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"He looked round at me with a sudden flash of bewildered hope in his eye. In the last agony he was capable of believing in a miracle. But he made me no reply. He only stared.
"'Will you give me Kate? I want Kate,' I whispered.
"'I will, my boy. That is, if she'll have you. That is, I mean to say, if you produce the true tawny.'
"'Of course, uncle; honour bright—as port in a storm,' I answered, trembling in my shoes and everything else I had on, for I was not more than three parts confident in the result.
"The gentlemen beside Kate happening at the moment to be occupied, each with the lady on his other side, I went behind her, and whispered to her as I had whispered to my uncle, though not exactly in the same terms. Perhaps I had got a little courage from the champagne I had drunk; perhaps the presence of the company gave me a kind of mesmeric strength; perhaps the excitement of the whole venture kept me up; perhaps Kate herself gave me courage, like a goddess of old, in some way I did not understand. At all events I said to her:
"'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
ACT I
SCENE.—A Sculptor's studio. ARTHUR GERVAISE working at a clay figure and humming a tune. A knockGer. 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 you? 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 seein' 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 seein' 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.