CHAPTER VI.

Legend of the Self-made Grave.

THE next day Percival was moved to a house in Portland Place, in which my aunt, Lady Mar, resided. Every comfort was provided to make the little journey as easy as possible to one who could not even be carried downstairs without enduring a good deal of pain.

I took upon myself the care of arrangements for the removal of the very little property which my poor friend possessed. A few books, and clothes; a desk; materials for painting; a palette; and some dozen unframed pictures—comprised almost all that Percival owned in the world. He lay on his couch, watching my movements, as I wrapped up his pictures one by one.

"This one does not tell its own story," I observed.

"It illustrates the Legend of a sketch, which I made a short time ago; but I did not think it worth writing down," said my friend.

"I hope that at some leisure time you will repeat it: Lady Mar has a weakness for Legends. But here comes your landlady to bid you a tearful farewell: and Polly too; belikes in hope of a present, which she does not deserve."

Whether merited or not, the present was given; and a kindly good-bye was said to each of the women. Mrs. Bond declared that she had never had such a nice-spoken gentleman for a lodger—never! That she had done all for him that a mother could have done for a son; and that it was hard to have him go away and leave her. Polly was not so eloquent; but I forgave her the broken pane, and her little tempers, when I saw tears of genuine sorrow running down the poor girl's cheeks. Both mistress and servant felt that they would never look again on the pale, patient face of the lodger.

Percival was soon installed in his new, and comparatively luxurious, abode; but its comforts could only alleviate, not remove pain. He sometimes enjoyed conversation with my aunt, who is a very intelligent woman; yet at other times relaxed into greater languor, and did not care to touch his pencil.

Both Lady Mar and I more than once asked Percival to repeat to us his legend of the sketch, but he always evaded doing so.

"The story was too childish; too slight a thing for repetition to any one but a child," he said, a faint colour tinging his cheek. Percival was evidently shy in the presence of a lady.

My aunt, however, is one possessing tact to draw out those under her influence, and make them unconsciously follow her lead. She saw that Percival's spirits were drooping; and that, perhaps from fearing her critical eye, even his inclination to paint was passing away. Lady Mar noticed that her guest could hardly affect cheerfulness, though he manfully struggled to do so.

"My eyes are tired, and the daylight is fading," said my aunt one afternoon, laying down a book with which she had been vainly trying to amuse my poor friend. "The piano cannot be touched till after the visit of the tuner. We will not ring for candles yet; it is so pleasant to chat by twilight."

"Suppose we tell each other stories or legends," I suggested.

"If you begin, I'll try to follow suit," said my aunt; "and I'm sure that Percival—" (for the first time she dropped the "Mr.") "will not refuse his little contribution to the general amusement."

Percival was silent, but I saw that one point was gained: the invalid would try to forget languor and suffering in the attempt to give a few minutes' passing amusement to his friends, if others broke the ice.

I had a short Legend ready, and not being troubled with shyness, began the story which follows. I fear that it is not quite original: certainly its lesson has been often taught; but not perhaps in just the same form as in my little narration.

Legend of a Self-made Grave.

It is said that in olden times, a man very covetous of gain, was tempted to make a compact with a spirit, who was not a spirit of light. In Oriental language, such a mythical being is called a "jin." Some service secretly rendered by the miser to the jin was to be rewarded by the gift of untold wealth.

The jin carried the man to a lonely spot near a dark, weed-overgrown morass, a place seldom visited by men, save some poor basket-makers, who went to gather reeds and rushes. The place was said to be haunted by snakes and other vermin. The miser, according to the jin's directions, had brought with him a heavy spade for digging, and a large sack to contain his gold.

"In this spot," quoth the jin, striking the earth with his foot, "thou shall find inexhaustible treasure. Only one limit is affixed to thy gains. When thou dost cease to dig, thou shalt cease to find." As he thus spake, the jin vanished from sight.

The man took his spade, plied it vigorously, and with wondrous success. First, silver coins; then, heavy gold ones—plentifully rewarded his toil. The miser never raised his eyes from the earth except ever and anon to glance timidly around, while his hand still used the spade, to see if any unwelcome intruder were watching him at his work. But no one interrupted him. The man's work was begun at dawn; he continued to dig at noon when the sun's fiercest rays blazed over his head, drawing up foul exhalations from the marsh. The digger dared not seek for shelter, lest his golden harvest should suddenly come to an end. His muscles ached; his mouth was parched with thirst: but the gold-seeker, though shining heaps lay around him, would not pause even to go for a draught of water.

As the sun sloped towards the west, strong fever came on the digger; but though already possessed of prodigious wealth, still he went on digging. At last, as night closed in, shivering and trembling, the miser felt that he must give over work: deep and long was the hole he had made by his diligent toil; large the golden harvest he had won. Yet was he loth to stay his hand, for the man remembered the words of the jin: "When thou dost cease to dig thou shalt cease to find."

"Just one spadeful more!" cried the miser. And stooping low, with his tool in his hand, over the hole made by his incessant labour, the poor wretch's senses failed him; he swooned, and fell into a self-made grave! The loose earth fell in from the sides and covered the wealthy fool!

The basket-makers who chanced to come in the morning gathered up the heaps of silver and gold which were found near the spot, beneath which lay the corpse of him who had purchased them with his life.

[Illustration]