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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 66599 ***</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_737">{737}</span></p>

<h1>CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL<br />
OF<br />
POPULAR<br />
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART</h1>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>

<p class='center'>


<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->

<a href="#CURIOSITIES_OF_THE_BANK_OF">CURIOSITIES OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.</a><br />
<a href="#BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</a><br />
<a href="#MORE_USES_OF_PAPER">MORE USES OF PAPER.</a><br />
<a href="#ONE_WOMANS_HISTORY">ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.</a><br />
<a href="#CHRISTMAS_TREES">CHRISTMAS TREES.</a><br />
<a href="#THE_MISSING_CLUE">THE MISSING CLUE.</a><br />
<a href="#WOUNDER_AND_HEALER">WOUNDER AND HEALER.</a><br />

<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->

</p>


<hr class="full" />

<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter w100" id="header" style="max-width: 43.75em;">
  <img class="w100" src="images/header.jpg" alt="Chambers’s Journal of Popular Literature, Science,
and Art. Fifth Series. Established by William and Robert Chambers, 1832. Conducted by R. Chambers (Secundus)." />
</div>


<hr class="full" />
<div class="center">
<div class="header">
<p class="floatl"><span class="smcap">No. 47.—Vol. I.</span></p>
<p class="floatr"><span class="smcap">Price</span> 1½<em>d.</em></p>
<p class="floatc">SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1884.</p>
</div></div></div>

<hr class="full" />


<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CURIOSITIES_OF_THE_BANK_OF">CURIOSITIES OF THE BANK OF
ENGLAND.</h2>
</div>


<p><span class="smcap">Considering</span> the world-wide reputation of the
Bank of England, it is remarkable how little is
generally known as to its internal working.
Standing in the very heart of the largest city
in the world—a central landmark of the great
metropolis—even the busy Londoners around it
have, as a rule, only the vaguest possible knowledge
of what goes on within its walls. In truth,
its functions are so many, its staff so enormous,
and their duties so varied, that many even of
those who have spent their lives in its service
will tell you that, beyond their own immediate
departments, they know but little of its inner
life. Its mere history, as recorded by Mr Francis,
fills two octavo volumes. It will be readily
understood, therefore, that it would be idle to
attempt anything like a complete description of
it within the compass of a magazine article.
There are, however, many points about the Bank
and its working which are extremely curious and
interesting, and some of these we propose briefly
to describe.</p>

<p>The Bank of England originated in the brain
of William Paterson, a Scotchman—better known,
perhaps, as the organiser and leader of the ill-fated
Darien expedition. It commenced business
in 1694, its charter—which was in the first
instance granted for eleven years only—bearing
date the 27th July of that year. This charter has
been from time to time renewed, the last renewal
having taken place in 1844. The original capital
of the Bank was but one million two hundred
thousand pounds, and it carried on its business
in a single room in Mercers’ Hall, with a staff
of fifty-four clerks. From so small a beginning
has grown the present gigantic establishment,
which covers nearly three acres, and employs in
town and country nearly nine hundred officials.
Upon the latest renewal of its charter, the Bank
was divided into two distinct departments, the
Issue and the Banking. In addition to these,
the Bank has the management of the national
debt. The books of the various government funds
are here kept; here all transfers are made, and
here all dividends are paid.</p>

<p>In the Banking department is transacted the
ordinary business of bankers. Here other banks
keep their ‘reserve,’ and hence draw their supplies
as they require them. The Issue department
is intrusted with the circulation of the notes
of the Bank, which is regulated as follows. The
Bank in 1844 was a creditor of the government
to the extent of rather over eleven million pounds,
and to this amount and four million pounds
beyond, for which there is in other ways sufficient
security, the Bank is allowed to issue notes without
having gold in reserve to meet them. Beyond
these fifteen million pounds, every note issued
represents gold actually in the coffers of the Bank.
The total value of the notes in the hands of the
public at one time averages about twenty-five
million pounds. To these must be added other
notes to a very large amount in the hands of the
Banking department, which deposits the bulk of
its reserve of gold in the Issue department, accepting
notes in exchange.</p>

<p>All Bank of England notes are printed in the
Bank itself. Six printing-presses are in constant
operation, the same machine printing first the
particulars of value, signature, &amp;c., and then the
number of the note in consecutive order. The
paper used is of very peculiar texture, being at
once thin, tough, and crisp; and the combination
of these qualities, together with the peculiarities
of the watermark, which is distributed over
the whole surface of the paper, forms one of
the principal guarantees against imitation. The
paper, which is manufactured exclusively at one
particular mill, is made in oblong slips, allowing
just enough space for the printing of two notes
side by side. The edges of the paper are left
untrimmed, but, after printing, the two notes are
divided by a straight cut between them. This
accounts for the fact, which many of our readers
will doubtless have noticed, that only one edge
of a Bank-note is smooth, the other three being
comparatively ragged. The printing-presses are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_738">{738}</span>
so constructed as to register each note printed, so
that the machine itself indicates automatically
how many notes have passed through it. The
average production of notes is fifty thousand a
day, and about the same number are presented
in the same time for payment.</p>

<p>No note is ever issued a second time. When
once it finds its way back to the Bank to be
exchanged for coin, it is immediately cancelled;
and the reader will probably be surprised to hear
that the average life of a Bank-note, or the time
during which it is in actual circulation, is not
more than five or six days. The returned notes,
averaging, as we have stated, about fifty thousand
a day, and representing, one day with another,
about one million pounds in value, are brought
into what is known as the Accountant’s Sorting
Office. Here they are examined by inspectors,
who reject any which may be found to be
counterfeit. In such a case, the paying-in bank
is debited with the amount. The notes come in
from various banks in parcels, each parcel accompanied
by a memorandum stating the number
and amount of the notes contained in it. This
memorandum is marked with a certain number,
and then each note in the parcel is stamped to
correspond, the stamping-machine automatically
registering how many are stamped, and consequently
drawing immediate attention to any
deficiency in the number of notes as compared
with that stated in the memorandum. This done,
the notes are sorted according to number and
date, and after being defaced by punching out
the letters indicating value, and tearing off the
corner bearing the signature, are passed on to the
‘Bank-note Library,’ where they are packed in
boxes, and preserved for possible future reference
during a period of five years. There are one
hundred and twenty clerks employed in this one
department; and so perfect is the system of
registration, that if the number of a returned
note be known, the head of this department, by
referring to his books, can ascertain in a few
minutes the date when and the banker through
whom it was presented; and if within the period
of five years, can produce the note itself for
inspection. As to the ‘number’ of a Bank-note,
by the way, there is sometimes a little misconception,
many people imagining that by quoting
the bare figures on the face of a note they have
done all that is requisite for its identification.
This is not the case. Bank-notes are not
numbered consecutively <i>ad infinitum</i>, but in
series of one to one hundred thousand, the
different series being distinguished as between
themselves by the date, which appears in full in
the body of the note, and is further indicated,
to the initiated, by the letter and numerals
prefixed to the actual number. Thus 25/O 90758
on the face of a note indicates that the note in
question is No. 90758 of the series printed on
May 21, 1883, which date appears in full in the
body of the note. 69/N in like manner indicates
that the note forms part of a series printed on
February 19, 1883. In ‘taking the number’ of a
note, therefore, either this prefix or the full
date, as stated in the body of the note, should
always be included.</p>

<p>The ‘Library’ of cancelled notes—not to be
confounded with the Bank Library proper—is
situated in the Bank vaults, and we are indebted
to the courtesy of the Bank-note Librarian for
the following curious and interesting statistics
respecting his stock. The stock of paid notes
for five years—the period during which, as before
stated, the notes are preserved for reference—is
about seventy-seven million seven hundred
and forty-five thousand in number. They fill
thirteen thousand four hundred boxes, about
eighteen inches long, ten wide, and nine deep.
If the notes could be placed in a pile one
upon another, they would reach to a height
of five and two-third miles. Joined end to end
they would form a ribbon twelve thousand
four hundred and fifty-five miles long, or half-way
round the globe; if laid so as to form a
carpet, they would very nearly cover Hyde Park.
Their original value is somewhat over seventeen
hundred and fifty millions, and their weight is
about ninety-one tons. The immense extent of
space necessary to accommodate such a mass in
the Bank vaults may be imagined. The place,
with its piles on piles of boxes reaching far away
into dim distance, looks like some gigantic wine-cellar
or bonded warehouse.</p>

<p>As each day adds, as we have seen, about fifty
thousand notes to the number, it is necessary to
find some means of destroying those which have
passed their allotted term of preservation. This
is done by fire, about four hundred thousand notes
being burnt at one time in a furnace specially constructed
for that purpose. Formerly, from some
peculiarity in the ink with which the notes were
printed, the cremated notes burnt into a solid
blue clinker; but the composition of the ink has
been altered, and the paper now burns to a fine
gray ash. The fumes of the burning paper are
extremely dense and pungent; and to prevent
any nuisance arising from this cause, the process
of cremation is carried out at dead of night,
when the city is comparatively deserted. Further,
in order to mitigate the density of the fumes,
they are made to ascend through a shower of
falling water, the chimney shaft being fitted
with a special shower-bath arrangement for this
purpose.</p>

<p>Passing away from the necropolis of dead and
buried notes, we visit the Treasury, whence
they originally issued. This is a quiet-looking
room, scarcely more imposing in appearance than
the butler’s pantry in a West-end mansion, but
the modest-looking cupboards with which its
walls are lined are gorged with hidden treasure.
The possible value of the contents of this room
may be imagined from the fact that a million
of money, in notes of one thousand pounds, forms
a packet only three inches thick. The writer
has had the privilege of holding such a parcel
in his hand, and for a quarter of a minute
imagining himself a millionaire—with an income
of over thirty thousand per annum for life! The
same amount might occupy even less space than
the above, for Mr Francis tells a story of a lost
note for thirty thousand pounds, which, turning
up after the lapse of many years, was paid by the
Bank <i>twice over</i>! We are informed that notes
of even a higher value than this have on occasion
been printed, but the highest denomination
now issued is one thousand pounds.</p>

<p>In this department is kept a portion of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_739">{739}</span>
Bank’s stock of golden coin, in bags of one thousand
pounds each. This amount does not require
a very large bag for its accommodation, but its
weight is considerable, amounting to two hundred
and fifty-eight ounces twenty pennyweights,
so that a million in gold would weigh some
tons. In another room of this department—the
Weighing Office—are seen the machines
for detecting light coin. These machines are
marvels of ingenious mechanism. Three or
four hundred sovereigns are laid in a long
brass scoop or semi-tube, of such a diameter
as to admit them comfortably, and self-regulating
to such an incline that the coins gradually
slide down by their own weight on to
one plate of a little balance placed at its lower
extremity. Across the face of this plate two
little bolts make alternate thrusts, one to the
right, one to the left, but at slightly different
levels. If the coin be of full weight, the balance
is held in equipoise, and the right-hand bolt
making its thrust, pushes it off the plate and
down an adjacent tube into the receptacle for
full-weight coin. If, on the other hand, the
coin is ever so little ‘light,’ the balance naturally
rises with it. The right-hand bolt makes its
thrust as before, but this time passes harmlessly
beneath the coin. Then comes the thrust of the
left-hand bolt, which, as we have said, is fixed
at a fractionally higher level, and pushes the
coin down a tube on the opposite side, through
which it falls into the light-coin receptacle. The
coins thus condemned are afterwards dropped into
another machine, which defaces them by a cut
half-way across their diameter, at the rate of
two hundred a minute. The weighing-machines,
of which there are sixteen, are actuated by a
small atmospheric engine in one corner of the
room, the only manual assistance required being
to keep them supplied with coins. It is said
that sixty thousand sovereigns and half-sovereigns
can be weighed here in a single day. The
weighing-machine in question is the invention
of Mr Cotton, a former governor of the Bank,
and among scientific men is regarded as one
of the most striking achievements of practical
mechanics.</p>

<p>In the Bullion department we find another
weighing-machine of a different character, but
in its way equally remarkable. It is the first
of its kind, having been designed specially for
the Bank by Mr James Murdoch Napier, by
whom it has been patented. It is used for the
purpose of weighing bullion, which is purchased
in this department. Gold is brought in in bars of
about eight inches long, three wide, and one inch
thick. A bar of gold of these dimensions will
weigh about two hundred ounces, and is worth,
if pure, about eight hundred pounds. Each bar
when brought in is accompanied by a memorandum
of its weight. The question of quality
is determined by the process of assaying; the
weight is checked by means of the weighing-machine
we have referred to. This takes the
form of an extremely massive pair of scales,
working on a beam of immense strength and
solidity, and is based, so as to be absolutely
rigid, on a solid bed of concrete. The whole
stands about six feet high by three wide, and
is inclosed in an air-tight plate-glass case, a
sash in which is raised when it is desired to
use the machine. The two sides of the scale
are each kept permanently loaded, the one with
a single weight of three hundred and sixty ounces,
the other with a number of weights of various
sizes to the same amount. When it is desired
to test the weight of a bar of gold, weights to
the amount stated in the corresponding memorandum,
<i>less half an ounce</i>, are removed from the
latter scale, and the bar of gold substituted in
their place. Up to this point the beam of the
scale is kept perfectly horizontal, being maintained
in that position by a mechanical break;
but now a stud is pressed, and by means of delicate
machinery, actuated by water-power, the
beam is released. If the weight of the bar has
been correctly stated in the memorandum, the
scale which holds it should be exactly half an
ounce in excess. This or any less excess of
weight over the three hundred and sixty ounces
in the opposite scale is instantly registered by
the machine, a pointer travelling round a dial
until it indicates the proper amount. The function
of the machine, however, is limited to weighing
half an ounce only. If the discrepancy
between the two scales as loaded is greater than
this, or if on the other hand the bar of gold is
more than half an ounce less than the amount
stated in the memorandum, an electric bell rings
by way of warning, the pointer travels right
round the dial, and returns to zero. So delicate
is the adjustment, that the weight of half a penny
postage stamp—somewhat less than half a grain—will
set the hand in motion and be recorded
on the dial.</p>

<p>The stock of gold in the bullion vault varies
from one to three million pounds sterling. The
bars are laid side by side on small flat trucks or
barrows carrying one hundred bars each. In a
glass case in this vault is seen a portion of the
war indemnity paid by King Coffee of Ashantee,
consisting of gold ornaments, a little short of
standard fineness.</p>

<p>One of the first reflections that strike an
outsider permitted to inspect the repository of
so much treasure is, ‘Can all this wealth be
safe?’ These heaps of precious metal, these piles
of still more precious notes, are handled by the
officials in such an easy-going, matter-of-course
way, that one would almost fancy a few thousands
would scarcely be missed; and that a
dishonest person had only to walk in and help
himself to as many sovereigns or hundred pound
notes as his pockets could accommodate. Such,
however, is very far from being the case. The
safeguards against robbery, either by force or
fraud, are many and elaborate. At night the
Bank is guarded at all accessible points by an
ample military force, which would no doubt give
a good account of any intruder rash enough to
attempt to gain an entrance. In the event of
attack from without, there are sliding galleries
which can be thrust out from the roof, and which
would enable a body of sharpshooters to rake the
streets in all directions.</p>

<p>Few people are aware that the Bank of England
contains within its walls a graveyard, but such is
nevertheless the fact. The Gordon riots in 1780,
during which the Bank was attacked by a mob,
called attention to the necessity for strengthening
its defences. Competent authorities advised that
an adjoining church, rejoicing in the appropriate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_740">{740}</span>
name of St Christopher-le-Stocks, was in a military
sense a source of danger, and accordingly an
Act of Parliament was passed to enable the directors
to purchase the church and its appurtenances.
The old churchyard, tastefully laid out,
now forms what is known as the Bank ‘garden,’
the handsome ‘Court Room’ or ‘Bank Parlour’
abutting on one of its sides. There is a magnificent
lime-tree, one of the largest in London, in
the centre of the garden, and tradition states
that under this tree a former clerk of the Bank,
<i>eight feet high</i>, lies buried. With this last, though
not least of the curiosities of the Bank, we must
bring the present article to a close. We had
intended briefly to have referred to sundry eventful
pages of its history; but these we are compelled,
by considerations of space, to reserve for
a future paper.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak x-ebookmaker-important" id="BY_MEAD_AND_STREAM">BY MEAD AND STREAM.</h2>
</div>


<h3>CHAPTER LVII.—THE SECRET IN THE OAK PARLOUR.</h3>

<p><span class="smcap">At</span> Willowmere, the rapidity with which Mr
Hadleigh regained strength astounded Dr Joy,
and delighted the patient’s nurses, Aunt Hessy
and Madge.</p>

<p>‘Wonderful nerve, wonderful physique he must
have,’ whispered Dr Joy admiringly on the fifth
day; ‘and yet, according to all accounts, he did
not study the economy of either in the course
of his life. Well, well; we do come across extraordinary
constitutions occasionally, and his is one
of them.’</p>

<p>The peculiarity of the case was that, after the
first shock, the patient was perfectly calm, and
showed not the remotest symptom of delirium.
He understood everything that passed around
him, and when permitted, talked quietly about
the fire, and listened attentively to all that was
related to him regarding it.</p>

<p>He heard with pleased surprise the account
of how Caleb had rescued him, and said to
Madge: ‘I must do something for that man;
but it will have to be by your hand, for he
is evidently resolved to accept nothing from
mine.’</p>

<p>‘We will have to find out where he is, before
we can do anything for him. He intended to
go to Australia; but the day after he regained
his freedom, he wrote to Philip saying that he
had altered his mind, and was going to the United
States.’</p>

<p>‘Why did not Philip keep him here?’</p>

<p>‘He tried to persuade him to remain, but
could not. Poor Caleb, he does not know what
a sorry heart he has left behind him.’ Here
she checked herself, feeling that she was entering
upon delicate ground. ‘He sent good wishes to
you, and to all of us, and promised to write again
to Philip, so that we may have an opportunity
of serving him yet.’</p>

<p>‘He is a headstrong fellow,’ said Mr Hadleigh;
‘and I hope he may not ruin his own prospects
by his too great eagerness to secure the independence
of his neighbours. You see, Miss Heathcote,
he is one of those unhappy people who have
reached the stage of education in which they
discover that they have certain rights, without
having got education enough to recognise the
responsibilities which these rights entail. Well,
we must wait till we have news of him....
Has my safe been dug out of the ruins yet?’</p>

<p>That was a question he had been asking daily
from the moment when he comprehended the
disaster which had befallen him; and the answer
had been hitherto always the same: ‘Not yet.’
At length came the information that the safe had
been found, and was apparently little damaged
by its ordeal of fire.</p>

<p>Then Mr Hadleigh bade Philip take his keys
and bring him from the safe a little deed-box
marked ‘<i>L. H. Private</i>.’ When Philip returned
with the box, his father had been moved into
the Oak Parlour, where he was reclining in a
big armchair, supported by down cushions. A
cheery fire with one of Madge’s oak-logs was
blazing on the hearth, raising the temperature
of the apartment to summer heat.</p>

<p>When the box was placed on the table beside
him, he desired to be left alone until he should
ring a hand-bell which was within his reach. He
had caused Philip to place the key in the box,
and for a space he remained motionless, staring
at it, as if hesitating to touch again the spring
of emotions which he had intended should be
there shut up from him for ever. His eyelids
drooped, and in spite of the bright glow of
the fire, a shadow fell on his pale face.</p>

<p>‘Yes, I thank God that I am spared to do
this thing,’ he muttered at length. ‘Let the
secret die with me—it was a cruel as well as
a selfish wish that prompted me to reveal it to
them. What matter to me how they may hold
me in their memory? They may think of me
as that which circumstances made me appear,
not as what I wished to be. What matter?
The dead are beyond earthly pain and passion.
I shall not stretch my hand from the grave
to cast the least shade of regret over their
lives.’</p>

<p>He slowly took from the box the two packets
he had so carefully sealed and put away on the
night of the fire. The one was addressed to
Madge as Mrs Philip Hadleigh; the other, to
his son Philip, with the injunction that he, after
reading, was to decide whether or not to show it
to his wife. The paper addressed to Madge, he
took up and held in the long thin scarred hands
as if it were a thing capable of feeling. He
broke the seal and took the paper from the
envelope, performing the operation mechanically,
whilst the far-away look was in his eyes, and
the Something he had sought but could not reach
was fading from his vision altogether. His was
the kind of expression with which one who
knows he is doomed watches the last sunset
displaying its brief, changing glories on the
horizon. The broad streams of gleaming amber
and opal are quietly transfused into the pensive
gray of twilight, and the darkness follows.</p>

<p>‘They must never know.’</p>

<p>He made a movement as if to drop the paper
into the fire, paused, and his eyes rested on the
writing, although they did not distinguish the
words. And there was no need; for they only
represented in a feeble way thoughts which were
always present to his mind.</p>

<p>‘I must speak’—such were the written words—‘or
I shall lose all self-restraint. You cannot
be harmed by what is put down here. Perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_741">{741}</span>
you will never see it; you certainly shall not
until after my funeral, and then you may be
able to understand and think none the less kindly
of me for this confession.</p>

<p>‘You have seen me in my darkest moods, and
you have wondered at my melancholy—wondered
why I who had been granted such a large measure
of what the world esteems prosperity should find
no contentment in it. I have partly explained
the cause to Philip: I could not explain it to
you.</p>

<p>‘With bitter reason I early learned to believe
that money—mere money—was the source of all
earthly happiness. I was mistaken, and found
out my mistake too late. I should have been
content, perhaps happy in a way, if I could have
gone on to the end without the knowledge that
the want of Love is the only real sorrow which
can enter into man or woman’s life. But there
was nobody to lead me out of the miserable conviction
which took possession of my mind as I
watched those dearest to me fall one by one, not
with the merciful swiftness of soldiers in battle,
but in the lingering torments of soul and body
which come to those who are poor.</p>

<p>‘Left alone, I looked around. The whole
world was my enemy, to be conquered by force
and stratagem. Any man may be rich, I said,
who has a clear head and no conscience; who
is willing to abandon all sentiment, forego all
trivial pleasures, and give himself absolutely to
the service of the world’s idol. I gave myself to
the idol; and wealth came to me in increasing
stores year by year, month by month, day by day.</p>

<p>‘At first, the sense of my victory sufficed; but
soon there came the consciousness that this was
not happiness; it was the successful working of
a machine. I craved for something more, but
did not know what it was. My wife’s affection,
I knew, belonged to another: I had married her
with that knowledge. I tried to win the friendship
of my children; but the girls had learned
to regard me with a kind of fear, Coutts with
indifference, and Philip was the only one who
could speak to me with frankness. His generous
nature comforted me, but did not fill up the
void in my life.</p>

<p>‘I was still seeking the Something which was
necessary to me, and at length I found it in
<span class="smcap">You</span>.... Yes, you taught me what love was—I
loved you with all the fervour of youth.
My years, my experience of the world intensified
the love which I had never known before. I
was prepared to sacrifice all my possessions, all
my hopes, for you.</p>

<p>‘Do not start away and cast the paper from
you; I have made the sacrifice.</p>

<p>‘At the same moment in which the treasure
that would have made life beautiful was revealed
to me, there was also revealed the impossibility
of its ever becoming mine. I was like a seaman
who is shipwrecked and sinks within sight of
land. I will not try to tell you through what
pain I passed to the recognition of the duty Love
imposed—to help forward your happiness in any
direction in which you might think it lay. I will
not try to tell you with what agitation I learned
for the first time, what must have become known
to me long before, had it not been for the morbid
isolation in which my days were passed, that you
and Philip were betrothed.</p>

<p>‘My first desire then was to bring about your
union as speedily as possible, believing that I
should find my peace in having the privilege of
calling you daughter. Meeting your uncle Crawshay
in the market-place, I took him to a private
apartment in the inn and endeavoured to explain
my wishes. I must have spoken stupidly, for
he misunderstood me, and fancied that the proposal
was on my own account. His misconception
startled and confused me, and he left me
in great indignation.</p>

<p>‘I thought of following him to Willowmere
and explaining; but the effort already made had
tried me so much, that not feeling sure of what
awkwardness of speech or what irrepressible sign
of emotion might betray my secret, I determined
to let matters take their course, whilst my task
should be to keep Philip at home and to hasten
the marriage. You know how earnestly I strove
to carry out that resolution.</p>

<p>‘You and Philip will be happy. You two have
found in time the golden key of life, and in your
happiness I shall find mine at last. I want to
live till then; and, after, I shall pass away
content.’</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>The invalid seemed to arouse from a sad and
yet pleasing dream, for there was a faint smile
on his worn face, and the eyes seemed to brighten
as with the consciousness of victory—that greatest
of all victories, the conquest of self.</p>

<p>He rang the hand-bell, and Madge herself
promptly answered the summons.</p>

<p>‘It is you I wanted, my child.... How good
and patient you have been with me—Madge.
Take notice, I am to call you henceforth, Madge,
my child.’</p>

<p>‘And I shall call you father,’ she said tenderly,
taking one of his hands and stroking it affectionately.</p>

<p>He was silent for a few moments; then lifting
his head, he drew her towards him and kissed
her with strange solemnity on the brow.</p>

<p>‘Yes, my child,’ he said calmly, ‘that is the
name which commands a portion of your love—and
you will give me a little of it?’</p>

<p>‘A great deal of it—you may be sure of that,’
she answered, blushing slightly, and thinking
how could she do otherwise than give a great deal
of love to Philip’s father.</p>

<p>‘You give me more comfort than you know,
my dear daughter. Now take this paper and
place it on the fire, so that I may see it burn to
ashes.’</p>

<p>She obeyed unquestioningly; and he watched
the flame stretching its white fingers round the
secret which was to die with him; saw the paper
curl into black and white films; and then he
drew a long breath of relief.</p>

<p>‘They can never know now,’ was his mental
exclamation. ‘Thank God it is done, and by
her hand.’</p>

<p>There was a little while of dreamy silence,
during which Madge stood by his side, holding
his hand, and anxiously noting every change on
his countenance. The changes were rapid and
curious as those of a kaleidoscope: now there
was pain; again a stern frown, as if checking
some rebellious spirit, and anon a serene smile
of resignation and content. With this latter
expression he looked up to her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_742">{742}</span></p>

<p>‘Call Philip.’</p>

<p>The son was immediately in attendance.</p>

<p>‘I hope you are not exerting yourself too much,
sir,’ was his anxious observation.</p>

<p>‘O no; I am wonderfully strong this afternoon,
and am taking advantage of the renewed
strength to put some matters straight, which being
done, will relieve my mind, and so give me the
better chance of a speedy recovery. But it is
as well to be prepared for the worst; and therefore
I wish to have the satisfaction of handing
you this packet in Madge’s presence. You will
learn from it that when I took from you the
portion of my fortune which would have been
yours in the ordinary course of events, I gave
it to your future wife. I did not intend you
to know this until after my death; but as your
uncle has come to grief, I am desirous of relieving
your mind as soon as possible from any fear of
the future; and I should have been glad to have
helped Austin Shield out of his difficulties,
for your mother’s sake—but he would refuse
any help that came from me.—What is that?’</p>

<p>The exclamation was caused by one of the
oak panels facing him slowly moving aside and
revealing the form of a man.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="MORE_USES_OF_PAPER">MORE USES OF PAPER.</h2>
</div>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> place of timber in construction bids fair
to be taken by papier-mâché, and it may claim
to rival iron itself in the multiplicity of its industrial
applications. Besides the advantage of its
cheap construction, papier-mâché is not affected
by changes of temperature, does not crack, like
wood or plaster, and is never discoloured by rust.
It can be bronzed, painted, polished, or gilded,
made heavy or light as required, and possesses
greater adaptability for quick removal or adjustment
than most other materials. Its uses in architecture
seem to have no limit, as has been shown
by building and completely furnishing a dwelling-house
entirely of this material. According to
report, a huge hotel is about to be constructed
in America in which paper will take the place
of stone and brick. The fourth paper dome in
the United States and, it is thought, in the
world, will crown the new Observatory at
Columbia College, in New York. A trade
journal remarks that besides the paper dome
at the Troy Polytechnic, there is a second at
West Point, and a third at Beloit College. That
at West Point is said to be the largest, but that
at Columbia College the best in construction
and arrangement. The method used in the
manufacture of the paper is kept a secret, the
makers using a patented process. The dome is
made in sections—twenty-four in number. They
are bent over towards the inside at the edges
and bolted to ribs of wood. The shell, though
very thin, is as stiff as sheet-iron. On one side
of the dome is the oblong opening for the telescope,
and over this a shutter, also of paper, but
stiffened with wood-lining, which slides around
on the outside of the dome. The whole dome
is so light that the hand can turn it.</p>

<p>As regards the uses of papier-mâché in Europe,
we hear of a complete church being built in
Bavaria, having columns, walls, altar, roof, and
spire all of this material. Some of the most
tasteful halls on the continent and in this country
are finished in it in preference to wood. Mantels,
mirrors, frames, and gilded chandeliers are of its
composition. Pedestals, newels, vases, furniture,
and ornaments of all kinds, no less than floors
and staircases, gas-pipes, and even chimney-shafts,
can be made of it. In Breslau, a chimney-shaft
fifty feet high is said to have been made of paper-pulp
chemically impregnated so as to resist combustion.</p>

<p>Incombustible as well as water-proof paper is
now no novelty, and has before been alluded to
in this <i>Journal</i>; but an account of some further
experiments in this line has since reached
us. M. G. Meyer of Paris recently exhibited to
the ‘Société d’Encouragement pour l’Industrie
nationale’ specimens of an incombustible paper
capable of taking on inks of various shades, and
also paintings, and preserving them even in the
fire of a gas-flame. It was stated by him that
the papers and documents shown had been for
four hours in a pottery furnace, and had displayed
undoubted fire-resisting properties. Paper of this
indestructible nature should be in good demand
for wills, deeds, and account-books, &amp;c. It is
also suitable for wall-covering, and ought, we
should think, to be of great value for theatrical
decorations and scenery. The latter can be
rendered uninflammable by using this inventor’s
material as well as his incombustible colours.
While on the subject of decoration may be mentioned
the new kind of satin paper recently
brought out for this purpose. It is made by
covering common paper with adhesive size, and
sprinkling dyed asbestos powder on its moist
surface. Asbestos readily takes up all colours,
especially those of aniline, so that some very rich
effects can be produced.</p>

<p>Paper curtains, counterpanes, sheets, and so
forth, are said to have been among the objects
of interest at the Sydney Exhibition; and so
there is no reason to doubt the report that table-napkins
of the same adaptable substance are regularly
supplied at the cheap dining-rooms of Berlin.
The napkins are of tissue-paper with a coloured
ornamental border—not only because paper is
cheaper than diaper, but as a protection against
pilfering. Indeed, so common are paper table-napkins
said to be at Berlin, that the manufacturers
advertise them regularly in the newspapers
at the rate of about nine or ten a penny.</p>

<p>When we think of the extraordinary uses to
which paper is applied, it is not so startling to
learn that this material may even enter into the
composition of our post-prandial cigar. If we
are to believe the newspapers, millions of cigars
are annually manufactured in Havana without
so much as a single fibre of tobacco-leaf being
utilised in the process of their fabrication. The
great straw-paper factory in New York State
has for some time been making a peculiar sort
of extremely thin fine paper, which it has been
discovered is used for making cigars. This we
are told is thoroughly soaked in a solution composed
of tobacco refuse boiled in water, then dried
and pressed between stamps, which impart to it
the appearance of the finest leaf so exactly as
to defy detection even on the part of the experienced
in such matters. Of these paper-leaves are
fabricated the spurious cigars alluded to, which
are exported from Cuba to all parts of the world
as genuine tobacco. The cost of their production<span class="pagenum" id="Page_743">{743}</span>
is nothing in comparison with the prices at which
they are disposed of. A slight difference in
weight between the genuine and the spurious
cigar of identical brand and size, affords, it is
stated, the only certain means of detecting this
fraud, so alike in appearance are the weeds of
real tobacco and their counterfeit presentments
in straw-paper.</p>

<p>As delicate sheets of paper can be made to serve
for steel or iron, it is easily understood that
school-slates can be manufactured from similar
apparently unpromising beginnings. They are
made of white cardboard, covered with a film
formed by the action of sulphuric acid on tissue-paper.
This covering, according to an American
journal, is probably a modification of celluloid.
The slates can be used with a lead-pencil or with
ink; and to remove the marks, the slate is washed
with cold water. A special ink is also prepared
for use with these white slates. Another form
of slate is made by coating the white cardboard
with water-glass. It may be used with lead-pencils
or coloured crayons. When the surface
becomes soiled, the water-glass may be rubbed off
with sand-paper, and a new film may be put on
with a sponge or brush dipped in water-glass.</p>

<p>To the number of paper-making materials now
in use must be added an old weed of the nettle
species, not of the stinging kind. From the bark
of certain shrubs, also, several kinds of Japanese
paper are made. The strongest and commonest
is made from the bark of the mitsuma.
A paper of superior quality is likewise made
from the kozu, a small tree of the mulberry
family, imported from China. The inner bark of
both shrubs is washed and dried, softened in
steam and boiling water, and afterwards beaten
with staves until a fine paste is formed. This
paste mixed with water is then made into paper
in the ordinary way.</p>

<p>A new use of cedar-bark has been undertaken
at New Bedford, Massachusetts. The Acushnet
paper-mill at that point is, it appears, nearly
completed, and was built for the express purpose
of manufacturing pulp and paper from cedar-bark.
This, we are told, is the first enterprise
of the kind ever undertaken. The bark is taken
from shingle butts that are sixteen inches long,
and are bundled for shipment like laths. The
new mill will work up three cords of bark a
day. The first product will be for carpet linings;
but the paper is said to be equally adapted to
other purposes.</p>

<p>A new method of preparing soluble wool from
tissues in which wool and cotton are combined
has been discovered. When subjected to a current
of superheated steam under a pressure of
five atmospheres, the wool melts and falls to
the bottom of the pan, leaving the cotton, linen,
and other vegetable fibres clean and in a condition
suitable for paper-making. The melted
wool is afterwards evaporated to dryness, when
it becomes completely soluble in water. The
increased value of the rags is said to be sufficient
to cover the whole cost of the operation.</p>

<p>With the use of the papyrus, as is well known,
the Egyptians were early acquainted, and its
manufacture was a government monopoly, as paper-making
is to this day at Boulak, the river-port
of Cairo. The remarkable aptitude for paper-making
displayed by the Boulak Arabs is an
hereditary accomplishment. The Daira paper
manufactory in the suburb of Boulak regularly
employed, we are told, more than two hundred
hands before the late war, almost all natives.
Most of the paper turned out is for packing
purposes; but thousands of reams of good writing
and printing paper are also manufactured.
The writing-paper is made specially for Arabic
writing; and what is produced in excess of the
requirements of the country is exported eastward,
partly to Arabia, and a small portion even to
India. Though linen and cotton rags are used
in this factory, the interior of the stalk of the
sugar-cane furnishes an endless supply of paper-making
material. In the production of what is
called ‘straw’ paper in Europe, the <i>hilfa</i> grass
plays a very important part. The Daira factory
at Boulak enjoys a monopoly of this industry
in Egypt; and in connection with it is the
National Printing Office, also under the control
of the same administration.</p>

<p>In conclusion, some reference may be made
to a published work entitled <i>The Paper Mill
Directory of the World</i>, which will appear annually.
It contains a complete catalogue of all the
paper and pulp mills on the globe. The total
number of mills existing is four thousand four
hundred and sixty-three. The German Empire,
with over eleven hundred, heads the list in point
of numbers, the United States following very
closely. Then we have France with considerably
more than five hundred, Austro-Hungary, England,
Italy, Russia, Spain, Sweden, Canada and
Norway, the remainder being scattered over
various parts of the world. It appears that
the mills in the United States are capable of
turning out seven million some odd hundred
thousand pounds-weight, in round numbers, of
pulp and paper daily. Over a million pounds
is produced in Massachusetts alone.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="ONE_WOMANS_HISTORY">ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.</h2>
</div>


<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3>

<p><span class="smcap">At</span> the very time Mr Dulcimer was assisting
Miss Wynter across the stepping-stones, the
stranger whose unexpected appearance the previous
night had so startled Madame De Vigne
was pacing leisurely up the valley in the direction
of the waterfall.</p>

<p>When, on inquiring for Madame De Vigne
at the hotel that morning, he was told that
she had gone out for the day with a picnic
party, his suspicious nature at once took the
alarm. Might she not by some means have
discovered his presence in the hotel? he asked
himself; and might not this story of the picnic
be nothing more than a subterfuge, by means
of which she would obtain a start of several
hours in her efforts to escape from him? He
at once ordered a fly and set off in pursuit.
On reaching the place where the wagonettes
had been left, he found that if he persisted in
his search for Madame De Vigne, he would be
compelled to do the rest of the distance on foot.
He disliked walking, but in this case there was
no help for it; accordingly, he set out on his
way to the glen with such grace as there might
be in him.</p>

<p>He was a man to all appearance about forty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_744">{744}</span>
years of age—he might be a little older; but
his figure was still as lithe and active as that of
many a man of twenty. He had jet-black hair,
and his closely cropped beard and moustache
were of the same hue. He had large, white, carnivorous-looking
teeth, and small black eyes as
piercing as gimlets, with now and then a strange,
furtively suspicious look glancing at you out of
their corners. His features were aquiline, rather
finely cut, and his complexion sallow. By the
majority of people he would have been accounted
a fairly handsome man. He was fashionably
dressed, but it was after the fashion of a Parisian
dandy, not that of a London swell; and there
is a vast difference in the styles of the two.</p>

<p>When he had passed through the wicket which
gave admittance to the glen and was within a
few yards of the bridge, he paused and gazed
around. Not a creature was to be seen, for,
before this, Dick and Bella had gone on a further
journey of exploration and were no longer visible.</p>

<p>‘So! This must be the place where they told
me that I should find her,’ said the stranger to
himself in French. ‘But she is not here. Well,
I can wait.’ He advanced a few yards farther
up the glen. ‘We could not have a better place
for our meeting. There will be no one to overhear
what we shall have to say to each other.
Ah, <i>ma chère</i> Mora, what a surprise for you!
How enchanted you will be to find that your
brave Hector is not dead, as they wrote and told
you he was, but alive, and burning to embrace
you! What happiness for both of us!’</p>

<p>He had been climbing slowly up the ravine,
and by this time he had reached the spot where
Mora had been sitting but a short time before.
Her sketch-book attracted his eye; he took it
up and opened it.</p>

<p>‘Hers! Here is her name. She cannot be
far away. A man’s head—a likeness evidently.
The same again—and yet again. I must find
out the name of this monsieur. I shall have
much pleasure to introduce myself to him.’ A
slight noise startled him. He shut the book and
raised his eyes. ‘Ah! here comes my angel,’
he exclaimed. ‘<i>Sacre bleu!</i> she is handsomer
than ever.’</p>

<p>For the moment Mora did not perceive him.
When she did, she put a hand quickly to her
heart and gave a great gasp.</p>

<p>‘Ah!’ What a volume of meaning that little
word conveyed!</p>

<p>Monsieur De Miravel—for such was the name
he now chose to be known by—advanced a step
or two smilingly, and bowed with all a Frenchman’s
grace. ‘<i>Me voici!</i>’ he said. ‘Hector—thy
husband—not dead, but alive and’——</p>

<p>She stopped him with an imperious gesture.
‘Wretch—coward—felon!’ she exclaimed, and
her voice seemed to express the concentrated
passion and hatred of years. ‘I could never quite
believe that I had been fortunate enough to lose
you for ever. I had a presentiment that I should
some day see you again. Why have you followed
me? But I need not ask. It is to rob me again,
as you robbed me before. <i>Voleur!</i>’</p>

<p>She stood before him drawn up to the full
height of her magnificent beauty, her bosom
heaving, her eyes dilating, her head thrown
slightly back, her clenched hands hanging by
her sides, her shoulders a little raised. Even
the scoundrel whom she had addressed could not
help admiring her as she towered before him in
all the splendour of her passion.</p>

<p>A small red spot flamed on either cheek, but
his voice had still a smile in it when next he
spoke. ‘Ah ha!’ he said. ‘You are still the
same charming Mora that you always were! You
still call me by the same pretty names! How it
brings back the days of long ago!’</p>

<p>‘How much money do you want of me?’ she
demanded abruptly. ‘What price do you expect
me to pay that I may rid myself of your
presence?’</p>

<p>‘Softly, <i>ma chère</i>, softly. I have not been at
all this great trouble and expense to discover
you, without having something to say to you.
I want to talk what you English call business.’</p>

<p>‘Name your price and leave me.’</p>

<p>‘Taisez-vous, je vous prie. You are here, and
you must listen to me. You cannot help yourself.’</p>

<p>Madame De Vigne bit her lip, but did not reply.</p>

<p>De Miravel sat down, crossed his legs, leant
back a little, and looked up at her with half-shut
eyes. ‘Five years ago,’ he began, ‘you received
a certain letter in which you were informed
that I was dead. That letter, by some strange
error, was forwarded to the wrong person. It
was not I, your husband, who was dead, but
another man of the same name—another Hector
Laroche. When the mistake was discovered, you
had left the place where you had previously
been living, and no one knew what had become
of you. Two years ago I found myself in Paris
again. When I had arranged my private affairs,
which had suffered during my long absence, I
began to make inquiries concerning the wife from
whom I had been so cruelly torn, and whom
my heart was bleeding to embrace.’</p>

<p>‘<i>Menteur!</i>’ ground out Mora between her
teeth.</p>

<p>He waved, as it were, the epithet aside with
an airy gesture of his hand, and continued:
‘For a long time I could hear nothing concerning
her, and I began to fear that I had lost her for
ever. But at length a clue was put into my
hands. I discovered that, in consequence of the
death of a relative, my incomparable wife had
come into a fortune of twelve thousand francs
a year—that she had changed her name from
Madame Laroche to that of her aunt, Madame
De Vigne, and that she and her sister had gone
to make their home in England. Naturally, I
follow my wife to England, and here, to-day,
<i>me voici!</i>’</p>

<p>‘Your price—name your price,’ was all that
the lady deigned to answer.</p>

<p>‘Pardon. I am not in want of money—at
present. It was my wife whom I sought everywhere,
and now that I have found her, I do
not intend ever to leave her again.’</p>

<p>‘Liar and villain!’</p>

<p>‘Doucement, je vous prie. Listen! I am no
longer so young as I once was. I have travelled—I
have seen the world—I am <i>blasé</i>. I want
a home—I want what you English call my own
fireside. Where, then, should be my home—where
should be my fireside, but with my wife—the
wife from whom I have been torn for so
many cruel years, but whom, <i>parole d’honneur</i>,
I have never ceased to love and cherish in my
heart!’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_745">{745}</span></p>

<p>‘Oh! this is too much,’ murmured Mora under
her breath, the fingers of one hand griping those
of the other like a vice. The tension was becoming
greater than she could bear.</p>

<p>‘But there need be no scandal, no éclaircissement
among my dear wife’s English friends,’
went on De Miravel with the same hard, set
smile. ‘I have thought of all that. Madame
Laroche is dead—Hector Laroche is dead. In
their place we have here, Madame De Vigne, a
charming widow; and Monsieur De Miravel, a
bachelor not too antique to marry. Monsieur
De Miravel has known and admired Madame
De Vigne before her marriage to her late husband.
What more natural than that he should admire
her still, that he should make her an offer of
his hand, and that she should accept it? So
one day Madame De Vigne and Monsieur De
Miravel are quietly married, and, <i>pouf!</i> all the
respectable English friends have dust thrown in
their eyes!’</p>

<p>For a moment or two Mora stared at him in
silence; then she said in a low voice: ‘And you
propose this to me!—to me!’</p>

<p>‘Sérieusement, ma chère—sérieusement. It is
a beautiful little scheme.’</p>

<p>‘If you will not take your price and leave me,
I at least can leave you,’ she answered in low,
determined tones. ‘No power on earth can
compel me to live with you for a single hour
as your wife, and no power shall. I would
sooner drop dead at your feet.’</p>

<p>The Frenchman bent his head and sniffed at
the flower in his button-hole. When he lifted
his face again there was a strange expression in
his eyes, which his unhappy wife remembered
only too well, and caused her to shudder in spite
of herself. She felt that the scorpion’s sting of
what he had to say to her was yet to come.
When he next spoke, there was the same cold,
cruel glitter in his eyes that travellers tell us is
to be seen in the eyes of a cobra at the moment
it is about to strike.</p>

<p>‘Mademoiselle your sister—what a beautiful
young lady she is!’ he said, speaking even more
softly than he had done before, and balancing his
cane on a couple of fingers as he spoke. ‘I saw
her this morning for the first time. She is to
be married in a little while to the son of a rich
English <i>milord</i>. Is it not so? <i>Eh bien!</i> I wonder
what this rich <i>milord</i>, this Sir William, would
say, and what the young gentleman, his son,
would say, if they were told that the sister of
the charming Mademoiselle Clarice was the wife
of a <i>déporté</i>—of Hector Laroche, a man who had
worked out a sentence of penal servitude at
Noumea. Of course the rich Sir William would
at once take Monsieur Laroche to lunch with
him at his club, and the young gentleman would
present him with a little cheque for five or six
thousand francs; and he would be asked to give
the bride away at the wedding, and he would
sign his name in the register, thus—“Hector
Laroche, <i>ex-déporté</i>, number 897.”’</p>

<p>For a moment or two it seemed to Mora as if
earth and heaven were coming together.</p>

<p>‘So, fiend! miscreant! that is your scheme,
is it?’</p>

<p>‘I have shown you my cards,’ he answered
with a shrug. ‘I have hidden nothing from you.
So now, <i>chère</i> Madame De Vigne, you have only
to give your promise to marry your devoted De
Miravel; and the moment you do that, Hector
Laroche dies and is buried out of sight for ever,
and neither Sir William nor his son will know
that such a <i>vaurien</i> ever existed.’</p>

<p>‘Leave me—leave me!’ she exclaimed in a
hoarse whisper.</p>

<p>He glanced at her keenly. It was evident that
just at present she could bear no more. It was
not his policy to drive her to extremities. He
rose from his seat.</p>

<p>‘I will go and promenade myself for a little
while,’ he said. ‘In half an hour I will return.’</p>

<p>He raised his hat as he might have done to
a duchess. She stood a little aside, to let him
pass, but did not allow her eyes to rest on him
for a moment. He turned and took the path
which led up the ravine.</p>

<p>Mora sank down wearily on the seat he had
vacated. At that moment she felt as if she
would have been grateful for the earth to open
and swallow her up. She was appalled at the
blackness of the gulf to the edge of which her
husband had just dragged her. What should
she do? Whither should she turn? To whom
should she look for help? Alas! in all the wide
world there was no one who could help her—least
of all the man whose strong protecting love
had seemed but yesterday as though it were able
to shield her from every harm.</p>

<p>‘I am in the coils of a Python that will
slowly but surely strangle me,’ she said. ‘Yes—death
alone can release me. And only yesterday
I was so happy! If I could but have died at
the moment Harold pressed his lips to mine!
Why does he not come? I must tell him
everything—everything. And after that?’ She
shuddered, and rose to her feet. ‘And he loves
me so much!’ she said with a heart-broken sigh.
‘Poor Harold! Poor Harold!’</p>

<p>Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she
turned and took the same path that she had
taken before when she went to watch for Colonel
Woodruffe’s coming up the valley. Her one
burning desire now was to see him; beyond that,
her mind at present refused to go.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>‘I am afraid that as an ambassador the colonel
was a failure.’</p>

<p>The speaker was Mr Etheridge, and it was to
Clarice Loraine that his remark was addressed.</p>

<p>Mr Etheridge had had pointed out to him
and had duly admired the view so much extolled
by the young girl, and the two were now slowly
sauntering back to their starting-point. By this
time Clarice felt herself quite at ease with her
companion, so much so, indeed, that in her
prettily confidential way she had told him all
about how Archie and she became acquainted,
how they grew to love each other, how Archie
proposed and was accepted, and how surprised
they all were afterwards to find that he was a
baronet’s son. Then she went on to tell him
of Archie’s letter to his father, the first result of
which was Colonel Woodruffe’s visit at the vicarage.</p>

<p>‘Well, and what happened after the colonel’s
visit?’ continued Mr Etheridge.</p>

<p>‘Archie wrote again, twice; but there came
no answer till yesterday, when he received the
telegram which summoned him to meet his father
in London.’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_746">{746}</span></p>

<p>‘Supposing Sir William should refuse his
consent, what would the result be in that
case?’</p>

<p>‘That is more than I can tell,’ she answered
with a little trembling of her lips. ‘But before
Archie left us, my sister told him that he went
away a free man—that if his father were
opposed to the marriage, we should look upon
his promise as if it had never been given; and
that if we never saw him again, we should
know the reason why, and never blame him in
our thoughts.’</p>

<p>‘And you agreed with what your sister said?’</p>

<p>‘With every word of it.’</p>

<p>‘That was very brave of you. But what had
Mr Archie to say to such an arrangement?’</p>

<p>‘He laughed it to scorn. He said he would
do all that lay in his power to win his father’s
consent, but that—that’——</p>

<p>‘In any case, he would hold you to your
promise, and come back and claim you for his
wife? Mr Archie would find himself a very
poor man if Sir William were to cut off his
allowance.’</p>

<p>‘That is a prospect which does not seem to
frighten him in the least.’</p>

<p>‘But doubtless it would not be without its
effect upon you, Miss Loraine. You would
hardly care to tie yourself for life to a
pauper.’</p>

<p>‘O Mr Etheridge, what a strange opinion
you must have formed of me! I would marry
Archie if he had not a sovereign to call his
own.’</p>

<p>‘The charming imprudence of a girl in love.
Then you would marry him in opposition to his
father’s wishes?’</p>

<p>‘Now you ask me a question that I cannot
answer. That, and that only, would cause me
to hesitate.’</p>

<p>‘Why should the wishes of a selfish valetudinarian—of
a man whom you have never seen—cause
you to hesitate, or be allowed to come
between you and the happiness of your life?’</p>

<p>‘Ah! but could I ever be really happy with
the knowledge for ever in my mind that I had
been the cause of separating a father from his
son, and that by becoming Archie’s wife I had
blighted the fairest prospects of his life? And
then, perhaps—who can tell?—after a time he
might become a little tired of me—men do
sometimes tire of their wives, don’t they?—and
then he might begin to remember and
regret all that he had sacrificed in marrying
me; and that, I think, would nearly break my
heart.’</p>

<p>The old man laid his hand caressingly on her
arm for a moment. ‘Well, well, we must hope
for the best,’ he said. ‘We must hope that Sir
William will not prove a very flinty-hearted
papa.’</p>

<p>She smiled up gratefully in his face. ‘Tell
me, Mr Etheridge, is Sir William a very terrible
person to have to do with?’</p>

<p>He broke into a little laugh. ‘Terrible, miss?
No; hardly that, I think; but eccentric, if you
please. The fact is that Sir William is one of
those men of whom it can never be predicated
with certainty what view he will take, or what
conclusion he will arrive at, with regard to any
matter that may be brought before him. He
has an obnoxious habit of thinking and deciding
for himself, and is seldom led by the opinions
of others. Yes, undoubtedly Sir William is a
very eccentric man.’</p>

<p>They had got back to the bridge by this
time. ‘Why, I declare, yonder comes Colonel
Woodruffe!’ exclaimed Clarice. ‘I am <i>so</i> pleased—and
so will Mora be.’</p>

<p>‘Evidently the colonel is a favourite,’ said Mr
Etheridge drily.</p>

<p>‘Of course he is. Everybody likes Colonel
Woodruffe. But probably you know him already,
Mr Etheridge?’</p>

<p>‘I have met him occasionally at Sir William’s
house. I have no doubt he would remember
me if you were to mention my name.’</p>

<p>‘I will go and speak to him, if you will excuse
me for a few moments.’</p>

<p>Clarice sped quickly across the bridge. Mr
Etheridge sat down on the parapet and fanned
himself with his hat.</p>

<p>The colonel, who had been gazing round him
in some perplexity, hurried forward the moment
he perceived Miss Loraine.</p>

<p>‘Good-morning, Colonel Woodruffe,’ said the
girl as she held out her hand. ‘I am delighted
to find that you have discovered us.’</p>

<p>‘Your sister told me that you were all to be
at High Ghyll to-day, so I have driven round
in search of you. But where are the rest of
the party?’</p>

<p>‘Gone in search of the picturesque, I have no
doubt. Mora was here a little while ago; and
see’—pointing with her finger—‘yonder are her
sketch-book and shawl, so that she cannot be
far away.’</p>

<p>The colonel had been gazing over Clarice’s
shoulder at Mr Etheridge. ‘Whom have you
yonder?’ he asked. ‘I seem to know his face.’</p>

<p>‘Such a dear old gentleman!—Mr Etheridge,
Sir William Ridsdale’s secretary.’</p>

<p>‘Sir William Ridsdale’s secretary!’ echoed the
colonel with an air of stupefaction.</p>

<p>‘Yes; he recognised you the moment he saw
you. He says that he has met you occasionally
at Sir William’s house.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, indeed! But what has brought him here,
may I ask?’</p>

<p>‘He has come all the way from Spa with a
letter for Archie from his father. But when he
reached here this morning, he found that Archie
had been telegraphed for last evening to meet
his father in London.—It seems very strange,
doesn’t it? But then, as Mr Etheridge says, Sir
William is a very eccentric man.’</p>

<p>‘Very eccentric, indeed,’ responded the colonel
absently.</p>

<p>‘So that of course accounts for it.—But yonder
comes Mora.’</p>

<p>The colonel turned eagerly. ‘Then, with your
permission, I will leave you to Mr Etheridge.’</p>

<p>‘We shall see you at luncheon, of course?’</p>

<p>‘You may rely upon me not to miss that,’
answered the colonel with a laugh.</p>

<p>Clarice kissed her hand to her sister, and then
went back to Mr Etheridge. She wanted to
afford the colonel an opportunity for a <i>tête-à-tête</i>
with Mora, so she at once proposed another ramble
to Mr Etheridge, who assented with alacrity.</p>

<p>The moment Colonel Woodruffe drew near Mora
De Vigne, he saw that something was amiss.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_747">{747}</span>
She looked an altogether different woman from
her whom he had parted from only a few hours
before with a tender light of love and happiness
in her eyes. His heart misgave him as he walked
up to her.</p>

<p>‘What has happened?’ he asked in anxious
tones as he took her hand. ‘What has wrought
this change in you? Your hand is like ice.’</p>

<p>She gazed up into his face for a moment or
two without speaking, with a dumb, pitiful wistfulness
in her eyes, that affected him strangely.
Then she said: ‘Why did you not read the
letter which I gave you last evening?’</p>

<p>He gazed at her for a moment. ‘You know
my reasons for not reading it. But why do you
ask that now?’</p>

<p>‘Because, if you had read it, you would have
saved me from having to tell so much to-day,
which, in that case, you would have known
yesterday.’</p>

<p>‘Pardon me, but you speak in enigmas.’</p>

<p>‘You have read of earthquakes, although you
may never have felt the shock of one. One
minute all is fair, bright, and beautiful; the next,
there is nothing but ruin, disaster, and death.
Since I saw you yesterday, the foundations of
my life, which I thought nothing could ever
shake more, have crumbled into utter ruin around
me.’</p>

<p>‘How can that be, while I am here to guard
and cherish you? Yesterday, you gave me your
love—your life. What power on earth can tear
them from me?’</p>

<p>‘Ah me! Listen, and you shall learn.’</p>

<p>She sat for a few moments with bent head,
as if scarcely knowing how to begin. The
colonel was standing a little way from her, one
of his arms twined round the slender stem of a
sapling.</p>

<p>‘What I am about to tell you is the life-story
of a most unhappy woman,’ she said, lifting her
head and gazing sadly into his eyes. ‘My father
was an Englishman, who was engaged for many
years in business near Paris. I was educated
in a convent, as girls are educated in France.
I had left the convent about a year, and was
keeping my father’s house—my mother having
died meanwhile, and my sister being away at
school—when a certain Monsieur Laroche became
a frequent visitor. Before long, my father told
me that his affairs were deeply involved. Laroche
was the only man who could or would save
him, and that only on condition that I became
his wife. I was little more than a child in
worldly knowledge; I knew that in France the
question of a girl’s marriage is always settled
by her parents; so, although I already detested
the man, I yielded to my father’s entreaties, and
became Madame Laroche. Within a year, my
father died—by his own hand.’</p>

<p>‘My poor Mora!’</p>

<p>‘Whatever wreck of property he left behind,
my husband contrived to obtain possession of.
But before that time, I knew him to be an
inveterate gambler, and worse! Of my life at
that time I care not now to speak. Can there
be many such men as he in the world—such
tigers in human form? I hope not.</p>

<p>‘Some time after, when my life had become
a burden almost greater than I could bear, there
came news of the death of my godmother, and
that she had left me a legacy of two thousand
pounds. The money had not been six hours in
my possession, before my husband broke open
my bureau and robbed me of the whole of it,
together with my own and my mother’s jewels.
I was left utterly destitute. A few months later
came the war, the siege of Paris, and the famine.
Oh! that terrible time. I often live it over
again in my dreams even now.’</p>

<p>‘And you have gone through all this!’ said
the colonel.</p>

<p>‘I had no tidings of my husband till the war
was over,’ resumed Mora. ‘Then came news
indeed. He had been detected cheating at cards—there
had been a quarrel—the lights had been
blown out, and the man who had accused him
had been shot through the heart. My husband
was tried, found guilty, and condemned to a
long term of penal servitude.’</p>

<p>‘A happy riddance for you and every one,’
remarked the colonel with a shrug.</p>

<p>‘I had friends who did not desert me in my
extremity. I gave lessons in English, and so
contrived to live. One day there came an official
notification that my husband was dead. He had
died in prison, and had been buried in a convict’s
grave. Was it wicked to feel glad when I read
the news? If so, then was I wicked indeed.’</p>

<p>‘No one but a hypocrite could have pretended
to feel otherwise than glad.’</p>

<p>‘My sister was with me by that time. I never
told her the history of my marriage, and my
husband she had never seen. She knew only
that I had been deserted and was now a widow.
Our quiet life went on for a time, and then, by
the death of an aunt, I came into possession of
a small fortune. I changed my name, as requested
in my aunt’s will, and after a little while Clarice
and I came to England. The rest you know.’</p>

<p>The colonel looked puzzled. ‘Pardon me,’ he
said, ‘if I fail to see why you have thought it
needful to tell me to-day that which I did not
wish or ask to be enlightened about yesterday.’</p>

<p>‘I have told you this to-day because yesterday,
a little while after you left me, I saw—my
husband.’</p>

<p>‘Your husband!—But how’—— He stared
at her as though he could not say another word.
Mora was now the calmer of the two.</p>

<p>‘The letter which I received five years ago
informing me of his death was sent to me in
error. Another man bearing the same name as
my husband—a <i>déporté</i> like him, had died; and
somehow one convict would seem to have been
mistaken for the other.’</p>

<p>‘O Mora, Mora, and am I then to lose you!’
cried the colonel.</p>

<p>She did not speak; but at that moment all
the anguish of her soul was revealed in her
eyes.</p>

<p>Involuntarily he moved from the place where
he had been standing and sat down by her
side.</p>

<p>‘And I love you so dearly!—so dearly!’</p>

<p>‘And I you!’ she answered scarcely above a
whisper. ‘I may tell you this now—for the last
time.’</p>

<p>Their hands sought each other, touched and
clasped. In the silence that ensued, the leaves
seemed whispering among themselves of that
which they had just heard; while the stream<span class="pagenum" id="Page_748">{748}</span>
went frothing and fuming on its way like some
wordy egotist who cares for nothing save his own
ceaseless babble.</p>

<p>‘And this miscreant has tracked you?’ said the
colonel at length.</p>

<p>‘He was with me but just now. He may
return at any moment.’</p>

<p>‘Such vermin as he have seldom more than one
thought, one want—Money. I am rich, and
if’——</p>

<p>Mora shook her head. ‘He wants more than
money.’</p>

<p>‘Ha!’</p>

<p>‘You do not know Hector Laroche. As I
said before, he is a tiger in human form. He
loves gold; but he loves still better to have under
his claws a writhing, helpless, palpitating victim,
whom he can torture and play with and toss
to and fro at his pleasure, over whose agonies
he can gloat, and whose heart he can slowly
vivisect and smile while he does it.’</p>

<p>‘And he would make such a victim of you?’</p>

<p>‘He has done it once, and he would do it
again. He is now passing under a false name.
What he demands is, that instead of claiming me
as the wife whom he married several years ago,
I shall go through a second form of marriage
with him under the name he is now known by,
and that by such means the dark story of his
former life shall be buried for ever.’</p>

<p>‘There is no law, human or divine, that can
compel you to accede to so monstrous a demand,’
exclaimed the colonel in tones resonant with
indignation.</p>

<p>‘As I said before—you do not know the man.
Should I refuse to accede to his wishes, he
threatens to go to Sir William Ridsdale—for with
his usual diabolical ingenuity, he has found out
all about Clarice’s engagement—and say to him:
“Are you aware that your son is about to marry
a person whose sister is the wife of a <i>déporté</i>—of
a man who has undergone a term of penal
servitude?” And, O Colonel Woodruffe! if he
does that—if he does that, what will become of
my poor Clarice!’</p>

<p>‘A scheme worthy of the Foul Fiend himself!’
exclaimed the colonel as he sprang to his feet.</p>

<p>There was a painful pause. The colonel was
thoroughly taken aback by what he had just
heard. At length he said slowly: ‘Surely—surely
there must be some way of escape.’</p>

<p>Mora shook her head. ‘I know of none,’ she
answered simply.</p>

<p>A few moments later, there was a noise of
approaching footsteps. The colonel drew a pace
or two farther away.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHRISTMAS_TREES">CHRISTMAS TREES.</h2>
</div>
<p class="ph3">THEIR SHADY SIDE.</p>


<p><span class="smcap">The</span> few words I am about to write upon the
subject of Christmas Trees for children may perhaps
be best illustrated by what originally gave
rise to these remarks—namely, the first festivity of
the kind attended by my own juveniles. It was
given by a friend, whose rooms were narrow in
proportion to the numbers of small people she
expected, and seniors were therefore not included
in the invitations. I was asked, however, to go
on the morning of the party to inspect the tree
when it was set up and loaded with its treasures.
A goodly array they surely formed. Toys of
every kind, most of them very costly; for my
friend had been regardless of expense. He calculated
that eighty pounds would scarcely cover
the outlay upon the articles provided. When I
considered how easy to please in their playthings
children often are; how tenderly the battered
doll or dilapidated horse is sometimes cherished;
how the sixpenny toy with the charm of novelty
upon it, will put out of favour its guinea predecessor—for
children, unlike adults, do not estimate
things because of their money value—I could
not help thinking this was a sad waste of money.
The delicate machinery of those expensive mechanical
toys would also run great risk of being
put out of order or broken among the crowd of
eager children, with no parents present to guard
them from injury. Altogether, the gorgeous
Christmas tree seemed destined to be ‘a thing
of beauty and of joy’ for a very short time
indeed.</p>

<p>The eventful evening arrived, and great was
the excitement. My small daughter was a pretty
child, and very comely she looked in her dainty
lace-trimmed frock and pink ribbons, when, with
her young brother, she came fluttering into my
boudoir; nurse, proud and pleased, escorting the
pair and carrying their wraps. With true feminine
instinct, the little damsel betook herself
to the tall pier-glass, surveying her finery therein
with much satisfaction. ‘I daresay,’ she said,
turning round after a prolonged gaze, ‘that I
shall be the nicest-dressed little girl at the
party!’</p>

<p>‘No, indeed—that you won’t,’ promptly interposed
nurse. ‘Don’t you go to think such a
thing, dear. You’ll see, when you get into the
room, there’ll be a-many little ladies just as nice
as yourself, perhaps even nicer.’ Which speech
was a sacrifice of candour on the part of nurse,
who was given to regard her young charge as
being as good as the best, though she felt called
on by duty to nip vanity in the bud.</p>

<p>The morning after a night’s dissipation is generally
a trying one, when excitement has passed off
and reaction set in. Late hours and hot rooms,
fruits and pastries and unwholesome liquids at
times when healthy slumbers would otherwise
have been the order of the night, are apt to have
a damaging effect upon the temper. The present
occasion was no exception to the rule. My
children were not looking their happiest when
they appeared carrying a load of things which
they laid roughly down and proceeded to turn
over with a listless air.</p>

<p>‘What lovely toys!’ I exclaimed. It was
truly an <i>embarras de richesses</i>. There were treasures
that, if gradually bestowed, would have
driven the recipients wild with delight. ‘What
fortunate young people you are!’ I added,
examining the glittering heap that they were
surveying so discontentedly. ‘Don’t you think
so?’</p>

<p>‘The little B——s got much better things!’
they murmured.</p>

<p>‘This doll, so beautifully dressed’——</p>

<p>‘Ah, if you had seen the one Mary got!’
pouted the little girl, pushing with her foot the
despised doll. ‘It opened and shut its eyes, and
had a pearl necklace and embroidered shoes.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_749">{749}</span>
And Mary was so conceited and disagreeable
about it; and so ill-natured, she’d scarcely let
me look at it. I hate Mary B——!’</p>

<p>‘You were great friends with her,’ cried the
young brother, ‘until she got that better doll;
and you were just as conceited, too, about your
own, until hers cut it out.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, <i>you</i> needn’t talk, after the way you
behaved to poor little Fred H——. Would you
believe it, mamma? he quarrelled with that poor
child—a little mite of a fellow, not half his size—hustling
and bullying him, and wanting to drag
away his book that he got for a prize.’</p>

<p>‘No; I did not want to drag it away from
him. Don’t tell stories. ’Twas to be an exchange.
I got a ridiculous toy-horse—a little rubbishy
thing, only fit for a baby like him; and he said
he would take it and give me the book—a lovely
<i>Robinson Crusoe</i>, that he couldn’t read. And then
the stupid little fellow howled when I went to
get it from him.’</p>

<p>‘And you flew into a rage, and smashed the
toy; and the governess said it was a shame,
and’——</p>

<p>‘Oh, come!’ I said, interrupting recriminations
that were getting angry, and putting a stop to
the dispute.</p>

<p>It was not the moment for impressing moral
truths upon the young pair; but while deferring
these to a more fitting opportunity, I made my
own reflections upon Christmas trees in general
and this party in particular.</p>

<p>It was plain that envy, hatred, and much
uncharitableness had resulted from it—feelings
latent, alas! in our poor human nature, that need
not premature development. Discontent too, and
rivalry and greed were, it would seem from the
nature of the entertainment, liable to be aroused
in childish breasts. So I locked away the disparaged
prizes, until later on, when the satiety
produced by a glut had passed off and envious
comparisons were forgotten.</p>

<p>We had merry gatherings of small people at
wholesome hours, and happy little feasts, and
games and romps in every-day clothes. But this
was my children’s first—and last—Christmas
Tree.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MISSING_CLUE">THE MISSING CLUE.</h2>
</div>


<h3>CHAPTER VI.—HOBB DIPPING BEWILDERED.</h3>

<p><span class="smcap">Mine</span> host of the <i>Saxonford Arms</i> sits in his
lonely back-parlour, looking thoughtfully into the
fire, and taking alternate whiffs and pulls from
a clay pipe and a beer-jug which stands on the
table at his elbow. During the past week, no
traveller has entered Hobb Dipping’s ancient
house of entertainment, and the worthy man was
beginning to wonder whether it was within the
bounds of possibility that any one would ever enter
it again. For several days the snow had been
drifting up against his front-door, and for over
a week the howling wind had stormed and beat
against the walls of the old inn. True, the wind
had dropped somewhat during the night; but
Jerry—the man-of-all-work, and old Dipping’s
special informant upon all matters—had reported
that the snow-drift was ‘alarmin’ deep in places;’
while, if he needed any confirmation of this
statement, he had but to turn his eyes towards
the windows and gaze over the frozen waste
which extended on every side.</p>

<p>Hobb Dipping was an old man now, and fifteen
years had whitened his hair since the fatal night
when Sir Carnaby Vincent was shot by the military
in his house. The innkeeper’s thoughts had
apparently at this moment been dwelling upon
that catastrophe, for he muttered to himself: ‘Fifteen
years! I shouldn’t ha’ thought it!’ at the
same time looking gloomily at a well-thumbed
scrap of paper which he was turning over between
his fingers. ‘Fifteen years!’ muttered old Dipping,
who was enveloped in a thick volume of
smoke, consequent upon his exertions with the
clay pipe aforesaid—‘fifteen years, an’ no one’s
guessed it yet. Why, what fools we all be!’</p>

<p>‘Hi, master!’ says Jerry, popping his head in
through the doorway. ‘Here’s a gentleman
come; wants to know if he can be put up for
a night or two.’</p>

<p>Old Hobb peeped through a little latticed
window into the courtyard, and saw a gentleman
of military aspect sitting motionless in his saddle
amidst a thin cloud of falling snow. It is
Reginald Ainslie.</p>

<p>‘Why do you keep the gentleman waiting out
there?’ is the indignant exclamation of mine
host, who seems to be endowed with sudden
energy. ‘Put up for a night or two! Of course
he can; for a month, if he likes. Show the
gentleman in, and then go attend to his horse.’</p>

<p>When the man has disappeared, old Dipping
bustles out of the room to find something to
tie over his head, before he dares to venture
into the cold biting air. On his return, he finds
his visitor has thrown aside his heavy riding-cloak,
and is reclining in an armchair, with
every appearance of fatigue expressed in his
attitude and countenance. Jerry whispers that
the gallant must be right bad, for it was all
he could do to help him out of the saddle.
‘And his nag ain’t much better,’ he goes on.
‘They ha’ come a long bad road this day, I’ll
warrant.’</p>

<p>Dismissing his vassal hastily, Hobb Dipping
pours out a mug of strong spiced ale, and presents
it to his visitor.</p>

<p>‘I ask your pardon, sir,’ said the old man,
‘for letting you wait such a while outside; the
snow lies so thick that I did not hear the sound
of your horse’s hoofs.’</p>

<p>Before honest Dipping could finish his speech,
he was startled by his visitor making a quick
movement and catching eagerly at the scrap of
paper which the landlord had a short while
ago held in his hand, and which, on rising to
receive the traveller, he had laid on the table.
There was a short uncomfortable pause, while
Reginald eagerly turned over the object in his
hand. ‘How did you come by this?’ he at
length gasped out, the tone of his voice expressing
great eagerness and anxiety.</p>

<p>Hobb Dipping’s first thought was to hollo for
Jerry, having some idea that his strange visitor’s
head must be turned; his second, was to try
and remember where he had placed his spectacles.</p>

<p>‘My sight is bad, sir,’ he said as he fumbled
in his pockets. ‘I can scarcely make out what
you be askin’ of.’</p>

<p>‘This—this piece of paper!’ exclaimed Ainslie,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_750">{750}</span>
thrusting forward the identical scrap which old
Hobb had been examining at the time of his
arrival.</p>

<p>‘It come here by accident, sir,’ answered old
Hobb slowly and unwillingly.</p>

<p>‘Was left here, eh?’</p>

<p>‘Just so, sir—it were.’</p>

<p>‘How long ago?’</p>

<p>‘Well, sir, it’s something between fifteen and
sixteen year.’</p>

<p>‘Gracious powers!’ vociferated Ainslie, striking
his fist on the table. ‘I believe the man was
right.’</p>

<p>The landlord stretched out one hand imploringly
towards his excited visitor.</p>

<p>‘What now?’ inquired Reginald, who was
vainly endeavouring to peruse the writing with
which the paper was covered.</p>

<p>‘I want you to give me back that paper, sir.’</p>

<p>‘Be good enough, landlord, to leave it with
me for the present, and bring me something
to eat!’</p>

<p>Old Hobb looked wistfully at the scrap of paper
which his visitor was handling, and proceeded to
the larder, with considerable misgiving expressed
on his countenance. When mine host at length
returned, he found his guest a trifle more composed.
Reginald Ainslie was still poring over
the mysterious piece of paper; but it was evident,
from his disappointed mien, that he was
considerably perplexed.</p>

<p>‘Landlord,’ he said in a low voice, when the
arrangements for his meal were complete, ‘close
the door!’</p>

<p>Hobb Dipping obeyed, and then stood waiting,
as if for further orders.</p>

<p>‘Sit down,’ said the lieutenant.</p>

<p>The landlord seated himself in silence, and
watched his visitor. After a few minutes had
passed in silence, Reginald Ainslie laid down his
knife and fork and leaned back in his chair.</p>

<p>‘Is your name Dipping?’</p>

<p>‘It is so, sir.’</p>

<p>‘Will you please to tell me,’ continued Ainslie,
‘the particulars of how you became possessed of
this scrap of paper?’</p>

<p>Old Hobb waxed extremely uncomfortable
under the visitor’s fixed gaze; he scratched his
bald skull, looked wistfully round the room, and
then asked in an affrighted whisper: ‘Be you
anything to do with the magistrates, sir?’</p>

<p>Reginald shook his head.</p>

<p>‘If you’re not, sir,’ went on the landlord,
evidently very much relieved, ‘would you mind
first letting me know your reason for askin’ those
questions?’</p>

<p>‘My reason for asking them,’ answered
Reginald, ‘is because your reply may prove to
be of serious importance to me. I have ridden
a long way, a very long way, and solely on purpose
to communicate with the landlord of this
inn upon a subject which may prove the means
of benefiting us both.—Do you remember a
gentleman named Sir Carnaby Vincent?’</p>

<p>Hobb started a little at the abruptness of the
question, but answered: ‘Ay, sir, that I do.
And haven’t I good cause to remember him?
That bit of paper, sir, I have always fancied
belonged to the poor gentleman. I found it
on the stairs while the red-coats were searchin’
his room; they must ha’ passed it somehow.’</p>

<p>‘That was on the night when he was shot
here—was it not?’</p>

<p>‘You seem to know pretty much about it, sir,’
remarked the host, with an inquisitive look. ‘I
ain’t going to deny the fact; it did happen on
that night. But excuse me being so bold, sir;
you must have been quite a young chap at that
time; you can’t recollect it, surely?’</p>

<p>‘I remember nothing about the matter myself,’
replied Ainslie, ‘nor have I been in this part
before. But Sir Carnaby’s attempted escape, and
the fatal result, were officially reported to the
government and to his friends. You think that
this scrap of writing belonged to Sir Carnaby
Vincent?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, sir; though I didn’t know his name
till I learned it from the soldiers, after all was
over.’</p>

<p>‘Why did you not deliver this up to them,
when you discovered it on the stairs?’</p>

<p>‘Well, you see, sir, it was like this,’ replied
old Hobb unwillingly. ‘I was sorry for the
poor gentleman, besides being angry with the
soldiers. But little they cared about that. So
I thought as how I’d just keep it to myself,
in case the man-servant who got off should
venture here again. Thinks I: “I’ll give it
up to him, and disappoint the other parties a
bit for what they’ve done in my house.”—I
hope your honour won’t inform against me!’
suddenly exclaimed the old man, who began to
have an idea that he was disclosing somewhat
more than was prudent to a total stranger.</p>

<p>‘My intentions are quite the opposite, I assure
you,’ said Reginald, eager to set his informant’s
mind at rest. ‘Go on; pray, do not stop.’</p>

<p>‘Well, sir,’ resumed Dipping, ‘as I said, I kept
the paper, thinking that I might chance to drop
across the man-servant. But though one of the
labourers spoke to him that morning, I never
see him again; and here I have been keeping
this bit of writin’ over fifteen year without being
able to make out what it means or anything
about it. I should ha’ burnt it soon, I fancy.’</p>

<p>‘Burnt it!’ exclaimed Reginald. ‘What madness!’</p>

<p>‘Can you read it, sir?’ inquired old Hobb in
a curious tone.</p>

<p>‘Read it! No, I cannot; worse luck. Chinese
looks quite easy compared with the jumble of
letters which are set down upon this scrap of
paper.—Has any one seen it besides myself?’</p>

<p>‘Only one or two persons, sir,’ answered
Dipping—‘I didn’t want the tale to get abroad—an’
when they see it, they turned it over just
the same as you’re a-doing now: they none of
’em could make it out.’</p>

<p>‘What became of the other papers?’ suddenly
demanded Ainslie, looking up, and desisting from
the occupation of gnawing his thumb-nail.</p>

<p>‘There were none others as I know of, sir,’
replied old Dipping. ‘A pair of saddle-bags, I
think, was took—my memory ain’t quite so good
as it used to be. But this I do know for certain—there
were no papers found except this one
little bit. The soldiers swore hard, and said
that the man who got off had taken ’em with
him.’</p>

<p>‘Did it never occur to you that the attendant
acted most strangely on that occasion?’ asked
Ainslie.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_751">{751}</span></p>

<p>‘Ay, sir, I have thought of that many a time,’
answered mine host, scratching his head. ‘It
was a queer thing for him to do—to be sure it
was. The man certainly was not running away
cowardly-like, to leave his master in the lurch;
he would never have hampered himself with the
other horse in the way he did, and then go and
cut his way through the middle of the redcoats.
He might have got off t’ other way through the
village without riskin’ his blessed neck. It’s my
opinion, sir, an’ always was, that he did it to
take the fire off on himself, while Sir Carnaby
got away over Long Fen on foot. Very creditable
it must ha’ been on him, sir; an’ had he
drawn the redcoats away for a few minutes
longer, the poor gentleman would have been
clean away. He was nearly down at the foot
of the stairs when they challenged him. It being
dark, and getting no answer back, they blazed
away. I let the soldiers in myself, or they
would have beat the door down. But when
they called out they would fire at the gentleman
if he did not speak, I yelled to ’em not to do
murder in my house. But it were too late,’
said old Hobb, sternly knitting his brows—‘it
were too late. God help me! what could I do?
I couldn’t stop it.’</p>

<p>‘It was no fault of yours, my man!’ said
Ainslie, seeing that the old fellow faltered; ‘and
do not imagine for an instant that you will get
into any trouble by telling me all this. To set
your mind easy on that score, I may as well
inform you at once that Sir Carnaby Vincent,
who so unfortunately lost his life here, was my
uncle.’ Reginald paused for a moment to watch
the effect which this announcement had upon
his listener, and then went on once more.
‘The affair,’ said he, ‘which brings me here
is of the greatest secrecy, and whatever consequences
may result from my taking this step,
I strictly require of you that no word of it
shall ever be mentioned hereafter.’</p>

<p>‘Trust me for that, sir,’ returned the landlord:
‘it shall never pass my lips to any
one.’</p>

<p>Directing mine host to draw his chair nearer
to the fire, Reginald Ainslie commenced a narration
which is sufficiently long to warrant its
being the subject of another chapter.</p>


<h3>CHAPTER VII.—REGINALD’S STORY.</h3>

<p>‘My father,’ said the lieutenant, ‘was a gentleman
of great property, and a close friendship
existed between him and the brother of his wife—Sir
Carnaby, to wit. They became mixed up with
a discontented body of people named Jacobites;
and a short time before the unhappy affair
which we have been talking about, two warrants
were issued for their apprehension. My father
was seized at once; but Sir Carnaby Vincent
contrived to make his escape for a time, till
at length he closed his flight at this place.
You know what happened when he and his
servant arrived here; they were surprised by a
party of military, who had received notice of
their movements; and my uncle was shot dead.
His attendant fortunately escaped, and returned,
after a short time had elapsed, to our family
with the sad news. The proceedings against
my father, Sir Henry Ainslie, were suspended
through want of sufficient evidence, and he was
allowed to come back to his home, only to die
shortly afterwards, broken both in spirits and
in circumstances. Before his death, he made
an appalling disclosure to my mother, the sum
of it being this—that, trusting to the ultimate
success of the revolution which he had been
hoping to raise, both he and Sir Carnaby had
heavily mortgaged their estates, and placed all
their available money at the service of the king
that was to be. Where this large amount had
been placed, or to whom it had been intrusted,
it is now impossible to say, for my father
breathed his last ere he could impart any additional
information. The consequences of this act
proved most disastrous. Our mansion and estates
were immediately seized upon; and beyond a
small income which my mother possessed in her
own right, we were left with scarcely any means
of support. From the scanty information we
could gather from Sir Carnaby’s attendant, it was
considered not at all improbable that the disposal
of this wealth had been intrusted to his master;
and subsequent inquiries proved that he had
actually taken with him in his flight a number
of valuable papers and documents. What these
papers referred to, it is equally impossible to say;
but there has always existed among us a strong
impression that they related to the immense
sum which had been advanced upon the family
estates.’</p>

<p>‘Well, sir,’ exclaimed old Hobb, when the
narrative had arrived at this stage, ‘you don’t
suppose that the gentleman brought all that lump
of money here?’</p>

<p>‘Not the money exactly,’ answered Reginald,
smiling. ‘I don’t credit my plotting relative with
being such a fool as to carry that about with
him.’</p>

<p>‘The soldiers found but little in them saddle-bags,
an’ he brought nought else with him; I
can swear to that,’ said Dipping obstinately.</p>

<p>‘My good man,’ returned Ainslie, ‘the documents
I refer to might have been carried about
his person.’</p>

<p>‘Nothin’ was found on the body when it was
searched, before being buried; I remember that
right enough, sir,’ persisted old Hobb.</p>

<p>‘That is the very point I wished to come to,’
said the lieutenant triumphantly. ‘You are sure
that no papers of any kind were discovered on his
person?’</p>

<p>‘Quite sure, sir,’ replied Dipping emphatically.</p>

<p>‘Then just listen to what I have to say,’ continued
Reginald, speaking in an impressive voice
and fixing his eyes upon the landlord’s countenance.
‘The man-servant who accompanied Sir
Carnaby to this place swears that his master corresponded
with no single person during his flight;
moreover, that he handled the saddle-bags you
have just now been speaking of, several times,
and remembers to have noticed that one of them
contained a small black box.’</p>

<p>The wondering expression on old Hobb’s face
had considerably increased by this time.</p>

<p>‘We have now got to a critical point in my
story,’ continued the lieutenant. ‘Derrick—the
man who accompanied Sir Carnaby hither—told
me he was the first to hear the sound of the
approaching military, and that, being apprehensive
of danger, he stole along the gallery with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_752">{752}</span>
the intention of waking his master. When Sir
Carnaby opened the door of his room, the man
was surprised to find him fully dressed. Hurried
as their conference must have been, Derrick
was sharp enough to notice that his master
had been using some sort of a knife, and that
the black box which he had before seen that night
on the table, had now disappeared, and that
the saddle-bags were empty. However, all persuasion
could not induce my unfortunate relative
to flee, which in itself appears to be very
strange. He told his attendant that he would
follow him if he would take the horses to
the place agreed upon—that more lives than
his own depended upon his not leaving the
place at once, and several other things equally
incomprehensible. Derrick at last unwillingly
consented to obey his instructions, and left the
house, wondering much at his master’s conduct.
The two, as you know, never met again.—This
man,’ resumed Ainslie, after a pause—‘this
man, Derrick, always expressed a belief—a
strange one, truly—that Sir Carnaby was so
anxious for the safety of the contents of that
precious saddle-bag, that he would not retire to
rest until he had placed it in a secure hiding-place.
He might possibly have just been concluding
his task as the attendant arrived at his
door with the alarming news; at any rate, it
seems not at all unlikely that his object in
sending the man to a rendezvous was in order
to gain time, while he made a desperate attempt
to unearth again this mysterious box prior to
escaping from the inn with it. Or, it is quite
possible that my uncle, being startled by the
report of firearms, resolved to let this precious
property, which would implicate so many persons,
remain in its place of concealment, trusting, in
the event of his escape, to return and secure it
once more.’</p>

<p>‘Do you mean to say that the gentleman
hid it in this very house?’ gasped the landlord,
with considerable astonishment depicted on his
countenance.</p>

<p>‘That is what I think.’</p>

<p>‘Well, well!’ exclaimed the old man, ‘to
think that I should ha’ slept an’ eaten an’ drunk
within them blessed walls for fifteen year, with—who
knows—half a million of property hidden
about the place unbeknown to me! Suppose
there had been a fire, sir.’</p>

<p>‘It is fortunate there has not been one,’ replied
Reginald.</p>

<p>‘Am I to understand that you wish to search
the house?’ inquired old Hobb, whose imagination
was fired with a variety of wild speculations,
among which the probable discovery of a
strong case of bullion figured not the least conspicuously.</p>

<p>‘The whole house!—certainly not,’ answered
Reginald with a faint smile. ‘I am afraid that
would waste too much valuable time. What I
want first is a bed for the night.’</p>

<p>‘There’s the room which Sir Carnaby himself
had: your honour wouldn’t have no objection
to that?’</p>

<p>‘Certainly not,’ said Ainslie. ‘The knowledge
that the room has some unpleasant circumstances
connected with it will not affect me in the least.
I shall sleep as soundly in that apartment as in
any other.’</p>

<p>‘Very good, sir.’ And mine host was about
to leave the apartment, when his visitor arrested
him. ‘One word more, Mr Dipping.’</p>

<p>‘Certainly, sir.’</p>

<p>‘I have placed complete confidence in you,’
said Ainslie, ‘and have intrusted to your keeping
a secret, the importance of which you must be
well aware of. I wish you to guard it carefully.
You have kept <i>that</i> secret fairly enough,’ pointing
to the scrap of writing; ‘try if you cannot
keep this one too.—Do you understand?’</p>

<p>The landlord intimated that he would do as
his visitor wished, and then departed, leaving
Reginald to digest such thoughts as this conversation
had called up.</p>

<p>The twilight was by this time gray, and very
little light remained, while a few solitary objects
that could be seen through the dimmed glass in
the old casements, looked shadowy and opaque.
With the exception of one small lamp, which
Hobb Dipping had placed upon the table, the
room was but imperfectly lighted by the flickering
fire. Outside, the snow was silently falling,
not thickly, but in large steady flakes. The
wind had dropped, and with it the whirling drift,
while the old walls of the <i>Saxonford Arms</i> had
ceased to groan and creak.</p>

<p>‘Sir,’ said Hobb, reappearing once more, ‘the
room’s ready. Shall I show you the way?’</p>

<p>Reginald motioned to the landlord to lead on,
and they passed out together into a dark draughty
passage.</p>

<p>‘This here’s the staircase, sir,’ remarked old
Dipping, who was in advance, bearing the light;
‘and that be the very place where the poor
gentleman fell.’</p>

<p>The landing before them was lighted by a gray
ghostly window, which faded into insignificance
on the approach of the landlord’s yellow, flaring
lamp. When this apparition was passed, there
came three shallow steps up, then a short dusky
gallery, and Reginald Ainslie found himself in
the room with which his departed relative had
had so mysterious a connection.</p>

<p>‘This, sir,’ said old Hobb, extending his right
hand somewhat after the manner of a travelling
showman—‘this, sir, is Sir Carnaby’s room.’</p>

<p>‘Well, landlord,’ said Reginald, ‘I think I
need detain you no longer.’</p>

<p>Bidding mine host good-night, Ainslie carefully
fastened the door, and then sat down before the
fire, to ponder over his strange situation, ere
consigning himself to rest for the night.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="WOUNDER_AND_HEALER">WOUNDER AND HEALER.</h2>
</div>
<p class="ph3">(THE IDEA TAKEN FROM AGOUB’S TRANSLATION OF AN
ARABIC SONG.)</p>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">Thy</span> witching look is like a two-edged sword</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To pierce his heart by whom thou art surveyed;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thy rosy lips the precious balm afford</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To heal the wound thy keen-edged sword has made.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I am its victim; I have felt the steel;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">My heart now rankles with the smarting pain;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Give me thy lips the bitter wound to heal—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Thy lips to kiss, and I am whole again.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Daphnis.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<hr class="full" />

<p class="center">Printed and Published by <span class="smcap">W. &amp; R. Chambers</span>, 47 Paternoster
Row, <span class="smcap">London</span>, and 339 High Street, <span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.</p>

<hr class="full" />

<p class="center"><i>All rights reserved.</i></p>

<hr class="full" />

<p>[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.</p>

<p>Page 750: Hobbs to Hobb—“answered old Hobb slowly”.]</p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 66599 ***</div>
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