JOHN INGERFIELD AND OTHER STORIES

Contents

To the Gentle Reader

In Remembrance of John Ingerfield and of Anne, his Wife

The Woman of the Saeter

Variety Patter

Silhouettes

The Lease of the "Cross Keys"

TO THE GENTLE READER;alsoTO THE GENTLE CRITIC. 

Once upon a time, I wrote a little story of a woman who was crushed todeath by a python. A day or two after its publication, a friend stoppedme in the street. "Charming little story of yours, " he said, "that aboutthe woman and the snake; but it's not as funny as some of your things!"The next week, a newspaper, referring to the tale, remarked, "We haveheard the incident related before with infinitely greater humour. "

With this--and many similar experiences--in mind, I wish distinctly tostate that "John Ingerfield, " "The Woman of the Saeter, " and"Silhouettes, " are not intended to be amusing. The two otheritems--"Variety Patter, " and "The Lease of the Cross Keys"--I give overto the critics of the new humour to rend as they will; but "JohnIngerfield, " "The Woman of the Saeter, " and "Silhouettes, " I repeat, Ishould be glad if they would judge from some other standpoint than thatof humour, new or old. 

IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOHN INGERFIELD, AND OF ANNE, HIS WIFEA STORY OF OLD LONDON, IN TWO CHAPTERS

CHAPTER I. 

If you take the Underground Railway to Whitechapel Road (the Eaststation), and from there take one of the yellow tramcars that start fromthat point, and go down the Commercial Road, past the George, in front ofwhich starts--or used to stand--a high flagstaff, at the base of whichsits--or used to sit--an elderly female purveyor of pigs' trotters atthree-ha'pence apiece, until you come to where a railway arch crosses theroad obliquely, and there get down and turn to the right up a narrow, noisy street leading to the river, and then to the right again up a stillnarrower street, which you may know by its having a public-house at onecorner (as is in the nature of things) and a marine store-dealer's at theother, outside which strangely stiff and unaccommodating garments ofgigantic size flutter ghost-like in the wind, you will come to a dingyrailed-in churchyard, surrounded on all sides by cheerless, many-peopledhouses. Sad-looking little old houses they are, in spite of the tumultof life about their ever open doors. They and the ancient church intheir midst seem weary of the ceaseless jangle around them. Perhaps, standing there for so many years, listening to the long silence of thedead, the fretful voices of the living sound foolish in their ears. 

Peering through the railings on the side nearest the river, you will seebeneath the shadow of the soot-grimed church's soot-grimed porch--thatis, if the sun happen, by rare chance, to be strong enough to cast anyshadow at all in that region of grey light--a curiously high and narrowheadstone that once was white and straight, not tottering and bent withage as it is now. There is upon this stone a carving in bas-relief, asyou will see for yourself if you will make your way to it through thegateway on the opposite side of the square. It represents, so far as canbe made out, for it is much worn by time and dirt, a figure lying on theground with another figure bending over it, while at a little distancestands a third object. But this last is so indistinct that it might bealmost anything, from an angel to a post. 

And below the carving are the words (already half obliterated) that Ihave used for the title of this story. 

Should you ever wander of a Sunday morning within sound of the crackedbell that calls a few habit-bound, old-fashioned folk to worship withinthose damp-stained walls, and drop into talk with the old men who on suchdays sometimes sit, each in his brass-buttoned long brown coat, upon thelow stone coping underneath those broken railings, you might hear thistale from them, as I did, more years ago than I care to recollect. 

But lest you do not choose to go to all this trouble, or lest the old menwho could tell it you have grown tired of all talk, and are not to beroused ever again into the telling of tales, and you yet wish for thestory, I will here set it down for you. 

But I cannot recount it to you as they told it to me, for to me it wasonly a tale that I heard and remembered, thinking to tell it again forprofit, while to them it was a thing that had been, and the threads of itwere interwoven with the woof of their own life. As they talked, facesthat I did not see passed by among the crowd and turned and looked atthem, and voices that I did not hear spoke to them below the clamour ofthe street, so that through their thin piping voices there quivered thedeep music of life and death, and my tale must be to theirs but as agossip's chatter to the story of him whose breast has felt the press ofbattle. 

* * * * *

John Ingerfield, oil and tallow refiner, of Lavender Wharf, Limehouse, comes of a hard-headed, hard-fisted stock. The first of the race thatthe eye of Record, piercing the deepening mists upon the centuries behindher, is able to discern with any clearness is a long-haired, sea-bronzedpersonage, whom men call variously Inge or Unger. Out of the wild NorthSea he has come. Record observes him, one of a small, fierce group, standing on the sands of desolate Northumbria, staring landward, hisworldly wealth upon his back. This consists of a two-handed battle-axe, value perhaps some forty stycas in the currency of the time. A carefulman, with business capabilities, may, however, manipulate a small capitalto great advantage. In what would appear, to those accustomed to ourslow modern methods, an incredibly short space of time, Inge's two-handedbattle-axe has developed into wide lands and many head of cattle; whichlatter continue to multiply with a rapidity beyond the dreams of present-day breeders. Inge's descendants would seem to have inherited the geniusof their ancestor, for they prosper and their worldly goods increase. They are a money-making race. In all times, out of all things, by allmeans, they make money. They fight for money, marry for money, live formoney, are ready to die for money. 

In the days when the most saleable and the highest priced article in themarkets of Europe was a strong arm and a cool head, then each Ingerfield(as "Inge, " long rooted in Yorkshire soil, had grown or been corruptedto) was a soldier of fortune, and offered his strong arm and his coolhead to the highest bidder. They fought for their price, and they tookgood care that they obtained their price; but, the price settled, theyfought well, for they were staunch men and true, according to theirlights, though these lights may have been placed somewhat low down, nearthe earth. 

Then followed the days when the chief riches of the world lay tossed fordaring hands to grasp upon the bosom of the sea, and the sleeping spiritof the old Norse Rover stirred in their veins, and the lilt of a wild sea-song they had never heard kept ringing in their ears; and they built themships and sailed for the Spanish Main, and won much wealth, as was theirwont. 

Later on, when Civilisation began to lay down and enforce sterner rulesfor the game of life, and peaceful methods promised to prove moreprofitable than violent, the Ingerfields became traders and merchants ofgrave mien and sober life; for their ambition from generation togeneration remains ever the same, their various callings being but meansto an end. 

A hard, stern race of men they would seem to have been, but just--so faras they understood justice. They have the reputation of having been goodhusbands, fathers, and masters; but one cannot help thinking of them asmore respected than loved. 

They were men to exact the uttermost farthing due to them, yet notwithout a sense of the thing due from them, their own duty andresponsibility--nay, not altogether without their moments of heroism, which is the duty of great men. History relates how a certain CaptainIngerfield, returning with much treasure from the West Indies--howacquired it were, perhaps, best not to inquire too closely--is overhauledupon the high seas by King's frigate. Captain of King's frigate sendspolite message to Captain Ingerfield requesting him to be so kind as topromptly hand over a certain member of his ship's company, who, by somemeans or another, has made himself objectionable to King's friends, inorder that he (the said objectionable person) may be forthwith hangedfrom the yard-arm. 

Captain Ingerfield returns polite answer to Captain of King's frigatethat he (Captain Ingerfield) will, with much pleasure, hang any member ofhis ship's company that needs hanging, but that neither the King ofEngland nor any one else on God Almighty's sea is going to do it for him. Captain of King's frigate sends back word that if objectionable person benot at once given up he shall be compelled with much regret to sendIngerfield and his ship to the bottom of the Atlantic. Replies CaptainIngerfield, "That is just what he will have to do before I give up one ofmy people, " and fights the big frigate--fights it so fiercely that afterthree hours Captain of King's frigate thinks it will be good to tryargument again, and sends therefore a further message, courteouslyacknowledging Captain Ingerfield's courage and skill, and suggestingthat, he having done sufficient to vindicate his honour and renown, itwould be politic to now hand over the unimportant cause of contention, and so escape with his treasure. 

"Tell your Captain, " shouts back this Ingerfield, who has discoveredthere are sweeter things to fight for than even money, "that the _WildGoose_ has flown the seas with her belly full of treasure before now, andwill, if it be God's pleasure, so do again, but that master and man inher sail together, fight together, and die together. "

Whereupon King's frigate pounds away more vigorously than ever, andsucceeds eventually in carrying out her threat. Down goes the _WildGoose_, her last chase ended--down she goes with a plunge, spit foremostwith her colours flying; and down with her goes every man left standingon her decks; and at the bottom of the Atlantic they lie to this day, master and man side by side, keeping guard upon their treasure. 

Which incident, and it is well authenticated, goes far to prove that theIngerfields, hard men and grasping men though they be--men caring morefor the getting of money than for the getting of love--loving more thecold grip of gold than the grip of kith or kin, yet bear buried in theirhearts the seeds of a nobler manhood, for which, however, the barren soilof their ambition affords scant nourishment. 

The John Ingerfield of this story is a man very typical of his race. Hehas discovered that the oil and tallow refining business, though not apleasant one, is an exceedingly lucrative one. These are the good dayswhen George the Third is king, and London is rapidly becoming a city ofbright night. Tallow and oil and all materials akin thereto are in ever-growing request, and young John Ingerfield builds himself a largerefining house and warehouse in the growing suburb of Limehouse, whichlies between the teeming river and the quiet fields, gathers many peopleround about him, puts his strong heart into his work, and prospers. 

All the days of his youth he labours and garners, and lays out andgarners yet again. In early middle age he finds himself a wealthy man. The chief business of life, the getting of money, is practically done;his enterprise is firmly established, and will continue to grow with everless need of husbandry. It is time for him to think about the secondarybusiness of life, the getting together of a wife and home, for theIngerfields have ever been good citizens, worthy heads of families, openhanded hosts, making a brave show among friends and neighbours. 

John Ingerfield, sitting in his stiff, high-backed chair, in his stiffly, but solidly, furnished dining-room, above his counting-house, sippingslowly his one glass of port, takes counsel with himself. 

What shall she be?

He is rich, and can afford a good article. She must be young andhandsome, fit to grace the fine house he will take for her in fashionableBloomsbury, far from the odour and touch of oil and tallow. She must bewell bred, with a gracious, noble manner, that will charm his guests andreflect honour and credit upon himself; she must, above all, be of goodfamily, with a genealogical tree sufficiently umbrageous to hide LavenderWharf from the eyes of Society. 

What else she may or may not be he does not very much care. She will, ofcourse, be virtuous and moderately pious, as it is fit and proper thatwomen should be. It will also be well that her disposition be gentle andyielding, but that is of minor importance, at all events so far as he isconcerned: the Ingerfield husbands are not the class of men upon whomwives vent their tempers. 

Having decided in his mind _what_ she shall be, he proceeds to discusswith himself _who_ she shall be. His social circle is small. Methodically, in thought, he makes the entire round of it, mentallyscrutinising every maiden that he knows. Some are charming, some arefair, some are rich; but no one of them approaches near to his carefullyconsidered ideal. 

He keeps the subject in his mind, and muses on it in the intervals ofbusiness. At odd moments he jots down names as they occur to him upon aslip of paper, which he pins for the purpose on the inside of the coverof his desk. He arranges them alphabetically, and when it is as completeas his memory can make it, he goes critically down the list, making a fewnotes against each. As a result, it becomes clear to him that he mustseek among strangers for his wife. 

He has a friend, or rather an acquaintance, an old school-fellow, who hasdeveloped into one of those curious social flies that in all ages are tobe met with buzzing contentedly within the most exclusive circles, andconcerning whom, seeing that they are neither rare nor rich, norextraordinarily clever nor well born, one wonders "how the devil they gotthere!" Meeting this man by chance one afternoon, he links his arm inhis and invites him home to dinner. 

So soon as they are left alone, with the walnuts and wine between them, John Ingerfield says, thoughtfully cracking a hard nut between hisfingers--

"Will, I'm going to get married. "

"Excellent idea--delighted to hear it, I'm sure, " replies Will, somewhatless interested in the information than in the delicately flavouredMadeira he is lovingly sipping. "Who's the lady?"

"I don't know, yet, " is John Ingerfield's answer. 

His friend glances slyly at him over his glass, not sure whether he isexpected to be amused or sympathetically helpful. 

"I want you to find one for me. "

Will Cathcart puts down his glass and stares at his host across thetable. 

"Should be delighted to help you, Jack, " he stammers, in an alarmedtone--"'pon my soul I should; but really don't know a damned woman Icould recommend--'pon my soul I don't. "

"You must see a good many: I wish you'd look out for one that you _could_recommend. "

"Certainly I will, my dear Jack!" answers the other, in a relieved voice. "Never thought about 'em in that way before. Daresay I shall come acrossthe very girl to suit you. I'll keep my eyes open and let you know. "

"I shall be obliged to you if you will, " replies John Ingerfield, quietly; "and it's your turn, I think, to oblige me, Will. I haveobliged you, if you recollect. "

"Shall never forget it, my dear Jack, " murmurs Will, a little uneasily. "It was uncommonly good of you. You saved me from ruin, Jack: shallthink about it to my dying day--'pon my soul I shall. "

"No need to let it worry you for so long a period as that, " returns John, with the faintest suspicion of a smile playing round his firm mouth. "Thebill falls due at the end of next month. You can discharge the debtthen, and the matter will be off your mind. "

Will finds his chair growing uncomfortable under him, while the Madeirasomehow loses its flavour. He gives a short, nervous laugh. 

"By Jove, " he says: "so soon as that? The date had quite slipped mymemory. "

"Fortunate that I reminded you, " says John, the smile round his lipsdeepening. 

Will fidgets on his seat. "I'm afraid, my dear Jack, " he says, "I shallhave to get you to renew it, just for a month or two, --deuced awkwardthing, but I'm remarkably short of money this year. Truth is, I can'tget what's owing to myself. "

"That's very awkward, certainly, " replies his friend, "because I am notat all sure that I shall be able to renew it. "

Will stares at him in some alarm. "But what am I to do if I hav'n't themoney?"

John Ingerfield shrugs his shoulders. 

"You don't mean, my dear Jack, that you would put me in prison?"

"Why not? Other people have to go there who can't pay their debts. "

Will Cathcart's alarm grows to serious proportions. "But ourfriendship, " he cries, "our--"

"My dear Will, " interrupts the other, "there are few friends I would lendthree hundred pounds to and make no effort to get it back. You, certainly, are not one of them. "

"Let us make a bargain, " he continues. "Find me a wife, and on the dayof my marriage I will send you back that bill with, perhaps, a couple ofhundred added. If by the end of next month you have not introduced me toa lady fit to be, and willing to be, Mrs. John Ingerfield, I shalldecline to renew it. "

John Ingerfield refills his own glass and hospitably pushes the bottletowards his guest--who, however, contrary to his custom, takes no noticeof it, but stares hard at his shoe-buckles. 

"Are you serious?" he says at length. 

"Quite serious, " is the answer. "I want to marry. My wife must be alady by birth and education. She must be of good family--of familysufficiently good, indeed, to compensate for the refinery. She must beyoung and beautiful and charming. I am purely a business man. I want awoman capable of conducting the social department of my life. I know ofno such lady myself. I appeal to you, because you, I know, are intimatewith the class among whom she must be sought. "

"There may be some difficulty in persuading a lady of the requiredqualifications to accept the situation, " says Cathcart, with a touch ofmalice. 

"I want you to find one who will, " says John Ingerfield. 

Early in the evening Will Cathcart takes leave of his host, and departsthoughtful and anxious; and John Ingerfield strolls contemplatively upand down his wharf, for the smell of oil and tallow has grown to be verysweet to him, and it is pleasant to watch the moonbeams shining on thepiled-up casks. 

Six weeks go by. On the first day of the seventh John takes WillCathcart's acceptance from its place in the large safe, and lays it inthe smaller box beside his desk, devoted to more pressing and immediatebusiness. Two days later Cathcart picks his way across the slimy yard, passes through the counting-house, and enters his friend's inner sanctum, closing the door behind him. 

He wears a jubilant air, and slaps the grave John on the back. "I've gother, Jack, " he cries. "It's been hard work, I can tell you: soundingsuspicious old dowagers, bribing confidential servants, fishing forinformation among friends of the family. By Jove, I shall be able tojoin the Duke's staff as spy-in-chief to His Majesty's entire forcesafter this!"

"What is she like?" asks John, without stopping his writing. 

"Like! My dear Jack, you'll fall over head and ears in love with her themoment you see her. A little cold, perhaps, but that will just suityou. "

"Good family?" asks John, signing and folding the letter he has finished. 

"So good that I was afraid at first it would be useless thinking of her. But she's a sensible girl, no confounded nonsense about her, and thefamily are poor as church mice. In fact--well, to tell the truth, wehave become most excellent friends, and she told me herself frankly thatshe meant to marry a rich man, and didn't much care whom. "

"That sounds hopeful, " remarks the would-be bridegroom, with his peculiardry smile: "when shall I have the pleasure of seeing her?"

"I want you to come with me to-night to the Garden, " replies the other;"she will be in Lady Heatherington's box, and I will introduce you. "

So that evening John Ingerfield goes to Covent Garden Theatre, with theblood running a trifle quicker in his veins, but not much, than would bethe case were he going to the docks to purchase tallow--examines, covertly, the proposed article from the opposite side of the house, andapproves her--is introduced to her, and, on closer inspection, approvesher still more--receives an invitation to visit--visits frequently, andeach time is more satisfied of the rarity, serviceableness, and qualityof the article. 

If all John Ingerfield requires for a wife is a beautiful social machine, surely here he has found his ideal. Anne Singleton, only daughter ofthat persistently unfortunate but most charming of baronets, Sir HarrySingleton (more charming, it is rumoured, outside his family circle thanwithin it), is a stately graceful, high-bred woman. Her portrait, byReynolds, still to be seen above the carved wainscoting of one of the oldCity halls, shows a wonderfully handsome and clever face, but at the sametime a wonderfully cold and heartless one. It is the face of a womanhalf weary of, half sneering at the world. One reads in old familyletters, whereof the ink is now very faded and the paper very yellow, long criticisms of this portrait. The writers complain that if thepicture is at all like her she must have greatly changed since hergirlhood, for they remember her then as having a laughing and winsomeexpression. 

They say--they who knew her in after-life--that this earlier face cameback to her in the end, so that the many who remembered opening theireyes and seeing her bending down over them could never recognise theportrait of the beautiful sneering lady, even when they were told whom itrepresented. 

But at the time of John Ingerfield's strange wooing she was the AnneSingleton of Sir Joshua's portrait, and John Ingerfield liked her thebetter that she was. 

He had no feeling of sentiment in the matter himself, and it simplifiedthe case that she had none either. He offered her a plain bargain, andshe accepted it. For all he knew or cared, her attitude towards thissubject of marriage was the usual one assumed by women. Very young girlshad their heads full of romantic ideas. It was better for her and forhim that she had got rid of them. 

"Ours will be a union founded on good sense, " said John Ingerfield. 

"Let us hope the experiment will succeed, " said Anne Singleton. 

CHAPTER II. 

But the experiment does not succeed. The laws of God decree that manshall purchase woman, that woman shall give herself to man, for othercoin than that of good sense. Good sense is not a legal tender in themarriage mart. Men and women who enter therein with only sense in theirpurse have no right to complain if, on reaching home, they find they haveconcluded an unsatisfactory bargain. 

John Ingerfield, when he asked Anne Singleton to be his wife, felt nomore love for her than he felt for any of the other sumptuous householdappointments he was purchasing about the same time, and made no pretenceof doing so. Nor, had he done so, would she have believed him; for AnneSingleton has learned much in her twenty-two summers and winters, andknows that love is only a meteor in life's sky, and that the truelodestar of this world is gold. Anne Singleton has had her romance andburied it deep down in her deep nature and over its grave, to keep itsghost from rising, has piled the stones of indifference and contempt, asmany a woman has done before and since. Once upon a time Anne Singletonsat dreaming out a story. It was a story old as the hills--older thansome of them--but to her, then, it was quite new and very wonderful. Itcontained all the usual stock material common to such stories: the ladand the lass, the plighted troth, the richer suitors, the angry parents, the love that was worth braving all the world for. One day into thisdream there fell from the land of the waking a letter, a poor, pitifulletter: "You know I love you and only you, " it ran; "my heart will alwaysbe yours till I die. But my father threatens to stop my allowance, and, as you know, I have nothing of my own except debts. Some would call herhandsome, but how can I think of her beside you? Oh, why was money everlet to come into the world to curse us?" with many other puzzlingquestions of a like character, and much severe condemnation of Fate andHeaven and other parties generally, and much self-commiseration. 

Anne Singleton took long to read the letter. When she had finished it, and had read it through again, she rose, and, crushing it her hand, flungit in the fire with a laugh, and as the flame burnt up and died away feltthat her life had died with it, not knowing that bruised hearts can heal. 

So when John Ingerfield comes wooing, and speaks to her no word of lovebut only of money, she feels that here at last is a genuine voice thatshe can trust. Love of the lesser side of life is still left to her. Itwill be pleasant to be the wealthy mistress of a fine house, to givegreat receptions, to exchange the secret poverty of home for display andluxury. These things are offered to her on the very terms she would havesuggested herself. Accompanied by love she would have refused them, knowing she could give none in return. 

But a woman finds it one thing not to desire affection and another thingnot to possess it. Day by day the atmosphere of the fine house inBloomsbury grows cold and colder about her heart. Guests warm it attimes for a few hours, then depart, leaving it chillier than before. 

For her husband she attempts to feel indifference, but living creaturesjoined together cannot feel indifference for each other. Even two dogsin a leash are compelled to think of one another. A man and wife mustlove or hate, like or dislike, in degree as the bond connecting them isdrawn tight or allowed to hang slack. By mutual desire their chains ofwedlock have been fastened as loosely as respect for security willpermit, with the happy consequence that her aversion to him does notobtrude itself beyond the limits of politeness. 

Her part of the contract she faithfully fulfils, for the Singletons alsohave their code of honour. Her beauty, her tact, her charm, herinfluence, are devoted to his service--to the advancement of hisposition, the furtherance of his ambition. Doors that would otherwiseremain closed she opens to him. Society, that would otherwise pass bywith a sneer, sits round his table. His wishes and pleasures are hers. In all things she yields him wifely duty, seeks to render herselfagreeable to him, suffers in silence his occasional caresses. Whateverwas implied in the bargain, that she will perform to the letter. 

He, on his side, likewise performs his part with businesslikeconscientiousness--nay, seeing that the pleasing of her brings nopersonal gratification to himself--not without generosity. He is everthoughtful of and deferential to her, awarding her at all times anunvarying courteousness that is none the less sincere for being studied. Her every expressed want is gratified, her every known distasterespected. Conscious of his presence being an oppression to her, he iseven careful not to intrude it upon her oftener than is necessary. 

At times he asks himself, somewhat pertinently, what he has gained bymarriage--wonders whether this social race was quite the most interestinggame he could have elected to occupy his leisure--wonders whether, afterall, he would not have been happier over his counting-house than in thesesumptuous, glittering rooms, where he always seems, and feels himself tobe, the uninvited guest. 

The only feeling that a closer intimacy has created in him for his wifeis that of indulgent contempt. As there is no equality between man andwoman, so there can be no respect. She is a different being. He musteither look up to her as superior to himself, or down upon her asinferior. When a man does the former he is more or less in love, andlove to John Ingerfield is an unknown emotion. Her beauty, her charm, her social tact--even while he makes use of them for his own purposes, hedespises as the weapons of a weak nature. 

So in their big, cold mansion John Ingerfield and Anne, his wife, sit farapart, strangers to one another, neither desiring to know the othernearer. 

About his business he never speaks to her, and she never questions him. To compensate for the slight shrinkage of time he is able to devote toit, he becomes more strict and exacting; grows a harsher master to hispeople, a sterner creditor, a greedier dealer, squeezing the uttermostout of every one, feverish to grow richer, so that he may spend more uponthe game that day by day he finds more tiresome and uninteresting. 

And the piled-up casks upon his wharves increase and multiply; and on thedirty river his ships and barges lie in ever-lengthening lines; and roundhis greasy cauldrons sweating, witch-like creatures swarm in ever-densernumbers, stirring oil and tallow into gold. 

Until one summer, from its nest in the far East, there flutters westwarda foul thing. Hovering over Limehouse suburb, seeing it crowded andunclean, liking its fetid smell, it settles down upon it. 

Typhus is the creature's name. At first it lurks there unnoticed, battening upon the rich, rank food it finds around it, until, grown toobig to hide longer, it boldly shows its hideous head, and the white faceof Terror runs swiftly through alley and street, crying as it runs, forces itself into John Ingerfield's counting-house, and tells its tale. John Ingerfield sits for a while thinking. Then he mounts his horse andrides home at as hard a pace as the condition of the streets will allow. In the hall he meets Anne going out, and stops her. 

"Don't come too near me, " he says quietly. "Typhus fever has broken outat Limehouse, and they say one can communicate it, even without having itoneself. You had better leave London for a few weeks. Go down to yourfather's: I will come and fetch you when it is all over. "

He passes her, giving her a wide berth, and goes upstairs, where heremains for some minutes in conversation with his valet. Then, comingdown, he remounts and rides off again. 

After a little while Anne goes up into his room. His man is kneeling inthe middle of the floor, packing a valise. 

"Where are you to take it?" she asks. 

"Down to the wharf, ma'am, " answers the man: "Mr. Ingerfield is going tobe there for a day or two. "

Then Anne sits in the great empty drawing-room, and takes _her_ turn atthinking. 

John Ingerfield finds, on his return to Limehouse, that the evil hasgreatly increased during the short time he has been away. Fanned by fearand ignorance, fed by poverty and dirt, the scourge is spreading throughthe district like a fire. Long smouldering in secret, it has now burstforth at fifty different points at once. Not a street, not a court buthas its "case. " Over a dozen of John's hands are down with it already. Two more have sunk prostrate beside their work within the last hour. Thepanic grows grotesque. Men and women tear their clothes off, looking tosee if they have anywhere upon them a rash or a patch of mottled skin, find that they have, or imagine that they have, and rush, screaming, half-undressed, into the street. Two men, meeting in a narrow passage, bothrush back, too frightened to pass each other. A boy stoops down andscratches his leg--not an action that under ordinary circumstances wouldexcite much surprise in that neighbourhood. In an instant there is awild stampede from the room, the strong trampling on the weak in theireagerness to escape. 

These are not the days of organised defence against disease. There arekind hearts and willing hands in London town, but they are not yetclosely enough banded together to meet a swift foe such as this. Thereare hospitals and charities galore, but these are mostly in the City, maintained by the City Fathers for the exclusive benefit of poor citizensand members of the guilds. The few free hospitals are alreadyover-crowded and ill-prepared. Squalid, outlying Limehouse, belonging tonowhere, cared for by nobody, must fight for itself. 

John Ingerfield calls the older men together, and with their helpattempts to instil some sense and reason into his terrified people. Standing on the step of his counting-house, and addressing as many ofthem as are not too scared to listen, he tells them of the danger of fearand of the necessity for calmness and courage. 

"We must face and fight this thing like men, " he cries, in that deep, din-conquering voice that has served the Ingerfields in good stead on many asteel-swept field, on many a storm-struck sea; "there must be no cowardlyselfishness, no faint-hearted despair. If we've got to die we'll die;but please God we'll live. Anyhow, we will stick together, and help eachother. I mean to stop here with you, and do what I can for you. None ofmy people shall want. "

John Ingerfield ceases, and as the vibrations of his strong tones rollaway a sweet voice from beside him rises clear and firm:--

"I have come down to be with you also, and to help my husband. I shalltake charge of the nursing and tending of your sick, and I hope I shallbe of some real use to you. My husband and I are so sorry for you inyour trouble. I know you will be brave and patient. We will all do ourbest, and be hopeful. "

He turns, half expecting to see only the empty air and to wonder at thedelirium in his brain. She puts her hand in his, and their eyes meet;and in that moment, for the first time in their lives, these two see oneanother. 

They speak no word. There is no opportunity for words. There is work tobe done, and done quickly, and Anne grasps it with the greed of a womanlong hungry for the joy of doing. As John watches her moving swiftly andquietly through the bewildered throng, questioning, comforting, gentlycompelling, the thought comes to him, Ought he to allow her to be here, risking her life for his people? followed by the thought, How is he goingto prevent it? For in this hour the knowledge is born within him thatAnne is not his property; that he and she are fellow hands taking theirorders from the same Master; that though it be well for them to worktogether and help each other, they must not hinder one another. 

As yet John does not understand all this. The idea is new and strange tohim. He feels as the child in a fairy story on suddenly discovering thatthe trees and flowers has he passed by carelessly a thousand times canthink and talk. Once he whispers to her of the labour and the danger, but she answers simply, "They are my people too, John: it is my work";and he lets her have her way. 

Anne has a true woman's instinct for nursing, and her strong sense standsher in stead of experience. A glance into one or two of the squalid denswhere these people live tells her that if her patients are to be savedthey must be nursed away from their own homes; and she determines toconvert the large counting-house--a long, lofty room at the opposite endof the wharf to the refinery--into a temporary hospital. Selecting someseven or eight of the most reliable women to assist her, she proceeds toprepare it for its purpose. Ledgers might be volumes of poetry, bills oflading mere street ballads, for all the respect that is shown to them. The older clerks stand staring aghast, feeling that the end of all thingsis surely at hand, and that the universe is rushing down into space, until, their idleness being detected, they are themselves promptlyimpressed for the sacrilegious work, and made to assist in the demolitionof their own temple. 

Anne's commands are spoken very sweetly, and are accompanied by thesweetest of smiles; but they are nevertheless commands, and somehow itdoes not occur to any one to disobey them. John--stern, masterful, authoritative John, who has never been approached with anything moredictatorial than a timid request since he left Merchant Taylors' Schoolnineteen years ago, who would have thought that something had suddenlygone wrong with the laws of Nature if he had been--finds himself hurryingalong the street on his way to a druggist's shop, slackens his pace aninstant to ask himself why and wherefore he is doing so, recollects thathe was told to do so and to make haste back, marvels who could have daredto tell him to do anything and to make haste back, remembers that it wasAnne, is not quite sure what to think about it, but hurries on. He"makes haste back, " is praised for having been so quick, and feelspleased with himself; is sent off again in another direction, withinstructions what to say when he gets there. He starts off (he isbecoming used to being ordered about now). Halfway there great alarmseizes him, for on attempting to say over the message to himself, to besure that he has it quite right, he discovers he has forgotten it. Hepauses, nervous and excited; cogitates as to whether it will be safe forhim to concoct a message of his own, weighs anxiously thechances--supposing that he does so--of being found out. Suddenly, to hisintense surprise and relief, every word of what he was told to say comesback to him; and he hastens on, repeating it over and over to himself ashe walks, lest it should escape him again. 

And then a few hundred yards farther on there occurs one of the mostextraordinary events that has ever happened in that street before orsince: John Ingerfield laughs. 

John Ingerfield, of Lavender Wharf, after walking two-thirds of CreekLane, muttering to himself with his eyes on the ground, stops in themiddle of the road and laughs; and one small boy, who tells the story tohis dying day, sees him and hears him, and runs home at the top of hisspeed with the wonderful news, and is conscientiously slapped by hismother for telling lies. 

All that day Anne works like a heroine, John helping her, andoccasionally getting in the way. By night she has her little hospitalprepared and three beds already up and occupied; and, all now done thatcan be done, she and John go upstairs to his old rooms above the counting-house. 

John ushers her into them with some misgiving, for by contrast with thehouse at Bloomsbury they are poor and shabby. He places her in the arm-chair near the fire, begging her to rest quiet, and then assists his oldhousekeeper, whose wits, never of the strongest, have been scared by theday's proceeding, to lay the meal. 

Anne's eyes follow him as he moves about the room. Perhaps here, whereall the real part of his life has been passed, he is more his true selfthan amid the unfamiliar surroundings of fashion; perhaps this simplerframe shows him to greater advantage; but Anne wonders how it is she hasnever noticed before that he is a well-set, handsome man. Nor, indeed, is he so very old-looking. Is it a trick of the dim light, or what? Helooks almost young. But why should he not look young, seeing he is onlythirty-six, and at thirty-six a man is in his prime? Anne wonders whyshe has always thought of him as an elderly person. 

A portrait of one of John's ancestors hangs over the great mantelpiece--ofthat sturdy Captain Ingerfield who fought the King's frigate rather thangive up one of his people. Anne glances from the dead face to the livingand notes the strong likeness between them. Through her half-closed eyesshe sees the grim old captain hurling back his message of defiance, andhis face is the face she saw a few hours ago, saying, "I mean to stophere with you and do what I can for you. None of my people shall want. "

John is placing a chair for her at the table, and the light from thecandles falls upon him. She steals another glance at his face--a strong, stern, handsome face, capable of becoming a noble face. Anne wonders ifit has ever looked down tenderly at anyone; feels a sudden fierce pain atthe thought; dismisses the thought as impossible; wonders, nevertheless, how tenderness would suit it; thinks she would like to see a look oftenderness upon it, simply out of curiosity; wonders if she ever will. 

She rouses herself from her reverie as John, with a smile, tells hersupper is ready, and they seat themselves opposite each other, an odd airof embarrassment pervading. 

Day by day their work grows harder; day by day the foe grows stronger, fiercer, more all-conquering; and day by day, fighting side by sideagainst it, John Ingerfield and Anne, his wife, draw closer to eachother. On the battle-field of life we learn the worth of strength. Annefeels it good, when growing weary, to glance up and find him near her;feels it good, amid the troubled babel round her, to hear the deep, strong music of his voice. 

And John, watching Anne's fair figure moving to and fro among thestricken and the mourning; watching her fair, fluttering hands, busy withtheir holy work, her deep, soul-haunting eyes, changeful with the lightand shade of tenderness; listening to her sweet, clear voice, laughingwith the joyous, comforting the comfortless, gently commanding, softlypleading, finds creeping into his brain strange new thoughts concerningwomen--concerning this one woman in particular. 

One day, rummaging over an old chest, he comes across a coloured picture-book of Bible stories. He turns the torn pages fondly, remembering theSunday afternoons of long ago. At one picture, wherein are representedmany angels, he pauses; for in one of the younger angels of the group--onenot quite so severe of feature as her sisters--he fancies he can traceresemblance to Anne. He lingers long over it. Suddenly there rushesthrough his brain the thought, How good to stoop and kiss the sweet feetof such a woman! and, thinking it, he blushes like a boy. 

So from the soil of human suffering spring the flowers of human love andjoy, and from the flowers there fall the seeds of infinite pity for humanpain, God shaping all things to His ends. 

Thinking of Anne, John's face grows gentler, his hand kinder; dreaming ofhim, her heart grows stronger, deeper, fuller. Every available room inthe warehouse has been turned into a ward, and the little hospital isopen free to all, for John and Anne feel that the whole world are theirpeople. The piled-up casks are gone--shipped to Woolwich and Gravesend, bundled anywhere out of the way, as though oil and tallow and the goldthey can be stirred into were matters of small moment in this world, notto be thought of beside such a thing as the helping of a human brother insore strait. 

All the labour of the day seems light to them, looking forward to thehour when they sit together in John's old shabby dining-room above thecounting-house. Yet a looker-on might imagine such times dull to them;for they are strangely shy of one another, strangely sparing ofwords--fearful of opening the flood-gates of speech, feeling the pressureof the pent-up thought. 

One evening, John, throwing out words, not as a sop to the necessity fortalk, but as a bait to catch Anne's voice, mentions girdle-cakes, remembers that his old housekeeper used to be famous for the making ofthem, and wonders if she has forgotten the art. 

Anne, answering tremulously, as though girdle-cakes were a somewhatdelicate topic, claims to be a successful amateur of them herself. John, having been given always to understand that the talent for them wasexceedingly rare, and one usually hereditary, respectfully doubts Anne'scapabilities, deferentially suggesting that she is thinking of scones. Anne indignantly repudiates the insinuation, knows quite well thedifference between girdle-cakes and scones, offers to prove her powers bydescending into the kitchen and making some then and there, if John willaccompany her and find the things for her. 

John accepts the challenge, and, guiding Anne with one shy, awkward hand, while holding aloft a candle in the other, leads the way. It is past teno'clock, and the old housekeeper is in bed. At each creaking stair theypause, to listen if the noise has awakened her; then, finding all silent, creep forward again, with suppressed laughter, wondering with alarm, halffeigned, half real, what the prim, methodical dame would say were she tocome down and catch them. 

They reach the kitchen, thanks more to the suggestions of a friendly catthan to John's acquaintanceship with the geography of his own house; andAnne rakes together the fire and clears the table for her work. Whatpossible use John is to her--what need there was for her stipulating thathe should accompany her, Anne might find it difficult, if examined, toexplain satisfactorily. As for his "finding the things" for her, he hasnot the faintest notion where they are, and possesses no natural aptitudefor discovery. Told to find flour, he industriously searches for it inthe dresser drawers; sent for the rolling-pin--the nature andcharacteristics of rolling-pins being described to him for hisguidance--he returns, after a prolonged absence, with the copper stick. Anne laughs at him; but really it would seem as though she herself werealmost as stupid, for not until her hands are covered with flour does itoccur to her that she has not taken that preliminary step in all cookingoperations of rolling up her sleeves. 

She holds out her arms to John, first one and then the other, asking himsweetly if he minds doing it for her. John is very slow and clumsy, butAnne stands very patient. Inch by inch he peels the black sleeve fromthe white round arm. Hundreds of times must he have seen those fairarms, bare to the shoulder, sparkling with jewels; but never before hashe seen their wondrous beauty. He longs to clasp them round his neck, yet is fearful lest his trembling fingers touching them as he performshis tantalising task may offend her. Anne thanks him, and apologises forhaving given him so much trouble, and he murmurs some meaningless reply, and stands foolishly silent, watching her. 

Anne seems to find one hand sufficient for her cake-making, for the otherrests idly on the table--very near to one of John's, as she would seewere not her eyes so intent upon her work. How the impulse came to him, where he--grave, sober, business-man John--learnt such story-book wayscan never be known; but in one instant he is down on both knees, smothering the floury hand with kisses, and the next moment Anne's armsare round his neck and her lips against his, and the barrier between themis swept away, and the deep waters of their love rush together. 

With that kiss they enter a new life whereinto one may not follow them. One thinks it must have been a life made strangely beautiful byself-forgetfulness, strangely sweet by mutual devotion--a life too ideal, perhaps, to have remained for long undimmed by the mists of earth. 

They who remember them at that time speak of them in hushed tones, as onespeaks of visions. It would almost seem as though from their faces inthose days there shone a radiance, as though in their voices dwelt atenderness beyond the tenderness of man. 

They seem never to rest, never to weary. Day and night, through thatlittle stricken world, they come and go, bearing healing and peace, tillat last the plague, like some gorged beast of prey, slinks slowly backtowards its lair, and men raise their heads and breathe. 

One afternoon, returning from a somewhat longer round than usual, Johnfeels a weariness creeping into his limbs, and quickens his step, eagerto reach home and rest. Anne, who has been up all the previous night, isasleep, and not wishing to disturb her, he goes into the dining-room andsits down in the easy chair before the fire. The room strikes cold. Hestirs the logs, but they give out no greater heat. He draws his chairright in front of them, and sits leaning over them with his feet on thehearth and his hands outstretched towards the blaze; yet he stillshivers. 

Twilight fills the room and deepens into dusk. He wonders listlessly howit is that Time seems to be moving with such swift strides. After awhile he hears a voice close to him, speaking in a slow, monotonoustone--a voice curiously familiar to him, though he cannot tell to whom itbelongs. He does not turn his head, but sits listening to it drowsily. It is talking about tallow: one hundred and ninety-four casks of tallow, and they must all stand one inside the other. It cannot be done, thevoice complains pathetically. They will not go inside each other. It isno good pushing them. See! they only roll out again. 

The voice grows wearily fretful. Oh! why do they persist when they seeit is impossible? What fools they all are!

Suddenly he recollects the voice, and starts up and stares wildly abouthim, trying to remember where he is. With a fierce straining of his willhe grips the brain that is slipping away from him, and holds it. As soonas he feels sure of himself he steals out of the room and down thestairs. 

In the hall he stands listening; the house is very silent. He goes tothe head of the stairs leading to the kitchen and calls softly to the oldhousekeeper, and she comes up to him, panting and grunting as she climbseach step. Keeping some distance from her, he asks in a whisper whereAnne is. The woman answers that she is in the hospital. 

"Tell her I have been called away suddenly on business, " he says, speaking in quick, low tones: "I shall be away for some days. Tell herto leave here and return home immediately. They can do without her herenow. Tell her to go back home at once. I will join her there. "

He moves toward the door but stops and faces round again. 

"Tell her I beg and entreat her not to stop in this place an hour longer. There is nothing to keep her now. It is all over: there is nothing thatcannot be done by any one. Tell her she must go home--this very night. Tell her if she loves me to leave this place at once. "

The woman, a little bewildered by his vehemence, promises, and disappearsdown the stairs. He takes his hat and cloak from the chair on which hehad thrown them, and turns once more to cross the hall. As he does so, the door opens and Anne enters. 

He darts back into the shadow, squeezing himself against the wall. Annecalls to him laughingly, then, as he does not answer, with a frightenedaccent:

"John, --John, dear. Was not that you? Are not you there?"

He holds his breath, and crouches still closer into the dark corner; andAnne, thinking she must have been mistaken in the dim light, passes himand goes upstairs. 

Then he creeps stealthily to the door, lets himself out and closes itsoftly behind him. 

After the lapse of a few minutes the old housekeeper plods upstairs anddelivers John's message. Anne, finding it altogether incomprehensible, subjects the poor dame to severe examination, but fails to elicitanything further. What is the meaning of it? What "business" can havecompelled John, who for ten weeks has never let the word escape his lips, to leave her like this--without a word! without a kiss! Then suddenlyshe remembers the incident of a few moments ago, when she had called tohim, thinking she saw him, and he did not answer; and the whole truthstrikes her full in the heart. 

She refastens the bonnet-strings she has been slowly untying, and goesdown and out into the wet street. 

She makes her way rapidly to the house of the only doctor resident in theneighbourhood--a big, brusque-mannered man, who throughout these terribletwo months has been their chief stay and help. He meets her on herentrance with an embarrassed air that tells its own tale, and at oncerenders futile his clumsy attempts at acting:--

How should he know where John is? Who told her John had the fever--agreat, strong, hulking fellow like that? She has been working too hard, and has got fever on the brain. She must go straight back home, or shewill be having it herself. She is more likely to take it than John. 

Anne, waiting till he has finished jerking out sentences while stampingup and down the room, says gently, taking no notice of his denials, --"Ifyou will not tell me I must find out from some one else--that is all. "Then, her quick eyes noting his momentary hesitation, she lays her littlehand on his rough paw, and, with the shamelessness of a woman who lovesdeeply, wheedles everything out of him that he has promised to keepsecret. 

He stops her, however, as she is leaving the room. "Don't go in to himnow, " he says; "he will worry about you. Wait till to-morrow. "

So, while John lies counting endless casks of tallow, Anne sits by hisside, tending her last "case. "

Often in his delirium he calls her name, and she takes his fevered handin hers and holds it, and he falls asleep. 

Each morning the doctor comes and looks at him, asks a few questions andgives a few commonplace directions, but makes no comment. It would beidle his attempting to deceive her. 

The days move slowly through the darkened room. Anne watches his thinhands grow thinner, his sunken eyes grow bigger; yet remains strangelycalm, almost contented. 

Very near the end there comes an hour when John wakes as from a dream, and remembers all things clearly. 

He looks at her half gratefully, half reproachfully. 

"Anne, why are you here?" he asks, in a low, laboured voice. "Did theynot give you my message?"

For answer she turns her deep eyes upon him. 

"Would you have gone away and left me here to die?" she questions him, with a faint smile. 

She bends her head down nearer to him, so that her soft hair falls abouthis face. 

"Our lives were one, dear, " she whispers to him. "I could not have livedwithout you; God knew that. We shall be together always. "

She kisses him, and laying his head upon her breast, softly strokes it asshe might a child's; and he puts his weak arms around her. 

Later on she feels them growing cold about her, and lays him gently backupon the bed, looks for the last time into his eyes, then draws the lidsdown over them. 

His people ask that they may bury him in the churchyard hard by, so thathe may always be among them; and, Anne consenting, they do all thingsneedful with their own hands, wishful that no unloving labour may bemingled with their work. They lay him close to the porch, where, goingin and out the church, their feet will pass near to him; and one amongthem who is cunning with the graver's chisel shapes the stone. 

At the head he carves in bas-relief the figure of the good Samaritantending the brother fallen by the way, and underneath the letters, "InRemembrance of John Ingerfield. "

He thinks to put a verse of Scripture immediately after; but the gruffdoctor says, "Better leave a space, in case you want to add anothername. "

So the stone remains a little while unfinished; till the same hand carvesthereon, a few weeks later, "And of Anne, his Wife. "

THE WOMAN OF THE SAETER. 

Wild-reindeer stalking is hardly so exciting a sport as the evening'sverandah talk in Norroway hotels would lead the trustful traveller tosuppose. Under the charge of your guide, a very young man with thedreamy, wistful eyes of those who live in valleys, you leave thefarmstead early in the forenoon, arriving towards twilight at thedesolate hut which, for so long as you remain upon the uplands, will beyour somewhat cheerless headquarters. 

Next morning, in the chill, mist-laden dawn, you rise; and, after abreakfast of coffee and dried fish, shoulder your Remington, and stepforth silently into the raw, damp air; the guide locking the door behindyou, the key grating harshly in the rusty lock. 

For hour after hour you toil over the steep, stony ground, or windthrough the pines, speaking in whispers, lest your voice reach the quickears of your prey, that keeps its head ever pressed against the wind. Here and there, in the hollows of the hills lie wide fields of snow, overwhich you pick your steps thoughtfully, listening to the smotheredthunder of the torrent, tunnelling its way beneath your feet, andwondering whether the frozen arch above it be at all points as firm as isdesirable. Now and again, as in single file you walk cautiously alongsome jagged ridge, you catch glimpses of the green world, three thousandfeet below you; though you gaze not long upon the view, for yourattention is chiefly directed to watching the footprints of the guide, lest by deviating to the right or left you find yourself at one strideback in the valley--or, to be more correct, are found there. 

These things you do, and as exercise they are healthful and invigorating. But a reindeer you never see, and unless, overcoming the prejudices ofyour British-bred conscience, you care to take an occasional pop at afox, you had better have left your rifle at the hut, and, instead, havebrought a stick which would have been helpful. Notwithstanding which theguide continues sanguine, and in broken English, helped out by stirringgesture, tells of the terrible slaughter generally done by sportsmenunder his superintendence, and of the vast herds that generally infestthese fields; and when you grow sceptical upon the subject of Reins hewhispers alluringly of Bears. 

Once in a way you will come across a track, and will follow itbreathlessly for hours, and it will lead to a sheer precipice. Whetherthe explanation is suicide, or a reprehensible tendency on the part ofthe animal towards practical joking, you are left to decide for yourself. Then, with many rough miles between you and your rest, you abandon thechase. 

But I speak from personal experience merely. 

All day long we had tramped through the pitiless rain, stopping only foran hour at noon to eat some dried venison and smoke a pipe beneath theshelter of an overhanging cliff. Soon afterwards Michael knocked over aryper (a bird that will hardly take the trouble to hop out of your way)with his gun-barrel, which incident cheered us a little; and, later on, our flagging spirits were still further revived by the discovery ofapparently very recent deer-tracks. These we followed, forgetful, in oureagerness, of the lengthening distance back to the hut, of the fadingdaylight, of the gathering mist. The track led us higher and higher, farther and farther into the mountains, until on the shores of a desolaterock-bound vand it abruptly ended, and we stood staring at one another, and the snow began to fall. 

Unless in the next half-hour we could chance upon a saeter, this meantpassing the night upon the mountain. Michael and I looked at the guide;but though, with characteristic Norwegian sturdiness, he put a bold faceupon it, we could see that in that deepening darkness he knew no morethan we did. Wasting no time on words, we made straight for the nearestpoint of descent, knowing that any human habitation must be far below us. 

Down we scrambled, heedless of torn clothes and bleeding hands, thedarkness pressing closer round us. Then suddenly it became black--blackas pitch--and we could only hear each other. Another step might meandeath. We stretched out our hands, and felt each other. Why we spoke inwhispers, I do not know, but we seemed afraid of our own voices. Weagreed there was nothing for it but to stop where we were till morning, clinging to the short grass; so we lay there side by side, for what mayhave been five minutes or may have been an hour. Then, attempting toturn, I lost my grip and rolled. I made convulsive efforts to clutch theground, but the incline was too steep. How far I fell I could not say, but at last something stopped me. I felt it cautiously with my foot: itdid not yield, so I twisted myself round and touched it with my hand. Itseemed planted firmly in the earth. I passed my arm along to the right, then to the left. I shouted with joy. It was a fence. 

Rising and groping about me, I found an opening, and passed through, andcrept forward with palms outstretched until I touched the logs of a hut;then, feeling my way round, discovered the door, and knocked. There cameno response, so I knocked louder; then pushed, and the heavy woodworkyielded, groaning. But the darkness within was even darker than thedarkness without. The others had contrived to crawl down and join me. Michael struck a wax vesta and held it up, and slowly the room came outof the darkness and stood round us. 

Then something rather startling happened. Giving one swift glance abouthim, our guide uttered a cry, and rushed out into the night. We followedto the door, and called after him, but only a voice came to us out of theblackness, and the only words that we could catch, shrieked back interror, were: "_Saetervronen_! _Saetervronen_!" ("The woman of thesaeter"). 

"Some foolish superstition about the place, I suppose, " said Michael. "Inthese mountain solitudes men breed ghosts for company. Let us make afire. Perhaps, when he sees the light, his desire for food and sheltermay get the better of his fears. "

We felt about in the small enclosure round the house, and gatheredjuniper and birch-twigs, and kindled a fire upon the open stove built inthe corner of the room. Fortunately, we had some dried reindeer andbread in our bag, and on that and the ryper and the contents of ourflasks we supped. Afterwards, to while away the time, we made aninspection of the strange eyrie we had lighted on. 

It was an old log-built saeter. Some of these mountain farmsteads are asold as the stone ruins of other countries. Carvings of strange beastsand demons were upon its blackened rafters, and on the lintel, in runicletters, ran this legend: "Hund builded me in the days of Haarfager. " Thehouse consisted of two large apartments. Originally, no doubt, these hadbeen separate dwellings standing beside one another, but they were nowconnected by a long, low gallery. Most of the scanty furniture wasalmost as ancient as the walls themselves, but many articles of acomparatively recent date had been added. All was now, however, rottingand falling into decay. 

The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly by its last occupants. Household utensils lay as they were left, rust and dirt encrusted onthem. An open book, limp and mildewed, lay face downwards on the table, while many others were scattered about both rooms, together with muchpaper, scored with faded ink. The curtains hung in shreds about thewindows; a woman's cloak, of an antiquated fashion, drooped from a nailbehind the door. In an oak chest we found a tumbled heap of yellowletters. They were of various dates, extending over a period of fourmonths; and with them, apparently intended to receive them, lay a largeenvelope, inscribed with an address in London that has since disappeared. 

Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples, we read them by the dull glowof the burning juniper twigs, and, as we lay aside the last of them, there rose from the depths below us a wailing cry, and all night long itrose and died away, and rose again, and died away again; whether born ofour brain or of some human thing, God knows. 

And these, a little altered and shortened, are the letters:--

_Extract from first letter_:

 "I cannot tell you, my dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is to me after the racket and fret of town. I am almost quite recovered already, and am growing stronger every day; and, joy of joys, my brain has come back to me, fresher and more vigorous, I think, for its holiday. In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely, and the difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic. We are perched upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain. On one side the rock rises almost perpendicularly, piercing the sky; while on the other, two thousand feet below us, the torrent hurls itself into the black waters of the fiord. The house consists of two rooms--or, rather, it is two cabins connected by a passage. The larger one we use as a living room, and the other is our sleeping apartment. We have no servant, but do everything for ourselves. I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely. The nearest human habitation is eight miles away, across the mountain, and not a soul comes near us. I spend as much time as I can with her, however, during the day, and make up for it by working at night after she has gone to sleep; and when I question her, she only laughs, and answers that she loves to have me all to herself. (Here you will smile cynically, I know, and say, 'Humph, I wonder will she say the same when they have been married six years instead of six months. ') At the rate I am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the spring, and then, my dear fellow, you must try and come over, and we will walk and talk together 'amid these storm-reared temples of the gods. ' I have felt a new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to 'cudgel my brains, ' as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will make my name. "

_Part of the third letter_, _the second being mere talk about the book_(_a history apparently_) _that the man was writing_:

 "MY DEAR JOYCE, --I have written you two letters--this will make the third--but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are kindly people towards strangers--to say nothing of the inducements of trade. A fortnight having passed, however, and the commissariat question having become serious, I yesterday set out before dawn, and made my way down to the valley; and this gives me something to tell you. Nearing the village, I met a peasant woman. To my intense surprise, instead of returning my salutation, she stared at me, as if I were some wild animal, and shrank away from me as far as the width of the road would permit. In the village the same experience awaited me. The children ran from me, the people avoided me. At last a grey- haired old man appeared to take pity on me, and from him I learnt the explanation of the mystery. It seems there is a strange superstition attaching to this house in which we are living. My things were brought up here by the two men who accompanied me from Drontheim, but the natives are afraid to go near the place, and prefer to keep as far as possible from any one connected with it. 

"The story is that the house was built by one Hund, 'a maker of runes'(one of the old saga writers, no doubt), who lived here with his youngwife. All went peacefully until, unfortunately for him, a certain maidenstationed at a neighbouring saeter grew to love him. 

"Forgive me if I am telling you what you know, but a 'saeter' is the namegiven to the upland pastures to which, during the summer, are sent thecattle, generally under the charge of one or more of the maids. Here forthree months these girls will live in their lonely huts, entirely shutoff from the world. Customs change little in this land. Two or threesuch stations are within climbing distance of this house, at this day, looked after by the farmers' daughters, as in the days of Hund, 'maker ofrunes. '

"Every night, by devious mountain paths, the woman would come and taplightly at Hund's door. Hund had built himself two cabins, one behindthe other (these are now, as I think I have explained to you, connectedby a passage); the smaller one was the homestead; in the other he carvedand wrote, so that while the young wife slept the 'maker of runes' andthe saeter woman sat whispering. 

"One night, however, the wife learnt all things, but said no word. Then, as now, the ravine in front of the enclosure was crossed by a slightbridge of planks, and over this bridge the woman of the saeter passed andrepassed each night. On a day when Hund had gone down to fish in thefiord, the wife took an axe, and hacked and hewed at the bridge, yet itstill looked firm and solid; and that night, as Hund sat waiting in hisworkshop, there struck upon his ears a piercing cry, and a crashing oflogs and rolling rock, and then again the dull roaring of the torrent farbelow. 

"But the woman did not die unavenged; for that winter a man, skating fardown the fiord, noticed a curious object embedded in the ice; and when, stooping, he looked closer, he saw two corpses, one gripping the other bythe throat, and the bodies were the bodies of Hund and his young wife. 

"Since then, they say, the woman of the saeter haunts Hund's house, andif she sees a light within she taps upon the door, and no man may keepher out. Many, at different times, have tried to occupy the house, butstrange tales are told of them. 'Men do not live at Hund's saeter, ' saidmy old grey-haired friend, concluding his tale, --'they die there. '

"I have persuaded some of the braver of the villagers to bring whatprovisions and other necessaries we require up to a plateau about a milefrom the house and leave them there. That is the most I have been ableto do. It comes somewhat as a shock to one to find men and women--fairlyeducated and intelligent as many of them are--slaves to fears that onewould expect a child to laugh at. But there is no reasoning withsuperstition. "

_Extract from the same letter_, _but from a part seemingly written a dayor two later_:

 "At home I should have forgotten such a tale an hour after I had heard it, but these mountain fastnesses seem strangely fit to be the last stronghold of the supernatural. The woman haunts me already. At night instead of working, I find myself listening for her tapping at the door; and yesterday an incident occurred that makes me fear for my own common sense. I had gone out for a long walk alone, and the twilight was thickening into darkness as I neared home. Suddenly looking up from my reverie, I saw, standing on a knoll the other side of the ravine, the figure of a woman. She held a cloak about her head, and I could not see her face. I took off my cap, and called out a good-night to her, but she never moved or spoke. Then--God knows why, for my brain was full of other thoughts at the time--a clammy chill crept over me, and my tongue grew dry and parched. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her across the yawning gorge that divided us; and slowly she moved away, and passed into the gloom, and I continued my way. I have said nothing to Muriel, and shall not. The effect the story has had upon myself warns me not to do so. "

_From a letter dated eleven days later_:

 "She has come. I have known she would, since that evening I saw her on the mountain; and last night she came, and we have sat and looked into each other's eyes. You will say, of course, that I am mad--that I have not recovered from my fever--that I have been working too hard--that I have heard a foolish tale, and that it has filled my overstrung brain with foolish fancies: I have told myself all that. But the thing came, nevertheless--a creature of flesh and blood? a creature of air? a creature of my own imagination?--what matter? it was real to me. 

 "It came last night, as I sat working, alone. Each night I have waited for it, listened for it--longed for it, I know now. I heard the passing of its feet upon the bridge, the tapping of its hand upon the door, three times--tap, tap, tap. I felt my loins grow cold, and a pricking pain about my head; and I gripped my chair with both hands, and waited, and again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. I rose and slipped the bolt of the door leading to the other room, and again I waited, and again there came the tapping--tap, tap, tap. Then I opened the heavy outer door, and the wind rushed past me, scattering my papers, and the woman entered in, and I closed the door behind her. She threw her hood back from her head, and unwound a kerchief from about her neck, and laid it on the table. Then she crossed and sat before the fire, and I noticed her bare feet were damp with the night dew. 

 "I stood over against her and gazed at her, and she smiled at me--a strange, wicked smile, but I could have laid my soul at her feet. She never spoke or moved, and neither did I feel the need of spoken words, for I understood the meaning of those upon the Mount when they said, 'Let us make here tabernacles: it is good for us to be here. '

 "How long a time passed thus I do not know, but suddenly the woman held her hand up, listening, and there came a faint sound from the other room. Then swiftly she drew her hood about her face and passed out, closing the door softly behind her; and I drew back the bolt of the inner door and waited, and hearing nothing more, sat down, and must have fallen asleep in my chair. 

 "I awoke, and instantly there flashed through my mind the thought of the kerchief the woman had left behind her, and I started from my chair to hide it. But the table was already laid for breakfast, and my wife sat with her elbows on the table and her head between her hands, watching me with a look in her eyes that was new to me. 

 "She kissed me, though her lips were cold; and I argued to myself that the whole thing must have been a dream. But later in the day, passing the open door when her back was towards me, I saw her take the kerchief from a locked chest and look at it. 

 "I have told myself it must have been a kerchief of her own, and that all the rest has been my imagination; that, if not, then my strange visitant was no spirit, but a woman; and that, if human thing knows human thing, it was no creature of flesh and blood that sat beside me last night. Besides, what woman would she be? The nearest saeter is a three-hours' climb to a strong man, and the paths are dangerous even in daylight: what woman would have found them in the night? What woman would have chilled the air around her, and have made the blood flow cold through all my veins? Yet if she come again I will speak to her. I will stretch out my hand and see whether she be mortal thing or only air. "

_The fifth letter_:

 "MY DEAR JOYCE, --Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read to you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may one day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you, can laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide away, --putting the words down on paper saves my screaming them aloud. 

 "She comes each night now, taking the same seat beside the embers, and fixing upon me those eyes, with the hell-light in them, that burn into my brain; and at rare times she smiles, and all my being passes out of me, and is hers. I make no attempt to work. I sit listening for her footsteps on the creaking bridge, for the rustling of her feet upon the grass, for the tapping of her hand upon the door. No word is uttered between us. Each day I say: 'When she comes to-night I will speak to her. I will stretch out my hand and touch her. ' Yet when she enters, all thought and will goes out from me. 

 "Last night, as I stood gazing at her, my soul filled with her wondrous beauty as a lake with moonlight, her lips parted, and she started from her chair; and, turning, I thought I saw a white face pressed against the window, but as I looked it vanished. Then she drew her cloak about her, and passed out. I slid back the bolt I always draw now, and stole into the other room, and, taking down the lantern, held it above the bed. But Muriel's eyes were closed as if in sleep. "

_Extract from the sixth letter_:

 "It is not the night I fear, but the day. I hate the sight of this woman with whom I live, whom I call 'wife. ' I shrink from the blow of her cold lips, the curse of her stony eyes. She has seen, she has learnt; I feel it, I know it. Yet she winds her arms around my neck, and calls me sweetheart, and smoothes my hair with her soft, false hands. We speak mocking words of love to one another, but I know her cruel eyes are ever following me. She is plotting her revenge, and I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!"

_Part of the seventh letter_:

 "This morning I went down to the fiord. I told her I should not be back until the evening. She stood by the door watching me until we were mere specks to one another, and a promontory of the mountain shut me from view. Then, turning aside from the track, I made my way, running and stumbling over the jagged ground, round to the other side of the mountain, and began to climb again. It was slow, weary work. Often I had to go miles out of my road to avoid a ravine, and twice I reached a high point only to have to descend again. But at length I crossed the ridge, and crept down to a spot from where, concealed, I could spy upon my own house. She--my wife--stood by the flimsy bridge. A short hatchet, such as butchers use, was in her hand. She leant against a pine trunk, with her arm behind her, as one stands whose back aches with long stooping in some cramped position; and even at that distance I could see the cruel smile about her lips. 

 "Then I recrossed the ridge, and crawled down again, and, waiting until evening, walked slowly up the path. As I came in view of the house she saw me, and waved her handkerchief to me, and in answer I waved my hat, and shouted curses at her that the wind whirled away into the torrent. She met me with a kiss, and I breathed no hint to her that I had seen. Let her devil's work remain undisturbed. Let it prove to me what manner of thing this is that haunts me. If it be a spirit, then the bridge wilt bear it safely; if it be woman--

 "But I dismiss the thought. If it be human thing, why does it sit gazing at me, never speaking? why does my tongue refuse to question it? why does all power forsake me in its presence, so that I stand as in a dream? Yet if it be spirit, why do I hear the passing of her feet? and why does the night-rain glisten on her hair?

 "I force myself back into my chair. It is far into the night, and I am alone, waiting, listening. If it be spirit, she will come to me; and if it be woman, I shall hear her cry above the storm--unless it be a demon mocking me. 

 "I have heard the cry. It rose, piercing and shrill, above the storm, above the riving and rending of the bridge, above the downward crashing of the logs and loosened stones. I hear it as I listen now. It is cleaving its way upward from the depths below. It is wailing through the room as I sit writing. 

 "I have crawled upon my belly to the utmost edge of the still standing pier, until I could feel with my hand the jagged splinters left by the fallen planks, and have looked down. But the chasm was full to the brim with darkness. I shouted, but the wind shook my voice into mocking laughter. I sit here, feebly striking at the madness that is creeping nearer and nearer to me. I tell myself the whole thing is but the fever in my brain. The bridge was rotten. The storm was strong. The cry is but a single one among the many voices of the mountain. Yet still I listen; and it rises, clear and shrill, above the moaning of the pines, above the sobbing of the waters. It beats like blows upon my skull, and I know that she will never come again. "

_Extract from the last letter_:

 "I shall address an envelope to you, and leave it among these letters. Then, should I never come back, some chance wanderer may one day find and post them to you, and you will know. 

 "My books and writings remain untouched. We sit together of a night--this woman I call 'wife' and I--she holding in her hands some knitted thing that never grows longer by a single stitch, and I with a volume before me that is ever open at the same page. And day and night we watch each other stealthily, moving to and fro about the silent house; and at times, looking round swiftly, I catch the smile upon her lips before she has time to smooth it away. 

 "We speak like strangers about this and that, making talk to hide our thoughts. We make a pretence of busying ourselves about whatever will help us to keep apart from one another. 

 "At night, sitting here between the shadows and the dull glow of the smouldering twigs, I sometimes think I hear the tapping I have learnt to listen for, and I start from my seat, and softly open the door and look out. But only the Night stands there. Then I close-to the latch, and she--the living woman--asks me in her purring voice what sound I heard, hiding a smile as she stoops low over her work; and I answer lightly, and, moving towards her, put my arm about her, feeling her softness and her suppleness, and wondering, supposing I held her close to me with one arm while pressing her from me with the other, how long before I should hear the cracking of her bones. 

 "For here, amid these savage solitudes, I also am grown savage. The old primeval passions of love and hate stir within me, and they are fierce and cruel and strong, beyond what you men of the later ages could understand. The culture of the centuries has fallen from me as a flimsy garment whirled away by the mountain wind; the old savage instincts of the race lie bare. One day I shall twine my fingers about her full white throat, and her eyes will slowly come towards me, and her lips will part, and the red tongue creep out; and backwards, step by step, I shall push her before me, gazing the while upon her bloodless face, and it will be my turn to smile. Backwards through the open door, backwards along the garden path between the juniper bushes, backwards till her heels are overhanging the ravine, and she grips life with nothing but her little toes, I shall force her, step by step, before me. Then I shall lean forward, closer, closer, till I kiss her purpling lips, and down, down, down, past the startled sea- birds, past the white spray of the foss, past the downward peeping pines, down, down, down, we will go together, till we find the thing that lies sleeping beneath the waters of the fiord. "

With these words ended the last letter, unsigned. At the first streak ofdawn we left the house, and, after much wandering, found our way back tothe valley. But of our guide we heard no news. Whether he remainedstill upon the mountain, or whether by some false step he had perishedupon that night, we never learnt. 

VARIETY PATTER. 

My first appearance at a Music Hall was in the year one thousand eighthundred and s---. Well, I would rather not mention the exact date. Iwas fourteen at the time. It was during the Christmas holidays, and myaunt had given me five shillings to go and see Phelps--I think it wasPhelps--in _Coriolanus_--I think it was _Coriolanus_. Anyhow, it was tosee a high-class and improving entertainment, I know. 

I suggested that I should induce young Skegson, who lived in our road, togo with me. Skegson is a barrister now, and could not tell you thedifference between a knave of clubs and a club of knaves. A few yearshence he will, if he works hard, be innocent enough for a judge. But atthe period of which I speak he was a red-haired boy of worldly tastes, notwithstanding which I loved him as a brother. My dear mother wished tosee him before consenting to the arrangement, so as to be able to formher own opinion as to whether he was a fit and proper companion for me;and, accordingly, he was invited to tea. He came, and made a mostfavourable impression upon both my mother and my aunt. He had a way oftalking about the advantages of application to study in early life, andthe duties of youth towards those placed in authority over it, that wonfor him much esteem in grown-up circles. The spirit of the Bar haddescended upon Skegson at a very early period of his career. 

My aunt, indeed, was so much pleased with him that she gave him twoshillings towards his own expenses ("sprung half a dollar" was how heexplained the transaction when we were outside), and commended me to hisespecial care. 

Skegson was very silent during the journey. An idea was evidentlymaturing in his mind. At the Angel he stopped and said: "Look here, I'lltell you what we'll do. Don't let's go and see that rot. Let's go to aMusic Hall. "

I gasped for breath. I had heard of Music Halls. A stout lady haddenounced them across our dinner table on one occasion--fixing the whilea steely eye upon her husband, who sat opposite and seemeduncomfortable--as low, horrid places, where people smoked and drank, andwore short skirts, and had added an opinion that they ought to be putdown by the police--whether the skirts or the halls she did not explain. I also recollected that our charwoman, whose son had lately left Londonfor a protracted stay in Devonshire, had, in conversation with my mother, dated his downfall from the day when he first visited one of theseplaces; and likewise that Mrs. Philcox's nursemaid, upon her confessingthat she had spent an evening at one with her young man, had been calleda shameless hussy, and summarily dismissed as being no longer a fitassociate for the baby. 

But the spirit of lawlessness was strong within me in those days, so thatI hearkened to the voice of Skegson, the tempter, and he lured my feetfrom the paths that led to virtue and Sadler's Wells, and we wanderedinto the broad and crowded ways that branch off from the Angel towardsMerry Islington. 

Skegson insisted that we should do the thing in style, so we stopped at ashop near the Agricultural Hall and purchased some big cigars. A hugecard in the window claimed for these that they were "the mostsatisfactory twopenny smokes in London. " I smoked two of them during theevening, and never felt more satisfied--using the word in its true sense, as implying that a person has had enough of a thing, and does not desireany more of it, just then--in all my life. Where we went, and what wesaw, my memory is not very clear upon. We sat at a little marble table. I know it was marble because it was so hard, and cool to the head. Fromout of the smoky mist a ponderous creature of strange, undefined shapefloated heavily towards us, and deposited a squat tumbler in front of mecontaining a pale yellowish liquor, which subsequent investigation hasled me to believe must have been Scotch whisky. It seemed to me then themost nauseous stuff I had ever swallowed. It is curious to look back andnotice how one's tastes change. 

I reached home very late and very sick. That was my first dissipation, and, as a lesson, it has been of more practical use to me than all thegood books and sermons in the world could have been. I can remember tothis day standing in the middle of the room in my night-shirt, trying tocatch my bed as it came round. 

Next morning I confessed everything to my mother, and, for several monthsafterwards, was a reformed character. Indeed, the pendulum of myconscience swung too far the other way, and I grew exaggeratedlyremorseful and unhealthily moral. 

There was published in those days, for the edification of young people, asingularly pessimistic periodical, entitled _The Children's Band of HopeReview_. It was a magazine much in favour among grown-up people, and abound copy of Vol. IX. Had lately been won by my sister as a prize forpunctuality (I fancy she must have exhausted all the virtue she everpossessed, in that direction, upon the winning of that prize. At allevents, I have noticed no ostentatious display of the quality in herlater life. ) I had formerly expressed contempt for this book, but now, in my regenerate state, I took a morbid pleasure in poring over itsdenunciations of sin and sinners. There was one picture in it thatappeared peculiarly applicable to myself. It represented a gaudilycostumed young man, standing on the topmost of three steep steps, smokinga large cigar. Behind him was a very small church, and below, a brightand not altogether uninviting looking hell. The picture was headed "TheThree Steps to Ruin, " and the three stairs were labelled respectively"Smoking, " "Drinking, " "Gambling. " I had already travelled two-thirds ofthe road! Was I going all the way, or should I be able to retrace thosesteps? I used to lie awake at night and think about it till I grew halfcrazy. Alas! since then I have completed the descent, so where my futurewill be spent I do not care to think. 

Another picture in the book that troubled me was the frontispiece. Thiswas a highly-coloured print, illustrating the broad and narrow ways. Thenarrow way led upward past a Sunday-school and a lion to a city in theclouds. This city was referred to in the accompanying letterpress as aplace of "Rest and Peace, " but inasmuch as the town was represented inthe illustration as surrounded by a perfect mob of angels, each oneblowing a trumpet twice his own size, and obviously blowing it for all hewas worth, a certain confusion of ideas would seem to have crept into theallegory. 

The other path--the "broad way"--which ended in what at first glanceappeared to be a highly successful display of fireworks, started from thedoor of a tavern, and led past a Music Hall, on the steps of which stooda gentleman smoking a cigar. All the wicked people in this book smokedcigars--all except one young man who had killed his mother and diedraving mad. He had gone astray on short pipes. 

This made it uncomfortably clear to me which direction I had chosen, andI was greatly alarmed, until, on examining the picture more closely, Inoticed, with much satisfaction, that about midway the two paths wereconnected by a handy little bridge, by the use of which it seemedfeasible, starting on the one path and ending up on the other, to combinethe practical advantages of both roads. From subsequent observation Ihave come to the conclusion that a good many people have made a note ofthat little bridge. 

My own belief in the possibility of such convenient compromise must, Ifear, have led to an ethical relapse, for there recurs to my mind asomewhat painful scene of a few months' later date, in which I am seekingto convince a singularly unresponsive landed proprietor that my presencein his orchard is solely and entirely due to my having unfortunately lostmy way. 

It was not until I was nearly seventeen that the idea occurred to me tovisit a Music Hall again. Then, having regard to my double capacity of"Man About Town" and journalist (for I had written a letter to _The Era_, complaining of the way pit doors were made to open, and it had beeninserted), I felt I had no longer any right to neglect acquaintanceshipwith so important a feature in the life of the people. Accordingly, oneSaturday night, I wended my way to the "Pav. "; and there the first personthat I ran against was my uncle. He laid a heavy hand upon my shoulder, and asked me, in severe tones, what I was doing there. I felt this to bean awkward question, for it would have been useless trying to make himunderstand my real motives (one's own relations are never sympathetic), and I was somewhat nonplussed for an answer, until the reflectionoccurred to me: What was _he_ doing there? This riddle I, in my turn, propounded to him, with the result that we entered into treaty, by theterms of which it was agreed that no future reference should be made tothe meeting by either of us--especially not in the presence of myaunt--and the compact was ratified according to the usual custom, myuncle paying the necessary expenses. 

In those days, we sat, some four or six of us, round a little table, onwhich were placed our drinks. Now we have to balance them upon a narrowledge; and ladies, as they pass, dip the ends of their cloaks into them, and gentlemen stir them up for us with the ferrules of their umbrellas, or else sweep them off into our laps with their coat tails, saying asthey do so, "Oh, I beg your pardon. "

Also, in those days, there were "chairmen"--affable gentlemen, who woulddrink anything at anybody's expense, and drink any quantity of it, andnever seem to get any fuller. I was introduced to a Music Hall chairmanonce, and when I said to him, "What is your drink?" he took up the "listof beverages" that lay before him, and, opening it, waved his handlightly across its entire contents, from clarets, past champagnes andspirits, down to liqueurs. "That's my drink, my boy, " said he. Therewas nothing narrow-minded or exclusive about his tastes. 

It was the chairman's duty to introduce the artists. "Ladies andgentlemen, " he would shout, in a voice that united the musicalcharacteristics of a foghorn and a steam saw, "Miss 'EneriettaMontressor, the popular serio-comic, will now happear. " Theseannouncements were invariably received with great applause by thechairman himself, and generally with chilling indifference by the rest ofthe audience. 

It was also the privilege of the chairman to maintain order, andreprimand evil-doers. This he usually did very effectively, employingfor the purpose language both fit and forcible. One chairman that Iremember seemed, however, to be curiously deficient in the necessaryqualities for this part of his duty. He was a mild and sleepy littleman, and, unfortunately, he had to preside over an exceptionally rowdyaudience at a small hall in the South-East district. On the night that Iwas present, there occurred a great disturbance. "Joss Jessop, theMonarch of Mirth, " a gentleman evidently high in local request was, forsome reason or other, not forthcoming, and in his place the managementproposed to offer a female performer on the zithern, one SignorinaBallatino. 

The little chairman made the announcement in a nervous, deprecatory tone, as if he were rather ashamed of it himself. "Ladies and gentlemen, " hebegan, --the poor are staunch sticklers for etiquette: I overheard a smallchild explaining to her mother one night in Three Colts Street, Limehouse, that she could not get into the house because there was a"lady" on the doorstep, drunk, --"Signorina Ballatino, theworld-renowned--"

Here a voice from the gallery requested to know what had become of "OldJoss, " and was greeted by loud cries of "'Ear, 'ear. "

The chairman, ignoring the interruption, continued:

"--the world-renowned performer on the zither--"

"On the whoter?" came in tones of plaintive inquiry from the back of thehall. 

"_Hon_ the zither, " retorted the chairman, waxing mildly indignant; hemeant zithern, but he called it a zither. "A hinstrument well-known toanybody as 'as 'ad any learning. "

This sally was received with much favour, and a gentleman who claimed tobe acquainted with the family history of the interrupter begged thechairman to excuse that ill-bred person on the ground that his motherused to get drunk with the twopence a week and never sent him to school. 

Cheered by this breath of popularity, our little president endeavoured tocomplete his introduction of the Signorina. He again repeated that shewas the world-renowned performer on the zithern; and, undeterred by theaudible remark of a lady in the pit to the effect that she'd "never 'eardon 'er, " added:

"She will now, ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, give youexamples of the--"

"Blow yer zither!" here cried out the gentleman who had started theagitation; "we want Joss Jessop. "

This was the signal for much cheering and shrill whistling, in the midstof which a wag with a piping voice suggested as a reason for thefavourite's non-appearance that he had not been paid his last week'ssalary. 

A temporary lull occurred at this point; and the chairman, seizing theopportunity to complete his oft-impeded speech, suddenly remarked, "songsof the Sunny South"; and immediately sat down and began hammering uponthe table. 

Then Signora Ballatino, clothed in the costume of the Sunny South, whereclothes are less essential than in these colder climes, skipped airilyforward, and was most ungallantly greeted with a storm of groans andhisses. Her beloved instrument was unfeelingly alluded to as a pie-dish, and she was advised to take it back and get the penny on it. Thechairman, addressed by his Christian name of "Jimmee, " was told to liedown and let her sing him to sleep. Every time she attempted to startplaying, shouts were raised for Joss. 

At length the chairman, overcoming his evident disinclination to take anysort of hand whatever in the game, rose and gently hinted at thedesirability of silence. The suggestion not meeting with any support, heproceeded to adopt sterner measures. He addressed himself personally tothe ringleader of the rioters, the man who had first championed the causeof the absent Joss. This person was a brawny individual, who, judgingfrom appearances, followed in his business hours the calling of acoalheaver. "Yes, sir, " said the chairman, pointing a finger towardshim, where he sat in the front row of the gallery; "you, sir, in theflannel shirt. I can see you. Will you allow this lady to give herentertainment?"

"No, " answered he of the coalheaving profession, in stentorian tones. 

"Then, sir, " said the little chairman, working himself up into a statesuggestive of Jove about to launch a thunderbolt--"then, sir, all I cansay is that you are no gentleman. "

This was a little too much, or rather a good deal too little, for theSignora Ballatino. She had hitherto been standing in a meek attitude ofpathetic appeal, wearing a fixed smile of ineffable sweetness but sheevidently felt that she could go a bit farther than that herself, even ifshe was a lady. Calling the chairman "an old messer, " and telling himfor Gawd's sake to shut up if that was all he could do for his living, she came down to the front, and took the case into her own hands. 

She did not waste time on the rest of the audience. She went direct forthat coalheaver, and thereupon ensued a slanging match the memory ofwhich sends a trill of admiration through me even to this day. It was abattle worthy of the gods. He was a heaver of coals, quick and readybeyond his kind. During many years sojourn East and South, in the courseof many wanderings from Billingsgate to Limehouse Hole, from PetticoatLane to Whitechapel Road; out of eel-pie shop and penny gaff; out oftavern and street, and court and doss-house, he had gathered togetherslang words and terms and phrases, and they came back to him now, and hestood up against her manfully. 

But as well might the lamb stand up against the eagle, when the shadow ofits wings falls across the green pastures, and the wind flies before itsdark oncoming. At the end of two minutes he lay gasping, dazed, andspeechless. 

Then she began. 

She announced her intention of "wiping down the bloomin' 'all" with him, and making it respectable; and, metaphorically speaking, that is what shedid. Her tongue hit him between the eyes, and knocked him down andtrampled on him. It curled round and round him like a whip, and then ituncurled and wound the other way. It seized him by the scruff of hisneck, and tossed him up into the air, and caught him as he descended, andflung him to the ground, and rolled him on it. It played around him likeforked lightning, and blinded him. It danced and shrieked about him likea host of whirling fiends, and he tried to remember a prayer, and couldnot. It touched him lightly on the sole of his foot and the crown of hishead, and his hair stood up straight, and his limbs grew stiff. Thepeople sitting near him drew away, not feeling it safe to be near, andleft him alone, surrounded by space, and language. 

It was the most artistic piece of work of its kind that I have everheard. Every phrase she flung at him seemed to have been woven onpurpose to entangle him and to embrace in its choking folds his peopleand his gods, to strangle with its threads his every hope, ambition, andbelief. Each term she put upon him clung to him like a garment, andfitted him without a crease. The last name that she called him one feltto be, until one heard the next, the one name that he ought to have beenchristened by. 

For five and three-quarter minutes by the clock she spoke, and never forone instant did she pause or falter; and in the whole of that onslaughtthere was only one weak spot. 

That was when she offered to make a better man than he was out of a GuyFawkes and a lump of coal. You felt that one lump of coal would not havebeen sufficient. 

At the end, she gathered herself together for one supreme effort, andhurled at him an insult so bitter with scorn so sharp with insight intohis career and character, so heavy with prophetic curse, that strong mendrew and held their breath while it passed over them, and women hid theirfaces and shivered. 

Then she folded her arms, and stood silent; and the house, from floor toceiling, rose and cheered her until there was no more breath left in itslungs. 

In that one night she stepped from oblivion into success. She is now afamous "artiste. "

But she does not call herself Signora Ballatino, and she does not playupon the zithern. Her name has a homelier sound, and her speciality isthe delineation of coster character. 

SILHOUETTES. 

I fear I must be of a somewhat gruesome turn of mind. My sympathies arealways with the melancholy side of life and nature. I love the chillOctober days, when the brown leaves lie thick and sodden underneath yourfeet, and a low sound as of stifled sobbing is heard in the dampwoods--the evenings in late autumn time, when the white mist creepsacross the fields, making it seem as though old Earth, feeling the nightair cold to its poor bones, were drawing ghostly bedclothes round itswithered limbs. I like the twilight of the long grey street, sad withthe wailing cry of the distant muffin man. One thinks of him, as, strangely mitred, he glides by through the gloom, jangling his harshbell, as the High Priest of the pale spirit of Indigestion, summoning thedevout to come forth and worship. I find a sweetness in the achingdreariness of Sabbath afternoons in genteel suburbs--in the evil-ladendesolateness of waste places by the river, when the yellow fog isstealing inland across the ooze and mud, and the black tide gurglessoftly round worm-eaten piles. 

I love the bleak moor, when the thin long line of the winding road lieswhite on the darkening heath, while overhead some belated bird, vexedwith itself for being out so late, scurries across the dusky sky, screaming angrily. I love the lonely, sullen lake, hidden away inmountain solitudes. I suppose it was my childhood's surroundings thatinstilled in me this affection for sombre hues. One of my earliestrecollections is of a dreary marshland by the sea. By day, the waterstood there in wide, shallow pools. But when one looked in the eveningthey were pools of blood that lay there. 

It was a wild, dismal stretch of coast. One day, I found myself thereall alone--I forget how it came about--and, oh, how small I felt amid thesky and the sea and the sandhills! I ran, and ran, and ran, but I neverseemed to move; and then I cried, and screamed, louder and louder, andthe circling seagulls screamed back mockingly at me. It was an "unken"spot, as they say up North. 

In the far back days of the building of the world, a long, high ridge ofstones had been reared up by the sea, dividing the swampy grassland fromthe sand. Some of these stones--"pebbles, " so they called them roundabout--were as big as a man, and many as big as a fair-sized house; andwhen the sea was angry--and very prone he was to anger by that lonelyshore, and very quick to wrath; often have I known him sink to sleep witha peaceful smile on his rippling waves, to wake in fierce fury before thenight was spent--he would snatch up giant handfuls of these pebbles andfling and toss them here and there, till the noise of their rolling andcrashing could be heard by the watchers in the village afar off. 

"Old Nick's playing at marbles to-night, " they would say to one another, pausing to listen. And then the women would close tight their doors, andtry not to hear the sound. 

Far out to sea, by where the muddy mouth of the river yawned wide, thererose ever a thin white line of surf, and underneath those crested wavesthere dwelt a very fearsome thing, called the Bar. I grew to hate and beafraid of this mysterious Bar, for I heard it spoken of always with batedbreath, and I knew that it was very cruel to fisher folk, and hurt themso sometimes that they would cry whole days and nights together with thepain, or would sit with white scared faces, rocking themselves to andfro. 

Once when I was playing among the sandhills, there came by a tall, greywoman, bending beneath a load of driftwood. She paused when nearlyopposite to me, and, facing seaward, fixed her eyes upon the breakingsurf above the Bar. "Ah, how I hate the sight of your white teeth!" shemuttered; then turned and passed on. 

Another morning, walking through the village, I heard a low wailing comefrom one of the cottages, while a little farther on a group of women weregathered in the roadway, talking. "Ay, " said one of them, "I thought theBar was looking hungry last night. "

So, putting one and the other together, I concluded that the "Bar" mustbe an ogre, such as a body reads of in books, who lived in a coral castledeep below the river's mouth, and fed upon the fishermen as he caughtthem going down to the sea or coming home. 

From my bedroom window, on moonlight nights, I could watch the silveryfoam, marking the spot beneath where he lay hid; and I would stand on tip-toe, peering out, until at length I would come to fancy I could see hishideous form floating below the waters. Then, as the little white-sailedboats stole by him, tremblingly, I used to tremble too, lest he shouldsuddenly open his grim jaws and gulp them down; and when they had allsafely reached the dark, soft sea beyond, I would steal back to thebedside, and pray to God to make the Bar good, so that he would give upeating the poor fishermen. 

Another incident connected with that coast lives in my mind. It was themorning after a great storm--great even for that stormy coast--and thepassion-worn waters were still heaving with the memory of a fury that wasdead. Old Nick had scattered his marbles far and wide, and there wererents and fissures in the pebbly wall such as the oldest fisherman hadnever known before. Some of the hugest stones lay tossed a hundred yardsaway, and the waters had dug pits here and there along the ridge so deepthat a tall man might stand in some of them, and yet his head not reachthe level of the sand. 

Round one of these holes a small crowd was pressing eagerly, while oneman, standing in the hollow, was lifting the few remaining stones offsomething that lay there at the bottom. I pushed my way between thestraggling legs of a big fisher lad, and peered over with the rest. Aray of sunlight streamed down into the pit, and the thing at the bottomgleamed white. Sprawling there among the black pebbles it looked like ahuge spider. One by one the last stones were lifted away, and the thingwas left bare, and then the crowd looked at one another and shivered. 

"Wonder how he got there, " said a woman at length; "somebody must ha'helped him. "

"Some foreign chap, no doubt, " said the man who had lifted off thestones; "washed ashore and buried here by the sea. "

"What, six foot below the water-mark, wi' all they stones atop of him?"said another. 

"That's no foreign chap, " cried a grizzled old woman, pressing forward. "What's that that's aside him?"

Some one jumped down and took it from the stone where it lay glistening, and handed it up to her, and she clutched it in her skinny hand. It wasa gold earring, such as fishermen sometimes wear. But this was asomewhat large one, and of rather unusual shape. 

"That's young Abram Parsons, I tell 'ee, as lies down there, " cried theold creature, wildly. "I ought to know. I gave him the pair o' theseforty year ago. "

It may be only an idea of mine, born of after brooding upon the scene. Iam inclined to think it must be so, for I was only a child at the time, and would hardly have noticed such a thing. But it seems to myremembrance that as the old crone ceased, another woman in the crowdraised her eyes slowly, and fixed them on a withered, ancient man, wholeant upon a stick, and that for a moment, unnoticed by the rest, thesetwo stood looking strangely at each other. 

From these sea-scented scenes, my memory travels to a weary land wheredead ashes lie, and there is blackness--blackness everywhere. Blackrivers flow between black banks; black, stunted trees grow in blackfields; black withered flowers by black wayside. Black roads lead fromblackness past blackness to blackness; and along them trudge black, savage-looking men and women; and by them black, old-looking childrenplay grim, unchildish games. 

When the sun shines on this black land, it glitters black and hard; andwhen the rain falls a black mist rises towards heaven, like the hopelessprayer of a hopeless soul. 

By night it is less dreary, for then the sky gleams with a lurid light, and out of the darkness the red flames leap, and high up in the air theygambol and writhe--the demon spawn of that evil land, they seem. 

Visitors who came to our house would tell strange tales of this blackland, and some of the stories I am inclined to think were true. One mansaid he saw a young bull-dog fly at a boy and pin him by the throat. Thelad jumped about with much sprightliness, and tried to knock the dogaway. Whereupon the boy's father rushed out of the house, hard by, andcaught his son and heir roughly by the shoulder. "Keep still, thee young---, can't 'ee!" shouted the man angrily; "let 'un taste blood. "

Another time, I heard a lady tell how she had visited a cottage during astrike, to find the baby, together with the other children, almost dyingfor want of food. "Dear, dear me!" she cried, taking the wee wizenedmite from the mother's arms, "but I sent you down a quart of milk, yesterday. Hasn't the child had it?"

"Theer weer a little coom, thank 'ee kindly, ma'am, " the father took uponhimself to answer; "but thee see it weer only just enow for the poops. "

We lived in a big lonely house on the edge of a wide common. One night, I remember, just as I was reluctantly preparing to climb into bed, therecame a wild ringing at the gate, followed by a hoarse, shrieking cry, andthen a frenzied shaking of the iron bars. 

Then hurrying footsteps sounded through the house, and the swift openingand closing of doors; and I slipped back hastily into my knickerbockersand ran out. The women folk were gathered on the stairs, while my fatherstood in the hall, calling to them to be quiet. And still the wildringing of the bell continued, and, above it, the hoarse, shrieking cry. 

My father opened the door and went out, and we could hear him stridingdown the gravel path, and we clung to one another and waited. 

After what seemed an endless time, we heard the heavy gate unbarred, andquickly clanged to, and footsteps returning on the gravel. Then the dooropened again, and my father entered, and behind him a crouching figurethat felt its way with its hands as it crept along, as a blind man might. The figure stood up when it reached the middle of the hall, and moppedits eyes with a dirty rag that it carried in its hand; after which itheld the rag over the umbrella-stand and wrung it out, as washerwomenwring out clothes, and the dark drippings fell into the tray with a dull, heavy splut. 

My father whispered something to my mother, and she went out towards theback; and, in a little while, we heard the stamping of hoofs--the angryplunge of a spur-startled horse--the rhythmic throb of the long, straightgallop, dying away into the distance. 

My mother returned and spoke some reassuring words to the servants. Myfather, having made fast the door and extinguished all but one or two ofthe lights, had gone into a small room on the right of the hall; thecrouching figure, still mopping that moisture from its eyes, followinghim. We could hear them talking there in low tones, my fatherquestioning, the other voice thick and interspersed with short pantinggrunts. 

We on the stairs huddled closer together, and, in the darkness, I felt mymother's arm steal round me and encompass me, so that I was not afraid. Then we waited, while the silence round our frightened whispers thickenedand grew heavy till the weight of it seemed to hurt us. 

At length, out of its depths, there crept to our ears a faint murmur. Itgathered strength like the sound of the oncoming of a wave upon a stonyshore, until it broke in a Babel of vehement voices just outside. Aftera few moments, the hubbub ceased, and there came a furious ringing--thenangry shouts demanding admittance. 

Some of the women began to cry. My father came out into the hall, closing the room door behind him, and ordered them to be quiet, sosternly that they were stunned into silence. The furious ringing wasrepeated; and, this time, threats mingled among the hoarse shouts. Mymother's arm tightened around me, and I could hear the beating of herheart. 

The voices outside the gate sank into a low confused mumbling. Soon theydied away altogether, and the silence flowed back. 

My father turned up the hall lamp, and stood listening. 

Suddenly, from the back of the house, rose the noise of a great crashing, followed by oaths and savage laughter. 

My father rushed forward, but was borne back; and, in an instant, thehall was full of grim, ferocious faces. My father, trembling a little(or else it was the shadow cast by the flickering lamp), and with lipstight pressed, stood confronting them; while we women and children, tooscared to even cry, shrank back up the stairs. 

What followed during the next few moments is, in my memory, only aconfused tumult, above which my father's high, clear tones rise every nowand again, entreating, arguing, commanding. I see nothing distinctlyuntil one of the grimmest of the faces thrusts itself before the others, and a voice which, like Aaron's rod, swallows up all its fellows, says indeep, determined bass, "Coom, we've had enow chatter, master. Thee mungive 'un up, or thee mun get out o' th' way an' we'll search th' housefor oursel'. "

Then a light flashed into my father's eyes that kindled something insideme, so that the fear went out of me, and I struggled to free myself frommy mother's arm, for the desire stirred me to fling myself down upon thegrimy faces below, and beat and stamp upon them with my fists. Springingacross the hall, he snatched from the wall where it hung an ancient club, part of a trophy of old armour, and planting his back against the doorthrough which they would have to pass, he shouted, "Then be damned to youall, he's in this room! Come and fetch him out. "

(I recollect that speech well. I puzzled over it, even at that time, excited though I was. I had always been told that only low, wickedpeople ever used the word "damn, " and I tried to reconcile things, andfailed. )

The men drew back and muttered among themselves. It was an ugly-lookingweapon, studded with iron spikes. My father held it secured to his handby a chain, and there was an ugly look about him also, now, that gave hisface a strange likeness to the dark faces round him. 

But my mother grew very white and cold, and underneath her breath shekept crying, "Oh, will they never come--will they never come?" and acricket somewhere about the house began to chirp. 

Then all at once, without a word, my mother flew down the stairs, andpassed like a flash of light through the crowd of dusky figures. How shedid it I could never understand, for the two heavy bolts had both beendrawn, but the next moment the door stood wide open; and a hum of voices, cheery with the anticipation of a period of perfect bliss, was borne inupon the cool night air. 

My mother was always very quick of hearing. 

* * * * *

Again, I see a wild crowd of grim faces, and my father's, very pale, amongst them. But this time the faces are very many, and they come andgo like faces in a dream. The ground beneath my feet is wet and sloppy, and a black rain is falling. There are women's faces in the crowd, wildand haggard, and long skinny arms stretch out threateningly towards myfather, and shrill, frenzied voices call out curses on him. Boys' facesalso pass me in the grey light, and on some of them there is an impishgrin. 

I seem to be in everybody's way; and to get out of it, I crawl into adark, draughty corner and crouch there among cinders. Around me, greatengines fiercely strain and pant like living things fighting beyond theirstrength. Their gaunt arms whirl madly above me, and the ground rockswith their throbbing. Dark figures flit to and fro, pausing from time totime to wipe the black sweat from their faces. 

The pale light fades, and the flame-lit night lies red upon the land. Theflitting figures take strange shapes. I hear the hissing of wheels, thefurious clanking of iron chains, the hoarse shouting of many voices, thehurrying tread of many feet; and, through all, the wailing and weepingand cursing that never seem to cease. I drop into a restless sleep, anddream that I have broken a chapel window, stone-throwing, and have diedand gone to hell. 

At length, a cold hand is laid upon my shoulder, and I awake. The wildfaces have vanished and all is silent now, and I wonder if the wholething has been a dream. My father lifts me into the dog-cart, and wedrive home through the chill dawn. 

My mother opens the door softly as we alight. She does not speak, onlylooks her question. "It's all over, Maggie, " answers my father veryquietly, as he takes off his coat and lays it across a chair; "we've gotto begin the world afresh. "

My mother's arms steal up about his neck; and I, feeling heavy with atrouble I do not understand, creep off to bed. 

THE LEASE OF THE "CROSS KEYS. "

This story is about a shop: many stories are. One Sunday evening thisBishop had to preach a sermon at St. Paul's Cathedral. The occasion wasa very special and important one, and every God-fearing newspaper in thekingdom sent its own special representative to report the proceedings. 

Now, of the three reporters thus commissioned, one was a man ofappearance so eminently respectable that no one would have thought oftaking him for a journalist. People used to put him down for a CountyCouncillor or an Archdeacon at the very least. As a matter of fact, however, he was a sinful man, with a passion for gin. He lived at Bow, and, on the Sabbath in question, he left his home at five o'clock in theafternoon, and started to walk to the scene of his labours. The roadfrom Bow to the City on a wet and chilly Sunday evening is a cheerlessone; who can blame him if on his way he stopped once or twice to comforthimself with "two" of his favourite beverage? On reaching St. Paul's hefound he had twenty minutes to spare--just time enough for one final"nip. " Half way down a narrow court leading out of the Churchyard hefound a quiet little hostelry, and, entering the private bar, whisperedinsinuatingly across the counter:

"Two of gin hot, if you please, my dear. "

His voice had the self-satisfied meekness of the successful ecclesiastic, his bearing suggested rectitude tempered by desire to avoid observation. The barmaid, impressed by his manner and appearance, drew the attentionof the landlord to him. The landlord covertly took stock of so much ofhim as could be seen between his buttoned-up coat and his drawn-down hat, and wondered how so bland and innocent-looking a gentleman came to knowof gin. 

A landlord's duty, however, is not to wonder, but to serve. The gin wasgiven to the man, and the man drank it. He liked it. It was good gin:he was a connoisseur, and he knew. Indeed, so good did it seem to himthat he felt it would be a waste of opportunity not to have anothertwopen'orth. Therefore he had a second "go"; maybe a third. Then hereturned to the Cathedral, and sat himself down with his notebook on hisknee and waited. 

As the service proceeded there stole over him that spirit of indifferenceto all earthly surroundings that religion and drink are alone able tobestow. He heard the good Bishop's text and wrote it down. Then heheard the Bishop's "sixthly and lastly, " and took that down, and lookedat his notebook and wondered in a peaceful way what had become of the"firstly" to "fifthly" inclusive. He sat there wondering until thepeople round him began to get up and move away, whereupon it struck himswiftly and suddenly that be had been asleep, and had thereby escaped themain body of the discourse. 

What on earth was he to do? He was representing one of the leadingreligious papers. A full report of the sermon was wanted that verynight. Seizing the robe of a passing wandsman, he tremulously inquiredif the Bishop had yet left the Cathedral. The wandsman answered that hehad not, but that he was just on the point of doing so. 

"I must see him before he goes!" exclaimed the reporter, excitedly. 

"You can't, " replied the wandsman. The journalist grew frantic. 

"Tell him, " he cried, "a penitent sinner desires to speak with him aboutthe sermon he has just delivered. To-morrow it will be too late. "

The wandsman was touched; so was the Bishop. He said he would see thepoor fellow. 

As soon as the door was shut the man, with tears in his eyes, told theBishop the truth--leaving out the gin. He said that he was a poor man, and not in good health, that he had been up half the night before, andhad walked all the way from Bow that evening. He dwelt on the disastrousresults to himself and his family should he fail to obtain a report ofthe sermon. The Bishop felt sorry for the man. Also, he was anxiousthat his sermon should be reported. 

"Well, I trust it will be a warning to you against going to sleep inchurch, " he said, with an indulgent smile. "Luckily, I have brought mynotes with me, and if you will promise to be very careful of them, and tobring them back to me the first thing in the morning, I will lend them toyou. "

With this, the Bishop opened and handed to the man a neat little blackleather bag, inside which lay a neat little roll of manuscript. 

"Better take the bag to keep it in, " added the Bishop. "Be sure and letme have them both back early to-morrow. "

The reporter, when he examined the contents of the bag under a lamp inthe Cathedral vestibule, could hardly believe his good fortune. Thecareful Bishop's notes were so full and clear that for all practicalpurposes they were equal to a report. His work was already done. Hefelt so pleased with himself that he determined to treat himself toanother "two" of gin, and, with this intent, made his way across to thelittle "public" before-mentioned. 

"It's really excellent gin you sell here, " he said to the barmaid when hehad finished; "I think, my dear, I'll have just one more. "

At eleven the landlord gently but firmly insisted on his leaving, and hewent, assisted, as far as the end of the court, by the potboy. After hewas gone, the landlord noticed a neat little black bag on the seat wherehe had been lying. Examining it closely, he discovered a brass platebetween the handles, and upon the brass plate were engraved the owner'sname and title. Opening the bag, the landlord saw a neat little roll ofmanuscript, and across a corner of the manuscript was written theBishop's name and address. 

The landlord blew a long, low whistle, and stood with his round eyes wideopen gazing down at the open bag. Then he put on his hat and coat, andtaking the bag, went out down the court, chuckling hugely as he walked. He went straight to the house of the Resident Canon and rang the bell. 

"Tell Mr. ---, " he said to the servant, "that I must see him to-night. Iwouldn't disturb him at this late hour if it wasn't something veryimportant. "

The landlord was ushered up. Closing the door softly behind him, hecoughed deferentially. 

"Well, Mr. Peters" (I will call him "Peters"), said the Canon, "what isit?"

"Well, sir, " said Mr. Peters, slowly and deliberately, "it's about thatthere lease o' mine. I do hope you gentlemen will see your way to makin'it twenty-one year instead o' fourteen. "

"God bless the man!" cried the Canon, jumping up indignantly, "you don'tmean to say you've come to me at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night to talkabout your lease?"

"Well, not entirely, sir, " answered Peters, unabashed; "there's anotherlittle thing I wished to speak to you about, and that's this"--sayingwhich, he laid the Bishop's bag before the Canon and told his story. 

The Canon looked at Mr. Peters, and Mr. Peters looked at the Canon. 

"There must be some mistake, " said the Canon. 

"There's no mistake, " said the landlord. "I had my suspicions when Ifirst clapped eyes on him. I seed he wasn't our usual sort, and I seedhow he tried to hide his face. If he weren't the Bishop, then I don'tknow a Bishop when I sees one, that's all. Besides, there's his bag, andthere's his sermon. "

Mr. Peters folded his arms and waited. The Canon pondered. Such thingshad been known to happen before in Church history. Why not again?

"Does any one know of this besides yourself?" asked the Canon. 

"Not a livin' soul, " replied Mr. Peters, "as yet. "

"I think--I think, Mr. Peters, " said the Canon, "that we may be able toextend your lease to twenty-one years. "

"Thank you kindly, sir, " said the landlord, and departed. Next morningthe Canon waited on the Bishop and laid the bag before him. 

"Oh, " said the Bishop cheerfully, "he's sent it back by you, has he?"

"He has, sir, " replied the Canon; "and thankful I am that it was to me hebrought it. It is right, " continued the Canon, "that I should informyour lordship that I am aware of the circumstances under which it leftyour hands. "

The Canon's eye was severe, and the Bishop laughed uneasily. 

"I suppose it wasn't quite the thing for me to do, " he answeredapologetically; "but there, all's well that ends well, " and the Bishoplaughed. 

This stung the Canon. "Oh, sir, " he exclaimed, with a burst of fervour, "in Heaven's name--for the sake of our Church, let me entreat--let mepray you never to let such a thing occur again. "

The Bishop turned upon him angrily. 

"Why, what a fuss you make about a little thing!" he cried; then, seeingthe look of agony upon the other's face, he paused. 

"How did you get that bag?" he asked. 

"The landlord of the Cross Keys brought it me, " answered the Canon; "youleft it there last night. "

The Bishop gave a gasp, and sat down heavily. When he recovered hisbreath, he told the Canon the real history of the case; and the Canon isstill trying to believe it.