Christmas gold, p.763
Christmas Gold, page 763
* * *
Those were the last words James Lawrence ever wrote, Gentlemen. Further than this, no man can speak of his death; it is plain to me that one of his mad fits was coming on before he left Lisbon; that it grew and increased until he came here; and that here it reached its climax and urged him to his death. I believe in the ghosts James Lawrence saw, as I believe in the haunting power of any great misdeed that has driven a fellow-creature into deadly sin.
When David Polreath had finished, the chairman gave the teetotum such a swift and sudden twirl, to be beforehand with any interruption, that it twirled among all the glasses and into all corners of the table, and finally, flew off the table and lodged in Captain Jorgan's waistcoat.
"A kind of a judgment!" said the captain, taking it out. "What's to be done now? I know no story, except Down Easters, and they didn't happen to myself, or any one of my quaintance, and you couldn't enjoy 'em without going out of your minds first. And perhaps the company ain't prepared to do that?"
The chairman interposed by rising and declaring it to be his perroud perrivilege to stop preliminary observations.
"Wa'al," said the captain, "I defer to the President—which an't at all what they do in my country, where they lay into him, head, limbs, and body." Here he slapped his leg. "But I beg to ask a preliminary question. Colonel Polreath has read from a diary. Might I read from a pipe-light?"
The chairman requested explanation.
"The history of the pipe-light," said the captain, " is just this:—that it's verses, and was made on the voyage home by a passenger I brought over. And he was a quiet crittur of a middle-aged man with a pleasant countenance. And he wrote it on the head of a cask. And he was a most etarnal time about it tew. And he blotted it as if he had wrote it in a continual squall of ink. And then he took an indigestion, and I physicked him for want of a better doctor. And then to show his liking for me he copied it out fair, and gave it to me for a pipe-light. And it ain't been lighted yet, and that's a fact."
"Let it be read," said the chairman.
"With thanks to Colonel Polreath for setting the example," pursued the captain, "and with apologies to the Honourable A. Parvis and the whole of the present company for this passenger's having expressed his mind in verses—which he may have done along of bein' sea-sick, and he was very—the pipe-light, unrolled, comes to this:
We sit by the fire so wide and red, With the dance of the young within, Who have yet small learning of cold and dread, And of sorrow no more than of sin; Nor dream of a night on a sleepless bed Of waves, with their terrible wrecks o'erspread.
We sit round the hearth as red as gold, And the legends beloved we tell, How battles were won by the nobles bold, Where hamlets of villains fell: And we praise our God, while we cut the bread, And share the wine round, for our heroes dead.
And we talk of the Kings, those strong proud men, Who ravaged, confessed, and died; And of churls who rabbled them oft and again, Perchance with a kindred pride— Though the Kings built churches to pierce the sky, And the rabbling churls in the cross-road lie.
Yet 'twixt the despot and slave half-free, Old Truth may have message clear; Since the hard black yew, and the lithe young tree, Belong to an age—and a year, And though distant in might and in leaf they be, In right of the woods, they are near.
And old Truth's message, perchance, may be: "Believe in thy kind, whate'er the degree, Be it King on his throne, or serf on his knee, While Our Lord showers light, in his bounty free, On the rock and the vale—on the sand and the sea."
They are singing within, with their voices dear, To the tunes which are dear as well; And we sit and dream while the words we hear, Having tale of our own to tell— Of a far midnight on the terrible sea, Which comes back on the tune of their blithe old glee.
As old as the hills, and as old as the sky,— As the King on his throne,—as the serf on his knee, A song wherein rich can with poor agree, With its chorus to make them laugh or cry— Which the young are singing, with no thought nigh, Of a night on a terrible sea: "I care for nobody; no, not I, Since nobody cares for me."
* * *
The storm had its will. There was wreck—there was flight, O'er an ocean of Alps, through the pitch-black night, When a good ship sank, and a few got free, To cope in their boat with the terrible sea.
And when the day broke, there was blood on the sea, From the wild hot eye of the sun outshed, For the heaven was a-flame as with fire from Hell, And a scorching calm on the waters fell, As if Ruin had won, and with fiendish glee, Sailed forth in his galley to number the dead.
And they rowed their boat o'er the terrible sea, As mute as a crew made of ghosts might be: For the best in his heart had not manhood to say, That the land was five hundred miles away.
A day—and a week—There was bread for one man; The water was dry. And on this, the few Who were rowing their boat o'er the terrible sea, To murmur, to curse, and to crave began.
And how 'twas agreed on, no one knew, But the feeble and famished and scorched by the sun, With his pitiless eye, drew lots to agree, What their hideous morrow of meat must be.
O then were the faces frightful to read, Of ravening hope, and of cowardly pride, That lies to the last, its sharp terror to hide; And a stillness as though 'twere some game of the Dead, While they waited the number their lot to decide— There were nine in that boat on the terrible sea, And he who drew NINE, was the victim to be.
You may think what a ghastly shiver there ran, From mate to his mate, as the doom began.
SIX—had a wife with a wild rose cheek; TWO—a brave boy, not a year yet old; EIGHT—his last sister, lame and weak, Who quivered with palsy more than with cold.
You may think what a breath the respited drew, And how wildly still, sat the rest of the crew; How the voice as it called spoke hoarser and slower; The number it next dared to speak was—FOUR.
'Twas the rude black man, who had handled an oar, The best on that terrible sea of the few.
And ugly and grim in the sunshine glare Were his thick parched lips, and his dull small eyes, And the tangled fleece of his rusty hair— 'Ere the next of the breathless the death-lot drew, His shout like a sword pierced the silence through.
"Let the play end, with your Number Four.
What need to draw? Live along, you few Who have hopes to save and have wives to cry O'er the cradles of children free!
What matter if folk without home should die, And be eaten by land or sea?
I care for nobody; no, not I, Since nobody cares for me!"
And with that, a knife—and a heart struck through— And the warm red blood, and the cold black clay, And the famine withdrawn from among the few, By their horrible meal for another day!
* * *
So the eight, thus fed, came at last to land, And the tale of their shipmate told, As of water found in the burning sand, Which braves not the thirsty, cold.
But the love of the listener, safe and free, Goes forth to that slave on that terrible sea.
For, fancies from hearth and from home will stray, Though within are the dance and the song; And a grave tale told, if the tune be gay, Says little to scare the young.
While they sing, with their voices clear as can be, Having called, once more, for the blithe old glee— "I care for nobody, no, not I, Since nobody cares for me."
But the careless tune, it saith to the old, Who sit by the hearth as red as gold, When they think of their tale of the terrible sea: "Believe in thy kind, whate'er the degree, Be it King on his throne, or serf on his knee, While Our Lord showers good from his bounty free, Over storm, over calm, over land, over sea."
Mr. Parvis had so greatly disquieted the minds of the Gentlemen King Arthurs for some minutes, by snoring with strong symptoms of apoplexy—which, in a mild form, was his normal state of health—that it was now deemed expedient to wake him and entreat him to allow himself to be escorted home. Mr. Parvis's reply to this friendly suggestion could not be placed on record without the aid of several dashes, and is therefore omitted. It was conceived in a spirit of the profoundest irritation, and executed with vehemence, contempt, scorn, and disgust. There was nothing for it, but to let the excellent gentleman alone, and he fell without loss of time into a defiant slumber.
The teetotum being twirled again, so buzzed and bowed in the direction of the young fisherman, that Captain Jorgan advised him to be bright and prepare for the worst. But, it started off at a tangent, late in its career, and fell before a well-looking bearded man (one who made working drawings for machinery, the captain was informed by his next neighbour), who promptly took it up like a challenger's glove.
"Oswald Penrewen!" said the chairman.
"Here's Unchris'en at last!" the captain whispered Alfred Raybrock. "Unchris'en goes ahead, right smart; don't he?"
He did, without one introductory word.
Mine is my brother's Ghost Story. It happened to my brother about thirty years ago, while he was wandering, sketch-book in hand, among the High Alps, picking up subjects for an illustrated work on Switzerland. Having entered the Oberland by the Brunig Pass, and filled his portfolio with what he used to call "bits" from the neighbourhood of Meyringen, he went over the Great Scheideck to Grindlewald, where he arrived one dusky September evening, about three-quarters of an hour after sunset. There had been a fair that day, and the place was crowded. In the best inn there was not an inch of space to spare;—there were only two inns at Grindlewald, thirty years ago—so my brother went to one at the end of the covered bridge next the church, and there, with some difficulty, obtained the promise of a pile of rugs and a mattress, in a room which was already occupied by three other travellers.
The Adler was a primitive hostelry, half farm, half inn, with great rambling galleries outside, and a huge general room, like a barn. At the upper end of this room stood long stoves, like metal counters, laden with steaming-pans, and glowing underneath like furnaces. At the lower end, smoking, supping, and chatting, were congregated some thirty or forty guests, chiefly mountaineers, char drivers, and guides. Among these my brother took his seat, and was served, like the rest, with a bowl of soup, a platter of beef, a flagon of country wine, and a loaf made of Indian corn. Presently, a huge St. Bernard dog came and laid his nose upon my brother's arm. In the mean time he fell into conversation with two Italian youths, bronzed and dark-eyed, near whom he happened to be seated. They were Florentines. Their names, they told him, were Stefano and Battisto. They had been travelling for some months on commission, selling cameos, mosaics, sulphur casts, and the like pretty Italian trifles, and were now on their way to Interlaken and Geneva. Weary of the cold North, they longed, like children, for the moment which should take them back to their own blue hills and grey-green olives; to their workshop on the Ponte Vecchio, and their home down by the Arno.
It was quite a relief to my brother, on going up to bed, to find that these youths were to be two of his fellow-lodgers. The third was already there, and sound asleep, with his face to the wall. They scarcely looked at this third. They were all tired, and all anxious to rise at daybreak, having agreed to walk together over the Wengern Alp as far as Lauterbrunnen. So, my brother and the two youths exchanged a brief good night, and, before many minutes, were all as far away in the land of dreams as their unknown companion.
My brother slept profoundly—so profoundly that, being roused in the morning by a clamour of merry voices, he sat up dreamily in his rugs, and wondered where he was.
"Good day, signor," cried Battisto. "Here is a fellow-traveller going the same way as ourselves."
"Christien Baumann, native of Kandersteg, musical-box maker by trade, stands five feet eleven in his shoes, and is at monsieur's service to command," said the sleeper of the night before.
He was as fine a young fellow as one would wish to see. Light, and strong, and well proportioned, with curling brown hair, and bright, lonest eyes that seemed to dance at every word he uttered.
"Good morning," said my brother. "You were asleep last night when we came up."
"Asleep! I should think so, after being all day in the fair, and walking from Meyringen the evening before. What a capital fair it was!"
"Capital, indeed," said Battisto. "We sold cameos and mosaics yesterday, for nearly fifty francs."
"Oh, you sell cameos and mosaics, you two! Show me your cameos, and I will show you my musical boxes. I have such pretty ones, with coloured views of Geneva and Chillon on the lids, playing two, four, six, and even eight tunes. Bah! I will give you a concert!"
And with this he unstrapped his pack, displayed his little boxes on the table, and wound them up, one after the other, to the delight of the Italians.
"I helped to make them myself, every one." said he, proudly. "Is it not pretty music? I sometimes set one of them when I go to bed at night, and fall asleep listening to it. I am sure, then, to have pleasant dreams! But let us see your cameos. Perhaps I may buy one for Marie, if they are not too dear. Marie is my sweetheart, and we are to be married next week."
"Next week!" exclaimed Stefano. "That is very soon. Battisto has a sweetheart also, up at Impruneta; but they will have to wait a long time before they can buy the ring."
Battisto blushed like a girl.
"Hush, brother!" said he. "Show the cameos to Christien, and give your tongue a holiday!"
But Christien was not so to be put off.
"What is her name?" said he. "Tush! Battisto, you must tell me her name! Is she pretty? Is she dark, or fair? Do you often see her when you are at home? Is she very fond of you? Is she as fond of you as Marie is of me?"
"Nay, how should I know that?" asked the soberer Battisto. "She loves me, and I love her—that is all."
"And her name?"
" Margherita."
"A charming name! And she is herself as pretty as her name, I'll engage. Did you say she was fair?"
"I said nothing about it one way or the other," said Battisto, unlocking a green box clamped with iron, and taking out tray after tray of his pretty wares. "There! Those pictures all inlaid in little bits are Roman mosaics—these flowers on a black ground are Florentine. The ground is of hard dark stone, and the flowers are made of thin slices of jasper, onyx, cornelian, and so forth. Those forget-me-nots, for instance, are bits of turquoise , and that poppy is cut from a piece of coral."
" I like the Roman ones best," said Christieu. " What place is this, with all the arches?"
"This is the Coliseum, and the one next to it is St . Peter's. But we Florentines care little for the Roman work. It is not half so fine or so valuable as ours. The Romans make their mosaics of composition."
"Composition or no, I like the little landscapes best," said Christian. "There is a lovely one, with a pointed building, and a tree, and mountains at the back. How I should like that one for Marie!"
"You may have it for eight francs," replied Battisto; " we sold two of them yesterday for ten each. It represents the tomb of Caius Cestius, near Rome."
"A tomb!" echoed Christien, considerably dismayed. "Diable! That would be a dismal present to one's bride."
"She would never guess that it was a tomb, if you did not tell her," suggested Stefano.
Christien shook his head. " That would be next door to deceiving her," said he.
"Nay," interposed my brother, "the owner of that tomb has been dead these eighteen or nineteen hundred years. One almost forgets that he was ever buried in it."
"Eighteen or nineteen hundred years? Then he was a heathen?"
"Undoubtedly, if by that you mean that he lived before Christ."
Christien's face lighted up immediately.
"Oh, that settles the question," said he, pulling out his little canvas purse, and paying his money down at once. "A heathen's tomb is as good as no tomb at all. I'll have it made into a brooch for her, at Interlaken. Tell me, Battisto, what shall you take home to Italy for your Margherita?"
Battisto, laughed, and chinked his eight francs. "That depends on trade," said he; "if we make good profits between this and Christmas, I may take her a Swiss muslin from Berne; but we have already been away seven months, and we have hardly made a hundred francs over and above our expenses."
And with this, the talk turned upon general matters, the Florentines locked away their treasures, Christien restrapped his pack, and my brother and all went down together, and breakfasted in the open air outside the inn.
It was a magnificent morning: cloudless and sunny, with a cool breeze that rustled in the vine upon the porch, and flecked the table with shifting shadows of green leaves. All around and about them stood the great mountains, with their blue-white glaciers bristling down to the verge of the pastures, and the pine-woods creeping darkly up their sides. To the left, the Wetterhorn; to the right, the Eigher; straight before them, dazzling and imperishable, like an obelisk of frosted silver, the Schreckhorn, or Peak of Terror. Breakfast over, they bade farewell to their hostess, and, mountain-staff in hand, took the path to the Wengern Alp. Half in light, half in shadow, lay the quiet valley, dotted over with farms, and traversed by a torrent that rushed, milk-white, from its prison in ihe glacier. The three lads walked briskly in advance, their voices chiming together every now and then in chorus of laughter. Somehow my brother felt sad. He lingered behind, and, plucking a little red flower from the bank, watched it hurry away with the torrent, like a life on the stream of time. Why was his heart so heavy, and why were their hearts so light?
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