The Grewelthorpe Feud

Author Unknown

It was market day in Fulford, and it was very hot, as the red-whiskered Mahoney, the rough "cross country" doctor, rode clattering in from the Barford road through a drove of panting sheep. His lank and jaded mare turned from habit into the yard of the old inn, and sniffed at the few drops of water at the bottom of a bucket before the door, while her master swung himself to the ground and entered the dim passage to the bar-parlor, tugging his stiff mustache clear of his mouth.

"Oh, now, be quiet, me darlin'! A big drink—I'm as dry as a salted cod."

The farmers and dealers stopped their talk and turned on their elbows. He nodded to them, took a long pull at the ale, and then took a long breath.

"Weel, what be news, doctor?" asked Long Ribston. Doctor Mahoney was known to be the greatest gossip on the countryside.

"Be auld Kitty dead yet?" asked the old Bidker; "she been a lang time aboot it."

"Yes, me old Tom; but not so long as ye think. She died a fortnight ago. Everybody knows, but old sinners like you that niver come into town but to the monthly cattle. Faix, now, there'll be a fine rumpus and a pretty bit o' law about the old lady's will. I walked up the hill wid Grewelthorpe—"

"Which?"

"Sure, big John o' the mill. We were speakin'—By the Lord! there he is in the yard—but ye'd see this blessed day some fun wid him and his brother, the agent. He's as mad as the divil wid him and the will."

The white-haired old man in the corner (the superannuated landlord), who had been muttering to himself "Big John—big John," now rose, and shuffled up to Mahoney, and peering in his face, said querulously, "Gearge at top o' toon is a deal foiner man, lat me tell ye. Au' Grewelthorpes," continued he, getting warmer and clutching the breast of the doctor's coat, "what doest thou knaw about them? They be as strange to thee as frummity. Gossip as thoo likes about too an'd wives an' thoo dawgs, but leave talk o' Grewelthorpes to them as knaws them."

"All right, old cock. I know the Grewelthorpe story is yours—all your own. Don't be afraid, I won't steal it."

"Sh! sh!" sounded from this side and that. "Here he be."

The patriarch shuffled back to his chair; the doctor sat on the table and looked to the buckle of his spur-strap; and the rest pursed up their lips, laid their arms on the table and winked. The door had opened, while a voice in the passage said, "Yes, lass; bring me a gill."

"O' ale, sir?"

"Ale? No! Brandy."

The occupants of the room lifted their eyebrows and nodded to each other. A tall, burly man entered, looking as white and dusty as a barn owl, except that his whiskers were black and crisp.

"Here ye be a," said he, taking a seat. The doctor gave a light nod of recognition, while the patriarch in the corner fussily filled his long pipe and scratched a match. The dull eyes around observed these movements as if they had never seen the like before. There was an embarrassed silence, broken only by the distracted bumping and buzzing of a bluebottle on the window pane, which the newcomer watched with apparent interest. His brandy was brought in a little pewter measure. He poured out a glassful and drank it off, and then turned to his neighbor.

"An' what be news goin'?"

"Nou't," said old Bidker promptly, from the other side of the table, "'cept aboot thoo."

"Ye say so?"

There was no change in his look or tone.

But Doctor Mahoney knew how Bidker delighted to engender strife, so he turned at once. "Fact is, John, I just told them as how ye were mad aboot something in your aunt's will; I didn't know what, but—"

"Knaw? Cod! How should ye knaw?" He poured out and drank the rest of his brandy. "The old lady may ha' left him the house and me the land—"

"But," cried the patriarch, "she wur fonder o' thoo than o' Gearge."

"—or," continued Grewelthorpe, without heeding him, "she may, peradventure, as parson says, ha' left me the house and him the land."

"Be that what she's done?" asked the patriarch eagerly.

Grewelthorpe turned and looked at him a moment, and then said sententiously, "Mousetraps, old Cocker. Maybe he'll—"

A face darkened the little window, peering in. It was his—the brother's.

"D—nation!" slowly growled John, staring at the window. "That's jus' how he's aye a-interruptin' me now. But I done him out a' along, and I'll do'm out again!"

He rose suddenly, and went as if to intercept his brother. But they heard him stop at the bar and call for more brandy. They all agreed with Bidker that he was "going it," and that he must have been going it for some days.

"He'll be havin' the divils," said Long Ribston.

"Not he," said Mahoney, with a skilled, superior air, to which all deferred with a wistful, interrogative "No?"

The Doctor went out. In a moment he put his head in at the door again—"He's at it."

At what? They all pushed and stumbled into the street; even the patriarch, after a little hesitation, put down his pipe and shuffled after them.

The marketplace (which was no more than a portion of the street widened on one side by the retreat of a row of well-to-do houses up a sloping bank) was filled with men and beasts. The beasts were penned; sheep and pigs on the shop side and the cattle on the bank. The men usually talked and laughed, and felt handfuls of grain in groups, stood contemplative over a store pig, or gathered about Pottlethwaite, the auctioneer's little pulpit at the top of the bank, as much to hear his jokes as to make a bid; while the sharp horse dealers from Barford, with loud tones and cracking whips, trotted wild little nags of ponies up and down the street. But now sheep and cattle lay unheeded in the heat, panting and ruminant; every man was pushing toward the auctioneer; shopkeepers and customers crowded together to their doors; and even Mr. Parr, the vicar from Easterwyke, lingered on the grocer's step.

"Cod," said Bidker, "it be just like a preachin';" thinking, no doubt, of what he had seen in Methodist days.

Not a voice was heard but that of Pottlethwaite, which sounded loud and clear, "Seventeen; seventeen-ten; eighteen." The Grewelthorpe brothers were bidding against each other for a roan heifer. The auctioneer was very serious; the bidders did not need the spur of his wit—their mutual hate urged them on. Many pushed and pressed to get a sight of the brothers' faces. But there was little to be seen in them. A resolute lip, an eye fixed on the auctioneer, and a light nod first from the one and then from the other. Up and up went the bidding, till spectators began to stare at each other and to raise their eyebrows. Every one knew the value of the heifer had long been passed; it was plainly now a foolish, relentless duel in which the heifer was forgotten and hatred only remained.

"Twenty-seven; twenty-seven-ten; twenty-eight;" the eye of the town brother dropped a moment—"goin' at twenty-eight"—turned sideways it caught the flash of triumph in the country brother's eye and the satisfied sneer on his lip, and it again looked resolutely at Pottlethwaite. "Twenty-eight-ten," said Pottlethwaite. A nod from the other; "twenty-nine; twenty-nine-ten; thirty."

The excitement grew intense. The brothers knew they were merely throwing their money away; but no, neither would yield. In the tension of their passion they gradually turned to face each other. The lips were firmly set, the eyes fixed and fiery, as if the men were engaged in a belt-to-belt fight with knives. Every light nod the one cast at the other was a fierce stab. The passion of it began to glow in the bosoms and in the eyes of the crowd, and Pottlethwaite showed signs of anxiety and hesitation.

"Thirty-nine; thirty-nine-ten; forty; going at forty; any advance upon forty—"

"D— you!" cried the town brother, and fell down in a fit.

They gathered round to recover him. The victorious brother looked for a moment as if stung, and then turned away, muttering, "Done him out again. I swore I'd do it, and I done it."

In this bitter fraternal feud the sympathies of most had hitherto been, for no particular reason, with the bluff, obstinate miller, rather than with the retiring and reserved corn factor and agent. They had observed with satisfaction, and pointed out to wondering strangers, how the town brother would give the big miller the wall whenever they passed in the street; how he would submit to be outbidden at sales, outdone in subscriptions, outvoted in parish meetings, though they could account for their partisanship no better than by insisting that "the agent looked such a poor creature." But after this extraordinary exhibition of passion over the sale of the heifer, and the apparent indifference of the miller as to his brother's condition, a change of look and tone came over the crowd. They followed the miller's retreating figure with narrow eyes and something like repulsion. Another degree of heat added to their feelings would have made them hiss and hoot him. They turned to regard the agent, who was now sitting up, with a kind of pity.

"An' they wur once sae thick thegither!" said Long Ribston, looking from one brother to the other, striding off with his hand under his coat tail "Weel, theae's nou't sae queer as folks!"

"He dean't look ower strong," said Bidker, with his eye on the agent, now being led into the chemist's. "It be gey cruel o' that big John to harry and drive him as he do."

This was seized and assented to on all sides as the expression of the prevalent feeling. "He carry it too far now." "He be fair mad to run price up and throw money away like that." "They do say (speaking low) as how he be takin' t' drink." "Ah, it be time they made quarrel up, whativer it wur aboot. It been goin on for some years now, bain't it, Cocker?"

"Some year?" said old Cocker, chirruping into his favorite theme of the mysterious origin of the Grewelthorpe feud, and attracting about him a good many from Pottlethwaite's own audience. "It be nigh sivin year—sivin year came Michaelmas—sin' John buried his wife. Day o' funeral they were t' best friends, standin' by t' grave wi' fine new black coats on an' white handkerchiefs in their een; for, ye see, Gearge wur cruel fond o' t' neat, long-waisted Peggy afore John married her. Ay, ay; best friends day o'funeral. Next marnin' John walks into parlor at t' inn to ha'e a drink, and a little after in comes Gearge. They wur by theirsens, and I wur thinkin' o' goin' in to keep 'em company, when—ouf!—a hullabaloo that made us a' jump!—there wur cursin' and bangin' ower chairs and smashin' o' glass; an' I opens t' door an' there stands Gearge wipin' tipple frae his face and neck an' John in a white rage, wi' glass in his hand, like this, to thraw. 'What be up?' I says. 'Nou't,' says they. An' Gearge gang oot past me and says at bar, 'There's a glass broke. I'll pay for it.' (An'—he! he!—has paid for't.) An'—"

"An' naebody knaws yet," put in some one of those who had heard the story before, "what it wur aboot."

Cocker looked at the man, and frowned at his interruption of the steady flow of his narrative. "Naebody," said he, "unless it be thoo."

There threatened to be high words between the two, but the old storyteller was moved off home by his friends. There was a large company in the parlor talking all at once, but not quite in unison, about the sensational auction. All were agreed that the feud of the brothers had distinguished and disgraced Fulford long enough. "Why, next thing they'll be killin' t'une anither!' The cause of the quarrel should be ascertained, and the men brought to shake hands over it. But how? and by whom? Cocker shook his head; they had always been "cruel, passionate and obstinate lads."

Many friends had tried to bring them together. Even the parson had done his best—and his worst. He had, so far as he could, excommunicated them. He had preached so directly at them that the eyes of a full, plebeian evening congregation were incontinently turned on the two stiff-necked, stern-eyed men who sat on either side the aisle, each in his place as churchwarden; and when they rose to pass round the plates for the collection, he had addressed them by name, and ordered them to desist from the service of the Lord unless they were ready to forgive and embrace each other, upon which, without hesitation and without a word, they had surrendered the plates and walked out. He had forbidden their appearance at the sacramental table, and their holding any office in connection with the church, so that for a long time the church had ceased to know or see them.

No; how or by whom the feud was to be stopped no one could say; and old Cocker went back to his chair and his pipe in the corner.

But Fate had already begun to prepare the end of the feud in a way quite her own, by means which showed she understood the lives and tempers of men rather better than the parson.

That evening George Grewelthorpe, the town brother, sat in the dusky shadows of the little bar parlor with Cocker,

"I have, Cocker; you know I have," he was saying in a voice of remonstrance, "tried to let it drop. But he wean't. An' see what a fool he do make me. But I'll be even with him now."

"Um—m," murmured Cocker. "But it wur thysen, Gearge, played fool first—that I knaw. Now, look ye here; canstna get at him thro' his lass, Kitty? Thou wert aye fond o' her mother, wertna?"

"Now, Cocker, you knaw better than tell me to try thro' t' lass. You knaw he was aye jealous o' me."

"But it werena aboot that ye fell out—eh?"

George looked full at him.

"Thoo'rt tryin' to draw me, Cocker." After a pause: "If he'd just drop it; but he wean't. An' I bain't goin' beggin' and holdin' oot my hand to him—after he mak d—n fool of me all aboot!" He was silent.

There was a pause, during which Cocker felt about on the table, and got up and felt on the mantelshelf for a match. Having found one he returned to his seat. He scratched the light and held it up a moment to peer under at his companion, who sat stern and angry, with his eyes averted, nervously plucking at his whiskers. Cocker lit his pipe and continued:

"John, thoo see, be gey different frae thoo in soom ways. When thoo tak' to thinkin' on't, it mak's thoo look ill and sort o' d—d drunk like. But he—he allus look as if 'twere his meat and drink, and as if he throve on't uncommon weel. Weel, thou see, he has nou't else to think on scarce, as thoo has; so oot in field, or in mill wi' hoppers clatterin' and dust flyin', he nurse it, and nurse it, and keep thought o't fair coddled aboot's heart. But, for a', he can do non't wi' 't onless thoo cross and center him."

"He make me; and so does she—Aunt Kitty, I mean. The last thing she do in her will was to try and make fool of me. But she didn't know she gave me such fine chance to pay off scores wi' John!"

"Hump! What is this? I ask John, and he only say, 'Mousetraps, old Cocker.' Maybe, thoo'll say, 'Toasted cheese, old Cocker.'"

"Oh, it. dean't matter., Everybody'll knaw very soon; for it'll be up in Court and in newspapers; an' I think I'll get it. She put into her will, just for flout at me, that John was to hav' a' proputty in Fulford parish, and that I was to ha' a' in Thexton parish. Now thoo knaws it wur joke that Aunt Kitty had just enough land in Thexton—a bit corner at bottom o' field—as much as would mak' a grave."

"He! he!" Cocker could not help laughing.

"Weel, weel, I'll laugh too by-'m-bye. Now, ye think! I goes to lawyer Norton to arrange aboot gettin' ower my little bit land—"

"He! he!"

"When what do we find? The real old original boundary o' parish comes up by drain, which was oust a bit brook, and goes thro' end o' t' house! So all John has be three-quarters o' house, an' a bit o' back yard!"

"Whew! Thoo say so!"

Some months after, the case came on in a London Court. Of course all Fulford and the neighborhood were agog with speculation as to the result and cost of the trial; and there were a good many of the frivolous sort who had laid wagers on the event. So, one wintry forenoon, when old Cocker was seen bare-headed and bespectacled, trailing an open newspaper, and shuffling across the street to the house of his friend, the officer of excise, the word flew round, and before he had climbed the bank, he was prounced upon by the grocer and the baker, followed by Miss Hicks, the milliner (commonly reputed to have her maiden eye on one of the brothers), who, in her haste, had forgotten to put off her spectacles and to put on her cap straight. Then up came the butcher, and out came the excise man, and then another and another, each one quicker and more eager than the last (which is the law of accretion among human and other particles), till quite a crowd had gathered. But, bless you! no one need have hurried, for every one "knew" the case would have gone so. How could it help it? The will ran so and so and the parish boundary ran so; it was clear. A man with half an eye, old Cocker said, could see that, much more than a judge and a jury. "An' they two born idiots gone an' mayhap spent hundreds o' pounds on settlin' what might ha' been settled ower a twopenny pot o' ale!"

"An' it goes out o' t' town!" exclaimed the grocer.

"Except what the witnesses get," said the excise man.

It proved to be a terrible blow to John Grewelthorpe, the miller. He was for the first time "done out" by his brother; he was mulcted in heavy costs, and he was left in possession of the most ridiculous fragment of property man ever inherited—three-quarters of a house, and a small triangular section of back yard. If all the property had been won from him—that he could have endured; the loss would have been serious, but people would have regarded it seriously. As it was, he felt that every one laughed at him, and that every one had a right to laugh. His brother sent his lawyer with a kindly-meant offer to surrender the right the law allowed him to a part of the house, but the lawyer came back with a bouncing flea in his ear.

"Noo," said the miller, "just tell Gearge, you, if he send onybody here wi'ou't, or come himsen, I'll stick him head first i' that sweet duck-dabble! Dom his favors! Dost knaw he began wi' doin' me a favor? Dom! Nae mair! Law gi'es him quarter o' hoose, an' quarter o' hoose he'll ha'e! No, sir, thoo can wag."

The miller's answer of course soon got noised abroad, and it became a question of great interest at gossiping corners, and in the tap-room and bar of the old inn, how the division of the house was to be effected.

"Run up the petition wall," said old Cocker; "that's w a' they'll do."

"Faix !" cried Dr. Mahoney, "I'd manage aisier than that. Let it out in rooms to tenants, and divide the rints."

"Ah well," said the excise man, "they might just as easy let it to one tenant and divide the one rent."

"Yes, of course," said the Irishman, "of course. It comes to the same."

But one day Fulford became aware of the curious fact that scaffolding was being put up about one end of the house—"the Gearge end," as it was called. On closer inspection it was observed that a line of whitewash had been drawn obliquely across the roof and straight down the wall. The very curious went to question the workmen, and got for an answer that it "warn t to be told; but" (with a sly twinkle), "this bit be comin' down." People watched the work of demolition, how carefully it was conducted; the slates taken from the roof whole, and the brick cleared of mortar and piled. They looked at each other and laughed; no one had expected such a solution of the difficulty as this.

"They tell ye what," said old Cocker, in confidence to the exciseman, "that John be dom'd clever, malicious divil!"

It may be guessed that George was enraged at getting his quarter of the house handed over to him in this useless, broken shape. But he said nothing—at least not in public—and at home he had none but a deaf, old housekeeper to talk to. Perhaps he was the more inclined to be silent because he had already a scheme of retaliation, which threatened to be so serious in its consequences to his brother, that he hesitated to carry it into execution till he was stung to it by this new instance of implacable brotherly malice. On one piece of ground which his Aunt Kitty had by will unwittingly assigned to him, and on which he had for some years tried, with little success, to produce cabbages, he determined to build a steam mill. He knew his purpose was fratricide, and he feared others would see it was, and would cry "Shame!" upon him. So he tried to cover it, for decency sake, with talk about the necessity, in these pushing times, when business had so much increased, of a town like Fulford bestirring itself to supply all the wants of the neighborhood; it was notorious that the mills of Barford did much of the grinding of the Fulford district—why should this be? By a lucky chance he possessed a piece of worthless ground; he would risk the building of a mill for the good of the community, But George need not have excused his action so elaborately. He took very few in by his talk, and he might have known that friends and neighbors do not severely condemn a questionable act when they expect to profit by it.

The mill was built, and became very popular. Steam power was then in its youth (at any rate, in that district), and was believed to be capable of the greatest marvels of work I at the smallest possible expense. The belief, indeed, still obtained credence among the older and the more ignorant folk that it was a manifestation of the Evil One.

"But if it be divil," said old Bidker, "as soom say, it will be very good divil; eh Cocker?"

Carts and waggons of grain from the uplands, instead of rattling and lumbering on to Barford, now turned to Fulford, and Miller John had the chagrin of seeing them slowly come down the hill, tearing open one side of the road with their clumsy skid pans, and dash past him with fierce cracking of whips and wild "Woahoos," to take the opposite slope, up which the great broad-hoofed horses panted and scraped on their way to his brother's. If anyone came upon him at such a time, and ventured to condole with him on that "divlish trick of Gearge," he would face him with "Folk'll soon find difference atween divil's steam an' God's watter, and till that time God almighty can look aifter's ain watter, an' I can look aifter mysen," and then he would turn sharply off and enter his mill.

Big John's faith that the popularity of steam was a mere passing whim was severely tried. All that year, even right through the busy grinding months that follow on an abundant harvest, team after team of toiling horses dragged their rich load of wheat, of barley, or of pulse through the hollow past the old water-mill on to the town, and drew up under Aunt Kitty's house, which still stood as the workmen had left it, with one end completely open to wind and weather, a woeful witness to the foolish strife and spite of kindred. It became a general belief in the town and among the farmers that the occupation of big John and his ancestral water-mill was gone. There was no unseemly rejoicing over the fate of the miller and his mill; on the contrary, there was much expression of sorrow, of a calm and unproductive sort. A few, indeed, who did not like to see an old friend and neighbor and an old institution grow mouldy and wass, without an effort to save them, took John an occasional hurried job or two—a sack of oats to hash for next day's provender, or a bushel of wheat to grind for Friday's baking. But the work was done so badly—"The grit and dirt in't," said one, "be just as if 'twere swept off barn floor"—and customers were received so grumpily—"Why," he asked them, "didna ye tak' this where ye took t' rest?"—that they were not tempted to return to him. And their consciences were the more at ease in forsaking him, in the knowledge that he had curtly refused one or two "little jobs," saying that he could get plenty to do without such dirty bits, and in the comforting belief that since he said so it must be true. And certainly in this belief they were sustained by the evidence of their own eyes and ears. Whenever they passed the water was rushing and splashing, the wheel turning and dripping, and the hoppers clattering, just as in the busy old days. To shrewd and observant persons (which of course the men and women about Fulford were) this was all very puzzling, for no inquiry could discover anyone who empolyed John the Miller. Some, however, were found, who had met him, sometimes early, sometimes late of a night, going or returning on the Barford road, driving the one lean horse left to him, with a cart-load of full sacks.

"Good night, John," they had said, "Thoor t busy at mill, then, late and early."

"Business must be done, sirs," he had answered.

If any one pressed a question, where he was taking his sacks to or bringing them from, he would say, finger on nose, " Government contract."

For want of another, this explanation of his continued activity was generally accepted, though it did seem singular that the Government should come out of its way to employ big John. The officer of excise declared, if it was so, it must be a job; big John must have somehow got at their member, Sir Thomas. The schoolmaster and the literary tailor (who had both tried to "get at" Sir Thomas and had failed) exclaimed it was "scandalous;" and even the successful George, who had been having some qualms of conscience for having stripped his brother of business, again hardened his heart against him.

But, job or no job, either the Government contract was very unprofitable, or John was become a great miser. He contrived to work the mill without any assistance; he even allowed his daughter Kitty to go as maid into Squire Harding's family (some were "particularly" told he insisted on her going); his jolly figure shrank to a gaunt skeleton; his trousers attracted passing notice, from the transparent tenuity of one part, and the thick, clumsy patching of another; and whenever he turned up in public (which now was seldom) his manner was truculent and suspicious. From all which (since it could not be that the Government paid him) it was readily concluded John was a "miserable hunks." There was another thing which lent color to this view: he never now tried to "do out" his brother at sales; when he appeared at them he would fidget here and there on the outskirts of the crowd, feeling and fumbling in his pockets, and if Pottlethwalite appealed to him for a bid, he would seem to wake up and stand irresolute a moment, and then would shake his head and stride away.

"He got some sense at last," said old Cocker. "We wean't throw away nae mair brass."

Yet his balance at the bank (as the clerk let friends know in confidence) did not increase; on the contrary, it was gradually growing less. But that was at once taken as excellent evidence of the miserly instinct working in him, which craves and lusts for the nightly finger of the precious gold; he was of course hording away his large savings somewhere about the mill, and he intended, bit by bit, to withdraw what the bank held of his, and add it to the chinking, shining pile.

But that Government contract was surely an unusually long one. Winter had softened into spring, spring had brightened and settled into summer, and summer deepened and swelled into autumn, and still the gaunt figure of John, with his gaunt horse and loaded cart, was met of an evening coming and going on the Barford road; still, whenever you might pass the mill water rushed and splashed, the wheel turned and dripped, and the hoppers clattered. The door, indeed, was never seen open now, not even its upper half, in the old sociable way, and no one would think of putting his nose into the miser's den and asking how he was. It is not to be wondered at that a feeling of something mysterious in all this should arise and spread. Sober, canny men began to shake their heads and purse their lips when talking of big John. It was agreed that it was not to the credit of an honest, respectable township like Fulford that John should be allowed to continue unquestioned his "secret, nefarious traffic." (These last were the words of the tailor with a taste for literature.)

"Ah, now, be aisy," said Dr. Mahoney one night, as the miller was being thus discussed in the old inn parlor—"be aisy. The old John's doing nothing wrong, I'll be bound. Oh, yes, it's true he shuts himself up. Now, now! because a man's lost his flesh don't ye go for to take his skin!"

When the doctor had gone out, switching his boot with his riding whip, much disgust was expressed at his defence of "'t au'd miser." Some one on the back bench spoke up, and said he knew why "t' doctor be so found o' au'd John." Being pressed for an explanuation, he said, "Doctor be sweet on t' lass, Ah, but I seen um! an' t' lass'll ha've all th' au'd man's brass as he hides away in stockings an' rat-holes."

"Ah, be that it?" The wise topers at once found this an explanation of a great deal, and made it an incentive to action. For might it not well be that Mahoney was in the miller's secrets, and wan sharing, eh ? Ecod! why should they not go down to the mill one night, while the miller was out on the Barford road, and enter and see what game he was up to? "And hunt out a rat or two from the holes," suggested one.

"Cod, yes!"

Now it chanced that the doctor, on leaving the parlor had turned into the bar—"just a hot whisky, me darlin', wid a bit of lemon"—and being suspicious that the topers might talk of him when he was gone, had, with a wink to the landlady, applied his ear to a convenient hole in the pine-board partition from which a knot had been pupshed. Of course he heard all that passed.

"Just sayin' the plisantest thing about your humble servant," he whispered to the landlady. "But, don't tell 'em I heard;" and with that he swallowed his whisky, and went off sucking the "bit o' lemon."

It was quite true he was in love with the trim little Kitty. Even while she was a thin, pale-faced girl, slaving about her father's house, he had lingered to talk with her. But after she had been some months in Squire Harding's house he had met her, and stared, blushed, and instantly taken fire with love. The poorly-dressed slip of a girl, who had left the mill, was hardly recognizable in this fresh, graceful young woman. So now he was very much alarmed by what he had overheard in the inn, not only on account of his sweetheart's father, but on his own. These valiant topers might set out on their expedition the very next night—drunk probably—to hunt a rat or two! He knew what that meant, and he feared: for, like every right-minded young man who has his way to make in the world, while he loved his "sweet Kitty so dearly, so dearly," he by no means despised her probable dowry, which he, like every one else, believed to be bestowed in "stockings and rate holes." Mahoney's medical practice made him quick to act in emergency. He stood a moment at the gateway of the inn, and looked up and down the street. The grocer was puttiing up his shutters; it was half past seven, it would be dark in less than two hours. Yes, he could do it. He ran up the yard.

"Jim! Jim! Oh! there you are. Get the mare out. No no; she's tired, the other."

"Saddle, sir?"

"No, beggar, no—of course not. The gig."

In twenty minutes he was at Squire Harding's side door. A quarter of an hour later he was dashing along with Kitty by his side, by the cross roads to the mill.

The doctor, after tying up the horse to the dusky yew, paused and looked at Kitty. He had not told her that half his purpose in coming to the mill was to ask her father's sanction to their engagement, and now the air of the place seemed to damp his ardor. The only sound was the monotonous spill of the "wastewater." The great wheel looked sodden and mouldy. The cart stood propped in the tumble-down shed. It was full of sacks: had the miller just returned, or was he just about to set out? They went to the house door, and tried it, and knocked. No answer. They went to the mill door; it was also locked, and no sound came in reply to repeated knocking. Ah, the little shutter window was unfasted; should he, Mahoney asked, enter that way and then open the door for Kitty? Perhaps something had happened to her father. In any case both were curious to see what it was the mill had been so busy with for months. Soon they were both in the mill. They looked about them in the dim light. Strange! A mere damp fustiness of smell; none of that warm fragrant odour of flour and meal in which mills are embalmed. Mahoney pushed open the shutters all round. . . Not a single sack; not a grain of wheat; not even a floury festoon of dust on wall or roof! They looked at each other in silent amazement; not a rat squeaked; the floor, the platforms, the hoppers were swept utterly empty and bare. A common impulse sent them out to look into the sacks in the cart. . . . Filled with sweepings, decaying ropes and cord, musty hay and straw, everything! They did not need to speak. It was plain to both that during all these months the old mill had been busily grinding nothing!

Through the mill they made their way into the house. In the kitchen they found the miller—he that had been called "Big John"—sitting in an armchair before a spark of fire, looking like an unwinking, ghastly Death. At sight of the two, a warm flush suffused he cadaverous face, and burned into his eyes. He tried to stand up, but he sank back into his chair again. He had always been a stern, undemonstrative father, and his daughter was always afraid to show any emotion; but his sad condition now so moved her she could not restrain herself. She threw herself on her knees before him, and wept and sobbed with her face in his lap. He looked this way and that for a moment, and his stubby chin began to work strangely. At length he looked suddenly at Mahoney:

"Weel—I s'pose thoo'st found a' oot in there?" motioning with his head toward the mill. "Weel, weel. It be a' up, eh! Or," again flushing and sitting up, "be ye come to say folk got back to right mind?—eh? Nae mair divil's steam, eh? Cod! I'll do that Gearge oof yet! Dom him!"

But the excitement was too much for him. He sank back pale and faint. He crossed and pressed his arms over his stomach, closed his eyes and uttered a faint moan. Mahoney guessed what this was—starvation. Till now he stood in utter blank surprise. Now he recovered his wits. He spoke to Kitty and sent her to get a light and to find what food there was, made John drink some brandy from the flask which he always carried, and felt and counted his pulse. He tried to persuade him to let them help him to bed, but "No," said John, "I be a' right. I'll bide here."

Kitty brought a piece of resiny wood and lit it, whispering there was neither candle nor coal, crust nor scrap, to be found any where.

In a minute or two Mahoney was driving into the town for food, in grave doubt whether it would be of any use. It suddenly occured to him to stop at the house of the other Grewelthorpe; he ought to know of his brother's condition. George Grewelthorpe, when he heard, was overcome with consternation and remorse, called himself a fool for ever having believed in such a thing as a government contract, and begged to be taken up to his brother.

"It been a' my fault from t' first, Doctor! I mun gan to him."

With such things as were necessary they returned to the mill. Kitty met them at the door in great distress; her father's behaviour was so unlike what she had ever known it before; he had been calling her by honeyed names. "And, oh, what do you think he's been living on all this time?—rats! ugh!" They entered the kitchen. John looked up sharply. "You've been giving him too much of the brandy," said Mahoney to Kitty. At the sight of his brother he seemed to swell and bristle with the old malice and obstinacy.

"No, no," said he, trying to rise; "I beart done oot yet!"

"John," said his brother in a choking voice, holding out his hand.

"Gearge?" said he, looking at the extended hand a moment, and then grasping it and sitting down. The hands kept pressing each other with a perceptible vibration.

"Has left of steam then?" asked John.

"Divil tak' steam!"

"Ah, I thought so," said John, with a smile in which he almost fainted away again. In a little time some chicken-broth was ready for him. While taking it he kept glancing furtively at his brother, and letting something of an angry cloud regather about his face.

"Gearge,"said he at length, pressing his brother's hand again, "I warn't now—eh?, wuz I?"

"What?"

"Thoo knows; drunk the even' o' her funeral—eh?"

"N—no, John; no."

Thus the Grewelthorpe feud ended. Next day a waggon from the steam mill brought something for the empty hoppers of the old mill to clatter about, and next week it was announced that the mills would be worked in concert by the firm of "Grewelthorpe Brothers."

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 6 October 1881, supplement page 2 (reprint from Temple Bar).

Mad Love

by Julian Hawthorne

Spencer Curtis, as I remember him, was a hollow-cheeked, bright-eyed, excitable young fellow, with soft brown hair, a lock of which was continually falling down over his broad forehead. He could not talk long on any subject without becoming excited; and when he was excited he coughed, and his eager face flushed; he was supposed to have a tendency to consumption. In character he was viewy, enthusiastic, and unpractical, but subject to fits of profound depression, and his enthusiasm was easily discouraged. There was a slender vein of genius in the man, and he occasionally said strangely brilliant things, without seeming to be aware of it. He was given to philosophical speculations, and had written a very eccentric book, treating de omnibus rebus et quibusdam allis, which had been made fun of by most of the reviews, but which contained promise of powers that might have achieved something really new and valuable. But, somehow, we never regarded Curtis as a man who was likely to live long, and perhaps this led us to humor him more than we should otherwise have done. Still, he was a winning and lovable fellow; and some women were very much attracted by him. He himself, however, was extremely shy of female society; and since he had only about three thousand pounds in the world, besides what he could make by his pen, nobody ever dreamed of such a thing as hearing that he was going to be married.

Consequently, I was nothing less than amazed when he burst into my rooms one day, and, seizing me by both arms, looked for a moment in my face, and said,

"Kate Masters has promised to be my wife!"

"Kate Masters? What are you thinking of?" I exclaimed. "Not the heiress?"

Spencer's eyes darkened and his face flushed; he let go my arms.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" he asked, in an aggrieved tone.

"But you took my breath away; besides—"

"Do you suppose I care for her money?"

"My dear fellow, of course not! I only feared the news was too good to be true. I congratulate you with all my heart!"

"Her money is the only thing that troubles me," continued Spencer, dropping moodily into a chair. "I wish she had no more than I have—or nothing at all. Now that I know she cares for me, I am able to make a living for both of us, whatever you may think. And you are the oldest friend I have!"

"You have none that believes more in your ability and honor," I said, for I was sincerely sorry that I had hurt his feelings. "Come, shake hands, old boy, and let us hear all about it."

He finally consented to be appeased, and told me his story—not that there was really very much more to tell. He had been invited out to Colonel Masters' country seat, and of course Kate had been there. They had (as I already knew) met each other a good many times before, and she had once or twice spoken to me of her admiration for Spencer, while he, for his part, had seemed more at ease in her company than in that of most women. But I should as soon have thought of his marrying her as of her marrying the Shah of Persia. However, they were together at her uncle the Colonel's, and in the course of the week they became engaged. Wonders will never cease, especially when there is a woman in the case; and probably this did not seem to Spencer so very wonderful, though of course he regarded himself as the most blessed of mankind.

"It was in the little chalet that it happened," he said, drawing his breath after a sharp fit of coughing. (He had been tramping up and down the room, shoving the chairs about, and talking rapidly.) "You know the chalet?—in that clump of trees at the further end of the lawn, about a quarter of a mile from the house; I had been rambling about the grounds, and came in there quite by chance, supposing it to be empty. But she was there, sitting at the western window, with a book in her lap. She looked round, and when she saw it was I, an expression came into her eyes that—it made me feel the time had come! I had hardly realised how it was with me before; but then, everything explained itself! I began by remarking what a pretty little house it was, and how happy one might be to live in it; and so one thing led to another. At last—oh, she was so heavenly sweet! She said the world might laugh at us, but that I was worth a thousand worlds to her. We walked home with her arm resting on mine; and the new moon was just above the tops of the trees."

"What did the Colonel say to it?" I inquired.

"O, he behaved just as might have been expected," answered Spencer, throwing back the hair from his forehead. "At first he took me to task very severely, and talked about my having abused his confidence, and all that. But I would not allow him to hold that tone with me, and, after a while, we got to talking more reasonably. He said he was Kate's guardian as long as she was under age, and that he could not conscientiously let her marry me until she was beyond his control. Of course that won't be till a year from now. I said that I was prepared to wait, and that I desired all the property should be settled on her. Then he wanted me to promise not to see or correspond with her while the period of probation lasted; but neither Kate nor I would agree to that; and at last it was arranged that there was to be no letters, but that we were to meet once every month. In the end he and I parted very politely. I fancy, though, that he calculates on Kate's changing her mind. If so, he is making a great mistake. I trust in her constancy as I trust in Heaven!"

Now, although I would not for the world have had Spencer suspect it, I must admit that I was a good deal of the Colonel's way of thinking as regarded Miss Masters. I knew something of her. She was a fine, handsome, wholesome girl, with an aristocratic nose, and a complexion like a warm rose leaf; her white teeth sparkled when she laughed, and she had more hair growing on her head than she well knew what to do with. Her voice was pleasant, though rather loud; she rode dashingly to hounds, and was a champion lawn tennis player. But she was not, so far as I was aware, a student of any kind of literature, and the only philosophy that concerned her was how to get the most fun out of the passing moment. I could imagine her enjoying a bit of romance, and playing her part in it very well; but that she should make an imprudent match and stick to it did not seem so likely. Her father and mother, whose only child she was, had been dead some years, and she inherited the whole of that large property, her uncle being her guardian during her minority. It was in her power to make the most brilliant match of the season; and I knew it for a fact that Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney had made her an offer not three months before. She must have refused him, for he went off to the Ashantee war in despair. But that was no reason why she should fall in love with a man like poor Spencer Curtis; and I had serious doubts whether she intended anything more than a vacation pastime.

My misgivings were not relieved by the discovery that the engagement was for the present to be kept a secret. Spencer had stipulated with the Colonel to be allowed to tell me, because I had known him when he was a boy, and was his most intimate friend; but the rest of the world was to remain uninformed until the day for the wedding was fixed. Miss Master herself did not seem to have objected to this arrangement; and as for Spencer, he declared that he preferred it. If all the world had been as ingenuous as Spencer, no harm would have been done, but, as it was, some miscarriage was at least conceivable. However, I held my peace, and hoped for the best; and when Spencer left me, he was in very good spirits.

For a couple of months all went well; but with the advent of winter Spencer's cough grew worse, and his physician told him he had better go to Madeira if he meant to live. After some hesitation he decided to go. He was to be allowed to write to Kate once a month, and to receive letters from her, since they would not meet until his return.

"It won't be for long, after all," he remarked to me, trying to put a brave face on the matter; "and this will be our last separation. If I have to go to Madeira next year, she will go with me."

He made me promise to keep him informed of Kate's doings while he was away; and so finally off he went, I bidding him farewell on the deck of the steamer with a heavy heart.

Poor Spencer! It was long before I discovered that the promise I had given him would be no agreeable matter to keep. Miss Masters was admirably constant to him for a time, and spoke to me of her devotion to him in terms that I was glad to hear; and I began to repent of the suspicions I had entertained of her. I wrote to Spencer that all was going on well, and that I felt disposed to fall in love with his Kate myself. But one day, while I was chatting with her at an after-dinner reception at Lady Loraley's, she gave a sudden start and an exclamation, and there, behind my shoulder, stood Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney, pale and handsome, with his arm in a sling. He had just been invalided home from Africa, and was a great hero. He spoke to Miss Masters, who received him cordially; and there was nothing for me but to make my bow and move off. They were together the rest of the evening; but I was determined to have one word with her. So, just before I took my departure, I made my way up to her. She was standing shoulder to shoulder with Captain Taverney, listening to the last bars of a song from Madame Semaroff.

When it was over, she turned to exchange an admiring exclamation with the captain, and I took the opportunity to say,

"I have come to bid you good evening, Miss Masters."

"O, good evening," she said, not offering me her hand.

"I am sending a letter to-morrow to our friend in Madeira," I continued; "have you any message?"

She replied, coldly, "I think not, thank you;" but in a moment she added, her cheeks reddening, "Tell him not to be away too long."

I decided not to send my letter to Spencer the next day, but to wait for further developments. Kate was evidently wavering; she wished to be true, but distrusted herself; and, with a woman like her, such distrust is the prelude to surrender. Captain Taverney was very fascinating, and he was on the ground; I knew also that the Colonel would favor his suit. To tell the truth, I myself considered him a much better match than Spencer for the girl; but, things having gone so far as they had, that was neither here nor there. Meanwhile, the aspect of affairs became less and less encouraging; but there was still nothing tangible; these constant visits of Captain Taverney might be merely friendly, and mean nothing; moreover, since Kate's engagement to Spencer was kept secret, the Captain was not to blame. But Kate and the Colonel were to blame; and, after some deliberation, and with great reluctance, I resolved to speak openly with the former. This was about six weeks subsequent to our interview at Lady Lornley's. I was at the opera, and seeing Miss Masters in her box, I presented myself there at the end of the first act.

"I knew I should find you here to-night," I remarked, after she had asked me to sit down beside her.

"Why to-night, particularly?"

"Because it is La Favorita—Spencer's favorite opera. By this time next year he will be sitting here beside you. You expect him back in May, don't you?"

"I suppose so,'' she said, distraitly, leaning away from me and rippling her fan.

"It is a long time for him to have been exiled from you," continued I; "but I hope," I went on, looking at her, "that he will not have been away too long?"

At first I thought she was going to ignore my allusion—evidently she was not thankful to me for making it. But, presently, she seemed to take a resolution; she closed her fan and turned to me, breathing more quickly, and rather pale.

"I suppose Spencer authorised you to act as his representative during his absence—to see that I behaved myself, I mean, and did not forget him?"

"He had no misgivings of that sort, Miss Masters. He told me before he went away that he trusted you as he trusted Heaven. He asked me, as his friend, to keep him informed of your health and happiness ; and that I have done."

"If you have told him that I was happy, you have misled him. I have been very unhappy."

"You have not been without distractions—more than he has had, poor fellow."

"I do not need your sarcasm," she said, hotly. "I have been more sarcastic to myself than you would dare to be; but it is no use. I made a terrible mistake. I don't know how I came to make it. I always knew that Spencer was above me, intellectually and in other ways; but I thought I could grow up to him. I thought more highly of myself than I deserved. Since he has been away I have come back to my own level."

While she was thus confirming my worst fears, I leaned on my elbow on the edge of the box, looking out across the theatre. A young man was standing up in the stalls, directing his opera-glass towards us. I recognised Captain Taverney.

"A very attractive and fashionable level, unquestionably," I observed, with a slight indicative movement of the head.

She looked across and saw him, and the color swept into her face, whether it came from anger or from other passion, I could not tell.

"It is my own level, at all events," she said, with a dignity which commanded some respect; "and the only one in which I could give happiness or feel it."

"I doubt whether beauty has any level, whatever may be the case with its professor," I said getting up; "hence many sorrows and misunderstandings. Have you no regrets?"

"None—to speak of," she replied; and upon that ambiguous answer I bowed and took my departure, passing Captain Taverney in the lobby.

It only remained for me to perform one of the most welcome duties that ever fell to my lot—to write the news to Spencer Curtis. I sent him a long letter; I said everything that I could; but in the course of it the reluctant words had to be spoken; Kate Masters renounced her engagement. I did not think it necessary to mention the name of Captain Taverney. I also dispatched a curt note to Miss Kate, telling her what I had done. I received no reply to it; but the next thing I heard about her was that a marriage had been arranged between her and Captain Taverney. In due course the wedding invitations were distributed, and finally the wedding, at which I did not care to be present, took place. All this time I had heard nothing from Spencer, and his silence began seriously to disquiet me.

By the end of another month, however, two pieces of intelligence reached me. Captain Taverney had been unexpectedly ordered abroad with his regiment, and Spencer Curtis had come back to England raving mad.

Mrs. Taverney did not accompany her husband to India; the regiment was not expected to remain abroad long, and the work it had to do was not consistent with the presence of ladies. She took up her abode with her uncle in the interval. Whether or not she knew of the calamity which had happened to Spencer I cannot say; but I fancy the facts had been concealed, or at any rate, softened to her. She believed him to be ill, and nothing more. I saw the poor fellow once or twice, but he never recognised me. He had every comfort that his condition admitted and that money could procure (for, singularly enough, a relative of his had bequeathed him £18,000 just about the time that he lost his love and reason); but he was dangerously mad, and had more than once attempted to kill his attendant. I asked the physician whether there was any hope of his being cured, upon which that prudent gentleman smiled, and remarked that he had as bad cases as that come round.

The ensuing autumn I went on the continent for a change and recreation, for I missed Spencer more than I should have anticipated—more, perhaps, than if he had been dead. I renewed my acquaintance with Naples and Venice, and Constantinople and Madrid; at last, one spring day, I found myself in Paris. Sitting in a café on the Boulevard, I took up a copy of Galiganni, and read in it that Captain the Honorable Arthur Taverney had died of fever in Bombay. The paragraph added that he left a widow and infant daughter in England.

I returned to London in June. My heart was softened towards Mrs. Taverney, and I wished to renew my acquaintance with her, and to make that of the little child whom its father had never seen. I found her living alone in a small house in Hampstead. It was a lovely spot at that time of year; and London, with its busy season, might have been a hundred miles away for all that could be seen or heard of it. I found Mrs. Taverney looking very handsome in her widow's dress, and the baby was a healthy and energetic little creature, with its mother's eyes and hair. Our talk was friendly and quiet, and mostly kept clear of the things that lay nearest to the heart with both of us; but the two men whom we did not name waited behind our words, and spoke in our silence. Yet I was pained to believe that I detected something in her tone occasionally, indicating that she held poor Spencer to be in some way the origin of her griefs. "If he had never crossed my path, all would have gone well," seemed to be the gist of her feeling. Nothing more unreasonable and unjust could have been imagined; but there is no logic in a woman's suffering. I was confirmed by this in my previous conclusion—that she could never have heard of Spencer's insanity; indeed it was known to very few persons. I was half-minded to tell her of it, then; but on second thoughts it seemed to be best not to assume the responsibility of the revelation; it should come to her from some other source, if at all.

I met Colonel Masters several times in London, and he seemed inclined to renew the cordial relation which had subsisted between us previous to the recent events. At length he invited me to come down with him to his country seat for a couple of days; there were to be a few friends and plenty of quiet and fresh air, nothing elaborate. After some hesitation I agreed to go. A party of us went out by special train, and we found the house and grounds at their loveliest; but in the afternoon some heavy showers came on, compelling us to take shelter indoors. Here we amused ourselves as best we might; but it began to be rather dull, and we looked forward to the time when dinner should be ready. At length, just before the dressing-bell rang, I saw, from the window at which I happened to be standing, a carriage drive up to the door. A lady, dressed in black, got out of it; following her, a maid, with a baby in her arms. It was Mrs. Taverney. She had come in complete ignorance of there being any company in the house; and as she had not faced society since her loss, and there were no ladies among the Colonel's guests, the situation promised to be rather awkward.

She accommodated herself to it very gracefully. She greeted us all with courtesy and composure, and was prevailed upon to preside at the dinner table. After dinner she announced her intention of retiring to the little chalet in the park, where a bedroom had been fitted up. One and all of us were ready to give up our rooms to her, but she refused all offers. She had often before slept in the chalet, and preferred it to the house. Finding her resolute, the Colonel and I accompanied her over there, the maid bringing the child. The clouds had cleared away, and it was now bright moonlight.

The interior arrangement of the chalet was very simple. There were two rooms, each about fifteen feet square, opening into each other. The first of these was the bedroom, and had one large window on the right as you entered. The other room was used as a parlor; it had books, and a writing table, and a sofa in the bay window. Adjoining it was a small chamber, at that time used for lumber. The only entrance to the building was by the front door, which was of solid wood, and could be securely fastened. But the neighborhood was a very quiet one, and such a thing as a burglary had not been heard of for years. After having seen Mrs. Taverney safely into her little hermitage, therefore, we left her there without any apprehensions. The maid went back with us. We locked the door on the outside, it being arranged that the maid was to go over early in the morning to attend to washing and dressing the baby. Mrs. Taverney stood at the open window, and waved her hand in adieu to us as we set off on our homeward journey. Then she closed the window and fastened it.

"It seems rather a lonely place to leave her in," I remarked to the Colonel, as we strolled along over the damp turf, smoking our cigars.

"Bless you, her baby is all the company a mother wants," replied my gallant companion. "As for safety, she couldn't be safer if she was in our house in town. Not but what I wish the poor girl had some better protector than a baby, too!" The Colonel said this with a sigh, and no further words passed between us till our arrival at the house.

I went to my chamber that night about midnight. It was quite warm, and after partly undressing, I sat down at my open window to finish my smoke and enjoy the moon. While thus comfortably engaged, a sound reached my ears that made me start. It was very faint, but was it not a scream? I listened again for a long time, for my thoughts had immediately gone to the distant chalet, from the direction of which the sound had seemed to come. But it was not repeated, and at last I persuaded myself I must have been mistaken, and sought my bed.

Meanwhile, this was what occurred at the chalet.

After putting her baby to sleep, Mrs. Taverney threw off her dress and put on a loose negligee, and, for additional ease, she unfastened her hair and suffered it to fall down over her shoulders and below her waist. She was not sleepy, and purposed reading a while before going to bed. There were no books in the bedroom, so she went into the other room to get one. She did not take her candle with her, for the moonlight was so bright that no other light was needed. The book she selected was Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. After taking it from the bookshelf, she paused a minute or two by the sofa in the bow window, gazing out across the silent landscape. Her thoughts went back to the time, two years ago, when she had sat there with Spencer Curtis at her feet, and he had told her his love. Her bosom heaved sighs, and a deeper look came into her eyes. Poor Spencer! After all, no one had spoken to her of love as he had spoken it. Where was he now? Was he thinking of her? Had he forgotten her? The place seemed full of him. There was the very spot where he had knelt.

A slight sound, which Mrs. Taverney supposed to come from the baby, interrupted her reverie at this point, and she hastened back to the bedside. No; the child slept peacefully, lying on its back, with its little white arms above its head. The mother bent over it lovingly, but feared to kiss it, lest it should awake. She sat down in a chair by the bedside, drew up the small table which held the candle, and was soon deep in the mysteries of Mr. Rochester's establishment. As she sat she faced the door of the inner room; it stood wide open, and by raising her eyes, she could see through to the bay-window. But she presently became so absorbed in her book, that she had eyes for nothing else.

She had been reading for perhaps half-an-hour, when an unmistakable noise from the inner room again put her on the alert. It was a slow pushing sound, and was followed by a faint creak—the door of the little lumber-closet was being opened. That door lay out of the range of her vision, unless she moved, and for the moment, bold-hearted woman though she was, she was powerless to move. The creaking ceased; but, as she listened intently, she fancied she could detect a long irregular breathing. Then a shadow fell across the moonlight that rested on the floor of the inner room.

Mrs. Taverney turned, and extinguished her candle by putting her fingers on the wick. It was the thought of her baby that made her do this. She hoped that, whatever' might happen to her, the baby might not be noticed. The candle being out, she silently arose, and drew the coverlet over the baby's face. Meanwhile, she kept her eyes directed towards the open doorway.

A face was now visible in the other room, its features strongly lighted and blackly shadowed by the moon. It was a man's face, wild and ghastly. A thin and ragged beard and tangled hair, emaciated cheeks and appalling eyes, glittering and restless. In hue and cadaverousness it resembled the face of a dead person; but it was alive, though with no ordinary life. The figure moved so silent that at first Mrs. Taverney thought that it was a spectre; and the idea was strengthened by the shadow of resemblance it bore to some one whom she had known well and had met in that very spot. The figure moved towards the bay-window, and knelt down there, grasping in its arm one of the cushions of the sofa. It pressed the cushion to its breast, and seemed to kiss it passionately. Then, all at once, it broke out into a hurried murmur of strange disjointed words—expressions of love, despair, and entreaty, and her own name incessantly repeated. A horrible oppression made Mrs. Taverney s heart shudder and pause. This was no horrible spectre, but a living man—a madman—and her discarded lover.

If it had not been for her baby she would have dropped fainting where she stood; but as it was, she dared not faint. The thing was unexpected and inconceivable as it was real and terrible. She was shut up, alone and beyond reach of help, with the mad lover whom her own inconstancy had driven to madness. To escape was hopeless; and to remain might be death—not to her only! Her least movement might reveal her presence to him; or at any moment he might turn and see her. Yet to stand there inactive was most intolerable of all. Something she must do, or the suspense would drive her also mad. If she could reach unobserved the door between the two rooms and manage to close it! She believed there was a key in the lock; at all events, it would be better than nothing. She did not wait for the idea to cool, but instantly stepped towards the door. Unfortunately, it opened away from her, towards the inner room. Yet she almost had her hand upon it, when the madman rose from his knees and faced her. Then, without wavering, she did a thing which showed a valiant heart. She walked quickly forwards into the room, and closed the door behind her. She had the madman to herself; but the baby—for the time at least—was safe.

She never knew how long she was closeted there with him, in that fearful companionship; nor did she ever tell what passed between them, save in disconnected hints. Whatever it was, the traces which it left upon her remained permanently. There is reason to suppose that the madman who had been Spencer Curtis did not show uncontrollable violence; but there is reason to believe that, with the hideous unconsciousness of insanity, he made her drink to the last dregs the bitterness of the wrong that she had done him. Perhaps there have been others besides Kate Taverney who had held in their memory the consciousness of an hour which no one else besides their Creator will ever know anything about. I am thought to be of a speculative turn of mind, but I do not care to speculate further in this matter.

But this night was not to pass without a further incident. At about twelve o'clock, according to my reckoning, Kate heard a sound which she had heard many times before with little emotion, but which now severed her heart like a sword. It was the crying of her baby in the next room. She was sitting on the sofa in the window at the time, and she had succeeded in soothing her companion so far, that he was crouching beside her, with his head in her lap. He heard it too, and immediately leaped to his feet with a mad man's suspicious alertness. She tried to restrain him, but horror made her powerless; he broke away from her, opened the door of the bedroom, and went in, she following with stiffened limbs. The child continued its cries; he went to the bed, turned back the coverlet, and caught the infant up in his arms. Then Kate fell down on her knees, and uttered that scream which reached my ears as I sat smoking at my chamber window.

The next morning, when the maid went at the appointed hour to awaken her mistress, she found her kneeling on the floor in front of a haggard-looking creature, who sat in a chair with the baby in his arms. It was sleeping quietly; he was crooning over it, and mumbling loving words to it in a hushing tone. As the amazed woman drew near, Mrs. Taverney turned upon her a face that seemed wrinkled and aged, and said huskily, "Do not disturb them. He thinks the baby is his. He has been very gentle to her. Let them be!" And then, in a moment, she dropped sideways insensible.

From that night Spencer partially recovered from his madness, insomuch that it was not found necessary to send him back to the asylum from which he escaped; but he always persisted in believing the baby to be his own. Mrs. Taverney made arrangements to take charge of him, and they have in a manner lived together ever since. She seems to feel that he belongs to her; and when I visited them the other day, her manner towards him struck me as being exquisitely tender. The little girl was smiling between them.

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 29 September 1881, supplement page 2. Originally published in The World.

"Fire!"

Author Unknown

I don't know who built Merriton-street, Lambeth; but, whoever it was, must have been a sharp fellow, and meant to make money. By the look of the houses, I should say that they were built about the days of William IV., and they were well built, too—even to this day looking better and more substantial than plenty of your suburban rows of villas that have not been up ten years. But then, as I said, the man who built them meant to make money, and the way to do that, in the long run, was to put in good work.

His cunning consisted in the number of houses that he contrived to run up on the narrow strips of land on each side of the road. For there they stood—two rows of very tall, very narrow houses, with deep areas and high pitched, sharply-sloping slate roofs.

There was something wrong with one of these houses—a great crack in the front through the giving way of a large drain—so the owner had it pulled down and rebuilt; but when it was down we all laughed to see what a tiny bit of passage the space seemed to be upon which it had stood.

To make up for the narrowness of these houses they were run up high, and the rooms were lofty. Then, though they were getting old, the owner took great pride in them. They were painted and papered regularly, roofs kept in order, and no sooner was anything out of repair than down came the jobbing-hand our landlord kept, and put it right, for he was one of those handy men who could do anything, from plastering a roof to potting in a pane of glass.

We all had to pay for it, of course, for the rents were pretty stiff. I don't mean for single houses, mind you, but for single or double rooms; for there were several families in each house, and when one night I set to with a pencil and totted up what our landlord must have made a week of that bit of property, I was astonished.

For, mind you, it was good property. He kept it in such nice order, and was so particular about the class of people he let the apartments to—he never called them rooms or lodgings, they were always apartments, and you were a tenant, with your name entered in a red collecting-book with a clasp—I say he was so particular about whom he had there, and so careful in weeding out bad tenants, that the place got quite a name, and the landlord used to have a string of people down in his books, of applicants for apartments waiting for a vacancy.

Of course, that gave him the opportunity of picking and choosing. Every one had to find references and tell their occupation, number of children, and the like; and then, when there was a vacancy, a couple without children would be selected. The consequence was that what would have been a rookery swarming with children under some managements, was a quiet, clean, genteel street, and the lodgers were better class mechanics and clerks, and men employed in the city and borough warehouses, compositors, and the like.

After no end of knocking about in wretched lodgings, where the doorsteps, pavements, and staircases were swarming with children—poor little things!—for they must have somewhere to play, it was quite a happy relief to find ourselves settled snugly down at 49 Merriton street, on the second floor; to find nice, respectable people above and below us—quite genteel, some of them; and that it was the rule for the landlord to find every house a big doormat, and for the tenants to put down carpets to the stairs belonging to each floor. But we had hardly placed everything in order, and were sitting down comfortably one night at supper, before the wife suddenly knocked the whole affair over by exclaiming:

"William, dear, I shall never he happy in this place."

"Well, that's cool!" I exclaimed, "after having one's name down in the book for eighteen months, and then getting the place as a favor because we have no children."

"I can't help it, dear," she said, in her quiet, decisive way, for she is a regular little tyrant, and keeps me in order. "I shall never be happy here."

"Well," I said, rubbing one of my ears and speaking drily, "Buckingham Palace is empty now, and the Queen seldom uses it. Shall I ask for a suite of apartments there? Don't say you'd prefer Hampton Court, my dear, because it is so inconvenient for me."

"Now, it's no use for you to talk nonsense, William," she said. "I know what I am saying; and I tell you I shall never be happy here."

"Why not?"

"Because I shall never go to bed of a night without thinking about fire."

"Stuff and nonsense!" I said, testily. "Why, there's fire-engines in plenty, and—yes, to be sure, there's a fire-escape not a quarter of a mile away. Jolly things, my dear; you can go into 'em head first, and ride down just as if you were in a long stocking."

"You can laugh as much as you please," she said, quietly; "but I've been thinking all about it, and I want to know what we are to do if there's a fire anywhere downstairs."

"Make one upstairs," I said, "and cook your husband's dinner."

"Now, it's of no use for you to try to be funny, William," she said, sharply; "because, whenever you do try, you only make yourself a dear old stupid. You know well enough what I mean. If there happened to be a clothes-horse fall against the fire, or somebody downstairs upset a paraffin lamp, we should be burned to death."

"If we stopped in," I said, quietly now, since my jokes didn't tell; "but we'd get out."

"Where?" she said, sharply. "We couldn't go down that narrow staircase with the flames roaring up like as if it was a chimney."

"Jump out o' window."

"On to those horrible spikes atop of the area railings."

"Go upstairs, and get out on the roof."

"Now you know, William," she cried, "that there's no way out. Nothing but a fly or a spider could walk up that slope of slates."

She pointed out to the houses opposite, where the glimmer of the gas-lamp below shone on the slates, for the third floors of these houses were not like attics, the windows standing out of a slate slope that was very little out of the perpendicular, and there was no parapet in front.

"Well, my dear," I said, "let's make ourselves as happy as we can, and I'll go downstairs every night twice an hour, and smell all over the place right through the night."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," she said, huffily. "And it's no use to talk to you, William, when you are in one of your teasing fits. I suppose you want your poor wife to be roasted to death."

"My dear Kitty," I said, "'pon my word I don't; but, if you were, you really are such a nice little woman that I believe I should eat you."

"Go along with your nonsense," she said, laughing; and no more was said about it, though, on thinking the matter over to myself, it did seem that if the house happened to catch fire, we should have a very poor chance. But I put it aside then, and next time she brought up the subject I got into trouble by saying:

"Well, my dear, I think you might make yourself happy, for we are nearly as well off as Miss Trotwood."

"Miss Trotwood? Who was she?"

"The lady who liked lodgings in the Adelphi."

"In the Adelphi? Why?"

"Because it was near the river, in case of fire."

"I declare, William," she exclaimed, pettishly, "the whole street may be burned down, and I won't say another word."

"Thankye, my dear," I said; and there the matter ended.

The next thing that took my wife's attention was the two pretty little children at the third floor opposite, a couple of as sweet little things as you'd wish to see. The eldest was about six or seven—a regular little golden-haired, old-fashioned angel, who used to often stand at the window taking care of the other, a handsome little boy. There were a lot or plants always at that window, and we used to call the little things the blossoms; and their happy little silvery voices used to come down to our window sometimes like music.

We did not often see their mother, but when we did.we used to notice that she was rather a superior-looking body, very quiet and reserved, and evidently very proud of her little ones.

"I haven't patience with men," said my wife one day, when I was at home to dinner.

"Haven't you, dear," I said, smiling up at the severe-looking little woman, of whom I always pretended to be very much afraid. "Why, what's the matter now?"

"Matter?" she said sharply. "I only wish he was my husband."

"Well?" I exclaimed and I put down my knife and fork, and stared.

"No, no, Will; I don't mean that," she cried, bursting out laughing.

"Then what do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, if he was my husband he shouldn't behave so long."

"Perhaps you'll give me another potato, and tell me what you mean," I said.

"Mean? Why that wicked wretch over the way, neglecting his poor wife and those two dear children as he does. I'd teach him to come creeping home at three o'clock in the morning, as he often does, and that poor dear leaving a light burning and a fire for him. Oh! I haven't patience with such ways."

"A wretch!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, isn't it too bad, Will? and she's as nice and quiet-looking a little body as a man could have."

"And such an example to set to his children," I said.

"Yes, dear. I can't think how a man can behave so."

"Ah, he belongs to a bad lot," I said, seriously. "They meet of a night at a place close by the Strand, and get playing a game with little square bits of metal hour after hour."

"For money, of course, dear?"

"Yes; they get so much a thousand."

"Thousand? You don't mean to say that wretched man gambles for thousands?"

"Oh, dear no, my dear," I said seriously; "he's paid so much a thousand for setting the type. He's a compositor on a daily paper."

"Now, William, how can you go on teasing like that? Why couldn't you say at once that the poor man was engaged upon night work?"

"Now, Kitty," I said, quietly, "why can't you go on revolving on your own pleasant little axis, minding your own business, and letting other people's alone."

"How stupid of me!" she exclaimed.

"Very, my dear," I replied. " Good-bye. Give 's a kiss; time's up."

I was at home in good time that night, but very tired, and after a snug supper we went to bed, and I was in one of those sound, dreamless sleeps, when I woke up with a start, as I heard my wife spring up in bed.

"What's that, Will?" she exclaimed.

"Fire!" I cried, excitedly, as I sprang out of bed, feeling for a moment that horrible kind of panic that will seize the strongest of us sometimes.

For down below in the street there was a knocker going, and a man's voice shouting "Fire!"

"Will!" shrieked my wife, "I knew it, I knew it. God have mercy on us; we shall be burnt to death!"

"Hush! Be quiet, little woman," I cried, hoarsely, as I slipped on my things. "Be calm, and I'll save you—or we'll be burnt together," I thought to myself.

The next moment I was through into the front room, and had thrown up the window.

"It's all right, Kitty," I shouted back; "it's not here."

All right for us; but, even as I uttered the selfish words, there were windows opening right, left, and opposite, and the street was being filled with screams.

All right for us—but for the poor creatures in the house directly opposite!

There, my heart seems to stand still now, as it comes back—the noise and confusion, the trampling of feet, the dull, red glow that shone upon our faces, the rolling clouds of smoke, the breaking of glass, and the horrible feeling of knowing that that house opposite was full of people, and that the kitchens were in a blaze, and roaring like a furnace.

"Oh, Will!" cried my wife, excitedly, "those poor bairns upstairs, and their father away!"

These words roused me, and, darting from the window, I dragged on a jacket, but only to have Kitty's arms round me directly.

"No! no! You shan't go," cried she. "You'll be hurt."

"Let go, Kitty," I said, struggling with her, as the top window opposite was dashed open. and there came out on the night air, thrilling us where we stood, such a cry as I pray Heaven I may never hear again."

"Help! My children! Oh help! Help!"

"And their father not at home!" I cried, hoarsely, as I pointed to where there was a ghostly-looking figure clutching a couple of children in her arms.

Kitty dropped from me on to her knees, and I dashed downstairs, not knowing what I was going to do, to form one of a crowd—not a large one—gathering in the street, for it was about one in the morning.

There were three policemen, and they had dashed in the front door, where they heard some one beating at it, and dragged out several half-suffocated creatures. Then people were bringing out carpets, and trying to hold them for the people at the upper windows to jump into, after a couple of mattresses had been hung over the spikes; and so, in a horrible state of confusion, first one poor creature and then another was got out more dead than alive, several jumping, and getting more or less hurt.

"Where's the engines?" "Where's the escape?" "Where's the water?" "Where's the turn-cock?" Every one was shouting, every one adding to the confusion, but no one hardly, but the policemen, doing any good. Right and left of the burning house, the people had their heads out of the windows, and were shrieking, while others made the confusion worse by throwing their furniture out of the rooms; and all the while the flames kept sending a ruddy glow over the upturned faces, and fluttered and roared, as they poured forth now from window to window.

Twice over the policemen went in at that open door, and we got out somebody who had managed to escape by the stairs. But the last time we were beaten back, and stood panting in the street, just as, in the midst of the screams and cries, there was the distant rattle of wheels, that familiar "Hi-hi-hi!" the trampling of horses at full gallop, the gleam of light on the glistening helmets, and, with a train of sparks pouring out behind, the first engine came tearing up, with the crowd, as they parted left and right, uttering a loud "Hurrah!"

It was like magic to see those men get to work so readily. Horses were out, hose laid, glistening branch ready, and the steam panting, as there was another "Hurrah!" and a second engine, a manual, came tearing in at the end of our flaming street.

Again there was the rapid movement, and the men were ready; but in spite of the impatient cries of the gathering crowd, they did not begin to play, and then there ran a murmur through all like a thrill that the turn-cock could not be found.

At the same moment, though, a policeman came running with a figure in shirt and trousers, with the bright iron key over his shoulder, and a yell of delight burst forth as the man ran straight to a plug-hole close to the burning house. The policemen kept a space for him, and in a very short time he had screwed out a plug ready for the water to pour forth in a gushing fount.

There was cheer after cheer as the man, with the sweat shining on his face in the ruddy glow, tore at the plug, and then there was a wild, despairing groan, for as he drew it out—

There was no water in the main!

And all this time, at the upper window, stood that poor woman, with her children in her arms, silent now, and with the fire gathering fast below her. She had left off shrieking, and only stood clasping her poor little ones, gazing wildly down for the help that did not come.

The police had been up to the top of the houses right and left, and I had seen them at the windows, but they could not reach her; people below and opposite, as great wafts of flame and smoke rose towards the group, shrieked to her to jump, but the police shouted to her to stay, while, mad with horror, she seemed to hear nothing.

I had tried, with the policemen, to get up the stairs; not that I am a brave man, for I never before knew how great a coward I was, but we saw that there were no stairs—no thing but a blazing mass of wood.

Just then there was a buzz of excitement, and a hatless man came running, to force his way through the crowd.

"Leap! Jump down!" someone cried, just in the midst of a horrible pause, during which the roaring and crackling of the flames seemed to thrill one to the very marrow.

"No, no!" cried the man. "Stop, stop! No, no! Ann—stand fast!"

She heard the voice, and uttered another shriek, and then there rang out from amongst a cloud of smoke—

"Jack! Jack! Help!" and then, in the midst of a shuddering moan that burst from the crowd, there was a little silvery voice heard, as plainly as if it had been a peal of thunder—

"Father! Father! We shall be burnt!"

The man made a frantic rush to get into the burning house, but the firemen held him back, and, meanwhile, another engine had dashed up, and a tall, thin man had leaped off, and was stamping about with rage, as he seemed to rave at the turn-cock, who shook his head.

"Hurrah!"

At last. Right and left the people parted, a space had been left clear, and the tall, red fire-escape had come.

"Too late—too late!" groaned the crowd; but brave men don't believe those words.

In less time than it takes to tell it, the tall escape was reared, the fly-ladder dragged up, the firemen closing round to keep back the eager crowd, who would have hindered, and, in the midst of the fire and smoke that hid the top of the ladder, we saw the man in charge run up. A fireman was following, axe in hand; but he was thrust aside, and that furious, hatless man leaped up the ladder more than ran.

A breathless silence followed as we saw them go right into the flames, and then, as a puff of of wind wafted the smoke aside, the crowd cheered, for they were above the blaze; but directly after there was a yell of horror—the poor woman, with the children, had disappeared! There was smoke coming out of the window where they had stood, and the escape-ladder was on fire.

Two more lives lost, I thought, as I clung to the railings opposite, paralysed, for I could not help, and was obliged to gaze on, though my heart seemed to stand still.

But no! Not yet! We saw the escape-man grasp the window and climb in, and the father—for he it was—reach the sill and climb in afterwards. Then the escape-man appeared directly after with the children in his arms, and a hoarse murmur arose, for the people were too much excited to cheer.

He put one leg out to the ladder, sitting crosswise on the sill, and one of the firemen—no, it was the tall, thin man—shouted to him to take care, when there was a rumble, a roar, and an awful rush of sparks and flame from the windows as the second and first floors fell, showing the house now as a burning, fiery furnace, in which none but those we read of in parables could have lived; but then, as the firemen who had been driven back returned, the tall, thin, red fly-ladder fell, burned through, and the top of the escape was seen to be in a blaze.

Just then a little feeble bubbling of water began to be seen at the plug-hole, but too little yet to be of use; and the murmur of horror increased, for the top window was empty now, and we felt that there was another brave fireman gone to his rest.

Water, at last, but the house was ablaze from area to roof. Slates were falling off in flakes, the beams crackled, and it was evidently only a matter of moments before the roof would fall in; and, sick at heart, my mouth dry, my eyes staring and stinging with the smoke and my hands smarting, for they were badly burnt, I was going to try and get in home, when there was a shout to the right of the burning house, and then, drowning the panting and clanking of the engines, the hiss of the water, and roaring of the burning house, there went up to heaven such a cheer as I never expect to hear again.

It was deafening, maddening, and it made a man's hands go up in the air, as if he were throwing his heart to the ruddy sky in his joy. I believe I was mad for the moment, as I yelled and cheered. For, up there, on the ledge of the next house, standing like a group of golden figures, and clinging to a stack of chimneys, was the escape-man, with the two children, and the father, with his arm round his half-fainting wife.

It was a sight to see; and no wonder that dense crowd below sent up cheer after cheer, every one of which was a heart-wrung thanksgiving prayer.

It was only a matter of time, and another fire-escape, to get them down—not even singed; for the brave fireman had mounted a table when the ladder was burnt, and cut his way with his axe through the ceiling, and on to the roof, unseen by us for the smoke; but, I tell you I would rather have been that brave fellow than the greatest general that ever drew the breath of life. And as for the company who supply the water to those mains—

There, the recollection of it all makes me feel sick, and my heart begins to throb, and I may be saying more, perhaps, than would be just.

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 14 July 1881, supplement page 2

The Runaway Ship

Author Unknown

A SALT YARN

One afternoon watch, two seamen were seated face to face astride the fore-topmast cross-trees of a large Australian homeward-bound, which had all her canvas, studding-sails included, spread to the south-east trade wind that slants upward from the Cape towards the equator. The breeze was freshening, and the sails which, about noon, were murmuring and rustling, now slept full; everything drew, as the wind had been hauled a little on the ship's starboard quarter; her head lying about west-by-north, and she going about eight knots through the water; just bending now and then enough to give the lee yardarms a pleasant slope to port, and over the blue surface, which already looked darker and brisker, with little tops of white in our shadow to windward. With the privilege of a watch below, I was lying over the topsail-yard, in the bunt by the mast, my feet upon the foot-rope, and a spyglass in my hand, through which I took an occasional glance at a vessel on the horizon, supposed to be a frigate. It was so hot and close in my berth on the half-deck, that this employment was no small luxury, joined to that of seeing others kept at work, feeling the air out of the foot of the top-gallantsail, and looking down into the water, where the shape of every fish that came near the surface was clearly defined in a greenish light, and the convoys of glittering flying fish sprang ever and anon like swallows from one wave to another in the distance. The white ducks stretched below, with the boys knotting their yarns on the forecastle, the sailmaker at his canvas in the waist, and the quarterdeck out of sight, where the first and second mates were busy getting the mizen backstays set up. Before me lay half the ocean circle, beautifully azure-tinted, where a long line of white clouds were gathered, in contrast to the clear region of the breeze astern. Up above my head shot the white swell of top-gallant, royal, and sky-sails, the former of which half concealed me from the two sailors, although their legs dangled from the cross trees over my back, while its shadow secured them from the hot sun. One was passing the ball of spun-yarn for his companion, who was twisting it with his sewing-mallet round the shrouds of the royal-mast, which had been pretty well chafed bare by seven months' work and weather. The easy conversation with which this task was beguiled, found a ready eavesdropper in me, since it smacked of the brine, and was in no respect checked by the neighborhood of a youngster from the other watch. In the present case it fell insensibly to a yarn, which I took care to log as correctly as possible soon after: a yarn in the day time only happening in such a sequestered situation as this, and being more valuable from its unpremeditated nature.

'Hold in there with the ball, Bob,' said the one parenthetically, and at intervals; 'and give us a dip of the tar. Now pass away, and take the turn out o' that yarn. 'Well ye see, boy,' he continued, 'Jim Taylor an' me—you know Jim!— that voy'ge we'd been having a good cruise ashore after the South Sea trip, and the shot-lockers was beginnin' to turn rather low; but still, as we'd seen so much together, we made it up to go chums for another spell. I'd two or three offers of a berth myself, but short trips wouldn't go down with me at no time, after I knocked off apprentice; there's somethin' low an' humbuggin' about 'em, to my state, as keeps a man neither green or blue, neither seein' life nor the world, an' tarnally ready to get sick over a yard; so I've managed to keep a midship helm atwixt the two tacks of a coaster and a man-o'-war's-man. Jim, too, he was rather down in the mouth about a love consarn, so we stuck together like a pair o' purchase-blocks bowsed chock on end. Every forenoon we stands round Liv'pool Docks in company, under easy sail, twigging all the craft, as you may suppose, an' overhaulin' the good and bad points on 'em, like a couple of bo'suns. Berths at that time was plenty, and hands scare; so was the more hard to please Jim an' I. We wanted to see some'ere as we hadn't seen afore, with a smart craft under us, a reg'lar true-blue for skipper, good living, and a fok'sle full of jolly dogs. We spells out all the tickets in the rigging of the passage-craft, with the port, and time of sailing; and says Jim, just as I was stepping on the gangway plank, "Hold on, Harry, bo', let's go round the China berth first." And, says I, at sight o' their heavy poops, an' Dutch bows, and tumble home topsides, all reg'lar-going and holy-stone, "None o' yer loo'ardly tea-canister affairs for me. Don't ye twig that there lubberly splice in the forerigging?" Again we'd fancy Badoes, or Lima, or Rio, or Valparaiso; but speakin' truth, my notion was for some sort of out-o'-the-way-come-venture or another, where we'd see life once in a while, and turn to again on the sober tack. So all said an' done, we fought shy of an offer; as the "old man" hauled close on us, we squared away, tops our boom, an' was off with a touch of our tarpaulins, an' "I doesn't think as how I'm a goin' for to ship this voy'age, yer honour," for which we got curses enough to split the main-taups'l, ye know.

'Hows'ever, one forenoon watch, as we was both backing and filling alongside of the Queen's Dock, full of bluff-bowed Danish timberers, Norway logs the colour of rosin, and yer wall-sided, kettle-bottomed American cotton-wagons, I seed as fine a barque-rigged craft as I ever clapped eyes upon moored out in the middle to a Swedish brig. She was clipper-cut about the bows; level bowsprit in a line with her run; a long sheer, but plenty of beam before the waist; high topsides, black out, but painted yellow within, and a yellow streak on her. Her sticks had a bit of a rake aft, with short lower-masts, and the yards black; but such a pair o' slapping tall topmasts as she had, I never see in a craft of her size, an' I could see with half an eye, though both lower an' taups'l yards was cock-billed up an' down dock-fashion, they'd the weather-arm of any ship in the dock. "That chap's Boston-built, Jim," says I, "for five guineas —reg'lar go-ahead, and no mistake. Why, she'll spread near half the cloths in her main taups'l of a twenty eight sloop o'-war!" "My eyes!" says Jim, with a shiver like, "how she'd dive into a head sea though! She'd cut through the comb of a Cape swell afore it 'ad time to rise." "That's neither here nor there," I says; "but I'd like to know the ropes o' what she's after; I've a notion it'e some'at of a taut bowline. She wants a third of bein' down to her bearings, though they go

clearing for out a'ready, ye see." Accordin'ly, Jim an' me uses the freedom to sheer round, and step over two or three other craft, to get a near look at the Yankee. Her mate was roaring like a young bull to a handalof that was sendin' up to'-gallant and royal-yards; and "Well," says I to Jim, 'it's clear they doesn't savvey sendin' up a gallant yard here, like they did in the old Pacific. Twig the lubber; he's taken the line wrong side o' that backstay. So look out; here goes!" I makes one spring into her rigging, up to the fore top, bears off the yard, fists the tackle, and clears it, and had the spar rigged out in no time. Down I comed to the rail by a topmast backstay, but no sooner nor the ill-looked customer of a mate opened on me with his jaw.

"Who told you to shove your oar in?" says he, "you tarnation British 'loper! I guess you want to book yourself pretty slick; but you don't enter this voy'ge, so be off!" "Axes your parding, sir," says I, winking to my chum; "an' hopes no offence, sir; but I thou't ye wanted a lift that time. You doesn't begrudge a poor fellow's flippers a little tar, sir, after fisting the blankets so long ashore?" "Top yer boom in the twinkling of a handspike," says he; "that's all I've got to say to ye." "Ay, ay, sir," says I, though I hung in the wind notwithstanding; for just then I twigs a big beamed fellow come aboard astarn of him, as I took to be the skipper —a hook-nose gentleman, clean-shaved, an' black i' the jaw, with two fists like leading blocks, and rigged out in a long-togged coat three cloths under his size; but he didn't look afeared on a gale o' wind.

"Well, Mr. Fisher," says he, overhaulin' me all the time out of his weather eye, "be so good as get them two new taups'ls out o' the half deck, and bend them. You don't seem but a smartish hand," says he to me when the mate was gone aft—"you don't my lad, for British growed. Been 'down east,' I reckon, now?" "Yes, sir," said I; "I sailed out with the Garrick liner, out an' home." "Thought so," says he. "Well, now, if I was short handed, I don't know but I might a shipped you this trip." "No harm done, sir," says I.

'Well, ye see, Bob, the short yarn of it was, the Yankee skipper ships us both at eighteen dollars a month, bound to Noo Orlaing, with a cargo of what they called "notions." The barque's name was the "Declaration," Eikabode Tappan, master; we didn't know till after she'd only eight of a crew before the mast when we fell aboard of him. Fact, we heard from an old shipmate next day, as Ike Tappan, they called him, very well known in the Gibraltar waters for a sharp hand, that knew precious little of lunars, an' never was heard on with a full-manned ship; she was 'tarnally runnin' away with 'em, and missing her port, like one of "God's ships," as they used to christen the Yankees. Never an underwriter of 'em all would insure the Declaration; but bein' one o' the owners himself, an' always somehow fallin' on his feet, no man overhauled the craft. "She's a slap-up boat," says Jim to me; "an' he's a prime seaman, I onderstand; but I'll bet next voy'age, Ike Tappan's arter some'at new, an' spicy to the bargain. I never knowed her Liverpool-away a-fore."

'Well, Bob, a night or two after, as we was going into the Hothouse Tavern, as they calls that big skylight affair by the docks, who does we meet comin' out but our new skipper, yard-arm with a long-togged shore-goin' chap, as I fancied, under a false rig, and steerin' shy. Hard-a-port it was, and we sights the two down street, bein' a blowy night, making stiff tack for the door of a Jew slop-shop to wind'ard. "Somethin's i' the wind, Jim," says I, "sure enough." The next day we goes down to hoist our dunnage abroad, where we finds no un but the shipkeeper, and a Boston boy washin' decks, ontil the skipper him'self come up the companion, with one we took for a new hand, in a red shirt, canvas togs, and a sou'-wester on his head for all the world like a Lunnun dustman's. "My eye, Harry," says Jim, "twig the green; mark them hands o' his. That fellow's sarved his time with ould Noah, I'm thinking, an' slept the watches ever since." "Well, I'm blessed," says I, "if that aint the same chap he had in tow last night, an' rigged out a cloth over strong to begin with."

"Now, my man," says the skipper to him, "tarn to aloft, and tar down them hfs an' backstays." "Ay, ay, sir," says he, quite ready like, though I wish you see what a long face he pulled at first dip into the tar can. A smart, knowing-like chap he was, though he put his feet into the ratlins like a post-boy, an' went up a bit at a time, smearin' all in his way, instead of from the mast-head down, till of a sudden smash comes the can on deck out o' the maintop, without, "Stand from under." The whole forenoon I do b'lieve, if the skipper didn't keep that poor devil going aloft, out on the yards, an' gettin' the ropes by heart, in a drizzle of rain, and after every one else was gone. I couldn't make it out at all, ontil we hears the day after, just afore haulin' through the dockway at flood, as how there was a reg'lar bobbery kickin' up about docks: a dozen outbound craft boarded by p'lice and gov'ment officers, all about some quill-driving don that had cut his stick with a sight o' money. As soon as I caught the hand in the red shirt lookin' over his shoulder, I smoked the rig in a moment, an' says the skipper, "You, Smith, up to the fore-taups'l yard, an' overhaul the gear." There was only Jim an' me, and the two mates, an' some dock-wallopers on deck, hard tailing of to the warp-ropes, an' a couple o' ships boys aloft; the other hands came out in a boat as we dropped down. Just as we sheers round into the river, there was a large New York steamer, paddles backed and 'scape-pipe roaring, and full passengers, as was being searched from stem to starn, where they found the gentleman's traps aboard sure enough, without hi'self. Nor no sooner was we abeam of her, but a boat pulls alongside, and three officers jumps up the gangway.

"Got any passengers aboard, captain?" says they. "Not as long as my name's Eikabode Tappan," says he; "'taint a payin' consarn, I expect." "Look sharp aloft there, and loose that fore-taups'l," sings out the skipper; and I couldn't help grinning when I squaints up, an' sees the chap with the red shirt bent over the yard, after havin' to hail, "Ay, ay, sir," as gruff as a bo'sun. "Bear a hand there, ye lubber; overhaul the reef-tackles and cluelins—d'ye hear? Forrud there, sheet home fore-taups'l." "Must look into your cabins, sir," says the officers. "Well, if it's law," says the skipper, "I can't go ag'in it; but a fair wind can't wait, you know, gents," says he, "an' I shouldn't like to break my rule ag'in passengers. I reckon we're gettin' a good deal o' way upon her." By the time they comed on deck again, we had the two taups'ls, fores'l, and spanker set up-on her, and I was at the wheel, the hands aboard rigging out the jib-boom; and, "Well," thinks I, as they got down the side to pull back, "if it had been but a a frigate's reefer instead, he'd have hauled on a different rope, Captain Tappan." Hows'ever, we soon caught a good sand; and by the way the windmills along the heights went whirling round, we expected a staggering breeze past the Point. How she did take it, too, on them wo whipping taups'ls o' hers, the moment she got the full weather, blue out o' the Irish Channel, with a smart swell? Hard work it was grinding her wheel down; but she came to in a twinkling, ready to fly into it. I saw how it 'ud be at wonst; with that spread of canvas, and them heavy spars, with the hands we had, in a gale and on a wind, we'd no more be able to reef or hand the two taups'ls or courses nor as many schoolboys. Hows'ever, we was scare well out from the land, when somethin' more came on our lookout: surging over it with a flash up the bows, all hands busy gettin' ship-shape, I hears the skipper sing out to his black stoo'ard below, to hand him up the glass. There was telegraph goin' upon the head-land, which the drift on it couldn't be seen, until the smoke of a large steamer was sighted to win'ward, through the haze, headin' for us from up Channel.

"Well," says the old man, "what's this? I ain't"—"She's double-funnled," puts in the grumpy mate, lookin' through the glass—"a steam-frigate, I calc'late." "No!" says the captain; "you don't —whew—ew!" And he gives a long whistle, seein' as just at that moment comes out a gleam behind one o' the big Channel swells, then the sound of a heavy gun. "That's a long un," says the mate. "Clap on the jib, there," sings out Captain Tappan. "Set the gaff-taups' and royals, Mr. Fisher," says he; "and keep her up a point, lad," to me. Away we cracks, with the craft on her best foot, bolling off eleven knots pleasantly. We had the heels of the steamer; but if that wasn't enough, what does we see her do shortly, but stand across the New Yorker's course, to overhaul her the second turn. By the second dog-watch, it bein' late season and soon dark, we'd lost sight of 'em both. Our Yankee skipper's fashion was to close-reef all afore turning in, man-o'-war style, if the weather was fickle in narrow waters, otherways there was no keeping the craft in hand; it took all on us to one yard at a turn, so yo may fancy what it would a' been in a blow! All the next day, having stood well to the east'ard, we sees nought o' the smoke flag, "Admiral Jones's pennant," as we used to call it in the old Pacific; so cracks on everything that would draw till morning when it fell a pretty dead calm, with a swell off the mouth of the British Channel. About four bells i' the arternoon we sees our queer customer from the fok'sle come 'pon deck out o' the cabin, in a pilot-coat; all at onst the fellow hails the skipper through the skylight, and there, sure enough, was a smoke to west'ard of us, just over the smooth o' the water-line, when we rolled. By five bells you could see the two funnels quite plain, the steamer seemin'ly havin' cruized the two days to win'ward of our course, for an airin' to her hands; an' then come back to pick us up. The captain looks at his chap and then at the steamer. "Yes," says he, taking the cigar out of his teeth, "that's considerable nasty, I expect!" An' I did feel for the other fellow from his looks. "Well," says the skipper, "there's a cloud brewin' to win'ward though. We'll have it hot an' heavy from the nor'west directly. Lay aloft there, all hands, to reef taups'ls!" And he takes the wheel from the hand aft. "Close reef," he sings out, as soon as we'd got hold on the earrings. The yards was braced round, and the swell rose in no time; the cloud was all round the weather-side in a quarter of an hour, as black-blue as you please, and the red sun goin' down through it, till the tops of the heavy swells was as red as blood. It was quite dark in that quarter, when we hears the thud, thud o' the steamer's paddles, and her engine clanking, and over out o' the cloud she comes as black as night, right upon the comb of the sea; and all in a moment it was white foam, pouring down the watersides and her full jib and gaffs'ls jibing as she went round. Up we went above her, looking on to her deck over the smoke; the men at stations, and a gun ran out to loo'ard. 'Port, port,' sings out our skipper, 'keep full.' The steamer's pipe roared like thunder, and she kept givin' a stroke now and then; the captain and a leeftenant stood up on the poddle-box, holding on by a rail.

"What barque's that?" screams out the captain through his speaking trumpet; and afore there was to hail—"Round to, and keep under my quarter till the squalls over—her Majesty's ship Salamander." "Daresn't do it, captain," sings out the skipper. "I'll dismast you then, by —!" The wind took us just then on the top of a sea, main-taups'l swung full, and away we went, with no time to rise on the swell, shipping a tremendous horsehead, that washed everyone off his feet holding on. Our last sight of the steam frigate, she was plunging off one green comber to another, half her length, out against the light, and her weather-flipper whirling around, feeling for the water, an' the next minute buried up to the grating in a foam. She'd her wrong side to us, or I don't doubt she'd had let drive off the top of the wave with that infarnal long eighteen.

'When the Declaration rose again, however, it was pitch dark; nothin' to be seen but the foam gleaming, and a white line 'twixt sky and sea to win'ward, or the binnacle lamp in-board. It took two of us at the wheel, hard up an' hard down, to hold her; runnin' as straight suth'ard as might be, under nothin' 'but spanker close taups'ls, and foretopmast stays'l; wind blowing strong abeam, and a blast o' rain. About three bells morning watch the weather cleared a little, with a break to starnward. All of a sudden the lookout on the foreyard hails out, "Light, ho! two lights hard on the lee-bow." And the captain goes aloft to overhaul them. Down he comes—"Cape Youshant right ahead, Mr. Fisher," says he; "we'll never weather it under this canvas, an' we can't go about neither. Up there! shake out reefs! swig up taups'l-halyards!" says he. And up goes the high cloth against the scud to loo'ard, till we made out the two lights from the wheel, drawing end on low down betwixt the swells as she pitched aloft. "Split them two lights," says he to the wheel, "or we're ashore in an hour. Press her well up, my lads," says he, "loose away the mains'l there." "She'll never bear it," says the mate. "Don't know the Declaration yet, Mr. Fisher, I guess," says he. "Board maintack there, ride him down with a will, men. Haul aft the sheet." Well how she pitched, an' drove right under, shippin' green seas over the weather chains! She hove a fellow over the wheel without, 'By your leave;' an' the maintack surged like a capstan-fall, every strand with a purchase on it. "It's blowing harder," says the mate. "Half an hour, and we're off," says the skipper. But sure enough, by that time we was reeling through—down head and up again, like a Dutchman's cow—first a howl through the rigging, and then a a calm in the trough, things lookin' black for the mast of her. "Ease off the main-tack," sings out the skipper; "an' stand by to brail up and frail." Ticklish work it was to do as much as the first; but hand the sail we couldn't, with the captain and his passenger at the wheel to free all hands; so out in the brails we let it blow, like a fisherman's bladders, and got up to reef taups'ls coaster-fashion. As soon as the halyards was let go, cluelins an' reef-tackles chock up, the sail drove into the lee-rigging, jammed through the shrouds, every square a bag o'wind; ship careening right down to loo'ard; the yard like to slide us off, if it didn't shake us; an' not a hand on deck to touch a rope. We couldn't compass it nohow; an' the mate sings out to the wheel to luff a little, and shake the sail. "Furl it!" roars out the captain, giving her a weather spoke or two; an' sartingly we did get up the head-leeches of the sail, and the gaskets passed round one yardarm when up slap comes the foot of it in the blast, with a noise like thunder, hammering our heads. an' blindin' us till the whole was free again. Not having her jib neither, she was just broaching to with that bit of a luff, when the fo'tops'l saved her, snap went the martingale-stay as it was, and she carried away her jib-boom in the first pitch. The skipper filled away in a moment, grinding the helm hard, and singing out to us to leave the sail, an sheet it half home again; so off she stood, squaring yards before the wind, easying off sheets, flying over it with at roll. We couldn't take another stitch off her, an' if ever I seed a craft running away with her masters that was it. Hows'ever, the morning was broke, and straight down the Bay of Biscay for the two mortal watches we goes, before the stiffest nor'-caster I remembers, without lying to. She made easier weather, the skipper al'ays said, on a drive as with the helm lashed. At night I didn't like the looks of it no-way; the sea was gettin' tremendous; the wind pinned ye to the rigging; and as cowld as a man could stand, though 'twas as dry as oakum; 'cept for the spray.

"Them sticks won't stand it, cap'en," says the mate, lookin' aloft like a stargazer, an' as gloomy as the bowsprit end. "You don't know them sticks, Mr. Fisher," says the skipper. "I may say I raised'em and smoked 'em myself. They're as tough as whalebone. They'll stand it, if the cloth don't." "True enough, sir," says the mate, an' a little after, just as she rose out of a lull, away doesn't the fo'taups'l go, with such a crack, out o' the belt rope clean away to loo'ard, like a puff of smoke. "Set the mainstays'l," sings out the skipper, "and keep her up a bit, my lad."

'I thinks I sees that passenger-fellow's face by the mizen-rigging, as he held on like death, and the barque hung over the black surge, up an' down, like looking for her shadow in the troughs, and climbing the hill for fear on it, shipping the grim seas in her waist as he came up. Blessed if he didn't show the white rag that time! an' I thou't myself as he'd done somethin' bad. The men said he looked like a chap would have been glad of the gallows; and one swore his next trick at the helm to luff up into a sea, an' lend a hand to sweep clear of him. Hows'ever, by the mornin' watch our wind was laid a bit, an' we driving as bare as we could to sou'-west, maintaups'l-yard still half down to the cap, with the sail set. The craft took it better nor ever I seed a craft do with the same sea on; but the mate said we'd run three degrees out of our course. By eight bells noon, what does the captain do but call all hands aft, to say as she'd never lie her course, he was goin' to bear up and run due south, a three months' trip for Monte Video. "I expect," says he, "to make somethin' of it thereaway, an' a sight better market. So, my lads," says he, "if you'll ship, an' no words, why I'll make it two dollars ahead warmer by the month." Every one looks at his neighbour, and grins as he walks forrud, seein' as it was no use to growl, if we'd wanted. For one, I'd ha' been ready cheer ship. 'Mr. Fisher,' says the skipper, 'square away the yards, and swing up that maintaups'l-yard. Down maintack, too, I see the wind's moderatin' pretty fast. Full an' by, my man,' says he to the wheel; so away we cracked on her, with a starn sea running, for the Canaries.

'Long yarn, Bob, if I took you the rig our skipper played with the blockhead at Monte Video, an' them lubberly Brazil cruisers. All I've got to say now is, as it's hard on eight bells, my chum an' I heard, on getting to Liverp'l a couple of year after, as how that there chase of ours from the steam frigate warn't about the passenger at all, but a concern of our sharp sailin' skipper's, as only an Admiralty clerk could take the turns out on. I never knowed the rights on it; but I don't doubt he kept clear o' both the Channel and Boston for a good spell.'

'Well, mate,' said Bob, as he passed the ball for the last time, 'give us the other yarn in the first watch.'

Whether Harry did so or not, I, belonging to the larboard watch, had no opportunity of hearing it.

Warragul Guardian and Buln Buln and Narracan Shire Advocate, Thursday 17 March 1881, supplement page 2.