The MS. in a Red BoxHamilton, John A. (John Arthur)
History
The MS. in a Red Box
Hamilton, John A. (John Arthur)
Axholme, Isle of (England) -- History -- Fiction
I made haste to heap all the remaining fuel against the outer door,
emptying over the pile the contents of the jar of aqua vitæ. The
roaring blaze bit the wood almost at once, clean contrary to my
expectation; but I suppose it was weather-worn and perhaps worm-eaten.
At all events, it was opened in less than half the time required for
the other. For a few moments my eyes were blinded by the sudden light,
but they quickly recovered, and I stood outside my prison, drinking in
the pure, sweet air, and looking at green earth and blue sky with such
delight as can be understood only by those who have lacked the sight of
them as long as I had done--and regained it on a cloudless September
morning. I had never known how beautiful are all the things which God
has made. Even the wilderness of arched and twisted brambles that grew
about the place was charming to my sight, and I admired with a strange
tenderness the tomtits which were flocking and fluttering about the
bushes in search of the ripest fruit. From that day forward I have
never looked at a caged bird without the desire to set it free. For a
while I stood looking about me in a kind of ecstasy, but soon
remembered I must be moving, if I would keep my new-found liberty. I
judged it safest, on the whole, to keep to the main road, passing
through Epworth, where I might be relieved of my fetter, and gather
information. I met few people, a little gang of labourers, a boy on
horseback, a pedlar carrying his pack, but no one greeted me, and all
stood still to look when they had gone some distance past me. When I
came to the Bull, I walked into the smithy--Johnson, who kept the inn,
being a blacksmith--and asked him to remove the bar and chain. He and
his man retained their hammers, and simply stared.
"Come, don't stand staring, my man, but off with this thing, quick," I
said impatiently.
"And who are you?" asked he. "My Lord Dirt, from Dunghill Hall?"
"'Tis a poor lunatic 'scaped from Bedlam," growled the other.
Now I remembered my wry nose and scarred face, which I had for the time
forgotten; and I remembered also that a head and face which had not
been touched with water for more than a night, and had been lately
poked up a chimney, and grilled over burning faggots, would certainly
have no prepossessing appearance; nor would my coarse clothing, rent
and smirched and stained with blood and other liquids, give me the air
of a gentleman, whose commands should have instant attention.
Doubtless the remembrance of these things caused me a momentary
hesitation, but I answered--
"I am Frank Vavasour."
"Be'st a thundering liar!" gasped Johnson.
"'Tis a poor lunatic," said his man. "Else he wouldn't give hisself
the name of a dead man."
"Dead! What do you mean, fellow?" I asked.
"I mean what I say," answered he. "Everybody knows Measter Frank
Vavasour is dead, AND buried."
My head began to whirl, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself.
The smith and his man whispered together.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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