The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices

‘There were spots of ink upon the bosom of her white dress, and they made her face look whiter and her eyes look larger as she nodded her head.  There were spots of ink upon the hand with which she stood before him, nervously plaiting and folding her white skirts.

‘He took her by the arm, and looked her, yet more closely and steadily, in the face.  “Now, die!  I have done with you.”

‘She shrunk, and uttered a low, suppressed cry.

‘“I am not going to kill you.  I will not endanger my life for yours.  Die!”

‘He sat before her in the gloomy Bride’s Chamber, day after day, night after night, looking the word at her when he did not utter it.  As often as her large unmeaning eyes were raised from the hands in which she rocked her head, to the stern figure, sitting with crossed arms and knitted forehead, in the chair, they read in it, “Die!”  When she dropped asleep in exhaustion, she was called back to shuddering consciousness, by the whisper, “Die!”  When she fell upon her old entreaty to be pardoned, she was answered “Die!”  When she had out-watched and out-suffered the long night, and the rising sun flamed into the sombre room, she heard it hailed with, “Another day and not dead?—Die!”

‘Shut up in the deserted mansion, aloof from all mankind, and engaged alone in such a struggle without any respite, it came to this—that either he must die, or she.  He knew it very well, and concentrated his strength against her feebleness.  Hours upon hours he held her by the arm when her arm was black where he held it, and bade her Die!

‘It was done, upon a windy morning, before sunrise.  He computed the time to be half-past four; but, his forgotten watch had run down, and he could not be sure.  She had broken away from him in the night, with loud and sudden cries—the first of that kind to which she had given vent—and he had had to put his hands over her mouth.  Since then, she had been quiet in the corner of the paneling where she had sunk down; and he had left her, and had gone back with his folded arms and his knitted forehead to his chair.

‘Paler in the pale light, more colourless than ever in the leaden dawn, he saw her coming, trailing herself along the floor towards him—a white wreck of hair, and dress, and wild eyes, pushing itself on by an irresolute and bending hand.

‘“O, forgive me!  I will do anything.  O, sir, pray tell me I may live!”

‘“Die!”

‘“Are you so resolved?  Is there no hope for me?”

‘“Die!”

‘Her large eyes strained themselves with wonder and fear; wonder and fear changed to reproach; reproach to blank nothing.  It was done.  He was not at first so sure it was done, but that the morning sun was hanging jewels in her hair—he saw the diamond, emerald, and ruby, glittering among it in little points, as he stood looking down at her—when he lifted her and laid her on her bed.

‘She was soon laid in the ground.  And now they were all gone, and he had compensated himself well.

‘He had a mind to travel.  Not that he meant to waste his Money, for he was a pinching man and liked his Money dearly (liked nothing else, indeed), but, that he had grown tired of the desolate house and wished to turn his back upon it and have done with it.  But, the house was worth Money, and Money must not be thrown away.  He determined to sell it before he went.  That it might look the less wretched and bring a better price, he hired some labourers to work in the overgrown garden; to cut out the dead wood, trim the ivy that drooped in heavy masses over the windows and gables, and clear the walks in which the weeds were growing mid-leg high.

‘He worked, himself, along with them.  He worked later than they did, and, one evening at dusk, was left working alone, with his bill-hook in his hand.  One autumn evening, when the Bride was five weeks dead.

‘“It grows too dark to work longer,” he said to himself, “I must give over for the night.”

‘He detested the house, and was loath to enter it.  He looked at the dark porch waiting for him like a tomb, and felt that it was an accursed house.  Near to the porch, and near to where he stood, was a tree whose branches waved before the old bay-window of the Bride’s Chamber, where it had been done.  The tree swung suddenly, and made him start.  It swung again, although the night was still.  Looking up into it, he saw a figure among the branches.

‘It was the figure of a young man.  The face looked down, as his looked up; the branches cracked and swayed; the figure rapidly descended, and slid upon its feet before him.  A slender youth of about her age, with long light brown hair.

‘“What thief are you?” he said, seizing the youth by the collar.

‘The young man, in shaking himself free, swung him a blow with his arm across the face and throat.  They closed, but the young man got from him and stepped back, crying, with great eagerness and horror, “Don’t touch me!  I would as lieve be touched by the Devil!”