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diff --git a/17031-h/17031-h.htm b/17031-h/17031-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..204e81f --- /dev/null +++ b/17031-h/17031-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11440 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Disentanglers</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Disentanglers, by Andrew Lang</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Disentanglers, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Disentanglers + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: November 8, 2005 [eBook #17031] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DISENTANGLERS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1903 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>THE DISENTANGLERS<br /> +by Andrew Lang</h1> +<p>with illustrations by H. J. Ford</p> +<p><i>Second Impression</i></p> +<p>Longmans, Green, and Co.<br /> +39 Paternoster Row, London<br /> +New York and Bombay<br /> +1903</p> +<p>TO HERBERT HILLS, <span class="smcap">Esq</span>.<br /> +These Studies<br /> +OF LIFE AND CHARACTER<br /> +<i>ARE DEDICATED</i></p> +<h2>PREFACE</h2> +<p>It has been suggested to the Author that the incident of the Berbalangs, +in The Adventure of the Fair American, is rather improbable. He +can only refer the sceptical to the perfectly genuine authorities cited +in his footnotes.</p> +<h2><!-- page 1--><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>I. THE GREAT +IDEA</h2> +<p>The scene was a dusky shabby little room in Ryder Street. To +such caves many repair whose days are passed, and whose food is consumed, +in the clubs of the adjacent thoroughfare of cooperative palaces, Pall +Mall. The furniture was battered and dingy; the sofa on which +Logan sprawled had a certain historic interest: it was covered with +cloth of horsehair, now seldom found by the amateur. A bookcase +with glass doors held a crowd of books to which the amateur would at +once have flown. They were in ‘boards’ of faded blue, +and the paper labels bore alluring names: they were all First Editions +of the most desirable kind. The bottles in the liqueur case were +antique; a coat of arms, not undistinguished, was in relief on the silver +stoppers. But the liquors in the flasks were humble and conventional. +Merton, the tenant of the rooms, was in a Zingari cricketing coat; he +occupied the arm-chair, while Logan, in evening dress, maintained a +difficult equilibrium <!-- page 2--><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>on +the slippery sofa. Both men were of an age between twenty-five +and twenty-nine, both were pleasant to the eye. Merton was, if +anything, under the middle height: fair, slim, and active. As +a freshman he had coxed his College Eight, later he rowed Bow in that +vessel. He had won the Hurdles, but been beaten by his Cambridge +opponent; he had taken a fair second in Greats, was believed to have +been ‘runner up’ for the Newdigate prize poem, and might +have won other laurels, but that he was found to do the female parts +very fairly in the dramatic performances of the University, a thing +irreconcilable with study. His father was a rural dean. +Merton’s most obvious vice was a thirst for general information. +‘I know it is awfully bad form to know anything,’ he had +been heard to say, ‘but everyone has his failings, and mine is +occasionally useful.’</p> +<p>Logan was tall, dark, athletic and indolent. He was, in a way, +the last of an historic Scottish family, and rather fond of discoursing +on the ancestral traditions. But any satisfaction that he derived +from them was, so far, all that his birth had won for him. His +little patrimony had taken to itself wings. Merton was in no better +case. Both, as they sat together, were gloomily discussing their +prospects.</p> +<p>In the penumbra of smoke, and the malignant light of an ill trimmed +lamp, the Great Idea was to be evolved. What consequences hung +on the Great Idea! The peace of families insured, at a trifling +premium. Innocence rescued. The defeat of the <!-- page 3--><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>subtlest +criminal designers: undreamed of benefits to natural science! +But I anticipate. We return to the conversation in the Ryder Street +den.</p> +<p>‘It is a case of emigration or the workhouse,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Emigration! What can you or I do in the Colonies? +They provide even their own ushers. My only available assets, +a little Greek and less Latin, are drugs in the Melbourne market,’ +answered Merton; ‘they breed their own dominies. Protection!’</p> +<p>‘In America they might pay for lessons in the English accent +. . . ’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘But not,’ said Merton, ‘in the Scotch, which is +yours; oh distant cousin of a marquis! Consequently by rich American +lady pupils “you are not one to be desired.”’</p> +<p>‘Tommy, you are impertinent,’ said Logan. ‘Oh, +hang it, where is there an opening, a demand, for the broken, the stoney +broke? A man cannot live by casual paragraphs alone.’</p> +<p>‘And these generally reckoned “too high-toned for our +readers,”’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘If I could get the secretaryship of a golf club!’ Logan +sighed.</p> +<p>‘If you could get the Chancellorship of the Exchequer! +I reckon that there are two million applicants for secretaryships of +golf clubs.’</p> +<p>‘Or a land agency,’ Logan murmured.</p> +<p>‘Oh, be practical!’ cried Merton. ‘Be inventive! +Be modern! Be up to date! Think of something <i>new</i>! +Think of a felt want, as the Covenanting divine calls it: a real public +need, <!-- page 4--><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>hitherto but dimly +present, and quite a demand without a supply.’</p> +<p>‘But that means thousands in advertisements,’ said Logan, +‘even if we ran a hair-restorer. The ground bait is too +expensive. I say, I once knew a fellow who ground-baited for salmon +with potted shrimps.’</p> +<p>‘Make a paragraph on him then,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘But results proved that there was no felt want of potted shrimps—or +not of a fly to follow.’</p> +<p>‘Your collaboration in the search, the hunt for money, the +quest, consists merely in irrelevancies and objections,’ growled +Merton, lighting a cigarette.</p> +<p>‘Lucky devil, Peter Nevison. Meets an heiress on a Channel +boat, with 4,000<i>l</i>. a year; and there he is.’ Logan +basked in the reflected sunshine.</p> +<p>‘Cut by her people, though—and other people. I +could not have faced the row with her people,’ said Merton musingly.</p> +<p>‘I don’t wonder they moved heaven and earth, and her +uncle, the bishop, to stop it. Not eligible, Peter was not, however +you took him,’ Logan reflected. ‘Took too much of +this,’ he pointed to the heraldic flask.</p> +<p>‘Well, <i>she</i> took him. It is not much that parents, +still less guardians, can do now, when a girl’s mind is made up.’</p> +<p>‘The emancipation of woman is the opportunity of the indigent +male struggler. Women have their way,’ Logan reflected.</p> +<p>‘And the youth of the modern aged is the opportunity <!-- page 5--><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>of +our sisters, the girls “on the make,”’ said Merton. +‘What a lot of old men of title are marrying young women as hard +up as we are!’</p> +<p>‘And then,’ said Logan, ‘the offspring of the deceased +marchionesses make a fuss. In fact marriage is always the signal +for a family row.’</p> +<p>‘It is the infernal family row that I never could face. +I had a chance—’</p> +<p>Merton seemed likely to drop into autobiography.</p> +<p>‘I know,’ said Logan admonishingly.</p> +<p>‘Well, hanged if I could take it, and she—she could not +stand it either, and both of us—’</p> +<p>‘Do not be elegiac,’ interrupted Logan. ‘I +know. Still, I am rather sorry for people’s people. +The unruly affections simply poison the lives of parents and guardians, +aye, and of the children too. The aged are now so hasty and imprudent. +What would not Tala have given to prevent his Grace from marrying Mrs. +Tankerville?’</p> +<p>Merton leapt to his feet and smote his brow.</p> +<p>‘Wait, don’t speak to me—a great thought flushes +all my brain. Hush! I have it,’ and he sat down again, +pouring seltzer water into a half empty glass.</p> +<p>‘Have what?’ asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘The Felt Want. But the accomplices?’</p> +<p>‘But the advertisements!’ suggested Logan.</p> +<p>‘A few pounds will cover <i>them</i>. I can sell my books,’ +Merton sighed.</p> +<p>‘A lot of advertising your first editions will pay for. +Why, even to launch a hair-restorer takes—’</p> +<p>‘Oh, but,’ Merton broke in, ‘<i>this</i> want is +so <!-- page 6--><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>widely felt, acutely +felt too: hair is not in it. But where are the accomplices?’</p> +<p>‘If it is gentleman burglars I am not concerned. No Raffles +for me! If it is venal physicians to kill off rich relations, +the lives of the Logans are sacred to me.’</p> +<p>‘Bosh!’ said Merton, ‘I want “lady friends,” +as Tennyson says: nice girls, well born, well bred, trying to support +themselves.’</p> +<p>‘What do you want <i>them</i> for? To support them?’</p> +<p>‘I want them as accomplices,’ said Merton. ‘As +collaborators.’</p> +<p>‘Blackmail?’ asked Logan. ‘Has it come to +this? I draw the line at blackmail. Besides, they would +starve first, good girls would; or marry Lord Methusalem, or a beastly +South African <i>richard</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Robert Logan of Restalrig, that should be’—Merton +spoke impressively—‘you know me to be incapable of practices, +however lucrative, which involve taint of crime. I do not prey +upon the society which I propose to benefit. But where are the +girls?’</p> +<p>‘Where are they not?’ Logan asked. ‘Dawdling, +as jesters, from country house to country house. In the British +Museum, verifying references for literary gents, if they can get references +to verify. Asking leave to describe their friends’ parties +in <i>The Leidy’s News</i>. Trying for places as golfing +governesses, or bridge governesses, or gymnastic mistresses at girls’ +schools, or lady laundresses, or typewriters, or lady teachers of cookery, +or pegs to hang costumes on at dress-makers’. <!-- page 7--><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>The +most beautiful girl I ever saw was doing that once; I met her when I +was shopping with my aunt who left her money to the Armenians.’</p> +<p>‘You kept up her acquaintance? The girl’s, I mean,’ +Merton asked.</p> +<p>‘We have occasionally met. In fact—’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I know, as you said lately,’ Merton remarked. +‘That’s one, anyhow, and there is Mary Willoughby, who got +a second in history when I was up. <i>She</i> would do. +Better business for her than the British Museum. I know three +or four.’</p> +<p>‘I know five or six. But what for?’ Logan insisted.</p> +<p>‘To help us in supplying the widely felt want, which is my +discovery,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘And that is?’</p> +<p>‘Disentanglers—of both sexes. A large and varied +staff, calculated to meet every requirement and cope with every circumstance.’ +Merton quoted an unwritten prospectus.</p> +<p>‘I don’t follow. What the deuce is your felt want?’</p> +<p>‘What we were talking about.’</p> +<p>‘Ground bait for salmon?’ Logan reverted to his idea.</p> +<p>‘No. Family rows about marriages. Nasty letters. +Refusals to recognise the choice of a son, a daughter, or a widowed +but youthful old parent, among the upper classes. Harsh words. +Refusals to allow meetings or correspondence. Broken hearts. +Improvident marriages. Preaching down a daughter’s heart, +or an aged parent’s heart, or a <!-- page 8--><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>nephew’s, +or a niece’s, or a ward’s, or anybody’s heart. +Peace restored to the household. Intended marriage off, and nobody +a penny the worse, unless—’</p> +<p>‘Unless what?’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Practical difficulties,’ said Merton, ‘will occur +in every enterprise. But they won’t be to our disadvantage, +the reverse—if they don’t happen too often. And we +can guard against <i>that</i> by a scientific process.’</p> +<p>‘Now will you explain,’ Logan asked, ‘or shall +I pour this whisky and water down the back of your neck?’</p> +<p>He rose to his feet, menace in his eye.</p> +<p>‘Bear fighting barred! We are no longer boys. We +are men—broken men. Sit down, don’t play the bear,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Well, explain, or I fire!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you see? The problem for the family, for +hundreds of families, is to get the undesirable marriage off without +the usual row. Very few people really like a row. Daughter +becomes anæmic; foreign cures are expensive and no good. +Son goes to the Devil or the Cape. Aged and opulent, but amorous, +parent leaves everything he can scrape together to disapproved of new +wife. Relations cut each other all round. Not many people +really enjoy that kind of thing. They want a pacific solution—marriage +off, no remonstrances.’</p> +<p>‘And how are you going to do it?’</p> +<p>‘Why,’ said Merton, ‘by a scientific and thoroughly +organised system of disengaging or disentangling. <!-- page 9--><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>We +enlist a lot of girls and fellows like ourselves, beautiful, attractive, +young, or not so young, well connected, intellectual, athletic, and +of all sorts of types, but all <i>broke</i>, all without visible means +of subsistence. They are people welcome in country houses, but +travelling third class, and devilishly perplexed about how to tip the +servants, how to pay if they lose at bridge, and so forth. We +enlist them, we send them out on demand, carefully selecting our agents +to meet the circumstances in each case. They go down and disentangle +the amorous by—well, by entangling them. The lovers are +off with the old love, the love which causes all the worry, without +being on with the new love—our agent. The thing quietly +fizzles out.’</p> +<p>‘Quietly!’ Logan snorted. ‘I like “quietly.” +They would be on with the new love. Don’t you see, you born +gomeral, that the person, man or woman, who deserts the inconvenient +A.—I put an A. B. case—falls in love with your agent B., +and your B. is, by the nature of the thing, more ineligible than A.—too +poor. A babe could see that. You disappoint me, Merton.’</p> +<p>‘You state,’ said Merton, ‘one of the practical +difficulties which I foresaw. Not that it does not suit <i>us</i> +very well. Our comrade and friend, man or woman, gets a chance +of a good marriage, and, Logan, there is no better thing. But +parents and guardians would not stand much of that: of people marrying +our agents.’</p> +<p>‘Of course they wouldn’t. Your idea is crazy.’</p> +<p>‘Wait a moment,’ said Merton. ‘The resources +<!-- page 10--><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>of science are not +yet exhausted. You have heard of the epoch-making discovery of +Jenner, and its beneficent results in checking the ravages of smallpox, +that scourge of the human race?’</p> +<p>‘Oh don’t talk like a printed book,’ Logan remonstrated. +‘Everybody has heard of vaccination.’</p> +<p>‘And you are aware that similar prophylactic measures have +been adopted, with more or less of success, in the case of other diseases?’</p> +<p>‘I am aware,’ said Logan, ‘that you are in danger +of personal suffering at my hands, as I already warned you.’</p> +<p>‘What is love but a disease?’ Merton asked dreamily. +‘A French <i>savant</i>, Monsieur Janet, says that nobody ever +falls in love except when he is a little bit off colour: I forget the +French equivalent.’</p> +<p>‘I am coming for you,’ Logan arose in wrath.</p> +<p>‘Sit down. Well, your objection (which it did not need +the eyes of an Argus to discover) is that the patients, the lovers young, +whose loves are disapproved of by the family, will fall in love with +our agents, insist on marrying <i>them</i>, and so the last state of +these afflicted parents—or children—will be worse than the +first. Is that your objection?’</p> +<p>‘Of course it is; and crushing at that,’ Logan replied.</p> +<p>‘Then science suggests prophylactic measures: something akin +to vaccination,’ Merton explained. ‘The agents must +be warranted “immune.” Nice new word!’</p> +<p>‘How?’</p> +<p>‘The object,’ Merton answered, ‘is to make it <!-- page 11--><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>impossible, +or highly improbable, that our agents, after disentangling the affections +of the patients, curing them of one attack, will accept their addresses, +offered in a second fit of the fever. In brief, the agents must +not marry the patients, or not often.’</p> +<p>‘But how can you prevent them if they want to do it?’</p> +<p>‘By a process akin, in the emotional region of our strangely +blended nature, to inoculation.’</p> +<p>‘Hanged if I understand you. You keep on repeating yourself. +You dodder!’</p> +<p>‘Our agents must have got the disease already, the pretty fever; +and be safe against infection. There must be on the side of the +agent a prior attachment. Now, don’t interrupt, there always +<i>is</i> a prior attachment. You are in love, I am in love, he, +she, and they, all of the broken brigade, are in love; all the more +because they have not a chance. “Cursed be the social wants +that sin against the strength of youth.” So, you see, our +agents will be quite safe not to crown the flame of the patients, not +to accept them, if they do propose, or expect a proposal. “Every +security from infection guaranteed.” There is the felt want. +Here is the remedy; not warranted absolutely painless, but salutary, +and tending to the amelioration of the species. So we have only +to enlist the agents, and send a few advertisements to the papers. +My first editions must go. Farewell Shelley, Tennyson, Keats, +uncut Waverleys, Byron, <i>The Waltz</i>, early Kiplings (at a vast +reduction on account of the overflooded state of the market). +Farewell Kilmarnock edition of Burns, and Colonel <!-- page 12--><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>Lovelace, +his <i>Lucasta</i>, and <i>Tamerlane</i> by Mr. Poe, and the rest. +The money must be raised.’ Merton looked resigned.</p> +<p>‘I have nothing to sell,’ said Logan, ‘but an entire +set of clubs by Philp. Guaranteed unique, and in exquisite condition.’</p> +<p>‘You must part with them,’ said Merton. ‘We +are like Palissy the potter, feeding his furnace with the drawing-room +furniture.’</p> +<p>‘But how about the recruiting?’ Logan asked. ‘It’s +like one of these novels where you begin by collecting desperados from +all quarters, and then the shooting commences.’</p> +<p>‘Well, we need not ransack the Colonies,’ Merton replied. +‘Patronise British industries. We know some fellows already +and some young women.’</p> +<p>‘I say,’ Logan interrupted, ‘what a dab at disentangling +Lumley would have been if he had not got that Professorship of Toxicology +at Edinburgh, and been able to marry Miss Wingan at last!’</p> +<p>‘Yes, and Miss Wingan would have been useful. What a +lively girl, ready for everything,’ Merton replied.</p> +<p>‘But these we can still get at,’ Logan asked: ‘how +are you to be sure that they are—vaccinated?’</p> +<p>‘The inquiry is delicate,’ Merton admitted, ‘but +the fact may be almost taken for granted. We must give a dinner +(a preliminary expense) to promising collaborators, and champagne is +a great promoter of success in delicate inquiries. <i>In vino +veritas</i>.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know if there is money in it, but there is a +kind of larkiness,’ Logan admitted.</p> +<p><!-- page 13--><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>‘Yes, I think +there will be larks.’</p> +<p>‘About the dinner? We are not to have Johnnies disguised +as hansom cabbies driving about, and picking up men and women that look +the right sort, in the streets, and compelling them to come in?’</p> +<p>‘Oh no, <i>that</i> expense we can cut. It would not +do with the women, obviously: heavens, what queer fishes that net would +catch! The flag of the Disentanglers shall never be stained by—anything. +You know some likely agents: I know some likely agents. They will +suggest others, as our field of usefulness widens. Of course there +is the oath of secrecy: we shall administer that after dinner to each +guest apart.’</p> +<p>‘Jolly difficult for those that are mixed up with the press +to keep an oath of secrecy!’ Logan spoke as a press man.</p> +<p>‘We shall only have to do with gentlemen and ladies. +The oath is not going to sanction itself with religious terrors. +Good form—we shall appeal to a “sense of form”—now +so widely diffused by University Extension Lectures on the Beautiful, +the Fitting, the—’</p> +<p>‘Oh shut up!’ cried Logan. ‘You always haver +after midnight. For, look here, here is an objection; this precious +plan of yours, parents and others could work it for themselves. +I dare say they do. When they see the affections of a son, or +a daughter, or a bereaved father beginning to stray towards A., they +probably invite B. to come and stay and act as a lightning conductor. +They don’t need us.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t they? They seldom have an eligible <!-- page 14--><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>and +satisfactory lightning conductor at hand, somebody to whom they can +trust their dear one. Or, if they have, the dear one has already +been bored with the intended lightning conductor (who is old, or plain, +or stupid, or familiar, at best), and they won’t look at him or +her. Now our Disentanglers are not going to be plain, or dull, +or old, or stale, or commonplace—we’ll take care of that. +My dear fellow, don’t you know how dismal the <i>parti</i> selected +for a man or girl invariably is? Now <i>we</i> provide a different +and superior article, a <i>fresh</i> article too, not a familiar bore +or a neighbour.’</p> +<p>‘Well, there is a good deal in that, as you say,’ Logan +admitted. ‘But decent people will think the whole speculation +shady. How are you to get round that? There is something +you have forgotten.’</p> +<p>‘What?’ Merton asked.</p> +<p>‘Why it stares you in the face. References. Unexceptionable +references; people will expect them all round.’</p> +<p>‘Please don’t say “unexceptionable”; say +“references beyond the reach of cavil.”’ Merton +was a purist. ‘It costs more in advertisements, but my phrase +at once enlists the sympathy of every liberal and elegant mind. +But as to references (and I am glad that you have some common sense, +Logan), there is, let me see, there is the Dowager.’</p> +<p>‘The divine Althæa—Marchioness of Bowton?’</p> +<p>‘The same,’ said Merton. ‘The oldest woman, +and the most recklessly up-to-date in London. She has seen <i>bien +d’autres</i>, and wants to see more.’</p> +<p>‘She will do; and my aunt,’ Logan said.</p> +<p><!-- page 15--><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>‘Not, oh, +of course not, the one who left her money to the Armenians?’ Merton +asked.</p> +<p>‘No, another. And there’s old Lochmaben’s +young wife, my cousin, widely removed, by marriage. She is American, +you know, and perhaps you know her book, <i>Social Experiments</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it is not half bad,’ Merton conceded, ‘and +her heart will be in what I fear she will call “the new departure.” +And she is pretty, and highly respected in the parish.’</p> +<p>‘And there’s my aunt I spoke of, or great aunt, Miss +Nicky Maxwell. The best old thing: a beautiful monument of old +gentility, and she would give her left hand to help any one of the clan.’</p> +<p>‘She will do. And there’s Mrs. Brown-Smith, Lord +Yarrow’s daughter, who married the patent soap man. <i>Elle +est capable de tout</i>. A real good woman, but full of her fun.’</p> +<p>‘That will do for the lady patronesses. We must secure +them at once.’</p> +<p>‘But won’t the clients blab?’ Logan suggested.</p> +<p>‘They can’t,’ Merton said. ‘They would +be laughed at consumedly. It will be their interest to hold their +tongues.’</p> +<p>‘Well, let us hope that they will see it in that light.’ +Logan was not too sanguine.</p> +<p>Merton had a better opinion of his enterprise.</p> +<p>‘People, if they come to us at all for assistance in these +very delicate and intimate affairs, will have too much to lose by talking +about them. They may not come, we can only try, but if they come +they will be silent as the grave usually is.’</p> +<p><!-- page 16--><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>‘Well, it +is late, and the whisky is low,’ said Logan in mournful tones. +‘May the morrow’s reflections justify the inspiration of—the +whisky. Good night!’</p> +<p>‘Good night,’ said Merton absently.</p> +<p>He sat down when Logan had gone, and wrote a few notes on large sheets +of paper. He was elaborating the scheme. ‘If collaboration +consists in making objections, as the French novelist said, Logan is +a rare collaborator,’ Merton muttered as he turned out the pallid +lamp and went to bed.</p> +<p>Next morning, before dressing, he revolved the scheme. It bore +the change of light and survived the inspiration of alcohol. Logan +looked in after breakfast. He had no new objections. They +proceeded to action.</p> +<h2><!-- page 17--><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>II. FROM +THE HIGHWAYS AND HEDGES</h2> +<p>The first step towards Merton’s scheme was taken at once. +The lady patronesses were approached. The divine Althæa +instantly came in. She had enjoyed few things more since the Duchess +of Richmond’s ball on the eve of Waterloo. Miss Nicky Maxwell +at first professed a desire to open her coffers, ‘only anticipating,’ +she said, ‘an event’—which Logan declined in any sense +to anticipate. Lady Lochmaben said that they would have a lovely +time as experimental students of society. Mrs. Brown-Smith instantly +offered her own services as a Disentangler, her lord being then absent +in America studying the negro market for detergents.</p> +<p>‘I think,’ she said, ‘he expects Brown-Smith’s +brand to make an Ethiopian change his skin, and then means to exhibit +him as an advertisement.’</p> +<p>‘And settle the negro question by making them all white men,’ +said Logan, as he gracefully declined the generous but compromising +proposal of the lady. ‘Yet, after all,’ thought he, +‘is she not right? The prophylactic precautions would certainly +be increased, morally speaking, if the Disentanglers were married.’ +But while he pigeon-holed this idea for future reference, <!-- page 18--><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>at +the moment he could not see his way to accepting Mrs. Brown-Smith’s +spirited idea. She reluctantly acquiesced in his view of the case, +but, like the other dames, promised to guarantee, if applied to, the +absolute respectability of the enterprise. The usual vows of secrecy +were made, and (what borders on the supernatural) they were kept.</p> +<p>Merton’s first editions went to Sotheby’s, ‘Property +of a gentleman who is changing his objects of collection.’ +A Russian archduke bought Logan’s unique set of golf clubs by +Philp. Funds accrued from other sources. Logan had a friend, +dearer friend had no man, one Trevor, a pleasant bachelor whose sister +kept house for him. His purse, or rather his cheque book, gaped +with desire to be at Logan’s service, but had gaped in vain. +Finding Logan grinning one day over the advertisement columns of a paper +at the club, his prophetic soul discerned a good thing, and he wormed +it out ‘in dern privacy.’ He slapped his manly thigh +and insisted on being in it—as a capitalist. The other stoutly +resisted, but was overcome.</p> +<p>‘You need an office, you need retaining fees, you need outfits +for the accomplices, and it is a legitimate investment. I’ll +take interest and risks,’ said Trevor.</p> +<p>So the money was found.</p> +<p>The inaugural dinner, for the engaging of accomplices, was given +in a private room of a restaurant in Pall Mall.</p> +<p>The dinner was gay, but a little pathetic. Neatness, rather +than the gloss of novelty (though other gloss <!-- page 19--><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>there +was), characterised the garments of the men. The toilettes of +the women were modest; that amount of praise (and it is a good deal) +they deserved. A young lady, Miss Maskelyne, an amber-hued beauty, +who practically lived as a female jester at the houses of the great, +shone resplendent, indeed, but magnificence of apparel was demanded +by her profession.</p> +<p>‘I am <i>so</i> tired of it,’ she said to Merton. +‘Fancy being more and more anxious for country house invitations. +Fancy an artist’s feelings, when she knows she has not been a +success. And then when the woman of the house detests you! +She often does. And when they ask you to give your imitation of +So-and-so, and forget that his niece is in the room! Do you know +what they would have called people like me a hundred years ago? +Toad-eaters! There is one of us in an old novel I read a bit of +once. She goes about, an old maid, to houses. Once she arrived +in a snow storm and a hearse. Am I to come to that? I keep +learning new drawing-room tricks. And when you fall ill, as I +did at Eckford, and you can’t leave, and you think they are tired +to death of you! Oh, it is I who am tired, and time passes, and +one grows old. I am a hag!’</p> +<p>Merton said ‘what he ought to have said,’ and what, indeed, +was true. He was afraid she would tell him what she owed her dress-makers. +Therefore he steered the talk round to sport, then to the Highlands, +then to Knoydart, then to Alastair Macdonald of Craigiecorrichan, and +then Merton knew, by a tone in the voice, a drop of the eyelashes, that +Miss Maskelyne was—vaccinated. Prophylactic measures <!-- page 20--><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>had +been taken: this agent ran no risk of infection. There was Alastair.</p> +<p>Merton turned to Miss Willoughby, on his left. She was tall, +dark, handsome, but a little faded, and not plump: few of the faces +round the table were plump and well liking. Miss Willoughby, in +fact, dwelt in one room, in Bloomsbury, and dined on cocoa and bread +and butter. These were for her the rewards of the Higher Education. +She lived by copying crabbed manuscripts.</p> +<p>‘Do you ever go up to Oxford now?’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Not often. Sometimes a St. Ursula girl gets a room in +the town for me. I have coached two or three of them at little +reading parties. It gets one out of town in autumn: Bloomsbury +in August is not very fresh. And at Oxford one can “tout,” +or “cadge,” for a little work. But there are so many +of us.’</p> +<p>‘What are you busy with just now?’</p> +<p>‘Vatican transcripts at the Record Office.’</p> +<p>‘Any exciting secrets?’</p> +<p>‘Oh no, only how much the priests here paid to Rome for their +promotions. Secrets then perhaps: not thrilling now.’</p> +<p>‘No schemes to poison people?’</p> +<p>‘Not yet: no plots for novels, and oh, such long-winded pontifical +Latin, and such awful crabbed hands.’</p> +<p>‘It does not seem to lead to much?’</p> +<p>‘To nothing, in no way. But one is glad to get anything.’</p> +<p>‘Jephson, of Lincoln, whom I used to know, is <!-- page 21--><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>doing +a book on the Knights of St. John in their Relations to the Empire,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Is he?’ said Miss Willoughby, after a scarcely distinguishable +but embarrassed pause, and she turned from Merton to exhibit an interest +in the very original scheme of mural decoration behind her.</p> +<p>‘It is quite a new subject to most people,’ said Merton, +and he mentally ticked off Miss Willoughby as safe, for Jephson, whom +he had heard that she liked, was a very poor man, living on his fellowship +and coaching. He was sorry: he had never liked or trusted Jephson.</p> +<p>‘It is a subject sure to create a sensation, isn’t it?’ +asked Miss Willoughby, a little paler than before.</p> +<p>‘It might get a man a professorship,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘There are so many of us, of them, I mean,’ said Miss +Willoughby, and Merton gave a small sigh. ‘Not much larkiness +here,’ he thought, and asked a transient waiter for champagne.</p> +<p>Miss Willoughby drank a little of the wine: the colour came into +her face.</p> +<p>‘By Jove, she’s awfully handsome,’ thought Merton.</p> +<p>‘It was very kind of you to ask me to this festival,’ +said the girl. ‘Why have you asked us, me at least?’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps for many besides the obvious reason,’ said Merton. +‘You may be told later.’</p> +<p>‘Then there is a reason in addition to that which most people +don’t find obvious? Have you come into a fortune?’</p> +<p>‘No, but I am coming. My ship is on the sea and my boat +is on the shore.’</p> +<p><!-- page 22--><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>‘I see faces +that I know. There is that tall handsome girl, Miss Markham, with +real gold hair, next Mr. Logan. We used to call her the Venus +of Milo, or Milo for short, at St. Ursula’s. She has mantles +and things tried on her at Madame Claudine’s, and stumpy purchasers +argue from the effect (neglecting the cause) that the things will suit +<i>them</i>. Her people were ruined by Australian gold mines. +And there is Miss Martin, who does stories for the penny story papers +at a shilling the thousand words. The fathers have backed horses, +and the children’s teeth are set on edge. Is it a Neo-Christian +dinner? We are all so poor. You have sought us in the highways +and hedges.’</p> +<p>‘Where the wild roses grow,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know many of the men, though I see faces that +one used to see in the High. There is Mr. Yorker, the athletic +man. What is he doing now?’</p> +<p>‘He is sub-vice-secretary of a cricket club. His income +depends on his bat and his curl from leg. But he has a rich aunt.’</p> +<p>‘Cricket does not lead to much, any more than my ability to +read the worst handwritings of the darkest ages. Who is the man +that the beautiful lady opposite is making laugh so?’ asked Miss +Willoughby, without moving her lips.</p> +<p>Merton wrote ‘Bulstrode of Trinity’ on the back of the +menu.</p> +<p>‘What does <i>he</i> do?’</p> +<p>‘Nothing,’ said Merton in a low voice. ‘Been +alligator farming, or ostrich farming, or ranching, and come back shorn; +they all come back. He wants to be an ecclesiastical “chucker +out,” and cope with Mr. Kensitt and Co. New profession.’</p> +<p>‘He ought not to be here. He can ride and shoot.’</p> +<p>‘He is the only son of his mother and she is a widow.’</p> +<p>‘He ought to go out. My only brother is out. I +wish I were a man. I hate dawdlers.’ She looked at +him: her eyes were large and grey under black lashes, they were dark +and louring.</p> +<p>‘Have you, by any chance, a spark of the devil in you?’ +asked Merton, taking a social header.</p> +<p>‘I have been told so, and sometimes thought so,’ said +Miss Willoughby. ‘Perhaps this one will go out by fasting +if not by prayer. Yes, I <i>have</i> a spark of the Accuser of +the Brethren.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Tant mieux</i>,’ thought Merton.</p> +<p>All the people were talking and laughing now. Miss Maskelyne +told a story to the table. She did a trick with a wine glass, +forks, and a cork. Logan interviewed Miss Martin, who wrote tales +for the penny fiction people, on her methods. Had she a moral +aim, a purpose? Did she create her characters first, and let them +evolve their fortunes, or did she invent a plot, and make her characters +fit in?</p> +<p>Miss Martin said she began with a situation: ‘I wish I could +get one somewhere as secretary to a man of letters.’</p> +<p>‘They can’t afford secretaries,’ said Logan. +‘Besides they are family men, married men, and so—’</p> +<p>‘And so what?’</p> +<p>‘Go look in any glass, and say,’ said Logan, laughing. +‘But how do you begin with a situation?’</p> +<p><!-- page 24--><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>‘Oh, anyhow. +A lot of men in a darkened room. Pitch dark.’</p> +<p>‘A séance?’</p> +<p>‘No, a conspiracy. They are in the dark that when arrested +they may swear they never saw each other.’</p> +<p>‘They could swear that anyhow.’</p> +<p>‘Conspirators have consciences. Then there comes a red +light shining between the door and the floor. Then the door breaks +down under a hammer, the light floods the room. There is a man +in it whom the others never saw enter.’</p> +<p>‘How did he get in?’</p> +<p>‘He was there before they came. Then the fighting begins. +At the end of it where is the man?’</p> +<p>‘Well, where is he? What was he up to?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know yet,’ said Miss Martin, ‘it +just comes as I go on. It has just got to come. It is a +fourteen hours a day business. All writing. I crib things +from the French. Not whole stories. I take the opening situation; +say the two men in a boat on the river who hook up a sack. I don’t +read the rest of the Frenchman, I work on from the sack, and guess what +was in it.’</p> +<p>‘What was in the sack?’</p> +<p>‘<i>In the Sack</i>! A name for a story! Anything, +from the corpse of a freak (good idea, corpse of a freak with no arms +and legs, or with too many) to a model of a submarine ship, or political +papers. But I am tired of corpses. They pervade my works. +They give “a <i>bouquet</i>, a fragrance,” as Mr. Talbot +Twysden said about his cheap claret.’</p> +<p>‘You read the old Masters?’</p> +<p><!-- page 25--><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>‘The obsolete +Thackeray? Yes, I know him pretty well.’</p> +<p>‘What are you publishing just now?’</p> +<p>‘This to an author? Don’t you know?’</p> +<p>‘I blush,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Unseen,’ said Miss Martin, scrutinising him closely.</p> +<p>‘Well, you do not read the serials to which I contribute,’ +she went on. ‘I have two or three things running. +There is <i>The Judge’s Secret</i>.’</p> +<p>‘What was that?’</p> +<p>‘He did it himself.’</p> +<p>‘Did what?’</p> +<p>‘Killed the bishop. He is not a very plausible judge +in English: in French he would be all right, a <i>juge d’instruction</i>, +the man who cross-examines the prisoners in private, you know.’</p> +<p>‘Judges don’t do that in England,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘No, but this case is an exception. The judge was such +a very old friend, a college friend, of the murdered bishop. So +he takes advantage of his official position, and steals into the cell +of the accused. My public does not know any better, and, of course, +I have no reviewers. I never come out in a book.’</p> +<p>‘And why did the judge assassinate the prelate?’</p> +<p>‘The prelate knew too much about the judge, who sat in the +Court of Probate and Divorce.’</p> +<p>‘Satan reproving sin?’ asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘Yes, exactly; and the bishop being interested in the case—’</p> +<p>‘No scandal about Mrs. Proudie?’</p> +<p>‘No, not that exactly, still, you see the motive?’</p> +<p>‘I do,’ said Logan. ‘And the conclusion?’</p> +<p><!-- page 26--><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>‘The bishop +was not really dead at all. It takes some time to explain. +The <i>corpus delicti</i>—you see I know my subject—was +somebody else. And the bishop was alive, and secretly watching +the judge, disguised as Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Oh, I know it is +too much in Dickens’s manner. But my public has not read +Dickens.’</p> +<p>‘You interest me keenly’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘I am glad to hear it. And the penny public take freely. +Our circulation goes up. I asked for a rise of three pence on +the thousand words.’</p> +<p>‘Now this <i>is</i> what I call literary conversation,’ +said Logan. ‘It is like reading <i>The British Weekly Bookman</i>. +Did you get the threepence? if the inquiry is not indelicate.’</p> +<p>‘I got twopence. But, you see, there are so many of us.’</p> +<p>‘Tell me more. Are you serialising anything else?’</p> +<p>‘Serialising is the right word. I see you know a great +deal about literature. Yes, I am serialising a featured tale.’</p> +<p>‘A featured tale?’</p> +<p>‘You don’t know what that is? You do not know everything +yet! It is called <i>Myself</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Why <i>Myself</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, because the narrator did it—the murder. A +stranger is found in a wood, hung to a tree. Nobody knows who +he is. But he and the narrator had met in Paraguay. He, +the murdered man, came home, visited the narrator, and fell in love +with the beautiful being to whom the narrator was engaged. So +the narrator lassoed him in a wood.’</p> +<p><!-- page 27--><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>‘Why?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, the old stock reason. He knew too much.’</p> +<p>‘What did he know?’</p> +<p>‘Why, that the narrator was living on a treasure originally +robbed from a church in South America.’</p> +<p>‘But, if it <i>was</i> a treasure, who would care?’</p> +<p>‘The girl was a Catholic. And the murdered man knew more.’</p> +<p>‘How much more?’</p> +<p>‘This: to find out about the treasure, the narrator had taken +priest’s orders, and, of course, could not marry. And the +other man, being in love with the girl, threatened to tell, and so the +lasso came in handy. It is a Protestant story and instructive.’</p> +<p>‘Jolly instructive! But, Miss Martin, you are the Guy +Boothby of your sex!’</p> +<p>At this supreme tribute the girl blushed like dawn upon the hills.</p> +<p>‘My word, she is pretty!’ thought Logan; but what he +said was, ‘You know Mr. Tierney, your neighbour? Out of +a job as a composition master. Almost reduced to University Extension +Lectures on the didactic Drama.’</p> +<p>Tierney was talking eagerly to his neighbour, a fascinating lady +laundress, <i>la belle blanchisseuse</i>, about starch.</p> +<p>Further off a lady instructress in cookery, Miss Frere, was conversing +with a tutor of bridge.</p> +<p>‘Tierney,’ said Logan, in a pause, ‘may I present +you to Miss Martin?’ Then he turned to Miss Markham, formerly +known at St. Ursula’s as Milo. She had been a teacher of +golf, hockey, cricket, fencing, <!-- page 28--><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>and +gymnastics, at a very large school for girls, in a very small town. +Here she became society to such an alarming extent (no party being complete +without her, while the colonels and majors never left her in peace), +that her connection with education was abruptly terminated. At +present raiment was draped on her magnificent shoulders at Madame Claudine’s. +Logan, as he had told Merton, ‘occasionally met her,’ and +Logan had the strongest reasons for personal conviction that she was +absolutely proof against infection, in the trying circumstances to which +a Disentangler is professionally exposed. Indeed she alone of +the women present knew from Logan the purpose of the gathering.</p> +<p>Cigarettes had replaced the desire of eating and drinking. +Merton had engaged a withdrawing room, where he meant to be closeted +with his guests, one by one, administer the oath, and prosecute delicate +inquiries on the important question of immunity from infection. +But, after a private word or two with Logan, he deemed these conspicuous +formalities needless. ‘We have material enough to begin +with,’ said Logan. ‘We knew beforehand that some of +the men were safe, and certain of the women.’</p> +<p>There was a balcony. The providence of nature had provided +a full moon, and a night of balm. The imaginative maintained that +the scent of hay was breathed, among other odours, over Pall Mall the +Blest. Merton kept straying with one guest or another into a corner +of the balcony. He hinted that there was a thing in prospect. +Would the guest hold himself, or herself, ready at need? Next +morning, <!-- page 29--><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>if the promise +was given, the guest might awake to peace of conscience. The scheme +was beneficent, and, incidentally, cheerful.</p> +<p>To some he mentioned retainers; money down, to speak grossly. +Most accepted on the strength of Merton’s assurances that their +services must always be ready. There were difficulties with Miss +Willoughby and Miss Markham. The former lady (who needed it most) +flatly refused the arrangement. Merton pleaded in vain. +Miss Markham, the girl known to her contemporaries as Milo, could not +hazard her present engagement at Madame Claudine’s. If she +was needed by the scheme in the dead season she thought that she could +be ready for whatever it was.</p> +<p>Nobody was told exactly what the scheme was. It was only made +clear that nobody was to be employed without the full and exhaustive +knowledge of the employers, for whom Merton and Logan were merely agents. +If in doubt, the agents might apply for counsel to the lady patronesses, +whose very names tranquilised the most anxious inquirers. The +oath was commuted for a promise, on honour, of secrecy. And, indeed, +little if anything was told that could be revealed. The thing +was not political: spies on Russia or France were not being recruited. +That was made perfectly clear. Anybody might withdraw, if the +prospect, when beheld nearer, seemed undesirable. A mystified +but rather merry gathering walked away to remote lodgings, Miss Maskelyne +alone patronising a hansom.</p> +<p>On the day after the dinner Logan and Merton <!-- page 30--><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>reviewed +the event and its promise, taking Trevor into their counsels. +They were not ill satisfied with the potential recruits.</p> +<p>‘There was one jolly little thing in white,’ said Trevor. +‘So pretty and flowering! “Cherries ripe themselves +do cry,” a line in an old song, that’s what her face reminded +me of. Who was she?’</p> +<p>‘She came with Miss Martin, the penny novelist,’ said +Logan. ‘She is stopping with her. A country parson’s +daughter, come up to town to try to live by typewriting.’</p> +<p>‘She will be of no use to us,’ said Merton. ‘If +ever a young woman looked fancy-free it is that girl. What did +you say her name is, Logan?’</p> +<p>‘I did not say, but, though you won’t believe it, her +name is Miss Blossom, Miss Florry Blossom. Her godfathers and +godmothers must bear the burden of her appropriate Christian name; the +other, the surname, is a coincidence—designed or not.’</p> +<p>‘Well, she is not suitable,’ said Merton sternly. +‘Misplaced affections she might distract, but then, after she +had distracted them, she might reciprocate them. As a conscientious +manager I cannot recommend her to clients.’</p> +<p>‘But,’ said Trevor, ‘she may be useful for all +that, as well as decidedly ornamental. Merton, you’ll want +a typewriter for your business correspondence, and Miss Blossom typewrites: +it is her profession.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ said Merton, ‘I am not afraid. I +do not care too much for “that garden in her face,” for +your cherry-ripe sort of young person. If a typewriter is necessary +I can bear with her as well as another.’</p> +<p><!-- page 31--><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>‘I admire +your courage and resignation,’ said Trevor, ‘so now let +us go and take rooms for the Society.’</p> +<p>They found rooms, lordly rooms, which Trevor furnished in a stately +manner, hanging a selection of his mezzotints on the walls—ladies +of old years, after Romney, Reynolds, Hoppner, and the rest. A +sober opulence and comfort characterised the chambers; a well-selected +set of books in a Sheraton bookcase was intended to beguile the tedium +of waiting clients. The typewriter (Miss Blossom accepted the +situation) occupied an inner chamber, opening out of that which was +to be sacred to consultations.</p> +<p>The firm traded under the title of Messrs. Gray and Graham. +Their advertisement—in all the newspapers—addressed itself +‘To Parents, Guardians, Children and others.’ It set +forth the sorrows and anxieties which beset families in the matter of +undesirable matrimonial engagements and entanglements. The advertisers +proposed, by a new method, to restore domestic peace and confidence. +‘No private inquiries will, in any case, be made into the past +of the parties concerned. The highest references will in every +instance be given and demanded. Intending clients must in the +first instance apply by letter to Messrs. Gray and Graham. No +charge will be made for a first interview, which can only be granted +after satisfactory references have been exchanged by letter.’</p> +<p>‘If <i>that</i> does not inspire confidence,’ said Merton, +‘I don’t know what will.’</p> +<p>‘Nothing short of it will do,’ said Logan.</p> +<p><!-- page 32--><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>‘But the mezzotints +will carry weight,’ said Trevor, ‘and a few good cloisonnés +and enamelled snuff-boxes and bronzes will do no harm.’</p> +<p>So he sent in some weedings of his famous collection.</p> +<h2><!-- page 33--><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>III. ADVENTURE +OF THE FIRST CLIENTS</h2> +<p>Merton was reading the newspaper in the office, expecting a client. +Miss Blossom was typewriting in the inner chamber; the door between +was open. The office boy knocked at Merton’s outer door, +and the sound of that boy’s strangled chuckling was distinctly +audible to his employer. There is something irritating in the +foolish merriment of a youthful menial. No conduct could be more +likely than that of the office boy to irritate the first client, arriving +on business of which it were hard to exaggerate the delicate and anxious +nature.</p> +<p>These reflections flitted through Merton’s mind as he exclaimed +‘Come in,’ with a tone of admonishing austerity.</p> +<p>The office boy entered. His face was scarlet, his eyes goggled +and ran water. Hastily and loudly exclaiming ‘Mr. and Miss +Apsley’ (which ended with a crow) he stuffed his red pocket handkerchief +into his mouth and escaped. At the sound of the names, Merton +had turned towards the inner door, open behind him, whence came a clear +and piercing trill of feminine laughter from Miss Blossom. Merton +angrily marched to the inner door, and shut <!-- page 34--><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>his +typewriter in with a bang. His heart burned within him. +Nothing could be so insulting to clients; nothing so ruinous to a nascent +business. He wheeled round to greet his visitors with a face of +apology; his eyes on the average level of the human countenance divine. +There was no human countenance divine. There was no human countenance +at that altitude. His eyes encountered the opposite wall, and +a print of ‘Mrs. Pelham Feeding Chickens.’</p> +<p>In a moment his eyes adjusted themselves to a lower elevation. +In front of him were standing, hand in hand, a pair of small children, +a boy of nine in sailor costume, but with bare knees not usually affected +by naval officers, and a girl of seven with her finger in her mouth.</p> +<p>The boy bowed gravely. He was a pretty little fellow with a +pale oval face, arched eyebrows, promise of an aquiline nose, and two +large black eyes. ‘I think, sir,’ said the child, +‘I have the pleasure of redressing myself to Mr. Gray or Mr. Graham?’</p> +<p>‘Graham, at your service,’ said Merton, gravely; ‘may +I ask you and Miss Apsley to be seated?’</p> +<p>There was a large and imposing arm-chair in green leather; the client’s +chair. Mr. Apsley lifted his little sister into it, and sat down +beside her himself. She threw her arms round his neck, and laid +her flaxen curls on his shoulder. Her blue eyes looked shyly at +Merton out of her fleece of gold. The four shoes of the clients +dangled at some distance above the carpet.</p> +<p><!-- page 35--><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>‘You are the +author of this article, I think, Mr. Graham?’ said Mr. Apsley, +showing his hand, which was warm, and holding out a little crumpled +ball of paper, not precisely fresh.</p> +<p>Merton solemnly unrolled it; it contained the advertisement of his +firm.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I wrote that.’</p> +<p>‘You got our letters, for you answered them,’ said Mr. +Apsley, with equal solemnity. ‘Why do you want Bats and +me?’</p> +<p>‘The lady’s name is Bats?’ said Merton, wondering +why he was supposed to ‘want’ either of the pair.</p> +<p>‘My name is Batsy. I like you: you are pretty,’ +said Miss Apsley.</p> +<p>Merton positively blushed: he was unaccustomed to compliments so +frank from a member of the sex at an early stage of a business interview. +He therefore kissed his fair client, who put up a pair of innocent damp +lips, and then allowed her attention to be engrossed by a coin on his +watch-chain.</p> +<p>‘I don’t quite remember your case, sir, or what you mean +by saying I wanted you, though I am delighted to see you,’ he +said to Mr. Apsley. ‘We have so many letters! With +your permission I shall consult the letter book.’</p> +<p>‘The article says “To Parents, Guardians, Children, and +others.” It was in print,’ remarked Mr. Apsley, with +a heavy stress on “children,” ‘and she said you wanted +<i>us</i>.’</p> +<p>The mystified Merton, wondering who ‘she’ was, turned +the pages of the letter book, mumbling, <!-- page 36--><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>‘Abernethy, +Applecombe, Ap. Davis, Apsley. Here we are,’ he began to +read the letter aloud. It was typewritten, which, when he saw +his clients, not a little surprised him.</p> +<p>‘Gentlemen,’ the letter ran, ‘having seen your +advertisement in the <i>Daily Diatribe</i> of to-day, May 17, I desire +to express my wish to enter into communication with you on a matter +of pressing importance.—I am, in the name of my sister, Miss Josephine +Apsley, and myself,</p> +<p>‘Faithfully yours,<br /> +‘<span class="smcap">Thomas Lloyd Apsley</span>.’</p> +<p>‘That’s the letter,’ said Mr. Apsley, ‘and +you wrote to us.’</p> +<p>‘And what did I say?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Something about preferences, which we did not understand.’</p> +<p>‘References, perhaps,’ said Merton. ‘Mr. +Apsley, may I ask whether you wrote this letter yourself?’</p> +<p>‘No; None-so-pretty printed it on a kind of sewing machine. +<i>She</i> told us to come and see you, so we came. I called her +None-so-pretty, out of a fairy story. She does not mind. +Gran says she thinks she rather likes it.’</p> +<p>‘I shouldn’t wonder if she did,’ said Merton. +‘But what is her real name?’</p> +<p>‘She made me promise not to tell. She was staying at +the Home Farm when we were staying at Gran’s.’</p> +<p>‘Is Gran your grandmother?’</p> +<p><!-- page 37--><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>‘Yes,’ +replied Mr. Apsley.</p> +<p>Hereon Bats remarked that she was ‘velly hungalee.’</p> +<p>‘To be sure,’ said Merton. ‘Luncheon shall +be brought at once.’ He rang the bell, and, going out, interpellated +the office boy.</p> +<p>‘Why did you laugh when my friends came to luncheon? +You must learn manners.’</p> +<p>‘Please, sir, the kid, the young gentleman I mean, said he +came on business,’ answered the boy, showing apoplectic symptoms.</p> +<p>‘So he did; luncheon is his business. Go and bring luncheon +for—five, and see that there are chicken, cutlets, tartlets, apricots, +and ginger-beer.’</p> +<p>The boy departed and Merton reflected. ‘A hoax, somebody’s +practical joke,’ he said to himself. ‘I wonder who +Miss None-so-pretty is.’ Then he returned, assured Batsy +that luncheon was even at the doors, and leaving her to look at <i>Punch</i>, +led Mr. Apsley aside. ‘Tommy,’ he said (having seen +his signature), ‘where do you live?’</p> +<p>The boy named a street on the frontiers of St. John’s Wood.</p> +<p>‘And who is your father?’</p> +<p>‘Major Apsley, D.S.O.’</p> +<p>‘And how did you come here?’</p> +<p>‘In a hansom. I told the man to wait.’</p> +<p>‘How did you get away?’</p> +<p>‘Father took us to Lord’s, with Miss Limmer, and there +was a crowd, and Bats and I slipped out; for None-so-pretty said we +ought to call on you.’</p> +<p>‘Who is Miss Limmer?’</p> +<p><!-- page 38--><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>‘Our governess.’</p> +<p>‘Have you a mother?’</p> +<p>The child’s brown eyes filled with tears, and his cheeks flushed. +‘It was in India that she—’</p> +<p>‘Yes, be a man, Tommy. I am looking the other way,’ +which Merton did for some seconds. ‘Now, Tommy, is Miss +Limmer kind to you?’</p> +<p>The child’s face became strangely set and blank; his eyes looking +vacant. ‘Miss Limmer is very kind to us. She loves +us and we love her dearly. Ask Batsy,’ he said in a monotonous +voice, as if he were repeating a lesson. ‘Batsy, come here,’ +he said in the same voice. ‘Is Miss Limmer kind to us?’</p> +<p>Batsy threw up her eyes—it was like a stage effect, ‘We +love Miss Limmer dearly, and she loves us. She is very, very kind +to us, like our dear mamma.’ Her voice was monotonous too. +‘I never can say the last part,’ said Tommy. ‘Batsy +knows it; about dear mamma.’</p> +<p>‘Indeed!’ said Merton. ‘Tommy, <i>why</i> +did you come here?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know. I told you that None-so-pretty told +us to. She did it after she saw <i>that</i> when we were bathing.’ +Tommy raised one of his little loose breeks that did not cover the knee.</p> +<p><i>That</i> was not pleasant to look on: it was on the inside of +the right thigh.</p> +<p>‘How did you get hurt <i>there</i>?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>The boy’s monotonous chant began again: his eyes were fixed +and blank as before. ‘I fell off a tree, and my leg hit +a branch on the way down.’</p> +<p><!-- page 39--><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>‘Curious accident,’ +said Merton; ‘and None-so-pretty saw the mark?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘And asked you how you got it?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, and she saw blue marks on Batsy, all over her arms.’</p> +<p>‘And you told None-so-pretty that you fell off a tree?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘And she told you to come here?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, she had read your printed article.’</p> +<p>‘Well, here is luncheon,’ said Merton, and bade the office +boy call Miss Blossom from the inner chamber to share the meal. +Batsy had as low a chair as possible, and was disposing her napkin to +do the duty of a pinafore.</p> +<p>Miss Blossom entered from within with downcast eyes.</p> +<p>‘None-so-pretty!’</p> +<p>‘None-so-pretty!’ shouted the children, while Tommy rushed +to throw his arms round her neck, to meet which she stooped down, concealing +a face of blushes. Batsy descended from her chair, waddled up, +climbed another chair, and attacked the girl from the rear. The +office boy was arranging luncheon. Merton called him to the writing-table, +scribbled a note, and said, ‘Take that to Dr. Maitland, with my +compliments.’</p> +<p>Maitland had been one of the guests at the inaugural dinner. +He was entirely devoid of patients, and was living on the anticipated +gains of a great work on Clinical Psychology.</p> +<p><!-- page 40--><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>‘Tell Dr. +Maitland he will find me at luncheon if he comes instantly,’ said +Merton as the boy fled on his errand. ‘I see that I need +not introduce you to my young friends, Miss Blossom,’ said Merton. +‘May I beg you to help Miss Apsley to arrange her tucker?’</p> +<p>Miss Blossom, almost unbecomingly brilliant in her complexion, did +as she was asked. Batsy had cold chicken, new potatoes, green +peas, and two helpings of apricot tart. Tommy devoted himself +to cutlets. A very mild shandygaff was compounded for him in an +old Oriel pewter. Both children made love to Miss Blossom with +their eyes. It was not at all what Merton felt inclined to do; +the lady had entangled him in a labyrinth of puzzledom.</p> +<p>‘None-so-pretty,’ exclaimed Tommy, ‘I am glad you +told us to come here. Your friends are nice.’</p> +<p>Merton bowed to Tommy, ‘I am glad too,’ he said. +‘Miss Blossom knew that we were kindred souls, same kind of chaps, +I mean, you and me, you know, Tommy!’</p> +<p>Miss Blossom became more and more like the fabled peony, the crimson +variety. Luckily the office boy ushered in Dr. Maitland, who, +exchanging glances of surprise with Merton, over the children’s +heads, began to make himself agreeable. He had nearly as many +tricks as Miss Maskelyne. He was doing the short-sighted man eating +celery, and unable to find the salt because he is unable to find his +eyeglass.</p> +<p>Merton, seeing his clients absorbed in mirth, murmured <!-- page 41--><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>something +vague about ‘business,’ and spirited Miss Blossom away to +the inner chamber.</p> +<p>‘Sit down, pray, Miss Blossom. There is no time to waste. +What do you know about these children? Why did you send them here?’</p> +<p>The girl, who was pale enough now, said, ‘I never thought they +would come.’</p> +<p>‘They are here, however. What do you know about them?’</p> +<p>‘I went to stay, lately, at the Home Farm on their grandmother’s +place. We became great friends. I found out that they were +motherless, and that they were being cruelly ill-treated by their governess.’</p> +<p>‘Miss Limmer?’</p> +<p>‘Yes. But they both said they loved her dearly. +They always said that when asked. I gathered from their grandmother, +old Mrs. Apsley, that their father would listen to nothing against the +governess. The old lady cried in a helpless way, and said he was +capable of marrying the woman, out of obstinacy, if anybody interfered. +I had your advertisement, and I thought you might disentangle him. +It was a kind of joke. I only told them that you were a kind gentleman. +I never dreamed of their really coming.’</p> +<p>‘Well, you must take them back again presently, there is the +address. You must see their father; you must wait till you see +him. And how are you to explain this escapade? I can’t +have the children taught to lie.’</p> +<p>‘They have been taught <i>that</i> lesson already.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t think they are aware of it,’ said Merton.</p> +<p><!-- page 42--><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>Miss Blossom stared.</p> +<p>‘I can’t explain, but you must find a way of keeping +them out of a scrape.’</p> +<p>‘I think I can manage it,’ said Miss Blossom demurely.</p> +<p>‘I hope so. And manage, if you please, to see this Miss +Limmer and observe what kind of person she is,’ said Merton, with +his hand on the door handle, adding, ‘Please ask Dr. Maitland +to come here, and do you keep the children amused for a moment.’</p> +<p>Miss Blossom nodded and left the room; there was laughter in the +other chamber. Presently Maitland joined Merton.</p> +<p>‘Look here,’ said Merton, ‘we must be rapid. +These children are being cruelly ill-treated and deny it. Will +you get into talk with the boy, and ask him if he is fond of his governess, +say “Miss Limmer,” and notice what he says and how he says +it? Then we must pack them away.’</p> +<p>‘All right,’ said Maitland.</p> +<p>They returned to the children. Miss Blossom retreated to the +inner room. Bats simplified matters by falling asleep in the client’s +chair. Maitland began by talking about schools. Was Tommy +going to Eton?</p> +<p>Tommy did not know. He had a governess at home.</p> +<p>‘Not at a preparatory school yet? A big fellow like you?’</p> +<p>Tommy said that he would like to go to school, but they would not +send him.</p> +<p><!-- page 43--><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>‘Why not?’</p> +<p>Tommy hesitated, blushed, and ended by saying that they didn’t +think it safe, as he walked in his sleep.</p> +<p>‘You will soon grow out of that,’ said Maitland, ‘but +it is not very safe at school. A boy I knew was found sound asleep +on the roof at school.’</p> +<p>‘He might have fallen off,’ said Tommy.</p> +<p>‘Yes. That’s why your people keep you at home. +But in a year or two you will be all right. Know any Latin yet?’</p> +<p>Tommy said that Miss Limmer taught him Latin.</p> +<p>‘Are you and she great friends?’</p> +<p>Tommy’s face and voice altered as before, while he mechanically +repeated the tale of the mutual affection which linked him with Miss +Limmer.</p> +<p>‘<i>That’s</i> all very jolly,’ said Maitland.</p> +<p>‘Now, Tommy,’ said Merton, ‘we must waken Batsy, +and Miss Blossom is going to take you both home. Hope we shall +often meet.’</p> +<p>He called Miss Blossom; Batsy kissed both of her new friends. +Merton conducted the party to the cab, and settled, in spite of Tommy’s +remonstrances, with the cabman, who made a good thing of it, and nodded +when told to drive away as soon as he had deposited his charges at their +door. Then Merton led Maitland upstairs and offered him a cigar.</p> +<p>‘What do you think of it?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Common post-hypnotic suggestion by the governess,’ said +Maitland.</p> +<p>‘I guessed as much, but can it really be worked like that? +You are not chaffing?’</p> +<p><!-- page 44--><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>‘Simplest +thing to work in the world,’ said Maitland. ‘A lot +of nonsense, however, that the public believes in can’t be done. +The woman could not sit down in St. John’s Wood, and “will” +Tommy to come to her if he was in the next room. At least she +might “will” till she was black in the face, and he would +know nothing about it. But she can put him to sleep, and make +him say what he does not want to say, in answer to questions, afterwards, +when he is awake.’</p> +<p>‘You’re sure of it?’</p> +<p>‘It is as certain as anything in the world up to a certain +point.’</p> +<p>‘The girl said something that the boy did not say, more gushing, +about his dead mother.’</p> +<p>‘The hypnotised subject often draws a line somewhere.’</p> +<p>‘The woman must be a fiend,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Some of them are, now and then,’ said the author of +<i>Clinical Psychology</i>.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Miss Blossom’s cab, the driver much encouraged by Tommy, who +conversed with him through the trap in the roof, dashed up to the door +of a house close to Lord’s. The horse was going fast, and +nearly cannoned into another cab-horse, also going fast, which was almost +thrown on its haunches by the driver. Inside the other hansom +was a tall man with a pale face under the tan, who was nervously gnawing +his moustache. Miss Blossom saw him, Tommy saw him, and cried +‘Father!’ Half-hidden behind a blind of the house +Miss Blossom beheld a <!-- page 45--><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>woman’s +face, expectant. Clearly she was Miss Limmer. All the while +that they were driving Miss Blossom’s wits had been at work to +construct a story to account for the absence and return of the children. +Now, by a flash of invention, she called to her cabman, ‘Drive +on—fast!’ Major Apsley saw his lost children with +their arms round the neck of a wonderfully pretty girl; the pretty girl +waved her parasol to him with a smile, beckoning forwards; the children +waved their arms, calling out ‘A race! a race!’</p> +<p>What could a puzzled parent do but bid his cabman follow like the +wind? Miss Blossom’s cab flew past Lord’s, dived into +Regent’s Park, leading by two lengths; reached the Zoological +Gardens, and there its crew alighted, demurely waiting for the Major. +He leaped from his hansom, and taking off his hat, strode up to Miss +Blossom, as if he were leading a charge. The children captured +him by the legs. ‘What does this mean, Madam? What +are you doing with my children? Who are you?’</p> +<p>‘She’s None-so-pretty,’ said Tommy, by way of introduction.</p> +<p>Miss Blossom bowed with grace, and raising her head, shot two violet +rays into the eyes of the Major, which were of a bistre hue. But +they accepted the message, like a receiver in wireless telegraphy. +No man, let be a Major, could have resisted None-so-pretty at that moment. +‘Come into the gardens,’ she said, and led the way. +‘You would like a ride on the elephant, Tommy?’ she asked +Master Apsley. ‘And you, Batsy?’</p> +<p><!-- page 46--><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>The children shouted +assent.</p> +<p>‘How in the world does she know them?’ thought the bewildered +officer.</p> +<p>The children mounted the elephant.</p> +<p>‘Now, Major Apsley,’ said Miss Blossom, ‘I have +found your children.’</p> +<p>‘I owe you thanks, Madam; I have been very anxious, but—’</p> +<p>‘It is more than your thanks I want. I want you to do +something for me, a very little thing,’ said Miss Blossom, with +the air of a supplicating angel, the violet eyes dewy with tears.</p> +<p>‘I am sure I shall be delighted to do anything you ask, but—’</p> +<p>‘Will you <i>promise</i>? It is a very little thing indeed!’ +and her hands were clasped in entreaty. ‘Please promise!’</p> +<p>‘Well, I promise.’</p> +<p>‘Then keep your word: it is a little thing! Take Tommy +home this instant, let nobody speak to him or touch him—and—make +him take a bath, and see him take it.’</p> +<p>‘Take a bath!’</p> +<p>‘Yes, at once, in your presence. Then ask him . . . any +questions you please, but pay extreme attention to his answers and his +face, and the sound of his voice. If that is not enough do the +same with Batsy. And after that I think you had better not let +the children out of your sight for a short time.’</p> +<p>‘These are very strange requests.’</p> +<p>‘And it was by a strange piece of luck that I met you driving +home to see if the lost children were <!-- page 47--><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>found, +and secured your attention before it could be pre-engaged.’</p> +<p>‘But where did you find them and why?’</p> +<p>Miss Blossom interrupted him, ‘Here is the address of Dr. Maitland, +I have written it on my own card; he can answer some questions you may +want to ask. Later I will answer anything. And now in the +name of God,’ said the girl reverently, with sudden emotion, ‘you +will keep your promise to the letter?’</p> +<p>‘I will,’ said the Major, and Miss Blossom waved her +parasol to the children. ‘You must give the poor elephant +a rest, he is tired,’ she cried, and the tender-hearted Batsy +needed no more to make her descend from the great earth-shaking beast. +The children attacked her with kisses, and then walked off, looking +back, each holding one of the paternal hands, and treading, after the +manner of childhood, on the paternal toes.</p> +<p>Miss Blossom walked till she met an opportune omnibus.</p> +<p>About an hour later a four-wheeler bore a woman with blazing eyes, +and a pile of trunks gaping untidily, from the Major’s house in +St. John’s Wood Road.</p> +<p>The Honourable Company had won its first victory: Major Apsley, having +fulfilled Miss Blossom’s commands, had seen what she expected +him to see, and was disentangled from Miss Limmer.</p> +<p>The children still call their new stepmother None-so-pretty.</p> +<h2><!-- page 48--><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>IV. ADVENTURE +OF THE RICH UNCLE</h2> +<p>‘His God is his belly, Mr. Graham,’ said the client, +‘and if the text strikes you as disagreeably unrefined, think +how it must pain me to speak thus of an uncle, if only by marriage.’</p> +<p>The client was a meagre matron of forty-five, or thereabouts. +Her dark scant hair was smooth, and divided down the middle. Acerbity +spoke in every line of her face, which was of a dusky yellow, where +it did not rather verge on the faint hues of a violet past its prime. +She wore thread gloves, and she carried a battered reticule of early +Victorian days, in which Merton suspected that tracts were lurking. +She had an anxious peevish mouth; in truth she was not the kind of client +in whom Merton’s heart delighted.</p> +<p>And yet he was sorry for her, especially as her rich uncle’s +cook was the goddess of the gentleman whose god had just been denounced +in scriptural terms by the client, a Mrs. Gisborne. She was sad, +as well she might be, for she was a struggler, with a large family, +and great expectations from the polytheistic uncle who adored his cook +and one of his nobler organs.</p> +<p><!-- page 49--><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>‘What has +his history been, this gentleman’s—Mr. Fulton, I think you +called him?’</p> +<p>‘He was a drysalter in the City, sir,’ and across Merton’s +mind flitted a vision of a dark shop with Finnan haddocks, bacon, and +tongues in the window, and smelling terribly of cheese.</p> +<p>‘Oh, a drysalter?’ he said, not daring to display ignorance +by asking questions to corroborate his theory of the drysalting business.</p> +<p>‘A drysalter, sir, and isinglass importer.’</p> +<p>Merton was conscious of vagueness as to isinglass, and was distantly +reminded of a celebrated racehorse. However, it was clear that +Mr. Fulton was a retired tradesman of some kind. ‘He went +out of isinglass—before the cheap scientific substitute was invented +(it is made out of old quill pens)—with seventy-five thousand +pounds. And it <i>ought</i> to come to my children. He has +not another relation living but ourselves; he married my aunt. +But we never see him: he said that he could not stand our Sunday dinners +at Hampstead.’</p> +<p>A feeling not remote from sympathy with Mr. Fulton stole over Merton’s +mind as he pictured these festivals. ‘Is his god very—voluminous?’</p> +<p>Mrs. Gisborne stared.</p> +<p>‘Is he a very portly gentleman?’</p> +<p>‘No, Mr. Graham, he is next door to a skeleton, though you +would not expect it, considering.’</p> +<p>‘Considering his devotion to the pleasures of the table?’</p> +<p>‘Gluttony, shameful waste <i>I</i> call it. And he is +a stumbling block and a cause of offence to others. <!-- page 50--><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>He +is a patron of the City and Suburban College of Cookery, and founded +two scholarships there, for scholars learning how to pamper the—’</p> +<p>‘The epicure,’ said Merton. He knew the City and +Suburban College of Cookery. One of his band, a Miss Frere, was +a Fellow and Tutor of that academy.</p> +<p>‘And about what age is your uncle?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘About sixty, and not a white hair on his head.’</p> +<p>‘Then he may marry his cook?’</p> +<p>‘He will, sir.’</p> +<p>‘And is very likely to have a family.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Gisborne sniffed, and produced a pocket handkerchief from the +early Victorian reticule. She applied the handkerchief to her +eyes in silence. Merton observed her with pity. ‘We +need the money so; there are so many of us,’ said the lady.</p> +<p>‘Do you think that Mr. Fulton is—passionately in love, +with his domestic?’</p> +<p>‘He only loves his meals,’ said Mrs. Gisborne; ‘<i>he</i> +does not want to marry her, but she has a hold over him through—his—’</p> +<p>‘Passions, not of the heart,’ said Merton hastily. +He dreaded an anatomical reference.</p> +<p>‘He is afraid of losing her. He and his cronies give +each other dinners, jealous of each other they are; and he actually +pays the woman two hundred a year.’</p> +<p>‘And beer money?’ said Merton. He had somewhere +read or heard of beer money as an item in domestic finance.</p> +<p><!-- page 51--><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>‘I don’t +know about that. The cruel thing is that she is a woman of strict +temperance principles. So am I. I am sure it is an awful +thing to say, Mr. Graham, but Satan has sometimes put it into my heart +to wish that the woman, like too, too many of her sort, was the victim +of alcoholic temptations. He has a fearful temper, and if once +she was not fit for duty at one of his dinners, this awful gnawing anxiety +would cease to ride my bosom. He would pack her off.’</p> +<p>‘Very natural. She is free from the besetting sin of +the artistic temperament?’</p> +<p>‘If you mean drink, she is; and that is one reason why he values +her. His last cook, and his last but one—’ Here +Mrs. Gisborne narrated at some length the tragic histories of these +artists.</p> +<p>‘Providential, I thought it, but now,’ she said despairingly.</p> +<p>‘She certainly seems a difficult woman to dislodge,’ +said Merton. ‘A dangerous entanglement. Any followers +allowed? Could anything be done through the softer emotions? +Would a guardsman, for instance—?’</p> +<p>‘She hates the men. Never one of them darkens her kitchen +fire. Offers she has had by the score, but they come by post, +and she laughs and burns them. Old Mr. Potter, one of his cronies, +tried to get her away <i>that</i> way, but he is over seventy, and old +at that, and she thought she had another chance to better herself. +And she’ll take it, Mr. Graham, if you can’t do something: +she’ll take it.’</p> +<p>‘Will you permit me to say that you seem to know <!-- page 52--><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>a +good deal about her! Perhaps you have some sort of means of intelligence +in the enemy’s camp?’</p> +<p>‘The kitchen maid,’ said Mrs. Gisborne, purpling a little, +‘is the sister of our servant, and tells her things.’</p> +<p>‘I see,’ said Merton. ‘Now can you remember +any little weakness of this, I must frankly admit, admirable artist +and exemplary woman?’</p> +<p>‘You are not going to take her side, a scheming red-faced hussy, +Mr. Graham?’</p> +<p>‘I never betrayed a client, Madam, and if you mean that I am +likely to help this person into your uncle’s arms, you greatly +misconceive me, and the nature of my profession.’</p> +<p>‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I will say that your heart does +not seem to be in the case.’</p> +<p>‘It is not quite the kind of case with which we are accustomed +to deal,’ said Merton. ‘But you have not answered +my question. Are there any weak points in the defence? To +Venus she is cold, of Bacchus she is disdainful.’</p> +<p>‘I never heard of the gentlemen I am sure, sir, but as to her +weaknesses, she has the temper of a—’ Here Mrs. Gisborne +paused for a comparison. Her knowledge of natural history and +of mythology, the usual sources of parallels, failed to provide a satisfactory +resemblance to the cook’s temper.</p> +<p>‘The temper of a Megæra,’ said Merton, admitting +to himself that the word was not, though mythological, what he could +wish.</p> +<p>‘Of a Megæra as you know that creature, sir, and impetuous! +If everything is not handy, if that <!-- page 53--><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>poor +girl is not like clockwork with the sauces, and herbs, and things, if +a saucepan boils over, or a ham falls into the fire, if the girl treads +on the tail of one of the cats—and the woman keeps a dozen—then +she flies at her with anything that comes handy.’</p> +<p>‘She is fond of cats?’ said Merton; ‘really this +lady has sympathetic points:’ and he patted the grey Russian puss, +Kutuzoff, which was a witness to these interviews.</p> +<p>‘She dotes on the nasty things: and you may well say “lady!” +Her Siamese cat, a wild beast he is, took the first prize at the Crystal +Palace Show. The papers said “Miss Blowser’s <i>Rangoon</i>, +bred by the exhibitor.” Miss Blowser! I don’t +know what the world is coming to. He stands on the doorsteps, +the cat, like a lynx, and as fierce as a lion. Why he got her +into the police-court: flew at a dog, and nearly tore his owner, a clergyman, +to pieces. There were articles about it in the papers.’</p> +<p>‘I seem to remember it,’ said Merton. ‘<i>Christianos +ad Leones</i>’. In fact he had written this humorous article +himself. ‘But is there nothing else?’ he asked. +‘Only a temper, so natural to genius disturbed or diverted in +the process of composition, and a passion for the <i>felidae</i>, such +as has often been remarked in the great. There was Charles Baudelaire, +Mahomet—’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what you mean, sir, and,’ said Mrs. +Gisborne, rising, and snapping her reticule, ‘I think I was a +fool for answering your advertisement. I did not come here to +be laughed at, and I think common politeness—’</p> +<p><!-- page 54--><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>‘I beg a thousand +pardons,’ said Merton. ‘I am most distressed at my +apparent discourtesy. My mind was preoccupied by the circumstances +of this very difficult case, and involuntarily glided into literary +anecdote on the subject of cats and their owners. They are my +passion—cats—and I regret that they inspire you with antipathy.’ +Here he picked up Kutuzoff and carried him into the inner room.</p> +<p>‘It is not that I object to any of Heaven’s creatures +kept in their place,’ said Mrs. Gisborne somewhat mollified, ‘but +you must make allowances, sir, for my anxiety. It sours a mother +of nine. Friday is one of his gorging dinner-parties, and who +knows what may happen if she pleases him? The kitchen maid says, +I mean I hear, that she wears an engaged ring already.’</p> +<p>‘That is very bad,’ said Merton, with sympathy. +‘The dinner is on Friday, you say?’ and he made a note of +the date.</p> +<p>‘Yes, 15 Albany Grove, on the Regent’s Canal.’</p> +<p>‘You can think of nothing else—no weakness to work on?’</p> +<p>‘No, sir, just her awful temper; I would save him from it, +for <i>he</i> has another as bad. And besides hopes from him have +kept me up so long, his only relation, and times are so hard, and schooling +and boots, and everything so dear, and we so many in family.’ +Tears came into the poor lady’s eyes.</p> +<p>‘I’ll give the case my very best attention,’ he +said, shaking hands with the client. To Merton’s horror +she tried, Heaven help her, to pass a circular packet, wrapped in paper, +into his hand. He evaded it. It <!-- page 55--><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>was +a first interview, for which no charge was made. ‘What can +be done shall be done, though I confess that I do not see my way,’ +and he accompanied her downstairs to the street.</p> +<p>‘I behaved like a cad with my chaff,’ he said to himself, +‘but hang me if I see how to help her. And I rather admire +that cook.’</p> +<p>He went into the inner room, wakened the sleeping partner, Logan, +on the sofa, and unfolded the case with every detail. ‘What +can we do, <i>que faire</i>!’</p> +<p>‘There’s an exhibition of modern, mediæval, ancient, +and savage cookery at Earl’s Court, the Cookeries,’ said +Logan. ‘Couldn’t we seduce an artist like Miss Blowser +there, I mean <i>thither</i> of course, the night before the dinner, +and get her up into the Great Wheel and somehow stop the Wheel—and +make her too late for her duties?’</p> +<p>‘And how are you going to stop the Wheel?’</p> +<p>‘Speak to the Man at the Wheel. Bribe the beggar.’</p> +<p>‘Dangerous, and awfully expensive. Then think of all +the other people on the Wheel! Logan, <i>vous chassez de race</i>. +The old Restalrig blood is in your veins.’</p> +<p>‘My ancestors nearly nipped off with a king, and why can’t +I carry off a cook? Hustle her into a hansom—’</p> +<p>‘Oh, bah! these are not modern methods.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Il n’y a rien tel que d’enlever</i>,’ +said Logan.</p> +<p>‘I never shall stain the cause with police-courts,’ said +Merton. ‘It would be fatal.’</p> +<p>‘I’ve heard of a cook who fell on his sword when <!-- page 56--><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>the +fish did not come up to time. Now a raid on the fish? She +might fall on her carving knife when they did not arrive, or leap into +the flames of the kitchen fire, like Œnone, don’t you know.’</p> +<p>‘Bosh. Vatel was far from the sea, and he had not a fish-monger’s +shop round the corner. Be modern.’</p> +<p>Logan rumpled his hair, ‘Can’t I get her to lunch at +a restaurant and ply her with the wines of Eastern France? No, +she is Temperance personified. Can’t we send her a forged +telegram to say that her mother is dying? Servants seem to have +such lots of mothers, always inconveniently, or conveniently, moribund.’</p> +<p>‘I won’t have forgery. Great heavens, how obsolete +you are! Besides, that would not put her employer in a rage.’</p> +<p>‘Could I go and consult ---?’ he mentioned a specialist. +‘He is a man of ideas.’</p> +<p>‘He is a man of the purest principles—and an uncommonly +hard hitter.’</p> +<p>‘It is his purity I want. My own mind is hereditarily +lawless. I want something not immoral, yet efficacious. +There was that parson, whom you say the woman’s cat nearly devoured. +Like Paul with beasts he fought the cat. Now, I wonder if that +injured man is not meditating some priestly revenge that would do our +turn and get rid of Miss Blowser?’</p> +<p>Merton shook his head impatiently. His own invention was busy, +but to no avail. Miss Blowser seemed impregnable. Kutuzoff +Hedzoff, the puss, <!-- page 57--><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>stalked +up to Logan and leaped on his knees. Logan stroked him, Kutuzoff +purred and blinked, Logan sought inspiration in his topaz eyes. +At last he spoke: ‘Will you leave this affair to me, Merton? +I think I have found out a way.’</p> +<p>‘What way?’</p> +<p>‘That’s my secret. You are so beastly moral, you +might object. One thing I may tell you—it does not compromise +the Honourable Company of Disentanglers.’</p> +<p>‘You are not going to try any detective work; to find out if +she is a woman with a past, with a husband living? You are not +going to put a live adder among the eels? I daresay drysalters +eat eels. It is the reading of sensational novels that ruins our +youth.’</p> +<p>‘What a suspicious beggar you are. Certainly I am neither +a detective nor a murderer <i>à la Montépin</i>!</p> +<p>‘No practical jokes with the victuals?’</p> +<p>‘Of course not.’</p> +<p>‘No kidnapping Miss Blowser?’</p> +<p>‘Certainly no kidnapping—Miss Blowser.’</p> +<p>‘Now, honour bright, is your plan within the law? No +police-court publicity?’</p> +<p>‘No, the police will have no say or show in the matter; at +least,’ said Logan, ‘as far as my legal studies inform me, +they won’t. But I can take counsel’s opinion if you +insist on it.’</p> +<p>‘Then you are sailing near the wind?’</p> +<p>‘Really I don’t think so: not really what you call near.’</p> +<p>‘I am sorry for that unlucky Mrs. Gisborne,’ said Merton, +musingly. ‘And with two such tempers as <!-- page 58--><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>the +cook’s and Mr. Fulton’s the match could not be a happy one. +Well, Logan, I suppose you won’t tell me what your game is?’</p> +<p>‘Better not, I think, but, I assure you, honour is safe. +I am certain that nobody can say anything. I rather expect to +earn public gratitude, on the whole. <i>You</i> can’t appear +in any way, nor the rest of us. By-the-bye do you remember the +address of the parson whose dog was hurt?’</p> +<p>‘I think I kept a cutting of the police case; it was amusing,’ +said Merton, looking through a kind of album, and finding presently +the record of the incident.</p> +<p>‘It may come in handy, or it may not,’ said Logan. +He then went off, and had Merton followed him he might not have been +reassured. For Logan first walked to a chemist’s shop, where +he purchased a quantity of a certain drug. Next he went to the +fencing rooms which he frequented, took his fencing mask and glove, +borrowed a fencing glove from a left-handed swordsman whom he knew, +and drove to his rooms with this odd assortment of articles. Having +deposited them, he paid a call at the dwelling of a fair member of the +Disentanglers, Miss Frere, the lady instructress in the culinary art, +at the City and Suburban College of Cookery, whereof, as we have heard, +Mr. Fulton, the eminent drysalter, was a patron and visitor. Logan +unfolded the case and his plan of campaign to Miss Frere, who listened +with intelligent sympathy.</p> +<p>‘Do you know the man by sight?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Oh yes, and he knows me perfectly well. Last <!-- page 59--><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>year +he distributed the prizes at the City and Suburban School of Cookery, +and paid me the most extraordinary compliments.’</p> +<p>‘Well deserved, I am confident,’ said Logan; ‘and +now you are sure that you know exactly what you have to do, as I have +explained?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I am to be walking through Albany Grove at a quarter +to four on Friday.’</p> +<p>‘Be punctual.’</p> +<p>‘You may rely on me,’ said Miss Frere.</p> +<p>Logan next day went to Trevor’s rooms in the Albany; he was +the capitalist who had insisted on helping to finance the Disentanglers. +To Trevor he explained the situation, unfolded his plan, and asked leave +to borrow his private hansom.</p> +<p>‘Delighted,’ said Trevor. ‘I’ll put +on an old suit of tweeds, and a seedy bowler, and drive you myself. +It will be fun. Or should we take my motor car?’</p> +<p>‘No, it attracts too much attention.’</p> +<p>‘Suppose we put a number on my cab, and paint the wheels yellow, +like pirates, you know, when they are disguising a captured ship. +It won’t do to look like a private cab.’</p> +<p>‘These strike me as judicious precautions, Trevor, and worthy +of your genius. That is, if we are not caught.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, we won’t be caught,’ said Trevor. ‘But, +in the meantime, let us find that place you mean to go to on a map of +London, and I’ll drive you there now in a dog-cart. It is +better to know the lie of the land.’</p> +<p>Logan agreed and they drove to his objective in the afternoon; it +was beyond the border of known <!-- page 60--><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>West +Hammersmith. Trevor reconnoitred and made judicious notes of short +cuts.</p> +<p>On the following day, which was Thursday, Logan had a difficult piece +of diplomacy to execute. He called at the rooms of the clergyman, +a bachelor and a curate, whose dog and person had suffered from the +assaults of Miss Blowser’s Siamese favourite. He expected +difficulties, for a good deal of ridicule, including Merton’s +article, <i>Christianos ad Leones</i>, had been heaped on this martyr. +Logan looked forward to finding him crusty, but, after seeming a little +puzzled, the holy man exclaimed, ‘Why, you must be Logan of Trinity?’</p> +<p>‘The same,’ said Logan, who did not remember the face +or name (which was Wilkinson) of his host.</p> +<p>‘Why, I shall never forget your running catch under the scoring-box +at Lord’s,’ exclaimed Mr. Wilkinson, ‘I can see it +now. It saved the match. I owe you more than I can say,’ +he added with deep emotion.</p> +<p>‘Then be grateful, and do me a little favour. I want—just +for an hour or two—to borrow your dog,’ and he stooped to +pat the animal, a fox-terrier bearing recent and glorious scars.</p> +<p>‘Borrow Scout! Why, what can you want with him?’</p> +<p>‘I have suffered myself through an infernal wild beast of a +cat in Albany Grove,’ said Logan, ‘and I have a scheme—it +is unchristian I own—of revenge.’</p> +<p>The curate’s eyes glittered vindictively: ‘Scout is no +match for the brute,’ he said in a tone of manly regret.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Scout will be all right. There is not going to <!-- page 61--><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>be +a fight. He is only needed to—give tone to the affair. +You will be able to walk him safely through Albany Grove after to-morrow.’</p> +<p>‘Won’t there be a row if you kill the cat? He is +what they think a valuable animal. I never could stand cats myself.’</p> +<p>‘The higher vermin,’ said Logan. ‘But not +a hair of his whiskers shall be hurt. He will seek other haunts, +that’s all.’</p> +<p>‘But you don’t mean to steal him?’ asked the curate +anxiously. ‘You see, suspicion might fall on me, as I am +known to bear a grudge to the brute.’</p> +<p>‘I steal him! Not I,’ said Logan. ‘He +shall sleep in his owner’s arms, if she likes. But Albany +Grove shall know him no more.’</p> +<p>‘Then you may take Scout,’ said Mr. Wilkinson. +‘You have a cab there, shall I drive to your rooms with you and +him?’</p> +<p>‘Do,’ said Logan, ‘and then dine at the club.’ +Which they did, and talked much cricket, Mr. Wilkinson being an enthusiast.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Next day, about 3.40 P.M., a hansom drew up at the corner of Albany +Grove. The fare alighted, and sauntered past Mr. Fulton’s +house. Rangoon, the Siamese puss, was sitting in a scornful and +leonine attitude, in a tree of the garden above the railings, outside +the open kitchen windows, whence came penetrating and hospitable smells +of good fare. The stranger passed, and as he returned, dropped +something here and there on the pavement. It was valerian, which +no cat can resist.</p> +<p><!-- page 62--><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>Miss Blowser was +in a culinary crisis, and could not leave the kitchen range. Her +face was of a fiery complexion; her locks were in a fine disorder. +‘Is Rangoon in his place, Mary?’ she inquired of the kitchen +maid.</p> +<p>‘Yes, ma’am, in his tree,’ said the maid.</p> +<p>In this tree Rangoon used to sit like a Thug, dropping down on dogs +who passed by.</p> +<p>Presently the maid said, ‘Ma’am, Rangoon has jumped down, +and is walking off to the right, after a gentleman.’</p> +<p>‘After a sparrow, I dare say, bless him,’ said Miss Blowser. +Two minutes later she asked, ‘Has Rangy come back?’</p> +<p>‘No, ma’am.’</p> +<p>‘Just look out and see what he is doing, the dear.’</p> +<p>‘He’s walking along the pavement, ma’am, sniffing +at something. And oh! there’s that curate’s dog.’</p> +<p>‘Yelping little brute! I hope Rangy will give him snuff,’ +said Miss Blowser.</p> +<p>‘He’s flown at him,’ cried the maid ambiguously, +in much excitement. ‘Oh, ma’am, the gentleman has +caught hold of Rangoon. He’s got a wire mask on his face, +and great thick gloves, not to be scratched. He’s got Rangoon: +he’s putting him in a bag,’ but by this time Miss Blowser, +brandishing a saucepan with a long handle, had rushed out of the kitchen, +through the little garden, cannoned against Mr. Fulton, who happened +to be coming in with flowers to decorate his table, knocked him against +a <!-- page 63--><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>lamp-post, opened +the garden gate, and, armed and bareheaded as she was, had rushed forth. +You might have deemed that you beheld Bellona speeding to the fray.</p> +<p>What Miss Blowser saw was a man disappearing into a hansom, whence +came the yapping of a dog. Another cab was loitering by, empty; +and this cabman had his orders. Logan had seen to <i>that</i>. +To hail that cab, to leap in, to cry, ‘Follow the scoundrel in +front: a sovereign if you catch him,’ was to the active Miss Blowser +the work of a moment. The man whipped up his horse, the pursuit +began, ‘there was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,’ Marylebone +rang with the screams of female rage and distress. Mr. Fulton, +he also, leaped up and rushed in pursuit, wringing his hands. +He had no turn of speed, and stopped panting. He only saw Miss +Blowser whisk into her cab, he only heard her yells that died in the +distance. Mr. Fulton sped back into his house. He shouted +for Mary: ‘What’s the matter with your mistress, with my +cook?’ he raved.</p> +<p>‘Somebody’s taken her cat, sir, and is off, in a cab, +and her after him.’</p> +<p>‘After her cat! D--- her cat,’ cried Mr. Fulton. +‘My dinner will be ruined! It is the last she shall touch +in <i>this</i> house. Out she packs—pack her things, Mary; +no, don’t—do what you can in the kitchen. I <i>must</i> +find a cook. Her cat!’ and with language unworthy of a drysalter +Mr. Fulton clapped on his hat, and sped into the street, with a vague +idea of hurrying to Fortnum and Mason’s, or some restaurant, or +a friend’s house, indeed to any conceivable place where <!-- page 64--><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>a +cook might be recruited <i>impromptu</i>. ‘She leaves this +very day,’ he said aloud, as he all but collided with a lady, +a quiet, cool-looking lady, who stopped and stared at him.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Miss Frere!’ said Mr. Fulton, raising his hat, with +a wild gleam of hope in the trouble of his eyes, ‘I have had such +a misfortune!’</p> +<p>‘What has happened, Mr. Fulton?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, ma’am, I’ve lost my cook, and me with a dinner-party +on to-day.’</p> +<p>‘Lost your cook? Not by death, I hope?’</p> +<p>‘No, ma’am, she has run away, in the very crisis, as +I may call it.’</p> +<p>‘With whom?’</p> +<p>‘With nobody. After her cat. In a cab. I +am undone. Where can I find a cook? You may know of some +one disengaged, though it is late in the day, and dinner at seven. +Can’t you help me?’</p> +<p>‘Can you trust me, Mr. Fulton?’</p> +<p>‘Trust you; how, ma’am?’</p> +<p>‘Let me cook your dinner, at least till your cook catches her +cat,’ said Miss Frere, smiling.</p> +<p>‘You, don’t mean it, a lady!’</p> +<p>‘But a professed cook, Mr. Fulton, and anxious to help so nobly +generous a patron of the art . . . if you can trust me.’</p> +<p>‘Trust you, ma’am!’ said Mr. Fulton, raising to +heaven his obsecrating hands. ‘Why, you’re a genius. +It is a miracle, a mere miracle of good luck.’</p> +<p>By this time, of course, a small crowd of little boys and girls, +amateurs of dramatic scenes, was gathering.</p> +<p><!-- page 65--><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>‘We have no +time to waste, Mr. Fulton. Let us go in, and let me get to work. +I dare say the cook will be back before I have taken off my gloves.’</p> +<p>‘Not her, nor does she cook again in my house. The shock +might have killed a man of my age,’ said Mr. Fulton, breathing +heavily, and leading the way up the steps to his own door. ‘Her +cat, the hussy!’ he grumbled.</p> +<p>Mr. Fulton kept his word. When Miss Blowser returned, with +her saucepan and Rangoon, she found her trunks in the passage, corded +by Mr. Fulton’s own trembling hands, and she departed for ever.</p> +<p>Her chase had been a stern chase, a long chase, the cab driven by +Trevor had never been out of sight. It led her, in the western +wilds, to a Home for Decayed and Destitute Cats, and it had driven away +before she entered the lane leading to the Home. But there she +found Rangoon. He had just been deposited there, in a seedy old +traveller’s fur-lined sleeping bag, the matron of the Home averred, +by a very pleasant gentleman, who said he had found the cat astray, +lost, and thinking him a rare and valuable animal had deemed it best +to deposit him at the Home. He had left money to pay for advertisements. +He had even left the advertisement, typewritten (by Miss Blossom).</p> +<p>‘FOUND. A magnificent Siamese Cat. Apply to the +Home for Destitute and Decayed Cats, Water Lane, West Hammersmith.’</p> +<p>‘Very thoughtful of the gentleman,’ said the matron <!-- page 66--><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>of +the Home. ‘No; he did not leave any address. Said +something about doing good by stealth.’</p> +<p>‘Stealth, why he stole my cat!’ exclaimed Miss Blowser. +‘He must have had the advertisement printed like that ready beforehand. +It’s a conspiracy,’ and she brandished her saucepan.</p> +<p>The matron, who was prejudiced in favour of Logan, and his two sovereigns, +which now need not be expended in advertisements, was alarmed by the +hostile attitude of Miss Blowser. ‘There’s your cat,’ +she said drily; ‘it ain’t stealing a cat to leave it, with +money for its board, and to pay for advertisements, in a well-conducted +charitable institution, with a duchess for president. And he even +left five shillings to pay for the cab of anybody as might call for +the cat. There is your money.’</p> +<p>Miss Blowser threw the silver away.</p> +<p>‘Take your old cat in the bag,’ said the matron, slamming +the door in the face of Miss Blowser.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>After the trial for breach of promise of marriage, and after paying +the very considerable damages which Miss Blowser demanded and received, +old Mr. Fulton hardened his heart, and engaged a male <i>chef</i>.</p> +<p>The gratitude of Mrs. Gisborne, now free from all anxiety, was touching. +But Merton assured her that he knew nothing whatever of the stratagem, +scarcely a worthy one, he thought, as she reported it, by which her +uncle was disentangled.</p> +<p>It was Logan’s opinion, and it is mine, that he had not been +guilty of theft, but perhaps of the wrongous detention or imprisonment +of Rangoon. ‘But,’ he <!-- page 67--><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>said, +‘the Habeas Corpus Act has no clause about cats, and in Scottish +law, which is good enough for <i>me</i>, there is no property in cats. +You can’t, legally, <i>steal</i> them.’</p> +<p>‘How do you know?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘I took the opinion of an eminent sheriff substitute.’</p> +<p>‘What is that?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, a fearfully swagger legal official: <i>you</i> have nothing +like it.’</p> +<p>‘Rum country, Scotland,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Rum country, England,’ said Logan, indignantly. +‘<i>You</i> have no property in corpses.’</p> +<p>Merton was silenced.</p> +<p>Neither could foresee how momentous, to each of them, the question +of property in corpses was to prove. <i>O pectora cæca</i>!</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Miss Blowser is now Mrs. Potter. She married her aged wooer, +and Rangoon still wins prizes at the Crystal Palace.</p> +<h2><!-- page 68--><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>V. THE ADVENTURE +OF THE OFFICE SCREEN</h2> +<p>It is not to be supposed that all the enterprises of the Company +of Disentanglers were fortunate. Nobody can command success, though, +on the other hand, a number of persons, civil and military, are able +to keep her at a distance with surprising uniformity. There was +one class of business which Merton soon learned to renounce in despair, +just as some sorts of maladies defy our medical science.</p> +<p>‘It is curious, and not very creditable to our chemists,’ +Merton said, ‘that love philtres were once as common as seidlitz +powders, while now we have lost that secret. The wrong persons +might drink love philtres, as in the case of Tristram and Iseult. +Or an unskilled rural practitioner might send out the wrong drug, as +in the instance of Lucretius, who went mad in consequence.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps,’ remarked Logan, ‘the chemist was voting +at the Comitia, and it was his boy who made a mistake about the mixture.’</p> +<p>‘Very probably, but as a rule, the love philtres <i>worked</i>. +Now, with all our boasted progress, the secret is totally lost. +Nothing but a love philtre would be of any use in some cases. +There is Lord Methusalem, eighty if he is a day.’</p> +<p><!-- page 69--><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>‘Methusalem +has been unco “wastefu’ in wives”!’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘His family have been consulting me—the women in tears. +He <i>will</i> marry his grandchildren’s German governess, and +there is nothing to be done. In such cases nothing is ever to +be done. You can easily distract an aged man’s volatile +affections, and attach them to a new charmer. But she is just +as ineligible as the first; marry he <i>will</i>, always a young woman. +Now if a respectable virgin or widow of, say, fifty, could hand him +a love philtre, and gain his heart, appearances would, more or less, +be saved. But, short of philtres, there is nothing to be done. +We turn away a great deal of business of that sort.’</p> +<p>The Society of Disentanglers, then, reluctantly abandoned dealings +in this class of affairs.</p> +<p>In another distressing business, Merton, as a patriot, was obliged +to abandon an attractive enterprise. The Marquis of Seakail was +serving his country as a volunteer, and had been mentioned in despatches. +But, to the misery of his family, he had entangled himself, before his +departure, with a young lady who taught in a high school for girls. +Her character was unimpeachable, her person graceful; still, as her +father was a butcher, the duke and duchess were reluctant to assent +to the union. They consulted Merton, and assured him that they +would not flinch from expense. A great idea flashed across Merton’s +mind. He might send out a stalwart band of Disentanglers, who, +disguised as the enemy, might capture Seakail, and carry him off prisoner +to some retreat where the fairest of his female staff (of course with +a suitable <!-- page 70--><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>chaperon), +would await him in the character of a daughter of the hostile race. +The result would probably be to detach Seakail’s heart from his +love in England. But on reflection, Merton felt that the scheme +was unworthy of a patriot.</p> +<p>Other painful cases occurred. One lady, a mother, of resolute +character, consulted Merton on the case of her son. He was betrothed +to an excitable girl, a neighbour in the country, who wrote long literary +letters about Mr. George Meredith’s novels, and (when abroad) +was a perfect Baedeker, or Murray, or Mr. Augustus Hare: instructing +through correspondence. So the matron complained, but this was +not the worst of it. There was an unhappy family history, of a +kind infinitely more common in fiction than in real life. To be +explicit, even according to the ideas of the most abject barbarians, +the young people, unwittingly, were too near akin for matrimony.</p> +<p>‘There is nothing for it but to tell both of them the truth,’ +said Merton. ‘This is not a case in which we can be concerned.’</p> +<p>The resolute matron did not take his counsel. The man was told, +not the girl, who died in painful circumstances, still writing. +Her letters were later given to the world, though obviously not intended +for publication, and only calculated to waken unavailing grief among +the sentimental, and to make the judicious tired. There was, however, +a case in which Merton may be said to have succeeded by a happy accident. +Two visitors, ladies, were ushered into his consulting room; they were +announced as Miss Baddeley and Miss Crofton.</p> +<p><!-- page 71--><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>Miss Baddeley was +attired in black, wore a thick veil, and trembled a good deal. +Miss Crofton, whose dress was a combination of untoward but decisive +hues, and whose hat was enormous and flamboyant, appeared to be the +other young lady’s <i>confidante</i>, and conducted the business +of the interview.</p> +<p>‘My dear friend, Miss Baddeley,’ she began, when Miss +Baddeley took her hand, and held it, as if for protection and sympathy. +‘My dear friend,’ repeated Miss Crofton, ‘has asked +me to accompany her, and state her case. She is too highly strung +to speak for herself.’</p> +<p>Miss Baddeley wrung Miss Crofton’s hand, and visibly quivered.</p> +<p>Merton assumed an air of sympathy. ‘The situation is +grave?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘My friend,’ said Miss Crofton, thoroughly enjoying herself, +‘is the victim of passionate and unavailing remorse, are you not, +Julia?’ Julia nodded.</p> +<p>‘Deeply as I sympathise,’ said Merton, ‘it appears +to me that I am scarcely the person to consult. A mother now—’</p> +<p>‘Julia has none.’</p> +<p>‘Or a father or sister?’</p> +<p>‘But for me, Julia is alone in the world.’</p> +<p>‘Then,’ said Merton, ‘there are many periodicals +especially intended for ladies. There is <i>The Woman of the World</i>, +<i>The Girl’s Guardian Angel</i>, <i>Fashion and Passion</i>, +and so on. The Editors, in their columns, reply to questions in +cases of conscience. I have myself read the replies to <i>Correspondents</i>, +<!-- page 72--><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>and would especially +recommend those published in a serial conducted by Miss Annie Swan.’</p> +<p>Miss Crofton shook her head.</p> +<p>‘Miss Baddeley’s social position is not that of the people +who are answered in periodicals.’</p> +<p>‘Then why does she not consult some discreet and learned person, +her spiritual director? Remorse (entirely due, no doubt, to a +conscience too delicately sensitive) is not in our line of affairs. +We only advise in cases of undesirable matrimonial engagements.’</p> +<p>‘So we are aware,’ said Miss Crofton. ‘Dear +Julia <i>is</i> engaged, or rather entangled, in—how many cases, +dear?’</p> +<p>Julia shook her head and sobbed behind her veil.</p> +<p>‘Is it one, Julia—nod when I come to the exact number—two? +three? four?’</p> +<p>At the word ‘four’ Julia nodded assent.</p> +<p>Merton very much wished that Julia would raise her veil. Her +figure was excellent, and with so many sins of this kind on her remorseful +head, her face, Merton thought, must be worth seeing. The case +was new. As a rule, clients wanted to disentangle their friends +and relations. <i>This</i> client wanted to disentangle herself.</p> +<p>‘This case,’ said Merton, ‘will be difficult to +conduct, and the expenses would be considerable. I can hardly +advise you to incur them. Our ordinary method is to throw in the +way of one or other of the engaged, or entangled persons, some one who +is likely to distract their affections; of course,’ he added, +‘to <!-- page 73--><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>a more eligible +object. How can I hope to find an object more eligible, Miss Crofton, +than I must conceive your interesting friend to be?’</p> +<p>Miss Crofton caressingly raised Julia’s veil. Before +the victim of remorse could bury her face in her hands, Merton had time +to see that it was a very pretty one. Julia was dark, pale, with +‘eyes like billiard balls’ (as a celebrated amateur once +remarked), with a beautiful mouth, but with a somewhat wildly enthusiastic +expression.</p> +<p>‘How can I hope?’ Merton went on, ‘to find a worthier +and more attractive object? Nay, how can I expect to secure the +services not of one, but of <i>four</i>—’</p> +<p>‘Three would do, Mr. Merton,’ explained Miss Crofton. +‘Is it not so, Julia dearest?’</p> +<p>Julia again nodded assent, and a sob came from behind the veil, which +she had resumed.</p> +<p>‘Even three,’ said Merton, gallantly struggling with +a strong inclination to laugh, ‘present difficulties. I +do not speak the idle language of compliment, Miss Crofton, when I say +that our staff would be overtaxed by the exigencies of this case. +The expense also, even of three—’</p> +<p>‘Expense is no object,’ said Miss Crofton.</p> +<p>‘But would it not, though I seem to speak against my own interests, +be the wisest, most honourable, and infinitely the least costly course, +for Miss Baddeley openly to inform her suitors, three out of the four +at least, of the actual posture of affairs? I have already suggested +that, as the lady takes the matter so seriously to heart, she should +consult her director, or, <!-- page 74--><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>if +of the Anglican or other Protestant denomination, her clergyman, who +I am sure will agree with me.’</p> +<p>Miss Crofton shook her head. ‘Julia is unattached,’ +she said.</p> +<p>‘I had gathered that to one of the four Miss Baddeley was—not +indifferent,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I meant,’ said Miss Crofton severely, ‘that Miss +Baddeley is a Christian unattached. My friend is sensitive, passionate, +and deeply religious, but not a member of any recognised denomination. +The clergy—’</p> +<p>‘They never leave one alone,’ said Julia in a musical +voice. It was the first time that she had spoken. ‘Besides—’ +she added, and paused.</p> +<p>‘Besides, dear Julia <i>is</i>—entangled with a young +clergyman whom, almost in despair, she consulted on her case—at +a picnic,’ said Miss Crofton, adding, ‘he is prepared to +seek a martyr’s fate, but he insists that she must accompany him.’</p> +<p>‘How unreasonable!’ murmured Merton, who felt that this +recalcitrant clergyman was probably not the favourite out of the field +of four.</p> +<p>‘That is what <i>I</i> say,’ remarked Miss Crofton. +‘It is unreasonable to expect Julia to accompany him when she +has so much work to overtake in the home field. But that is the +way with all of them.’</p> +<p>‘All of them!’ exclaimed Merton. ‘Are all +the devoted young men under vows to seek the crown of martyrdom? +Does your friend act as recruiting sergeant, if you will pardon the +phrase, for the noble army of martyrs?’</p> +<p><!-- page 75--><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>‘<i>Three</i> +of them have made the most solemn promises.’</p> +<p>‘And the fourth?’</p> +<p>‘<i>He</i> is not in holy orders.’</p> +<p>‘Am I to understand that all the three admirers about whom +Miss Baddeley suffers remorse are clerics?’</p> +<p>‘Yes. Julia has a wonderful attraction for the Church,’ +said Miss Crofton, ‘and that is what causes her difficulties. +She <i>can’t</i> write to <i>them</i>, or communicate to <i>them</i> +in personal interviews (as you advised), that her heart is no longer—’</p> +<p>‘Theirs,’ said Merton. ‘But why are the clergy +more privileged than the laity? I have heard of such things being +broken to laymen. Indeed it has occurred to many of us, and we +yet live.’</p> +<p>‘I have urged the same facts on Julia myself,’ said Miss +Crofton. ‘Indeed I <i>know</i>, by personal experience, +that what you say of the laity is true. They do not break their +hearts when disappointed. But Julia replies that for her to act +as you and I would advise might be to shatter the young clergymen’s +ideals.’</p> +<p>‘To shatter the ideals of three young men in holy orders!’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Yes, for Julia <i>is</i> their ideal—Julia and Duty,’ +said Miss Crofton, as if she were naming a firm. ‘She lives +only,’ here Julia twisted the hand of Miss Crofton, ‘she +lives only to do good. Her fortune, entirely under her own control, +enables her to do a great deal of good.’</p> +<p>Merton began to understand that the charms of Julia were not entirely +confined to her <i>beaux yeux</i>.</p> +<p><!-- page 76--><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>‘She is a +true philanthropist. Why, she rescued <i>me</i> from the snares +and temptations of the stage,’ said Miss Crofton.</p> +<p>‘Oh, <i>now</i> I understand,’ said Merton; ‘I +knew that your face and voice were familiar to me. Did you not +act in a revival of <i>The Country Wife</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Hush,’ said Miss Crofton.</p> +<p>‘And Lady Teazle at an amateur performance in the Canterbury +week?’</p> +<p>‘These are days of which I do not desire to be reminded,’ +said Miss Crofton. ‘I was trying to explain to you that +Julia lives to do good, and has a heart of gold. No, my dear, +Mr. Merton will much misconceive you unless you let me explain everything.’ +This remark was in reply to the agitated gestures of Julia. ‘Thrown +much among the younger clergy in the exercise of her benevolence, Julia +naturally awakens in them emotions not wholly brotherly. Her sympathetic +nature carries her off her feet, and she sometimes says “Yes,” +out of mere goodness of heart, when it would be wiser for her to say +“No”; don’t you, Julia?’</p> +<p>Merton was reminded of one of M. Paul Bourget’s amiable married +heroines, who erred out of sheer goodness of heart, but he only signified +his intelligence and sympathy.</p> +<p>‘Then poor Julia,’ Miss Crofton went on hurriedly, ‘finds +that she has misunderstood her heart. Recently, ever since she +met Captain Lestrange—of the Guards—’</p> +<p>‘The fourth?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>Miss Crofton nodded. ‘She has felt more and more <!-- page 77--><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>certain +that she <i>had</i> misread her heart. But on each occasion she +<i>has</i> felt this—after meeting the—well, the next one.’</p> +<p>‘I see the awkwardness,’ murmured Merton.</p> +<p>‘And then Remorse has set in, with all her horrors. Julia +has wept, oh! for nights, on my shoulder.’</p> +<p>‘Happy shoulder,’ murmured Merton.</p> +<p>‘And so, as she <i>dare</i> not shatter their ideals, and perhaps +cause them to plunge into excesses, moral or doctrinal, this is what +she has done. She has said to each, that what the Church, any +Church, needs is martyrs, and that if they will go to benighted lands, +where the crown of martyrdom may still be won, <i>then</i>, if they +return safe in five years, then she—will think of naming a day. +You will easily see the attractions of this plan for Julia, Mr. Merton. +No ideals were shattered, the young men being unaware of the circumstances. +They <i>might</i> forget her—’</p> +<p>‘Impossible,’ cried Merton.</p> +<p>‘They might forget her, or, perhaps they—’</p> +<p>Miss Crofton hesitated.</p> +<p>‘Perhaps they might never—?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Miss Crofton; ‘perhaps they might <i>not</i>. +That would be all to the good for the Church; no ideals would be shattered—the +reverse—and dear Julia would—’</p> +<p>‘Cherish their pious memories,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I see that you understand me,’ said Miss Crofton.</p> +<p>Merton did understand, and he was reminded of the wicked lady, who, +when tired of her lovers, had them put into a sack, and dropped into +the Seine.</p> +<p>‘But,’ he asked, ‘has this ingenious system failed +<!-- page 78--><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>to work? I should +suppose that each young man, on distant and on deadly shores, was far +from causing inconvenience.’</p> +<p>‘The defect of the system,’ said Miss Crofton, ‘is +that none of them has gone, or seems in a hurry to go. The first—that +was Mr. Bathe, Julia?’</p> +<p>Julia nodded.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Bathe was to have gone to Turkey during the Armenian atrocities, +and to have <i>forced</i> England to intervene by taking the Armenian +side and getting massacred. Julia was intensely interested in +the Armenians. But Mr. Bathe first said that he must lead Julia +to the altar before he went; and then the massacres fell off, and he +remains at Cheltenham, and is very tiresome. And then there is +Mr. Clancy, <i>he</i> was to go out to China, and denounce the gods +of the heathen Chinese in the public streets. But <i>he</i> insisted +that Julia should first be his, and he is at Leamington, and not a step +has he taken to convert the Boxers.’</p> +<p>Merton knew the name of Clancy. Clancy had been his fag at +school, and Merton thought it extremely improbable that the Martyr’s +crown would ever adorn his brow.</p> +<p>‘Then—and this is the last of them, of the clergy, at +least—Mr. Brooke: he was to visit the New Hebrides, where the +natives are cannibals, and utterly unawakened. He is as bad as +the others. He won’t go alone. Now, Julia is obliged +to correspond with all of them in affectionate terms (she keeps well +out of their way), and this course of what she feels to be duplicity +is preying terribly on her conscience.’</p> +<p><!-- page 79--><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>Here Julia sobbed +hysterically.</p> +<p>‘She is afraid, too, that by some accident, though none of +them know each other, they may become aware of the state of affairs, +or Captain Lestrange, to whom she is passionately attached, may find +it out, and then, not only may their ideals be wrecked, but—’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I see,’ said Merton; ‘it is awkward, very.’</p> +<p>The interview, an early one, had lasted for some time. Merton +felt that the hour of luncheon had arrived, and, after luncheon, it +had been his intention to go up to the University match. He also +knew, from various sounds, that clients were waiting in the ante-chamber. +At this moment the door opened, and the office boy, entering, laid three +cards before him.</p> +<p>‘The gentlemen asked when you could see them, sir. They +have been waiting some time. They say that their appointment was +at one o’clock, and they wish to go back to Lord’s.’</p> +<p>‘So do I,’ thought Merton sadly. He looked at the +cards, repressed a whistle, and handed them silently to Miss Crofton, +bidding the boy go, and return in three minutes.</p> +<p>Miss Crofton uttered a little shriek, and pressed the cards on Julia’s +attention. Raising her veil, Julia scanned them, wrung her hands, +and displayed symptoms of a tendency to faint. The cards bore +the names of the Rev. Mr. Bathe, the Rev. Mr. Brooke, and the Rev. Mr. +Clancy.</p> +<p>‘What is to be done?’ asked Miss Crofton in a whisper. +‘Can’t you send them away?’</p> +<p>‘Impossible,’ said Merton firmly.</p> +<p>‘If we go out they will know me, and suspect Julia.’</p> +<p>Miss Crofton looked round the room with eyes of desperate scrutiny. +They at once fell on a large old-fashioned screen, covered with engravings, +which Merton had picked up for the sake of two or three old mezzotints, +barbarously pasted on to this article of furniture by some ignorant +owner.</p> +<p>‘Saved! we are saved! Hist, Julia, hither!’ said +Miss Crofton in a stage whisper. And while Merton murmured ‘Highly +unprofessional,’ the skirts of the two ladies vanished behind +the screen.</p> +<p>Miss Crofton had not played Lady Teazle for nothing.</p> +<p>‘Ask the gentlemen to come in,’ said Merton, when the +boy returned.</p> +<p>They entered: three fair young curates, nervous and inclined to giggle. +Shades of difference of ecclesiastical opinion declared themselves in +their hats, costume, and jewellery.</p> +<p>‘Be seated, gentlemen,’ said Merton, and they sat down +on three chairs, in identical attitudes.</p> +<p>‘We hope,’ said the man on the left, ‘that we are +not here inconveniently. We would have waited, but, you see, we +have all come up for the match.’</p> +<p>‘How is it going?’ asked Merton anxiously.</p> +<p>‘Cambridge four wickets down for 115, but—’ and +the young man stared, ‘it must be, it is Pussy Merton!’</p> +<p>‘And you, Clancy Minor, why are you not converting the Heathen +Chinee? You deserve a death of torture.’</p> +<p><!-- page 81--><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>‘Goodness! +How do you know that?’ asked Clancy.</p> +<p>‘I know many things,’ answered Merton. ‘I +am not sure which of you is Mr. Bathe.’</p> +<p>Clancy presented Mr. Bathe, a florid young evangelist, who blushed.</p> +<p>‘Armenia is still suffering, Mr. Bathe; and Mr. Brooke,’ +said Merton, detecting him by the Method of Residues, ‘the oven +is still hot in the New Hebrides. What have you got to say for +yourselves?’</p> +<p>The curates shifted nervously on their chairs.</p> +<p>‘We see, Merton,’ said Clancy, ‘that you know a +good deal which we did not know ourselves till lately. In fact, +we did not know each other till the Church Congress at Leamington. +Then the other men came to tea at my rooms, and saw—’</p> +<p>‘A portrait of a lady; each of you possessed a similar portrait,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘How the dev—I mean, how do you know <i>that</i>?’</p> +<p>‘By a simple deductive process,’ said Merton. ‘There +were also letters,’ he said. Here a gurgle from behind the +screen was audible to Merton.</p> +<p>‘We did not read each others’ letters,’ said Clancy, +blushing.</p> +<p>‘Of course not,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘But the handwriting on the envelopes was identical,’ +Clancy went on.</p> +<p>‘Well, and what can our Society do for you?’</p> +<p>‘Why, we saw your advertisements, never guessed they were <i>yours</i>, +of course, Pussy, and—none of us is a man of the world—’</p> +<p><!-- page 82--><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>‘I congratulate +you,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘So we thought we had better take advice: it seemed rather +a lark, too, don’t you know? The fact is—you appear +to have divined it somehow—we find that we are all engaged to +the same lady. We can’t fight, and we can’t all marry +her.’</p> +<p>‘In Thibet it might be practicable: martyrdom might also be +secured there,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Martyrdom is not good enough,’ said Clancy.</p> +<p>‘Not half,’ said Bathe.</p> +<p>‘A man has his duties in his own country,’ said Brooke.</p> +<p>‘May I ask whether in fact your sorrows at this discovery have +been intense?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘I was a good deal cut up at first,’ said Clancy, ‘I +being the latest recruit. Bathe had practically given up hope, +and had seen some one else.’ Mr. Bathe drooped his head, +and blushed. ‘Brooke laughed. Indeed we <i>all</i> +laughed, though we felt rather foolish. But what are we to do? +Should we write her a Round Robin? Bathe says he ought to be the +man, because he was first man in, and I say <i>I</i> ought to be the +man, because I am not out.’</p> +<p>‘I would not build much on <i>that</i>,’ said Merton, +and he was sure that he heard a rustle behind the screen, and a slight +struggle. Julia was trying to emerge, restrained by Miss Crofton.</p> +<p>‘I knew,’ said Clancy, ‘that there was <i>something</i>—that +there were other fellows. But that I learned, more or less, under +the seal of confession, so to speak.’</p> +<p>‘At a picnic,’ said Merton.</p> +<p><!-- page 83--><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>At this moment the +screen fell with a crash, and Julia emerged, her eyes blazing, while +Miss Crofton followed, her hat somewhat crushed by the falling screen. +The three young men in Holy Orders, all of them desirable young men, +arose to their feet, trembling visibly.</p> +<p>‘Apostates!’ cried Julia, who had by far the best of +the dramatic situation and pressed her advantage. ‘Recreants! +was it for such as <i>you</i> that I pointed to the crown of martyrdom? +Was it for <i>your</i> shattered ideals that I have wept many a night +on Serena’s faithful breast?’ She pointed to Miss +Crofton, who enfolded her in an embrace. ‘You!’ Julia +went on, aiming at them the finger of conviction. ‘I am +but a woman, weak I may have been, wavering I may have been, but I took +you for men! I chose you to dare, perhaps to perish, for a Cause. +But now, triflers that you are, boys, mere boys, back with you to your +silly games, back to the thoughtless throng. I have done.’</p> +<p>Julia, attended by Miss Crofton, swept from the chamber, under her +indignation (which was quite as real as any of her other emotions) the +happiest woman in London. She had no more occasion for remorse, +no ideals had she sensibly injured. Her entanglements were disentangled. +She inhaled the fragrance of orange blossoms from afar, and heard the +marriage music in the chapel of the Guards. Meanwhile the three +curates and Merton felt as if they had been whipped.</p> +<p>‘Trust a woman to have the best of it,’ muttered Merton +admiringly. ‘And now, Clancy, may I offer <!-- page 84--><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>a +hasty luncheon to you and your friends before we go to Lord’s? +Your business has been rather rapidly despatched.’</p> +<p>The conversation at luncheon turned exclusively on cricket.</p> +<h2><!-- page 85--><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>VI. A LOVER +IN COCKY</h2> +<p>It cannot be said that the bearers of the noblest names in the land +flocked at first to the offices of Messrs. Gray and Graham. In +fact the reverse, in the beginning, was the case. Members even +of the more learned professions held aloof: indeed barristers and physicians +never became eager clients. On the other hand, Messrs. Gray and +Graham received many letters in such handwritings, such grammar, and +such orthography, that they burned them without replying. A common +sort of case was that of the young farmer whose widowed mother had set +her heart on marriage with ‘a bonny labouring boy,’ a ploughman.</p> +<p>‘We can do nothing with these people,’ Merton remarked. +‘We can’t send down a young and elegant friend of ours to +distract the affections of an elderly female agriculturist. The +bonny labouring boy would punch the fashionable head; or, at all events, +would prove much more attractive to the widow than our agent.</p> +<p>‘Then there are the members of the Hebrew community. +They hate mixed marriages, and quite right too. I deeply sympathise. +But if Leah has let her affections loose on young Timmins, an Anglo-Saxon +and a Christian, what can we do? How stop the <!-- page 86--><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>mésalliance? +We have not, in our little regiment, one fair Hebrew boy to smile away +her maiden blame among the Hebrew mothers of Maida Vale, and to cut +out Timmins. And of course it is as bad with the men. If +young Isaacs wants to marry Miss Julia Timmins, I have no Rebecca to +slip at him. The Semitic demand, though large and perhaps lucrative, +cannot be met out of a purely Aryan supply.’</p> +<p>Business was pretty slack, and so Merton rather rejoiced over the +application of a Mrs. Nicholson, from The Laburnums, Walton-on-Dove, +Derbyshire. Mrs. Nicholson’s name was not in Burke’s +‘Landed Gentry,’ and The Laburnums could hardly be estimated +as one of the stately homes of England. Still, the lady was granted +an interview. She was what the Scots call ‘a buddy;’ +that is, she was large, round, attired in black, between two ages, and +not easily to be distinguished, by an unobservant eye, from buddies +as a class. After greetings, and when enthroned in the client’s +chair, Mrs. Nicholson stated her case with simplicity and directness.</p> +<p>‘It is my ward,’ she said, ‘Barbara Monypenny. +I must tell you that she was left in my charge till she is twenty-six. +I and her lawyers make her an allowance out of her property, which she +is to get when she marries with my consent, at whatever age.’</p> +<p>‘May I ask how old the lady is at present?’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘She is twenty-two.’</p> +<p>‘Your kindness in taking charge of her is not not wholly uncompensated?’</p> +<p>‘No, an allowance is made to me out of the estate.’</p> +<p><!-- page 87--><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>‘An allowance +which ends on her marriage, if she marries with your consent?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it ends then. Her uncle trusted me a deal more +than he trusted Barbara. She was strange from a child. Fond +of the men,’ as if that were an unusual and unbecoming form of +philanthropy.</p> +<p>‘I see, and she being an heiress, the testator was anxious +to protect her youth and innocence?’</p> +<p>Mrs. Nicholson merely sniffed, but the sniff was affirmative, though +sarcastic.</p> +<p>‘Her property, I suppose, is considerable? I do not ask +from impertinent curiosity, nor for exact figures. But, as a question +of business, may we call the fortune considerable?’</p> +<p>‘Most people do. It runs into six figures.’</p> +<p>Merton, who had no mathematical head, scribbled on a piece of paper. +The result of his calculations (which I, not without some fever of the +brow, have personally verified) proved that ‘six figures’ +might be anything between 100,000<i>l</i>. and 999,000<i>l</i>. 19<i>s</i>. +11¾<i>d</i>.</p> +<p>‘Certainly it is very considerable,’ Merton said, after +a few minutes passed in arithmetical calculation. ‘Am I +too curious if I ask what is the source of this opulence?’</p> +<p>‘“Wilton’s Panmedicon, or Heal All,” a patent +medicine. He sold the patent and retired.’</p> +<p>Merton shuddered.</p> +<p>‘It would be Pammedicum if it could be anything,’ he +thought, ‘but it can’t, linguistically speaking.’</p> +<p>‘Invaluable as a subterfuge,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, obviously +with an indistinct recollection of the advertisement and of the properties +of the drug.</p> +<p><!-- page 88--><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Merton construed +the word as ‘febrifuge,’ silently, and asked: ‘Have +you taken the young lady much into society: has she had many opportunities +of making a choice? You are dissatisfied with the choice, I understand, +which she has made?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t let her see anybody if I can help it. +Fire and powder are better kept apart, and she is powder, a minx! +Only a fisher or two comes to the Perch, that’s the inn at Walton-on-Dove, +and <i>they</i> are mostly old gentlemen, pottering with their rods +and things. If a young man comes to the inn, I take care to trapes +after her through the nasty damp meadows.’</p> +<p>‘Is the young lady an angler?’</p> +<p>‘She is—most unwomanly I call it.’</p> +<p>Merton’s idea of the young lady rose many degrees. ‘You +said the young lady was “strange from a child, very strange. +Fond of the men.” Happily for our sex, and for the world, +it is not so very strange or unusual to take pity on us.’</p> +<p>‘She has always been queer.’</p> +<p>‘You do not hint at any cerebral disequilibrium?’ asked +Merton.</p> +<p>‘Would you mind saying that again?’ asked Mrs. Nicholson.</p> +<p>‘I meant nothing wrong <i>here</i>?’ Merton said, laying +his finger on his brow.</p> +<p>‘No, not so bad as that,’ said Mrs. Nicholson; ‘but +just queer. Uncommon. Tells odd stories about—nonsense. +She is wearing with her dreams. She reads books on, I don’t +know how to call it—Tipsy-cake, Tipsicakical Search. Histories, +<i>I</i> call it.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I understand,’ said Merton; ‘Psychical Research.’</p> +<p><!-- page 89--><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>‘That’s +it, and Hyptonism,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, as many ladies do.</p> +<p>‘Ah, Hyptonism, so called from its founder, Hypton, the eminent +Anglo-French chemist; he was burned at Rome, one of the latest victims +of the Inquisition,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I don’t hold with Popery, sir, but it served <i>him</i> +right.’</p> +<p>‘That is all the queerness then!’</p> +<p>‘That and general discontentedness.’</p> +<p>‘Girls will be girls,’ said Merton; ‘she wants +society.’</p> +<p>‘Want must be her master then,’ said Mrs. Nicholson stolidly.</p> +<p>‘But about the man of her choice, have you anything against +him?’</p> +<p>‘No, but nothing <i>for</i> him: I never even saw him.’</p> +<p>‘Then where did Miss Monypenny make his acquaintance?’</p> +<p>‘Well, like a fool, I let her go to pass Christmas with some +distant cousins of my own, who should have known better. They +stupidly took her to a dance, at Tutbury, and there she met him: just +that once.’</p> +<p>‘And they became engaged on so short an acquaintance?’</p> +<p>‘Not exactly that. She was not engaged when she came +home, and did not seem to mean to be. She did talk of him a lot. +He had got round her finely: told her that he was going out to the war, +and that they were sister spirits. He had dreamed of meeting her, +he said, and that was why he came to <!-- page 90--><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>the +ball, for he did not dance. He said he believed they had met in +a state of pre—something; meaning, if you understand me, before +they were born, which could not be the case: she not being a twin, still +less <i>his</i> twin.’</p> +<p>‘That would be the only way of accounting for it, certainly,’ +said Merton. ‘But what followed? Did they correspond?’</p> +<p>‘He wrote to her, but she showed me the letter, and put it +in the fire unopened. He had written his name, Marmaduke Ingles, +on a corner of the envelope.’</p> +<p>‘So far her conduct seems correct, even austere,’ said +Merton.</p> +<p>‘It was at first, but then he wrote from South Africa, where +he volunteered as a doctor. He was a doctor at Tutbury.’</p> +<p>‘She opened that letter?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, and showed it to me. He kept on with his nonsense, +asking her never to forget him, and sending his photograph in cocky.’</p> +<p>‘Pardon!’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘In uniform. And if he fell, she would see his ghost, +in cocky, crossing her room, he said. In fact he knew how to get +round the foolish girl. I believe he went out there just to make +himself interesting.’</p> +<p>‘Did you try to find out what sort of character he had at home?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, there was no harm in it, only he had no business to speak +of, everybody goes to Dr. Younghusband.’</p> +<p>‘Then, really, if he is an honest young man, as he <!-- page 91--><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>seems +to be a patriotic fellow, are you certain that you are wise in objecting?’</p> +<p>‘I <i>do</i> object,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, and indeed +her motives for refusing her consent were only too obvious.</p> +<p>‘Are they quite definitely engaged?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Yes they are now, by letter, and she says she will wait for +him till I die, or she is twenty-six, if I don’t give my consent. +He writes every mail, from places with outlandish names, in Africa. +And she keeps looking in a glass ball, like the labourers’ women, +some of them; she’s sunk as low as <i>that</i>; so superstitious; +and sometimes she tells me that she sees what he is doing, and where +he is; and now and then, when his letters come, she shows me bits of +them, to prove she was right. But just as often she’s wrong; +only she won’t listen to <i>me</i>. She says it’s +Telly, Tellyopathy. I say it’s flat nonsense.’</p> +<p>‘I quite agree with you,’ said Merton, with conviction. +‘After all, though, honest, as far as you hear. . . .’</p> +<p>‘Oh yes, honest enough, but that’s all,’ interrupted +Mrs. Nicholson, with a hearty sneer.</p> +<p>‘Though he bears a good character, from what you tell me he +seems to be a very silly young man.’</p> +<p>‘Silly Johnny to silly Jenny,’ put in Mrs. Nicholson.</p> +<p>‘A pair with ideas so absurd could not possibly be happy.’ +Merton reasoned. ‘Why don’t you take her into the +world, and show her life? With her fortune and with <i>you</i> +to take her about, she would soon forget this egregiously foolish romance.’</p> +<p><!-- page 92--><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>‘And me to +have her snapped up by some whipper-snapper that calls himself a lord? +Not me, Mr. Graham,’ said Mrs. Nicholson. ‘The money +that her uncle made by the Panmedicon is not going to be spent on horses, +and worse, if I can help it.’</p> +<p>‘Then,’ said Merton, ‘all I can do for you is by +our ordinary method—to throw some young man of worth and education +in the way of your ward, and attempt to—divert her affections.’</p> +<p>‘And have <i>him</i> carry her off under my very nose? +Not much, Mr. Graham. Why where do <i>I</i> come in, in this pretty +plan?’</p> +<p>‘Do not suppose me to suggest anything so—detrimental +to your interests, Mrs. Nicholson. Is your ward beautiful?’</p> +<p>‘A toad!’ said Mrs. Nicholson with emphasis.</p> +<p>‘Very well. There is no danger. The gentleman of +whom I speak is betrothed to one of the most beautiful girls in England. +They are deeply attached, and their marriage is only deferred for prudential +reasons.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t trust one of them,’ said Mrs. Nicholson.</p> +<p>‘Very well, madam,’ answered Merton severely; ‘I +have done all that experience can suggest. The gentleman of whom +I speak has paid especial attention to the mental delusions under which +your ward is labouring, and has been successful in removing them in +some cases. But as you reject my suggestion’—he rose, +so did Mrs. Nicholson—‘I have the honour of wishing you +a pleasant journey back to Derbyshire.’</p> +<p><!-- page 93--><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>‘A bullet +may hit him,’ said Mrs. Nicholson with much acerbity. ‘That’s +my best hope.’</p> +<p>Then Merton bowed her out.</p> +<p>‘The old woman will never let the girl marry anybody, except +some adventurer, who squares her by giving her the full value of her +allowance out of the estate,’ thought Merton, adding ‘I +wonder how much it is! Six figures is anything between a hundred +thousand and a million!’</p> +<p>The man he had thought of sending down to divert Miss Monypenny’s +affections from the young doctor was Jephson, the History coach, at +that hour waiting for a professorship to enable him to marry Miss Willoughby.</p> +<p>However, he dismissed Mrs. Nicholson and her ward from his mind. +About a fortnight later Merton received a letter directed in an uneducated +hand. ‘Another of the agricultural classes,’ he thought, +but, looking at the close of the epistle, he saw the name of Eliza Nicholson. +She wrote:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Sir,—Barbara has been at her glass ball, +and seen him being carried on board a ship. If she is right, and +she is not always wrong, he is on his way home. Though I will +never give my consent, this spells botheration for me. You can +send down your young man that cures by teleopathy, a thing that has +come up since my time. He can stay at the Perch, and take a fishing +rod, then they are safe to meet. I trust him no more than the +rest, but she may fall between two stools, if the doctor does come home.</p> +<p>‘Your obedient servant,</p> +<p>‘Eliza Nicholson.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 94--><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>‘Merely to +keep one’s hand in,’ thought Merton, ‘in the present +disappointing slackness of business, I’ll try to see Jephson. +I don’t like or trust him. I don’t think he is the +man for Miss Willoughby. So, if he ousts the doctor, and catches +the heiress, why “there was more lost at Shirramuir,” as +Logan says.’</p> +<p>Merton managed to go up to Oxford, and called on Jephson. He +found him anxious about a good, quiet, cheap place for study.</p> +<p>‘Do you fish?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘When I get the chance,’ said Jephson.</p> +<p>He was a dark, rather clumsy, but not unprepossessing young don, +with a very slight squint.</p> +<p>‘If you fish did you ever try the Perch—I mean an inn, +not the fish of the same name—at Walton-on-Dove? A pretty +quiet place, two miles of water, local history perhaps interesting. +It is not very far from Tutbury, where Queen Mary was kept, I think.’</p> +<p>‘It sounds well,’ said Jephson; ‘I’ll write +to the landlord and ask about terms.’</p> +<p>‘You could not do better,’ said Merton, and he took his +leave.</p> +<p>‘Now, am I,’ thought Merton as he walked down the Broad, +‘to put Jephson up to it? If I don’t, of course I +can’t “reap the benefit of one single pin” for the +Society: Jephson not being a member. But the money, anyhow, would +come from that old harpy out of the girl’s estate. <i>Olet</i>! +I don’t like the fragrance of that kind of cash. But if +the girl really is plain, “a toad,” nothing may happen. +On the <!-- page 95--><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>other hand, +Jephson is sure to hear about her position from local gossip—that +she is rich, and so on. Perhaps she is not so very plain. +They are sure to meet, or Mrs. Nicholson will bring them together in +her tactful way. She has not much time to lose if the girl’s +glass ball yarn is true, and it <i>may</i> be true by a fluke. +Jephson is rather bitten by a taste for all that “teleopathy” +business, as the old Malaprop calls it. On the whole, I shall +say no more to him, but let him play the game, if he goes to Walton, +off his own bat.’</p> +<p>Presently Merton received a note from Jephson dated ‘The Perch, +Walton-on-Dove.’ Jephson expressed his gratitude; the place +suited his purpose very well. He had taken a brace and a half +of trout, ‘bordering on two pounds’ (‘one and a quarter,’ +thought Merton). ‘And, what won’t interest <i>you</i>,’ +his letter said, ‘I have run across a curiously interesting subject, +what <i>you</i> would call <i>hysterical</i>. But what, after +all, is hysteria?’ &c., &c.</p> +<p>‘<i>L’affaire est dans le sac</i>!’ said Merton +to himself. ‘Jephson and Miss Monypenny have met!’</p> +<p>Weeks passed, and one day, on arriving at the office, Merton found +Miss Willoughby there awaiting his arrival. She was the handsome +Miss Willoughby, Jephson’s betrothed, a learned young lady who +lived but poorly by verifying references and making researches at the +Record Office.</p> +<p>Merton at once had a surmise, nor was it mistaken. The usual +greetings had scarcely passed, when the girl, with cheeks on fire and +eyes aflame, said:</p> +<p>‘Mr. Merton, do you remember a question, rather <!-- page 96--><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>unconventional, +which you put to me at the dinner party you and Mr. Logan gave at the +restaurant?’</p> +<p>‘I ought not to have said it,’ said Merton, ‘but +then it was an unconventional gathering. I asked if you—’</p> +<p>‘Your words were “Had I a spark of the devil in me?” +Well, I have! Can I—’</p> +<p>‘Turn it to any purpose? You can, Miss Willoughby, and +I shall have the honour to lay the method before you, of course only +for your consideration, and under seal of secrecy. Indeed I was +just about to write to you asking for an interview.’</p> +<p>Merton then laid the circumstances in which he wanted Miss Willoughby’s +aid before her, but these must be reserved for the present. She +listened, was surprised, was clearly ready for more desperate adventures; +she came into his views, and departed.</p> +<p>‘Jephson <i>has</i> played the game off his own bat—and +won it,’ thought Merton to himself. ‘What a very abject +the fellow is! But, after all, I have disentangled Miss Willoughby; +she was infinitely too good for the man, with his squint.’</p> +<p>As Merton indulged in these rather Pharisaical reflections, Mrs. +Nicholson was announced. Merton greeted her, and gave orders that +no other client was to be admitted. He was himself rather nervous. +Was Mrs. Nicholson in a rage? No, her eyes beamed friendly; geniality +clothed her brow.</p> +<p>‘He has squared her,’ thought Merton.</p> +<p>Indeed, the lady had warmly grasped his hand with both of her own, +which were imprisoned in tight new <!-- page 97--><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>gloves, +while her bonnet spoke of regardlessness of expense and recent prodigality. +She fell back into the client’s chair.</p> +<p>‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘when first we met we did +not part, or <i>I</i> did not—<i>you</i> were quite the gentleman—on +the best of terms. But now, how can I speak of your wise advice, +and how much don’t I owe you?’</p> +<p>Merton answered very gravely: ‘You do not owe me anything, +Madam. Please understand that I took absolutely no professional +steps in your affair.’</p> +<p>‘What?’ cried Mrs. Nicholson. ‘You did not +send down that blessed young man to the Perch?’</p> +<p>‘I merely suggested that the inn might suit a person whom I +knew, who was looking for country quarters. Your name never crossed +my lips, nor a word about the business on which you did me the honour +to consult me.’</p> +<p>‘Then I owe you nothing?’</p> +<p>‘Nothing at all.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I do call this providential,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, +with devout enthusiasm.</p> +<p>‘You are not in my debt to the extent of a farthing, but if +you think I have accidentally been—’</p> +<p>‘An instrument?’ said Mrs. Nicholson.</p> +<p>‘Well, an unconscious instrument, perhaps you can at least +tell me why you think so. What has happened?’</p> +<p>‘You really don’t know?’</p> +<p>‘I only know that you are pleased, and that your anxieties +seem to be relieved.’</p> +<p><!-- page 98--><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>‘Why, he saved +her from being burned, and the brave,’ said Mrs. Nicholson, ‘deserve +the fair, not that <i>she</i> is a beauty.’</p> +<p>‘Do tell me all that happened.’</p> +<p>‘And tell you I can, for that precious young man took me into +his confidence. First, when I heard that he had come to the Perch, +I trampled about the damp riverside with Barbara, and sure enough they +met, he being on the Perch’s side of the fence, and Barbara’s +line being caught high up in a tree on ours, as often happens. +Well, I asked him to come over the fence and help her to get her line +clear, which he did very civilly, and then he showed her how to fish, +and then I asked him to tea and left them alone a bit, and when I came +back they were talking about teleopathy, and her glass ball, and all +that nonsense. And he seemed interested, but not to believe in +it quite. I could not understand half their tipsycakical lingo. +So of course they often met again at the river, and he often came to +tea, and she seemed to take to him—she was always one for the +men. And at last a very queer thing happened, and gave him his +chance.</p> +<p>‘It was a very hot day in July, and she fell asleep on a seat +under a tree with her glass ball in her lap; she had been staring at +it, I suppose. Any way she slept on, till the sun went round and +shone full on the ball; and just as he, Mr. Jephson, that is, came into +the gate, the glass ball began to act like a burning glass and her skirt +began to smoke. Well, he waited a bit, I think, till the skirt +blazed a little, and then he rushed up and threw his coat over her skirt, +and put <!-- page 99--><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>the fire out. +And so he saved her from being a Molochaust, like you read about in +the bible.’</p> +<p>Merton mentally disengaged the word ‘Molochaust’ into +‘Moloch’ and ‘holocaust.’</p> +<p>‘And there she was, when I happened to come by, a-crying and +carrying on, with her head on his shoulder.’</p> +<p>‘A pleasing group, and so they were engaged on the spot?’ +asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Not she! She held off, and thanked her preserver; but +she would be true, she said, to her lover in cocky. But before +that Mr. Jephson had taken me into his confidence.’</p> +<p>‘And you made no objection to his winning your ward, if he +could?’</p> +<p>‘No, sir, I could trust that young man: I could trust him with +Barbara.’</p> +<p>‘His arguments,’ said Merton, ‘must have been very +cogent?’</p> +<p>‘He understood my situation if she married, and what I deserved,’ +said Mrs. Nicholson, growing rather uncomfortable, and fidgeting in +the client’s chair.</p> +<p>Merton, too, understood, and knew what the sympathetic arguments +of Jephson must have been.</p> +<p>‘And, after all,’ Merton asked, ‘the lover has +prospered in his suit?’</p> +<p>‘This is how he got round her. He said to me that night, +in private: “Mrs. Nicholson,” said he, “your niece +is a very interesting historical subject. I am deeply anxious, +apart from my own passion for her, to relieve her from a singular but +not very uncommon delusion.”</p> +<p><!-- page 100--><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>‘“Meaning +her lover in cocky,” I said.</p> +<p>‘“There is no lover in cocky,” says he.</p> +<p>‘“No Dr. Ingles!” said I.</p> +<p>‘“Yes, there <i>is</i> a Dr. Ingles, but he is not her +lover, and your niece never met him. I bicycled to Tutbury lately, +and, after examining the scene of Queen Mary’s captivity, I made +a few inquiries. What I had always suspected proved to be true. +Dr. Ingles was not present at that ball at the Bear at Tutbury.”</p> +<p>‘Well,’ Mrs. Nicholson went on, ‘you might have +knocked me down with a feather! I had never asked my second cousins +the question, not wanting them to guess about my affairs. But +down I sat, and wrote to Maria, and got her answer. Barbara never +saw Dr. Ingles! only heard the girls mention him, and his going to the +war. And then, after that, by Mr. Jephson’s advice, I went +and gave Barbara my mind. She should marry Mr. Jephson, who saved +her life, or be the laughing stock of the country. I showed her +up to herself, with her glass ball, and her teleopathy, and her sham +love-letters, that she wrote herself, and all her humbug. She +cried, and she fainted, and she carried on, but I went at her whenever +she could listen to reason. So she said “Yes,” and +I am the happy woman.’</p> +<p>‘And Mr. Jephson is to be congratulated on so sensible and +veracious a bride,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Oh, he says it is by no means an uncommon case, and that he +has effected a complete cure, and they will be as happy as idiots,’ +said Mrs. Nicholson, as she rose to depart.</p> +<p><!-- page 101--><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>She left Merton +pensive, and not disposed to overrate human nature. ‘But +there can’t be many fellows like Jephson,’ he said. +‘I wonder how much the six figures run to?’ But that +question was never answered to his satisfaction.</p> +<h2><!-- page 102--><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>VII. THE +ADVENTURE OF THE EXEMPLARY EARL</h2> +<h3>I. The Earl’s Long-Lost Cousin</h3> +<p>‘A jilt in time saves nine,’ says the proverbial wisdom +of our forefathers, adding, ‘One jilt makes many.’ +In the last chapter of the book of this chronicle, we told how the mercenary +Mr. Jephson proved false to the beautiful Miss Willoughby, who supported +existence by her skill in deciphering and transcribing the manuscript +records of the past. We described the consequent visit of Miss +Willoughby to the office of the Disentanglers, and how she reminded +Merton that he had asked her once ‘if she had a spark of the devil +in her.’ She had that morning received, in fact, a letter, +crawling but explicit, from the unworthy Jephson, her lover. Retired, +he said, to the rural loneliness of Derbyshire, he had read in his own +heart, and what he there deciphered convinced him that, as a man of +honour, he had but one course before him: he must free Miss Willoughby +from her engagement. The lady was one of those who suffer in silence. +She made no moan, and no reply to Jephson’s letter; but she did +visit Merton, and, practically, gave him to understand that she was +ready to start as a Corsair on the seas of amorous adventure. +She had nailed the black flag to the <!-- page 103--><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>mast: +unhappy herself, she was apt to have no mercy on the sentiments and +affections of others.</p> +<p>Merton, as it chanced, had occasion for the services of a lady in +this mood; a lady at once attractive, and steely-hearted; resolute to +revenge, on the whole of the opposite sex, the baseness of a Fellow +of his College. Such is the frenzy of an injured love—illogical +indeed (for we are not responsible for the errors of isolated members +of our sex), but primitive, natural to women, and even to some men, +in Miss Willoughby’s position.</p> +<p>The occasion for such services as she would perform was provided +by a noble client who, on visiting the office, had found Merton out +and Logan in attendance. The visitor was the Earl of Embleton, +of the North. Entering the rooms, he fumbled with the string of +his eyeglass, and, after capturing it, looked at Logan with an air of +some bewilderment. He was a tall, erect, slim, and well-preserved +patrician, with a manner really shy, though hasty critics interpreted +it as arrogant. He was ‘between two ages,’ a very +susceptible period in the history of the individual.</p> +<p>‘I think we have met before,’ said the Earl to Logan. +‘Your face is not unfamiliar to me.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Logan, ‘I have seen you at several +places;’ and he mumbled a number of names.</p> +<p>‘Ah, I remember now—at Lady Lochmaben’s,’ +said Lord Embleton. ‘You are, I think, a relation of hers. +. . .’</p> +<p>‘A distant relation: my name is Logan.’</p> +<p>‘What, of the Restalrig family?’ said the Earl, with +excitement.</p> +<p><!-- page 104--><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>‘A far-off +kinsman of the Marquis,’ said Logan, adding, ‘May I ask +you to be seated?’</p> +<p>‘This is really very interesting to me—surprisingly interesting,’ +said the Earl. ‘What a strange coincidence! How small +the world is, how brief are the ages! Our ancestors, Mr. Logan, +were very intimate long ago.’</p> +<p>‘Indeed?’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Yes. I would not speak of it to everybody; in fact, +I have spoken of it to no one; but recently, examining some documents +in my muniment-room, I made a discovery as interesting to me as it must +be to you. Our ancestors three hundred years ago—in 1600, +to be exact—were fellow conspirators.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, the old Gowrie game, to capture the King?’ asked +Logan, who had once kidnapped a cat.</p> +<p>His knowledge of history was mainly confined to that obscure and +unexplained affair, in which his wicked old ancestor is thought to have +had a hand.</p> +<p>‘That is it,’ said the visitor—‘the Gowrie +mystery! You may remember that an unknown person, a friend of +your ancestor, was engaged?’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Logan; ‘he was never identified. +Was his name Harris?’</p> +<p>The peer half rose to his feet, flushed a fine purple, twiddled the +obsolete little grey tuft on his chin, and sat down again.</p> +<p>‘I think I said, Mr. Logan, that the hitherto unidentified +associate of your ancestor was <i>a member of my own family</i>. +Our name is <i>not</i> Harris—a name very honourably borne—our +family name is Guevara. <!-- page 105--><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>My +ancestor was a cousin of the brave Lord Willoughby.’</p> +<p>‘Most interesting! You must pardon me, but as nobody +ever knew what you have just found out, you will excuse my ignorance,’ +said Logan, who, to be sure, had never heard of the brave Lord Willoughby.</p> +<p>‘It is I who ought to apologise,’ said the visitor. +‘Your mention of the name of Harris appeared to me to indicate +a frivolity as to matters of the past which, I must confess, is apt +to make me occasionally forget myself. <i>Noblesse oblige</i>, +you know: we respect ourselves—in our progenitors.’</p> +<p>‘Unless he wants to prevent someone from marrying his great-grandmother, +I wonder what he is doing with his Tales of a Grandfather <i>here</i>,’ +thought Logan, but he only smiled, and said, ‘Assuredly—my +own opinion. I wish I could respect <i>my</i> ancestor!’</p> +<p>‘The gentleman of whom I speak, the associate of your own distant +progenitor, was the founder of our house, as far as mere titles are +concerned. We were but squires of Northumbria, of ancient Celtic +descent, before the time of Queen Elizabeth. My ancestor at that +time—’</p> +<p>‘Oh bother his pedigree!’ thought Logan.</p> +<p>‘—was a young officer in the English garrison of Berwick, +and <i>he</i>, I find, was <i>your</i> ancestor’s unknown correspondent. +I am not skilled in reading old hands, and I am anxious to secure a +trustworthy person—really trustworthy—to transcribe the +manuscripts which contain these exciting details.’</p> +<p>Logan thought that the office of the Disentanglers was hardly the +place to come to in search of an <!-- page 106--><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>historical +copyist. However, he remembered Miss Willoughby, and said that +he knew a lady of great skill and industry, of good family too, upon +whom his client might entirely depend. ‘She is a Miss Willoughby,’ +he added.</p> +<p>‘Not one of the Willoughbys of the Wicket, a most worthy, though +unfortunate house, nearly allied, as I told you, to my own, about three +hundred years ago?’ said the Earl.</p> +<p>‘Yes, she is a daughter of the last squire.’</p> +<p>‘Ruined in the modern race for wealth, like so many!’ +exclaimed the peer, and he sat in silence, deeply moved; his lips formed +a name familiar to Law Courts.</p> +<p>‘Excuse my emotion, Mr. Logan,’ he went on. ‘I +shall be happy to see and arrange with this lady, who, I trust will, +as my cousin, accept my hospitality at Rookchester. I shall be +deeply interested, as you, no doubt, will also be, in the result of +her researches into an affair which so closely concerns both you and +me.’</p> +<p>He was silent again, musing deeply, while Logan marvelled more and +more what his real original business might be. All this affair +of the documents and the muniment-room had arisen by the merest accident, +and would not have arisen if the Earl had found Merton at home. +The Earl obviously had a difficulty in coming to the point: many clients +had. To approach a total stranger on the most intimate domestic +affairs (even if his ancestor and yours were in a big thing together +three hundred years ago) is, to a sensitive patrician, no easy task. +In fact, even members of the middle class were, as clients, occasionally +affected by shyness.</p> +<p><!-- page 107--><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>‘Mr. Logan,’ +said the Earl, ‘I am not a man of to-day. The cupidity of +our age, the eagerness with which wealthy aliens are welcomed into our +best houses and families, is to me, I may say, distasteful. Better +that our coronets were dimmed than that they should be gilded with the +gold eagles of Chicago or blazing with the diamonds of Kimberley. +My feelings on this point are unusually—I do not think that they +are unduly—acute.’</p> +<p>Logan murmured assent.</p> +<p>‘I am poor,’ said the Earl, with all the expansiveness +of the shy; ‘but I never held what is called a share in my life.’</p> +<p>‘It is long,’ said Logan, with perfect truth, ‘since +anything of that sort was in my own possession. In that respect +my ’scutcheon, so to speak, is without a stain.’</p> +<p>‘How fortunate I am to have fallen in with one of sentiments +akin to my own, unusual as they are!’ said the Earl. ‘I +am a widower,’ he went on, ‘and have but one son and one +daughter.’</p> +<p>‘He is coming to business <i>now</i>,’ thought Logan.</p> +<p>‘The former, I fear, is as good almost as affianced—is +certainly in peril of betrothal—to a lady against whom I have +not a word to say, except that she is inordinately wealthy, the sole +heiress of—’ Here the Earl gasped, and was visibly +affected. ‘You may have heard, sir,’ the patrician +went on, ‘of a commercial transaction of nature unfathomable to +myself—I have not sought for information,’ he waved his +hand impatiently, ‘a transaction called a Straddle?’</p> +<p>Logan murmured that he was aware of the existence <!-- page 108--><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>of +the phrase, though unconscious of its precise meaning.</p> +<p>‘The lady’s wealth is based on a successful Straddle, +operated by her only known male ancestor, in—Bristles—Hogs’ +Bristles and Lard,’ said the Earl.</p> +<p>‘Miss Bangs!’ exclaimed Logan, knowing the name, wealth, +and the source of the wealth of the ruling Chicago heiress of the day.</p> +<p>‘I am to be understood to speak of Miss Bangs—as her +name has been pronounced between us—with all the respect due to +youth, beauty, and an amiable disposition,’ said the peer; ‘but +Bristles, Mr. Logan, Hogs’ Bristles and Lard. And a Straddle!’</p> +<p>‘Lucky devil, Scremerston,’ thought Logan, for Scremerston +was the only son of Lord Embleton, and he, as it seemed, had secured +that coveted prize of the youth of England, the heart of the opulent +Miss Bangs. But Logan only sighed and stared at the wall as one +who hears of an irremediable disaster.</p> +<p>‘If they really were betrothed,’ said Lord Embleton, +‘I would have nothing to say or do in the way of terminating the +connection, however unwelcome. A man’s word is his word. +It is in these circumstances of doubt (when the fortunes of a house +ancient, though titularly of mere Tudor <i>noblesse</i>, hang in the +balance) that, despairing of other help, I have come to you.’</p> +<p>‘But,’ asked Logan, ‘have things gone so very far? +Is the disaster irremediable? I am acquainted with your son, Lord +Scremerston; in fact, he was my fag at school. May I speak quite +freely?’</p> +<p>‘Certainly; you will oblige me.’</p> +<p><!-- page 109--><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>‘Well, by +the candour of early friendship, Scremerston was called the Arcadian, +an allusion to a certain tenderness of heart allied with—h’m—a +rather confident and sanguine disposition. I think it may console +you to reflect that perhaps he rather overestimates his success with +the admirable young lady of whom we spoke. You are not certain +that she has accepted him?’</p> +<p>‘No,’ said the Earl, obviously relieved. ‘I +am sure that he has not positively proposed to her. He knows my +opinion: he is a dutiful son, but he did seem very confident—seemed +to think that his honour was engaged.’</p> +<p>‘I think we may discount that a little,’ said Logan, +‘and hope for the best.’</p> +<p>‘I shall try to take that view,’ said the Earl. +‘You console me infinitely, Mr. Logan.’</p> +<p>Logan was about to speak again, when his client held up a gently +deprecating hand.</p> +<p>‘That is not all, Mr. Logan. I have a daughter—’</p> +<p>Logan chanced to be slightly acquainted with the daughter, Lady Alice +Guevara, a very nice girl.</p> +<p>‘Is she attached to a South African Jew?’ Logan thought.</p> +<p>‘In this case,’ said the client, ‘there is no want +of blood; Royal in origin, if it comes to that. To the House of +Bourbon I have no objection, in itself, that would be idle affectation.’</p> +<p>Logan gasped.</p> +<p>Was this extraordinary man anxious to reject a lady ‘multimillionaire’ +for his son, and a crown of some sort or other for his daughter?</p> +<p><!-- page 110--><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>‘But the +stain of ill-gotten gold—silver too—is ineffaceable.’</p> +<p>‘It really cannot be Bristles this time,’ thought Logan.</p> +<p>‘And a dynasty based on the roulette-table, . . . ’</p> +<p>‘Oh, the Prince of Scalastro!’ cried Logan.</p> +<p>‘I see that you know the worst,’ said the Earl.</p> +<p>Logan knew the worst fairly well. The Prince of Scalastro owned +a percentage of two or three thousand which Logan had dropped at the +tables licensed in his principality.</p> +<p>‘To the Prince, personally, I bear no ill-will,’ said +the Earl. ‘He is young, brave, scientific, accomplished, +and this unfortunate attachment began before he inherited his—h’m—dominions. +I fear it is, on both sides, a deep and passionate sentiment. +And now, Mr. Logan, you know the full extent of my misfortunes: what +course does your experience recommend? I am not a harsh father. +Could I disinherit Scremerston, which I cannot, the loss would not be +felt by him in the circumstances. As to my daughter—’</p> +<p>The peer rose and walked to the window. When he came back and +resumed his seat, Logan turned on him a countenance of mournful sympathy. +The Earl silently extended his hand, which Logan took. On few +occasions had a strain more severe been placed on his gravity, but, +unlike a celebrated diplomatist, he ‘could command his smile.’</p> +<p>‘Your case,’ he said, ‘is one of the most singular, +delicate, and distressing which I have met in the course of my experience. +There is no objection <!-- page 111--><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>to +character, and poverty is not the impediment: the reverse. You +will permit me, no doubt, to consult my partner, Mr. Merton; we have +naturally no secrets between us, and he possesses a delicacy of touch +and a power of insight which I can only regard with admiring envy. +It was he who carried to a successful issue that difficult case in the +family of the Sultan of Mingrelia (you will observe that I use a fictitious +name). I can assure you, Lord Embleton, that polygamy presents +problems almost insoluble; problems of extreme delicacy—or indelicacy.’</p> +<p>‘I had not heard of that affair,’ said the Earl. +‘Like Eumæus in Homer and in Mr. Stephen Phillips, I dwell +among the swine, and come rarely to the city.’</p> +<p>‘The matter never went beyond the inmost diplomatic circles,’ +said Logan. ‘The Sultan’s favourite son, the Jam, +or Crown Prince, of Mingrelia (<i>Jamreal</i>, they called him), loved +four beautiful Bollachians, sisters—again I disguise the nationality.’</p> +<p>‘Sisters!’ exclaimed the peer; ‘I have always given +my vote against the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill; but <i>four</i>, +and all alive!’</p> +<p>‘The law of the Prophet, as you are aware, is not monogamous,’ +said Logan; ‘and the Eastern races are not averse to connections +which are reprobated by our Western ideas. The real difficulty +was that of religion.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Oh, why from the heretic girl of my soul<br /> +Should I fly, to seek elsewhere an orthodox kiss?’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>hummed Logan, rather to the surprise of Lord Embleton. He went +on: ‘It is not so much that <!-- page 112--><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>the +Mingrelians object to mixed marriages in the matter of religion, but +the Bollachians, being Christians, do object, and have a horror of polygamy. +It was a cruel affair. All four girls, and the Jamreal himself, +were passionately attached to each other. It was known, too, that, +for political reasons, the maidens had received a dispensation from +the leading Archimandrite, their metropolitan, to marry the proud Paynim. +The Mingrelian Sultan is suzerain of Bollachia; his native subjects +are addicted to massacring the Bollachians from religious motives, and +the Bollachian Church (Nestorians, as you know) hoped that the four +brides would convert the Jamreal to their creed, and so solve the Bollachian +question. The end, they said, justified the means.’</p> +<p>‘Jesuitical,’ said the Earl, shaking his head sadly.</p> +<p>‘That is what my friend and partner, Mr. Merton, thought,’ +said Logan, ‘when we were applied to by the Sultan. Merton +displayed extraordinary tact and address. All was happily settled, +the Sultan and the Jamreal were reconciled, the young ladies met other +admirers, and learned that what they had taken for love was but a momentary +infatuation.’</p> +<p>The Earl sighed, ‘<i>Renovare dolorem</i>! My family,’ +said he, ‘is, and has long been—ever since the Gunpowder +Plot—firmly, if not passionately, attached to the Church of England. +The Prince of Scalastro is a Catholic.’</p> +<p>‘Had we a closer acquaintance with the parties concerned!’ +murmured Logan.</p> +<p>‘You must come and visit us at Rookchester,’ said <!-- page 113--><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>the +Earl. ‘In any case I am most anxious to know better one +whose ancestor was so closely connected with my own. We shall +examine my documents under the tuition of the lady you mentioned, Miss +Willoughby, if she will accept the hospitality of a kinsman.’</p> +<p>Logan murmured acquiescence, and again asked permission to consult +Merton, which was granted. The Earl then shook hands and departed, +obviously somewhat easier in his mind.</p> +<p>This remarkable conversation was duly reported by Logan to Merton.</p> +<p>‘What are we to do next?’ asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘Why you can do nothing but reconnoitre. Go down to Rookchester. +It is in Northumberland, on the Coquet—a pretty place, but there +is no fishing just now. Then we must ask Lord Embleton to meet +Miss Willoughby. The interview can be here: Miss Willoughby will +arrive, chaperoned by Miss Blossom, after the Earl makes his appearance.’</p> +<p>‘That will do, as far as his bothering old manuscripts are +concerned; but how about the real business—the two undesirable +marriages?’</p> +<p>‘We must first see how the land lies. I do not know any +of the lovers. What sort of fellow is Scremerston?’</p> +<p>‘Nothing remarkable about him—good, plucky, vain little +fellow. I suppose he wants money, like the rest of the world: +but his father won’t let him be a director of anything, though +he is in the House and his name would look well on a list.’</p> +<p>‘So he wants to marry dollars?’</p> +<p><!-- page 114--><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>‘I suppose +he has no objection to them; but have you seen Miss Bangs?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t remember her,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Then you have not seen her. She is beautiful, by Jove; +and, I fancy, clever and nice, and gives herself no airs.’</p> +<p>‘And she has all that money, and yet the old gentleman objects!’</p> +<p>‘He can not stand the bristles and lard,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Then the Prince of Scalastro—him I have come across. +You would never take him for a foreigner,’ said Merton, bestowing +on the Royal youth the highest compliment which an Englishman can pay, +but adding, ‘only he is too intelligent and knows too much.’</p> +<p>‘No; there is nothing the matter with <i>him</i>,’ Logan +admitted—‘nothing but happening to inherit a gambling establishment +and the garden it stands in. He is a scientific character—a +scientific soldier. I wish we had a few like him.’</p> +<p>‘Well, it is a hard case,’ said Merton. ‘They +all seem to be very good sort of people. And Lady Alice Guevara? +I hardly know her at all; but she is pretty enough—tall, yellow +hair, brown eyes.’</p> +<p>‘And as good a girl as lives,’ added Logan. ‘Very +religious, too.’</p> +<p>‘She won’t change her creed?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘She would go to the stake for it,’ said Logan. +‘She is more likely to convert the Prince.’</p> +<p>‘That would be one difficulty out of the way,’ said Merton. +‘But the gambling establishment? There <!-- page 115--><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>is +the rub! And the usual plan won’t work. You are a +captivating person, Logan, but I do not think that you could attract +Lady Alice’s affections and disentangle her in that way. +Besides, the Prince would have you out. Then Miss Bangs’ +dollars, not to mention herself, must have too strong a hold on Scremerston. +It really looks too hard a case for us on paper. You must go down +and reconnoitre.’</p> +<p>Logan agreed, and wrote asking Lord Embleton to come to the office, +where he could see Miss Willoughby and arrange about her visit to him +and his manuscripts. The young lady was invited to arrive rather +later, bringing Miss Blossom as her companion.</p> +<p>On the appointed day Logan and Merton awaited Lord Embleton. +He entered with an air unwontedly buoyant, and was introduced to Merton. +The first result was an access of shyness. The Earl hummed, began +sentences, dropped them, and looked pathetically at Logan. Merton +understood. The Earl had taken to Logan (on account of their hereditary +partnership in an ancient iniquity), and it was obvious that he would +say to him what he would not say to his partner. Merton therefore +withdrew to the outer room (they had met in the inner), and the Earl +delivered himself to Logan in a little speech.</p> +<p>‘Since we met, Mr. Logan,’ said he, ‘a very fortunate +event has occurred. The Prince of Scalastro, in a private interview, +has done me the honour to take me into his confidence. He asked +my permission to pay his addresses to my daughter, and informed me that, +finding his ownership of the gambling establishment <!-- page 116--><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>distasteful +to her, he had determined not to renew the lease to the company. +He added that since his boyhood, having been educated in Germany, he +had entertained scruples about the position which he would one day occupy, +that he had never entered the rooms (that haunt of vice), and that his +acquaintance with my daughter had greatly increased his objections to +gambling, though his scruples were not approved of by his confessor, +a very learned priest.’</p> +<p>‘That is curious,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Very,’ said the Earl. ‘But as I expect the +Prince and his confessor at Rookchester, where I hope you will join +us, we may perhaps find out the reasons which actuate that no doubt +respectable person. In the meantime, as I would constrain nobody +in matters of religion, I informed the Prince that he had my permission +to—well, to plead his cause for himself with Lady Alice.’</p> +<p>Logan warmly congratulated the Earl on the gratifying resolve of +the Prince, and privately wondered how the young people would support +life, when deprived of the profits from the tables.</p> +<p>It was manifest, however, from the buoyant air of the Earl, that +this important question had never crossed his mind. He looked +quite young in the gladness of his heart, ‘he smelled April and +May,’ he was clad becomingly in summer raiment, and to Logan it +was quite a pleasure to see such a happy man. Some fifteen years +seemed to have been taken from the age of this buxom and simple-hearted +patrician.</p> +<p><!-- page 117--><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>He began to discuss +with Logan all conceivable reasons why the Prince’s director had +rather discouraged his idea of closing the gambling-rooms for ever.</p> +<p>‘The Father, Father Riccoboni, is a Jesuit, Mr. Logan,’ +said the Earl gravely. ‘I would not be uncharitable, I hope +I am not prejudiced, but members of that community, I fear, often prefer +what they think the interests of their Church to those of our common +Christianity. A portion of the great wealth of the Scalastros +was annually devoted to masses for the souls of the players—about +fifteen per cent. I believe—who yearly shoot themselves in the +gardens of the establishment.’</p> +<p>‘No more suicides, no more subscriptions, I suppose,’ +said Logan; ‘but the practice proved that the reigning Princes +of Scalastro had feeling hearts.’</p> +<p>While the Earl developed this theme, Miss Willoughby, accompanied +by Miss Blossom, had joined Merton in the outer room. Miss Blossom, +being clad in white, with her blue eyes and apple-blossom complexion, +looked like the month of May. But Merton could not but be struck +by Miss Willoughby. She was tall and dark, with large grey eyes, +a Greek profile, and a brow which could, on occasion, be thunderous +and lowering, so that Miss Willoughby seemed to all a remarkably fine +young woman; while the educated spectator was involuntarily reminded +of the beautiful sister of the beautiful Helen, the celebrated Clytemnestra. +The young lady was clad in very dark blue, with orange points, so to +speak, and compared with her transcendent <!-- page 118--><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>beauty, +Miss Blossom, as Logan afterwards remarked, seemed a</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Wee modest crimson-tippit beastie,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>he intending to quote the poet Burns.</p> +<p>After salutations, Merton remarked to Miss Blossom that her well-known +discretion might prompt her to take a seat near the window while he +discussed private business with Miss Willoughby. The good-humoured +girl retired to contemplate life from the casement, while Merton rapidly +laid the nature of Lord Embleton’s affairs before the other lady.</p> +<p>‘You go down to Rookchester as a kinswoman and a guest, you +understand, and to do the business of the manuscripts.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, I shall rather like that than otherwise,’ said Miss +Willoughby, smiling.</p> +<p>‘Then, as to the regular business of the Society, there is +a Prince who seems to be thought unworthy of the daughter of the house; +and the son of the house needs disentangling from an American heiress +of great charm and wealth.’</p> +<p>‘The tasks might satisfy any ambition,’ said Miss Willoughby. +‘Is the idea that the Prince and the Viscount should <i>both</i> +neglect their former flames?’</p> +<p>‘And burn incense at the altar of Venus Verticordia,’ +said Merton, with a bow.</p> +<p>‘It is a large order,’ replied Miss Willoughby, in the +simple phrase of a commercial age: but as Merton looked at her, and +remembered the vindictive feeling with which she now regarded his sex, +he thought that she, if anyone, was capable of executing <!-- page 119--><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>the +commission. He was not, of course, as yet aware of the moral resolution +lately arrived at by the young potentate of Scalastro.</p> +<p>‘The manuscripts are the first thing, of course,’ he +said, and, as he spoke, Logan and Lord Embleton re-entered the room.</p> +<p>Merton presented the Earl to the ladies, and Miss Blossom soon retired +to her own apartment, and wrestled with the correspondence of the Society +and with her typewriting-machine.</p> +<p>The Earl proved not to be nearly so shy where ladies were concerned. +He had not expected to find in his remote and long-lost cousin, Miss +Willoughby, a magnificent being like Persephone on a coin of Syracuse, +but it was plain that he was prepossessed in her favour, and there was +a touch of the affectionate in his courtesy. After congratulating +himself on recovering a kinswoman of a long-separated branch of his +family, and after a good deal of genealogical disquisition, he explained +the nature of the lady’s historical tasks, and engaged her to +visit him in the country at an early date. Miss Willoughby then +said farewell, having an engagement at the Record Office, where, as +the Earl gallantly observed, she would ‘make a sunshine in a shady +place.’</p> +<p>When she had gone, the Earl observed, ‘<i>Bon sang ne peut +pas mentir</i>! To think of that beautiful creature condemned +to waste her lovely eyes on faded ink and yellow papers! Why, +she is, as the modern poet says, “a sight to make an old man young.”’</p> +<p>He then asked Logan to acquaint Merton with <!-- page 120--><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>the +new and favourable aspect of his affairs, and, after fixing Logan’s +visit to Rookchester for the same date as Miss Willoughby’s, he +went off with a juvenile alertness.</p> +<p>‘I say,’ said Logan, ‘I don’t know what will +come of this, but <i>something</i> will come of it. I had no idea +that girl was such a paragon.’</p> +<p>‘Take care, Logan,’ said Merton. ‘You ought +only to have eyes for Miss Markham.’</p> +<p>Miss Markham, the precise student may remember, was the lady once +known as the Venus of Milo to her young companions at St. Ursula’s. +Now mantles were draped on her stately shoulders at Madame Claudine’s, +and Logan and she were somewhat hopelessly attached to each other.</p> +<p>‘Take care of yourself at Rookchester,’ Merton went on, +‘or the Disentangler may be entangled.’</p> +<p>‘I am not a viscount and I am not an earl,’ said Logan, +with a reminiscence of an old popular song, ‘nor I am not a prince, +but a shade or two <i>wuss</i>; and I think that Miss Willoughby will +find other marks for the artillery of her eyes.’</p> +<p>‘We shall have news of it,’ said Merton.</p> +<h3>II. The Affair of the Jesuit</h3> +<p>Trains do not stop at the little Rookchester station except when +the high and puissant prince the Earl of Embleton or his visitors, or +his ministers, servants, solicitors, and agents of all kinds, are bound +for that haven. When Logan arrived at the station, a bowery, flowery, +amateur-looking depot, like one of the <!-- page 121--><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>‘model +villages’ that we sometimes see off the stage, he was met by the +Earl, his son Lord Scremerston, and Miss Willoughby. Logan’s +baggage was spirited away by menials, who doubtless bore it to the house +in some ordinary conveyance, and by the vulgar road. But Lord +Embleton explained that as the evening was warm, and the woodland path +by the river was cool, they had walked down to welcome the coming guest.</p> +<p>The walk was beautiful indeed along the top of the precipitous red +sandstone cliffs, with the deep, dark pools of the Coquet sleeping far +below. Now and then a heron poised, or a rock pigeon flew by, +between the river and the cliff-top. The opposite bank was embowered +in deep green wood, and the place was very refreshing after the torrid +bricks and distressing odours of the July streets of London.</p> +<p>The path was narrow: there was room for only two abreast. Miss +Willoughby and Scremerston led the way, and were soon lost to sight +by a turn in the path. As for Lord Embleton, he certainly seemed +to have drunk of that fountain of youth about which the old French poet +Pontus de Tyard reports to us, and to be going back, not forward, in +age. He looked very neat, slim, and cool, but that could not be +the only cause of the miracle of rejuvenescence. Closely regarding +his host in profile, Logan remarked that he had shaved off his moustache +and the little, obsolete, iron-grey chin-tuft which, in moments of perplexity, +he had been wont to twiddle. Its loss was certainly a very great +improvement to the clean-cut features of this patrician.</p> +<p><!-- page 122--><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>‘We are +a very small party,’ said Lord Embleton, ‘only the Prince, +my daughter, Father Riccoboni, Miss Willoughby, my sister, Scremerston, +and you and I. Miss Willoughby came last week. In the mornings +she and I are busy with the manuscripts. We have found most interesting +things. When their plot failed, your ancestor and mine prepared +a ship to start for the Western seas and attack the treasure-ships of +Spain. But peace broke out, and they never achieved that adventure. +Miss Willoughby is a cousin well worth discovering, so intelligent, +and so wonderfully attractive.’</p> +<p>‘So Scremerston seems to think,’ was Logan’s idea, +for the further he and the Earl advanced, the less, if possible, they +saw of the pair in front of them; indeed, neither was visible again +till the party met before dinner.</p> +<p>However, Logan only said that he had a great esteem for Miss Willoughby’s +courage and industry through the trying years of poverty since she left +St. Ursula’s.</p> +<p>‘The Prince we have not seen very much of,’ said the +Earl, ‘as is natural; for you will be glad to know that everything +seems most happily arranged, except so far as the religious difficulty +goes. As for Father Riccoboni, he is a quiet intelligent man, +who passes most of his time in the library, but makes himself very agreeable +at meals. And now here we are arrived.’</p> +<p>They had reached the south side of the house—an eighteenth-century +building in the red sandstone of the district, giving on a grassy terrace. +There the <!-- page 123--><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>host’s +maiden sister, Lady Mary Guevara, was seated by a tea-table, surrounded +by dogs—two collies and an Aberdeenshire terrier. Beside +her were Father Riccoboni, with a newspaper in his hand, Lady Alice, +with whom Logan had already some acquaintance, and the Prince of Scalastro. +Logan was presented, and took quiet notes of the assembly, while the +usual chatter about the weather and his journey got itself transacted, +and the view of the valley of the Coquet had justice done to its charms.</p> +<p>Lady Mary was very like a feminine edition of the Earl, refined, +shy, and with silvery hair. Lady Alice was a pretty, quiet type +of the English girl who is not up to date, with a particularly happy +and winning expression. The Prince was of a Teutonic fairness; +for the Royal caste, whatever the nationality, is to a great extent +made in Germany, and retains the physical characteristics of that ancient +forest people whom the Roman historian (never having met them) so lovingly +idealised. The Prince was tall, well-proportioned, and looked +‘every inch a soldier.’ There were a great many inches.</p> +<p>As for Father Riccoboni, the learned have remarked that there are +two chief clerical types: the dark, ascetic type, to be found equally +among Unitarians, Baptists, Anglicans, Presbyterians, and Catholics, +and the burly, well-fed, genial type, which ‘cometh eating and +drinking.’ The Father was of this second kind; a lusty man—not +that you could call him a sensual-looking man, still less was he a noisy +humourist; but he had a considerable jowl, a strong jaw, a wide, firm +mouth, and large teeth, very white and <!-- page 124--><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>square. +Logan thought that he, too, had the makings of a soldier, and also felt +almost certain that he had seen him before. But where?—for +Logan’s acquaintance with the clergy, especially the foreign clergy, +was not extensive. The Father spoke English very well, with a +slight German accent and a little hoarseness; his voice, too, did not +sound unfamiliar to Logan. But he delved in his subconscious memory +in vain; there was the Father, a man with whom he certainly had some +associations, yet he could not place the man.</p> +<p>A bell jangled somewhere without as they took tea and tattled; and, +looking towards the place whence the sound came, Logan saw a little +group of Italian musicians walking down the avenue which led through +the park to the east side of the house and the main entrance. +They entered, with many obeisances, through the old gate of floreated +wrought iron, and stopping there, about forty yards away, they piped, +while a girl, in the usual <i>contadina</i> dress, clashed her cymbals +and danced not ungracefully. The Father, who either did not like +music or did not like it of that sort, sighed, rose from his seat, and +went into the house by an open French window. The Prince also +rose, but he went forward to the group of Italians, and spoke to them +for a few minutes. If he did not like that sort of music, he took +the more excellent way, for the action of his elbow indicated a movement +of his hand towards his waistcoat-pocket. He returned to the party +on the terrace, and the itinerant artists, after more obeisances, walked +slowly back by the way they had come.</p> +<p><!-- page 125--><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>‘They are +Genoese,’ said the Prince, ‘tramping north to Scotland for +the holiday season.’</p> +<p>‘They will meet strong competition from the pipers,’ +said Logan, while the Earl rose, and walked rapidly after the musicians.</p> +<p>‘I do not like the pipes myself,’ Logan went on, ‘but +when I hear them in a London street my heart does warm to the skirl +and the shabby tartans.’</p> +<p>‘I feel with you,’ said the Prince, ‘when I see +the smiling faces of these poor sons of the South among—well, +your English faces are not usually joyous—if one may venture to +be critical.’</p> +<p>He looked up, and, his eyes meeting those of Lady Alice, he had occasion +to learn that every rule has its exceptions. The young people +rose and wandered off on the lawn, while the Earl came back and said +that he had invited the foreigners to refresh themselves.</p> +<p>‘I saw Father Riccoboni in the hall, and asked him to speak +to them a little in their own lingo,’ he added, ‘though +he does not appear to be partial to the music of his native land.’</p> +<p>‘He seems to be of the Romansch districts,’ Logan said; +‘his accent is almost German.’</p> +<p>‘I daresay he will make himself understood,’ said the +Earl. ‘Do you understand this house, Mr. Logan? It +looks very modern, does it not?’</p> +<p>‘Early Georgian, surely?’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘The shell, at least on this side, is early Georgian—I +rather regret it; but the interior, northward, except for the rooms +in front here, is of the good old times. We have secret stairs—not +that there is any secret about them—and odd cubicles, in the old +<!-- page 126--><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>Border keep, which +was re-faced about 1750; and we have a priest’s hole or two, in +which Father Riccoboni might have been safe, but would have been very +uncomfortable, three hundred years ago. I can show you the places +to-morrow; indeed, we have very little in the way of amusement to offer +you. Do you fish?’</p> +<p>‘I always take a trout rod about with me, in case of the best,’ +said Logan, ‘but this is “soolky July,” you know, +and the trout usually seem sound asleep.’</p> +<p>‘Their habits are dissipated here,’ said Lord Embleton. +‘They begin to feed about ten o’clock at night. Did +you ever try night fishing with the bustard?’</p> +<p>‘The bustard?’ asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘It is a big fluffy fly, like a draggled mayfly, fished wet, +in the dark. I used to be fond of it, but age,’ sighed the +Earl, ‘and fear of rheumatism have separated the bustard and me.’</p> +<p>‘I should like to try it very much,’ said Logan. +‘I often fished Tweed and Whitadder, at night, when I was a boy, +but we used a small dark fly.’</p> +<p>‘You must be very careful if you fish at night here,’ +said Lady Mary. ‘It is so dark in the valley under the woods, +and the Coquet is so dangerous. The flat sandstone ledges are +like the floor of a room, and then a step may land you in water ten +feet deep, flowing in a narrow channel. I am always anxious when +anyone fishes here at night. You can swim?’</p> +<p>Logan confessed that he was not destitute of that accomplishment, +and that he liked, of all things, to be by a darkling river, where you +came across the <!-- page 127--><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>night +side of nature in the way of birds, beasts, and fishes.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Logan can take very good care of himself, I am sure,’ +said Lord Embleton, ‘and Fenwick knows every inch of the water, +and will go with him. Fenwick is the water-keeper, Mr. Logan, +and represents man in the fishing and shooting stage. His one +thought is the destruction of animal life. He is a very happy +man.’</p> +<p>‘I never knew but one keeper who was not,’ said Logan. +‘That was in Galloway. He hated shooting, he hated fishing. +My impression is that he was what we call a “Stickit Minister.”’</p> +<p>‘Nothing of that about Fenwick,’ said the Earl. +‘I daresay you would like to see your room?’</p> +<p>Thither Logan was conducted, through a hall hung with pikes, and +guns, and bows, and clubs from the South Seas, and Zulu shields and +assegais, while a few empty figures in tilting armour, lance in hand, +stood on pedestals. Thence up a broad staircase, along a little +gallery, up a few steps of an old ‘turnpike’ staircase, +Logan reached his room, which looked down through the trees of the cliff +to the Coquet.</p> +<p>Dinner passed in the silver light of the long northern day, that +threw strange blue reflections, softer than sapphire, on the ancient +plate—the ambassadorial plate of a Jacobean ancestor.</p> +<p>‘It should all have gone to the melting-pot for King Charles’s +service,’ said the Earl, with a sigh, ‘but my ancestor of +that day stood for the Parliament.’</p> +<p>Logan’s position at dinner was better for observation than +for entertainment. He sat on the right hand <!-- page 128--><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>of +Lady Mary, where the Prince ought to have been seated, but Lady Alice +sat on her father’s left, and next her, of course, the Prince. +‘Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,’ and Love deranged +the accustomed order, for the Prince sat between Lady Alice and Logan. +Opposite Logan, and at Lady Mary’s left, was the Jesuit, and next +him, Scremerston, beside whom was Miss Willoughby, on the Earl’s +right. Inevitably the conversation of the Prince and Lady Alice +was mainly directed to each other—so much so that Logan did not +once perceive the princely eyes attracted to Miss Willoughby opposite +to him, though it was not easy for another to look at anyone else. +Logan, in the pauses of his rather conventional entertainment by Lady +Mary, <i>did</i> look, and he was amazed no less by the beauty than +by the spirits and gaiety of the young lady so recently left forlorn +by the recreant Jephson. This flower of the Record Office and +of the British Museum was obviously not destined to blush unseen any +longer. She manifestly dazzled Scremerston, who seemed to remember +Miss Bangs, her charms, and her dollars no more than Miss Willoughby +appeared to remember the treacherous Don.</p> +<p>Scremerston was very unlike his father: he was a small, rather fair +man, with a slight moustache, a close-clipped beard, and little grey +eyes with pink lids. His health was not good: he had been invalided +home from the Imperial Yeomanry, after a slight wound and a dangerous +attack of enteric fever, and he had secured a pair for the rest of the +Session. He was not very clever, but he certainly laughed sufficiently +<!-- page 129--><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>at what Miss Willoughby +said, who also managed to entertain the Earl with great dexterity and +<i>aplomb</i>. Meanwhile Logan and the Jesuit amused the excellent +Lady Mary as best they might, which was not saying much. Lady +Mary, though extremely amiable, was far from brilliant, and never having +met a Jesuit before, she regarded Father Riccoboni with a certain hereditary +horror, as an animal of a rare species, and, of habits perhaps startling +and certainly perfidious. However, the lady was philanthropic +in a rural way, and Father Riccoboni enlightened her as to the reasons +why his enterprising countrymen leave their smiling land, and open small +ice-shops in little English towns, or, less ambitious, invest their +slender capital in a monkey and a barrel-organ.</p> +<p>‘I don’t so very much mind barrel-organs myself,’ +said Logan; ‘I don’t know anything prettier than to see +the little girls dancing to the music in a London side street.’</p> +<p>‘But do not the musicians all belong to that dreadful Camorra?’ +asked the lady.</p> +<p>‘Not if they come from the North, madam,’ said the Jesuit. +‘And do not all your Irish reapers belong to that dreadful Land +League, or whatever it is called?’</p> +<p>‘They are all Pap---’ said Lady Mary, who then stopped, +blushed, and said, with some presence of mind, ‘paupers, I fear, +but they are quite safe and well-behaved on this side of the Irish Channel.’</p> +<p>‘And so are our poor people,’ said the Jesuit. +‘If they occasionally use the knife a little—<i>naturam +expellas furca</i>, Mr. Logan, but the knife is a different <!-- page 130--><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>thing—it +is only in a homely war among themselves that they handle it in the +East-end of London.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Cœlum non animum</i>,’ said Logan, determined +not to be outdone in classical felicities; and, indeed, he thought his +own quotation the more appropriate.</p> +<p>At this moment a great silvery-grey Persian cat, which had sat hitherto +in a stereotyped Egyptian attitude on the arm of the Earl’s chair, +leaped down and sprang affectionately on the shoulder of the Jesuit. +He shuddered strongly and obviously repressed an exclamation with difficulty, +as he gently removed the cat.</p> +<p>‘Fie, Meriamoun!’ said the Earl, as the puss resumed +her Egyptian pose beside him. ‘Shall I send the animal out +of the room? I know some people cannot endure a cat,’ and +he mentioned the gallant Field Marshal who is commonly supposed to share +this infirmity.</p> +<p>‘By no means, my lord,’ said the Jesuit, who looked strangely +pale. ‘Cats have an extraordinary instinct for caressing +people who happen to be born with exactly the opposite instinct. +I am like the man in Aristotle who was afraid of the cat.’</p> +<p>‘I wish we knew more about that man,’ said Miss Willoughby, +who was stroking Meriamoun. ‘Are <i>you</i> afraid of cats, +Lord Scremerston?—but you, I suppose, are afraid of nothing.’</p> +<p>‘I am terribly afraid of all manner of flying things that buzz +and bite,’ said Scremerston.</p> +<p>‘Except bullets,’ said Miss Willoughby—Beauty rewarding +Valour with a smile and a glance so dazzling that the good little Yeoman +blushed with pleasure.</p> +<p><!-- page 131--><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>‘It is a +shame!’ thought Logan. ‘I don’t like it now +I see it.’</p> +<p>‘As to horror of cats,’ said the Earl, ‘I suppose +evolution can explain it. I wonder how they would work it out +in <i>Science Jottings</i>. There is a great deal of electricity +in a cat.’</p> +<p>‘Evolution can explain everything,’ said the Jesuit demurely, +‘but who can explain evolution?’</p> +<p>‘As to electricity in the cat,’ said Logan, ‘I +daresay there is as much in the dog, only everybody has tried stroking +a cat in the dark to see the sparks fly, and who ever tried stroking +a dog in the dark, for experimental purposes?—did you, Lady Mary?’</p> +<p>Lady Mary never had tried, but the idea was new to her, and she would +make the experiment in winter.</p> +<p>‘Deer skins, stroked, do sparkle,’ said Logan, ‘I +read that in a book. I daresay horses do, only nobody tries. +I don’t think electricity is the explanation of why some people +can’t bear cats.’</p> +<p>‘Electricity is the modern explanation of everything—love, +faith, everything,’ remarked the Jesuit; ‘but, as I said, +who shall explain electricity?’</p> +<p>Lady Mary, recognising the orthodoxy of these sentiments, felt more +friendly towards Father Riccoboni. He might be a Jesuit, but he +was <i>bien pensant</i>.</p> +<p>‘What I am afraid of is not a cat, but a mouse,’ said +Miss Willoughby, and the two other ladies admitted that their own terrors +were of the same kind.</p> +<p>‘What I am afraid of,’ said the Prince, ‘is a banging +door, by day or night. I am not, otherwise, of a nervous constitution, +but if I hear a door bang, I <!-- page 132--><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span><i>must</i> +go and hunt for it, and stop the noise, either by shutting the door, +or leaving it wide open. I am a sound sleeper, but, if a door +bangs, it wakens me at once. I try not to notice it. I hope +it will leave off. Then it does leave off—that is the artfulness +of it—and, just as you are falling asleep, <i>knock</i> it goes! +A double knock, sometimes. Then I simply <i>must</i> get up, and +hunt for that door, upstairs or downstairs—’</p> +<p>‘Or in my—’ interrupted Miss Willoughby, and stopped, +thinking better of it, and not finishing the quotation, which passed +unheard.</p> +<p>‘That research has taken me into some odd places,’ the +Prince ended; and Logan reminded the Society of the Bravest of the Brave. +What <i>he</i> was afraid of was a pair of tight boots.</p> +<p>These innocent conversations ended, and, after dinner, the company +walked about or sat beneath the stars in the fragrant evening air, the +Earl seated by Miss Willoughby, Scremerston smoking with Logan; while +the white dress of Lady Alice flitted ghost-like on the lawn, and the +tip of the Prince’s cigar burned red in the neighbourhood. +In the drawing-room Lady Mary was tentatively conversing with the Jesuit, +that mild but probably dangerous animal. She had the curiosity +which pious maiden ladies feel about the member of a community which +they only know through novels. Certainly this Jesuit was very +unlike Aramis.</p> +<p>‘And who <i>is</i> he like?’ Logan happened to +be asking Scremerston at that moment. ‘I know the face—I +know the voice; hang it!—where have I seen the man?’</p> +<p><!-- page 133--><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>‘Now you +mention it,’ said Scremerston, ‘<i>I</i> seem to remember +him too. But I can’t place him. What do you think +of a game of billiards, father?’ he asked, rising and addressing +Lord Embleton. ‘Rosamond—Miss Willoughby, I mean—’</p> +<p>‘Oh, we are cousins, Lord Embleton says, and you may call me +Rosamond. I have never had any cousins before,’ interrupted +the young lady.</p> +<p>‘Rosamond,’ said Scremerston, with a gulp, ‘is +getting on wonderfully well for a beginner.’</p> +<p>‘Then let us proceed with her education: it is growing chilly, +too,’ said the Earl; and they all went to billiards, the Jesuit +marking with much attention and precision. Later he took a cue, +and was easily the master of every man there, though better acquainted, +he said, with the foreign game. The late Pope used to play, he +said, nearly as well as Mr. Herbert Spencer. Even for a beginner, +Miss Willoughby was not a brilliant player; but she did not cut the +cloth, and her arms were remarkably beautiful—an excellent but +an extremely rare thing in woman. She was rewarded, finally, by +a choice between bedroom candles lit and offered by her younger and +her elder cousins, and, after a momentary hesitation, accepted that +of the Earl.</p> +<p>‘How is this going to end?’ thought Logan, when he was +alone. ‘Miss Bangs is out of the running, that is certain: +millions of dollars cannot bring her near Miss Willoughby with Scremerston. +The old gentleman ought to like that—it relieves him from the +bacon and lard, and the dollars, and the associations with a Straddle; +and then Miss Willoughby’s <!-- page 134--><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>family +is all right, but the girl is reckless. A demon has entered into +her: she used to be so quiet. I’d rather marry Miss Bangs +without the dollars. Then it is all very well for Scremerston +to yield to Venus Verticordia, and transfer his heart to this new enchantress. +But, if I am not mistaken, the Earl himself is much more kind than kin. +The heart has no age, and he is a very well-preserved peer. You +might take him for little more than forty, though he quite looked his +years when I saw him first. Well, <i>I</i> am safe enough, in +spite of Merton’s warning: this new Helen has no eyes for me, +and the Prince has no eyes for her, I think. But who is the Jesuit?’</p> +<p>Logan fought with his memory till he fell asleep, but he recovered +no gleam of recollection about the holy man.</p> +<p>It did not seem to Logan, next day, that he was in for a very lively +holiday. His host carried off Miss Willoughby to the muniment-room +after breakfast; that was an advantage he had over Scremerston, who +was decidedly restless and ill at ease. He took Logan to see the +keeper, and they talked about fish and examined local flies, and Logan +arranged to go and try the trout with the bustard some night; and then +they pottered about, and ate cherries in the garden, and finally the +Earl found them half asleep in the smoking-room. He routed the +Jesuit out of the library, where he was absorbed in a folio containing +the works of the sainted Father Parsons, and then the Earl showed Logan +and Father Riccoboni over the house. From a window of the gallery +Scremerston <!-- page 135--><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>could +be descried playing croquet with Miss Willoughby, an apparition radiant +in white.</p> +<p>The house was chiefly remarkable for queer passages, which, beginning +from the roof of the old tower, above the Father’s chamber, radiated +about, emerging in unexpected places. The priests’ holes +had offered to the persecuted clergy of old times the choice between +being grilled erect behind a chimney, or of lying flat in a chamber +about the size of a coffin near the roof, where the martyr Jesuits lived +on suction, like the snipe, absorbing soup from a long straw passed +through a wall into a neighbouring garret.</p> +<p>‘Those were cruel times,’ said Father Riccoboni, who +presently, at luncheon, showed that he could thoroughly appreciate the +tender mercies of the present or Christian era. Logan watched +him, and once when, something that interested him being said, the Father +swept the table with his glance without raising his head, a memory for +a fraction of a moment seemed to float towards the surface of Logan’s +consciousness. Even as when an angler, having hooked a salmon, +a monster of the stream, long the fish bores down impetuous, seeking +the sunken rocks, disdainful of the steel, and the dark wave conceals +him; then anon is beheld a gleam of silver, and again is lost to view, +and the heart of the man rejoices—even so fugitive a glimpse had +Logan of what he sought in the depths of memory. But it fled, +and still he was puzzled.</p> +<p>Logan loafed out after luncheon to a seat on the lawn in the shade +of a tree. They were all to be <!-- page 136--><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>driven +over to an Abbey not very far away, for, indeed, in July, there is little +for a man to do in the country. Logan sat and mused. Looking +up he saw Miss Willoughby approaching, twirling an open parasol on her +shoulder. Her face was radiant; of old it had often looked as +if it might be stormy, as if there were thunder behind those dark eyebrows. +Logan rose, but the lady sat down on the garden seat, and he followed +her example.</p> +<p>‘This is better than Bloomsbury, Mr. Logan, and cocoa <i>pour +tout potage</i>: singed cocoa usually.’</p> +<p>‘The <i>potage</i> here is certainly all that heart can wish,’ +said Logan.</p> +<p>‘The chrysalis,’ said Miss Willoughby, ‘in its +wildest moments never dreamed of being a butterfly, as the man said +in the sermon; and I feel like a butterfly that remembers being a chrysalis. +Look at me now!’</p> +<p>‘I could look for ever,’ said Logan, ‘like the +sportsman in Keats’s <i>Grecian Urn</i>: “For ever let me +look, and thou be fair!”’</p> +<p>‘I am so sorry for people in town,’ said Miss Willoughby. +‘Don’t you wish dear old Milo was here?’</p> +<p>Milo was the affectionate nickname—a tribute to her charms—borne +by Miss Markham at St. Ursula’s.</p> +<p>‘How can I wish that anyone was here but you?’ asked +Logan. ‘But, indeed, as to her being here, I should like +to know in what capacity she was a guest.’</p> +<p>The Clytemnestra glance came into Miss Willoughby’s grey eyes +for a moment, but she was not to be put out of humour.</p> +<p><!-- page 137--><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>‘To be here +as a kinswoman, and an historian, with a maid—fancy me with a +maid!—and everything handsome about me, is sufficiently excellent +for me, Mr. Logan; and if it were otherwise, do you disapprove of the +proceedings of your own Society? But there is Lord Scremerston +calling to us, and a four-in-hand waiting at the door. And I am +to sit on the box-seat. Oh, this is better than the dingy old +Record Office all day.’</p> +<p>With these words Miss Willoughby tripped over the sod as lightly +as the Fairy Queen, and Logan slowly followed. No; he did <i>not</i> +approve of the proceedings of his Society as exemplified by Miss Willoughby, +and he was nearly guilty of falling asleep during the drive to Winderby +Abbey. Scremerston was not much more genial, for his father was +driving and conversing very gaily with his fair kinswoman.</p> +<p>‘Talk about a distant cousin!’ thought Logan, who in +fact felt ill-treated. However deep in love a man may be, he does +not like to see a fair lady conspicuously much more interested in other +members of his sex than in himself.</p> +<p>The Abbey was a beautiful ruin, and Father Riccoboni did not conceal +from Lady Mary the melancholy emotions with which it inspired him.</p> +<p>‘When shall our prayers be heard?’ he murmured. +‘When shall England return to her Mother’s bosom?’</p> +<p>Lady Mary said nothing, but privately trusted that the winds would +disperse the orisons of which the Father spoke. Perhaps nuns had +been bricked up in these innocent-looking mossy walls, thought Lady +Mary, whose ideas on this matter were derived from <!-- page 138--><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>a +scene in the poem of <i>Marmion</i>. And deep in Lady Mary’s +heart was a half-formed wish that, if there was to be any bricking up, +Miss Willoughby might be the interesting victim. Unlike her brother +the Earl, she was all for the Bangs alliance.</p> +<p>Scremerston took the reins on the homeward way, the Earl being rather +fatigued; and, after dinner, <i>two</i> white robes flitted ghost-like +on the lawn, and the light which burned red beside one of them was the +cigar-tip of Scremerston. The Earl had fallen asleep in the drawing-room, +and Logan took a lonely stroll, much regretting that he had come to +a house where he felt decidedly ‘out of it.’ He wandered +down to the river, and stood watching. He was beside the dark-brown +water in the latest twilight, beside a long pool with a boat moored +on the near bank. He sat down in the boat pensively, and then—what +was that? It was the sound of a heavy trout rising. ‘<i>Plop</i>, +<i>plop</i>!’ They were feeding all round him.</p> +<p>‘By Jove! I’ll try the bustard to-morrow night, +and then I’ll go back to town next day,’ thought Logan. +‘I am doing no good here, and I don’t like it. I shall +tell Merton that I have moral objections to the whole affair. +Miserable, mercenary fraud!’ Thus, feeling very moral and +discontented, Logan walked back to the house, carefully avoiding the +ghostly robes that still glimmered on the lawn, and did not re-enter +the house till bedtime.</p> +<p>The following day began as the last had done; Lord Embleton and Miss +Willoughby retiring to the muniment-room, the lovers vanishing among +the walks. Scremerston later took Logan to consult <!-- page 139--><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>Fenwick, +who visibly brightened at the idea of night-fishing.</p> +<p>‘You must take one of those long landing-nets, Logan,’ +said Scremerston. ‘They are about as tall as yourself, and +as stout as lance-shafts. They are for steadying you when you +wade, and feeling the depth of the water in front of you.’</p> +<p>Scremerston seemed very pensive. The day was hot; they wandered +to the smoking-room. Scremerston took up a novel, which he did +not read; Logan began a letter to Merton—a gloomy epistle.</p> +<p>‘I say, Logan,’ suddenly said Scremerston, ‘if +your letter is not very important, I wish you would listen to me for +a moment.’</p> +<p>Logan turned round. ‘Fire away,’ he said; ‘my +letter can wait.’</p> +<p>Scremerston was in an attitude of deep dejection. Logan lit +a cigarette and waited.</p> +<p>‘Logan, I am the most miserable beggar alive.’</p> +<p>‘What is the matter? You seem rather in-and-out in your +moods,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Why, you know, I am in a regular tight place. I don’t +know how to put it. You see, I can’t help thinking that—that—I +have rather committed myself—it seems a beastly conceited thing +to say—that there’s a girl who likes me, I’m afraid.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t want to be inquisitive, but is she in this country?’ +asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘No; she’s at Homburg.’</p> +<p>‘Has it gone very far? Have you <i>said</i> anything?’ +asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘No; my father did not like it. I hoped to bring him +round.’</p> +<p><!-- page 140--><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>‘Have you +<i>written</i> anything? Do you correspond?’</p> +<p>‘No, but I’m afraid I have <i>looked</i> a lot.’</p> +<p>As the Viscount Scremerston’s eyes were by no means fitted +to express with magnetic force the language of the affections, Logan +had to command his smile.</p> +<p>‘But why have you changed your mind, if you liked her?’ +he asked.</p> +<p>‘Oh, <i>you</i> know very well! Can anybody see her and +not love her?’ said Scremerston, with a vagueness in his pronouns, +but referring to Miss Willoughby.</p> +<p>Logan was inclined to reply that he could furnish, at first hand, +an exception to the rule, but this appeared tactless.</p> +<p>‘No one, I daresay, whose affections were not already engaged, +could see her without loving her; but I thought yours had been engaged +to a lady now at Homburg?’</p> +<p>‘So did I,’ said the wretched Scremerston, ‘but +I was mistaken. Oh, Logan, you don’t know the difference! +<i>This</i> is genuine biz,’ remarked the afflicted nobleman with +much simplicity. He went on: ‘Then there’s my father—you +know him. He was against the other affair, but, if he thinks I +have committed myself and then want to back out, why, with his ideas, +he’d rather see me dead. But I can’t go on with the +other thing now: I simply can <i>not</i>. I’ve a good mind +to go out after rabbits, and pot myself crawling through a hedge.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, nonsense!’ said Logan; ‘that is stale and +superfluous. For all that I can see, there is no harm done. +The young lady, depend upon it, won’t break <!-- page 141--><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>her +heart. As a matter of fact, they don’t—<i>we</i> do. +You have only to sit tight. You are no more committed than I am. +You would only make both of you wretched if you went and committed yourself +now, when you don’t want to do it. In your position I would +certainly sit tight: don’t commit yourself—either here or +there, so to speak; or, if you can’t sit tight, make a bolt for +it. Go to Norway. I am very strongly of opinion that the +second plan is the best. But, anyhow, keep up your pecker. +You are all right—I give you my word that I think you are all +right.’</p> +<p>‘Thanks, old cock,’ said Scremerston. ‘Sorry +to have bored you, but I <i>had</i> to speak to somebody.’</p> +<p>* * * * * *</p> +<p>‘Best thing you could do,’ said Logan. ‘You’ll +feel ever so much better. That kind of worry comes of keeping +things to oneself, till molehills look mountains. If you like +I’ll go with you to Norway myself.’</p> +<p>‘Thanks, awfully,’ said Scremerston, but he did not seem +very keen. Poor little Scremerston!</p> +<p>Logan ‘breasted the brae’ from the riverside to the house. +His wading-boots were heavy, for he had twice got in over the tops thereof; +heavy was his basket that Fenwick carried behind him, but light was +Logan’s heart, for the bustard had slain its dozens of good trout. +He and the keeper emerged from the wood on the level of the lawn. +All the great mass of the house lay dark before them. Logan was +to let himself in by the locked French window; for it was very late—about +two in the morning. <!-- page 142--><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>He +had the key of the window-door in his pocket. A light moved through +the long gallery: he saw it pass each window and vanish. There +was dead silence: not a leaf stirred. Then there rang out a pistol-shot, +or was it two pistol-shots? Logan ran for the window, his rod, +which he had taken down after fishing, in his hand.</p> +<p>‘Hurry to the back door, Fenwick!’ he said; and Fenwick, +throwing down the creel, but grasping the long landing-net, flew to +the back way. Logan opened the drawing-room window, took out his +matchbox, with trembling ringers lit a candle, and, with the candle +in one hand, the rod in the other, sped through the hall, and along +a back passage leading to the gunroom. He had caught a glimpse +of the Earl running down the main staircase, and had guessed that the +trouble was on the ground floor. As he reached the end of the +long dark passage, Fenwick leaped in by the back entrance, of which +the door was open. What Logan saw was a writhing group—the +Prince of Scalastro struggling in the arms of three men: a long white +heap lay crumpled in a corner. Fenwick, at this moment, threw +the landing-net over the head of one of the Prince’s assailants, +and with a twist, held the man half choked and powerless. Fenwick +went on twisting, and, with the leverage of the long shaft of the net, +dragged the wretch off the Prince, and threw him down. Another +of the men turned on Logan with a loud guttural oath, and was raising +a pistol. Logan knew the voice at last—knew the Jesuit now. +‘<i>Rien ne va plus</i>!’ he cried, and lunged, with all +the force and speed of an expert fencer, at <!-- page 143--><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>the +fellow’s face with the point of the rod. The metal joints +clicked and crashed through the man’s mouth, his pistol dropped, +and he staggered, cursing through his blood, against the wall. +Logan picked up the revolver as the Prince, whose hands were now free, +floored the third of his assailants with an upper cut. Logan thrust +the revolver into the Prince’s hand. ‘Keep them quiet +with that,’ he said, and ran to where the Earl, who had entered +unseen in the struggle, was kneeling above the long, white, crumpled +heap.</p> +<p>It was Scremerston, dead, in his night dress: poor plucky little +Scremerston.</p> +<p>* * * * * *</p> +<p>Afterwards, before the trial, the Prince told Logan how matters had +befallen. ‘I was wakened,’ he said—‘you +were very late, you know, and we had all gone to bed—I was wakened +by a banging door. If you remember, I told you all, on the night +of your arrival at Rookchester, how I hated that sound. I tried +not to think of it, and was falling asleep when it banged again—a +double knock. I was nearly asleep, when it clashed again. +There was no wind, my window was open and I looked out: I only heard +the river murmuring and the whistle of a passing train. The stillness +made the abominable recurrent noise more extraordinary. I dressed +in a moment in my smoking-clothes, lit a candle, and went out of my +room, listening. I walked along the gallery—’</p> +<p>‘It was your candle that I saw as I crossed the lawn,’ +said Logan.</p> +<p>‘When a door opened,’ the Prince went on—‘the +<!-- page 144--><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>door of one of the +rooms on the landing—and a figure, all in white,—it was +Scremerston,—emerged and disappeared down the stairs. I +followed at the top of my speed. I heard a shot, or rather two +pistols that rang out together like one. I ran through the hall +into the long back passage at right-angles to it, down the passage to +the glimmer of light through the partly glazed door at the end of it. +Then my candle was blown out and three men set on me. They had +nearly pinioned me when you and Fenwick took them on both flanks. +You know the rest. They had the boat unmoored, a light cart ready +on the other side, and a steam-yacht lying off Warkworth. The +object, of course, was to kidnap me, and coerce or torture me into renewing +the lease of the tables at Scalastro. Poor Scremerston, who was +a few seconds ahead of me, not carrying a candle, had fired in the dark, +and missed. The answering fire, which was simultaneous, killed +him. The shots saved me, for they brought you and Fenwick to the +rescue. Two of the fellows whom we damaged were—’</p> +<p>‘The Genoese pipers, of course,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘And you guessed, from the cry you gave, who my confessor (<i>he</i> +banged the door, of course to draw me) turned out to be?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, the head croupier at Scalastro years ago; but he wore +a beard and blue spectacles in the old time, when he raked in a good +deal of my patrimony,’ said Logan. ‘But how was he +planted on <i>you</i>?’</p> +<p>‘My old friend, Father Costa, had died, and it is too long +a tale of forgery and fraud to tell you how this wretch was forced on +me. He <i>had</i> been a Jesuit, <!-- page 145--><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>but +was unfrocked and expelled from Society for all sorts of namable and +unnamable offences. His community believed that he was dead. +So he fell to the profession in which you saw him, and, when the gambling +company saw that I was disinclined to let that hell burn any longer +on my rock, ingenious treachery did the rest.’</p> +<p>‘By Jove!’ said Logan.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The Prince of Scalastro, impoverished by his own generous impulse, +now holds high rank in the Japanese service. His beautiful wife +is much admired in Yokohama.</p> +<p>The Earl was nursed through the long and dangerous illness which +followed the shock of that dreadful July night, by the unwearying assiduity +of his kinswoman, Miss Willoughby. On his recovery, the bride +(for the Earl won her heart and hand) who stood by him at the altar +looked fainter and more ghostly than the bridegroom. But her dark +hour of levity was passed and over. There is no more affectionate +pair than the Earl and Countess of Embleton. Lady Mary, who lives +with them, is once more an aunt, and spoils, it is to be feared, the +young Viscount Scremerston, a fine but mischievous little boy. +On the fate of the ex-Jesuit we do not dwell: enough to say that his +punishment was decreed by the laws of our country, not of that which +he had disgraced.</p> +<p>The manuscripts of the Earl have been edited by him and the Countess +for the Roxburghe Club.</p> +<h2><!-- page 146--><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>VIII. THE +ADVENTURE OF THE LADY PATRONESS</h2> +<p>‘I cannot bring myself to refuse my assent. It would +break the dear child’s heart. She has never cared for anyone +else, and, oh, she is quite wrapped up in him. I have heard of +your wonderful cures, Mr. Merton, I mean successes, in cases which everyone +has given up, and though it seems a very strange step to me, I thought +that I ought to shrink from no remedy’—</p> +<p>‘However unconventional,’ said Merton, smiling. +He felt rather as if he were being treated like a quack doctor, to whom +people (if foolish enough) appeal only as the last desperate resource.</p> +<p>The lady who filled, and amply filled, the client’s chair, +Mrs. Malory, of Upwold in Yorkshire, was a widow, obviously, a widow +indeed. ‘In weed’ was an unworthy <i>calembour</i> +which flashed through Merton’s mind, since Mrs. Malory’s +undying regret for her lord (a most estimable man for a coal owner) +was explicitly declared, or rather was blazoned abroad, in her costume. +Mrs. Mallory, in fact, was what is derisively styled ‘Early Victorian’—‘Middle’ +would have been, historically, more accurate. Her religion was +mildly Evangelical; she had been brought up on the <!-- page 147--><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>Memoirs +of the Fairchild Family, by Mrs. Sherwood, tempered by Miss Yonge and +the Waverley Novels. On these principles she had trained her family. +The result was that her sons had not yet brought the family library, +and the family Romneys and Hoppners, to Christie’s. Not +one of them was a director of any company, and the name of Malory had +not yet been distinguished by decorating the annals of the Courts of +Bankruptcy or of Divorce. In short, a family more deplorably not +‘up to date,’ and more ‘out of the swim’ could +scarcely be found in England.</p> +<p>Such, and of such connections, was the lady, fair, faded, with mildly +aquiline features, and an aspect at once distinguished and dowdy, who +appealed to Merton. She sought him in what she, at least, regarded +as the interests of her eldest daughter, an heiress under the will of +a maternal uncle. Merton had met the young lady, who looked like +a portrait of her mother in youth. He knew that Miss Malory, now +‘wrapped up in’ her betrothed lover, would, in a few years, +be equally absorbed in ‘her boys.’ She was pretty, +blonde, dull, good, and cast by Providence for the part of one of the +best of mothers, and the despair of what man soever happened to sit +next her at a dinner party. Such women are the safeguards of society—though +sneered at by the frivolous as ‘British Matrons.’</p> +<p>‘I have laid the case before the—where I always take +my troubles,’ said Mrs. Malory, ‘and I have not felt restrained +from coming to consult you. When I permitted my daughter’s +engagement (of course after carefully examining the young man’s +worldly position) <!-- page 148--><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>I +was not aware of what I know now. Matilda met him at a visit to +some neighbours—he really is very attractive, and very attentive—and +it was not till we came to London for the season that I heard the stories +about him. Some of them have been pointed out to me, in print, +in the dreadful French newspapers, others came to me in anonymous letters. +As far as a mother may, I tried to warn Matilda, but there are subjects +on which one can hardly speak to a girl. The Vidame, in fact,’ +said Mrs. Malory, blushing, ‘is celebrated—I should say +infamous—both in France and Italy, Poland too, as what they call +<i>un homme aux bonnes fortunes</i>. He has caused the break-up +of several families. Mr. Merton, he is a rake,’ whispered +the lady, in some confusion.</p> +<p>‘He is still young; he may reform,’ said Merton, ‘and +no doubt a pure affection will be the saving of him.’</p> +<p>‘So Matilda believes, but, though a Protestant—his ancestors +having left France after the Revocation of the Edict of Nancy—Nantes +I mean—I am certain that he is <i>not</i> under conviction.’</p> +<p>‘Why does he call himself Vidame, “the Vidame de la Lain”?’ +asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘It is an affectation,’ said Mrs. Malory. ‘None +of his family used the title in England, but he has been much on the +Continent, and has lands in France; and, I suppose, has romantic ideas. +He is as much French as English, more I am afraid. The wickedness +of that country! And I fear it has affected ours. Even now—I +am not a scandal-monger, and I hope for the best—but even last +winter he was talked about,’ Mrs. <!-- page 149--><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>Malory +dropped her voice, ‘with a lady whose husband is in America, Mrs. +Brown-Smith.’</p> +<p>‘A lady for whom I have the very highest esteem,’ said +Merton, for, indeed, Mrs. Brown-Smith was one of his references or Lady +Patronesses; he knew her well, and had a respect for her character, +<i>au fond</i>, as well as an admiration for her charms.</p> +<p>‘You console me indeed,’ said Mrs. Malory. ‘I +had heard—’</p> +<p>‘People talk a great deal of ill-natured nonsense,’ said +Merton warmly. ‘Do you know Mrs. Brown-Smith?’</p> +<p>‘We have met, but we are not in the same set; we have exchanged +visits, but that is all.’</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ said Merton thoughtfully. He remembered that +when his enterprise was founded Mrs. Brown-Smith had kindly offered +her practical services, and that he had declined them for the moment. +‘Mrs. Malory,’ he went on, after thinking awhile, ‘may +I take your case into my consideration—the marriage is not till +October, you say, we are in June—and I may ask for a later interview? +Of course you shall be made fully aware of every detail, and nothing +shall be done without your approval. In fact all will depend on +your own co-operation. I don’t deny that there may be distasteful +things, but if you are quite sure about this gentleman’s—’</p> +<p>‘Character?’ said Mrs. Malory. ‘I am <i>so</i> +sure that it has cost me many a wakeful hour. You will earn my +warmest gratitude if you can do anything.’</p> +<p>‘Almost everything will depend on your own energy, and tolerance +of our measures.’</p> +<p><!-- page 150--><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>‘But we +must not do evil that good may come,’ said Mrs. Malory nervously.</p> +<p>‘No evil is contemplated,’ said Merton. But Mrs. +Malory, while consenting, so far, did not seem quite certain that her +estimate of ‘evil’ and Merton’s would be identical.</p> +<p>She had suffered poignantly, as may be supposed, before she set the +training of a lifetime aside, and consulted a professional expert. +But the urbanity and patience of Merton, with the high and unblemished +reputation of his Association, consoled her. ‘We must yield +where we innocently may,’ she assured herself, ‘to the changes +of the times. Lest one good order’ (and ah, how good the +Early Victorian order had been!) ‘should corrupt the world.’ +Mrs. Malory knew that line of poetry. Then she remembered that +Mrs. Brown-Smith was on the list of Merton’s references, and that +reassured her, more or less.</p> +<p>As for Merton, he evolved a plan in his mind, and consulted Bradshaw’s +invaluable Railway Guide.</p> +<p>On the following night Merton was fortunate or adroit enough to find +himself seated beside Mrs. Brown-Smith in a conservatory at a party +given by the Montenegrin Ambassador. Other occupants of the fairy-like +bower of blossoms, musical with all the singing of the innumerable fountains, +could not but know (however preoccupied) that Mrs. Brown-Smith was being +amused. Her laughter ‘rang merry and loud,’ as the +poet says, though not a word of her whispered conversation was audible. +Conservatories (in novels) are dangerous places for confidences, but +<!-- page 151--><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>the pale and angry +face of Miss Malory did <i>not</i> suddenly emerge from behind a grove +of gardenias, and startle the conspirators. Indeed, Miss Malory +was not present; she and her sister had no great share in the elegant +frivolities of the metropolis.</p> +<p>‘It all fits in beautifully,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith. +‘Just let me look at the page of Bradshaw again.’ +Merton handed to her a page of closely printed matter. ‘9.17 +P.M., 9.50 P.M.’ read Mrs. Brown-Smith aloud; ‘it gives +plenty of time in case of delays. Oh, this is too delicious! +You are sure that these trains won’t be altered. It might +be awkward.’</p> +<p>‘I consulted Anson,’ said Merton. Anson was famous +for his mastery of time-tables, and his prescience as to railway arrangements.</p> +<p>‘Of course it depends on the widow,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith, +‘I shall see that Johnnie is up to time. He hopes to undersell +the opposition soap’ (Mr. Brown-Smith was absent in America, in +the interests of that soap of his which is familiar to all), ‘and +he is in the best of humours. Then their grouse! We have +disease on our moors in Perthshire; I was in despair. But the +widow needs delicate handling.’</p> +<p>‘You won’t forget—I know how busy you are—her +cards for your party?’</p> +<p>‘They shall be posted before I sleep the sleep of conscious +innocence.’</p> +<p>‘And real benevolence,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘And revenge,’ added Mrs. Brown-Smith. ‘I +have heard of his bragging, the monster. He has talked about <i>me</i>. +And I remember how he treated Violet Lebas.’</p> +<p><!-- page 152--><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>At this moment +the Vidame de la Lain, a tall, fair young man, vastly too elegant, appeared, +and claimed Mrs. Brown-Smith for a dance. With a look at Merton, +and a sound which, from less perfect lips, might have been described +as a suppressed giggle, Mrs. Brown-Smith rose, then turning, ‘Post +the page to me, Mr. Merton,’ she said. Merton bowed, and, +folding up the page of the time-table, he consigned it to his cigarette +case.</p> +<p>* * * * * *</p> +<p>Mrs. Malory received, with a blending of emotions, the invitation +to the party of Mrs. Brown-Smith. The social popularity and the +wealth of the hostess made such invitations acceptable. But the +wealth arose from trade, in soap, not in coal, and coal (like the colza +bean) is ‘a product of the soil,’ the result of creative +forces which, in the geological past, have worked together for the good +of landed families. Soap, on the other hand, is the result of +human artifice, and is certainly advertised with more of emphasis and +of ingenuity than of delicacy. But, by her own line of descent, +Mrs. Brown-Smith came from a Scottish house of ancient standing, historically +renowned for its assassins, traitors, and time-servers. This partly +washed out the stain of soap. Again, Mrs. Malory had heard the +name of Mrs. Brown-Smith taken in vain, and that in a matter nearly +affecting her Matilda’s happiness. On the other side, Merton +had given the lady a valuable testimonial to character. Moreover, +the Vidame would be at her party, and Mrs. Malory told herself that +she could study the ground. Above all, the girls <!-- page 153--><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>were +so anxious to go: they seldom had such a chance. Therefore, while +the Early Victorian moralist hesitated, the mother accepted.</p> +<p>They were all glad that they went. Susan, the younger Miss +Malory, enjoyed herself extremely. Matilda danced with the Vidame +as often as her mother approved. The conduct of Mrs. Brown-Smith +was correctness itself. She endeared herself to the girls: invited +them to her place in Perthshire, and warmly congratulated Mrs. Malory +on the event approaching in her family. The eye of maternal suspicion +could detect nothing amiss. Thanks mainly to Mrs. Brown-Smith, +the girls found the season an earthly Paradise: and Mrs. Malory saw +much more of the world than she had ever done before. But she +remained vigilant, and on the alert. Before the end of July she +had even conceived the idea of inviting Mrs. Brown-Smith, fatigued by +her toils, to inhale the bracing air of Upwold in the moors. But +she first consulted Merton, who expressed his warm approval.</p> +<p>‘It is dangerous, though she has been so kind,’ sighed +Mrs. Malory. ‘I have observed nothing to justify the talk +which I have heard, but I am in doubt.’</p> +<p>‘Dangerous! it is safety,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘How?’</p> +<p>Merton braced himself for the most delicate and perilous part of +his enterprise.</p> +<p>‘The Vidame de la Lain will be staying with you?’</p> +<p>‘Naturally,’ said Mrs. Malory. ‘And if there +<i>is</i> any truth in what was whispered—’</p> +<p><!-- page 154--><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>‘He will +be subject to temptation,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Mrs. Brown-Smith is so pretty and so amusing, and dear Matilda; +she takes after my dear husband’s family, though the best of girls, +Matilda has not that flashing manner.’</p> +<p>‘But surely no such thing as temptation should exist for a +man so fortunate as de la Lain! And if it did, would his conduct +not confirm what you have heard, and open the eyes of Miss Malory?’</p> +<p>‘It seems so odd to be discussing such things with—so +young a man as you—not even a relation,’ sighed Mrs. Malory.</p> +<p>‘I can withdraw at once,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Oh no, please don’t speak of that! I am not really +at all happy yet about my daughter’s future.’</p> +<p>‘Well, suppose the worst by way of argument; suppose that you +saw, that Miss Malory saw—’</p> +<p>‘Matilda has always refused to see or to listen, and has spoken +of the reforming effects of a pure affection. She would be hard, +indeed, to convince that anything was wrong, but, once certain—I +know Matilda’s character—she would never forgive the insult, +never.’</p> +<p>‘And you would rather that she suffered some present distress?’</p> +<p>‘Than that she was tied for life to a man who could cause it? +Certainly I would.’</p> +<p>‘Then, Mrs. Malory, as it <i>is</i> awkward to discuss these +intimate matters with me, might I suggest that you should have an interview +with Mrs. Brown-Smith herself? I assure you that you can trust +her, and I happen to know that her view of the man about <!-- page 155--><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>whom +we are talking is exactly your own. More I could say as to her +reasons and motives, but we entirely decline to touch on the past or +to offer any opinion about the characters of our patients—the +persons about whose engagements we are consulted. He might have +murdered his grandmother or robbed a church, but my lips would be sealed.’</p> +<p>‘Do you not think that Mrs. Brown-Smith would be very much +surprised if I consulted her?’</p> +<p>‘I know that she takes a sincere interest in Miss Malory, and +that her advice would be excellent—though perhaps rather startling,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I dislike it very much. The world has altered terribly +since I was Matilda’s age,’ said Mrs. Malory; ‘but +I should never forgive myself if I neglected any precaution, and I shall +take your advice. I shall consult Mrs. Brown-Smith.’</p> +<p>Merton thus retreated from what even he regarded as a difficult and +delicate affair. He fell back on his reserves; and Mrs. Brown-Smith +later gave an account of what passed between herself and the representative +of an earlier age:</p> +<p>‘She first, when she had invited me to her dreary place, explained +that we ought not, she feared, to lead others into temptation. +“If you think that man, de la Lain’s temptation is to drag +my father’s name, and my husband’s, in the dust,” +I answered, “let me tell you that <i>I</i> have a temptation also.”</p> +<p>‘“Dear Mrs. Brown-Smith,” she answered, “this +is indeed honourable candour. Not for the world would I be the +occasion—”</p> +<p>‘I interrupted her, “<i>My</i> temptation is to make +<!-- page 156--><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>him the laughing +stock of his acquaintance, and, if he has the impudence to give me the +opportunity, I <i>will</i>!” And then I told her, without +names, of course, that story about this Vidame Potter and Violet Lebas.’</p> +<p>‘I did <i>not</i>,’ said Merton. ‘But why +Vidame Potter?’</p> +<p>‘His father was a Mr. Potter; his grandfather married a Miss +Lalain—I know all about it—and this creature has wormed +out, or invented, some story of a Vidameship, or whatever it is, hereditary +in the female line, and has taken the title. And this is the man +who has had the impertinence to talk about <i>me</i>, a Ker of Graden.’</p> +<p>‘But did not the story you speak of make her see that she must +break off her daughter’s engagement?’</p> +<p>‘No. She was very much distressed, but said that her +daughter Matilda would never believe it.’</p> +<p>‘And so you are to go to Upwold?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it is a mournful place; I never did anything so good-natured. +And, with the widow’s knowledge, I am to do as I please till the +girl’s eyes are opened. I think it will need that stratagem +we spoke of to open them.’</p> +<p>‘You are sure that you will be in no danger from evil tongues?’</p> +<p>‘They say, What say they? Let them say,’ answered +Mrs. Brown-Smith, quoting the motto of the Keiths.</p> +<p>The end of July found Mrs. Brown-Smith at Upwold, where it is to +be hoped that the bracing <!-- page 157--><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>qualities +of the atmosphere made up for the want of congenial society. Susan +Malory had been discreetly sent away on a visit. None of the men +of the family had arrived. There was a party of local neighbours, +who did not feel the want of anything to do, but lived in dread of flushing +the Vidame and Matilda out of a window seat whenever they entered a +room.</p> +<p>As for the Vidame, being destitute of all other entertainment, he +made love in a devoted manner.</p> +<p>But at dinner, after Mrs. Brown-Smith’s arrival, though he +sat next Matilda, Mrs. Malory saw that his eyes were mainly bent on +the lady opposite. The ping-pong of conversation, even, was played +between him and Mrs. Brown-Smith across the table: the county neighbours +were quite lost in their endeavours to follow the flight of the ball. +Though the drawing-room window, after dinner, was open on the fragrant +lawn, though Matilda sat close by it, in her wonted place, the Vidame +was hanging over the chair of the visitor, and later, played billiards +with her, a game at which Matilda did not excel. At family prayers +next morning (the service was conducted by Mrs. Malory) the Vidame appeared +with a white rosebud in his buttonhole, Mrs. Brown-Smith wearing its +twin sister. He took her to the stream in the park where she fished, +Matilda following in a drooping manner. The Vidame was much occupied +in extracting the flies from the hair of Mrs. Brown-Smith, in which +they were frequently entangled. After luncheon he drove with the +two ladies and Mrs. Malory to the country town, the usual resource of +ladies in the country, and though he sat next Matilda, Mrs. Brown-Smith +was <!-- page 158--><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>beaming opposite, +and the pair did most of the talking. While Mrs. Malory and her +daughter shopped, it was the Vidame who took Mrs. Brown-Smith to inspect +the ruins of the Abbey. The county neighbours had left in the +morning, a new set arrived, and while Matilda had to entertain them, +it was Mrs Brown-Smith whom the Vidame entertained.</p> +<p>This kind of thing went on; when Matilda was visiting her cottagers +it was the Vidame and Mrs. Brown-Smith whom visitors flushed in window +seats. They wondered that Mrs. Malory had asked so dangerous a +woman to the house: they marvelled that she seemed quite radiant and +devoted to her lively visitor. There was a school feast: it was +the Vidame who arranged hurdle-races for children of both sexes (so +improper!), and who started the competitors.</p> +<p>Meanwhile Mrs. Malory, so unusually genial in public, held frequent +conventicles with Matilda in private. But Matilda declined to +be jealous; they were only old friends, she said, these flagitious two; +Dear Anne (that was the Vidame’s Christian name) was all that +she could wish.</p> +<p>‘You know the place is <i>so</i> dull, mother,’ the brave +girl said. ‘Even grandmamma, who was a saint, says so in +her <i>Domestic Outpourings</i>’ (religious memoirs privately +printed in 1838). ‘We cannot amuse Mrs. Brown-Smith, and +it is so kind and chivalrous of Anne.’</p> +<p>‘To neglect you?’</p> +<p>‘No, to do duty for Tom and Dick,’ who were her brothers, +and who would not greatly have entertained the fair visitor had they +been present.</p> +<p><!-- page 159--><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>Matilda was the +kind of woman whom we all adore as represented in the characters of +Fielding’s Amelia and Sophia. Such she was, so gracious +and yielding, in her overt demeanour, but, alas, poor Matilda’s +pillow was often wet with her tears. She was loyal; she would +not believe evil: she crushed her natural jealousy ‘as a vice +of blood, upon the threshold of the mind.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Brown-Smith was nearly as unhappy as the girl. The more +she hated the Vidame—and she detested him more deeply every day—the +more her heart bled for Matilda. Mrs. Brown-Smith also had her +secret conferences with Mrs. Malory.</p> +<p>‘Nothing will shake her belief in that man,’ said Mrs. +Malory.</p> +<p>‘Your daughter is the best girl I ever met,’ said Mrs. +Brown-Smith. ‘The best tempered, the least suspicious, the +most loyal. And I am doing my worst to make her hate me. +Oh, I can’t go on!’ Here Mrs. Brown-Smith very greatly +surprised her hostess by bursting into tears.</p> +<p>‘You must not desert us now,’ said the elder lady. +‘The better you think of poor Matilda—and she <i>is</i> +a good girl—the more you ought to help her.’</p> +<p>It was the 8th of August, no other visitors were at the house, a +shooting party was expected to arrive on the 11th. Mrs. Brown-Smith +dried her tears. ‘It must be done,’ she said, ‘though +it makes me sick to think of it.’</p> +<p>Next day she met the Vidame in the park, and afterwards held a long +conversation with Mrs. Malory. <!-- page 160--><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>As +for the Vidame, he was in feverish high spirits, he devoted himself +to Matilda, in fact Mrs. Brown-Smith had insisted on such dissimulation, +as absolutely necessary at this juncture of affairs. So Matilda +bloomed again, like a rose that had been ‘washed, just washed, +in a shower.’ The Vidame went about humming the airs of +the country which he had honoured by adopting it as the cradle of his +ancestry.</p> +<p>On the morning of the following day, while the Vidame strayed with +Matilda in the park, Mrs. Brown-Smith was closeted with Mrs. Malory +in her boudoir.</p> +<p>‘Everything is arranged,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith. +‘I, guilty and reckless that I am, have only to sacrifice my character, +and all my things. But I am to retain Methven, my maid. +That concession I have won from his chivalry.’</p> +<p>‘How do you mean?’ asked Mrs. Malory.</p> +<p>‘At seven he will get a telegram summoning him to Paris on +urgent business. He will leave in your station brougham in time +to catch the 9.50 up train at Wilkington. Or, rather, so impatient +is he, he will leave half an hour too early, for fear of accidental +delays. I and my maid will accompany him. I have thought +honesty the best policy, and told the truth, like Bismarck, “and +the same,”’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith hysterically, ‘“with +intent to deceive.” I have pointed out to him that my best +plan is to pretend to you that I am going to meet my husband, who really +arrives at Wilkington from Liverpool by the 9.17, though the Vidame +thinks that is an invention of mine. So, you <!-- page 161--><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>see, +I leave without any secrecy, or fuss, or luggage, and, when my husband +comes here, he will find me flown, and will have to console himself +with my luggage and jewels. He—this Frenchified beast, I +mean—has written a note for your daughter, which he will give +to her maid, and, of course, the maid will hand it to <i>you</i>. +So he will have burned his boats. And then you can show it to +Matilda, and so,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith, ‘the miracle of +opening her eyes will be worked. Johnnie, my husband, and I will +be hungry when we return about half-past ten. And I think you +had better telegraph that there is whooping cough, or bubonic plague, +or something in the house, and put off your shooting party.’</p> +<p>‘But that would be an untruth,’ said Mrs. Malory.</p> +<p>‘And what have I been acting for the last ten days?’ +asked Mrs. Brown-Smith, rather tartly. ‘You must settle +your excuse with your conscience.’</p> +<p>‘The cook’s mother really is ill,’ said Mrs. Malory, +‘and she wants dreadfully to go and see her. That would +do.’</p> +<p>‘All things work together for good. The cook must have +a telegram also,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith.</p> +<p>The day, which had been extremely hot, clouded over. By five +it was raining: by six there was a deluge. At seven, Matilda and +the Vidame were evicted from their dusky window seat by the butler with +a damp telegraph envelope. The Vidame opened it, and handed it +to Matilda. His presence at Paris was instantly demanded. +The Vidame was desolated, but his absence could not be for more than +five days. Bradshaw was hunted for, and found: the <!-- page 162--><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>9.50 +train was opportune. The Vidame’s man packed his clothes. +Mrs. Brown-Smith was apprised of these occurrences in the drawing-room +before dinner.</p> +<p>‘I am very sorry for dear Matilda,’ she cried. +‘But it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. I will drive +over with the Vidame and astonish my Johnnie by greeting him at the +station. I must run and change my dress.’</p> +<p>She ran, she returned in morning costume, she heard from Mrs. Malory +of the summons by telegram calling the cook to her moribund mother. +‘I must send her over to the station in a dog-cart,’ said +Mrs. Malory.</p> +<p>‘Oh no,’ cried Mrs. Brown-Smith, with impetuous kindness, +‘not on a night like this; it is a cataclysm. There will +be plenty of room for the cook as well as for Methven and me, and the +Vidame, in the brougham. Or <i>he</i> can sit on the box.’</p> +<p>The Vidame really behaved very well. The introduction of the +cook, to quote an old novelist, ‘had formed no part of his profligate +scheme of pleasure.’ To elope from a hospitable roof, with +a married lady, accompanied by her maid, might be an act not without +precedent. But that a cook should come to form <i>une partie carrée</i>, +on such an occasion, that a lover should be squeezed with three women +in a brougham, was a trying novelty.</p> +<p>The Vidame smiled, ‘An artist so excellent,’ he said, +‘deserves a far greater sacrifice.’</p> +<p>So it was arranged. After a tender and solitary five minutes +with Matilda, the Vidame stepped, last, into the brougham. The +coachman whipped up the horses, Matilda waved her kerchief from the +porch, <!-- page 163--><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>the guilty +lovers drove away. Presently Mrs. Malory received, from her daughter’s +maid, the letter destined by the Vidame for Matilda. Mrs. Malory +locked it up in her despatch box.</p> +<p>The runaways, after a warm and uncomfortable drive of three-quarters +of an hour, during which the cook wept bitterly and was very unwell, +reached the station. Contrary to the Vidame’s wish, Mrs. +Brown-Smith, in an ulster and a veil, insisted on perambulating the +platform, buying the whole of Mr. Hall Caine’s works as far as +they exist in sixpenny editions. Bells rang, porters stationed +themselves in a line, like fielders, a train arrived, the 9.17 from +Liverpool, twenty minutes late. A short stout gentleman emerged +from a smoking carriage, Mrs. Brown-Smith, starting from the Vidame’s +side, raised her veil, and threw her arms round the neck of the traveller.</p> +<p>‘You didn’t expect <i>me</i> to meet you on such a night, +did you, Johnnie?’ she cried with a break in her voice.</p> +<p>‘Awfully glad to see you, Tiny,’ said the short gentleman. +‘On such a night!’</p> +<p>After thus unconsciously quoting the <i>Merchant of Venice</i>, Mr. +Brown-Smith turned to his valet. ‘Don’t forget the +fishing-rods,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘I took the opportunity of driving over with a gentleman from +Upwold,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith. ‘Let me introduce +him. Methven,’ to her maid, ‘where is the Vidame de +la Lain?’</p> +<p>‘I heard him say that he must help Mrs. Andrews, the cook, +to find a seat, Ma’am,’ said the maid.</p> +<p>‘He really <i>is</i> kind,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith, ‘but +I fear we can’t wait to say good-bye to him.’</p> +<p><!-- page 164--><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>Three-quarters +of an hour later, Mr. Brown-Smith and his wife were at supper at Upwold.</p> +<p>Next day, as the cook’s departure had postponed the shooting +party, they took leave of their hostess, and returned to their moors +in Perthshire.</p> +<p>Weeks passed, with no message from the Vidame. He did not answer +a letter which Mrs. Malory allowed Matilda to write. The mother +never showed to the girl the note which he had left with her maid. +The absence and the silence of the lover were enough. Matilda +never knew that among the four packed in the brougham on that night +of rain, one had been eloping with a married lady—who returned +to supper.</p> +<p>The papers were ‘requested to state that the marriage announced +between the Vidame de la Lain and Miss Malory will not take place.’ +Why it did not take place was known only to Mrs. Malory, Mrs. Brown-Smith, +and Merton.</p> +<p>Matilda thought that her lover had been kidnapped and arrested, by +the Secret Police of France, for his part in a scheme to restore the +Royal House, the White Flag, the Lilies, the children of St. Louis. +At Mrs. Brown-Smith’s place in Perthshire, in the following autumn, +Matilda met Sir Aylmer Jardine. Then she knew that what she had +taken for love (in the previous year) had been,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Not love, but love’s first flush in youth.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>They always do make that discovery, bless them! Lady Jardine +is now wrapped up in her baby boy. The mother of the cook recovered +her health.</p> +<h2><!-- page 165--><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>IX. ADVENTURE +OF THE LADY NOVELIST AND THE VACCINATIONIST</h2> +<p>‘Mr. Frederick Warren’—so Merton read the card +presented to him on a salver of Limoges enamel by the office-boy.</p> +<p>‘Show the gentleman in.’</p> +<p>Mr. Warren entered. He was a tall and portly person, with a +red face, red whiskers, and a tightly buttoned frock-coat, which more +expressed than hid his goodly and prominent proportions. He bowed, +and Merton invited him to be seated. It struck Merton as a singular +circumstance that his visitor wore on each arm the crimson badge of +the newly vaccinated.</p> +<p>Mr. Warren sat down, and, taking a red silk handkerchief out of the +crown of his hat, he wiped his countenance. The day was torrid, +and Mr. Merton hospitably offered an effervescent draught.</p> +<p>‘Without the whisky, if you please, sir,’ said Mr. Warren, +in a provincial accent. He pointed to a blue ribbon in the buttonhole +of his coat, indicating that he was conscientiously opposed to the use +of alcoholic refreshment in all its forms.</p> +<p>‘Two glasses of Apollinaris water,’ said Merton to the +office-boy; and the innocent fluid was brought, <!-- page 166--><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>while +Merton silently admired his client’s arrangement in blue and crimson. +When the thirst of that gentleman had been assuaged, he entered upon +business thus:</p> +<p>‘Sir, I am a man of principle!’</p> +<p>Merton congratulated him; the age was lax, he said, and principle +was needed. He wondered internally what he was going to be asked +to subscribe to, or whether his vote only was required.</p> +<p>‘Sir, have you been vaccinated?’ asked the client earnestly.</p> +<p>‘Really,’ said Merton, ‘I do not quite understand +your interest in a matter so purely personal.’</p> +<p>‘Personal, sir? Not at all. It is the first of +public duties—the debt that every man, woman, and child owes to +his or her country. Have you been vaccinated, sir?’</p> +<p>‘Why, if you insist on knowing,’ said Merton, ‘I +have, though I do not see—’</p> +<p>‘Recently?’ asked the visitor.</p> +<p>‘Yes, last month; but I cannot conjecture why—’</p> +<p>‘Enough, sir,’ said Mr. Warren. ‘I am a man +of principle. Had you not done your duty in this matter by your +country, I should have been compelled to seek some other practitioner +in your line.’</p> +<p>‘I was not aware that my firm had any competitors in our line +of business,’ said Merton. ‘But perhaps you have come +here under some misapprehension. There is a firm of family solicitors +on the floor above, and next them are the offices of a company interested +in a patent explosive. If your affairs, or your political <!-- page 167--><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>ideas, +demand a legal opinion, or an outlet in an explosive which is widely +recommended by the Continental Press—’</p> +<p>‘For what do you take me, sir?’ asked Mr. Warren.</p> +<p>‘For a Temperance Anarchist,’ Merton would have liked +to reply, ‘judging by your colours’; but he repressed this +retort, and mildly answered, ‘Perhaps it would be as much to the +purpose to ask, for what do you take <i>me</i>?’</p> +<p>‘For the representative of Messrs. Gray & Graham, the specialists +in matrimonial affairs,’ answered the client; and Merton said +that he would be happy if Mr. Warren would enter into the details of +his business.</p> +<p>‘I am the ex-Mayor of Bulcester,’ said Mr. Warren, ‘and, +as I told you, a man of principle. My attachment to the Temperance +cause’—and he fingered his blue ribbon—‘procured +for me the honour of a defeat at the last general election, but endeared +me to the consciences of the Nonconformist element in the constituency. +Yet, sir, I am at this moment the most unpopular man in Bulcester; but +I shall fight it out—I shall fight it to my latest breath.’</p> +<p>‘Is Bulcester, then, such an intemperate constituency? +I had understood that the Nonconformist interest was strong there,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘So it is, sir, so it is; but the interest is now bound to +the chariot wheels of the truckling Toryism of our time—to the +sycophants who basely made vaccination permissive, and paltered with +the Conscientious Objector. These badges, sir’—the +client pointed to his own crimson decorations—‘proclaim +that I have been vaccinated on <i>both</i> arms, as a testimony <!-- page 168--><span class="pagenum">p. 168</span>to +the immortal though, in Bulcester, maligned discovery of the great Jenner. +Sir, I am hooted in the public streets of my native town, where Anti-vaccinationism +is a frenzy. Mr. Rider Haggard, the author of <i>Dr. Therne</i>, +has been burned in effigy for his thrilling and manly protest to which +I owe my own conversion.’</p> +<p>‘Then the conversion is relatively recent?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘It dates since my reading of that powerful argument, sir; +that appeal to reason which overcame my prejudice, for I was a prominent +A. V.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Ave</i>?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘A. V., sir—Anti-Vaccinationist. A. C. D. A. too, +and always,’ he added proudly; but Merton did not think it prudent +to ask for further explanations.</p> +<p>‘An A. V. I was, an A. V. I am no longer; and I +defy popular clamour, accompanied by brickbats, to shake my principles.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Justum et tinacem propositi virum</i>,’ murmured +Merton, adding, ‘All that is very interesting, but, my dear sir, +while I admire the tenacity of your principles, will you permit me to +ask, what has vaccination to do with the special business of our firm?’</p> +<p>‘Why, sir, I have a family, and my eldest son—’</p> +<p>‘Does he decline to be vaccinated?’ asked Merton, in +a sympathetic voice.</p> +<p>‘No, sir, or he would never darken my doorway,’ exclaimed +this more than Roman father. ‘But he is engaged, and I can +never give my consent; and if he marries that girl, the firm ceases +to be “Warren & Son, wax-cloth manufacturers.” +That’s all, sir—that’s all.’</p> +<p><!-- page 169--><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>Mr. Warren again +applied his red handkerchief to his glowing features.</p> +<p>‘And what, may I ask, are the grounds of your objection to +this engagement? Social inequality?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘No, the young lady is the daughter of one of our leading ministers, +Mr. Truman—author of <i>The Bishops to the Block</i>—but +principles are concerned.’</p> +<p>‘You cannot mean that the young lady is excessively addicted +to the—wine cup?’ asked Merton gravely. ‘In +melancholy cases of that kind Mr. Hall Caine, in a romance, has recommended +hypnotic treatment, but we do not venture to interfere.’</p> +<p>‘You misunderstand me, sir,’ replied Mr. Warren, frowning. +‘The young woman, on principle, as they call it, has never been +vaccinated. Like most of our prominent citizens, her father (otherwise +an excellent man) objects to what he calls “The Worship of the +Calf” on grounds of conscience.’</p> +<p>‘Conscience! It is a hard thing to constrain the conscience,’ +murmured Merton, quoting a remark of Queen Mary to John Knox.</p> +<p>‘What is conscience without knowledge, sir?’ asked the +client, using—without knowing it—the very argument of Mr. +Knox to the Queen.</p> +<p>‘You have no other objections to the alliance?’ asked +Merton.</p> +<p>‘None whatever, sir. She is a good and good-looking girl. +On most important points we are thoroughly agreed. She won a prize +essay on Bacon’s authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. +Of course Shakespeare could not have written them—a thoroughly +uneducated <!-- page 170--><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>man, who +never could have passed the fourth standard. But look at the plays! +There are things in them that, with all our modern advantages, are beyond +me. I admit they are beyond me. “To be, and to do, +and to suffer,”’ declaimed Mr. Warren, apparently under +the impression that this is part of Hamlet’s soliloquy—‘Shakespeare +could never have written <i>that</i>. Where did <i>he</i> learn +grammar?’</p> +<p>‘Where, indeed?’ replied Merton. ‘But as +the lady is in all other respects so suitable a match, cannot this one +difficulty be got over?’</p> +<p>‘Impossible, sir; my son could not slice the sleeve in her +dress and inflict this priceless boon on her with affectionate violence. +Even the hero of <i>Dr. Therne</i> failed there—’</p> +<p>‘And rather irritated his pretty Jane,’ added Merton, +who remembered this heroic adventure. ‘It is a very hard +case,’ he went on, ‘but I fear that our methods are powerless. +The only chance would be to divert young Mr. Warren’s affections +into some other more enlightened channel. That expedient has often +been found efficacious. Is he very deeply enamoured? Would +not the society of another pretty and intelligent girl perhaps work +wonders?’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps it might, sir, but I don’t know where to find +any one that would attract my James. Except for political meetings, +and a literary lecture or two, with a magic-lantern and a piano, we +have not much social relaxation at Bulcester. We object to promiscuous +dancing, on grounds of conscience. Also, of course, to the stage.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, so you <i>do</i> allow for the claims of conscience, do +you?’</p> +<p><!-- page 171--><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>‘For what +do you take me, sir? Only, of course the conscience must be enlightened,’ +said Mr. Warren, as other earnest people usually do.</p> +<p>‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Merton; ‘nothing so +dangerous as the unenlightened conscience. Why, in this very matter +of marriage the conscience of the Mormons leads them to singular aberrations, +while that of the Arunta tribe—but I should only pain you if I +pursued the subject. You said that your Society indulged in literary +lectures: is your programme for the season filled up?’</p> +<p>‘I am President of the Bulcester Literary Society,’ said +Mr. Warren, ‘and I ought to know. We have a vacancy for +Friday week; but why do you inquire? In fact I want a lecturer +on “The Use and Abuse of Novels,” now you ask. Our +people, somehow, always want their literary lectures to be about novels. +I try to make the lecturers take a lofty moral tone, and usually entertain +them at my house, where I probe their ideas, and warn them that we must +have nothing loose. Once, sir, we had a lecturer on “The +Oldest Novel in the World.” He gave us a terrible shock, +sir! I never saw so many red cheeks in a Bulcester audience. +And the man seemed quite unaware of the effect he was producing.’</p> +<p>‘Short-sighted, perhaps?’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Ever since we have been very careful. But, sir, we seem +to have got away from the subject.’</p> +<p>‘It is only seeming,’ said Merton. ‘I have +an idea which may be of service to you.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, most kindly,’ said Mr. Warren. ‘But +as how?’</p> +<p><!-- page 172--><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>‘Does your +Society ever employ lady lecturers?’</p> +<p>‘We prefer them; we are all for enlarging the sphere of woman’s +activity—virtuous activity, I mean.’</p> +<p>‘That is fortunate,’ remarked Merton. ‘You +said just now that to try the plan of a counter-attraction was difficult, +because there was little of social relaxation in your Society, and you +knew no lady who had the opportunities necessary for presenting an agreeable +alternative to the charms of Miss Truman. A young man’s +fancy is often caught merely by the juxtaposition of a single member +of the opposite sex, with whom he contracts a custom of walking home +from chapel.’</p> +<p>‘That’s mostly the way at Bulcester,’ said Mr. +Warren.</p> +<p>‘Well,’ Merton went on, ‘you are in the habit of +entertaining the lecturers at your house. Now, I know a young +lady—one of our staff, in fact—who is very well qualified +to lecture on “The Use and Abuse of Novels.” She is +a novelist herself; one of the most serious and improving of our younger +writers. In her works virtue (after struggles) is always rewarded, +and vice (especially if gilded) is held up to execration, though never +allowed to display itself in colours which would bring a blush to the +cheek of—a white rabbit. Here is her portrait,’ said +Merton, taking up a family periodical, <i>The Young Girl</i>. +This blameless journal was publishing a serial story by Miss Martin, +one of the ladies who had been enlisted at the dinner given by Logan +and Merton when they founded their Society. A photograph of Miss +<!-- page 173--><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>Martin, in white +and in a large shadowy hat, was published in <i>The Young Girl</i>, +and certainly no one could have recognised in this conscientiously innocent +and domestic portrait the fair author of romances of social adventure +and unimagined crime. ‘There you see our young friend,’ +said Merton; ‘and the magazine, to which she is a regular contributor, +is a voucher for her character as an author.’</p> +<p>Mr. Warren closely scrutinised the portrait, which displayed loveliness +and candour in a very agreeable way, and arranged in the extreme of +modest simplicity.</p> +<p>‘That is a young woman who bears her testimonials in her face,’ +said Mr. Warren. ‘She is one whom a father can trust—but +has she been vaccinated?’</p> +<p>‘Early and often,’ answered Merton reassuringly. +‘Girls with faces like hers do not care to run any risks.’</p> +<p>‘Jane Truman does, though my son has put it to her, I know, +on the ground of her looks. “<i>Nothing</i>,” she +said, “will ever induce me to submit to that filthy, that revolting +operation.”’</p> +<p>‘“Conscience doth make cowards of us all,” as Bacon +says,’ replied Merton, ‘or at least of such of us as are +unenlightened. But to come to business. What do you think +of asking our young friend down to lecture—on Friday week, I think +you said—on the Use and Abuse of Novels? You could easily +persuade her, I dare say, to stay over Sunday—longer if necessary—and +then young Mr. Warren would at least find out that there is more than +one young woman in the world.’</p> +<p><!-- page 174--><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>‘I shall +be delighted to see your friend,’ answered Mr. Warren. ‘At +Bulcester we welcome intellect, and a real novelist of moral tendencies +would make quite a sensation in our midst.’</p> +<p>‘They are but too scarce at present,’ Merton answered—‘novelists +of high moral tone.’</p> +<p>‘She is not a Christian Scientist?’ asked Mr. Warren +anxiously. ‘They reject vaccination, like all other means +appointed, and rely on miracles, which ceased with the Apostolic age, +being no longer necessary.’</p> +<p>‘The lady, I can assure you, is not a Christian Scientist,’ +said Merton ‘but comes of an Evangelical family. Shall I +give you her address? In my opinion it would be best to write +to her from Bulcester, on the official paper of the Literary Society.’ +For Merton wished to acquaint Miss Martin with the nature of her mission, +lecturing being an art which she had never cultivated.</p> +<p>‘There is just one thing,’ remarked Mr. Warren hesitatingly. +‘This young lady, if our James lets his affections loose on her—how +would <i>that</i> be, sir?’</p> +<p>Merton smiled.</p> +<p>‘Why, no great harm would be done, Mr. Warren. You need +not fear any complication: any new matrimonial difficulty. The +affection would be all on one side, and that side would not be the lady +lecturer’s. I happen to know that she has a prior attachment.’</p> +<p>‘Vaccinated!’ cried Mr. Warren, letting a laugh out of +him.</p> +<p>‘Exactly,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>Mr. Warren now gladly concurred in the plan of his adviser, after +which the interview was concerned <!-- page 175--><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>with +financial details. Merton usually left these vague, but in Mr. +Warren he saw a client who would feel more confidence if everything +was put on a strictly business footing. The client retired in +a hopeful frame of mind, and Merton went to look for Miss Martin at +her club, where she was usually to be found at the hour of tea.</p> +<p>He was fortunate enough to find her, dressed by no means after the +style of her portrait in <i>The Young Girl</i>, but still very well +dressed. She offered him the refreshment of tea and toast—very +good toast, Merton thought—and he asked how her craft as a novelist +was prospering. Friends of Miss Martin were obliged to ask, for +they did not read <i>The Young Girl</i>, or the other and less domestic +serials in which her works appeared.</p> +<p>‘I am doing very well, thank you,’ said Miss Martin. +‘My tale <i>The Curate’s Family</i> has raised the circulation +of <i>The Young Girl</i>; and, mind you, it is no easy thing for a novelist +to raise the circulation of any periodical. For example, if <i>The +Quarterly Review</i> published a new romance, even by Mr. Thomas Hardy, +I doubt if the end would justify the proceedings.’</p> +<p>‘It would take about four years to get finished in a quarterly,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘And the nonagenarians who read quarterlies,’ said Miss +Martin, with the flippancy of youth, ‘would go to their graves +without knowing whether the heroine found a lenient jury or not. +I have six heroines in <i>The Curate’s Family</i>, and I own their +love affairs tend to get a little mixed. I have rigged up a small +stage, with puppets in costume to represent the characters, <!-- page 176--><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>and +keep them straight in my mind; but Ethelinda, who is engaged to the +photographer, as nearly as possible eloped with the baronet last week.’</p> +<p>‘Anything else on?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘An up-to-date story, all heredity and evolution,’ said +Miss Martin. ‘The father has his legs bitten off by a shark, +and it gets on the nerves of his wife, the Marchioness, and two of the +girls are born like mermaids. They have immense popularity at +bathing-places on the French coast, but it is not easy for them to go +into general society.’</p> +<p>‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Merton.</p> +<p>‘Not worse than other stuff that is highly recommended by eminent +reviewers,’ said Miss Martin.</p> +<p>‘Anything else?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes; there is “The Pope’s Poisoner, a Tale +of the Borgias.” That is a historical romance, I got it +up out of Histories of the Renaissance. The hero (Lionardo da +Vinci) is the Pope’s bravo, and in love with Lucrezia Borgia.’</p> +<p>‘Are the dates all right?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Oh, bother the dates! Of course he is a bravo <i>pour +le bon motif</i>, and frustrates the pontifical designs.’</p> +<p>‘I want you,’ said Merton, ‘you have such a fertile +imagination, to take part in a little plot of our own. Beneficent, +of course, but I admit that my fancy is baffled. Could we find +a room less crowded? This is rather private business.’</p> +<p>‘There is never anybody in the smoking-room at the top of the +house,’ said Miss Martin, ‘because—to let out a secret—none +of us ever smoke, except at public dinners to give tone. But <i>you</i> +may.’</p> +<p><!-- page 177--><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>She led Merton +to a sepulchral little chamber upstairs, and he told her all the story +of Mr. Warren, his son, and the daughter of the minister.</p> +<p>‘Why don’t they elope?’ asked Miss Martin.</p> +<p>‘The Nonconformist conscience is unfriendly to elopements, +and the young man has no accomplishment by which he could support his +bride except the art of making oilcloth.’</p> +<p>‘Well, what do you want me to do?’</p> +<p>Merton unfolded the scheme of the lady lecturer, and prepared Miss +Martin to receive an invitation from Mr. Warren.</p> +<p>‘Can you write a lecture on “The Use and Abuse of Novels” +before Friday week?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Say seven thousand words? I could do it by to-morrow +morning,’ said Miss Martin.</p> +<p>‘You know you must be very careful?’</p> +<p>‘Style of answers to correspondents in <i>The Young Girl</i>,’ +said Miss Martin. ‘I know my way about.’</p> +<p>‘Then you really will essay the adventure?’</p> +<p>‘Like a bird,’ answered the lady. ‘It will +be great fun. I shall pick up copy about the habits of the middle +classes in the Midlands.’</p> +<p>‘They won’t recognise you as the author of your more +criminal romances?’</p> +<p>‘How can they? I sign them “Passion Flower” +and “Nightshade,” and “La Tofana,” and so on.’</p> +<p>‘You will dress as in your photograph in <i>The Young Girl</i>?’</p> +<p>‘I will, and take a <i>fichu</i> to wear in the evening. +They always wear <i>fichus</i> in evening dress. But, look here, +do you want a happy ending to this romance?’</p> +<p><!-- page 178--><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>‘How can +it be happy if you are to be successful? Miss Jane Truman will +be miserable, and Mr. James Warren will die of remorse and a broken +heart, when you—’</p> +<p>‘Fail to crown his flame, and Jane has too much pride to welcome +back the wanderer?’</p> +<p>‘I’m afraid that, or something like that, will be the +end of it,’ said Merton, ‘and, perhaps, on reflection, we +had better drop the affair.’</p> +<p>‘But suppose I could manage a happy ending? Suppose I +reconcile Mr. Warren to the union? I am all for happy endings +myself. I drink to King Charles II., who declared that while <i>he</i> +was king all tragedies should end happily.’</p> +<p>‘You don’t mean that you can persuade Jane to be vaccinated?’</p> +<p>‘One never knows till one tries. You’ll find that +I shall make a happy conclusion to my Borgia novel, and <i>that</i> +is not so easy. You see Lionardo goes to the Pope’s jeweller +and exchanges the—’</p> +<p>Miss Martin paused and remained absorbed in thought.</p> +<p>Suddenly she danced round the room with much grace and <i>abandon</i>, +while Merton, smoking in an arm-chair that had lost a castor, gently +applauded the performance.</p> +<p>‘You have your idea?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘I have it. Happy ending! Hurrah!’</p> +<p>Miss Martin spun round like a dancing Dervish, and finally fell into +another arm-chair, overcome by the heat and the intoxication of genius.</p> +<p>‘We owe a candle to Saint Alexander Borgia!’ she said, +when she recovered her breath.</p> +<p><!-- page 179--><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>‘Miss Martin,’ +said Merton gravely, ‘this is a serious matter. You are +not going, I trust, to poison the lemons for the elder Mr. Warren’s +lemon squash? He is strictly Temperance, you know.’</p> +<p>‘Poison the lemons? With a hypodermic syringe?’ +asked Miss Martin. ‘No; that is good business. I have +made one of my villains do <i>that</i>, but that is not my idea. +Perfectly harmless, my idea.’</p> +<p>‘But sensational, I fear?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Some very cultured critics might think so,’ the lady +admitted. ‘But I am sure to succeed, and I hear the merry, +merry wedding bells of the Bulcester tabernacle ringing a peal for the +happy pair.’</p> +<p>‘Well, what is the plan?’</p> +<p>‘That is my secret.’</p> +<p>‘But I <i>must</i> know. I am responsible. Tell +me, or I telegraph to Mr. Warren: “Lecturer never vaccinated; +sorry for my mistake.”’</p> +<p>‘That would not be true,’ said Miss Martin.</p> +<p>‘A noble falsehood,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘But I assure you that if my plan fails no harm can possibly +be caused or suspected. And if it succeeds then the thing is done: +either Mr. Warren is reconciled to the marriage, or—the marriage +is broken off, as he desires.’</p> +<p>‘By whom?’</p> +<p>‘By the Conscientious Objectrix, if that is the feminine of +Objector—by Miss Jane Truman.’</p> +<p>‘Why should Jane break it off if the old gentleman agrees?’</p> +<p>‘Because Jane would be a silly girl. Mr. Merton, I will +promise you one thing. The plan shall not be <!-- page 180--><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>tried +without the approval of the lover himself. None but he shall be +concerned in the affair.’</p> +<p>‘You won’t hypnotise the girl and let him vaccinate her +when she is in the hypnotic sleep?’</p> +<p>‘No, nor even will I give her a post-hypnotic suggestion to +vaccinate herself, or go to the doctor’s and have it done when +she is awake; though,’ said Miss Martin, ‘that is not bad +business either. I must make a note of that. But I can’t +hypnotise anybody. I tried lots of girls when I was at St. Ursula’s +and nothing ever came of it. Thank you for the idea all the same. +By the way, I first must sterilise the pontifical—’ +She paused.</p> +<p>‘The what?’</p> +<p>‘That is my secret! Don’t you see how safe it is? +None but the lover shall have his and her fate in his hands. <i>C’est +à prendre ou à laisser</i>.’</p> +<p>Merton was young and adventurous.</p> +<p>‘You give me your word that your idea is absolutely safe and +harmless? It involves no crime?’</p> +<p>‘None; and if you like,’ said Miss Martin, ‘I will +bring you the highest professional opinion,’ and she mentioned +an eminent name in the craft of healing. ‘He was our doctor +when we were children,’ said the lady, ‘and we have always +been friends.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ Merton said, ‘what is good enough for Sir +Josiah Wilkinson is good enough for me. But you will bring me +the document?’</p> +<p>‘The day after to-morrow,’ said Miss Martin, and with +that assurance Merton had to be content.</p> +<p>Sir Josiah was almost equally famous in the world as a physician +and, in a smaller but equally refined <!-- page 181--><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>circle, +as a virtuoso and collector of objects of art. His opinions about +the beneficent effects of vaccination were known to be at the opposite +pole from those of the intelligent population of Bulcester.</p> +<p>On the next day but one Miss Martin again entertained Merton at her +club, and demurely presented him with three documents. These were +Mr. Warren’s invitation, her reply in acceptance, and a formal +signed statement by Sir Josiah that her scheme was perfectly harmless, +and commanded his admiring approval.</p> +<p>‘Now!’ said Miss Martin.</p> +<p>‘I own that I don’t like it,’ said Merton. +‘Logan thinks that it is all right, but Logan is a born conspirator. +However, as you are set on it, and as Sir Josiah’s opinion carries +great weight, you may go. But be very careful. Have you +written your lecture?’</p> +<p>‘Here is the scenario,’ said Miss Martin, handing a typewritten +synopsis to Merton.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘USE AND ABUSE OF NOVELS.</p> +<p>‘All good things capable of being abused. Alcohol not +one of these; alcohol <i>always</i> pernicious. Fiction, on the +other hand, a good thing. Antiquity of fiction. In early +days couched in verse. Civilisation prefers prose. Fiction, +from the earlier ages, intended to convey Moral Instruction. Opinion +of Aristotle defended against that of Plato. Morality in mediæval +Romance. Criticism of Mr. Frederic Harrison. Opinion of +Molière. Yet French novels usually immoral, <!-- page 182--><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>and +why. Remarks on Popery. To be avoided. Morality of +Richardson and of Sir Walter Scott. Impropriety re-introduced +by Charlotte Brontë. Unwillingness of Lecturer to dwell on +this Topic. The Novel is now the whole of Literature. The +people have no time to read anything else. Responsibilities of +the Novelist as a Teacher. The Novel the proper vehicle of Theological, +Scientific, Social, and Political Instruction. Mr. Hall Caine, +Miss Corelli. Fallacy of thinking that the Novel should Amuse. +Abuse of the Novel as a source of mischievous and false Opinions. +Case of <i>The Woman Who Did</i>. Sacredness of Marriage. +Study of the Novel becomes an abuse if it leads to the Neglect of the +Morning and Evening Newspapers. Sir Walter Besant on the Novel. +None but the newest Novels ought to be read. Mr. W. D. Howells +on this subject. Experience of the Lecturer as a Novelist. +Gratifying letters from persons happily influenced by the Lecturer. +Anecdotes. Case of Miss A--- C---. Case of Mr. J--- R---. +Unhappy Endings demoralising. Marriage the true End of the Novel, +but the beginning of the happy life. Lecturer wishes her audience +happy Endings and true Beginnings. Conclusion.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Will <i>that</i> do?’ asked Miss Martin anxiously.</p> +<p>‘Yes, if you don’t exceed your plan, or run into chaff.’</p> +<p>‘I won’t,’ said Miss Martin. ‘It is +all chaff, but they won’t see it.’</p> +<p>‘I think I would drop that about Popery,’ said Merton—‘it +may lead to letters in the newspapers; <!-- page 183--><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>and +<i>do</i> be awfully careful about impropriety in novels.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll put in “Vice to be Condemned, not Described,”’ +said Miss Martin, pencilling a note on the margin of her paper.</p> +<p>‘That seems safe,’ said Merton. ‘But it cuts +out some of our most powerful teachers.’</p> +<p>‘Serve them right!’ said Miss Martin. ‘Teachers! +the arrant humbugs.’</p> +<p>‘You will report at once on your return?’ said Merton. +‘I shall be on tenter-hooks till I see you again. If I knew +what you are really about, I’d take counsel’s opinion. +Medical opinion does not satisfy me: I want legal.’</p> +<p>‘How nervous you are!’ said Miss Martin. ‘Counsel +would be rather stuck up, I think; it is a new kind of case,’ +and the lady laughed in an irritating way. ‘I’ll tell +you what I’ll do,’ she said. ‘I’ll telegraph +to you on the Monday morning after the lecture. If everything +goes well, I’ll telegraph, “Happy ending.” If +anything goes wrong—but it can’t—I’ll telegraph, +“Unhappy ending.”’</p> +<p>‘If you do, I shall be off to Callao.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<i>On no condition</i><br /> +<i>Is Extradition</i><br /> +<i>Allowed in Callao</i>!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>said Merton.</p> +<p>‘But if there is any uncertainty—and there <i>may</i> +be,’ said Miss Martin, ‘I’ll telegraph, “Will +report.”’</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Merton passed a miserable week of suspense and perplexity of mind. +Never had he been so imprudent; <!-- page 184--><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>he +felt sure of that, and it was the only thing of which he did feel sure. +The newspapers contained bulletins of an epidemic of smallpox at Bulcester. +How would that work into the plot? Then the high animal spirits +and daring fancy of Miss Martin might carry her into undreamed-of adventures.</p> +<p>‘But they won’t let her have even a glass of champagne,’ +reflected Merton. ‘One glass makes her reckless.’</p> +<p>It was with a trembling hand that Merton, about ten on the Monday +morning, took the telegraphic envelope of Fate.</p> +<p>‘I can’t face it,’ he said to Logan. ‘Read +the message to me.’ Merton was unmanned!</p> +<p>Logan carelessly opened the envelope and read:</p> +<p>‘<i>Happy ending</i>, <i>but awfully disappointed. Will +call at one o’clock</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, thanks to all gracious Powers,’ said Merton falling +limply on to a sofa. ‘Ring, Logan, and order a small whisky-and-soda.’</p> +<p>‘I won’t,’ said Logan. ‘Horrid bad +habit. Would you like me to send out for smelling-salts? +Be a man, Merton! Pull yourself together!’</p> +<p>‘You don’t know that awful girl,’ said Merton, +slowly recovering self-control. ‘However, as she is disappointed +though the ending is happy, her infernal plan must have been miscarried, +whatever it was. It <i>must</i> be all right, though I sha’n’t +be quite happy till I see her. I am no coward, Logan’ (and +Merton was later to prove that he possessed coolness and audacity in +no common measure), ‘but it is the awful sense of responsibility. +She is quite capable of getting us into the newspapers.’</p> +<p><!-- page 185--><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>‘You funk +being laughed at,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>Merton lay on the sofa, smoking too many cigarettes, till, punctually +at one o’clock, a peal at the bell announced the arrival of Miss +Martin. She entered, radiant, smiling, and in her costume of innocence +she looked like a sylph.</p> +<p>‘It is all right—they are engaged, with Mr. Warren’s +full approval,’ she exclaimed.</p> +<p>‘Were we on the stage, I should embrace you!’ exclaimed +Merton rapturously.</p> +<p>‘We are not on the stage,’ replied Miss Martin demurely. +‘And <i>I</i> have no occasion to congratulate myself. My +plot did not come off; never had a look in. Do you want to be +vaccinated? If so, shake hands,’ and Miss Martin extended +her own hands ungloved.</p> +<p>‘I do not want to be vaccinated,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Then don’t shake hands,’ said Miss Martin.</p> +<p>‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Look there!’ said the lady, lifting her hand to his +eyes. Merton kissed it.</p> +<p>‘Oh, <i>take care</i>!’ shrieked Miss Martin. ‘It +would be awkward—on the lips. Do you see my ring?’</p> +<p>Merton and Logan examined her ring. It was a beautiful <i>cinque +cento</i> jewel in white and blue enamel, with a high gold top containing +a pointed ruby.</p> +<p>‘It’s very pretty,’ said Merton—‘quite +of the best period. But what is the mystery?’</p> +<p>‘It is a poison ring of the Borgias,’ said Miss Martin. +‘I borrowed it from Sir Josiah Wilkinson. If it scratched +you’ (here she exhibited the mechanism of the jewel), ‘why, +there you are!’</p> +<p>‘Where? Poisoned?’</p> +<p><!-- page 186--><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>‘No! +Vaccinated!’ said Miss Martin. ‘It is full of the +stuff they vaccinate you with, but it is quite safe as far as the old +poison goes. Sir Josiah sterilised it, in case of accidents, before +he put in the glycerinated lymph. My own idea! He was delighted. +Shall I shake hands with the office-boy?—it might do him good—or +would Kutuzoff give a paw?’</p> +<p>Kutuzoff was the Russian cat.</p> +<p>‘By no means—not for worlds,’ said Merton. +‘Kutuzoff is a Conscientious Objector. But were you going +to shake hands with Miss Truman with that horrible ring? Sacred +emblems enamelled on it,’ said Merton, gingerly examining the +jewel.</p> +<p>‘No; I was not going to do that,’ replied Miss Martin. +‘My idea was to acquire the confidence of the lover—the +younger Mr. Warren—explain to him how the thing works, lend it +to him, and then let him press his Jane’s wrist with it in some +shady arbour. Then his Jane would have been all that the heart +of Mr. Warren <i>père</i> could desire. But it did not +come off.’</p> +<p>‘Thank goodness!’ ejaculated Merton. ‘There +might have been an awful row. I don’t know what the offence +would have been in the eye of the law. Vaccinating a Conscientious +Objector, without consent, yet without violence,—what would the +law say to <i>that</i>?’</p> +<p>‘We might make it <i>hamesucken under trust</i> in Scotland,’ +said Logan, ‘if it was done on the premises of the young lady’s +domicile.’</p> +<p>‘We have not that elegant phrase in England,’ said Merton. +‘Perhaps it would have been a common <!-- page 187--><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>assault; +but, anyhow, it would have got into the newspapers. Never again +be officer of mine, Miss Martin.’</p> +<p>‘But how did all end happily?’ asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘Why, <i>you</i> may call it happily and so may the lovers, +but <i>I</i> call it very disappointing,’ said Miss Martin.</p> +<p>‘Tell us all about it!’ cried Logan.</p> +<p>‘Well, I went down, simple as you see me.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Simplex munditiis</i>!’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘And was met at the station by young Mr. Warren. His +father, with the wisdom of a Nonconformist serpent, had sent him alone +to make my acquaintance and be fascinated. My things were put +on a four-wheeler. I was all young enthusiasm in the manner of +<i>The Young Girl</i>. He was a good-looking boy enough, though +in a bowler hat, with turn-down collar. But he was gloomy. +I was curious about the public buildings, ecstatic about the town hall, +and a kind of Moeso-Gothic tabernacle (if it was not Moeso-Gothic in +style I don’t know what it was) where the Rev. Mr. Truman holds +forth. But I could not waken him up, he seemed miserable. +I soon found out the reason. The placards of the local newspapers +shrieked in big type with</p> +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Spread Of Smallpox</span>.<br /> +135 <span class="smcap">Cases</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>When I saw that I took young Mr. Warren’s hand.’</p> +<p>‘Were you wearing the ring?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘No; it was in my dressing-bag. I said, “Mr. Warren, +I know what care clouds your brow. You are brooding over the fate +of the young, the fair, the <!-- page 188--><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>beloved—the +unvaccinated. I know the story of your heart.”</p> +<p>‘“How the D--- I mean, how do you know, Miss Martin, +about my private affairs?”</p> +<p>‘“A little bird has told me,” I said (style of +<i>The Young Girl</i>, you know). “I have friends in Bulcester +who esteem you. No, I must not mention names, but I come, not +too late, I hope, to bring you security. She shall be preserved +from this awful scourge, and you shall be her preserver.” +He wanted to know how it was to be done, of course, and after taking +his word of honour for secrecy, I told him that the remedy would lie +in his own hands, showed him the ring, and taught him how to work it. +Mr. Squeers,’ went on Miss Martin, ‘had never wopped a boy +in a cab before, and I had never beheld a scene of passionate emotion +before—in a four-wheeler. He called me his preserver, he +said that I was an angel, he knelt at my feet, and, if we had been on +the stage—as Mr. Merton said—’</p> +<p>‘And were you on the stage?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘That is neither here nor there. It was an instructive +experience, and you little know the treasures of passion that may lie +concealed in the heart of a young oilcloth manufacturer.’</p> +<p>‘Happy young oilcloth manufacturer!’ murmured Merton.</p> +<p>‘They are both happy, but I did not manage my fortunate conclusion +in my own way. When young Mr. Warren had moderated the transports +of his gratitude we were in the suburbs of Bulcester, where the mill-owners +live in houses of the most promiscuous <!-- page 189--><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>architecture: +Tudor, Jacobean, Queen Anne, Bedford Park Queen Anne, <i>chalets</i>, +Chineseries, “all standing naked in the open air,” for the +trees have not grown up round them yet. Then we came to a gate +without a lodge, the cabman got down and opened it, and we were in the +visible presence of Mr. Warren’s villa. The style is the +Scottish Baronial; all pepper-pots, gables and crowsteps.</p> +<p>‘“What a lovely old place!” I said to my companion. +“Have you secret passages and sliding panels and dark turnpike +stairs? What a house for conspiracies! There is a real turret +window; can’t you fancy it suddenly shot up and the king’s +face popped out, very red, and bellowing, ‘Treason!’”</p> +<p>‘At that moment, when my imagination was in full career, the +turret window <i>was</i> shot up, and a face, very red, with red whiskers, +was popped out.</p> +<p>‘“That is my father,” said young Mr. Warren; and +we alighted, and a very small maidservant opened the portals of the +baronial hall, while the cabman carried up my trunk, and Mr. Warren, +senior, greeted me in the hall.</p> +<p>‘“Welcome to Bulcester!” he said, with a florid +air, and “hoped James and I had made friends on the way,” +and then he actually winked! He is a widower, and I was dying +for tea, but there we sat, and when the little maid came in, it was +to say that a gentleman wanted to see Mr. Warren in the study. +So he went out, and then, James being the victim of gratitude, I took +my courage in both hands and asked if I might have tea. James +said that they usually had it after the lecture was over, which would +not <!-- page 190--><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>be till nine, +and that some people had been asked to meet me. Then I knew that +I was got among a strange, outlandish race who eat strange meats and +keep High Teas, and my spirit fainted within me.</p> +<p>‘“Oh, Mr. James!” I said, “if you love me +have a cup of tea and some bread-and-butter sent up to my room, and +tell the maid to show me the way to it.”</p> +<p>‘So he sent for her, and she showed me to the best spare room, +with oleographs of Highland scenery on the walls, and coloured Landseer +prints, and tartan curtains, and everything made of ormolu that can +be made of ormolu. In about twenty minutes the girl returned with +tea and poached eggs and toast, and jam and marmalade. So I dressed +for the lecture, which was to begin at eight—just when people +ought to be dining—and came down into the drawing-room. +The elder Mr. Warren was sitting alone, reading the <i>Daily News</i>, +and he rose with an air of happy solemnity and shook hands again.</p> +<p>‘“You can let James alone now, Miss Martin,” he +said, and he winked again, rubbed his hands, and grinned all over his +expansive face.</p> +<p>‘“Let James alone!” I said.</p> +<p>‘“Yes; don’t go upsetting the lad—he’s +not used to young ladies like you. You leave James to himself. +James will do very well. I have a little surprise for James.”</p> +<p>‘He certainly had a considerable surprise for me, but I merely +asked if it was James’s birthday, which it was not.</p> +<p>‘Luckily James entered. All his gloom was gone, thanks +to me, and he was remarkably smiling and <!-- page 191--><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>particularly +attentive to myself. Mr. Warren seemed perplexed.</p> +<p>‘“James, have you heard any good news?” he asked. +“You seem very gay all of a sudden.”</p> +<p>‘James caught my eye.</p> +<p>‘“No, father,” he said. “What news +do you mean? Anything in business? A large order from Sarawak?”</p> +<p>‘Mr. Warren was silent, but presently took me into a corner +on the pretence of showing me some horrible <i>objet d’art</i>—a +treacly bronze.</p> +<p>‘“I say,” he said, “you must have made great +play in the cab coming from the station. James looks a new man. +I never would have guessed him to be so fickle. But, mind you, +no more of it! Let James be—he will do very well.”</p> +<p>‘How was James to do very well? Why were my fascinations +not to be exercised, as per contract? I began to suspect the worst, +and I was thinking of nothing else while we drove to the premises of +the Bulcester Literary Society. Could Jane have drowned herself +out of the way, or taken smallpox, which might ruin her charms? +Well, I had not a large audience, on account of fear of infection, I +suppose, and all the people present wore the red badge, like Mr. Warren, +only he wore one on each arm. This somewhat amazed me, but as +I had never spoken in public before I was rather in a flutter. +However, I conquered my girlish shyness, and if the audience was not +large it was enthusiastic. When I came to the peroration about +wishing them all happy endings and real beginnings of true life, don’t +you know, the audience actually rose at me, and cheered like anything. +<!-- page 192--><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>Then someone proposed, +“Three cheers for young Warren,” and they gave them like +mad; I did not know why, nor did he: he looked quite pale. Then +his father, with tears in his voice, proposed a vote of thanks to me, +and said that he and the brave hearts of old Bulcester, his old friends +and brothers in arms, were once more united; and the people stormed +the platform and shook his hand and slapped him on the back. At +last we got out by a back way, where our cab was waiting. Young +Mr. Warren was as puzzled as myself, and his father was greatly overcome +and sobbing in a corner. We got into the house, where people kept +arriving, and at last a fine old clerical-looking bird entered with +a red badge on one arm and a very pretty girl in white on the other. +She had a red badge too.</p> +<p>‘Young Mr. Warren, who was near me when they came in, gave +a queer sort of cry, and then <i>I</i> understood! The girl was +his Jane, and she <i>had</i> been vaccinated, also her father, that +afternoon, owing to the awful panic the old man got into after reading +the evening papers about the smallpox. The gentleman whom Mr. +Warren went to see in the study, just after my arrival, had brought +him this gratifying intelligence, and he had sent the gentleman back +to ask the Trumans to a High Tea of reconciliation. The people +at the lecture had heard of this, and that was why they cheered so for +young Warren, because his affair was as commonly known to all Bulcester +as that of Romeo and Juliet at Verona. They are hearty people +at Bulcester, and not without elements of old English romance.</p> +<p><!-- page 193--><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>‘Old Mr. +Warren publicly embraced Jane Truman, and then brought her and presented +her to me as James’s bride. We both cried a little, I think, +and then we all sat down to High Tea, and I am scarcely yet the woman +I used to be. It was a height! And a weight! And a +length! After tea Mr. Warren made a speech, and said that Bulcester +had come back to him, and I was afraid that he would brag dreadfully, +but he did not; he was too happy, I think. And then Mr. Truman +made a speech and said that though they felt obliged to own that they +had come to the conclusion that though Anti-vaccination was a holy thing, +still (in the circumstances) vaccination was good enough. But +they yet clung to principles for which Hampden died on the field, and +Russell on the scaffold, and many of their own citizens in bed! +There must be no Coercion. Everyone who liked must be allowed +to have smallpox as much as he pleased. All other issues were +unimportant except that of freedom!</p> +<p>‘Here I rose—I was rather excited—and said that +I hoped the reverend speaker was not deserting the sacred principle +of compulsory temperance? Would the speaker allow people freedom +to drink? All other issues were unimportant compared with that +of freedom, <i>except</i> the interest of depriving a poor man of his +beer. To catch smallpox was a Briton’s birthright, but not +to take a modest quencher. No freedom to drink! “Down +with the drink!” I cried, and drained my tea-cup, and waved it, +amidst ringing cheers. Mr. Truman admitted that there were exceptions—one +exception, at least. <!-- page 194--><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>Disease +must be free to all, not alcohol nor Ritualism. He thanked his +young friend the gifted lecturer for recalling him to his principles.</p> +<p>‘The principles of the good old cause, the Puritan cause, were +as pure as glycerinated lymph, and he proposed to found a Liberal Vaccinationist +League. They are great people for leagues at Bulcester, and they +like the initials L. V. L. There was no drinking of toasts, for +there was nothing to drink them in, and—do you know, Mr. Merton?—I +think it must be nearly luncheon time.’</p> +<p>‘Champagne appears to me to be indicated,’ said Merton, +who rang the bell and then summoned Miss Blossom from her typewriting.</p> +<p>‘We have done nothing,’ Merton said, ‘but heaven +only knows what we have escaped in the adventure of the Lady Novelist +and the Vaccinationist.’</p> +<p>On taking counsel’s opinion, Merton learned, with a shudder, +that if young Warren had used the Borgia ring, and if Jane had resented +it, he might have been indicted for a common assault, under 24 and 25 +Victoria, cap. 100, sec. 24, for ‘unlawfully and maliciously administering +a noxious thing with intent to annoy.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t think she could have proved the intent to annoy,’ +said the learned counsel.</p> +<p>‘You don’t know a Bulcester jury as it was before the +epidemic,’ said Merton. ‘And I might have been an +accessory before the fact, and, anyhow, we should all have got into +the newspapers.’</p> +<p>Miss Martin was the most admired of the bridesmaids at the Warren-Truman +marriage.</p> +<h2><!-- page 195--><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span>X. ADVENTURE +OF THE FAIR AMERICAN</h2> +<h3>I. The Prize of a Lady’s Hand</h3> +<p>‘Yes, I guess that Pappa <i>was</i> reckoned considerable of +a crank. A great educational reformer, and a progressive Democratic +stalwart, <i>that</i> is the kind of hair-pin Pappa was! But it +is awkward for me, some.’</p> +<p>These remarks, though of an obsolete and exaggerated transatlantic +idiom, were murmured in the softest of tones, in the most English of +silken accents, by the most beautiful of young ladies. She occupied +the client’s chair in Merton’s office, and, as she sat there +and smiled, Merton acknowledged to himself that he had never met a client +so charming and so perplexing.</p> +<p>Miss McCabe had been educated, as Merton knew, at an aristocratic +Irish convent in Paris, a sanctuary of old names and old creeds. +This was the plan of her late father (spoken of by her as Pappa), an +educational reformer of eccentric ideas, who, though of ancient (indeed +royal) Irish descent, was of American birth. The young lady had +thus acquired abroad, much against her will, that kind of English accent +which some of her countrywomen reckon ‘affected.’ +<!-- page 196--><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>But her intense patriotism +had induced her to study, in the works of American humourists, and to +reproduce in her discourse, the flowers of speech of which a specimen +has been presented. The national accent was beyond her, but at +least she could be true to what she (erroneously) believed to be the +national idiom.</p> +<p>‘Your case is peculiar,’ said Merton thoughtfully, ‘and +scarcely within our province. As a rule our clients are the parents, +guardians, or children of persons entangled in undesirable engagements. +But you, I understand, are dissatisfied with the matrimonial conditions +imposed by the will of the late Mr. McCabe?’</p> +<p>‘I want to take my own pick out of the crowd—’ +said Miss McCabe.</p> +<p>‘I can readily understand,’ said Merton, bowing, ‘that +the throng of wooers is enormous,’ and he vaguely thought of Penelope.</p> +<p>‘The scheme will be popular. It will hit our people right +where they live,’ said Miss McCabe, not appropriating the compliment. +‘You see Pappa struck ile early, and struck it often. He +was what our Howells calls a “multimillionaire,” and I’m +his only daughter. Pappa loved <i>me</i>, but he loved the people +better. Guess Pappa was not mean, not worth a cent. He was +a white man!’</p> +<p>Miss McCabe, with a glow of lovely enthusiasm, contemplated the unprecedented +whiteness of the paternal character.</p> +<p>‘“What the people want,” Pappa used to say, “is +education. They want it short, and they want it <!-- page 197--><span class="pagenum">p. 197</span>striking.” +That was why he laid out five millions on his celebrated Museum of Freaks, +with a staff of competent professors and lecturers. “The +McCabe Museum of Natural Varieties, lectures and all, is open gratuitously +to the citizens of our Republic, and to intelligent foreigners.” +That was how Pappa put it. <i>I</i> say that he dead-headed creation!’</p> +<p>‘Truly Republican munificence,’ said Merton, ‘worthy +of your great country.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I should smile,’ said Miss McCabe.</p> +<p>‘But—excuse my insular ignorance—I do not exactly +understand how a museum of freaks, admirably organised as no doubt it +is, contributes to the cause of popular education.’</p> +<p>‘You have museums even in London?’ asked Miss McCabe.</p> +<p>Merton assented.</p> +<p>‘Are they not educational?’</p> +<p>‘The British Museum is mainly used by the children of the poor, +as a place where they play a kind of subdued hide-and-seek,’ said +Merton.</p> +<p>‘That’s because they are not interested in tinned Egyptian +corpses and broken Greek statuary ware,’ answered the fair Republican. +‘Now, Mr. Merton, did you ever see or hear of a <i>popular</i> +museum, a museum that the People would give its cents to see?’</p> +<p>‘I have heard of Mr. Barnum’s museum,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘That’s the idea: it is right there,’ said Miss +McCabe. ‘But old man Barnum was not scientific. He +saw what our people wanted, but he did not see, <!-- page 198--><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>Pappa +said, how to educate them through their natural instincts. Barnum’s +mermaid was not genuine business. It confused the popular mind, +and fostered superstition—and got found out. The result +was scepticism, both religious and scientific. Now, Pappa used +to argue, the lives of our citizens are monotonous. They see yellow +dogs, say, but each yellow dog has only one tail. They see men +and women, but almost all of them have only one head: and even a hand +with six fingers is not common. This is why the popular mind runs +into grooves. This causes what they call “the dead level +of democracy.” Even our men of genius, Pappa allowed (for +he was a very fair-minded man), do not go ahead of the European ticket, +but rather the reverse. Your Tennyson has the inner tracks of +our Longfellow: your Thackeray gives our Bertha Runkle his dust. +The papers called Pappa unpatriotic, and a bad American. But he +was <i>not</i>: he was a white man. When he saw his country’s +faults he put his finger on them, right there, and tried to cure them.’</p> +<p>‘A noble policy,’ murmured Merton.</p> +<p>Miss McCabe was really so pretty and unusual, that he did not care +how long she was in coming to the point.</p> +<p>‘Well, Pappa argued that there was more genius, or had been +since the Declaration of Independence, even in England, than in the +States. “And why?” he asked. “Why, because +they have more <i>variety</i> in England. Things are not all on +one level there—”’</p> +<p>‘Our dogs have only one tail apiece,’ said Merton, ‘in +spite of the proverb “<i>as proud as a dog with two</i> <!-- page 199--><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span><i>tails</i>,” +and a plurality of heads is unusual even among British subjects.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ answered Miss McCabe, ‘but you have varieties +among yourselves. You have a King and a Queen; and your peerage +is rich in differentiated species. A Baronet is not a Marquis, +nor is a Duke an Earl.’</p> +<p>‘He may be both,’ said Merton, but Miss McCabe continued +to expose the parental philosophy.</p> +<p>‘Now Pappa would not hear of aristocratic distinctions in our +country. He was a Hail Columbia man, on the Democratic ticket. +But <i>something</i> is wanted, he said, to get us out of grooves, and +break the monotony. That something, said Pappa, Nature has mercifully +provided in Freaks. The citizens feel this, unconsciously: that’s +why they spend their money at Barnum’s. But Barnum was not +scientific, and Barnum was not straight about his mermaid. So +Pappa founded his Museum of Natural Varieties, all of them honest Injun. +Here the lecturers show off the freaks, and explain how Nature works +them, and how she can always see them and go one better. We have +the biggest gold nugget and the weeniest cunning least gold nugget; +the biggest diamond and the smallest diamond; the tallest man and the +smallest man; the whitest negro and the yellowest red man in the world. +We have the most eccentric beasts, and the queerest fishes, and everything +is explained by lecturers of world-wide reputation, on the principles +of evolution, as copyrighted by our Asa Gray and our Agassiz. +<i>That</i> is what Pappa called popular education, and it hits our +citizens right where they live.’</p> +<p><!-- page 200--><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>Miss McCabe paused, +in a flush of filial and patriotic enthusiasm. Merton inwardly +thought that among the queerest fishes the late Mr. McCabe must have +been pre-eminent. But what he said was, ‘The scheme is most +original. Our educationists (to employ a term which they do not +disdain), such as Mr. Herbert Spencer, Sir Joshua Fitch, and others, +have I thought out nothing like this. Our capitalists never endow +education on this more than imperial scale.’</p> +<p>‘Guess they are scaly varmints!’ interposed Miss McCabe.</p> +<p>Merton bowed his acquiescence in the sentiment.</p> +<p>‘But,’ he went on, ‘I still do not quite understand +how your own prospects in life are affected by Mr. McCabe’s most +original and, I hope, promising experiment?’</p> +<p>‘Pappa loved me, but he loved his country better, and taught +me to adore her, and be ready for any sacrifice.’ Miss McCabe +looked straight at Merton, like an Iphigenia blended with a Joan of +Arc.</p> +<p>‘I do sincerely trust that no sacrifice is necessary,’ +said Merton. ‘The circumstances do not call for so—unexampled +a victim.’</p> +<p>‘I am to be Lady Principal of the museum when I come to the +age of twenty-five: that is, in six years,’ said Miss McCabe proudly. +‘You don’t call <i>that</i> a sacrifice?’</p> +<p>Merton wanted to say that the most magnificent of natural varieties +would only be in its proper place. But the <i>man of business</i> +and the manager of a great and beneficent association overcame the mere +amateur of beauty, and he only said that the position of <!-- page 201--><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>Lady +Principal was worthy of the ambition of a patriot, and a friend of the +species.</p> +<p>‘Well, I reckon! But a clause in Pappa’s will is +awkward for me, some. It is about my marriage,’ said Miss +McCabe bravely.</p> +<p>Merton assumed an air of grave interest.</p> +<p>‘Pappa left it in his will that I was to marry the man (under +the age of five-and-thirty, and of unimpeachable character and education) +who should discover, and add to the museum, the most original and unheard-of +natural variety, whether found in the Old or the New World.’</p> +<p>Merton could scarcely credit the report of his ears.</p> +<p>‘Would you oblige me by repeating that statement?’ he +said, and Miss McCabe repeated it in identical terms, obviously quoting +textually from the will.</p> +<p>‘Now I understand your unhappy position,’ said Merton, +thoroughly agreeing with the transatlantic critics who had pronounced +the late Mr. McCabe ‘considerable of a crank.’ ‘But +this is far too serious a matter for me—for our Association. +I am no legist, but I am convinced that, at least British, and I doubt +not American, law would promptly annul a testatory clause so utterly +unreasonable and unprecedented.’</p> +<p>‘Unreasonable!’ exclaimed Miss McCabe, rising to her +feet with eyes of flame, ‘I am my father’s daughter, and +his wish is my law, whatever the laws that men make may say.’</p> +<p>Her affectation of slang had fallen off; she was absolutely natural +now, and entirely in earnest.</p> +<p>Merton rose also.</p> +<p><!-- page 202--><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>‘One moment,’ +he said. ‘It would be impertinence in me to express my admiration +of you—of what you say. As the question is not a legal one +(in such I am no fit adviser) I shall think myself honoured if you will +permit me to be of any service in the circumstances. They are +less unprecedented than I hastily supposed. History records many +examples of fathers, even of royal rank, who have attached similar conditions +to the disposal of their daughters’ hands.’</p> +<p>Merton was thinking of the kings in the treatises of Monsieur Charles +Perrault, Madame d’Aulnoy, and other historians of Fairyland; +of monarchs who give their daughters to the bold adventurers that bring +the smallest dog, or the singing rose, or the horse magical.</p> +<p>‘What you really want, I think,’ he went on, as Miss +McCabe resumed her seat, ‘is to have your choice, as you said, +among the competitors?’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ replied the fair American, ‘that is only +natural.’</p> +<p>‘But then,’ said Merton, ‘much depends on who decides +as to the merits of the competitors. With whom does the decision +rest?’</p> +<p>‘With the people.’</p> +<p>‘With the people?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, with the popular vote, as expressed through the newspaper +that my father founded—<i>The Yellow Flag</i>. The public +is to see the exhibits, the new varieties of nature, and the majority +of votes is to carry the day. “Trust the people!” +that was Pappa’s word.’</p> +<p>‘Then anyone who chooses, of the age, character, and education +stipulated under the clause in the will, <!-- page 203--><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>may +go and bring in whatever variety of nature he pleases and take his chance?’</p> +<p>‘That is it all the time,’ said the client. ‘There +is a trust, and the trustees, friends of Pappa’s, decide on the +qualifications of the young men who enter for the competition. +If the trustees are satisfied they allot money for expenses out of the +exploration fund, so that nobody may be stopped because he is poor.’</p> +<p>‘There will be an enormous throng of competitors in these conditions—and +with such a prize,’ Merton could not help adding.</p> +<p>‘I reckon the trustees are middling particular. They’ll +weed them out.’</p> +<p>‘Is there any restriction on the nationality of the competitors?’ +asked Merton, on whom an idea was dawning.</p> +<p>‘Only members of the English speaking races need apply,’ +said Miss McCabe. ‘Pappa took no stock in Spaniards or Turks.’</p> +<p>‘The voters will be prejudiced in favour of their own fellow +citizens?’ asked Merton. ‘That is only natural.’</p> +<p>‘Trust the people,’ said Miss McCabe. ‘The +whole thing is to be kept as dark as a blind coloured person hunting +in a dark cellar for a black cat that is not there.’</p> +<p>‘A truly Miltonic illustration,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘The advertisement for competitors will be carefully worded, +so as to attract only young men of science. The young men are +not to be told about <i>me</i>: the prize is in dollars, “with +other advantages to be later specified.” The varieties found +are to be <!-- page 204--><span class="pagenum">p. 204</span>conveyed +to a port abroad, not yet named, and shipped for New York in a steamer +belonging to the McCabe Trust.’</p> +<p>‘Then am I to understand that the conditions affecting your +marriage are still an entire secret?’</p> +<p>‘That is so,’ said Miss McCabe, ‘and I guess from +what the marchioness told me, your reference, that you can keep a secret.’</p> +<p>‘To keep secrets is the very essential of my vocation,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>But <i>this</i> secret, as will be seen, he did not absolutely keep.</p> +<p>‘The arrangements,’ he added, ‘are most judicious.’</p> +<p>‘Guess Pappa was ’cute,’ said Miss McCabe, relapsing +into her adopted mannerisms.</p> +<p>‘I think I now understand the case in all its bearings,’ +Merton went on. ‘I shall give it my serious consideration. +Perhaps I had better say no more at present, but think over the matter. +You remain in town for the season?’</p> +<p>‘Guess we’ve staked out a claim in Berkeley Square,’ +said Miss McCabe, ‘an agreeable location.’ She mentioned +the number of the house.</p> +<p>‘Then we are likely to meet now and then,’ said Merton, +‘and I trust that I may be permitted to wait on you occasionally.’</p> +<p>Miss McCabe graciously assented; her chaperon, Lady Rathcoffey, was +summoned by her from the inner chamber and the society of Miss Blossom, +the typewriter; the pair drove away, and Merton was left to his own +reflections.</p> +<p>‘I do not know what can be done for her,’ he <!-- page 205--><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>thought, +‘except to see that there is at least one eligible man, a gentleman, +among the crowd of competitors, and that he is a likely man to win the +beautiful prize. And that man is Bude, by Jove, if he wants to +win it.’</p> +<p>The Earl of Bude, whose name at once occurred to Merton, was a remarkable +personage. The world knew him as rich, handsome, happy, and a +mighty hunter of big game. They knew not the mysterious grief +that for years had gnawed at his heart. Why did not Bude marry? +No woman could say. The world, moreover, knew not, but Merton +did, that Lord Bude was the mysterious Mr. Jones Harvey, who contributed +the most original papers to the Proceedings of the Geographical and +Zoological Societies, and who had conferred many strange beasts on the +Gardens of the latter learned institution. The erudite papers +were read, the eccentric animals were conferred, in the name of Mr. +Jones Harvey. They came from outlandish addresses in the ends +of the earth, but, in the flesh, Jones Harvey had been seen by no man, +and his secret had been confided to Merton only, to Logan, and two other +school friends. He did good to science by stealth, and blushed +at the idea of being a F.R.S. There was no show of science about +Bude, and nothing exotic, except the singular circumstance that, however +he happened to be dressed, he always wore a ring, or pin, or sleeve +links set with very ugly and muddy looking pearls. From these +ornaments Lord Bude was inseparable; to chaff about presents from dusky +princesses on undiscovered shores he was impervious. Even Merton +<!-- page 206--><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>did not know the +cause of his attachment to these ungainly jewels, or the dark memory +of mysterious loss with which they were associated.</p> +<p>Merton’s first care was to visit the divine Althæa, Mrs. +Brown-Smith, and other ladies of his acquaintance. Their cards +were deposited at the claim staked out by Miss McCabe in Berkeley Square, +and that young lady soon ‘went everywhere,’ and publicly +confessed that she ‘was having a real lovely time.’ +By a little diplomacy Lord Bude was brought acquainted with Miss McCabe. +She consented to overlook his possession of a coronet; titles were, +to this heroine, not marvels (as to some of her countrywomen and ours), +but rather matters of indifference, scarcely even suggesting hostile +prejudice. The observers in society, mothers and maids, and the +chroniclers of fashion, soon perceived that there was at least a marked +<i>camaraderie</i> between <i>the elegant aristocrat</i>, hitherto indifferent +to woman, untouched, as was deemed, by love, and the lovely Child of +Freedom. Miss McCabe sat by him while he drove his coach; on the +roof of his drag at Lord’s; and of his houseboat at Henley, where +she fainted when the crew of Johns Hopkins University, U. S., was defeated +by a length by Balliol (where Lord Bude had been the favourite pupil +of the great Master). Merton remarked these tokens of friendship +with approval. If Bude could be induced to enter for the great +competition, and if he proved successful, there seemed no reason to +suppose that Miss McCabe would be dissatisfied with the People’s +choice.</p> +<p>Towards the end of the season, and in Bude’s <!-- page 207--><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>smoking-room, +about five in the July morning after a ball at Eglintoun House, Merton +opened his approaches. He began, cautiously, from talk of moors +and forests; he touched on lochs, he mentioned the Highland traditions +of water bulls (which haunt these meres); he spoke of the <i>Beathach +mòr Loch Odha</i>, a legendary animal of immeasurable length. +The <i>Beathach</i> has twelve feet; he has often been heard crashing +through the ice in the nights of winter. These tales the narrator +has gleaned from the lips of the Celtic peasantry of Letter Awe.</p> +<p>‘I daresay he does break the ice,’ said Bude. ‘In +the matter of cryptic survivals of extinct species I can believe a good +deal.’</p> +<p>‘The sea serpent?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Seen him thrice,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘Then why did not Jones Harvey weigh in with a letter to <i>Nature</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Jones Harvey has a scientific reputation to look after, and +knows he would be laughed at. That’s the kind of hair-pin +<i>he</i> is,’ said Bude, quoting Miss McCabe. ‘By +Jove, Merton, that girl—’ and he paused.</p> +<p>‘Yes, she is pretty,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Pretty! I have seen the women of the round world—before +I went to—well, never mind where, I used to think the Poles the +most magnificent, but <i>she</i>—’</p> +<p>‘Whips creation,’ said Merton. ‘But I,’ +he went on, ‘am rather more interested in these other extraordinary +animals. Do you seriously believe, with your experience, that +some extinct species are—not extinct?’</p> +<p><!-- page 208--><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>‘To be sure +I do. The world is wide. But they are very shy. I +once stalked a Bunyip, in Central Australia, in a lagoon. The +natives said he was there: I watched for a week, squatting in the reeds, +and in the grey of the seventh dawn I saw him.’</p> +<p>‘Did you shoot?’</p> +<p>‘No, I observed him through a field glass first.’</p> +<p>‘What is the beggar like?’</p> +<p>‘Much like some of the Highland water cattle, as described, +but it is his ears they take for horns. Australia has no indigenous +horned animal. He is, I should say, about nine feet long, marsupial +(he rose breast high), and web-footed. I saw that when he dived. +Other white men have seen him—Buckley, the convict, for one, when +he lived among the blacks.’</p> +<p>‘Buckley was not an accurate observer.’</p> +<p>‘Jones Harvey is.’</p> +<p>‘Any other queer beasts?’</p> +<p>‘Of course, plenty. You have heard of the Mylodon, the +gigantic Sloth? His bones, skin, and hair were lately found in +a cave in Patagonia, with a lot of his fodder. You can see them +at the British Museum in South Kensington. Primitive Patagonian +man used the female of the species as a milch-cow. He was a genial +friendly kind of brute, accessible to charm of manner and chopped hay. +They fed him on that, in a domesticated state.’</p> +<p>‘But he is extinct. Hesketh Pritchard went to look for +a live Mylodon, and did not find him.’</p> +<p>‘Did not know where to look,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘But you do?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p><!-- page 209--><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>‘Yes, I +think so.’</p> +<p>‘Then why don’t you bring one over to the Zoo?’</p> +<p>‘I may some day.’</p> +<p>‘Are there any more survivors of extinct species?’</p> +<p>‘Merton, is this an interview? Are you doing Mr. Jones +Harvey at home for a picture paper?’</p> +<p>‘No, I’ve dropped the Press,’ said Merton, ‘I +ask in a spirit of scientific curiosity.’</p> +<p>‘Well, there is the Dinornis, the Moa of New Zealand. +A bird as big as the Roc in the “Arabian Nights.”’</p> +<p>‘Have you seen <i>him</i>?’</p> +<p>‘No, but I have seen <i>her</i>, the hen bird. She was +sitting on eggs. No man knows her nest but myself, and old Te-iki-pa, +the chief medicine-man, or Tohunga, of the Maori King. The Moa’s +eyrie is in the King’s country. It is a difficult country, +and a dangerous business, if the cock Moa chances to come home.’</p> +<p>‘Bude, is this worthy of an old friend, this <i>blague</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Do you doubt my word?’</p> +<p>‘If you give me your word I must believe—that you dreamed +it.’</p> +<p><i>Then a strange thing happened</i>.</p> +<p>Bude walked to a small case of instruments that stood on a table +in the smoking-room. He unlocked it, took out a lancet, brought +a Rhodian bowl from a shelf, and bared his arm.</p> +<p>‘Do you want proof?’</p> +<p>‘Proof that you saw a hen Moa sitting?’ asked Merton +in amazement.</p> +<p><!-- page 210--><span class="pagenum">p. 210</span>‘Not exactly, +but proof that Te-iki-pa knew a thing or two, quite as out of the way +as the habitat of the Moa.’</p> +<p>‘What do you want me to do?’</p> +<p>‘Bare your arm, and hold it over the bowl.’</p> +<p>The room was full of the yellow dusky light of an early summer morning +in London. Outside the heavy carts were rolling by: in full civilisation +the scene was strange.</p> +<p>‘The Blood Covenant?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>Bude nodded.</p> +<p>Merton turned up his cuff, Bude let a little blood drop into the +bowl, then performed the same operation on his own arm.</p> +<p>‘This is all rot,’ he said, ‘but without this I +cannot show you, by virtue of my oath to Te-iki-pa, what I mean to show +you. Now repeat after me what I am going to say.’</p> +<p>He spoke a string of words, among which Merton, as he repeated them, +could only recognise <i>mana</i> and <i>atua</i>. The vowel sounds +were as in Italian.</p> +<p>‘Now these words you must never report to any one, without +my permission.’</p> +<p>‘Not likely,’ said Merton, ‘I only remember two +of them, and these I knew before.’</p> +<p>‘All right,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>He then veiled his face in a piece of silk that lay on a sofa, and +rapidly, in a low voice, chanted a kind of hymn in a tongue unknown +to Merton. All this he did with a bored air, as if he thought +the performance a superfluous mummery.</p> +<p>‘Now what shall I show you? Something simple. <!-- page 211--><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>Look +at the bookcase, and think of any book you may want to consult.’</p> +<p>Merton thought of the volume in M. of the <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i>. +The volume slowly slid from the shelf, glided through the air to Merton, +and gently subsided on the table near him, open at the word <i>Moa</i>.</p> +<p>Merton walked across to the bookcase, took all the volumes from the +shelf, and carefully examined the backs and sides for springs and mechanical +advantages. There were none.</p> +<p>‘Not half bad!’ he said, when he had completed his investigation.</p> +<p>‘You are satisfied that Te-iki-pa knew something? If +you had seen what I have seen, if you had seen the three days dead—’ +and Bude shivered slightly.</p> +<p>‘I have seen enough. Do you know how it is done?’</p> +<p>‘No.’</p> +<p>‘Well, a miracle is not what you call logical proof, but I +believe that you did see the Moa, and a still more extraordinary bird, +Te-iki-pa.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, they talk of strange beasts, but “nothing is stranger +than man.” Did you ever hear of the Berbalangs of Cagayan +Sulu?’</p> +<p>‘Never in my life,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Heaven preserve me from <i>them</i>,’ said Bude, and +he gently stroked the strange muddy pearls in the sleeve-links on his +loose shirt-cuff. ‘Angels and ministers of grace defend +us,’ he exclaimed, crossing himself (he was of the old faith), +and he fell silent.</p> +<p><!-- page 212--><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>It was a moment +of emotion. Six silvery strokes were sounded from a little clock +on the chimney-piece. The hour of confidences had struck.</p> +<p>‘Bude, you are serious about Miss McCabe?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘I mean to put it to the touch at Goodwood.’</p> +<p>‘No use!’ said Merton.</p> +<p>Bude changed colour.</p> +<p>‘Are <i>you</i>?’</p> +<p>‘No,’ interrupted Merton. ‘But she is not +free.’</p> +<p>‘There is somebody in America? Nobody here, I think.’</p> +<p>‘It is hardly that,’ said Merton. ‘Can you +listen to rather a long story? I’ll cut it as much as possible. +You must remember that I am practically breaking my word of honour in +telling you this. My honour is in your hands.’</p> +<p>‘Fire away,’ said Bude, pouring a bottle of Apollinaris +water into a long tumbler, and drinking deep.</p> +<p>Merton told the tale of Miss McCabe’s extraordinary involvement, +and of the wild conditions on which her hand was to be won. ‘And +as to her heart, I think,’ he added, ‘if you pull off the +prize—</p> +<blockquote><p>If my heart by signs can tell,<br /> +Lordling, I have marked her daily,<br /> +And I think she loves thee well.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Thank you for that, old cock,’ replied the peer, shaking +Merton’s hand. He had recovered from his emotion.</p> +<p><!-- page 213--><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>‘I’m +on,’ he added, after a moment’s silence, ‘but I shall +enter as Jones Harvey.’</p> +<p>‘His name and his celebrated papers will impress the trustees,’ +said Merton. ‘Now what variety of nature shall you go for? +Wild <i>men</i> count. Shall you fetch a Berbalang of what do +you call it?’</p> +<p>Bude shuddered. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘I +think I shall fetch a Moa.’</p> +<p>‘But no steamer could hold that gigantic denizen of the forests.’</p> +<p>‘You leave that to Jones Harvey. Jones is ’cute, +some,’ he said, reminiscent of the adored one, and he fell into +a lover’s reverie.</p> +<p>He was aroused by Merton’s departure: he finished the Apollinaris +water, took a bath, and went to bed.</p> +<h3>II. The Adventure of the Muddy Pearls</h3> +<p>The Earl of Bude had meant to lay his heart, coronet, and other possessions, +real and personal, before the tiny feet of the fair American at Goodwood. +But when he learned from Merton the involvements of this heiress and +paragon, that her hand depended on the choice of the people, that the +choice of the people was to settle on the adventurer who brought to +New York the rarest of nature’s varieties, the earl honourably +held his peace. Yet he and the object of his love were constantly +meeting, on the yachts and in the country houses of their friends, the +aristocracy, and, finally, at shooting lodges in the Highlands. +Their position, as the Latin Delectus <!-- page 214--><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>says +concerning the passion of love in general, was ‘a strange thing, +and full of anxious fears.’ Bude could not declare himself, +and Miss McCabe, not knowing that he knew her situation, was constantly +wondering why he did not speak. Between fear of letting her secret +show itself in a glance or a blush and hope of listening to the words +which she desired to hear, even though she could not answer them as +her heart prompted, she was unhappy. Bude could not resist the +temptation to be with her—indeed he argued to himself that, as +her suitor and an adventurer about to risk himself in her cause, he +had a right to be near her. Meanwhile Merton was the confidant +of both of the perplexed lovers; at least Miss McCabe (who, of course, +told him nothing about Bude) kept him apprised as to the conduct of +her trustees.</p> +<p>They had acted with honourable caution and circumspection. +Their advertisements guardedly appealed to men of daring and of scientific +distinction under the age of thirty-five. A professorship might +have been in view for all that the world could see, if the world read +the advertisements. Perhaps it was something connected with the +manufacture of original explosives, for daring is not usually required +in the learned. The testimonials and printed works of applicants +were jealously scrutinised. At personal interviews with competitors +similar caution was observed. During three weeks in August the +papers announced that Lord Bude was visiting the States; arrangements +about a yachting match in the future were his pretence. He returned, +he came to Scotland, <!-- page 215--><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>and +it was in a woodland path beside the Lochy that his resolution failed, +and that he spoke to Miss McCabe. They were walking home together +from the river in the melancholy and beautiful close of a Highland day +in September. Behind them the gillies, at a respectful distance, +were carrying the rods and the fish. The wet woods were fragrant, +the voice of the stream was deepening, strange lights came and went +on moor and hills and the distant loch. It was then that Bude +opened his heart. He first candidly explained that his heart, +he had supposed, was dead—buried on a distant and a deadly shore.</p> +<p>‘I reckon there’s a lost Lenore most times,’ Miss +McCabe had replied to this confession.</p> +<p>But, though never to be forgotten, the memory of the lost one, Bude +averred, was now merged in the light of a living love; his heart was +no longer tenanted only by a shadow.</p> +<p>The heart of Miss McCabe stood still for a moment, her cheek paled, +but the gallant girl was true to herself, to her father’s wish, +to her native land, to the flag. She understood her adorer.</p> +<p>‘Guess <i>I</i>’m bespoke,’ said Miss McCabe abruptly.</p> +<p>‘You are another’s! Oh, despair!’ exclaimed +the impassioned earl.</p> +<p>‘Yes, I reckon I’m the Bride of Seven, like the girl +in the poem.’</p> +<p>‘The Bride of Seven?’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘One out of <i>that</i> crowd will call me his,’ said +Miss McCabe, handing to her adorer the list, which she had received +by mail a day or two earlier, of the accepted competitors. He +glanced over the names.</p> +<p><!-- page 216--><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>1. Dr. Hiram +P. Dodge, of the Smithsonian Institute.</p> +<p>2. Alfred Jenkins, F.R.S., All Souls College, Oxford.</p> +<p>3. Dr. James Rustler, Columbia University.</p> +<p>4. Howard Fry, M.A., Ph.D., Trinity College, Cambridge.</p> +<p>5. Professor Potter, F.R.S., University of St. Andrews.</p> +<p>6. Professor Wilkinson, University of Harvard.</p> +<p>7. Jones Harvey, F.G.S., London, England.</p> +<p>‘In Heaven’s name,’ asked the earl, ‘what +means this mystification? Miss McCabe, Melissa, do not trifle +with me. Is this part of the great American Joke? You are +playing it pretty low down on me, Melissa!’ he ended, the phrase +being one of those with which she had made him familiar.</p> +<p>She laughed hysterically: ‘It’s honest Injun,’ +she said, and in the briefest terms she told him (what he knew very +well) the conditions on which her future depended.</p> +<p>‘They are a respectable crowd, I don’t deny it,’ +she went on, ‘but, oh, how dull! That Mr. Jenkins, I saw +him at your Commemoration. He gave us luncheon, and showed us +dry old bones of beasts and savage notions at the Museum. I <i>druther</i> +have been on the creek,’ by which name she intended the classical +river Isis.</p> +<p>‘Dr. Hiram P. Dodge is one of our rising scientists, a boss +of the Smithsonian Institute. Well, Washington is a finer location +than Oxford! Dr. Rustler is a crank; he thinks he can find a tall +talk mummy that speaks an unknown tongue.’</p> +<p><!-- page 217--><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>‘A Toltec +mummy? Ah,’ said Bude, ‘I know where to find one of +<i>them</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Find it then, Alured!’ exclaimed Miss McCabe, blushing +scarlet and turning aside. ‘But you are not on the list. +You are an idler, and not scientific, not worth a red cent. There, +I’ve given myself away!’ She wept.</p> +<p>They were alone, beneath the walls of a crumbling fortalice of Lochiel. +The new risen moon saw Bude embrace her and dry her tears. A nameless +blissful hope awakened in the fair American; help there <i>must</i> +be, she thought, with these strong arms around her.</p> +<p>She rapidly disposed of the remaining names: of Howard Fry, who had +a red beard; of Professor Potter of St. Andrews, whose accent was Caledonian; +of Wilkinson, an ardent but unalluring scientist. ‘As for +Jones Harvey,’ she said, ‘I’ve canvassed everywhere, +and I can’t find anybody that ever saw him. I am more afraid +of him than of all the other galoots; I don’t know why.’</p> +<p>‘He is reckoned very learned,’ said Bude, ‘and +has not been thought ill-looking.’</p> +<p>‘Do tell!’ said Miss McCabe.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Melissa, can you even <i>dream</i> of another in an hour +like this?’</p> +<p>‘Did you ever see Jones Harvey?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I have met him.’</p> +<p>‘Do you know him well?’</p> +<p>‘No man knows him better.’</p> +<p>‘Can’t you get him to stand out, and, Alured, can’t +you—fetch along that old tall talk mummy? He would hit our +people, being American himself.’</p> +<p><!-- page 218--><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>‘It is impossible. +Jones Harvey will never stand out,’ and Bude smiled.</p> +<p>By the telepathy of the affections Miss McCabe was slowly informed, +especially as Bude’s smile widened almost unbecomingly, while +he gazed into the deeps of her golden eyes.</p> +<p>‘Alured,’ she exclaimed, ‘<i>that’s</i> why +you went to the States. <i>You</i>—are—Jones Harvey!’</p> +<p>‘Secret for secret,’ whispered the earl. ‘We +have both given ourselves away. Unknown to the world I <i>am</i> +Jones Harvey; to live for you: to love you: to dare; if need be, to +die for you.’</p> +<p>‘Well, you surprise me!’ said Miss McCabe.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The narrator is unwilling to dilate on the delights of a privileged +affection. In this love affair neither of the lovers could feel +absolutely certain that their affection <i>was</i> privileged. +The fair American had her own secret scheme if her hopes were blighted. +She <i>could</i> not then obey the paternal will: she would retire into +the life religious, and, as Sister Anna, would strive to forget the +sorrows of Melissa McCabe. Bude had his own hours of gloom.</p> +<p>‘It is a six-to-one chance,’ he said to Merton when they +met.</p> +<p>‘Better than that, I think,’ said Merton. ‘First, +you know exactly what you are entered for. Do the others? +When you saw the trustees in the States, did they tell you about the +prize?’</p> +<p>‘Not they. They spoke of a pecuniary reward which would +be eminently satisfactory, and of the opportunity for research and distinction, +and all expenses <!-- page 219--><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>found. +I said that I preferred to pay my own way, which surprised and pleased +them a good deal.’</p> +<p>‘Well, then, knowing the facts, and the lady, you have a far +stronger motive than the other six.’</p> +<p>‘That’s true,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘Again, though the others are good men (not that I like Jenkins +of All Souls), none of them has your experience and knowledge. +Jones Harvey’s testimonials would carry it if it were a question +of election to a professorship.’</p> +<p>‘You flatter me,’ answered Bude.</p> +<p>‘<i>Lastly, did the trustees ask you if you were a married +man</i>?’</p> +<p>‘No, by Jove, they didn’t.’</p> +<p>‘Well, nothing about the competitors being unmarried men occurs +in the clause of McCabe’s last will and testament. He took +it for granted, the prize being what it is, that only bachelors were +eligible. But he forgot to say so, in so many words, and the trustees +did not go beyond the deed. Now, Dodge is married; Fry of Trinity +is a married don; Rustler (I happen to know) is an engaged man, who +can’t afford to marry a charming girl in Detroit, Michigan; and +Professor Potter has buried one wife, and wedded another. If Rustler +is loyal to his plighted word, you have nobody against you but Wilkinson +and old Jenkins of All Souls—a tough customer, I admit, though +what a Stinks man like him has to do at All Souls I don’t know.’</p> +<p>‘I say, this is hard on the other sportsmen! What ought +I to do? Should I tell them?’</p> +<p>‘You can’t: you have no official knowledge of their <!-- page 220--><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>existence. +You only know through Miss McCabe. You have just to sit tight.’</p> +<p>‘It seems beastly unsportsmanlike,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘Wills are often most carelessly drafted,’ answered Merton, +‘and the usual consequences follow.’</p> +<p>‘It is not cricket,’ said Bude, and really he seemed +much more depressed than elated by the reduction of the odds against +him from 6 to 1 to 2 to 1.</p> +<p>This is the magnificent type of character produced by our British +system of athletic sports, though it is not to be doubted that the spirit +of Science, in the American gentlemen, would have been equally productive +of the sense of fair play.</p> +<p>* * * * * *</p> +<p>A year, by the terms of McCabe’s will, was allotted to the +quest. Candidates were to keep the trustees informed as to their +whereabouts. Six weeks before the end of the period the competitors +would be instructed as to the port of rendezvous, where an ocean liner, +chartered by the trustees, was to await them. Bude, as Jones Harvey, +had obtained leave to sail his own steam yacht of 800 tons.</p> +<p>The earl’s preparations were simple. He carried his usual +stock of scientific implements, his usual armament, including two Maxim +guns, and a package of considerable size and weight, which was stored +in the hold. As to the preparations of the others he knew nothing, +but Miss McCabe became aware that Rustler had not left the American +continent. Concerning Jenkins, and the probable aim of his enterprise, +the object of his quest, she gleaned information from a junior Fellow +of All Souls, who was her slave, <!-- page 221--><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>was +indiscreet, and did not know how deeply concerned she was in the expeditions. +But she never whispered a word of what she knew to her lover, not even +in the hour of parting.</p> +<p>It was in an unnamed creek of the New Zealand coast, six weeks before +the end of the appointed year, that Bude received a telegram in cipher +from the trustees. Bearded, and in blue spectacles, clad rudely +as a mariner, Bude was to all, except Logan, who had accompanied him, +plain Jones Harvey. None could have recognised in his rugged aspect +the elegant aristocrat of Mayfair.</p> +<p>Bude took the message from the hands of the Maori bearer. As +he deciphered it his fingers trembled with eagerness. ‘Oh, +Heaven! Here is the Hand of Destiny!’ he exclaimed, when +he had read the message; and with pallid face he dropped into a deck-chair.</p> +<p>‘No bad news?’ asked Logan with anxiety.</p> +<p>‘The port of rendezvous,’ said Bude, much agitated. +‘Come down to my cabin.’</p> +<p>Entering the sumptuous cabin, Bude opened the locked door of a state-room, +and uttered some words in an unknown tongue. A tall and very ancient +Maori, tatooed with the native ‘Moka’ on every inch of his +body, emerged. The snows of some eighty winters covered his broad +breast and majestic head. His eyes were full of the secrets of +primitive races. For clothing he wore two navy revolvers stuck +in a waist-cloth.</p> +<p>‘Te-iki-pa,’ said Bude, in the Maori language, ‘watch +by the door, we must have no listeners, and <!-- page 222--><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>your +ears are keen as those of the youngest Rangatira’ (warrior).</p> +<p>The august savage nodded, and, lying down on the floor, applied his +ear to the chink at its foot.</p> +<p>‘The port of tryst,’ whispered Bude to Logan, as they +seated themselves at the remotest extremity of the cabin, ‘is +in Cagayan Sulu.’</p> +<p>‘And where may that be?’ asked Logan, lighting a cigarette.</p> +<p>‘It is a small volcanic island, the most southerly of the Philippines.’</p> +<p>‘American territory now,’ said Logan. ‘But +what about it? If it was anybody but you, Bude, I should say he +was in a funk.’</p> +<p>‘I <i>am</i> in a funk,’ answered Bude simply.</p> +<p>‘Why?’</p> +<p>‘I have been there before and left—a blood-feud.’</p> +<p>‘What of it? We have one here, with the Maori King, about +you know what. Have we not the Maxims, and any quantity of Lee-Metfords? +Besides, you need not go ashore at Cagayan Sulu.’</p> +<p>‘But they can come aboard. Bullets won’t stop <i>them</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Stop whom? The natives?’</p> +<p>‘The Berbalangs: you might as well try to stop mosquitoes with +Maxims.’</p> +<p>‘Who are the Berbalangs then?’</p> +<p>Bude paced the cabin in haggard anxiety. ‘Least said, +soonest mended,’ he muttered.</p> +<p>‘Well, I don’t want your confidence,’ said Logan, +hurt.</p> +<p>‘My dear fellow,’ said Bude affectionately, ‘you +<!-- page 223--><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>are likely to know +soon enough. In the meantime, please accept this.’</p> +<p>He opened a strong box, which appeared to contain jewellery, and +offered Logan a ring. Between two diamonds of the finest water +it contained a bizarre muddy coloured pearl. ‘Never let +that leave your finger,’ said Bude. ‘Your life may +hang on it.’</p> +<p>‘It is a pretty talisman,’ said Logan, placing the jewel +on the little finger of his right hand. ‘A token of some +friendly chief, I suppose, at Cagayan—what do you call it?’</p> +<p>‘Let us put it at that,’ answered Bude; ‘I must +take other precautions.’</p> +<p>It seemed to Logan that these consisted in making similar presents +to the officers and crew, all of whom were Englishmen. Te-iki-pa +displaced his nose-ring and inserted his pearl in the orifice previously +occupied by that ornament. A little chain of the pearls was hung +on the padlock of the huge packing-case, which was the special care +of Te-iki-pa.</p> +<p>‘Luckily I had the yacht’s painting altered before leaving +England,’ said Bude. ‘I’ll sail her under Spanish +colours, and perhaps they won’t spot her. Any way, with +the pearls—lucky I bought a lot—we ought to be safe enough. +But if any one of the competitors has gone for specimens of the Berbalangs, +I fear, I sadly fear, the consequences.’ His face clouded; +he fell into a reverie.</p> +<p>Logan made no reply, but puffed rings of cigarette smoke into the +still blue air. There was method in Bude’s apparent madness, +but Logan suspected that there was madness in his method.</p> +<p><!-- page 224--><span class="pagenum">p. 224</span>A certain coolness +had not ceased to exist between the friends when, after their long voyage, +they sighted the volcanic craters of the lonely isle of Cagayan Sulu +and beheld the Stars and Stripes waving from the masthead of the <i>George +Washington</i> (Captain Noah P. Funkal).</p> +<p>Logan landed, and noted the harmless but well-armed half-Mahometan +natives of the village. He saw the other competitors, whose ‘exhibits,’ +as Miss McCabe called them, were securely stored in the <i>George Washington</i>—strange +spoils of far-off mysterious forests, and unplumbed waters of the remotest +isles. Occasionally a barbaric yap, or a weird yell or hoot, was +wafted on the air at feeding time. Jenkins of All Souls (whom +he knew a little) Logan did not meet on the beach; he, like Bude, tarried +aboard ship. The other adventurers were civil but remote, and +there was a jealous air of suspicion on every face save that of Professor +Potter. He, during the day of waiting on the island, played golf +with Logan over links which he had hastily improvised. Beyond +admitting, as they played, that <i>his</i> treasure was in a tank, ‘and +as well as could be expected, poor brute, but awful noisy,’ Professor +Potter offered no information.</p> +<p>‘Our find is quiet enough,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Does he give you trouble about food?’ asked Mr. Potter.</p> +<p>‘Takes nothing,’ said Logan, adding, as he holed out, +‘that makes me dormy two.’</p> +<p>From the rest of the competitors not even this amount of information +could be extracted, and as <!-- page 225--><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>for +Captain Noah Funkal, he was taciturn, authoritative, and, Logan thought, +not in a very good temper.</p> +<p>The <i>George Washington</i> and the <i>Pendragon</i> (so Jones Harvey +had christened the yacht which under Bude’s colours sailed as +<i>The Sabrina</i>) weighed anchor simultaneously. If possible +they were not to lose sight of each other, and they corresponded by +signals and through the megalophone.</p> +<p>The hours of daylight on the first day of the return voyage passed +peacefully at deck-cricket, as far as Logan, Bude, and such of the officers +and men as could be spared were concerned. At last night came +‘at one stride,’ and the vast ocean plain was only illuminated +by the pale claritude that falls from the stars. Logan and Bude +(they had not dressed for dinner, but wore yachting suits) were smoking +on deck, when, quite suddenly, a loud, almost musical, roar or hum was +heard from the direction of the distant island.</p> +<p>‘What’s that?’ asked Logan, leaping up and looking +towards Cagayan Sulu.</p> +<p>‘The Berbalangs,’ said Bude coolly. ‘You +are wearing the ring I gave you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, always do,’ said Logan, looking at his hand.</p> +<p>‘All the men have their pearls; I saw to that,’ said +Bude.</p> +<p>‘Why, the noise is dwindling,’ said Logan. ‘That +is odd; it seemed to be coming this way.’</p> +<p>‘So it is,’ said Bude; ‘the nearer they approach +the less you hear them. When they have come on board you won’t +hear them at all.’</p> +<p>Logan stared, but asked no more questions.</p> +<p><!-- page 226--><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>The musical boom +as it approached had died to a whisper, and then had fallen into perfect +silence. At the very moment when the mysterious sound ceased, +a swarm of things like red fire-flies, a host of floating specks of +ruby light, invaded the deck in a cluster. The red points then +scattered, approached each man on board, and paused when within a yard +of his head or breast. Then they vanished. A queer kind +of chill ran down Logan’s spine; then the faint whispered musical +moan tingled in each man’s ears, and the sounds as they departed +eastwards gathered volume and force till, in a moment, there fell perfect +stillness.</p> +<p>Stillness, broken only by a sudden and mysterious chorus of animal +cries from the <i>George Washington</i>. A kind of wail, high, +shrieking, strenuous, ending in a noise as of air escaping from a pipe; +a torrent of barks such as no known beast could utter, subsiding into +moans that chilled the blood; a guttural scream, broken by heavy sounds +as if of water lapping on a rock at uncertain intervals; a human cry, +human words, with unfamiliar vowel sounds, soon slipping into quiet—these +were among the horrors that assailed the ears of the voyagers in the +<i>Pendragon</i>. Such a discord of laments has not tingled to +the indifferent stars since the ice-wave swept into their last retreats, +and crushed among the rocks that bear their fossil forms, the fauna +of the preglacial period, the Ichthyosaurus, the Brontosaurus, the Guyas +Cutis (or Ring-tailed Roarer), the Mastodon, and the Mammoth.</p> +<p>‘What a row in the menagerie!’ said Logan.</p> +<p><!-- page 227--><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>He was not answered.</p> +<p>Bude had fallen into a deck-chair, his face buried in his hands, +his arms rocking convulsively.</p> +<p>‘I say, old cock, pull yourself together,’ said Logan, +and rushing down the companion stairs, he reappeared with a bottle of +champagne. To extract the cork (how familiar, how reassuring, +sounded the <i>cloop</i>!), and to pour the foaming beverage into two +long tumblers, was, to the active Logan, the work of a moment. +Shaking Bude, he offered him the beaker; the earl drained it at a draught. +He shuddered, but rose to his feet.</p> +<p>‘Not a man alive on that doomed vessel,’ he was saying, +when anew the still air was rent by the raucous notes of a megalophone:</p> +<p>‘Is <i>your</i> exhibit all right?’</p> +<p>‘Fit as a fiddle,’ answered Logan through a similar instrument.</p> +<p>‘Our exhibits are gone bust,’ answered Captain Noah Funkal. +‘Our professors are in fits. Our darkeys are all dead. +Can your skipper come aboard?’</p> +<p>‘Just launching a boat,’ cried Logan.</p> +<p>Bude gave the necessary orders. His captain stepped up to him +and saluted.</p> +<p>‘Do you know what these red fire-flies were that come aboard, +sir?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Fire-flies? Oh, <i>musæ volitantes sonoræ</i>, +a common phenomenon in these latitudes,’ answered Bude.</p> +<p>Logan rejoiced to see that the earl was himself again.</p> +<p>‘The other gentlemen’s scientific beasts don’t +seem to like them, sir?’</p> +<p><!-- page 228--><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>‘So Captain +Funkal seems to imply,’ said Bude, and, taking the ropes, with +Logan beside him, while the <i>Pendragon</i> lay to, he steered the +boat towards the <i>George Washington</i>.</p> +<p>The captain welcomed them on deck in a scene of unusual character. +He himself had a revolver in one hand, and a belaying pin in the other; +he had been quelling, by the tranquillising methods of Captain Kettle, +a mutiny caused by the terror of the crew. The sailors had attempted +to leap overboard in the alarm caused by the invasion of the Berbalangs.</p> +<p>‘You will excuse my friend and myself for not being in evening +dress, during a visit at this hour,’ said Bude in the silkiest +of tones.</p> +<p>‘Glad to see you shipshape, gentlemen,’ answered the +American mariner. ‘My dudes of professors were prancing +round in Tuxedos and Prince Alberts when the darned fire-flies came +aboard.’</p> +<p>Bude bowed. Study of Miss McCabe had taught him that Tuxedos +and Prince Alberts mean evening dress and frock-coats.</p> +<p>‘Did <i>your</i> men have fits?’ asked the captain.</p> +<p>‘My captain, Captain Hardy, made a scientific inquiry about +the—insects,’ said Bude. ‘The crew showed no +emotion.’</p> +<p>‘I guess our fire-bugs were more on business than yours,’ +said Captain Funkal; ‘they’ve wrecked the exhibits, and +killed the darkeys with fright: except two, and <i>they</i> were exhibits +themselves. Will you honour me by stepping into my cabin, gentlemen. +I am glad to see sane white men to-night.’</p> +<p>Bude and Logan followed him through a scene of <!-- page 229--><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>melancholy +interest. Beside the mast, within a shattered palisade, lay huddled +the vast corpse of the Mylodon of Patagonia, couchant amidst his fodder +of chopped hay. The expression of the huge animal was placid and +urbane in death. He was the victim of the ceaseless curiosity +of science. Two of the five-horned antelope giraffes of Central +Africa lay in a confused heap of horns and hoofs. Beside an immense +tank couched a figure in evening dress, swearing in a subdued tone. +Logan recognised Professor Potter. He gently laid his hand on +the Professor’s shoulder. The Scottish savant looked up:</p> +<p>‘It is a dommed mismanaged affair,’ he said. ‘I +could have brought the poor beast safe enough from the Clyde to New +York, but the Americans made me harl him round by yon island of camstairy +deevils,’ and he shook his fist in the direction of Cagayan Sulu.</p> +<p>‘What had you got?’ asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘The <i>Beathach na Loch na bheiste</i>,’ said Potter. +‘I drained the Loch to get him. Fortunately,’ he added, +‘it was at the expense of the Trust.’</p> +<p>After a few words of commonplace but heartfelt condolence, Logan +descended the companion, and followed Bude and Captain Funkal into the +cabin of that officer. The captain placed refreshments on the +table.</p> +<p>‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you have seen the least +riled of my professors, and you can guess what the rest are like. +Professor Rustler is weeping in his cabin over a shrivelled old mummy. +“Never will he speak again,” says he, and I am bound to +say that I <i>hev</i> heard the critter discourse once. The mummy +<!-- page 230--><span class="pagenum">p. 230</span>let some awful yells +out of him when the fire-bugs came aboard.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, we heard a human cry,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘I had thought the talk was managed with a concealed gramophone,’ +said the captain, ‘but it wasn’t. The Bunyip from +Central Australia has gone to his long home. That was Professor +Wilkinson’s pet. There is nothing left alive out of the +lot but the natives that Professor Jenkins of England brought in irons +from Cagayan Sulu. I reckon them two niggers are somehow at the +bottom of the whole ruction.’</p> +<p>‘Indeed, and why?’ asked Bude.</p> +<p>‘Why, sir—I am addressing Professor Jones Harvey?’</p> +<p>Bude bowed. ‘Harvey, captain, but not professor—simple +amateur seaman and explorer.’</p> +<p>‘Sir, your hand,’ said the captain. ‘Your +friend is not a professor?’</p> +<p>‘Not I,’ said Logan, smiling.</p> +<p>The captain solemnly shook hands. ‘Gentlemen, you have +sand,’ he said, a supreme tribute of respect. ‘Well, +about these two natives. I never liked taking them aboard. +They are, in consequence of the triumph of our arms, American subjects, +natives of the conquered Philippines. I am no lawyer, and they +may be citizens, they may have votes. They are entitled, anyway, +to the protection of the Flag, and I would have entered them as steerage +passengers. But that Professor Jenkins (and the other professors +agreed) would have it that they came under the head of scientific exhibits. +And they did <!-- page 231--><span class="pagenum">p. 231</span>allow +that the critters were highly dangerous. I guess they were right.’</p> +<p>‘Why, what could they do?’</p> +<p>‘Well, gentlemen, I heard stories on shore that I took no stock +in. I am not a superstitious man, but they allowed that these +darkeys are not of a common tribe, but what the papers call “highly +developed mediums.” And I guess they are at the bottom of +the stramash.’</p> +<p>‘Captain Funkal, may I be frank with you?’ asked Bude.</p> +<p>‘I am hearing you,’ said the captain.</p> +<p>‘Then, to put it shortly, I have been at Cagayan Sulu before, +on an exploring cruise. That was in 1897. I never wanted +to go back to it. Logan, did I not regret the choice of that port +when the news reached us in New Zealand?’</p> +<p>Logan nodded. ‘You funked it,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘When I was at Cagayan Sulu in 1897 I heard from the natives +of a singular tribe in the centre of the island. This tribe is +the Berbalangs.’</p> +<p>‘That’s what Professor Jenkins called them,’ said +the captain.</p> +<p>‘The Berbalangs are subject to neither of the chiefs in the +island. No native will approach their village. They are +cannibals. The story is that they can throw themselves into a +kind of trance. They then project a something or other—spirit, +astral body, influence of some kind—which flies forth, making +a loud noise when distant.’</p> +<p>‘That’s what we heard,’ said the captain.</p> +<p>‘But is silent when they are close at hand.’</p> +<p><!-- page 232--><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>‘Silent +they were,’ said the captain.</p> +<p>‘They then appear as points of red flame.’</p> +<p>‘That’s so,’ interrupted the captain.</p> +<p>‘And cause death to man and beast, apparently by terror. +I have seen,’ said Bude, shuddering, ‘the face of a dead +native of high respectability, into whose house, before my own eyes, +these points of flame had entered. I had to force the door, it +was strongly barred within. I never mentioned the fact before, +knowing that I could not expect belief.’</p> +<p>‘Well, sir, I believe you. You are a white man.’</p> +<p>Bude bowed, and went on. ‘The circumstances, though not +generally known, have been published, captain, by a gentleman of reputation, +Mr. Edward Forbes Skertchley, of Hong Kong. His paper indeed, +in the <i>Journal</i> of a learned association, the Asiatic Society +of Bengal, <a name="citation232"></a><a href="#footnote232">{232}</a>induced +me, most unfortunately, to visit Cagayan Sulu, when it was still nominally +in the possession of the Spaniards. My experience was similar +to that of Mr. Skertchley, but, for personal reasons, was much more +awful and distressing. One of the most beautiful of the island +girls, a person of most amiable and winning character, not, alas! of +my own faith’—Bude’s voice broke—‘was +one of the victims of the Berbalangs. . . . I loved her.’</p> +<p>He paused, and covered his face with his hands. The others +respected and shared his emotion. The captain, like all sailors, +sympathetic, dashed away a tear.</p> +<p><!-- page 233--><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>‘One thing +I ought to add,’ said Bude, recovering himself, ‘I am no +more superstitious than you are, Captain Funkal, and doubtless science +will find a simple, satisfactory, and normal explanation of the facts, +the existence of which we are both compelled to admit. I have +heard of no well authenticated instance in which the force, whatever +it is, has been fatal to Europeans. The superstitious natives, +much as they dread the Berbalangs, believe that they will not attack +a person who wears a cocoa-nut pearl. Why this should be so, if +so it is, I cannot guess. But, as it is always well to be on the +safe side, I provided myself five years ago with a collection of these +objects, and when I heard that we were ordered to Cagayan Sulu I distributed +them among my crew. My friend, you may observe, wears one of the +pearls. I have several about my person.’ He disengaged +a pin from his necktie, a muddy pearl set with burning rubies. +‘Perhaps, Captain Funkal, you will honour me by accepting this +specimen, and wearing it while we are in these latitudes? If it +does no good, it can do no harm. We, at least, have not been molested, +though we witnessed the phenomena.’</p> +<p>‘Sir,’ said the captain, ‘I appreciate your kindness, +and I value your gift as a memorial of one of the most singular experiences +in a seafaring life. I drink your health and your friend’s. +Mr. Logan, to <i>you</i>.’ The captain pledged his guests.</p> +<p>‘And now, gentlemen, what am I to do?’</p> +<p>‘That, captain, is for your own consideration.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll carpet that lubber, Jenkins,’ said the captain, +and leaving the cabin, he returned with the Fellow of <!-- page 234--><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>All +Souls. His shirt front was ruffled, his white neckcloth awry, +his pallid countenance betrayed a sensitive second-rate mind, not at +unity with itself. He nodded sullenly to Logan: Bude he did not +know.</p> +<p>‘Professor Jenkins, Mr. Jones Harvey,’ said the captain. +‘Sit down, sir. Take a drink; you seem to need one.’ +Jenkins drained the tumbler, and sat with downcast eyes, his finger +drumming nervously on the table.</p> +<p>‘Professor Jenkins, sir, I reckon you are the cause of the +unparalleled disaster to this exploring expedition. Why did you +bring these two natives of our territory on board, you well and duly +knowing that the end would not justify the proceedings?’ +A furtive glance from Jenkins lighted on the diamonds that sparkled +in Logan’s ring. He caught Logan’s hand.</p> +<p>‘Traitor!’ he cried. ‘What will not scientific +jealousy dare, that meanest of the passions!’</p> +<p>‘What the devil do you mean?’ said Logan angrily, wrenching +his hand away.</p> +<p>‘You leave Mr. Logan alone, sir,’ said the captain. +‘I have two minds to put you in irons, Mr. Professor Jenkins. +If you please, explain yourself.’</p> +<p>‘I denounce this man and his companion,’ said Jenkins, +noticing a pearl ring on Bude’s finger; ‘I denounce them +of conspiracy, mean conspiracy, against this expedition, and against +the American flag.’</p> +<p>‘As how?’ inquired the captain, lighting a cigar with +irritating calmness.</p> +<p>‘They wear these pearls, in which I had trusted for absolute +security against the Berbalangs.’</p> +<p><!-- page 235--><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>‘Well, I +wear one too,’ said the captain, pointing to the pin in his necktie. +‘Are you going to tell me that <i>I</i> am a traitor to the flag, +sir? I warn you Professor, to be careful.’</p> +<p>‘What am I to think?’ asked Jenkins.</p> +<p>‘It is rather more important what you <i>say</i>,’ replied +the captain. ‘What is this fine conspiracy?’</p> +<p>‘I had read in England about the Berbalangs.’</p> +<p>‘Probably in Mr. Skertchley’s curious paper in the Journal +of the Asiatic Society of Bengal?’ asked Bude with suavity.</p> +<p>Jenkins merely stared at him.</p> +<p>‘I deemed that specimens of these American subjects, dowered +with their strange and baneful gift, were well worthy of the study of +American savants; and I knew that the pearls were a certain prophylactic.’</p> +<p>‘What’s that?’ asked the captain.</p> +<p>‘A kind of Universal Pain-Killer,’ said Jenkins.</p> +<p>‘Well, you surprise me,’ said the captain, ‘a man +of your education. Pain-Killer!’ and he expectorated dexterously.</p> +<p>‘I mean that the pearls keep off the Berbalangs,’ said +Jenkins.</p> +<p>‘Then why didn’t you lay in a stock of the pearls?’ +asked the captain.</p> +<p>‘Because these conspirators had been before me. These +men, or their agents, had bought up, just before our arrival, every +pearl in the island. They had wormed out my secret, knew the object +of my adventure, knew how to ruin us all, and I denounce them.’</p> +<p>‘A corner in pearls. Well, it was darned ’cute,’ +<!-- page 236--><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>said the captain +impartially. ‘Now, Mr. Jones Harvey, and Mr. Logan, sir, +what have <i>you</i> to say?’</p> +<p>‘Did Mr. Jenkins—I think you said that this gentleman’s +name is Jenkins?—see the agent engaged in making this corner in +pearls, or learn his name?’ asked Bude.</p> +<p>‘He was an Irish American, one McCarthy,’ answered Jenkins +sullenly.</p> +<p>‘I am unacquainted with the gentleman,’ said Bude, ‘and +I never employed any one for any such purpose. My visit to Cagayan +Sulu was some years ago, just after that of Mr. Skertchley. Captain +Funkal, I have already acquainted you with the facts, and you were kind +enough to say that you accepted my statement.’</p> +<p>‘I did, sir, and I do,’ answered the captain. ‘As +for <i>you</i>,’ he went on, ‘Mr. Professor Jenkins, when +you found that your game was dangerous, indeed likely to be ruinous, +to this scientific expedition, and to the crew of the <i>George Washington</i>—damn +you, sir—you should have dropped it. I don’t know +that I ever swore at a passenger before, and I beg your pardon, you +two English gentlemen, for so far forgetting myself. I don’t +know, and these gentlemen don’t know, who made the corner, but +I don’t think our citizens want either you or your exhibits. +The whole population of the States, sir, not to mention the live stock, +cannot afford to go about wearing cocoa-nut pearls, a precaution which +would be necessary if I landed these venomous Berbalangs of yours on +our shores: man and wife too, likely to have a family of young Berbalangs. +Snakes are not a patch on these darkeys, and our coloured population, +at least, would be busted up.’</p> +<p><!-- page 237--><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>The captain paused, +perhaps attracted by the chance of thus solving the negro problem.</p> +<p>‘So, I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen; and, Professor +Jenkins, I’ll turn back and land these two native exhibits, and +I’ll put <i>you</i> on shore, Professor Jenkins, at Cagayan Sulu. +Perhaps before a steamer touches there—which is not once in a +blue moon—you’ll have had time to write an exhaustive monograph +on the Berbalangs, their manners and customs.’</p> +<p>Jenkins (who knew what awaited him) threw himself on the floor at +the feet of Captain Funkal. Horrified by the abject distress of +one who, after all, was their countryman, Bude and Logan induced the +captain to seclude Jenkins in his cabin. They then, by their combined +entreaties, prevailed on the officer to land the Berbalangs on their +own island, indeed, but to drop Jenkins later on civilised shores. +Dawn saw the <i>George Washington</i> and the <i>Pendragon</i> in the +port of Cagayan Sulu, where the fetters of the two natives, ill looking +people enough, were knocked off, and they themselves deposited on the +quay, where, not being popular, they were received by a hostile demonstration. +The two vessels then resumed their eastward course. The taxidermic +appliances without which Jones Harvey never sailed, and the services +of his staff of taxidermists, were placed at the disposal of his brother +savants. By this means a stuffed Mylodon, a stuffed Beathach, +stuffed five-horned antelopes and a stuffed Bunyip, with a common gorilla +and the Toltec mummy, now forever silent, were passed through the New +York Custom House, and consigned to the McCabe Museum of Natural Varieties.</p> +<p><!-- page 238--><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>The immense case +that contained the discovery of Jones Harvey was also carefully conveyed +to an apartment prepared for it in the same repository. The competitors +sought their hotels, Te-iki-pa marching beside Logan and Jones Harvey. +But, by special arrangement, either Jones Harvey or his Maori ally always +slept beside their mysterious case, which they watched with passionate +attention. Two or three days were spent in setting up the stuffed +exhibits. Then the trustees, through <i>The Yellow Flag</i> (the +paper founded by the late Mr. McCabe), announced to the startled citizens +the nature of the competition. On successive days the vast theatre +of the McCabe Museum would be open, and each competitor, in turn, would +display to the public his contribution, and lecture on his adventures +and on the variety of nature which he had secured.</p> +<p>While the death of the animals was deplored, nothing was said, for +obvious reasons, about the causes of the catastrophe.</p> +<p>The general excitement was intense. Interviewers scoured the +city, and flocked, to little purpose, around the officials of the McCabe +Museum. Special trains were run from all quarters. The hotels +were thronged. ‘America,’ it was announced, ‘had +taken hold of science, and was just going to make science hum.’</p> +<p>On the first day of the exhibition, Dr. Hiram Dodge displayed the +stuffed Mylodon. The agitation was unprecedented. America +had bred, in ancient days, and an American citizen had discovered, the +monstrous yet amiable animal whence prehistoric Patagonia drew <!-- page 239--><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>her +milk supplies and cheese stuffs. Mr. Dodge’s adventures, +he modestly said, could only be adequately narrated by Mr. Rider Haggard. +Unluckily the Mylodon had not survived the conditions of the voyage, +the change of climates. The applause was thunderous. Mr. +Dodge gracefully expressed his obligations to his fair and friendly +rival, Mr. Jones Harvey, who had loaned his taxidermic appliances. +It did not appear to the public that the Mylodon could be excelled in +interest. The Toltec mummy, as he could no longer talk, was flat +on a falling market, nor was Mr. Rustler’s narrative of its conversational +powers accepted by the scepticism of the populace, though it was corroborated +by Captain Funkal, Professor Dodge, and Professor Wilkinson, who swore +affidavits before a notary, within the hearing of the multitude. +The Beathach, exhibited by Professor Potter, was reckoned of high anatomical +interest by scientific characters, but it was not of American habitat, +and left the people relatively cold. On the other hand, all the +Macleans and Macdonnells of Canada and Nova Scotia wept tears of joy +at the corroboration of their tribal legends, and the popularity of +Professor Potter rivalled even that of Mr. Ian Maclaren. He was +at once engaged by Major Pond for a series of lectures. The adventures +of Howard Fry, in the taking of his gorilla, were reckoned interesting, +as were those of the captor of the Bunyip, but both animals were now +undeniably dead. The people could not feed them with waffles and +hominy cakes in the gardens of the institute. The savants wrangled +on the anatomical differences and <!-- page 240--><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>resemblances +of the Bunyip and the Beathach; still the critters were, to the general +mind, only stuffed specimens, though unique. The African five-horned +brutes (though in quieter times they would have scored a triumph) did +not now appeal to the heart of the people.</p> +<p>At last came the day when, in the huge crowded amphitheatre, with +Te-iki-pa by his side, Jones Harvey addressed the congregation. +First he exhibited a skeleton of a dinornis, a bird of about twenty-five +feet in height.</p> +<p>‘Now,’ he went on, ‘thanks to the assistance of +a Maori gentleman, my friend the Tohunga Te-iki-pa’—(cheers, +Te-iki bows his acknowledgments)—‘I propose to exhibit to +you <i>this</i>.’</p> +<p>With a touch on the mechanism he unrolled the valves of a gigantic +incubator. Within, recumbent on cotton wool, the almost frenzied +spectators perceived two monstrous eggs, like those of the Roc of Arabian +fable. Te-iki-pa now chanted a brief psalm in his own language. +One of the eggs rolled gently in its place; then the other. A +faint crackling noise was heard, first from one, then from the other +egg. From each emerged the featherless head of a fowl—the +species hitherto unknown to the American continent. The necks +pushed forth, then the shoulders, then both shells rolled away in fragments, +and the spectators gazed on two fledgling Moas. Te-iki-pa, on +inspection, pronounced them to be cock and hen, and in healthy condition. +The breed, he said, could doubtless be acclimatised.</p> +<p>The professors of the museum, by Jones Harvey’s <!-- page 241--><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span>request, +then closely examined the chickens. There could be no doubt of +it, they unanimously asserted: these specimens were living deinornithe +(which for scientific men, is not a bad shot at the dual of deinornis). +The American continent was now endowed, through the enterprise of Mr. +Jones Harvey, not only with living specimens, but with a probable breed +of a species hitherto thought extinct.</p> +<p>The cheering was led by Captain Funkal, who waved the Stars and Stripes +and the Union Jack. Words cannot do justice to the scene. +Women fainted, strong men wept, enemies embraced each other. For +details we must refer to the files of <i>The Yellow Flag</i>. +A <i>plébiscite</i> to select the winner of the McCabe Prize +was organised by that Journal. The Moas (bred and exhibited by +Mr, Jones Harvey) simply romped in, by 1,732,901 votes, the Mylodon +being a bad second, thanks to the Irish vote.</p> +<p>Bude telegraphed ‘Victory,’ and Miss McCabe by cable +answered ‘Bully for us.’</p> +<p>The secret of these lovers was well kept. None who watches +the fascinating Countess of Bude as she moves through the gilded saloons +of Mayfair guesses that her hand was once the prize of success in a +scientific exploration. The identity of Jones Harvey remains a +puzzle to the learned. For the rest, a letter in which Jenkins +told the story of the Berbalangs was rejected by the Editor of <i>Nature</i>, +and has not yet passed even the Literary Committee of the Society for +Psychical Research. The classical authority on the Berbalangs +is still the paper <!-- page 242--><span class="pagenum">p. 242</span>by +Mr. Skertchley in the <i>Journal</i> of the Asiatic Society of Bengal. +<a name="citation242"></a><a href="#footnote242">{242}</a>The scientific +gentlemen who witnessed the onslaught of the Berbalangs have convinced +themselves (except Jenkins) that nothing of the sort occurred in their +experience. The evidence of Captain Funkal is rejected as ‘marine.’</p> +<p>Te-iki-pa decided to remain in New York as custodian of the Moas. +He occasionally obliges by exhibiting a few feats of native conjuring, +when his performances are attended by the <i>élite</i> of the +city. He knows that his countrymen hold him in feud, but he is +aware that they fear even more than they hate the ex-medicine man of +his Maori Majesty.</p> +<p>The generosity of Bude and his Countess heaped rewards on Merton, +who vainly protested that his services had not been professional.</p> +<p>The frequent appearance of new American novelists, whose works sell +250,000 copies in their first month, demonstrate that Mr. McCabe’s +scheme for raising the level of genius has been as satisfactory as it +was original. Genius is riz.</p> +<p>But who ‘cornered’ the muddy pearls in Cagayan Sulu?</p> +<p>That secret is only known to Lady Bude, her confessor, and the Irish-American +agent whom she employed. For she, as we saw, had got at the nature +of poor Jenkins’s project and had acquainted herself with the +wonderful properties of the pearls, which she cornered.</p> +<p><!-- page 243--><span class="pagenum">p. 243</span>As a patriot, +she consoles herself for the loss of the other exhibits to her country, +by the reflection that Berbalangs would have been the most mischievous +of pauper immigrants. But of all this Bude knows nothing.</p> +<h2><!-- page 244--><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>XI. ADVENTURE +OF THE MISERLY MARQUIS</h2> +<h3>I. The Marquis consults Gray and Graham</h3> +<p>Few men were, and perhaps no marquis was so unpopular as the Marquis +of Restalrig, Logan’s maternal Scotch cousin, widely removed. +He was the last of his family, in the direct line, and on his death +almost all his vast wealth would go to nobody knew where. To be +sure Logan himself would succeed to the title of Fastcastle, which descends +to heirs general, but nothing worth having went with the title. +Logan had only the most distant memory of seeing the marquis when he +himself was a little boy, and the marquis gave him two sixpences. +His relationship to his opulent though remote kinsman had been of no +service to him in the struggle for social existence. It carried +no ‘expectations,’ and did not afford the most shadowy basis +for a post obit. There was no entail, the marquis could do as +he liked with his own.</p> +<p>‘The Jews <i>may</i> have been credulous in the time of Horace,’ +Logan said, ‘but now they insist on the most drastic evidence +of prospective wealth. No, they won’t lend me a shekel.’</p> +<p>Events were to prove that other financial operators were better informed +than the chosen people, though <!-- page 245--><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>to +be sure their belief was displayed in a manner at once grotesque and +painfully embarrassing.</p> +<p>Why the marquis was generally disliked we might explain, historically, +if we were acquainted with the tale of his infancy, early youth, and +adolescence. Perhaps he had been betrayed in his affections, and +was ‘taking it out’ of mankind in general. But this +notion implies that the marquis once had some affections, a point not +hitherto substantiated by any evidence. Perhaps heredity was to +blame, some unhappy blend of parentage. An ancestor at an unknown +period may have bequeathed to the marquis the elements of his unalluring +character. But the only ancestor of marked temperament was the +festive Logan of Restalrig, who conspired over his cups to kidnap a +king, laid out his plot on the lines of an Italian novel, and died without +being detected. This heroic ancestor admitted that he hated ‘arguments +derived from religion,’ and, so far, the Marquis of Restalrig +was quite with him, if the arguments bore on giving to the poor, or, +indeed, to any one.</p> +<p>In fact the marquis was that unpopular character, a miser. +Your miser may be looked up to, in a way, as an ideal votary of Mammon, +but he is never loved. On his vast possessions, mainly in coal-fields, +he was even more detested than the ordinary run of capitalists. +The cottages and farmhouses on his estates were dilapidated and insanitary +beyond what is endurable. Of his many mansions, some were kept +in decent repair, because he drew many shillings from tourists admitted +to view them. But his favourite abode was almost as ruinous as +his cottages, and an artist in <!-- page 246--><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>search +of a model for the domestic interior of the Master of Ravenswood might +have found what he wanted at Kirkburn, the usual lair of this avaricious +nobleman. It was a keep of the sixteenth century, and looked as +if it had never been papered or painted since Queen Mary’s time. +But it was near the collieries; and within its blackened walls, and +among its bleak fields and grimy trees, Lord Restalrig chose to live +alone, with an old man and an old woman for his attendants. The +woman had been his nurse; it was whispered in the district that she +was also his illegal-aunt, or perhaps even, so to speak, his illegal +stepmother. At all events, she endured more than anybody but a +Scotch woman who had been his nurse in childhood would have tolerated. +To keep her in his service saved him the cost of a pension, which even +the marquis, people thought, could hardly refuse to allow her. +The other old servitor was her husband, and entirely under her domination. +Both might be reckoned staunch, in the old fashion, ‘to the name,’ +which Logan only bore by accident, his grandmother having wedded a kinless +Logan who had no demonstrable connection with the house of Restalrig. +Any mortal but the marquis would probably have brought Logan up as his +heir, for the churlish peer had no nearer connection. But the +marquis did more than sympathise with the Roman emperor who quoted ‘after +me the Last Day.’ The emperor only meant that, after his +time, he did not care how soon earth and fire were mingled. The +marquis, on the other hand, gave the impression that, he once out of +the way, he ardently desired the destruction of the <!-- page 247--><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>whole +human race. He was not known ever to have consciously benefited +man or woman. He screwed out what he might from everybody in his +power, and made no returns which the law did not exact; even these, +as far as the income tax went, he kept at the lowest figure possible.</p> +<p>Such was the distinguished personage whose card was handed to Merton +one morning at the office. There had been no previous exchange +of letters, according to the rules of the Society, and yet Merton could +not suppose that the marquis wished to see him on any but business matters. +‘He wants to put a spoke in somebody’s wheel,’ thought +Merton, ‘but whose?’</p> +<p>He hastily scrawled a note for Logan, who, as usual, was late, put +it in an envelope, and sealed it. He wrote: ‘<i>On no account +come in</i>. <i>Explanation later</i>! Then he gave the +note to the office boy, impressed on him the necessity of placing it +in Logan’s hands when he arrived, and told the boy to admit the +visitor.</p> +<p>The marquis entered, clad in rusty black not unlike a Scotch peasant’s +best raiment as worn at funerals. He held a dripping umbrella; +his boots were muddy, his trousers had their frayed ends turned up. +He wore a hard, cruel red face, with keen grey eyes beneath penthouses +where age had touched the original tawny red with snow. Merton, +bowing, took the umbrella and placed it in a stand.</p> +<p>‘You’ll not have any snuff?’ asked the marquis.</p> +<p>Trevor had placed a few enamelled snuff-boxes of the eighteenth century +among the other costly <i>bibelots</i> <!-- page 248--><span class="pagenum">p. 248</span>in +the rooms, and, by an unusual chance, one of them actually did contain +what the marquis wanted. Merton opened it and handed it to the +peer, who, after trying a pinch on his nostrils, poured a quantity into +his hand and thence into a little black mull made of horn, which he +took from his breast pocket. ‘It’s good,’ he +said. ‘Better than I get at Kirkburn. You’ll +know who I am?’ His accent was nearly as broad as that of +one of his own hinds, and he sometimes used Scottish words, to Merton’s +perplexity.</p> +<p>‘Every one has heard of the Marquis of Restalrig,’ said +Merton.</p> +<p>‘Ay, and little to his good, I’ll be bound?’</p> +<p>‘I do not listen to gossip,’ said Merton. ‘I +presume, though you have not addressed me by letter, that your visit +is not unconnected with business?’</p> +<p>‘No, no, no letters! I never was wasteful in postage +stamps. But as I was in London, to see the doctor, for the Edinburgh +ones can make nothing of the case—a kind of dwawming—I looked +in at auld Nicky Maxwell’s. She gave me a good character +of you, and she is one to lippen to. And you make no charge for +a first interview.’</p> +<p>Merton vaguely conjectured that to ‘lippen’ implied some +sort of caress; however, he only said that he was obliged to Miss Maxwell +for her kind estimate of his firm.</p> +<p>‘Gray and Graham, good Scots names. You’ll not +be one of the Grahams of Netherby, though?’</p> +<p>‘The name of the firm is merely conventional, a trading title,’ +said Merton; ‘if you want to know my <!-- page 249--><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>name, +there it is,’ and he handed his card to the marquis, who stared +at it, and (apparently from motiveless acquisitiveness) put it into +his pocket.</p> +<p>‘I don’t like an alias,’ he said. ‘But +it seems you are to lippen to.’</p> +<p>From the context Merton now understood that the marquis probably +wished to signify that he was to be trusted. So he bowed, and +expressed a hope that he was ‘all that could be desired in the +lippening way.’</p> +<p>‘You’re laughing at my Doric?’ asked the nobleman. +‘Well, in the only important way, it’s not at my <i>expense</i>. +Ha! Ha!’ He shook a lumbering laugh out of himself.</p> +<p>Merton smiled—and was bored.</p> +<p>‘I’m come about stopping a marriage,’ said the +marquis, at last arriving at business.</p> +<p>‘My experience is at your service,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Well,’ went on the marquis, ‘ours is an old name.’</p> +<p>Merton remarked that, in the course of historical study, he had made +himself acquainted with the achievements of the house.</p> +<p>‘Auld warld tales! But I wish I could tell where the +treasure is that wily auld Logan quarrelled over with the wizard Laird +of Merchistoun. Logan would not implement the contract—half +profits. But my wits are wool gathering.’</p> +<p>He began to wander round the room, looking at the mezzotints. +He stopped in front of one portrait, and said ‘My Aunt!’ +Merton took this for an exclamation of astonishment, but later found +that the lady (after Lawrence) really had been the great aunt of the +marquis.</p> +<p><!-- page 250--><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>Merton conceived +that the wits of his visitor were worse than ‘wool gathering,’ +that he had ‘softening of the brain.’ But circumstances +presently indicated that Lord Restalrig was actually suffering from +a much less common disorder—softening of the heart.</p> +<p>He returned to his seat, and helped himself to snuff out of the enamelled +gold box, on which Merton deemed it politic to keep a watchful eye.</p> +<p>‘Man, I’m sweir’ (reluctant) ‘to come to +the point,’ said Lord Restalrig.</p> +<p>Merton erroneously understood him to mean that he was under oath +or vow to come to the point, and showed a face of attention.</p> +<p>‘I’m not the man I was. The doctors don’t +understand my case—they take awful fees—but I see they think +ill of it. And that sets a body thinking. Have you a taste +of brandy in the house?’</p> +<p>As the visitor’s weather-beaten ruddiness had changed to a +ghastly ashen hue, rather bordering on the azure, Merton set forth the +liqueur case, and drew a bottle of soda water.</p> +<p>‘No water,’ said the peer; ‘it’s just ma +twal’ ours, an auld Scotch fashion,’ and he took without +winking an orthodox dram of brandy. Then he looked at the silver +tops of the flasks.</p> +<p>‘A good coat!’ he said. ‘Yours?’</p> +<p>Merton nodded.</p> +<p>‘Ye quarter the Douglas Heart. A good coat. Dod, +I’ll speak plain. The name, Mr. Merton, when ye come to +the end o’ the furrow, the name is all ye have left. We +brought nothing into the world but the name, we take out nothing else. +A sore dispensation. <!-- page 251--><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>I’m +not the man I was, not this two years. I must dispone, I know +it well. Now the name, that I thought that I cared not an empty +whistle for, is worn to a rag, but I cannot leave it in the mire. +There’s just one that bears it, one Logan by name, and true Logan +by the mother’s blood. The mother’s mother, my cousin, +was a bonny lass.’</p> +<p>He paused; his enfeebled memory was wandering, no doubt, in scenes +more vivid to him than those of yesterday.</p> +<p>Merton was now attentive indeed. The miserly marquis had become, +to him, something other than a curious survival of times past. +There was a chance for Logan, his friend, the last of the name, but +Logan was firmly affianced to Miss Markham, of the cloak department +at Madame Claudine’s. And the marquis, as he said, ‘had +come about stopping a marriage,’ and Merton was to help him in +stopping it, in disentangling Logan!</p> +<p>The old man aroused himself. ‘I have never seen the lad +but once, when he was a bairn. But I’ve kept eyes on him. +He <i>has</i> nothing, and since I came to London I hear that he has +gone gyte, I mean—ye’ll not understand me—he is plighted +to a long-legged shop-lass, the daughter of a ne’er-do-well Australian +land-louper, a doctor. This must not be. Now I’ll +speak plain to you, plainer than to Tod and Brock, my doers—ye +call them lawyers. <i>They</i> did not make my will.’</p> +<p>Merton prevented himself, by an effort, from gasping. He kept +a countenance of cold attention. But the marquis was coming to +the point.</p> +<p><!-- page 252--><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>‘I have +left all to the name, lands and rents, and mines, and money. But, +unless the lad marries in his own rank, I’ll change my will. +It’s in the hidie hole at Kirkburn, that Logan built to keep King +Jamie in, when he caught him. But the fool Ruthvens marred that +job, and got their kail through the reek. I’m wandering.’ +He helped himself to another dram, and went on, ‘Ye see what I +want, ye must stop that marriage.’</p> +<p>‘But,’ said Merton, ‘as you are so kindly disposed +towards your kinsman, this Mr. Logan, may I ask whether it would not +be wise to address him yourself, as the head of his house? He +may, surely he will, listen to your objections.’</p> +<p>‘Ye do not know the Logans.’</p> +<p>Merton concealed his smile.</p> +<p>‘Camstairy deevils! It’s in the blood. Never +once has he asked me for a pound, never noticed me by word or letter. +Faith, I wish all the world had been as considerate to auld Restalrig! +For me to say a word, let be to make an offer, would just tie him faster +to the lass. “Tyne troth, tyne a’,” that is +the old bye-word.’</p> +<p>Merton recognised his friend in this description, but he merely shook +a sympathetic head. ‘Very unusual,’ he remarked. +‘You really have no hope by this method?’</p> +<p>‘None at all, or I would not be here on this daft ploy. +There’s no fool like an auld fool, and, faith, I hardly know the +man I was. But they cannot dispute the will. I drew doctors +to witness that I was of sound and disponing mind, and I’ve since +been <!-- page 253--><span class="pagenum">p. 253</span>thrice to kirk +and market. Lord, how they stared to see auld Restalrig in his +pew, that had not smelt appleringie these forty years.’</p> +<p>Merton noted these words, which he thought curious and obscure. +‘Your case interests me deeply,’ he said, ‘and shall +receive my very best attention. You perceive, of course, that +it is a difficult case, Mr. Logan’s character and tenacity being +what you describe. I must make careful inquiries, and shall inform +you of progress. You wish to see this engagement ended?’</p> +<p>‘And the lad on with a lass of his rank,’ said the marquis.</p> +<p>‘Probably that will follow quickly on the close of his present +affection. It usually does in our experience,’ said Merton, +adding, ‘Am I to write to you at your London address?’</p> +<p>‘No, sir; these London hotels would ruin the cunzie’ +(the Mint).</p> +<p>Merton wondered whether the Cunzie was the title of some wealthy +Scotch peer.</p> +<p>‘And I’m off for Kirkburn by the night express. +Here’s wishing luck,’ and the old sinner finished the brandy.</p> +<p>‘May I call a cab for you—it still rains?’</p> +<p>‘No, no, I’ll travel,’ by which the economical +peer meant that he would walk.</p> +<p>He then shook Merton by the hand, and hobbled downstairs attended +by his adviser.</p> +<p>‘Did Mr. Logan call?’ Merton asked the office boy when +the marquis had trotted off.</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir; he said you would find him at the club.’</p> +<p><!-- page 254--><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>‘Call a +hansom,’ said Merton, ‘and put up the notice, “out.”’ +He drove to the club, where he found Logan ordering luncheon.</p> +<p>‘Hullo, shall we lunch together?’ Logan asked.</p> +<p>‘Not yet: I want to speak to you.’</p> +<p>‘Nothing gone wrong? Why did you shut me out of the office?’</p> +<p>‘Where can we talk without being disturbed?’</p> +<p>‘Try the smoking-room on the top storey,’ said Logan, +‘Nobody will have climbed so high so early.’</p> +<p>They made the ascent, and found the room vacant: the windows looked +out over swirling smoke and trees tossing in a wind of early spring.</p> +<p>‘Quiet enough,’ said Logan, taking an arm-chair. +‘Now out with it! You make me quite nervous.’</p> +<p>‘A client has come with what looks a promising piece of business. +We are to disentangle—’</p> +<p>‘A royal duke?’</p> +<p>‘No. <i>You</i>!’</p> +<p>‘A practical joke,’ said Logan. ‘Somebody +pulling your leg, as people say, a most idiotic way of speaking. +What sort of client was he, or she? We’ll be even with them.’</p> +<p>‘The client’s card is here,’ said Merton, and he +handed to Logan that of the Marquis of Restalrig.</p> +<p>‘You never saw him before; are you sure it was the man?’ +asked Logan, staggered in his scepticism.</p> +<p>‘A very good imitation. Dressed like a farmer at a funeral. +Talked like all the kailyards. Snuffed, and asked for brandy, +and went and came, walking, in this weather.’</p> +<p><!-- page 255--><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>‘By Jove, +it is my venerated cousin. And he had heard about me and Miss +---’</p> +<p>‘He was quite well informed.’</p> +<p>Logan looked very grave. He rose and stared out of the window +into the mist. Then he came back, and stood beside Merton’s +chair. He spoke in a low voice:</p> +<p>‘This can only mean one thing.’</p> +<p>‘Only that one thing,’ said Merton, dropping his own +voice.</p> +<p>‘What did you say to him?’</p> +<p>‘I told him that his best plan, as the head of the house, was +to approach you himself.’</p> +<p>‘And he said?’</p> +<p>‘That it was of no use, and that I do not know the Logans.’</p> +<p>‘But you do?’</p> +<p>‘I think so.’</p> +<p>‘You think right. No, not for all his lands and mines +I won’t.’</p> +<p>‘Not for the name?’</p> +<p>‘Not for the kingdoms of the earth,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘It is a great refusal.’</p> +<p>‘I have really no temptation to accept,’ said Logan. +‘I am not built that way. So what next? If the old +boy could only see her—’</p> +<p>‘I doubt if that would do any good, though, of course, if I +were you I should think so. He goes north to-night. You +can’t take the lady to Kirkburn. And you can’t write +to him.’</p> +<p>‘Of course not,’ said Logan; ‘of course it would +be all up if he knew that I know.’</p> +<p><!-- page 256--><span class="pagenum">p. 256</span>‘There is +this to be said—it is not a very pleasant view to take—he +can’t live long. He came to see some London specialist—it +is his heart, I think—’</p> +<p>‘<i>His</i> heart!</p> +<blockquote><p>How Fortune aristophanises<br /> +And how severe the fun of Fate!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>quoted Logan.</p> +<p>‘The odd thing is,’ said Merton, ‘that I do believe +he has a heart. I rather like him. At all events, I think, +from what I saw, that a sudden start might set him off at any moment, +or an unusual exertion. And he may go off before I tell him that +I can do nothing with you—’</p> +<p>‘Oh, hang that,’ said Logan, ‘you make me feel +like a beastly assassin!’</p> +<p>‘I only want you to understand how the land lies.’ +Merton dropped his voice again, ‘He has made a will leaving you +everything.’</p> +<p>‘Poor old cock! Look here, I believe I had better write, +and say that I’m awfully touched and obliged, but that I can’t +come into his views, or break my word, and then, you know, he can just +make another will. It would be a swindle to let him die, and come +into his property, and then go dead against his wishes.’</p> +<p>‘But it would be all right to give me away, I suppose, and +let him understand that I had violated professional confidence?’</p> +<p>‘Only with a member of the firm. That is no violation.’</p> +<p>‘But then I should have told him that you <i>were</i> a member +of the firm.’</p> +<p><!-- page 257--><span class="pagenum">p. 257</span>‘I’m +afraid you should.’</p> +<p>‘Logan, you have the ideas of a schoolboy. I <i>had</i> +to be certain as to how you would take it, though, of course, I had +a very good guess. And as to what you say about the chances of +his dying and leaving everything where he would not have left it if +he had been sure you would act against his wishes—I believe you +are wrong. What he really cares about is “the name.” +His ghost will put up with your disobedience if the name keeps its old +place. Do you see?’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Anyhow, there is no such pressing hurry. One <i>may</i> +bring him round with time. A curious old survival! I did +not understand all that he said. There was something about having +been thrice at kirk and market since he made his will; and something +about not having smelled appleringie for forty years. What is +appleringie?’</p> +<p>Logan laughed.</p> +<p>‘It is a sacred Presbyterian herb. The people keep it +in their Bibles and it perfumes the churches. But look here—’</p> +<p>He was interrupted by the entrance of a page, who handed to him a +letter. Logan read it and laughed. ‘I knew it; they +are sharp!’ he said, and handed the letter to Merton. It +was from a famous, or infamous, money-lender, offering princely accommodation +on terms which Mr. Logan would find easy and reasonable.</p> +<p>‘They have nosed the appleringie, you see,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘But I don’t see,’ said Merton.</p> +<p><!-- page 258--><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>‘Why the +hounds have heard that the old nobleman has been thrice to kirk lately. +And as he had not been there for forty years, they have guessed that +he has been making his will. Scots law has, or used to have, something +in it about going thrice to kirk and market after making a will—disponing +they call it—as a proof of bodily and mental soundness. +So they have spotted the marquis’s pious motives for kirk-going, +and guessed that I am his heir. I say—’ Logan +began to laugh wildly.</p> +<p>‘What do you say?’ asked Merton, but Logan went on hooting.</p> +<p>‘I say,’ he repeated, ‘it must never be known that +the old lord came to consult us,’ and here he was again convulsed.</p> +<p>‘Of course not,’ said Merton. ‘But where +is the joke?’</p> +<p>‘Why, don’t you see—oh, it is too good—he +has taken every kind of precaution to establish his sanity when he made +his will.’</p> +<p>‘He told me that he had got expert evidence,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘And then he comes and consults US!’ said Logan, with +a crow of laughter. ‘If any fellow wants to break the will +on the score of insanity, and knows, knows he came to us, a jury, when +they find he consulted us, will jolly well upset the cart.’ +Merton was hurt.</p> +<p>‘Logan,’ he said, ‘it is you who ought to be in +an asylum, an Asylum for Incurable Children. Don’t you see +that he made the will long <i>before</i> he took the very natural and +proper step of consulting Messrs. Gray and Graham?’</p> +<p><!-- page 259--><span class="pagenum">p. 259</span>‘Let us +pray that, if there is a suit, it won’t come before a Scotch jury,’ +said Logan. ‘Anyhow, nobody knows that he came except you +and me.’</p> +<p>‘And the office boy,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Oh, we’ll square the office boy,’ said Logan. +‘Let’s lunch!’</p> +<p>They lunched, and Logan, as was natural, though Merton urged him +to abstain, hung about the doors of Madame Claudine’s emporium +at the hour when the young ladies returned to their homes. He +walked home with Miss Markham. He told her about his chances, +and his views, and no doubt she did not think him a person of schoolboy +ideas, but a Bayard.</p> +<p>Two days passed, and in the afternoon of the third a telegram arrived +for Logan from Kirkburn.</p> +<p>‘<i>Come at once</i>, <i>Marquis very ill. Dr. Douglas</i>, +<i>Kirkburn</i>.’</p> +<p>There was no express train North till 8.45 in the evening. +Merton dined with Logan at King’s Cross, and saw him off. +He would reach his cousin’s house at about six in the morning +if the train kept time.</p> +<p>About nine o’clock on the morning following Logan’s arrival +at Kirkburn Merton was awakened: the servant handed to him a telegram.</p> +<p>‘<i>Come instantly. Highly important. Logan</i>, +<i>Kirkburn</i>.’</p> +<p>Merton dressed himself more rapidly than he had ever done, and caught +the train leaving King’s Cross at 10 a.m.</p> +<h3><!-- page 260--><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>II. The +Emu’s Feathers</h3> +<p>The landscape through which Merton passed on his northward way to +Kirkburn, whither Logan had summoned him, was blank with snow. +The snow was not more than a couple of inches deep where it had not +drifted, and, as frost had set in, it was not likely to deepen. +There was no fear of being snowed up.</p> +<p>Merton naturally passed a good deal of his time in wondering what +had occurred at Kirkburn, and why Logan needed his presence. ‘The +poor old gentleman has passed away suddenly, I suppose,’ he reflected, +‘and Logan may think that I know where he has deposited his will. +It is in some place that the marquis called “the hidie hole,” +and that, from his vagrant remarks, appears to be a secret chamber, +as his ancestor meant to keep James VI. there. I wish he had cut +the throat of that prince, a bad fellow. But, of course, I don’t +know where the chamber is: probably some of the people about the place +know, or the lawyer who made the will.’</p> +<p>However freely Merton’s consciousness might play round the +problem, he could get no nearer to its solution. At Berwick he +had to leave the express, and take a local train. In the station, +not a nice station, he was accosted by a stranger, who asked if he was +Mr. Merton? The stranger, a wholesome, red-faced, black-haired +man, on being answered in the affirmative, introduced himself as Dr. +Douglas, of Kirkburn. ‘You telegraphed to my friend Logan +the news of <!-- page 261--><span class="pagenum">p. 261</span>the marquis’s +illness,’ said Merton. ‘I fear you have no better +news to give me.’</p> +<p>Dr. Douglas shook his head.</p> +<p>A curious little crowd was watching the pair from a short distance. +There was an air of solemnity about the people, which was not wholly +due to the chill grey late afternoon, and the melancholy sea.</p> +<p>‘We have an hour to wait, Mr. Merton, before the local train +starts, and afterwards there is a bit of a drive. It is cold, +we would be as well in the inn as here.’</p> +<p>The doctor beat his gloved hands together to restore the circulation.</p> +<p>Merton saw that the doctor wished to be with him in private, and +the two walked down into the town, where they got a comfortable room, +the doctor ordering boiling water and the other elements of what he +called ‘a cheerer.’ When the cups which cheer had +been brought, and the men were alone, the doctor said:</p> +<p>‘It is as you suppose, Mr. Merton, but worse.’</p> +<p>‘Great heaven, no accident has happened to Logan?’ asked +Merton.</p> +<p>‘No, sir, and he would have met you himself at Berwick, but +he is engaged in making inquiries and taking precautions at Kirkburn.’</p> +<p>‘You do not mean that there is any reason to suspect foul play? +The marquis, I know, was in bad health. You do not suspect—murder?’</p> +<p>‘No, sir, but—the marquis is gone.’</p> +<p>‘I <i>know</i> he is gone, your telegram and what I observed +of his health led me to fear the worst.’</p> +<p><!-- page 262--><span class="pagenum">p. 262</span>‘But his +body is gone—vanished.’</p> +<p>‘You suppose that it has been stolen (you know the American +and other cases of the same kind) for the purpose of extracting money +from the heir?’</p> +<p>‘That is the obvious view, whoever the heir may be. So +far, no will has been found,’ the doctor added some sugar to his +cheerer, and some whisky to correct the sugar. ‘The neighbourhood +is very much excited. Mr. Logan has telegraphed to London for +detectives.’</p> +<p>Merton reflected in silence.</p> +<p>‘The obvious view is not always the correct one,’ he +said. ‘The marquis was, at least I thought that he was, +a very eccentric person.’</p> +<p>‘No doubt about <i>that</i>,’ said the doctor.</p> +<p>‘Very well. He had reasons, such reasons as might occur +to a mind like his, for wanting to test the character and conduct of +Mr. Logan, his only living kinsman. What I am going to say will +seem absurd to you, but—the marquis spoke to me of his malady +as a kind of “dwawming,” I did not know what he meant, at +the time, but yesterday I consulted the glossary of a Scotch novel: +to <i>dwawm</i>, I think, is to lose consciousness?’</p> +<p>The doctor nodded.</p> +<p>‘Now you have read,’ said Merton, ‘the case published +by Dr. Cheyne, of a gentleman, Colonel Townsend, who could voluntarily +produce a state of “dwawm” which was not then to be distinguished +from death?’</p> +<p>‘I have read it in the notes to Aytoun’s <i>Scottish +Cavaliers</i>,’ said the doctor.</p> +<p><!-- page 263--><span class="pagenum">p. 263</span>‘Now, then, +suppose that the marquis, waking out of such a state, whether voluntarily +induced (which is very improbable) or not, thought fit to withdraw himself, +for the purpose of secretly watching, from some retreat, the behaviour +of his heir, if he has made Mr. Logan his heir? Is that hypothesis +absolutely out of keeping with his curious character?’</p> +<p>‘No. It’s crazy enough, if you will excuse me, +but, for these last few weeks, at any rate, I would have swithered about +signing a fresh certificate to the marquis’s sanity.’</p> +<p>‘You did, perhaps, sign one when he made his will, as he told +me?’</p> +<p>‘I, and Dr. Gourlay, and Professor Grant,’ the doctor +named two celebrated Edinburgh specialists. ‘But just of +late I would not be so certain.’</p> +<p>‘Then my theory need not necessarily be wrong?’</p> +<p>‘It can’t but be wrong. First, I saw the man dead.’</p> +<p>‘Absolute tests of death are hardly to be procured, of course +you know that better than I do,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Yes, but I am positive, or as positive as one can be, in the +circumstances. However, that is not what I stand on. <i>There +was a witness who saw the marquis go</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Go—how did he go?’</p> +<p>‘He disappeared.’</p> +<p>‘The body disappeared?’</p> +<p>‘It did, but you had better hear the witness’s own account; +I don’t think a second-hand story will convince you, especially +as you have a theory.’</p> +<p>‘Was the witness a man or a woman?’</p> +<p><!-- page 264--><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>‘A woman,’ +said the doctor.</p> +<p>‘Oh!’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I know what you mean,’ said the doctor. ‘You +think, it suits your theory, that the marquis came to himself and—’</p> +<p>‘And squared the female watcher,’ interrupted Merton; +‘she would assist him in his crazy stratagem.’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Merton, you’ve read ower many novels,’ said +the doctor, lapsing into the vernacular. ‘Well, your notion +is not unthinkable, nor pheesically impossible. She’s a +queer one, Jean Bower, that waked the corpse, sure enough. However, +you’ll soon be on the spot, and can examine the case for yourself. +Mr. Logan has no idea but that the body was stolen for purposes of blackmail.’ +He looked at his watch. ‘We must be going to catch the train, +if she’s anything like punctual.’</p> +<p>The pair walked in silence to the station, were again watched curiously +by the public (who appeared to treat the station as a club), and after +three-quarters of an hour of slow motion and stoppages, arrived at their +destination, Drem.</p> +<p>The doctor’s own man with a dog-cart was in waiting.</p> +<p>‘The marquis had neither machine nor horse,’ the doctor +explained.</p> +<p>Through the bleak late twilight they were driven, past two or three +squalid mining villages, along a road where the ruts showed black as +coal through the freezing snow. Out of one village, the lights +twinkling in the windows, they turned up a steep road, which, after +a couple of hundred yards, brought them <!-- page 265--><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>to +the old stone gate posts, surmounted by heraldic animals.</p> +<p>‘The late marquis sold the worked-iron gates to a dealer,’ +said the doctor.</p> +<p>At the avenue gates, so steep was the ascent, both men got out and +walked.</p> +<p>‘You see the pits come up close to the house,’ said the +doctor, as they reached the crest. He pointed to some tall chimneys +on the eastern slope, which sank quite gradually to the neighbouring +German Ocean, but ended in an abrupt rocky cliff.</p> +<p>‘Is that a fishing village in the cleft of the cliffs? +I think I see a red roof,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Ay, that’s Strutherwick, a fishing village,’ replied +the doctor.</p> +<p>‘A very easy place, on your theory, for an escape with the +body by boat,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Ay, that is just it,’ acquiesced the doctor.</p> +<p>‘But,’ asked Merton, as they reached the level, and saw +the old keep black in front of them, ‘what is that rope stretched +about the lawn for? It seems to go all round the house, and there +are watchers.’ Dark figures with lanterns were visible at +intervals, as Merton peered into the gathering gloom. The watchers +paced to and fro like sentinels.</p> +<p>The door of the house opened, and a man’s figure stood out +against the lamp light within.</p> +<p>‘Is that you, Merton?’ came Logan’s voice from +the doorway.</p> +<p>Merton answered; and the doctor remarked, ‘Mr. Logan will tell +you what the rope’s for.’</p> +<p>The friends shook hands; the doctor, having deposited <!-- page 266--><span class="pagenum">p. 266</span>Merton’s +baggage, pleaded an engagement, and said ‘Good-bye,’ among +the thanks of Logan. An old man, a kind of silent Caleb Balderstone, +carried Merton’s light luggage up a black turnpike stair.</p> +<p>‘I’ve put you in the turret; it is the least dilapidated +room,’ said Logan. ‘Now, come in here.’</p> +<p>He led the way into a hall on the ground-floor. A great fire +in the ancient hearth, with its heavy heraldically carved stone chimney-piece, +lit up the desolation of the chamber.</p> +<p>‘Sit down and warm yourself,’ said Logan, pushing forward +a ponderous oaken chair, with a high back and short arms.</p> +<p>‘I know a good deal,’ said Merton, his curiosity hurrying +him to the point; ‘but first, Logan, what is the rope on the stakes +driven in round the house for?’</p> +<p>‘That was my first precaution,’ said Logan. ‘I +heard of the—of what has happened—about four in the morning, +and I instantly knocked in the stakes—hard work with the frozen +ground—and drew the rope along, to isolate the snow about the +house. When I had done that, I searched the snow for footmarks.’</p> +<p>‘When had the snow begun to fall?’</p> +<p>‘About midnight. I turned out then to look at the night +before going to bed.’</p> +<p>‘And there was nothing wrong then?’</p> +<p>‘He lay on his bed in the laird’s chamber. I had +just left it. I left him with the watcher of the dead. There +was a plate of salt on his breast. The housekeeper, Mrs. Bower, +keeps up the old ways. Candles <!-- page 267--><span class="pagenum">p. 267</span>were +burning all round the bed. A fearful waste he would have thought +it, poor old man. The devils! If I could get on their track!’ +said Logan, clenching his fist.</p> +<p>‘You have found no tracks, then?’</p> +<p>‘None. When I examined the snow there was not a footmark +on the roads to the back door or the front—not a footmark on the +whole area.’</p> +<p>‘Then the removal of the body from the bedroom was done from +within. Probably the body is still in the house.’</p> +<p>‘Certainly it has been taken out by no known exit, if it <i>has</i> +been taken out, as I believe. I at once arranged relays of sentinels—men +from the coal-pits. But the body is gone; I am certain of it. +A fishing-boat went out from the village, Strutherwick, before the dawn. +It came into the little harbour after midnight—some night-wandering +lover saw it enter—and it must have sailed again before dawn.’</p> +<p>‘Did you examine the snow near the harbour?’</p> +<p>‘I could not be everywhere at once, and I was single-handed; +but I sent down the old serving-man, John Bower. He is stupid +enough, but I gave him a note to any fisherman he might meet. +Of course these people are not detectives.’</p> +<p>‘And was there any result?’</p> +<p>‘Yes; an odd one. But it confirms the obvious theory +of body-snatching. Of course, fishers are early risers, and they +went trampling about confusedly. But they did find curious tracks. +We have isolated some of them, and even managed to carry off a couple. +We dug round them, and lifted them. A neighbouring <!-- page 268--><span class="pagenum">p. 268</span>laird, +Mr. Maitland, lent his ice-house for storing these, and I had one laid +down on the north side of this house to show you, if the frost held. +No ice-house or refrigerator <i>here</i>, of course.’</p> +<p>‘Let me see it now.’</p> +<p>Logan took a lighted candle—the night was frosty, without a +wind—and led Merton out under the black, ivy-clad walls. +Merton threw his greatcoat on the snow and knelt on it, peering at the +object. He saw a large flat clod of snow and earth. On its +surface was the faint impress of a long oval, longer than the human +foot; feathery marks running in both directions from the centre could +be descried. Looking closer, Merton detected here and there a +tiny feather and a flock or two of down adhering to the frozen mass.</p> +<p>‘May I remove some of these feathery things?’ Merton +asked.</p> +<p>‘Certainly. But why?’</p> +<p>‘We can’t carry the clod indoors, it would melt; and +it <i>may</i> melt if the weather changes; and by bad luck there may +be no feathers or down adhering to the other clods—those in the +laird’s ice-house.’</p> +<p>‘You think you have a clue?’</p> +<p>‘I think,’ said Merton, ‘that these are emu’s +feathers; but, whether they are or not, they look like a clue. +Still, I <i>think</i> they are emu’s feathers.’</p> +<p>‘Why? The emu is not an indigenous bird.’</p> +<p>As he spoke, an idea—several ideas—flashed on Merton. +He wished that he had held his peace. He put the little shreds +into his pocket-book, rose, and donned his greatcoat. ‘How +cold it is!’ he said. <!-- page 269--><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>‘Logan, +would you mind very much if I said no more just now about the feathers? +I really have a notion—which may be a good one, or may be a silly +one—and, absurd as it appears, you will seriously oblige me by +letting me keep my own counsel.’</p> +<p>‘It is damned awkward,’ said Logan testily.</p> +<p>‘Ah, old boy, but remember that “damned awkward” +is a damned awkward expression.’</p> +<p>‘You are right,’ said Logan heartily; ‘but I rose +very early, I’m very tired, I’m rather savage. Let’s +go in and dine.’</p> +<p>‘All right,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I don’t think,’ said Logan, as they were entering +the house, ‘that I need keep these miners on sentry go any longer. +The bird—the body, I mean—has flown. Whoever the fellows +were that made these tracks, and however they got into and out of the +house, they have carried the body away. I’ll pay the watchers +and dismiss them.’</p> +<p>‘All right,’ said Merton. ‘I won’t +dress. I must return to town by the night train. No time +to be lost.’</p> +<p>‘No train to be caught,’ said Logan, ‘unless you +drive or walk to Berwick from here—which you can’t. +You can’t walk to Dunbar, to catch the 10.20, and I have nothing +that you can drive.’</p> +<p>‘Can I send a telegram to town?’</p> +<p>‘It is four miles to the nearest telegraph station, but I dare +say one of the sentinels would walk there for a consideration.’</p> +<p>‘No use,’ said Merton. ‘I should need to +wire in a cipher, when I come to think of it, and cipher I <!-- page 270--><span class="pagenum">p. 270</span>have +none. I must go as early as I can to-morrow. Let us consult +Bradshaw.’</p> +<p>They entered the house. Merton had a Bradshaw in his dressing-bag. +They found that he could catch a train at 10.49 A.M., and be in London +about 9 P.M.</p> +<p>‘How are you to get to the station?’ asked Logan. +‘I’ll tell you how,’ he went on. ‘I’ll +send a note to the inn at the place, and order a trap to be here at +ten. That will give you lots of time. It is about four miles.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you,’ said Merton; ‘I see no better way.’ +And while Logan went to pay and dismiss the sentries and send a messenger, +a grandson of the old butler with the note to the innkeeper, Merton +toiled up the narrow turnpike stair to the turret chamber. A fire +had been burning all day, and in firelight almost any room looks tolerable. +There was a small four-poster bed, with slender columns, a black old +wardrobe, and a couple of chairs, one of the queer antiquated little +dressing-tables, with many drawers, and boxes, and a tiny basin, and +there was a perfectly new tub, which Logan had probably managed to obtain +in the course of the day. Merton’s evening clothes were +neatly laid out, the shutters were closed, curtains there were none; +in fact, he had been in much worse quarters.</p> +<p>As he dressed he mused. ‘Cursed spite,’ thought +he, ‘that ever I was born to be an amateur detective! And +cursed be my confounded thirst for general information! Why did +I ever know what <i>Kurdaitcha</i> and <i>Interlinia</i> mean? +If I turn out to be right, oh, shade of Sherlock Holmes, what a pretty +kettle of fish there will be! Suppose I drop the whole affair! +<!-- page 271--><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>But I’ve been +ass enough to let Logan know that I have an idea. Well, we shall +see how matters shape themselves. Sufficient for the day is the +evil thereof.’</p> +<p>Merton descended the turnpike stair, holding on to the rope provided +for that purpose in old Scotch houses. He found Logan standing +by the fire in the hall. They were waited on by the old man, Bower. +By tacit consent they spoke, while he was present, of anything but the +subject that occupied their minds. They had quite an edible dinner—cock-a-leekie, +brandered haddocks, and a pair of roasted fowls, with a mysterious sweet +which was called a ‘Hattit Kit.’</p> +<p>‘It is an historical dish in this house,’ said Logan. +‘A favourite with our ancestor, the conspirator.’</p> +<p>The wine was old and good, having been laid down before the time +of the late marquis.</p> +<p>‘In the circumstances, Logan,’ said Merton, when the +old serving man was gone, ‘you have done me very well.’</p> +<p>‘Thanks to Mrs. Bower, our butler’s wife,’ said +Logan. ‘She is a truly remarkable woman. She and her +husband, they are cousins, are members of an ancient family, our hereditary +retainers. One of them, Laird Bower, was our old conspirator’s +go-between in the plot to kidnap the king, of which you have heard so +much. Though he was an aged and ignorant man, he kept the secret +so well that our ancestor was never even suspected, till his letters +came to light after his death, and after Laird Bower’s death too, +luckily for both of them. So you see we can depend on it that +this pair of domestics, and their <!-- page 272--><span class="pagenum">p. 272</span>family, +were not concerned in this new abomination; so far, the robbery was +not from within.’</p> +<p>‘I am glad to hear that,’ said Merton. ‘I +had invented a theory, too stupid to repeat, and entirely demolished +by the footmarks in the snow, a theory which hypothetically implicated +your old housekeeper. To be sure it did not throw any doubt on +her loyalty to the house, quite the reverse.’</p> +<p>‘What was your theory?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, too silly for words; that the marquis had been only in +a trance, had come to himself when alone with the old lady, who, the +doctor said, was watching in the room, and had stolen away, to see how +you would conduct yourself. Childish hypothesis! The obvious +one, body-snatching, is correct. This is very good port.’</p> +<p>‘If things had been as you thought possible, Jean Bower was +not the woman to balk the marquis,’ said Logan. ‘But +you must see her and hear her tell her own story.’</p> +<p>‘Gladly,’ said Merton, ‘but first tell me yours.’</p> +<p>‘When I arrived I found the poor old gentleman unconscious. +Dr. Douglas was in attendance. About noon he pronounced life extinct. +Mrs. Bower watched, or “waked” the corpse. I left +her with it about midnight, as I told you; about four in the morning +she aroused me with the news that the body had vanished. What +I did after that you know. Now you had better hear the story from +herself.’</p> +<p>Logan rang a handbell, there were no other bells in the keep, and +asked the old serving-man, when he came, to send in Mrs. Bower.</p> +<p><!-- page 273--><span class="pagenum">p. 273</span>She entered, a +very aged woman, dressed in deep mourning. She was tall, her hair +of an absolutely pure white, her aquiline face was drawn, her cheeks +hollow, her mouth almost toothless. She made a deep courtesy, +repeating it when Logan introduced ‘my friend, Mr. Merton.’</p> +<p>‘Mrs. Bower,’ Logan said, ‘Mr. Merton is my oldest +friend, and the marquis saw him in London, and consulted him on private +business a few days ago. He wishes to hear you tell what you saw +the night before last.’</p> +<p>‘Maybe, as the gentleman is English, he’ll hardly understand +me, my lord. I have a landward tongue,’ said Mrs. Bower.</p> +<p>‘I can interpret if Mr. Merton is puzzled, Mrs. Bower, but +I think he will understand better if we go to the laird’s chamber.’</p> +<p>Logan took two lighted candles, handing two to Merton, and the old +woman led them upstairs to a room which occupied the whole front of +the ancient ‘peel,’ or square tower, round which the rest +of the house was built. The room was nearly bare of furniture, +except for an old chair or two, a bureau, and a great old bed of state, +facing the narrow deep window, and standing on a kind of daïs, +or platform of three steps. The heavy old green curtains were +drawn all round it. Mrs. Bower opened them at the front and sides. +At the back against the wall the curtains, embroidered with the arms +of Restalrig, remained closed.</p> +<p>‘I sat here all the night,’ said Mrs. Bower, ‘watching +the corp that my hands had streikit. The candles <!-- page 274--><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>were +burning a’ about him, the saut lay on his breast, only aefold +o’ linen covered him. My back was to the window, my face +to his feet. I was crooning the auld dirgie; if it does nae guid, +it does nae harm.’ She recited in a monotone:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘When thou frae here away art past—<br /> + Every nicht and all—<br /> +To Whinny-muir thou comest at last,<br /> + And Christ receive thy saul.</p> +<p>‘If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon—<br /> + Every nicht and all—<br /> +Sit thee down and put them on,<br /> + And Christ receive thy saul</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Alas, he never gave nane, puir man,’ said the woman +with a sob.</p> +<p>At this moment the door of the chamber slowly opened. The woman +turned and gazed at it, frowning, her lips wide apart.</p> +<p>Logan went to the door, looked into the passage, closed the door +and locked it; the key had to be turned twice, in the old fashion, and +worked with a creaking jar.</p> +<p>‘I had crooned thae last words,</p> +<blockquote><p>And Christ receive thy saul,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>when the door opened, as ye saw it did the now. It is weel +kenned that a corp canna lie still in a room with the door hafflins +open. I rose to lock it, the catch is crazy. I was backing +to the door, with my face to the feet o’ the corp. I saw +them move backwards, slow they moved, and my heart stood still in my +breist. Then I saw’—here she stepped to the <!-- page 275--><span class="pagenum">p. 275</span>head +of the bed and drew apart the curtains, which opened in the middle—‘I +saw the curtain was open, and naething but blackness ahint it. +Ye see, my Lord, ahint the bed-heid is the entrance o’ the auld +secret passage. The stanes hae lang syne fallen in, and closed +it, but my Lord never would have the hole wa’ed up. “There’s +nae draught, Jean, or nane to mention, and I never was wastefu’ +in needless repairs,” he aye said. Weel, when I looked that +way, his face, down to the chafts, was within the blackness, and aye +draw, drawing further ben. Then, I shame to say it, a sair dwawm +cam ower me, I gae a bit chokit cry, and I kenned nae mair till I cam +to mysel, a’ the candles were out, and the chamber was mirk and +lown. I heard the skirl o’ a passing train, and I crap to +the bed, and the skirl kind o’ reminded me o’ living folk, +and I felt a’ ower the bed wi’ my hands. There was +nae corp. Ye ken that the Enemy has power, when a corp lies in +a room, and the door is hafflins closed. Whiles they sit up, and +grin and yammer. I hae kenned that. Weel, how long I had +lain in the dwawm I canna say. The train that skirled maun hae +been a coal train that rins by about half-past three in the morning. +There was a styme o’ licht that streeled in at the open door, +frae a candle your lordship set on a table in the lobby; the auld lord +would hae nae lichts in the house after the ten hours. Sae I got +to the door, and grippit to the candle, and flew off to your lordship’s +room, and the rest ye ken.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, very much, Mrs. Bower,’ said Logan. +‘You quite understand, Merton, don’t you?’</p> +<p><!-- page 276--><span class="pagenum">p. 276</span>‘I thoroughly +understand your story, Mrs. Bower,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘We need not keep you any longer, Mrs. Bower,’ said Logan. +‘Nobody need sit up for us; you must be terribly fatigued.’</p> +<p>‘You wunna forget to rake out the ha’ fire, my lord?’ +said the old lady, ‘I wush your Lordship a sound sleep, and you, +sir,’ so she curtsied and went, Logan unlocking the door.</p> +<p>‘And I was in London this morning!’ said Merton, drawing +a long breath.</p> +<p>‘You’re over Tweed, now, old man,’ answered Logan, +with patriotic satisfaction.</p> +<p>‘Don’t go yet,’ said Merton. ‘You examined +the carpet of the room; no traces there of these odd muffled foot-coverings +you found in the snow?’</p> +<p>‘Not a trace of any kind. The salt was spilt, some of +it lay on the floor. The plate was not broken.’</p> +<p>‘If they came in, it would be barefoot,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Of course the police left traces of official boots,’ +said Logan. ‘Where are they now—the policemen, I mean?’</p> +<p>‘Two are to sleep in the kitchen.’</p> +<p>‘They found out nothing?’</p> +<p>‘Of course not.’</p> +<p>‘Let me look at the hole in the wall.’ Merton climbed +on to the bed and entered the hole. It was about six feet long +by four wide. Stones had fallen in, at the back, and had closed +the passage in a rough way, indeed what extent of the floor of the passage +existed was huddled with stones. Merton examined the sides of +the passage, which were mere rubble.</p> +<p><!-- page 277--><span class="pagenum">p. 277</span>‘Have you +looked at the floor beneath those fallen stones?’ Merton asked.</p> +<p>‘No, by Jove, I never thought of that,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘How could they have been stirred without the old woman hearing +the noise?’</p> +<p>‘How do you know they were there before the marquis’s +death?’ asked Merton, adding, ‘this hole was not swept and +dusted regularly. Either the entrance is beneath me, or—“the +Enemy had power”—as Mrs. Bower says.’</p> +<p>‘You must be right,’ said Logan. ‘I’ll +have the stones removed to-morrow. The thing is clear. The +passage leads to somewhere outside of the house. There’s +an abandoned coal mine hard by, on the east. Nothing can be simpler.’</p> +<p>‘When once you see it,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Come and have a whisky and soda,’ said Logan.</p> +<h3>III. A Romance of Bradshaw</h3> +<p>Merton slept very well in the turret room. He was aroused early +by noises which he interpreted as caused by the arrival of the London +detectives. But he only turned round, like the sluggard, and slumbered +till Logan aroused him at eight o’clock. He descended about +a quarter to nine, breakfast was at nine, and he found Logan looking +much disturbed.</p> +<p>‘They don’t waste time,’ said Logan, handing to +Merton a letter in an opened envelope. Logan’s hand trembled.</p> +<p>‘Typewritten address, London postmark,’ said <!-- page 278--><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>Merton. +‘To Robert Logan, Esq., at Kirkburn Keep, Drem, Scotland.’</p> +<p>Merton read the letter aloud; there was no date of place, but there +were the words:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘March 6, 2.45 <span class="smcap">p.m</span>.<br /> +‘<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Perhaps I ought to say +my Lord—’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘What a fool the fellow is,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Why?’</p> +<p>‘Shows he is an educated man.’</p> +<blockquote><p>‘You may obtain news as to the mortal remains of +your kinsman, the late Marquis of Restalrig, and as to his Will, by +walking in the Burlington Arcade on March 11, between the hours of three +and half-past three p.m. You must be attired in full mourning +costume, carrying a glove in your left hand, and a black cane, with +a silver top, in your right. A lady will drop her purse beside +you. You will accost her.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Here the letter, which was typewritten, ended.</p> +<p>‘You won’t?’ said Merton. ‘Never meet +a black-mailer halfway.’</p> +<p>‘I wouldn’t,’ said Logan. ‘But look +here!’</p> +<p>He gave Merton another letter, in outward respect exactly similar +to the first, except that the figure 2 was typewritten in the left corner. +The letter ran thus:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘March 6, 4.25 p.m.</p> +<p>‘<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I regret to have to +trouble you with a second communication, but my former letter was posted +before a <!-- page 279--><span class="pagenum">p. 279</span>change occurred +in the circumstances. You will be pleased to hear that I have +no longer the affliction of speaking of your noble kinsman as “<i>the +late</i> Marquis of Restalrig.”’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Oh my prophetic soul!’ said Merton, ‘I guessed +at first that he was not dead after all! Only catalepsy.’ +He went on reading: ‘His Lordship recovered consciousness in circumstances +which I shall not pain you by describing. He is now doing as well +as can be expected, and may have several years of useful life before +him. I need not point out to you that the conditions of the negotiation +are now greatly altered. On the one hand, my partners and myself +may seem to occupy the position of players who work a double ruff at +whist. We are open to the marquis’s offers for release, +and to yours for his eternal absence from the scene of life and enjoyment. +But it is by no means impossible that you may have scruples about outbidding +your kinsman, especially as, if you did, you would, by the very fact, +become subject to perpetual “black-mailing” at our hands. +I speak plainly, as one man of the world to another. It is also +a drawback to our position that you could attain your ends without blame +or scandal (your ends being, of course, if the law so determines, immediate +succession to the property of the marquis), by merely pushing us, with +the aid of the police, to a fatal extreme. We are, therefore reluctantly +obliged to conclude that we cannot put the marquis’s life up to +auction between you and him, as my partners, in the first flush of triumph, +had conceived. But any movement on your side against us will be +met in such a way that the consequences, both to yourself and your kinsman, +<!-- page 280--><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>will prove to the +last degree prejudicial. For the rest, the arrangements specified +in my earlier note of this instant (dated 2.45 P. M.) remain in force.’</p> +<p>Merton returned the letter to Logan. Their faces were almost +equally blank.</p> +<p>‘Let me think!’ said Merton. He turned, and walked +to the window. Logan re-read the letters and waited. Presently +Merton came back to the fireside. ‘You see, after all, this +resolves itself into the ordinary dilemma of brigandage. We do +not want to pay ransom, enormous ransom probably, if we can rescue the +marquis, and destroy the gang. But the marquis himself—’</p> +<p>‘Oh, <i>he</i> would never offer terms that they would accept,’ +said Logan, with conviction. ‘But I would stick at no ransom, +of course.’</p> +<p>‘But suppose that I see a way of defeating the scoundrels, +would you let me risk it?’</p> +<p>‘If you neither imperil yourself nor him too much.’</p> +<p>‘Never mind me, I like it. And, as for him, they will +be very loth to destroy their winning card.’</p> +<p>‘You’ll be cautious?’</p> +<p>‘Naturally, but, as this place and the stations are sure to +be watched, as the trains are slow, local, and inconvenient, and as, +thanks to the economy of the marquis, you have no horses, it will be +horribly difficult for me to leave the house and get to London and to +work without their spotting me. It is absolutely essential to +my scheme that I should not be known to be in town, and that I should +be supposed to be here. I’ll think it out. In the +meantime we must <!-- page 281--><span class="pagenum">p. 281</span>do +what we can to throw dust in the eyes of the enemy. Wire an identical +advertisement to all the London papers; I’ll write it.’</p> +<p>Merton went to a table on which lay some writing materials, and wrote:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘BURLINGTON ARCADE. SILVER-TOPPED EBONY STICK. +Any offer made by the other party will be doubled on receipt of that +consignment uninjured. Will meet the lady. Traps shall be +kept here till after the date you mention. CHURCH BROOK.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Now,’ said Merton, ‘he will see that Church Brook +is Kirkburn, and that you will be liberal. And he will understand +that the detectives are not to return to London. You did not show +them the letters?’</p> +<p>‘Of course not till you saw them, and I won’t.’</p> +<p>‘And, if nothing can be done before the eleventh, why you must +promenade in the Burlington Arcade.’</p> +<p>‘You see one weak point in your offers, don’t you?’</p> +<p>‘Which?’</p> +<p>‘Why, suppose they do release the marquis, how am I to get +the money to pay double his offer? He won’t stump up and +recoup me.’</p> +<p>Merton laughed. ‘We must risk it,’ he said. +‘And, in the changed circumstances, the tin might be raised on +a post-obit. But <i>he</i> won’t bid high; you may double +safely enough.’</p> +<p>On considering these ideas Logan looked relieved. ‘Now,’ +he asked, ‘about your plan; is it following the emu’s feather?’</p> +<p>Merton nodded. ‘But I must do it alone. The <!-- page 282--><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>detectives +must stay here. Now if I leave, dressed as I am, by the 10.49, +I’ll be tracked all the way. Is there anybody in the country +whom you can absolutely trust?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, there’s Bower, the gardener, the son of these two +feudal survivals, and there is <i>his</i> son.’</p> +<p>‘What is young Bower?’</p> +<p>‘A miner in the collieries; the mine is near the house.’</p> +<p>‘Is he about my size? Have you seen him?’</p> +<p>‘I saw him last night; he was one of the watchers.’</p> +<p>‘Is he near my size?’</p> +<p>‘A trifle broader, otherwise near enough.’</p> +<p>‘What luck!’ said Merton, adding, ‘well, I can’t +start by the 10.49. I’m ill. I’m in bed. +Order my breakfast in bed, send Mrs. Bower, and come up with her yourself.’</p> +<p>Merton rushed up the turnpike stair; in two minutes he was undressed, +and between the sheets. There he lay, reading Bradshaw, pages +670, 671.</p> +<p>Presently there was a knock at the door, and Logan entered, followed +by Mrs. Bower with the breakfast tray.</p> +<p>Merton addressed her at once.</p> +<p>‘Mrs. Bower, we know that we can trust you absolutely.’</p> +<p>‘To the death, sir—me and mine.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I am not ill, but people must think I am ill. +Is your grandson on the night shift or the day shift?’</p> +<p>‘Laird is on the day shift, sir.’</p> +<p>‘When does he leave his work?’</p> +<p>‘About six, sir.’</p> +<p><!-- page 283--><span class="pagenum">p. 283</span>‘That is +good. As soon as he appears—’</p> +<p>‘I’ll wait for him at the pit’s mouth, sir.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you. You will take him to his house; he lives +with your son?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir, with his father.’</p> +<p>‘Make him change his working clothes—but he need not +wash his face much—and bring him here. Mr. Logan, I mean +Lord Fastcastle, will want him. Now, Mrs. Bower—you see +I trust you absolutely—what he is wanted for is <i>this</i>. +I shall dress in your grandson’s clothes, I shall blacken my hands +and face slightly, and I must get to Drem. Have I time to reach +the station by ten minutes past seven?’</p> +<p>‘By fast walking, sir.’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Logan and your grandson—your grandson in my clothes—will +walk later to your son’s house, as they find a chance, unobserved, +say about eleven at night. They will stay there for some time. +Then they will be joined by some of the police, who will accompany Mr. +Logan home again. Your grandson will go to his work as usual in +the morning. That is all. You quite understand? You +have nothing to do but to bring your grandson here, dressed as I said, +as soon as he leaves his work. Oh, wait a moment! Is your +grandson a teetotaller?’</p> +<p>‘He’s like the other lads, sir.’</p> +<p>‘All the better. Does he smoke?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> +<p>‘Then pray bring me a pipe of his and some of his tobacco. +And, ah yes, does he possess such a thing as an old greatcoat?’</p> +<p>‘His auld ane’s sair worn, sir.’</p> +<p><!-- page 284--><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>‘Never mind, +he had better walk up in it. He has a better one?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> +<p>‘I think that is all,’ said Merton. ‘You +understand, Mrs. Bower, that I am going away dressed as your grandson, +while your grandson, dressed as myself, returns to his house to-night, +and to work to-morrow. But it is not to be known that I <i>have</i> +gone away. I am to be supposed ill in bed here for a day or two. +You will bring my meals into the room at the usual hours, and Logan—of +course you can trust Dr. Douglas?’</p> +<p>‘I do.’</p> +<p>‘Then he had better be summoned to my sick bed here to-morrow. +I may be so ill that he will have to call twice. That will keep +up the belief that I am here.’</p> +<p>‘Good idea,’ said Logan, as the old woman left the room. +‘What had I better do now?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, send your telegrams—the advertisements—to +the London papers. They can go by the trap you ordered for me, +that I am too ill to go in. Then you will have to interview the +detectives, take them into the laird’s chamber, and, if they start +my theory about the secret entrance being under the fallen stones, let +them work away at removing them. If they don’t start it, +put them up to it; anything to keep them employed and prevent them from +asking questions in the villages.’</p> +<p>‘But, Merton, I understand your leaving in disguise; still, +why go first to Edinburgh?’</p> +<p>‘The trains from your station to town do not fit. <!-- page 285--><span class="pagenum">p. 285</span>You +can look.’ And Merton threw Bradshaw to Logan, who caught +it neatly.</p> +<p>When he had satisfied himself, Logan said, ‘The shops will +be closed in Edinburgh, it will be after eight when you arrive. +How will you manage about getting into decent clothes?’</p> +<p>‘I have my idea; but, as soon as you can get rid of the detectives, +come back here; I want you to coach me in broad Scots words and pronunciation. +I shall concoct imaginary dialogues. I say, this is great fun.’</p> +<p>‘Dod, man, aw ’m the lad that’ll lairn ye the pronoonciation,’ +said Logan, and he was going.</p> +<p>‘Wait,’ said Merton, ‘sign me a paper giving me +leave to treat about the ransom. And promise that, if I don’t +reappear by the eleventh, you won’t negotiate at all.’</p> +<p>‘Not likely I will,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>Merton lay in bed inventing imaginary dialogues to be rendered into +Scots as occasion served. Presently Logan brought him a little +book named <i>Mansie Waugh</i>.</p> +<p>‘That is our lingo here,’ he said; and Merton studied +the work carefully, marking some phrases with a pencil.</p> +<p>In about an hour Logan reported that the detectives were at work +in the secret passage. The lesson in the Scots of the Lothians +began, accompanied by sounds of muffled laughter. Not for two +or three centuries can the turret chamber at Kirkburn have heard so +much merriment.</p> +<p>The afternoon passed in this course of instruction. <!-- page 286--><span class="pagenum">p. 286</span>Merton +was a fairly good mimic, and Logan felt at last that he could not readily +be detected for an Englishman. Six o’clock had scarcely +struck when Mrs. Bower’s grandson was ushered into the bedroom. +The exchange of clothes took place, Merton dressing as the young Bower +undressed. The detectives, who had found nothing, were being entertained +by Mrs. Bower at dinner.</p> +<p>‘I know how the trap in the secret passage is worked,’ +said Merton, ‘but you keep them hunting for it.’</p> +<p>Had the worthy detectives been within earshot the yells of laughter +echoing in the turret as the men dressed must have suggested strange +theories to their imaginations.</p> +<p>‘Larks!’ said Merton, as he blackened his face with coal +dust.</p> +<p>Dismissing young Bower, who was told to wait in the hall, Merton +made his final arrangements. ‘You will communicate with +me under cover to Trevor,’ he said. He took a curious mediæval +ring that he always wore from his ringer, and tied it to a piece of +string, which he hung round his neck, tucking all under his shirt. +Then he arranged his thick comforter so as to hide the back of his head +and neck (he had bitten his nails and blackened them with coal).</p> +<p>‘Logan, I only want a bottle of whisky, the cork drawn and +loose in the bottle, and a few dirty Scotch one pound notes; and, oh! +has Mrs. Bower a pack of cards?’</p> +<p>Having been supplied with these properties, and <!-- page 287--><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>said +farewell to Logan, Merton stole downstairs, walked round the house, +entered the kitchen by the back door, and said to Mrs. Bower, ‘Grannie, +I maun be ganging.’</p> +<p>‘My grandson, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Bower to the detectives. +Then to her grandson, she remarked, ‘Hae, there’s a jeely +piece for you’; and Merton, munching a round of bread covered +with jam, walked down the steep avenue. He knew the house he was +to enter, the gardener’s lodge, and also that he was to approach +it by the back way, and go in at the back door. The inmates expected +him and understood the scheme; presently he went out by the door into +the village street, still munching at his round of bread.</p> +<p>To such lads and lassies as hailed him in the waning light he replied +gruffly, explaining that he had ‘a sair hoast,’ that is, +a bad cough, from which he had observed that young Bower was suffering. +He was soon outside of the village, and walking at top speed towards +the station. Several times he paused, in shadowy corners of the +hedges, and listened. There was no sound of pursuing feet. +He was not being followed, but, of course, he might be dogged at the +station. The enemy would have their spies there: if they had them +in the village his disguise had deceived them. He ran, whenever +no passer-by was in sight; through the villages he walked, whistling +‘Wull ye no come back again!’ He reached the station +with three minutes to spare, took a third-class ticket, and went on +to the platform. Several people were waiting, among them four +or five rough-looking miners, probably spies. He strolled towards +the end <!-- page 288--><span class="pagenum">p. 288</span>of the platform, +and when the train entered, leaped into a third-class carriage which +was nearly full. Turning at the door, he saw the rough customers +making for the same carriage. ‘Come on,’ cried Merton, +with a slight touch of intoxication in his voice; ‘come on billies, +a’ freens here!’ and he cast a glance of affection behind +him at the other occupants of the carriage. The roughs pressed +in.</p> +<p>‘I won’t have it,’ cried a testy old gentleman, +who was economically travelling by third-class, ‘there are only +three seats vacant. The rest of the train is nearly empty. +Hi, guard! station-master, hi!’</p> +<p>‘A’ <i>freens</i> here,’ repeated Merton stolidly, +taking his whisky bottle from his greatcoat pocket. Two of the +roughs had entered, but the guard persuaded the other two that they +must bestow themselves elsewhere. The old gentleman glared at +Merton, who was standing up, the cork of the bottle between his teeth, +as the train began to move. He staggered and fell back into his +seat.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘We are na fou, we’re no <i>that</i> fou,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Merton chanted, directing his speech to the old gentleman,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘But just a wee drap in oor ’ee!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘The curse of Scotland,’ muttered the old gentleman, +whether with reference to alcohol or to Robert Burns, is uncertain.</p> +<p>‘The Curse o’ Scotland,’ said Merton, ‘that’s +the nine o’ diamonds. I hae the cairts on me, maybe ye’d +take a hand, sir, at Beggar ma Neebour, or <!-- page 289--><span class="pagenum">p. 289</span>Catch +the Ten? Ye needna be feared, a can pay gin I lose.’ +He dragged out his cards, and a handful of silver.</p> +<p>The rough customers between whom Merton was sitting began to laugh +hoarsely. The old gentleman frowned.</p> +<p>‘I shall change my carriage at the next station,’ he +said, ‘and I shall report you for gambling.’</p> +<p>‘A’ freens!’ said Merton, as if horrified by the +austere reception of his cordial advances. ‘Wha’s +gaumlin’? We mauna play, billies, till he’s gane. +An unco pernicketty auld carl, thon ane,’ he remarked, <i>sotto +voce</i>. ‘But there’s naething in the Company’s +by-laws again refraishments,’ Merton added. He uncorked +his bottle, made a pretence of sucking at it, and passed it to his neighbours, +the rough customers. They imbibed with freedom.</p> +<p>The carriage was very dark, the lamp ‘moved like a moon in +a wane,’ as Merton might have quoted in happier circumstances. +The rough customers glared at him, but his cap had a peak, and he wore +his comforter high.</p> +<p>‘Man, ye’re the kind o’ lad I like,’ said +one of the rough customers.</p> +<p>‘A’ freens!’ said Merton, again applying himself +to the bottle, and passing it. ‘Ony ither gentleman tak’ +a sook?’ asked Merton, including all the passengers in his hospitable +glance. ‘Nane o’ ye dry?</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Oh! fill yer +ain glass,<br /> + And let the jug pass,<br /> +Hoo d’ye ken but yer neighbour’s dry?’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Merton carolled.</p> +<p><!-- page 290--><span class="pagenum">p. 290</span>‘Thon’s +no a Scotch lilt,’ remarked one of the roughs.</p> +<p>‘A ken it’s Irish,’ said Merton. ‘But, +billie, the whusky’s Scotch!’</p> +<p>The train slowed and the old gentleman got out. From the platform +he stormed at Merton.</p> +<p>‘Ye’re no an awakened character, ma freend,’ answered +Merton. ‘Gude nicht to ye! Gie ma love to the gude +wife and the weans!’</p> +<p>The train pursued her course.</p> +<p>‘Aw ’m saying, billie, aw ’m saying,’ remarked +one of the roughs, thrusting his dirty beard into Merton’s face.</p> +<p>‘Weel, <i>be</i> saying,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘You’re no Lairdie Bower, ye ken, ye haena the neb o’ +him.’</p> +<p>‘And wha the deil said a <i>was</i> Lairdie Bower? Aw +’m a Lanerick man. Lairdie’s at hame wi’ a sair +hoast,’ answered Merton.</p> +<p>‘But ye’re wearing Lairdie Bower’s auld big coat.’</p> +<p>‘And what for no? Lairdie has anither coat, a brawer +yin, and he lent me the auld yin because the nichts is cauld, and I +hae a hoast ma’sel! Div <i>ye</i> ken Lairdie Bower? +I’ve been wi’ his auld faither and the lasses half the day, +but speakin’s awfu’ dry work.’</p> +<p>Here Merton repeated the bottle trick, and showed symptoms of going +to sleep, his head rolling on to the shoulder of the rough.</p> +<p>‘Haud up, man!’ said the rough, withdrawing the support.</p> +<p>‘A’ freens here,’ remarked Merton, drawing a dirty +clay pipe from his pocket. ‘Hae ye a spunk?’</p> +<p><!-- page 291--><span class="pagenum">p. 291</span>The rough provided +him with a match, and he killed some time, while Preston Pans was passed, +in filling and lighting his pipe.</p> +<p>‘Ye’re a Lanerick man?’ asked the inquiring rough.</p> +<p>‘Ay, a Hamilton frae Moss End. But I’m taking the +play. Ma auld tittie has dee’d and left me some siller,’ +Merton dragged a handful of dirty notes out of his trousers pocket. +‘I’ve been to see the auld Bowers, but Lairdie was on the +shift.’</p> +<p>‘And ye’re ganging to Embro?’</p> +<blockquote><p>‘When we cam’ into Embro Toon<br /> + We were a seemly sicht to see;<br /> +Ma luve was in the—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I dinna mind what ma luve was in—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘And I ma’sel in cramoisie,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>sang Merton, who had the greatest fear of being asked local questions +about Moss End and Motherwell. ‘I dinna ken what cramoisie +is, ma’sel’,’ he added. ‘Hae a drink!’</p> +<p>‘Man, ye’re a bonny singer,’ said the rough, who, +hitherto, had taken no hand in the conversation.</p> +<p>‘Ma faither was a precentor,’ said Merton, and so, in +fact, Mr. Merton <i>père</i> had, for a short time, been—of +Salisbury Cathedral.</p> +<p>They were approaching Portobello, where Merton rushed to the window, +thrust half of his body out and indulged in the raucous and meaningless +yells of the festive artisan. Thus he tided over a rather prolonged +wait, but, when the train moved on, the inquiring <!-- page 292--><span class="pagenum">p. 292</span>rough +returned to the charge. He was suspicious, and also was drunk, +and obstinate with all the brainless obstinacy of intoxication.</p> +<p>‘Aw ’m sayin’,’ he remarked to Merton, ‘you’re +no Lairdie Bower.’</p> +<p>‘Hear till the man! Aw ’m Tammy Hamilton, o’ +Moss End in Lanerick. Aw ’m ganging to see ma Jean.</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘For day or +night<br /> + Ma fancy’s flight<br /> + Is ever wi’ ma Jean—<br /> +Ma bonny, bonny, flat-footed Jean,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>sang Merton, gliding from the strains of Robert Burns into those +of Mr. Boothby. ‘Jean’s a Lanerick wumman,’ +he added, ‘she’s in service in the Pleasance. Aw ’m +ganging to my Jo. Ye’ll a’ hae Jos, billies?’</p> +<p>‘Aw ’m sayin’,’ the intoxicated rough persisted, +‘ye’re no a Lanerick man. Ye’re the English +gentleman birkie that cam’ to Kirkburn yestreen. Or else +ye’re ane o’ the polis’ (police).</p> +<p>‘<i>Me</i> ane o’ the polis! Aw ’m askin’ +the company, <i>div</i> a look like a polisman? <i>Div</i> a look +like an English birkie, or ane o’ the gentry?’</p> +<p>The other passengers, decent people, thus appealed to, murmured negatives, +and shook their heads. Merton certainly did not resemble a policeman, +an Englishman, or a gentleman.</p> +<p>‘Ye see naebody lippens to ye,’ Merton went on. +‘Man, if we were na a’ freens, a wad gie ye a jaud atween +yer twa een! But ye’ve been drinking. Tak anither +sook!’</p> +<p>The rough did not reject the conciliatory offer.</p> +<p><!-- page 293--><span class="pagenum">p. 293</span>‘The whiskey’s +low,’ said Merton, holding up the bottle to the light, ‘but +there’s mair at Embro’ station.’</p> +<p>They were now drawing up at the station. Merton floundered +out, threw his arms round the necks of each of the roughs, yelled to +their companions in the next carriage to follow, and staggered into +the third-class refreshment room. Here he leaned against the counter +and feebly ogled the attendant nymph.</p> +<p>‘Ma lonny bassie, a mean ma bonny lassie,’ he said, ‘gie’s +five gills, five o’ the Auld Kirk’ (whisky).</p> +<p>‘Hoots man!’ he heard one of the roughs remark to another. +‘This falla’s no the English birkie. English he canna +be.’</p> +<p>‘But aiblins he’s ane o’ oor ain polis,’ +said the man of suspicions.</p> +<p>‘Nane o’ oor polis has the gumption; and him as fou as +a fiddler.’</p> +<p>Merton, waving his glass, swallowed its contents at three gulps. +He then fell on the floor, scrambled to his feet, tumbled out, and dashed +his own whisky bottle through the window of the refreshment room.</p> +<p>‘Me ane o’ the polis!’ he yelled, and was staggering +towards the exit, when he was collared by two policemen, attracted by +the noise. He embraced one of them, murmuring ‘ma bonny +Jean!’ and then doubled up, his head lolling on his shoulder. +His legs and arms jerked convulsively, and he had at last to be carried +off, in the manner known as ‘The Frog’s March,’ by +four members of the force. The roughs followed, like chief mourners, +Merton thought, at the head of the attendant crowd.</p> +<p><!-- page 294--><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>‘There’s +an end o’ your clash about the English gentleman,’ Merton +heard the quieter of his late companions observe to the obstinate inquirer. +‘But he’s a bonny singer. And noo, wull ye tell me +hoo we’re to win back to Drem the nicht?’</p> +<p>‘Dod, we’ll make a nicht o’t,’ said the other, +as Merton was carried into the police-station.</p> +<p>He permitted himself to be lifted into one of the cells, and then +remarked, in the most silvery tones:</p> +<p>‘Very many thanks, my good men. I need not give you any +more trouble, except by asking you, if possible, to get me some hot +water and soap, and to invite the inspector to favour me with his company.’</p> +<p>The men nearly dropped Merton, but, finding his feet, he stood up +and smiled blandly.</p> +<p>‘Pray make no apologies,’ he said. ‘It is +rather I who ought to apologise.’</p> +<p>‘He’s no drucken, and he’s no Scotch,’ remarked +one of the policemen.</p> +<p>‘But he’ll pass the nicht here, and maybe apologise to +the Baillie in the morning,’ said another.</p> +<p>‘Oh, pardon me, you mistake me,’ said Merton. ‘This +is not a stupid practical joke.’</p> +<p>‘It’s no a very gude ane,’ said the policeman.</p> +<p>Merton took out a handful of gold. ‘I wish to pay for +the broken window at once,’ he said. ‘It was a necessary +part of the <i>mise en scène</i>, of the stage effect, you know. +To call your attention.’</p> +<p>‘Ye’ll settle wi’ the Baillie in the morning,’ +said the policeman.</p> +<p>Things were looking untoward.</p> +<p>‘Look here,’ said Merton, ‘I quite understand your +<!-- page 295--><span class="pagenum">p. 295</span>point of view, it +does credit to your intelligence. You take me for an English tourist, +behaving as I have done by way of a joke, or for a bet?’</p> +<p>‘That’s it, sir,’ said the spokesman.</p> +<p>‘Well, it does look like that. But which of you is the +senior officer here?’</p> +<p>‘Me, sir,’ said the last speaker.</p> +<p>‘Very well, if you can be so kind as to call the officer in +charge of the station, or even one of senior standing—the higher +the better—I can satisfy him as to my identity, and as to my reasons +for behaving as I have done. I assure you that it is a matter +of the very gravest importance. If the inspector, when he has +seen me, permits, I have no objections to you, or to all of you hearing +what I have to say. But you will understand that this is a matter +for his own discretion. If I were merely playing the fool, you +must see that I have nothing to gain by giving additional annoyance +and offence.’</p> +<p>‘Very well, sir, I will bring the officer in charge,’ +said the policeman.</p> +<p>‘Just tell him about my arrest and so on,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>In a few minutes he returned with his superior.</p> +<p>‘Well, my man, what’s a’ this aboot?’ said +that officer sternly.</p> +<p>‘If you can give me an interview, alone, for five minutes, +I shall enlighten you,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>The officer was a huge and stalwart man. He threw his eye over +Merton. ‘Wait in the yaird,’ he said to his minions, +who retreated rather reluctantly. ‘Weel, speak up,’ +said the officer.</p> +<p><!-- page 296--><span class="pagenum">p. 296</span>‘It is the +body snatching case at Kirkburn,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Do ye mean that ye’re an English detective?’</p> +<p>‘No, merely a friend of Mr. Logan’s who left Kirkburn +this evening. I have business to do for him in London in connection +with the case—business that nobody can do but myself—and +the house was watched. I escaped in the disguise which you see +me wearing, and had to throw off a gang of ruffians that accompanied +me in the train by pretending to be drunk. I could only shake +them off and destroy the suspicions which they expressed by getting +arrested.’</p> +<p>‘It’s a queer story,’ said the policeman.</p> +<p>‘It <i>is</i> a queer story, but, speaking without knowledge, +I think your best plan is to summon the chief of your detective department, +I need his assistance. And I can prove my identity to him—to +<i>you</i>, if you like, but you know best what is official etiquette.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll telephone for him, sir.’</p> +<p>‘You are very obliging. All this is confidential, you +know. Expense is no object to Mr. Logan, and he will not be ungrateful +if strict secrecy is preserved. But, of all things, I want a wash.’</p> +<p>‘All right, sir,’ said the policeman, and in a few minutes +Merton’s head, hands, and neck, were restored to their pristine +propriety.</p> +<p>‘No more kailyard talk for me,’ he thought, with satisfaction.</p> +<p>The head of the detective department arrived in no long time. +He was in evening dress. Merton rose and bowed.</p> +<p><!-- page 297--><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>‘What’s +your story, sir?’ the chief asked; ‘it has brought me from +a dinner party at my own house.’</p> +<p>‘I deeply regret it,’ said Merton, ‘though, for +my purpose, it is the merest providence.’</p> +<p>‘What do you mean, sir?’</p> +<p>‘Your subordinate has doubtless told you all that I told him?’</p> +<p>The chief nodded.</p> +<p>‘Do you—I mean as an official—believe me?’</p> +<p>‘I would be glad of proof of your personal identity.’</p> +<p>‘That is easily given. You may know Mr. Lumley, the Professor +of Toxicology in the University here?’</p> +<p>‘I have met him often on matters of our business.’</p> +<p>‘He is an old college friend of mine, and can remove any doubts +you may entertain. His wife is a tall woman luckily,’ added +Merton to himself, much to the chief’s bewilderment.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Lumley’s word would quite satisfy me,’ said +the chief.</p> +<p>‘Very well, pray lend me your attention. This affair—’</p> +<p>‘The body snatching at Kirkburn?’ asked the chief.</p> +<p>‘Exactly,’ said Merton. ‘This affair is very +well organised. Your house is probably being observed. Now +what I propose is <i>this</i>. I can go nowhere dressed as I am. +You will, if you please, first send a constable, in uniform, to your +house with orders to wait till you return. Next, I shall dress, +by your permission, in any spare uniform you may have here <!-- page 298--><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>and +in that costume I shall leave this office and accompany you to your +house in a closed cab. You will enter it, bring out a hat and +cloak, come into the cab, and I shall put them on, leaving my policeman’s +helmet in the cab, which will wait. Then, minutes later, the constable +will come out, take the cab, and drive to any police office you please. +Once within your house, I shall exchange my uniform for any old evening +suit you may be able to lend me, and, when your guests have departed, +you and I will drive together to Professor Lumley’s, where he +will identify me. After that, my course is perfectly clear, and +I need give you no further trouble.’</p> +<p>‘It is too complicated, sir,’ said the chief, smiling. +‘I don’t know your name?’</p> +<p>‘Merton,’ said our hero, ‘and yours?’</p> +<p>‘Macnab. I can lend you a plain suit of morning clothes +from here, and we don’t want the stratagem of the constable. +You don’t even need the extra trouble of putting on evening dress +in my house.’</p> +<p>‘How very fortunate,’ said Merton, and in a quarter of +an hour he was attired as a simple citizen, and was driving to the house +of Mr. Macnab. Here he was merely introduced to the guests—it +was a men’s party—as a gentleman from England on business. +The guests had too much tact to tarry long, and by eleven o’clock +the chief and Merton were ringing at the door bell of Professor Lumley. +The servant knew both of them, and ushered them into the professor’s +study. He was reading examination papers. Mrs. Lumley had +not returned from a party. Lumley greeted Merton warmly.</p> +<p><!-- page 299--><span class="pagenum">p. 299</span>‘I am passing +through Edinburgh, and thought I might find you at home,’ Merton +said.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Macnab,’ said Lumley, shaking hands with the chief, +‘you have not taken my friend into custody?’</p> +<p>‘No, professor; Mr. Merton will tell you that he is released, +and I’ll be going home.’</p> +<p>‘You won’t stop and smoke?’</p> +<p>‘No, I should be <i>de trop</i>,’ answered the chief; +‘good night, professor; good night, Mr. Merton.’</p> +<p>‘But the broken window?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, we’ll settle that, and let you have the bill.’</p> +<p>Merton gave his club address, and the chief shook hands and departed.</p> +<p>‘Now, what <i>have</i> you been doing, Merton?’ asked +Lumley.</p> +<p>Merton briefly explained the whole set of circumstances, and added, +‘Now, Lumley, you are my sole hope. You can give me a bed +to-night?’</p> +<p>‘With all the pleasure in the world.’</p> +<p>‘And lend me a set of Mrs. Lumley’s raiment and a lady’s +portmanteau?’</p> +<p>‘Are you quite mad?’</p> +<p>‘No, but I must get to London undiscovered, and, for certain +reasons, with which I need not trouble you, that is absolutely the only +possible way. You remember, at Oxford, I made up fairly well for +female parts.’</p> +<p>‘Is there absolutely no other way?’</p> +<p>‘None, I have tried every conceivable plan, mentally. +Mourning is best, and a veil.’</p> +<p><!-- page 300--><span class="pagenum">p. 300</span>At this moment +Mrs. Lumley’s cab was heard, returning from her party.</p> +<p>‘Run down and break it to Mrs. Lumley,’ said Merton. +‘Luckily we have often acted together.’</p> +<p>‘Luckily you are a favourite of hers,’ said Lumley.</p> +<p>In ten minutes the pair entered the study. Mrs. Lumley, a tall +lady, as Merton had said, came in, laughing and blushing.</p> +<p>‘I shall drive with you myself to the train. My maid +must be in the secret,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘She is an old acquaintance of mine,’ said Merton. +‘But I think you had better not come with me to the station. +Nobody is likely to see me, leaving your house about nine, with my veil +down. But, if any one <i>does</i> see me, he must take me for +you.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, it is I who am running up to town incognita?’</p> +<p>‘For a day or two—you will lend me a portmanteau to give +local colour?’</p> +<p>‘With pleasure,’ said Mrs. Lumley.</p> +<p>‘And Lumley will telegraph to Trevor to meet you at King’s +Cross, with his brougham, at 6.15 P. M.?’</p> +<p>This also was agreed to, and so ended this romance of Bradshaw.</p> +<h3>IV. Greek meets Greek</h3> +<p>At about twenty-five minutes to seven, on March 7, the express entered +King’s Cross. A lady of fashionable appearance, with her +veil down, gazed anxiously out of the window of a reserved carriage. +She presently detected the person for whom she was looking, and waved +her parasol. Trevor, lifting his <!-- page 301--><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>hat, +approached; the lady had withdrawn into the carriage, and he entered.</p> +<p>‘Mum’s the word!’ said the lady.</p> +<p>‘Why, it’s—hang it all, it’s Merton!’</p> +<p>‘Your sister is staying with you?’ asked Merton eagerly.</p> +<p>‘Yes; but what on earth—’</p> +<p>‘I’ll tell you in the brougham. But you take a +weight off my bosom! I am going to stay with you for a day or +two; and now my reputation (or Mrs. Lumley’s) is safe. Your +servants never saw Mrs. Lumley?’</p> +<p>‘Never,’ said Trevor.</p> +<p>‘All right! My portmanteau has her initials, S. M. L., +and a crimson ticket; send a porter for it. Now take me to the +brougham.’</p> +<p>Trevor offered his arm and carried the dressing-bag; the lady was +led to his carriage. The portmanteau was recovered, and they drove +away.</p> +<p>‘Give me a cigarette,’ said Merton, ‘and I’ll +tell you all about it.’</p> +<p>He told Trevor all about it—except about the emu’s feathers.</p> +<p>‘But a male disguise would have done as well,’ said Trevor</p> +<p>‘Not a bit. It would not have suited what I have to do +in town. I cannot tell you why. The affair is complex. +I have to settle it, if I can, so that neither Logan nor any one else—except +the body-snatcher and polite letter-writer—shall ever know how +I managed it.’</p> +<p>Trevor had to be content with this reply. He took <!-- page 302--><span class="pagenum">p. 302</span>Merton, +when they arrived, into the smoking-room, rang for tea, and ‘squared +his sister,’ as he said, in the drawing-room. The pair were +dining out, and after a solitary dinner, Merton (in a tea-gown) occupied +himself with literary composition. He put his work in a large +envelope, sealed it, marked it with a St. Andrew’s cross, and, +when Trevor returned, asked him to put it in his safe. ‘Two +days after to-morrow, if I do not appear, you must open the envelope +and read the contents,’ he said.</p> +<p>After luncheon on the following day—a wet day—Miss Trevor +and Merton (who was still arrayed as Mrs. Lumley) went out shopping. +Miss Trevor then drove off to pay a visit (Merton could not let her +know his next move), and he himself, his veil down, took a four-wheeled +cab, and drove to Madame Claudine’s. He made one or two +purchases, and then asked for the head of the establishment, an Irish +lady. To her he confided that he had to break a piece of distressing +family news to Miss Markham, of the cloak department; that young lady +was summoned; Madame Claudine, with a face of sympathy, ushered them +into her private room, and went off to see a customer. Miss Markham +was pale and trembling; Merton himself felt agitated.</p> +<p>‘Is it about my father, or—’ the girl asked.</p> +<p>‘Pray be calm,’ said Merton. ‘Sit down. +Both are well.’</p> +<p>The girl started. ‘Your voice—’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Exactly,’ said Merton; ‘you know me.’ +And taking off his glove, he showed a curious mediæval ring, familiar +to his friends. ‘I could get at you in <!-- page 303--><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>no +other way than this,’ he said, ‘and it was absolutely necessary +to see you.’</p> +<p>‘What is it? I know it is about my father,’ said +the girl.</p> +<p>‘He has done us a great service,’ said Merton soothingly. +He had guessed what the ‘distressing circumstances’ were +in which the marquis had been restored to life. Perhaps the reader +guesses? A discreet person, who has secretly to take charge of +a corpse of pecuniary value, adopts certain measures (discovered by +the genius of ancient Egypt), for its preservation. These measures, +doubtless, had revived the marquis, who thus owed his life to his kidnapper.</p> +<p>‘He has, I think, done us a great service,’ Merton repeated; +and the girl’s colour returned to her beautiful face, that had +been of marble.</p> +<p>‘Yet there are untoward circumstances,’ Merton admitted. +‘I wish to ask you two or three questions. I must give you +my word of honour that I have no intention of injuring your father. +The reverse; I am really acting in his interests. Now, first, +he has practised in Australia. May I ask if he was interested +in the Aborigines?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, very much,’ said the girl, entirely puzzled. +‘But,’ she added, ‘he was never in the Labour trade.’</p> +<p>‘Blackbird catching?’ said Merton. ‘No. +But he had, perhaps, a collection of native arms and implements?’</p> +<p>‘Yes; a very fine one.’</p> +<p>‘Among them were, perhaps, some curious native <!-- page 304--><span class="pagenum">p. 304</span>shoes, +made of emu’s feathers—they are called <i>Interlinia</i> +or, by white men, <i>Kurdaitcha</i> shoes?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t remember the name,’ said Miss Markham, +‘but he had quite a number of them. The natives wear them +to conceal their tracks when they go on a revenge party.’</p> +<p>Merton’s guess was now a certainty. The marquis had spoken +of Miss Markham’s father as a ‘landlouping’ Australian +doctor. The footmarks of the feathered shoes in the snow at Kirkburn +proved that an article which only an Australian (or an anthropologist) +was likely to know of had been used by the body-snatchers.</p> +<p>Merton reflected. Should he ask the girl whether she had told +her father what, on the night of the marquis’s appearance at the +office, Logan had told her? He decided that this was superfluous; +of course she had told her father, and the doctor had taken his measures +(and the body of the marquis) accordingly. To ask a question would +only be to enlighten the girl.</p> +<p>‘That is very interesting,’ said Merton. ‘Now, +I won’t pretend that I disguised myself in this way merely to +ask you about Australian curiosities. The truth is that, in your +father’s interests, I must have an interview with him.’</p> +<p>‘You don’t mean to do him any harm?’ asked the +girl anxiously.</p> +<p>‘I have given you my word of honour. As things stand, +I do not conceal from you that I am the only person who can save him +from a situation which might be disagreeable, and that is what I want +to do.’</p> +<p><!-- page 305--><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>‘He will +be quite safe if he sees you?’ asked the girl, wringing her hands.</p> +<p>‘That is the only way in which he can be safe, I am afraid.’</p> +<p>‘You would not use a girl against her own father?’</p> +<p>‘I would sooner die where I sit,’ said Merton earnestly. +‘Surely you can trust a friend of Mr. Logan’s—who, +by the bye, is very well.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, oh,’ cried the girl, ‘I read that story of +the stolen corpse in the papers. I understand!’</p> +<p>‘It was almost inevitable that you should understand,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘But then,’ said the girl, ‘what did you mean by +saying that my father has done you a great service. You are deceiving +me. I have said too much. This is base!’ Miss Markham +rose, her eyes and cheeks burning.</p> +<p>‘What I told you is the absolute and entire truth,’ said +Merton, nearly as red as she was.</p> +<p>‘Then,’ exclaimed Miss Markham, ‘this is baser +yet! You must mean that by doing what you think he has done my +father has somehow enabled Robert—Mr. Logan—to come into +the marquis’s property. Perhaps the marquis left no will, +or the will—is gone! And do you believe that Mr. Logan will +thank you for acting in this way?’ She stood erect, her +hand resting on the back of a chair, indignant and defiant.</p> +<p>‘In the first place, I have a written power from Mr. Logan +to act as I think best. Next, I have not even informed myself +as to how the law of Scotland stands in regard to the estate of a man +who dies leaving no will. Lastly, Miss Markham, I am extremely +hampered <!-- page 306--><span class="pagenum">p. 306</span>by the fact +that Mr. Logan has not the remotest suspicion of what I suspected—and +now know—to be the truth as to the disappearance of his cousin’s +body. I successfully concealed my idea from Mr. Logan, so as to +avoid giving pain to him and you. I did my best to conceal it +from you, though I never expected to succeed. And now, if you +wish to know how your father has conferred a benefit on Mr. Logan, I +must tell you, though I would rather be silent. Mr. Logan is aware +of the benefit, but will never, if you can trust yourself, suspect his +benefactor.’</p> +<p>‘I can never, never see him again,’ the girl sobbed.</p> +<p>‘Time is flying,’ said Merton, who was familiar, in works +of fiction, with the situation indicated by the girl. ‘Can +you trust me, or not?’ he asked, ‘My single object is secrecy +and your father’s safety. I owe that to my friend, to you, +and even, as it happens, to your father. Can you enable me, dressed +as I am, to have an interview with him?’</p> +<p>‘You will not hurt him? You will not give him up? +You will not bring the police on him?’</p> +<p>‘I am acting as I do precisely for the purpose of keeping the +police off him. They have discovered nothing.’</p> +<p>The girl gave a sigh of relief.</p> +<p>‘Your father’s only danger would lie in my—failure +to return from my interview with him. Against <i>that</i> I cannot +safeguard him; it is fair to tell you so. But my success in persuading +him to adopt a certain course would be equally satisfactory to Mr. Logan +and to himself.’</p> +<p><!-- page 307--><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>‘Mr. Logan +knows nothing?’</p> +<p>‘Absolutely nothing. I alone, and now you, know anything.’</p> +<p>The girl walked up and down in agony.</p> +<p>‘Nobody will ever know if I do not tell you how to find him,’ +she said.</p> +<p>‘Unhappily that is not the case. I only ask <i>you</i>, +so that it may not be necessary to take other steps, tardy, but certain, +and highly undesirable.’</p> +<p>‘You will not go to him armed?’</p> +<p>‘I give you my word of honour,’ said Merton. ‘I +have risked myself unarmed already.’</p> +<p>The girl paused with fixed eyes that saw nothing. Merton watched +her. Then she took her resolve.</p> +<p>‘I do not know where he is living. I know that on Wednesdays, +that is, the day after to-morrow, he is to be found at Dr. Fogarty’s, +a private asylum, a house with a garden, in Water Lane, Hammersmith.’</p> +<p>It was the lane in which stood the Home for Destitute and Decayed +Cats, whither Logan had once abducted Rangoon, the Siamese puss.</p> +<p>‘Thank you,’ said Merton simply. ‘And I am +to ask for?’</p> +<p>‘Ask first for Dr. Fogarty. You will tell him that you +wish to see the <i>Ertwa Oknurcha</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, Australian for “The Big Man,”’ said +Merton.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know what it means,’ said Miss Markham. +‘Dr. Fogarty will then ask, “Have you the <i>churinga</i>?”’</p> +<p>The girl drew out a slim gold chain which hung round her neck and +under her dress. At the end of it was a dark piece of wood, shaped +much like a large <!-- page 308--><span class="pagenum">p. 308</span>cigar, +and decorated with incised concentric circles, stained red.</p> +<p>‘Take that and show it to Dr. Fogarty,’ said Miss Markham, +detaching the object from the chain.</p> +<p>Merton returned it to her. ‘I know where to get a similar +<i>churinga</i>,’ he said. ‘Keep your own. Its +absence, if asked for, might lead to awkward questions.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, I can trust you,’ said Miss Markham, adding, +‘You will address my father as Dr. Melville.’</p> +<p>‘Again thanks, and good-bye,’ said Merton. He bowed +and withdrew.</p> +<p>‘She is a good deal upset, poor girl,’ Merton remarked +to Madame Claudine, who, on going to comfort Miss Markham with tea, +found her weeping. Merton took another cab, and drove to Trevor’s +house.</p> +<p>After dinner (at which there were no guests), and in the smoking-room, +Trevor asked whether he had made any progress.</p> +<p>‘Everything succeeded to a wish,’ said Merton. +‘You remember Water Lane?’</p> +<p>‘Where Logan carried the Siamese cat in my cab,’ said +Trevor, grinning at the reminiscence. ‘Rather! I reconnoitred +the place with Logan.’</p> +<p>‘Well, on the day after to-morrow I have business there.’</p> +<p>‘Not at the Cats’ Home?’</p> +<p>‘No, but perhaps you might reconnoitre again. Do you +remember a house with high walls and spikes on them?’</p> +<p>‘I do,’ said Trevor; ‘but how do you know? +You <!-- page 309--><span class="pagenum">p. 309</span>never were there. +You disapproved of Logan’s method in the case of the cat.’</p> +<p>‘I never was there; I only made a guess, because the house +I am interested in is a private asylum.’</p> +<p>‘Well, you guessed right. What then?’</p> +<p>‘You might reconnoitre the ground to-morrow—the exits, +there are sure to be some towards waste land or market gardens.’</p> +<p>‘Jolly!’ said Trevor. ‘I’ll make up +as a wanderer from Suffolk, looking for a friend in the slums; semi-bargee +kind of costume.’</p> +<p>‘That would do,’ said Merton. ‘But you had +better go in the early morning.’</p> +<p>‘A nuisance. Why?’</p> +<p>‘Because, later, you will have to get a gang of fellows to +be about the house the day after, when I pay my visit.’</p> +<p>‘Fellows of our own sort, or the police?’</p> +<p>‘Neither. I thought of fellows of our own sort. +They would talk and guess.’</p> +<p>‘Better get some of Ned Mahony’s gang?’ asked Trevor.</p> +<p>Mr. Mahony was an ex-pugilist, and a distinguished instructor in +the art of self-defence. He also was captain of a gang of ‘chuckers +out.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Merton, ‘that is my idea. <i>They</i> +will guess, too; but when they know the place is a private lunatic asylum +their hypothesis is obvious.’</p> +<p>‘They’ll think that a patient is to be rescued?’</p> +<p>‘That will be their idea. And the old trick is a good +trick. Cart of coals blocked in the gateway, or with another cart—the +bigger the better—in the <!-- page 310--><span class="pagenum">p. 310</span>lane. +The men will dress accordingly. Others will have stolen to the +back and sides of the house; you will, in short, stop the earths after +I enter. Your brougham, after setting me down, will wait in Hammersmith +Road, or whatever the road outside is.’</p> +<p>‘I may come?’ asked Trevor.</p> +<p>‘In command, as a coal carter.’</p> +<p>‘Hooray!’ said Trevor, ‘and I’ll tell you +what, I won’t reconnoitre as a bargee, but as a servant out of +livery sent to look for a cat at the Home. And I’ll mistake +the asylum for the Home for Cats, and try to scout a little inside the +gates.’</p> +<p>‘Capital,’ said Merton. ‘Then, later, I want +you to go to a curiosity shop near the Museum’ (he mentioned the +street), ‘and look into the window. You’ll see a little +brown piece of wood like <i>this</i>.’ Merton sketched rapidly +the piece of wood which Miss Markham wore under her dress. ‘The +man has several. Buy one about the size of a big cigar for me, +and buy one or two other trifles first.’</p> +<p>‘The man knows me,’ said Trevor, ‘I have bought +things from him.’</p> +<p>‘Very good, but don’t buy it when any other customer +is in the shop. And, by the way, take Mrs. Lumley’s portmanteau—the +lock needs mending—to Jones’s in Sloane Street to be repaired. +One thing more, I should like to add a few lines to that manuscript +I gave you to keep in your safe.’</p> +<p>Trevor brought the sealed envelope. Merton added a paragraph +and resealed it. Trevor locked it up again.</p> +<p><!-- page 311--><span class="pagenum">p. 311</span>On the following +day Trevor started early, did his scouting in Water Lane, and settled +with Mr. Mahony about his gang of muscular young prize-fighters. +He also brought the native Australian curiosity, and sent Mrs. Lumley’s +portmanteau to have the lock repaired.</p> +<p>Merton determined to call at Dr. Fogarty’s asylum at four in +the afternoon. The gang, under Trevor, was to arrive half an hour +later, and to surround and enter the premises if Merton did not emerge +within half an hour.</p> +<p>At four o’clock exactly Trevor’s brougham was at the +gates of the asylum. The footman rang the bell, a porter opened +a wicket, and admitted a lady of fashionable aspect, who asked for Dr. +Fogarty. She was ushered into his study, her card (‘Louise, +13 --- Street’) was taken by the servant, and Dr. Fogarty appeared. +He was a fair, undecided looking man, with blue wandering eyes, and +long untidy, reddish whiskers. He bowed and looked uncomfortable, +as well he might.</p> +<p>‘I have called to see the <i>Ertwa Oknurcha</i>, Dr. Fogarty,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Oh Lord,’ said Dr. Fogarty, and murmured, ‘Another +of his lady friends!’ adding, ‘I must ask, Miss, have you +the <i>churinga</i>?’</p> +<p>Merton produced, out of his muff, the Australian specimen which Trevor +had bought.</p> +<p>The doctor inspected it. ‘I shall take it to the <i>Ertwa +Oknurcha</i>,’ he said, and shambled out. Presently he returned. +‘He will see you, Miss.’</p> +<p>Merton found the redoubtable Dr. Markham, an elderly man, clean shaven, +prompt-looking, with very <!-- page 312--><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>keen +dark eyes, sitting at a writing table, with a few instruments of his +profession lying about. The table stood on an oblong space of +uncarpeted and polished flooring of some extent. Dr. Fogarty withdrew, +the other doctor motioned Merton to a chair on the opposite side of +the table. This chair was also on the uncarpeted space, and Merton +observed four small brass plates in the parquet. Arranging his +draperies, and laying aside his muff, Merton sat down, slightly shifting +the position of the chair.</p> +<p>‘Perhaps, Dr. Melville,’ he said, ‘it will be more +reassuring to you if I at once hold my hands up,’ and he sat there +and smiled, holding up his neatly gloved hands.</p> +<p>The doctor stared, and <i>his</i> hand stole towards an instrument +like an unusually long stethoscope, which lay on his table.</p> +<p>Merton sat there ‘hands up,’ still smiling. ‘Ah, +the blow-tube?’ he said. ‘Very good and quiet! +Do you use <i>urali</i>? Infinitely better, at close quarters, +than the noisy old revolver.’</p> +<p>‘I see I have to do with a cool hand, sir,’ said the +doctor.</p> +<p>‘Ah,’ said Merton. ‘Then let us talk as between +man and man.’ He tilted his chair backwards, and crossed +his legs. ‘By the way, as I have no Aaron and Hur to help +me to hold up my hands, may I drop them? The attitude, though +reassuring, is fatiguing.’</p> +<p>‘If you won’t mind first allowing me to remove your muff,’ +said the doctor. It lay on the table in front of Merton.</p> +<p>‘By all means, no gun in my muff,’ said Merton. +<!-- page 313--><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>‘In fact I +think the whole pistol business is overdone, and second rate.’</p> +<p>‘I presume that I have the honour to speak to Mr. Merton?’ +asked the doctor. ‘You slipped through the cordon?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I was the intoxicated miner,’ said Merton. +‘No doubt you have received a report from your agents?’</p> +<p>‘Stupid fellows,’ said the doctor.</p> +<p>‘You are not flattering to me, but let us come to business. +How much?’</p> +<p>‘I need hardly ask,’ said the doctor, ‘it would +be an insult to your intelligence, whether you have taken the usual +precautions?’</p> +<p>Merton, whose chair was tilted, threw himself violently backwards, +upsetting his chair, and then scrambled nimbly to his feet. Between +him and the table yawned a square black hole of unknown depth.</p> +<p>‘Hardly fair, Dr. Melville,’ said he, picking up the +chair, and placing it on the carpet, ‘besides, I <i>have</i> taken +the ordinary precautions. The house is surrounded—Ned Mahony’s +lambs—the usual statement is in the safe of a friend. We +must really come to the point. Time is flying,’ and he looked +at his watch. ‘I can give you twenty minutes.’</p> +<p>‘Have you anything in the way of terms to propose?’ asked +the doctor, filling his pipe.</p> +<p>‘Well, first, absolute secrecy. I alone know the state +of the case.’</p> +<p>‘Has Mr. Logan no guess?’</p> +<p>‘Not the faintest suspicion. The detectives, when I left +Kirkburn, had not even found the trap door, you <!-- page 314--><span class="pagenum">p. 314</span>understand. +You hit on its discovery through knowing the priest’s hole at +Oxburgh Hall, I suppose?’</p> +<p>The doctor nodded.</p> +<p>‘You can guarantee absolute secrecy?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Naturally, the knowledge is confined to me, you, and your +partners. I want the secrecy in Mr. Logan’s interests, and +you know why.’</p> +<p>‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘that is point one. +So far I am with you.’</p> +<p>‘Then, to enter on odious details,’ said Merton, ‘had +you thought of any terms?’</p> +<p>‘The old man was stiff,’ said the doctor, ‘and +your side only offered to double him in your advertisement, you know.’</p> +<p>‘That was merely a way of speaking,’ said Merton. +‘What did the marquis propose?’</p> +<p>‘Well, as his offer is not a basis of negotiation?’</p> +<p>‘Certainly not,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Five hundred he offered, out of which we were to pay his fare +back to Scotland.’</p> +<p>Both men laughed.</p> +<p>‘But you have your own ideas?’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I had thought of 15,000<i>l</i>. and leaving England. +He is a multimillionaire, the marquis.’</p> +<p>‘It is rather a pull,’ said Merton. ‘Now +speaking as a professional man, and on honour, how <i>is</i> his lordship?’ +Merton asked.</p> +<p>‘Speaking as a professional man, he <i>may</i> live a year; +he cannot live eighteen months, I stake my reputation on that.’</p> +<p>Merton mused.</p> +<p>‘I’ll tell you what we can do,’ he said. +‘We can <!-- page 315--><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>guarantee +the interest, at a fancy rate, say five per cent, during the marquis’s +life, which you reckon as good for a year and a half, at most. +The lump sum we can pay on his decease.’</p> +<p>The doctor mused in his turn.</p> +<p>‘I don’t like it. He may alter his will, and then—where +do I come in?’</p> +<p>‘Of course that is an objection,’ said Merton. +‘But where do you come in if you refuse? Logan, I can assure +you (I have read up the Scots law since I came to town), is the heir +if the marquis dies intestate. Suppose that I do not leave this +house in a few minutes, Logan won’t bargain with you; we settled +<i>that</i>; and really you will have taken a great deal of trouble +to your own considerable risk. You see the usual document, my +statement, is lodged with a friend.’</p> +<p>‘There is certainly a good deal in what you say,’ remarked +the doctor.</p> +<p>‘Then, to take a more cheerful view,’ said Merton, ‘I +have medical authority for stating that any will made now, or later, +by the marquis, would probably be upset, on the ground of mental unsoundness, +you know. So Logan would succeed, in spite of a later will.’</p> +<p>The doctor smiled. ‘That point I grant. Well, one +must chance something. I accept your proposals. You will +give me a written agreement, signed by Mr. Logan, for the arrangement.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I have power to act.’</p> +<p>‘Then, Mr. Merton, why in the world did you not let your friend +walk in Burlington Arcade, and see the <!-- page 316--><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>lady? +He would have been met with the same terms, and could have proposed +the same modifications.’</p> +<p>‘Well, Dr. Melville, first, I was afraid that he might accidentally +discover the real state of the case, as I surmised that it existed—that +might have led to family inconveniences, you know.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ the doctor admitted, ‘I have felt that. +My poor daughter, a good girl, sir! It wrung my heartstrings, +I assure you.’</p> +<p>‘I have the warmest sympathy with you,’ said Merton, +going on. ‘Well, in the second place, I was not sure that +I could trust Mr. Logan, who has rather a warm temper, to conduct the +negotiations. Thirdly, I fear I must confess that I did what I +have done—well, “for human pleasure.”’</p> +<p>‘Ah, you are young,’ said the doctor, sighing.</p> +<p>‘Now,’ said Merton, ‘shall I sign a promise? +We can call Dr. Fogarty up to witness it. By the bye, what about +“value received”? Shall we say that we purchase your +ethnological collection?’</p> +<p>The doctor grinned, and assented, the deed was written, signed, and +witnessed by Dr. Fogarty, who hastily retreated.</p> +<p>‘Now about restoring the marquis,’ said Merton. +‘He’s here, of course; it was easy enough to get him into +an asylum. Might I suggest a gag, if by chance you have such a +thing about you? To be removed, of course, when once I get him +into the house of a friend. And the usual bandage over his eyes: +he must never know where he has been.’</p> +<p>‘You think of everything, Mr. Merton,’ said the doctor. +‘But, how are you to account for the marquis’s reappearance +alive?’ he asked.</p> +<p><!-- page 317--><span class="pagenum">p. 317</span>‘Oh <i>that</i>—easily! +My first theory, which I fortunately mentioned to his medical attendant, +Dr. Douglas, in the train, before I reached Kirkburn, was that he had +recovered from catalepsy, and had secretly absconded, for the purpose +of watching Mr. Logan’s conduct. We shall make him believe +that this is the fact, and the old woman who watched him—’</p> +<p>‘Plucky old woman,’ said the doctor.</p> +<p>‘Will swear to anything that he chooses to say.’</p> +<p>‘Well, that is your affair,’ said the doctor.</p> +<p>‘Now,’ said Merton, ‘give me a receipt for 750<i>l</i>.; +we shall tell the marquis that we had to spring 250<i>l</i>. on his +original offer.’</p> +<p>The doctor wrote out, stamped, and signed the receipt. ‘Perhaps +I had better walk in front of you down stairs?’ he asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Perhaps it really would be more hospitable,’ Merton +acquiesced.</p> +<p>Merton was ushered again into Dr. Fogarty’s room on the ground +floor. Presently the other doctor reappeared, leading a bent and +much muffled up figure, who preserved total silence—for excellent +reasons. The doctor handed to Merton a sealed envelope, obviously +the marquis’s will. Merton looked closely into the face +of the old marquis, whose eyes, dropping senile tears, showed no sign +of recognition.</p> +<p>Dr. Fogarty next adjusted a silken bandage, over a wad of cotton +wool, which he placed on the eyes of the prisoner.</p> +<p>Merton then took farewell of Dr. Melville (<i>alias</i> Markham); +he and Dr. Fogarty supported the tottering <!-- page 318--><span class="pagenum">p. 318</span>steps +of Lord Restalrig, and they led him to the gate.</p> +<p>‘Tell the porter to call my brougham,’ said Merton to +Dr. Fogarty.</p> +<p>The brougham was called and came to the gate, evading a coal-cart +which was about to enter the lane. Merton aided the marquis to +enter, and said ‘Home.’ A few rough fellows, who were +loitering in the lane, looked curiously on. In half an hour the +marquis, his gag and the bandage round his eyes removed, was sitting +in Trevor’s smoking-room, attended to by Miss Trevor.</p> +<p>It is probably needless to describe the simple and obvious process +(rather like that of the Man, the Goose, and the Fox) by which Mrs. +Lumley, with her portmanteau, left Trevor’s house that evening +to pay another visit, while Merton himself arrived, in evening dress, +to dinner at a quarter past eight. He had telegraphed to Logan: +‘Entirely successful. Come up by the 11.30 to-night, and +bring Mrs. Bower.’</p> +<p>The marquis did not appear at dinner. He was in bed, and, thanks +to a sleeping potion, slumbered soundly. He awoke about nine in +the morning to find Mrs. Bower by his bedside.</p> +<p>‘Eh, marquis, finely we have jinked them,’ said Mrs. +Bower; and she went on to recount the ingenious measures by which the +marquis, recovering from his ‘dwawm,’ had secretly withdrawn +himself.</p> +<p>‘I mind nothing of it, Jeanie, my woman,’ said the marquis. +‘I thought I wakened with some deevil running a knife into me; +he might have gone further, <!-- page 319--><span class="pagenum">p. 319</span>and +I might have fared worse. He asked for money, but, faith, we niffered +long and came to no bargain. And a woman brought me away. +Who was the woman?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, dreams,’ said Mrs. Bower. ‘Ye had another +sair fit o’ the dwawming, and we brought you here to see the London +doctors. Hoo could ony mortal speerit ye away, let be it was the +fairies, and me watching you a’ the time! A fine gliff ye +gie’d me when ye sat up and askit for sma’ yill’ (small +beer).</p> +<p>‘I mind nothing of it,’ replied the marquis. However, +Mrs. Bower stuck to her guns, and the marquis was, or appeared to be, +resigned to accept her explanation. He dozed throughout the day, +but next day he asked for Merton. Their interview was satisfactory; +Merton begged leave to introduce Logan, and the marquis, quite broken +down, received his kinsman with tears, and said nothing about his marriage.</p> +<p>‘I’m a dying man,’ he remarked finally, ‘but +I’ll live long enough to chouse the taxes.’</p> +<p>His sole idea was to hand over (in the old Scottish fashion) the +main part of his property to Logan, <i>inter vivos</i>, and then to +live long enough to evade the death-duties. Merton and Logan knew +well enough the unsoundness of any such proceedings, especially considering +the mental debility of the old gentleman. However, the papers +were made out. The marquis retired to one of his English seats, +after which event his reappearance was made known to the world. +In his English home Logan sedulously nursed him. A more generous +diet than he had ever known before <!-- page 320--><span class="pagenum">p. 320</span>did +wonders for the marquis, though he peevishly remonstrated against every +bottle of wine that was uncorked. He did live for the span which +he deemed necessary for his patriotic purpose, and peacefully expired, +his last words being ‘Nae grand funeral.’</p> +<p>Public curiosity, of course, was keenly excited about the mysterious +reappearance of the marquis in life. But the interviewers could +extract nothing from Mrs. Bower, and Logan declined to be interviewed. +To paragraphists the mystery of the marquis was ‘a two months’ +feast,’ like the case of Elizabeth Canning, long ago.</p> +<p>Logan inherited under the marquis’s original will, and, of +course, the Exchequer benefitted in the way which Lord Restalrig had +tried to frustrate.</p> +<p>Miss Markham (whose father is now the distinguished head of the ethnological +department in an American museum) did not persist in her determination +never to see Logan again. The beautiful Lady Fastcastle never +allows her photograph to appear in the illustrated weekly papers. +Logan, or rather Fastcastle, does not unto this day, know the secret +of the Emu’s feathers, though, later, he sorely tried the secretiveness +of Merton, as shall be shown in the following narrative.</p> +<h2><!-- page 321--><span class="pagenum">p. 321</span>XII. ADVENTURE +OF THE CANADIAN HEIRESS</h2> +<h3>I. At Castle Skrae</h3> +<p>‘How vain a thing is wealth,’ said Merton. ‘How +little it can give of what we really desire, while of all that is lost +and longed for it can restore nothing—except churches—and +to do <i>that</i> ought to be made a capital offence.’</p> +<p>‘Why do you contemplate life as a whole, Mr. Merton? +Why are you so moral? If you think it is amusing you are very +much mistaken! Isn’t the scenery, isn’t the weather, +beautiful enough for you? <i>I</i> could gaze for ever at the +“unquiet bright Atlantic plain,” the rocky isles, those +cliffs of basalt on either hand, while I listened to the crystal stream +that slips into the sea, and waves the yellow fringes of the seaweed. +Don’t be melancholy, or I go back to the castle. Try another +line!’</p> +<p>‘Ah, I doubt that I shall never wet one here,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘As to the crystal stream, what business has it to be crystal? +That is just what I complain of. Salmon and sea-trout are waiting +out there in the bay and they can’t come up! Not a drop +of rain to call rain for the last three weeks. That is what I +meant by <!-- page 322--><span class="pagenum">p. 322</span>moralising +about wealth. You can buy half a county, if you have the money; +you can take half a dozen rivers, but all the millions of our host cannot +purchase us a spate, and without a spate you might as well break the +law by fishing in the Round Pond as in the river.’</p> +<p>‘Luckily for me Alured does not much care for fishing,’ +said Lady Bude, who was Merton’s companion. The Countess +had abandoned, much to her lord’s regret, the coloured and figurative +language of her maiden days, the American slang. Now (as may have +been observed) her style was of that polished character which can only +be heard to perfection in circles socially elevated and intellectually +cultured—‘in that Garden of the Souls’—to quote +Tennyson.</p> +<p>The spot where Merton and Lady Bude were seated was beautiful indeed. +They reclined on the short sea grass above a shore where long tresses +of saffron-hued seaweed clothed the boulders, and the bright sea pinks +blossomed. On their right the Skrae, now clearer than amber, mingled +its waters with the sea loch. On their left was a steep bank clad +with bracken, climbing up to perpendicular cliffs of basalt. These +ended abruptly above the valley and the cove, and permitted a view of +the Atlantic, in which, far away, the isle of the Lewis lay like a golden +shield in the faint haze of the early sunset. On the other side +of the sea loch, whose restless waters ever rushed in or out like a +rapid river, with the change of tides, was a small village of white +thatched cottages, the homes of fishermen and crofters. The neat +crofts lay behind, in oblong strips, on the side of the hill. +Such <!-- page 323--><span class="pagenum">p. 323</span>was the scene +of a character common on the remote west coast of Sutherland.</p> +<p>‘Alured is no maniac for fishing, luckily,’ Lady Bude +was saying. ‘To-day he is cat-hunting.’</p> +<p>‘I regret it,’ said Merton; ‘I profess myself the +friend of cats.’</p> +<p>‘He is only trying to photograph a wild cat at home in the +hills; they are very scarce.’</p> +<p>‘In fact he is Jones Harvey, the naturalist again, for the +nonce, not the sportsman,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘It was as Jones Harvey that he—’ said Lady Bude, +and, blushing, stopped.</p> +<p>‘That he grasped the skirts of happy chance,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Why don’t <i>you</i> grasp the skirts, Mr. Merton?’ +asked Lady Bude. ‘Chance, or rather Lady Fortune, who wears +the skirts, would, I think, be happy to have them grasped.’</p> +<p>‘Whose skirts do you allude to?’</p> +<p>‘The skirts, short enough in the Highlands, of Miss Macrae,’ +said Lady Bude; ‘she is a nice girl, and a pretty girl, and a +clever girl, and, after all, there are worse things than millions.’</p> +<p>Miss Emmeline Macrae was the daughter of the host with whom the Budes +and Merton were staying at Skrae Castle, on Loch Skrae, only an easy +mile and a half from the sea and the cove beside which Merton and Lady +Bude were sitting.</p> +<p>‘There is a seal crawling out on to the shore of the little +island!’ said Merton. ‘What a brute a man must be +who shoots a seal! I could watch them all day—on a day like +this.’</p> +<p><!-- page 324--><span class="pagenum">p. 324</span>‘That is +not answering my question,’ said Lady Bude. ‘What +do you think of Miss Macrae? I <i>know</i> what you think!’</p> +<p>‘Can a humble person like myself aspire to the daughter of +the greatest living millionaire? Our host can do almost anything +but bring a spate, and even <i>that</i> he could do by putting a dam +with a sluice at the foot of Loch Skrae: a matter of a few thousands +only. As for the lady, her heart it is another’s, it never +can be mine.’</p> +<p>‘Whose it is?’ asked Lady Bude.</p> +<p>‘Is it not, or do my trained instincts deceive me, that of +young Blake, the new poet? Is she not “the girl who gives +to song what gold could never buy”? He is as handsome as +a man has no business to be.’</p> +<p>‘He uses belladonna for his eyes,’ said Lady Bude. +‘I am sure of it.’</p> +<p>‘Well, she does not know, or does not mind, and they are pretty +inseparable the last day or two.’</p> +<p>‘That is your own fault,’ said Lady Bude; ‘you +banter the poet so cruelly. She pities him.’</p> +<p>‘I wonder that our host lets the fellow keep staying here,’ +said Merton. ‘If Mr. Macrae has a foible, except that of +the pedigree of the Macraes (who were here before the Macdonalds or +Mackenzies, and have come back in his person), it is scientific inventions, +electric lighting, and his new toy, the wireless telegraph box in the +observatory. You can see the tower from here, and the pole with +box on top. I don’t care for that kind of thing myself, +but Macrae thinks it Paradise to get messages from the Central News +and the Stock Exchange up here, fifty miles <!-- page 325--><span class="pagenum">p. 325</span>from +a telegraph post. Well, yesterday Blake was sneering at the whole +affair.’</p> +<p>‘What is this wireless machine? Explain it to me,’ +said Lady Bude.</p> +<p>‘How can you be so cruel?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Why cruel?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, you know very well how your sex receives explanations. +You have three ways of doing it.’</p> +<p>‘Explain <i>them</i>!’</p> +<p>‘Well, the first way is, if a man tries to explain what “per +cent” means, or the difference of “odds on,” or “odds +against,” that is, if they don’t gamble, they cast their +hands desperately abroad, and cry, “Oh, don’t, I never <i>can</i> +understand!” The second way is to sit and smile, and look +intelligent, and think of their dressmaker, or their children, or their +young man, and then to say, “Thank you, you have made it all so +clear!”’</p> +<p>‘And the third way?’</p> +<p>‘The third way is for you to make it plain to the explainer +that he does not understand what he is explaining.’</p> +<p>‘Well, try me; how does the wireless machine work?’</p> +<p>‘Then, to begin with a simple example in ordinary life, you +know what telepathy is?’</p> +<p>‘Of course, but tell me.’</p> +<p>‘Suppose Jones is thinking of Smith, or rather of Smith’s +sister. Jones is dying, or in a row, in India. Miss Smith +is in Bayswater. She sees Jones in her drawing-room. The +thought of Jones has struck a receiver of some sort in the brain, say, +of Miss Smith. <!-- page 326--><span class="pagenum">p. 326</span><i>But</i> +Miss Smith may not see him, somebody else may, say her aunt, or the +footman. That is because the aunt or the footman has the properly +tuned receiver in her or his brain, and Miss Smith has not.’</p> +<p>‘I see, so far—but the machine?’</p> +<p>‘That is an electric apparatus charged with a message. +The message is not conducted by wires, but is merely carried along on +a new sort of waves, “Hertz waves,” I think, but that does +not matter. They roam through space, these waves, and wherever +they meet another machine of the same kind, a receiver, they communicate +it.’</p> +<p>‘Then everybody who has such a machine as Mr. Macrae’s +gets all Mr. Macrae’s messages for nothing?’ asked Lady +Bude.</p> +<p>‘They would get them,’ said Merton. ‘But +that is where the artfulness comes in. Two Italian magicians, +or electricians, Messrs. Gianesi and Giambresi, have invented an improvement +suggested by a dodge of the Indians on the Amazon River. They +make machines which are only in tune with each other. Their machine +fires off a message which no other machine can receive or tap except +that of their customer, say Mr. Macrae. The other receivers all +over the world don’t get it, they are not in tune. It is +as if Jones could only appear as a wraith to Miss Smith, and <i>vice +versa</i>.’</p> +<p>‘How is it done?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t ask me! Besides, I fancy it is a trade +secret, the tuning. There’s one good thing about it, you +know how Highland landscape is spoiled by telegraph posts?’</p> +<p><!-- page 327--><span class="pagenum">p. 327</span>‘Yes, everywhere +there is always a telegraph post in the foreground.’</p> +<p>‘Well, Mr. Macrae had them when he was here first, but he has +had them all cut down, bless him, since he got the new dodge. +He was explaining it all to Blake and me, and Blake only scoffed, would +not understand, showed he was bored.’</p> +<p>‘I think it delightful! What did Mr. Blake say?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, his usual stuff. Science is an expensive and inadequate +substitute for poetry and the poetic gifts of the natural man, who is +still extant in Ireland. <i>He</i> can flash his thoughts, and +any trifles of news he may pick up, across oceans and continents, with +no machinery at all. What is done in Khartoum is known the same +day in Cairo.’</p> +<p>‘What did Mr. Macrae say?’</p> +<p>‘He asked why the Cairo people did not make fortunes on the +Stock Exchange.’</p> +<p>‘And Mr. Blake?’</p> +<p>‘He looked a great deal, but he said nothing. Then, as +I said, he showed that he was bored when Macrae exhibited to us the +machine and tried to teach us how it worked, and the philosophy of it. +Blake did not understand it, nor do I, really, but of course I displayed +an intelligent interest. He didn’t display any. He +said that the telegraph thing only brought us nearer to all that a child +of nature—’</p> +<p>‘<i>He</i> a child of nature, with his belladonna!’</p> +<p>‘To all that a child of nature wanted to forget. The +machine emitted a serpent of tape, news of Surrey <i>v</i>. Yorkshire, +and something about Kaffirs, and Macrae was enormously pleased, for +such are the <!-- page 328--><span class="pagenum">p. 328</span>simple +joys of the millionaire, really a child of nature. Some of them +keep automatic hydraulic organs and beastly machines that sing. +Now Macrae is not a man of that sort, and he has only one motor up here, +and only uses <i>that</i> for practical purposes to bring luggage and +supplies, but the wireless thing is the apple of his eye. And +Blake sneered.’</p> +<p>‘He is usually very civil indeed, almost grovelling, to the +father,’ said Lady Bude. ‘But I tell you for your +benefit, Mr. Merton, that he has no chance with the daughter. +I know it for certain. He only amuses her. Now here, you +are clever.’</p> +<p>Merton bowed.</p> +<p>‘Clever, or you would not have diverted me from my question +with all that science. You are not ill looking.’</p> +<p>‘Spare my blushes,’ said Merton; adding, ‘Lady +Bude, if you must be answered, <i>you</i> are clever enough to have +found me out.’</p> +<p>‘That needed less acuteness than you suppose,’ said the +lady.</p> +<p>‘I am very sorry to hear it,’ said Merton. ‘You +know how utterly hopeless it is.’</p> +<p>‘There I don’t agree with you,’ said Lady Bude.</p> +<p>Merton blushed. ‘If you are right,’ he said, ‘then +I have no business to be here. What am I in the eyes of a man +like Mr. Macrae? An adventurer, that is what he would think me. +I did think that I had done nothing, said nothing, looked nothing, but +having the chance—well, I could not keep away from her. +It is not honourable. I must go. . . . I love her.’</p> +<p><!-- page 329--><span class="pagenum">p. 329</span>Merton turned +away and gazed at the sunset without seeing it.</p> +<p>Lady Bude put forth her hand and laid it on his. ‘Has +this gone on long?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘Rather an old story,’ said Merton. ‘I am +a fool. That is the chief reason why I was praying for rain. +She fishes, very keen on it. I would have been on the loch or +the river with her. Blake does not fish, and hates getting wet.’</p> +<p>‘You might have more of her company, if you would not torment +the poet so. The green-eyed monster, jealousy, is on your back.’</p> +<p>Merton groaned. ‘I bar the fellow, anyhow,’ he +said. ‘But, in any case, now that I know <i>you</i> have +found me out, I must be going. If only she were as poor as I am!’</p> +<p>‘You can’t go to-morrow, to-morrow is Sunday,’ +said Lady Bude. ‘Oh, I am sorry for you. Can’t +we think of something? Cannot you find an opening? Do something +great! Get her upset on the loch, and save her from drowning! +Mr. Macrae dotes on her; he would be grateful.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I might take the pin out of the bottom of the boat,’ +said Merton. ‘It is an idea! But she swims at least +as well as I do. Besides—hardly sportsmanlike.’</p> +<p>Lady Bude tried to comfort him; it is the mission of young matrons. +He must not be in such a hurry to go away. As to Mr. Blake, she +could entirely reassure him. It was a beautiful evening, the lady +was fair and friendly; Nature, fragrant of heather and of the sea, was +hushed in a golden repose. The two <!-- page 330--><span class="pagenum">p. 330</span>talked +long, and the glow of sunset was fading; the eyes of Lady Bude were +a little moist, and Merton was feeling rather consoled when they rose +and walked back towards Skrae Castle. It had been an ancient seat +of the Macraes, a clan in relatively modern times, say 1745, rather +wild, impoverished, and dirty; but Mr. Macrae, the great Canadian millionaire, +had bought the old place, with many thousands of acres ‘where +victual never grew.’</p> +<p>Though a landlord in the Highlands he was beloved, for he was the +friend of crofters, as rent was no object to him, and he did not particularly +care for sport. He accepted the argument, dear to the Celt, that +salmon are ground game, and free to all, while the natives were allowed +to use ancient flint-locked fusils on his black cocks. Mr. Macrae +was a thoroughly generous man, and a tall, clean-shaved, graceful personage. +His public gifts were large. He had just given 500,000<i>l</i>. +to Oxford to endow chairs and students of Psychical Research, while +the rest of the million was bestowed on Cambridge, to supply teaching +in Elementary Logic. His way of life was comfortable, but simple, +except where the comforts of science and modern improvements were concerned. +There were lifts, or elevators, now in the castle of Skrae, though Blake +always went by the old black corkscrew staircases, holding on by the +guiding rope, after the poetical manner of our ancestors.</p> +<p>On a knowe which commanded the castle, in a manner that would have +pained Sir Dugald Dalgetty, Mr. Macrae had erected, not a ‘sconce,’ +but an observatory, with a telescope that ‘licked the Lick <!-- page 331--><span class="pagenum">p. 331</span>thing,’ +as he said. Indeed it was his foible ‘to see the Americans +and go one better,’ and he spoke without tolerance of the late +boss American millionaire, the celebrated J. P. van Huytens, recently +deceased.</p> +<blockquote><p>Duke Humphrey greater wealth computes,<br /> +And sticks, they say, at nothing,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>sings the poet. Mr. Macrae computed greater wealth than Mr. +van Huytens, though avoiding ostentation; he did not</p> +<blockquote><p>Wear a pair of golden boots,<br /> +And silver underclothing.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The late J. P. van Huytens he regarded with moral scorn. This +rival millionaire had made his wealth by the process (apparently peaceful +and horticultural) of ‘watering stocks,’ and by the seemingly +misplaced generosity of overcapitalising enterprises, and ‘grabbing +side shows.’ The nature of these and other financial misdemeanours +Merton did not understand. But he learned from Mr. Macrae that +thereby J. P. van Huytens had scooped in the widow, the orphan, the +clergyman, and the colonel. The two men had met in the most exclusive +circles of American society; with the young van Huytenses the daughter +of the millionaire had even been on friendly terms, but Mr. Macrae retired +to Europe, and put a stop to all that. To do so, indeed, was one +of his motives for returning to the home of his ancestors, the remote +and inaccessible Castle Skrae. <i>The Sportsman’s Guide +to Scotland</i> says, as to Loch Skrae: ‘Railway to Lairg, then +walk or hire forty-five miles.’ <!-- page 332--><span class="pagenum">p. 332</span>The +young van Huytenses were not invited to walk or hire.</p> +<p>Van Huytens had been ostentatious, Mr. Macrae was the reverse. +His costume was of the simplest, his favourite drink (of which he took +little) was what humorists call ‘the light wine of the country,’ +drowned in Apollinaris water. His establishment was refined, but +not gaudy or luxurious, and the chief sign of wealth at Skrae was the +great observatory with the laboratory, and the surmounting ‘pole +with box on top,’ as Merton described the apparatus for the new +kind of telegraphy. In the basement of the observatory was lodged +the hugest balloon known to history, and a skilled expert was busied +with novel experiments in aerial navigation. Happily he could +swim, and his repeated descents into Loch Skrae did not daunt his soaring +genius.</p> +<p>Above the basement of the observatory were rooms for bachelors, a +smoking-room, a billiard-room, and a scientific library. The wireless +telegraphy machine (looking like two boxes, one on the top of the other, +to the eye of ignorance) was installed in the smoking-room, and a wire +to Mr. Macrae’s own rooms informed him, by ringing a bell (it +also rang in the smoking-room), when the machine began to spread itself +out in tape conveying the latest news. The machine communicated +with another in the establishment of its vendors, Messrs. Gianesi, Giambresi +& Co., in Oxford Street. Thus the millionaire, though residing +nearly fifty miles from the nearest station at Lairg, was as well and +promptly informed as if he dwelt in Fleet Street, and he could issue, +without <!-- page 333--><span class="pagenum">p. 333</span>a moment’s +procrastination, his commands to sell and buy, and to do such other +things as pertain to the nature of millionaires. When we add that +a steam yacht of great size and comfort, doing an incredible number +of knots an hour on the turbine system, lay at anchor in the sea loch, +we have indicated the main peculiarities of Mr. Macrae’s rural +establishment. Wealth, though Merton thought so poorly of it, +had supplied these potentialities of enjoyment; but, alas! disease had +‘decimated’ the grouse on the moors (of course to decimate +now means almost to extirpate), and the crofters had increased the pleasures +of stalking by making the stags excessively shy, thus adding to the +arduous enjoyment of the true sportsman.</p> +<p>To Castle Skrae, being such as we have described, Lady Bude and Merton +returned from their sentimental prowl. They found Miss Macrae, +in a very short skirt of the Macrae tartan, trying to teach Mr. Blake +to play ping-pong in the great hall.</p> +<p>We must describe the young lady, though her charms outdo the powers +of the vehicle of prose. She was tall, slim, and graceful, light +of foot as a deer on the corrie. Her hair was black, save when +the sun shone on it and revealed strands of golden brown; it was simply +arrayed, and knotted on the whitest and shapeliest neck in Christendom. +Her eyebrows were dark, her eyes large and lucid,</p> +<blockquote><p>The greyest of things blue,<br /> +The bluest of things grey.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Her complexion was of a clear pallor, like the white rose beloved +by her ancestors; her features were all <!-- page 334--><span class="pagenum">p. 334</span>but +classic, with the charm of romance; but what made her unique was her +mouth. It was faintly upturned at the corners, as in archaic Greek +art; she had, in the slightest and most gracious degree, what Logan, +describing her once, called ‘the Æginetan grin.’ +This gave her an air peculiarly gay and winsome, brilliant, joyous, +and alert. In brief, to use Chaucer’s phrase,</p> +<blockquote><p>She was as wincy as a wanton colt,<br /> +Sweet as a flower, and upright as a bolt.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>She was the girl who was teaching the poet the elements of ping-pong. +The poet usually missed the ball, for he was averse to and unapt for +anything requiring quickness of eye and dexterity of hand. On +a seat lay open a volume of the <i>Poetry of the Celtic Renascence</i>, +which Blake had been reading to Miss Macrae till she used the vulgar +phrase ‘footle,’ and invited him to be educated in ping-pong. +Of these circumstances she cheerfully informed the new-comers, adding +that Lord Bude had returned happy, having photographed a wild cat in +its lair.</p> +<p>‘Did he shoot it?’ asked Blake.</p> +<p>‘No. He’s a sportsman!’ said Miss Macrae.</p> +<p>‘That is why I supposed he must have shot the cat,’ answered +Blake.</p> +<p>‘What is Gaelic for a wild cat, Blake?’ asked Merton +unkindly.</p> +<p>Like other modern Celtic poets Mr. Blake was entirely ignorant of +the melodious language of his ancestors, though it had often been stated +in the literary papers that he was ‘going to begin’ to take +lessons.</p> +<p><!-- page 335--><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>‘<i>Sans +purr</i>,’ answered Blake; ‘the Celtic wild cat has not +the servile accomplishment of purring. The words, a little altered, +are the motto of the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders. This is +the country of the wild cat.’</p> +<p>‘I thought the “wild cat” was a peculiarly American +financial animal,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>Miss Macrae laughed, and, the gong sounding (by electricity, the +wire being connected with the Greenwich Observatory), she ran lightly +up the central staircase. Lady Bude had hurried to rejoin her +lord; Merton and Blake sauntered out to their rooms in the observatory, +Blake with an air of fatigue and languor.</p> +<p>‘Learning ping-pong easily?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘I have more hopes of teaching Miss Macrae the essential and +intimate elements of Celtic poetry,’ said Blake. ‘One +box of books I brought with me, another arrived to-day. I am about +to begin on my Celtic drama of “Con of the Hundred Battles.”’</p> +<p>‘Have you the works of the ancient Sennachie, Macfootle?’ +asked Merton. He was jealous, and his usual urbanity was sorely +tried by the Irish bard. In short, he was rude; stupid, too.</p> +<p>However, Blake had his revenge after dinner, on the roof of the observatory, +where the ladies gathered round him in the faint silver light, looking +over the sleeping sea. ‘Far away to the west,’ he +said, ‘lies the Celtic paradise, the Isle of Apples!’</p> +<p>‘American apples are excellent,’ said Merton, but the +beauty of the scene and natural courtesy caused Miss Macrae to whisper +‘Hush!’</p> +<p><!-- page 336--><span class="pagenum">p. 336</span>The poet went +on, ‘May I speak to you the words of the emissary from the lovely +land?’</p> +<p>‘The mysterious female?’ said Merton brutally. +‘Dr. Hyde calls her “a mysterious female.” It +is in his <i>Literary History of Ireland</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Pray let us hear the poem, Mr. Merton,’ said Miss Macrae, +attuned to the charm of the hour and the scene.</p> +<p>‘She came to Bran’s Court,’ said Blake, ‘from +the Isle of Apples, and no man knew whence she came, and she chanted +to them.’</p> +<p>‘Twenty-eight quatrains, no less, a hundred and twelve lines,’ +said the insufferable Merton. ‘Could you give us them in +Gaelic?’</p> +<p>The bard went on, not noticing the interruption, ‘I shall translate</p> +<blockquote><p>‘There is a distant isle<br /> +Around which sea horses glisten,<br /> +A fair course against the white swelling surge,<br /> +Four feet uphold it.’</p> +<p>‘Feet of white bronze under it.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘White bronze, what’s that, eh?’ asked the practical +Mr. Macrae.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Glittering through beautiful ages!<br /> +Lovely land through the world’s age,<br /> +On which the white blossoms drop.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Beautiful!’ said Miss Macrae.</p> +<p>‘There are twenty-six more quatrains,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>The bard went on,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘A beautiful game, most delightful<br /> +They play—’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 337--><span class="pagenum">p. 337</span>‘Ping-pong?’ +murmured Merton.</p> +<p>‘Hush!’ said Lady Bude.</p> +<p>Miss Macrae turned to the poet.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘They play, sitting at the luxurious wine,<br /> +Men and gentle women under a bush,<br /> +Without sin, without crime.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘They are playing still,’ Blake added. ‘Unbeheld, +undisturbed! I verily believe there is no Gael even now who would +not in his heart of hearts let drift by him the Elysiums of Virgil, +Dante, and Milton, to grasp at the Moy Mell, the Apple Isle, of the +unknown Irish pagan! And then to play sitting at the luxurious +wine,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Men and gentle women under a bush!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘It really cannot have been ping-pong that they played at, +<i>sitting</i>. Bridge, more likely,’ said Merton. +‘And “good wine needs no bush!”’</p> +<p>The bard moved away, accompanied by his young hostess, who resented +Merton’s cynicism</p> +<p>‘Tell me more of that lovely poem, Mr. Blake,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘I am jangled and out of tune,’ said Blake wildly. +‘The Sassenach is my torture! Let me take your hand, it +is cool as the hands of the foam-footed maidens of—of—what’s +the name of the place?’</p> +<p>‘Was it Clonmell?’ asked Miss Macrae, letting him take +her hand.</p> +<p>He pressed it against his burning brow.</p> +<p>‘Though you laugh at me,’ said Blake, ‘sometimes +you are kind! I am upset—I hardly know myself. <!-- page 338--><span class="pagenum">p. 338</span>What +is yonder shape skirting the lawn? Is it the Daoine Sidh?’</p> +<p>‘Why do you call her “the downy she”? She +is no more artful than other people. She is my maid, Elspeth Mackay,’ +answered Miss Macrae, puzzled. They were alone, separated from +the others by the breadth of the roof.</p> +<p>‘I said the <i>Daoine Sidh</i>,’ replied the poet, spelling +the words. ‘It means the People of Peace.’</p> +<p>‘Quakers?’</p> +<p>‘No, the fairies,’ groaned the misunderstood bard. +‘Do you know nothing of your ancestral tongue? Do you call +yourself a Gael?’</p> +<p>‘Of course I call myself a girl,’ answered Miss Macrae. +‘Do you want me to call myself a young lady?’</p> +<p>The poet sighed. ‘I thought <i>you</i> understood me,’ +he said. ‘Ah, how to escape, how to reach the undiscovered +West!’</p> +<p>‘But Columbus discovered it,’ said Miss Macrae.</p> +<p>‘The undiscovered West of the Celtic heart’s desire,’ +explained the bard; ‘the West below the waters! Thither +could we twain sail in the magic boat of Bran! Ah see, the sky +opens like a flower!’</p> +<p>Indeed, there was a sudden glow of summer lightning.</p> +<p>‘That looks more like rain,’ said Merton, who was standing +with the Budes at an opposite corner of the roof.</p> +<p>‘I say, Merton,’ asked Bude, ‘how can you be so +uncivil to that man? He took it very well.’</p> +<p>‘A rotter,’ said Merton. ‘He has just got +that <!-- page 339--><span class="pagenum">p. 339</span>stuff by heart, +the verse and a lot of the prose, out of a book that I brought down +myself, and left in the smoking-room. I can show you the place +if you like.’</p> +<p>‘Do, Mr. Merton. But how foolish you are! <i>do</i> be +civil to the man,’ whispered Lady Bude, who shared his disbelief +in Blake; and at that moment the tinkle of an electric bell in the smoking-room +below reached the expectant ears of Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘Come down, all of you,’ he said. ‘The wireless +telegraphy is at work.’</p> +<p>He waited till they were all in the smoking-room, and feverishly +examined the tape.</p> +<p>‘Escape of De Wet,’ he read. ‘Disasters to +the Imperial Yeomanry. Strike of Cigarette Makers. Great +Fire at Hackney.’</p> +<p>‘There!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘We might +have gone to bed in London, and not known all that till we got the morning +papers to-morrow. And here we are fifty miles from a railway station +or a telegraph office—no, we’re nearer Inchnadampf.’</p> +<p>‘Would that I were in the Isle of Apples, Mell Moy, far, far +from civilisation!’ said Blake.</p> +<p>“There shall be no grief there or sorrow,” so sings the +minstrel of <i>The Wooing of Etain</i>.</p> +<p>“Fresh flesh of swine, banquets of new milk and ale shalt thou +have with me then, fair lady,” Merton read out from the book he +had been speaking of to the Budes.</p> +<p>‘Jolly place, the Celtic Paradise! Fresh flesh of swine, +banquets of ale and new milk. <i>Quel luxe</i>!’</p> +<p>‘Is that the kind of entertainment you were offering me, Mr. +Blake?’ asked Miss Macrae gaily. ‘Mr. <!-- page 340--><span class="pagenum">p. 340</span>Blake,’ +she went on, ‘has been inviting me to fly to the undiscovered +West beneath the waters, in the magic boat of Bran.’</p> +<p>‘Did Bran invent the submarine?’ asked Mr. Macrae, and +then the company saw what they had never seen before, the bard blushing. +He seemed so discomposed that Miss Macrae took compassion on him.</p> +<p>‘Never mind my father, Mr. Blake,’ she said, ‘he +is a very good Highlander, and believes in Eachain of the Hairy Arm +as much as the crofters do. Have you heard of Eachain, Mr. Blake? +He is a spectre in full Highland costume, attached to our clan. +When we came here first, to look round, we had only horses hired from +Edinburgh, and a Lowlander—mark you, a <i>Lowlander</i>—to +drive. He was in the stable one afternoon—the old stable, +we have pulled it down—when suddenly the horses began to kick +and rear. He looked round to the open door, and there stood a +huge Highlander in our tartans, with musket, pistols, claymore, dirk, +skian, and all, and soft brogues of untanned leather on his feet. +The coachman, in a panic, made a blind rush at the figure, but behold, +there was nobody, and a boy outside had seen no man. The horses +were trembling and foaming. Now it was a Lowlander from Teviotdale +that saw the man, and the crofters were delighted. They said the +figure was the chief that fell at Culloden, come to welcome us back. +So you must not despair of us, Mr. Blake, and you, that have “the +sight,” may see Eachain yourself, who knows?’</p> +<p>This happy turn of the conversation exactly suited <!-- page 341--><span class="pagenum">p. 341</span>Blake. +He began to be very amusing about magic, and brownies, and ‘the +downy she,’ as Miss Macrae called the People of Peace. The +ladies presently declared that they were afraid to go to bed; so they +went, Miss Macrae indicating her displeasure to Merton by the coldness +of her demeanour.</p> +<p>The men, who were rather dashed by the pleasant intelligence which +the telegraph had communicated, sat up smoking for a while, and then +retired in a subdued state of mind.</p> +<p>Next morning, which was Sunday, Merton appeared rather late at breakfast, +late and pallid. After a snatch of disturbed slumber, he had wakened, +or seemed to waken, fretting a good deal over the rusticity of his bearing +towards Blake, and over his hopeless affair of the heart. He had +vexed his lady. ‘If he is good enough for his hosts, he +ought to be good enough for their guests,’ thought Merton. +‘What a brute, what a fool I am; I ought to go. I will go! +I ought not to take coffee after dinner, I know I ought not, and I smoke +too much,’ he added, and finally he went to breathe the air on +the roof.</p> +<p>The night was deadly soft and still, a slight mist hid the furthest +verges of the sea’s horizon. Behind it, the summer lightning +seemed like portals that opened and shut in the heavens, revealing a +glory without form, and closing again.</p> +<p>‘I don’t wonder that these Irish poets dreamed of Isles +of Paradise out there:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Lands undiscoverable in the unheard-of West,<br /> +Round which the strong stream of a sacred sea<br /> +Runs without wind for ever.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 342--><span class="pagenum">p. 342</span>thought Merton. +‘Chicago is the realisation of their dream. Hullo, there +are the lights of a big steamer, and a very low one behind it! +Queer craft!’</p> +<p>Merton watched the lights that crossed the sea, when either the haze +deepened or the fainter light on the smaller vessel vanished, and the +larger ship steamed on in a southerly direction. ‘Magic +boat of Bran!’ thought Merton. He turned and entered the +staircase to go back to his room. There was a lift, of course, +but, equally of course, there was nobody to manage it. Merton, +who had a lighted bedroom-candle in his hand, descended the spiral staircase; +at a turning he thought he saw, ‘with the tail of his eye,’ +a plaid, draping a tall figure of a Highlander, disappear round the +corner. Nobody in the castle wore the kilt except the piper, and +he had not rooms in the observatory. Merton ran down as fast as +he could, but he did not catch another view of the plaid and its wearer, +or hear any footsteps. He went to the bottom of the staircase, +opened the outer door, and looked forth. Nobody! The electric +light from the open door of his own room blazed across the landing on +his return. All was perfectly still, and Merton remembered that +he had not heard the footsteps of the appearance. ‘Was it +Eachain?’ he asked himself. ‘Do I sleep, do I dream?’</p> +<p>He went back to bed and slumbered uneasily. He seemed to be +awake in his room, in broad light, and to hear a slow drip, drip, on +the floor. He looked up; the roof was stained with a great dark +splash of a crimson hue. He got out of bed, and touched the wet +spot on the floor under the blotch on the ceiling.</p> +<p><!-- page 343--><span class="pagenum">p. 343</span>His fingers were +reddened with blood! He woke at the horror of it: found himself +in bed in the dark, pressed an electric knob, and looked at the ceiling. +It was dry and white. ‘I certainly have been smoking too +much lately,’ thought Merton, and, switching off the light, he +slumbered again, so soundly that he did not hear the piper playing round +the house, or the man who brought his clothes and hot water, or the +gong for breakfast.</p> +<p>When he did wake, he was surprised at the lateness of the hour, and +dressed as rapidly as possible. ‘I wonder if I was dreaming +when I thought that I went out on the roof, and saw mountains and marvels,’ +said Merton to himself. ‘A queer thing, the human mind,’ +he reflected sagely. It occurred to him to enter the smoking-room +on his way downstairs. He routed two maids who perhaps had slept +too late, and were hurriedly making the room tidy. The sun was +beating in at the window, and Merton noticed some tiny glittering points +of white metallic light on the carpet near the new telegraphic apparatus. +‘I don’t believe these lazy Highland Maries have swept the +room properly since the electric machine was put up,’ Merton thought. +He hastily seized, and took to his chamber, his book on old Irish literature, +which was too clearly part of Blake’s Celtic inspiration. +Merton wanted no more quatrains, but he did mean to try to be civil. +He then joined the party at breakfast; he admitted that he had slept +ill, but, when asked by Blake, disclaimed having seen Eachain of the +Hairy Arm, and did not bore or bewilder the company with his dreams.</p> +<p><!-- page 344--><span class="pagenum">p. 344</span>Miss Macrae, in +sabbatical raiment, was fresher than a rose and gay as a lark. +Merton tried not to look at her; he failed in this endeavour.</p> +<h3>II. Lost</h3> +<p>The day was Sunday, and Merton, who had a holy horror of news, rejoiced +to think that the telegraphic machine would probably not tinkle its +bell for twenty-four hours. This was not the ideal of the millionaire. +Things happen, intelligence arrives from the limits of our vast and +desirable empire, even on the Day of Rest. But the electric bell +was silent. Mr. Macrae, from patriotic motives, employed a Highland +engineer and mechanician, so there was nothing to be got out of him +in the way of work on the sabbath day. The millionaire himself +did not quite understand how to work the thing. He went to the +smoking-room where it dwelt and looked wistfully at it, but was afraid +to try to call up his correspondents in London. As for the usual +manipulator, Donald McDonald, he had started early for the distant Free +Kirk. An ‘Unionist’ minister intended to try to preach +himself in, and the majority of the congregation, being of the old Free +Kirk rock, and averse to union with the United Presbyterians, intended +to try to keep him out. They ‘had a lad with the gift who +would do the preaching fine,’ and as there was no police-station +within forty miles it seemed fairly long odds on the Free Kirk recalcitrants. +However, there was a resolute minority of crofters on the side of the +minister, and every chance of an ecclesiastical battle royal. +<!-- page 345--><span class="pagenum">p. 345</span>Accompanied by the +stalker, two keepers, and all the gardeners, armed with staves, the +engineer had early set out for the scene of brotherly amity, and Mr. +Macrae had reluctantly to admit that he was cut off from his communications.</p> +<p>Merton, who was with him in the smoking-room, mentally absolved the +Highland housemaids. If they had not swept up the tiny glittering +metallic points on the carpet before, they had done so now. Only +two or three caught his eye.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae, avid of news, accommodated himself in an arm-chair with +newspapers of two or three days old, from which he had already sucked +the heart by aid of his infernal machine. The Budes and Blake, +with Miss Macrae (an Anglican), had set off to walk to the Catholic +chapel, some four miles away, for crofting opinion was resolute against +driving on the Lord’s Day. Merton, self-denying and resolved, +did not accompany his lady; he read a novel, wrote letters, and felt +desolate. All was peace, all breathed of the Sabbath calm.</p> +<p>‘Very odd there’s no call from the machine,’ said +Mr. Macrae anxiously.</p> +<p>‘It is Sunday,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Still, they might send us something.’</p> +<p>‘They scarcely favoured us last Sunday,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘No, and now I think of it, not at all on the Sunday before,’ +said Mr. Macrae. ‘I dare say it is all right.’</p> +<p>‘Would a thunder-storm further south derange it?’ asked +Merton, adding, ‘There was a lot of summer lightning last night.’</p> +<p><!-- page 346--><span class="pagenum">p. 346</span>‘That might +be it; these things have their tempers. But they are a great comfort. +I can’t think how we ever did without them,’ said Mr. Macrae, +as if these things were common in every cottage. ‘Wonderful +thing, science!’ he added, in an original way, and Merton, who +privately detested science, admitted that it was so.</p> +<p>‘Shall we go to see the horses?’ suggested Mr. Macrae, +and they did go and stare, as is usual on Sunday in the country, at +the hind-quarters of these noble animals. Merton strove to be +as much interested as possible in Mr. Macrae’s stories of his +fleet American trotters. But his heart was otherwhere. ‘They +will soon be an extinct species,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘The +motor has come to stay.’</p> +<p>Merton was not feeling very well, he was afraid of a cigarette, Mr. +Macrae’s conversation was not brilliant, and Merton still felt +as if he were under the wrath, so well deserved, of his hostess. +She did not usually go to the Catholic chapel; to be sure, in the conditions +prevailing at the Free Kirk place of worship, she had no alternative +if she would not abstain wholly from religious privileges. But +Merton felt sure that she had really gone to comfort and console the +injured feelings of Blake. Probably she would have had a little +court of lordlings, Merton reflected (not that Mr. Macrae had any taste +for them), but everybody knew that, what with the weather, and the crofters, +and the grouse disease, the sport at Castle Skrae was remarkably bad. +So the party was tiny, though a number of people were expected later, +and Merton and the heiress had been on what, as he ruefully <!-- page 347--><span class="pagenum">p. 347</span>reflected, +were very kind terms—rather more than kind, he had hoped, or feared, +now and then. Merton saw that he had annoyed her, and thrown her, +metaphorically speaking, into the arms of the Irish minstrel. +All the better, perhaps, he thought, ruefully. The poet was handsome +enough to be one that ‘limners loved to paint, and ladies to look +upon.’ He generally took chaff well, and could give it, +as well as take it, and there were hours when his sentiment and witchery +had a chance with most women. ‘But Lady Bude says there +is nothing in it, and women usually know,’ he reflected. +Well, he must leave the girl, and save his self-respect.</p> +<p>When nothing more in the way of pottering could be done at the stables, +when its proprietor had exhausted the pleasure of staring at the balloon +in its hall, and had fed the fowls, he walked with Merton down the avenue, +above the shrunken burn that whispered among its ferns and alders, to +meet the returning church-goers. The Budes came first, together; +they were still, they were always, honeymooning. Mr. Macrae turned +back with Lady Bude; Merton walked with Bude, Blake and Miss Macrae +were not yet in sight. He thought of walking on to meet them—but +no, it must not be.</p> +<p>‘Blake owes you a rare candle, Merton,’ said Bude, adding, +‘A great deal may be done, or said, in a long walk by a young +man with his advantages. And if you had not had your knife in +him last night I do not think she would have accompanied us this morning +to attend the ministrations of Father McColl. He preached in Gaelic.’</p> +<p><!-- page 348--><span class="pagenum">p. 348</span>‘That must +have been edifying,’ said Merton, wincing.</p> +<p>‘The effect, when one does not know the language, and is within +six feet of an energetic Celt in the pulpit, is rather odd,’ said +Bude. ‘But you have put your foot in it, not a doubt of +that.’</p> +<p>This appeared only too probable. The laggards arrived late +for luncheon, and after luncheon Miss Macrae allowed Blake to read his +manuscript poems to her in the hall, and to discuss the prospects of +the Celtic drama. Afterwards, fearing to hurt the religious sentiments +of the Highland servants by playing ping-pong on Sunday in the hall, +she instructed him elsewhere, and clandestinely, in that pastime till +the hour of tea arrived.</p> +<p>Merton did not appear at the tea-table. Tired of this Castle +of Indolence, loathing Blake, afraid of more talk with Lady Bude, eating +his own heart, he had started alone after luncheon for a long walk round +the loch. The day had darkened, and was deadly still; the water +was like a mirror of leaden hue; the air heavy and sulphurous.</p> +<p>These atmospheric phenomena did not gladden the heart of Merton. +He knew that rain was coming, but he would not be with <i>her</i> by +the foaming stream, or on the black waves of the loch. Climbing +to the top of the hill, he felt sure that a storm was at hand. +On the east, far away, Clibrig, and Suilvean of the double peak, and +the round top of Ben More, stood shadowy above the plain against the +lurid light. Over the sea hung ‘the ragged rims of thunder’ +far away, veiling in thin shadow the outermost isles, whose mountain +crests <!-- page 349--><span class="pagenum">p. 349</span>looked dark +as indigo. A few hot heavy drops of rain were falling as Merton +began to descend. He was soaked to the skin when he reached the +door of the observatory, and rushed up stairs to dress for dinner. +A covered way led from the observatory to the Castle, so that he did +not get drenched again on his return, which he accomplished punctually +as the gong for dinner sounded.</p> +<p>In the drawing-room were the Budes, and Mr. Macrae was nervously +pacing the length and breadth of the room.</p> +<p>‘They must have taken refuge from the rain somewhere,’ +Lady Bude was saying, and ‘they’ were obviously Blake and +the daughter of the house. Where were they? Merton’s +heart sank with a foolish foreboding.</p> +<p>‘I know,’ the lady went on, ‘that they were only +going down to the cove—where you and I were yesterday evening, +Mr. Merton. It is no distance.’</p> +<p>‘A mile and a half is a good deal in this weather, said Merton, +‘and there is no cottage on this side of the sea loch. But +they must have taken shelter,’ he added; he must not seem anxious.</p> +<p>At this moment came a flash of lightning, followed by a crack like +that of a cosmic whip-lash, and a long reverberating roar of thunder.</p> +<p>‘It is most foolish to have stayed out so late,’ said +Mr. Macrae. ‘Any one could see that a storm was coming. +I told them so, I am really annoyed.’</p> +<p>Every one was silent, the rain fell straight and steady, the gravel +in front of the window was a series of little lakes, pale and chill +in the wan twilight.</p> +<p><!-- page 350--><span class="pagenum">p. 350</span>‘I really +think I must send a couple of men down with cloaks and umbrellas,’ +said the nervous father, pressing an electric knob.</p> +<p>The butler appeared.</p> +<p>‘Are Donald and Sandy and Murdoch about?’ asked Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘Not returned from church, sir;’ said the butler.</p> +<p>‘There was likely to be a row at the Free Kirk,’ said +Mr. Macrae, absently.</p> +<p>‘You must go yourself, Benson, with Archibald and James. +Take cloaks and umbrellas, and hurry down towards the cove. Mr. +Blake and Miss Macrae have probably found shelter on the way somewhere.’</p> +<p>The butler answered, ‘Yes, sir;’ but he cannot have been +very well pleased with his errand. Merton wanted to offer to go, +anything to be occupied; but Bude said nothing, and so Merton did not +speak.</p> +<p>The four in the drawing-room sat chatting nervously: ‘There +was nothing of course to be anxious about,’ they told each other. +The bolt of heaven never strikes the daughters of millionaires; Miss +Macrae was indifferent to a wetting, and nobody cared tremulously about +Blake. Indeed the words ‘confound the fellow’ were +in the minds of the three men.</p> +<p>The evening darkened rapidly, the minutes lagged by, the clock chimed +the half-hour, three-quarters, nine o’clock.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae was manifestly growing more and more nervous, Merton forgot +to grow more and more hungry. His tongue felt dry and hard; he +was afraid of he knew not what, but he bravely tried to make talk with +Lady Bude.</p> +<p><!-- page 351--><span class="pagenum">p. 351</span>The door opened, +letting the blaze of electric light from the hall into the darkling +room. They all turned eagerly towards the door. It was only +one of the servants. Merton’s heart felt like lead. +‘Mr. Benson has returned, sir; he would be glad if he might speak +to you for a moment.’</p> +<p>‘Where is he?’ asked Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘At the outer door, sir, in the porch. He is very wet.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae went out; the others found little to say to each other.</p> +<p>‘Very awkward,’ muttered Bude. ‘They cannot +have been climbing the cliffs, surely.’</p> +<p>‘The bridge is far above the highest water-mark of the burn, +in case they crossed the water,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>Lady Bude was silent.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae returned. ‘Benson has come back,’ he +said, ‘to say that he can find no trace of them. The other +men are still searching.’</p> +<p>‘Can they have had themselves ferried across the sea loch to +the village opposite?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Emmiline had not the key of our boat,’ said Mr. Macrae, +‘I have made sure of that; and not a man in the village would +launch a boat on Sunday.’</p> +<p>‘We must go and help to search for them,’ said Merton; +he only wished to be doing something, anything.</p> +<p>‘I shall not be a minute in changing my dress.’</p> +<p>Bude also volunteered, and in a few minutes, having drunk a glass +of wine and eaten a crust of bread, they and Mr. Macrae were hurrying +towards the cove. The storm was passing; by the time when they +reached <!-- page 352--><span class="pagenum">p. 352</span>the sea-side +there were rifts of clear light in the sky above them. They had +walked rapidly and silently, the swollen stream roaring beneath them. +It had rained torrents in the hills. There was nothing to be said, +but the mind of each man was busy with the gloomiest conjectures. +These had to be far-fetched, for in a country so thinly peopled, and +so honest and friendly, within a couple of miles at most from home, +on a Sunday evening, what conceivable harm could befall a man and a +maid?</p> +<p>‘Can we trust the man?’ was in Merton’s mind. +‘If they have been ferried across to the village, they would have +set out to return before now,’ he said aloud; but there was no +boat on the faint silver of the sea loch. ‘The cliffs are +the likeliest place for an accident, if there <i>was</i> an accident,’ +he considered, with a pang. The cliffs might have tempted the +light-footed girl. In fancy he saw her huddled, a ghastly heap, +the faint wind fluttering the folds of her dress, at the bottom of the +rocks. She had been wearing a long skirt, not her wont in the +Highlands; it would be dangerous to climb in that; she might have forgotten, +climbed, and caught her foot, and fallen.</p> +<p>‘Blake may have snatched at her, and been dragged down with +her,’ Merton thought. All the horrid fancies of keen anxiety +flitted across his mind’s eye. He paused, and made an effort +over himself. There <i>must</i> be some other harmless explanation, +an adventure to laugh at—for Blake and the girl. Poor comfort, +that!</p> +<p>The men who had been searching were scattered about the sides of +the cove, and, distinguishing the new-comers, gathered towards them.</p> +<p><!-- page 353--><span class="pagenum">p. 353</span>‘No,’ +they said, ‘they had found nothing except a little book that seemed +to belong to Mr. Blake.’</p> +<p>It had been discovered near the place where Merton and Lady Bude +were sitting on the previous evening. When found it was lying +open, face downwards. In the faint light Merton could see that +the book was full of manuscript poems, the lines all blotted and run +together by the tropical rain. He thrust it into the pocket of +his ulster.</p> +<p>Merton took the most intelligent of the gillies aside. ‘Show +me where you have searched,’ he said. The man pointed to +the shores of the cove; they had also examined the banks of the burn, +and under all the trees, clearly fearing that the lost pair might have +been lightning-struck, like the nymph and swain in Pope’s poem. +‘You have not searched the cliffs?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘No, sir,’ said the man.</p> +<p>Merton then went to Mr. Macrae, and suggested that the boat should +be sent across the sea ferry, to try if anything could be learned in +the village. Mr. Macrae agreed, and himself went in the boat, +which was presently unmoored, and pulled by two gillies across the loch, +that ran like a river with the outgoing tide.</p> +<p>Merton and Bude began to search the cliffs; Merton could hear the +hoarse pumping of his own heart. The cliff’s base was deep +in flags and bracken, then the rocks began climbing to the foot of the +perpendicular basaltic crag. The sky, fortunately, was now clear +in the west, and lent a wan light to the seekers. Merton had almost +reached the base of the <!-- page 354--><span class="pagenum">p. 354</span>cliff, +when, in the deep bracken, he stumbled over something soft. He +stooped and held back the tall fronds of bracken.</p> +<p>It was the body of a man; the body did not stir. Merton glanced +to see the face, but the face was bent round, leaning half on the earth. +It was Blake. Merton’s guess seemed true. They had +fallen from the cliffs! But where was that other body? Merton +yelled to Bude. Blake seemed dead or insensible.</p> +<p>Merton (he was ashamed of it presently) left the body of Blake alone; +he plunged wildly in and out of the bracken, still shouting to Bude, +and looking for that which he feared to find. She could not be +far off. He stumbled over rocks, into rabbit holes, he dived among +the soaked bracken. Below and around he hunted, feverishly panting, +then he set his face to the sheer cliff, to climb; she might be lying +on some higher ledge, the shadow on the rocks was dark. At this +moment Bude hailed him.</p> +<p>‘Come down!’ he cried, ‘she cannot be there!’</p> +<p>‘Why not?’ he gasped, arriving at the side of Bude, who +was stooping, with a lantern in his hand, over the body of Blake, which +faintly stirred.</p> +<p>‘Look!’ said Bude, lowering the lantern.</p> +<p>Then Merton saw that Blake’s hands were bound down beside his +body, and that the cords were fastened by pegs to the ground. +His feet were fastened in the same way, and his mouth was stuffed full +of wet seaweed. Bude pulled out the improvised gag, cut the ropes, +turned the face upwards, and carefully dropped a little whisky from +his flask into the mouth. Blake opened his eyes.</p> +<p><!-- page 355--><span class="pagenum">p. 355</span>‘Where are +my poems?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Where is Miss Macrae?’ shrieked Merton in agony.</p> +<p>‘Damn the midges,’ said Blake (his face was hardly recognisable +from their bites). ‘Oh, damn them all!’ He had +fainted again.</p> +<p>‘She has been carried off,’ groaned Merton. Bude +and he did all that they knew for poor Blake. They rubbed his +ankles and wrists, they administered more whisky, and finally got him +to sit up. He scratched his hands over his face and moaned, but +at last he recovered full consciousness. No sense could be extracted +from him, and, as the boat was now visible on its homeward track, Bude +and Merton carried him down to the cove, anxiously waiting Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>He leaped ashore.</p> +<p>‘Have you heard anything?’ asked Bude.</p> +<p>‘They saw a boat on the loch about seven o’clock,’ +said Mr. Macrae, ‘coming from the head of it, touching here, and +then pulling west, round the cliff. They thought the crew Sabbath-breakers +from the lodge at Alt Garbh. What’s that,’ he cried, +at last seeing Blake, who lay supported against a rock, his eyes shut.</p> +<p>Merton rapidly explained.</p> +<p>‘It is as I thought,’ said Mr. Macrae resolutely. +‘I knew it from the first. They have kidnapped her for a +ransom. Let us go home.’</p> +<p>Merton and Bude were silent; they, too, had guessed, as soon as they +discovered Blake. The girl was her father’s very life, and +they admired his resolution, his silence. A gate was taken from +its hinges, <!-- page 356--><span class="pagenum">p. 356</span>cloaks +were strewn on it, and Blake was laid on this ambulance.</p> +<p>Merton ventured to speak.</p> +<p>‘May I take your boat, sir, across to the ferry, and send the +fishermen from the village to search each end of the loch on their side? +It is after midnight,’ he added grimly. ‘They will +not refuse to go; it is Monday.’</p> +<p>‘I will accompany them,’ said Bude, ‘with your +leave, Mr. Macrae, Merton can search our side of the loch, he can borrow +another boat at the village in addition to yours. You, at the +Castle, can organise the measures for to-morrow.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you both,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘I should +have thought of that. Thank you, Mr. Merton, for the idea. +I am a little dazed. There is the key of the boat.’</p> +<p>Merton snatched it, and ran, followed by Bude and four gillies, to +the little pier where the boat was moored. He must be doing something +for her, or go mad. The six men crowded into the boat, and pulled +swiftly away, Merton taking the stroke oar. Meanwhile Blake was +carried by four gillies towards the Castle, the men talking low to each +other in Gaelic. Mr. Macrae walked silently in front.</p> +<p>Such was the mournful procession that Lady Bude ran out to meet. +She passed Mr. Macrae, whose face was set with an expression of deadly +rage, and looked for Bude. He was not there, a gillie told her +what they knew, and, with a convulsive sob, she followed Mr. Macrae +into the Castle.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Blake must be taken to his room,’ said Mr. <!-- page 357--><span class="pagenum">p. 357</span>Macrae. +‘Benson, bring something to eat and drink. Lady Bude, I +deeply regret that this thing should have troubled your stay with me. +She has been carried off, Mr. Blake has been rendered unconscious; your +husband and Mr. Merton are trying nobly to find the track of the miscreants. +You will excuse me, I must see to Mr. Blake.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae rose, bowed, and went out. He saw Blake carried +to a bathroom in the observatory; they undressed him and put him in +the hot water. Then they put him to bed, and brought him wine +and food. He drank the wine eagerly.</p> +<p>‘We were set on suddenly from behind by fellows from a boat,’ +he said. ‘We saw them land and go up from the cove; they +took us in the rear: they felled me and pegged me out. Have you +my poems?’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Merton has the poems,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘What +became of my daughter?’</p> +<p>‘I don’t know, I was unconscious.’</p> +<p>‘What kind of boat was it?’</p> +<p>‘An ordinary coble, a country boat.’</p> +<p>‘What kind of looking men were they?’</p> +<p>‘Rough fellows with beards. I only saw them when they +first passed us at some distance. Oh, my head! Oh damn, +how these bites do sting! Get me some ammonia; you’ll find +it in a bottle on the dressing-table.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae brought him the bottle and a handkerchief. ‘That +is all you know?’ he asked.</p> +<p>But Blake was babbling some confusion of verse and prose: his wits +were wandering.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae turned from him, and bade one of the <!-- page 358--><span class="pagenum">p. 358</span>men +watch him. He himself passed downstairs and into the hall, where +Lady Bude was standing at the window, gazing to the north.</p> +<p>‘Indeed you must not watch, Lady Bude,’ said the millionaire. +‘Let me persuade you to take something and go to bed. I +forget myself; I do not believe that you have dined.’ He +himself sat down at the table, he ate and drank, and induced Lady Bude +to join him. ‘Now, do let me persuade you to go back and +to try to sleep,’ said Mr. Macrae gently. ‘Your husband +is well accompanied.’</p> +<p>‘It is not for him that I am afraid,’ said the lady, +who was in tears.</p> +<p>‘I must arrange for the day’s work,’ said the millionaire, +and Lady Bude sighed and left him.</p> +<p>‘First,’ he said aloud, ‘we must get the doctor +from Lairg to see Blake. Over forty miles.’ He rang. +‘Benson,’ he said to the butler, ‘order the tandem +for seven. The yacht to have steam up at the same hour. +Breakfast at half-past six.’</p> +<p>The millionaire then went to his own study, where he sat lost in +thought. Morning had come before the sound of voices below informed +him that Bude and Merton had returned. He hurried down; their +faces told him all. ‘Nothing?’ he asked calmly.</p> +<p>Nothing! They had rowed along the loch sides, touching at every +cottage and landing-place. They had learned nothing. He +explained his ideas for the day.</p> +<p>‘If you will allow me to go in the yacht, I can telegraph from +Lochinver in all directions to the police,’ said Bude.</p> +<p><!-- page 359--><span class="pagenum">p. 359</span>‘We can +use the wireless thing,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘But if +you would be so good, you could at least see the local police, and if +anything occurred to you, telegraph in the ordinary way.’</p> +<p>‘Right,’ said Bude, ‘I shall now take a bath.’</p> +<p>‘You will stay with me, Mr. Merton,’ said Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘It is a dreadful country for men in our position,’ said +Merton, for the sake of saying something. ‘Police and everything +so remote.’</p> +<p>‘It gave them their chance; they have waited for it long enough, +I dare say. Have you any ideas?’</p> +<p>‘They must have a steamer somewhere.’</p> +<p>‘That is why I have ordered the balloon, to reconnoitre the +sea from,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘But they have had all +the night to escape in. I think they will take her to America, +to some rascally southern republic, probably.’</p> +<p>‘I have thought of the outer islands,’ said Merton, ‘out +behind the Lewis and the Long Island.’</p> +<p>‘We shall have them searched,’ said Mr. Macrae. +‘I can think of no more at present, and you are tired.’</p> +<p>Merton had slept ill and strangely on the night of Saturday; on Sunday +night, of course, he had never lain down. Unshaven, dirty, with +haggard eyes, he looked as wretched as he felt.</p> +<p>‘I shall have a bath, and then please employ me, it does not +matter on what, as long as I am at work for—you,’ said Merton. +He had nearly said ‘for her.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae looked at him rather curiously. ‘You <!-- page 360--><span class="pagenum">p. 360</span>are +dying of fatigue,’ he said. ‘All your ideas have been +excellent, but I cannot let you kill yourself. Ideas are what +I want. You must stay with me to-day: I shall be communicating +with London and other centres by the Giambresi machine; I shall need +your advice, your suggestions. Now, do go to bed: you shall be +called if you are needed.’</p> +<p>He wrung Merton’s hand, and Merton crept up to his bedroom. +He took a bath, turned in, and was wrapped in all the blessedness of +sleep.</p> +<p>Before five o’clock the house was astir. Bude, in the +yacht, steamed down the coast, touching at Lochinver, and wherever there +seemed a faint hope of finding intelligence. But he learned nothing. +Yachts and other vessels came and went (on Sundays, of course, more +seldom), and if the heiress had been taken straight to sea, northwards +or west, round the Butt of Lewis, by night, there could be no chance +of news of her. Returning, Bude learned that the local search +parties had found nothing but the black ashes of a burned boat in a +creek on the south side of the cliffs. There the captors of Miss +Macrae must have touched, burned their coble, and taken to some larger +and fleeter vessel. But no such vessel had been seen by shepherd, +fisher, keeper, or gillie. The grooms arrived from Lairg, in the +tandem, with the doctor and a rural policeman. Bude had telegraphed +to Scotland Yard from Lochinver for detectives, and to Glasgow, Oban, +Tobermory, Salen, in fact to every place he thought likely, with minute +particulars of Miss Macrae’s appearance and dress. All this +Merton learned from Bude, when, long after luncheon <!-- page 361--><span class="pagenum">p. 361</span>time, +our hero awoke suddenly, refreshed in body, but with the ghastly blank +of misery and doubt before the eyes of his mind.</p> +<p>‘I wired,’ said Bude, ‘on the off chance that yesterday’s +storm might have deranged the wireless machine, and, by Jove, it is +lucky I did. The wireless machine won’t work, not a word +of message has come through; it is jammed or something. I met +Donald Macdonald, who told me.’</p> +<p>‘Have you seen our host yet?’</p> +<p>‘No,’ said Bude, ‘I was just going to him.’</p> +<p>They found the millionaire seated at a table, his head in his hands. +On their approach he roused himself.</p> +<p>‘Any news?’ he asked Bude, who shook his head. +He explained how he had himself sent various telegrams, and Mr. Macrae +thanked him.</p> +<p>‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Some electric disturbance +has cut us off from our London correspondent. We sent messages +in the usual way, but there has been no reply. You sent to Scotland +Yard for detectives, I think you said?’</p> +<p>‘I did.’</p> +<p>‘But, unluckily, what can London detectives do in a country +like this?’ said Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘I told them to send one who had the Gaelic,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘It was well thought of,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘but +this was no local job. Every man for miles round has been examined, +and accounted for.’</p> +<p>‘I hope you have slept well, Mr. Merton?’ he asked.</p> +<p><!-- page 362--><span class="pagenum">p. 362</span>‘Excellently. +Can you not put me on some work if it is only to copy telegraphic despatches? +But, by the way, how is Blake?’</p> +<p>‘The doctor is still with him,’ said Mr. Macrae; ‘a +case of concussion of the brain, he says it is. But you go out +and take the air, you must be careful of yourself.’</p> +<p>Bude remained with the millionaire, Merton sauntered out to look +at the river: running water drew him like a magnet. By the side +of the stream, on a woodland path, he met Lady Bude. She took +his hand silently in her right, and patted it with her left. Merton +turned his head away.</p> +<p>‘What can I say to you?’ she asked. ‘Oh, +this is too horrible, too cruel.’</p> +<p>‘If I had listened to you and not irritated her I might have +been with her, not Blake,’ said Merton, with keen self-respect.</p> +<p>‘I don’t quite see that you would be any the better for +concussion of the brain,’ said Lady Bude, smiling. ‘Oh, +Mr. Merton, you <i>must</i> find her, I know how you have worked already. +You must rescue her. Consider, this is your chance, this is your +opportunity to do something great. Take courage!’</p> +<p>Merton answered, with a rather watery smile, ‘If I had Logan +with me.’</p> +<p>‘With or without Lord Fastcastle, you <i>must do it</i>!’ +said Lady Bude.</p> +<p>They saw Mr. Macrae approaching them deep in thought and advanced +to meet him.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Macrae,’ asked Lady Bude suddenly, ‘have you +had Donald with you long?’</p> +<p><!-- page 363--><span class="pagenum">p. 363</span>‘Ever since +he was a lad in Canada,’ answered the millionaire. ‘I +have every confidence in Donald’s ability, and he was for half +a year with Gianesi and Giambresi, learning to work their system.’</p> +<p>Donald’s honesty, it was clear, he never dreamed of suspecting. +Merton blushed, as he remembered that a doubt as to whether the engineer +had been ‘got at’ had occurred to his own mind. For +a heavy bribe (Merton had fancied) Donald might have been induced, perhaps +by some Stock Exchange operator, to tamper with the wireless centre +of communication. But, from Mr. Macrae’s perfect confidence, +he felt obliged to drop this attractive hypothesis.</p> +<p>They dined at the usual hour, and not long after dinner Lady Bude +said good-night, while her lord, who was very tired, soon followed her +example. Merton and the millionaire paid a visit to Blake, whom +they found asleep, and the doctor, having taken supper and accepted +an invitation to stay all night, joined the two other men in the smoking-room. +In answer to inquiries about the patient, Dr. MacTavish said, ‘It’s +jist concussion, slight concussion, and nervous shoke. No that +muckle the maiter wi’ him but a clour on the hairnspan, and midge +bites, forbye the disagreeableness o’ being clamped doon for a +wheen hours in a wat tussock o’ bracken.’</p> +<p>This diagnosis, though not perfectly intelligible to Merton, seemed +to reassure Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘He’s a bit concetty, the chiel,’ added the worthy +physician, ‘and it may be a day or twa or he judges <!-- page 364--><span class="pagenum">p. 364</span>he +can leave his bed. Jist nervous collapse. But, bless my +soul, what’s thon?’</p> +<p>‘Thon’ had brought Mr. Macrae to his feet with a bound. +It was the thrill of the electric bell which preluded to communications +from the wireless communicator! The instrument began to tick, +and to emit its inscribed tape.</p> +<p>‘Thank heaven,’ cried the millionaire, ‘now we +shall have light on this mystery.’ He read the message, +stamped his foot with an awful execration, and then, recovering himself, +handed the document to Merton. ‘The message is a disgusting +practical joke,’ he said. ‘Some one at the central +agency is playing tricks with the instrument.’</p> +<p>‘Am I to read the message aloud?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>It was rather a difficult question, for the doctor was a perfect +stranger to all present, and the matters involved were of an intimate +delicacy, affecting the most sacred domestic relations.</p> +<p>‘Dr. MacTavish,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘speaking as +Highlander to Highlander, these are circumstances, are they not, under +the seal of professional confidence?’</p> +<p>The big doctor rose to his feet.</p> +<p>‘They are, sir, but, Mr. Macrae, I am a married man. +This sad business of yours, I say it with sorrow, will be the talk of +the world to-morrow, as it is of the country side to-day. If you +will excuse me, I would rather know nothing, and be able to tell nothing, +so I’ll take my pipe outside with me.’</p> +<p>‘Not alone, don’t go alone, Dr. MacTavish,’ said +Merton; ‘Mr. Macrae will need his telegraphic operator <!-- page 365--><span class="pagenum">p. 365</span>probably. +Let me play you a hundred up at billiards.’</p> +<p>The doctor liked nothing better; soon the balls were rattling, while +the millionaire was closeted alone with Donald Macdonald and the wireless +thing.</p> +<p>After one game, of which he was the winner, the doctor, with much +delicacy, asked leave to go to bed. Merton conducted him to his +room, and, returning, was hailed by Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘Here is the pleasant result of our communications,’ +he said, reading aloud the message which he had first received.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The Seven Hunters. August 9, 7.47 p.m.</p> +<p>‘Do not be anxious about Miss Macrae. She is in perfect +health, and accompanied by three chaperons accustomed to move in the +first circles. The one question is How Much? Sorry to be +abrupt, but the sooner the affair is satisfactorily concluded the better. +A reply through your Gianesi machine will reach us, and will meet with +prompt attention.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘A practical joke,’ said Merton. ‘The melancholy +news has reached town through Bude’s telegrams, and somebody at +the depôt is playing tricks with the instrument.’</p> +<p>‘I have used the instrument to communicate that opinion to +the manufacturers,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘but I have had no +reply.’</p> +<p>‘What does the jester mean by heading his communication “The +Seven Hunters”?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘The name of a real or imaginary public-house, I suppose,’ +said Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p><!-- page 366--><span class="pagenum">p. 366</span>At this moment +the electric bell gave its signal, and the tape began to exude. +Mr. Macrae read the message aloud; it ran thus:</p> +<p>‘No good wiring to Gianesi and Giambresi at headquarters. +You are hitched on to us, and to nobody else. Better climb down. +What are your terms?’</p> +<p>‘This is infuriating,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘It +<i>must</i> be a practical joke, but how to reach the operators?’</p> +<p>‘Let me wire to-morrow by the old-fashioned way,’ said +Merton; ‘I hear that one need not go to Lairg to wire. One +can do that from Inchnadampf, much nearer. That is quicker than +steaming to Loch Inver.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you very much, Mr. Merton; I must be here myself. +You had better take the motor—trouble dazes a man—I forgot +the motor when I ordered the tandem this morning.’</p> +<p>‘Very good,’ said Merton. ‘At what hour shall +I start?’</p> +<p>‘We all need rest; let us say at ten o’clock.’</p> +<p>‘All right,’ replied Merton. ‘Now do, pray, +try to get a good night of sleep.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae smiled wanly: ‘I mean to force myself to read <i>Emma</i>, +by Miss Austen, till the desired effect is produced.’</p> +<p>Merton went to bed, marvelling at the self-command of the millionaire. +He himself slept ill, absorbed in regret and darkling conjecture.</p> +<p>After writing out several telegrams for Merton to carry, the smitten +victim of enormous opulence sought repose. But how vainly! +Between him and the pages which report the prosings of Miss Bates and +<!-- page 367--><span class="pagenum">p. 367</span>Mr. Woodhouse intruded +visions of his daughter, a captive, perhaps crossing the Atlantic, perhaps +hidden, who knew, in a shieling or a cavern in the untrodden wastes +of Assynt or of Lord Reay’s country. At last these appearances +were merged in sleep.</p> +<h3>III. Logan to the Rescue!</h3> +<p>As Merton sped on the motor next day to the nearest telegraph station, +with Mr. Macrae’s sheaf of despatches, Dr. MacTavish found him +a very dull companion. He named the lochs and hills, Quinag, Suilvean, +Ben Mór, he dwelt on the merits of the trout in the lochs; he +showed the melancholy improvements of the old Duke; he spoke of duchesses +and of crofters, of anglers and tourists; he pointed to the ruined castle +of the man who sold the great Montrose—or did not sell him. +Merton was irresponsive, trying to think. What was this mystery? +Why did the wireless machine bring no response from its headquarters; +or how could practical jokers have intruded into the secret chambers +of Messrs. Gianesi and Giambresi? These dreams or visions of his +own on the night before Miss Macrae was taken—were they wholly +due to tobacco and the liver?</p> +<p>‘I thought I was awake,’ said Merton to himself, ‘when +I was only dreaming about the crimson blot on the ceiling. Was +I asleep when I saw the tartans go down the stairs? I used to +walk in my sleep as a boy. It is very queer!’</p> +<p>‘Frae the top o’ Ben Mór,’ the doctor was +saying, <!-- page 368--><span class="pagenum">p. 368</span>‘on +a fine day, they tell me, with a glass you can pick up “The Seven +Hunters.”’</p> +<p>‘Eh, what? I beg your pardon, I am so confused by this +wretched affair. What did you say you can pick up?’</p> +<p>‘Just “The Seven Hunters,”’ said the doctor +rather sulkily.</p> +<p>‘And what are “The Seven Hunters”?’</p> +<p>‘Just seven wee sma’ islandies ahint the Butt of Lewis. +The maps ca’ them the Flanan Islands.’</p> +<p>Merton’s heart gave a thump. The first message from the +Gianesi invention was dated ‘The Seven Hunters.’ Here +was a clue.</p> +<p>‘Are the islands inhabited?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Just wi’ wild goats, and, maybe, fishers drying their +fish. And three men in a lighthouse on one of them,’ said +the doctor.</p> +<p>They now rushed up to the hotel and telegraph office of Inchnadampf. +The doctor, after visiting the bar, went on in the motor to Lairg; it +was to return for Merton, who had business enough on hand in sending +the despatches. He was thinking over ‘The Seven Hunters.’ +It might be, probably was, a blind, or the kidnappers, having touched +there, might have departed in any direction—to Iceland, for what +he knew. But the name, ‘the Seven Hunters,’ was not +likely to have been invented by a practical joker in London. If +not, the conspirators had really captured and kept to themselves Mr. +Macrae’s line of wireless communications. How could that +have been done? Merton bitterly regretted that his general information +did not include electrical science.</p> +<p><!-- page 369--><span class="pagenum">p. 369</span>However, he had +first to send the despatches. In one Mr. Macrae informed Gianesi +and Giambresi of the condition of their instrument, and bade them send +another at once with a skilled operator, and to look out for probable +tamperers in their own establishment. This despatch was in a cypher +which before he got the new invention, and while he used the old wires, +Mr. Macrae had arranged with the electricians. The words of the +despatch were, therefore, peculiar, and the Highland lass who operated, +a girl of great beauty and modesty, at first declined to transmit the +message.</p> +<p>‘It’s maybe no proper, for a’ that I ken,’ +she urged, and only by invoking a local person of authority, and using +the name of Mr. Macrae very freely, could Merton obtain the transmission +of the despatch.</p> +<p>In another document Mr. Macrae ordered ‘more motors’ +and a dozen bicycles, as the Nabob of old ordered ‘more curricles.’ +He also telegraphed to the Home Office, the Admiralty, the Hereditary +Lord High Admiral of the West Coast, to Messrs. McBrain, of the steamers, +and to every one who might have any access to the control of marine +police or information. He wired to the police at New York, bidding +them warn all American stations, and to the leading New York newspapers, +knowing the energy and inquiring, if imaginative, character of their +reporters. Bude ought to have done all this on the previous day, +but Bude’s ideas were limited. Nothing, however, was lost, +as America is not reached in forty-eight hours. The millionaire +instructed Scotland Yard to warn all foreign <!-- page 370--><span class="pagenum">p. 370</span>ports, +and left them <i>carte-blanche</i> as to the offer of a reward for the +discovery of his missing daughter. He also put off all the guests +whom he had been expecting at Castle Skrae.</p> +<p>Merton was amazed at the energy and intelligence of a paternal mind +smitten by sudden grief. Mr. Macrae had even telegraphed to every +London newspaper, and to the leading Scottish and provincial journals, +‘No Interviewers need Apply.’ Several hours were spent, +as may be imagined, in getting off these despatches from a Highland +rural office, and Merton tried to reward the fair operator. But +she declined to accept a present for doing her duty, and expressed lively +sympathy for the poor young lady who was lost. In a few days a +diamond-studded watch and chain arrived for Miss MacTurk.</p> +<p>Merton himself wired to Logan, imploring him, in the name of friendship, +to abandon all engagements, and come to Inchnadampf. Where kidnapping +was concerned he knew that Logan must be interested, and might be useful; +but, of course, he could not invite him to Castle Skrae. Meanwhile +he secured rooms for Logan at the excellent inn. Lady Fastcastle, +he knew, was in England, brooding over her first-born, the Master of +Fastcastle.</p> +<p>Before these duties were performed the motor returned from Lairg, +bearing the two London detectives, one disguised as a gillie (he was +the detective who had the Gaelic), the other as a clergyman of the Church +of England. To Merton he whispered that he was to be an early +friend of Mr. Macrae, come to comfort him on the first news of his disaster. +As to <!-- page 371--><span class="pagenum">p. 371</span>the other, +the gillie, Mr. Macrae was known to have been in want of an assistant +to the stalker, and Duncan Mackay (of Scotland Yard) had accepted the +situation. Merton approved of these arrangements; they were such +as he would himself have suggested.</p> +<p>‘But I don’t see what we can do, sir,’ said the +clerical detective (the Rev. Mr. Williams), ‘except perhaps find +out if it was a put up thing from within.’</p> +<p>Merton gave him a succinct sketch of the events, and he could see +that Mr. Williams already suspected Donald Macdonald, the engineer. +Merton, Mr. Williams, and the driver now got into the motor, and were +followed by the gillie-detective and a man to drive in a dog-cart hired +from the inn. Merton ordered all answers to telegrams to be sent +by boys on bicycles.</p> +<p>It was late ere he returned to Castle Skrae. There nothing +of importance had occurred, except the arrival of more messages from +the wireless machine. They insisted that Miss Macrae was in perfect +health, but implored the millionaire to settle instantly, lest anxiety +for a father’s grief should undermine her constitution.</p> +<p>Mr. Williams had a long interview with Mr. Macrae. It was arranged +that he should read family prayers in the morning and evening. +He left <i>The Church Quarterly Review</i> and numbers of <i>The Expositor</i>, +<i>The Guardian</i>, and <i>The Pilot</i> in the hall with his great +coat, and on the whole his entry was very well staged. Duncan +Mackay occupied a room at the keeper’s, who had only eight children.</p> +<p>Mr. Williams asked if he might see Mr. Blake; he <!-- page 372--><span class="pagenum">p. 372</span>could +impart religious consolation. Merton carried this message, in +answer to which Blake, who was in bed very sulky and sleepy, merely +replied, ‘Kick out the hell-hound.’</p> +<p>Merton was obliged to soften this rude message, saying that unfortunately +Mr. Blake was of the older faith, though he had expressed no wish for +the ministrations of Father McColl.</p> +<p>On hearing this Mr. Williams merely sighed, as the Budes were present. +He had been informed as to their tenets, and had even expressed a desire +to labour for their enlightenment, by way of giving local colour. +He had, he said, some stirring Protestant tracts among his clerical +properties. Mr. Macrae, however, had gently curbed this zeal, +so on hearing of Blake’s religious beliefs the sigh of Mr. Williams +was delicately subdued.</p> +<p>Dinner-time arrived. Blake did not appear; the butler said +that he supported existence solely on dried toast and milk and soda-water. +He was one of the people who keep a private clinical thermometer, and +he sent the bulletin that his temperature was 103. He hoped to +come downstairs to-morrow. Mr. Williams gave the party some news +of the outer world. He had brought the <i>Scotsman</i>, and Mr. +Macrae had the gloomy satisfaction of reading a wildly inaccurate report +of his misfortune. Correct news had not reached the press, but +deep sympathy was expressed. The melancholy party soon broke up, +Mr. Williams conducting family prayers with much unction, after the +Budes had withdrawn.</p> +<p>In a private interview with the millionaire Merton <!-- page 373--><span class="pagenum">p. 373</span>told +him how he had discovered the real meaning of ‘The Seven Hunters,’ +whence the first telegram of the kidnappers was dated. Neither +man thought the circumstance very important.</p> +<p>‘They would hardly have ventured to name the islands if they +had any idea of staying there,’ the millionaire said, ‘besides +any heartless jester could find the name on a map.’</p> +<p>This was obvious, but as Lady Bude was much to be pitied, alone, +in the circumstances, Mr. Macrae determined to send her and Bude on +the yacht, the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>, to cruise round the Butt of Lewis +and examine the islets. Both Bude and his wife were devoted to +yachting, and the isles might yield something in the way of natural +history.</p> +<p>Next day (Wednesday) the Budes steamed away, and there came many +answers to the telegrams of Mr. Macrae, and one from Logan to Merton. +Logan was hard by, cruising with his cousin, Admiral Chirnside, at the +naval manœuvres on the northeast coast. He would come to +Inchnadampf at once. Mr. Macrae heard from Gianesi and Giambresi. +Gianesi himself was coming with a fresh machine. Mr. Macrae wished +it had been Giambresi, whom he knew; Gianesi he had never met. +Condolences, of course, poured in from all quarters, even the most exalted. +The Emperor of Germany was most sympathetic. But there was no +news of importance. Several yachting parties had been suspected +and examined; three young ladies at Oban, Applecross, and Tobermory, +had established their identity and proved that they were not Miss Macrae.</p> +<p><!-- page 374--><span class="pagenum">p. 374</span>All day the wireless +machine was silent. Mr. Williams was shown all the rooms in the +castle, and met Blake, who appeared at luncheon. Blake was most +civil. He asked for a private interview with Mr. Macrae, who inquired +whether his school friend, Mr. Williams, might share it? Blake +was pleased to give them both all the information he had, though his +head, he admitted, still rang with the cowardly blow that had stunned +him. He was told of the discovery of the burned boat, and was +asked whether it had approached from east or west, from the side of +the Atlantic, or from the head of the sea loch.</p> +<p>‘From Kinlocharty,’ he said, ‘from the head of +the loch, the landward side.’ This agreed with the evidence +of the villagers on the other side of the sea loch.</p> +<p>Would he recognise the crew? He had only seen them at a certain +distance, when they landed, but in spite of the blow on his head he +remembered the black beard of one man, and the red beard of another. +To be sure they might shave off their beards, yet these two he thought +he could identify. Speaking to Miss Macrae as the men passed them, +he had called one Donald Dubh, or ‘black,’ and the other +Donald Ban, or ‘fair.’ They carried heavy shepherds’ +crooks in their hands. Their dress was Lowland, but they wore +unusually broad bonnets of the old sort, drooping over the eyes. +Blake knew no more, except his anguish from the midges.</p> +<p>He expressed his hope to be well enough to go away on Friday; he +would retire to the inn at Scourie, and try to persevere with his literary +work. <!-- page 375--><span class="pagenum">p. 375</span>Mr. Macrae +would not hear of this; as, if the miscreants were captured, Blake alone +could have a chance of identifying them. To this Blake replied +that, as long as Mr. Macrae thought that he might be useful, he was +at his service.</p> +<p>To Merton, Blake displayed himself in a new light. He said +that he remembered little of what occurred after he was found at the +foot of the cliff. Probably he was snappish and selfish; he was +suffering very much. His head, indeed, was still bound up, and +his face showed how he had suffered. Merton shook hands with him, +and said that he hoped Blake would forget his own behaviour, for which +he was sincerely sorry.</p> +<p>‘Oh, the chaff?’ said Blake. ‘Never mind, +I dare say I played the fool. I have been thinking, when my brain +would give me leave, as I lay in bed. Merton, you are a trifle +my senior, and you know the world much better. I have lived in +a writing and painting set, where we talked nonsense till it went to +our heads, and we half believed it. And, to tell you the truth, +the presence of women always sets me off. I am a humbug; I do +<i>not</i> know Gaelic, but I mean to work away at my drama for all +that. This kind of shock against the realities of life sobers +a fellow.’</p> +<p>Blake spoke simply, in an unaffected, manly way.</p> +<p>‘<i>Semel in saninivimus omnes</i>!’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘<i>Nec lusisse pudet</i>!’ said Blake, ‘and the +rest of it. I know there’s a parallel in the <i>Greek Anthology</i>, +somewhere. I’ll go and get my copy.’</p> +<p>He went into the observatory (they had been sitting on a garden seat +outside), and Merton thought to himself:</p> +<p><!-- page 376--><span class="pagenum">p. 376</span>‘He is not +such a bad fellow. Not many of your young poets know anything +but French.’</p> +<p>Blake seemed to have some difficulty in finding his Anthology. +At last he came out with rather a ‘carried’ look, as the +Scots say, rather excited.</p> +<p>‘Here it is,’ he said, and handed Merton the little volume, +of a Tauchnitz edition, open at the right page. Merton read the +epigram. ‘Very neat and good,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Now, Merton,’ said Blake, ‘it is not usual, is +it, for ministers of the Anglican sect to play the spy?’</p> +<p>‘What in the world do you mean?’ asked Merton. +‘Oh, I guess, the Rev. Mr. Williams! Were you not told that +his cure of souls is in Scotland Yard? I ought to have told you, +I thought our host would have done so. What was the holy man doing?’</p> +<p>‘I was not told,’ said Blake, ‘I suppose Mr. Macrae +was too busy. So I was rather surprised, when I went into my room +for my book, to find the clergyman examining my things and taking books +out of one of my book boxes.’</p> +<p>‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Merton. ‘What did +you do?’</p> +<p>‘I locked the door of the room, and handed Mr. Williams the +key of my despatch box. “I have a few private trifles there,” +I said, “the key may save you trouble.” Then I sat +down and wrote a note to Mr. Macrae, and rang the bell and asked the +servant to carry the note to his master. Mr. Macrae came, and +I explained the situation and asked him to be kind enough to order the +motor, if he could spare it, or anything to carry me to the nearest +inn.’</p> +<p><!-- page 377--><span class="pagenum">p. 377</span>‘I shall +order it, Mr. Blake,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘but it will be to +remove this person, whom I especially forbade to molest any of my guests. +I don’t know how I forgot to tell you who he is, a detective; +the others were told.’</p> +<p>‘He confounded himself in excuses; it was horribly awkward.’</p> +<p>‘Horribly!’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘He rated the man for visiting his guests’ rooms without +his knowledge. I dare say the parson has turned over all <i>your</i> +things.’</p> +<p>Merton blenched. He had some of the correspondence of the Disentanglers +with him, rather private matter, naturally.</p> +<p>‘He had not the key of my despatch box,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘He could open it with a quill, I believe,’ said Blake. +‘They do—in novels.’</p> +<p>Merton felt very uneasy. ‘What was the end of it?’ +he asked.</p> +<p>‘Oh, I said that if the man was within his duty the accident +was only one of those which so singular a misfortune brings with it. +I would stay while Mr. Macrae wanted me. I handed over my keys, +and insisted that all my luggage and drawers and things should be examined. +But Mr. Macrae would not listen to me, and forbade the fellow to enter +any of—the bedrooms.’</p> +<p>‘Begad, I’ll go and look at my own despatch box,’ +said Merton.</p> +<p>‘I shall sit in the shade,’ said Blake.</p> +<p>Merton did examine his box, but could not see <!-- page 378--><span class="pagenum">p. 378</span>that +any of the papers had been disarranged. Still, as the receptacle +was full of family secrets he did not feel precisely comfortable. +Going out on the lawn he met Mr. Macrae, who took him into a retired +place and told him what had occurred.</p> +<p>‘I had given the man the strictest orders not to invade the +rooms of any of my guests,’ he said; ‘it is too odious.’</p> +<p>The Rev. Mr. Williams being indisposed, dined alone in his room that +night; so did Blake, who was still far from well.</p> +<p>The only other incident was that Donald Macdonald and the new gillie, +Duncan Mackay, were reported to be ‘lying around in a frightfully +dissolute state.’ Donald was a sober man, but Mackay, he +explained next morning, proved to be his long lost cousin, hence the +revel. Mackay, separately, stated that he had made Donald intoxicated +for the purpose of eliciting any guilty secret which he might possess. +But whisky had elicited nothing.</p> +<p>On the whole the London detectives had not been entirely a success. +Mr. Macrae therefore arranged to send both of them back to Lairg, where +they would strike the line, and return to the metropolis.</p> +<p>Merton had casually talked of Logan (Lord Fastcastle) to Mr. Macrae +on the previous evening, and mentioned that he was now likely to be +at Inchnadampf. Mr. Macrae knew something of Logan, and before +he sped the parting detectives, asked Merton whether he thought that +he might send a note to Inchnadampf inviting his friend to come and +bear him company? Merton gravely said that in such a <!-- page 379--><span class="pagenum">p. 379</span>crisis +as theirs he thought that Logan would be extremely helpful, and that +he was a friend of the Budes. Perhaps he himself had better go +and pick up Logan and inform him fully as to the mysterious events? +As Mr. Gianesi was also expected from London on that day (Thursday) +to examine the wireless machine, which had been silent, Mr. Macrae sent +off several vehicles, as well as the motor that carried the detectives. +Merton drove the tandem himself.</p> +<p>Merton found Logan, with his Spanish bull-dog, Bouncer, loafing outside +the hotel door at Inchnadampf. He greeted Merton in a state of +suppressed glee; the whole adventure was much to the taste of the scion +of Rostalrig. Merton handed him Mr. Macrae’s letter of invitation.</p> +<p>‘Come, won’t I come, rather!’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Of course we must wait to rest the horses,’ said Merton. +‘The motor has gone on to Lairg, carrying two detectives who have +made a pretty foozle of it, and it will bring back an electrician.’</p> +<p>‘What for?’ asked Logan.</p> +<p>‘I must tell you the whole story,’ said Merton. +‘Let us walk a little way—too many gillies and people loafing +about here.’</p> +<p>They walked up the road and sat down by little Loch Awe, the lochan +on the way to Alt-na-gealgach. Merton told all the tale, beginning +with his curious experiences on the night before the disappearance of +Miss Macrae, and ending with the dismissal of the detectives. +He also confided to Logan the importance of the matter to himself, and +entreated him to be serious.</p> +<p><!-- page 380--><span class="pagenum">p. 380</span>Logan listened +very attentively.</p> +<p>When Merton had ended, Logan said, ‘Old boy, you were the making +of me: you may trust me. Serious it is. A great deal of +capital must have been put into this business.’</p> +<p>‘A sprat to catch a whale,’ said Merton. ‘You +mean about nobbling the electric machine? How could <i>that</i> +be done?’</p> +<p>‘That—and other things. I don’t know <i>how</i> +the machine was nobbled, but it could not be done cheap. Would +you mind telling me your dreams again?’</p> +<p>Merton repeated the story.</p> +<p>Logan was silent.</p> +<p>‘Do you see your way?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘I must have time to think it out,’ said Logan. +‘It is rather mixed. When was Bude to return from his cruise +to “The Seven Hunters”?’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps to-night,’ said Merton. ‘We cannot +be sure. She is a very swift yacht, the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll think it all over, Bude may give us a tip.’</p> +<p>No more would Logan say, beyond asking questions, which Merton could +not answer, about the transatlantic past of the vanished heiress.</p> +<p>They loitered back towards the hotel and lunched. The room +was almost empty, all the guests of the place were out fishing. +Presently the motor returned from Lairg, bringing Mr. Gianesi and a +large box of his electrical appliances. Merton rapidly told him +all that he did not already know through Mr. Macrae’s telegrams. +He was a reserved man, rather young, and beyond thanking Merton, said +little, but pushed on towards Castle Skrae in the motor. ‘Some +other <!-- page 381--><span class="pagenum">p. 381</span>motors,’ +he said, ‘had arrived, and were being detained at Lairg.’ +They came later.</p> +<p>Merton and Logan followed in the tandem, Logan driving; they had +handed to Gianesi a sheaf of telegrams for the millionaire. As +to the objects of interest on the now familiar road, Merton enlightened +Logan, who seemed as absent-minded as Merton had been, when instructed +by Dr. MacTavish. As they approached the Castle, Merton observed, +from a height, the <i>Flora Macdonald</i> steaming into the sea loch.</p> +<p>‘Let us drive straight down to the cove and meet them,’ +he said.</p> +<p>They arrived at the cove just as the boat from the yacht touched +the shore. The Budes were astonished and delighted to see their +old friend, Logan, and his dog, Bouncer, a tawny black muzzled, bow-legged +hero, was admired by Lady Bude.</p> +<p>Merton rapidly explained. ‘Now, what tidings?’ +he asked.</p> +<p>The party walked aside on the shore, and Bude swiftly narrated what +he had discovered.</p> +<p>‘They <i>have</i> been there,’ he said. ‘We +drew six of the islets blank, including the islet of the lighthouse. +The men there had seen a large yacht, two ladies and a gentleman from +it had visited them. They knew no more. Desert places, the +other isles are, full of birds. On the seventh isle we found some +Highland fishermen from the Lewis in a great state of excitement. +They had only landed an hour before to pick up some fish they had left +to dry on the rocks. They had no English, but one of our crew +had the Gaelic, <!-- page 382--><span class="pagenum">p. 382</span>and +interpreted in Scots. Regular Gaels, they did not want to speak, +but I offered money, gold, let them see it. Then they took us +to a cave. Do you know Mackinnon’s cave in Mull, opposite +Iona?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, drive on!’ said Merton, much interested.</p> +<p>‘Well, inside it was pitched an empty corrugated iron house, +quite new, and another, on the further side, outside the cave.’</p> +<p>‘I picked up this in the interior of the cave,’ said +Lady Bude.</p> +<p>‘This’ was a golden hair-pin of peculiar make.</p> +<p>‘That’s the kind of hair-pin she wears,’ said Lady +Bude.</p> +<p>‘By Jove!’ said Merton and Logan in one voice.</p> +<p>‘But that was all,’ said Bude. ‘There was +no other trace, except that plainly people had been coming and going, +and living there. They had left some empty bottles, and two intact +champagne bottles. We tasted it, it was excellent! The Lewis +men, who had not heard of the affair, could tell nothing more, except, +what is absurd, that they had lately seen a dragon flying far off over +the sea. A <i>dragon volant</i>, did you ever hear such nonsense? +The interpreter pronounced it “draigon.” He had not +too much English himself.’</p> +<p>‘The Highlanders are so delightfully superstitious,’ +said Lady Bude.</p> +<p>Logan opened his lips to speak, but said nothing.</p> +<p>‘I don’t think we should keep Mr. Macrae waiting,’ +said Lady Bude.</p> +<p>‘If Bude will take the reins,’ said Merton, ‘you +and he can be at the Castle in no time. We shall walk.’</p> +<p><!-- page 383--><span class="pagenum">p. 383</span>‘Excuse +me a moment,’ said Logan. ‘A word with you, Bude.’</p> +<p>He took Bude aside, uttered a few rapid sentences, and then helped +Lady Bude into the tandem. Bude followed, and drove away.</p> +<p>‘Is your secret to be kept from me?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p>‘Well, old boy, you never told <i>me</i> the mystery of the +Emu’s feathers! Secret for secret, out with it; how did +the feathers help you, if they <i>did</i> help you, to find out my uncle, +the Marquis? <i>Gifgaff</i>, as we say in Berwickshire. +Out with your feathers! and I’ll produce my <i>dragon volant</i>, +tail and all.’</p> +<p>Merton was horrified. The secret of the Emu’s feathers +involved the father of Lady Fastcastle, of his old friend’s wife, +in a very distasteful way. Logan, since his marriage, had never +shown any curiosity in the matter. His was a joyous nature; no +one was less of a self-tormentor.</p> +<p>‘Well, old fellow,’ said Merton, ‘keep your dragon, +and I’ll keep my Emu.’</p> +<p>‘I won’t keep him long, I assure you,’ said Logan. +‘Only for a day or two, I dare say; then you’ll know; sooner +perhaps. But, for excellent reasons, I asked Bude and Lady Bude +to say nothing about the hallucination of these second-sighted Highland +fishers. I have a plan. I think we shall run in the kidnappers; +keep your pecker up. You shall be in it!’</p> +<p>With this promise, and with Logan’s jovial confidence (he kept +breaking into laughter as he went) Merton had to be satisfied, though +in no humour for laughing.</p> +<p><!-- page 384--><span class="pagenum">p. 384</span>‘I’m +working up to my <i>dénouement</i>.’ Logan said. +‘Tremendously dramatic! You shall be on all through; I am +keeping the fat for you, Merton. It is no bad thing for a young +man to render the highest possible services to a generous millionaire, +especially in the circumstances.’</p> +<p>‘You’re rather patronising,’ said Merton, a little +hurt.</p> +<p>‘No, no,’ said Logan. ‘I have played second +fiddle to you often, do let me take command this time—or, at all +events, wait till you see my plot unfolded. Then you can take +your part, or leave it alone, or modify to taste. Nothing can +be fairer.’</p> +<p>Merton admitted that these proposals were loyal, and worthy of their +old and tried friendship.</p> +<p>‘<i>Un dragon volant</i>, flying over the empty sea!’ +said Logan. ‘The Highlanders beat the world for fantastic +visions, and the Islanders beat the Highlanders. But, look here, +am I too inquisitive? The night when we first thought of the Disentanglers +you said there was—somebody. But I understood that she and +you were of one mind, and that only parents and poverty were in the +way. And now, from what you told me this morning at Inchnadampf, +it seems that there is no understanding between you and <i>this</i> +lady, Miss Macrae.’</p> +<p>‘There is none,’ said Merton. ‘I tried to +keep my feelings to myself—I’m ashamed to say that I doubt +if I succeeded.’</p> +<p>‘Any chance?’ asked Logan, putting his arm in Merton’s +in the old schoolboy way.</p> +<p>‘I would rather not speak about it,’ said Merton. +<!-- page 385--><span class="pagenum">p. 385</span>‘I had meant +to go myself on the Monday. Then came the affair of Sunday night,’ +and he sighed.</p> +<p>‘Then the somebody before was another somebody?’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Merton, turning rather red.</p> +<p>‘Men have died and the worms have eaten them, but not for love,’ +muttered Logan.</p> +<h3>IV. The Adventure of Eachain of the Hairy Arm</h3> +<p>On arriving at the Castle Logan and Merton found poor Mr. Macrae +comparatively cheerful. Bude and Lady Bude had told what they +had gleaned, and the millionaire, recognising his daughter’s hair-pin, +had all but broken down. Lady Bude herself had wept as he thanked +her for this first trace, this endearing relic, of the missing girl, +and he warmly welcomed Merton, who had detected the probable meaning +of the enigmatic ‘Seven Hunters.’</p> +<p>‘It is to <i>you</i>,’ he said, ‘Mr. Merton, that +I owe the intelligence of my daughter’s life and probable comfort.’</p> +<p>Lady Bude caught Merton’s eye; one of hers was slightly veiled +by her long lashes.</p> +<p>The telegrams of the day had only brought the usual stories of the +fruitless examination of yachts, and of hopes unfulfilled and clues +that led to nothing. The outermost islets were being searched, +and a steamer had been sent to St. Kilda. At home Mr. Gianesi +had explained to Mr. Macrae that he and his partner were forced, reluctantly, +by the nature of the case, to suspect treason within their own establishment +<!-- page 386--><span class="pagenum">p. 386</span>in London, a thing +hitherto unprecedented. They had therefore installed a new machine +in a carefully locked chamber at their place, and Mr. Gianesi was ready +at once to set up a corresponding recipient engine at Castle Skrae. +Mr. Macrae wished first to remove the machine in the smoking-room, but +Blake ventured to suggest that it had better be left where it was.</p> +<p>‘The conspirators,’ he said, ‘have made one blunder +already, by mentioning “The Seven Hunters,” unless, indeed, +that was intentional; they <i>may</i> have meant to lighten our anxiety, +without leaving any useful clue. They may make another mistake: +in any case it is as well to be in touch with them.’</p> +<p>At this moment the smoking-room machine began to tick and emitted +a message. It ran, ‘Glad you visited the Hunters. +You see we do ourselves very well. Hope you drank our health, +we left some bottles of champagne on purpose. No nasty feeling, +only a matter of business. Do hurry up and come to terms.’</p> +<p>‘Impudent dogs!’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘But I +think you are right, Mr. Blake; we had better leave these communications +open.’</p> +<p>Mr. Gianesi agreed that Blake had spoken words of wisdom. Merton +felt surprised at his practical common sense. It was necessary +to get another pole to erect on the roof of the observatory, with another +box at top for the new machine, but a flagstaff from the Castle leads +was found to serve the purpose, and the rest of the day was passed in +arranging the installation, the new machine being placed in Mr. Merton’s +<!-- page 387--><span class="pagenum">p. 387</span>own study. +Before dinner was over, Mr. Gianesi, who worked like a horse, was able +to announce that all was complete, and that a brief message, ‘Yours +received, all right,’ had passed through from his firm in London.</p> +<p>Soon after dinner Blake retired to his room; his head was still suffering, +and he could not bear smoke. Gianesi and Mr. Macrae were in the +Castle, Mr. Macrae feverishly reading the newspaper speculations on +the melancholy affair: leading articles on Science and Crime, the potentialities +of both, the perils of wealth, and such other thoughts as occurred to +active minds in Fleet Street. Gianesi’s room was in the +observatory, but he remained with Mr. Macrae in case he might be needed. +Merton and Logan were alone in the smoking-room, where Bude left them +early.</p> +<p>‘Now, Merton,’ said Logan, ‘you are going to come +on in the next scene. Have you a revolver?’</p> +<p>‘Heaven forbid!’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Well, I have! Now this is what you are to do. +We shall both turn in about twelve, and make a good deal of clatter +and talk as we do so. You will come with me into my room. +I’ll hand you the revolver, loaded, silently, while we talk fishing +shop with the door open. Then you will go rather noisily to your +room, bang the door, take off your shoes, and slip out again—absolutely +noiselessly—back into the smoking-room. You see that window +in the embrasure here, next the door, looking out towards the loch? +The curtain is drawn already, you will go on the window-seat and sit +tight! Don’t fall asleep! <!-- page 388--><span class="pagenum">p. 388</span>I +shall give you my portable electric lamp for reading in the train. +You may find it useful. Only don’t fall asleep. When +the row begins I shall come on.’</p> +<p>‘I see,’ said Merton. ‘But look here! +Suppose you slip out of your own room, locking the door quietly, and +into mine, where you can snore, you know—I snore myself—in +case anybody takes a fancy to see whether I am asleep? Leave your +dog in your own room, <i>he</i> snores, all Spanish bull-dogs do.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, that will serve,’ said Logan. ‘Merton, +your mind is not wholly inactive.’</p> +<p>They had some whisky and soda-water, and carried out the manœuvres +on which they had decided.</p> +<p>Merton, unshod, silently re-entered the smoking-room, his shoes in +his hand; Logan as tactfully occupied Merton’s room, and then +they waited. Presently, the smoking-room door being slightly ajar, +Merton heard Logan snoring very naturally; the Spanish bull-dog was +yet more sonorous. Gianesi came in, walked upstairs to his bedroom, +and shut his door; in half an hour he also was snoring; it was a nasal +trio.</p> +<p>Merton ‘drove the night along,’ like Dr. Johnson, by +repeating Latin and other verses. He dared not turn on the light +of his portable electric lamp and read; he was afraid to smoke; he heard +the owls towhitting and towhooing from the woods, and the clock on the +Castle tower striking the quarters and the hours.</p> +<p>One o’clock passed, two o’clock passed, a quarter after +two, then the bell of the wireless machine rang, <!-- page 389--><span class="pagenum">p. 389</span>the +machine began to tick; Merton sat tight, listening. All the curtains +of the windows were drawn, the room was almost perfectly dark; the snorings +had sometimes lulled, sometimes revived. Merton lay behind the +curtains on the window-seat, facing the door. He knew, almost +without the help of his ears, that the door was slowly, slowly opening. +Something entered, something paused, something stole silently towards +the wireless machine, and paused again. Then a glow suffused the +further end of the room, a disc of electric light, clearly from a portable +lamp. A draped form, in deep shadow, was exposed to Merton’s +view. He stole forward on tiptoe with noiseless feet; he leaped +on the back of the figure, threw his left arm round its neck, caught +its right wrist in a grip of steel, and yelled:</p> +<p>‘Mr. Eachain of the Hairy Arm, if I am not mistaken!’</p> +<p>At the same moment there came a click, the electric light was switched +on, Logan bounced on to the figure, tore away a revolver from the right +hand of which Merton held the wrist, and the two fell on the floor above +a struggling Highland warrior in the tartans of the Macraes. The +figure was thrown on its face.</p> +<p>‘Got you now, Mr. Blake!’ said Logan, turning the head +to the light. ‘D---n!’ he added; ‘it is Gianesi! +I thought we had the Irish minstrel.’</p> +<p>The figure only snarled, and swore in Italian.</p> +<p>‘First thing, anyhow, to tie him up,’ said Logan, producing +a serviceable cord.</p> +<p>Both Logan and Merton were muscular men, and <!-- page 390--><span class="pagenum">p. 390</span>presently +had the intruder tightly swathed in inextricable knots and gagged in +a homely but sufficient fashion.</p> +<p>‘Now, Merton,’ said Logan, ‘this is a bitter disappointment! +From your dream, or vision, of Eachain of the Hairy Arm, it was clear +to me that somebody, the poet for choice, had heard the yarn of the +Highland ghost, and was masquerading in the kilt for the purpose of +tampering with the electric dodge and communicating with the kidnappers. +Apparently I owe the bard an apology. You’ll sit on this +fellow’s chest while I go and bring Mr. Macrae.’</p> +<p>‘A message has come in on the machine,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Well, he can read it; it is not our affair.’</p> +<p>Logan went off; Merton poured out a glass of Apollinaris water, added +a little whisky, and lit a cigarette. The figure on the floor +wriggled; Merton put the revolver which the man had dropped and Logan’s +pistol into a drawer of the writing-table, which he locked.</p> +<p>‘I do detest all that cheap revolver business,’ said +Merton.</p> +<p>The row had awakened Logan’s dog, which was howling dolefully +in the neighbouring room.</p> +<p>‘Queer situation, eh?’ said Merton to the prostrate figure.</p> +<p>Hurrying footsteps climbed the stairs; Mr. Macrae (with a shot-gun) +and Logan entered.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae all but embraced Merton. ‘Had I a son, I could +have wished him to be like you,’ he said; ‘but my poor boy—’ +his voice broke. Merton <!-- page 391--><span class="pagenum">p. 391</span>had +not known before that the millionaire had lost a son. He did understand, +however, that the judicious Logan had given <i>him</i> the whole credit +of the exploit, for reasons too obvious to Merton.</p> +<p>‘Don’t thank <i>me</i>,’ he was saying, when Logan +interrupted:</p> +<p>‘Don’t you think, Mr. Macrae, you had better examine +the message that has just come in?’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae read, ‘Glad they found the hair-pin, it will console +the old boy. Do not quite see how to communicate, if Gianesi, +who, you say, has arrived, removes the machine.’</p> +<p>‘Look here,’ cried Merton, ‘excuse my offering +advice, but we ought, I think, to send for Donald Macdonald <i>at once</i>. +We must flash back a message to those brutes, so they may think they +are still in communication with the traitor in our camp. That +beast on the floor could work it, of course, but he would only warn +<i>them</i>; we can’t check him. We must use Donald, and +keep them thinking that they are sending news to the traitor.’</p> +<p>‘But, by Jove,’ said Logan, ‘they have heard from +<i>him</i>, whoever he is, since Bude came back, for they know about +the finding of the hair-pin. You,’ he said to the wretched +captive, ‘have you been at this machine?’</p> +<p>The man, being gagged, only gasped.</p> +<p>‘There’s this, too,’ said Merton, ‘the senders +of the last message clearly think that Gianesi is against them. +If Gianesi removes the machine, they say—’</p> +<p>Merton did not finish his sentence, he rushed out of the room. +Presently he hurried back. ‘Mr. <!-- page 392--><span class="pagenum">p. 392</span>Macrae,’ +he said, ‘Blake’s door is locked. I can’t waken +him, and, if he were in his room, the noise we have made must have wakened +him already. Logan, ungag that creature!’</p> +<p>Logan removed the gag.</p> +<p>‘Who are <i>you</i>?’ he asked.</p> +<p>The captive was silent.</p> +<p>‘Mr. Macrae,’ said Merton, ‘may I run and bring +Donald and the other servants here? Donald must work the machine +at once, and we must break in Blake’s door, and, if he is off, +we must rouse the country after him.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae seemed almost dazed, the rapid sequence of unusual circumstances +being remote from his experience. In spite of the blaze of electric +light, the morning was beginning to steal into the room; the refreshments +on the table looked oddly dissipated, there was a heavy stale smell +of tobacco, and of whisky from a bottle that had been upset in the struggle. +Mr. Macrae opened a window and inhaled the fresh air from the Atlantic.</p> +<p>This revived him. ‘I’ll ring the alarm bell,’ +he said, and, putting a small key to an unnoticed keyhole in a panel, +he opened a tiny door, thrust in his hand, and pressed a knob. +Instantly from the Castle tower came the thunderous knell of the alarm. +‘I had it put in in case of fire or burglars,’ explained +the millionaire, adding automatically, ‘every modern improvement.’</p> +<p>In a few minutes the servants and gillies had gathered, hastily clad; +they were met by Logan, who briefly bade some bring hammers, and the +caber, or <!-- page 393--><span class="pagenum">p. 393</span>pine-tree +trunk that is tossed in Highland sports. It would make a good +battering-ram. Donald Macdonald he sent at once to Mr. Macrae. +He met Bude and Lady Bude, and rapidly explained that there was no danger +of fire. The Countess went back to her rooms, Bude returned with +Logan into the observatory. Here they found Donald telegraphing +to the conspirators, by the wireless engine, a message dictated by Merton:</p> +<p>‘Don’t be alarmed about communications. I have +got them to leave our machine in its place on the chance that you might +say something that would give you away. Gianesi suspects nothing. +Wire as usual, at about half-past two in the morning, when you mean +it for me.’</p> +<p>‘That ought to be good enough,’ said Logan approvingly, +while the hammers and the caber, under Mr. Macrae’s directions, +were thundering on the door of Blake’s room. The door, which +was very strong, gave way at last with a crash; in they burst. +The room was empty, a rope fastened to the ironwork of the bedstead +showed the poet’s means of escape, for a long rope-ladder swung +from the window. On the table lay a letter directed to</p> +<blockquote><p><i>Thomas Merton, Esq</i>.,<br /> +<i>care of Ronald Macrae, Esq</i>.,<br /> +<i>Castle Skrae</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Macrae took the letter, bidding Benson, the butler, search the +room, and conveyed the epistle to Merton, who opened it. It ran +thus:—</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 394--><span class="pagenum">p. 394</span>‘<span class="smcap">Dear +Merton</span>,—As a man of the world, and slightly my senior, +you must have expected to meet me in the smoking-room to-night, or at +least Lord Fastcastle probably entertained that hope. I saw that +things were getting a little too warm, and made other arrangements. +It is a little hard on the poor fellow whom you have probably mauled, +if you have not shot each other. As he has probably informed you, +he is not Mr. Gianesi, but a dismissed <i>employé</i>, whom we +enlisted, and whom I found it desirable to leave behind me. These +discomforts will occur; I myself did not look for so severe an assault +as I suffered down at the cove on Sunday evening. The others carried +out their parts only too conscientiously in my case. You will +not easily find an opportunity of renewing our acquaintance, as I slit +and cut the tyres of all the motors, except that on which I am now retiring +from hospitable Castle Skrae, having also slit largely the tyres of +the bicycles. Mr. Macrae’s new wireless machine has been +rendered useless by my unfortunate associate, and, as I have rather +spiked all the wheeled conveyances (I could not manage to scuttle the +yacht), you will be put to some inconvenience to re-establish communications. +By that time my trail will be lost. I enclose a banknote for 10<i>l</i>., +which pray, if you would oblige me, distribute among the servants at +the Castle. Please thank Mr. Macrae for all his hospitality. +Among my books you may find something to interest you. You may +keep my manuscript poems.</p> +<p>Very faithfully yours,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Gerald Blake</span>.’</p> +<p>‘P. S.—The genuine Gianesi will probably arrive at Lairg +to-morrow. My unfortunate associate (whom I cannot sufficiently +pity), relieved him of his ingenious machine <i>en</i> <!-- page 395--><span class="pagenum">p. 395</span><i>route</i>, +and left him, heavily drugged, in a train bound for Fort William. +Or perhaps Gianesi may come by sea to Loch Inver. G.B.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>When Merton had read this elegant epistle aloud, Benson entered, +bearing electrical apparatus which had been found in the book boxes +abandoned by Blake. What he had done was obvious enough. +He had merely smuggled in, in his book boxes, a machine which corresponded +with that of the kidnappers, and had substituted its mechanism for that +supplied to Mr. Macrae by Gianesi and Giambresi. This he must +have arranged on the Saturday night, when Merton saw the kilted appearance +of Eachain of the Hairy Arm. A few metallic atoms from the coherer +on the floor of the smoking-room had caught Merton’s eye before +breakfast on Sunday morning. Now it was Friday morning! +And still no means of detecting and capturing the kidnappers had been +discovered.</p> +<p>Out of the captive nothing could be extracted. The room had +been cleared, save for Mr. Macrae, Logan, and Bude, and the man had +been interrogated. He refused to answer any questions, and demanded +to be taken before a magistrate. Now, where was there a magistrate?</p> +<p>Logan lighted the smoking-room fire, thrust the poker into it, and +began tying hard knots in a length of cord, all this silently. +His brows were knit, his lips were set, in his eye shone the wild light +of the blood of Restalrig. Bude and Mr. Macrae looked on aghast.</p> +<p>‘What <i>are</i> you about?’ asked Merton.</p> +<p><!-- page 396--><span class="pagenum">p. 396</span>‘There are +methods of extracting information from reluctant witnesses,’ snarled +Logan.</p> +<p>‘Oh, bosh!’ said Merton. ‘Mr. Macrae cannot +permit you to revive your ancestral proceedings.’</p> +<p>Logan threw down his knotted cord. ‘I beg your pardon, +Mr. Macrae,’ he said, ‘but if I had that dog in my house +of Kirkburn—’ he then went out.</p> +<p>‘Lord Fastcastle is a little moved,’ said Merton. +‘He comes of a wild stock, but I never saw him like this.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae allowed that the circumstances were unusual.</p> +<p>A horrible thought occurred to Merton. ‘Mr. Macrae,’ +he exclaimed, ‘may I speak to you privately? Bude, I dare +say, will be kind enough to remain with that person.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae followed Merton into the billiard-room.</p> +<p>‘My dear sir,’ said the pallid Merton, ‘Logan and +I have made a terrible blunder! We never doubted that, if we caught +any one, our captive would be Blake. I do not deny that this man +is his accomplice, but we have literally no proof. He may persist, +if taken before a magistrate, that he is Gianesi. He may say that, +being in your employment as an electrician, he naturally entered the +smoking-room when the electric bell rang. He can easily account +for his possession of a revolver, in a place where a mysterious crime +has just been committed. As to the Highland costume, he may urge +that, like many Southrons, he had bought it to wear on a Highland tour, +and was trying it on. How can you keep him? You have no +longer the right of Pit and Gallows. Before what <!-- page 397--><span class="pagenum">p. 397</span>magistrate +can you take him, and where? The sheriff-substitute may be at +Golspie, or Tongue, or Dingwall, or I don’t know where. +What can we do? What have we against the man? “Loitering +with intent”? And here Logan and I have knocked him down, +and tied him up, and Logan wanted to torture him.’</p> +<p>‘Dear Mr. Merton,’ replied Mr. Macrae, with paternal +tenderness, ‘you are overwrought. You have not slept all +night. I must insist that you go to bed, and do not rise till +you are called. The man is certainly guilty of conspiracy, that +will be proved when the real Gianesi comes to hand. If not, I +do not doubt that I can secure his silence. You forget the power +of money. Make yourself easy, go to sleep; meanwhile I must re-establish +communications. Good-night, golden slumbers!’</p> +<p>He wrung Merton’s hand, and left him admiring the calm resolution +of one whose conversation, ‘in the mad pride of intellectuality,’ +he had recently despised. The millionaire, Merton felt, was worthy +to be his daughter’s father.</p> +<p>‘The power of money!’ mused Mr. Macrae; ‘what is +it in circumstances like mine? Surrounded by all the resources +of science, I am baffled by a clever rogue and in a civilised country +the aid of the law and the police is as remote and inaccessible as in +the Great Sahara! But to business!’</p> +<p>He sent for Benson, bade him, with some gillies, carry the prisoner +into the dungeon of the old castle, loose his bonds, place food before +him, and leave him in charge of the stalker. He informed Bude +that breakfast would be ready at eight, and then retired to his study, +where he matured his plans.</p> +<p><!-- page 398--><span class="pagenum">p. 398</span>The yacht he would +send to Lochinver to await the real Gianesi there, and to send telegrams +descriptive of Blake in all directions. Giambresi must be telegraphed +to again, and entreated to come in person, with yet another electric +machine, for that brought by the false Gianesi had been, by the same +envoy, rendered useless. A mounted man must be despatched to Lairg +to collect vehicles and transport there, and to meet the real Gianesi +if he came that way. Thus Mr. Macrae, with cool patience and forethought, +endeavoured to recover his position, happy in the reflection that treachery +had at last been eliminated. He did not forget to write telegrams +to remote sheriff-substitutes and procurators fiscal.</p> +<p>As to the kidnappers, he determined to amuse them with protracted +negotiations on the subject of his daughter’s ransom. These +would be despatched, of course, by the wireless engine which was in +tune and touch with their own. During the parleyings the wretches +might make some blunder, and Mr. Macrae could perhaps think out some +plan for their detection and capture, without risk to his daughter. +If not, he must pay ransom.</p> +<p>Having written out his orders and telegrams, Mr. Macrae went downstairs +to visit the stables. He gave his commands to his servants, and, +as he returned, he met Logan, who had been on the watch for him.</p> +<p>‘I am myself again, Mr. Macrae,’ said Logan, smiling. +‘After all, we are living in the twentieth century, not the sixteenth, +worse luck! And now can you give me your attention for a few minutes?’</p> +<p><!-- page 399--><span class="pagenum">p. 399</span>‘Willingly,’ +said Mr. Macrae, and they walked together to a point in the garden where +they were secure from being overheard.</p> +<p>‘I must ask you to lend me a horse to ride to Lairg and the +railway at once,’ said Logan.</p> +<p>‘Must you leave us? You cannot, I fear, catch the 12.50 +train south.’</p> +<p>‘I shall take a special train if I cannot catch the one I want,’ +said Logan, adding, ‘I have a scheme for baffling these miscreants +and rescuing Miss Macrae, while disappointing them of the monstrous +ransom which they are certain to claim. If you can trust me, you +will enter into protracted negotiations with them on the matter through +the wireless machine.’</p> +<p>‘That I had already determined to do,’ said the millionaire. +‘But may I inquire what is your scheme?’</p> +<p>‘Would it be asking too much to request you to let me keep +it concealed, even from you? Everything depends on the most absolute +secrecy. It must not appear that you are concerned—must +not be suspected. My plan has been suggested to me by trifling +indications which no one else has remarked. It is a plan which, +I confess, appears wild, but what is <i>not</i> wild in this unhappy +affair? Science, as a rule beneficent, has given birth to potentialities +of crime which exceed the dreams of oriental romance. But science, +like the spear of Achilles, can cure the wounds which herself inflicts.’</p> +<p>Logan spoke calmly, but eloquently, as every reader must observe. +He was no longer the fierce Border baron of an hour agone, but the polished +<!-- page 400--><span class="pagenum">p. 400</span>modern gentleman. +The millionaire marked the change.</p> +<p>‘Any further mystery cannot but be distasteful, Lord Fastcastle,’ +said Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘The truth is,’ said Logan, ‘that if my plan takes +shape important persons and interests will be involved. I myself +will be involved, and, for reasons both public and private, it seems +to me to the last degree essential that you should in no way appear; +that you should be able, honestly, to profess entire ignorance. +If I fail, I give you my word of honour that your position will be in +no respect modified by my action. If I succeed—’</p> +<p>‘Then you will, indeed, be my preserver,’ said the millionaire.</p> +<p>‘Not I, but my friend, Mr. Merton,’ said Logan, ‘who, +by the way, ought to accompany me. In Mr. Merton’s genius +for success in adventures entailing a mystery more dark, and personal +dangers far greater, than those involved by my scheme (which is really +quite safe), I have confidence based on large experience. To Merton +alone I owe it that I am a married, a happy, and, speaking to any one +but yourself, I might say an affluent man. This adventure must +be achieved, if at all, <i>auspice Merton</i>.’</p> +<p>‘I also have much confidence in him, and I sincerely love him,’ +said Mr. Macrae, to the delight of Logan. He then paced silently +up and down in deep thought. ‘You say that your scheme involves +you in no personal danger?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘In none, or only in such as men encounter daily in several +professions. Merton and I like it.’</p> +<p><!-- page 401--><span class="pagenum">p. 401</span>‘And you +will not suffer in character if you fail?’</p> +<p>‘Certainly not in character; no gentleman of my coat ever entered +on enterprise so free from moral blame,’ said Logan, ‘since +my ancestor and namesake, Sir Robert, fell at the side of the good Lord +James of Douglas, above the Heart of Bruce.’</p> +<p>He thrilled and changed colour as he spoke.</p> +<p>‘Yet it would not do for <i>me</i> to be known to be connected +with the enterprise?’ asked Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘Indeed it would not! Your notorious opulence would arouse +ideas in the public mind, ideas false, indeed, but fatally compromising.’</p> +<p>‘I may not even subsidise the affair—put a million to +Mr. Merton’s account?’</p> +<p>‘In no sort! Afterwards, <i>after</i> he succeeds, then +I don’t say, if Merton will consent; but that is highly improbable. +I know my friend.’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae sighed deeply and remained pensive. ‘Well,’ +he answered at last, ‘I accept your very gallant and generous +proposal.’</p> +<p>‘I am overjoyed!’ said Logan. He had never been +in such a big thing before.</p> +<p>‘I shall order my two best horses to be saddled after breakfast,’ +said Mr. Macrae. ‘You will bait at Inchnadampf.’</p> +<p>‘Here is my address; this will always find me,’ said +Logan, writing rapidly on a leaf of his note-book.</p> +<p>‘You will wire all news of your negotiations with the pirates +to me, by the new wireless machine, when Giambresi brings it, and his +firm in town will telegraph it on to me, at the address I gave you, +<i>in cypher</i>. To save time, we must use a book cypher, <!-- page 402--><span class="pagenum">p. 402</span>we +can settle it in the house in ten minutes,’ said Logan, now entirely +in his element.</p> +<p>They chose <i>The Bonnie Brier Bush</i>, by Mr. Ian Maclaren—a +work too popular to excite suspicion; and arranged the method of secret +correspondence with great rapidity. Logan then rushed up to Merton’s +room, hastily communicated the scheme to him, and overcame his objections, +nay, awoke in him, by his report of Mr. Macrae’s words, the hopes +of a lover. They came down to breakfast, and arranged that their +baggage should be sent after them as soon as communications were restored.</p> +<p>Merton contrived to have a brief interview with Lady Bude. +Her joyous spirit shone in her eyes.</p> +<p>‘I do not know what Lord Fastcastle’s plan is,’ +she said, ‘but I wish you good fortune. You have won the +<i>father’s</i> heart, and now I am about to be false to my sex’—she +whispered—‘the daughter’s is all but your own! +I can help you a little,’ she added, and, after warmly clasping +both her hands in his, Merton hurried to the front of the house, where +the horses stood, and sprang into the saddle. No motors, no bicycles, +no scientific vehicles to-day; the clean wind piped to him from the +mountains; a good steed was between his thighs! Logan mounted, +after entrusting Bouncer to Lady Bude, and they galloped eastwards.</p> +<h3>V. The Adventure of the Flora Macdonald</h3> +<p>‘This is the point indicated, latitude so and so, longitude +so and so,’ said Mr Macrae. ‘But I do not <!-- page 403--><span class="pagenum">p. 403</span>see +a sail or a funnel on the western horizon. Nothing since we left +the Fleet behind us, far to the East. Yet it is the hour. +It is strange!’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae was addressing Bude. They stood together on the +deck of the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>, the vast yacht of the millionaire. +She was lying to on a sea as glassy and radiant, under a blazing August +sun, as the Atlantic can show in her mildest moods. On the quarter-deck +of the yacht were piled great iron boxes containing the millions in +gold with which the millionaire had at last consented to ransom his +daughter. He had been negotiating with her captors through the +wireless machine, and, as Logan could not promise any certain release, +Mr. Macrae had finally surrendered, while informing Logan of the circumstances +and details of his rendezvous with the kidnappers. The amassing +of the gold had shaken the exchanges of two worlds. Banks trembled, +rates were enormous, but the precious metal had been accumulated. +The pirates would not take Mr. Macrae’s cheque; bank notes they +laughed at, the millions must be paid in gold. Now at last the +gold was on the spot of ocean indicated by the kidnappers, but there +was no sign of sail or ship, no promise of their coming. Men with +telescopes in the rigging of the <i>Flora</i> were on the outlook in +vain. They could pick up one of the floating giants of our fleet, +far off to the East, but North, West and South were empty wastes of +water.</p> +<p>‘Three o’clock has come and gone. I hope there +has been no accident,’ said Mr. Macrae nervously. ‘But +where are those thieves?’ He absently pressed his repeater, +it tingled out the half-hour.</p> +<p><!-- page 404--><span class="pagenum">p. 404</span>‘It <i>is</i> +odd,’ said Bude. ‘Hullo, look there, what’s +<i>that</i>?’</p> +<p><i>That</i> was a slim spar, which suddenly shot from the plain of +ocean, at a distance of a hundred yards. On its apex a small black +hood twisted itself this way and that like a living thing; so tranquil +was the hour that the spar with its dull hood was distinctly reflected +in the mirror-like waters of the ocean.</p> +<p>‘By gad, it is the periscope of a submarine!’ said Bude.</p> +<p>There could not be a doubt of it. The invention of Napier of +Merchistoun and of M. Jules Verne, now at last an actual engine of human +warfare, had been employed by the kidnappers of the daughter of the +millionaire!</p> +<p>A light flashed on the mind, steady and serviceable, but not brilliantly +ingenious, of Mr. Macrae. ‘This,’ he exclaimed rather +superfluously, ‘accounts for the fiendish skill with which these +miscreants took cover when pursued by the Marine Police. <i>This</i> +explains the subtle art with which they dodged observation. Doubtless +they had always, somewhere, a well-found normal yacht containing their +supplies. Do you not agree with me, my lord?’</p> +<p>‘In my opinion,’ said Bude, ‘you have satisfactorily +explained what has so long puzzled us. But look! The periscope, +having reconnoitred us, is sinking again!’</p> +<p>It was true. The slim spar gracefully descended to the abyss. +Again ocean smiled with innumerable laughters (as the Athenian sings), +smiled, empty, azure, effulgent! The <i>Flora Macdonald</i> was +once more alone on a wide, wide sea!</p> +<p><!-- page 405--><span class="pagenum">p. 405</span>Two slight jars +were now just felt by the owner, skipper, and crew of the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>. +‘What’s that?’ asked Mr. Macrae sharply. ‘A +reef?’</p> +<p>‘In my opinion,’ said the captain, ‘the beggars +in the submarine have torpedoed us. Attached torpedoes to our +keel, sir,’ he explained, respectfully touching his cap and shifting +the quid in his cheek. He was a bluff tar of the good old school.</p> +<p>‘Merciful heavens!’ exclaimed Mr. Macrae, his face paling. +‘What can this new outrage mean? Here on our deck is the +gold; if they explode their torpedoes the bullion sinks to join the +exhaustless treasures of the main!’</p> +<p>‘A bit of bluff and blackmail on their part I fancy,’ +said Bude, lighting a cigarette.</p> +<p>‘No doubt! No doubt!’ said Mr. Macrae, rather unsteadily. +‘They would never be such fools as to blow up the millions. +Still, an accident might have awful results.’</p> +<p>‘Look there, sir, if you please,’ said the captain of +the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>, ‘there’s that spar of theirs +up again.’</p> +<p>It was so. The spar, the periscope, shot up on the larboard +side of the yacht. After it had reconnoitred, the mirror of ocean +was stirred into dazzling circling waves, and the deck of a submarine +slowly emerged. The deck was long and flat, and of a much larger +area than submarines in general have. It would seem to indicate +the presence below the water of a body or hull of noble proportions. +A voice hailed the yacht from the submarine, though no speaker was visible.</p> +<p><!-- page 406--><span class="pagenum">p. 406</span>‘You have +no consort?’ the voice yelled.</p> +<p>‘For ten years I have been a widower,’ replied Mr. Macrae, +his voice trembling with emotion.</p> +<p>‘Most sorry to have unintentionally awakened unavailing regrets,’ +came the voice. ‘But I mean, honour bright, you have no +attendant armed vessel?’</p> +<p>‘None, I promised you so,’ said Mr. Macrae; ‘I +am a man of my word. Come on deck if you doubt me and look for +yourself.’</p> +<p>‘Not me, and get shot by a rifleman,’ said the voice.</p> +<p>‘It is very distressing to be distrusted in this manner,’ +replied Mr. Macrae. ‘Captain McClosky,’ he said to +the skipper, ‘pray request all hands to oblige me by going below.’</p> +<p>The captain issued this order, which the yacht’s crew rather +reluctantly obeyed. Their interest and curiosity were strongly +excited by a scene without precedent in the experience of the oldest +mariner.</p> +<p>When they had disappeared Mr. Macrae again addressed the invisible +owner of the voice. ‘All my crew are below. Nobody +is on deck but Captain McClosky, the Earl of Bude, and myself. +We are entirely unarmed. You can see for yourself.’ <a name="citation406"></a><a href="#footnote406">{406}</a></p> +<p>The owner of the voice replied: ‘You have no torpedoes?’</p> +<p>‘We have only the armament agreed upon by you to protect this +immense mass of bullion from the attacks of the unscrupulous,’ +said Mr. Macrae. ‘I take heaven to witness that I am honourably +observing <!-- page 407--><span class="pagenum">p. 407</span>every article +of our agreement, as <i>per</i> yours of August 21.’</p> +<p>‘All right,’ answered the voice. ‘I dare +say you are honest. But I may as well tell you <i>this</i>, that +while passing under your yacht we attached two slabs of gun-cotton to +her keel. The knob connected with them is under my hand. +We placed them where they are, not necessarily for publication—explosion, +I mean—but merely as a guarantee of good faith. You understand?’</p> +<p>‘Perfectly,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘though I regard +your proceeding as a fresh and unmerited insult.’</p> +<p>‘Merely a precaution usual in business,’ said the voice. +‘And now,’ it went on, ‘for the main transaction. +You will lower your gold into boats, row it across, and land it here +on my deck. When it is all there, <i>and</i> has been inspected +by me, you will send one boat rowed by <i>two men only</i>, into which +Miss Macrae shall be placed and sent back to you. When that has +been done we shall part, I hope, on friendly terms and with mutual respect.’</p> +<p>‘Captain McClosky,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘will you +kindly pipe all hands on board to discharge cargo?’ The +captain obeyed.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae turned to Bude. ‘This is a moment,’ +he said, ‘which tries a father’s heart! Presently +I must see Emmeline, hear her voice, clasp her to my breast.’ +Bude mutely wrung the hand of the millionaire, and turned away to conceal +his emotion. Seldom, perhaps never, has a father purchased back +an only and beloved child at such a cost as Mr. Macrae was now paying +without a murmur.</p> +<p><!-- page 408--><span class="pagenum">p. 408</span>The boats of the +<i>Flora Macdonald</i> were lowered and manned, the winches slowly swung +each huge box of the precious metal aboard the boats. Mr. Macrae +entrusted the keys of the gold-chests to his officers.</p> +<p>‘Remember,’ cried the voice from the submarine, ‘we +must have the gold on board, inspected, and weighed, before we return +Miss Macrae.’</p> +<p>‘Mean to the last,’ whispered the millionaire to the +earl; but aloud he only said, ‘Very well; I regret, for your own +sake, your suspicious character, but, in the circumstances, I have no +choice.’</p> +<p>To Bude he added: ‘This is terrible! When he has secured +the bullion he may submerge his submarine and go off without returning +my daughter.’</p> +<p>This was so manifestly true that Bude could only shake his head and +mutter something about ‘honour among thieves.’</p> +<p>The crew got the gold on board the boats, and, after several journeys, +had the boxes piled on the deck of the submarine.</p> +<p>When they had placed the boxes on board they again retired, and one +of the men of the submarine, who seemed to be in command, and wore a +mask, coolly weighed the glittering metal on the deck, returning each +package, after weighing and inspection, to its coffer. The process +was long and tedious; at length it was completed.</p> +<p>Then at last the form of Miss Macrae, in an elegant and tasteful +yachting costume, appeared on the deck of the submarine. The boat’s +crew of the <i>Flora Macdonald</i> (to whom she was endeared) lifted +their oars and cheered. The masked pirate in command <!-- page 409--><span class="pagenum">p. 409</span>handed +her into a boat of the <i>Flora’s</i> with stately courtesy, placing +in her hand a bouquet of the rarest orchids. He then placed his +hand on his heart, and bowed with a grace remarkable in one of his trade. +This man was no common desperado.</p> +<p>The crew pulled off, and at that moment, to the horror of all who +were on the <i>Flora’s</i> deck, two slight jars again thrilled +through her from stem to stern.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae and Bude gazed on each other with ashen faces. What +had occurred? But still the boat’s crew pulled gallantly +towards the <i>Flora</i>, and, in a few moments, Miss Macrae stepped +on deck, and was in her father’s arms. It was a scene over +which art cannot linger. Self-restraint was thrown to the winds; +the father and child acted as if no eyes were regarding them. +Miss Macrae sobbed convulsively, her sire was shaken by long-pent emotion. +Bude had averted his gaze, he looked towards the submarine, on the deck +of which the crew were busy, beginning to lower the bullion into the +interior.</p> +<p>To Bude’s extreme and speechless amazement, another periscope +arose from ocean at about fifty yards from the further side of the submarine! +Bude spoke no word; the father and daughter were absorbed in each other; +the crew had no eyes but for them.</p> +<p>Presently, unmarked by the busy seamen of the hostile submarine, +the platform and look-out hood of <i>another</i> submarine appeared. +The new boat seemed to be pointing directly for the middle of the hostile +submarine and at right angles to it.</p> +<p><!-- page 410--><span class="pagenum">p. 410</span>‘<i>Hands +up</i>!’ pealed a voice from the second submarine.</p> +<p>It was the voice of Merton!</p> +<p>At the well-known sound Miss Macrae tore herself from her father’s +embrace and hurried below. She deemed that a fond illusion of +the senses had beguiled her.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae looked wildly towards the two submarines.</p> +<p>The masked captain of the hostile vessel, leaping up, shook his fist +at the <i>Flora Macdonald</i> and yelled, ‘Damn your foolish treachery, +you money-grubbing hunks! You <i>have</i> a consort.’</p> +<p>‘I assure you that nobody is more surprised than myself,’ +cried Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘One minute more and you, your ship, and your crew will be +sent to your own place!’ yelled the masked captain.</p> +<p>He vanished below, doubtless to explode the mines under the <i>Flora</i>.</p> +<p>Bude crossed himself; Mr. Macrae, folding his arms, stood calm and +defiant on his deck. One sailor (the cook) leaped overboard in +terror, the others hastily drew themselves up in a double line, to die +like Britons.</p> +<p>A minute passed, a minute charged with terror. Mr. Macrae took +out his watch to mark the time. Another minute passed, and no +explosion.</p> +<p>The captain of the pirate vessel reappeared on her deck. He +cast his hands desperately abroad; his curses, happily, were unheard +by Miss Macrae, who was below.</p> +<p><!-- page 411--><span class="pagenum">p. 411</span>‘Hands up!’ +again rang out the voice of Merton, adding, ‘if you begin to submerge +your craft, if she stirs an inch, I send you skyward at least as a preliminary +measure. My diver has detached your mines from the keel of the +<i>Flora Macdonald</i> and has cut the wires leading to them; my bow-tube +is pointing directly for you, if I press the switch the torpedo must +go home, and then heaven have mercy on your souls!’</p> +<p>A crow of laughter arose from the yachtsmen of the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>, +who freely launched terms of maritime contempt at the crew of the pirate +submarine, with comments on the probable future of the souls to which +Merton had alluded.</p> +<p>On his desk the masked captain stood silent. ‘We have +women on board!’ he answered Merton at last.</p> +<p>‘You may lower them in a collapsible boat, if you have one,’ +answered Merton. ‘But, on the faintest suspicion of treachery—the +faintest surmise, mark you, I switch on my torpedo.’</p> +<p>‘What are your terms?’ asked the pirate captain.</p> +<p>‘The return of the bullion, that is all,’ replied the +voice of Merton. ‘I give you two minutes to decide.’</p> +<p>Before a minute and a half had passed the masked captain had capitulated. +‘I climb down,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘The boats of the <i>Flora</i> will come for it,’ said +Merton; ‘your men will help load it in the boats. Look sharp, +and be civil, or I blow you out of the water!’</p> +<p>The pirates had no choice; rapidly, if sullenly, they effected the +transfer.</p> +<p><!-- page 412--><span class="pagenum">p. 412</span>When all was done, +when the coffers had been hoisted aboard the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>, +Merton, for the first time, hailed the yacht.</p> +<p>‘Will you kindly send a boat round here for me, Mr. Macrae, +if you do not object to my joining you on the return voyage?’</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae shouted a welcome, the yacht’s crew cheered as only +Britons can. Mr. Macrae’s piper struck up the march of the +clan, ‘<i>A’ the wild McCraws are coming</i>!’</p> +<p>‘If any of you scoundrels shoot,’ cried Merton to his +enemies, ‘up you will all go. You shall stay here, after +we depart, in front of that torpedo, just as long as the skipper of +my vessel pleases.’</p> +<p>Meanwhile the boat of the <i>Flora</i> approached the friendly submarine; +Merton stepped aboard, and soon was on the deck of the <i>Flora Macdonald</i>.</p> +<p>Mr. Macrae welcomed him with all the joy of a father re-united to +his daughter, of a capitalist restored to his millions.</p> +<p>Bude shook Merton’s hand warmly, exclaiming, ‘Well played, +old boy!’</p> +<p>Merton’s eyes eagerly searched the deck for one beloved form. +Mr. Macrae drew him aside. ‘Emmeline is below,’ he +whispered; ‘you will find her in the saloon.’ Merton +looked steadfastly at the millionaire, who smiled with unmistakable +meaning. The lover hurried down the companion, while the <i>Flora</i>, +which had rapidly got up steam, sped eastward.</p> +<p>Merton entered the saloon, his heart beating as hard as when he had +sought his beloved among the <!-- page 413--><span class="pagenum">p. 413</span>bracken +beneath the cliffs at Castle Skrae. She rose at his entrance; +their eyes met, Merton’s dim with a supreme doubt, Emmeline’s +frank and clear. A blush rose divinely over the white rose of +her face, her lips curved in the resistless Æginetan smile, and, +without a word spoken, the twain were in each other’s arms.</p> +<p>* * * * * *</p> +<p>Half an hour later Mr. Macrae, heralding his arrival with a sonorous +hem! entered the saloon. Smiling, he embraced his daughter, who +hid her head on his ample shoulder, while with his right hand the father +grasped that of Merton.</p> +<p>‘My daughter is restored to me—and my son,’ said +the millionaire softly.</p> +<p>There was silence. Mr. Macrae was the first to recover his +self-possession. ‘Sit down, dear,’ he said, gently +disengaging Emmeline, ‘and tell me all about it. Who were +the wretches? I can forgive them now.’</p> +<p>Miss Macrae’s eyes were bent on the carpet; she seemed reluctant +to speak. At last, in timid and faltering accents, she whispered, +‘It was the Van Huytens boy.’</p> +<p>‘Rudolph Van Huytens! I might have guessed it,’ +cried the millionaire. ‘His motive is too plain! His +wealth did not equal mine by several millions. The ransom which +he demanded, and but for Tom here’ (he indicated Merton) ‘would +now possess, exactly reversed our relative positions. Carrying +on his father’s ambition, he would, but for Tom, have held the +world’s record for opulence. The villain!’</p> +<p>‘You do not flatter <i>me</i>, father,’ said Miss Macrae, +<!-- page 414--><span class="pagenum">p. 414</span>‘and you are +unjust to Mr. Van Huytens. He had another, <i>he</i> said a stronger, +motive. Me!’ she murmured, blushing like a red rose, and +adding, ‘he really was rather nice. The submarine was comfy; +the yacht delightful. His sisters and his aunt were very kind. +But—’ and the beautiful girl looked up archly and shyly +at Merton.</p> +<p>‘In fact if it had not been for Tom,’ Mr. Macrae was +exclaiming, when Emmeline laid her lily hand on his lips, and again +hid her burning blushes on his shoulder.</p> +<p>‘So Rudolph had no chance?’ asked Mr. Macrae gaily.</p> +<p>‘I used rather to like him, long ago—before—’ +murmured Emmeline.</p> +<p>A thrill of happy pride passed through Merton. He also, he +remembered of old, had thought that he loved. But now he privately +registered an oath that he would never make any confessions as to the +buried past (a course which the chronicler earnestly recommends to young +readers).</p> +<p>‘Now tell us all about your adventures, Emmie,’ said +Mr. Macrae, sitting down and taking his daughter’s hand in his +own.</p> +<p>The narrative may have been anticipated. After Blake was felled, +Miss Macrae, screaming and struggling, had been carried to the boat. +The crew had rapidly pulled round the cliff, the submarine had risen, +to the captive’s horrified amazement, from the deep, she had been +taken on board, and, yet more to her surprise, had been welcomed by +the Misses Van Huytens and their aunt. The brother had always +<!-- page 415--><span class="pagenum">p. 415</span>behaved with respect, +till, finding that his suit was hopeless, he had avoided her presence +as much as possible, and—</p> +<p>‘Had gone for the dollars,’ said Macrae.</p> +<p>They had wandered from rocky desert isle to desert isle, in the archipelago +of the Hebrides, meeting at night with a swift attendant yacht. +Usually they had slept on shore under canvas; the corrugated iron houses +had been left behind at ‘The Seven Hunters,’ with the champagne, +to alleviate the anxiety of Mr. Macrae. Ample supplies of costume +and other necessaries for Miss Macrae had always been at hand.</p> +<p>‘They really did me very well,’ she said, smiling, ‘but +I was miserable about <i>you</i>,’ and she embraced her father.</p> +<p>‘Only about <i>me</i>?’ asked Mr. Macrae.</p> +<p>‘I did not know, I was not sure,’ said Emmeline, crying +a little, and laughing rather hysterically.</p> +<p>‘You go and lie down, my dear,’ said Mr. Macrae. +‘Your maid is in your cabin,’ and thither he conducted the +overwrought girl, Merton anxiously following her with his eyes.</p> +<p>‘We are neglecting Lord Bude,’ said Mr. Macrae. +‘Come on deck, Tom, and tell us how you managed that delightful +surprise.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, pardon me, sir,’ said Merton, ‘I am under +oath, I am solemnly bound to Logan and others never to reveal the circumstances. +It was necessary to keep you uninformed, that you might honourably make +your arrangement to meet Mr. Van Huytens without being aware that you +had a submarine consort. Logan takes any dishonour on himself, +and he wished <!-- page 416--><span class="pagenum">p. 416</span>to +offer Mr. Van Huytens—as that is his name—every satisfaction, +but I dissuaded him. His connection with the affair cannot be +kept too secret. Though Logan put me forward, you really owe all +to <i>him</i>.’</p> +<p>‘But without <i>you</i>, I should never have had his aid,’ +said Mr. Macrae: ‘Where <i>is</i> Lord Fastcastle?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘In the friendly submarine,’ said Merton.</p> +<p>‘Oh, I think I can guess!’ said Mr. Macrae, smiling. +‘I shall ask no more questions. Let us join Lord Bude.’</p> +<p>If the reader is curious as to how the rescue was managed, it is +enough to say that Logan was the cousin and intimate friend of Admiral +Chirnside, that the Admiral was commanding a fleet engaged in naval +manœuvres around the North coast, that he had a flotilla of submarines, +and that the point of ocean where the pirates met the <i>Flora Macdonald</i> +was not far west of the Orkneys.</p> +<p>On deck Bude asked Merton how Logan (for he knew that Logan was the +guiding spirit) had guessed the secret of the submarine.</p> +<p>‘Do you remember,’ said Merton, ‘that when you +came back from “The Seven Hunters,” you reported that the +fishermen had a silly story of seeing a dragon flying above the empty +sea?’</p> +<p>‘I remember, <i>un dragon volant</i>,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘And Logan asked you not to tell Mr. Macrae?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, but I don’t understand.’</p> +<p>‘A dragon is the Scotch word for a kite—not the bird—a +boy’s kite. You did not know; <i>I</i> did not know, but +Mr. Macrae would have known, being a <!-- page 417--><span class="pagenum">p. 417</span>Scot, +and Logan wanted to keep his plan dark, and the kite had let him into +the secret of the submarine.’</p> +<p>‘I still don’t see how.’</p> +<p>‘Why the submarine must have been flying a kite, with a pendent +wire, to catch messages from Blake and the wireless machine at Castle +Skrae. How else could a kite—“a dragon,” the +sailor said—have been flying above the empty sea?’</p> +<p>‘Logan is rather sharp,’ said Bude.</p> +<p>‘But, Mr. Macrae,’ asked Merton, ‘how about the +false Gianesi?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, when Gianesi came of course we settled <i>his</i> business. +We had him tight, as a conspirator. He had been met, when expelled +for misdeeds from Gianesi’s and Giambresi’s, by a beautiful +young man, to whom he sold himself. He believed the beautiful +young man to be the devil, but, of course, it was our friend Blake. +<i>He</i>, in turn, must have been purchased by Van Huytens while he +was lecturing in America as a poet-Fenian. In fact, he really +had a singular genius for electric engineering; he had done very well +at some German university. But he was a fellow of no principle! +We are well quit of a rogue. I turned his unlucky victim, the +false Gianesi, loose, with money enough for life to keep him honest +if he chooses. His pension stops if ever a word of the method +of rescue comes out. The same with my crew. They shall all +be rich men, for their station, <i>till</i> the tale is whispered and +reaches my ears. In that case—all pensions stop. I +think we can trust the crew of the friendly submarine to keep their +own counsel.’</p> +<p><!-- page 418--><span class="pagenum">p. 418</span>‘Certainly!’ +said Merton. ‘Wealth has its uses after all,’ he thought +in his heart.</p> +<p>* * * * * *</p> +<p>Merton and Logan gave a farewell dinner in autumn to the Disentanglers—to +such of them as were still unmarried. In her napkin each lady +of the Society found a cheque on Coutts for 25,000<i>l</i>. signed with +the magic name Ronald Macrae.</p> +<p>The millionaire had insisted on being allowed to perform this act +of munificence, the salvage for the recovered millions, he said.</p> +<p>Miss Martin, after dinner, carried Mr. Macrae’s health in a +toast. In a humorous speech she announced her own approaching +nuptials, and intimated that she had the permission of the other ladies +present to make the same general confession for all of them.</p> +<p>‘Like every novel of my own,’ said Miss Martin, smiling, +‘this enterprise of the Disentanglers has a HAPPY ENDING.’</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote232"></a><a href="#citation232">{232}</a> +Part III. No. I, 1896. Baptist Mission Press. Calcutta, +1897.</p> +<p><a name="footnote242"></a><a href="#citation242">{242}</a> +See also Monsieur Henri Junod, in <i>Les Ba-Ronga</i>. Attinger, +Neuchatel, 1898. Unlike Mr. Skertchley, M. Junod has not himself +seen the creature.</p> +<p><a name="footnote406"></a><a href="#citation406">{406}</a> +Periscope not necessary with conning tower out of water. Man could +see out of port.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DISENTANGLERS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 17031-h.htm or 17031-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/0/3/17031 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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