SHADOWLAND

IT was Christmas Eve, and the snow, falling heavily over a great city, was trying to hide with its beautiful white robe all the black, ugly houses and the narrow, muddy streets. The gas lamps stood up proudly, each on its tall post, and cast their yellow light on the crowds of people hurrying along with their arms filled with many lovely presents for good children.

“They are poor things,” said the gas lamps scornfully. “If we did not shed our light upon them, they would be lost in the streets.”

“Ah, but the people you despise made you,” cried the church bells, which were calling the people to prayer. “They made you—they made you, and gave you your beautiful yellow crowns.”

But the street lamps said nothing, because they could not deny what the church bells said, and instead of acknowledging that they owed all their beauty to the people they despised, remained obstinately silent.

Near one of these lamp-posts, at the end of a street, stood a
ragged boy, who shivered dreadfully in his old clothes, and stamped about to keep himself warm. The boy’s name was Tom, and he was a crossing-sweeper, as could be seen by his well-worn broom. He was very cold and very hungry, for he had not earned a copper all day, and the gaily-dressed army of people swept selfishly past him, thinking only of their Christmas dinners and warm homes.

The snowflakes fell from the leaden-coloured sky like great white angels, to tell the earth that Christ would be born again on that night, but Tom did not have any such ideas, as he was quite ignorant of angels, and even of the birth of the child-Christ. He only looked upon the snow as a cold and cruel thing, which made him shiver with pain, and was a great trouble to brush away from his crossing.

And overhead the mellow bells clashed out their glad tidings in the bitterly chill air, while below, in the warm, well-lighted churches, the organ rolled out its hymns of praise, and the worshippers said to one another, “Christ is born again.”

But poor Tom!

Ah, how cold and hungry he was, standing in the bright glare of the lamp, with his rags drawn closely round him for protection against the falling snow. The throng of people grew thinner and thinner, the gaily-decorated shops put up their shutters, the lights died out in the painted windows of the churches, the bells were silent, and only poor Tom remained in the deserted, lonely streets, with the falling snowflakes changing him to a white statue.

He was thinking about going to his garret, when a gentleman, wrapped in furs, passed along quickly, and just as he came near Tom, dropped his purse, but, not perceiving his loss, walked on rapidly through the driving snow. Tom’s first idea was to pick the purse up and restore it to its owner, whom Tom knew very well by sight, for he was a poet, who daily passed by Tom’s crossing. Then Tom paused for a moment as he thought of all the beautiful things the money in that purse would buy; while he hesitated, the poet disappeared in the darkness of the night, so Tom was left alone with the purse at his feet.

There it lay, a black object on the pure white snow, and as Tom picked it up, he felt that it was filled with money. Oh, how many things of use to him could that money buy—bread and meat and a cup of warm coffee—which would do him good. Tom slipped it into his pocket, and thought he would buy something to eat; but just at that moment he seemed to hear a whisper in the air,—

AS TOM PICKED IT UP HE FELT THAT IT WAS FILLED WITH MONEY

“Thou shalt not steal.”

With a start of terror Tom looked around, thinking a policeman had spoken, and would take him off to prison for stealing the purse, but no policeman was in sight. He saw nothing but the whirling flakes and his ragged shadow cast blackly on the white snow by the light of the lamp. It could not have been the shadow speaking, as Tom thought, for he knew that shadows never speak; but, ah! he did not know the many wonderful things there are in this wonderful world of ours.

Whoever had made the remark touched Tom’s heart, for he remembered how his poor mother had blessed him when she died, and told him to be an honest boy. It certainly would not be honest to steal money out of the purse, but Tom was so cold and hungry that he half thought he would do so. He took out the purse again and looked at its contents—four shining sovereigns and some silver. Then he put it back in his pocket, and trudged home with his broom under his arm.

Home!—ah, what a dreary, cheerless home it was!—nothing but a garret on the top of an old house—a bare garret, with no table or chairs, but only the sacks upon which Tom slept at night.

He closed the door, and then lighted a little bit of candle he had picked up in the streets with one of the matches from a box given him by a ragged match-seller.

Tom placed the candle on the floor, and, kneeling down, opened the purse to look at the money once more. Oh, how tempted he was to take one of those shillings and buy some food and wood—it would be a merry Christmas for him then! Other people were enjoying their Christmas, and why should he not do the same? The great poet who had dropped the purse had plenty of money, and would never miss this small sum; so Tom, desperate with hunger, took a shilling, and, hiding the purse under his bed, was about to blow out the candle before creeping down-stairs to buy some food, when he heard a soft voice whisper,—

“Don’t go, Tom.”

He turned round, and there was the shadow cast by the reflection of the candle-light on the wall. It was a very black shadow, much blacker than Tom had ever seen before, and as he looked it grew blacker and blacker on the wall, then seemed to grow out of it until it left the wall altogether, and stood by itself in the centre of the floor, a waving, black shadow of a ragged boy. Curiously enough, however, Tom could not see its face, but only the outline of its whole figure, yet it stood there shaking with every flicker of the candle, and Tom could feel that its eyes were looking right into him.

“Don’t go, Tom,” said the shadow, in a voice so like his own that he started. “If you go, you will be lost for ever.”

“Lost?” said Tom, with a laugh; “why, I couldn’t lose myself. I know every street in the city.”

“I don’t mean really lost,” replied the shadow; “but it will be your first step on the downward path.”

“Who are you?” asked Tom, rather afraid of the shadow, but keeping a bold front.

“I am your shadow,” it replied, sighing. “I follow you wherever you go, but only appear when there is light about you. If you had not lighted that candle I would not have appeared, nor could I have spoken.”

“Was it you who spoke at the lamp-post?” said Tom doubtfully.

“Yes, it was I,” answered the shadow. “I wanted to save you then, as I do now, from committing a crime. Sit down, Tom, and let us talk.”

Tom sat down, and the shadow sat down also. Then for the first time he caught a passing glimpse of its face, just like his own, only the eyes were sad—oh, so sad and mournful!

“Thou shalt not steal,” said the shadow solemnly.

“I don’t want to steal,” replied Tom sulkily; “but I’m cold and hungry. This shilling would buy me fire and food. I don’t call that stealing.”

“Yes, but it is stealing,” answered the shadow, wringing its hands; “and you know it is. If you steal you will be put in prison, and then I shall have to go also. Think of that, Tom, think of that.”

Tom did not say a word, but sat on the floor looking at the bright shilling in his hand which could procure him so many comforts. The shadow saw how eager he was to take the shilling, and, with a sigh, began to talk again.

“Think of your mother, Tom,” it said softly. “She was the wife of a gentleman—your father; but he lost all his money, and when he died she could get no one to help her. Do you remember how she died herself in this very place, and how she implored you with her last breath to be an honest boy?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Tom huskily; “but she did not know how cold and hungry I would be.”

“Yes she did—she did,” urged the shadow. “She also had felt cold and hunger, but she never complained. She never stole, and now she has her reward, because she is a bright angel.”

“I don’t know what an angel is,” said Tom crossly; “but if she’s all right, why doesn’t she help me?”

“She does help you, Tom,” said the shadow; “and it was because she saw you were tempted to steal to-night that she asked me to help you. She cannot speak as I do, because she is not a shadow.”

“Well, help me if you’re able,” said Tom defiantly; “but I don’t believe you can.”

The candle on the floor had burnt very low, and as Tom said the last words his shadow bent nearer and nearer, until he again saw those mournful eyes, which sent a shiver through his whole body. It stretched out its arms, and Tom felt them close round him like soft, clinging mist; the candle flared up for a moment, and then went out, leaving Tom in darkness altogether. But he did not feel a bit afraid, for the soft arms of the shadow were round him, and he felt that it was carrying him through the air.

They journeyed for miles and miles, but Tom knew not which direction they were taking until a soft light seemed to spread all around, and Tom felt that he was in the midst of a large crowd, although he saw no one near him. Then he felt his bare feet touch some soft, cloudy ground, that felt like a sponge; the shadowy arms unclasped themselves, and he heard a voice, soft as the whispering of winds in summer, sigh,—

“This is the Kingdom of Shadows.”

Then Tom’s eyes became accustomed to the subdued twilight, and he saw on every side a number of shadows hurrying hither and thither. He seemed to be in the centre of a wide plain, over which hung a pale white mist, through which glimmered the soft light. The shadows were all gliding about this plain; some thin, some fat, some tall, others short; they all appeared to have business to do, and each appeared to be intent only on his own concerns. Tom’s own shadow kept close to him, and whispered constantly in his ear of strange doings.

“These are the shadows of the past and of the future,” it sighed; “all the shadows of human beings and their doings are here; see, there is a funeral.”

And a funeral it was which came gliding over the smooth, white plain; the great black hearse, the dark horses with nodding plumes, and then a long train of mourners; all this came out of the mist at one end, glided slowly over the plain, and vanished in the veil of mist at the other. Then a bridal procession appeared; afterwards a great army, clashing cymbals and blowing trumpets from whence no sound of music proceeded; then the coronation triumph of a king, and later on a confused multitude of men, women, and children, all hurrying onward with eager rapidity. But they all came out of the mist and went into the mist, only appearing on the white plain for a few minutes, like the shadows of a magic lantern.

“The stage of the world,” whispered Tom’s shadow. “Birth, death, and marriage, triumphs and festivities, joys and sorrows, all pass from mist to mist, and none know whence they come or whither they go.”

“But what has this got to do with me?” asked Tom, who was feeling rather bewildered.

“You are a man,” said his shadow reproachfully, “and must take an interest in all that men do; but come, and I will show you what will happen if you steal the purse.”

They glided over the plain towards the distant curtain of mist, but how they travelled over the immense distance so rapidly Tom did not know, for in a moment it seemed to him that he had come many miles, and found himself suddenly before a grey, misty veil, with his own shadow beside him, and many other shadows around.

As he stood there, a whisper like the murmur of the sea on a pebbly beach sounded in his ears, and he seemed to guess, rather than hear, what the shadows said.

“Now he will see—now he will see—he must choose the good or the bad. Which will he choose?—which will he choose?”

Then the grey veil stirred, as if shaken by a gentle wind, and, blowing aside, disclosed what seemed to Tom to be a great sheet of ice of dazzling whiteness set up on end. As he looked, however, shadows began to appear on the milky surface which acted a kind of play and then vanished, and in the play he was always the central figure.

First he saw himself pick up the purse in the snowy street; then hide it in his bed. He saw his ragged shadow glide down-stairs from the garret to buy food; the shopman looking at him, then at the shilling; then a policeman arresting him and finding the purse hidden in the bed. Afterwards he saw himself in prison; then released, and prowling about the streets. Years seemed to pass as he looked, and his shadow became taller and stouter, but always wearing a ragged dress. After many years he seemed to see his shadow breaking into a house—meet the owner of the house, and kill him. Afterwards the shadow of himself stood in the dock; then crouched in prison; and, last of all, he appeared standing under a black gallows with a rope round his neck. At length all the shadows vanished, and the surface of the ice mirror again became stainless, whilst a voice whispered in his ear, “All this will happen if you steal the purse.”

Then the shadows again came on to the mirror and acted another play; but this time it was much more pleasant.

Tom saw his shadow representative take the purse back to the poet who had lost it. Then he saw himself in a school, learning all kinds of wonderful things; and the years rolled by, as they had done in the other play, unfolding the shadows of a beautiful life. He saw himself become a great and famous poet, who wrote beautiful books to make people wise and good. Then he saw himself in church, with a woman’s shadow by his

side, and he knew, in some mysterious way, that it was the daughter of the poet who had lost the purse. And as the happy years rolled on he saw himself rich and honourable, and the end of all was a magnificent funeral, taking his body to be buried in the great church wherein many famous men were laid. Then the shadows vanished, and the mirror became pure again, while over it the grey mists fell like a soft veil, and once more the voice of his shadow said,—

“All this will happen if you remain honest.”

Then the crowd of shadows around Tom looked at him with their mournful eyes, and a whispering question ran through the fantastic throng,—

“Which will he choose?—which will he choose?”

“I will choose the honest life,” cried Tom loudly. “Yes, I will give back the purse to the poet.”

At this the shadows around seemed to rejoice, and he could see beautiful faces smiling at him from amid the crowd. The shadow multitude broke in a wild dance of joy, keeping time to some aerial music which Tom could not hear; and his own shadow, with happiness shining out of its mournful eyes, threw its arms round him once more. A dark veil seemed to fall over him, and the great white plain, the glimmering mists, and the restless shadows, vanished together.

When Tom opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the floor of his garret, cold and hungry still, but with his heart filled with a great joy, for the shilling was still clutched in his hand, and he knew he had not stolen the money. He took the purse from under the sacks, replaced the shilling, and then went out, in the bright sunshine of the Christmas morning, to give back the lost purse to its owner.

Overhead the bells rang out merrily, as if they were rejoicing at Tom’s victory over himself, and a beautiful lady, who was on her way to church, gave Tom some money to get food. He went and bought a loaf and a cup of coffee, then, thankful for his good fortune, he trudged off to the poet’s house.

The great poet received him very kindly, and, after thanking Tom for returning his purse, asked him why he had done so instead of keeping it? Whereupon Tom told the poet all about the shadow, which interested the poet very much. He also had been to Shadowland and seen strange things, which he told to the world in wonderful verse.

“This boy is a genius,” he said to his wife, “and I must help him.”

Then it all happened as the magic mirror had foretold, for Tom was put to school by the kind poet, and became a very clever man. He also wrote poems, which the world received with joy; and when he became a famous man, the kind poet gave him his own daughter in marriage, and the bells which had rang the birth of the child-Christ when Tom was a poor ragged boy, now rang out joyously in honour of his marriage.

“He has conquered,” they clashed out in the warm, balmy air; “he is the victor, and now he will be happy.”

And he was happy, very very happy, and felt deeply thankful to the shadow who had shown him the way to be happy. His own shadow never left him, but it never spoke to him again, though when Tom felt tempted to do wrong, he heard a whisper advising him to do right. Some people said that this was the voice of conscience, but Tom knew it was the voice of his dear shadow, who still watched over him.

And one day he took his wife to the garret where he had lived when a poor boy, and told her how he had been to Shadowland, and learned that to be honest and noble was the only true way to happiness. His wife laughed, and said Tom had been dreaming; but Tom shook his head, and said that it was no dream, but a great truth.

Now, who do you think was right—Tom or his wife?