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diff --git a/75656-0.txt b/75656-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87b4aaf --- /dev/null +++ b/75656-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1811 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75656 *** + + + + + +[Illustration: + +CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL + +OF + +POPULAR + +LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART + +Fifth Series + +ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832 + +CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS) + +NO. 150.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._] + + + + +THE PORTABLE THEATRE. + + +A few wagon-loads of large and square wooden shutters; numerous poles +of various lengths; a quantity of seat-planks and their supports; some +scene-painted canvas wrapped around long rollers, some nailed and glued +upon framework; a collection of ropes and pulleys; various ‘stage +properties;’ two open coke-fire grates; an amount of dark and soiled +drapery and cheap carpeting, and a mass of other things—meet these on +the highway, and you may know that a portable theatre is shifting its +quarters. + +Soon after the wagons reach their destination, the work of building +commences. The town chosen is no doubt a small one, with interests +which may be manufacturing, mineral, or agricultural. The theatre +had arranged for its stance before moving—some waste ground let at +a nominal rent, or a field bordering the town. Then beardless men, +dressed in stained and ragged cloth garments, start hacking up the +ground, digging narrow holes wherein to erect uprights. While some +erect the framework, others build at one end a gallery, at the other +a stage; and so bit by bit. After an adornment of the interior by +draping the walls with some material and giving a scant covering to +the best seats, and a sawdust carpet to the whole concern, the labour +of erection is about at an end, and the actor-builders are at liberty +to cleanse—and shave themselves if they have time, and throw off their +working clothes. If they perform the same night and are late, they +will have little time for rest; and in the impersonator of Hamlet, +who enters the stage at a quarter to eight to a flourish on brass and +string, you may recognise the man who, forty-five minutes before, had +been walking to his lodgings in a state of grime and weariness and with +a stubbly chin. When he appears as the Prince, he is clean shaven, all +but the heavy moustache—for that is his pride, and is never sacrificed. + +The portable theatre is generally ‘run’ by the proprietor, who is often +also stage-manager and leading man or comedian. The usual method of +fixing the amount of payment to employees is by share. In this way +every individual worker is a sort of partner, and so feels an interest +in the welfare of the business; and if the receipts are large, he, +and she, participate in the benefit. This method is favourable to the +manager and proprietor too, even when business is not brisk, though +he is never heard to admit as much. The mode of procedure is very +simple, and may be worthy the attention of those who admire simplicity +and promptitude in business. The sharing takes place nightly after +performance, when the audience have dispersed and the curtain has been +drawn up, and all the company are dressed for home and assembled on +the stage. The proprietor sits at a table in the centre, the receipts +in cash and a slip of paper before him. ‘The “house” is three pounds +and fourpence,’ the manager proceeds to explain; ‘and from that is to +be taken two shillings for ground-rent; that leaves two-eighteen-four. +Now, twenty-five shares into that is two shillings and fourpence a +share. It’s very bad, especially for an opening night; but the show +went well, so we may hope business’ll pick up, now they know what +we are like. I hope it will, for all our sakes.’ And then does the +gentleman proceed to give to each member his one share, which on this +night amounts to two shillings and fourpence; but to the low comedian +is given an extra half-share, according to agreement, for his services +are very valuable to the firm, and he is expected to sing humorous +songs during the interval between drama and farce. + +Now, all this looks very fair on the face of it; but much may be +learned by an analysis of the arrangement. The proprietor has given +twelve and a half shares among twelve people, in which are included the +small orchestra; the remainder he has put in his pocket. For his own +services as leading man and stage-manager, and for his wife, who plays +the feminine leading parts—when they are good—he takes up four shares +each night; for supplying the wardrobe!—which is scanty and worn—he +takes another share; he has another to recoup him for that night’s +outlay in stage properties; a half-share to pay for the coke the fires +have burned; and lastly, he takes six shares as rent of the theatre, +which is his property. So, of the twenty-five shares into which the +receipts are nightly divided, the proprietor receives altogether twelve +and a half. Much of this he would tell you is but the return of money +previously laid out, and the melancholy sigh with which he accompanies +the ceremony of division is meant to indicate the fact that he is +losing money rapidly. + +His wife, when not in the cast, or his offspring, or a decrepit father, +are generally assigned to the post of money-taker at the theatre door. +The company are supposed to have a check against them by appointing as +their representatives those who collect the tickets. The person who +receives the cash from the public as they enter is familiarly known to +the fraternity by the name of ‘first robber.’ + +Now, many who know the business have been heard to declare that the +manager seldom loses—if ever—and generally gains, however slack +business may be, and even while his fellow-actors are pinched for +necessities. If it is asked, ‘Why do the workers agree to such an +arrangement?’ it may be replied: ‘The proprietor and manager is master +in his own establishment; and those who won’t conform to the rules of +the theatre may go and make way for those who will.’ + +Altogether, portable actors, or, as many of the labouring classes +prefer to call them, showfolk, make but a precarious living, and they +have often many troubles, for which they receive little sympathy. +At times they are heard speaking of how some years ago, during the +fair at a certain town, they performed five times during the day, +and individually amassed three pounds seven shillings for the day’s +work. But that was a rare occurrence, and they dwell with pleasure +upon the memory of it. The usual share in ordinary times rises to five +shillings nightly during good business, and perhaps as much as seven +or eight on the Saturday, and very often it drops to the amount of +but a few coppers. There is all the excitement of chance in this mode +of remuneration, and that may offer an inducement to some speculative +minds. If trade is bad, or the people are too poor or anti-theatrical, +the strolling Thespian may find that his reward after work is something +less than a shilling, and upon that he may have to feed and lodge +himself until the next night brings a further supply. + +Many who dwell in towns think that the portable theatre is now little +more than a remnant of a bygone age, that the drama has cast off this +itineracy; and such thinkers would doubtless be surprised if they +were shown a list of the playhouses that move about the country. They +are certainly very numerous. These buildings seldom look well in the +morning light; there is a dissipated look about them, as though they +kept bad hours. This more particularly applies to the interior, to +whose good appearance the glare of gas is very essential. When the +actors assemble for rehearsal, which is generally at eleven o’clock, +the drapery looks dull and tawdry, the woodwork seems rough, the +sawdust over the earth-floor is dirty, and the scenes appear daubs. If +there be a little breeze astir, the canvas roofing overhead will flap +with a sound like that of the sails of a ship at sea. The curtain and +scene-cloths are rolled up, that the dust may not settle upon them. + +When the players have gathered together, rehearsal commences. They +seem a motley group. There is the proprietor and manager, a portly +man, who is troubled with occasional rheumatism—which he calls gout; +he wears a heavy moustache and a heavy gold albert, and has much +power of voice—which at times is decidedly throaty. There is the low +comedian, who is small of stature, with an expansive face deeply lined; +his legs are misshapen, and he walks with the gait of one who suffers +the affliction of many corns and bunions. Naturally, his countenance +has the most serious aspect of any one in the company; but usage has +trained it otherwise; he would be a melancholy man were it not that he +gained his living by provoking mirth, and has a reputation to keep up. +In his youth, his soul aspired to tragedy, but his legs were against +it. Within his quaint figure he holds more sentiment than many of his +companions of more symmetrical mould, and he professes to be a diligent +and critical reader. He values ‘low comedy’ now, because it has many +advantages; it gains an extra half-share, makes him popular with the +audience, and secures him the best benefit in each town. + +The middle-aged man with the stiff carriage, and with the hair grown +long and well oiled and curved, so that at the bottom it lies like a +roll upon the neck, is the ‘heavy man,’ who claims the chief-villain +parts; he glories in his deep tones and in his dark scowl. It seems +he does not much admire the smooth-faced scoundrels of the drama; you +cannot mistake the villainy _he_ portrays; directly he enters the +stage, you say, ‘That is the villain of the piece.’ And he is not +without a speciality in his particular line of business; to use his own +words—‘He likes his scoundrel’s “game;” no chicken-hearted repentance +at the end of the last act.’ His favourite final exit speech is thus: +‘Ah! soh, you have counterplotted and balked me. But I-a haave played +a bold and desper-rat game, and now I leave you with contempt-a! My +curses light-a ’pon ye!’ If, however, he is killed when villainy has +done its allotted work, he makes the most of his death, and invariably +dies with a terrific backward fall. He has been heard to complain that +in his stage career he receives small encouragement; ‘for,’ argues he, +‘after my heavy night’s work, anybody may come on with a stuffed stick +and knock me down, and they’ll get all the applause.’ + +One of the company is a young man whose face has already lost its +pristine freshness; he wears his hat with an inclination to the right, +and looks to be a knowing, wayward, idle, and thriftless wanderer. A +great amount of cheap beer enters into his idea of life. He drinks this +liquor at any hour; and when counting his cash, calculates it not by +pence, but by the half-pints it represents. He is a weed who benefits +nobody, not even himself. Enough has been said about him. + +The man who throughout his life has never ceased to do his best, +honestly and cheerfully, and has failed through no fault of his own, +must be worthy of some respect. This has been the way of the old +gentleman—he may be called that—whose age is more than any other of +the company. In his work he is painstaking, even amid the inartistic +surroundings of a portable theatre. He now possesses an extensive stage +wardrobe, gathered for his own private use; it is the collection of +years, and he is proud of it. You won’t hear him speak so often of +his own future now, but he is always chattering about what he thinks +his daughter will do. She is a darling girl, he says, and will be the +blessing of his old age. + +His daughter matches well with the morning sunshine. A fresh, +rosy-faced girl, with shining hair and laughing eyes, in great contrast +to these yellow women and blue-chinned men. She always shows neatness +and good taste. Her father has often told her that they are merely +‘birds of passage’ in this cheap playhouse, and she is anxiously +anticipating their migration. If that indulgent old dad of hers isn’t +careful, she’ll become a vain young woman. + +As this girl is now, so was at one time that blear-eyed, bedraggled +woman, who seems to prefer sitting to standing and idling to working. +She is untidy and careless, and walks out with her boots unbrushed. +Her rising this morning is yet quite a recent affair; traces of sleep +still cling to her eyes. Not many years ago, she was as fair and modest +as the old man’s daughter is now, and not a soul anticipated such a +change. Who can answer that the other may not alter likewise? + +The man who is hammering at some repair to the building is the +degenerated female’s husband, and candour must confess that he looks +it. He has many of his wife’s characteristics; the same dissipated +face, impolite manner at times, and general attitude of discontent. But +these parallel ways of theirs are not productive of concord; quite the +contrary, for, as one of their acquaintance tersely observes, ‘They +quarrel like old boots,’ a simile which must be more fantastic than +correct. + +Among the company is an old woman who only needs the sugar-loaf-shaped +hat to resemble the familiar pictures of a witch. She is indigenous +to the portable theatre, was cradled in one, and knows little of any +life beyond it. Her daughter is that scraggy, uncanny-looking young +female, whose dominant passion at present is jealousy of the old man’s +daughter, whom she never ceases to malign. + +The rehearsal here is not generally a long ceremony. A partial or +complete repetition of the words, and a comparing of notes respecting +the various entrances, exits, and general business of the play, and +that is all. Then the healthy-minded people do their marketing, and go +off for a short walk. The others continue to ‘hang about.’ + +The audience that comes here likes its dramatic food strong—no parlour +comedies and talky dramas, but plenty of incident, of action, passions, +stirring speeches, combats, and a little coloured fire burned off the +wings. The probability of the sequence of events as here dramatically +represented, or the possibility of their occurrence at all, are not +matters which trouble the mind of either the actor or his audience. +In the matter of denouements the author’s published idea is quite +regularly departed from in the portable theatre, and of greatest +playwrights’ masterpieces it is frequently said: ‘Oh, we can bring the +curtain down better than that.’ So, directly vice is unmasked with +a taste of punishment, the virtuous gather together—perhaps without +explanation of why they were so near—and the hero spouts a short speech +in a victorious spirit, and thus—finale. + +At one travelling theatre where the manager followed the usual custom +of announcing during each evening the succeeding night’s programme, the +drama in question had been billed. In the managerial speech occurred +the following words: ‘I have very great pleasure in announcing for next +Thursday night the production, for the first time during our visit, of +the favourite play, entitled _Maria Martin, or the Murder at the Red +Barn_. I have further pleasure in stating that the version we play has +_never_ been performed in this town; and was written expressly for this +company by a relative of the Martin family, and has been secured by me +at great expense.’ + +This information was received with much satisfaction and applause; that +it had had the desired effect was proved conclusively by a view of the +Thursday night’s house. And the gentleman faithfully kept his promise, +for he played a version that had certainly never been performed in that +town; he introduced into the drama as usually given, a part of a gypsy +family of vengeful proclivities, and so got two sets of murders, and +as both were constantly repeated in visions, it may be supposed the +audience had a fair dose of dramatic crime for its money. + +But there is many a good performance to be seen in a portable theatre; +and extremely good, when the surroundings are considered. The writer +remembers a very creditable performance of the play of _Hamlet_—given +one dreadfully wild night in a portable that was not the best of +its kind. The rain had penetrated the roof in many places before +the performance began, and the wind had been all day threatening to +blow off the tilt. With the combined damp and cold, it was a very +undesirable task to don long hose and thin velvet shirts, and to wear +them for three hours in such a draughty and rain-sodden place. But this +discomfort was necessary there, as a slight mitigation of a state of +poverty. Perhaps there was a want of repose in the acting that night, +for it was advisable to dodge those places where the water found the +roof weakest, and so descended as from a spout. The Ghost, who had a +cold, coughed during his scenes in a most unspectral manner. In the +‘play-scene’ there was a crash, and it was feared the tilt was gone, +and one of the courtiers ran out to see what had given way. Two of the +rope-fastenings were loose and flying about wildly. They were secured +during the performance, but not without some trouble, each male actor +throwing a coat over his shoulders, and giving a hand when the scene in +progress did not require him. But as these were fastened, others broke, +and it was altogether a night of trouble. Before the last act was +reached, there was little to be gained by dodging; the rain penetrated +steadily all over, and would fall on heads and run down backs and +disturb projecting noses, wherever their owners stood. Hamlet died on +a damp couch that night, for the stage carpet was soaked and flooded, +but he would be artistic and die lying full length. I can testify that +the Horatio, who had to kneel and support the Prince’s head, wished +he would die quicker. But ‘The rest is silence,’ came at last; and +Hamlet jumped up again, and then looked radiantly happy; for just as +the curtain was descending, one of the audience stood and threw to the +actor a rose. It was a pretty compliment, and the recipient deserved it. + +When the audience had dispersed, the actors received their +reward—fifteenpence each. They deserved it. But their labour was not +yet ended for the day. The rain had abated, but the wind lashed with +greater force and blew with louder voice. ‘Nothing short of a miracle +will save that roof to-night,’ said somebody. So its safety had to be +guarded; that is, the company were to attend in turns and keep watch, +two or three at a time. One of the coke-fires in the auditorium was +replenished, and round it the men sat, talking of absent acquaintances, +recounting the peculiarities of some, and giving anecdotes; while +above their heads the swaying of the canvas sounded loud, and the wind +whirled in fury round the creaking shutters. And thus, as they drowsily +sit, wishing for rest, we will leave them. + + + + +BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE. + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +For a time, Enid stood looking at the sufferer sadly, and wondering +where the friends of the poor girl might be. Gradually, as the scene +came back to her, she remembered the words of Lucrece, and turned to +her. ‘Lucrece, did I hear you say you knew this poor woman?’ + +‘Indeed, yes, miss. Three years ago, in Paris, Linda and I were great +friends—what you English call “chums.” She was an actress at the +“Varieties”—a clever player; but she could not rise. Jealousy and a bad +husband prevented that. Poor Linda, she has all the talent!’ + +‘Strange that you should know her; but still fortunate. Perhaps, +through you, we may be able to discover where her friends are.’ + +‘Poor child! she has no friends.—But hush! See! she has opened her +eyes.’ + +The sufferer was looking wildly around. She tried to rise, but the pain +and weakness were too great, and she sank back with a deep fluttering +sigh. As she collected her senses—‘Where am I?’ she asked faintly. ‘How +did I come here?’ + +‘Do not distress yourself,’ Enid said softly. ‘You are quite safe. You +had an accident, and they brought you here.’ + +For a moment the girl closed her eyes. ‘I remember now. I was knocked +down by a cab. But I am better now. Let me get up. Where is my boy?’ +she continued—‘what has become of my boy?’ + +‘Do not trouble yourself about your child,’ Enid said soothingly, +marvelling that one apparently so young should be a mother. ‘He shall +be well cared for. Tell us where he is, and he shall be brought to +you.’ + +‘You are so good—so good and beautiful! You will find a card in my +jacket-pocket where to send for him. Tell me, bright angel of goodness, +what is the name they know you by?’ + +‘My name is Enid Charteris,’ she replied, smiling a little at the +theatrical touch, earnest though it was.—‘I must not let you talk any +longer. The doctor was very strict about that.’ + +At the mention of the name, the sick woman became strangely agitated, +so much so that Enid was alarmed. ‘Am I in Grosvenor Square? Are you +the daughter of Sir Geoffrey Charteris?’ + +‘Yes, yes. But you really must be quiet now.’ + +But instead of complying with this request, the stranger burst into a +fit of hysterical crying, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would +break. ‘Miserable woman that I am!’ she cried, ‘what have I done? Oh, +what have I done? O that I could have known before!’ + +Enid looked at Lucrece in alarm. The outbreak was so sudden, so +unexpected, that for a moment they were too startled to speak. + +‘She is unhinged by the shock,’ Enid whispered. ‘Perhaps if you were to +speak to her, it would have a good effect.’ + +‘Yes, madam. But if I may be allowed to make a suggestion—I should say +it was better if you left the room for a time. She sees some likeness +to you, or fancies she does, to some one. She knows me; and if you will +leave for a short time, I will try and soothe her.’ + +‘I think you are right, Lucrece. I will come in again presently, when +she has become quieter.’ + +Directly Enid quitted the apartment, Lucrece’s whole manner changed +from the subdued domestic to the eager sympathetic friend. She bent +over the bed and looked down in the suffering woman’s eyes. ‘Linda! do +you not know me? It is I, Lucrece!’ + +‘You—and here? What is the meaning of this, and in the dress of a +servant? Tell me,’ she continued eagerly. ‘You are not one of his +friends in his pay, to help his vile schemes?’ + +‘I do not know who _he_ is. I am here for a good purpose—to protect my +mistress from a great harm.’ + +‘Ah, then, you are no friend of Le Gautier’s.—Do you ever see him? Does +he come here often? Do you know what he is after?’ + +Lucrece started. ‘What do you know of Le Gautier?’ + +‘What do I know of him? Everything that is bad, and bitter, and +fiendish! But he will not succeed, if I have to sacrifice my life to +aid the beautiful lady who has been so kind to me.’ + +‘You are not the only one who would,’ Lucrece quietly answered. ‘Tell +me what you know.’ + +‘I did not know then how good and noble she is.—My head is queer and +strange, Lucrece; I cannot tell you now. To-morrow, perhaps, if I am +better, I will tell you everything. I am glad now that they brought me +here.’ + +Meanwhile, Maxwell was pacing about the drawing-room, having entirely +forgotten the unfortunate woman in his own perplexity. He had been +there perhaps half an hour, when Enid entered. She was not too occupied +to notice the moody, thoughtful frown upon his face. + +‘What a sad thing for her, poor woman!’ she said.—‘How did it happen, +Fred?’ + +‘Poor woman?’ Maxwell asked vaguely. ‘How did what happen?’ + +‘Why, Fred, what is the matter with you?’ Enid exclaimed with vague +alarm. ‘How strange you look! Surely you have not forgotten the poor +creature you brought here not more than half an hour ago?’ + +Maxwell collected himself by a violent effort. ‘I had actually +forgotten. I was thinking of something else.—Enid, dear, I am going +away!’ + +‘Going away! Any one would think, from the expression of your face and +the tone of your voice, you were never going to return. Where are you +going?’ + +There was a very considerable chance of his not returning, he felt, and +he smiled at the grim idea. ‘I am not going far—at least not very far, +in this age of express trains and telegraphs. I wish I could take you +with me, darling; for I am going to a place you have often longed to +see—I am going to Rome.’ + +‘To Rome? Is it not very sudden? You never told me before.’ + +‘Well, it is rather sudden. I have not known it long. You see, I could +not tell you a thing I was ignorant of myself.’ + +‘I wish you were not going,’ Enid said reflectively. ‘I have a feeling +that some evil will come of this. And yet I suppose you must go. Is it +business of your own, Fred?’ + +Maxwell hesitated. He could not prevaricate with those clear truthful +eyes looking up so earnestly to his own. The soul of honour himself, +he could not forgive the want of it in others; but he temporised now. +‘Well, not exactly my own,’ he stammered, trying to make the best of a +bad case, ‘or I would not go. It is a secret, which I cannot tell even +you; but I shall not be long away.’ + +‘A secret which you cannot tell even me,’ Enid repeated mechanically. +‘Then it must be something you are very much ashamed of.’ + +‘Indeed, it is not,’ Maxwell began eagerly, hesitated, and stopped. +After all, she was right. It was a secret, a terrible, shameful secret, +against which all the manliness in him revolted. For a time he was +silent, hanging down his head for very shame, as the whole force of +his position came upon him. For the first time, he realised where his +rashness had led him, and what he was about to lose. + +Enid looked at him in amazement, strangely mixed with a terrible and +nameless fear. ‘Fred!’ she cried at length, white and trembling, ‘you +are going away upon the mission of that awful League! You cannot deny +it.—O Fred! Fred!’ + +He tried to soothe her as she lay sobbing in his arms, but to no avail. +The most fervent promises and the most endearing words she heeded not, +crying that he was going from her never to return; and her fears were +strengthened when he mournfully but firmly declined to speak of his +mission. Presently, when she grew a little calmer, she raised her wet +cheeks to him and kissed him. She was pale now, but confident, and +striving with all the artifices in her power to persuade him from his +undertaking; but tears and prayers, threats even, could not avail. + +He shook his head sadly. ‘I would that I could stay with you, Enid,’ +he said at length, holding her close in his arms; ‘but this much I can +tell you—that I dare not disobey. It is as much as my life is worth.’ + +‘And as much as your life is worth to go,’ echoed the sobbing girl. +‘What is life to me without you? And now this thing has come between +us, parting us perhaps for ever!’ + +‘I hope not,’ Maxwell smiled cheerfully. ‘I trust not, darling. My time +away is very short; and doubtless I shall not be called upon again for +a time—perhaps never.’ + +Enid dried her eyes bravely and tried to smile. ‘Good-bye, Fred,’ she +said brokenly; ‘and heaven grant that my fears are groundless! If +anything happened to you, I believe I should die.’ + +‘I shall come back, darling.—And now, good-bye, and God bless you.’ + +After he was gone, Enid threw herself down upon the lounge and wept. + + * * * * * + +Le Gautier’s star was in the ascendant. His only dangerous rival would +soon be hundreds of miles away on a hazardous mission, out of which, in +all human probability, he could not come unscathed, even if he escaped +with life; a prospective father-in-law wholly in his power; and a bride +_in posse_, upon whose fears he could work by describing graphically +her father’s danger, with the moral, that it would be her duty to her +parent to wed his preserver, Le Gautier. This, in fine, was the pretty +scheme the wily adventurer had sketched out in his busy brain, a scheme +which at present looked like being brought to a successful issue. + +Another source of congratulation to this inestimable young man was the +progress he was making with the fair stranger, known to him as Marie St +Jean. By the time a fortnight had passed, he had been in Ventnor Street +more than once, and quite long enough to feel a passion stronger than +he had ever experienced before. It was absolutely dangerous to him, he +knew, to be with her so often; but like the moth and the candle, the +attraction was so great that he found it impossible to keep away—not +that he lost his head for a moment, though he well knew that Marie St +Jean could turn him round her finger; but he had formed his plans even +here. The first step was to betray the League—the scheme was not quite +ripe yet, and the news of Maxwell uncertain—and then take Marie St Jean +for a tour upon the continent. There would be plenty of time to return +and marry Enid afterwards without any unnecessary bother; for he had +already made up his mind that Miss St Jean was too proud to show her +wrongs to the world. + +On the Monday afternoon following Maxwell’s departure, Le Gautier +turned his steps in the direction of Grosvenor Square, feeling on good +terms with himself and all mankind. His schemes were prospering hugely. +It was clearly useless, he determined, now to hesitate any longer; +the blow must be struck, and the sooner the better for all parties +concerned. With this intention upmost in his mind, he trippingly +ascended the steps of Sir Geoffrey’s house and knocked. + +He found the baronet in the library, engaged as usual over some volume +of deep spiritualistic research; the thing had become a passion with +him now, and every spare moment was spent in this morbid amusement. He +was getting thin and haggard over it, and Le Gautier thought he looked +very old and careworn as he watched him now. + +‘You have come just in time,’ he cried, placing a paper-knife in the +book and turning eagerly to Le Gautier. ‘I have a passage here that I +am unable to understand. Listen to this.’ + +‘I have something more important to speak of,’ Le Gautier interrupted. +‘I have something more pressing on hand than that attractive subject. +Sir Geoffrey, next week I am summoned to Warsaw.’ + +The baronet began to feel anxious; he knew perfectly well what was +coming, and, like all weak men, he dreaded anything like evil. The part +that he had to play was a despicable one, and he feared his daughter’s +angry scorn. Like a recalcitrant debtor, he began to cry for time, the +time that never comes. ‘So you informed me last week,’ he replied, +twisting a paper-knife in his hands uneasily. ‘I hope you will have a +pleasant journey. How long do you expect to be detained there?’ + +‘I cannot tell; it depends upon the amount of business to be done. I +may be away six weeks; but, at the very least, I do not see how I can +get back to England under the month.’ + +Sir Geoffrey’s face lighted, in spite of his air of regret. Le Gautier +noticed this; nothing escaped the ken of those keen black eyes. + +‘And when you return, we will complete our little arrangements,’ Sir +Geoffrey exclaimed cheerfully. ‘No hurry, you know, no haste in such +matters as these; and, referring to our previous conversation, we +cannot be too careful in treading such uncertain ground. Enid’—— + +‘Precisely,’ Le Gautier interrupted. ‘With all due deference to your +opinion, there is need of action, which is a very different matter from +that raw haste which your poet tells us is half-sister to delay. I must +have something definite settled before I leave England.’ + +‘’Pon my honour, you know, you young men are very hasty,’ the baronet +fidgeted; ‘there is no controlling you. In my time, things were quite +different; men professed a certain deference to women, and did not take +so much for granted as you do now’—— + +‘Sir Geoffrey,’ Le Gautier interrupted again, ‘things change; men +alter; but perfect love is the same for all time. I love your daughter, +and would make her my wife.’ + +In spite of the baronet’s feeble-mindedness, there was always something +in the Frenchman’s higher flights which jarred upon his nerves, a sense +of insincerity, a certain hollow, grotesque mockery, which pained him. +The last word struck upon him like some chords played out of tune. +Still the spell was upon him; he had nought to do but obey. + +‘We perfectly understand that,’ he replied, ‘and therefore need say no +more about it. You have my promise; indeed, how can it be otherwise +with the memory of that awful manifestation before me? And the word of +a Charteris is always sufficient. But I do think, Le Gautier, that you +are pushing this thing too far.’ + +‘Let the depth of my love excuse my impetuosity;’ and again the words +struck harshly on the listener’s ears. ‘Surely the excuse is a good +one. I am leaving England shortly; and before I go, I must—nay, I will +have an answer to the question which affects my happiness so deeply. It +is only fair, only just that I should know my fate.’ + +Sir Geoffrey speculated feebly what he was to do with a man like this. +‘But have a little patience; let me prepare her for your proposal.’ + +‘Which you will promise to do, and put off day after day, as a man does +who has an unpleasant task to perform. No, Sir Geoffrey; I do not wish +to conduct my wooing second-hand. There is no time like the present; my +motto is “Now.” I do not ask you to help me; but before I leave this +house, it is my intention to speak to your daughter.’ + +In sheer desperation, not unmixed with a little irritation, Sir +Geoffrey rang the bell, and desired the servant to conduct Le Gautier +up-stairs. The thing must come sooner or later, he knew; and so long +as he was not asked personally to interfere, he did not so much mind, +though he was not unconscious of sundry twinges of conscience as his +arbitrary visitor disappeared. + + + + +RACING ROGUERIES. + + +To a man not infected with the disease, Turf-mania must appear the +blindest of all infatuations. The gambler who trusts to the fall of +the cards, arguing that in the natural fitness of things he is certain +to be a winner some day, and spends all his time in calculating the +doctrine of chances, is a rational person to the gull who, knowing what +a mass of roguery leavens the Turf, will yet stake money, honour, and +life upon its eventualities. Yet this is done every day, not only by +greenhorns, but by men who are quite alive to the mysterious workings +of the betting ring, who are fully aware that the ability of the horse +or the jockey is the last factor to be taken into consideration; who +can amuse you for hours with stories of the swindles practised by +owners, trainers, jockeys, ‘rings,’ and who yet go on putting their +money on the horse ‘that must win’—and never wins—in utter defiance of +their foregathered knowledge. The racing ‘prophet’ who is behind the +scenes, who makes ‘the turf’ the business of his life, not only fools +the readers of the newspaper to which he sells his vaticinations, but +himself as well, and often returns from a race as penniless as the +silly ones who pin their faith upon his oracular utterances. Even the +bookmaker has his ‘fancies,’ upon which he stakes, and loses, the money +that fools have put into his purse, with a blind confidence that is +almost incredible. + +A certain horse has acquitted himself well in his trial gallops; there +is not one in the race can beat him; and _if_ he were allowed to do his +best, would undoubtedly be the winner. But, as Touchstone says, ‘There +is much virtue in an if.’ In the first place, the owner may not intend +him to win, and may have actually made arrangements for laying against +his own horse. Or if the owner be ‘straight,’ the jockey may have been +bribed to check the horse’s speed as he nears the winning-post by some +one whose interest it is that the horse shall not win. All these may +work together, or each may have different interests in the event. And +even should the animal be meant in all honesty to win, a stable lad +for a five-pound note may secretly physic the horse, and good-bye the +chances of the favourite on the morrow. Or some lurking ruffian in the +pay of another owner or bookmaker may contrive to gain admission into +the stable unknown to the animal’s guardians, and ‘nobble’ for himself. +But even after every form of knavery has been set aside, there are +contingencies that still render the risks of backing horses enormous. +The jockey may spend the night before the race in dissipation, and +mount with swimming head and nerveless hands; or in his cups he may +betray some secret of the stable that will give the advantage to a +rival; or the horse himself may become sick, or be out of form, or +stumble, or be thrown out by a cur running across the course, or other +accidents easy of occurrence; and yet, knowing all this, men will madly +risk large sums upon the supposition that no such _contretemps_ will +happen. + +A few anecdotes, however, of undeniable authenticity will better +illustrate the tricks of the Turf than would pages of reflections and +generalisations. + +About half a century ago, at Newmarket, several horses who stood high +in the betting, at different times suddenly went off sick just before +the race for which they were entered; some died, others recovered, +but all were disabled for the time being, and favourites that a few +hours previously outstripped every rival, would come straggling yards +behind the field. Every one knew they had been ‘nobbled;’ but for a +long time the perpetrator remained undiscovered; at last, however, a +notorious scoundrel, one Dan Dawson, was caught red-handed poisoning +the troughs. During the trial, it came out that he had made a regular +trade of these nefarious practices, and it was more than suspected +that not a few of the biggest men on the Turf were his employers. But +although he was condemned to death, whether from the hope that some +among his influential patrons would intercede for a reprieve, or from +that hatred which certain men of his class have against ‘peaching,’ he +never betrayed them, and remained silent to the end. The most minute +precautions are taken to guard the racehorse from such dangers, yet the +cunning or daring of his enemies frequently proves more than a match +for the care of his owners. + +In 1842, Lanercost was regarded as the certain victor for the Ascot +Cup. While he was being conveyed to the course in a van, the grooms +in charge stopped at an inn between Leatherhead and Sunninghill to +refresh, leaving one to keep watch. Just after they had gone into +the house, two sailors came out of it. ‘Hillo,’ cried one, ‘here’s +Lanercost; let’s have a peep at him;’ and he sprang up on the side of +the van, while his companion at the same time diverted the attention of +the man on guard. A moment afterwards, the first jumped down again, +and then the two disappeared into a copse: it was all done so quickly +that the groom had no time to interpose; and before he could summon +his mates, the men were out of sight. When the race came on, instead +of achieving the anticipated victory, poor Lanercost came in last. In +the course of the ensuing month, he entirely changed colour, and was +never fit to run again. There is no doubt that the pretended sailor had +contrived to administer some powerful drug to the animal during the few +seconds he hung over his box. + +Somewhere about the same time, a horse named Marcus was the favourite +for the St Leger. The day before the race, while he and some other +horses were standing at the _Doncaster Arms_, an ill-looking fellow +entered the kitchen of that tavern and seated himself beside a boiler +from which the stable lads were every now and then drawing water for +their charges. There was no one in the kitchen save a maid-servant, +whom the stranger sent out to bring him a pot of beer. When she +returned, the girl was going to fill her tea-kettle from the boiler, +but the fellow stopped her by saying: ‘I wouldn’t take my tea-water +from there if I was you, it looks so yellow and greasy.’ + +‘All right; I’ll get it outside,’ she answered. When she came back the +second time, the man had gone. + +The next morning two horses were found dead in their stalls; while +Marcus, who was just able to run, came in last, and also died during +the day. Upon the bodies being opened, arsenic was found in their +stomachs. The girl then remembered the incident of the loafer, who had +no doubt poisoned the water in the copper; and had she been as stubborn +as most of her kind, several human victims would have been added to +the equine list. By the defeat of Marcus, the owner of a horse named +Chorister won seven thousand pounds. + +Sometimes the defeat of the favourite is brought about by less bold but +more subtle means; and occasionally the tables are turned in a very +unexpected manner, as in the following instance. For the Doncaster +of 1824, Jerry—a horse belonging to a well-known sporting man named +Gascoigne—was the favourite. A little before the event came off, +however, George Payne, a noted Turfite, got ‘the tip’ from John Gully, +the ex-prizefighter, that Jerry would not win; and the day before +the race, these two worthies, doubtless well knowing _why_, laid six +thousand against him. Gascoigne could not understand how it was that +the more he backed his horse, which was in magnificent condition, +the less it advanced in favour. He felt sure there was a screw loose +somewhere, but he could not tell in what direction to look for it. +Two nights before the race, as he was taking a walk in the outskirts +of Doncaster, he paused at a turnpike gate, and just at that moment +a postchaise stopped to pay toll. By the light of the lamp which the +toll-keeper held in his hand, Gascoigne observed the jockey who was to +ride Jerry next day seated within, almost helplessly drunk, between +two of the most notorious blacklegs of the time. In a moment he saw it +all. Hurrying away, lest he should be recognised, he went back to his +hotel, and set about concocting measures to counteract the plot that +he perceived had been formed against him. Without making known his +discovery to any one, he secured the services of another jockey, bound +the man down to silence; and at the last moment, just as the traitor +was going to mount, his substitute slipped into the saddle, and won the +race, to the discomfiture and well-merited loss of the conspirators, +who had betted all they possessed upon the event. + +Men called ‘Touts’ are employed by bookmakers and others to watch +racehorses at exercise and report upon their condition; these spies are +abhorred by trainers and owners, and have to pursue their espionage +under many difficulties, sometimes lying in a dry or a damp ditch, +or a hole covered over with brambles, or on the roof of a stable, to +be ready to witness the morning gallop. When detected, they do not +often escape under a horsewhipping or a ducking. On one bitterly cold +night, a fellow had crawled upon the roof of a stall to listen if the +favourite had a cough. Aware of his presence, though pretending to +be ignorant of it, the trainer ordered the stable boys to throw up +pails of water upon the spot where he was ensconced until the very +clothes froze upon the poor wretch’s back; but he had the consolation +of hearing the horse stabled beneath cough several times, and next +morning the odds were heavy against the favourite. Unfortunately for +the rogues, however, the favourite on the previous night had been moved +into another stable, and a horse with a cough had been substituted, to +deceive the tout, with the result that those who ventured their money +on his information, lost. + +A much cleverer ruse was the following. An owner named Wilson was about +to try a two-year-old colt. ‘We shall be watched, and his white right +fore-leg will be sure to be noticed,’ remarked the trainer.—‘Leave that +to me,’ said Mr Wilson. Next morning, he was at the stable at daybreak, +and with some black paint soon changed the colour of the leg; while +a brush dipped in white transferred the distinguishing mark to a far +inferior horse, which showed but poorly beside the other. The tout on +the watch naturally took one for the other, and reported accordingly. +The next day, a certain nobleman gave fifteen hundred for the falsified +animal, which was worth about four. + +We have purposely omitted the more celebrated Turf swindles, such as +the ‘Running Rein’ fraud, and others that made a sensation in their +day, confining ourselves to the less known affairs, which were not +found out until reparation to the victims was impossible, our principal +desire being to make clear to ‘the outsiders’ the enormous odds against +which they stake their money. + +Those who are not behind the scenes may suppose that the bookmakers +(pencillers) and the ‘knowing ones’ generally, enjoy a perfect immunity +from the perils and dangers, pitfalls and temptations, of horseracing; +but that is not the case. Not unfrequently they walk blindly into +the trap they set for others; the biter is frequently bitten; and +many an ingenious fraud has been put upon the ‘pencillers’ by outside +betting-men, as the two following stories will show. For obvious +reasons, all data are suppressed, but the truth of the anecdotes can be +vouched for. + +One day a City man, who was given to betting, and whom we shall call +A, received a visit from a friend addicted to the same weakness, who +shall be designated B. Locking the room door and sinking his voice to +a whisper, B announced that he had made a wonderful discovery by which +betting could be reduced to a system of all prizes and no blanks, and +consequently a fortune very quickly realised. ‘Now is your chance,’ +he said, ‘if you like to join me. I shall give no explanation of the +method; come and see for yourself.’ + +An appointment was made for the next morning, the date of the X races, +at the Z (betting) Club. + +‘Have you anything on this race?’ was the first inquiry made by B as A +came into the room. + +The answer was in the negative. + +‘Now, listen to me,’ said B, drawing him into a corner, for the place, +as usual at such times, was crowded with betting-men; ‘the final list +for the twelve o’clock race will be telegraphed here in a few minutes.’ +(The Z, it need scarcely be said, had its private tape.) ‘Lay all the +money you like, at any odds, upon the horse I shall select, and I will +guarantee that it shall be the winner. But mind, you must not lose a +second after I have given you the hint. Go to the nearest bookmaker in +the room and make your bet on the instant.’ + +A minute or two afterwards, the electric bell gave the signal, and +there was a general rush to the machine. B was one of the first to +scan the list: there were five runners. He passed his finger down the +names until he paused almost imperceptibly upon Y, and looked at his +companion, who, although it was the very last horse he would have +thought of backing, boldly called out: ‘I’ll take the odds against Y.’ + +Y being a rank outsider, a bookmaker laid the odds on the instant. One +minute afterwards came the announcement that Y was the winner. + +After they left the club together, B unfolded the mystery. ‘When the +list of runners was telegraphed,’ he said, ‘the race was already won.’ + +‘But how could that be?’ asked A. ‘The race was run at twelve, and the +time on the telegram was three minutes to twelve.’ + +‘The time was falsified,’ was the reply. ‘The message was not wired +until past the hour, nor until the winner was declared.’ + +‘And how could you fix upon the right one?’ demanded A. + +‘There was the minutest dash on the tape against the name of the +winner, only noticeable by one in the secret. You see, the clerks are +in the pay of an Association. There are three or four other clubs +beside this where we get the telegrams in the same manner, so that we +vary our times. Here, for instance, we put upon the twelve o’clock +race; at another, upon the one; at a third, upon the two, and so on.’ + +We may add that the fraud was ultimately discovered, and the clerks who +worked it severely punished. + +The next trick we shall relate could not be practised now, in +consequence of an alteration in the Turf customs. It was worked in +this fashion by two confederates. Let us suppose it to be the Lewes +races. One of the two goes down to Lewes on the previous day, and by +the last post sends a letter addressed _in pencil_ and unsealed to +his brother-rogue in London. Inside the envelope is a note addressed +to a bookmaker, simply containing the words, ‘Please back ____ for so +much.—Yours truly, JONES’—a blank being left for the horse’s name. This +missive arrives in town by the morning post, and the instant the race +is run the name of the winner is telegraphed to rogue number two, who +then inserts the name of the horse, rubs out his own name and address +from the envelope, writes that of the bookmaker instead, and seals +it up. Everything is now perfect in appearance: there are the Lewes +postmark of the previous night, the London of the morning, and the seal +untampered with. We need scarcely say that the handwriting appears to +be the same, and, according to the rules of racing at that time, if a +letter be delayed in transmission through the post, the bookmaker is +still made answerable for its contents. + +And now, how is it to be got into his hands without exciting suspicion? +There are several ways of doing this: sometimes he may be at the club, +and then the letter is dropped into the letter-box; but the favourite +dodge is to dress up a man as a postman, with bag and a bundle of +letters in his hand, who will deliver it at the victim’s office; or +the confederate will watch for the real postman, walk behind him, drop +the letter on the pavement, and then call out to the carrier: ‘Hillo, +you’ve dropped one of your letters.’ + +The man will pick it up, and, being almost certain to have others +addressed to the same person, innocently play the rogue’s game. As to +the bookmaker, all he can do is to write a letter of complaint to St +Martin’s-le-Grand and pay the money. + +You cannot touch pitch without being defiled, or play with edged tools +without being cut, says the old proverb; and you cannot associate with +rogues and play the rogue without occasionally being swindled yourself. + + + + +MISS MASTERMAN’S DISCOVERY. + + +IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II. + +Since she left the rectory, she had had two letters from Lady O’Leary, +a passage in the second having made a powerful impression upon her: +‘Since your departure, my dear Phœbe, I have had leisure for much +reflection on the subject of your frightful discovery; and after +considerable cogitation, I have arrived at the conclusion that it is +certainly your bounden duty to acquaint the bishop with the conduct of +Mr Draycott, and to do so at once before you return to Sunnydale. I +should advise you to write and inclose that abandoned widow’s note. I +fancy that we are not the only ones who are beginning to see through +this sanctimonious villain of a rector. I observed last Sunday that +several of the congregation, amongst them Lady Conyers and General +Scott and his family, who always stay for a chat with the Draycotts +after service, left the church as quickly as possible, as if to avoid +speaking to any of the family. Mrs Penrose was not at church; no doubt +she had her reasons for staying away, though I heard from Miss Jones +that it was given out that it was a bad headache that kept her at home.’ + +From Lady O’Leary’s statement, it was not clear if Mrs Penrose’s +headache had been publicly announced in church or not; and the worthy +lady had also omitted to mention that it was entirely owing to her +own hints and innuendoes, industriously dropped here and there, +accompanied by significant looks of unutterable meaning, that the +mind of the parish was being considerably exercised with grave doubts +as to Mr Draycott’s moral character. The letter went on to say that +invitations had been issued for a large evening party at the rectory +on the following Thursday. Lady O’Leary strongly urged Miss Masterman +so to time her return as to be present at it, adding: ‘I intend to go, +as I feel it my duty to neglect no opportunity of collecting evidence +which may serve to deliver our hearths and homes from the contaminating +presence of the shameless Draycott!’ + +On reading this, Miss Masterman considered that there was no further +proof wanting of the enormity of the rector’s guilt. Another suspicious +circumstance was, that she had received no invitation, and in three +days the party would take place. She therefore felt convinced that +the rector, dreading lest her keen eye should detect more than would +be noticed by the shallow members of his own family, had made some +excuse to prevent Mrs Draycott from bidding her to the festivity; +consequently, resolving to hesitate no longer, she sat down and indited +the following letter: + + _To the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of ——._ + + MY LORD—I venture, as a temporary resident in the parish of + Sunnydale, to call to your lordship’s notice some heinous + irregularities in the conduct of the Rev. Stephen Draycott, rector + of that parish. I should indeed blush to record the details of his + guilt in any words of mine; but the inclosed note, addressed to + him by a person who calls herself ‘Mrs Penrose,’ will, I think, + speak for itself. The individual whom I allude to is, I have every + reason to fear, an astute adventuress; and should your Lordship + think it worth while to make further inquiries respecting her, I + have no doubt that sufficient evidence will speedily be found to + substantiate my statements in every respect.—I have the honour to + be, My Lord, Your Lordship’s most obedient humble servant, + + (MISS) PHŒBE MASTERMAN. + +Miss Masterman next wrote a letter to the unconscious Mrs Draycott, +fixing the following Friday for her return, at the same time fully +intending to make some excuse for arriving unexpectedly on Thursday +afternoon instead, so as to be in time for the party in the evening. +She then sent a few lines to Lady O’Leary acquainting her with all +she had done; and after seeing her letters posted, she congratulated +herself on the courage and resolution with which she had carried out +what she believed to be a duty to society. + +On Thursday, Miss Masterman left Bradborough early in the morning, +having so arranged her journey that she would arrive at Sunnydale about +six, which, as she calculated, would give her time to unpack and dress +for the evening. But, by an unfortunate chance, it happened that as the +train by which she travelled during the first part of her journey was +delayed, it would be quite impossible to be at the rectory much before +eleven o’clock P.M. Even Miss Masterman felt that that would be too +late an hour at which to arrive unexpectedly; so she made up her mind +that her only course would be to go to the village inn for the night, +her one consolation being, that Lady O’Leary would be sure to give her +a full and particular account of all that occurred at the rectory. + +The alteration in her arrangements was most annoying to Miss Masterman, +who, like many other rich people, if she made a plan, expected, as a +matter of course, that it should be rigidly adhered to. During four +hours which she had to wait at a junction, she sat and brooded over +her grievances, waxing more and more grim as she did so. To add to her +irritation, the rain began to come down in torrents; and the cold and +draughty station was made additionally comfortless by the damp air +which came in through every door and window, and penetrated to every +bone in Miss Masterman’s body. + +At length, however, the dreary journey came to an end; and on reaching +her destination, she took a fly, and ordered the man to drive her to +the only decent inn that Sunnydale could boast. By this time it was +past eleven o’clock. The rain had ceased, and the moon was shining +brightly, throwing streams of silvery light on all around, and bringing +every object into unusual prominence. In order to reach the inn, it +was necessary to pass Fern Lodge, the pretty cottage residence of Mrs +Penrose. Fancying she heard voices, Miss Masterman leaned forward and +looked out of the window. What was her horror and amazement to see Mr +Draycott gallantly escorting Mrs Penrose to her door! There was no +mistaking the rector’s tall figure and dignified deportment. But the +widow! Dressed in what appeared to be an elegant costume, her bare arms +and neck, plainly visible through her black lace shawl, were gleaming +with diamonds! But even this was not all! The bright moonlight falling +on her upturned face as she smiled upon Mr Draycott, plainly revealed +powder and rouge! Slowly the pair advanced towards the house, and as a +turn in the road hid them from sight, Mr Draycott was bending over his +companion, apparently engaged in earnest conversation. + +Miss Masterman sank back in the fly in the greatest agitation. Her +worst suspicions were now confirmed! and by the time she arrived at +the inn, she felt fairly exhausted with excitement. Miss Masterman at +once requested to be shown to her room; and during the greater part +of the night she lay awake, thinking over the startling discoveries +she had made and their probable results. On one point she had quite +made up her mind—that nothing would induce her to remain any longer +under the same roof with the rector. So she arranged with the hostess +of the _Sunnydale Arms_ that she would stay there for a week—to await +events. At an early hour she called upon Lady O’Leary; but, to her +great disappointment, she found that lady confined to her room with +such a severe attack of gout, that she had been unable to be present at +the rectory on the previous evening. The invalid listened with greedy +interest to Miss Masterman’s revelations, and for the moment she forgot +the pain she was enduring in the delight of hearing about Mrs Penrose’s +rouge, and especially the diamonds, which were ‘confirmation strong,’ +if any were needed, of the words in the fatal letter. On her side, Lady +O’Leary had little to tell Miss Masterman, except that two days ago +she had seen Magdalen Draycott, who told her that they only expected +about half the number they had asked to the party, as so many had +refused. The girl had also said that her mother was a good deal worried +about it; from which Lady O’Leary concluded that things were coming +to a crisis, and that people were beginning to see the unprincipled +Draycott in his true colours. The interview between the two ladies was +terminated by a paroxysm of agony which seized upon the invalid, and +completely incapacitated her for further conversation. + +Miss Masterman returned to the inn for lunch, and then prepared for +her momentous visit to the rectory; for she had resolved to beard the +lion in his den, and to denounce him in the presence of his family as a +hypocrite. On arriving at the rectory, she was told by the servant who +appeared in answer to her imperious knock, that the rector was at that +time engaged with the churchwardens and others on parish business, and +could not be interrupted. + +‘My business will not admit of delay,’ replied Miss Masterman. ‘I +must insist upon seeing the rector at once.’ Then, as the servant +endeavoured to expostulate—‘No words!’ continued the spinster; ‘conduct +me to him at once.’ + +The servant then led the way, though with evident reluctance, and +throwing open the drawing-room door, announced Miss Masterman. + +Bristling with conscious virtue, her tall form drawn up to its fullest +height, she intrepidly advanced, seeming to breathe out threatenings +and slaughter in her progress, and her whole appearance formidable to +the last degree. + +The dining-room was full of people, who were seated round the long +table, at the head of which presided the rector. The two churchwardens +were seated near him. The rest of the party included Mrs Draycott, Lady +Conyers, General Scott, and many of the leading residents of Sunnydale, +who had met to discuss some necessary alterations in the hours of the +church services. At sight of Miss Masterman, a dead silence fell upon +the assembly. Nothing daunted, she advanced to Mrs Draycott, and held +out her hand; but, to her surprise, she was repulsed. She was then +addressed by the rector, who, rising from his chair, said in dignified +accents: ‘If you wish to speak to me, Miss Masterman, I will come to +you presently in the study. At present, I am engaged, as you see, with +my friends.’ + +‘I can perfectly understand your motives in wishing to speak to me +without witnesses, Mr Draycott,’ replied she; ‘but you shall not escape +so easily. What I have to say shall be said here, in the hearing of +your wife, and of the friends whom you have so grossly deceived.’ + +‘I spoke for your own sake, madam, not mine,’ said the rector, as +he turned pale with anger. ‘But since you insist upon it, pray, let +my friends hear what excuse you have to offer for this uncalled-for +intrusion.’ + +‘I wish to acquaint them with your real character,’ answered Miss +Masterman firmly. ‘You know that you are an unprincipled man and a +profligate.’ + +At these audacious words, all the company rose to their feet, with +the exception of Mr Sheldon, the rector’s churchwarden, a young and +rising solicitor, who—his professional instincts instantly on the +alert—scented legal proceedings, and began quickly and silently to take +notes of all that passed. The other churchwarden, Mr Blare, a little +puffy, red-faced man, with a temper that was the terror of all the +naughty boys in the parish, after vainly trying to express his wrath +articulately, sank back into his chair again gasping and snorting, +till his face assumed an apoplectic hue that was truly alarming. +The rest of the assembly loudly expressed their indignation at Miss +Masterman’s extraordinary allegations; when above the din rang out the +rector’s clear and penetrating voice. ‘My friends,’ he cried, ‘will +you be seated, and listen to me?’ Then, as they obeyed in silence, he +turned to the furious woman before him, and continued: ‘May I ask, Miss +Masterman, by what right you abstracted a letter from my study, and +then took the unwarrantable liberty of sending it to the bishop?’ + +‘I wished to open the bishop’s eyes to your real character,’ replied +Miss Masterman. ‘I read that letter by the merest accident, and I felt +that it was only right that others should be undeceived as well as +myself.’ + +‘And are you aware,’ demanded Mr Draycott sternly, ‘that you have +rendered yourself liable to an action for libel?’ + +‘Certainly not,’ answered Miss Masterman, ‘for I have only spoken the +truth. It is of no use to try and bully, Mr Draycott; your character +has now been discovered.’ + +At this crisis, Miss Masterman was interrupted by an angry snort from +Mr Blare, who, after making another futile attempt to express himself +coherently, subsided into a violent fit of coughing, after which, he +contented himself with giving vent to a short jeering laugh whenever +Miss Masterman spoke, in a manner that irritated that lady almost +beyond endurance. + +‘Perhaps, before you indulge in any more strong language, you will be +good enough to listen to a few words of explanation,’ proceeded the +rector. ‘The letter which you purloined from my study referred merely +to some theatricals. My wife had written a little play in which Mrs +Penrose was to take part; the play was to be acted last night at a +party in this house, which had been purposely kept a secret from you +on account of your known dislike of all theatrical entertainments. The +articles alluded to in Mrs Penrose’s letter to me were required by her +for the part she was to play. Had you mentioned the matter to me or to +any member of my family, you would have heard the truth, and spared +yourself and us much unnecessary pain.’ + +‘Then,’ gasped Miss Masterman, ‘when I saw you and Mrs Penrose at +eleven o’clock last night’—— + +‘I was escorting her home, after her kindness in helping us,’ replied +Mr Draycott. Then, as his voice trembled with suppressed anger, he +continued: ‘I have been this morning, thanks to your impertinent +interference, subjected to a severe cross-examination by my bishop; +and though I trust he is now convinced of the falsehood of your +allegations, I have been put in a most painful position. Owing to you +and Lady O’Leary—who has not scrupled to spread scandalous reports +about me in my own parish—I have been cut by some of my most valued +friends; and if I refrain from prosecuting you both for libel, it is +only on condition that you offer a full and ample apology for your most +wicked and uncalled-for assertions.’ + +As Miss Masterman heard these words, she felt ready to sink through the +ground, for she at once saw the folly and wickedness of her conduct in +its true light. All her assurance deserted her, and she feebly tried to +falter out a few words of regret; but the rector sternly interrupted +her. ‘That is not sufficient, Miss Masterman,’ said he. ‘I must trouble +you to write at once to the bishop, and also to send a paragraph to the +local papers, to retract every word that you and Lady O’Leary have said +against my character. Should you, or she, refuse to do me this justice, +I shall immediately commence proceedings against you both!’ + +Here the solicitor interposed with: ‘I am in a position to warn Miss +Masterman that should Mr Draycott determine to institute proceedings +for libel, the damages in this case might be excessive.’ + +Baffled, confounded, and for the first time in her life completely +cowed, Miss Masterman looked helplessly around her, and had the +mortification of seeing Lady Conyers, General Scott, those rich and +influential members of the congregation, whose friendship she had so +sedulously cultivated, turn their backs upon her in utter contempt, +as she passed down the room; even kind Mrs Draycott averted her eyes +from her; and her equanimity was by no means restored when, on reaching +the door, she found that it had been left partially open, and that +the whole of the preceding conversation had been overheard by Master +Hubert, who was now turning somersaults in the hall, as Miss Masterman +more than suspected, in celebration of her own discomfiture. + +It is scarcely necessary to add that Miss Masterman and her friend were +only too thankful to accept the rector’s terms, and so escape the just +penalty of their conduct; and whenever, after this, Miss Masterman felt +inclined to give too free license to her tongue, the rising temptation +was instantly subdued by the recollection of the mischief once wrought +by that unruly member during her summer holiday in the parish of +Sunnydale. + + + + +PHOTOGRAPHIC STAR-CHARTING. + + +It is now some years since photography was first called to the +assistance of the astronomer, and the results which have been achieved +show that it will play a still more important part in the future. A +description of all its advantages would carry us far beyond the limits +of the present article; but we mention four, as they are necessary to +the understanding of the subject. + +The power which the sensitive film possesses of recording the +appearance of a bright object to whose light it has been exposed for +only a minute fraction of a second, has enabled us to obtain pictures +of the sun that are much more accurate than ordinary drawings. The +camera, moreover, has the faculty of seeing a great deal in a very +short space of time. If we confine our attention to a small area, a +very few moments suffice to show us all that is to be seen by the +naked eye; persistent looking for half an hour would only tire our +eyes without enabling us to see anything at first invisible. It is +different with the camera; the longer the light is permitted to fall on +the plate, the more details do we find in the resulting picture. The +fact that some rays are more effective (photographically) than others +has enabled Dr Huggins to photograph, in full sunlight, that extremely +faint solar appendage, the corona, which is visible to the eye only +when the intense light of the sun is hidden as during a total eclipse. + +The latest demand which has been made upon the astronomer’s new +assistant is no less than a great atlas of all the stars down to those +of the fifteenth magnitude. The magnificent idea of photographing this +immense number of stars—probably about twenty millions—is due to the +officials of the Paris Observatory. The instrument which Messrs Paul +and Prosper Henry have constructed for this research may be described +roughly as two telescopes side by side and moving together. One of +these, having a specially designed object-glass, carries the sensitive +plate for the reception of the image. The arrangement is provided +with a clockwork motion, in order that, during the time of exposure, +the situation of each star’s image may not alter; but as clockwork, +however carefully made, is not infallible, an observer, looking through +the second telescope, nips in the bud, so to speak, any tendency +to aberration. Since the little spots that frequently occur on the +photographic plates may be mistaken for stars, and so serve to swell +future lists of ‘variables,’ each plate is exposed three times, and +each star is therefore represented by three marks. The alteration in +the position of the plate between each of the three exposures is so +slight, that it requires a microscope to show that the dots are triple. +With this splendid apparatus, only one two-hundredth of a second +is necessary for the recording of the position of first-magnitude +stars. Those of the sixth magnitude, which can only be perceived with +the naked eye on a very dark night, require only half a second. The +faintest which can be seen through the telescope, those of about the +fourteenth magnitude, take three minutes to make an impression. But +although the human eye is not sensitive enough to go any farther than +this, stars of the fifteenth and even the sixteenth magnitude can be +made to appear on the plate, if the exposure be sufficiently prolonged. +In the latter case, an hour and a half is necessary. + +In one of Messrs Henry’s charts, about five thousand stars were +counted. The construction of such a chart by the ordinary method of +measurement would have taken many months; now it only takes three +hours. Thus the preparation of a set of maps such as Messrs Henry +suggest would occupy less time than the charting of one-hundredth part +of the number of stars by ordinary methods. It has been calculated that +if the work be divided among twelve observatories, five hundred and ten +photographs would be required from each; and making every allowance, +ten years would probably see the completion of the most elaborate +survey of the whole heavens ever undertaken. This may seem a long time; +but we must remember that Argelander’s great charts of the northern +hemisphere, which contained only three hundred and twenty-four thousand +stars, occupied seven years of observatory work alone! + +The importance of obtaining a permanent record of the present positions +of twenty million stars cannot be overestimated. We find that if old +measurements, such as those of Ptolemy, Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, and +others, are to be trusted, very great changes must have taken place in +the heavens. But are they to be trusted? The differences between their +observations and ours must in many cases be attributed to the roughness +of their instruments; but some cannot be altogether explained thus. As, +however, we do not know where actual change ends and faulty measurement +begins, no very definite knowledge can be derived from the comparison. +A photograph of some part of the heavens by Cassini—what an invaluable +legacy it would have been! With such a survey as Messrs Henry propose, +future astronomers will be able not only to be sure of the existence +of changes, but also to measure their extent. But the astronomers of +the future will not be the only gainers. During an hour, a planet moves +quite an appreciable distance; it will therefore appear on the plate +as a short line instead of a point. Thus, one of the first results +will probably be a considerable accession to the numbers of the minor +planets which circulate between Mars and Jupiter. Who knows that the +transneptunian planet itself will not be found in this way? Besides +this very obvious advantage, these charts will be of the greatest use +in the study of the form and constitution of the stellar universe. +It is only by the employment of such charts that we can arrive at a +proper understanding of star arrangement. The methods of star-gauging +which Sir William Herschel employed for this purpose failed to give +any satisfactory account of the form of the Milky-way in space. His +first method was to point his large telescope in various directions +successively, counting the number of stars visible in the field each +time. He argued that if the stars were scattered with approximate +uniformity throughout the galaxy, then the more he counted in a unit of +area, the farther must it extend in that direction. On this assumption, +he calculated that the depth of the Milky-way was eighty times the +distance of the first-magnitude stars. Sir John Herschel, by precisely +the same method, found the proportion to be seven hundred and fifty +instead of eighty! This discrepancy alone gives some idea of the +untrustworthiness of the method; and there are many other arguments +against it, into which we have not space to enter. + +Sir William’s second method, although sometimes confounded with his +first, was in reality quite different from it. Instead of counting the +number of points of light seen with the same telescope in equal small +areas in various parts of the Milky-way, he now attempted to estimate +the depth by noting the telescopic power necessary to ‘resolve’ the +nebulous places into crowds of separate stars. When we examine the +galaxy with the naked eye, it appears to be simply a cloud of misty +light. A small telescope, however, suffices to show that it is made +up of stars; but in most parts the background still seems nebulous. +A stronger telescope entirely clears up and resolves some of these +nebulous portions, while other parts require a still stronger power, +and so on. In this way, then, assuming that the more difficult a +misty part of the heavens was to resolve, the farther off the stars +composing that misty part were, he attempted to gauge the star depths. +It now appears that when he thought he was penetrating space farther +and farther with telescopes of gradually increasing power, he was in +reality only resolving masses of (smaller) stars situated at about +the same average distance as the larger bodies which had been already +distinguished with a feebler power, and which he had therefore assumed +to be nearer. As a well-known writer says: ‘In each case where Herschel +had assumed that he was penetrating farther and farther into space, +he was only analysing more and more scrutinisingly a complex cloud of +stars.’ It is interesting to notice in this connection that one still +sees Herschel’s so-called split-grindstone theory (which was based +on observations made by the first method) quoted and illustrated in +many text-books, although he renounced it himself; and it is perfectly +obvious to any one who has considered the question in the light of +recent researches, that that theory is totally untenable. + +The charting method gives a very different account of the constitution +of the universe. Investigation in this direction has shown that the +Milky-way, far from being an affair of great depth in proportion to its +distance from us, is really what it seems, an immense irregular stream +or belt composed of stars of all sizes. Much information has been +extracted from Argelander’s great charts; but the photographic charts +that will contain sixty or seventy times as many stars will be still +more useful. If the idea is taken up as enthusiastically as it ought to +be, and if our government, so niggardly in matters scientific, can be +induced to follow the enlightened example of the Emperor of Brazil, +and provide our observers with proper instruments, there is no reason +why this great atlas should not be an accomplished fact in a few years. + + + + +DAVID’S SON SOLOMON. + + +Mr David Moses, who is now dead, was a jeweller and pawnbroker in +Wych Street. He kept a very good show of jewelry in the front window +of his establishment, and was never known to complain as to trade +being unsatisfactory in the line of watches and precious stones and +electro-plate. But Mr Moses made much more money by his pawnbroking +than by his jeweller’s shop, and still more by discounting bills +at cent. per cent., than by either of the two businesses which he +ostensibly followed. The bill-discounting, which was also accompanied +by money-lending at stiff rates, was not done at the shop in Wych +Street, but at an office in the neighbourhood of Lombard Street. The +office was handsomely fitted up; the shop was rather second-hand in +appearance, and filled with odds and ends which had never been redeemed +from pawn. At the shop, Mr Moses rarely showed himself, for he had a +valuable assistant in the shape of his deceased wife’s sister, Miss +Rachel Levi, who managed the pawnbroking and jewelry business with +a regard to the main point that would have done credit to Shylock. +The aptitude of this elderly Jewess left Mr Moses plenty of time to +attend to the office in the neighbourhood of Lombard Street. He was +not Mr David Moses there; that cognomen was painted in faded gilt +letters above the Wych Street shop; but the office bore the name of +‘Mr Alfred Morris,’ which title seemed more in accordance with the +character of the clients who came thither to borrow on the strength +of their aristocratic names or connections, or to transact business +connected with what is technically termed a ‘bit of stiff.’ Anybody who +was anybody could always get a ‘bit of stiff’ from Mr Alfred Morris, +provided he had no objection to pay a handsome rate of interest, +and allow a fair margin for commission and charges and other little +incidental expenses. Many of Mr Alfred Morris’s clients knew his real +name to be David Moses, and were aware of the Wych Street business, +where, indeed, some of them had property lying in pledge. These, +however, were old customers, and could be trusted; to all new ones and +to the outside world, Moses was Mr Alfred Morris. + +In appearance, the old man was eminently Hebraic. He had a hooked +nose, and very curly white hair; he spoke with a nasal accent, and +called middle-aged men ‘ma tear.’ As regards his business character, +he was Shylockish. He wanted, and took good care to get, his pound of +flesh, and an ounce or two over. He never blushed to lend you fifty +pounds on a hundred pounds acceptance, or seemed to think it out of +the way to deduct five pounds from the fifty for ‘present expenses.’ +By his orders, the poor folk who came on Monday morning to put the +Sunday wearing apparel into pawn till the following Saturday evening +were screwed down to the fraction of a penny; while the timid vendor +of second-hand jewelry or old gold was browbeaten to such an extent +that he or she gradually came to the opinion that the goods were +really worth no more than Miss Rachel Levi represented, and thankfully +accepted the price which that estimable lady offered. It was Mr Moses’ +idea of business to be hard and sharp and to look out for number one. + +There was, however, in the heart of Moses one very soft spot. It may +seem incredible that he who sucked the very lifeblood from young and +foolish scions of noble houses, or made no difficulty in getting hold +of the substance of widows and orphans, should have been capable of +affection. But Moses was capable of a great deal of affection, and +this soft spot was all affection. It is a pity that we should have to +say the affection was lavished on a worthless object; for Mr Solomon +Moses, the only son and child of the old money-lender, and whom the +old man loved as well and as dotingly as his riches, was a thoroughly +bad young scoundrel. When David Moses was sixty, his son Solomon was +twenty-three, and schooled in vice and debauchery. + +The senior Moses’ plans with regard to his boy were from the boy’s +very birth of the high and mighty kind. He intended first of all that +the little Solomon should be a ‘shentleman,’ and have nothing to do +with the shop in Wych Street. He should, on attaining his majority, +be provided with unlimited pocket-money and told to ‘go the pace.’ +Perhaps, thought Mr David Moses, some of the young swells whom he was +always having dealings with would take Solomon up and initiate him +into the mysteries of society. When, therefore, Solomon came to his +twenty-first birthday, Mr Moses took expensive chambers for him in the +West, placed a handsome sum with a banker at his son’s credit, and told +the young man that nothing would please him better than to know that +his boy was living the life of a gentleman. You may be quite certain +that Mr Solomon Moses was not slow to take advantage of his father’s +kindness. His ideas of a gentlemanly life were somewhat hazy, but +they were decided enough upon the subject of clothes of the fastest +and loudest cut and style, of billiards and unlimited card-games, of +gambling and prizefights, and of disreputable companions. He ‘went the +pace’ splendidly; and Mr David Moses liked it, and thought his son a +fine, lively young gentleman indeed. + +When Solomon was twenty-three, he was as villainous a scamp as one +could find in all London. The money he wasted would have supported a +dozen ordinary families in comfort, yet he had twice persuaded his +father to double his allowance. The old man was beginning to fear his +son, and readily acceded to any request for money which Solomon made. +Once or twice a shadow of suspicion had crossed his mind that Solomon +was not the brilliant result he had hoped for. The younger Mr Moses, +for instance, had not gained the entrée to society which it had been +his father’s aim he should secure. He had not made the acquaintance +of the aristocracy, nor did he seem likely to contract a brilliant +marriage with a peer’s daughter; and the only comfort old David had was +the thought that these things took time. + +One hot day in the summer of 1883, Solomon called a hansom, and was +driven to his father’s office near Lombard Street. He found ‘Mr Alfred +Morris’ in and free, and forthwith made known his wishes, which ran in +the direction of the sum of one thousand pounds. Old David stared. + +‘But, ma tear poy, I haven’t so much moneys about me!’ he objected. +‘And pesides, ma tear, I gave you your money for the quarter on’y last +week. What may you require the moneys for?’ + +‘Betting heavy, and lost,’ said young Solomon briefly. + +‘Petting! O my poy, that’s pad—that’s pad! And lost too—that’s worse! +I tolt you not to pet unless you was certain of winning, Solomon, ma +tear. Oh, to think that you are making the peautiful moneys fly away +like that!’ And then Mr David Moses plucked up spirit, and gave his +worthy son a real good lecture on the evil of wasting money. Solomon +listened impatiently, and again repeated his request for a thousand +pounds. And he got it—as he knew he would. Then he went away and called +another cab, and prepared to be driven back to his elegant rooms. As +he was piloted up the Strand, it occurred to him that he would call +in at Wych Street and see Aunt Rachel; so he stopped his cab, and +went into the jeweller’s shop, and was welcomed by the old Jewess in +the back-parlour. The worthy lady was polishing up some diamonds, and +Solomon’s eyes wandered over the precious baubles covetously. + +‘Anything very valuable there, auntie?’ he asked presently. + +‘No, Solomon dear; nothing—nothing. The big diamond there is pretty +well. It is worth two thousand pounds.’ + +‘Two thousand, eh?’ said young Mr Moses. ‘Very fair that, ain’t it?’ + +‘Well, your father lent one thousand on it—or rather, I did.’ + +‘Never redeemed?’ + +‘No.’ + +Solomon took up the glittering stone and looked it carefully over. It +was set in a massive ring, very plainly made, and with two or three +distinctive marks inside the hoop. ‘And you’re asking two thousand for +this, auntie?’ + +‘Yes, my dear, that’s the price. I shall put him in the window in a +week or so.’ + +Solomon went home soon after that. His first proceeding, when he got +out of his father’s shop, was to write down in his pocket-book a very +accurate description of the big diamond and its ring. A very clever and +equally rascally plan was forming itself in his brain. By the time he +reached Trafalgar Square, his plan was complete. + +During the next week, more than one person stopped to gaze at the +great diamond flashing in Moses’ shop-window. Its price was not upon +it; but it was evident from its size that it was of tremendous value. +Passers-by speculated on the probable amount, and wondered when the +thing would find a purchaser. About eleven o’clock on the first day +of its exposure, a middle-aged gentleman, sauntering leisurely up +Wych Street from Booksellers’ Row, stopped in front of Moses’ shop, +and looked for some minutes at the contents of the window. He was a +good-looking man, well dressed in a quiet, unostentatious fashion; +evidently a man of substance and position. He was turning away, when +his eye fell on the great diamond. He looked at it a second, and then +opened the shop-door and walked in. A red-headed boy of distinct +Hebraic extraction was yawning behind the counter. ‘What is the price +of the large diamond in your window?’ asked the solid-looking gentleman. + +The red-headed youth didn’t know, but would find out. He disappeared +for a moment, and came back followed by Miss Rachel, who looked +narrowly at the man who dared to ask the price of so large a stone. The +gentleman bowed courteously to Miss Rachel, and repeated his question. + +‘Two thousand pounds,’ replied Miss Rachel. + +‘Ah! A large price. May I see it?’ + +Miss Rachel acquiesced, and took the diamond ring from its case in the +window. The stranger looked it carefully over, examined every mark with +a sharp eye, and finally returned it to the old Jewess. + +‘I will purchase that ring, madam,’ he said. ‘Be good enough to put it +aside for me until to-morrow morning, when I will call and pay for it. I +have been in search of such a stone for some time.’ + +Miss Rachel Levi was delighted. So, she was sure, would Mr David Moses +be. She carefully locked up the ring in a big safe, and the stranger +went his way with many bows on either side. + +Precisely at eleven o’clock the following morning the customer called. +He was accompanied by a dapper little man, whom Miss Rachel recognised +as one of Mr Attenborough’s principal assistants. + +‘Good-morning, madam,’ said the stranger. ‘Here I am, you see, and here +is the price of the ring—two Bank of England notes of one thousand +pounds each. I think that is correct?’ + +Yes, that was correct; and Miss Rachel unlocked the safe and handed +the ring over to the customer, who had laid his two one-thousand-pound +notes on the counter before her. She placed the notes in the safe, +looking them over with an experienced eye, to see that they were all +right as regarded genuineness. The stranger received his ring, and +turned to the man accompanying him. + +‘I brought this gentleman with me,’ he said to Miss Rachel, ‘just to +tell me his opinion of the stone.—Very fine one, is it not, Mr Jones?’ +He passed the ring to the man as he spoke, and began to talk to Miss +Rachel about the weather. + +The man named Jones looked with attentive eye at the glittering thing +in his hand. He examined the gold setting and seemed satisfied, and +then looked at the enormous stone. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation +which made Miss Rachel and the customer look round sharply. Mr Jones +took a little peculiar-looking glass from his pocket and gazed at the +diamond suspiciously. He said ‘Ah!’ very emphatically, and threw the +ring on the counter. + +‘How much did you give, sir?’ he asked of the customer, whose +attention was now thoroughly aroused. + +‘Two thousand pounds.’ + +‘Humph! Worth next to nothing. The gold’s very good; the diamond’s +first-class paste!’ + +Miss Rachel uttered a faint scream as the customer turned to her. ‘What +explanation can you give of this, madam?’ he asked. + +The poor woman was dumb-stricken. She knew not what to say. + +‘Where did you get the ring, Miss Levi?’ asked Mr Jones. ‘Perhaps +you’ve been imposed upon.’ + +‘It was pledged with my brother David,’ said Miss Rachel. ‘O dear me, +gentlemen, I can’t think how it is! It must be an imposition.’ + +‘Well, at anyrate, _I_ can’t be imposed upon,’ said the stranger. ‘So +I’ll thank you for my notes, madam; and there is your paste ring.—Dear +me, what an escape I’ve had! I’m much obliged to you, Mr Jones, for +your penetration.’ + +‘Oh,’ said Mr Jones, ‘that’s nothing! What puzzles me is that Moses, +who is very sharp, should have been swindled, as he must have been. And +then Miss Levi here is a regular authority on stones.’ + +By this time poor Rachel had handed over the notes, and was regarding +the false ring with a very disconsolate face. She was thinking what +David would have to say on his return home. + +The stranger pressed something in the way of remuneration on Mr Jones +and went away. + +Jones stayed a minute or two longer and talked the matter over with +Miss Rachel. It was his idea that old Moses had had a duplicate made +of the big diamond for some purpose of his own, and that he had +substituted the shadow for the substance. He suggested this to Miss +Rachel, who was thereby a little comforted. + +But Mr Jones’ suspicion was wrong, as Miss Rachel quickly found on her +brother’s home-coming. She told him the story immediately he appeared, +and the old man went nearly mad. He yelled for the ring to be brought +him. Once in his hands, he literally shrieked with horror. ‘It isn’t +the tiamont at all!’ he cried. ‘Mine was not paste, as this is. It’s +some conjuring trick, woman!’ And he fell to moaning and sobbing as +if his heart would break. But the first fit of rage passed off, Mr +David Moses took a practical step. He called on Mr Jones, and the two +went away together to Scotland Yard; there Jones described the strange +would-be purchaser. The hard-featured ‘chief’ who listened to them +smiled. + +‘That anything like him?’ he asked, taking up an album and pointing to +a portrait. + +‘The very man!’ cried Mr Jones. + +‘Ah!’ said the chief.—‘Well, now, Mr Jones, be particular on one point. +Did you keep your eye on the ring from Miss Levi’s taking it from her +safe till its coming into your hands?’ + +‘No,’ said Jones; ‘I didn’t. Miss Levi put the notes in the safe, and I +was watching her for a second before the man passed me the ring.’ + +‘Common trick,’ said the chief—‘changed it for a fac-simile.’ + +‘But,’ objected Jones, ‘how could he make the fac-simile? The ring had +only been in the window one day.—Had it, Mr Moses?’ + +‘Only one day, ma tear—only one little day,’ sighed the old Jew. ‘O +tear, O tear me!’ + +The chief set his lips very hard at this. ‘Are the marks—hall-marks and +so on, just the same?’ he asked. + +‘Yes,’ said Moses, ‘and the gold too. It’s only the stone.’ + +In the end, they went away, and the chief promised to do his best. He +knew the stranger, who was a returned convict and a clever trickster. +The mystery was the fac-simile of the ring. It implied previous +acquaintance of a very intimate type. In about a week Mr Moses received +news: the real ring had been pawned in Manchester for five hundred +pounds, and was now in possession of the Scotland Yard authorities. The +latter had, they said, got a clue to the persons implicated; but they +would say nothing more. When Moses was wanted, they would let him have +word. + +A week or two passed on, and one morning Mr David Moses received an +urgent message asking him to go to Scotland Yard. The thieves, or +whatever you would call them, were found. He called on Mr Jones, and +set out with an exultant heart up the Strand. + +‘Well,’ said the chief, ‘we’ve got ’em both. There are two of them. One +is the man whose photo I showed you; the other is a young fellow who +won’t give any name. He pawned the ring under the name of Morris.’ + +Moses thought that rather a coincidence; but he let the thought slip +out of his mind, and smiled pleasantly when two policemen brought +in the well-dressed gentleman who so tricked poor old Rachel. The +_ci-devant_ convict winked in a friendly fashion at Jones. + +‘Did it well, eh?’ he said. ‘No good disguising it, I suppose? Reckon +I’ll get a good dose for this.’ + +‘You’re right there, my friend,’ said the chief.—‘Take him away, +sergeant, and bring the young man in.’ + +In a minute or two the men returned, leading in a young, loudly dressed +man, who hung his head on his breast. Old Moses turned from examining +a pair of handcuffs hanging on the wall, and discovered the thief of +his cherished diamond to be—his son Solomon! The old man saw it all +in a moment. His white face and chattering teeth showed the chief +that something was wrong. The old Jew strove vainly to speak for a +second or two; then he turned to the chief and stretched out his hands +imploringly. + +‘O Mr Inspector,’ he said, ‘it’s a mistake—it’s a terrible mistake, ma +tear Mr Inspector! Don’t say no more about it, and I’ll—I’ll give _you_ +the tiamont—yes, O yes! Why, this is ma tear son Solomon!—O Solomon, my +poy, how could you do it?’ + +‘Your son, eh?’ said the astonished chief. ‘Well, I’m sorry for you, +old man; but the law must take its course.’ + +‘Oh, don’t say that,’ screamed Moses—‘don’t sir, don’t! I’ll give you +the stone, and a thousand pounds besides! Let him go, sir.’ + +‘No; I haven’t the power.—Take him away, men.’ And they marched Mr +Solomon off, while poor old David alternately wept and implored and +raved, and beseeched the chief to have mercy on his ‘tear poy.’ + + * * * * * + +That night, they found poor David Moses, alias Mr Alfred Morris, dead +in his little sanctum in Wych Street. The doctor said he had died of +a sudden shock to the nervous system. We are of opinion that his son +Solomon had given him a shock which broke his poor old heart. + + + + +A NEW ART-GUILD. + + +An admirable proposal has lately been made at Liverpool for the +formation of an ‘Art-workers’ Guild,’ with the view to the diffusion of +sound principles of decoration, and to the encouragement of workmen and +others desiring to undertake decorative work of all kinds. The general +object would appear to be to find good art-workmen, and to bring them +into communication with those who require their work, and also to form +a collection of good examples of decorative work of various kinds. +Perhaps one of the best results of this sort of effort will be to bring +forward the actual worker himself—the real artist, in fact—and thus get +rid of the middleman or art-tradesman who hires the genuine artist to +do the work, and then stamps it with his (the tradesman’s) own name, as +though the work were actually his own, whilst, in fact, he is merely +the employer of highly trained and perhaps highly talented art-labour—a +system at once as unfair as it is unjust. It has been said that the +ugly patterns in calico-printing seem to sell as readily as the pretty +ones; and one of the objects of the proposed Guild is to try to alter +this—to endeavour to produce a better taste. But teaching a prejudiced +and often ignorant public to improve itself on subtle questions and +nice points of art-excellence is at best a difficult if not a hopeless +task; and if the Guild raises the artist-worker to a better position +and gives him direct employment, it will certainly be conferring a +benefit on a worthy class of men, never yet properly recognised. + + + + +A RETROSPECT. + + + I waited long; + My love was strong + For Cary. + ‘In spring,’ she said, + The darling maid, + ‘We’ll marry.’ + + The winter passed; + Spring came at last + With showers. + But what of them, + When after came + The flowers! + + Our wedding-day, + A grand array— + Bells ringing! + Blue sky above, + Hearts full of love, + Flowers springing. + + My blushing bride + And I beside + The altar: + She looked so nice, + Although her voice + Did falter. + + Our honeymoon + Ran all too soon + Its measure: + We roamed at will + By vale and hill, + With pleasure. + + And years have flown; + We’re wiser grown, + And older; + But aye the same + Love’s kindly flame, + No colder. + + As down we glide, + Still side by side, + Life’s river, + Each opening spring + New joys will bring + For ever. + + J. B. L. + + * * * * * + +Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, +and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. + + * * * * * + +_All Rights Reserved._ + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75656 *** |