10. X.
A TERRIBLE PERSONAGE.
I raised my languid eyes and gazed at the speaker.
She was a girl of about twenty, evidently of the middle
or lower class, but pale,—I might say aristocratic,—and
with large blue eyes, which looked at me with womanly
sweetness and a sort of sad sympathy.
In her face this air of sadness predominated. A deep
melancholy seemed to weigh upon her, banishing all
her smiles and roses.
“You are safe, sir,” she said, in the same low, sweet
voice. “These brawls are growing terribly common. If
I had not heard the noise of staves and the cries, you
might have been murdered.”
“I had indeed scarce a chance of preserving my life,
I think,” I returned; “but, thanks to your courage, I
am scarce hurt.”
“Your head, sir—”
“'Tis nothing; a little faintness.”
“I will prepare a reviving draught.”
And, with deft fingers, the maiden busied herself in
mingling a flagon of wine, sugar, and species, which she
presented to me with the same air of sad sweetness and
grace.
I had half emptied the draught, when a door in rear
of the apartment opened, and a man of tall stature,
carrying a little, curly-haired child upon his shoulder,
came into the room. At sight of me he stopped, almost
started, and seemed about to retire. Before he could
do so, the maiden went forward hastily, and spoke to
him in a low tone. Thereupon he bowed, and came
forward, saying, in a deep, melancholy, and tremulous
voice,—
“You are welcome, sir.”
The man's whole demeanor agreed with the voice.
Never have I seen a human being the victim, apparently,
of such profound and hopeless depression.
There was something sepulchral, almost, in the expression
of his long, thin face, around which fell hair once
black, but now threaded with silver. The eyes were
sunken in their sockets and surrounded with dark
rings. The thin lips wore an expression of utter discouragement.
His dress was simple, and not striking
in any particular,—that of a retired trader,—of dark
and plain stuff. His manner in advancing was almost
painfully hesitating and reluctant.
“My father, sir,” said the maiden, whose sadness
remained unchanged. “I have explained your presence;
and now you must require food, sir. You shall
have the best our poor house affords.”
The maiden proceeded then to busy herself spreading
food upon a small table, and, the man having taken
his seat opposite me, we entered into conversation.
Meanwhile, the child played about the room, turning
everything upside down and laughing gleefully. The
melancholy personage followed all these gambols with
a glance of sorrowful affection, leaning back in his
chair; when all at once I saw him rise quickly and
hasten towards the child, who had half opened the door
of a sort of closet in the wall.
The man dragged him back quickly, and hastily
closed the door. As he did so, I caught what appeared
to be the gleam of some bright steel object, and I know
not what sombre influence this abrupt movement of the
man exerted upon me. His pale face had flushed, his
bosom heaved; and, glancing accidentally at the maiden,
I saw that she was trembling and seemed about to burst
into tears.
What was the meaning of this strange scene? I
vainly asked myself that question. The man offered no
explanation. Resuming his seat, and holding the boy
on his knee now, he gradually grew composed again,
and continued the conversation in which we had been
engaged when he started up. It had related to the
public events of the time, and the struggle going on
between King Charles and his parliament.
“I know not which side you espouse, sir,” said the
man, in his melancholy and tremulous voice, “but I confess
to you that my sympathies are with his majesty.”
“And mine; but would he were well out of this
dangerous conflict!”
“His majesty will not rid himself of his enemies
until force is employed.”
“Force? Ah! you mean the exercise of the royal
right to try and punish. But that is perilous, 'tis said.
The superior strength seems on the other side. Witness
Strafford, on Tower Hill: these men tore him from the
very arms of the king.”
At the name of Strafford my host became as pale as
a corpse.
“Yes,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice.
“If they drank the blood of Strafford, that powerful
and resolute enemy, any man's head in the kingdom
may fall. 'Tis said that never was human being more
resolute than he; and the story is that his eyes opened
and his lips muttered some words even after his head
was severed.”
My host's pallor had become fearful.
“'Tis true,” he murmured. “I—saw him!”
“You were present at his execution?”
“Yes.”
“Sufficiently near to see plainly?”
“Sufficiently near.”
“Then this theory that life continues after decapitation
is well founded?”
“Yes.”
The voice seemed to issue from some sepulchral
vault. The man's eyes were fixed, almost stony.
“Life continues—for hours almost—after—decapitation,”
he said, in a slow, tremulous, monotonous
voice, with a strange absent intonation, as though the
speaker were soliloquizing. “The brain, when the neck
is severed, is like a besieged fortress,—besieged, but
not yet taken; the outposts are carried,—its communications
are cut off,—but life is there still;—the facial
muscles act,—the lips move,—the eyes open,—the volition
is maimed, but not paralyzed,—the teeth snap,—
the brows contract. I have—seen that!”
He stopped, his pale face bathed in cold sweat. At
the same moment the maiden, whose cheeks were as
wan almost as the speaker's, came to him, touched his
shoulder, and said, in a faint voice,—
“There, father; you frighten our guest. Supper is
ready.”
The man uttered a sigh almost as profound as a
groan. The maiden placed before me a small table,
upon which food was arranged, and, looking at the
man, added,—
“Your supper, father.”
He shrank back. “No, Janet,” he murmured; “it
would be disgraceful thus to take advantage of—”
He stopped.
“True,” the maiden said, turning away with a
quivering lip. “I had forgotten, father. I thought
that kindness offered and accepted made us equal.
Yes! yes! pardon me! We have no right to—”
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a sob. I
could scarce swallow a few mouthfuls. The strange
scene banished all desire for food. I rose, and
said,—
“Thanks for your hospitality, sir; and yours, my
kind, good friend. I have regained all my strength
now, and will take my departure, with warm thanks.
You have saved my life, I think, friends; and Heaven
will reward you.”
“God grant it!” came from the man, who rose, his
hand resting tenderly and watchfully on the bright
head of the child.
“Let me look and see if the street is safe before you
go, sir,” said the maiden.
She went to the door, and returned in a moment, informing
me that she saw no one.
I put on my beaver, and, going to the door, said,
“Thanks, friends, again; and now farewell.”
As I spoke, I extended my hand towards the tall
man, but he suddenly drew back.
“I cannot—touch your hand, sir!—As I could not
sup with you—”
I gazed at him in astonishment.
“It would be—disgraceful!”
His tones were broken, and the words seemed forced
from him.
“You do not know who I am,—and yet you came
near knowing.—My dear child opened that terrible
closet!”
“The closet?” I murmured, overcome with astonishment.
“I saw nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Save what appeared to be the gleam of steel.”
The man half thrust me towards the door behind him.
The maiden Janet bent down weeping, her face covered
by her hands.
“That steel was—shall I tell you, sir?”
A sort of convulsion passed over the speaker's face.
“Speak!” I said, almost trembling.
“It was the axe of the executioner! I could not sit
with you at table, or take your hand when you offered
it. I am Gregory Brandon, the headsman of London!”
As he uttered these words in a hoarse and stifled
voice, the headsman groaned. A moment afterwards
he had closed the door: I was alone in the dim-lit
thoroughfare: from behind the door I heard a second
groan, with which mingled the sobs of a woman.
