THE 
 
 REPUTATION OF GEORGE SAXON. 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
THE REPUTATION OF 
 GEORGE SAXON, 
 
 ^uD otf)tv atones* 
 
 MORLEY .ROBERTS. 
 
 CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited; 
 
 LONDON, PARIS 6^ MELBOURNE. 
 
 1892. 
 
 [all rights reserved.] 
 
 ■ - \ 
 

 
 'k 
 
 CONTENTS. / 
 
 PACK 
 
 THE REPUTATION OF GEORGE SAXON . . . . u 
 
 THE ARTIST ........... 53 
 
 THE BRONZE CASTER 67 
 
 EXLEX 95 
 
 A NOBLE GERMAN 113 
 
 /the troubles of JOHANN ECKERT .... 141 
 
 THE PLOT OF HIS STORY 179 
 
 / ON BEAR CREEK . . . . i i J^, ' ••'',='. ••' ^o^- 
 
 X THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE ..... ... 2-^^ 
 
 y SAM JACKSON'S SNAKE . 255 
 
 /frANCKE AND PARTY 269 
 
 923740 
 
THE REPUTATION OF GEORGE SAXON. 
 
II 
 
 THE REPUTATION OF GEORGE 
 SAXON. 
 
 Some months after George Saxon came into his 
 fortune — which, by the way, was fully the quarter of 
 a million reported by the papers — I received a note 
 from him asking me to call at his chambers. I had 
 wondered much whether our old familiar intercourse 
 in the office of Messrs. Repton and Lyne, Publishers, 
 Paternoster Row, was to come entirely to an end 
 when he received this great accession of wealth, and 
 it pleased me to think that he was still mindful of 
 the fact that we had been much to each other in the 
 days gone by. For tw^o clerks in a publishing-office 
 who had secret literary aspirations could not help 
 being either friends or enemies^ and we certainly 
 were not the latter, though I confes^s coming to the 
 conclusion — which to all appeararip.c ;b^s: since be,eri* 
 falsified — that he possessed no real iitt^x^^y" QXfih%y\ ^ 
 whereas my own verse was distinctly good, l fancy ' 
 he really recognised what the truth was on that point, 
 although he was so inordinately vain, and had such 
 
12 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 an insatiable appetite for praise, that I often thought 
 his mind was not quite so healthy as it should be. 
 Yet I certainly was glad to see him again. 
 
 As I walked up from the city I thought of his 
 first coherent words on learning that three sudden 
 and unexpected deaths had made him the heir to so 
 much money. He had said, '' Now I shall be able to 
 do something," referring of course to those literary 
 aspirations which he and I had found well to conceal 
 in Paternoster Row. Our employers, having dealings 
 with would-be poets, were even more likely than 
 the public to esteem such men fools, and doubtless 
 shared the common opinion which stamps them as 
 idiots until they have made money. Yet now George 
 was free, and in a position to please himself, I 
 sincerely hoped he would also please my critical 
 faculty by consigning his verses to a well-merited 
 oblivion. Rather unjustly, I doubted his self-dis- 
 cernment. 
 
 I found him in no such luxurious quarters as my 
 imagination had suggested. Still, a flat in Piccadilly 
 must have zvs\ htm twice my yearly income, and 
 Vvlica I cniered his library the sight of his books gave 
 me the only pang of envy I ever experienced during 
 our friendship and the period — which could hardly 
 be called such — that was soon to bes^in. For it will 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 13 
 
 be seen that, poor as I was, I had little cause to envy 
 him in the end. 
 
 " Well, George," I said, with a sigh, which I could 
 not quite suppress, so great was the contrast between 
 my home and his, " this is a change, is it not ? Who 
 would have imagined it if he had seen your rooms at 
 Camberwell ? You are a lucky man ! " 
 
 In spite of his luck, I thought he looked worried 
 and anxious. He spoke without lifting his head. 
 
 " I have heard that before. Will ; but money can't 
 get everything, after all." 
 
 " I should like to know what it cannot get, except 
 youth or beauty ; it will go far to get health, even." 
 
 " Hum ! " said George, and then relapsed into 
 silence. I began to see he had something on his 
 mind. But presently he rang the bell, and ordered . 
 in whiskey. He gave me the best cigar I ever smoked 
 in my life, and pressed me to drink. He took a very 
 fair quantity himself, and presently began to walk up 
 and down the room. Once or twice I thought he was 
 going to speak, but he checked himself. 
 
 ''Do you take advantage of your leisure and 
 write now, George } " I asked, as I sat stretched out 
 before the fire. He stopped walking about, and leant 
 against the mantelpiece in rather a dejected attitude. 
 It was the first time I ever thought him at all good- 
 
14 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 looking, for though he was tall and fair — a great 
 contrast to me, by the way — his features were very 
 irregular. However, with rather longer hair than is 
 considered the proper thing in the City, and hand- 
 some clothes, he did not look bad. He waited to 
 answer my question till I repeated it. 
 
 "Well — no — well, I don't do much that way. I 
 wish I did. I rather wanted to speak to you on the 
 subject. You know I used to say no reputation was 
 so well worth having as the literary } " 
 
 I nodded. Certainly, it had been quite a craze 
 with him. 
 
 " Hume said that, if you remember, and I quite 
 agree with him, and yet — in spite of my desire to do 
 good work — I don't seem to succeed." 
 
 " Ha ! " said I to myself. " Is he really coming to 
 see the truth, after all } " 
 
 " Of course," he went on, with an air of confidence, 
 " I believe I have it in me. Still, I don't want to 
 make myself ridiculous in my position. I used to 
 think my verse was rather good, though I admit you 
 never believed much in it. Well, lately it has gone 
 under another name to half a dozen publishers, and 
 not one of them has offered to publish it, even at my 
 cost. I suppose I, who have been in a publishing- 
 office, ought to know what that means." 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 15 
 
 It meant, as I knew, that his work was really alto- 
 gether too stupid. Every publisher has a standard, 
 even if it be a very low one, and will not go below it. 
 So I shrugged my shoulders. Of course he knew what 
 I implied. 
 
 "Really, George — do you want me to speak 
 candidly ^ " I asked. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 '^Well, then, I don't think verse is your strong^ 
 point." 
 
 He began walking up and down the room again. 
 He stopped at the other side, and leant against the 
 book-shelves in the shadow, for the lamps were near 
 the fire, and heavily shaded. 
 
 " Then, Will, there is another thing. I am in love." 
 
 " Yes, George > " 
 
 "And the lady in question thinks! am a poet. 
 You see, I told her so one night when I had had a 
 little too much to drink. What am I to do ? " 
 
 " What do you mean } " 
 
 " How am I to save my credit with her } " he cried 
 impatiently. " I am not quite a fool, and I can see 
 now that if no publishers think my verse worth 
 publishing, other folks will probably think it very 
 bad." 
 
 " But surely not the woman who loves you," I said. 
 
1 6 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 " Who told you she loves me ? " he cried passion- 
 ately. " I wish it were so. But now I must give her 
 some verses, and I have nothing suitable. I can't even 
 try just now. What can I do t Can't you suggest 
 something?" 
 
 I reflected for a moment. It seemed to me that 
 I gathered his drift, but it would not do to be in 
 too great a hurry. 
 
 " I don't know that I can, George. Can't you 
 copy some out of an old unknown poet } " 
 
 "It's too risky. An unknown poet might do, but 
 not one in print." He paused, and took a turn up 
 and down the room again. " Have you yourself been 
 writing lately ? " 
 
 The hint was too plain to be mistaken this time. 
 I took that hint, and the result may easily be guessed. 
 I was soon in possession of an increased income, 
 although my employers did not recognise my valuable 
 services any better than before. 
 
 During the following year I had little difficulty 
 in selling most of the verse I wrote. Some people 
 may be surprised at my being ready to part with my 
 poems in such a way, but if they take into con- 
 sideration the facts that I had been trying in vain for 
 years to make anything of them, that I was very poor, 
 and that my employers would not have been pleased 
 
The Reputation oe George Saxon. 17 
 
 to see a volume with my name on the title-page, their 
 astonishment will be lessened. 
 
 I certainly found the increased income very 
 handy. My wife was foolish enough to think my 
 salary had been raised, and I did not undeceive her ; 
 for though George Saxon had made no bargain as to 
 secrecy, it was of course understood that all our deal- 
 ings were strictly confidential. Our intercourse was 
 usually by letters, which were carefully written on 
 both sides. We did not commit ourselves. If he 
 wanted a poem on a specific subject, he would say 
 that he was thinking of writing such-and-such verses. 
 Then I sent him some dealing with the same subject. 
 But, as a general rule, I sent him everything I wrote 
 for him to look at, and I must say his taste was 
 pretty good, for he rarely returned any, save for 
 corrections. 
 
 At the end of a year he sent for me again. I 
 went eagerly enough, and was received very kindly. 
 I noticed a queer change in him — one, however^ which 
 was not unexpected by me. He would not speak 
 otherwise than as if he had really written those poems 
 which I had sold him. This came out soon after I 
 was comfortably established in an arm-chair by his 
 fire. 
 
 "I am thinking. Will," said he, with a little 
 b 
 
1 8 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 nervous cough and without looking at me, ''of — of 
 bringing out a volume of poems." 
 
 " Yes ? indeed — ah ! " I answered reflectively, with- 
 out showing any astonishment. "Anonymously or 
 not, George ? " 
 
 " No, not anonymously. You see, they are well 
 known as mine in a certain circle of society." 
 
 I imagined he meant the Club, of which 
 
 he was now a member, and those new friends 
 among whom he had found his lady-love. So of 
 course I answered " Yes." 
 
 ''And — well — I should like you to correct the 
 proofs, if you can spare the time. I will pay yoo 
 liberally." 
 
 I nodded, and undertook the task. 
 
 I must acknowledge I felt a pang when I first 
 saw these creatures of my brain decked out in their 
 garb of fine rough paper, with uncut edges and great 
 margins, but I stifled my pain by thinking how im- 
 possible it would be for me to accomplish so much 
 of myself Besides, I chuckled to think that I alone 
 of all the minor poets was actually making money 
 out of verse. Yet the title-page, " Poems and Ballads ; 
 by George Saxon," hurt me more than a little. It 
 certainly was very hard. However, in spite of all 
 this, I did my work honestly, and when the volume 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 19 
 
 finally issued from the press I watched for reviews as 
 eagerly as my friend and employer. 
 
 The notices were somehow very favourable, but 
 I cannot help fancying that those who bespattered 
 a wealthy man with sweet-phrased adulation and 
 rhythmically flowing flattery would have dismissed me 
 at the best with the veiled contempt which sneers be- 
 hind the faint praise of " a minor poet of considerable 
 sweetness." Yet the reviewers, with some exceptions, 
 declared that here was a new writer who had won 
 repute at a bound, while those papers which occasion- 
 ally have notices of coming men curiously canvassed 
 Saxon's claim on the laureateship when it should 
 become vacant. 
 
 On going to see him, I found his table strewn 
 with notices. In all, there were some scores of them, 
 for more than one of the Press-cutting agencies had 
 been called in to feed his vanity. By this time it 
 seemed to me that he was almost, if not quite, con- 
 vinced that he had written the poems himself; and, 
 strangely enough, I began to feel that he had more 
 right to them than I. Perhaps the liberal cheque he 
 gave me for my trouble aided me in coming to this 
 conclusion. 
 
 For a considerable time I saw nothing of him, 
 and have very little actual fact to go on in judging 
 b 2 
 
20 The Refutation of George Saxon. 
 
 the causes which led to the next development. Yet 
 I feel certain that if the girl he had been courting had 
 not married another man, no catastrophe would have 
 resulted from his pursuing the course on which he 
 had embarked, and that he would probably have 
 settled down to a quiet bourgeois life. But this was 
 not to be ; the lady did desert him, and to console 
 himself he went more into society, where the wealth 
 which made him so desirable a parti caused him to 
 receive that adulation which was fatal to his diseased 
 vanity. 
 
 I began to see in some of the papers that he was 
 devoting himself to literary work again. Many 
 canards flew about as to the matter he was engaged 
 on. It was a new volume of verse ; it was a novel ; 
 it was a series of critical essays. The rich author 
 began to grow famous on his unread and unwritten 
 books. I began to wonder when I should hear from 
 him again, especially when these vague reports settled 
 down into the uncontradicted assertion that he would 
 shortly bring out a novel dealing with a phase of 
 modern life. As I did not hear from him, I at last 
 ventured to call. 
 
 I acknowledge I was very curious to see him, and 
 I knew that my going there then was partly an en- 
 couragement for him to continue as he bad begun. It 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 21 
 
 was not long before I saw this, and regretted it, for 
 from now on I began to be thoroughly involved in a 
 curious business, which might turn out awkwardly for 
 me at any moment. I would not have attempted it 
 save for Saxon's promise to indemnify me for any 
 loss I might incur, supposing I were dismissed from 
 my post. Soon after the commencement of this 
 interview he came to the point, though his words 
 were obscure. 
 
 " People say I am writing a novel," he remarked, 
 as he stared out of the window, "and I have even 
 been told of the very subject. I have not got quite 
 so far myself Do you — hum ! — do you think I could 
 do a novel. Will t " 
 
 I wondered a moment, and shook my head 
 gravely. 
 
 " I should not like to venture an opinion,'' I 
 answered. 
 
 " I could rely on your help, I suppose ? " 
 
 " It is not in my line, I fear." 
 
 " Do you not know any one who would — revise a 
 manuscript ? or couldn^t you find some one } " 
 
 I certainly might find some one to revise a novel, 
 but, of course, Saxon meant " write." And even that 
 was not impossible. In our office we were offered 
 novels every day by poor and unsuccessful men. 
 
22 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 " I might find out what you want. But then, there 
 would be some risk." 
 
 " Not if it's managed properly. Think over it, 
 and let me know. Do you want a cheque for ex- 
 penses .-^ " 
 
 " it might be useful," I answered cheerfully, and 
 he gave me one for a hundred pounds. There was 
 no meanness about George Saxon. 
 
 I set my wits to work at once. I was to get hold 
 of a fairly good novel, which at the worst would do 
 George no discredit in point of technical merit, while 
 the real author must be a discreet man, who would 
 see on which side his bread was buttered. I sat 
 thinking about the matter in the office until our chief 
 clerk reprimanded me, and brought my wits back to 
 every-day business. However, I fancied that I had 
 solved the problem. 
 
 I wrote to George, and asked him if he would 
 not like to " write " a novel dealing with subjects 
 calculated to bring a blush to the cheek of the 
 Young Person. I reminded him that most of the 
 younger men seemed to have a fancy for realistic 
 novels of a morbid character. For I felt sure that 
 if I could buy a book it must be one which a 
 publisher would hardly take. George answered that 
 he was now engaged on such an one. That was his 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 23 
 
 cautious way of giving me permission to do as I 
 pleased. 
 
 For the next week or two I kept my eyes on the 
 manuscripts which came in, noting, as well as I could, 
 the men who brought them. I saw nothing to please 
 me until one afternoon, when a young fellow, whose 
 face I fancied I knew, entered and laid a large packet 
 on the counter, saying shortly, " Messrs. Repton and 
 Lyne." I could see he was the author of the matter 
 he presented us with, and hoped that it was a novel, 
 for I liked his looks. He was very tall and thin, with 
 long black hair and piercing black eyes, which would 
 have looked better under a better hat. His clothes 
 were shabby, his umbrella worn, his gloves rather old. 
 
 "If you are as clever as you look, you ought to 
 do," said I to myself " You are good-looking — jus^ 
 the young fellow to be a favourite in society, if you 
 could go out. But you are too poor. Hence you are 
 morbid, and probably write novels which nobody will 
 buy. And this isn't your first." 
 
 I looked at the title-page : " Hungry Generations," 
 by " Henry Halkett." That is the name I must ^\nq 
 him, for he is now celebrated, and certainly would 
 not like any one to know his curious dealings with 
 me. 
 
 "Hum!" I thought, "my guess was right. 'No 
 
24 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 hungry generations tread thee down ! * Keats was in 
 his mind. He is morbid, and has never published a 
 
 book. No * By the author of ' here. But I 
 
 wonder if we are the first firm to get hold of it ? " 
 
 This thought worried me a little. I looked at the 
 MS. carefully, and came to the conclusion that we 
 were the first to whom it had been sent. I could 
 easily verify that later on. 
 
 What I did after this was, I know, quite un- 
 justifiable from any ordinary point of view, for, taking 
 a note of Mr. Halkett's address, I placed both letter 
 and MS. in my own desk, and did not allow them to 
 take the ordinary course. That evening I walked to 
 Brixton, and strolled down a side street, until I was 
 able to inspect a certain number. "Yes," thought 
 I, *'if his appearance suggested poverty, his dwelling- 
 place confirms it." I wrote to Saxon on reaching 
 home that I thought I had my eye on something 
 which would suit him. 
 
 On reading the MS., which I began next day, I 
 was pleased with my penetration and power of 
 judging character, for " Hungry Generations," though 
 morbid, was decidedly clever, and dealing, as it 
 evidently did, with the writer's own career, had a very 
 convincing atmosphere of truth about it. Next day 1 
 took a little room, furnished as an office, in ;i street 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 25 
 
 near the Strand, and had my name painted on the 
 door as Mr. WilHams. I was quite deHghted with 
 being in business on my own account, and in order to 
 give my position an air of stability, I posted letters to 
 myself at intervals during the next two weeks, going 
 there twice a day, as a rule, while wearing blue 
 spectacles. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight I wrote to Mr. Halkett 
 in the name of the firm, regretting that though there 
 was much in his book which was clever, it was not, in 
 their judgment, of such a character as would justify 
 them in publishing it. I returned the MS. the same 
 day, and followed it up with a letter from my Strand 
 office, written in a feigned hand, requesting Mr. 
 Halkett to be so good as to call on me on business in 
 the evening of the following day, at seven o'clock. I 
 had not the least doubt that he would come, and I 
 rehearsed the scene which would take place between 
 us all the day — not, I confess, without a little un- 
 easiness. 
 
 By six o'clock I was in my new office, arranging 
 things to look as business-like as possible. At the 
 very stroke of seven there was a knock at my door, 
 and Arthur Halkett entered at my bidding him come 
 in. He looked at me doubtfully. 
 
 "A^ou are '' 
 
26 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 '' Oh yes ! " said I. " You are Mr. Halkett" 
 
 " I am," he answered ; " and you " 
 
 "If you will kindly take a seat for a moment, I 
 shall be ready," I replied, going on writing, as if I 
 had much business to transact. He fidgeted on his 
 chair, and seemed very uneasy. 
 
 " Oh yes ! " I cried at last, throwing some papers 
 on one side, and turning towards him. " So you are 
 Mr. Halkett.^' 
 
 *' And you } " he said again. 
 
 " Williams is my name. I wrote to you, Mr. 
 Halkett." 
 
 " And at your request I have come." 
 
 I settled my spectacles and looked at him. He 
 had made no alteration in his dress, unless his gloves 
 were a trifle newer than those I had seen him in. I 
 began suddenly — 
 
 " You follow a literary career, Mr. Halkett } ' 
 
 " I do, Mr. Williams. Has that anything to do 
 with the reason you sent for me.'^ Has any one '* 
 
 " My dear sir, don't let us be in a hurry. I know 
 that you are a writer, and that is, doubtless, why I 
 asked you to grant me the honour of an interview. 
 May I ask — pardon such a question — whether you 
 are very — or even fairly — successful ? " 
 
 He flushed a little. 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon, 27 
 
 " Do I look successful ? " he asked, somewhat 
 bitterly. " Have I the fat, sleek appearance of an 
 established fame ? That is the reason I want to learn 
 how you came to know of me/' 
 
 ^I smiled at him, and nibbled the end of my pen. 
 
 " That point is not at all essential to our doing 
 business eminently satisfactory to both. Will it not 
 suffice that I know your name, your address, and the 
 occupation which you follow, with, if I am rightly 
 informed, so much ability and so much promise ? ** 
 
 He bowed rather sardonically, and with an air 
 of doubt as to whether I was not chaffing him; 
 
 " For if it does,'' I continued, '* I have something 
 to propose." 
 
 "Then I think, Mr. Williams," he said, a little 
 dryly, " that it will be as well to come to the point." 
 
 " There is no need for any great hurry, my dear 
 sir. Hurry is — let us say — rather brutal. My time 
 is at your disposal." 
 
 " I was not thinking of your time," he remarked, 
 with the first smile I had seen on his handsome young 
 face. 
 
 " But of your own. Well, then, if yours is 
 valuable, and you insist, we will come to the point. 
 You write novels } " 
 
 '' I do." 
 
28 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 " You sell them ? " 
 
 " I don't/' very bluntly, but with a twinge. 
 
 " Ah ! " I remarked. " I fear such is often the 
 case at first. The literary profession is not a Tom 
 Tiddler's ground. Now tell me why you dqn't 
 sell your work. I am told your style is not at all 
 bad." 
 
 He moved a little uneasily in his chair. 
 
 " Pray, how do you know so much about me ? " 
 
 " Because you interest me at present. But to 
 waive that : have you any objection to giving me your 
 candid opinion as to why your work doesn't sell '^ " 
 
 *' It is hard to say. But I fancy it is too morbid." 
 
 "Ah! — I understand. The publishers tell you that 
 it IS clever, but will not pay, and I daresay some of 
 them suggest you should publish it at your own 
 expense, or at any rate take a share in the cost." 
 
 He nodded rather bitterly. 
 
 " Well, then, why don't you write matter of a more 
 cheerful tone V 
 
 " How can a man do that who — well, it doesn't 
 matter. I have not a very cheerful temperament." 
 
 ''I daresay a little success would alter that, Mr. 
 Halkett.?" 
 
 " I daresay it might." 
 
 " Or even money by itself, even an easier time 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 29 
 
 without worry or struggle, might enable you to do 
 work which would be bright ? Do you agree with 
 me?" 
 
 " I fancy I do. But " — and he rose — " I wish 
 you would come to the point, or I shall go. What 
 does this mean ? " 
 
 *' We appear to have come *to the point, Mr. 
 Halkett. As it seems to me, we are fencing." 
 
 " You may be, but with a blind man. I don't 
 understand you or this scene." 
 
 "Come," said I, in a decided tone, "sit down, and 
 you shall understand me in a moment. Sit down. 
 It is for your advantage. You have now an oppor- 
 tunity which may never occur again." 
 
 He sat down and stared at me. 
 
 " Have you written a novel lately ? " 
 
 " I finished one a fortnight ago." 
 
 " Have you got rid of it } " 
 
 " No ; it was returned this morning from " 
 
 " From whom ? " 
 
 " Repton and Lyne's." 
 
 " Ah, yes : very good men in their way ; but a 
 trifle narrow — a trifle narrow- And will you tell me 
 the title of your book } " 
 
 He did so without any hesitation. 
 
 '' Now then, Mr. Halkett, I really believe we ^r^ 
 
30 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 coming to the point. Let me ask you which you 
 want most just at present : money or fame ? " 
 
 "Sir, the question is an idle one. One cannot 
 live on fame." 
 
 " Then I presume you want money. Yet, I dare- 
 say, if a publisher offered to publish your book on 
 half profits, you would be content, though there were 
 no profits to divide. Now, which would you prefer: 
 his doing that or buying your book for fifty pounds, 
 and then not publishing it ? " 
 
 " Mr. Williams," he answered firmly, " these 
 appear to me to be abstract questions, and, as such, 
 not a little absurd." 
 
 " You do me wrong, Mr. Halkett," I replied ; 
 " these are not abstract questions at all. Say now» 
 which you would prefer : the possible fame or the 
 actual cash .'* " 
 
 " The cash ! the cash ! " said he, with a little 
 agitation, for he began to perceive that I was in 
 earnest, and not grinding the wind. 
 
 *' Ah ! come now, that is what I wanted to get 
 at. Now sit down again, and listen to me quietly. 
 I want to put a case to you. Suppose I were to buy 
 a manuscript novel of you, and publish it afterwards 
 with — some one else's name to it. What would you 
 think?" 
 
The Reputation op George Saxon, 31 
 
 He stared at me without speaking, for full a 
 minute, in amazement, and then replied by a 
 question. 
 
 '* What ? Are such things really done ? I have 
 heard of them, but " 
 
 '* They are done. Let me prove it to you. Send 
 me the MS. of your last book, and if I like it you 
 shall have fifty pounds down and half the profits 
 there may be, on the conditions that you forget you 
 ever wrote it, and in no way whatever make any 
 claim to the authorship." 
 
 " Do you mean this } " he gasped. 
 
 " Do you take me for a fool, who wastes his time, 
 in acting vain scenes } I am a man of business. You 
 may think ^ it a queer kind of business, but that is 
 beside the point. Come now, let me have your 
 answer." 
 
 He waved his hand and stared at me. 
 
 " I must think." 
 
 " Very well ; you can have till to-morrow ; after 
 half-past twelve my offer is off. I shall be here 
 between twelve and one. Bring the manuscript with 
 you, and I will undertake to let you know in three 
 days if it suits me. I must have it read by my reader, 
 of course. You shall have the money directly if his 
 verdict 13 favourable — as I don't doubt it wull be, from 
 
32 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 what I hear of you. Remember, I rely on your 
 honour in this matter. Now I must be off, for I have 
 an engagement at the other end of London." 
 
 He rose hke a man in a dream and took his hat. 
 
 *^ I sha'n't beHeve this when I wake in the 
 morning," he muttered. 
 
 *'Very well, then," I answered sharply, -as I 
 slammed the drawers of my desk and locked them ; 
 "go home now and post me the MS. while you do 
 believe it. And I will take that for your answer. 
 Good-night, Mr. Halkett. I am very pleased to have 
 met you." 
 
 I pushed him out of the room, patted his shoulder, 
 shut and locked the door, and going into the street 
 hailed a hansom. I left him standing on the kerb 
 staring after me. I congratulated myself on the way 
 I had managed matters, for I felt I could trust him, 
 I was not wrong. 
 
 Before three days had passed Mr. Arthur Halkett 
 was richer by fifty pounds^ and George Saxon was the 
 possessor of the manuscript novel, which in less than 
 two months was published under the title, "A Struggle 
 with Fate." In order to prevent any suspicion, he 
 undertook the laborious task of copying it himself; 
 but, doubtless, the success it achieved compensated 
 him. It had a fairly large sale^ owing to great 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 33 
 
 advertisement and some skilful puffing, which I 
 managed to procure for an equivalent. I was able to 
 send a further small cheque to its real author, for I 
 treated him with scrupulous honesty. 
 
 I have been thus particular in detailing my con- 
 versation with this young author — who, I am happy to 
 say, is becoming well known by books which are 
 not of a morbid cast — because it was not the last 
 transaction of the kind in which I was concerned. 
 For as appetite grows by eating, so does the desire 
 for fame increase with increased notoriety, and 
 dating from the appearance of . " A Struggle with 
 Fate," George Saxon began to pour forth books from 
 the press with a rapidity which I feared was insane, 
 but which to outsiders betokened a catholic intellect, 
 and an entirely unprecedented capacity for work. 
 
 It was wholly vain for me to attempt to stay his 
 course. He, who was in my power, assumed the tone 
 of a master, and bade me mind my own business. 
 Although I feared that an exposure must come at 
 last, and entreated him at any rate to stick to one 
 line, after buying one more novel from Halkett he 
 discarded fiction, and produced some philosophical 
 essays, written by a curate with many children, who 
 needed cash as well as philosophy. That was a 
 serious step, but one which brought about much 
 c 
 
34 The Reputation of George Saxon, 
 
 worse consequences was his venturing to take up 
 history. He who knew none — for his memory was 
 fickle and grew more treacherous still — " wrote " a 
 tractate on the Holy Roman Empire, which was 
 followed by an elaborate essay on Art. This was suc- 
 ceeded by an *' Ideal Philosophy," which only years of 
 German reading could have enabled a Coleridge to 
 compose. Both these were bought from a clergyman. 
 
 If he had refused to go into society things might 
 have yet gone well with him, but his inflated vanity 
 left him as helpless as a drifting balloon. He w^ent 
 into the company of learned men, and began to earn 
 the reputation of Goldsmith for talking. He was in 
 despair at his inability of speech and his dire lack of 
 knowledge, and I knew he began to suspect that his 
 brain was giving way. 
 
 Yet, in spite of this frightful suspicion, which I 
 felt was well founded, he still kept " at work,''' as the 
 papers said, and twice a year at least brought out 
 one book or another to pile on the pyramid 
 which was weighing him down. His friends, who 
 were not in his confidence, implored him to rest, 
 and did him all the harm possible by taking him 
 more into society ; for there his desire to shine made 
 him talk. He had not sufficient self-control to hide 
 his ignorance. And now he bc<:^an to devote all his 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 35 
 
 spare time to study of a sort which surely no other 
 man ever went in for. For a while, with a certain 
 sense of shame, he kept it from me, but at last — in a 
 horrible fit of despair — he opened his mind. It was a 
 ghastly scene. I found him reading his own phi- 
 losophy, and almost tearing his thinning and pre- 
 maturely grey hair over it. 
 
 " Yes, y^sl' he said feverishly, " I am glad you 
 have come. Sit down, sit down, Rayner ; take this 
 book. Just ask me questions about it. Go on, go 
 on!" 
 
 I was shocked to see him nervous and trembling 
 and so painfully eager. 
 
 ^^ George," I said earnestly, "this won't do. You 
 must ^\NQ it up. You are killing yourself. Go, look 
 in the glass ; you are old before your time. You 
 must give it up." 
 
 He rose from his seat, shaking violently. With 
 his sunken cheeks and dark-circled eyes, with their 
 insane passion, he was dreadful to look at. 
 
 *' Give it up, give it up ! " he shrieked, in the tone 
 of an old man, though he was not yet forty. " Do 
 you think I have slaved and suffered to build up my 
 great reputation to see it go like a bubble? No, 
 no ! I will enjoy it ; I will enjoy it ! " 
 
 " Great heaven ! " I thought ; " enjoy it 1 ** 
 «; 2 
 
^6 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 "And you must help me more than you have 
 done. You had better give Repton and Lyne notice, 
 and be with me always. You shall be my secretary. 
 Tell them to-morrow." 
 
 I flatly refused, and then he grew angry. 
 
 '' You shall, you shall ; you must ! I will give 
 you four hundred a year. Already I have left you 
 ten thousand pounds in my will. When will you 
 make so much } " 
 
 I succumbed to the temptation. Would that 1 
 had not ! What a life I now began to lead ! 
 
 Nobody saw his misery but myself, but it made 
 me wretched. I was forced to read to him daily, 
 I abhor philosophy, and hate history with a school- 
 boy's hatred ; but he would take no denial. He had 
 created a devil which I feared and which he wor- 
 shipped. His reputation was a Frankenstein's mon- 
 ster. Daily we sacrificed to it — hours I toiled over 
 German translations, racking my brain to comprehend 
 Fichte, Kant, and Schelling, in order to explain their 
 subtly conceived and diabolical mysteries. I went 
 to bed to dream of Ideas. My only relaxation 
 was when I assumed the name and blue spectacles of 
 Mr. Williams, in order to deal with some other 
 Halkett. I had a certain pride in the dexterity with 
 which 1 handled our authors, and salved my conscience 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 37 
 
 for my part in such a fraud by reflecting that George 
 Saxon's money was very welcome in many a poor 
 literary household. 
 
 It would surpass belief if I said so many years 
 went by without anyone whispering that all this 
 strange heterogeneous mass of poems, fiction, essays, 
 philosophy, and history could not have proceeded 
 from one pen. I heard such whispers, but kept them 
 from Saxon. Yet they made me terribly anxious — 
 so anxious, indeed, that once I even threatened 
 to expose him, hoping that fear might make him 
 hear reason. I misjudged the power of his insane 
 resolution. 
 
 ^' If you do so, you shall starve, you, and your 
 wife and children ! I will destroy my will, and you 
 shall have nothing — nothing ; do you hear? You are 
 too old to get work ! Ha ! Repton and Lyne 
 won't take you back. You know that ! " 
 
 I knew it too well, for once, in a fit of rage at the 
 slavery in which I found myself, I had asked in vain 
 to be reinstated in my old position. So I had to 
 bend to him. 
 
 " Come, now," said he, " don't be a fool. What 
 am I to talk about this evening? Who is to be at 
 the Ponsonbys' } Give me the list." 
 
 For he made a rule never to go out unless he 
 
38 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 knew the guests. To such a man this was easily- 
 given. I told him the names, and went to work 
 cramming him with Stuff which I loathed, while he, 
 grey-haired and tottering wretch that he now was, tried 
 painfully to learn what I painfully repeated. By 
 heaven ! life was worthless to me, and I even began 
 to think of that escape from my troubles which I 
 feared for Saxon. I could not even hope. But the 
 end was approaching. 
 
 One afternoon he sent me to finish the negotia- 
 tions for the acquisition of a theological work by a 
 very broad Churchman. I demurred in vain. 
 
 " It shall be the last/' was all I could get from 
 him. But, alas ! he had promised as much before. 
 
 " Besides," I urged, " don't you know that this will 
 be a change of front on your part. You have been 
 teaching hitherto what practically amounts to Agnos- 
 ticism, and this is dogmatic, even if it is broad." 
 
 ^' Go ! " he said ; and I went, for I could see he 
 would admit of no argument, although his physical 
 condition seemed worse than I had ever known it. 
 ^' And," he added fiercely, *' see that you are back 
 by six. We have much to do. I have to meet 
 Dr. Vincent to-night." 
 
 I groaned in spirit, for this was another historian, 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon, 39 
 
 and our history nights were almost harder than those 
 devoted to philosophy. I went away in wretched 
 spirits, feeling unfit for the task before me. But it 
 was the last time I played the part of Mr. Williams, 
 and it was the worst. 
 
 It had been a matter of considerable difficulty to 
 meet with any theological work of such a character 
 as Saxon had indicated to me, and I only found it 
 through the medium of the curate from whom I had 
 bought our volume of critical essays. My first inter- 
 view with its author, a clergyman named Verity, had 
 been successful so far as I could judge. He had not 
 shown much surprise at its purpose ; indeed, he had 
 taken it so greatly as a matter of course that I natu- 
 rally concluded that his friend had enlightened him 
 on the subject, although such a proceeding was 
 strictly forbidden in every agreement I had hitherto 
 made. Yet he did not ask a very high price : unless 
 one hundred and fifty pounds be considered such for 
 a theological work. But I did not know him ; there 
 was more under his cassock than he showed. 
 
 Mr. Verity was punctual to his appointment. At 
 five precisely he entered my office. I received him 
 courteously. 
 
 *' Your book is eminently satisfactory. We are 
 
40 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 pleased with it, very pleased. I will write you your 
 cheque.'* 
 
 I took out my cheque-book — for I had a private 
 account at the Bank of England in the name of 
 Williams — and drew it out in a methodical manner. 
 This done, I found the copy of the agreement which 
 he was to sign, and held it out. He made no motion, 
 but leant back in his chair and looked at me. 
 
 "Well, sir?" said I. 
 
 ^^ It's not enough, Mr. Williams." 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Verity ? Is it not the 
 price we agreed upon ? " 
 
 " Quite so, but still it is not enough. I have been 
 reflecting," he answered, with an ambiguous smile. 
 
 " I do not understand you," I replied. " How- 
 ever, if you wish a trifle more, let us hear your new 
 price." 
 
 I crossed my legs, folded my arms, and looked 
 straight at him. But though my attitude was one of 
 perfect ease, I was anxious, and I own it. He 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " My terms are now, Mr. Williams, exactly fifteen 
 hundred pounds." 
 
 If I did not start — and I am proud to say I did 
 not — it was only owing to a tremendous effort on -my 
 part. The scoundrel ! — and a clergyman ! — who 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon, 41 
 
 would have looked quite innocent if it had not been 
 for a keen and subtle smile, which he seemed to wish 
 to hide — to act in this way ! What did it mean ? 
 
 " I fancy, Mr. Verity, that this MS., able as it is, 
 can hardly be worth such an enormous sum." 
 
 " There are very different markets," was his dry 
 answer, "and to you I think it is worth so much. 
 But you can take it or leave it" 
 
 " There seems to be some mystery here, Mr. 
 Verity." 
 
 '' A great deal more on your side than on mine, 
 my dear sir," said he sardonically. " I am speaking 
 plainly, at any rate." 
 
 I winced, for what he said was true enough. I 
 began to fear that I had caught a Tartar, and should 
 have to pay up and look pleasant. It would be very 
 hard on me, considering that I looked to my banking 
 account to help me if anything happened of an un- 
 toward character. I certainly could not tell Saxon 
 of this. The very thought of it would kill him. I 
 determined to fight as long as I could. 
 
 "That may be, Mr. Verity," I replied tartly; "but 
 our mystery you have no concern in." 
 
 "Yes, to the tune of fifteen hundred pounds. 
 That's my concern." 
 
 "What if I refuse?" 
 
42 The Reputation of George Saxon, 
 
 *' Mr. Williams, you won't refuse. I know far too 
 much for you to act so unkindly to me." 
 
 I could have throttled him, he looked so sure ; 
 and yet how much did he know ? Almost any smart 
 scoundrel could have gone as far without any know- 
 ledge whatever, and I was not inclined to part with 
 such a sum to a man who might be bragging on 
 nothing. 
 
 " You know too much, eh ? Well, in another 
 sense perhaps you do. There is nothing to know. 
 But come, let us hear what you think." 
 
 He leant back in his chair, and stuck his thumbs 
 in the armholes of his waistcoat, with an air of assur- 
 ance which was maddening. I almost fancied he 
 winked. 
 
 " Mr. Williams, if you are a card-player, you know 
 that in some cases a man may show his cards without 
 losing a chance. You shall see mine. Come, now, 
 let us begin, for my hand is very pretty. You deal 
 in books, and doubtless know that in authorship there 
 is such a thing as plagiarism : that does not concern 
 me. There is such a thing as literary forgery : that 
 is also beside the point. There is, again, such a thing 
 as stealing a manuscript and publishing it as one's 
 own : that seems to me nearer the question in hand. 
 There is, as we know (you and I, Mr. Williams), such 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon, 43 
 
 a thing as buying the manuscript of a needy author, 
 and putting it forth under an alien name : I think 
 we touch the matter now. Now, my dear sir, suppos- 
 ing a man (with money) buys one manuscript from 
 me, and another from another, so building up a reputa- 
 tion, he acts in a fraudulent manner, for the public are 
 cheated into admiring a sham, and the real authors 
 gain nothing but a base pecuniary reward. It is a 
 crime — though, as you would doubtless say, not a 
 legal one. Such crimes, Mr. Williams, are com- 
 mitted. Now, though I might suspect a man of 
 making such a false reputation, I might fail to prove 
 it satisfactorily to anyone but an acute critic. I am 
 an acute critic, my dear sir, as you will believe before 
 I finish ; but I know there are others equal to myself, 
 and those I could convince. Let me tell you how." 
 
 He rose up, and stood as if he were delivering an 
 oration, while I sat very quietly, with a sinking heart. 
 He would be too much for me if I could think of 
 nothing to checkmate him with, and I longed to do 
 that for so many reasons. Strange as it may seem, 
 this preliminary attack on the great reputation I had 
 helped to build up angered me deeply. I had actually 
 come to revere it myself He went on — 
 
 " Years ago I began to suspect that there was 
 something wrong with regard to a name which is now 
 
44 The Reputation of George Saxon, 
 
 very generally venerated. I began, I own, by ad- 
 miring his genius and his catholicity ; it seemed 
 astonishing that the author of very pretty poems and 
 of a novel which, if morbid, lacked not strength, and 
 was even occasionally powerful, should likewise dis- 
 play something of the same critical power on which I 
 pride myself. When, to the reputation secured by 
 these diverse works, he added the philosophic acumen 
 of a German and the research of no mean historian, 
 I did more than admire : I wondered. And let me 
 tell you that wonder is for ever akin to incredulity ; 
 we (of our cloth, that is) know so much. 
 
 " Now, after premising this, if you are a great 
 reader — and I see you have something of the look of 
 the man who burns the midnight oil — you may know a 
 little of that which we call style. It is a subtle thing 
 to deal with, and aerial ; gaseous, not to be rudely 
 grasped ; vague, yet real. It is the breath of the 
 writer's soul congealed in his work ; it is more the 
 writer than the work itself ; and by the chemic forces 
 of acute analytic criticism, it is recognisable by 
 many tests surpassing the belief of the unlearned. 
 Now, since I suspected, I applied myself to study, and 
 I used these tests to such purpose that at last I said, 
 * I have found it' My veneration for learning, my 
 admiration of ability, gave place to wonder of another 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 45 
 
 order. I had unearthed an unparalleled and most 
 gigantic fraud ; I marvelled at the man's audacity ; I 
 questioned myself as to his methods. Why did I not 
 proclaim my belief.^ It was easy to convince myself, 
 but others, who lacked my instinct, could not easily 
 follow my path. Besides, I wanted proof which was 
 more than deductive, for I knew my hypothesis 
 wanted other verification than my intuition. My 
 name is Verity : it has had an influence on me since 
 my childhood ; but though I have ever sought the 
 truth, I have always been cautious. 
 
 " How, then, did I verify my conclusions } Come 
 now, 1 will tell you. You bought a book of critical 
 essays from my friend. He never revealed it, but I 
 read that book issued under another name than his. 
 Now I tell you I know my friend's style, his turns of 
 thought, his reasoning, his phraseology ; given a pre- 
 miss, I could argue from it as he would. In one 
 word, knowing the man, I knew his book — and then 
 you applied to me. That is all, but it proved my 
 theory. I have no more to say, beyond two words, 
 and they are words known all over literary Europe — 
 words which once I admired, but which now I scorn. I 
 say, George Saxon ! Let me have your cheque for one 
 thousand five hundred pounds, or — well, there is no 
 need for further speech. I wait your answer." 
 
4-6 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 1 sat dumbfounded, and had nothing to say. 
 During the whole harangue, of which I have only 
 given the outHnes, I was held without power of 
 speech. I recognised a man of intellect, who had 
 the gift of obtaining prolonged attention, even if his 
 subject had been one of less absorbing interest. As 
 he analysed Saxon's books one by one, criticising 
 the various styles, he confounded me with his acute 
 deductions and accurate memory ; and when he saw 
 the effect he produced, he absolutely swelled with 
 gratified vanity. His style and subject made me 
 oblivious of the time and the fading light, but when 
 he ended I wrote him his cheque. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Verity, you shall have what you ask/' 
 I said ; " but it is not for the book, it is for the learn- 
 ing and acuteness, which I believe cannot be paralleled 
 in England." 
 
 " You flatter me, Mr. Williams," he returned, with 
 a smile ; " but still, from a man of your character 
 and discernment, such eulogy is pleasant." 
 
 " Confound the blackmailer ! " I thought ; " he is 
 laughing at me." 
 
 He took the cheque, looked at it, and placed it in 
 his pocket-book. 
 
 " I suppose I shall have no difficulty in cashing 
 it ? " he asked, eyeing me very hard. 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon. 47 
 
 " None at all, I assure you." For I certainly did 
 not mean to trifle with him. If I had known what 
 was in George Saxon's mind at that moment I might 
 not have been so sincere. I was thinking of my 
 banking account, which then stood at about three 
 hundred pounds, and which would have to be con- 
 siderably added to by me next morning from my own 
 private savings. I bowed him out politely and cursed 
 him mentally. And just then the clock struck eight. 
 Saxon had bidden me return at seven. Rushing off 
 in a panic, I took a cab and went to his house, but he 
 had gone out before I reached it. The man-servant 
 told me he seemed to be in a very disturbed frame of 
 mind. 
 
 In his library I found the table strewn with 
 various histories, thrown open at incongruous periods. 
 To me it was a horrible sight, for I pictured the 
 wretched and unable man sitting at that table trying 
 to pick up even a few commonplace facts as he rushed 
 off to dazzle the crowd with his splendid and fatal 
 reputation. I was wretched myself, and though I 
 went home, I could not sleep. 
 
 No, I did not sleep all night ; I was awake when 
 the postman came. He brought me a letter which 
 horrified me, and at the same time made me burn 
 with delight. I could turn the tables on Verity. I 
 
48 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 almost laughed as I ate my breakfast. At ten o'clock 
 I stood on the steps of the bank on which I had 
 drawn the blackmailer's cheque. As the door opened 
 I turned round, and saw him coming. I nodded be- 
 nignantly, and, entering, drew out every penny which 
 stood in my name of Williams — every penny of it. I 
 left nothing. As I pocketed the notes I saw him. 
 
 "Ah," said he, with a smile, **you have been pay- 
 ing in money, eh ? " and with that he presented my 
 cheque. 
 
 I watched and chuckled as the teller took it. He 
 caught sight of me, and beckoned. 
 
 " Mr. Williams/' he whispered, " I have a cheque 
 of yours here for one thousand five hundred pounds. 
 Do you know that your balance is now nothing } " 
 
 " I do," I replied. 
 
 *' Then what am I to do with this ? " 
 
 " Let it take the usual course," said I. And I 
 waited to see the result. 
 
 The teller took the cheque, and wrote on the back 
 of it. Then he handed it to Verity. 
 
 " What does this mean ? " said he fiercely, looking 
 as black as thunder. 
 
 " Refer to drawer," was the reply. 
 
 " What } " asked Verity, in an excited voice. ** Are 
 there no funds 1 " 
 
The Reputation of George Saxon, 49 
 
 " Sir," answered the teller, " I can say nothing but 
 what is written on the cheque. But Mr. Williams is 
 behind you ! " 
 
 " Then," said Verity angrily, "I will refer to the 
 drawer. Sir, what does this mean ? " 
 
 I smiled at him, and he turned white. 
 
 "Don't get excited, Mr. Verity. I beg you 
 won't ; pray calm yourself. Fate has been unkind 
 to you " 
 
 " What the devil do you mean } " he interjected. 
 
 " Mr. Verity, remember your cloth," I retorted. 
 " Fate has been unkind. You may do your worst. 
 For, to tell you the truth, George Saxon died last 
 night by his own hand ! " 
 
 What I said was only too true, and though I lost 
 ten thousand pounds by Saxon acting as he did, I 
 was glad to be able to checkmate that scoundrel 
 Verity. He staggered back, and left the bank with- 
 out another word. 
 
 Yes, George Saxon had killed himself It hap- 
 pened thus : Verity having kept me until it was too 
 late to read with him, he went off, in a frightfully 
 nervous and excited state, to keep his engagement ; 
 there he met Dr. Vincent, who was rather brusque 
 with him on account of some foolish remark he made. 
 Saxon lost his head, and left the house. On returning 
 d 
 
50 The Reputation of George Saxon. 
 
 home, he burnt his will, and wrote to me, accusing me 
 of being the cause of his death. He then poisoned 
 himself. 
 
 There is no doubt that he was insane : all his 
 friends were of that opinion ; and at the inquest quite 
 sufficient evidence was heard to justify a verdict of 
 "Temporary Insanity.^* It might have been a con- 
 solation to him to know that at the trial nothing 
 came out to destroy the reputation which he had so 
 perilously erected, and which had crushed him to 
 death at last. I was glad of that too, because I 
 certainly should have been blamed for what was 
 beyond my power to remedy ; and, as I said before, 
 I had actually come to venerate the reputation of 
 George Saxon myself 
 
THE ARTIST. 
 
 d 2 
 
S3 
 
 THE ARTIST. 
 
 Shirley Fauriel was left just three hundred a year 
 by his father, Thomas Fauriel, the well-known novelist. 
 His mother, a daughter of Osborne the water-colour 
 painter, married again after the death of Shirley's 
 father, and the lad was thrown very much on his 
 own resources. His step-father was not exactly hate- 
 ful to him ; but there is always the danger of lack 
 of sympathy leading to bitter dislike, and Shirley 
 anticipated fate by practically leaving home at seven- 
 teen. There was little difficulty in his obtaining 
 sufficient money from the trustees to allow him to 
 live simply. in a small Chelsea studio, near Cheyne 
 Walk, and he worked, while in that neighbourhood, 
 at the South Kensington School of Art. His tastes 
 were not extravagant ; he had no particular vices ; 
 his temper was mild and a little melancholy ; there was 
 little about him that was noticeable, beyond his name. 
 Like most sons of clever men, he seemed to lack 
 cleverness as much as earnest activity. His fellows 
 at the schools prophesied that he could never be an 
 artist — no, nor even a painter, skilled in mere method. 
 Their tolerance of him as a foredoomed failure made 
 
?4 The Artist, 
 
 him something of a solitary ; he had not even that 
 strength of self-belief, which makes those who doubt 
 a man's power doubt themselves. His ideas, his 
 schemes, his inner thoughts, if only put forth forcibly, 
 might have wrought hesitation in their minds. But 
 the only evidence he offered of himself was the work 
 he did, and that was manifestly feeble. And very 
 curiously, he knew it himself This was sufficient to 
 stamp him as outside the common run of unsuccessful 
 men in any art. And with perpetual failure the con- 
 viction grew on him that he had chosen the wrong 
 path in life to express himself; for he was thoroughly 
 convinced that he possessed the soul of the born 
 artist. At twenty-two he forsook painting. It was 
 then that I got to know him. 
 
 Fauriel at twenty-two was slight and dark, with 
 deep inward-looking eyes. He expressed himself 
 bashfully in conversation ; there was a certain hesi- 
 tation in his speech. He said to me one day — 
 
 " Language is very difficult — or, at any rate, talking 
 is. I suppose we express ourselves to ourselves in 
 words?" 
 
 " That is the common, but false, opinion," I replied. 
 
 '' Well, at any rate, I have always thought so. 
 And I know perfectly what I want to say. But 
 language is clumsy, or I am clumsy with it." 
 
The Artist. 55 
 
 " A little of both, Fauriel ; if you talked or wrote 
 more you might find that you would get more skilful 
 with bad material, or do as most do — content yourself 
 with thinking only what can be expressed without 
 trouble." 
 
 He smiled, and did not continue the talk. Yet I 
 daresay he understood. It is easy to let words destroy 
 thought ; just as morals destroy morality, as know- 
 ledge destroys wisdom. 
 
 Whether it came from knowing me or not I can- 
 not say, but shortly after this I found that Fauriel 
 was trying to write. When he plucked up sufficient 
 courage to show me some of the results, he was pain- 
 fully nervous. They were essays on everything or 
 on nothing — without style, without form, without 
 restraint ; yet there was here and there a curious 
 suggestiveness about a single sentence. A few 
 words were now and then almost luminous, like 
 half-cut diamonds stuck in clay. It recalled his paint- 
 ing, which every now and then possessed in parts a 
 beautiful quality of colour. Yet in both arts he 
 possessed no true knowledge. He could do nothing 
 twice. A rare success was followed by a ragged 
 regiment of failures. In criticising his writing it 
 troubled me to discourage him, and yet I could not 
 praise his attempts. He did not even know the good 
 
56" The Artist. 
 
 bits. I almost had to explain them to him, and then 
 I often found out, after a laborious explanation on 
 his part, that he meant something else. In the end, 
 as his livelihood was always secure, I thought it no 
 harm to suggest that he might continue. For I felt 
 certain, when he looked at me with those sweet 
 melancholy eyes, that there was something in him> 
 if it could but out. He said obstinately to me one 
 day — 
 
 " I am an artist ; I know it." 
 And I said to myself, " But in what } " 
 He did little for three years but write, and though 
 he managed in the end to produce something at least 
 homogeneous, it was wholly impossible for me to re- 
 gard it as a proof that he had found his method of 
 expression. He regarded me as something of a critic, 
 and I knew he would accept my dictum as final. 
 That in itself was sufficient to stamp him as no born 
 writer, for the very poorest among the tribe must 
 believe enough in himself to scorn those who deny 
 him the title, or, at any rate, to persevere in spite of 
 their judgment. Fauriel accepted mine sadly. 
 
 *' And yet I am an artist ! " he said, as he slowly, 
 and without passion, tore his last manuscript in 
 two. 
 
 We were sitting in my rooms in Chelsea. On 
 
The Artist, 57 
 
 the wall, near the door, was one of his sketches, 
 which I had preserved as possessing some merit of 
 colour. He rose and looked at it. 
 
 " I could not paint even so well as that now. I 
 failed in painting. I am quite ready to believe I have 
 failed, and must fail, in literature. But I have the 
 feeling in me that I have something to do, to say, 
 to make. How .?" 
 
 I thought of Homer's Margites — 
 
 " Him the gods made neither a digger nor a 
 ploughman, nor otherwise wise in aught. For he failed 
 in every art ! '* But I did not wound him by repeating 
 it. Curiously enough, he had in a kind of way im- 
 pressed me with his steady persistence. And, surely, 
 behind those eyes lay something. I liked him best 
 when he was quite silent, for then, in my company, 
 a curious kind of rapt exaltation sometimes took 
 hold of him : his features became plastic, his eyes 
 luminous ; he seemed about to say something great, 
 something new, something which would lighten up to 
 me the dark ways of his unable mind. Once he 
 made an odd psychological suggestion. 
 
 " Do you know that my father practically ceased 
 to write before I was born } Yet I remember him as 
 an imaginative man." 
 
 " I think I see what you mean," I answered. " It 
 
S8 The Artist, 
 
 is a curious possibility. If you had been born 
 earlier, eh ? " 
 
 And he nodded a little sadly. 
 
 He went back again to painting for a month, and 
 then set out for Italy, where he remained two years. 
 On his return he renewed his acquaintance with me. 
 He was more melancholy than of old ; though only 
 twenty-seven, the hair upon his temples was thinning ; 
 here and there a thread of silver showed in the brown. 
 He told me that he had tried modelling while abroad. 
 " And," said he, with a sigh, " the sight of the quick- 
 ness with which other men learnt maddened me. It 
 was more miserable to try and to fail than to dream 
 only. For after dreaming I only wake up to reality, 
 but to fail is to wake up to what does not come 
 near it. And yet " 
 
 " You are an artist } " I asked. He nodded firmly. 
 
 " Fauriel, come now : what is an artist ? Is he not 
 the doer, not the mere dreamer } It is, after all, but 
 a little addition that makes a man one. Some people 
 think that an artist is entirely different from others, 
 but I doubt it. It is a little faculty of expression 
 superadded — if, indeed, it does not mean a subtraction. 
 Artists may be less and may be more only by a thin^ 
 golden thread in the common clay of humanity, 
 But the proof of the artist, however great, however 
 
The Artist, 59 
 
 little, IS the doing of something. That makes him 
 what he is. Are you not wasting your life seeking 
 after that which you do not possess ? 
 
 " I believe you can think without words, without 
 colour, without clay, very great things ; I see it in 
 you. But now it is time for you to live, if you like 
 to be an artist in that. Many artists put all their art 
 into their work, and remain brutal. Come, you have 
 tried all material but one. Make your life an artistic 
 whole." 
 
 I could not help speaking so, and as I walked up 
 and down my room I saw that he was moved. He 
 flushed, and his mouth trembled. Then, as I ceased, 
 he turned pale again. 
 
 " And if I failed in the material ' life,' what then } " 
 
 "You cannot fail unless you greatly succeed in 
 something which is not life. If you go from here and 
 make money — merely money — I shall hold you have 
 failed indeed. If you are false to your instincts you 
 will fail. But if you are yourself, wholly and utterly 
 yourself — if you follow yourself, are not led aside by 
 any consideration, good, or indifferent, or evil — you 
 will succeed. Live henceforth, and do " 
 
 "What."*" said Fauriel, with g-eaming eyes. I 
 turned on him with surprise. 
 
 " If I knew what, you would know your vocation. 
 
6o The Artist. 
 
 It is for you to find out. Life, in this artistic setise, 
 is wonderfully plastic. It is easy working ; it needs 
 no technique, no painful mixing of colours, no curious 
 choice of difficult words. Paint and mould, and write 
 yourself down in the great material that includes all 
 materials." 
 
 We sat in silence for a long time. When he rose 
 to go at last, he said in a low voice — 
 
 " Is not necessity in the beginning of things .?" 
 
 " I do not understand you, Fauriel." 
 
 " I mean this : is not an artistic thing a whole ? " 
 
 '' Essentially." 
 
 " Then you prophesy of my success in the mate- 
 rial you have chosen for me } " 
 
 "I cannot prophesy." 
 
 " Surely you may, from my past life." 
 
 '''This is a new beginning, is it not } " 
 
 He sighed, and turned away. 
 
 " Let us hope so," he replied, and then he went. 
 For some time afterwards I was greatly depressed. 
 There was, perhaps, a certain subtle prophecy in his 
 voice. 
 
 When I saw him again he was more sombre, but 
 at the same time more settled in his mind, more at 
 rest. Some time had passed since that artistic talk, 
 for the necessities of my work took me to Belgium, 
 
The Artist. 6i 
 
 and thence to Paris. We spoke of my trip for some 
 minutes. 
 
 " And you, Fauriel ? How have you been working 
 in the gold of life ? have you chased a medallion, or 
 used it bravely to plan a Perseus ? Speak, Cellini of 
 a neglected art ! " 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 " I have done nothing, and yet something. To 
 fulfil myself is to dream." 
 
 " But can you not act ? Can you not be cruel, or 
 kind, or something actual ? Don't your dreams lead 
 to something ? What of life without love ? Can you 
 not love ? " 
 
 '* Can I not ? '* he answered, and in his voice was 
 such a strange ring of pathetic fervour that I checked 
 myself suddenly. 
 
 " Yes, I can love ; and I do. It is part of the 
 whole, I suppose," he added, a little bitterly. 
 
 " The whole ; what whole ? " 
 
 " The whole of my artistic life." 
 
 I sat in silence for a while. There was much sug- 
 gestiveness in the words : much of hopeless hope, 
 much of painful resignation. 
 
 " Does she not love you, then ? " 
 
 He bent towards the fire, opening and shutting 
 his hands nervously as he tried to speak. When he 
 
62 The Artist, 
 
 did so it was with a fierceness I had never seen in him. 
 That gentle nature seemed incapable of such passion. 
 
 " How can she love such a man as I am — weak, 
 weak and unable } She is as far from me as the 
 things I thought to do — aye, and farther, by added 
 beauty that out-towers my thought's height." 
 
 " You express yourself well, but it is the lot of all 
 lovers to think so, Fauriel, if they love truly. Yet it 
 is only their ideal, added to that which is sweet in a 
 loving woman, even to those who do not love her. 
 To the true idealist the possibility of love for love 
 seems the more impossible as his own power of 
 passionate vision is more. To the lower man woman 
 is only woman, and, as such, attainable in thought. 
 The idealist is with difficulty convinced that his 
 mistress can really love him, even after all sweet 
 proof. The very proof becomes a dream. This 
 is the perpetuation of passion. Does she know you 
 love her ? " 
 
 " Do they not say that all women know that ? " 
 
 " Then why not speak to her } " 
 
 " Because I know failure is fore-fated/^ 
 
 He laughed bitterly. 
 
 " And if I succeeded, might it not be failure in 
 the art you have marked out for me ? " 
 
 " You are weak, Fauriel ; I think you take what 
 
The Artist, 6^ 
 
 is half jest for earnest. And, after all, if you want to 
 be most completely and artistically miserable, there 
 really seems a very good chance in marriage, to judge 
 by the bulk of marriages." 
 He looked up at me. 
 " You were never married, were you .'* " 
 " When you die, Fauriel, you can ask John Keats 
 if he needed actual experience to write 
 
 * Love in a hut, with water and a crust, 
 Is (Love forgive us !) cinders, ashes, dust ! ' 
 
 But don't talk about me. Try your fortune with this 
 girl, or woman, and come and tell me you are going 
 to fail most happily. Try and be inartistic ; imitate 
 the popular novelist, who ends with a wedding when 
 by all natural right he ought to have ended with 
 quite another catastrophe. Come now, you must let 
 me use the privilege of a man who for once is busy ; 
 I have three hours' work to do to-night. Say good- 
 bye for the present, and when you come next have 
 some good news for me." 
 
 He rose at once, and, without more talk, went. 
 He was evidently terribly depressed. He wrote to 
 me a week later. 
 
 " I took your advice, and of course failed. That 
 is, I succeeded in preserving the continuity of my 
 story. I begin to see " and then he stopped, draw- 
 
THE BRONZE CASTER. 
 
67 
 
 THE BRONZE CASTER. 
 
 There is only one place in all England where they 
 cast fine bronze work, according to the ingenious 
 method of cire perdue — busts of men or women, 
 statuettes of gay dancing girls, of grave grenadiers, 
 light Mercuries, sweet thoughtful Psyches. All these, 
 and more than these, I have seen standing about in 
 Bordon's shop and yard, for Bordon is a friend of 
 mine, and I have the right by permission to pick my 
 way through furnace-cinders, burnt bricks and moulds 
 that are broken and done with, until I come where he 
 stands, grimy with smoke or white with burnt clay- 
 dust. If you do not know Bordon's story it shall be 
 my privilege to tell it you, for Miirger is dead, and 
 cannot, even if he would. Besides, I am not sure that 
 Henri took much interest in the working side of his 
 well-loved Bohemia ; perhaps he would have rather 
 told you tales about Bordon's life in Paris, when he 
 was a wild barbarian of a student : such as the story 
 of the dog, or the history of the girl who climbed the 
 ladder, and many others which I may one day tell — 
 unless the respectabilities roar me down, for certainly 
 C 2 
 
68 The Bronze Caster. 
 
 objections might be made. But no one can cry out 
 against what I am going to put down here ; certainly 
 not a single Philistine soul can object to Bordon now, 
 for he is settled and domestic, and very sober and 
 sweet, in spite of his strength. If indeed he tells these 
 light tales of continental Bohemia at night in a studio, 
 when there is no work to be done and the stove glows 
 dimly, competing with the flare of gas, no one can 
 complain. For he goes back thinking of the hard 
 times which came between those fantastic brilliant 
 Parisian nights and the even-coloured days of this 
 time, when he is somewhat successful and does not 
 starve, as some of his listeners who handle other im- 
 plements than crucibles and tongs do or have done. 
 In truth, he had a sore struggle when he first worked 
 out his fate in England, and has accordingly that 
 right to look back and laugh which belongs to every 
 man who fights and wins a hard battle, with nothing 
 in his favour but the best part of himself, while all 
 destiny seems against him. And, as I think, to suc- 
 ceed in being a good caster of bronze is something to 
 be proud of Many indeed might deem it equivalent 
 to becoming a graduate in the Halls of Fire with 
 Vathek, and decline the honour, not with shivering, 
 but in a cold perspiration of fear. For Bordon is 
 a 'kind of Benvenuto Cellini of a genial sort; not 
 
The Bronze Caster, 69 
 
 fierce nor ruthless, not a croquemitaine nor a swash- 
 buckler, but still of the same artistic wing-feather, 
 upward-soaring, persevering, indomitable, steadfast ; 
 like his own furnace fire, clear-burning : made of 
 good stuff, like his own crucibles for bronze- 
 melting. 
 
 Let us first speak of him when he thought not of 
 bronze-casting. Bordon was a Swiss by birth, though 
 he may now be counted an Englishman, and at 
 Zurich served his time in a smithy, whereby he 
 attained to the thews and sinews that do not crack in 
 lifting a pot of molten metal from the furnace. But 
 he was an artist, and is, and needed other work to 
 satisfy him than supplying the daily needs of his com- 
 mune in horse-shoes, nuts and bolts, and the like, 
 which, though artistic, are of the order of the pot- 
 boiler to one of gifts calling him elsewhere. Perhaps 
 if he could have got to gate-work, devising foliage 
 and petals in iron and quaint grotesques of metal 
 monsters, he might have rested there swinging his 
 hammer, a Swiss Huntington Shaw of intricate rail- 
 ings and screens, till his death. But it was not to 
 be ; and he left the forge for the shop of a decorative 
 sculptor of no great power, to do as he was bid. He 
 knew his lack of knowledge and mourned it, but 
 was unable, through lack of means, to gain mastery 
 
70 The Bronze Caster. 
 
 over his material, which he began to suspect was clay. 
 Finally, in despair, feeling that time was going on, he 
 started for Paris, the great, the wonderful, the artistic. 
 Back to his home in Switzerland went enthusiastic 
 letters, which aroused other enthusiasms about the 
 Louvre and Luxembourg. His enthusiasm, however, 
 did not satisfy his hunger, for even artists must eat 
 sometimes. In his need he found out a restaurant 
 kept by a Swiss woman, gracious and pretty- and 
 patriotic, beloved by many artists who daily came 
 
 there. One of them was M , the sculptor. 
 
 Bordon's kind countrywoman spoke to M of 
 
 Bordon. Could he not come to Monsieur^s studio } 
 
 To her indeed M could refuse nothing. So the 
 
 modest, stalwart young Swiss was bidden to follow. 
 He entered the great atelier. " Yes, it is all yours, my 
 young friend. Here is your place, here the clay. To 
 work, to work ! Let us see what you can do." 
 
 Though this was good, and better still when he 
 
 pleased M , it meant no money — at least, not 
 
 enough to enable him to study at the Beaux Arts. 
 Still it was great news to send home, and when he 
 sent it patriotic pride thrilled the breasts of his many 
 friends and acquaintances. Bordon must be a great 
 man, and do honour to his cornmime. A society was 
 formed at once : the Society for the Education of 
 
The Bronze Caster. 71 
 
 Bordon, let us call it — a whole society for the raising of 
 money to aid in the instruction of the young Switzer, 
 who eventually was to do things redounding to the 
 honour of the land of the Alps. Lawyers, shoe- 
 makers, doctors, tailors, tinkers, peasants, all but 
 sailors — nay, even, may-be a lake captain— rushed 
 forward with sums of money great and small, ap- 
 pointing a committee, and secretary, and honorary 
 treasurer, who finally obtained the ;£"200 necessary for 
 that education at the Beaux Arts by which Bordon 
 was to learn to teach the French. Bravo ! brave 
 Switzers, rich and poor! Ye did well, and did not in 
 vain. For Bordon worked hard and harder yet, 
 smiting his clay about finely, making many portraits 
 and studies, artistic and also like. He thought then 
 that he had the world by the tail. But the world is 
 a very slippery fox to catch. 
 
 I must leave now some blank pages, wherein 
 should be written his life in Paris, where he toiled, 
 and starved, and feasted, and was idle : where he 
 modelled in clay, and got, at times, somewhat clayey, 
 learning things not taught at the Ecole des Beaux 
 Arts, nor at any University, but which are useful to a 
 man who is not an angel, nor a salamander, to go 
 through life's fires unscorched. But all this is to 
 be omitted, or at least reserved; and now behold 
 
72 The Bronze Caster, 
 
 Bordon less a Bohemian by the dismissal of his 
 wilder days, and less still by his marriage to the sister 
 of a brother sculptor — an amiable musician, who ran 
 the chromatic scale up, and caught his eye and 
 heart. 
 
 Now, of course, work grew scarce. Paris swarmed 
 with sculptors, or was clayey with them ; there were 
 sufficient to model the universe, and some over to 
 stand enviously idle. So when Bordon's brother-in- 
 law went home to England and began to look 
 towards the success which was his due — for he was a 
 genius in the order of image-makers — Bordon himself 
 thought that the island might be emptier of artists 
 than France, and have vacancies. May-be, being yet 
 young, he imagined that all this country was in an 
 agony to be modelled or chiselled, and set on other 
 pedestals than mere self-conceit. Like a fisherman, 
 he believed the big fish were on the other side of 
 the stream, or of the Channel. However, the English 
 desire to be immortalised was not over-manifest when 
 he set up a studio and got his clay ready by the 
 hundredweight, proceeding to build up the beginning 
 of a bust in order that he might lose no time when 
 a famous statesman, or infamous financier, or such 
 like, should burst in and beg him to be quick, as he 
 had something of importance to attend to. But that 
 
The Bronze Caster. 73 
 
 prime minister, or lord mayor, or money-lender, or 
 dust-contractor, never came, and things went not well 
 with Bordon. Indeed, if it had not been for the 
 singing-bird, his musical wife, whom he had netted in 
 France, there is no saying what might have happened. 
 And thus we come slowly to the casting of bronze, 
 into which he drifted strangely, for the thought of it 
 had never entered his mind. Nevertheless, Fate was 
 preparing his furnaces, and meantime set him in a 
 flame of adversity till he was hard and able to 
 endure. 
 
 About this time Bordon was working for, or with, 
 the brother of his wife, and the brother-in-law made 
 a bust of somebody, or of nobody : it matters not — 
 though it was probably of a nobody, as nobodies 
 mostly predominate in this world of ours, and are 
 quite as vain as somebodies, and usually richer. It 
 was a question as to casting it, and the brother-in-law 
 wanted to send it to Naples to be done there. Now 
 here I could, by the aid of encyclopaedias and books 
 of reference, which I do not possess, but which are to 
 be seen at the British Museum, make a very learned 
 show, after the manner of the art-critic, on the various 
 methods of casting, including the old cire perdue 
 process used by Benvenuto Cellini, which came down 
 ill the right line from the ancient Greeks; the sand- 
 
74 The Bronze Caster, 
 
 process employed lor large work both in this country 
 and in France, and the completed cire perdue as it is 
 now used by the Neapolitans, the Florentines, and by 
 Bordon. Cellini in employing this process used his 
 original work instead of a mould carefully prepared 
 from it, and thus always ran the risk of losing his 
 labour if the casting was not good. This explains 
 his fierce anxiety to cast the Perseus at once. But 
 cire perdue as now practised admits of unlimited 
 failures, and allows for the whole chapter of unlucky 
 accidents. It is undoubtedly the surest, the most 
 beautiful, most dainty method yet discovered. And 
 of it Bordon knew nothing. 
 
 For him cire perdue was a lost art, and he had to 
 discover it over again. They knew indeed everything 
 that was to be known at Florence and Naples ; but 
 the secrets of the process were carefully guarded, and 
 none might enter the workshops or furnaces. It is 
 true the Swiss might read something in a book ; but 
 that was little more than a hint, seeing that he who 
 wrote perhaps knew no more of the strange com- 
 plications of practice than I do who here put 
 down Bordon's trials, his patience, his failures, 
 his perseverance, his ardour, and his final success. 
 For when the brother-in-law suggested Naples, 
 Bordon reflected, and made answer : " Have we 
 
The Bronze Caster, 75 
 
 no knowledge of this art ? • Then let us try to 
 discover it.'^ 
 
 They went to work at once, both of them, 
 striving hard at a furnace they built themselves. 
 They procured the metal and melted it, and having 
 made their moulds, tried the casting with fear and 
 trembling. And they very naturally failed. The 
 moulds broke, the metal ran, but ran wrong, their 
 knowledge being insufficient. After a while, and a 
 few more dismal results, the brother-in-law retired 
 into the country, on the whole rather disgusted 
 with casting, counselling retreat from the fiery 
 enterprise, and again recommending experienced 
 Naples. 
 
 Bordon, however, could not see things in that 
 light. He had become tough, not to be bent or 
 broken ; and, moreover, he now saw a chance to be 
 Somebody and to do things. Failure, forsooth ! 
 What of failure ? To fail is to learn. So he begged, 
 and borrowed, and scraped together sufficient money 
 to try again. Again he failed. 
 
 Now his helpers failed too : failed in courage as 
 they had in hope ; and he was hard put to it keep- 
 ing them up to the mark. " Well, then," said they 
 at last, " one more chance you shall have ; but if you 
 do nothing this time, it must be Naples." 
 
^6 The Bronze Caster. 
 
 Bordon shrugged his shoulders — by no means 
 intending to give up even if matters again went 
 wrong. Yet he swore they should not, and vowed 
 that the Neapolitans should die if their living de- 
 pended on his yielding them that bust. He would 
 cast it, or himself die by a broken mould or a cracked 
 crucible. So he worked with the utmost care and the 
 utmost thought, took every precaution, made every- 
 thing secure against the faintest chances. Again he 
 fired his re-built furnaces, and in them melted metal, 
 true to smaller experiments, and poured it hopefully 
 into a carefully made, strongly boxed-up mould. 
 Then in the morning he broke the secret thing out of 
 its casing, unearthed it, and found it perfect, unflawed> 
 fine-coloured, just and true to the cold original clay 
 standing by. And the brother-in-law in the country 
 retreat was delighted — so his telegram said. As for 
 Bordon, he was as happy as Belzoni discovering 
 ancient statues in a desert. He stroked his beard, 
 and was quiet. 
 
 Then came a discussion. Who was to be who in 
 the new business — the new-old business of cire perdue 
 casting ? Was Bordon to be man or master ? He 
 was determined to be Somebody, a name in the 
 firm, not hidden under a contemptible Co. And 
 there was a crack, an explosion, in the proposed 
 
The Bronze Caster, yy 
 
 fusion. He and his brother-in-law did not mix 
 truly like copper and tin to make good bronze ; and 
 the worker set up for himself, to do what no other 
 could do. 
 
 Now, in Chelsea, in an inconsiderable street which 
 for other artistic reasons than bronze-casting may yet 
 be historic, stood, and stands, a long row of studios 
 and sheds devoted to sculpture both pure and 
 decorative. At the far end was a shed in the yard, 
 and this Bordon took, renting it of the sculptor who 
 occupied the studio. What it was like then I cannot 
 say, but now it is magnificent in disorder. The 
 furnace-shed stands against the outer street wall, and 
 though it is ill-built and like to fall, the subsidiary 
 shed behind it, with a passage-way in between, is 
 more ramshackle still, being made of odds and ends 
 of old boards, rotten timbers, and empty window- 
 frames. Past that, through the inner broken wall, is 
 an old deserted garden, picturesque with a cracked 
 fountain dimly outlined in high grass, and a little 
 broken conservatory whose top shows jets and spurts 
 of a vine run wild. In the far end of the yard are 
 burst packing-cases, smashed moulds, and blocks of 
 building-stone, unshaped by the mason, and marked 
 with the name of the port whence they were shipped. 
 There is near at hand a rusty-wheeled stone lony, or 
 
yS The Bronze Caster, 
 
 waggon ; again more stone, and then a dogless 
 deserted kennel with old timbers, bent iron red and 
 rusty, and an ivy-covered wall. The whole scene is 
 one of fierce wild disorder, save just the part where 
 work is done. And this is the spot where Bordon 
 worked, and works now when the stove-pipe chimney 
 running through the thin leaky roof shoots a blue 
 flame into the air, deluding midnight travellers into 
 giving a wild alarm of fire. Then Bordon is casting 
 something with reasonable assurance that it will 
 come out right. But when he first began it was 
 failure, failure, and failure. Do not talk of Bernard 
 Palissy ; I know Bordon. Nor of that religious 
 ruffian, Benvenuto ; for I know Bordon, the Bronze 
 Caster, who took that little shed, sending forth word 
 that Florence and Naples were to have a rival in 
 Chelsea, which had added another to its many arts of 
 painting, sculpture, poetry, what not. 
 
 Yet one bust does not make a successful business, 
 and there was enough of chance in the perfect cast- 
 ing of that sufficient specimen to render successors 
 doubtful. Metal is tricky, and Bordon did not know 
 everything about the difficult relations of quantity 
 to colour. Too little tin, the metal would not easily 
 run ; too much, it was too white ; zinc rendered it 
 fluent, but in excess spoilt the rich tint that makes 
 
The Bronze Caster. 79 
 
 bronze. Then moulds crack, the plaster may be 
 wrong, ever so little wrong, and nothing goes right. 
 The wax, the lost or to be lost wax — whence the name 
 cireperdtie — was difficult of manufacture, hard to dis- 
 cover empirically or scientifically in proper propor- 
 tions ; the cooking of the mould, to make it run out 
 and leave room for the inflowing metal, was by no 
 means easy. There is but one right way, and a 
 thousand wrong. But experiment taught him, and 
 failure did more than success ; though Fate, who is 
 often hard on the artist, was hard enough on Bordon 
 trying to outwit destiny and cast himself as the 
 Bronze Caster, to be set up on a moderate pedestal 
 of modest success. 
 
 His luck at first was assuredly bad, and bad luck 
 meant suffering for himself and his wife. What 
 money was made she supplied, and lent to him for 
 more trials. And the poor devil wasted it on ex- 
 periments, growing thin, and gaunt, and hollow-eyed, 
 till his muscles hung on his wasted limbs, loose like 
 the lee-rigging of a ship. His musical wife could 
 not always be musical ; she grew dissonant and sang 
 discords at him, being out of tune, as wives are when 
 man and wife are not kept together by the tuner, 
 Same Desire. To tell the truth, Mrs. Bordon did 
 not care a demi-semiquaver for bronze casting, and 
 
86 The Bronze Caster, 
 
 thought cire perdue waste of time as well as of wax. 
 Yet, being a good little woman and persuadable, she 
 gave money time after time to this striver after art 
 turned rhetorician at night-time. But it was once a 
 near touch with him. 
 
 I have incidentally, or of forethought, told you 
 something of the method. Remember, Bordon knows 
 it now, and has told me, if not connotatively, at least 
 denotatively, and I have watched him go deftly, 
 knowledgeably about his work. He has trained 
 men under him, who know needful things, even to 
 the due placing of an inconsiderable brick, who can 
 tell suddenly a scrap of tin from a scrap of zinc in 
 the dark — which is no mean thing to know, seeing 
 that a little too much zinc would make the bronze 
 over yellow and spoil the casting's colour. But then, 
 when Bordon needed money of the wife to whom he 
 now gives it all was ignorance : the methods of 
 furnace-building, the right sort of crucible, the due 
 proportion of metal, the proper tools for lifting red- 
 hot pots. The ways of putting wax in the mouldings, 
 the kind of wax, everything has to be so exactly right 
 when everything can so easily go wrong. So Bordon 
 found when he worked consecutively for full fifty 
 hours in his furnace-shed, so intent as to forget food, 
 with snow on the ground and heavy snow bulging in 
 
The Bronze Caster. 8i 
 
 the frail roof, which threatened to catch fire. He had 
 taken — by what methods of inventor's rhetoric or 
 marital coaxing I know not — some six pounds from 
 his musically artistic wife, who disbelieved in her 
 plastically artistic husband, and with it had bought 
 metal and other necessary things. He did not come 
 home that night, and being so occupied, sent no word. 
 Meanwhile she played and sang with her pupils, and, 
 like Bordon in another way, was likely enough out of 
 time, and then went home to a home which was full 
 five miles from Chelsea, and found him not. If she 
 had been less tired, if it had not been so heavy a sky 
 of threatening and actual snow, she would have gone 
 to see this demon of a fire, this fiend of a furnace, 
 consume her hardly earned gold — gold with difficulty 
 sung for and played for. But go she could not, and 
 Bordon furnaced it all night, striving with metals 
 and moulds in vain. He was in a fever, gaunt with 
 hunger that he did not feel, yet faint with it, and 
 with vast heat and the long strain. Yet he watched 
 the wax cooked out, not having yet discovered how 
 to keep up the fire without watching it, as he has 
 done now, and at last the casting was finished. It 
 takes some time for the metal to set sufficiently 
 to be broken out of the mould, but he was so 
 anxious that a little more time did not matter. 
 
 / 
 
82 The Bronze Caster, 
 
 He waited — and it was a failure, for want of enough 
 metal. 
 
 Then the Caster put on his coat, and without 
 money started for home. It was two in the morning — 
 the morning, mind, of the second night ; the wind 
 was keen and angry in the desolate streets, the snow 
 flew and drifted into corners, shrinking from a colder 
 than itself, and Bordon began his five-mile walk. He 
 was starving and was very cold, being of course thinly 
 clad ; he had left a place as hot as Hades, as an 
 Inferno of fire. He felt very weak ; his limbs trembled 
 a little ; sometimes his lips trembled too. It is a hard 
 thing to be near success and fail, to work so hard and 
 fail, to believe in oneself and fail : especially when 
 others depend on a man when the weather is bitter 
 and bad, when there is no money in the house, 
 and most likely no food. But the poor Bronze Caster 
 was so weary, and grew so much wearier, that at last 
 he ceased to think, and plodded dully, almost me- 
 chanically, through the heaped snow homewards : in 
 some such kind of waking sleep as overtakes a worn- 
 out sentry, or a tired sailor on the watch looking 
 blindly into a cold night. 
 
 But at half-past three he came to his own street 
 and his own house. The windows were all dark, and 
 he knocked. He stayed and waited, wishing that he 
 
The Bronze Caster, 83 
 
 had a key, to save his wife the trouble of rising on 
 such a night to let him in. She was very hard to 
 wake, and heard nothing. To say the truth, the poor 
 woman had gone to bed weary and worn out with 
 waiting for him whom she had not seen for two days. 
 She had some bitter thoughts, too. Was he really 
 working during all those two long wintry nights } It 
 seemed hardly likely, she said. She did not yet 
 know Bordon, though he was her husband : she 
 thought thus as she fell asleep in great fatigue. 
 And he knocked in vain. Presently he ceased, and 
 the street seemed to grow dimmer. As he lifted his 
 tired hand again, the knocker strangely slid out of 
 his reach high above him, and he knelt in the snow, 
 presently scrambling in a half-dream upon the step, 
 thinking, " Yes, yes, she will come in a moment ! " 
 But being very sound asleep, she had heard nothing, 
 and did not come. It seemed as if she would make 
 sad music in the morning. For he, the fire-fighter, 
 was grappling unconsciously with the subtler demon 
 of cold — and bitter cold it was as the snow fell upon 
 him, lodging in his beard, turning the dark rich 
 brown to grey. He was certainly in much danger 
 of never conquering the cire perdue process, for fire 
 and cold together would conquer him. But at last 
 he woke up suddenly in great bewilderment, to find 
 
 /2 
 
84 The Bronze Caster, 
 
 himself in the middle of the street, and in custody. 
 Two great policemen were escorting the home- 
 less vagabond to a cell. With some difficulty he 
 persuaded his reluctant captors that he had been 
 sleeping on his own doorstep, and being at last 
 convinced, they knocked for him with a force and 
 persistence which finally brought the sleeper down 
 stairs. The poor man's welcome was a chill one. 
 Next day, after bestowing on him some meekly 
 endured reproaches, she went to a certain shop, 
 outside of which hung the Medicean arms, and 
 thereby procured something to exchange for a 
 meal. But it was not a happy feast for the poor 
 Bronze Caster. 
 
 In spite of all, he was not beaten, and would not 
 be. As nothing had been wrong in that last casting 
 but an insufficiency of metal, he tried again, and with 
 success. Henceforth he made a little, and was not 
 always foiled. Yet his chapter of accidents was not 
 closed. Once his men got drunk, whether by natural 
 bent or intolerance of almost intolerable heat cannot 
 be known, and as he sprang on the furnace and 
 grasped the great crucible, heaving it upward from 
 the terrible fire, they lacked sense and readiness to 
 ease him with the bar. As they fumbled, the heat 
 penetrated his boots and burnt him into blisters, 
 
The Bronze Caster. 85 
 
 baking him terribly. So he was laid up in bed for 
 months — a disabled Titan under a very mountain of 
 calamity. 
 
 That was in the summer — the summer of 1888 — 
 and when Bordon left off groaning a bass accompani- 
 ment to his wife's song of cheer — for now she believed 
 in him, and the nights spent with his hardly wooed 
 flame-bride — he returned once more to his crazy, 
 creaky, leaky shed, intent on more busts that waited 
 in rows for him, fearing Florence or Naples and a 
 dangerous sea-voyage. Them he accomplished one 
 by one, bronze bust or group, until a thick and 
 heavy snow came. I myself, who here speak of 
 Bordon, remember how I spent that night with a 
 certain writer of stories who with me stormed im- 
 possible intrenchments of fancy with a facile logic, 
 until at last I drew aside the curtains and looked out 
 on sheeted streets and ghostly roofs artistically carved 
 by the wind. With urgent need of being miles off, I 
 found the roads deserted and impassable, the stations 
 blocked, the rails blocked, the telegraph-posts down 
 with thick entanglements of loose trap-like nooses, 
 speaking vain messages to the earth. And as I 
 strove homeward through the gale, the snow fell 
 quietly to work on Bordon's shed, and drifted in 
 through crack and crevice, lying heavier and heavier 
 
S6 The Bronze Caster, 
 
 still on the bending roof, until it fell upon cold 
 furnaces and dull black tools, burying everything in 
 indistinguishable ruin. So disaster on disaster came 
 to him ; he fought against all the elements : Rain 
 and Fire, Snow and Wind. 
 
 When the shed was rebuilt, still another accident 
 happened to him. The pan of melting wax, being 
 prepared for a great bust, suddenly caught fire, and 
 the men fled, thinking it impossible to go near it. 
 Bordon rushed in, grasped the pan with tongs in all 
 the blinding heat and flame, which spurted upon him, 
 singeing away eyebrows, eyelashes, and beard, making 
 great blisters on his face and hands, and brought it 
 into the open air, saving the shed which had been 
 with difficulty rebuilt. 
 
 When he had again recovered there was brought a 
 group to be cast, and on the very night of the melting 
 the snow again assaulted his stronghold of fire, Vv^hich 
 seemed to burn doubly and trebly fierce — a Vulcan 
 against a sky Scamander of snow and sleet and rain. 
 As the bending roof cracked, his friends and helpers 
 reared poles to support it. Then flame leapt up 
 and touched the hot wood, whose openings hissed with 
 melted snow. Thq sculptor of a neighbouring studio, 
 then watching, rushed for his syringe, whose stream, 
 sprayed widely with an opposing finger, was wont to 
 
The Bronze Caster, S7 
 
 moisten great clay sketches ere the damp cloths were 
 nightly wrapped about them, and with it played the 
 fireman, lifting his branch-pipe against crackling 
 wood. With this help Bordon again won his fight, 
 though almost beaten at the last lift of the crucible. 
 
 Now, indeed, he began to know and to grow 
 cunning. Moulds never cracked with him ; the wax 
 ran as true as the metal, which now was always rightly 
 coloured ; only insul^cient cash or gold (which even 
 a bronze caster cannot get to run very fluently) 
 hindered him from building, or buying, or hiring a 
 more sufficient place of work. Material surroundings 
 might check him : never lack of necessary knowledge, 
 nor lack of courage, nor lack of endurance. Mark 
 him now as I show him to you side by side with a 
 born, bred, learned furnace-man. 
 
 The need came once to cast a certain bust in white 
 metal — rather, perhaps, from the fancy of the artist 
 than for its beauty, which, in most cases, we may well 
 doubt, since it can by no means gain such a patina or 
 oxide crusty whether by age or acid, as the true, many- 
 tinted bronze ; and Bordon, thinking it not worth 
 while to learn by failure to mix what was but once 
 wanted, sent north to Sheffield for a man cunning in 
 the lighter coloured stuff. He came, viewed the shed 
 and furnace with contempt, and yet with some 
 
88 The Bronze Caster. 
 
 wonder. Who could work with such wretched con- 
 structions, in such a spot, with such vile tools ? Not 
 he ; and yet he respected Bordon, who did somewhat 
 with them, lacking better. He was to have money to 
 cast this, to mix the metal rightly. The latter he 
 did ; but when the furnace glowed hot and hotter, red, 
 and then white, fierce and yet feeble, shaky and 
 almost crumbling, like an aged man still aflame with 
 the inspiration of genius, though nigh unto death, he 
 turned, shuffled, denied, shook his head, was recal- 
 citrant, and refused to handle tongs or crucible. And 
 Bordon, the artist in modelling, the amateur in cast- 
 ing, said nothing; but he put things in due order, 
 placed the steps against the furnace, mounted them, 
 grasped the metal pots, and drew them up, the glare 
 illuminating him, but leaving all else in darkness, 
 while the professional furnace-man rather sullenly 
 admired him, though putting his daring down to an 
 amateur's ignorance rather than to proved courage. 
 Perhaps he was right, after all, for Bordon did get 
 burnt once, as we have seen ; and any day I may 
 hear that the fire has got the best of him : for fire- 
 taming and lion-taming are alike dangerous arts, and 
 both may rise in unexpected wrath, roaring and show- 
 ing fiery teeth and claws. 
 
 Even Bordon himself thinks so as he steps ever 
 
The Bronze Caster, 89 
 
 and again into the arena, and throws open the gates 
 where the great wild beast breathes hotly upon him. 
 Do you remember the old father in " The Last Days 
 of Pompeii " watching his son, the gladiator, fighting 
 when defeat meant death and victory meant liberty ? 
 Now Bordon has a friend, a carver, or modeller, or 
 what not: an oldish man, grey and strong and square, 
 who had often patted him on the back, giving him 
 many examples of historic perseverance when failure 
 beset him. Let this friend stand for the father^ and 
 Bordon for theson and gladiator; and see the olderman, 
 silent in the corner of the casting-house, seated hour 
 after hour on the same loose pile of bricks I have sat 
 upon to watch Bordon, now victorious and full of 
 knowledge. But his friend watched him when 
 triumphs were won hardly — when he was now cast 
 down and now greatly hoping. Did the furnace burn 
 well } Then the worker sat up and glared triumphant. 
 Did Bordon fear the metal would not run } Then the 
 eager head sank down upon the hand, hiding eyes as 
 the father did when the shouts in the arena made 
 him fear for his son's life. But now it seems that 
 the metal is fluent, it runs, and there is sufficient ; 
 and when at last, after anxious waiting, the mould 
 is broken and the hot bust is found perfect, both 
 worker and watcher dance a wild dance of triumph, 
 
90- The Bronze Caster. 
 
 free from anxiety once more. The gladiator is 
 victorious. 
 
 Perhaps, reader, you may now complain that you 
 have not grasped the whole method of cire perdue, 
 and mutter .that I have been like Florence or Naples — 
 chary of letting you into the secrets. I have not even 
 said a word about patina, and its preparation with 
 acid, or salt, or the blow-pipe, or sal-ammoniac. 
 Perhaps it may be so, but I meant not to give you 
 cold facts, but rather the warm man, living and on fire. 
 If I have indeed done well you should see him as I 
 saw him but a few nights ago, leaping on his furnace, 
 armed with great tongs or pincers, damp-browed, 
 glittering-eyed, with the hot glare strong upon him, 
 until the lifted crucible shone white and electric in the 
 shed's darkest corner. You should see his men rush 
 with ready bar to relieve him, taking the weight from 
 his strained muscles, and then behold him raking the 
 oxide from the carefully-tilted pot, and pouring the 
 clean fierce stream into the mould whose wax was 
 yesterday baked out. To-morrow the sculptor may 
 come down to Chelsea, and look at his work in its 
 final foreseen material, wanting only the patina which 
 Bordon knows as part of the fine bronze art — knows as 
 he knows the rest : by trial, by perseverance, by ex- 
 periment, by failure. He knows, as we should all 
 
The Bronze Caster. 91 
 
 know — if indeed we be artists — that the time lost by 
 such failures is no more wasted or in vain than the 
 lost wax which melts away between the outer mould 
 and inner core, and lets the hot metal of our thought 
 and work run in fluently, to be broken out as some- 
 thing fit and able to endure. 
 
EXLEX. 
 
95 
 
 EXLEX. 
 
 During the great war which ended in the creation 
 of the Dutch RepubHc, whose story has been so ad- 
 mirably told by Motley, it is well known that race 
 hatred between the dominant Spaniards and insur- 
 gent Netherlanders reached a pitch of bitterness 
 rarely equalled in the history of the world. A simple 
 fight for freedom may afford examples of ferocity 
 enough to make even an idealist despair of his vain 
 ideal man, in which the animal is wholly subdued; 
 but when that struggle is maddened by adverse 
 religious feelings, in an age when religion was still 
 a great war force and a provocation to armed prose- 
 lytising, it is difficult for the imagination to surpass 
 the reality of possible horror. Motley gives us a 
 curious instance of a hand-to-hand combat between 
 a Dutchman and a Spaniard, in which the former 
 was victorious. He cut the slain man's heart out, 
 fastened his teeth in it, and threw it away with the 
 exclamation — " Faugh, it is too bitter ! " That heart 
 was long preserved in a museum. We know its 
 history. But Motley tells another story, the sequel 
 
96 ExLEX. 
 
 of which he never knew. A certain Spanish officer 
 was to be hanged at the Hague, and the professional 
 hangman was dead. The office of Jack Ketch was 
 not eagerly sought after in those days. There was 
 no eager rivalry for the position in that rude fighting 
 society. It needs a great advance in civilisation for 
 the executioner to become a personage not unworthy 
 of notes on his previous career when he takes office — 
 not to be deprived of the due of all public servants, 
 an obituary in a daily newspaper, when Nature 
 executes him in his turn. It was urgent to hang the 
 Spaniard ; revenge and policy dictated his death, the 
 citizens were eager to see an example made of one 
 of a hated race. Yet no one volunteered to accept 
 the stigma attached to the performance of this public 
 duty. For some time there was a chance of the 
 wretched Spaniard obtaining the grudged meed of 
 a more honourable death : a file of soldiers might be 
 called in. No one could then say that any one man 
 was the executioner. And, moreover, the death which 
 is not disgraceful to the slain man is curiously enough 
 never so disgraceful to the doer. At last it occurred 
 to an ingenious citizen that there was a Hollander 
 lying in gaol who had been condemned for murder. 
 The same cause which respited the Spaniard respited 
 him. Yet his was not a case of urgency. It was 
 
ExLEX. 97 
 
 proposed that the murderer should be set free on 
 condition of his hanging the Spaniard. 
 
 Jan Vanderkopf was not a criminal of the Bar- 
 nardine type, so admirably suggested by Shakespeare 
 in a few words. He was passably intelligent, yet 
 with an intelligence which at its acutest was rather 
 cunning than intellectual ; he was in face not at once 
 disagreeable ; only careful study of him in his milder 
 moods might have suggested the latent ferocity which 
 led him to murder a rival for the affections of a young 
 peasant girl who worked on the next farm to his 
 own. The murder was brutal, was carefully planned, 
 and carefully carried out. But his care only ex- 
 tended to the extermination of the man he hated : 
 his precautions against discovery were characteristic 
 of the undeveloped class to which the commoner 
 murderer belongs. He was suspected at once, 
 arrested, proved to be guilty, and condemned. The 
 sentence was received callously. He seemed satisfied 
 that the man he hated was dead : he was only sorry 
 that he had not killed the girl as well. 
 
 When Jan was disturbed late at night by the 
 visit of the deputy governor and chief warder of 
 the gaol, it was natural for him to imagine that he 
 was about to die : that in his short sleep he had come 
 to early morning. Yet it was but midnight. He sat 
 
98 ExLEX, 
 
 up on his straw, and glared about him savagely for 
 a moment. Then catching sight of his own warder, 
 Steen, with whom he was on friendly terms, he gave 
 a half grin. '' Well, Steen, you have found your 
 hang^man, then ? But, curse it ! isn't this early to 
 wake a man ? What's the hour .^ " 
 
 Steen, from behind the officials, shook his head, 
 The deputy governor spoke. 
 
 " You know, Jan Vanderkopf, that your life is 
 forfeited to justice, that long ere this you would 
 have been executed if it had not been for want 
 of an executioner to replace Nicholas ? " 
 
 "This is old news," muttered Jan, drawing his 
 blanket up to his chin. 
 
 " You and another condemned prisoner occupy 
 the same position. Yet there is some hope for you. 
 There is none for him." 
 
 Jan dropped his blanket again, and stared hard 
 at the speaker. 
 
 " We can find no one to perform the office of 
 hangman. I am empowered by authority to offer 
 you your liberty if you will take it upon yourself" 
 
 There was silence in the narrow cell for a minute. 
 Jan stirred uneasily in his straw ; a little foam issued 
 from the corners of his mouth. Then be turned very 
 pale. 
 
ExLEx, gg 
 
 " Come/^ said the chief warder impatiently ; 
 " don't keep his Excellency waiting : your answer." 
 
 " It shall never be said that my mother bore a 
 hangman," answered Jan, with a curious quietness of 
 voice. " I'll be hanged first myself ! Go away, and 
 ■ let me sleep." 
 
 The reply was unexpected, and the governor 
 looked at Jan with an expression which in a degree 
 betokened a certain respect. This murderer was not 
 wholly degraded. 
 
 '^ This is your final answer, then } You prefer to 
 die rather than hang a man, yet " 
 
 Jan looked up with a quick comprehension. 
 
 " I hated the man I killed ! " 
 
 " Would you have hanged him } " 
 
 Jan hesitated a moment. 
 
 " Like enough," he muttered at last. 
 
 ^' You are, at any rate, a Netherlander } Have 
 you ever fought the Spaniards } " 
 
 The murderer turned up the sleeve of his right 
 arm, and bared a big scar. He looked at it almost 
 affectionately. 
 
 " At Maestricht," he said proudly. 
 
 " The man we want you to hang is a Spaniard." 
 
 " Ha ! " said Jan, and he half rose. He again 
 turned pale. He looked appealingly at Steen, as 
 ^ 2 
 
lOO Ex LEX. 
 
 though asking his advice. The man made no sign. 
 *^ No ; they would call me a hangman. I will not ; 
 I will not !" And yet a great struggle went on within 
 him. The perspiration came in heavy drops upon his 
 forehead. He waved his hand, as if asking for time. 
 
 *' If I do this," he said at last, " it will not save 
 me. Someone will taunt me with the deed, and I 
 shall kill him, and then you will hang me, after all." 
 He stopped and muttered to himself. " Give me 
 leave hereafter to kill anyone who shall call me 
 * Hangman/ and I will hang your Spaniard. That's 
 my answer." 
 
 He threw himself down on the straw, and refused 
 to speak again. 
 
 In the morning the deputy governor brought Jan 
 Vanderkopf, under the seal of the State, permission to 
 kill any man who should hereafter taunt him with his 
 deed. That afternoon the Spaniard died, and Jan 
 returned to his farm. So much of this story John 
 Lothrop Motley, the historian, knew ; but of the 
 hangman murderer's after-career he tells nothing. 
 
 While Jan was in prison his mother had died — 
 partly from old age, but more through the shock of 
 his trial and condemnation. He found himself a 
 lonely man. All the neighbours knew of the bargain 
 he had driven with the authorities in their need, and 
 
Ex LEX, lOI 
 
 fearing a man of his proved character, they treated 
 him with the respect that springs from terror. The 
 paper, with its heavy seals, which set him, in one 
 respect at least, above and beyond the law, was a 
 terrible weapon in the hands of a desperate man. 
 He occupied the position of one who wields unknown 
 forces. A stranger hearing men speak of Jan might 
 have thought him one who dealt in magic, who could 
 waste and wither his enemies by undiscoverable 
 means. To the very children he became a bugbear ; 
 and mothers used him to procure obedience, as other 
 ignorant peasants use imaginary bogeys, in which 
 they themselves half believe. 
 
 Upon Jan himself the effect of his new position 
 was very great. For the first time in his life he 
 tasted real power : and power to one who has never 
 known it is very sweet. But he was not naturally a 
 lonely man ; the isolation which was forced upon him 
 became almost intolerable. The innate brutality 
 which led to his first crime throve and grew in silence 
 and solitude ; he became cruel in thought and cruel 
 in action. His horses suffered, his dog feared him ; 
 he had to use what were almost threats to procure 
 any assistance in harvest time. In company he. was . 
 boisterous, and he often drank heavily. :* 'tKougti 'the 
 innkeepers round about found his custom- led ;tl>;^ 
 
I02 EXLEX. 
 
 actual loss, they were obliged to put up with him. 
 Occasionally he produced the paper which he always 
 carried with him, and asked a trembling host if 
 he had any objection to his company, and, if so, 
 what that objection might be. He insisted on men 
 remaining who wished to go. He forced them to 
 drink at his expense. 
 
 The girl whose lover he had killed still lived in 
 the neighbourhood ; but for a year after his release 
 from prison he never saw her. Had he not been so 
 hideously lonely, he might never have wished to see 
 her : in solitude she returned to him. It was possible 
 that she had not really loved the dead man : it was 
 , possible he had taken a wrong view. At any rate, he 
 got to feel so strong, so far above the cringing peasants 
 about him, that he thought his new strange power 
 might affect her even if she hated him — if she did 
 hate him, he said, and then stopped. He remem- 
 bered how his only regret in prison was that he had 
 not killed her. She was the cause of all his troubles. 
 She had made him a murderer, had made him a 
 hangman ; the only recompense was his being set 
 above the law. She had done that ; she had given 
 him the power of killing her if she taunted him, or 
 if he ever foand her alone. He chuckled to think 
 
Ex LEX. 103 
 
 If he found her alone ! Yes ; and if he killed her 
 or anyone else when no one was by, who could say 
 the victims had not brought their death upon them- 
 selves ? Sometimes he fancied others had thought 
 of this : it was so rare for him to see any of his 
 neighbours by themselves. He laughed again ; and 
 strangely fortified in his natural strength and 
 audacity, he thought that even then he had but 
 to kill two instead of one. He began to desire to 
 kill. 
 
 One morning he rose early, dressed himself more 
 carefully than usual, and went towards the farm 
 where this woman worked. He put a sharp knife in 
 his breast pocket. He only reached the homestead 
 at ten o'clock, for it was fully fifteen miles from his 
 own house. He sat down under some small trees, 
 about a hundred yards from the barn and stables. 
 Presently he saw a woman leave the house and enter 
 the barn. Was that Anna? He rose, and, running 
 quickly, went in after her. She turned and saw him. 
 Staggering back against the wall, she covered her 
 face with her hands, as though to shut out some 
 awful sight. The hot blood surged into Jan's head. 
 He fingered the haft of his knife. 
 
 ** What do you want t " said the woman, without 
 looking at him. 
 
104 Ex LEX, 
 
 He stared at her fiercely, and then a revulsion 
 came over him. 
 
 " I don't know," he answered almost vacantly. 
 
 " Then go, then go ! " and she shuddered violently. 
 
 " I want," said Jan — and again the blood came to 
 his brain — " I want you. Come with me. I am all 
 alone. You have done this. People hate me, and are 
 afraid ; yes, they are afraid ! " 
 
 The woman looked up and stared at him steadily. 
 
 " And I } Don't I hate you ? What have you 
 done to me } Where is my man — the man who loved 
 me ? Go ! you devil, you devil ! " 
 
 He staggered, and caught hold of a post to save 
 himself from falling. Recovering as she again turned 
 away, he came up to her close — closer yet. He 
 breathed hotly upon her, and she shrank away like a 
 flower under a fire. He touched her and she screamed 
 faintly, and said " Ah ! " with horrible loathing. 
 
 " Let me go, you devil ! You murderer, let me 
 go ! You vile wretch ! " 
 
 And she wrenched herself from his grasp. He 
 had caught her arm. She panted, and thought how 
 to hurt him. 
 
 " You hangman murderer, let me go ! " 
 
 How Jan hated her then. All the old strong 
 passion was changed into hate. He would have liked 
 
Ex LEX. I OS 
 
 to slay her lover again before her eyes. He caught 
 her by the throat, and fumbled for his knife. He 
 stabbed her once, twice, thrice, and let her fall. The 
 first blow had pierced her heart. He stood over her 
 for a full long minute, hearing the horses champing 
 hay in the near stable. A hen chuckled loudly about 
 a new ^g^ ; a sparrow looked down from the upper 
 door ; a swallow darted in, turned, and flew out. He 
 saw them all. And Anna lay there, dead ! He wiped 
 the knife on a bit of hay, felt its edge curiously, and 
 returned it to his pocket. Going out, he closed the 
 barn door. In half the time he had taken to come he 
 was at home again. He sat down, and read and read 
 again the paper with its heavy blood-red seals. 
 
 For this murder Jan was arrested and tried. He 
 held his tongue, and did not confess. The evidence 
 against him was nothing but the possession of a knife 
 similar to the one which must have been used by the 
 slayer. No one had seen him on his way ; no one 
 had noted his return. It was so greatly his habit to 
 remain in his house for days, that it was quite possible 
 he had done so on that day. Greater scientific know- 
 ledge than was common in those times might have 
 detected human blood on his knife and upon his 
 clothes. But a verdict which set him free rendered 
 it unnecessary for him to accuse the dead woman 
 
I06 Ex LEX. 
 
 of the insult which, in his own eyes, made murder 
 justifiable, and in the eyes of the law, in his case at 
 least, legal. 
 
 Nevertheless, everyone was firmly convinced that 
 he had killed this woman. He was shunned as if he 
 had the plague ; no one, save in company, came near 
 him. He was looked on as absolutely and hideously 
 dangerous; only real personal fear made any man re- 
 main with him. This perpetual avoidance set his teeth 
 on edge. All men were his enemies. He needed 
 no further cause to desire to kill them. He began to 
 lie in wait on unfrequented paths, hoping that some 
 man he knew would pass by alone. Murder was in 
 his thoughts by night and day : murder that was 
 easy, and not dangerous. He sometimes was proud 
 to think that he alone in all the world possessed the 
 right and the power to kill ; he laughed uproariously 
 in his desolate home, which was more and more 
 neglected. He very rarely worked ; his clothes hung 
 in rags about him ; he was gaunt and ghastly to 
 look at. 
 
 One evening he entered the village inn, though of 
 late he had ceased to frequent it. The noisy chatter 
 ceased as soon as he came in — ceased so suddenly 
 that he felt they had been talking of him. He 
 ordered some brandy, drank it, ordered some more, 
 
Ex LEX, 107 
 
 and invited three men to drink with him. They 
 dared not refuse. Presently he turned to the crowd, 
 and said savagely, " Why don't you go on talking, 
 you pack of curs ? Are you afraid of me ? " 
 
 And those who were most afraid made an attempt 
 at conversation. He took a seat. The man next 
 him edged a little away. Jan pushed close up against 
 him, and glared at him angrily. The host asked Jan 
 to drink, and he drank again. 
 
 Presently he took his knife out of his pocket, and 
 began chipping at the table with it, muttering to 
 himself It was the same knife he had used to kill 
 Anna with, and had an edge like a razor. One of 
 his favourite amusements was sharpening it. It was 
 greatly worn away, and curved along the edge from 
 the point to the haft in a slight concave. Again 
 silence fell on the assembled company. Once or 
 twice Jan attempted to speak, but he got no further 
 than the first word. Presently he rose and went out. 
 In the morning, on the road near his house, a man 
 called Jacob Brant was found dead, stabbed to the 
 heart. He was a labourer on the next farm, and was 
 one of those who feared Jan the least. 
 
 Jan was arrested, and acknowledged the crime, 
 but he said that the man had refused to walk with 
 him, and had taunted him with the Spaniard's death. 
 
I08 Ex LEX. 
 
 He produced his precious paper, and was reluctantly 
 acquitted. The magistrates and doctors consulted 
 together. Some said he was mad, but of his mad- 
 ness there was no proof. But it began to be hinted 
 through the country that any man who killed Jan 
 Vanderkopf would find justice very easy to deal with. 
 
 For three months he never entered the village 
 hostelry ; but late one evening he came at last. 
 The old scene was repeated ; he bade them talk, 
 he drank heavily, he took out his knife and played 
 with it. A curious and horrible murmur and a 
 quiet question ran round the bar-room : " Whom 
 had he killed now ? " Each looked at each ; they 
 tried to think if there was any of their usual com- 
 pany missing. Presently a tall young labourer, Hans 
 Cuyp, rose, with a curious sound in his throat ; he 
 stared about him as if dazed, and ran to the door. 
 Jan cried to him to stop, and followed him to the 
 door. But Hans had disappeared into the darkness. 
 Jan returned to his seat and laughed a long laugh, 
 which made the rest shiver. But it was curious to 
 note that he shivered too as he sat there. 
 
 In half-an-hour the door was pushed away, and 
 Hans Cuyp entered. He was ghastly white, and his 
 clothes were covered with mud. The heavy rain had 
 soaked him through and through. He did not look 
 
Ex LEX. 109 
 
 round, but went to the bar, and motioned for some 
 brandy. He drank it and turned round. His right 
 hand he kept in his pocket. He spoke — 
 
 " Friends and neighbours, and you, Jan Vander- 
 kopf, neighbour and no friend, my brother Frans iies 
 dead, not fifty yards from that man's door, stabbed 
 through the heart." He pointed with his left hand at 
 Jan, who sat motionless. His knife was sticking in 
 the table in front of him. There rose a curious odd 
 sound, half like a sigh, from those who heard him. 
 Yet there was something threatening in it. Everyone 
 turned to Jan, who stood looking at Hans. The 
 silence lasted for some seconds. 
 
 "Jan Vanderkopf," said the brother of the mur- 
 dered man, " you are a murderer, and a foul villain, 
 and a hangman ! Stand up, for I am going to kill 
 you ! " And in his right hand he held a knife. 
 
 Jan looked steadily at his accuser, but did not 
 move. 
 
 " I can kill you for that," he said at last, in a 
 thick voice, which sounded afar off. He seemed 
 half stupefied. He fumbled in his breast, and took 
 out his safe-guard : his licence to kill. He began 
 to read it out. When he came to " If anyone shall 
 hereafter taunt the said Jan Vanderkopf," he stopped 
 suddenly, put his hand to his head, and looked 
 
I lO Ex LEX, 
 
 round as if in great surprise — as if not knowing 
 where he was. The paper dropped from his hands, 
 and he fell back into his seat, closing his eyes. He 
 did not move for full five minutes of silence, and 
 his breathing became stertorous. The nearest man 
 plucked up courage, and, taking the deadly knife 
 from the table, threw it in the fire. When Jan came 
 to himself next morning he was paralysed, and in 
 three days he was dead. 
 
A NOBLE GERMAN. 
 
113 
 
 A NOBLE GERMAN. 
 
 Baron Strudei.witz was born about 1850, and his 
 family was reckoned extremely respectable among 
 the other noble lines of North Germany until Karl 
 commenced his career^ and tarnished the lustre of an 
 ancient name. His father died while he was still 
 very young, and doubtless the lack of strong parental 
 control and the fondness of a weak and loving mother 
 contributed to the evil development of a character 
 which was by inheritance reckless, and is now almost 
 uncontrollable and without conscience. After leaving 
 the military school for the army, which is the natural 
 and almost inevitable career for all Germans who 
 belong to the highest classes, Strudelwitz came into 
 possession of a fortune of £1 5, 000, which he proceeded 
 to dissipate with such extreme despatch that he soon 
 earned a name for wild debauchery among men who 
 were his seniors in years and vice. By the time his 
 affairs were in the most desperate condition the 
 Franco-Prussian War broke out, and he served with 
 a regiment of Uhlans at Worth, Sedan, and in many 
 minor affairs, showing a capacity and courage which 
 
114 A Noble German. 
 
 went far to reconcile his superiors to his outrageous 
 conduct in barracks. When peace was made his 
 regiment was stationed at Strasbourg. Public feeling 
 in the conquered provinces of Alsace and Lorraine 
 was extremely bitter, and though the hatred of the 
 Alsatians for the Prussians was no more concealed 
 than prudence made necessary, the military and civil 
 authorities endeavoured to conciliate those who had 
 been worsted in the war by giving the strictest orders 
 that the townspeople were to be treated with the 
 utmost gentleness and consideration. This Strudel- 
 witz instantly obeyed by getting into a violent alter- 
 cation with a harmless citizen, and after provoking 
 anger by an undeserved insult, he avenged himself 
 by drawing his sword aud cutting his opponent down. 
 He was placed under arrest, and recommended to 
 resign. 
 
 Being without money, he was compelled to favour 
 his mother with his company for a whole year, at the 
 end of which time his conduct made her so anxious 
 to see him employed somewhere else, that she used 
 the united influence of her family in obtaining him a 
 lieutenancy in a Hussar regiment stationed in the 
 north of Germany. Strudelwitz, being tired of rustic 
 life, was repentant^ and swore emphatically to behave 
 himself in a respectable and quiet fashion, but after 
 
A Noble German. 115 
 
 three months of experience in garrison, his colonel, 
 in disgust at his " quiet " behaviour, which threatened 
 to demoralise all the younger members of the corps, 
 sent him to a little town where only a single squadron 
 was stationed. But Strudelwitz was incorrigible. His 
 captain had no influence over him, and was fain to let 
 matters take their course, with the result that the 
 burgomaster of the town complained publicly of his 
 arrogance and violent conduct, and his words were 
 repeated to the offender. Next day the insulted baron 
 was driving two young horses in the main street, and 
 in front of him, picking his way through the mud, he 
 saw the representative of the town's civil authority. 
 He whipped up his horses and drove over him. 
 Fortunately, the burgomaster was not seriously in- 
 jured, but Strudelwitz had to resign once more, and 
 returned to his disconsolate mother, with whom he 
 stayed until the Russo-Turkish War broke out. 
 
 He had long been pricking up his ears at the 
 thunder muttering among the Balkans, and he thought 
 this was an opportunity not to be lost. Having 
 obtained a small supply of money from his relations, 
 who were glad enough to see him go where he might 
 possibly meet with an accident which would prevent 
 his return, he started for Constantinople to offer his 
 services as a cavalry officer to the Turks. But as 
 II 2 
 
ii6 A Noble German. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith forgot that some knowledge of 
 Dutch was necessary to teach the Hollanders English, 
 Strudelwitz likewise forgot that to obtain the com- 
 mand of a Turkish regiment — for he flew at high 
 game — it was imperative that he should have some 
 command of the Turkish language. The authorities 
 were polite to him when they pointed this out, but 
 that was all, and Strudelwitz was soon a hanger-on at 
 the German embassy. 
 
 When his fellow-countrymen became sufficiently 
 tired of him to give him money to go away with, in- 
 stead of leaving the country, he went north to Adri- 
 anople, for he considered it absurd to quit Turkey 
 without seeing anything that was going on, to say 
 nothing of the loss of the many chances he might 
 have at the theatre of war. But he got no farther 
 than a little village on the outskirts of Adrianople, 
 where he stayed at a wayside inn until his money was 
 exhausted, and the Turks retreated before the ad- 
 vancing Russians. He was sitting there in a melan- 
 choly mood when some Tcherkesse and Cossack 
 regiments entered the town, and one detachment 
 came to his inn. A handsome young officer entered 
 his room and sat down. Strudelwitz took no notice, 
 and went on smoking and drinking, until at last the 
 curiosity of the stranger was aroused. It was evident 
 
A Noble German. 117 
 
 that this was a European, and probably a German. 
 He was certainly a soldier : his cloak, boots and spurs, 
 and military bearing told all observers that. Per- 
 haps it might be the Russian's duty to make him a 
 prisoner. He accosted Strudelwitz in German. 
 
 " Pray, sir," said he politely, " may I inquire what 
 you are doing here ? " 
 
 " Nothing whatever," replied Strudelwitz coolly ; 
 " only I can't get away." 
 
 " Why not } " asked the Russian. 
 
 ** Simply because I have no horse, and owe this 
 cursed Armenian innkeeper — whom the devil take ! — 
 fifty francs^ and I have no more than five." 
 
 The Russian smiled. 
 
 "Then you are not in the Turkish army, I can 
 see, or that would not trouble you. I perceive you 
 are in difficulties : that you are an officer and a gentle- 
 man. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron 
 Kosakofif." 
 
 Strudelwitz rose. 
 
 " And I Baron Strudelwitz, late of the — Ger- 
 man Hussars," said he. 
 
 The two barons shook hands, and Strudelwitz, 
 w^ho, like all adventurers, was easily elated, felt already 
 in a much happier frame of mind. He related his 
 story, and it lost nothing in the telling. 
 
ii8 A Noble German. 
 
 *' Come," said Kosakoff, when he had finished, " I 
 will get you a horse, and you shall be one of us. I 
 have plenty of money ; I beg you to share all things 
 w^ith me while we are together, and " 
 
 " After that the deluge ! " cried Strudelwitz, who 
 was in delightful spirits at hearing such a generous 
 speech. 
 
 At all times he was an admirable companion, an 
 inimitable raconteur^ a bon vivettr of the first water, 
 and being now extremely desirous of pleasing his new 
 companions, he even excelled himself Round the 
 camp fire that night the grey beards of the Tcher- 
 kesse and Cossack officers wagged until nearly morn- 
 ing. They swore with strange oaths that he was the 
 most amusing man they had ever known, and the 
 most delightful, for he told them wonderful stories of 
 the great French war, of his German brother officers, 
 and painted them bright pictures of the Constantinople 
 they hoped so soon to occupy for the great White 
 Czar ; and when they at last unwillingly left him 
 with Kosakoff, they declared he should be their 
 brother, that he ought to be a Russian, and that when 
 they looted the palaces of the Bosphorus they would 
 share with him the treasuries of the Sultan who had 
 refused his services. 
 
 But Bcaconsfield had something to say to that, 
 
A Noble German, 119 
 
 and Constantinople is still a promised land to the 
 Cossack from the Don, and those grey-bearded 
 Tcherkesse will never in person spoil that ancient 
 city, but must be content to leave it as a doubtful 
 legacy to their sons ; for the Russians were checked 
 in their onward progress, and remained at Adrianople, 
 cursing fate and the English. Some few, however, of 
 the officers, and among these Kosakoff, obtained per- 
 mission to go as visitors to the place they had hoped 
 to enter as conquerors, and with them, of course, went 
 Strudelwitz. He soon found out that when Kosakoff 
 had said that he had plenty of money he spoke 
 no more than the truth, for his income was at least 
 100,000 roubles, or ^io,oco a year, which he spent like 
 water. 
 
 Those who know Constantinople, with its strange 
 mingling of filth and magnificence, of Oriental and 
 Occidental splendour and vice, can easily imagine 
 the life that Kosakoff, newly released from the hard- 
 ships of campaigning and the trammels of discipline, 
 and Strudelwitz, formerly almost without a penny, 
 but now with a companion who was, as it were, a 
 living bank to draw upon, led in that city, where the 
 latter acted as cicerone. The Turk is ever open to 
 bribery, and the Turkish policeman is no better than 
 ' the minister who controls his destinies or extorts 
 
I20 A Noble German, 
 
 burdensome taxes from a grcaning province, so 
 Kosakoff's ready purse was continually in his hand 
 in order to get himself or his friend, or most frequently 
 both, out of the venal clutches of the keepers of the 
 peace. For the first time since Strudelwitz arose to 
 find his goodly patrimony squandered he had an 
 almost unlimited command of money, and he made 
 such wild use of the welcome opportunity that the 
 two companions were twice requested to leave hotels 
 which they had honoured only to make themselves 
 'public nuisances. One erratic notion, born of his 
 fertile brain, was to gather some dozen organ-grinders 
 in front of their last hotel, with strict orders to play 
 each a different tune, while the two barons sat at 
 their ease in the balcony, which the other guests 
 vacated for their sole use. 
 
 Had KosakofT remained much longer in Constan- 
 tinople, perhaps these two well-suited companions 
 might have got into trouble from which no amount 
 of money would have freed them ; but fortu- 
 nately, at least for Strudelwitz, who had tired out 
 the German embassy during his first stay in the city, 
 the Russian was ordered to rejoin his regiment, which 
 with the rest of the army was bound for the north of 
 the Danube. Before going he gave Strudelwitz a 
 thousand roubles, saying : " Now, my dear friend, it " 
 
A Noble German. 121 
 
 is best for you to go back to Germany ; for without 
 my purse I foresee that you will get into some 
 serious difficulty." 
 
 They embraced, kissed each other, and parted, 
 Strudelwitz vowing that he would return home at 
 once — which, probably, for the moment he meant 
 to do. 
 
 But he had a thousand roubles, and where is the 
 Bohemian of any standing who does not believe that 
 ;£'ioo is a sum practically inexhaustible } The 
 baron could not make up his mind to desert the 
 pleasant banks of the Bosphorus, and accordingly he 
 stayed on and on until the greater portion of his 
 funds was spent, and destitution stared him once 
 more in the face. Yet luck did not desert him, and a 
 certain pacha of high standing, who, by his influence, 
 had obtained a concession to erect kiosques in the 
 city for the sale of water, made Strudelwitz his 
 partner, on condition that the German could induce 
 some European banker or capitalist to invest his 
 money in the speculation. This was undoubtedly a 
 very promising undertaking, and Strudelwitz felt 
 himself a rich man once more as he chuckled over the 
 impending ruin of the stout water-carriers who had 
 plied their trade from before the time of the Arabian 
 Nif^hts and the Great Khalif Haroun Alraschid. 
 
122 A Noble German. 
 
 With some cash obtained from the friendly pacha, 
 who believed in him too well, he set out for London 
 to visit a great banking firm which he was convinced 
 would be most eager to enter into such projects. He 
 blessed the stars which had directed his course to 
 Turkey. 
 
 It was not in Strudelwitz's nature, however im- 
 portant the business he might have to transact, to 
 visit London, and to refrain from ''doing" the greatest 
 city in the world. His " doing it " included, among 
 other adventures, his being fined for disorderly 
 conduct at one of the metropolitan police courts, 
 which so disgusted him that he hurried at once to 
 
 Messrs. Bros., produced his credentials, and 
 
 demanded financial support for his new undertaking. 
 He was a man of business, for undoubtedly he 
 possessed, and still possesses, the art of producing a 
 favourable impression, and of skilfully puffing a pro- 
 ject, which goes for so much in matters of trade or 
 finance at a first introduction. The bankers received 
 him courteously and considered his proposals. But 
 their decision was against him. Turkey's finances 
 were in a desperate condition ; the government was 
 almost disorganised, the provinces in confusion, and 
 trade bad in Constantinople itself. To Strudelwitz's 
 disgust, they explained their objections, and, in spite 
 
A Noble German. 123 
 
 of his arguments, were obdurate in refusing sub- 
 stantial aid. He left in the evening for Paris, for the 
 English were decidedly too cautious, and he despised 
 those who were unwilling to take some risk when the 
 profits, as he considered, would be so immense. 
 
 Although he was almost at the end of his 
 thousand roubles and the pacha's subsidy when he 
 arrived in Paris, he put up at the most expensive 
 hotel he could think of — for a financier should make a 
 show, and the morrow would doubtless see him in 
 command of unlimited credit. But to his infinite 
 surprise he found that the French bankers might have 
 been in correspondence with their English confreres^ to 
 such a degree were their objections identical, and 
 before three days he saw that the Sultan's firman was 
 mere waste paper, or at best a curiosity for collectors. 
 On the evening of the day on which this unwelcome 
 conclusion was forced upon him he sat in a cafe on 
 the Boulevard des Italiens drinking absinthe, feeling 
 in his pocket to make sure that he had sufficient 
 money to pay for what he was drinking, and dismally 
 brooding over his hotel bill, which he had no earthly 
 means of discharging ; for these water kiosques were 
 castles in the air. He knew that it was idle to apply 
 to his relations, for he had drained them dry, and 
 they had — none too politely — intimated as much. 
 
124 ^ Noble German, 
 
 As for his military friends, they were for the most 
 part nearly as poor as himself He thought of the 
 pacha ; then of Kosakoff. That was a happy 
 thought ; he sprang to his feet, paid for his absinthe, 
 and walking to his hotel, sent a strongly-worded 
 appeal to his late comrade to allow him to pay him a 
 visit. And — it would be as well to send some money 
 to do it with, for he was stranded in Paris, as he had 
 been in the Armenian's inn north of Adrianople. 
 
 As Mr. Micawber believed he had done all that 
 could be expected of him, even by the most exigent? 
 when he handed his creditors an I O U, Strudelwitz 
 now considered he had done his duty, and was 
 entitled to enjoy himself; for the onus now lay on 
 Kosakoff. 
 
 He accordingly pawned his jewellery, and tasted 
 the gayer life of Paris with an abandon which a man 
 of assured future might have envied. It never 
 occurred to him that the Russian might take no 
 notice of the letter, or perhaps he knew the baron too 
 well to misjudge him, for on the tenth day he 
 received the expected letter, enclosing a draft for 
 another thousand roubles, and begging him to make 
 the castle his home for the winter, at least. 
 
 Kosakoff's chief estate was situated some two 
 hundred miles from Riga, and consisted of vast tracts 
 
A Noble German. 125 
 
 of pasture, moorland, and forest ; and there he was 
 practically God and Czar to his people. The condi- 
 tion of the Russian peasantry is but inadequately 
 known to the English people, in spite of Tolstoi, 
 Tourgu^neff and Dostoieffsky ; but it is low indeed — 
 at least, in actual recognition of right. In the coun- 
 try districts the Russians may be divided into 
 peasants and nobles, and to the latter the former 
 belong body and soul. The nobles pay no taxes, 
 and have all the power to destroy or insult possessed 
 by the ancienne noblesse of France before the Great 
 Revolution ; and in spite of the emancipation of the 
 serf, the peasants lie beneath the iron heel of their 
 lords, and are thankful if they are not kicked as well 
 as trodden on. As for the Jews, they are beneath all 
 law ; and Kosakoff s uncle having once thrown a 
 Hebrew into a dungeon for some offence, asked his 
 jdger, a week afterwards, what had become of him. 
 " Oh," replied the fellow coolly, " he made so much 
 noise that I shot him ! " And this did not happen 
 very long ago. 
 
 Kosakoff himself was a strange individual, and 
 not entirely the reckless, fine-tempered fellow he had 
 shown himself to Strudelwitz. Even during his 
 minority he had run a course of tremendous and 
 headstrong debauchery, and when he came into full 
 
126 A Noble German, 
 
 possession of his estates the irresponsible power he 
 wielded had not chastened him with a sense of duty, 
 but had made him hard and cruel. He had fought 
 under Skobeleff against the Tekke-Turcomans, and 
 had been present at the storming of Geok Tepe. 
 There he had taken part in the indiscriminate 
 slaughter of men, women, and children, which forms 
 so great a blot on the reputation of this general, when 
 the Turcoman stronghold fell to the assault of the 
 Russian forces. The deeds he had seen and taken 
 part in weighed on him like a dark cloud, and made 
 him by turns dully morose or actively cruel, while at 
 times he rode all night through miles of his own 
 forests, returning by day to a deep slumber of ex- 
 haustion. His companions were great drinkers, noble 
 like himself, for he admitted none within his doors on 
 terms of equality but those who were titled, who 
 were great riders or hunters, or those who ministered 
 to his moods. To women he was usually brutal, and 
 the very slaves of his fancy trembled before him, glad 
 of dismissal ; and yet, in spite of this, he was in many 
 things kind and generous to a degree. He would 
 give anything to a man he loved, and would go far to 
 serve him ; he was faithful to old friendship, and ap- 
 preciative of kind offices. Often he was kind and 
 indulgent to his peasants, and yet, with the ominous 
 
A Noble German. 127 
 
 feeling which many of the powerful Russians ex- 
 perience, he said one day to an old friend and guest, 
 Count Tepper-Laski, as both stood under the great 
 portico : — 
 
 '^ This, my friend, is where I shall be hanged when 
 these peasant dogs rebel. See if it is not so ! " 
 
 His words may yet come true, though things move 
 so very slowly in that land of ancient authority. 
 
 Such was the character of Strudelwitz's host, and 
 of the place to which he was coming. His friend 
 Tepper-Laski was a man of less formidable points, 
 but equally noticeable in his own way, who had been 
 staying with Kosakoff for a long time, and was, as it 
 were, Master of the Horse in an establishment where 
 fifty animals stood night and day in the stables. 
 
 On the 1st of November, 187 — , Strudelwitz arrived 
 at Walmasoff from Riga, having come by sea a great 
 part of the way, and he made his debut in a manner 
 that reflected no discredit on the vast establishment 
 at which he was to stay in the character of Kosakoff s 
 friend, for he came with six post-horses, and was 
 dressed in the height of fashion. Tepper-Laski was 
 behind the scenes, and knew the real position of 
 affairs ; in fact, Kosakoff had asked his advice when 
 the piteous letter of appeal came from Paris, but of 
 this Strudelwitz was ignorant, and he carried himself 
 
128 A Noble German. 
 
 with an independent and aristocratic magnificence of 
 manner that almost made the admiring count doubt 
 the evidence of his own senses. 
 
 His arrival inaugurated a series of extraordinary 
 carouses, carried on at Walmasoff, at another of 
 Kosakoff's houses in the neighbourhood, or, for the 
 sake of a thorough change, at Riga. There, upon one 
 occasion, Strudelwitz, in a state of intoxication, 
 seduced two bull-dogs, of terrible appearance, belong- 
 ing to a travelling Englishman, from their allegiance, 
 and took them to bed with him at his hotel. In the 
 morning the dogs perceived so great a difference 
 between Philip drunk and Philip sober that they 
 refused, with one accord, to let him rise or touch his 
 own clothes, while the hotel attendants dared not 
 open the door. Strudelwitz was unable to account for 
 their presence, and it was only when a waiter had the 
 presence of mind to seek their master, who was in 
 despair over the disappearance of his ferocious pets, 
 that the dogs could be induced to quit the room 
 peaceably, and raise the state of siege. 
 
 The prolonged series of debauches only came to 
 an end, for the present at least, when Kosakoff 
 deemed it time to commence preparations for a great 
 elk-hunt, to which a score of Russian notabilities had 
 been invited. Among these was a great prince of 
 
A Noble German, 129 
 
 the reigning house of Romanoff, who now holds 
 
 almost despotic power ; General L , from Odessa, 
 
 and many others well known in the highest European 
 society. 
 
 The elk-hunt was a success ; the prince was pleased, 
 the other visitors delighted ; and Strudelwitz, un- 
 abashed by royalty, was the great buffoon, jester, and 
 master of the ceremonies, who made talk flow easily, 
 who passed the bottle with dexterous rapidity, and 
 kept everyone laughing till daylight broke into the 
 great saloon which was the scene of orgies, now 
 almost peculiarly Russian, but which a century ago 
 were prevalent both in our own country and over the 
 whole of the continent. But Strudelwitz at last made 
 
 a mistake. One night, when General L , who was 
 
 not a great drinker, had retired to bed somewhat 
 earlier than the German baron esteemed proper, he 
 was roused at three o'clock in the morning by an 
 assault on the door, which eventually yielded to a 
 vigorous kick, and allowed Strudelwitz to enter the 
 room, bearing a bottle of champagne, which he in- 
 sisted the white-haired general should consume on the 
 spot. It was only by the influence of Tepper-Laski 
 and the physical suasion of three Tartar servants, 
 whom he threatened to massacre, that he was induced 
 to retire, and in the morning the indignant general 
 
I30 A Noble German. 
 
 complained to his host. Kosakoff was furious, and 
 sent for Tepper-Laski. 
 
 " This conduct of Strudelwitz cannot be pardoned," 
 said he. " I wish you to order a carriage to take him 
 at once to Riga. Where is he now } " 
 
 " Asleep," said Tepper-Laski. 
 
 " Then please have his things packed up and put 
 in the carriage, and when he has had coffee, say I 
 request him to leave here instantly. And give him 
 this ! " 
 
 " This " was a cheque for five hundred roubles. 
 Kosakoff could not act meanly, but he was deter- 
 mined and as black as thunder. 
 
 When Strudelwitz woke he found coffee and 
 brandy waiting for him, and Tepper-Laski seated in a 
 chair in his room. The situation was not without a 
 touch of comedy, and Tepper-Laski, who was not too 
 serious, could not resist making it more comic than 
 strict friendship might have required. 
 
 " Come, make haste, Strudelwitz," said he ; " we 
 are going a long drive ! " 
 
 " You can go without me," grumbled the German. 
 ** I don't care about it this morning." 
 
 Tepper-Laski laughed. 
 
 " I think not, my friend. Kosakoff desires it 
 particularly, and it won't do to cross him under the 
 
A Noble German. 131 
 
 circumstances" — by this time Strudelwitz knew that 
 the other was quite familiar with his previous history 
 — "' so you must get up." 
 
 When Strudelwitz left his room three servants 
 entered it immediately, packed up all his belongings, 
 and by the time the others were at the door — for 
 Tepper-Laski had delayed purposely — his luggage 
 was in the carriage. 
 
 When the German saw that there was only one 
 vehicle waiting, he stopped, but Tepper-Laski pushed 
 him in. " Where are we going ? " he asked. 
 
 " I am not going anywhere," answered his cruel 
 friend ; " but you are." 
 
 "Where to .^ Why, confound it! these are my 
 things," said the baron, with a tremendous oath. 
 
 " To Riga, my friend," said Tepper-Laski, answer- 
 ing his question ; " and Kosakoff presents his compli- 
 ments, wishes you a pleasant journey, and gives you 
 this (presenting the cheque) for your travelling 
 expenses." 
 
 Strudelwitz fell back aghast. 
 
 " But why is this t " he shouted. 
 
 "You had better inquire of General L ," re- 
 plied the count. " But now I must say good-bye. I, 
 too, wish you a pleasant trip. Coachman, drive on ! " 
 
 And as the whipped horses made a sudden plunge 
 i 2 
 
132 A Noble German, 
 
 and bore Strudelwitz off, Tepper-LaskI sat down in 
 the snow, and laughed until the tears ran down his 
 face. 
 
 Two days later the visit of the great man and his 
 satellites came to an end, and Kosakoff accompanied 
 his guest in almost royal state, with a numerous 
 retinue of servants, as far as Riga. When they had 
 departed, he went, overcome by compliments and 
 champagne, to his usual hotel, and there, in the public 
 room, he found Strudelwitz sitting in sombre state, 
 with a bottle of brandy before him. They bowed to 
 each other solemnly, and there was a period of silence, 
 broken at last by Kosakoff, who was ready to make 
 friends even with the foul fiend himself, so good- 
 tempered was he at the success of the late hunt and 
 festivities. Strudelwitz reproached him in maudlin 
 accents, and wept so many tears that the Russian's 
 heart was quite touched. He ordered more brandy, 
 and commenced drinking heavily, while Strudelwitz, 
 who was never imprudent save when in flourishing 
 circumstances, kept command over himself, and even 
 grew more sober. When the one-sided drinking bout 
 had proceeded for some time, and Kosakoff was re- 
 duced to a fit state of self-reproach and repentance, 
 the German opened fire on him. He dilated upon his 
 insulted honour, and shed tears to think that this had 
 
A Noble German. 133 
 
 proceeded from a friend ; he eloquently described his 
 state of mind at being so summarily expelled for a 
 single indiscretion from the party which he had done 
 so much to make a merry one ; he expatiated on the 
 cruelty of the rich and powerful friend who had done 
 this evil thing, and he lamented, in moving accents 
 and many-syllabled adjectives, his own miserable 
 condition of dependence and poverty. Surely^ he 
 said, some reparation was due to him, some help 
 should be extended to the last representative of a 
 noble and unfortunate family. Poor Kosakoff burst 
 into tears ; he implored pardon for his high-handed 
 conduct, and vowed to help his friend, even with his 
 blood. 
 
 " And if you do help me, Kosakoff," said Strudel- 
 witz, " you must help me well this time." 
 
 *^ How much shall I give you, my dear friend } '' 
 wept Kosakoff, pulling out his cheque-book. 
 
 This was a question not so easy to be settled. 
 He had never received more than a thousand roubles 
 at one time, and now he would have asked for ten 
 thousand if he had not feared to sober the generous 
 Russian by the extravagance of his demands. Finally, 
 he nobly undertook to relieve Kosakoff s exchequer 
 of no more than a paltry five thousand, but when his 
 friend gave him a cheque for that amount without 
 
134 A Noble German. 
 
 the slightest demur, he was overcome with remorse 
 at his moderation. But they embraced each other 
 fraternally, and in the morning Strudelwitz was on 
 his way to St. Petersburg with a new notion in his 
 fertile brain. 
 
 He had made many boon companions at Wal- 
 masoff, and had been universally liked, except at the 
 
 last by General L . The prince had approved of 
 
 him as a noble jester, and all the great man's followers 
 had confirmed the verdict ; for his presence at a 
 gathering was enough to ensure its success. But it 
 says something for the peculiar character of this 
 strange and unprincipled German that he always 
 impressed everybody as a possibly strong and acute 
 man, in spite of his folly, for, with all his love of riot, 
 he continually showed an active and penetrating in- 
 tellect. If it had not been so, he would scarcely 
 have been able to go as far as he did m the city on 
 the Neva. At Walmasoff, appearing as a man with 
 money, as Kosakoff's friend, at a time when all were 
 bent on enjoying themselves, his success in that 
 society was not surprising ; but it was certainly no 
 fool who could re-introduce himself to those same 
 people in St. Petersburg, and as a candidate for a 
 salaried position interest them in obtaining him an 
 appointment. But this he did, and he even recon- 
 
A Noble German. 135 
 
 ciled himself to General L . He was to have 
 
 a place in the secret police, where the courage, keen- 
 ness, and unscrupulousness which he undoubtedly 
 possessed might go far in making him a person of 
 consequence. Strudelwitz was overjoyed to think 
 how he had fallen on his feet, and went out to drink 
 in order to reward his uncommon abstinence during 
 the days he had devoted to business pure and simple. 
 And when he was more than sufficiently exhilarated 
 he hired a sleigh, and went for a drive on the Neffski 
 Prospect. 
 
 What shall a man do who is a nobleman, a high 
 and mighty baron, a companion of dukes and princes, 
 and a member {in posse) of a terrible and secret order, 
 when his driver does not handle the ribbons to suit 
 his peculiar fancy ? Of course the only thing to do 
 is to beat the unfortunate man, to show him that he is 
 a moujiky a plebeian, a slave, and a fool, ignorant of 
 the rudiments of his art. This was what Strudel- 
 witz did, and he thrashed the man without mitigation 
 or remorse until his cries caused a crowd to collect, 
 and made the late Czar, who was driving by, stop his 
 sledge to inquire what was the reason of the tumult. 
 Strudelwitz was arrested, kept twenty-four hours in 
 prison, released by the influence of Kosakofif's friends, 
 and recommended to leave St. Petersburg. His 
 
136 A Noble German. 
 
 Alnaschar visions were dissipated, and in disgust he 
 set off for Warsaw. 
 
 After engaging in a disreputable negotiation in 
 the ancient capital of disparted Poland, which fell 
 through, he returned at last to Germany, and paid 
 his relatives — who were by no means anxious to 
 receive him — a visit, which threatened to have no end. 
 For some time there is a lacuna in the history of his 
 life as it has been related to me, but I have learnt 
 that he was at last induced to be condescending 
 enough to accept a subordinate position in a great 
 commercial business, the head-quarters of which were 
 in Berlin. Whether he had really tired of the great 
 uncertainties of his past career, and had made a strong 
 resolution to succeed in life or not, he has not 
 revealed, but it is a fact that for years he behaved to 
 all outward appearance in as sedate and orderly a 
 manner as any spectacled German clerk in a London 
 warehouse, and showed so much business aptitude 
 and energy that he was finally promoted to be the 
 chief of a branch in Dresden. 
 
 While he occupied this position he was called on 
 by Count Tepper-Laski, who had been in South 
 America for some years. He found Strudelwitz in a 
 large office, with perfect appointments and every com- 
 fort, while a number of clerks, whom he called his 
 
A Noble German. 137 
 
 "slaves," trembled at his nod. To demonstrate his 
 power and position to the count, he called in an 
 elderly clerk, bullied him in an autocratic manner for 
 an imaginary mistake, and threatened to dismiss him 
 if it occurred again. 
 
 " You see, my dear friend," said he, " that if 
 Kosakoff has his moujiks, I have mine, and if I 
 can't flog them with a najaika, I can with my 
 tongue." 
 
 But success was always too much for him, and his 
 time in this responsible position grew short. If there 
 were any disturbance in a cafe restaurant, it might 
 certainly be put down to Baron Strudelwitz ; he was 
 a bugbear to the police ; he was compelled to leave 
 hotel after hotel ; and having finally been fined for an 
 assault, he was requested to resign, and left Dresden 
 with neither money nor reputation. 
 
 " I met him afterwards," said Tepper-Laski^ " in 
 Berlin. I was directed to a poor-looking house in 
 a poorer street. But I found him as happy as ever, 
 with some brandy and a young person whom he 
 introduced as the Baroness. I have my doubts about 
 that, for there was a notice below that Fraulein 
 Schmidt made dresses and millinery. But he cursed 
 business as a low pursuit, and I left him singing a 
 drinking song." 
 
133 A Noble German, 
 
 Some time afterwards I was sitting in the count's 
 chambers in London, and he showed me a post-card 
 which had arrived that morning from Copenhagen. 
 He translated it to me — 
 
 *'Dear Friend, 
 
 ** I am enjoying myself enormously. I spent two months in 
 Stockholm most delightfully, and now I am in the best hotel, with 
 the finest brandy and cigars before me, looking out on a pleasant view 
 such as I love. I hope you are happy too. Perhaps I may visit you 
 in London. — Yours, " Strudelwitz." 
 
 This is the last I have heard of the baron. It 
 seems as if his motto should be Qiiocunque jeceris 
 stabitj for he always falls upon his legs. 
 
THE TROUBLES OF JOHANN ECKERT. 
 
141 
 
 THE TROUBLES OF JOHANN 
 
 ECKERT. 
 
 The two brothers, Rudolf and Johann Eckert, sat 
 together under the verandah, just out of reach of the 
 hot South African sun which shone high overhead in 
 the cloudless sky on the roofs and dusty roads of 
 Bloemfontein. The air was quite still, most of the 
 townsfolk were quiet : it was far too hot to work, too 
 hot for any living things but flies to pretend to exer- 
 tion. Certainly the flies were active. They buzzed 
 round the two men ceaselessly, making dashes every 
 now and again at the barrier of smoke which circled 
 upwards from their pipes. Sometimes they evaded 
 it between the pufls, and had to be brushed away. 
 Sometimes they retreated baffled. On the shadier 
 side of the road — for there was a little shade on the 
 north, since the sun cannot be quite vertical in those 
 latitudes — a yellow dusty dog slunk by, looking for a 
 cool spot ; the cocks and hens avoided the light, and 
 showed how they felt the heat by opening their beaks 
 when they stood still. It was high summer in South 
 
142 The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 
 
 Africa. Just in that neighbourhood the only living 
 creatures who made any noise were Rudolfs three 
 children and their English mother, who chided them 
 alternately in bad German and her native tongue. 
 Neither of them nor of the flies did the men take 
 note. They were considering something : that was 
 certain — or rather, Rudolf, the elder, abler, and more 
 knowing in African matters, was considering, while 
 Johann, who was smaller, and a meek but sturdy 
 blue-eyed man, only lately from the Fatherland, sat 
 ready to think exactly what his big brother thought. 
 He always had done so, and always would. So the 
 flies buzzed, the fowls panted, and the dog made 
 every now and again a little cloud of dust as he 
 pawed the flies ofl" his nose, while the tobacco-smoke 
 which so aids slow consideration, circled airily up- 
 wards. Presently the elder brother spoke. 
 
 *' It is a pity, Johann, that things went not well in 
 the Fatherland. The little farm where we were born 
 sold ! Ah ! someone else tends the vines now." 
 
 For their home had been in Southern Germany, 
 where people drink wine rather than beer. Johann 
 looked up with a sorrow^ful smile. 
 
 " Yes, Wilhelm Francke ; and he said to me : 
 *But you, Hans, are going to Africa, and you will 
 find your brother as rich as a burgomaster.' " 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 143 
 
 Rudolf stroked his beard, and his answering smile 
 was a little grim with years of wasted work and vain 
 hope. How many years he had been in that new 
 country ! Yet he was scarcely wealthier than when 
 he first set foot in it — save, indeed, for his children 
 and the wife he loved. 
 
 ''A poor burgomaster, I think, my brother!" he 
 said, after a pause, during which he puffed his long 
 pipe somewhat quicker. *' But let us not mind that. 
 I w^as thinking of little Gretchen." 
 
 Not his own little Gretchen, but of Johann's 
 sweetheart, whom he had left with promises to send 
 for her as soon as he was able. How often are those 
 promises made, and made in vain. Rudolf repeated 
 " little Gretchen " tenderly, for he remembered her as 
 a seven-year old maiden laughing among the thick- 
 leaved vines. 
 
 " Yes, of Gretchen," repeated his brother sadly, for 
 he began to see that it might be years until they met 
 once more. After that they did not speak for some 
 time : so long, indeed, that the yellow dog was 
 obliged to get up and lie down again quite close to 
 the opposite house. For when the sun fell on him 
 the flies became very troublesome. 
 
 "This will not do," said Rudolf at last. "We 
 must make more money, Johann. Ten years have I 
 
144 The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 
 
 worked, and I have made so little. And you — what 
 must you do ? I must think." 
 
 He filled his pipe again, and sat puffing at it, while 
 he clutched his fair beard with a great brown hand. 
 Johann said nothing, but looked at his elder brother 
 trustfully. He had always believed in him. And 
 presently Rudolf filled his pipe once more. 
 
 " Have you thought, my brother ? " asked the 
 younger almost timidly ; for the process of such deep 
 grave consideration was not lightly to be disturbed. 
 
 " I am thinking, Johann ; '"^ and then there was a 
 long space of silence, at first only disturbed by the 
 wavering monotone of buzzing flies. But far up the 
 north-west road was a light cloud of dust. Out of it 
 came presently the long white horns of the leaders of 
 an ox team. As it drew nearer the creaking of the 
 waggon was heard, and the crack of the heavy whip. 
 Rudolf stared at it steadily, and as the driver passed 
 him with a nod, he returned it, and looked far 
 away down the road whence the team had come. 
 Yet it was but a waggon loaded with firewood. 
 Now no more smoke issued from his pipe. It held 
 only ashes. 
 
 "Have you then thought, my brother.?" asked 
 Johann once more. 
 
 "Yes, Johann, I have thought," replied Rudolf 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 145 
 
 as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. Without 
 more words, he rose up ,and went slowly into the 
 house, leaving Johann wondering very much what it 
 was he had determined to do ; for if Rudolf had 
 thought, it most surely meant something. 
 
 Late in the evening, when the sun had gone down 
 and the air was a little cooler, the two brothers and 
 the wife of the elder sat together near their open 
 door. Emily was mending the torn jacket of young 
 Rudolf, their eldest boy, and said but little. Nor did 
 Johann. But suddenly the head of the household 
 spoke, just as if he were continuing what he had 
 begun in the heat of the noon-time under the 
 verandah. 
 
 *^Yes, Johann, I have thought; and you, and you 
 Emily, listen. These years we have not done well. 
 We are still poor. Perhaps I have not been brave 
 enough to become rich. For what do men do when 
 they are poor, but can still get enough to have a good 
 team of salted oxen which do not fear the sickness ? 
 They go trading beyond the desert." 
 
 He paused, and Emily, who was looking stead- 
 fastly at him, dropped the unfinished coat. 
 
 '' Yes, beyond the desert. They leave their homes, 
 and go away for " 
 
 "Yes, Rudolf?" said she anxiously. 
 
 J 
 
146 The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 
 
 " For two years or mo/e, and then when they 
 come back " 
 
 " When they come back ? '* repeated Emily, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 " They have their waggon filled with ivory and 
 feathers, and perhaps some gold, and are rich ever 
 afterwards. They can buy a farm and travel no 
 more. Yes, Johann, I have thought. Yes.-'^ 
 
 After he had finished no one spoke. He avoided 
 their eyes, and with a nervous motion filled his pipe. 
 His hand shook as he lighted it, and he pulled his 
 chair a little nearer to the door, staring out into the 
 gathering darkness. Johann looked at him ad- 
 miringly, for he wondered at his great gift of speech 
 and strength of mind ; but he could say nothing — 
 nothing at all. He saw tears gather in Emily's eyes 
 and roll down her cheeks heavily. She brushed them 
 away, and going softly behind her husband, kissed his 
 cheek. As she left the room he said once more in a 
 low voice : " Yes." But he ceased smoking. 
 
 " My brother," said Johann, " I think Emily is 
 weeping." 
 
 Rudolf did not answer for a long minute. 
 
 *'YeSj Johann — but I am a man, and I have 
 thought." 
 
 Presently he put his pipe away, and said, " Good- 
 
The Tkoubles of Johann Eckert. 147 
 
 night ^^ to his brother, who sat for a long time on the 
 edge of the floor of the verandah, with his feet in the 
 hot dusty sand, looking at the stars which shone so 
 purely in the bright southern air. When should he 
 see those which were familiar to him, and which 
 looked down, not upon the barren uplands of the 
 African plateaus, but on the leafy hills that hold the 
 Rhine ? He must write again to Gretchen, to tell 
 her how long it might be. And in the morning he 
 wrote. 
 
 By the time the little German girl received his 
 letter Johann and Rudolf had started on their 
 journey with a big waggon and twenty oxen. All 
 that the two brothers had in the world went to buy 
 the waggon and team — indeed, a little more than 
 they had, for Rudolf got credit from a countryman of 
 his for much of the goods which they would trade for 
 feathers and ivory. But all people trusted Rudolf. 
 Johann was not alone in thinking that something 
 would be done when the big steadfast man made up 
 his mind to do it. All inexperienced as he was, 
 Johann had no fear and misgiving with Rudolf By 
 himself he might doubt, just as Emily did when she 
 saw them depart, but with him he was strong and 
 quick, and ready ; believing in his brother, who was a 
 faith and creed to him, he trusted himself. Without 
 72 
 
148 The Troubles 'OF Johann Eckert, 
 
 him he might be as old Frau Eckert had been when 
 the father died, irresolute and fearful. That was why 
 the vineyard had been sold : that was why Johann 
 came to Africa. Yet during her husband's life the 
 mother had been reckoned clever and strong; yet 
 after all it was with a strength she drew from her 
 husband. And Rudolf and his father were as like as 
 two oxen at night-time. If Johann had no one to 
 trust, it might go as hard with him as it did with 
 Emily, who wept so when the slow inexorable oxen 
 drew the very heart out of her going towards the 
 sunset. For two years ! Poor little Englishwoman ! 
 
 For two years. And for two years the sun rose 
 and set in the natural order of the universe ; and the 
 rain fell upon the just and the unjust — on Hottentots 
 and Englishmen and Dutchmen ; the grass grew and 
 was parched up, and some became rich and others 
 poor. That Emily was pinched because the years 
 were long was compensated for in the universal 
 average by Rudolf's waggon filling itself with ivory, 
 and feathers, and skins. For assuredly, as far as the 
 attainment of wealth was concerned, the brothers had 
 been lucky. When their team pulled straight for the 
 rising sun, and they looked towards home, their 
 sixteen remaining oxen had almost enough to do to 
 
The Troubles of J oh an n Eckert, 149 
 
 draw the load over sandy places. Yet they were 
 strong enough, and so was Johann. But Rudolf? 
 No, he was not so strong — and this is how it came 
 about. 
 
 One day, when they had been from home a little 
 more than a year, Rudolf shot a genisbok, and Johann, 
 being the nearest, rushed to it joyfully, without taking 
 care to see that it was really dead. When he came 
 close the dying animal rose, and attacked him 
 furiously. Johann grasped its horns, and thrice saved 
 himself from a thrust, when Rudolf ran up breath- 
 lessly to help him. In a few moments the buck lay 
 dead, but as the elder brother wiped his knife on its 
 warm skin he pressed his hand hard against his own 
 side ; for the horn of the gemsbok had pierced him 
 there. Although not a mortal wound, it was very 
 serious, and for more than a month Rudolf could 
 scarcely move. Six months later he had a kind of 
 malarial fever, and the old wound broke out afresh. 
 They were camped by the kraals of some friendly 
 Hottentots, and sometimes it was possible to get a 
 little milk. Yet with all Johann's care it took Rudolf 
 long to recover even a little of his old strength. He 
 would never be what he had been : never. But this 
 Johann would not believe. It could not be that 
 Rudolf, to whom he looked for strength and help in 
 
150 The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 
 
 every trial, was really — really what ? Dying ? No, 
 
 that could not be. For what would happen if 
 
 But Johann began to sing resolutely, and went no 
 further than that " if It bounded a desolate country, 
 and was itself a desert. 
 
 Some nights after finally heading for home, 
 Rudolf, who never complained, said to his brother — 
 
 "We have been a long time from home, Johann." 
 
 " Yes," answered Johann dreamily, " three years." 
 For he was thinking of Gretchen and his German 
 home. 
 
 " No, not three ; two," corrected the elder man. 
 " But it is long, very long. I think " 
 
 " Yes, Rudolf.? " said Johann, looking up quickly. 
 
 '^ Nay, nothing." 
 
 " What do you mean, Rudolf.? " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," said the elder brother. And 
 then he wearily rolled himself up in his blankets ; 
 but not to sleep. In the middle of the night Johann 
 woke, hearing a voice. For a moment he thought the 
 fever had returned. But Rudolf was praying to the 
 God above the unmoved stars to be allowed to see 
 his wife once more, and the agony of his loving spirit 
 was such that he at last spoke. Johann bowed his 
 head, and knelt by the dying fire. The heavy tears 
 ran down his cheeks, and fell hissing on the hot 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 151 
 
 embers. But the skies overhead were lucid and calm ; 
 a warm wind felt its way across the dark plain, 
 and flapped the cover of the great waggon, whose 
 contents had cost so much ; the earth and sky of 
 midnight were beautiful, but soulless and devoid of 
 pity. 
 
 After this night Rudolf grew weaker and weaker. 
 Often he suffered great pain, and at last was obliged 
 to ride in the waggon. Johann did all the work ; he 
 unspanned the oxen and drove them, he brought the 
 water, and did the cooking. Sometimes, after Rudolf 
 had reluctantly yielded the whip to him, he seemed to 
 think that the pace of the team was very slow. 
 Occasionally he even complained that Johann did 
 not drive fast enough. The younger man knew well 
 enough that the poor patient oxen were doing their 
 best ; and, trying to deceive himself, he asked, under 
 his breath, why it was that Rudolf was so impatient. 
 Of course, he said, it was only that the time seemed 
 longer, through his being idle for a few days until he 
 got well. Of course, hurry could make no difference. 
 Yes, that was it. Then suddenly the landscape 
 blurred, and the hot veldt danced before him, so that 
 he went back and cried — 
 
 " How goes it, my brother ? " 
 
 But sometimes Rudolf did not answer. He was 
 
152 The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 
 
 staring at the far horizon, and his eager spirit ran 
 before the way. So sometimes Johann did not ask 
 that question when he could not see the distant hills, 
 nor even the slow oxen bending quietly to their 
 heavy yokes. 
 
 For he saw — though he would not own to himself 
 that he saw — what was to be. When he was well 
 Rudolf bore with the hardest, roughest fare, but now 
 he complained in a fretful way, painful to see in a 
 strong man. Johann, who was a miserable rifle shot^ 
 never managed to kill a springbok, though there 
 might be hundreds in the herd. He blamed himself 
 for it very much, and grew to look upon his failure in 
 marksmanship as a moral fault. His very anxiety to 
 procure fresh meat unsteadied his nerves, so that at 
 last he came to the conclusion that he could never hit 
 anything; and perhaps he was right, for some men can 
 never learn to use a rifle. But it hurt him to see 
 Rudolfs face grow pallid and bloodless under the tan, 
 while great dark circles came round his blue eyes, 
 looking wistfully, and at last hopefully, towards the 
 populous and settled south and east. His hands 
 began to get thin, too, and now he rarely spoke, even 
 when Johann helped him slowly from the high 
 waggon at night-time. Once he had spoken in- 
 cessantly of Emily and his children, but now he 
 
The Troubles of J oh an n Eckert. 153 
 
 never let their names pass his lips. Perhaps he felt 
 he would have broken down if he had done so : that 
 is what Johann thought. 
 
 One day, when he looked so worn and ill as to 
 make his brother afraid, the younger spoke. 
 
 " Do you not think, Rudolf, that it would be as 
 well if we stayed here for a while until you get 
 better? Travelling is not good for you. You are 
 in pain." And Rudolf answered, with a curious, 
 quick impatience, " Nay, let us get on. We are 
 slow, slow, very slow." 
 
 It was early morning then, and the level ea<=^terly 
 sun stared at them across the yellow plain, dotted 
 black with the scattered oxen. When they had 
 finished breakfast, Johann drove up the team, and 
 then Rudolf spoke again. 
 
 " Yes, let us get on. I will help you inspan." 
 
 As he said this he rose, but fell down instantly in 
 a dead faint. Johann ran to him, lifted up his head, 
 and then laid it down again in order to get some 
 water. When the sick man at last came to himself, 
 and opened his eyes beneath the pale scared face of 
 his brother, he looked up sadly. 
 
 " I think, Johann, that I shall never see home 
 again ; and yet— let us get on." 
 
 Johann for the first time broke down, but through 
 
154 -^^^ Troubles of Johann Eckert. 
 
 his tears tried to comfort Rudolf, even though he saw 
 his brother spoke the truth. 
 
 That night they camped in a desert-like place by 
 a water-hole which was almost dry. There was little 
 or no grass, and the brush was hard and scanty. 
 Close to them a small band of miserable wandering 
 Hottentots made their fire. Coming to the waggon, 
 they begged for food. 
 
 '' Give them a little,'' said Rudolf. " Poor devils ! 
 they look wretched enough ; and we should be 
 charitable even to these. Yet sometimes it is not 
 good to give to them." 
 
 He did not explain why. Talking tired him so. 
 But Johann gave them some flour, and set to work 
 making his own supper. All that Rudolf took was a 
 little tea. 
 
 Three days after this they stayed a whole day at 
 a water-hole, with plenty of grass about it. Johann 
 said cheerfully that it was necessary for the oxen, 
 and now Rudolf did not fight against the delay. 
 At night time, after Johann lay down, the sick 
 man spoke to him. 
 
 " Yes, Johann, I have been thinking, and I want to 
 say something." He paused for a minute or two, and 
 then resumed. 
 
 "We are now not so far from the frontier. The 
 
The Troubles of J oh an n Eckert. 155 
 
 way you know, for we travelled here before. There is 
 no need to speak about that. But remember to be 
 careful. All this in our waggon is yours, and Emily's, 
 and the children's. It must come to them safely. 
 For they must now be poor, seeing it is so long since 
 w^e left home. So I charge you with it, Johann. 
 That is all." 
 
 And Johann, listening dry-eyed and speechless, 
 did not ask why Rudolf spoke in this way. Yet that 
 night he lay very close to him, and slept so lightly 
 that he woke when Rudolf called " Emily." 
 
 " What is it, brother ? " he asked. 
 
 " Nothing, Johann," answered the other — " nothing 
 but a dream." He spoke so strongly that his voice 
 comforted Johann, who, being very tired, went to sleep 
 again. 
 
 When he rose early in the morning he moved 
 very quietly, for Rudolf was resting in such peace. 
 The dawn low down on the long dark horizon showed 
 a ribbon of rose and a line of pure faint green. As 
 the rose grew he began to distinguish the oxen from 
 the bushes in the light that poured across the plain 
 like loosed waters. The air was mild and warm, 
 and tasted faintly aromatic, as though it had rested 
 through the long night on a bed of odorous herbs. 
 And though the wider redder rose of the eastern sky 
 
156 The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 
 
 began to be shot through with yellower rays from the 
 sun, which would in a moment break from the under- 
 world^ he still let his brother lie. 
 
 " It is so good for him," he murmured, as he made 
 breakfast silently. The first jlames of his early- 
 lighted fire had flickered redly. Now in the risen day 
 they began to gnaw blackly at the heaped sticks. He 
 looked again at Rudolf, who was very still, and had 
 not moved. Suddenly the warm north wind, languid 
 and sweet, seemed to grow cold and malignant ; the 
 dawn, which was rose and fire and gold mingled 
 gloriously in the east, seemed as colourless as pale 
 and shallow water. And running with footsteps 
 which were no longer light, he called loudly to his 
 brother. But Rudolf had suffered very much, and 
 sleep was '^ so good for him." 
 
 That morning, as on every morning that brought 
 another day of waiting, Emily said to little Rudolf, a 
 sturdy grave child of four — 
 
 " Go and see if father is coming." 
 
 He went out obediently, and stared down the 
 dusty road. When he came back he shook his fair 
 little head. 
 
 " Then you must look again by-and-byc," said his 
 mother cheerfully. For the time was certainly grow- 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 157 
 
 ing short now — now when Johann, bhnded with tears, 
 was digging Rudolfs grave in the deep sand of the 
 distant desert. 
 
 He had striven hard to brace himself for the shock 
 which he knew must come, and yet its suddenness 
 almost overcame him. That Rudolf should really be 
 dead seemed so incredible to Johann as he drove 
 through the wilderness, that he often fancied him still 
 sitting in the waggon, looking with painful longing 
 towards home. Waking from that . day-dream, it 
 seemed doubly hard and cruel to think that he was 
 leaving him behind, buried in the thin dry sand, which 
 the next wind might sweep away for the vultures, 
 even then sailing in the sky above. He almost wrung 
 his hands in despair as the dead man called to him, 
 no longer to give those orders which came so naturally 
 from the firm will and steadfast heart, but to plead 
 with a vain and pitiful appeal for the aid of one who 
 had been no more than a willow wand in the strong 
 hand which was now past all effort for ever. And so 
 the burden fell from the strong upon the weak. 
 Heavy indeed it proved to the little man who 
 stumbled across the desert, half blinded with tears, 
 fearing lest he should fail to keep the trust which 
 Death had given him ; for, compared with Rudolf, he 
 knew so little. Yet he would do his best. 
 
158 The Troubles of J oh a nn Eckert. 
 
 It was the first time in his Hfe that he had been 
 really alone, and the solitude was awful and oppressive. 
 He was afraid of the vast veldt, and tried to keep his 
 eyes upon the oxen, calling them by their names to 
 see them move their ears and bend more to the yoke, 
 in order that he might be sure they heard and lived, 
 and were not mere machines. At last he was glad to 
 think that they had a certain community of interest 
 with him, inasmuch as they, too, desired to reach 
 home, and graze the grass of their native country. 
 So he spoke to them encouragingly, as if they 
 thoroughly understood what he said. At times, when 
 the earth and sky and wind seemed more silent than 
 ever in the hot high sun, he felt that strange fear 
 which comes to some men in a great solitude, and 
 speaking aloud suddenly to make sure that his tongue 
 could yet fulfil its office, he started with a curious 
 shock at the unnatural sound he made. It was a 
 relief to him to hear one of the oxen make a noise, 
 though it were but a kind of half strangled whistle in 
 the throat, and he wished that he had a dog in order 
 that it might bark, or come to him pleading with 
 bright eyes for the food he ate in loneliness. Although 
 he feared the natives, he even desired to see a stray 
 Hottentot, and that was at last granted him by the 
 curious and perverse fate which heaped troubles upon 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 159 
 
 one so little able to bear them. At the third camp- 
 ing-place from Rudolfs grave he found some thirty- 
 five of these diminutive and degraded denizens of the 
 desert — men, women, and children — camped by the 
 pool of water. 
 
 These children of the veldt greeted him amicably, 
 being, doubtless, glad enough to see him, although he 
 did not know the reason. This, however, they very 
 soon showed him, for one of them, a little fellow with 
 bleary eyes that were full of evil cunning, came to 
 his fire soon after he had outspanned, and acted as 
 spokesman for the others in a difficult jargon of 
 clicks, English, and Dutch, 
 
 " Baas," he urged, without preliminary, " we're 
 very hungry. Give us something to eat." 
 
 " Well," thought Johann, " why not t Am I not 
 glad to see anything which looks like a man : which 
 can talk, if only to beg ? " 
 
 So he doled them out some salt beef and flour. 
 Not content with the salt in the beef, they came to 
 ask for more salt, and Johann went to his stores to 
 see if he could satisfy them. He found the bag 
 nearly empty, but on turning over the box in which 
 such things were kept, discovered another bag. On 
 opening it, the contents seemed not unlike salt of 
 some kind. He handled it doubtfully, being half 
 
i6o The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 
 
 inclined to give them some, but on putting a crystal 
 to his tongue, he found it tasted acrid and bitter. He 
 looked for a label, and with a kind of shock found 
 that it was arsenic for use in skin preserving, which 
 his want of knowledge or Rudolfs carelessness had 
 allowed to get in the provision box. Johann trembled 
 to think of what he had so nearly done, and, turning 
 to the waiting Hottentot, told him that he had no 
 salt. The fellow went away grumbling. 
 
 In spite of the painful longing for human com- 
 panionship which had so depressed him, he was not 
 loth in the morning to look forward to leaving them. 
 So when he found they followed in his track, he was 
 not altogether pleased. And seeing that his stock of 
 food was by no means large, he was uneasy at their 
 repeating the request, which rapidly became a de- 
 mand, for further supplies at noon. He shook his 
 head ; and then his fellow-travellers lifted up their 
 guns and knobkerries, jabbering angrily, till the little 
 spokesman came insinuatingly to the rescue. 
 
 '' Baas," he began, " we are very hungry, and you 
 have meat. Give us some ; then we go away." 
 
 " Yes," replied Johann doubtfully ; '' but if I give 
 it you, will you go away?" 
 
 Then, as he had no choice, and as they intimated 
 with smiles that such was their fixed intention, he 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert. i6i 
 
 went to his fast-diminishing stores again. But they 
 did not go away, evidently having Httle regard for a 
 promise which was not rendered sacred by the sanc- 
 tion of superior force in case they broke it. Yet they 
 did remain so long at his old camp after he had 
 driven off that he hoped he had seen the last of them. 
 But his hope was vain. By night they were up with 
 him again, and showed themselves more exigent in 
 their demands than ever. 
 
 *^ Baas, you have plenty oxen. Give us one. We 
 are very hungry." 
 
 Johann was in terrible perplexity, and greatly 
 confused by the necessity of ready decision. Could 
 he use force if his refusal was not accepted 1 With 
 so many, would it not be utterly useless ? and yet, to 
 give them an ox, and perhaps afterwards another — 
 ay, and yet more — would jeopardise his trust ; it 
 might mean the loss of the waggon and all its con- 
 tents. He tried to put on a bold front, and refused 
 what they asked, as if it were only a joke on their 
 part to make such a demand. His answer was re- 
 ceived sulkily at first, and then in wrath. One of 
 the biggest of the men lifted up his assegai to stab 
 an ox, but the little fellow who did the negotiations 
 stopped him. 
 
 " Better give us an ox, Baas ; then we go away." 
 k 
 
i62 The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 
 
 He spoke so boldly and insolently that Johann 
 felt bewildered and helpless before the hostile crowd. 
 
 ''You said so before," he replied. 
 
 " This time we go, Baas," said the little beast of 
 a man, with a kind of chuckle which belied his 
 promise. 
 
 Yet Johann at last yielded, and gave up '^ Eng- 
 lishman" to them. "Englishman," in accordance 
 with Boer custom, was the worst ox in the team ; 
 and yet how Johann regretted the poor animal when 
 he saw him dying, brutally stabbed by a dozen spears. 
 The whole night long the human beings, whom he 
 now looked upon as enemies, gorged themselves with 
 flesh, which they partly cooked in his big iron pot 
 and partly roasted. 
 
 While their feast went on Johann could not sleep. 
 He saw there was little likelihood of the Hottentots 
 keeping their word, and if they renewed their attacks 
 upon his team, it might lead to his own death and the 
 certain loss of the precious feathers and ivory. But 
 what could he do } Suppose he resolutely refused in 
 any case to give up another ox, and even shot one of 
 the robbers if they tried to take it without his permis- 
 sion? He shook his bewildered head in despair. He 
 was but one man, and the chances were that he would 
 be instantly speared or stabbed, together with the oxen. 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 163 
 
 If only some other white man or a party would come 
 along ! Yet he knew he was far out in a very sea of 
 a plain. He could do nothing save act as circum- 
 stances required ; perhaps he might not have to act. 
 After temporising thus, he ate his own scanty supper. 
 In hunting for the last little salt in the box, he came 
 across the bag of arsenic again. He lifted it up 
 slowly, but threw it down again, and ate what he 
 could with no appetite. Poor Johann ! how solitary 
 and weak he felt with that great burden on his 
 shoulders— a burden which he could not lay aside in 
 sleep. 
 
 He rose long before dawn, and thus managed to 
 get away very early. But an ox team travels slowly, 
 very slowly. Even on a good road, one may not 
 drive oxen day after day, with a full waggon, more 
 than about twelve miles, and here road was none. 
 So by the time the sun was setting behind him, those 
 who were literally eating him up again came in sight. 
 He drove on and on till long past sundown, and till 
 the oxen grew very tired. He was still travelling when 
 the villainous crew caught him up, and then the lit- 
 tle Hottentot, who seemed as hungry as ever, kept 
 hinting to him that the solitary ox, Englishman's 
 mate, who was not yoked up, was of no service, and 
 might well be spared. Johann turned a deaf ear to 
 k 2 
 
164 The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 
 
 his insinuations, and at last one of the others speared 
 it without remark. Johann dropped his whip and ran 
 to the waggon for his rifle. But he stopped short ere 
 he reached it. For his own part, he was not afraid — 
 no ; and had the team and the property in the wag- 
 gon been his alone, he would have used his weapon 
 and taken the consequences. But he thought of 
 what Rudolf had said — of Emily, of the children, 
 and of Gretchen. In his desolation he thought so 
 much of her. How hard it would be to die like a 
 dog in the desert, when a woman like that loved him ! 
 Love may sometimes make men brave, but more 
 often it makes them cowards. So Johann choked 
 back his wrath, and did nothing : for, perhaps — 
 perhaps these blood-suckers might be satisfied at 
 last. 
 
 The next night they did not come up with him, 
 and he prayed that he might have seen the last of 
 them. A great thankfulness filled his heart, for their 
 not coming had saved him — or them. But on the 
 following night the blood of another of his oxen 
 soaked into the soil, and Johann grew desperate. 
 
 Well he might, for already he toil was greater 
 than it should be for the patient beasts bending to 
 the yoke. He loved them, partly for their mild ways, 
 and partly as the means which should make Gretchen 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 165 
 
 his wife, and it cut him to the heart to use the whip 
 more than he had done. Of old, poor Englishman 
 had a monopoly of it, but now at every very sandy 
 place he was obliged to urge them bitterly; and 
 when there was more reason for making short stages, 
 these black devils made him drive long ones. So 
 again he asked what should he do if they still per- 
 sisted. 
 
 And persistent they were. As he loosed the oxen 
 late that night, he saw them once more far off against 
 the after-glow on a little ridge of the veldt. He had 
 no heart to make a fire to cook supper. He got into 
 the waggon and sat there, trying to think. 
 
 Did he dare load the rifles and try to shoot them } 
 Alas! he had not the least confidence in his even 
 hitting one, for Rudolfs merriment at his hunting 
 failures, unbroken by a single success, was fresh in 
 his memory. Oh, if he could only hear that laugh 
 now ! No, he dared not try that plan ; the risk was 
 too great — the risk to his sacred charge. Yet it was 
 so hard to be near home — Rudolf's home — and never 
 to reach it. The slow tears forced themselves from 
 under his quivering eyelids. Presently he reached 
 out with his hand, and doubtfully touched the bag 
 which held what he had taken to be salt, but which 
 he knew now was not salt. He put the bag down 
 
i66 The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 
 
 almost reluctantly. Had not these beasts asked him 
 for salt once before? Presently they would come up 
 with him again, and he would hear that whine of 
 " Baas, we are so hungry," come from the little black 
 devil who knew some English. Or perhaps the}/ would 
 not ask this time, but go and kill for themselves. — 
 Salt, salt ! 
 
 Johann shook in a very fever and agony of fearful 
 thought. Instead of slow tears to his eyes, great 
 drops of perspiration came to his brows and dropped 
 heavily. He clenched his hands, and bit his lip till 
 the blood trickled blackly into his fair beard. Was 
 it right ? Was it not right ? Were they not beasts 
 — mere beasts ? And Emily was waiting with her 
 children ; yes, and Gretchen was waiting too. He 
 tried to put aside the temptation that assailed him ; 
 he tried to pray. But he could not, and fascinated 
 with the possibilities that lay there, he plunged his 
 hand down into the — salt, laving it in the crystals, 
 which his convulsive grasp ground to powder. 
 
 What was he to do in his loneliness — he who had 
 so little force of will, who so lacked the strong de- 
 cision of the dead man yonder in the westerly desert? 
 If Rudolf were only there ! His very voice would 
 frighten these human vultures away. Yet perhaps 
 he could not now protect himself from a single 
 
The Troubles oe J oh an n Eckert. 167 
 
 winged vulture who discerned his body, bared by the 
 wind's winnowing fan of the scanty sand in which 
 he had been buried. But he had said : " I charge 
 you with it, Johann." And so everything depended 
 on Johann — and the salt. 
 
 He came out of the waggon at last, and began to 
 make a fire. Once or twice his thoughts wandered 
 from his task, and even when he struck a match he 
 let it burn out without using it. He remained in a 
 crouching attitude for some minutes, until, on looking 
 up, he found the Hottentots close to him, as they 
 passed an old broken-down kraal which rose like a 
 mound near the scanty pool of thickening water. A 
 few mimosas stood there blackly in the gathering 
 dusk ; over them the moon was a thin faint crescent. 
 The very last rose of the after-glow faded in the west, 
 and eastward the oxen were seeking their food in 
 silence. He looked at them longingly, w^ith a feeling 
 of despair that he could not protect them — that one 
 more at the very least must be sacrificed. With a 
 sudden gesture of anger he struck another match, for 
 he heard the guttural chatter of the Hottentots closer 
 and closer at hand. They came up to the great 
 waggon, with its sunburnt cover, and for a moment or 
 two watched the little flame leap and crawl, and leap 
 again, until it grew strong. There is a strange fas- 
 
i68 The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 
 
 cination in a fire, whether it be for the use of man 
 or for his destruction, whether it burn wood or burn 
 flesh, whether it be actual or metaphorical — flame in 
 the dark air or fever in the angered blood. And as 
 they all watched it, Johann's heart itself was on fire 
 with a consuming rage — for they gave utterance at 
 last to the old cry — 
 
 " Baas, we're so hungry." 
 
 He said nothing, and they repeated it again. 
 
 *' What do you want, then ? Flour ? " 
 
 " Meat, meat. Baas ! " 
 
 And the rest grunted and clicked acquiescence. 
 
 " You said you would go if I gave you that last 
 ox," answered Johann, in a dry unnatural voice. " I 
 can give you no more." 
 
 " Oh yes. Baas," cried the other, with a chuckle. 
 "Just this time. To-morrow we will go; yes, to- 
 morrow." 
 
 There was a moment's pause, and Johann, trying 
 to speak, only uttered a kind of choked gurgle. He 
 turned away, and then, turning round again, pointed 
 to the oxen in silence. Let them do as they would ; 
 he would neither give nor refuse. 
 
 The gesture was enough for those who would have 
 taken no refusal, and in a few minutes the fattest ox 
 of the team lay dying near the pool, while the Hot- 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 169 
 
 tentots crowded round to watch his final gasps. 
 Then, where was the pot ? Without asking leave> 
 they took it from beneath the waggon, where it hung 
 on the hind-axle, while others lighted the fire. Then 
 they sat round the blaze, waiting for their meal to be 
 made ready. They chattered like apes — like imps 
 — like devils ! And Johann ? 
 
 He walked up and down by his fire in an agony 
 of spirit. His face was very white, and the blood still 
 ran from the lip he had bitten through. It was easy 
 to do ; it was hard — it was easy ; it was hard ! so his 
 mind wavered flamelike in the wind, shooting up 
 strongly and again dying down. Once and once 
 again he went to the waggon, and then turned back 
 hurriedly. He put in his hand, and catching hold 
 of the bag, took out a handful of the crystals. He 
 crushed them and ground them in his grasp until 
 they ran in powder through his fingers. He threw 
 the stuff on the ground and turned away. But east- 
 ward, eastward he saw the woman he loved, and 
 those whom Rudolf had loved, waiting for him. 
 They were no longer light-hearted, but heavy-eyed 
 and full of despair. The tears rushed to his own 
 eyes ; he fell on his knees ; he tried to pray, and 
 could not. Would not a sign be given him ? And 
 overhead the deep sky was calm. But yes ; what 
 
I/O The Troubles of Johann Eckert. 
 
 was that ? who was it speaking to him ? No one 
 but the savage interpreter begging once more — 
 " Baas, can't you give us some salt ? " 
 Some salt ! Aye, to be sure Johann could give 
 them that, for the blood rushed to his head violently, 
 and his hands shook no more. He turned in the 
 semi-darkness towards the fire by which they sat in 
 gluttonous expectation — men, women, and children ; 
 and he saw men who were like the tzetze fly to 
 cattle on the veldt : women who were as vile as their 
 savage masters : and children — well, cubs become 
 lions, or rather eggs become scorpions and centipedes. 
 He nodded to the Hottentot and waved him off. He 
 turned to his waggon — for the last time. 
 
 Striding to their fire, he brushed his way through 
 the dirty malodorous crowd, which yielded at his ap- 
 proach. " So you want salt, eh ? " he asked, and was 
 answered with *' Yes " and " Ja," and with unintelligible 
 clicks. He drew his hands out of his pockets and 
 dropped two handfuls of shining crystals into the 
 pot, which began to simmer. They thanked him, 
 wondering perhaps at his meekness and his folly. 
 And then going back to the waggon, he took his 
 rifle and went off into the plain, to be far away from 
 such a feast. 
 
 He went a very long way — much farther than 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert. lyi 
 
 any of the oxen had yet wandered — and kept on 
 turning to look back as he fled. For he saw the 
 little red fire gleaming behind him, as another might 
 have done in ancient story if he had turned again to 
 look upon the smitten Cities of the Plain. Sometimes 
 as he stood the moving figures of men, women, and 
 children blotted it out for a time, and then it blazed 
 . up again as strong as ever. Were they eating that 
 mess now, or was it yet seething and bubbling in 
 the pot? He turned- and ran towards the place 
 again, but on coming within a quarter of a mile, he 
 stopped and fled once more. The sweat ran down 
 him in streams ; his own tongue was parched and 
 burning ; the skin of his lips cracked as though he 
 were poisoned. Once he started violently, as if only 
 suddenly aware of the enormity of his deed. He 
 would go back and warn them not to eat, saying 
 that he had made a mistake, and that there was 
 something wrong with the salt. Yes, he would do 
 it. Turning to look for the fire, he could see it no 
 longer. 
 
 He ran round like one demented, trying vainly to 
 find some little hillock on which to raise himself to 
 get a better view of the darkened plain. He went 
 this way and that way, and in a circle, every now and 
 again falling when every moment was precious. He 
 
172 The Troubles of J oh an n Eckert. 
 
 would be late, late, he muttered ; and then at last 
 he saw the little red twinkle of the distant flame. 
 Oh, God ! how very far away it was ! He had long 
 ago dropped his rifle to run more freely, and now he 
 ran fast, stumbling as he ran, falling sometimes on 
 his face, tearing his flesh with the prickly bushes. 
 And yet he rose and ran on, never thinking of pain, 
 to fall once more. But he did get nearer ; yes, very 
 much nearer. Now at last he could see their forms. 
 Was it a dance of joy they were dancing, and were 
 those screams part of a Bacchanalian meat orgie — 
 or what ? No, no ! He put his thumbs to his ears 
 and ran ofl* again into the desert. For he was too 
 late ! 
 
 And so Johann Eckert, who had done a dreadful 
 deed, sat all night on the warm sand under the quiet 
 stars until the thin moon sank below the horizon. 
 Then the paler stars followed one by one, until none 
 was left but the softly shining planet which heralded 
 the dawn. The long dark desert grew greyer, but was 
 still silent, until the stone-hid grasshoppers chirruped 
 to the day. The awakened insects in the scant brush 
 and grass hummed softly, and the whole earth awoke, 
 and the man still sat there, with his head upon his 
 hands, afraid to look upon the light. For he heard 
 even yet, or thought that he heard, a dreadful yelling 
 
The Troubles of Johann Eckert, 173 
 
 of death and agony borne upon the slow breeze which 
 bent the lighter grasses and fanned his burning fore- 
 head. 
 
 He did not move for a long time — not until the sun 
 was half-way up the bright clear sky. Long ago the 
 oxen had gone towards the pool. Looking, he saw 
 them stay at a little distance from it, as though in 
 doubt. At last he rose and followed them, like a 
 man walking in a dream or a condemned prisoner 
 going to the scaffold. 
 
 There was a very strange and awful silence about 
 that solitary water. Did not these Hottentots sleep 
 late, and in strangely cramped attitudes .? Surely 
 they did. And above he saw specks far aloft in the 
 morning sky, which he knew to be vultures who 
 would presently come to drink. He whispered so 
 to himself as he inspanned the remaining oxen, who 
 had at first feared to go to the pool because so 
 many Hottentots were drinking there in silence, 
 without moving. He himself would go away in 
 thirst. He could hardly drink such water. 
 
 As he worked getting his team ready, he looked 
 at the cover of the waggon, which was stabbed with 
 spears. Three or four assegais hung down from the 
 canvas. One was lying inside. But he looked even 
 more curiously at an extinguished brand which was 
 
174 -^^^ Troubles of J oh an n Eckert. 
 
 in the clenched hand of one of his enemies. He had 
 come very near, Johann had never thought of their 
 setting the waggon on fire. It might have been for 
 nothing, he said to himself, nodding his head and 
 trying to moisten his parched lips. Then he started 
 and asked, " It — it — what would have been for nothing 
 — murder, eh ? " He cried hoarsely, *' No, no ! " and 
 started the waggon homeward once more. But he 
 could not speak to the oxen, and had to use his whip 
 to set them in motion. The iron pot he left behind. 
 As he went away the great circles of the sailing 
 vultures grew less and less. But the centre of their 
 circles was still the pool of water. 
 
 When Johann reached home he told many of his 
 troubles to Emily, after she had become a little 
 reconciled to the bitterness of fate, and could speak 
 without tears of him she had so loved. He was 
 always talking of Rudolf. 
 
 '' He dreamed of you the night he died, and 
 waking, he called your name. Without him I did 
 badly. Through that I lost so many of the oxen. 
 They died in the desert." 
 
 He never told her how. No, he has not even told 
 it to Gretchen yet, although he means to when he has 
 made up his mind as to whether he did right. But 
 
The Troubles of J oh a nn Eckert. 175 
 
 though he has children of his own to work for by 
 this time, he cannot yet settle that question. For, you 
 see, he is but a simple-minded German peasant after 
 all who is not learned in casuistry. And even I am 
 not quite sure. 
 
THE PLOT OF HIS STORY. 
 
179 
 
 THE PLOT OF HIS STORY. 
 
 A FEW of his older friends thought that Geoffrey 
 Windover made a mistake in his choice of a wife 
 when he at last married, for even before her marriage 
 Mrs. Windover showed signs of developing into one 
 of those women to whom society is absolutely 
 necessary. But her friends very reasonably com- 
 mended his choice. Miss Vale, though amiable and 
 fascinating, was not in possession of the two thousand 
 a year that Mrs. Windover controlled ; for Geoffrey's 
 earnings as a novelist amounted then to that sum. 
 And two thousand a year meant another nice house 
 to go to. And many people went. 
 
 Windover was a hard worker, and hard workers 
 are apt to let everything but their own work take 
 care of itself. Perhaps he had married in order to be 
 freed to some extent from the responsibility of looking 
 after his own earnings. He allowed his wife to do 
 exactly as she pleased, and was so little jealous of her 
 time that she occasionally doubted his true affection. 
 Though his books dealt very largely withthe relations 
 of the sexes, they did not touch them with any 
 
 / 2 
 
i8o The Plot of his Story. 
 
 very modern spirit. The older type of woman, the 
 beatified slave of the ideal Englishman, was his type, 
 and it was a curious instance of the common failure 
 of men to apply their knowledge that, regarding his 
 wife as such, he did not see how dangerous his neglect 
 of her might be. He was never disturbed by any 
 feeling of jealousy ; he never deliberately thwarted 
 her once to indulge her twice in accordance with 
 some of his theories. Yet the men of his stories 
 often did so, and Windover, from his books, was 
 credited by the ignorant with much knowledge of 
 women. It is doubtful whether women ever thought 
 so ; certainly, Mrs. Windover did not. 
 
 Her love of society as a girl was born of that un- 
 rest which comes to those who feel dissatisfied with 
 their surroundings — w^ho feel that something, some- 
 where and somehow, is wrong, but w^ho lack the 
 analytical power to solve the riddle until Time solves 
 it for them. Every time she accepted an invitation 
 it was an experiment; she went out with the hope of 
 coming home wiser. The vulgar ambition of mere 
 marriage hardly touched her. Yet marriage was often 
 in her thoughts, without a doubt. But her knowledge 
 did not become enlarged through society ; it was 
 much that she did not lose even her desire for it, and 
 rank herself in mind with the other uninteresting 
 
The Plot of his Story. i8i 
 
 candidates for matrimony who sat unable to be 
 themselves for want of the simple knowledge of what 
 they were. 
 
 To live is to learn ; but how to live and how to 
 learn ? This girl saw, with intense curiosity, that 
 many of the married women she met with were quite 
 as different from herself as the very men. Did 
 marriage make this difference ? Certainly not to men, 
 for there was not that difference between the married 
 and unmarried men. Then some of the married 
 women were quite as foolish as the girls themselves. 
 She noticed that some women were very interesting 
 to men, and that these were of the incomprehensibly 
 changed class. It was to the girl's acute intellect 
 almost possible to gauge the man by the kind of 
 woman he talked to. She detested those who talked 
 to the girls and to the calm, placid, mindless beauties. 
 She was angry at her own lack of expression, at her 
 own present feminine status, when she failed to 
 interest a man who pleased her, and who was pleased 
 with those of her own sex whom she so critically 
 examined. It seemed evident to her that the only 
 way to become interesting was to get married ; and 
 even then the experiment was doubtful. 
 
 The way to marriage was love, of course. That 
 her instinct taught her. But what was love ? and how 
 
1 82 The Plot of his Story. 
 
 should she recognise it ? The novelists had told her, 
 with practical unanimity, that she would know ; and 
 as the stories ended so generally with marriage, 
 it seemed probable that the novelists were right. 
 Surely they would not stop at the most interesting 
 part if the woman was to discover that she had made 
 a mistake. She once appealed in a tentative way 
 to her mother to be enlightened on the subject ; 
 but Mrs. Vale was a conventional and undeveloped 
 woman, who had practically ruined the bright liFe of 
 a clever husband by absolutely refusing to learn any- 
 thing new. Her only method of preserving innocence 
 was to keep it ignorant. By repulsing that father's 
 child she piqued the girl's curiosity, and aggravated 
 her unrestfulness. But when Margaret was twenty 
 she knew^ little more of real life than she had done 
 when fifteen. Then she met Geoffrey Windover. 
 Though nearly twice her years, he was still a very 
 young man, both in appearance and strength. His 
 reputation was brilliant ; his knowledge dazzled her ; 
 her unconscious flattery moved him ; his interest 
 stirred her affections lightly, for she was young and 
 greatly alive. He wooed her, and married her in six 
 months. 
 
 If this was the entrance to the temple of know- 
 ledge, the novitiate was bitter. It took her but a 
 
Fhe Plot of his Story. 183 
 
 little while — how little she confided to none — to find 
 that she hated her husband with a curious intensity 
 that made her seem vile to herself. She fought 
 against it strenuously, but her battles were in vain. 
 With the utmost difficulty she concealed her hate 
 from Geoffrey. Once he fell very ill, and then she 
 almost loved him again. She hoped that life would 
 henceforth be endurable. Her hope was vain. A 
 child was born : at any rate, he was the father of 
 a being she only graduall}^ grew to love intensely. 
 Then the little girl died. She again went greatly 
 into society — not, as she had done before, to learn ; 
 but to keep moving was her only safety. 
 
 Geoffrey Windover felt the loss of his child 
 deeply — much more deeply, perhaps, than the gradual 
 drifting from him of his wife. For all his knowledge, 
 he was ignorant of the meaning of marriage. He 
 had not even marked the mental development of his 
 wife. He had lived by himself for many years ; he 
 demanded little more than reasonable comfort at 
 home and good attendance and obedience. To such 
 men home is only a superior kind of lodgings. To 
 keep this home luxurious he worked very hard, and 
 never even suspected that he alone got any satis- 
 faction out of his money. He would have been quite 
 content if another child had been born and lived. 
 
184 The Plot of his Storw 
 
 But the next child died when only a week old. For 
 long months before its birth Mrs. Windover had been 
 terribly depressed, and this melancholy practically 
 killed her infant. She reflected very deeply ; or, 
 rather, an intuition came to her. She began to 
 understand some things, very vaguely at first, but 
 when thought brought no contradiction, and facts 
 brought corroboration, she touched hands at last 
 with truth. And yet she never spoke to Geoffrey. 
 How shall a woman prove her intuitions to a logical 
 man ? 
 
 Yet without speaking there was for a time a 
 harshness in their relations. They again visibly 
 ameliorated, but her struggles told on her health. She 
 saw her beauty waning, and could not see that 
 another sadder beauty became hers. Now she under- 
 stood those women who had seemed puzzles to her ; 
 or, at any rate, she thought she understood. For the 
 first time in her life she had true homage from men 
 — from men she understood and respected ; and, oddly 
 enough, she doubted whether her husband — if he had 
 not been her husband — would have showed any interest 
 in her now. The man who is taken by the un- 
 developed woman is often continuously irritated into 
 suspicion by the results of development consequent 
 on marriage, which the wife cannot wholly hide. 
 
The Plot of his Story. 185 
 
 He wonders how he came to love her, doubts her 
 stability of thought, or attributes his new discovery 
 of the new facts of her character to her caring no 
 longer to hide what she is. To him change is abhor- 
 rent: unless, indeed, the woman educates him uncon- 
 sciously. But the man who willingly and humbly 
 learns of his wife, or of any other w^oman, things 
 which she may reasonably know better than himself 
 is rare indeed. And while Mrs. Windover wondered 
 whether Geoffrey would care in the least for her 
 if he had met her as she then was, she knew that 
 she herself would class him among those utterly 
 impossible as husbands to any but the undeveloped 
 woman, created by the demands of slave-owning 
 man. 
 
 It marks an era in any woman's history when she 
 begins to discern that, practically and grossly speak- 
 ing, her sex are domestic animals : that to them man 
 has been not only man, but a god : that he has actually 
 formed many of their tastes, has moulded their 
 thoughts, kindly provided them a morality totally 
 irrespective of their needs, and done his very utmost 
 to disable and discourage them from thinking for them- 
 selves. If any woman discovers the disapprobation 
 of the world for any of her acts results in a doubtful 
 verdict of her own conscience, she is on the way to 
 
1 86 The Plot of his Story 
 
 freedom. But the shackles are hard to throw off. 
 Margaret Windover, in the first year of her marriage, 
 often condemned herself with shame for vague 
 thoughts. Even when she came to the conclusion 
 that the vast bulk of her own class consisted of more 
 or less unhappy women, she was still half inclined 
 to think that the fault lay on their side. She had 
 been so carefully taught that marriage was usually 
 happy that it took her a long time to doubt this. 
 
 On one of those rare occasions, after the first year, 
 when Geoffrey accompanied her into society, they 
 met Hinton, a writer of social essays, who was by no 
 means a favourite of his, for Windover was practically 
 a Conservative, though posing as a Radical in very 
 Conservative circles. Hinton had lately written a 
 paper on marriage, treating it historically, and with- 
 out any great evident hostility. Yet it was known 
 that his opinions on the subject were heterodox. 
 
 " I fancy," said Geoffrey, " that you would have 
 spoken differently about it if you had dared." 
 
 '' Dared ! '' replied Hinton, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders; "it is hardly a question of courage. I 
 am allowed to go so far. If I go any further, it is 
 the editors who either don't dare, or who are utterly 
 opposed to my views personally. One must do what 
 one can. I showed, I think, very satisfactorily that 
 
The Plot of his Story. 187 
 
 women ought to be very miserable, and that if they 
 are not, in the majority of cases it betokens an utter 
 want of intellect." 
 
 Mrs. Windover sat listening, but took no part in the 
 conversation. Geoffrey replied with some animation : 
 
 *' Ought to be unhappy .? Well, if you think so, 
 perhaps. But I maintain that they are not ; indeed, 
 they ought to be happy. It is we who do the 
 struggling. Those who are placed beyond the reach 
 of poverty — in our class, at any rate — have only senti- 
 mental grievances. Why should they want what you 
 call freedom, when they have everything given them, 
 when their work is right at hand, when their duties 
 are obvious .^ " 
 
 Hinton turned his palms up with a foreign gesture. 
 
 "I think I have heard the same arguments used 
 for slavery. Didn't the Southerners say all that 
 against the ungodly doctrine of emancipation .? If it 
 were not true that on the whole the average man 
 uses his power with a certain degree of kindness, you 
 would have no ground to stand on at all. As it is, 
 most w^omen don't know they are slaves ; or, if they 
 know it, are afraid to struggle for themselves. The 
 negroes were not all on the side of emancipation, and 
 those who opposed it doubtless thought the others 
 very ungrateful, or at any rate rash. And as to your 
 
1 88 The Plot of his Story, 
 
 notion of sentimental grievances : why, they are the 
 worst kind of grievance. And I think it is usual of 
 men to call those grievances sentimental which they 
 cannot understand. They are natural ones — the result 
 of nature not yet crushed in women. The only way 
 to begin to understand women is to recognise the fact 
 that they are made by us and by Nature as well. 
 On the whole, I will back Nature to get the best of us 
 in the end !" 
 
 To Windover this w^as more or less nonsense^ and 
 even if sense, quite beyond his formula for the com- 
 position of woman. He led the conversation into 
 other channels, and then Mrs. Windoyer talked 
 brightly enough. But his last words to Hinton that 
 night were : " You shall see what I have to say on 
 this subject. For some time I have been thinking 
 of writing a novel of married life ; and, though you 
 may not think it, I shall be quite on the side of 
 the woman." 
 
 " Of your particular kind ? " asked Hinton, with a 
 faint shade of contempt in his tone. 
 
 " Not in the least. The heroine will be anything 
 but to my real liking. Yet I think I shall have the 
 courage not to condemn her for leaving her husband." 
 
 " Then of course you will make the husband a 
 perfect brute?" 
 
The Plot of his Story. 189 
 
 " Not in the least. He will be kind enough in his 
 way, and on the whole a very good fellow." 
 
 Hinton laughed. 
 
 "Well, I shall look for it with some curiosity." 
 x^nd then to himself: "If you have been studying 
 your own wife, you may really know something of the 
 best part of the sex. But I doubt it." 
 
 Little influence as Margaret had on her husband, 
 it was undoubtedly due to her that Windover thought 
 of attempting work of a kind differing greatly from his 
 well-constructed, but rather shallow, love-stories, whose 
 end was merely the beginning of life. She had with 
 some difficulty concealed her impatience with much 
 of his work ; now and again it peeped out so that 
 he felt it. And as a writer of any kind is always 
 more or less drawn to reality, and the reality that he 
 experiences, marriage began to be looked on by 
 Windover as a possible motive for a story. He knew 
 in a vague way that Margaret was dissatisfied, restless, 
 and unhappy ; he knew, too, that she often thought 
 him incapable of understanding the drift of her 
 thoughts ; the favourite women of his novels were 
 unreal to her. He began to conceive the idea of 
 showing her that he did understand w^omen. Yet 
 he had what must always be fatal to comprehension, 
 the purely male contempt for the femme incomprise. 
 
iQo The Plot of his Story, 
 
 Filled to the very throat as he was with preconceived 
 notions of what women should be, he could never 
 find out what they were. And as pathology, or the 
 true knowledge of disease, is essential to a scientific 
 knowledge of cure, he could never hope to be less a 
 quack than the average man is when he attempts to 
 solve feminine problems which he cannot understand. 
 The one thing women ask is sympathy, and sympathy 
 is instinctive comprehension. La femine incomprise 
 is the most notable figure of our time. In the best 
 examples she is prophetic ; she declines to belong to 
 the past ; she has gone beyond male theories, which 
 date from barbarism. It is the irony of fate that 
 women, having been forced by men to make love the 
 main business of their lives, should have surpassed 
 their teachers. In the matter of the sexes an in- 
 telligent woman is a specialist ; man is the amateur. 
 And the amateur who is also a patron, holding power 
 and the purse, becomes too often monumental in 
 conceit. 
 
 It would be saying too much to declare that 
 Margaret Windover thought thus. But this was the 
 real drift of her mind. On the very rare occasions 
 when Geoffrey made any remarks about his new 
 book she observed how blindly he believed that he 
 knew the sex. He never said, doubtfully, '' Do you 
 
The Plot of his Story. vigi 
 
 think?" or, ''What do you think?" being ready to 
 gather something from her. He believed that he 
 knew the woman that he imagined as the chief cha- 
 racter of his story, and by the finish of his work, its 
 lack of suggestiveness, the omission of a margin of 
 doubt in the determination and conflict of motive, he 
 made her neither feminine nor really human. That, 
 perhaps, was the fault of the school of his generation. 
 Yet in the main facts of the story he came near 
 enough to objective truth. To paint the result of 
 neglect on a woman of a clearly conceived type is 
 not very difficult, and it is not hard to rouse and 
 sustain interest in a story when it is early seen that 
 the question is whether a woman neglected by a 
 commonplace fool will leave him for a man of some 
 brains and attractiveness. Nor did Windover lack 
 any of the qualifications for making a popular novel. 
 He was a master of construction, and his style was 
 bright ; he worked slowly, with great care, and with 
 much re-writing. In his earlier days he used to turn 
 out two books a year ; he now restricted himself to 
 one. 
 
 During the first six months of his new work he 
 went out less and less with his wife. Ordinary 
 society bored him, Bohemianism disgusted him. 
 Freedom of manners was as objectionable to him as 
 
192 The Plot of his Stoj^v. 
 
 freedom of thought in morality. His only recreation 
 was a ride in the Park in the afternoon ; if he left off 
 writing by ten or eleven in the evening, he went to 
 his club in Piccadilly. Taking some interest in 
 politics, he rather affected a kind of dilettante Radi- 
 calism which was not very offensive to his Conser- 
 vative friends. He was ready to applaud — a priori, at 
 least — freedom in political thought ; in religion an 
 unaggressive Agnosticism did not blow the faint 
 embers of his vague religion to any fiery wrath ; but 
 in commonplace morality, especially when it con- 
 cerned the actions of woman, he was as fierce as he 
 would have been centuries before in politics, or fifty 
 years ago in religion. Fanaticism is now transferred 
 mainly to morality, and many a democratic atheist 
 would be a domestic Torquemada. 
 
 When Windover had in the seventh month of his 
 slow and careful work got well into the second volume, 
 Margaret ceased going out as much as she had been 
 accustomed to do. She often stayed at home three 
 or four days in the week. A keen observer might 
 have noticed that she paid more attention to Geoffrey 
 than was usual with her of late. Sometimes there 
 was a curious ring in her voice. She hesitated in her 
 speech ; occasionally she broke off in the middle of 
 a sentence. When she looked at her husband, there 
 
The Plot of his Story. 193 
 
 was at times a gleam in her eyes which looked like 
 pity. And yet, for all that, she hated him much more 
 than ever. Once she asked him how his work was 
 getting on ; and when he replied, with a certain satis- 
 faction, that he was getting into the very thick of it, 
 and that it was very difficult to manage, she asked 
 why. 
 
 " Well," said Geoffrey, " the book is new ground to 
 me. And to treat a story of intrigue without shock- 
 ing the public is difficult. I daresay I shall never 
 publish the story at all. It might hurt me with the 
 libraries. Still, it is very interesting. My heroine 
 has just fallen in love with another man, and I 
 have not settled yet whether she will leave her 
 husband or not." 
 
 Mrs. Windover made no more inquiries, and was 
 silent during the remainder of lunch. Though she 
 had an engagement that evening, she remained at 
 home, writing to say that she had a headache ; yet 
 she was as well physically as anyone can be who is 
 mentally tortured. 
 
 The result of her attempts to remain more at 
 home was to make Geoffrey believe that she was more 
 contented. And if so, he was very glad in his own 
 w^ay. Believing this, he was much more affectionate 
 to her than he had been, with the result that the 
 in 
 
194 ^J-^i^ Plot of his Story. 
 
 pained tones in her voice gave place to a dull anguish ; 
 and she ceased to look at Geoffrey with anything like 
 pity in her eyes. She began going out again ; for 
 days she was hardly at home after lunch ; sometimes 
 Windover ate that meal alone. His estimate of his 
 heroine took a certain bitterness ; and there promised 
 to be a lack of homogeneousness in her character. 
 He had said to Hinton that he hoped not to condemn 
 her for leaving her husband, and yet he began to 
 make the husband the neglected one. It seemed 
 likely that he would have to rewrite the first volume. 
 As his own circumstances acted on his work, his 
 work reacted on him and Margaret. Sometimes he 
 put in his man's mouth things he himself had said ; 
 once or twice he made a bitter remark to Margaret 
 which he had written the night before. 
 
 The breach between them began to widen very 
 perceptibly. For days they hardly spoke. When 
 they went away together in August and September 
 to Windover's favourite place, Ryde, Margaret re- 
 covered a little ; evidently she made a great effort to 
 be cheerful ; she tried bitterly hard to do everything 
 in her power to render Geoffrey happy. Yet that 
 kind of service can never help greatly ; unless the man 
 is an utter fool. And Windover, for all his obstinacy 
 of self-belief, had some kind of intuition. He felt 
 
Thr Plot of his Story, 195 
 
 intuitively that Margaret was miserable. This made 
 him hard and harder. It was her duty to be happy 
 with him. Both were glad when that holiday was 
 over. They had seen so much of each other in 
 that long six weeks that it was a relief to be almost 
 parted in their London home. And as town began 
 to fill again, Margaret resumed her visiting. Night 
 after night she was at " At Homes " ; she went with 
 parties to the theatre ; sometimes she stayed away 
 for a few days at a friend's house in Hertfordshire. 
 In all this excitement, this ceaseless toil, this un- 
 ending round, she grew pale and wan and thin. Her 
 nerves often gave way. Twice at least her husband 
 found her in tears, and he was irritated into saying 
 things which dried them most effectually. It is easy 
 for an unhappy woman of her character to cry talking 
 to a man she loves, but not to one she hates. 
 
 Yet, in spite of this, she on several occasions made 
 efforts to take Geoffrey out with her. He coldly re- 
 pulsed her. And one night she laughed when he 
 refused. He looked up, and she turned away. 
 When halfway downstairs she burst into tears, and re- 
 turned to her room. When her maid came to her she 
 sent the carriage away. Half an hour after, Geoffrey 
 went out to his club. She put on a dressing-gown 
 at eleven o'clock, and went down to his writing-room. 
 m 2 
 
196 The Plot of his Story, 
 
 The manuscript of his novel lay in a neat pile 
 on the right hand of his desk. She sat down and 
 fingered it idly. Presently she turned over the leaves, 
 and saw in Geoffrey's clear handwriting a sentence 
 which arrested her attention. It was in the first 
 volume. " Is there any position more exquisitely 
 miserable than that of a married woman who has 
 grown to hate her husband, when that husband 
 affords her no valid excuse for leaving him ? " 
 
 How curious it was that he should write this ! 
 Was it not remarkable even that he should have seen 
 so much ? And yet Surely if a woman is ex- 
 quisitely miserable with a man, is not that a valid 
 excuse .»* Geoffrey had talked to Hinton of senti- 
 mental grievances, treating them with scorn. But this 
 was a grievance of that contemptible order. Have 
 people any right to live together when there is hate 
 on either side — ay, or indifference only ? The world 
 said so — said that there was not only a right, but a 
 duty. But each succeeding generation contradicts 
 
 the past. Besides And then Margaret looked 
 
 straight out beyond the walls of that close room. 
 Her eyes softened, a flush made her cheeks rosy, her 
 bosom heaved. As her thoughts came quickly and 
 her vision led to imagined action, her eyes closed, her 
 mouth half opened, her head fell back a little, the 
 
The Plot of his Story, 197 
 
 fibres of her body relaxed. Suddenly she shivered, 
 and her heart beat rapidly ; she rose, and, looking 
 down, left the room. 
 
 During November Mrs. Windover gave at least 
 three parties in her own house. Except on those 
 nights, she was rarely at home. Out of her own 
 house she was brilliant, excitable, nervous. People 
 said she looked ill, and yet her strength seemed 
 inexhaustible. She might be pale and thin, but she 
 never suffered from headaches, her skin was clear, her 
 eyes bright. It was only in her own room and when 
 alone that she broke down : she shook sometimes as 
 though poisoned by ague ; she shivered at the sound 
 of Geoffrey's footstep. She very often avoided him by 
 having breakfast a little earlier ; she feigned illness, 
 and lay in another part of the house. Yet sleep 
 she did not. She often lighted the gas in the middle 
 of the night, and sat looking at herself in the glass. 
 She noted painfully a new line or two in her face ; 
 the discovery of two or three threads of silver in her 
 hair was like a blow. She wanted more than ever to 
 be beautiful ; it was, indeed, only in this last year that 
 she desired it very ardently. It was a new, a real 
 reason to hate Geoffrey that he was making her old 
 and worn by the very misery of his presence. Then 
 she looked at herself with a kind of contempt. She 
 
igS The Plot of his Story, 
 
 put her hands across her bosom and shivered. When 
 she extinguished the Hght she was for a time less un- 
 happy, even though she cried until she fell asleep. 
 Then she sometimes smiled. Often she woke up 
 with a smile on her lips, and for one exquisite 
 moment, before reality rushed over her again, she was 
 quite happy. And then day, and doubt, and misery, 
 and a long, long conflict. 
 
 But one night early in December she came home 
 at about twelve with a new expression on her face. 
 It was the look of one who had at last made up her 
 mind. She behaved as usual, but there was a de- 
 cision about her movements, about her speech, about 
 her looks. She did not avoid Geoffrey's eye^ but met 
 his glances quite coldly, opposing to him an impene- • 
 trable shield. All the next day she devoted to looking 
 over letters ; she went through a long set of accounts 
 with the housekeeper ; she spent some hours writing. 
 In the afternoon Geoffrey came into her boudoir, 
 looked at her, and went out again. As he did not 
 speak, she made no attempt to do so. It would have 
 been very difficult. They dined at eight, in com- 
 parative silence. Geoffrey seemed much preoccupied, 
 and after a very light meal, rose. 
 
 "You are going out to-night.^" he said at the 
 door. 
 
The Plot of his Story. 199 
 
 ** Yes, to the Meades','' was her answer, in a low 
 voice. For a moment she hesitated, and, with a 
 curious effort, added, ''Will you come ? " 
 
 " Thank you, no," said Windover. " I am very 
 busy. I am getting to the end of the book. I think 
 I can finish to-night." 
 
 Margaret rose, and stood by the fire, looking 
 down. 
 
 " Cannot you put off the end, and come with 
 me > " 
 
 " I have not noticed that you have been so eager 
 for my society this last year or so," replied Geoffrey 
 coldly, ''that I should leave my work at your casual 
 request." 
 
 He left the room. At nine o'clock Mrs. Windover 
 went upstairs, and dressed with unusual rapidity, and 
 with unusual plainness, for her. At half-past she 
 came down, paused at Geoffrey's door for a moment, 
 and went into the dining-room. She sat down and 
 stared into the fire. Her colour came and went, 
 came and went ; her hands shook. Suddenly she 
 sprang up, and, going to the library, entered it quickly. 
 Geoffrey looked up, with a tinge of annoyance on his 
 face. 
 
 " I wish you to come with me to-night, Geoffrey ! " 
 she said quickly. 
 
200 The Plot of his Story. 
 
 " Did I not say that I was busy, and could not ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you prefer the creatures of your imagi- 
 nation to reality, Geoffrey ? " 
 
 '* They are easier to get on with." 
 
 " Easier to manage ? " 
 
 " Easier to manage," assented Geoffrey coldly. 
 
 ^' Do you think that human beings are to be 
 managed V she asked, with a touch of contempt in 
 her voice. 
 
 " Some are not, I know." 
 
 There was silence for a minute, and Geoffrey 
 fidgeted uneasily with his papers. 
 
 " Then you will not come when I ask you ? I 
 want you to do this for me to-night. Do I nevei:<do 
 anything for you } " 
 
 " Perhaps as unwillingly as I should come, even if 
 I were not busy. But come I cannot. I have to 
 finish this ; I have come to the end, to the crisis " 
 
 *' To the catastrophe ? " 
 
 He nodded coldly. 
 
 "Then good-night, Geoffrey." 
 
 He turned to his desk, and wrote fast before she 
 was out of the house. 
 
 He wrote till twelve o'clock with ease and 
 rapidity. The scene was vividly in his mind, words 
 came fluently to him. At twelve he stayed for a 
 
The Plot of his Story, 201 
 
 few moments, lighted his pipe, and sat down smoking. 
 He began the last half of the last chapter. But as he 
 wrote he became seriously uneasy in his mind; some- 
 times Margaret came before his mental vision and 
 disturbed him. Growing tired, and yet being do- 
 minated by the desire to finish, his brain got a trifle 
 confused. The final scene, as he had planned it^ was 
 a violent quarrel, leading to the absolute parting of 
 the husband and wife. But now he almost uncon- 
 sciously changed this ; working with some restraint, 
 he toned the dialogue down until it became rather 
 conversational than tragic — it seemed more 
 artistic to him. The man spoke coldly, the woman 
 spoke more coldly still ; when suddenly she stopped 
 half-way in a sentence and said, " Then, good-night." 
 Geoffrey wrote this, and held the pen suspended above 
 the page, while a curious expression came to his face. 
 He looked up, stared at the place where Margaret 
 had last stood. He sat quietly for a minute, and 
 rose. Going to the front door, he found it unlocked : 
 Margaret had a key, and would have fastened the door 
 on her return. A glance at his watch showed him 
 that it was past one. Going upstairs, he looked in all 
 the rooms : she was not there. He went into the 
 dining-room, wandered round it idly for a minute or 
 two, and returned to the library. He sat down by 
 
202 The Plot of his Story, 
 
 the fire, intently listening for the sound of wheels. 
 He heard it strike two. Should he go to the Meades' } 
 In a minute he was in a cab, but he found the house 
 in darkness, and returned at once. But Margaret 
 was not there. She never came back. 
 
ON BEAR CREEK. 
 
205 
 
 ON BEAR CREEK. 
 
 If I, Thomas Ticehurst, formerly mate of the Van- 
 couver^ were to tell you how I got to be loafing 
 round Thomson Forks, British Columbia, it would 
 take quite a book to do it in. And the fact of the 
 matter is that I once wrote one, giving all my adven- 
 tures in that country, and not a single publisher 
 would have anything to do with it ; so I shall see, 
 before I try again, how you like my trip with gold- 
 hunting Mackintosh. I was loafing about Conlan's 
 bar-room at Thomson Forks when he came in for a 
 drink, and I took a fancy to him at once ; in fact, I 
 respected him physically — and it takes a pretty big 
 man for me to look at in that light. He came from 
 Michigan, and was like some I have seen from that 
 State: as strong as a bull. He wore a red beard, and 
 had an eye like an eagle's, and a hand like a ham for 
 size and a sledge-hammer for hardness. As we stood 
 side by side, he looked at me and I looked at him, 
 and presently I asked him to drink. Before long we 
 got quite confidential, and I told him I was thinking 
 of farming. 
 
2o6 On Bear Creek. 
 
 " Bah ! " said he, " a man like you a moss-back — 
 you a farmer! You're fit for something better. 
 What's a few head of rowdy steers when you might 
 go mining, and be worth ten thousand dollars any 
 day?" 
 
 " Or when you mightn't," I put in. 
 
 With that, Mackintosh put his hand into his 
 pocket and pulled out a handful of quartz speci- 
 mens. He gave me a lecture on quartz and alluvial 
 mining, which made him so dry that, in quenching his 
 thirst, I myself began to get a little excited, and 
 before we parted that evening he had extracted a 
 promise from me to go up to the Big Bend with him, 
 to hunt for the vein from which a piece of drift quartz 
 had come, which he carried round as representing 
 what would be worth millions if he could only find it. 
 For I had a little money, as I had owned, and Mac 
 had none. But he would supply the knowledge, I the 
 stores ; and if I bought the pack ponies, he would 
 guide them through the wild forests which hung upon 
 the slopes of the Selkirk Mountains. Perhaps I had 
 made a foolish bargain, and yet I trusted Mac in- 
 stinctively ; and considering how my venture turned 
 out, I have no reason to complain. 
 
 I was a regular green-hand in that country, and 
 the life and manners of my new acquaintances were 
 
On Bear Creek. 207 
 
 amusing, if at times a little dangerous. I was staying 
 where I had met Mackintosh, at Ned Conlan's, whose 
 hotel fronted the forks of the river, and whose bar 
 was perpetually filled with men going up and down 
 the country, whose main talk was of the threatened 
 railroad, which would ruin everything. Major Rogers, 
 the pioneer of the road in the Selkirks, was still there, 
 and his name was on every tongue. 
 
 *' He will die there, and never come out ! " 
 
 " He will be chawed up by a grizzly, sure!'* 
 
 " He will starve to death ! '* 
 
 These were a few of the prophecies heard about 
 a man who has since made a name for enduring 
 pluck and resolution ; and considering that I was 
 going up into the same country, it began to try my 
 nerves. I spoke to Mac. 
 
 " Don't listen to 'em, old man," said he, con- 
 temptuously ; " there ain't one of 'em knows what 
 they talk about. They never was there, and never 
 will be till they've made a smooth level road for 'em, 
 or put the ties down. That's my tumtum" — which 
 meant, "That's my opinion." For, like all British 
 Columbians and dwellers there, the language he used 
 was perpetually interlarded with scraps of Chinook, 
 the Indian trading jargon. The next morning we 
 went together on the steamer up the lakes. 
 
2o8 On Bear Creek, 
 
 When Mac and I reached the head of the Shushap 
 Lakes, about one hundred miles from Thomson 
 Forks, we found some pack ponies, or Indian cayuses, 
 there, and bought two, on which we put our stores. 
 They were very small, miserable-looking animals, and 
 I said so to Mac. 
 
 " Never mind, pard," said he ; "they're tough, and 
 it takes a lot to kill one of 'em." 
 
 " I should be sorry to get on one, Mac," I answered. 
 " I should break his back." 
 
 Mac smiled. 
 
 " Mebbe he'd break your neck, old man. Can you 
 sit a bucking horse } " 
 
 *' I can ride," I answered proudly, for I had often 
 ridden, and had been told I had a pretty good seat. 
 
 Mac looked at me with a grin on his face, and 
 went away. Now, as I found out afterwards, if there 
 is one thing a Western American, or an Australian 
 either, cannot resist, it is to put a " tenderfoot " on a 
 buckjumper. Either will run the risk of breaking his 
 own brother's neck in order to see him thrown off; 
 and Mac — though I know he liked me — was not so 
 far above the common herd as to be able to resist 
 the temptation of proving I couldn't ride as well as 
 I thought. 
 
 In ten minutes he came back, leading a rather 
 
On Bear Creek, 209 
 
 fresher-looking animal than either of ours, and with 
 him came an old white-haired man and a rough, loud- 
 talking individual whom I disliked at once. 
 
 " This is my pardner, a Hinglishman, gentlemen, 
 and he says he can ride — has done it often. Tom, 
 this is an old pard of mine, Hank Patterson " (intro- 
 ducing with a wave of his hand the white-haired 
 man), " and this is Montana Bill. They want to see 
 how you ride, for both of 'em reckons to be judges 
 of that kind of work." 
 
 I could see, from the grins on the faces all round, 
 that the animal destined for my trial was an awkward 
 customer, but I couldn't well back out. 
 
 " Very well," said I boldly ; " I'll ride him if you 
 like — that is, if you'll saddle him, for your saddles 
 beat me altogether with the cinches for girths and 
 rings instead of buckles. Saddles, indeed ! why, this 
 one weighs forty pounds." 
 
 So it did, and most of the others were little less. 
 
 " All right, Tom," said Mac cheerfully ; " we'll 
 put the saddle on the cayuse for you ; and when 
 you're on, mind you stay on. Don't get off in a 
 hurry ; it looks bad in a big man. When you've 
 done with him, and had your little ride, get off 
 gracefully. Now do ! " 
 
 Hank Patterson and Montana Bill burst into a 
 n 
 
2IO On Bear Creek, 
 
 roar of laughter at Mac's wit, but set about saddling 
 the horse at once. 
 
 He was not more than thirteen hands high, and 
 was very thin, but there was a strange look in his 
 eyes that did not please me as he stood perfectly 
 quiet while the saddle was being put on. When it was 
 done, and Mac had made him grunt by the way he 
 cinched him up, his back was already in a little 
 curve. My partner turned to me — 
 
 ^' Here you are, Tom : warranted quiet to ride or 
 pack, perfectly sound and rising seven ; will face a 
 grizzly while you shoot, and go a hundred miles a 
 day on the prairie. Get on and try him." 
 
 I went towards the animal, and slipped the bridle- 
 rein quietly over his head ; but when I put my foot 
 in the stirrup, he made a jump away. This happened 
 half-a-dozen times, and then Mac blindfolded him with 
 his hat while I mounted. 
 
 '' Now, Tom," said he, " are you there ? Have 
 you got a good seat } and have you made up your 
 mind to stay with him } If so, the show is going to 
 begin. Look out ! " And he took the hat away 
 suddenly. 
 
 It was the first time I ever did it, and it was the 
 last. The first thing he did was to nearly pull me 
 over his head by the bridle — for he put his head down 
 
On Bear Creek. 211 
 
 between his fore-legs with a suddenness that sur- 
 prised me — and his back was bent in a curve that 
 prevented me from seeing anything of him in front 
 of me. It was like being on a saddle all by itself, 
 and on a saddle that had made up its mind to get 
 from between my legs. He made a bound up and 
 came down stiff-legged, with a shock that shook me 
 all over, and before I recovered from that I received 
 another one rather worse. I rose an inch from the 
 saddle, then two, then three, and each time he struck 
 earth I struck him harder and harder, like a vessel 
 on the rocks. 
 
 Gradually he flung me higher and higher, and 
 then I grabbed the horn of the saddle desperately, 
 while the lake and mountains, the men and trees, got 
 mixed up like the shifting colours in a kaleidoscope^ 
 and then I went blind. The next moment the in- 
 furiated saddle was gone, and I sat down on the 
 ground with a thump that nearly dislocated every 
 bone in my body, while I heard a tremendous shout 
 of laughter from the three spectators, who were piti- 
 less. When I recovered my sight I saw my steed 
 about fifty yards off still bucking, and from the 
 fashion he went to work, I was surprised that I had 
 remained on him so long. Riding an earthquake or 
 a tornado would be easy after it; and if, as I have 
 ;/ 2 
 
212 On Bear Creek. 
 
 read, the naturalist Waterton rode a crocodile, I have 
 my doubts whether he could have stayed with a 
 Western American broncho. 
 
 When I got up I was a little " riled.'* 
 
 *' Well, Mac," said I, " can you ride him ? " 
 
 " No," he answered. 
 
 " Then what the devil are you laughing at } " said 
 I angrily ; whereupon they all shouted again. It is 
 ridiculous, but it is true, that none of them could, and 
 yet they put me on him, and laughed to see what he 
 did with me. 
 
 " Oh, man ! " said Mac, "but it was fine : it beat a 
 circus all to nothin' ! You'll have to join a show as 
 the ^ Champion Rider of the West' Oh, it was bully ! " 
 And he rolled over, roaring again with the others. I 
 shrugged my shoulders and then laughed too, for the 
 cayuse had taken to rolling ; and in the process he 
 ruined Montana Bill's saddle : at which I was glad, 
 and he was furious. 
 
 In the morning we started on the trail across the 
 Gold Range to the Columbia, and in five days 
 camped on the Columbia River, across which, in the 
 big bend of the stream, were the Selkirk Mountains, 
 where there was reported to be much gold. And 
 Mac was confident he knew where to find it. 
 
 It was now April — about the best time for going 
 
On Bear Creek. 213 
 
 prospecting, as the whole summer was before us. It 
 was a new and strange experience to me, and I think 
 Mac often repented at first his having taken such an 
 inexperienced partner, whom he had to teach even to 
 handle the shovel in the proper way, for the long- 
 handled instrument in vogue on the west coast of 
 America was unfamiliar to me. Then I made ludi- 
 crous failures in packing the ponies, and was some 
 time before I could get the hang of the " diamond 
 knot," which is the only way to keep the burden 
 on the pony's back. But at last, after crossing the 
 lUecilliwet once, and after a few little excursions to 
 the right and left, we came to Mac's own particular 
 creek, where he had been once before, and settled 
 down to build our camp. 
 
 We were among almost inaccessible mountains, 
 for on our right — that is, to the south — there were 
 three sharp peaks covered with perpetual snow at 
 their tops, and a thick growth of hemlock^ spruce, 
 and cedar on their lower slopes, while on the left a 
 great cliff of more than a thousand feet in height 
 rose so perpendicularly that it hid from us, w^ho were 
 right under its wall, the greater mountain of which 
 it was a buttress. Underneath, in places, were large 
 portions of rock broken away, and I remarked to 
 Mac that we were in a dangerous position. 
 
214 On Bear Creek. 
 
 " Well, pard," said he, " it may be dangerous, but 
 you'll soon forget about that ; at any rate, it's the only 
 level spot round here, and we've got to chance it. 
 Mebbe, if we moved out further from the wall the 
 mountain up there might just dump a few hundred 
 tons of snow on us, while if we stay here she'll just 
 shoot it out into the crick, my son ! " 
 
 And with that he started to work on the tent. 
 
 The way we had come up — for we were some 
 thousand feet above the level of the Columbia — was 
 scarcely to be seen, for the slight trail came out of the 
 thick forest just under the little plateau on which we 
 were, and wound round one of the rocks which had 
 fallen from the summit of the cliff. Farther down it 
 followed the roaring creek, which ran two hundred 
 feet to the south of the wall, and crossed it just at the 
 very last spot where it was possible to see it from the 
 edge of our camping-ground. It was in a narrow 
 canon-like valley, that sent a small but lively tributary 
 into Mac's Creek, that he expected to make a find, for 
 it was there he had come across the piece of drift 
 quartz showing gold in it which was to be the index 
 to fortune for him and me. But I thought — and truly 
 I was right — that the possibility of our finding where 
 the bit of rock came from was small, and said as 
 much to Mac. 
 
On Bear Creek, 215 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Well, Tom/' he said, smoking slowly, ^' you're 
 right, I daresay ; but gold-hunting is like gambling \ 
 only we stake our lives, and time, and labour agin 
 Nature's gold. But still, it's a game of skill — 'tain't 
 poker, though ; w^e can't bluff Jut, but there is some 
 skill in it, though that don't go for as much as men 
 reckon. But look here, this is the piece of drift ; now 
 I find it in that creek, therefore it comes from up that 
 creek, and not from any other. Now, mind you, that 
 creek ain't so very long: it peters out altogether a thou- 
 sand feet up, and just where it does there ain't any 
 rock-slide from the peak that would send this dow^n. 
 Therefore, it comes somewhere in that thousand feet. 
 Now, another thing : about three hundred feet from 
 where the creek begins there is a bit of ground where 
 it runs level, and there is a fall there ; three hundred 
 feet from where we are there's another fall, just like 
 the other, only bigger. Now, I found that rock in 
 betwixt the tw^o, but nigher the lower one. Now, jest 
 you see, if it had broken off above the first fall it 
 would not have washed over there. You can see it 
 could not when you go up there. So it comes some- 
 where within two hundred feet of that creek. It 
 must come there, and near where I found it there's a 
 vein : you bet your life there is, and we two are going 
 
2i6 On Bear Creek, 
 
 to find it ; you bet your little tin joss on that. And 
 we will." 
 
 " You know better than I, Mac," said I ; '' but 
 couldn't it have come there in snow ? " 
 
 " You don't know the mountains, my son," said he. 
 " I'll tell you, where snow slides once it slides again, 
 and where it slides it clears all before it — trees, every 
 stick of 'em, and everything. It's like the hand o' the 
 Almighty. But it keeps its track ; there's a snow- 
 slide right over our head." 
 
 " The devil ! " said I, looking up. 
 
 " It ain't a big one, though ; and then there's one 
 far on the other side of the little creek — but there's 
 none between. So snow didn't bring it there : I tell 
 you it didn't ; for if it did, all them trees would have 
 been stacked down at the bottom of the hill, like that 
 lot over yonder ; " and he pointed to a pile just beyond 
 our big creek. 
 
 " How did they come there, Mac ? " 
 
 " Well, I guess they grew over our heads once ; 
 but three years ago there was a bigger snow than 
 usual, and when it slid it cleared 'em off — dropped up 
 right there." 
 
 " But hang it, Mac ! " I said, jumping up ; ** I knew 
 this was a dangerous spot to be in, and every word 
 you say proves it." 
 
On Bear Creek. 217 
 
 He smoked calmly. 
 
 '' What's the use of getting excited ? There wasn't 
 much snow this last winter, and mebbe it won't slide 
 at all. It didn't two years ago when I was here ; 
 besides, we've got the camp fixed, and there ain't 
 another place within a mile that's half as handy ; 
 besides, there's grass here for the cayuses." 
 
 He was so cool and calm about the matter that \ 
 laughed — a little angrily at first ; but seeing his grey 
 eyes twinkle in the light of the camp fire, with such 
 content with himself and the situation, I laughed at last 
 good-humouredly, and accepted the situation. 
 
 In three days our search began, and it lasted for 
 three months or more, during which time I grew as 
 despondent as hard work and the mountain air would 
 let me. We began at the higher fall, and looked at 
 every likely spot until we reached the lower one ; 
 then we went back, and went higher on each side until 
 we again came down to the fall. Then I began to 
 complain a little. 
 
 *' Mac," I said one evening, as I was lying by the 
 camp fire when supper was done, "your calculation 
 of the short distance on the creek where the vein lies 
 was all very well as to length, but it seems to me it 
 fails on the question of height entirely. We may 
 have to clamber a thousand feet on both sides of the 
 
21 8 On Bear Creek. 
 
 stream before we strike it " (or " before we don't," I 
 added to myself, in a low voice). 
 
 *' Why, sonny," said Mac good-humouredly, "per- 
 haps you are right, but then, again, perhaps you ain't. 
 Besides, supposin' I hadn't made that little calcula- 
 tion, we should have had the whole length and height 
 of the thundering creek to hunt. So you see that's 
 where we get the bulge ; d'ye see, sonny?" 
 
 It seemed no great catch to me, and I said so. 
 
 "Humph!" laughed my partner; "never you 
 mind ; you may strike it any time. Mebbe the next 
 time you let go your hold and fall twenty feet you'll 
 knock loose something, and show us just what we 
 want ; eh, old man ? " 
 
 For that day I had tumbled from a rock through 
 my own carelessness, and had a narrow escape of 
 breaking my neck. Fortunately, I had fallen on a 
 thick bush, and so saved myself from any serious 
 harm. 
 
 The day following the evening of this conversa- 
 tion, while we were rather higher than we had been, 
 we came upon the fresh sign of bear. 
 
 " Is it a grizzly, Mac } " I asked, for I had all a 
 "tenderfoot's" dread of these animals. 
 
 " I dunno," he answered. " I ain't a professional 
 hunter, and don't think they can tell, anyhow. Yet 
 
On Bear Creek. 219 
 
 he's a big fellow. Next time, mind we bring the 
 rifles/' 
 
 For we had got accustomed to leaving them at 
 home on account of the extra weight to carry as we 
 climbed the sides of the canon. 
 
 Next morning I was sitting on a spur of rock just 
 out of sight of Mac, who was using his pick round the 
 corner, when I heard a kind of pig-like grunt behind 
 me, and on looking round, I saw a brown bear. It was 
 within ten feet of me, and as it was the first I had 
 ever met at close quarters, I was more than a little 
 alarmed. If we had been in a settled district, Bruin 
 would have been more frightened of me than I was of 
 him, for they soon get to find out that man is a 
 dangerous animal, and leave him alone ; or perhaps 
 it may be that the more savage ones get killed, and 
 only those who are timid and keep out of the way 
 manage to survive. A friend of mine says that's 
 pure Darwinism, but I don't care if it is : it seems 
 likely enough. How^ever, that is quite by the way, 
 and meanwhile I am keeping the bear waiting. He 
 was not inclined to be kept, however, and came past 
 me with no more than a sniff and an ugly twinkle in 
 his small eyes which quite frightened me. Perhaps it 
 was as well that my rifle was out of my reach ; for if 
 I had shot at him without killing him, he would 
 
220 On Bear Creek, 
 
 probably have finished me before Mac could have 
 come to the rescue. As he passed my tools he 
 smelt them, and was particularly interested in the 
 weapon — a 45 -calibre Winchester, by the way — which 
 he knocked down, and then he turned the corner. 
 By that time I recovered my nerve. 
 
 ^' Look out, Mac ! " I screamed at the top of my 
 voice — not that any great shouting was needed — 
 "here he comes!" I heard Mac drop his pick, and 
 then " crack " went his rifle. Then it was his turn to 
 shout. 
 
 " Look out, Tom ! " and just as I got my rifle 
 Bruin came round the corner again — for I don't 
 think he saw my partner at all — and of course con- 
 cluded that I was the one to blame. As he came 
 round I fired, and hit him somewhere in the shoul- 
 der, and then as I dropped the lever to eject the 
 cartridge the empty shell jammed, and would neither 
 come out nor go back. 
 
 I dropped the weapon and scrambled like light- 
 ning up the rock above me, sending the loose earth 
 and stones rattling down into the creek. The bear 
 followed as fast as he could, and the way he climbed 
 with two bullets in him was a " caution." 
 
 When I reached the top of the rock, I could 
 find no easy way out. I was caught in a trap, unless 
 
On Bear Creek. 221 
 
 I dropped over again ; and if I did, I might disable 
 myself from moving. I yelled to Mac like a fiend, 
 and I could hear him coming, cursing all the way. 
 I picked up a big rock, weighing about eighty pounds, 
 and as 1 did so the bear's head came up over the 
 edge of the little plateau on which I stood. I threw 
 the rock with all my force, and it struck him square 
 in the centre of the forehead, and at the same moment 
 Mac's rifle rang out sharply. Bruin had both paws 
 now on the ledge, but he got no further. I saw him 
 sway to and fro, the blood poured out of his mouth, 
 and he fell back and rolled over and over. I went 
 to the edge and watched his fall. He fell from 
 where I had been sitting, and in a lump struck a 
 small pine about twenty feet below, against which a 
 rock weighing about a ton had lodged. I suppose 
 the bear's weight or sudden shock was the last straw, 
 for the tree gave with a sudden crack, and the bear 
 and the stone rolled over and over, falling at last 
 into the creek with a tremendous splash. He never 
 moved again. 
 
 " A close call for you, Tom," said Mac, looking up 
 at me. " Why did you only shoot once ? " 
 
 " Look at the rifle," said I, scrambling down ; 
 " don't you see it jammed ? " 
 
 Mac picked it up, and tried to work the lever. 
 
222 On Bear Creek, 
 
 " So it has. Well, they all will sometimes. But 
 it's a good weapon." 
 
 Mac said " weepon," though, as so many Western 
 men do. 
 
 '' Let's go and cut him up, Tom," said he. '' Fresh 
 bear's meat is good, I guess ; and he's fat, though it 
 isn't the fall yet." 
 
 And he scrambled down the way the bear had 
 gone. When he got down to the place where the 
 broken pine was, he stopped for a moment, and looked 
 up at me. ''Come on, old man," he cried; "or are 
 your nerves so shaken you can't come down } " 
 
 Then he dropped his eyes on the rock in front of 
 him. He stood quiet for a moment, and then — 
 
 "By the great horn spoon and the tail of the 
 sacred bull, we've got it ! " he roared exultantly. 
 
 " Got it ! Got what } " said I quietly. 
 
 " Great Scott ! Holy Mackinaw ! man, we've struck 
 it — we've struck it ! " he cried ; and then he began to 
 dance, throwing his hat up in the air. 
 
 "Struck what.?" I cried. "Talk English, Mac, 
 and don't be an ass ! " 
 
 " Oh, you fool, you great seafaring fool ! " he said. 
 " What the thunder do you think we've struck } 
 What are we looking for, you great galoot? Is it salt, 
 or sugar, or is it — gold ? " 
 
On Bear Creek, 223 
 
 And he cried '' Hurrah ! " in a voice that might 
 have been heard for miles, and that was echoed 
 '' HURRAH ! ! ! Hurrah ! ! hurrah ! " faintly from 
 the reverberating hills, like the repeated elfin screech 
 of a mountain lake's sole steamer. 
 
 I scrambled down to him, and fell in a heap at his 
 feet ; and though I found myself bruised all over 
 next day, I never noticed it, for I saw what I now 
 knew to be gold quartz, and the gold was to be seen 
 in it. 
 
 Mac turned suddenly quiet, and sat down. " Look 
 here, pard," said he, smiling ; " we owe that bear 
 something. Til take his hide off and have it 
 tanned, and I'll mount his claws in gold, and 
 we'll call this ' Bear Creek.' Perhaps it'll be a con- 
 solation to his relatives to know how famous he'll 
 be. But meanwhile we'll eat him." And takine 
 out a lump of the quartz, he looked at it lovingly, 
 and went down to the bear. As we skinned it he 
 talked. 
 
 " Look now, Tom," said he, " how queer things 
 turn out. Three years ago, in the early spring, I saw 
 that very rock fall and hit that tree. I did ; and the 
 next day I was prospecting right over this very 
 ground. I found enough to tell me there was gold 
 here somewhere, but it was only two years ago I 
 
224 On Bear Creek, 
 
 found the piece of drift. Now, Til bet the whole 
 mine — and there's millions in it — that it was that rock 
 as broke off the very piece. And yet, if it hadn't 
 fallen there I might have spotted this place before. 
 But it don't matter ; then you wouldn't have been in 
 it, old man ; and I'm glad you are. Shake hands, 
 pard." 
 
 And he gripped me — though I'm strong enough 
 myself — with a hand that was like getting caught in 
 the nip of a block. 
 
 " Bully old bear ! " said he, going on skinning ; 
 " bully old bear ! Fine prospector he was, to be sure ; 
 yet to get killed so soon, just as he struck it. Did 
 you hit him with that rock, Tom } " 
 
 ''Yes," said I. 
 
 He put his hand on the bear just between the 
 eyes, and then looked up. 
 
 " By the Lord, I should say you did ! Man, it 
 was you killed him, not I. Feel : his skull is smashed 
 right in ; every bone is broken. Hit him ! well, I 
 should smile." 
 
 It was true ; I had fractured the frontal bone into 
 fragments. 
 
 '' Yes, I hit him a hard crack," said I. 
 
 " You did, pard. Say," said he suddenly, " where, 
 in the name of thunder, did you learn to say your h's 
 
On Bear Creek, 225 
 
 that way ? You must hev bin in America longer 
 than you allow to learn 'em." 
 
 I stared in amazement. 
 
 " What do you mean, Mac ? " 
 
 "Why, no Englishman says 'em right. *'Ouse' 
 and ' 'orse ' they say. I've heard scores, and never 
 one different." 
 
 I roared with laughter. 
 
 «D it, Mac!" said I, when I got my voice 
 
 back ; " that's only quite uneducated Englishmen. I 
 always did, I hope." 
 
 " Hum ! " replied he doubtfully ; " mebbe you're 
 right, but I know Englishmen as knowed a right 
 smart of things, and had bin to school for years, and 
 yet they said ^ 'ouse.' " 
 
 I found out afterwards that among the rougher 
 classes of America, where everyone employs the 
 aspirates correctly, but where they rarely see an 
 educated Englishman, they believed no one from our 
 island could use an " h " unless it were in the wrong 
 place, and I was a constant source of surprise to 
 them because I did. 
 
 Next day, with our strength reinforced by bear's 
 
 meat, we commenced operations on the vein, and got 
 
 out some specimens of quartz which were really rich, 
 
 amply repaying hand-crushing. All the time we were 
 
 o 
 
226 On Bear Creek, 
 
 at work Mac was speculating as to what it would be 
 worth to us. 
 
 " Millions, I reckon, Tom," said he, chuckling and 
 wiping his face. '* I shall go to San Francisco — I 
 hevn't bin there for years — and have a bully time. 
 Then I'll go east and see the old folks, and I'll settle — 
 for a while, anyhow — in New York. Fifth Avenue's 
 the tony place to live, ain't it ? Then I'll live there ; 
 right alongside of old Vanderbilt : that would be 
 good. Jest think of asking him in to have a game of 
 poker ; and Jay Gould too ! No, I wouldn't have 
 Jay : he's too mean by a long sight. I'm like the 
 man in Wall Street, that told the photographer who 
 was toting round picters of Jay's birth-place : * These 
 won't go a cent along here, my man ; but if it was 
 his tomb now, you'd do business.' " 
 
 " But, Mac," I asked, '* how do you know there's 
 all that in this lot } Are you sure it isn't a 
 pocket ? " 
 
 For I was getting learned in gold-mining terms, 
 and knew a pocket was just a small spot where there 
 would be no more than a certain amount : that is, the 
 vein does not continue. 
 
 Mac scratched his head. 
 
 *' Well, pard," he said slowly ; " mebbe it is, and 
 mebbe it isn't ; but I never see a pocket like this. I 
 
On Bear Creek. 227 
 
 reckon it's a regular mine : that's what it is ; but still, 
 you may be right." 
 
 " And if I am, Mac, what about Fifth Avenue ? " 
 
 He turned and laughed. 
 • " Then I shall hev to put off Vanderbilt, and stay 
 in San Francisco." 
 
 " How much do you reckon, Mac, will do that^ eh } 
 Five thousand dollars 1 " 
 
 " I've had many a jamberee on less, pard, but with 
 five thousand dollars I could jest make things hum ; 
 I could paint the whole town redder than paint — red 
 as blood. But I won't blow in the lot ; no, I've got 
 more sense, for I'm coming out again. But there, 
 goldarn it, youVe almost made me think w^e'll hev to 
 do with ten thousand, and I tell you there's millions 
 in it." 
 
 With that, he lifted up his pick and struck a 
 tremendous blow at the loose quartz in front of him. 
 But, instead of entering, the pick slid down a surface 
 of rock behind, and the handle struck him in the 
 stomach, throwing him off his balance. He fell, and 
 rolled over and over, finally landing just where the bear 
 had done with a tremendous splash. I ran down as 
 hard as I could, and found him sitting up to his neck 
 in the water, not making the least attempt to get out. 
 He was very red in the face ; his long wet hair was 
 2 
 
228 On Bear Creek. 
 
 hanging over his eyes, which he was winking to clear 
 of the water, while a most solemn expression ren- 
 dered him so absurd that it was with difficulty I 
 refrained from laughter, afraid as I was that he had 
 injured himself in the fall. 
 
 " Are you all right, Mac ? " I inquired anxiously, 
 reaching out my hand to him. He lifted his arm out 
 of the water and waved me away. 
 
 " No, Tm not all right ; I'm all wrong ; it's all 
 bust up. I've struck the bed rock." 
 
 "Has it broken any bones ? " I cried. 
 
 He looked up and smiled curiously. 
 
 " Mebbe it broke the pick," he said. 
 
 " Hang the pick ! " I said angrily. " Get out of 
 the creek." 
 
 " Pardner, I beg you to let me stay awhile and 
 cool. When I said I struck the bed-rock, you, if you 
 weren't a ' tenderfoot ' and an Englishman, would hev 
 known I warn^t alluding to what I fell on. I hev 
 not broken any bones, but me and Vanderbilt '11 never 
 sit at the same table. I struck the bed-rock, Tom, 
 and our luck's out. You were right. It's only a 
 pocket." 
 
 And he smiled a melancholy smile, and putting 
 his chin into the water, drank. I sat down and 
 laughed till I cried. 
 
On Bear Crehk, 229 
 
 *' You may laugh, Tom Ticehurst," said Mac 
 quietly, but with a slight twinkle in his eyes, " but it 
 ain't no laughing matter to lose millions. We've lost 
 'em just the same as if a bank broke ; and I was as 
 sure of that vein, considering the casing and every- 
 thing about it, as if it was the First National Bank at 
 Washington. Well, I shan't see Michigan yet. But 
 it's getting cool here" (I should have thought so, 
 considering the water ran from a glacier only two 
 thousand feet above us) ; " so I'll get out." 
 
 He did so at last, and shook himself deliberately 
 over me as I lay almost helpless with laughter at his 
 feet. Then we went down to the camp, where he 
 changed his clothes. 
 
 " You see, Tom," he murmured gently, as he fished 
 out two pieces of clay pipe from his trousers pocket, 
 " it never rains but it pours. I've lost a million or 
 more, and a visit East, and a house in Fifth Avenue, 
 and I've broken my clay pipe that I valued. It's 
 hard pan ! " 
 
 He cast the remains into the camp fire, and taking 
 a plug of climax, he hacked off a piece as big as a 
 ten-ounce nugget, which he put into his mouth as 
 thoughtfully as though he were replacing a tooth. 
 
 '' Hadn't we better go up, Mac," said I, " and see 
 if it's as you say ? " 
 
230 On Bear Creek. 
 
 " You kin, if you like, pard," said he ; " but Fll tell 
 you what you'll see. There's a flat rock at a little 
 angle just where I struck with the pick, and if you 
 clear away all the quartz you'll find that same rock 
 stops everything. Go and look ; but you can take 
 my word it's so." 
 
 " Well," said I, " how much do you think we got 
 altogether ? " 
 
 " What do you think ? " he replied. 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 " How should I know ? " 
 
 " Well , then, there's about seven thousand dollars, 
 and that's all. Three and a half each of us ! " said he 
 lugubriously. " Why, cuss it ! I shall get no further 
 than Thomson Forks, or Victoria at the farthest. 
 Oh, this is tough, very tough ! " and he groaned, half 
 extinguishing the fire with a jet of tobacco-juice. 
 
 " Oh, come, Mac," said I, encouragingly, " that's 
 not bad for a little over three months' work." 
 
 " Three months, man ! " said he. " Three months ! 
 Haven't I been hunting that particular spot three 
 years, and haven't I been prospectin' nigh on to 
 seven without making more than board ? Oh, h — 11 ! " 
 
 As I could see he was more than half joking, 1 
 began to laugh, and presently he joined in. 
 
 " Well, I reckon it ain't so bad, after all, and then 
 
On Bear Creek, 231 
 
 there's only half the summer gone ; there's plenty of 
 time to get a million yet." 
 
 My face fell. I knew it did, and Mac looked at 
 me inquiringly. 
 
 " Don't you think," said I persuasively, " that we 
 had better go back to the Forks now } Enough's as 
 good as a feast."^' 
 
 "Ain't I bin telling you this last hour it ain't 
 enough. I'm not a hog, but three and a half thou- 
 sand dollars doesn't fill me up. What can I do 
 with it.?" 
 
 ** Buy a farm," I interjected. 
 
 " And be a mossback ? " said he contemptuously. 
 " No, I reckon not. I'd rather be a saw-mill man and 
 run the saw-dust barrow with a Chinee, or a railroader 
 at a dollar and six bits a day. Hay-forks ain't my 
 line." 
 
 " But the grub's nearly given out, Mac," said I. 
 
 "There's more down at the Columbia, or if not 
 there, over at the Landing," he replied, obstinately. 
 ** What the thunder do you want down the country } 
 You're safer up here, away from the drink." 
 
 '' I don't drink," said I. 
 
 ** You don't, eh } Well, I don't know what you 
 call drinking, but. I reckon you was nigh full the first 
 time we met." 
 
232 On Bear Creek, 
 
 " The first time we parted, you mean, Mac. That 
 was all your fault. And that's why I'm here." 
 
 Mac grinned. 
 
 " Well, you haven't done so badly out of it, Tom,*' 
 said he. 
 
 " That's just what I said to you just now. But 
 look here, old man : if you're set on staying, I'm with 
 you till it's time to clear out on account of the snow. 
 I won't desert you up here." 
 
 He held out his hand, which was about two sizes 
 larger than mine (and that isn't the hand of a child by 
 any means), saying — 
 
 ** Put it there, pard ; it's a bargain." 
 
THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE. 
 
235 
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE. 
 
 Of course, it isn't a likely thing to fall in with a 
 vessel at sea with someone on board of her that a 
 man knows. I know that, for the ocean's a big 
 place. Who knows that better than an old seaman 
 who's knocked about it from the North Cape to Cape 
 Horn, from the Andaman Islands to the Farallones — 
 who has been in most ports in the world — who's had 
 Yellow Jack in the West Indies, and a knife in his ribs 
 in the East ? Still, one does sometimes come across a 
 vessel that left the same port the same day. I re- 
 member coming near enough the Renozvii to make 
 her out three times in one passage from Sandridge to 
 London : once in a gale off the Horn, once when we 
 were lying nearly becalmed on the Line, and later in 
 the chops of the Channel. We were rubbing shoulders 
 all the way home. So, if the sea is a big place, folk 
 sometimes meet in it. London's a big place, but 
 only a few weeks ago I fell across a man I last met 
 in San Francisco. So there's no reason why a man 
 shouldn't meet his best chum at sea, or his brother, or 
 his wife maybe, if she's going somewhere in 3 vessel. 
 
236 The Captain's Wife, 
 
 And that's what Will Falconer did when he was 
 captain of the Early Dawn^ bound for Rio. 
 
 I had sailed with Will long before he got his 
 ticket. You see, he wasn^t brought up by hand at 
 sea; he didn't serve his time as a brass-bound poop 
 ornament — one of those impudent young devils of 
 " midshipmen," as they call them in Green's line. Will 
 went to sea as a boy, and got knocked about till he 
 was hard and strong enough to hit back. And he 
 was able seaman with me in the David Holmes, of 
 Bristol, for two voyages. But he was naturally a 
 bright young chap, and I daresay it was through 
 meeting the girl whom he afterwards married that 
 he went to work at navigation. 
 
 A sea life's a poor life, any way you look at it ; but 
 it's better to be an officer than to be in the fo'c'sle, even 
 if there was no more money hanging to the job. But 
 seeing he took it into his head to want to marry 
 before he was able to keep a wife, Will went to work, 
 and got his ticket as second. And I sailed with him 
 in the Early Dawn, of Liverpool — as A.B., of course ; 
 for though he used to worry me to try navigation, 
 saying that I was better educated than half the 
 officers afloat, I never could handle mathematics, 
 and working a chronometer with all the figuring they 
 want was sizes too large for me. 
 
The Captain's Wife. 237 
 
 Then Will got his mate's ticket and married. It 
 wasn't quite so foolish a match as most marriages 
 made by seamen, for to his £Z a month she could add 
 another five, left her by her father, who used to keep 
 a marine-store at Bristol. Mary Barnes was her name 
 then ; and a bright, beautiful girl she was, too — slim and 
 blue-eyed, with yellow hair. Will called it gold ; and 
 gold it was to him, for he loved her dearly, and was 
 glad when it was my trick at the wheel in the middle 
 watch, so that he could talk to someone who had seen 
 her. I used to take the liberty sometimes of telling 
 him not to be in a hurry to marry till he was captain ; 
 for as I had sailed with him before the mast, I knew 
 him well enough to speak that way when we were 
 alone. 
 
 However, marry her he did, and happy enough 
 he was till it came time for him to go to sea again. 
 But as it seemed till afterwards, he was in luck's way 
 to marry Mary, for when he came home after that 
 voyage, she met him all in a tremble with pleasure. 
 He told me afterwards what she said, and it was : 
 " Will, you need never go to sea any more if you don't 
 want to." 
 
 You see, it was this way : her father's brother had 
 been out in Monte Video for years, with very little 
 heard of him, but at last he wrote home to Mary 
 
238 The Captain's Wife, 
 
 herself, saying that as his wife was dead, and as he 
 had no children, he wanted her to come out there and 
 bring Will Falconer ; for she had written, telling him 
 of her marriage, like a dutiful niece. He was, so folks 
 said, a rich man, and it was natural to take some 
 notice of him. 
 
 Will at first made some objections, of course. He 
 did not quite like giving up the sea when he had 
 begun to rise ; moreover, it was to some extent losing 
 his independence to go to his wife's uncle. When he 
 said that to me, I told him he was a fool, and asked 
 where his independence was at sea, when he wasn't 
 captain, and might not be for years, even if he had 
 got his master s certificate by now. But at last the 
 wish to be always with Mary conquered, and he 
 agreed to go out to Monte Video with her as soon as 
 he could settle on a ship. It wasn't so easy to get to 
 South America in those days as it is now, for this was 
 in the early sixties, and mail-steamers didn't run twice 
 a week then, like mail-coaches. By the time they had 
 sold up their furniture, however, he came across a 
 vessel whose skipper he knew — the Sharpness she was, 
 and a very decent craft of about seven hundred tons 
 register, bound for Monte Video. Will thought as 
 Captain Holt usually took his wife with him she 
 would be company for Mary, so he settled to go in 
 
The Captain's Wife, 239 
 
 the Sharpness. And just then the owners of the 
 Early Dawn telegraphed for him to come at once, 
 without saying what for. As there was plenty of 
 time for him to go to Liverpool and back before the 
 Sharpness sailed, he went off at once. 
 
 It appeared that the owners of the Early Dazvn 
 wanted him to go as skipper of her, for the captain 
 was very ill, and likely to die. It doesn't often 
 happen that a man is second officer, mate, and then 
 skipper of the same vessel ; but Messrs. White and 
 Graves knew Falconer, and liked him well. 
 
 I suppose the offer was a tempting one to Will, 
 for, as I said, he was ambitious, and was loth to give 
 up the sea, with such promotion right before him. 
 But he knew very well the owners didn't like their 
 captains to have their wives on board, and in this 
 I must say I think they were right. A woman is bad 
 enough as a passenger ; but when she is the captain's 
 wife she is out of place, to my mind, and always inter- 
 fering with something. Besides, it spoils a man's 
 nerve to have his wife with him. So Will was in a 
 quandary, and had two inclinations pulling different 
 ways. But at last he wrote to Bristol, telling Mrs. 
 Falconer about it, and saying that he had accepted the 
 offer just for that* voyage ; for, as he told me, he knew 
 that if he went back to Bristol he would not get to 
 
240 The Captain's Wife. 
 
 Liverpool again. So this was the reason Mrs. Fal- 
 coner went to Monte Video in the Sharpness just as 
 we sailed for Rio Janeiro in the Early Dawn — for, 
 of course, I went with Will Falconer. I was bo'sun 
 that trip ; and being bo'sun, by the way, was quite 
 enough to show me I wasn't fit for an ojRicer: It 
 came precious hard to me to give orders. 
 
 It never occurred to me till long afterwards, but 
 Will had been changing very much since I first 
 sailed with him. In those days he was rather a 
 solemn kind of a young man, never doing much in 
 the way of larking, and it took a good yarn to make 
 him laugh. But as he rose in the service he got 
 merrier and merrier, and now as captain, and a 
 married man, he was just as lively as a cricket, and 
 as light as dawn in the tropics. I suppose it was that 
 he had got what he wanted, and was just happy about 
 it. Some men never get happy, however much 
 success they grab hold of; they always want more. 
 But Will Falconer wasn't that sort ; and now, as 
 skipper of the Early Dawn, all the men forward said 
 he was just the finest captain they had ever sailed 
 with. He didn't seem to know the meaning of the 
 word " haze " ; and yet, for all that, the work was done 
 as readily for him as if he had been that swab of an 
 American captain of the Gatherer, who shot a man 
 
The Captain's Wife, 241 
 
 off the main-yard and blinded a boy, and got 
 eighteen months " hard " in the San Francisco 
 Penitentiary. 
 
 In a way, I suppose command came as easy to 
 him as it came hard to me. Responsibility didn't 
 seem to weigh on him at all. Indeed, at times I 
 thought he was reckless, for he would carry on in a 
 gale of wind as if he was a Scotsman. When he 
 reefed topsails, you might be sure it was blowing. 
 But, for the matter of that, we had a very fair passage 
 as far as the north-east Trades, barring one gale on 
 the edge of the Bay. But when we picked up the 
 Trades they were very light, and we fairly drifted 
 down to the Line. We were thirty-five days out from 
 Liverpool when we were in one degree North latitude, 
 and there we lay for nearly a week. All this time 
 the easiest-tempered man on board was the skipper. 
 As a rule they mind it most, though it tries every- 
 one ; but I suppose Will Falconer looked on this trip 
 almost as a pleasure business. After all, it was only 
 to oblige the owners, and probably he would never 
 make another voyage, having a rich uncle under his 
 lee. But calms I don't like : they try all the gear 
 just as they do one's temper, and strain the rigging 
 just when it's slackest if there is the least bit of a 
 swell. And as I was bo'sun, of course I was in a 
 
242 The Captain's Wife. 
 
 kind of way responsible. At least, that's how I 
 took it. 
 
 One night (we had then been becalmed four days) 
 the skipper came to me as I stood under the break of 
 the poop, for I think he somehow missed the yarns 
 we used to have when I was able seaman and took 
 my trick at the wheel. 
 
 " What do you think, Harry ? Is it going to last 
 long.?" 
 
 '' Why, sir," said I, for I was always most respect- 
 ful, " it may last for ever, by the look of it." 
 
 " Ay, and by the look of the barometer," said he. 
 
 " Whereabouts d'ye think the Sharpness will be 
 by this time ? " he asked, after a minute or so. 
 
 " She may be anywhere, sir," was my answer. 
 And what other answer could I make? For the 
 Sharpness might have got a good slant of wind, and 
 crossed the Line flying, and be well into the south- 
 east Trades by this time. It isn't always the fastest 
 vessel makes the fastest passage. 
 
 " And she may be right close here," said the 
 captain. 
 
 " She may, sir," said I j and of course she might. 
 But what was the use of asking anyone ? it certainly 
 was no good asking me. 
 
 But, for all that. Will Falconer's talking about the 
 
The Captain's Wife. 243 
 
 vessel in which his wife was, set me thinking, as, I 
 suppose, he had been. It was curious to fancy that 
 his wife might be a few miles off, rolling gently in the 
 Sharpness as we were in the Early Dawn^ w^ith a 
 clear sky overhead and a windless sea beneath- 
 Each morning after that I used to take a look round ; 
 but as we were rather west of the usual longitude 
 vessels bound like ourselves cross the Line in, I 
 never saw anything. And all this time we were 
 slowly drifting to the southward. Sometimes for half 
 an hour or so we caught a catspaw of wind, and 
 almost got steerage way. But on the eighth day it was 
 the deadest calm of all ; and the heat was almost too 
 much to stand. To touch iron was little worse than 
 touching wood, the pitch almost boiled out of the 
 deck ; the toughest-footed seaman in the crowd was 
 glad to put shoes on, for the deck was like the top of 
 an oven. And now there was no swell, the canvas 
 ceased to flap, and the yards were as still as if we 
 were in dock ; if a parral did creak every now and 
 again, the sound was as startling as a pistol-shot. 
 For in that heat it was little work we did ; and besides, 
 this was Sunday. 
 
 Now, I don't know what it was that sent me there 
 — perhaps it was the notion that it might be cooler up 
 there — but at any rate I crawled up into the maintop, 
 / 2 
 
244 The Captain's Wife. 
 
 and sat in the shadow of the mast. I suppose I fell 
 asleep, for presently I found the sun full on my face as 
 we boxed the compass in that dead calm. I looked 
 out on the port beam, and in the smooth burning sea I 
 fancied I saw a white speck. As I looked the vessel 
 swung slowly round, and the clew of the lower top- 
 sail hid it from view. I clambered up the topmast 
 rigging, and got on the lower topsail yard, and then, 
 sure enough, I saw that speck again. And now it was 
 more than a speck. It might be a boat. It was a 
 boat surely. I hailed the deck. 
 
 " On deck there ! " 
 
 Instantly there was a buzz below, and some of 
 the men came out of the shadow. Mr. Brown, the 
 second officer, answered me. 
 
 " What is it, Jenkins ? " 
 
 " Well, sir," said I, " I'm not rightly sure, but I 
 think I see a white painted boat somewhere about 
 four points on the port bow. If you would bring 
 your glass, sir." 
 
 And in two minutes he was beside me on the yard. 
 
 " Can you see it now 1 " 
 
 I pointed. As we were slowly swinging, the ob- 
 ject I had seen was just being obscured by the leach 
 of the foretopsail ; so Mr. Brown went out on the 
 yard and took a look at it. 
 
The Captain's Wife, 245 
 
 " You are right, Jenkins ; it is a boat." 
 
 " Anybody in it, sir ? " I asked eagerly, for I was 
 thinking what it must be to be in a boat under that 
 sun. And if anyone was in it, how long had he 
 been there ? 
 
 " I think not. I am pretty sure it is empty. But 
 I will tell Captain Falconer." 
 
 With that, we both went down on deck, and as he 
 went aft into the saloon I went forward, and was just 
 going up the fore-rigging when it occurred to me 
 that I might just as well send someone else, and 
 meanwhile see a boat clear for lowering, in case the 
 skipper wanted to overhaul the castaway. So I sent 
 one of the men aloft to keep it in sight, and with the 
 rest of the watch cleared away the gig. 
 
 The captain came out on deck yawning, for he 
 had been asleep ; but he soon brightened up. 
 
 "A boat, eh?" said he. "Anyone in it, Mr. 
 Brown } " 
 
 " I think not, sir." 
 
 " How far is it away } " 
 
 Brown turned to me. 
 
 " About four miles," said he. 
 
 " Nearer five, sir," said I. 
 . " Very well," said the captain ; " get the boat over 
 the side and take a look at her, at any rate." 
 
246 The Captain's Wife, 
 
 We lowered away the boat, and the second officer 
 was just about to get into her when the skipper 
 stopped him. 
 
 "Stay, Mr. Brown. On my soul I think I'll go 
 myself. I am fairly dying for something to do." 
 
 And he laid hold of the davit ropes and went 
 down. I was just going to follow him when it 
 occurred to me that we ought to have water. We 
 should want it ourselves, at any rate, before that pull 
 was done ; and, besides, it was just possible that 
 there might be someone in that boat. 
 
 " Stay one moment, sir. Here, Dick, run to the 
 cask, and fill the little breaker." 
 
 Dick, the boy, was back in a moment or two. 
 
 " If you please, sir, I can*t find the breaker, but 
 here's the can." 
 
 This held about a gallon and a half I handed it 
 down, and followed it myself. 
 
 There were four of us pulling, and the captain 
 steering. Will Falconer seemed quite happy at 
 getting away from the deadly dulness of the calm, 
 and laughed, in spite of the heat. Certainly, he was 
 not pulling. 
 
 " Well, Jenkins," said he, " this is quite an expe- 
 dition to liven you up. I know it makes you unhappy 
 to hear the gear rattling in a calm." 
 
The Captain's Wife. 247 
 
 " Why, yes, sir, of course it does. I like to be 
 doing something and going somewhere." 
 
 " So do I as a rule, Jenkins, but I don't feel this 
 trip in so much of a hurry. If the old Sharpness 
 were able to sail two feet for our one I would have 
 had you wetting the sails before this." 
 
 I daresay there was some truth in what he said, 
 but, for all that, he was glad to be doing something. 
 Once I saw a captain put a boat over the side in a 
 calm to get back a rotten old sheepskin which the 
 cook let fall overboard. He was dead on doing 
 something, that skipper. 
 
 Before we had pulled a mile from th^ Early Dawn 
 those who were pulling with me seemed to find it 
 almost too hot. For the sea was like glass, and the 
 sun overhead shone like red-hot brass, and as the 
 water went away from the oars it seemed sluggish 
 and oily, and our wake was like oil too. Presently 
 the bowman begged for a drink, and the captain 
 easied her and passed the big can forward. The other 
 two men took a drink. 
 
 " Steady, Thomson," said I to the man nearest me ; 
 "don't swallow the lot. We have a long way to go 
 yet." 
 
 And I didn't drink myself ; nor, for that matter, 
 did the captain. 
 
248 The Captain's Wife. 
 
 For the first mile or rather more the skipper 
 owned he could not see the boat we had come after, 
 but after that he caught sight of her. 
 
 '' Yes," said he, *' she's painted white, or else she's 
 turned white with time. I daresay she's been dodder- 
 ing round these latitudes for half a century." 
 
 And then he took a drink himself If he hadn't 
 done so I would have begged him not to pass the 
 can forward, for I couldn't help thinking that after 
 all someone might want it worse than any one of us. 
 But as he passed it himself, I could not offer to stop 
 him. When it came to the bowman's turn, there 
 was very little left in it, so I shouted out — 
 
 " Easy with it, young fellow ; I haven't had a 
 drink yet." 
 
 But though he did go easy as far as the amount 
 he drank went, it wasn't his fault, for it was almost 
 empty when he got it ; so the young beggar finished 
 it out. 
 
 By this time the Early Dawn began to look very 
 small — so small that we seemed all by ourselves, as 
 you do at sea in a small boat. But as I looked over 
 my shoulder I saw the boat within a cable's length — 
 say, about a hundred fathoms. In a few moments 
 the skipper cried out — 
 
 " Way enough ! " 
 
The Captain's Wife. 249 
 
 And with his steering we shot right up alongside, 
 and then we saw — we saw something which turned me 
 sick — ay, and white too, though I am brown. 
 
 There were women in that boat — two of them — 
 and two men ; and of the four, one woman was alive 
 and one man. One woman was lying on her back 
 dead ; the other was turned over on her face, but I 
 saw her fingers move with a curious motion, as if 
 they alone of all her parched body were alive. One 
 man lay in the bows, staring at us horribly. He 
 opened his black mouth, and lifting his hand slowly, 
 pointed to it. And the look in his eyes ! — oh, the look 
 in his eyes ! He was looking out of hell for heaven's 
 water. 
 
 But the captain. He sat where he was for a 
 moment, and when I turned round to get the can 
 I stopped. He was a curious green colour, and his 
 lips were bloodless : he stared into the boat. And I 
 saw where he looked — at what he was looking. He 
 was looking at the hair of the living woman, whose 
 face was hidden. It was a bright, bright yellow ! 
 But the ends were grey with the soaking of brine. 
 
 Falconer tried to move, and could not. He leant 
 over, still seated, and touched the long hair, and he 
 spoke — 
 
 " Golden hair ! Oh, Mary ! " 
 
2SO The Captain^ s Wife. 
 
 And with that he clambered over into the boat 
 and turned the woman over. He knew her, but I 
 should never have known her. For it was his wife, 
 the golden-haired woman he loved. I heard a man's 
 scream then — the scream which is not caused by pain, 
 and he opened and shut his raised hand to me. I 
 knew what he wanted : the can. It was in my hand. 
 And I cursed aloud as I shook it, for I heard no 
 sound. It was empty. 
 
 But he would not believe it. He took it and put 
 it to this woman's cracked lips. Perhaps one drop 
 moistened them ; but no more than one drop. And 
 he caught her in his arms and lifted her into the 
 boat. 
 
 " Back, back to the ship ! " and his voice was 
 dreadfully unnatural, so much so that the men made 
 no motion. I caught the living man up, and stepped 
 into our boat with him. He was as light as a child. 
 I laid him down, and, taking my oar, stove out a 
 bottom board of that pestilent boat — for I didn't 
 like to leave the dead to rot under the sun — and as 
 I did so I saw a little patch of burnt paint on the 
 boat's gunnel. And then we pulled back as hard as 
 we could pull ; and there sat the captain, with his 
 wife in his arms. Under my feet was the man, and 
 he moaned a little, and his finger was ever at his 
 
The Captain's Wife, 251 
 
 mouth. He looked up once or twice, but I saw him 
 shudder at last. He died before we were half-way 
 back. 
 
 Ah ! there was no need to tell us to pull : the boat 
 tore through the water. I had been thirsty before, 
 but now, with these two before me, I was in no need 
 of water. Thirst ! what was my thirst to this ? And 
 all the time the captain moaned and muttered, and 
 laid his dry lips to the woman's dry lips, and he 
 rocked himself to and fro. Presently he looked up, 
 and I saw him speak a word. 
 
 "A knife!" 
 
 I gave him mine, and he cut his arm and laid it 
 against his wife's lips. He was ready to give her his 
 blood. But she did not drink ; she moaned a little, 
 and was still. And then the man behind me fainted. 
 I grasped his oar, and the captain laid his wife down, 
 and took mine, as he covered her face from the sun 
 with his jacket. We pulled for life — for this life under 
 the bitter burning sun that had done this thing, and 
 was like hell above us. 
 
 As we pulled the captain's hat fell off. I could 
 not speak. He did not put it on, but pulled harder 
 than ever. I felt the sinews of my wrist giving out : 
 I heard the man behind me groan. But we pulled 
 until we came within a hundred yards of our vessel, 
 
252 The Captain's Wife, 
 
 and then the captain threw up his hands, dropped 
 his oar, and fell insensible, with his head upon his 
 wife's golden hair, which was spread upon the bottom 
 of the boat. The sun had struck him down as well 
 as the woman. But it killed him quickly. 
 
 With three oars we pulled the rest of the distance. 
 But when we took Mrs. Falconer on board she was 
 dead, and Captain Falconer died raving at sundown, 
 without recovering his senses. I made the shrouds for 
 them and for the man as well ; and we buried them 
 all by moonlight in the middle watch. No one ever 
 learnt the fate of the Shm^pness ; not one of her crew 
 was ever heard of afterwards. But that little patch 
 of burnt wood on the side of the boat told the story 
 of " Fire." 
 
SAM JACKSON'S SNAKE. 
 
255 
 
 SAM JACKSON'S SNAKE. 
 
 I SHALL call our town Snyder, and if anybody hunts 
 up a place of that name anywhere in North-west 
 Texas, I don't mind, for I mean somewhere else. 
 
 I was loafing in Snyder. I may just as well be 
 honest about it as not, for I always am idle when I 
 get the chance, and I got a very good chance that 
 hot summer in Texas. I held the side-walk down for 
 about three months, on and off, and sat outside the 
 general store, where they sold pants and sugar and 
 such-like things, chewing tobacco and killing flies, 
 wondering whether it was as hot anywhere else, or 
 hotter, as my mother told me when I got into 
 trouble. 
 
 Yet I confess it was dull in that town, and if it 
 hadn't happened that I was always good at sleeping, 
 I might have hunted up something to do. I used to 
 lie with my head on a mat of sugar in the shade of 
 the verandah, and blink like an owl at the hot sun- 
 shine across the road — across the street, that is ; for 
 there were two houses on the north side of it, and 
 those, with three on the shady side, made up our 
 
256 Sam Jackson's Snake, 
 
 town. It wasn't very big, and I have seen bigger, 
 such as Fort Worth and Dallas. 
 
 Snyder wasn't very exciting, either. All that 
 three months not a single man was killed — killed out- 
 right, that is — while in a place called Salt Springs, 
 only bigger by one house, there were three done up 
 in the time. We used to think it hard on the reputa- 
 tion of our county, for there wasn't a man in it that 
 Ben Thompson would have had any real respect for. 
 And everybody knows that Ben Thompson killed 
 more men than he could count in a hurry. We had 
 only one excitement, and that was telling about our 
 adventures. Bill Hopkins (he kept the store) and I 
 soon got tired of each other, for he had a way of 
 looking as if he didn't believe what I told him ; and 
 then neither of us was much good at invention, and a 
 man can use up all that has really happened to him 
 in a week, if he hasn't anything else to do, and stays 
 sober enough to talk, so you bet we were glad when 
 old Sam Jackson used to come. 
 
 As I lay on that mat of sugar (there was a dent 
 in it that just fitted my head), I could see the road 
 that ran west, and whenever anybody came along, I 
 would go out and ask him in to take a drink. That 
 pleased Bill, and it did me good, because Bill was so 
 dull. In this way I sometimes got hold of a man that 
 
Sam Jackson's Snake. 257 
 
 could talk ; or, if he would listen, I could reel off all 
 my stale old yarns as if they had happened yesterday. 
 But Sam Jackson was the boy I liked, and when I 
 got to know him, and saw him loping in on his little 
 buckskin pony, I used to get up and shout till I 
 made a whirlwind in the street, and the inhabitants 
 couldn't see themselves for dust. For when Sam 
 came, he came to stay and to talk. 
 
 He was as brown as a greaser, as hard as a wire 
 fence, and just about twice as tall as his pony. He 
 wore a cow hat, with a four-inch brim, that was old 
 and flapped in his eyes, till he cut slits on the outer 
 edge and ran a piece of string through them. That 
 made it stiff He hardly ever wore a coat, but his 
 shirt was red when it was washed — at least, he said so 
 — and his boots were brown, as brown as his toes. 
 He had one suspender, and as there wasn't a button 
 on the front of his pants, he bunched up a piece of 
 the stuff and hung the thing with a bent nail. He 
 had a belt and a pistol, but he hardly ever shot any- 
 body. 
 
 He was a very sociable kind of chap, and we were 
 soon friendly, for I liked to hear him talk, and said 
 so. For he could tell a yarn with more ornament to 
 it, and more variegation, than any man I ever saw, 
 and he was bound to end up well, even if he didn't 
 
258 Sam Jackson's Snake. 
 
 know how he was going to He when he began. Don't 
 I remember the first time I heard him ! I hadn't 
 been in Snyder more than a week, and I was inside 
 the store chewing candy and tobacco, turn and turn 
 about, when Bill sings out — 
 
 '* Here's ole Jackson a-coming ! " 
 
 '' Who's he ? " said I, slowly, for I own to not 
 feeling right well. Candy and tobacco don^t mix. 
 
 " He's a cattleman : least, he owns four cows and a 
 steer, and that's what he calls himself But he's the 
 daisy to talk. And there's Tom Johnson with him." 
 
 I knew Tom ; he was a cowboy, the same as my- 
 self, and we worked on the round up two years 
 together. In five minutes old Jackson came in, and 
 Tom with him. I said " Howdy," and Tom he said 
 " Howdy," and he gave me his plug of climax. I 
 hacked a bit off, and then turned to hear the old man 
 talk. But first one and then another came in from 
 over the way, and it was quite a while before we were 
 all fixed with liquor and kegs to sit on, and I could 
 get the hang of what he was saying ; but when I did, 
 I heard he was on snakes. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said he, " we killed a rattler just now, 
 Tom and me ; at least, I see him, and Tom — he 
 killed him. Big } No, he warn't so big, 'bout as 
 thick 's my wrist. But I have killed big ones. There 
 
Sam Jackson's Snake. 259 
 
 ain't a man in Texas what has killed bigger. But 
 there now, I don't go much on killin' snakes. Some 
 folks say, ' Kill him ; mebbe he'll kill you.^ I say if a 
 man's got to die by a snake, die he will. If he killed 
 every snake in North America^ he'd run up agin an 
 imported one. 
 
 " I like to keep a pet snake, and I had one once. 
 Lordy, you should hev seen him ! Now, some folks 
 lies about snakes and Injuns. I've known men as 
 was commonly truthful as couldn't help but lie about 
 such. But I'm tellin' you the truth about my snake. 
 Hank Williams I called him, because he bit an old 
 pardner of mine of that name, and he died ; so I 
 named the rattler after him, just to keep his memory 
 fresh and green. 
 
 " What size was he ? Waal, now, I don't want to 
 stretch it, but he was nigh on to seven foot. But big 
 as he was, he never took no advantage of it. He'd 
 follow me just 's if he was a dog ; and when I called 
 * Hank,' you'd see him comin' just on the bulge with 
 excitement. He w^as playful too, and fond of fun, for 
 he'd lie round lookin' for somebody fresh as didn't 
 know him, and then he'd spring his rattles. I dessay 
 you chaps wouldn^t believe it if I said he'd laugh, but 
 I tell you the way he opened his mouth, till it was 
 like the end of a drain-pipe, looked as if he was 
 
26o SyiM Jackson's Snake. 
 
 laughing. I believe he did. But he never played no 
 tricks off on me ; only he used to rattle soft, just for 
 pleasure, more like a cat a-purrin' than anything 
 else, when I took notice of him. And my actin' kind 
 to him brought out his intelligence wonderful. Talk 
 of your dogs and elephants, Hank would just layover 
 a town-full of dogs for cunning. And helpful he was, 
 too. One day I mind I was wheelin' a barrer of dirt, 
 and becos my wrist was strained in a fight I'd hed, I 
 passed a piece of rope over my shoulders on to both 
 handles, and it broke. When I knotted it the dod- 
 rotted stuff broke again, and I cussed a blue streak. 
 But Hank, who was a-bowlin' along beside me, come 
 up and took a look at the barrer, and when he see the 
 rope, he kind of shook his head, and dumb up on my 
 shoulders so that both ends of him hung down. I 
 wondered what he was after, but I soon found out. 
 He jest coiled his tail round one handle, and his neck 
 round the other, and give that barrer a hist that came 
 nigh capsizin' it. 
 
 *^ Oh, but he was a daisy ! He would have yanked 
 the bun at any snake-show in the univarse. And so 
 considerate he was. Boys, now it's the truth I'm 
 telling you. So I tell you he was careful with me. 
 Some folks used to say keepin' a rattler was like 
 playin' with dynamite ; but then they didn't know 
 
Saai Jackson's Snake. 261 
 
 Hank. I did, and that made all the difference. If 
 he'd bin your common ordinary careless snake, that 
 don't think before he bites, I wouldn't hev hed him 
 round. But he warn't. He knew he was dangerous ; 
 he knew that better than folks could tell him. When 
 he come to bed with me of a night, blarm me if he 
 wouldn't take his rattles off first ! What's that you 
 say, Tom ? I say yes, he did, he took his rattles off. 
 That was so as to keep from wakin' me. And mor'n 
 that, he'd take his two big teeth out, just as careful as 
 if they was an old lady's with gold fixin's, and he'd 
 stow 'em away in a cigar-case I put handy for him. 
 But that, mind you, was only when we was in a safe 
 place. If there was any Injuns round, any of them 
 goldarned Apaches, we used to keep watch and 
 watch, turn and turn about, and he'd wake me when 
 my turn come jest as reg'lar as if he'd hed the time 
 on him. And he was better than any dog. He'd 
 smell an Apache just as far as I would an old dog 
 skunk. 
 
 ''That reminds me what happened to him once. 
 It was all the fault of a blamed ole skunk as came 
 round my tent in Tom Green county, and I tell you 
 he made my coat smell worse than if he'd lived in it 
 with his wife and family. I had a cold or suthin*, so 
 at first I didn't notice it, and I mind that Hank was 
 
262 Sam Jackson's Snake, 
 
 mighty sleepy that mornin', becos it was blowin' a 
 norther cold enough to make ice cream without 
 freezin' ; and so, just to let him have his proper rest 
 out while I rolled up my blanket, I took him up in a 
 coil, the way he was lyin', like a lariat done up neat, 
 and I put him on my coat where the doggoned ole 
 skunk had bin. And when I turned round agin he 
 was sicker'n a dog, and he looked the worst disgusted 
 snake you ever see. He was green, fairly green, in- 
 stead of his nat'ral brown, and cryin' real tears, and 
 retchin' as if he was sea-sick or had been chewin' 
 arsenic. He looked sideways on me, I tell you, and 
 it took more persuasion than most anyone would 
 waste on a dumb animal — though it warn't wasted on 
 him — to make him believe I hedn't been foolin' him. 
 I wouldn't play no sech mis'rable trick even on a 
 copperhead, let alone a snake as was named Hank. 
 
 " I hed to carry him on horseback for days after, 
 hanging on the horn of the saddle, along with my 
 lariat, and I nearly scared a tenderfoot to death with 
 him. You see, I forgot about Hank, and of course I 
 thought he was jest foolin' round waiting for me^ and 
 when I asked this galoot to bring my lariat he laid 
 hands on Hank. Back he come as white as new 
 cotton, tremblin' as if he'd seen Ole Scratch, and 
 when he got his breath he begun to cuss, threatenin' 
 
Saaj Jackson's Snake. 263 
 
 to kill the ole rattler, jest 's if it was Hank's fault. that 
 he was ill becos he could not stand the smell of a 
 skunk. I told him if he jest so much as looked 
 cross at my snake Td make him fuller of holes than 
 any prairie dog town in South-West Texas, and he 
 jest nat'rally took water. For you bet I had the 
 deadwood on him, the mean cuss, to threaten a poor 
 sick snake that had the sense to let him off with a 
 scare. Why, if Hank had been real mean — and bein* 
 sick brings the meanness out in most anything, snake, 
 or steer, or man — he would have completely filled 
 him up with pisin, for his fangs was half as long as a 
 bowie-knife, and had holes in 'em like a terbacker 
 pipe for the pisin to run in. 
 
 " But then Hank got jest like me ; I never did 
 kill a man, and I never will, unless I thought he de- 
 sarved it, or unless he was an Apache Indian. But 
 I did want to kill an innocent man, jest fer spite, 
 when he died. Yes, poor Hank died at last. You 
 see, I took him north for a spell, on business — my 
 business, that is — and when the snow flew, bein' used 
 to a warm climate (he was raised near San Antone — 
 at least, that's where I got him), the cold disagreed 
 with him. He took to lyin' in bed all day, where I'd 
 take him milk in a saucer. And I nearly got froze 
 tryin' to catch mice for him. But there, I might as 
 
264 Sam Jackson s Snake, 
 
 well .have offered him a hull rabbit, for when I 
 showed him a mouse he took no more interest in it 
 than nothin', and turned away from his nat'ral vittles 
 just like a man as is sick with chills — kind of weary. 
 And he grew thin, so as you could a'most count his 
 ribs — I forget how many he had ; nigh on to a hun- 
 dred, I think — and his cheeks fell in. He must have 
 been in a consumption or a decline. I couldn't get no 
 doctor to come nigh him twice, and somehow poor 
 old Hank didn't have no confidence in me ; I sup- 
 pose becos I was so troubled that I couldn't show as 
 if I knew every mortal thing in the univarse, as 
 doctors do. One darned doc wanted to kill him, and 
 put him in a bottle with spirits. He said he was jest 
 the very finest snake he had ever seen. I was too 
 mad to tell him that he ought to hev seen Hank in 
 his palmy days, when he was fat. That night he 
 died. 
 
 " I tell you, I remember that night well. I had 
 been sittin' by the bed, and I fell asleep ; but Hank, 
 he rattled (like a sick man ringin' a bell), and I woke 
 up sudden to find him jest goin' off But he was a 
 clever snake, and remembered I had allers been good 
 to him, and so he whipped his tail round, unhitched 
 his rattles, and put 'em on my knee, 's if they was a 
 lock of hair for me to remember him by. But then 
 
Sam Jackson's Snake, 265 
 
 snakes is mostly bald, and he give me all he had, the 
 rattles he had been so proud and careful of — eighteen 
 they was, and all sound, - And then he coiled up 
 and died. I never could keep no other snakes after 
 Hank. There may be prettier sarpents, there air 
 bigger sarpents, but a kinder, cunninger, better- 
 dispositioned snake than Hank never lived, and never 
 will live — no, not from El Paso to Seattle, nor from 
 San Diego to Galveston. Gimme another Bourbon, 
 Bill, for I'm dry, mighty dry!" 
 
 Bill handed Jackson his drink in silence, and no- 
 body said a word. Tom was looking at me, but I 
 kept my eyes on a cigar stump on the floor, for I 
 wasn't certain that Sam was speaking the truth, and 
 so I was afraid of laughing until somebody made a joke. 
 I said to myself, " Some fellows lie about snakes and 
 Injuns, but Sam Jackson doesn't." Snyder did not 
 seem quite so dull. 
 
FRANCKE AND PARTY. 
 
269 
 
 FRANXKE AND PARTY. 
 
 The fact of the matter is that Francke himself was 
 very much more lucky than many men have been 
 who went trading round the coasts of New Guinea, or 
 in the Louisiades, or the island groups to the north- 
 east of the Louisiades. For these New Guinea natives, 
 fine fellows though they are physically, are decidedly 
 on the treacherous side, and are as cunning as snakes ; 
 besides being given occasionally to cannibalism. 
 They are not ashamed of their taste for human flesh, 
 but will acknowledge it ; at least, many of them will. 
 So I say Francke, the big German, was on the Whole 
 lucky ; certainly, he was luckier than Captain Jones, 
 of the schooner Emu^ who went trading and pearl- 
 fishing in the Conflict group, and never came back. 
 
 If I tell you shortly how that happened, you will 
 begin to see what kind of people thesp natives are, 
 and how one must treat them. Yet it certainly was 
 to some extent Jones's own fault that he got speared, 
 for he was a very mean man, and took as few whites 
 with him as possible, in order to save money, trusting 
 to his being able to get what native help he wanted \n 
 
2/0 Francke and Party. 
 
 the fishing. So beyond his diver, George Thomson 
 and two more seamen, and a boy, he had no one on 
 whom to rely if any trouble arose, or if, in the midst 
 of apparent peace, the natives made any attack on him. 
 But when this did happen, it was poor George 
 Thomson who was most to be pitied, for he was down 
 below in five fathoms of water in his diver's suit ; 
 and when a man has such gear about him, he is at 
 anyone's mercy, wherever he may be. 
 
 The morning the tragedy of the E^mi schooner 
 took place everything had been going very well 
 indeed. Some of the natives came out in their canoes, 
 bringing wood and water, for which Jones paid with a 
 knife and some cotton-stuff — not too much of it^ you 
 may be sure ; but the men who took his payment 
 made no quarrel over the amount. In fact, they only 
 looked upon what they got as samples, and they were 
 quite wise enough not to rouse anyone's suspicions 
 by showing anger. So they laughed and chattered, 
 and one canoe stayed on the port side, where the two 
 seamen were tending the air-pumps for Thomson, 
 and the other drifted off, and presently came round 
 to the starboard side. The day was very bright and 
 calm ; there was hardly a breath of air blowing, and the 
 sea was like glass. If it had not been for the heavy 
 shadow of the schooner and the air bubbles coming 
 
Francke and Party, 271 
 
 up from the man down below, one might have 
 almost seen him moving about among the pearl 
 oysters. 
 
 But suddenly this calm changed. If the seamen, 
 busy pumping, had only taken good notice of all the 
 natives were doing, they might have seen two of them 
 bending over the side of their canoe farthest from the 
 schooner's side. They were unlashing their spears, 
 which they often carry in this way when they mean 
 treachery and wish to inspire confidence by making 
 folk believe they have no weapons. They were all 
 talking in their own tongue, which is called Motu, 
 a language very few white men know, and presently 
 they sheered close up alongside. 
 
 Suddenly from the canoe on the starboard came 
 two spears. Both the seamen fell, and the next 
 moment ten natives were on the deck. Jones, who 
 had gone aft, turned round and drew his revolver. 
 But he was too late ; three spears entered his body at 
 the same moment. The boy was in the hands of a 
 big native, who made him a prisoner. The others 
 turned their attention to Thomson, the diver. At the 
 very moment of their coming on board, one of the 
 men divided the pipes of the air-pump with his toma- 
 hawk, not two seconds after the two men fell who 
 had been pumping. Of course poor Thomson must 
 
272 Francke and Party, 
 
 have noticed at once the ceasing of the vibration of 
 the pump ; and as sound travels well under water, he 
 must have heard the heavy fall of the men's bodies, 
 and the shouts of the natives the moment after. He 
 threw off the weights which divers carry on their backs 
 and breasts, and rose instantly to the surface. To 
 stay down was to die of suffocation ; to come up 
 was equally death, for those who had murdered the 
 schooner's crew threw spears at him as he floated high 
 out of the water. One spear struck the brass of his 
 heavy gorget and glanced off, but the next one went 
 through and through him. He drifted away in the 
 current, which here runs at about a knot an hour^ 
 and letting him go, the natives turned to plundering 
 the schooner, which they set fire to at last. He sank 
 in a very few minutes, for the water poured into his 
 suit through the spear-holes. 
 
 Judging only from this incident, which is well 
 known in New Guinea and Queensland, one would 
 have thought that men engaged in trading about 
 these coasts would show such caution as to render the 
 likelihood of a repetition of similar disasters almost 
 impossible. Still, it seems that the self-confidence of 
 the white races is not to be shaken : that the 
 Germans and English, who at present share New 
 Guinea with the natives, are alike rash and ad- 
 
Francke and Party, 273 
 
 venturous. And Francke was a German, a fine bl^ 
 fellow, with yellow hair and the strength of a giant, 
 who came from Frankfort-on-Main. 
 
 He had made a few hundred pounds on some of 
 the Queensland diggings, and not being of the order 
 of men who only earn money to spend it again for 
 the support of sellers of drink, determined to try the 
 even newer country of New Guinea, which to many 
 Australians represents the fabulous El Dorado. It is 
 near, and yet unknown ; it is tropical, rich, fertile ; on 
 its coasts are pearls, on its lowlands cocoa-nut groves, 
 up its rivers alluvial gold, in its far blue mountains all 
 strange wild possibilities. So Francke hunted round 
 Cooktown for mates, and found two Englishmen, 
 Curtis and Gray, who both possessed a little money 
 and much courage. The cutter Cecilia was lying in 
 the river, and could be had at a fair price. So 
 Francke and his party bought her, fitted her out with 
 beads, coloured calicoes, scrap iron, knives, but chiefly 
 tobacco — for most of the natives have now learnt to 
 smoke — and sailed for New Guinea. 
 
 They brought up in Orangery Bay, on the south 
 coast, and began to get copra, or dried cocoa-nut for 
 making cocoa-nut oil, on board. The natives were 
 easy enough to deal with ; the copra came down in 
 canoe-loads. But on the third day the tragedy of the 
 r 
 
274 Francke and Party. 
 
 schooner Ermi found its parallel in the tragedy of the 
 cutter Cecilia, 
 
 The same good-nature of the natives, the same 
 trick of hidden weapons, the same sudden treacherous 
 assault. Curtis and Gray were both speared and 
 killed instantly, and as Francke rushed to their 
 assistance he was speared through the arm, and 
 struck on the back of the head with a tomahawk. 
 He stumbled, fell over the body of a native whom he 
 had shot, and rolled overboard. The cutter was in 
 the hands of the natives. But Francke was not 
 killed. 
 
 On falling into the water he sank, but rose again. 
 Even in his insensibility he must have made some 
 efforts to keep up, for presently he found himself 
 floating about fifty yards from the Cecilia. The 
 tomahawk had not struck him fairly ; it had only 
 made a bad scalp wound and glanced off. But in his 
 right forearm was a spear. Now, most of the New 
 Guinea native spears are made with a long row of 
 barbs for about two feet on each side of the head, 
 which is pointed with hardened bamboo, or in some 
 places with a kind of obsidian. Unfortunately for 
 Francke, the barbs had not gone clean through his 
 forearm ; they were half on one side and half on the 
 other. It was impossible to swim with the spear 
 
Francke and Party, 275 
 
 hanging to him. Though the agony was horrible, he 
 grasped the shaft in his left hand, thrust the rest of 
 the barbs through the wound, and with a wrench, 
 which was ghastly torture to the torn flesh, he 
 snapped the wood, and drew the weapon out. The 
 water stopped the bleeding, for the main artery of the 
 arm had not been severed. He paddled slowly 
 towards the land, which was more than a mile and a 
 half distant. 
 
 As the wretched man swam on towards the shore, 
 he wondered if it would not be best to let himself 
 drown at once. Could he reach the land } And if 
 he could, what then } Wounded, helpless, worn-out, 
 in a land of fierce enemies, of treacherous and blood- 
 thirsty wretches, who were not averse from can- 
 nibalism : what could he do } But the answer to 
 his arguments was given by his strength, wounded as 
 he was. Life was very strong in him ; he did not 
 want to die ; and arguing against the voice of Nature 
 is vain in any man who has not been robbed of half 
 himself in civilisation. 
 
 So he swam onwards towards the shore, though 
 sometimes he sank so deep in the water that the blue 
 hills of the far distance were all he could see. In his 
 struggle he wished that he had really been killed. It 
 would have been all over long before if he had not 
 r 2 
 
2j6 Francke and Party, 
 
 come to himself — he would have been at rest. Why 
 did the natives not come his way even then and see 
 him ? Another spear-thrust, and then oblivion ! 
 
 So for hours, as it seemed, the struggle went on. 
 At times he turned over and floated. Again he 
 swam landward, using his left arm and his legs — for 
 his wounded arm was useless. And at last he 
 touched the ground. He had been swimming with his 
 eyes closed, or he had gone half-blind, but suddenly 
 he felt the bottom. He came into a mangrove 
 swamp that edged the dry land. For a long time he 
 rested on a root. Then he struggled through the 
 mud, stumbling, toiling, falling, rising again, half- 
 choked with the rotting vegetable refuse, which smelt 
 so foully in the thick steaming heat of the shadowy 
 swamp. He came out upon dry land, covered and 
 caked with mud, more like a wild beast than a man. 
 He staggered, looked for some sheltered spot, saw 
 none, made a few steps onward, and fell in a heap 
 under a tree. He lay insensible where he fell. 
 
 How long his unconsciousness lasted Francke 
 never knew. It might have been only a few hours ; 
 it might have been more than a whole day. He had 
 reached the shore early in the afternoon; when he 
 woke to the bitter fact that he was still living, it was 
 getting on towards sundown. What brought him to 
 
Francke and Party, 277 
 
 then was a sharp stinging pain in the muscles of his 
 back. As he rose up into a sitting posture he saw a 
 young native boy running off into the brush as hard 
 as he could tear. The Httle demon had been trying 
 the point of his spear on a dead man, as he thought, 
 and the dead had come to life. Francke leant up 
 against the trunk of the tree under which he had 
 been lying: he thought of trying to hide himself; 
 for it was certain that some of the natives would 
 come to find him. Yet, what good was it } He was 
 too weak to go far. Very little search would be 
 needed to unearth him even in the thickest scrub 
 there. He might just as well wait for death in the 
 open ground where he was. 
 
 Presently he saw two women coming from the 
 opposite direction to that taken by the boy who had 
 wounded him last He thought it just possible the}^ 
 might be more merciful than the men ; they might 
 give him something to drink, at any rate, and drink, 
 water, water, seemed more desirable than life itself 
 He tried to speak, but could not. As he moved, 
 however, one of the women saw him, and made a 
 startled exclamation. He did not move again, and 
 they stood looking at him, evidently not knowing 
 whether to run or come towards him. He lifted up 
 his hand and pointed at his mouth. They seemed to 
 
2/8 Francke and Party, 
 
 understand the gesture, and approached him more 
 nearly. They could see he was utterly helpless, and 
 some little pity was in them. They went away, and 
 returned with water in a big leaf folded into a cup. 
 
 The elder woman came timidly to him, holding it 
 out, but Francke could not even lift his arm to take 
 it. She grew more courageous, and put it to his 
 parched and cracking lips. It was new life to him, 
 and seemed to run through all his veins, putting out 
 the fire of fever and that wild desire born of thirst 
 which is the most horrible torment that can afflict a 
 man. And then the boy who had run off came back 
 with three or fourMnen, some of whom carried spears, 
 while one had a curious weapon such as Francke had 
 never seen. It was like a very large racket-bat with- 
 out the stretched catgut. 
 
 The women joined the newcomers, and there was 
 an excited talk among them. It was evident that 
 there were two sides to the question. Some wanted 
 to spear him at once ; the women were inclined 
 to mercy. And mercy of a sort gained the day. 
 Francke soon found out what the racket-bat meant, 
 for the wielder of it approached him quickly and put 
 it over his head. The handle of this strange weapon 
 was prolonged in a sharp point some four or five 
 inches into the open oval which went round the 
 
Francke and Party. 279 
 
 German's neck, and a sharp prick with this urged 
 him on to his feet He found out afterwards that it 
 was an instrument used for taking prisoners. Once 
 over a man's head, the point could be used merely 
 as a goad, or, in cases of resistance, as a dagger. 
 
 He was taken in this way to their village, which 
 was nearly half a mile distant, and thrown into an 
 empty hut. They evidently had no fear of his 
 escaping ; his weakness and his wounds would pre- 
 vent that. They gave him plenty of their own food, 
 and though Francke had more than a suspicion 
 that this feeding was only a preliminary to some 
 future feast in which he would figure as chief dish, 
 he ate, and, growing stronger, began to hope that 
 some path might open for him to get away. 
 
 The savage who had been the leader in the attack 
 on the Cecilia was the biggest man in the tribe, and 
 a very truculent-looking fellow to boot. Sometimes 
 he came down to Francke's hut-prison and talked to 
 him in the native language, of which the German 
 understood not a word. But it was quite certain 
 that he was not being told comforting things. The 
 greatest prize taken from the Cecilia was Francke's 
 own double-barrelled gun, and this had fallen to the 
 leader. The cartridges were expended in a kind of 
 feu de joie by the gun's new owner, who went about 
 
28o Francke and Party, 
 
 firing in the air until they were all done. Francke 
 was much afraid that he would furnish a target for 
 one of them, and was not a little relieved when the 
 cessation of the reports gave evidence of the end of 
 the cartridges. 
 
 Next day he found the gun lying outside this 
 man's hut, for he was allowed to walk about the 
 village without much hindrance. Presently he ran 
 across a full cartridge which had fallen into some 
 water and swelled too much to enter the breech. 
 He picked it up, and waiting till he was unobserved, 
 took the gun into his own hut. Here he managed, 
 by tearing away some of the paper on the cartridge, 
 to load it, and he then laid it by, thinking if the worst 
 came to the worst he could at least kill one of the 
 natives before he died himself. But the next after- 
 noon the savage owner of the gun came and took 
 it away. Some of the boys must have seen it in 
 Francke's hut when he was out. A few minutes 
 afterwards there was a muffled report, and the native 
 came staggering out of his hut with his hands clasped 
 to his side. He fell down, and in a few moments was 
 dead. Francke had killed him, after all. 
 
 There was a great wailing over the death of this 
 brute, but no one thought of attributing his sudden 
 end to the prisoner. For one thing, most of the men 
 
Francke and Party, 281 
 
 were very busy trading with a Chinaman named Ah 
 Sing, who had a bcche-de-mer fishing station over at 
 Cloudy Bay, and troubled very little about the 
 captive. It was through this Chinaman that he at 
 last got away. 
 
 Ah Sing knew the natives' language, and was 
 quite friendly with them ; but when he learnt that 
 they had a white man a prisoner, he began to do his 
 best to have him set free. A Chinaman is naturally 
 very politic, and a trading Chinaman especially so. 
 Here was a chance of saving a German, and so 
 obliging the Germans ; of taking his rescued man to 
 the English at Dinner Island, and so getting credit 
 with the English ; and of gaining some power over 
 the natives by pretending he was doing it out of pure 
 good-feeling towards them. He called them together, 
 and explained that the English man-of-war schooner 
 the Harrier was hunting up this very man, and if 
 they did him any harm they would all be killed and 
 their village destroyed. It would be greatly to their 
 advantage to let him take the prisoner away. He 
 argued and explained the matter at full length, until 
 the natives were only too glad to let Francke go, 
 believing if they did what Ah Sing wanted he would 
 save them from any evil consequences of their act of 
 piracy. 
 
2S2 Francke and Party, 
 
 When Ah Sing sailed he took Francke with him, 
 and landed him at the English coaling station on 
 Dinner Island. When the German steamer Samoa 
 came from Finch Haven, bound to Cooktovvn, she 
 took him on board. He was then rapidly recovering 
 his strength, but the horrible experiences he had gone 
 through affected him at times very strangely. His 
 mild and equable temper was now altered ; he was 
 liable to violent outbursts of rage ; at times he 
 seemed out of his mind. But few men could go 
 through so much without suffering for it, both in 
 mind and body. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.G. 
 
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 923740 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY