Part 16

"Soon other faces appeared, with beards and helmets--the faces of the 'Polizei.' In a few minutes, by the aid of ropes and stout arms, I was drawn up once more to the light of day, blinking like an awkward bat.

"Before me stood nearly a dozen persons: a squad of police-officers, with their swords and carbines; Herr Rudolph and Christina; and three prisoners--a woman and two men, whose faces were unpleasantly familiar to me.

"Some little official ceremony of identification, and so forth, having been gone through with, we all started for our various places of destination. The trial took place not long afterwards in Dresden; the prisoners were all convicted, and sentenced to----I don't care to remember what. They were a dangerous gang of thieves, whom the police of several countries had long been vainly endeavouring to capture. But meanwhile, I went back to spend the night at the farmhouse of Herr Rudolph. I need not say that I scarcely had the courage to look him and his daughter in the face. Herr Rudolph was a most excellent and blameless person; and as for Christina----! I knew not in what terms to begin my apologies to her.

"It appeared that my little friend Heinrich, in Paris, had had his suspicions of the man calling himself Birchmore from the first, and, in writing to his father and sister, had mentioned as much. When, therefore, the Birchmore party unexpectedly turned up at the farmhouse, along with the owner of the diamonds, a good deal of perturbation was created. Afraid openly to warn me, in the absence of direct evidence, Christina had done what she could indirectly to excite suspicions in my mind. Failing in this, the girl had actually gone down to Schandau, on the evening of my interview with Kate in my chamber, and laid her information at the police bureau. The next morning she met the officers by appointment at some distance from the house, and they followed us to Kohlstein. After seeing the whole party of us to the top of the Stein (Birchmore followed a few minutes after myself and the others), they formed a cordon at the foot of the path, and one of their number went up to reconnoitre. Peeping over the edge of the plateau, he saw Birchmore just making his attack, and immediately signalled to those below to approach. Thus it happened that the thieves, as they were making off with their plunder, found themselves confronted by an impassable cordon of six loaded carbines. Resistance was out of the question, and they surrendered at discretion.

"'And what can I do, Christina,' I said, 'to show you how much I thank you? Of course I don't speak of cancelling the obligation--that nothing could do; but I should like to leave you something to--to remind you that you saved my life and my diamonds. Would you wear a diamond ring for me, or a pair of earrings?'

"'No, many thanks, Herr Gainsborough,' replied the little maiden, gravely. 'You owe me nothing; and as for diamonds, I shall never like them, since I have seen them the cause of so much trouble and danger.'

"'But unless you let me do something, Christina, I must think you refuse to forgive me for my inexcusable impertinence and stupidity.'

"She looked down at her bare feet, and smoothed her apron. 'Well, lieber Herr, I would not like to have you think that, truly; I do forgive you with all my heart; and just before you go away to-morrow--just when you are ready to start--perhaps, if you please, I will ask you for something.'

"'You shall have it, whatever it is!' I answered.

"So, the next day, when the droschkey was at the door, and my trunk packed and put on the box, I left Herr Rudolph conversing with the driver, and went back into the house to find Christina. She was standing in a shadowy corner of the kitchen, so absorbed in scouring plates that she did not appear to notice me until I spoke.

"'I am come to say good-bye, and to claim your promise, Christina.'

"She put down her plate, and blushed, with downcast eyes.

"'Herr Gainsborough will not be offended? it is something I have no right to ask--only--it will show I am not unforgiving--and--it would be better for me than the diamonds.'

"'What is it, dear Christina?'

"She looked up in my face, shyly and yet frankly, and said:

"'Kiss me!'"

IX.

This (as nearly as I can recollect it) is the story told me by my friend Tom Gainsborough, as we sat over a decanter of claret after one of his inimitable little dinners. When it was over I gave a grunt, and flung the but-end of my cigar into the grate.

"There's one thing I don't understand about this story," I then remarked; "and it has misled me all along. Your description of that creature, Kate--her eyes and eyebrows, complexion, hands, and nationality--all persuaded me it was the present Mrs. Gainsborough. Yet it appears she was nothing of the sort!"

"I should think not, indeed!" exclaimed Tom, laughing. "They are as different, even in appearance, as two straight-browed brunettes could possibly be. It is not my fault if you were misled by a description--you who know so well how incurably vague the best descriptions are. Were you to see them side by side, you would acknowledge that they are as little alike as you and I are. As to the American part of it--the truth is they were not really Americans at all: Birchmore and the girl were French; and I in my ignorance mistook their French accent for the Yankee twang. When, several years later, I met some real Americans--and married one of them--I realised my error."

"Humph! Well, I daresay you were not more stupid than the majority of your countrymen would have been in your place. But another thing--was all that mesmeric business genuine, or a part of the conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy, of course! It was the stock expedient of the gang--and a very ingenious one, I think; for of course the mesmerised one might turn up anywhere, and if she were not discovered, well and good; while if she were, all she had to say was that she was in a mesmeric trance. As it happened, the latter alternative occurred in both their attempts on me; but I give the girl credit for turning it off excellently well. In fact, she took a real artistic interest in her business. You see, she had been trained as a rope-dancer in her childhood, and afterwards she was on the stage for a time. She certainly had marvellous dramatic talent, and thoroughly enjoyed "taking a part." The realistic element that entered into her performances no doubt rendered them much more exciting than ordinary stage work, and perhaps, sometimes, she almost deceived herself."

"Ah! I should not wonder. Well, and what was the meaning of that confusion about the steamboat and the train, and Birchmore's explanations?"

"A mistake on their part--that's all. Accidents will happen, you know. I daresay my unexpected questions disconcerted them greatly; but I was unsuspicious enough, Heaven knows. What I admire as much as anything in their management of the affair was the skill with which they made me believe, from the outset, that I was forcing my company upon _them_, when in reality it was they who were leading me round by the nose."

"Missus Gainsborough say de tea ready, sah!" said the sable servitor, opening the door.

"Let's go up at once!" I exclaimed, rising from chair. "I shall hereafter feel a new interest in looking at Mrs. Gainsborough's diamonds!"

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST:

A MYTH.

They were ideal young people, and lived in a fairy farmhouse, in the Eldorado of lovers. Everything went happily with them; no troublesome grown-up people thwarted or annoyed them; they could be together as much as they liked, and had never in their whole lives heard of such a thing as impropriety. They had no enemies, nor so much as a single friend with conscientious ideas of duty. In spite of all this they were remarkably content with each other and with the world at large, and never did any wrong, to speak of, from week's end to week's end. For the rest, they had lived and played together ever since they could remember, had never quarrelled except to provide a pretext for a reconciliation; and she had always called him Eros, and he had always called her Psyche. They loved each other with all their hearts, and were a living refutation of the folly of those who would persuade us that pain and struggle are the necessary discipline of human beings. To see these two was enough to make one believe in the feasibility of setting up a new Garden of Eden on a durable basis.

Notwithstanding their fanciful nicknames, and exceptional surroundings and circumstances, Psyche and Eros were as thoroughly human in their thoughts and emotions as if they had lived in the most commonplace of country villages, and, although they had always been together, their temperaments were as wide asunder as the poles. Psyche was imaginative, dreamy, and sensitive to both mental and physical impressions; her gentle brown eyes would fill with tears at the lightest touch of pity or pathos, and the delicate bloom in her cheeks would fade and her girlish figure droop after but an hour's illness. Yet she was entirely wholesome and healthy both in mind and body, and though her voice was low and soft, and her manner tender and appealing, she had a strength and courage in the cause of right and truth such as a son of Anak might have envied. Eros, on the other hand, took practical views of life, and prided himself upon his solid common sense. Being now on the verge of his twenty-first birthday, he affected a manly and dogmatic tone, as of one who knew the world, and had arrived at the maturity of his judgment. He was a red-cheeked, fair-haired, blue-eyed youth; sturdy, vigorous, and jocund. Psyche loved him devotedly, and took every occasion to persuade herself that he was the wisest as well as the dearest of mankind. But she could not help suspecting sometimes that he was not always quite amenable to reason, and would feel very guilty when the conviction was occasionally forced upon her that she had taken a higher view of this or that question than he had. On the whole, however, she continued to maintain the sense of her own inferiority unimpaired, and the more inferior she felt the better was she pleased.

Now it so happened that Eros would come of age on Christmas Day; and as if the falling together of these two celebrations were not enough, it had been decided to enhance their joyfulness by the addition of a third--which was to be neither more nor less than the young people's wedding! Here, surely, was bliss enough to be crowded into one short twenty-four hours; and moreover, as Psyche observed, looking into her lover's blue eyes with the frank shyness of her own brown ones, "What Christmas present could we make to each other so appropriate as the surrender of ourselves into each other's keeping?"

Yes, this was bliss enough even for ideal young people who lived in a fairy farmhouse in the Eldorado of lovers. Nevertheless--if it will be believed--even this was not all! A fourth cause of rejoicing, and one to which Eros and Psyche looked forward with scarcely less delight than to their own near union, was the promised advent of an old and intimate friend of theirs, from whom they had been separated many years, but whom they had never forgotten, or ceased to reverence and love. He had been a young man when they were children, and they had looked upon him then, and did now, as a dear elder brother. He had been their confidant and adviser, the unweariable promoter and companion of their childish merrymakings; a teller of splendid stories, a man ardent, gay, sweet-tempered, wise. They had adored him as only children can adore such a friend; all his sayings were to them oracular, and all his doings superhuman. They fancied--with cause or without, it matters not--that but for him they would not even have loved each other as they did. He had brought out the best that was in them, and inspired that best to become better. He had shown Psyche the manliness that was in Eros, and had opened the eyes of Eros to the rare loveliness of Psyche. What did they not owe to him? And since he went away he had become transfigured in their memories.

Nine years had he been absent, a missionary among the heathen. But he had also travelled much in civilised lands, and had seen all manner of men and customs. Meantime he had written scores of delightful letters to the young friends who loved him--letters which they read and re-read scores of times, and thought more wonderful than his best stories in the old days. Throughout this long period he had never given up the purpose of seeing them again, and, if possible, to part no more. But still the intended meeting had been put off; for Mortimer--such was his name--had so much work to do in illuminating darkened souls, as to leave but a distant hope of ever being able to indulge his own personal desires. At length, however, the much-wished-for opportunity had presented itself, and Mortimer was really coming. A few days before Christmas the young people received a letter from him, telling the great news. This letter was addressed to Psyche, who, as was her right, insisted upon having it all to herself, and would not allow Eros to lay a finger on it. She indeed vouchsafed to read it aloud to him, but tantalised him by pretending to reserve certain passages to herself; because, as she archly averred, they contained secrets for her private ear. Eros, as her future lord and master, was half disposed to take umbrage at this exclusion, and, had the letter been from any other being in the wide world except Mortimer, there is no saying whether he might not actually have been jealous! But since he was debarred from jealousy, he solaced his discomfiture by putting on an air of complacent indifference, stroking his eyebrows with his forefinger, and twisting the ends of an almost imperceptible moustache. Psyche saw through his pretences, and knew that he was annoyed, and she hated to annoy him. Why, then, did she not hand him over the letter?

"I am on the point of setting sail," the letter ran, "and probably shall arrive soon after you receive this. At all events, I am resolved to be with you on Christmas Eve--your marriage eve! Death alone can forestall me in that pleasure. I have said good-bye to my barbarians, who were very sorry to lose me, and fear that I shall never return to them. But I will; and I mean to bring you two--or you one, as you will be by that time--with me. Yes, my good old people; for though your home is Eldorado, mine is Paradise! Never was so beautiful a country--so tender and serene a climate; such gentle-hearted and Christian barbarians! It is a real Paradise, large enough and lovely enough to tempt all good souls to migrate thither; and I come forth into the world to find colonists, and bring them back with me. You will come, Psyche? and then I shall make sure that Eros will follow you, sooner or later!

"And so you are waiting for me to marry you? Well, I believe you are meant for each other, and I will do what I may to render your union sacred and perpetual. Not that I think mere earthly union is always the highest good for those who love. You know the old proverb; and there are lovers whose hearts never quite realise one another's worth until separation has taught it them. Do you love your old friend, who used to go nutting, boating, snow-balling, and story-telling with you, any the less because you haven't seen him for nine years? And would not you, Eros, love Psyche a thousand times better were some chance to part you from her awhile? You have never had her out of your sight, except when your eyes were shut, and you don't half know how dear she is to you. It would do you good were I to take her with me to my Paradise, and leave you behind. Until you know what it is to be alone, and to see what you most want beyond your immediate reach, you do not know everything. But perhaps you will be content not to know?"

All this, and much more, did Psyche read to Eros. But at the end of the letter there was a postscript, having glanced at which she looked up towards her lover with a sudden apprehension in her eyes. His own happened to be averted; and after an instant's hesitation, she folded up the letter and said, "The rest is a secret!"

"All right!" returned Eros, yawning, and getting up; "no woman can be entirely happy without a secret. Every man knows that; so I'll make you a Christmas present of this one." And with that he sauntered off, his hands in his pockets.

When he was gone Psyche unfolded the letter and read the postscript again.

"I sail to-morrow," it said, "and am glad of it on more accounts than one. It is a long overland journey from my home to this port, and I did not know until I got here that a strange and fatal epidemic is wont to make its appearance in the town about this time of year. During the last few days it has broken out with great virulence, and people are dying all around me. It kills in a few hours, and gives no warning, save a passing chill. Well, I have no fears; I have passed unharmed through a hundred pestilences. Still, if I should fail to sit by your fireside next Christmas Eve, do not blame my will."

"Dear old Mort!" Psyche murmured, tears standing in her eyes. "What if he had died, just as he was on his way to meet us after all these years! I won't tell Eros; no, not even if it makes him angry. It's better he should be angry than anxious. If anyone is to be anxious, let me be so. Only if Mort doesn't come on Christmas Eve, then Eros must know. But he will come, I know; and we shall all be happy."

It lacked scarcely three days to Christmas, and the house had to be arranged and decorated for the festivities. It was a house of a thousand to hold merrymakings in, and seemed really to take a genial interest in the preparations that were going forward, and to give it all the assistance that was in its power. Gray and weatherbeaten without, within it was warm and home-like. Square oaken beams divided the low ceilings of the rambling rooms; the deep fireplaces were dusky with the smoke of ten thousand fires; the mellow old kitchen was a world in itself; and the shadowy bed-chambers, with their great four-post bedsteads, were just the place to play hide-and-seek in with ghosts and goblins. Moreover, the best of feelings prevailed between the venerable mansion and the natural and elemental surroundings amidst which it had so long existed. The forest grouped itself artistically in the background; the hillside sloped lovingly towards it on the right; at a little distance, a clear-eyed pond smiled placid goodwill. And the rough spirits of Wind and Rain, Snow and Frost, seemed to grow soft and tractable in their sports with this time-honoured structure. "Merry Christmas!" they whispered, wept, and glistened; and the house glowed back a hearty response out of its diamond-paned lattices, and its clustered chimney breathed forth smoky satisfaction.

Meanwhile Eros and Psyche laboured with all their hearts and hands, and made the rooms green with ivy, holly, and laurel. In the parlour, beneath the cluster of mistletoe that hung from the ceiling, was arranged a little platform, with a daïs, and an altar-table covered with white samite. It was here that the marriage ceremony was to take place. By mid-day of Christmas Eve all the preparations were complete, and the two lovers were sitting together in the deep bay-window, half hidden by the ample curtains, and head-over-ears in lovers' talk. They were big with the charming self-importance that belongs to young people in their condition. Love burned for them in the centre of all things--it illumined, warmed, and perfumed the whole world. For them the great earth turned more smoothly on her axis, and moved in a fairer orbit; the setting sun sank splendidly amidst his clouds for their sake; for their delight yonder rosy-cheeked boy ploughed his whistling way through the snow, and the sleigh-bells jingled so merrily from the distant road. If only Mortimer were there, their happiness would be complete. And now he must arrive every moment, so Eros kept saying, looking out of the window with confident expectation; but Psyche scarcely replied. Her soft little hands were cold and tremulous, and the corners of her sweet lips drooped as she thought of the secret that harboured in her breast. It was the first secret she had ever kept from Eros. Oh that it might resolve itself happily, and not--not as she now began to dread! For evening was coming on apace, and their friend had not yet come. He did not come, though he had promised that Death only should forestall him. As minute after minute slipped by, Psyche felt an almost irresistible impulse to snatch forth the letter from her bosom, where she had hidden it, and give it to her lover, that he might share and perhaps cheer her suspense. But she forebore; she was strong enough to suffer alone, and she felt, though hardly admitting it even to herself, that Eros was not so strong in that kind of strength as she. He would laugh at a blow from a fist such as would knock her senseless, but the blows of mental pain and disappointment he was but ill-fitted to endure. Thus thinking, the gentle Psyche crushed her trouble down, and even strove to forget it, or believe it unfounded and imaginary, if so she might answer her lover cheerfully, and in no way cast a shadow upon his Christmas Eve. But still that strange coldness crept at intervals through her veins, making her hands and her voice vibrate.

"Why, it's quite dark already!" exclaimed Eros at length. "Surely the man means to be here by supper-time? I wonder how near he is now."

"There may have been a delay. The snow is very deep, you know, in some places. Perhaps he won't find it possible to get here before to-morrow."

"Pooh! my dear little Psyche. You have forgotten the kind of man that our Mort is. When he says he'll do a thing, he does it--if he's alive. And in that very letter of yours, which you make such a mystery about, but which I know perfectly well has nothing in it more than you read to me--he says in that very letter that only Death would stand in the way of his getting here to-night. And since he's a man in perfect health and in the prime of life, I don't see what doubt there can be that he'll keep his word. Only I do wish he'd told us the very hour, so that we mightn't have had this suspense to bother us."

"Do you suppose we shall recognise his face when he comes?" asked Psyche, after a little pause.

"Recognise him? Of course we shall!" returned Eros, positively, as became his masculine superiority. "He'll be considerably changed, to be sure; very likely he'll have a big black beard, and there'll be a few lines across his forehead and round his eyes; but you mustn't mind that. That sort of thing is bound to come on a man as he grows old. I'm beginning to find that out myself; and Mort--why he's nearly forty by this time!"

"How very wise he will be!" murmured Psyche, thoughtfully. "He was the wisest person in the world before he went away; we shall be almost afraid of him now."

"Well, as to that," said Eros, rubbing his downy upper lip and smiling, "as to that, my dear Psyche, you must speak for yourself. Undoubtedly Mort, the dear old fellow, has an immense deal of information, and plenty of good sense to back it--which is more than always happens, I can assure you. But when a man reaches his majority, and is on the point of becoming a family man into the bargain--give me another, dear----what was I going to say? Oh, well, I don't think _I_ shall be much afraid of him, or of anybody else, that's all."

"Eros," whispered Psyche, feeling his strong young arm round her, and his hand on hers, "should you be willing to have him take us back with him to his Paradise, as he speaks of doing in the letter?"