OF THE 
 
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 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 F63-P 
 
 OAK ST. HDSF 
 
(Bi Hitrris, 
 
 Ijnrit J. Dabis. 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING 
 TIMES! 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
NEW NOVELS 
 
 BY THE MOST POPULAR AUTHORS. 
 
 At all Libraries and Booksellers . 
 
 A SON CP MARS 
 
 By Major Arthur Griffiths 
 
 BEFORE THE BRITISH RAJ 
 
 By Major Arthur Griffiths 
 
 THE GENTLEMEN FROM GOODWOOD 
 
 By E. H. Cooper 
 
 A SPORTSWOMAN’S LOVE LETTERS 
 
 By Fox Russell 
 
 A SPORTING ADVENTURER 
 
 By Fox Russell 
 
 THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A MAGISTRATE 
 By T. R. Threlfall 
 THE EXTRAORDINARY ISLANDERS 
 By Aston Forrest 
 A FRONTIER OFFICER 
 By H. C. Lipsett 
 THE GHOST 
 
 By Mrs. Campbell Praed 
 MY JAPANESE WIFE 
 By Clive Holland 
 IN ROYAL COLOURS 
 By Nat Gould 
 THE KING’S YARD 
 
 By Walter Jeffery 
 THE MAN WHO DIED 
 By G. B. Burgin 
 A ROUMANIAN VENDETTA 
 By “ Carmen Sylva 
 GOTTLIEB KRUMM 
 
 By George Darien 
 
 JONES’S BABY 
 
 By L. H. de Visme Shaw 
 BROTHER FRANCIS 
 By Darley Dale 
 THE CEASE OF THE RUBY 
 By Richard Marsh 
 THE GOLD WHIP 
 By Nat Gould 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING 
 TIMES ! 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 J. S. FLETCHER 
 
 A uthor of “ When Charles the First was King,” etc., etc. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 R. A. EVERETT & CO (Ltd.) 
 
 42, ESSEX STREET, STRAND. W.C. 
 
 1904 
 
 [All rights reserved] 
 

 
m 3 
 
 FL3f 
 
 i 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 The Author’s acknowledgments are due to 
 the Editors of Cassell's Magazine , Vanity 
 Fair , the Lady's Magazine , the London 
 Magazine , the Z)a*7y the Morning 
 
 Leader , and to Messrs. Tillotson’s 
 
 Syndicate. 
 
 May, 1904. 
 
 
 V? . 
 
NOTE. 
 
 The Yorkshire dialect which appears in 
 several of these stories is that of the 
 Wapentake of Osgoldcross, the Upper and 
 Lower Divisions of which lie between the 
 Rivers Aire and Don. 
 
 J. S. F. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES . . 
 
 MR. RUTHERFORD’S RETURN 
 
 GADDING ABOUT 
 
 NEW NEIGHBOURS 
 
 THE PEDIGREE 
 
 MR. LIGHTOWLER’S ESCAPE 
 
 THE DUODECIMO 
 
 A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL . . 
 
 CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 THE LADY SPEAKS 
 
 MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 
 
 . . II 
 
 •• 49 
 
 .. 63 
 
 • • 73 
 
 .. 85 
 . . 95 
 
 . . 104 
 •• 143 
 .. 179 
 . . 209 
 . . 227 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING 
 TIMES 
 

FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING 
 TIMES 
 
 When I set out for York that day I had 
 no more idea of engaging in as rare an 
 adventure as ever you heard tell of than I 
 had of running away with the Grand Mogul’s 
 daughter. It was the finest May morning 
 — the hedgerows in my meadows were white 
 with hawthorn blossom, and the thrushes 
 were singing in my garden as if their hearts 
 would burst, and there were bees humming 
 and buzzing under the pink and white of the 
 apple trees, and the air was sweet and warm, 
 and the whole look and smell of things made 
 you feel that there was naught to do but be 
 merry and sing “Te Deum Laudamus ” all 
 day long. As for me, Ambrose Deane, I had 
 ne’er a care in my heart. I was a year wed 
 then to as sweet a lass as you could find in 
 the Three Ridings, and we had a fine lad- 
 
12 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 child in the old cradle on the hearth, and 
 the farm was doing well, and there was 
 money put by and the prospect of adding 
 more to it, and I was five-and-twenty, and 
 lusty of health. It was with a light heart 
 indeed that I kissed my wife at the farm- 
 stead door and rode away on my mare, 
 with no more serious business than the 
 carrying of a sample of barley or two 
 to the maltsters at York. It was a sort 
 of holiday for me. I wore my plum-coloured 
 coat and laced hat (the same I was wed in), 
 and carried a spending penny in my 
 pocket ; and I meant, when I had done my 
 business, to have a cup and a crack with 
 some friend or other before I bought a ribbon 
 for the wife and a stick of sweetstuff for the 
 child, and set out homewards in the even- 
 tide. Naught more serious than this, I say, 
 was in my thoughts ; but as I have more 
 than once heard our vicar remark, there is 
 no telling what a day may bring forth. And 
 in good truth, this particular day, the 
 twenty-first of May, in the year of grace 
 1639, was t° bring forth many things of a 
 surprising nature. 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 1 3 
 
 As luck would have it, I had no sooner 
 ridden out of my orchard gate into the 
 high road which leads from Boroughbridge 
 to York — my farmstead standing a little 
 way to the southward of Aldborough town 
 — when I encountered old Miriam Hales, the 
 Wise Woman of Whixley, who was plodding 
 along the grass at the roadside with the help 
 of two stout sticks. She was as ugly an 
 old sinnner as you would find in a day’s 
 march, and had a baleful eye which I never 
 could abide a glance from, and I was by no 
 means minded to draw rein and have speech 
 with her ; but she, catching sight of me, 
 halted on her two sticks, and glared at me 
 from under her great bonnet, and I was 
 forced to pull up and speak, lest she should 
 put a curse on the crops or work some 
 charm that would turn the milk sour. I 
 was fumbling in my pouch for a groat to 
 fling to her — for the old hag, wise woman or 
 witch, was but badly off — when she suddenly 
 lifted one of her sticks and pointed it at my 
 very nose with a suddenness that well nigh 
 sent me over the mare’s shoulder. • < ~ ! 
 
 “ Turn back, turn back, Ambrose Deane!” 
 
14 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 cried she. “ There is trouble in front and 
 safety behind. Bide at home. Help the 
 maids to wind the churn, or sit in the ingle- 
 nook with the lad-bairn on thy knee, but 
 ride not to-day.” 
 
 “ God ha’ mercy, dame ! ” said I. “ What 
 is all this sudden frighting of me and thy- 
 self ? Here is a groat to buy thee a cordial 
 with. Go, sit by that same ingle-nook thy- 
 self for a while. Art heartily welcome.” 
 
 She took the groat between her skinny 
 claws and mumbled over it as if it had been 
 some morsel that she longed to mouth. She 
 looked up at me from her bleared eyes, and 
 shook the stick again. 
 
 “ Trouble, trouble, trouble ! ” she piped. 
 “ Down the road to York sits trouble, 
 awaiting Ambrose Deane. Turn back, 
 master.” 
 
 “ Good dame,” said I, “I have an ap- 
 pointment in York and must keep it. Work 
 me a spell or two to keep me safe, and I will 
 give thee another groat if I come back with 
 a whole skin.” 
 
 “ Trouble, trouble ! ” she went on piping. 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 1 5 
 
 “ Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble down 
 the road for Ambrose Deane ! ” 
 
 “ The more need of a spell, then, mis- 
 tress,” I said, and touched up the mare and 
 went onward. I had no mind to be put off 
 my journey by the vapourings of an old 
 woman, however wise she might be. So I 
 rode on, and at the bend of the road turned 
 and looked at her. She was still shaking her 
 stick and nodding her head under its great 
 bonnet, and she made a figure of ill-omen 
 in the fresh May morning. But I whistled 
 to my mare, and chanted a stave or two to 
 keep my spirits up ; nevertheless, I wished 
 that old Miriam had not crossed my path 
 with her croaking prophecy of trouble. 
 Presently, however, I put her out of my 
 mind. The day was too bright and the 
 birds sang too cheerily to allow of aught but 
 good humour, and the fresh air in my face 
 blew away all thoughts of gloom or calamity. 
 
 There was never an adventure along the 
 road until I came to where the by-lane runs 
 into it from Allerton Mauleverer, and there 
 I came up with a gentleman who was jog- 
 ging along at his ease on a very pretty piece 
 
1 6 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 of horseflesh that I could not help but 
 admire. He caught my gaze and smiled. 
 
 “You admire good horseflesh when you 
 see it, farmer,” said he, pleasantly enough, 
 and with a sort of encouragement in his 
 voice, as if he was not unminded to talk 
 a little as we journeyed. “ What think 
 you of my nag ? ” 
 
 “ There will be no better in York market 
 this day, sir,” I answered. “ He is fit for a 
 prince.” 
 
 He laughed and patted his horse’s neck, 
 as if he were glad to hear him praised. I 
 looked from the horse to the man. He was 
 apparently of middle age ; there was an 
 air about him of distinction or greatness 
 which I could not fail to recognise, but he 
 Was as soberly habited as myself, in a sad- 
 coloured riding suit and a plain hat. He 
 carried a sword at his side, out no pistols 
 at his holsters, and I set him down for 
 some gentleman of the neighbourhood that 
 had come forth to take the air. But I knew 
 most of the gentry thereabouts, and I did 
 not recognise this man as one of them, and 
 yet there was something in his face that 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 17 
 
 seemed familiar to me. He had a high 
 forehead ; his eyes were rather large and 
 expressive, but somewhat sad and thought- 
 ful ; he wore a beard and moustachios, the 
 former trimmed to a point — all these fea- 
 tures, I say, seemed familiar to me ; it was 
 as if I had seen the man’s picture somewhere 
 — yet that, I knew, was not so. 
 
 He looked me over as I looked him over, 
 and I could see that he was just as much 
 interested in me as I was in him, which 
 fact I put down to my great height and the 
 breadth of my shoulders, for I Was famous 
 in my own neighbourhood for qualities of 
 thew and sinew. And suddenly he laughed 
 merrily. 
 
 “ They do not make many like thee ! ” 
 he said, pleasantly. “ Thou art six foot 
 three if thou art an inch ! ” 
 
 “ And one inch more, sir,” said I. 
 
 “ A right man to journey along a lonely 
 road with,” he said, laughing. “ Do you 
 never carry aught but that great cudgel 
 which you swing so lightly in your hand ? ” 
 “ No, sir,” I made answer. “ I have 
 carried this 'twixt York and my farm this 
 
 B 
 
iS FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 five year. It would go ill with any man 
 whose skull got on kissing terms with it ! ” 
 
 “ I’ll warrant you/’ said he. “ Well, let’s 
 hope we meet no adventure. To tell truth, 
 I came out from York for a ride in the 
 morning air, and began to enjoy myself so 
 much amongst the hedgerows and the 
 coppices that I lost my way in by-lanes and 
 bridle-paths, and have only just found it 
 again.” 
 
 “ The highway is safe enough at six 
 o’clock o’ the morning, sir,” said I. “ ’Tis 
 but a short journey to York — a mile or two 
 will show you the top o’ the Minster.” 
 
 At that moment there came the sound of 
 galloping behind us, and I turned to see a 
 man riding along the grassy stretch at the 
 other side of the road at a pace which be- 
 tokened his desire to get to some point as 
 quickly as possible. He favoured us with 
 a glance as he sped by, and shouted a 
 salutation ; the next moment he had turned 
 the corner and was out of sight. Happen- 
 ing to glance at my companion, I saw that 
 he was gazing after the rider with an anxious 
 look. 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES ig 
 
 ” I saw that man as I rode out of York,” 
 said he, “ and again an hour agone near a 
 village to the left of us. Have you any 
 bands of highwaymen hereabouts ? I see 
 we are approaching a deep wood in which 
 they might be concealed.” 
 
 “ Nay,” said I.“ I never heard of bands, 
 though ’tis true that travellers have some- 
 times been stopped and relieved of their 
 goods. This wood, through which we must 
 pass,” I went on, “ has witnessed one or 
 two bouts of that sort in bygone days.” 
 
 He made no answer to this, but rode on 
 in silence, looking from right to left as we 
 entered the wood, which to tell truth, is 
 somewhat fearsome of aspect, being very 
 thick in trees and undergrowth ; and, by 
 all appearance, a likely place wherein to 
 meet robbers, cut-throats, and that sort of 
 gentry. As for me, I had no more fear of 
 it than of my own six-acre next to the 
 house at home ; but I could see that my 
 companion did not like its looks, and he 
 peered and peeped about him in a way that 
 showed his dislike of such places. 
 
 “ A likely place for an ambush ! ” he 
 
20 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 said, speaking, I think, to himself more than 
 to me. However, there was no sign of any 
 living thing beyond the birds, which were 
 filling the wood with music, and we jogged 
 forward very pleasantly, the shade of the 
 trees being grateful and refreshing after the 
 hot morning sun, until we came to the centre 
 of the wood, where a broad turf path crosses 
 the high road ; and here we lit upon the 
 trouble which Miriam Hales had foretold 
 for me. 
 
 The thing was all done in a minute. I 
 heard a sudden exclamation from my com- 
 panion, and a cracking and snapping of 
 twigs and branches ; the next moment I 
 was aware of a number of horsemen burst- 
 ing out of the wood upon us from each side. 
 Ere we could clap spurs to our horses or 
 take thought for our escape, we were sur- 
 rounded by a ring of men, compassing us 
 about with a living wall ; and I knew, as I 
 gazed at them, that this was no ordinary 
 affair, for every man of the twenty-odd who 
 confronted us wore a mask. 
 
 “ A trap ! ” said the man at my side. He 
 inclined towards me swiftly. “ If you can 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 21 
 
 get away now or later,” he said, “ ride for 
 your life to the Lord President at York, and 
 tell him his guest is taken.” 
 
 He rattled this sharply out of his mouth 
 as he bent to me ; the next instant he sat 
 up very straight in his saddle, and looked 
 sternly round the ring of masked faces. 
 
 “ Well, gentlemen,” he said, question- 
 ingly, “ what do you wish ? It is plain 
 that our progress is barred. The natural 
 conclusion is that you have business with 
 us” 
 
 Now, the men being closely masked, I 
 could not detect anything of them or their 
 business from their faces ; but it is certain 
 that the one who singled himself out from 
 the rest to act as spokesman spoke with a 
 certain reverence and politeness in his tones 
 which is not usually heard when a robber — 
 or a cut-throat — addresses one. 
 
 “ Sir,” he said — it was the somewhat 
 quavering voice of an elderly man, and the 
 speaker lifted his hat and showed a grey 
 head as he bowed nearly to his saddle-bow 
 — “ Sir, be it our excuse that desperate ills 
 need desperate remedies. Since they who 
 
22 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 have the best interests of the kingdom at 
 heart may not have ear of you, it must be 
 forgiven them that they take a somewhat 
 rude way of securing an audience.” 
 
 “ Methinks there is much forgiveness 
 needed/’ answered my companion, “ when 
 one is stopped on one’s own road by a 
 company of gentlemen — for I can recognise 
 your quality, in spite of your masks — who 
 dare not show their faces. Well, your 
 audience is secured, though not by my 
 consent. What do 3/ou ask ? ” 
 
 “ Sir,” said the previous speaker, “ that 
 you would graciously please to accompany 
 us to the house of one of our number, there 
 to hold council with us.” 
 
 I stared from him to my companion. I 
 was in a tangle of wonder and amazement, 
 and all of a sudden I realised that the man 
 with whom I had jogged along so pleasantly 
 was none other than his Sacred Majesty 
 King Charles the First ! I knew, now, what 
 had made me think his face familiar. I 
 had seen its portraiture on many a broad 
 piece of silver ; and now, knowing him for 
 the Fling, I stared at him, and at one word 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 23 
 
 from his lips had lifted my oak staff in his 
 defence. 
 
 “ Am I to understand that as a request 
 or a command ? ” said the King. “ Your 
 words, sir, are smoothly spoken, but me- 
 thinks your general appearance betokens 
 something very like a threat.” 
 
 The spokesman, who had remained bare- 
 headed all this time, shook his head. 
 
 “ Alack, sir ! ” he said. “As I said 
 before, when the disease is desperate the 
 remedy must needs be desperate too. We 
 desire speech of your Majesty, and since we 
 
 cannot get it by fair means ” 
 
 “ You must needs try foul. Very well ; 
 I entrust myself to your mercies, since I 
 can do no other,” answered the King. “ I 
 will believe that you have that respect for 
 me which will ensure my safety.” He 
 turned to me and gave me a look full of 
 significance, at which I uncovered, bowing 
 before him. “ It seems, Master Farmer,” 
 he said, “ that our pleasant companionship 
 is at an end — these gentlemen have business 
 with me ; so good morning to you, and a 
 fair ride to York.” 
 
24 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 I was about to edge my way through 
 the ring of masked men, but one of them 
 seized my bridle. 
 
 “ Softly,” said he, in a deep voice. 
 “ Thou goest not to any York ; we shall 
 have Strafford and his men upon us in a 
 twinkling an’ thou dost.” 
 
 “ Aye, aye ! ” cried others. “ Keep a 
 hand on his bridle.” 
 
 I swung up my oaken cudgel, and another 
 moment and it had fallen on the head of 
 the man who held me, but the King raised 
 his head, and I waited. He glanced round 
 the ring of masks. 
 
 “ This is a peaceful man going about his 
 business to York,” he said. “ Why should 
 he be mixed up in this broil ? ” 
 
 “ He knows ’tis the King ! ” cried one of 
 the men. “ He will spread the news abroad 
 in York.” 
 
 The old spokesman edged his horse nearer. 
 
 “ I fear the man must go with us also,” 
 said he. “ Nevertheless, on my honour as 
 the liege subject which God knows me to 
 be, no harm shall come to him, and he shall 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 25 
 
 but be detained until our business with 
 your Majesty is sped.” 
 
 “ Nay, then,” said the King, “ there is 
 no more to be said. Let us set out for this 
 house you talk of.” 
 
 And he motioned me to drop my staff. 
 
 “ I thank you, master,” said he. “ Let 
 us be peaceable.” 
 
 So now here was the rare spectacle of the 
 King of England and of Farmer Deane 
 riding captive together amidst a company 
 of masked men. Faith ! old Miriam Hale’s 
 prophecy of trouble was coming true some- 
 what sooner than I had bargained for. But 
 there was presently to be a still rarer spec- 
 tacle. Once within the wood, into which 
 they hurried us from the high road, the old 
 greybeard, who seemed to be in command 
 of this traitorous company, bade halt, and, 
 in tones which would have wrung tears from 
 a stone, informed the King that for grave 
 reasons we must submit to be blindfolded ; 
 and therewith two of the troop produced 
 great kerchiefs and approached us. I saw 
 the King’s face flush, and his lips seemed 
 about to frame some angry word ; but he 
 
26 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 presently smiled in a grim vet patient 
 fashion. 
 
 “ You had best tie our hands behind our 
 backs, and our feet beneath our horses’ 
 bellies,” he said. “ Come, farmer, we must 
 forego the sight of the sun, it seems.” 
 
 Now I knew that they were blindfolding 
 us so that we might not know whither we 
 were being led, and this impression was 
 deepened when, after tying the kerchief 
 about our eyes, I became aware that our 
 horses’ heads were turned round more than 
 once, and that within a few minutes. I 
 could not have said with certainty whether 
 we were going east or west, north or south. 
 We were in the wood, I knew ; and I knew 
 also that the wood was but part of the great 
 Forest of Galtres, covering leagues and 
 leagues of land northward of York. It was 
 evident that the King was being conducted 
 to some stronghold within the forest, but 
 in which direction I could not guess. 
 
 In this fashion we travelled for several 
 hours. We crossed a river, which I took 
 to be the Ouse, and there, and for a little 
 space on either side of it, I felt the sun hot 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 27 
 
 and fierce upon my back, and I gathered 
 from that that we were being taken east- 
 ward into the thickest part of the forest, 
 wherein we were presently swallowed up 
 again. After a time, the King, who had 
 ridden forward in silence, remarked that he 
 was hungry and thirsty. The old leader 
 had evidently come prepared for all necessi- 
 ties, and I presently found bread and meat 
 of fine quality thrust into my hand, and 
 later a goblet of mighty good wine, such as 
 I had never tasted before. Then we set 
 forth once more — for they had called a halt 
 during this refection — and after some 
 further riding through deep woods, the pres- 
 ence of which I could detect by the coolness 
 of the atmosphere, we emerged into the 
 sunlight again, and moved forward at a 
 quicker pace. And wherever it was that 
 we were going, there was one thing that a 
 man could not fail to notice — we passed 
 over no roads ; the going was soft and 
 springy all the way. 
 
 As near as I could reckon from the feeling 
 of the sun on my back, it was drawing 
 tov/ards noon when the feet of the foremost 
 
28 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 horses began to rattle on the stones of a 
 paved courtyard. It was very hot in that 
 courtyard ; therefore I judged it to be of 
 limited dimensions, and open chiefly to the 
 south-east, wherefrom the sunlight had 
 poured upon its stones all the morning. 
 But from the sunlight they presently led 
 us into a very cool place, which I took to be 
 a great stone hall. There ensued some 
 debate, the exact words of which I could 
 not catch, since the speakers stood at some 
 distance from me ; but presently I heard 
 the King’s voice, raised loudly, addressing 
 me as if he stood at one end of the hall and 
 I at the other. 
 
 “ Master Farmer ! ” cried he. “ I have 
 our host’s word that you shall be well 
 treated during the stay we make here. I 
 am sorry that a chance meeting with me 
 should have caused this putting off of your 
 business, but I trust you’ll see York ere 
 many hours are past.” 
 
 It seemed to me that there was some 
 significance in the tone in which he spoke 
 the last few words ; but I had no time to 
 think of it then, for a hand grasped me by 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 29 
 
 the elbow, and a rough voice said, “ Come 
 with me,” and I felt myself led away along 
 what the feel of my feet led me to suppose 
 was a long, brick-paved passage, as cold as 
 if it were underground. I shuffled and 
 stumbled along this for some distance, still 
 grasped by the hand of my unseen guide, 
 until he pushed me gently to the left, and I 
 felt boards beneath my feet, and thin, some- 
 what soft material, which I took to be a 
 carpet. The man’s hand left my arm, a 
 second later I heard a door closed and 
 bolted behind me, and with that I pulled 
 the kerchief from my eyes. 
 
 I found myself in a small room, panelled 
 with stout oak from top to bottom, wherein 
 there was a table, a chair or two, a carpet 
 of fine appearance for the feet, and two 
 small windows, pierced at such a height in 
 the wall that I could not have come at them 
 had I climbed upon the table or set a chair 
 upon that. For a prison the place was 
 comfortable enough, but I had a notion 
 that the King wanted me to break out of it 
 and ride to York with tidings of his seizure, 
 and I began to seek for ways and means. 
 
30 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 And looking about me, I suddenly made a 
 shrewd guess that we — the King and I, if 
 one may so put it — were held by the heels 
 in the old castle of Sheriff Hutton, which 
 stands on the eastern side of the Forest of 
 Galtres ; for there, over the great stone 
 chimney-piece of my prison, were four 
 shields, the like of which I had seen many 
 a time over the pointed arch of the great 
 doorway of Sheriff Hutton, and knew to 
 be those of the great folk who had lived 
 there in times past — to wit, the Bulmers, the 
 Nevilles, the Dukes of Norfolk, and the 
 Duke of Richmond. And when I thought 
 matters over — the ride through the forest, 
 the crossing of the Ouse, the fact that the 
 sun was on our backs when we entered the 
 courtyard— I knew that my surmise was 
 right. We had ridden almost due east from 
 the place of our capture, near Whixley 
 village, and any of you that possess a chart 
 of the land thereabouts can see for himself 
 how our march had been through a wild and 
 lonely country to this half-ruinous old 
 stronghold. 
 
 It was something to know where I was ; 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 31 
 
 the next thing to do was to discover some 
 means of getting out. I had not let my wits 
 go to sleep, I promise you, during our ride 
 across the forest, and I had formed a pretty 
 clear opinion as to what all this evil signified. 
 The King was at that time in residence at 
 York, and was lodged at the old Manor 
 House, where the great and terrible Earl of 
 Strafford, Lord President of the Council of 
 the North, had his quarters, and ’twas plain 
 that these men who now had his Sacred 
 Majesty in keeping were some of the dis- 
 affected malcontents of the North country, 
 who were for ever crying out against 
 Strafford, and the Council, and the Star 
 Chamber, and the ship-money, and the 
 Lord knows what else. They had watched 
 their opportunity and laid hands upon the 
 King’s person, and the King wanted Straf- 
 ford to know on’t, and I was the only man 
 that could carry the news ; so I must out 
 of my prison, one way or another, and then 
 hot-foot to York. 
 
 Presently the bolt shot back, the door 
 opened, and in came a great fellow (though 
 naught like as big as myself) carrying a 
 
32 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 pasty on a platter, a manchet of bread on 
 top of the pasty, and a measure of wine. 
 He wore a mask that covered all but 
 mouth and chin ; for the rest of him he 
 was a well favoured, chestnut-haired fellow, 
 with sword and pistols, and well habited. 
 He set his provender on the table, and 
 turned to me. 
 
 “ Art not to starve in thy captivity,” he 
 said pleasantly. “ Pull up thy chair and 
 fall to with what appetite thou hast.” 
 
 “ There is naught ails my appetite,” said 
 I, and did as I was bid. “ But I could eat 
 and drink better with a table companion. 
 Will you not join me, master ? ” I said, 
 mighty polite. 
 
 “ Why,” said he,“ I know no reason why 
 I should not. I have naught to do but keep 
 an eye on thee while our lords and masters 
 cackle like so many hens.” 
 
 “ Let them prate while we enjoy our- 
 selves, then,” said I ; and I drew my knife 
 and carved myself a great hunch out of the 
 pasty. 
 
 He sat down t’other side of the table, and 
 we ate and drank like boon companions, 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 33 
 
 taking turn and turn about at the wine. I 
 noticed that he smacked his lips every time 
 he drank, and presently, “ It’s not every 
 day one tastes tipple like this ! ” cried he. 
 “ Ale and swipes go down my throttle 
 oftener than good Burgundy.” And, thereat 
 a notion came into my head, and I sipped 
 at the wine while making believe to drink 
 heartily of it. Ere long he had drained the 
 last drop, and held the measure bottom 
 downwards, empty. “ Ugh ! ” said he, 
 “ ’tis finished ! ” 
 
 “Is there no more where that came 
 from ? ” said I. 
 
 “ Ah-hah ! ” said he. “ I warrant thee 
 there is, and I’ll have a rare try to get 
 another measure. After all, I had strict 
 orders that thou wert to be royally treated 
 — to want for naught.” 
 
 “ Then,” said I, “ I command an even 
 bigger measure than the last.” 
 
 He went off, bolting me in, and came 
 back after a time with the measure brim- 
 ming, and with a couple of flasks that 
 seemed capable of holding a quart each, 
 c 
 
34 FOR those were stirring times 
 
 He chanted some Bacchanal stave as he set 
 his quarry on the table. 
 
 “ Thou art a bigger man than I am by 
 four inch and three stone,” said he, “ but 
 I challenge thee to drink. Know me for 
 the bravest toper of good liquor that ever 
 lifted can or pannikin.” 
 
 “ I could drink thee under the table,” 
 said I, with a great show of contempt. 
 “ But what is a measure like yon, and two 
 trifling flasks, to a couple of stout fellows 
 like us ? ” 
 
 “ Why,” said he, “ this is but a send-off 
 Hark thee, I have the run of the cellar ! ” 
 
 “ Then,” I said, “ fetch another measure 
 like this, and we’ll start fair, and I’ll show 
 thee a trick worth knowing.” 
 
 He was naught loth to do this, and came 
 back in a trice with another brimming 
 measure in size corresponding to that he 
 had already brought. While he was away 
 I had resolved on my plan of action. 
 
 “Now then,” said I, when he had closed 
 the door, “ we start fair. Sit thee down 
 over against me on t’other side the table, 
 thy measure afore thee. So — now I sit 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 35 
 
 down too, facing thee, with my measure 
 afore me. I call thee a toast, we drink it 
 Then thou callest me a toast, we drink that. 
 Then I call thee another toast, and we 
 drink that, and so on. As fast as we call, 
 we drink — dost catch the trick on’t ? ” 
 
 “ ’Tis a plaguey good jest ! ” said he. 
 “ Let us start.” 
 
 “ The King ! ” said I. 
 
 We drank. 
 
 “ The women ! ” said he. 
 
 We drank again. 
 
 “ Myself ! ” said I. 
 
 But as he lifted the measure to his lips, 
 I dashed the contents of mine into his face, 
 upsetting him backwards on the floor, and 
 ere he could recover himself I was through 
 the door and had drawn the great iron bolt 
 outside. I stood for a second or two, 
 listening to his curses and ravings, and I 
 found, to my great joy, that the door was 
 of sufficient thickness and fitted closely 
 enough to dull any outcry which he might 
 make. 
 
 I was in a long passage, paved with red 
 tiles, set so unevenly in the floor that there 
 
36 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 was little wonder I had stumbled along 
 them in my blindfolded condition. I sped 
 over them now swiftly enough, making for 
 a doorway at the further end, by which I 
 gained access to a stairway that led into 
 one of the four corner towers of the castle. 
 At the top of the stairs I found myself in an 
 apartment that was not only empty, but 
 half full of rubbish from the walls ; and I 
 saw that nothing would be easier than to 
 escape from it, for the embrasure of the 
 window had been so enlarged by decay that 
 there was room and to spare for a man’s 
 body to squeeze through. 
 
 I got into the embrasure and looked out. 
 There was a drop of some twenty feet to 
 the foot of the tower, and, as ill luck would 
 have it, that drop must be taken into the 
 moat, which was full of water, covered over 
 with thick green slime and weed. How- 
 ever, there was naught for it but this, so I 
 presently forced myself through the broken 
 wall, backwards way, clung for a moment 
 to the ledge of the embrasure, and then let 
 myself drop. Down I went into the moat ; 
 but, to my great joy, it was not so deeply 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 37 
 
 filled with water as I had feared, and I only 
 sank to my knees. Nevertheless, the slime 
 splashed heavily all over my clothes, and I 
 promise you I looked a pretty sight when I 
 scrambled out on the other side. 
 
 The next thing was to get hold of my 
 mare, or, if she were not handy, then of some 
 other likely bit of horseflesh. Now I was 
 fairly well acquainted with Sheriff Hutton, 
 and I began to skirt the garden in order to 
 get round to the courtyard ; and, creeping 
 from bush to bush, I presently came to a 
 point wherefrom I could look through the 
 windows of the great hall. And in that I 
 saw a sight such as few other men have ever 
 seen the like of. 
 
 The King, wearing his hat, sat in a chair 
 of state, and round him, in an irregular 
 semicircle, sat the men who had brought 
 us to this place. Every man was still 
 masked ; I could see masked men standing 
 at the doors within. There was an air of 
 mystery and secrecy about everything that 
 was enough to make a simple man wonder. 
 
 I could not hear a word, albeit that some 
 of the windows were open ; but that they 
 
38 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 were engaged in active and serious discus- 
 sion there was little doubt, for I saw their 
 hands move and their heads wag, and I 
 watched the King turn from one to the 
 other of the masks as they addressed him, 
 and once or twice he shook his head as if he 
 refused some request. 
 
 However, I spent little time trifling there. 
 What I wanted was a horse, and, if she 
 could any way be come at, my own mare, 
 for I knew that I could depend on her swift- 
 ness, and ’tis not every beast that will carry 
 sixteen stone for you. So I edged my way 
 gradually and carefully to the courtyard, 
 thinking that they might have tethered our 
 beasts there ; but when I came there, 
 neither ear nor hoof did I see of my mare, 
 but underneath a great elm tree in one 
 corner, tethered to a ring that had been 
 driven into the bark, stood his Majesty’s 
 horse, munching a bundle of hay as uncon- 
 cernedly as though its master were in safety 
 rather than held in duress by malcontents ; 
 and at the foot of the tree sat a fellow that 
 had been told off to guard it, and his hands 
 were spread over his paunch, and he was 
 fast asleep. 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 39 
 
 “ Well,” said I to myself, “ this is no 
 time for nice distinction, and I must need 
 use the King’s horse in the King’s service,’' 
 and I crept gently but swiftly across the 
 courtyard. I had got the beast untethered, 
 and was so-soing to him under my breath 
 when the fellow in the mask woke and gave 
 a great cry and made at me. I fetched him 
 a clout under his left lug that sent him 
 spinning like a top, and knocked the mask 
 off his face, and the next instant I was into 
 the royal saddle and making for the gate- 
 way. But the man’s outcry had startled 
 others, and as I clattered through the court- 
 yard, men came tumbling out of hall and 
 stable, and there was shouting for horses 
 and then for guns, and in another moment 
 a bullet or two came whizzing past my 
 shoulder, and I bent lower over the horse’s 
 neck, and touched him up with my spurs, 
 and away we went like the wind. 
 
 Now I knew the lie of the land there- 
 abouts as well as I knew my own orchard, 
 and I headed for York by the nearest road, 
 taking a short cut across meadows and 
 closes and by-lanes. Never, I trow, had 
 
40 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 the horse under me carried such a load, but 
 he was one of stout heart and seemed to 
 know the urgency of his business. He kept 
 up a steady gallop, and took hedges and 
 ditches in his stride, and in less time than 
 you could think there were miles between 
 us and Sheriff Hutton ; but, rounding the 
 corner from Strensall Common into Tow- 
 thorpe village, I dashed right amidst a great 
 troop of men who were pricking it well nigh 
 as fast as myself in the opposite direction ; 
 and as I closed with them I saw that they 
 wore the terrible Earl of Strafford’s badge 
 in their caps. And then suddenly rose a 
 great cry from amongst them and every 
 man reined in his beast. 
 
 “ The King’s horse ! ” shouted one. “ He 
 rides the King’s horse ! ” 
 
 I had reined in too, and they came 
 crowding about me with questionings and 
 menaces, and some of them looked so 
 threatening that I lifted my staff. 
 
 “ Steady, my masters ! ” cried I. “ ’Tis 
 the King’s horse, for sure, and a rare good 
 beast at that, and carries a man with an 
 urgent message to the Earl of Strafford at 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 41 
 
 York ; so if you be Strafford’s men, let me 
 through.” 
 
 “ There is no need,” said one. “ Here is 
 the Earl himself. What is your message ? ” 
 “ That,” answered I, “ I will tell to none 
 but the Earl. Which is he ? ” 
 
 He came riding at the tail end of his 
 retinue, and I craved a word with him and 
 whispered in his ear that which you know of. 
 He listened silently, and nodded his head 
 two or three times, as if he understood 
 things which I did not. 
 
 “You have done well,” said he. “ Ride 
 at my side at the head of my men, and 
 show me the shortest way to this place.” 
 
 “ That, please your lordship,” said I, “ is 
 over hedges and ditches ; but I will have 
 you there in little time,” and I cantered 
 forward with him to the head of his troop, 
 and set them all a brisk pace. And after 
 another word or two the Lord President 
 asked no more questions, but I could see 
 that he was sore perplexed and in a deep 
 study, and he rode with his head on his 
 breast. As for me, I was wondering what 
 would happen when we reached the castle, 
 
42 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 and I took a firm grip of my oak staff in 
 anticipation thereof. 
 
 But we were to see no Sheriff Hutton that 
 May afternoon, for as we clattered over the 
 little bridge that spans the Foss near Tofts, 
 a sudden exclamation from the Earl made 
 me lift my head ; and there, coming to- 
 wards us under the trees on the roadside, 
 unattended and apparently at his ease, was 
 his Majesty the King — and he was riding 
 my mare. 
 
 The Earl turned in his saddle and halted 
 his troop. “ Bide here,” said he, cour- 
 teously enough, to me, and he rode forward 
 and met the King. As for me, seeing that 
 his Majesty was safe, I dismounted from his 
 horse, and made what shift I could to groom 
 it ; and then, holding it by the bridle, I 
 waited the King’s pleasure. He, too had 
 dismounted, as also had the Earl, and these 
 two great and mighty men stood a few yards 
 from me, talking earnestly, but what they 
 said I heard not. 
 
 At last the King turned towards me and 
 lilted his hand. I led the horse to him. 
 He smiled as he looked at us. 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 43 
 
 “ I hope you found my horse tractable, 
 farmer,” said he, “ even as I found your 
 mare.” 
 
 “ Sir,” said I. “I humbly crave your 
 Majesty’s pardon, but it was a case of this 
 or naught ; and, as I said this morning, he 
 is a horse fit for a prince.” 
 
 “ And the better for being ridden by an 
 honest man,” said he, still smiling. “ Well, 
 here is your mare, safe and sound. As for 
 our little adventure ” — here he gave me a 
 significant glance — “ it is safely over, and 
 there is no harm done. My friends of the 
 masks have had audience of me and gone 
 home — satisfied. And so we will say no more 
 of it — that is, we will not talk of it at market, 
 or in the alehouse corner.” 
 
 “ Since your Majesty so directs,” said I, 
 looking as significant as he did. 
 
 “ We will not even tell our wives,” he 
 said. 
 
 “ Of a truth, no, your Majesty,” said I. 
 
 He looked at the Earl and laughed, and I 
 laughed too. The King turned to me again. 
 “ Then at present,” he said, “ there is 
 naught but to say farewell, Master Deane.” 
 
44 FOR those were stirring times 
 
 and he held out his hand to me ; and since 
 I did not know what to do with it, having 
 no learning in the tricks and manners of 
 courts, I shook it right heartily, staring him 
 in the face as I did so. 
 
 “ Farewell, sir,” said I. “ God save your 
 Sacred Majesty.” 
 
 He bowed his head and lifted his hat ; 
 then he mounted his horse, and in another 
 minute he was riding away with the Earl, 
 and I stood bareheaded in the road watching 
 them. And then I suddenly remembered 
 that it Was now too late to meet the malt- 
 sters in York, and that I had most likely 
 lost the chance of selling my barley. How- 
 beit, it was no use crying over spilt milk, so 
 I jogged homewards across country, mightily 
 tickled with my adventure. 
 
 It might have been three days after that 
 that there came to my farmstead one 
 morning a groom, mounted on a galloway, 
 that led the horse on which I had made my 
 escape from the old castle at Sheriff Hutton. 
 He put a piece of paper into my hand when 
 I had told him my name, and I opened it 
 and read these words : — 
 
FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 45 
 
 “ This is the horse that you bought in 
 York Market t’other day. Treat him well 
 for the sake of his late master.” 
 
 That was how I became possessed of as 
 fine a piece of horseflesh as ever man be- 
 strode. And from the moment that he was 
 mine I ceased to believe in Miriam Hales, 
 and took good care to waste no more silver 
 in buying charms from her. She had pro- 
 phesied trouble, and lo ! I had got me a 
 horse that had carried the King ! 
 

MR. RUTHERFORD’S RETURN. 
 
MR. RUTHERFORD’S RETURN. 
 
 J ames Rutherford had come back — come 
 home — to Slowford, and the countryside 
 rang with the news. Had there been a 
 great war in progress its most exciting 
 events would have paled into insignificance 
 before the fact that James’s foot was once 
 more upon his native heath. There was 
 more excitement and more commotion when 
 it was known that J ames had arrived than 
 if the village crier had gone round to herald 
 the approach of a circus or a menagerie. 
 No one had ever expected to see James 
 again, unless in hopeless poverty and 
 fluttering rags, but here he was, and it was 
 obvious that poverty and James were not 
 even acquainted. It was a marvellous 
 fact, but still a fact, and Slowford wondered 
 at it and talked of it, and rolled it over on 
 its intellectual palate like a dainty morsel. 
 
 D 
 
50 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 Ten years previously James Rutherford, 
 at that time a young man of three and 
 twenty, had departed from Slowford, leaving 
 behind him the best of bad characters. 
 From his extreme youth upwards he had 
 always been in hot water ; he had terrorised 
 the schoolmaster and frightened the parson ; 
 there was not an orchard that he had not 
 robbed nor a game preserve that he had 
 not made inroads upon. He would never 
 work ; he would make love to every girl — 
 and there were many — willing to listen 
 to his soft speech, and he was as ready 
 for a fight as for a drink. Sometimes he 
 was lucky at the race meetings and would 
 bring home gold in his pockets — that was 
 the sure prelude to a carousal at the Red 
 Fig, in which all and sundry were invited 
 to share. He was a wild, bad lot, said 
 everybody, except some of the women, 
 whom he had deluded with his handsome 
 face and wicked eyes, and he would end 
 his days in the workhouse or on the gallows. 
 James, however, appeared to be quite 
 indifferent to public opinion, and when 
 he finally cleared out it was with no regret 
 
MR. RUTHERFORD S RETURN 
 
 51 
 
 on his part and with a good deal of relief 
 on his neighbours’. And nobody ever ex- 
 pected to see him again. 
 
 And here he was — home once more — 
 after ten years’ absence. He went off, a 
 rather down-at-heel, mocking, dare devil 
 lad ; he returned a very carefully attired, 
 prosperous looking, well fed gentleman, 
 with sober manners and an air of distinction. 
 
 The truth soon leaked out. James Ruther- 
 ford had drifted to South Africa, had struck 
 oil in the shape of diamonds, had seized his 
 chance with the tenacity of genius, and was 
 now a millionaire. A millionaire in ten 
 years ! There was no doubt about it — the 
 parson and the doctor had seen his name in 
 the papers. And his arrival at his native 
 place was marked by events which only 
 happen when millionaires are on the scene. 
 
 Mr. Rutherford — plain James no longer — 
 went round the neighbourhood and paid off 
 numerous debts which he had contracted 
 during his youthful days — paid them with 
 handsome interest. He further discharged 
 some obligations incurred long years before 
 by his father, who, like the pre-reformed 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
52 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 James, had not been very particular about 
 money matters. He gained golden opinions 
 everywhere — the parson almost wept in 
 speaking of him, and the schoolmaster 
 rejoiced that he had had the privilege of 
 teaching him arithmetic. J ames did things 
 in great style — it was evident that there was 
 nothing mean about him. And the apoth- 
 eosis of his glory was arrived at when he 
 invited all the principal folk of the village — 
 parson, schoolmaster, farmers, tradesmen 
 — to dine with him in the big room of the 
 Red Pig, while all the rest of the folk, even 
 down to the babies, were regaled to supper 
 in the coach house outside. 
 
 There was much talk of Mr. Rutherford 
 and his glories in the village that day, and 
 the honoured guests who arrived at the 
 Red Pig a little time before the banquet was 
 ready shared in it to the full — what other 
 subject could they talk of but that ? 
 Everything was done in great style — 
 gentlemen were invited to take appetisers, 
 sherry and bitters, gin and bitters, and 
 what not, until dinner was ready, and all at 
 Mr. Rutherford’s expense. And everybody 
 
mr, rutherford’s return 
 
 53 
 
 did, seeing that it cost nothing, and 
 tongues wagged freely. 
 
 “ It must be costing him a deal of money 
 all this here feasting and merry making,” 
 said one guest. 
 
 “ It’ll be nothing to him,” remarked 
 another. “No more to him than the price 
 of a pint of ale to you and me.” 
 
 “ They do say,” said a third, “ that he 
 carries thousands of pounds about him 
 wherever he goes.” 
 
 “ And that’s true,” said another guest, 
 sinking his voice to a whisper. “ The 
 landlord yonder told me yesterday that he 
 had to go up to Mr. Rutherford’s bed-room 
 one day when he was out, and there on the 
 dressing table he found a packet of Bank of 
 England notes — just lying about, like. Eleven 
 thousand pound there were ! The landlord 
 locked ’em up, and gave ’em to him when 
 he come in, and said he didn’t ought to 
 leave money lying about. ‘ I’m among 
 honest folk,’ says J ames, and didn’t seem to 
 care. And the gold as he carries, it ’ud 
 buy a farm.” 
 
 “ Well, it’s fair amazing,” said another, 
 
54 FOR those were stirring times 
 
 “ I wish I had his money, or half of it. But 
 here he comes — sh ! ” 
 
 Mr. Rutherford, faultlessly attired in 
 evening dress, and wearing a single magni- 
 ficent diamond in his shirt front, did the 
 honours of the evening with great ease, 
 cordiality, and evident pleasure. Never 
 had such a repast been served in the 
 history of the village. There were dishes 
 which the simple Slowford people had 
 never heard of, and wines which they 
 would never taste again. There were deli- 
 cacies hard to procure, and liqueurs and 
 coffee that made most of them wonder if 
 they were dreaming. There were speeches 
 by Mr. Rutherford, who spoke very modestly 
 and feelingly, and by the vicar, who voiced 
 the pride of the village in this, its distin- 
 guished son, and by the oldest man present 
 who said that he’d seen a many amazing 
 things in his day, but this was the amaz- 
 ingest of all. Then came a visit to the 
 coach house, where there were more 
 speeches, and some songs and singing of 
 “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” from the 
 assembled company, and then James and 
 
MR. RUTHERFORD’S RETURN 55 
 
 his guests returned to the great room where 
 cigars of the best brands and spirits and 
 similar creature comforts were laid out, 
 and settled themselves for an evening’s 
 conviviality. 
 
 The conviviality chiefly consisted, how- 
 ever, in listening to James. He tookfgood 
 care to see that every man’s glass was con- 
 stantly replenished, that a fresh cigar was 
 always to his hand, and that everybody 
 was comfortable. And he talked — talked 
 well and easily, not in any braggart fashion, 
 but in modest, assured tones, after the 
 fashion of a man who knows that he has 
 proved himself. He told them of his adven- 
 ture, of his work, of the coming of success, 
 of the building up of a great business. And, 
 at the request of the parson, he entered into 
 a learned, but simply worded disquisition on 
 the prospects of diamond mining in South 
 Africa, and displayed such marvellous know- 
 ledge of it in its scientific and financial 
 aspects, that his audience broke up in 
 amazement at his ability and cleverness. 
 
 “ A remarkably shrewd and able man,” 
 said the parson, as he shook hands at the 
 
56 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 vicarage gate with his churchwarden and 
 two or three of his principal parishioners, 
 who had walked through the village with 
 him. “ A very able man — a Napoleon of 
 finance ! ” 
 
 “ He seems to know what he’s talking 
 about, certainly,” said the miller. 
 
 “ It seems a better paying business than 
 farming,” said a farmer. 
 
 “ Paying ! ” exclaimed the vicar. “ My 
 dear friends, there is no doubt that a new 
 Eldorado is being opened up in South 
 Africa. If I were — er, a man of means, and 
 wished to become wealthy I would stake 
 every penny I could lay hands on in mining 
 investments. The returns are simp-lee en- 
 ormous, as we may learn from the case of 
 our worthy friend and host this evening.” 
 
 And the rest of them secretly agreed, and 
 went home contrasting their own hard and 
 toiling lives with that ot a man who appeared 
 to be able to coin money at his ease, and 
 the old spirit of covetousness began to work. 
 
 Next day Mr. James Rutherford had 
 many callers. Each caller had the same 
 story to tell. He had saved money, and 
 
MR. RUTHERFORD’S RETURN 57 
 
 money had come to him from his forbears 
 (they were a thrifty and a hard working, 
 self-denying people, the Slowford folk), and 
 they would like to know if Mr. Rutherford 
 could not invest it for them in his own con- 
 cerns or in something similar that would 
 bring in heavy interest. And with each 
 Mr. Rutherford talked carefully and in 
 businesslike fashion, and each went away 
 feeling assured that he had been conversing 
 with a master mind in finance, and that 
 his money would be safe, and he himself 
 a rich man. And he naturally told all his 
 friends what he was going to do, and every- 
 body applauded, because everybody was 
 going to do the same thing. 
 
 There were a good many people of means 
 and resources in and about Slowford, and 
 there was scarcely one that did not entrust 
 almost the whole of his savings and property 
 to James Rutherford during the next few 
 days. The vicar had a small private fortune 
 invested in railway stock, paying per 
 cent. ; he realised and reinvested in J ames 
 Rutherford, with notions of getting at 
 least 30 per cent. The vicar’s wife also 
 
58 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 had a nice little capital invested in gilt 
 edged securities— that, too, flowed into 
 James’s coffers. And at the end of ten 
 days Slowford had entrusted some fifteen 
 thousand pounds in hard cash to the man 
 whom it had once regarded as a hopeless 
 ne’er-do-weel. 
 
 On the last day Miss Pamela Spriggs came 
 to see Mr. Rutherford. He remembered 
 her as a middle aged spinster who had 
 always had a kind word for him in the 
 days when all other Slowford folk had 
 looked at him askance, and who, earlier on 
 in life had given him tarts and apples. He 
 caused her to be admitted. Miss Spriggs 
 had grown ancient, but she was still shy, 
 and nervous, and old-young in manner. 
 Mr. Rutherford made her drink a glass of 
 port before he inquired her business — he 
 guessed what it was before she spoke. 
 
 “ I — I wished to speak to you, Mr. 
 Rutherford, about a little business matter,” 
 said Miss Spriggs. “ I — I have come into 
 money since poor J ane died — two thousand 
 pounds it is, Mr. Rutherford, and its lying 
 
MR. RUTHERFORD’S RETURN 59 
 
 in the bank just now, and hearing of your 
 
 good fortune, I thought perhaps ” 
 
 Mr. Rutherford rose from his seat, and 
 paced the room, apparently deep in thought. 
 He came up to Miss .Spriggs’s side, and spoke 
 rather brusquely. 
 
 “ I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you, 
 just now, ma’am,” he said. “ My hands 
 are full, quite full. But as soon as I hear 
 of a good opening I will write to you about 
 it. Good-day, ma’am.” 
 
 He bowed her out, and came back to his 
 desk. 
 
 “ It’ll be a long time before she gets that 
 letter ! ” he said, laughing sardonically. 
 “ No — no — not old Spriggs ! The others 
 are fair game, but she isn’t.” 
 
 The next day Mr. James Rutherford left 
 Slowford. He was accompanied to the 
 station by nearly all the population of the 
 place, and was given a hearty send-off. 
 But Slowford has never seen or heard of him 
 again — there have been no dividends — 
 there has been nothing, indeed, but weeping 
 and wailing and deep curses — always except- 
 ing thankfulness from Miss Spriggs, who 
 
60 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 frequently remarks that it was very for- 
 tunate that Mr. Rutherford was too much 
 engaged to deal with her little affair, and 
 who is firmly convinced that he was a 
 good man who must have been murdered 
 and robbed on his arrival in London. 
 
 THE END. 
 
GADDING ABOUT 
 
GADDING ABOUT. 
 
 When I called upon my old friend, Mrs. 
 Brewster, the other afternoon, with the 
 object of renewing an acquaintance which 
 had been interrupted by long absence 
 from home on my part, I found her pretty 
 much the same in health, spirits, and 
 appearance. 
 
 She sat by her wood fire in the same easy 
 chair, she wore the familiar white cap, and 
 grey shawl, and knitted mittens, which 
 have formed distinctive features of her 
 attire tor twenty years ; the Old Book was 
 spread out on the table at her knee, and 
 the tortoise-shell snuff box, which the squire 
 gave her on her eighty-first birthday (and 
 that’s seven years ago ! ) was convenient 
 to her hand. 
 
 I failed to see that she had changed at 
 all ; as for the cottage, it has never changed 
 
64 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 since I first went into it, somewhere about 
 ’68 or ’70 — there is never anything new 
 in it except when some careless neighbour, 
 who comes in to clean up, chances to break 
 one of the red-ruddled flower pots in the 
 window. Everything else is older than 
 Mrs. Brewster herself — the old furniture, 
 the blue delf ware, the pewter and brass all 
 belong to periods anterior to the tnird 
 George. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster, at the sound of the lifted 
 latch, raised her eyes from the Old Book, 
 and looked over her spectacles in the 
 direction of the opening door. When she 
 saw that the intruder was Me, she uttered 
 a sort of clucking noise in her ancient 
 throat, as if she had been an old hen welcom- 
 ing a stray chick back to its coop, and she 
 leaned forward and hooked an easy chair 
 to the hearth by means of the ashplant 
 stick with a crooked handle, which always 
 rests against her little table. The sound 
 and the action implied welcome. 
 
 “ Naay, for sewre ! ” said Mrs. Brewster. 
 “ It’s ye, is it ? I knew summat wor bahn 
 to happen, ’cos my thumbs wor prickin’ 
 
GADDING ABOUT 
 
 65 
 
 all t’ mornin’. Come thi’ ways in, bairn, 
 and sit tha down bi t’ fire — theer’ s t’ 
 owd chair all ready to peak thisen in.” 
 
 “ And how are you, Mrs. Brewster ? ” I 
 inquired, being duly peaked in the old 
 chair. “ You look just as lively as ever.” 
 “ Why, I’m middlin’ — just middlin.’ I’ve 
 nowt to complain on, to be sewre, ’ceptin’ 
 t’ rheumaticks— eh, I’ve had t’ rheumaticks 
 cruel bad sin’ ye wor here, I hev soa ! T’ 
 doctor thowt it wor goin’ to be a bad job, 
 but ye see I hev a good constitution. Of 
 course, I can’t feshion to get about same 
 as I could when I wor a young ’un, but I 
 can male’ shift to get to t’ door on a nice 
 day, and sit theer i’ t’ sun a bit — I wor 
 theer yisterda’ efternoon . An’ wheer ha ye 
 been all t’ time sin’ ye wor here last ? It 
 mun be a twel’ month sin’ I seed ya.” 
 
 “ Been ? Oh, I don’t know — all over — 
 London and Wales and Ireland.” 
 
 “ Naay ! Well, t’ way ’at folks goas 
 gaddin’ about i’ thease times fair caps me. 
 I cannot understand it. I niver been out o’ 
 t’ parish misen’ ’ceptin’ to t’ market at 
 Sicaster, and that’s nobbut t’ next door, 
 
66 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 as you might say. I reckon when ye goa to 
 them foreigneerin’ places ’at ye hev’ to 
 travel on t’ railway ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, rather ! You have to go a long 
 way by the train.” 
 
 “ Well, now, I niver wor on a railway 
 train i’ my life. I’ve seed ’em, a two or 
 three times — our George wo’d hev me to 
 goa wi’ him one day fifty year sin’ to t’ 
 station at Sicaster just to look at one on 
 ’em. Lord ha’ massy ! I wo’dnt ha’ gone 
 i’ one o’ them things for owt ye could ha’ 
 gi’en me. I’d as lief ha’ ridden on t’ tea 
 kettle.” 
 
 “ Oh, but they’re very comfortable, you 
 know,” I suggested meekly. 
 
 “ Happen soa ; happen soa ! ” said Mrs. 
 Brewster. “ I’ve heerd a deal o’ talk 
 about ’em. But, ye see, they worrn’t 
 known i’ my time, and soa I’ve niver hed 
 nowt to do wi’ ’em. I’ my time they 
 travelled on t’ coach, wi’ hosses — I seen 
 fotty coaches a day pass t’ ‘ King George ’ 
 theer, to say nowt o’ po-chays.” 
 
 “ Why, then, there must have been a bit 
 of gadding about in your time.” 
 
GADDING ABOUT 
 
 67 
 
 “ Eh, dear me, but nowt like theer is now. 
 Why, tak’ yersen — they tell me ’at ye’ve 
 travelled varry near all ower t’ world and 
 seen t’ owd Queen at Windsor Castle and t’ 
 Poap o’ Rooame an’ all — dod rabbit him ! 
 — an’ I doant know what else, an ye’re 
 nobbut a lad, like. When onnybody used 
 to go out o’ t’ parish i’ my time they made 
 their wills and provided for all sorts o’ 
 mischances — I remember owd Mestur Wil- 
 liam Clough goin’ to London town when I 
 worayoung maid, and it tukhim three weeks 
 to mak’ his prepyrations and say good-bye 
 to all his friends. But ye young ’uns ! — 
 eh dear, ye’re here and theer and every- 
 wheer in a minute.” 
 
 “ Why, you see, Mrs. Brewster, it’s so 
 easy to get about now-a-days,” I said. 
 
 “ I’m sewre theer’s a deal o’ things out- 
 side this parish ’at I’ve niver dreamed on,” 
 she answered. “ I think sometimes 'at t’ 
 world mun ha’ tummled upside down. Why, 
 nobbut t’ other day theer wor that gran- 
 dowter o’ mine — our Robert’s youngest lass 
 Bella— come in as peart as if she’d been a 
 laady and says shoo wor off to London bi’ 
 
68 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 t’ excursion train, theer and back all in a 
 day ! Naay, I think it’s fair scandalous 
 ’at young lasses is encouraged to traipse 
 about like that theer. I’d ha’ laid a stick 
 about her back and gi’en her a job o’ 
 plain sewin’ to do if I’d been her mother, 
 i’steead o’ lettin’ her goa gaddin’ about i’ 
 London town. I niver wanted to go ’scur- 
 sionin’ to London town — I niver wor out 
 o’ t’ parish ” 
 
 “ Then you don’t believe in travel, Mrs. 
 Brewster ? ” 
 
 “ Why, I believe i’ travellin’ about for 
 them ’at’s nowt to do and plenty to do it 
 on. But it mun be poor wark, goin’ into 
 foreign countries, wheer they’ve nowt’ at 
 ye’ve been accustomed to. I could bide 
 a good deal, but I couldn’t stan’ t’ savages, 
 and livin’ i’ tents, and goin’ about w’i 
 naygurs and that theer, especially when 
 theer’d alius be t’ fear on ’em killin’ an’ 
 atein’ ya. Naay, I doan’t know ’at I should 
 care to go ram’lin’ about, misen. I been 
 varry comfortable ower this here fireside. 
 Theer wor a time once when I hed it i’ 
 mind to go as far as York, but I thowt 
 
GADDING ABOUT 
 
 69 
 
 better on it. They tell’d me it wor thirty 
 mile away, and ’at you couldn’t get your 
 dinner theer for less nor fifteenpence, so 
 I said, ‘ Naay, I’ll bide at home.’ ” 
 
 “ Well, so long as you’re happy — ” 
 
 ‘ Eh, Lord bless ye, bairn, I’m as happy 
 as t’ day’s long ! I’ve t’ owd Book theer 
 to read — they seemed to do a deal o’ 
 travellin’ about i’ them days — owd Paul 
 wor alius gaddin’ thro’ one place to another, 
 and when he worn’t travellin’ he wor 
 writin’ letters to tell ’em ’at he’d come 
 soon — and theer’ s t’ neighbours to drop 
 in, and t’ owd squire calls now and then, 
 and theer’ s a new curate. I been argvin’ 
 wi’ him about t’ Methodisses, but I’m 
 noan bahn to gi’ in to noa curates — a passil 
 o’ young lads ! Oh, I’m happy enough 
 wi’out ram’lin’ all ower t’ country. I shall 
 see a deal more nor ony o’ ye young ’uns 
 hes iver seen afore long — theer’s noan on 
 yer iver been sich a journey as I’m going 
 on.” 
 
 “ Well, don’t set out just yet. There’s 
 no hurry.” 
 
 “ Naay, I’m noan i’ a hurry. I’m varry 
 
70 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 comfortable, ’ceptin’ for t’ rheumaticks. 
 I’m nobbut waitin’ for t’ orders. I telled 
 t’ new curate t’other day ’at I wor girdin’ 
 up mi loins, like, for a start. He wanted 
 me to join t’ Church afore I set off. ‘ Naay,’ 
 I says, ‘ I been a Methody sixty-an’-nine 
 year, and I’ll dee a Methody. An’ I’ll 
 tell thee what, mi lad,’ I says to him, ‘ when 
 I do set off I shall hev’ a first class ticket, 
 and theer’ll be a front pew ready, soa 
 theer ! ’ ” 
 
 “ And what did the new curate say to 
 that ? ” I inquired. 
 
 “ He axed me to keep a bit o’ room for 
 him,” said Mrs. Brewster. 
 
 THE END 
 
NEW NEIGHBOURS 
 
NEW NEIGHBOURS 
 
 Mrs. Gill looked with darkening eyes upon 
 the butterTasket which Mary Ann carried 
 into the farmhouse kitchen. 
 
 “ Put it on th’ big table, Mary Ann,” she 
 said, in a voice which seemed to suggest 
 that its owner had lately undergone some 
 chastening process, “ and set it down gently, 
 lest the chiny should get cracked agen the 
 knives and forks — I’m sure I hope that 
 nothing may have happened to it ! ” 
 
 “ If you please’m,” said Mary Ann, 
 hoisting the butter basket upon the great 
 deal table with a mighty effort of her red 
 arms, “ if you please’m, Mrs. Sutton she 
 said would you mind lookin’ if any of her 
 chiny cups had got put in along of yours, 
 ’cause she finds theer’s some missin’, and 
 
 the pattern being so much alike ” 
 
 “ That’s where all the likeness is, then,” 
 
74 FOR those were stirring times 
 
 interrupted Mrs. Gill. “ For my chiny is 
 chiny, not new tangled imitation like some 
 folks’s that I could give a name to. Take 
 the cover off of the butter basket, Mary 
 Ann.” 
 
 Mary Ann stripped off the green baize 
 cover, and Mrs. Gill gazed anxiously at the 
 cups, saucers, plates, knives and forks, which 
 she had lent to the chapel authorities on the 
 occasion of the annual tea party. She 
 shook her head and pursed her lips as she 
 saw the condition of crockery and cutlery. 
 
 “ I do think ’at when one’s best chiny and 
 real electerer is borrowed for a knife and 
 fork tea,” she said, “ and especially when 
 you don’t know what Tom, Dick, and 
 Harry’s been a’ usin’ on ’em, ’at t’ least they 
 could do would be to wash a little o’ the 
 muck offen ’em. Get a big bowl o’ hot 
 watter, Marv Ann, while I count the forks.” 
 
 Mrs. Gill proceeded to take out the 
 various articles while Mary Ann bustled 
 about in search of cleansing materials. 
 
 “ Two dozen white handled knives and 
 two dozen electerers there falls to be,” said 
 Mrs. Gill musingly. “ An’ three dozen 
 
NEW NEIGHBOURS 
 
 75 
 
 each o’ chiny cups, sorsers and plates — 
 white chiny wi’ gold clover leaves on ’em. 
 Now theer’s a fork ’at’s none o’ mine — 
 all mine were electerers, and soft-’arted I 
 were to lend ’em, but I all’ ays were on th’ 
 soft side when axed to do th’ Chappilers a 
 favour. However, them ’at’s well disposed 
 is like to be well abused — it’s th’ way o’ th’ 
 world. Now, Mary Ann, mi lass, mek 
 haste with that hot watter — put all the 
 chiny in, and the electerer, and keep th’ 
 hafts o’ the knives out — we’ll hev’ all that 
 tea party muck offen em ’or we’ll see.” 
 
 “ It you please’ m, Mrs. Sutton she said 
 as how they’d given ’em one weshin’ up 
 already,” said Mary Ann, “ but she said 
 she felt sewre at you’d give ’em another, 
 m’m, ’cause you was that pertikler!” 
 
 “ Mrs. Sutton knows ’at I can’t abide 
 dirt,” said Mrs. Gill, grimly. “ Anybody 
 ’at’s iver seen my table knows ’at it’s 
 famous for its chiny, an’ its linen, an’ its 
 electerer.” 
 
 “ Here’s Mrs. Sutton coming up th’ 
 pastur’,” said Mary Ann, as she glanced out 
 of the window. “ She’s carryin’ a plate 
 
76 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 i’ her hand — it mun be one o’ yours, m’m, 
 ’at they forgot to pack i’ th’ butter 
 basket.” 
 
 Mrs. Gill instinctively felt at her cap and 
 smoothed the apron which she had girded 
 about her comely figure as a preparatory 
 action to washing the forks. She had only 
 recently come to the village, but Mr. Gill 
 had taken the largest farm of which it 
 could boast, and she felt that dignity must 
 sit large upon her. She looked very digni- 
 fied indeed when Mrs. Sutton, who was 
 the chapel minister’s wife, and very tired 
 because of her exertions at the tea party, 
 appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding 
 out a china plate. 
 
 “ Good morning, Mrs. Gill,” said Mrs. 
 Sutton, with as much cheeriness as she 
 could put into her voice. “ I found this 
 plate after your maid had gone, so I thought 
 I would bring it to you myself on my way 
 home. It is yours, isn’t it ? ” 
 
 “ Thankin’ you, ma’am, for the trouble,” 
 said Mrs. Gill, possessing herself of the 
 plate and bestowing a sharp glance upon 
 it. “ Yes, ma’am, that’s mine — white 
 
NEW NEIGHBOURS 77 
 
 chiny, wi’ gold clover leaves on it. It were 
 my poor mother’s afore me.” 
 
 " Was it, really ? ” said Mrs. Sutton. “ It 
 was very kind of you to lend it to us, Mrs. 
 Gill. You must prize it greatly.” 
 
 Mrs. Gill sighed, and favoured the fork on 
 which she was engaged with an extra 
 amount of rubbing. 
 
 “ Why, I will say ’at I’m not used as a rule 
 to lendin’ out my best chiny and electerer to 
 tea parties, Mrs. Sutton,” she said. “ Not 
 bein’ one o’ them ’at’s in no way partiklar 
 about what you may call good manners 
 at table, I were all’ ays accustomed to good 
 chiny, and good glass, and th’ best linen 
 and good electerer — an’, of course, you don’t 
 care about hevin’ every Tom and Polly i’ th’ 
 place suppin’ out o’ yer best cups and 
 sorsers and eatin’ wi’ yer best knives and 
 forks ” 
 
 “ No, of course,” said Mrs. Sutton. “ I 
 wondered, you know, Mrs. Gill, why you 
 sent all that good china and those electro- 
 plated forks — ordinary things would have 
 done quite well for a tea party.” 
 
 Mrs. Gill shook her head and sighed. 
 
78 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ No, ma’am,” she answered. “ I 
 couldn’t have allowed myself to ha’ been 
 repprysented by ordinary things. I know 
 what folks is, Mrs. Sutton, especially when 
 you’ve come new to a place. If I’d ha’ 
 sent common delf ware, i’ stead o’ real 
 chiny, and steel forks i’ stead o’ my best 
 Sheffield, there’ d ha’ been a pretty talk 
 all over th’ village No ma’am, I know 
 what’s due to myself, very well indeed.” 
 
 “ Well, I’m sure you were very kind, Mrs. 
 Gill,” said Mrs. Sutton. “ I hope that your 
 children liked the tea party, and that you 
 all enjoyed the concert afterwards ? Mr. 
 Sutton and I were so busy that we couldn’t 
 get to speak before you left.” 
 
 “ Oh, it were no matter, ma’am,” said 
 Mrs. Gill, with Christian resignation, “ me 
 an’ Gill isn’t the sort to push ourselves 
 forward. Of course, in the place where 
 we lived afore we came to this farm we 
 were thought a deal of, but we can’t 
 expec’ strangers to vally strangers at their 
 proper worth. Oh, we were very comfort- 
 able, ma’am, though, of course, I’ve all’ays 
 been used to havin’ a front seat kep’ for me 
 
NEW NEIGHBOURS 
 
 79 
 
 on such occasions, and if it had been i’ th’ 
 village ’at we used to live in, William Henry 
 ’ud ha’ been asked to tak’ his seat on th’ 
 platform along wi’ th’ minister an’ th’ 
 other gre’t folk, especially considerin’ ’at 
 he’s th’ biggest farmer ’i th’ place an’ ’at I’d 
 lent my best chiny an’ two dozen electerer 
 forks. But, of course, we didn’t expec’ 
 nowt i’ th’ way of acknowledgment.” 
 
 “ I wish we had known that Mr. Gill 
 would have cared to take a seat on the 
 platform,” said the minister’s wife “ Mr. 
 Sutton thought, you know, that as Mr. Gill 
 
 was almost a stranger ” 
 
 “ Oh, of course, we quite understand, 
 ma’am,” interrupted Mrs. Gill, with a 
 heroic mien in which there was some trace 
 of pathetic mournfulness. “ But strangers 
 has their feelin’s. I must say ’at I think, 
 all things considered, ’at more attention 
 might ha’ been paid to our Em’ly Jane, as 
 has niver missed Sunday school sin’ we came 
 into th’ village. I’ve naught to say agen 
 that little gel o’ Mrs. Holt’s bein’ asked to 
 step up o’ th’ platform to recite pooitry, 
 but my dowter’s as well eddicated as Mrs. 
 
80 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 Holt’s, an’ a deal better — the way Em’ly 
 Jane speaks ‘The Old Arm Chair’ ’ud 
 draw tears from a heart of stone.” 
 
 “ Oh, I do wish we had known ! ” said 
 Mrs. Sutton. “ She must recite for us at 
 the next tea meeting.” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t know, ma’am,” said Mrs. 
 Gill, rubbing her hardest at the electro. “ I 
 don’t know what her fathermayhave to say. 
 He’s not the man to put hisself forward, 
 isn’t William Henry, but there’s no denyin’ 
 ’at he felt the slight ’at was put upon him 
 last night i’ not bein’ invited to sit on th’ 
 platform. But, as he said — there’s more 
 places o’ worship than the chappil.” 
 
 Next Sunday morning, as the minister’s 
 wife was preparing to set out for service, she 
 chanced to look out of her window into the 
 village street. Something she saw there 
 caused her to tap her husband on the 
 shoulder to draw his attention to a small 
 procession which was just then passing 
 through the gates of the parish church. It 
 consisted of two small boys, two larger girls, 
 Mr. Gill, and Mrs. Gill. Each carried a 
 brand new Prayer Book. 
 
NEW NEIGHBOURS 
 
 8l 
 
 “ There ! ” said the minister’s wife. 
 “ That’s the result of not asking Mr. Gill 
 to sit on the platform at the knife and fork 
 tea party ! ” 
 
 THE END 
 
 F 
 
THE PEDIGREE 
 
THE> PEDIGREE 
 
 Mr. Tonkinson, whose hands were clasped 
 upon the knob of his ash plant, and whose 
 double chin reposed upon his hands, stared 
 at his man of law across the desk which 
 separated them. 
 
 “ Summat,” he said, “ summat mun be 
 done.” 
 
 Mr. Carter scratched his head with the 
 end of his penholder. 
 
 “ I suppose something ought to be done,” 
 he remarked. 
 
 “ I said ‘ summat mun be done,’ ” reit- 
 erated Mr. Tonkinson. “ ‘ Mun,’ not ‘ owt ’ 
 — we’ve gotten to dew it. Soa theer’s t’ 
 long an’ t’ short on it.” 
 
 “ The question is,” said the solicitor, 
 “ the question is — what’s to be done ? ” 
 
 “ Naay ! I want ye to say that,” said 
 Mr. Tonkinson. “ Ye chaps ’at knaws all 
 
86 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 about t’ law’s paid to fin’ out ways an’ 
 means.” 
 
 “ But, my dear sir, this is scarcely a legal 
 matter,” urged Mr. Carter. “ The mere 
 fact that your son has fallen in love with and 
 promised to marry a young woman whom 
 you don’t quite approve of does not ” 
 
 “ They gi’en me an’ t’ owd woman more 
 trouble nor iver we lied i’ all our lives wi’ 
 their lovemakkin’ ! ” exclaimed Mr. Tonkin- 
 son. “ Nowt but soft headedness, I call 
 it — a couple of gawmless young foods. An’ 
 t’ lass nowt but a publican’ dowter. I’m 
 ashaamed o’ my son. I’m sewre ye niver 
 know what ye’re bringin’ bairns up to 
 now-a-days — he’s hed that theer done for 
 him, hes our John Henry, ’at war niver done 
 for me ! ” 
 
 “ I know you’ve done a great deal,” said 
 the solicitor, consolingly. 
 
 “ A gurt deal ! I should think we hev 
 done a gurt deal,” asseverated Mr. Tonkin- 
 son, in a tone which seemed to suggest that 
 he would like Mr. Carter to deny the fact. 
 “ He’s hed ivery advantage, hes that theer. 
 T’ parson, an’ his wife, an’ my missus, an’ 
 
THE PEDIGREE 
 
 87 
 
 iverybody, wor alius on to me about 
 eddicatin’ him — it wor nowt but eddicate an’ 
 eddicate till I wor fair stalled o’ hearin’ on’t. 
 But I did eddicate him reight — it cost me 
 five hunderd pound to eddicate that theer 
 lad. He went to one o’ t’ best boardin’ 
 skooils i’ t’ county, did John Henry — 
 consarn him ! ” 
 
 “ Education,” said Mr. Carter, “ is never 
 thrown away — it’s a fine investment.” 
 
 “ Umph ! ” growled Mr. Tonkinson. 
 “ Happen soa. An’ t’ boardin’ skooil worn’t 
 all, neyther. T’ parson wod persuade me 
 into sendin’ him to t’ aggerycultural collidge 
 for a couple o’ year — theer wor another 
 three hunderd went ower that theer. An’ 
 then mi lord comes hoam an’ starts galli- 
 vantin’ wi’ t’ publican’ dowter, an’ nowt 
 ’ll suit him but he mun wed her ! ” 
 
 “ There’s no denying the fact that the 
 girl’s a bit of a beauty,” remarked Mr. 
 Carter, weakly. “ She’s just the sort to 
 attract a fine young man.” 
 
 Mr. Tonkinson frowned and snarled. 
 “Bewty ! ” he said, with fine contempt. 
 “ Bewty ! I mak’ nowt o’ bewty. I’d 
 
88 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 rayther hev’ brains nor bewty, and brass 
 afore eyther on ’em. Brains is noa good 
 if ye can’t turn ’em into brass, but bewyt’s 
 nowt at noa time.” 
 
 “ Well, what’s to be done ? ” asked Mr. 
 Carter, wearily. 
 
 “ Naay, that’s for ye to think on,” 
 retorted Mr. Tonkinson. “ I’m noan to a 
 two-or-three six-an’-eightpences, nor guin- 
 eas neyther.” 
 
 “ How would it be to buy the young 
 woman out ? ” suggested Mr. Carter. 
 
 Mr. Tonkinson shook his head, and his 
 eyes assumed a gloomy expression. 
 
 “ I met her on t’ road t’ other day,” he 
 said, in the tones of one who recalls an 
 unpleasant experience, “ an’ I hed a bit 
 o’ conversation wi’ her. Shoo’s gotten a 
 bit o’ summat i’ her heead, has that theer ! 
 1 tell’d her ’at I’d gi’ her fifty pound 
 if shoo’d gi’ our John Henry up.” 
 
 “ Well ? ” said Mr. Carter. 
 
 “ Shoo laughed i’ my face,” continued 
 Mr. Tonkinson. “ I wor softenoo to spring 
 t’ offer to a hunderd.” 
 
 “ Well, what did she say ? ” 
 
THE PEDIGREE 
 
 89 
 
 “ Naay ; shoo said ’at shoo wo’dn’t 
 loiset’ chance o’ hevin’ me for a father-i’-law 
 for a thousand. Shoo’s a tongue like — like 
 a lawyer ! ” 
 
 Mr. Carter laughed. 
 
 “ John Henry,” he said, musingly, “ al- 
 ways strikes me as being a very clever 
 young man.” 
 
 “ He owt to be,” said John Henry’s 
 father. “ He’s hed more chances nor what 
 I iver hed.” 
 
 “ He’s plenty of common sense and good 
 judgment,” said Mr. Carter. 
 
 Mr. Tonkinson increased in height and 
 size. 
 
 “ T’ Tonkinson’s,” he said, “ wor alius 
 cellybrated for common sense. I’ve heerd 
 my owd mother say’ at it wor a sayin’ i’ this 
 part o’ t’ country ’at if onnybody wanted a 
 bit o’ common sense advice they mu’d goa 
 to a Tonki’son for it.” 
 
 “ Just so,” said Mr. Carter. “ I’ve heard 
 the same myself. Of course, John Henry’s 
 inherited it. His mother comes from a 
 clever family, too.” 
 
 “ His mother,” said Mr. Tonkinson, “ wor 
 
90 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 a Cockill. Theer isn’t a honnerabler family 
 nor t’ Cockill’s i’ all Yorkshire. We gotten 
 what they call a family tree on ’em hangin’ 
 up ower t’ chimbley piece i’ t’ little parlour. 
 They goa back reight away to — nay, I 
 doan’t know wheerabouts i’ t’ history book 
 it is — long afore owd King Henry and his 
 wives, onnyway. Theer wor a Cockill ’at 
 wor mayor o’ this varry town i’ t’ time 
 o’ Charles t’ First — John Cockill they called 
 him — it’s down on t’ family tree.” 
 
 “ Why, there you are, you see ! ” said Mr. 
 Carter. “ John Henry inherits great gifts 
 from both sides. These old yeoman fami- 
 lies ” 
 
 “ My family,” continued Mr. Tonkinson, 
 “is as owd as t’ Cockills. We used to 
 fratch a bit ower that theer, did t’ missis an’ 
 me ; but I bested her, ’cos they hev’ all t’ 
 owd registers o’ t’ parish i’ our vestry, an’ 
 theer wor Tonki’sons i’ t’ place when 
 registers wor first started, an’ that’s a bonny 
 piece sin.’ ” 
 
 “ Anybody could see that John Henry is 
 well bred,” said Mr. Carter. “ Old blood 
 always tells. By the bye, the young lady’s 
 
THE PEDIGREE 9 1 
 
 father comes of a good old stock — as old 
 as yours, I should think.” 
 
 “ What ! James Bland, t’ publican ? 
 Naay, for sewre ! ” exclaimed Mr. Tonkin- 
 son. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mr. Carter. “ He came here 
 the other day about buying a bit of property, 
 and I had to look up the registers of the 
 parish that he comes from. His folk have 
 been there for hundreds of years.” 
 
 “ Dear-a me ! ” said Mr. Tonkinson. 
 “ Why, I alius did say ’at yon lass had a 
 high bred look about her. Shoo’s a high 
 stepper — onnybody could see that theer.” 
 “ Of course, John Henry would never 
 have thought of marrying beneath him,” 
 said Mr. Carter, reflectively. “ He’s got the 
 Tonkinson and Cockill common sense, has 
 John Henry.” 
 
 Mr. Tonkinson rubbed the end of his 
 nose. 
 
 “ Of course, if shoo’s gotten a bit of a 
 pedigree’ like,” he remarked, after a brief 
 silence, “ it alters t’ case a good deal. Owt 
 ’at can bring a pedigree wi’ it’s desarvin’ o’ 
 consideration — I couldn’t abide ’at John 
 
92 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 Henry should iver wed wi’ one o’ thease here 
 mushroom lot ’at springs up out o’ t’ 
 muck.” 
 
 “ Just so,” said Mr. Carter. 
 
 Mr. Tonkinson rose and made his way to 
 the door. 
 
 “ I’ll away home,” he said, with his hand 
 on the knob. “ I mun hev’ a bit o’ talk to t’ 
 owd woman. I’ll wish ye good-day.” 
 
 “ Good-day, Mr. Tonkinson,” said the 
 solicitor. “ A pleasant ride.” 
 
 Mr. Tonkinson closed the door behind him 
 and walked slowly down the passage towards 
 the street. Before he reached the Market 
 Place he stopped, and, turning round, went 
 back to Mr. Carter’s door, opened it a few 
 inches, and introduced his nose and eyes 
 to the solicitor’s notice. 
 
 “ Ye’ll understand,” he said, nodding 
 solemnly at Mr. Carter, “ ye’ll understand 
 ’at John Henry must ha’ known about t’ 
 pedigree all along. It mak’s a deal o’ 
 difference, does t’ pedigree ! ” 
 
 THE END' 
 
MR LIGHTOWLER’S ESCAPE 
 
MR. LIGHTOWLER’S ESCAPE 
 
 At the rise of the road near Dead Man’s 
 Copse, Mr. Lightowler, who had obligingly 
 offered me a lift in his pony-trap on my 
 way home from Sicaster market, drew 
 rein, and pointed with the butt end of his 
 whip at a red roofed cottage which stands 
 in a little hollow a hundred yards away 
 from the point where the highwayman 
 was hanged in chains. 
 
 “ I hear they’ve gotten a new babby 
 theer ,” he said. “ It arrived t’ last neet 
 — a lass, it wor. That’s t’ ninth. An’ 
 they’re all on ’em alive, and t’ owdest’s 
 nobbut ten year owd.” 
 
 “ A flourishing sort of family,” I re- 
 marked. 
 
 “ Now, tak’ a bit o’ noatice ! ” said Mr. 
 Lightowler. “ If they goa on i’ that theer 
 way they’ll hev to keep a tailor and a 
 
g6 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 shoemakker on t’ premises. Howiver, them 
 ’at likes that sort o’ life’s welcome to it — it 
 wo’dn’t suit me.” 
 
 “ I think you have never been married ? ” 
 I said, diffidently. 
 
 “ Noe ! ” replied Mr. Lightowler, round- 
 ing his mouth. “ Noe ! An’ doesn’t mean 
 
 to be, neyther. But ” he paused and 
 
 jerked his thumb over his shoulder in 
 the direction of the cottage, “ theer wor 
 a time when I hed thowts o’ t’ married 
 state. It wor alius considered at I wor 
 bahn to wed her.” 
 
 “What? the lady who — the mother of 
 the ninth ? ” 
 
 “ T’ saame woman,” said Mr. Light- 
 owler. “ Sarah Jowitt as now is — Sarah 
 Burdock as shoo wor then.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” said I. “ I had no idea 
 )) 
 
 “ It wor afore ye come to live i’ this part 
 o’ t’ country,” said Mr. Lightowler. 
 “ Shoo’d been wed afore, hed Sarah. Shoo 
 wor Sarah Gough at t’ first — her an’ me 
 used to court when we wor young ’uns. 
 
MR. LIGHTOWLEr's ESCAPE 97 
 
 Oi course it cam’ to nowt, did that theer; 
 it wor nowt but lad-and-lass wark.” 
 
 “ And she married somebody else ? ” I 
 said. 
 
 “ Shoo wed owd Burdock, t’ miller. Ye 
 see,” said Mr. Lightowler, confidentially, 
 “ it wor like this here — me an’ Sarah 
 (Gough, as shoo wor at that time) we’d 
 been keepin’ company for happen three 
 or fower year — shoo wor i’ sarvice at owd 
 Mestur Burdock’s. An’ one day shoo 
 comes to me and shoo says, * Now, then, 
 art ta bahn to put t’ spurrin’s (banns of 
 marriage) up or noa ? — ’cause if thou 
 isn’t t’ maister wants me to wed him. 
 An’, of course, it wor out o’ t’ question 
 wor that theer. I wor nobbut a lad o’ two- 
 and-twenty year owd i’ them days. ‘Naay, 
 I says, ‘ I’m noan bahn to enter into t’ 
 matterimonial condition yet awhile, mi 
 lass,’ I says. ‘ If thou wants to get wed 
 to t’ owd miller,’ I says, ‘ thou can suit 
 thisen.’ ” 
 
 “And did she marry him ? ” I inquired, 
 inconsequently. 
 
 “ Aye, shoo married t’ owd lad, reight 
 
 G 
 
98 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 enough,” answered Mr. Lightowler. 
 “ But shoo gat nowt at it — t’ owd 
 ancient lived five year o’ t’ efter they wor 
 wed, and when he deed he left next to 
 nowt. Theer wor one blessin’ about t’ 
 job,” Mr. Lightowler added reflectively. 
 “ Theer wor noa bairns.” 
 
 “ And so she became Mrs. Burdock, and 
 afterwards a pretty young widow ? ” I 
 said. 
 
 “ Shoo wor a well looking young woman, 
 theer’ s noa doubt,” answered Mr. Light- 
 owler. “ An’ of course, shoo wor nobbut 
 a young lass, as you might term it, when 
 shoo became a widow woman. Three- 
 an’-twenty shoo’d be at that time.” 
 
 “ I should have thought,” said I, “ that 
 Mrs. Burdock, with her added experi- 
 ence, would have made a suitable partner 
 for you.” 
 
 “ Why, I thowt soa misen,” replied Mr. 
 Lightowler. “ Of course, when shoo wed 
 wi’ t’ owd miller, it wor all ower atween 
 us ; but when shoo lost him we wor varry 
 sooin courtin’ strong ageean. Shoo wor 
 a nice young woman to keep comp’ny 
 
MR. LIGHTOWLER’S ESCAPE 
 
 99 
 
 wi’,” Mr. Lightowler added, with a note 
 of pleasant recollection in his voice, “ varry 
 nice.” 
 
 “ Why didn’t you marry her, then ? ” I 
 made bold to inquire. 
 
 “ Why, now, ye see, theer wor a many 
 things to think on,” replied Mr. Light- 
 owler, steadying his pony. “ I wor nob- 
 but twenty-seven year owd, when all wor 
 said and done ; and it’s a youngish age for 
 marryin’, is that theer, and shoo wor 
 nowt but a lass, for all ’at shoo’d been wed 
 afore.” 
 
 “ Slow and steady seems to be your 
 motto,” I remarked. 
 
 “ An’ a varry good ’un an’ all,” an- 
 swered Mr. Lightowler. “Ye see, I wanted 
 to mak’ sure afore I set out on what ye 
 might term a v’yage o’ discovery. A 
 man ’ats niver been wed nat’rally wants to 
 know summat about what sort on a state 
 o’ life it is afore he enters into it.” 
 
 “ But Mrs. Burdock could have ini- 
 tiated ” 
 
 “ That’s all varry weel,” said Mr. Light- 
 owler, “ but I wanted to mak’ sure wi’out 
 
100 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 onny ’nitiation fro’ her. ‘Cos ye see, 
 shoo’d been theer afore, and shoo wor 
 nat’ rally prejudiced i’ favour o’ t’ married 
 state. It’s fair cappin’ how them widows 
 inclines to matterimony ! ” 
 
 “ And in the end,” I began, somewhat 
 
 impatiently, “ in the end, you ” 
 
 “ Naay,” answered Mr. Lightowler, “ i’ 
 t’ end I did nowt. It wor her ’at did it — 
 Sarah Burdock as shoo then wor. Ye see, 
 we courted varry strong for happen five 
 year o’ t’ efter t’ owd miller croaked 
 (died), and shoo behaved hersen varry 
 fair all t’ time, considerin’ shoo wor a 
 widow. Of course, shoo wor a bit restless 
 now and then, but I alius telled her I’d 
 wed her some day, and I wo’d ha’ done if 
 shoo’d nobbut hed a bit o’ patience.” 
 
 “ I see,” said I. “ She thought you 
 were keeping her too long, and so she 
 
 99 
 
 “ Why,” said Mr. Lightowler, “ I doan’t 
 know what wimmen wants, but shoo wor 
 nobbut a young woman o’ eight and 
 twenty when t’ end cam.’ Ye see, I had 
 to goa down into t’ South o’ England for 
 
MR. LIGHTOWLER’S ESCAPE 
 
 IOI 
 
 a month or two on a bit o’ business, an 
 of course I tewk (took) what they call a 
 tender farewell o’ her. * Now then,’ she 
 says, ‘ art ta bahn to put t’ spurrin’s 
 in when thou comes back hoame ? ’ she 
 says, ‘ ’cos I’m stalled (tired) o’ bein’ 
 single,’ shoo says, ‘ and if thou weern 
 get agate (started) o’ bein’ wed,’ shoo 
 says, ‘ I’ll fin’ some chap ’at will — so I’m 
 tellin’ tha.’ ‘ Now, then, bide a bit,’ I 
 says. ‘ We’ll consider on it when I come 
 back ageean.’ I’m sewre that wor a sensible 
 remark to mak ’,” concluded Mr. Light- 
 owler. 
 
 “ And what happened ? ” I inquired. 
 
 Mr. Lightowler shook his head. 
 
 “ Shoo treated me varry bad,” he replied, 
 gravely. “ Varry bad indeed. I browt 
 her a present when I come back thro’ t’ 
 South — ahenkercher box it wor, set round 
 wi’ shells— I ’wared fifteenpence on’t — 
 and I tewk it up to t’ cottage wheer shoo 
 lived. An’ lo ! and behold, if I didn’t 
 fin’ her sittin’ on Jaames Jowitt’s knee, 
 and ’im cuddlin’ on her like a soft young 
 lad! ‘Now then,’ Isays, ‘ what’s' t’meanin’ 
 
102 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 o’ this ? I browt yer a henkercher 
 box/ I says, and ho’ds it out to her.” 
 
 “ Well ? ” says I, Mr. Lightowler paus- 
 ing at this point. “ What then ? ” Mr. 
 Lightowler scratched his head. 
 
 “ Naay ! ” he said. “ I wor fair 
 amazed! Shoo jumped up offen Jaames 
 Jowitt’s knee, and shoo run me out o’ t’ 
 cottage and chucked t’ henkercher box 
 efter me into t’ garden. ‘ Tak’ thi hook/ 
 shoo says. ‘ I neyther want thee nor thi 
 henkercher boxes.’ And soa I corned 
 away.” 
 
 The pony stopped at Mr. Lightowler’s 
 gate. We descended from the cart. 
 
 “ That’s eleven year sin’,” said Mr. Light- 
 owler, bunching up the reins. “ And, as 
 I said afore, theer’s been a new ’un ivery 
 year. Efter all’s said and done, we’ve all 
 on us a deal to be thankful for ! ” 
 
 THE END 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 The second hand bookseller — his shop was 
 a decrepit hand-barrow standing in a side 
 street that debouched on the ever-odorous 
 Liffey — emptied the contents of a dirty sack 
 into the penny box with the air of one who 
 offers cheap bread to a starving multitude. 
 He looked at me out of the corner of a 
 roguish Irish eye, and seeing that I smiled a 
 little, he permitted himself to wink at some- 
 thing across the street in a solemn and 
 knowing fashion. 
 
 “ And ’tis a wonder,” said he, “ where all 
 the ould books come from at all. Sure, 
 there’s a feast for them that’s inclined to 
 literature — the books is as plenty as oranges 
 in the ould women’s baskets round Nelson’s 
 Pillar.” 
 
 “ You should sell them as the old women 
 sell the oranges, then,” said I. “ Two for 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 105 
 
 three halfpence is about the worth of them.” 
 
 He threw the empty sack aside and spat 
 on the pavement. 
 
 “ Begorrah ! ” he answered. “ Ye can 
 have any three of them for twopence, and 
 repate the dose as often as ye wish. And if 
 ye’d like to set up a library, sure I’m open 
 to an offer, so I am ! ” 
 
 I laughed at the absurdity of the man. 
 The collection of stuff on the barrow was as 
 frowsy a matter as I had ever set eyes on. 
 It seemed to represent the sweepings of some 
 corner of a garret wherein dust and dirt had 
 steadily accumulated for scores of slowly 
 moving years. Some of the dust and a 
 little of the dirt had been rubbed away by 
 the process of removal, and the bundling out 
 of the sack into the penny box ; what 
 remained suggested awful possibilities of a 
 previous state. It required little more than 
 a worn-out imagination to invest the col- 
 lection with many potentialities — fleas 
 amongst them — and on a hot day I should 
 have moved speedily to the weather side. 
 But this day was of an unfriendly sort — 
 cold, nipping, and characteristic of March 
 
106 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 — and if there were fleas in the battered 
 pamphlets, the dog’s-eared books, the rake- 
 hell odds and ends of literature, they were 
 like to remain snug and warm rather than 
 hop into active service. And so I stood 
 at the corner of the barrow, staring idly at 
 the penny box. It was just as good to 
 stare at as anything else in Dublin at that 
 moment, and I could speculate about its 
 contents as gaily as about College Green or 
 the Castle. For every old book is a 
 memorial of somebody and something, and 
 could tell rare tales if it had the power, 
 and 
 
 “ Bedad ! ” said the vendor, breaking in 
 on my thoughts, “ I’m thinking I’d know 
 as much as a Fellow of Trinity if I was to 
 digest all that lot, so I would — there’s a 
 power of learning in that same.” 
 
 Then he went ten yards away, to lean 
 against a wall and smoke a pipe in company 
 with two jarvies whose cars stood idle on 
 the quay side, and passers-by might have 
 been forgiven if they had taken me for the 
 proprietor of the barrow and its contents. 
 For having nothing else to do I remained 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 IO7 
 
 there, staring at the mass of seeming 
 rubbish, and speculating about it, and my 
 imagination got to work upon the com- 
 ponent parts of it. And after a time, be- 
 lieving that I could not very well damage 
 what was already as battered and unwhole- 
 some a collection of waifs and strays as you 
 might find anywhere, I lifted my walking 
 stick and stirred the mass up as boys stir 
 an ants’ nest. I was reminded as I did this 
 of a bazaar which I had once been persuaded 
 to attend. They had there a matter called 
 a bran-pie, and to share in its delights and 
 mysteries you paid some small sum, and 
 were then permitted to plunge your hand 
 into the bran, and to make a grab at any- 
 thing that lurked therein. You might seize 
 upon something of more or less value — you 
 might grasp nothing but bran. 
 
 Stirring up the penny box with my 
 walking stick was like taking your luck at 
 the bran-pie. There was a sweet fascina- 
 tion, a delicately titillating joy about it. 
 Somehow I had a sort of unholy notion that 
 I was going to turn up something good. It 
 was quite immaterial that my memory im- 
 
108 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 pressed upon me the fact that I had fre- 
 quently, during twenty years of flirtation 
 with old book-shops, believed myself to be 
 on the point of making a real find — a black 
 letter broadsheet, an Elzevir, a rare pam- 
 phlet — and had never done so. On this 
 occasion I felt that something was going to 
 happen. And I stuck my walking stick 
 deep into the tattered mass and upheaved 
 the patient, ill-treated things, as confidently 
 and as remorselessly as the prospector 
 shovels up earth and stones in order to 
 reach the nugget of pure 1 gold. 
 
 ^ The innocent walking stick brought to the 
 top a small book, the mere sight of which 
 made me feel quite sick. I knew it to be 
 something uncommon at first sight — a scion 
 of the Royal family amongst books which 
 had strayed into low company, and con- 
 tracted the worst and vilest of their habits. 
 How royal it was I did not, of course, 
 immediately recognise ; it was sufficient to 
 me at first to bow to its gentility. I 
 approached it with reverent fingers, and 
 drew it to me. A duodecimo, bound in 
 purple calf, ornamented back and front 
 
THE DUODECIMO 109 
 
 with an elaborate design in rich gilt — that 
 was all I cared to see just then — I did not 
 even glance at the title page. I glanced at 
 the stall keeper with much more interest. 
 He was quite happy with the two jarvies ; 
 they were all happy, as all Irishmen are 
 when they have nothing to do. Would he 
 really allow me to carry away this lovely 
 specimen of some great binder’s craft for — 
 a penny ? It seemed impossible, and for 
 a moment I thought I must be dreaming. 
 But I could smell the Liffey, and that 
 calmed me, and so I came to remember the 
 man’s prodigal offer — three books for two- 
 pence. And with as joyous a heart as ever 
 Jonathan Oldbuck of Monkburns carried 
 away from a bookshop, I hastily picked 
 out the two most respectable volumes I 
 could find, sandwiched the duodecimo 
 between them, and walking boldly to the 
 vendor, tendered him twopence. 
 
 I was surprised, I am sure, that he 
 accepted the twopence. But it was a hearty 
 acceptance — he not only took the coins, but 
 thanked me for my patronage, and to show 
 that he estimated it at its right value, he 
 
IIO FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 spat on the copper before transferring it to 
 his pocket. 
 
 It seemed to me, however, that the luck 
 was mine. I knew something about old 
 bindings, and I knew that I had got a 
 treasure tucked away between the “ Treatise 
 on Trigonometry ” and the “ Essay on the 
 Art of Castrametation,” which I had 
 selected as companions for my duodecimo. 
 I dropped the companions over the wall into 
 the river before I had gone many yards, and 
 put the duodecimo in my breast pocket — 
 careless of what live stock it might contain. 
 And presently hiding myself in the corner 
 of a smoking-room in a quiet hotel, I drew it 
 out, and we became formally introduced to 
 each other. 
 
 How it had ever come amongst such low 
 down company as that in which I had dis- 
 covered it was a marvel. After dusting and 
 polishing it carefully with a spare hand- 
 kerchief, it began to smile upon me with a 
 rare sweetness, and its charms, like those of 
 a worthy mistress, improved vastly upon 
 more intimate acquaintance. Free of its 
 livery of shame — to wit, the dust which had 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 III 
 
 been forced upon it, it revealed itself in the 
 nude as a clean limbed, fair skinned beauty, 
 miraculously free of blemish in spite of 
 many unspeakable adventures. It was, of 
 course, its exterior qualities which chiefly 
 attracted me ; I have now forgotten what 
 the book itself was about — Contes Nouvelles 
 or Romantiques, or perhaps Drolatiques — 
 something of that witty and pleasant sort, 
 at any rate. The only thing which had any 
 great attraction for me beyond the superb 
 binding was the date on the title page. It 
 appeared from this that my treasure had 
 been printed in Paris in the year 1684. I 
 was inclined to think that it had fallen into 
 the hands of the great craftsman who had 
 furnished it with its coat of purple calf 
 somewhere about the same time. 
 
 I turned the duodecimo over and over 
 as I sat there meditating. Its purple calf 
 binding was almost original in its freshness, 
 the elaborate gilt devices on back and front 
 were fresh too. They were beautiful devices, 
 and there was much use made in them of 
 the figures of bears. They were, in fact, 
 reproductions of some great man’s coat-of- 
 
1 12 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 arms. I wanted to know whose coat-of- 
 arms it was, and who the binder was — there 
 was nothing within the cover to reveal his 
 identity. But he had certainly been a great 
 man in his day. And I was a lucky one in 
 mine — to buy a specimen of his craft for a 
 penny — no, for a fraction less. 
 
 I am somewhat ashamed to say that 
 much as I loved the duodecimo from an 
 aesthetic delight in its clothing, my principal 
 admiration for it sprung from the fact that 
 I saw a possibility of making money out of 
 it. And I wanted the money somewhat 
 badly, for I had been stranded in Dublin 
 for several days, expecting a remittance 
 from England which seemed to be a long 
 time in coming. In fact, I was within 
 sight of my last half-crown when I came 
 across the duodecimo, and the reason why 
 I had lingered near the second hand book- 
 seller’s barrow was that it was just as good 
 a place as any other wherein to while away 
 unprofitable time. But I knew there was 
 money in the little book as soon as I set 
 eyes on it, and so I had walked into the 
 nearest hotel and expended sixpence on a 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 113 
 
 drop of John Jameson’s, wherein to drink 
 success to what lay before the duodecimo 
 and me. It was disheartening to have to 
 part company with so fair a thing as soon 
 as we had met, and she had been so lovingly 
 embraced, but need is a stronger thing than 
 fancy, and I was going to sell her. 
 
 I put the book in my pocket again, 
 finished the whisky, buttoned my coat and 
 strode out with a heart full of resolution. 
 I marched straight to Grafton Street, and 
 walked boldly into the shop of a highly 
 respectable firm of booksellers. Every- 
 thing within bespoke the higher walks of 
 bookselling life, and there was a Bishop in 
 gaiters and apron looking over the new 
 novels piled up on the counter. Also there 
 were several scrupulously attired assistants, 
 and one of them condescended to favour 
 me with his attention. I pulled out the 
 duodecimo, laid it on the palm of my hand, 
 and exhibited it to him, pretty much as 
 the children of Israel exhibit a rare diamond 
 to each other in the purlieus of Hatton 
 Garden. 
 
 “ Could you give me any idea of the value 
 
 H 
 
1 14 for those were stirring times 
 
 of this little book ? ” I said with great 
 politeness and a child-like trustfulness in his 
 powers. 
 
 He was surprised. He was also puzzled. 
 I indicated the beauties of the binding, with 
 an index finger eloquent of many things ; 
 I opened the book, and showed him the 
 date on the title page. He pursed his lips, 
 elevated his eyebrows, looked as wise as 
 was possible under the circumstances, and 
 after coughing two or three times, requested 
 another assistant to come to his aid. 
 
 “ The binding,” said one of them after 
 they had gazed at the duodecimo as little 
 girls gaze at dolls wherein unfamiliar con- 
 trivances have been secreted, “ appears to 
 be remarkably fresh.” 
 
 I gazed at him out of a slanting eye. 
 
 “ Your observation,” I said, “ does great 
 credit to your powers of discernment. The 
 binding is remarkably fresh.” 
 
 “Of course,” said the other, “ such a book 
 might be worth a good deal. But it might 
 not.” 
 
 “ I am inclined to agree with the first of 
 your remarks, but not with the second,” 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 115 
 
 I responded. “ The book is valuable. 
 What I wish to know is, do you recognise 
 the work as that of any great Irish crafts- 
 man in the art of binding ? ” 
 
 But there was no one in the entire estab- 
 lishment who could answer that pertinent 
 question with any satisfaction to me. As a 
 great favour I allowed the head person to 
 submit the duodecimo to the Bishop, who 
 hummed and hahed over it and betrayed 
 a decided covetousness which he wished to 
 indulge in to the extent of, I think, a guinea. 
 Eventually, after contriving to impress upon 
 the whole staff my own feeling that I had 
 done them a great favour in allowing them 
 to see the duodecimo, I left the shop as wise 
 as when I entered it. 
 
 I had walked a few paces up the street 
 when I was aware of sounds behind me 
 which appeared to have some relation to 
 myself. I looked round ; the Bishop was 
 hastening in my direction. He waved his 
 umbrella ; I paused, then stepped to meet 
 him. 
 
 “ As regards the binder,” he said, “ now, 
 I have only known of one person in the 
 
Il6 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 world who could be said to possess a real 
 knowledge of bookbinding as a craft in this 
 country, and it is possible that he may be 
 dead. But if he is alive ” — he paused, and 
 looked at me attentively. 
 
 “ If he is alive, I should thank your lord- 
 ship to favour me with his name and 
 address,” I responded. 
 
 The Bishop knitted his brows, and planted 
 hishands firmly on the handsome gold knob, 
 elaborately chased and engraved, which 
 surmounted his umbrella. The fashionable 
 tides of Grafton Street swept by him as 
 waters by a rock ; he was a man of weight, 
 and I sheltered in his protecting shade. 
 
 “ His name ? ” he said, musingly. “Now 
 I think his name was, or is, as the case may 
 be, M’Naghten. Yes, I am sure of it — 
 M’Naghten — Mr. M’Naghten. I myself am 
 a collector, in my small way, and I once had 
 occasion to ask Mr. M’Naghten’s advice on 
 a question which I could not solve. I found 
 him interesting, and full of rare erudition 
 on the subject of bindings. That was — let 
 me see — ah, it must be quite ten years ago. 
 
THE DUODECIMO 117 
 
 So that Mr. M’Naghten may be dead, as I 
 have already remarked. ” 
 
 “ If your lordship would add to your 
 kindness by telling me where Mr. M’Naghten 
 — if alive — may be found,” I said, “ I 
 should feel — ” 
 
 “ Just so ; just so ! ” he interrupted. 
 “ Now, I think the address was some 
 number in Upper William Street, but what 
 number — ” 
 
 I took the opportunity of interrupting 
 him. 
 
 “ I will find him if he is still alive,” I said. 
 “ I am greatly obliged to your lordship.” 
 
 “ Not at all, not at all ! ” he exclaimed, 
 quite heartily. “ Quite a pleasure, I’m 
 sure. If you — er — should discover from 
 Mr. M’Naghten that the little book is of 
 value, and its binding the work of an Irish 
 craftsman, I should be glad to — to — that 
 is, if you do not put an impossible price 
 upon it. I am the Bishop of Abbeyleix.” 
 
 I bowed gravely. 
 
 “ Your lordship,” I replied, “ shall have 
 the first refusal of the book, after I have 
 ascertained its value,” and not wishing to 
 
Il8 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 waste further time in talk, I lifted my hat 
 very respectfully to him and sheered away. 
 He seemed sorry to let me — or the book — 
 leave him, and there was a certain amount 
 of ruefulness in the otherwise cheery nod 
 with which he favoured me. I had seen 
 from the first that he belonged to the class 
 of amiable old gentlemen who would sell 
 their souls for a rare book, a bit of Waterford 
 glass, or a Chippendale chair. 
 
 I found Upper William Street (if I am to 
 speak the exact truth this is not its real 
 name) without any difficulty. It was like 
 a good many streets in certain once fashion- 
 able parts of Dublin. It cried out loudly that 
 it had once seen better days. Its houses 
 were of the Georgian style, built of red 
 brick that had mellowed with age, and it 
 was easy to see that they had all been town 
 houses of the nobility and quality in the 
 days when Ireland had a Parliament sitting 
 in College Green. Every house had an 
 imposing doorway, with many steps leading 
 up to it, and before each stood a couple of 
 ironwork cressets, wherein they used to put 
 oil lamps in those blessed times which knew 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 119 
 
 nothing of either gas or electric lighting. 
 Some of the houses were still of a high res- 
 pectability. I noticed the names of at least 
 two knights (or they might have been 
 baronets) on well worn doorplates ; some 
 were as dilapidated and forlorn as a human 
 dwelling long untenanted can be. The 
 street itself was a curiosity that deserved 
 considerable examination, but I wasted no 
 time upon it — I wanted to find Mr. 
 M’Naghten. 
 
 I got wind of my quarry at the tea and 
 wine merchant’s shop at the extreme corner 
 of the street — Mr. M’Naghten resided at 
 No. 21. That was to say, he resided there if 
 he was still alive. 
 
 “ Wouldn’t you have known if he was 
 dead ? ” said I to Mr. Halloran, tea and 
 wine merchant. “ It is only a few doors 
 away, is it not ? ” 
 
 “ Faix ! ” he said, laughing, “ I didn’t 
 see the ould gentleman this three year, and 
 may be only once in ten years before that.” 
 
 I went to No. 21, feeling that Mr. M’Nagh- 
 ten was something of a mystery. And when 
 I came to his presumable dwelling, I won- 
 
120 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 dered if it really was a dwelling, for of all 
 the God-forsaken, desolate places I have 
 ever seen, it was the most notable. There 
 was no sign of life in the windows — black 
 gaps they were in the blank wall, and the 
 incrustations of a score of years were thick 
 upon them. The steps had not been 
 washed for a generation — there was some- 
 thing in the appearance of the door which 
 suggested that it would never open. I 
 think that most people, standing outside 
 that house, would have said that it was 
 untenanted. I think, too, that it is no idle 
 boast on my part to say that I knew that 
 it had a tenant. There was not a sign of life 
 about it, but I felt that life stirred within it 
 before I went up the steps. My first doubt 
 as to whether it was inhabited had changed 
 into an uncanny, uncomfortable certainty 
 that something lurked inside it. I believe 
 I began to feel — in a queer, vague fashion — 
 alarmed ; if not alarmed, uncomfortable. 
 
 There was a bell, and I rang it vigorously 
 — once, twice, thrice. I heard a faint, very 
 faint, tinkle somewhere far away in the 
 recesses behind the heavy door, but no hand 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 I 2 I 
 
 opened to me. I stood there a long time, 
 and at last had made up my mind to go 
 away, and had turned to face the street, 
 when I heard a ghostly whisper that seemed 
 to sibilate close to my ear. 
 
 “ Well ? ” 
 
 I almost jumped out of my boots. I 
 looked up, down, around, and saw nothing. 
 The word was repeated — still in a sharp, 
 sibilant whisper, almost as if some one had 
 whistled it rather than spoken it, and this 
 time there was a ring of impatience in it. I 
 looked at the door, and then I noticed for 
 the first time that a little sliding panel had 
 been drawn back, and that from behindanet- 
 work of rusty iron an eye was watching me. 
 I am not ashamed to say that I went down 
 the four steps into the street about as 
 smartly as if somebody had let loose an 
 earthquake under my feet. I was fright- 
 ened ; I was shaken. So would you have 
 been. But I pulled myself together with an 
 enormous effort, and went up the steps 
 again as calmly as if I were the young man 
 who calls for orders for the butcher, and 
 I said, commonplacely : — 
 
122 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ Does Mr. M’Naghten live here ? ” 
 
 As I said it, I forced myself to face the 
 inquisitorial eye — not an easy thing to do, 
 considering the circumstances. To look a 
 man straight in the face is one thing ; to 
 return the steadfast gaze of an eye, examin- 
 ing you through a small grille of rusty iron 
 bars is another. And there was something 
 in this eye, a cold, blue eye, very keen and 
 piercing, which upset my composure. But 
 I managed to stare at it with a reasonable 
 amount of steadfastness. 
 
 “ What do you want of Mr. M’Naghten ? ” 
 inquired the ghostly voice. 
 
 “ Well, I — the fact is, I was recommended 
 to ask his advice about a book — or, rather, 
 about the binding of a book.” 
 
 “ The binding of a book ? And by whom 
 were you recommended to apply to Mr. 
 M’Naghten, if one may ask ? ” 
 
 There was something satirical, or mock- 
 ing, or contemptuous about the voice. 
 Whatever it was, it nettled me. 
 
 “ Oh,” I began, and was half minded to 
 go away. But instead of following this 
 impulse, I fired the Bishop’s name at the 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 123 
 
 person behind the door with as much 
 emphasis as I could summon. I fancied I 
 heard a dry laugh — the sort of laugh that 
 might have come from a skeleton. 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” said the voice. “ And 
 where is the book ? ” 
 
 “ Here, in my pocket,” I answered 
 savagely. 
 
 “ Show it to me.” 
 
 “ How on earth can I do that through the 
 door ? ” I demanded. 
 
 “ Hold it up in front of the grille” said 
 the voice, as peremptorily as if its owner 
 had been a drill sergeant and I a recruit. 
 
 I really wanted to know all that I could 
 about the value of the binding, so I smoth- 
 ered my indignation at this cavalier treat- 
 ment, and drawing the book from my 
 pocket, held it up for the eye’s inspection, 
 turning it about from side to side. 
 
 “ There,” I said, “ that’s it ! ” 
 
 I thought I heard a sort of half-repressed 
 exclamation. I fancied that the eye 
 gleamed upon me less fiercely. Anyway, 
 the voice addressed me in gentler tones. 
 
 “ I will open the door,” it said. 
 
124 FOR THOSE were stirring times 
 
 There were many stout bolts and bars on 
 that door, and it was further secured by a 
 mighty chain which clanked and rattled as 
 it was taken down. Something in the creak- 
 ing of the bolts, the screeching of the keys, 
 as they were turned in the locks, gave me 
 the impression that the door had not been 
 opened for some time — the impression was 
 confirmed when a cloud of dust flew from 
 the lintels. But I forgot all that on the 
 instant, for the opening of the door made 
 me acquainted with Mr. M’Naghten. 
 
 He revealed himself to my eyes as one 
 of the oddest mortals I had ever seen — a 
 tall, very thin man, some sixty-five or 
 seventy years of age, I thought, whose 
 spare form was wrapped up in a garment 
 which was half dressing-gown and half 
 cassock, and fashioned of some rusty brown 
 stuff not unlike that which the Franciscan 
 monks wore for their habits. A small skull 
 cap of the same stuff was drawn tightly over 
 the back of his head, his feet were encased in 
 Eastern slippers, bright red in colour, and 
 ornamented at the tips with gold arabesques. 
 But I saw these minor details in a swift flash 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 125 
 
 of the perception. I was chiefly observant 
 of Mr. M’Naghten’s face. It was of a 
 curious pallor — ivory white in tint — and 
 made one think of him as a human vitality 
 that had been drained of blood ; it was, 
 indeed, so bloodless that you could not trace 
 the veins on the temples. His chin, cheeks, 
 and upper lip were sparsely covered with 
 straggling, uneven tufts of snow white hair 
 — he was a white thing altogether, but in 
 the midst of the whiteness burned a pair of 
 keen, penetrating eyes, and in them there 
 was no sign of age. 
 
 Mr. M’Naghten smiled. It was a polite 
 smile, accompanied by a courteous bow, and 
 beckoned me to enter. I stepped into a hall 
 of considerable size, paved in black and 
 white marble, and furnished with a good 
 deal of heavy old oak. As I entered he 
 closed the door, and drew some of the bolts 
 into their hasps again. 
 
 “ Please to follow me,” he said, and 
 turned towards a staircase at the rear of the 
 hall. I followed him without a word — his 
 personality seemed to act upon me with 
 strange power. He led me up two flights of 
 
126 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 stairs, past several closed doors, into a room 
 at the back of the house — a room which 
 was literally lined with books, arranged in 
 antique cases. In the rapid glance which 
 I cast around me as I entered it, I saw that 
 the books were all old, and that most of 
 them were conspicuous for the beauty and 
 value of their bindings. I saw, too, that 
 the apartment was much more comfortable 
 and even luxurious than I should have 
 thought the house would afford ; there was 
 a bright fire burning in the grate, a deep 
 easy chair was drawn up before it ; there 
 was also a pleasant odour of aromatic 
 tobacco and of Turkish coffee in the atmo- 
 sphere. It was plain that Mr. M’Naghten 
 was sybaritic in his tastes. 
 
 “ My services are at your command,” he 
 said politely. “You will pardon me for 
 keeping you at the door. I am a good deal 
 of a recluse, and do not readily brook inter- 
 ruption. But the book.” 
 
 I placed the duodecimo in his hands. It 
 seemed to me that he received it with a 
 good deal of delight — he carried it over to 
 the window (which, in strong contrast to 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 127 
 
 those in the front of the house, was spotless 
 in its brilliantly polished panes), and exam- 
 ined it with great care. And after a few 
 minutes he came back to the middle of the 
 room, and pointing me to a seat, said in 
 very polite fashion : — 
 
 “ Do you mind telling me how you became 
 possessed of this book, and what you wish 
 to do with it ? ” 
 
 I have already said that I felt strangely 
 under the man’s power. Something in his 
 direct gaze seemed to force one to speak. 
 Within ten minutes I had told him all that 
 I have here set down — how I had found the 
 book, why I wished to sell it, and all the 
 rest. 
 
 “ Just so,” said he. “ Well, I think I can 
 tell you a good deal. This is a rare find — 
 as you surmise — on account of the binding. 
 My own impression is that this book was 
 bound by William Norman, a famous Irish 
 craftsman who used to style himself 
 ‘ Binder to the Duke of Ormonde.’ ” 
 
 I bowed my head ; my eyes asked for 
 still more information. 
 
 “You are not aware, perhaps,” he con- 
 
128 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 » 
 
 tinued, “ that in the seventeenth century 
 there were four great Irish binders who were 
 princes of their art, but whose work we 
 cannot definitely recognise nowadays, be- 
 cause the practice of inserting the binder’s 
 name within a cover was not known in their 
 time. They were William Wright, Nath- 
 aniel Gun, Samuel Adey, and William 
 Norman. I feel sure that this little duo- 
 decimo was bound by the last named.” 
 
 “ May I ask why ? ” I said. 
 
 “ Certainly you may. You perceive that 
 the design on the back and front of the 
 volume is the coat-of-arms of the Ormonde 
 family.” 
 
 “No,” I said. “ I did not know that it 
 was.” 
 
 “ It is so, nevertheless,” he continued. 
 “ Now the book was printed in 1684 ; that 
 was about the time in which William Nor- 
 man flourished ; William Norman styled 
 himself — and was — bookbinder to the Duke 
 of Ormonde ; the Ormonde arms ornament 
 the book ; ergo , I opine that the book was 
 bound by William Norman.” 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 I29 
 
 “ I think your process of reasoning very 
 strong, sir,” I said. “ Pray, what value 
 would you put upon the book ? ” 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 “ Ah ! ” he said. “ That is a big ques- 
 tion. It is in a certain sense, unique. I 
 myself possess, I suppose, the finest col- 
 lection of bindings in this country, but I 
 have nothing like this. Let me show you 
 a few things, just to illustrate my meaning, 
 But first a cigarette, and a cup of coffee ! 
 You will find both good — the real thing in 
 tobacco and in genuine Mocha.” 
 
 He handed me a box of cigarettes, and 
 presently gave me a cup of the most delicious 
 coffee I had ever tasted. Come, I thought, 
 this is no dry-as-dust curmudgeon, after all, 
 but a good natured old party who believes 
 in creature comfort ; and I settled down in 
 a comfortable chair to enjoy myself. Mr. 
 M’Naghten lighted a cigarette himself, 
 smoking it out of a long amber holder, and 
 replenished his own cup. He was about to 
 take a chair near my own, and to begin some 
 remarks upon the bindings of two or three 
 small volumes which he had selected from a 
 
 1 
 
130 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 case, when a sudden thought appeared to 
 strike him. He laid the books aside, and 
 going over to a little cabinet, produced a 
 Venetian flask wherein gleamed a golden 
 tinted liquid. This, with two quaintly cut 
 glasses, he set on a little table between us. 
 
 “ Take a liqueur with your coffee,” he 
 said, filling my glass. “ This is a rare 
 cordial. I am quite sure that no one else 
 in Ireland possesses it, and I don’t suppose 
 that more than one or two persons in 
 England can give their guests a spoonful of 
 it. I procure an occasional flask of it from 
 an old friend in Florence, a bibliophile, like 
 myself. You like it ? ” 
 
 The liqueur was unlike anything that I 
 had ever tasted before. It was a fire that 
 did not burn — a sort of spiritual essence that 
 seemed to permeate the mental fibres. It 
 communicated a heavenly intoxication, and 
 yet it made the brain sharper, clearer, more 
 acute at the same time. 
 
 “ I never tasted anything like it,” I 
 exclaimed. “ It is wonderful ! ” 
 
 “ A secret of the old monks,” he said 
 indifferently. “Compounded from herbs — 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 131 
 
 they had wonderful knowledge of herbal 
 properties. Now, I will tell you about the 
 bookbinders’ art in this country ; but are 
 you pressed for time ? ” 
 
 “ On the contrary,” I hastened to reply. 
 “ I have nothing wherewith to occupy 
 myself,” and I told him, in a few words, all 
 about my business in Dublin, my waiting 
 for a remittance, and the rest of it. He 
 seemed to understand everything quite 
 well. 
 
 “ It is not often that I have a visitor,” 
 he said. “ And a little conversation on a 
 pet subject does one good sometimes. As 
 you are interested in binding as a craft — as 
 a great art, rather — we will talk of binding. 
 Now, here are specimens of ” 
 
 He began to talk in a clever, interesting 
 way. I have a clear, accurate remembrance 
 of the earlier part of our conversation. I 
 could write it all down, but it was of such a 
 technical nature that it would have no 
 interest for you. Up to a certain point, I 
 say, I remember everything— after that 
 certain point — nothing. The last thing I 
 remember, so far as Mr. M’Naghten is con- 
 
132 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 cerned, was the framework on the side of a 
 volume which he placed in my hands for the 
 purpose of illustrating an argument he was 
 then making — after that came a long 
 blank. 
 
 It must have been about noon when I 
 called at Mr. M’Naghten’s house ; I do not 
 know what time I left it. The next thing 
 I remember was a loud knocking at the 
 door of my bed-room in the hotel where I 
 had been staying for several days, and then 
 the entrance of the boots with a registered 
 letter. This was the arrival of the expected 
 remittance, and it was about half-past 
 eight o’clock next morning — that is, I 
 suppose it was next morning. For, in plain 
 truth, I had no recollection of any of the 
 events of the day before. The second hand 
 bookseller and his barrow ; the duodecimo ; 
 the Bishop ; Mr. M’Naghten and his hos- 
 pitality, all these things were completely 
 blotted out of my memory. The only thing 
 that concerned me at all was the pleasant 
 fact that the registered letter contained 
 twenty pounds in bank notes, and that I 
 could now leave for England. 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 133 
 
 I was not averse to an hour or two’s delay, 
 and I decided to cross by the night mail ; 
 and having an idle day before me I break- 
 fasted very leisurely, lounged about in the 
 smoking-room of the hotel until noon, and 
 then strolled out into the streets, to kill 
 time by looking at the shops and the people. 
 I was not prepared for anything in the 
 nature of a surprise, but I was fated to 
 encounter one ere I had been out half-an- 
 hour. 
 
 I was staring into the window of a shop 
 at the corner of Nassau Street, when I felt 
 a light and very confidential tap on my 
 shoulder. I am a man of small stature ; I 
 looked round and up, and set eyes on a very 
 large, dignified person in episcopal habili- 
 ments, who was smiling at me in a fashion 
 which seemed to me distinctly fatuous. I 
 gazed at him in blank astonishment — 
 almost in terror — for he was very large and 
 impressive. 
 
 “ I trust Mr. M’Naghten was able to 
 afford you the information you were in 
 search of ? ” he said in that half-kindly, 
 
134 FOR THOSE were stirring times 
 
 half-patronising fashion which some great 
 ecclesiastical dignitaries seem to affect. 
 
 “ That is, of course, if you found him. 
 Did you ? ” 
 
 I stood open-mouthed, staring at him. 
 
 “ I — I — really, I — that is — ” I began 
 confusedly, and then, feeling that I was 
 making an idiot of myself, I summoned up 
 strength to say, as intelligently as I could, 
 “ I think your lordship is making a mis- 
 take.” 
 
 His smile suddenly changed into a frown 
 of doubt and perplexity ; he lifted a fat 
 white hand to his double chin, and scratched 
 it. 
 
 “ Dear me,” he said. “ A mistake ? No, 
 surely not ! Had we not the pleasure of 
 
 meeting in Messrs. -s shop (he indicated 
 
 a bookshop close by) yesterday morning ? ” 
 
 “ Upon my honour,” I said, “ I never 
 saw your lordship before in my life ! ” 
 
 He shifted his hand from his chin to his 
 ear, and scratched that. 
 
 “ This is indeed a strange thing,” he said. 
 “ I surely cannot be mistaken in saying that 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 135 
 
 I met you in the shop there yesterday 
 morning ; that you were anxious to ascer- 
 tain some facts respecting the binding of an 
 old book, and that I advised you to apply 
 to a certain Mr. M’Naghten, an authority 
 on such matters ? Surely, surely ! ” 
 
 “ I can only say that your lordship is 
 strangely mistaken,” I replied. “ I have 
 no knowledge of any of the facts you 
 mention.” 
 
 “ I am the Bishop of Abbevleix,” he said, 
 appealingly. “ Don’t you remember you 
 were to give me the first refusal of the duo- 
 decimo which you wanted to sell ? ” 
 
 “ But I never had any duodecimo to 
 sell ! ” I exclaimed. “ And as I have 
 already said, I never met your lordship in 
 my life. ” 
 
 I He stepped back a pace and regarded me 
 gravely. I looked at him with equal atten- 
 tion, mixed with a perplexity which began 
 to be reflected on his ample countenance. 
 
 “ This is the strangest thing I have ever 
 known in the course of my life ! ” he said 
 presently. “ I cannot doubt the evidence of 
 
136 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 my own senses. Do you deny that you 
 spoke to me in the bookseller’s shop across 
 the street there yesterday morning, and 
 that I 
 
 His tone began to assume a dictatorial 
 quality which made me quick to interrupt 
 him. 
 
 “ I should like to know what right your 
 lordship has to ask me whether I deny 
 anything or not ! ” I retorted. “ I have 
 already told you that you are a perfect 
 stranger to me, and you are now beginning 
 to intrude upon me in an impertinent 
 fashion.” 
 
 He became very red ; I bowed politely, 
 and was for turning away. But he stretched 
 out an appealing umbrella. 
 
 “ Stop, sir ! stop ! ” he entreated. “For 
 the sake of my — my peace of mind, would 
 
 you object to stepping into Messrs. ’s 
 
 shop with me for one moment ? No man 
 likes to doubt the evidence of his own 
 senses.” 
 
 “ I will oblige your lordship with plea- 
 sure,” I responded, and I followed in his 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 137 
 
 wake across the street and into the shop 
 which he entered. It was as a foreign 
 country to me. I had no recollection of 
 having ever entered it before. 
 
 The Bishop was labouring under great 
 excitement. He brought up every assistant 
 he could espy, and arraigned them against 
 me. One and all agreed with him. I had 
 entered the shop on the previous morning ; 
 had talked with them and him on the subject 
 of the binding of a duodecimo volume which 
 I had produced from my pocket, and had 
 subsequently been seen in conversation 
 with his lordship a few yards away in the 
 street. They were all certain on these 
 points. But I was just as certain on 
 mine. 
 
 “ The whole thing is a simple case of 
 mistaken identity,” I said. “ It is evident 
 that I possess a double in Dublin. As for 
 myself, there is my card and my address in 
 London — for the last four days I have 
 resided at the Gresham Hotel.” 
 
 The folk of the book-shop were distinctly 
 puzzled. The Bishop, who accepted my 
 
138 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 card, was in a state of strange perturbation. 
 I left him arguing the matter with the 
 manager, and I am quite sure, from the 
 chilling glance which he bestowed upon 
 me, that he had come to the conclusion that 
 I had robbed him of a bargain by selling 
 the book he talked about to somebody 
 else. 
 
 All that happened several years ago ; all 
 that I remembered of it until yesterday was 
 the amusing encounter with the Bishop on 
 the morning of my departure from Dublin. 
 But chancing to return to Dublin a few 
 days ago, I went yesterday into the Science 
 and Art Museum in Kildare Street, and 
 there in the gallery I came across a case of 
 examples of Irish bookbinding. In the top 
 left hand corner of this case I saw the duo- 
 decimo. They have a placard there, ae- 
 scribing it, and the description runs word 
 for word with what was said to me about it 
 by Mr. M’Naghten. The sight of it woke 
 some dormant faculty in my brain. I 
 suddenly recalled all the incidents of the 
 day I had lost — years before. 
 
 They say the book was presented to the 
 
THE DUODECIMO 
 
 139 
 
 Museum by some donor whose name is set 
 forth on a label in the show-case. But it 
 was once mine — for a few hours. 
 
 I find that Mr. M’Naghten is now dead. 
 So is the Bishop. Otherwise. . . . 
 
 THE END 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND 
 CANAL 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 
 
 I. 
 
 Ralston had been kicking his heels, wearing 
 out his patience, and using strong language, 
 not always under his breath, in the Piazza 
 di San Marco, from seven o’clock until 
 nearly eight, and he was still unrewarded 
 for his pains. Overhead was a sky of 
 dazzling blue ; at the head of the square, 
 behind the three tall masts whereon they 
 used to hang the banners of Cyprus and 
 Candia and the Morea, in the days when 
 Venice was a Republic and a proud thing, 
 and where the Italian flag now flaunts on 
 Sundays and festa days, rose the fa9ade of 
 St. Mark’s, with its gorgeous colouring, its 
 oriental looking domes, and its bronze 
 horses ; between the masts and the corner 
 of the Palazzo Reale towered the great 
 Campanile, its gilded pinnacle flashing back 
 
144 F0R THOSE were stirring times 
 
 the rays of the spring sun. All over the 
 Piazza fluttered the pigeons, descendants 
 of the birds who carried the good news 
 from Candia to Venice seven hundred 
 years ago ; under the colonnades the folk 
 of the shops, the cafe, and the restaurants 
 were preparing for another day of work and 
 money making ; the air was filled with 
 chatter and sunshine and laughter and the 
 scent of the sea, and everything was full of 
 life and colour and gaiety. At any other 
 time Ralston would have drunk it all in 
 with the greedy eye of the artist. On this 
 particular occasion he stuck his hands still 
 deeper in his pockets, swore softly from 
 time to time, and at intervals stared at the 
 clock above, the gateway at the end of the 
 old Procuratie, noting, with savage dislike 
 of the fact, that the two bronze Vulcans 
 were about to mark the hour of eight upon 
 its face. He, of course, was waiting for a 
 girl, and the girl, of course, was late in 
 keeping the appointment— equally, of 
 course, the fact that she was an hour 
 late would shorten the time they could 
 have together by an hour. It was annoy- 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL I45 
 
 ing, vexatious, disappointing, and Ralston 
 felt that the morning was unsympathetic. 
 It should have surrounded his gloom with 
 its gloom ; there should have been rain in 
 the wind instead of gentle and balmy 
 zephyrs in the air ; the people moving 
 about should have worn long faces instead 
 of cheerful smiles. 
 
 All these thoughts vanished like mist 
 before the sunlight when he suddenly 
 caught a glimpse of a familiar gown 
 hurrying towards him. It was with a 
 mighty sense of relief, a smile of child-like 
 thankfulness and outstretched hands that 
 he literally bounded forward to meet the 
 girl he had been waiting for. 
 
 “ My darling ! he exclaimed, with a 
 fervour that made a waiter who lounged 
 at the door of a cafe open his eyes and feel 
 a sudden warmth about the region of his 
 heart, “ how late you are ! You said 
 seven, and it is now eight, and we shall have 
 all that time the less. Why are you 
 late ? ” 
 
 “ Shall I tell you the real reason ? ” she 
 said, with an arch laugh. “ Well, I didn’t 
 
 K 
 
146 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 wake until half-past seven, and I have had 
 to hurry, so you may guess.” 
 
 “ You didn’t wake ? ” he cried almost 
 incredulously. “ And I was awake at four 
 o’clock, and out at six, and I’ve counted 
 every stone in this blessed square since 
 seven.” 
 
 “ How hungry you must be ! ” she ex- 
 claimed, with a side glance at the cafe. 
 “ I’m afraid I am, too.” 
 
 “ That is easily remedied,” he answered, 
 leading the way into the cafe, where the 
 sympathetic waiter stood bowing and smil- 
 ing. “ Here, let’s have that corner ; it’s 
 about the quietest spot I can see.” 
 
 The girl sat down and drew off her gloves. 
 Ralston, after giving his order to the 
 waiter, sat down opposite her. At that 
 hour the cafe was almost deserted. He 
 laid his hand on hers ; she looked up at 
 him with a quick smile. 
 
 “ Well, Nellie,” he said, with an anxious 
 note in his voice, “ was it any good ? ” 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 “Not a scrap,” she replied. “ I seized 
 what seemed to be the psychological mo- 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 1 47 
 
 ment, and summoned all my wits and best 
 reasons and soundest arguments. I cajoled, 
 I was bewitching, I was adamantine and 
 yet tender, but it was no good. You are 
 too young, and too poor — especially poor — 
 my unfortunate Dick, and I think my 
 respected parent would like me to espouse 
 one of those Italian noblemen with a 
 mouldy palazzo and a mighty pedigree.” 
 
 “ They have no money, anyway,” growled 
 Ralston. 
 
 “No, but you see they can supply a 
 title. It sounds somewhat enticing — La 
 Comtesse This, or II Principessa That. I 
 think either would fit me very well. What 
 do you think, Dick ? ” she said, glancing 
 at him with laughing eyes. 
 
 Ralston regarded her fondly. She was 
 young and fresh and dainty, full of the 
 most alluring charms of young womanhood, 
 and if all the rest of the world had been 
 transmuted into fine gold and set in the 
 scale of his estimation against her, he 
 would have preferred her to all that it would 
 buy for him. 
 
 “ I think,” he replied, as they set to work 
 
148 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 on their coffee and its light adjuncts with 
 the zest of youthful appetites, “ I think 
 that there is only one possible name, or 
 style, or title which would fit you, and it is 
 Mrs. Richard Ralston. And that’s the 
 style and title you’re to bear, my dear.” 
 
 Miss Helen Parrington laughed. 
 
 “ How’s the change to come about, 
 Dick ? ” she asked. “ After last night I 
 feel sure that the poppa’s mind is made 
 up — in fact, I am charged with an ulti- 
 matum. Either this has got to stop, or he’s 
 going to conduct me homewards to New 
 York, straight off. He puts it like this — 
 You’ve danced attendance all round, from 
 Nice to Rome, from Rome to Florence, from 
 Florence to Venice, and you’ve been said 
 £ No ’ to in every place, and yet you turn 
 up wherever he flies for refuge. I’m a 
 disobedient and wicked daughter — I meet 
 you and talk to you and encourage you — 
 and I am spoiling everything for him. He 
 wants to be at peace here for a while, and 
 then to get some more peace at Milan and 
 Turin, and then in Switzerland, and he 
 knows you’ll turn up at every place, and 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 149 
 
 sigh and swear, and be objectionable gener- 
 ally, just because you can’t have your own 
 way. And so you must either clear out or 
 we shall sail for the land of the free.” 
 Ralston frowned, and tried to balance a 
 spoon on the edge of his cup — the process 
 suggesting serious and profound thought. 
 
 “If he will give his consent to our 
 engagement,” he said, “ I’ll do anything he 
 likes. And why should he not ? I’m not 
 a millionaire, but I’m an English gentle- 
 man, and I’ve a clean record, and about a 
 thousand a year of my own. That would 
 satisfy you, Nellie, wouldn’t it ? ” he added, 
 with a certain wistfulness. 
 
 The girl smiled and touched his hand. 
 “ I guess I’m so much in love with you,” 
 she said, “ that a thousand pounds, a 
 thousand dollars, or a thousand of these 
 ridiculous centesimi are all alike in value 
 to me. But are either of us sane enough 
 just now to reckon such matters up ? I’m 
 sure I’m not, and I don’t think you are.” 
 
 “ Hang sanity ! ” he said. “ Look here, 
 Nellie, do you want to marry me — do 
 you, do you ? ” 
 
150 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 The girl’s face flushed, and she became 
 deeply interested in her coffee. 
 
 “ Yes — awfully ! ” she whispered at last. 
 “ Of course ! ” 
 
 Ralston buttoned his jacket and squared 
 his shoulders. 
 
 “ Then it’s got to be done ! ” he said. 
 “ Bless you, darling ! do you think it 
 would matter very much if I kissed you 
 over the table ? There’s only the waiter 
 looking, and I can bribe him to look another 
 way.” 
 
 “ Don’t be silly! ” she said. “ Be serious, 
 Dick. How can it be done ? I don’t want to 
 disobey my father, and I won’t break with 
 you. Is there no way of settling it all in a 
 pleasant, amicable spirit ? He says, for 
 instance, that you’re a British aristocrat, 
 with no grit, no enterprise, that you’re 
 incapable of carrying anything out, and 
 that if }T)ur father hadn’t left you that 
 thousand a year you’d have qualified as a 
 mute at a funeral.” 
 
 “ He has a sweet and graceful way of 
 describing anybody’s peculiarities, qualities 
 and characteristics,” said Ralston, quite 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 151 
 
 unmoved. “ Give him my love, dear, and 
 tell him that I feel there are great poten- 
 tialities dormant in me, and that I believe 
 they are on the point of waking up. ‘ Incap- 
 able of carrying anything out,’ am I ! 
 Umph — Nellie, dearest, I’ve always had a 
 sort of notion that I was born to be a 
 great administrator or a mighty general, or 
 something, and I rather feel as if the moment 
 had come. In fact, I think something’s 
 going to happen. I’m rather glad you 
 repeated your father’s elegant remarks con- 
 cerning his future son-in-law. Oh, I shall 
 be that, dear, and before long ! They’ve 
 given me a sort of appetite for what I can 
 only call Vast Endeavour. I’m going to 
 do something, just to show Hiram 
 Parrington that I can do it.” 
 
 “ Dick ! ” she exclaimed. “If you only 
 would, or could ! There’s nothing he wor- 
 ships so much as the men who do some- 
 thing ! It’s a perfect mania with him. Oh, 
 do anything ! so long, of course, as it’s 
 something uncommon — it must be un- 
 common.” 
 
 “ What I think of doing,” replied Dick, 
 
152 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 slowly and meditatively, “ will be some- 
 thing exceptionally uncommon ; in fact, it 
 isn’t in me, Nellie, to do anything in a 
 common way. Have I ever made love 
 to you in an ordinary fashion ? Didn’t I 
 blurt out all my passion within ten minutes 
 of having you all to myself the first time ? ” 
 “ I know you were very impetuous and 
 very unconventional,” she murmured, “ and 
 very delightful. But what is it you are 
 going to do ? ” 
 
 Ralston shook his head. 
 
 “I’m not quite certain as to the exact 
 course of my proceedings, dear,” he an- 
 swered, “ but I am perfectly assured as to 
 how they will result. As I have already 
 remarked, your honoured father’s remarks 
 have awakened some impulse in me. Listen ! 
 You may tell him from me that I will 
 behave myself until I have done something; 
 tell him, too, that I am about to do some- 
 thing big, and after that I shall venture to 
 approach him again. In the meantime he 
 can rest in as much peace as he can find 
 amongst the canals and canaletti of Venice 
 — it’s a restful place for the nerves,” 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 153 
 
 After his sweetheart had parted from him 
 (at a much later hour of the morning), 
 Ralston filled and lighted a pipe, and took 
 his way round the corner to the Riva degli 
 Schiavoni, where amidst a multi-coloured 
 and diverse throng, he strolled and smoked 
 and meditated for some time. It was an 
 ordinance of Providence that he and Nellie 
 Parrington should marry, and it would be 
 better for all parties concerned if her father 
 could be brought to give his consent to the 
 union. Ralston knew the old millionaire 
 sufficiently to feel sure that his acquiescence 
 in the young people’s ideas might be secured 
 if he were dealt with in the right way — the 
 difficulty had been to find out what the 
 right way was. Parrington had got the 
 notion into his head that the very young 
 and very handsome Englishman, who was 
 so madly in love with his daughter, was 
 at the best an idler — why else was he, at 
 his age, spending his time in pleasure 
 seeking ? He further clung to the idea that 
 all pleasure seekers are wasters, incapable 
 of effort or initiative — he himself was a self- 
 made man, and had never taken holidays 
 
154 FOR THOSE were stirring times 
 
 until he had made his pile, since which time 
 he had taken many more than were really 
 good for him. It was clearly necessary, 
 if the millionaire’s favour was to be won, 
 that Ralston should prove himself a young 
 man of grit and of resolution, and Ralston 
 meant to raise proof to that effect as 
 speedily as possible. It was his determina- 
 tion on this point that made him presently 
 step into a gondola and instruct the 
 gondoliers to take him to a quarter of the 
 city wherein dwelt one Ulick Bourke, an 
 Irishman of infinite resource, who at that 
 time was living in Venice in order to 
 reproduce some of its glories on canvas. 
 Him Ralston found in dressing gown and 
 slippers, alternately sipping his morning 
 coffee, and adding a dab of colour to a half 
 finished picture. A few words from the 
 visitor made Bourke lay aside his brushes, 
 add a flask of old cognac to the coffee-pot, 
 light a black cigar, and put on his thinking 
 cap. There was much mental effort ex- 
 pended in that room during the next two 
 hours, but at the end of that time Bourke 
 brought his hand down on his friend’s 
 shoulder with a mighty smack. 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 155 
 
 “ We’ll do it, and by this and that ’tis a 
 fine scheme an’ll cause great diversion. 
 And so that we can think over the details 
 a bit more I’ll slip into a Christian-like 
 jacket and go round to lunch with ye at 
 Florians — sure we’ll put the thing to rights 
 there, and I’ll be dancing at ye’er weddin’ 
 before the month’s out.” 
 
 II. 
 
 The Hotel Britannia, wherein Mr. Hiram 
 J. Parrington had established himself and 
 his daughter, was once upon a time the 
 Palazzo Zuchelli, and had many of the 
 charms which distinguish the palatial build- 
 ings that are thick as daisies along the 
 winding shores of the Grand Canal. It 
 possesses one feature which was particularly 
 welcome to Mr. Parrington — a small balcony 
 garden, facing the church of Santa Maria 
 della Salute, a gorgeous and imposing pile 
 that rises on the opposite shore, and over- 
 looks all the varied life and colour that 
 sweeps through the great water-highway of 
 Venice from early morning until long after 
 the glittering stars have flashed out of the 
 
156 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 deep blue sky of twilight. In this garden 
 Mr. Parrington liked to sit — especially after 
 dejeuner — smoking large cigars, tasting 
 whatever drinks suited his fancy, and gazing 
 at the panorama unfolded before him. He 
 became greatly interested in the gondolieri 
 and their curious method of propelling their 
 sable craft, in their quaint cries, in the 
 marvellous agility which enabled them to 
 avoid frequent immersion, and in their 
 picturesque attitudes. Not so fond, how- 
 ever, was he of making excursions by the 
 gondolier’s aid. On his first arrival in 
 Venice he had inspected the principal sights 
 at once, and then having discovered the 
 comfortable balcony garden, he had an- 
 nounced his intention of taking his ease. 
 Several months of travel now predisposed 
 him to luxury of this sort, and for some 
 days he enjoyed the sensation of having 
 nothing to do but rise when he liked, eat 
 what he pleased, and being able to sit out in 
 the sun filling himself full of laziness and 
 warmth and semi-oriental do-nothingness. 
 His daughter in the meantime explored 
 Venice to her heart’s desire, usually in the 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 157 
 
 company of Mr. Richard Ralston. Mr. 
 Parrington, if he understood this, never 
 mentioned it ; his one desire, as he had told 
 her on the last occasion on which they had 
 discussed the love affair, was for peace, and 
 peace he meant to have. 
 
 The millionaire was naturally much alone 
 in the little balcony garden, for though it 
 had charm enough for sentimental young 
 people what time Chinese lanterns were 
 lighted at the prows of gondolas, and 
 mandolines and guitars tinkled under the 
 starlight, there were other things to see in 
 Venice, and most of the folk staying at 
 the Britannia spent the day in seeing them. 
 But loneliness, amidst such surroundings, 
 is welcome to a man who has lately had 
 too much globe trotting, and Mr. Farrington 
 never felt it. He could doze when he 
 pleased, and smoke when he desired ; there 
 was the open door of the reading-room 
 just behind the little arbour in which he 
 usually seated himself, and an attentive 
 waiter to hand to fetch whatever literature 
 Mr. Parrington desired to inspect. The 
 little balcony garden of the Britannia was 
 
158 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 his hermitage and satisfied him — he played 
 his peaceful game there while Miss Parring- 
 ton dived into ancient churches, dedicated 
 toSantasof strange names — Moise, Zobengo, 
 Pantaleone, and the like — and into old 
 palazzi and dusty shops where they sold 
 antiques — or made romantic journeys, half 
 hidden beneath the felze of a gondola, with 
 Mr. Ralston. But in spite of his love of 
 peace, Mr. Parrington was not offended 
 when on waking up from an after dejeuner 
 siesta one afternoon, he found another 
 gentleman sharing the little arbour with 
 him. He unclasped his hands from before 
 his stomach, pushed back his Panama hat, 
 adjusted his spectacles, and feeling at peace 
 with all the world, remarked that it was a 
 fine day. 
 
 “ A fine day it is, indeed, sir ! ” responded 
 the other with fervour. “ And a fine scene 
 that we’re beholding, thank God ! There 
 is no scene in all the wor-ruld, sir, that can 
 equal this.” 
 
 “ I guess you are right there, mister,” 
 replied the millionaire. “ It’s an uncom- 
 monly peaceful scene. I read in my guide 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 159 
 
 book as I came along the railway from 
 Florence to this place that Venice is 
 soothing to the nerves, and I reckon I’m 
 on to that soothing business. The absence 
 of street cars and of horses, sir, is a distinct 
 advantage in this city. Those gondolas are 
 very peaceful indeed ; I find them con- 
 ducive to sleep, sir, which is a hard thing 
 to induce in our American cities.” 
 
 The other man drew his chair a little 
 nearer. 
 
 “ You’re from tha.t great country, sir ? ” 
 he said with an air of great interest and a 
 tone of tender respect. “ It’s a country, 
 sir, for which all of my own persecuted 
 nation have a high regard. I’m an Irish- 
 man myself, sir. Allow me to present 
 you with me kyard ; it’s an honour to 
 meet an American citizen.” 
 
 Mr. Parrington, as he took the stranger’s 
 card, looked at him more closely and 
 recognised him as the handsome man who 
 had attracted his daughter’s attention at 
 the table d’hote on the previous evening. 
 The name on the card was Terence O’ Grady, 
 M.P., and the address was Donnybrook, 
 Dublin. 
 
l 60 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ I am proud to make your acquaintance, 
 Mr. 0’ Grady,” said the millionaire. “ Allow 
 me, sir,” and he presented his own card to 
 the Irishman. Mr. O’Grady received it 
 with a bow, and uttered an exclamation 
 which betokened exceeding joy. 
 
 “ Not the great Mr. Farrington, of Mil- 
 waukee ? ” he said. “ Ah ! I see it is. 
 Me dear sir, allow me to shake your hand 
 once more. Faith, ’tis a strange wurruld 
 this ; who’d have thought, now, of seeing 
 you in Venice at this particular minute ? ” 
 
 “ Why not ? ” asked Mr. Parrington. 
 
 “ Faith, ye may ask why not,” answered 
 Mr. O’Grady, with a wink. “ Ye didn’t 
 hear of a little deal there was going on 
 here, I’m wondering ? ” 
 
 The millionaire pricked his ears. 
 
 “ I cannot say that the news of it has 
 reached me,” he said. 
 
 “ Well, well, ’tis likely not,” said Mr. 
 O’Grady. “ Indeed, thin, I was just won- 
 dering if the scheme had leaked out in any 
 way — sure, ’tis in the hands of but a few, 
 yet ye never know what may not happen ; 
 and hearing ye speak of gondolas, ye know, 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL l6l 
 
 made me think ye might be interested, Mr. 
 Parrington, as a man of high standing in 
 the financial wurruld.” 
 
 Mr. Parrington stared at his new friend. 
 Something prompted him to beckon the 
 waiter, who, from happy experience, always 
 lingered near him, and to invite Mr. O’ Grady 
 to take a drink. They lighted cigars and 
 they drank beautiful wine of Cyprus, and 
 they talked, and Mr. O’ Grady, who, as a 
 citizen of the world, knew that you can 
 always give your whole confidence to an 
 American millionaire, told Mr. Parrington 
 a secret. 
 
 There was a great scheme toward respect- 
 ing Venice and the gondolas — nothing less 
 than running the latter by electric motor 
 power. The gondolier would be retained 
 for his picturesqueness ; the gondola would 
 not be changed in shape ; but it would be 
 propelled by electricity, travel ten times 
 as quickly, and be brought up-to-date. 
 Its ancient charm would not be destroyed 
 in any way ; nay, it would be enhanced, 
 for at night a myriad electric sparks 
 would flash about the canals and canaletti 
 
 L 
 
I&2 for those were stirring times 
 
 — “ as if twas heaven’s own jools had 
 come out of the skoy, sir ” — Venice, the 
 beautiful, would be more beautiful than 
 ever. 
 
 Mr. Parrington was impressed. He had 
 the true American love of bringing things 
 up-to-date and he thought this was a 
 promising scheme, and said so. 
 
 “ And who is in with you, Mr. O’ Grady ? ” 
 he inquired. 
 
 Mr. O’Grady looked around him with 
 cautious glances. 
 
 “ There’s six of us at present,” he said. 
 “ The Duke of Normansland is one — sure, 
 he’s the head of one of the greatest and 
 proudest families in England ; and Lord 
 Rothschild is another ; and Sir Thomas 
 Lipton, him as tried to lift the Cup ; and 
 Herr von Guggenheimer, the big Berlin 
 banker ; and Monsieur Bernard, the great 
 financial agent at Paris ; and within a 
 few days we shall have Andrew Carnegie and 
 Pierrepont Morgan — and that’s a good 
 board, Mr. Parrington.” 
 
 Mr. Parrington fully agreed on that 
 point. 
 
A COMEDY OE THE GRAND CANAL 163 
 
 “ More be token,” said Mr. O’Grady, 
 “ the Duke of Normansland and Herr von 
 Guggenheimer are in Venice now, prospect- 
 ing with me, and the rest will be here in a 
 few days, and then we’ll clinch matters.” 
 
 “ Mr. O’Grady,” said the millionaire, “ I 
 would like to be with you in this. Is it to 
 be done, sir ? ” 
 
 Mr. O’ Grady was not quite sure about 
 that. He would like Mr. Parrington’s name 
 — indeed, he had wondered when he first 
 heard it, if Pierrepont Morgan or Andrew 
 Carnegie had mentioned the matter to 
 him, and if he had come to Venice to spy 
 out the land. 
 
 “ But I’ll tell you what, sir,” said he. 
 “ With your very kind permission I’ll 
 bring the Duke and Herr von Guggenheimer 
 to see you ; they’ll be delighted to 
 discuss the matter with one of your standing 
 in the financial world.” 
 
 “ Mr. O’Grady,” said Mr. Parrington, 
 solemnly, “ I shall take it as a favour if the 
 Duke of Normansland and Herr von Guggen- 
 heimer and yourself will dine with me and 
 
164 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 my daughter at this hotel. It couldn’t be 
 this evening, I suppose ? ” 
 
 Mr. O’ Grady considered matters, and 
 finally decided that it could. He departed 
 to arrange matters with his friends, while 
 Mr. Parrington sought out the manager and 
 told him that a real British Duke was 
 coming to dine, and gave instructions that 
 a magnificent banquet was to be served 
 in a private room, and that expense was as 
 naught. Then he went back to the balcony 
 garden and wondered if a young Englishman 
 whom he saw there would be offended if he 
 offered him a roll of Italian bank notes to 
 tell him the exact method of addressing a 
 Duke. On second considerations he de- 
 cided to have a word apart with Mr. 
 O’ Grady on that matter, and he resumed 
 his favourite occupation of watching the 
 gondolas. In imagination he saw them 
 propelled by electricity, and himself one of 
 a board of directors who, with the character- 
 istic perspicacity of the young and vigorous 
 20th century, had wrought a mighty change 
 in this ancient city without destroying its 
 picturesqueness and distinctive charm. 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 165 
 
 After this he put his handkerchief over his 
 head and went to sleep until his daughter 
 arrived and dragged him away to afternoon 
 tea on the shadj' side of the Piazza di San 
 Marco. 
 
 III. 
 
 When Ralston met his sweetheart next 
 day she was in a state of perplexed amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 “ The poppa had a most curious dinner 
 party last night,” she said. “ Nothing was 
 said before me, and I left them as soon as 
 I could, but I guess there’s a money deal 
 in it. There was a Duke, who was about 
 as lively a man as ever I met, and a fat 
 German whose evening clothes were some- 
 what small for him, and an Irishman who 
 made love to ” 
 
 “ Not to you ! ” shouted Ralston. 
 
 “ Why, of course ! I was the only woman 
 present. He was a very handsome man, 
 too, and had a way with him, and ” 
 
 “ I’ll break every bone in his body and 
 punch his head ! ” said Dick. 
 
 “ You’ll have to find him first, dear,” said 
 
166 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES * J 
 
 Miss Parrington. “ However, it never came 
 to any more than making eyes and looking 
 unutterable sweetness at me. I think they 
 had a good time, because I looked out of my 
 window upon the canal when they were 
 departing, and the good-byes would have 
 moved an elephant to tears, or laughter. 
 The noble Duke wanted to embrace the 
 gondolier, and would sing a strange song 
 about * Hi-tiddley-hi-ti-hi-ti-hi ! ’ and Herr 
 von Guggenheimer apostrophised the moon, 
 and the Irishman, Mr. O’Grady— he had the 
 loveliest eyes, Dick — chanted ‘ Love’s 
 Young Dream ’ as the gondola glided 
 away.” 
 
 “ And your respected poppa ? ” asked 
 Ralston. 
 
 “ Oh, he stood on the top of the steps and 
 blessed them with a ten inch cigar ! ” said 
 Miss Parrington. “ Guess he’s a headache 
 this morning,” she added, reflectively. 
 
 Headache or no headache, the millionaire 
 was quite himself by five o’clock in the 
 afternoon, when Mr. O’ Grady called on 
 him again. The Irishman beamed upon Mr, 
 Parrington with delight. 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 167 
 
 “ Me dear friend ! ” he exclaimed. “ I 
 congratulate ye. ‘Tis all settled — ye’re one 
 of us. Lord Rothschild and Monsieur Ber- 
 nard have arrived, and they’re agreeable 
 to welcome ye with open arms. ‘The name 
 of Parrington,’ says his lordship, ‘ is a 
 guarantee in itself,’ he says. ‘ A most 
 worthy gentleman,’ he says. ‘ I’ll be 
 pleased,’ he says, ‘ to stick me legs under 
 the same table with him.’ And I’ve 
 arranged that the whole of us directhors 
 shall meet to-night, so I’ll call for ye at 
 eight o’clock and conduct ye to the place 
 appointed.” 
 
 Mr. Parrington was charmed, and pressed 
 Mr. O’ Grady to dine with him once more. 
 But Mr. O’ Grady had another engagement 
 and excused himself. He went away, and 
 at eight o’clock returned in a gondola, into 
 which Mr. Parrington was assisted by the 
 hall porter. He and Mr. O’ Grady lighted 
 cigars — the latter gave his directions, and 
 the gondolier shot his boat across the 
 Grand Canal in the direction of Punta della 
 Salute. Mr. Parrington wondered where 
 they were going — he had rather a dread of 
 
168 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 travelling over those dark, silent, star-lit 
 waters, and a gondola always seemed a 
 fragile sort of craft to him when he was 
 actually in it, though graceful enough when 
 viewed from terra-firma. He hoped they 
 were Only just going round the opposite 
 point, but discovered that their voyage was 
 to be a longer one ; and it was not until 
 they had crossed the Canal della Giudecca 
 that they came to land on a quay near the 
 Church of II Redentore. This was a part 
 of Venice which Mr. Parrington did not 
 know, and he looked about him with 
 speculative eyes. Mr. O’Grady took his 
 arm. 
 
 “ Follow me, me dear sir,” he said. “ I 
 know every inch of the way hereabouts — 
 we’ll be there in no time.” 
 
 He drew the millionaire along a narrow 
 calle until they came to a door, at which 
 he knocked in a peculiar fashion. Mr. 
 Parrington heard the noise of many bolts 
 and chains within, then the door opened and 
 Mr. O’Grady drew him inside a dark 
 passage. A sense of something unpleasant 
 filled his soul — the embryo board of direc- 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 169 
 
 tors appeared to be holding its first meeting 
 in a hole-and-corner sort of fashion. 
 
 “ ’Tis a little gloomy,” said Mr. O’Grady, 
 referring pleasantly to the pitch darkness, 
 “ but, please God, we’ll have more light 
 presently. There, me dear sir ! ” and he 
 suddenly opened a door and thrust Mr. 
 Parrington, somewhat unceremoniously, in- 
 side a room. “ There’s light — and illumina- 
 tion — for ye ! ” said Mr. O’Grady. 
 
 Mr. Parrington looked round and about 
 him, and he knew that all was not well. It 
 was a room of considerable size in which 
 he stood, but not the sort of room in which 
 board meetings are held. It might have 
 been transplanted from the Quartier Latin, 
 but it was very well where it was. There 
 were canvases finished and canvases un- 
 finished on the walls ; there was general 
 litter all over the floor ; there were nine 
 bottles on the table, and tobacco wreaths 
 between the table and the roof. And on one 
 side of the table sat the Duke of Norman- 
 sland in a painter’s blouse, and with a damp 
 towel round his forehead ; on the other 
 sat Herr von Guggenheimer, spectacled 
 
170 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 and stolid, and at the head, in a chair of 
 magisterial appearance, sat Mr. Richard 
 Ralston. The millionaire saw all these 
 things quickly, and he turned to Mr. 
 O’ Grady. His look was inquiring. 
 
 “ Mr. Parrington,” said Ralston, “ I will 
 answer that unspoken question of yours. 
 This is a hold-up.” 
 
 “ ‘ Hold-up,’ ” said Mr. O’ Grady, who had 
 fastened the doors, and seemed to be in a 
 cheery state of mind, “ is a good word. Is 
 there any objection to the prisoner being 
 seated in presence of the court ? Then sit 
 down, Mr. Parrington, me darlint, and 
 thank heaven ye’ve fallen amongst gentle- 
 men that’ll treat you good.” 
 
 Mr. Parrington sat down and stared at 
 Ralston and at the others. “I do not 
 quite gather the exact meaning of this, 
 sir,” he said, looking questioningly at the 
 young man who aspired to his daughter’s 
 hand. “ Am I kidnapped ? ” 
 
 “You are brought here, Mr. Parrington, 
 in order that a few things may be pointed 
 out to you,” said Ralston. “ There is no 
 directorate of any company for electrisation 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL 171 
 
 of the Venetian gondola ; that was a little 
 ruse to get you into my power. Now 
 listen ; I wish to marry your daughter— 
 your daughter wishes to marry me. It 
 is your great objection to me that I have 
 no enterprise and that I cannot carry any- 
 thing out. Now this little adventure is a 
 proof to you of what I can do ; here you are 
 in my power, and here you will remain until 
 you become amenable to my wishes. What 
 do you say, Mr. Parrington ? You will 
 find that I am adamant in will and 
 purpose.” 
 
 “ It would appear,” said Mr. Parrington^ 
 " that you have the whip hand of me, young 
 man. Do I understand that unless I con- 
 sent to your proposals you will detain me 
 here as a prisoner for some indefinite 
 period ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Parrington, I will be frank with 
 you. You have poured scorn upon my 
 capabilities for doing things. I am merely 
 endeavouring to arouse in you a great and 
 abiding sense of admiration for my capacity 
 to do great things. I am a stern, reason- 
 
172 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 able man of affairs — not a man to shrink 
 from anything. This is a desperate case, 
 and it requires a desperate remedy. I have 
 to inform you, Mr. Parrington, that you are 
 absolutely defenceless and helpless. Your 
 cell, seven feet below the level of the 
 adjacent canal, is at this moment awaiting 
 you, and thither you will be conducted 
 unless you agree to my terms.” 
 
 “ I should like to know those terms,” said 
 Mr. Parrington. 
 
 “ They are simple — that you write out 
 your unqualified assent to the marriage 
 of Miss Parrington and myself at once. 
 These three gentlemen are all well known 
 and highly respected temporary inhabitants 
 of Venice ; they will witness your signa- 
 ture. What do you say ? ” 
 
 “ I guess,” replied Mr. Parrington, “ that 
 I do not calculate to spend the rest of my 
 life in no dungeon seven feet below the 
 level of any canal ; and I have formed the 
 opinion, Mr. Ralston, that you are the sort 
 of young man who will keep his word. 
 You have fair bested me on this deal. I 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL I73 
 
 know when I’m beaten, and I’ll sign that 
 agreement and abide by it.” 
 
 Mr. O’ Grady burst into cheers expressive 
 of wild joy. He was restrained until the 
 formal agreement was drawn up, signed, and 
 witnessed ; but as soon as that was done 
 and the document safely bestowed in 
 Ralston’s pocket, he insisted on embracing 
 Mr. Parrington, on introducing himself by 
 his real name, and the Duke of Normans- 
 land and Herr von Guggenheimer by theirs, 
 and he brought about joy and jollity in two 
 minutes. 
 
 “ Ah, sure now, we’ll have a night of 
 it ! ” he said. “ Mr. Parrington, sir, did ye 
 ever taste a drop of the real potheen ; sure 
 I’ve a little keg of it that I keep for great 
 days ; we’ll have it out and drink success 
 to the Electric Gondola Company, Limited ; 
 and by this and that,” added the ci-devant 
 O’Grady, “ I wouldn’t wonder if there 
 isn’t big money to be made out of that 
 scheme, and I’m willing to go into it with 
 ye, Mr. Parrington, sir, whenever ye like. 
 But the Duke’s projuced the potheen and 
 
174 FOR those were stirring times 
 
 the necessaries, and we’ll drink to the bride 
 and bridgegroom that’s soon to be — ah ! 
 ’tis Dick here that has the real luck, so he 
 has ! ” 
 
 Mr. Parrington began to enjoy himself ; 
 within half an hour he had declared his 
 conviction that his future son-in-law had 
 real grit and he had always known it. He 
 had got him, Hiram J. Parrington, in a 
 tight place, and he was the first man who 
 ever had, and he respected him for it. 
 
 Ralston slipped away after arranging a 
 subsequent event with his future father-in- 
 law. He went across to the Hotel Britannia, 
 and asking for Miss Parrington, led her into 
 the little balcony garden. There was an 
 obliging moon in the wonderful sky, and the 
 domes and spires made fairyland of Venice. 
 
 “ Your father,” said Ralston, very softly, 
 “ has given his unqualified consent to our 
 union. He has changed his mind concern- 
 ing me. I have no more fervent admirer, 
 unless it is his daughter.” 
 
 “ But where,” she asked, pressing his 
 hand, “ where is poppa ? ” 
 
A COMEDY OF THE GRAND CANAL I 75 
 
 “ He is at a board meeting,” answered 
 Ralston. “ He is quite happy. Are you ?” 
 There was no one else in the balcony 
 garden, so she replied in the usual satis- 
 factory way. 
 
 THE END 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 An Incident of the Franco-German War 
 
 m 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 An Incident of the Franco-German War 
 
 Scene : The interior of a cottage in Alsace. 
 Time : Early morning, spring. The 
 cottage is meanly furnished ; the walls 
 are stained and discoloured ; at the hack 
 is a fireplace : on the left a couch : on 
 the right a rough table and one or two 
 chairs : in the centre of the stage is a 
 barrel on end and two stools near it. 
 There is a window between the fireplace 
 and the left wing, and only one door at 
 the back, which is approached from the 
 interior by three steps. When the curtain 
 rises, Captain Lecotte is seen fast asleep 
 
l8o FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 on the couch , which is covered with rugs 
 and blankets. Sergeant Fritz, whose 
 musket leans against the barrel, is stand- 
 ing near him, looking down on the sleep- 
 ing man with an air of sad and wondering 
 
 attention. 
 
 Fritz : Strange that a man who will so soon 
 sleep his last sleep can sleep as he is 
 sleeping ! He lay down there last 
 night and went to sleep like a child on 
 its mother’s breast. Now, if I had 
 known that I was going to be shot at 
 daybreak, shot as a traitor to France, 
 why, I don’t think I could have closed 
 an eye ! A traitor to France ! My 
 God ! I can’t believe that Philip 
 Lecotte could ever be that. He was 
 always a good soldier — always true to 
 the cause — always hard working and 
 devoted. It’s too much to ask me to 
 believe that he could betray France to 
 those rascally Germans. There’s some 
 mystery about all this, and there he 
 sleeps, keeping silence until it’s too late. 
 Ah, Philip, my boy, if only you’d made 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 181 
 
 poor old Fritz your confidant. They 
 granted him as a last favour that I, his 
 old schoolmate, should have him in 
 custody for his last few hours on earth. 
 Why didn’t he talk to me last night, 
 instead of going to sleep in that way ? 
 A lot of sleep I’ve had — I’ve never 
 winked an eye since midnight. And 
 now, why it’s past five already, and 
 he’s to die at six. He shan’t die until 
 I’ve talked with him. I shall never 
 rest again in this world unless I know 
 what all this means. I shall wake 
 him. [He walks up to the couch and 
 begins to shake Lecotte by the 
 shoulder .] Here, Captain ! Captain 
 Lecotte, Wake up ! Wake up ! I say ! 
 Captain, wake up ! 
 
 Lecotte : [Waking slowly and speaking in a 
 dull , grumbling fashion. ] Eh ! 
 
 Fritz : Wake up, Captain ; it’s morning. 
 
 Lecotte : [Still half asleep.'] Morning ? 
 
 Fritz : Yes, morning, Captain — the morn- 
 ing. 
 
182 for those were stirring times 
 
 Lecotte : Oh ! [ Yawns and stretches 
 
 himself .] Oh, the morning, is it ? 
 What time is it ? 
 
 Fritz : Five o’clock, Captain. 
 
 Lecotte : Five o’clock, eh ? And [ yawns 
 mightily], and what time is the little 
 affair to take place ? 
 
 Fritz : At six o’clock, Captain. 
 
 Lecotte : Six o’clock ! One whole hour to 
 spare yet, eh ? 
 
 Fritz : Yes, Captain ; a whole hour. 
 
 Lecotte : Then why the devil don’t you 
 go to sleep ? [Turns round, settles 
 himself, and prepares to sleep again. 
 Fritz, however, persists in waking him 
 
 up.] 
 
 Fritz : Come, come, Captain, wake up. 
 I want to talk to you — I, Fritz, your 
 old friend. You wouldn’t say a word 
 to poor old Fritz last night, and there 
 were so many things that I wanted you 
 to say. 
 
 Lecotte : [Sleepily.] Least said, soonest 
 mended. Don’t be so damned senti- 
 mental ! 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 183 
 
 Fritz : But, Captain — Captain— you’ve 
 
 scarce an hour to live. It’s well past 
 five now, and the firing party will be 
 outside there at six sharp. 
 
 Lecotte : Very pleased to see ’em. 
 
 Fritz : [With sternness.] Captain, this 
 won’t do. That cynical demeanour of 
 yours isn’t worthy of my old school- 
 mate. Come, Philip, wake up. I tell 
 you again I want to talk to you. 
 You’re about to die, but I swear that 
 before you go out of that door to your 
 death you shall have a last word or two 
 with me. There’s some mystery about 
 this affair of yours that I must get to 
 the bottom of. I shall never know 
 happiness again if you die without 
 giving me your confidence. 
 
 Lecotte : [ Gradually rising, yawning, and 
 stretching himself.] Confidence, eh ? 
 Ah, well, I’ve nothing else that I could 
 give you, Fritz, old friend. Confi- 
 dence ? That’s a nice legacy to leave, 
 isn’t it ? Worth all the millions that 
 ever were millioned. Half-an-hour’s 
 
184 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 confidence instead of a pretty widow, a 
 little place in the country, and a for- 
 tune of ten thousand francs a year. 
 Very good, very good, very good ! 
 [ Yawns tremendously , stretches himself 
 as he gets to his feet, and looks down at 
 his boots. ] Oh, I never remember going 
 to bed in my spurs before. [S^s down 
 again and takes off his spurs , Fritz 
 standing by and watching him wonder- 
 ingly. ] There. [ Throwing the spurs 
 away.] Nobody’ll ever have to brighten 
 you up again — for me, at any rate. I 
 say, Fritz, where’s the shooting to take 
 place ? 
 
 Fritz : [ Regarding him sadly.] Just out- 
 side, Captain. In the courtyard in fact. 
 
 Lecotte : Is it — just a step, eh ? A step 
 from this to that ? 
 
 Fritz : {Reprovingly .] Captain, is it 
 
 right for a man to approach the un- 
 known in such a light spirit ? 
 
 Lecotte : Oh ! oh ! oh! you old croaker. 
 Why, Fritz, man, haven’t men like you 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE I 85 
 
 and me approached death a hundred 
 times a day ? 
 
 Fritz : Aye — in the open field ; but not 
 as a traitor to France. 
 
 Lecotte : [ Suddenly becoming grave.] A 
 — traitor — to — France ! Ah ! Ah well, 
 never mind. Fritz, come, old comrade, 
 what need to be sad at a time like this ? 
 How long did you say I had to live — an 
 hour ? A whole hour ot glorious life ! 
 Why, what haven’t I done in an hour 
 in my time ? Seen a pretty girl, made 
 love to her, won her, and grown tired 
 of her — all within an hour ! staked a 
 fortune — lost it — won it back again — 
 and lost it again, and all within an 
 hour ! An hour, why, Fritz, my boy, 
 an hour’s a life-time. You can do all 
 sorts of things in an hour ! 
 
 Fritz : Yes, Captain, and there are some 
 things that one ought to do in one’s last 
 hour. Captain, wouldn’t you like to 
 see a priest and a lawyer, and — and 
 are there no friends ? 
 
 Lecotte : A priest— bah ! A lawyer ! 
 Why, man, I’ve nothing to leave and 
 
l86 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 no money to apologise to him with tor 
 looking into his parchment face and 
 hearing his raven voice. And as for 
 friends — oh, Fritz, I shall find those 
 whistling bullets far better friends than 
 any men — or women — I ever knew in 
 this world. 
 
 Fritz : There’s one man, Captain, who’s 
 your friend, and here he stands. Cap- 
 tain, you’re not yourself ; it’s not like 
 you to talk in this careless, cynical 
 fashion about what’s coming. I’ve 
 faced death a thousand times and seen 
 other men face it, but no brave man 
 ever went to death yet without that 
 sense of fear and reverence which all 
 brave men have for it. There’s some 
 mystery about all this, Captain. You 
 know there is, and it’s your duty to tell 
 me, your old friend, what it is. Look 
 the thing straight in the face — there 
 are you, Philip Lecotte, the lad I’ve 
 known since you were that high, with 
 a good record in the Army, marked out 
 for preferment, sure to rise to a great 
 place, and you’re to die a shameful 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 187 
 
 death within the hour for what — 
 treachery ! Treachery to France ! I 
 can't believe it. I won't believe it ; 
 and I beg you to tell me before you die 
 what it all means — what the mystery 
 is. Captain, you’ll speak ? 
 
 Lecotte : [Who during this speech has 
 gradually thrown off his cynical demean- 
 our.'] Ah, Fritz, old friend, there are 
 some mysteries, some secrets that one 
 had far better entrust to the quietude 
 of the grave than trust to man. If — if 
 I — a dying man — tell you — all that I 
 might tell you — will you give me your 
 word of honour that no soul on earth 
 shall ever learn my secret from you ? 
 
 Fritz : The word of a soldier of France ! 
 
 Lecotte : Then listen. [He sits down on 
 one side of the table ; Fritz sits down on 
 the other.] Fritz, you and I were boys 
 together ; we never had a care in those 
 days, eh ? All the world lay before 
 us ; we carried the marshal’s baton in 
 our knapsacks ; we were to be second 
 Napoleons, weren’t we, and we were 
 
1 88 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 to know everything of glory, and happi- 
 ness, and — did we ever talk of love in 
 those days, Fritz ? 
 
 Fritz : Aye, as lads will, Captain. 
 
 Lecotte : Aye, as lads will. Ah, that 
 love ! How different love is when lads 
 talk of it to what it is when a man feels 
 it. Fritz, do you remember when you 
 were sent off to Algiers with your 
 regiment, and I was left on regimental 
 duty in Paris ? 
 
 Fritz : I remember. 
 
 Lecotte : [ Dreamily .] It seems a long, 
 long time ago. Strange, how curi- 
 ously time shapes itself — this hour 
 seems very long, too. Well, there came 
 a day, Fritz, after you had gone when 
 I was walking along the boulevards, 
 thinking of naught in particular, and I 
 suddenly saw a girl’s face in the crowd 
 — a girl with such soft, warm eyes, and 
 a face crowned with such bright sunny 
 hair [with a great sigh]. That was Fifi. 
 
 Fritz : Fifi ? 
 
 Lecotte : [Expressively .] Aye, Fifi. 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 189 
 
 Fritz : [Excitedly. \ Captain ! I see it ! 
 
 I see it ! There’s a woman at the 
 bottom of this infernal mess. 
 
 Lecotte : [Laughing dismally.'] I won- 
 der if there ever was an infernal mess 
 that hadn’t a woman at the bottom of 
 it ? But come, Fritz, no more cheap 
 philosophy . That was Fifi, the sweetest 
 thing, I think, that God ever made — 
 but a woman. 
 
 Fritz : And you fell in love with her, 
 Captain ? 
 
 Lecotte : Fell in love ? Tumbled in 
 love — rolled in love —revelled in love* 
 Why, man, I worshipped her little 
 hands — I’d have given all France for 
 her dear little finger nails ! 
 
 Fritz : Ah, some men are fools ! And 
 she, Captain, she loved you ? 
 
 Lecotte : I thought so ; I thought so. 
 
 Fritz : Captain, what happened ? 
 
 Lecotte : Happened ? Oh, lots of 
 
 things. It’s a most curious thing, 
 Fritz, what a lot of things do happen 
 
I90 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 when a man falls in love with a 
 woman. We met — and we — then we 
 met again — and again — and we 
 
 Fritz : Went on meeting, eh, Captain ? 
 
 Lecotte : Ye — es, we went on meeting ; 
 and at last, Fritz, I asked her to marry 
 me. 
 
 Fritz: Mon Dieu ! You were brave, 
 Captain. Why, I — I never dared to 
 ask a woman to marry me ! 
 
 Lecotte : Ah, you were born under a 
 lucky star. Well, Fifi and I were 
 married. 
 
 Fritz : Then — this Fifi is your wife ? 
 
 Lecotte : Fifi — is — my — wife. 
 
 Fritz : But you said you had no friends. 
 
 Lecotte : Um — a man may have a wife 
 and yet be without a friend, mayn’t 
 he ? 
 
 Fritz : Captain, what happened ? It 
 seems to me, a rough, old, weather- 
 beaten soldier, that when a man marries 
 everything ought to be paradise. 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE Ipl 
 
 Lecotte : Aye, which paradise ? The 
 
 paradise of simple, trusting hearts, or 
 the paradise of fools ? Why, man, it 
 was paradise to me — Fill was all, and all 
 in all ; her smile was heaven, her voice 
 music, her presence like the sun on a 
 spring day, and I, poor fool, thought 
 that I was all to her that she was to me. 
 I wonder what the devil it is that makes 
 men so blind to what women really are ? 
 
 Fritz : It’s what they call love, Captain. 
 But Fifi ? — Madame Lecotte ? She — 
 
 Lecotte : Ah, Fritz, it’s an easy thing, 
 sometimes, to win a girl’s love ; but 
 it’s not an easy thing to keep it ! She 
 — left me, Fritz. Do you know what 
 it means to see the dearest thing you 
 ever knew, lie dead ? 
 
 Fritz : I saw my sister in her coffin. She 
 was a young girl, and her face was 
 like Our Lady’s in the pictures above 
 the altar. She and I loved as the angels 
 love. 
 
 Lecotte : God rest her sweet soul ! She 
 is happy. If I could have seen my 
 
ig2 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 Fifi dead and cold I would have 
 thanked God and prayed Him to keep 
 me pure and strong until He let me go 
 to her. Death ! why that’s peace and 
 rest ; but .... dishonour .... 
 
 Fritz : Dishonour, Captain ? She. . . .ah, 
 there was another man ? 
 
 Lecotte : Isn’t there always another 
 
 man ? Aye, Fritz, there was just one 
 year of the fool’s paradise, and then she 
 was gone ; and all that was left to me 
 was a heart full of memories — memories 
 — and regrets ! A lot of good they are ! 
 and a letter from her in which she told 
 me that it was a great mistake for a 
 girl to marry a man old enough to be 
 her father, and that she had found the 
 man she really loved, and was oh, so 
 happy with him. These women know 
 how to write that sort of letter, don’t 
 they ? 
 
 Fritz : And that’s the end, Captain ? 
 
 Lecotte : Well, really, I think that's 
 
 [; pointing to the door ] — I think that's 
 going to be the end. Fritz, you know 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 193 
 
 me. When a man like me loves, he 
 loves once and for all. It matters 
 nothing to him what the woman does, 
 she may change, she may leave him, she 
 may forget him. He never forgets 
 and never changes. After Fifi left me 
 for the other man, I heard nothing of 
 them until yesterday. Then I dis- 
 covered that they were here ; I dis- 
 covered, too, that he, a Frenchman, 
 was in the pay of the German Govern- 
 ment, that he was a spy, in momentary 
 danger of arrest and immediate execu- 
 tion. They have children, Fritz — Fifi’s 
 children — and they love each other. 
 Yes — yes — yes — Fifi loves him. And 
 so — and so — for Fifi’s sake — and for 
 the sake of Fifi’s children 
 
 Fritz : Captain, I see it ! I see it ! You 
 — you — you are going to sacrifice your 
 life for the sake of the woman who 
 betrayed you — your life ! 
 
 Lecotte : Well, you don’t suppose that 
 I’ve got so much satisfaction out of my 
 life that I’m particularly anxious to pre- 
 
 N 
 
194 FOR those were stirring times 
 
 serve it, do you ? Don’t be so damned 
 sentimental ! What’s the good of my 
 life to me since she went out of it ? Y ou 
 see, Fritz, she loves him. Oh, I’ve 
 found all about them since yesterday. 
 And there are the little children — 
 Fifi’s children. Fritz, we never had a 
 child. I have thought, sometimes — 
 that if — if 
 
 Fritz : Captain ! Captain ! 
 
 Lecotte : That if there had been a child 
 all this might have been so different ! 
 And then they’re poor ; dear little Fifi, 
 that never knew what it was to want 
 luxuries when she was mine, has had 
 to work, Fritz — to work. A woman 
 must love a man when she’ll do that ! 
 It was because they were poor that the 
 man was tempted, and fell, and did 
 this — this treachery to France ! 
 
 Fritz : For which you’re to die, Captain! 
 
 Lecotte : ’Sh ! What’s that matter ? 
 There ! [Rises and throws off his emo- 
 tion with a gesture .] Come, Fritz, I’ve 
 told you everything now, and — why 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 I 95 
 
 there’s half an hour to live yet ! Come, 
 let’s have a last drink together, and a 
 last cigarette, and, why, there are cards, 
 and I’ve a few francs still left some- 
 where — a last game of piquet. Oh, it 
 will be like the gay old days when we 
 were lads, and the world was a football 
 which we were going to kick as it 
 
 pleased us. Come on, Fritz old 
 
 comrade ; come on ! [He fills up 
 glasses from, a bottle on the table , lights a 
 cigarette, and pledges Fritz with a 
 
 gesture.] 
 
 Fritz : Oh, Captain, Captain, I wonder 
 which you are — a fool or a hero ? 
 
 Lecotte : I’m damned if I know ! I 
 never was good at riddles, especially at 
 five o’clock in the morning. Come, 
 man, drink — drink, and light your 
 cigarette, and here, cut the cards.” 
 [Fritz, with deprecation written all over 
 him, obeys. Lecotte watches him]calmly.] 
 
 Fritz : [Bowing.] Your health, Captain. 
 
 Lecotte : Your health, Sergeanti 
 
196 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 [They sit down on the stools at the barrel, 
 and begin flaying cards. Daylight 
 breaks through the window.'] 
 
 Fritz : A fine morning, Captain. My 
 trick, I think. 
 
 Lecotte : Beautiful morning, Sergeant. I 
 deal. It was just such a morning as 
 this when we were engaged in the affair 
 
 at , wasn’t it ? Things have gone 
 
 badly with us since then — badly for 
 poor France. 
 
 Fritz : [Suddenly throwing down his cards.] 
 I tell you I won't play ! I’m damned 
 if I will. The mere idea of a man who’s 
 just going to be shot playing cards ! 
 Captain, for Heaven’s sake be a bit 
 more of a human being — be a man, and 
 don’t torment me with that devilish 
 carelessness of yours ! 
 
 Lecotte : Sergeant, did you ever find me 
 a coward ? 
 
 Fritz : Never ! 
 
 Lecotte : Then don’t tempt me to be 
 one. [Sternly] Sit down, pick up 
 your cards. Your deal, Sergeant a Fritz. 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 I97 
 
 [A sudden knock comes at the door. 
 Fritz starts and Lecotte, holding his 
 cards , stares across.] 
 
 Fritz : A knock ! It’s not yet six. What 
 can it be ? 
 
 Lecotte : Why the devil don’t you open 
 the door and find out ? 
 
 Fritz : Captain, if it should be — if it 
 should be — see, it’s daybreak already — 
 if it should be the firing party ? 
 
 Lecotte : Oh, show them in. Show 
 
 them in. 
 
 Fritz : Ah ! [ Sighs profoundly , goes 
 
 across to door , pauses , looking at Lecotte, 
 who continues to gaze at and re-arrange 
 his cards. The knock is repeated. Fritz 
 undoes the bolts, throws open the door, 
 and reveals ¥iFi,who throws back the hood 
 of her cloak as she enters. At the instant 
 she is revealed, Lecotte turns and recog- 
 nises her. Fritz, still holding the door, 
 stands staring from one to the other.] 
 
 Lecotte : [Rising.] Fifi ! 
 
 Fifi : [Coming down the steps.] Philip ! 
 
198 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 Lecotte : [ After a pause, during which he 
 and she look at each other in silence, 
 Fritz after staring at them, shakes his 
 head, goes quietly out and closes the door 
 behind him.'] Why are you here ? 
 
 Fifi : Because I know everything ! 
 
 Lecotte : [Laughs.] Ah, trust a woman 
 to get to the bottom of whatever’s 
 going on. Well ? 
 
 Fifi : [ Who has only advanced a step or two 
 into the room , and gazes at him half- 
 frightened and with eyes full of wonder.] 
 Philip, you are sacrificing your life 
 for — my sake. 
 
 Lecotte : Well ? 
 
 Fifi : Your life — your life — for me — a 
 man’s life, for the sake of a faithless 
 woman ! 
 
 Lecotte : Well, I don’t know that there’s 
 anything very wonderful about that, 
 quite an everyday occurrence, I should 
 say, considering what men are — or 
 what women make them. Oh, Fifi, 
 why did you come here ? It had been 
 kinder to let this thing pass and leave 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 199 
 
 me to face it alone. I was careless until 
 I saw you standing there, and now — 
 now — why did you come here ? 
 
 Fifi : [ Coming nearer to him.] Philip, it 
 was not until an hour ago that I found 
 out what it was that you were doing. 
 He is gone — safe — safe. Oh, you will 
 forgive him ? We were so poor, and 
 everything was so hard ; and there 
 were the children. And he was so 
 sorely tempted ; and, Oh, how can I 
 say these things when you are standing 
 there waiting for death — and death for 
 my sake ? Oh ! it must not be ! It 
 shall not be ! 
 
 Lecotte : [Who has watched her curiously 
 and now comes to her and takes her hand . j 
 Fifi, it will be, and it will be very 
 soon now. See, there is the sunrise — 
 the last sunrise that I shall ever look 
 on. You will be brave, will you not ? 
 You will not do anything to break down 
 this strength of mine ? Why, what is 
 it that I do ? Do you think that life 
 has ever had any charms for me since 
 
200 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 you left me ? Ah, Fifi, do you know, 
 perhaps a dying man may say what 
 another man should not say — do you 
 know that I love you still ? 
 
 Fifi : Oh, yes, yes, yes ! I have known 
 it always — always. And now — 
 
 Lecotte : And now ? 
 
 Fifi : [Weeping.] Now I know it as I 
 never knew it. And oh, Philip, I — I 
 — when I found all this out — when I 
 knew what you were doing — for me 
 and him — then I found too, that I — 
 that I — oh, it is you I love — you — you, 
 my husband ! 
 
 Lecotte : Sh — sh ! Fifi, not that. Not 
 that, Fifi — come — come — remember, 
 there are others to think of — your 
 children, eh, Fifi ? Tell me, are they 
 like you ? Is there one that will be 
 like you some day ? 
 
 Fifi : Philip ! I cannot talk of them. 
 Oh ! [screams] don’t you know that — 
 that it is daybreak and that — that you 
 are so near to death ? Philip, it must 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 201 
 
 not be ; let me go to the General ; let 
 me tell him everything ! 
 
 Lecotte : [ Leading her over to the couch 
 and making her sit down, while he him- 
 self kneels beside her.] Hush, Fifi, 
 hush ! You said just now, Fifi, that 
 after all it is I you love, is that true ? 
 
 Fifi : It is true ! It is true ! Oh, God! 
 I never knew it until now — and now 
 it is too late ! 
 
 Lecotte : No, it is not too late, for now 
 I know ! Ah, Fifi, if love were all — 
 then one might be selfish ; but there 
 are greater things than love. Fifi, you 
 will promise me that you will be true 
 to this man whose life you have linked 
 with yours. You will remember that 
 he is what I never was to you ; you 
 will love your little ones and teach them 
 to be good men and women. You will 
 let me carry away with me a last 
 thought of you, a good woman, resolved 
 to do and be everything that I would 
 have you to be. 
 
202 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 Fifi : Oh, I promise, I promise. But, 
 your life — your dear life — to think that 
 I have wrecked it. Oh, Philip, how 
 shall I go through the rest of mine, 
 remembering all this — remembering 
 that a woman’s weakness has ruined a 
 brave man’s life — sent him to a death 
 like — my God ! — a death like that ! 
 
 Lecotte : Hush ! hush ! 
 
 Fifi : Oh, I must speak. My heart is 
 breaking. You shall not die like that. 
 I love you ! I love you ! If you die I 
 shall die too — I shall die too ! 
 
 Lecotte : [ Soothing her.'] No, no, Fifi, 
 you will live. Love is not all — it is 
 only a part of life. If you love me you 
 will be brave now ; you will help me to 
 go through this last moment, and then 
 — then you will go back to those who 
 love you, and you will do all that I 
 have asked of you, for my sake. Fifi, 
 now that I am so near to the end of it, 
 I begin to see what life means. Not 
 love, but duty is the secret. There 
 are moments in this sad life of ours 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 203 
 
 when even the lowest of us must needs 
 rise out of our poor selves to far better 
 and greater things, but such moments 
 only come when one throws aside all 
 thoughts of self, and loses self and life 
 for the things one loves. This poor 
 life of mine, so worthless and empty 
 since your dear love went out of it, is 
 but a slight thing to give. Let it be 
 my last thought, Fifi, that in that 
 strange, mysterious world which I shall 
 see so very soon, I may wait for you, 
 and you will come to me, the sweet pure 
 child you were when first I knew you ; 
 and then your love, made new and 
 fresh again, will comfort me for all that 
 I have done, and God will let us forget 
 all this pain and sorrow, and give us 
 peace, and rest, and love. And now, 
 farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 [He breaks down and takes her in his 
 arms for the first time since she has 
 entered the cottage. For a moment she 
 remains there , her head on his shoulder. 
 She is sobbing. He, bending over her, 
 tries to soothe her. A knock comes at the 
 
204 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 door , and as Fritz throws it open from 
 outside, the sound of soldiers grounding 
 their rifles in the courtyard is heard, and 
 the voice of an officer giving words of 
 
 command.] 
 
 Fritz : Captain, the time has come. 
 
 Fifi : [ Tears herself away from Lecotte’s 
 arms and springs between him and the 
 door.] No ! no ! You shall not die ! 
 You shall not die ! Oh, God ! Philip ! 
 Philip ! 
 
 [As she speaks Lecotte makes signs to 
 Fritz, who approaches Fifi from behind, 
 and seizes and takes her into his arms 
 where she suddenly faints, and Fritz lays 
 her on the couch. The officer’s voice 
 from outside is heard calling.] 
 
 Officer : [Appearing on threshold.] Philip 
 Lecotte ! 
 
 Lecotte: [Advancing to table and waving his 
 glass to the Captain.] At your service. 
 Monsieur Captain ; at your service 1 
 [He pauses a moment, looks at Fifi as she 
 lies on the couch with Fritz standing at 
 her side, then walks to the door. At the 
 
CAPTAIN LECOTTE 
 
 205 
 
 toft of the stefts he ftauses , looks round 
 again , comes back, goes to the couch and 
 kisses her forehead, then goes uft to Fritz, 
 and still watching Fifi, shakes Fritz by 
 both hands, and turning to him, looks him 
 in the face, gives him a last hand shake, 
 and a ftat on the shoulder, all in silence ; 
 then marches straight to the door. As he 
 reaches the toft steft he turns, gives one 
 last look at Fifi, then goes out. The 
 officer’s voice is heard again.] 
 
 Officer : Attention ! Make ready ! 
 
 Present ! 
 
 Lecotte’s Voice : Vive la France ! 
 
 [His cry is immediately followed by the 
 rattle of the rifles, and the curtain comes 
 down on Fifi lying unconscious on the 
 couch and on Fritz kneeling with bent 
 head and clasfted hands at her side.] 
 
 THE END 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 
 

THE LADY SPEAKS. 
 
 Parson Joyce had been ill throughout 
 the greater part of the hard winter, and 
 when he went abroad again for the first 
 time, there were many signs in the garden 
 of his vicarage that winter was already 
 changing to spring. These signs were 
 apparent to the most indifferent that early 
 February morning ; to the man lately 
 risen from a sick bed they came with an 
 overwhelming sense of joy and gratitude. 
 
 Moving slowly about the gravelled walks 
 in his thickest cassock and warmest cloak 
 — both grown to a somewhat rusty black 
 by reason of much wearing, and one at 
 least tattered at the hem by constant 
 fretting against its wearer’s heels — Parson 
 Joyce felt the last frosts of the winter 
 bring a warmer glow to his cheeks, and 
 a livelier motion to the blood, which of 
 
 o 
 
210 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 late had run but sluggishly through his 
 veins. And being a devout man, though 
 yet but thirty years of age, he lilted his 
 shovel hat as he looked about him and 
 thanked God that he was still alive, and 
 in likelihood to be so for many a year to 
 come. 
 
 Folk of the worldling class would have 
 said that Parson J oyce must be easily con- 
 tent with his lot — there seemed to be so 
 little in it to their eyes for which one could 
 be thankful. He had his vicarage and a 
 little glebe ; sixty pounds a year in money, 
 and a little more from his dues ; ’twas 
 enough to exist on, but only that, and in 
 such an out-of-the-way parish what chance 
 had he of promotion ? It had never oc- 
 curred to him, however, that he was aught 
 but a fortunate man — his tastes were few 
 and very simple, and easily supplied by the 
 old woman who served him. 
 
 He was one of those men who never look 
 twice at whatever meat is set before them, 
 and cannot tell you the difference ’twixt beef 
 and mutton. He had the bad habit of read- 
 ing while he ate, and he was a trying man 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 
 
 211 
 
 to the housekeeper in respect of the fact 
 that he never could remember the exact hour 
 for dinner. And very often instead of eating 
 his dinner when it was set before him he 
 would wait until the old woman had left the 
 room, and would then bolt through the 
 window with a heaped-up dish to some 
 old gaffer or gammer whose wants — in his 
 opinion — were greater than his own. 
 
 As he wandered around his garden, potter- 
 ing about him with his stick, Parson Joyce 
 heard the click of the gate and looked in its 
 direction. There, framed by the evergreen 
 arch which showed dark against the faintly 
 frosted silver of the meadows beyond, stood 
 as dainty a piece of womanhood as a man 
 might wish to see — Mistress Sybil Luttrell, 
 Lady of the Manor, rich, beautiful, scarce 
 out of her teens, an imperious young woman 
 who ruled the countryside, and was ardently 
 desired by every young gentleman and a 
 good many old ones, of the neighbourhood. 
 Since the death of her father, old Squire 
 Anthony, her will had been law, and the law 
 had been pleasant, so long as it was obeyed. 
 For Mistress Luttrell, girl though she was, 
 
212 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 had a will of her own, and a temper of her 
 own, and had yet to learn that no one in 
 this world can have all his own way. 
 
 But there was no trace of imperious bear- 
 ing in her manner as she moved with the 
 grace of a pretty woman to where Parson 
 Joyce stood watching her, and held out a 
 little hand to him. 
 
 “Mr. Joyce,” she said, “ I am glad that 
 you are able to be about your garden again. 
 Your strength ? ” 
 
 The parson took off his shovel hat as he 
 bent over her hand. 
 
 “ I thank you, madam,” he answered. 
 “ I thank Heaven, my strength is rapidly 
 returning. I hope to go about the parish 
 in a few days. It has been much neg- 
 lected.” 
 
 He kept his hat in his hand, like a school- 
 boy, until the lady impatiently motioned 
 him to resume it. 
 
 “ The parish ! ” she exclaimed. “ Oh, 
 the parish has taken care of itself, Mr. 
 Joyce. But they will all be glad to see you 
 again — you are so good to them.” 
 
 Parson Joyce pottered about the walk 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 
 
 213 
 
 with his stick. He was one of those men 
 who cannot understand why their work 
 should be praised. 
 
 “ There were many sick and poor when I 
 was stricken,” he said presently. “It was 
 a sore thought — • — ” 
 
 “ But they were all cared for — all ! ” she 
 said with emphasis. “ Surely, you knew 
 that I would see to that, Mr. Joyce ? ” 
 
 “ Madam,” he said, “ I have always 
 known that you were all that is charitable 
 and good.” 
 
 “ No, no ! ” she exclaimed. “ Don’t hold 
 too high an opinion of me, I pray you. 
 But ” — her voice took a lower tone — “ I try 
 to be good. It is sometimes hard.” 
 
 She spoke the last word in little more 
 than a whisper, and a man better acquainted 
 with her than Parson J oyce was, would have 
 seen that she was somewhat agitated. But 
 the parson saw naught, for the sufficient 
 reason that he was shy in the presence of 
 women, and especially of this one woman, 
 and rarely dared to face the artillery of her 
 eyes. 
 
214 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “Not sometimes, madam,” he said, cor- 
 recting her gently. “ Always.” 
 
 “ Always, then,” she said. “ I would not 
 contradict you. And yet, I have found it 
 easy to be very good sometimes,” she added 
 with a certain arch humour, and a sly glance 
 at his averted face. 
 
 Parson J oyce said naught to this heretical 
 assertion. The lady smiled and spoke 
 again, and this time she did not look at her 
 companion, but at the top of the elms on 
 the further side of the garden. 
 
 “ And I know — someone,” she said, “ to 
 whom it seems a very easy matter always to 
 be — very, very good. But perhaps ” 
 
 Parson Joyce favoured her with a won- 
 dering look. 
 
 “ There is no one like that, madam,” he 
 said. “No one knows what lies in the 
 human heart — it has its secrets.” 
 
 “ Ah ! ” she flashed out upon him. 
 “ That’s true.” She stroked her muff with 
 trifling touches of her slender fingers for 
 awhile, then looking artlessly at him, she 
 said : “ Mr. Joyce, I came here for two 
 reasons — to give you my congratulations 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 215 
 
 and to speak to you about myself and 
 another.” 
 
 The parson felt something clutch at his 
 heart, and he put his stick hard on the path 
 and leaned upon it. The lady, stroking her 
 muff, and regarding it with great interest, 
 did not notice his sudden change of manner. 
 She spoke again, rather hesitatingly. 
 
 “ Are — are you strong enough to talk to 
 me, Mr. Joyce ? ” 
 
 “ I am, madam,” he answered. 
 
 “ But shall we not go into the vicarage ? ” 
 she asked. “ ’Tis not good for you to 
 remain out so long.” 
 
 Parson Joyce led the way to his little 
 study. Something told him that he was 
 about to hear news which would change all 
 the current of his quiet life, and as he 
 walked he prayed for strength to bear the 
 communication which he believed the Lady 
 of the Manor was about to make to him as 
 her official guide and pastor. For simple 
 man as Parson J oyce was, he was still a man, 
 and for two long years he had been in love 
 with the girl who now walked behind him, 
 so closely that she could have touched the 
 
216 for those were stirring times 
 
 worn out cloak, but who, in his eyes, was 
 as far out of his reach as any star in the 
 heavens. 
 
 There was a bright fire of wood in the 
 little room where the parson kept his 
 treasured books and wrote his sermons. It 
 was a poor enough room, but there was an 
 air of homely comfort about it which made 
 the Lady of the Manor sigh. She sank 
 into the only easy chair which the room 
 contained, and for a full moment there was 
 silence. Then the girl looked up at the 
 man, and if the man had looked at the girl 
 he would have seen that her eyes were full 
 of more than one emotion. But the man 
 was half-turned from her, and his eyes were 
 fastened on the sputtering pine logs. 
 
 “ Mr. J oyce,” she began, and then paused 
 as if in doubt. “ I find it difficult to say 
 what I want to say,” she said at last, when 
 the silence had once more grown oppres- 
 sive. 
 
 The parson spoke, and his voice sounded 
 as cold as the old vault of the church which 
 shut in one side of his garden. 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 21J 
 
 “ I am here to listen to whatever it pleases 
 you to tell me, madam,” he said. 
 
 “ Still it is difficult to speak of some 
 things ... to a man,” she murmured, 
 and her fingers began to play with her muff 
 once more. 
 
 “Have you no lady friends, madam?” 
 he asked, cold as ever. 
 
 “ None that I could say this particular 
 thing to,” she answered. “ Indeed there is 
 no one but you to whom I could say 
 it.” 
 
 Parson Joyce made no answer. He still 
 sat in the attitude of a confessor ; his eyes 
 were firmly fixed on the glowing fire. And 
 once more there was silence. 
 
 Suddenly the girl laughed — a merry, 
 rippling laugh that sent a cold shiver all 
 through the man’s being. His brows drew 
 together. 
 
 “ Think ! ” said she. “ As I came along 
 the road I knew quite well all that I meant 
 to say — every word. And now it has slipped 
 my memory, and I can only make a lame 
 tale of it. But ...” she paused and 
 stole a sly glance at him, and something in 
 
218 for those were stirring times 
 
 his attitude made her lay her hand timidly 
 on his arm. “ Won’t you, please, look at 
 me?” she asked. 
 
 The parson turned in his chair and looked 
 her full in the eyes. And thereat her own 
 averted themselves, and when she spoke 
 again it was she who looked away and not 
 the man. Thenceforward to the end his 
 eyes never left her face. 
 
 “ I wanted to tell you something,” she 
 said hesitatingly. “ I — has it ever struck 
 you that I am placed in a position of great 
 difficulty ? I am very young, very rich, 
 and — a woman. Ought not I to have 
 someone upon whom I could depend for 
 guidance and help and . . . protection ? I 
 mean . . . ought I not to marry ? ” 
 
 “ It is the apparent end of the conditions, 
 madam.” 
 
 “You think that a great heiress must 
 marry ? So everybody seems to think 
 . . I am told of it a hundred times 
 
 a week ! And there are so many gentlemen 
 who wish to marry me, Mr. Joyce; you 
 yourself know of several, do you not ? 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 219 
 
 Which would you advise me to accept — for, 
 indeed, they pester my life out ! ” 
 
 “ Madam,” said the parson hurriedly, “ in 
 a matter like that — in a matter like that, I 
 say, I cannot counsel. ‘Tis a matter for 
 your own heart, and only your own heart.” 
 “ Heart ? Ah ! — then you would counsel 
 me to marry for . . . love ! ” 
 
 “ It should be the basis of every marriage, 
 madam,” answered Parson Joyce. 
 
 “ May I tell you something ? ” she 
 whispered. “ I — I am in love ! Oh ! I 
 never, never thought it could be . . . 
 
 anything like it is. I suppose no woman 
 ever was so much, so happily in love as I. 
 I have been in love for half a year, and it has 
 made me — I do not know what it has made 
 me, except that I love all the world because 
 of it — man, the trees and flowers, every- 
 thing.” 
 
 “ It is true love, madam, that works these 
 changes,” said the parson very quietly. 
 “ You should thank Heaven for it.” 
 
 She flashed swift eyes, with a glint of 
 tears in them, on him for a second. 
 
 “ But I do ! ” she cried. “ All day long, 
 
220 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 and whenever I wake in the night. And 
 yet ...” she paused as a veil of sadness 
 spread itself across her face. 
 
 “ Yes, madam ? ” said the parson. 
 
 “ I do not know if my love is returned,” 
 she whispered. 
 
 Parson Joyce drew a long breath. 
 
 “ The gentleman . . . ” he stopped, 
 
 scarce knowing what to say. “Then he has 
 not spoken to you ? ” he added lamely. 
 
 “ Of love ? Not one word ! ” she an- 
 swered. “ Sometimes I think ... I 
 think he cares for me, and sometimes I 
 fear he does not. May I tell you about 
 him ? — it will be such a relief, because I 
 have no one whom I may tell . . . but 
 
 you.” 
 
 The parson bowed his head. Human 
 feeling was rapidly thawing the priest within 
 the man ; he felt now as if he were the 
 brother of this glowing and radiant young 
 creature. 
 
 “ Yes,” he said ; “ tell me.” 
 
 Again she laughed merrily. 
 
 “ Now I cannot tell you,” she said. “ A 
 moment ago I thought I could, and now 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 
 
 221 
 
 . . . . Well, he is good, and he is 
 
 most lovable, and he is . . . and I love 
 
 him ! ” 
 
 “ He must be worthy indeed, madam, who 
 is worthy of your love,” answered the 
 parson, and he sighed. 
 
 “ Ah, but am I worthy of his ? ” she said 
 with sudden deep feeling. 
 
 “ I do not know him,” answered Parson 
 Joyce. 
 
 “ No,” she said. “ I do not think you do. 
 But . . . tell me, what must I do. Indeed, 
 indeed, there is no other man in all the 
 world that I will marry. I will die a maid 
 if I cannot marry the man I love ! ” 
 
 “ Will he not speak ? ” 
 
 “ He has not spoken.” 
 
 “ I have heard,” said Parson Joyce, “that 
 there are ways by which a man in these 
 cases may be made to speak.” 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders and made 
 a little grimace. 
 
 “ I wish I knew them ! ” she said. 
 
 “ The gentleman, madam, is, perhaps, 
 poor ? ” 
 
 “ In the eyes of the world, yes ; in 
 mine, no.” 
 
222 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ And, possibly, proud ? ” 
 
 “ With the pride of a true man.” 
 
 “It might seem pretentious on his part 
 to seek your hand, madam ? ” 
 
 “ I believe, upon my soul, it is some such 
 nonsense as that which fills his head ! ” she 
 exclaimed, tapping her toe against the 
 fender. 
 
 “ But, madam ! ” Parson Joyce in his 
 agitation rose and stood before her with 
 clasped hands. “ Consider the feelings of a 
 poor gentleman, who, may be, loves and 
 adores you with all his heart, but who 
 
 judges it presumptuous ” 
 
 “ Presumptuous ? Oh ! ” she said, “ I 
 have no patience with such silliness. The 
 mere fact that I love him makes him far 
 above me. Do I not tell you that my love 
 for him is so great that it has changed all 
 my heart ! ” 
 
 There was silence for a while ; the parson 
 was wondering who the man might be whose 
 mere existence had so transformed this once 
 imperious and coquettish young beauty. He 
 ran them all over in his mind, and could fix 
 on none. And, without knowing it, he 
 sighed. 
 
THE LADY SPEAKS 
 
 223 
 
 “ It seems to me, madam,” said Parson 
 Joyce, “ that there is but one way out of the 
 difficulty.” He faced her fair and square, in 
 the determined way in which he always 
 stood in his pulpit, and she looked up at 
 him, and immediately looked elsewhere. 
 “ If the gentleman cannot be brought to 
 declare his love, and his love is so necessary 
 
 to your happiness ” 
 
 “ Yes,” she murmured. “ It is . . . 
 
 it has come to be my life.” 
 
 “ And if you feel assured that he is 
 keeping silent because he fears to be 
 
 thought presumptuous ” 
 
 “ Yes, yes — I know it is so.” 
 
 “ Then,” said Parson Joyce, “ you must 
 tell him of your love for him.” He said the 
 words solemnly and resignedly, knowing 
 that she would do what he advised ; know- 
 ing full well, too, that no man would resist 
 her, and that ere long she would be this 
 unknown, highly favoured man’s wife, and 
 all would be changed. And after he had 
 spoken he began to pray somewhere far 
 inside himself. Her voice came to him as 
 he stood over her — a soft, very feminine 
 voice. 
 
224 FOR THOSE were stirring times 
 
 “You think that I should tell him?” 
 she said. 
 
 “It is the only way I can think of, 
 madam,” he answered. 
 
 And then came the great surprise of 
 Parson Joyce’s life. For the girl slid down 
 on her knees before him and seized his 
 hands, and laid her face against them. 
 
 “ But I have been trying to tell him for 
 the last ten minutes,” she whispered. “ And 
 he doesn’t see yet.” 
 
 And then Parson J oyce saw. 
 
 THE END 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 
 
 “ I should in nowise be surprised,” said 
 Nicodemus, the postman, as he opened 
 out his letters on the hall table of the Blue 
 Lion and bowed his head reverently at the 
 pint of old ale which the landlady had set 
 before him in pursuance of a time honoured 
 custom. “ I should, I say, in nowise experi- 
 ence astonishment, ma’am, if I presently 
 heard that owd Mestur Winterapple, of 
 Havercroft Farm, had been called out of 
 this vale of tears into them bright abodes of 
 bliss wherein I trust we shall all of us even- 
 tually be found, and where we shall dis- 
 course upon harps, and other musical 
 instruments, instead of carrying letters over 
 dusty roads on a hot June morning.” 
 
 “ You use such long, fine words, ’Demus,” 
 said the landlady, “ that I niver rightly 
 
228 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 know what you’re talking about. What’s 
 your meaning this time ? ” 
 
 “ My meaning, ma’am,” replied Nico- 
 demus, setting down the tankard, “is that 
 I think owd Mestur Winterapple is gathered 
 to his fathers — in other words, ma’am, 
 that he is dead.” 
 
 “ Gracious ! ” exclaimed the landlady. 
 “ Old Mr. Winterapple ! And what makes 
 you think that, ‘Demus ? ” 
 
 “ Because, ma’am,” replied the postman, 
 pointing to the letters spread out before 
 him, “ here is an envelope with an un- 
 commonly deep sable edge around it, 
 addressed to our friend Mestur Poskitt, and 
 bearing the Havercroft postmark. Now, 
 Mestur Poskitt and Mestur \\ interapple 
 are old friends and fellow pilgrims, and as 
 Mestur Winterapple has been failing in 
 health for some time, I take it that this 
 black edged letter is to inform Mestur 
 Poskitt that Mestur Winterapple is unfor- 
 tunately no more.” 
 
 “ It seems to me,” remarked the landlady, 
 “ that you can read what’s inside a letter by 
 merely looking at the envelope.” 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 229 
 
 “ Why, yes, ma’am,” answered Nico- 
 demus, imperturbable as ever. “ I know, 
 for instance, that of these two epistles of 
 yours, which I hereby hand over to you, 
 ma’am, in the legal form, one is from the 
 brewer’s traveller, to say he’ll call Tuesday 
 is a week, and the other is from your good 
 old mother at Sicaster, to thank the master 
 kindly for that sack of potatoes he sent her 
 by the carrier last week.” 
 
 “ And how might you know all that, 
 pray ? ” rejoined Mrs. Bulmer, turning the 
 letters over. 
 
 “ Because, ma’am, the brewer’s traveller 
 always does call on the first Tuesday in the 
 month,” answered Nicodemus, gathering up 
 the remainder of his letters, “ and you your- 
 self told me of the potatoes a week ago, 
 and I know your mother has not written 
 since.” 
 
 “ I wonder if old Mr. Winterapple is 
 dead ? ” said Mrs. Bulmer, musingly. “ It’ll 
 be a big buryin’ if he is — he was that 
 respected.” 
 
 “ I shall soon know all about it, ma’am,” 
 replied the postman, moving to the door. 
 
230 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ Mestur Poskitt always tells me all the 
 news of a local nature that is conveyed to 
 him in his correspondence, and I shall not 
 fail to report the exact truth to you, ma’am, 
 on returning from my round.” 
 
 Nicodemus made more speed than usual 
 through the village that morning in order 
 that he might the sooner find out if his 
 suspicions were correct or not, and he 
 arrived at Mr. Poskitt’s little house at least 
 a quarter of an hour earlier than usual, and 
 found that worthy gentleman walking in his 
 garden inspecting the flowers, which made a 
 gay show in the beds and side walks. It 
 was seldom that Nicodemus arrived before 
 nine o’clock, at which hour Mr. Poskitt was 
 usually found at the breakfast table — his 
 premature appearance on this occasion made 
 Mr. Poskitt open eyes and mouth and regard 
 him with evident astonishment. 
 
 “ Hello ! ” he said “ What brings thee 
 here soa early ? Thou’rt twenty minutes 
 afore t’ usual time.” 
 
 “ The correspondence entrusted to my 
 fatherly care this morning, Mestur Poskitt,” 
 replied Nicodemus, opening his bag and 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 231 
 
 producing Mr. Poskitt’s letters, “ is not so 
 large as is usual, sir, fraught though it may 
 be with tidings of joy and mirth, life and 
 death,” and he presented the letters with a 
 low bow and a deep sigh, the black edged 
 envelope being placed in clear view on top 
 of the others. 
 
 “ What’s ta say ? ” exclaimed Mr. 
 Poskitt. “ Deeath ? Now, then, what’s 
 this here — a black edged envelope ? Eh, 
 dear ! — Pm afraid somebody’s deead — I’m 
 afraid there’s bad news i’ that letter.” 
 
 Nicodemus folded his hands in the atti- 
 tude of a professional mute at an old 
 fashioned funeral and uttered a deep sigh. 
 He gazed at a tall, resplendent sunflower, 
 while Mr. Poskitt slowly opened the letter, 
 which seemed to forbode ill news, and his 
 head drooped to one side, and his lips pursed 
 themselves together as if he had been 
 anxious to see a sunflower all his life and was 
 at last overcome by its beauty. He heard 
 Mr. Poskitt exclaim, “ Deary me — deary 
 me!” and he sighed again, more deeply than 
 ever, and tapped the points of his fingers 
 together. 
 
232 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ Aye — aye ! ” said Mr. Poskitt, folding 
 the letter and hurrying toward the house. 
 “ It’s just what I thowt it wo’d be — owd 
 Mestur Winterapple o’ Havercroft’s dead. 
 Well, he wor an owd man — eight years 
 owder nor me.” 
 
 Nicodemus sighed again. 
 
 “ It’s what we must all come to, sir,” he 
 remarked in a strictly correct tone of 
 voice. “It’s an infirmity which no physician 
 can cure, is death.” 
 
 Mr. Poskitt half turned on the garden 
 path, looked out of the corners of his eyes 
 at the postman’s mournful face and figure, 
 and with a sharp, staccato “ Aye ! ” went 
 into the house. Nicodemus turned slowly 
 out of the gate, casting backward glances of 
 wonder at the garden and the windows. 
 
 “ Well ! ” he said, as he set his face to the 
 village. “ That’s the first occasion whereon 
 Mestur Poskitt has omitted to offer me 
 hospitality ! It’s ten months and a week 
 since he came to live retired in this delect- 
 able house, and it has been my custom 
 to drink a pint of his good home brewed 
 every morning after delivering his letters — 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 233 
 
 and this morning he never so much as asked 
 me. Dear, dear ! — ’tis very plain to see that 
 his grief, on hearing ot the death of his good 
 friend, Mestur Winterapple, has affected the 
 poor gentleman’s brain ! ” 
 
 Mr. Poskitt, it is true, had been so much 
 upset by the news of his old friend’s death 
 that he had forgotten to offer the postman 
 a pint of ale, but his mental balance was 
 still in its normal state when he walked 
 into his breakfast parlour and found Mrs. 
 Poskitt already seated in state behind her 
 silver tea-pot. He lifted the great tankard 
 of home brewed that always stood beside 
 his own cover and took a hearty pull at its 
 contents. 
 
 “ Ah ! ” said Mr. Poskitt, with great 
 appreciation, “ there’s noa ale i’ all t’ 
 countryside like that. Lyddv, owd love, 
 here’s some sad news i’ this here black edged 
 letter — owd Mestur Winterapple o’ Haver- 
 croft’s dead.” 
 
 “ Dear, dear ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Poskitt 
 pouring out her tea. “ Well, we’d been 
 expecting to hear of it, love, hadn’t we ? — 
 he was a very old man.” 
 
234 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ Why, why ! ” said Mr. Poskitt, sitting 
 down and helping himself somewhat largely 
 to cold roast beef. “ He was not a young 
 man, but he wor nobbut seventy-eight — a 
 matter o’ eight year owder nor me. How- 
 sumiver, young or owd, we must all die, soa 
 there it is. Aye — he’s gone ! ” 
 
 “ Who’s the letter from, love ? ” inquired 
 Mrs. Poskitt. 
 
 “ It’s thro’ one o’ t’ lasses,” replied Mr. 
 Poskitt, out of a full mouth. “ T’ unmarried 
 dowter — what do they call her — Keziah 
 Jane. Shoo says ’at they’ll tak’ it varry 
 kind if I’ll goa to t’ buryin’ on Friday.” 
 
 “ Of course, you’ll go, love ? ” said Mrs. 
 Poskitt. 
 
 “ Why cert’n’y,” answered Mr. Poskitt. 
 “ Me an’ owd Tobias wor friends for a 
 matter o’ nigh on to sixty year, I reckon. 
 Aye, I mun drive t’ mare ower on Friday 
 morning. Thou mun see ’at mi black clooas 
 is gotten out an’ brushed, love, and I’ll 
 away into t’ town efter breeakfast and buy 
 some gloves, and a mournin’ band to put 
 round t’ hat.” 
 
 It was in the most decorous and solemn 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 235 
 
 trappings of sable that Mr. Poskitt set out 
 in his smart dog cart on the morning of his 
 old friend’s funeral. He was a bit of a 
 dandy in his way, as all the country knew, 
 and his usual everyday attire was distinctly 
 gay and sporting, consisting, as it generally 
 did, of smart shooting coats of a large check, 
 fancy waistcoats in bright colours, and 
 horsey-looking riding breeches, Newmarket 
 gaiters, and well made boots. But upon 
 this occasion Mr. Poskitt wore a black 
 mourning suit, very well cut, but very 
 dignified and sombre instead of very smart 
 and sporting, and the glossiness of his 
 immaculate linen was accentuated by the 
 melancholy of his silk cravat, into which, 
 at the last moment, he refrained from stick- 
 ing the diamond horseshoe pin which had 
 been presented to him by Lord Norman- 
 tower on his completion of fifty years of 
 tenancy on that nobleman’s estate. No 
 better test of the solemnity of Mr. Poskitt’ s 
 feelings and the requirements of the occasion 
 could have been found than an inspection 
 of his pocket handkerchief. He usually 
 affected large and generous wear of this 
 
236 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 sort, small counterpane-like things with red 
 or blue ground, whereon were depicted 
 incidents of the chase, the turf, the road, or 
 scenes of rural life, such as a milkmaid in 
 the arms of a shepherd, or a ploughman 
 following his team across the land. But 
 upon this occasion Mr. Poskitt carried a 
 plain white handkerchief of the finest 
 cambric, deeply bordered with black, and 
 lavishly scented with lavender water, and a 
 triangular corner of it stuck out of his 
 breast pocket as a pennon flies at the mast- 
 head of a ship. Round Mr. Poskitt’s some- 
 what jaunty top-hat was folded a four inch 
 mourning band ; on Mr. Poskitt’s hands 
 were drawn a pair of black kid gloves ; 
 everything about and around Mr. Poskitt 
 was sombre, saving his own good humoured 
 face ; his silvery beard and bright eyes ; 
 the smart dog cart, with its black body and 
 yellow wheels, in which he sat ; and the 
 lively looking, somewhat skittish bay mare 
 that fretted between the shafts. 
 
 Mr. Poskitt set out on his seven mile drive 
 across the country immediately after his 
 nine o’clock breakfast. Passing through 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 237 
 
 his own village he maintained a dignified 
 and solemn air, and this was one of the 
 remarkably few occasions whereon the bay 
 mare did not pull up at the door of the 
 Blue Lion. Also, the reason which sent 
 him afield that morning being of a nature 
 bordering on the religious, and somewhat, 
 or rather very closely, akin to going to 
 church, Mr. Poskitt refrained from smoking 
 as he drove up the village street. But 
 when he came to the top of the hill, and 
 drew rein for a moment that he might gaze 
 at the familiar valley, and at the great 
 Norman castle which keeps watch and ward 
 over the old town of Sicaster on the oppo- 
 site side of it, Mr. Poskitt took out his cigar 
 case and lit up, and drove forward under 
 the slopes of Moorside Hill enjoying his 
 tobacco none the less because his thoughts 
 were of the old friend at whose obsequies 
 he was about to assist. 
 
 When Mr. Poskitt, his smart dog cart 
 and his lively mare, came to Wickley-in-the- 
 Water, they were joined by Mr. Poskitt’s 
 great market friend, Mr. Merrill, who, like 
 Mr. Poskitt, was habited in sober black 
 
238 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 from top to toe, and wore a go-to-church 
 expression on his broad countenance. Mr. 
 Merrill was mounted on a stout cob, and 
 he ranged it up alongside his friend’s dog 
 cart as they met on Wickley-in-the-Water 
 bridge, and so they went slowly up Wickley 
 Hill together in the direction of Havercroft. 
 It was customary, when these two met, to 
 indulge in a series of small jokes at each 
 other’s expense by way of betokening their 
 delight in each other’s society, but on this 
 occasion they did no more than exchange 
 a quiet “ Good-morning,” and Mr. Merrill, 
 who was of a jocose and convivial nature, 
 only called Mr. Poskitt “ Owd lad ! ” once 
 all the way to Havercroft. Neither gentle- 
 man referred to the coming event ; they 
 talked intermittently of crops, prices, and 
 of countryside gossip ; of old Mr. Winter- 
 apple’s demise they said nothing. 
 
 Havercroft was in mourning, but full of 
 excitement at the prospect of a great 
 burying. Every house in the place was a 
 house of closed blinds — death might have 
 touched every family in the village with his 
 sable wing. In the great solidly-built many- 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 239 
 
 gabled farmsteads, most of them thickly 
 covered over from base to roof with ivy 
 and jessamine, the white blinds made fierce 
 patches of dazzling light in the rays of the 
 June sun ; under the eaves of the little 
 cottages a square foot or two of a similar 
 dazzling whiteness showed the desire of the 
 working folk to show their respect to the 
 dead man. The effect of all these white 
 blinds reflecting the sunlight was startling 
 to the eye — it impressed itself even upon 
 Mr. Merrill, who was not too observant of 
 obvious things. 
 
 “ Seems to have been much respected in 
 his own place,” said Mr. Merrill, looking 
 around him. “ There’s ivvery blind i’ t’ 
 village drawn down.” 
 
 Mr. Poskitt gave no more reply to this 
 remark than a laconic “ Aye ! ” and they 
 made their way up the village street in 
 silence, both having thrown away their 
 cigars on first sighting the battlemented 
 tower of Havercroft Church above the belt 
 of elm trees that surround it. In spite 
 of the drawn blinds, there were a good many 
 faces of old and young women in the cottage 
 
240 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 doorways or at the garden gates or at the 
 orchard fences, and Mr. Poskitt and Mr. 
 Merrill were much gazed at as they 
 progressed toward the Manor Farm, where 
 poor old Tobias Winterapple, in whose 
 honour all these things were being done, 
 was even then being fastened up in his 
 coffin by the village carpenter, who could 
 undertake a funeral as easily as he could 
 make a cart. But the attention of the 
 villagers was not given entirely to Mr. 
 Poskitt and his friend — they, by this 
 time, were but units in a steadily growing 
 procession of black garmented men with 
 solemn faces, composed to the correct 
 expression for buryings, who emerged into 
 the village from all points of the compass 
 and made steadily for the old house at whose 
 gates quite a concourse of the curious, the 
 idle, and the sympathetic had gathered in 
 order to see the funeral set out. Through 
 this throng, kept in order by a perspiring 
 village constable, to whom the day’s pro- 
 ceedings were in the nature of an event, 
 Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill made their 
 way and delivered their horse-flesh into the 
 
AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 241 
 
 care of two young ploughmen, attired very 
 stiffly in their best clothes, and ornamented 
 with new neckerchiefs of black silk which 
 they had tied up in large bows that were 
 sometimes under their chins, but more 
 usually under their left ears. 
 
 “ Well, I suppose we mun join t’ com- 
 pany,” said Mr. Merrill, with a mighty sigh, 
 as he and Mr. Poskitt turned from the 
 stable yard in the direction of the house. 
 
 “ I suppose we mun,” replied Mr. Poskitt, 
 sighing in his turn. 
 
 “ Not ’at a buryin’ ’s a joyful occasion,” 
 said Mr. Merrill, still sighing. 
 
 “ Noa ! ” assented Mr. Poskitt. “ Owt 
 but ! Howsumiver, it’s what we mun all 
 come to. Come — let’s away into t’ house — 
 I can see young Featherstone — him ’at wed 
 t’ owdest dowter — stan’in’ at t’ door to 
 receive t’ company. Deng my buttons, but 
 it’s a waarm day for a buryin’ ! ” 
 
 Mr. Featherstone, son-in-law of the late 
 Mr. Tobias Winterapple, by virtue of his 
 marriage with Martha Elizabeth, eldest 
 daughter of that worthy gentleman, might 
 have re-echoed Mr. Poskitt’s sentiments as 
 
242 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 regards the warmth of the day with much 
 truth and fervour. There being no descend- 
 ants of the Winterapple stock in tail male, 
 it fell to Mr. Featherstone to receive the 
 company at the front door, and with the 
 aid of another son-in-law, Mr. Butcher, to 
 show them, in their various degrees, into 
 the rooms set apart for their accommodation 
 and entertainment. The Manor Farm, being 
 a house of considerable size, contained 
 several large parlours, most of which were 
 usually given up to antimacassars and 
 silence. On this occasion all were brought 
 into use. One was sacred to the relatives 
 of the dead man — his daughters, grand- 
 children and near relatives ; another to the 
 undertaker and his assistants ; a third to the 
 better class company, such as Mr. Poskitt 
 and Mr. Merrill ; a fourth to what you 
 might call the second degree — the black- 
 smith, the shopkeepers, the miller, the game- 
 keeper, and the very small farmers. The 
 labourers on the farm, who were to carry the 
 coffin across to the churchyard, were accom- 
 modated in the front kitchen. Similar 
 distinction was made in the refreshments 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 243 
 
 offered to the company — the folk of high 
 degree in the first parlours had a choice of 
 spirits and wines ; those of the second 
 rank of spirits or ale ; the labourers in the 
 kitchen were regaled on beer and bread and 
 cheese, with the prospect of roast beef and 
 Yorkshire pudding after the obsequies were 
 over. 
 
 Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill, shaking 
 hands very solemnly with Mr. Featherstone 
 at the front door, were marshalled into the 
 high degree parlour by Mr. Butcher, and 
 invited to take a chair and have a taste of 
 something “ short ” after their journey. A 
 buxom maid in a new and very stiff alpaca 
 dress and a white apron rustled up to them 
 and asked them in a hushed whisper what 
 they would be pleased to take, to which 
 question each replied that he would take 
 just a taste of Scotch whisky and a little 
 water — a modest demand which the maid 
 satisfied by mixing two stout tumblerfuls 
 and placing them at their respective elbows. 
 Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill took heart 
 after they had drunk — they looked round 
 the room and recognised several of their 
 
244 F0R those were stirring times 
 
 friends and nodded solemnly to them. 
 There was an air of repression all over the 
 room — it was like being in church — but 
 here and there men were talking in whispers, 
 and presently Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill 
 and two or three old farmers who sat near 
 them had got their heads together over their 
 glasses and were confabulating upon the 
 difference between old times and new. 
 
 “ There’s a vast difference ’twixt t’ owd 
 days and thease,” said a little wizen faced 
 old farmer in a suit of rusty black, which 
 obviously had been made in the sixties and 
 spent most of its days in lavender. “ A 
 buryin’s not what it used to be. It’s a 
 varry quiet affair, is a buryin’ now-a-days — 
 just a quiet glass to refresh yourself wi’, 
 like o’t’ efter your journey, and that’s all. 
 Used to be quite different i’ t’ owd days.” 
 
 “ Aye,” said Mr. Merrill. “ I remember 
 ’at when my father died t’ house wor full — 
 all t’ countryside wor theer, atein’ and 
 drinkin’ till they wor fair brussen. They 
 used to consider it t’ reyt occasion for a bit o’ 
 feastin’, but ye niver see nowt o’ t’ soart 
 now.” 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 245 
 
 “ An’ a good job, an’ all i ” said Mr. 
 Poskitt, emphatically. “ A sup o’ whisky 
 or a glass o’ wine, efter a seven mile drive’s 
 nowt but reasonable, but there’s noa ’casion 
 for owt noa more. There used to be a deal 
 too much guzzlin’ and swillin’ at buryin’s i’ 
 t’ owd days.” 
 
 “ Why, I dooan’t know, Mestur Poskitt,” 
 said the wizen faced man, with a deprecatory 
 smile. “ I’m sewre I dooant know whether 
 t’ owd system worn’t t’ best. It’s a poor 
 heart ’at niver rejoices, and though a buryin’ 
 ’s noan a varry joyful occasion, a bit o’ 
 re veilin’, as you might term it, i’ t’ flesh-pots 
 and t’ wine-pots can turn it into varry near 
 as melodious an event as a weddin’ or a 
 christenin’. Eh, dear, I can bear i’ mind 
 your feyther’s buryin’, Mestur Poskitt — 
 theer wor grand doin’ s, an’ all ! I niver 
 seed soa much to ate and drink i’ all my 
 life — varry near ivverybody wor drunk afore 
 they browt t’ corpse downstairs ! It wor t’ 
 grandest buryin’ I ivver saw. But she knew 
 how to do things reyt, did your poor mother 
 — shoo wor one o’ t’ real good owd sort.” 
 
 “ Aye ! ” said Mr. Poskitt, snorting. 
 
246 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 “ And do ye know what my mother spent 
 o’ that buryin’ ? ’Cos if ye doant, I do ! — 
 not a penny short o’ five hundred pound.” 
 
 “ Eh, dear, there wor a deal o’ unneces- 
 sary money spent i’ them times ! ” sighed 
 Mr. Merrill. “ I alius believe i’ owd cus- 
 toms, but I can’t see noa sense i’ throwin’ 
 money away like that — there’s noa need 
 for ’t.” 
 
 “ Why, but I shall stan’ up for t’ owd 
 days ! ” said the wizen faced man. “ There 
 wor summat about ’em ’at there isn’t about 
 these here. A bit o’ feastin’ niver did 
 nobody noa harm, and ye can’t deny ’at a 
 buryin’ does bring all t’ countryside 
 together. It ’d ha’ done noan on us noa 
 harm, I say, if we’d gi’en owd Mestur 
 Winterapple at onny rate a roast beef 
 buryin’ — I’ve hed fower buryin’ s i’ my 
 family ; I’ve buried three lads and a lass 
 — t’ lads wor all buried wi’ roast beef and 
 t’ lass wi’ ham.” 
 
 “ We’ll bury ye wi’ roast goose,” said 
 Mr. Merrill. “ That’ll suit ye varry weel.” 
 
 “ There’s niver noa gloves now-a-days,” 
 said another old man. “I’ t’ owd days 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 247 
 
 ivverybody ’at cam’ to a buryin’ hed a pair 
 o’ black kid gloves presented to him as sooin 
 as he cam’ into t’ house.” 
 
 “ Aye, and theer wor crape scarves an’ 
 all ! ” said another feelingly. “ I used to 
 goa to all t’ buryin’ s ’at I could when 
 I wor first wed, ’cause t’ wife used to gi’ t’ 
 crape scarves to her mother to mak’ caps 
 wi’. But there’s nowt o’ that now.” 
 
 “ I doant know what some o’ ye chaps 
 wants,” remarked Mr. Poskitt, sipping his 
 whisky thoughtfully. “ Seeams to me ’at 
 all ’at ye come to a buryin’ for is to fill yer 
 bellies and see what ye can get. Deng my 
 buttons ! — I’d be ashamed o’ misen if — — 
 At this moment the door of the parlour 
 — now full of men all conversing in hushed 
 whispers — was suddenly opened, and the 
 village carpenter, very hot, very energetic, 
 and very self-important, appeared on the 
 threshold, waving his top-hat as if to implore 
 silence. An instant hush fell upon the 
 assembly. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said the village carpenter, 
 “ we’m about to bring down the deceased 
 corpse. If you’ll follow me on to the lawn, 
 
248 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 gentlemen, I’ll marshall you into order for 
 the mournful procession.” 
 
 To the village folk who stood, bare- 
 headed, open mouthed, wide eyed, on either 
 side of the lane which led to the churchyard, 
 the funeral procession of the deceased Mr. 
 Winterapple was an imposing and moment- 
 ous spectacle. First came the carpenter, 
 still very much heated and not a little 
 flustered, for this was the most considerable 
 job he had undertaken as yet, and he was 
 just as anxious that all should go well as he 
 was conscious that all depended upon him- 
 self. After him came the dead man’s 
 labourers, carrying the coffin — a solid affair 
 of polished oak, ornamented with glittering 
 brass, at sight of which the folk in the lane 
 uttered hushed exclamations of delight. 
 
 “ Eh, si tha’ ! ” said a woman, directing 
 her child’s attention to the coffin. “ Si tha’, 
 joy, look at t’ golden handles — they fair 
 shine i’ t’ sun ! ” 
 
 “ They doant do things at a grand bury in’ 
 as they used to,” piped an old man as the 
 coffin passed. “ F my time they used to 
 cover t’ coffin up’ wi’ what they termed 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 249 
 
 a pall, and t’ quality o’ t’ neighbourhood 
 used to walk o’ t’ side ho’ din’ it up. They’ve 
 some varry new tangled ways i’ thease 
 times — I doan’t know where we are some- 
 times — they change iverything soa.” 
 
 The women broke into murmurs as the 
 mourners came into view immediately 
 behind the coffin. They appraised the value 
 of the crape garments worn by the dead 
 man’s daughters and wondered what they 
 would do with their heavy veils when there 
 was no longer any need to wear them. 
 Then their curiosity in this respect gave 
 place to an inquisitive desire to inspect the 
 procession. There were quite a hundred 
 sombrely clad men walking three and three 
 after the mourners, and the onlookers 
 betrayed a lively interest in their person- 
 alities and commented upon them as the 
 spectators at a football match comment 
 upon popular favourites. 
 
 “ Theer’s t’ owd Squire, walkin’ aft’ 
 heead o’ t’ procession wi’ t’ Doctor and t’ 
 Lawyer. They’ve all a good reyt to be 
 theer,for t’ Squire’s hed fifty year’ rent out 
 o’ owd Tobias, and t’ doctor’s sattled many 
 
250 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 a long bill wi’ Tobias’ name at t’ top, and t’ 
 lawyer’s done many a job for him and 
 feathered his own nest weel into t’ bargain. 
 And theer’s Lawson, t’ vet — owd Toaby 
 hed many a deal wi’ him, and it ’ud ha’ 
 takken t’ Owd Lad hissen to ha’ bested 
 eyther on ’em. And theer’s White, t’ corn 
 factor, and Simpson, t’ auctioneer — gow, I 
 think all t’ countryside’s corned to put owd 
 Tobias away i’ t’ yearth ! Si tha’, theer’s 
 owd Mestur Poskitt, o’ Willowford, and 
 Mestur Merrill, o’ Wickley-in-the-Watter 
 — them two and owd Mestur Winterapple 
 were great cronies when they used to meet 
 at t’ King George i’ Sicaster o’ market 
 days.” 
 
 “ They weern’t meet noa more, onnyway. 
 Deeath mak’s nowt o’ friendship.” 
 
 “ Noa, that’s reyt enough. Deeath mak’s 
 nowt o’ owt ’at theer is — neyther love, nor 
 matrimony, nor riches, nor high estate. 
 It’s t’ onnly thing theer is i’ all t’ world ’at 
 respects nowt at all. When I’m deead I 
 shall be as good as t’ owd Squire theer, wi’ 
 all his brass, for all I’m nobbut a brokken 
 down owd labourer wi’ five shillin’ a week 
 thro’ t’ parish.” 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 251 
 
 Overhead the sky was a mighty dome of 
 cloudless blue ; high above the crocketed 
 pinnacles of the old church tower, and the 
 wide stretch of woodland that enclosed the 
 churchyard on three sides, the rooks were 
 calling perpetually ; in the grounds of the 
 vicarage thrush and blackbird and linnet 
 were singing gaily ; dominant above their 
 piping and the calling of the circling rooks 
 rose the deep note of the minute bell. 
 Then, in a sudden hush, came the voice of 
 the parson rising clear above bell and birds, 
 and all the hats went off and old Tobias 
 was carried into the shadow of the ancient 
 lych-gate and up the green slopes of the 
 churchyard for the last time. 
 
 Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill sat elbow to 
 elbow in a pew near the chancel. They 
 stared at the painted windows and at the 
 old Norman arches, at the quaint carvings 
 in the walls and at the cross-legged Crusaders 
 in their niches ; they looked at the parson 
 as he read the service, and sometimes they 
 glanced at the Prayer Book, which they held 
 between them, but their minds’ eyes were 
 chiefly fixed on dead Tobias. Somehow, 
 
252 FOR THOSE WERE STIRRING TIMES 
 
 they could not think of old Tobias Winter- 
 apple as dead — they had had so many merry 
 jests together, so many cheerful cracks in 
 taverns and ordinaries, at the covertside or 
 on the highway, that to imagine old Toby, 
 with his red face and twinkling eyes, as 
 boxed up there in the coffin, with wreaths of 
 flowers about him, seemed an impossibility. 
 
 It took a long time for all the mourners 
 to pass round the open grave when the 
 parson finally closed his book and went 
 slowly away. Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill 
 waited until the throng had cleared ; then 
 they went up to the grave together and 
 looked at the glittering name-plate with its 
 legend : Tobias Winter apple, born 1824 1 
 
 died 1902. Each heaved a deep sigh as he 
 turned away. 
 
 “ He wor t’ best judge of a pig ’at iver I 
 knew, wor Tobias ! ” said Mr. Merrill with 
 heartfelt conviction. 
 
 “ And noabody iver got ower him i’ a bit 
 o’ hoss dealin’ ! ” said Mr. Poskitt, with 
 equal fervour. 
 
 They walked back to the Manor Farm 
 together in silence. Most of the men who 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 253 
 
 had attended the obsequies were already 
 mounting their horses or climbing into their 
 traps ; Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill pre- 
 pared to follow their example. To them, 
 however, came hurrying Mr. Featherstone, 
 whose homely countenance wore an air of 
 relief now that his father-in-law had been 
 safely bestowed in his last resting place. 
 
 “ Don’t go yet, gentlemen,” said he. 
 “ Stop and tek’ a bit o’ dinner wi’ t’ family. 
 I’m sewre mi wife and her sisters ’ud be 
 pleased.” 
 
 “ Naay, mi lad, thenkin’ you kindly,” 
 said Mr. Poskitt. “ On occasions like these 
 families is best left to theirsens. Ye’ll ha’ 
 t’ will to read, and all that.” 
 
 “ Aye,” said Mr. Merrill, “ we should 
 nobbut be i’ t’ way, Mestur Featherstone — 
 we’ll be goin’ hoamwards, thenk ye.” 
 
 “ Why, ye mun just come in and 
 shak’ hands, like, wi’ t’ ladies,” urged 
 Mr. Featherstone. “ Come in for a few o’ 
 minutes and hev’ a sup o’ whisky — it’ll do 
 you good efter sittin’ i’ that cowd church.” 
 Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill followed Mr. 
 Featherstone into the house and into the 
 
254 F0R THOSE were stirring times 
 
 parlour sacred to the family. Mrs. Feather- 
 stone, a stout, rosy-faced lady, the very 
 picture of her dead father, was there alone. 
 She had divested herself of her heavy veil, 
 and had untied the strings of her bonnet, 
 and she now sat in great comfort, dipping 
 sponge biscuits into a glass of sherry and 
 consuming them with evident relish. At 
 the sight of Mr. Poskitt and Mr. Merrill she 
 stretched out a warm hand. 
 
 “ How do you do, Mr. Poskitt, and how 
 do you do, Mr. Merrill ? ” she said. “ Pm 
 sure we’re all deeply obligated to you both 
 for showin’ such respect to mi poor father. 
 Sit you down — happen you’ll stop and tek’ 
 a bit o’ dinner wi’ us ? It’s at one o’clock 
 sharp — Lucy and Keziah’s tekkin’ off their 
 mournin’ to attend to it. You can’t, really ? 
 Why, then, you mun hev’ a glass o’ whisky 
 before you go — J ames, get the decanters out 
 and tell one o’ the lasses to bring fresh 
 water.” 
 
 “ We were varry sorry to hear of your 
 loss, ma’am,” said Mr. Poskitt. “ It were 
 summat of a blow to me, though I did 
 expect it in a way. He wor much respected, 
 
MR. POSKITT AT THE FUNERAL 255 
 
 wor Mestur Winterapple, and one could ha’ 
 liked to see him last a bit longer.” 
 
 §.’ Mrs. Featherstone helped Mr. Poskitt and 
 Mr. Merrill to whisky and water, and poured 
 out another glass of sherry for herself. 
 
 “ Aye, why you see, Mestur Poskitt,” she 
 said, “ of course, one alius wants to keep 
 them ’at’s near and dear, as the sayin’ is, as 
 long as one can, but I don’t know ’at it’s 
 any charity — I’m sure mi poor father’s a 
 deal better off wheer he is. You see, he 
 wor getting that bad wi’ t’ dropsy — t’ 
 watter had gotten into his legs, and, of 
 course, i’ time it would ha’ gotten to his 
 heart. Nay, I think it wor a merciful 
 release, and he’s left us all varry well off — 
 varry nicely off, indeed — and so I’ve naught 
 to say agen t’ decrees of Providence. I 
 alius did hold ’at ivery thing i’ this world is 
 ordered for the best.” 
 
 It was with this comforting assurance 
 warm within them that Mr. Poskitt and Mr. 
 Merrill rode away in the noontide glare, 
 leaving their old friend snug beneath the 
 cool green of the tree shaded churchyard. 
 
 THE END 
 
 The Robinson Printing Co., Ltd., i, Lombard Court, E.C. Works : Brighton. 
 
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