A PISCATORIAL ECLOGUE.VEL ISAACUS WALTON IN NOVAM SCALAM REDIVIVUS.BY PETER VON GEIST.Piscator.Youare happily met, my fair young lady!Discipula. A very good morrow to you, Mr.Piscator. You are early a-foot, with your rod and lines.Piscator. A veteran of the angle will be stirring early; there is a brace of fish waiting for my hook on the other side of our lake. But you, my gentle maiden, have you come down to the beach to see the sun rise? and mayhap to pluck a rose with the dew on’t? I think you have found it; for I think I can see the rose on your cheek, and the dew in your eye. It is sweet to be up betimes in the morning, when the air and the new sunlight are as clear and calm as your own thoughts.Discipula. It is even so, as you and I know right well. A pleasant sail to you; God send a dozen fish, and may you kill them merrily. But honest Mr. Piscator, do you go alone to-day?Piscator. I think so to do; for you are to note, a companion of patience and sober demeanor, free from profane jests and scurrilous discourse, is worth gold, but is not so easy to be come at. And none other than such jumps with my humor.Discipula. And when, my good Mr. Piscator, will you give me another lesson in the art of angling? For you must know the last has only increased my desire to learn something more of it. Or do you think that we women can never attain skill in that noble and gentle art?Piscator. That it is a noble and a gentle art I am ready to maintain; and that women have attained skill in it is not to be doubted; as you will read in books of old time, that ladies both hunted, and hawked, and fished.Discipula. But the lesson, my honest master? When shall I have another lesson?Piscator. You shall even suit your own convenience. And some fine morning, when you are so disposed, we will take a walk down the river; when I will teach you to cast your line for trout; for indeed, it requires a sharp wit and much practice to throw your fly so that the trout will rise at it.Discipula. Not in the river, if it please you, good Mr. Piscator, not in the river! Teach me to fish in the lake.Piscator. Without doubt, my fair young lady, it must be as you desire. And yet, it is not every woman that would have the courage to cross the pond in a skiff that rocks to every ripple.Discipula. Trust me for that. You should know that I am not wont to be frightened at trifles.Piscator. Truly, it is so; and I do not question your courage.Then on any day that you will appoint,Godwilling, I will give you a sail; or indeed, this morning, if duty does not incline you in another direction, and you will step with me into my little boat yonder.Discipula. That shall I with right good will. But I shall have to make you wait while I get my fishing tackle.Piscator. Of necessity you shall not do that; for I remember now, I can fit you with a spare harness of my own.Discipula. Then let us be going, say I. And is this the skiff? What a painted little cockle-shell of a boat, with its two masts! I suppose it will bear us both?Piscator. It will bear twenty like you and me. Please let me help you to step in; and though you feel it to give under your feet, and as it were, slide away from beneath you, yet now when you are set down on the bench, you perceive it is perfectly steady.Discipula. Oh, I shall not be in the least afraid. What a tiny little schooner! But is it not bold to spread both sails? And see, now that we come round to the wind, how the skiff keels over.Piscator. It is entirely safe, my fair scholar; for since you have chosen me to be your instructor and master in the science of the angle, you must be content to be called my scholar. It is entirely safe; and you must observe, that however much it may keel over, it cannot upset; for if struck by a sudden squall, or flaw of the wind, the masts will go by the board, and so it will right.Discipula. Excellently well contrived. But has not the breeze suddenly died away? Yet the sails are distended, and miniature waves are thrown off from either side of the bow.Piscator. The breeze seems to have decreased, because we are moving in the same direction with it; and you will see, now when I bring the boat more toward the wind, that it blows as strong as before, and our motion is well nigh stopped.Discipula. That I can very well see; and I pray you, my master, not to bring the skiff so far into the wind to prove your proposition to me as to capsize it. The masts bend over toward the water more than it is pleasant to see.Piscator. There is no danger; and after half an hour’s experience you will become used to it, and lose all apprehension. I think I will alter our course a couple of points; so if you have a mind, since I cannot well leave the tiller, you may unloose the cord that fastens the forward sail to the side of the boat; wait a moment till we come round, and the sail hangs loose in the wind; now loose the rope, and let it out about a foot; so, wind it round as it was before. Neatly done! Next, let out the other sail in the same way and to the same length. It was well executed! Really, you are destined to become a sailor’s wife after all.Discipula. Marry, I hope so. But why ‘after all?’Piscator. Nay, I meant nothing; except, that whereas I formerly thought you rather affected the land, now I find that you are courageous on the water; and therefore, I say you deserve a Commodore. Observe now, we are running more nearly with the wind, and move faster. It is a favorable breeze; for our fishing-ground is in the south-easterncorner of the lake, behind that highland which you see yonder; and this blows from the western quarter. We shall soon be there.Discipula. Be in no hurry; I am in none. Is it not a fine morning? Those white, high-flying clouds, rolled up into fleeces like wool, with ragged patches of the sky between them, above us, and the broad blue bosom of the lake, with the multitude of little waves leaping up and dancing all over its surface beneath us, and our boat, in the midst of both sky and water, gliding calmly along like a bird with his wings spread floating in the air! Is it not a lovely morning? Yes, yes; I must be a sailor’s wife, and live on the ocean! Or perhaps, rather, a fisherman’s wife, and sail on a lake like this. If I should happen to meet with one of the latter class, of approved character, somewhat mature in years and grave in demeanor, kind of disposition and manly of countenance, one who would let me go sailing with him every day, (of course I am not describing you, Mr. Piscator,) I think—yes, I am quite certain, that he would content me.Piscator. Nay, nay, my fair young lady, you are pleased to mock! ‘Mature in years and grave in demeanor,’ said you? A gallant young sailor for you, say I! There are many who sigh for the favor which you have so freely granted me to-day. Ah, you should not jeer.Discipula. I tell you, Mr. Piscator, none but you for me this day! I am not going to think of any body but you; for I tell you plainly, I like you very much.Piscator. Ah, yes, yes; certainly—without doubt, I hope so; surely, why should you not?Discipula. And what a beautiful island! The grass grows down almost to the water’s edge, leaving a narrow belt of white sand; how it glistens in the sun-light! and those half-a-dozen tall trees in the centre, how do you suppose they came to grow there alone so?Piscator. That is a question which I have often asked, but have never been able to satisfy myself, as to how they came there. They have stood for more generations than one, and will cast their shadows on the water when other boats than ours sail past them, and other eyes than ours wonder at them. Now we are nearly at our journey’s end; when we pass through the opening between that island ahead of us, and the main land, we shall be on our fishing-ground.Discipula. Is it possible that we have reached here so quick? It is not half so far as I thought it was. And yet, on looking back, there is a wide waste lying between us and the cove from which we started. How diminutive the house on the high ground back of the landing-place looks; like a mole-hill, and the trees around it like shrubs! Well sped, little bark! A swift and an easy-paced courser are you; steadily now, through this narrow strait; steadily and gently, for your race is almost run.Piscator. The channel begins to widen again; and lo! here we are in a lake by itself as it were; a sheet of water full a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. And herein the fish mostly do congregate. I will hold on to near the middle, and then drop the anchor.Discipula. It is indeed a fine sheet; smooth as any mirror; clearer than glass. I suppose the fish assemble here when they get tired of theroughness and commotion of the lake without, because it is so calm and still. Is it not so?Piscator. It may be so; it is a good reason, and I will believe that it is so, since you have supposed it. This is as good a place as any, and here we will cast our lines; and there is so little wind stirring, that we shall only need to furl our sails, and the boat will remain at rest. Now then, here is your rod, nicely put together, with a fly on the hook. A pike will rise as quick at an artificial fly as at a live one; a greedy fish is that pike; and if we should have occasion, I have other kinds of bait. Take it, and throw your line out as I taught you before. But what are you regarding so intently?Discipula. I am looking at the shadow of the trees in the water; an inverted forest in the lake. Fish a little while alone, and let me look.Piscator. It has become so late in the day that I have not much hope of taking many now. However, I can but try. This same rod and line have done me good service in this same place, before to-day. Ah, I see a pike! I’ll have him! Look! look how slowly and warily he comes up toward the bait! When he gets within a few feet of it, he will make a dash, and gorge it without stopping to think. Ah, there he goes with it; and here he comes back with it, straight up into the boat. Upon my word, a reasonable fish; he wont weigh short of three pounds.Discipula. Oh, Mr. Piscator! here’s a new heaven and a new earth beneath us! Waving trees with birds flitting among their branches, and far down below, flying clouds and blue sky. A perfect hemisphere, and we are hanging over it, without any thing to support us! I shouldn’t be surprised, to feel myself this minute tumbling down into it, down to the new heaven! I have been expecting to, for some time past; and what a fall would that be! Do you suppose we should stop when we got there?Piscator. If we did not, where should we go to?Discipula. Ah, where!Piscator. These fish do not seem inclined to bite this morning. Yet there is one larger than that I caught before. I must have him, too. Observe how wistfully he eyes the bait; let the fly skim slowly along the water, just over him; that is the way, Sir, to swallow a hook; and now come up, and slide into the basket, out of sight, and keep your brother company.Discipula. Mr. Piscator, when you make such a splashing in the water, you ruffle and wrinkle my submarine prospect. Please don’t.Piscator. I think it will be profitless trying to take any more this forenoon; toward night they will bite again. And what shall we do in the mean time? Usually, when I come out here alone, I go ashore, and rest myself during these hours, amid the fragrant shades of the thick trees, that screen me from the mid-day heat. Would you like to take such a ramble?—or are you inclined to stay here, and gaze into the water?Discipula. I suppose the picture will keep till we come back. Let us go ashore, and wander around in the woods, and find romantic grottoes, and weave flower-wreaths, and build castles in the air.Piscator. And half a mile inland, you can see its summit from here, is a hill that commands a vast tract of lake and woodland.Discipula. Yes, yes; let us go!Piscator. Well, scholar, here we are again, after our long tramp. You see I am a better land-pilot than you just now took me to be; for I have brought us out to the right spot; more by token, yonder is the boat, safe and sound. I am afraid you are fatigued with our long travels?Discipula. Not much; but I would like to sit down on the green carpet, under this shade, for a few minutes.Piscator. It must be, at the least, four of the clock; and although your nature, my fair young lady, is probably too ethereal to think of such homely matters, I do not profess mine to be such, and am ready to acknowledge, thata little dinnerwould not be unacceptable.Discipula. Unacceptable? No; but where are we to get it?Piscator. I always bring with me, on my excursions, a hand-basket,containing——Discipula. Why in the world!—whydidn’tyou let me know that before? Let us have it as quick as possible!Piscator. It is in the boat, and if you will remain a moment, I will bring it up here.Discipula. Oh yes, do! And be quick, my good master!—as quick as you can!Piscator. Nimble as any page, that waits on lady bright. Here we have the provisions; and if we could manage to find something for a table-cover, we might dispense with knivesand——Right, scholar, put your hand into the basket and help yourself.Discipula. Ham sandwich! Oh, Mr. Piscator, this is good! Is there enough of it?Piscator. Enough for us two; and therefore you need not fear to help yourself heartily, as I am glad to see that you are not. Never was sumptuous feast to an epicure on gala-day better than my simple fare to me on this beach, after a morning’s sail and ramble.Discipula. Most excellent! I’ll come out here every time I can get a chance, for the sake of dining with you under the old beech tree.Piscator. It brings to my mind the story of the king, who, after the chase, took some bread and water at the hut of a woodsman; which, as it is no doubt well known, I shall not repeat unto you. But the bottom of the basket begins to appear. What! done already? Good despatch! And now, scholar, we will immediately to our sport, for we have no time to waste.Discipula. Yes, yes, immediately to work; I long to try my hand. Here’s the boat; I should think it would have got tired waiting so long for us. But it looks very patient.Piscator. You may get in, while I loose, and shove off. There appears to be a sharp breeze blowing on the lake without, yet our pond is as unruffled as when we left it. We will return to the same spot we were in before, and cast out our lines.Discipula. Is this my rod? Fix the bait for me skilfully, and I’ll catch them.Piscator. I cannot promise you great success at first, considering yourinexperience——Discipula. Oh, I’m going to catch an hundred!Piscator. I hope you may; certainly—I hope you will; and you can only try. There, your fly is fastened to the hook as well as my art is able. Come, and sit on this side, and I will give you some instructions how to use it. First, see that the line is clear of the rod; then give it one swing round your head; so—and cast it quickly but softly, as far from you as you can on the water. Neatly done! Now draw it slowly along the surface, and you shall presently see a fish rise at it. Be more moderate; you draw it too rapidly. Ha! there it goes under! Wait till you feel him pulling on the line; now give him a little jerk to the right; there you have him, fairly hooked! You must be careful, or you’ll lose him yet. No; he’s not very heavy, and you may raise him strait out of the water, and land him in the boat; so!Discipula. Ah, my master, will you tell me that I can’t catch fish? Poor little fish! Oh, but he’s a small one: take him off, master, and put him into the hold. I hunt for nobler game.Piscator. Not a good thought, not a good thought for an angler. Hunt for nobler game, if you like; but a fisherwoman must not despise the smallest that comes to her net. Every thing counts.Discipula. Despise? No; oh no! I would like to catch fifty just such; that is, if there are no larger ones to angle for.Piscator. Well, your bait is set again. Cast out as before, and I wish you better luck.Discipula. Now I am going to catch a large one—a foot long. But, Mr. Piscator, why do you not use your line?Piscator. I will not interfere with your sport; and beside, I may want to give you advice how to manage yours. It is not, in general, a good plan to let the fish see you when you are angling; they are apt to be frightened away. However, in this case, I shall say nothing against it; because if they have an eye for beauty, as is commonly believed, your showing yourself should have a contrary effect. In truth, the influence of beauty is much to be marvelled at. I remember myself when I was young, and had not yet learned their vanity, how easy I was to be led away and bewitched by a fair face and a sparkling eye. That was some time ago; you draw your fly too fast; it was some years ago; and yet I am fain to confess, that even now, in nothing do I take more pleasure, than in looking on a ruddy cheek, a polished brow, the long lashes of a soft blue eye, and upon heavy folds of auburn hair; and it is for this reason that I have placed you opposite to me now.Discipula. Why, Mr. Piscator! Did you mean that for a compliment?Piscator. Certainly no. I seldom speak but what I think, for flattery I like neither to give nor receive. Ah, yes; there are witches in the world yet. And their witchcraft consists not in magic filters, and potent herbs gathered at midnight under the full moon; far more subtle and powerful is it. Like the poisons of eastern countries, it is communicated by a touch, by a look, by the breath of a word. This is the witchcraft that they use; therewith lure they men to commit folly. It would seem to be their chief delight, their main occupation. But I am willing to believe that you are not so evil-minded; and that when youbewitch men, it is not because you love to do it, but that it is altogether involuntary.Discipula. Oh, of course, altogether involuntary. If I had my way, I never would cause a single flutter in any body’s breast—not I. But you see how it is, I can’t help it, and therefore it is not my fault. These fish do not bite well. There is one, he will weigh four pounds, that has been playing round and round the hook, but won’t touch it. Haven’t you got some kind of sweet smelling oil or perfume to scent the bait with?Piscator. I have some lavender-leaves, and if you will draw up the line, I will rub the fly over with them, for fish love the smell of lavender. Try him with that. Ah, I see him—a respectable fish. He is coming up toward the hook; I think he will take it.Discipula. He stops and eyes it, as though he half suspected that it would not be pleasant to the taste, for all its fair looks. But I’ll have him, in spite of his wits. You scrutinize too closely, Sir Pike! You had better take it at once, without useless inspection. What a noble fellow! How gracefully he moves through the water! I will make it float carelessly away from him, dancing on the silver surface, as though it had just fallen fresh from Heaven; and beside, distance lends enchantment. Ha! see him make a dive at it! There you have it, Sir! and there I have you!Piscator. Take care, or you’ll be over! Hold hard, or he’ll haveyoutoo! Upon my word, I was afraid you would go overboard! You should not, in your eagerness, lean out over the water so far. But you have got the better of him, and now pull him into the boat and let me take him off.Discipula. I came near losing my balance; I thought I was gone! Lucky escape!—but my heart beats yet.Piscator. A fine fish. He has swallowed the bait whole; your large fish always do. O! I don’t know as I can take it out, without hurting him.Discipula. Poor fish! He does not look quite so spruce and independent as he did a little while ago. Did your mouth water for that tempting fly. It will never water again! What deep sighs heave his little breast! but they will soon be over. Fix the bait, Mr. Piscator, and rub some more lavender on it. I’ll catch another, in less than a minute.Piscator. It is done already. And this time, do not lean over so far, or you will be in danger of being pulled in, by some fish of greater strength than usual. Really, I think you are a good angler; you seem to possess the skill by intuition. Is it not fine sport? I see by the increased flush and light of your countenance, that you are of the same opinion. It is truly a gentle, a feminine sport.Discipula. There is one with the beautifulest eyes, and covered all over with gold and silver. But he is exceedingly shy. Come, Sir, if you are so distant, I shall have to approach you myself. I desire a nearer acquaintance with your beautiful eyes, and your gold and silver scales. Oh! if you move off in that direction, I shall retire in this! Ah, you’ve thought better of it, and are coming back. I knew youwould. Observe, Mr. Piscator, how he turns round and hesitates and doubts what to do. There is no use in his deliberating; it is inevitable; he has got to do it. Now he turns back. He seems to have made up his mind that he must have it at all hazards. And see him shut his eyes and make a dash. I am afraid he finds it unpalatable! Too rash! too rash! You should have considered better! Take him off, master; he is nothing very great, after all.Piscator. I see a large one, lying here at the left, deep in the water; of the kind which we call sucker. It is his nature to lie perfectly still as though asleep, and not to move till he is touched. Reach here the hook, while I fasten some pieces of lead to it, enough to sink it; and then I will tell you how to hook him.Discipula. I see! I know! I can do it myself, I will let the bait sink gently down into the water, a little forward of him, thus. Ah, it fell right on his back! He must be asleep, for he doesn’t stir, nor seem to notice it. Now then, a little forward of him; and so, slowly, softly, float up toward his nose. He appears to be inspecting the fly; he sleeps with his mouth wide open; as a natural history philosopher might examine a butterfly; and since it is so closely presented, suppose you try the sense of taste too, Sir! It is pleasant to the eye, you will find it also good for food, and to be desired to make one wise. Allow it to fall imperceptibly into your mouth; nay, you cannot judge of its merits from a half trial, like that; it must be taken entirely in. Don’t exert yourself, in the least; another inspiration, and you are possessed. Ha! is it not good?—is it not sweet? He must be very fond of it, he holds on to it so hard! Astonished fish! he wakes up, and opens his eyes with wonder; there is more in it than he dreamed of! Strait up to the light here, and show your agitated countenance. Now please to open your lips, and disclose the cause of all your sorrows, while kind Mr. Piscator extracts it.Piscator. Well hooked! Indeed, scholar, it was well done of you. But the heavens are becoming overcast; it threatens storm. Would it not be wise to set out on our return?Discipula. Oh no, no! I can’t think of going yet? ‘Wise!’ It seems to me that it would be very foolish, while the lake contains so many more fish as good as any that we have already caught.Piscator. You do not expect to take them all?Discipula. All in this place; what should hinder?Piscator. They will not bite for ever in the same place. They are a cunning animal, and get frightened.Discipula. Then let us remove to another spot.Piscator. That we might do, if there were time; but the sun is entirely hidden by clouds, and is near his going down. We shall presently have a thunder-storm. And then a stiff breeze from the south, which will waft us speedily toward our landing place; had we not better begin to think of leaving?Discipula. Wait till I catch one fish more; I had a nibble just then.Piscator. You should handle your rod more gently. The wind blows up fresher and fresher; it will be dark as pitch too, when nightfairly comes on. Shall we not spread our sails, and speed merrily homeward?Discipula. Well, as you will, master; though really I don’t see any occasion for all this hurry. Look at that fish! He rose almost to the surface after my hook, and yet wouldn’t take it. Oh, my poor fly! my poor bait! See it, master! All faded and worn and torn, no painting or patching can renew its comeliness! And there sticks out the hook, plain to view; a blind fish might see it! Oh, my poor fly, that couldn’t conceal the hook any longer! Mr. Piscator, lend me your knife, while I cut the bait from the line, rags, paint, iron and all, and throw it back into the water, thus. Now then, little fish! silly fish! come all of you, and see what has befooled you! What some of your tribe have swallowed because they thought it was good, and some because they were careless, and others because they were hungry and must have something! What many of ye have taken in, and more have nibbled at, and all have gazed at, and admired and longed for! Oh, rare sport have ye made me, foolish things! And longer would I have played with you, but the evening comes on, and I must bid you a happy farewell. So we are under way again, are we?Piscator. We are again under way; and I have hope of reaching home before yonder cloud comes over us. And trust me, when it does come, it will bring more wind with it.Discipula. Once more on the open bosom of the lake! How the little black angry waves dance up one after another, and roll past us toward the northern shore. And see that dim hill at the other extremity of the pond, how gigantic and broken it looks. Oh, Mr. Piscator, let’s go and see it! let’s go and see it! And those high perpendicular rocks, that stand out so boldly. Yes, yes, put up the helm! we’ll go and see how they look in the twilight.Piscator. But my dear child, it will take an hour and a half longer to go round by the rocks, and before that time, I fear the storm will increase.Discipula. Oh, never fear the storm. I’ll risk it! And when we get up there, we can take a short cut across to our port; so put up the helm!—good Mr. Piscator, kind Mr. Piscator! do let us run up to the hill! I can assure you there is no danger.Piscator. I cannot well deny any thing that you ask of me; but much I doubt,Mr. ——Discipula. Nay, nay, doubt nothing. We shall get home safe, trust me for that. And that cloud, that you are so fearful of, is not coming over us, at all; it is coming down on the other shore of the lake. Please, Mr. Pilot, to keep in a little nearer the land, or we shall pass the rocks so far out, that we shall not be able to see them with distinctness.Piscator. A wilful woman must even have her own way. My child! you will catch your death with cold, to take off your bonnet so!Discipula. I’m not afraid of it; I want to feel the air.Piscator. And where are you going now?Discipula. Going to sit down in the bow of the boat. This view is much finer! Oh, this is grand!Piscator. But, good scholar! good scholar! you will certainly fall out there! I believe you are crazy, you look so wild!Discipula. How the boat pitches over the little waves! And, Mr. Piscator, direct the boat toward the shore, so as to make it rock more. The heavens are all grey, and the waters are all black, and the wind is high and wild in its sport like an imprisoned bird let loose. Oh master, spread the other sail, and see if we can’t fly faster! Here are the rocks so grim; but it is growing dark, and I can only just make them out. Why, Mr. Piscator, you are not going near enough! Run close in under them!Piscator. I shall say to you plainly, what you ask is impossible. It would be running an unwarrantable hazard; as indeed coming up here at all was unwarrantable.Discipula. At least then, good master, keep along up at this distance, if that pleases you best; for there is a bluff just ahead, which projects farther out than the others, and we shall pass close by it.Piscator. It is high time that we commenced our return in good earnest. And therefore, scholar, for I must remind you that you are my scholar till I see you safe ashore; therefore, if you please, you may stand by the sail to tack.Discipula. But just look once, how boldly and sternly it lifts up its calm front out of the boiling waters!Piscator. It is without doubt, very fine; but it is impossible to hold on a foot farther. So if you will stand by thesail——Discipula. I wish I had a boat of my own to sail out here alone in and go where I choose! Well, what shall I do? how shall I go to work? Oh, Mr. Piscator! honest Mr. Piscator! let me hold the helm while you take care of the sails.Piscator. Willingly, if your hand is strong enough. Try it; shall you be able to hold it as it is?Discipula. With the greatest ease. Now then, are you ready? What are you letting down the sail for? That three-cornered rag from the bow-sprit wont be enough!Piscator. It would be unsafe to set the main-sail, and I think with this breeze the fore-stay-sail will drive us sufficiently fast.Discipula. Well, suit yourself. Now are you ready?Piscator. Ready, certainly, when I take the helm. But what are you doing? If you undertake to let the skiff fall off before the wind you will upset us, as sureas——Discipula. Just see if I do. Let me hold the helm. Oh yes, let me!Piscator. But scholar! good scholar! dear scholar!Discipula. No, no, I wont give it up! you can’t have it! Honest Mr. Piscator, let me steer the boat, only a little way! Oh, but I will; and there is no use in your trying to prevent me. See there now, haven’t we come round to our course in good style?Piscator. A taste of power to those who are unaccustomed to it is always dangerous, and I blame myself for permitting you to usurp the post of pilot. Though, as you seem determined to maintain it, I cannot choose but to sit down here quietly, and trust our lives to your skill.My life indeed! But yours? Seriously now, my fair young lady, would it not bewiser——Discipula. Seriously now, my careful master, I don’t think it would. Why, what would you have? Are we not skimming over the waves like a sea-bird free? And see those two birds, how they dash by us, and wheel round over us, and breast the gale! Oh master! wouldn’t you like to be a sea-bird, and swing sideways, with your face to the wind that almost took your breath away, swing down, down, glance against the water, then on the other side, swing up, up? And wouldn’t it be sweet too to struggle your way up through the storm, high over that cloud yonder, with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out—then fold your wings, close your eyes, and fall calmly down on to its dark, soft, bosom? Oh, wouldn’t it be sweet?Piscator. My dear scholar, our landing place lies here, toward the north-east, and you are running directly north.Discipula. Don’t be under any apprehensions; I am only going to run out half a mile farther, that we may get before the wind, and then we’ll scud straight toward home. And beside, we rock more, going in this direction. I wish it would blow harder, and make more swell! You know now, Mr. Piscator, how a wild swan feels when he sits on the water and is buoyed up on the heaving wave, and in a breath sinks into the black abyss. If I were a wild swan I would go to sleep and let the winds blow and the waters heave! How the boat careens over and plunges down when the blast whistles against the masts! Drive on! Drive on! my light gallant bark! Oh, my master! shall I sing you a song? a little song of the sea? a pirate song?Piscator. You look at this present moment as if you might sing a pirate song, or be a pirate yourself. I observe that since you have taken off your bonnet, the wind has somewhat disarranged your hair.Discipula. Wouldn’t you like to be a pirate, though? I would; and roam over the ocean at my own free will; and through the storm and spray, and lightning-glances of the wild midnight, dash on my fleeing victim like the eagle on his prey! All hands on deck to get on more sail! Stand by to unfurl the main-sail to the tempest!Piscator. Will it please you, my fair pilot, to inform me whither you are taking us?Discipula. I am going to run into that cloud yonder; the one before us, with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out.Piscator. What you call a cloud appears to me to be a hill, that rises a few rods back from the shore.Discipula. Oh, it’s a cloud—a cloud! And there is a star that glimmers through it.Piscator. I see nothing but the twinkling of a taper, from the window of some dwelling.Discipula. I tell you it’s a star—a star! The cloud has settled down into the water like a mountain; and through its base penetrates a tunnel, through which the ray of that star comes—a long, straight cavern, arched overhead and on either side by wreathed and rolling pillars of smoke. I’ll put up the helm and run into it! Bear up! bear up! bear stoutly up, my brave, bold bark! and plunge forward like thehorse into the smoke of battle, through this path to the subterranean abodes!Piscator. Let me take the tiller! Let it go! Put it around quick then; you are running on the beach!Discipula. Why don’t you see we are just entering the dark mouth of the tunnel? We shall soon be into it.Piscator. Hark! here it comes! Now hold hard, for there we are, grounded and staved!Discipula. Tartarian rocks and whirlpools!Piscator. Quick! ashore! The boat is going to pieces!Discipula. Ha! ha! ha! Was it well done, my master? was it well done?Piscator. Itwaswell done, you little water-witch!
VEL ISAACUS WALTON IN NOVAM SCALAM REDIVIVUS.
BY PETER VON GEIST.
Piscator.Youare happily met, my fair young lady!
Discipula. A very good morrow to you, Mr.Piscator. You are early a-foot, with your rod and lines.
Piscator. A veteran of the angle will be stirring early; there is a brace of fish waiting for my hook on the other side of our lake. But you, my gentle maiden, have you come down to the beach to see the sun rise? and mayhap to pluck a rose with the dew on’t? I think you have found it; for I think I can see the rose on your cheek, and the dew in your eye. It is sweet to be up betimes in the morning, when the air and the new sunlight are as clear and calm as your own thoughts.
Discipula. It is even so, as you and I know right well. A pleasant sail to you; God send a dozen fish, and may you kill them merrily. But honest Mr. Piscator, do you go alone to-day?
Piscator. I think so to do; for you are to note, a companion of patience and sober demeanor, free from profane jests and scurrilous discourse, is worth gold, but is not so easy to be come at. And none other than such jumps with my humor.
Discipula. And when, my good Mr. Piscator, will you give me another lesson in the art of angling? For you must know the last has only increased my desire to learn something more of it. Or do you think that we women can never attain skill in that noble and gentle art?
Piscator. That it is a noble and a gentle art I am ready to maintain; and that women have attained skill in it is not to be doubted; as you will read in books of old time, that ladies both hunted, and hawked, and fished.
Discipula. But the lesson, my honest master? When shall I have another lesson?
Piscator. You shall even suit your own convenience. And some fine morning, when you are so disposed, we will take a walk down the river; when I will teach you to cast your line for trout; for indeed, it requires a sharp wit and much practice to throw your fly so that the trout will rise at it.
Discipula. Not in the river, if it please you, good Mr. Piscator, not in the river! Teach me to fish in the lake.
Piscator. Without doubt, my fair young lady, it must be as you desire. And yet, it is not every woman that would have the courage to cross the pond in a skiff that rocks to every ripple.
Discipula. Trust me for that. You should know that I am not wont to be frightened at trifles.
Piscator. Truly, it is so; and I do not question your courage.Then on any day that you will appoint,Godwilling, I will give you a sail; or indeed, this morning, if duty does not incline you in another direction, and you will step with me into my little boat yonder.
Discipula. That shall I with right good will. But I shall have to make you wait while I get my fishing tackle.
Piscator. Of necessity you shall not do that; for I remember now, I can fit you with a spare harness of my own.
Discipula. Then let us be going, say I. And is this the skiff? What a painted little cockle-shell of a boat, with its two masts! I suppose it will bear us both?
Piscator. It will bear twenty like you and me. Please let me help you to step in; and though you feel it to give under your feet, and as it were, slide away from beneath you, yet now when you are set down on the bench, you perceive it is perfectly steady.
Discipula. Oh, I shall not be in the least afraid. What a tiny little schooner! But is it not bold to spread both sails? And see, now that we come round to the wind, how the skiff keels over.
Piscator. It is entirely safe, my fair scholar; for since you have chosen me to be your instructor and master in the science of the angle, you must be content to be called my scholar. It is entirely safe; and you must observe, that however much it may keel over, it cannot upset; for if struck by a sudden squall, or flaw of the wind, the masts will go by the board, and so it will right.
Discipula. Excellently well contrived. But has not the breeze suddenly died away? Yet the sails are distended, and miniature waves are thrown off from either side of the bow.
Piscator. The breeze seems to have decreased, because we are moving in the same direction with it; and you will see, now when I bring the boat more toward the wind, that it blows as strong as before, and our motion is well nigh stopped.
Discipula. That I can very well see; and I pray you, my master, not to bring the skiff so far into the wind to prove your proposition to me as to capsize it. The masts bend over toward the water more than it is pleasant to see.
Piscator. There is no danger; and after half an hour’s experience you will become used to it, and lose all apprehension. I think I will alter our course a couple of points; so if you have a mind, since I cannot well leave the tiller, you may unloose the cord that fastens the forward sail to the side of the boat; wait a moment till we come round, and the sail hangs loose in the wind; now loose the rope, and let it out about a foot; so, wind it round as it was before. Neatly done! Next, let out the other sail in the same way and to the same length. It was well executed! Really, you are destined to become a sailor’s wife after all.
Discipula. Marry, I hope so. But why ‘after all?’
Piscator. Nay, I meant nothing; except, that whereas I formerly thought you rather affected the land, now I find that you are courageous on the water; and therefore, I say you deserve a Commodore. Observe now, we are running more nearly with the wind, and move faster. It is a favorable breeze; for our fishing-ground is in the south-easterncorner of the lake, behind that highland which you see yonder; and this blows from the western quarter. We shall soon be there.
Discipula. Be in no hurry; I am in none. Is it not a fine morning? Those white, high-flying clouds, rolled up into fleeces like wool, with ragged patches of the sky between them, above us, and the broad blue bosom of the lake, with the multitude of little waves leaping up and dancing all over its surface beneath us, and our boat, in the midst of both sky and water, gliding calmly along like a bird with his wings spread floating in the air! Is it not a lovely morning? Yes, yes; I must be a sailor’s wife, and live on the ocean! Or perhaps, rather, a fisherman’s wife, and sail on a lake like this. If I should happen to meet with one of the latter class, of approved character, somewhat mature in years and grave in demeanor, kind of disposition and manly of countenance, one who would let me go sailing with him every day, (of course I am not describing you, Mr. Piscator,) I think—yes, I am quite certain, that he would content me.
Piscator. Nay, nay, my fair young lady, you are pleased to mock! ‘Mature in years and grave in demeanor,’ said you? A gallant young sailor for you, say I! There are many who sigh for the favor which you have so freely granted me to-day. Ah, you should not jeer.
Discipula. I tell you, Mr. Piscator, none but you for me this day! I am not going to think of any body but you; for I tell you plainly, I like you very much.
Piscator. Ah, yes, yes; certainly—without doubt, I hope so; surely, why should you not?
Discipula. And what a beautiful island! The grass grows down almost to the water’s edge, leaving a narrow belt of white sand; how it glistens in the sun-light! and those half-a-dozen tall trees in the centre, how do you suppose they came to grow there alone so?
Piscator. That is a question which I have often asked, but have never been able to satisfy myself, as to how they came there. They have stood for more generations than one, and will cast their shadows on the water when other boats than ours sail past them, and other eyes than ours wonder at them. Now we are nearly at our journey’s end; when we pass through the opening between that island ahead of us, and the main land, we shall be on our fishing-ground.
Discipula. Is it possible that we have reached here so quick? It is not half so far as I thought it was. And yet, on looking back, there is a wide waste lying between us and the cove from which we started. How diminutive the house on the high ground back of the landing-place looks; like a mole-hill, and the trees around it like shrubs! Well sped, little bark! A swift and an easy-paced courser are you; steadily now, through this narrow strait; steadily and gently, for your race is almost run.
Piscator. The channel begins to widen again; and lo! here we are in a lake by itself as it were; a sheet of water full a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. And herein the fish mostly do congregate. I will hold on to near the middle, and then drop the anchor.
Discipula. It is indeed a fine sheet; smooth as any mirror; clearer than glass. I suppose the fish assemble here when they get tired of theroughness and commotion of the lake without, because it is so calm and still. Is it not so?
Piscator. It may be so; it is a good reason, and I will believe that it is so, since you have supposed it. This is as good a place as any, and here we will cast our lines; and there is so little wind stirring, that we shall only need to furl our sails, and the boat will remain at rest. Now then, here is your rod, nicely put together, with a fly on the hook. A pike will rise as quick at an artificial fly as at a live one; a greedy fish is that pike; and if we should have occasion, I have other kinds of bait. Take it, and throw your line out as I taught you before. But what are you regarding so intently?
Discipula. I am looking at the shadow of the trees in the water; an inverted forest in the lake. Fish a little while alone, and let me look.
Piscator. It has become so late in the day that I have not much hope of taking many now. However, I can but try. This same rod and line have done me good service in this same place, before to-day. Ah, I see a pike! I’ll have him! Look! look how slowly and warily he comes up toward the bait! When he gets within a few feet of it, he will make a dash, and gorge it without stopping to think. Ah, there he goes with it; and here he comes back with it, straight up into the boat. Upon my word, a reasonable fish; he wont weigh short of three pounds.
Discipula. Oh, Mr. Piscator! here’s a new heaven and a new earth beneath us! Waving trees with birds flitting among their branches, and far down below, flying clouds and blue sky. A perfect hemisphere, and we are hanging over it, without any thing to support us! I shouldn’t be surprised, to feel myself this minute tumbling down into it, down to the new heaven! I have been expecting to, for some time past; and what a fall would that be! Do you suppose we should stop when we got there?
Piscator. If we did not, where should we go to?
Discipula. Ah, where!
Piscator. These fish do not seem inclined to bite this morning. Yet there is one larger than that I caught before. I must have him, too. Observe how wistfully he eyes the bait; let the fly skim slowly along the water, just over him; that is the way, Sir, to swallow a hook; and now come up, and slide into the basket, out of sight, and keep your brother company.
Discipula. Mr. Piscator, when you make such a splashing in the water, you ruffle and wrinkle my submarine prospect. Please don’t.
Piscator. I think it will be profitless trying to take any more this forenoon; toward night they will bite again. And what shall we do in the mean time? Usually, when I come out here alone, I go ashore, and rest myself during these hours, amid the fragrant shades of the thick trees, that screen me from the mid-day heat. Would you like to take such a ramble?—or are you inclined to stay here, and gaze into the water?
Discipula. I suppose the picture will keep till we come back. Let us go ashore, and wander around in the woods, and find romantic grottoes, and weave flower-wreaths, and build castles in the air.
Piscator. And half a mile inland, you can see its summit from here, is a hill that commands a vast tract of lake and woodland.
Discipula. Yes, yes; let us go!
Piscator. Well, scholar, here we are again, after our long tramp. You see I am a better land-pilot than you just now took me to be; for I have brought us out to the right spot; more by token, yonder is the boat, safe and sound. I am afraid you are fatigued with our long travels?
Discipula. Not much; but I would like to sit down on the green carpet, under this shade, for a few minutes.
Piscator. It must be, at the least, four of the clock; and although your nature, my fair young lady, is probably too ethereal to think of such homely matters, I do not profess mine to be such, and am ready to acknowledge, thata little dinnerwould not be unacceptable.
Discipula. Unacceptable? No; but where are we to get it?
Piscator. I always bring with me, on my excursions, a hand-basket,containing——
Discipula. Why in the world!—whydidn’tyou let me know that before? Let us have it as quick as possible!
Piscator. It is in the boat, and if you will remain a moment, I will bring it up here.
Discipula. Oh yes, do! And be quick, my good master!—as quick as you can!
Piscator. Nimble as any page, that waits on lady bright. Here we have the provisions; and if we could manage to find something for a table-cover, we might dispense with knivesand——Right, scholar, put your hand into the basket and help yourself.
Discipula. Ham sandwich! Oh, Mr. Piscator, this is good! Is there enough of it?
Piscator. Enough for us two; and therefore you need not fear to help yourself heartily, as I am glad to see that you are not. Never was sumptuous feast to an epicure on gala-day better than my simple fare to me on this beach, after a morning’s sail and ramble.
Discipula. Most excellent! I’ll come out here every time I can get a chance, for the sake of dining with you under the old beech tree.
Piscator. It brings to my mind the story of the king, who, after the chase, took some bread and water at the hut of a woodsman; which, as it is no doubt well known, I shall not repeat unto you. But the bottom of the basket begins to appear. What! done already? Good despatch! And now, scholar, we will immediately to our sport, for we have no time to waste.
Discipula. Yes, yes, immediately to work; I long to try my hand. Here’s the boat; I should think it would have got tired waiting so long for us. But it looks very patient.
Piscator. You may get in, while I loose, and shove off. There appears to be a sharp breeze blowing on the lake without, yet our pond is as unruffled as when we left it. We will return to the same spot we were in before, and cast out our lines.
Discipula. Is this my rod? Fix the bait for me skilfully, and I’ll catch them.
Piscator. I cannot promise you great success at first, considering yourinexperience——
Discipula. Oh, I’m going to catch an hundred!
Piscator. I hope you may; certainly—I hope you will; and you can only try. There, your fly is fastened to the hook as well as my art is able. Come, and sit on this side, and I will give you some instructions how to use it. First, see that the line is clear of the rod; then give it one swing round your head; so—and cast it quickly but softly, as far from you as you can on the water. Neatly done! Now draw it slowly along the surface, and you shall presently see a fish rise at it. Be more moderate; you draw it too rapidly. Ha! there it goes under! Wait till you feel him pulling on the line; now give him a little jerk to the right; there you have him, fairly hooked! You must be careful, or you’ll lose him yet. No; he’s not very heavy, and you may raise him strait out of the water, and land him in the boat; so!
Discipula. Ah, my master, will you tell me that I can’t catch fish? Poor little fish! Oh, but he’s a small one: take him off, master, and put him into the hold. I hunt for nobler game.
Piscator. Not a good thought, not a good thought for an angler. Hunt for nobler game, if you like; but a fisherwoman must not despise the smallest that comes to her net. Every thing counts.
Discipula. Despise? No; oh no! I would like to catch fifty just such; that is, if there are no larger ones to angle for.
Piscator. Well, your bait is set again. Cast out as before, and I wish you better luck.
Discipula. Now I am going to catch a large one—a foot long. But, Mr. Piscator, why do you not use your line?
Piscator. I will not interfere with your sport; and beside, I may want to give you advice how to manage yours. It is not, in general, a good plan to let the fish see you when you are angling; they are apt to be frightened away. However, in this case, I shall say nothing against it; because if they have an eye for beauty, as is commonly believed, your showing yourself should have a contrary effect. In truth, the influence of beauty is much to be marvelled at. I remember myself when I was young, and had not yet learned their vanity, how easy I was to be led away and bewitched by a fair face and a sparkling eye. That was some time ago; you draw your fly too fast; it was some years ago; and yet I am fain to confess, that even now, in nothing do I take more pleasure, than in looking on a ruddy cheek, a polished brow, the long lashes of a soft blue eye, and upon heavy folds of auburn hair; and it is for this reason that I have placed you opposite to me now.
Discipula. Why, Mr. Piscator! Did you mean that for a compliment?
Piscator. Certainly no. I seldom speak but what I think, for flattery I like neither to give nor receive. Ah, yes; there are witches in the world yet. And their witchcraft consists not in magic filters, and potent herbs gathered at midnight under the full moon; far more subtle and powerful is it. Like the poisons of eastern countries, it is communicated by a touch, by a look, by the breath of a word. This is the witchcraft that they use; therewith lure they men to commit folly. It would seem to be their chief delight, their main occupation. But I am willing to believe that you are not so evil-minded; and that when youbewitch men, it is not because you love to do it, but that it is altogether involuntary.
Discipula. Oh, of course, altogether involuntary. If I had my way, I never would cause a single flutter in any body’s breast—not I. But you see how it is, I can’t help it, and therefore it is not my fault. These fish do not bite well. There is one, he will weigh four pounds, that has been playing round and round the hook, but won’t touch it. Haven’t you got some kind of sweet smelling oil or perfume to scent the bait with?
Piscator. I have some lavender-leaves, and if you will draw up the line, I will rub the fly over with them, for fish love the smell of lavender. Try him with that. Ah, I see him—a respectable fish. He is coming up toward the hook; I think he will take it.
Discipula. He stops and eyes it, as though he half suspected that it would not be pleasant to the taste, for all its fair looks. But I’ll have him, in spite of his wits. You scrutinize too closely, Sir Pike! You had better take it at once, without useless inspection. What a noble fellow! How gracefully he moves through the water! I will make it float carelessly away from him, dancing on the silver surface, as though it had just fallen fresh from Heaven; and beside, distance lends enchantment. Ha! see him make a dive at it! There you have it, Sir! and there I have you!
Piscator. Take care, or you’ll be over! Hold hard, or he’ll haveyoutoo! Upon my word, I was afraid you would go overboard! You should not, in your eagerness, lean out over the water so far. But you have got the better of him, and now pull him into the boat and let me take him off.
Discipula. I came near losing my balance; I thought I was gone! Lucky escape!—but my heart beats yet.
Piscator. A fine fish. He has swallowed the bait whole; your large fish always do. O! I don’t know as I can take it out, without hurting him.
Discipula. Poor fish! He does not look quite so spruce and independent as he did a little while ago. Did your mouth water for that tempting fly. It will never water again! What deep sighs heave his little breast! but they will soon be over. Fix the bait, Mr. Piscator, and rub some more lavender on it. I’ll catch another, in less than a minute.
Piscator. It is done already. And this time, do not lean over so far, or you will be in danger of being pulled in, by some fish of greater strength than usual. Really, I think you are a good angler; you seem to possess the skill by intuition. Is it not fine sport? I see by the increased flush and light of your countenance, that you are of the same opinion. It is truly a gentle, a feminine sport.
Discipula. There is one with the beautifulest eyes, and covered all over with gold and silver. But he is exceedingly shy. Come, Sir, if you are so distant, I shall have to approach you myself. I desire a nearer acquaintance with your beautiful eyes, and your gold and silver scales. Oh! if you move off in that direction, I shall retire in this! Ah, you’ve thought better of it, and are coming back. I knew youwould. Observe, Mr. Piscator, how he turns round and hesitates and doubts what to do. There is no use in his deliberating; it is inevitable; he has got to do it. Now he turns back. He seems to have made up his mind that he must have it at all hazards. And see him shut his eyes and make a dash. I am afraid he finds it unpalatable! Too rash! too rash! You should have considered better! Take him off, master; he is nothing very great, after all.
Piscator. I see a large one, lying here at the left, deep in the water; of the kind which we call sucker. It is his nature to lie perfectly still as though asleep, and not to move till he is touched. Reach here the hook, while I fasten some pieces of lead to it, enough to sink it; and then I will tell you how to hook him.
Discipula. I see! I know! I can do it myself, I will let the bait sink gently down into the water, a little forward of him, thus. Ah, it fell right on his back! He must be asleep, for he doesn’t stir, nor seem to notice it. Now then, a little forward of him; and so, slowly, softly, float up toward his nose. He appears to be inspecting the fly; he sleeps with his mouth wide open; as a natural history philosopher might examine a butterfly; and since it is so closely presented, suppose you try the sense of taste too, Sir! It is pleasant to the eye, you will find it also good for food, and to be desired to make one wise. Allow it to fall imperceptibly into your mouth; nay, you cannot judge of its merits from a half trial, like that; it must be taken entirely in. Don’t exert yourself, in the least; another inspiration, and you are possessed. Ha! is it not good?—is it not sweet? He must be very fond of it, he holds on to it so hard! Astonished fish! he wakes up, and opens his eyes with wonder; there is more in it than he dreamed of! Strait up to the light here, and show your agitated countenance. Now please to open your lips, and disclose the cause of all your sorrows, while kind Mr. Piscator extracts it.
Piscator. Well hooked! Indeed, scholar, it was well done of you. But the heavens are becoming overcast; it threatens storm. Would it not be wise to set out on our return?
Discipula. Oh no, no! I can’t think of going yet? ‘Wise!’ It seems to me that it would be very foolish, while the lake contains so many more fish as good as any that we have already caught.
Piscator. You do not expect to take them all?
Discipula. All in this place; what should hinder?
Piscator. They will not bite for ever in the same place. They are a cunning animal, and get frightened.
Discipula. Then let us remove to another spot.
Piscator. That we might do, if there were time; but the sun is entirely hidden by clouds, and is near his going down. We shall presently have a thunder-storm. And then a stiff breeze from the south, which will waft us speedily toward our landing place; had we not better begin to think of leaving?
Discipula. Wait till I catch one fish more; I had a nibble just then.
Piscator. You should handle your rod more gently. The wind blows up fresher and fresher; it will be dark as pitch too, when nightfairly comes on. Shall we not spread our sails, and speed merrily homeward?
Discipula. Well, as you will, master; though really I don’t see any occasion for all this hurry. Look at that fish! He rose almost to the surface after my hook, and yet wouldn’t take it. Oh, my poor fly! my poor bait! See it, master! All faded and worn and torn, no painting or patching can renew its comeliness! And there sticks out the hook, plain to view; a blind fish might see it! Oh, my poor fly, that couldn’t conceal the hook any longer! Mr. Piscator, lend me your knife, while I cut the bait from the line, rags, paint, iron and all, and throw it back into the water, thus. Now then, little fish! silly fish! come all of you, and see what has befooled you! What some of your tribe have swallowed because they thought it was good, and some because they were careless, and others because they were hungry and must have something! What many of ye have taken in, and more have nibbled at, and all have gazed at, and admired and longed for! Oh, rare sport have ye made me, foolish things! And longer would I have played with you, but the evening comes on, and I must bid you a happy farewell. So we are under way again, are we?
Piscator. We are again under way; and I have hope of reaching home before yonder cloud comes over us. And trust me, when it does come, it will bring more wind with it.
Discipula. Once more on the open bosom of the lake! How the little black angry waves dance up one after another, and roll past us toward the northern shore. And see that dim hill at the other extremity of the pond, how gigantic and broken it looks. Oh, Mr. Piscator, let’s go and see it! let’s go and see it! And those high perpendicular rocks, that stand out so boldly. Yes, yes, put up the helm! we’ll go and see how they look in the twilight.
Piscator. But my dear child, it will take an hour and a half longer to go round by the rocks, and before that time, I fear the storm will increase.
Discipula. Oh, never fear the storm. I’ll risk it! And when we get up there, we can take a short cut across to our port; so put up the helm!—good Mr. Piscator, kind Mr. Piscator! do let us run up to the hill! I can assure you there is no danger.
Piscator. I cannot well deny any thing that you ask of me; but much I doubt,Mr. ——
Discipula. Nay, nay, doubt nothing. We shall get home safe, trust me for that. And that cloud, that you are so fearful of, is not coming over us, at all; it is coming down on the other shore of the lake. Please, Mr. Pilot, to keep in a little nearer the land, or we shall pass the rocks so far out, that we shall not be able to see them with distinctness.
Piscator. A wilful woman must even have her own way. My child! you will catch your death with cold, to take off your bonnet so!
Discipula. I’m not afraid of it; I want to feel the air.
Piscator. And where are you going now?
Discipula. Going to sit down in the bow of the boat. This view is much finer! Oh, this is grand!
Piscator. But, good scholar! good scholar! you will certainly fall out there! I believe you are crazy, you look so wild!
Discipula. How the boat pitches over the little waves! And, Mr. Piscator, direct the boat toward the shore, so as to make it rock more. The heavens are all grey, and the waters are all black, and the wind is high and wild in its sport like an imprisoned bird let loose. Oh master, spread the other sail, and see if we can’t fly faster! Here are the rocks so grim; but it is growing dark, and I can only just make them out. Why, Mr. Piscator, you are not going near enough! Run close in under them!
Piscator. I shall say to you plainly, what you ask is impossible. It would be running an unwarrantable hazard; as indeed coming up here at all was unwarrantable.
Discipula. At least then, good master, keep along up at this distance, if that pleases you best; for there is a bluff just ahead, which projects farther out than the others, and we shall pass close by it.
Piscator. It is high time that we commenced our return in good earnest. And therefore, scholar, for I must remind you that you are my scholar till I see you safe ashore; therefore, if you please, you may stand by the sail to tack.
Discipula. But just look once, how boldly and sternly it lifts up its calm front out of the boiling waters!
Piscator. It is without doubt, very fine; but it is impossible to hold on a foot farther. So if you will stand by thesail——
Discipula. I wish I had a boat of my own to sail out here alone in and go where I choose! Well, what shall I do? how shall I go to work? Oh, Mr. Piscator! honest Mr. Piscator! let me hold the helm while you take care of the sails.
Piscator. Willingly, if your hand is strong enough. Try it; shall you be able to hold it as it is?
Discipula. With the greatest ease. Now then, are you ready? What are you letting down the sail for? That three-cornered rag from the bow-sprit wont be enough!
Piscator. It would be unsafe to set the main-sail, and I think with this breeze the fore-stay-sail will drive us sufficiently fast.
Discipula. Well, suit yourself. Now are you ready?
Piscator. Ready, certainly, when I take the helm. But what are you doing? If you undertake to let the skiff fall off before the wind you will upset us, as sureas——
Discipula. Just see if I do. Let me hold the helm. Oh yes, let me!
Piscator. But scholar! good scholar! dear scholar!
Discipula. No, no, I wont give it up! you can’t have it! Honest Mr. Piscator, let me steer the boat, only a little way! Oh, but I will; and there is no use in your trying to prevent me. See there now, haven’t we come round to our course in good style?
Piscator. A taste of power to those who are unaccustomed to it is always dangerous, and I blame myself for permitting you to usurp the post of pilot. Though, as you seem determined to maintain it, I cannot choose but to sit down here quietly, and trust our lives to your skill.My life indeed! But yours? Seriously now, my fair young lady, would it not bewiser——
Discipula. Seriously now, my careful master, I don’t think it would. Why, what would you have? Are we not skimming over the waves like a sea-bird free? And see those two birds, how they dash by us, and wheel round over us, and breast the gale! Oh master! wouldn’t you like to be a sea-bird, and swing sideways, with your face to the wind that almost took your breath away, swing down, down, glance against the water, then on the other side, swing up, up? And wouldn’t it be sweet too to struggle your way up through the storm, high over that cloud yonder, with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out—then fold your wings, close your eyes, and fall calmly down on to its dark, soft, bosom? Oh, wouldn’t it be sweet?
Piscator. My dear scholar, our landing place lies here, toward the north-east, and you are running directly north.
Discipula. Don’t be under any apprehensions; I am only going to run out half a mile farther, that we may get before the wind, and then we’ll scud straight toward home. And beside, we rock more, going in this direction. I wish it would blow harder, and make more swell! You know now, Mr. Piscator, how a wild swan feels when he sits on the water and is buoyed up on the heaving wave, and in a breath sinks into the black abyss. If I were a wild swan I would go to sleep and let the winds blow and the waters heave! How the boat careens over and plunges down when the blast whistles against the masts! Drive on! Drive on! my light gallant bark! Oh, my master! shall I sing you a song? a little song of the sea? a pirate song?
Piscator. You look at this present moment as if you might sing a pirate song, or be a pirate yourself. I observe that since you have taken off your bonnet, the wind has somewhat disarranged your hair.
Discipula. Wouldn’t you like to be a pirate, though? I would; and roam over the ocean at my own free will; and through the storm and spray, and lightning-glances of the wild midnight, dash on my fleeing victim like the eagle on his prey! All hands on deck to get on more sail! Stand by to unfurl the main-sail to the tempest!
Piscator. Will it please you, my fair pilot, to inform me whither you are taking us?
Discipula. I am going to run into that cloud yonder; the one before us, with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out.
Piscator. What you call a cloud appears to me to be a hill, that rises a few rods back from the shore.
Discipula. Oh, it’s a cloud—a cloud! And there is a star that glimmers through it.
Piscator. I see nothing but the twinkling of a taper, from the window of some dwelling.
Discipula. I tell you it’s a star—a star! The cloud has settled down into the water like a mountain; and through its base penetrates a tunnel, through which the ray of that star comes—a long, straight cavern, arched overhead and on either side by wreathed and rolling pillars of smoke. I’ll put up the helm and run into it! Bear up! bear up! bear stoutly up, my brave, bold bark! and plunge forward like thehorse into the smoke of battle, through this path to the subterranean abodes!
Piscator. Let me take the tiller! Let it go! Put it around quick then; you are running on the beach!
Discipula. Why don’t you see we are just entering the dark mouth of the tunnel? We shall soon be into it.
Piscator. Hark! here it comes! Now hold hard, for there we are, grounded and staved!
Discipula. Tartarian rocks and whirlpools!
Piscator. Quick! ashore! The boat is going to pieces!
Discipula. Ha! ha! ha! Was it well done, my master? was it well done?
Piscator. Itwaswell done, you little water-witch!
LINESON SEEING MY SISTER FILL A LITTLE BEGGAR-BOY’S BASKET WITH COLD VICTUALS.BY R. S. CHILTON.Ay!fill it up, my sister dear;His brothers all like him are gaunt,And sister’s too; then do not fearTo choke the gaping mouth of want.Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,The tears stand in his sickly eye;Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!The basket’s heavy; what of that?His heart is light, he heeds it not;His feet are cold and bare, poor brat!But this has always been his lot.He trudges on, or stops to stealQuick glances at the dainty meal;And then his purple lips do blessThe heart that pitied his distress.At home, how will the meagre onesClutch at those broken bits of bread!How will they banquet on those bones,Like ravens feasting on the dead!A dainty stomach would refuseSuch food; but ‘beggars cannot choose:’Theyrelish what the rich condemn,But hunger makes the sauce for them.Ah, sister! when the beggar-boyReturns, think still on hunger’s pain;Lighten his little heart with joy,And fill his basket up again.Whopitieswretchedness does well,But whorelievesit, doth excel.Then ever, till the common end,Let Misery find in thee, a friend.
ON SEEING MY SISTER FILL A LITTLE BEGGAR-BOY’S BASKET WITH COLD VICTUALS.
BY R. S. CHILTON.
Ay!fill it up, my sister dear;His brothers all like him are gaunt,And sister’s too; then do not fearTo choke the gaping mouth of want.Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,The tears stand in his sickly eye;Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!The basket’s heavy; what of that?His heart is light, he heeds it not;His feet are cold and bare, poor brat!But this has always been his lot.He trudges on, or stops to stealQuick glances at the dainty meal;And then his purple lips do blessThe heart that pitied his distress.At home, how will the meagre onesClutch at those broken bits of bread!How will they banquet on those bones,Like ravens feasting on the dead!A dainty stomach would refuseSuch food; but ‘beggars cannot choose:’Theyrelish what the rich condemn,But hunger makes the sauce for them.Ah, sister! when the beggar-boyReturns, think still on hunger’s pain;Lighten his little heart with joy,And fill his basket up again.Whopitieswretchedness does well,But whorelievesit, doth excel.Then ever, till the common end,Let Misery find in thee, a friend.
Ay!fill it up, my sister dear;His brothers all like him are gaunt,And sister’s too; then do not fearTo choke the gaping mouth of want.Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,The tears stand in his sickly eye;Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!
Ay!fill it up, my sister dear;
His brothers all like him are gaunt,
And sister’s too; then do not fear
To choke the gaping mouth of want.
Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,
The tears stand in his sickly eye;
Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,
He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!
The basket’s heavy; what of that?His heart is light, he heeds it not;His feet are cold and bare, poor brat!But this has always been his lot.He trudges on, or stops to stealQuick glances at the dainty meal;And then his purple lips do blessThe heart that pitied his distress.
The basket’s heavy; what of that?
His heart is light, he heeds it not;
His feet are cold and bare, poor brat!
But this has always been his lot.
He trudges on, or stops to steal
Quick glances at the dainty meal;
And then his purple lips do bless
The heart that pitied his distress.
At home, how will the meagre onesClutch at those broken bits of bread!How will they banquet on those bones,Like ravens feasting on the dead!A dainty stomach would refuseSuch food; but ‘beggars cannot choose:’Theyrelish what the rich condemn,But hunger makes the sauce for them.
At home, how will the meagre ones
Clutch at those broken bits of bread!
How will they banquet on those bones,
Like ravens feasting on the dead!
A dainty stomach would refuse
Such food; but ‘beggars cannot choose:’
Theyrelish what the rich condemn,
But hunger makes the sauce for them.
Ah, sister! when the beggar-boyReturns, think still on hunger’s pain;Lighten his little heart with joy,And fill his basket up again.Whopitieswretchedness does well,But whorelievesit, doth excel.Then ever, till the common end,Let Misery find in thee, a friend.
Ah, sister! when the beggar-boy
Returns, think still on hunger’s pain;
Lighten his little heart with joy,
And fill his basket up again.
Whopitieswretchedness does well,
But whorelievesit, doth excel.
Then ever, till the common end,
Let Misery find in thee, a friend.
THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.Harry Harson.CHAPTER XXVI.Atthe dead of the night, when all others were at rest, Michael Rust glided out of his office. It was a strange hour, but he had become a strange man. Through the silent streets he stole, with a step so noiseless that it awoke no echo. Along Broadway, passing where the city ended and the fields began, mile after mile he went. He met no one. Every house that he passed was as silent as the grave; excepting a solitary one, standing by itself, with a light shining through an upper window, as if some one kept watch at a sick bed. Sometimes the road ran between high trees, whose skeleton outlines stood grimly up between him and the stars, stiff and motionless. At other times, it coursed along dreary wastes; then again, it was buried in dense shadow; now ascending, now descending. At times he caught a glimpse of the distant gray river, gleaming in the darkness, with here and there the light on board some vessel at anchor, glittering like a star. In some places, where it was shut in by high banks, the road seemed inky black; and parts of it were so solitary, that even a stout heart might have shrunk from traversing it at that dreary hour. But Rust thought not of fear. What hadheto do with that feeling, who sought only revenge and a grave?It was yet night, when he reached a house in the upper part of the island, and near the river. Little except its dim outline was visible in the obscurity; and as he opened the gate, and passed beneath an avenue of tall trees which led to it, the darkness was such that he could scarcely see. But he was familiar with the ground, and without hesitation went directly to the door of the house. It was locked. He drew a key from his pocket, unlocked it, went in, and closed it after him. He groped his way along the entry, until he came to the door of a room, which he opened. A few embers were smouldering on the hearth, sufficient to throw out a dim light. Lighting a candle, which stood on a table, he drew a chair to the fire and sat down. The chamber was large, fitted up as a library, and filled with massive book-cases of dark wood, elaborately carved, which gave a sombre appearance to the room. Nothing that money could buy had been spared; for this was the home of Rust’s daughter, and that hard, reckless, griping man had been alive but to one feeling—love to his child. Inherwere garnered up all his affections, and upon her he had lavished all that his means could obtain.For a long time he sat without changing his position, his eye fixed, his mouth compressed, his brow knit, not a sound escaping him. At last he started from his fit of abstraction, with a slight shiver; passedhis hand once or twice before his eyes, as if to dispel something that clouded his sight; and said, in a whisper. ‘Can all this be real?’ The clock struck three. He rose, cast a stealthy glance over his shoulder, and taking the candle in his hand, held it up over his head, examining the room with a suspicious look, as if he momentarily expected some form to start from behind the heavy furniture. As his eye was wandering round the room, it rested upon a picture in a carved frame, which hung against the wall. He went to it, and held the light so that its rays fell full upon it. It was the portrait of a girl of about seventeen. Could the child-like, innocent face which gazed out from the canvass upon that fierce, passion-worn old man, be that ofhischild? Could aught so pure and beautiful have sprung from such as him? And worse than all, could she have lost that purity which was stamped on every line of her face?With fixed and rigid features; with a hand that did not tremble, with a heart that scarcely beat, he contemplated the picture; and then, slowly, as if in a dream, replaced the candle, and took his seat. There was that at work within him, however, which banished bodily repose; for in one minute afterward, he was up and pacing the room, muttering and gesticulating to himself; thenext, he went to a mirror, and looked at his own face. He started as he did so; for he had not seen it in a week; and in that time so altered and wasted had it become, with its long unshorn beard, and ghastly white complexion, that he could scarcely recognize it.‘What a bird of prey the mind is!’ muttered he; ‘how it devours the body!’ He turned away, and once more his eye rested on the picture which hung against the wall. Some strange feeling seemed to spring into existence as he did so; for his breath came thick and hard; his heart beat, until its pulsations could be heard, loud and strong like the blows of a hammer; his hand shook, but at the same time, his brow darkened, and its look of anxious and half-wandering thought gave place to an expression that was perfectly fiendish. He muttered a few words; then taking the light, cautiously opened the door, and stole up the broad flight of stairs which led to the upper story. At the head of it was a door; he tried it; it was not locked but yielded to his push. It opened into a bed-room, luxuriously furnished with mirrors, and various nick-nacks, and articles of taste, such as a young and wealthy female gathers about her; and in the bed lay a beautiful girl, the original of the picture below, sound asleep, her long hair, which had become unbound as she slept, lying in loose tresses upon the pillow. How bright and beautiful she was! How gentle and calm her breathing was! And well might the stern old man, as he looked at her angel face, have misgivings as to the truth of Grosket’s tale. Rust’s hard features worked convulsively as he stood over his child, as if powerful feelings were tugging at his heart-strings; but it was only for a moment, for he choked them down; and going out, in the cautious manner in which he had entered, he closed the door and descended to the room below.He resumed his seat; and although hour after hour elapsed, until day-light stole in the room, his attitude remained the same; until a servant came in to light the fire, and uttered an exclamation of surpriseat seeing him. This aroused him; and rising hastily, he said, ‘I’m going out. Tell your mistress that I’ll be here at ten o’clock.’ He left the house; and after wandering up and down the road, he crossed the fields, until he came to the edge of the river, and when he had sauntered along it for some time, he sat down upon a rock, and commenced casting pebbles in the water.How long a time he passed in this way, he could not tell, but it must have been several hours; for on looking at his watch, he found that it was late in the day. Suddenly, recollecting his message to his daughter; he rose and went directly to the house. He crossed the lawn in front of it; but before he had time to reach the door, a light figure sprang out, and his child’s arms were about his neck.‘Dear father! it’s a very long time since I saw you!’ said she, putting back the hair which hung over his face, and pressing her lips to his cheek. ‘I’m very happy at having you here once more. But you are ill—very ill! What ails you?’ said she, suddenly, as she observed the inroads which the last few days had made in his whole form. Rust withdrew himself from her embrace, and without answering her question, said in a cold tone: ‘Come in the house.’Though his words were simple, there was that in his manner (or it might have been the consciousness of guilt on the part of the girl) which caused her cheek to grow pale, and her step to falter; and she accompanied him to the library, with the silent and downcast look of a criminal. He took a chair, drew it to the fire, and pointing to another, said in the same cold tone: ‘Be seated.’The girl obeyed without a word. At that moment a servant opened the door, and told Rust that a man was inquiring for him.Rust got up, and went out. In the entry were two men. One of them, a powerfully-built fellow, of about five-and-thirty, with light hair and a prominent eye, asked, ‘Are you Michael Rust?’Rust scanned him from head to foot. He suspected his errand; for he had seen him before, and he replied simply: ‘I am.’‘Then, Sir, we’ve come for you.’ At the same time, the man produced a slip of paper, and tapped Rust on the shoulder. ‘Here’s the warrant, if you’d like to look at it, and the vehicle’s in the road there.’ He gave a nod in the direction.Rust evinced neither surprise nor trepidation. He merely said, in a musing tone, ‘I should have stipulated for a longer time, for the lawyer has lost none.’ Then addressing the officer, he added: ‘My daughter is in the room. Before going with you, I should like to speak with her in private. You may examine the room, to see that there are no means of escaping from it.’The man took him at his word; went in the room; glanced round without noticing the girl, who regarded him with some surprise; then went to an inner door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.‘Are you satisfied?’ asked Rust.The other again stared round the room: went to the window; looked out to see how high it was from the ground; said that he was, and then inquired: ‘How long?’‘Ten minutes,’ was the reply.‘Good!’ said the man; and with a knowing look at Rust, and a shambling bow to the girl, he went out, and seated himself on a chair in the hall, having taken the precaution to send his companion to keep an eye on the windows, which were within leap of the ground.Rust returned to his seat. ‘Come hither, Ellen,’ said he.His daughter rose, and came to him; but in dead silence.‘Look at me. Am I much altered?’ inquired Rust.The girl raised her eyes to his. They quailed before his stern, searching glance; but she replied in a low voice: ‘You’re very much altered; you’re wearing yourself out.’A smile of strange meaning crossed Rust’s face. He turned, and pointed to the picture which hung against the wall.‘Was that ever a good likeness of you?’ asked he.His daughter glanced at it, with some surprise at the sudden question, and then replied: ‘I’ve often been told so, father—a very good one.’‘They told you the truth. Itwasa good one; and now,’ said he, turning to her, and fixing his eyes on her face: ‘Do you think I am as much changed from whatIwas, as you are from whatyouwere, when that picture was painted? Mark it well!’ said he, speaking quickly and earnestly, and leaning forward until his face almost touched hers. ‘Look at every feature. See what innocence, what purity of soul and thought is in every line of that face. An angel might have envied its innocence. There is a mirror,’ said he, pointing to the looking-glass; ‘Now look at yourself.’ He half rose, and his voice was cold and cutting as he concluded.The girl grew red; then deeper and deeper crimson; then deadly, ghastly pale; the perspiration stood upon her forehead, and her eyes were blinded with tears; but she could not meet his glance.His voice sank almost to a whisper, as he asked ‘Then what I have heard is true?’The girl seemed absolutely stunned.‘Be it so. Now you know the cause of my illness. Look at me. Look at this face, scored with wrinkles; these hollow cheeks, and this frame, broken down by premature old age. Look at them, I say, and you will see but a faint image of the utter, hopeless waste that has been going on in my heart.’The girl made an attempt to speak; sank on the floor; and clasping his knees, pressed her head against them, and sobbed aloud. But Rust moved not. There was no trace of compassion in either tone or manner, as he continued: ‘From your childhood, until you were grown up, you were the person for whose welfare I toiled. I labored and strove for you; there was not a thing that I did, not a thought that I ever harbored, which had not your happiness for its aim; and to your love and devotion I looked for my reward; and as I brooded over my own guilty life, blackened as it was with the worst of crimes, I thought that it was some palliation to be the parent of one pure and spotless as you were. Well, you turned out as hundreds of others have done, and my labor was lost. I loved you as never child was loved; and in proportion as my love once was great, so now is my hate and scorn!’‘Oh! my God!’ gasped the girl. She sank down as if crushed. Rust looked at her unmoved, and did not stir to assist her. She raised her hands to him, and said in a supplicating tone: ‘Father! as you hope for mercy, hear me!’‘If I received not mercy from my own child,’ said Rust, sternly, ‘to whom can I look for it? I hope for it no where; I ask for it no where; I am at bay to the whole world.’One of those dark, withering expressions which had once been so common to his features, but which his anguish had for the last few days in a great measure banished from them, swept across his face.The girl wrung her hands, as she received his harsh answer. At last she said, in a broken voice: ‘Father, I am sadly guilty; but hear me, forGod’ssake,dohear me!’At that moment, the door was opened, and the officer’s head was thrust in.‘Time’s up.’‘I must have ten minutes more,’ said Rust.‘You can’t.’‘I must, Iwill,’ exclaimed Rust, sternly.He tossed him a dollar, which the man caught in his hand with professional dexterity; and then, with a grin, said: ‘Well, if you’re so very anxious, of course you must be accommodated;’ and disappearing, shut the door.‘You said that you were guilty,’ resumed Rust, turning to his daughter. ‘I know it. There’s but one more so. You know to whom I allude. What is his name?’The girl grew very pale, and hung down her head in silence.‘Who is he?’ again demanded her father, seizing her arm with a strong grasp.Still she made no reply.‘Be it so,’ said Rust flinging her hand from him. ‘Perhaps silence is best. Now, one other question.Whereis he?’She shook her head, and replied in a scarcely audible tone that she did not know.‘When was he last here?’‘About a week since.’‘And when did he promise to return?’‘On the same day,’ answered the girl, in a low tone.‘And he has not kept that promise. The first of a series of black-hearted lies!’ exclaimed Rust, bitterly, speaking more to himself than to her. ‘In these cases, lies come first, and the truth last.’ He again addressed her: ‘Does he speak of marriage? and doyouurge it upon him?’‘Ido, indeed Ido!’ replied the girl, apparently anxious to hit upon something to conciliate the stern mood of her parent. ‘Often and often, I beg him to do it, and remind him of his promise.’‘And what is his answer?’ demanded Rust, with a half-mocking smile.‘He says that he cannot marry me just now, but that he will soon. He wishes to obtain the consent of his father, who is very ill, and cannotbe spoken to about it; but that he will soon be better, and that then it will all be settled.’‘How long has he been making these excuses?’‘A very long time—a very long time,’ said the girl, sadly: ‘A month and more.’‘How often did he come here at first?’‘Every day,’ said the girl.‘And now?’His daughter was silent; for she began to see the drift of this cold examination, and it sent a chill to her heart.Rust was satisfied; and he said in a half-musing tone: ‘The same stale, hackneyed story. She is on her way to where the first misstep always leads. Already he is wearied, and wants but an excuse to fling her off; and I—I—I—her avenger,’ exclaimed he with a burst of fierce impatience, ‘Iam shackled; a prisoner, and can do nothing!’He made a hasty step to the door, opened it, and beckoned to the officer to come in. As he did so, he shut it after him, took the man by the arm, and drew him to one end of the room:‘I want a week,’ said he, in a quick tone. ‘I’ll give a thousand dollars to gain one week; and at the end of that time will surrender myself a prisoner.’The man shook his head: ‘It can’t be done, Sir,’ said he.‘What’s the reward offered for my apprehension?’‘A cool five hundred,’ replied the officer.‘I’ll double it to escape,’ said Rust, ‘or to gain a week, but a single week.’The man shook his head. ‘Too many knows that we’re arter you. It wouldn’t do.’‘But at the expiration of that time I would surrender myself, and you could secure the reward too.’The man gave vent to a low chuckle; and placed his finger on the side of his nose, accompanying the motion with a sly expression, signifying an utter disbelief in Rust’s promises.Rust gnawed his lip with fierce impatience, then taking the man by the arm, he led him into the hall, and shut the door.‘I must speak out,’ said he, ‘and trust to your honor not to betray me. A villain has seduced my child. I want time to find him, and to compel him to make her his wife. Now you know why I ask a week.’The officer at first whistled, then muttered something about its being a hard case; but concluded by saying, in a positive tone: ‘It can’t be did, Sir; I’m sorry for it; upon my word, I am; but I must keep you now that I’ve got you. I wish you’d given me the slip at first; but I can’t let you go now. It’s impossible—quite.’Rust eyed the man, as if endeavoring to find in his hard features some loop-hole to his more kindly feelings; but apparently he met with no success.‘Well, if it can’t be done, there’s an end of it,’ said he, abruptly terminating his scrutiny. ‘I’ve some other matters to speak of, and want a few moments more. I’ll not detain you long, and will call you when I’m ready.’‘I’ll give you all the time I can,’ said the man, civilly.Rust turned to enter the room, but as he did so he heard a quick step behind him; and looking round, found himself face to face with a young man of two or three and twenty, elegantly dressed, who eyed him carelessly, and then passing him, entered the room with the air of one perfectly at home. A suspicion of who he was flashed across Rust’s mind. That he himself was unknown to the other was not strange, for he had been so much absent, and when he visited his child it was at such irregular intervals, and for such short periods, that a person might have been even a frequent visitor at his house, without encountering him. Nor was there any thing in the outward appearance of the slovenly, haggard old man to attract attention. But the indifference of the other was not reciprocated; for Rust followed him, and closed the door after him, with feverish haste, as if he feared his prey might escape him. He observed the deep blush that sprang to the cheek of his daughter, at the entrance of the stranger; her guilty, yet joyous look as he addressed her; and above all, he perceivedhiscareless, cold, indifferent reply to her warm salutation; and a feeling of revenge, the deadliest that he had ever felt, sprung up in his heart against that man; not so much because he had blasted the happiness of his child, as because he had torn fromhimall that he had clung to in life.Rust walked to the fire-place, turned his back to it, and without uttering a word, faced the stranger, who eyed him from head to foot with a cool, supercilious stare; then looked at the girl, as if seeking an explanation.The pause, however, was broken by Rust himself, as he pointed with his thin finger to their visitor, and inquired of his daughter: ‘Isthatthe man?’The girl’s face became ghastly pale; her lips moved, but she dared not raise her eyes; for she could not encounter the keen, inquiring look which she knew was fixed upon her.‘Answer my question,’ said he, sternly. ‘This is no time for tampering with my patience.’His daughter attempted to speak. She trembled from head to foot; but not a word escaped her. So intense was her anguish, that it awoke a spark of better feeling in the young man; for confronting Rust, he said in a bold voice: ‘If you have any questions to ask respecting me, address them tome, not toher.’‘I will,’ replied Rust, fixing upon him an eye that fairly glowed; ‘for you should best know your own character. Are you the cold-blooded scoundrel who, taking advantage of that girl’s confiding disposition, of the absence of her father, stole like a thief into his house; by lies, by false oaths, and damning hypocritical professions of love, won her affections; blighted her, and then left her what I blush to name? You wish the question addressed to you; you have it. I’ll have your reply.’Withering like a parched leaf; shrinking as if a serpent were in his path; with a face which changed from white to red, from red to white, the stranger met these questions. But Rust’s eye never left his face. There was no trace of anger nor emotion, in his marble features. He merely said: ‘I want your answer.’With a face heavy with guilt; with a voice that shook even while it assumed a tone of boldness; the stranger demanded: ‘Who are you? and what right have you to question me thus?’‘Notmuchright,’ replied Rust; ‘I’m not even a rival suitor; I’monlythis girl’s father. Perhaps you will answer me now.’The other was silent. Rust turned to his daughter, and said: ‘This man has suddenly become dumb. Is this he of whom we spoke? An answer I must have, and a true one. Do not add a lie to the infamy which already covers you.’The girl hesitated, and then uttered something in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible; but faint as it was, Rust caught the words, ‘It is!’‘It is well,’ replied he, facing the stranger, and drawing his person up erect. ‘I have no time to waste in words, and will state what I have to say as concisely as possible, and will act as promptly as I speak. This is my only child. She was once unsullied, and I was proud of her: that she is not sonow, is your fault. There is but one mode of repairing what you’ve done. Will you marry her?’‘I certainly intend to do so,’ said the young man, with a guilty look, which gave the lie to his words.‘I wantdeeds, notintentions,’ replied Rust. ‘What you do must be donenow—before you leave this room. A clergyman resides within a mile. In half an hour he can be here.’The girl clasped her hands joyfully, and looked eagerly at him; but there was nothing responsive in the expression of his face; and he answered:‘I can’t see the necessity of this haste; beside, it would ruin all my prospects.’‘Youcan’t see the necessity of this haste!’ exclaimed Rust, in a voice of thunder. ‘Ruinyourprospects! What has become ofherprospects?What—what——But no matter,’ added he, choking down a fierce burst of passion, and suddenly assuming a tone so unnaturally calm that it might have been a warning to the other that it was but a lull in the storm. ‘Michael Rust presents his compliments to his unknown friend, and begs to know if he will do him the honor of marrying, on the spot, his daughter whom he has polluted?’He paused for an answer; his lips were deadly white, and quivering; and his eye glowed like a serpent’s. The young man quailed before it; but apparently he was only waiting for an opportunity to throw off the mask; for he answered boldly: ‘No, I will not.’‘You had better,’ said Rust, in a low, warning tone. ‘Think of it again.’‘You have my answer,’ was the reply.‘Then take Michael Rust’s thanks!’ A flash and report followed; and when the smoke cleared away, the seducer was lying on the floor, stone dead. A bullet had passed through his head. The policeman rushed in the room.‘If I could have had a week, I might have avoided this,’ said Rust, coldly. ‘As it was, I had no alternative.’He rang the bell, and a servant came in. He pointed to his daughter, who was lying senseless at his feet.‘Look to your mistress!’Turning to the police men who stood by with blanched faces, he said: ‘Now then, I am ready!’CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.Ina small room, containing a box-bedstead, a single chair, and a common wooden table, on which was a pitcher of water, sat Michael Rust. The heavy iron bars which grated the windows, and the doors of thick oaken plank, secured by strong bolts of iron, indicated beyond a doubt the nature of his abode—a prison. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, with his arms resting on the table, which was drawn close to it, and his head leaning upon them. At times he straightened himself up, looked listlessly about the room, and then resumed his old position.A key turned in the door; the heavy bolt was drawn back, and a head was thrust in.‘Some one wants to see you. Shall he come in?’‘Yes.’The head was withdrawn, and the door being opened, admitted no less a person than Mr. Kornicker, somewhat faded in appearance since we last saw him, but still wearing an air of dashing pretension. He stood at the door, shaking his head, winking to himself, and fumbling in his pocket, evidently in a state of great mental perplexity, probably from his entertaining doubts as to what would be the character of his reception; or from his being equally uncertain as to the best mode of opening the conversation. Nor was he at all relieved by Rust, who without moving, fastened his eye upon him with a cold, steadfast stare.Kornicker, however, seemed to have fixed upon his course of action at last; for he walked up to him, and stretching out his hand, said:‘Wont you give us your flipper, my old fellow? You’re in trouble, but I’ll stand by you to the last. If I don’t, damme!’ He struck his other hand on the table, and nodded and winked with great vehemence.‘So there is yet one who has not turned his back on the felon,’ said Rust, partly addressing Kornicker and partly speaking to himself; ‘one true man; a rare thing in this world; a jewel—a jewel, beyond all price; and like all costly stones, found only in the poorest soils; but,’ added he, ‘what haveIdone to gain friends, or to link one solitary heart to my fortunes?—what?’He shook his head; and although his face was unmoved, and he spoke in the low, half-soliloquizing manner of one who rather brooded over the past than regretted it, yet there was something so sad in his tone, and in his melancholy gesture, that it did more to call forth the warm feelings of Kornicker than the most eloquent language.‘What have you done?’ demanded he, earnestly; ‘I’lltellyou what you did. When I was at low water mark, with scarce a rag to my back or a crust to my stomach, and without a prospect of getting one, you took me by the hand, and in ad——dgentlemanly way gave me ah’ist out of the gutter.That’swhat you did; and if youdidflare up now and then, and haul me over the coals; it was soon over, and soon forgotten. I don’t bear malice, old fellow; no, no. It isn’t my way; and as you’re in trouble now, if Icanhelp you, Iwill. Never desert any one; am unfortunately bloody short of cash; but you can have what I’ve got, and when I get more, you shall havethattoo.’As he spoke, he plunged his hand to the bottom of his pocket, drew out a very shabby-looking pocket-book, deposited it on the table.‘It isn’t much; but you’ll find it useful here, and you’re welcome to it. This isn’t the shop where nothing put out at interest produces a heavy income.’This offer had a powerful effect upon Rust; and it seemed as if some long dormant feelings were working their way to the surface from the depths of his heart. He gazed earnestly at his clerk, and once or twice opened his mouth to speak; but finally he got up, and taking the pocket-book from the table, handed it back to Kornicker, saying:‘I’m not in want of money. Gold is but drossnow. I’ve plenty of it; but its value in my eyes is gone.’‘But,’ remonstrated Kornicker, holding his hands behind him, and looking obstinately in another direction, partly to avoid taking the pocket-book and partly to resist the solicitations of his own necessities, which were strenuously urging him to do so, ‘but you may want a lawyer to fight for you at your trial.’‘For that farce I am prepared. Ihaveone. He’s paid for it, and he’ll fight,’ said Rust. ‘It will avail nothing, for I did slay the man. It was a cold-blooded, deliberate murder. I planned it; I went up to that place with the stern determination to commit it; and Ididcommit it. It was no hasty act, done in a moment of fierce and sudden passion; but a deed duly and deliberately meditated, and one that I would repeat. Whathehad done, it’s useless to mention. I had no redress, except what my own hand could give me. He has paid his forfeit, and I’ll pay mine. I’ll fight to the last; because,’ added he, with that expression of stern purpose which so often settled on his face, ‘Michael Rust never yields; and then, let the law do its worst. Take your money; I don’t need it.’Kornicker hesitated; and then thrusting it in his pocket, said: ‘I suppose, if you should happen to be short, you’ll let me know.’‘I will,’ replied Rust; ‘but I’ve enough to last until my sand is run out. They’ll hang me.’‘Don’t talk so,’ exclaimed Kornicker, with a feeling not a little akin to fear, at the cold, indifferent manner in which the other spoke. ‘Youmayescape—who knows?’Rust looked at him steadily, and then said, in a low, calm voice: ‘If it were not that man and law were leagued against me toforceme to my doom, not one dollar would Michael Rust give to add an hour to his life. He looks to the grave only as that dark abyss which knows neither thought nor care; where the past is forgotten; where the future ends. Death is but a deep dreamless sleep, which has no waking. Yet even this boon he will not accept, if it’sforcedupon him.’‘But the disgrace, the disgrace of such an end,’ exclaimed Mr. Kornicker,twisting his fingers together, and in his earnestness cracking the knuckles of all of them. ‘Think of that, my old fellow. Think of the stain that will always rest upon your memory.’A smile, without a trace of pleasure, but cold and icy, passed across Rust’s face.‘What is my memory to me? What care I for the whispers and sneers and surmises of the reptiles who crowd this world, and who will soon be asIthen shall be? What are these very men themselves? Shadows!—shadows! Go—my course is chosen. You can do nothing for me.’Still Kornicker did not show any intention of quitting the room, but shifted from one leg to the other, in a fidgety manner, as if he had something farther to communicate, upon which however he did not like to venture. At last he said: ‘Your daughter?’Rust turned a quick keen eye on him, but farther than this evinced no emotion.‘Perhaps she may need a friend, when—when——’‘I’m dead,’ said Rust, concluding what seemed to be rather an embarrassing sentence to Kornicker.‘I’m not exactly the fellow to make the offer,’ said Kornicker, adopting the conclusion which Rust had given to the phrase; ‘but—but I’ll keep an eye on her, and will lend her a helping hand if she gets in trouble.’Rust’s countenance expressed neither pleasure nor anger, as he answered:‘Nothing can be done for her. Her fate is sealed; her path is marked out. There is neither turn nor winding in it, nor escape from the destiny to which it leads. She has taken the first step in it, and must follow it to the end. Look at the reckless and abandoned of her sex, who crowd our thoroughfares at night.Theirfate must beherfate; an outcast—then the tenant of a public prison where her associates will be the thief and the felon. That’s her second step. The third is—to her coffin; broken down; beggared, perhaps starving, she’ll die surrounded by the offscouring of the earth—happy if she reaches her grave before she has run her full course.’There was something in the apathetic manner in which the old man pointed out the future fate of his own child, that actually silenced Kornicker. He knew not what to say. There was no grief to console; no anger to deprecate; no wish to be fulfilled. He had however come to the prison with his mind made up to do something, and he did not like to be thwarted in his purpose. But before he had fairly determined what course was to be pursued next, Rust interrupted the current of his ideas by saying, as he pressed his hand upon his heart:‘You can do nothing for me. The disease ishere; and the only physician who can heal it is Death. Could you blot the past from my memory and leave it one vast blank; could you gild the future with hopes which this heart did not tell me were utterly hollow; then perhaps Michael Rust might struggle on, like thousands of others, with some object in view, always to be striven for, but always receding as he advanced, or turning to ashes in his grasp. But it cannot be.I’ve played my part in the great drama of life, and the curtain will soon fall.’A spirit of callous indifference pervaded all that he said and did; and making a gesture to Kornicker, forbidding all farther remark, he threw himself on the bed, and drew the clothes about his head, as if determined to shut out all sound.Kornicker made one or two efforts to draw him again into conversation, but the communicative mood was past; and finding that nothing farther was to be done, he left him to his meditations.From that time Kornicker, true to his maxim of deserting no one, was constant in his visits and endeavors to comfort and assist him in preparing for his trial. But never had man a more arduous task than he found in this self-imposed duty; for the hidden transactions of Rust’s past life had become public, and had turned the full tide of popular feeling against him; and far and wide, through town and country, with all that could excite public animosity, rang that bloody tale, (for the dead man had powerful friends to battle for vengeance.) It was in every mouth, and whispered in every ear. In the broad glare of day, and before the eyes of the whole world, was paraded every secret of Rust’s life. Witnesses who had been forgotten and had sunk from sight, and were supposed to be dead, sprang into life, all having some dark deed to record. Pamphlets, teeming with exaggerated details of the murder, were hawked through the streets; peddled at every corner; hung in every shop window. Rust’s own black life had prejudged him, and had turned public opinion into public hate; until every voice called out for blood. It was under this feeling that his trial came on.Early on that morning, long before the court was opened, a stream of people was thronging toward the City Hall by twenties and thirties and hundreds. The iron gates were barred to keep them out; still they contrived to get in, and swarmed through the halls. And when the court was opened, officers armed with staves were stationed on the stairs, to fight them down, for there was no room for them. The court-room was crammed with men heaped upon men, climbing one on the other; heads upon heads, swarming like bees, and packed and wedged together, leaving not a foot to spare. And in the midst of all that living mass sat Rust, unmoved, unflinching; returning look for look, defiance for defiance; reckless as to his fate, but resolute not to yield.There was one however at that trial who was not so indifferent. He was a man of about fifty, tall and thin, with a grave, dignified face, which yet bore a strong resemblance to that of Rust. He was deadly pale, and sat next to Rust’s lawyers, conversing with them in a low earnest tone; and at times, as the trial went on, suggesting questions to them. This was Rust’s brother; the father of the two children, who, generous to the last, had forgiven all, and was battling for the life of him who had done his utmost to blast his. If Rust’s cold eye sank, or his spirit quailed, it was only when he encountered the mild, sad eye of that brother.The jury was empanelled. The District Attorney opened for the prosecution; and then the examination of witnesses commenced. Foot by foot and inch by inch was the ground contested by Rust’s counsel.Exceptions to testimony were taken, points of law raised, and every informality or technicality, which afforded a loop-hole for objection, was taken advantage of. The day dragged heavily on, and Rust grew weary. The constant stir about him; the hum of voices, occasionally hushed into silence at the cry of the officer, or the tap of the judge on his desk; the hot, stifling air of the room; the wranglings of the lawyers, all tended to bewilder him. All excitement had long since left him. A leaden heaviness had settled upon all his faculties, and leaning his head upon the table, even while life and death were in the scale, he slept soundly.He was aroused by his lawyer, touching his arm. He sat up, and gazed vacantly about him.‘Who’s that?’ said he, pointing to the witness’s stand.Rust half started to his feet; then clasping his hands hard together, sat down, and leaned his head on the table, but said not a word.The clerk called out her name.‘Ellen Colton.’‘Who is she?’ demanded the lawyer.Rust drew himself up; and many who had been watching him, observed that his face had become perfectly corpse-like; his breathing oppressed, and that his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, as he fixed them on the witness.‘My own flesh and blood,’ muttered he; ‘my own child!’The girl was sworn; but it was evident that a terrible struggle was going on, and she had to be supported to a chair. The lawyer for the prosecution took down her name, and then asked her a question. He received no answer. He repeated it; but the girl was silent. She held down her head, and seemed half fainting.‘Youmustreply,’ said the judge.The girl raised her eyes, and said, in a low supplicating tone, ‘He’s my father.’The judge shook his head. ‘It’s a very painful task,’ said he, ‘but there’s no alternative.’The girl uttered not a word, and the court-room became so hushed that even the hard breathing of the witness was audible.‘I must have a decided answer,’ said the judge, gravely, yet mildly, for he respected the feelings which dictated her course. ‘Will you answer the question put by the district attorney?’‘I will not,’ was the firm reply.The face of the judge grew a little flushed, and he compressed his lips, as if the duty which now rested with him were an unpleasant one. But before he had time to speak, the district attorney rose, and muttering in a tone loud enough to be heard, ‘I will not slay the parent through the child,’ said: ‘If the court please, I withdraw the question. I’ll call another witness.’The judge bowed, and the girl was led away.Rust had risen to his feet as if to speak, but he sat down, and the trial proceeded. The whole of that day passed in the examination of witnesses; so did the day following. Then came the summing up of the lawyers, and the charge of the judge to the jury. During thewhole time the crowd came and went, but at all times the room was thronged. The jury went out; still the crowd hung about the Hall. It grew dark; but they could not go to their homes until they knew the result; but round and round the Hall, and through the avenues of the Park, they wandered, watching the dim light in the jury room, and wondering what the verdict would be. One of them stole up to the gray-headed constable who watched at the door, and inquired what the chance was; and as the old man shook his head, and muttered that they leaned toward a fatal verdict, he rubbed his hands with glee, and hastened to communicate the tidings to those below. Twelve—one—two—three o’clock at night came; still the twelve men held out, and still the judge, an upright, conscientious, patient man, maintained his post, waiting for the verdict, and ready to solve any doubts or points of law that might arise. The court-room grew cold; the fires went out, except one near the bench, and where the prisoner was. Sixty or seventy persons were sitting in the dim recesses of the room, looking like dark shadows, resolved to await the result. A few stretched themselves on the benches, and others gathered in knots near the fire, and whispered together; and now and then there was a loud laugh, suddenly hushed, as the person who uttered it remembered where he was. At last the judge went out, and left word with the officer to send for him if the jury agreed, or wanted his advice. The night waned; the sky grew gray in the east; and presently the day broke—but no verdict. At an early hour the judge returned, and the court-room filled again. Nine—ten—eleven. Suddenly there was a hum—a shuffling in the hall. The door was thrown open by the gray-headed constable, and the jury entered.‘The jury’s agreed,’ cried the officer. There was a dead silence; and the foreman gave in the verdict:‘Guilty of Murder in the first degree!’Rust moved not; no change of color or feature was perceptible, except a slight smile, and that too faded in a moment.The trial was over; and the crowd poured through the streets, yelling with delight, and stopping those whom they met, to tell them that Michael Rust was doomed to die.Rust sat without stirring, until an officer touched him, and told him that he must go. He then rose, and followed him without a word. The crowd gathered around him, as he went out; but he did not notice them. His brother walked at his side, but he heeded him not; and when he reached his prison, without uttering a word, he flung himself wearily upon his bed, and was soon sound asleep.He awoke, a different man; and when his lawyer called to see him on the following day, he found him as fierce as a caged beast. He endeavored to utter some remark of consolation; but Rust impatiently motioned him to be silent. He spoke about a clergyman; but the reply was a laugh, so mocking and scornful, that he was glad to drop the theme.‘Is the game ended?’ at last inquired Rust. ‘Is there no farther cast of the die left?’The lawyer looked at him, as if in doubt of his meaning.Rust, in response to the look, repeated the question. ‘Is there nothingmore to be done, in that farce called the law? Is there no farther blow to be struck for life?’‘We can appeal,’ replied the lawyer; ‘but there is little chance of success.’ He took Rust by the hand, and said in a soothing tone: ‘My poor friend, you must be prepared for the worst; for I cannot promise to save your life.’Rust rose and stood directly in front of him; and pointing to a small coin which lay on the table, said: ‘Not the tenth part ofthatwould Michael Rust give to have one hour added to his life; but Iwill notbe driven from it. Iwill notbe beaten down and crushed.’ He stamped furiously on the floor.‘Fight!’ said he, fixing his glaring eye on the lawyer; ‘fight to the last; leave nothing untried; spare not gold; bribe—corrupt—suborn; do any thing; but do not leave the triumph to my enemies. It’s that that is tearing away at my heart. It’sthatwhich is killing me,’ exclaimed he, bitterly, shaking his hands over his head.‘We shall leave nothing untried,’ said the lawyer. ‘Perhaps too we may obtain a pardon, for if ever a murder was justifiable, that was.’‘Pardon!’ exclaimed Rust with a sneer; ‘pardon! Because I defended my own flesh and blood; because the laws had forced uponmethe task whichtheyshould perform! I must die, or sue for pardon. A noble thing is law!’The lawyer was silent. He felt that Rust’s own previous criminal life had been his worst enemy, and that it was the disclosure of his own evil plans which had been in every mouth long before the trial, that had done much to harden the feelings of the jury, who in another case might have stretched a point to save him.Merely repeating what he had already said, that every thing should be tried, he took his leave.·····Several weeks elapsed. The appeal was made, and was unsuccessful; the decision of the court below was affirmed; and nothing was left but that the sentence of the law should be enforced. Rust still maintained his indifferent bearing. All attempts to move him to any thing like repentance were unavailing. Pious men had conversed with him, but he had turned a deaf ear to their words; clergymen, too, anxious even at the last hour to turn his thoughts to holier things, had called upon him, but were equally unsuccessful; and at last he forbade them admission.It was just about dusk, on the day previous to that fixed for his execution, that he was sitting in his cell, when he was aroused by the opening of the door. He looked up, and observed a dim figure just inside the door, cowering as if with fear; but it was so dark that he could not distinguish more than its mere outline.‘What do you want?’ demanded he, harshly. ‘Am I a wild beast, that you have come to stare at me?’The only reply was a low, suppressed cry, as of one endeavoring to stifle down severe pain.Rust rose up, advanced to the figure, and with a sudden jerk threw off the cloak which enveloped it. It was his own child.‘So it’syou!’ said he, bitterly, as he turned from her. ‘And you’vecome to see your work. Look at me well. You’ve succeeded to your heart’s content.’The girl endeavored to clasp his hand, but he flung her from him; and facing her, said: ‘What you have to say, say at once, and be gone. There is little policy in seeking me out now, for I have nothing to give.’The girl cast herself at his feet, in a passion of grief. ‘Oh! father! dear father! I ask nothing, except your forgiveness. Give methat, for the love ofGod! I ask nothing more. Do not refuse me that, as you hope for forgiveness of your own sins!’‘There was a time,’ said Rust, ‘when I could not have resisted those tones, when I could have refused you nothing. My very heart’s blood was yours; but I am changed—changed indeed; since not a single spark of tenderness for you is left; not even the shadow of the love which I once bore to you. You are a stranger to me; or worse than that, you areshe, whose wanton conduct has placed me here, and to-morrow will lead me to the gallows.’The girl rose up hastily, and said in a quick husky voice:‘Farewell, father; I will not stay until you curse me, for I fear it may come to that. MayGodforgive both you and me! I have done wrong, and most bitterly have I suffered for it.’She caught his hand, pressed it to her lips, which were hot as fire, and left the cell.That was the last time that the father and daughter ever met.The gaoler soon afterward brought in a light, and asked Rust if he wanted any thing; and on being answered in the negative, went out.The night wore on heavily. Rust heard the clock, as its iron tongue struck the successive hours from his life. At last the hour of midnight sounded. He took out his watch, wound it up, and set it.‘Your life will last longer than mine,’ said he, as he held it to the light, and examined the face. He then placed it on the table, and leaning his head on his hand, contemplated it for a long time. Time was hurrying on; for while he was sitting thus, the clock struck—one. He looked about the room; went to the door, and listened; then resumed his seat, and thrusting his hand in his bosom, drew out a small vial, containing a dark liquid. He held it to the light; shook it; smiled; and applying it to his lips, swallowed its contents.‘I’ll disappoint the sight-seers,’ said he. He raised the light; took a long and earnest survey of the room; undressed himself; sat on the edge of his bed, for a moment, apparently in deep thought; then got into bed and drew the cover closely about him.‘Now, then,’ said he, ‘the dream of life is past. I’ll soon know whether there is any waking from it.’These were his last words; for when the cell was opened in the morning, he was dead in his bed. As in life, so in death, his own evil acts clashed with his interests; for at an early hour in the morning a messenger arrived with a pardon. In consideration of the heinous nature of the provocation, which had led to the commission of Rust’s crime, and of the inadequate punishment inflicted by the laws for such offences, the governor had remitted his sentence.
Atthe dead of the night, when all others were at rest, Michael Rust glided out of his office. It was a strange hour, but he had become a strange man. Through the silent streets he stole, with a step so noiseless that it awoke no echo. Along Broadway, passing where the city ended and the fields began, mile after mile he went. He met no one. Every house that he passed was as silent as the grave; excepting a solitary one, standing by itself, with a light shining through an upper window, as if some one kept watch at a sick bed. Sometimes the road ran between high trees, whose skeleton outlines stood grimly up between him and the stars, stiff and motionless. At other times, it coursed along dreary wastes; then again, it was buried in dense shadow; now ascending, now descending. At times he caught a glimpse of the distant gray river, gleaming in the darkness, with here and there the light on board some vessel at anchor, glittering like a star. In some places, where it was shut in by high banks, the road seemed inky black; and parts of it were so solitary, that even a stout heart might have shrunk from traversing it at that dreary hour. But Rust thought not of fear. What hadheto do with that feeling, who sought only revenge and a grave?
It was yet night, when he reached a house in the upper part of the island, and near the river. Little except its dim outline was visible in the obscurity; and as he opened the gate, and passed beneath an avenue of tall trees which led to it, the darkness was such that he could scarcely see. But he was familiar with the ground, and without hesitation went directly to the door of the house. It was locked. He drew a key from his pocket, unlocked it, went in, and closed it after him. He groped his way along the entry, until he came to the door of a room, which he opened. A few embers were smouldering on the hearth, sufficient to throw out a dim light. Lighting a candle, which stood on a table, he drew a chair to the fire and sat down. The chamber was large, fitted up as a library, and filled with massive book-cases of dark wood, elaborately carved, which gave a sombre appearance to the room. Nothing that money could buy had been spared; for this was the home of Rust’s daughter, and that hard, reckless, griping man had been alive but to one feeling—love to his child. Inherwere garnered up all his affections, and upon her he had lavished all that his means could obtain.
For a long time he sat without changing his position, his eye fixed, his mouth compressed, his brow knit, not a sound escaping him. At last he started from his fit of abstraction, with a slight shiver; passedhis hand once or twice before his eyes, as if to dispel something that clouded his sight; and said, in a whisper. ‘Can all this be real?’ The clock struck three. He rose, cast a stealthy glance over his shoulder, and taking the candle in his hand, held it up over his head, examining the room with a suspicious look, as if he momentarily expected some form to start from behind the heavy furniture. As his eye was wandering round the room, it rested upon a picture in a carved frame, which hung against the wall. He went to it, and held the light so that its rays fell full upon it. It was the portrait of a girl of about seventeen. Could the child-like, innocent face which gazed out from the canvass upon that fierce, passion-worn old man, be that ofhischild? Could aught so pure and beautiful have sprung from such as him? And worse than all, could she have lost that purity which was stamped on every line of her face?
With fixed and rigid features; with a hand that did not tremble, with a heart that scarcely beat, he contemplated the picture; and then, slowly, as if in a dream, replaced the candle, and took his seat. There was that at work within him, however, which banished bodily repose; for in one minute afterward, he was up and pacing the room, muttering and gesticulating to himself; thenext, he went to a mirror, and looked at his own face. He started as he did so; for he had not seen it in a week; and in that time so altered and wasted had it become, with its long unshorn beard, and ghastly white complexion, that he could scarcely recognize it.
‘What a bird of prey the mind is!’ muttered he; ‘how it devours the body!’ He turned away, and once more his eye rested on the picture which hung against the wall. Some strange feeling seemed to spring into existence as he did so; for his breath came thick and hard; his heart beat, until its pulsations could be heard, loud and strong like the blows of a hammer; his hand shook, but at the same time, his brow darkened, and its look of anxious and half-wandering thought gave place to an expression that was perfectly fiendish. He muttered a few words; then taking the light, cautiously opened the door, and stole up the broad flight of stairs which led to the upper story. At the head of it was a door; he tried it; it was not locked but yielded to his push. It opened into a bed-room, luxuriously furnished with mirrors, and various nick-nacks, and articles of taste, such as a young and wealthy female gathers about her; and in the bed lay a beautiful girl, the original of the picture below, sound asleep, her long hair, which had become unbound as she slept, lying in loose tresses upon the pillow. How bright and beautiful she was! How gentle and calm her breathing was! And well might the stern old man, as he looked at her angel face, have misgivings as to the truth of Grosket’s tale. Rust’s hard features worked convulsively as he stood over his child, as if powerful feelings were tugging at his heart-strings; but it was only for a moment, for he choked them down; and going out, in the cautious manner in which he had entered, he closed the door and descended to the room below.
He resumed his seat; and although hour after hour elapsed, until day-light stole in the room, his attitude remained the same; until a servant came in to light the fire, and uttered an exclamation of surpriseat seeing him. This aroused him; and rising hastily, he said, ‘I’m going out. Tell your mistress that I’ll be here at ten o’clock.’ He left the house; and after wandering up and down the road, he crossed the fields, until he came to the edge of the river, and when he had sauntered along it for some time, he sat down upon a rock, and commenced casting pebbles in the water.
How long a time he passed in this way, he could not tell, but it must have been several hours; for on looking at his watch, he found that it was late in the day. Suddenly, recollecting his message to his daughter; he rose and went directly to the house. He crossed the lawn in front of it; but before he had time to reach the door, a light figure sprang out, and his child’s arms were about his neck.
‘Dear father! it’s a very long time since I saw you!’ said she, putting back the hair which hung over his face, and pressing her lips to his cheek. ‘I’m very happy at having you here once more. But you are ill—very ill! What ails you?’ said she, suddenly, as she observed the inroads which the last few days had made in his whole form. Rust withdrew himself from her embrace, and without answering her question, said in a cold tone: ‘Come in the house.’
Though his words were simple, there was that in his manner (or it might have been the consciousness of guilt on the part of the girl) which caused her cheek to grow pale, and her step to falter; and she accompanied him to the library, with the silent and downcast look of a criminal. He took a chair, drew it to the fire, and pointing to another, said in the same cold tone: ‘Be seated.’
The girl obeyed without a word. At that moment a servant opened the door, and told Rust that a man was inquiring for him.
Rust got up, and went out. In the entry were two men. One of them, a powerfully-built fellow, of about five-and-thirty, with light hair and a prominent eye, asked, ‘Are you Michael Rust?’
Rust scanned him from head to foot. He suspected his errand; for he had seen him before, and he replied simply: ‘I am.’
‘Then, Sir, we’ve come for you.’ At the same time, the man produced a slip of paper, and tapped Rust on the shoulder. ‘Here’s the warrant, if you’d like to look at it, and the vehicle’s in the road there.’ He gave a nod in the direction.
Rust evinced neither surprise nor trepidation. He merely said, in a musing tone, ‘I should have stipulated for a longer time, for the lawyer has lost none.’ Then addressing the officer, he added: ‘My daughter is in the room. Before going with you, I should like to speak with her in private. You may examine the room, to see that there are no means of escaping from it.’
The man took him at his word; went in the room; glanced round without noticing the girl, who regarded him with some surprise; then went to an inner door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.
‘Are you satisfied?’ asked Rust.
The other again stared round the room: went to the window; looked out to see how high it was from the ground; said that he was, and then inquired: ‘How long?’
‘Ten minutes,’ was the reply.
‘Good!’ said the man; and with a knowing look at Rust, and a shambling bow to the girl, he went out, and seated himself on a chair in the hall, having taken the precaution to send his companion to keep an eye on the windows, which were within leap of the ground.
Rust returned to his seat. ‘Come hither, Ellen,’ said he.
His daughter rose, and came to him; but in dead silence.
‘Look at me. Am I much altered?’ inquired Rust.
The girl raised her eyes to his. They quailed before his stern, searching glance; but she replied in a low voice: ‘You’re very much altered; you’re wearing yourself out.’
A smile of strange meaning crossed Rust’s face. He turned, and pointed to the picture which hung against the wall.
‘Was that ever a good likeness of you?’ asked he.
His daughter glanced at it, with some surprise at the sudden question, and then replied: ‘I’ve often been told so, father—a very good one.’
‘They told you the truth. Itwasa good one; and now,’ said he, turning to her, and fixing his eyes on her face: ‘Do you think I am as much changed from whatIwas, as you are from whatyouwere, when that picture was painted? Mark it well!’ said he, speaking quickly and earnestly, and leaning forward until his face almost touched hers. ‘Look at every feature. See what innocence, what purity of soul and thought is in every line of that face. An angel might have envied its innocence. There is a mirror,’ said he, pointing to the looking-glass; ‘Now look at yourself.’ He half rose, and his voice was cold and cutting as he concluded.
The girl grew red; then deeper and deeper crimson; then deadly, ghastly pale; the perspiration stood upon her forehead, and her eyes were blinded with tears; but she could not meet his glance.
His voice sank almost to a whisper, as he asked ‘Then what I have heard is true?’
The girl seemed absolutely stunned.
‘Be it so. Now you know the cause of my illness. Look at me. Look at this face, scored with wrinkles; these hollow cheeks, and this frame, broken down by premature old age. Look at them, I say, and you will see but a faint image of the utter, hopeless waste that has been going on in my heart.’
The girl made an attempt to speak; sank on the floor; and clasping his knees, pressed her head against them, and sobbed aloud. But Rust moved not. There was no trace of compassion in either tone or manner, as he continued: ‘From your childhood, until you were grown up, you were the person for whose welfare I toiled. I labored and strove for you; there was not a thing that I did, not a thought that I ever harbored, which had not your happiness for its aim; and to your love and devotion I looked for my reward; and as I brooded over my own guilty life, blackened as it was with the worst of crimes, I thought that it was some palliation to be the parent of one pure and spotless as you were. Well, you turned out as hundreds of others have done, and my labor was lost. I loved you as never child was loved; and in proportion as my love once was great, so now is my hate and scorn!’
‘Oh! my God!’ gasped the girl. She sank down as if crushed. Rust looked at her unmoved, and did not stir to assist her. She raised her hands to him, and said in a supplicating tone: ‘Father! as you hope for mercy, hear me!’
‘If I received not mercy from my own child,’ said Rust, sternly, ‘to whom can I look for it? I hope for it no where; I ask for it no where; I am at bay to the whole world.’
One of those dark, withering expressions which had once been so common to his features, but which his anguish had for the last few days in a great measure banished from them, swept across his face.
The girl wrung her hands, as she received his harsh answer. At last she said, in a broken voice: ‘Father, I am sadly guilty; but hear me, forGod’ssake,dohear me!’
At that moment, the door was opened, and the officer’s head was thrust in.
‘Time’s up.’
‘I must have ten minutes more,’ said Rust.
‘You can’t.’
‘I must, Iwill,’ exclaimed Rust, sternly.
He tossed him a dollar, which the man caught in his hand with professional dexterity; and then, with a grin, said: ‘Well, if you’re so very anxious, of course you must be accommodated;’ and disappearing, shut the door.
‘You said that you were guilty,’ resumed Rust, turning to his daughter. ‘I know it. There’s but one more so. You know to whom I allude. What is his name?’
The girl grew very pale, and hung down her head in silence.
‘Who is he?’ again demanded her father, seizing her arm with a strong grasp.
Still she made no reply.
‘Be it so,’ said Rust flinging her hand from him. ‘Perhaps silence is best. Now, one other question.Whereis he?’
She shook her head, and replied in a scarcely audible tone that she did not know.
‘When was he last here?’
‘About a week since.’
‘And when did he promise to return?’
‘On the same day,’ answered the girl, in a low tone.
‘And he has not kept that promise. The first of a series of black-hearted lies!’ exclaimed Rust, bitterly, speaking more to himself than to her. ‘In these cases, lies come first, and the truth last.’ He again addressed her: ‘Does he speak of marriage? and doyouurge it upon him?’
‘Ido, indeed Ido!’ replied the girl, apparently anxious to hit upon something to conciliate the stern mood of her parent. ‘Often and often, I beg him to do it, and remind him of his promise.’
‘And what is his answer?’ demanded Rust, with a half-mocking smile.
‘He says that he cannot marry me just now, but that he will soon. He wishes to obtain the consent of his father, who is very ill, and cannotbe spoken to about it; but that he will soon be better, and that then it will all be settled.’
‘How long has he been making these excuses?’
‘A very long time—a very long time,’ said the girl, sadly: ‘A month and more.’
‘How often did he come here at first?’
‘Every day,’ said the girl.
‘And now?’
His daughter was silent; for she began to see the drift of this cold examination, and it sent a chill to her heart.
Rust was satisfied; and he said in a half-musing tone: ‘The same stale, hackneyed story. She is on her way to where the first misstep always leads. Already he is wearied, and wants but an excuse to fling her off; and I—I—I—her avenger,’ exclaimed he with a burst of fierce impatience, ‘Iam shackled; a prisoner, and can do nothing!’
He made a hasty step to the door, opened it, and beckoned to the officer to come in. As he did so, he shut it after him, took the man by the arm, and drew him to one end of the room:
‘I want a week,’ said he, in a quick tone. ‘I’ll give a thousand dollars to gain one week; and at the end of that time will surrender myself a prisoner.’
The man shook his head: ‘It can’t be done, Sir,’ said he.
‘What’s the reward offered for my apprehension?’
‘A cool five hundred,’ replied the officer.
‘I’ll double it to escape,’ said Rust, ‘or to gain a week, but a single week.’
The man shook his head. ‘Too many knows that we’re arter you. It wouldn’t do.’
‘But at the expiration of that time I would surrender myself, and you could secure the reward too.’
The man gave vent to a low chuckle; and placed his finger on the side of his nose, accompanying the motion with a sly expression, signifying an utter disbelief in Rust’s promises.
Rust gnawed his lip with fierce impatience, then taking the man by the arm, he led him into the hall, and shut the door.
‘I must speak out,’ said he, ‘and trust to your honor not to betray me. A villain has seduced my child. I want time to find him, and to compel him to make her his wife. Now you know why I ask a week.’
The officer at first whistled, then muttered something about its being a hard case; but concluded by saying, in a positive tone: ‘It can’t be did, Sir; I’m sorry for it; upon my word, I am; but I must keep you now that I’ve got you. I wish you’d given me the slip at first; but I can’t let you go now. It’s impossible—quite.’
Rust eyed the man, as if endeavoring to find in his hard features some loop-hole to his more kindly feelings; but apparently he met with no success.
‘Well, if it can’t be done, there’s an end of it,’ said he, abruptly terminating his scrutiny. ‘I’ve some other matters to speak of, and want a few moments more. I’ll not detain you long, and will call you when I’m ready.’
‘I’ll give you all the time I can,’ said the man, civilly.
Rust turned to enter the room, but as he did so he heard a quick step behind him; and looking round, found himself face to face with a young man of two or three and twenty, elegantly dressed, who eyed him carelessly, and then passing him, entered the room with the air of one perfectly at home. A suspicion of who he was flashed across Rust’s mind. That he himself was unknown to the other was not strange, for he had been so much absent, and when he visited his child it was at such irregular intervals, and for such short periods, that a person might have been even a frequent visitor at his house, without encountering him. Nor was there any thing in the outward appearance of the slovenly, haggard old man to attract attention. But the indifference of the other was not reciprocated; for Rust followed him, and closed the door after him, with feverish haste, as if he feared his prey might escape him. He observed the deep blush that sprang to the cheek of his daughter, at the entrance of the stranger; her guilty, yet joyous look as he addressed her; and above all, he perceivedhiscareless, cold, indifferent reply to her warm salutation; and a feeling of revenge, the deadliest that he had ever felt, sprung up in his heart against that man; not so much because he had blasted the happiness of his child, as because he had torn fromhimall that he had clung to in life.
Rust walked to the fire-place, turned his back to it, and without uttering a word, faced the stranger, who eyed him from head to foot with a cool, supercilious stare; then looked at the girl, as if seeking an explanation.
The pause, however, was broken by Rust himself, as he pointed with his thin finger to their visitor, and inquired of his daughter: ‘Isthatthe man?’
The girl’s face became ghastly pale; her lips moved, but she dared not raise her eyes; for she could not encounter the keen, inquiring look which she knew was fixed upon her.
‘Answer my question,’ said he, sternly. ‘This is no time for tampering with my patience.’
His daughter attempted to speak. She trembled from head to foot; but not a word escaped her. So intense was her anguish, that it awoke a spark of better feeling in the young man; for confronting Rust, he said in a bold voice: ‘If you have any questions to ask respecting me, address them tome, not toher.’
‘I will,’ replied Rust, fixing upon him an eye that fairly glowed; ‘for you should best know your own character. Are you the cold-blooded scoundrel who, taking advantage of that girl’s confiding disposition, of the absence of her father, stole like a thief into his house; by lies, by false oaths, and damning hypocritical professions of love, won her affections; blighted her, and then left her what I blush to name? You wish the question addressed to you; you have it. I’ll have your reply.’
Withering like a parched leaf; shrinking as if a serpent were in his path; with a face which changed from white to red, from red to white, the stranger met these questions. But Rust’s eye never left his face. There was no trace of anger nor emotion, in his marble features. He merely said: ‘I want your answer.’
With a face heavy with guilt; with a voice that shook even while it assumed a tone of boldness; the stranger demanded: ‘Who are you? and what right have you to question me thus?’
‘Notmuchright,’ replied Rust; ‘I’m not even a rival suitor; I’monlythis girl’s father. Perhaps you will answer me now.’
The other was silent. Rust turned to his daughter, and said: ‘This man has suddenly become dumb. Is this he of whom we spoke? An answer I must have, and a true one. Do not add a lie to the infamy which already covers you.’
The girl hesitated, and then uttered something in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible; but faint as it was, Rust caught the words, ‘It is!’
‘It is well,’ replied he, facing the stranger, and drawing his person up erect. ‘I have no time to waste in words, and will state what I have to say as concisely as possible, and will act as promptly as I speak. This is my only child. She was once unsullied, and I was proud of her: that she is not sonow, is your fault. There is but one mode of repairing what you’ve done. Will you marry her?’
‘I certainly intend to do so,’ said the young man, with a guilty look, which gave the lie to his words.
‘I wantdeeds, notintentions,’ replied Rust. ‘What you do must be donenow—before you leave this room. A clergyman resides within a mile. In half an hour he can be here.’
The girl clasped her hands joyfully, and looked eagerly at him; but there was nothing responsive in the expression of his face; and he answered:
‘I can’t see the necessity of this haste; beside, it would ruin all my prospects.’
‘Youcan’t see the necessity of this haste!’ exclaimed Rust, in a voice of thunder. ‘Ruinyourprospects! What has become ofherprospects?What—what——But no matter,’ added he, choking down a fierce burst of passion, and suddenly assuming a tone so unnaturally calm that it might have been a warning to the other that it was but a lull in the storm. ‘Michael Rust presents his compliments to his unknown friend, and begs to know if he will do him the honor of marrying, on the spot, his daughter whom he has polluted?’
He paused for an answer; his lips were deadly white, and quivering; and his eye glowed like a serpent’s. The young man quailed before it; but apparently he was only waiting for an opportunity to throw off the mask; for he answered boldly: ‘No, I will not.’
‘You had better,’ said Rust, in a low, warning tone. ‘Think of it again.’
‘You have my answer,’ was the reply.
‘Then take Michael Rust’s thanks!’ A flash and report followed; and when the smoke cleared away, the seducer was lying on the floor, stone dead. A bullet had passed through his head. The policeman rushed in the room.
‘If I could have had a week, I might have avoided this,’ said Rust, coldly. ‘As it was, I had no alternative.’
He rang the bell, and a servant came in. He pointed to his daughter, who was lying senseless at his feet.
‘Look to your mistress!’
Turning to the police men who stood by with blanched faces, he said: ‘Now then, I am ready!’
Ina small room, containing a box-bedstead, a single chair, and a common wooden table, on which was a pitcher of water, sat Michael Rust. The heavy iron bars which grated the windows, and the doors of thick oaken plank, secured by strong bolts of iron, indicated beyond a doubt the nature of his abode—a prison. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, with his arms resting on the table, which was drawn close to it, and his head leaning upon them. At times he straightened himself up, looked listlessly about the room, and then resumed his old position.
A key turned in the door; the heavy bolt was drawn back, and a head was thrust in.
‘Some one wants to see you. Shall he come in?’
‘Yes.’
The head was withdrawn, and the door being opened, admitted no less a person than Mr. Kornicker, somewhat faded in appearance since we last saw him, but still wearing an air of dashing pretension. He stood at the door, shaking his head, winking to himself, and fumbling in his pocket, evidently in a state of great mental perplexity, probably from his entertaining doubts as to what would be the character of his reception; or from his being equally uncertain as to the best mode of opening the conversation. Nor was he at all relieved by Rust, who without moving, fastened his eye upon him with a cold, steadfast stare.
Kornicker, however, seemed to have fixed upon his course of action at last; for he walked up to him, and stretching out his hand, said:
‘Wont you give us your flipper, my old fellow? You’re in trouble, but I’ll stand by you to the last. If I don’t, damme!’ He struck his other hand on the table, and nodded and winked with great vehemence.
‘So there is yet one who has not turned his back on the felon,’ said Rust, partly addressing Kornicker and partly speaking to himself; ‘one true man; a rare thing in this world; a jewel—a jewel, beyond all price; and like all costly stones, found only in the poorest soils; but,’ added he, ‘what haveIdone to gain friends, or to link one solitary heart to my fortunes?—what?’
He shook his head; and although his face was unmoved, and he spoke in the low, half-soliloquizing manner of one who rather brooded over the past than regretted it, yet there was something so sad in his tone, and in his melancholy gesture, that it did more to call forth the warm feelings of Kornicker than the most eloquent language.
‘What have you done?’ demanded he, earnestly; ‘I’lltellyou what you did. When I was at low water mark, with scarce a rag to my back or a crust to my stomach, and without a prospect of getting one, you took me by the hand, and in ad——dgentlemanly way gave me ah’ist out of the gutter.That’swhat you did; and if youdidflare up now and then, and haul me over the coals; it was soon over, and soon forgotten. I don’t bear malice, old fellow; no, no. It isn’t my way; and as you’re in trouble now, if Icanhelp you, Iwill. Never desert any one; am unfortunately bloody short of cash; but you can have what I’ve got, and when I get more, you shall havethattoo.’
As he spoke, he plunged his hand to the bottom of his pocket, drew out a very shabby-looking pocket-book, deposited it on the table.
‘It isn’t much; but you’ll find it useful here, and you’re welcome to it. This isn’t the shop where nothing put out at interest produces a heavy income.’
This offer had a powerful effect upon Rust; and it seemed as if some long dormant feelings were working their way to the surface from the depths of his heart. He gazed earnestly at his clerk, and once or twice opened his mouth to speak; but finally he got up, and taking the pocket-book from the table, handed it back to Kornicker, saying:
‘I’m not in want of money. Gold is but drossnow. I’ve plenty of it; but its value in my eyes is gone.’
‘But,’ remonstrated Kornicker, holding his hands behind him, and looking obstinately in another direction, partly to avoid taking the pocket-book and partly to resist the solicitations of his own necessities, which were strenuously urging him to do so, ‘but you may want a lawyer to fight for you at your trial.’
‘For that farce I am prepared. Ihaveone. He’s paid for it, and he’ll fight,’ said Rust. ‘It will avail nothing, for I did slay the man. It was a cold-blooded, deliberate murder. I planned it; I went up to that place with the stern determination to commit it; and Ididcommit it. It was no hasty act, done in a moment of fierce and sudden passion; but a deed duly and deliberately meditated, and one that I would repeat. Whathehad done, it’s useless to mention. I had no redress, except what my own hand could give me. He has paid his forfeit, and I’ll pay mine. I’ll fight to the last; because,’ added he, with that expression of stern purpose which so often settled on his face, ‘Michael Rust never yields; and then, let the law do its worst. Take your money; I don’t need it.’
Kornicker hesitated; and then thrusting it in his pocket, said: ‘I suppose, if you should happen to be short, you’ll let me know.’
‘I will,’ replied Rust; ‘but I’ve enough to last until my sand is run out. They’ll hang me.’
‘Don’t talk so,’ exclaimed Kornicker, with a feeling not a little akin to fear, at the cold, indifferent manner in which the other spoke. ‘Youmayescape—who knows?’
Rust looked at him steadily, and then said, in a low, calm voice: ‘If it were not that man and law were leagued against me toforceme to my doom, not one dollar would Michael Rust give to add an hour to his life. He looks to the grave only as that dark abyss which knows neither thought nor care; where the past is forgotten; where the future ends. Death is but a deep dreamless sleep, which has no waking. Yet even this boon he will not accept, if it’sforcedupon him.’
‘But the disgrace, the disgrace of such an end,’ exclaimed Mr. Kornicker,twisting his fingers together, and in his earnestness cracking the knuckles of all of them. ‘Think of that, my old fellow. Think of the stain that will always rest upon your memory.’
A smile, without a trace of pleasure, but cold and icy, passed across Rust’s face.
‘What is my memory to me? What care I for the whispers and sneers and surmises of the reptiles who crowd this world, and who will soon be asIthen shall be? What are these very men themselves? Shadows!—shadows! Go—my course is chosen. You can do nothing for me.’
Still Kornicker did not show any intention of quitting the room, but shifted from one leg to the other, in a fidgety manner, as if he had something farther to communicate, upon which however he did not like to venture. At last he said: ‘Your daughter?’
Rust turned a quick keen eye on him, but farther than this evinced no emotion.
‘Perhaps she may need a friend, when—when——’
‘I’m dead,’ said Rust, concluding what seemed to be rather an embarrassing sentence to Kornicker.
‘I’m not exactly the fellow to make the offer,’ said Kornicker, adopting the conclusion which Rust had given to the phrase; ‘but—but I’ll keep an eye on her, and will lend her a helping hand if she gets in trouble.’
Rust’s countenance expressed neither pleasure nor anger, as he answered:
‘Nothing can be done for her. Her fate is sealed; her path is marked out. There is neither turn nor winding in it, nor escape from the destiny to which it leads. She has taken the first step in it, and must follow it to the end. Look at the reckless and abandoned of her sex, who crowd our thoroughfares at night.Theirfate must beherfate; an outcast—then the tenant of a public prison where her associates will be the thief and the felon. That’s her second step. The third is—to her coffin; broken down; beggared, perhaps starving, she’ll die surrounded by the offscouring of the earth—happy if she reaches her grave before she has run her full course.’
There was something in the apathetic manner in which the old man pointed out the future fate of his own child, that actually silenced Kornicker. He knew not what to say. There was no grief to console; no anger to deprecate; no wish to be fulfilled. He had however come to the prison with his mind made up to do something, and he did not like to be thwarted in his purpose. But before he had fairly determined what course was to be pursued next, Rust interrupted the current of his ideas by saying, as he pressed his hand upon his heart:
‘You can do nothing for me. The disease ishere; and the only physician who can heal it is Death. Could you blot the past from my memory and leave it one vast blank; could you gild the future with hopes which this heart did not tell me were utterly hollow; then perhaps Michael Rust might struggle on, like thousands of others, with some object in view, always to be striven for, but always receding as he advanced, or turning to ashes in his grasp. But it cannot be.I’ve played my part in the great drama of life, and the curtain will soon fall.’
A spirit of callous indifference pervaded all that he said and did; and making a gesture to Kornicker, forbidding all farther remark, he threw himself on the bed, and drew the clothes about his head, as if determined to shut out all sound.
Kornicker made one or two efforts to draw him again into conversation, but the communicative mood was past; and finding that nothing farther was to be done, he left him to his meditations.
From that time Kornicker, true to his maxim of deserting no one, was constant in his visits and endeavors to comfort and assist him in preparing for his trial. But never had man a more arduous task than he found in this self-imposed duty; for the hidden transactions of Rust’s past life had become public, and had turned the full tide of popular feeling against him; and far and wide, through town and country, with all that could excite public animosity, rang that bloody tale, (for the dead man had powerful friends to battle for vengeance.) It was in every mouth, and whispered in every ear. In the broad glare of day, and before the eyes of the whole world, was paraded every secret of Rust’s life. Witnesses who had been forgotten and had sunk from sight, and were supposed to be dead, sprang into life, all having some dark deed to record. Pamphlets, teeming with exaggerated details of the murder, were hawked through the streets; peddled at every corner; hung in every shop window. Rust’s own black life had prejudged him, and had turned public opinion into public hate; until every voice called out for blood. It was under this feeling that his trial came on.
Early on that morning, long before the court was opened, a stream of people was thronging toward the City Hall by twenties and thirties and hundreds. The iron gates were barred to keep them out; still they contrived to get in, and swarmed through the halls. And when the court was opened, officers armed with staves were stationed on the stairs, to fight them down, for there was no room for them. The court-room was crammed with men heaped upon men, climbing one on the other; heads upon heads, swarming like bees, and packed and wedged together, leaving not a foot to spare. And in the midst of all that living mass sat Rust, unmoved, unflinching; returning look for look, defiance for defiance; reckless as to his fate, but resolute not to yield.
There was one however at that trial who was not so indifferent. He was a man of about fifty, tall and thin, with a grave, dignified face, which yet bore a strong resemblance to that of Rust. He was deadly pale, and sat next to Rust’s lawyers, conversing with them in a low earnest tone; and at times, as the trial went on, suggesting questions to them. This was Rust’s brother; the father of the two children, who, generous to the last, had forgiven all, and was battling for the life of him who had done his utmost to blast his. If Rust’s cold eye sank, or his spirit quailed, it was only when he encountered the mild, sad eye of that brother.
The jury was empanelled. The District Attorney opened for the prosecution; and then the examination of witnesses commenced. Foot by foot and inch by inch was the ground contested by Rust’s counsel.Exceptions to testimony were taken, points of law raised, and every informality or technicality, which afforded a loop-hole for objection, was taken advantage of. The day dragged heavily on, and Rust grew weary. The constant stir about him; the hum of voices, occasionally hushed into silence at the cry of the officer, or the tap of the judge on his desk; the hot, stifling air of the room; the wranglings of the lawyers, all tended to bewilder him. All excitement had long since left him. A leaden heaviness had settled upon all his faculties, and leaning his head upon the table, even while life and death were in the scale, he slept soundly.
He was aroused by his lawyer, touching his arm. He sat up, and gazed vacantly about him.
‘Who’s that?’ said he, pointing to the witness’s stand.
Rust half started to his feet; then clasping his hands hard together, sat down, and leaned his head on the table, but said not a word.
The clerk called out her name.
‘Ellen Colton.’
‘Who is she?’ demanded the lawyer.
Rust drew himself up; and many who had been watching him, observed that his face had become perfectly corpse-like; his breathing oppressed, and that his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, as he fixed them on the witness.
‘My own flesh and blood,’ muttered he; ‘my own child!’
The girl was sworn; but it was evident that a terrible struggle was going on, and she had to be supported to a chair. The lawyer for the prosecution took down her name, and then asked her a question. He received no answer. He repeated it; but the girl was silent. She held down her head, and seemed half fainting.
‘Youmustreply,’ said the judge.
The girl raised her eyes, and said, in a low supplicating tone, ‘He’s my father.’
The judge shook his head. ‘It’s a very painful task,’ said he, ‘but there’s no alternative.’
The girl uttered not a word, and the court-room became so hushed that even the hard breathing of the witness was audible.
‘I must have a decided answer,’ said the judge, gravely, yet mildly, for he respected the feelings which dictated her course. ‘Will you answer the question put by the district attorney?’
‘I will not,’ was the firm reply.
The face of the judge grew a little flushed, and he compressed his lips, as if the duty which now rested with him were an unpleasant one. But before he had time to speak, the district attorney rose, and muttering in a tone loud enough to be heard, ‘I will not slay the parent through the child,’ said: ‘If the court please, I withdraw the question. I’ll call another witness.’
The judge bowed, and the girl was led away.
Rust had risen to his feet as if to speak, but he sat down, and the trial proceeded. The whole of that day passed in the examination of witnesses; so did the day following. Then came the summing up of the lawyers, and the charge of the judge to the jury. During thewhole time the crowd came and went, but at all times the room was thronged. The jury went out; still the crowd hung about the Hall. It grew dark; but they could not go to their homes until they knew the result; but round and round the Hall, and through the avenues of the Park, they wandered, watching the dim light in the jury room, and wondering what the verdict would be. One of them stole up to the gray-headed constable who watched at the door, and inquired what the chance was; and as the old man shook his head, and muttered that they leaned toward a fatal verdict, he rubbed his hands with glee, and hastened to communicate the tidings to those below. Twelve—one—two—three o’clock at night came; still the twelve men held out, and still the judge, an upright, conscientious, patient man, maintained his post, waiting for the verdict, and ready to solve any doubts or points of law that might arise. The court-room grew cold; the fires went out, except one near the bench, and where the prisoner was. Sixty or seventy persons were sitting in the dim recesses of the room, looking like dark shadows, resolved to await the result. A few stretched themselves on the benches, and others gathered in knots near the fire, and whispered together; and now and then there was a loud laugh, suddenly hushed, as the person who uttered it remembered where he was. At last the judge went out, and left word with the officer to send for him if the jury agreed, or wanted his advice. The night waned; the sky grew gray in the east; and presently the day broke—but no verdict. At an early hour the judge returned, and the court-room filled again. Nine—ten—eleven. Suddenly there was a hum—a shuffling in the hall. The door was thrown open by the gray-headed constable, and the jury entered.
‘The jury’s agreed,’ cried the officer. There was a dead silence; and the foreman gave in the verdict:
‘Guilty of Murder in the first degree!’
Rust moved not; no change of color or feature was perceptible, except a slight smile, and that too faded in a moment.
The trial was over; and the crowd poured through the streets, yelling with delight, and stopping those whom they met, to tell them that Michael Rust was doomed to die.
Rust sat without stirring, until an officer touched him, and told him that he must go. He then rose, and followed him without a word. The crowd gathered around him, as he went out; but he did not notice them. His brother walked at his side, but he heeded him not; and when he reached his prison, without uttering a word, he flung himself wearily upon his bed, and was soon sound asleep.
He awoke, a different man; and when his lawyer called to see him on the following day, he found him as fierce as a caged beast. He endeavored to utter some remark of consolation; but Rust impatiently motioned him to be silent. He spoke about a clergyman; but the reply was a laugh, so mocking and scornful, that he was glad to drop the theme.
‘Is the game ended?’ at last inquired Rust. ‘Is there no farther cast of the die left?’
The lawyer looked at him, as if in doubt of his meaning.
Rust, in response to the look, repeated the question. ‘Is there nothingmore to be done, in that farce called the law? Is there no farther blow to be struck for life?’
‘We can appeal,’ replied the lawyer; ‘but there is little chance of success.’ He took Rust by the hand, and said in a soothing tone: ‘My poor friend, you must be prepared for the worst; for I cannot promise to save your life.’
Rust rose and stood directly in front of him; and pointing to a small coin which lay on the table, said: ‘Not the tenth part ofthatwould Michael Rust give to have one hour added to his life; but Iwill notbe driven from it. Iwill notbe beaten down and crushed.’ He stamped furiously on the floor.
‘Fight!’ said he, fixing his glaring eye on the lawyer; ‘fight to the last; leave nothing untried; spare not gold; bribe—corrupt—suborn; do any thing; but do not leave the triumph to my enemies. It’s that that is tearing away at my heart. It’sthatwhich is killing me,’ exclaimed he, bitterly, shaking his hands over his head.
‘We shall leave nothing untried,’ said the lawyer. ‘Perhaps too we may obtain a pardon, for if ever a murder was justifiable, that was.’
‘Pardon!’ exclaimed Rust with a sneer; ‘pardon! Because I defended my own flesh and blood; because the laws had forced uponmethe task whichtheyshould perform! I must die, or sue for pardon. A noble thing is law!’
The lawyer was silent. He felt that Rust’s own previous criminal life had been his worst enemy, and that it was the disclosure of his own evil plans which had been in every mouth long before the trial, that had done much to harden the feelings of the jury, who in another case might have stretched a point to save him.
Merely repeating what he had already said, that every thing should be tried, he took his leave.
·····
Several weeks elapsed. The appeal was made, and was unsuccessful; the decision of the court below was affirmed; and nothing was left but that the sentence of the law should be enforced. Rust still maintained his indifferent bearing. All attempts to move him to any thing like repentance were unavailing. Pious men had conversed with him, but he had turned a deaf ear to their words; clergymen, too, anxious even at the last hour to turn his thoughts to holier things, had called upon him, but were equally unsuccessful; and at last he forbade them admission.
It was just about dusk, on the day previous to that fixed for his execution, that he was sitting in his cell, when he was aroused by the opening of the door. He looked up, and observed a dim figure just inside the door, cowering as if with fear; but it was so dark that he could not distinguish more than its mere outline.
‘What do you want?’ demanded he, harshly. ‘Am I a wild beast, that you have come to stare at me?’
The only reply was a low, suppressed cry, as of one endeavoring to stifle down severe pain.
Rust rose up, advanced to the figure, and with a sudden jerk threw off the cloak which enveloped it. It was his own child.
‘So it’syou!’ said he, bitterly, as he turned from her. ‘And you’vecome to see your work. Look at me well. You’ve succeeded to your heart’s content.’
The girl endeavored to clasp his hand, but he flung her from him; and facing her, said: ‘What you have to say, say at once, and be gone. There is little policy in seeking me out now, for I have nothing to give.’
The girl cast herself at his feet, in a passion of grief. ‘Oh! father! dear father! I ask nothing, except your forgiveness. Give methat, for the love ofGod! I ask nothing more. Do not refuse me that, as you hope for forgiveness of your own sins!’
‘There was a time,’ said Rust, ‘when I could not have resisted those tones, when I could have refused you nothing. My very heart’s blood was yours; but I am changed—changed indeed; since not a single spark of tenderness for you is left; not even the shadow of the love which I once bore to you. You are a stranger to me; or worse than that, you areshe, whose wanton conduct has placed me here, and to-morrow will lead me to the gallows.’
The girl rose up hastily, and said in a quick husky voice:
‘Farewell, father; I will not stay until you curse me, for I fear it may come to that. MayGodforgive both you and me! I have done wrong, and most bitterly have I suffered for it.’
She caught his hand, pressed it to her lips, which were hot as fire, and left the cell.
That was the last time that the father and daughter ever met.
The gaoler soon afterward brought in a light, and asked Rust if he wanted any thing; and on being answered in the negative, went out.
The night wore on heavily. Rust heard the clock, as its iron tongue struck the successive hours from his life. At last the hour of midnight sounded. He took out his watch, wound it up, and set it.
‘Your life will last longer than mine,’ said he, as he held it to the light, and examined the face. He then placed it on the table, and leaning his head on his hand, contemplated it for a long time. Time was hurrying on; for while he was sitting thus, the clock struck—one. He looked about the room; went to the door, and listened; then resumed his seat, and thrusting his hand in his bosom, drew out a small vial, containing a dark liquid. He held it to the light; shook it; smiled; and applying it to his lips, swallowed its contents.
‘I’ll disappoint the sight-seers,’ said he. He raised the light; took a long and earnest survey of the room; undressed himself; sat on the edge of his bed, for a moment, apparently in deep thought; then got into bed and drew the cover closely about him.
‘Now, then,’ said he, ‘the dream of life is past. I’ll soon know whether there is any waking from it.’
These were his last words; for when the cell was opened in the morning, he was dead in his bed. As in life, so in death, his own evil acts clashed with his interests; for at an early hour in the morning a messenger arrived with a pardon. In consideration of the heinous nature of the provocation, which had led to the commission of Rust’s crime, and of the inadequate punishment inflicted by the laws for such offences, the governor had remitted his sentence.