thought of the murderer, afraid of God and man;I seemed to follow him all the time, whether he hid or ran;I saw him crawl on his hands and knees through the icy mud in therain,And I wondered if he didn't wish he was back in his home again.
I fell asleep for an hour or two, and then I woke with a start;A feeling come across me that took and stopped my heart;I was 'fraid to look behind me; then I felt my heart begin;And I saw right at the window-pane two eyes a-looking in.
I couldn't look away from them—the face was white as clay.Those eyes, they make me shudder when I think of them to-day.I knew right off 'twas Anderson. I couldn't move nor speak;I thought I'd slip down on the floor, I felt so light and weak.
"O Lord," I thought, "what shall I do?" Some words begun to come,Like some one whispered to me: I set there, still and dumb:"I was a stranger—took me in—in prison—visited me;"And I says, "O Lord, I couldn't; it's a murderer, you see!"
And those eyes they watched me all the time, in dreadful stilldespair—Most like the room looked warm and safe; he watched me settingthere;And what 'twas made me do it, I don't know to this day,But I opened the door and let him in—a murderer at bay.
He laid him right down on the floor, close up beside the fire.I never saw such a wretched sight: he was covered thick with mire;His clothes were torn to his very skin, and his hands were bleedingfast.I gave him something to tie 'em up, and all my fears were past.
I filled the fire place up with wood to get the creature warm,And I fetched him a bowl o' milk to drink—I couldn't do him harm;And pretty soon he says, real low, "Do you know who I be?"And I says, "You lay there by the fire; I know you won't hurt me."
I had been fierce as any one before I saw him there,But I pitied him—a ruined man whose life had started fair.I somehow or 'nother never felt that I was doing wrong,And I watched him laying there asleep almost the whole night long.
I thought once that I heard the men, and I was half afraidThat they might come and find him there; and so I went and staidClose to the window, watching, and listening for a cry;And he slept there like a little child—forgot his misery.
I almost hoped John wouldn't come till he could get away;And I went to the door and harked awhile, and saw the dawn of day.'Twas bad for him to have slept so long, but I couldn't make him goFrom the City of Refuge he had found; and he was glad, I know.
It was years and years ago, but still I never can forgetHow grey it looked that morning; the air was cold and wet;Only the wind would howl sometimes, or else the trees would creak—All night I'd 'a given anything to hear somebody speak.
He heard me shut the door again, and started up so wildAnd haggard that I 'most broke down. I wasn't reconciledTo have the poor thing run all day, chased like a wolf or bear;But I knew he'd brought it on himself; his punishment was fair.
I gave him something more to eat; he couldn't touch it then,"God pity you, poor soul!" says I. May I not see againA face like his, as he stood in the door and looked which wayto go!I watched him making towards the swamps, dead-lame and moving slow.
He had hardly spoken a word to me, but as he went awayHe thanked me, and gave me such a look! 'twill last to my dyingday."May God have mercy on me, as you have had!" says he,And I choked, and couldn't say a word, and he limped away from me.
John came home bright and early. He'd fell and hurt his head,And he stopped up to his father's; but he'd sent word, he said,And told the boy to fetch me there—my cousin, Johnny Black—But he went off with some other folks, who thought they'd found thetrack.
Oh yes, they did catch Anderson, early that afternoonAnd carried him back to jail again, and tried and hung him soon.Justice is justice! but I say, although they served him right,I'm glad I harboured the murderer that stormy April night.
Some said I might have locked him up, and got the town reward;But I couldn't have done it if I'd starved, and I do hope the LordForgave it, if it was a sin; but I could never see'Twas wrong to shelter a hunted man, trusting his life to me.
From "Harper's Magazine." By special permission of Harper & Brothers.
[William Guild was engineer of the train which plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, to whistle an "All's well" to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.]
Two low whistles, quaint and clear,That was the signal the engineer—That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said—Gave to his wife at Providence,As through the sleeping town, and thence,Out in the night,On to the light,Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!
As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt,Yet to the woman looking out,Watching and waiting, no serenade,Love song, or midnight roundelaySaid what that whistle seemed to say:"To my trust true,So love to you!Working or wailing, good night!" it said.
Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine,Old commuters along the line,Brakemen and porters glanced ahead,Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,Pierced through the shadows of Providence:"Nothing amiss—Nothing!—it isOnly Guild calling his wife," they said.
Summer and winter the old refrainRang o'er the billows of ripening grain,Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead:Flew down the track when the red leaves burnedLike living coals from the engine spurned;Sang as it flew:"To our trust true,First of all, duty. Good night!" it said.
And then one night it was heard no moreFrom Stonington over Rhode Island shore,And the folk in Providence smiled and said,As they turned in their beds, "The engineerHas once forgotten his midnight cheer."Oneonly knew,To his trust true,Guild lay under his engine dead.
Half an hour till train time, sir,An' a fearful dark time, too;Take a look at the switch lights, Tom,Fetch in a stick when you're through.On time?Well, yes, I guess so—Left the last station all right;She'll come round the curve a-flyin';Bill Mason comes up to-night.
You know Bill?No?He's engineer,Been on the road all his life—I'll never forget the mornin'He married his chuck of a wife.'Twas the summer the mill hands struck,Just off work, every one;They kicked up a row in the villageAnd killed old Donevan's son.
Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour,Up comes a message from Kress,Orderin' Bill to go up thereAnd bring down the night express.He left his gal in a hurry,And went up on Number One,Thinking of nothing but Mary,And the train he had to run.
And Mary sat down by the windowTo wait for the night express;And, sir, if she hadn't 'a done so,She'd been a widow, I guess.
For it must 'a been nigh midnightWhen the mill hands left the Ridge;They came down—the drunken devils,Tore up a rail from the bridge,But Mary heard 'em a-workin'And guessed there was something wrong—And in less than fifteen minutes,Bill's train it would be along!
She couldn't come here to tell us,A mile—it wouldn't 'a done;So she jest grabbed up a lantern,And made for the bridge alone.Then down came the night express, sir,And Bill was makin' her climb!But Mary held the lantern,A-swingin' it all the time.
Well, by Jove! Bill saw the signal,And he stopped the night express,And he found his Mary cryin'On the track in her weddin' dress;Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir,An' holdin' on to the light—Hello! here's the train—good-bye, sir,Bill Mason's on time to-night.
It was out on the Western frontier,The miners, rugged and brown,Were gathered around the posters—The circus had come to town!The great tent shone in the darkness,Like a wonderful palace of light,And rough men crowded the entrance;Shows didn't come every night.
Not a woman's face among them,Many a face that was bad,And some that were very vacant,And some that were very sad.And behind a canvas curtain,In a corner of the place,The clown with chalk and vermilionWas making up his face.
A weary-looking woman,With a smile that still was sweet,Sewed, on a little garment,With a cradle at her feet.Pantaloon stood ready and waiting,It was time for the going on;But the clown in vain searched wildly—The "property baby" was gone.
He murmured, impatiently hunting,"It's strange that I cannot find;There! I've looked in every corner;It must have been left behind!"The miners were stamping and shouting,They were not patient men;The clown bent over the cradle—"I must takeyou, little Ben."
The mother started and shivered,But trouble and want were near;She lifted her baby gently;"You'll be very careful, dear?""Careful? You foolish darling"—How tenderly it was said!What a smile shone thro' the chalk and paint—"I love each hair of his head!"
The noise rose into an uproar,Misrule for a time was king;The clown with a foolish chuckle,Bolted into the ring.But as, with a squeak and flourish,The fiddles closed their tune,"You hold him as if he was made of glass!"Said the clown to the pantaloon.
The jovial fellow nodded;"I've a couple myself," he said,"I know how to handle 'em, bless you;Old fellow, go ahead!"The fun grew fast and furious,And not one of all the crowdHad guessed that the baby was alive,When he suddenly laughed aloud.
Oh, that baby laugh! it was echoedFrom the benches with a ring,And the roughest customer there sprang upWith "Boys, it's the real thing!"The ring was jammed in a minute,Not a man that did not striveFor "a shot at holding the baby"—The baby that was "alive!"
He was thronged by kneeling suitorsIn the midst of the dusty ring,And he held his court right royally,The fair little baby king;Till one of the shouting courtiers,A man with a bold, hard face,The talk for miles of the countryAnd the terror of the place,
Raised the little king to his shoulder,And chuckled, "Look at that!"As the chubby fingers clutched his hair,Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!"There never was such a hatfulOf silver, and gold, and notes;People are not always pennilessBecause they won't wear coats!
And then "Three cheers for the baby!"I tell you those cheers were meant,And the way in which they were givenWas enough to raise the tent.And then there was sudden silence,And a gruff old miner said,"Come, boys, enough of this rumpus;It's time it was put to bed."
So, looking a little sheepish,But with faces strangely bright,The audience, somewhat lingering,Flocked out into the night.And the bold-faced leader chuckled,"He wasn't a bit afraid!He's as game as he is good-looking;Boys, that was a show that paid!"
Whatever I do and whatever I say,Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way;Whenshewas a girl (forty summers ago),Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice—But I like my own way, and I find itsonice!And besides, I forget half the things I am told,But they all will come back to me—when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;Shewould never endure an impertinent stare,It ishorrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone;So I take a lad's arm,—just for safety, you know,—But Aunt Tabitha tells me,theydidn't do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they were then!They kept at arm's length those detestable men;What an era of virtue she lived in!—but stay—Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?
If the menwereso wicked—I'll ask my papaHow he dared to propose to my darling mamma?Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! who knows?And what shallIsay if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin,What a wonder Aunt Tabitha'sauntmust have been!And hergrand-aunt—it scares me—how shockingly sadThat we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;Letmeperish to rescue some wretched young manThough when to the altar a victim I go,Aunt Tabitha'll tell meshenever did so!
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stayAn' wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away,An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth an' sweep,An' make the fire, an' bake the bread' an' earn her board-an'-keep;An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest funA-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about,An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you—Ef youDon'tWatchOut!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,An' when he went to bed at night, away upstairs,His Mammy heered him holler, an' his daddy heered him bawl,An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout,An' the gobble-uns'll git you—Ef youDon'tWatchOut!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin;An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,They was two great big black things a-standin' by her side,An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed whatshe's about!An' the gobble-uns'll git you—Ef youDon'tWatchOut!
An' Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,An' the lamp wick sputters, an' the wind goeswoo-oo!An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,—You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,Er the gobble-uns'll get you—Ef youDon'tWatchOut!
I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hossWay out into the big and boundless West;I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across,An' I'd pluck the bal'head eagle from his nest!With my pistols at my sideI would roam the prarers wide,An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride—If I darst; but I darsen't!
I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there,An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw!I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair,An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw!I'd chase the pizen snakesAnd the 'pottimus that makesHis nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes—If I darst; but I darsen't!
I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue,With a big black flag a-flyin' overhead;I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew,An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red!With my cutlass in my handOn the quarterdeck I'd standAnd to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band—If I darst; but I darsen't!
And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he'slicked me!I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too.I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea,An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through!You bet! I'd run awayFrom my lessons to my play,An' I'd shoo the hens, an' teaze the cat, an' kiss the girlsall day—If I darst; but I darsen't!
"Jud, they say you have heard Rubinstein play when you were in NewYork?"
"I did, in the cool."
"Well, tell us all about it."
"What! me? I might's well tell you about the creation of the world."
"Come, now; no mock modesty. Go ahead."
"Well, sir, he had the biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you ever laid your eyes on; somethin' like a distracted billiard table on three legs. The lid was heisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't, he'd a-tore the intire sides clean out, and scattered them to the four winds of heaven."
"Played well, did he?"
"You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sat down he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wish't he hadn't come. He tweedle-eedled a little on the trible, and twoodle-oodled some on the bass—just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to the man settin' next to me, s' I, 'What sort of fool-playin' is that?' And he says, 'Hush!' But presently his hands began chasin' one 'nother up and down the keys, like a parcel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar-squirrel turning the wheel of a candy-cage.
"'Now,' I says to my neighbour, 'he's a showin' off. He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no ide, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play a tune of some kind or other I'd——'
"But my neighbour says 'Hush,' very impatient.
"I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking away off in the woods, and callin' sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up, and I see that Rubin was beginnin' to take some interest in his business, and I set down agin. It was the peep of the day. The light came faint from the east, the breeze blowed gentle and fresh, some birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was the broad day: the sun fairly blazed, the birds sang like they'd split their throats; all the leaves were movin' and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'.
"And I says to my neighbour, 'That's music, that is.'
"But he glared at me like he'd cut my throat.
"Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up and a kind of thick grey mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground, some flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see music, especially when the bushes on the bank moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine nor the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold.
"The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook, and led it on and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was—Inever was, certain. I could see the boy just the same as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lift-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but never got a-nigh 'em, and played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could a-cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with guitars did.
"Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a-got up and there and then preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for—not a single thing; and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my han'kerchief, and blowed my nose well to keep from cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway; I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-snivilin', and it's nobody business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But several glared at me as mad as mad. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He rip'd and he rar'd, he tip'd and he tar'd, and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head ready to look at any man in the face, and not afear'd of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball, all going on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of bricks; he gave 'em no rest, day nor night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin', and not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumpt, sprang on to my seat, and jest hollered—
"'Go it, my Rube!'
"Every man, woman, and child in the house riz on me, and shouted,'Put him out! Put him out!'
"'Put your great-grandmother's grizzly gray greenish cat into the middle of next month,' I says, 'Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come a-nigh me!'
"With that several policemen ran up, and I had to simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Rube out or die.
"He had changed his tune again. He hopt-light ladies, and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-bord. He played soft, and low, and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles in heaven were lit one by one; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end; and the angels went to prayers…. Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and began to drop—drip, drop, drip, drop—clear and sweet, like tears of joy fallin' into a lake of glory. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetn'd with white sugar, mixed with powdered silver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you, the audience cheered. Rubin, he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, 'Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't interrupt me.'
"He stopped a minute or two to fetch breath. Then he got mad. He runs his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks till she fairly yelled. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, andthenhe wouldn't let her go. He ran a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the bass, till he got clean into the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, thro' the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got away out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. Andthenhe wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he cross't over first gentleman, he cross't over first lady, he balanced two pards, he chassede right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, doubled, twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-'leven thousand double bow knots.
"By jinks! Itwasa mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, by brigades. He opened his cannon, siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, big guns, little guns, middle-size guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortars, mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rock't—heaven and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninpences, glory, tenpenny nails, my Mary Ann, Hallelujah, Sampson in a sim-mon tree, Jerusalem, Tump Thompson in a tumbler cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle- uddle-uddle-uddle-raddle-addle-addle-addle-riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-p-r-r-r-r-lang! per lang! per lang! p-r-r-r-r-r lang! Bang!
"With that bang he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quavers, and I know'd no mo'."