A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Stephen Archer and Other Tales

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"'Kate,'--we had got so far even then--'my uncle hasn't another bottle
of port in his cellar. Consider what a state General Fortescue will be
in soon. He'll be tipsy for want of it. Will you come and help me to
find a bottle or two?'

"She rose at once, with a white-rose blush--so delicate I don't
believe any one saw it but myself. But the shadow of a stray ringlet
could not fall on her cheek without my seeing it.

"When we got into the hall, the wind was roaring loud, and the few
lights were flickering and waving gustily with alternate light and
shade across the old portraits which I had known so well as a
child--for I used to think what each would say first, if he or she
came down out of the frame and spoke to me.

"I stopped, and taking Kate's hand, I said--

"'I daren't let you come farther, Kate, before I tell you another
thing: my uncle has promised, if I find him a dozen of port--you must
have seen what a state the poor man is in--to let me say something to
you--I suppose he meant your mamma, but I prefer saying it to you, if
you will let me. Will you come and help me to find the port?'

"She said nothing, but took up a candle that was on a table in the
hall, and stood waiting. I ventured to look at her. Her face was now
celestial rosy red, and I could not doubt that she had understood me.
She looked so beautiful that I stood staring at her without moving.
What the servants could have been about that not one of them crossed
the hall, I can't think.

"At last Kate laughed and said--'Well?' I started, and I dare say took
my turn at blushing. At least I did not know what to say. I had
forgotten all about the guests inside. 'Where's the port?' said Kate.
I caught hold of her hand again and kissed it."

"You needn't be quite so minute in your account, my dear," said my
mother, smiling.

"I will be more careful in future, my love," returned my father.

"'What do you want me to do?' said Kate.

"'Only to hold the candle for me,' I answered, restored to my seven
senses at last; and, taking it from her, I led the way, and she
followed, till we had passed through the kitchen and reached the
cellar-stairs. These were steep and awkward, and she let me help her
down."

"Now, Edward!" said my mother.

"Yes, yes, my love, I understand," returned my father.

"Up to this time your mother had asked no questions; but when we stood
in a vast, low cellar, which we had made several turns to reach, and I
gave her the candle, and took up a great crowbar which lay on the
floor, she said at last--

"'Edward, are you going to bury me alive? or what _are_ you going to
do?'

"'I'm going to dig you out,' I said, for I was nearly beside myself
with joy, as I struck the crowbar like a battering-ram into the wall.
You can fancy, John, that I didn't work the worse that Kate was
holding the candle for me.

"Very soon, though with great effort, I had dislodged a brick, and the
next blow I gave into the hole sent back a dull echo. I was right!

"I worked now like a madman, and, in a very few minutes more, I had
dislodged the whole of the brick-thick wall which filled up an archway
of stone and curtained an ancient door in the lock of which the key
now showed itself. It had been well greased, and I turned it without
much difficulty.

"I took the candle from Kate, and led her into a spacious region of
sawdust, cobweb, and wine-fungus.

"'There, Kate!' I cried, in delight.

"'But,' said Kate, 'will the wine be good?'

"'General Fortescue will answer you that,' I returned, exultantly.
'Now come, and hold the light again while I find the port-bin.'

"I soon found not one, but several well-filled port-bins. Which to
choose I could not tell. I must chance that. Kate carried a bottle and
the candle, and I carried two bottles very carefully. We put them down
in the kitchen with orders they should not be touched. We had soon
carried the dozen to the hall-table by the dining-room door.

"When at length, with Jacob chuckling and rubbing his hands behind us,
we entered the dining-room, Kate and I, for Kate would not part with
her share in the joyful business, loaded with a level bottle in each
hand, which we carefully erected on the sideboard, I presume, from the
stare of the company, that we presented a rather remarkable
appearance--Kate in her white muslin, and I in my best clothes,
covered with brick-dust, and cobwebs, and lime. But we could not be
half so amusing to them as they were to us. There they sat with the
dessert before them but no wine-decanters forthcoming. How long they
had sat thus, I have no idea. If you think your mamma has, you may ask
her. Captain Calker and General Fortescue looked positively white
about the gills. My uncle, clinging to the last hope, despairingly,
had sat still and said nothing, and the guests could not understand
the awful delay. Even Lady Georgiana had begun to fear a mutiny in the
kitchen, or something equally awful. But to see the flash that passed
across my uncle's face, when he saw us appear with _ported arms_! He
immediately began to pretend that nothing had been the matter.

"'What the deuce has kept you, Ned, my boy?' he said. 'Fair Hebe,' he
went on, 'I beg your pardon. Jacob, you can go on decanting. It was
very careless of you to forget it. Meantime, Hebe, bring that bottle
to General Jupiter, there. He's got a corkscrew in the tail of his
robe, or I'm mistaken.'

"Out came General Fortescue's corkscrew. I was trembling once more
with anxiety. The cork gave the genuine plop; the bottle was lowered;
glug, glug, glug, came from its beneficent throat, and out flowed
something tawny as a lion's mane. The general lifted it lazily to his
lips, saluting his nose on the way.

"'Fifteen! by Gyeove!' he cried. Well, Admiral, this _was_ worth
waiting for! Take care how you decant that, Jacob--on peril of your
life.'

"My uncle was triumphant. He winked hard at me not to tell. Kate and I
retired, she to change her dress, I to get mine well brushed, and my
hands washed. By the time I returned to the dining-room, no one had
any questions to ask. For Kate, the ladies had gone to the
drawing-room before she was ready, and I believe she had some
difficulty in keeping my uncle's counsel. But she did.--Need I say
that was the happiest Christmas I ever spent?"

"But how did you find the cellar, papa?" asked Effie.

"Where are your brains, Effie? Don't you remember I told you that I
had a dream?"

"Yes. But you don't mean to say the existence of that wine-cellar was
revealed to you in a dream?"

"But I do, indeed. I had seen the wine-cellar built up just before we
left for Madeira. It was my father's plan for securing the wine when
the house was let. And very well it turned out for the wine, and me
too. I had forgotten all about it. Everything had conspired to bring
it to my memory, but had just failed of success. I had fallen asleep
under all the influences I told you of--influences from the region of
my childhood. They operated still when I was asleep, and, all other
distracting influences being removed, at length roused in my sleeping
brain the memory of what I had seen. In the morning I remembered not
my dream only, but the event of which my dream was a reproduction.
Still, I was under considerable doubt about the place, and in this I
followed the dream only, as near as I could judge.

"The admiral kept his word, and interposed no difficulties between
Kate and me. Not that, to tell the truth, I was ever very anxious
about that rock ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidious
honour or pride might have occasioned a considerable interference with
our happiness for a time. As it turned out, he could not leave me
Culverwood, and I regretted the fact as little as he did himself. His
gratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming occasionally
ludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. I do not believe he could have
been more grateful if I had saved his ship and its whole crew. For his
hospitality was at stake. Kind old man!"

Here ended my father's story, with a light sigh, a gaze into the
bright coals, a kiss of my mother's hand which he held in his, and
another glass of Burgundy.




IF I HAD A FATHER.

A DRAMA.


ACT I.

SCENE.--_A Sculptor's studio_. ARTHUR GERVAISE _working at a clay
figure and humming a tune. A knock_.


_Ger._ Come in. (_Throws a wet cloth over the clay. Enter_ WARREN _by
the door communicating with the house_.) Ah, Warren! How do you do?

_War._ How are you, Gervaise? I'm delighted to see you once more. I
have but just heard of your return.

_Ger._ I've been home but a fortnight. I was just thinking of you.

_War._ I was certain I should find you at work.

_Ger._ You see my work can go on by any light. It is more independent
than yours.

_War._ I wish it weren't, then.

_Ger._ Why?

_War._ Because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your
den sometimes.

_Ger._ Like any other wild beast when the dark falls--eh?

_War._ Just so.

_Ger._ And where the good?

_War._ Why shouldn't you roar a little now and then like other honest
lions?

_Ger._ I doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond roaring.

_War._ And I doubt whether the lion that won't even whisk his tail,
will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his
while to keep a cage in London.

_Ger._ I certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work.

_War._ What is it now?

_Ger._ Oh, nothing!--only a little fancy of my own.

_War._ There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw the
sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working
at--"Oh--a little fancy of my own!"

_Ger._ I couldn't tell it was you coming.

_War._ Let me see what you've been doing, then.

_Ger._ Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet!

_War._ (_approaching the figure_). Of course, of course! I understand
all that.

_Ger._ (_laying his hand on his arm_). Excuse me: I would rather not
show it.

_War._ I beg your pardon.--I couldn't believe you really meant it.

_Ger._ I'll show you the mould if you like.

_War._ I don't know what you mean by that: you would never throw a wet
sheet over a cast! (GER. _lifts a painting from the floor and sets it
on an easel_. WAR. _regards it for a few moments in silence_.) Ah! by
Jove, Gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to
have been a painter. What a sky! And what a sea! Those blues and
greens--rich as a peacock's feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night!
The dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of
blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie like gems in the mineshaft
of the darkness!

_Ger._ _You_ seem to have taken the wrong turn, Warren! _You_ ought to
have been a poet.

_War._ Such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow's bend.

_Ger._ I'm glad you like it. I do myself, though it falls short of my
intent sadly enough.

_War._ But I don't for the life of me see what _this_ has to do with
_that_. You said something about a mould.

_Ger._ I will tell you what I meant. Every individual aspect of nature
looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying that
of which itself only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in my
eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of the summer dawn; that
Aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my
Psyche.

_War._ Under the sheet there?

_Ger._ Yes. You shall see her some day; but to show your work too
soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner.

_War._ Well, you've spoiled my picture. I shall go home and scrape my
canvas to the bone.

_Ger._ On second thoughts, I will show you my Psyche. (_Uncovers the
clay_. WAR. _stands in admiration. Enter_ WATERFIELD _by same door_.)

_Wat_. Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr. Gervaise, I hope I see
you well.

_War._ Mr. Waterfield--an old friend of yours, Gervaise, I believe.

_Ger._ I cannot appropriate the honour.

_Wat_. I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it's six months ago,
Mr. Gervaise. Ha! (_using his eye-glass_) What a charming figure! A
Psyche! Wings suggested by--Very skilful! Contour lovely! Altogether
antique in pose and expression!--Is she a commission?

_Ger._ No.

_Wat_. Then I beg you will consider her one.

_Ger._ Excuse me; I never work on commission--at least never in this
kind. A bust or two I have done.

_Wat_. By Jove!--I _should_ like to see your model!--This is perfect.
Are you going to carve her?

_Ger._ Possibly.

_Wat_. Uncommissioned?

_Ger._ If at all.

_Wat_. Well, I can't call it running any risk. What lines!--You will
let me drop in some day when you've got your model here?

_Ger._ Impossible.

_Wat_. You don't mean--?

_Ger._ I had no model.

_Wat_. No model? Ha! ha!--You must excuse me! (GER. _takes up the wet
sheet_.) I understand. Reasons. A little mystery enhances--eh?--is
convenient too--balks intrusion--throws the drapery over the
mignonette. I understand. (GER. _covers the clay_.) Oh! pray don't
carry out my figure. That _is_ a damper now!

_Ger._ I am not fond of acting the showman. You must excuse me: I am
busy.

_Wat_. Ah well!--some other time--when you've got on with her a bit.
Good morning. Ta, ta, Warren.

_Ger._ Good morning. This way, if you please. (_Shows him out by the
door to the street_.) How did the fellow find his way here?

_War._ I am the culprit, I'm sorry to say. He asked me for your
address, and I gave it him.

_Ger._ How long have you known him?

_War._ A month or two.

_Ger._ Don't bring him here again.

_War._ Don't say I _brought_ him. I didn't do that. But I'm afraid
you've not seen the last of him.

_Ger._ Oh yes, I have! Old Martha would let in anybody, but I've got a
man now.--William!

_Enter_ COL. GERVAISE _dressed as a servant_.

You didn't see the gentleman just gone, I'm afraid, William?

_Col. G._ No, sir.

_Ger._ Don't let in any one calling himself _Waterfield_.

_Col. G._ No, sir.

_Ger._ I'm going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be back shortly.

_Col. G._ Very well, sir. _Exit into the house_.

_Ger._ (_to_ WAR.) I can't touch clay again till I get that fellow out
of my head.

_War._ Come along, then.

_Exeunt_ GER. _and_ WAR.

_Re-enter_ COL. G. _polishing a boot. Regards it with
dissatisfaction_.

_Col. G._ Confound the thing! I wish it were a scabbard. When I think
I'm getting it all right--one rub more and it's gone dull again!

_The house-door opens slowly, and_ THOMAS _peeps cautiously in_.

_Th._ What sort of a plaze be this, maister?

_Col. G._ You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in?

_Th._ By th' dur-hole. Iv yo leave th' dur oppen, th' dogs'll coom in.

_Col. G._ I must speak to Martha again. She _will_ leave the
street-door open!--Well, you needn't look so frightened. It ain't a
robbers' cave.

_Th._ That be more'n aw knaw--not for sartin sure, maister. Nobory mun
keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a gentleman
axes mo into his heawse, aw'm noan beawn to be afeard. Aw'll coom in,
for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak
here?

_Col. G._ What would you think now?

_Th._ It looks to mo like a mason's shed--a greight one.

_Col. G._ You're not so far wrong.

_Th._ (_advancing_). It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure
abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin'. Aw'll bother
noan. (_Sits down on the dais and wipes his face_.) Well, aw be a'most
weary.

_Col. G._ Is there anything I can do for you?

_Th._ Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw
dunnot think aw'll coom to th' end in haste. Aw're a lookin' for
summut aw've lost, mou.

_Col. G._ Did you come all the way from Lancashire to look for it?

_Th._ Eh, lad! aw thowt thae'rt beawn to know wheer aw coom fro!

_Col. G._ Anybody could tell that, the first word you spoke. I mean no
offence.

_Th._ (_looking disappointed_). Well, noan's ta'en. But thae dunnot
say thae's ne'er been to Lancashire thisel'?

_Col. G._ No, I don't say that: I've been to Lancashire several times.

_Th._ Wheer to?

_Col. G._ Why, Manchester.

_Th._ That's noan ov it.

_Col. G._ And Lancaster.

_Th._ Tut! tut! That's noan of it, nayther.

_Col. G._ And Liverpool. I was once there for a whole week.

_Th._ Nay, nay. Noather o' those plazes. Fur away off 'em.

_Col. G._ But what does it matter where I have or haven't been?

_Th._ Mun aw tell tho again? Aw've lost summut, aw tell tho. Didsto
ne'er hear tell ov th' owd woman 'at lost her shillin'? Hoo couldn't
sit her deawn beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon's me. (_Hides his face in his
hands_.)

_Col. G._ Ah! now I begin to guess! (_aside_).--You don't mean you've
lost your--

_Th._ (_starting up and grasping his stick with both hands_). Aw _do_
mane aw've lost mo yung lass; and aw dunnot say thae's feawnd her, but
aw do say thae knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then!

_Col. G._ What on earth makes you think that? I don't know what you're
after.

_Th._ Thae knows well enough. Thae knowed what aw'd lost afoor aw
tou'd tho yo' be deny in' your own name. Thae knows. Aw'll tay tho
afore the police, beout thou gie her oop. Aw wull.

_Col. G._ What story have you to tell the police then? They'll want to
know.

_Th._ Story saysto? The dule's i' th' mon! Didn't aw seigh th' mon 'at
stealed her away goo into this heawse not mich over hauve an hour
ago?--Aw seigh him wi' mo own eighes.

_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to him?

_Th._ He poppit in at th' same dur, and there aw've been a-watching
ever since. Aw've not took my eighes off ov it. He's somewheeres now
in this same heawse.

_Col. G._ He _may_ have been out in the morning (_aside_).--But you
see there are more doors than one to the place. There is a back door;
and there is a door out into the street.

_Th._ Eigh! eigh! Th' t'one has to do wi' th' t'other--have it? Three
dur-holes to one shed! That looks bad!

_Col. G._ He's not here, whoever it was. There's not a man but myself
in the place.

_Th._ Hea am aw to know yo're not playin' a marlock wi' mo? He'll be
oop i' th' heawse theer. Aw mun go look (_going_).

_Col. G._ (_preventing him_). And how am _I_ to know you're not a
housebreaker?

_Th._ Dun yo think an owd mon like mosel' would be of mich use for
sich wark as that, mon?

_Col. G._ The more fit for a spy, though, to see what might be made of
it.

_Th._ Eh, mon! Dun they do sich things as yon? But aw'm seechin'
nothin', man nor meawse, that donnot belung me. Aw tell yo true. Gie
mo mo Mattie, and aw'll trouble yo no moor. Aw winnot--if yo'll give
mo back mo Mattie. (_Comes close up to him and lays his hand on his
arm_.) Be yo a feyther, mon?

_Col. G._ Yes.

_Th._ Ov a pratty yung lass?

_Col. G._ Well, no. I have but a son.

_Th._ Then thae winnot help mo?

_Col. G._ I shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how.

_Th._ Tell yor maister 'at Mattie's owd feyther's coom a' the gait fro
Rachda to fot her whoam, and aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll
let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam:
hoo's but poorly. Tell yor maister that.

_Col. G._ But I don't believe my master knows anything about her.

_Th._ Aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into this heawse but a
feow minutes agoo?

_Col. G._ You've mistaken somebody for him.

_Th._ Well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre days ago, aw seigh
mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur--aw mane th' heawsedur, yon.

_Col. G._ Are you sure of that?

_Th._ Sure as death. Aw seigh her back.

_Col. G._ Her back! Who could be sure of a back?

_Th._ By th' maskins! dosto think I dunnot know mo Mattie's back? I
seign her coom eawt o' that dur, aw tell tho!

_Col. G._ Why didn't you speak to her?

_Th._ Aw co'd.

_Col. G._ And she didn't answer?

_Th._ Aw didn't co' leawd. Aw're not willin' to have ony mak ov a din.

_Col. G._ But you followed her surely?

_Th._ Aw did; but aw're noan so good at walkin' as aw wur when aw
coom; th' stwons ha' blistered mo fet. An it're the edge o' dark like.
Aw connot seigh weel at neet, wi o' th' lamps; an afoor aw geet oop
wi' her, hoo's reawnd th' nook, and gwon fro mo seet.

_Col. G._ There are ten thousands girls in London you might take for
your own under such circumstances--not seeing more than the backs of
them.

_Th._ Ten theawsand girls like mo Mattie, saysto?--wi'her greight
eighes and her lung yure?--Puh!

_Col. G._ But you've just said you didn't see her face!

_Th._ Dunnot aw know what th' face ov mo chylt be like, beout seem' ov
it? Aw'm noan ov a lump-yed. Nobory as seigh her once wouldn't know
her again.

_Col. G._ (_aside_). He's a lunatic!--I don't see what I can do for
you, old fellow.

_Th._ (_rising_). And aw met ha' known it beout axin'! O'reet! Aw're a
greight foo'! But aw're beawn to coom in: aw lung'd to goo through th'
same dur wi' mo Mattie. Good day, sir. It be like maister, like mon!
God's curse upon o' sich! (_Turns his back. After a moment turns
again_.) Noa. Aw winnot say that; for mo Mattie's sake aw winnot say
that. God forgie you! (_going by the house_).

_Col. G._ This way, please! (_opening the street-door_).

_Th._ Aw see. Aw'm not to have a chance ov seem' oather Mattie or th'
mon. _Exit_.

Col. G. _resumes his boot absently. Re-enter_ THOMAS, _shaking his
fist_.

_Th._ But aw tell tho, aw'll stick to th' place day and neet, aw wull.
Aw wull. Aw wull.

_Col. G._ Come back to-morrow.

_Th._ Coom back, saysto? Aw'll not goo away (_growing fierce_). Wilto
gie mo mo Mattie? Aw'm noan beawn to ston here so mich lunger. Wilto
gie mo mo Mattie?

_Col. G._ I cannot give you what I haven't got.

_Th._ Aw'll break thi yed, thou villain! (_threatening him with his
stick_). Eh, Mattie! Mattie! to loe sich a mon's maister more'n me! I
would dey fur thee, Mattie. _Exit_.

_Col. G._ It's all a mistake, of course. There are plenty of young
men--but my Arthur's none of such. I cannot believe it of him. The
daughter! If I could find _her, she_ would settle the question. (_It
begins to grow dark_.) I must help the old man to find her. He's sure
to come back. Arthur does _not_ look the least like it.
But--(_polishes vigorously_). I can_not_ get this boot to look like a
gentleman's. I wish I had taken a lesson or two first. I'll get hold
of a shoeblack, and make him come for a morning or two. No, he does
_not_ look like it. There he comes. (_Goes on polishing_.)

_Enter_ GER.

_Ger._ William!

_Col. G._ (_turning_). Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Light the gas. Any one called?

_Col. G._ Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Who?

_Col. G._ I don't know, sir. (_Lighting the gas_.)

_Ger._ You should have asked his name. (_Stands before the clay,
contemplating it_.)

_Col. G._ I'm sorry I forgot, sir. It was only an old man from the
country--after his daughter, he said.

_Ger._ Came to offer his daughter, or himself perhaps. (_Begins to
work at the figure_.)

_Col. G._ (_watching him stealthily_). He looked a respectable old
party--from Lancashire, he said.

_Ger._ I dare say. You will have many such callers. Take the address.
Models, you know.

_Col. G._ If he calls again, sir?

_Ger._ Ask him to leave his address, I say.

_Col. G._ But he told me you knew her.

_Ger._ Possibly. I had a good many models before I left. But it's of
no consequence; I don't want any at present.

_Col. G._ He seemed in a great way, sir--and swore. I couldn't make
him out.

_Ger._ Ah! hm!

_Col. G._ He says he saw her come out of the house.

_Ger. Has_ there been any girl here? Have you seen any about?

_Col. G._ No, sir.

_Ger._ My aunt had a dressmaker to meet her here the other evening. I
have had no model since I came back.

_Col. G._ The man was in a sad taking about her, sir. I didn't know
what to make of it. There seemed some truth--something suspicious.

_Ger._ Perhaps my aunt can throw some light upon it. (COL. G.
_lingers_.) That will do. (_Exit_ COL. G.) How oddly the man behaves!
A sun-stroke in India, perhaps. Or he may have had a knock on the
head. I must keep my eye on him. (_Stops working, steps backward, and
gazes at the Psyche_.) She is growing very like some one! Who can it
be? She knows she is puzzling me, the beauty! See how she is keeping
back a smile! She knows if she lets one smile out, her whole face will
follow it through the clay. How strange the half-lights of memory are!
You know and you don't know--both at once. Like a bat in the twilight
you are sure of it, and the same moment it is nowhere. Who _is_ my
Psyche like?--The forehead above the eyebrow, and round by the temple?
The half-playful, half-sorrowful curve of the lip? The hope in the
lifted eyelid? There is more there than ever I put there. Some power
has been shaping my ends. By heaven, I have it!--No--yes--it is--it is
Constance--momently dawning out of the clay! What _does_ this mean?
_She_ never gave me a sitting--at least, she has not done so for the
last ten years--yet here she is--she, and no other! I never thought
she was beautiful. When she came with my aunt the other day though, I
did fancy I saw a new soul dawning through the lovely face. Here it
is--the same soul breaking through the clay of my Psyche!--I will give
just one touch to the corner of the mouth.

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