The Second Macabre MEGAPACK®. Эдит Несбит

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      “Save me!” a voice whispered. I clasped a figure in my arms, and, with a strange dis-ease, bore it down the shaking stairs and out into safety. It was Mildred. I knew that directly I clasped her.

      “Stand back,” cried the crowd.

      “Every one’s safe,” cried a fireman.

      The flames leaped from every window. The sky grew redder and redder. I sprang from the hands that would have held me. I leaped up the steps. I crawled up the stairs. Suddenly the whole horror of the situation came on me. “As long as my picture remains in the ebony frame.” What if picture and frame perished together?

      I fought with the fire, and with my own choking inability to fight with it. I pushed on. I must save my picture. I reached the drawing-room.

      As I sprang in I saw my lady—I swear it—through the smoke and the flames, hold out her arms to me—to me—who came too late to save her, and to save my own life’s joy. I never saw her again.

      Before I could reach her, or cry out to her, I felt the floor yield beneath my feet, and I fell into the fiery hell below.

      * * * *

      How did they save me? What does that matter? They saved me somehow—curse them. Every stick of my aunt’s furniture was destroyed. My friends pointed out that, as the furniture was heavily insured, the carelessness of a nightly-studious housemaid had done me no harm.

      No harm!

      That was how I won and lost my only love.

      I deny, with all my soul in the denial, that it was a dream. There are no such dreams. Dreams of longing and pain there are in plenty, but dreams of complete, of unspeakable happiness—ah, no—it is the rest of life that is the dream.

      But if I think that, why have I married Mildred, and grown stout and dull and prosperous?

      I tell you it is all this that is the dream; my dear lady only is the reality. And what does it matter what one does in a dream?

      THE DOOM, by Benedict

      Mr. White—I am about to do a very foolish thing, no less than to write a tale of a mournful love affaire. What has afflicted me with the propensity, in truth I cannot determine; but though I am conscious of the folly, I console myself by the unanswerable question, Why shall not I write as well as other fools?

      What I am about to write is the authentic history of a most melting love affaire, which took place in this goodly city within the last five years, and with the persons concerned in it, many of the fair and fashionable here are, or rather were, acquainted. It was related to me by the young gentleman himself; of him I will give a short account. Ten years ago George B——, and myself were schoolfellows, but associated little together except in school hours. He was a light-hearted and joyous fellow enough, but at times as moody as the —— himself, and he always delighted, to an immoderate degree, in the little misfortunes and calamities that befall schoolboys. If a poor fellow in climbing over a paling encountered any little point or nail, whereby his nether garment was lacerated, he it was that first made the discovery, and raised the war whoop. Consequently he was half feared, and, when absent wholly hated by all of us, though in his company we all strove to be on good terms with him. After he left school I saw no more of him for some years, and when he again came to Richmond, we met on the civil and polite footing of passing acquaintance, until an accident brought us together and originated a friendship between us.

      One evening in June, 1832, when the thermometer stood at 94 degrees, I had managed to convey myself about a mile up the river bank for the purpose of bathing, and going into the water I splashed about with great vigor, thinking about Leander’s remarkable feat in crossing the Hellespont, until I felt a great desire to try whether I might not aspire to equal him, or at least E—— P——, who swam from Mayo’s Bridge to Warwick wharf some years ago. Accordingly after screwing up my courage grievously, I approached slowly a furious and turbulent stream, which tumbled over a ledge of rocks, producing some appalling waves and eddying whirls, commonly known as “sucks.” I stood on a rock near and contemplated it for some moments, until perceiving that my ambition had very sensibly diminished and was rapidly taking French leave, I was about to retire with out attempting the crossing, when I unfortunately discovered a head on the opposite side, very quietly watching my proceedings—whilst its owner was luxuriously rocking himself about in the calm element. Ashamed to retreat, while one who had accomplished what I shrank from, was perhaps chuckling at my fears, I sprang forward, and ere I was well aware what was the matter, found myself lifted up, dashed down, whirled around, my limbs pulled and jerked hither and yon by the infernal waters, whilst the waters above were foaming over my head and plashing into my face. Finally, I was wearily and faintly struggling, almost bursting with suppressed respiration; and with a horrible distinctness, memory was holding up to my mind’s eye every sin wherewith she could charge me—when my arm was seized and myself dragged along by a powerful hand. When I recovered consciousness, I was seated on a rock near shore, and the person to whom I owed my life was standing by—it was my old schoolfellow, George B——. I muttered something about gratitude, when he cut me short by telling me he would have saved the life of a drowning dog with as much alacrity as he had saved me, and that he would, he thought, deserve my gratitude more for advising me not again to be fool enough to venture into deep water until I could swim. This, I thought, was rather taking a liberty; but he had just saved my life, and I said nothing more while we were dressing ourselves. Then slowly walking towards the city, we chatted about schooldays and schoolfellows. From that day we gradually became better acquainted, until in a few weeks we were intimate associates. It was but natural that I should be attached to a person who had rescued me from a watery grave, yet I could not but see that with many very admirable qualities of heart and mind, there were some glaring defects and vices about him. He was generous and liberal to excess, and to the necessities of the indigent his hand was never closed; he was a true friend, but a bitter, unrelenting enemy; he cherished revenge as food fit for gods, and therefore the more delightful to men; no Indian was ever more unforgiving. In person he was tall and spare; his face was not remarkable for comeliness, though the features were good; but his eyes gave the charm and power to his dark pale face; they could fascinate and charm as well as threaten and command. With a fine and highly cultivated taste, and a strong well-informed mind; simple in his habits and addicted to no species of intemperance or dissipation; and with a fortune which placed him out of the reach of want, yet not enough to dissuade him from exertion, George B——; seemed destined to play with honor and success the part of a man among his fellows.

      Our friendship had endured for nearly a twelve-month, and the gay winter of 1832-3 had passed. B—— had been absent from town about a month, when one evening, near the end of May, I met him on the capitol square; he had arrived a few days before. An uncommon gloom was seated on his brow; but I was in no melancholic mood myself, and after a few minutes he seemed to regain his habitual carelessness of look and manner. We strolled off, jesting and telling anecdotes, until we arrived at the hill which overlooks the armory. It was a Sabbath evening; and, according to the commendable custom of the young gentlefolk of Richmond, frequent parties of six or eight ladies, with their attendant beaux, passed by the foot of the hill and proceeded up the bank of the canal. As the ringing laugh of some dashing belle reached us where we sat on two granite blocks on the top of the hill, B—— would amuse me by relating some ludicrous anecdote or odd circumstance connected with the fair laugher. What a quantity of scandal did he impart to me, which, had it been proclaimed from the house tops, would have procured him the honor of martyrdom—as surely as that the satire which is so delightful to female ears when pointed against their friends, seems too horrible when turned against themselves.

      They passed from our sight, and in a few moments B—— became silent, and sat with his cheek leaning on his hands. СКАЧАТЬ