. . . . . .
Antonio went away to the nearest big town shortly after this to purchase furniture and fixings, and Barclay Stuart went with him. Not pussy this time, though.
Well, they stayed for a whole week, and the little man was kindness itself to the boy. Not only did he feed him like a fighting cock—I really don’t know, by the way, how fighting cocksarefed, and I have no desire to know—the “sport,” so called, is brutal and brutalising in the extreme.
Antonio took the boy to concert and theatre, and, I’m quite sure of one thing, half at least of his own happiness consisted in witnessing the rapture and delight of Barclay.
Well, the days were spent in shopping, in the purchase of neat but nice furniture, carpets, oilcloth, curtains, and drapery and napery.
Antonio was as fastidious as a woman.
“I do like,” he explained to Barclay, “to have things nice around me. Couldn’t work or think if they weren’t!”
But there were kitchen or cookery articles to be bought as well, and many other things I need not mention. Anyhow, it was evident enough that Antonio knew what he was about.
Barclay and Antonio occupied adjoining rooms in the hotel where they lived.
“I say,” said Antonio on the first night, and before leaving the lad’s room, “it may seem a queer question from a barnacled old salt like me, but—do you say your prayers?”
“Oh, always,” said the boy seriously.
“Right, dearie, right. And now I’m off.”
. . . . . .
At the end of eight days they returned to Fisherton.
Antonio now told Barclay that he must not come near the windmill for five days, but that he, Antonio, would come to see his mother and Phœbe.
So he did the second night.
“Been very busy all day,” he explained to Mrs. Stuart, “or would have come earlier. And this is Phœbe, that I have heard so much about. Come towards me, child.”
Like every other child, Phœbe was somewhat afraid of him at first.
“Don’t be afraid, dearie,” he said; “I’m not pretty, because my face is the colour of a brick, and all that, but I dearly love little boys and girls.”
Mrs. Stuart hastened away to get tea, which she made with her own hands, and the two were left to talk together.
When Mrs. Stuart returned she found her wee daughter on perfectly familiar terms with the little weird man. In fact, she was sitting on one of his knees, prattling away as only children can, and Muffie the cat sat on the other, singing aloud.
I always think there must be something good in people whom cats and children take readily to.
After tea and a long talk Antonio said to Phœbe—
“You have a nice piano there, and I’m sure you can play.”
“Oh yes, I can play lots.”
A child’s frankness is very charming, and one can easily forgive their pride and confidence in their own powers to do this, that, or the other.
Antonio was most indulgent. He seated her at the piano, drew up her sleeves a little way, and while she played air after air, listened as respectfully, and apparently as delighted as if he himself were the performer.
“Bravo! dearie,” he said, as he gently lifted her down from the stool; “you’ll be a capital player soon. Just keep on studying.”
“Can you play a little?” she asked naïvely.
Antonio smiled. “Yes, just a little,” he replied.
She seized his two hands, and jumped up and down, as children have a way of doing.
“Oh do, oh do,” she cried, “like a dear sir.”
“When so beautiful a little lady as you invites me to play, how dare I refuse?” he answered gallantly.
Then he seated himself at the piano, just as Barclay himself and Davie Drake came quietly in and sat down in a far-off corner.
Was that music, or was it magic? That was the question that Mrs. Stuart could not help asking herself as she sat in her chair enchanted, enthralled.
Never in all her little life had Phœbe heard such music. Her face was a study—the earnest glance, the round eyes, the half-parted lips, she looked like beauty bewitched.
Meanwhile the melody and harmony flowed on, sometimes ineffably sweet, and tender as tears, sometimes bold, ringing, defiant, and clear, anon plaintive and low, and dying away at last in cadence that none who had listened to it could ever forget.
There were real tears in Mrs. Stuart’s eyes as she extended her hand to Antonio.
“We can never thank you enough for that,” she said.
Curiously enough there were tears in Antonio’s eyes too. Ay, even in the glass one; for tears, you know, are not secreted by the eyes themselves, but by glands around them.
“What did you play?” said Barclay, coming forward eagerly.
“Nothing,” was the modest reply. “No, nothing. All I have played was mere impromptu.”
“Composed on the spur of the moment?” said Mrs. Stuart.
The little man smiled.
“That,” he replied, “I cannot answer. I sit down, I strike a note or chord, there is an answer from here"—he placed his hand upon his heart; “then I leave the heart and the instrument to do everything. I but listen, though, listening, I sometimes weep.”
“And this is Davie Drake? Lay aft, Davie.”
The big brown-faced, fair-haired lad came towards him, blushing through his brownness—blushing, but smiling.
“How are you, Davie?”
“Middlin’, thanks.”
“And you must come and see me some evening, when Barclay and I are settled in the old windmill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what are you going to be?”
Davie looked up at him wonderingly; he seemed to think that everybody knew what his profession was booked as.
“Oh, a sailor of course, sir.”
“Well, I thought so, you know; but, Davie, I’m going to get a nice ship of my own, and Barclay’s coming. You had better make up your mind to come too.”
“When, sir?”
“Well, it may be a year, or a year and a half yet. Meanwhile, you know, you can take a cruise or two, just to get up to the ropes and get your sea-legs.”
“And you’re going round the world, sir?”
“I’m going, Davie, where you and Barclay will have a real good time of it.”
That was a most pleasant evening, which they allspent at Barclay’s mother’s cottage; everybody, including the cat, had been happy.
“As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure.”
“As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure.”
“As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure.”
And it wasn’t the last happy evening, either. But when the five days of Barclay’s suspension, let me call it, were at an end, the weird little man came to the cottage to bring him and Phœbe to the old windmill, and pussy came trotting up behind.
. . . . . .
Barclay stared with astonishment as he clambered over the stile, and Antonio lifted Phœbe over.
Why, here was a change indeed! No, but rather a complete metamorphosis.
To begin with, the mill outside had been painted white from top to bottom, only the yardarms of the sails were picked out in dark grey. It looked a new, fresh, and beautiful building. On the side next the sea a large French window had been placed on the first floor; this opened out and on to a large balcony, big enough to sit comfortably upon. And this balcony was beautifully adorned with evergreen plants and spring flowers. So cosy, so comfortable did it look, that little Phœbe clapped her hands with delight and cried, “Oh my! how pretty!”
But if Phœbe was delighted with the outside show of the old windmill, she was struck dumb with wonderment when she reached the first floor by a nice iron winding staircase.
The lower floor had been boarded, and being very capacious, was quite ready to receive all the chemical and other instruments that Antonio meant to stock it with. And one end of it was a kitchen, with oil-stove, racks filled with plates, and cupboards as well.
Indeed, only a sailor could have thought of all these things.
Phœbe didn’t say a word for a time after she reached the first-floor apartment. But no one could now have recognised it as a portion of an old windmill. The walls were panelled with charming wood, and hung with prettily painted pictures, which were a credit to the owner’s taste. Brackets and flower-stands were everywhere, and a cosy corner here and there, that one longed to lounge in. Then there were beautiful lamps or fairy lights hid among clusters of flowers, ready to be lit up when gloaming fell grey over the sea.
There seemed to be mirrors everywhere also, and the fireplace and overmantel were works of art. Little tables were here and there, and a carpet that yielded to the feet covered the floor, and the great French windows that opened out to the beautiful balcony, where on summer evenings one might sit with a book, were most artistically draped.
Thetout ensemblewas altogether effective, even to fascination.
“O sir, is this—is this—” she couldn’t get any further just for a moment or two—
“Is this—fairyland?”
“Whatever you like to call it, dearie,” said Antonio, patting her on the head.
“And—and can you go through that great big beautiful looking-glass?”
Antonio and Barclay both laughed.
“A bull might,” said Barclay, “but I shouldn’t like to try.”
The furniture was chaste, and there was in the room a rich-toned piano, as well as a guitar. And this last was the weird wee man’s favourite instrument.
The two bedrooms were on the floor above, tiny, but cosy, clean, and sweet. Not much larger were they indeed than ships’ cabins, but each had a window that looked out to the sea.
. . . . . .
Antonio’s servant or valet had not yet arrived, but he himself was quite equal to the occasion. He not only made tea for the children, producing from a cupboard down below an immense cake, with fruit, but he afterwards, just as gloaming began to fall and shadows were creeping over the sea, just as distant ships lost the whiteness of their sails and turned grey and gloomy, took out his guitar and sang to them so softly and sweetly, that poor little innocent Phœbe was entranced.
“Oh dear!” she cried, “I wish I could play on that great big beautiful fiddle!”
“So you shall, dearie,” was the weird wee man’s reply. “If you toddle down to me now and then when we are settled, I will teach you on a smaller guitar than this.”
But now the children must go home, and Antonio himself will see them safe to their own gate, for look—
“Just above yon sandy bar,As the day grows fainter and dimmer,Lonely and lovely a single starLights the air with a dusky glimmer.Into the ocean faint and farFalls the trail of its golden splendourAnd the gleam of that single starIs ever refulgent, soft, and tender.”
“Just above yon sandy bar,As the day grows fainter and dimmer,Lonely and lovely a single starLights the air with a dusky glimmer.Into the ocean faint and farFalls the trail of its golden splendourAnd the gleam of that single starIs ever refulgent, soft, and tender.”
“Just above yon sandy bar,As the day grows fainter and dimmer,Lonely and lovely a single starLights the air with a dusky glimmer.
Into the ocean faint and farFalls the trail of its golden splendourAnd the gleam of that single starIs ever refulgent, soft, and tender.”
Thereis no doubt at all that about this time, and for more than a year afterwards, old Antonio, as the village children called him, wasthemost remarkable man in Fisherton, or in the regions around it.
But even now, after he had settled down in his strange romantic home, there were not wanting people who shook their heads and said—
“Ay, neighbour, but there is something mysterious about Antonio—something mysterious, and it will all come out one day. Ay, it will all come out!Ishe good orishe bad,ishe false orishe true? them’s the question, maties.”
“Neighbour,” might be the reply, “what you says is right, but what I says is right too. What I says I do say, and it’s this. A bad un may pretend love for children and for birds and beasts, but if he is bad, then take my word for it, lad, the children and the birds and the beasts won’t care for him. Birds and beasts always act the truth, and wouldn’t tell a lie even if they could talk.
“Now, neighbour, I’ve been up at the old windmill, and the hermit, as he is called, took me upstairs tohis beautiful room. He told me to stand well back from the window and I’d maybe see a sight. It was just feedin’ time like, he told me!
“I did as I was told and watched.
“The balcony is very big and broad, you know, and trailed o’er with lovely flowers, neighbour.
“He went down below now, to the lower deck as it were, but soon he was up again, carrying five plates one on top of the other, and also a basket of broken food, suet, bread, and bits of meat.
“‘Sit as still now,’ he says to me, ‘as a plaster saint—don’t cough, don’t even wink, don’t make a movement loud enough to wake a weasel.’
“So there I sat as quiet’s a little prayin’ Sam’el.
“Then down went the dishes on the balcony, and the hermit of the old windmill took from the corner a pair of wings (white and big).
“They were mounted on top of a stick no bigger than a fiddle-bow.
“He leant over the balcony just for a moment looking east and west, and I could see him cross his breast, as Catholics do, then he uttered a loud and mournful cry. Whether whistle or shout, I couldn’t say, neighbour, but after repeating this several times he waved the wings.
“What I saw next almost frightened me. A vast multitude of sea-birds, and even rooks and cormorants, assembled round the balcony and alighted on it. I never saw gulls so near before, neighbour. Never knew they were so clean, and white, and beautiful,and with such wondering eyes. Neighbour, I ain’t ever going to shoot a sea-gull again.
“Well, the hermit was sitting cross-legged on the balcony, and more than a score alighted near him, to eat the bread from the soft food from the plates. Now and then a little quarrel would get up among these. But he gently lowered that winged stick and touched them, and peace was at once restored.
“The other birds, especially the cormorants, came alongside him, stood on his knees, on his shoulders and arms, and fed from his hands.
“Neighbour, it were a lovely sight.
“And he talked to them as he gently smoothed their bonnie heads with a little finger. I noticed it was always his little finger he used.
“Sometimes he bent down and kissed the bird nearest him on the poll.
“And more than that, neighbour, as he sat there feeding his pets, he sang sweet and low to them, a kind of unearthly chant, but mournful, and the birds seemed to like it, too.
“But the food was done at last, and the hermit slowly rose. Then away flew the flock. For a few minutes they circled and circled around the windmill, then directed their course seawards.
“I noticed a tear on the hermit’s cheek, but he dashed it off with his sleeve, as if ashamed of such weakness.
“‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but I must now allay my feelings.’
“And down he sat to the piano, and such wild, rampant music I never heard before. Not all rampant though, for it got low and mournful at times, and so touching, that I felt cold all along my spine, neighbour, and had to bite my lips to keep back the tears.
“He stopped all at once and came towards me.
“‘As a rule,’ he said, ‘people don’t like me owing to this ugly, erratic eye of mine, but what care I? Have I not solitude, and don’t all God’s creatures love me?’”
. . . . . .
I make a slight digression here, reader, just to tell you that you would not think the above sketch one whit overdrawn if you but knew the tameness of the wild birds I myself feed in winter, at my wigwam window, or even in summer away in the woods. I boldly aver that the wild birdsdoknow who loves them, and that they can return that love with affection unalloyed. It is only because of the cruelty of man towards wild creatures that they suspect him of evil, and keep aloof from him.
Do you remember what Burns says in his address to the poor mouse, whose nest he had upturned with his ploughshare?
“I’m truly sorry man’s dominionHas broken Nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earthborn companionAn’ fellow mortal.”
“I’m truly sorry man’s dominionHas broken Nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earthborn companionAn’ fellow mortal.”
“I’m truly sorry man’s dominionHas broken Nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earthborn companionAn’ fellow mortal.”
Truer words were never spoken.
. . . . . .
“Well, neighbour,” said the first speaker, “all that but increases the mystery, A good heart he must have in spite of that awful eye, but still I think he isn’t altogether human.”
. . . . . .
In a week or two extraordinary packages began to arrive in lorries from the distant railway station, extraordinary in size and in shape.
These were safely conveyed into the under room or workshop of the old windmill.
With the help of bold, strong Davie Drake and Barclay Stuart, Antonio undid these, and set them up, as he called it. There had already been arranged a bench, with loops of leather on the wall behind to hold the various sorts of carpenters’ and other stranger tools.
By the side of the bench a lathe was put up.
Other packages contained many different kinds of electric instruments, storage batteries, &c., and a miscellaneous and curious collection of instruments and tools, such as the boys had never seen before.
Those were each and all put in their respective places, and when everything was done, then Antonio sank into a chair with a sigh of relief, and surveyed his varied apparatus with a smile of great satisfaction.
“Of course, dearies,” he said to the boys as the glass eye took a sudden squint down at his nose, “you won’t know what all these things are for, but in time I’ll put you up to the ropes and teach you.”
“Thank you, captain,” said bold Barclay; but Davie Drake, powerful and strong though he was for a lad of his years, said nothing. It is awkward for a boy to be shy, but time and hard work soon banishes the failing.
. . . . . .
Well, Barclay had been here with Captain Antonio not much over a week, when, one day early in May, a somewhat strange apparition appeared crossing the field towards the old windmill. He called Antonio’s attention to it. Butitwas evidently a man, tall, erect, and dressed Indian fashion, in long garments of white, with a sash of crimson, sandals, and a huge turban above his brown-black face.
As he drew nearer, walking straight and soldierly, young Barclay could not help remarking how extremely handsome he was. No sculptor could have fashioned from black marble more comely chiselled features had he tried ever so much. He was young, perhaps not over twenty-five, and his long brown hair depended in ringlets almost to his waist.
The weird wee man rubbed his hands with glee.
“Ha!” he cried, “now is my establishment complete. Here comes Pandoo, my faithful man of Mahratta.”
He waved him a welcome from the balcony, and Pandoo looked up and smiled, showing as he did so two rows of teeth as white as those of a Norfolk spaniel. In a minute or two more Pandoo presented himself.
He had divested himself of his sandals, andhe bowed low as he took his master’s hand and raised it till it touched his brow—a most graceful form of salutation, never seen in our rough-and-tumble haughty Briton.
“So you lib (live), sah?”
“Yes, Pandoo, and I’m hearty and hopeful.”
“And you still tink you go to sea in big ship and make you’ fortoon, sah?”
“Sure of it, Pandoo. Sure of it, lad. And, look here, you shall share it.”
“Pandoo’s heart do flutter wit’ joy and ’citement.”
“Well then, go below, and make yourself some coffee, and bring us some. This is young Mr. Barclay Stuart. He too will go with us when all is ready.”
Pandoo turned to Barclay and salaamed.
“I hope you is well, sah, and you’ vife?”
Barclay laughed outright.
Antonio hastened to explain that he was but a boy, and that boys didn’t marry in this country.
“You ’scuse me den,” said Pandoo, with another salaam, “but I am one much big fool. I go to make de coffee. I bling de poor chile some too.”
In a very short time Pandoo returned with a tray, with cups of coffee and fancy biscuits. But never before had Barclay, or “the dear child,” as Pandoo called him, tasted so delicious an infusion.
Pandoo himself squatted tailor-fashion at the other end of the room.
He conversed with Antonio, but in a language that Barclay could not understand one word of.
Sometimes the Indian’s face was lit up with smiles, but there were moments when dark lightning seemed to flash from his eyes as he spoke, and he motioned with his hand as if waving sword or dagger in the battlefield. At such times he looked as fierce as the wildest tiger ever encountered in Indian jungles.
When Pandoo looked fierce, his mood appeared to communicate itself to Antonio as well. His brows were lowered, his face sternly set, and the large glass eye rolled about in a manner that almost frightened poor Barclay Stuart.
But the mood would pass quickly off; then while they continued to jabber in Hindustani, they both laughed loud and clearly, so that Barclay was fain to join them, though he could not have told any one why on earth he did so.
Everything was settled at the old windmill in less than a week, and Antonio busy all forenoon with his experiments.
The good folks of Fisherton had certainly nothing to complain of as regards either Antonio or Pandoo, his servant. Both were civil and pleasant; they disbursed money freely, and took an interest in everything.
Although Barclay still spent an hour or two at the parson’s every morning, Antonio took him in hand also. In the forenoon he assisted the weird wee man in the laboratory, and much did he learn as to the science of electricity.
In the afternoon he was allowed to run home, andevery fine evening they went out for a sail in a small, well-rigged sloop that Antonio had hired.
More about these little voyages in next chapter.
Meanwhile I want to say something about an entertainment, that Pandoo and he gave in the lower room of the old windmill.
Antonio’s fame had been noised abroad, and albeit the tickets for the entertainment were dear, the little hall was quite crowded with good people, even clergymen and their wives attended.
The room was very capacious, and it was prettily adorned with evergreens and flowers, and lit by crimson and white balls of electricity. At one end was a small platform, and behind this a huge sheet of glass, which formed the front of a shallow box.
The performance was not a long one, but it was certainly very strange. It commenced with a piano recital by Antonio. The audience were spell-bound. The music seemed magical. During the more slow and pathetic movements many ladies were seen to weep. Indeed, the whole piece seemed to tell a tale of war and love, and tell it too as distinctly as if it had been couched in words.
After this Pandoo, while Antonio played, gave a strange Indian dance, which was certainly far more natural and graceful than any of the stupid skirt-dances people are used to see at London music-halls.
Beautiful scenes from the Indian Ocean and the islands thereof were now depicted on a screen from the lantern, and this put the children present into ecstasiesof delight. Then followed a strange but beautiful duet-song by both, and accompanied by the guitar. This was encored, and in answer Antonio himself gave a performance on the guitar, accompanied by a charming Indian song. The audience were too polite to encore again, although they would have sat all night to listen to sounds like these.
Pandoo, in the rich Indian dress his master had caused him to don, was greatly admired by the ladies.
But Pandoo astonished every one when he commenced his wonderful acts of jugglery. I cannot describe the half of these. It would be but waste of space; for unless my readers go out to India, they may never see, and could not be expected to believe, what these men can do. Nor will the best of them suffer themselves to be imported to this country to perform.
While Pandoo was acting, Antonio played strange uncanny music on his guitar.
But the audience stared aghast to see the Indian stand at the back of the stage, open his mouth, and apparently with some difficulty catch the end of a piece of tape. Then he commenced to draw it out.
The audience laughed, then they grew suddenly serious; for Pandoo was walking round and round the little stage, pulling and pulling at the tape, which he permitted to fall on the floor. There seemed no end to it. There appeared to be as much on the stage at last as would have sufficed to stuff a pillow.
Then at last it ended—in what, think you? why,in a beautiful little bird, that flew up to the roof and sat among the evergreens to twitter and sing.
And now Pandoo bowed.
And the audience were wild in their applause.
Your true Indian juggler despises such tricks as knife or sword swallowing. These are far beneath the dignity of a nation that has studied jugglery probably since the days of Moses and Aaron.
“I will show you now,” said Pandoo, “a common Angleese piece of de juggle, what de quack jugglers make you Angleese stare with at de halls of music.”
A boy brought a basket. Antonio submitted to have himself roped into a knot and squeezed into the basket. Then the basket was closed.
“I now proceed,” he said, “to kill my master with our dagger knife. Little child’en, you must not be afraid. It is all fun.”
“Say you prayah,” he shouted, “say you prayah. You is goin’ to die plenty quick. I give you tree minutes.”
Meanwhile Pandoo picked up Antonio’s guitar. “Ha, ha, ha,” he laughed right merrily. “This belong to me now. He not can take that with him. Guitar no good in de grave. De worms not care for moosic.
“Now I shall kill he plenty quick.”
It did appear dreadful to see Pandoo lift the dagger and stab the basket all round, while groans for some time issued therefrom and finally ceased, and blood ran in darkling rivulets along the stage.
Everybody looked very serious now, till presently up went the lid of the basket and out jumped Antonio.
Everybody laughed, but Pandoo pretended to be very angry.
“My maxim is,” he said, “always to make sure, and so de next time I shall use a Maxim gun.”
“Now, British ladies, gemlem, and child’en,” he added, “I show you how dis is done. De unroping is nothing. And at de slightest touch the blade of de dagger sinks back into the hilt. Master Barclay, show it round.”
Barclay was delighted to do so, after pretending to stab Davie Drake through the heart with it.
. . . . . .
Pandoo’s next trick appeared miraculous. I have often seen myself tricks like it in India, but never could understand them. Nor would the jugglers explain.
A larger basket was procured and turned upside down on the stage.
“Will any little girl come under de basket?”
“Oh,” cried Barclay, “Phœbe won’t be afraid, I’m sure.”
Phœbe loved Pandoo, and could trust him thoroughly, so she appeared shyly on the stage with her left forefinger between her rosy lips.
Pandoo patted her, and whispered something in her ear, and as she sat down he covered her over with the basket.
“She is cooped,” said Pandoo, “like one boo’ful bantam hen.”
He then played an Indian march on the guitar.
“Now we will let the little bantam free,” he cried.
He lifted the basket.
There was no Phœbe there, but in her place a huge python or boa-constrictor. He took the guitar again, and while every one looked in fear and trembling, he played a strange wild air, chanting with his voice as he did so.
The boa raised its head slowly, and finally curled itself lovingly round Pandoo’s body. But he soon disengaged it, and once more placed it under; more music, and once more he lifted the basket. The snake was gone, but in its place grew a charming rose-bush.
Pandoo was delighted. He plucked the charmed roses, and tossed them among the audience.
Again the basket was placed over the rose-bush, and he commenced to play a merry air, but lo! as he still played, the basket seemed to lift itself, and out popped Phœbe herself, as rosy and bright as the month of June, and laughing so merrily, that every one in the audience clapped their hands and cheered.
Dr. Parker now rose and said quietly—
“I think, ladies and gentlemen, that trick is done through the medium of a trap-door.”
“Would the good doctor step up and examine the stage?”
The good doctor would.
There was not the slightest trace of a trap-door, and the doctor looked considerably confused.
Now I myself believe that in tricks of this sort in India—and if in India, why not in Britain?—hypnotism probably plays a conspicuous part.
I cannot say how, and it seems to me incredible that a whole audience could be hypnotised; but still it should be remembered that, in our country, this science is as yet only in its infancy.
Lest my young reader should dream of these mysterious performances, I must conclude this chapter by briefly describing the prettiest scene of all. I may mention at once that it was not conducted with the lantern, though in part that may have been used.
The effects were visibleinsidethe immense glass framework at the back of the stage, and every effect was accompanied by appropriate music.
Antonio had seated himself at the piano, and as Pandoo had disappeared, it was evident that he was “wire-puller.”
The electric light was extinguished in the hall, but the beautiful fairy lights, that shone among flowers and foliage, gave a dim but beautiful radiance.
Looking into that huge glass case was like gazing through a mirror into Elfinland.
The first scene was morning just breaking over the sea, on which was a ship, far away in the distance, bobbing and curtseying to the waves. Ladies who had opera-glasses declared they could see the sailors atwork on the deck, but this might have been but female fancy.
On the horizon were rolling grey clouds, higher above in the sky strips or lines of crimson cloud; then slowly the lower clouds turned to purple and bronze, the sun was rising, and soon his red gleams escaped from a low-down rift in the sky, and a triangle of blood red—its broadest part furthest off—fringed the sea, and the sails of the ship became a charming pink.
As it rose higher and higher, the cloud scenery became still more lovely.
The ship too altered her course as if by magic, and bore away on the other tack. It was soon broad daylight on that wondrous ocean, and every wave and wavelet sparkled and shone in the silvery rays of the sun.
The ship had sailed now two-thirds across the sea, and the audience felt sorry to think it must soon disappear.
But now a calm ensued. Though the waves continued high, they were oily and smooth. The ship rolled continuously, and the sails shivered and flapped. Some said afterwards they could hear the flapping, but this was mere imagination.
Dark blue, almost black, clouds are now seen rapidly banking up on the horizon, and spreading up and up till the whole sky is overcast, and the sea beneath is darkling, grey and gloomy. Sail is being rapidly taken in on board that phantom ship; it isreduced to a storm-jib, a mainsail, and close-reefed fore-topsail.
None too soon; a vivid flash of lightning darts athwart the sky, and in a few seconds thunder, that seems to shake the windmill to its foundation, follows.
The thunder-storm, while it lasted, was terribly realistic; the lightning most vivid—indeed, it seemed to set the sea on fire. But winds began to ruffle the waves, and the storm retired, though muttering thunders were still heard. A squall came on, white horses on breaking waves were everywhere visible. The barque flew on before it, and finally dashed out from this splendidtableau-vivant, and was seen no more. Strange cloud effects followed. Then once more the hall was lit up with a blaze of electric light, and all was over.
Antonio advanced to the footlights. For once in a way the glass eye remained stationary, or followed the movements of the other, so that he did not look so weird and uncanny.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “my little performance is at an end. I thank you all for the comfort of your attendance, and hope to see you again another night.” (Cheers.)
“Meanwhile,” he added, as Pandoo placed a bag in his hand, “this is the offering, the price of your tickets. I desire to place it in the hands of the good parson, Mr. Grahame. No applause, please; I am nervous and shy. I do not require the money;I am in the position of the freebooters of old, who used to rob the rich and give it to the poor. I do not pretend to be rich, but I have inventions on hand that I hope will, before many years go by, make me so, and the probability is, that if I am spared to return from sea, I will build me a house in the woods and settle down among you good people.”
There was applause now, that he tried in vain to stem, and many ladies of the nervous diathesis were seen to put their handkerchiefs to their eyes.
“Phœbe dearie, come here.”
Phœbe, all smiles, ran up and on to the stage.
“Carry this bag, dearie, to your good clergyman, and tell him he is to expend every sixpence of it in buying warm things for the poorest children in the village.”
Without waiting for a reply from Mr. Grahame, the queer wee weird man waved his hand, and next minute had disappeared up the iron winding staircase into his own drawing-room.
So ended a truly wonderful evening.
Captain Antonio, as we may now call him, was a very busy man indeed, and spent all his forenoon in his study making experiments, that seemed to Barclay Stuart to partake of the marvellous. These were generally electrical.
But he found time to teach Barclay both ashore and afloat, and Davie Drake—shy, handsome Davie, who blushed like a red, red rose when any one spoke suddenly to him—was taught when afloat in the sloop.
The rumour of Antonio’s wonderful performance was spread all over the village and the parishes around, so he kindly consented to give another séance in the Town Hall, and for this the tickets were only just high enough to prevent a block.
I need not say that it was successful. And I believe the reader will readily believe, that many of those ignorant but innocent fishermen were more convinced now than ever that Antonio was “in league with the Evil One.” This is precisely how they phrased it.
The matter didn’t trouble the weird wee man much.All the village children adored Antonio, and even their parents liked him. As for the shopkeepers, they gladly supplied him with goods. His money was as good as any one else’s, even if it had come from uncomfortable quarters.
The sloop, as I hinted before, did not belong to Antonio. She was hired for the summer. But she was a beauty. She could dart through the water with the speed of a grebe.
She was named theGrebe.
How perfectly delightful were those little sea-trips!
The crew were Captain Antonio himself, Pandoo, who was a good sailor, and a sturdy fisher fellow called Peterson. I think Petersen was a Dane, but I am not sure. He was an excellent and hardy sailor, but not over pleasant to look at. He had fair hair and lowering brows, and a too flat nose; moreover he spoke but little, and seldom looked any one in the eyes.
He was never once seen to smile. But that made not the slightest difference to the general jollity of the cruise.
The passengers were always much the same, Barclay and Davie Drake, who were picking up as much seamanship as they possibly could, being taught principally by the Dane Petersen and by Pandoo himself. Then there was Phœbe, also Maud, the parson’s little bright girl, and the fascinating little fisher lass, Teenie, whom Barclay boldly called his sweetheart. Bare feet, fisher dress, and all, innocent Teenie really was aspicturesque and pretty as an artist’s dream of female loveliness.
Well, the plan was to start pretty early, especially if the silvery gleam of a shoal of mackerel could be descried from the cliff tops. Once among these, the vessel was laid-to or kept dodging, and fishing over the side became general.
It was evident that Captain Antonio was kind-hearted towards all God’s creatures, for every fish as soon as hauled up was killed. Fishermen do not do this I know, but those who fish for pleasure should.
I have often been grieved to see sportsmen while grouse-shooting thrust the wounded birds which the dogs had retrieved, carelessly into the bag, there to linger long in sufferings indescribable.
The next generation, it is to be hoped, will not be so cruel.
Cruelty is often born from want of thought. Yet I have seen the roughest of men most tender-hearted.
Pardon just one little digression. When a medical student I lived for six months in a Highland village and got very friendly with the young surgeon of the wee town. But he was a wild Highlander indeed, and a man of immense strength. He was good-tempered to a degree, but if any one offended his dignity he had dearly to rue it. I remember a sturdy brewer’s waggoner once insulted him. Dr. J—— went for him at once. He lifted him clean and clear off his feet doubled him over one of the waggon-shafts, headand shoulders downwards, between the horse and the shaft, and so right under the horse. By good luck the horse never moved, or matters might have been serious. That man had the greatest respect for Dr. J—— ever after.
Dr. J—— got the present of a young kid, that he told me he would have killed for our Christmas dinner.
“Oh, what about that kid?” I said, a few days before the festival.
Dr. J—— smiled and held his head to one side. “I think, Gordon,” he replied, “we must be doin’ wi’ a turkey. That bonnie kid follows me everywhere and licks my hand. I couldna have it killed.”
So this kid grew up into a great bearded goat, and became a favourite with every one in the village.
. . . . . .
Oh, these happy ocean picnics. Neither Barclay Stuart nor Davie Drake ever forgot them, and often on moonlight nights, when keeping watch in far-off foreign seas, they used to think and talk of them, till a big lump used to rise in Davie’s throat, and he could say no more.
Fishing went on briskly as long as the fish would bite. Then a halt was called, and as by this time it would be long past noon, the hamper was opened and dinner announced. The pies—some of them curry pies—made by Pandoo himself, were delicious, and abundant enough to have served a bigger boat’s crew.Then there were tarts and fruitgalore, with ginger ale and lemonade to finish up with.
It would have done any one’s heart good to see the beaming faces of the children as they enjoyed their repast, laughing and talking prettily as they did so. Their rippling talk and laughter, Antonio told Pandoo, put him in mind of music-bells and bird-song.
Well, dinner over, the sloop cruised away along the beautiful coast.
In some places this was draped in the greenery of drooping trees, in others the cliffs were o’ertopped with green,greenbanks, where the whitest of sheep were grazing among orange-bright flowering furze. It was all charming, all beautiful, and sometimes for long minutes no one spoke, so pleasant and dreamy was the glamour shed over them by sunlight and sea.
But when the sun began to wester, Pandoo would serve out tea, which he made hot in a curious invention of Antonio’s. Then the sloop was put about.
Probably in returning the wind would be unfavourable, though seldom high.
This did not matter a great deal, however.
They sailed tack and half tack, and while mainsail and jib bellied out in the breeze, the captain used to take out his guitar and sing songs sweet and low, that he well knew would ravish and enchant those three little maidens, and delight even the heart of the Dane.
Thus sailing and singing they would approach the harbour mouth, and down would drop the mainsail.
Those ocean picnics were not only delightful, they were idyllic—summer idylls—and Antonio had meant they should be so. Weird and strange though he looked, it was quite evident that his chief happiness consisted in making others happy.
. . . . . .
Though I have called theGrebea sloop, she was to all intents and purposes a sweet little lass of a yacht, as tight a wee craft as ever went dancing over a British sea. Antonio was nothing if not a sailor; and as at one time of his life, and before he had his eye knocked out, he had served in the Royal Navy, he knew what discipline and duty was, and also what a ship, however small, should be. He managed to make his little craft, theGrebe, a perfect picture. There was not much brass work about her to be sure, but what there was positively shone like gold; wood work was polished, the decks kept almost as white as the keys of a piano, and the mast, topmast, and jib-boom scraped till they looked like bleached straw.
The sails, too, were white and bonnie, and every rope was coiled on deck and kept in its place.
Well, there was a cabin or cuddy amidship, and here the children and Antonio dined if a shower came on, otherwise on deck, in true sailor fashion.
They all liked this plan best, because they couldthrow over crumbs and suet to the lovely sea-mews and gulls, that had followed them from home.
Even a rook or two were among these, for strange as it may appear, rooks on the sea-coast often learn to be sea-birds. They are very awkward at first, and often nearly choke themselves in picking crumbs off the water, and they have a difficulty in rising again.
Perhaps, reader, there is a kind of cousinly friendship existing between seaside rooks and gulls; for while the former visit the sea, the two can often be seen walking side by side on a dewy morning, feeding on the grubs and slugs to be found in a field of growing turnips.
The Dane was dressed in sailor white, with black tie and sailor knot, and would have looked smart enough had he not been of so retiring a disposition.
It must be remembered that, till this day, the Danes are splendid, daring sailors, and can fight till further orders.
Does your knowledge of history, reader mine, date back to or include the great battle of the Baltic, fought by Nelson against the Danes. The song written by Campbell about this battle is a great favourite with me. I cannot help here transcribing it.
Learn it, lads, especially if you are going to be sailors. There is a ring of daring and true courage about both words and music, that I have never known surpassed.
It is a song that a man may sing while a lady plays the accompaniment. But listen: