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.
Stephen Archer
Stephen Archer was a stationer, bookseller, and newsmonger in one of the suburbs of London. The newspapers hung in a sort of rack at his door, as if for the convenience of the public to help themselves in passing. On his counter lay penny weeklies and books coming out in parts, amongst which the Family Herald was in force, and the London Journal not to be found. I had occasion once to try the extent of his stock, for I required a good many copies of one of Shakespeare’s plays—at a penny, if I could find such. He shook his head, and told me he could not encourage the sale of such productions. This pleased me; for, although it was of little consequence what he thought concerning Shakespeare, it was of the utmost import that he should prefer principle to pence. So I loitered in the shop, looking for something to buy; but there was nothing in the way of literature: his whole stock, as far as I could see, consisted of little religious volumes of gay binding and inferior print; he had nothing even from the Halifax press. He was a good-looking fellow, about thirty, with dark eyes, overhanging brows that indicated thought, mouth of character, and no smile. I was interested in him.
I asked if he would mind getting the plays I wanted. He said he would rather not. I bade him good morning.
More than a year after, I saw him again. I had passed his shop many times, but this morning, I forget why, I went in. I could hardly recall the former appearance of the man, so was it swallowed up in a new expression. His face was alive, and his behaviour courteous. A similar change had passed upon his stock. There was Punch and Fun amongst the papers, and tenpenny Shakespeares on the counter, printed on straw-paper, with ugly woodcuts. The former class of publications had not vanished, but was mingled with cheap editions of some worthy of being called books.
“I see you have changed your mind since I saw you last,” I said.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” he returned. “I did not know you were a customer.”
“Not much of that,” I replied; “only in intention. I wanted you to get me some penny Shakespeares, and you would not take the order.”
“Oh! I think I remember,” he answered, with just a trace of confusion; adding, with a smile, “I’m married now;” and I fancied I could read a sort of triumph over his former self.
I
