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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of World’s End, by Richard Jefferies
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: World’s End
+       A Story in Three Books
+
+Author: Richard Jefferies
+
+Release Date: August 14, 2011 [eBook #37079]
+[Most recently updated: August 6, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Nick Hodson
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORLD’S END ***
+
+
+
+
+World’s End
+
+by Richard Jefferies
+
+A Story in Three Books
+
+
+Contents
+
+ Book I. Facts
+ Chapter 1
+ Chapter 2
+ Chapter 3
+ Chapter 4
+ Chapter 5
+ Chapter 6
+ Chapter 7
+ Chapter 8
+ Chapter 9
+ Chapter 10
+ Chapter 11
+ Chapter 12
+ Chapter 13
+ Chapter 14
+ Chapter 15
+
+ Book II. Persons
+ Chapter 1
+ Chapter 2
+ Chapter 3
+ Chapter 4
+ Chapter 5
+ Chapter 6
+ Chapter 7
+ Chapter 8
+ Chapter 9
+ Chapter 10
+ Chapter 11
+ Chapter 12
+ Chapter 13
+ Chapter 14
+ Chapter 15
+
+ Book III. Results
+ Chapter 1
+ Chapter 2
+ Chapter 3
+ Chapter 4
+ Chapter 5
+ Chapter 6
+ Chapter 7
+ Chapter 8
+ Chapter 9
+ Chapter 10
+ Chapter 11
+ Chapter 12
+ Chapter 13
+ Chapter 14
+
+
+
+
+Book I. Facts.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter One.
+
+
+It is not generally known that the mighty city of Stirmingham owes its
+existence to a water-rat. Stirmingham has a population of half a
+million, and is the workshop of the earth. It is a proud city, and its
+press-men have traced its origin back into the dim vista of the past,
+far before Alfred the Great’s time, somewhere in the days of those
+monarchs who came from Troy, and whose deeds Holinshed so minutely
+chronicles.
+
+But this is all trash and nonsense, and is a cunning device of the able
+editors aforesaid, who confound—for their own purposes—the city proper
+with the tiny hamlet of Wolf’s Glow. This little village or cluster of
+houses, which now forms a part, and the dirtiest part, of the city, can
+indeed be traced through Hundred Rolls, Domesday Book, and Saxon
+Charters, almost down to the time of the Romans. But Stirmingham, the
+prosperous and proud Stirmingham, which thinks that the world could not
+exist without its watches and guns, its plated goods, its monster
+factories and mills, which sends cargoes to Timbuctoo, and supplies
+Java and Malabar with idols—this vast place, whose nickname is a
+by-word for cheating, for fair outward show and no real solidity, owes
+its existence to a water-rat. This is a fact. And it happened in this
+way.
+
+Once upon a time there was a wide expanse of utterly useless land, flat
+as this sheet of paper, without a trace of subsoil or any kind of earth
+in which so much as a blade of grass could grow. It was utterly dry and
+sterile—not a tree nor a shrub to shelter a cow or a horse, and all men
+avoided it as a waste and desolate place. It was the very abomination
+of desolation, and no one would have been surprised to have seen satyrs
+and other strange creatures diverting themselves thereon. Around one
+edge of this plain there flowed a brook, so small that one could hardly
+call it by that name. A dainty lady from Belgravia could have easily
+stepped across it without soiling the sole of her boot.
+
+At one spot beside this brook there grew a willow tree. This tree was a
+picture in itself, and would have made the fortune of any artist who
+would have condescended to make a loving study of it. The trunk had
+been of very large size, but now resembled a canoe standing upon end,
+for nearly one half had decayed, and the crumbling wood had
+disappeared, leaving a hollow stem. The stem was itself dead and
+decaying, except one thin streak of green, up which the golden sap of
+life still ran, and invigorated the ancient head of the tree to send
+forth yellow buds and pointed leaves. Up one side of the hollow trunk
+an ivy creeper had climbed to the top, and was fast hanging festoons
+from bough to bough.
+
+In the vast mass of decaying wood at the top or head of the tree a
+briar had taken root—its seed no doubt dropped by some thrush—and its
+prickly shoots hung over and drooped to the ground in luxuriance of
+growth. The hardy fern had also found a lodging here, and its dull
+green leaves, which they say grow most by moonlight, formed a species
+of crown to the dying tree.
+
+This willow was the paradise of such birds as live upon insects, for
+they abounded in the decaying wood; and at the top a wild pigeon had
+built its nest. As years went by, the willow bent more and more over
+the brook. The water washing the soil out from between its roots formed
+a hollow space, where a slight eddy scooped out a deeper hole, in which
+the vermillion—throated stickleback or minnow disported and watched the
+mouth of its nest. This eddy also weakened the tree by undermining it
+at its foundation. The ivy grew thicker till it formed a perfect bush
+upon the top, and this in the winter afforded a hold for the wind to
+shake the tree by. The wind would have passed harmlessly through the
+slender branches, but the ivy, even in winter, the season of storms,
+left something against which it could rage with effect. Finally came
+the water-rat.
+
+If Stirmingham objects to owe its origin to a water-rat, it may at
+least congratulate itself upon the fact that it was a good old English
+rat—none of your modern parvenu, grey Hanoverian rascals. It was, in
+fact, before the Norwegian rat, which had been imported in the holds of
+vessels, had obtained undisputed sway over the country. It had,
+however, already driven the darker aboriginal inhabitants away from the
+cultivated places to take refuge in the woods and streams. It is odd
+that in the animal kingdom also, even in the rat economy, the darker
+hued race should give way to the lighter. However, as in Stirmingham
+the smoke is so great that the ladies when they walk abroad carry
+parasols up to keep the blacks from falling on and disfiguring their
+complexion, there can after all be no disgrace in the water-rat
+ancestry.
+
+This dark coloured water-rat, finding his position less and less secure
+at the adjacent barn on account of the attacks of the grey invaders,
+one fine day migrated, with Mrs Rat and all the Master and Missy rats,
+down to the stream. Peeping and sniffing about for a pleasant retreat,
+he chose the neighbourhood of the willow tree. I cannot stay here to
+discuss whether or no he was led to the tree by some mystic beckoning
+hand—some supernatural presentiment; but to the tree he went, and
+Stirmingham was founded. Two or three burrows—small round
+holes—sufficed to house Mr Rat and his family, but these ran right
+under the willow, and of course still further weakened it.
+
+In course of time the family flourished exceedingly, and Mr Rat became
+a great-great-great-grandpapa to ever so many minor Frisky Tails. These
+Frisky Tails finding the ancient quarter too much straightened for
+comfort, began to scratch further tunnels, and succeeded pretty well in
+opening additional honeycombs, till presently progress was stayed by a
+root of the tree. Now they had gnawed through and scratched away half a
+dozen other roots, and never paused to sniff more particularly at this
+than the others. But it so happened that this root was the one which
+supplied the green streak up the trunk of the tree with the golden sap
+of life drawn by mysterious chemical processes from the earth. Frisky
+Tails gnawed this root asunder, and cut off the supply of sap. The
+green streak up the trunk withered and died, and the last stay of the
+willow was gone. It only remained for the first savage south-wester of
+winter to finish the mischief.
+
+The south-wester came, and over went the trunk, crash across the brook.
+At first this was very awkward for the rats, as thereby most of their
+subterranean dwellings became torn up and exposed. But very soon a
+geological change occurred.
+
+The tree had fallen obliquely across the stream, and its ponderous
+head, or top, choked up the bed, or very nearly. The sand and small
+sticks, leaves, and so on, brought down by the current, filled up the
+crevices left by the tree, and a perfect dam was formed.
+
+Now, as stated before, the ground thereabout was nearly level, and so
+worthless in character that no man ever troubled his head about it. No
+one came to see the dam or remove it. The result was the brook
+overflowed, and then finding this level plateau, instead of eating out
+a new channel, it spread abroad, and formed first a good-sized puddle,
+then a pond, then something like a flood, and, as time went by, a
+marsh. This marsh extended over a space of ground fully a mile long,
+and altogether covered some nine hundred acres.
+
+The rats, sagacious creatures, instead of deserting their colony,
+showed that they possessed that species of wisdom which the Greek sage
+said was superior to all other knowledge—namely, the knowledge how to
+turn an evil to a good. Exploring this shallow lake which their
+carelessness had caused, they found several places still
+unsubmerged—islands, in fact. To one of these they swam, dug out new
+catacombs, and being now quite safe from interruption, and protected
+upon all sides, the Malthusian laws of population had full play, and
+soon proved its force, for the whole place swarmed with them. The
+axiom, however, that at the very point when empires are apparently most
+prosperous, their destruction is near at hand, to some extent applied
+even to the dominion of the water-rat. They were no longer to be the
+sole undisturbed possessors.
+
+Arguing _à priori_, one would have concluded that if this waste land
+was worthless before, now it was a marsh, and miasmatic vapours arose
+from it, it would be still more avoided. But the facts were exactly
+opposite. So soon as ever the water had spread over the level plain,
+and had well soaked into the sterile soil, there began to spring up
+tough aquatic grasses, commonly called bull-polls, from a supposed
+resemblance between their tangled appearance and the rough hair that
+hangs over the poll of a bull.
+
+These grasses are gregarious—that is to say, they prefer to grow in
+huge bunches. Each bunch increasing year after year, forms in time a
+small hillock or tuft, and, the roots spreading and spreading, these
+hillocks of grass almost covered the lake, leaving only narrow channels
+of water between. Upon these innumerable frogs and toads crawled up out
+of the water, and they were the chosen resorts of newts.
+
+In summer time the blue dragon-fly wheeled in mazes over them, or,
+while settled on the stiff blades of grass, looked like a species of
+blossom. The current of the brook brought down seeds, and soon the tall
+reed began to rear its slender stem, and rustle its feathery head in
+the breeze. The sedges came also, and fringed the marsh with a border
+of green.
+
+Meantime, the root which the rats had gnawed asunder beneath the
+ancient willow tree, felt the power of spring, and made one more
+effort. Freed from the incubus of the dead trunk, it threw out a shoot
+of its own. From this shoot there proceeded other shoots; and, in
+short, after a while the islands in the marsh became covered with
+willow trees and osier-beds. The reeds grew apace, and by the time the
+islands were clothed with willow, the rest of the marsh was occupied by
+them, saving only the fringe of sedge, and the almost immortal
+bull-polls, which were as tough as leather, and which nothing could
+kill.
+
+Now, also, animal life began to people the once-deserted waste. With
+the sedges came the sedge-warblers; with the willows came the
+brook-sparrows; and above all, came the wild-fowl. The heron stalked to
+and fro between the bull-polls; the ducks swam in and out; the
+moor-hens took up their residence; and in winter the widgeons and
+snipes visited the place in myriads.
+
+It was now time for man. And man came. He came first in the person of
+here and there a cotter, who cut himself a huge bundle of reeds for
+fuel, to mend his thatch, or litter his pig; then in the person of the
+poacher—if it could be called poaching to hunt where no one
+preserved—who, with long-barrelled gun, brass-fitted and flint-locked,
+brought down half a dozen ducks at once, and then waded in after them.
+
+One day a travelling gipsy tribe came by, and encamped for the night
+close to the marsh. In this tribe there was a man who, in his way,
+possessed the genius of Alexander the Great. Alexander chancing to pass
+a landlocked harbour utterly neglected, saw at a glance its
+capabilities, and built a city which is renowned to this day.
+
+This gipsy fellow, who was only a gipsy by marriage, saw this
+unoccupied marsh, with its wild-fowl, its fish, and, above all, its
+willows, and at once fixed upon it as a promising spot.
+
+He was a basket-maker by trade.
+
+He waded in to one of the islets, carrying his infant in his arms, and
+followed by his wife, who carried his tools. He set up his tent-pole,
+and in time superseded it with a cottage of sod, roofed with reeds. All
+day he made baskets of willow and flags, in the evening he shot ducks
+and widgeon. The baskets he sold in the towns, the ducks he ate. One or
+two others followed his example.
+
+The gipsy tribe made it a rule to come that way twice a year to
+purchase the baskets and retail them all over the country. The original
+settlers had sons, and the sons took possession of other islets, built
+sod cottages, of wattle-and-daub, and married wives, till there were
+ten or twelve settlements upon the islands; and these ten or twelve,
+all in a rude sort of way, gave the chieftainship to the original
+basket-maker, whose name happened to be Baskette.
+
+These people, in the heart of a midland county, lived almost exactly
+the life that was led at the same period by the dwellers in the fen
+countries to the eastward. It was a rude existence, but it was free and
+independent, and not without a charm to those who had been born and
+bred in it. Even this unenviable life was, however, to be disturbed.
+Two mighty giants were preparing, like the ogres in the fairy tales, to
+eat up the defenceless population. The lid of a certain tea-kettle had
+puffed up and down, and Steam had been born. The other ogre was called
+Legal Rights, and began to bite first.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Two.
+
+
+So long as this waste land was tenanted only by the “owl and the
+bittern,” Legal Rights slumbered. The moment man put his foot upon it
+the ogre woke up, for it is not permitted to that miserable two-legged
+creature to rest in peace anywhere in this realm.
+
+The village of Wolf’s Glow was distant about a mile and a quarter from
+the old willow tree whose fall had dammed up the brook and caused the
+marsh. The brook, in fact, ran past the village, and supplied more than
+one farmhouse with water. These farms were of the poorest class—mere
+stretches of pasture-land, and such pasture which a well-fed donkey
+would despise!
+
+The poorest farm, in appearance at all events, was Wick—a large but
+tumbledown place, roofed with grey slates, which, stood apart from the
+village. It was the largest house in the place, and yet seemed the most
+poverty-stricken. The grey slates were falling off. The roof-tree had
+cracked and bent, the lattice windows were broken, and the holes
+stuffed up with bundles of hay and straw. The garden was choked with
+weeds, and the very apple trees in the orchard were withering away.
+
+Old Sibbold, the owner and occupier, was detested by the entire
+village, and by no one more than his two sons. He was a miser, and yet
+nothing seemed to prosper with him; and pare and save as much as he
+would he could make no accumulation. His sons were the only labourers
+he employed, though his farm was the largest thereabouts, and he paid
+them only in lodging and food, and not much of the latter.
+
+The eldest, Arthur, chafed bitterly under this treatment, for he
+appears, from the scanty records that remain of him, to have been a lad
+of spirit and energy.
+
+The second son, James, was of a grosser nature, and his mind was
+chiefly occupied with eating and drinking. He had an implicit faith in
+the wealth of his father, and submitted patiently to all these
+hardships and rough treatment in the hope of ingratiating himself with
+the old man, and perhaps supplanting Arthur in his will—that is, so far
+as his money was concerned, for the land, as the villagers said, “went
+by heirship”—i.e. was entailed—but who would care for such land?
+
+Arthur saw the game and did nothing to prevent it; on the contrary, he
+took a certain pleasure in irritating the savage and morose old man,
+whom he thoroughly despised. Perhaps what happened in the future was a
+punishment for this unfilial conduct, however much it was provoked.
+
+The mother, it must be understood, had long been dead, and there was no
+mediator between the stern old man and his fiery-tempered son. Old
+Sibbold was descended of a good family—one that had once held a
+position, not only in the county but in the country—and he dwelt much
+on the past, recalling the time when a Sibbold had held a bishop a
+prisoner for King John.
+
+He pored over the deeds in his old oak chest—a press, which stood on
+four carved legs, and was closed with a ponderous padlock. That chest,
+if it could be found now, would be worth its weight, not in gold
+merely, but in diamonds. At that time these deeds and parchments were
+of little value; they related mostly to by-gone days, and Arthur
+ridiculed his father’s patient study of their crabbed handwriting.
+
+What was the use of dwelling on the past?—up and speculate on the
+present!
+
+Irritated beyond measure, old Sibbold would reply that half the county
+belonged to him, and he could prove it. All that they could see from
+that window was his.
+
+“Why,” said Arthur, “all we can see is the Lea, which is as barren as
+the crown of my hat, except in weeds and bulrushes!”
+
+“Barren or not, they’re mine,” said Sibbold, closing his chest; “and I
+will make those squatters pay!”
+
+For the Lea was that piece of waste ground which the brook had
+overflowed, and in a sense rendered fertile.
+
+From that hour began a persecution of the basket-makers who had settled
+on the little islets in the marsh. Sibbold had an undoubted parchment
+right—whether he had a moral and true right to a place he had never
+touched with spade or plough is a different matter. He claimed a rent.
+The cotters refused to pay. Their chieftain, old Will Baskette, wanted
+to compromise matters, and offered a small quit-rent.
+
+Now every one knows that quit-rent and rent are very different things
+in a legal point of view. A man who pays rent can be served with notice
+to quit. A man who pays quit-rent has a claim upon the soil, and cannot
+be ejected. Sibbold refused the quit-rent, and had the squatters served
+with a notice. They went on cutting reeds, weaving baskets, and
+shooting wild-fowl, just the same; till one day old Sibbold,
+accompanied with a posse of constables (there were no police in those
+days), walked into the marsh with his jack-boots on; and, while one of
+the cotters was absent selling his baskets, began to tear the little
+hut down, despite the curses of the women and the wailing of the
+children. But the hut, as it happened, was stronger in reality than
+appearance, and resisted the attack, till one of the constables
+suggested fire.
+
+A burning brand from the cottage hearth was applied by old Sibbold
+himself to the reed thatch, and in a moment up shot a fierce blaze
+which left nothing but ashes, and sod walls two feet high. One can
+imagine the temper a man of gipsy blood would be in when, on returning
+home, he found his children crying and the women silent, sitting among
+the ruins. From that hour a spirit of revenge took possession of the
+dwellers in this Dismal Swamp of hostility to the village.
+
+Hitherto these half savage people had paid of their own free will a
+kind of tribute to the regular house-folk of Wolf’s Glow. The farmers’
+wives received useful presents of baskets and clothes-pegs, and every
+now and then half a dozen wild ducks were found on the threshold in the
+morning. The clergyman was treated in a similar manner; and being known
+to have a penchant for snipes and woodcocks, his table was well
+supplied in the season. Sometimes there were other things left in a
+mysterious way at the door—such as a bladder full of the finest brandy
+or Hollands gin, or a packet of tobacco or snuff.
+
+This was generally after the visit of the gipsy tribe, who were
+smugglers to a considerable extent. No farmer ever missed a lamb or a
+horse: such property was far safer since the settlement of the Dismal
+Swamp.
+
+But now the village had attacked the Swamp, the Swamp retaliated on the
+village, and a regular war commenced. The farmers’ sheep began to
+disappear—none so often as old Sibbold’s. Once a valuable horse of his
+was lost. This drove him to the verge of frenzy. He went down to the
+Swamp, and presently returned swearing and vowing vengeance—he had been
+shot at. This aroused the clergyman into action. He went to the Swamp,
+and was received with respect. He talked of conciliation, and reproved
+them, especially speaking of the sin of murder. They listened, but
+utterly scouted the idea.
+
+“We steal,” they said, openly. “It is our revenge; but we do not
+murder. Sibbold was not fired at. One of our young men was seeking
+ducks—he did not know that Sibbold at the same moment was creeping
+noiselessly through the reeds to fire our huts. He shot at the ducks,
+and some of the pellets glanced off Sibbold’s jack-boots. That’s the
+truth.”
+
+And it was the truth. But Sibbold vowed vengeance, and was heard to say
+that he would have their blood. He refused to see the clergyman who
+came to mediate and explain. He accused him of complicity, and reviled
+him.
+
+James, as usual, agreed with and seconded him. Arthur sided with the
+squatters, and said so openly. Sibbold cursed him. Arthur said
+pointedly that when he inherited the land the squatters should be
+unmolested. Sibbold struck him with an ash stick.
+
+Arthur left the house and went to the Swamp. He called on old Will
+Baskette, and expressed his hatred of his father’s tyranny. He asked to
+be taught to make baskets, and to be initiated into the gipsy
+mysteries. He was a quick lad, and they took an interest in teaching
+him. He soon knew how to make two or three kinds of baskets, learnt the
+gipsy language, and imbibed their singular traditions.
+
+Meantime the war continued. At first the farmers and villagers put up
+with patience with their thefts, considering that it was Sibbold’s
+fault. But repeated losses exasperated them. If one of the Dismal Swamp
+people was seen abroad he was set upon and maltreated, beaten black and
+blue. Savage dogs were hounded at them. Sibbold was encouraged to eject
+them. He tried to get a posse of constables to do so, but the
+constables hung back. They had heard the story of the shooting at
+Sibbold; they knew these men to be desperate characters; and most of
+them had had presents of brandy and tobacco, and ribbons for their
+wives.
+
+They could not be got to move. That was a lawless age in outlying
+places. Finding this, the village began to contemplate a raid _en
+masse_ upon the Swamp. Nothing was talked of in the alehouse but
+fighting. Men compared the length of their gun-barrels, and put up
+marks to prove the range of their shot. The younger men were ready for
+the fray, the elders hesitated. They looked at their thatched houses,
+at their barns and ricks. The insurance companies had not then
+penetrated into the most obscure nooks and corners.
+
+After all, the Swamp people were not unsupported: they were a branch of
+a tribe. If they were seriously injured the tribe might return, and no
+one could calculate the consequences.
+
+So the foray was put off from day to day. But the news that it was
+meditated soon reached the Swamp, and made the dwellers there more
+desperate than ever. Their thefts grew to such a height that nothing
+was safe. The geese and turkeys disappeared; wheat was stolen from the
+barns; sheep were taken by the dozen, and no trace could be found. Now
+and then a horse disappeared. It came to such a pitch that the very
+beer in the barrels, the cider in the cellar, was not safe, but was
+taken nightly.
+
+Old Sibbold, of course, suffered most. Tapping a cider barrel, he found
+it quite empty. The old man was beside himself with rage; but he said
+nothing. He studied retaliation. He watched his barns—the wheat seemed
+to disappear under his very eyes. One night as he was returning from
+his barn, carrying his long-barrelled flint-lock under his arm, he
+fancied he saw a gleam of light in the ivy, which almost hid the cellar
+window. Stealthily he peeped through. There was a man stooping down,
+drawing off the cider from a barrel into a bucket.
+
+Old Sibbold’s lips compressed; a fire came into his eyes. He grasped
+his gun. Just then the thief held up the candle in his left hand, and
+revealed the features of old Will Baskette, the very chief of the
+Swamp. Sibbold hated him more particularly because he knew that Arthur
+frequented his hut. Up went the long gun. The gleam of light from the
+candle guided the aim. The muzzle was close to the lattice window. A
+cruel eye glanced along the barrel, a finger was on the trigger. The
+flint struck the steel with a sharp snick—a spark flew out—an
+explosion—the window-glass smashed—a cloud of smoke—one groan, and all
+was still.
+
+Sibbold rushed round the house, opened the door gently, locked it
+behind him, and stole upstairs. On the landing he met his youngest son
+James. For a moment they looked at one another. The young man spoke
+first.
+
+“Quick, and load your gun,” he said. “Then put it in the rack and get
+into bed. Give me your breeches.”
+
+They wore breeches and gaiters in those days.
+
+The old man did as he was bid. The gun was put in the rack; old Sibbold
+got into bed. James took his breeches, poured a bucket of water on
+them, and hung them up in the wide chimney—the embers still glowed on
+the hearth. Then he stole upstairs.
+
+“Arthur is out,” he whispered, as he passed the old man’s bedroom.
+
+Ten minutes passed. Then there arose clatter of feet and a shouting.
+
+“Farmer! farmer! your house is a-fire. The thatch be caught alight.”
+
+James opened the window, yawned, and asked what was the matter.
+
+“Father’s asleep,” he said, as if not comprehending them. “He got wet
+in the brook, and went to bed early. Can’t ye come in the morning?”
+
+But the others soon roused the house.
+
+The thatch had indeed caught over the cellar window; but fortunately it
+was nearly covered with moss and weeds, and was easily put out.
+
+Then some one noticed the smashed window. “Who was it fired?” they
+asked. “We heard a shot, and thought it was the swampers. We were
+watching our sheep and barns. Then we saw this fire in your thatch, and
+ran. Who was it fired? How came the window smashed like this? How came
+the thatch alight?” James answered, “He really did not know. He had
+heard no shot, he slept sound, knew nothing of the thatch being on
+fire, and they would have been burnt in their beds if it had not been
+for their kind neighbours.” Old Sibbold stood and shivered in his
+shirt, his breeches were wet. The neighbours came in.
+
+“I’ll go upstairs and fetch father a blanket to wrap his knees in,”
+said James. “Father, thee blow the embers up; John Andrews, thee knows
+where the cellar is: give ’em the key, father, and do you go, John, and
+draw some cider.”
+
+Away went John Andrews with the lantern, and came back with a face
+white as a sheet, just as James got downstairs. There was a dead man in
+the cellar, in a flood of gore and cider!
+
+The result was a coroner’s inquiry; the thefts and so forth might have
+gone on for ever, but death could not be disregarded. Even in that
+lawless age, death was attended to. An inquest was held, and the jury
+was composed of the farmers of the village. Suspicion fell very
+strongly upon old Sibbold. The Swamp people openly denounced him as the
+murderer. His neighbours, much as they hated the Swamp, believed in
+their hearts that they were right; and not all their class prejudice
+could overcome the innate horror they felt in his presence. More than
+one had heard him say he would have blood. Now there was blood enough.
+
+Still there was not enough evidence to arrest Sibbold. The Swamp people
+said he would run away, and if he did they would watch him and bring
+him back. But Sibbold did nothing of the kind. He faced the inquiry
+with a stern dignity which imposed on some.
+
+First came the medical evidence. The doctor proved that the shot had
+entered the left side, just below the heart, and had passed downwards.
+It had entered all together—the pellets not spread about, but close
+together, like a bullet, which proved that the gun had been fired very
+close. Death must have been absolutely instantaneous. Deceased was in a
+stooping posture when he received the charge.
+
+The constable who had examined the premises, declared it as his
+belief—as, indeed, it was the belief of everyone present—that the shot
+had been fired from without the window. The shot itself could not have
+smashed every pane—that was the concussion. The thatch had been
+doubtless set on fire by a piece of the paper which had been used as
+wadding.
+
+When this had been said there was nothing more to be done, at least so
+the jury thought. Suspect Sibbold as much as they would, they were
+determined to protect him if possible. This was partly class-feeling,
+and partly remembrance of the provocation.
+
+But the Coroner was not to be put off so easily. He had Sibbold called,
+and questioned him closely. He called James also, but they both stuck
+to their tale; they had never heard the shot, etc. The Coroner sent for
+Sibbold’s gun, keeping Sibbold and James at the inn where the inquest
+was held meantime. It was brought. It told no tales: it was loaded.
+Finally, the Coroner, still dissatisfied and vaguely suspicious, called
+_Arthur_ Sibbold, who, white as a sheet, was sitting near on a bench
+watching the proceedings.
+
+He started at his name and looked round, but finally came forward.
+Where had he been that night? He was at Bassett, a small town six miles
+distant. What was his business there? what time did he leave? and so
+on. Arthur answered, but not so clearly as was desired. He contradicted
+himself as to the time at which he left Bassett, and got confused.
+
+The Coroner’s suspicions shifted upon him. He must have arrived about
+the time the shot was heard, yet he did not go indoors, did not show
+himself till breakfast-time next morning. James vouched for that,
+unasked. What was he doing all night?
+
+Suspicion fell very strong on Arthur. But at this moment the wife of
+the deceased started forward and declared her belief in his innocence,
+recounting how he had learnt basket-making, etc, of the dead man, and
+they had been on the most friendly terms.
+
+Still, said the Coroner, he might have mistaken his man in the
+uncertain light. Had he a gun? It was shown that the three Sibbolds had
+but one gun; that Arthur never used a gun, being of a tender nature,
+and often expressing his dislike to see birds wantonly slaughtered.
+
+The Sibbolds were then, with the other witnesses, ordered out, and the
+Coroner addressed the jury.
+
+He told them plainly where his suspicions lay: one of the Sibbolds, he
+was certain, did the deed, but which? Two were in bed, or at least were
+to all appearance in bed, and one point in their favour was that the
+thatch was alight. Now, if they had known that, they would hardly have
+lain till the neighbours came up. The third was out that night, and,
+according to his own showing, must have returned about the time the
+murder was committed. But in his favour it was urged that he was on the
+best of terms with the deceased; that he had no gun of his own; that he
+disliked the use of a gun. He said much more, but these were the chief
+points, and particularly he laid down the law. They must not imagine
+because a man was stealing that thereby his life was at any one’s
+mercy. If a struggle took place, and the thief was killed in the
+struggle, there were then several loopholes of escape from the penalty
+of the law. First, it might be called chance-medley; next, there would
+be a doubt whether the stab or shot was not given in self-defence, and
+was not intended to kill. But in this case there was every appearance
+of deliberate murder. The thief had been spied at the cask; the
+murderer had coolly aimed along his gun and fired, hitting his man in a
+vital part, evidently of design and aforethought.
+
+He then left the jury to their deliberations. They talked it over half
+an hour in a sullen manner, and then _returned an open verdict_—“Found
+dead.” The Coroner remonstrated, and recommended that at least it
+should be “Wilful murder against persons unknown,” but they were
+obstinate.
+
+That verdict stands to this day. The dread spectre of the gallows
+vanished from Wolf’s Glow. Old Will Baskette was buried in the
+churchyard, and his funeral was attended by the whole of the Swamp
+people and half the village. And over their ale the farmers whispered
+that it served the old thief right, but they avoided old Sibbold. The
+work of the rats had already brought fruit in bloodshed.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Three.
+
+
+In these days such a verdict and such an ending to a tragedy would be
+out of the question; but there were no police in those times to take up
+a case if it chanced to slip by the Coroner. Once past the Coroner, and
+the criminal was practically safe. The county officers were never in a
+hurry for such prosecutions, for a gallows cost at least 300 pounds.
+They wanted a public prosecutor then ten times more than we do now.
+Sibbold was shunned by the very men who had acquitted him; but there is
+no reason to suppose he ever felt remorse. He was made of that kind of
+stuff of which the men in armour, his ancestors, were composed, who
+thought little or nothing of human life. But one day he met Arthur, his
+eldest son, face to face upon the stairs. It was the first time they
+had met since the inquest—Arthur had avoided the place, and wandered
+about a good deal by himself, till some simple folk began to think that
+it was he who had committed the deed, and that his conscience was
+troubling him.
+
+This meeting on the stairs took place by accident one morning—Sibbold
+was going to pass, but Arthur put his hand on his shoulder, “I saw you
+do it,” he said. He had just entered the rick yard when the shot was
+fired. He had held his peace, but his mind could not rest. “I cannot
+stay here,” he said, “I am going. I shall never see you again.”
+
+Old Sibbold stood like a stone; but presently put his hand in his
+pocket and held out his purse.
+
+“No,” said Arthur; “not a penny of that, it would be blood money.”
+
+He went, and evil report went after him. Perhaps it was James who
+fanned the flame, but for years afterwards it was always believed that
+Arthur had shot the basket-maker. Only the Swamp people combated the
+notion. Arthur was one of them, and understood their language—it was
+impossible. Not to have to return to these times, it will be, perhaps,
+best to at once finish with old Sibbold; though the event did not
+really happen till some time after Arthur’s departure.
+
+Sibbold went to a fair at some twenty miles distance—a yearly custom of
+his; and returning home in the evening, he was met by highwaymen, it is
+supposed, and refusing to give up his money bag, was shot. At all
+events his horse came home riderless, and the body of the old man was
+found on the heath divested of every article of value. Suspicion at
+once fell on his known enemies, the Swamp people. Their cottages were
+searched and nothing found. Their men were interrogated, but had all
+been either at home or in another direction. Calm reason put down
+Sibbold’s death to misadventure with highwaymen, common enough in those
+times; but there were those who always held that it was done in
+revenge, as it was believed that the gipsies retained the old vendetta
+creed.
+
+As Arthur did not return, James took possession, and went on as usual;
+but he did not disturb the Swamp settlement. He avoided them, and they
+avoided him.
+
+When Will Baskette was shot he left a widow and two sons, one of them
+was strong and hardy, the other, about sixteen, was delicate and unfit
+for rough outdoor life. This fact was well-known to the clergyman at
+Wolf’s Glow, the Rev. Ralph Boteler, who was really a
+benevolently-minded man.
+
+The widow and her eldest son joined the gipsy tribe and abandoned the
+Swamp. The Rev. Ralph Boteler took the delicate Romy Baskette into his
+service as man of all work, meaning to help in the garden and clean the
+parson’s nag. Romy could not read, and the parson taught him—also to
+write. Being quiet and good-looking, the lad won on the vicar, who
+after a time found himself taking a deep interest in the friendless
+orphan. It ended in Romy leaving the garden and the stable, and being
+domiciled in the studio, where the parson filled his head with
+learning, not forgetting Latin and Greek.
+
+The vicar was a single man, middle-aged, with very little thought
+beyond his own personal comfort, except that he liked to see the hounds
+throw off, being too stout to follow them. He had, however, one hobby;
+and, like other men who are moderate enough upon other topics, he was
+violence itself upon this. Of all the hobbies in the world, this
+parson’s fancy was geology—then just beginning to emerge as a real
+science.
+
+The neighbours thought the vicar was as mad as a March hare on this one
+point. He grubbed up the earth in forty places with a small mattock he
+had made on purpose at the village blacksmith’s. He broke every stone
+in the district with a hammer which the same artisan made for him.
+
+His craze was that the neighbourhood of Wolf’s Glow was rich in the two
+great stores of nature which make countries powerful—i.e. in Coal and
+Iron. He proved it in twenty ways. First, the very taste of the water,
+and the colour of the earth in the streams; by the nodules of dark,
+heavy stone which abounded; by the oily substance often found floating
+on the surface of ponds—rock oil; by the strata and the character of
+the fossils; by actual analysis of materials picked up by himself;
+lastly, by archaeology.
+
+Wolf’s Glow! What was the meaning of that singular name? The only Glow
+in the county. Wolf was, perhaps, a man’s name in the centuries since.
+But Glow? Glow was, without a doubt, the ancient British for _coal_.
+
+The people who argued against him—and they were all he met—ridiculed
+the idea of the ancient Britons knowing anything of coal. Boteler
+produced his authorities to show that they, and their conquerors the
+Romans, were perfectly familiar with that mineral. Wolf’s Glow was, in
+fact, Wolf’s Coal Pit. “Very well,” said the Objectors, “show us the
+coal pit, and we’ll believe.” This the vicar could not do, and was held
+to be mad accordingly.
+
+But all this talking, and searching, and analysing made a deep
+impression upon the mind of young Romy Baskette, who was now hard upon
+twenty years of age. Boteler, really desirous of pushing the lad on,
+sent him to London, whither Arthur Sibbold had preceded him, and placed
+him, at a high premium, in the care of a friend of his, who was in the
+iron trade. Romy grew and prospered, and being of a serious disposition
+saved all the money he could lay hands on. Presently old Boteler died,
+and left him, not all, but a great share of his worldly wealth. With
+this he bought a share in the iron business, and became a partner.
+Wealth rolled in upon him, and at an early period of life he retired
+from active labour, married, and bought an estate a few miles from
+Wolf’s Glow.
+
+In his leisure hours the memory of the old days with the vicar
+returned. He resolved to test the vicar’s theory. He purchased a small
+piece of land in Wolf’s Glow parish, sank a shaft, and sure enough came
+upon _coal_.
+
+This discovery revivified the whole man. He cast off sloth, forgot all
+about retirement, and plunged into business again. Another search,
+conducted by practical hands, proved the existence of iron.
+
+There was a _furore_. Collieries were started; iron furnaces set going.
+It was just at the dawn of the great iron and coal trade. The railways
+had been started, and the demand was greater than the supply. Romy
+Baskette and Company soon employed two thousand hands coal-digging and
+iron-smelting. The man, in fact, wore himself out at the trade of
+money-making. He could not rest. Night and day his brain was at work:
+An accidental conversation with one of his workmen suggested to him a
+new idea. The smiths of the time could not make nails fast enough for
+all the building that was going on. This workman had been a sailor in
+his day, and had seen nails abroad which were made in batches by
+machinery, instead of slowly and laboriously, one by one, by hand.
+
+Baskette caught at the idea. He studied and learnt what he could. He
+made a voyage himself abroad, and soon mastered the secret. He erected
+machinery, and _cut_ nails were first made. The consumption was
+enormous. The business of this Baskette and Company became so large
+that it almost passed out of control. Meantime other firms had come and
+settled, bought land, dug up coal, and set up smelting furnaces. In ten
+years the population from being absolutely nil rose to thirty-five
+thousand people. By this time Romy had killed himself. But that
+mattered little, for he had left a son, and a son who inherited all his
+genius, and was—if anything still “harder in the mouth.” He was named,
+from his mother’s family, Sternhold Baskette.
+
+Sternhold picked up the plough-handle which had dropped from his
+father’s grasp, and continued the good work, never once looking back.
+But although equally clever, the bent of his genius was different from
+that of old Romy. Romy was at heart a speculator, and believed in
+personal property. Sternhold was a Conservative, and put his faith in
+real property, houses, and land. He kept up the old forges and
+collieries, but he started no new ones. He invested the money in land
+and houses, particularly the latter. His life may be summed up in two
+strokes of genius—the first was bringing the iron horse to Stirmingham,
+as the new town was called; the second was the building lease
+investment.
+
+It is hard to give the pre-eminence to either. They were both profound
+schemes—neither would have been complete without the other. He did not
+originate the idea of the railway—that was done for him—but he put it
+on its legs, and he brought it to the centre of the town.
+
+The original scheme almost omitted Stirmingham. Railways were not then
+fully understood; their projectors had such vast ideas in their heads,
+they aimed at long trunk lines, and so this railroad was to connect
+London, the sea, and a certain large town—larger than Stirmingham then,
+but now nothing beside the modern city.
+
+Sternhold, as the largest shareholder, and as finding the capital to
+get through Parliament, prevailed to have the course altered so as to
+sweep by Stirmingham. He knew that this would improve his property
+there at least fifty per cent. But he had other ideas in his head. The
+line could not be finished under three years, and in those three years
+it was his intention to become possessed of the whole ground upon which
+the town of Stirmingham stood. He foresaw that it would become a mighty
+centre. He braced up his nerves, and prepared to spend his darling
+hoards like water.
+
+One by one the fields, the plots, the houses, became his; and the greed
+growing on him, he cast longing eyes on the adjacent marsh, now called
+Glow’s Lea.
+
+The solicitors he employed tried to restrain his infatuation. They
+represented to him that even his vast wealth could not sustain this
+more than kingly expenditure, and as to the marsh, it was sheer madness
+to purchase it. In vain. Perhaps a tinge of pride had something to do
+with it. He would buy up the rotten old Swamp where his progenitor had
+dwelt, drain it, and cover it with mansions.
+
+But now came a difficulty—the title to the ground was not all that
+could be wished. James had been dead some years, but it was well-known
+that had Arthur returned—if Arthur still lived, or his heirs—that James
+had no right. He had enjoyed the farm and the land, such as it was,
+unmolested, all his life. He had married, and had eight sons. Six of
+these had married since, and most of them had children.
+
+As none could claim the property, they all found a miserable livelihood
+upon it, somehow or other. They had degenerated into a condition little
+better than that of the squatters in the Swamp.
+
+Three families lived in the farmhouse, constantly quarrelling; two made
+their dwelling in the cowsheds, slightly improved; one boiled the pot
+in the great carthouse, and the two single men slept in the barn. Such
+a condition of slovenliness and dirt it would be hard to equal. And the
+language, the fighting, and the immorality are better left undescribed!
+The clergyman of Wolfs Glow wished them further.
+
+To these wretches the offers of Sternhold Baskette came like the
+promised land. He held out 300 pounds apiece, on condition that they
+would jointly sign the deed and then go to America. They jumped at it.
+The solicitor warned Baskette that the contract was not sound. He
+asked, in reply, if any one could produce the deed under which the
+property descended by “heirship.” No one could. Somehow or other it had
+been lost.
+
+In less than a month eight Sibbolds, with their wives and families,
+were _en route_ to the United States, and Sternhold took possession.
+Then came the Swamp settlement difficulty.
+
+At first Baskette thought of carrying matters with a high hand. The
+squatters said they had lived there for two generations, or nearly so,
+and had paid no rent. They had a right. Sternhold remembered that they
+were of his clan. He gave them the same terms as the Sibbolds—and they
+took them. Three hundred pounds to such miserable wretches seemed an El
+Dorado.
+
+They signed a deed, and went to America, filling up half a vessel, for
+there were seventeen heads of families, and children _ad libitum_.
+
+Thus Sternhold bought the farm and the Swamp for 7500 pounds. His aim
+in getting them to America was that no question of right might crop
+up—for the Cunard line was not then what it is now, and the passage was
+expensive and protracted. He reckoned that they would spend the money
+soon after landing, and never have a chance of returning.
+
+Meantime the railway came to a standstill. There had been
+inflation—vast sums of promotion money had been squandered in the usual
+reckless manner, and ruin stared the shareholders in the face. To
+Sternhold it meant absolute loss of all, and above everything, of
+prestige.
+
+Already the keen business men of the place began to sneer at him. At
+any cost the railway must be kept on its legs. He sacrificed a large
+share of his wealth, and the works recommenced. The old swamp, or
+marsh, was drained.
+
+Sternhold had determined to make this the Belgravia of Stirmingham, and
+had the plans prepared accordingly. They were something gigantic in
+costliness and magnificence. His best friends warned and begged him to
+desist. No; he would go on. Stirmingham would become the finest city in
+England, and he should be the richest man in Europe. Up rose palatial
+mansions, broad streets, splendid club-houses—even the foundations of a
+theatre were laid. And all this was begun at once. Otherwise, Sternhold
+was afraid that the compass of an ordinary life would not enable him to
+see these vast designs finished. So that one might walk through streets
+with whole blocks of houses only one story high.
+
+Everything went on swimmingly, till suddenly the mania for speculation
+which had taken possession of all the kingdom received a sudden check
+by the failure of a certain famous railway king.
+
+As if by magic, all the mighty works at Stirmingham ceased, and
+Sternhold grew sombre, and wandered about with dejected step. His
+friends, men of business, reminded him of their former warnings. He
+bent his head, bit his lip, and said only, “Wait!”
+
+Meantime the line had been constructed, but was not opened. The metals
+were down, but the stations were not built, and the locomotives had not
+arrived. Everybody was going smash. Several collieries failed; land and
+houses became cheap. Sternhold invested his uttermost in the same
+property—bought houses, till he had barely enough to keep him in bread
+and cheese. Still they laughed and jeered at him, and still he said
+only, “Wait!”
+
+This place, this swamp, seemed to be fated to demonstrate over and over
+again at one time the futility of human calculation, and at another
+what enormous things can be accomplished by the efforts of a clever
+man.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Four.
+
+
+The owner of three parts of Stirmingham—now a monstrous overgrown city,
+just building a cathedral—actually had nothing but a little bread and
+cheese for supper. There were people who condoled with him, and offered
+to lend him sums of money—not large, but very useful to a starving man,
+one would have thought. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thank you;
+I’ll wait.”
+
+Certain keen speculators tried to come round him in twenty different
+ways. They represented that all this mass of bricks and mortar—this
+unfinished Belgravia—really was not worth owning; no one could ever
+find the coin to finish the plans, and house property had depreciated
+ninety per cent.
+
+“Very true,” said Sternhold. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
+
+He held on like grim death. Men of genius always do—mark Caesar, and
+all of them. ’Tis the bulldog that wins.
+
+By-and-by things began to take a turn. The markets looked up. Iron and
+coal got brisker. The first locomotive was put on the line, then
+another, and another; London could be reached in two hours, goods could
+be transmitted in six, instead of thirty by the old canal or turnpike.
+
+The Stock Exchange got busy again. You could hear the masons and
+bricklayers—chink, tink, tinkle, as their trowels chipped off the
+edges—singing away in chorus. The whistle of the engines was never
+silent. Vast clouds of smoke hung over the country from the factories
+and furnaces. Two or three new trades were introduced—among others, the
+placed goods, cheap jewellery, and idol-making businesses, and
+trade-guns for Africa. Rents began to rise; in two years they went up
+forty per cent. The place got a name throughout the length and breadth
+of the kingdom, and a Name is everything to a town as well as to an
+individual.
+
+But by a curious contradiction, just as his property began to rise in
+value, and his investment looked promising, Sternhold grew melancholy
+and walked about more wretched than ever. The truth soon leaked out—he
+had no money to complete his half-finished streets and blocks of
+houses. Nothing could induce him to borrow; not a halfpenny would he
+take from any man.
+
+There the streets and houses, the theatres, club-houses, magnificent
+mansions, huge hotels, languished, half-finished, some a story, some
+two stories high, exposed to wind and weather. In the midst of a great
+city there was all this desolation, as if an enemy had wreaked his
+vengeance on this quarter only.
+
+Large as were the sums derived from his other properties—houses and
+shops and land, which were occupied—it was all eaten up in the attempt
+to finish this _marble_ Rome in the middle of a brick Babylon. Heavy
+amounts too had to be disbursed to keep the railway going, for it did
+not pay a fraction of dividend yet. Men of business pressed on
+Sternhold. “Let us complete the place,” they said. “Sell it to us on
+building leases; no one man can do the whole. Then we will form three
+or four companies or syndicates, lease it of you, complete the
+buildings, and after seventy years the whole will revert to you or your
+heirs.”
+
+Still Sternhold hesitated. At last he did lease a street or two in this
+way to a company, who went to work like mad, paid the masons and
+bricklayers double wages, kept them at it day and night, and speedily
+were paying twenty per cent, dividends on their shares out of the rents
+of the completed buildings. This caused a rush. Company after company
+was formed. They gave Sternhold heavy premiums for the privilege to buy
+of him; even then it was difficult to get him to grant the leases. When
+he did accept the terms and the ready cash, every halfpenny of it went
+to complete streets on his own account; and so he lived, as it were,
+from hand to mouth.
+
+After all this excitement and rush, after some thousands of workmen
+were put at it, they did not seem to make much impression upon the huge
+desolation of brick and mortar. Streets and squares rose up, and still
+there were acres upon acres of wilderness, foundations half-dug out and
+full of dirty water, walls three feet high, cellars extending heaven
+only knew where.
+
+People came for miles to see it, and called it “Baskette’s Folly.”
+After a while, however, they carefully avoided it, and called it
+something worse—i.e. “The Rookery;” for all the scum and ruffianism of
+an exceptionally scummy and ruffianly residuum chose it as their
+stronghold. Thieves and worse—ill-conditioned women—crowds of lads,
+gipsies, pedlars—the catalogue would be as long as Homer’s—took up
+their residence in these foundations and cellars. They seized on the
+planks which were lying about in enormous piles, and roofed over the
+low walls; and where planks would not do they got canvas.
+
+Now, it is well-known that this class of people do not do much harm
+when they are scattered about and separated here, there, and everywhere
+over a city; but as soon as they are concentrated in one spot, then it
+becomes serious. Gangs are formed, they increase in boldness; the
+police are defied, and not a house is safe.
+
+This place became a crying evil. The papers raved about it, the police
+(there were police now) complained and reported it to head-quarters.
+There was a universal clamour. By this time Stirmingham had got a
+corporation, aldermen, and mayor, who met in a gorgeous Guildhall, and
+were all sharp men of business. Now the corporation began to move in
+this matter of “Baskette’s Folly.” Outside people gave them the credit
+of being good citizens, animated by patriotic motives, anxious for the
+honour of their town, and desirous of repressing crime. Keen thinkers
+knew better—the Corporation was not above a good stroke of business.
+However, what they did was this: After a great deal of talk and
+palaver, and passing resolutions, and consulting attorneys, and
+goodness knows what, one morning a deputation waited upon Sternhold
+Baskette, Esq, at his hotel (he always lived at an hotel), and laid
+before him a handsome proposition. It was to the effect that he should
+lease them the said “Folly,” or incomplete embryo city, for a term of
+years, in consideration whereof they would pay down a certain sum, and
+contract to erect buildings according to plans and specifications
+agreed upon, the whole to revert in seventy years to Sternhold or his
+heirs.
+
+Sternhold fought hard—he asked for extravagant terms, and had to be
+brought to reason by a threat of an appeal by the Corporation to
+Parliament for a private Act.
+
+This sobered him, for he was never quite happy in his secret mind about
+his title. Terms were agreed upon, the earnest money paid, and the
+masons began to work. Then suddenly there was an uproar. The companies
+or syndicates who had leased portions of the estate grew alarmed lest
+this enormous undertaking should, when finished, depreciate their
+property. They cast about for means of opposing it. It is said—but I
+cannot believe it—that they gave secret pay to the thieves and ruffians
+in the cellars to fight the masons and bricklayers, and drive them off.
+
+At all events serious collisions occurred. But the Corporation was too
+strong. They telegraphed to London and got reinforcements, and carried
+the entrenchments by storm.
+
+Then, so goes the discreditable rumour, the companies bribed the masons
+and bricklayers, who built so badly that every now and then houses fell
+in, and there was a fine loss! Finally they got up an agitation, cried
+down the Corporation for wasting public funds, and, what was far more
+serious, brought high legal authority to prove that _as a Corporation_
+they had no power to pledge themselves to such terms as they had, or
+indeed to enter into such a contract without polling the whole city.
+
+This alarmed the Corporation. There were secret meetings and long
+faces. But if one lawyer discovers a difficulty, another can always
+suggest a way round the corner. The Corporation went to Parliament, and
+got a private Act; but they did not go as a body. They went through
+Sternhold, who was persuaded; and indeed it looked plausible, that by
+so doing, and by getting the sanction of the House of Commons, he
+improved his own title.
+
+Then the Corporation smiled, and built away faster than ever. In the
+course of an almost incredibly short time the vast plans of Sternhold
+were completed by the various companies, by the Corporation, and by
+himself; for every penny he got as premium, every penny of ground-rent,
+every penny from his collieries, iron furnaces, and cut-nail factories,
+went in bricks and mortar. It was the most magnificent scheme, perhaps,
+ever started by a single man. The city was proud of it. Like Augustus,
+he had found it brick, and left it marble.
+
+Yet, in reality, he was no richer. The largest owner, probably, of
+house property in the world, he could but just pay his way at his
+hotel. Although he had a fine country house (which old Romy had
+purchased) in the suburbs, he never used it—it was let. He preferred a
+hotel as a single man because there was no trouble to look after
+servants, etc. He lived in the most economical manner—being obliged to,
+in fact.
+
+Yet this very economy increased the popular belief in his riches. He
+was a miser. Give a man that name, let it once stick to him, and there
+is no limit to the fables that will be eagerly received as truth. Give
+a dog a bad name and hang him. Call a man a miser, and, if he is so
+inclined, he can roll in borrowed money, dine every day on presents of
+game and fish, and marry any one he chooses. I only wish I had the
+reputation.
+
+No one listened to Sternhold’s constant reiteration of what was
+true—that he was really poor. It was looked upon as the usual
+stock-in-trade language of a miser. His fame spread. Popular rumour
+magnified and magnified the tale till it became like a chapter from the
+Arabian Nights.
+
+After all, there was some grain of truth in it. If he could have
+grasped all that was his, he would have surpassed all that was said
+about his riches.
+
+At last the _Stirmingham Daily News_ hit upon a good idea to
+out-distance its great rival the _Stirmingham Daily Post_. This idea
+was a “Life of Sternhold Baskette, the Miser of Stirmingham.” After,
+the editor had considered a little, he struck out “miser,” and wrote
+“capitalist”—it had a bigger sound.
+
+The manuscript was carefully got up in secret by the able editor and
+two of his staff, who watched Sternhold like detectives, and noted all
+his peculiarities of physiognomy and manner. They knew—these able
+editors know everything—that the public are particularly curious how
+much salt and pepper their heroes use, what colour necktie they wear,
+and so on. As the editor said, they wanted to make Sternhold the one
+grand central figure—perfect, complete in every detail. And they did
+it.
+
+They traced his origin and pedigree—this last was not quite accurate,
+but near enough. They devoted 150 pages to a mere catalogue of his
+houses, his streets, his squares, club-houses, theatres, hotels,
+railways, collieries, ironworks, nail factories, estates, country
+mansions, etc. They wrote 200 pages of speculations as to the actual
+value of this enormous property; and modestly put the total figure at
+“something under twenty millions, and will be worth half as much again
+in ten years.” They did not forget the building leases; when these fell
+in, said the memoir, he or his heirs would have an income of 750,000
+pounds per annum.
+
+They carefully chronicled the fact that the capitalist had never
+married, that he had no son or daughter, that he was growing old, or,
+at least, past middle age, and had never been known to recognise any
+one as his relation (having, in fact, shipped the whole family to
+America). What a glorious thing this would be for some lucky fellow!
+They finished up with a photograph of Sternhold himself. This was
+difficult to obtain. He was a morose, retiring man—he had never, so far
+as was known, had his portrait taken. It was quite certain that no
+persuasion would induce him to sit for it. The able editor, however,
+was not to be done. On some pretext or other Sternhold was got to the
+office of the paper, and while he sat conversing with the editor, the
+photographer “took him” through a hole made for the purpose in the
+wooden partition between the editor’s and sub-editor’s room. As
+Sternhold was quite unconscious, the portrait was really a very good
+one. Suddenly the world was taken by storm with a “Life of Sternhold
+Baskette, the Capitalist of Stirmingham. His enormous riches, pedigree,
+etc, 500 pages, post octavo, illustrated, price 7 shillings 6 pence.”
+
+The able editor did not confine himself to Stirmingham. Before the book
+was announced he made his London arrangements, also with the lessees of
+the railway bookstalls. At one and the same moment of time, one morning
+Stirmingham woke up to find itself placarded with huge yellow bills
+(the _News_ was Liberal then—it turned its coat later on—and boasted
+that John Bright had been to the office), boys ran about distributing
+handbills at every door, men stood at the street corners handing them
+to everybody who passed.
+
+Flaring posters were stuck up at every railway station in the kingdom;
+ditto in London. The dead walls and hoardings were covered with yellow
+paper printed in letters a foot long. Three hundred agents, boys,
+girls, and men, walked all over the metropolis crying incessantly
+“Twenty Millions of Money,” and handing bills and cards to every one.
+The _Athenaeum, Saturday Review, Spectator_, and _Times_; every paper,
+magazine, review; every large paper in the country had an
+advertisement. The result was something extraordinary.
+
+The name of Sternhold Baskette was on everybody’s lips. His “Twenty
+Millions of Money” echoed from mouth to mouth, from Land’s End to John
+o’ Groats. It crossed the Channel, it crossed the Alps, it crossed the
+Atlantic and the Pacific. It was heard on the Peak of Teneriffe, and in
+the cities of India.
+
+The New York firms seized on it as a mine of wealth. The book,
+reprinted, was sold from the Hudson River to the Rocky Mountains, and
+to the mouth of the Mississippi for twenty cents. The circulation was
+even larger in the United States than in Britain, for there everybody
+worshipped the dollar. The able editor made his fortune. The book ran
+through thirty editions, and wore out two printing machines and three
+sets of type. The two gentlemen of the staff who had assisted in the
+compilation had a fair share, and speedily put on airs. They claimed
+the authorship, though the idea had certainly originated with the
+editor. There was a quarrel. They left, being offered higher salaries
+in this way:—The other paper, the _Post_, though blue in principles,
+grew green with envy, and tried to disparage as much as possible. They
+offered these respectable gentlemen large incomes to cut the book to
+pieces that they themselves had written. No one could do it better—no
+one understood the weak points, and the humbug of the thing so well.
+The fellows went to work with a will. The upshot was a little warfare
+between the Sternholders and the anti-Sternholders. The _News_ upheld
+Sternhold, stuck to everything it had stated, and added more. The
+_Post_ disparaged him in every possible way. This newspaper war had its
+results, as we shall presently see. For the present these two noble
+principled young men, who first wrote a book for pay and then engaged
+to chop it into mincemeat for pay, may be left to search and search
+into the Baskette by-gone history for fresh foul matter to pour forth
+on the hero of Stirmingham.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Five.
+
+
+“The Hero of Stirmingham;” so the _News_ dubbed him; so it became the
+fashion, either in ridicule or in earnest, to call him. People came
+from all parts to see him. Every one who, on business or pleasure, came
+to the city, tried to lodge at the hotel where he lived, or at least
+called there on the chance of meeting the mortal representative of
+Twenty Millions Sterling. The hotel proprietor, who had previously lost
+money by him, and execrated his economy, now reaped a golden harvest,
+and found his business so large that he set about building a monster
+place at one side of the original premises, for he was afraid to pull
+it down lest the capitalist should leave.
+
+Now a curious psychological change was wrought by all this in old
+Sternhold’s character. Up till this period of his life he had been one
+of the most retiring and reserved of men, morose, self-absorbed,
+shrinking from observation. He now became devoured with an insatiable
+vanity. He could not shake off the habit of economy, the frugal manner
+of living, which, he had so long practised; but his mind underwent a
+complete revolution.
+
+It has often been observed that when a man makes one particular subject
+his study, in course of time that which was once clear grows obscure,
+and instead of acquiring extraordinary insight, he loses all method,
+and wanders.
+
+Something of the kind was the case with Sternhold. All his life had
+been devoted to the one great object of owning a city, of being the
+largest proprietor of houses and streets in the world. His whole
+thought, energy, strength, patience—his entire being—had been
+concentrated upon this end. In actual fact, it was not attained yet,
+for he was practically only the nominal owner; but the publication of
+this book acted in a singular manner upon his brain. He grew to believe
+that he really was all that the “Life” represented him to be—i.e. the
+most extraordinary man the world had ever seen.
+
+He attempted no state, he set up no carriage; he stuck to his old
+confined apartments at the hotel he had always frequented; but he lived
+in an ideal life of sovereign grandeur. He talked as though he were a
+monarch—an absolute autocrat—as if all the inhabitants of Stirmingham
+were his subjects; and boasted that he could turn two hundred thousand
+people out of doors by a single word.
+
+In plain language, he lost his head; in still plainer language, he went
+harmlessly mad—not so mad that any one even hinted at such a thing.
+There was no lunacy in his appearance or daily life; but the great
+chords of the mind were undoubtedly at this period of his existence
+quite deranged.
+
+He really was getting rich now. The houses he had himself completed,
+with the premiums paid for building leases, began to return a
+considerable profit. The income from his collieries and factories was
+so large, that even bricks and mortar could not altogether absorb it.
+Perhaps he was in receipt of three thousand pounds per annum, or more.
+But now, unfortunately, just as the fruits of his labour were fast
+ripening, this abominable book upset it all.
+
+There can be no doubt that the editor of the _Stirmingham Daily News_,
+with the best intentions in the world, dealt his Hero two mortal
+wounds. In the first place, he drove him mad. Sternhold spent days and
+nights studying how he could exceed what he had already done.
+
+Dressed in a workman’s garb for disguise, he explored the whole
+neighbourhood of Stirmingham, seeking fresh land to purchase. His
+object was to get it cheap, for he knew that if there was the slightest
+suspicion that he was after it, a high price would be asked. In some
+instances he succeeded. One or two cases are known where he bought,
+with singular judgment and remarkable shrewdness, large tracts for very
+small sums. He paid only one-fifth on completion, leaving the remainder
+on mortgage. This enabled him to buy five times as much at once as
+would have otherwise been possible.
+
+But there were sharp fellows in Stirmingham, who watched the capitalist
+like hawks, and soon spied out what was going on. Their game was to
+first discover in what direction Sternhold was buying in secret, then
+to forestall him, and nearly double the price when he arrived.
+
+In this way Sternhold got rid of every shilling of his income. Even
+then he might have prospered; but, as bad luck would have it, the
+railway, after two millions of money had been sunk on it, actually
+began to pay dividends of three and a half per cent, then four, then
+six; for a clever fellow had got at the helm, and was forcing up the
+market so as to make hay while the sun shone.
+
+Sternhold was in raptures with railways. Some sharp young men of
+forty-five and fifty immediately laid their heads together, and
+projected a second railway at almost right angles—not such a bad idea,
+but one likely to cause enormous outlay. They represented to Sternhold
+that this new line would treble the value of the property he had
+recently bought, extending for some miles beyond the city. He jumped at
+it. The Bill was got through Parliament. One half of these sharp young
+men were lawyers, the other half engineers and contractors.
+
+Sternhold deposited the money, and they shared it between them. When
+the money was exhausted the railway languished. This exasperated old
+Baskette. For the first time in his life he borrowed money, and did it
+on a royal scale;—I am almost afraid to say how much, and certainly it
+seems odd how people could advance so much knowing his circumstances.
+
+However, he got it. He bought up all the shares, and became practically
+owner of the new line. He completed it, and rode on the first
+locomotive in triumph, surrounded by his parasites. For alas! he had
+yielded to parasites at last, who flattered and fooled him to
+perfection. This was the state of affairs when the second mortal wound
+was given.
+
+It happened in this way. The “Life of Sternhold Baskette, Esq,” had, as
+was stated, got abroad, and penetrated even to the Rocky Mountains. It
+was quoted, and long extracts made from it in the cheap press—they had
+a cheap press in the United States thirty years before we had, which
+accounts for the larger proportion of educated or partly educated
+people, and the wider spread of intelligence. After a while, somehow or
+other, the marvellous story reached the ears of one or two persons who
+happened to sign their names Baskette, and they began to say to
+themselves, “What the deuce is this? We rather guess we come from
+Stirmingham or somewhere thereabouts. Now, why shouldn’t we share in
+this mine of wealth?”
+
+The sharp Yankee intellect began to have “idees.” Most of the cotters
+whom Sternhold had transhipped to America thirty years or more
+previous, were dead and buried—that is to say, the old people were.
+
+The air of America is too thin and fine, and the life too fast, for
+middle-aged men who have been accustomed to the foggy atmosphere and
+the slow passage of events in the Old Country. But it is a tremendous
+place for increase of population.
+
+The United States are only just a century old, and they have a
+population larger than Great Britain, which has a history of twenty
+centuries, or nearly so.
+
+So it happened that, although the old people were dead, the tribe had
+marvellously increased. Half who were transhipped had borne the name of
+Baskette. This same question was asked in forty or fifty places at
+once—“My name is Baskette; why should not I share?”
+
+These people had, of course, little or no recollection of the deed
+signed by their forefathers: and if they had had a perfect knowledge,
+such a trifling difficulty as that was not one calculated to appal a
+Yankee’s ingenuity. When once the question had been asked it was
+repeated, and grew and grew, and passed from man to man, made its
+appearance in the newspapers, who even went so far as to say that the
+finest city in England, the very workshop of the Britishers, belonged
+to United States citizens.
+
+Some editor keener than the rest, or who had read the book more
+carefully, pointed out that the capitalist had no heirs living, that he
+had never been married, and no one knew to whom all this vast wealth
+would descend.
+
+Twenty millions sterling begging a heir! This was enough to set the
+American mind aflame. It was just like applying a lighted match to one
+of their petroleum wells.
+
+The paragraph flew from paper to paper, was quoted, conned, and talked
+over. Men grew excited. Presently, here and there one who considered
+that he had some claim began to steal off to England to make inquiries.
+The Cunard were running now, though they had not yet invented the
+“ocean highway,” by keeping to a course nothing to the north or south
+of a certain line. Passage was very quick, and not dear. In a little
+time the fact that one or two had started oozed out, then others
+followed, and were joined by a lawyer or so, till at last fourteen or
+fifteen keen fellows reached Stirmingham.
+
+Now mark the acuteness of the American mind! Instead of announcing
+their arrival, every one of these fellows kept quiet, and said not a
+word! When they met each other in the streets they only smiled. They
+were not going to alarm the game.
+
+These gentlemen were not long in Stirmingham before they found out that
+the _Stirmingham Daily Post_ was a deadly enemy of old Sternhold. To
+the office of the second able editor they tramped accordingly.
+
+There they learnt a good deal; but in return the editor pumped
+something out of them, and, being well up in the matter, sniffed out
+their objects. He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. Here was a
+chance for an awful smash at the _News_.
+
+One fine morning out came a leading article referring also to several
+columns of other matter on the same subject, headed “The Heirs of
+Stirmingham.”
+
+Being Blue, you see, the _Post_ affected to abominate United States’
+Republicanism and all the American institutions. This article recounted
+the visit of the dozen or so of possible claimants, described them so
+minutely that no one could help recognising them, and wound up with a
+tremendous peroration calling upon all good citizens to do their best
+to prevent the renowned city of Stirmingham falling into the hands of
+the Yankees!
+
+Such property as Sternhold’s, the article argued, was of national
+importance; and although the individual should not be interfered with,
+the nation should see that its rights were not tampered with. There was
+danger of such tampering, for who knew what an _infirm, old_ man like
+Sternhold might not be led to sign by interested parties? At his age he
+could not be expected to possess the decision and mental firmness of
+earlier years. This was a cruel hit at Sternhold’s mental weakness,
+which had begun to grow apparent.
+
+An endeavour should be made to find an English heir, and that there was
+such an heir they (the staff of the _Post_) firmly believed. Two
+gentlemen of the staff (meaning thereby the late writers for the
+_News_), who had devoted some time to the matter, had made a certain
+important discovery. This was nothing less than the fact that Sternhold
+had had an uncle! This in big capital letters.
+
+
+An Uncle. Then followed a little bit of genealogy, in approved fashion,
+with dashes, lines, etc—the meaning of which was that Sternhold’s
+father, old Romy Baskette, had had a brother, who, when the original
+Will Baskette was shot, had departed into the unknown with his mother.
+
+What had become of Romy’s brother? The probability was that by this
+time he was dead and buried. But there was also the probability that he
+had married and had children. Those children, if they existed, were
+undoubtedly the nearest heirs of Sternhold Baskette, Esq, now residing
+at Dodd’s Hotel, South Street. As an earnest of the anxiety of the
+_Post_ to preserve the good city of Stirmingham from Yankee
+contamination, they now offered three rewards:—First, fifty pounds for
+proof of Romy’s brother’s death; secondly, one hundred pounds for proof
+of Romy’s brother’s marriage, if he had married; thirdly, one hundred
+and fifty pounds for the identification of his child or children. This
+was repeated as an advertisement in the outer sheet, and was kept in
+type for months.
+
+It deserves notice as being the first advertisement which appeared in
+the Great Baskette Claim Case—the first of a crop of advertisements
+which in time became a regular source of income to newspaper
+proprietors.
+
+When this leading article and advertisement, supported by several
+columns of descriptive matter and genealogies was laid on the breakfast
+tables of half Stirmingham, it caused a sensation. The city suddenly
+woke up to the fact that as soon as old Sternhold died half the place
+would have no owner.
+
+The Yankee visitors now had no further reason for concealment. They
+went about openly making inquiries. They were fêted at hotel bars and
+in billiard rooms. They called upon Sternhold bodily—_en masse_—forced
+themselves into his apartment, though, he shut the door with his own
+hands in their faces, shook him by the hand, patted him on the
+shoulder, called him “Colonel,” and asked him what he would take to
+drink!
+
+They walked round him, admired him from every point of view, stuck
+their fingers in his ribs, and really meant no harm, though their
+manners were not quite of the drawing-room order.
+
+They cut up the old man’s favourite armchair, whittled it up, to carry
+away as souvenirs. They appropriated his books—his own particular
+penholder, with which he had written every letter and signed every deed
+for fifty years, disappeared, and was afterwards advertised as on show
+at Barnum’s in New York City, as the Pen which could sign a cheque for
+Twenty Millions!
+
+When at last they did leave, one popped back, and asked if the
+“Colonel” believed this story about his _Uncle_? He was sure he had
+never had an uncle, wasn’t he? The old man sat silent, which the
+inquirer took for once as a negative, and wrote a letter to the _News_,
+denying the existence of Romy’s brother.
+
+Poor old Sternhold was found by the landlord, old Dodd, sitting in his
+chair, which was all cut and slashed, two hours afterwards, staring
+straight at the wall.
+
+Dodd feared he had an attack of paralysis, and ran for the nearest
+doctor; but it was nothing but literally speechless indignation. After
+a while he got up and walked about the room, and took a little dry
+sherry—his favourite wine. But the mortal wound Number 2 had been
+given. Henceforth the one great question in Sternhold’s mind was his
+heir.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Six.
+
+
+His heir! Sternhold seriously believed that he had no living relations.
+It is often said that poor people have plenty of children, while the
+rich, to whom they would be welcome, have few or none. This was
+certainly a case in point. The poor Baskettes, who had been shipped to
+America, had a whole tribe of descendants. Here was a man who,
+nominally at least, was the largest owner of property known, who was
+childless, and had already reached and exceeded the allotted age of
+man.
+
+Sternhold was seventy-two. He looked back and ransacked his memory. He
+had never heard anything of this uncle, his father’s brother; his
+mother’s friends were all dead. There was not a soul for whom he cared
+a snap of his fingers. Firstly, he had no relations; secondly, he had
+no friends, for Sternhold, wide as was his circle of acquaintances, had
+never been known to visit any one. His life had been solitary and
+self-absorbed.
+
+Now, for the first time, he felt his loneliness, and understood that he
+was a solitary being. Who should be his heir? Who should succeed to
+that mighty edifice he had slowly built up? The architect had been
+obliged to be content with gazing upon the outside of his work only;
+but the successor, if he only lived the usual time, would revel in
+realised magnificence unsurpassed. The old man was quite staggered, and
+went about as in a dream.
+
+The idea once started, there were plenty who improved upon it. The
+Corporation at their meetings incidentally alluded to the matter, and
+it was delicately suggested that Sternhold would crown his memory with
+ineffable glory if he devised his vast estate to the city. Such a
+bequest in a few years would make the place absolutely free from
+taxation. The rents would meet poor’s-rates, gas-rates, water-rates,
+sanitary-rates, and all. One gentleman read an elaborate series of
+statistics, proving that the income from the property, when once the
+building leases fell in, would not only free the city from local, but
+almost, if not quite, from imperial taxation. There were many instances
+in history of kings, as rewards for great services, issuing an order
+that certain towns should be exempt from the payment of taxes for a
+series of years. Sternhold had it thus in his power to display really
+regal munificence.
+
+Other gentlemen of more radical leanings cried “Shame!” on the mere
+fact of one man being permitted to attain such powers. It was absurd
+for one man to possess such gigantic wealth, and for several hundred
+thousand to live from hand to mouth. The people should share it, not as
+a gift, but as a right; it should be seized for the benefit of the
+community.
+
+The Corporation people were much too knowing to talk like this. They
+went to work in a clever way. First, they contrived various great
+banquets, to which Sternhold was invited, and at which he was put in
+the seat of honour and lauded to the skies. Next, they formed a
+committee and erected a statue in a prominent place to the founder of
+Stirmingham, and unveiled it with immense ceremony. Certain funds had
+been previously set apart for the building of a public library; this
+being completed about that time, was named the Sternhold Institute. An
+open space or “park,” which the Corporation had been obliged to provide
+for the seething multitudes who were so closely crowded together, was
+called the Sternhold Public Park. Yet Sternhold never subscribed a
+farthing to either of these.
+
+Nothing was left undone to turn his head. His portrait, life-size,
+painted in oil, was hung up in the Council-hall; medals were struck to
+commemorate his birthday. The Corporation were not alone in their
+endeavours; other disinterested parties were hard at work. Most
+energetic of all were the religious people. Chapel projectors,
+preachers, church extension societies, missionary associations, flew at
+his throat. His letter-box was flooded; his door was for ever
+resounding with knocking and ringing. The sound of the true clerical
+nasal twang was never silent in his anteroom. The hospitals came down
+on him flat in one lump, more particularly those establishments which
+publicly boast that they never solicit assistance, and are supported by
+voluntary contributions caused by prayer.
+
+The dodge is to publish the _fact_ as loudly as possible. To proclaim
+that the institution urgently wants a few thousands is not begging. A
+list of all the charities that recommended themselves to his notice
+would fill three chapters: then the patentees—the literary people who
+were prepared to write memoirs, biographies, etc—would have to be
+omitted.
+
+Now here is a singular paradox. If a poor wretched mortal, barely
+clothed in rags, his shoes off his feet, starring with hunger,
+houseless, homeless, who hath not where to lay his head, asks you for a
+copper, it means seven days’ imprisonment as a rogue. If all the
+clergymen and ministers, the secretaries, and so forth, come in crowds
+begging for hundreds and thousands, it is meritorious, and is
+applauded.
+
+Now this is worthy of study as a phenomenon of society. But these were
+not all. Sternhold had another class of applicants, whom we will not
+call ladies, or even women, but _females_ (what a hateful word female
+is), who approached him pretty much as the Shah was approached by every
+post while in London and Paris.
+
+He was deluged with photographs of females. Not disreputable characters
+either—not of Drury Lane or Haymarket distinction, but of that class
+who use the columns of the newspapers to advertise their matrimonial
+propensities. Tall, short, dark, light, stout, thin, they poured in
+upon him by hundreds; all ready, willing, and waiting.
+
+Most were “thoroughly domesticated and musical;” some were penetrated
+with the serious responsibilities of the position of a wife; others
+were filled with hopes of the life to come (having failed in this).
+
+Some men would have enjoyed all this; some would have smiled; others
+would have flung the lot into the waste-basket. Sternhold was too
+methodical and too much imbued with business habits to take anything as
+a good joke. He read every letter, looked at every photograph, numbered
+and docketed them, and carefully put them away.
+
+Other efforts were made to get at him. He had parasites—men who hung on
+him—lickspittles. To a certain extent he yielded to the titillation of
+incessant laudation; and, if he did not encourage, did not repel them.
+They never ceased to fan his now predominant vanity. They argued that
+the Corporation and all the rest were influenced by selfish motives
+(which was true). They begged him not to forget what was due to
+himself—not to annihilate and obliterate himself. It was true he was
+aged; but aged men—especially men who had led temperate lives like
+himself—frequently had children. In plain words, they one and all
+persuaded him to marry; and they one and all had a petticoated friend
+who would just suit him.
+
+Sternhold seemed very impassive and immoveable; but the fact was that
+all this had stirred him deeply. He began to seriously contemplate
+marriage. He brooded over the idea. He was not a sentimental man; he
+had not even a spark of what is called human nature in the sense of
+desiring to see merry children playing around him. But he looked upon
+himself as a mighty monarch; and as a mighty monarch he wished more and
+more every day to found not only a kingdom, but a dynasty.
+
+This appears to be a weakness from which even the greatest of men are
+not exempt. Napoleon the Great could not resist the idea. It is the one
+sole object of almost all such men whose history is recorded.
+Occasionally they succeed; more often it destroys them. Some say
+Cromwell had hopes in that direction.
+
+So far the parasites, the photographs, the stir that was made about it,
+affected Sternhold. But if he was mad, he was mad in his own way. He
+was not to be led by the nose; but those who knew him best could see
+that he was meditating action.
+
+Dodd, the landlord of the hotel, was constantly bothered and worried
+for his opinion on the subject. At last, said Dodd, “I think the
+Corporation have wasted their money.” And they had.
+
+In this unromantic country the human form divine has not that
+opportunity to display itself which was graciously afforded to the
+youth of both sexes in the classic days of Greece, when the virgins of
+Sparta, their lovely limbs anointed with oil, wrestled nude in the
+arena.
+
+The nearest approach to those “good old times” which our modern prudery
+admits, is the short skirts and the “tights” of the ballet.
+
+Sternhold, deeply pondering, arrived at the notion, true or false, that
+the wife for him must possess physical development.
+
+This is a delicate subject to dwell on; but I think he was mistaken
+when he visited the theatres seeking such a person. He might have found
+ladies, not _females_ nor women, but ladies in a rank of life nearer or
+above his own, who exulted in the beauty of their form, and were
+endowed with Nature’s richest gifts of shape. But he was a child in
+such a search: his ideas were rude and primitive to the last degree. At
+all events, the fact remains.
+
+It was found out afterwards that he had visited every theatre in
+London, but finally was suited on the boards of a fourth-rate “gaff” in
+Stirmingham itself.
+
+There was a girl there—or rather a woman, for she was all
+five-and-twenty—who was certainly as fine a specimen of _female_
+humanity as ever walked. Tall, but not too tall, she presented a
+splendid development of bust, torso, and limbs. Her skin was of that
+peculiar dusky hue—not dark, but dusky—which gives the idea of intense
+vitality. Her eyes were as coals of fire—large, black, deep-set, under
+heavy eyebrows. Her hair at a distance was superb—like night in hue,
+and glossy, curling in rich masses. Examined closer it was coarse, like
+wire. Her nose was the worse feature; it wanted shape, definition. It
+was a decided _retroussé_, and _thick_; but in the flush of her
+brilliant colour, her really grand carriage, this was passed over. Her
+lips were scarlet, and pouted with a tempting impudence.
+
+This was the very woman Sternhold sought. She was vitality itself
+impersonified. He saw her, offered his hand, and was instantly
+accepted. He wished her to keep it quiet; and notwithstanding her
+feminine triumph she managed to do so, and not a soul in Stirmingham
+guessed what was in the wind.
+
+Sternhold went to London, got a special licence, and the pair were
+married in Sternhold’s private apartments at his hotel in the presence
+of three people only, one of whom was the astounded Dodd. They left by
+the next train for London, where the bride went to Regent Street to
+choose her trousseau, with her husband at her side.
+
+Not a bell was rung in Stirmingham. The news spread like wildfire, and
+confounded the city. People gathered at the corners of the streets.
+
+“He is certainly mad,” they said. Most of them were in some way
+disappointed.
+
+“He may be,” said a keener one than the rest; “he may be—but _she_ is
+not.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Seven.
+
+
+Lucia Marese, now Mrs Sternhold Baskette, was the daughter of an
+Italian father and an English mother, and had a tolerably accurate
+acquaintance with Leicester Square and Soho. She was not an absolutely
+bad woman in the coarsest sense of the term—at least not at that time,
+she had far too much ambition to destroy her chance so early in life.
+Physiologists may here discuss the question as to whether any latent
+trace of the old gipsy blood of the Baskettes had in any way influenced
+Sternhold in his choice. Ambitious as she was, and possessed of that
+species of beauty which always takes with the multitude, Lucia had
+hitherto been a failure. Just as in literature and in art, the greatest
+genius has to wait till opportunity offers, and often eats its own
+heart in the misery of waiting, so she had striven and fought to get to
+the front, and yet was still a stroller when Sternhold saw her. She
+knew that if only once she could have made her appearance on the London
+boards, with her gorgeous beauty fully displayed, and assisted by dress
+and music, that she should certainly triumph. But she could not get
+there.
+
+Other girls less favoured by Nature, but more by circumstance, and by
+the fickle and unaccountable tastes of certain wealthy individuals, had
+forestalled her, and she stored up in her mind bitter hatred of several
+of these who had snubbed and sneered at her.
+
+The fairy prince of her dream, however, came at last in the person of
+an old man of three score years and ten, and she snapped him up in a
+trice. No doubt, like all Stirmingham, she entertained the most
+fabulous ideas of Sternhold’s wealth.
+
+These dreams were destined to be rudely shattered. She seems to have
+had pretty much her own way at first. Doubtless the old man was as wax
+in her hands, till his former habits began to pull at him. She had one
+good trait at all events, if it could be called good—the first use she
+made of her new position was to provide for her family, or rather for
+the only member of it in England.
+
+This was Aurelian Marese, her brother, who must have been a man of some
+talent and energy, for despite all obstacles of poverty he contrived to
+pass his examination and obtain a diploma from the College of Surgeons.
+He came to Stirmingham, and with the assistance of Sternhold’s purse
+set up as a mad doctor, in plain parlance, or in softer language,
+established a private lunatic asylum. Oddly enough, it would seem that
+notwithstanding the immense population of the city, there was not till
+that time any establishment of the kind in the place, and the result
+was that Aurelian prospered. He certainly was a clever fellow, as will
+be presently seen, though some fancy he over-reached himself. When at
+last Sternhold, worn out with the unwonted gaieties into which Lucia
+plunged him, showed unmistakable signs of weariness, and desired to
+return to Stirmingham, she yielded with a good grace. She reckoned that
+he could not last long, and it was her game to keep him in good temper;
+for she had learnt by this time that he had the power to dispose of his
+property just as he chose.
+
+We can easily imagine the restlessness of this creature confined in the
+dull atmosphere of three or four rooms at Dodd’s Hotel, South Street.
+But she bore it, and to her it was a species of martyrdom—the very
+reverse of what she had pictured.
+
+After a while, as time went on, whispers began to fly about—people
+elevated their eyebrows and asked questions under their breath,
+exchanged nods and winks. The fact was apparent; Sternhold could scarce
+contain himself for joy. There was an undoubted prospect of The Heir.
+The old man got madder than ever—that is, in the sense of
+self-laudation. He could not admire himself sufficiently. The artful
+woman played upon him, you may be sure; at all events there was a deed
+of gift executed at this time conveying to her certain valuable estates
+lying outside the city, and tolerably unencumbered. Why she came to
+select those particular estates which were not half so valuable as
+others she might have had, was known only to herself then; but
+doubtless Aurelian had heard about the Yankee claims, and advised her
+to take what was safe. These estates were, in fact, bought with old
+Romy’s money made by the nail factory, and were quite apart from the
+rest.
+
+About this time, also, Sternhold left Dodd’s Hotel. This was another
+evidence of her power over him. The best joke was, that although there
+was old Romy’s country mansion about five miles from Stirmingham,
+although Sternhold had since purchased four other mansions, and had
+nominally street upon street of houses in the town, he had not a place
+to take his wife to. He was obliged to rent one of his own houses of
+the company who had built it on a building lease.
+
+Mrs Sternhold now had her great wish gratified to some extent. She was
+the observed of all observers. They tell you tales now in Stirmingham
+of her extravagance, and the lengths she went. Her carriages, her
+horses, her servants, her dinners, parties, and what not, were the one
+topic of conversation. Even old-fashioned, straitlaced people found
+their objections overcome by curiosity, and accepted her invitations.
+
+Old Sternhold was never visible at these gatherings; but he rejoiced in
+them. He was proud of his wife. He looked upon her as a prodigy. He
+gave her the reins. But personally he practically returned to his old
+habits. He still retained his old apartments at Dodd’s; and there he
+might be found, at almost all hours, sitting at his desk, and eagerly,
+joyously receiving every visitor who came to tell him of some fresh
+extravagance, some fresh frolic of his wife’s!
+
+How was all this expenditure supported, since his actual income was so
+small? By a series of loans, which there were always men ready to
+offer, and whose terms Sternhold always signed. Once or twice he did
+remonstrate, but darling Lucia went into tears, and her brother
+Aurelian assured him that, in her state of health, any vexation was
+dangerous, etc. Aurelian, through the Sternhold connexion, was now a
+fashionable physician.
+
+At last the event happened, and a son was born. The memory of the week
+succeeding that day will not soon pass away in Stirmingham.
+
+Old Sternhold, himself a most temperate man, declared that he would
+make every one in the city tipsy; and he practically succeeded. He had
+barrels of ale and gallons of spirits and wine offered free to all
+comers at every public-house and tavern. He had booths erected in an
+open field just outside the town, for dancing and other amusements, and
+here refreshments of all kinds were served out gratis.
+
+The police were in despair. The cells overflowed, and would hold no
+more, and the streets reeled with drunken men, and still more drunken
+women.
+
+This saturnalia reigned for four days, and would soon have
+culminated—at least, so the police declared—in a general sack of the
+city by the congregated ruffians. A detachment of dragoons was actually
+sent for, and encamped in Saint George’s Square, with their horses and
+arms ready at a moment’s notice. But it all passed off quietly; and
+from that hour Sternhold, and more particularly the infant son, became
+the idol of the populace.
+
+They still look back with regret to those four days of unlimited
+licence, and swear by the son of Sternhold.
+
+This boy was named John Marese Baskette, but was always called Marese.
+Singularly enough, the birth of this child, which one would have
+prophesied would have completed the hold Lucia had over the father, was
+the beginning of the difficulties between them. It began in his very
+nursery. Proud of her handsome figure, and still looking forward to
+popular triumphs, Lucia flatly refused to nurse the infant herself.
+
+This caused a terrible quarrel. Old Sternhold had old-fashioned ideas.
+But there is no need to linger on this. Lucia, of course, had her own
+way, and Sternhold retired to sulk at Dodd’s Hotel. From that time the
+chink widened, and the mutual distrust strengthened.
+
+There never was any real doubt that the boy was legitimate; but some
+devil whispered the question in Sternhold’s mind, and, he brooded over
+it. I say some devil, but, in actual fact, it was one of those
+parasites who have been once or twice alluded to. Is there anything
+that class will stop at in the hope of a few formal lines in a rich
+man’s will?
+
+It was their game to destroy Lucia. The plan was cunningly formed. As
+if by accident, passages in Lucia’s previous life, when she was a
+stroller, were alluded to in Sternhold’s presence.
+
+He grew excited, and eager to hear more; to probe her supposed
+dishonour. The parasites distinctly refused; it was too serious a
+matter. Still, if he wished to hear—it was common talk—all he had to do
+was to go into the billiard rooms. Some of the fellows there did not
+know him by sight, and they were sure to talk about it.
+
+Sternhold went. Of all the sights in the world, to see that old man
+making a miserable attempt to play billiards while his ears were
+acutely listening to the infamous tales purposely started to inflame
+him, nothing could be more deplorable. The upshot was he grew downright
+mad, but not so mad that anything could be done with him. He watched
+over Lucia like a hawk. She could not move; her life became really
+burdensome.
+
+It must be remembered that at that time she really was, though wild
+enough in blood, perfectly stainless in fact. The temper in the woman
+was long restrained. In the first place, she wanted his money; in the
+next place, there was her son, whom she loved with all the vigour of
+her nature. She bore it for a year or two, then the devil in her began
+to stir.
+
+Old Sternhold, who had watched and inquired hour by hour all this time,
+had found nothing wrong; but this very fact was turned against her by
+those devils, his lickspittles. They represented that this was part of
+her cunning—that she had determined he should have no hold upon her, in
+order that her son might inherit. They reminded Sternhold that,
+although he could not divorce her, he could alter his will. Here they
+rather overshot the mark, because he began to reflect that if he cut
+off his son the old question would arise—To whom should he leave his
+city, as he called it?
+
+The miserable dilemma haunted and worried his already weakened brain
+and body till he grew a shadow, and Lucia had hopes that he would die.
+But he did not; in a month or two the natural strength of his
+constitution brought him round.
+
+All this time Lucia was in dread about his will. Aurelian astute and
+cunning as he was hardly knew what to advise or how to act. He had his
+spies—for he was wealthy now to a certain degree, and could afford it.
+He had his strong suspicions that some of the companies who had leased
+the property for building had a hand in the persecution of Lucia, and
+in the inflammation of Sternhold’s jealousy. It was certainly their
+interest to get the boy disinherited. Aurelian began to grow seriously
+alarmed. Sternhold was stronger and better—perhaps if he had had
+Aurelian for physician he would not have recovered so fast; but with
+his distrust of Lucia, came an equal distrust of her brother, and he
+would not acknowledge him.
+
+Aurelian looked at it like this: Sternhold was now about seventy-five,
+and had no organic disease. His father, Romy, had lived to a ripe old
+age; his grandfather, the basket-maker, though shot in the prime of
+life, came of a hardy, half-gipsy stock. The chances were that
+Sternhold, with all the comforts that money could buy, would live
+another ten years. This very worry, this jealousy, by keeping his
+mental faculties alive, might contribute to longevity. In ten years, in
+a year, in a month, what might not happen?
+
+His greatest fear was in Lucia herself, who had shown signs of late
+that she must burst forth. If she did, and without his being near her,
+there was no knowing what indiscretion she might not commit. It was
+even suspicious that Sternhold had recovered. It looked as if he had
+made up his mind, and had signed a will averse to Lucia’s interest and
+his son’s—had settled it and dismissed it. This was a terrible thought,
+this last. When he suggested the possibility of it to Lucia, you should
+have seen her. She raved; her features swelled up and grew inflamed;
+her frame dilated; her blood seemed as if it would burst the veins:
+till at last she hissed out, “I’ll kill him!” and fell fainting.
+
+Aurelian determined one point at once. There must be no more delay;
+action was the order. But what? Suppose the worst. Suppose the will
+already made, and against Lucia’s interests, what was the course to be
+taken? Why, to accumulate evidence to invalidate it. _Prove him mad_!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Eight.
+
+
+The idea having been once entertained, grew and grew, till it
+overshadowed everything else. The singular circumstance then happened
+of one man slowly and carefully collecting evidence during another’s
+lifetime to prove him insane the moment he died.
+
+Aurelian placed his principal reliance upon the violent jealousy
+Sternhold had exhibited. So vehement and irregulated a passion founded
+upon mere phantasms of the imagination, was in itself strong
+presumptive proof of an unsound mind. He had no difficulty in finding
+witnesses to Sternhold’s outrageous conduct. The old man had been seen
+walking up and down the street, on the opposite side of the pavement to
+the house in which Lucia lived, for hours and hours at a time, simply
+watching. He had been heard to use violent and threatening language. He
+had made himself ill. The mind was so overwrought by excitement that it
+reacted upon the body, and it was some time before the balance was
+restored—if indeed it could ever be restored.
+
+There were many trifling little things of manner—of fidgetiness—absurd
+personal habits—which, taken in conjunction with the bad temper he had
+displayed, went to make up the case. Aurelian added to this the vanity
+Sternhold had of late openly indulged in. This was notorious, and had
+become a by-word.
+
+But when Aurelian had written all this out upon paper—when he had, as
+it were, prepared his brief—his shrewd sense told him that in truth it
+was very weak evidence. Any lawyer employed for the defence could
+easily find arguments to upset the whole.
+
+Day by day, as he thought it over, his reliance upon the insanity
+resource grew less and less—and yet he could not see what else there
+was to do. He racked his brain. The man, like others, was in fact
+fascinated by the enormous property at stake: he could not get it out
+of his mind. It haunted him day and night. He ransacked his memory,
+called up all his reading, all his observation, all that he had
+heard—every expedient and plan that had come under his notice for
+gaining an end.
+
+For a time, however, it was in vain. It is often the case that when we
+seek an idea it flies from us, and will not be constrained, not even by
+weeks of the deeply-pondering state. Often the more we think upon a
+subject, the less we seem to see our way clear. And so it was with him.
+
+Sometimes a little change of scene, even a little manual exercise, will
+stimulate the imagination. So it was with him.
+
+He had an important and serious case to attend—a rich patient underwent
+an operation at his hands, and the physician grew so absorbed with his
+delicate manipulation and in genuine delight in his own skill, that
+Lucia and the property passed for a day or two completely out of his
+memory. This was followed by profound slumber, and next morning he
+awoke with the answer to the great question staring him in the face.
+
+If Sternhold was not mad enough now, why not drive him mad? If he was
+driven frantic and shut up in an asylum, Lucia’s son would to a
+certainty inherit the property. Possibly he (Aurelian) might be
+appointed trustee—he, as uncle, would be a guardian, and probably the
+only one. He might also have the pleasure of receiving Sternhold into
+his own retreat for lunatics; and so, while furthering the interests of
+his sister and nephew, do himself a good turn. The idea enraptured him.
+
+Aurelian possessed the true scientific mind which is incapable of
+feeling. Some thinkers believe that the true artistic mind, the highest
+artistic mind, is also incapable of feeling. It is so absorbed in its
+own realisation of one idea, that it loses all consciousness of
+possible suffering in others. He never doubted for an instant that it
+was in his power to attain the proposed object—it was only to _let
+Lucia loose_. Let her loose—a little way. Let her loose under strict
+supervision—under the constant surveillance of himself, his son, a
+youth of twenty whom he was training up in the right road, and perhaps
+of other witnesses.
+
+There was such a thing as divorce—this might not destroy the child’s
+right, but it would place him out of Lucia’s hands. There must be no
+handle for Lucia’s enemies to grasp at. She must be manoeuvred so as to
+make Sternhold frantic without committing herself.
+
+Lucia was aflame for such a course. She had restrained herself for
+years. She was burning to be free, on fire for “life” and excitement;
+above all, for admiration, for praise—the intoxicating breath of the
+multitude that cheers to the echo! The Stage! the dance—music—the fiery
+gaze of a thousand eyes following each motion! There must have been
+something of the true artist in her. The grandest position, the most
+unlimited wealth, would not have satisfied her without the stage.
+
+She had married Sternhold in the hope of appearing as other women did
+in the theatres owned by their lovers. She had tried to broach the
+subject to Sternhold; he had held up his hands in horror, and she
+constrained herself and bided her time.
+
+Nearly four years now—four years! The coarse jests, the loud laughter,
+the shouts and screams and cat-calls of the low threepenny gaff or
+music hall from which she had been snatched—even such a life as that
+seemed to her far, far superior to this irksome confinement, this
+slavery which was not even gilded. Aurelian was right in his conjecture
+that she could not be much longer held in—she must burst out.
+
+Half-formed schemes had been working themselves into shape in her mind
+for months past. She would leave her boy with Aurelian, take her jewels
+and sables, sell them, borrow money upon the estate which Sternhold had
+made hers by deed of gift, go to London or Paris, and plunge headlong
+into “life,” paying any price for the one grand ambition of her
+existence.
+
+The craving—the _fury_, it might almost be called—the furious desire
+for admiration from men which seized upon her at times, would
+certainly, sooner or later, have hurled her on to a desperate step.
+
+At this moment Aurelian came with his carefully-considered plan. She
+met him open-armed. With one blow she could avenge herself upon
+Sternhold, with one blow gratify herself and destroy him—destroy him
+body and soul. This moment—this hour!
+
+But not so fast. First, Aurelian obtained the money—no small sum. Next,
+said he, this thing must not be done by halves. It was useless for her
+to appear on some small stage; she must at one bound become the talk of
+all the town. This required care, thought, and organisation. Those
+great successes that seemed so suddenly attained without an effort, as
+by a wave of the hand, had really been preceded by months and months of
+preparation, and depended in great part upon the matured judgment and
+clever advice of men who had watched the public for years.
+
+Impatient as she was, Lucia again controlled herself, and did as she
+was bid. Aurelian made it his business first to discover where she
+could appear with most effect. He soon selected the place, Paris! he
+obtained an interview with the proper authorities, and confided to them
+a part of his secret. They saw their way to profit, and agreed.
+
+The next thing was the character she should take, and the second, the
+season. This last the manager, or rather owner, who was in raptures
+with the thing, easily decided. It must be at the height of the Paris
+season. He was a popular man, who could gather together a mighty crowd
+of his own acquaintances.
+
+If poor Sternhold, sitting in his apartment at Dodd’s Hotel, could have
+heard these “fast” young men discussing the approaching appearance of
+his wife, Aurelian would have gone no further.
+
+The choice of character Aurelian insisted upon deciding, and he chose
+Lady Godiva. As has been stated, Lucia had extraordinary hair, both for
+length and abundance, and, unlike long hair generally, it was curly.
+Had it been fine and delicate hair she could have boasted that few
+women in Europe could equal her. The coarseness of its texture would
+not be visible upon the stage.
+
+She had really a magnificent figure. The character of Lady Godiva was
+one exactly fitted for her. It is needless to say that there was little
+or no acting—no study of parts, no insight into the meaning required,
+as in the case of Shakespeare’s heroines. The piece was simply a
+spectacle devised to bring out one central figure into the boldest
+relief.
+
+The greatest difficulty the conspirators—for so they may be fairly
+called—had to contend with was the necessity of keeping Sternhold
+completely in the dark, and yet at the same time getting together a
+large audience, which could only be done by advertising. But Aurelian
+was capable of dealing with more difficult dilemmas than this. His plan
+was very simple and yet effective. The manager had a piece in his
+_répertoire_ which, owing to the fame or infamy of a certain
+fascinating lady, was the rage of the town. Suddenly this creature
+disappeared—went off to Vienna with a titled gentleman—and after
+blazing as a meteor of the first water there for a short time, as
+suddenly dropped out of sight altogether.
+
+The manager, at Aurelian’s suggestion, gave out that this lady had
+turned up, and was going to again act at his house on a certain night.
+
+The excitement was intense. It was an awful falsehood, for the poor
+girl was in reality dead. (She met with her death under some strange
+and suspicious circumstances, which were, by influence, suppressed.)
+Her beauty, great as it was, had lost its charm in the tomb; yet her
+name, in flaring letters, was prominent all over Paris.
+
+The deception was kept up to the very end; and the company of the
+theatre, by dint of double pay, were got to carry it out to perfection.
+An exceptional number of waiters were, however, hired, and no one but
+the manager and Aurelian had any idea what the object of this troop of
+apparently idle fellows could be.
+
+The house filled to the last seat. The poor dead girl’s name was on
+every lip—her frailties were discussed with horrid flippancy; the
+orchestra began, and Lucia Marese Baskette robed, or rather unrobed, as
+Lady Godiva.
+
+The owner of the theatre was there, and with him a whole host of men
+about town, most of whom were partly in the secret, but not quite.
+
+Just before the time arrived for the curtain to rise, this troop of
+idle waiters entered the arena, swarmed into the boxes, into the
+galleries and pit, distributing to every single individual who had
+entered a handbill, announcing that, instead of Miss, “Mrs Sternhold
+Baskette, the beautiful wife of Sternhold Baskette, Esq, the richest
+man in the world, the owner of twenty millions sterling worth of
+property, would appear as Lady Godiva; a part for which her splendid
+physique and magnificent hair peculiarly fitted her.” At the same
+moment a large poster was put out in front of the curtain, bearing the
+same announcement.
+
+The effect was singular. The house, which had been full of noise
+before, became as still as death. People were astounded. They could not
+believe it possible; yet, at the same time, they knew that the manager
+dared not play a trick. Theatres had been wrecked before now by
+indignant audiences. They waited in silence.
+
+The curtain rose. I cannot pause to describe the gradual enthusiasm
+which arose, nor to draw a picture of the grand _tableau_. But there
+are many living who remember that memorable night, who declare that
+anything equal to it has never been seen upon the stage.
+
+Lucia rode on a milk-white palfrey, and looked extraordinarily
+handsome. The house rose—the audience went mad. Recalled and recalled,
+again and again that white palfrey paced to and fro, and the mighty
+multitude would not allow the scene to pass.
+
+The mesmeric influence of the excitement filled Lucia with a glowing
+beauty; with a brilliance which made her seem a goddess—of her order.
+No one remarked whether the piece was properly gone through after this.
+I think it was not. From all that I can learn, I believe the audience
+watched Godiva to and fro till the palfrey or its rider grew exhausted,
+and then left _en masse_.
+
+Paris was aflame next day. The papers said nothing—they were wise.
+There is, however, something more powerful even than the newspaper—it
+is conversation. Lucia had got conversation—her name was heard
+everywhere. It was not only the acting, or show—it could not be called
+acting—it was the fact of her position as Sternhold’s wife. She stood
+upon the pinnacle of his fame for wealth, brazen and shameless in the
+eyes of the world. Brazen and shameless, yet secure; for Aurelian never
+left her. He watched her himself. His son—his paid servants—did the
+same; not from fear of her indiscretion, but in order to appear as
+witnesses if any proceedings should take place.
+
+Next night and next night, and again on the third night, this
+extraordinary spectacle was repeated. The crowds that came to the doors
+could not be admitted. But by this time the leading papers had felt the
+pulse of the people—not the excitable populace, but the steady
+_people_. With one consent they rushed at the exhibition with lance in
+rest. Improper was the softest insinuation. They were undoubtedly
+right. The moment they took this tone all the press followed, and
+before the week was over those who had the power had prohibited the
+performance.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Nine.
+
+
+The exhibition was stopped, but the end had been attained—Lucia was
+famous. The manager and Aurelian had foreseen the inevitable official
+veto, and had prepared for it. They had arranged for her to appear as
+Cleopatra; it was a part which could be made to suit her admirably by
+leaving Shakespeare’s text out of the question, and studying spectacle
+instead.
+
+It is a singular fact that Sternhold had no idea of what was going on
+until the fourth or fifth day. He was told that Lucia had left
+Stirmingham with her brother for a short visit to Paris, and paid
+little or no attention to it. For the first day or two the papers had
+been silent. At last the news reached him.
+
+What Dodd had previously feared now happened—he was struck down with a
+slight attack of paralysis, which affected one side. Some persons said
+it was a merciful infliction, as it prevented him from witnessing his
+wife’s disgrace with his own eyes. They were wrong. His body was bent,
+but his mind was torn with contending and frenzied passions. The sense
+of outrage—of outrage upon his dignity—was perhaps the strongest. That
+after all his labour and self-denial, after long, long years of slowly
+building up a property such as his, which rendered him in his own
+estimation not one whit inferior to a king; that he should be insulted,
+his name dragged in the dirt, his wife a spectacle for all Paris!
+
+Sternhold had the vaguest ideas of stage proprieties and theatrical
+morality. He had not a doubt but that Lucia was already an abandoned
+woman. There were plenty who urged upon him to commence a suit for
+divorce, though in reality it was extremely doubtful whether there were
+sufficient grounds for anything beyond a judicial separation.
+
+But Sternhold was filled with one consuming desire—to see her with his
+own eyes. Whether it was this passion, or whether it was the natural
+strength of his constitution, certain it is that in a marvellously
+short time after the attack, he had himself conveyed to Paris, and sat,
+a miserable, haggard, broken-down old man, in a box at the theatre the
+same night, watching his wife upon the stage. He did this night after
+night. A species of fascination seemed to carry him there to sit
+silent, brooding over the utter wreck of his great schemes.
+
+After a while he went suddenly back to Stirmingham without a word,
+without so much as seeking an interview with Lucia, or issuing any
+instructions as to what was to be done. He went back to his old
+apartments at Dodd’s Hotel. He shut himself up, refusing to see even
+the wretched parasites who had sown the seed of this mischief. It was
+an instinctive attempt to return to the old, old habit, the ancient
+self-concentration, apart from the world. But it failed. So soon as
+ever he began to read his letters, to look into his accounts, every
+figure, every transaction reminded him of Lucia and her extravagance;
+the follies she had been guilty of, and the no less greater folly he
+had himself yielded to in granting her every wish, thereby involving
+his affairs in the most hopeless confusion. The attempt failed. He
+rushed again from his retreat to seek her. Then he heard that she was
+in Vienna performing. He got there, supported by his attendants.
+Doubtless the physical fatigue of the journey irritated his nerves; at
+all events, there seems no doubt that when he reached Vienna he was for
+the time absolutely mad.
+
+He went to the theatre. He saw Lucia as Godiva, just as she had been
+seen in Paris. He was alone in his box. Deliberately he levelled a
+pistol, resting the barrel upon the edge of the balustrade. As the
+incense of praise and adulation rose up, as the pageant moved to and
+fro, the deadly weapon was aimed at the central figure. He fired, and
+the house was in commotion.
+
+Those who know what happens when a full theatre is alarmed and excited
+will require no description; those who have not seen it cannot imagine
+it.
+
+A second report, and the curling smoke caused a rush to the box, and
+the occupant was found upon the floor, as was thought, dead. Lucia
+alone was calm and cool. The bullet had not passed even near her; the
+distance was great and the aim unsteady; the ball had struck a screen,
+and did no injury. She dismounted and advanced to the footlights,
+extended her hands, and in a few words begged the audience to be calm.
+Speedily they saw her thus, as it were, in their very arms.
+
+The theatre rang with acclamation. If it had been a scene prepared it
+could not have succeeded better.
+
+There were threats and loud cries of rage against the man who had fired
+at her.
+
+“Do not injure him,” she said, at the top of her full, deep voice; “he
+is mad!” For she guessed in a moment who it was.
+
+In a few minutes the whole thing was understood. Continental people are
+quick at comprehending—an old husband, a young wife—bah! An attempt
+first at murder, then at suicide—bah! What could he have done better
+calculated to put Lucia upon the pedestal of fame?
+
+Sternhold was not dead; not even injured. The ball he had fired at
+himself had not touched him. He had fallen exhausted. When he became
+physically conscious, he was raving mad.
+
+There was no doubt about it this time. It was a pitiable sight.
+
+Aurelian insisted upon seeing him: even he shuddered. The old man was
+muttering gibberish to himself. Half his grey hair was gone, for before
+he could be stayed he had dragged it out. His arms and limbs were
+pinioned, but his body shook with a trembling convulsive movement. The
+deed was done.
+
+Aurelian braced himself up, and hastened at once to Lucia. He knew he
+should have a struggle with her, and hoped that in the conflict he
+should forget the sight he had left. He had determined to at once
+withdraw her from the stage. The victory was won; there must be no more
+risk.
+
+The conflict between the brother and sister was terrible. She raged,
+her frame swelled; she had tasted triumph, and the draught is more
+intoxicating even than the taste of blood. She would go on.
+
+But he was resolute, and he won. That very day he took her to
+England—took is the right word, for it was necessary to use physical
+force at times. He got her to her house at Stirmingham, and never left
+her till she had grown more composed.
+
+Sternhold was in an asylum. Aurelian thought that he would surely die;
+but he did not.
+
+Aurelian then began to scheme to get him in his own “retreat.”
+Possession was nine points of the law. He went to Vienna at once before
+any one guessed his object, obtained the proper permit, and in six days
+deposited the wretched being in his asylum in the suburbs of
+Stirmingham. Once there, thought Aurelian, let them get him out if they
+can.
+
+The fact was soon known; and there was an excitement. The parasites,
+disappointed and raging, did their best to inflame the populace. There
+was a growl, and the police began to prepare for an attack upon the
+asylum; but, after all, the moment any of them reflected, they said,
+“Why, it’s all right; the poor fellow is mad. He could not be in better
+hands.” The plan of a popular tumult fell through.
+
+The parasites next tried the law, but found that Aurelian had been
+before them: he had all the proper documents; he could not be touched.
+
+Next the companies began to stir. They were uncertain what to do, and
+whether it was better for their interests that Sternhold should be in
+his brother-in-law’s custody or not.
+
+That astute gentleman very soon learnt what was passing in their minds,
+and he had a very good conception of what could be effected by powerful
+combination.
+
+He opened negotiations with them. He pointed out to them privately that
+the real point at issue was not Sternhold, but the boy—the heir—for no
+one doubted the legitimacy. Who was to have the custody of the heir?
+
+Clever Aurelian hoped that by making friends with the companies who
+held the building leases that there would be no opposition to his
+holding the boy—to his guardianship of the estate. He had strong
+grounds to go upon. To all intents and purposes he was the nearest
+relation. If the boy died, and no son of the phantom brother of Romy
+turned up, _perhaps_ he might have a claim to the estate.
+
+He gave the companies to understand that if he had the guardianship of
+the boy their interests should be most carefully studied.
+
+They appeared favourable. The step was taken. The boy remained with his
+mother; his mother remained in her house, seeing Aurelian daily, and
+indeed watched by his _employés_.
+
+No change took place. Aurelian congratulated himself that all was going
+on favourably. The boy, who had little or no idea of the meaning of the
+word “father,” was constantly at Aurelian’s residence—the asylum where
+his parent was confined—playing with Aurelian’s son, who was carefully
+instructed to please him, and indeed was sharp enough already to
+require little instruction.
+
+Sternhold lingered in his melancholy state. He was no longer
+violent—simply dejected. He did not seem able to answer the simplest
+question. If asked if he was hungry, he would stare, and say something
+relating to his school-days.
+
+And this was the man who had built Stirmingham. For five years he
+remained in this state, and then suddenly brightened up; and it was
+thought and _feared_ that he would recover the use of his faculties. It
+lasted but three days. In that short time he wrote three important
+documents.
+
+The first was a statement to the effect that he had wronged Lucia. He
+now saw his folly—he had been led into his persecution of her by
+designing people, and blamed himself for his subsequent conduct. He
+earnestly entreated her forgiveness. The second was a species of family
+history, short but complete, refuting the claims of the American
+Baskettes. They were indeed of the same name, he wrote, but not of the
+same blood. The truth was that the cotters who had lived in the Swamp,
+now covered with mansions, had no name. They were half gipsies; they
+had no registered or baptismal name.
+
+Will Baskette, who had been shot, was the chief man among them, and
+gradually they came by the country people to be called by his name.
+They were not blood relations in any sense of the term. This paper also
+gave the writer’s views of his transactions with the Sibbolds and the
+cotters or “Baskettes,” and concluded with the firmly expressed
+conviction—the honest statement of a man near his end—that his title
+was irrefutable, and he knew of no genuine claim.
+
+The third document was his Will. For now it appeared that hitherto he
+had never made a will at all. It was extremely short, but terse and
+unmistakable. It left the whole of his property, real and personal
+(with the single exception of the gift to Lucia), to his son, John
+Marese Baskette.
+
+The will Aurelian took care was properly attested, and by independent
+witnesses whom he sent for.
+
+On the fourth day old Sternhold died, quietly and without a word. He
+was buried, and hardly was he in the tomb before the battle began. The
+companies at once cut off all connection with Aurelian. They had
+reckoned upon his managing to get their terms at all events extended,
+as he had promised. The Corporation refused any honours to the dead
+king, and all eagerly sought about for the means of dividing the spoil.
+
+After all their consultations, not all the subtlety of twenty
+solicitors could suggest any feasible plan—the old man had baffled them
+at last. It was useless to plead that he was insane, and actually in an
+asylum at the moment of executing the will. What was the good even if
+such a plea was successful—if the will was upset, the property would
+descend to the boy just the same. There seemed no way of getting at it.
+
+But at last a weak point was found. It was a time when a great deal of
+commotion was made about the Roman Catholic question and the religious
+education of minors. Now Lucia was certainly half a foreigner, and it
+was believed she was a Catholic. Aurelian was certainly a Catholic.
+With all his cunning he had not foreseen this, and he had allowed
+himself to become a somewhat prominent member of the Catholic community
+in Stirmingham. He had no religion, but it paid him. Catholics are rich
+people, and when rich people go insane they are profitable. So he was
+caught in his own trap.
+
+There was an agitation got up among the ultra-Protestant community.
+Funds were started to release the heir from the clasp of Rome. The
+companies, the Corporation, all joined in the outcry. The question was
+made a national one by the newspapers. But there was one difficulty:
+the law required that there should be a person to sue. After much
+trouble this person was selected in one of the Baskettes of American
+origin, who had settled in Stirmingham, and claimed to be a nearer
+relation than Aurelian.
+
+The battle was long and furious, and cost heavy sums. No expense was
+spared on either side, and the estate got still further encumbered. It
+promised to be a drawn battle; but at last, having passed all the
+tribunals, it began to approach the place of power, and to be discussed
+in the Ministerial Cabinet. There was a man there who desired to obtain
+the Catholic vote of Ireland, and the Aurelian party began to boast
+already of success. But this very boasting spoilt their game. The
+Ministry lost the confidence of the people, the House followed suit, a
+new Ministry came into place, and the final decision was against the
+Catholic, or, as they termed themselves, legitimate party—for they said
+the uncle and the mother were the legitimate guardians.
+
+The result was in truth disappointing to all the parties. The boy was
+made a ward of Chancery, proper receivers of the estate were appointed,
+and the companies who had begun to exult were entrapped. The lad was
+taken from his mother and uncle, and sent to Eton to prepare for
+college.
+
+Thus a new element of complexity was added to the already chaotic state
+of this vast estate.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Ten.
+
+
+If ever there was a life that illustrated the oft-quoted phrase “poor
+humanity,” it was that of Sternhold Baskette. But this is not the place
+to moralise—we must hasten on. The orchestra has nearly finished the
+overture; the play will soon begin.
+
+Lucia had now no longer any reason for restraint. Her boy was safe—safe
+as the laws of a great country could make him—certain to inherit a
+property which by the time he was forty would be of value surpassing
+calculation. She rejoiced in it, gloried in it. To her it was more
+welcome than the confirmed guardianship of Aurelian would have been,
+because it left her free.
+
+The lad was at Eton, and happy—far happier than he could have been
+elsewhere. His mother immediately commenced a course which led her by a
+rapid descent to the lowest degradation.
+
+She returned to Paris. Aurelian felt it was useless now to interfere,
+neither could he afford more expense.
+
+She easily got upon the stage again, and became more popular than ever.
+At the age of forty she was even more handsome than in her youth. Her
+features had been refined by the passage of time and by the restraint
+to which she had been subjected. Her form was more fully developed.
+
+It is unpleasant to linger on this woman’s disgrace. She formed a
+_liaison_ with a rich foreign gentleman, retired with him from Paris
+after a time, and the _Stirmingham Daily Post_, which pursued the
+Baskettes with unmitigated hatred year after year, did not fail to
+chronicle the birth of a son.
+
+Aurelian, baffled, was not beaten. He was a resolute and patient man.
+Like the famous Carthaginian father, he brought up his son and educated
+him to consider the Baskette estates as the one object of his
+attention—only in this case it was not for destruction, but for
+preservation.
+
+When young John Marese Baskette, the heir, after distinguishing himself
+at Eton, was sent higher up the Thames to Oxford, Aurelian immediately
+placed his son, Theodore Marese, at the same college.
+
+The result was exactly as he had foreseen. The heir formed a bond of
+friendship—such as it is in these days—with Theodore. Their one topic
+of conversation was the estate.
+
+John was full of the most romantic notions. He was in youth a really
+exemplary lad—clever, hard-working, winning to himself the good will of
+all men. Theodore had a genuine liking for his cousin—then, at all
+events, though probably in after life the attachment he professed was
+chiefly caused by self interest.
+
+John was full of ambitious dreams. His vivid imagination had been
+worked upon by the talk among his companions about the famous owner of
+twenty millions sterling—his father. Upon an old bookstall he obtained
+a copy of “The Life of Sternhold Baskette,” now out of print. It
+inflamed him to the uttermost. There was good metal in the boy if he
+had only had friends and parents to put it to proper use. He formed the
+most extraordinary schemes as to what he would do with this wealth when
+he became of age, and stepped at one bound into the full enjoyment of
+it, as he supposed he should.
+
+It was all to be used for the alleviation of the misery of the world,
+for the relief of the poor, for the succouring of the afflicted, the
+advancement of all means that could mitigate the penalties attaching to
+human existence.
+
+As time wore on, however, these benevolent intentions received their
+first check.
+
+He reached his twenty-first birthday. He claimed his birthright, and
+was refused. Briefly, the reason was because the companies and the
+American claimants had entered pleas, and because also the property was
+terribly encumbered, and would require long years of nursing yet before
+it could be cleared, and this nursing the higher Courts insisted upon.
+
+Instead of the magnificent income he expected, the young man received
+two thousand pounds per annum only. It struck his nature a heavy blow,
+and did much to pervert it, for he looked upon it in the sense of a
+shameful injustice. With Theodore he left college; at all events he was
+now his own master, and entered “life.”
+
+Every one knows what “life” is to a young man of twenty-one with two
+thousand a year certain—the power of borrowing to a wide margin, and no
+monitor to check and retard the inevitable course.
+
+Theodore was much older—fully thirty at this time; but he was as eager
+for enjoyment, and perhaps more so.
+
+To make the story short, they ran through every species of
+extravagance—visited Paris, Vienna, and all the continental centres of
+dissipation.
+
+Ten whole years passed away. John Marese Baskette was by this time a
+thorough man of the world, deeply in debt, brilliant and fascinating in
+manner, false and selfish to the backbone. He inherited his mother’s
+beauty. A tall, broad, well-made man, dark curling hair, large dark
+eyes, and large eyelashes, bronzed complexion, which, when he was
+excited, glowed with almost womanly brilliance; strong as a lion,
+gentle in manner, and fierce as a tiger under the velvet glove.
+Polished and plausible, there were those who deemed him shallow and
+wholly concerned with the pleasure of the hour; but they were mistaken.
+
+John Marese Baskette had rubbed off all the soft and good aspirations
+of his boyhood; but the ambition which was at the bottom of those
+schemes remained, and had intensified tenfold. He was burning with
+ambition. The hereditary mind of the Baskettes, their brain power, had
+descended to him in full vigour (though hitherto he had wasted it), and
+he also inherited their thirst for wealth. But his idea of obtaining it
+was totally opposed to the family tradition. The family tradition was a
+private life devoted with the patience and self-denial of a martyr to
+the accumulation of gold.
+
+Marese’s one absorbing idea was power. To be a ruler, a statesman, a
+leader, was his one consuming desire. As a ruler he thought, as a
+member of the Cabinet, it would be easy for him to affect the market in
+his favour, for Marese was a gambler already upon a gigantic scale. The
+Stock Exchange and the Bourse were his arena.
+
+The intense vanity of the man, which led him to seriously hope even for
+the English Premiership, was, doubtless, a _trait_ derived from his
+mother. “If I had my rights,” he was accustomed to say to Theodore, “I
+should be not only the wealthiest man in England, but in Europe and
+America. My father’s property has more than doubled in value. In
+England the wealthiest man at once takes a position above crowds of
+clever people who have nothing but their talents. Without any conceit,
+I can safely say that I am clever. A clever, wealthy man is so great a
+rarity that my elevation is a certainty. But nothing can be done
+without money. At present my wealth is a shadow only. The one thing,
+Theodore, is money. Our Stock Exchange labour is, in a sense, wasted;
+our operations are not large enough. What we make is barely sufficient
+to provide us with common luxuries (he did not pretend to say
+necessities) and to keep our creditors quiet. Nothing remains for
+bolder actions. I am thirty, and I have not yet entered the House.”
+
+This last remark was always the conclusion of his reflections. In a
+sense, it was like Caesar lamenting upon seeing a statue of
+Alexander—that he had done nothing at an age when Alexander had
+conquered the world. He had not even the means to fight the enemies who
+withheld his birthright from him. The bitterness engendered of these
+wrongs, the constant brooding over the career that was lost to him,
+obscured what little moral sense had been left in him after the course
+of life he had been through; and the once gentle boy was now ripe for
+any guilt. The verse so often upon the lips of the tyrant was for ever
+in his mind, and perpetually escaped him unconsciously—
+
+Be just, unless a kingdom tempt to break the laws,
+For sovereign power alone can justify the cause.
+
+
+Like his father Sternhold, he looked upon the undisputed possession of
+such an estate as conferring powers and position nothing inferior to
+that of a monarch. His dislike to all things American—in consequence of
+the claims, now more loudly proclaimed than ever, of the Baskettes from
+the States—grew to be almost a monomania. He wished that the United
+States people had but one neck, that he might destroy them all at
+once—applying the Roman emperor’s saying to his own affairs.
+
+His especially favourite study was “The Prince” of Machiavelli, which
+he always carried with him. His copy was annotated with a scheme for
+applying the instructions therein given to modern times—the outline of
+the original requiring much modification to suit the changes in the
+constitution of society. Some day he hoped to utilise the labours of
+the man whose name has become the familiar soubriquet of the Devil.
+
+Theodore, whom Aurelian had made qualify as a surgeon, was imbued with
+an inherited taste for recondite research. He would return from a wild
+scene of debauchery at early dawn, and drawing the curtains and
+lighting his lamp to exclude daylight, plunge into the devious paths of
+forbidden science. Keen and shrewd as he was, he did not disdain even
+alchemy, bringing to the crude ideas of the ancients all the knowledge
+of the moderns. Cruel by nature, he excelled in the manipulation of the
+dissecting knife, and in the cities upon the Continent where their
+wanderings led them, lost no opportunity of practising with the
+resident medical men, or of studying those wonderful museums which are
+concealed in certain places abroad. Marese was the fiery charger, ready
+to dash at every obstacle Theodore was the charioteer—the head which
+guided and suggested. Yet all their concentrated thought could not
+devise a method by which Marese might obtain the full enjoyment of his
+estate. Briefly, this was the condition of Marese’s mind and his
+position, when the death of Aurelian took place, and a letter reached
+them written by him in his last hours, entreating their return to
+Stirmingham for reasons connected with the estate. They went, and a
+woman went with them as far as London—a woman whom we must meet
+hereafter, but who shall be avoided as much as possible.
+
+They arrived at Stirmingham unannounced, and examined the papers which
+the deceased had particularly recommended to their study. Aurelian, as
+has been said, was baffled but not beaten. The fascination of the vast
+estate held his mind, as it held so many others, in an iron vice. The
+whole of his life was devoted to it. He had searched and searched back
+into the past, groping from point to point, and he had accumulated such
+a mass of evidence as had never been suspected.
+
+He knew far more even than poor Sternhold, who had occupied himself
+exclusively with the future.
+
+Marese and Theodore, living quietly in the residence attached to the
+asylum for the insane, which Aurelian had continued to keep, carefully
+studied these papers by the light of the lucid commentary the dead man
+had left. It is needless to recount the whole of the contents—most of
+them are known already to the reader. But the substance of it all was
+that three great dangers menaced the estate. The first was the claims
+of the Baskettes from America.
+
+The evidence which Aurelian had collected was clear that the land they
+had occupied in the Swamp had been practically theirs, since they had
+paid no rent; but as to their power of handing it over to Sternhold, it
+was extremely questionable. The second great danger was the claim of a
+new tribe that had recently started up—the descendants of James
+Sibbold, who had also expatriated themselves.
+
+It was doubtful if the transfer made by their ancestors could be
+maintained, and for this simple reason—it was doubtful whether James
+Sibbold himself had any right to the property his sons sold to
+Sternhold. He was not the eldest son. The eldest son, Arthur, had
+disappeared for a number of years; but there was not the slightest
+proof that he had died childless. Far from it. Aurelian, incessantly
+searching, had found out what no one else yet knew—that Arthur had
+married, had had children, and that one at least of his descendants was
+living but a short time since.
+
+When Marese had read thus far his countenance turned livid, and
+Theodore feared he would have fallen in a fit. The savage passions
+inherited from his mother surged up in his frame, and overmastered him.
+He was ill for days, almost unconscious—the shock was so great, his
+passion so fierce—but presently recovering, read on.
+
+Aurelian had traced Arthur in his wanderings, had traced his
+marriage—but there was one loophole. Do what he might, Aurelian could
+not discover _where_ Arthur had married. It was in London, but a minute
+search failed to discover the church, and the register could not be
+found.
+
+This fact, and the fact of the long silence, the absence of any claim
+being put forward, led Aurelian to believe that there really was no
+legal marriage—that it was only reputed. He hoped as much, at all
+events.
+
+There was another loophole—the deed which old Sibbold had so treasured
+in his padlocked oaken chest—the deed which settled the inheritance (on
+the female as well as the male)—had disappeared. Sternhold had searched
+for it and failed. It was lost. If the marriage could not be proved,
+and if the deed was really lost, then there was no danger from Arthur
+Sibbold’s descendants; but there remained those “ifs.” Also, if
+Arthur’s claim was put aside, then the succession would of course
+belong to his brother James Sibbold’s descendants: but then again came
+in the question—Could these Sibbolds sign away (to Sternhold) an
+inheritance which at the time was _entailed_?
+
+Aurelian finished with several hints and schemes which need not be gone
+into here, and indeed were never carried out. But his one great point
+throughout was a warning against the living descendant of Arthur
+Sibbold, whose name and present address he had discovered and left for
+Marese, and against the companies who held the leases. “For,” said he,
+“these companies would foster any and every claim against the estate;
+anything to bar the succession of Marese, the heir, in order to obtain
+a grant or extension of time from the courts of law, to enable them to
+hold the property till the succession to the estate was established.”
+These companies were so rich and powerful that it was difficult to
+contend against them. Their strength was money, their weapons were the
+various claimants.
+
+“Therefore,” wrote Aurelian, “the first thing is money, and I wish my
+property to be used freely for this end, convinced that you will do
+Theodore full justice; and I bid you, if possible, to take the
+_weapons_ of the companies out of their hands. Without the claimants
+they are powerless.”
+
+These papers, and the facts and reflections they contained, made the
+deepest impression upon Marese and Theodore. In secret they walked
+through the city of Stirmingham, and marked its wealth, its vastness,
+its trade and population.
+
+“And nearly all this is mine,” whispered Marese, pale as death in his
+subdued excitement. He had to hold Theodore’s arm to sustain his body,
+for, strong as he was, he trembled.
+
+Next day they left for London, for Marese could not bear the
+Tantalus-like view of the wealth which was and was not his. In London
+they thought and planned as only such men seeking such an end can think
+and plan.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Eleven.
+
+
+While Marese and Theodore are maturing their plans, it will conduce to
+the easier comprehension of the horrible, complicated events which
+followed, if the past history of the estate be briefly summed up in
+such a manner that this chapter can be used for reference.
+
+In the commencement, nearly a century previous to the present time, we
+have seen old Sibbold, the morose miser, gloating over his money, and
+studying his title-deeds. These gave him an unquestioned right to the
+farm he occupied, and to the Swamp, or waste land, which had been
+squatted on by Will Baskette and his companions. This right mainly
+depended, though not entirely, upon a certain deed of entail. Without
+that deed Sibbold had still sufficient evidence to prove his right to
+his farm, but not to the Swamp; without that deed there was no fixed
+succession—that is to say, he could have devised it to any one he
+chose.
+
+There was, therefore, just the possibility that, hating his eldest son
+Arthur, he had himself destroyed this deed, in order to prepare the way
+for his second son, James. But against this supposition there was the
+known character of the man, which led one to imagine that he would
+rather have died than give up the smallest fraction of his possessions.
+At all events, this deed was missing, as were several others of little
+or no value, such as expired leases of fields to tenants, which had
+once been kept in Sibbold’s oaken press, under padlock and key.
+
+When Sibbold met with his death at the hands of highwaymen, the farm
+and waste lands, in the natural course of things, would have passed to
+his eldest son, Arthur, but he having disappeared, and not appearing to
+make a claim, James Sibbold, the younger son, took the property. The
+majority of people always thought, from the fact of Arthur’s not
+returning to claim his birthright, that he had had a hand in the
+slaughter of old Will Baskette, and that his conscience drove him away.
+
+James Sibbold, after a while, married, and had several sons. In time he
+died, and these sons, though married, still all remained living on the
+farmstead, or in the outhouses; for as it was known that James’ right
+was doubtful, they could not agree about the succession, and preferred
+to live like pigs rather than go to law and have it settled, since the
+result was so uncertain. At the same time the squatters, basket-makers,
+reed-cutters, clothes-peg makers, etc, who resided in the Swamp which
+the rat had caused, had considerably increased in numbers, and were
+always called, after their former chief, by the name of Baskette.
+
+This chief at the date of his death had two sons. The eldest went off
+with his mother, and joined the original gipsy tribe; the youngest,
+whose name or nickname was Romy, entered the service of the clergyman.
+The eldest was never heard of more; but Romy prospered, and in early
+middle age bought an estate and country mansion, not far from his
+birthplace.
+
+It was he who opened up the concealed mineral wealth of coal and iron,
+and thus, as everything goes by contradiction in this world, it
+happened that the descendant of gipsies, notorious for their wandering
+habits and dislike of houses, was the founder of one of the largest
+cities in the world.
+
+He married with every legal formality, and his son, Sternhold Baskette,
+imbued with the firmest convictions that in the future the young city
+would prosper to an unprecedented extent, employed the whole of the
+wealth he inherited in purchasing land and erecting houses.
+
+In the course of his transactions he desired to purchase the Wick Farm,
+where old Sibbold had dwelt, and the Swamp where the Baskette tribe
+flourished. Finding the title of the vendors imperfect, he devised the
+strongest safeguard he could think of, which was to make all the
+Sibbolds then living or known, to sign one document, and all the
+reputed Baskettes to sign another. He then transhipped them all to
+America—first, to get complete possession; secondly, in the hope that
+they would never return to trouble him.
+
+He proceeded to drain the Swamp, and to convert it into the Belgravia
+of Stirmingham. But this project required an enormous expenditure, and
+just at that moment the first railway to the place, which he had
+largely supported, came to a standstill, and ate up all his available
+capital. When, therefore, a return of commercial prosperity took place,
+he found it impossible alone to complete the vast scheme of streets,
+squares, etc, which had been commenced.
+
+Then the building lease plan was resorted to—the very keystone of all
+this curious history. First, the Corporation of the city took a large
+slice of the uncompleted property of him on a building lease for a term
+of years, on the expiration of which the whole reverted to him or his
+heirs (practically his heirs, as he was not likely to live to the age
+of 120 years).
+
+After they had commenced building some uncertainty arose as to whether
+or no they had the power to enter into such an agreement; they could
+bind themselves, but could they bind their successors in office? This
+took place, it must be remembered, long, long before the recent
+sanitary legislation, which gives such extensive powers to local
+bodies.
+
+In order to confirm their proceedings they obtained a private Act of
+Parliament, which, when it was drawn up, seemed to be worded clearly
+enough. But every one knows that after the lapse of thirty years or
+less, words in an inexplicable manner seem to lose their meaning, and
+to become capable of more than one interpretation. This is perhaps
+because the persons who read them are influenced unconsciously by a
+series of circumstances which did not exist at the time the document
+was composed.
+
+At any rate, at the date when Marese and Theodore were thinking and
+scheming, there had already been a great deal of contention over the
+precise scope of several sentences in this Act: a part of which arose
+over the question of repairs to the buildings, and partly as to
+whether, by a little straining, the seventy years of the lease might
+not be construed to mean practically for ever.
+
+This little straining was managed in this way. When did the lease
+commence? Had not each successive Mayor got the right to say, “This
+lease, as interpreted by the Private Act, means, not seventy years from
+the days of my predecessor, but seventy years from the commencement of
+my term of office.” By this way of looking at it, so long as there was
+a Mayor the Corporation would always have seventy years to look forward
+to.
+
+Of course all such reasoning was nothing but pure sophistry; but then
+most law is sophistry, and sophistry when supported by a rich body of
+men and called Vested Interest, is often much stronger than the highly
+belauded and really feeble truth.
+
+Here was a tough Gordian knot, to add to the already difficult question
+of original title. But this was only the preface to the complications
+to follow. There still remained, after the Corporation had taken a
+part, a huge howling wilderness of streets with walls two feet high.
+Companies or syndicates were formed (eight companies in all)—perhaps
+they had better be called in modern parlance building societies—who
+took this howling wilderness on the same system of building leases, to
+fall in at a certain date.
+
+Apparently in this case it was all plain, straightforward sailing; but
+not so. Sternhold Baskette got into difficulties over Railway Number 2,
+and had to borrow money. He also had to borrow money to complete
+portions of the estate which he had kept in his own hands, and to
+acquire lands just outside the city. Lastly, he had to borrow money to
+support the extravagance of his wife. In the aggregate these sums were
+something enormous.
+
+At the moment of borrowing he was under the impression that he had
+dealt with independent persons—with financiers, in fact, of London,
+being so assured by his solicitors. These solicitors had had a pretty
+picking out of his railways and estates; they had grown fat and
+prosperous upon him, and might, one would have thought, have been
+trusted to serve him honestly.
+
+But no—whenever was there a friendship formed in business? Ostensibly,
+the financiers who advanced the cash were independent; in reality, they
+acted for certain of these very aforesaid building societies who had
+taken the building leases! Four at least of them had their money thus
+out upon good security; and Sternhold, unknowingly at first, owed them
+a large fortune.
+
+For their own interest they had proved easy creditors. They had not
+called in the loans; not a fraction of the original sums borrowed from
+them to complete Railway Number 2, to finish houses, buy fresh lands,
+to pay for Lucia’s extravagance, had been repaid. Very little of the
+interest had been cleared off; none while Sternhold lived. They knew
+that they were safe. The railway was now paying a fair dividend, the
+houses and lands had trebled in value; as for Lucia’s waste it was
+small in comparison—when they chose to call in their money they could
+seize upon property to twice the amount due, even with added interest.
+
+But they did not choose to call in their money. The leases were now
+approaching the day of expiration. They knew that the trustees of
+Sternhold’s estate had not one tithe of the cash required to meet their
+demands: they would be compelled to submit to one of two things—first,
+they must yield up a good part of the estate, or they must grant an
+extension of the leases—either of which would suit the societies
+exactly.
+
+They intended to push matters in such a way as to compel the trustees
+to extend the term, in order to retain both halves, as it were, of the
+estate under their control. This was Gordian knot Number 3. How was the
+heir to come by his own through all this? It was impossible, unless he
+could scrape together sufficient money to pay off the loans which had
+been contracted by his father. He would then be in a position to claim
+the property held by the trustees at the expiration of the leases,
+which was now fast approaching.
+
+The other four companies had got wind of this nice little arrangement,
+and it upset them extremely. They had not been half so shrewd as their
+fellows, and that was a bitter reflection. They foresaw their valuable
+properties passing away from them, while the other societies held fast
+to their share. It was gall and wormwood.
+
+But they were not to be outdone in the Art of Entanglement. Sternhold
+was dead; they could not lend him money. But the heir, our friend
+Marese, was living, and living “fast;” and not only that, he was
+speculating heavily upon the Stock Exchange. Here was a fine opening.
+With careful and judicious management they bought up all Marese’s
+debts; they lent him money to a large amount through their agents,
+keeping themselves in the background out of sight; and they had
+gentlemen always on the watch on the Exchange, whose business it was to
+tempt Marese into apparently good bargains with floating paper.
+
+Not content with this, they had still further secured themselves. They
+had allied themselves with a certain powerful and enterprising railway
+company. This company had hitherto been shut out of Stirmingham, and
+were extremely desirous of getting access to it. These second four
+societies combined, and declared that in the interests of the
+properties committed to their charge (save the mark!) it was essential
+that there should be more direct railway communication with a certain
+district which it is immaterial to name, and that there should be a
+station close to their portion of the estate, the other stations being
+at some distance. The enterprising railway company would guarantee good
+terms if the trustees of the estate would enter into agreement with
+them.
+
+The upshot was that another Act of Parliament was obtained by the
+influence of the said powerful railway company, authorising this line,
+station, and agreement. It was now argued that this Act and agreement
+would override the original building leases; especially as the railway
+company were prepared to prove that they had not yet reaped any
+reasonable benefit, and, unless the leases were extended, would be
+serious losers. As they had immense interest in the House, they were
+likely enough to gain their point. Here were two more Gordian knots,
+Numbers 4 and 5!
+
+Then there was the list of claimants to the estate, which had now been
+swelled from all parts of the world, and the series of suits and pleas,
+and Heaven knows what other litigation threatened by them, making
+Gordian knot Number 6. Finally, the estate was in Chancery. Knot Number
+7.
+
+Here was a pleasant prospect for the heir! To put all the rest on one
+side, on the day that the building leases expired, and he stepped
+forward to claim his rights, the building societies would present him
+with the following neat little bill:—
+
+
+“After all,” said Marese to Theodore, as they planned and schemed, and
+smoked cigars at 120 shillings the hundred, “after all, old fellow,
+this is but one year’s income if I could only get possession. And I
+believe we could finance the thing and raise the money without
+difficulty, if it were not for those cursed, hateful claimants from
+America and elsewhere. The Jews fight shy on account of the title
+difficulty. If we could but get rid of those claimants!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Twelve.
+
+
+There was once a very wise man who invented what was considered a
+saying almost inspired, which was afterwards inculcated as a most
+important lesson by mighty princes upon their sons, and continues to be
+constantly quoted in our day with approval—it is, that “Unity is
+strength.” But the strength of the claimants to the Baskette estate
+consisted in the number of their scattered forces.
+
+All that Marese, the heir, could have desired was that by some means
+they could be condensed into one person, and thus destroyed at a blow.
+They had increased as the years went by in a geometrical ratio, till
+the total formed a small battalion.
+
+When the idea of making claims upon the estate first arose in America,
+there were already quite fifty families who in one way or another
+thought they had “rights.” About a dozen visited Stirmingham, and all
+but drove poor old Sternhold frantic. That was a generation ago, and
+the tribe had nearly trebled. Mothers of children who had the remotest
+possible chance of a share in the prize took care to have them
+christened Baskette or Sternhold. There were Sternhold Baskette Browns,
+Baskette Johnsons, Baskette Stirmingham Slicks, English Baskette
+Williamsons, and every possible combination of Baskette.
+
+Those who, either by the male or female side, really could show some
+species of proof that they were descended from the seventeen squatters
+who were transhipped to the States now numbered no less than one
+hundred and forty-three individuals—men, women, and children. To
+distinguish themselves from other claimants, they called themselves
+“The True Swampers.”
+
+But in addition to these, there was a host of other Baskettes, who in
+one way or another foisted in their names. There were Baskets, Bascots,
+Buscots, Biscuits, Buschcotts, Bosquettes—every conceivable variation
+of spelling from every State and territory, who declared that they were
+related to the parent stem of Will Baskette, the squatter, who was shot
+by old Sibbold. These might be called for distinction the
+pseudo-Baskettes.
+
+Then among the True Swampers there was an inner circle, who professed
+to have prominent “rights” on account of their progenitors having been
+more nearly related to the original Will Baskette. They argued that the
+others were not true Baskettes, and had only adopted that name from the
+chief, while they were real blood Baskettes.
+
+In addition, there was another host of people who made a virtue of
+proclaiming that they were not named Baskette. They did not profess to
+be named Baskette—they did not take a name which was not theirs! They
+were Washingtons, Curries, Bolters, Gregorys, Jamesons, and so on. But
+they had claims because their father’s wives were of the Baskette
+blood.
+
+Finally, there was another sub-division who loudly maintained that half
+of the original cotters who landed in New York were not Baskettes, but
+Gibbs, Webbes, Colborns, and so on, and that they were the descendants
+of these people. And there were some who went the length of declaring
+that they were descended from two alleged illegitimate sons of old Romy
+Baskette!
+
+The Baskette Battalion was therefore made up of—1st. The Pure Blood
+Baskettes; 2nd. The True Swampers; 3rd. Demi-Baskettes, who had that
+name added to another; 4th. Nominal Baskettes, whose names had an
+accidental resemblance; 5th. The Feminine Baskettes, descended from
+women of Baskette strain; 6th. Independent Squatters, not Baskettes,
+but companions; 7th. Illegitimate Baskettes!
+
+Then there were the Sibbolds—such a catalogue! These had been slower to
+wake up to their “rights” than the Baskettes, but when they did
+discover them they came in crowds. First, there were the descendants,
+in a straight line, of the eight sons of James Sibbold, shipped (six
+with families) to New York. They had multiplied exceedingly, and there
+was no end to them. The simply Sibbolds, as we may call them, numbered
+no less than two hundred and eighteen, all told—men, women, and
+children. Every one of these had some register, some old book—many of
+these books were worm-eaten copies of Tom Paine’s “Rights of Man”—some
+piece of paper or other to prove that they had the blood of James
+Sibbold in their veins.
+
+Then there were all the ramifications, pretty much like the Baskette
+branches; innumerable cadets distantly related, innumerable people
+whose wife’s uncle’s mother or cousin’s name was Sibbold; and all the
+various Sibbolde, Sibboldes, Sibald, Sigbeld, Sybels, Sibils, Sibelus,
+Sibilsons, _ad libitum_. Illegitimate Sibbolds were as plentiful as
+blackberries, and all ready to argue the merits of the case with
+revolver and bowie. If the Baskettes made up a battalion, the Sibbolds
+formed an army!
+
+Between these two great divisions there was the bitterest enmity. The
+Baskettes derided the claims of the Sibbolds; the Sibbolds derided
+those of the Baskettes. The Sibbolds told the Baskettes that they were
+an ill-conditioned lot; if they had been respectable people, and really
+his relations, old Sternhold would never have shipped them to America
+out of his sight. The Baskettes retorted that the Sibbolds were ashamed
+to stay in England, for they were the sons of a murderer; they were the
+descendants of a dastardly coward, who shot a man through a window. The
+Sibbolds snarled, and pointed out that the great chief of the Baskettes
+was nothing but a thief, caught in the act and deservedly punished; a
+lot of semi-gipsies, rogues, and vagabonds. Their very name showed that
+they were but basket-makers; they were not even pure gipsy
+blood—miserable squatters on another man’s property.
+
+Blows were not unfrequently exchanged in the saloons and
+drinking-stores over these quarrels. The result was the formation of
+two distinct societies, each determined to prosecute its own claim and
+to oust the other at all hazards. The Baskette battalion relied upon
+the admitted non-payment of rent by their forefathers to upset all
+subsequent agreements, and they agreed also that this agreement which
+their forefathers had signed was not binding on the remote descendants.
+The document was obtained by trickery, and the land was not put to the
+use the vendors had understood it was to be put, as the representatives
+now alleged, to simple agricultural purposes. Further, each of those
+who signed the document only gave up his cottage and the small plot of
+garden round it; they did not sell the waste land between the islands.
+
+The Sibbolds principal argument was that their forefathers could not
+sign away an entailed estate without previously cutting off the entail,
+and it was acknowledged that this had not been done. But, said the
+Baskettes, there was a question if the land ever was entailed; let the
+Sibbolds produce the deed, and if it was not entailed, where was their
+claim?
+
+Each of these divisions formed itself into a society, with a regular
+committee and place of meeting, a minute-book to record accumulated
+evidence, legal gentlemen to advise, corresponding secretaries, and
+Heaven knows what. They actually issued gazettes—printed sheets of
+intelligence. There was the _Baskette Gazette_ and the _Sibbold
+Gazette_, which papers carefully recorded all deaths, marriages, and
+new claims. There was a complete organisation, and a—fine thing it was
+for the lawyers and some few sharp young men.
+
+Of late these societies had received more or less cordial overtures
+from the eight building societies at Stirmingham who held the leases.
+The first four societies encouraged the Baskette battalion, the second
+held out hopes to the Sibbolds. The cunning building societies, without
+committing themselves, desired nothing better than protracted
+litigation between these claimants and the heir, in the certainty that
+meantime they should reap the benefit.
+
+Among the American corps of claimants there were men of all
+classes—from common labourers, saloon-keepers, etc, up to judges,
+editors, financiers, merchants; and many of them were clever,
+far-seeing persons, who, without putting any weight upon the somewhat
+strained “rights” they professed to believe in, still thought that
+there was “something in it, you know,” and money might be got by
+persistent agitation, if it was only hush-money.
+
+Throughout many turbulent States there was at one time quite a feeling
+aroused against England (which added its venom to the unfortunate
+_Alabama_ business), as having unjustly kept what was due to American
+citizens. These societies had their regular agents in Stirmingham and
+London, whose duty it was to report every change that took place, every
+variation of the case, and to accumulate evidence and transmit it.
+These bulletins were received by the “caucuses,” and sometimes printed
+in the _Gazettes_.
+
+Besides these regular organisations, who had money at disposal and were
+really formidable, there were several free lances careering over the
+country, representing themselves as the sons of the elder brother of
+Romy Baskette, the brother who had disappeared with the gipsies. These
+were downright impostors, and yet got a living out of the case. Several
+lecturers also promenaded the States, who made a good thing of it by
+giving a popular version of the story, illustrated by a diorama of
+incidents in the lives of the principal actors, from the shooting of
+Will Baskette to the appearance of Lucia Marese as Lady Godiva. It was
+singular that no one presented himself as a descendant of Arthur
+Sibbold; he seemed to have been quite forgotten. So much for America.
+
+From Australia there came, time after time, the most startling reports,
+as is usual when any _cause célèbre_ is proceeding in the Old World.
+Now, it was a miner at the diggings who had made extraordinary
+disclosures; now, some shepherd on a sheep-run, after a fit of illness,
+found his memory returned, and recollected where important deeds were
+deposited.
+
+Nothing, however, came of it. The principal seats of disturbance were
+America and England; for England produced a crop of what we may call
+Provisional, or Partial Claimants. Here and there, scattered all over
+the country—from Kent to Cornwall, from Hampshire to
+Northumberland—were people of the name of Baskette, which is a very
+ancient English cognomen, and to be found in every collection of
+surnames.
+
+Most of these were of little or no consequence, but one or two held
+good positions as gentlemen or merchants. None of these latter made the
+shadow of a pretence to the estate, but they were fond of speculating
+as to their possible remote connection with the now famous Baskette
+stock; and some said that if anything did turn up, if any practical
+results followed the American attempt, it would be as well to be
+prepared to take a share in the spoil.
+
+There were also at least three impostors—utter scoundrels, who obtained
+a profusion of drink and some sustenance from credulous fools in
+tap-rooms by pretending that they were descendants of the elder brother
+of Romy Baskette. They had not the shadow of a proof, and ought to have
+been treated to a dose of “cell.”
+
+A gipsy tribe, a travelling clan which went about the country with
+shooting galleries, merry-go-rounds, peep-shows, and so on, were in the
+habit of proclaiming that they were the very identical tribe from whom
+offshoots settled in the historical swamp at Wolf’s Glow, in order to
+attract custom.
+
+Certain persons in and around Stirmingham, whose fathers or ancestors
+had sold lands to Sternhold Baskette—lands now worth ten, and in some
+cases a thousand, times the price he had given for them—had a
+fallacious idea that if the title of the heir was upset, they would
+have a chance of regaining possession, or at least of an additional
+payment for the property.
+
+They formed themselves into a loosely-compacted society to protect
+their interest. It was remarkable that in England, as in America, no
+one set up a claim to be the descendant of Arthur Sibbold. The real
+danger was from America, the land of organisation.
+
+But in England there was a class of persons who, without possessing any
+personal interest in the matter, made it their especial business to
+collect all the “ana” that could be discovered, and gained a livelihood
+out of their study of the case. More than one private inquiry office in
+London received large fees from New York clients to make special
+investigations. The credulity of mankind is exhibited in a striking
+manner in the support given to these offices. How should they be
+supposed to be so devotedly attached to the cause of one client? What
+is to prevent them having fifty, all with the same end, and from
+selling the information gained from one to the other?
+
+There were men who made it a speciality of their trade to collect all
+books, pamphlets, pictures, lectures, genealogies, deeds, documents,
+letters, papers, _souvenirs_—anything and everything, from Sternhold
+Baskette’s old hat upwards, that could be twisted into relation with
+the case.
+
+Those who have never had any leaning towards antiquarian research have
+no idea of the enormous business done in this way—not only in reference
+to great cases of this kind, but in reference to matters that would
+appear to an outsider as absolutely not worth a thought. There is
+scarcely a scrap of written or printed paper of the last century, or up
+to within fifty years of the present date, which has not got its value
+to such a collector, for he knows there will be fools to buy them.
+Sometimes it happens that an apparently worthless piece of paper or
+parchment, bought as waste, turns out, under his sharp eye, to be a
+really awkward thing for some owner of property unless he purchases it.
+
+There were lawyers in a peculiar way of business who did not disdain
+this species of work, and presently they may cross our path. Such men
+were in constant communication with people on the other side of the
+Atlantic, where there is, year by year, an increasing desire manifested
+to trace out genealogies.
+
+The year in which, in the ordinary course of events, the building
+societies and the Corporation must relinquish their expired leases was
+now fast approaching. Some such person as has been described was seized
+with a brilliant idea, and made haste to advertise it. Why should not
+all the claimants to the estate meet on the disputed spot at this
+critical moment? Why should there not be a regular family council, the
+largest and most important that had ever taken place? The idea was a
+good one, and spread like wildfire. The newspapers took it up; the
+American societies thought highly of it. Nothing like a grand
+demonstration.
+
+The upshot was that Stirmingham began to look forward to the assembling
+of these would-be monarchs of the city, which was finally, after much
+discussion, fixed for the next New Year’s Day.
+
+This New Year’s Day was fast approaching, while Marese and Theodore
+planned.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Thirteen.
+
+
+The grand family council was to be held at Stirmingham on the coming
+New Year’s Day. How difficult it is to trace the genesis of an idea! It
+does not seem to have any regular growth—to begin with a seed and cast
+out roots, a stem, branches, leaves; it shoots now one way, now this,
+like those curious creatures revealed by the microscope, or like the
+germs of fungi. Upon the original thought odd branches are engrafted,
+accidental circumstances suggest new developments, till at last the
+full completed idea bears no sort of resemblance to what might have
+been expected from the embryo.
+
+How the idea was first started neither Marese nor Theodore could tell,
+nor how it was communicated from one to the other. There is a method of
+communication which is not dependent upon direct speech; there is a way
+of talking at a subject without mentioning it. When two clever men’s
+minds are full of one absorbing topic it does not require formal
+sentences to convey their conceptions. They did not seem even to
+actually talk of it, and yet it grew and grew, till it overshadowed
+them like a vast gloomy mountain.
+
+It would not be just to so much as hint at a latent insanity in these
+men’s minds, for it would partly absolve them from responsibility, and
+would dispose their judges to regard their crimes leniently. Certainly
+no one, if asked to do so, could have pointed out two keener men of the
+world than these. Yet, somehow, despite one’s reluctance to afford them
+the shadow of an excuse, there does creep in the conviction that such a
+ghastly conception could only be formed in a brain lacking the moral
+organs, if such an expression may be used, in a brain unbalanced with
+natural human sympathy.
+
+Marese’s father, old Sternhold, had certainly been mad at one period of
+his career. His mother, Lucia, had exhibited a vanity so overweening,
+and a temper so intense, that at times it resembled lunacy. It may have
+been that, along with the mental powers of calculation and invention
+which distinguished old Romy and Sternhold, Marese had also inherited
+the mental weakness of Sternhold and Lucia.
+
+Theodore had shown a taste for extraordinary studies usually avoided by
+healthy-minded men. His father, Aurelian, had passed the whole of his
+time with insane patients, and it is said that too much contact with
+mad people reacts upon the sane. He had early initiated his son into
+the mysteries of that sad science of the mind which deals with its
+deficiencies. The son’s youth had been passed in constant intercourse
+with those harmless and, so to say, _reasonable_ lunatics who are to be
+met with in the homes and at the dinner-tables of medical men, and
+whose partial sanity and occasional singular flashes of unnatural
+intelligence are perhaps more calculated to affect the minds of others
+than the vagaries of the downright mad.
+
+In one short sentence, this terrible crime, which was looming over
+Marese and Theodore, was nothing less than the deliberate intention to
+destroy the whole of the claimants to the estate at once. How it
+originated it is difficult to imagine, but it did. It might perhaps be
+partly traced to the injunction in Aurelian’s papers to take the
+weapons out of the hands of the companies; or partly to the
+oft-expressed wish of Marese’s, after the Roman emperor, that all the
+claimants had but one neck, so that he might cut it. The said emperor
+has much to answer for.
+
+The announced gathering of the claimants at Stirmingham certainly
+seemed to bring them all within the reach of the fowler’s net, if he
+could but cast it aright. Marese and Theodore had half-formed ideas of
+blowing the whole company into the air as they sat at council in the
+Sternhold Hall on New Year’s Day, something after the fashion of Guy
+Fawkes, but with a deadlier compound than he had at his
+disposal—nitro-glycerine or dynamite; especially the first might be
+trusted to do the work much more effectually than gunpowder, which was
+also more difficult to conceal on account of its bulk.
+
+It will barely be believed that these two men, in the height of the
+nineteenth century, calmly examined the vault under that famous hall,
+in order to see if it was fitted for the purpose. This hall or
+assembly-room had been finished about the time that the agitation
+commenced over the heir to the estate, just before Sternhold had
+married, when the Corporation heaped flattery upon him. It had been
+named after him.
+
+It was a fine room, not too large, and yet of sufficient size to seat
+an audience. The object was to afford a concert-room for dramatic and
+theatrical performances, and also for balls. As the site was valuable,
+and every particle of space had to be utilised in the centre of this
+mighty city, it had been built over vaults, which were intended for
+bonded warehouses; but partly on account of the high rent asked, and
+partly because of the dampness of the cellars—the site was the very
+centre of the old Swamp—had never been occupied. The access was bad,
+and there was no place for a display or advertisement, which was
+another reason why the cellars had not let. There was a certain amount
+of propriety in holding what was to be called “The Grand Centennial
+Family Council” in this hall, built upon the centre of the ancient
+Swamp, and named after the founder of the city.
+
+Marese and Theodore, in disguise, examined the vaults, under the
+pretence of being agents for London merchants desirous of opening
+business in Stirmingham. There was hardly any necessity for this
+precaution, for it was so many years since they had openly resided in
+the place that few would have recognised them.
+
+To their great surprise, these vaults, whose gloomy darkness they
+explored by the light of lanterns, extended in one vast cavern, under
+the whole of the hall. Instead of a series of cellars, there was one
+huge cavern. This was occasioned by the flooring not being supported
+upon brick arches, as would have been architecturally preferable, but
+upon timber posts, or pillars. The place had, in fact, been put up
+hastily, and the vaults were never completed. The timber pillars were
+placed in regular order, and it had been intended to build brick
+partitions; but as no one seemed to care to occupy the cellars, this
+had never been done. The floor was extremely damp, and the whole
+appearance of the place repulsive. Snails, toads, and slimy reptiles
+crawled about, and this under the very stage above, upon which music,
+song, and dance were wont to enliven the gay hearts of the audiences.
+
+One great obstacle to the idea of blowing up the place was the height
+of these timber posts, which was full eighteen feet, so that the roof
+of the vault was high over head, and any explosives, to produce the
+full effect, would have to be piled up on casks or stands. Then the
+hall was larger than they had supposed, and it was apparent that the
+coming council would occupy but a portion of it, and perhaps change
+that portion now and then, so that it would be uncertain where to place
+the nitro-glycerine.
+
+The idea, looked at from a distance and in the abstract, seemed
+feasible enough; but when they came to face the physical difficulties,
+it was found to be hard of realisation. There was the danger of getting
+the explosives into the place, the danger of detection, and, finally,
+the chance of an accident hoisting the engineer with his own petard,
+especially at that time of the year when nitro-glycerine was
+notoriously dangerous on account of the crystals which cold formed upon
+its surface, and the least jar or shake was sufficient to cause an
+explosion. Obviously, the plan was a cumbrous one, and without
+hesitation it was abandoned.
+
+But the main idea, that of getting rid of the claimants at one blow,
+was not abandoned; it grew and grew, and occupied their minds day and
+night. At last the thought of transferring the Guy Fawkes expedient
+from the land to the ocean, which, once the deed was successfully
+accomplished, would tell no tale, occurred to them.
+
+The claimants must come over on shipboard, if only they could be got
+into one or even two ships; and if these vessels sank upon the voyage
+suddenly without a warning! This was certainly much safer for the
+conspirators, as no trace would be left, and it was surer of success,
+because in the hall some of the victims might escape—at sea they could
+scarcely do so. They ran over in their minds the various methods of
+scuttling ships which have been invented from time to time.
+
+There was the good old simple plan of boring holes in the bottom with
+augurs. There was the devilish coal-shell. A box painted to resemble
+coal, but really containing powder, was thrown among the coal, and when
+placed in the furnace blew up the boiler, and destroyed the ship. There
+was the ship-rat—a contrivance by which the very motion of the vessel
+caused an augur in a box to bore its way through, and so cause a leak.
+Some benevolent socialists, anxious for the welfare of man, had also
+promulgated a notion of exploding nitro-glycerine by clockwork,
+arranged to go so long, and set to act just as the vessel was farthest
+from land.
+
+But all these seemed to Marese and Theodore clumsy, risky, and, what
+was worse, uncertain of operation. It was reserved for Marese to
+suggest the deadliest of all destructive engines, and he arrived at its
+conception in this way. He had, as it were, a double mind. He was
+liable to flashes of inspiration—such as it was—to sudden ideas which
+shot through him without endeavour. He had also the power of
+concentrating his thoughts, and bringing the regular forms of logic to
+his assistance. But this latter method he could only practise with the
+aid of pen and ink; and it was his constant habit, whenever
+contemplating an important step, such as a coup upon the Exchange, to
+write out his plans in a regular sequence, just as he wished them to
+take place.
+
+This written guide he corrected and enlarged until it seemed beyond any
+further improvement; and then shutting his eyes to all consequences,
+resolutely avoiding those secret promptings which suggest that
+something has been left undone, he was accustomed to rush at the matter
+in hand, and dispose of it with bold, unhesitating strokes. This method
+certainly had its advantages, but it had also the disadvantage that if
+by any accident his notes fell into other hands, he was lost.
+
+Nevertheless, after thinking and thinking in vain over this great
+problem, and failing of any very brilliant flash of intelligence,
+Marese at last resorted to his favourite system, and sought the
+solution by the aid of pen and ink. First he wrote at the top of his
+rough draft—
+
+“What is it that I desire? Define it. Definition: to destroy the
+claimants. Who are the claimants? A body of men. How is a body of men
+to be destroyed? In the same way as a single person. How is man
+destroyed? By the knife, by bullets, by explosives, by garotting, by
+fire, by water, by poison, narcotics.”
+
+Such were his rough premises. Then he laid the pen down and thought.
+Why not set the vessels these men were coming over in on fire? That at
+first seemed to him a most feasible plan, far superior to the uncertain
+action of explosives. It required some arrangement, which he felt
+confident the scientific knowledge of Theodore could easily supply, to
+cause the flames to break out at the proper moment.
+
+He began to grow enraptured with it. It seemed so easy and sure. Then,
+picturing in his mind the vessel sinking, the thought occurred to him
+that if the risk was to be run, something might as well be got out of
+it. Why not put a cargo on board insured far beyond its value, and so
+kill two birds with one stone?
+
+At one blow to destroy his enemies and fill his own pockets was superb
+triumph! He called Theodore and explained the idea to him. Theodore was
+struck with it—especially with the notion of making a profit out of the
+risk. He was, however, considerably opposed to the insurance dodge, on
+the ground that it had been tried so often, and people had got so keen
+that it was ten to one if some suspicion did not arise, especially when
+it was seen what an object it would be to Marese to secure the
+destruction of the passengers. Some other plan must be adopted.
+Suppose, for instance, they took Marese’s yacht and followed the
+vessel, and after its partial destruction, if they could secure only
+partial destruction, put in a claim for salvage. To do this they must
+encounter serious difficulties, but it would be far less risky.
+
+Marese wished to know what substances they could employ to produce a
+fire which could not be extinguished without some special chemical
+composition. Theodore produced a series of manuscript volumes
+containing the notes which he had accumulated during his long and
+curious studies. He turned them over one by one, extracting such
+information as appeared applicable to their purpose, while Marese,
+waiting for his friend’s reply, amused himself by reading pieces here
+and there. It was while thus employed that the devilish means by which
+their end could be obtained occurred to him.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Fourteen.
+
+
+He happened to light on a volume of notes made upon the remarkable
+properties of gases. They began with a description of those curious
+caves and even meadows abroad wherein no animal can live, and the place
+is strewn with the bones of birds and beasts who have incautiously
+entered the infected circle. This effect was proved to proceed from a
+vapour which rose up from the earth, and was no sooner breathed than it
+produced asphyxiation. Animals who inhaled it fell as if shot, so
+sudden was the action.
+
+Gases as deleterious were often generated in wells, caves, and confined
+places, such as the huge tuns or casks used by brewers to keep their
+beer in, and which had often proved fatal to the men who attempted to
+scour them out.
+
+Theodore believed that the cold shiver which some persons affected to
+feel upon entering a churchyard and passing over the graves of the
+dead, was caused by the presence of a gas in small quantities, evolved
+from the decaying remains beneath the feet. Then there were gases which
+upon inhalation caused a profound slumber; others which had precisely
+an opposite result, and made the patient lively and brisk; and others
+which rendered the person who took them perfectly insensible to
+surgical operations.
+
+Marese, a man who had never paid the least regard to science, was
+deeply struck with these facts, with which the veriest tyro in
+chemistry is well acquainted. But he did what no tyro or even advanced
+student would perhaps have done—he applied his discovery—for so it was
+to him—to his own circumstances.
+
+There are, says Bacon, three modes of reading—one to pass away an idle
+hour, one to acquire a knowledge of a subject, and the third and the
+most advantageous method is always to keep your own ends in view, and
+to apply everything to your object.
+
+In these gases Marese found his desideratum. His engine of destruction
+burst upon his mind, as it were, complete in a moment. Some such
+poisonous gas should be shipped on board these vessels, closely
+confined in a box or other receptacle, and at the proper moment
+liberated, to spread throughout the steamer a subtle vapour which no
+man could see coming, and against which strength, skill, and discipline
+would be perfectly powerless.
+
+Theodore, looking up, saw a change upon Marese’s countenance, and
+immediately knew that something had occurred to him. The heir was pale
+as death; his own conception, so ghastly and treacherous, filled him
+with a nameless horror at the same moment that he never hesitated in
+his purpose.
+
+After a while he took up a pen and added to his already written
+premises the conclusion—his idea in a few brief sentences—and handed it
+to Theodore. He left it to Theodore to select the gas, and to arrange
+the mechanical details. He had sown the seed, the other must patiently
+tend it. And the other did patiently tend it; and this is what it grew
+to.
+
+The name of the gas which Theodore at last, after much thought, fixed
+upon shall not be here disclosed; for although it is well-known to
+chemists, and any one who can read could easily find it, there is no
+knowing what imitations might not spring up if they were aware of the
+means being so ready at hand.
+
+Though suicide is such a simple and obvious expedient in difficulties,
+yet there are scores who do not commit it because they never think of
+it. If some kind friend suggested the pistol or the knife they would at
+once employ it.
+
+Gas had one property which rendered it peculiarly fitted for the
+purpose in view. Being elastic, it could be compressed to a great
+extent, and thus an immense volume might be contained in a small
+compass. Therefore the case or receptacle to hold the vapour poison
+need not be of large dimensions; and this was a matter of some
+importance.
+
+The gas chosen was not in any way explosive; on the contrary, it had
+the property of extinguishing any light which was placed in it—there
+was thus no danger of any accidental circumstance causing an explosion
+at an awkward moment. It was absolutely safe—the operator ran no risk,
+provided always that he did not inhale the vapour.
+
+Theodore sketched out a case about three feet square, which was to be
+formed of an outer box of deal, and an inner skin of thin iron. Into
+this case, which would be tolerably strong, he proposed to pump a vast
+volume of gas, taking care that the pressure should not exceed the
+power of the box to withstand. The aperture through which it had been
+pumped was then to be hermetically sealed with molten lead.
+
+The greatest difficulty was to provide for the escape of the devilish
+vapour at the proper moment; and this caused the projectors much
+reflection. Clockwork was objectionable; it was liable to injury from
+jars and shakes. Cases of this character, which looked strong and
+substantial, and would be placed in the hold, would be certain to
+receive the roughest of usage.
+
+At one time he conceived the idea of relying upon the cupidity of the
+seamen. It was suspected that many of the accidents which had taken
+place at sea, and caused the destruction of hundreds by fire, had
+arisen through dishonest seamen or _employés_ on board going at night
+with a candle into the compartment where valuable goods were stowed,
+and dropping sparks.
+
+Why not utilise this propensity? Mark the case “watches,” “jewellery,”
+or “bullion,” cause it to be surrounded with a certain amount of
+mystery and precaution enough to engender suspicion; and leave the rest
+to the chisel and drill of the would-be thief.
+
+But this, though clever, was too uncertain. Another idea which occurred
+to him was to have a wooden case only, but a strong one, and to confine
+in a small hole prepared for the purpose one of the boring insects,
+which in a certain time would be sure to eat its way through and leave
+an aperture.
+
+This, too, was more ingenious than practicable. He was delayed for a
+time. Accident solved the difficulty. Passing through the streets, he
+was stopped by a crowd which had collected around a quack doctor.
+
+“See,” cried the vendor of patent vegetable pills, “here is the horrid
+stuff the allopathists, the doctors and physicians sell to you at high
+prices. Here is a common drug used by them in this phial. I will pour
+some of the liquid upon the hard stone pavement—just see how it acts
+upon the granite, and then guess how your wretched stomachs must be
+abused.”
+
+He poured it on the stone—the crowd pressed forward, and saw it eat a
+hole. “Aquafortis,” thought Theodore, and the idea was his—aquafortis
+was the agent he wanted.
+
+He passed on, and left the crowd thoroughly convinced of the tricks
+played by the medical faculty, and purchasing largely of the vegetable
+pills. Theodore had found a substance which would eat through his iron
+and wood cases, and leave an aperture—a substance, too, whose action
+was equal, and could be regulated to a sufficiently accurate extent.
+
+Upon reflection, however, and after making several experiments, he did
+not employ ordinary aquafortis, but another acid equally powerful, and
+which was still more regular in its action. He tried the experiment
+time after time, till at last he obtained the proper strength, and
+fixed the requisite amount of acid to eat through a given thickness of
+iron and wood in a certain time. He repeated the experiment till he was
+absolutely certain of the result.
+
+The plan had now grown delightfully clear and well-defined—the infernal
+machine became of the simplest construction. All that had to be done
+was to place the acid in the case confined in a small and very thin
+copper vessel (lined with an enamel to resist it), which was to be
+screwed to one side of the case, then pump the gas in, hermetically
+seal it, heave the whole thing on board the steamer, and leave it to
+work its way. Delightfully simple!
+
+He called Marese to look over his drawings, and to witness his
+experiments with the acid. Marese was enchanted; his confidence in
+Theodore’s scientific resources was confirmed. There was, however, one
+question he asked—Was the gas so strong and so poisonous that the small
+quantity confined in a case three feet square would destroy a whole
+ship’s company? Would not the gas escape, rise up, and dissipate itself
+through the port-holes, up the hatchways, and be further weakened by
+the breezes that blew and caused draught in various places between
+decks? These ocean steamers were very roomy.
+
+Theodore was delighted to have an opportunity of explaining the
+properties and nature of the vapour to his friend. The peculiarity of
+this gas was that, although an invisible fluid, it was extremely
+heavy—it was heavier far than atmospheric air. He easily proved that a
+gas might be heavier than air by a well-known experiment with a vapour
+(not the one to be used in this case) which he poured out of a glass
+phial over a candle. The invisible gas descended and extinguished the
+candle; There was not the slightest chance of the poison-vapour
+escaping quickly through ports or up hatchways. It would, as it were,
+cling to the vessel. The pressure inside the case would cause it to
+issue rapidly from the aperture eaten out by the acid. It would then
+diffuse itself laterally, and gradually penetrate into every crevice
+and corner of the ship. The effect would be that one by one every
+person on board would inhale it, and in an instant, let the quantity
+breathed be never so small, down he would drop, or grow rigid as he
+sat—unconscious was the word Theodore used as an euphemism for death.
+He did not mention another effect it would have, lest the horror of it
+should cause even Marese to falter.
+
+Theodore traced out the probable course of events on board the fated
+vessel. First, the persons working or living in the cabins and places
+nearest the case would feel the effect and succumb. Then there would be
+alarm and excitement—others would rush to the spot, and they would
+immediately fall, just as the birds and beast did who entered those
+fatal caves abroad. One man on board, perhaps, might detect the
+cause—the surgeon, or any doctor who chanced to be a passenger—and
+might cry out to man the boats and escape; but who, in the hurry and
+excitement, would heed him?—he would not have time to escape himself,
+much less to explain the danger to others. It was doubtful whether even
+so much as a signal of distress would be hoisted. The crew, the
+officers, the passengers would be so completely puzzled, so utterly at
+their wit’s end, that no course would suggest itself to them before it
+was too late.
+
+In this respect the gas had an immense advantage over any apparatus
+which would set the ship on fire. Let the fire be never so rapid, one
+boat at least might get away, and on that boat the very person whom it
+was most desirable should seek the floor of the ocean. Moreover, fire
+could be seen from a vast distance, and might attract attention from
+other vessels, who by day would observe the smoke, and by night the
+glare of the flames.
+
+But in this case probably not so much as a flag would be hoisted. One
+by one the seamen and passengers, the captain and officers, would
+succumb to the invisible vapour, first becoming weak and helpless, and
+next “unconscious.” The steersman would fall at the wheel. The engineer
+would drop at his engine; the stoker as he shovelled up the coal; the
+passenger would lie in his berth. And the steamer, so long as the fuel
+in the furnace lasted, would pursue her way unguided over the waves;
+finally, after a few hours, to float a derelict at the mercy of the
+wind.
+
+There was a completeness, a finish, an elaboration of detail about this
+scheme which fascinated the conspirators. It was so novel, daring, and
+yet safe, it enchanted them. When at last the great horror was
+discovered, what risk would there be? Nothing on board would excite
+suspicion. The gas had actually no smell; besides, long before anything
+was discovered, it would have dissipated itself.
+
+Even if the whole of the cargo was examined, the case itself would
+offer, no handle to an inquirer. The powerful acid would have eaten its
+way out, and nothing would be left but a small empty case with a hole
+in it. Nothing need show who consigned the case. Better still: Marese’s
+yacht would follow the doomed steamer, keeping close on pretence of the
+safety of having company in a voyage across the Atlantic.
+
+They would easily know when the desired result was obtained by the view
+of the steamer rolling helplessly in the trough of the waves. By the
+time that was the case some hours would have elapsed after the
+catastrophe, and various pretences could be arranged to avoid
+immediately proceeding on board—especially as from a distance nothing
+would look the matter—and by then the poisonous vapour would have
+dissipated itself, or so mixed with the air as to have lost its fatal
+power. They would then take charge of the vessel and bring it into
+port, and claim the salvage.
+
+If they contrived to select a vessel which carried a valuable cargo,
+that salvage money would be something extremely large in amount, added
+to the value of the steamer itself. They might manoeuvre to get such a
+cargo stored. This would be far superior to the clumsy dodge of sinking
+the ship and claiming the insurance money.
+
+As to getting the case on board, it was as easy as could be. Having
+proceeded to New York in Marese’s yacht, taking with them the necessary
+apparatus for producing the gas (which was very simple), and pumping it
+into the case, they could ascertain the hour of the steamer’s
+departure, fill the case, regulate the acid for say four, or perhaps
+three days, and send it on board only a little while before she
+started. They would then, on board the yacht, proceed to sea on a
+cruise and keep the steamer in sight.
+
+Delightfully simple! Perfectly complete and scientific in every detail!
+
+Marese once again asked if the gas was really so powerful? Theodore
+referred to his note-books, and showed him an extract from a newspaper
+not of so very remote a date, wherein it was stated that at a
+conference of the various leading European Powers it had been resolved
+not to employ certain implements in warfare, such as explosive shells
+or bullets under a certain size, and poisonous gases or vapours which
+could be thrown into a fortress or town in shells. Marese was
+convinced, and regarded the engine as perfect.
+
+Thus did two men deliberately plan out the destruction of several
+hundreds of their fellow-beings without one single thought or
+reflection upon the misery and suffering they would cause, or upon the
+intrinsic villainy of the act.
+
+Well was it suggested by a French thinker that certain natures are
+incapable of feeling, incapable of remorse so long as they remain
+“faithful to the logic of their type”—i.e. faithful to their own
+selfish interests and passions.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Fifteen.
+
+
+With his own hands Theodore constructed the infernal machine and
+prepared the materials for generating the deadly vapour at the shortest
+notice. This, the first part of the scheme, having been settled, there
+remained two great difficulties to overcome. The first was to get the
+claimants on board one vessel—travelling in a body; and the second was
+to secure their passage by a steamer carrying a valuable cargo, so as
+to increase the gain of salvage money to the utmost.
+
+It was not easy to manage the first matter; the latter Marese thought
+he saw his way through. It happened just then that the payment of the
+war indemnity to Germany caused a great drain of gold from this
+country; the value of the precious metals consequently rose, and the
+imports increased to meet the demand. Gold and silver came in large
+quantities from New York, both in coin and bullion—especially silver.
+
+Marese intended to take advantage of this fact. By means of certain
+Stock Exchange operations, with which he was perfectly familiar, having
+employed them previously on several occasions, he arranged that a very
+large amount of bullion should be transmitted to London from New York
+by the splendid steamer _Lucca_, due to start on December 3rd.
+
+It must be understood that this bullion was not to be despatched to
+Marese, and that he did not appear in the transaction as having any
+direct connection with it. He had, in fact, arranged to lose a small
+sum of money, in order to render the importation of bullion
+particularly profitable in the week ending December 17th—profitable not
+to him, but to those speculators who deal in precious metal just as
+others do in corn or calico. Marese omitted no precaution, Spared no
+pains, and used the whole of his natural and acquired cunning to render
+this operation a certainty.
+
+The next thing was to tempt the claimants to travel by the steamer
+_Lucca_. After considerable hesitation, Marese at last determined to
+open negotiations with the leading men amongst them. He did not do this
+in his own person, but through his solicitors. It was represented to
+the managers of the Baskette and Sibbold Lodges that really their
+claims and the interests of the heir—i.e. Marese—were not so divergent
+as had been supposed. The heir was quite as much excluded from the
+enjoyment of the property as they were, and finding the building
+societies determined, by every means in their power, to put off the day
+when they must yield up possession, he wished to make common cause
+against these companies.
+
+Nor was this statement altogether fictitious. The idea of strengthening
+the hands of the claimants, and making common cause with them, had
+often occurred to Marese, for the sole purpose of taking the weapons of
+the companies out of their hands, as Aurelian had advised.
+
+No sooner was this overture on the part of the heir received in America
+than both Lodges at once responded, and without a moment’s hesitation
+fell into the snare laid for them. To us, who are acquainted with the
+infamous designs of Marese, such conduct seems almost senile; but it
+must be remembered that these men on the other side of the Atlantic had
+not the slightest suspicion of the deadly engine which had been
+preparing.
+
+To some extent the sudden overture of the heir caused a cessation of
+hostilities between the two Lodges, and when Marese’s second offer
+arrived they held a species of jubilee. This offer was nothing less
+than to convey the whole of the claimants at his own expense, and added
+that he had already notified to the owners of the _Lucca_ that he might
+require the entire passage accommodation, or nearly, of that vessel. To
+the Americans this came as an immense boon. There were many of them
+comparatively poor men, to whom the cost of the voyage was a serious
+matter, and who had already begun to hesitate at the prospect before
+them.
+
+The diabolical foresight of Marese and Theodore had guessed as much.
+They said to each other, “Half the claimants will not come—only those
+who are tolerably well off. Then what will be the use of our scheme? We
+shall destroy only a few, and from the remaining individuals a new crop
+will spring up to vex us. We must get them all—all!”
+
+This offer was accepted with a _fanfaronnade_ of gratitude. It had one
+inestimable advantage—it secured the passage of the claimants by the
+vessel Marese had chosen. The enthusiasm on the other side of the
+Atlantic was raised to its highest pitch when the heir announced his
+intention of coming to New York in his yacht, to see that the
+arrangements, for his friends were properly carried out.
+
+Preparations were at once made to give him an ovation. The authorities
+of New York city gave orders to do him honour. The papers published
+biographies of “this distinguished man, upon whom the eyes of all the
+world were fixed,” and who had lately “covered himself with glory by
+displaying a grand generosity towards the offshoots of the parent
+stem.”
+
+It often happens that in America the descendants of particular families
+are gathered in and around certain districts, where they form the main
+part of the population. This was the case with the Baskettes and
+Sibbolds. The Baskettes chiefly inhabited Caben, a small township west
+of Philadelphia, and the Sibbolds were mostly to be found at Tandanap,
+near the shores of Lake Michigan. Numbers of both tribes of course were
+scattered over the whole country, but these were the strongholds. To
+suit both parties, and to tend to remove the jealousies which had so
+long raged, it was arranged that all should meet at Imola, a place
+about midway and within a hundred and twenty miles of New York, about a
+week previous to the embarkation.
+
+At Imola (named after a Continental town) there resided perhaps the
+wealthiest member of the Baskette and Sibbold tribes, for he could
+claim relationship with both—he offered hospitality to them all; and in
+return it was agreed that this Reginald Bunker Sibbold Baskette, Esq,
+should be instituted the leader or president of the expedition. After
+the mobilisation of the forces at Imola, the army was to move on New
+York on the 2nd December, and embark the same evening on board the
+_Lucca_ steamship.
+
+The whole scheme was now complete, and extremely promising it looked;
+everything had turned out well. Marese had ascertained by secret
+inquiries that the bullion had been ordered, and that the owners of the
+_Lucca_ had contracted, under a heavy bond, to deliver it at a certain
+date. The Lodges had, for a time at least, fused their differences. The
+engine of destruction was finished, together with a duplicate in case
+of accident. How extremely simple it looked! Nothing in the world but a
+strong deal box, apparently nailed together in the usual manner, about
+a yard square, or a little less. Just such a box as a seaman or
+passenger, if it chanced to lie about, would choose to sit down on and
+smoke a pipe. The rough deal planks of which it was made were not even
+planed smooth—simply a strong packing-case. The conspirators
+congratulated themselves upon the approaching execution of their
+schemes, and the success which seemed certain to attend them.
+
+But now Theodore discovered a serious oversight. Reading through
+Aurelian’s papers a second time, he came upon that passage which
+detailed all that could be learnt of the descendants of Arthur Sibbold.
+This Arthur, Aurelian wrote, or his descendants, was the most dangerous
+of all. He was the man who ought to have succeeded to the farm which
+James Sibbold took possession of. James, or James’s sons, had not the
+slightest right to dispose of the farm to Sternhold Baskette; they were
+selling what did not belong to them. Arthur was of course dead, but
+Arthur’s heirs still lived; and then followed the address and further
+particulars.
+
+These heirs were at present quiet; but if they discovered the register
+of Arthur’s marriage, Aurelian could not see what was to prevent them
+from putting in a claim far superior either to Marese’s or to that of
+any other person. Even if they could not get possession, the Courts
+would certainly order an immense sum to be paid to them, as
+compensation; and Aurelian thought himself that nothing in the world
+could prevent them taking the property which stood on the site of the
+farm, if not the Swamp. The property on the site of the farm, he
+thought, must go.
+
+“Now,” said Theodore, “what is the use of destroying the American
+claimants _en masse_ if this even greater danger is to be allowed to
+remain close at home, within easy reach of the estate, ready at any
+moment to burst upon us and render nugatory all our risk and labour?”
+
+Marese was thunderstruck. For a time it seemed that their enemies were
+hydra-headed—no sooner was one head cut off than three sprouted up in
+the place. But the man was not one to be daunted. This also must be
+done, he said. They had not much time now to lose. It was already the
+middle of September, and a fortnight must be reckoned for the passage
+of the yacht to New York. They spent anxious days and nights
+considering a variety of plans. There is not time to unravel the
+strange mazes of the mind and trace the genesis of the idea which at
+last suggested itself to Theodore. It was only one degree less
+ingenious, and if anything still more horrible, than the infernal
+machine of Marese.
+
+Theodore still continued the asylum at Stirmingham. It was an important
+source of income, in fact. In that asylum there were confined lunatics
+of all degrees of insanity, most of them having wealthy friends, and
+some the representatives of large properties. Among these was one more
+remarkable than the rest. He was the representative of a long line of
+lunatics, or semi-lunatics. Popular tradition accused a progenitor
+living two centuries before of a crime too dark to be mentioned, and
+believed that the lunacy of his descendants was a special punishment
+from heaven. This particular individual had seemed tolerably sane till
+he was permitted to marry—a cruel thing. He then rapidly developed his
+inherited tendencies, living as a married man, left more free from
+restraint by friends and others.
+
+Though the owner of broad acres and lovely woodlands, he delighted in
+the society of tinkers, and was himself a clever hand at mending pots
+and kettles. He had such a fancy for tinkering that he actually
+promenaded the country for miles in company with gipsies, calling at
+the farmhouses—on his own tenants—asking for things to mend.
+
+He was also absurdly fond of dogs, and filled the house with
+them—especially the large mastiff breed, of which he was particularly
+enraptured, till no one could approach it, and his poor wife was
+frightened out of her senses. Tinkering, fondling these dogs, and
+playing the tin whistle occupied his time. His money he scattered far
+and wide among the gipsies, pedlars, and tinkers, and gave enormous
+sums for the pure-bred mastiffs.
+
+The countenance of the man expressed the most intense melancholy—that
+hopeless incurable vacancy of look which is seen on the features of
+some monkeys while in captivity. His face, and the shape of his head,
+in fact, much resembled a monkey’s; and the ears protruding from the
+side of the skull, very large and ill-formed, completed the
+resemblance. He had a favourite resort in one of the woods surrounding
+the family mansion. Through this wood there ran a stream, and a tree
+had fallen across it, making a natural bridge.
+
+On this tree, over the stream, he would perch himself astride, his feet
+nearly in the water, and play for hours upon the tin whistle, while his
+troop of dogs disported in the woods around. He had a wonderful
+instinct of music, and really played in a marvellous manner upon this
+simple instrument, exhibiting skill even in the choice of the
+whistle—for it is difficult to find one that has a mellow tone.
+
+The spectacle of this being, sitting on the tree trunk in the gloom of
+the woods, his long legs dangling down to the water, with his
+melancholy baboon face, performing extraordinary fantasias upon a tin
+whistle, could hardly be matched.
+
+But he was as cunning as he was mad. Probably from his companions, the
+gipsies, he had learnt that his ancestors had all been confined in the
+madhouse. He had sufficient sense to foresee that the moment a son was
+born to his wife he would himself be confined. But, with the inherent
+insanity of his nature, he thought that by killing the wife or the son
+he should escape this danger.
+
+So soon as ever the wretched wife’s confinement approached he slew
+her—and slew her in true fantastic fashion. With his tinker’s hammer he
+drove a nail into her head as she slept. He fled from the place, but
+was captured; and that was the last time Odo Lechester used his
+tinker’s hammer for some time to come. The dreadful deed, the sight of
+blood, had developed in him the homicidal tendency—he tried hard to
+stab his captors. In Aurelian’s asylum at Stirmingham he desperately
+wounded a warder.
+
+This was the being Theodore selected for his purpose. The man had made
+many violent attempts to escape—he was like a wild beast in a cage,
+pacing to and fro.
+
+Theodore went down to Stirmingham to his private residence, which
+adjoined the asylum, to prepare his tool for the deed. It was easy for
+him, as a physician and the owner of the establishment, to have full
+and private access to Odo Lechester. He had a fortnight for his task.
+In that time he succeeded in impressing upon Odo’s mind that the
+persons whose name and address he gave him were those who were
+responsible for his confinement.
+
+It was not his (Theodore’s) fault that he was confined—it was the fault
+of these persons, and upon them the punishment should fall. The man
+imbibed the idea thoroughly: he brooded over revenge if ever he should
+get free. His one-sided mind became absorbed in two great overmastering
+passions—to revenge his captivity, and to recover his favourite dogs.
+
+Theodore assured him that if ever these persons were out of the way he
+would be at once reinstalled in his position, and might wander at his
+sweet will, tinkering and playing his whistle.
+
+Theodore’s plan was to let this irresponsible murderer out at large
+upon the world. The obnoxious persons would be removed, and no one
+could be punished. He arranged for the escape of Odo Lechester at about
+the date he and Marese would start for New York.
+
+Their plans were now complete. Theodore, in order to obtain the
+lunatic’s goodwill, had restored to him his whistle; and he roamed to
+and fro in the court of the asylum, examining the high walls, stone by
+stone, for a crevice of escape, while his rapid fingers manipulated
+interminable airs of the merriest kind.
+
+
+When the engineer approached the ancient Swamp with his level and
+theodolite, and was followed by an army of workmen in short corduroys
+and slops, who cleared away the rushes and bull-polls, swept off the
+willow-beds and watercress, drove the waterfowl away and plucked up the
+reeds and sedges, then the water-rat knew that his time was come. The
+teeth that had nibbled away at the willow-tree root till it fell and
+blocked up the stream, would nibble no more. The nimble feet and black
+eyes would be seen no more biding among the flags, or plunging out of
+sight into the water as a footstep was heard.
+
+The lake which the water-rat had made, with its islands and its
+cotters, was in its way useful, and not altogether despicable. The poor
+basket-makers, humble as they were, made good and useful baskets,
+mended pots and pans, split good clothes-pegs, and injured no man till
+Sibbold fired that fatal shot.
+
+From that hour a curse seemed to hang over the place. A vast city, full
+of seething human life, had taken the place of the swamp and the
+bullrushes; the hearths of the poor cotters were gone, and huge hotels,
+club-houses, theatres, were there instead. Progress and
+development—yes; but with development came crime.
+
+Under that overgrown city there extended a system of tunnels,
+sewers—some large enough to drive a horse and cart down them, others
+hardly large enough to admit the band. But they extended everywhere.
+Under the busy street, under the quiet office where the only sound was
+the scratching of the pen, or the buzz of a fly “in th’ pane;” under
+the gay theatre and the gossiping club-house there was not a spot that
+was not undermined.
+
+And in these subterranean catacombs there dwelt a race nearly as
+numerous as the human hive above, who worked and gnawed in the dark;
+they were the domains of the successors of the little furred creatures
+which nibbled down the ancient willow tree. The grey sewer-rat worked
+and multiplied exceedingly beneath this mighty city. The grey rat was
+worse than the water-rat.
+
+He had his human prototypes. What were Marese and Theodore but
+sewer-rats working in secret, in the dark underground, out of sight,
+whose presence could hardly be detected by a faint occasional
+scratching or rustle?
+
+Beside these there were a numerous company of lesser men and masculine
+brutes, and female fiends, burrowing, fighting in the dark places of
+this mighty city, whose presence was made known at times by faint
+sounds of shrieking or devilish glee which rose up, as it were, from
+the bowels of the earth. The reign of the harmless water-rat was over.
+The rule of the sewer-rat was now in full force.
+
+
+End of Volume One.
+
+
+
+
+Book II.—Persons.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter One.
+
+
+Forty-three miles as the crow flies, south of Stirmingham, there stands
+upon the lonely Downs a solitary, lichen-grown post, originally
+intended to direct wayfarers upon those trackless wastes.
+
+In winter, when the herbage, always short, was shortest, and when the
+ground was softened by rain, there might be detected the ruts left by
+waggon wheels crossing each other in various directions; but road, or
+path properly so-called, there was none, and a stranger might as well
+have been placed on the desert of the Sahara. For time, and the rain
+blown with tremendous force across these open Downs by the wind, had
+all but obliterated the painted letters upon the cross-arms, and none
+but those acquainted with the country could have understood the
+fragmentary inscriptions.
+
+Some mischievous ploughboys or shepherd lads, tired of arranging flints
+in fanciful rows, or cutting their names upon the turf, had improved
+the shining hour by climbing up this post, pulling out the arms, and
+inserting them in the opposite mortices, thereby making the poor post
+an unwitting liar. This same section of the population had also
+energetically pelted all the milestones for far around with flints,
+till the graven letters upon them were beaten out. Such wooden wit was
+their only resource in a place where _Punch_ never penetrated; for this
+lonesome spot was appropriately named World’s End, or, it was locally
+pronounced, Wurdel’s End.
+
+The undulating downs surrounded it upon every side, dotted here and
+there at long distances with farmsteads and a few cottages, and now and
+then a small village or hamlet of ten or a dozen houses grouped
+together in a “combe,” or narrow valley, where there happened to be a
+spring of water and a “bourne” or stream. Yet World’s End was not
+altogether to be despised. In this out-of-the-way place there was
+perhaps the finest natural racecourse in England, to which the uneven
+uphill course at Epsom, made famous by the Derby, was but an exercise
+ground.
+
+A level stretch of sweet, elastic turf, half a mile wide, ran in a line
+something like half a horse-shoe, under the steep Downs, for a distance
+of two miles, unimpeded by hedge, ditch, or enclosed field, and
+obstructed only in a few spots by thick bushes of furze and a few
+scattered hawthorn trees.
+
+A spectator standing upon the Downs had the whole of this Plain, as it
+was called, at once under his eye; could see a horse start and watch it
+gallop to the goal. From an ancient earthwork camp or “castle,” this
+Down was known as Berbury Hill, and the level plain was often called
+Berbury racecourse.
+
+For from time immemorial rustic sports, and local races between the
+horses of the neighbouring farmers, had taken place twice a year under
+the Berbury Hill. The sports were held in the early spring; the races
+proper, according to custom, came off in October. They were of the most
+primitive character, as may be judged from the following poster, which
+the kindness of a printer and bookbinder at Barnham—the nearest
+town—enables us to present to the reader. He had preserved a copy of
+it, having returned the original to the committee, who sat at the
+Shepherd’s Bush Inn upon the Downs:—
+
+“Take Notiss. The Public is hereby Invite to the Grand open and Hurdle
+Rases and Steple-Chaces at Wurdel’s End which is to come off on Wensday
+after old Michelmuss Day. All particlars of the Stewards which is
+Martin Brown, William Smith, Philip Lewis, Ted Pontin. Illegul Beting
+is stoped.”
+
+This copy had in the corner, “Please print two Score and send by
+Carrier,” and the unfortunate printer, ashamed to issue such a
+circular, sent it back with an amended form for approval; but the
+carrier forgot the letter, and it was not delivered till a week after
+the event—not that much was lost by the failure to give this species of
+publicity to the races. The day was well-known to all those who were
+likely to attend. The half-dozen gipsies, with the cocoanut sticks and
+gingerbread stall, duly arrived, and took up their quarters in a fir
+copse where the ground was dry, and the tree-trunks sheltered them
+somewhat from the breeze which always blows over the Downs.
+
+Most of the spectators were hill men. There still lingers the old feud
+between the hill and vale—not so fierce, toned down to an occasional
+growl—but Nature herself seems to have provided a never-ceasing ground
+of quarrel. These two races, the hill and the vale men, must always put
+up opposing prayers to heaven. The vale prays for fine and dry weather;
+the hill prays for wet. How then can they possibly agree? Not more than
+three knots of men and half a dozen wenches came up from the vale, and
+these gave pretty good evidence that they had called _en route_ at the
+Shepherd’s Bush, for they were singing in chorus the lament of the
+young woman who went to the trysting place to meet her faithless
+swain:—
+
+But what was there to make her sad?
+The gate was there, but not the lad;
+Which made poor Mary to sigh and to say
+Young William shan’t be mine!
+
+
+The committee were in a moveable shepherd’s hut on wheels, where also
+was the weighing-room and the weights, some of which were stone
+“quarters.”
+
+Just where the judges post was erected the course was roped for a
+hundred yards to ensure the horses arriving at the right place, but
+otherwise it was open. By the side of these ropes the traps and
+four-wheelers and ramshackle gigs of the farmers were drawn up, with
+their wives and daughters, who had come to see the fun.
+
+Among these there was one pony-carriage drawn by two handsome ponies,
+with a peacock’s feather behind their ears and silver bells on the
+harness, which, simple enough in itself, had a stylish look beside
+these battered and worn-out vehicles. It belonged to Jason Waldron, who
+was generally credited with “Esquire” after his name, and the lady who
+sat alone in it was his daughter Violet. Mr Waldron was not there.
+
+Violet was attended by a young man, plainly dressed, very pale, whose
+slight frame gave him an effeminate appearance in contrast with the
+burly forms, and weather-beaten faces of those acquaintances who from
+time to time nodded and spoke as they passed. The pony-carriage was
+drawn up under an ancient hawthorn tree, whose gnarled and twisted
+trunk, slow in growth, may have witnessed the formation of the
+entrenchment on the hill by the Britons themselves. The first frosts of
+autumn had blackened the leaves, and the mingling of the grey of the
+trunk and its lichen with the dark colour of the leaves and the red
+peggles or berries, under a warm, glowing, mellow sunshine, caused the
+tree to assume a peculiar bronze-like tint.
+
+It may be that the sun in all his broad domains did not shine that day
+upon a more lovely being than Violet Waldron. Aymer Malet, the young
+man at her side—whose Norman name ill-assorted with his coarse
+garments, too plainly speaking of poverty—would have sworn that her
+equal did not walk the earth, and he would have had good warrant for
+his belief.
+
+Poor Aymer was out of place in that rude throng, and tormented himself
+with fears lest he should appear despicable in her eyes, as so inferior
+to those stalwart men in size and strength. He should have known
+better; but he was young and had lived so long with those who despised
+him that a habit of self-depreciation had insensibly grown upon him. It
+is needless to go back into his pedigree. He was well descended, but an
+orphan and friendless, except for the single uncle who had given a roof
+and a bed to lie on to his sister’s child.
+
+Martin Brown was a well-meaning man, honest and sturdy, but totally
+incapable of comprehending that all men are not absorbed in sheep and
+turnips. He was moderately well off, but, like all true farmers, frugal
+to the extreme. Never a penny did Aymer get from him. Martin would have
+said: “Thee doesn’t work; thee doesn’t even mind a few ewes. If thee’ll
+go bird-keeping I’ll pay thee.”
+
+Aymer wished for work, but not work of that class. He remembered one
+golden year spent in London with a friend of his dead father (who had
+lost his all by horse-racing), where he was permitted to read at will
+in a magnificent library, and was supplied with money to visit those
+art-galleries and collections in which his heart delighted. The friend
+died; the widow had no interest in him, and Aymer returned to the
+turnips, and sheep. But even in that brief period the impulse had been
+given; the seed had been sown and had fallen in fertile ground, which
+gave increase a hundredfold.
+
+The boy—he was but twenty then—was a born genius. He could not help it;
+it would force him on. What he wanted was books. He could get no money
+to purchase them; circulating libraries had not yet established
+agencies upon the open Downs. By a strange contradiction he became a
+poacher, and the cleverest hand at setting a wire for miles. Tenants
+were not allowed to shoot in that district, but they might course hares
+as much as they pleased.
+
+Aymer wired the ground game, sold them to the carriers who went by, and
+through the carriers got books slowly and one by one from the county
+town. In this way he bought many of Bohn’s fine series—the finest and
+most useful, perhaps, ever issued—he read Plato and Aristotle, Livy,
+Xenophon—the poets, the philosophers, the dramatists of ancient Rome
+and Greece; and although it was not in their original tongue, the vivid
+imagination of the man carried him back to their day, and enabled him
+to realise those stirring scenes, to feel their passions, and
+comprehend their arguments. He bought also most of the English poets, a
+few historians, and a large number of scientific works, for he was
+devoured with an eager curiosity to understand the stars that shone so
+brilliantly upon those hills—the phenomena of Nature with which he was
+brought in daily contact. When he had mastered a book, his friends the
+carriers, who called at the Shepherd’s Bush, took it back to the county
+town and resold it for half-price, and these small sums went towards
+fresh purchases.
+
+It may have been that these very untoward circumstances which would, to
+all appearance, have checked the growth of his mind, actually tended to
+assist it. He saw—he felt Nature. The wind, that whistled through the
+grass and sighed in the tops of the dark fir trees, spoke to him in a
+mystic language. The great sun, in unclouded splendour slowly passing
+over the wide, endless hills, told him a part of the secret. His books
+were not read, in the common sense of the term: they were _thought_
+through. Not a sentence but was thought over, examined, and its full
+meaning grasped and firmly imprinted on the memory.
+
+Poor Aymer! How desperately he longed to escape! How the soft summer
+breeze seemed to woo him onwards he knew not whither! How the sun
+seemed to beckon, till he fancied he could hear the echo of the surge
+as it roared on the far-distant beach!
+
+He did escape once—only for a little while, to be forced ignominiously
+back again, amid the jeers of his acquaintances. This happened before
+he knew Violet. By dint of catching hares and rabbits, and by selling
+off an accumulation of books, and by disposing of his gold watch—his
+only property—he managed to get some twenty pounds, and with that sum
+went straight to Florence.
+
+It was in spring, just before the warm summer comes, and he revelled in
+the beauty of Italian skies and landscapes as he travelled. But his
+destination was the Palazzo, which contains the statue of ideal woman,
+known as the Venus de Medici. He stood before the living marble, rapt
+in thought, and then suddenly burst into tears.
+
+This was perhaps childish. He had his faults; he was extremely proud
+and oversensitive. The sudden transition from the harsh and rude life
+at World’s End, among the weather-beaten and rough-speaking rustics, to
+this new world of inexpressible beauty, overcame him. Hastily he
+brushed those tears away, and recovered himself; but not so quickly as
+to escape the observation of two sad grey eyes. Inadvertently, as he
+stood before the statue, he had interfered with the line of sight of a
+lady who was engaged in sketching. She had paused, and noticing his
+rapt attention, made no sign that he had interrupted her work. Thus she
+witnessed his weakness; and being a person of a thoughtful, perhaps too
+thoughtful, turn, she wondered at and pondered over it.
+
+Day by day Aymer, while his funds lasted and he could stay in Florence,
+came and stood before the statue, lingering for hours in its close
+vicinity; so that the artist, as she sketched, had the fullest
+opportunity of noting the strong contrast between his delicate,
+intellectual features and slight, tall frame, and the coarse dress he
+wore. Growing interested, she instructed her attendants to make
+inquiries, and they easily elicited the name of the stranger, and the
+place from which he had come.
+
+By a curious coincidence, it so happened that the lady-artist herself
+was the owner of a family mansion, and moderately large estate but a
+few miles from Aymer’s home. He was, in fact, perfectly familiar with
+her name, which was a household word at World’s End, where
+distinguished names were few; but moving in his low sphere he had never
+seen her face.
+
+Lady Lechester—Agnes Lechester to her friends—was “lord of herself,
+that heritage of woe,” and being of an artistic turn of mind, had spent
+much of her time upon the Continent; another reason being certain
+unhappy matters connected with the history of the family mansion. She
+was much struck with the singularity of a mere lad of low and poor
+estate thus coming to Florence, obviously from pure love of the
+beautiful. Nothing approaching to affection sprang up in her mind; it
+must be distinctly understood that her interest was of a different
+character entirely. But from that moment Aymer unconsciously became the
+subject of a certain amount of surveillance. He deemed himself despised
+and unnoticed by all; but there was one who had not forgotten him.
+
+Those happy days in lovely Florence passed like a dream. Even by living
+on a few fruits and a little bread alone, the scanty stock of money he
+had carried with him could not be made to last for ever. Barely a month
+of pure, unalloyed pleasure—pure in every sense of the term—and poor
+Aymer, who knew not how to get employment in a foreign city, was
+obliged to return, and Agnes Lechester saw him no more standing in rapt
+admiration before the famous statue.
+
+Aymer reached Dover with five shillings in his pocket, and walked the
+whole of the distance, one hundred and fifty miles, to World’s End,
+often sleeping out at night under a rick. Slight as he was in frame, he
+possessed considerable power of enduring fatigue, and had a way of
+lounging idly along the road, abstracted in thought, and so walking
+mile after mile, till he woke up at his destination.
+
+They laughed him to scorn at World’s End. The poor fellow wandered
+about in the daytime on the Downs, hiding in the fir copses, lying on
+the ancient earthwork entrenchment, and dreaming of his fair Florence,
+so many hundreds of miles away. He grew dejected and hopeless till he
+saw Violet. Then in time, the very destiny he deemed so harsh in
+confining him to that rude spot seemed even superior to the glorious
+possibilities he had hoped for. For Violet took the place of the marble
+goddess; yet there never was a beauty less like the Venus de Medici.
+Lovely as are the ideals men have created for themselves, it sometimes
+happens that Nature presents us with a rare gem, surpassing those cold
+conceptions of the mind as far as the sun is above the earth.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Two.
+
+
+Violet returned from a long visit to friends near London just about the
+time that Aymer reached home, weary and footsore, from Dover. Although
+The Place, as Jason Waldron’s house was called, was but two miles from
+World’s End, Aymer had never seen her. She was but rarely at home, for
+Waldron had given her the best education money could buy, and this
+necessitated much absence from her native hills. But, education and
+visits over, Violet, with a happy heart, returned to the dear old home
+at last.
+
+It was on one lovely afternoon in May that Aymer saw her for the first
+time. He was lying upon the ground hidden in the brake which grew round
+the hedge of a fir copse on the Downs. Through this copse there ran a
+narrow green lane or track. He was reading his favourite little book of
+poetry—one that he always carried in his pocket—the tiny edition of
+Shakespeare’s Poems and Sonnets, published by William James Brown,
+thirty years since, and now out of print.
+
+Somehow the spirit of those sonnets and that peculiar poetry had
+penetrated into his mind. The little book was annotated on its narrow
+margin with notes in his own handwriting, and he knew the greater part
+of it by heart. He had just read the sonnet beginning—
+
+My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
+Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.
+* * * * *
+And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
+As she belied with false compare,
+
+
+when the sound of horse’s hoofs made him look up.
+
+A lady, riding on a black horse, had entered the green lane, and was
+passing slowly at a walk. It was Violet. Waldron. All that English
+beauty which seemed to pervade the poetry of wonderful Will, to Aymer’s
+fancy appeared to be hers. She passed him, and was gone, but her
+presence was left behind.
+
+Aymer could not have analysed her then—if asked, he could have barely
+recounted the colour of her hair. Yet she dwelt with him—hovered about
+him; he fed upon the remembrance of her until he had seen her again. By
+slow degrees he grew to understand the reason of her surpassing
+loveliness—to note the separate features, to examine the colours and
+the lines that composed this enchanting picture. A new life dawned upon
+him—a new worship, so to say.
+
+It happened that Martin Brown had some business to transact with Jason
+Waldron. Waldron bore the reputation of being a “scholard;” he was
+known to be comparatively wealthy; he did not mix with the society of
+World’s End; and he was held in some sort of awe by the rude and
+uneducated residents in the locality.
+
+Much as he despised that useless Aymer Malet, Martin in his secret
+heart felt that he was better fitted to meet and talk with Mr Waldron
+than himself. Aymer was, therefore, accredited to The Place. He went
+with no little trepidation, knowing that it was Violet’s home, and
+sharing to some extent the local hesitation to meet Waldron, who, being
+an invalid, he had never seen. Mr Waldron received him with a cordial
+courtesy, which quickly put him at his ease. When the grey-haired,
+handsome old man, sitting in his Bath-chair in the shadow of a sycamore
+tree, extended his hand and said: “I had some slight knowledge of your
+father, Mr Malet—he came of a good family,” poor Aymer forgot his
+coarse dress, and exhibited the bearing of a born gentleman. He could
+not help admiring the garden in which he found his host. This evidently
+genuine admiration pleased Waldron extremely, for the garden had been
+the solace of his retired manhood, and of his helpless age. He began to
+talk about it directly.
+
+“It is the trees,” he said; “it is the trees that make it look well.
+Trees are really far more beautiful than flowers. I planted most of
+them; you have heard the Eastern saying, Mr Malet—that those who plant
+trees live long. That yew-hedge?—no; I did not plant that. Such hedges
+are rare now—that hedge has been growing fully a hundred years—the
+stems, if you will look, are of immense size. To my mind, the old
+English yew is a greater favourite than the many foreign evergreens now
+introduced. The filbert walk?—yes; I planted that. Come and see me in a
+few months’ time, and you shall crack as many as you choose. The old
+house picturesque?—it is: I wish I had a sketch of it. You draw?—a
+little; now try. Take out your pocket-book—ah! I see you have a regular
+artist’s sketchbook.”
+
+To tell the honest truth, Aymer was not a little pleased to have the
+opportunity of exhibiting his skill before some one who could
+appreciate it. He was a natural draughtsman. I do not think he ever,
+even in later and more fortunate days, attempted colours; but with
+pencil and crayon, or pen and ink, he was inimitable. Once at work with
+his pencil, Aymer grew absorbed and forgot everything—even the presence
+of the invalid, who watched him with interest. The gables and the roof,
+the curious mullioned windows, the chimney-stacks, the coat of arms and
+fantastic gargoyles, then the trees and arbours grew upon the paper.
+
+“Ah! that’s my window,” said a low voice.
+
+His pencil slipped and made a thick stroke—he looked round, it was
+Violet.
+
+For the first time he looked into her eyes and met her face to face. He
+could not draw. His hand would not keep steady; he blamed it to the
+heat of the summer sun. Violet declared it was her fault.
+
+Mr Waldron seized the incomplete sketch, and insisted upon Mr Malet
+(the title, humble as it was, was pleasant to Aymer’s ears) returning
+to finish it next day.
+
+In his confusion Aymer somehow got away, and then remembered that the
+sketchbook he had left behind was full of drawings, and amongst them
+there were two that brought a flush to his brow as he thought of them.
+One was Violet on horseback; the other a profile of her face. He wished
+to return and claim his book, and yet he hesitated. A sweet uncertainty
+as to what she would think mastered him. He dared not venture back. The
+next day passed, and the next—still he did not go—a week, a fortnight.
+
+He could not summon up courage. Then came a note for “A. Malet,
+Esq”—that “Esq” subjected him to bitter ridicule from rude old
+Martin—from Mr Waldron, inquiring if he had been ill, and begging him
+to visit at The Place, according to promise.
+
+There was no escape. He went; and from that hour the intimacy increased
+and ripened till not a day passed without some part of it being spent
+with the Waldrons. Violet had seen her portrait in the sketchbook, but
+she said not a word. She made Aymer draw everything that took her
+fancy. Once he was bold enough to ask to sketch her hand. She blushed,
+and became all dignity; Aymer cowered. He was not bold enough. How
+could he be? With barely a shilling in his pocket, rough corduroy
+trousers, an old battered hat, a black coat almost green from long
+exposure to sun and rain;—after years of ridicule and jeering how could
+he face her?
+
+His heart was full, but his lips dared not speak. His timidity and
+over-sensitiveness made him blind to signs and tokens that would have
+been instantly apparent to others of harder mould. He never saw the
+overtures that the growing love in Violet’s breast compelled her to
+offer. He tormented himself day and night with thinking how to compass
+and obtain her love, when it was his already.
+
+The one great difficulty was his poverty. Think how he would, he could
+discover no method by which it could be remedied. He had no means of
+obtaining employment, and employment would imply absence from her. How
+could he make her love him? He turned to his faithful friend and
+adviser, dear old Will. The tiny volume of poems was carefully scanned,
+and he lit upon those verses commencing—
+
+When as thine eye hath chose the dame
+And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike.
+
+
+He asked himself if he had done as the lover was advised—
+
+And when thou com’st thy tale to tell
+Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk.
+
+
+Certainly he had not attempted to beguile her with insinuating
+flattery—
+
+But plainly say thou lov’st her well,
+And set her person forth to sale.
+
+
+This he had not done. How dare he say he loved her well? He had not the
+courage to praise her person.
+
+And to her will frame all thy ways.
+
+
+This he was willing and ready enough to do. He believed he had done so
+already; but read on—
+
+Spare not to spend, and chiefly there
+Where thy desert may merit praise
+By ringing in thy lady’s ear.
+
+
+Here he was at a standstill. He could not spend; he could not even
+dress as a gentleman. He could not make her rich and beautiful
+presents.
+
+The strongest castle, tower, and town
+The golden bullet beats it down.
+
+
+He had no golden bullets—to him the castle was therefore impregnable.
+
+Serve always with assured trust,
+And in thy suit be humble, true—
+
+
+Advice such as this last he could and did follow conscientiously.
+
+Have you not heard it said full oft,
+A woman’s nay doth stand for nought?—
+
+
+Encouraging to those who could press the question, but he had not even
+courage to get the first nay. It was the “golden bullet”—the lack of
+the power to spend—the miserable poverty which pressed upon him with a
+leaden weight. He did his best to follow infallible Will’s advice. He
+snared twenty hares and sold them; he had still a small gold
+pencil-case left—it had belonged to his mother. He sold that also.
+
+On foot he walked forty miles to Reading, and spent the whole proceeds
+in the purchase of a pair of fine jet bracelets, which his instinct
+told him would look well upon Violet’s white wrist. When he had got
+them, came the difficulty—how could he give them to her? At last he
+employed a shepherd lad to leave a parcel for Miss Waldron.
+
+He kept away several days, but love was more powerful than shame. He
+went.
+
+With Violet he strolled up the long shady filbert walk, with the
+clusters, now ripe, hanging overhead. His heart beat fast, but he said
+nothing. On her part she was silent. Suddenly she lifted up her arm and
+reached after a cluster of the nuts high up. Her sleeve fell down; the
+beautiful arm was bare to the elbow, and there was the bracelet!
+
+Her eyes met his; a lovely colour suffused her cheek. An uncontrollable
+impulse seized him. He caught her hand and kissed it. Why linger? No
+one can tell how these things come about. Their lips met, and it is
+enough.
+
+That was the happiest autumn Aymer ever knew. Even now he looks back at
+its sweetness with a species of regret. The sunshine was warmer, the
+blue of the sky richer, the yellow mist that hung over the landscape
+softer, the bee went by with a joyous hum, the crimson-and-gold of the
+dying leaves was more brilliant than ever it had been before or since.
+Love lent his palette to Nature, and the world was aglow with colour.
+How delicious it is to see everything through the medium, and in the
+company of a noble girl just ripening into womanhood! I remember one
+such summer—
+
+But age with his stealing steps
+Has clawed me in his clutch.
+
+
+She was very beautiful; it is hard to describe her. It was not perhaps
+so much the features, the hue of the hair, the colour of the eye, the
+complexion, or even the shape, as the life, the vitality, the wonderful
+freshness which seemed to throw a sudden light over her, as when the
+sunshine falls upon a bed of flowers:—
+
+            Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful,
+Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells,
+With rosy, slender fingers backward drew
+From her warm brows and bosom, her deep hair
+Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat
+And shoulder: from the violets her light foot
+Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form
+Between the shadows of the vine-bunches
+Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved.
+
+
+The modern taste for catalogues compels me to name the colour of her
+eye and hair. Her eye was full, large, and lustrous; that deep black so
+rarely seen—an eye that gave quick expression to the emotions of the
+heart—that flashed with laughter, or melted with tenderness. Her hair
+was not quite golden; it was properly brown, but so near the true
+golden that a little sunlight lit it up with a glossy radiance
+impossible to express in words. The complexion was that lovely mingling
+of red and white, which the prince in the fairy tale prayed his
+lady-love might have, when he saw the crimson blood of a raven he had
+slain, staining the translucent marble slab upon which it had fallen.
+The nose was nearly straight; the lips full and scarlet. She was tall,
+but not too tall. It is difficult for a woman to have a good carriage
+unless she be of moderate height. Enough of the catalogue system.
+
+They visited all the places in the neighbourhood where Aymer’s pencil
+could find a subject. Now it was a grand old beech tree; now only a
+grey stone, set up centuries and centuries since as a “stone of
+memorial” by races long reduced to ashes; now The Towers, the home of
+Lady Lechester. With them always went Dando, Waldron’s favourite dog, a
+huge mastiff, who gambolled about in unwieldly antics at Violet’s feet.
+
+Aymer listened to her as she played. He sat by the invalid under the
+shadow of the sycamore tree near the open window, where he could see
+her sitting at the piano, pouring forth the music of Mendelssohn in
+that peculiar monotonous cadence which marks the master’s works and
+fills the mind with a pleasant melancholy. Now and then her head
+turned, a glance met his, and then the long eyelashes drooped again.
+Presently out she would come with a rush, making old Dando (short for
+Dandolo) bound and bark with delight as he raced her round the green,
+tearing her flowing dress with his teeth, and whisking away when she
+tried to catch him.
+
+The grace of her motions, the suppleness of her lithe form, filled
+Aymer’s heart with a fierce desire to clasp her waist and devour her
+lips, while the invalid laughed aloud at the heavy bounds of his dog.
+The old man saw clearly what was going forward, yet he did not put
+forth his hand to stay it. They were a happy trio that summer and
+autumn at World’s End.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Three.
+
+
+The summer passed away, as all things do, the winter, and the spring
+blossomed afresh, and still the course of true love ran smooth with
+Aymer and Violet.
+
+The winter had been only one degree less pleasant than the summer.
+Violet had a beautiful voice; Aymer’s was not nearly so fine: still, it
+was fairly good, and scarcely an evening passed without duets and solos
+on the pianoforte, while old Waldron, animated for the time beyond his
+wont, accompanied them upon the violin. He had an instrument which,
+next to his daughter and his dog Dando, he valued above all things. It
+was by Guarnerius, and he handled it with more care than a mother does
+her infant, expatiating upon the quality of the wood, the sycamore and
+pine, the beauty of the varnish, the peculiar, inimitable curl of the
+scroll, which had genius in its very twist.
+
+Aymer was a ready listener. In the first place, he had grown to look
+upon Waldron in the light that he would have regarded an affectionate
+and beneficent father. Then he was, above all things, anxious to please
+Violet, and he knew that she adored the Silver Fleece, as she called
+him, in laughing allusion to his odd Christian name, Jason, and to his
+grey hairs. And, lastly, he really did feel a curiosity and a desire to
+learn.
+
+Sometimes Aymer gave Violet lessons in drawing, and she repaid him with
+lessons in French and music, being proficient in both.
+
+After a while Waldron discovered that this boy, without means or
+friends, had made himself acquainted with the classics, and had even
+journeyed as a pilgrim to the shrines of ancient art at Florence.
+
+At this he was highly pleased. He at once set to work to ground Aymer
+in the original languages in which Plato and Livy wrote. He taught him
+to appreciate the delicate allusions, and exquisite turn of diction, of
+Horace. He corrected the crude ideas which the self-instructed student
+had formed, and opened to him the wide field of modern criticism. The
+effect upon Aymer’s mind was most beneficial, and the old man, while
+teaching the youth, felt his heart, already predisposed, yearning
+towards him more and more.
+
+To Violet this was especially a happy omen, for she, above all things,
+loved her only parent, and had not ceased to fear lest her affection
+for Aymer should be met by his disapproval. As time went on, the ties
+of intimacy still further strengthened.
+
+Waldron was now often seen in deep thought, and left the young people
+more to themselves. He busied himself with pen and ink, with
+calculations and figures, to the subject-matter of which he did not ask
+their attention.
+
+Even yet Aymer had not thought of marriage; even yet he had not
+overcome his constitutional sensitiveness so much as to contemplate
+such a possibility. It was enough to dwell in the sunshine of her
+presence. Thoroughly happy in her love, he never thought of to-morrow.
+Perhaps it is a matter to be regretted that we cannot always remain in
+this state—ever enjoying the ideal without approaching nearer to the
+realisation, for the realisation, let it be never so glorious, is of
+the earth, earthy.
+
+It is quite true that women like courage, and that boldness often goes
+a long way; but it is questionable whether with high-bred natures a
+subdued, quiet, and delicate manner does not go still further. Aymer
+was incapable of self-laudation, of that detestable conceit which some
+think it proper to show when they have made what they are pleased to
+call “a conquest.” Pity the poor castles that have stooped to them!
+
+His happiness had but one alloy—the perpetual remembrance of his own
+unworthiness, the immeasurable difference in his worldly position,
+which made it a presumption in him even to frequent her presence, much
+less to bask in her love. There were plenty who did not fail to remind
+him of this discrepancy in their mutual positions, for his intimacy at
+The Place could not, of course, pass unnoticed.
+
+Martin Brown said nothing whatever. If there was any alteration in his
+manner as the truth dawned on him, it was in favour of Aymer. With such
+men everything is judged by results. While Aymer went about sketching
+alone, he despised him and his pencil; the moment the very same talent
+obtained him the notice of those in a superior station, then Aymer was
+do longer such a fool. Martin said nothing. He refrained from his
+former jeers, and abstained from telling Aymer to go and mind the
+sheep.
+
+It was also to his advantage that Aymer should get rich acquaintances,
+and so possibly obtain a livelihood, and relieve him of an expense,
+which, however small, was always a bitter subject with him.
+
+But there were others—farmers’ sons—in the district who did not spare
+Aymer. They despised him; they could not understand him; and they hated
+him for his luck in carrying off the squire’s daughter. They credited
+him with the most mercenary motives, and called him a beggarly upstart.
+If Aymer chanced to pass near them he was saluted with ironical bows
+and cheers, and hats were obsequiously doffed to “My Lord Muck,” or “My
+Lord Would-Be.”
+
+He made no reply, but the insult went home. He knew that there was a
+great deal of ground for this treatment. He knew that his conduct must
+appear in such a light to others; and yet how welcome they always made
+him at The Place. He questioned himself if he was doing right;
+sometimes his pride said “Go; carve yourself a fortune, and then return
+for her;” but love, strong love always conquered and drove him forward.
+He deemed that, with the exception of Violet and Waldron, all the world
+looked upon him with contempt. He was wrong.
+
+In the spring, Violet began to ride again over the Downs. This habit
+for a moment again lowered Aymer in his own estimation, for he had no
+horse to accompany her. What was his delight and astonishment when one
+day Violet took him to the stables and asked him how he liked the new
+grey horse. It was a handsome animal—Aymer admired it, as in duty
+bound, and as, indeed, he could not help, yet with a heart full of
+mortification, when Violet whispered that papa had bought it for him to
+ride with her. She flung her arms, in her own impulsive way, round his
+neck, kissed him, and rushed away to don her riding-habit before he
+could recover from his astonishment.
+
+It was true. In an hour’s time they were galloping over the soft
+springy turf of the Downs, trying the paces of the grey, who proved
+faster than the black. The rides were repeated day by day; and it often
+happened that, while thus enjoying themselves, they passed one or more
+of those very persons who had so often insulted Aymer.
+
+Instead of sitting firmer and with pride in his saddle, Aymer felt that
+he all the more deserved their censure, and looked the other way as he
+went by.
+
+He did not know that there was one eye at least that watched him with
+pleasure, and with something like a quiet envy. It was the same grey
+eye that had observed, him in the Palazzo at Florence.
+
+Agnes Lechester had returned to England to spend some time at the old
+Towers, and had not failed to make inquiries for the young pilgrim who,
+in coarse garb, she had seen at the shrine of art. She heard of the
+intimacy with Waldron, whom she had once or twice spoken to; and as the
+lovers rode slowly beneath her grand and comfortless home, she sat at
+her window, and paused in her art-work, and looked down upon them and
+sighed. She could not but envy them their joy and youth, their path
+strewn with roses and lighted by love. She had no need to envy Violet’s
+beauty, for, although no longer young, Agnes Lechester was a fine
+woman. It was the life, the full glowing life, she deemed so desirable.
+And she rejoiced that the poor pilgrim had found so fair a lady-love.
+So that there was one eye at least which, unknown to Aymer, watched him
+with a quiet pleasure and approval. Had he known it, it would have
+encouraged him greatly. By precipitating matters it might have
+prevented—but let us proceed.
+
+Jason Waldron knew that his daughter loved, and was beloved. He was no
+ordinary man. His life had been spent far from those money-making
+centres where, in time, the best of natures loses its original bias,
+and sees nothing but gold. Age, he believed, had given him some power
+of penetration; and in Aymer he thought he had found one in a
+thousand—one with whom his darling daughter’s future would be safe. “He
+will not follow the universal idol,” thought the old man. “He will be
+content with art and literature, with nature and with Violet. I can see
+nothing in store for them but the happiest of lives.” He waited long,
+expecting Aymer to approach the subject in some distant manner. At last
+he comprehended his reluctance. “He is poor and proud—he is afraid, and
+no wonder,” he thought. “He shall not suffer for that.”
+
+The benevolent old man, anxious only to complete the happiness of those
+he loved, resolved to be the first, and to hold out a welcoming hand.
+One day he called for Aymer to his study, and motioning him to a seat,
+averted his face, not to confuse him, and said that he had long seen
+the mutual affection between Violet and him. He understood why Aymer
+had refrained from taking him into his confidence—he could appreciate
+the difficulties of his position. Without any hesitation, he approved
+of Violet’s choice. His own years had now begun to weigh upon him, and
+he grew daily more anxious that Violet should be settled. He proposed,
+therefore, that if Aymer would not mind the arrangement, they should be
+united as speedily as possible, and that after a short trip they should
+return and live with him at The Place. He could not spare Violet
+entirely—he must hear the sound of her voice, and see the light of her
+eyes, while yet the power to do so remained with him. He was not really
+rich. In that poor district, indeed, he appeared so, but it was only by
+comparison. Were he to be placed in some great city, side by side with
+the men whose trade was gold, his little all would sink into the utmost
+insignificance. Beside rude rustics, who lived from hand to mouth,
+content if they paid the rent, and perhaps put by a hundred guineas in
+the county bant, he was well off; but not when weighed against the
+world.
+
+He had but the house he dwelt in, a few acres of surrounding pasture,
+and three thousand pounds placed out on loan. This money brought in a
+good interest, but he had lately thought of calling it in for greater
+safety, as he felt himself to be getting old in every sense of the
+term.
+
+It was obvious, therefore, that on the score of expense alone it would
+be difficult for him to give a dower to Violet sufficient to support a
+second home. If they could be happy with him, why he should be content.
+
+He turned and held out his hand to Aymer. Aymer took it, but could say
+nothing. He was literally overwhelmed. To him, after so long a
+solitude, after so much contempt, this marvellous good fortune was
+overpowering. Jason pretended not to notice his confusion.
+
+“We understand one another,” he said. “It is agreed, is it not?”
+
+Despite all his attempts, Aymer could but incline his head.
+
+“It is a lovely day—take Violet for a ride to Berbury camp.”
+
+How Aymer managed to convey what had passed to Violet he never knew,
+but that was the longest ride they ever had together, and it was dark
+before The Place was reached.
+
+Aymer did not go home after quitting Violet. He walked away upon the
+Downs until safe from observation, then threw himself upon the sward,
+and poured out his heart in thanksgiving. When he had grown a little
+calmer he leant against a beech-trunk and gazed at the stars. In that
+short hour upon the solitary Downs he lived a whole lifetime of
+happiness. There are some of us who can remember such hours—they occur
+but once to any human being.
+
+To do the rough residents of the district justice, so soon as it was
+understood to be settled that they were to be married, then the tone of
+the place changed, and they no longer insulted and annoyed him. Some
+wished him joy and happiness: not without a tinge of envy at his good
+fortune, expressed in the rude language of the hills, “I wish I had
+thee luck, lad.”
+
+It was generally agreed that when the marriage took place there should
+be an arch erected and decorated with flowers, for the bride and
+bridegroom to pass under; that the path through the churchyard should
+be strewn with roses, that volleys of firearms should be discharged,
+and the day kept as a holiday. This was settled at the Shepherd’s Bush
+over foaming jugs of ale.
+
+“Arter all,” said an old fellow, “he bean’t such a bad sort o’ chap. A’
+mind a’ tuk a main bit o’ trouble loike to pull a ewe o’ mine out of a
+ditch where hur laid on hur back.”
+
+“Ay, ay!” said another; “and a’ drawed my little Kittie on the kitchen
+wall wi’ a bit o’ charcoal as natural as ever hur walked—zo let’s gie
+’un a rouser, chaps, and no mistake!”
+
+This was how it happened that at World’s End Races that fateful year,
+early in October, a delicate-looking young man, commonly dressed, stood
+beside the pretty pony-carriage under the hawthorn tree. The marriage
+was fixed for that day week.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Four.
+
+
+The marriage would have taken place earlier but for two circumstances:
+first, the difficulty of obtaining the wedding outfit for Violet in
+that out-of-the-way place; and secondly, because Jason insisted upon
+some important alterations being made in the old house, in order to
+render it more comfortable for his children.
+
+There is no event in life which causes so much discussion, such
+pleasant anticipation, as the marriage-day; and at The Place there was
+not a single thing left unmentioned; every detail of the ceremony was
+talked over, and it was a standing joke of Jason’s to tell Violet to
+study her prayer-book, a remark that never failed to make the blood
+mount to her forehead.
+
+She grew somewhat pensive as the final moment approached—with all her
+youth and spirits, with all the happy omens that accompanied the course
+of her love, she could not view this, the most important step she would
+ever take, always with thoughtless levity. She became silent and
+thoughtful, gave up riding, and devoted herself almost exclusively to
+attending upon Jason, till Aymer—silly fellow!—grew jealous, and
+declared it was unkind of her to look forward to the wedding-day as if
+it was a sentence of imprisonment.
+
+Mr Waldron had lived so retired that there was some little difficulty
+in fixing upon a representative to give Violet away, for as an invalid
+he could not himself go to the church; and this was the only thing he
+was heard to regret—that he should not see Violet married. However, he
+consoled himself with the thought that he should see her immediately
+afterwards, as the church was hardly half a mile distant, down in a
+narrow combe or valley. After some reflection, Mr Waldron decided upon
+asking his solicitor, Mr Merton, of Barnham, to act as his
+representative and give the bride away.
+
+Merton, who was an old bachelor, was really delighted at the idea, but
+with true professional mendacity made an immense virtue of the
+sacrifice of time it entailed. He really was so busy with a great law
+case just coming on that really—but then his old friend Waldron, and
+lovely Miss Violet—duty pulled him one way and inclination another, and
+beauty, as was proper, triumphed.
+
+Violet had few acquaintances, and it was more difficult still to find
+her a bridesmaid—not that there were not plenty ready to fill that
+onerous post—but she disliked the idea of a stranger. Mr Merton, the
+solicitor, solved the difficulty by suggesting a niece of his, a merry
+girl whom Violet had met once or twice.
+
+Aymer could not do less than ask old Martin Brown to stand as his best
+man, never dreaming that he would accept the task. But what was his
+surprise when Martin declared that he should enjoy the fun, and would
+rather miss Barnham fair than not be there. He came out tolerably
+handsome for him; he offered Aymer a five-pound note to purchase a
+suitable dress! This note Aymer very respectfully declined to take, and
+the farmer, half repenting of his generosity, did not press him too
+hard. Yet he could not help expressing his wonder as to how Aymer meant
+to appear at church. “Thee bisn’t a-goin’ to marry th’ squire’s darter
+in thee ould hat?”
+
+Aymer smiled and said nothing. Fortune had aided him in this way too.
+After endless disappointments and “returned with thanks,” he had
+suddenly received a cheque for a sketch of his which had been accepted
+by an illustrated paper. Immediately afterwards came another cheque for
+a short story accepted by a magazine. This success, small as it was,
+elated him, if anything, more than the approaching marriage-day. He had
+tried, and tried, and tried, and failed again and again, till he
+despaired and ceased to make the attempt, till the necessity of
+obtaining some clothes drove him to the last desperate venture. He was
+elated beyond measure. A successful author, a successful artist, and
+just about to marry the most beautiful woman in the world!
+
+He resolved to tell Violet nothing about it, but to show her the sketch
+and the story as they were upon their trip. Thus it was that he was
+independent of Martini grudging generosity. Fortune did not stop even
+here. As if determined to shower delight upon him—to make up at one
+blow for the cruel isolation, the miserable restraint he had
+undergone—she never seemed to tire of opening up fresh vistas of
+pleasure. Both Violet and Aymer would have been satisfied, and more
+than satisfied, with a simple visit to the seaside; but Jason was not
+so easily pleased. His daughter was his life—nothing was too good for
+her—and, besides, such an event happened but once in a lifetime, and it
+was fit and proper that it be accompanied with memorable circumstances.
+He announced his intention of sending his children to Florence.
+
+To Florence, the beautiful city, which dwelt for ever in Aymer’s
+dreams—the city he had described time after time to Violet, till the
+girl thought it the finest upon earth. He was to revisit Florence, and
+to revisit it with Violet! His heart was full—it would have been
+impossible to add another blessing.
+
+Violet raced about the house and the garden, teasing Dando to
+distraction—all her pensiveness dispelled, murmuring “Florence” at
+every turn. What further joy could there be in store?—it was
+impossible. It is almost safe to say that these two were the happiest
+in England. Well they might be. They had all upon their side—i.e.,
+youth.
+
+Violet was to be married upon her twenty-first birthday; Aymer was
+twenty-three only. Money—not riches—but sufficient for an easy life.
+Italy in view—the land of the artist and the poet! It was like a fairy
+dream!
+
+The days flew by. The dresses came—oh, what eager discussions and
+conferences there were over the dresses! All the farmers’ daughters and
+wives in the neighbourhood to whom Violet was even distantly known,
+claimed the privilege to see the trousseau. In London it would have
+been overlooked—there all things are upon a grand scale.
+
+At World’s End the ladies were never tired of descanting upon the
+glories of the silk and satin, the lace and tulle. How can a wretched,
+unsympathising man describe the sensation produced by Violet’s wedding
+outfit?
+
+The dear girl was in ecstasies. Waldron had gone to the utmost limit of
+his purse—his friend Merton even frowned a little—but he argued it was
+only for once—just this once—he must be permitted a little extravagance
+on Violet’s marriage-day.
+
+Aymer was again plagued with his old tormentors—they did not sneer or
+jeer at him, but he had to run the gauntlet of rude jokes and rustic
+wit. He forgave them, and asked as many as he could to the breakfast.
+
+The breakfast was to be laid out in that very apartment the window of
+which opened upon the garden near the sycamore tree, where he had sat
+so many times listening to Violet playing upon the pianoforte. There
+was of course a cake, and there was to be what had never before been
+seen or tasted at World’s End from time immemorial—i.e., several dozens
+of champagne.
+
+If the wedding outfit caused a sensation among the ladies, this
+champagne was all the talk among the men. They thought of nothing
+else—it was the subject of endless allusions and unabating
+anticipation. Here and there was one who could say he had tasted the
+wine—when after a good hunting spin Lord So-and-So had asked the
+sportsmen to refresh themselves at his mansion. But the majority had
+not the faintest notion of what it was like, and formed the most
+fantastic expectations. There were a few who doubted whether there
+would be any champagne, and treated it as a myth, till the servants at
+The Place, proud of their importance, admitted some favoured
+individuals who were regaled in secret with—the taste?—no, but the view
+only of certain tall bottles dressed in rosy tissue paper, upon the
+removal of which stood out the far-famed silver-foil, and doubt was no
+more. World’s End was full of its first champagne treat.
+
+Old Martin Brown swelled up into a person of enormous importance, as
+being the nearest relative of the bridegroom; he was looked upon as an
+oracle, and his remarks listened to with intense interest at the
+nightly tobacco parliament at the Shepherd’s Bush.
+
+The carriers took fabulous reports of what was to happen at World’s End
+all over the district, and scores of honest people made up their minds
+to trudge to Bury Wick Church.
+
+Aymer was no longer knocked up at five in the morning, as was the
+custom, to breakfast at six. He was undisturbed. No more jeers and
+contempt—he was treated with deference. “My nevvy” was a success;
+Martin spoke of his “nevvy” as if the connection did him honour.
+
+I hope among the readers of this history there will be many ladies who
+can remember their feelings on the approach of the marriage-day. Let
+them kindly recall those moments of wild excitement, of trepidation
+lest some accident should happen, of a half-hesitation, of a desire to
+plunge at once and get it over—and approximately they will understand
+Violet’s heart.
+
+Even yet Fortune had not exhausted her favours. On the morning of
+World’s End Races, just one short week before the day, there came a
+letter in an unknown handwriting, addressed to Aymer Malet, Esq,
+enclosing five ten-pound notes from an anonymous donor, who wished him
+every felicity, and advised him to persevere in his art studies.
+
+This extraordinary gift, so totally unexpected, filled Aymer with
+astonishment. It seemed as if it had dropped from the skies, for he had
+not the remotest suspicion that Lady Lechester was watching him with
+interest.
+
+At last the day came. Violet was awake at the earliest dawn, and saw
+the sun rise, clear and cloudless, from the window. It was one of those
+days which sometimes occur in autumn, with all the beauty and warmth of
+summer, without its burning heat, and made still more delicious by the
+sensation of idle drowsiness—a day for lotos eating. The beech trees
+already showed an orange tint in places; the maples were turning
+scarlet; the oaks had a trace of buff. The rooks lazily cawed as they
+flew off with the acorns, the hills were half hidden with a yellowy
+vapour, and a few distant fleecy clouds, far up, floated in the azure.
+A dream-like, luxurious day, such as happens but once a year!
+
+Violet was up with the sun—how could she rest? Miss Merton was with
+her, chatting gaily. Oh, the mysteries of the toilet! my feeble pen
+must leave that topic to imagination. All I can say is, that it seemed
+as if it never would be completed, notwithstanding the reiterated
+warnings of Jason that the time was going fast.
+
+There came one more pleasant surprise.
+
+A strange man on horseback was seen riding up to The Place. This was so
+rare an event that Violet’s heart beat fast, fearing lest even at the
+eleventh hour something should happen to cause delay. She waited; her
+hands trembled. Even the delicious toilet had to be suspended.
+
+Footsteps came up the staircase, and then the maidservant, bearing in
+her hand a small parcel, advanced to Miss Waldron. With trembling
+fingers she cut the string—it was a delicate casket of mother-of-pearl.
+The key was in it; she opened the lid, and an involuntary exclamation
+of surprise and admiration burst from her lips.
+
+There lay the loveliest necklace of pearls that ever the sun had shone
+upon. Rich, costly pearls—pearls that were exactly fitted above all
+jewels for her—pearls that she had always wished for—pearls! They were
+round her neck in a moment.
+
+Miss Merton was in raptures; the maidservant lost her wits, and ran
+downstairs calling every one to go up and see Miss Vi’let “in them
+shiners!”
+
+For a while, in the surprise and wonder, the donor had been forgotten.
+Under the necklace was a delicate pink note, offering Lady Lechester’s
+sincere desire that Miss Waldron would long wear her little present,
+and wishing her every good thing. When the wedding trip was over, would
+_Mrs_ Aymer Malet let her know that she might call?
+
+Violet was not perfect any more than other girls; she had naturally a
+vein of pride; she did feel no little elation at this auspicious mark
+of attention and regard from a person in Lady Lechester’s position. The
+rank of the donor added to the value of the gift.
+
+Mr Waldron was much affected by this token of esteem. He could not
+express his pleasure to the giver, because her messenger had galloped
+off the moment he had delivered the parcel. The importance of the
+bride, great enough before, immediately rose ninety per cent, in the
+eyes of Miss Merton, and a hundred and fifty per cent, in the eyes of
+the lower classes.
+
+Mr Waldron, examining the pearls with the eye of a connoisseur, valued
+them at the very lowest at two hundred guineas. The involuntary tears
+of the poor pilgrim at the shrine of art had indeed solidified into
+gems!
+
+The news flew over the adjacent village of Bury Wick; the servants at
+The Place spread it abroad, and in ten minutes it was known far and
+wide. The excitement was intense. Champagne was grand enough—but
+pearls! World’s End went wild! Champagne and pearls in one day! The
+whole place turned out to give the bride a triumphant reception.
+
+Aymer was forgotten in the excitement over Violet: forgotten, but not
+by the bride. All she wished was to be able to show him her present—but
+etiquette forbade his being sent for on that particular morning; he
+must meet her at the church.
+
+At the church—goodness! these pearls had delayed the toilet, and ten
+o’clock had struck. At eleven—ah! at eleven!
+
+Mr Merton had not arrived yet. He had arranged to bring his carriage;
+at The Place they had nothing grander than the pony-carriage. Mr
+Merton, anxious to do the thing well, as he expressed it, had sent word
+that he should bring his carriage and pair of greys, to take the bride
+to the church.
+
+From the earliest dawn the bells at Bury Church had been going from
+time to time; and every now and then there was a scattered fire of
+musketry, like skirmishing; it was the young farmers and their friends
+arriving with their guns, and saluting.
+
+But at a quarter-past ten there was a commotion. The bells burst out
+merrier than ever; there was volley after volley of musketry, and
+cheering which penetrated even to the chamber of the bride, where she
+sat before the mirror with the pearls round her neck. It was Merton
+driving up in style, with his greys decorated with wedding favours.
+
+Bang! clang! shout, and hurrah! The hand from Barnham struck up. “See
+the Conquering Hero comes!” There never was such a glorious day before
+or since at World’s End.
+
+“Nevvy,” said old Martin, already a little warm, and slapping Aymer on
+the back, “nevvy, my buoy! Thee bist th’ luckiest dog in
+Inglandt—champagne and purls—Ha! ha! ha!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Five.
+
+
+There was an attempt at order, but it was an utter failure. The men
+came crowding after Merton’s carriage shouting and firing guns, the
+horses snorted, and when Violet glanced from the window, the excitement
+of the scene made her hesitate and draw back.
+
+Merton—a regular _lady’s bachelor_, so to say—was equal to the
+occasion; it was not the first at which he had assisted. He at once
+became the soul of the ceremonies. He congratulated Waldron, hastened
+everybody, went into the apartment where the breakfast was laid out,
+and with his own hands re-arranged it to his satisfaction, shouting out
+all the time to the bride to make haste.
+
+She came at last. How few brides look well in their wedding-dresses.
+Even girls who are undeniably handsome fail to stand the trying ordeal;
+but Violet was so happy, so radiant, she could not help but appear to
+the best advantage.
+
+Poor old Jason’s lip quivered as he gazed at his girl’s face—for the
+last time as _his_—his lip quivered, and the words of his blessing
+would not come; his throat swelled, and a tear gathered in his eye. She
+bent and kissed him, turned and crossed the threshold.
+
+Waldron wheeled himself to the large open window, and watched her walk
+to the carriage along the carpet, put down that her feet might not
+touch the ground.
+
+Who shall presume to analyse the feelings of that proud and happy old
+man? The carriage moved, the crowd shouted, the guns fired; he wheeled
+his chair a little round, and his head leant forward. Was he thinking
+of a day twenty-two years ago, when he—not a young man, but still full
+of hope—led another fair bride to the altar; a bride who had long since
+left him?
+
+It was an ovation—a triumph all the way along that short half-mile to
+the church: particularly as they entered the village. The greys pranced
+slowly, lifting their hoofs well up, champing the bit, proud of their
+burden. The bride and Miss Merton sat on one seat, Mr Merton on the
+other. All the men and boys and children, all the shepherds and
+ploughboys for miles and miles, who had gathered together, set up a
+shout. The bells rang merrily, the guns popped and banged,
+handkerchiefs were waved. Across the village street, but a few yards
+from the churchyard lych-gate, they had erected an arch—as had been
+determined on at the Shepherd’s Bush—an arch that would have done
+credit to more pretentious places, with the motto, “Joy be with you.”
+
+The bride dismounted at the lych-gate, which was itself covered with
+flowers, and set her foot upon the scarlet cloth which the good old
+vicar had himself provided, and which was laid down right to the porch.
+
+The churchyard was full of children, chiefly girls, all carrying roses
+and flowers to strew the path of the happy couple when they emerged
+united. In the porch the ringers stood, four on each side, with their
+hands upon the ropes ready to clash forth the news that the deed was
+done. The old old clerk was there, in his black suit, which had done
+duty on so many occasions.
+
+She entered the little church—small, but extremely ancient. She passed
+the antique font, her light footstep pressed upon the recumbent brazen
+image of a knight of other days. The venerable vicar advanced to meet
+her, the sunshine falling on his grey head. But where was Aymer? Surely
+all must be well: but she could not see him—not for the moment.
+True-hearted, loving Violet had looked for Aymer with his old battered
+hat, in the corduroy trousers and the green coat she had known him in
+so long.
+
+For the moment she barely recognised the handsome, gentlemanly man
+before her. It was Aymer—oh yes, it was Aymer—and how noble he looked
+now that he was dressed as became him. Her heart gave another bound of
+joy—involuntarily she stepped forward; what could be wanting to
+complete her happiness that day? Certainly it would have been hard to
+have named one single thing as lacking—not one. The pews were full of
+women of all classes—they had been mostly reserved for them—the men
+finding standing room as best they could; and a buzz of admiration went
+round the church as Violet came into fall view. Her dress was good—it
+was nothing to belles who flourish in Belgravia; but at World’s
+End—goodness, it was Paris itself.
+
+That costume formed the one great topic of conversation for years
+afterwards. I know nothing of these things; but Miss Merton told me a
+few days ago that the bride wore a wreath of white rosebuds and myrtle
+upon her lovely head, and a veil of real Brussels lace. Her earrings
+were of rubies and diamonds—a present that morning from gallant Mr
+Merton. She had a plain locket (with a portrait of Waldron), and wore
+the splendid necklace of pearls, the gift of Lady Lechester.
+
+Her dress was white satin, trimmed with Brussels lace, and her feet
+were shod in satin boots. Of course the “rosy, slender fingers” were
+cased in the traditional white kid, and around her wrist was a bracelet
+of solid dull gold—the bridegroom’s present, only delivered just as she
+stepped into the carriage. She carried a bouquet of stephanotis,
+orange, and myrtle.
+
+It is very likely I have misunderstood Miss Merton’s lively
+description, but I think that the above was something like it. Miss
+Merton herself wore a white silk trimmed with turquoise, blue, a gold
+locket with monogram in turquoise and pearls, and earrings to match—a
+gift from Mr Waldron—and a bouquet, I think, chiefly of white roses and
+jessamine.
+
+It was a lovely sight. The sunshine fell upon the bride as she advanced
+up the aisle—fell upon her through the antique panes which softened and
+mellowed the light. Never did a fairer bride mount the chancel steps.
+
+Aymer waited for her. Till now Violet had been comparatively calm; but
+now, face to face with the clergyman robed in white, near to the altar
+and its holy associations, as the first tones of his sonorous voice
+fell upon her ear, what wonder that her knees trembled and the blood
+forsook her cheek. Aymer surreptitiously, and before he had a right in
+etiquette to do so, touched her hand gently—it strengthened and revived
+her; she blushed slightly, and the vicar’s voice, as he gazed upon her
+beauty, involuntarily softened and fell. While his lips uttered the
+oft-repeated words, so known by heart that the book in his hand was
+unneeded, his soul offered up a prayer that this fair creature—yes,
+just this one—should be spared those pains and miseries which were
+ordained upon the human race.
+
+The flag upon the church tower waved in the gentle breeze; the children
+were marshalled beside the path in two long rows, with their hands full
+of flowers; the women in the cottages were hunting up the old slippers
+and shoes; the men looked to the caps upon the nipples of their guns;
+the handsome greys snorted at the gate; and the grand old sun, above
+all, bathed the village in a flood of light. I cannot linger over it
+longer.
+
+The solemn adjuration was put, the question asked, and Aymer in an
+audible voice replied, “I will.” The still more solemn adjuration to
+the woman was repeated—it is but a few words, but it conveys a world of
+meaning, it sums up a lifetime—and Violet’s answer was upon her lips,
+when, before she could form the words, the chancel side-door burst
+open, and there—
+
+There before her very eyes, before the bride to whom that day was
+consecrated, who for that one day was by all law human and divine to be
+kept from all miserable things, there stood an awe-struck, gasping man,
+whose white shirt-front was one broad sheet of crimson blood.
+
+It is difficult to gather together, from the confused narratives of
+those who were present, what really happened in consecutive order, but
+this is nearly it. Not only was his shirt-front blood, but his grey
+hair and partially bald head were spotted that awful red, and his
+trembling hands dripped—the blood literally dripped from them on to the
+stone pavement. For one awful moment there was a pause—utter silence.
+The man staggered forward and said in broken tones, but audible over
+the whole church—
+
+“Miss Violet; your father is _dead_!” And the bride dropped like a
+stone before Aymer at her side, or Merton just behind, could grasp her
+arm. She was down upon the cold stone floor, her wedding-dress all
+crumpled up, her wreath fallen off, the light of life and love gone
+from her eyes, the happy glow from her cheek. Even in that moment the
+clergyman’s heart smote him. His impious prayer! That this one because
+of her beauty should be spared—and struck down before his very eyes in
+the midst of her joy and triumph. All that they could see in the body
+of the church was a shapeless heap of satin where but a moment before
+had stood the most envied of them all.
+
+Aymer knelt and lifted her head; it lay helpless upon his hands. As he
+did so the wedding-ring, which he had ready, slipped unnoticed from his
+grasp and was lost. When it was missed, days afterwards, and a search
+was instituted, it could not be found, and this the superstitious
+treasured up as a remarkable fact.
+
+Merton raised her up; her frame was limp and helpless in their arms.
+They carried her to the vestry and brought water. Miss Merton,
+trembling as she was, did not faint; but, good, brave girl, did her
+best.
+
+In the excitement over the bride, even the man who had brought this
+awful news was for the moment forgotten. When they looked for him he
+was leaning against the altar-rails, as if about to fall, and some of
+the blood was spotted on the sacred altar-cloth. The men rushed at him;
+the women, afraid, held back and watched what new harm must come. They
+deemed that it was some horrible creature; they could not believe that
+it was only the old gardener at The Place—Waldron’s oldest servant.
+
+Only the gardener. He was as helpless as themselves. He had
+over-exerted himself running to the church with his dreadful tidings,
+and being subject to heart disease, he could barely stand, and only
+gasp out that “Master was killed, and quite dead!”
+
+The men, finding nothing could be got from him, ran out, and made
+direct for The Place. Some leapt on their horses, but those on foot
+crossing the meadow, as the gardener had done, got there first. All the
+men made for The Place—all the women stayed to see what would become of
+the bride.
+
+It was a dead faint, but it was not long before she came to, and
+immediately insisted upon being taken home. They would have detained
+her in the vestry till at least confirmation of the dreadful
+intelligence had arrived. But no, she begged and prayed them to take
+her; and fearing lest uncertainty should do more harm than certainty,
+they half-led, half-carried her from the church.
+
+There was not a dry eye among the sympathising women who had
+remained—not one among those rude, half-educated people whose heart was
+not bursting with sorrow for the poor shrinking form that was borne
+through their midst.
+
+But a few short moments since, and how proud and happy had she been
+advancing up the aisle! The children were gone from the churchyard;
+their flowers cast away, not in the pathway of the bride, but on the
+graves. In their haste, they had trod upon the scarlet cloth laid down,
+and discoloured and stained it. The ringers had deserted the
+bell-ropes, the village street was empty and silent—only the
+unconscious flag waved upon the tower, and the arch stood for them to
+pass beneath, with its motto—now a bitter mockery—“Joy be with you!”
+
+The carriage rolled along the road, and as they approached The Place,
+Merton began to recover his professional calm; and the return of his
+mind to a more normal state was marked by doubt—Was it true?
+
+But no sooner had they entered the garden than he saw it was. The faces
+of the knots of men, their low, hushed voices, all told but one
+tale—death had been there!
+
+They tried to get Violet to go upstairs to her own room, but she would
+not. “I must see him!” was her cry. “I must see him!”
+
+She pushed through them. All gave way before her. Not _there_, surely?
+Yes, there—in the very room where the wedding-breakfast was laid out,
+where the cake stood upon the table, and the champagne-bottles at the
+side; there, in the place of joy, was the dead—dead in his armchair,
+close to the window, with a ghastly wound upon the once-peaceful brow!
+
+She threw up her hands—she uttered a great cry. Those that heard it say
+it rings even now in their ears. She threw herself upon him. The
+crimson blood dyed her veil, as it hung loose and torn, and tinged the
+innocent pearls around her neck with its terrible hue. She fainted the
+second time, and would have fallen, but Aymer caught her; and they bore
+her upstairs, unconscious even of her misery.
+
+The Place was silent. The guns were not fired, the bells were stilled.
+Men moved with careful footsteps, women hushed their voices, and in the
+stillness they heard the church clock slowly striking the hour of noon.
+At that moment she should have been returning, radiant and blissful in
+triumph, to meet the welcome from her father’s lips.
+
+There was one that could not understand it—one dumb beast that could
+not be driven away. It was Dando, the mastiff dog. Strangely enough, he
+avoided the chamber of the dead, and crouched at the door of Violet’s
+room.
+
+When Merton saw it he said, “Let the dog go in; maybe, he will relieve
+her a little.”
+
+But Violet, lying on a couch, conscious now and tearless, despairing in
+the darkened room, motioned him away. “Take him away,” she said. “If he
+had been faithful, he would have watched and guarded.”
+
+It was a natural thought, but it was not just. Poor Dando, like the
+rest, had gone to the church with the crowd; and just at the moment
+when he was most wanted, then he was absent from his duty.
+
+The great sun still bathed the village in a flood of light, the fleecy
+clouds sailed slowly in the azure, the yellow mist hung over the
+distant hills, and the leaves now and again rustled to the ground. But
+the chamber that should have resounded with laughter and joy was
+darkened. One more human leaf had fallen from the earthly tree of life.
+Once more those that were left behind were worse off than those that
+were taken. In the words of the dear old ballad—
+
+My summer’s day, in lusty May,
+Is darked afore the noon.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Six.
+
+
+Great horror fell upon the whole neighbourhood of World’s End. Not the
+oldest man or woman could remember such a deed in their midst. Hitherto
+the spectre of Murder had avoided those grand old hills. There was no
+memory of such a thing. The nearest approach to it, which the gossips
+at the Shepherd’s Bush could recall to mind, had happened long before
+the days of the oldest of them all.
+
+There was one, and one only, who declared that in his youth his father
+left him in charge of the hayfield one beautiful summer’s day, to go
+and see a man hung on the gallows. It was the custom then to erect the
+gallows at, or very near, the spot where the crime was supposed to have
+been committed; often at the cross roads.
+
+His father told him—and having heard the tale so often it was still
+fresh in his memory—that the gallows in this case was built in a narrow
+lane, close to a gateway, through which the murderer had fired the
+fatal shot at his victim. The spot was known to that day as Deadman’s
+Gate.
+
+There was an immense crowd collected to witness the execution, and the
+sun shone brilliantly on the ghastly machine. The murderer, as seems to
+have been the fashion in those times, at the foot of the gallows
+declared his innocence; and there were not wanting people who, in
+despite of the evidence, believed him.
+
+Just after the horrible ceremony was finished, and the lifeless body
+swung to and fro, there burst a thunderstorm upon the crowd, which
+scattered in all directions.
+
+Two men took refuge under a tall tree. One said, “This is dangerous,”
+and went out into the field; before the other could follow he was
+struck dead by the lightning, so that there were now two corpses.
+
+This man chanced to be one of the principal witnesses against the
+murderer, and superstition firmly believed that the thunderstorm marked
+the Divine wrath at the execution of an innocent man.
+
+“The moment before,” said the narrator, “the sky was perfectly clear;
+the storm came without the slightest warning.” The fact being that the
+crowd were so intent upon the spectacle before them that they had not
+noticed the gathering clouds.
+
+“Ay,” concluded the narrator, who evidently shared in the superstition,
+“it be an awful thing to bear witness about blood. There be them about
+here as I wouldn’t stand in their shoes!”
+
+A dead silence followed. Men understood what he meant. Already public
+suspicion had fallen upon the gardener.
+
+And Violet? Violet was calm and tearless, but heart-broken. She would
+not see Aymer till the third day—it was the morning of the inquest,
+though she did not know it. She saw him in her own room, still
+darkened. A thrush was singing loud and clear in the tree below the
+window. The sun still shone as it had done upon the bridal day, but the
+room was dark.
+
+Miss Merton, despite her horror, had remained by her friend. She left
+the apartment as Aymer entered, Violet could not speak to him. Her head
+drooped on his shoulder, and convulsive sobs shook her form.
+
+It is better to leave them together. The soled wedding-dress, the
+beautiful pearl necklace tinged with the horrible hue of blood, had
+been carefully put out of sight. People were searching for the
+wedding-ring in the chancel at the church, but could not find it.
+
+The inquest was held at the Shepherd’s Bush. As had been the case at
+another inquest a century before, held at a place then almost as
+retired—at Wolf’s Glow—so here the jury was formed of the farmers of
+the district.
+
+Bury Wick village was so small it had no inn, which was accounted for
+by the fact that no through road ran by it. The village inn was half a
+mile from the houses, alone by itself, on the edge of the highway. The
+Shepherd’s Bush was small, merely a cottage made into a tavern, and the
+largest room barely held the jury.
+
+It is not material to us to go into every detail; the main features of
+that painful inquiry will be sufficient.
+
+The jury having been sworn, proceeded in solemn procession to The
+Place. They entered noiselessly, not to disturb “Miss Vi’let,” for whom
+the sympathy was heartfelt. They viewed the body of the good old man,
+cut down at the very hour when the crowning desire of his heart was in
+the act of realisation.
+
+Such juries usually hurry through their task, shrinking from the view
+of the dead which the law compels upon them—a miserable duty, and often
+quite useless. But in this case they lingered in the room.
+
+Saying little or nothing, they collected in groups of two or three
+around the coffin, wistfully gazing upon the features of the dead. For
+the features were placid, notwithstanding the terrible wound upon the
+top of the head. The peace of his life clung to him even in a violent
+death.
+
+There was not one man there who could remember a single word or deed by
+which the dead had injured any human being. Quiet, retired, benevolent,
+largely subscribing in an unostentatious manner to the village
+charities, ready always with a helping hand to the poor—surely he ought
+to have been secure? What motive could there be?
+
+They returned to the Shepherd’s Bush. The Coroner asked for the
+evidence of the person who had last seen the deceased alive. It was at
+once apparent that numbers had seen him.
+
+Mr Merton, who attended, self-employed, to watch the case for Violet,
+and from attachment to his deceased friend—was selected as a
+representative of the many. He deposed that he had last seen the
+deceased alive at quarter to eleven on the marriage-day, at the moment
+that the bride took leave of her father, and received his blessing.
+This simple statement produced a profound impression. The deceased, who
+little thought that that parting would last for ever, was then sitting
+as usual in his armchair, which he could wheel about as he chose, close
+to the open window—almost _in_ the window—and as witness escorted the
+bride to her carriage, he looked back and saw the deceased had partly
+turned round, so that the back of his head was towards the window. He
+had then his velvet skullcap off, and witness believed that he was
+engaged in silent prayer. This statement also naturally produced a
+profound effect. The deceased’s head was partially bald, and the little
+hair he had was grey. The day was very warm and sultry.
+
+Mr Merton paused, and the next witness was the first person who had
+seen the deceased after the fatal attack. This was the gardener. He
+appeared in court, visibly shaking, bearing the marks of recent
+excitement upon his countenance. He was an aged man, clad in corduroys
+and grey, much-worn coat—not the suit he had worn on the wedding-day.
+His name was Edward Jenkins. His wife pressed hard to be admitted to
+the court, but was forbidden, and remained without, wringing her hands
+and sobbing. This witness was much confused, and his answers were
+difficult to get—not from reluctance to speak, but from excitement and
+fear. He produced an unfavourable impression upon the Coroner, which
+the medical man in court observing, remarked that he had recently
+attended the witness for heart disease at the request of the deceased,
+who took a great interest in his old servant. Even this, however, did
+not altogether succeed—there was an evident feeling against the man.
+
+His evidence, when reduced to writing, was singularly simple, vague,
+and unsatisfactory. Why had he not gone to the church to see the
+wedding, as it appeared every single person had done, not even
+excepting the dog Dando? He had much desired to see the marriage of his
+young mistress; but being the only man-servant, it was his duty to see
+to the wines and to the table; and at the time when the carriage
+started he was in the garden cutting fresh flowers, for the purpose of
+strewing the lady’s footpath when she returned and descended from the
+carriage, and also to decorate the breakfast table. How long was it
+after the carriage started that anything happened? It seemed barely a
+minute. He was in a remote part of the garden, hastily working,
+when—almost immediately after the carriage started—he happened to look
+up, and saw a stranger on the green in front of the house.
+
+“Stay,” said the Coroner. “Describe that person.”
+
+This he could not do. The glimpse he had caught was obtained through
+the boughs and branches of several trees and shrubs. He could not say
+whether the stranger was tall or short, dark or light, or what dress he
+wore; but he had a vague idea that he had a dirty, grey coat on.
+
+This was an unfortunate remark, for the witness at that moment wore
+such a coat.
+
+He could not say whether he had a hat or a cap on, nor what colour
+trousers he wore. The stranger appeared to cross the green diagonally
+towards the house.
+
+“What did witness do?”
+
+For a moment he did nothing—it did not strike him as anything
+extraordinary. That morning there had been scores of people about the
+house, and numbers of strangers whom he did not know. They were
+attracted by the talk about the wedding, and he thought no harm. He
+went on with his work as hastily as he could, for he still hoped to
+have finished in time to make a short cut across the fields, and see a
+part of the marriage ceremony.
+
+He became so excited with the wish to see the ceremony that he left
+part of his work undone. As he went he had to pass the open window of
+the dining-room, where “master” was sitting. He was running, and
+actually passed the window without noticing anything; but before he had
+got to the front door he heard a groan. He ran back, and found his
+master prone on the floor of the apartment, in a pool of blood. He had
+evidently fallen out of his armchair forwards—started up and fallen.
+Witness, excessively frightened, lifted him up, and placed him in the
+chair, and it was in so doing that his shirt-front became saturated
+with the sanguinary stream, which also dyed his hands. He had on a
+shirt-front and a black suit, in order to wait at table at the
+wedding-breakfast. “Master” never spoke or groaned again. So soon as he
+was placed in the armchair his head dropped on one side as if quite
+dead, and witness then ran as fast as he could to the church, and
+crossed the fields by a short cut which brought him to the
+chancel-door.
+
+The stranger, who had crossed, the narrow “green” or lawn before the
+house, had entirely disappeared, and he saw nothing of him in the
+house. In his haste and confusion, he did not see with what the deed
+had been committed.
+
+This was the substance of his evidence. Cross-examine him as they
+might, neither the Coroner nor the jury, nor Mr Merton, could get any
+further light. The witness was evidently much perturbed. There were
+those who thought his manner that of a guilty man—or, at least, of a
+man who knew more than he chose to tell. On the other hand, it might be
+the manner of an aged and weakly man, greatly upset in mind and body by
+the frightful discovery he had made. All the jury knew the relations
+between the witness and the deceased. Jenkins had lived in the service
+of the Waldrons all his life, as had his father before him, and the
+deceased had always exhibited the greatest interest in his welfare. He
+had good wages, an easy occupation, and was well cared for in every
+way. The most suspicious could conceive of no ground of quarrel or
+ill-will.
+
+The Coroner directed the witness to remain in attendance, and the first
+person who had seen the deceased after the alarm was given was called.
+
+This was Phillip Lewis, a farmer’s son (one of the stewards at World’s
+End Races), who being swift of foot had outstripped the others in the
+run from the church to The Place.
+
+Phillip Lewis found the deceased in his armchair, with his head
+drooping on one side—just as the gardener Jenkins described; only this
+witness at once caught sight of the weapon with which the fatal blow
+was given. It was lying on the ground, just outside the open window,
+stained with blood, and was now produced by the constable who had taken
+charge of it. It was a small bill-hook, not so large as would be used
+in cutting hedges, but much the same shape.
+
+The edge of a bill-hook, as every one knows, curves inward like a
+sickle, and at the end the blade forms a sharp point, or spike. It is,
+therefore, a fearful instrument with which to deliver a blow upon a
+bare head.
+
+Phillip Lewis said that the gardener Jenkins recognised this hook as
+his—the one he usually employed to lop the yew trees, and other
+favourite trees of the deceased, and for general work in the
+shrubberies.
+
+This piece of evidence made the jury look very sternly upon Jenkins. He
+was asked if it was his, and at once admitted it. Where had he left it
+last? He would not be quite sure, but he believed in the tool-house,
+which was close to the gate in the garden wall, which led out into the
+fields. He had used it that morning.
+
+There was a distinct movement among the jury. They evidently began to
+suspect Jenkins.
+
+The medical man, Dr Parker, was the last witness. He had examined the
+wound the deceased had received. There was first an incised wound,
+three inches long, on the top of the skull, extending along the very
+crown of the head. This wound was not deep, and, though serious, might
+not have proved mortal. At the end of this wound there was a small
+space not cut at all, but an inch farther, just at the top of the
+forehead, was a deep wound, which had penetrated to the brain, and must
+have caused almost instantaneous death.
+
+These peculiar wounds were precisely such as would have been made if a
+person had approached the deceased from behind, and struck him on the
+bare head with the bill-hook produced. He did not think that there was
+more than one blow. He thought that the deceased when he received the
+blow must have started up mechanically, and, losing power, fell forward
+on to the floor. He did not think that the deceased had suffered much
+pain. There would not be time. The point or spike-like end of the hook
+had stuck deep into the brain. He had examined the hook, and found
+clotted gore and a few grey hairs upon the blade.
+
+This concluded the evidence, and the court was cleared—after the
+Coroner had whispered a few words to the police, several members of
+which force were present.
+
+The Coroner then summed up the evidence, and in a few brief but
+terribly powerful sentences pointed out that suspicion could only
+attach to one man. This man was left alone. He had every opportunity.
+The tale of the alleged stranger on the lawn bore every mark of being
+apocryphal. It was obviously a clumsy invention. The witness, who at
+first could not give any idea whatever as to how the stranger was
+dressed, had, when pressed, in a manner identified himself as the
+stranger, by describing him as wearing a grey coat.
+
+In conclusion, he would add that the country had been scoured by the
+police in the three days that had elapsed, and they had failed to find
+any trace of the supposed stranger. He then left the jury to
+deliberate, and going out into the air, met Mr Merton, who was more
+firmly convinced than the Coroner as to the guilt of Jenkins.
+
+“There was no motive,” he admitted, as they talked it over, walking
+slowly down the road; “but crimes were not always committed from
+apparent motives. On the contrary, out of ten such crimes seven would,
+if investigated, seem to be committed from very inadequate motives. How
+could they tell that Waldron had not called to the gardener _after_ the
+carriage had left, and that then a quarrel took place?” He was
+determined to see that justice was done to his dead friend.
+
+But while the Coroner and Merton thus strolled along together a new
+complexion had been put upon affairs. The wretched wife of Jenkins, who
+had heard the muttered communications of the police, and saw that they
+kept a close look-out upon her husband, had listened as near the door
+as she could get, and so heard the summing-up of the Coroner.
+Distracted and out of her mind with terror, a resource occurred to her
+that would never have been thought of by one less excited. She rushed
+from the place like mad. “Poor old Sally has lost her head,” said the
+hangers about. She ran across the fields, scrambled through the hedges,
+reached The Place, tore upstairs, and threw herself upon Violet,
+beseeching her for the love of God to save her poor husband.
+
+Till that moment Violet had not the least idea that Jenkins, who had
+carried her in his arms many a time when she was a child, and was more
+like an old friend than a servant, was under any suspicion. She rose up
+at once and went downstairs, the first time since the wedding-day.
+Aymer and Miss Merton tried to stay her.
+
+“Hush!” she said; “it is my duty.”
+
+She was obliged to pass the fatal window; she burst into tears, but
+hurried on. Aymer went with her, and assisted her along the very same
+route that Sally had come—over ditches and through the gaps in the
+hedges. Violet reached the Shepherd’s Bush bareheaded, panting.
+Involuntarily, the crowd hanging about, one and all, boors that they
+were, took off their hats. She knocked at the door where the jury sat
+astounded, they admitted her. Strung up to the highest pitch she burst
+upon them, cowed them, overcame them.
+
+“He is innocent!” she cried, in the full tones of her beautiful voice.
+“He is innocent; let him go free! He served the dead for fifty years;
+they never quarrelled; they were, like old friends, not master and man.
+I am the daughter of the dead. I tell you with my whole heart and soul
+that that man _must_ be innocent; if you injure him, it is you who are
+murderers!”
+
+She turned and left the room; many started forward to help her, but she
+clung to Aymer’s arm and he got her home as quickly as he might.
+
+It was a noble thing. It was a truly great spectacle to see that young
+girl standing there and defending the poor fellow upon whom cruel
+suspicion had fallen, notwithstanding her own irreparable loss. Its
+effect upon the jury was immediate and irremovable. They were silent
+for a time. Then one after another found twenty loopholes of doubt
+where before they had been so positive. After all, why should not the
+gardener’s story be true? It was a simple, artless tale; not one that
+would be concocted.
+
+One juryman, who had served on the jury at the Quarter Sessions,
+remembered a great counsel in some important case laying it down as an
+axiom, that if a man made up a story to defend himself it was always
+too complete, too full of detail. Said the juryman: “If Jenkins had
+made up his story, he would have told us what the stranger wore, what
+colour hat, what sort of trousers, and every particular. There was a
+total absence of motive. Jenkins was a quiet, inoffensive man, whom
+they had all known for years and years. Very likely, indeed, for
+strangers to come to The Place on that day, the fame of which had been
+talked of everywhere. Perhaps the fellow wished to steal the plate on
+the breakfast table, and was surprised to find the invalid there.
+Hearing the gardener coming, he would make off at once, which accounted
+for the fact that not a single thing was stolen. Why should they
+condemn one of their own parish on such trivial evidence?” This was the
+right key, the _local_ one.
+
+When the Coroner was at last called in, he was astounded at the verdict
+delivered to him by the foreman—“Wilful murder against a person, or
+persons, unknown.” He argued with them, but in vain; the twelve had
+made up their minds and were firm as a rock. He had to submit with a
+bad grace!
+
+Poor Sally had a moment of joy, and clasped her husband’s neck, but it
+was of brief duration. A minute afterwards the police sergeant present
+tapped Jenkins on the shoulder, and took him in custody on a charge of
+murder.
+
+This is the peculiarity of the law in such cases. A suspected person
+has to run the gauntlet of two bodies—first, the coroner’s jury; next,
+the magistrates. Many a wretch who has escaped the one has been trapped
+by the other to his doom.
+
+The handcuffs were slipped on the gardener’s wrists and he was led away
+unresistingly, followed by his weeping wife and a crowd of the
+villagers.
+
+As the jury emerged from the Shepherd’s Bush, which was not till
+afternoon—for they had stayed to spend their ninepenny fees—there
+struck on their ears a mournful sound. It was the tolling of the
+village bell. The medical man had recommended immediate interment. Only
+three days before those bells had merrily rung for the daughter’s
+bridal; now they tolled for the father’s burial. They hastened to the
+church and watched the solemn ceremony. The low broken voice of the
+vicar failed at the words, as they stood by the open vault—“He cometh
+up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow... In
+the midst of life we are in death;” and the rest of the service was
+nearly inaudible.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Seven.
+
+
+Every one knows what a dull monotony of sorrow succeeds to a great
+loss. Perhaps it was fortunate for Violet that her mind was in some
+small measure withdrawn from too consuming grief by the unfortunate
+position of the poor old gardener. Over the very grave of the dead, as
+it were, she quarrelled—the word is hardly too strong—with Merton.
+
+Mr Merton was bitter against Jenkins. His professional mind, always
+ready to put the worst aspect upon anything, quick to suspect and slow
+to relinquish an idea, was convinced of the gardener’s guilt. In his
+zeal for the memory of his poor friend, he forgot that he might be
+injuring an innocent man. He even went so far as to speak strongly to
+Violet about her visit to the jury. Surely she should have been the
+last to protect the murderer. He said something like this in the heat
+of his temper, and regretted it afterwards. It was cruel, unjust, and
+inconsiderate. Violet simply left the room and refused to see him.
+
+Merton left the house in a rage, and resolved to spare nothing to
+convict the miserable gardener. Now this quarrel produced certain
+events—it set on foot another chain of circumstances. Violet was now
+alone at The Place. Miss Merton could not stay longer. Before she went
+she asked if she should send back the dog Dando, which Merton had taken
+to Barnham. Violet, still bitter, in an unreasoning way, against the
+dog, said no.
+
+“Then,” said Miss Merton, “may I take him with me to Torquay?”
+
+She had taken a fancy to the dog. Violet was quite willing—anything so
+that he did not return to vex her with memories of the dead. Miss
+Merton took him home, sorry for her friend, and yet glad to quit that
+dismal house and neighbourhood.
+
+Next day there came a note from Mr Merton, in which the writer, in a
+formal way, expressed regret if he had uttered anything which had
+annoyed her, and asked her to accompany Miss Merton to Torquay for
+change of scene. Violet thanked him, but refused.
+
+Aymer saw her every day. She did not give way to tears and fits of
+excited sorrow, but a dull weakness seemed to have taken possession of
+her. All the old spirit and joy had left her. She wandered about
+listlessly, stunned, in fact. All the interest she took was in poor
+Jenkins’ fate. Aymer, at her wish, went to Barnham, and engaged a
+lawyer to defend him. This soon reached Merton’s ears, and annoyed him
+exceedingly; though, to do him justice, he was at that very hour
+striving to put Violet’s affairs into order.
+
+Those affairs were—unknown to her—in a most critical state. The
+deceased, as he had told Aymer, had three thousand pounds out at
+interest, as he believed, upon good security, but which he thought of
+calling in. This money had been advanced to a Mr Joseph Herring, a
+large farmer at Belthrop, some ten miles from World’s End.
+
+Mr Herring was a successful man and a good man; at all events he had no
+worse failing than an inordinate love of foxhunting. He had a large
+family, six sons and eight daughters, but there always seemed to be
+plenty for them. They lived and dressed well, rode out to the Meet, and
+one by one, as the sons grew older, they were placed in farms.
+Foxhunting men, with the reputation of some means, can always find
+favour in the eyes of landlords. If any one had been asked to point out
+a fortunate family in that county, he would at once have placed his
+finger upon the name of Herring.
+
+The original home farm, where dwelt old Herring and his wife, four of
+the daughters, and one son, who really managed it, was of good size,
+fertile, and easily rented. The eldest son, Albert Herring, who was
+married and had children, occupied a fine farm at no great distance;
+and the two other sons had a smaller farm between them, and with them
+lived the other four sisters. Of course it was understood that these
+farms had been stocked partly with borrowed money; but that was a
+common thing, and there was every indication that all the family were
+prospering.
+
+It was to this Joseph Herring that Mr Waldron had advanced three
+thousand pounds, taking ample security, as was believed, upon stock,
+and upon a small estate which belonged to Herring’s wife. Merton
+recommended this Herring as a client of his, and conducted the
+operation. Waldron had given Merton notice that he wished to withdraw
+the money; but Merton, not thinking there was any hurry, had not
+mentioned it to Joseph, when there came this awful catastrophe at
+World’s End and drove the matter entirely out of his head. But his
+attention was drawn back to it in an equally sudden manner. Old Joseph
+Herring, the foxhunter, while out with the hounds, put his horse at a
+double mound where there appeared to be a gap. This gap had been caused
+by cutting down an elm tree, and he imagined that the trunk had been
+removed.
+
+The morning had been cold, and although the ground was not hard there
+had been what is called a “duck’s frost” in places. The horse’s hoofs
+slipped upon the level butt of the tree, which had been sawn off; the
+animal fell heavily, and upon his side.
+
+In all probability, even then he would not have been much injured—for
+falls in the hunting-field are as common as blackberries—had it not
+been for the trunk of the elm tree. His back, in some way, came against
+and across the trunk with the weight of the horse upon him, and the
+spine was broken. He was carried home upon a hurdle, still living, and
+quite conscious.
+
+A more terrible spectacle could not be conceived than this strong burly
+man lying upon his bed, conscious, and speaking at times faintly,
+without a visible wound, and yet with the certainty of death.
+
+His sons and daughters gathered round him; all were at hand except the
+eldest, Albert, and he was sent for. Joseph, who had seen too many
+accidents not to know he was doomed, even if it had not been visible
+upon the faces of his wife and children, betrayed the greatest
+uneasiness. He kept asking for “Albert” and for “Merton.” Messenger
+after messenger was despatched after both, and still they did not come.
+
+Merton, when the messenger reached him, was in the Petty Sessional
+Court at Barnham, watching the preliminary proceedings against poor
+Jenkins, which happened to take place that day. He was much excited.
+
+The lawyer whom Aymer had engaged to defend Jenkins was a professional
+rival—a keen and clever man, and he had so worked up the case, and
+suggested so many doubts and probabilities that the Bench of
+magistrates hesitated to commit him.
+
+It was in the thick of the fight that the messenger from the death-bed
+arrived. Will it be believed, so great was the professional rivalry
+between these men, and so determined was Merton to succeed in
+committing poor Jenkins, that he paused, he hesitated, finally he
+waited till the case was finished.
+
+“After all,” he said to himself, “very likely the accident to Joseph is
+much exaggerated—people always lose their heads at such times. At all
+events his neck’s not broken, and he’s alive; the messenger doesn’t
+know exactly where he’s hurt. There’s no particular hurry.”
+
+But it so happened that there _was_ a particular cause for hurry. While
+Merton persuaded himself that he was looking after the cause of his
+murdered friend and revenging him, that friend’s dearest one—his
+Violet—was fast losing her patrimony. Even when the second messenger
+came with more exact intelligence, Merton thought—“Sometimes men lie
+for days with broken backs, and what does he want me for? His will is
+made; I’ve got it in my office, and a very just will it is. All his
+affairs are arranged, I believe. It’s all fuss and fidget.”
+
+However, he ordered his carriage to wait at the door of the Court, and
+half an hour afterwards the Bench reappeared.
+
+The Chairman said that although there was very little evidence against
+the prisoner Jenkins, although his character had been proved excellent,
+and although his solicitor had most ably conducted the defence, yet the
+Bench felt that the crime was one too serious for them to think of
+dismissing a suspected person. The prisoner would be committed for
+trial at the Assizes, which fortunately for him came on that day
+fortnight.
+
+A smile of triumph lit up Merton’s face as he gathered up his papers.
+The rival solicitor smiled too, and assured Aymer who was present to
+tell Violet what happened, that the grand jury would be certain to
+throw out the bill. There was not a tittle of evidence against the
+prisoner.
+
+With this assurance Aymer mounted and rode back to Violet. At the same
+time Merton, telling his coachman not to distress the horses, drove
+leisurely towards the death-bed, where he had been so anxiously
+expected for hours.
+
+The scene at that death-bed was extremely dreadful. The poor dying man
+gradually became more and more restless and excited; nor could all the
+efforts of Dr Parker, the persuasions of the clergyman, nor the tears
+of his wife and children, keep him calm.
+
+The thought of death—the idea of preparing for the hereafter never
+seemed to occur to him. His one wish was to see “Albert” and “Merton;”
+till feverish and his eye glittering with excitement, all that he could
+ejaculate was those two names.
+
+He remained for four hours quite conscious, and able to converse; then
+suddenly there was a change, and he lost the power of answering
+questions, though still faintly repeating those names. The scene was
+very shocking.
+
+“Why doesn’t Albert come?” said poor Mrs Herring. “He might have been
+here two hours ago. If Merton would not, Albert, my son, might have
+come.”
+
+What do you suppose Albert was doing at that moment? It is incredible,
+but it is true. He was in the field superintending the placing of two
+new steam ploughing engines and their tackle, watching the trial of the
+new engines, as they tore up the soil with the deep plough. They had
+arrived that morning, just purchased; and had it not been for their
+coming, he would have been in the hunting-field with his father when
+the accident happened.
+
+He could not, or would not, leave his engines. He busied about with
+them—now riding himself upon the plough, now watching the drivers of
+the engines, now causing experiments to be made with the scarifier. He
+paid little attention to the first messenger. “Tell them I’ll be
+there,” he said. Another and another messenger, still Albert remained
+with his plough.
+
+“He asks for me, does he?” he said. “I’ll be there directly.” Still he
+made no haste. After quitting the engines he went out of his path to
+visit a flock of fat sheep, and putting up a covey of partridges in the
+stubble, stayed to mark them down.
+
+At the house he calmly refreshed himself with cheese and ale. As he
+mounted his horse another messenger came, this time with a note from Dr
+Parker. Albert mounted with much bustle, and made off at a gallop. Two
+miles on the way he pulled up to a walk, met his shepherd, and had a
+talk with him about the ewes; then the farrier on his nag, and
+described to him the lameness of a carthorse. All this time his father
+lay dying. Strange and unaccountable indifference!
+
+Merton reached Belthrop Farm first, and was too late. Joseph Herring
+was dead. He had died without even so much as listening to the words of
+the clergyman—yet he had to all appearance been a good, and even pious
+man while in health. Why was he so strangely warped upon his death-bed?
+
+“Oh! Albert—Albert, my son, my son! Why did you linger?” cried poor Mrs
+Herring as he entered.
+
+“Father?” said Albert, questioningly.
+
+She shook her head.
+
+“Ah!” said the son; and it sounded like a sigh of relief.
+
+Let the grief for the dead be never so great, there quickly follows the
+commonplace realities of money and affairs to be settled.
+
+The dead man’s will was read by Merton. It was a fair and just will.
+Next came the investigation into his effects, and then came the
+revelation. Joseph Herring left no effects. This discovery fell upon
+his wife, three of the sons, and all the daughters, like a thunderbolt.
+They had always believed they should be left tolerably provided for.
+But when all the debts were paid there would not be a ten-pound note.
+
+They began to murmur, and to question, as well they might. What had
+become of the three thousand pounds Herring had had of Waldron? They
+did not know that their father had borrowed so much as that; they knew
+there was a loan from Waldron, but never suspected the amount.
+
+Merton, hard as it was, felt that he must draw that money in; and who
+was to pay it? Why, there were no effects whatever. To pay the other
+debts would take all the money that could be got, and part of the stock
+must be sold even then.
+
+But this three thousand pounds. To make that good all the stock, the
+corn, the implements—everything would have to be sold; including Mrs
+Herring’s little estate, and the small sums that had been advanced to
+the two sons who lived on one farm must be withdrawn. It was complete
+ruin—ruin without reserve.
+
+They were literally stunned, and knew not which way to turn. They could
+not understand, neither could Merton, what had become of the three
+thousand pounds; there was not a scrap of paper to show. Joseph had
+never been a good accountant—few farmers are; but one would have
+thought that he would have preserved some record of such a sum. But
+no—not a scrap.
+
+Then, as said before, these children began to murmur, as well they
+might. Then they began to understand, or guess dimly at the
+extraordinary excitement of the dying man. It was this that weighed
+upon his mind, and caused him to continually call for his eldest son
+and for Merton, in order that he might make some provision.
+
+There grew up a certain feeling against Albert. Why had he not come at
+once—if he had done so, perhaps this might have been averted. A vague
+distrust and suspicion of him arose. It was intensified by the
+knowledge that he alone was safe. He had had a longer start and a
+better farm; he had the reputation of having even saved a little money.
+No injury could befall him. Yet they had not got the slightest evidence
+against him in any way; but a coolness—a decided coolness arose between
+the brothers and sisters, and Albert, which Albert, on his part, made
+no effort to remove. Ill-natured people said he was only too glad to
+quarrel with them, so as to have a pretext for refusing them
+assistance.
+
+It happened, however, that one day a strange gentleman called upon
+Robert and John, the two brothers, who worked one farm together. He was
+an agent of an agricultural implement manufactory in a distant county,
+and his object was to induce them to purchase implements of
+him—especially steam traction engines. The poor brothers smiled in a
+melancholy way at the very idea. They buy engines—they should soon
+scarcely be able to buy bread! The agent expressed his surprise.
+
+“But your brother seems a wealthy man,” he said. “He paid for his
+engines in cash.”
+
+“In cash!” they cried. “He told us that he paid one-fifth only, and the
+rest remained in bills.”
+
+The agent saw he had got on delicate ground; but they pressed him, and
+he could not very well escape. It then came out that Albert had paid
+sixteen hundred pounds in hard cash for the engines, by which, as the
+factory had been pressed for money, he got them at little more than
+two-thirds of the value, which was considered to be two thousand three
+hundred pounds.
+
+The brothers were simply astounded. They went home and talked it over
+with the fourth son, who managed the Belthrop Farm. They could not
+understand how Albert came to have so much ready cash. At last the
+conclusion forced itself upon them—the three thousand pounds borrowed
+from Waldron must have been lent by their father to Albert. They
+remembered that something had been said of an opening Albert had heard
+of, to add another farm to his already large tenancy.
+
+This was the secret—poor old Joseph, a bad accountant, had given the
+money to Albert, and, never thinking of dying, had postponed drawing up
+the proper deeds. Without a moment’s delay they proceeded in a body to
+Albert’s residence. He received them in an off-hand manner—utterly
+denied that he had had the money, challenged them to find the proof,
+and finally threatened if they set such a tale about the county to
+prosecute them for slander. This was too much.
+
+It is wretched to chronicle these things; but they must be written.
+High words were followed by blows; there was a fight between the eldest
+and the next in succession, and both being strong men, they were much
+knocked about. The other brothers, maddened with their loss, actually
+cheered on their representative, and stripped to take his place as soon
+as he should be fatigued. But at that moment poor old Mrs Joseph
+Herring, who had feared this, arrived, driving up in a pony-carriage,
+and sprang between the combatants. She received a severe blow, but she
+separated them, and they parted with menacing gestures.
+
+Once back at Belthrop, a kind of family council was held. Merton was
+sent for, but nothing could be done. There was not a scrap of proof
+that Albert had had the money. Mrs Joseph, went to him, reasoned with
+him, entreated him. He turned a deaf ear to her remonstrances, and
+cursed her to her face. The miserable woman returned to her despairing
+younger children, and never recovered the terrible blow which the
+selfish, and inhuman conduct of her eldest son had inflicted upon her.
+Ruin stared them in the face. Waldron’s loan was due, and everything
+was already advertised for sale.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Eight.
+
+
+How suddenly the leaves go in the autumn! They linger on the trees till
+we almost cheat ourselves into the belief that we shall escape the
+inevitable winter; that for once the inexorable march of events will be
+stayed, till some morning we wake up and look forth, and lo! a wind has
+arisen, and the leaves are gone.
+
+Absorbed in the one miserable topic—the one thought of Waldron’s
+terrible fate—Violet and Aymer spent several weeks almost
+unconsciously. When at last they, as it were, woke up and looked forth,
+the actual tangible leaves upon the trees had disappeared, and, like
+them, the green leaves of their lives had been shaken down and had
+perished.
+
+Even yet they had one consolation—they had themselves. The catastrophe
+that had happened at the very eleventh hour, at the moment when their
+affection and their hope was about to be realised, after all had only
+drawn them closer together. She was more dependent upon him than ever.
+There was no kind Jason to fly to now; the resources he could command
+were gone for ever. Had Aymer been as selfish as he was unselfish, that
+very fact would not have been without its pleasure. She could come to
+him only now in trouble, and she did come to him.
+
+It may be that all that happy summer which they had spent together,
+strolling about, sketching under the beech and fir; all that happy
+winter, with its music and song; all the merry spring, with its rides,
+had not called forth such deep and abiding love between these two as
+was brought into existence by these weeks of sorrow, the first frosts
+of their year. They were constantly together; they were both orphans
+now; they had nothing but themselves. It was natural that they should
+grow all in all to each other.
+
+There was one subject that was never alluded to between them, and that
+was the interrupted marriage. It was too painful for Violet, too
+delicate a subject for Aymer to mention. It was in both their minds,
+yet neither spoke of it. They were, and they were not, married. In a
+sense—in the sense of the publication of the banns; in the sense of the
+public procession to the church, the sanction of friends, the presence
+of the people—in this sense they were married. But the words “I will”
+had never left Violet’s lips, however willing they were to utter the
+phrase; and, above all, the ring had never been placed upon her finger.
+Nor could that ring be found. They were half married.
+
+It was a strange and exceptional case, perhaps unequalled. Morally,
+Violet felt that she was his legally, Aymer feared that she was not
+his. He feared it, because he knew that it would be impossible to
+persuade Violet to undergo the ceremony a second time, till the memory
+of that dreadful day had softened and somewhat faded. It might be
+months, perhaps years. The disappointment to him was almost more than
+he could bear. To be so near, to have the prize within his reach, and
+then to be dashed aside with the merciless hand of fate.
+
+It would not be well that the ancient belief in destiny should again
+bear sway in our time; it is contrary to the thought of the period, and
+yet hourly, daily, weekly, all our lives, we seem to move, and live,
+and have our being amidst circumstances that march on and on, and are
+utterly beyond our power to control or guide. “Circumstances beyond my
+power to control” is a household phrase—we hear it at the hearth, on
+the mart, in the council-chamber. And what _are_ circumstances? Why are
+these apparently trivial things out of our power? Why do they
+perpetually evolve other circumstances, till a chain forms itself—a
+net, a web—as visible, and as tangible, as if it had been actually
+woven by the three sisters of antique mythology.
+
+The unseen, awful, inscrutable _necessity_ which, heedless alike of
+gods and men, marches with irresistible tread through the wonderful
+dramas of Sophocles, seems to have survived the twilight of the gods,
+survived the age of miracles and supernatural events. Of all that the
+ancients venerated and feared, necessity alone remains a factor in
+modern life. What can our brightest flashes of intelligence, our
+inventions, our steam engine and telegraph, effect when confronted with
+those “circumstances over which we have no control?” It is our
+nineteenth-century euphemism for the Fate of the ancient world.
+
+It is not well that we should scrutinise too closely the state of poor
+Aymer’s mind. His joy and elation before that terrible day were too
+great not for the fall to be felt severely. The iron of it entered into
+his soul. For one moment he almost hoped against hope.
+
+The clergyman who had officiated at the interrupted bridal came daily
+to see Violet, and his true piety, his quiet parental manner, soothed
+and comforted her. He whispered to Aymer that it would be well if the
+marriage ceremony were completed in private, as could be done by
+special licence.
+
+Aymer naturally grasped at the idea. He had still twenty pounds left of
+the gift which had been sent to him anonymously. He was eager to spend
+it upon the special licence, but he confessed that he dared not mention
+it to Violet.
+
+The vicar undertook that task, but failed completely. Violet begged him
+to spare her—to desist; she could not—not yet.
+
+After that day she was more and more tender and affectionate to Aymer,
+as if to make up to him for his loss. She said that he must take
+heart—they had no need to be unhappy. In a little while, but not
+yet—not yet, while that fearful vision was still floating before her
+eyes. But Aymer must be happy. They had sufficient. _He_ had left them
+all he had. That was another reason why they should wait, in affection
+for his memory. They could see each other daily—their future would be
+together. And Aymer, miserable as he was, was forced to be content.
+
+Merton had not been to The Place. Not one word had he said about the
+difficulty in Herring’s affairs, and the loss of the three thousand
+pounds. Violet was utterly ignorant that her fortune was gone. She
+spoke very bitterly of Merton. “If he had loved poor papa,” she said,
+“he would never have persecuted his faithful servant,” for nothing
+could shake her belief in Jenkins’ innocence, and she did all she could
+to comfort the poor gardener’s desolate wife.
+
+Merton, on his part, did not care to approach her after the share he
+had had in the commitment of Jenkins, and because he hesitated, he
+dreaded to face her, and to tell her that her fortune, entrusted to his
+hands, was gone. He blamed himself greatly, and yet he would not own
+it. He ought to have hastened to Herring’s death-bed. Had that dying
+man but left one written word, to say that Albert had had the money,
+all would have been well.
+
+In the fierce attempt to revenge his old friend, he had irreparably
+injured that friend’s daughter, and he dreaded the inevitable
+disclosure. He put it off till the last, hoping against hope, and doing
+all that his lawyer’s ingenuity could suggest to recover some part of
+the amount. In endeavouring to succeed in this, he pressed hard—very
+hard—upon the Herring family. He pushed them sorely, and spared not. He
+was bitterly exasperated against them. Unjustly, he openly accused them
+of a plot to rob his client and dishonour him.
+
+He abused the dead man as one who had repented too late upon his
+death-bed. He would take everything—down to the smallest article.
+Neither the persuasions of the sons, the tears of the daughters, nor
+the silent despair of the widow could move him. Of all this Violet knew
+nothing.
+
+It happened that one evening not long after the lamp had been lit at
+The Place, that there was heard a slight tapping or knocking at the
+front door. Now, this door was close to the window where the terrible
+deed had been committed. By this door the bride had stepped forth in
+all her gay attire; by this door the corpse of her father had been
+carried forth. Villagers, and all isolated people, are superstitious;
+the beliefs of those days, when all people were more isolated than they
+are now, linger amongst them. By common consent, this door was avoided
+by day and night. A dread destiny seemed to hang over those who passed
+beneath its portal. It had been kept locked since the funeral—no one
+had used it.
+
+Violet and Aymer, sitting in the breakfast-parlour—which was the most
+comfortable room in the house—were reading, and looked up mutually at
+the sound of those unwonted knocks. They listened. There was a pause;
+and then the taps were repeated. They were so gentle, so muffled, that
+they doubted the evidence of their ears—and yet surely it was a
+knocking.
+
+The servants in the kitchen heard the taps, and they cowered over the
+fire and looked fearfully at each other.
+
+One thing was certain—no person who knew The Place, no one from the
+village, would come to that door. If it was any mortal man or woman, it
+must be a stranger; and the last time a stranger had crossed the
+“green,” all knew what had happened. If it was not a stranger, then it
+must be the spirit of poor “master.” They were determined not to hear.
+
+The taps were repeated. Violet and Aymer looked at each other.
+
+Something very like a moan penetrated into the apartment. Aymer
+immediately rose and went to the front door. He asked if any one was
+without; there was no answer. He opened the door; the bitter wind,
+bearing with it flakes of snow, drove into his face. For a moment, in
+the darkness, he could distinguish nothing; the next, brave as he was,
+he recoiled; for there lay what looked like a body at his feet.
+Overcoming his dread he stooped and touched—a woman’s dress. He lifted
+her up—the form was heavy and inanimate in his hands.
+
+“Violet, dear!” he said, “it is a woman—she has fainted; may I bring
+her in?”
+
+Violet’s sympathies were at once on the alert. The woman was carried in
+and laid upon the rug before the fire, the servant came crowding in to
+render assistance brandy was brought, and the stranger opened her eyes
+and moaned faintly. Then they saw that, although stained with travel
+and damp from exposure to the drifting snow her dress was that of a
+lady.
+
+Under the influence of the warm fire and the brandy she soon recovered
+sufficiently to sit up. She was not handsome nor young her best
+features were a broad, intellectual looking forehead, and fine dark
+eyes. So soon as ever she was strong enough to speak she turned to
+Violet, and begged to be alone with her for a little while.
+
+Aymer, with all a lover’s suspicions, demurred, but Violet insisted,
+and he had to be content with remaining within easy call.
+
+He had no sooner left the room than the lady, for such she appeared to
+be, fell upon her knees at Violet’s feet, and begged her for the sake
+of her father’s memory to show mercy.
+
+“Oh! spare us,” cried the unhappy creature, bursting into tears, and
+wringing her hands, “spare us—we are penniless. Indeed we did not do it
+purposely. We never knew—I am Esther Herring!”
+
+It was long before Violet could gather her meaning from these
+incoherent sentences. At last, under her kind words and gentle
+questions, Esther became calmer and explained the miserable state of
+affairs. Violet sighed deeply. In one moment her hopes were dashed to
+the ground: her money was gone; how could she and Aymer—
+
+But she bore up bravely, and listened patiently to Esther’s story. How
+the widow’s heart was breaking, how the sons were despairing, and the
+daughters looking forward to begging their bread. How the sale
+approached—only five days more; and that thinking, and thinking day and
+night over the misery of it, Esther had at last fled to Violet for
+mercy—to Violet, who was ignorant of the whole matter. Fled on foot—for
+all their horses were seized—on that wild winter afternoon, facing the
+bitter wind, the snow, and the steep hills for ten long miles to
+World’s End. Fled to fling herself at Violet’s feet, and beg for mercy
+upon the widow and the fatherless children. The fatigue and her
+excitement had proved too much, and she had fainted at the very door.
+Esther dwelt much upon Mr Merton’s cruelty, for his insults had out her
+to the quick.
+
+Violet became very pale. She went to the door and called softly,
+“Aymer.” He came, and Esther attempted to dry her tears. Violet told
+him all, and took his hand.
+
+“This cannot be,” she said; “this surely must not be. I will do—we will
+do—as of a surety my father would have done. The innocent shall not
+suffer for the guilty. We, Aymer and I, will give up our claim. Tell
+them at your home to be comforted and to fear not.”
+
+Esther saw that her mission was accomplished, and the reaction set in.
+She became ill and feverish. Violet had her taken upstairs and waited
+upon her. Aymer was left alone. He walked to the window, opened the
+shutters, and looked forth. The scud flew over the sky, and the wan
+moon was now hidden, and now shone forth with a pale feeble light. The
+heart within him was very bitter. He did not repent the renunciation
+which he had confirmed; he felt that it was right and just. But it was
+a terrible blow. It cut away the very ground from beneath his feet.
+
+The poor fellow—he was poor Aymer again now—looked forward to the
+future. What could he do? The talents he possessed were useless, or
+nearly useless, in a pecuniary sense. Unable to earn sufficient to
+support himself, how could he marry Violet? The thought was maddening.
+To continue in the old, old life at Wick Farm without a prospect was
+impossible. To wander a beggar from door to door would be preferable.
+When he found that Violet could not leave Esther, he walked home to
+Wick Farm; over the wild and open Downs, and his heart went up in a
+great and bitter cry.
+
+The blow that had struck down poor Waldron had struck him down also. It
+is ever thus with evil. The circle widens, and no man knows where it
+will end. Yet he did not falter.
+
+Next day Violet wrote a curt letter to Mr Merton, requesting him to
+forbear proceedings, and upbraiding him for his cruelty. She desired
+that he would relinquish the charge of her affairs.
+
+Merton, had he so chosen, might have made a difficulty about this—under
+the will of Waldron—but he did not. He was, to say truth, glad of a
+pretext to wash his hands of a matter in which he had figured so ill.
+
+Violet sent for the same solicitor who had defended Jenkins, Mr
+Broughton, and desired him to see that proceedings were stayed. The
+Herrings were saved. Esther was sent home in the pony-carriage with the
+good tidings. Other debts, unsuspected before, ate up most of the
+effects of Joseph Herring. The widow’s little property had to be sold
+to meet them. With the trifle that was left they removed to the farm
+where the two brothers worked together, and by dint of careful
+management escaped starvation. Neither were they unhappy, for
+misfortune and a common injury bound them closer together—all but the
+widow, who never overcame the duplicity of her eldest son.
+
+Their conduct towards Violet appears extremely selfish, but it must be
+remembered that Waldron had borne the reputation of being a rich man.
+They never dreamt that they had taken Violet’s all. But so it was. The
+dear, dear ponies had to be sold, the servants dismissed; Violet could
+not keep the house on, and in that isolated position it was difficult
+to let it, even at a nominal rent.
+
+Her friends in London made no sign. She had been a favoured guest while
+Waldron lived and was reputed wealthy. Now they had lost sight of her.
+
+To Aymer all this was as gall and wormwood. It was a comment upon his
+own weakness, and impotency to aid the only one he loved. He wrote, he
+sketched; but now with the strange inconsistency of fortune these works
+were returned, as “not up to the standard required.” Perhaps his
+misfortunes affected his skilfulness. He knew not which way to turn. At
+home—if Wick Farm could be called home—the old state of things began to
+gradually return. The old covert sneers and hints at his uselessness
+crept again into the daily conversation. Martin, like Hercules—
+
+Rude, unrefined in speech.
+Judging all wisdom by its last results,
+
+
+looked upon him as a failure, and treated him accordingly. To do the
+young men justice, those who had formerly taunted him now never lost an
+opportunity of expressing their regret. Poor Aymer felt this worse than
+their sneers and gibes. He had the fault of pride, and yet he
+depreciated himself habitually. He was punished severely for his brief
+period of elation. What hurt him most was his helplessness to aid
+Violet. And Violet, noble girl! was calm, resigned, fearless in her
+trust—strong in her love of Aymer.
+
+But the inevitable approached—“the circumstances over which we have no
+control.” The day was coming when she must go, and go—whither?
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Nine.
+
+
+Down to one firm faith in this day of scepticism and cynicism. It may
+be a despicable weakness—that cannot be helped—but nothing will ever
+overthrow it. My faith is firm in the good which is possible in woman.
+
+There is much vice, much evil, much folly; but, after all, these faults
+are chiefly caused by weakness, therefore they are more or less
+excusable. It is difficult for women to do good—so many and so complex
+are the restraints which surround them as in a net—yet they do it. Were
+I in sorrow, in trouble, or in fear, to them I should go, as
+hundreds—ay, countless numbers—have previously gone, certain of
+assistance if assistance were possible, and of compassion and sympathy,
+even if my crimes were too evil to speak of.
+
+There was heard one afternoon at The Place the roll of
+carriage-wheels—a sound that had not been heard since the fatal bridal
+day. It was a damp, cold day, and Violet had been unable to go out. A
+fog hung over the fields, creeping slowly along the fallows, clinging
+in shapeless clouds upon the hill tops. There was no rain, but the bare
+hedges were dripping large drops of water condensed from the mist, and
+the dead leaves upon the ground were soddened with damp. On such days
+as these, when she could not walk out and dispel her gloom by exercise,
+Violet naturally felt the loss of poor Jason the more.
+
+Aymer could not be always with her. Although their intercourse was
+little, if at all, fettered by the etiquette which would have barred it
+in more civilised neighbourhoods, yet he could not be always at The
+Place, and of late he had been working hard at sketches and literary
+matters, which occupied time and kept him from her side.
+
+She was very lonely, longing for the evening, when he would be certain
+to come. The roll of these carriage-wheels was therefore an event.
+Looking from the window upstairs—that very window whence, in all the
+splendour of her beauty and her wedding-dress, she had timidly glanced
+forth to watch the approach of the greys—she saw a stylish brougham
+rapidly nearing the house, and as it came nearer recognised the horses,
+and knew it was Lady Lechester’s.
+
+Agnes, not waiting for the footman to announce her visit, sprang out,
+and walked at once to the front door. Once more there came a tapping at
+that dread portal.
+
+Conquering her fluttering heart, Violet, in a maze of bewilderment,
+opened it herself. Agnes held out her hand, and kissed her twice upon
+the cheek and forehead.
+
+“Forgive me!” she said. “Forgive me for coming so soon after—. But I
+wanted to see you; I had much to say to you.”
+
+Violet began to thank her in a confused way for the pearl necklace.
+Agnes stopped her; it was not that—it was about Violet herself that she
+had come to talk. Even in her surprise and confusion, Violet could not
+help thinking that Agnes was very beautiful. It was a species of beauty
+that was precisely the opposite of Violet’s. Both gained by the
+contrast of the other’s style.
+
+Agnes Lechester was at least thirty—she might have been a year or two
+older—and there hovered over her countenance an indefinable air of
+melancholy, as if the memory of a past sorrow was for ever before her
+mind. There was not a wrinkle, not a groove upon her pale brow, but the
+impress of pain was none the less unmistakable upon her features. Her
+hair was very dark, as near as possible to the raven’s hue, so often
+spoken of, so rarely seen. Her eyes were large and grey, deep-set under
+delicate eyebrows, well-marked, and slightly arching. Her forehead high
+and intellectual. The features, the nose and mouth, were small and
+well-made, the ears especially delicate. High blood and long descent
+spoke out clearly in her every aspect, down even to the quiet subdued
+manner—the exquisite tact, and consideration for others, which
+distinguished her in conversation and in daily life.
+
+She was about the same height as Violet, but appeared taller, being
+more slightly made. She wore a simple black-silk, extremely plain, and
+one mourning-ring—no other jewellery.
+
+Violet, whose position was not a little embarrassing, found herself in
+a few moments entirely at her ease, and conversing as with an old
+friend. Agnes did not in a direct manner recall the terrible past, but
+she had a way of asking what may be called sympathising questions,
+which quickly drew forth Violet’s confidence.
+
+For the first time she found a sister to whom she could express her
+feelings unrestrainedly; and even that brief hour of companionship did
+her much good. Not till all trace of distant formality had been
+removed, not till there had been a certain degree of familiarity
+established between them, did Agnes allude to the real object of her
+visit. She had come to ask Violet as a favour—so she put it—to spend a
+little time with her. The Towers were so very, very lonely—she said
+this in a tone that was evidently sincere—she had so few visitors,
+practically none, and she should be so glad if Violet would come.
+Violet saw in an instant that it was really out of kindness to her that
+the invitation was given; she wished to accept it, and yet hesitated.
+Agnes pressed her. Then she remembered Aymer—what would he say? If she
+went, he would be alone—he would not see her, and she would not see
+him. Thinking of him, a slight blush rose to her cheek. Perhaps Agnes
+guessed what was passing in her mind, for she said—
+
+“Mr Malet will, of course, come and see us—often. You must ask his
+permission, you know. I will come again to-morrow and fetch you in the
+brougham.”
+
+So it was practically settled, and Agnes, after a warm farewell,
+departed. Violet waited for Aymer, almost fearing he would upbraid her;
+but then the separation would only be for a little time. A little time!
+
+When Agnes Lechester came to ask her to The Towers, she came with a
+full knowledge of Violet’s position—of her monetary loss, and of the
+noble self-sacrifice she had made.
+
+It chanced—“circumstances over which we have no control” again—that Mr
+Broughton, to whom Violet had transferred her affairs, had succeeded to
+the business of an uncle, an elder Mr Broughton, who was almost the
+hereditary solicitor of the Lechester family. The position was one of
+great emolument, and gave some social precedence; hence, perhaps, part
+of the jealousy exhibited towards him by Mr Merton—an older man, and
+not so fortunate. From him Agnes learnt the whole of the details. The
+frightful catastrophe—the mystery of the murder of poor Waldron—had
+greatly impressed her, and the sad circumstances of the interrupted
+bridal trebled the interest she had taken in Violet and Aymer. She had
+instructed Broughton to inform her of everything, and especially of how
+matters stood with Violet now her father was no more. As he had now the
+charge of Violet’s affairs, it was easy for him to do this; and being a
+comparatively young man, and with a heart not yet quite dead to
+feeling, he was himself much interested in the woman who could so
+willingly give up the last fragment of her fortune.
+
+Agnes Lechester was deeply impressed by Violet’s generosity and
+abrogation of self—she felt the warmest sympathy and desire to assist
+her—she really was anxious to make her acquaintance, and the result was
+her visit to The Place. Ostensibly the invitation was for a little time
+only; but Agnes knew that the house, which alone was left to Violet,
+could not support her, and intended to prolong the invitation
+indefinitely. She really was lonely, and really did look forward to a
+companion in whom she could trust.
+
+Aymer was overjoyed when he heard what had happened, and insisted upon
+Violet accepting the invitation. Violet’s isolation, and the daily
+increasing awkwardness of her position, troubled him greatly. He knew
+not what to do for her. Here was a resource—a haven of safety for a
+while at least. Never mind about himself—doubtless he could see her
+sometimes; so long as she was safe and comfortable he should be happy,
+much happier even than in their present unrestricted intercourse—though
+this was said with a sigh.
+
+He lingered long with her that evening, longer than he had ever done
+before; it was the last, perhaps, they should ever spend together in
+that house, which was still very dear to them, notwithstanding the
+tragedy it had witnessed. The time came at last when they must
+separate. It was the saddest walk that night that he had ever had
+across the Downs. They were enveloped in a thick mist—only instinct and
+long use kept him in the path—an impenetrable gloom hung over him. Even
+the fir trees were silent; there was no breeze to stir them, to produce
+that low sighing sound that seems to mean so much to those who will
+pause and listen.
+
+The morrow was brighter; there was a little sunshine, clouded and
+feeble, but still there was a little. It would be difficult to explain
+the process by which it came about. There are means of communication
+between persons without direct words. Thus it happened that almost by a
+species of volition, Agnes Lechester, Violet, and Aymer, before the
+hour to depart arrived, walked slowly and mournfully to the old, old
+church, across the meadows by the well-worn path, which the morning’s
+frost had left hard and dry. Since that terrible day Violet had never
+been—she could not. But now, somehow, with this newly-found companion,
+strengthened by two loving hearts, one on either side, it seemed to her
+as if a holy peace might perhaps descend upon her if she could visit
+her father’s tomb.
+
+With her face hidden by a thick veil, the tears standing in her eyes,
+the poor girl walked between them. Few words passed—silence was more
+natural and fitting than speech. They met two or three persons, all of
+whom knew Violet and Aymer; but these paid the homage to sorrow which
+the rudest tender, and went by silently, raising their hats. No one
+interrupted them; no one stared with vulgar curiosity. These three were
+alone—alone with the memory of the dead. And strangely enough, all
+three were orphans. It was Agnes Lechester who reminded them of that
+fact as they stood before the tomb; it was, she said in a low voice,
+another bond of union between them.
+
+The inscription had not yet been put up; the slab was plain. Their
+visit was very short; it was more than Violet could bear. The tomb was
+just without the church. Agnes motioned to Aymer to leave them; he
+walked away a few paces. Together the two women entered the church;
+they were alone in the sacred edifice. With slow steps poor Violet,
+leaning on Agnes’s arm and sobbing bitterly, walked up that very aisle,
+over that very figure of the ancient knight in brass, past the antique
+font—the very aisle where she had gone in all her wedding splendour
+amid the admiration of the gathered crowd. And now she came again—came
+with a stranger—in silence and sorrow, to kneel on the steps that led
+up to the chancel to pray as best her throbbing heart would permit. Was
+that prayer more for the living, or the dead?
+
+Violet had been reared a Protestant in the Articles of the Church of
+England, yet I question whether in that supreme moment her soul was not
+fuller of prayer for him who had gone before, than for herself and
+those who still lingered on earth. Those among us who can remember
+bitter hours of agony, say truly for whom have _they_ prayed? Let us
+not penetrate further into the sanctuary of sorrow.
+
+The carriage rolled away, and Aymer was alone. He watched it go down
+into the valley out of sight. He turned and ascended the Downs, not
+daring to look back upon the old, old house. At the summit he could
+command an extended view. Far away the white road ran up over a hill,
+and he could see a black dot crawling slowly up it. He knew it was the
+carriage; he watched it reach the top and disappear over the brow—then
+she was gone.
+
+For the first time since love had arisen in his heart he was separated
+from her. It was true that it was not total separation. They were bound
+together by ties which nothing could sever, and yet—the happy past was
+gone, to return no more. He was at liberty to see her at The Towers;
+Agnes Lechester had done her best to impress upon him that he could
+come whenever he chose, and would be always welcome. But Aymer had the
+vaguest ideas of what life with the upper ranks was like; he had a
+vague shrinking from entering this house; he felt that he should be
+restrained and at a loss. There could never be that free intercourse
+between him and Violet that had existed. He felt in his heart that she
+would never more return to The Place. The house was to be closed that
+evening; would it ever be opened again?
+
+He crushed back his despair as best he could, and went home to his
+cold, lonely room at the Wick Farm. Martin grudged him a fire even.
+Aymer crushed back his heart, and tried to work. It was very difficult.
+When the hand and the body are numbed with physical cold, when the
+heart is chilled with grief, it is hard indeed to call the fancy into
+play and to amuse others. Was it not Goldsmith who wrote the “Vicar of
+Wakefield” to pay the expenses of his parent’s funeral?
+
+Perhaps no greater proof of his wonderful genius could be given than is
+presented by that oft-repeated and simple anecdote. Only a transcendant
+genius could have forced itself out under such miserable circumstances.
+Aymer certainly had talent, perhaps even genius, but he had not yet
+found his opportunity—he was not quite certain wherein his ability
+really lay. All his efforts were tentative. They failed one and
+all—failed just at the moment when what he most wanted was a little
+encouragement. He did not spare himself; he worked the whole day,
+saving only an hour put aside to walk upon the Downs for health’s sake.
+
+He had still fifteen pounds remaining of the munificent, and anonymous
+present he had received. This he husbanded with the utmost care; it was
+his capital, his all. With it he formed schemes of reaching London, and
+finding employment. He only waited till a work upon which he was now
+engaged was finished before he started. Now Violet was gone, there was
+no inducement to remain at World’s End; far better to go out and face
+hard facts, and conquer them.
+
+But as the days went by, and the work was half finished, a deadly
+despair seemed to seize him. Of what use was it? Every slow post that
+reached that almost forgotten spot returned to him work rejected and
+despised. His sketches, he was told, “wanted spirit;” his literary
+labours “wanted finish, and bore marks of haste.”
+
+If these were useless, of what good was it to complete this book he was
+writing? It would only end in another disappointment. He ceased to open
+his letters; he flung them on one side. For a day or two he did
+nothing—he wandered about on the open Downs, seeking consolation from
+Nature, and finding none. At last, accusing himself of a lack of energy
+and fortitude, he set to work again. So it was not till two days after
+date that he read the following letter, which had been cast upon one
+side with the rest:—
+
+“2, Market Cross, Barnham.
+    “Dear Sir,—I am requested by Mr Broughton to ask you to call upon
+    him at your earliest convenience. He has some employment to offer
+    you.
+    “With esteem, etc, etc.”
+
+
+He went. Broughton received him kindly, and explained that he wanted a
+clerk, not so much for technical work as for correspondence, and to
+give general assistance. Aymer being a novice and completely ignorant
+of such duties, could not of course expect much salary. However, he
+would have thirty-five shillings per week. This offer was made partly
+through Lady Lechester’s influence, partly out of the interest he
+himself took in Aymer. But a true lawyer, he could not help doing even
+good as cheaply as possible. Aymer thanked him, and accepted the post.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Ten.
+
+
+Aymer would in times gone by have regarded the employment he had now
+obtained as a great step in advance, and have rejoiced accordingly. But
+he had been too near the prize for it to give him even so much as hope
+for the future. He _wished_ to be grateful for what he had got; he
+tried to look upon it as a wonderful thing, but it was impossible. The
+contrast between the actual, and what had been within his very grasp
+was too intense.
+
+It was an easy place. Beyond a little correspondence to write for Mr
+Broughton, and sometimes a little copying, he had practically nothing
+to do. His hours were short for the business—only from ten till four;
+he had plenty of time at his own disposal.
+
+The fact was that his salary came, not directly, but indirectly from
+Lady Lechester, and he was favoured accordingly. If he had known this
+he would have been still more dissatisfied.
+
+The office in which he was placed was a kind of library or retiring
+apartment, opening by double doors into Mr Broughton’s private room;
+and he was often called upon to bear witness to certain transactions of
+a strictly private nature, and in which the solicitor told him he
+relied upon his honour as a gentleman, to preserve secrecy.
+
+Broughton really meant him well, and did his best now and then to start
+him on in the acquisition of a knowledge of the law. Books were put
+into his hands, and he was told what parts of them to study, and had to
+prepare extracts from them occasionally. Aymer did his best,
+conscientiously, but he hated it—he hated it most thoroughly. It was
+not altogether that the reading in these books was dry and
+uninteresting to the last degree. Flat, tame, spiritless,
+meaningless,—a mere collection of decisions, interpretations,
+precedents—such they appeared at first. Aymer had talent and insight
+sufficient to speedily observe that this forbidding aspect was not the
+true one.
+
+All these precedents, rules, decisions—these ten thousand subtle
+distinctions—were much like the laws or rules of a game at chess. They
+decided in what way a pawn should be moved or a bishop replaced. The
+science of law seemed to him like a momentous game at chess, only the
+pieces were living human creatures.
+
+These subtle distinctions and technical divisions, formalities though
+they appeared, had a meaning, and a deep one. Following his employer,
+Mr Broughton, into the petty law courts at Barnham, he saw how the
+right and the wrong, the sorrow or the joy of human beings depended
+almost upon the quibble of a word, the incident of a slip of the pen.
+It was a game—a game requiring long study, an iron memory, quick
+observation, and quicker decision; and he hated it—hated it because the
+right appeared to be of no consequence. Truth, and what he had always
+thought was meant by justice, were left entirely out of sight.
+
+It was not the man who had the right upon his side who won. If that was
+the case, what use would there be for lawyers? Too often it was the man
+who had the law upon his side, and the law only. He actually heard
+magistrates, and even judges, expressing their regret that the law
+compelled them to give decisions contrary to the true justice of the
+cause before them.
+
+By degrees he became aware of the extraordinary fact, that with all the
+cumbrous system of law phrases—a system that requires a special
+dictionary—there was not even a word to express what he understood as
+justice; not even a word to express it!
+
+Justice meant a decision according to the law, and not according to the
+right or wrong of the particular case proceeding; equity meant a
+decision based upon a complex, antiquated, unreasonable jumble of
+obsolete customs. The sense of the word “equity”—as it is used in the
+sublime prophecy, “With equity shall he judge the world”—was entirely
+lost.
+
+In the brief time that he had sat beside Mr Broughton in these Courts,
+Aymer conceived an intense loathing for the whole system. After all,
+what was the law, upon which so much was based, which over-rode equity,
+justice, truth, and even conscience? What was this great fetish to
+which every one bowed the knee—from the distinguished and learned judge
+downwards, the judge who, in point of fact, admitted and regretted that
+he decided against his conscience? It was principally precedent.
+Because a man had once been hung for a murder committed in a certain
+manner, men must always be hung for murder. Because a judge had once
+given a verdict which, under the circumstances, was as _near the right_
+as he dared to go (and our judges do this), then every one who came
+after must be dealt with by this immovable standard.
+
+The very passage of time itself—the changes introduced into society,
+custom, and modes of thought in the course of the years—was in itself a
+strong and all-sufficient argument against this fetish precedent.
+
+That was not all. Aymer in his position—to a certain extent
+confidential—had a glimpse behind the scenes. Quick of observation and
+comprehension, he saw that even this game of argument, and precedent,
+and quibble was not conducted honestly. He had heard and read so much
+of the freedom, the liberty of England, the safety of the subject, the
+equal justice meted out to all, that he was literally confounded when
+the bare facts stared him in the face.
+
+There was jobbery, corruption under the whole of it; there was class
+prejudice operating in the minds of those on the judgment-seat; there
+were a thousand-and-one small, invisible strings, which palled this way
+and that behind the scenes. It was, after all, a species of Punch and
+Judy show, moved by wires, and learnt by rote by the exhibitor.
+
+It sickened and wearied him. Sitting on those hard benches, he longed
+for liberty—longed to escape from the depressing influence of the
+atmosphere of chicanery in which he was plunged. The very sight of
+those hideous faces which are sure to congregate in the criminal
+justice-room, seemed to weaken the fresh young spirit within him.
+
+Yet, as said before, Mr Broughton used him kindly. He found Aymer
+lodgings cheap and fairly comfortable. Aymer had often desired to
+escape from his solitary room at Wick Farm; but even that cold, lonely
+apartment was better than this. These four walls had no
+association—they were walls only—partly concealed with a few common
+prints. One of these, over the mantelpiece, looked down upon him as he
+sat by his fire in the evening. He saw it night after night, till at
+last that engraving seemed to almost live, and he watched to see when
+the labour of the prisoner should be completed. For it was the picture
+of the prisoner sitting in his cell upon a stone bench, painfully
+chiselling out upon the stone wall—just where a single beam of sunlight
+fell—the figure of Christ upon the Cross, with the rude tool of a
+common iron nail.
+
+He grew to understand the feelings and the thought, to sympathise in
+the work of the prisoner in his dungeon. The solitary ray of sunshine
+that fell upon his life was the love of Violet. He was himself
+confined, imprisoned by the iron bars and the strong walls of poverty,
+and the tools he had at hand for his labour of love were scanty and
+rude. How could he in that contracted sphere, without travel, without
+change of scene and conversation with other men, ever hope to find
+materials for works with which to please the world, and obtain for
+himself fame and position? He understood now the deep meaning of the
+words put in Ulysses’ mouth—“I am a part of all that I have met.” They
+applied with tenfold force to the artistic, and to the literary career.
+It was only by extended experience, by contact with the wide, wide
+world, that he could hope to comprehend what it wanted. Yet it
+sometimes happened that even the prisoner in his cell, by sheer
+self-concentration, and with the aid of the rude tools and material
+within his reach, produced a work which could not be surpassed. The
+poor prisoner of the picture reminded him constantly of this. He tried.
+He thought and thought, till at last, in the quiet and solitude of his
+lonely room, an idea did occur to him—not a very great or remarkable
+idea either, but still one which, he felt, if properly carried out,
+might produce substantial results.
+
+Evening after evening, upon leaving the office, he laboured at his new
+conception, illustrating his book with his own pencil, spending hour
+after hour upon it far into the night. So absorbed was he upon it, that
+he almost neglected Violet’s letters—almost, he could not quite—but his
+notes were so short and so unlike his usual style, that she, with her
+knowledge of his character, saw at once what he was doing, and kept
+begging him not to overwork himself.
+
+“Circumstances over which we have no control.” There are other
+circumstances still more powerful—i.e., those circumstances which we
+never even think of controlling, which happen so quietly and whose true
+significance is so little apparent at the time, that we pass them by
+without a thought.
+
+It happened that Mr Broughton was engaged in a cause which necessitated
+extracts to be made from a file of old newspapers. Being overworked
+himself, and his staff also in full employment, he asked Aymer to do
+this, and to do it especially well and carefully. Aymer began the work,
+and at first found it dry enough, but as he got deeper into it, the
+strange contrast presented by this contemporary chronicle with the
+present day gradually forced itself upon him, and he ceased to cast
+aside the papers so soon as the particular extract required was made.
+
+Presently the idea occurred to him of writing an article for the London
+papers, founded upon the curiosities of these old sheets of news. With
+this view, after he had finished the work he was set to do, he got into
+the habit of carrying two or three of the papers home, and re-reading
+and studying them, and making notes by his own fireside. The file was
+really interesting. It began in the year 1710. The _Barnham Chronicle_
+was one of those extremely old papers published in county towns, which
+live on from year to year without an effort, because they meet with no
+opposition. The circle of its readers, in all probability, at that
+date—more than a century and a half after its establishment—was
+scarcely larger than in the first year of publication. It had been
+taken and read by whole generations. The son found it taken by his
+father, and when he succeeded to the farm, to the mill, or to the shop,
+continued the old subscription.
+
+Looked at in the light of the present day, when intelligence is flashed
+from end to end of the kingdom in a few hours, the _Barnham Chronicle_
+was all but ridiculous. Its news was a week old or more, stale and
+unprofitable. It did not even advance so far as to have a London
+letter; but perhaps that was no great loss to its readers.
+
+Yet the _Barnham Chronicle_ was a “property” in more than one sense; it
+paid, as well it might, at fourpence per copy, and with the monopoly of
+auctioneer’s and lawyer’s advertisements in that district. And it could
+boast of a more than patriarchal age.
+
+Reading slowly, paragraph by paragraph, through this enormous file, his
+note-book at his side, Aymer came upon one advertisement, simply
+worded, and with no meretricious advantage given to it by large type or
+other printer’s resource, yet which he read with a special interest. It
+contained the name of Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick; and that name
+was sufficient to attract him. It ran thus:—
+
+“Notice of Change of Name.—I, Arthur Sibbold, tea-dealer, of the City
+of London, in the county of Middlesex, do hereby give notice, that it
+is my intention to apply for permission to add to my present baptismal
+names the name of Waldron, upon the occasion of my approaching marriage
+with Miss Annica Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick, co. B—, etc, etc.
+And that I shall be henceforward known, called, and designated by the
+name of Arthur Sibbold Waldron in all deeds, writings, etc, etc.”
+
+
+To us who are acquainted with the history of the city of Stirmingham,
+this entry has a wide significance; to Aymer it had none beyond the
+mere fact of the mention of Waldron. He copied it into his note-book
+with a mental resolve to show it to Violet, and thought no more of it.
+An event that happened about this time made him forget all about what
+appeared to him a trivial matter. This was the trial of Jenkins, the
+gardener, for the murder of Jason Waldron. Mr Broughton, who was
+engaged for the defence, to instruct counsel, naturally made much use
+of Aymer’s local knowledge and perfect acquaintance with the details of
+that terrible day, and was thereby furnished with fresh and
+overwhelming arguments.
+
+Aymer worked with a will, for he knew that Violet was much concerned
+and extremely anxious as to the result, and he watched the proceedings
+on the fateful day with intense interest. It is needless to
+recapitulate the details of the case, which have been already given.
+The result was an acquittal. The Judge summed up in favour of the
+prisoner, observing that it was monstrous if a man must be condemned to
+the last penalty of the law, because it so chanced that a tool
+belonging to him had been snatched up as the readiest instrument for a
+murderous attack. To his experience the murder did not appear at all in
+the light of an ordinary crime. In the first place, there was an
+apparent absence of motive. So far as was known, Waldron had no enemies
+and no quarrel with any man. Evidently it was not committed with the
+intention of theft, as not a single article had been missed. It
+appeared to him like the unaccountable impulse of an unreasoning being;
+in plain words, like the act of _a lunatic with homicidal tendencies_.
+The jury unanimously acquitted the prisoner, and Aymer hastened to send
+the news to Violet. He could not post with it himself, as Mr Broughton
+had other cases to attend to.
+
+Poor Jenkins was free—and lost. The shock had stunned him, and he was
+too old and too much weakened by disease to ever recover from it. He
+could not face his native village, the place where his family, though
+humble, had for generations borne a good character. He had an almost
+childish dread of meeting any one from Bury Wick or World’s End, and
+even avoided Aymer, who sought him in the crowd.
+
+How truly was it said that “service is no inheritance!” After two
+generations of faithful service, these poor people were practically
+exiled from home and friends, and this without fault of their own.
+Violet would have gladly done what she could for the aged couple. They
+might have, at all events, lived at The Place and taken care of the old
+house, but she and Aymer lost sight of them entirely.
+
+All that was known was that a few weeks after the acquittal, a waggon
+came and fetched away their goods from the cottage, and Jenkins was
+heard of no more—for the time. He had, in fact, found work, and buried
+himself, as he hoped, for ever out of sight. There was a certain
+natural pride in him, and it had been cruelly trampled upon. Suffer
+what he might, he would not ask for aid—not even from Violet. And he
+did suffer—he and his poor shattered wife. With not exactly a bad
+character, but the stigma of “murder” clinging to him, he wandered
+about seeking work, and nearly starved.
+
+Even in Bury Wick, where he was so well-known, had he returned, he
+would have found a certain amount of reluctance to receive him into the
+old grooves. In distant villages where the dreadful tale of blood had
+penetrated, and where the people had had little or no opportunity of
+hearing the facts, there was still a strong prejudice against him; and
+it must be owned that from an outsider’s point of view, it _did_ look
+suspicious that he should have been alone near the house when the deed
+was committed. So it was that he found it hard to get employment,
+especially now the winter was come, and labour less in demand.
+
+At length, worn-out and exhausted with hunger and wandering, he
+accepted the wages of a boy from Albert Herring, and a waggon was sent
+to fetch his goods.
+
+Albert Herring had the reputation of being a hard master, and it was
+well deserved. Hard work, long hours, small pay, and that given
+grudgingly, and withheld on trivial pretences—these were the practices
+which gained for him the hatred of the labouring population. Yet with
+singular inconsistency they were always willing to work for him. This
+is a phenomenon commonly to be observed—the worst of masters can always
+command plenty of men.
+
+With Jenkins it was a matter of necessity. If he could not get work he
+must starve or go into the union—dreaded almost as much as the prison.
+Albert kept him several days after his application—he would see about
+it—he was in no hurry. He laid much stress upon the gardener’s age,
+though the other assured him that willingness would compensate for that
+Jenkins had been a gardener, not a labourer. It was doubtful if he
+would understand his duties if he was put on to cut a hedge.
+
+“Oh, yes!” said the old man, eagerly; “I can use an axe or a
+bill-hook.”
+
+“Ay, ay,” said Albert, brutally. “Thee can _use a bill-hook_, so I’ve
+heard say.”
+
+Jenkins bowed his head, and his lip quivered.
+
+The upshot was that he was put on at nine shillings per week—one
+shilling to be deducted for rent of a small cottage.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Eleven.
+
+
+This trial of poor Jenkins took up Aymer’s time, so that he had no
+leisure for his new book, which had to be laid aside; and when he was
+in hopes of returning to it, another incident again interrupted him.
+The work he had to do was very little after all; it was not the amount,
+but the character of it, that he disliked.
+
+Yet, notwithstanding his hatred of the law, he could not help imbibing
+some small smattering which afterwards proved extremely serviceable.
+The change from World’s End was also beneficial in another manner—it
+opened his eyes to much that he had never suspected. If anything, his
+inclination hitherto would have been to have taken most people pretty
+much at their word. This may sound childish to the young men of the
+period, who—in the habit of frequenting billiard saloons, horse-races,
+card parties, hotels, and all places where people congregate—naturally
+pick up a good deal of knowledge of the world sufficient to astonish
+their parents, at all events.
+
+Aymer certainly was not a model young man. Without a doubt, if he had
+been placed where such amusements were easily accessible, he would have
+done much as others of his age did; but it so happened that living at
+World’s End, entirely out of society, he had no such opportunities.
+After a month or so at Broughton’s office his eyes began to open, and
+he saw that things are very different under the surface to what they
+appear outwardly. He became less ready to accept what people said, or
+did in the sense they wished others to see them, and commenced a habit
+of deducting a large percentage from the price they put upon
+themselves.
+
+He had been three times to see Violet—staying only a few hours—and was
+agreeably surprised with the pleasant reception he received from Lady
+Lechester, who took an opportunity of informing him privately that she
+wished Violet to continue with her. Violet was well, but dull. She was
+no sentimental heroine to pine away at separation from Aymer; but it
+was only natural that she should miss the old associations.
+Particularly she begged Aymer not to overwork himself at night with his
+private labour.
+
+Lady Lechester seconded this, saying that she had known a gentleman
+who, much of the same disposition as Aymer, had lost his wits through
+incessant application. He was a relation of hers, and was now confined
+in an asylum at Stirmingham. To save speculation, it will be as well to
+at once mention that this person was not Odo Lechester.
+
+Aymer’s reply was that he feared he should never complete his book, for
+something always seemed to happen to delay it, and now he should soon
+have to accompany Mr Broughton to Stirmingham.
+
+It was in this way. Mr Broughton, before removing to Barnham, where he
+inherited the practice and most of the fortune of a deceased uncle, had
+lived in Stirmingham, working as the junior partner in a firm there. He
+was no longer a partner, but still continued on friendly relations with
+the firm; and having much confidence in his ability, they frequently
+sent for him in difficult cases.
+
+Now this firm—Messrs Shaw, Shaw, and Simson—had one very good client,
+who had been to them almost equal to an estate, bringing in a yearly
+income, and paying cash without dispute. This client, or rather these
+clients, was one of those very building societies which had leased old
+Sternhold Baskette’s incomplete houses for a term of years.
+
+House property is, as every one knows, fruitful in causes of
+litigation—repairs, defaulting tenants, disputes, and what not; and, in
+addition, there is the task of collecting the rents, and a vast variety
+of smaller pickings. All these Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had enjoyed for
+fully half a century, till they had come to look upon them as their
+legitimate right, and as certain to descend into the hands of their
+successors. But as time went on, they began to get anxious, and to
+perceive that there was a great deal of truth in the ancient maxim,
+“This too shall pass away,” for the term of the lease, long as it was,
+rapidly approached expiration.
+
+Obviously, it was their interest to delay the delivering up of the
+property to the heir, John Marese Baskette, as long as possible; and
+they felt the stake to be so great, that they did not spare their own
+money in the effort to oust him from his just claim.
+
+Messrs Shaw, Shaw, and Simson were all three old and experienced
+men—safe men, in every sense; but they hesitated to trust entirely to
+their own ingenuity in this complicated business. They had, in fact,
+entrusted it to Mr Broughton, who was not only more energetic, but was
+full of resources which would never have occurred to such steady
+persons as the three partners.
+
+So it happened that, as the fall of the year advanced, Broughton had
+his hands full of the building societies’ business, and had engaged to
+proceed to Stirmingham as their legal representative, at the great
+family council of the claimants in the Sternhold Hall, which was to
+open in three or four days.
+
+Another circumstance that brought Aymer into still closer contact with
+the great case, was the fact that this firm of Shaw, Shaw, and Simson
+had an American client, who was himself one of the claimants. His name
+was another variation upon the old stem.
+
+Anthony Baskelette was tolerably well to do. He had a great business,
+and had large transactions with manufacturers in Stirmingham. These
+necessitated an agent there, and Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had for years
+looked after his affairs. He was one of the Original Swampers. He
+really could prove his direct descent from one of old Will Baskette’s
+cousins, and held ample documentary evidence; and being moderately
+wealthy, thought he would have a trial at the monster estate at
+Stirmingham. He instructed Shaw, Shaw, and Simson to get up his claim
+in a legal form, and announced his intention of accompanying the body
+of the claimants to England in the steamer _Lucca_, which had been so
+generously chartered by Marese.
+
+All the correspondence from him to Shaw and Company was sent on to
+Barnham; and in this way Aymer, who had much to do with Broughton’s
+correspondence, began to have some idea of the magnitude of the
+interests at stake. Though constitutionally averse to the law, and
+hating its formalities, he could not help feeling some considerable
+excitement about this tremendous case, and perhaps showed more genuine
+alacrity in executing Broughton’s instructions relating to it, than he
+had with other matters.
+
+At all events, Broughton told him that he should want him to act as his
+clerk, or notary, during his approaching visit to Stirmingham. The
+lawyer had begun to feel a certain amount of trust and confidence in
+Aymer, who never failed to fulfil his orders, though obviously against
+the grain, and especially as Aymer’s demeanour was quiet and
+gentlemanly. If he did venture to throw out a suggestion, it was in the
+most respectful and diffident manner.
+
+In this way it happened that Aymer became well up in the _latter_ part
+of the history of Stirmingham, especially in that section of the case
+which concerned the Baskettes, and in time it grew to be almost the
+leading thought in his mind. His letters to Violet were full of it. The
+history was so romantic—so extraordinary, and yet so true—that it took
+strong hold upon his imagination.
+
+He looked forward with pleasure to his approaching visit to
+Stirmingham. Like all men with any pretence to brains, though he
+delighted in Nature and loved the country, there was a strong, almost
+irresistible, desire within him to mingle in the vast crowds of cities,
+to feel that indefinable “life” which animates the mass. A great city
+to such a man as Aymer was like a wonderful book—an Arabian Night’s
+tale, an endless romance which would afford inexhaustible pleasure in
+the study of its characteristics.
+
+Though it would involve at least a month’s absence from Violet, he
+looked forward to the visit with impatience—not without a secret hope
+that he might in some unexpected manner find a chance of rising in the
+scale, and getting a little nearer to the object of his life.
+
+He had a number of commissions to execute for Lady
+Lechester—particularly one. This was to search the old bookstalls and
+the curiosity shops, in out-of-the-way corners, for antique Bibles.
+Agnes had a weakness, if it may be so-called, for collecting old
+editions of the Bible, and possessed a large and extremely interesting
+library filled with them. One or two particularly rare copies had
+hitherto escaped her search, and if there was such a thing to be found
+in Stirmingham she felt sure that Aymer would be precisely the man to
+find it.
+
+He had also a commission to purchase for her a few pictures, with which
+to decorate the walls of a new wing she was adding to The Towers. She
+had a curious dislike to the old family mansion, and yet wished to live
+in the neighbourhood from a sense of duty. She held it as a doctrine
+that the owners of large estates should pass a part of their time, at
+all events, at home—there were so many ways in which they could do
+good, not only by charity, but by encouraging local industries.
+
+The new wing was being built to enable her to reside at home, and yet
+gratify the innate dislike to The Towers which she cherished. Aymer’s
+artistic taste was so marked that she felt confident he would select
+her suitable pictures. There were plenty of old paintings in the
+galleries of The Towers which could have been spared for the new wing,
+but she preferred to be surrounded with fresh objects, even down to the
+very footstool.
+
+The day for the assembling of the great family council came nearer and
+nearer, and the letters from Anthony Baskelette more frequent. The
+daily papers, which Aymer saw now and read with the closest attention,
+began to devote a space to notes upon the preparations, and some sent
+specials to Stirmingham in advance, who described the city in a series
+of sketches, which excited Aymer’s curiosity to the highest pitch.
+
+News came at last that the claimants were assembling at Imola; then the
+date of the sailing of the _Lucca_ came and passed. They knew that she
+must sail upon that day, because her owners were under contract to
+deliver the bullion entrusted to them on a fixed date in London, where
+its approaching arrival had already had an appreciable effect upon the
+money-market. Seven hundred thousand pounds in coin, in gold bars and
+Mexican dollars, is a sum which cannot be transferred from one country
+to another at once, without causing some fluctuations upon the
+Exchange. The owners of the _Lucca_ were under a bond by which they
+forfeited a heavy sum if the vessel did not start to time. Therefore
+there was no doubt that the _Lucca_ had sailed, though no announcement
+had reached London of the event, for it happened that the Atlantic
+cables were out of order, and there were not then such a number of
+cables as at present. Still, no one doubted for an instant that she was
+upon the seas; and one well-known illustrated paper announced that a
+special artist of theirs was on board, who, the moment he landed, would
+present the public with sketches of the incidents of the voyage,
+portraits of the claimants, and other subjects of interest. It was also
+generally understood that the heir, in his yacht, had started from New
+York to accompany the steamer.
+
+What was Aymer’s surprise and regret, upon opening the paper on the
+second morning after, to see the following telegram, one of the cables
+having got into partial working order again:—
+
+“New York, Tuesday Night.
+    “The _Lucca_ sailed on Friday at noon, but _without_ the claimants.
+    She brings the specie announced.”
+
+
+Then there was an editorial note to the effect that several other words
+of the telegram could not be read, on account of the unsatisfactory
+state of the wires. The evening papers had further particulars:—
+
+“The _Lucca_, and the yacht of John Marese Baskette, Esq, have passed
+Sandy Hook. All well. A snow-storm blocked the line from Imola to New
+York, and the claimants could not arrive in time. They follow per
+_Saskatchewan_.”
+
+
+Next day additional particulars came to hand. It appeared that the
+heir, Marese, had on the Wednesday gone to Imola, and received an
+ovation from the assembled claimants. He was to accompany them to New
+York on the Friday, and to follow the _Lucca_ in his yacht. On Thursday
+night there came a heavy fall of snow—and a strong wind, which caused
+immense drifts. Notwithstanding these the special train, with Marese
+and one hundred and fifty claimants, started from Imola with a
+pilot-engine in front, the station-masters along the line having
+telegraphed that they would clear it in time. They did partially
+succeed in the attempt; but the storm came on again, the wires were
+blown down; and telegraphic communication for a part of the way
+interrupted.
+
+In the thick snow the special crept along, with the pilot in front;
+but, despite of all their caution, the pilot-engine ran into a drift
+and stuck fast. The special came up, but there was no collision. To
+proceed was, however, impossible; every moment made it more so, and
+they began to fear lest the return to Imola should be also blocked up.
+
+After much consultation it was decided to run back to Imola, and
+proceed by a more circuitous route. There was just a chance that, if
+this other route was clear of snow, they might get to New York in time.
+They put on steam and pushed as fast as possible, and the consequence
+was a narrow escape from a serious disaster. The wind, since they had
+passed, had blown down a large pine tree, which fell across the line.
+The engine of the special struck this tree, but being provided with
+cow-guards, was not thrown off the line. Some of the machinery was,
+however, damaged, and the special came to a standstill. After a long
+delay, consequent on the interruption of telegraphic communication, a
+second train was sent up, and the passengers re-embarked in it, and at
+last got back to Imola. It was now, however, too late to reach New York
+in time, especially as the longer route was equally encumbered with
+drifts of snow. The result was that the _Lucca_ was obliged to start
+without them.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Twelve.
+
+
+The _Saskatchewan_ was to start on the next Friday. The claimants had
+arrived at New York on the Sunday, after much trouble and a long
+journey, having to make an immense détour. The council could not now
+hold its first meeting on New Year’s Day, but was expected to assemble
+on the 6th January (Twelfth Day).
+
+For two days they were without intelligence at Barnham and Stirmingham,
+the cables being wrong again, but on the third Aymer was sent for to
+the private residence of Mr Broughton at seven in the morning. The
+London dailies had not yet arrived, but he had received a private
+telegram from Shaw, Shaw, and Simson, with the most extraordinary news.
+The yacht of Mr Marese Baskette had brought the steamship _Lucca_ back
+to port a derelict, having found her helpless on the high seas, with
+every passenger and every one of the crew dead.
+
+Presently the papers came and contained the same announcement, though
+they one and all expressed a strong doubt as to the accuracy of the
+news. By-and-by down came a second edition of the _Telegraph_,
+repeating the former telegram, with additional particulars. By night it
+was known as a fact over the length and breadth of the world, that the
+_Lucca_ had been found lying like a log upon the waste of waters with a
+crew of corpses—a veritable ship of the Dead. The ghastly news was only
+too true. Excitement rose to the highest pitch; edition after edition
+of the papers sold out; men congregated in groups, discussing this new
+horror which had saddened civilisation. All were completely in the dark
+as to how it had happened, and in the eagerness for further insight the
+brief telegram announcing that the claimants had started on board the
+_Saskatchewan_ was overlooked. There were plenty, however, who pointed
+out to each other the fortunate escape the claimants had had. If the
+snow had not fallen on that particular night; if the wires had not been
+broken by the falling posts; if the pine tree had fallen on one side
+instead of crossing the line, they would in all human probability have
+one and all shared the fate of those on board the _Lucca_.
+
+Only one circumstance caused any abatement of the intense alarm which
+this fearful occurrence created. It was this: The greater portion of
+the space allotted for passenger accommodation on the _Lucca_ had been
+taken by Marese for the claimants, and as it was not certain up to the
+last moment whether they would come or not, the ship started with less
+than a third of her full complement of passengers. There was not,
+therefore, such a death-roll as might have been; but, even as it was,
+it was extended enough.
+
+No one could understand how it had happened; not the slightest
+explanation was given, and the public mind was exercised in speculating
+upon the cause of the disaster. The passage from America to England had
+long lost the character of a voyage. The height to which perfection had
+been carried in the great steamship lines, was such that it had become
+a mere ocean promenade. No one thought of danger; the perils of the
+deep had been so thoroughly overcome. In the midst of this security
+came a shattering blow, which dispelled the confidence slowly built up
+by such an expenditure of skill and money as had perhaps never been
+equalled in the history of the world. The mystery seemed impenetrable.
+If the vessel had disappeared like the _City of Boston_; if it had
+sunk, there would have been several explanations possible. But to be
+brought back into port perfect, uninjured, and yet a derelict, with a
+dead crew—it was inexplicable.
+
+The _Saskatchewan_ arrived on the 2nd January, and with her came the
+claimants—all but Marese—and these immediately proceeded to
+Stirmingham. It was hoped that she would have brought fuller
+particulars as to the fate of the _Lucca_; but having started on the
+very day that the _Lucca_ returned to port, nothing more was known on
+board than the simple fact.
+
+On the 4th, however, another steamer came into Liverpool, bringing the
+New York papers up to date, and the contents of these were at once
+published in London.
+
+By the steamer came a letter from Anthony Baskelette. He had left the
+_Saskatchewan_ on hearing of the _Lucca’s_ return, in great anxiety
+about some consignment he had made by her to his agent in Stirmingham.
+He had met the heir, and had been invited to accompany him to England
+on board his yacht, which would not reach Liverpool till the 9th. He
+was full of the _Lucca_ catastrophe, and his long letter contained more
+particulars than four papers.
+
+Aymer read it with the deepest interest. It ran:—
+
+“You will of course attend the council on the 6th, both in the interest
+of the building society and of myself. I am delayed by the necessity of
+seeing after the consignment I had made on board the unfortunate
+_Lucca_, which consignment is too valuable to be left to agents. I am
+in the greatest anxiety, because it is uncertain yet in what light the
+rescue of the _Lucca_ will be regarded.
+
+“There can be no doubt that if the owner of the yacht—Mr Marese
+Baskette—likes, he can put in a heavy claim for salvage. The question
+is—whether in his position as the ostensible heir, and as a gentleman,
+he will insist upon his right, or, at all events, moderate his demands?
+
+“I have met and conversed with him, and I gather from him that
+personally he is averse to making any claim at all. He considers that
+his yacht simply performed a duly, and a duly that was imperative upon
+her captain. To take money from those unfortunate persons who had
+consigned goods, or bullion in the _Lucca_ he thought would be contrary
+to every sentiment of honour and humanity.
+
+“But, unfortunately, he is not altogether a free agent. It appears that
+at the time when the salvage of the _Lucca_ was effected, there was on
+board the yacht a certain Mr Theodore Marese—a cousin of Mr Baskette’s,
+who is only in moderate circumstances, and naturally looks upon the
+event as a windfall which may never occur again—as I hope and pray it
+never will.
+
+“Mr Theodore Marese, it seems, performed some personal service in
+rescuing the _Lucca_, and was considered to have run considerable risk
+to his life.
+
+“A certain sum will have no doubt to be paid to Mr Theodore, and I
+cannot blame him if he insists upon his right. He was practically the
+master of the yacht at the time, and it seems was on his way—with Mr
+Baskette’s permission—to London, to attend to some very urgent business
+there, which the catastrophe of the _Lucca_ has delayed and greatly
+injured, causing him pecuniary loss.
+
+“Then there is the captain of the yacht, and the crew. It is a fine
+vessel—some 300 tons or more, I should think—a screw steamer, and very
+fast. She carries a rather numerous crew, and all these are ravenous
+for plunder, and it is hard to see how these claims are to be avoided.
+Still further, it seems that Mr Baskette himself is not altogether a
+free agent. He freely admitted to me that he was not without his
+debts—as is probable enough to a man of fashion, with a certain
+position to maintain.
+
+“These creditors may take advantage of the _Lucca_ business to push
+him, and say that he must take the salvage in order to meet their
+demands. Of this he is greatly afraid.
+
+“Baskette is a most pleasant man, easy to converse with, very open and
+straightforward—quite a different person to what I should have
+expected. He has been particularly agreeable to me, promising his best
+efforts to curtail my loss, and has given me a cabin in his now famous
+yacht, the _Gloire de Dijon_.
+
+“I cannot drive the subject of the salvage from my mind. The saloons,
+bars, hotels—everywhere people talk of nothing else. It has quite
+eclipsed the tragedy, as well it might, from the magnitude of the sums
+involved.
+
+“First of all, there is the vessel herself—found upon the high seas, a
+derelict, without a hand at the wheel or at the engines. She is a
+splendid steamer, fully 3000 tons, and estimated at half a million of
+dollars, or, say, 100,000 pounds. The cargo she carried was immensely
+valuable—the bullion you know about: it was 718,000 pounds in exact
+figures—but the cargo must be worth at least another 75,000 pounds.
+
+“Then there is a very large amount of personal property, for half the
+claimants who were to go by her had forwarded their luggage previously;
+and there are the effects of the poor creatures who died. But these
+last, Mr Baskette declares, shall under no circumstances be touched.
+Happen what may, they are to be returned to the owners of their heirs
+undiminished.
+
+“Putting it all at the lowest estimate, the value of the vessel, the
+bullion, and cargo cannot be less than 893,000 pounds; and the salvage
+will equal a gigantic fortune.
+
+“So far I have dealt only with the salvage question. I will now proceed
+to give you a more detailed account than you will be able to get from
+the papers, of the terrible fate which overtook the _Lucca_. These I
+have learnt from Mr Baskette and from Mr Theodore Marese, who was on
+the yacht.
+
+“The reporters are, of course, incessant in their inquiries, but there
+is much that has escaped them, as a certain amount of reticence must of
+necessity be observed. These gentlemen have, however, made no reserve
+to me—I must beg of you not to publish this letter, or any part of it,
+lest there should appear to be a breach of confidence.
+
+“It appears that the _Lucca_ started at noon on the Friday, as per
+bond, with a full complement of crew, but a short list of passengers.
+About two hours after she had left, the _Gloire de Dijon_ put out to
+sea. Mr Baskette was at that time still at Imola, unable to get to New
+York. He and his cousin, Mr T. Marese, were to have gone together in
+the yacht to London, where Mr Theodore’s business was very pressing.
+
+“When Mr Baskette found himself unable to reach New York, he
+telegraphed to Mr Theodore telling him to take the yacht and go on to
+London as had been previously arranged, thereby showing the same
+character of consideration for others which he has since exhibited to
+me.
+
+“Mr Theodore put to sea in the _Gloire de Dijon_, and says that next
+morning they overtook the _Lucca_, or nearly so, the yacht being
+extremely swift. It occurred to him that, after all, as the Atlantic is
+still the Atlantic, notwithstanding steam, and there are such things as
+breaking machinery, it would be well to keep in company with a powerful
+vessel like the _Lucca_ as far as the coast of Ireland.
+
+“They did so, and even once spoke the steamship, which replied, ‘All
+well.’ All that day the two ships were not half a mile apart, and the
+night being moonlit, the _Gloire de Dijon_ followed close in the
+other’s wake till about four in the morning, when, as often happens at
+thick fog came on. Afraid of collision, the captain of the yacht now
+slackened speed to about six knots, and kept a course a little to the
+starboard of the steamer ahead.
+
+“The fog continued very thick till past noon, and then suddenly lifted,
+and they saw seven or eight sail in sight, one of which was the _Lucca_
+on their port bow, and about four miles off. She was running, as usual,
+at a good pace, and the sea being quiet, was making all thirteen knots.
+The _Gloire de Dijon_ increased speed, and drew up to within a mile and
+a half by three in the afternoon. The _Lucca_ then bore due east, and
+they were in her wake. The wind was west, with a little southerly, and
+just ahead of the _Lucca_ was a large square-rigged ship, with all sail
+set, but making very little way on account of the trifling breeze.
+
+“An extraordinary thing now happened. The _Lucca_ was observed by the
+captain of the yacht to be making straight for the sailing ship ahead,
+and had now got so close that a collision appeared inevitable. He
+called to Mr Theodore, who came up from below. The _Lucca_ ran dead at
+the sailing ship, though she was making thirteen knots to the other’s
+four, and the slightest turn of her wheel would have carried her free.
+On account of the direction of the wind, the ship was sailing almost
+right before it, and the steamer appeared to be aiming at her stern.
+
+“On the yacht they could see the crew of the sailing ship making
+frantic signs over the quarter to the steamer, but not the slightest
+notice was taken. The captain of the sailing ship had relied upon the
+steamer giving way, as is usual, and had allowed her to come so close
+that, it seems, he lost his head. Seeing this, the mate sang out to put
+the helm a-starboard, and run straight before the wind. This was done,
+and only just in time, for the steamer actually grazed her quarter, and
+carried away their boom. Knowing that the captain of the _Lucca_ was an
+old sailor, and a steady, experienced man, they were astonished at this
+behaviour, especially as, without staying to inquire what damage had
+been done, she kept on her course at still greater speed.
+
+“The captain of the yacht now put on speed, being desirous of speaking
+the steamer; but after an hour or two it was evident that the _Lucca_
+was drawing ahead, and had increased her lead by at least a mile. They
+could not understand this, as the yacht was notoriously faster, and it
+became evident that the engineer of the _Lucca_ must have got his
+safety-valve screwed-down.
+
+“Night, as every one knows, falls rapidly at this time of the year, and
+the darkness was increased by the fog, which now came on again. During
+the evening all their conversation was upon the _Lucca_. Surely she
+would not keep up her speed in such a fog as this? The yacht had
+slackened, and was doing, as before, about six knots.
+
+“The night wore on, till about two o’clock, when the wind freshened,
+and blew half a gale. At four the fog cleared, and the watch reported
+that the _Lucca_ was on their starboard quarter, a mile astern, with
+her engines stopped. Mr Theodore was called, and came on deck. There
+lay the steamer in the trough of the sea, rolling, heaving—so much so
+that they wondered her sticks did not go. No smoke issued from her
+funnel, and the steam-pipe gave no sign. The usual flag was flying, but
+no signal was shown in answer to the _Gloire de Dijon’s_ inquiry. There
+was no sail on her.
+
+“It was at once evident that something was wrong, and Mr Theodore
+ordered the yacht to be put about. They tried the signals, but, as I
+said, no notice was taken. On approaching the _Lucca_, which had to be
+done with some caution, as she slewed about in a helpless manner, and
+was drifting before the sea, an extraordinary spectacle presented
+itself. As she rolled, her deck came partly into view, and they saw,
+with what feelings may be imagined, several men lying on the deck, and
+thrown now this way, now that, as the rollers went under her, evidently
+either dead or unconscious.
+
+“Filled with alarm and excitement, they attempted to board the vessel,
+but found it impossible. The waves made all but a clean breach over
+her. She staggered like a drunken man, and swung now this way, now
+that. Some of the standing rigging had given way, and they could hear
+the masts creak. They were afraid to get under her lee in case they
+should fall.
+
+“At length the captain of the yacht thought of a plan. He got a hawser
+ready with a loop, and watching his opportunity, ran the yacht close to
+her bow, and with his own hand, at great risk, hurled the rope, and by
+good luck the loop caught in the fluke of one of her anchors. They paid
+the hawser out over the yacht’s stern, and gradually got her in tow. It
+strained fearfully; but as soon as they had got the _Lucca_ before the
+wind, they had her right enough, though there was even then some danger
+of being pooped. The sea was high, but not so high that the jolly-boat
+could live, and they manned her and boarded the _Lucca_.
+
+“The sailors were eager enough to get on board, but so soon as they
+were on deck the superstition of the sea seemed to seize them, and not
+one would venture from the gangway; for towards the stern there lay the
+bodies that they had seen, still and motionless, and evidently dead.
+
+“A terrible mystery hung over the ship—terrible, indeed!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Thirteen.
+
+
+“Not one of the seamen could be got to go below, or to approach the
+corpses on the deck; and even the mate, who did touch these last, had a
+reluctance to descend. It was, however, necessary to get another hawser
+attached to the _Lucca_, and this occupied some little time; and by
+then the men became more accustomed to the ship, and at last, led by
+the mate, they went down.
+
+“At the foot of the staircase a terrible sight met their gaze. A heap
+of people—seamen, passengers, all classes—lay huddled up together—dead.
+They were piled one over the other in ghastly profusion, having been
+probably flung about by the rolling of the ship when she got broadside
+on. So great was the heap that they could not advance without either
+stepping upon the bodies, or removing them; and in this emergency they
+signalled to the yacht, which sent another boat, and in it came Mr
+Theodore.
+
+“He at once gave orders to make a passage and to explore the steamer
+thoroughly, which was done, and done speedily, for the sailors, having
+now conquered their superstitious fears, worked with a will. From that
+heap thirty-five bodies were carried up on deck, and laid upon one side
+in an awful row. They exhibited no traces of violence whatever. Their
+faces were quite calm; though one or two had the eyeballs staring from
+the head, as if they had struggled to escape suffocation.
+
+“A search through the steamer revealed a cargo of the dead. Passengers
+lay at the doors of their berths, some half-dressed; and five or six
+were discovered in their berths, having evidently died while asleep.
+The engineer lay on the floor of the engine-room with three
+assistants—stiff, and with features grimly distorted. They had
+apparently suffered more than the rest.
+
+“The crew were found in various places. The captain lay near the
+engine-room, as if he had been on his way to consult with the engineer
+when death overtook him. Bodies were found all over the ship, and
+exclamations constantly arose as the men discovered fresh corpses. The
+air between decks was close and confined, and there was a fetid odour
+which they supposed to arise from the bodies, and which forced them
+sometimes to run on deck to breathe. This odour caused many of the
+sailors to vomit, and one or two were really ill for a time.
+
+“It appeared that the whole ship’s crew and all the passengers had
+perished; but one of the sailors searching about found a man in the
+wheelhouse on deck, who on being lifted up showed some slight trace of
+life. The sailors crowded round, and the excitement was intense. Mr
+Theodore, who is a physician by profession, lent the aid of his skill,
+and after a while the man began to come round, though unable to speak.
+
+“The captain of the yacht had now come on board, and a consultation was
+held, at which it was decided to run back to New York. But as the wind
+was strong and the sea high, and the hawsers strained a good deal, it
+was arranged to put a part of the crew of the yacht on board the
+_Lucca_, to get up steam in her boilers, and shape a course for the
+States. To this the crew of the yacht strongly objected—they came aft
+in a body and respectfully begged not to be asked to stay on board the
+_Lucca_. They dreaded a similar fate to that which befel the crew and
+passengers of that unfortunate steamer.
+
+“The end of it was that Mr Theodore ordered the hawsers to be kept
+attached, and the yacht was to partly tow the steamer and she was to
+partly steam ahead herself—the steam was to be got up, and the engines
+driven at half speed. This would ease the hawsers and the yacht, and at
+the same time the crew on board the _Lucca_ would be in communication
+with the yacht, and able to convey their wishes at once.
+
+“All agreed to this. Steam was easily got up, and the _Lucca’s_ boilers
+and her engines were soon working, for the machinery was found to be in
+perfect order. By the time that this arrangement was perfected, and the
+ships were, got well under weigh, the short day was nearly over, and
+with the night came anew the superstitions of the sailors. They
+murmured, and demurred to working a ship with a whole cargo of dead
+bodies. They would not move even across the deck alone, and as to going
+below it required them at once to face the mystery.
+
+“After an hour or so a clamour arose to pitch the dead overboard. What
+on earth was the use of keeping them? An abominable stench came up from
+between decks, and many of them could barely stand it. Mr Theodore and
+the captain begged them to be calm, but it was in vain. They rose _en
+masse_, and in a short space of time every one of these dead bodies had
+been heaved overboard.
+
+“The gale had moderated, and the splash of each corpse as it fell into
+the water could be distinctly heard on board the yacht ahead. Such
+conduct cannot be too much deplored, and there was a talk of
+prosecuting the men for mutiny; but, on the other hand, there appears
+to be some excuse in the extraordinary and unprecedented horrors of the
+situation.
+
+“Mr Theodore remained on board the _Lucca_, doing all that science and
+patience could do for the sole survivor, who proved to be the third
+officer. Towards sunrise he rallied considerably, but Mr Theodore never
+had any hopes, and advised the captain to take a note of his
+depositions, which was done.
+
+“His name, he said, was William Burrows, of Maine. He could only speak
+a few sentences at a time, and that very faintly, but the substance of
+it was that all went well with the _Lucca_ up till early that morning,
+when first the fog came on. Very soon after the mist settled down, and
+speed was reduced, there was a commotion below, and a report spread
+through the ship that three men were dying. In ten minutes half a dozen
+more were taken in this manner. They complained merely of inability to
+breathe, and of a deadly weakness, and prayed to be taken on deck. This
+was done; but then ten or twelve more were affected, and those who went
+below to assist them up on deck fell victims at once to the same
+strange disorder. Every one throughout the ship complained of a faint,
+sickly odour, and no sooner was this inhaled than a deadly lethargy
+seized upon them, and increased till they fell down and died. He
+happened to be on deck in the wheelhouse at the time, and saw half a
+dozen sailors and three of the passengers brought up, but remembered no
+more, for the sickly smell invaded the deck. He heard a singing in his
+ears, and the blood seemed to press heavily, as if driven upwards
+against the roof of his skull. He remembered no more for some hours.
+Then he, as it were, awoke, and got up on his legs, but again felt the
+same lethargy, and fell. When the disorder first attacked the ship’s
+company, the captain talked of stopping the steamer and signalling for
+assistance; but it appeared to be useless, for the fog was so thick
+that any flag, or rocket, or light would have been unnoticed at half a
+cable’s distance. Preparations were made to fire a gun, and the steam
+blast was ordered, but the engineer was dead, and no one would go
+below. The captain then descended to go to the engine-room, and was
+seen no more. Meantime the steamer continued her way. When he got on
+his legs in the wheelhouse, it was just after the bow of the _Lucca_
+had carried away the boom of an unknown sailing ship, and he could feel
+that she was then going at a tremendous speed. The fog had cleared, and
+if he had had strength enough he could have made signals, but the
+deadly sleep came over him again, and he was unconscious till picked up
+by the crew of the _Gloire de Dijon_.
+
+“This was all he could tell, and it threw no light upon the cause of
+the disaster. After he had signed this in a shaky hand—I have seen the
+original document—he sank rapidly, and, despite of every remedy and
+stimulant, died before noon. His body was the only one brought into
+port, and it was interred yesterday in the presence of a vast assembly.
+A _post-mortem_ examination failed to detect the slightest trace of
+poison or indication of disease; and all those who assisted in removing
+the dead bodies on board the _Lucca_, declare that they presented no
+known symptoms of any epidemic—for the prevailing belief in New York at
+first was that some epidemic had broken out—a kind of plague, which
+destroyed its victims almost as soon as attacked. But for this there
+seems no foundation whatever. None of the sailors of the yacht caught
+the epidemic. One or two were unwell for a day or so, but are now well
+and hearty.
+
+“I think Mr Theodore’s suggestion the best that has been made—and it
+gradually gains ground with educated men, though the mass cling to the
+fanciful notion of foul play in some unheard-of way—Mr Theodore thinks
+that it was caused by the generation of coal-damp, or some similar and
+fatal gas, in the coal-bunkers of the _Lucca_; and everything seems to
+favour this supposition. It is well-known that in cold
+weather—especially in cold weather accompanied by fog—coal-damp in
+mines is especially active and fatal. Most of the great explosions
+which have destroyed hundreds at once have occurred in such a state of
+the atmosphere.
+
+“Now the fog which came on that fatal morning was peculiarly thick and
+heavy, and it so happens that the coal in the _Lucca’s_ bunkers came
+from a colliery where, only a fortnight ago, there was an explosion.
+The vapour, or gas, or whatever it was that was thus generated, was not
+the true coal-damp, or it would have been ignited by the furnaces of
+the boilers, or at the cook’s fires; but in all probability it was
+something very near akin to it. All the symptoms described by poor
+Burrows, are those of blood-poisoning combined with suffocation, and
+such would be the effects of a gas or vapour arising from coal. Fatal
+effects arising from damp coal in close bunkers are on record; but this
+is the worst ever heard of.
+
+“It would seem that after the engineer and the crew fell into their
+fatal slumbers, the steam in the boilers must have reached almost a
+bursting pressure—the boilers being untended—and the engineer, in
+falling, had opened the valve to the full, which accounts for the
+extraordinary speed of the _Lucca_ when pursued by the yacht. Being a
+very long vessel and sharp in the bows, and going at a very high speed,
+she would naturally keep nearly a direct course, as there was little
+wind or sea to interfere with her rudder. So soon as the fires burned
+out the engines stopped, and the sea rising, she became entirely at the
+mercy of the waves.
+
+“When Burrows fell a victim he saw nine or ten men on deck lying prone
+in a fatal sleep—when the _Gloire de Dijon_ sent a boat’s crew on board
+there were but three bodies on deck; the rest had rolled, or been
+washed, overboard.
+
+“These are the principal particulars of this unprecedented catastrophe.
+This is a long letter, but I am sure that you will be eager for news
+upon the subject, and, to tell the truth, I cannot get it out of my
+mind, and it relieves me to write it down.
+
+“What a narrow escape we have all had. And especially me, for I came on
+to New York from Imola before the rest started, and got clear through
+without any snow. When it was found that they could not reach New York
+in time, I was in doubt whether to go by the _Lucca_, or remain and
+accompany the main body in the _Saskatchewan_. Accident decided. I met
+an old friend whom I had not seen for years, and resolved to take
+advantage of the delay, and spend a day or two with him. So I escaped.
+
+“But had it not been for the snow-storm, which caused so much cursing
+at the time, we should one and all have perished miserably. The
+impression made upon us was so deep that just before the _Saskatchewan_
+started the whole body of the claimants attended a special service at a
+church here, when thanksgivings were offered for the escape they had
+had, and prayers offered up for future safety.
+
+“I look forward with much pleasure to my voyage in the _Gloire de
+Dijon_ yacht, at Mr Baskette’s invitation. A finer, more gentlemanly
+man does not exist; and I am greatly impressed with the learning of Mr
+Theodore.”
+
+Aymer was much struck with the contents of this letter of Anthony
+Baskelette’s. The whole tragedy seemed to pass before his mind; his
+vivid imagination called up a picture of the _Lucca_, steaming as fast
+as bursting pressure could drive her with a crew of corpses across the
+winter sea. He made an extract from it, and sent it to Violet. Next day
+they were _en route_ for Stirmingham.
+
+At the same moment the designer of this horrible event was steaming
+across the Atlantic in his splendid yacht, gulling weak-minded, simple
+Baskelette with highest notions of honour, and what not. When Marese
+found that the snow had blocked the line and prevented access to New
+York, his rage and disappointment knew no bounds; but he was
+sufficiently master of himself to think and decide upon the course to
+be pursued.
+
+Although that part of the diabolical scheme which aimed at the
+wholesale destruction of the claimants had failed, all the other
+sections of it were in train to succeed. The bullion was shipped, the
+cargo a rich one, the steamer herself valuable—no better prize could
+ever fall to him. Therefore he telegraphed to Theodore in cypher to
+proceed as had been arranged.
+
+The infernal machine, concealed in the simple aspect of an ordinary
+strong deal-box, was sent on board the _Lucca_, and everything happened
+just as Theodore had foreseen. If the conspirators were somewhat
+disturbed in their calculations by the snow-storm, on the other hand
+their designs were assisted by the heavy fog which had occurred at sea.
+Undoubtedly this fog rendered the poisonous gas escaping from the case
+still more effective, as it would prevent it dispersing so rapidly, and
+at the same time it hid any signals the _Lucca_ might have made.
+
+Nothing more fortunate for the conspirators than this fog could have
+happened, for its service did not end here—it furnished a plausible
+explanation of what would have otherwise been inexplicable.
+
+Theodore easily contrived the removal of the fatal case, now empty, on
+board the _Gloire de Dijon_ after the _Lucca_ had returned to port. The
+case had been consigned to Liverpool, which was the port the _Lucca_
+was bound for, and the excuse for sending it by the _Lucca_ was all cut
+and dried—i.e., that the _Gloire de Dijon_ was for London.
+
+Nothing was more natural than that, after this narrow escape, it should
+be wished to transfer the case to the _Gloire de Dijon_. This was done;
+and while at sea Theodore quietly removed his machine and pitched it
+into the water at night, and it sank in the abyss, being lined with
+iron inside.
+
+The question of salvage bid fair to occupy the Courts in New York for
+some considerable time, and to be a boon to the lawyers; but the two
+conspirators were far too keen to let their prize slip from them in
+that way. They managed to have the matter referred to arbitration, and
+the final result was that 400,000 pounds was awarded. This amount they
+at once transferred to London, and with it plunged at once into fresh
+schemes.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Fourteen.
+
+
+The great city whose ownership was at stake, knew that the eagles were
+gathered to the living carcase, and yet did not feel their presence.
+What are one hundred and fifty people in a population of half a
+million? They are lost, unless they march in order and attract
+attention by blocking up the streets. Disband a regiment of the Line in
+Saint Paul’s Churchyard at London, and in ten minutes it would
+disappear, and no one would notice any unusual prevalence of red coats
+on the pavements.
+
+The newspaper people were woefully disappointed, for the Press were not
+admitted. They revenged themselves with caricature portraits of the
+claimants, and grotesque sketches of their manners and conduct.
+Although the Press were excluded; there were several present who could
+write shorthand, and amongst these was a clerk from the office of Shaw,
+Shaw, and Simson, whose notes I have had the opportunity of consulting.
+
+The Sternhold Hall, in which the council was held, was built, as has
+been stated, upon a spot once the very centre of the Swamp, now
+surrounded with noble streets of mansions and club-houses, theatres,
+picture-galleries—the social centre of Stirmingham. The front—you can
+buy a photograph of it for a shilling—is of the Ionic order of
+architecture—that is, the modern mock Ionic—i.e., the basement is
+supported by columns of that order, and above these the _façade_
+consists of windows in the Gothic style, which are, after all, dumb
+windows only. The guide-books call it magnificent; it is really simply
+incongruous.
+
+The whole of the first two days was spent by the one hundred and fifty
+claimants in wrangling as to who should take the chair, how the
+business should be conducted, who should be admitted and who should
+not. All the minor differences suppressed while on the voyage broke out
+afresh, the moment the eagles had scented the carcase. Two days’
+glimpse at the wealth of Stirmingham, was sufficient to upset all the
+artificial calm and friendship, which had been introduced by the
+generous offers of Marese Baskette. One gentleman proposed that a
+certain section of claimants should be wholly excluded from the hall.
+This caused a hubbub, and if the incident had happened in the States
+revolvers might have been used. The Original Swampers declared that
+they would not sit under a chairman drawn from any other body but
+themselves. The outer circle of Baskettes considered that the conceit
+of the Swampers was something unbearable, and declined to support them
+in any way. The Illegitimate Swampers alone supported the Originals, in
+the hope of getting up by clinging to their coat-tails. The Primitive
+Sibbolds were quite as determined to sit under no president but their
+own, and, the ranks of the other Sibbolds were split up into twenty
+parties. The clamour of tongues, the excitement, the hubbub was
+astounding.
+
+Aymer, as clerk to Mr Broughton, had a first-rate view of the whole,
+for Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had provided for the comfort of their
+representative by purchasing for the time the right to use the stage
+entrance of the room. Their offices were for the nonce established in
+the green-room. Their clients mounted upon the platform or stage, and
+passed behind the curtain to private consultation. This astute
+management upset the other seven companies, whose representatives had
+to locate themselves as best they might in the midst of a stormy sea of
+contending people. From the rear of the stage, just where the
+stage-manager was accustomed to look out upon the audience and watch
+the effect upon them of the play, Aymer had a good view of the crowd
+below, and beheld men in every shade of cloth, with rolls of paper,
+yellow deeds, or old books and quill pens in their hands, gesticulating
+and chattering like the starlings at World’s End.
+
+For two whole days the storm continued, till at last Mr Broughton
+suggested that the debate should be conducted in sections; each party
+to have its own president, secretary, committee, and reporter of
+progress; each to sit apart from the others by means of screens, and
+that there should be a central committee-room, to receive the reports
+and tabulate them in order. This scheme was adopted, and something like
+order began to prevail. Anthony Baskelette, Esq, who had now arrived
+per the _Gloire de Dijon_, was pretty unanimously voted to the
+presidentship of the central committee, or section, the members of
+which were composed of representatives from every party. Screens were
+provided at no little expense, and the great hall was portioned out
+into thirty or forty pens, not unlike the high pews used of old in
+village churches.
+
+Aymer was intensely interested and amused, as he stood at his peep-hole
+on the stage, from which he could see into every one of these pens, or
+pews, and watch the eagerness of the disputes going on between the
+actors in each.
+
+The first great object the sections had in view was to reduce their
+claims to something like shape and order; for this purpose each section
+was numbered from 1 to 37, and was to deliver to the central section,
+Number 38, a report or summary of the general principles and facts upon
+which the members of the section based their claim. This summary of
+claim, as it was called, was to be short, succinct, and clear; and to
+be supported by minute extracts of evidence, by the vouchers of the
+separate individuals, so to say, showing that the summary was correct.
+
+These extracts of evidence attached to the summary were really not
+extracts, but full copies, and had to contain the dates, names, method
+of identification, and references to church registers, tombstones,
+family Bibles, and so forth.
+
+Aymer was astounded at the magnitude of these volumes of evidence—for
+such, in fact, they were. He had an opportunity of just glancing at
+them, as they were laid upon the table of the central section one after
+another. The summaries were reasonable and tolerably well expressed.
+The minutes of evidence were something overwhelming. A section would
+send up in the course of a day—first, its summary and a pile of
+folios—seventy or eighty large lawyer’s folios of evidence to be
+attached to it. On the morrow it would beg for permission to add to its
+evidence, and towards the afternoon up would come another huge bundle
+of closely-written manuscript.
+
+This would go on for several days, till the central committee at last
+issued an order to receive no more evidence from section Number —.
+
+Then section Number — would hold an indignation meeting and protest,
+till the central committee was obliged to receive additional bundles of
+so-called evidence. Half of this evidence was nothing better than
+personal recollection.
+
+The method pursued in the sections was delightfully simple and
+gratifying to every member’s vanity. He was supplied with pen and ink,
+and told to put down all he could recollect about his family. The
+result was that in each section there were five or six people—and in
+some more—all busily at work, writing autobiographies; and as everybody
+considered himself of quite as much consequence as his neighbour, the
+bulk of these autobiographies can easily be imagined.
+
+If any one had taken the trouble to wade through these personal
+histories, he would have been highly gratified with the fertility of
+the United States in breeding truly benevolent, upright, and
+distinguished men!
+
+Out of all that one hundred and fifty there was not one who did not
+merit the gratitude of his township at least, and some were fully
+worthy of the President’s chair at the White House. Their labours for
+the good of others were most carefully recorded—the subscriptions they
+had made to local charities far away on the other side of the Atlantic,
+to schoolhouses, and chapels, town-halls, and what not.
+
+“There,” ran many a proud record,—“you will see my initials upon the
+corner-stone—‘J.I.B.,’ for ‘Jonathan Ithuriel Baskette,’ and the date
+(186-), which is in itself good evidence towards my case.”
+
+All this mass of rubbish had to be sifted by the central, committee, to
+be docketed, indexed, arranged, and a general analysis made of it.
+
+They worked for a while without a murmur, and suddenly collapsed. It
+was impossible to meet the flood of writing. Fancy one hundred and
+fifty people writing their autobiographies all at once, and each
+determined to do himself justice! Such a spectacle was never witnessed
+since the world began, and was worthy of the nineteenth century. The
+central committee flung up their hands in despair. A resource was
+presently found in the printing-press.
+
+When once the idea was started, the cry spread to all corners of the
+hall, and rose in a volume of sound to be echoed from the roof. The
+Press! The Spirit evoked by Faust which he could not control, nor any
+who have followed him.
+
+It was unanimously decided that everything should be printed—sectional
+summaries, minutes of evidence, central committees analysis, solicitors
+arguments, references and all. There was rejoicing in the printing
+offices at Stirmingham that day. Now the _Stirmingham Daily Post_
+reaped the reward of its long attack upon the family of the heir, upon
+Sternhold Baskette, and Marese, his son. The contract was offered to
+the _Daily Post_, the _Daily Post_ accepted it, and set to work, but
+soon found it necessary to obtain the aid of other local printers.
+
+Now a new source of delay and worry arose. The moment everybody knew
+they were going into print—why is it print sounds so much better than
+manuscript?—each and all wanted to revise and add to their histories.
+First, all the sections had to receive back their summaries and minutes
+of evidence, to be re-written, corrected, revised, and above all
+extended. The scribbling of pens recommenced with redoubled vigour, and
+now the printer’s devils appeared upon the scene. The cost of printing
+the enormous mass of verbiage must have been something immense, but it
+was cheerfully submitted to—because each man looked forward to the
+pleasure of seeing himself in print.
+
+Acres upon acres of proofs went in and out of the Sternhold Hall, and
+meantime Aymer grew impatient and weary of it. His time was much more
+occupied than at Barnham. He had to conduct all Broughton’s
+correspondence, and when that was finished lend a hand in arranging the
+minutes of evidence for the committee, who had applied for assistance
+to the solicitors. He had only reckoned on a month at Stirmingham at
+the outside. Already a fortnight had elapsed, and there seemed no sign
+of the end.
+
+His letters to Violet became tinged with a species of dull despair. All
+this scribbling was to him the very acme of misery, the very winter of
+discontent—meaningless, insufferable. There was no progress in it for
+him: he could not find a minute’s spare time now to proceed with his
+private work. Not a step was gained nearer Violet.
+
+When at last the scribbling was over; when the proofs had been read and
+re-read and corrected till the compositors went mad; then the
+speechifying had to begin. This to Aymer was even more wearisome than
+the other. For Mr Broughton having discovered his literary talent,
+employed him to listen to the debate and write a daily _précis_ of its
+progress, which it would be less trouble to him to read than the
+copious and interminable notes of the shorthand writer.
+
+This order compelled Aymer to pay close attention to every speech from
+first to last; and as they one and all followed the American plan of
+writing out their speeches and reading them, most were of inordinate
+length. To suit the speakers a new arrangement of the hall had to be
+made. The screens were now removed, and the sections placed in a kind
+of semi-circle, with the central section in front. Those who desired to
+speak gave in their names, and were called upon by the president in
+regular rotation.
+
+The first subject discussed was the method to be pursued. Some
+recommended that the whole body of claimants should combine and present
+their claims _en masse_. Others thought that this plan might sacrifice
+those who had good claims to those who had bad ones. Many were for
+forming a committee, chosen from the various sections, to remain in
+England and instruct the solicitors; others were for forming at once a
+committee of solicitors.
+
+After four or five days of fierce discussion the subject was still
+unsettled, and a new one occupied its place. This was—how should the
+plunder be divided? Such a topic seemed to outsiders very much like
+reckoning the chickens before they were hatched. But not so to these
+enthusiastic gentlemen. They were certain of wresting the properly from
+the hands of the “Britishers,” who had so long kept them out of their
+rights—the Stars and Stripes would yet float over the city of
+Stirmingham, and the President of the United States should be invited
+to a grand dinner in that very hall!
+
+The division of the property caused more dissension than everything
+else taken together. One section—that of the Original Swampers—declared
+that it _would_ have, nothing should prevent its having, the whole of
+the streets, etc, built on the site of the Swamp. The Sibbolds cared
+not a rap for the Swamp; they _would_ have all the property which had
+grown upon the site of old Sibbold’s farm at Wolfs Glow. The
+Illegitimates claimed pieces here and there, corresponding to the
+islands of the Swamp. Some one proposed that the meeting should be
+provided with maps of Stirmingham, and the idea was unanimously
+adopted.
+
+Then came the day of the surveyors. One vast map was ordered—it had to
+be made in sections—and was estimated to cover, when extended, a mile
+in length by three hundred yards in breadth; and then it did not
+satisfy some of the claimants. Then followed a terrible wrangle over
+the maps. Everybody wanted to mark his possession upon it with red ink,
+and these red ink lines invariably interfered with one another. One
+gentleman proposed, with true American ingenuity, to have the map
+traced in squares—like the outlying territories and backwoods of
+America—and to assign to each section a square! But this was too equal
+a mode to satisfy the more grasping.
+
+Finally, it was resolved that all the minutes of evidence should be
+gone through by the central committee, and that they should sketch out
+those portions of the city to which each section was entitled. This
+took some time. At the end of that time the great Sternhold Hall
+presented an extraordinary spectacle. The walls of the hall, from the
+ceiling to the floor, and all round, and the very ceiling itself, were
+papered with these sections of the map, each strongly marked with lines
+in red ink. Near the stage there was a vast library of books, reaching
+half-way to the ceiling; this was composed of the summaries, minutes of
+evidence, etc.
+
+All round the room wandered the claimants in knots of two or three,
+examining their claims as marked upon the sections of the map. Many had
+opera-glasses to distinguish the claims which were “skyed;” some
+affected to lie down on their backs and examine the ceiling with
+telescopes; scores had their volume of evidence in their hands, and
+were trying to discover upon what principle the central committee had
+apportioned out the city.
+
+Of course there was a general outcry of dissatisfaction—one section had
+too much, another too little, and some sections, it was contended, had
+no right to any. The meeting then resolved that each section should
+visit the spaces marked out for its claim, and should report to the
+central committee upon its value. Away went the sections, and there
+might have been seen five or six gentlemen in one street, and ten or
+twelve round the corner, with maps and pencils, talking eagerly, and
+curiously scanning the shops and houses—poking their noses into back
+courts and alleys—measuring the frontage of club-houses and theatres.
+The result was an uproar, for each section declared that the other had
+had a more valuable portion of the city given to it; and one utterly
+rejected its section, for it had got the Wolf’s Glow district—the
+lowest den in Stirmingham!
+
+After a long discussion, it was at last arranged that each section
+should retain, _pro tem_, its claim as marked out, and that _token the
+property was realised_, any excess of one section over the other should
+be equally divided. These people actually contemplated the possibility
+of putting the city up to auction! To such lengths will the desire of
+wealth drive the astutest of men, blinding their eyes to their own
+absurdity.
+
+After these preliminary points were settled, the meeting at last
+resolved itself into a committee of the whole house, and proceeded to
+business. The first business was to verify the evidence. This
+necessitated visits to the churches, and public record office to make
+extracts, etc, and two days were set apart for that purpose. It was a
+rich harvest for the parish clerks of Stirmingham, and especially for
+the fortunate clerk at Wolf’s Glow. After this the meeting, beginning
+to be alarmed at the enormous expense it had incurred, resolved on
+action, and with that object it decided to hold a secret session, and
+to exclude all persons not strictly claimants.
+
+This relieved Aymer from his wearisome task of chronicling the
+proceedings; but he could not leave or get a day to visit Violet. As he
+left the hall he stopped a moment to look at the stock-in-trade of an
+itinerant bookseller, who had established his track in front of the
+building since the family congress began. His stock was principally
+genealogical, antiquarian, and topographical—mostly old rubbish, that
+no one would imagine to be worth a sixpence, and yet which, among a
+certain class, commands a good sale.
+
+The title of a more modern-looking volume caught Aymer’s eye. It was “A
+Fortune for a Shilling,” and consisted of a list of unclaimed estates,
+next of kin, persons advertised for, etc. He weighed it in his hand—it
+tempted him; yet he despised himself for his weakness. But Violet? He
+should serve her best by saving his shilling. He put it down, and went
+his way.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Fifteen.
+
+
+Their mouths watered for the great city, yet it seemed no nearer to
+them than when three thousand miles away on the other side of the
+Atlantic. They talked loudly of their rights, but there was the little
+difficulty of possession, which is sometimes a trifle more than nine
+points of the law. I have conversed with unreasonable members of a
+certain Church, which claims to be universal, who considered that half
+England—half the vast domains owned by lords and ladies, by the two
+hundred and fifty proprietors of Great Britain—was really the property
+of the Church, if she had her rights.
+
+There are those who consider that Algeria ought to belong to the Arabs,
+that Africa belongs to the blacks, and India to the Hindoos. Sat there
+comes this awkward item of possession. You have to buy the man in
+possession out, or else pitch him out; and the difficulty in this case
+was that there were so many in possession. Eight companies and a
+Corporation are not easily ejected.
+
+The fact was, the grand family council was a farce, and fell through.
+Even as a demonstration it completely failed. The members of it might
+just as well have stayed at home, and sent a monster petition to the
+House of Lords, several hundred yards long (as per the usual custom
+now-a-days), and their progress would have been about as great.
+
+The _Stirmingham Daily News_, which had published the life of Sternhold
+Baskette, and defended his legitimate line, poured bitter satire upon
+it, and held the whole business up to ridicule—as well it might. The
+_News_ was now Conservative. The intense self-conceit of the Yankees—to
+imagine that they were going to quietly take possession of a great
+English city, and hoist the Stars and Stripes on Saint George’s
+Cathedral at Stirmingham!
+
+The American gentlemen fumed and fussed, and uttered threats of making
+the Stirmingham claim a feature in the next Presidential election—it
+should “leave the low sphere of personal contention, and enter the
+arena of political discussion;” so they said. It should be a new
+_Alabama_ case; and if they could not have Stirmingham, they would
+have—the Dollars!
+
+Meantime the dollars disappeared rather rapidly, and, after a month or
+six weeks of these endless wranglings in the Sternhold Hall, there
+began to be symptoms of an early break-up. First, three or four, then
+ten, then a dozen, crept off, and quietly sailed for New York, lighter
+in pocket, and looking rather foolish. The body, however, of the
+claimants could not break up in that ignominious manner. It was
+necessary for them to do something to mark the fact that they had been
+there, at all events.
+
+The final result was that they appointed a committee of solicitors—one
+for each section that chose to be represented. Twenty-two sections did
+choose, and twenty-two solicitors formed the English committee who were
+to promote the claims of one hundred and fifty able-bodied Baskettes
+and Sibboldians, who represented about three times that number of women
+and children. Then they held a banquet in the Sternhold Hall, and
+invited the Mayor of Stirmingham, who, however, was very busy that
+evening, and “deeply regretted” his inability to be present. The
+council then broke up, and departed for New York.
+
+Aymer was indeed glad; now he should be able to see Violet again, and
+resume his book so long laid aside. But no; there came a new surprise.
+A certain recalcitrant borough in the West returned unexpectedly a
+member of the wrong colour to Parliament, and the House was dissolved,
+and writs were issued for a general election. Three days afterwards an
+address appeared in the _Stirmingham Daily News_, announcing Marese
+Baskette as a candidate for that place in the Conservative interest.
+The heir had resolved to enter the House if possible, and his
+proclamation fell on Stirmingham, not like a thunderbolt, but like the
+very apple of discord dropped from heaven.
+
+First, it upset poor Aymer’s little plans and hopes. The companies were
+desperately alarmed, and not without reason; for if Marese got into
+Parliament he would, no doubt, very quickly become in himself a power,
+and would be supported by his party in his claim upon the building
+societies. It would be to the interest of his party that he should
+obtain his property—it would be so much substantial gain to them.
+Practically, Marese Baskette would have the important borough of
+Stirmingham in his pocket; therefore the party would be sure to do all
+they could to get his claim fully admitted. Imagine that party in
+power; fancy the chief at the head of Government!
+
+Every one knows that justice and equity are immaculate in England, and
+that no strain is ever put upon them for political purposes, or to
+gratify political supporters. The fact is so well understood, so
+patent, that it is unnecessary to adduce any proof of it. But there is,
+nevertheless, a certain indefinite feeling that the complexion of the
+political party in power extends very widely, and penetrates into
+quarters supposed to be remote from its centre. Whichever happens to be
+uppermost—but let us not even think such treasonable things.
+
+At all events the companies had a real dread—a heartfelt fear—lest
+Marese Baskette should get into Parliament, and so obtain political
+support to his claim. They had foreseen something of the kind; they had
+dreaded its happening any time ever since he came of age; but they had
+reckoned that his known poverty would keep him out, especially as there
+was a very popular landlord in the county, Sir Jasper Norton, who, with
+another prominent supporter of the Liberal Government, had hitherto
+proved invincible. It had hung over their heads for years; now it had
+fallen, and fallen, of all other times, just at the very moment when
+their leases were on the point of expiring. A more unfortunate moment
+for them could not have been chosen. With one consent they resolved to
+fight him tooth and nail. This was fatal to poor Aymer’s hopes. For the
+company (Number 6) which employed Shaw, Shaw, and Simson could not
+possibly spare Mr Broughton’s energetic spirit; he must help them fight
+the coming man. Broughton, seeing good fees and some sport, resolved,
+to stay, and with him poor Aymer had to remain.
+
+The whole city was in a ferment. Marese Baskette’s name was upon every
+lip, and as the murmur swelled into a roar it grew into something very
+like a cheer for the heir. That cheer penetrated the thick walls of
+many a fashionable villa and mansion, and was listened to with
+ill-concealed anxiety. Many a portly gentleman, dressed in the tailor’s
+best, with broad shirt-front, gold studs, and heavy ring, rubicund with
+good living, as he stood upon his hearth-rug, with his back to the
+fire, in the midst of his family circle, surrounded with luxury, grew
+thoughtful and absent as that dull distant roar reached his ears.
+Banker and speculator, city man, merchant, ironworker, coalowner,
+millowner, heard and trembled. For the first time they began to
+comprehend the meaning of the word Mob.
+
+That word is well understood in America; twice it has been thoroughly
+spelt and learnt by heart in France. Will it ever be learnt in England?
+Outside those thick walls and strong shutters in the dingy street or
+dimly-lit suburban road, where the bitter winter wind drove the cold
+rain and sleet along, there roamed abroad a mighty monster roused from
+his den. They heard and trembled. Before that monster the safeguards of
+civilisation are as cobwebs. He may be scotched with Horse Guards and
+Snider rifles, beaten back into his caverns; but of what avail is that
+after the mischief is done? In sober earnest, the middle classes began
+to fear for the safety of Stirmingham. You see, the grey sewer-rats had
+undermined it from end to end!
+
+It happened that the ironmasters and the coalowners, and some of the
+millowners, had held out long and successfully against a mighty strike:
+a strike that extended almost to a million of hearths and homes. They
+had won in the struggle, but the mind of the monster was bitter against
+them. They were Liberal—nearly all. Let them and their candidates keep
+a good look-out!
+
+It happened also that the winter was hard and cold, work scarce,
+provisions dear; everything was wrong. It is at such times that, in
+exact opposition to all rules, the grey rat flourishes!
+
+Finally, it happened that the party who had so strangely abdicated
+power just at the time when they seemed so firmly fixed, had committed
+a singularly, an exceptionally, unpopular act. They had robbed the poor
+man of his beer! They had curtailed his hours for drinking it, and to
+all appearance in an arbitrary way. Rumour said that they contemplated
+an alliance with the Cold Water Pump—that horror of horrors, the
+Temperance party. They had robbed the poor man of his beer! And the
+grey rat showed his teeth.
+
+Marese Baskette issued his _pronunciamento_, and at once opened the
+campaign. Everybody read it, from the club-house to the grimy bar of
+the lowest public-house. The club-house smiled, and said, “Clever;” the
+pot-house cheered, and cried, “He’s our man.” He _was_ their man. Even
+yet, at this distance of time, there lingered in the minds of the
+populace a distinct recollection of the great saturnalia which had been
+held in the days of old Sternhold Baskette, when their candidate was
+born.
+
+History magnifies itself as time rolls on; the memory of that brief
+hour of unlimited riot had grown till it remained the one green spot in
+the life of the Stirmingham populace. This was the very man—this was
+the very infant whose advent, almost a generation ago, had been
+celebrated with rejoicings such as no king or queen in these degenerate
+days ever offered to the people.
+
+When old Sternhold Baskette in the joy of his heart poured out wine in
+gallons, spirits in casks, and beer in rivers, he baptised his son
+Marese, the Child of the People. And it bore fruit at this great
+distance of time.
+
+John Marese Baskette was, as we know, a clever man; he had a still more
+subtle man at his elbow. Between them they composed his address and his
+first oration. Be sure they did not forget the memory so dear to the
+people. Not one single thing was omitted which could tend to identify
+Marese Baskette with the populace. The combination of capital against
+them, the hard winter and price of provisions, all were skilfully
+turned to advantage; and, above all, the beer. When the publicans had
+read his address they one and all said, “He’s our man.” Licensed
+victuallers, beer-house keepers, “off the premises” men, gin-palace,
+eating-house, restaurant, hotel—all joined hands and marched in chorus,
+praising the man who promised to turn on the beer.
+
+For he’s a jolly good fellow,
+And so say all of us!
+
+
+But Marese Baskette did not wholly rely upon the poorer classes: he
+gained the goodwill, or at least the neutrality, of two-thirds of the
+middle classes, by openly declaring that when he came into his
+property, as he grandly designated half the city, he should devote
+one-third of it to the relief of local taxation, to form a kind of
+common fund for sewers, gas, water, poor-rates, paving, etc. He went
+further—this he did not promulgate openly, but he caused it to be
+spread industriously abroad from house to house—and said that, when he
+inherited his rights, the house rents should be reduced from their
+present exorbitant figure.
+
+Now it was notorious that the companies only waited to see whether they
+could tide over the year of expiration of their leases before they
+raised the rents. The arrow therefore went home. Baskette had hit the
+nail upon the head. The other party began to threaten petitions for
+bribery—contending that these promises were nothing short of it.
+
+The _Daily Post_ published a leader on “Glaring Corruption and
+Wholesale Venality.” Baskette and Theodore smiled. What would be the
+use of unseating him if, as they clearly saw, the opposite party was
+gone to utter destruction?
+
+Baskette met with a triumphant reception at his first meeting. Whenever
+he appeared in the streets he was cheered to the echo.
+
+The building societies and the Corporation were desperately alarmed.
+Though so bitterly opposed to each other at ordinary times, a common
+fear gave them unity. They held a secret meeting—at least they thought
+it was secret, but such things are impossible in our time. The pen is
+everywhere—its sharp point penetrates through the thickest wall. They
+united, formed themselves into an association, voted funds—secret
+also—hired speakers and hired roughs.
+
+It all leaked out. The _Stirmingham Daily News_—Baskette’s paper—came
+out with a report and a leader, and held up the poor heir to the
+commiseration of the people. See what a combination against
+him!—anything to keep him out of his rights. Hired speakers to talk him
+down—hired roughs to knock him on the head. Vested interests arrayed
+against him—poor heir! How deeply to be pitied! How greatly to be
+sympathised with! The paper used stronger language than this, and
+hinted at “gangs of foul conspirators,” but that was not gentlemanly.
+
+The exposure was worth a thousand votes to Baskette. But though
+exposed, the Corporation and the companies never ceased their efforts.
+Between them they comprised almost all of the rich employers of labour.
+They had one terrible engine—a fearful instrument of oppression and
+torture—invented in our modern days, in order that we may not get free
+and “become as gods.” They put on the screw.
+
+There is not a working man in England, from the hedger and ditcher, and
+the wretch who breaks the flints by the roadside, up to the best paid
+clerk or manager of a bank—not one single man who receives wages from
+another—who does not know the meaning of that word.
+
+Let no one imagine that the “screw” is confined in its operation to the
+needy artisan or the labourer. It extends into all ranks of society,
+poisons every family circle, tortures every tenant and householder—all
+who in any way depend for comfort, luxury, or peace upon another
+person. There is but one rank who are free—the few who, whether for
+wages or as tenants, never have to look to others.
+
+Society is divided into two sections—the first, infinitely numerous,
+and the second, infinitely few—i.e., the Screwed-down, and the
+Screw-drivers. Now, the Corporation and the companies were the
+screw-drivers, and they twisted the horrible engine up tight.
+
+Perhaps they gave it one turn too many; at all events the mob set up a
+yell. They formed processions and marched about the streets with
+bundles of screws, strung like bunches of keys, at the end of poles.
+Squibs flew in all directions—too personal to be quoted here. Somebody
+wrote a parody on “John Brown’s Knapsack”—representing old Sternhold
+Baskette as John Brown, and his soul as marching on. This, set to
+music, resounded in every corner.
+
+It is sad, but it is true. Everything might still have gone off pretty
+quiet, had it not been for religion, or rather pseudo-religion. There
+were in the city vast numbers of workmen of the lowest class from
+Ireland, and when the watchwords “Orangemen” and “Papists” are
+mentioned, every one will understand. Fights occurred hourly—a grand
+battle-royal was imminent. The grey rats did all they could to foster
+the animosity, and got up sham quarrels to set fire to the excited
+passions of the mob. Their game was riot, in order that they might
+plunder. While the fools were fighting and the wise men trying to put
+them down, the grey rats meant to make off with all they could get.
+
+Aymer, having by this time made for himself some little reputation for
+intelligence and quick observation, was sent out by the committee, of
+which Broughton was chairman, to watch the temper of the people; to
+penetrate into all the corners and out-of-the-way places; to hang on
+the skirts of the crowd and pick up their hopes and wishes, and to make
+reports from time to time as anything struck him. He was even to bring
+in the lampoons and squibs that were circulated, and, if possible, to
+spy out the secret doings of the other party—a commission which gave
+him liberty to roam. He wished to be gone, but this was better than the
+close office-work. He should see something of life; he should see man
+face to face. (In gilded salons and well-bred society it is only the
+profile one sees—the full face is averted.) He put on his roughest
+suit, took his note-book, and strolled out into the city.
+
+The first thing he had to report was that an insinuation which had been
+spread abroad against Baskette was actually working in his favour. It
+had been thrown out that he was upon too familiar terms with a certain
+lady, singer and actress, the fame of whose wonderful beauty was
+sullied with suspicions of her frailty. With a certain section of the
+people, who prided themselves upon being “English to the backbone,”
+this was resented as unfair. With a far larger portion it was at once
+believed, and, amid sly nods and winks, taken as another proof that
+Baskette was one of themselves.
+
+Aymer wandered about the city; he saw its horrors, its crime. At such a
+period the sin, the wickedness and misery which commonly lurks in
+corners, came out and flaunted in the daylight. A great horror fell
+upon him—a horror of the drunkenness, the cursing, the immorality, the
+fierce brutishness. He shuddered. Not that he was himself pure, but he
+was sensitive and quick to understand, to see beneath the surface. He
+was of an age when the mind deals with broad generalities. If this was
+the state of one city only—then, poor England!
+
+His imagination pictured a time when this monster might be uppermost.
+One night he ascended the tower of a great brewery and looked down upon
+the city, all flaring with gas. Up from the depth came the shouting,
+the hum of thousands, the tramp of the multitudes. He looked afar. The
+horizon was bright with blazing fires—the sky red with a crimson and
+yellow glow. Not a star, was visible, a dense cloud of smoke hid
+everything. The iron furnaces shot forth their glowing flames, the
+engines puffed and snorted. He thought of Violet and trembled: when the
+monster was let loose, what then?
+
+He descended and wandered away he knew not exactly whither, but he
+found himself towards midnight mixed in a crowd around the police
+station. Jammed in amid, the throng he was shoved against the wall, but
+fortunately a lamp-post preserved him from the crush. However, he could
+not move. The gas-light fell upon the wall and lit up the proclamations
+of “V.R.”—the advertisements of missing and lost, the descriptions of
+persons who were wanted, etc.
+
+One sheet, half-defaced with the wind and rain and mud splashed against
+it, caught his eye—
+
+“Escaped,” so ran the fragment, “from... mingham Asylum, a lunatic of
+homicidal tendencies... Stabbed a warder... killed his wife by driving
+a nail into her head... Is at large. His description—Long grey hair,
+restless eye, peculiar ears, walks with a shambling gait, and has a
+melancholy expression of countenance. Plays fantastic airs upon a tin
+whistle, and is particularly fond of tinkering.”
+
+A new bill, “Two Hundred Pounds Reward,” for the apprehension of a
+defaulting bank manager, blotted out the rest.
+
+But Aymer had read enough. A sickening sensation seized him—this
+horrible being loose upon society, tinkering, playing upon a tin
+whistle, and driving nails into women’s heads! In his ears sounded the
+din of tremendous shouts, “Baskette for ever!” and he saw a carriage go
+by from which the horses had been taken, and in which a man was
+standing upright, with his hat off, bowing. It was Marese Baskette
+returning from an evening meeting, and dragged in his carriage by the
+mob to his hotel.
+
+Aymer caught a glance of his dark eye flashing with triumph, and it
+left an unpleasant impression upon him. But the shouts rose up to the
+thick cloud of smoke overhead—“Baskette for ever! Baskette for ever!”
+
+“Oh! my love,” wrote Aymer to Violet, “this is, indeed, an awful place.
+I begin to live in dread of my fellow-creatures. Not for worlds—no, not
+for worlds, would I be the owner of this city (as so many are striving
+to be), lest I should be held, partly at least, responsible hereafter
+for its miseries, its crimes, its drunkenness, its nameless,
+indefinable horrors.”
+
+These words, read by what afterwards happened, are remarkable. Aymer’s
+last vision of Stirmingham was the same man drawn again in his carriage
+amid tenfold louder shouts than before, “Baskette for ever!” He headed
+the poll by over 1000 votes.
+
+
+The grey rats were triumphant.
+
+End of Volume Two.
+
+
+
+
+Book III.—Results.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter One.
+
+
+After a life in which each day was spent in happy anticipation of the
+pleasures of the next, the calm, quiet existence at The Towers would
+have been dull and cheerless to Violet. But following so soon upon the
+death of Waldron, under such awful circumstances, the life with Lady
+Lechester seemed to her, for a while at least, like that in a haven of
+refuge where the storm without could not reach. And had Aymer been
+there, or near at hand, she would in a quiet way have been happy.
+
+For Lady Lechester was singularly kind. She made no show of sympathy,
+she did not ask, as some pretentiously hospitable people do every
+morning, if she were comfortable and had all she wished. But Agnes
+possessed a rare and delicate tact, the power of perceiving what others
+felt, of anticipating their smallest fancies.
+
+She accommodated herself and her habits to Violet, and there grew up
+between them a firm friendship, and more than that—a companionship.
+Agnes kept no secret from Violet. Violet had none to hide from her.
+
+There was one topic only which Violet never of her own volition
+approached, but she was perfectly aware that something of the kind was
+going on. In an indefinable manner she had learnt that Agnes had a
+suitor. It came to her knowledge that he was extremely wealthy, but low
+born in comparison with her long descent. How Agnes looked upon him it
+was hard to say. She was fully five-and-thirty, and that is an age at
+which women begin to feel that now, if ever, is the time when they must
+choose a companion.
+
+On the other hand it is an age when the glamour of early hope and
+youthful fancy, are hardly likely to gild the first figure that
+approaches with a beauty not really its own. It is an age when the mind
+can choose calmly and deliberately, in the true sense of the word.
+Violet had never seen this man, or heard his name, but she knew that
+there was correspondence between them, for she had seen the letters
+with a foreign postmark. She gathered that he was in America. After
+which Agnes whispered that he would shortly be home, and would visit
+her.
+
+“He is very handsome,” she said, for the first time speaking directly
+upon the subject. “He is a man who could not be passed in a crowd, even
+were it not for exceptional circumstances surrounding him. And yet. I
+do not know—I do not know.”
+
+Then she was silent again for several days, but presently approached
+the inevitable topic again.
+
+Would it be possible for a woman to really banish that topic from her
+mind? Agnes could the more easily confide in Violet, because she was
+fully aware of her love for Aymer. It is easier to speak to those who
+have had similar experiences, than to those who are as yet ignorant.
+
+“He is in England, now,” said Agnes, one day. “He is not far distant.
+Why should I conceal it any longer? Your friend Mr Malet meets him
+daily, I daresay; he is a candidate for Stirmingham. It is Mr Marese
+Baskette.”
+
+“I must congratulate you,” said Violet. “He is the richest man in the
+world, is he not?”
+
+“He will be if he succeeds in obtaining his rights. To tell you the
+truth, I think the great battle he is fighting with these companies and
+claimants, gives me more interest in him than—than—well, I don’t know.
+You will see him soon. He will come directly the election is over. Now
+you know why I took so much interest in your letters from Mr Malet,
+describing the course of the family council. But I think he is wrong,
+dear, in the last that you showed me. I think I should like to be the
+owner of that great city—it is true there would be responsibilities,
+but then there would be opportunities, he forgets that. Think what one
+could do—the misery to be alleviated, the crime to be hunted out, the
+great work that would be possible.”
+
+Her eyes flashed, her form dilated. It was easy to see that to the
+ambition innate in her nature, the idea of having an immense city to
+reign over, as it were, like the princesses of old, was almost
+irresistible. A true, good woman she was, but it would have been
+impossible for her not to have been ambitions.
+
+“With _his_ talent,” she said—becoming freer upon the subject the
+longer she dwelt upon it—“with _his_ talent, for he is undoubtedly a
+clever man, with the love the populace there have for him, with my long
+descent—perhaps the longest in the county—which enables me to claim
+kindred with powerful families, with a seat in Parliament, there seems
+no reasonable limit to what we might not do. That is the way to put it.
+You shall see his letters.”
+
+Violet read them. Marese Baskette was gifted with the power of
+detecting the points which pleased those he conversed or corresponded
+with, and upon these he dwelt and dilated. It was this that made his
+speeches so successful in Stirmingham. As he spoke he noted those
+passages and allusions which awoke the enthusiasm of the audience. Next
+time he omitted those sentiments which had failed to attract attention,
+and confined himself to those which were applauded. In half a dozen
+trials he produced a speech, every word of which was cheered to the
+echo.
+
+So, in his intercourse with Agnes Lechester, the same faculty of
+perceiving what pleased, led him to disregard the ordinary method of
+lovers; he avoided all mention, or almost avoided, expressions of
+affection, or of love, and harped upon the string which he had found
+vibrated most willingly in her breast. The theme was ample and he did
+not hesitate to work upon it. He compared his position and that of
+Agnes when united, and when his rights were conceded, to that of the
+royal reigning dukes of Italy a hundred years ago—dukes whose territory
+in area was not large, but whose power within that area was absolute.
+
+The city of Stirmingham was in effect a grander possession than Parma
+or Milan; far more valuable estimated in coin, far more influential
+estimated by the extent of its commerce. Without a doubt, when once he
+had obtained possession, the Government would soon recognise his claims
+and confer upon him a coronet, unless indeed Agnes preferred a career
+of perhaps greater power in the House of Commons. He candidly admitted
+his ignoble descent.
+
+“My ancestor,” he wrote, “was a poor basket-maker; there is no attempt
+on my part to conceal the fact. I am perfectly well aware that upon the
+score of blood I am far, far, your inferior, and unable to offer a
+single claim to equality. The Lechesters, I know, were powerful
+auxiliaries of William, the Conqueror of England. The name is preserved
+in the Roll of Battle Abbey; it occupies an important place in the
+‘early chronicles.’ Heralds have blazoned its arms, genealogists
+recorded its descent, poets have sung its fame. Yet remember, even in
+this view of the matter, that the great William himself, the feudal
+lord of the Lechesters, was descended upon the mother’s side from a
+tanner. I cannot compare my father, grand old Sternhold, with William
+the Conqueror; and yet, in this age when wealth is what provinces and
+conquered countries used to be, perhaps there may be some faint
+resemblance.”
+
+Then he went on:—“I will not disguise from you the fact that in your
+long descent, and in your connections with the highest families in the
+land—not even excepting ancient royalty—I place much of my hope for
+recovering my legitimate possessions and for fighting my myriad
+enemies. To me the alliance is simply invaluable. To yourself I would
+fain hope it would not be without its charms. I do not approach you
+with a boy’s silly affection expressed in rhyme and love-sick glances.
+I do not follow your footsteps from place to place. It is long since I
+have had even ten minutes conversation with you. I have treated you as
+I should an equal (not in position, for there you are superior), but as
+my equal in mind and ability; not as your sex is commonly treated. I
+have not wooed you as a woman. I have asked you to be my partner,
+something more than my partner in the kingdom—for so in fact it
+is—which is mine by right.”
+
+This tone was exactly fitted to the mind of the person he addressed.
+Delicate and full of benevolence, kind, thoughtful, anxious always for
+others good, there was still at the root of Agnes Lechester’s mind a
+strong vaulting ambition. An ambition which some said had warped her
+mind with overweening pride, which had cut her off from the natural
+sphere in which she should have moved, leaving her with little or no
+society, and which, if rumour spoke correctly, had in earlier days
+forced her to stifle the heart that beat responsive to another’s love.
+
+To Violet, this calm, reasoning courtship, full of coronets and crowns,
+thinking of nothing but power, was inexplicable. Her heart wrapped up
+in Aymer, she could not understand this species of barter—of long
+descent and good family against wealth and property. It seemed
+unnatural—almost a kind of sacrilege. She fancied that Agnes was not
+without twinges of conscience, not without hesitation, and naturally
+put down her apparent vacillation to feelings, similar to those which
+would have animated herself under the same circumstances.
+
+This is not the place to argue upon marriage; but in passing it does
+appear that both sides are right and both wrong. It does not of
+necessity follow that marriage must be for love only; but on the other
+hand it does not follow that marriage should be for convenience always,
+and never for affection. In the present instance, to all appearance the
+parties were exactly fitted to each other. It was notorious that
+although Lady Lechester had a sufficient income for all her purposes,
+and even a superfluity, that the revenue from her large estates was
+greatly reduced by encumbrances upon it. There were surmises that this
+comparatively inadequate income was one reason why Agnes saw so little
+society; she was too proud to mingle in a circle for which her purse
+was unfitted.
+
+Marese, the moment he had an opportunity, did not lose this chance
+either. In a letter, which Violet was permitted to read, he gradually
+and by degrees approached the subject of the mortgages and other
+encumbrances upon the Lechester estates. Instead of being an obstacle,
+this very fact, he argued, was one reason why their union was
+singularly appropriate. At the same moment that her family and
+connections gave him a position for which otherwise he might have
+striven in vain, his wealth (Marese always kept up the belief in others
+that he was, even at present, extremely wealthy) would free those
+ancient estates, and restore them to their pristine splendour.
+
+Then came a brief telegram, announcing that he had won the
+representation of Stirmingham by a majority of 1000 votes. Agnes was
+visibly elated. She moved with a prouder step—there was a slight flush
+upon her usually pale cheek. It was a proof of his genius—of that
+godlike genius which commands men. He possessed the same qualities
+which in the ages past had made the Lechesters members of the ruling
+race.
+
+Violet saw that the balance bowed in his favour. If he were to come
+now—and he did come.
+
+Scarcely three days after the election, Marese drove up to The Towers,
+and was received with a stately courtesy—a proud indifference which
+bewildered Violet. She knew, or thought she knew, that Agnes’s heart
+was beating with excitement—yet how calm, how distant and formal she
+appeared.
+
+Violet looked with interest upon Marese, having heard so much of him
+from Aymer and Agnes.
+
+On his part, meeting her attentive gaze and hearing her name, Marese
+slightly started, recovered himself, and bowed profoundly. His
+attention was wholly bestowed upon Lechester; the conversation between
+them seemed to Violet constrained and cold to the last degree. She
+could not help acknowledging that Marese was a handsome man—far
+handsomer in features and figure than was Aymer. But how different! In
+her heart of hearts she pitied poor Agnes if such was her choice.
+
+They betrayed no desire whatever to be alone; on the contrary, Agnes
+particularly desired Violet to remain in the apartment with them. Their
+talk was of distant things, till it travelled round to the scene of
+Marese’s candidature, and finally fixed itself upon the great case.
+Marese was extremely sanguine in his language, and indeed he was so in
+reality. He had gained two important steps he said. In the first place
+he had partly paid off the claims of the companies for expenses
+incurred during their tenure of the leases, on the pretence of
+improving the estate. These expenses reached a preposterous figure; he
+had succeeded in getting them taxed and considerably reduced, and he
+had also succeeded in obtaining an order from the Court of Chancery
+that the payment of these claims should be made by instalments. He
+casually mentioned that the first instalment of 100,000 pounds had been
+paid yesterday. The second step was his admittance to Parliament,
+which, properly worked, would enable him to obtain the support of the
+party now in power.
+
+Still further, the great family council had blown over without result.
+The mountain had been in labour, and a mouse had sprung forth. That
+spectre which had hovered over the city of Stirmingham so long—the
+spectre of the American claims—had at last put in its appearance, and
+was found to be hollow and unsubstantial. He did not think there was
+anything more to be dreaded from that spectral host. The building
+societies even, despaired of being able to prolong the contest by
+supporting the American claims. They could no longer refuse to give up
+possession on the ground that they did not know who was the true heir.
+It could not be denied who was the heir.
+
+Marese stayed but one afternoon. He was too wise to make himself
+common. Before he went he formally asked for a private interview. What
+passed Violet easily gathered from what Agnes said to her afterwards.
+
+“Mr Broughton will be here in a day or two,” she said; “tell Mr Malet
+to come with him. The mortgages I have told you of are to be paid off;
+Broughton will manage it.”
+
+From which it was evident that a definite understanding had been come
+to with Marese. Agnes was silent and thoughtful all the evening.
+Towards the hour when they usually retired, she called Violet to the
+window, and put her arm round her neck.
+
+“Suppose,” she said, “all the meadows and hills you see out there were
+yours, and had been your ancestors for so many centuries—remember, too,
+that we may die however well we feel—should you like to think that the
+estate would then fall into the helpless hands of one of two lunatics?”
+
+It was clear that the natural hope of children to inherit had
+influenced her. Violet had heard something of the lunacy inherent in
+certain branches of the Lechester family:
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Two.
+
+
+The manner in which Marese Baskette became acquainted with Lady
+Lechester affords another instance of those “circumstances over which
+we have no control,” which have already been so strongly illustrated in
+this history. In the course of his purchases of land and property, old
+Sternhold Baskette was so shrewd and far-seeing, and so difficult to
+impose upon, that only once did he make any considerable mistake.
+
+It happened that among other land which he bought at no great distance
+from Stirmingham, there was a small plot of not much more than two
+acres, which was included in a large area, and not specified
+particularly in the agreement. This plot had been in the hands of
+tenants who had lived so long upon it that they believed they had
+acquired a prescriptive right. They sold their right to a person whom
+we may call A, and A sold it in common with other property to Sternhold
+Baskette. The thing was done, no questions asked, and apparently no one
+thought anything more about it. But what piece of land is there so
+small that it can escape the eagle eye of an English lawyer? And
+especially when that lawyer is a new broom, and a rising man determined
+to make his mark.
+
+So it happened that Mr Broughton, Lady Lechester’s new solicitor (and
+successor to his uncle’s practice), in going over the map of the
+estate, and comparing it with older maps, found out that there was a
+certain two-acre piece missing; and being anxious to recommend himself
+to so good a client as Lady Agnes, lost no time in tracing out the clue
+to it.
+
+He had not much difficulty in discovering the facts of the case, but it
+was very soon apparent to his legal knowledge that although the
+documentary claim of Lady Agnes, and her moral right, were
+indisputable, yet the whole value of the little property would probably
+be swallowed up in costs, if an attempt was made to recover it. He
+represented the fact to her, but Lady Agnes at once instructed him to
+proceed.
+
+The same over-mastering pride which was the one fault of her character,
+lent an almost sacred value to every piece of land, however small,
+which had once formed part of the estate of her ancestors. Not one rood
+of ground would she have parted with, not one perch should remain in
+the hands of strangers whilst she had the means of disputing
+possession. Yet this was the very woman who, with open-handed
+generosity, was ever ready to succour or assist the poor, and would not
+hesitate to spend large sums of money to give another person a
+pleasure.
+
+Mr Broughton went to law and quickly found it a tough job, for this was
+one of those small properties which old Sternhold had been able to keep
+in his own hands, and his son Marese was not disposed to part with it,
+especially as with lapse of time—although situated far from the city
+proper—it had increased in value some twenty-five per cent.
+
+Broughton advised Lady Agnes not to go to the inevitable expense of
+protracted litigation; but she was firm, and the battle began in the
+Courts, when suddenly, as the forces advanced to the fight, the enemy
+gave in and surrendered without firing a shot.
+
+It was a piece of Theodore’s work. That subtle brain of his had
+perceived a means by which Marese might, if he played his cards
+rightly, obtain the value of this little plot of land ten times over.
+Why not marry this Lady Lechester? She would give him exactly what he
+wanted—a position and connections among the nobility which all the
+wealth of old Sternhold could not buy.
+
+“Who is Lady Lechester?” asked Marese.
+
+Theodore told him. He knew, because in the asylum at Stirmingham there
+were two lunatics of that family, the most profitable of the patients
+the asylum contained.
+
+“If any accident should happen to either of those patients,” said
+Theodore, “Lady Lechester’s property would be doubled; if an accident
+happen to both of them, it would be trebled. Accidents sometimes happen
+in the best regulated asylums. The easiest way to get rid of a lunatic
+who exhibits homicidal tendencies is—to let him escape. He kills two or
+three, and then—he cuts his own throat. With a lunatic who has not got
+homicidal tendencies, and whose madness is, between ourselves, a
+_matter of opinion_—with such persons there are other methods; but no
+matter, get Lady Lechester first.” And Marese, seeing that his
+(Theodore’s) words were good, did as he was advised.
+
+One day there called at The Towers a gentleman, who was received by
+Lady Agnes in the most distant manner, for she recognised his name as
+that of her opponent. Marese met her with a species of mingled
+deference and pride, exactly suited to the person he addressed. He
+begged pardon for his intrusion; he felt that an apology was due to
+Lady Lechester which written words could not convey. His lawyers had
+involved him in a mistaken and ungentlemanly contest. When he had
+learnt that his antagonist was a lady, and a lady of distinguished
+position, he had looked into the matter personally, and at once saw
+that whatever claim the chicanery of the law gave him, was far
+over-balanced by the moral and social right of Lady Lechester. He had
+at once stayed proceedings, had ordered his solicitors to immediately
+restore possession to Lady Lechester, and had come in person to offer
+his sincere apology for the trouble he had inadvertently caused.
+
+Be sure that Marese’s personal appearance had something to do with his
+success. At all events Lady Agnes was deeply impressed with his
+conduct, which she easily ascribed to a nobility of mind; and not to be
+outdone, while she freely accepted the land, she insisted upon
+disbursing a sum sufficient to cover the money that had been spent on
+it.
+
+From that hour Marese was a favoured visitor at The Towers. He came but
+rarely, but when he came his presence lingered after him. His name, as
+the heir of Stirmingham, was constantly before her in the papers and on
+everyone’s lips. Add to this his own deep artifice, and it is not to be
+wondered at that he made progress.
+
+At last it came to pass that Broughton was engaged in arranging the
+clearing off of certain heavy incumbrances upon the Lechester estate,
+with money which Marese had received for salvage of the _Lucca_. Such
+an arrangement could only mean marriage.
+
+Not long after Marese’s visit to The Towers, Aymer arrived with
+Broughton, bringing with him a collection of pictures, old Bibles, and
+some few bronzes for Lady Lechester, and a heart full of affection for
+Violet. He was invited to stay several days, and did so, and for that
+brief time the joys they had shared at The Place seemed to return. The
+weather of early spring was too chilly for much out-of-door exercise;
+but they had all the vast structure of The Towers to wander
+over—galleries and corridors, vast rooms where they were unlikely to be
+interrupted, for now the new wing had been built, very few of the
+servants ever entered the old rooms, and Lady Agnes never. Aymer had
+come with his mind full of a thousand things he had to say—of love, of
+hope, of projects that he had formed, and yet when they were together,
+and the silent rooms invited him to speak, he found himself instead
+listening to Violet’s low voice as she told him all about her life at
+The Towers, and her feelings for him. It was natural that, the first
+pleasures of their meeting over, Violet should speak of Lady Agnes, and
+Aymer of the heir, with whose fortunes he had of late seemed to be
+mixed up. Violet was full of a subject which she had long wanted to
+confide to Aymer, and yet hardly liked to write. It was about some
+singularities of Lady Agnes.
+
+She was very kind, very affectionate and considerate, and yet, Violet
+said, it seemed to those who lived with her constantly that she had
+something for ever preying upon her mind. She was subject to fits of
+silence and abstraction, which would seize her at unaccountable times,
+and she would then rise and withdraw, and shut herself up in her own
+room for hours; and once for as long an two days she remained thus
+secluded.
+
+At such times she generally used a small room in the new wing, the key
+of which never left her hands, and which no one entered but herself.
+Another singular habit which she had was going out at night, or after
+dusk, into the most unfrequented portion of the park. She would seem to
+be seized with a sudden desire to escape all notice and observation,
+would put on her hat, wrap herself in a plain shawl, and let the
+weather be what it might, go forth alone. The servants were so well
+acquainted with this habit that they never offered to accompany
+her—indeed, it was part of the household etiquette to affect not to
+notice her at these times. Her absence rarely exceeded an hour, but
+knowing that poachers were often abroad, Violet owned that these
+nocturnal rambles filled her with alarm while they lasted. Another
+peculiar thing was that Lady Agnes seemed at times as if she believed
+there was a third person in the room, invisible to others. Once, Violet
+going into her apartment, surprised her talking in an excited tone, and
+found to her astonishment that there was no one near her. She was about
+to retire, when she was transfixed with astonishment to see that Agnes
+held a naked sword in her hand, which she would point at some invisible
+object, and then speak softly in a tongue that Violet did not
+understand, but believed to be Latin. Violet saw that she was not
+perceived. Agnes’ eyes were wide open, but fixed and staring, as if she
+saw and yet did not see. Afraid, and yet unwilling to call assistance,
+Violet remained in the ante-chamber, and presently there was a profound
+silence. She cautiously went in and found the sword returned to its
+position over the mantelpiece, and Lady Agnes fast asleep in her
+armchair.
+
+What ought she to do? Ought the family physician, Dr Parker, to be made
+acquainted with these facts, or was it best to pass them unnoticed?
+Violet was half afraid to say so, but at these times an ill-defined
+dread would arise lest Agnes’ mind was partly affected. Insanity was
+well known to run in the Lechester family. Violet’s gentle and
+affectionate mind was filled with fear lest her benefactress should
+suffer some injury. What had she better do?
+
+It was a difficult question, and Aymer could not answer it. To him,
+Lady Lechester appeared to be of perfectly sound mind; he could hardly
+believe the strange things Violet had told him. At all events it would
+be best not to take any action at present; better wait and watch if
+these symptoms developed themselves. Violet should keep as close a
+watch upon Lady Agnes as was compatible with not arousing her
+suspicions, and yet—
+
+The selfishness of the true lover came to the surface. He did not like
+to leave his love in a house where the mistress was certainly given to
+odd habits, and might possibly be really insane—not even though that
+mistress had shown the most disinterested and affectionate interest in
+her. But what could he do? His time was up, he must return to Broughton
+and recommence the old dreary round of labour, to recommence the book
+he was writing in his solitary apartments. The poor fellow was very
+miserable at parting, though Agnes asked him to come when he chose.
+
+Violet was less moved than her lover. The truth was she had an
+unlimited confidence in Aymer’s genius, and believed it would triumph
+over every obstacle.
+
+It was very strange, but these symptoms she had described to Aymer,
+seemed to increase and strengthen directly afterwards. Lady Lechester
+seemed to desire more and more to be alone: she wandered more
+frequently out into the park, not only by night but in the open
+daylight; and Violet watching her, and yet ashamed to watch, learnt
+which way her steps tended, and was always prepared, if any alarm was
+given, to start at once for the spot.
+
+That spot was about half-a-mile, perhaps a little more, from The
+Towers, and just within the park walls. It was concealed from The
+Towers by the intervening trees which dotted the park, but there was no
+wood or copse to pass through in reaching it.
+
+Wherever a rapid river eats its way through a hilly country, and where
+streams dash down from the hills to join it, there singular tunnels, or
+whatever the proper name may be, are often found. The Ise (obviously a
+corruption of Ouse) was a narrow, clear stream, extremely rapid, and
+confined between high banks, which made it, for two-thirds of its
+career, practically inaccessible.
+
+At this particular place, in days gone by, it appeared as if a stream,
+perhaps flowing from some long extinct glacier, had cut its way down to
+the river by boring a narrow, circular tunnel through the bank of the
+river. This tunnel was narrow at the top, not larger than would admit
+the body of a man, but widened as it descended, till where it reached
+the river there was a considerable cave, and any one kneeling on the
+sward above could look down upon the water of the river in the dim
+light, and hear its gurgling, murmuring sound rise up, greatly
+increased in volume by the acoustic properties of the tunnel, which
+somewhat resembled the famed Ear of Dionysius, though of course
+irregular in shape. When the river was swollen with rain or snow, the
+water came halfway up the tunnel, and the gurgling noise then rose into
+a hissing, bubbling sound, like that from a huge cauldron of boiling
+water. Hence, perhaps, its popular name of “Pot.” Such “Pots” are to be
+found, more or less varied in construction, in many parts of England,
+and generally associated with some local tradition of supernatural
+beings, or of ancient heroes.
+
+This particular funnel was known as Kickwell Pot—an apparently
+unmeaning name. The antiquaries, however, would have it that Kickwell
+was a degenerate form of Cwichhelm, the name of a famous chieftain in
+the days when the Saxons and Britons fought for the fairest isle of the
+sea. Probably, they added, Cwichhelm, in one of his numerous battles,
+was defeated, and perhaps forced to take refuge in this very cave,
+which was accessible in a canoe or small boat from below, and may have
+been larger and more capable of habitation then than in our time. At
+all events, Kickwell Pot had a bad name in the neighbourhood, and there
+were traditions that more than one man had lost his life, by attempting
+to descend its precipitous sides in search of treasure temptingly
+displayed by a dwarf. This may or may not have been founded upon some
+old worship of a water-spirit or cave-god. The effect was that the
+common people shunned the spot.
+
+It was a wild place. The beech trees and the great hawthorns, which
+half-filled that side of the park, completely hid all view of the
+mansion, and on the right and left were steep downs, so thinly clad
+with vegetation that the chalk was bare in places. In front swirled
+along the dark river, whose bank rose twenty feet almost sheer cliff,
+and opposite was a plantation of fir. On the left hand, facing the fir
+plantation, was the low stone wall of the park which ended here. Near
+the mouth of “The Pot,” round which some one had built up a
+loosely-compacted wall of a few stones without mortar, to keep sheep
+from falling in, was the trunk of a decayed oak tree, once vast in size
+and reaching to a noble height, now a mere stump, but still retaining a
+certain weird grandeur. Its hollow trunk formed a natural hut, facing
+“The Pot” and the dark fir plantation.
+
+This was a singular spot for the mistress of that fair estate to
+frequent almost at all hours of the day and night. No wonder that
+Violet, having ascertained its character, grew more and more alarmed,
+and kept a closer watch.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Three.
+
+
+When even the most strictly logical mind looks round and investigates
+the phenomena attending its own existence, perhaps the first fact to
+attract attention by its strongly marked prominence, is the remarkable
+loneliness of man. He stands alone. He may have brethren, but they are
+far below, and like Joseph’s seen in the dream, must bow the knee to
+his state. There extends, as it were, behind him a vast army of bird,
+beast, reptile, fish, and insect, thronging the broad earth in
+countless myriads, whose ancestry goes back into periods of time which
+cannot be expressed by notation. And every one of these, from the
+tiniest insect to the majestic elephant, is man’s intellectual
+inferior; so that he stands alone on a pedestal on the apex of a huge
+pyramid of animal life. He looks back—there are millions of inferior
+creatures. He looks forward—where is his superior? His mind easily
+grasps the idea of a superior, but where is it? He cannot see, feel,
+touch, or in any way indisputably prove the existence of a superior
+being, or race of beings. Yet the mind within is so wonderful and so
+complex, that it _will_ not accept the conclusion that he really stands
+alone; that he is the completion and the keystone of creation. A little
+thought convinces him of his own shortcomings, tells him how far he is
+from perfection, and the analogy of all things teaches him almost
+instinctively to look above into the Unknown for a superior being, or a
+race of beings. It is contrary to all reason and logic, to all analogy
+and all imagination, that there should be so many myriads behind, and
+nothing in _front_. There must be beings in front of him in the scale
+of existence, just as he is in front of the beings in his rear. Where
+are they?
+
+The answer to that question has peopled the whole universe with
+invisible beings. The solid earth beneath our feet has, according to
+one form of mythology, its gnomes and dwarfs, low of stature, grimy of
+aspect, but mighty in strength; or it has its Pluto and its Proserpine,
+its Titans struggling under Etna. The air and the sky above us teem
+with such shapes; they follow us night and day as our good and evil
+genii, or they engage in mighty battles—Armageddons of the angels in
+the empyrean, echoes of whose thundering charges reach our ears on
+earth.
+
+Such a belief has existed from the earliest days; it has spread over
+the whole world, it dwells in our midst at this very hour; for what is
+the so-called spiritualism but a new development of the oldest of all
+creeds? Even the very atheists, or those who deny the existence of a
+Supreme Deity—all-creating, all-sustaining—even these admit that there
+is no logical argument conclusively proving that there are not races of
+beings superior to our imperfect bodies. Modern science goes a step
+farther, and all but positively asserts that there are such creatures.
+It has long speculated as to the possibility of life in some shape or
+another in the stars and suns of the firmament. One grey-headed
+veteran, foremost in the ranks of the hardest of all science (anatomy),
+gravely, and step by step, argues out and demonstrates the fact, that
+all known living beings are developed, as it were, from one archetypal
+skeleton. And he concludes with the remarkable statement that,
+according to all laws of geometry (another hard science), this
+archetypal skeleton is not exhausted yet; it is still capable of
+further modification, of fresh development—nay, even that the strange
+beings with wings and wheels seen by Ezekiel in his vision, are
+possibilities of the same skeleton. The belief in itself is therefore
+not a matter for ridicule, however much we may deplore some of the
+forms which it has taken.
+
+Violet, watch how she might, never learnt the whole secret of Agnes
+Lechester’s apparent vagaries. The genesis of an idea in the mind is
+difficult to trace; but substantially the circumstances were these.
+
+Fifteen years since, Lady Agnes Lechester was seen and loved by a
+certain Walter de Warren, a cornet in a dragoon regiment: a lad of good
+family but miserably poor. Agnes returned his affection: her heart
+responded to his love, but her pride forbade a marriage. He was not
+only poor, but had no kind of distinction: nothing whatever to mark him
+out from the common herd of men except a handsome face and figure. Even
+then the innate pride of the Lechesters was stirring in Agnes’s inner
+mind, and love as she might, nothing would induce her to listen to him.
+
+This disposition on her part was encouraged by the trustees of the
+estate, or rather guardians, who, under pretence of keeping up the
+dignity of the family, represented to her that such a union would be
+disgraceful. Let the young man win his spurs, and then his poverty
+would be no obstacle in their sight. They had an object in view in
+retarding the marriage of their ward. It was true that no salary or
+commission was allowed for the management of the estate; but all wise
+men know that there are ways and means of making a profit in an
+indirect manner. Evil report said that more than one of the mortgages
+which encumbered the property had been incurred, not from necessity, or
+from the consequences of extravagance, but simply in order that these
+parties might receive a handsome gratuity for the permission given to
+put out large sums at a safe interest.
+
+De Warren was deeply affected when Agnes calmly told him her view of
+the matter, admitted without reserve that she liked him—loved she could
+not say, though that was the truth—but added that marriage or further
+intercourse was impossible, so long as he remained unknown and unheard
+of among men.
+
+He kissed her hand, and swore to win distinction or to perish. He at
+once exchanged or volunteered—I forget which, but I think the
+latter—into a detachment going to China.
+
+When once Agnes had received a letter, which had travelled with its
+message of love and admiration over those thousands and thousands of
+miles of ocean, then she realised how she had cut herself off from her
+own darling; and her heart, before so cold and hard, softened, and was
+full of miserable forebodings. She lost much of her youthful beauty—the
+incessant anxiety that gnawed at her heart deprived her cheeks of their
+bloom, and her form of its graceful lines. She grew pale, even haggard,
+and people whispered that the heiress was fast going into a decline.
+Hours and hours she spent alone in the room of the old mansion where
+the parting had taken place. Sitting there in the Blue Room, as it was
+called, her mind filled with pictures of war and its dangers, her soul
+ever strung up to the highest pitch of anxious waiting, what wonder was
+it that Agnes began to see visions and to dream dreams—visions that she
+never mentioned, dreams that she never told. It would be easy to argue
+that what happened was a mere coincidence; that her fears had excited
+her mind; and that if the actual event had not lent a factitious
+importance to the affair, it would have passed as a mental delusion.
+
+Certain it was that in May, about ten months after De Warren’s
+departure, Agnes grew suddenly cheerful—the very opposite to what she
+had been. She sang and played, and danced about the old house. She said
+that something had told her that De Warren was coming home. No letter
+had reached her to that effect; the war was still going on, and yet she
+was perfectly certain that for some reason or other the cornet was
+returning—and, what was better, was returning covered with honours.
+Those in the house looked upon this sudden change of spirits and manner
+as a certain sign that something would happen to the heiress, and her
+faithful old nurse (dead before Violet’s advent) kept a close watch
+upon her.
+
+One day, a curious thing happened. In the midst of lunch, Lady Agnes
+sprang up from table with a joyful but hysterical laugh, and declared
+that Walter was coming on horseback, and she must go and meet him.
+Quick as thought she had her hat on, and rushed out of the house, the
+nurse following at a little distance, anxious to see what would happen.
+
+Lady Agnes walked swiftly across the park to a little wicket-gate in
+the wall, where Warren used to meet her. Then she stopped and looked
+along the path, while the nurse hid behind the trunk of a beech tree at
+a short distance. In a few minutes Agnes cried out, “I hear him—I hear
+him; it is his footstep.” Then a minute afterwards she flung out her
+arms as if embracing some one, and cried, and seemed to kiss the air,
+uttering warm words of affection. The nurse saw nothing—only a light
+puff of wind stirred the leaves and caused a rustling.
+
+Agnes in a few moments turned to the right, and began to walk, or
+rather glide, as it seemed to the excited fancy of the nurse, at a
+swift pace, all the while talking as if to some person who accompanied
+her, and every now and then pausing to throw her arms round his neck,
+and uttering an hysterical sob. She made straight for “The Pot,” and
+went quickly round the oak stump. The nurse followed rapidly, and as
+she peeped round the oak there was Lady Agnes facing her on the other
+side of “The Pot,” with both arms extended and her face white as death.
+“Walter,” she said, distinctly; “Walter, what does that red spot on
+your forehead mean? Are you angry?” Then she fell prone on the grass in
+a dead faint, and the nurse had immense trouble to get her home again.
+
+Just a month afterwards came the news that Walter was dead, having been
+shot in the _forehead_ with a ball from a matchlock while leading on
+his men. He had won much praise by his desperate courage, and the last
+despatch recommended him for promotion, and for the Cross for saving
+life under heavy fire.
+
+Now, looked at dispassionately by others, the whole incident resolves
+itself into a case of excitement and over-anxiety acting upon a
+naturally sensitive organisation. But it was easy to see how to Lady
+Agnes the affair wore a very different light. To her the imaginary
+shape, invisible to others, which had met her at the little
+wicket-gate, was real—the spirit of her lover, which had come from the
+wilds of China, over thousands of miles, to acquaint her in dumb show
+of the destruction of its body.
+
+From that moment she became a devout believer in the power of the dead
+to revisit their friends. She was not alarmed. On the contrary, the
+thought soothed her. She expected and waited for Walter’s second
+approach, and spoke lovingly when he came again. For he, or the
+unsubstantial vision in his form, did come again and again, and always
+in one of two places—in the Blue Room, or beside “The Pot.” That
+strange freak of Nature had been the favourite resort of the lovers in
+the bygone time. Agnes counted the time for the approach of the spirit;
+those who waited upon her could tell when she believed the time for the
+appearance was near, by the peculiar light in her eyes, and the glow
+upon her cheek. At such times the superstitious servants hastened to
+get out of the room. After a while Agnes became conscious that these
+things were noticed and commented upon, and it became her practice,
+when she felt the time coming, to retire to her own room and lock
+herself in.
+
+Reflecting upon these periodical visits of what she really believed was
+the spirit of her dead lover, Agnes naturally went on to consider the
+whole question of the existence of supernatural beings. She purchased
+works upon demonology and witchcraft, and being an accomplished scholar
+did not confine her studies to her own language, but read deeply in
+Agrippa, and the necromancers of the Middle Ages. There were those who
+said that while upon the Continent she plunged into these forbidden
+mysteries, and found in the recesses of foreign capitals, men with whom
+there still lingered the knowledge how to control the spirits of the
+air. In part this was true; whether self-deceived or not, it was
+certain that Agnes really believed there were genii with whom she could
+converse almost at pleasure. How was it then that, always anxious for
+Warren’s presence, she yet disliked The Towers?
+
+Soon after she began to study these magical books, and to attempt to
+penetrate the veil which covers the ethereal world from the eyes of
+poor humanity, it appeared to her that whenever Walter came, his face
+wore a sad aspect, almost of upbraiding. And beside him there rose up a
+Darkness: something without form and void, and yet which was
+there—something which chilled her blood. After a while it began to take
+the shape of a thin column of darkness; even in the broad sunlight
+there was this spot where no light would penetrate. It came too without
+Walter; it rose up in the middle of the room where she sat—a dark
+presence, a shadow which haunted her everywhere.
+
+I cannot explain this; I can only record that it was the case. It was
+this that made Agnes dislike The Towers, and live in the new wing. Yet
+even there she did not escape. The shadow took a shape.
+
+There is a sentence in a certain grand old book, which prays that we
+may be delivered from the pestilence which walketh in darkness. The
+thought of that is awful enough. But there is something more awful
+still. Ancient books, which mention such things in a far-off manner, as
+if one were speaking under the breath, refer in a dim way to the
+noonday phantom—the phantom which meets the huntsman at midday in the
+green and shady wood; which stops the maiden at the fountain with her
+pitcher, in the glare of the sunbeams; which addresses the shepherd
+suddenly upon the hillside as he watches his sheep under the blue vault
+of the sky. To the darkness and the night, the spirits seem to have a
+natural claim—it is their realm; the boldest of us have sometimes felt
+an unaccountable creeping in the thick darkness. But at noonday, when
+one would naturally feel safe, by one’s side in the daylight, this is a
+thousand times worse. The noonday phantom came to Agnes. The dark
+shadow, the thin column of darkness like smoke, took to itself a shape.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Four.
+
+
+Ever since the world began it has been the belief of mankind that
+desolate places are the special haunt of supernatural beings. To this
+day the merchants who travel upon camels across the deserts of the
+East, are firmly persuaded that they can hear strange voices calling
+them from among the sandhills, and that at dusk wild figures may be
+seen gliding over the ruins of long-lost cities. It is useless to
+demonstrate that the curious noises of the desert, are caused by the
+tension which the dead silence causes upon the nerves of the ear, or by
+the shifting of the sand, and the currents of air which the heated
+surface of the sand makes whirl about. The belief is so natural that it
+cannot be entirely eradicated. In the olden times in our own fair
+England, and not so very long ago either, there was not a wild and
+unfrequented place which had not got its spirit. The woods had their
+elves and wild huntsmen, the meadows their fairies, the fountains their
+nymphs, the rocks and caves their dwarfs, and the air at night was
+crowded with witches travelling to and fro.
+
+Let any one who possesses a vivid imagination and a highly-wrought
+nervous system, even now, in this nineteenth century, with all the
+advantages of learning and science, go and sit among the rocks, or in
+the depths of the wood and think of immortality, and all that that word
+really means, and by-and-by a mysterious awe will creep into the mind,
+and it will half believe in the possibility of seeing or meeting
+something—_something_—it knows not exactly what.
+
+Agnes Lechester went into the desolate places fully expecting to meet
+her lover, and she met—
+
+A more desolate place than the Kickwell Pot could not easily be found
+in highly-cultivated England, so near to an inhabited mansion. Even in
+winter, when the leaves were off the trees, there was not a place where
+a view could be got of it from the mansion, and when there the visitor
+was, to all intents and purposes, isolated from the world. In summer it
+was still more hidden, for the thick leaves above, and the tall brake
+fern growing luxuriantly beneath, obstructed the view, and it was
+impossible to see for more than a dozen yards. There was but one spot
+from whence it was possible to overlook “The Pot,” and that was from
+the summit of the Down on the right. But this Down was totally
+deserted. The very sheep kept aloof from it. Its steep sides were
+almost inaccessible even to their nimble feet, and the soil was so
+thin—that no herbage grew to reward the bold climber. Shepherds kept
+their flocks away from that neighbourhood, for if a sheep lost its
+footing and stumbled, there was no escape. The body must roll and
+rebound till it reached the swift river below, which running between
+steep banks was not easy to get at, and death by drowning was certain.
+In the course of time many had been lost in this way, and now care was
+taken that the flocks should not travel in that direction. Animal life
+almost entirely avoided the bare chalk cliffs. Sometimes a hawk would
+linger on the edge, as it were, poising himself on his wings but a few
+feet above the ridge, as if glorying in defiance of the depth below.
+Sometimes a solitary crow would alight upon the hill, to devour the
+spoil it had carried off, in peace and undisturbed. In the fir
+plantation on the other side of the river a few pigeons built, and now
+and then a loud jay chattered, and a squirrel peeped out from the
+topmost branches among the cones. The woodpecker might be heard now and
+then tapping in the great beech trees, and a brown rabbit would start
+out from among the fern. But so far as man was concerned the spot was
+totally desolate: no path passed near, the common people avoided it. It
+was a desolate place.
+
+In summer time a place to meditate in. To sit upon the sward, leaning
+back against the vast trunk of the dead oak tree, listening to the
+gentle murmur of the river, as it rose up out of the mouth of “The Pot”
+close to the feet. In winter a weird and sinister spot, when the trees
+were bare and dark, the fir trees gloomy and black, when the snow
+lodged in great drifts upon the Downs, and the murmur of the river rose
+to a dull, sullen roar, resounding up the strange, natural funnel. When
+the grey clouds hung over the sky, and the mist clung to the hill, and
+the occasional gusts of bitter wind rustled the dead beech leaves—then
+indeed it was a desolate place. It was here that the darkness, the thin
+column of smoke-like darkness, began to grow into form and shape; and
+as it took to itself a figure, so the vision of poor Walter faded away,
+and lost its distinctness of outline.
+
+Agnes saw before her a something that was half-human and half-divine;
+and yet which a species of instinct told her was not wholly good,
+perhaps only apparently good. The face was human and yet not human—so
+much grander, nobler, full of passions, stronger, more irresistible
+than ever yet played upon the features of a man. The brow spoke of
+power illimitable, of foresight infinite, of design, and deep,
+fathomless thought. The chin and mouth spoke of iron will, of strength
+to rive the solid rock and overthrow a tower, of a purpose relentlessly
+pursued. The eyes were unbearable, searching, burning like a flame of
+fire. The form uncertain, ill-defined, yet full of a flowing grace and
+majestic grandeur. It was winged. There was a general resemblance
+between this being and those strange creatures—half man, half
+deity—which are depicted upon the slabs from the palace at Nineveh;
+only that those pictures are flat and tame, spiritless, mere outline
+representations. This was full of an intense vitality—a magnetic
+vigour.
+
+It did not speak; yet she understood its thoughts and its wishes. They
+filled her with a swelling hope, and yet with unutterable dread:—to
+place herself willingly, unhesitatingly, without a grain of distrust,
+within those arms; to be folded to its breast; to feel the wings spread
+out, and to rush with breathless haste into space, seeking the home of
+the immortals, the bride of a spirit. The pride of her mind found an
+unspeakable joy in the belief that such a fate was possible for
+her—nay, was ever waiting for her—it was but for her to step forward,
+and in a moment—
+
+The illimitable ambition of her soul urged her on. She never doubted
+the possibility—“And the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were
+fair”—what happened then could happen now. Yet something held her back,
+and that something was Walter—the faint indistinct vision of Walter. He
+seemed to shake his head mournfully, to beckon with his hand, to grow
+paler and unhappy, as her frame of mind disposed her more and more to
+join the ineffable being which stood before her. The warfare, as it
+were; the struggle between the two grew insupportable; she was torn
+with conflicting thoughts, doubts, and fears. This was one reason why
+she so earnestly desired companionship; and in the presence of Violet
+she found temporary relief.
+
+The offer of Marese Baskette introduced a new element of trouble and
+confusion in her mind. She had, as it were, a double existence; she
+lived two lives. One, visible to others with men and woman, mortal like
+herself; the other, unseen, was spent with the spirit of the dead, and
+with a spirit which had never known mortality. Yet it was not two
+minds, but one mind; for all through this dual nature there ran the
+same master chord. As in the physical life, so in the mental. In the
+physical life, the proud position Marese offered her attracted her
+irresistibly; so, in the mental life, the figure of Walter grew fainter
+and fainter, and that of the Genius, offering supremacy and
+superiority, became more distinct, larger, and more powerful. The
+struggle now lay between Marese and the Genius—the vision of the dead
+Walter faded entirely away. Which should she choose—an earthly kingdom,
+or little less, with opportunities such as had never before fallen to
+the lot of a mortal; or should she soar up into the empyrean on the
+breast of that wonderful and glorious being who grew brighter, more
+lovely, the longer she gazed upon him?
+
+It was the spirit she went to meet by day and night at the side of “The
+Pot.”
+
+It was the belief among the ancients that persons afflicted with
+certain diseases, or of unsound mind, were possessed by spirits; and
+still further, they seem to have quite understood that the possessed
+person had, as it were, two evils at once. The disease was not the
+spirit, nor the spirit the disease. These were distinct. Those who
+could exorcise the spirit had also to cure the disease, though the one
+generally followed the other.
+
+It is hard to understand the intense reality of the vision seen by
+Agnes, except upon some similar theory. That the inherent insanity of
+the Lechester family had developed itself in her mind, unsuspected by
+others, there can be no doubt; but even to the persons who are subject
+to illusions of the mind, the reality of their visions is seldom, if
+ever, so absolutely believed in as these were by Lady Agnes. There is
+just the possibility, even atheists will not deny the _possibility_—but
+it is better not to argue the matter. It is sad, indeed, to record the
+affliction which had fallen upon this most estimable and generous
+woman, if we regard it as insanity only; if we go a step further, and
+admit the possibility alluded to, it is sadder still.
+
+At home, in the new wing, the darkness rarely came now, though there
+was the sense of a presence. It was by the side of “The Pot” that the
+figure showed itself fully. It rose up from the strange funnel, as if a
+mist hardened and solidified into shape. It stood before her silent,
+yet speaking unutterable things.
+
+In the cold winter, when the sky was grey with cloud, the firs black
+and gloomy, and the drifted snow lay in heaps upon the Downs, there
+mingled with the sullen roar of the river resounding up “The Pot,” a
+voice from this mysterious being, which in the savage, fierce
+desolation of that place spoke of a pride, of an ambition, which rose
+above even utter failure and degradation. Of a strength of mind which
+gloried even in its fall; which defied the very heavens in its
+grandeur; which could not be subdued—immortal in its pride.
+
+As the spring stole on and the soft rain fell, as the buds sprang forth
+and the thrush sang with joy, the figure grew brighter; an intense
+vitality seemed to pass from it to her—a glow of life which said, “Come
+with me; we will wander amid forests such as earth even in its youth
+never saw, by the shore of lakes such as mortal eye never gazed upon;
+we will revel in an immortal youth—in a sunshine inconceivable in
+beauty.”
+
+It was but a step to those arms; she longed, yet she did not take it.
+At night, when the sky glittered with stars and a solitary planet
+beamed in the west, the eyes of the shape grew into blazing coals, and
+her soul was aware that it was thinking of unutterable mysteries, of
+knowledge locked up for ages and ages, in the infinite space beyond
+those points of light. Oh, to penetrate into that silent chamber, to
+walk with reverent footsteps in that library of the universe, to read
+the wondrous truths written there—to read which was, in itself, life
+eternal! This, in brief, the spirit spoke to her.
+
+It will now be understood why the strange behaviour of Lady Agnes
+seemed to grow stranger after the last visit of Marese Baskette and her
+practical acceptance of his offer. The moment she had in a manner given
+her hand to him, the claims of the other and supernatural life appeared
+to be infinitely superior—as is the common case when one has decided,
+the other course always seems preferable. Yet she could not easily
+withdraw from her word, nor indeed did she altogether wish to do so;
+and this indecision drove her into a restless frame of mind. Her visits
+to “The Pot” became more and more frequent—some times she would go
+there four times in the course of the day, and once again in the
+evening. She shut herself in her private room—the one room Violet was
+never asked to enter—for hours almost every day. There was a restless
+gleam in her eyes, usually so mild and pleasant.
+
+One evening, after a more than ordinarily restless day had been spent,
+Agnes suddenly rose up, and retired to her private room. This was
+usually her custom before going out alone into the park, but on this
+occasion, Violet watching her, saw to her intense surprise that,
+instead of leaving the house, she unlocked a door which led into the
+old mansion, and entered the long deserted apartments of The Towers
+proper. Such a step would have been under any ordinary circumstances
+nothing to take notice of, but Violet had gradually worked herself up
+into a state of alarm, and this unusual proceeding created more
+surmises in her mind even than the lonely walks in the darkness. She
+slipped out of the house thinking to watch Agnes’ progress through The
+Towers by the light she carried, which would show which rooms she went
+into. It fell out exactly as she had supposed—she saw the light of the
+little lamp flit about from window to window and along the corridors,
+now disappearing from sight entirely, and now suddenly flickering out
+again, till at last it stopped in what Violet well knew was the Blue
+Room. This room was so called from the colour employed in decorating
+the walls. They were painted instead of being papered, much in the same
+style as the houses at Pompeii, only in larger panels, and the ground
+colour was blue. From the lawn in front of the house Violet could just
+see Agnes seated at a table in this room, and before her was a small
+desk—a desk she had often noticed in that room, thinking how
+incongruous a plain gentleman’s writing-desk, with brass handles,
+looked amidst the elegant furniture and decorations.
+
+Out of this desk Agnes was taking what, at that distance, Violet could
+only conjecture were letters, and burning them one by one in the flame
+of the lamp.
+
+Presently she paused, and Violet saw her kiss something which looked
+like a curl of chestnut hair. Then not fancying her self-imposed task
+of watching her benefactress, and convinced that there was no danger,
+Violet stole away.
+
+Agnes was, in fact, destroying her memorials of Walter De Warren, which
+she had kept in his own desk in the room in which she had last seen him
+alive. She had determined to cast aside all remembrance of him; his
+memory should not embarrass her in the course she would pursue. Freed
+from the slightest control by him, she thought that she would be the
+better able to choose between the earthly and the immortal destinies
+offered to her. Yet she still lingered, still hesitated. She could not
+say to Marese “I will,” nor could she say “I will not.” She permitted
+his money to be used in freeing her estate of encumbrance, and this
+gave him a moral claim upon her hand. After that was done, it seemed to
+her that the spirit who visited her at “The Pot” visibly frowned, and
+the great eyes were full of reproach.
+
+What was this feeble earthly glory to that which was offered to her in
+the sky? She had chosen wrongly, contrary to the spirit of the proud
+and ambitious Lechesters; she was acting in opposition to the
+traditions of her race. Marese, after all, was a low-born upstart. The
+ancestry of the spirit had no beginning and no end. Again she
+hesitated.
+
+About this time there came a letter from Miss Merton, dated Torquay,
+written in a formal but polite manner, begging to be informed what she
+had better do with the dog Dando. She did not wish to get rid of
+him—she had become quite attached to the dog and he to her—but she was
+not the actual owner, and she did not like the responsibility of having
+so valuable an animal with her.
+
+It seemed as if the value of the dog was well known, for at least two
+deliberate attempts had been made to steal it within a few days. And
+these attempts had not a little alarmed Miss Merton. To find that her
+steps were watched and followed by a wild-looking tramp, or tinker
+fellow, bent upon carrying off the dog was, to say the least, extremely
+unpleasant.
+
+The man—an ill-looking fellow—was always about the house, and would not
+go away. He played a tin whistle, and whenever the dog heard some
+peculiar notes, he became greatly excited, and began to dance about in
+a curious manner. Not only that, but if the tramp varied the tune in
+some way, then the dog grew frantic to run after him, and twice she had
+the utmost difficulty to recover him.
+
+What was she to do? She did not like to part with the dog, and yet
+really it was very awkward.
+
+Violet in reply asked Miss Merton to send her Dando. She had now got
+over her prejudice against him and felt that her anger had been unjust.
+She should like to have him back again. As to the tramp, she was not
+surprised, for she remembered that her poor father had bought the dog,
+when quite young, from a band of strolling gipsies, and there were
+certain tunes which had always excited him to dance and frisk about as
+if he had been trained to do so.
+
+Violet, of course, asked Lady Lechester’s permission, whose reply was
+that she should be glad to have the dog; there was plenty of room for
+him, and he would be company, and add to the safety of the somewhat
+lonely Towers. Violet herself thought that it would be a great
+advantage if Dando should happen to please Agnes’ fancy; he might be
+allowed to accompany her in her lonely dark walks, and would be some
+protection.
+
+A week afterwards Dando came, and at once recognised Violet. He had
+grown considerably larger, and was a fine, noble animal.
+
+As Violet had hoped, Agnes took a great fancy to him, and the dog
+returning it, they became inseparable companions. This _relieved_
+Violet of much of her anxiety.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Five.
+
+
+A fortnight after Dando’s establishment at The Towers, Aymer came. He
+looked ill, pale, and careworn, and at once announced that he had left
+Mr Broughton, and was going to London, literally to seek his fortune.
+
+The monotony had at last proved too much for him, and worse than that
+was the miserable thought that, after all this work and patience, he
+was no nearer to Violet. Perhaps after ten or fifteen years of
+unremitting labour, nine-tenths of which time must be spent at a
+distance from her, he might, if his health lasted and no accident
+happened, be in receipt of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum; and
+how much more forward would he be then?
+
+Not all the poverty and restraint of the years upon Wick Farm at
+World’s End, not all the terrible disappointment on the very day when
+every hope seemed on the point of realisation; nothing could dull his
+vivid imagination, or make him abate one iota of the future which he
+had marked out for Violet.
+
+In truth, she wondered why he had never asked her to come to him—to be
+married and live with him in his humble lodgings at Barnham. She would
+have been happy and content. But to Aymer the idea was impossible. All
+the romance of his life was woven around her head; he would not bring
+her to miserable back rooms, to a confined narrow life in a third-class
+street. It would have been to admit that his whole being was a failure;
+that he had formed hopes and dreamed dreams beyond his power ever to
+grasp, and his spirit was not yet broken to that. No, he would struggle
+and work, and bear anything for Violet’s sake. Anything but this
+miserable monotony without progress. Had there been progress, however
+slow, he might have tamed his impatient mind and forced himself to
+endure it.
+
+Day after day passed, the nights came and went, and each morning found
+him precisely in the same position as before. His organisation was too
+sensitive, too highly wrought, eager, nervous, for the dull plodding of
+daily life. He chafed against it, till dark circles formed themselves
+under his eyelids—circles which sleep would not remove. These were
+partly caused by overwork.
+
+Broughton, on returning from Stirmingham, found his affairs at Barnham
+had got into a fearful state of muddle, and Aymer had to assist him to
+clear the Augean stable of accumulated correspondence, and satisfy
+neglected clients. Often, after a long day’s work, he had to carry
+accounts or correspondence home with him and finish it there, and then
+after that he would open his own plain simple desk—much such a desk as
+the one that had belonged to poor Cornet De Warren—and resume his
+interrupted MS.
+
+After a while it became unbearable; the poor fellow grew desperate. He
+might not have so soon given way, had not a slight attack of illness,
+not sufficient to confine him in-doors, added to the tension of his
+nerves. He determined to stay on until his MS was finished—till the
+last word had been written, and the last sketch elaborated—then he
+would go to London, no matter what became of him. If all else failed he
+could, at the last, return to Wick Farm; they would give him a bed and
+a crust, and he would be no worse off than before.
+
+He toiled at his book at midnight, and long hours afterwards, when the
+good people of Barnham town were calmly sleeping the sleep of the just,
+and permitting the talent in their midst to eat its own heart. At last
+it was finished, and he left.
+
+Mr Broughton wished him to stay, offered to increase his salary, said
+that he had become really useful, and even, as a personal favour,
+begged him to remain. Aymer thanked him sincerely, but was firm—he must
+go. So far as was possible he explained to Broughton the reason, and
+the lawyer, hard as he was, had sufficient power of understanding
+others to perceive the real state of affairs. He warned Aymer that
+certain disappointment awaited him in London, that no publisher would
+issue a book by an unknown author unless paid for it. Aymer shook his
+head sadly—he had known that well enough long ago, but he must go.
+
+Broughton shook hands with him, gave him a five-pound note over and
+above his salary, and told him if in distress, as he prophesied he
+would certainly soon be, to write to him, or else return.
+
+Aymer again thanked him, packed his modest little portmanteau, and
+taking with him his manuscript, went to The Towers to say farewell to
+Violet.
+
+When Agnes understood the course he had decided on, she said that she
+thought he had done right. To any other she should have said
+differently; to any other of a less highly organised mind she should
+have said, “Why, you cannot find a better opening.” But what would have
+been meat to others was poison to Aymer. Therefore she applauded his
+resolution, and told him to go forth and conquer, but first to stay a
+few days with Violet.
+
+This language greatly cheered poor Aymer, and for a few days he was in
+a species of Paradise.
+
+It was not even yet fully spring—the wind was cold at times, but still
+they could go out freely; and with Violet at his side, and Dando
+bounding along in front, it seemed almost like a return to the old
+joyous times at World’s End.
+
+The hours flew by, and when the last day came it seemed as if but a few
+minutes had elapsed. It happened to be a wet day—the spring showers
+were falling steadily, and, unable to go out, they rambled into the old
+mansion, and strolled from room to room.
+
+The groom had been ordered to get the dog-cart out by a certain time to
+take Aymer seven miles to the nearest railway station. That station was
+but a small one, and two up-trains only stopped there in the course of
+the day—if he missed this he would not reach London that night.
+
+Forgetful of time, perhaps half purposely forgetful, Aymer lingered on,
+and could not tear himself away.
+
+At length the groom, tired of waiting in the rain, and anxious about
+the time, waived all ceremony, and came to seek his passenger.
+
+Aymer pressed Violet’s hand, kissed it, and was gone, not daring to
+look back.
+
+The wheels grated on the gravel, and Violet remained where he had left
+her.
+
+Agnes came presently and found her, and started. The farewell had been
+given in the Blue Room.
+
+“You did not say farewell here?” said Agnes, with emphasis.
+
+Violet admitted it.
+
+“Good Heavens—what an evil omen!” muttered Agnes, and drew her from the
+spot.
+
+From that very room De Warren had gone, forth to his fate: from that
+room Aymer had started to win himself a way in the world.
+
+It was late at night when he reached London. Nothing could be done till
+the morning. As he had no experience of the ways of the metropolis,
+Aymer naturally paid about half as much again as was necessary, and
+reckoning up his slender stock of money, foresaw that he could not long
+remain in town at this rate.
+
+Mr Broughton had given him a written introduction to a firm of
+law-publishers and stationers with whom he dealt—not that they would be
+of any use to him in themselves, but in the idea that they might have
+connections who could serve him.
+
+Upon these gentlemen he waited in the morning, and was fairly well
+received. They gave him a note to another firm who were in a more
+popular line of business. Aymer trudged thither, and found these people
+very off-handed and very busy. They glanced at his manuscript—not in
+their line. Had he anything that would be likely to take with
+boys?—illustrated fiction sold best for boys and girls. Ah, well! they
+were sorry and very busy. Suppose he tried so-and-so?
+
+This process, or pretty much the same process, was repeated for two or
+three days, until poor Aymer, naturally enough, lost heart.
+
+As he left one publisher’s shop, a clerk, who was writing at his desk
+near the door, noticed his careworn look, and having once gone through
+a somewhat similar experience, and seeing “gentleman” marked upon his
+features, asked him if he would show him the work.
+
+Aymer did so. The clerk, an experienced man, turned over the
+illustrations carefully, and then appeared to ponder.
+
+“These are good,” he said; “they would certainly take if they were
+published. But so also would a great many other things. The difficulty
+is to get them published, unless you have a name. Now take my advice—It
+is useless carrying the MS from door to door. You may tramp over London
+without success. Your best plan will be to bring it out at your own
+cost; once out you will get a reputation, and then you can sell your
+next. I don’t want to be personal, but have you any money? I see—you
+have a little. Well, you need not pay all the cost. Go to
+so-and-so—offer them, let me see, such-and-such a sum, and not a
+shilling more, and your business is done.”
+
+Aymer, as he walked along busy Fleet Street and up into the Strand,
+thought over this advice, and it sounded reasonable enough—too
+reasonable. For he had so little money. When all he had saved from the
+gift of fifty pounds, his salary, and Broughton’s present, were added
+together, he had but forty-seven pounds. Out of this he was advised to
+expend forty pounds in one lump; to him it seemed like risking a
+fortune. But Violet? His book? He could not help, even after all his
+disappointments, feeling a certain faith in his book.
+
+Westwards he walked, past the famous bronze lions, and the idea came
+into his mind—How did the hero of Trafalgar win his fame? Was it not by
+courage only—simple courage? On, then. He went to the firm mentioned.
+They haggled for a larger sum; but Aymer was firm, for the simple
+reason that he had no more to give. Then they wanted a few days to
+consider.
+
+This he could not refuse; and these days passed slowly, while his stock
+of money diminished every hour. Finally they agreed to publish the
+work, but bound him down to such conditions, that it was hard to see
+how he could recover a tenth part of his investment, much less obtain a
+profit. He signed the agreement, paid the money, and walked forth.
+
+He went up the steps to the National Gallery, barely knowing what he
+did. He stood and gazed down upon the great square, with the lions and
+the fountains, and the busy stream of human life flowing for ever round
+it. A proud feeling swelled up within. At last his book would be seen
+and read, his name would be known, and then—Violet!
+
+Days and weeks went by, and yet no proofs came to his humble lodgings,
+or rather sleeping place, for all day he wandered to and fro in the
+great city. When he called at the publishers’ office they treated him
+with supercilious indifference, and—“Really did not know that the
+immediate appearance of the little book was so important.” There were
+other works they had had in hand previously, and which must have
+priority.
+
+Aymer wandered about, not only into the great thoroughfares and the
+famous streets of the City and West End, but eastwards down to the
+docks, filled with curiosity, observing everything, storing his mind
+with facts and characteristics for future use, and meantime
+starving—for it was rapidly coming to that; and the descent was
+facilitated by a misfortune which befell him in Shoreditch, where, as
+he was standing near a passage or court in a crowd, a thief made off
+with three pounds out of his remaining five.
+
+It is easy to say—Why did not Aymer get work? But how was he to do so
+with no money to advertise, no introductions, no kind of security to
+give, a perfect stranger? He did try. He called upon some firms who
+advertised in the _Telegraph_. The very first question was—Where do you
+come from? The country! That answer was sufficient. They wanted a man
+up to London work and to the ways of the City. Aymer modestly said he
+could learn. “Yes,” they replied, “and we must pay for your education.
+Good morning.”
+
+Economise as much as he would, the two pounds left dwindled and
+dwindled, till the inevitable end came, and the last half sovereign
+melted into five shillings, the five shillings into half-a-crown, the
+half-a-crown into a single solitary shilling. Driven to the last
+extremity, Aymer hit upon the idea of manual labour. He was not a
+powerful man, he could not lift a heavy weight, but he could bear a
+great deal of fatigue. He looked round him, he saw hundreds at work,
+and yet there did not seem any place where he could go and ask for
+employment.
+
+By a kind of instinct he wandered down to the river and along the
+wharves. There he saw men busy unloading the barges and smaller craft.
+Summoning up courage, he spoke to one of the labourers, who stared, and
+then burst into a broad grin. Aymer turned away, but was called back.
+The ganger looked him up and down and offered him half-a-crown a day;
+the others earned three shillings and sixpence and four shillings, but
+they were strong, strapping fellows. Aymer accepted it, for indeed he
+could not help himself and in a few minutes the poet, author, artist,
+with his coat off, was rolling small casks across the wharf. At first
+he was awkward, and hurt himself; the rest laughed at him, but
+good-humouredly. Some offered him beer.
+
+At six o’clock he, with the rest, was called to a small office and
+received his day’s wages—two shillings and sixpence. He made a meal,
+the first that day, at a cheap eating-house, and then set out to return
+to his wretched lodgings, tired, worn out, miserable, yet not
+despairing, for he had found a means which would enable him to live,
+and to wait—to wait till the book came out.
+
+For a fortnight Aymer worked at the wharf, and had become a favourite
+with the men. Noting his handiness and activity, and seeing that he was
+well educated, he was now put into an office of some little trust, to
+check the goods as they were landed, and received an advance of
+eighteen-pence, making a daily wage of four shillings. This seemed an
+immense improvement; but he was obliged to borrow a week’s extra salary
+in advance to buy a new pair of boots, and was therefore very little
+better off.
+
+Strolling slowly one evening up Cannon Street, Aymer met the great
+stream of city men and merchants, clerks and agents, which at that time
+pours out of the warehouses and offices, setting across London Bridge
+towards the suburbs.
+
+He walked slowly, all but despondently. It was already a week since he
+had written to Violet—that in itself was a strong proof of his
+condition of mind. It is very easy for those who have got everything,
+to pray each Sunday against envy, and to repeat with unction the
+response after the command not to covet thy neighbour’s goods. It is a
+different matter when one is practically destitute, when the mere value
+of the chain that hangs so daintily from my lady’s neck—ay, the price
+of the muff that warms her delicate hands—would be as a fortune, and
+lift the heart up out of the mire.
+
+He could not help thinking that if he had but the money, the value, of
+a single much-despised pony that drew a greengrocer’s cart he should be
+almost a prince.
+
+He passed under Temple Bar, and entered the busy Strand, walking, as it
+happened—events always happen, and no one can say what that word really
+means—on the right hand pavement, facing westwards. Painfully and
+wearily walking, he came to the church where the pavement makes a
+détour, and hesitated for a moment whether to cross to the other side
+or go round the church, and decided, as the road was dirty, and his old
+boots thin and full of holes, to follow the pavement. “Circumstances
+over which we have no control”—these circumstances generally commence
+in the smallest, least noticeable trifles. It so happened—there it is
+again—will anyone explain why it so happened?—that as he reached the
+entrance to Holywell Street, he glanced up it, and saw for the first
+time that avenue of old books. The author’s instinct made him first
+pause, and then go up it—he was tired, but he must go and look. Dingy
+and dirty, but tempting to a man whose library had been obtained by
+wiring hares. He thought, with a sigh, how many more books he could
+have bought with his money had he known of the existence of this cheap
+mart, or had he had any access to it. Here was Bohn’s Plato—for which
+he had paid a hardly got thirty shillings—marked up at fifteen
+shillings, slightly soiled it was true, but what did that matter? Here
+was old Herodotus—Bohn’s—marked at eighteen-pence, the very book which
+had cost him three hares, including carriage. The margins were all
+scribbled over—odd faces and odder animals rudely sketched in pen and
+ink, evidently some schoolboy’s crib. But what did that matter, so long
+as the text was complete—he cared for nothing but the text. As he
+lingered and heard the bells chiming seven o’clock, his eye caught
+sight of a little book called “A Fortune for a Shilling.”
+
+It was a catching title; he remembered seeing it lying upon the
+itinerant bookseller’s stall in front of the Sternhold Hall. He looked
+at it, weighed it in his hand. He smiled sadly at his own folly. He had
+but fifteen pence in his pocket, and to think of throwing a whole
+shilling away upon such a lottery! It was absurd—childish; and yet the
+book fascinated him. The bookseller’s assistant came out, ostensibly to
+dust the books—really to see that none were pocketed. Aymer ran his eye
+down the pages of the book, feeling all the while as if he were
+cheating the bookseller of his money. The assistant said, “Only one
+shilling, sir; a chance for everybody, sir, in that book.” Aymer shut
+his eyes to his own folly, paid the money, and returned into the Strand
+with threepence left.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Six.
+
+
+He repented his folly very speedily, for the landlady had advanced him
+half-a-crown two days before for some necessaries, and now asked him
+for the money.
+
+Not all the hunger and thirst of downright destitution is so hard to
+bear to a proud spirit as the insults of a petty creditor. He could not
+taste his tea; the dry bread—he could not afford butter—stuck in his
+throat. If he had not spent that shilling, he might have paid a part at
+least of his debt.
+
+He took up the book—the cause of his depression—and, still ashamed of
+himself, began to search it for any reference to his own name. In vain;
+Malet was not mentioned, there were no unclaimed legacies, no bank
+dividends accumulating, no estates without an owner waiting for him to
+take possession—it was an absolute blank. The shilling had been utterly
+wasted.
+
+As he sat thinking over his position, the idea occurred to him to see
+what mention the book made of the great estate at Stirmingham.
+
+There were pages upon pages devoted to Sibbolds and Baskettes, just as
+he expected. Aymer ran down the list, recalling, as he went, the scenes
+he had witnessed in the Sternhold Hall.
+
+At the foot of one page was a short note in small type, and a name
+which caught his eye—“Bury Wick Church.” He read it—it stated that it
+was uncertain what had become of Arthur Sibbold, the heir by the
+entail, and that inquiries had failed to elucidate his fate. There was
+a statement, made on very little authority, that he had been buried in
+Bury Wick Church, co. B—, but researches there had revealed nothing.
+Either he had died a pauper, and had been interred without a tombstone,
+or else _he had changed his name_. It was this last sentence that in an
+instant threw a flood of light, as it were, into Aymer’s mind—_changed
+his name_.
+
+Full of excitement, he rushed to his little portmanteau, tore out his
+note-book, and quickly found the memorandum made in the office of Mr
+Broughton, at Barnham.
+
+There was the explanation of the disappearance of Arthur Sibbold—there
+was the advertisement in a small local newspaper of his intended
+marriage and change of name. Doubtless he had afterwards been known as
+Mr Waldron—had been buried as Waldron, and his death registered as
+Waldron. As Waldron of The Place, World’s End! Then poor old Jason
+Waldron, the kindest man that ever lived, was in reality the true heir
+to the vast estate at Stirmingham.
+
+Jason was dead, but Violet remained. Violet was the heiress. He sat,
+perfectly overwhelmed with his own discovery, of which he never
+entertained a moment’s doubt. He ransacked his memory of what he had
+heard at the family council; tried to recall the evidence that had been
+produced at that memorable _fiasco_; but found it hard to do so, for at
+the time his mind was far away with Violet, and he had no personal
+interest in the proceedings. Had he only known—what an opportunity he
+would have had—he might have learnt the smallest particulars.
+
+Thinking intently upon it, it seemed to him that the name of Arthur
+Sibbold was rarely, if ever, mentioned at that conference, it was
+always _James_ Sibbold; Arthur seemed to have dropped out of the list
+altogether.
+
+If he could read a copy of the “Life of Sternhold Baskette,” perhaps he
+might be able to get a better understanding of the facts.
+
+He deeply regretted now that he had not purchased a copy, as he might
+have done so easily at Stirmingham, on the stall of the itinerant
+bookseller. Then he had a little money; now he had none.
+
+He called his landlady, took up his great coat, and gave it to
+her—could she sell it? She looked it over, found many faults, but
+finally went out with it. In half an hour she returned with eighteen
+shillings.
+
+Aymer had given three pounds for it just before his wedding-day. He
+paid the old lady her half-crown, and hurried back to Holywell Street.
+The book he wanted, however, was not so easily to be found. All had
+heard of it—but no one had it.
+
+In time he was directed to a man who dealt in genealogical works, sold
+deeds, autographs, and similar trash. Here he found the book, and had a
+haggle for it, finally securing it for seven shillings and sixpence;
+the fellow would have been glad of three shillings, for it had been on
+his shelves for years, but Aymer was burning with impatience. In the
+preface he found a scanty account of the Sibbolds, not one-fifth as
+much as he had reckoned upon, for the book was devoted to Sternhold,
+the representative man of the Baskettes. There was, however, a pretty
+accurate narrative of the murder of Will Baskette, and from that Aymer
+incidentally obtained much that he wanted. Reflecting upon the murder,
+and trying to put himself in Arthur Sibbold’s place, Aymer arrived at a
+nearly perfect conception of the causes which led him to bury himself,
+as it were, out of sight.
+
+One of two things was clear—either Arthur Sibbold had actually
+participated in the murder, and was afraid of evidence unexpectedly
+turning up against him; or else he had been deeply hurt with the
+suspicion that was cast upon him, and had resolved for ever to abandon
+the home of his ancestors.
+
+Probably he had travelled as far as possible from the scene of the
+murder—perhaps to London (this was the case)—got employment, and, being
+successful, finally married into the Waldron family, and changed his
+name. He would naturally be reticent about his ancestors. The next
+generation would forget all about it, and the third would never think
+to inquire.
+
+Had the vast estate been in existence before Arthur Sibbold’s death,
+most probably he would have made himself known; but it was clear that
+it had not grown to one-fiftieth part of its present magnificence till
+long after.
+
+The silence of Arthur Sibbold, and Arthur Sibbold’s descendant, was
+thus readily and reasonably accounted for. Reading further, Aymer came
+to the bargain which Sternhold Baskette had made with the sons of James
+Sibbold, and of their transhipment to America. Here the legal knowledge
+that he had picked up in the office of Mr Broughton enabled him to
+perceive several points that would not otherwise have occurred to him.
+That transaction was obviously null and void, if at the time it was
+concluded either Arthur Sibbold, or Arthur Sibbold’s descendants, were
+living. They were the lawful owners of the old farm at Wolf’s Glow, and
+of the Dismal Swamp, and it was impossible for James Sibbold’s children
+to transfer the estate to another person. All then that it was
+necessary to prove was that Violet was the direct descendant of Arthur
+Sibbold, and her claim would be at once irresistible. Then it occurred
+to him that at the family council he had often heard mention made of a
+certain deed of entail which was missing, and for which the members of
+the Sibbold detachment had offered large sums of money.
+
+The long, long hours and days that he had spent in the Sternhold Hall
+chronicling the proceedings of the council, and which he had at the
+time so heartily hated soon proved of the utmost value. He could at
+once understand what was wanted, and perceive the value of the smallest
+link of evidence. Here was one link obviously wanting—the deed. Without
+that deed the descent of Violet from Arthur Sibbold was comparatively
+of small account. It was possible that even then she might be a
+co-heiress; but without that deed—which specially included female
+heiresses—she would not be able to claim the entire estate. Yet even
+then, as the direct descendant of the elder brother, her claim would be
+extremely valuable, and far more likely to succeed than the very
+distant chance of the American Sibbolds or Baskettes, all of whom
+laboured under the disadvantage that their forefathers had sold their
+birthright for a mess of pottage. Another and far more serious
+difficulty which occurred to him as he thought over the matter, far
+into the night, was the absence of proof of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage.
+It was clear from the little book whose notes had opened his eyes, that
+the register of the church at Bury Wick, World’s End, had been
+searched, and no record found. His memorandum of the advertisement of
+change of name described Arthur Sibbold as of Middlesex; the marriage
+therefore might have taken place in London. Probably Sibbold had met
+the Miss Waldron he had afterwards married in town. Where then was he
+to find the register of marriage? Middlesex was a wide definition. How
+many churches were there in Middlesex? What a Herculean labour to
+search through them all!
+
+He was too much excited to sleep. Despite of all these drawbacks—the
+disappearance of the deed, and the absence of the marriage
+certificate—there was no reasonable doubt that Violet was the heiress
+of the Stirmingham estates. The difficulties that were in the way
+appeared to him as nothing; he would force his way through them. She
+should have her rights—and then! He would search every church in London
+till he did find the register of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. It must be
+in existence somewhere. If it was in existence he would find it.
+Towards two o’clock in the morning he fell asleep, and, as a result,
+did not wake till ten next day. Hurrying to his daily task, he was met
+with frowns and curses for neglect, and venturing to remonstrate, was
+discharged upon the spot.
+
+Here seemed an end at once to all his golden dreams. He walked back
+into the City, and passing along Fleet Street, was stopped for a moment
+by a crowd of people staring into the window of a print and bookshop,
+and talking excitedly. A momentary curiosity led him to press through
+the crowd, till he could obtain a view of the window. There he
+saw—wonder of wonders—one of his own sketches, an illustration from his
+book, greatly enlarged, and printed in colours. It was this that had
+attracted the crowd. The humour and yet the pathos of the picture—the
+touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin—had gone straight to
+their hearts. On every side he heard the question, “Whose is it?”—“Who
+drew it?”—“What’s the artist’s name?” Then the title of the book was
+repeated, and “Who’s it by?”—“Who wrote it?”—“I’ll get a copy! Third
+Edition already—it must be good.”
+
+Gratified, wonder-stricken, proud, and yet bewildered, Aymer at last
+got into the shop and made inquiries. Then he learnt that the publisher
+had stolen a march upon him. They had never sent him the proofs; they
+had in fact thought very little of the book, till one day it happened
+(it happened again) a famous artist came into the office, and chanced
+to turn over a leaf of the MS, which was lying where Aymer had left it,
+on the publisher’s wide desk. This man had a world-wide reputation, and
+feared no competitor; he could therefore do justice to others. He was
+greatly struck with the sketches.
+
+“This man will make hid fortune,” he said. “Why on earth do you let the
+book lie here mouldering?”
+
+The publisher said nothing, but next day the manuscript was put in
+hand, hurried out, and well advertised. The first and second edition
+sold out in a week, and Aymer heard nothing of it till accident led him
+into the crowd round the shop window in Fleet Street.
+
+It will be pardoned if I say that Aymer was prouder that day than ever
+he had been in his life. He went straight to the publisher’s with a
+glowing heart. The agreement had been that the publisher should have
+two editions for his trouble and the use of his name; in the third, the
+author and artist was to share. In point of fact, the publisher had
+never dreamt of the book reaching even a second edition.
+
+Aymer was received coldly. He asked for his share. Impossible—the
+booksellers had not paid yet—the expense had been enormous—advertising,
+etc, there would barely be a balance when all was said and done. Aymer
+lost his temper, as well he might, and was very politely requested to
+leave the premises. He did so, but hastened at once to his adviser—the
+clerk who had told him to publish at his own risk. This man, or rather
+gentleman, said he had expected him for days, and wondered why he had
+not come.
+
+“Wait till one o’clock,” said he, “and I will accompany you.”
+
+At one they revisited the offices of the publisher. The upshot was that
+Aymer was presented with a cheque for fifty pounds, being his own forty
+pounds, and ten pounds additional.
+
+“Now,” said his friend, “you call on my employers—I will mention your
+name—and offer them a work you have in hand.”
+
+Aymer did so, and obtained a commission to write a work for them, to be
+illustrated by himself, and was presented with a twenty-pound note as
+earnest-money. Thus in a few hours, from a penniless outcast, he found
+himself with seventy pounds in his pocket—with a name, and with a
+prospect of constant and highly remunerative employment. If this
+continued, and of course it would—not all his disappointments could
+quench his faith in his destiny—he would marry Violet almost
+immediately. With this money he could search out, and establish her
+claim; he would employ her own late employer, Mr Broughton. He was
+anxious to write to Violet, but he had not tasted food that day yet. He
+entered a restaurant and treated himself to a really good dinner, with
+a little of the generous juice of the grape. Towards five o’clock he
+sat himself down in his old room to write to Violet, and to Mr
+Broughton.
+
+He wrote and wrote and wrote, and still he could not conclude; his
+heart was full, and he knew that there was a loving pair of eyes which
+would read every line with delight. First about his book—sending, of
+course, two copies by the same post—one for Violet, one for Lady
+Lechester—telling Violet of the excitement it had caused, of the crowd
+in the street, of the anxiety to learn the author’s name, of the first,
+second, third edition, and the fourth in the press. Was it to be
+wondered at that he dilated upon this subject?
+
+Then he told her of his troubles, of his work at the wharf, and
+explained why he had not written, and finally came to the discovery
+that Violet was the heiress of Stirmingham. He had a difficult task to
+explain to her how this arose; he had to review the whole history of
+the case in as short a compass as possible, and to put the links of
+evidence clearly, so that a non-technical mind could grasp them. He
+finished with a declaration of his intention to spare neither trouble,
+time, nor expense to establish Violet’s right; he would search every
+church register in London; she should ride in her carriage yet. If only
+poor Jason had been alive to rejoice in all this!
+
+This was the same man, remember, who not many weeks before had written
+to Violet from Stirmingham in the midst of the turmoil of the election,
+expressing his deep sense of the responsibility that must of necessity
+fall upon the owner of that marvellous city; he would not be that man
+for worlds. The self-same man was now intent on nothing less than
+becoming, through Violet, the very thing he had said he would not be at
+any price. Still the same omnipotent circumstances over which we have
+no control, and which can alter cases, and change the whole course of
+man’s nature.
+
+To Broughton he wrote in more businesslike style. He could not help
+triumphing a little after the other’s positive prophecy of his failure;
+he sent him also a copy of the third edition. But the mass of his
+letter referred to Violet’s claim upon the estate, and went as fully
+into details as he could possibly do. He referred Mr Broughton to the
+number and date of the Barnham newspaper, which contained the
+advertisement of Arthur Sibbold’s change of name. Would Mr Broughton
+take up the case?
+
+Who can trace the wonderful processes of the mind, especially when that
+mind is excited by unusual events, by unusual indulgence, and by a long
+previous course of hard thinking? That evening Aymer treated himself to
+the theatre, and saw his beloved Shakespeare performed for the first
+time. It was _Hamlet_—the greatest of all tragedies. Who can tell? It
+may be that the intricate course of crime and bloodshed, he had seen
+displayed upon the stage, had preternaturally excited him; had caused
+him to think of such things. Perhaps the wine he had taken—a small
+quantity indeed, but almost unprecedented for him—had quickened his
+mental powers. Be it what it might, towards the grey dawn Aymer dreamt
+a dream—inchoate, wild, frenzied, horrible, impossible to describe. But
+he awoke with the drops of cold perspiration upon his forehead, with a
+great horror clinging to him, and he asked himself the question—Who
+murdered Jason Waldron, true heir to Stirmingham city? His legal
+knowledge suggested the immediate reply—Those who had an interest and a
+motive so to do. The man who had an interest was—John Marese Baskette.
+
+There was not a shadow of proof, but Aymer rose that morning weighed
+down with the firm moral conviction that it was he and no other who had
+instigated the deed. He recalled to his mind the circumstances of that
+mysterious crime—a crime which had never been even partially cleared
+up. He thought of Violet—his Violet—the next heir. Oh, God! if she were
+taken too. Should he go down to her at once? No; it was the fancy of
+his distempered mind. He would conquer it. She was perfectly safe at
+The Towers; and yet Marese came their sometimes. No; where could she be
+safer than amid that household and troop of servants? But he wrote and
+hinted his dark suspicions to her; warned her to be on her guard. This,
+he said, he was determined upon—he would establish her right, and he
+would punish the murderer of poor Jason. That very day he had commenced
+his search among the churches.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Seven.
+
+
+When Aymer’s first and longest letter reached The Towers, together with
+the copy of his book, Violet could hardly contain herself with
+pleasure. His triumph was her triumph—his fame her fame—and in the
+excitement of the moment she but barely skimmed the remainder of his
+letter, and did not realise the fact that she was the heiress to the
+most valuable property in England. Her faith in Aymer had proved to be
+well-founded; he had justified her confidence; his genius had conquered
+every obstacle. As she had read Marese’s letters to Agnes, so it was
+only natural that she should proudly show this letter to her.
+
+Agnes fully sympathised with her, and declared that the sketches (she
+had already looked cursorily through the copy of his book which Aymer
+had sent her) were wonderfully good. But it was natural for her to be
+less excited than Violet, and therefore it was that the second part of
+the letter made a greater impression upon her. Violet the heiress of
+the Stirmingham estate? It was impossible—a marvel undreamt of. Marese
+was the heir—there could not be two—and in Marese she was personally
+interested. Together they re-read that portion of Aymer’s letter, and
+wondered and wondered still more. His line of argument seemed laid down
+with remarkable precision, and there was no escape from his
+conclusions—but were his premises correct; was he not mistaken in the
+identity?
+
+The whole thing appeared so strange and _bizarre_, that Agnes said she
+really thought he must be romancing—drawing on his imagination, as he
+had in the book she held in her hand.
+
+Violet knew not what to think. She could not doubt Aymer. She warmly
+defended him, and declared that he was incapable of playing such
+practical jokes. She had a faint recollection of poor old Jason once
+telling her that her great-grandfather’s name was Sibbold, or something
+like that—she could not quite be sure of the name. She remembered it,
+because Jason had instanced it as an example of the long periods of
+time, that may be bridged by three or four persons’ successive
+memories. He said that his father had conversed with this Sibbold, or
+Sibald, and _he_ again had met in his youth an old man, who had fought
+at Culloden in ’45. If it had not been for that circumstance, the name
+would have escaped her altogether.
+
+The more Agnes thought of it, the more she inclined to the view that
+Aymer, overworked and poorly-fed, had become the subject of an
+hallucination. It was impossible that Marese could lay open claim to be
+the heir if this were the case—perfectly impossible. A gentleman of the
+highest and most sensitive honour like Marese, would at once have
+renounced all thought of the inheritance; he would have been only eager
+to make compensation. Why, even Aymer said that the matter had never
+been mentioned at the family council—surely that was in itself
+sufficient proof. It was an insult to Marese—to herself—to credit such
+nonsense. Aymer must be ill—over-excited.
+
+Violet kept silence, with difficulty, from deference to her generous
+friend; but she read the letter the third time, and it seemed to her
+that, whether mistaken or not, Aymer had given good grounds for his
+statement. She was silent, and this irritated Agnes, who had of late
+been less considerate than was her wont. It seemed as if some inward
+struggle had warped her nature—as if in vigorously, aggressively
+defending Marese, she was defending herself.
+
+The incident caused a coolness between them—the first that had sprung
+up since Violet had been at The Towers. Violet was certainly as free
+from false pride as Lady Lechester was eaten up with it; but even she
+could not help dreaming over the fascinating idea that she was the
+heiress of that vast estate, or at least a part of it. How happy they
+would be! What books Aymer could write; what countries they could visit
+together; what pleasures one hundredth part of that wealth would enable
+them to enjoy! Thinking like this, her mind also became thoroughly
+saturated with the idea of the Stirmingham estate. Like a vast
+whirlpool, that estate seemed to have the power of gradually attracting
+to itself atoms floating at an apparently safe distance, and of
+engulfing them in the seething waters of contention.
+
+In the morning came Aymer’s second letter, imputing the worst of all
+crimes to Marese Baskette, or to his instigation.
+
+Violet turned pale as she read it. Her lips quivered. All the whole
+scene passed again before her eyes—the terrible scene in the
+dining-room, where the wedding breakfast was laid out—the pool of blood
+upon the carpet—Jason’s head lying helplessly against the back of the
+armchair—the ghastly wound, upon the brow. Poor girl! Swift events and
+the change of life, and her interest in Agnes, had in a manner chased
+away the memory of that gloomy hour. Now it came back to her with full
+force, and she reproached herself with a too ready
+forgetfulness—reproached herself with neglecting the sacred duty of
+endeavouring to discover the murderer. To her, the facts given by
+Aymer—the interest, the motive—seemed irresistible. Not for a moment
+did she question his conclusion. She thought of Marese as she had seen
+him for a few hours: she remembered his start as he heard her name—it
+was the start of conscious guilt, there was no doubt.
+
+A great horror fell upon her—a horror only less great than had fallen
+that miserable wedding-day. She had been in the presence of her
+father’s murderer—she had eaten at the same table—she had shaken hands
+with him. Above the loathing and detestation, the hatred and
+abhorrence, there rose a horror—almost a fear. Next to being in the
+presence of the corpse, being in the presence of the murderer was most
+awful. She could not stay at The Towers—she could not remain, when at
+any hour he might come, with blood upon his conscience if not upon his
+actual hands—the blood of her beloved and kindly father. A bitter
+dislike to The Towers fell upon her—a hatred of the place. It seemed as
+if she had been entrapped into a position, where she was compelled to
+associate with the one person of all others whom love, duty,
+religion—all taught her to avoid. She must go—no matter where. She had
+a little money—the remnant left after all. Jason’s debts had been
+paid—only some fifty pounds, but it was enough. Mr Merton had sent it
+to her with a formal note, after the affairs were wound up. At first
+the idea occurred to her that she would go back and live at The Place
+which was still hers; but no, that could not be—she could not, could
+not live there; the spirit of the dead would cry out to her from the
+very walls. She would go to some small village where living was cheap;
+where she could take a little cottage; where her fifty pounds, and the
+few pounds she received for the rent of the meadow at The Place, would
+keep her—till Aymer succeeded, and could get her a home. She hesitated
+to write to him—she half decided to keep her new address a secret; for
+she knew that if he understood her purpose he would deprive himself of
+necessaries to give her luxuries.
+
+That very day she set to work to pack her trunk, pausing at times to
+ask herself if she should, or should not, tell Lady Agnes that her
+lover was a murderer. Well she knew that Agnes would draw herself up in
+bitter scorn—would not deign even to listen to her—and yet it was wrong
+to let her go on in the belief that Marese Baskette was the soul of
+honour. Clearly it was her duty to warn Agnes of the terrible fate
+which hung over her—to warn her from accepting a hand stained with the
+blood of an innocent, unoffending man. One course was open to her, and
+upon that she finally decided—it was to leave a note for Agnes,
+enclosing Aymer’s letter.
+
+It was Agnes’ constant practice to go for a drive about three in the
+afternoon; Violet usually accompanied her. This day she feigned a
+headache, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight sent for the
+groom, and asked him to take her to the railway station.
+
+The man at once got the dog-cart ready, and in half an hour, with her
+trunk behind her, Violet was driving along the road. She would not look
+back—she would not take a last glance at that horrible place. The
+groom, in a respectful manner, hoped that Miss Waldron was not going to
+leave them—she had made herself liked by all the servants at The
+Towers. She said she must, and offered him a crown from her slender
+store. The man lifted his hat, but refused to take the money.
+
+This incident touched her deeply—she had forgotten that, in leaving The
+Towers, she might also leave hearts that loved her. The groom wished to
+stay and get her ticket, but she dismissed him, anxious that he should
+not know her destination. Two hours afterwards she alighted at a little
+station, or “road,” as it was called. “Belthrop Road” was two and a
+half miles from Belthrop village; but she got a boy to carry her trunk,
+and reached the place on foot just before dusk.
+
+On the outskirts of Belthrop dwelt an old woman who in her youth had
+lived at World’s End, and had carried Violet in her arms many and many
+a time. She married, and removed to her husband’s parish, and was now a
+widow.
+
+Astonished beyond measure, but also delighted, the honest old lady
+jumped at Violet’s proposal that she should be her lodger. The modest
+sum per week which Violet offered seemed in that outlying spot a mine
+of silver. Hannah Bond was only afraid lest her humble cottage should
+be too small—she had really good furniture for a cottage, having had
+many presents from the persons she had nursed, and particularly prided
+herself upon her feather beds. Here Violet found an asylum—quiet and
+retired, and yet not altogether uncomfortable. Her only fear was lest
+Aymer should be alarmed, and she tried to devise some means of assuring
+him of her safety, without letting him know her whereabouts.
+
+Circumstances over which no one as usual had had any control, made that
+spring a memorable one in the quiet annals of Belthrop. The great
+agricultural labourers’ movement of the Eastern counties had extended
+even to this village; a branch of the Union had been formed, meetings
+held, and fiery language indulged in. The delegate despatched to
+organise the branch, looked about him for a labourer of some little
+education to officiate as secretary, and to receive the monthly
+contributions from the members.
+
+Chance again led him to fix upon poor old Edward Jenkins, the gardener,
+who still worked for Mr Albert Herring, doing a man’s labour for a
+boy’s pay. The gardener could write and read and cipher; he was a man
+of some little intelligence, and, though a new comer, the working men
+regarded him as a kind of “scholar.” He was just the very man, for he
+was a man with a grievance. He very naturally resented what he
+considered the harsh treatment he had met with after so many years
+faithful service, and he equally resented the low pay which
+circumstances compelled him to put up with. Jenkins became the
+secretary of the branch, and this did not improve his relations with
+Albert Herring. Always a harsh and unjust man, his temper of late had
+been aroused by repeated losses—cattle had died, crops gone wrong;
+above all, an investment he had made of a thousand pounds of the money
+that should have been Violet’s, in some shares that promised well, had
+turned out an utter failure. He therefore felt the gradual rise in
+wages more severely than he would have done, and was particularly sore
+against the Union. He abused Jenkins right and left, and yet did not
+discharge him, for Jenkins was a cheap machine. His insults were so
+coarse and so frequent that the poor old man lost his temper, and so
+far forgot himself (as indeed he might very easily do) as to hope that
+the Almighty would punish his tormentor, and _burn down, his home over
+his head_.
+
+Early in the spring the labourers struck, and the strike extended to
+Belthrop. The months passed on, the farmers were in difficulty, and
+meantime the wretched labourers were half-starved. Albert was furious,
+for he could not get his wheat sown, and upon that crop he depended to
+meet his engagements. Yet he was the one of all others, at a meeting
+which was called, to persuade the farmers to hold out; and above all he
+abused Jenkins, the secretary; called him a traitor, a firebrand, an
+incendiary. The meeting broke up without result; and it was on that
+very evening that Violet arrived. The third evening afterwards she was
+suddenly called out by gossiping old Hannah Bond, who rushed in, in a
+state of intense excitement—
+
+“Farmer Herring’s ricks be all ablaze!”
+
+Violet was dragged out by the old woman, and beheld a magnificent, and
+yet a sad sight. Eight and thirty ricks, placed in a double row, were
+on fire. About half had caught when she came out. As she stood
+watching, with the glare in the sky reflected upon her face, she saw
+the flames run along from one to another, till the whole rickyard was
+one mass of roaring fire. The outbuildings, the stables, and
+cow-houses, all thatched, caught soon after—finally the dwelling-house.
+
+The farm being situated upon the Downs, the flames and sparks were seen
+for miles and miles in the darkness of the night, and the glare in the
+sky still farther. The whole countryside turned out in wonder and
+alarm; hundreds and hundreds trooped over Down and meadow to the spot.
+Efforts were made by scores of willing hands to stay the flames—efforts
+which seemed ridiculously futile before that fearful blast; for with
+the fire there rose a wind caused by the heated column of air
+ascending, and the draught was like that of a furnace. Nothing could
+have saved the place—not all the engines in London, even had there been
+water; and the soil being chalky, and the situation elevated, there was
+but one deep well. As it was, no engine reached the spot till long
+after the fire was practically over—Barnham engine came in the grey of
+the morning, having been raced over the hills fully fifteen miles. By
+that time, all that was left of that noble farmhouse and rickyard, was
+some two-score heaps of smoking ashes, smouldering and emitting intense
+heat.
+
+Hundreds upon hundreds stood looking on, and among them there moved
+dark figures:—policemen—who had hastily gathered together.
+
+And where was Albert Herring? Was he ruined? He at that moment recked
+nothing of the fire. He was stooping—in a lowly cottage at a little
+distance—over the form of his only son, a boy of ten. The family had
+easily escaped before the dwelling-house took fire, and were, to all
+intents and purposes, safe; but this lad slipped off, as a lad would
+do, to follow his father, and watch the flames. A burning beam from one
+of the outhouses struck him down. Albert heard a scream; turned, and
+saw his boy beneath the flaring, glowing timber. He shrieked—literally
+shrieked—and tore at the beam with his scorched hands till the flesh
+came off.
+
+At last the on-lookers lifted the beam. The lad was fearfully burnt—one
+whole shoulder seemed injured—and the doctors gave no hope of his life.
+(As I cannot return to this matter, it may be as well to state that he
+did not die—he recovered slowly, but perfectly.) Yet what must the
+agony of that man’s mind have been while the child lay upon the bed in
+the lowly cottage? Let the fire roar and hiss, let roof-tree fall and
+ruin come—life, flickering life more precious than the whole world—only
+save him this one little life.
+
+In the morning Albert turned like a wild beast at bay, shouting and
+crying for vengeance. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord;” but when did
+man ever hearken to that? He marked out Jenkins, the gardener; he
+pointed him out to all. That was the man—had they not heard him say he
+hoped Heaven would burn the farm over his head?
+
+That was true; several had heard it. Jenkins had been the last to leave
+the premises that night.
+
+The gardener, utterly confounded, could not defend himself. The leader
+of the Unionists! The police looked grave, and the upshot was he was
+taken into custody.
+
+Feeling ran high in the neighbourhood, as well it might. There were
+grievances on both sides, and the great fire had stirred up all
+uncharitableness. The justices’ room was crowded, and a riot was
+feared. The Union had taken up poor Jenkins’ defence, and had sent down
+a shrewd lawyer who put a bold face on it, but had little hope in his
+heart. Suspicion was so strong against the prisoner.
+
+His poor old wife was perhaps even more frenzied than she had been at
+the coroner’s inquest. Such a circumstance as Violet’s arrival at
+Belthrop, though trivial in itself, was, of course, known in the
+village; she once again rushed to Violet for help. Violet, though
+anxious to keep quiet, could not resist the appeal, she was herself
+much excited and upset about the matter. She went with the miserable
+wife to the Court, and being a lady, was accommodated with a good seat.
+Out of her little stock she would have willingly paid for a lawyer, but
+that was unnecessary. The counsel retained by the Union was a clever
+man; but he could make no head against the unfortunate facts, and in
+his anxiety to save the prisoner he made one great mistake—justifiable
+perhaps—but a mistake. He asked who would profit by the fire, whose
+interest was it? Was not hard cash better than ricks, and an uncertain
+and falling market? In a word, he hinted that Albert himself had fired
+the ricks.
+
+A roar of denial rose from the farmers present, a deafening cheer from
+the labourers. It was with difficulty that the crowd was silenced, and
+when the proceedings were resumed, it was easy to see that the Bench
+had been annoyed by this remark.
+
+The solicitor on the other side got up, and asked the justices to
+consider the previous character of this man the prisoner—who had been
+on his trial for murder—was there a single person who would speak to
+his good character?
+
+“Yes,” said Violet, standing up. Amid intense surprise she was sworn.
+“My name is Violet Waldron,” she said, nerving herself to the effort.
+“I am the daughter of—of—the person who was—you understand me? I have
+known this man for years—since I was a child. He and his served us
+faithfully for two generations. He is incapable of such a crime—I
+believe him innocent—he is a good man, but most unfortunate.”
+
+She could not go further, her courage broke down. They did not
+cross-examine her.
+
+The prosecution professed great respect for Miss Waldron, whose
+misfortunes were well known, but of what value was her testimony in
+this case? She had not even seen Jenkins for a long time; circumstances
+warped the best of natures.
+
+The end was, that Jenkins was committed for trial at the assizes within
+two months. Thus did circumstances again involve this victim of fate in
+an iron net. Here again I must anticipate. Jenkins was sentenced at the
+assizes to twelve months imprisonment with hard labour. Nevertheless
+the imputation against Albert Herring was never quite forgotten; to
+this day the poor believe it, and even the police shake their heads. At
+all events he profited largely by it. The corn had been kept in the
+hope that the markets would rise, but they had fallen. The
+insurance-money saved him from irretrievable ruin.
+
+The prisoner’s poor wife was reduced to utter beggary. Violet did her
+best to keep her, but she could not pay the debts the gardener, with
+his miserable pay, had of necessity contracted. Ten pounds still
+remained unpaid. At last the poor woman bethought her of an ancient
+treasure, an old bible;—would Miss Violet buy it? It really was
+Violet’s—it had been lent by Violet’s grandmother to the poor woman,
+and never returned. Violet at once remembered Lady Lechester’s fancy
+for such books, and recommended her to take it to The Towers. The woman
+went, and returned with the money.
+
+Now, the immediate effect upon our history of this fire was that Violet
+Waldron became a prominent name in the local paper published at
+Barnham, and that local paper had been taken for years regularly at The
+Towers. And at The Towers at that time Theodore Marese was temporarily
+staying, under circumstances that will shortly appear.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Eight.
+
+
+When Lady Lechester returned from her drive and learnt with intense
+surprise that Violet was gone, her first thought was that she had been
+hurt by the remarks made upon Aymer’s hallucination the previous
+evening. Agnes reproached herself for her momentary irritation; but
+when she found a note for her from Violet on her dressing-table, and
+had read both it and the enclosed letter from Aymer, her anger was
+thoroughly aroused.
+
+Not unnaturally she took it in the worst sense, and looked upon it as a
+downright insult. To pretend that a gentlemen of Marese’s position and
+character was not the heir that he affirmed himself to be—that he had
+wooed her under false pretences—that was bad taste enough, and utterly
+unjustifiable. Still, it might have passed as the hallucination of an
+over-tasked mind. But to deliberately accuse the same gentleman of the
+blackest crime it was possible for human beings to commit, was
+inexcusable.
+
+All the pride of her nature rose up in almost savage resentment. Her
+first impulse was to tear up the letters and burn them; but this she
+refrained from doing, for on second thoughts they might be instrumental
+in obtaining the punishment of the slanderer. It was all the more
+bitter, because she felt that she had done her best both for Aymer and
+Violet, and the latter she had really loved. Certainly Agnes was far
+too proud and high-minded to regret for one moment a single shilling
+that she had spent for the benefit of others; but the reflection of
+Violet’s ingratitude did add a sharper sting. Agnes was in truth
+touched in her tenderest place—her pride:—she engaged, or partially
+engaged to a pretender, and worse than that, to a murderer—a Lechester,
+impossible!
+
+Before she had decided what to do, Mr Broughton arrived from Barnham,
+bringing with him Aymer’s letter to him. He was utterly unprepared for
+the mood in which he found Agnes, and unwittingly added fuel to the
+fire by saying that he had searched the file of old newspapers, and
+found the very advertisement mentioned by Aymer.
+
+Lady Agnes’ indignation knew no bounds. She reproached him for even so
+much as daring to investigate the matter—for deeming it possible that
+anything of the kind could be. Let him leave the house immediately—she
+regretted that she had demeaned herself so much as to admit him to see
+her.
+
+This aroused Mr Broughton—who was not without his professional
+pride—and he answered rather smartly, that Lady Lechester seemed to be
+forgetting the very dignity to which, she laid claim; and added that if
+he should mention Aymer’s discovery to the building society in
+Stirmingham, who were his clients, _they_ at least would think Miss
+Waldron’s claim one well worth supporting. With this parting shot he
+bowed and left the room.
+
+No sooner was he gone, than Agnes took up her pen and wrote direct to
+Marese Baskette, enclosing Aymer’s second letter—which accused Marese
+of being the instigator of the murder—and giving the fullest
+particulars she could remember of his first—relating to Violet’s claim.
+She did not forget to describe her interview with Mr Broughton, nor to
+mention his threat of the building society taking the matter up. She
+assured him that she looked upon the matter as a hoax and an insult;
+and only related the story to him in order that he might take the
+proper proceedings to punish the author of the calumny.
+
+This letter reached Marese at his club in London, and, hardened man
+that he was, it filled him with well-founded alarm. Till that moment he
+had believed that no one on earth was aware of the Waldron claims but
+himself and Theodore, who had learnt it from perusal of his father
+Aurelian’s papers. As for any one suspecting him of complicity in the
+death of Jason Waldron, he had never dreamt that detection was
+possible.
+
+If ever a crime was managed skilfully, that had been; and as to the old
+story that “murder will out,” it was of course an exploded
+superstition. Had it been Aymer alone who was on his track, he would
+not so much have cared; but Aymer had not kept the secret to himself:
+he had written to a lawyer, giving his proofs; the lawyer had verified
+one of them, at least, and Marese well knew what lawyers were. Then
+there was the threat of the building society, just as he was on the
+point of making a favourable composition with them, and was actually to
+receive a surrender of some part of the property in a few weeks’ time.
+He appreciated the full force of Broughton’s remark, repeated by Lady
+Agnes, that the building society, his client, would be sure to support
+Violet Waldron’s claim. Of course they would. A fresh litigation would
+be set on foot, and possession of the estate indefinitely delayed; if
+that was delayed, his marriage with Lady Lechester would be also thrown
+back.
+
+Yet despite all these serious reflections, Marese would have made
+comparatively light of the matter had it not been for the accusation of
+crime—for the fact that Aymer had obtained a faint glimpse of the
+truth. He was not the man to hesitate one moment at crime, or to regret
+it after it was done; but he dreaded detection, as well he might, for
+from the height to which he had risen, and was about to rise, his fall
+would be great indeed. He smiled at Lady Agnes’ suggestion that he
+should prosecute Aymer for libel or slander. Prosecute him in open
+court, and at once fix ten thousand eyes upon that dark story; perhaps
+bring a hundred detectives, eager to hunt out the secrets of a rich
+man, upon his track! That would be folly indeed.
+
+Aymer must be silenced, and Violet removed; but not like that. The
+first thing he did was to telegraph for Theodore, who came up by the
+express from Stirmingham.
+
+They had a long and anxious consultation. Theodore persuaded Marese to
+go at once to The Towers to see Agnes and deny the imputation—to secure
+her, in fact. Marese thought that this would hardly do; he knew Agnes
+better than Theodore. She would think that he had put himself out
+unnecessarily, that he had taken it too greatly to heart, and would
+simply ask him why he had not at once instituted legal proceedings
+against Aymer.
+
+In his secret heart of hearts, Marese did not care to visit that
+neighbourhood more often than was absolutely necessary. And he really
+did think that Agnes’ transcendent pride would be better suited if he
+treated the matter in an off-hand way, and dispatched only an agent to
+represent him—a species of ambassador. Another reason was that
+Broughton, if he was on the watch, would take Marese’s visit to The
+Towers as a proof that there was something in it, else why should he be
+so anxious to deny it?
+
+Theodore was willing to go, and he did not long delay his departure.
+“For all the time that we waste in thinking,” said Marese, “this
+fellow, Malet, is at work. It will take him some time to search all the
+London churches; but it may so happen that he may hit upon the very
+entry he wants at the first church chance leads him to.”
+
+There was no time to be lost. Very probably Aymer himself, of whose
+whereabouts in London they were quite ignorant, might go down to The
+Towers expecting to see his affianced, Violet. Theodore might meet him
+there, and—
+
+Above all things, Theodore was to so work upon Lady Agnes’ mind as to
+turn this apparent disadvantage to a real good, and use it to
+precipitate the marriage. Could not she be brought to see that her
+proudest course would be to marry Marese, in despite of all these foul
+calumnies, at once, in defiance? It would be difficult for Marese to
+put this himself, but his agent could do so.
+
+Theodore went to The Towers, and it fell out much as Marese had
+foreseen. Agnes was gratified. Theodore said that Marese looked upon
+the whole affair with the deepest contempt, and disdained to proceed.
+The hallucination of that unfortunate young man, Aymer, would prove in
+itself sufficient punishment for him. Marese desired no vengeance upon
+a poverty-stricken youth whose brains were not very clear. Then he
+delicately hinted at a more immediate marriage, and saw with
+satisfaction that Agnes did not resent the idea, but seemed to ponder
+over it.
+
+But where was Violet? She had left The Towers, and no one there knew
+her place of abode.
+
+This disturbed Theodore. He wished to know what the enemy was doing; if
+he could foresee their designs, then Marese was safe, because they
+could be outwitted. It was awkward to have these persons working
+against them in the dark—i.e., Violet, Aymer, and Broughton.
+
+Violet had left no address. Agnes remembered Aymer’s, but Theodore
+found on secret inquiry that he had moved. He waited at The Towers in
+the hope that Malet might come. Being a man of versatile talent, and
+clever in conversation, Lady Agnes was pleased with him, and invited
+him to stay as long as was convenient.
+
+While Theodore was at The Towers, the great fire happened at Belthrop,
+and the flames were visible from the upper windows of the mansion,
+where Lady Agnes, Theodore, and the servants watched them with
+interest.
+
+Shortly afterwards the Barnham paper was published, with a special
+account of the preliminary examination of the supposed incendiary, poor
+Jenkins, before the justices, and Theodore came across the name of
+Violet Waldron. In this way he learnt that one of the parties, and the
+most important, was at that moment living in an obscure village, not
+much more than fifteen miles distant.
+
+He was preparing to pay a visit to Belthrop—ostensibly to see the ruins
+of the fire—when Aymer Malet arrived at The Towers.
+
+His coming was very natural. He could not understand why he did not
+hear from Violet. He had written to her fully twenty times, addressing
+his letters to The Towers, and had received no answer. This greatly
+alarmed him, and he resolved to go down and see her. All these letters
+were meantime at the General Post Office in London.
+
+Lady Agnes, determined to cut off every connection with Malet and
+Violet, had given the servants strict orders not to take in any letters
+addressed to either of them. Aymer’s letters, therefore, went back to
+the local post office, and from thence to London, and doubtless in due
+time they would have returned to him.
+
+When he found himself with seventy pounds in his pocket, he had taken a
+better lodging, having previously written to Violet to apprise her of
+his removal, but as she never had his letter, her note to him was
+delivered at the old address, and Aymer’s old landlady, irritated at
+his leaving her, coolly put it on the fire.
+
+Violet had only written once, for she too was astonished, and a little
+hurt, because Aymer did not write to her, and in addition, she had been
+much disturbed by the great fire and the trial of poor Jenkins. The
+upshot was, that Aymer leaving his monotonous labour in the London
+churches, took train and came down to the nearest station to The
+Towers.
+
+Never doubting his reception, he drove up to the mansion, and was
+surprised beyond measure when the servants, respectfully and
+regretfully, but firmly announced that Lady Lechester would not see
+him. Where was Miss Waldron? Miss Waldron had left—the newspaper said
+she was at Belthrop, but that was a day or two ago.
+
+Bewildered, and not a little upset, Aymer mechanically turned on his
+heel—he had dismissed his fly at the park gates—and set out to walk to
+Belthrop. He had almost reached that very little wicket-gate where Lady
+Lechester had met the apparition of Cornet De Warren, when he heard a
+voice calling his name, and saw a gentleman hastily following him. It
+was Theodore, who had requested the servants, and enforced his request
+by a bribe, to at once inform him when Mr Malet called.
+
+Theodore had a difficult task before him; but he approached it with
+full confidence in himself. Without a moment’s delay he introduced
+himself as Marese Baskette’s cousin, and at once noted the change that
+passed over Aymer’s countenance. Ah!—then Mr Malet was aware of the
+previous intimacy that had existed between him and Mr Baskette? That
+intimacy was now at an end. He frankly admitted that he had come to The
+Towers in the interest of Marese; but upon his arrival he had heard, to
+his intense surprise, of Mr Malet’s discovery of the Waldron claim. To
+him that claim appeared indisputable: he had written as much to Mr
+Baskette, and the consequence was a quarrel. They had parted: and he
+was now endeavouring to persuade Lady Lechester to break off her
+association with that man.
+
+He had heard with great interest the career of Mr Malet—he had seen his
+book; and while he regretted his misfortunes, he rejoiced that
+circumstances enabled him to offer Mr Malet a most lucrative and
+remunerative post—a post that would at once give him ease and leisure
+to promote his literary labours; which would supply him with funds to
+continue his researches into the Waldron claims—and perhaps to bring
+the guilty to justice; which would even—this in a delicate manner—it
+would even permit of an immediate union with Miss Waldron.
+
+Further, as this post was in the city of Stirmingham, Mr Malet would be
+on the very spot, and within easy reach of London. The only difficulty
+was that it required Mr Malet’s immediate presence in Stirmingham, as
+it would be necessary to fill the place at once. Probably from the
+direction of Mr Malet’s steps he was on his way to visit Belthrop, and
+to congratulate the truly heroic Miss Waldron upon her gallant attempt
+to save an innocent man from punishment. At the same time, perhaps, Mr
+Malet would really serve Miss Waldron’s interest better by at once
+proceeding to Stirmingham that very afternoon with Theodore.
+
+What was this post? Mr Malet had been in Stirmingham, and was aware
+that he (Theodore) had inherited a very large asylum for the insane
+there. As he was himself averse to the science of the mind, he had
+rarely resided on his property, but left the chief management to a
+physician, and the accounts to a secretary. His secretary had left
+about a month ago, and the affairs were in much confusion. He had great
+pleasure in offering Mr Malet the place. The salary was seven hundred
+and fifty pounds per annum, and residence. This residence was
+sufficiently large for a married man.
+
+Aymer modestly objected that he was hardly fit for so important a
+trust.
+
+Theodore said that he had read his book, and a man who was capable of
+writing like that was capable of anything. Besides, he had heard of his
+ability while in Mr Broughton’s service.
+
+The end was that Aymer accepted the engagement, as indeed he could
+hardly refuse it. Still he wished to see Violet. That was certainly
+unfortunate; but could not Mr Malet write from the railway station and
+send it by a messenger. On arrival in Stirmingham, and taking
+possession of his place of trust, Mr Malet could at once write to Miss
+Waldron to come, and there was plenty of room at the asylum, and more
+than one respectable matron residing there with whom she could remain
+until the marriage could take place. He was so sorry that Lady
+Lechester cherished a prejudice against Mr Malet—that would wear off—he
+had done his best to remove it. Still, at present, Mr Malet was not
+welcome at The Towers. Would he so far stretch politeness as to stroll
+gently on the road to the station? He (Theodore) would speedily
+overtake him with a carriage.
+
+An hour and a half afterwards Theodore and Aymer were _en route_ to
+Stirmingham. Theodore had explained his sudden departure by a telegram.
+He had received a telegram, it was true, as he constantly did; but it
+was as usual a Stock Exchange report of no importance.
+
+From the station Aymer sent a short note to Violet at Belthrop, by
+special messenger, acquainting her with his good fortune.
+
+They reached Stirmingham the same evening, and next day Aymer was
+formally installed in possession of a bundle of papers, ledgers, and
+account books, which he was to balance up. He was shown the secretary’s
+residence—a fine house, closely adjoining the asylum—and at night he
+wrote a glowing letter to Violet, enclosing money to pay her fare
+first-class, and begging her to come at once.
+
+On the second morning came a note telling him that she should start
+that very day, and full of joyful anticipations. She would arrive
+towards night. Aymer dined with Theodore, and took wine with him
+afterwards. Presently he rose to prepare to go to the railway and meet
+Violet. He reached his private room with a singular sensation in the
+head, a swimming in his eyes, and a dryness of the tongue. He plunged
+his face in cold water to recover himself; but it seemed to increase
+the disorder. His head seemed to swell to an enormous size, and yet to
+grow extremely light, till it felt like an inflated balloon, and seemed
+as if it would lift him to the ceiling. Sitting down to try and steady
+himself, he fancied that the chair rose in the air, and cried out in
+alarm. He managed to pull the bell, and then felt as if he was carried
+away to an immense distance, and could look down upon his body in the
+room beneath.
+
+A servant answered the bell, who stared at him, smiled, and said—“Ah,
+your fit’s on at last.” Aymer’s last consciousness was that he was
+talking very fast, without exactly knowing what he was saying. After
+that there was a blank.
+
+Meantime Violet was met by Theodore Marese at the railway station; and
+a message in cipher flew along the wires to a certain club in London.
+Marese Baskette breathed again, for the cipher read—“They are here.” A
+simple sentence, but enough.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Nine.
+
+
+A fashionable London newspaper came out one morning with the statement
+that a marriage had been arranged in high life, and that preparations
+were already in progress. J. Marese Baskette, Esq, of Stirmingham, and
+Lady Agnes Lechester were to be shortly united in holy matrimony. This
+announcement was of the very greatest value to Marese. Not all the
+wealth, or reputed wealth he possessed—not even the honour of
+representing so important a city, could obtain for him the position in
+society which was secured by an alliance with the blue blood of
+Lechester. His money affairs wore at once a more roseate aspect.
+
+It was well known that Lady Lechester owned large estates, and they
+were naturally reported to be even larger than they were. It was
+whispered abroad that, under careful nursing, certain incumbrances had
+been paid off, and that the rent-roll was now something extremely heavy
+even for England, the land of long rent-rolls.
+
+People who had previously fought a little shy of the handsome heir, and
+asked hard terms to discount his paper, now pressed forward, and were
+anxious to obtrude their services. At the clubs, persons who had
+affected to ignore the richest man in the world as a matter of
+principle, on account of his ignoble descent, now began to acknowledge
+his existence, and to extend the tips of their aristocratic fingers. It
+was remembered that the doubts and difficulties which had beset his
+claim to the vast Stirmingham estate like a dark cloud, had of late in
+great part cleared away. The family council had “burst up,” and there
+were really no competitors in the field. Marese Baskette, Esq, in the
+course of a year or two, so soon as the law affairs could be settled,
+would be the richest man in the world.
+
+At the clubs they freely discussed his wealth. When realised it would
+put the Rothschilds, and Coutts, and Barings, and all the other famous
+names—the Astors of New York and even the princes of India—into the
+shade.
+
+Stirmingham, the busiest city in England, surrounded with a triple belt
+of iron furnaces, undermined with hundreds of miles of coal galleries,
+was it possible to estimate the value of that wonderful place? Why, the
+estate in the time of old Sternhold Baskette was roughly put at twenty
+millions sterling—that was thirty years ago or more—what must it be
+worth now? There really was no calculating it. Suppose he got but one
+quarter of what he was entitled to—say property worth only five
+millions—there was a fine thing. What on earth had the ladies been
+thinking of all these years that they had not secured so rich a prize?
+
+Lady Lechester was not a little envied. County families and others,
+from whom she had kept aloof for years, overlooked the disrespect, and
+called upon her with their congratulations. Invitations poured in upon
+her; the whole county talked of nothing else but Lady Lechester’s
+wedding; even the great fire was forgotten.
+
+In London circles the name of Agnes Lechester, which from long
+retirement had almost dropped out of memory, was revived, and the old
+story of the attachment to the dragoon and his untimely end in the
+East, was dug up and sent on its way from mansion to mansion. It was
+nothing but pride that made her refuse poor De Warren who was a
+handsomer man than Baskette, and came of quite as good a family as her
+own. However, fortune seemed to favour these creatures—why, she must be
+five-and-thirty; five-and-thirty, ay, closer on forty; older than
+Marese—much older.
+
+To Agnes, all the conversation that went on around, and the echo of
+which reached her, was happiness itself. The intense pride and ambition
+of her nature, which had partly kept her in retirement, blazed out in
+all its native vigour. Her step was slow and stately; her manner grew
+cold and haughty; her conversation distant. When poor old Jenkins’s
+wife came with the ancient Bible, she bought it, indeed, and put it on
+the library table, but barely looked at it. Six months before she would
+have criticised it carefully, and entered a descriptive record of it in
+the catalogue which she kept with her own hand. Now it was disdainfully
+tossed upon one side.
+
+A point that was sometimes discussed between these formal and distant
+lovers was the place of their future residence, and as Lady Lechester
+hated The Towers, and Marese said that the country house near
+Stirmingham had of late been closely approached by the coal mines, it
+was finally settled that they should reside in a mansion near Regent’s
+Park, which belonged to Lady Lechester, until Marese could build a
+suitable place. This he announced his intention of doing upon a
+magnificent scale.
+
+It was singular that old Sternhold, whose life was spent in adding
+stone to stone and brick to brick, had never contemplated the idea of
+building himself a palace.
+
+His son determined to surpass all the mansions of England; and the
+plans, when once they had been decided upon, were sent down to Lady
+Lechester for her approval. They were placed upon a table in the
+reception room, so that every visitor who called could not avoid seeing
+them; and it became one of the pleasures of Agnes’ daily life to point
+out the beauties of the new mansion, and to show her own sketches for
+improvements. To such littleness did this once noble and generous
+nature descend. The Stirmingham estate seemed to be endowed with the
+power of degrading every character that came into contact with it.
+
+It was understood that Lady Lechester was to lay the first stone of
+this grand mansion when they returned from the wedding trip. They were
+to go to Italy, and make excursions in the Mediterranean in Marese’s
+yacht _Gloire de Dijon_, the name of which he now altered to _Agnes_.
+
+Marese’s life at this time was one long continued triumph. The only
+danger that had threatened him was crushed; both Aymer and Violet were
+in safe keeping.
+
+Theodore was still at Stirmingham watching them; perhaps a sterner
+keeper than Theodore might turn the key upon one or both ere long. He
+set his teeth firmly with a frown as he thought of that possibility.
+Marese was not the man to be threatened with impunity. At all events
+they were quite safe for a good length of time—till long after his
+marriage. The marriage once over and he feared nothing. No scandal
+could seriously injure him after that. He should be secured with a
+triple wall of brass—of wealth, power, position.
+
+The property at Stirmingham was falling into his hands like an
+over-ripe pear. Let the companies strive how they might, they could no
+longer discover any pretext to delay its surrender. The American
+claimants had vanished into the distance—that great dread had departed.
+He had paid off in hard cash a large share of the claims the building
+societies made upon him, for expenses they had incurred in improving
+the property. He had obtained a rule that the remainder of the claims
+should be discharged by instalments; and as now in a short time he
+should enjoy almost unlimited credit, there would be no difficulty in
+raising the necessary sums.
+
+With other societies he had corresponded; with the Corporation he was
+on the best of terms, having used his influence in Parliament already
+to pass a private bill of theirs, and they had no legal power to
+prevent his seizure of his rights. With the rest of his creditors he
+was not only on good terms—he was pressed to borrow more. Literally he
+felt himself, as he surveyed his monetary affairs, the richest man in
+the world.
+
+Another success came to him. He had delivered his maiden speech in the
+House, and whether it really was clever or appropriate, or whether
+people were predisposed in his favour, certain it was that it had
+produced an impression. The papers were full of it; the reviewers
+considered it an omen of an honourable parliamentary career. It was
+quoted from one end of the kingdom to the other. His party begun to
+cast an eye upon him. Here was that rare combination—a rich man with
+talent. Could they not turn him to account?
+
+Then came the announcement of the engagement with Lechester, and they
+went a step further, and said something must be done. Something was
+forthwith done. An office was offered to him—not a high office, nor
+very remunerative, but still an office; and one only a degree beneath
+that of a Minister. It was well understood that no man ever filled that
+post without subsequently becoming a Minister. It was a kind of
+political cadetship. Marese accepted the office, and wrote to Lady
+Lechester, who saw in this a new proof of the career in store for her;
+and he received in reply the warmest note he had hitherto had.
+
+Lastly, he was about to marry into one of the oldest families in
+England. This marriage was the sure and certain prelude to a coronet;
+not that he would take it till he had exhausted his powers, and felt it
+time to retire to the House of Lords. Yet it was this marriage that
+alone caused any anxiety to Marese. He grew, for him, nervously anxious
+as the time approached. It certainly was not affection for her
+personally; it was the extraordinary good fortune which now smiled upon
+him. Once a gamester—still largely gambling upon the Stock Exchange—he
+had imbibed a little of the superstition of the race. Hard as he
+was—cool, self-possessed, and equal to any emergency—there arose in his
+mind a certain feverish eagerness to get it over; not sufficient to
+curtail his rest, or cause him to exhibit any outward sign, or even to
+diminish his glory in his success; but there was just this dash of
+uncertain bitter in the cup that was rising to his lip. He dared not
+hurry on the ceremony, knowing Lady Lechester’s temperament too well:
+he must await the arrival of the date that she herself had fixed.
+
+There was some little difficulty at The Towers as to where the marriage
+should take place. The church at Bury Wick was the natural resort,
+easiest of access, and nearest; but Agnes, even in her pride and
+self-will, could not altogether make up her mind to be married in that
+church. The memory of the wedding-party so strangely and fearfully
+interrupted there, had not yet died away. It would seem like a bad omen
+to be married there.
+
+Barnham was so far, and the vicar a Low Churchman, and not to her
+taste. Marese suggested Stirmingham: but no, that would not do. My lady
+would be married from her own ancestral Towers; and finally hit upon
+the plan of resuscitating the ancient family chapel at The Towers, and
+having the ceremony performed in it. This could be done by a special
+licence: which, of course, was no obstacle. It was true that she
+disliked and even hated The Towers; but the pride of family and long
+descent overcame that feeling. She would be married in the old chapel.
+Accordingly, workmen were sent for, and the sound of hammer and plane
+resounded through the place. The chapel, disused ever since the
+Lechesters left the Church of Rome—about a century ago—was completely
+renovated, cleaned, painted, gilded, and adorned in every possible
+manner.
+
+Time flew, and Agnes’ pen was busy in marking the list of names of
+those who were eligible to receive an invitation to the marriage. The
+dresses were ordered. Agnes was very hard to please—even a simple
+village maiden likes to exercise her choice for that once in her life.
+Judge, then, of the difficulty of pleasing the mistress of The Towers,
+soon to be the richest lady in the world. Nothing was good enough: the
+orders were countermanded day after day, and nothing but the enormous
+sums that were to be expended could have reconciled the tradesmen to
+her incessant caprices.
+
+Yet through all this loud sound of preparation, through all this silk
+and satin, through everything that could be devised to make the heart
+content, there penetrated a trouble. Agnes would at times retire to her
+private room, and remain secluded for hours. After these solitary fits
+her step was slower, and her countenance pale and melancholy, till she
+gradually recovered herself. She had broken off her habit of visiting
+the Kickwell Pot. It had been a great trial to her to do so; but she
+had at last firmly made up her mind, and had conquered the singular
+fascination which drew her thither. She had decided upon the earthly
+career: she would close her eyes to the immortal one. But the memory of
+the spirit was not so easily effaced: she mused on its shape, its
+graceful, swaying elegance of motion, the glow in its wonderful eyes,
+and felt at times the thrill of its electric touch. It required immense
+strength of mind to resist the temptation to converse once more with
+her phantom-lover.
+
+Who that had for a moment contemplated the proud and happy position of
+Lady Lechester, the observed of all observers, would have credited that
+such a hankering, such an extraordinary belief, still possessed her
+mind?
+
+Time flew, and there remained but one brief week till the marriage day.
+Marese was to come to The Towers on the morrow, and stay till the day
+previous to the ceremony when he was, in obedience to the old
+etiquette, to sleep at Barnham. For one day only would she be alone at
+The Towers. Marese came; the hours flew; some little warmth infused
+itself even into their cold intercourse. Just before dinner he left The
+Towers for Barnham. After dark, Lady Agnes went out alone, wrapped in
+her plaid shawl, and made her way to “The Pot.”
+
+The morrow was her wedding-day, yet the old fascination had
+conquered—she could not resist it. Once more, for the last time, she
+would look upon the face of that glorious being, and beg his
+forgiveness. It was May now—beautiful May. The beech trees were covered
+with foliage, the air was soft and warm, and there was a delicate odour
+at times of the hawthorn blossom borne upon the gentle breeze. Only in
+places there was a low white mist, a dew hanging like a light cloud a
+few feet above the earth. A thin column of such a mist hung over the
+mouth of “The Pot,” spectral, ghost-like. There had been heavy rains
+previously, and the river was swollen and turbid. Its roar came up in a
+sullen hoarse murmur through the narrow tunnel. Over the steep down or
+cliff there shone one lucent planet—the evening star.
+
+Agnes stole out from among the fern and beech trees, and stood beside
+the great decaying oak trunk, leaning lightly against it. Before her
+but two steps was the mouth of “The Pot,” and over it hovered the thin
+mist.
+
+The old, old fascination fell upon her, the same half unconsciousness
+of all surrounding things. The star grew dim, the roar of the river
+receded to an immense distance, and then arose the spirit. What
+intercourse they had cannot be told: whether she half yielded to the
+desire to soar above this earthly ball, and stepped forward to his
+embrace—whether she eagerly implored for pardon for her weakness,
+dazzled by worldly glory.
+
+The dog Dando had followed her unchidden. He alone of all that had
+pertained to Aymer and Violet, Agnes had retained. He knew the old path
+so well. He crouched so still at the foot of the great oak trunk. So
+quietly, so heedlessly, taking no heed of the figure, the shadow that
+stole onward in the dark beneath the beech trees—stole forward from
+trunk to trunk, from bunch of fern to hawthorn bush.
+
+A grey shadow in the form of a man—a crouching, stealthy, gliding
+approach—yet the dog Dando made no sign. And Agnes stood with arms
+extended almost over the mouth of “The Pot.” And the grey shadow
+reached the hollow oak trunk.
+
+In the left hand of this shadow was a _tin whistle_.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Ten.
+
+
+After a while, Aymer awoke from the stupor into which the drug that had
+been administered to him had thrown his senses. His awakening was more
+painful than the first effects of the poison. His head felt as heavy as
+lead, and there was a dull pain across his brow. A languid helplessness
+seemed to possess his limbs, he could not walk across the room, and
+with difficulty stretched out his hand to the bell-rope. Then all the
+designs upon the wall-papering got mixed up before his eyes in a
+fantastic dance, which made him giddy, till he was obliged to shut
+them. His consciousness had as yet barely sufficiently returned for him
+to notice that he was in a different apartment to any he had hitherto
+occupied at the asylum. He must have had partial returns to
+consciousness previously, for he found himself sitting in a large
+armchair, half clad, and wearing a dressing-gown. A second pull at the
+bell-rope brought footsteps outside the door, which sounded heavy upon
+the boards, evidently uncarpeted. Then a key turned in the lock
+outside, at the sound of that Aymer opened his eyes quickly, and a
+strong-looking man, whom he had never seen before, peered in.
+
+“Where is Mr Theodore?” said Aymer. “Is Miss Waldron come? Tell them I
+am better. Ask her to see me. What has been the matter with me?”
+
+“You’ve had one of your fits, sir,” replied the man, very civilly, but
+in an indifferent tone.
+
+“My fits! I never have fits. Why do you stand in the doorway? Why was
+the door locked?”
+
+“All right sir—don’t excite yourself. There, you see you can’t stand.
+It’s your head, sir, your head.”
+
+“Send me a doctor instantly,” said Aymer.
+
+“A doctor? He’s been to see you three or four times.”
+
+“Three or four times! How long have I been ill, then?”
+
+“Oh, five days, I think. Let’s see, you were brought over here on the
+Tuesday I remember—yes, five days.”
+
+“Brought over here? What do you mean? Who the deuce _are_ you?” said
+Aymer, for the first time growing suspicious, and standing up by dint
+of effort.
+
+“Do sit still, sir, and keep calm, or you’ll have another fit. My
+name’s Davidson; I’m a warder; and I’ll take good care of you, sir, if
+you’ll only keep quiet.”
+
+The truth flashed into Aymer’s mind in an instant.
+
+“Do you mean to say I am in the madhouse?” he asked, quietly.
+
+“Well, no, sir, not quite so bad as that. This is an asylum, sir.”
+
+“How did I get here?”
+
+“You were carried over in your fit.”
+
+“And where’s Miss Waldron? Tell her to come to me at once.”
+
+“There’s no Miss Waldron, sir; your head is not quite clear yet.”
+
+“What! you don’t mean to say that _you_ believe me mad?”
+
+“Well, your papers is all right, sir.”
+
+Aymer lost his temper, as well he might.
+
+“Mr Theodore must be mad,” he said. “Tell him to come at once; no, I’ll
+go to him.”
+
+With an effort he reached the door; but Davidson easily kept him back
+with one hand, in his weak state.
+
+“Now do keep quiet, sir—do sit down.”
+
+“I tell you I’m the secretary,” said Aymer, his breath coming fast and
+thick, for he began to feel that he was trapped.
+
+“Ay, ay, sir; they all say that, or something like it. You see, we
+likes to get people to come quiet, without any noise. One gent came
+here thinking it was his family mansion, and he was a duke. If you’ll
+sit down, sir, I’ll get you anything you want.”
+
+Poor Aymer was obliged to totter to his chair.
+
+“And where’s Violet—where’s Miss Waldron?” he said.
+
+“There isn’t no such person, sir. ’Tis your head; you’ll be better
+presently. I’ll look in again by-and-by.”
+
+The door shut, the lock turned. Aymer knew that he was a prisoner. For
+a few minutes he really was mad, frenzied with unusual passion and
+indignation, to be trapped like an animal lured on by provender, and
+for what purpose? Ah, for what purpose? Violet—it must be Violet—her
+claim to the Stirmingham estate. He was trapped that he might not
+follow up the clue. Where was she? Doubtless spirited away somewhere,
+or perhaps expecting him at Belthrop, thinking he was coming to her.
+They would be sure to keep them as far apart as possible. Theodore was
+Marese Baskette’s cousin, his friend, his confidant; he saw it all—he
+had been drugged, stupefied, made to utter every species of nonsense,
+to appear literally mad. He looked round the room; it was to all
+appearance an ordinary apartment, except that the door was strong, and
+without panels to weaken it. He staggered to the window, he put it up;
+there were no bars, no iron rods to prevent him getting out; but he
+looked down—a drop of twenty feet—into a narrow, stone-paved courtyard.
+A bitter thought entered his mind: they would rather like him to commit
+suicide out of that window. Opposite, about ten feet distant, ran an
+immensely high stone wall, crenelated on the top, and over that he
+could catch a glimpse of the blue May sky. He understood now why the
+corridor was evidently uncarpeted; if by any means he should get out at
+the door, his steps would sound, and give the alarm at once. He sat
+down and tried to think; either the excitement, or the natural strength
+of his constitution was fast overcoming the poison. His head was
+clearer, and he could see distinctly, but his limbs were still feeble.
+What could he do?
+
+At this moment the key again turned in the lock, and Davidson entered,
+bearing a tray with an appetising dinner.
+
+“How do I know these things are not drugged also?” said Aymer.
+
+“Drugged, sir? That’s always their delusion. Them’s good victuals. I’ll
+taste if you like.” And he did so.
+
+While his head was turned, Aymer, weak as he was, made a rush at the
+door. The warder turned and seized him, and led him back to his chair
+like a child. Aymer, mad with passion, threatened him, and snatched at
+a knife upon the table.
+
+“Ay, ay; steady, sir,” said the warder, quite coolly; “that’s no use,
+my waistcoat is padded on purpose. I’ve had him padded ever since Mr
+Odo made a stab at me. Now, now, sir, do be quiet; you’re only a
+hurting yourself. Eat your dinner and get stronger, and maybe then you
+can have a wrestle with me.”
+
+He glanced with a half smile at Aymer’s slight, panting figure, and
+then at his own sturdy proportions, winked, and withdrew.
+
+As his steps died away in the passage, Aymer started to his feet in
+intense astonishment. He had heard his own name; he could not believe
+his senses—was he really mad?
+
+“Aymer Malet, Esq.”
+
+The voice was low, but distinct. It might come from the doorway, the
+window, the wall, the ceiling. He was startled, but replied—
+
+“Yes; I am here.”
+
+“Young man,” said the voice, very low, but quite audible, “take my
+advice: control your temper. If you stab a warder they will have a
+pretext to keep you here all your lifetime.”
+
+“Ah,” said Aymer; “thank you, I understand. But who are you?—who _are_
+you?”
+
+“I am a young old man. Who are you?”
+
+“I am a young man,” said Aymer, growing curious, and for the moment
+forgetting his position. “My name you know—I can’t tell how. I come
+from World’s End.”
+
+“Ah!” said the voice, sadly; “I had hoped you were sane.”
+
+“So I am.”
+
+“Why then say you came from the world’s end?”
+
+“I did not. I said from World’s End; it is a place near Bury Wick.”
+
+“You are sane then so far. I know _that_ World’s End very well. I only
+tried you. I overheard your name when you were carried in. Now, answer
+me. Why are you here?”
+
+“There, that is what I want to know.”
+
+“If you do not know, you are not sane. Cannot you see the motive for
+your confinement?”
+
+“Certainly I can. It is easy to see that.”
+
+And Aymer briefly related the circumstances.
+
+“And where is your Violet?”
+
+“Doubtless at Belthrop, or spirited away—perhaps abroad. Far enough
+from me, at all events.”
+
+“Not so: she is in this very place.”
+
+“I don’t believe it. They would keep her away.”
+
+“I am sure of it. What should you do if you got out?”
+
+“I should go straight to Belthrop—or, stay, perhaps I should go to Mr
+Broughton. He would protect me.”
+
+“Broughton—ah! he is a lawyer. I see you are sane. I must have a look
+at you. Turn your face towards the picture of the ‘Last Supper.’”
+
+Wondering and yet curious, Aymer did as he was bid. On the wall above a
+side-board was a large copy of Vinci’s “Last Supper.” In a few seconds
+the voice came again; and soon he found it came from the picture.
+
+“I see you. I have read you. You have talent, perhaps genius; but your
+chin is weak. You know not how to fight men. You do not comprehend that
+men are beasts, and that it is necessary to be always fighting them.
+Still you are sane, you are young—eat, and get strong—you will do. Your
+name is familiar to me. Who was your father?”
+
+Aymer told him. The voice replied—“I knew him—a clever man, and, excuse
+me, a fool. How came you to reside at World’s End?”
+
+Aymer told him. “But who are you?” he said, eagerly. “Let me see you
+also.”
+
+“Very well. Look at the dog under the table in the picture. Now.”
+
+Aymer saw a slender white finger suddenly protruded through the body of
+the dog.
+
+“But I only see your finger.”
+
+“Well, that is me. Don’t you know that the hand is the man, and the
+claw is the beast? You can see by my finger that I have a hand.”
+
+It was evident that the stranger was proud of his white hand and
+slender finger.
+
+“Who on earth are you?” said Aymer, beginning to get excited. “If you
+do not answer me I will pull the picture down.”
+
+“If you do, you will ruin us both.”
+
+“Well, tell me who you are.”
+
+“I am a prisoner like yourself. My name is, or was, for I am dead now,
+Fulk Lechester.”
+
+“Fulk Lechester—Lady Agnes’ cousin! Ah! I have heard of you,” said
+Aymer. “You were very clever, and you went—well, I mean—”
+
+“Ha! ha! ha! I will convince you that I am as sane as yourself—saner;
+for what a goose you were to be so easily trapped.”
+
+“So I certainly was.”
+
+“Would you like to get out? Of course. So should I. Let me see. First,
+I have seen you—your physiognomy is good; next, I have read of your
+book, for I see the papers; thirdly, I knew your father, at least I
+knew all about his career; fourthly, you come from World’s End, and
+that is my neighbourhood; fifthly, you are young; sixthly, you are in
+love, which is a strong stimulus to exertion. Yes, you will do. Now eat
+your dinner; you must get strong.”
+
+“I will not touch it till I see you. I will tear the picture down.”
+
+“Oh, rash, headstrong! Lift it up instead.”
+
+Aymer tried. “I can’t,” he said.
+
+“No, because I have fixed it. Now try.”
+
+The picture lifted easily, and Aymer was face to face with the
+stranger. He saw a little man, a head and a half shorter than himself,
+elegantly made, and dressed in the fashion. His brow was very broad and
+high, his eyes dark and large, deeply set; his lips perfect. He had a
+small moustache but no beard or whiskers. His complexion was the worst
+part of his appearance; it was almost yellow. Fulk smiled, and showed
+good teeth.
+
+“I am yellow, I know,” he said. “So would you be if you had not been
+out of doors for two years. I look forty, I know; I am really just
+thirty-three. Nipped in the bud. Ha! ha! However, there is no time to
+waste—the warder will return. Eat your dinner. Let us shake hands.”
+
+Aymer readily extended his hand. Suddenly he said—
+
+“How do I know that this is not a new trap?”
+
+Fulk smiled sadly. “A week ago you believed everybody,” he said; “now
+you run to the other extreme. That is youth. I am young; but I am also
+old. Trouble makes men old, thought perhaps still older. For seven
+years I have done nothing but think.”
+
+“For seven years!” echoed Aymer, in horror. “Have you been here seven
+years?”
+
+“Yes; I was then twenty-six, now I am thirty-three. Ah! I blossomed too
+fast. It is a bad sign, friend Aymer, when life is all roses too early;
+the frosts are sure to come.”
+
+“True,” said Aymer, thinking of his wedding-day, so strangely, so
+dreadfully interrupted.
+
+“I was a Secretary of State at twenty-six. I had everything—money,
+youth, power, a career, a loving wife. A few hours changed it.”
+
+“May I ask, how?”
+
+“Certainly; companions in misfortune have no secrets. My wife was
+thrown from her horse; her beautiful neck was broken. I had no son. We
+Lechesters are perhaps a little wild. Odo was certainly wild. Well,
+grief made me eccentric. I threw up my career. I was young then, like
+you. I resigned; I went down to Cornwall; I built a hut among the
+rocks, and said I would live a hermit’s life. I did so. I began to feel
+better. The sea soothed me; I learnt much from Nature. You see, I had
+lived hitherto all my days with men. If I had stayed there, I should
+have written something great. But there were men who had their eyes on
+me. My property is large, you know; trustees or guardians do not get
+pay direct; but there are indirect profits in managing estates. My wife
+was dead; her friends did not trouble to protect me. Perhaps I did seem
+eccentric. Hermits are out of date. For years it has been the custom to
+put Lechesters in an asylum. I was put here; but not so easily as you.
+I fought; it was no use. I might as well have been calm.”
+
+“And you have been here all these years?”
+
+“All these years, but not without trying to escape. I pretended to be
+harmlessly mad—quite satisfied with my condition. I was allowed to
+wander in the grounds. One day I got up a tree, and before they could
+follow I was on the wall, I dropped over but broke my leg. Well, I
+recovered, but I still limp a little; after a while, I went into the
+grounds with a keeper. I tried cunning. I became harmlessly mad
+again—my fancy was to fly kites. To one kite I attached a long letter
+with an account of my imprisonment. I let it loose, and it fell in the
+midst of Stirmingham. But it was no good—it made a stir—people came
+here, and I answered their questions calmly. No good. They were
+determined to see that I was mad. If I misspelt a single word in a
+sentence, it was a proof that a highly-educated mind had partially
+broken down. Like you, I got violent—I tried to despatch a warder and
+get out. Ever since then I have been in this room.”
+
+“Two years?”
+
+“Two years. Hush—eat your dinner—Davidson comes.”
+
+The picture fell into its place, and Aymer tried to eat the dinner,
+which had grown cold.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Eleven.
+
+
+After Davidson was gone with the tray, Aymer could hear him opening
+other doors along the corridor, and waited till all was quiet.
+
+“Fulk!”
+
+“Aymer!”
+
+The picture was lifted, and Fulk’s head appeared in the orifice.
+
+“Remember,” he said, “your first object is to get strong; unless you
+get strong, neither of us can escape. Therefore, eat and drink, and
+above all, sleep. If you fidget yourself, you will waste away. The
+sooner you get strong, the sooner you will get out and find your
+Violet. Push your armchair up close under this picture, and speak low,
+lest a warder should steal along on tiptoe. Take a book in your hand as
+if reading.”
+
+Aymer did as he was told. Fulk’s head receded. “It is difficult for me
+to keep long in that position,” he said; “I am not tall enough. But we
+can talk just as well.”
+
+“How came that hole in the wall?” asked Aymer.
+
+“How came your book published?” said Fulk. “By the same
+process—patience and perseverance. No credit to me though. When a man
+is confined for two years in one room, he is glad enough of something
+to do.”
+
+“Why did you make such a hole—how did you do it? It was very clever.”
+
+“It was very easy. The poker did a part, the steel to sharpen the
+dinner knife did another part!”
+
+“But were they not afraid to leave such instruments in your room?”
+
+“Not they. Theodore knows very well that I am not mad. He knows that I
+have too much mind to attempt suicide. As to the warders, they are
+strong, their clothes are impenetrable to an ordinary stab. Besides, I
+feign to be harmless, and at last worn out.”
+
+“There is no poker in my room,” said Aymer, “and they have taken the
+knives away.”
+
+“That is because, as yet, they do not know your temperament. They think
+they know mine. So far as conveniences, and even luxuries, are
+concerned, certainly Theodore does not treat me amiss. I have
+everything I could have if I were free—papers, books—everything but
+tools or liberty—but I can improvise tools.”
+
+“How is it they do not discover this hole in the wall?”
+
+“Simply because on your side it is hidden by the picture, and behind
+the picture I have preserved the papering. On my side, it is hidden by
+a mirror; when I open the aperture, I unscrew the mirror.”
+
+“But how did you know there was a picture on this side?”
+
+“A person who was confined as you are told me.”
+
+“Was he sane then? What became of him?”
+
+“Don’t ask me. He was sane. It was a terrible disappointment when he
+went.”
+
+“But did he not return to get you out?”
+
+“You do not comprehend. He lies in the grave. It is my belief—but I
+should alarm you.”
+
+“They killed him?”
+
+“Well, not so violent as that. He died—that is it—before our
+arrangements were complete.”
+
+“Then you have tried to escape with others?”
+
+“Yes, three times, and three times accident has baulked it. For that
+reason I wish you to get strong speedily, lest you should be removed to
+another room—”
+
+“Or the grave!”
+
+“Let us talk on other subjects. You do not ask how the hole was made,
+nor why. I will tell you. In the first place, it was made because I had
+hopes of escaping through your room, which was then unoccupied, and the
+door left open. That was vain, for it was afterwards occupied; then the
+hole was enlarged to let me and one of your predecessors converse, and
+to let him get into my room, as you will have to do.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because your window is a French one; mine has a bar or upright up the
+centre, which is an essential element of escape.”
+
+“Go on—how did you make the hole?”
+
+“With the steel and with the poker—grinding the bricks into dust, and
+mingling the dust with the ashes of the fire, so that the warder
+himself carried them away.”
+
+“And why not escape this way?”
+
+“Because, in the first place, the door of that room is kept locked;
+secondly, because it opens also into the same corridor, and at the end
+of that corridor is the guard-room, where there is always a warder.
+Your bell rings in that room.”
+
+“How did you learn all these things?”
+
+“How did you learn all the little traits of human nature, which the
+reviewers say you put in your book? By observation, of course. I had to
+walk along that corridor to reach the grounds, when I was allowed to go
+out.”
+
+“But you could bore a hole into the corridor?”
+
+“Yes, and the bits of broken plaster would tell the story—that would be
+simple. Besides, to what end? Once I thought of boring _under_ the
+corridor.”
+
+“How do that?”
+
+“By lifting up one of the planks of the floor here; there is a space
+between the flooring and the ceiling, and that corridor has a kind of
+tunnel along under it. What for? why the hot-water pipes, to warm the
+cells, are carried along it—the cells of the violent, whose rooms have
+no fire-grates—that is of no use, for the tunnel at one end comes to
+the furnaces, where there is usually a man, neither could I get through
+the heat. At the other there is the thick outer wall of stone, and just
+beneath is Theodore’s own room—his ears are sharp. Useless, my friend.
+This knowledge of the premises seems to you wonderful, simply because
+you have been here so short a time. Why, I have never seen the outside
+of this side of the building, except a partial glimpse when I was
+brought, gagged and bound, in a closed carriage; yet look at this.”
+
+He handed to Aymer a sheet of paper, on which was an elevation plan.
+
+“I can’t see how you got at this,” said Aymer, beginning to have a high
+opinion of the other’s ability.
+
+“It was difficult; but patience and observation will accomplish all
+things. I learnt much of the outline by the shadow on the ground. Here
+is another plan, more minute; this is a ground plan.”
+
+Aymer examined it.
+
+“Why, you have got even the locks and bolts of the doors,” he said, in
+admiration.
+
+“Yes, I should have made a splendid burglar—what a career lost!”
+
+“But,” said Aymer, “I see here ‘water-canal’ marked. I have seen that
+canal; why, it runs just outside the high wall just across the
+courtyard here.”
+
+“Ay, and that is the awkward part of it. First, a narrow courtyard or
+chasm to bridge; then a high wall to surmount; then a broad and deep
+canal—especially broad here, for, as you will see on the plan, there is
+a double width of water for the barges to turn round in. Finally, an
+unknown maze of streets.”
+
+“Not unknown,” said Aymer. “I can be of some use there;” and he told
+Fulk of his residence in Stirmingham during the family council and the
+election. He had a fair knowledge of the streets.
+
+“That is extremely fortunate,” said Fulk. “You must trace out a plan
+for me, in case we should get separated. So you were at the family
+council—I read much of it in the papers which they allow me. By-the-by,
+Marese Baskette is about to marry my cousin. I wonder she has escaped
+the asylum so long—the common fate of us poor Lechesters. Tell me now
+about your Violet’s claim.”
+
+Aymer did so.
+
+Fulk mused a little while.
+
+“I begin to see daylight,” he said. “I see much that I did not
+previously comprehend. If we only wait, and keep watching, everything
+comes plain in time. Waldron—I knew the Waldrons well—very respectable
+people, and well descended. Waldron is mentioned in Domesday—Waleran
+Venator—i.e., Walron, the Huntsman. Jason Waldron—I wonder if I had
+better tell you what I know?—he was murdered, and—but you will not rest
+nor eat.”
+
+“I shall certainly not eat or sleep unless you tell me.”
+
+“Very well, but do keep calm; we shall be out all the sooner, unless
+indeed some unforeseen circumstance stops it, as it has hitherto done.
+_Ay di me_!”
+
+“Do you know anything of Jason Waldron’s murder?” asked Aymer,
+impatiently.
+
+“I do; you have yourself told me. I had my suspicions—almost
+certainty—before, but I could not see the motive; now I see the
+motive—poor, miserable Odo!”
+
+“Odo! what has Odo, to do with it? Do go on; I am wild.”
+
+“Very well. Odo Lechester murdered your friend Jason Waldron!”
+
+“But Odo Lechester is in a lunatic asylum, incurable.”
+
+“Odo Lechester was in this very asylum, but he escaped nearly a year
+ago. He escaped by permission.”
+
+“I am in the dark—explain.”
+
+“By permission, directed to destroy Jason Waldron. He had homicidal
+tendencies, you know.”
+
+“Homicidal tendencies!—escaped! Stay a minute, let me think. I remember
+now. Oh! what a fool I have been. Why, I saw the description of him
+posted up against the police station in Stirmingham, during the
+election; it was partly destroyed—evidently an old bill. I see—I see.
+But why should Odo Lechester kill Jason?”
+
+“He was instructed to do so. Your dear friend Theodore, who so kindly
+offered you a secretaryship at seven hundred and fifty pounds a year,
+told him to do so.”
+
+“Why—how—how could he—”
+
+“Work on Odo’s mind? Easily enough. Poor Odo—he is a beast, born in the
+shape of a man: it is not his fault—he is not responsible. Odo is a
+tinker and a whistler; he is at home among the gipsies and the woods,
+playing on his tin whistle, mending pots and kettles. His three great
+passions are tinkering, dogs, and—liberty. Theodore simply assured him
+that it was Waldron who was the cause of his confinement. Jason dead,
+Odo would be for ever free. Shall I add one more word? If Jason’s
+daughter were also dead, Odo would be still safer in his freedom.”
+
+“Good God! he may be killing her now. Let me out—help me.”
+
+“Silence! Be quiet. She is safe—your cries will ruin all. She is safe
+in this very building.”
+
+“Impossible—I can’t believe it; it is all a blind. I must go to
+Belthrop; I must see Broughton. Good God, how weak I am!”
+
+He fell exhausted back into his chair.
+
+“How foolish of you!” said Fulk, gently. “But I can understand it. Now,
+I will tell you how I learnt all this. It was very simple. When I found
+that there was no escape through your room, I tried the other wall. I
+removed the clock from the bracket, and bored a small hole. Frequently
+I had to stop, because I heard voices. I found the next room to mine
+was one of Theodore’s own private apartments: it is the sitting-room,
+in fact. Beyond it is his laboratory. I should like to know what is in
+that laboratory: if we escape, I _will_ know. He and Marese used to
+meet here and converse. I heard them; I listened. I tell you I heard
+things that would make your flesh creep. Are you better?”
+
+“Yes; oh, that I was stronger! There is wine on the table. Do you think
+I might drink it safely?”
+
+“Certainly not; but you had better pretend that you have. Pour some
+behind the grate; get rid of it somehow, or they will put the poison in
+your food. Well, I heard things about a certain ship, the _Lucca_.”
+
+“The _Lucca_—she was found a derelict.”
+
+“Yes, I know; I could tell you how she became a derelict. But Odo.
+Well, I heard them discuss that plan. He was to be instructed, and then
+allowed to escape. He did escape. I only wish I was strong, and could
+climb like him. What he did, you know. If he is still at large, I will
+wager a hundred pounds I find him. I know his old haunts. But I could
+not understand the object of—of—I see now. Waldron was the descendant
+of Arthur Sibbold. Are you superstitious? No. Well, I am—a little. In
+this case, now, does it not seem as if the blood of old Will Baskette,
+shot at the cider barrel, had revenged itself from generation to
+generation? Stirmingham was, as it were, founded with blood. Your poor
+friend Jason was a descendant of the murderer Sibbold, who shot the
+thief; and here is a Baskette continuing the vendetta.”
+
+“For God’s sake, tell me how to escape.”
+
+“I will. But is it not Fate? Look at the chain of
+events—‘circumstances’ they are called now: the ancients called them
+Fate, Sophocles called them Necessity. But you are eager about
+escaping. Hush—they are coming!”
+
+The picture dropped; Aymer looked down at his book. Davidson entered,
+and asked him how he felt. He replied better, and asked if Miss Waldron
+was in the asylum?
+
+Davidson smiled. “Still on that, sir? I tell you honestly that no such
+person is here.”
+
+He looked Aymer in the face, and Aymer believed him. Davidson lit the
+gas, left several newspapers and books, and retired. So soon as his
+steps had died away, the picture was lifted again.
+
+“I told you so,” said Aymer; “she is not here. He evidently spoke the
+truth.”
+
+“He did so—so far as he knew. But this is an immense building; and you
+forget—you were not brought here at first—there is a residence, as they
+call it, detached. Davidson’s duties never take him there, unless
+specially sent for.”
+
+“Well, well; let me escape, that is all.”
+
+“You have looked out of window; you have seen the courtyard—the wall.
+You know that beyond the wall is the canal: all that is plain in your
+mind?”
+
+“It is. First, we must get across the courtyard, then we must climb the
+wall, then descend and swim the canal.”
+
+“Ah,” said Fulk, “I cannot swim.”
+
+“I can,” said Aymer; “I learnt in the sea.” He remembered his few
+bright months of wandering before he had met Violet.
+
+“I am glad of it, though I had provided for that. The bladders that
+would have supported you, can carry our dry clothes to change.”
+
+“The bladders—have you got some to float you?”
+
+“I have; but, first of all, the courtyard and the wall. We must not
+descend into the courtyard, because at one end there is a
+window—Theodore’s window—and he is here now; at the other it opens on
+the grounds, and warders are sometimes about. It is the wall we must
+attack.”
+
+“All we want now is a rope and a grapnel.”
+
+“I have a rope and a grapnel. Where? In my bed. What rope? Bell-rope
+partly, partly bed cording. How did I get it? By being mad. By picking
+everything to pieces with my fingers, as mad people will. They humoured
+me, and I secreted half the pieces while they carelessly removed the
+other. I have a long, strong rope; long enough to go up the wall and
+down the other side. I have also a grapnel.”
+
+“That is fortunate. How did you make a grapnel?”
+
+“I did not make it; the warder brought it to me. You wonder. But you
+noticed the crenelated wall: that is the secret. My grapnel is simply a
+very long, strong ruler, such as are used in keeping ledgers, and in
+some mechanical drawing; I had it ostensibly for drawing. This ruler
+must be tied across the rope; when the rope is flung over the wall, the
+ruler will catch across the crenelation. There is the grapnel. The rope
+at its lower end will be fastened to the upright pillar, or whatever
+the technical name may be, which divides my window into two. There’s
+the ladder.”
+
+“And the swimming bladders?”
+
+“I made them out of an old Macintosh, which I also tore up: I sewed
+them together. Mad people have whims: one of mine was to mend my own
+clothes; so I got needles and thread. They are also in my bed. They
+have simply to be inflated with air; they have cords to fasten to the
+body.”
+
+“How clever! I should never have thought of such things. But why did
+you not escape before I came? You had all the materials required.”
+
+“True—all the means; but not the physical strength, nor the physical
+courage. I could not do it without a companion to assist me. You forget
+my leg was broken; it is still weak. You forget that I have been
+confined without exercise for two years—enough to weaken any man; and I
+was never strong. I used to envy Odo as he climbed trees, like the wild
+man of the woods he is by nature. Besides, I wanted courage; don’t
+despise me. I have moral courage, but I have no physical courage. I
+jumped from the wall—yes; but under extreme excitement—this must be
+done coolly; and I could not climb the rope. You must climb first, and
+drag me up by sheer force.”
+
+“I will do it somehow,” said Aymer. “But why not tie loops in the rope
+for your feet and hands? Is it long enough?”
+
+“Plenty; I never thought of that. Two heads are better than one. I will
+do that this very night. How long do you think it will take you to
+recover yourself?”
+
+“I will try it to-morrow,” said Aymer.
+
+“No; that is too soon. Say the night after. We must go as early in the
+evening as is compatible with being unseen, so as to have the whole
+night to escape in. Now sleep. I shall not say another word.”
+
+He withdrew, and Aymer vainly tried to slumber. He could not sleep till
+morning, and he did not wake till far into the day. His breakfast was
+waiting for him. As he sat down to it with a better appetite, Fulk
+spoke to him from the picture.
+
+“You look better,” he said; “your long sleep has refreshed you. Shall
+we try it to-night? I own I am afraid lest some trifle should delay
+us.”
+
+“To-night, certainly,” said Aymer. “I feel quite well now. It was
+simply a heaviness—a drowsiness—a narcotic, perhaps. Let it be
+to-night. I must go to Violet.”
+
+“Ah, Violet!” sighed Fulk. “That was my poor wife’s name too. I shall
+love your Violet. I will help you. I know more of the world than you
+do.”
+
+The day passed slowly. They conversed in low tones nearly all the time.
+Aymer, led on by Fulk’s gentle ways, frankly told him all his
+struggles, his disappointments, his hopes. Fulk was deeply interested.
+At last he said—
+
+“At ten we will do it, or perish. I have a mind,” he said, “to let you
+go alone; you are stronger than I am. Very likely my nervousness or
+weakness will spoil the whole enterprise; but you could do it
+certainly.”
+
+“I will not hear of such a thing,” said Aymer; “I will not attempt it
+without you. Do you think I am a cur?”
+
+The dusk fell gradually—so slowly that it tried Aymer’s patience
+terribly. Davidson lit the gas, and left him the evening paper.
+
+“Glad to see you getting better, sir,” he said, civilly.
+
+He withdrew, and nothing now remained between them and the task except
+the twilight. Aymer kept urging to commence. Fulk thought it was not
+dark enough. At half-past nine a cloud came over the sky.
+
+“_Now_,” said Fulk; “I have got the rope ready. Take the picture down,
+and scramble through the hole. No; hand me your change of dress first.
+There is the rope.”
+
+Aymer had no difficulty in getting through, and at once picked up the
+rope. At one end he found a heavy knob of coal fastened.
+
+“That is to throw it up by,” said Fulk, “and to make the rope hang down
+the other side. I hid it for that purpose.”
+
+Fulk put the window open, shading the gas by the blind. Aymer coiled up
+the rope on his left arm to let it run out easily; and was glad now of
+the physical education he had unwillingly imbibed at old Martin
+Brown’s. Many a time he had cast the cart-line over a tall waggon-load
+of straw. He looked out, measured the height, and hurled the knob of
+coal. It flew straight up into the air, carrying with it the destinies
+of two men, like a shot from a mortar over a ship in distress. A moment
+of suspense—it cleared the wall, the rope ran out quickly, till but a
+few feet were left in Aymer’s hands. Fulk opened the other half of the
+window; the rope was passed round the upright and secured. Next the
+air-belt had to be fastened under Fulk’s chest and inflated. Aymer tied
+his change of clothes and Fulk’s in the other air-belt, and adjusted
+them to his back. These incumbrances gave him some little uneasiness.
+He pulled at the rope—it was firm; the ruler had caught the
+crenelations. Then arose the difficulty as to who should go first;
+Aymer, with a lurking suspicion lest Fulk’s heart should fail,
+compelled him to take the lead. He helped him at the window, and saw a
+new danger. Their shadows were projected on the wall opposite; if any
+one looked that way it would be seen in an instant that something was
+going forward. Below on the right was a bow window, and from this bow
+window a stream of light fell upon the rope. However it was too late to
+hesitate.
+
+Folk clung like a cat till he got his foot into the first loop, then he
+went up fairly well. As soon as he was up, and Aymer could see his form
+dimly astride of the wall, he followed. Halfway up, as he looked down,
+he saw a man in the bow window approach and draw down the blind. If he
+had looked out he must have seen the rope and Aymer, but he did not.
+When the blinds were down the rope became invisible. With a beating
+heart Aymer found himself at the top of the wall, astride, facing Fulk,
+who pressed his hand.
+
+“I feel all right now we have started,” he whispered; “I think I shall
+manage it yet.”
+
+There were no loops for the descent. Aymer, after one glance at the
+city lights before him, slid down first, and let himself into the water
+gently. He adjusted the load on his back on the float: then shook the
+line as a signal to Fulk, who came halfway down well, but his nervous
+excitement overcame him, and he rather fell than slid the remainder,
+reaching the water with a splash. His head did not go under, but they
+feared lest any one had heard it. In a few seconds, as all was quiet,
+Aymer struck out, pushing the float in front and dragging Fulk behind.
+He had no load to support, but simply to force his way through the
+water. It was chilly, but not so cold as he had feared. It smelt
+unpleasant—some chemical works discharged into it. Though a fairly good
+swimmer, Aymer had a hard struggle to cross the broad canal, and more
+than once paused to recover his strength. At last they landed on the
+towing path, and without a moment’s delay got over a low wall into some
+back garden and changed their clothes, wrapping the wet things round a
+loose brick from the wall and dropping them in the water. They then
+made haste along the towing path, Aymer leading, and emerged at a
+bridge into a broad thoroughfare, gaslit but deserted.
+
+“Come on,” whispered Aymer. “There is the station; we shall catch the
+up 10:15 train to London.”
+
+“Is that the station?” said Fulk. “Then here we part. Good-by.”
+
+“Part? What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean this: that I owe you my liberty—I shall repay you. I shall stay
+here and watch for your Violet—I am sure she is here.”
+
+It was useless arguing with him: Fulk was determined.
+
+“I shall easily hide in this great city,” he said. “We shall be on the
+watch in two places at once—you at Belthrop and World’s End, and I
+here. Make haste. By-the-by, can you lend me a pound or two? I have no
+money with me.”
+
+Aymer insisted upon dividing the sixty-five pounds he had left. Then
+they shook hands.
+
+“Stay,” said Fulk, “our rendezvous?—Where shall we meet again?
+Quick!—your train.”
+
+“At The Place, World’s End,” said Aymer at a venture, and with one more
+rapid handshake ran off. He caught his train, and by one in the morning
+was in London.
+
+Poor Fulk, wandering he hardly knew where on the look out for a quiet
+inn, came suddenly into a crowded street, and amidst a number of
+carriages evidently waiting. He looked up—it was some theatre or other.
+There was a large poster announcing that the famous singer Mademoiselle
+F—o would perform that evening in the Sternhold Hall, and as he read,
+he heard a loud encore which reached even to the street.
+
+“I remember her,” he thought. “I saw her at Vienna the year before I
+was captured. They said she was this Marese Baskette’s mistress—a
+splendid creature. I’ve half a mind—I haven’t heard a song for so
+long—”
+
+He hesitated. Prudence told him to go away; but talk of prudence to a
+man who has just escaped into liberty! He walked in; the performance
+was nearly over, but he paid and went into the pit. “After all,” he
+tried to persuade himself, “there’s more safety in a crowd. When I go
+out, I can take a cab and drive to an hotel and say I’ve lost my train
+through the theatre; that will account for my having no luggage.”
+
+As he struggled in among the crowd, he glanced up at the boxes; his
+pushing caused a little movement, and people in the boxes looked down.
+He caught an eye watching him—he turned pale. It was Theodore, who rose
+at once and left his box. Poor Fulk gasped for breath; he pushed to get
+out. The audience was annoyed at the movement and disturbance—some
+gentlemen held him down—the notes of the singer’s voice floated over,
+musically sweet. Poor Fulk!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Twelve.
+
+
+Science, as illustrated by the printing press, the telegraph, the
+railway, is a double-edged sword. At the same moment that it puts an
+enormous power in the hands of the good man, it also offers an equal
+advantage to the evil disposed.
+
+Theodore Marese was a man of science; and he was a typical man of
+science—hard, clear, bright, pitiless as the dissecting knife.
+Unfortunately, he applied his knowledge and his undoubted ability to
+the worst of uses. One pursuit to which he had devoted special effort,
+and over which he had spent many thoughtful hours, was the problem how
+to dispose of a dead human body. There was an old superstitious saying
+that the earth will not hide blood—it will out. Theodore was of a
+different opinion. Science had conquered everything: science could
+conquer this. Yet it certainly was a difficult task. Did you ever
+contemplate the difficulty? Suppose you slay your enemy—slay him
+secretly, effectually: now, what next? Try to bury it: the loose earth
+speaks for itself. Exhalations will rise. Quicklime it, and hasten its
+decomposition: there will remain, perhaps, only a brass button, or some
+coin left in the pocket. Throw it into the water: it will rise to the
+surface. Burn it, and all the city will know from the odour. The more
+you think over it, the more difficult it will appear. But Theodore had
+found the solution.
+
+In that laboratory of his which Fulk wished to explore, and which was a
+harmless-looking room—without so much as a phial or a microscope in
+view, there was at one corner, not very far from the fireplace, a long
+upright cupboard, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Or, rather,
+the cupboard rose about halfway, and a bookcase reached the remainder.
+It was a shallow cupboard. There were no locks to the doors. Any one
+could pull them open, and see a few trifles within—such trifles as
+might be found in any bachelor’s room. The bookcase was also shallow,
+but there was depth enough back for some rows of books. The books were
+harmless enough—mostly medical works, just such works as any one can
+purchase who cares to. Nothing certainly here to excite suspicion. Yet
+behind that cupboard and bookcase was concealed the most deadly,
+insidious, awful engine ever constructed by man—an engine about which
+no secrecy exists either, and which living men have seen in operation;
+which has been described in the papers; and which the legislature must
+put down, or strictly regulate.
+
+Upon removing one of the books, Theodore had merely to push aside a
+small brass plate, which looked like part of a hinge, and there was a
+keyhole; turn the key, and the whole cupboard swung bodily out into the
+room. It was, in fact, a blind, placed in front of a narrow inner door,
+which rose to the ceiling. When the door was open, there stood revealed
+an iron box, not unlike an extremely long coffin, placed on end. There
+was a keyhole—two key-holes—to this iron box. Open the first, and there
+was a large cavity, tall enough for a man to sit on a bar which went
+across it, without his head touching the iron roof. In this iron roof
+there was an opening, not unlike a small grating. Put the key in the
+second keyhole, above the first, and there was the apparatus, greatly
+improved by Theodore, but in substance the same as used in other
+places—the apparatus for absorbing the smell of the gases which arise
+from a human body when consumed by heat. Every one knows that if the
+smoke of a pipe be passed through water in a peculiar way, it loses its
+pungency, and you can inhale it with more comfort: this is the hookah.
+Everybody also knows that manufacturers in great towns are compelled to
+consume their own smoke, and all have seen a lump of loaf sugar suck up
+a spoonful of tea. A combination of these principles formed Theodore’s
+deadly engine, which was nothing more or less than a private cremation
+stove. The ordinary fire in the harmless-looking fireplace produced
+sufficient heat, when a draught was caused by turning a winch with a
+multiplying wheel placed at the lower part of the cupboard, just
+beneath the cavity which was to receive the body. This body, made
+thoroughly insensible and unconscious by being saturated with
+chloroform or strong drugs—or, if you like, still more insensible with
+a trifle of arsenic—had merely to be lifted into its iron coffin, the
+door closed, the blast applied, and in a couple of hours or so there
+would remain a little heap of ashes, and a little melted metal, brass
+buttons, coins, and such like, things easily dropped into a canal, dust
+easily mixed with the ashes under the grate. Now, where was all that
+superstitious nonsense about the difficulty of getting rid of a dead
+body?
+
+Whether Theodore had ever used this awful engine was never known; but
+it existed, and it may exist at this present hour in other equally
+unsuspected places. What I say is, that the legislature should take
+cremation in hand. If any one had been shut up in that iron box
+alive—only stupefied for a few minutes with a drug, put in asleep; if
+they had been awakened by the red-hot iron, of what use would their
+screams have been—deadened by the confinement, deadened by thick walls?
+
+“I am extremely sorry,” said Theodore Marese, meeting Violet at the
+railway station, and handing her to a carriage; “I regret very much
+that Mr Malet could not come. He has, in fact, gone upon a special
+mission. A gentleman in the Isle of Man, who owed us a large sum, died
+suddenly; his affairs are in confusion, and Mr Malet was obliged to
+start this afternoon to see to our debt. I am the bearer of his
+regrets. At all events, he will not be absent more than a week.”
+
+Violet was naturally much disappointed, but after all, it was only a
+week or ten days, and they treated her with great courtesy at the
+residence at the asylum. A matron was always ready to afford her
+companionship; no intrusion was made upon her privacy. Theodore
+occasionally called upon her in the most respectful way. Books, papers,
+anything she seemed to wish for came at once. The matron, a lady-like
+person, took her into the town to do some shopping. Everything but a
+letter from Aymer. However, that was easily explained—the sea-post was
+always uncertain. Theodore took her over a great part of the asylum;
+she was astonished at its size, and the number of its inmates. It
+saddened her, and she still more longed for Aymer to return.
+
+Why it was that she was not confined like Aymer was never wholly
+explained, but there is some reason to think that Marese Baskette had a
+faint idea of marrying her himself. He was, as we have seen, nervous
+about his marriage with Lady Lechester: lest anything should happen to
+prevent or delay it. This girl, Violet, he well knew, had a good claim
+to the estate; suppose he married her? She was a second string to his
+bow. As to the rumour of his being her father’s murderer, he would
+trust to his own wit and handsome face to overcome that. He never
+questioned his power to have her if he chose—but Lady Lechester first.
+Theodore had therefore his instructions to treat her well, and give her
+seeming liberty, and above all to keep her in good temper. Theodore did
+as he was bid. This seems the natural solution of the problem. If she
+had known that Aymer was so near!
+
+It happened at this time that, on the seventh day after Violet’s
+arrival, the famous singer, Mademoiselle F—o, of whom all the world was
+talking, was to sing for one night only in the Sternhold Hall.
+Theodore, finding that she was getting restless and thoughtful, seized
+upon this opportunity to while away her gloom. He proposed that she
+should accompany him to the theatre or hall, and Violet, who had never
+heard an opera in her life, was naturally enough delighted to go. They
+went, and as it chanced it was the very night that Aymer and poor Fulk
+chose to make their escape. Thus it was that Theodore’s eye caught
+sight of Fulk, the moment the commotion caused by his late entrance
+attracted his attention. Violet was extremely pleased; the notes of the
+music and song filled her with an exquisite enjoyment. She was very
+beautiful, leaning over the front of her box, and scores of glasses
+were directed at her. Had she known that at that very moment Aymer was
+risking his life to escape!
+
+The difficulty in this history-writing is to describe two or three
+events at the same moment. The eye can only read one line at a time,
+how then are you to bring two scenes at once before it? Some allowance
+must be made for the infirmities of the pen. There were two scenes
+proceeding at the moment that Theodore’s eye fell upon Fulk—three
+scenes, if you reckon the opera on the stage. First, poor Fulk
+shivering with terror, struggling to escape, the crowd round execrating
+him, his mind in a whirl, reproaching himself with his folly, and the
+tall figure of Theodore, who had come down from the box, pointing him
+out to an attendant and pushing forward to seize him. On the stage, La
+Sonnambula was uttering her sweetest trill; Marese Baskette’s mistress
+in the full height of her glory, with hundreds upon hundreds of the
+élite of that great city intent upon her every accent—hundreds upon
+hundreds of well-dressed, fashionable, wealthy ladies and gentlemen,
+most of whom knew her connection with Marese, the popular M.P., were
+there. This very knowledge attracted them in shoals. This was scene
+two.
+
+The third scene was underneath. There in the darkness and gloom of the
+cellars, amid the slimy pools of water, the hideous fungi, the
+loathsome toads and creeping things, the grey sewer-rats were at work.
+You have seen a ship launched—she stands firm as a rock till the last
+wedge is knocked away, then glides into the water. Something of the
+same kind was going on here beneath the feet of several hundred human
+beings. These musty cellars and vaults under the Sternhold Hall, with
+their awkward approach, had been let at last. A London firm had given a
+small sum for them, and established a store of whisky casks. A dozen or
+so of whisky casks had been rolled down, a name put upon the door, and
+an advertisement in the newspaper. Nobody could do business with this
+firm, their terms were too high. The whisky casks, in truth, contained
+pure spring water. It was an excuse, however, for men in rough jackets,
+who had evidently been at work, to go in and out of these vaults, and
+to take with them saws and chisels, hammers, and other harmless tools.
+The firm was, in fact, composed of a dozen or more of the sharpest
+sewer-rats in Stirmingham. Their little game was so delightfully
+simple—only a little gnawing to be done! When Theodore and Baskette
+went down into this place, they found the floor supported by timber
+pillars. Their idea was to blow it up. The sewer-rats were much
+cleverer—their idea was to saw through the wooden pillars, and let the
+roof or floor down, and with it many hundred shrieking, maimed, and
+mutilated human beings. How simple great ideas appear when once they
+are described! There is nothing novel in the idea either: the holy
+Saint Dunstan tried it at Calne, and found it answer admirably.
+
+Some say odd accidents have happened to grand stands at race meetings,
+through iron bolts being inadvertently removed. When hundreds of
+well-dressed, fashionable people, ladies and gentlemen, with gold rings
+and diamonds, earrings and bracelets, watches, money, bank-notes, and
+similar valuables about them, not to mention rich cloaks and perhaps
+furs, were shrieking, struggling, groaning, maimed, mutilated, and
+broken to pieces, with jagged ends and splinters of deal sticking into
+their bodies, how nice and benevolent it would be to go in among and
+assist them; to lift up the broken arm, and lighten it of the massive
+gold bracelet; to pull the horrid splinter out of the leg, and extract
+the well-filled purse; to alleviate the agony of the bruised shoulder
+or the broken back, and remove the choice fur or necklace of diamonds!
+Thoughtful of the sewer-rats to provide this banquet of Christian
+charity!
+
+The one difficulty had been to get the several hundred people there.
+They had all in readiness for months, watching. They had it ready while
+the family council sat, and had deliberated about knocking the last
+wedge out at that time, but on reflection it was doubtful whether the
+Americans had much coin about them. Finally, one shrewd sewer-rat hit
+upon the idea of engaging Mademoiselle F—o to come down and sing. They
+paid her one hundred pounds in advance, with travelling expenses to
+come afterwards; and it would have been a good speculation in itself,
+for they took three hundred and fifty pounds, including the boxes.
+These boxes were a worry. They could not be let down, they were not
+built on wooden pillars; however, it was easy to shut one of the
+folding-doors at the entrance, and let the bolt drop into the
+stone—easy to raise a cry of “Fire!”—easy to imagine the crush at the
+door.
+
+Easy also for me to enter into a catalogue of broken limbs, ribs,
+fractures, contusions, gashes, etc, etc—I shall leave it to the
+surgical imagination. But when hundreds of people, closely packed, are
+suddenly precipitated eighteen feet, amid splintering planks and
+crushing beams, it is probable that the hospitals will be full. This
+was the third scene preparing underneath.
+
+Just as Fulk felt Theodore close to him—just as F—o uttered her
+sweetest trill—just as Violet was in the height of her enjoyment—the
+grey rat gave his last nibble—the last wedge was knocked away; and the
+floor went down. Poor Violet saw it all. She saw fourteen hundred hands
+suddenly thrown up into the air; she heard one awful cry, she felt the
+box tremble and vibrate, and the whole audience sank—sank as into one
+great pit. She turned deadly pale; she clung with both hands to the
+balustrade; but she did not faint. It was all too quick.
+
+Fulk was in a stooping position, struggling to escape. That saved him.
+He fell with his body across a joist, which with a few others had not
+been sawn—some few had to be left to keep the floor apparently safe.
+His arms flew out in front, his legs struggling behind; he was poised
+on the centre of his body. At any other time one might have laughed. In
+that terrible moment the instinctive love of life endowed him with
+unusual strength. He knew not how he did it, but he got astride of the
+joist; he worked himself along it; he reached one of the slender iron
+columns or shafts which supported the boxes and gallery. He who
+mistrusted his power to climb a rope, in that hour of horrors went up
+that shaft with ease, assisted by the scroll-work on it. He got into
+the very box where Violet sat, with straining eyes gazing into that
+bottomless pit. Exhausted, he fell on his knees beside her. Exhausted,
+he heard the cry of “Fire!”—heard the rush to the doors. He remained on
+his knees, gazing, like her, down into the pit.
+
+The cry that rose up—the shouts, the groans, the shrieks—will ring in
+Fulk’s ears till his death. Violet never heard a sound; her whole
+faculties were concentrated in her eyes. Heaps of human beings
+striving, heaving; fragments of dresses, opera cloaks fluttering from
+joists in mid-air; splinters with pieces of torn coats—Ah! I cannot
+write it; and she dares not tell me. One dares not dwell on this scene.
+One more word only. Fulk glanced at the stage: still the lights burnt
+there; the painted scene was untouched; the singer, F—o, had fled by
+the stage staircase.
+
+It is odd, but the idea since came to me—she was the cheese; the hall,
+the trap. The simile will hardly bear close investigation.
+
+It was those few minutes that Fulk and Violet spent in motionless
+horror that saved them. They thereby escaped the crush at the door;
+that is to say, they escaped being in it; it was impossible to go out
+without seeing it. Fulk recovered himself a little: his first instinct
+was that of a gentleman—the lady beside him. He caught her arm, and
+dragged her up from her seat; and she came with him unresistingly out
+of the box into the corridor: he could feel her whole frame tremble.
+Perhaps, reasoning after the event, they might as well have sat still;
+but remember the awful cry of fire, the instinctive desire to escape,
+and that Fulk was still fearful of being re-captured! They reached the
+staircase—descended it to within a few feet of the passage. There they
+saw a black mass, writhing, heaving: it was a mass of men and women who
+had fallen, and been trodden down. It extended along the whole passage
+to the open air. Then Violet fainted, and hung in his arms inert,
+helpless. Poor girl! it was enough to unnerve the boldest man. Fulk
+grasped her round the waist—he was short remember—he struggled with
+her; got his feet on that awful floor of moving bodies; he stumbled,
+and staggered towards the air, gasping for breath, dragging,
+half-trailing her behind him. He cried for help—his arms failed him;
+his poor, weak leg—the one that had been broken—slipped down into a
+crevice between two fallen men, and strive how he would he could not
+get it out. A mist swam before his eyes; but he did not let go—gallant
+little Fulk!
+
+Strong arms seized him. Cabmen, police, coachmen, grooms—idlers who had
+rushed to the doors—seized him, and pulled him out, and set him on his
+legs, and pushed the brandy flask between his teeth. And still Fulk
+instinctively held tight to his burden.
+
+“Where shall I drive you, sir?” said one cabman.
+
+“To—I don’t know. Where is a good hotel?”
+
+“The ‘Dragon,’ sir.”
+
+“Help to lift her in.”
+
+Fifteen minutes afterwards they were at the “Dragon.” Fortunate,
+indeed; for all the city—the great city—was pouring in vast crowds to
+that horrible doorway; and those who were extricated found it difficult
+to get away.
+
+Fulk and Violet were well cared for at the “Dragon,” as, indeed, they
+would be after so terrible a catastrophe had brought out all the
+sympathy there was latent in that city. Besides, they were
+well-dressed, and Fulk was found to have money in his pocket-money, to
+do them justice, not one farthing of which was touched while he and
+Violet lay in adjoining rooms helpless—for they were helpless, utterly
+exhausted for six whole days. When Fulk, conscious that he must be
+stirring, did pull himself together and got out of bed, and into the
+sitting apartment, the first thing he saw was a newspaper on the table,
+the _Stirmingham Daily News_, which had come out with a deep line of
+black round every page, and in which was a list of the dead and
+wounded; the killed were very few in proportion to the injured. Fulk
+looked for Theodore Marese; he found his name among the dead. Theodore
+was gone to his account; he had been found on the floor of the vault
+face downwards, quite dead. There was a deep wound in his forehead, and
+it was thought that, in falling, his head had struck the iron-bound
+edge of one of the supposed whisky casks.
+
+Violet, when she heard that Fulk was up, came out of her room and held
+out her hand. She was still dreadfully pale; but Fulk thought he had
+never seen a more beautiful face. She thanked him with tears in her
+eyes; and Fulk in vain tried to make her think that he had done
+nothing. “I was up yesterday,” she said, “but I could not go till you
+were better. Now, will you please take me back to the asylum?”
+
+“The asylum?” said Fulk, in amazement.
+
+“Yes; Mr Theodore will be anxious about me. I sent a message yesterday
+to him, but I have had no reply.”
+
+“Theodore Marese is dead,” said Fulk, quietly. “I trust you have had
+nothing to do with him?”
+
+“Dead!” Violet shuddered. “But I must go to the asylum; perhaps Aymer
+has returned.”
+
+“Aymer—what Aymer?”
+
+An explanation followed, which will be readily understood. It was long
+before Violet could believe him; till at last his reiterated
+statements, and the little incidents he related, shook her incredulity.
+Even then she was partially doubtful, till Fulk chanced to look at the
+paper on the table. There was an advertisement in large type—“Escaped
+from the Asylum, Fulk Lechester and Aymer Malet.” She could no longer
+doubt.
+
+“How miserably I have been deceived,” she said, and burst into tears.
+
+Fulk was greatly shocked.
+
+“You see now that I must hasten away,” he said. “Doubtless this great
+catastrophe has occupied men’s minds, and interfered to prevent a
+strict search; but now I have found you it is a folly to remain here.
+My rendezvous with Aymer is at The Place, World’s End. We will go to
+World’s End at once.”
+
+“Aymer will be there?” said Violet, brightening a little.
+
+“Yes, Aymer will be there,” said Fulk.
+
+That evening they paid the bill—to the honour of the “Dragon,” it was a
+very small one—and reached the station in a fly. The same train that
+had taken Aymer to London took them also. They stayed that night at an
+hotel, and next afternoon travelled down to the little station nearest
+to World’s End. Another fly took them to the outskirts of Bury Wick
+village; and from thence they walked to The Place. Violet’s heart sank;
+it was dark, not a light in the window, not a sign of life; the doors
+were fast. They broke a pane of glass, and Fulk opened the window, got
+in, and unbolted one of the back doors. Fulk had taken the precaution
+to bring with him a few provisions, and had also bought the local
+paper—_The Barnham Chronicle_—and stuffed it in with the ham in the
+basket, for he was anxious to read about his cousin Lady Agnes’
+marriage. Violet made a fire, and got some tea: she had provided that.
+Where was Aymer?
+
+A strange night that at The Place. Fulk felt safer now he was out of
+the city: but Violet had too vivid a memory of the past. In the very
+house where so many happy hours had been passed she was alone with a
+perfect stranger, or one who was a stranger but a little while before.
+And Aymer?
+
+“Where could Aymer be?” was the question she constantly asked.
+
+Fulk said, “Aymer was doubtless at Belthrop, trying to find her.”
+
+“But Hannah Bond knows I started for Stirmingham,” objected Violet. “If
+Aymer should see her, and go back to Stirmingham. I must write to
+her—or will you?”
+
+“I will go and see her,” said Fulk; “certainly I will. But remember
+that I am in hiding; it must be at night. Wait till to-morrow night.
+Give Aymer that little time to come, then I will go.”
+
+“Hannah must come and live here with me,” said Violet, musingly. “I
+think I shall stay at The Place till—till—where is your newspaper?”
+
+“I—I—burnt it,” said Fulk. “I burnt it helping you to light the fire.”
+
+It was the truth, yet it was a lie. He had burnt it, that Violet might
+not see something in it. Aymer was not at Belthrop. Aymer’s name was in
+the paper.
+
+“How shall I amuse you?” said Violet. “This is my home; I must amuse
+you. I will play to you one of the airs that Aymer likes. Poor Aymer!”
+she added, half to herself.
+
+The gentle, melancholy music of Mendelssohn filled the room from the
+long unused piano.
+
+“Poor Aymer!” repeated Fulk to himself. Poor Aymer, indeed!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Thirteen.
+
+
+At twelve o’clock of the night before his wedding-day, Marese Baskette
+was galloping, fast as his best thorough-bred could carry him, from
+Barnham town to The Towers. Barely had he settled himself at his hotel
+to think over the coming day, than a message summoned him to return. It
+was a splendid night—warm, still, the sky full of stars, and a faint
+odour of the hawthorn blossom in the air. The thin mist that Lady
+Lechester had seen had descended into the hollows, and as Marese rode
+through it, it reached to his saddle-bow. The horse rushed on, hidden
+in the cloud that covered the earth; the rider sat above it. Far behind
+clattered the groom, who had fetched him in hot haste.
+
+“Lady Lechester is lost!” Such was his brief message, and not all
+Marese’s sharp questioning could elicit anything more, for the simple
+reason that nothing more was known. About eight o’clock she had been
+seen to leave the house, and the servants took no particular notice of
+it, expecting her to return in a short time, as she usually did. As she
+usually did I—this was the first time Marese had heard of the nocturnal
+walks of his bride. It was a mystery to him: it angered him. A man of
+plots and stratagems, he was always more or less suspicious of others.
+An hour had passed, and Lady Lechester did not return. The guests—and
+they were numerous that night at The Towers—asked for her; the
+household still kept their mistress’s secret, but two ventured out to
+seek her. They went to the well-known spot, they saw the oak trunk,
+they heard the roar of the river—but Lady Lechester was not there. An
+anxious consultation took place; butler, footmen, the upper servants
+held a whispered discussion. At last the gamekeeper was sent for: if
+Lady Lechester happened to see him, she would not be annoyed; if she
+met any of the others, and fancied they had been watching her, it would
+cost them their places. The guests were put off with various excuses.
+Time passed: the gamekeeper reported the park clear, and not a trace of
+Lady Agnes. The truth could no longer be concealed. The alarm and
+excitement among the wedding guests may easily be imagined. All the
+gentlemen at once put on their hats, and with lanterns and brandy
+flasks proceeded to search the park in every direction. A man was
+despatched post-haste on the swiftest horse for the bridegroom. One
+gentleman rode with him to Barnham, woke up the police, and instructed
+them to be on the alert, but, if possible, to keep matters quiet.
+Especially they were to look out for the dog Dando, who was known to
+have accompanied Lady Agnes, but had not returned.
+
+Marese reached The Towers about one in the morning. During his ride he
+had mastered his feelings; he had crushed down the superstitious
+presentiment which warned him that all was in vain. He had not felt so
+unusually nervous about this marriage for nothing. But he mastered
+himself. One of his maxims was never to regret the past, but to apply
+the mind with iron will to make the best of the present. He called the
+servants, naturally taking the lead, and made them tell him all they
+knew. Then for the first time Lady Agnes’ strange visits to “The Pot”
+became known; and at once the gloomiest forebodings filled the minds of
+the guests. She was drowned; she had fallen down “The Pot.” The idea
+grew and grew, till it became the one belief. Marese himself could not
+doubt it. It was a strange and solemn conclave they held, at that hour
+of the night, in the hall at The Towers, Marese standing in the midst,
+his face pale but composed, the guests crowding round him, the servants
+coming up one by one to be examined. The great clock at The Towers
+tolled two, and there stepped silently into the room a stranger,
+plainly dressed, but remarkably upright, with an air of authority—the
+Superintendent of police from Barnham. A silence followed his entrance.
+He marked it, and said that he had brought drags to search the
+river—was there a boat anywhere to be obtained?
+
+There was no boat. The Ise ran so swift and was so shallow at ordinary
+times, and lay so deep down between its banks, that no one cared to
+keep a boat. The nearest known was a little punt four miles down the
+river, where it enlarged into a small lake. A man was despatched to
+borrow it, and pole it up the rapid stream; he could not reach “The
+Pot,” work as hard as he might, under three hours. All the gentlemen
+and not a few of the ladies, too excited to sit quietly within, went
+with the Superintendent across the park to “The Pot,” and watched the
+drags used. The Superintendent asked them to stand back a moment while
+he examined the ground round the mouth of the funnel. He did so
+carefully; the grass had left no mark of a footstep, there was not a
+trace of a struggle, not a scrap of dress hanging to a twig, or a
+broken ornament. Then the drags were dropped down the strange funnel
+into the roaring water, and under the quiet stars the wedding guests
+gathered in a circle, watching the police as they searched the cave in
+vain. Neither drag nor pole could detect anything at the bottom; the
+light of the strongest bull’s-eye failed to show any trace that a body
+had fallen down that narrow crevice; no stones or earth recently
+dislodged, not a particle of dress or shawl here either.
+
+By this time the ladies were tired, and shivered in the early morning
+breeze; they retired, but the gentlemen, greatly excited, stayed and
+assisted to fish the river Ise downwards for miles. The body would
+surely be carried with the current: but no, not a trace. The bright sun
+of the glorious May morning found them still at the mournful task. This
+was the wedding morning. The thrushes burst into song; the cuckoo flew
+over with his merry cry; dewdrops glittered like gems upon the bushes,
+and the lovely May bloom scented the breeze. A wedding morn indeed!—but
+where was the bride? More than one glanced for a moment from the turbid
+river up to the deep azure of the sky, and the natural thought that
+followed need not be described. They met the punt at last—but it was
+useless. The man who poled it up had kept a close look out; nothing had
+floated by.
+
+“We shall not find it,” said the Superintendent, “till the flood
+subsides.”
+
+Even yet there was one hope as they walked sadly back to The Towers:
+the dog Dando—where was he? It was reasonable to think that if Lady
+Lechester had fallen into the river, the dog would presently return to
+The Towers. If he did not return, there was still hope that she had
+wandered in some other direction, or had met with an accident—sprained
+her ankle, or broken her leg in the woods, perhaps. This idea had
+occurred to the Superintendent and to Marese long before, and the
+gamekeeper, with eight or ten willing assistants, had been searching
+the woods for hours. As they neared The Towers it was obvious from the
+group of people talking excitedly before the entrance that something
+had happened. A policeman came towards them, leading Dando in a leash.
+
+He had but just arrived in a trap from Barnham town. Questions poured
+out from a hundred lips; it was difficult to get an explanation, but it
+was understood at last. The Superintendent on leaving Barnham had not
+omitted to warn the men on their heats in the town to look out for a
+dog—Lady Lechester’s well-known dog—merely as a forlorn hope, never
+dreaming that Dando would wander thither. But a little after sunrise,
+perhaps about six o’clock, the dog Dando walked up the high street of
+Barnham behind a man wearing a grey suit, who knocked at the door of Mr
+Broughton’s private residence. Before the knock was answered the man in
+the grey suit was in custody, and the dog secured. The man in the grey
+suit struggled violently—fought like a wild beast, which still further
+prejudiced the police against him, and was with difficulty handcuffed,
+manacled, and conveyed to the station-house on a stretcher. No one to
+look at his slight figure would have thought him capable of such savage
+battling. He asked perpetually for Mr Broughton, declared that he was
+not mad—which was strange, as no one had accused him of that failing,
+and refused to give his name—another trait that looked ill. When asked
+if he had seen Lady Lechester he denied all knowledge of such a person.
+The dog had followed him just as any other dog might. As to the road he
+had come he was obstinately silent. The police had not waited to waste
+further inquiries upon him, but hastened to The Towers with the news
+for their chief.
+
+His face fell immediately. “I fear,” he said, “that Lady Lechester is
+indeed lost. The dog would never have left her unless. However, we have
+now got a clue.”
+
+Marese gave up all hope; yet with his old cool self-possession before
+he started with the Superintendent for Barnham, he wrote out a telegram
+and despatched it to Theodore, briefly acquainting him with what had
+happened, and asking him to be especially agreeable _to that
+person_—meaning Violet, whose value as a second string to the bow had
+risen at once. This telegram was despatched to a dead man: Theodore had
+been killed the night before in the Sternhold Hall, but in the
+confusion and the difficulty of at once identifying bodies, no news had
+been sent to Marese.
+
+With the Superintendent, Marese went into the cell at the police
+station, and saw Aymer Malet handcuffed and manacled. Poor Aymer,
+indeed! His hair was rough over his forehead, his cheeks stained with
+blood from a scratch received in the struggle, his whole look wild in
+the extreme. He saw Marese Baskette, the murderer, the man who had
+confined him. Is it to be wondered at that he grew excited? He said
+nothing, but his face worked, and his teeth ground together. Marese
+looked at him steadily, almost with a smile. In that moment, swift as
+it passed, he debated upon his best course. Truth, or what he called
+truth, was the safest, although it would save Aymer’s life.
+
+“I know this man,” he said. “He is a lunatic; he has escaped from my
+cousin’s asylum at Stirmingham. He is very dangerous: without a doubt,
+this is the guilty party.”
+
+Aymer denied it. All his efforts were to make people believe that he
+was not mad. As yet he had no conception of the darker shadow hanging
+over him: his one idea was, that he had been pursued and captured—that
+he should be sent back to the asylum. Therefore he had refused to give
+his name, or to describe the road by which he had come to Barnham. This
+very mistake increased the suspicion against him of a knowledge of Lady
+Lechester’s disappearance. It will now be understood why Fulk burnt the
+paper that Violet might not read it, and why The Place was dark and
+cheerless when they reached it. These events had happened just before
+they arrived.
+
+Marese never lost his presence of mind for a moment, not even when he
+heard of Theodore’s awful death. Turn the mind to the present, was his
+maxim: do the best with it you can. His one concern was the
+disappearance of Violet: still he felt certain that he should be able
+to trace her. At present, the one thing needful was to crush Aymer
+Malet. He held that enemy now in the hollow of his hand: he should
+“taste his finger,” as the Orientals say.
+
+The magistrates on hearing the evidence at once made out a warrant, and
+Aymer was remanded, while the search went on for the body, which still
+eluded all search. Upon the third day, however, some important evidence
+turned up, and it was thought best to take it in the presence of the
+prisoner. Aymer was in consequence led into the large apartment used
+for such purposes at the police station, still wearing the handcuffs,
+for Marese had industriously spread the belief that he was a dangerous
+lunatic. The general public were not admitted; but a few gentlemen were
+present, and among these was Mr Broughton, who at once recognised
+Aymer, rough as his present appearance wan, and came forward and spoke
+to him. Aymer asked him to defend him, and Broughton, to his credit,
+said he would. To his credit, for his interest in the Lechester estates
+was large.
+
+The magistrates seeing so respectable a solicitor as Mr Broughton
+taking an interest in the prisoner, consulted, and to Marese’s intense
+disgust offered to allow the prisoner half an hour to confer with his
+attorney. In that brief period poor Aymer had to relate his confinement
+and his escape. Broughton listened attentively; then he said—
+
+“Your story is strange, almost incredible; still you are in a position
+where nothing will do you much good but public opinion. My usual advice
+would be to reserve your defence; my present advice to you is to tell
+the Bench exactly what you have told me, only much more fully. There
+are no reporters admitted; but I will see that your statement is
+published. I believe you myself. If the public show any signs of
+believing you, the prosecutors will withdraw. It is your only chance;
+for, to be candid, the evidence is terribly against you.”
+
+They returned to the justice-room. The first witness called was the
+policeman who had detected Aymer and the dog in the street. He
+described Aymer as walking very fast, and dodging from house to house
+as if trying to escape notice. This was point Number 1 against him.
+Then came the evidence as to his furious struggle with the police. One
+constable could barely make himself understood; a blow straight from
+the shoulder had knocked a tooth out, and his voice sounded hollow and
+indistinct. Such a violent resistance obviously indicated a guilty
+conscience. This was point Number 2 against him. Next it was stated,
+and stated with perfect truth, that the prisoner had refused to give
+his name, his place of residence, or any information about himself; and
+that, finally, he had totally denied even so much as knowing that there
+was such a person as Lady Lechester. He had tried to conceal his
+identity in every way, and had deliberately told an untruth, for after
+living so long at World’s End, how could he have failed to know Lady
+Lechester? This was point Number 3. Then he gave a very vague,
+unsatisfactory account of how the dog had followed him. He declared
+that the dog was a strange dog to him—that he had never seen it before.
+Now this must be also a wilful falsehood. Point Number 4. But the
+darkest evidence of all was reserved to the last. There was brought
+into the room an “iron-witted” ploughboy, with a shock head of light
+hair, small eyes, heavy jowl, and low forehead—the very class of
+witness most to be dreaded, for nothing on earth can make them
+understand that it is possible for them to be mistaken.
+
+The ploughboy, Andrew Hornblow by name, told his story
+straightforwardly enough. He said that he had been to the “Shepherd’s
+Bush” that fateful evening, after work; that he had a pint and a half
+of ale, but was not any the worse for liquor. That at about half-past
+seven, or a little earlier, he left the “Shepherd’s Bush” inn to return
+to the farmhouse where he slept. He went across the fields and Downs,
+and his path led him over a section of the park. As he passed a fir
+copse he heard some one playing on a tin whistle in a most peculiar
+way. He was curious: to see who it was, and got into the copse. The
+moment his footsteps were heard the whistle stopped; but pushing aside
+the boughs, he caught a glimpse of a tallish man, in a grey suit—a
+dirty-grey suit—who seemed anxious to avoid observation, and plunged
+into the dark recesses of the copse. He didn’t think much of it at the
+time; but it so happened that the spot where he had seen the man was
+within a hundred yards of “The Pot;” and talking of the disappearance
+of Lady Lechester to his master, the fact had got to the knowledge of
+the police. Had he seen that man since? Not till he had come into the
+room; and he pointed at the prisoner, who indeed wore a grey suit,
+somewhat travel-stained and frayed in places, as if from passage
+through hedges or woods.
+
+Mr Broughton cross-examined this witness at great length, and with his
+accustomed shrewdness—but in vain, the ploughboy was certain the
+prisoner was the man. All that could be got from him was, that he had
+not distinctly seen the face of the man in the copse, but he was
+tallish, and wore a dirty-grey suit. This established the fact that the
+prisoner was near about the spot, where Lady Lechester had disappeared
+somewhere within half an hour of that mysterious event.
+
+Point Number 6 was still more convincing. Upon the prisoner being
+searched, there was found upon him a tin whistle. The whistle was
+produced, and was of a peculiar construction: when blown, it gave a
+singular sound, more musical than the ordinary whistle. It was covered
+with sketches—apparently engraved with a sharp tool—of dogs, some of
+them very spirited and faithful outline representations. It was well
+known that the prisoner was a good draughtsman. The only point that
+remained to be established was the death of Lady Lechester. The body
+had not been found.
+
+Upon this evidence the police very properly asked for a remand till the
+body was discovered.
+
+Mr Broughton immediately applied for bail.
+
+The Bench asked upon what grounds, and this gave Aymer an opportunity
+to tell his tale. Remember, that all this time Marese Baskette was
+sitting side by side with the magistrates, who naturally felt for his
+position, and treated him with exceptional courtesy.
+
+When Aymer began, Marese objected on the ground that the prisoner was a
+lunatic escaped from Stirmingham Asylum, and that these wild
+statements, if they got into print, would do him harm. The Bench
+assured him that nothing the prisoner—whose wild appearance proved the
+condition of his mind—could say would prejudice him in their
+estimation, and as there were no reporters present nothing could get
+abroad. It was better to let the prisoner tell his tale; he might
+inadvertently disclose the fate of poor Lady Lechester. It was true
+that the prisoner being a lunatic would escape the extreme penalty of
+the law, but it was very desirable to learn all that could be known of
+poor Lady Agnes. Marese had to be satisfied, and to listen while Aymer,
+in clear, forcible language, told his story, hinting broadly at
+Marese’s complicity in the death of Jason Waldron, and describing the
+manner in which he had been trapped, and his escape. The Bench listened
+with an incredulous air, as well they might. The man was evidently
+mad—quite mad. Finally, Aymer came to his arrival at Belthrop late in
+the afternoon of the day after he had got out of the asylum. Finding
+Violet was not at Hannah Bond’s, and greatly alarmed, he was at a loss
+what to do. To go back to Stirmingham was extremely dangerous for fear
+of re-capture, and he hesitated for a while. At last, after partaking
+of refreshment given to him by old Hannah, he had started for Barnham
+with the intention of calling on Mr Broughton and taking his advice.
+Halfway to Barnham it had occurred to him that perhaps Violet after all
+was at The Towers, and he diverged from his course and approached the
+mansion, as he supposed, about one in the morning. He saw a number of
+people about and in commotion, and afraid of being recognised and
+captured altered his mind again, and turned to go to Barnham across the
+Downs. In doing so he admitted that he had passed near “The Pot,” but
+not at the time stated by the ploughboy—half-past seven in the
+evening—but half-past one in the morning. As he walked through the
+grass he saw something glistening, and picked up the tin whistle found
+upon him. He should not have taken the trouble to carry it away had it
+not been for the curious figures on it, which, being a light night, he
+could just distinguish. As he came up the side of the Downs, just as he
+passed The Giant’s Ring—i.e., a circle of stones set on edge—some
+ancient monument—he was overtaken by the dog Dando, who jumped and
+fawned upon him with delight as an old friend, and followed him to
+Barnham where he was captured by the police. He had resisted them
+because he thought they were under orders to return him to the asylum.
+The dog Dando limped a little, and he had noticed that his back showed
+signs of a severe recent beating. Hannah Bond could prove that he did
+not leave Belthrop till nearly or quite eight, and it was impossible
+for him to get to “The Pot,” ten miles, in less than three hours,
+across a rough country. His dress was dirty and torn because he had
+walked quite twenty miles when arrested, and passed through several
+coppices. Upon this Mr Broughton asked for bail, and offered himself in
+any sum they might name. But the Bench could not get over the fact of
+the asylum—the prisoner was a dangerous lunatic; even if his story was
+true he was a lunatic. No; the prisoner was removed to his cell pending
+the discovery of the body of Lady Lechester. All that Broughton could
+do was to order his carriage and set out for Belthrop to find Hannah
+Bond.
+
+Poor Aymer. It was Violet he thought of still. But events press so
+quickly, it is impossible to pause and analyse his emotion. The next
+day about noon, Mr Broughton came into the cell with a grave look upon
+his face, and carrying a large parcel in his hand. Aymer begged him to
+tell him the truth at once. Mr Broughton told him that first the body
+of Lady Lechester had been found. A more careful search by boat near
+“The Pot” had discovered it. Instead of being carried down by the
+current, an eddy at the cave had thrown it up against the course of the
+stream a few yards, and lodged it behind a boulder. There were no marks
+of violence: she had simply been drowned. Secondly, he had been to
+Belthrop, and found Hannah Bond’s cottage shut up, the old lady gone,
+and not a trace of her to be found, though he had searched the villages
+for miles round. Thirdly, the book parcel in his hand had been to
+London to Aymer’s address there, and had been returned to him, Aymer
+having left instructions that his letters should be sent to Mr
+Broughton. Upon removing the outer wrapper, there was the name and
+address of Aymer Malet, Esq, written in the handwriting of the dead
+Lady Lechester.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter Fourteen.
+
+
+Fulk had a difficult game to play. In the first place, his motions were
+restricted by the dread of Marese’s emissaries: he could only go out at
+night. He wished to preserve Violet from a knowledge of Aymer’s
+misfortune, and yet to go to work himself to release his friend. The
+first thing to do was to get Hannah Bond to The Place, for clearly
+Violet could not remain there alone with him. Knowing the country well,
+he had no difficulty on the night after their arrival—the very night
+after the preliminary examination of Aymer Malet—in finding his way to
+Belthrop. He explained the circumstances to Hannah, who at once packed
+up a few things, and walked back with him over the Downs to The Place,
+without awakening one of her neighbours. This was how Hannah Bond
+disappeared.
+
+Fulk’s knowledge of the circumstances under which Aymer had been
+arrested was very meagre, but on the third day the _Barnham Chronicle_
+came out, and Hannah got him a copy. In it was a full, almost verbatim,
+account of the preliminary examination, furnished, in fact, by Mr
+Broughton. Over this paper Fulk spent the greater part of the night
+thinking. He shut himself up in a room at The Place on the pretence
+that he had letters to write, and studied the report, line for line and
+word for word. After an hour or two, his eye became irresistibly
+attracted by a little paragraph in small type, evidently added at the
+last moment before going to press. It was but a few lines, announcing
+that the dog Dando had again disappeared from The Towers. He had been
+chained up carefully as was supposed, but he had gone in the night.
+This little paragraph fixed Fulk’s attention. He tried to follow the
+dog’s motions. Why, when Lady Lechester fell down “The Pot,” did not
+the dog return to The Towers? Why did he turn up at The Giant’s Ring,
+with a limp in one leg, as if from a kick, and his back bearing marks
+of a severe beating? How came that odd and peculiar whistle in the
+grass—how came there to be two men in grey, one at half-past seven, the
+other at half-past one? The ploughboy had heard a peculiar whistling.
+By degrees the conviction forced itself into his mind that the other
+than in grey—the half-past seven man—must have been no other than his
+cousin Odo. All the facts answered to such a theory. A tallish man,
+playing upon a tin whistle; the dog—the dog was of the very breed that
+Odo had such a fancy for. The beating—doubtless the dog had been
+attracted by Odo, but had refused to obey him, and had been kicked and
+thrashed till he ran off, and crossed Aymer’s path. The Giant’s Ring
+had actually been one of Odo’s favourite haunts before he was confined.
+It was a wild and desolate spot. Fulk saw it all now clearly. Obviously
+Odo was still lingering about, perhaps trying to find the whistle he
+had dropped—obviously Odo had stolen the dog Dando from the The Towers
+a second time. If he could find Dando, he could find Odo; and Odo
+found, then Aymer’s release was a matter of time only. Fulk meditated,
+and at last resolved upon his course—he would visit the haunts which he
+knew Odo used to favour. But Odo was a strong and powerful man, endowed
+with singular physical strength, Fulk was little, and by no means
+strong. Art must conquer Nature. Fulk prepared a cord with a noose, the
+use of which he had learnt years and years before in a trip to South
+America. It was a lasso, in fact.
+
+Then followed an anxious time. Violet grew more and more restless.
+Although The Place was so retired, yet people began to know that it was
+again inhabited. Fulk had heard of strangers being seen about, and he
+at once guessed that Marese had his spies searching for Aymer Malet’s
+companion in the escape. Every night he went out upon his strange
+errand, hunting the wild man of the woods. Meantime, an inquest was
+held upon poor Lady Lechester, and a verdict of murder returned against
+Aymer Malet. Days and nights passed, and hunt and search how he would,
+still Odo eluded him.
+
+It was a warm, beautiful evening. The same lucent planet that had so
+often shone upon Lady Lechester during her visit to the fatal “Pot,”
+glittered in the western sky: but its beams were somewhat dimmed by the
+new moon, whose crescent was on the point of disappearing below the
+horizon. Fulk, pushing slowly and sadly through the woods and copses,
+inhaled the fragrance of the pine tree. The rabbits scattered at his
+approach; now and then a wood pigeon rose into the air, with a
+tremendous clatter. In the open it was still light; under the trees a
+dusky shadow brooded. At a distance, he could faintly hear the sound of
+rushing water, and the fidgety chirping of the restless brook-sparrows
+and sedge-warblers. Suddenly there rose a shrill, piping sound; and
+Fulk started, and his heart for a moment stood still. He listened; then
+came a strange weird music—if music it could be called—for in its
+indescribable cadences it reminded him of the playing of the savages in
+far-off shores, visited years ago. But he recognised it in an instant.
+He had heard Odo play similar notes when they were boys. Gently,
+gently, he crept through the brushwood, and holding a branch aside,
+looked down from the bank upon the stream. It rushed along swiftly with
+a murmuring sound, reflecting upon its surface the image of the bright
+planet. The sedges and reeds rustled in the light breeze; and there was
+Odo. Across the stream there was a fallen tree—the very tree Odo had
+loved in his youth—and astride upon that tree sat the Beast-Man, his
+feet nearly touching the water, playing upon a tin whistle. Before him
+was the dog Dando, standing on his hind legs, and moving in grotesque
+time to the music. Odo reproached the dog, and told him that he was an
+unworthy son of his father, and could not dance half so well—had he
+already forgotten his beating? But perhaps it was the fault of his
+whistle. Ah, he had lost his best whistle—the one he had made with
+selected tin, and ornamented with pictures of his dogs—among them
+Dando’s father, who danced so much better. Then he muttered incoherent,
+half-articulate sounds to the dog, sighed deeply, and began to play
+again. Poor Odo!
+
+Fulk hesitated. There was a large soul in his little body—he pitied the
+poor fellow before him from the bottom of his heart. All that singular
+being wanted was the open air, and freedom to play his tin whistle,
+fondle his dogs, roam in the woods, and tinker up pots and kettles. Had
+he been permitted to follow these inclinations, it was doubtful if he
+would ever have committed crime; but civilisation would not permit it.
+For a whole year he had been roaming from wood to wood, from wilderness
+to wilderness, whistling, tinkering sometimes, always happy in simple
+freedom. Probably he had destroyed Lady Agnes to obtain the dog, the
+progenitor of which appeared to have been a favourite in old times. But
+Fulk reflected that, while he hesitated, Aymer languished in the cell,
+Violet was wearing her heart out, and his own liberty was endangered.
+Moreover, there was a duty to society: such beings must not go wholly
+at large, or no one would be safe.
+
+The lasso hissed through the air, the noose dropped round Odo’s neck,
+and was drawn tight in an instant. It had taken his neck and one
+shoulder. He roared aloud with pain and anger, but the cord choked him.
+His arms struck out, but he had nothing to grasp. He was dragged on
+shore in a moment. He floundered—leapt up, and fell again, tearing at
+the rope like a wild beast taken in the toils. With a swift, dexterous
+turn of the hand, Fulk wound the cord about his arms and legs, much as
+a spider might its web about a fly, till Odo lay panting on the sward,
+helpless, but still hoarsely murmuring and grunting. Then Fulk loosened
+the lasso round his neck, and proceeded to tie the limbs tighten,
+finally binding him hard and fast to a tree. Odo’s frame quivered; and
+Fulk, in the dim light, fancied that great tears gathered in his eyes.
+After binding Odo, there was still a piece of the rope left: with this
+Fulk secured the dog, which, frightened and astonished, had cowered on
+the earth. Dando evidently had no affection for Odo: he had been wiled
+away by gipsy arts only. Then, leading Dando, Fulk set off at a run,
+tearing through wood and hedge, mounting the steep Downs, fast as his
+strength could carry him, away for Barnham town.
+
+At that very time, late into the night, Mr Broughton was conferring
+with the prisoner in his cell. He had been sent for in haste, and went
+quickly fearing lest Aymer should be ill. The parcel addressed to Aymer
+Malet in Lady Lechester’s handwriting was a large antique Bible, which
+Aymer recognised in a moment as having belonged to old Jenkins, the
+gardener at The Place. He had seen it lying about, but had taken no
+notice of it. It was in fact the very Bible Lady Agnes had purchased of
+the gardener’s wife when left in destitution by her husband’s
+imprisonment. Inside the Bible was a short formal note, dated the very
+day in the evening of which Lady Agnes was drowned, stating that the
+writer when she bought the book was unaware to whom it had belonged,
+and therefore returned it to Aymer’s address—not knowing Violet’s—as
+she desired to retain nothing of theirs. She added that she would
+return the dog Dando if they would receive it, and tell her where to
+send it. Aymer, having no occupation in his cell but melancholy
+thoughts and anxious cares about Violet, naturally turned over the
+leaves of the noble old book, and looking at it closer than before he
+found at the end, upon one of the spare leaves, a curious inscription
+which purported to be a copy from a tomb. It was in Latin, English, and
+Greek—a strange, fantastic mixture—and when translated, read to the
+effect that Arthur Sibbold Waldron, whilom of Wolf’s Glow, born
+Sibbold, afterwards Sibbold Waldron, was married at Saint S— Church,
+Middlesex, and was buried at Penge in Kent—with dates, and the usual
+sentiments. The entry in the Bible simply added: “Copy of ye
+inscription, now defaced. Mem. To have the same re-cut. B.W.” Here was
+the clue Aymer had searched for in vain, thrown into his hands, by the
+operation of those strange and mysterious circumstances over which no
+one has any control. He sent for Mr Broughton; and so it was that when
+Fulk found that gentleman it was in the cell. The surprise of Aymer,
+and his pleasure at seeing Fulk, his still greater joy and relief when
+Fulk in his first sentence announced that Violet was safe, can easily
+be imagined. Mr Broughton had no sooner heard Fulk’s explanation than
+he at once comprehended the importance of securing Odo. He and Fulk
+with two assistants drove as near the wood as practicable, and after
+much trouble safely lodged the unfortunate lunatic in the hands of the
+police. Fulk remained with Broughton, who very considerately went in
+his carriage in the morning over to The Place, and brought Violet and
+Hannah Bond to his own private residence in Barnham.
+
+At the inquiry that followed, the first step was the release of Aymer
+on bail, on the testimony of Hannah Bond, that he had not left the
+cottage at Belthrop till eight o’clock. The ploughboy, when shown Odo,
+at once declared that this was the man he had seen—“A’ had such mortal
+big ears—a’ minded that, now.” And Marese? His position became
+extremely awkward. It was easy to declare that Aymer was a lunatic; but
+when Fulk was produced—when the clever escape was related in exactly
+the same manner by both—when Fulk added what he had overheard about the
+murder of Jason Waldron, Marese could not but notice that the
+magistrates and the Court looked coldly upon him. He claimed them both
+as escaped lunatics. Said the Bench—
+
+“We don’t see what right you have to them. The owner of the asylum is
+dead. We will take it upon ourselves to say, that the lunatics, for
+lunatics, have a remarkably sane way of talking.”
+
+The result was, that Marese withdrew; the more he meddled with the
+matter, the worse it became for him. To add to the evil complexion of
+affairs, Odo confessed in his cell to the murder of Jason Waldron. He
+strenuously denied having touched Lady Agnes; he declared that his sole
+object was the dog. The dog was the descendant of an old favourite, and
+he had once followed Miss Merton to Torquay to get it. But as he stole
+round from behind the oak trunk to seize the dog, Lady Agnes saw him,
+started, missed her footing, and fell down “The Pot.” He knew her—she
+was his cousin, and he had no feeling against her. In all probability
+this story was true, as no marks of violence were found on the body.
+But he frankly confessed hitting Jason Waldron on the head with the
+bill-hook; and stated exactly what Fulk had already said—that he was
+told by Theodore Marese, if he killed that man, _and his daughter_
+(Aymer shuddered), he should be always free. He had laid in wait for
+the daughter; but she was out of his reach at The Towers.
+
+Odo concluded with a cunning wink, and called Mr Broughton to come
+near. He whispered to him that he should be the richest man in the
+world if he would give him liberty. Broughton humoured the miserable
+creature, and told the rest to leave the cell.
+
+Then Odo disclosed his bribe. He said that years ago the gipsies with
+whom he consorted had shown him a deed, to which they attached a
+species of superstitious reverence, and asked him to read it, it being
+in law characters, and in Latin. It was a deed conferring an entail
+upon the estate at Wolfs Glow—“the very estate,” whispered Odo, “that
+all the people are trying for.”
+
+Odo ascertained that this deed had been stolen by Romy Baskette’s elder
+brother—the man who, with his mother, left the Swamp when old Will
+Baskette was shot—stolen with the intention of injuring the Sibbolds,
+his father’s murderers. He had watched old Sibbold poring over this
+deed, therefore thought it valuable, seized his opportunity, and stole
+it. With the strangest, maddest mixture of shrewdness and lunacy, Odo
+in his turn stole the deed from the gipsies who had preserved it, and
+held it, to be used as a bribe in case he should be captured. He now
+offered it to Broughton, if Broughton would only let him go free.
+
+The lawyer must be forgiven if he told a falsehood, and promised. Odo
+told him where the deed was hidden; and, as he had described, so they
+found it. In that tree which had fallen across the stream where he had
+used to sit astride and whistle, halfway across was a knot. This knot
+with his tools he had cut out—excavated a cavity, and used the knot to
+hide it; so that the closest inspection must have failed to find it.
+They found the tree and the knot. They got the knot out; there was a
+small tin box—Odo’s own workmanship—and in the box was the long-lost
+deed.
+
+Poor Odo of course never got his freedom; but there were friends who
+saw that he was as well cared for as under the circumstances was
+possible. Who could harbour revenge against such a creature? He was but
+the instrument in the hands of others, and not truly guilty of poor
+Jason’s death. That lay at the door of Marese and Theodore. Theodore
+was dead. Morally speaking, Fulk slew Marese. He wrote a full account
+of what he had overheard, and it was published in a great London paper.
+The asylum was searched, and the holes in the wall found as described.
+By this letter Fulk secured two objects: first his own liberty in
+future—for popular opinion rose with irresistible violence in his
+favour; secondly, he destroyed Marese. Yet it was not the murder of
+Jason Waldron which did it; it was the _Lucca_. There were people who
+had lost heavily over the _Lucca_, these people pursued Marese
+Baskette, threatened him with criminal, civil, and every kind of
+proceedings. He fled, escaping arrest by a few hours only, taking with
+him five thousand pounds in gold. He is believed to have reached
+California, but has not been heard of since. Whether the Nemesis of
+these modern days—“circumstances over which we have no
+control”—engulfed him in still deadlier ruin, was never known. His
+fall, as it was, was great indeed.
+
+By the death of Lady Agnes Lechester, Fulk succeeded to her estates,
+which, added to those already his, made him one of the largest
+landholders in the county. If he survives Odo, he will be a still more
+wealthy man. He never left Aymer’s side till all was well.
+
+Aymer and Violet were married in the autumn—married in the quietest
+manner, and, aided pecuniarily by Fulk, left for the south of France,
+there to try and efface the memory of the awful event that had
+embittered the path of their love. Fulk joined them with a yacht two
+months later on. They are very, very happy, but it is in a subdued and
+quiet manner. It is hardly possible for them yet, even in the sunny
+south, to feel so abundantly joyous as would be natural to their youth.
+But as the time rolls on they will gradually supplant the old unhappy
+memories with fresh and pleasant pictures.
+
+The last letter from Fulk announced that the sea breezes and the fresh
+air had begun to work wonders with his complexion, and that he hoped
+ere long to throw off the horrid yellow produced by his confinement,
+and resume his proper colour. That was natural in Fulk; the proverb
+says that little men are often conceited. Yellow or rosy, or brown, he
+will always be the dearest friend of Aymer and Violet.
+
+
+And the great estate—the city of Stirmingham? To this very hour that
+Gordian knot remains untied; to this very hour claimants every now and
+then startle the world with extraordinary statements; and the companies
+having nothing else to do, have fallen to loggerheads between
+themselves, and spend their vast incomes in litigation. But aided by
+Fulk’s money, and the influence his family connections possessed,
+Violet did at last receive a portion of her rights; the chain of
+evidence proving her descent from Arthur Sibbold was completed down to
+the smallest link.
+
+The Corporation of Stirmingham, after much law and talk, were finally
+compelled to acknowledge her claim. By arbitration it was settled that
+they were to pay her eight thousand pounds per annum for ten years, and
+at the expiration of that period, ten thousand pounds per annum to
+herself and heirs, in perpetual ground rent. The companies still hold
+out, but it is only as to the amount they shall contribute in the same
+way; and they will have to come to terms. Violet will thus receive a
+large income without compromising her rights, which are specially
+reserved. She has not forgotten poor Jenkins, whose Bible gave the clue
+to the register of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. The old man is at last
+recompensed for his long-suffering—the imprisonment expired in due
+time. He and his wife live in the old cottage at The Place, tending the
+gardens as of yore, being made comfortable with an ample provision from
+Violet.
+
+Violet and Aymer once a year visit The Place and the tomb of poor
+Jason. They have taken a mansion at Tunbridge Wells, but spend much
+time in Aymer’s beloved Florence, with Fulk. They love the old house,
+and yet they do not care to live where everything recalls such gloomy
+memories as at The Place.
+
+
+The End.
+
+
+
+
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